Homeless Boys

by ChrisCross

Copyright© 2018 by ChrisCross

Erotica Sex Story: Some homeless boys want the help of an older man and are willing to warm his bed to get it. Fourteen-year-old Tigger doesn't mind warming Phil's bed but doesn't really want help to face life. Sixteen-year-old Scott wants it all.

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/mt   Consensual   Gay   Fiction   School   Anal Sex   Cream Pie   Oral Sex   Voyeurism   Teacher/Student   Prostitution   .

Phil Bradley spent several minutes figuring out why the young pole dancer on stage at DejaVu II seemed familiar. The boy being nearly naked and picked out by changing-color strobe lights had captured his attention and “where have I seen him before?” thoughts and put him off the hunt for a young guy that had brought him into the bar. The boy on the pole looked like the youngest one in here, so Phil’s eyes and thoughts kept going back to him, as, no doubt, the bar management intended them to do. The boy who kept coming into Phil’s mind was too young to be in here. Phil doubted that DejaVu II would hire underage pole dancers.

Scott Powell was only sixteen. Phil was pretty sure of that. He required the tenants in his place to register with him—IDs shown and all. Scott, who seemed to have no family and who was bunking with the two Trident Tech students in the apartment under him in the three-story Victorian building he owned on Osceola Street near Charleston Heights in north Charleston, South Carolina, had registered with him and had obtained Phil’s approval Phil’s way—but there had been just that once. Maybe he had a different license, making him older, to show to the bookings manager at DejaVu II, a gay bar on Spruill Street.

Whatever, the guy looked good. He was very flexible and danced with a good sway to the beat. He also was the best prospect Phil saw in the bar tonight. He’d been a good lay that one time when Phil was approving him moving in with the guys downstairs and agreeing to overlook that the boy seemed to have come off the streets, homeless. His flexibility had come into play then too.

There were a lot more older guys—older than Phil’s thirty-four—here tonight than younger ones. Phil liked them younger—really young. And he was needing it. He’d brought Teddy into his home and his bed when Teddy was fourteen. It had been more than a month since Teddy had left Trident Tech after a year and a half there, signed up with the Navy, and shipped out. Phil had had to press Teddy to go through high school and then had wanted him to get through the computer programing associate degree at the technical college and work with Phil, who was a day trader. Teddy had dragged along, saying he hated school, but letting Phil nag him until the day he’d come home with his naval enlistment papers.

There were a lot of Navy guys in here tonight. The Charleston Naval Weapons Station was just across the Cooper River, and there was a bridge from there over into Charleston Heights. The problem was that the sailors in here tonight were older ones, and they were looking for the same thing Phil was. Some of them weren’t looking for someone really young, like Phil was, though. Some of them were happy to hook up with someone Phil’s age, and he was a looker and built well, so he was getting hit on by guys not knowing they wanted the same thing.

That was getting a little irritating, and he’d been here for an hour without seeing anyone he could be interested in—other than Scott dancing the pole. And, yeah, he realized now that it was, indeed, Scott. Knowing the boy was one of his tenants gave Phil pause on hooking up with him here.

Scott was coming off the pole, Phil saw, and when he was out from underneath the lights and could see into the audience, he now saw Phil and registered surprise. But Phil didn’t think Scott was registering any form of distaste. Quite the opposite. In fact, since Scott had moved in with the technical college students in the apartment under Phil’s, the older man had sensed interest from Scott in getting it on with him again. Seeing Scott’s smile tonight made Phil go hard. He was about to wave Scott over to his table when he saw a sailor corral the boy and, after a shared drink, some fondling, and meaningful looks, Scott took the sailor through a beaded-curtain doorway at the back of the bar.

Phil felt deflated. He had thought he’d find someone to go through the door with tonight, but so far he hadn’t. And now Scott, who had got him stirring, was gone too.

