“Drive you home, Chris?”
The young blond stopped at the door and looked back at his night’s employer. The eighteen-year-old’s pulse began racing. He’d thought the older man wasn’t going to.
“Sure, Mr. Mathers.”
Another week. Another babysitting job at Mathers’ home. Another drive. Chris lived an eight-minute walk from Mathers’ house. Somehow, Mathers’ wife never asked why driving the boy home often took half an hour. Sometimes more.
The first time wasn’t Chris’ idea. Lou Mathers had gotten the boy’s number from a friend. His wife was away for the weekend. Lou called for a babysitter. When Chris showed up, Lou stayed. There were questions. Hypotheticals. Showing. Touching. A meaty arm around Chris’ shoulders, leading him into the bedroom. Pain. Ecstacy. A sore ass, and sticky underwear for the walk home.
The next week, Lou called again. It was a legitimate job, while he and his wife visited friends. They came home, and Lou acted as though nothing taudry had ever happened in the bedroom.
“Drive you home, Chris?”
Sure, Mr. Mathers.
Chris glanced beside him in the dim car. The only light came from the low-playing radio. Lou hummed along to most songs, singing along quietly when he knew the words. That wasn’t often. The houses grew more sparse along the road. The trees, more dense. Chris began noticing the peculiar shapes of a few along the road. This was the seventh time Lou had offered the ride.
Ten minutes of driving, and Lou pulled the car over to the shoulder. He reached to turn the radio off, and in the last second or two of light, Chris looked over the man next to him. Forty-six. Portly. Balding. Thick black frames to his thin-lensed glasses. Greying mustach. Still in the suit he wore to work that morning. Still smelling of generic aftershave and Dial soap.
Seventh time. Same opening line.
“Looks far enough, eh? Why don’t you, um, come a little closer…”
Chris edged his hips along the older car’s bench seat. A thick arm reached around the boy’s lower right side, the hand cupping a soft mound encased in denim. Squeezing. Smoothing. Lou’s right arm swept around Chris’ back, gripping the boy’s shoulder from behind. Lou pulled the slender, petite body closer. Closer. Thin lips advanced on the boy’s full, alluring pout. Moist kisses. Harder gropes. A father of three daughters pushed his tongue into the mouth of the son he’d never had. Lou liked to pretend that way.
Chris lolled his head back slowly. He sighed, kisses running down his neck. Buttons popping loose on his shirt collar. More. Lou pushed the fabric open, licking along the thin boy’s visible clavicle. The grunting started. Lou moaned against the boy’s milky skin. He was sure it sounded sexy. To Chris, it always reminded him of a pig rooting through a fresh trough.
Lips closed around a pert nipple on a hairless chest, and sucked. Chris gave his first whimper of the evening. Lou exhaled his thinly-whiskered grin. He shifted position, onto his right hip. The familiar bulge in his pants pressed into the crotch of Chris’ jeans.
“Take ‘em off, son.”
Chris’ hands steadily went to his waist. The top button and four more down the fly popped open with the same soft, inaudible shudder. Lou’s chubby fingers reached for the warm flesh of the boy’s naked belly. For skin and bones, the boy was the softest, supplest thing he’d ever felt. Obviously queer. That made it okay to use him.
The natural blond fought against the seat to get the jeans off of his hips. Off of his thighs. His calves. His ankles. Lou’s meaty hand flattened to the boy’s crotch, rubbing circles over the soft white hair and the thick, half-erect organ it surrounded.
“Come on, come on. On your back.”
Lou stole a quick glance at the darkness outside the car. No headlights on this road. No house lights. He looked back to the boy, licking his fingers as he perused the barest outline of the body lying before him. Lou always stared at Chris when his wife didn’t notice, memorizing the boy for just these moments.
Chris spread his legs. The dampened fingers rubbed at the tight pucker lying in wait. Chris heard a short zipper pull down. The light sound of fabric rumpling. Lou’s grunt as his briefs pulled down and his bulge was freed. More saliva, this time wetting the head of a penis that had been stiffening since before they’d left Lou’s house.
A smooth, wet dome pressed to Chris’ hole. The hard shaft driving it pushed it steadily into the boy’s body, stretching the rectum as it entered. One inch. Two. Four. Seven. Lou groaned out a low breath as his loaded balls pressed to tender flesh. He pulled out until the lip of his cockhead caught on Chris’ seizing sphinchter. Lou pushed back in. Pulled back out. The hot friction made the boy squirm. Pant. Moan. Almost like struggling. Enough for Lou to like it.
Thick hands touched behind the boy’s knees, spreading Chris’ thighs wider apart. Lou leaned down, nearly lying atop of him. A broad, hot lick along a taut, porcelain cheek. A heavy hand gripping the boy’s chin, forcing him still for a lurid kiss. Lou’s tongue dove inside, lapping at his babysitter’s. Chris fought for a look between his legs. It wasn’t easy in the darkeness, nor past the hanging paunch of Lou’s stomach. The boy’s erection was full by now, in perfect position to keep Chris from seeing Lou’s shaft entering him.
He could still see Lou’s hips rolling back and forth. Still felt the veiny pole driving into him. No lube. No condom. Only hard human flesh, burning from the libidinous blood surging through it. Lou’s spit was little help. Chris whimpered from the discomfort. Lou stroked in him faster. Chris closed his eyes tightly. The darkness in the car was a blessing, but he wanted no chance of seeing Lou during the inveitable moment when Chris silently admitted that he liked it. It could be any man, and Chris would like it. It had nothing to do with a chunky suburban loan officer. Chris didn’t want the seven inches buried in him. They just happened to be there.
