It's been a while! I left 'On The Poolboy Payroll' (http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-friends/on-the-poolboy-payroll/) at what seemed a pretty natural place to stop, and then a trip to a farm shop in the real world led to some deviant words in the fiction world. I hope you like them...
Oh, and a 'Poolboy' reader suggested I point out that, while boys in fiction can't catch diseases from unprotected sex, boys in the real-world can, so you should always use a condom. Sensible advice.
Feedback, as always, gratefully received at alexp336@gmail.com
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Farmboy Fucktoy
Nineteen. Five eight. Corn-fed farm-raised fucktoy. First time I met him, it was at a store down at some old barn, where I'd been guilt-tripped into meeting up with my mom and helping her load bags of whatever people sell in barns into the back of her car. I'd been expecting to end up stretched out and pissed off after lugging sack after sack from counter to trunk, but the guy behind the register dispatched out this teenager to help us instead.
It wasn't a breath-catching moment - he isn't some model-in-waiting - but he was obviously cute. Short, buzz-cut blond hair, the real sort of tan you get from working outdoors, and the half-squint expression that comes from that too. Button nose and lips that couldn't decide if they wanted to be thin or plump. He was wearing a faded grey t-shirt and beat up jeans that had obviously seen better days, and it was as he stretched up to lodge a sack on top of my mom's roof-rack and I got a glimpse of the smooth, latte-colored skin of his narrow waist as his shirt rode up that I realized he'd given me an erection.
He didn't say much. Or, in fact, anything at all. I didn't even know his name until the guy in the barn said "this is the last bag, Cain" and the kid frowned and nodded and pushed it out to the car on the battered old hand-card they had. I followed him, even though there was only that one thing to move and the car was unlocked.
"Thanks for your help" I told him, after a few minutes of silence, only punctuated by the noises of his slightly labored breathing after hauling the sack into place. He nodded at me.
"Was nuffink" he muttered; half a shrug. I wasn't sure if he was hanging around because he needed me to dismiss him, or if he wanted to talk - though if that was it, I guessed I'd have to come up with the conversation - but I was keen to keep him from returning back into the dark recesses of the barn.
"You must have to be pretty strong. I mean, to work here" I ventured. He looked at me, still half-squinting in the sunlight, and I wondered whether he'd realized the extent of my interest or was blissfully unaware. After a beat or two, he both nodded and shrugged again.
"Farm keeps you moving" he opined, a little dismissively. I frowned and nodded myself, as if he'd said something terribly deep and insightful, inside silently racking my brain for alternative topics on which he might prove more talkative.
"So... you have a girlfriend... or a boyfriend?" I asked. I had to risk it, even if meant dragging my mom out of the store in the manner of the bored teenager I'd been a decade ago because this quiet conversation had turned ugly. Cain stared at me, gaze unwavering. I licked my lips anxiously, found myself glancing down at his feet and - in the process - at the appealingly heavy bulge at his crotch. Maybe that's what really gave me away, or at least left him feeling like he could be honest with me.
"No," he said quietly, "no boyfriend."
With perfect timing my mom arrived, paid no heed to her 29 year old son locked in a loaded staring match with a random guy, and only told me that it was time to be going and that she was grateful for the help. It's a good job I'd come in my own car, as she didn't give me much of a chance to say whether or not I needed a ride, instead quickly pulling off in a cloud of dust. I was left with Cain again.
"Moms, right?" I asked him. He cracked a smile, just half of one, the first I'd seen so far.
"Yeah, right."
He'd followed me back to my place that afternoon, pulling a beat-up truck half onto the curb and passively climbing the stairs after me to my apartment. I don't think he gets much affection at home. Not physical, anyway. The first time I touched him, tentatively hooking a hand around the back of his neck and drawing him in to my chest, he stiffened and then melted some. I wasn't sure if he would be a kisser, but after I trailed a string of soft touches with my lips down his cheekbone and to his mouth, he opened up and was soon dueling back with me, tongues clashing.
I'd pealed off his tshirt, then, hungry for a look at his labor-hewn body. All the hallmarks of a teenager becoming a man, and making that change out in the open air. Broadening chest with tufts of hair around his nipples and leading down into the waistband of his jeans, even tan hinting at long sessions working shirtless on the farm. Flat stomach without the forced abs of a gym-twink; broadening shoulders and taut biceps.
I ran my fingers down his shoulderblades, sharp under a thin layer of muscle and sinew, and across the crisp taper of his waist. The rough denim stopped me, for a moment, until I unsnapped the worn button fly and let my hands trail across the bubble of his ass. Cain rested his head forward, forehead tucked in the crook of my neck, as I kneaded at his buttcheeks, firm and warm under a thin layer of cotton.
He seemed flawless to me, though given the sort of work he did that was obviously not true. A long, pale scar ran down across his flank and underscored his small belly button. When I sat him on the edge of the bed and tugged off his jeans completely, leaving him to sit in simple white briefs and cheap socks, I found his legs were studded with cuts and grazes from unruly animals and the harsh snap of wheat against him. Then there were the war wounds more intentional.