When yet another, beefy, sailor slid into a chair at Phil’s table, put a hand on Phil’s knee, and said, “You’re not drinking alone on purpose are you?” Phil said politely as he could that he had some place else to be, rose, and quickly left the club. He went to his car, parked down the street and by the opening into an alley, and turned the ignition on. When he did so, he briefly put his head down on the steering wheel and felt sorry for himself. Teddy had been with him since the boy was fourteen. Phil had given him everything. He’d taken the boy from the street, cleaned him up, sent him to school, and prepared him for life. He was happy Teddy, who had worked two summers at the naval weapons station, had developed an enthusiasm for the Navy. They needed computer programing in the Navy as well as anywhere else. Phil would have preferred that his protégé go on to get a college degree after the technical school, but he didn’t want to stand in Teddy’s way. And, if he admitted the truth, Teddy had become a man sexually and didn’t arouse Phil as much as he had when he was fourteen or even eighteen. Phil was finding himself looking beyond Teddy, although he hadn’t found anyone yet.

It was stupid for him to come to DejaVu II to look for someone, though. There wouldn’t be any boys that young here. At sixteen, Scott was here, but he would have had to lie to be here. Scott was as close to homeless as a guy could be and not to have to sleep on the street.

Lifting his head off the steering wheel, his eyes slightly misted from feeling sorry for himself and his frustration, Phil put his red Nissan 370Z sports coupe into gear, started pulling away from the curb, and felt a thump against his right front bumper.

Tigger’s knees and the palms of his hands hurt. There wasn’t enough padding on the floor of the Naval Recreation Department van parked in the alley off Spruill Street west of Charleston Heights to cushion his doggie stance. He was clutching two ten-dollar bills, one each from the two sailors in the van. He’d couldn’t reach his torn jeans nearby to tuck them away in a pocket. Maybe later, between the two guys in tight, sexy, Navy blues with the buttoned flies.

Sailor One was crouched over him. He’d taken a long time to get his cock inside Tigger’s channel, saying repeatedly while he was doing it that the boy was as tight as a witch’s cunt. It wasn’t said like it was a complaint, though. The sailor was big and bulky. Tigger was small and thin, just a fourteen-year-old boy. Thin because he lived on the streets, although he hadn’t been out there long—he was naturally slim. He was dirty and smelly, he knew, as he hadn’t bathed in a while. The sailor on top of him didn’t seem to mind. In now, he began fucking Tigger in long strokes, one arm encircling the boy’s slim waist and the other hand grasping the long, greasy strands of Tigger’s dirty-blond hair and arching the boy’s torso back painfully. He was breathing heavily in the boy’s ear, his teeth latched onto Tigger’s ear lobe.

Thrust, thrust, thrust. Tigger was into it now. He’d gotten into the rhythm and was rocking back into the cock on every thrust-forward stroke. He did this while living on the streets as much as because he liked having a man’s cock inside him as needing a bit of money to supplement the handouts and soup kitchens. It had been letting a man get his cock inside him—wanting the man’s cock inside him—that had led to Tigger being homeless on the street.

“Yes, yes, Fuckin’ A. Give it to me!” he called out.

The sailor snorted, gave it to him, and came in a flood of cum.

“Your turn, Mate,” he called out to the other sailor, who had been sitting in the front seat of the van and watching Sailor Number One doggie fucking the homeless boy on the floor of the van in the back.

“You’ll come up here and keep a lookout?” Sailor Two asked. “I don’t like that we’re in a service van.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sailor One, agreed, rising on his knees and buttoning up the fly of his tight sailor blues.

“Was he—?”

“Tight and smells like a fish market, but he rocked back on it. He takes it. He wants it. A nice little piece for the price.”

Tigger had a thought of needing to review his pricing structure. Thing is that he hadn’t been out on the street long enough to gain the confidence of the other guys out here who shopped their bodies. No one had given him a straight answer yet on the going prices.

“Kinda young, ain’t he?” Sailor Two asked, as he came over the back of the front seat into the van bed, brushing by Sailor One, who was replacing him in the front seat.

“He’s got a hole and he takes seven inches. And I’ve opened him up for you. Say thank you, Lex.”

“Thank you, Lex,” Sailor Two said, hovering over Tigger, as the boy turned onto his back, reached out for his jeans, and tucked the two ten-spots in his pocket. “How do you want it?” Sailor Two asked. He had his cock in his hand, working it up more—it already was worked up from watching Lex fucking Trigger. Tigger moaned at seeing that Sailor Two was thicker and longer than Sailor One had been. Tigger had known he would be, though. The two had mentioned the first opening him for the second when they were discussing who went first. The second sailor was younger, in better shape, and a lot better looking than Lex was, as well.

