"Little Guy and the Tall Boys" (M/M) (interr) (raunch) by Jack Fellowes Copyright 1999 by the Author--All Rights Reserved
_________________ USUAL DISCLAIMER: Too young, too old, too anal, too puritanical, too incompetent, or too repressed/oppressed to decide for yourself what you want/are allowed to read? Then stop here! Otherwise, read on at your own risk and/or pleasure. _________________
AUTHOR'S NOTE: OK, guys, this one is a change of pace for me. If you like my usual stories, you may not like this one. But then again... Just wanted to warn you. --Jack
Even out on the street, my city neighborhood smelled like the musty old homes it was lined with--mostly century-old, three-story brick townhouses with limestone front stoops and iron fences enclosing the postage-stamp-size front yards.
Long before diversity became a buzzword, Stevenson Park was a melting pot. We had German, Irish, Polish, Chinese, Mexican, and even a few African-American families. But we were all working-class folks, and our homes, which we (and the banks and mortgage companies) owned, were our castles. It seemed that everyone was competing to have the greenest grass, the best-trimmed hedges, and the cleanest stoop.
I hadn't grown up in this neighborhood, but in one nearby. I moved here when I inherited my grandmother's house just after I got out of the Army about 15 years ago. Nevertheless, I was still considered one of the "new neighbors."
When I moved in there were still a lot of kids in the area, but now most of the folks on my street were getting older, and most of the kids had moved out to the suburbs or to other cities and states when they got out of school or got married. One of the neighborhood kids I remember seeing when I first moved in was Sammy Evans. He was the cutest, blackest, little dynamo I'd ever seen. He must have been about nine years old then, tearing up and down the street on his 20-inch Schwinn, being Batman or Superman or Muhammad Ali. But he always spoke when he was spoken to, and he was very polite to all the grown-ups. Oh, and he was a dwarf, a little person. He was just three feet-something then, and his mother told me the doctors said he wouldn't get much taller.
I kept a nodding acquaintance with Sammy as he grew up--not as friends, just familiar neighbors. He ended up growing a little taller than the doctors predicted--he was almost five feet tall by the time he was in high school. He looked like a football running back, except he had a little kid's chubby arms and legs. He kept riding that 20-inch bike all through school. He was very polite to me, too, although at only about 15-16 year older than he, I hardly considered myself part of the grown-up generation. After the Army, I was just breaking loose, really being totally independent and on my own for the first time. Besides my new freedom, I was exploring my newly discovered sexuality. I had found out for sure I was gay while I was in the Army, although I'd always attracted to guys. Oh, I didn't get dishonorably discharged or anything like that; as a matter of fact, my company top sergeant was the one who showed me what the gay scene was really like--the gay bars and after-hours clubs, even a nude beach with a "nature trail" about 50 miles from base.
Back home after my discharge, my favorite hangout was a gay complex in an old converted railroad hotel. It had everything a horny young man could hope for. There was a quiet lounge on the second floor where you could find the more mature and fatherly types, a disco dance bar on the first floor where the hottest young studs shook their booties, a show bar on the third floor with drag shows and gay comics, and a basement--well, I can't actually describe the basement, because I never really saw it: I just sort of FELT my way around. Needless to say, I spent many evening and pre-dawn hours developing my sense of touch! Usually, I'd get home on Sunday about the time my more reputable neighbors were heading out to church, but the way I was dressed--in dirty, sweaty jeans and work shirt--must have given them the impression that I'd had to pull another third trick at the steel mill. Hell, I'd usually have pulled a lot more than three tricks, but at the flesh mill!
In the 15 years since I moved back to town, the old hotel complex had been urban-redeveloped out of existence, and most of the gay bars around town were pretty specialized, and not too welcoming to guys on the other side of 40. So I'd settled down a lot, even if not necessarily by choice. My social life was pretty much limited to a small group of close friends, mostly gay and lesbian couples who kept trying to fix me up with some friend or acquaintance of theirs at Friday night dinners or Sunday brunches. None of my "prospects" turned out to be the ONE, though, so I was still unattached, and not terribly happy about it. I didn't necessarily want to settle down with one person, I just wanted to sleep with one or two or three or more on a regular basis. I wasn't lonely; I was horny!
