Young Buck

Author’s Notes: If you’ve read “One Fucking Favor” and the sophisticated incest version “My Son. The Fuck.” on here, then this story will come off as quite familiar to you. Why? Well, this is the original version of those stories! I just happened to stumble upon it in my quest of cleaning out my proverbial writing closet, so that I may get to uploading my new stuff. 

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Back in the day, when you wrote for a publisher, they’ll sometimes want a mockup story versus the story itself, for whatever reason. If the old noggin serves me correctly, this publisher was hellbent on us not using spit as lube in the stories, and wanted to see how we were going to handle it. I caught early on that throwing “a condom and lube” in the story was a quick override to this than them wanting us to go through this boring educational process of introducing the lubricant nearby, how to apply it, and its compatibility with latex and the potential risks if it wasn’t, in which some fellow writers painstakingly did.  

 

And while the staff was a fan of the story as is (of course, after their proofreading magic), the beta readers, at the time, were not. I would discard this story as a carbon copy of the other two, but there are some differences between this story and the aforementioned that makes this one just as flavorful in its own right—even if you’re familiar with the taste.  

 

P.S. There is another version of this story told from the perspective of the bottom somewhere. I haven’t stumbled across it yet in my files, but when I do, I will upload it, too. So be prepared with spit for it than with oil-based lube on the nightstand that isn’t latex suitable.

Some guys are just fucks.

Okay, most guys are just fucks.

Then, there are some that just look like they might be a really good fuck based on one or more physical attributes. Only a fraction of that, however, turns out to be really good at what they do, be it throwing back a phat ass or honing their sword-swallowing skills suppressing gag reflexes. But what do you say exactly to a young buck that says he feels like a “bitch-ass ho” ass-naked on your bed?

With his ass up, head down, spread legged just kneeing the hell out of a Sealy Posturpedic, looking him in the eye and tell him to “go ahead and feel that way, folk” because he most definitely is. Don’t be afraid to tell him so if he probes. He knows he is, and deep down he knows he want to be a bitch-ass ho for the right kind of man-meat.

Mine just recently was this neighborhood kid name Alfredo, standing on his usual corner outside of my house clowning on this roly-poly kid that should have been out of his social league. And rather than stoop down to his childish level and call him out on it, I called Alfredo and his sorry-ass over behind my gate.

He was a nineteen-year-old son of a bitch fronting like he was twenty-one, always toting around a double-tall can of malt liquor like it was his adult-size pacifier. Based on pure looks alone, the walnut-colored Honduras-Guatemalan-American hybrid could easily have passed for older if he wanted to. He was a thick solid boy at five-foot-nine with this heavily filled-in strand of a connecting moustache and goatee surrounded by the permanent five o’clock shadow that was otherwise meant to be his beard.

Alfredo was the good kid. The honor roll student. The one she least had to worry about. He was the second oldest of six, and the role model for the other four. His brother was the one that cut class, cut school. His brother was the one that was always the one that got into trouble. Getting suspended or expelled. It was his brother that fell into the wrong crowd, moving up from petty gangbang to hard-time dope-slinger. His brother was the one that started his own cartel and is doing eight consecutive life sentences for murder and other charges in a maximum-security prison.

His mother told me their life story in her search of a husband—or at least trying to make me her man.

Alfredo was rattled by indirect threats he received from his brother’s foes his junior year. His brother was his great protector. He made sure that Alfredo made it home every night along with his books and daily lessons. Alfredo was like most inner-city kids; he didn’t fear dying. It was a looming part of life with stray bullets almost always equipped with plenty of anonymous names. His greatest fear was getting robbed, because to get robbed in a bad neighborhood, your neighborhood, was to be a marked man from here on out. Unless he had veins of ice or retaliated, his victim status would show every time he walked the filthy streets of fear. It was already had. His brother was making it worst stepping on some toes, peeing on some trees already peed on. Alfredo was hearing from across the way that they were eyeing him to teach his brother a lesson, beating him up or breaking a limb or worst—rape.

He told me about everything except the latter anyway. It was too deplorable for him to mention, fearing if he spoke of it, it would be a case of Beetlejuice. But I kept my ears to the street and know that prison is nothing more than grad school for criminals. The way they are putting them in and spitting them out, the cons quickly learn that to humiliate a man to a powdery finest is to take his manhood, turn him out. Flip him over and make him fiend for blood-throbbing dick like a bitch in heat.

It was enough to scare the shit out of him, making him drop out senior year.

I saw the conflict in his eyes the first time his mom sent him over with a pie for me. He was curious with lust in his eyes, trying not to look too hard. Once glance, however, is all that is needed to give a green egg like him away. Making up some lame excuse to stick nearby, helping me eat some pie and prolong his visit with meaningless conversation.