“Fuck me, stud,” the boy called out as he remained on his back and raised and spread his legs.

“You got it, boy,” the sailor said, with a laugh, as he grabbed Tigger’s legs to widen the boy’s stance and jerked them up, raising Tigger’s pelvis off the bed of the van.

“Fuck him good, swabbie,” Lex called out.

“You got it, Lex,” Sailor Two growled. He plunged his cock up into Tigger’s opened-up hole and immediately started to pump. Tigger howled, and writhed under the young sailor, not in the least upset that he was getting a good fucking by a hunk. The boy went into a trance, every nerve ending concentrating on the thick cock stroking his channel, all references to the real, dingy world of homelessness around him fading away. He was being fucked good. He was being fucked better than Coach had ever managed. For the few minutes that lasted, he was in another world of being wanted, his body being worshipped, being the center of a hunk of a man’s lust and need.

He went with the rhythm of the fuck, the man inside him moaning at the wonder of the total surrender and acceptance of the boy under him. For just a few minutes they both were in heaven. Tigger held steady, thrusting his pelvis up into the young sailor’s groin, crying out, “Yes, yes. Oh, fuck, yes!” as the sailor tightened and released, tightened and release, pumping his cum deep in the boy’s channel.

Ten minutes later, the back door of the van popped open, and Tigger, holding his jeans, was ejected. He had to swerve off to the side to avoid being run down as the van doors shut and the vehicle immediately went into reverse, backing out of the alley, onto Spruill Street headed for the bridge that crossed the Cooper River over to the Naval Weapons Station on the northwestern bank of the river.

Pulling his jeans on, Tigger hobbled over to a line of trashcans, pulled his backpack up from behind a barrel, staggered out to the mouth of the alley, and collided with the front bumper of a red sports car.

Phil had the parking brake of the 370Z set, was out of the car in a nanosecond, and was racing around to the curb side of the bumper. It was starting to rain. A clap of thunder and the flash of lighting punctuated the panic of Phil’s maneuver. In the light of the lightning strike, he saw the figure of a young boy, a double backpack on top of him, sprawled out at the alley entrance. The boy had a confused “What hit me?” look on his face. Phil, with his interest in early-teens boys, registered the blondness of an angel despite his concern that he might have hit a pedestrian.

“God, son. I didn’t see you coming out of the alley. Are you OK? Where does it hurt? If it hurts, don’t move.” He looked up, one way down the street and then the other, for someone to call 911 or gauging whether anyone had seen the accident, while he checked over the boy. It was raining in earnest now. No one was on the street. The only light, a flashing neon sign, was projected over the entrance of the DejaVu II bar. He didn’t want to go back in there.

“It’s OK. I’m good,” Tigger muttered. “The bumper hit my backpack.”

Or your backpack hit my bumper, Phil reflexively let run through his brain, already ready to deny responsibility. But he wasn’t ready to just let go. The boy was heavenly. Small; a terrific face; long, curly hair, if a little greasy. But in dirty rags. He wondered old the boy was.

“Are you out here alone? How old are you,” he idiotically blurted out, the boy’s age having been what was running through his brain. He’d already gotten the notion the boy was homeless and wasn’t accompanied by anyone who could claim responsibility for him.

“Fourteen,” Tigger answered, also reflexively. Phil’s groin gave a little lurch. But the kid was hobo dirty. He probably smelled too in close quarters. “I’m OK. There’s nothing ... ow!”

Tigger had tried to sit up. “My leg. I think it’s bruised.”

Phil’s chest contracted. The kid was hurt. Of course. The backpack took the force, such as it was, of the car’s bumper, but the blow had put the kid on the ground—hip slammed down on the slight lip of the concrete between the road and the entrance of the alley. But the kid had lurched out of the alley. The kid had hit the car. This couldn’t be Phil’s fault. But he had to do something. And the kid was beautiful. Just what Phil...”

“Stay there. I’ll call am ambulance. We need to have someone look you over.”

“No. No ambulance. No police. No hospital. Shit, it’s raining hard. Help me to get under cover.” He tried to rise, groaned an “Umpf,” and sat back down on the concrete.”

