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This is a work of fiction. All persons are intended to be age 18 and above.
WALK ON THE WILD SIDE
By anonymous.a
Everybody loves yardwork, right?
Right.
It's the only downside of the place I'm living at now. The house has a small yard with lots of trees, some of which shed in the fall, and others that shed in the spring. I have a never-ending supply of yardwork.
But that's OK because yardwork is good for a body. Sunlight on your skin causes your body to manufacture vitamin D, which boosts your testosterone levels. God knows I need my testosterone levels boosted, what with all the hot men in my neighborhood.
Some of those men are "newly minted." For instance, the young man down the street, and I emphasize the "man." Believe me when I say I am not interested in underage males. But I have to be careful, because kids seem to mature earlier these days. When I was in high school it was damn near impossible for me to grow a beard, and none of the guys had hair on their chest. Today, high school kids look like lumberjacks. What's going on? Are they putting something in the water? Anyway, I'm always careful to confirm that my hookups are at least 18 years of age, even if they look older.
The kid down the street presented the opposite problem. He didn't look anywhere near 18. He rode in the back of his parents' car, like a little kid, and walked to the bus stop. I never gave him a second thought because of his apparent youth until one day when I was out in the front yard raking the ever-present leaves into neat little piles that the wind was doing its best to spread.
As I hurried to gather the leaves and dump them into the leaf bag before they scattered back across the yard, a voice behind me said, "You're wasting your time. It's too windy. An hour from now and it won't look like you did a damn thing."
Oh really? I turned around to see the afore-mentioned kid standing there. He was about 5-7, maybe 140 pounds, with shoulder-length brownish-blonde hair. He was wearing some kind of pullover that looked like a flannel throwback to the grunge days of the early '90s, and rumpled corduroy pants that were too long for his compact frame. His pants almost hid his black high-top sneakers. A black book bag, probably containing everything but books, was draped over his shoulder.
I said, "Aren't you observant. Unfortunately my boss doesn't schedule my days off according to the weather, and I can't get this yard cleaned up from my desk at the office."
"Hire a lawn service," he said.
"OK moneybags, you want to float me a loan?"
"I can't even afford a burger at the place where I work."
"I'll give you five bucks to help me pick up these leaves," I joked.
The kid actually seemed to be thinking about it. Seeing his willingness, I quickly added, "Look, I'll give you twenty if you're serious."
He dropped his book bag right there in the grass and got to work stuffing hands-full of leaves into the leaf bag. Soon, all the leaves were picked up and four plastic bags were sitting at the curb, waiting for the yard waste guys to come by and take them ... although just as the kid said, newly arrived leaves carried on the wind began to settle across the yard. Oh well, it looked good for a few minutes anyway, and it gave me a chance to meet Justin.
That was his name, I learned, as I peeled a $20 bill out of my wallet and handed it over. He was 18, about to graduate from high school, and didn't have a penny to his name, which would explain the rumpled clothes and lack of a car. His dad was disabled and got a crappy Social Security payment once a month. His mom worked at one of those dollar stores for below minimum wage. Incredibly, Justin was the high wage earner of the family, making $11 an hour at his part-time job at Mickey D's. All his money went to helping the family household.
As I learned more about Justin I began to feel sorry for him. Obviously he was a good kid who had been handed a crappy lot in life and was trying hard to overcome it. If he failed he would become just another face in the overwhelming crowd of people flooding America these days – poverty-stricken individuals with no hope for the future beyond making it from shitty paycheck to shitty paycheck. Even hardworking folks, who sacrifice and do everything right, are more likely to fail these days, while the rich get richer and the corporations become more powerful.
Wow. Did I just rant? This is supposed to be a sex story, not a political diatribe.
I vowed to do what little I could to help Justin and his family, even if that meant giving him small yardworking jobs if he had time to do them. I'm not wealthy by any means but I could spare a few bucks here and there to help him out.
