Note to the reader: If you detest stories about secretly-queer teen boys, who love getting drunk and high and committing self-emasculation via big dildos during their weekend alone at home, then you will hate this story. Even written tongue-in-cheek, this story is not for you. Go read something else.

As always, this Home Alone For The Weekend tale is dedicated to my favorite perverted author, Tasty Little Pop Tart.

Michael turned 15 at 4:04 PM, Saturday, January 11, 2020. Because he’d be home alone until 3 PM Sunday afternoon, he’d celebrated his birthday the weekend beforehand. No one outside the family knew that Michael would be home alone his birthday weekend. He was forbidden to tell his friends—Jeremy and David, included. Michael bitterly complained how unfair that was, but his objections fell on deaf ears. You want to stay home alone, Mom told him, you play by the rules.

Michael had two younger siblings: Lauren, and Alyssa, 12 and 11 respectively. For the purposes of this story, until 4:04 PM on Friday, January 11, 2019, Michael was as virginal an adolescent as Alyssa. That keeps this story compliant with SOL’s published guidelines. Since neither sister plays an active sexual part in the story, we don’t care about them.

The delivery of a package Saturday afternoon is the jump-off point in this story. The buzzer sounded at 4:16 PM. Carrying a Diet Coke back to his bedroom, Michael detoured to the landline in the living room and snatched it up. “Hello?” he said.

The caller answered: “This is the FedEx delivery driver downstairs. I have a package for Michael Denning. You want to come down and get it, or do you want to buzz me up?”

Michael lived in apartment 1204 of a 20-story condominium, and had no interest in descending to the lobby to retrieve Mom’s package. Since he was a boy, he thought nothing of pressing the Star key to unlock the front door. He hadn’t paid attention closely enough to understand the package was his.

He popped the lid and ambled to the front door, sipping Diet Coke. The condo had a 4-bedroom floor plan with 3-1/2 baths. It sported balconies fore and aft, and faced northwest by southeast. Part of a four-building complex called Christopher Ridge, the units in Michael’s building had a median sell price of $1,376,000. The higher the floor, of course, the more expensive the apartment.

He opened the front door and leaned against the jamb. Ostensibly, his reason to stay home this weekend was to feed the Morrison’s two Pomeranian’s, Alex and Zeus. The Morrison’s lived in apartment 1203, to his right. Perhaps Mrs. Morrison had consulted her tea leaves this morning, or winced at a spread of Tarot cards. Whatever the reason, she had suddenly chosen to take the irritable little bastards with her to Buffalo to visit the grandkids. (Perhaps in her bones, she sensed the storm of the decade brewing over the Great Lakes, or just decided she couldn’t trust the boy next door alone in her condo.) Her sudden decision left Michael unexpectedly, and blessedly, responsibility free for the weekend.

The eight condos this floor shared a central elevator bank, as did all condos on Levels 1 through 19. The Penthouse level of each building had only 4 residences each; Michael often wondered what those exclusive condos went for.

The elevator door opened. Michael nodded as the driver started toward him up the hall, a box tucked beneath his left arm, and a signature pad in his right hand. “Hi,” he said as the driver drew near; he recognized him from other deliveries to the condo. His name tag read Jason.

“Thanks for buzzing me up,” Jason said. “I hate having to wait downstairs until someone decides to come down.”

Michael grinned, guessing what a pain in the ass that was. “My mom’s not here,” he said. “You want me to sign for it?”

Jason cocked his head. “It’s addressed to Michael Denning. Is that you, or your father?”

Michael raised his eyebrows in surprise. His dad’s name was Arthur.

“Do I need to show ID?” He’d signed for other packages before, but never one for himself. Jason offered the signature pad in answer, and Michael self-consciously signed the LED screen.

Inside, he grinned at the box. A birthday present? Obviously. But from whom?

The cardboard box looked 18” long x 12” tall x 14” wide. An imprint on the bottom said that, also. The unfamiliar name of the sender made Michael draw down his brows; whoever Elliott Stabler was, he’d sealed the box top and bottom using standard craft tape.

Elliott Stabler, Michael mused. Grinning, he Googled the name and thought to himself: I knew that name rang a bell. He laughed, wondering if the address was as fake as the name. Then he suddenly sobered, dropping the box on the foyer table and stepping away from it in big-eyed concern.

Was he in danger? His mom and dad were both establishment types: Arthur a pharmaceutical exec; his mom a bank vice-president. Sometimes they got hate mail and online threats. Should he call the police? His mom and dad? Jeremy?

