Date: Wed, 28 Jul 2010 17:54:00 +0000
From: Chris Carr <andy_dick35@hotmail.com>
Subject: Is Rhylonda Home?

Warning, this story may contain explicit descriptions of sexual acts
between boys of various ages and/or men and boys. If this is not to your
tastes, please leave now.

The author retains copyrights to the story.  Please do not distribute it to
any newsgroups and/or other web-sites without permission of the author.


This story and all of my stories can be found in my web site at:
  http://www.pridesites.com/cdawg/C_City.htm

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Is Rhylonda Home?

By Chris Carr
Copyright July, 2000



I.



I opened the door and was greeted with a courteous, albeit cock-sure face.

"Um.. yeah, is Rhylonda home?" it smiled, pushing a pair of glasses up his
nose.

I'd seen him a few times, included in the milieu of young men that often
visited my daughter. Nothing particularly notable about him, just your
typical youth, his voice cracking on the first syllable of my daughter's
name.

I didn't consider Rhylonda popular, but she kept our house busy with boys
and giggling girls. Basketball players, football players, girlfriends,
cheerleaders (God! Did they ever keep me sweating!) even a few geeks.

Ducking into her room, the music would immediately start bouncing loudly
off the walls, and I'd keep a close watch, especially when boys were back
there. Can't blame me, a daddy always watches out for his little girl.
Vultures.

But for the most part, they were ok. A little loud at times, but that came
with the territory.

"She's not here," I glowered, staring at him.  Didn't phase him. He just
gazed back, processing what I'd said.

"She coming back any time soon?"

"I dunno. She went to the mall with a couple of her friends."

"Yo, is it ok if I just wait for her then? She told me to meet her here
today."

Did I mind? Well.. yeah! With three girls and a wife, I seldom got the
house to myself, and today was extra special because the game was just
about to air. I eyed the insistent intrusion, hoping he'd take a hint, but
he didn't budge.

"Yeah... sure, " I relented, letting him in.

He bounced on the couch, his eyes glued to the TV, instantly at home. I
regarded him a few minutes, wishing he'd go away, taking my place on the
smaller, sofa. The one with the convenient table next to it, just perfect
for my brew. He makes one little peep, I thought...

The game promptly started, and I was immediately absorbed.  My boys were
gunning for the finals and this game promised to be a fight to the finish.



About 20 minutes into the game, the homeboy hadn't made a sound and I'd
almost forgot he was there. My boys were down by 12 points and I wasn't
happy. The point guard motioned with his hands for a time out and I
scurried into the kitchen to grab a brew.

When I returned, one of those "Wazzuuup" commercials was on and glasses was
smiling at the TV. He's still here, I moaned, taking my seat again. The
game came back on, the time out still in progress.

Players huddled around their respective coaches and the announcers filled
time with facts and statistics.

"Think they should've traded Foster?" glasses squawked, disturbing my
quiet.

See... normally speaking, I don't abide any jaw jackin' during a game and
most of the times, the guys I watch with felt the same way.  Under any
other circumstances, his comment would've been justifiable reason to bounce
his ass out the door, but... his observation was valid.

"He wasn't pulling his weight," I returned, engaging him.

"But he was a good rebounder, though."

Another good point, I marveled. "True," I agreed, sipping my brewsky. The
game started again and, almost intuitively, the kid shut up.

Rhylonda eventually came home, he followed her into the room like a poor
sheep to the slaughter and my team won. Not a bad Saturday.




II.

I'd all but forgotten the little glasses-wearing brat that'd invaded my
Saturday a few weeks back, until he showed up at the door again. We went
through the same drill, him asking for Rhylonda and me informing him she
was away again, but he just stood there like the last time.

Realizing he wanted to "wait" again, I stepped aside to let him in. He
happily flounced on the couch, as before, his eyes glazing over at the
TV. Surprisingly, another game was on. We watched it in silence, as I
snatched quick glances at him.

If pressed, I suppose I would've said he was good looking, his smooth,
honey brown complexion his best asset. A pair of oval shaped glasses
perched atop his pert, angular nose they were frequently sliding down. He'd
merely push them back into place, apparently second nature to him.

