This is a story involving teen/teen, male/male graphic sex and not intended for reading by minors. If you're a minor, or this type of material is illegal where you live, please stop now, and go read something else! This story is a fantasy meant only for the purpose of pleasurable reading.
For those of you who've asked, other stories of mine in this archive are: Boy in a Pink Box, Vancouver Island, Willow, Back to the Playground, and Babying Reuben. The stories can be found in the young friends and adult/youth sections.
Feedback, always appreciated, may be sent to: javabiscuit@hotmail.com
Corbusier ~ chapter one
by Biscuit
I was fourteen, making out with my girlfriend against the trunk of a wet tree, when the not so gentle fingers of God reached down and grabbed me, shook me hard, and shoved me into the arms of Colin Daley; the handsomest boy ever spawned by Anglo Irish genes, with eyes like blue ice.
It was October. The streets were covered with gold leaves, blown down by a storm in the night. You'd never have guessed you were in New York City. My neighborhood was a private wealthy enclave rising up from the working class neighborhoods bordering Van Cortland Park; parallel to the last stop on the IRT in the Bronx.
Amsterdam Hill, home of the progressive school by the same name. My school. Most of the houses in that quiet area were old mock Tudor things or echoes of the Dutch roots of the city with quaint split front doors. Ours, however, was a slab and glass architectural statement of my dad's. Angular and open, hardly visible from the street behind a series of shielding walls and trees.
Only my parents could have named a kid Corbusier, after the architect Le Corbusier. And only at a pretentious school like mine could a kid named Corbusier Pagano not get teased for it. Still, I clung to my nickname, Corby.
My dad had just left the house he'd designed, for good. Not that he'd been there much. My mom was half exhilarated, half drunk; staying up nights in her studio painting, with jazz playing loud on the stereo. She was like a crazed skinny pixie with a paintbrush in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.
Megan rescued me, like always. My girlfriend since forever. She lived down the street in a much more stately home with parents who were both lawyers. That girl was destined to become a radical lesbian further down the road. But back then I guess I was pretty enough for her. We looked more like sisters than girlfriend and boyfriend with our matching blond tresses and shared passion for silver rings and chains and vintage clothes. We'd both dyed a streak of magenta in our hair, kind of like going steady locks, over our right ears.
It wasn't raining, just wet. It was her brainstorm to cheer me up with a walk down to Van Cortland Park. She had a joint.
The park wasn't much of a hang out for us but she said it would be an adventure. How right she was, she had no way of knowing. The park wasn't part of our usual territory. In the summer sometimes, when Shakespeare in the Park turned it into a different kind of place, but mostly, without saying so, we tacitly understood that it belonged more to the people who lived far down the hill.
Megan's plan worked up to the point where we found we'd been cast in the urban version of Deliverance. At least that's how she saw it, with the tough kids who harassed us being the equivalent of the backwoods' mountain men.
Stoned, probing her soft little mouth with my tongue, the stuff going on at home was fuzzed out. I was rubbing up against her leg, with familiar images of hard dick dancing in my brain. That's what I always thought of when I was trying to get off. I'd visualize a big hard dick getting stroked. And I never thought about why.
It never occurred to me other guys might not be thinking the same kind of thing when they were kissing a girl. My dick was hard, I wanted it stroked. So what. Sure, guys said they thought about tits or whatever to get turned on. I didn't have to, Megan's tits were right there in front of me. But to get off, well, I figured they pictured stuff like I did.
The first thing we heard was the snickering laughter; scary and low, and a rush of movement through the wet leaves. My heart rocketed from pumping blood between my legs to full scale red alert before I even heard the voices taunting.
"Hey pussy pussy, gonna eat each other?"
Shit.
"Hey lover girl," I heard, way too close to me, as I spun around.
I didn't mean to punch that guy. I don't think I'd have ever gotten the chance if he hadn't stopped short, staring at me, stunned, like he was trying to figure out what the fuck I was. Pure adrenaline shot my fist out and my death's head skull ring caught the soft skin on his cheek. He was off guard and went down backwards. His buddy came at me but the kid on the ground yelled out, "Fuck it, Brian, leave him alone."
"What," the guy said. "You just gonna take that?"
"He's just a kid. I said forget about it." He was just lying there, moving a little, slowly. The other guy glared at me and took off, mumbling shit I couldn't hear.
