A Stick of Butter

siktici © 2017

*

Although I had fooled around with boys at an early age, my first encounter with a man didn't happen until I was eighteen. I knew I wanted to be with a very hairy man, a hairy older man. I wanted to rub his hairy pecs and move my hand down his hairy abs to his pubes before stroking his cock until he spewed hot cum over his chest and over my face. Then I wanted to part his hairy ass cheeks and eat his gritty hole before returning to milk his cock into spewing again.

Yes, I watched them come and go. Business men, their hairiness in suit and tie; laborers, their thick curls spilling from their open collars, their cocks bulging their khakis; or just men on the move. Bow-legged, straight postured, pumped men, sat wide-legged in loose shorts to allow a wayward cock or ball sac to slip from one of the legs of the shorts. Summer served me best when it demanded muscle shirts that reveal hairy backs and shoulders above loosely fitting running shorts that allowed the wearer's dick to swing wildly.

But it took my imagination to see their hairy crotches and hairy ass cracks coated in sweat and funk. Their strides cultivated a hot house of hairy musk. My mind conjured so vivid an image that I made large pools of precum in my briefs, and sometimes when I caught sight of a particularly hairy man, I would have to dry the copious precum from my thigh.

Only, I couldn't have any of these men, especially the older ones. What would they want with a scrawny kid like me? Additionally, what would they want with a scrawny black kid, and my young life wasn't at all conducive to my unusual appetite. So, I spent most of my time looking for those images innocently displayed in commercial magazines.

Yet, someone WAS looking back.

Mr. Dennis Whitney, my life-long neighbor—father of the only white family in our neighborhood—held some unclear contempt for me.

"Hiya Mr. Whitney," I said as politely as possible.

"Humf" was all I ever got. His sons couldn't say why he treated me that way. They did admit that he was very friendly to their other friends.

This started when I was thirteen, and by eighteen, the "humf," turned to contemptible silence, as if I was Mr. Whitney's enemy. Anyone would be troubled by such a show of contempt and I was beside myself.

Why did trauma happen in summer? Over my short life, I have had some pretty shitty summers, but the summer of '77 was particularly shitty: I had to attend summer school to graduate, my allowance was scrapped, and I was confined to the house—no swimming, no camping, no neighborhood basketball—as punishment for not applying myself.

We were probably the poorest family in the neighborhood, but I never saw or felt it. My father was a custodian in a school district with no chance for major money and my mother was a maid for an old Houston family with the same prospects. I wore my brothers' hand-me-downs until I could work, and I didn't have a car, nor did I know any kids who did. Yet, on recollection, no one in my neighborhood was particularly comfortable. All families seemed perpetually submerged below the poverty line, because all the husbands were laborers and all the wives were domestics.

I was the last of six children: a position I came to despise. As my mother pointed out, "You can't get away with anything your brothers and sisters haven't already tried." And my not being a typical child gave my parents fits, especially my father. I sometimes wondered whether my father loved me. Outward indicators proved he did, but I never felt it, and feeling it mattered most.

If you knew the nature of poor families, you knew that they bartered or just loaned out of kindness. My family was a frequent benefactor of kindness. So, it was nothing for my mother to send me next door to borrow a cup of sugar, a tomato, or a stick of butter.

The summer was especially brutal to me, being stuck inside with little to do (My mother half-heartedly tasked me with a reading list from school). I spent my time finding my daddy's porn and jerking off. The other time lusted after men in soaps or after athletes during sporting events. And a few times, on a very tight leash, I made trips throughout the neighborhood bartering and begging. I didn't mind very much begging to and bartering with my neighbors, but I absolutely hated going to The Whitney's.

Mr. Whitney was peculiar in many ways: he was a self-ordained minister, a construction worker, and quiet abuser. Like Saul he saw the light, accepted Christ, and accepted a position with The First Baptist Church. However, accepting Christ didn't stop the abuse and it didn't make him less peculiar. Mrs. Whitney seemed to catch most of his wrath according to my mother when she gossiped with other hens in the neighborhood.

"Girl, did you see her?" my mother asked.

"She couldn't see out of one eye!" one woman said.

"I heard he beat her because she wouldn't let him put in her ass!" another said.

"Oh, go on with that!" the doubters said.

"Hand to God!" the defending woman declared.

