The Wild Boy

© 2014 by R. Keith Peck

He lights up the joint he'd been fingering the moment he steps off the bus, even before the other riders dispersed Looks of horror are fired his way. Doesn't he know where this is? This isn't Denver. This isn't the inner city. This is suburbia. We're normal! A mother with a Greenpeace handbag clutched her fifth-grader's shoulder and scurried off, casting over her shoulders spear-sharp expressions of fear and opprobrium.

He spits. He grins. Fuck 'em.

He doesn't look the stoner. More the jock. Maybe the Marine. His hard body is on display as he strides down the sidewalk. Athletic shorts, too small for him, reveal long legs firm and strong. Substantial genitalia sway in those shorts with each step. This kid's hung like a Shetland pony. Tight fabric molds itself to taut, round, proud buttocks. His midriff is bare, exposed by a cutoff tee. It is flat as a prairie, hard as granite. His skin is the color of wheat ripening in the sun. The tee sports the logo of State College. If you've watched an intramural scrimmage on Saturday afternoon you've seen it. Biceps threaten to rip the fabric. In fact, the seams in both armpits have parted. There, amidst the sweat-soaked cotton, you can glimpses light wisps of blond hair. He totes a backpack slung over one shoulder. He could be a kid making his way to PE, if it wasn't for the joint, smoldering and laying down an odor as pungent if not as enticing as that streaming from his armpits.

His face? A little slack now, a little stupid. Quite happy and glowing with anticipation. A soft grin. A strong clean-cut jaw. His eyes, though narrowing as he comes to each intersection, studying the street signs, expand in the shadows under the old trees to show sapphire gemstones large, luminous, and somewhat bloodshot. High and tight cut hair glitters on his sculpt like golden-brown moss.

Sparkles of gold dapple the sidewalk as he exits the shadow of maples freshly-leaved into the sun, which is too warm for the calendar.

Call him the Wild Boy.

Demeanor? Clean-cut Mom-and-apple-pie fresh.

Age? Set it at twenty two.

Character? Decadent.

Goal in life? Sleaze and filth.

The day, warm and humid, bathes him in sweat. Cars roll past, windows up, air conditioners set to maximum. The houses he passes drone like angry bees, emitting the hum of air conditioning.

Shit. It isn't that damn hot. Fuckin' pussies! Global warming? Fine, stop emitting carbon. If your computers are right -- and the mathematicians, Pythonesses of the modern era, have mastered the Butterfly effect -- it'll be centuries before you return to 'normal.' Adapt, motherfuckers, adapt! The sturdy old oak falls in the windstorm, the slim supple beech grows, and thrives.

The Wild Boy is fragrant. Smell his pits and you might become lost in hallucinations of orgies in locker rooms. Au natural, the Wild Boy. A creature of earth.

Six blocks after leaving the bus stop his phone rings. The Wild Boy pulls it from his pocket, thumbs it on. He rec0ognizes the number. "Yeah?"

"You on the way?" The voice is anxious, as if pressed for time.

"Fuck yeah. Three studs? No wives? You think I'm gonna skip out on you fucks? A kid's gotta party!"

"Where you at?" The stress has left the voice, deep and mellow now, perhaps as stoned as the Wild Boy is.

The Wild Boy squints. "Corner of Mason and Wayne."

"Coo." To someone lingering near the caller: "Fucker's on the way!" Back to Wild Boy. "Go one more block and hang a right. We're at the house at the next intersection. I'll meet you out front. How long you free?"

"'Till we're done," says the Wild Boy. He puffs deeply, exhales. His crotch swells. The streamer rises and floats up above this suburban paradise like a ghostly kid's balloon inflated with sin.

"Well, the wives're going to be back sometime around six."

"Cool man, no marathon, got it."

"Wish it could be. That profile's hot." A pause. "I'd pound you all night!"