“We should see how bad it is. And you need to get cleaned up to check that out. Look, I live just down Spruill. We can go there. You can get cleaned up and we’ll take a look at it. If you need medical attention, I’ll take you to a clinic or something.”

“Just get me over to—”

The kid was homeless, obviously. He wouldn’t be dirty and dressed in rags and be hauling around a backpack that size if he wasn’t—or worried about getting hooked up with authorities of any type. Phil needed to know how bad the kid was hurt or he’d always wonder. And he was an angel. Just the right age. Phil knew what would speak to him. “Look, I’ll give you a meal too ... and twenty dollars. Let’s just check it out. I’m not more than a mile away. Or I could call the police.”

“No! No police. OK, OK, I’ll go to your place.” Phil helped him up. The kid stood, favoring his right leg, but he was putting some weight on it. “Hey. This your car? Some wheels. You rich or something?”

“Yes, this is my car. I’ll get you out of the rain. We’ll take my car to my place.”

That worked. Tigger let Phil put him into the passenger side of the 370Z, and he only grimaced slightly and gave a little moan at the pain of folding himself into the low-slung passenger seat. The little moan sent a flash of desire through Phil’s body. But that had nothing to do with getting the kid cleaned up and checked out. Phil wanted to know that there wouldn’t be any trouble from this. The kid being a sexy little thing had nothing to do with this—or so he kept telling himself. It wasn’t like he had been shopping for a replacement for Teddy.

Phil wasn’t lying. He did live not much more than a mile away, toward Charleston proper, just a block off Spruill, on Osceola Street. They drove for a while in silence.

“You OK?” he asked, to break the silence. “It isn’t far now, I promise. The leg hurting you more or less?”

“Less, I think. You could pull over and let me out. I’ll be OK.”

“No, we should check it out. If you don’t need medical attention, I’ll drop you back wherever you want to go. You live near where you ... where it happened?”

“Yeah, sure. I live here and there.”

So, Phil was right. The kid was homeless. “My name is Phil. Phil Bradley. You’re... ?”

There was a moment of silence. “I’m Tigger. Everyone calls me Tigger.”

“But that’s not your real name, is it? It’s not the name your parents gave you.”

“No, it isn’t. But you can call me Tigger.” It was obvious the kid wasn’t going to be forthcoming—or chatty.

“OK, Tigger. Here we are. Right here. Just a block off Spruill, as I said.”

Tigger looked up at the story-and-a-half Victorian, with wraparound porches, set on a basement half out of the ground. “All of this yours?”

Phil laughed. “Yes, but I don’t live in it all anymore. It was just one house when I was raised in it. But now it’s three apartments. It’s not just me in there. There will be others in the building.” He laughed again, a little nervously. He had no idea why he was assuring the boy he was going into a building where he wouldn’t be alone with Phil.

“Neat. The car’s boss too,” Tigger said, as he opened the passenger door, gave a little groan, and rolled out onto the drive. The rain had stopped, but there still were lightning strikes close enough that a renewed deluge was threatened. Rain had been predicted to cover the next several days.

“Here, lean on me. I’ll help you up the stairs. The main level is my apartment.”

Phil felt the heat and smallness of the boy as they came together. He almost groaned himself in want and need. The boy fit into his side just right. They slowly moved up the front stairs to the porch, drawn by the light beside the front door that Phil had left on when he’d taken off for the gay bar. This might work out OK, Phil thought. This might be Teddy all over again—but with a better ending.

“So, do you want to hump me now? You can, if you want. Where do you want to do it?”

Tigger was standing in the doorway to the second bedroom—each of the bedrooms in Phil’s apartment had a full bath attached. Tigger had been sent off to take a shower in the second bedroom’s bathroom a soon as they’d entered the apartment. Phil was across the living/dining room combination, beyond the kitchen island, scrambling eggs for them both. He turned and looked at Tigger, naked and rubbing his hair, in the bedroom doorway. Despite the shock of Tigger’s bald statement, it had registered with Phil that the boy’s hair, now washed, was not a dirty blond—it was a golden blond and cascaded to his shoulders in curls. Phil went hard.

“Excuse me?” he said, nearly dropping the pan he was using to scramble the eggs.

