Race Red Mustang Convertible

by ChrisCross

Copyright© 2017 by ChrisCross

Pedo Sex Story: Glen moves to Oklahoma farm country to drive young, bored teen boys in his new red Mustang convertible.

Caution: This Pedo Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/mt   Consensual   Gay   Fiction   Farming   Rough   Anal Sex   Masturbation   Oral Sex   Petting   Size   .

It was inevitable when a new interstate highway went it. The city followed it, intruding on and, eventually, choking out whatever had taken up the rural space beyond the original confines of the city. Thus it was when a new express highway went in between Oklahoma City and Dallas. I worked for a get-bigger-and-richer pharmaceutical company headquartered in Oklahoma City, and when I moved there I opted for a bigger, fancier house in a development that had followed the new highway into what had been farm country. I lived in an exclusive compounded enclave near the small, farming town of Cole, which was still surrounded by small farms. But these farms increasingly were succumbing to the offers of developers.

For a while, though, there would be two definite, separate cultures nervously coexisting on this landscape—the rural farmers scratching an ever-tougher subsistence from corn and sugar beets and well-healed, corporate interlopers, like me, Glen Sikes, stealing a march on house prices by moving to far-out developing areas and driving into the city for work—like I do in my race red Mustang GT convertible with black leather upholstery. I don’t have a hopped-up new convertible to save money on a twenty-one-mile commute each way but as an edge for impressing young men. I liked young men—really young men. Well, teens. Boys. And at thirty-two I needed all of the ammunition I could get to stay in the “catch ‘em and fuck ‘em young” game.

Not that I wasn’t in tip-top shape. And that’s how I managed to breach the divide between farmers and interlopers. I quickly found that there weren’t many interlopers in my enclave who excited me—nearly all of them were older than I was—and I didn’t stay in town at night anymore like I used to. So there wasn’t much going for me in the Oklahoma City nightlife scene—not that it ever had been too lively. There were still a lot of young guys—well, boys—in the farming communities, though. And they were both very well put together, from the physical demands of being in a farming family and having to work the farm, and were impressionable. They liked cars. A new race red Mustang GT convertible was a real attention getter.

Where I breached the divide was that there was a Gold’s Gym in the town of Cole. A lot of guys from the farming side of the community went there. So did I in the fight to stave off the ravishes of time and the relative sedimentary existence of creating and selling new kinds of drugs to the world.

Gold’s Gym was where I met Tom Burton, a handsome and muscular sixteen-year-old, who was working out to toughen himself increasingly more for the Cole High School football team. High School football was the holy grail for the whole lower middle section of the country. To be a standout on the high school team would be to be a god in the community. Tom wanted to be a god. He also thought a whole lot of himself. Seeing the narcissism in myself, I certainly could see it in him. And narcissism had always proven to me to be a key to laying a young guy. I could worship his body as well as he could, and flattery could get my dick inside him.

Not long after I not so coincidentally often showed up to Gold’s Gym at the same times Tom did, I decided that I would lay Tom Burton. He was approaching the upper limits of my arousal zone with a young teen, but he was receptive and would be easy pickings as I worked my way into the community. He wasn’t from a farming family. His father was a banker in the town, but Tom coming from a privileged family in this community, combined with his cockiness and his obsession with beautiful bodies, especially his own—but, he made clear, mine too—made him an easy mark.

We became spotting buddies at the gym, where we brushed against each other, touched each other, made racy jokes with each other, and exchanged increasingly suggestive looks. I checked him out in the showers and he checked me out, almost choking I could see when his eyes measured the goods. He was either prone to be gay, I concluded, or he could be bent, even if just temporarily—long enough for my purposes. One thing was for sure: Tom Burton was bursting with the need for sex and if I got to him before some girl did, he’d give it to me.

We were leaving the gym at the same time one night when he asked me, “You going to the barn dance Saturday night?”

“The barn dance? What barn dance?” I asked.

“There’s a barn dance out at the Kincade farm just east of town. You’ve said before that you’d like to fit into the community better. You’d be welcome there. Jake Kincade goes to the gym, and I know you two get along. He’d be happy to see you there. Gee. Is this your car? Great wheels.”

