Disclaimer: This story is based on a sexual encounter between an adult and an older teenager. If you find cross-generational sex offensive, leave. If it is illegal where you live to view this material, leave. If you stay, enjoy ...
Boundaries
"I can't serve him alcohol," said the bartender.
"Want to try somewhere else?"
"No, I'm fine, thanks," Rob said, and smiled at me. I was fine too, looking at this doe-eyed kid with his hat on backwards.
A cockroach straggled across the bar. I squashed it with a napkin.
"Dallas," laughed Rob.
"Thirty dollars," I said.
"Can we go now?"
Listen. Now we are at my home, naked in the music room. Rob is standing in front of the mirror, singing the soprano part to Webber's Requiem, my scratched recording of the English Chamber Orchestra, his voice sweet and clear. He knows the Latin text ("It's always the same"). I am kneeling behind him, this Juilliard dropout; his wrist-thick tool salutes its own reflection.
"Pie Jesu, qui tollis peccata mundi, Dona eis requiem."
Now he is on his back and my head is between his stallion legs, his left testicle filling my mouth, his shaft in his hands. He has pulled the fleshy frenum over the cockhead and is kneading it like a piece of dough. My finger creeps between his teeth and lips, soft as gardenia petals.
"Hosanna in excelsis. Benedictus ..."
I am on my back beneath him, my face buried in his butt, teasing his boy hole while he beats his drumstick in double rhythm to the climax of the Sanctus. I wrap my fingers around the base of his dick, digging in deep, massaging the spongy root. I feel his testicles rise. I bunch the loose-sacked boynuts between my third and fourth finger and tug. More moaning, whimpering. I grope the top of the penis, wet with precum. He is flogging it, head tossed back, eyes glazed. I dig out from under him so I can watch the cock crow. Now. I thrust my middle finger deep into his love hole. The spasms begin.
I press hard with my thumb on the perineum to block the cum and count to five. His shouts are sharp, staccato and desperate now, his sphincter throbbing, his pulse pounding and I'm afraid his heart will burst. I relax my thumb. The cum shoots to his chin on the first spurt, then pumps down in shorter surges, the last balls of a Roman candle. I hug his knees until the shaking stops. Then I trace the milky pools with the tip of my nose from his tits to his belly button. Puppy cum. I rub it around his hard belly like soapsuds, washing a window.
I think, I could love this boy, rescue him. Together we would tour Vienna.
Rob is in the study using the phone. "I have to go." He takes out his Neiman's billfold and carefully places my three crumpled bills face in with the others, starched and ironed.
Driving back to the puppy bar, I squeeze his hand, a dead fish.
"What time is it?" he asks.
"Midnight. Got another date?"
"Yes."
We drove on in silence. "Why is it taking so long?" he asked.
"I'm sorry. I've gone too far. I was thinking about something else."
"What?"
"Boundaries," I said, and made a U-turn right in the middle of Lovers Lane.