Some of Mr. Whitney's wrath extended to anyone who annoyed him. He solved his problems with threats of violence, but daddy always called him "a lily-livered, spineless bastard!" and desperately wished the bastard would do something, anything.

One day my mother said, "Honey, go next door and ask Mrs. Whitney for a stick of butter," as she poured a steaming pot of cubed potatoes into a strainer. I blinked and gulped as my spit deserted me. "Go on, before my taters get cold!"

I would have gladly taken an "ass-whuppin" over going next door. I felt like an offender going to the guillotine. Well, it wasn't that dramatic, but I hated going next door.

Another peculiar thing about Mr. Whitney was he always went bare-assed and everyone in the neighborhood knew this. To something that peculiar, everyone whispered their dismay. Only, adults didn't help kids figure out such peculiarities in my day. Adults used the "out-of-sight-out-of-mind" method.

So, I slowly walked to the Whitney house—noting the peeling paint, the broken picket fence, and the abandoned cars that looked like nature exhibits. The high grass and bald earth gave the house an even spookier appearance. Two cruelly chained dogs barked under the house while gnats implored me to run for my life. I knocked on the bald front door, so lightly that I was sure I wasn't heard, but my mother would surely make me return if I said no one was home. So, I knocked harder.

"What?" asked a scowling and naked Mr. Whitney who jerked open the door so fast that I caught my breath, and for a beat or two, I couldn't speak.

"Speak up, boy!"

"I—Uh, uh—Do you ha—"

Looking around me, he said "Get in here," and with one arm, pulled me into the cool living room.

With my eyes lowered, I meekly asked for a stick of butter.

"Butter, huh? Why don't your old man use his pay to buy y'all some food. I can't support my family and his. You tell him that," Mr. Whitney threw over his shoulder as he slowly moved his extremely hairy body into the kitchen.

Raising my head, I caught sight of his hairy ass, that exquisitely hairy ass—such powerful globes of pink flesh, such strong but pale legs. He moved with a grace and masculinity that I found debilitating. I also found it scary that if he saw me looking, he might give me a black eye.

As he returned, I saw that his cock stood hard and blushing purple from his body, as if he were a standard bearer. At a forty-five degree angle, his cock—strangled by a thickly steel cockring—had strong veins that crisscrossed in dynamic relief. I was mesmerized. I wanted his cock in my mouth, and I couldn't take my eyes away—

"You want this butter or not?" he said holding the stick very close. "Well, come and get it," he said but the truth was not in the words; and his face held a strange expression, as if he intended to play a prank. "You scared of ole Dennis? Nothing to be afraid of. Come here, boy," he said then quickly tried bribery. "I'll give you two more sticks for a little favor," he said with his expression bouncing between pandering and impatience. "I said come here!" he finally said and grabbed my wrist. Throwing the stick of butter on an end table, he pulled me into his bedroom and flung me onto a huge and very high bed.

I lay face up breathing fear. He stood with hands on hips to consider his approach. "Take off them pants," he said as he searched a nightstand. "Hurry up!"

Had I looked at his naked body as I climbed from the bed, I would have seen his cock curving northward like a sabre; I would have seen its overwhelming thickness; and I would have seen the copious precum oozing from his piss-slit like sap. But I kept a close watch on his face that hosted darkness with deeply set eyes whose black pupils seemed to spread over the length of their sockets. A spreading sneer slowly formed as he held up lube.

I stood shivering, then quickly looked at the floor when he approached. "You know," he began, raising my chin, "all you have to do is be nice to ole Dennis—Just be nice to me," he said and roughly pressed his lips to mine. Parting my lips, his tongue squirmed over mine like a serpent. I fought for breath, but he held the back of head with one hand and pushed me into him with the other. I prepared to faint.

Pushing me back on to the bed, he gave me little time to gasp for air before straddling me and tapping my lips with his massively wide cock. I stared at it, attached to the massive man holding it like an instrument of punishment. His face seemed contorted in sadistic pleasure, as he slowly and steadily pushed his cock past my lips. "Open up, boy; here comes the airplane into the hangar," he said in a terrifying sing-song. "Don't you want ole Dennis' sweet juice down your throat?" Then he alternated from the sinister sing-song to fuzzy domination. "I said, open up," he insisted and grabbed my head to push it on the pillow with his pelvis.

