Subject: Every Man Needs A Boy 2 EVERY MAN NEEDS A BOY By Encolpius AUTHOR’S NOTE: Once again, thanks to the gacha_blue and SkyBorn for making this a better stroy than I could have alone. Feedback is greatly appreciated, positvite or negative. Write ail DONATE! DONATE! DONATE! TWO Sam, the little blond headed kid that’s the stud of the Little League team I’ve been roped into helping coach, got his skinned knee cleaned up and was back in his jeans. All is well. I told him I would take him home. So I lugged the bike back downstairs. It was a junior bike and weighed like nothing but the kid told me how strong I was. It’s easy to impress a nine year old though. He was kind of quiet and pensive in the truck but he gave me directions. He didn’t live far, but wasn’t a great neighborhood. I kind of lived in the gentrified part, you know, the part that used to be shitty until people like me moved in. He lived in the part that was still shitty. It was a small house and the yard was tidy, well not the flower beds since they had no flowers, but the house was in desperate need of repairs. I went in with him but he was acting all shy and weird. Embarassed. There was a woman in the kitchen dressed in old knit shorts and an ancient knit, food stained top. The kitchen wouldn’t have passed a health department inspection. I introduced myself and apologized for Sam being late. “Oh, yeah, you’re the big coach.” she said, pulling a cigarette from her mouth. “Little faggot’s got a crush on you. He can’t stop talking about you.” I took an instant dislike to her. She’s kind of a fucking pig. I don’t know if the kid is gay or not, he’s fucking nine years old for fuck’s sake, but you ought not call him a faggot. It’s just kind of mean. “I’m sure it’s hero worship more than anything else.” I said. Sam grabbed my hand. “Come on, Coach. I’ll show you my room.” We went into the living room. There’s a man sitting on the couch watching NASCAR. He barely nodded in our direction. There’s a lot of clutter around. Just shit. But not in Sam’s room. Everything was put up and ship shape. The little twin bed that he barely filled was properly made. A poster of Freddie Freeman on the wall. “He your favorite player?” I asked. Sam nodded eagerly. Then he looked up at me like he wanted my approval. “You know who my favorite player was?” He looked up at me with those big blue eyes. “Rafeal Furcal.” He nodded. “He was a good shortstop.” “Like you.” I was kind of impressed that he knew who Furcal was. He broke into a big grin, perfect straight white teeth. “Thanks Coach!” Okay. It melted my heart. I admit it. I’m soft underneath. Fuck you, though, I can still whoop your ass. So, I didn’t even know why I gave a shit. He’s a fucking nine year old kid and it’s fucking Little League and it’s not like it even fucking matters. On the way out, the mom, I guess foster mom, asked if I was some sort of child molestor. I told her that it’s Little League. That, fuck, I had to pass a background check. It’s not like I’m after a nine year old. Shit. Bitch can kiss my ass. He’s just a cool kid. That’s all. So, I went to a party that night. There was a chick. Slinky dress, black hair, nice tits. We talked. I told her about the Little League. It makes me look good. I’m mentoring the next generation. That sort of shit. At first, she elazığ escort was interested but I guess I got long winded and she ended up blowing me off. I tried another bitch but I apparently wasn’t her type. I ended up going home and taking care of myself, if you know what I mean. That’s the problem with fucking women. I bet gay guys have it easier. I mean once they establish that the other guy is gay, of course. You know, no ass kicking at that point and they can just get down to it. But anyway, at least with a guy you understand where he is coming from, you know? He wants to get off. So I cranked it out. I watched a fine Nubian piece of snatch on PornHub but the image in my mind as I cum ain’t that fine pussy. It was a little boy’s dick. And it was sick. And it was perverted. And it was disgusting. But there it was. Tuesday and the kid wasn’t there. So, I’m pissed at him. First and most important, this whole Little League shit is important to my boss. It’s his fucking kid’s team. He has me out there because he wants to win. I’m begining to think that’s why he hired me to begin with as fucked up as that sounds. And with the kid not there, like a quarter of the athletic