21 Ağustos 2022



Subject: The Dangling Cross (A Hitchhiker Story) Part One Disclaimers: 1. This story involves sexual contact between minors and adults. If that offends you or is illegal where you live, please go no further. 2. This story is meant to be read as fantasy; ideally, imagine that all the characters are of legal age and are roleplaying the entire thing. Or don’t. I can’t control the contents of your imagination. 3. The author of this story in no way condones or endorses the exploitation of minors; this story should be read as an escapist fantasy which has no relationship with reality. The author of this story is against adults having any sexual contact with minors, and advises those who have attraction to minors to leave their sexual desires purely in the realm of fantasy and imagination. Overwhelming evidence (in spite of anecdotal exceptions from individuals who have had these experiences in childhood and say they were not harmed by them) shows that adult/child sexual contact is generally traumatic and harmful, and at the very least highly dangerous and fraught with peril for all parties involved. If you have access to minors and are tempted to cross physical boundaries with them, please seek support from eds, a sex positive therapist in your area, or others whom you cant trust. Thank you, and hope you enjoy the story. I certainly hope to hear from you if you liked it! Please send comments to ail CHAPTER ONE: It was the day after Christmas, 2021, and we were driving home from my sister’s place. My brother-in-law had just bought a big house in a quaint, seaside town on the coast of Massachusetts, replete with silver haired retirees and oyster bars. I had taken my boyfriend to meet the whole family for the first time, and we were both overwhelmed. My ears were still ringing with the chaos of my nieces and nephews opening presents and the pandemonium of my sister’s new house: giant open floor plan, cathedral ceilings. No walls between anything but the bedrooms and bathrooms, no nooks or crannies to go hide away in. No sound absorption. No escape from the shrieks and whines of children. Endless reverb. What the fuck were they thinking. We had escaped, however, at last. The freeway was almost completely empty on a sunny, fair winter day. We had twelve hours to get back home. My name is Simon and I’m a forty-one year old scoundrel. I guess that’s too flattering–I’m a pervert. Maybe even a creep. My boyfriend, whose hand I’m squeezing as we drive, is only twenty-one, and is so androgynous and youthful looking he might pass for 17. My family is used to me dating inappropriately younger boys, but the older I get I’m not sure if they become more accustomed to it, or more shocked at the continued extremes of age difference. My boyfriend, Sam, is easily the sexiest and most erotically available of all the partners I’ve ever had. A perfect femboy, with slavic looking features: big lips, angular jaw and cheekbones, almond shaped brown eyes. His hair is bleached to platinum blonde, with a nice undercut so I can feel the prickle of it on my lips while I fuck him awake in the morning. We have a terrible relationship. He’s ice, I’m fire. He’s a dragon, I’m a tiger. He’s distant and aloof and intellectual, I’m emotional, needy, and insecure. In the bedroom, I dominate and he submits. Outside the bedroom, he’s a feral brat. We have everything in common intellectually: we love the same music, the same games, the same food, the same politics. I constantly forget he is basically a child– I usually feel like I’m talking to some other dimension of myself. When he’s naked in my house, I just stare at him in astonishment, like some creature out of the faerie realm walked into my home. His cock is a long, narrow spear. He feels embarrassed and blushes about how lance-like and thin it is, but I think it’s absolutely divine. His ass is pert, fat, disproportionately bubble-shaped next to his tiny waist. He weighed a grand total of 120 lbs when we met; my good cooking put about 15 lbs on him during the pandemic, but it did nothing but make his ass fatter and his body a little more soft to cuddle. He has gender dysphoria enough that he afyon escort wants to shave every inch of his body, and does, every other day or so when he takes a long luxurious bath. I have never felt so much as a hint of stubble on his pubis. At the end of many of his baths, he calls me in to spread his ass cheeks and make sure I raze every last little prickle that might scrape my tongue. He is my perfect little femboy. In the mornings, I’d say around 2-3 days a week, he’s my little spoon and doesn’t protest at me squeezing his pert asscheeks, rubbing his hole, and me kissing the back of his neck until I get hard. Of course, with almost teenage vitality, his own cock is always hard at this hour of the morning. I quietly reach for the lube…and he’s always ready. No prep necessary, no loosening him up. Half asleep, he murmurs as I slick up his hole, but he never protests when I start to press my cock head against his sphincter and push through to the glorious feeling of his tight, warm hole clenching around my shaft. I roll him onto his belly, and softly plow in and out as he grunts in half-conscious discomfort–which quickly gives way to semi-conscious moans of pleasure. I love using him. I love using his unconscious body and fucking him just how I like: slow, deep, long thrusts, my mouth and nose pressed to the side of his head, kissing his pink ear and silky smooth nape of the neck. I keep thrusting, and thrusting as deep as I can until he winces and moans in feminine, boyish