Sammy had been one of the kids who had moved out of the neighborhood. I heard he started working at a factory in Springfield, about 70 miles away, after he graduated from high school. So I was pretty surprised to run into him down at the corner market one morning.
"Hey, Sammy," I asked, "are you back for a visit with your folks?" Then I remembered his mom had died of cancer a few months ago. "I mean, with your dad?"
"No, Mr. Cooper, I'm back in the neighborhood," he said, with his familiar grin. "I'm working over at the ornamental iron works now."
He was still one of the blackest human beings I'd ever met, and I noticed for the first time that his arms were really well-muscled and the triangle of chest that showed through his partially unbuttoned shirt looked fairly well-developed, too. I was recording these facts in my library of mental images, when I realized I should say something else.
"Well, glad to have you back, Sammy," I said, " and call me Jeff. You're not a kid anymore." No, he sure wasn't! "You living with your dad again?"
"No, Mr. C-- Jeff. Daddy sold the old house, and we've each got an apartment in the new development over on Belford Avenue. Mine's next door to his."
Another item in my mental notebook. I took another appraising look at him, said, "Well, see you around, Sammy," and went on about my shopping. I glanced over at the checkout when he was leaving and saw that he had bought some chips and four 24-ounce cans of malt liquor.
My only concession to exercise was to get out my old bike and take a couple of turns around the neighborhood, usually stopping in the little park a few blocks over to get a drink and sit and do some man-watching. Pickings were pretty slim most of the time, though. I usually ended up back home, leafing through my "Inches" collection or downloading hot pix from the Internet news groups. Lately, it seemed the images that held my attention longest and did the most for my imagination were of black men with hot bodies and big cocks.
One warm Sunday--when I had not been invited to another brunch by my matchmaking friends, thank god--I decided to take a bike ride. When I got to the corner, I subconsciously turned on Farrell Street, heading over toward Belford. When I turned down Belford and looked toward the new apartment complex--really only a half-block of attached two-story townhouses mixed with up-and-down duplexes--I saw the unmistakable shape of Sammy standing in the street in the distance, washing his dad's old Buick Park Avenue. As I rode closer, I saw that he was wearing cut-off khaki shorts and apparently nothing else. His torso was magnificent! Broad shoulders, narrow waist, deeply cut pecs and abs, and a sheen of sweat and spray mist from the hose on his blue-black skin that made him look like an oiled bodybuilder. If his arms and legs had been regular length, he would have made a model like Joe Simmons look positively underdeveloped.
He smiled when he looked up and saw me riding toward him. "Hey, Mr. Coop--uh, Jeff! Whassup?"
The closer I got, the hotter he looked. I had to bite my tongue not to answer his question with "My dick!" I hoped he wouldn't notice. (Or did I?)
"Oh, just cruisin' the neighborhood, Sam"--he just didn't look like a 'Sammy' anymore--"trying to keep the old legs in shape and the waistline under control."
"Hell, man, you look like you're in pretty good shape. You haven't changed that much since I first met ya," he said, running the hose spray over the top of the car. But you've sure changed, Sam, I thought, and I like it! Talk about good shape!
"Well, you know how it is with us older guys, Sam," I said. "If we don't work at it, everything starts going to pot." I tried to keep up eye contact while I talked to him, but my mental scanner was attempting to ascertain what lay--or hung--beneath those damp shorts of his. Whenever he twisted to the right a little, I thought I saw something swing against the front of his shorts just left of his zipper, and it looked bigger than the average pocket snake.
We made some more small talk for a while, and then I went on with my ride. Instead of hopping directly into the shower when I got back home, I flopped down on the couch in the living room and whacked off a load, conjuring up an image combining what I had seen with what I had hoped I had seen. "Oh, Sam!" I groaned, as I shot my cum all over my sweaty t-shirt. I repeated the five-finger exercise a little while later in the shower, setting that ebony-skinned fantasy pretty firmly in my imagination.
