Onward chapter four -- smut, milkshakes and tragedy occur!
A Troubled Boy
Chapter Four: Precious
By Little Needle
It rains nearly everyday now. It rains when I lay to rest each morning before the sparrows wake, it rains each afternoon while I sit alone at the table where we once shared our breakfast -- remember, by the goldfish pond? It rains and it floods and it simply drowns a man until there is nothing left of him but a soppy mess of a soul in place of a once fine, robust mind.
I once told you the boy would destroy me, did I not?
Disaster struck, I think, for me that same night he ran away from me at the table. He ran from me because he was afraid of what was happening to him, to us... and I followed.
Foolishly, I followed.
I went to the boy, his precious underpants still damp in my breast pocket, and I kissed him. I kissed him the way I had for so long yearned.
I gave in.
I pressed him to his closet door and I did what any sane man ought to have known better of. I held him there with my clumsy, trembling hands clenched through his hair, holding him captive as I took and plundered and ached into his precious, precious mouth.
The way he cried haunts me now; sorrow, fear, hunger, pain. All of this, you see, because I could not control myself when it came to this one, insignificant -- boy. Because I could not quell the urge to take what I thought was mine.
It was the maid who found us, dear Charlotte, with her unfortunate timing; one oven-mitt still on, face split between her righteous indignation and utter shock. She struck me with her chubby, purple fists and pulled the boy from my tender grasp.
She stole him from me stumbling and crying down the stairs and out the parlour door. I ran after them, of course, but in the dark and through the downpour I thought I saw them vanished for good.
She would take him to the police, I knew that. My only chance, I was sure, was to try and get there first. I got into the car, turned the ignition and -- and, there stood my Harry.
Sopping wet, yes. Sock-less, of course.
But smiling, smiling at me through the passenger window; eyes squinting, hair flat against his lily cheek. He plucked the door handle, wrenched it open with a heave and proud huff of his little arms, and squirmed in up close to me, damp skin on leather seats squeaking, knees scuffed and red, boy giggling, and my world suddenly, blissful upright. 'I would get going if I were you, mister,' he said to me 'she'll be furious when she figures out I crawled out the back seat window.'
We ran away together, his warm, sweaty little hand in mine. We drove on for hours that way, the boy asleep on my lap, fingers curled into loose fists, crescent mouth slack in his dreams, mouthing careful, unintelligible words every few miles we drove on. But still I kept my eyes between the winding, pitch road ahead and his beautiful, childish face. Watching over him this way, I resolved to love the boy from afar. I could never allow myself to lose him again, and for however long it took, if that meant not touching him, I would welcome the pain it brought.
Around midnight he woke, rubbing the sleep from his heavy lashes, wanting to know if it would be alright to stop. He was hungry, he said, because he never did get to finish his dinner.
With my new resolve at mind we set to finding a safe, comfortable place to tuck in. Eventually we found a small diner off the road some ways. A quaint little greasy spoon with checkered floors, wooden blinds, red leather booths and a gleaming chrome soda bar at the counter. Immediately his eye went to the counter and I knew it then that he must have one. I could give him that. I took him there, the boy still clutching my hand, and watched him arch up onto his toes, tilting the ruffle of his skirt, and place his order in a little whisper he usually reserved for very special occasions. 'Chocolate soda please.' he breathed and then added as a side note in his most imposing tone, 'Without the cherry.'
The boy acted very peculiar once we reached our booth. He could not seem to sit still, with his feet dangling from the too-tall seat and his damp clothes sticking in odd places. He snuggled up very close to me and took each indulgent spoonful of his thick soda with his mouth open like a little bird. I thought nothing of his behavior until sometime later and a half cup through my second pouring of coffee.
He still had not stopped his squirming but something had definitely changed. He was anxious now in his movements; feet jiggling from the ankles when he was seated, and when he wasn't, crawling over me to get up and down from the lavatory and back.
When our plates arrived he quieted down enough to dip each crisped, golden potato into the sweet ketchup pooled in one corner of his warm plate, taking small nips and then dipping again before finally finishing with a contented sigh. He then set to popping each one of his five fingers into his mouth to suckle the last remains of salt and tomato from his sugar-sticky skin. I could not help but to notice how closely this dainty, achingly thorough act resembled one much more adult in nature. He seemed not to be at all aware of my gaze and so I continued on with my traitorous thoughts, taking on the role of the filthy voyeur.
My coffee grew cold and I asked for another cup, and that too ran cold because my darling boy was now causing me the most insufferable distraction. I had been lazily stirring the last of the cream into my cup when a round, pudgy sort of woman with a plump, sticky red mouth tip-toed over to collect our plates. I tipped her graciously and while she paused to tuck the coins into her apron pocket I distinctly felt a very naked set of toes slip their way up my calf, stopping halfway to my knee, and with a flick of a no doubt pink toe, snap the clasp of my stocking brace free.
I looked directly at the boy and by way of his expression I could tell nothing of his secret, roving limbs. He kept his eyes to the woman, who winked jovially his way. I looked to her rather more in a daze than I had expected, watching her thick mouth move at a lethargic pace around large, square teeth. I thought I saw a smudge of lipstick smear its way along the top row of her teeth but I wasn't sure as I was easily distracted by the arch of a small curved foot skipping its way in little taps up the inside of my thigh, coming to rest no less than an inch shy of my cock. I shifted guiltily in my seat and tried to slip from the boys' reach without rousing the waitresses suspicion (who, by the way, was still giggling coyly about something or another to poor Harry) .
I dart a sour look his way and he blinks, yawning, stretching widely (arms in the air, back arching) and then slumping back into the booth, his precious foot now nudged securely between my thighs.