timbre. He does this because he knows it gets me off. Sometimes, if he’s a little more awake, he’ll arch his back to meet me, forcing himself upward onto my cock every time I thrust. He makes little whimpers and I squeeze his fat asscheeks until I grasp his pale, smooth throat, let my whole bodyweight collapse on top of him, and cum as deep as I can. I feel my cock spasm in his tight little boy pussy. He loves when I fuck him without any reciprocity, or without jacking himself off–because of this moment; he can feel every spasm of my cock spurting a hot load inside of him. I lay there on top of him, then, just for a few breaths. He pumps his ass up and down on my cock a few times rapidly and always, without exception, whispers. “Don’t waste it!” He wants every drop inside of him. That is, 2-3 mornings a week. The other 4-5 mornings, he swats me away with the irritation of a surly teenager being woken up too early for school. Regardless of whether I’m admitted entrance or not, after giving it the old college try, I crawl out of bed, start him a pot of coffee, and make breakfast. This is how we lived for most of the pandemic. * * * Up until now, the story has been true. At least, as true as anything that’s ever been published on this website. But this story is not about the truth. It’s not about my boyfriend, either. It’s about what might have happened, on a day in December when we pulled up to a service station in rural New York state. * * * I forgot to do the obligatory story male protagonist introduction where I describe my incredible body, giant cock, Mercedes, and my tech job that nets me six figures but requires absolutely no work. Just kidding. I am not going to do any of those things and none of those things are true. For the purposes of this story, let’s just say my name is Simon. As I said, I’m 41. I’m not particularly tall, I’m not particularly muscular. I have a full beard and broad shoulders, a deep voice, and a very cute mug. I have a thick enough, six inch cock. I’m an underpaid adjunct professor of English barely making enough to survive (don’t worry, my boyfriend was never one of my students). My favorite color is all of them, I love plants and animals, I’m a virtuoso in the kitchen and a dom top in the bedroom. I’m also a pervert. I’m attracted to boys, not men. The younger the better. However, I never, ever , flirt with disaster. I don’t talk to underage boys. I don’t flirt with underage boys. I certainly never, ever touch them. My boyfriend knows I’m a pervert. He gets off on it, pretending to be a little younger than he is. When we met, he was fresh out of high school and loved the age difference between us. He told me once that his first sexual thoughts agrı escort were about men when he was only nine years old; he had fantasies of being abducted and raped by the janitor at his elementary school. Over time, I’ve shown him the kinky porn I like to watch and we both get off to it together. But neither of us ever, ever dreamed of doing anything with an actual boy. At least, until this fiction. * * * My boyfriend and I pulled into a gas station around noon. He went in to pee, grab some coffee and snacks while I took our dog, Bork, up and down the narrow strip of yellow grass outside. Bork is a handsome, beefy little mutt. Part Chow, part god knows what. It was cold. The sky had gone grey, and a few flurries of snow were falling. Bork left a dookie in the grass, I bagged it, and waited in the car. Before long, my boyfriend came back, plopped down in the passenger seat. I gave him the keys. “Wait til you see what’s inside,” he said. “What do you mean?” I asked. “You’ll see.” I zipped up my coat and fast-walked to the front doors of the service station. Inside stood the most angelic boy I have seen in years. He was standing with one hip cocked, looking impatient, and gazing right in my direction. I immediately made eye contact with him, and then looked him up and down. He was perhaps twelve. No more than thirteen or fourteen at the very oldest. Cornsilk blonde hair, in the twinkiest possible cut (undercut on one side, long bangs hanging in his face). His skin was pale, his cheeks and ears were rosy with the cool air. Brown eyes, full lips. The most incredible facial features, the loveliest cheekbones and clavicles and narrow shoulders. He was just ever-so-slightly chubby, so that his fat little ass had some weight to it. He wore tight black sweatpants that gave his bubble butt a wonderful definition. In his left ear, dangling, was a silver earring. A cross, of all things. But it couldn’t have been more feminine, more loudly gay. And he was, just as much as I was staring at him, staring right back at me. I couldn’t believe he was locked in eye contact with me. I winked. Did he blush? I couldn’t keep that up. I ducked into an aisle of snack food, pretending to look at chips and beef jerky while I stole a sidelong glance again. He was standing there still, looking bored. A couple girls a little younger than him, possibly sisters, were nearby, and then a man. A gigantic, camouflage wearing, bearded man in a John Deere hat. They were all waiting in line at the lunch counter. Dad, or whoever the man was, stared at a wall mounted TV that showed the weather forecast. The boy was tapping one shoe. I had to pee. I couldn’t keep ogling him forever. I went into the men’s room, still thinking about the rosy blush of his cheeks. God! He was so gorgeous. I hadn’t seen a boy like that since I went to Amsterdam a few years ago (and there, the blonde youths seemed to grow on trees). When I stepped out of the bathroom, they were