Date: Thu, 8 May 2014 20:22:27 -0400
From: Keith Peck <araddion@gmail.com>
Subject: The Wild Boy, Pt. 2

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."

===========

If you liked this story, check out
"Temple of the Leather Messiah,"
new fiction from Araddion,
now available on Amazon:

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