I start, gasping, forgetting myself, shocked at the boys audacity. I look at him again and he doesn't so much as breath my way. But there is, I suspect, a suspiciously satisfied smile twinkling across his smug face that is perhaps a slight too brilliant for that of a reward to the batty waitress' wit. The boy laughs brightly at something she says and discreetly as possible I grasp my hand around his protruding ankle and push it from my lap with an angry flick of my wrist. His face falls just slightly and it is enough for me to understand the game he plays. The waitress finally takes her leave, and I see the most wonderful shade of red as a little foot lands heavily between my legs once more. Furious, I turn with my shoulders to face him but he does not even appear to notice, slouched there, eyes shut, head tilted back against the quilted backing.
Free of any eye witnesses I shove the heel from my lap and hear the ring of the hollow steel table leg tickle the air as his foot collides. The boy flinches and now I can see that he is furious, maybe even a little hurt.
My heart wilts and I reach out to place a hand on his shoulder. He jerks from my reach, snarling the best way he knows how; lips curled but the sound escaping him much more of a simper. I reach further, somewhat put off and admittedly possessive and pull him back toward me. He struggles briefly and then there is a scuffle in which the boy sets a fine row of tiny white teeth into my arm and I cuff him lightly around the ear.
This cannot be done publicly. I panic.
Squealing the way, I drag him by the scruff of his jumper, his feet skipping and dragging behind, tiny clawing fingers clutching and digging into any piece of me within reach. I push him in through the first door to my right and he falls to the floor. He scrambles to his feet, eyes wide, barely gaining himself before I have him in my arms, my lips to his hair. He pounds his fists to my chest and I break away, quickly backing him into the counter to the flat space between two sinks and push him quickly onto his back. I hear the panic in his voice but I cannot -- will not -- hear him now.
He is mine.
I run my hands up his thighs, hooking my thumbs into the buttery wool of his skirt and bunch it up around his navel. He squirms, wrapping his calves but arching his back. I catch his ankles in one hand and tear at the fragile cream lace of his underpants. He gasps, struggling, biting sharp fingernails into my straining shoulder. I cannot believe how heavily I am breathing now as the material catches on his clenched knees. I leave him that way, tangled in his own underpants, and wrench his legs further above his head so that I may reach down to feel the bud of his anus twitch and grasp under my finger.
I cry out. I almost lose myself. He is wet already.
Trembling shamefully I bring myself back to look at what I have for so long wanted; gleaming, swollen red, gasping and protruding as if to push out against me. I trail the flat of my thumb over his scrotum; the round tight sack strains deep and plump, trapped and pinched firmly between little boy thighs. He whines truly now as if it pains him and I force my eyes to his face. His cheeks are as flushed as his entrance, two pinpoints of pomegranate colour staining the rounded apples. He's biting his mouth ragged and his chin is wobbling, but he will not look at me. I close my eyes, trying to calm myself, trying to rationalize but the only thing that comes to me is the vision of him this way with his legs splayed and three little white fingers jutting in and out of that hungry little part of him that has driven me this far to my own inevitable downfall.
I twist my longest finger into him and the boy arches obscenely, flicking his hips and settling with my finger stretching him over my third knuckle. I can barely breath. I want to fall to my knees and cry. Because if all of those touches and kisses, those looks---if he--
'This is what you wanted---tell me this is what you wanted!'
'Is this what you were doing with that man, -- if he touched you, if --'
'Tell me the truth!'
'I wanted---I wanted you to find me and come a-and--'
He cries as I push into him. Despite his slickness my cock tears at the tight muscle of his tiny anus. It feels like a terrible, terrible sort of communion. He moves with my cock as I move, slowly at first, the tears streaming down his face, pooling in the hollow of his throat and into the dips of his ears. I double over him, trying to protect, pulling the bit of cloth from his knees and off of his ankles. Immediately he clings to me, wrapping new thighs around my waist. I will die if he moves.
He lifts his bottom from the cold, hard counter, trying to take all of me and I help him, lifting him gently with my palms. He moans his very first moan and I devour him, catching his abused mouth underneath mine and stroking my tongue over delicate tissue and muscle in time with my hips. The squeals straining from his throat are too much of a cry for attention and I steal them away with a kiss.
No one must hear us.
His throat still works and when I pull back for air I am transfixed to the sight of his effort to contain himself; throat swallowing around large, thick syllables, muscles pumping and neck arching as if it where my cock slipping down his pretty little throat instead of his pleas for more! and now! and everything!
I came deep inside of him, the tip of my jealous heat pressed knowingly to the little gem of pleasure no boy-child should ever know he possesses. He cried for me when he came in one hot spurt against my tie and the sorrow in his voice told of a much more worthy tale than I could ever have given to you. He was losing something he had just found and somehow knew this long before I could ever have comprehend such a deluded tragedy.
We left the diner, his newly ruined knickers in my trouser pocket, his Sunday skirt smooth and in place once more, and my tie in the trash. From there we walked directly into that 'doom' I have been so fond of referring to over these past hours. For there, at the end of our first blissful walk, stood Charlotte.
In the end I surrendered her the boy. He went quite unwillingly (or so he spat in my face), little legs kicking, teeth bared.
She would care for him, she told me, and protect him from the monsters like myself, 'Mr. Snape'. She wouldn't tell a soul, she gave her word, and so I gave the very life of me away and in turn received the very 'death' of me.
My story ends thus far, with me standing here in the empty room of a boy I once loved where there was once a small desk, a small bed and a troubled boy called Harry.
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