The Wild Boy and That Subtil Serpent
by Araddion
© 2014 R. Keith Peck.
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Story Codes MM/oral/anal/piss
Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the LORD God had made. And he said unto the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of every tree of the garden? -- Genesis 3:1
The fingers splayed on The Snake Pit's grimy brick wall clutch into a claw as the cock spears the Wild Boy's ass.
Something catches his eye.
There. See it? Right in front of him?
Old graffiti. Written who knows how long ago. Twenty years? Twenty-five?
"For good head call Don 555-2499."
The words, written in grease pencil now faint like drying precum, shimmer with the tears elicited by the brutal entry.
Nonetheless, the Wild Boy wonders.
Who was Don?
Had his fingers clawed this same brick too?
Had he leaned spread-legged, like the Wild Boy does now, with his shorts looped around one shoe, naked butt thrust back?
Had discarded condoms littered the alley's potholed pavement?
Had the alley reeked of piss, garbage, and beer vomit?
Suddenly questions become irrelevant. Because the cock embedded within the Wild Boy moves, and there is no thought, merely blissful surrender.
Behold the Wild Boy, collegiate jock, panting, sweating in submissive glory:
His high-and-tight haircut causes many to think Marine. Wrong. Wild Boy is an All-American jock, sturdy and muscled. A show-off. Those athletic shorts looped round his foot are too snug, too small, when they're decently positioned. His shirt, tail lifted up and hooked behind his neck, reveals a flat belly, smooth as polished granite, and pectorals raised tall through the relentless discipline of barbells. Too small, his shirt wears minute rips like battle scars. Frayed threads hang from the hem of the short sleeves due to losing the war with his growing bicep. Bristles of hair glitter like gold dust. Skin the color of ripe wheat. Clean-shaven square jaw. Eyelids, now shut tight, reveal sapphire orbs when open.
Goal in life? To Do, not To Be. To exult in his flesh. To fuck everything.
In a word: depravity.
And the city where the Wild Boy seeks depravity? Difficult to name. A flavorless place, certainly. Somewhere in America, the continent-wide cafeteria where the beef is as bland as the chicken. Call the city New Generica. Homogenopolis. San Bland.
The Wild Boy always cuts down this alley on his way to The Snake Pit.
Not always --- but often -- exciting things happen here.
Today's excitement began not five minutes ago.
Strutting down the alley the Wild Boy encountered a young black man leaning against the brick next to a rusty dumpster stuffed full of broken-down cardboard boxes. Appraisal? Body: slim, wiry, hard. Braided and beaded hair. Young indeed -- high school graduation couldn't be more than a year past. He smoked ... tobacco, unfortunately, disappointing the Wild Boy since he's partial to uplifting substances. But you can't have everything.
Eyes locked, Aryan bottom to African top.
The Wild Boy raised a suggestive eyebrow.
Nodding, the African youth slowly lowered his zipper, pulling forth a thick weapon which, even limp, hung six inches from his fly.
Wordlessly the Wild Boy knelt. Opened wide. Sucked down cock. Nursed.
As soon as that cock, smelling of musk and sweat and piss, throbbed hard in the Wild Boy's throat he stood, walked to the opposite wall, shucked his shorts and stuck out his butt.
Slut? Obviously.
Jacking slowly, the African advanced on the Wild Boy. He knelt. Perfunctorily he shoved his tongue up the Wild Boy's butthole. Just to get it wet. Then, standing, he spit in his hand and slathered it on his cock, now an impressive eight inches of obsidian lust, protruding through his fly.
He lined up, he thrust, and buried himself to the hilt.
The Wild Boy grunted, saw that note from Don scribbled a quarter century ago, then dismissed all thought as the stroking begins.
The thrusts come hard and quick. Stabbing like a knife. Not much noise, save for the odd grunt, or maybe a mewling hymn that escapes the Wild Boy when the cock plunges deep. The jeans the African wears muffles the pornographic rattatat-tat of smacking flesh.
The pain of the raw, barely-lubed entry sears the Wild Boy, and sanctifies him. Swiftly, though, the pain melts like a communion wafer, becoming ecstasy. Nothing, absolutely nothing, has ever elevated the Wild Boy more than the sensation of raw cock fucking his butt. Not the thrill of winning a state championship. Not the joy of the scholarship he won to State College. None of these.
Buttfucking is bliss.