talent for the whole team is missing. Our chances of winning go way down. And that, I told myself, is why I care. I was rough on the kid that replaced him at short stop. But then I caught myself. That kid can’t help it. I can teach the fundamentals of fielding but I can’t make the kid instinctively know which way to break to the ball. You either have it or you don’t. Big time QB’s don’t throw to the where the receiver is, they throw to where he is going to be. Either you can figure that out without having to consciously think about it or you can’t. The blond kid, Sam, can. This kid can’t. It’s that simple. I was pissed at the third baseman. He kept on short hopping it to first. Our first baseman had decent ball skills but the kid was giving him bad hops. I was bitching him out about stepping into the throws, but the dads reminded me that they are nine. They are light on the muscles. The kid was throwing it the best he could. Finally, I was just frustrated. Let them be shitty on their on. Except I am an asshole about winning. And winning was the only reason I cared. The only reason. I spent all day Wednesday frustrated. All I knew was that the kid’s name was Sam and I could find the house. Well, maybe I could, but I didn’t know the address. I didn’t know why he wasn’t at practice. If there was a problem. If it was something I had done. If he was hurt or sick or something. I kind of frettted over it. On Friday I got lucky. I picked up a chick. I needed that. When I was married, on the road I could get all the pussy I wanted. Now that I’m divorced, I can’t get shit. But I took her home, a Goth, tattooed to shit, little slut. I fucked the shit out of her. I railed on the cunt. I fucked her until she squirted and screamed. I pounded me some pussy. I mean I had her legs pushed up and out and I banged the living, fucking shit out of her. I fucked her but I was having a problem cumming. I wanted to but I couldn’t. I fucked her and fucked her and fucked her. But I just couldn’t cum. I just couldn’t. Then the right image came into my mind. The right one. That one. Fuck. I’m not queer. I’m not. I don’t have anything elvankent escort against them. I’m not homophobic or anything but I’m not queer. I’ve spent my whole life in locker rooms with naked guys. Showering with naked guys. Sure, I’ve peeked. I’ve looked to see who’s swinging a fat bat and who’s microdick. Everybody does it. It doesn’t mean anything. Damn sure doesn’t mean you’re queer. And maybe I had some thoughts more than that, but everybody does. It’s just curiosity. It doesn’t mean anything. But none of that was little boy dick. Fuck. Saturday was our final practice before games started. Sam didn’t show. Not at first. Then I saw him on the other fence, watching us. He didn’t have his team jersey on. Just some second hand T shirt that didn’t fit. I went over to where he was. He took his hands off the fence and backed up a step as I came over. “What the f..” then I caught myself “What’s up?” He shrugged and looked down. I pressed him, wanting to know why he wasn’t practicing. He didn’t say anything. Just looked down. I asked him again. “The fosters, my foster mom was mad I ripped my jeans. They don’t give her extra money for more clothes. They can’t afford real baseball pants. She said I can’t play.” “Really?” I was kind of pissed. Then it hit me. “Those were your good jeans? Not play clothes? School clothes?” He nodded. Goddamn. They were short. Let’s face it. They were crappy school clothes. I’m positive that kid got made fun of a lot. “Shit.” I thought about it. “Wait here.” I told him. So, I’d love to just whip out my card and take care of the situation but I am not making a ton of money, not yet, and I don’t have it. So I went to Burns. He has money. I went to him and explained the situation. “I don’t know. It might be against the rules.” Burns said. “The kid is good!” “Yeah. He is.” Burns admitted. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He fished out a card. “Better to ask foregiveness than ask permission, right? Get him what he needs.” So I go back and get the kid. “Come on.” I said and headed for my truck. “Where we going?” he asked. “You’ll see.” We went to Academy Sports to look for youth pants. When we went in, he was wide eyed. It was like he’d never been in a store before, a real store. Goodwill and Salvation Army, maybe, but not a real store. He stuck close to me but was looking around, overwhelmed by all the great stuff. We got to the team sports area. I didn’t even now what his fucking size was. He was maybe four and half feet tall and he wasn’t heavy. Youth Small? Youth medium? I had him stand there and put the pants up to his scrawny little frame. One was too long. One’s too big. Finally we got it right and he was happy. They were the same kind of pants that Freddie Freeman wears. I got a second pair because I used to be a little snot nose like him. Boys can be rough on clothes. And the little shit needed decent shoes. Those you got to try on. A decent glove. It was going to cost Burns plenty, maybe $150 to $200. Fuck him. He makes plenty and he wants his son to be a champion. “Come on. Something else you need.” I took him and we went to where the jocks were. He needed one and a cup. “What do I need?” he asked. I grabbed my crotch. “You gotta protect the family jewels, right? Trust eryaman escort me, one day it’s going to be your best friend. It’ll run your whole fucking life.” I just had to hope it fit. It’s not like they’d let you try it on. Definitely won’t let your coach in to make sure it fits. Of course, by the time I was in middle school, we had mandatory cup checks. Just saying. I took him back to my place to change. When he came out of the bedroom, he was beaming, proud. He thought he looked good and I guess he did, in a skinny little boy way. He had the cup in and he seemed kind of proud of the little bulge it made in his pants. Practice was almost over when we got back. Sam was sort of shyly proud. He knew it was new stuff and all the other kids knew it was new stuff and there would be ribbing, but he looked like all the other kids now. He was a regular guy, not the poor kid. It was kind of cool to see. And it made me feel kind of good inside, too. We stayed after and he got to practice one on one. Burns didn’t even ask how much. The fucker is rich enough he doesn’t have to care. But he seemed happy enough that he’d got his star player back. And I was, too. That night, I was watching porn. Bored and trying to rub it to life. I closed my eyes and I thought about things that were sexy. Women… pussy… A chick I banged in college. She only fucked other girl’s boyfriends. She was available if you weren’t. I had no fucking loyalty to any pussy. I fucked her. I thought about her. How I lied to my fiance, the bitch that divorced me, and fucked this chick. It ain’t getting it. Fuck, I needed a boner. A raging hard on. That middle school chick with her litte bitty titties. The one I lost my cherry to when I was thirteen. I didn’t have a rubber on and I pulled out a little too late and I covered her snatch with my jizz. That helped but not enough. A boy. A small boy. Golden haired and bright blue eyes, a symmetrical face, golden skin. He has a tan line where his little swim trunks would be. He is standing there in a tiny youth jockstrap, a bike and a white jock. The cup holds his small package. His little dick and balls. He has a flat torso, a flat chest. His arms and legs are thin, matchstick thin, but he is all boy muscle. No extra fat. The straps of the jock frame a firm round little ass. He takes the cup, his ball protector, and pulls the jock outward to slip it into the pouch. I see his hairless crotch, the shaft of his small soft little dick. He kind of wiggles and adjusts it. He looks up at me, more than a foot and half taller, and smiles. I tell Sam what a beautfiul sexy boy he is. And I mean it too. I touch it. I stroke his small boyhood pride. I pull on it. He reaches up and rubs my rock hard cock with his small hand, not really able to get around it all the way. It feels good though. I have evil, unspeakable thoughts. I kiss him. Tongue and all. He kisses back. He knows how. I suck him. His small little dick. And then I fuck him. He is riding me like a cowboy, my dick in his tight ass. Tighter than any pussy ever. I’d split him in two, my fat cock in his tight young virginal ass, but it’s only a fantasy. He is rock hard, his stiff prick bouncing up and down as he rides my cock. I rub on his lean, wiry body as he rides my pole. God, it felt so good. I was stroking myself like a madman. Rubbing it hard. My toes were curling, my body tense, I couldn’t breathe as I came. It was a powerful orgasm. Amazing. Earth shattering. “Fuck” I said. “Fuck” I can’t think this way. It’s wrong. It’s dirty. It’s evil. But my God, he is perfect. What’s a man to do?