“You brought me here to fuck me, didn’t you? You were leaving the gay club when you hit me with your car, weren’t you? This is all about getting your rocks off, isn’t it?”

“No, this most certainly is not about fucking you or getting my rocks off,” Phil said, indignantly. “And I didn’t hit you with my car. You ran into my car. I just want to make sure you’re OK. How is your leg? Is it just bruised? If so, I’ll give you something to eat and then I’ll drive you anywhere you want to go.” Phil was filling the air with words because of course he was thinking of fucking the boy. He just didn’t intend on really doing so—he wasn’t even thinking of actually doing it as long as the boy was filthy and smelly from living on the streets. But now, with the boy clean ... that beautiful, young, smooth-skinned body ... and those golden curls...

It was then that Trigger saw that his backpack was leaning against the wall on one side of the front door of the apartment and the clothes he’d had in it were piled on the other side of the door, neither of the piles any farther into the apartment than they had to be. “Hey, what are you doing with my stuff,” he said. “And the clothes I was wearing are on that pile too. I’m standing here starkers because you took my clothes while I was taking a shower. I figured you wanted me naked.”

Of course Phil wanted the boy naked. Phil increasingly wanted the boy totally. “You can’t put those clothes back on,” he said. “They’re filthy. Everything in your backpack is filthy. The backpack itself is filthy. I think the whole lot needs to be taken out to the trash.”

“Fuck that,” Tigger spat out. “That’s my stuff. What am I supposed to wear? Fuck this shit, man.”

The kid obviously was angry. And he had a point. Phil had to recognize that. He was just so used to making the decisions and to doing what he could to make life better for boys—boys like Tigger and like Teddy before him. All they had to do to get taken care of was to let Phil fuck them. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I forgot to tell you. The bedroom there has clothes that should fit you in the closet and the bureau drawers. Just pull out something you like and put it on.”

“Why are there clothes that will fit me in this bedroom?” Tigger asked, suspicious. “And I don’t want you to throw away my stuff.”

“That bedroom is Teddy’s. Teddy lived here for six years. There should be clothes of various sizes there. Just pick something out that fits you. You can have it. Or, if you want to stay that long, we’ll put these other clothes through the washer and dryer and you can have your own stuff. It’s filthy, though. You should let me wash and dry it for you. Now, why don’t you go find something to put on and I’ll have something for us to eat when you come back. Scrambled eggs. And do you want white toast or wheat?”

“White,” Tigger said, mollified and mulling over the mention of a Teddy. He’d figured he’d let the guy have a quick fuck for making sure he was OK. His leg was just bruised. He’d be OK, but it was nice of the guy to ask. And the guy was really good looking and was built. Tigger wouldn’t mind riding him if he had a good cock.

“My leg’s OK,” he said, as he turned to go back into the bedroom. “It’s just a bruise.”

They were sitting at the kitchen island, the eggs, toast, and coffee polished off, and Phil had scooped out some chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream that Tigger couldn’t say no to.

“So, it sounds like it’s still raining hard outside. Have you thought about your stuff? This would be an opportunity to start off clean with everything before I take you wherever you want. And you might as well stay where it’s warm and dry until the rain starts. You’re living on the streets, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m on the streets. I like it that way.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m eighteen.”

“Come on, Tigger. We both know you aren’t more than twelve.”

“I’m fourteen,” the boy shot back.

“There. I knew it was younger than eighteen. And you’re on your own?”

“Totally, yes. And I like it that way.”

“That’s fine. But it makes sense, doesn’t it, not to go back out into the rain until it stops and to get your clothes washed and dried while you’re waiting?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Looking at the pile over there, it won’t all get dried until late in the night. You might as well stay here tonight. You can have the second bedroom.”

“What about the boy you mentioned? Teddy. He’s your son? He won’t come back and want his bedroom?”

“Teddy’s grown now. He went into the Navy. He’s off in an ocean now. Nobody’s using the bed in there. You might as well. Just if you want. Just for tonight while your clothes are getting clean. Then tomorrow I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. I think it’s raining even harder out there now.”

“You really want me to sleep in that bed?” Tigger asked. “Or do you want me to sleep in your bed? I’ve seen the way you look at me. I don’t mind. I’ll owe you for the meal and the wash and the roof over my head tonight. I admit that would be nice—not to have to sleep out there in the rain. I could show you a good time.”