Don’t be stupid, he thought. No bomb would come addressed to him. Probably, Jeremy and/or David had sent the box. It probably contained Jeremy’s idea of a joke present. Rolling his eyes, he returned to the table and pried loose the box top on one side.

Michael thought himself latently queer. It upset him to think of Jeremy as more than a friend, and he constantly fought against imagining Jeremy in sexual terms. Sometimes in bed at night, he fantasized sucking David’s or Jeremy’s thick cocks, though Michael knew he reigned supreme over his two friends. For a boy so small, he had a big cock. Not so big as two of the cocks in the box, however.

“Fuck!” he gasped. Dropping the bunched paper on the floor, he stared at the unfathomable contents. The box contained 4 dildos of differing size, one a monster no boy could possibly put up his ass (see how he thought?), the smallest about Jeremy’s size. The next bigger dildo pretty much matched him in size, but the 3rd larger phallus was a monster in its own right. “Fuck,” he croaked again.

His first reaction was shock, his 2nd paranoia, and then in short order he experienced acute humiliation, paranoia again, and then anger followed by shame-faced humiliation. Someone knew his fantasies well. A person he went to school with had fathomed his obsession with cock, knowing he watched boys fucking and sucking online. (His obsession would get him in huge trouble one day if he didn’t stop watching boys sucking cock and taking it up the ass. The videos he watched were borderline child porn at best.) He stepped away from the box again.

Was someone watching right now? If he searched would he find cameras peppered around the condo, tucked neatly away in his bedroom, trained on his double bed? He blanched and shivered violently at the possibility of that horror. What he did on his bed could never be witnessed by anyone at all, not ever. It was beyond perverted for a 14-year-old boy—15 now—to do things like that to himself.

Feeling ridiculous and paranoid, Michael performed a quick sweep of the condo, avoiding Lauren and Alyssa’s bedrooms. If someone had cameras set up in either, more power to ‘em. In 20 minutes he returned to the dining room, frustrated and disgruntled. “Fuck,” he muttered again.

Michael stood 5’2-1/2” in his Nike sneakers. He weighed 104 pounds dressed for school. The 8” long dildo advertised on the packaging looked identical to his erection when fully aroused, the somewhat smaller phallus a carbon copy of Jeremy’s right down to the smooth pink shaft, and the perfectly formed glans. If Michael was bigger, Jeremy had the more arousing cock. How... ?

“Fuck,” he said again.

The monster dildo stood 17” tall when sat on its base. The package informed Michael the Rambone contained no PVC and no latex to cause allergic reaction—like the other models, Monster was cast from virgin polypropylene. That’s what it claimed: virgin polypropylene. Michael’s reaction was, so what?

Also in the box was a year’s supply of KY Personal Lubricant. Michael lined the various size boxes and bottles on the table, counting 10 in total. Did Elliott Stabler actually believe that Michael would violate his teen rectum with one, much less all 4 of these horrors? And why chance including the small baggie of kush, the package of Zig-Zag papers, and the small ceramic pipe?

Trembling, Michael realized he had a troubling erection over the dildos. An erection that only grew harder the longer he looked at his birthday presents.

Michael sat in his chair and eyed the 4 standing dildos. His clock radio put the time at 10:22 PM. He had no idea what happened to the 6 hours between 4:16 PM where the landline rang, and now.

He’d talked to his mother four times. He’d joked with his grandma and listened to Grandpa complain about his nagging arthritis, and worsening Crohn’s Disease. He ignored whatever Lauren said and grinned talking to Alyssa. Alyssa was everything that Lauren wasn’t. He couldn’t wait until Alyssa turned 14 and he could—

Sitting up, he shook his head. The reason Mom continued to call was the weather system moving off Lake Erie. The storm front had strengthened dramatically since 5 PM, and threatened to dump 18” of fresh snow on Akron and the rest of Western Pennsylvania tonight. Not that Michael need worry in Pittsburgh. Forecasters thought Pittsburgh might get an inch or less. But Mom and Dad wouldn’t be home until late Sunday night, if at all tomorrow, she thought. Roads might be drivable Monday. Michael possibly had tomorrow night to fuck his tight virgin ass, as well as tonight.

I just thought that, he thought. I actually plan to put one, or all three of the smaller dildos up my ass tonight. He gazed—longingly, he realized in chagrin—at the startling huge white Rambone.

No! No, no, no, no, no! he thought frantically.