In the stinking alley the two fuck, hot for each other and urgent to nut.
The African alternates between staring at the back of the Wild Boy's head. Watching sweat bloom on that golden prairie, and those high, round, dimpled buttocks, between which his long shaft churns.
The African youth's hips blur. Frenzied grunting. He throws his head back. His mouth falls open. His eyes blaze --
And the Wild Boy chortles, feeling the massive load blasting into his guts.
A brief moment of slowing hearts and one furtive look exchanged over a powerful shoulder. Then the black cock slips out. The white butthole cinches shut. The African youth zips, turns, and then saunters humming down the alley towards the street. Mission accomplished? Unclear. He casts one quick look back, stops, pulls out a pack of cigarettes, and then loiters.
For a few minutes more the Wild Boy remains leaning against the wall, savoring the load bubbling inside him. He reaches down and tugs up his shorts. The gray fabric does not at all conceal his hardon, bulging and throbbing and leaking.
The Wild Boy has been bred.
But one load is never enough.
He enters The Snake Pit. Sweaty. Horny.
All living things begin with an orgasm. Such was the Wild Boy's creation.
The road to depravity, however, was more circuitous.
In his final summer before the liberation bestowed by his State College scholarship, the Wild Boy was quite tame.
Outside his small town rows of corn nodded in the breeze. No drought that year. The rain fell perfectly, in the form of afternoon thunderstorms which quenched the summer heat, or as gentle night rain, the kind which promotes drowsiness and profound dreams.
In the blue and infinite sky clouds floated like bloated sheep seeking their shepherd. God dwelt there, the Wild Boy knew, enthroned at the cerulean zenith, warmly benevolently with his gift of succoring rain and gentle breezes.
Quite tame, this hayseed of the Wild Boy. Nonetheless he knew what he wanted.
His appetite for cucumbers mystified his mother.
"He always eats 'em right before bedtime," she told the other Sunday school teachers at the First Christian Church.
But the Wild Boy, as you should have guessed, didn't eat the cucumbers. Oh no. Each evening, when the stars littered the sky like discarded diamonds and the crickets chirped, seeking mates, he licked the night's chosen vegetable until the dark green rind shone like an emerald. Reverently the Wild Boy would then squat on the cucumber, his anus distending as the legume attempted to satiate his desires. The Wild Boy's nine inch cock rose to attention as the cucumber made its presence felt. The Wild Boy stifled hungry moans as he abused the vegetable, though sometimes, when his orgasm was sharp, he mewed like a kitten as his untouched cock fired thick ribbons of cream all over the paper town he'd unrolled between his spread thighs.
Sometimes the cucumber wasn't big enough.
"He likes carrots, too," his mother told the teachers. "Never had any trouble getting WB to eat his vegetables!"
What the Wild Boy did in these instances was fetch from the crisper in the bottom of mom's refrigerator a carrot -- if necessary, two -- and, after the diminutive cucumber was lodged, cram the carrot(s) alongside.
If the Wild Boy was going to get his salad properly tossed his rectum had to be distended.
If you saw that white tin-roofed farm house, lonely alongside the meandering two-lane road, or saw the combines harvesting the corn when the time came, or saw a Fourth of July parade so earnest it must be Hollywood artifice, or note the almost every block in the little town bore a church of Protestant denomination -- you would think, "Ah, this is one of those places where 'Man shall not lie with a man' and other such verses are mantras.
But such thoughts show nothing except that city slickers and hicks are as one in their narrow-mindedness and their ignorance.
Know this: in some rural places, buttfucking is not condemned, is not preached against from the pulpit or in the school.
Silence, the subtle know, is often more eloquent than poetry.
Example?
Before the fire of Creation, before the Big Bang, there reigned a silence like the silence before a conductor's down stroke commences a symphony.
A moment replete with endless potentiality.
The silence hidden at the cerulean zenith shielded the Wild Boy from opprobrium's sting.
But in such stark silence did the Wild Boy conceive strange hungers.
Obviously the Wild Boy was already in love with cock, even if his experiences of a cock other than his own summed to zero. When soft rain fell he dreamed of it.
He'd been tempted by it.
Example?
After graduation, just as that summer ripened gloriously, the Wild Boy and his high school teammates drove out one afternoon to Holloways' Creek. On that day, a scorcher, the lazy cool water was too much to resist even though snakes from time to time had been seen swimming in it.
Swim trunks? Who needs 'em! We got jockstraps!