His loose fitting clothes sporting all the latest fashions, it dawned on
me, boys could be expensive too. At least in today's time with all the
costly, designer shirts, pants and athletic shoes, hocked by some
multi-millionaire ball player.

Rhylonda finally showed, the slightest hint of surprise dancing behind her
eyes at Marlon's presence, and he dutifully followed her to the room as
before.



III.



Living in a house with 3 girls and their doting mother, you get to where
you numb out some. You know, "Yeah, my wallet's in the room..." sort of
stuff.

Every room is always covered, and the blow dryers never stop. Nail polish,
bath oils. It's the "It really ain't my house" syndrome where I'm just
privileged to find an empty bathroom. Sure, indifference has its
advantages, but ignorance isn't always bliss.

On the day in question, my wife had taken my daughters to a school
function, a drill team tournament or something. Happily strutting around
the house in my skivvies (sheer bliss!) I'd just got comfortable when, the
doorbell rang.

"This better be good," I griped, opening it.  There stood Marlon.

"Hey Mr. Sparks," he beamed, his braces twinkling. "Rhylonda home?"

I almost closed the door in his face. Well dammit, this was my day alone
and the last thing I wanted was a worrisome little, buttinski, horning in
on my time.

"No," I snapped.

Accepting I wasn't going to run him off with my glare, god knows I've
tried, I stepped aside, letting him in. Not missing a beat, he happily
plunked down on the couch. I marveled at how "at home" he'd become lately,
but didn't make much of it. Looking back now, it's clear, had Marlon been
anything other than Marlon, he never would've made it as far as he did.

Quietly observing him during his numerous visits, I somehow became
accustomed to his presence. Sort of picked up on his little nuances. Like
the way he'd bounce his knee profusely when the home team was in a
pickle. Or clasped his hands behind his head and reclined when they were
ahead.

We'd talk sporadically during long breaks, and I concluded, he wasn't a bad
kid. An intrusion, but not a bad kid. In fact, despite my protestations,
his repeated visitations were whittling away at my resolve, forging a
peculiar bond between us.


About halfway through the game, my team was so far ahead, it was becoming
boring. As I debated switching to something more entertaining or riding
this one out, I found myself drifting. Fingering my remote, I happened to
glance over at Marlon. Even with our team's huge lead he still stared,
fully absorbed in the game.

My experience with teenage boys, to say the least, was practically null and
void. I didn't coach little league, or head a Boy Scout troop so, unless
one of my girls brought one around, I rarely saw them.

As much as I loved my girls, I often wondered how different things would be
if one of them were a boy. Raising girls was a real chore. Besides meeting
their never-ending need for things, you always felt a little uneasy about
their safety.

Let's face it, a teenage boy is nothing but a walking erection, desperately
looking for the next opportunity. Let him within a mile of a girl and he
won't stop until he gets that thing off.

So as I eyed this strange enigma, sprawled upon my sofa, I suddenly found
myself speculating. Was Marlon a walking erection? Did he have a boner
right now? And how often did he have to stroke that thing to gain relief?
Did he use a right handed technique or left? And on and on, until, I'd
pretty much exhausted far more of that I subject than I dared.



Casting another glance at him, I felt a little uneasiness creeping around
the edges of my subconscious.

I should've dropped it but instead, I foolishly decided to further
"explore" the subject. No harm in a little free association, I argued.

So, if I was a girl, I posed, what would I find attractive about Marlon? To
hear it was laughable. Ok, what would a girl find attractive about Marlon,
I conceded?

Following several discreet glances at him, I finally concluded, a girl
would probably like Marlon's sensitivity. Yeah, women seem to go for that
shit. And although Marlon was nobody's pushover, he still seemed like the
type that could put a woman first, before his wants and needs.

You know, shit like knowing to hold a girl's hand in the movie when it got
scary. Or remembering to send a card or flowers to commemorate the time
they watched the sun set on their 7th date. Now that shit always got me in
trouble, I chuckled. I've been known to forget my own birthday.  When you
can remember little shit like that, man, you have the women eating out of
your hand!