From then on, I made it a point to ride down Belford Avenue every time I went biking. I didn't see Sam every time, but often enough to feed my fantasies, and actually to get to know him a little better every time we had a chance to exchange a few words--which was every time I saw him. I always wore baggy shorts or sweats, too, because there was no way I could have hidden the inevitable hard-on he gave me in Spandex bike pants
I found out Sam's dad, who was still working as a city bus driver, wasn't home much. He was dating a new lady and frequently spent the night at her place--in fact he was thinking about giving up his apartment and moving in with her. I'd had some evil thoughts about Sam's dad, too. He was about 10 years older than me, the same shade of black as Sam, but he was well over six feet tall, built like a retired linebacker. He was intimidating as hell, but he'd always been nice enough to me. I used to ride his bus every once in a while coming back from one of my all-night excursions, and the sweatier and drunker I seemed, the bigger his grin. He'd always give me a big OK sign, joke about getting some, and wave me on past the token box.
I also found out that Sam wasn't dating anyone at the time, and hadn't been since he'd left Springfield. He'd had a girlfriend there, but she wasn't into keeping up a long-distance relationship, so she had dumped him. That was the only time we really talked about anything sex-related, and Sam did have some pretty salty things to say about the "bitch" and the things she did for him that he missed most--damn, I was almost ready to volunteer to take her place!
Most of the time we talked, though, it was just about sports or weather or work. Metalworkers could always find something to gripe about with our jobs--the heat, the dirt, the foremen who fucked us over, you name it. I didn't really let on, though, that I'd moved out of the mill into the shop office a couple of years back. Calling myself a "steelworker" always seemed to attract more attention, on those rare occasions when I did find somebody at the bars, than "pencil-pusher."
One early fall weekend I caught him out on his front steps as I was riding by, and stopped to talk. We eventually got around to the upcoming game between two of the college football teams we both followed pretty regularly. It was the annual grudge match between traditional cross-state rivals, and tickets had long since been sold out. I complained that I probably wouldn't even get to watch it on TV, since I didn't have cable and the local stations weren't carrying the game.
"Hey, Jeff," Sam said, "I got cable, and I just got myself a new 36-inch TV. Why don't you come over next Saturday and watch it with me? Daddy was going to come over, but I think he's going somewhere with his old lady."
Why not!!! I tried to hold down my excitement at finally getting to be with Sam in a little more private setting, and said, "That'd be great, Sam, but only if you let me bring the beer and snacks."
"Deal, man," he said with a big grin, and high-fived me. Our hands met for just a brief moment, but it was enough to send a major tremor through my nervous system--a good 5.0 on the Richter scale, if the jump my cock took in my baggy sweat pants was any indication. And when he stretched upward, the ambiguous bulge in the front of his cutoffs took on a more definite shape--it was definitely the real thing!
We talked for a little more, while I made sure I knew what beer and snacks he liked, and then I finished my bike ride and headed home. That led to a repeat of the scene after I'd first seen him shirtless, only this time I caught my load in my left hand and licked it up, imagining it was not mine, but Sam's. Hell, I didn't even know if I could get into his pants--he might even knock the shit out of me if I tried--but at least I had one hell of a good JO fantasy to work with.
The rest of the week was a fog. Nothing I did made an impression on me--the only thing I could think of was going to Sam's on Saturday--and that usually led to another session of wishin' and hopin'--and beatin' it! I got off at least twice a day that week thinking about that hot little guy stretched out naked on his couch with me nestled between his stubby, muscular thighs nursing on his big love teat. I even turned down a free dinner at my friends' and another good-intentioned fix-up on Friday night because I didn't want anything to divert me from the Saturday session I had conjured up.