One by one lithe teen bodies leaped from the tree which leaned over the creek, their naked butts calling to the Wild Boy. Sleek flesh, rippling with nascent muscles, smooth and amber from the sun, emerged onto the bank, jockpouches clinging to swollen groins. Through the sodden mesh the Wild Boy saw dark pubic hair. Saw and measured with hungry eyes the size -- length and width -- of his friend's meat.
"He ate three! Three cucumbers!" the Wild Boy's mom said to her friends in the First Christian Church the following Sunday. "I've got to make a salad for the Rotary Club and here I can't keep cucumbers in our house!"
One Sunday, sitting in the front pew of the First Christian Church, drained -- ball-busting orgasms all night long -- the Wild Boy heard the sibilant hiss that broke that silence
The sound? Pastor Ogden's introduction of the new choir director, a young man named Chad Firestone.
Not at all musical, not at all interested in singing or at that time performing in pubic, nevertheless the Wild Boy sat up and took notice. Even the blood returned to his limp cock and his butthole muttered depraved things to his silent, echoing mind.
No one in the community of the First Christian Church had ever, ever, warmed the Wild Boy's blood to boiling. He liked hard, athletic bodies and these Christian men tended to be doughy and moist.
Not Chad.
Slim. Well-built. To the Wild Boy Chad seemed quite mature but to others Chad was a mere stripling of twenty eight. Chad's hair was precisely the same as you'd seen in classic White Jesus illustrations: shoulder-length and golden brown, the color of freshly baked bread. Eyes liquid and as amorphous as poetry. An easy smile. The women in the congregation tittered when Chad waved.
"He'll be part of our Youth Outreach," intoned Pastor Ogen. "A vital program for our community. Many young people here are at risk from drugs. Not simply heroin, not simply cocaine, not simply marijuana, but from newer, more devious pollutants: Xanax, Oxycontin ... prescription drugs are the new plague upon our land! Mr. Firestone will lead --"
Hot body, discovered thus:
On Tuesdays the First Christian Church hosted amateur basketball games on the courts in the park next to the sanctuary. The Wild Boy, a natural jock, was almost always present. He made sure he was present for Chad's first visit.
The Wild Boy played the shittiest basketball he'd ever played in his life. Chad distracted him. The man wore nylon basketball shorts and a loose tank top. The man wasn't a 'roid boy. Well-developed and defined biceps gleamed with sweat and when he bent forward, dribbling, and his tank top hung loose, his pectorals were big, round, almost hairless, and crowned with long nipples.
That night the Wild Boy chose to test the power of prayer. He got down on his knees in his room and, jacking furiously, begged whatever god was listening to let him see Chad Firestone's cock.
Silence. Save for his mewling orgasm, brought on by his overactive imagination.
Next day the Wild Boy went to shoot hoops solo in that court by the church. Shirtless, wearing nylon shorts that reached his knees. A jockstrap -- the one he never allowed his mother to wash, the one he loved to bury in his nose in and breathe and breathe and breathe. His cock, cupped in that jock, was plump. Sweat drenched him.
From out of the blue Firestone said, "You look hot. Need a Gatorade?"
The Wild Boy whirled, surprised.
The choir director wore the same nylon basketball shorts and a fresh tee shirt. He extended to the Wild Boy a bottle of ice-blue Gatorade.
"Sure." The Wild Boy scarfed it.
"Wanna play some one on one?"
He wiped his lips. "Yeah."
Basketball was one of the Wild Boy better games. He was excellent at threading past guards and getting into position for shot at the hoop. He was far from the town's best shooter but it didn't matter: He could always hustle into the right spot, pivoting left or right almost unerringly. The Wild Boy had a sixth sense which told him what a man -- and only a man; chicks stomped him in basketball -- was present behind him. Where the man was positioned. Where his arms were. Where his feet were. Where his torso was. Integrating all this information made it simple for the Wild Boy to anticipated the man's movements and do the opposite.
For five minutes the Wild Boy played Chad Firestone in exactly this same manner.
"You're good," Chad admitted, hands on knees, chest heaving.
At this moment the gently blowing breeze curled in a peculiar way, bringing the scent of Chad Firestone's sweat to the Wild Boy's flared nostrils.
Do not attribute this vagary of the wind to butterflies in China. Score one for the power of prayer. Leave, however, the name of the respondent deity merely penciled in.