still waiting for their to-go order. I lingered a little while by the iced coffee machine, then couldn’t come up with any more excuses to keep standing there. I left, and found my boyfriend waiting with the car parked right in front. “Holy fucking shit!” I said, when I got back in. Sam was grinning and sipping his coffee. “That boy was so fucking hot,” I said. “I know,” said Sam. “Even you thought so?” I asked, a bit stunned. “You’re turning me into a fucking pervert,” said Sam. My boyfriend rarely if ever admitted to being attracted to teenagers. Sometimes I’d show him pictures of beautiful soccer players or teen models or whatever, and he’d begrudginly admit that they were extremely hot, but rarely if ever would he say something like he was about to say in a moment: “I have to admit it, I wanted to FUCK him.” “I know, that fat little ass!” I exclaimed, “I want to bury my face in it.” “I made eye contact with him,” I said, “and he held it nearly the whole time–he had to know I was checking him out.” My boyfriend’s eyebrows raised. “He stared at me, too!” “He has to be a little faggot.” “Has to be,” Sam said. That moment, the fat fuck who was apparently the kid’s father akdere escort came bursting out the glass doors of the gas station with the boy in tow. The father’s face was red, he was yelling. “Whoah, whoah,” I said quietly. I put on my sunglasses, tried to look like I wasn’t paying attention, and cracked my window to hear what he was saying. “…that faggot earring out when we’re in public, I told you! I told you to take it out God-dammit” “It’s Christian!” the boy said in protest. “Now!” the man said. “No!” the boy said. He recoiled from the man’s sudden lunge for his ear. “Don’t touch me!” the boy snapped. “That’s it!” the man said, and pointed a chubby finger over the bag of fast food he was clutching. “You ain’t gettin’ in my truck until you take that fuckin faggot earring out.” “Fine!” said the boy, “I’ll stay at my mom’s tonight!” “She’s still in rehab!” the man said. “I’ll get Steph to drive me over,” the boy said. “You stubborn shit,” the man grumbled. “I won’t miss your attitude, stay with your whore stepsister as long as you fuckin’ want!” With that, the man waddled off to a giant Chevy truck, hefted his two young girls up into the back seats, and slammed the driver door before peeling out of the parking lot. My boyfriend and I watched in astonishment, frozen in shock. There stood our boy, crying a little, wiping his eyes. He wasn’t even wearing a sweatshirt, and it was around 35 degrees out. Snow whipped around him. At his age, if he had a cell phone, he would already have been staring at it while waiting for the food–I knew he was stranded. “What should we do?” my boyfriend asked. “Help him, I guess,” I said. “I mean. Without being creeps, of course.” “Of course.” I rolled the window down all the way. “Hey,” I said, putting on my gentlest tone of voice, “you need to use a phone? We overheard all that, we can help you out.” The kid looked at us in embarrassment. He wiped his eyes. “I’m fine,” he said. “How are you gonna get a ride home?” “I’m fine,” the kid said, turned around, and went back into the gas station. I turned to my boyfriend and shrugged. “Fuck us, I guess,” my boyfriend said. “I wish he would,” I murmured. We both waited, wondering if he’d come out in a moment desperate for help. But he didn’t. We had around six hours left on the road before we got back home. “Should I go in and try to talk to him?” my boyfriend asked. “I’m probably a little less intimidating than you, bearded daddy.” It was true; my boyfriend’s babyface and big brown eyes, not to mention nearly identical haircut, would make him a perfect ambassador. But something gave me pause. “No,” I said softly. “If this kid goes missing, all we need is our faces on security cameras being the last people he talked to before an Amber Alert went out.” “Jesus,” my boyfriend said. “Why are you so paranoid? I just want to offer to let him use my cellphone for a minute.” “Wait, wait,” I said. Wheels were spinning in my head. “I just want to wait it out.” I backed out of the parking spot near the front of the gas station, and pulled all the way to the edge of the parking lot, away from the traffic of people coming and going in and out, away from the ubiquitous security cameras of this day and age. For whatever crackpot scheme I had cooking in my head, that might be important. “What are we doing?” “Just grabbing some lunch,” I said, getting out of the car. “Do you want anything?” “You hate gas station food.” “Boy, do I fucking ever,” I agreed. “I guess I’ll have some mozarella sticks,” said Sam. I nodded. I grabbed an extra sweater out of the back seat of the car–an oversized black hoodie with the word BITCHIN across the front in hot pink letters. I grabbed a scrap of paper, took a sharpie from the console, and wrote ITS COLD, WEAR THIS. On the back, I wrote: IF YOU NEED A RIDE, GO TALK TO MY BOYFRIEND. When I walked into the gas station again, I found exactly what I expected: the kid was sitting slumped in one of the hard seats near the lunch counter, eating tater tots and ketchup and looking dejected. I walked right by him, the sweater and note crumpled together, and dropped it surreptitiously right as I passed by him. I didn’t look back until I got in line for the lunch counter, at which point I watched the kid pluck the note up from the ground, and grab the sweater. I ordered mozzarella sticks, a large soda, and a burger. When I turned around, the kid was walking out, wearing the black hoodie.

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