"The Magic now have a 17 point lead," an announcer declared. "If they win
tonight's game, they'll go to Houston for the final two games," he
excitedly continued, "and stand to wrap this series up in 6." Looking
somewhere in the vicinity of the TV, I drifted further. It's one thing to
watch a fight to the finish but a bloodbath just wasn't that entertaining.


While Marlon seemed the sensitive type, I was pretty convinced, once things
left the "affairs of the heart" realm, he'd be like any other teen. You
didn't work that hard on your bad boy image to choke when in came to
"gettin' it," nahmean?

Little horndog, I thought. I could just see him, growing nine arms, once he
got some poor, love struck girl alone in his mom's car.  Pawing all over
her, his voice raspy with desire...

Hey! Is that why that little wolf hound is always sniffing behind my
daughter, I considered? I'll break his neck!

Rhylonda ain't like that, another, saner mind assured.  Yeah, I breathed,
you've taught her well. And she talks to you about everything.  If she and
Marlon were doing the horizontal bop, I'd know, I sighed, casting a smug
leer over at Marlon.



No way I'd trade places with him, though. When I was his age, all I had was
sex on the brain. I was a little scrawny and the most I could score was
what the studs left behind. You know, the pretty girl's "friend" that was
the next best thing to what you really wanted.

Whew! Puberty hit me like a Mack truck, reducing me to a sexual sloven. In
constant need of physical release, my teenaged drive was like a bottomless
pit.

There wasn't an Internet around then so, finding a steady source of sex
became an adventure, to say the least. More than once, I traded goofy
favors with some nerdy kid (they always had the most porn) in lieu of a
new, unexplored magazine or erotic book.

Like that time I found out Jeffrey Wright had one of those quarterly
Players mags, the one chocked full of hotties from the previous three
months. Jeez, he played me like a harp, dangling it before me like a carrot
in front of a donkey, while lewdly tempting me with tidbits of information
about it. I lost it, my raging teen hormones depriving me of all decency as
my unruly dick leaped to attention.

Suffice it to say, Jeffrey, total freak that he was, got what he wanted
that day and I landed the prized magazine which I immediately put to good
use. But even that wasn't enough. Thank God for mom's 74' Olds and backseat
"lovin.'" Boy, if that car could talk. Backseat lovin', I thought, looking
at Marlon again. If he ever ...

His legs casually gapped, Marlon stared at the TV, innocently oblivious of
the "processing" I was "allowing."


But to be that young and carefree, I countered. Pops out there waging all
the big battles, keeping a roof over your head, clothes on your back food
in your stomach. Not a care in the world. Just girls, girls, girls.

Hanging with your peeps, playing ball way past dark, summer nights at the
park. Damn... Summer nights at the park, I recalled. Summer nights with
your buddy, Spencer and that coveted porno mag he'd stolen from his dad's
stash.

Spencer! Boy, did he ever cum. Big, leaping loops of hot teen jism, all
over the bathroom floor as he moaned and writhed, snared in the
ball-crushing pleasure of his release. Had to step aside to avoid his
shower. It hit him so hard, he didn't even care I was watching anymore.

Afterwards, he was so wasted, he forgot about my end of the bargain. Just
slumped against the sink and panted, a silly grin on his face, his dick
still dangling out of his pants. Stupid... stupid little boy antics.



Did Marlon have a stash, tucked conveniently away in his bedroom? And what
"price" did he have to pay to get them? Kids don't use magazines nowadays,
I smirked. All they have to do is go to the Internet and gorge themselves
on all the free sex they want. Pussy sites, women eagerly wagging their
round asses before a camera, reveling in the thrill that some teenaged boy
will probably look at it and get hard.

My thoughts troubling me, I quickly exited to the bathroom to compose
myself. "Free association," I sneered, staring at my reflection in the
mirror. This shit ain't funny. You're a married man. A straight married man
that loves his wife and three daughters.

"Don't make sense to continue this line of thinking," I admonished.
Confident I was through with the issue, I returned to the den.


