Bobby was the Boss - Part 2
By Arablover
Now that Bobby had things settled between us, it all got easier. As the weather cooled, the late night encounters on the stoop were less frequent. If Bobby wanted me, he'd call me up instead. I'd tell my mother I was going for a walk and I'd meet Bobby in his cellar.
Bobby never washed before seeing me. I guess he figured he'd have to wash up again anyway when he was done. He also never pulled back his foreskin when he pissed. When he got a boner and the head was exposed, there was always a "ricotta" coating for me to deal with. Smegma tastes bitter and it stinks but after a while I'd have missed if he had been clean.
I got good at pleasuring him. I learned from his reactions what sort of tongue action he liked best. Slobbering on his balls made his penis go from zero to 60 in seconds. When I blew him I'd concentrate on rubbing my tongue on the back of his dick at the point where the foreskin attaches to the shaft. It made him shiver with pleasure. In fact, he would withdraw when he was in danger of coming too soon and plant his ass in my face instead.
He rarely hit me anymore. Just as well. Though I realized I kind of liked him smacking me around, I didn't want to be damaged. Bobby was big and strong enough to hurt me seriously, even if he didn't mean to. About the only times I got hit anymore was when I resisted some new debasement. The first time he told me to get my face into his asscrack and "lick his asshole, suck on it", I was put off because he wasn't clean and the stench itself hit me like a blow. A rap across the face and then another convinced me I was going to do what he wanted, one way or another. I said "okay! okay! uncle!" He turned his ass to me again. Reaching back he grabbed my hair and forced my face into his crack. It was my first experience with actually having a brown nose. Brown around my lips, too. Afterward he washed my face in his piss. He cared enough to give me his handkerchief to wipe my face.
"Keep it," he said.
Bobby always finished up by pissing in my face and in my mouth because he liked to and, he said, because I needed to be reminded that I was a lowlife, piss drinking fag who wasn't much good except as a toilet.
I guess I knew we were a couple when on a Sunday afternoon in November Bobby asked me over to meet his dad and watch a football game. Bill Mettry answered the door. He must have been young when Bobby was born. He looked no older than 39 or 40. He took me into the living room where Bobby told him what a real helpul pal I was. Father and son each had easy chairs. I was conveyed to the couch. Like his son, Bill Mettry had a trim, hard, workingman's body but he was shorter than Bobby. And while Bobby wore his dark brown hair to collar length, his dad wore a crewcut.
From the questions I asked about the game, it must have been obvious I knew nothing about football. Conversation ground to an awkward stop and we all stared at the TV.
Bill broke the silence. "I'll get us a beer," he said, getting up to escape.
"Let him get the beers," Bobby said. "Jimmy, they're in the fridge in the kitchen. Go find them."
As I passed Bill's chair, I saw him out of the corner of my eye raise his palms and hunch his shoulders, as if he were asking Bobby "Where did you find this nerd?"
From the kitchen I couldn't hear what Bobby said but I heard his father say "Oh." And then, "Hell, why be shy about it? You work hard. This is your home, Bobby. Enjoy." Bobby said something else I couldn't hear and his father hooted. "A fag breaker just like his dad," I heard Bill say triumphantly. As I approached the living room with two beers and a soda, Bill reached across to his son and firmly shook his hand.
I gave each of them a beer and rested my cola on the coffee table.
"Hey, Jimmy, this isn't the cellar," Bobby said. "Make yourself comfortable. Why don't you get naked. All naked. Take off everything."
"Do it, Jim, " Bill encouraged. "I couldn't understand why my son would have such a wimp for a pal. But you're a special kind of pal, aren't you? My son tells me you're his fag. Is that true?"
I flushed and nodded my head as I stripped.
A minute later I was naked, I had removed Bill's socks as he directed, I was flat on my belly and I was sucking his toes. I might have knelt but Bill didn't want me blocking his view of the televison.
"I like that," he affirmed, enjoying the shrimping. He held his feet together so I could brush all his toes with my spit without a break. "Bobby, there's nothing like a tongue massage for your feet. Your mother used to do it for me. She was good. Jimmy's good, too."