The scent persisted in the Wild Boy's nostrils just for an instant. But that was enough.
For the rest of that contest the Wild Boy used that sixth sense inversely. He listened to what his sense told him -- then turned into the man. If his sense told the Wild Boy that Child Firestone expected him to break right ... then the Wild Boy broke right.
Suddenly the game was physical. Instead of dancing round Chad Firestone the Wild Boy drove through him, muscled him out of the way. Sneakers squeaked. Wet, sweaty muscled flesh slapped against the Wild Boy's body. Hands reached into personal space and stole the ball from him.
The blood filled his cock.
Crotch collided with butt.
Grunts and sweat.
Firestone's final attempt to avoid a loss was to foul the Wild Boy from behind as the teen lined up and shot. The choir director's eyes blazed with a fiery hymn of righteousness. He didn't like to lose. Not to a young punk like the Wild Boy.
The ball swished the hoop.
But the Wild Boy did not protest the foul.
When Chad fouled the Wild Boy... for the first time in his life he felt a man's hardon against his buttocks. There was no mistaking that feeling. That long ridge pressing into the Wild Boy's cheeks was not car keys. Was not a flashlight. Was not a roll of quarters. The contact had the exact same spongy quality the Wild Boy had felt while madly beating his own cock.
"Good game," muttered Chad Firestone. Resentment was gone. "Come on over to my place. Got some Gatorade there."
The Wild Boy followed Chad Firestone to the small house he rented two blocks over.
But no. Nothing happened.
Through the door and into The Snake Pit.
To his left: shelves packed full of DVDs. To his right: racks displaying dildos and cock rings and lube and buttplugs and nipple clamps and whatever.
On the counter, confined in two aquariums, two boa constrictors rouse as the Wild Boy enters. One is pale, cream and light tan. This snake is named Lazarus. The other, the dark emerald color of a jungle's shade, is called Midgard. They butt their heads against the glass as the Wild Boy approaches.
Polecat mans the cash register this afternoon. Because the Wild Boy lets Polecat fuck him on demand, this meant the ten dollar admission fee is waived.
Before buzzing the Wild Boy into the back labyrinth Polecat waves the jock over. Polecat sits on a stool, his jeans half down his thighs. Some young Hispanic guy -- no older than and no younger than Don's graffiti -- kneels, slobbering on Polecat's long cock. Polecat grins at the Wild Boy. The Wild Bo returns a thumbs-up. The Hispanic youth looks up, annoyed, his cheek bulging from Polecat's cockhead.
The back labyrinth is dim and crowded this afternoon. Moans from the porn vids flickering on the booth's screens fill the air. Flesh smacks against flesh as unseen men fuck. Depravity rules. Excitement surges in the Wild Boy. Time for action!
Seven is the number of cocks drained by the Wild Boy.
The first belongs to a gruff, husky guy with a ruddy face and salt-and-pepper hair. Upon the Wild Boy's entry into the serpentine labyrinth this man herds the slut jock into a booth where fresh cum streaks a gray wall. The man smells of sawdust and drywall. He unzips, fishes out a seven inch hardon, and blows a thick load down the Wild Boy's throat.
The second cock belongs to an exhibitionist in his mid-30s, strutting around the back labyrinth shirtless, revealing nipples bitten by chrome nipple clamps, wearing denim cutoffs, brazenly fondling himself. He fucks the Wild Boy in a booth with two glory holes, both stripping stark naked. Two faces gaze at their sweaty coupled flesh. The one who attempts to steal the Wild Boy's jock gets a kick aimed his way.
The third cock is the most difficult to secure. It belongs to an Asian guy -- not Chinese, not Japanese, not Thai, possibly Indonesian. The Wild Boy immediately burns for him. But Cock #3 is shy. Only after dropping shorts in sight of everyone does lust for taut jock ass overcome the Asian's shyness. Once alone, though, he's a cocksman. Horny. Determined. The first two loads are quickly dumped after furious pumping, but the third is delivered after a long fuck that leaves the Wild Boy's guts buttery smooth.
The fourth and fifth cocks are delivered simultaneously. The Wild Boy closes the door of a both with glory holes to left and right. Immediately the fourth cock enters: long, black, thick, heavily veined, uncut, cheesy. The Wild Boy drops his shorts, plants his buttocks against the free glory hole, and gobbles that proffered cock down.