One time he turned up with a cut lip and a fat purple bruise under his left eye, I guess his old man had given him a swat or an older brother or something. Looking sullen and moody, and I couldn't help but push him down to his knees, hold his mouth open with both hands and deep-fuck his throat until he was choking and spluttering. Turned him round, tugged his jeans halfway down his thighs and raw boned him, one hand pinning his in place against the wall, the other clamped across his mouth.
Most of the time, though, we like to take it slow. As I said, he doesn't get much in the way of careful touching when he's at home, so he really comes to life when I get my hands on him properly. Gently strip him down - I like him in his underwear, somehow both bashful and stubborn - and then coax the wild animal out of him.
He likes it best on all fours, fistfuls of lube or oil in my hands to ease them across his body. Long strokes from his neck, slippery down across his shoulders, torso, waist. Paying special attention to his ass cheeks, then down thighs and calves and in-between his toes. Grooming him until his body is humming, then letting the oil trail slickly down the crack of his ass, across his naturally hairless balls. Sometimes he'll still be soft by that point, the pleasure manifesting almost cat-like in its innocence, and the lube will drip down the length of his dick as it hangs beneath him.
Other times, though, I'll have hit some button on the way, and his cock will be stiff and ready, his legs automatically spreading - ass arching as he drops his stomach to rear up for me - and a deep hum in his chest as I play devious fingers around his hole, across his balls and finally down the length of his erection. A meaty fistful of farmboy dick, flaring midway down the shaft in a palm-fillingly pleasing way, and then swelling again at the arrowhead tip. Sometimes, because I knew he both loved it and hated it, I'd cup the head of it in my palm, fingers grasping partway down beyond the ridge of it, and corkscrew my hand on him. Cain would buck and jerk, head either thrown back with mouth a perfect "o" at the overwhelming feel of it, or buried deep into the bedsheets, or the carpet, or the grass lawn when I fucked him outdoors in the back yard.
Then his ass would lift even higher, backing insistently onto my hand, demanding my fingers play around his hole and begin their gentle pressure inside of him. It didn't take me long to realize that Cain loved to have his ass stretched open, one fingertip leading to the full length of it, then two, then three, scissoring his compact, narrow butt open ready for the main event. Sometimes I'd reach underneath him while I did it, gently milk his cock or squeeze out long, dangling strands of precum.
He was a leaker, cock drooling like a broken faucet once he got started. I love to lift his legs up, balance him precariously on his shoulders and start to work him over between his cheeks, watch the chords of glistening prejizz spool down onto his face. Most of the time I'd be able to resist, but sometimes I'd have to stop and lick across his lips, his cheeks; hold his face still with my hand close around his throat.
When he'd almost had too much, when he was mewling to be fucked, I'd replace my fingers with the blunt head of my dick and let his tortured hole close tautly around it. Corkscrew my hips a little, so that the oval tip of it would grind deliciously against his twitching muscle. Cain told me, after our first few times, that he could never decide whether it would feel better to let me gradually ease inside of him, or if he wanted me to slam it to the hilt, force my way into the confines of his lithe teenage body. Me, I like it both ways. The feel of Cain's hands as they drag my pelvis slowly inside of him; the sudden roasting warmth of his tender flesh surrounding me.
He was demanding, at times. Once he showed up at my door unexpectedly, cutoff jeans hanging low on his lean hips, faded t-shirt thin and clinging. I had friends round; people who might not understand what a nineteen year old farmer's boy and I might have in common. Or maybe who could take a pretty accurate guess, and start asking uncomfortable questions.
"Oh, hey Cain." I'd tried to think on my feet. He dug his hands into his jeans, pushing the worn denim even lower and revealing the smudge of his tan line. "You forget your key again? Lucky your mom left a spare with me."
He'd frowned; looked past me and saw my friends glancing over, hardly curious. I could see realization - and something else, something more mischievous - dawn on his face, but he hid it quickly.
"Sure, yeah, thanks." Cain nodded at me, was that half of a wink too? I had half-turned, to fake-rummage through the bowl of keys on the side table, and he walked past, headed down to my bedroom. "I'm just gonna grab that... um, that book you were talking about, okay?"
I think my eyes must've bulged a little. There was a big bookcase with jam-packed shelves in the room right here, and I wondered whether my friends would think it strange that Cain would go walking straight past it and right to my room. I waited a beat, then another, before realizing that he wouldn't be coming back unless I brought him.
"Excuse me, um..." I'd stuttered. "One minute, okay guys?" They were still locked in conversation and probably hardly noticed my leaving, but I still had butterflies as I stepped over to my bedroom.
Cain was stood by the nightstand, actually flicking through one of the books I'd left stacked there. He turned, grinned over his shoulder as I crept anxiously into the room. "Some latchkey kid, am I?" he asked.