Spring led to summer and the relentless tide of leaves finally ended as all the trees were fully leafed out. That meant Justin's yardworking duties switched from raking to mowing. He didn't have a mower so I let him use mine, which I had picked up secondhand at a garage sale. I even let him use it to mow other people's yards. He had graduated from high school and was only a few weeks away from turning 19. His part-time fast food job had become a full-time night shift position, so he could squeeze in yardworking jobs during the day. Things were looking up.
If he came by on weekends I'd join him in the yard duties, trimming hedges, weed-whacking along the curb and driveway, and generally neatening up the place. It wasn't that I was such a yard-working fiend. I enjoyed Justin's company. Despite his disadvantages he was a smart kid who had a generally positive outlook, and he was willing to work hard. I admired that, and I admired him.
It didn't hurt that he was a little hottie.
I don't know when I began checking him out, but I guess it was inevitable. I am a guy, after all, and guys are always on the prowl for their next sexual liaison. It started when he began showing up to mow the yard wearing nothing but baggy cargo shorts and sneakers. His smooth, flat chest looked like a velvet playground for my hands. He had an innie bellybutton, and I pictured myself sticking my tongue into that socket and tasting whatever essence had gathered there. He tanned easily, so his skin was dark, yet covered with a thin layer of fine blondish hairs. And despite those baggy shorts, I could see he had an admirable bubble butt. When he bent over to pull the grass bag off the lawnmower, the seam of those shorts crawled into his butt crack, and his ass cheeks leaped into definition.
I tried to dismiss all the impure thoughts I was having about Justin, but every time I saw him the devil on my shoulder dropped into my crotch. Sheesh, I was walking around half-boned all the time. No amount of jerking off provided any relief.
I didn't even know if he was interested. He never talked about girls and I never saw him with a girlfriend. I assumed that was because he was always working, but who knows. Finally, one day, an opportunity to bring up the subject presented itself and I jumped on it.
We were sitting on the porch. I was drinking a Diet Coke; he had a plastic bottle of water. He'd been trimming tree limbs that were rubbing against the soffit, and had worked up a fine sweat. His skin was covered in a thin layer of moisture, just enough to give it a shine. I still couldn't get over how well tanned he was.
Finally, I said, "Justin, what's a good looking guy like you doing without a girlfriend?"
He didn't look at me but I saw a faint hint of amusement creep into his expression. "You think I'm good looking?"
"Yeah, actually, I do."
"What are you? Gay?"
"Is that a problem?" I asked.
Then he did look at me, with concern. "No. Not at all. I just didn't know."
"So what's the deal? Why no girls in your life?"
He seemed to think that over for several seconds, then said tiredly, "I don't know. Maybe I just haven't met the right girl. Maybe I'm not interested in girls. I don't know."
Now he had my attention. I said, "When you beat off, who do you think about?"
"My God that's personal," he said with a shocked sneer, "but if you must know, I watch porn videos online."
"Yeah, every guy in America does that, Justin. What I'm asking is, when you watch the porn, who are you looking at? The girls or the guys?"
He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, clearly not happy with the question. A drop of sweat collected at the edge of his chin and dropped to his perfectly smooth stomach. I longed to lean over and lick it off.
Finally, he answered with a long, put-out sigh. "Well, I guess I look at both. But I'm not sure. I really won't know the answer to that question until I try it."
So I said, "You want to try it?"
"With you?" he asked, turning to me, his eyebrows arched in surprise. "You're a lot older than I am. ..." He thought for a second. "But I guess you'd be a lot better than some skag off Craigslist."
I rolled my eyes. "Thank you for that ringing endorsement."
He laughed and added, "No no, I didn't mean it that way. C'mon, you know what I meant."
I got out of my chair and motioned for the front door. "Let's go inside. I don't want the neighborhood watching me suck your dick."
He got out of his chair with a spring to his step, which suggested he was more interested in this guy-on-guy stuff than he had let on. Once he was inside, I closed the door, pushed him up against it and ordered, "Drop 'em."