I got up late Saturday morning, so I took a quick shower to scrub off the dried remains of the previous night's fantasy session. Then I checked the weather on the radio. It was supposed to be a warm day, so I pulled on a baggy pair of fleece shorts (no underwear) and a loose tank top. Then it was off to the package store to pick up the beer and snacks--a twelve-pack of Bud Light for me, ten Colt Malt Liquor tall boys for Sam (twice what he said he'd drink), and a couple of bags of nacho chips, salsa, cheese dip, and spicy bean dip.
The game was supposed to start at 2 p.m., so I was on my way over to Sam's by 1:30. Walking down Belford, I saw him pull up in his old Toyota pick-up, get out, and start unloading a couple of laundry baskets from the back. He was just carrying the first one up to the front door, when I got to his front walk. I set my shopping bag down on top of the second basket, picked it up, and followed him. He was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved work shirt with the tails out.
"Thanks, man," he said as he unlocked and opened the door after setting the basket down on the stoop. "I had to do my stuff and Daddy's, and the laundromat was full. I thought I'd never get a dryer in time to get back for the game. He picked up his basket again, and I followed him in.
The front door opened onto a hallway that went straight back through the apartment. He started down the hall, but turned and said, "Just set that down there by the door, It's Daddy's, and I'll take it up to him when he gets home later. The TV's in there." He pointed to the living room off to the left, but then noticed my shopping bag. "Oh, you wanna put the beer in the fridge?"
"Sure," I said, "and I can open up the snacks and put them out if you've got a couple of bowls."
"Look in the cupboard by the fridge," he said. "There should be a bunch of different size plastic bowls. I'm going to put the clothes away and take a quick shower and change--the laundromat was hot as hell, and I smell like a goat."
I debated whether to offer to lick the sweat from his tight-muscled body, but thought maybe I'd better wait. As he turned into the bedroom, which was the next door past the living room, I hesitated a minute, wondering if he might strip down with the door open, but he pushed it halfway shut, and I heard him opening drawers. I noticed the next door was the bathroom, and I saw another door inside that connected to the bedroom. I headed into the kitchen, set my bag down on the counter, and opened the fridge to put most of the beer in to keep cool.
While I was bent over looking for snack bowls, I heard the bathroom door close and the shower start running. Damn, another missed opportunity!
I put the nacho chips in a big bowl and the salsa and dips in three smaller bowls. I found a tray on the back of the counter, grabbed a Bud for me and a Colt tall boy for him and headed back to the living room. I put the tray on the end table between the couch and a new-looking recliner, sat on the couch in front of the TV, and picked up the remote.
While I was surfing around about a thousand cable channels trying to find the one with the game, I heard Sam's bedroom door open. I looked up to see him trotting barefoot toward me, his bare chest and legs shining at me, and his hips covered only by a fairly tight and really short pair of cutoff sweat pants. This apparition more than made up for the day's earlier disappointments. He stopped right in front of me, picked up the tall boy, popping the top and taking a big swallow. While his head was tipped back, I took another quick inventory of his hot body. This time I could definitely see the outline of a long, limp piece of meat hanging down the left side almost to the bottom of his shorts, and I could definitely tell he wasn't circumcised!
"I needed that," he said, finishing his swig of beer. "I've been waiting hours for a cold drink." Then he turned toward the food, helped himself to a handful of chips and scooped up a little of all three dips. "I needed that, too," he said, munching on the chips. I was doing laundry when I should have been eating lunch."
To my disappointment, he didn't sit down on the couch beside me, but jumped up into the recliner, which was angled slightly toward the couch. Just as quickly, though, my disappointment faded when he leaned back in the chair and the leg rest came flying up, putting the leg openings of his shorts right at the edge of my peripheral vision. The only light in the room was coming in through curtained windows, and his crotch was in the shadows, but I was sure I could make out a cute little pucker of wrinkled foreskin just barely peeking out at me.
I finally found the right channel in time to catch a little of the pregame show, and we both got started on our beers and made a big dent in the bowl of chips, keeping up an aimless conversation generally centered on football until the game got started. Then it was just swigging beer, crunching chips, and watching the game, with cheering or jeering comments as the good guys or bad guys moved down the field. I was the self-appointed beer man, getting up to get a couple more cans whenever it looked like Sam's was about empty. By just after half-time, I had finished three Buds, but Sam was already on his fifth tall boy. The next trip I made, I took the empties to the kitchen and brought us each back two cold cans. I don't think he was really aware how much more than me he had been drinking, and he was definitely starting to show the signs of healthy buzz.