Getting the tape measure from his Dad’s red toolbox, Michael measured the shaft at 13-1/2” long, by 7-1/2” in girth, translatable to 2-3/8” wide. In comparison, the 9” long Ballsy Super Cock measured only 1-3/4” at the thick base and 1-7/8” around the bulbous head. The smaller dildos he didn’t bother with. Damn Jeremy’s cock looked good.

He’d smoked weed with Jeremy and David before. He’d never smoked it alone, nor in the condo. He certainly wouldn’t do it except outside on the balcony. Forget smoking out front; that was plain suicidal facing Building 6500. Out back would work nicely though, he thought, overlooking the rear parking lot, catty-corner to Building 6502, with 6503 edge-on. To the left lay a wide swath of trees and then small apartment units beyond. The rear balcony, yeah.

He checked his iPhone. A thought had started to form, one he ran out of town on a rail. At 11 years old, Alyssa stood barely an inch shorter than he, and weighed the same, he thought. Violating Lauren’s bedroom was verboten, a risk he’d never consider. Crossing the condo to Alyssa’s room, he opened the door and pushed it wide open. He stood on the threshold, suffering a second demeaning hard-on. He reached in, grabbed the doorknob again, and closed the door. Now wasn’t the moment to indulge his perversion. Maybe after he smoked a bowl.

Grabbing his coat and cell phone, Michael decided in the doorway that preparing a pipe before heading outside was a consideration he might explore. Jittery and antsy, he tossed the coat on his chair and pocketed the iPhone. He intentionally turned his back on the 4 stout soldiers arrayed on his desk, carrying the pipe, papers and weed to his dresser.

In addition to filling the bowl, he carefully rolled 2 small joints, slipping them into his shirt pocket for safekeeping. It frustrated and angered Michael that his irritating hard-on wouldn’t ease off at all—it thought of nothing else but the big white bugger standing upright on his desk. He knew, shaking his head, that he’d make a run at the bastard tonight. How loud would his poor asshole scream when he forced the head through? How deep could he take it, he wondered? He had no idea.

Donning his coat, Michael detoured into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. His dad drank Heineken; Mom, Samuel Adams when she felt like a beer. Between the 3 six-packs on the shelf he counted 17 beers. He’d drink one or two, he thought. One or two was fine. Grabbing a Heineken, he popped the lid and tossed it onto the counter and downed a swig. Sam Adams was okay; Heineken tasted like gold to Michael.

Continuing toward the rear balcony he glanced at Alyssa’s bedroom door and shook his head. He knew two things passing her door: later tonight he’d slide Jeremy’s bewitching erection into his virgin rectum, doing it in Alyssa’s pink panties, and one of her adorable training bras. The panties would snug him half-mast as he knelt on the mattress, chest flat to her sheets, his rear end high and his back deeply bowed. He’d imagine that—

Shuddering, he turned away and continued down the hall past Lauren’s room and his mom and dad’s bedroom. Buried deep in Dad’s laptop, a secret folder contained hundreds of pictures of Mom, some taken a few short weeks after they first met in 1995. Mom was in her freshman year in high school then.

He’d saved the 3 gigabyte folder to his Lenovo cloud account months ago, anyway. Jeremy had ogled select pictures with him last spring. That’s how Michael knew what Jeremy’s beautiful cock looked like erect; they’d beat off together scoping his naked mom, an accomplishment for two young boys.

Considering the pictures did nothing for Michael’s aching cock, he put the thought away for later. Maybe he’d look, maybe he wouldn’t.

Opening the balcony door, he blinked in surprise; snow had begun to fall. Striding quickly to the rail, he looked down and saw a dusting of snow on the grass and on the roof and hoods of cars, covering the balcony railings and those outside the entrances. It swirled gently around porch lights and those illuminating the rear parking lot. Gazing across at 6502, he scanned windows and balcony doors. Later he’d break out Dad’s binoculars maybe, and get in a bit of window-gazing. He leaned on the rail, enjoying the falling snow.

Returning eventually to the door and sliding it shut, he withdrew his iPhone and checked the time: 11:06 PM. Light the pipe, he thought.

Sliding free a chair, he sat the Heineken on the balcony table and dropped onto the frigid seat cushion. He checked his phone again, this time the weather app.

28 degrees, he thought, taking another swig of cold beer. 28’s not bad if you’re wearing a coat, jeans and Nike sneakers. He hadn’t a glimmer that some few hours from now, he’d recline in the patio chair with his legs drawn back to his chest, wearing his sister’s precious pink panties and training bra, violating his rectum with the 9” Ballsy Super Cock, and its 2 smaller cousins. No one could ever convince him that would happen tonight.