He didn't even unbutton his shorts. He just slid them down over his sweaty hips.
He wasn't wearing any underwear. Somehow, that was as big a turn-on as the fat dick hanging between his legs. And fat it was, about 5 inches soft and tapered to a blunt, uncircumcised point, but wide at the base, springing from a pair of equally fat balls and a nest of dark pubic hairs that were plastered to his thighs and crotch by sweat. I dropped to my knees and planted my hands on his hips. My fingers slid a little because his skin was slippery. A wave of musk rolled toward me as I closed in on his crotch, a blend of perspiration and the supercharged funk exclusive to young males in the prime of their sexual potency.
I dipped my mouth below the tip of his cock and sucked it into my mouth, plunging my face into his crotch. When I had his dick all the way inside, I just sucked and sucked, pulling back to taste the meaty flavor. Salty, with an unidentifiable but pleasant aftertaste. I pulled back his foreskin and began cleaning out the mushroom cap, licking around and down, then sliding his cock back into my mouth, past my gag reflex to the very back of my throat. He had grown hard in this short period of time so his dick was able to penetrate quite deep.
I pulled off long enough to lick his balls. His scrotum was covered with coarse pubic hairs, so unlike the rest of his body, which seemed to have concentrated all of its hair-growing efforts to his head and crotch. I wondered if his ass was equally hairy. Perhaps I'd have a chance to find out.
I licked hungrily over the entire surface area of his ballsac and then under his nuts, where the air and the scent grew steamier. Then my wandering mouth traveled back to his cock, which was standing straight out from his body now. As I took it deep into my mouth Justin let out a contented sigh and whispered, "Man that's good."
By this time his cock had outgrown the foreskin and was rigid as a length of pipe. I'm guessing hard it was about 7 inches, not bad for an almost-19-year-old who didn't stand taller than about my earlobe. As my mouth opened and took it in again, he pushed it to the very back of my throat, and made sure it stayed there by wrapping his hands around my head and thrusting with his crotch.
And that's the way we did it for the next 5 minutes. He fucked my face, making little "Ungh" sounds every time he pushed that meaty cock down my throat, his balls bouncing against my chin, his smell invading every pore of my skin. My own cock was straining against my shorts and I wanted to reach down and stroke it, but I wanted more to keep my hands planted on his butt cheeks, where I could feel his muscles working to thrust his crotch into my face.
His strokes began to speed up and I knew the inevitable was about to happen. I grabbed his butt hard and tried to push my mouth farther down on his crotch, sniffing frantically to catch the odor a man gives off when he's about to spill his essence. Justin simultaneously gripped my head with equal force and thrust harder and harder into me, until suddenly the dam broke and a flood of 19-year-old sperm gushed into my mouth, accompanied by a loud wail of delight from its owner. I could feel spurt after spurt of semen filling me up, almost defying my efforts to swallow it as Justin emptied his balls into me. I might as well have stuck a straw down his piss hole and sucked it out, for all the fluid that was entering me.
Finally his passion began to let up and the flood jizz slowed to a trickle, then stopped altogether. His cock began to soften, but he remained where he was, slumped just a little, his crotch in my face. He let out a short, barking laugh as I pulled off his cock a final time and ran my tongue over my teeth, licking up the film of cum that covered my teeth. His cock wilted against his balls, but the tip remained a fiery, glistening red.
I got up. My boner had the front of my shorts tented obscenely. I would need to take care of that pretty soon; otherwise I might die of a ruptured penis.
Justin bent down and pulled up his shorts. His eyes remained glazed with lust, and he was smiling. We looked at each other a moment, then both laughed.
He said, "That was definitely better than some Craigslist skag."
"Get back to work," I replied and slapped him on the butt. "I'll show you Craigslist."
I had a feeling I'd be doing a lot more with that butt in the near future.
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Email clover2209@yahoo.com
The author wishes to make it known he does not want to receive communication in any form regarding issues of underage individuals.