"I'll try it sometime," Bobby said. "But I got other things for faggo to do."
His father was oblivious to his son's hint. He separated his feet, sticking out his left. "Show me respect," he said. "Put as much of my foot in your mouth as you can."
Wha? But I dared not question. I tried to oblige. I was able to get all the toes in my mouth but not much more.
"You can do better than that ," he said. I shook my head in the negative. He withdrew his foot.
"Here," he said, standing up. "I'll teach you both a lesson. Lay on your back-- Faggo, is it?"
He looked down at me and cocked his chin. I opened my mouth. Bill braced himself with his hand against the wall and proceeded to gradually fit about half his big foot down my mouth. I was choking and expecting my jaw to pop.
"See, Bobby," he said, "Never take a fag's word for it. They'll always try to get off easy. Just like women. But they can always take more of anything you want to dish out."
Mercifully Bill withdrew his foot and I gasped for breath, relieved that my jaw was intact.
"Yeah, Dad, that's nice," Bobby said, "but I wanted him to suck my asshole."
" 'S okay with me," said his father. "Just giving you a few pointers."
Bobby got out of his slacks and shorts and sat back hoisting his legs over the arms of his chair. Without being told I crawled over and pushed my face right into the sanctum, that hairy, marvelously musty place. I began slurping and sucking noisily on Bobby's dirty hole.
"You hear that, Pop," he said. "He's a fuckin' pig. This fag loves to suck on my asshole. Don't you?" I nodded without stopping. "Piggy," he taunted, grasping the back of my head and crushing my face deeper into his hole. I knew he liked me to make sloppy, animal-like noises when my face was in his crack. Without further prompting, I started making grunting, snorting sounds that made them both roar. Bobby grabbed my hair and pulled up me from his crack. "You really are a pig." His pressed his thumb to the base of his dick making it bend toward my lips. "Now suck on this for a while," he said.
"You plowed him yet?" his dad asked, whacking his dick .
"Nah," he said. "I don't want to take a chance on getting fagshit on my dick."
"Who cares? If he gets you shitty, he'll clean you up. He better," Bill said. "I'm gonna break him in for you."
Bill headed for the bathroom cabinet and hustled back with a jar of petroleum jelly. My ass was already in the air while my mouth worked on Bobby's dick. Bill handed me the jar and told me to grease up good. I did the best I could without interrupting my work for Bobby.
As Bill pushed in, the pain was tolerable. In spite of the gruff talk, Bill was considerate enough to start nice and slow. But after a while the increasing intensity was becoming too much for me. I knew that asking for a break was the worst thing I could do. To get my mind off my sphincter I put my whole concentration on giving Bobby the best damn hum job he ever had. Finally Bill shot, then Bobby.
When at last my holes were empty, I dropped to the floor for a rest. Everyone rested.
Bill went back to his chair. His stuck out a foot and tousled my hair with it. "Good fag," he said softly.
"See, Dad," Bobby said quietly. " He's a live one."
Before the afternoon was over I had cleaned off Bill's dick, sucked his asshole as I'd done for Bobby, and had my thirst quenched with their piss. They had me kneel in the bathtub. Bill and Bobby stood side by side, dad's arm around his son's waist as together they relieved themselves into my wide open mouth.
Bill had had a good time. So had Bobby. And though I thought my jaw would fall off by the end of the day, so did I. But I never had the pleasure of Bobby's dad again. I could only figure that Bobby preferred being my sole controller. It was back to Late Night in the Cellar for the rest of the time I serviced him. By Christmas, Bobby had a girlfriend named Cathy and he said no longer needed me. I knew the gal from school. She had seemed normal to me. But if she was doing half the things I did for him, she must have been a secret masochist (hey, so was I). I hardly saw him at all after he got with her.
When I graduated college I moved downtown where I could live my life openly. But I'm grateful to Bobby for bringing me out and introducing to the all the things I love to do.
Comments invited
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