The fifth cock is problematic. When it slides into the Wild Boy's ass the unnatural smooth feeling immediately signifies trouble. The Wild Boy pulls off both cocks and turns. Yes. As he suspected. Frowning, he reaches out, grabs the condom by the reservoir tip, and pulls it off, discarding the unnatural thing. The Wild Boy plunges his butthole over the cock and resumes blowing the other. For a few minutes the newly bareback cock throbs in the Wild Boy's ass, not moving, as if the owner must first lose some internal struggle. Finally it begins to churn. The unseen owner finds barebacking to his liking, for after blowing his first load the cock still moves, seeking a second release.
The seventh cock is the slim meat of the Hispanic kid who blew Polecat. He wants to kiss so he and the Wild Boy swap spit, faces inserted in the glory hole. The Wild Boy thrusts his butt against the glory hole and the Hispanic kid murmurs happily when his luxuriant pubic bush comes to rest against hot jock ass. He pounds for a few minutes, and then the Wild Boy feels his tongue slurping the warm mushroom soup leaking for his butt. The Hispanic kid calls out to God when his load joins the others seeping from the Wild Boy's butt.
In small towns you cannot escape anyone you might wish to shun. Whether they've offended you. Whether they've tempted you.
The incident with the hardon Chad never mentioned to the Wild Boy. Not at the Tuesday night youth basketball game. Certainly not in the sanctuary after the ritual praising of the entity who brought those sweet night rains, so conducive to dreams and prosperity. Not even during chance encounters at gas station or in Mrs. Mason's Café downtown. The Wild Boy never saw Chad's face flushed from embarrassment. Never heard Chad stutter or stumble over his words, as if his train of thought had been detailed by unnatural feelings.
It seemed to the Wild Boy that Chad thought those two layers of nylon sufficiently shielded him.
But the Wild Boy was one who wanted to experience life unshielded. As it came, as it were.
In silence all things were possible.
The fateful day, the holy day, the Sabbath, dawned.
It began with the Wild Boy in the grocery store. He'd been holding up an eggplant, wondering if he should whisper it sweet nothings or just give in to his emotions and stuff it in, when his mom appeared at his elbow, frowning.
"You're out of your mind, WB, if you think I'm going to buy that." She shook her head in intense disapproval. "I hate eggplant."
He cleared his throat and put the vegetable back. "Get any cucumbers?"
She held up a bag. Each cucumber was too long to fit inside. Thick as the Wild Boy's wrist.
He grinned. "Good work, mom!"
At home the Wild Boy snuck one of his Dad's beers from the refrigerator and drained it. The day was hot, the beer cold, and sleep took him before he realized it.
At first the dream appeared innocuous. Certainly it was incongruous. A flashback to last Christmas at the church, when the church youth wrapped gifts for America's unfortunately unemployed masses. Bright paper scattered everywhere -- red, green golden, silver. Bows and tinsel. Satiny ribbon. Tape and scissors. Laughter and lame jokes and plates of cookies and pitchers of unspiked punch.
Strangely -- and this is where recollection began to liquefy into a discolored and disturbing fluid-- they were wrapping presents in the sanctuary, right in front of the altar. In reality they had wrapped those alms in one of the Sunday school classrooms.
In his dream everyone knelt before a pew, using it as a table to carry out their task. No one seemed to care about how uncomfortable was this posture. Conversation was convivial. Excited. Who would be home for Christmas. What they had given to so-and-so. What they just knew they were going to get.
The sibilant sound made the Wild Boy turn away from the jockstrap that lay, ready to be sealed inside the white snowflake-patterned paper. Jockstraps the Wild Boy reverently sniffed. So soft was that sibilant that the Wild Boy thought his sniff was the source of the sound.
Entwined around the legs of the altar was the most enormous snake the Wild Boy had ever seen. Which is saying something, because he'd seen big enough snakes in his life -- black racers down at the creek, and once he was sure a rattlesnake thick as his bicep when he raced through a cornfield -- but this snake was a titan. It had to be thirty, maybe forty feet long. It looped round each leg of the altar, and lengths of serpent flesh were roped from leg to leg. The entire space beneath the altar top was filled with circles of snake.
Upon being sighted the snake moved, flowing forward, disentangling from the altar like a knot that knew how to untie itself. Only then did the Wild Boy realize that its body was tri-lobed, had no scales, and in fact appeared to be ... yes, human skin, appearing to be stitched together from rings of skins from sundry races. Strawberry-and-cream Caucasian skin, gleaming obsidian African skin, liquid amber Asian skin. Fine hair glistened here and there -- long and black, short and blond, curly and ginger.