To my surprise, Marlon had moved from the larger couch to my sofa. My cozy
smaller sofa with the table next to it for my brewsky! The hell, I mumbled,
pissed. Stilling myself, I sat on the larger couch. A harsh glare bouncing
off the TV from the sun window, I realized why he'd moved then.

"I can move back over there," he offered, motioning to stand. Sweet kid, I
thought, waving his offer away with my hand. He slid back on the sofa,
glancing several times at me to make sure it was ok. I moved to the far end
of the couch in an attempt to avoid the glare, but it was no use. I
should've hung those new blinds months ago.

The game still not engaging enough to hold me, I found myself glancing over
at Marlon. He'd assumed that legs wide cocked position again and, to my
dismay, I actually tried looking up his legs. All that freaky shit you was
allowing, I surmised.

But I couldn't stop looking. He's got a little peach fuzz on his shins, I
observed. At his age? I thought, glancing up at his face to see if he had
hair there. For the most part, his face was smooth, however, a thin dusting
of fine hair topping his upper lip.

The glare on the TV got worse while my team magically added more points to
their lead. I'd leaned over so far trying to avoid the glare now, I was
practically on the other couch. Enough of this shit, I grumbled,
relinquishing my seat on the sofa and moving to the love seat.

"Seem like they got it wrapped up, huh?" Marlon commented, scooting over.

"Yeah," I replied, glancing at him perplexed.  Locking his hands behind his
head, he confidently lay back, assuming his victory position. Idly, I
stared at his proffered crotch.


His rapt attention on the pointless game never waning, I could no longer
deny mine was waxing cold, dragging me further into the abyss.  Squeezed
there, next to him on that cramped thing, I kept nervously glancing at him
every few minutes.

>From his baseball capped head to his stylish athletic shoes, I beheld him,
couldn't keep my eyes off of him. He had to have seen me looking, but he
never flinched, never looked up. It was almost like he wanted me next to
him. Like I belonged there by his side. But why? Was Marlon gay? Maybe he
was a bit more sensitive than I'd originally thought.

Feeling like that helpless, eternally horny kid from my youth once more, I
broke out in a light sweat as my dick defiantly sprouted hard in my
boxers. I prayed Marlon wouldn't notice it, the room shrinking. He merely
stared at the game, in effect, refusing to acknowledge my deprived
condition.

The flames so hot I could smell my flesh burning now, I was consumed. Like
one of those horrendous nightmares where all you can do is watch and
scream, I listened to the blood pounding in my ears as my hand slowly
gravitated toward his silky thigh. Deliberately, moving only a millimeter
per second, it edged closer.

As it neared his creamy, downy coated leg, however, I noticed him moving
slightly away. Fear gripping me, I snatched my hand away, convinced I'd
totally fucked myself. Marlon kept his eyes front and center and I wished I
could just disappear. Sweat beading upon my upper lip, I sat, petrified,
various, bloodcurdling scenarios running through my befuddled mind.

"Palm Beach man arrested for child molestation," my overactive imagination
manufactured, the word "molestation" in neon red on the front page of
tomorrow's paper.

"He seemed like a nice man," the neighbors would account to some news
hungry reporter.

By the time I got to the part where the police handcuffed and dragged me
away, in front of my wife and kids, I was an anxiety ridden ball of sheer
terror. Frozen in my spot on the small couch, I waited for an opportune
time to beat a hasty retreat when, so gingerly I almost didn't notice it, I
felt his leg nudge up against mine.

When I looked up I saw that was still obstinately staring at the TV, but
the pressure of his leg against mine was unmistakable. Confused more than
ever now, I looked back at the TV. My den had never felt so small and
confined.

His leg still applying a steady pressure against my bare leg, desire
mounted in me again, pummeling the remaining vestiges of any reasonable
logic in its wake. Running on pure adrenaline and animal lust, I cautiously
approached his leg again. This time he didn't withdraw and, relieved, I
continued toward his shorts clad groin.

When I felt my hand nearing the volcanic heat, radiating from his concealed
pouch, I came close to passing out. My heart thundering in my ears, I
gently seized his youthful bulge. Marlon made the tiniest sigh and closed
his eyes...