Lou raised onto his knees, gripping the boy’s legs to keep him spread. The space left Chris able to reach for his own erection and stroke it. The boy’s head thrashed from side to side on the fake leather seat. The cushions creaked and hissed from the exertions they supported. This was where Lou’s wife sat. Where his daughters sat. Now the same spot where Lou habitually fucked his babysitter. The male babysitter. Sweat beaded on Chris’ skin in the closed car. It poured off of Lou’s forehead, feeling like warm rain on the boy’s stomach. The windows were fogged and starting to condense. Chris lie jostling on his back, biting his lip to keep himself quiet. Lou loved that sound. He waited for it. Lived for it.
“Hoo, yeah. Let me hear it, son. Come on, jerk it faster. Faster. That’s better. Gonna cum, son? Are you? Come on….”
Chris fought it every time. He wanted Lou to leave satisfied – it would mean another job another week. But Chris didn’t want to enjoy it. Lou always got the impression that making the boy cum meant that he was an unparallelled god to both sexes. A candle and ten minutes could do the same thing; it meant nothing. Yet every other day, Lou would spot Chris around town. His beefy hands would grip either side of his belt buckle. He’d wait until Chris saw him, then give his pants a short tug. Remember this? It made you cream yourself last Thursday.
So do yearbook pictures of the diving team. Whatever.
In the end, it was always a losing battle. Chris kept his teeth clenched, gasping loudly through them. Lou rolled his hips faster, longing to see how red his prize equipment made the boy’s hole. Maybe one of these days, he’d spring for a motel room a town over and find out. Short, fast moans left the boy’s voice. The tortured song of lust culminated in a deep scream made louder by the closed windows.
Spurts of hot fluid splashed onto Chris’ naked stomach. Some reached past his ribs. The semen lost its heat quickly, even against Chris’ sweaty flesh.
“Rub it in, son.”
Exhausted to be spent and still participating in the bout of intercourse, Chris obeyed. His slender hands ran over his stomach, feeling out cooling, slimey gobs of sperm and coating his skin with them like a lotion. He was always too tired to shower when he got home, and the cum liked to stick to his bedclothes. Chris brought his coated fingers up to his lips. He sucked off the thick patches. Licked off the rest. Lou loved listening to it.
Lou’s hands slipped under the boy’s hips, squeezing the curvaceous buttocks savagely. It also gave him enough purchase on Chris’ body to slam his meat in deeper. The laboured wheezing was starting now. Lou’s face must be purple.
“Here comes your tip, Chris…”
Wow. Just as funny the seventh time. Lou growled out loudly in the enclosed car. Twice. Three times. Each punctuated by a burst of hot ejactulate spraying deep into Chris’ ass. That sensation, as usual, made Chris try to wriggle out of Lou’s hold. The son of a bitch could at least blow the wad into a rubber. But, no. Barebacking was just one of those things Lou got off on. Like Chris’ struggling. Lou pinned him, forcing a last tongueing and adding a few more slaps of his crotch to Chris’ cheeks. Each final thrust spit one more drop of sperm into the boy. Lou beamed his pleasure in the faint moonlight. Chris glared at him from the darkness of his lower position.
Lou wrested his penis out of the boy quickly. Again with that odd, soft thpt sound from the accrued vacuum.
“Get your clothes on.”
The return drives were as quiet as the first halves. What was there to talk about? Going out, Lou was only interested in having sex with the small town’s homosexual. White trash, even if he did have a middle-class mother and absent white-collar father, perfect for using up and disposing of. Coming back, Chris was sticky, sleepy, and grudgingly satisfied for another twenty-four hours.
“You sure are a pretty little thing.”
Christ, don’t try striking a conversation now…
“As much as I like that mouth open, it’s good you’re a boy who knows when to keep it shut.”
It was good for me, too. Thanks.
“You, um, keeping Thursdays open now?”
“Not especially. No one else has called for one yet.”
“I think you should start.”
Chris looked over to the night’s employer. Lou stared out at the road confidently. His lips pursed. His chin stiffened, approving of his decision. Feeling virile over laying a teenager, making him climax, and doling orders to be at his elder’s beckoned call. Don Juan triumphant.
The rest of the trip to Chris’ house was quiet. Summer crickets. Excitable dogs. Tires crackling over gravel and through turns on the pavement. But no talking. Lou’s brakes were developing the fainest squeaking as the car pulled up to the curb. Lou grunted out a weary breath, twisting to reach into his pants pocket. A folded stack of bills stood ready for the counting. Lou licked his thumb before leafing through them. Under a street lamp, Chris could see him looking at the boy through the frivolous gesture. He expected Chris to find any view of his tongue a turn-on.
“That’s that. Go get yourself in a shower, faggot.”
Chris stopped after his first step away from the car.
“If you don’t like me, why don’t you let your daughters sit themselves?”
Lou gazed back at him from inside the car, as though the answer were the most obvious ever discovered.
“I like you a lot, son. You can’t get pregnant, and my wife would get wise if Daddy kept taking his girls out for rides. Thursday. Six o’clock.”
Lou drove off for home. Chris looked down to the bills in his hands, recounted his night’s wages. Fifteen bucks for babysitting. A sore rectum full of sperm for giving a middle-aged man an orgasm. Fifty dollars for keeping quiet about it.