For some reason neither of us had gotten up to go piss during half-time. I was OK so far, but I knew he was going to have to take a whiz soon. I could tell by the way his cock was starting to puff up some under his shorts. I could see a little bit more of the tip of his cockhead showing through a smoother ring of skin each time he leaned back to take another swig. But there was still plenty of foreskin right up front. When he finished his sixth Colt, he reached down and pinched the skin together through the leg of his short, just realizing how much he had to piss.
He leaned forward, and the leg rest came down. He tried to stand up, but fell back into the recliner. "Hell, man," he giggled and slurred, "Gotta piss like a race horse, don't think I can walk to the toilet."
He started to try to get up again, when I had a flash of inspiration. "Hey, Sam, it's just us guys, why dontcha just pull it out and piss in the empty can?"
He laughed, "Can ain't big enough to hold what I got stored up."
I finished the second of my two Buds, and offered both empties to him. "Here, your tall boy and these two cans will hold 48 ounces--that's two pints. That oughta be enough!"
"I'm telling ya, man, when I gotta piss like this, I could fill up a gallon jar," he said, squeezing harder on the head of his dick, with his hand now under the edge of his shorts, pulling the foreskin together."
I gathered up my nerve. "Sammy, boy, if you still have to piss any more than will fill up those three cans, I'll drink the rest!"
He looked at me funny for a second, processing what I'd said, then grinned disbelievingly. But he still grabbed one of my 12-ounce cans and scooted forward to the edge of the chair, at the same time hiking up the left leg of his shorts. He pulled out a length of thick black cock--it looked like six or seven inches, and it was still limp enough for the shaft to sag down while he held it by the foreskin he had pinched together. He stuffed the first half-inch or so of skin into the opening in the can, and then opened his finger grip.
It sounded like a hose filling a galvanized bucket, and it took only about three seconds before he pinched the skin closed again and set the can on the floor on the right side of his chair. "Hand me 'nother can, Jeff. That'n's full. " I was so enthralled by what I was watching, I almost didn't hear him. "'Nother can, man!" he repeated more urgently.
I grabbed up the second 12-ounce can, and he repeated the process: stuffing the skin in the opening, releasing his grip, again filling the can in short order. I was hypnotized by the sight, and my own cock grew achingly harder as I watched.
"Hand me the tall one now," he said, putting the second can down beside the first. I looked down and saw the empty 24-ounce can between his chair and the end table, so I dropped off the couch on my knees to grab it and hand it to him. I was able to watch more closely as he went through the routine again, and it sounded like he was still pissing as hard as he was when he filled the first two cans. It took a couple of seconds longer, but I could tell that he was easily filling up the tall boy, too.
He pinched his foreskin tight again and set the filled can beside the others. He let a little piss flow behind his tightly pinched finger and thumb. The skin covering the head of his dick swelled into an inflated satiny black balloon.
He looked at me with a silly grin, and said, "I got more, man."
I didn't say anything, just crawled over on my hands and knees between his chunky legs, my face level with his dick, and opened my mouth wide. He grunted, more like growled, and pushed his dick--finger and thumb still pinching the tip to hold back the flow of piss--into my open mouth. I closed my lips around dick, fingers, and all, and nodded up at his grinning face. I felt him release his grip, and a quick gush of warm piss filled my mouth. I clamped my lips around the foreskin-covered head of his dick, cutting off the flow, as Sam slid his finger and thumb out of my mouth. As he moved his hand away, I reached up and gripped the long, hot, semi-firm shaft and pulled more of his fat dick into my face, releasing my lip lock a little to let the flow start again as he relaxed.