“I didn’t bring you here to take advantage of you,” Phil said. And, indeed, he hadn’t originally brought Tigger home with that purpose in mind. He hadn’t formed any intentions toward the boy. He’d just been worried about the boy tangling with the 370Z and had wanted to be a good guy. And he was used to doing for Teddy. He’d missed that. So, yes, he now wanted to fuck the boy. But he knew he should stick to his original, more noble intent. “You go on into the bedroom over there. I’ll put a wash in and clean up these dishes. I’m glad your leg isn’t broken.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure ... Tigger. Wish you’d tell me your real name. I don’t think your parents gave you the name Tigger.”

“My parents didn’t give me much of anything,” the boy said, as he slipped into the second bedroom. He left the door open though.

Phil struggled with the strong desire to follow the boy into the bedroom. Tigger had told him he could. He’d said again that he owed Phil for taking him in and feeding him and washing his clothes and the boy didn’t want to owe Phil anything. He hadn’t taken the twenty dollars Phil had told him he would give him; he had twenty dollars of his own he’d earned by himself. He wanted what he’d said he knew Phil wanted from him and hadn’t had the strength to directly say he didn’t, though. The man was a hunk. And he’d assured Phil that he’d done it before—that it was one way he managed to live on the street. He even said he’d been with a couple of Navy guys in the alley before the car accident. But Phil had stuck to his guns. It was a matter of pride now.

But, shit, it took all the control Phil could muster not to follow the boy into the bedroom. With a sigh, he climbed off the kitchen stool and went over to start the boy’s clothes—more, his rags—in the washer. It would be a long night before he’d get to bed. Just as well, Phil thought, as he was determined to go to his own bed tonight and not Tigger’s.

Phil turned out his light a little after 4:00 am in the morning, the washing, drying, and folding all done. Tigger didn’t have enough clothes to take up the whole night. They were in bad condition, even when clean. He’d have to think of a way for the boy to take some of the clothes that Teddy hadn’t needed for some time—what he’d worn at fourteen when he’d first lived with Phil—and slept in Phil’s bed. There had always been that second bedroom, with a bed. But the bed in there had only rarely been used.

He stood at the door to the second bedroom, the door being open, for several minutes before going into his own bed. The boy was on the bed, on top of the sheets, wearing briefs only. He was an angel. Phil unzipped himself and stood there, pulling out and stroking his cock as he watched the boy. He could have finished himself there, but he was afraid Tigger would wake and see him. With a sigh, he went to his own room, took a quick shower, and climbed, in sleeping shorts, into bed.

He woke, moaning, with the boy lying between his legs, his mouth covering Phil’s engorged shaft.

“What?” he muttered. And then “Oh, shit. Fuck,” as he looked down to see the golden curls of the boy’s head, bouncing up and down as Tigger gave him head.

“Tigger, no. You don’t have to—”

“But you want me to, and I don’t want to owe you for anything,” the boy said, taking his mouth off the shaft momentarily. “Shit, you’re big. You got a nice one. It’s OK for you to put it in me. You want me to suck you off, don’t you?” he added as he went back to sucking the cock.

“Yes, I want you to,” Phil moaned. “Oh, Tigger. Oh, fuck.”

The boy was moving up Phil’s body, positioning himself over Phil’s pelvis, holding Phil’s shaft in position, descending on Phil’s cock, sheathing him with the boy’s tight channel—and rising and falling, rising and falling.

“Oh, Tigger. Oh, you beautiful boy!”

Later, the two stretched out against each other, Phil having rolled off the boy’s slight body, which he had taken in the missionary position, the older man held the boy close to his body in an embrace and whispered in his ear, “Oh, my dear boy. You are so beautiful. Flexible, tight, yielding. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“You’re good,” Tigger whispered. “Big, thick. I could stay here, you inside me, forever.”

Phil’s spirit soared. “I can’t think of you as Tigger. You have to tell me your given name. We have to start new.”

“It’s Travis. I was named Travis,” the boy answered after a pause and a sigh. “But I want to be called Tigger.”

“Tomorrow we’ll go shopping for clothes, Travis,” Phil said. “And a haircut. The hair is beautiful, but you have to get it cut sometime. We’ll do that tomorrow.”