The serpent's apple-sized head was a half-dome of cherry-red spongy flesh, and it wore like a scarf paper-thin, loose, folded skin. A vertical slit, wide enough to insert a pencil, formed the mouth. No forked tongue flicked forth. It was eyeless.
Only the Wild Boy saw it. Why? No one else in the sanctuary had his sixth sense.
After detaching from the altar the snake slithered towards him. When the blind head was a foot away it halted. It rose up like a cobra, swaying reed-like in an unseen breeze. For long moments it merely swayed. Then from the mouth a pearl of clear fluid emerged, lay cupped in red spongy skin a moment, then dropped to the carpet.
Then it spoke.
"You've never done good things," said the snake.
The Wild Boy shivered.
"You've never done bad things," said the snake.
The Wild Boy folded his hands between his knees.
"This must change," said the snake. "For it is not enough to be. One must do." A silence. "And 'do what thou wilt' is the whole of my Law."
Orgasm broke across the Wild Boy and he awoke gasping, his cock jetting hot streams of jism into his briefs. He thrashed in his bed, shuddering, enjoying it.
He rose, stripped naked, and changed. He didn't wash. The smell of his cum, of his armpit sweat, was the finest cologne he'd ever breathed.
Do. He must do.
But what did he wilt?
Seething with nervous energy the Wild Boy took his mom's car and drove. Drove through the flat cornfields all the way to where the foothills begin, as twilight casts its shroud over the sky, and then back to town as night fell, having done nothing. The stars twinkle. He saw the Milky Way, an iridescent ribbon of sperm wrapped ourobors fashion round the Earth.
The white spire of the First Christian Church loomed, thrusting up into the sky illuminated by spotlights.
He parked his mom's car in the lot at the basketball courts. For a moment he sat in the car, reaching for those feelings. Should he strip naked here in the car and strut two blocks over? No. Stupid. Should he just ring the doorbell? Perhaps.
Do. He must do.
His heart throbbed. The night was hot --
Yeah. If aught the heat would be his excuse
He ripped his shirt off and threw it onto the steering wheel.
Shirtless, wearing only cargo shorts and Nikes, he trotted two blocks. A few cars passed. One anonymous hand waved. He mechanically waved back.
In the silence no one accused the Wild Boy of feeling the things he felt.
He lacked a sophisticated plan. He was Doing, not Thinking. He thought he might simply knock on the door and then, as the choir director opened it, he would turn around and, looking coyly, perhaps desperately, over his shoulder he'd lower his shorts and stick out his butt.
No light in the living room of Chad's place but the Wild Boy saw a side window towards the rear glowing faintly, as if illuminated by a bedside lamp. Screened by a tall wooden fence from the house next door, the Wild Boy crept along the side of the house.
Of course he peered inside.
Of course Chad Firestone was fornicating, and fornicating beautifully, and fornicating passionately. A woman enjoyed Chad's sin doggy-style as she knelt on the floor, legs spread and back arched, leaning on the bed, which remained pristine and undefiled.
She was not Chad's wife. He had none. She was not from the church. She was not even from the town. She was anonymous.
Chad was glorious in his ecstasy. Sweat plastered his long hair to his head. Hips stroked and buttocks rippled. Fat balls swung between his legs, both of which were lightly furred. A smooth body the Wild Boy imagined riding a surf board or slicing through the pool. Streamlined and smooth, but seasoned by a dash of masculine hair.
Chad screwed that woman furiously. Rabbitfucking. Later the Wild Boy would hear the world but that night Chad provided him the definition. Chad was ramping up to orgasm, fucking in frenzied abandon, utterly disinterested in that woman's pleasure. Chad was intent on injecting his sperm where God commands it to go...
Rabbitfucking indeed, but nevertheless the woman came first. The Wild Boy heard her screaming and he was certain he saw her lubrication dripping onto the worn carpet, though that might have only been a trick of the dim light.
There was no mistaking when Chad Firestone, stud, nutted. His howl surely caused miners in the hills to the east to look up nervously at as rivulets of dust suddenly trickled from the roof and great rocks cracked round them. Chad became, in his instant of sublime ecstasy, a monument of muscle, a statue of male beauty forever graven in the Wild Boy's soul.