I quickly closed the distance between us, not wanting to be heard but not wanting to be caught with this boy in my room. "What the fuck, Cain? Now is not the time!"
His eyebrows had raised in mock-surprise, but that wide grin showed he wasn't taking things seriously at all. The last time he'd been in here, I'd had him folded over like a pretzel on the bed, hammering into his ass as I aimed his twitching dick at his mouth. The memory of it had still been enough to give me half an erection.
Pulling him round by his shoulder, I realized his cutoffs were unbuttoned; the sparse, soft tufts of pubes clearly visible through the gaping vee of fabric. That had been enough to get me all the way hard, bad timing be damned. "You little fuck..." I started.
"Do me, here, right now. Do me on the floor" he'd hissed, reaching for my fly. I batted his hand away, but the bulge of my dick was obvious. I'd opened my mouth to protest, and he'd lunged at me, pushing his lips against mine, pulling my hands to roam inside his jeans, tugging at the stiff length trapped against his hip.
"I can't... we can't" I'd protested feebly, trying to back away, but he followed me, guided me until my back was against the wall by the door, eased us both down to the floor. He crouched on his knees between my splayed legs, fingers on my zipper as he tried to pull my hardness free.
I could've fought harder, but I didn't want to - I knew that then, really, just as much as I can recognize it now - and soon he had my cock out and, leaning forward, the head of it was lost in his throat. My body had jolted with the tight suction of it, and instinctively I'd humped my hips up, bucking against his face. Cain gagged for a second, choked a little as he tried to wrap his fingers round my shaft and control the face fucking, but I was angry by then, pissed off at his attempts to coerce and control me.
I'd wrapped my arm around the back of his head - wrist pressed hard at the nape of his neck, hand grasping a handful of hair - and yanked his face into my crotch, hearing him gasp and splutter as I busted past his gag reflex. Pinning him in place and using my other hand to brace against the carpet, I lifted my hips and shoved into him again, feeling the hot slobber dripping down my shaft and across my balls as I dominated Cain's mouth.
After a few jabs he'd let go of my cock altogether, held his body up with one arm and reached down with the other to flail at his dick as I continued to rape his throat. Sometimes I'd hold his face so that it was pressed tight into my groin, feeling the twitch of his gullet as it stretched around my shaft. The blur of his hand underneath his body told me he was loving it just as much.
A quickly-stifled gasp from the doorway was the first I'd known that someone was there. My head had snapped round, up, to see my friend Daniel stood, mouth gaping, as he looked down at my grip on Cain and his face ground into my lap. We locked gaze for a moment, the paralysis only broken when Cain groaned and I'd realized I'd had my cock buried into him, cutting off his air supply, for half a minute or so.
I'd dropped my hips, meant to stop, to try to explain somehow, but Cain - either oblivious to our audience or not caring - dived down onto me again, perhaps more horny than before after the impromptu suffocation. Daniel's mouth had formed a near-perfect 'O' as he watched first Cain push himself over the edge, splatters of cum soaking the carpet beneath him, and then his devious tongue coax my own load from me, my single-minded dick somehow divorced from the horror of being caught, and focusing only on blasting several jerks deep into the teenager's throat.
He'd sagged onto me, and Daniel had begun to back away, the petrified moment broken by my climax. I'd looked at him with desperation, and saw him shake his head - whether in shock or in complicity I wasn't sure. Then he'd rushed from the door.
Cain had sat up, rocked back on his heels - still-swollen dick lolling obscenely out of his shorts - and grinned at me smugly. His face was red, cheeks flushed. It'd taken a moment for me to pull myself together, and I didn't want to think what damage-control I'd have to do when I got back into the other room.
I'd pulled him to his feet, tried to tidy us up as best I could, pushed a random book from the pile into his hands and - not before a kiss, the taste of my cum on his tongue - shoved him out of the room and hurried him past my friends, not daring to make eye contact. Cain looked frustratingly smug as I shut the door in his face.
I expected questions. I expected at least some confused looks. But I got nothing; only a slight smile from Daniel and then no other indication that he'd seen anything out of the ordinary - or told anybody about it - that evening. In fact, when he left with the others about an hour later, I thought I'd escaped without addressing the whole, mortifying (and, yes, arousing) situation at all.
Then came the knock on the door. "I forgot my bag" Daniel said, not stopping to wait for me to invite him in, but pushing past and walking over to the couch. I watched, warily, as he sat down. "So, you fuck with boys, do you?"
And that's how I ended up tag-teaming the farmboy with a guy I'd thought, until then, was straight. But that's another story.
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So, no swimsuits this time around, but I hope it still hit the spot. I'm not sure if this will start a new series or just be a standalone thing; I guess it depends on the feedback of people like you!
I'm open to suggestions, so let me know what you think at the usual place, alexp336@gmail.com. Thanks!