Dark Passengers Series

Dark Passenger: Margarine for Fucking

When I arrived, he was already naked. He’d called over to as my Mom if I could come over and assist him with some project. I don’t recall what he really needed me to do. It was made up anyway. I think it was hot Southern spring day. I remember birds. Lots of song birds. Or at least the sounds of spring birds.

I hesitated at first. I didn’t want to go. Or did I? Maybe I did. Perhaps I want to see his cock. No! I don’t. I don’t want to put my hands around his firm, thick, huge cock. I don’t want to stroke it and put it in my mouth, lick it and taste him. Even though I’d dreamed about cocks in my mouth.

In the pit of my stomach, I felt a little sick. Sick? Maybe butterflies. That sickness dropped lower and began tickling at the base of my balls. My cock began to rise.

I walked into the house and he was in his living room, naked and stroking his gigantic cock. And when I say GIGANTIC, I mean it was more massive and dense than the thousands of cocks I have seen since … with the exception of a few, most of those on African American men.

As I look back, I wonder if this was actually our third encounter. But I distinctly remember him being naked and waiting. And in a moment, I was naked too.

We didn’t lay down. We didn’t go to a bed. He guided my head to his cock and I began the frustrating job of sucking his huge cock. My 11- or 12-year-old mouth wasn’t big enough to make a dent on his cock. So he suggested we try something else.

He left to the bathroom. He rustled around and looked for something. Something he couldn’t find. Of course, I was rock hard, anxious and just wanted him to come back. He came out of the bathroom and ducked into the kitchen. He came out with a stick of margarine.

Yes, margarine.

I had no idea why he was bringing me butter substitute. He told me to stand up and turn around. I felt a cold slab against the crack of my ass. I turned around to see him slathering it over the head of his cock.

“This will hurt a little, but just relax.”

He pushed me over to support myself. His cock found my hole and he pushed.

Lube aside, we’re talking about a massive cock of more than six inches around and he somehow thought it would go into my ass. The ass of a 130 pound kid. No way. In fact, I never had an opportunity to complain. He never put enough force behind his pushing to ever get inside. After attempts (and my horniness), he gave up.

I was on my knees soon and started sucking. The buttery taste seemed a little weird but I adjusted. It didn’t take long for him to begin shooting. His spunk abruptly entered my mouth. I did the logical thing and swallowed.

He recovered and I stood, hoping for a reciprocal blowjob. He grabbed my cock and started jerking. I didn’t say anything much. He just jerked without much attention.

“Did you swallow it?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he said. Then, after a pause. “This is a bad thing. We shouldn’t do this. You know, you’re going to go to hell for this. Your prick is broken too. It’s not supposed to point that way….”

But he was jerking me. He was getting me close. I didn’t hear him. I shot suddenly, blowing across the room. He then complained since some of my load landed on a sofa. It was the first time someone got me off. It was the first time I wasn’t doing donuts in the gym that I had this sensation. But I couldn’t focus on this.

He was angry. He was telling me how much trouble I was in. He was saying what hell would be like for me. A cloud of extreme guilt descended on me. It buried me in a few moments. I was depressed. I was sad. I was guilty. I never wanted to do it again.

 

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  1. This was around 1981 or 1982. Boy Butter didn’t exist then — especially out in rural Georgia.

  2. he should have just used Boy Butter. margarine is just messy and -terrible…

  3. What a pathetic monster he was, a pitiful man projecting his self-loathing onto a young boy who’d not yet learned to assert and defend himself from such abuse. To inflict his urges on you and then damn you for his personal failures (which is what he did when he pressed you to believe you were in the wrong, that you were going to Hell) is just, I have to repeat, pathetic.

    I don’t know whether his sexuality was pedophilic or if he was severely closeted gay / bi man (the former seems likely given what you mention in The End of Him). Regardless of which he dealt with (or rather, failed to deal with in a responsible manner), he could have been kinder and more supportive of you even in his sexual molestation of you; his pitiful character ensured that he wasn’t.