Adam Ponyboy


By QuoteTheRaven

Adam felt dirty. And ashamed that he wanted to believe… Wanted to believe this ratty broker could do anything that he’d whispered. Romiano could so easily just be stringing him along, making promises, intending to never do anything, or to dupe him, or to fake him when the time came to see if it would be real.

Why did Adam believe the ratty slip? Adam saw that Rom-ee often mumbled and swore to himself, that Rom-ee would whisper quickly into payphones and never look at Adam directly from his lidded eyes. Romiano rarely met Adam in the same place twice. Why did Adam leave his parent’s white-bread, two-car, 3-kid home to come to rooms that were mildewed, wall-scarred, where the doors had six locks and the beds whispered unclean. Why did Adam who was 18 and a half and didn’t weigh on ounce over 121 lbs despite his 6 foot 2 size come? Why did he who wore shirts that were neatly collared and swam around his orderly row of rib-bones come to this den and put his glasses on the broken nightstand so that he could no longer even see? Why had he who'd sung in chorus come here again and again to have leather thongs put on his wrists and his genetically accidental cock snaked up Rom-ee’s black ass?

The encounters were gross, were such a turn on – his cock browning, his innocent, ashen skin staining with shit and the unclean sweat and hostile saliva of this frantic lover.

Adam fantasized as he was dick-groped, not shaking the whispers that the skulking punk hissed alluringly more and more suggestive and hot. How had Adam begun to find what was said so seductive, so forbidden, so intense? Why had he achingly begun to think of fantasy enticements actually becoming real? Why did he get so excruciatingly erect at the sleazy idea of what it would do to him and yet would blanche later to realize how freakishly deviant it would make him be? How could he get so fucking aroused, get so monstrously crazed, to want it so soul-sellingly bad and then walk out into the light of day and not be willing to admit it still? How could he yearn for what was fucking said and then drive up the driveway at home and get his gangly self all smiling and richie-cunningham out of the car and hug his melon- and lime-dressed family like l’il ol’ Adam good-boy? Fuck, how much it had feverishly taken control, had now turned him so pulse-thumpingly on. Why did he risk it to come near this fuck who muttered these grotesque freakositied dreams into the cum and crap of the air? Why did he come again and again when more and more he couldn’t resist the way it had made his mind begin to change? Why did he come when he couldn’t make the want go away anymore? FuUCking UnNG he groaned.

It made Adam as hard as a bone up a dog’s old ass to throb for the immoral brazen transformations painted by Romiano into the folds of his ear. The fucker’s sour breath held him with dark magic exploding his rod with the insistence that such monstrosity would be forced to come true, that this glorious deific vision of himself would be forced to be real.

Heart-hammering pulses would almost drop Adam’s anemic lengths to the ground. Rom-ee would hiss assaultingly in his ear:

“…Fuckzed Ad-ddum. YoU just LitL bgFUk… Dreamitz dDdum biggG adDuMM mUSCleS Ad-dum.. O O O… Ge’tn HuGG… hoWd Big fcked Bg BGG BBGGG wanTA Be??”

Adam panted and panted and when he could once more breathe he’d pull the dirty clothes over his filthy slender rails and drive home. •

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