"Maybe we can hook up later. I'm always up for it." The Wild Boy grins. "But don't worry. I'll get you fuckers to unload before the bitches gets back!" He thumbs off.

At the corner of Mason and Hartman he lingers briefly, finishing the joint. An old lady passes him slowly, driving a giant purple Cadillac at a speed a retreating glacier could outpace. She lingers at the stop sign, waiting for traffic that doesn't exist to get out of her way. Seeing the handsome young man on the corner, she waves, smiling brightly.

The Wild Boy finishes his joint, flings the roach into the grass, waves back. As he makes the turn and moves on down the sidewalk his ass rolls in the gray cotton shorts in full blown bitch-in-heat mode.

The house at the end of the block is a small, neat brick cottage draped with ivy and bejeweled by flowers. A thick hedge screens the yard. Parked on the street are a turquoise Prius and a gleaming black Mercedes. The driveway, leading into a detached garage, holds a crimson Volvo. Oil spots on the pavement indicate where the wife of whomever owns this place parks when she's here.

Blood continues filling the Wild Boy's cock. Anticipation electrifies him.

A man leans against the brick post beside the driveway. Staring at the Wild Boy as the young man struts down the sidewalk, eyes glitter, measuring, categorizing, fantasizing.

The Wild Boy grins to himself. Yeah it's gonna get sleazy!

The man is tall, slim but well-built. A tank top reveals a lanky frame. Good chest, nice biceps. This man looks to be in his lower thirties. He sports shoulder-length brown hair, wavy, combed but it hasn't been trimmed in a while. Shaggy. Undisciplined. It is easy for the Wild Boy to picture this man as a musician, strumming a guitar in a smoke-filled club, crooning about moonlit oceans and warm, languid brown eyes, with the object of eliciting a shower of women's panties. The feral quality of his eyes, as he rakes the Wild Boy's sweaty flesh from top to bottom, suggests that this crooner is the type who would gladly insert himself between girlfriend and boyfriend and jam his fingers -- perhaps even the one wrapped by the golden band -- up the boyfriend's snug butthole.

"Nice," murmurs the man, grinding a cigarette out on the post. "I'm Todd."

"Call me WB," says the Wild Boy. Brazenly he palms Todd's crotch, right there on the sidewalk, the noise of kids playing in the yard a few houses down providing the soundtrack. He hefts what he feels there. The Wild Boy is always curious about the toys he gets to play with. Todd wears boxers. Goddamn motherfucking boxers, but at least they allow the Wild Boy to gauge the size of a man's cock.

"Nice," says the Wild Boy. "So that pic wasn't BS." Big balls, too. Betcha this guy's got kids. A whole fucking brood of 'em.

Todd grinds his crotch against the Wild Boy's palm. "No BS Come on. The old man wants to get this party started." Todd grins. "He's a horny fuck."

"So am I," says the Wild Boy.

They haven't gone two steps up the driveway when one of the other men emerges from the back yard, walking through the gap between cottage and garage. He is not the old man. He is tall and lanky, like Todd, but his hair is black and short. A neatly trimmed beard lines his jaw. Everything about this one is neat. He wears a polo shirt and khaki shorts. His calves are hard like a bike Nazi. Gold too gleams on one of his fingers. He sips a beer from a local microbrewery. Surely this man would lead a team of young web programmers in some refurbished office building downtown, building some talking smartphone app that might relieve America's overtaxed population of the burden of, say, reading a fucking map.

A ghostly smile flickering on the Wild Boy's lips, he says, "He your brother, Todd?"

Todd laughs. "What? You from West Virginia? Come here, Sean!" Todd throws an arm round the Wild Boy. Suddenly he sniffs. "Shit, man, you smell good."

To the Wild Boy's disappointment, Todd smells like fresh cotton. At least he doesn't stink of cologne.