He tried to gauge me, not as a potential suitor for his mother but someone he hopes will break him in to feed his budding interest. He has two eyes, I’m a good-looking single man rejecting the advance of drop-dead gorgeous women throughout the neighborhood and, judging by the number of illegitimate births, that will easily put out.

Alfredo didn’t want to be bitched out. He just wanted a taste on his terms, as sort of a way to curve of a possible addiction. If he likes it, he likes it—on the down low. If not, no need to obsess over it. His only problem is that enough to send him on his way with a few jack-off fantasies to last him for a few months. Unaware that the older I get, the less patience I have for young bucks, especially the trouble I have breaking them in. It doesn’t matter if they are first-timers or experienced bottom bitches, I already know (not to be braggadocios) that taking my dick is no walk in the park. It took me years to learn I was working with too much to just ram it in at will. Back when I was young and just tapping some hungry ass I really didn’t give a shit if the screams were pleasure or pain as long as I got mine in the end, ignoring every cry to “pull it out” or “it burns” or “it hurts” on and on in between. Nowadays, I can get mine and whoever I’m with can get theirs, too. The downfall of that is that it made me a better more attentive lover. While it shored up the Bootycall Rolodex it can be disastrous event for newbies before unknowingly wising up and becoming jaded to the scene. Starting out naïve in thinking that getting sex in the first few hours of meeting is nothing more than a piece of ass, not an introductory counting ritual. Even worse, the nine out of ten-ers novices like Alfredo that were sure to catch lovesick fever believing a good fuck-down is the beginning of some grand love story decorated with all the bells and whistles.

He is smart enough to know that to stay close is to stay in mind. He bided his time by standing out on the corner in front of my abode like a loyal little pup waiting for that “come here boy” call.

He knows better too than to come across eager and hungry for it, setting himself up as a boy to be bitched. He instead created his own little clique from around the way as a diversion. He was too sorry to go the route of his incarcerated brother. He knew there were booty bandits inside just waiting to drill deep in the valley of his two ripe mounds. Because of his brother and his legacy of going away as a “baaad” motherfucker, he was often courted by the local gang to bring some of his “baaad” blood to the mix. He declined each and every time, keeping his alliance at a distance. He knew if he joined that either a rival gang or his own would kill him for bringing nothing worthwhile to the table. He couldn’t go out like no punk, either. The streets were bound to speak. He secretly envied his peers smart enough to finish school and go off to school to do their thing. He made his choice he had to do his thing too.

Rather than swim like a big fish in a big pond, Alfredo remained a big fish in a small pond, hanging around younger more impressionable rebels to feed into his ego, instilling in them his philosophies about life and the neighborhood. He knew as long as he stayed in his lane as far as the drug dealers and gangbangers were concerned that he had nothing to worry about, especially if he did some mild recruiting or the side for them. And it didn’t hurt he was standing in front of my house either.

The neighborhood was rough but carried itself like an unruly family founded by love, with me being scored as the crazy-ass arsenal-owning real “OG” uncle that everybody respected and nobody fucked with. The only father figure of sorts for most of the neighborhood that they love and mildly feared.

It was the kind of street cred backup he needed since he never served a day in his life. I had no doubt he packed some heat, a piece of steel his big brother probably left behind. Knowing the streets like I do; it was only enough to scare. Otherwise, he was too broke to buy the bullets for it and too scared to fire it off. Yet was just what he needed to make his wild, make-up anecdote sound halfway plausible to a group of intoxicate brains in training.

When I called his ass over from behind the fence, it was because I was growing sick and tired of his mouth cracking on his overweight subordinate out there. I figured if he wanted to play superior, I would take the time and show him whose boss. But by the way he was sporting the biggest, cheesiest Kool-Aid smile I had even seen, he was strutting around like he was due to collect some big cash reward, but the two of us knew what he thought he was there to collect. He tried to make himself come off more “willing” by stumbling like he was high on his beer buzz with that “go ahead, take advantage of me, Pa” look.

Never being the one to knowingly take it or getting some while the other was under the influence, I sat his ass down in front of the television, giving his friend plenty of time to make a gracious exit home. My intent was to keep Alfredo around for a sitcom or two, but these steady streams of movies kept coming across the wire. After a few snacks and dinner, it was a little passed midnight. I was ready to send him home when we saw the gangbangers had stationed themselves in front of his house. Alfredo was cool enough with the gang not to be bothered, but not cool enough to stall through their makeshift camp for the night. So, with no choice in my hand, I let him spend the night. (I could’ve walked him home without incident, but for a nineteen-year-old boy to be walked home by an older man was to suggest he was some kind of pussy boi which would’ve been the equivalent to getting rob.)

