Bobby was the Boss
By Arablover
Bobby Mettry was only two years older than me but at 20 he was already a strong, hard-bodied man with big hands rough from lugging blocks of ice and heavy cans of kerosene up tenement stairs. It was the early '60's and Manhattan still had a lot of railroad flats without refrigerators, without steam heat. Bobby's Dad sold tenants ice for the icebox and kerosene for the oil burner. Bobby worked with him. I was just the opposite. I'd never done physical labor. Didn't play any sports, either. "Jimmy," Bobby once told me, "You're as weak as a girl and your hands and face are just as smooth. I think that's why I like you."
Bobby and his Dad had moved into the tenement next door that Spring. It wasn't until summer that I got to know Bobby when, same as me, he came down to the street most nights to take some air before going to bed. It turned out we were both half-orphaned as kids. I'd lost my father. He'd lost his mother. He talked about his mother some but mostly he talked about his Dad. They were close and you could tell by the way he spoke he admired his father a lot. Bobby liked to talk about sex and his father's studly ways with women. Queers loved his dad, too, he told me. His Dad told him queers were okay if you didn't have a woman handy. And his Dad got a kick out of pissing in queers' mouths. It embarassed me when he talked that way. I liked to talk about movie stars and school and fashions and such. I guess I could be a bit gushy. After observing my animated way of speaking often enough, he asked me one night if I was queer. I told him "absolutely not!" Bobby said that maybe I should try sucking his dick sometime, I might like it.
I tried to end the conversation by saying I had to pee and I was going back upstairs.
"Your apartment's three flight's up. The cellar in my building's open. One flight down. Why don't we go down?"
I didn't want to go with him. But when he cocked his head toward the stairs I couldn't refuse. Frankly, his unsmiling face and his physical presence intimidated me.
In the cellar I told him "all of a sudden I don't need to go."
"I do," he said.
I started to go back up the stairs. "Okay, I'll see you."
"Wait for me," he said. "I'll go back up with you." He turned his back and started pissing down a drain in the floor. I sat down on the lower step of the stairs as if I'd been nailed there. When the stream stopped he shook off the last drops and turned to me with his penis still hanging out. It made me more uncomfortable. In another instant I was alarmed.
"Take a taste," he said, crowding my face.
"Get lost," I said, pushing him away. I tried to get to my feet and was knocked back by a slap across my face.
"Do it, Jimmy." His wide palm hit my cheek again, stunning me.
"Don't hit me," I said. "I'll have to explain to my mother if my face is all red."
"Then take my dick in your mouth and you won't have any explaining to do."
I looked up into his eyes. There wasn't anger there but determination. He was going to make me do what was right. He started to raise his hand again and my shoulders sagged in resignation. I opened my mouth and he pushed his uncircumcised, piss-wet penis between my lips.
"Suck it," he said.
Slowly at first and then with a faster rhythm I moved my head up and down on his hardening shaft. "Oooh," he moaned. "Tastes good, eh?" I nodded without stopping my pistoning. After a while, he withdrew from my mouth. "Lick it, like a lollipop." I obliged and now the heat in my face was not only from being slapped. I was aroused.
"Such a good girlie," he mocked. My prick jumped. But I had to protest.
I stopped licking. "I'm not a 'girlie'!"
Bobby raised his hand. "Yes, you are." My eyes must have told him there was no need to carry out the threat. He moved forward again and thrust his dick in my face. "Open," he said and I obeyed. Now he took over the pistoning, plunging again and again against the back of my throat until I felt his stiff penis expand even more and with a moan he splashed my tonsils with his load.
He sighed as he withdrew. "Good, good, Jimmy " he said, patting my hair as if I were a dog. I hawked his scum from my throat to spit it out.
"Swallow," he demanded. I shook my head. He slapped my face again hard. "Swallow or you'll have a broken face to explain to your mother." Wincing, I swallowed his slimy scum.
Bobby chuckled. "Mmm, yummy, yummy you got my cream in your tummy."
I felt like scum. His scum.
"Don't you ever tell me you're not a homo again," he said. "From now on you do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it."
I nodded as if hypnotized. Bobby moved in toward my face again and automatically I dropped open my mouth.
"Just hold the head in your mouth," he said softly. "Close your lips around it."
I did as I was directed. "I gotta piss again," he said. "Just gulp it down as it comes."
My brain was screaming at me to resist. But I was numb. Once I'd swallowed his semen it was as if all the barriers had been broken down. When the bitter, salty stream started I just glugged it down as he ordered.
"I told you queers drink piss. I'm just helping you get adjusted." His words cut. "But don't kiss your ma when you get upstairs," he snickered as he finished. "You don't want to have to explain why you got piss on your breath." He leaned in and whispered in my ear: "My piss."
Bobby turned his back to me and pulled his pants down. "Starting now and everytime we're alone from now on, you don't say 'hello.' You kiss my ass instead to show me you know who's boss. Understood?" He looked over his shoulder and I nodded in agreement. I kissed his crack lightly and he blew a loud, wet fart in my face. He turned and it broke him up to see me flailing away at the stench that surrounded me. "That's how Bobby says 'thanks for the kiss'." I covered my nose with my hands.
"It's okay, Jimmy," he said. "We're done for tonight." He took my hands and raised me from the step. Go home." He pulled up his pants and buckled his belt. As we started up the wooden stairs together, Bobby rubbed my hair again and put his arm around my shoulder. "Hey, buddy," he said.
To be continued.
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