With an effort, I covered myself up with my hands. Julian tried to move them, but I just said “no” a few times until he got the idea. He turned his face to me.
Fuck! The kid was crying! Not a little wetness of the cheeks or the creasing up of a face, but full-blown tears flowing down his pretty little face. My heart almost broke at that moment.
“Why, Daddy,” he cried. Sobbed, really. He was relatively quiet (which I later realised was because he had been taught to be quiet), but I had no problem understanding him, despite his wracking sobs. “Why? I have tried to be a good boy, Daddy. I’m so sorry, Daddy! Please, Daddy!” He tried to move my hands again.
I removed my hands from my cock and he seemed to smile, despite the sobs, thinking that I had acquiesced. Moments later, however, my hands were under his shoulders and I pulled him up the bed. Once he realised that I had not apparently changed my mind, the tears flowed again.
“Come here, baby,” I said. He didn’t really want to, I could see it. He moved because I was guiding him and he had been taught to do what he had been told to do. Yet, he couldn’t look at me.
I put my finger under his chin and forced him to look at me. He was still very upset, I could see.
“Tell me,” I said.
“I… I can’t,” he replied. “I promised.”
“Tell me, baby,” I said again.
“But… I promised.”
“Shh.” I kissed his forehead. “It’s OK. You’re not in trouble and no-one is going to get in trouble. Just…tell me.”
“I promised,” he repeated, but whispering this time. I knew his resistance was almost finished.
“Come here,” I said and pulled his head down onto my chest. “Tell me,” I repeated one more time.
There was a period of silence that seemed to last a lot longer than it probably did. I said nothing. Julian was going to tell me – his lack of protest about promises made that clear. I just had to wait.
Finally, the story was told. It didn’t take long, but I won’t repeat it here. Suffice to say, things were even more horrific than I had imagined. By the time he hit eighteen, he had been abused physically and verbally and not a day after he turned eighteen, he was abused sexually for some time.
The physical abuse had started with a man who was not his father (“at least, I don’t think so. Mum never seemed to know who my father was, so it’s possible, I guess”). That guy had been moved on by Julian’s mother after the bruises on his legs and body became too difficult to explain away, but then, a few guys later on, (“she liked new guys” Julian said, “many and often”,) another beat up on him again.
Not long after came foster care and things went from bad to worse. Initially, he didn’t land a foster family, but ended up in a residential where, being the youngest, the smallest and the least sporty, he was bullied, constantly by the other kids there.
Eventually, he did get placed with a family where things were good for a while, until another boy turned up. It was this boy – maybe a year older than Julian – who did most of the damage to the poor kid and, worse, who gave him the nickname ‘sissy-boy’. The next part of the tale was harrowing, I’m not going to lie. I hated hearing it, but by now the words were pouring out of Julian like water from a burst main. He couldn’t stop talking and I couldn’t stop hearing. I admit it; it scarred me.
But whatever scars it gave me, it had been a lot worse for Julian. As the years had progressed (and, despite his youth, it had been years), Julian became less convinced of his own worth as a person. He was, as he put it, just a plaything. An object to be beaten and abused and then pushed away, abandoned. Until the next time.
Eventually, his abuser had left foster care as – at eighteen – he was no longer the responsibility of the state. That had helped, for a while, and the last few months of Julian’s time in foster care had been quite pleasant.
But, as with his former foster brother, at eighteen, Julian was tossed out onto the street. OK, not quite so dramatic; there’s a whole raft of things set up by the government to help people when they first leave foster care, but – in effect – that was what happened.
Sadly, nothing changes the way a person feels about themselves and, eighteen and alone, Julian had been forced into sex by three heavyset guys. That had destroyed almost all of what little self-worth he had left and he had gone down a path of self-destruction that few get off easily.
“I don’t even know how many guys I’ve had,” he said. “Fifty? Sixty? I don’t think it’s a hundred. Not yet, anyway.” The tears had stopped, now. He was, as the song said, all cried out. He was all spoken out, too. He just lay with his head on my chest.
“Oh, baby,” I said, stroking his hair. “I’m so sorry. If I’d known…” But, if I’d known, what? I wouldn’t have fucked him? I’m knew that was a big, steaming pile of bullshit. I had my needs and I was determined to meet them. Julian was just the guy who was going to help me.
“It’s OK,” Julian said and I realised that this was probably the first time he hadn’t called me ‘Daddy’. I didn’t really miss it. “I know.”
“No,” I said and kissed the top of his head. “I shouldn’t have… I mean… it’s not fair. You deserve better. You deserved better. From me, I mean.”
“So, what,” Julian said, turning his head to look at me for the first time in forever, “you’re going to ask every guy you fuck for their life story first in future?” I shook my head. “No. Of course not. There’s lots of guys out there like me, you know. Those sites you look on for casual fucks are full of them.”
“They’re not all like that,” I countered.
“I didn’t say they were. Just that a lot are.”
I didn’t have an answer to that.
“Do you know,” Julian said after a few moments, still staring at me, “you’ve got lovely eyes.”
“What?”
“I mean it. They look… nice.”
“It’s pitch fucking black in here,” I said. “How can you see what my eyes look like?”
“I can,” he insisted. “The light outside reflects off them, even through the curtains. I can see them. They look nice.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“You know,” he said again, “I’ve never once looked a guy in the face when he fucks me. All those guys, rammed up my arse, using me for their kicks. I’ve seen more pillows and couch cushions and carpets than I can count. But never a guys face. I don’t know what a guy looks like when he cums. I don’t know if he’s smiling or grimacing or if his eyes are open or closed or anything.” He turned his face away from me again. “I just thought I’d say,” he finished.
That was the answer, I realised. How I could make things better. Not completely better, perhaps, but better.
I slid myself out from underneath him and lay on top of him. He stared at me with a look of fright on his face that I felt ashamed that I had put there. And so, to try and make up for it, I kissed him.
Not a light peck on the cheek or even a quick kiss on the lips. I put everything I was into this kiss. I parted his lips and plunged in my tongue and I fucking kissed this kid like my life depended on it.
He resisted at first, as I had guessed he might, but I was an insistent fucker and he soon began to melt into the kiss as well. He was inexperienced, that was clear (and, inside, I felt a bit shit about that), but he learned quickly. Soon we were kissing like long lost lovers and I had a feeling of exhilaration flow through me when I heard him moan for the first time. A feeling which grew when he moaned for a second time.