We’d reached the Mustang and I’d popped the driver’s door open. “Yeah, it’s mine. You like it?”

“Man, it’s the best ride I’ve ever seen in this town.” I knew I had him.

“Maybe you’d like to take a ride in it someday.”

“Yeah, that would be great. Someday. So, do you think you might come to the barn dance? It starts at nine and goes to whenever. They’ll be auctioning off some neat stuff too.”

I could tell he wanted me to come. He wanted to slide into seeing me outside the confines of the gym.

“Sounds good,” I said, and I got in the Mustang and drove off, leaving him standing there and salivating.

I knew I could have had him then, but it was late, and a school night. I wanted to have time with him. I wanted to do him right ... royally. With guys this young, sometimes, even when they give in enthusiastically, they get remorse afterward, and I only have that one shot with them. I don’t mind that so much. I’m good with one shots if I don’t have to work too hard to get a guy laid, but if it’s going to be one and done, I want it to be a good one.

I did show up to the barn dance on Saturday night, and it was as much a redneck affair as I had thought it would be, but there was a crowd and I was welcomed well enough. Jake Kincade flagged me down when I entered his barn and glad handed me, which gave me all of the entry I needed. Truth be told, I think Jake wanted to get it on with me. But he was nearly as old as I am. I have no interest in that. I like to break them in—and when they’re young.

There was country music and line and square dancing, and every once in a while they stopped and either auctioned off an item or gave one away for free by lottery, priming the pump for the auction, which was being run to raise funds for the 4-H fair that summer. The number of farms were dwindling down in the face of housing development to the point that the agricultural fair was in straits for program money.

I took a small table after I’d gotten a beer and sat to watch the dancing and to watch for Tom Burton. He found me, brushing past me and leaning over and whispering in my ear, “Nice boots; really nice boots.”

They were nice cowboy boots. I’d gotten them in Houston, with fancy tooling and colored inserts. It was the first time I’d worn them, but probably the last, as they weren’t quite big enough for my feet. I’d worn them to be flashy tonight, and Tom had noticed them, so they’d served their purpose. Later, though, I was to learn that they would be of further service to me.

I followed Tom with my eyes, as he went out onto the dance floor. With the type of dancing they were doing, partners weren’t a necessity, and not everyone was paired off male-female. Tom seemed to be partnering with another boy—a boy younger than him—a boy who was so luscious looking that I immediately went hard. It was obvious that the two boys knew each other. They talked as they danced. But then I guess everyone who lived in Cole before the city locust swarmed in knew each other. Tom’s attention was split between the other boy and me, though, and it wasn’t long before he was walking by my table again. He was going out of his way to do so.

As he reached the table, I put out a hand and took hold of his forearm. He stopped, turned, and smiled, as if it was exactly what he wanted me to do.

“Can you sit with me for a few minutes?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said, and sat.

We engaged in some small talk, with me circling the question of who the boy was he had been with on the dance floor. Tom seemed not to have thought I was asking for any specific purpose when I mentioned the boy. In fact, I think he might have thought it was jealousy that made me mention it and it made him even more interested in going with me. Little did he know that the boy was of more interest to me than Tom was. Tom was sixteen. The boy had to be younger. I wanted younger.

“Oh, him? That Jamie Fredericks. He’s from a farm out near where that fancy housing development went up north of town. It’s just him and his father out there, and his father’s usually half stewed with drink.”

“Oh, maybe that’s what he’s doing here alone tonight. He looks a little young to be out on his own, but he doesn’t seem to be with anyone.”

“Yeah, he’s a loner, that Jamie. Can’t count on his father for much of anything. He’s just fourteen—Jamie is—just starting out at my high school. He’s not too sociable, though.”

Maybe not sociable, but he was a real honey, I thought. Dripping with sensuality for someone like me who wanted them at the start of the teen scale. Small, but perfectly formed, curly hair blond hair in a couple of tones, and a face that was more beautiful than handsome. In my book he had “Fuck me” written all over him.

“Did you drive here in your red Mustang tonight?” Tom answered. If that wasn’t a “Fuck me” leading question, I didn’t know what would have been.