Sean strides up to the Wild Boy. As he passes a patio table he sets the bottle of beer on it. His brows furrowed with intensity, he stops right up to the Wild Boy. His hands caress the Wild Boy's smooth stomach, rising slowly, slipping under the State tee, appraising the smooth young muscle beneath. His fingers locate the Wild Boy's nipples.

His eyes flash like daggers into the Wild Boy's eyes. "Nice." Then Sean pinches strongly and yanks the Wild Boy's face against his own, shoving his tongue down the Wild Boy's throat.

As the Wild Boy's cock stiffens, slim Todd plasters himself to the Wild Boy's ass, grinding his crotch against those hot, sweaty globes. His hands slip into the shorts. "Jockstrap?" he murmurs. "Yes. Good."

Sean breaks the kiss. "You kiss better than my wife." He looks down the Wild Boy's body. "You're gonna get raped, you know?" He tugs at his groin, where his hard shaft tents the khaki.

The Wild Boy grins. "That's the fuckin' idea!" The Wild Boy unzips Sean's shorts and starts to kneel.

"Not here." Sean hauls the Wild Boy back to a standing posture.

"What's in the backpack?" Todd asks, cupping the Wild Boy's buttcheeks, kneading them.

"Change of clothes."

"Come on," says Sean. "Can't rape in the front yard."

The big garage door is closed but there is a smaller door to one side, standing open. Sean leads them towards it. The Wild Boy stumbles once because his eyes are fixed to Sean's small, tightly packed globes.

Sean calls over his shoulder, "Want a beer?"

The Wild Boy snatches Sean's beer from the table as they pass. "Got one." He chugs.

Inside the garage the air is somewhat cooler. Todd shuts the door behind them. The garage looks to be one of those that have been repurposed as a junk room. There is stuff. Lots of stuff, though someone has cleared a space there in the middle of the heaped junk. Boxes lean precariously against the walls. Drills, saws, hammers, and screwdrivers are bracketed against the pegboard above a workbench. A table saw lies against a wall. No sawdust, someone must've swept up. A set of tires leans against the big door. The garage smells of gasoline and oil. There are old oil stains on the concrete near the drain in the center.

The Wild Boy's heart begins to race and a wet spot appears on his cotton athletic shorts. He drains the beer as Todd's hands gets frisky in his sweaty jockpouch. Sean turns, again teasing the Wild Boy's nipples, bending down to sniffle at his armpits, his hands also exploring beneath the Wild Boy's shorts, roaming over smooth buttcheeks.

"You the old man?" the Wild Boy laughs.

Balanced on a folding table is a mirror on which someone has cut lines of fine white powder. Beside it is a cooler where bottles of beer bob in a mixture of ice and water. At the table --

Through a mouthful of sweaty neck flesh, Todd calls, "Hey, old man!"

Wiping his nose, the man, who had been leaning over the mirror, straightens. Old? Not even by the Wild Boy's standards, which measures age by prowess on the athletic field and in the sling. Man? Certainly. Black as midnight. His head is shaved and gleaming with sweat. Built like a bull. Broad shoulders piled high with muscles, exposed because he's shirtless, just the way a man would be after mowing his yard. Corded muscles ripple on his arms. The bull man wears jeans old and faded and plastered to his body, stained with oil and grass. They bulge ominously over his crotch.

The Wild Boy's mouth waters.

"You call me Jackson, boy," the black man growls, a fierce look on his face. "Mr. Jackson." Then he grins. "Nice. I thought your pic was fake. You're hot. We're gonna have some fun." He beats his chest. "Aw, yeah, let's get it on!"

"Toss me a beer," asks the Wild Boy. "I finished this one." He catches the bottle Jackson tosses his way, uncaps it, and chugs deeply.

Jackson folds his arms across his chest. "Do 'im, guys. Do that hot fucker!"

Sean kneels, scraping over the Wild Boy's stomach with his beard. He stares at the young man's bulging crotch. Leaning in he sniffs. "Sweaty," he murmurs. "Yeah. I like this!"

