It case you're wondering, it started on the T.
In case you're not from Boston, that's the subway.
In case you care, it doesn't really matter where I was going. Doesn't matter what I was wearing. How old I am. What I do. What I'm reading. You need to know this--this kid gets on at the Harvard Square T stop.
From the looks of him, he's scratching fifteen, an outcast except his fat Goth-chick fan. There's this Groucho-wannabe black curly hair streaming from his Gilligan hat--outlining a face with hound-dog brown eyes and the kind of pouty-red lips that could have sold Life cereal. He's got this suede leather shirt on with tails drooping over kaki shorts that follow down just below his patella. Leather soccer shoes with no socks... and my grip could fit around the wide of his peach-fuzz calves. And, he's got one of those upside down pink triangle buttons on his army-surplus backpack.
He's in heated bitch session. Bitching about how his parents don't let him out anymore. He's bitching about how he wants to go to this party. I listen in, and I hear about how it's all these people that don't give a shit. About how his parents don't know or don't care about there being beer, drugs, whatever there. To him, it's all about because he's gay, and they hate him for it even though they don't admit it. He's gay, and suddenly he's not to be trusted even though he's always made straight A's. Even though he's never gotten in trouble except for ditching class.
I wait and I listen, and the manipulative side of me gets off with him at the next T stop.
"Listen, kid...I have a house near there..."
The words tumble out of my mouth before I have a chance to clamp my lips together.
"I know what you're going through," I lie. "Parent's aren't fair. Crash over at my place. Let me pretend that I'm a friend's parent."
"Really," I said. "Because I feel your pain."
And he bought into it. Eight hours later, and its one in the morning. Four hours before, I've received the call from one caring mother, Mrs. Gladis Morling. She's concerned that little Travis will be an imposition. She's wondering how long he's welcome to stay tomorrow until he's a bother.
"Oh," I say, "I've got tomorrow off, and I love to spend time with my kids."
Don't be surprised if he stays late into the day.
"Oh, good," she says. "Less time that Mike and me have to deal with him. Right Mr. Faulsom? Am I right?"
She giggles.
"Right," I say.
The Mrs. and me will be pleased to have him.
And four hours later, it's one o'clock.
My doorbell rings, and it's him with two escorting friends. Drunk, the way only a high-schooler or frat boy should be.
He slumps into my arms, and his friends ditch before I get a chance to thank them. I dunno, maybe they thought they were dropping him off at his parents house. He's just drunk enough to be a slinky--slouching and drawn out, but active enough to fall down stairs.
And now is where, among everything else, I prove myself an actual human being. I put him to bed. I leech out of the horn-dog deal with the wiener vendor from hell. Granted, it's on the left hand side of my bed. But it's still "to bed." Think of the other things I could have done. And then think that I put him to sleep. Tucked him in...with no innuendo required.
When I wake up next is another situation all together.
I'm curled up on my left side. So is he. Right behind me with his pecker hard and poking a tent in his kaki shorts. He's snoring like some demonic beast trapped in an angel's body, and I'm feeling his schlong in the crease of my boxer shorts. I think he's murmuring something about paperclips.
Pushing over, sitting up, and turning on the TV, I try to forget about the hard-on early teen next to me. The DVD on-button starts up a new video. But before what I remember I had in the machine, it comes up. "Strapping young lads." It's this bondage porn video I bought from one of those tabs that come with some of the more respectable gay porn mags like "Freshman." It's twenty-one-year-olds who look like sixteen-year-olds who act like medieval torture victims. And it's exactly what turns me on. Tonight, it'd have to serve as a consolation prize.
In the video, there's a guy leather-strapped to a big, wooden "x," butt-out. He's being whipped, and I'm jerking off. And then Travis turns over, and his shorts have somehow worked their way down past his ass. There's this virginal, porcelain-white ass just sitting there.
Long story short, I cum all over it.
Longer story short, he wakes up.
Sees the video.
And I sit there in a moment of panic as he goes from the groggy-eyes look of question to this "oh yea" look of a stoner. He says, "Oh, cool." He flips over onto his back and begins to jerk off.
The neat-clean freak in me wonders about my cum on his ass being driven into the sheets. The evil part of me wonders about my cum in his ass being driven into the sheets. So, I grab his hand, and I ask the inevitable.
"Do you like what you see?"
With a murmur of "yes," I start to work.
Around his neck goes a collar. Not the dog-collar kind, the kind that locks with a pad lock. Ditto for his ankles. On his wrists go leather mitts that ball up his hands. There's a body harness that includes a strap with a cock ring that goes up and around and between his ass cheeks with a metal ring that can be positioned right over his rose bud.
I slap it on him, with his body laying limp the entire time. But he's rock hard.
I grab him by the ring in his collar, shove my dick in his eye, and tell him to suck it. He doesn't.
"Fine," I say. And I pull out this gag that has a three inch penis attachment. I pinch his nose, shove it into his mouth, and he coughs a little. Over that goes his very first blind fold. Over that is his very first rubber hood. Before he has a chance to gather himself, I flip him over and pin each arm under a knee. I latch his arms, then his legs to the posts of the bed. And there he is, my fifteen year old, spread eagle boy. His ass bull eyed by the metal ring in the harness.
I lube up my dick. I stick it in. Pull out, thrust in. To the muffled screams of the fifteen-year-old in the penis gag behind the rubber mask. I pump, pump, and pump. I cum. And I collapse into the skinny, panting back beneath me, my dick still up his ass. That's how I fall asleep.
That's how I wake up in the morning--in a panic. I pull out, the boy groans, and at least I know I haven't killed him by making him sleep with the penis gag in. I unlock his wrists and his feet, I help him sit up, and I take the rubber hood off.
To be honest, I don't know what I expected. Maybe it would be this look of intense hatred. Maybe this look of fear. What I got was this frazzled look from a teenager who had just been woken up by his Mom--except he was wondering what the hell the thing in his mouth was.
I let him sit there. To be honest, I don't want to take the restraints off of him. I want him to sit there with the gag in as he feels the spooge slide out of his burning ass. Sitting next to him, I grab him by the collar and pull his head into my chest. Then he starts to cry. As I reach around to undo the gag, he shakes his head and the collar out of my grasp, and then buries his head into my crotch.
And then he cries with me stroking my hand through his black curly hair. I undo the back buckle of the gag, take it away, and he starts to quietly kiss my cock. My fist grabs the locks at the back of his head, and I start to lead him in sucking my dick. This, gentlemen, is when I first realized that I had found my boy.