He sighed, pulled the pipe from his coat pocket and flicked the Bic. He filled his lungs with harsh smoke a moment later, unaware that someone had laced the sativa with hallucinogenic substances, that every lungful he took saturated his alveoli with mind-altering chemicals along with THC and cannabis oil. Every inhalation of weed and chemical attacked his self-control and demolished his inhibitions. He laughed, imagining how fun tonight would be. He had no idea.

At 1:39 AM, Michael awoke standing in the kitchen with an empty bottle of Heineken in one hand, and his aching erection in the other. He hadn’t a memory of making the trip from his bedroom, if that’s where he’d started. Bleary-eyed, he gazed about, not quite aware of wearing his little sister’s panties and tracing bra. Inside his rectum, kept in place by Alyssa’s tight-fitting boy shorts, was Jeremy’s rigid erection. He didn’t quite realize that, either. He released his own boner, and stumbled against the kitchen table.

“Where am I?” he muttered.

Cognizant of something wrong down below, Michael turned his gaze downward and discovered Alyssa’s tracing bra snugging his slender chest, and her gray briefs around his hips. His engorged penis stuck out the side of her panties, pointing at the table. He felt the dildo penetrating his bottom, understood numbly that it remained in place due to Alyssa’s gray shorts. Even so, it threatened to slide free and fall to the floor. He had no memory of doing any of this. “Holy fuck,” he croaked.

How did he get here? When did he put on his sister’s underwear and put the cock up his ass? He hadn’t invaded Lauren’s bedroom, had he? Choked with panic, he whirled drunkenly and staggered out the way he came, ramming the jamb with his shoulder and almost knocking himself down. The sharp impact acted as a final straw in the battle of Alyssa’s panties against the effects of gravity, and the conditioned effort of his rectum to empty itself of the invader. Only a quick grab of the suddenly free polypropylene base kept Jeremy inside. Clumsily, he forced the base back inside Alyssa’s panties again. That was close, he thought. How long had he had the damned thing up him, anyway?

Swaying unsteadily, a hand on the wall for support, he stopped to consider what the dildo inside him meant. For all intents and purposes, he was no longer latently gay, but inherently gay. (The actions on his bed, or sitting in his chair after school, or in the evenings sometimes, not withstanding.) Jeremy’s cock up his ass proved undeniably that Michael was queer. And it was Jeremy’s cock, he couldn’t lie about that. He’d actively wanted Jeremy’s cock since last May 15th, when they ogled his mom’s naked pictures.

“Hey, dude.”

“Fuck!” Michael gasped, whirling back to face the kitchen again. Leaning against the center island with a cold Heineken in his hand, naked as a baby boy, Jeremy grinned at him mischievously.

“Dig the outfit, Michael. Or should I say, Alyssa, baby?”

Michael gaped as Jeremy smirked. “I thought you liked Lauren!” he blurted mindlessly.

Jeremy laughed. “Man, come on! She’s 12 year’s old. Alyssa’s 11; that’s even worse. I’ll not a child molester, man.”

Jeremy had a semi-erection, what you might call tumescent, or a half-boner in slang. Michael stared at the naked wonder in mortified awe. It got harder as he watched, the head raising majestically, the shaft thickening and thumping as it engorged with blood. He’d never seen Jeremy naked except in gym class before. Why was he naked now? Why was he here?

“You know it’s snowing, dude?”

Michael shook his thumping head. “You’re not real,” he slurred, rubbing one eye after the other. He realized he’d dropped the empty Heineken bottle on his little toe. It ached dully, like his head, and he shifted from foot to foot to remove the weight. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

Laughing, Jeremy advanced and extended the full beer for Michael to take. “Thought I’d drop by for more pictures of your mother sucking. Whew!” he said, giving a lopsided grin. “Your mom is hot, Michael.”

Blinking awkwardly, Michael realized that Jeremy had left. The cold beer he’d placed in Michael’s grasp weighted down his hand. Swaying, he raised the bottle and swallowed a mouthful. He looked down, wondering where the dropped bottle had gone. His toe didn’t hurt anymore. Jesus, was he hallucinating?

Unsteady, he proceeded down the hallway to Lauren’s bedroom and tried the door. Unlocked, it opened onto her disastrous accommodation. Michael could walk across her bedroom floor, masturbating and spewing ejaculate in every direction, and no one would ever be the wiser. How could anyone live like this? He shut the door and crossed the hall to Alyssa’s room, where the door stood open.

