As I sit to consider the next stage of my encounters with the old man next door, I can’t remember specific events other than flashes of moments. The times when I would suck him off — sometimes in my own house while my parents and his wife were downstairs chatting it up. Other times in the woods or behind the shed or when he was home alone.
I don’t consider myself “good” at oral sex. I do a sufficient job and, for him, it always worked. Perhaps it was the danger for a 14-year-old boy who knelt at the altar of his massive cock. Perhaps it’s why I never became a real cock sucker since I didn’t particularly like it, but it would never fit in my ass.
On a good encounter, he would jerk me off. On a bad encounter, he would leave me alone with a hardon. And in every encounter, he would leave me overwhelmed with guilt, fear and a sense of doom that these choices would leave my soul irreparably crippled, in danger of hell.
At the time, I attended church every Sunday and spent many mornings praying the gay away. Trying to tear myself from the feeling of reaching out and touching a man. But more than anything, I wanted a man to touch me. Soon that would happen.
But not now. Not yet. I lingered just on this side of insanity.
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