gayboykink:

That handprint on his butt tells you he’s been a naughty boy.

“Come on no one’s looking!”
Dean was a terribly naughty boy. He had the prettiest, cutest little cock for miles around and he knew it. He played with it all the time, even in the backyard, when the neighbors could hear. His dad would give him a spanking for misbehaving, or neglecting his chores, but it would turn him on even more and so he’d come next door looking for me. He’d sashay over, nibbling on his thumb, the tip of his cock peeking out of his underwear. He knew exactly what he was doing.

He also knew it put me in heat like nothing else to jerk off his underwear and see a fresh red handprint on his ass. I would tease him by tapping my dick against his buttcheek and he’d just moan anyway, just because a man was paying attention to him. When I was properly dripping, I’d lube him up good and just slam it home. Dean loved it hard, he loved his prostate being hammered relentlessly, he liked to feel the cool air against his wet cock as it bobbed between his legs. My favorite position was just to stand there buried in him as I shot my load in him, our bodies pressed flushed together, sweating together.

My favorite memories of those summers aren’t school football games, sneaking out to be with girls, drinking too hard at underage parties… no, most of those favorite memories are of fucking Dean against the wall of his parent’s house and holding his spasming cock as we came together. He was such a loud little thing too.

I know, I know what you’re saying, that was horny and dumb and I took advantage of him. I think I was protecting him, really, there was no shortage of rougher bigger men that would have wrecked his pussy before he was 25. By claiming him, and being the source of what he needed, I gave him a wonderful youth of debauchery and hedonism.

Even though we don’t live anywhere near eachother now, sometimes I still think when I get the mail, I’ll look up and see Dean walking up to me…straining in his underwear, and nibbling on thumb.

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Text is fictional.