I tried my best to put him out on the sofa in the living room, but he had other ideas. Every fifteen minutes or so, he was barging into my bedroom bugging me about something or other. I forgot how he did it, but I ended up conceding letting him sleep in the bed beside me.

The next morning just as the sun was making its way through the burglar-barred window, I find myself humping my hips up in the air with this weird sensation as if I am going to pee. I realize it wasn’t so as I opened my eyes to find his sloppy wet mouth on the end of my pole. If I wasn’t so close to losing it, I would have slapped him away. Instead, the primal beast inside me locked his gagging mouth in place against each hard kick of white juice my body shot out.

I don’t bother to ask questions. I just catch my breath. I’ve been told for years now that I sometimes had a tendency to fuck in my sleep. My friends and pieces thought it was a plug for my insatiable appetite. My doctor diagnosed me with the condition.

As I calm down, come to the realization of what happened Alfredo cowered to the side of the bed crying wiping the corners of his mouth. The beast in me wanted him to stew in what he started, let him ask was that what he wanted. The human side however won out, climbing out of the bed to console him.

I apologized. But quickly reminded him I was a grown-ass man that do grown-ass things with grown-ass people. And while the law told him he was legal, he wasn’t ready to play in the big leagues.

He took my words to heart, or that was what it looked like. He explained himself in a blubbering mess that he saw me getting hard in my sleep. He tried not to give it much thought, Alfredo cried, but it was there and hard, the biggest he had ever seen outside of porn. Though that didn’t say much, seeing he hadn’t had much experience in seeing them outside of the room he shared with his brother. He thought a quick touch would do, satisfy his curiosity. Once he got away with that, he thought he would get his hands around it but was amazed that his hand could barely fit. He said with the foreskin peeling back and showing off the head and some drool, so he thought he would go in for a taste. One thing led to another, and he was sucking.

It took me a long while to realize he wasn’t crying because he got caught or that I held his head down, it was the fact I came in his mouth he thought made him a fag. According to hood logic, he was a fag simply for being on the other end of a spitting dick. Being the older wiser man that I am, I tried telling him he was one long before he put my dick in his mouth. Forget about going through with it, he was thinking about it long before, trying to work his way into my house, into my bed. So, the fact was, there were no hooting and hollering over spilled milk now. The best he could hope for was that the gangs outside didn’t find out!

The first thing he asked was I going to tell. I assured him I wasn’t. I had no reason to. However, seeing he tried sucking me off in my sleep, he was prone to dick, and to badly paraphrase him ‘the bigger the better.’ He was his worst enemy on telling on himself, checking out the bulge of every swinging dick that strolled by. Since mine was his first, no major leaguers were safe. He was bound to be wondering around in the streets coping anonymous feels.

He had to be prepared, I told him. He was setting himself up for the gamut. He could be called to perform a duty or get his ass whup. And if word got out that he was a cocksucker that gulped my load, it was sure to become the default aftertaste of every other load he ever drank from here on out!

I scared the shit out of him, telling him all this along with the lingering thread I could still beat his ass. He took it all in, wondering what he could do to not to turn into a dick-fiend?

I sheepishly smiled at the reflection in the mirror, giving myself a gentle reminder that I didn’t start this, he did. He stepped in the lion’s den, and I was ready to feast.

I looked down at his big brown eyes and told him it was okay if he morphed into a dick fiend, he just needed a steady fix from time to time. I told him until he was certain who was for or against feeding his addiction that I might be a good fix for a while. That didn’t mean, however, that he needed to be at my door every waking minute of every freaking day. “Just play it cool like normal, and when I see that you’re breaking out into seizures, I’ll call you over.” His body seemed to relax after that as I made my way back to my feet with my dick hard in his face.

He tried not to seem so eager, but with my blessings he tried to go back to work on it. Because I was mostly sleep through the first part, I took note of his lack of experience. He had the unbridle enthusiasm that most first-timers have, making up for his lack of skill. I tried coaching him through, but he was too caught up in his own world to pay me no mind.

How the hell I came the first time baffled me. Alfredo had no skill or finesse. It was just a wet tongue with drool all around the head, ignoring the rest of the shaft and balls. I was beginning to get frustrated, telling him that neither of us was leaving that room until I got off again—even if that meant me being the one to pop his cherry. He seemed to be a bit confused by the catchphrase as I explained that for me, it meant getting up in his ass.