Controlling the flow with the tightness of my lips, I swallowed again and again, each time feeling my mouth fill quickly once more with the warm, tangy, beery liquid that gushed from his pisshole. As the flow began to slow, I started milking his shaft into my mouth, feeling a stronger squirt each time I did. Then it was just a dribble, and as I kept pulling his shaft, I felt it growing firmer and longer. Finally, the flow slowed to an occasional drip, then stopped completely, and I pulled back a little to see the marvelous length of cock I had been sipping from.
By this time, I realized his hands were lightly holding the sides of my head. I turned my eyes up toward his, never releasing my lip lock on his cock. He was still grinning, but in a different way. It was almost the way a father looks when he watches his baby son.
"No more piss, honey," he said quietly, "but I might be able to give ya somethin' else to drink." He waited just a second for my reaction, which was not to move except to dig my tongue under his foreskin, and then he gently pulled my mouth onto his now-rigid cock, the big curving vein on top throbbing against my upper lip. I took my hand off the thick shaft and let him pull my lips within an inch of the tight black curls of his pubic hair, until the fat head of his dick plugged the opening to my throat. He started a gentle rocking motion, sliding his long meat bar halfway out, then pushing it firmly in as far as I could take it--by the fourth or fifth stroke, that was all the way past my tonsils and stretching my gullet.
I took over then, setting a much faster, more reckless pace, plunging up and down as fast as I could, bruising my throat and half-gagging each time I reached the base, gulping in a breath when I remembered to. But I couldn't stop. I had fantasized about this so much that I was determined to make it the best blow job Sam had ever had and the best I had ever given, just in case this was the only time I ever had the chance to do it.
"Oh, man, oh, Jeff, suck it, man, suck it!" he panted, starting to match his hip thrusts to my bobbing head. "Oh, man, I wanna cum so bad, I gotta cum... I wanna fill you up with my stuff, I wanna give you what you want!" His stubby hands had found their way to the back of my head, and we were working together like a reciprocating engine, his fat piston plunging down my throat, building up more pressure each time, pushing whatever air I managed to gasp in right down into my belly.
Suddenly he let out a series of breathy moans, getting louder and louder. "Swallow me, baby!" he said, as he thrust all the way forward, his cockhead swelling up and plugging my windpipe, as his thick short arms hugged my head to his groin, smashing my lips into his pubic curls, making my eyes bulge out. He let out a howl, and I felt his cock swell up even more and explode deep in my throat--once, twice, three times. Then, as he started to relax his grip on my head, I slid off far enough to taste the hot, salty-sweet sauce that continued spurting across my tongue and sliding down my throat to join the quarts of liquid I had already sucked out of him.
He fell back limply in the chair. Not yet ready to yield my hold on his cock, I once again milked the shaft until I was sure I had gotten every drop of his spicy load. I looked up, my lips still around the head of his dick, to see his eyes closed and a blissful smile on his face, which, like his chest, was covered with a sheen of sweat, making his skin look like polished jet.
I gently but determinedly continued to nurse on the rosette of foreskin that once more extended beyond his covered cockhead. His shaft gradually lost its firmness, but not its length. My mood was as blissful as his, until I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye and heard a noise at the same time.
Sam popped open his eyes and hissed, "Daddy!" just as I pulled my mouth off his dick, letting it flop down between his legs.
Sam's dad ignored his son and grinned at me, reaching for his zipper. He slowly, deliberately hauled out inch after inch of a long, fat wad of rapidly stiffening dark meat that made his son's look anemic by comparison.
"Been getting some again, have ya, Mr. Cooper?" he chuckled. He stepped toward the chair, towering over me and displaying his huge uncut cock in the outstretched palm of his hand, offering it for my closeup inspection. He pulled the ample satiny foreskin back to reveal a broad purple head so swollen and taut it shined like polished rosewood, then he pulled the skin closed again.
"Ready for some more?" he asked in a deep bass whisper, bending his knees a little to let his mammoth pole reach toward my gaping mouth... It was time to pay for those free bus rides.
I never did find out how that damned football game came out--I had better things to do on Saturday afternoons from then on.
Bless them all--the long and the short and the tall!