Her bedclothes were disheveled and Michael realized he’d sodomized himself, in part at least, on Alyssa’s bed. Staggering to her bedside, he attempted to inspect the comforter, praying he hadn’t unleashed a torrent of sperm onto her comforter. It appeared unsoiled, and running his hand up and down the length failed to locate any wet spots. “Fuck!” he sighed, grateful for little favors.

Glancing toward her dresser, he winced. He’d pulled out and gone through every single drawer. The drawers were shut earlier; he remembered that from looking in going to or from the kitchen. Pairs of her panties sat atop the dresser and on the floor where he’d dropped them. Her darling training bras (she had a lot more than he’d suspected), also lay scattered about.

Alongside the bed lay a pair of crumpled pink panties. Stumbling over—damned this stupid dildo up his behind!—he bent cautiously from the waist and picked them up.

“I wore these,” he muttered. That was obvious from both the smell, and the presence of lubricant and brown smears in the crotch. When had he donned them, and when did he take them off? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember anything past smoking his 1st bowlful of weed on the balcony.

Frustrated, he left her room and stumbled down the hall to the balcony window. It stood open half an inch. Scuttling against the wall for protection, he peeked around the pulled aside vertical blinds. He’d turned the balcony light on, he saw. On the table sat a mostly empty bottle of Heineken, and the ceramic pipe. Staring at the pulled back chair he rubbed his forehead.

Had he smoked more than the single bowlful of weed? Where was the pair of joints he had in his pocket? What was in the fucking weed that lead to this total fucking blackout?

Killing the balcony light, he shut and locked the balcony door, and then closed the blinds. He had to discover where else he’d been in the condo, and what he’d done.

A return to Alyssa’s bedroom came first. He’d noticed going in that her blinds were half-open. They were closed before, he remembered that. Her desk lamp was on, also the light beside her bed and the one on her dresser. He hadn’t... ? Jesus, he hadn’t sodomized himself in front of her partly open bedroom window with the lights on, had he? Taken Jeremy up his ass for anyone to see? Why was the balcony light on? What had he done out there?

Shuddering, he staggered out Alyssa’s bedroom door and across the hall to Lauren’s bedroom again. Stumbling through her discarded clothing, he reached the desk lamp and turned it on. He gazed around her room, breathless and frightened. He thought his assumption was correct ... he hadn’t been in here tonight. Except...

“Oh, fuck!” he moaned. The boy-shorts weren’t Alyssa’s, but Lauren’s! Being the personification of pixie nymphet, his little sister would die before wearing anything so Laurenish as grey boy-shorts. Nothing in her remembered assemblage of underthing’s came close to what he wore about his hips right now. He’d staggered from Alyssa’s bedroom, realized he needed something more appropriate then her delicate pink panties to keep Jeremy in check, and had raided Lauren’s boudoir. He laughed, disgusted. “It’s just her panties, for God’s sake. How will she ever know?”

To assure this, he did a cross-eyed reconnoiter of her bedroom, and then performed it again, making sure Lauren had not booby-trapped the room in her absence. Satisfied finally of his safety, Michael lofted his middle finger to the bedroom and left, yanking closed the door. A moment later he reentered and turned off her desk lamp.

His mom’s bedroom appeared untouched, as did the rest of the condo, including, as he discovered with some aggravation, his bedroom. Where were the clothes that he’d worn on the balcony? Where were his sneakers and coat? Befuddled, he dropped to his knees, hand around his backside holding Jeremy in place, and checked beneath the bed. Next he looked in his closet, including the hamper, and then checked his bathroom, the guest bathroom, that of the girl’s, and finally his mom and dad’s bathroom. No fucking belongings, anywhere. Stymied, mystified and alarmed, he returned to Lauren’s room, and then searched Alyssa’s room top to bottom. He then checked the washer and dryer, inside the pantry, the work room and every single closet, and finally, carefully, outside the front door, because, come on, where else could they be?

“The balcony,” he whispered. Trembling, he scurried across the condo to the balcony door, slid aside the blinds and searched the deck outside. There, in the far corner, to his horror, sat every stitch of clothing he’d taken outside on his bare body to smoke the dope.

What had he done? When had he taken off his clothes, and where? Had he done it inside, and then tossed them into the corner in bubbling exhilaration, titillating himself? God, please no, tell me you didn’t strip outside on the balcony with the light on, Michael! Tell me you didn’t do that, asshole!