The boy didn’t respond, though, because he was asleep.

Travis wasn’t asleep at 7:00 am, though, when, waking and seeing that the boy’s eyes were open, Phil gathered the boy’s back into his chest and held him close, while he worked his shaft into Travis’s ass from behind and took him in a slow side split. And Travis wasn’t asleep at 10:00 am, when Phil woke to the boy’s total surrender and positional expertise as Travis coaxed the older man onto his back and hovered over his body, supported above Phil on bent arms and legs, hands and feet pressed into the mattress on each side of the older man’s body, facing up to the ceiling, while Phil grasped the boy’s waist and raised and lowered Travis on his buried cock.

They didn’t rise, the boy rising first and going into the other bedroom, until noon. It had been raining all night and was still raining.

Phil, back in his sleeping shorts, was laying breakfast out on the kitchen island and the shower in the second bedroom had stopped providing stereo in the sound of falling water with the rain outside when there was a knock at the door. Phil went to the door and opened it.

“Scott,” he said. The sixteen-year-old dark and sultry pole dancer was leaning on the door frame in a provocative pose, not unlike one he had taken on the pole at DejaVu II the previous evening, when the door was opened. He was wearing just athletic shorts and had a six-pack of Budweiser hanging from the fingers of one hand.

“Hi, Mr. Bradley,” Scott said. “I saw you at DejaVu II last night and thought for a minute we might, you know, hook up there. We haven’t like ... you know ... since that time when I moved in. It’s too rainy to go out today, and I thought you might be out of beer and, with Teddy gone to the Navy, might want some ... company.”

He had hesitated because, as he was reaching the end of his speech, his gaze had gone beyond Phil, across the living area of the apartment to the door into the second bedroom, where Travis was emerging, naked, and drying his hair.

The two boys paused and squared off, each assessing the other.

“Thanks for thinking of me,” Phil said. “Travis here and I are going out for a while after we eat, though. We have a little shopping to do.” He reached out with a hand and placed it on Scott’s forearm to reassure the boy. “Just a bad time,” he said.

He’d been meaning to see if the boy would go for another round after Teddy had gone, and he would have been up for it—he, in fact, had been up—hard—for it watching Scott ride the pole the previous night. But now there was Travis. Fourteen-year-old Travis. The magical age. Scott had ridden his pole that first time as well as he was dancing the pole at DejaVu II the previous night, though. Just such difficult timing.

Scott decided to end the embarrassment for both of them. Handing Phil the six pack, he said, “As good in your refrigerator as mine, I guess. Maybe ... some other time.”

“Yes, maybe... , “ Phil said, but Scott had just given him a sad look and turned and was gone.

Travis—Phil had been calling the boy Travis from the time the boy had taken over riding his cock that morning, signaling that he’d surrendered fully to Phil’s wants—had drifted over to the dining table where his clothes were folded and piled while the awkwardness at the door was playing out.

As Phil closed the front door, the boy spoke up in slight irritation. “Where’s my backpack? I don’t see it here. I was going to pack my clothes.”

“Your clean clothes, Travis?” Phil asked. “The clothes I washed and dried for you? You’re welcome for that.” If the boy was going to stay around he’d need polishing. Phil had gone through all of that with Teddy. No time better than the present to start civilizing the boy.

“Yeah, OK, thanks for washing them. But where’s my backpack?”

“It was filthy, through and through,” Phil said. “I tossed it. It’s down in the trash. We’ll buy you a new one when we go out clothes shopping.”

“I hadn’t said I wanted new clothes,” Travis said. “You said you’d drive me wherever I wanted to go after you’d washed and dried the clothes ... and fucked me.”

“I didn’t say you had to let me cover you, son—you came to me. You wanted to do it. And I said I’d take you where you wanted to go when the rain stopped. It’s still raining. I did say I’d take you clothes shopping today. And now you need something to put the clothes in, so we’ll need to buy you a new backpack before you can pack. Right?”

“I guess.” It was reluctantly admitted, but it was admitted.

“Right. Now breakfast, and find something to wear in Teddy’s stuff, and we’ll go shopping. OK?”

“OK,” Travis said, although it was a slightly belligerent “OK.”