I'd never punched anybody in my life and my fingers and knuckles were screaming in pain, my wrist felt jammed. But I was on my knees the next second, bending over the guy I'd hit, scared to death that I'd hurt him for real. In the breath of seconds that had lasted an eternity of landing that punch, I'd seen a face framed by short damp blond hair, like the love child of Matt Damon and River Phoenix, staring at me with eyes full of wonder.
Maybe it was the shock, the weed, the fact that I'd been about to cream my jeans when it happened, but my heart was as open and quivery tender as a fresh shucked oyster; my was dick throbbing in my acid green 70's Wranglers. In the pocket of my pea coat was a wad of tissues meant for cleaning up after making out with Megan. Instead I fumbled them out and was dabbing at the guy's bloody cheek, mumbling apologies.
And those icy blues were scanning me. His mouth was open and so help me God, I was staring at it like I could taste it with my eyes.
Kissing Megan was good, it was what we did. What you're supposed to do. Sometimes it made me grin inside when she made these faces at me, full of passion, before rubbing her moist pink mouth on me. I'd force down the impulse to chuckle and fight the urge to tell her that the cameras weren't rolling, she could drop the acting job.
Now I was struck by the certain knowledge that my face probably looked just like that, like I was dying to get my lips all over his. What's more, he was looking at me the same way. I think if I'd kissed him right then I'd have shot a load on the spot.
"Corby," I heard her. "What the fuck are you doing? Don't apologize to that asshole, let's get out of here."
Right, right. She was so right. Damn.
"Go on," he said. I had to force myself to look away from him and struggle up to my feet. I must have looked back twenty times as we made our way out of that grove. I saw him sit up, wiping at his cheek. Saw him watching us.
"Is he still there?" she'd ask and I'd say, yeah. Then not. He was gone.
The whole way home I was trying to shove the image of him out of my head. Fuck. Megan went on nonstop; working off the tension. I hardly listened. I could hardly stand to listen. She kept touching me, holding on to my arm, asking if I was okay. I'd mutter something and keep walking.
I don't think I'd ever noticed before how each bit of progress up the winding way to the top of the hill brought you to wealthier and wealthier streets of houses; past the grounds of two private schools and a small Catholic college. Landscaped grounds and gardens.
"I don't feel like hanging out," I told her when we'd reached my house. "I just want to chill, maybe take a nap or something." She didn't look convinced, but she hugged me and we kissed. Her mouth seemed so tiny to me then and I felt no desire to linger over it. God, I hated to see the disappointment in her face but I felt like I had to be alone and let myself think about what the fuck had happened.
"All right, well, I'll call you later. Okay?"
"Sure."
My mom was out. She'd left a note on the table. 'Gone to meet Janice for lunch downtown.'
My bedroom had a wall of glass that looked out on a walled garden. Not much growing in it but weeds at the base of a maple tree.
I was lying on my unmade bed, letting my mind fill with the vision of that guy's face. I told myself it was him, not something about me, that had made me want to kiss him. My dick was begging to be let out and I had my hand on my zipper when the doorbell rang. Shit. I was sure it was Megan. But, of course, it wasn't.
He'd followed us.
He was standing on the doorstep looking nervous and so good, even with the bruise blooming on his cheek. His leather jacket was thinner and cheaper looking than the ones the few punked out kids I knew wore. To me it looked tougher just because of it. He was taller than me and slim as a whip, maybe seventeen, maybe eighteen years old. His jeans were tight. Nobody I knew wore their pants like that but on him it was awesome. He said something, I don't remember what. Something like nice house, or nice place.
All I remember is leading him through the empty house to my bedroom and how when I turned around his arm went around my waist and his hand to the back of my neck. If a body can leap inches, mine did, to plaster myself to the front of him.
I thought I knew about sex. I'd gotten hard, gotten rubbed, one way or another -- my hand or Megan's, until I came.
She thought it was sweet of me, sensitive of me not to pressure her for more. The truth is, I didn't see what all the fuss was about. If you got off, you got off.
There aren't enough fingers and toes on a body to count the kinds of fool I was.
"I want to fuck you," he was panting in my ear and I was making sounds like a cat in heat as we thrashed on my bed. I was so hot I was ready to fire off in my jeans. I'd never been so turned on in my life.
Out of my mind, that's what I was.