Sick and bewildered, he leaned against the wall, banging the back of his head against the drywall. According to the kitchen clock a minute or so ago, the time was 2:40 AM. Which meant he’d wasted an hour trying to reconstruct his missing 2-1/2 hours.

If what he feared was correct, he’d smoked the dope and immediately unraveled out on the balcony. He’d stripped naked and come inside, or had stripped in the hallway here and tossed his clothes out the door, the one, so much worse than the other. He’d then rushed to his bedroom for Jeremy’s anxious erection and the bottle of lubricant sitting beside Alyssa’s beside lamp. He sodomized himself in her panties and training bra before her half-open blinds. This scenario in mind, he’d probably had Jeremy up his behind the better part of 3 hours? Was that possible? Why couldn’t he remember anything?

Returning to his mom’s bathroom, he grabbed Arthur’s robe off the door, slipped it about himself and belted it in the middle. Carefully sliding the balcony door aside enough to slip out, he tiptoed to his pile of clothing and gathered it up. He estimated, without venturing to the railing to look over, that a good 4” of snow had fallen since 11 o’clock when he’d first come outside. Snow continued to fall in the breathless air, tiny flakes that spelled trouble with a Capital T. Wonder how much Mom has out in Akron, he wondered? Bet she’s having a cow.

Startled and alarmed, he groped the pile of clothing in search of his iPhone. Had she called during his blackout? Had she called Mrs. Garrett next door, or Mrs. Webber down the hall? What if a neighbor had knocked on his door to no response? Had one of them called the land-line? Had his Mom? Jesus, what if he’d answered the door or Face-timed with his mom and didn’t remember?

Terrified, he ripped the phone free of his coat pocket and checked the screen. Mom had called at 11:48 PM, and again at just after midnight. He’d answered neither call, of course. Rushing inside and down to the kitchen, he dropped his clothes on the table, grabbed the handset off the base and checked the landline’s Caller-ID. She had called at 12:31, but nothing since. And neither had anyone else.

He fell back against the counter in relief. Were Mom alarmed at his absence, she’d be up right now, calling his iPhone and the landline every 5 minutes. The fact she had given up and gone to bed at 12:31 AM was a huge indicator of just how lucky he was. He double checked his iPhone, and then made certain that no message was left on the landline’s voicemail, either. He laughed in tremendous, shaky relief. He needed a beer.

Searching up the Heineken from 12:40 AM, he returned it to the refrigerator to chill down, using the cap he’d pitched onto the counter at 11:00 PM. Two bottles were missing from the open six-pack that hadn’t been earlier; he remembered one sitting beside Alyssa’s clock-radio. In for a dollar, in for a buck, he thought wryly. Opening a bottle, he took a long pull on the beer, realizing how recovered he was now, compared to an hour ago. The clock read 2:59 AM. He’d played host to Jeremy for 3 hours and 20 minutes.

How long could he keep this up, he wondered? It was uncomfortable, the top of his rectum bruised and aching from the constant presence and pressure of Jeremy’s head; the outraged muscles of his asshole complained bitterly. Walking slowly to his bedroom (because slowly was the most comfortable option), he wondered if it was only Jeremy that had him tonight. A quick check of the other two shafts revealed clean, virgin rubber. He needn’t bother checking the Rambone; that was absurd.

The issue was this: despite his reluctance to squander the hours joined to Jeremy’s cock, he wanted the larger and more challenging heads and shafts of his own erection, and that of Big Brother up his backside. Rambone was out of the question, of course.

Another issue was this: It left him distraught, thinking he might never remember that first, crucial insertion of another boy’s cock into his rectum. Did his asshole enjoy it? Did his rectum welcome the long shaft and beautiful head? How many times had he fucked Jeremy with his asshole? Did he hunch over the shaft on his calves, hands on his knees for support, riding up and down the head, gripping the shaft tightly with his asshole?

Ok, you’re just jerking yourself off, he thought wryly. Fucking asshole. Pun intended.

His thirst could not be quenched. Draining the bottle in just a few seconds, he belched explosively, laughed, and walked the bottle to the recycle bin. In for a dollar, in for a fuck; he removed the next Heineken from the six-pack and cracked the lid.

Had he smoked the joints? Curious, he crossed to the table and extricated his shirt from the pile. In the pocket he found both joints, no worse for wear. He put one beneath his nose and sniffed. Kush never did to him what this shit did tonight. He remembered nothing—nothing! Smoking another bowl or one of these joints was tantamount to hacking off his balls with a butcher knife.