He tried his best to come up with things with his mouth just so that wouldn’t even happen. In a few instants, he was beginning to master working his mouth just right. But since I had talked myself into getting some ass, his ass, I didn’t feed into his ego of a job well done. I just told him that I wanted some ass.

Of course, Alfredo tensed up again. It wasn’t rocket science that a dick like mine wasn’t made to break in virgins like him. I agreed, letting him know about my distain for newcomers. I assured his, though, that I was probably the best choice throughout the entire neighborhood, because those gangbangers were three times as sadistic as I was at that age, telling him about my good times in the hood running trains on the lames. The gangbangers weren’t above that either, fearing if word got out that Alfredo gave head—pretty decent head—that the gangbangers would probably pimp him out to any and every man hungry for some man-ass on top of sharing him amongst themselves.

He knew it wasn’t passed them since they were always looking for a way to bond their brotherhood and what a better way to do that with money and sex. There was another option I knew about that involved transporting things up his ass. I felt he was still a bit green to know about those things. Plucking away his cherry was a different story.

It took a little coaching, but I got him on the bed. Butt-naked, ass up, legs spread and kneeing the bed looking back over at me secretly wonder how he get from rubbing one out in his bed to being put doggy-style on the mend.

I flash him a smirk, answering his burning question: HE PLAY TOO DAMN MUCH! I was going to let the shit ride. He had other well-thought-out plans to get my attention and he did, putting his mouth on a sleeping giant. He thought he was just going to play with it and bounce? No, sir. I thought about sparing his fate for another day. Let him jack off for another day or two. Then, as I looked down, I saw it, centered at the helm of two smooth beautiful brown mounds.

I’m not the one to get excited over an asshole. Many of them are a dime a dozen just like random fucks. This one here was special, and it had absolutely nothing to do with his virgin status. Most fucks who fuck don’t understand that to have been in one ass is the same as being in every ass. Every piece of ass is not the same. Like dicks, assholes and tunnels come in different shapes and sizes specially made for different types of equipment. I was feeling a little honored looking at the type of hole he had. In my own lexicon, I called it the universal socket, which is nothing more than a surprising long open slit in oppose to the standard round puckered hole. To the untrained eye it would look like Alfredo takes dick like a pro, the way it opens up on the outside and come together inside at its pale pink lips sort of like a double-entry way.

What makes it most special than the rest is that it is hard to come by, and for a man with a big dick it is quite accommodating being if the man on the other end of it is a virgin or not. His tell-tell sign of never being hit in the ass before is that as a norm if it had been pried open with some dick, it tends to automatically gape open for some more. Regardless, I knew after a few good strokes with him learning how to relax back there, of course, I would be sliding my way in and out of a good time.

As I said, Alfredo was ass out looking back at me telling me he feels like a “bitch-ass ho.” I hadn’t the heart to tell he was just yet. I eased his fears by pulling his dick back between his chunky legs and gently sucked him off. He was so in nirvana I don’t even think he knew about my wet finger in his ass until it brushed against his prostate. He was telling me my blowjob was great, but if I kept playing with his prostate he was bound to pee. Knowing he wasn’t, I told him to go ahead. I don’t think he heard me though. My tongue was snaking up his undershaft to the long crack that was his hole. I had him panting like a dog. He was practically howling once I got his nipples involved with my fingers.

I guided him over to the nightstand where I kept a hefty supply of magnum condoms and some anal lube, he threw back at me, desperate for me to get back to eating him out. Not one to disappoint, I straight-up tongue-fucked him all the while slipping on the rubber and some lube.

I got behind him, mounting him, rubbing the head of my dick between Opening One and Opening Two before his mouth told his conscious to beg me to fuck him. I played with him a little more before going in for that long deep stroke. He’s crying and screaming into his pillow, telling me I’m splitting him in two I told him to relax. Try to relax, get into it. And like magic my dick stretched and plunging his hole to the point I had every inch buried to the nuts. Alfredo seemed to be getting off on that, the sound of this rhythmic beat.

He was getting into it, and so was I, forgetting this was his first time out. He was so caught up I had to remind him to breathe. We were both sweating hard about fifty minutes into it. I could’ve gone much longer but had to remind myself once again he was still a newbie. The way we were going at it he was bound to be sore for the next couple of days. So I held him tight and filled the condom inside of him.

I pulled out. Tossing the evidence in a nearby trashcan and rolled onto my back, taking the time to catch my breath. I guess Alfredo took the cue for that to mean for him to lay on top of me. Rather than that, I told him to round up and get his ass home. It wasn’t that I was trying to be cruel; I just wasn’t going to let him believe it was something more than what it was—a good fuck.