When he pulled his shirt over his head -- some kind of sport thing, like a football jersey with a number on it -- I saw his long lean torso appear, ridged with muscle in spite of how thin he was. This ungodly gasping sound came out of me, staring at his tiny pricked up pink nipples. I lunged, knocking him flat to get my hands and mouth on his hard smooth chest. Oh God. He tasted salty and his skin was warm and I had to suck hard to get some in my mouth.
What the fuck did I think I was doing! My brain was demanding answers in short bursts of panic as the rest of me went crazy. I'd seen hundreds of guys naked, guys with bodies probably just as hot as his, and never felt a twinge.
Well, maybe a twinge, but that was normal. Right?
I was an artist, following in my mom's footsteps. Once, a couple years back, around the time puberty hit, I'd told her that I liked looking at guys. At the time, just about everything and anything gave me a hardon, but still I kind of wondered if it meant something. I mean I understood that some people were gay. People I knew even, friends of hers and my dad.
She'd said to me, "You're an artist, Corby. It's natural for you to appreciate male and female beauty. It doesn't mean anything, sweetheart." And what the hell, there was Megan. I liked her, didn't I?
Appreciating beauty. A naked guy with a raging hardon; his dick was long, thick, and pointing right at me with a sheen of juice on its pink head. I was panting for it like I didn't have one of my own, aching and hard between my legs. It was the first time I'd ever seen a condom in action, for real. I'd fooled around with one a guy at school gave me but didn't get the part where you unroll as you put it on. In my smoking brain, the reason he was putting it on was there, but under thick layers of lust.
"You dress like a chick," he said, shaking his head, but he was grinning. He'd shoved me off him, but not like he wanted to get away, like he wanted to even up the bare skin score. He was working on my zipper.
My face was hot and my body was hotter, but my brain started stuttering back to life. I wasn't just getting naked with a guy. This was a stranger. I'd punched this guy in the face. He'd harassed me and my girlfriend. There were still traces of blood on his face. And there was that awesome cock of his, wrapped in thin latex and wet.
"What's your name?" I asked, nerves getting the better of me, even if my jeans and boxers were bunched around my ankles by then and he was pulling off my sneaks to get the pants off.
He laughed, dropping my shoe on the floor.
"Colin Daley," he said. He looked from my face down my body. "I heard your girlfriend call you Corby. Nice," he said, looking at my cock. I didn't know if he was saying he liked my dick or my name but my brain shut down when he wrapped his hand around it.
I didn't have the body he had. I was smaller. Where he was long and etched with muscle, I was shorter, slim, softer. My shape was okay but nowhere near as defined as his was. Even though I was blond, my coloring was darker, an Italian flavor of blond, more honey than his corn silk colors. My dick was darker too, and my little bush of hair, brownish where his was golden.
I'd measured my dick. Is there a kid that hasn't? If I stabbed the ruler deep I mustered six inches. Colin's must have been, well, it was bigger.
He let go of my dick and shoved my tee-shirt up to my armpits. It was the last thing I had on.
"You are so fucking cute," he said, dropping on top of me. I wrapped my legs around him, wanting to squeeze him to death between my legs. I was so close to coming.
"So, you want to fuck, princess?" he said, his hand was sloping down my side and around to my ass. Call me an idiot but that's when it hit me that he meant fuck, for real. My asshole squeezed up tight in panic but my dick was pumping a stream of juice and my balls were begging me to do something, anything to shoot the load that was choking them.
"I don't know," I said. Brilliant. I got the words out through the thing we were doing with our mouths. He was licking my lips, and I was trying to catch his tongue with mine. His fingers were diving right into my crack.
The next thing I knew he'd pulled his hips back and was fumbling down there and it was his wet dick rubbing between my ass cheeks. Oh. Fuck. Me. The head of his dick got lodged against my hole.
Like riding the Cyclone at Coney Island, my heart going wild, terrified; nervous sweat breaking out all over me. His dick shoving in was like the moment of truth when the cars crank up -- I thought I'd die but I wanted it.
I pushed and I panted and groaned, staring up at his flaming face. His eyes were glittering and I watched his mouth moving, seeing how good it was for him in every move of those lips. My insides were going nuts like my body didn't know whether to suck him in or spit him out. And then it was happening, for real. Like the coaster. Oh God, so good. How could it feel so good? I went shooting right over the edge, firing off hard, hot and grunting like a little pig.