The Wild Boy chugs. Excess beer flows over his chin, down his chin, soaking his shirt.

Jackson undoing his belt. "Todd. Sean. You want some brew? Some coke?"

Todd shakes his head. He lifts the Wild Boy's tee and flings it away. It lands, fluttering like a flag of surrender, on the stack of tires. His tank top joins it. "Nope. I'm good." One hands crawl around the youngster's flesh and tug at his nipples. The other remains fascinated with the Wild Boy's taut buttflesh.

Sean murmurs, "I'm thirsty, yeah man, but for something else." He seizes the waistband of the Wild Boy's shorts and yanks them down.

Jockstrap. Bike. Old. Worn. Piss stains the pouch and the fabric reeks of jism and sin. The Wild Boy's cock juts above the waistband, leaking. His balls spill out on either side of that straining, frayed fabric. The straps barely crease his hard buttflesh. Beer leaking down the Wild Boy's body mingles with the less refined fluids enriching his jock.

Sean sniffs, snorting the reek from the Wild Boy's as assiduously as Jackson had his coke. Licking his lips, he unzipping his shorts. "Nice," he murmurs. He extracts the Wild Boy's cock, tugging the pouch aside. Nine inches of hard, cut jock cock jerks and throbs in Sean's face.

"Your wife ain't got that," grins the Wild Boy, belching loudly.

"Get him, boys!" Jackson barks.

But Sean doesn't move, adoring that hot cock with smoldering eyes. Todd squats behind the Wild Boy. A kiss to the left. A kiss to the right. Then he pries open the buttflesh and stares at the pucker concealed within. Not a hair in sight. This kid is smooth as a choirboy.

"Hot butt, boy," Todd mutters.

"Don't forget -- it's a condom-free zone!" laughs the Wild Boy. He looks down at Sean and a sneer disfigures his coltish innocence. "Come on, Sean. Sniff me!"

Todd moves more swiftly towards what he's burning for than cock-sniffing Sean, spitting on the smooth cheeks and shoves his face in that swampy canyon. Todd's tongue begins tasting the sweat the Wild Boy accumulated on the hot bus ride and walk.

"Oh fuck yeah," mutters the Wild Boy, chugging hard. He spits a mouthful onto Sean. "Suck it!"

"Sean stuffs the Wild Boy's cockhead in his mouth. Just the head. His tongue lashes the steamy flesh, tickling the slit and the frenum. The Wild Boy lays his free hand on Sean's head, gently guiding the man.

"Come on," he orders. "Eat my cock like you do your wife's cunt! Here, Mr. Jackson." The Wild Boy tosses the empty bottle back. "I'd throw it away myself but I gotta pee!" He rests his forearms on his head, fully exposing the swampy, fetid mess of his armpits.

Sean's cheeks hollow.

The Wild Boy's eyes close. He sighs, relaxing.

The first blast of piss Sean is able to swallow, because he's hungry for it, but the Wild Boy has been saving up a bladderfull, so his stream is thick and the pressure is immense. The second mouthful escapes, flowing between his lips and the Wild Boy's nine inch meat, pouring through his beard down his chin, soaking his crisp polo shirt with the rancid evidence of what he lusts for. He doesn't give up, gulping away, drinking as best he can what he's been craving. Pee puddles round his shoes briefly before beginning to run for the drain.

"Drink it, Sean." Jackson, sweat blooming on his naked chest, chugs another beer. He departs the table. He strides around the three, studying the Wild Boy from every angle. He cups a hand beneath Sean's chin, catching a handful of the Wild Boy's golden nectar, and lifts it up to his lips, slurping obscenely at it. He taps Todd, still munching jock butt, on the shoulder.

Todd rises. He unsnaps his jeans and exposes his cock. Eight inches of meat. Enough to cause a woman some discomfort as it plunges in her cooze. Jackson spits a huge wad onto it, greasing it up and guiding it to the Wild Boy's socket. "Breeding season!"