IV.



Intoxicated, I squeezed, outlining his tool beneath his shorts. It swelled
quickly, filling his here-to-fore baggy shorts. That this was actually
happening was surreal, almost unbelievable. Amazed, I traced the growth,
running my hand up and down his lengthening piece. It continued to extend
until it was a large protrusion, poofing his shorts lewdly out.

Somewhere on a far horizon, the game took a turn, my team loosing points,
but my entire world was Marlon now. My hand trembling, I opened his shorts,
exposing his white, cotton CK's. Concerned, I glanced up at his face to
gauge his reaction. There was nothing to measure, his eyes shut, his face
serene.

Reaching inside his briefs, I pulled his throbbing prick out, marveling at
its length. Extending wickedly from the curly patch of hair, encircling its
base, it jerked, suddenly exposed to the room air. I gripped it, eliciting
a soft groan from him.

"Aaah," he whispered, licking his saucy, rosy lips.

My mind racing to comprehend reality, I looked at his face,
stunned. Marlon. Marlon Carothers, I thought, my hand sliding up the boy's
beautiful length. Incomprehensible.

Lost, I palmed his stiffness, raising a sticky drop of clear juice. It
dribbled down his pipe, lubricating my stroking fist, invoking another hiss
from him. My own dick snaked from the confines of my boxers, unfurling the
last few inches to a full erection.

In my haste, I realized, I hadn't thought this out very well. Just seeing
what he looks like when he blows his load, I resolved, will be payoff
enough for me. See his balls pull up close, watch it bolt upright and spurt
its hot juice, that'll be pure heaven.

My hand feverishly working the head of his thrusting spear, I received an
unexpected jolt when he opened his eyes and looked at me.  Alarmed, my hand
slowed on his column, a steely pang clutching my heart. He wasn't
comfortable with this after all and I was about to pay the ultimate price.

Marlon glanced down at my lagging hand, his dick still protruding hungrily
upward, then looked back at me. I'd all but stopped jerking him off when,
his hand reached for my dick. Astonished, I watched as he encircled it in
his clutching fist and mimicked my motion.

Enraptured, I threw my head back, my pelvis rising to push more of my
pulsing piston into his hand.

"Don't stop," he whispered, gesturing at his own dick. In my panic, I'd all
but dropped his steaming missle.

Careening down the steep side of the mountain, I grasped his tool again,
writhing about as my sword cut the air in ecstasy. Madly pleasuring each
other, we both stroked, smearing our leaking fluids atop our swollen heads.

His hips popping sinisterly upward, Marlon's dick stiffened. Like two
miniature, bouncing ping pong balls, his nuts pulled closer to his sensual
body, driving him toward the edge. Choking up on his rock solid post, I
gloved it tightly.

Panting loudly, he bucked, his chest heaving. His dick was like a warm
steel pipe now, thrusting up from his wide splayed legs. The heady
sensation of his beating flagpole in my hand was so incredible, I could
hardly hold on.

Our dicks dancing right on the edge of a soul scorching release, we both
hissed and moaned. Although my dick was extra sensitive now, every stroke
of his precious hand driving me insane, I couldn't take my eyes off of
Marlon's dripping faucet. Until today, I couldn't have ever imagined a
boy's dick being so tantalizing, so mesmerizing.

The way it reared up, positioning like a canon prepared to release an angry
barrage. The shiny, swollen head, capping a long, wickedly stiff shaft. The
distended balls, snuggled close to its fluttering base and the tender mat
of soft, boy pubes nestling its root. Of all the times he'd occupied this
space on my couch, I never knew. Couldn't have fathomed finding his
precious pumphandle so erotic.

"Ah!" Marlon gasped, his dick leaping in my hands. Throwing his head back,
he wailed, his hips flinging upwards. His dick did the impossible, somehow
becoming even more rigid, then spurted, lobbing thick, pungent arcs of
white cum all over his stomach. Plit, plat, plop, they sailed, each time a
copious, wet salvo ejecting to collide with his quivering body.