The cock Chad withdrew from the woman's cunt was substantial. The Wild Boy guessed that, as it thrust so insistently in the woman, it might have rivaled his own -- which he knew was a large cock. Now, though, Chad's cock was slack, a drowsy kielbasa, and it was anointed with slime.
Strangely it was not Chad's cock that commanded the Wild Boy's attention.
Not at all.
It was Chad's sperm which caused the Wild Boy to spew uncontrollably in his shorts.
The woman's cunt gaped raw and lewd after Chad withdrew. She has shaved her bush. All was visible. Vulva. Clitoris. Vagina.
Sperm plugs her vagina. A cup of life. Two cups of it. A huge white slimy serpent descended between her thighs, emerging from its burrow, swaying and beckoning. It broke free, and fell to the floor. Another followed, oozing slowly.
The Wild Boy, before he collapses to the shaggy grass, shaking in his spontaneous orgasm, saw her turn to panting Chad, smiling happily, ablaze with his life and full of his spirit.
The Wild Boy retreated to his mom's car, his crotch sopping with his cum, having done if not all that he wilt ... well, at least he did some of it.
When he returned home the house was dark. So he was able to retrieve from the plastic baggie in the refrigerator the biggest, thickest cucumber his mother bought, and he was able to sneak unchallenged into his bedroom and lock the door He rode the cucumber half the night, bucking like a bronco, shooting load after load into his jock, arranged between his thighs. As he fucked himself the Wild Boy from time to time looked down at the pouch. It brimmed with cum. The sodden mess exhorted him to do ... something. He scooped up a huge dollop of it. He silently worshipped his jism, shimmer on his fingers. He rose up a bit on the cucumber, popped the vegetable from his butt, and then his own cum up his asshole. Back the cucumber went.
Yeah. Yeah. That's what he wanted to do. Cum. Gallons of cum up his butt.
He scraped up as much as he could from his jock and inserted it in his chute. It was, he knew, only an appetizer. But escape from this town was just weeks away, and he knew the city was replete with sleaze.
His own cum in his butt, the Wild Boy tugged his jockstrap on. The slime soaking the pouch cooled. He pulled on a pair of running shorts on then climbs into bed. And there he dreamed of giant snakes all night long, and woke with his jock pouch warm with fresh cum.
After the seventh cock it is time for the Wild Boy to move on. Polecat is dealing with two new customers at the counter. He waves cheerfully as the Wild Boy exits. Lazarus and Midgard, who have been quite active, now settle into coils as if for a sleep of profound dreams. The eyes of the two customers follow the Wild Boy's ass. The crevice of his shorts is dark, stained with sweat and semen, evidence of his activity.
Halfway through the alley the Wild Boy stops and bursts into laughter. "You again? Back for more?"
The young black man laughs too. "Yeah, well, man, I like doin' it, you know?"
The Wild Boy's eyebrows suggest ... "More?"
"Yeah!"
This second entry is much easier since the Wild Boy's butthole leaks tentacles of cum. The fuck is quick and hard. So it must be. This is public sex, quite illegal, forbidden and hot. The Wild Boy sighs in contentment, feeling yet another cock spewing life within him.
"Whew," the youth mutters, slipping his cock free. Looking down he grins. "Damn." Clots of cum like cottage cheese bead it. He spits into his hand, working the juice into his flesh.
"You need to piss?" asks the Wild Boy. With experience his sixth sense has grown refined.
"What?"
"Pies. You gotta piss?"
"Yeah, man, but I'm --"
The Wild Boy kneels. He puts the hose into his mouth and looks up into astonished eyes. He nods.
As he swallows the black youth's piss the Wild Boy cums, juicing his jockstrap. It is a cataclysmic orgasm. His cells dance like plates bounced by a herd of stampeding elephants.
"Wow," says the African. He pets the Wild Boy like a dog. "You're something." This time he does exit the alley, leaving the Wild Boy kneeling.
Is he done? No. Before moving another step he pulls out his cell phone. He taps the numbers 5552499. He pauses before dialing. Is he being silly? Perhaps. He dials.
"Hello?" The voice is deep, resonant, and sounds like cigarettes.
"Is this Don?"
"Yeah. I don't know your ...?"
"Hey. I'm WB. I saw your number. You up for a good time?"
The easy grin can be sensed even through the ether.
"Always, WB. Always."
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