Darkness and deprivation descended like a curtain and I panicked. Desperately trying to free myself, I twisted this way and that, but it was no use. With my mouth beyond full, I thought my lips would split open, but somewhere in my mind, a voice, growing in volume, made suggestions: It's what you want, isn't it? Don't fight him, don't scare him away. Let him use you. Let him teach you. And with each suggestion, my body relaxed.

"Yeah, good boy. I can feel you relaxing. Good, I won't have to take that boy-pussy." He continued to explain, "It goes much better if you don't fight me. Yeah, that's a good boy."

Slowly, he withdrew and I rapidly gasped for air.

"You have to calm down," he said, stroking my hair and gently moving his cock over my tongue and toward my throat. "But ya still aint primed my pump," he said and shoved the length of his cock into my throat. . I gagged violently, which caused Mr. Whitney to hit me, not brutally, but with enough force to correct my efforts. The first hit surprised me, but strangely, the second and subsequent hits calmed me more. My reaction confused me but delighted Mr. Whitney. "That's it; just let it happen."

So, I found a rhythm that helped me get air and relax my throat—all seeming to help me take Mr. Whitney's huge cock. No longer did he use his weight against me. He seemed overtaken by my new-found talent at sucking cock. "Whoa, don't keep that up or ya gonna make ole Dennis cum." And that's what I found myself trying to do. Not to end the moment, because in a lustful but confusing way, I really wanted to please him.

"Now, let me show you somethin' to look forward to, son," he said and flip me over like a flap jack. "Spread those legs. Wider. Push that ass up a little—right there, yeah," he said with the glee of a kid, but it must have been my imagination.

Then I felt it. His tongue warm and wet, fuzzed between his scraggly beard. Amazingly prickly and soft, his beard added an extra tingling to the slathering his tongue gave to my pink boy-pussy. Boy-pussy, a word that now held nothing for me but held pleasure for Mr. Whitney, and when he said it, it seemed to have a direct effect on his actions and his warnings. "I'm gonna eat that boy-pussy until it feels like a mush melon, then I'm gonna give you a good fucking, boy."

I heard the words but during a first-time, a mixture of fear and lust gave no impact to words. So, I didn't fear his warnings and I certainly didn't understand them. Each time he stopped slathering me into fits of incomprehensible pleasure he told me what pleasure I gave him. "Hmm, such a sweet boy-pussy, so pink, so soft; but it's not my boy-pussy, yet."

I heard the words...

"Hold that position and don't look around," he said and left the room. I heard a draw open and close and I heard him humming a tune I had heard somewhere, but I couldn't remember where. Then, I heard, "Hey, that would be different and it just might work."

His hands were surprisingly warm; their thickness adding to a sudden feeling of safety. The fear and dread had long since vanished, and I drowsed in premature afterglow. When he returned, again, he told me not to turnaround.

I felt Mr. Whitney insert something cold, icy almost, in my boy-pussy that seemed to melt into a tepid ooze. At first, the sensation was uncomfortably cold but it soon warmed to a soupy texture. In the midst of this sensation, I decided I liked saying boy-pussy—hearing in my mind the deeply rich tones of Mr. Whitney's saying it. Yeah, boy-pussy. Only, I wasn't Mr. Whitney's boy-pussy but I hoped to be.

Following the icy application, I felt oil drip onto my virgin boy-hole. My body warmed the mixture quite quickly, and Mr. Whitney approved. "That's exactly what we need, boy; trust me it will help," he said but his voice seemed deep and purposeful, as if he was preparing an experiment. The delight heard earlier had been replaced with a necessary sternness to achieve his goal; however, I had no need for goals.

"You know what?" he asked to no one, really. "I think you need to be blindfolded."

I didn't ask why; I didn't want to stop the pleasure. I just exhaled and raised my head for a dark but silky blindfold that Mr. Whitney applied with great care. "Can you see anything?" he asked.

I shook my head no, because I really didn't want to see. I heard the tearing of a condom.

"For safety," Mr. Whitney said. He poured a little more oil and fingered my boy-pussy with a tenderness that contrasted his stern expression, then I heard him position behind me. It felt so paternal, so masculine. Only, reality is much more painful than fiction: It started as a stinging stretch, advanced to a growing burn, and remained at a searing level. I felt Mr. Whitney's hand cup my mouth before I hollered and quivered with effort.

