Saturday, August 22, 2015


There nothing like teen ass, I thought as I pushed into the young man with daddy issues; they were always so tight, so fresh, so naive, so easy to manipulate, to control. Like little Francisco here, wriggling and grinding and whimpering and groaning on the end of my cock like a speared fish, the raven-haired twink I had met two hours prior while strolling through a local park. So needy, so desperate for attention it had been almost too easy.
So you live around here? Yes. That’s good. What do you do for a living? Me? I’m a writer. What about yourself? I attend the Uni. I am taking economy classes. I want to open my own business one day. Your own business, that’s a tough nut to crack. I never met a writer before. Are you a journalist? No, nothing mundane as a journalist. I write novels. What do you write about? Ha…garbage apparently. Oh, they can’t be that bad. No, not that bad. You want a horchata or something. Yes, it’s hot this afternoon.
I yanked hard on his hair and twisted my grasp around his thin neck, his back arching, his asshole twitching around my jabbing erection, his copper-colored flesh so smooth, so beautiful, his ass tight and wet I had to hold myself back as I began lunging into him. I began to fuck him brutally, overwhelming the bucking teen, feeling him tremble beneath me.
Where are your parents? My mother passed a few years ago of cancer. I’m sorry. Me, too. I miss her. My father is still alive. You talk to him? No. Not anymore. He’s a monster. I hate him. He was a fiend when we were kids. Very bad father. Me, too. My mother is still around. My father, too. But he is drunk most of the time and beats my mother a lot. Yeah, that’s tough. Why is it family’s the worst? Aren’t those the ones who are meant to understand and console you in this mad world? I chose to separate myself from them. The lies, guilt, false accusations. You are very young. I like older men, though. Do you? Yes. How old are you? Nineteen. Well, that’s just dandy.
When, after almost fifteen minutes of pounding into him, his slippery asshole drooling its need all over my cock and down his hairless thighs, I jerked my cock from him and flipped him over, pushing his slender teen legs wide apart so I could drill him as deeply as possible, the expression on his wasted face was priceless, his hair sticking to his sweat-covered forehead, his lips open, his jaw slack, his eyes dull, empty.
I hate my life. Why? Life is good. No, it is not and the thing I really hate is when people attempt to convince me it will get better. It will not get better. Ever. If anything, it gets worse. It’s what you make of it, I suppose. Then I’m fucked. Do you ever think of killing yourself? Constantly. The dire matter is I never can bring myself to do it. However the thought hangs over me like a thick, suffocating fog. That’s not healthy. I am not healthy. Are you crazy? You have no idea.
I look down and he retains the face of a fucked-out doll, gaining momentary animation as I slammed my hips forward, burying my erection deep into his spasming hole, his back arching, a moan escaping his gasping lips as I continued to fuck the teen, thinking how much fun it was going to be to completely and utterly ruin him for every man who came after him.

1 comment:

Perfectly Flawed said...

Oh my gosh! You remind me of my ex. No wonder I find you fascinating. Great piece.