Holding my dick in a vice grip, he struggled to stroke it as he
erupted. Although his technique wasn't very accommodating, considering his
ecstatic state, his extra tight grasp around the head provided the need
stimulation. That combined with watching him climb the wall and blow.

His teen fingers rubbing just enough around my shaft, I felt myself
achieving nirvana. Gasping loudly, I shook as my dick exploded, spewing its
hot load all over my T-shirt. Brought off by a boy's palpitating hand, my
rattled brain accounted, still toiling to comprehend the wonder of it all.

In awe, I felt my dick surge once more, the inordinate power of this
particular orgasm almost overwhelming. As I shuddered, the arousing
awareness of what we were doing evident -- his surprised gasps and
gyrations as my own dick leapt in his clutching fist -- all of the
nagging questions began to surface.

What the hell does this mean? Am I gay now? Was I gay all along and
couldn't accept it? What would my wife say? My daughters!



V.



Weeks after that unbelievable weekend, my head cleared and all the answers
came tumbling forth. Whether I was gay or not really wasn't an issue, but
there was no escaping what being with Marlon meant. That was all that
mattered, and I latched onto it.

In the days that followed our little tryst, I learned a lot. Up until that
wild Saturday afternoon together, Marlon had been a virgin.  He told me
he'd had his little back seat romps with girls but never went all the way.

His dick never went down, that wondrous Saturday, even after he'd exhausted
his entire store. It was so erotic the way it towered, belligerently erect
between his legs. I couldn't let it go. Smearing his recently spurted boy
juice around the sensitive head, it thrilled me to no end seeing the way he
convulsed and moaned, ecstatically.

"Is that what you wanted?" I probed, slipping my hand up his pole again.

"Aaaah," he gasped, his dick swelling in my clutch.

Granting him a temporary reprieve, I played with his balls and asked him
the question again. He never answered me. Some weeks later, he quietly
volunteered "you just felt safe, Mr. Sparks."

He hadn't set out to seduce me, he explained. Matter of fact, he wasn't
sure he even wanted to be with a guy. All he knew was that he thoroughly
enjoyed my company and made up every excuse he could think of to be with
me.

"So, all those times you came over asking for Rhylonda, you pretty much
knew she wasn't here, huh?" I probed. Yeah, he confessed, flashing his
braces laden smile. He'd actually had second thoughts about us being
together, right up until I sat next to him that day.

"I almost jumped up and ran out the door," he told me.

Once I put my hand on his sweltering dick, though, all of his fears were
alleviated. "It just made me feel so good," he accounted.



He's over our house all the time now, the son I never had.  I'm still
trying to sort things out, my marriage a big factor. Sex with Janice is
still gratifying. I still enjoy the thrill of her body next to mine, the
provocative sensation of her warm quim, snapped around my throbbing pole.

But when I'm with Marlon, I find it very satisfying too.  Because it's all
so new to us, we're like two ravenous wolves, hungrily devouring each
other. His scent, his bawdy, teenaged aroma drives me wild.

Although I can't imagine leaving my wife and daughters for this adorable
youth, I can't see living my life without him either. I never knew how
incomplete I was until Marlon came around. Or the way a part of me had been
longing for what I believed absolutely impossible to comply.

As I saw it, I wasn't a gay man, and couldn't see abandoning my wife and
kids to pursue a lifestyle I didn't understand. The "price" for that
particular payoff was far too costly. But once Marlon came along, my whole
perspective changed. Identifying myself a certain way was no longer
important. Issues surrounding masculinity or femininity didn't matter
anymore. When I was with him, it was solely about us and how we pleased
each other.

Our sexual explorations are still, for the most part, in their
infancy. Even now, the most we'll do together is jack each other off. The
real meat of our sharing is in how wonderful it feels to just hold and
touch each other. Like that time we got completely naked and just explored
every inch of each other's body.



Time alone is always a hassle, my house being overrun the way it is. And
using his house isn't an option. On the few occasions we're lucky enough to
have the house to ourselves, there's no question what we're going to
do. Snapping up more of those opportunities is something we both cherish.

Makes me excited to think about it.