"Relax. Come on, boy, relax that boy-pussy and take ole Dennis' cock," he said and slapped the sides of my ass, which made for a temporary distraction. The slaps that followed did little to lessen the pain—the splitting, searing pain.

But Mr. Whitney insisted. More slaps to my ass, pinching grips to my ebony mounds, and more demonstrative instructions came in rapid succession. Then the pain slowly drifted from me hole a new feeling immerged—wanting. I straddled wanting Mr. Whitney to stop and hoping that he wouldn't, and in the dilemma, my boy-pussy chose for me.

"That's it boy, I feel it, that boy-pussy's opening up for my cock. Yeah, just a little to go," he said but the progress was slower than I wanted. Mr. Whitney's cock felt so solidly demanding, and it would be not denied.

"Oh yeah, I knew it would be good pussy, but I didn't know that it would be THIS good: so hot, so fuckin' tight," he said as he increased his speed and went deeper. And as I continued loosening up, Mr. Whitney said, "Now it's time to turn that boy-pussy into a man-pussy."

His rhythm increased along with entreats I had never heard. "Give Daddy that boy-pussy," he cooed but his strokes didn't match the cooing, and he seemed to move away from our union. It seemed that he had gone to a place I couldn't. "Work that boy-pussy, yeah, work it!" came from Mr. Whitney as his pace increased to heavy downward thrusts, his pelvis moving from side to side and around in circles. "Give up that pussy, boy—or I'll have to take it," he warned and thrusted even harder.

Several boluses moved from my middle to my pelvis and pushed with an incomprehensible force. I made inhuman sounds to push the boluses through my straining dick. My body shook and vibrated under Mr. Whitney's assaults that now came as if from a hydraulic hammer. His massive body pounded me with the force of a charging ram. His rutting behavior, however, in me set off a powerful passion, mixed with a type of sorrow, that I could not comprehend. I cried as I came with a primal force that almost frightened me, save for the overwhelming feeling of lust and desire.

"That's it boy, pump out that boy juice, spray it all over. Oh, yeah, gone on and cry; it's okay," he said and continued pummeling. Craning his head to the ceiling, Mr. Whitney arrived at the precipice. Rapid pounding blurred to thrashing, accompanied by profanity, as he rode a tangent to a mounting orgasm.

"Ohhh—ah, ah, ah. Shit. Goddamn it, boy. Yeah, oh fuck, yeah," Mr. Whitney shouted, as if the pleasure's intensity had rendered pain. "Don't move," he shouted. "Ahhhh" pushed Mr. Whitney to suddenly halt as if atop the highest hill of rollercoaster. Letting gravity take him, he plunged spouting more profanity and expressing the continued pleasure of pain. Then came gush-after-sudsy-gush of his seed coursing into my boy-pussy like a flash torrent through an arroyo. He trailed to heaves, on to subsiding moans of sublime satisfaction, before he pushed us down to the sweat-drenched bedding.

We continued to slowly breathe to reality, as Mr. Whitney half lay on me. I heard his heart slow to sated beats on my back before he rose and removed the blindfold. "Turn over," he said and looked deeply into my eyes. "You're a man now, with a man-pussy, and I'm glad I was the one to break you, but no one can know because they wouldn't understand." As he explained this, I saw worry in his face and if I had looked closer I might have seen tenderness, because I certainly thought I heard it in his voice.

Somehow, I knew what he meant, but it would take a few years to fully appreciate the chance he was taking. So, after trying to seduce Mr. Whitney into another astounding session, he avoided me with less animosity; because when he spoke to me, his glances said much more.

My encounter with Mr. Whitney, however, was the first and last time. He started having trouble with Mrs. Whitney, who eventually asked for a divorce. I never knew if it was because of her husband's desire for man-sex or his exposed abuses. But I CAN guess that it was because of her dissatisfaction. Nonetheless, he asked that I keep his secret, and I did.

I kept his secret until the telling of this story, but he wouldn't mind that I shared it; in fact, he helped me recall the memories. That is, he helped me when I finally dragged him from topside. You see, Mr. Whitney has been my husband for the past fifteen years, and we waited a long time before we could make our love legal.

Although we both have lost relatives, and some friends, over our decision to live a daddy-boy relationship, we don't care because we love each other. We realized that love happened those many years ago, and when our journeys brought us together again, we let the universe take care of the rest.

You know, old habits die hard; I still call him Mr. Whitney, especially in the bedroom.