Todd, tongue lolling, seizes the Wild Boy's hips and impales him.

"Shit!" the Wild Boy howls. His cock rips free from Sean's urinal-fresh mouth. His dying stream of piss drenches Sean, exploding on the bearded man's face and striping shirt and shorts with reeking piss. A final burst soaks Sean's hair as Todd sinks his shaft to be base into the Wild Boy's butt.

"Nice cunt," Todd growls into the Wild Boy's ear.

"Did it hurt?" Mr. Jackson rumbles.

"Oh yeah," murmurs the Wild Boy, hunching his hips back as Todd begins stroking his guts. "Fucking awesome!"

"Get up, Sean," Jackson grumbles.

The bearded man rises. Piss drips from his beard.

Jackson slaps him across the face. "You're a sick piss pig, aren't you?"

Sean nods. He drops his wet shorts. They fall into the puddle of piss the trio stands in. Jackson seizes Sean's hair and hauls him to his feet. Jackson then grabs the Wild Boy by the back of his neck and forces him to bend over. The Wild Boy, his guts blazing with pain, absorbs the brutal thrusting as Todd pumps his butt. He thrusts Sean's cock into his face, sniffing the piss fumes rising from a soaked forest of pubic hair. Gagging and spluttering he takes Sean's piss-soaked hardon all the way to the root. Tears leak from The Wild Boy's eyes. He braces himself, locking his palms on Sean's thighs, as Todd pummels his butt.

Fuck yeah! The Wild Boy is happy!

Jackson staggers back, admiring his work. Two tools drill hot young flesh. He likes it. Something huge leaps and bobs in the thigh of his jeans. He kicks Sean's shorts across the floor, cupping the bearded man's ass. His fingers find the pucker and probe. "You wanna go too, boy? You've been holding it an awful long time."

"Yeah I do, Daddy. I wanna piss in his mouth!"

Sean relaxes. A solid shaft of piss explodes from his cock just as the Wild Boy's lips press into his sopping pubic bush. The urine gushes down the Wild Boy's gullet directly into his stomach. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. But the Wild Boy's not having this. He backs up, coughing up the seven inch log Sean's stuffed in there, because, hell, a pig like him can't pass up the chance to taste man-piss right from the spigot. Far more practiced than Sean he's able to chug the flood without spilling it but, because he's a pig, he from time to time spits a mouthful of liquid gold against Sean's hairy belly. The droplets of juice dripping from Sean's hairy bag mesmerize the Wild Boy.

"Watcha think, son?" Jackson asks.

"Better than Michelle!" the long haired man growls. "Helluva lot better!"

Todd churns his raw cock in the Wild Boy's guts. A little mucous has emerged there so he can slip and slide more easily than he could on just Jackson's spit. Ripping his cock out, he stares at the Wild Boy's cunt, a gaping cherry-red wound. The pucker, empty and bereft of cock, suckles at him, beginning for me.

"Shit, kid, you're hot!" Todd smacks each buttcheek and buries himself again, pumping madly. "Give me some poppers, Dad!"

Jackson caps Todd's butt, circling round him on the way back to cooler. He takes his time, snorting another line, while Todd spits and curses, pumping the Wild Boy's butthole, while Sean's fingers rake the Wild Boy's stubble, pumping at his lips. Grinning, Jackson savors the piggish noises emanating from the copulating trio. The slurping noise as the Wild Boy gobbles Sean's cock. The grunts when Todd buries his shaft just a bit too deep. Two husbands and a bitch-boy.

Jackson fishes a bottle of Rush Ultra from the cooler and brings it to Todd.

With the first blast Todd churns into overdrive. His face turns flinty hard as he fucks madly at the Wild Boy's tight butthole Jackson removes the bottle from Todd's grasp, granting the Wild Boy a sniff, and then Sean. Caressing the cock throbbing in his jeans he watches the trio put on a porn show for him.