The standard disclaimers apply: If you are below 18 (or 21 in some areas) or for some legal/religious/moral/other reason cannot or do not wish to read a story involving sex between underage males then DO NOT CONTINUE.
The following story is completely fictional and any resemblances to persons either living or dead are purely coincidental-don't think I have been following you!
This is MY story, copyrighted to me. If you really want to post it elsewhere-just ask!
Please let me know what you think at menzoberranzen_of_the_drow@hotmail.com As long as what you have to say is not hateful I would love to hear from you. I respond to all emails. Constructive criticism is more than welcome.
My fist landed full on his nose and then it was over. He keeled over unconscious before me, blood leaking from his nose over the lush carpet. Then I panicked - what had I done? I had just punched my own father in the face! As bad as that was, my father was not a forgiving man and I knew there would be hell to pay in the morning.
I walked towards the phone, ready to call the hospital, but as I picked up the receiver I put it back before dialing. Why? Why should I abase myself for this man who had made my life hell for the past four years?
Let me explain; my mother died when I was 9 and, indeed, a part of my father died with her. He progressively drank more and more, all the while becoming more and more distant, and eventually violent with me. When I was younger, he was gentler with me and as I grew I "understood" his grief and therefore tolerated his behavior. But it had become too much for me now - I had long ago given up any notion of guilt or obligation towards the man and tonight had destroyed any sympathy I had left.
I packed my bags, stole what little cash I could find and walked out of that apartment. It was the best and worst decision that I ever made.
Oh the arrogance of youth! We think we know everything; we read books and watch the news and suddenly we know everything there is to know. I counted myself as a compassionate person, always telling my few friends what it was like to be homeless or live in Africa. The following year would humble me and push to limits beyond what I had ever imagined possible.
Can one person endure this much? I asked myself as I lay there bloodied and beaten under the blurry figure of a young boy.
"Jesus Christ!" I yelled as I felt a sharp stab in my leg. The next thing I felt was a needle followed by blackness.
When I next woke, it was to the unique scent of a parking garage; a parking garage that was apparently used as a living area.
"Heya," called a boy's lively voice.
"Umm, hey?" I half said, half questioned.
"No thanks?" he asked, his voice joking but with an edge that I, as a rich city boy was not used to.
"Umm," I repeated. "I really don't remember much, can you fill me in a bit."
"Well, I don't know too much. I found you yesterday with a friend of mine, lying by a dumpster, covered in blood. We brought you here and I did my best to fix you up but 13 stitches from me is not a fun experience."
"WHAT! How can I not remember getting stitches?" I demanded.
"Well, heroin can make you forget things, sometimes."
"Heroin!" I demanded again, scared.
"Oh, stop shouting!" he snapped. "If you've never taken heroin, then you ain't from 'here.'"
"Where is here?" I asked tentatively.
He just laughed and told me to tell my story first. And so I began, recounting my fight with my father my ill-advised venture into the street and, the last thing I remember, a white SUV. As soon as I mentioned the car, he cut me short and explained that the guy was known for beating kids for no reason other than a sick pleasure.
"Well kid," he sighed at the end of my 'story.' "You've been through a lot. Come on, we'll go find a phone."
"NO," I said rather childishly. "I'm not going back there and I'm not going to a youth home either."
"What are you going to do, live on the streets?" he laughed.
"You do, don't you," I said a little defensively.
His face flickered with emotion before it hardened again and he replied, somewhat wearily, "Yeah, I do."
"Well then, mind some company?"
He looked at me with a mixture of incredulity and humor.
"You have no idea what my life is," he said. "You can't have any idea of what my life is like."
"Well..."
"But," he cut me off. "I had my own problems with families and if that is what you want, I'll show you the ropes. My name's Kale"
"Josh," I replied, smiling in my naivete.
"Not for long."
I lived on the streets for a year and a half before I made a mistake and found myself sitting in a police station. I looked at the old photo of me that the cops had placed beside my bed an then I looked into the mirror. Oh, how I had changed. My once beautiful boy's body had been transformed. I now looked like a heroin addict, gaunt and pale with eyes that were sunken into my head. My hair was long and ragged and I sported many scars, the worst over six inches long, running from my collarbone down my chest. But that was what my life had been; the dealer who had given me the scar having lost life at the edge of the same knife. Despite the hardships, I had what almost no other kid out there did. I had love. Soon after picking me up, I fell in love Kale. We lived together, fought together and together we survived emotionally as well as physically. We sold drugs for money but we rarely used them and in only a couple of months, we were known by everyone. We brought compassion to a hopeless world, we spent Saturdays by the lake, or in a cheap diner - as far as we were concerned, we had it all but as they say, "The higher you rise, the farther you fall".