The conversation was pretty stilted during breakfast. Phil leaned into the boy and kissed him on the lips when they were mounting the stools and he touched and stroked the boy’s body here and there as if checking that the boy was real and was still there while they ate. Travis didn’t respond in kind, but he tolerated the touching. The man had fucked him three times—and had done so really well—in the last eight hours, so he would ride this out until the rain stopped. But then...

Phil left first to take a shower in the bathroom off the master bedroom and to dress. He shut the door to the bedroom, out of habit, when he left. Tigger, Tigger again now in an effort to regain a bit of himself, waited, watching the master bedroom door, until he heard the shower start. He then hopped off the stool, went into the second bedroom, quickly found shorts and a T-shirt from Teddy’s bureau drawers that fit him, and pulled on his sneakers. He then left the apartment, making sure the door was unlocked so he could get back in, and moved quickly down the stairs and to the back of the building. He was back, with his backpack, before the shower in the master bath had stopped running. He was soaked, as the rain had picked up and was now accompanied by thunder and lightning. He got the backpack tucked away in the closet of the second bedroom, though, had dried off, changed to dry clothes from the early Teddy collection, and was back in the living room, sitting on the sofa, before Phil emerged from the bedroom, wearing just briefs and drying his hair with a towel.

“You settling OK, Travis?” he asked.

“Yeah, sure,” the boy answered. “I was just checking the TV schedule. It’s raining real hard now.” As if to punctuate that, the lights flickered, but they held.

“We’ll go out later then, when the rain let’s up. There’s a DVD on the set now. It might be something you’d like. We’ll have to think of something to do with ourselves until we can to shopping.”

The DVD was a gay porn film—a Daddy film, a thirty-something muscle guy screwing a twink on a sofa.

Travis lay on his back along the sofa cushions, his face turned to the TV set, his fingers pressing into Phil’s biceps, his ankles hooked on Phil’s shoulders, as the older man knelt on the sofa between the boy’s thighs and moved his hard cock in and out, in and out of Travis’s passage. Travis clutched Phil’s biceps, arched his back, and cried out his pleasure, as Phil creamed him deep. The boy had no complaints to give about Phil’s screwing technique. Phil didn’t voice any disappointment with the boy’s submissiveness to him either. Their fucking had mirrored that of the porn flick on the TV set.

So far they were doing great, Phil thought.

“Scott. You got a few minutes you can come up to my apartment?”

Just a couple of minutes? was Scott’s first thought. He’d just turned off the power mower. The rain had stopped the day before after several days running and the grass had grown almost too high to mow. It had dried out now, though. It was Scott’s job to keep the lawn mown at the Osceola Street house.

“Sure, Mr. Bradley. Should I stop and get some beer?” He turned to face Bradley, who was standing on the porch in front of the door into his apartment. The man was in just athletic shorts and sandals. He looked really good to Scott. Scott was just in athletic shorts as well, although he had sturdier shoes on since he was working with a power mower on a sharply sloping front yard. He knew he looked good too. He’d heard that the kid Bradley had in his apartment was going back on the street—that he was a homeless kid—when the rains stopped. The rains had stopped, so maybe he was gone and Scott could make a move. He posed at the mower in a way that showed his developing musculature off well. He didn’t want to overdo it; he knew Bradley liked the boyish look. Both he and Bradley knew Scott was too young to be drinking beer. Sharing beer was a euphemism between them for doing something else Scott was too young to be doing with Bradley

“It won’t take long, Scott. You’re from this area, aren’t you? Aren’t you still in high school in Charleston Heights?”

“Yes. When school starts up I’ll be a junior at R. B. Stall High School, over off Peppermill Parkway.”

“I thought so. I’d like you to come up and talk to Travis about the school. I’m getting him enrolled there and he’s fighting it a bit. I think if someone going there tells him about it, he’ll come across.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Bradley. I’ll be up in a few minutes. Have to put the mower away and clean up a bit.” That’s what Scott said, but what he was thinking was, Shit. The little fucker’s still there. And Bradley wants him to stay. He wants another Teddy. I thought I had a chance. Shit, shit, fuck.

There is more of this story...
The source of this story is Storiesonline

To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account (Why register?)

Get No-Registration Temporary Access*

* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.