SkinMarvin Gay Stories

Chapter | 1 | 2 | 3

I was rummaging around my skinson's closet the other day only to come up with one scary letter to his very twisted dad. Don't misunderstand, in some ways Buttsub* is the ideal lad for a burntout dad who has neither the time nor the energy to chase after the new breed of fags that have come to replace the men who once haunted Blackpool.

Buttsub is cream skinned. He tans badly-except when his arse is fixed for twenty stroke, the few red pubes left around his uncut wand explode into a furry blanket by the time you've traced your crop to his well toned chest between his pierced nipples. And then those great, green monster-struck eyes are crowned by the tightest Mohawk a dad would wish for his lad's cropper. He seems ever more subservient since he moved in four years ago when I won him in a card game in one of them sawdust strewn filthy pubs down by the piers. His mates were passing him around, crouched under a table, when I first discovered his natural talent for sucking uncut wags and chavs. He knew what to do with foreskin and that was one way to get this dad's attention.

Ever more anxious to prove his loyalty once I dragged his arse home, he swore he was certain he wanted to live with a burntout old whoreson like me. He nodded twice and said something about his old man's having started in on his training just before his expulsion from public school. It seems some headmaster had caught him at it in one of them side loos at the Arsenal Stadium. "St. Finnian's is no place for profiteering punks!" the geezer chawed, and with a peremptory dismissal, Buttsub was faced with his first dilemma.

All this occurred just before his dad died. He made his way up to our port city and next runs into the queer likes of myself. So he dropped down to his knees that first night, and I don't recall his having gotten up from that position until days later when time came around for his first butt tanning.

I held the letter between my palms, already grease-smeared from changing my bike-chain earlier that day. It brought a shiver to my old spine to think that this lad who could never really put more than a few sentences together to tell his dad if his butt couldn't take anymore, this good bootlicker now shows me a side of his personality I did not recognize.

I never imagined that Buttsub, always pulling pubes from his smoke stained teeth, harbored such plans for his bikerdad and himself as expressed there. He didn't send it to me so he must have wanted for me to find it all accidental like," I thought, but quickly reasoned that he wasn't quite that sneaky a bootlicker.

"Too innocent. Too pure for a buttsub!" I assured myself and I grabbed at straws to uncover the workings of my boy's mind more or less in the style I applied when exploring his arsehole.

-No, no. Too predictable I thought even for bugger so unlike any of his more cunning mates. He's nary a manipulative bone in his well-chiseled frame.

I always knew we had a good relationship. He could go a good three hours in his sling, shoot a good four or five healthy splooge puddles, snore thru the next four, awake stinking of lube and cigar smoke, and pop off to his job at the local bootblack without so much as a groan to indicate how well and how hard his arse was stretched the night before. No complaints. Never. Not so much as a whimper of dissatisfaction. Just a goodbye smack on his old dad's back to indicate how much he appreciated all the attention I had given his hole the night before.

-I left my paycheck near the axle grease, dad," he'd shout on his way out the door.

I get hard thinking about all this shit between us even now. Keeping him beside me bound and gagged of a rainy Saturday just to warm up his hole for that night's fistivities.

-Good buttsub, I'd whisper. Then Id usually roll over and get another bit til it was time to head downstairs to the shop and fix another shithead's wornout petcock.

Now I found myself holding his letter and of a sudden my world was a bit shaken. Not too much mind as I never let a lad get the best of me. Never!

I always thought we had a good dad/lad relationship. He'd hand over his week's pay without so much as a murmur of disrespect. He'd cook our rashers of bacon and bangers always humming some air he'd picked up off the broken radio in our filthy kitchen. He was always sure to heat up a side of baked beans so as to please his dad both on and off the sling. He accepted his subservient position in our makeshift household with all the gusto of some French scumbag sitting down to a plate of snails. Now this.

I fought back my fears with memories of my well-behaved Buttsub.

I'll never forget how thrilled he was when I let him invite a few of his mates from the local to watch his birthday fisting. Six skins all standing around our dimly lit workshop, smoke filled with those younger blokes chomping on their first cigars, and my boy with his legs spread higher than a kite. His shit hole slurping up more lube than a Harley after a thousand mile run. A smile on both lips that would have made his real dad proud. N my boy just boasting to his mates about how hard his beercan could stand up even after a full-arm's length of his dad's penetration. Of course, his beercan had already received a 20- gauge pa just a couple of months before. So with a little help from the chain suspended above his crotch it certainly helped keep our beercan in a fully erect position once his arse and dick were fixed and lubed.

-Whew," his mates began to moan in unison, tugging at their own young gizspunkers to indicate that Buttsub was keeping them hard with his show of testicular fortitude.

Now, what dad would expect this kind of a jolt from a son like that? I ask you. We developed a good relationship and, I admit, there are special bonds of friendship that most boys never come to share with their dads. But the kind of things he wrote there were things that go beyond the normal dad/lad relationship. And as much as some of those things excited me and had me longing for the smells that arose from his arse hole while I was exploring it deep and steady with my fist, I couldn't help feeling that maybe we had gone a bit too far.

Even now I get hard thinking about all that's gone between us. Me and my lad. Why I remember the first time the stretched bugger conned me into showing him how to clean his foreskin. I knew it was just a ruse he devised to let him have another go at his dad's tired old cock. And I had only come up to piss after braking my back for a mate's bike--a upright lad I had gotten to know during the Falklands campaign. I just managed to realign his Guzzi after Mikeljohn tried to replace his rear wheel without readjusting the bikechain. What a meddlesome cripe stuffer! So I drag myself up for a well deserved piss and some ale when I notice Buttsub right behind me in the lav with his eyes taking a steady account of the forceful stream jetting from his old dad's hose.

"Like that, do you son?" He needed no further excuse to continue loitering there like some straight guy at his kit locker.

"Sure do, sir. An you got a bit o' time to waste on my training, sir, maybe you can tell me if this is the right way to clean your boy's overhang?" And no sooner did the last jet of that golden spring hit the bowl than Buttsub is down on all fours lapping up the plash collected on the floor and atop the bowl rim. Next he makes a beeline for my not so flaccid cock and plunges his tongue straight beneath the skin to collect a good two days worth of cheeze. What dad could ever be displeased with a boy ever so eager to please and serve his every need? But myself, ever so careful as not to let the lad think I'm overly impressed by any of his displays of affection, pretend to glance down into the forecourt and remind him to clean up quickly as I got to get back to adjusting my old mate's Guzzi.

So here I am lost in the recollection of all these moments of bewildering bliss when I hear my boy knocking about in the storeroom, home a bit earlier than usual from his bootblack stand down at the bus depot. I tuck his grease stained letter into my back pocket and descend to meet him. Before I get to the last step, I see his head popping up and down at the rear of my shop and it looks as if he's gone and trimmed his Mohawk.

To be continued...

Chapter | 1 | 2 | 3