Two months ago, I had found Kale's body covered in blood, lying in a ditch. My grief knew no bounds, and I became reckless. On the street you survive by caution and I was a master of it, but I crawled into a bottle to hide from my problems, and I got caught trying to steal vodka, already too drunk to walk straight.
I looked at my skeletal frame in the mirror, sighing, when a police officer walked in to the room.
"Hello, Josh," he said.
"Hello," I mumbled.
"It's time to go."
"Where?"
"St. Peter's Care Center for Boys. It's a first rate institution run by the church."
"Oh, great. I can get raped by some priest," I rolled my eyes.
"Come on boy," he said grabbing my arm.
"DON'T touch me," I said sharply, pulling my arm away.
"Fine, follow me."
And so I came back into society and things that had once been second nature to me came hard - namely trust.
After a brief introduction to the priest who ran the center, I was showed to the small room that I was sharing with one other boy.
I walked in and, to my surprise, the room was tidy and didn't have the same smell as the others.
"Hey dude," called the boy sitting on the bed.
"Hey," I replied, my tone not inviting more conversation.
"I'm Tom, what's your name?" he asked.
"Call me Fyr," I said, referring to the name I had taken on the streets.
"OK, you wanna to something."
"No," I said, putting what few possessions I had in the small cupboard that was provided.
"Oh, alright then. I'm going to play ball. Come out if you want to join us."
"Thanks, see ya."
He was an average looking kid, but there was something about him that appealed to my senses. Perhaps it was an innocence that I hadn't seen in over a year, perhaps it was just my desperation to find something, anything to replace the void in my life. Shortly after I had showered and finished organizing my corner of the room, there was a knock at the door.
"Come in," I called.
The door opened and three people walked in; a cop, a priest and someone that I would learn to be a social worker.
"Hello Josh," said the cop.
"Please, call me Fyr," I said wincing at my old name.
"Ok, Fyr. I know this is going to be hard to hear but I have to tell you," he said. "Shortly after your disappearance your father died of a drug overdose."
"Ok, so I get to live here now?" I asked sarcastically, not caring in the slightest about my father.
"Yes," he replied, looking at me oddly. "Well, I have to get going, see you later."
He left and then the psychiatrist and the priest started talking to me. They told me that I would have to do a bit of rehab, and then they would start looking for a foster family for me. I listened without caring as they explained the rules to me. Finally they left and I decided to go and play a bit of basketball. We had played often, using the old balls that the rich kids "lost" so their parents would get them new ones. The grounds of the home were very large, with the ball court right in the middle, so I walked over there. They didn't want to talk, which suited me just fine but they didn't mind me playing with them. I was not a very big guy, but I was deceptively quick and my reflexes were great, and it was soon clear that I was easily among the best players there. One guy named Joe, who previously had had no competition started to get a bit rough and when I blocked him hard, he got violent.
"Kid, get off the court," he demanded of me.
"No," I stated simply.
"This is my ball and I make the rules," he said, unused to being challenged.
"How impressive," I said sarcastically. "The owner of a basket ball!"
"You little shit!" he yelled, his fist coming towards my face.
He was a big, stupid playground bully and I was a quick-thinking, agile kid that had lived his worst nightmares - he had no chance. I ducked lazily and brought my foot up into his gut, doubling him over. I'll give him credit, that move would stop most adults from continuing their attack, but he came bag with a clumsy round-house punch. I side stepped and tripped him onto his face when a "child-protection officer" (a.k.a. warden) came over here to see what the problem was. We were both sent to our rooms and forbidden from basketball for a week. What horror ;)
I had been in that depressing place for a week when my life gained new meaning. Thinking I was alone, I stepped out of the shower and dropped my towel when I got into the room, my 6.5inch uncut cock swing freely, when Tom walked in.
"Ooops," he said dumbly.
"Shit," I said rushing to cover myself up. One habit I had not lost on the street was my sense of privacy but when I looked up I noticed a sizeable bulge in Tom's pants.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, going pale.
"Don't worry about it dude, I'm gay too," I confessed. We had gotten to know each other quite well in the last week and I had felt something between us sinces that first day, so, reacting on instinct, I placed my lips on his, just for a moment.
"God," he moaned. "I've wanted that for so long."
"Shh," I said, as I began to undress his slender body.
Then, the door opened. There I was standing in a pair of briefs kissing a boy wearing little more. I was so embarrassed that I didn't even look at the intruder. When my eyes looked up I thought I was going to die.
There, as impossible as it seemed, was Kale.
Well, this is my second attempt at a story on nifty, I hope you enjoyed it. Please let me know what you thought at menzoberranzen_of_the_drow@yahoo.com.
Thoughts, criticisms and suggestions are always welcome.
My other story, Starting a New Life can be found in the high school section. To those of you who have read it, I am sorry for the lack of updates. I have written it and rewritten it but it is not working like I want it to so you will have to wait a bit longer.