“Sure did,” I answered, turning a broad smile in his direction. “Would now be a good time for you to get that ride I promised you?”

“It would be a great time,” he said. “My folks are down in Austin for the weekend. I’m all alone in town. I’d love to go for a ride.”

Well, OK, that was an even more leading declaration, I had to admit.

The ride ended up at my house, not his, and he didn’t so much as ask why. He knew what was what. He knew a ride in my car meant a ride on my cock. He’d put a hand on my thigh as we were driving, and when I pulled into the three-car garage of my house, parking next to my pickup truck, I was still clicking the garage down behind us, when he was unzipping me and pulling my erection out of my fly. I leaned back in the driver’s seat and cupped the back of his head and ran my fingers into his curly black hair as he sucked me off.

“Can you come in for a drink and—?” I asked when I’d come in his throat. He’d done and expert job. He was experienced.


We went to the basement, where I had a bar and a pool table, and, most important, a double bed.

We both plopped down on barstools and I said, “So, do you want a beer before—?”

“I’m only sixteen,” he said.

“A little late to worry about that,” I said, with a snort.

“I mean the beer.”

“That shouldn’t be a worry either. Did I tell you that I’m in pharmaceuticals?”

“Is that contagious or something?”

I laughed. “No, that’s drugs. Legal drugs. But I could give you shit that would send you over the moon for the next hour. You’re going to ride my cock, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” he answered.

“If you do, the pills I’ve got can make you very happy while you’re doing it.”

“I don’t have to be home until tomorrow night. But did I tell you that I really like your boots?”

“So, do you want my boots?”

“I would, if my parents didn’t ask me where I got them. They look very expensive.”

“You could say you won them at the barn dance tonight. They are very expensive. They’re worth a really good fuck.”

“Yeah, I’d like to have the boots then. It looks like they’ll fit me.”

“Do you want to wear the boots while we fuck?”

“That would be kicky, yes.”

And that’s what we did. We fucked on the double bed, Tom just in his new boots, me just in a succession of rubbers.

He was good ... real good, and once he’d downed some of the uppers I gave him he was a wild boy. We sixty-nined, him hovered over me, wanting to take control, and then I rode his ass in a doggie, showing him in no uncertain terms who was in control.

He rode my cock in a cowboy at the height of his drug high, whipping his body around on me like we were being caught in a tornado, and I rode his ass in a missionary and then a side split and, finally, in a middle-of-the-night attack, I rode his ass while he was stretched out on his belly grasping the rungs of the headboard overhead and I was stretched on top of him and gripping his wrists with my fists. In the morning, panting, and having popped a new variety of pills, he took two sizes of dildos larger than my cock, and then I fucked him again.

At sixteen, he was still within the zone of what I wanted from a boy—hard bodied enough to play football with the greats, but smooth-skinned, flexible, athletic, pliable, and ready to say “Yes, sir,” without sass no matter what I told him I wanted him to do or take. He was experienced, though, and had done it all already, so there remained a slight dissatisfaction and lack of fulfillment in the back of my mind. He had a hole that opened right up, experienced to action—I’d just present my cockhead inside the rim of his ass, and his muscles would pull me inside and start undulating over my dick, making love to me, milking my cock. That was nice when I hadn’t had any for a while. But I preferred a tight hole and difficulty getting saddled, and I wanted to know that the boy was taxed, vulnerable, and, in the end, completely undone. I wanted him to cry the first time.

I drove him back to his house; he was wearing his new boots when he got out of the car. There were a few awkward moments where I didn’t how to say that I wasn’t one for entanglements, but he saved me that speech.

“Thanks for the boots, Pops,” he said. “You were excellent, but I don’t go in for repeats, and, with football practices starting, I won’t be back at Gold’s ‘til next winter. So, I guess ... but maybe if you have some more of that good shit to share, I might—”

“Yes, it was fun,” I said, putting my foot on the accelerator and easing away from the curb. He’d pretty much lost me with the “Pops.” Narcissistic fucker. I guessed he’d just done me to add another notch to his belt—and, oh yeah, another pair of nifty cowboy boots to his closet.

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