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Subject: A Story About a Lonely Boy Who Fell in Love with a Big, Beautiful Lonely Man PREFACE This is a short story: a short, probably terribly amateur romance, about a boy who falls for his heavyset Arabic neighbor on the eve of September 11th. This story, however, does not contain any sex involving minor characters. It’s also complete fantasy of course! If you enjoy this story, please say so in an email! I really enjoy writing them though I so rarely get to, and this was the one I liked writing the most — though I’m also so embarrassed by the whole thing that I didn’t proofread before submitting… so criticism is welcome as well! ail — I was born in `92, in New York City, to a single mom. She was a transcriptionist — a job that’s more or less automated these days. It paid about as well as you might imagine, so our apartment was cramped and cold, and you learned to ignore the scattering roach out of the corner of your eye when you turned on the kitchen light at night. But I’d never known anything else… while I envied the kids in school who had their own Nintendos or computers or cable TV, I could still entertain myself with a good book, and with the CD Walkman I’d begged for for two years before my mother gave in. When I was nine, the man in the apartment opposite ours killed himself. I’d only seen him maybe a few times in all our years there; I didn’t know anything about him, and apparently neither did anyone else. Nobody would tell me how he did it, but the way people whispered about it for weeks afterward, I assumed it was bad. Despite the constant demand for low-income housing in the city, the unit stayed vacant for the next two months. Then, in late August, as summer break was coming to a close, our new neighbor Haleem moved in. He was an immigrant from Saudi Arabia. I remember thinking he was much younger than I had thought — twenty-five, when I’d thought he was forty. He was big — broad-shouldered, thick-armed, and with a rotund belly. And his arms and legs were covered in thick, coarse black fur. The day he moved in, I watched from across the street, hypnotized as he took trips out to his rental truck, blinded by the sunshine reflected in the sweat on his calves. Though he had few belongings, the swamp cooler was, as usual, under “repair” — so by the second trip up and down those six flights of stairs, he’d removed his sweat-soaked white T-shirt. He wore only cargo shorts, and his belly sagged over his belt. His pecs and abdomen were completely coated in thick wiry black hair, and his brown skin dazzled in the harsh sun. I had never seen a specimen of a man like this, especially not exposed like this. As soon as the spectacle was over, I rushed up home to masturbate with the images fresh in my mind. Haleem leased the decrepit old corner convenience store on the corner that had been shuttered for the last three years. This — a foreigner from the Middle-East operating a low-end convenience store — was, apparently, a “stereotype,” or so I learned from listening to the stay-at-home wives chattering among themselves. I was excited, though. I didn’t have many friends in the building, and our neighborhood wasn’t safe for a kid to explore by himself, so having the one store I could walk to reopen was a big deal to a kid like me. He did all of the work himself. He didn’t seem to know anyone here, and his English was still rough, his accent even rougher. But I watched him sweep and mop out the years of piss and refuse, rat’s nests, and broken glass out of there. Somehow, with painstaking effort, he replaced all the shattered window panes himself. He re-tiled the floors, patched and repainted the walls, even ripped into the bathroom walls to replace the ancient rusted plumbing. He opened the 7-Eleven a couple of weeks after I’d started fourth grade. It was a Monday. I went there straight after school. I had only interacted with him a couple of times, when my mom briefly introduced us, and I was excited to see him up close again, and to hear his deep, heavy voice. He had changed his full beard to a goatee — it seemed to be another small change he’d made to attempt to look more “American.” He had a buzz cut, the tiny black hairs almost invisible on his scalp. He wore a white T-shirt with the 7-Eleven logo on it and the same cargo shorts he was wearing the day he moved in. Unfortunately, from the other side of the counter, I wasn’t yet tall enough to be able to catch another look at his thick furry legs. “Welcome!” he shouted with enthusiasm, and I blushed, then quickly realized he was actually addressing the couple who entered the store behind me. Of course he didn’t notice me — or maybe assumed those people were my parents. I suddenly realized I had no idea what I was even doing here, that I couldn’t just stand around and stare at the man. I’d been so looking forward to this day, somehow without ever taking a second to think about it. Just what was I expecting to happen? Panicking and kicking myself for my stupidity, I grabbed a Snickers and practically ran to the checkout. I was now standing right in front of him. He looked so huge… in reality, though he was heavy and strong, he actually was a bit short; in a year, I’d be taller than him, and by the time I finished growing I was a solid five inches taller. But that day, I looked up at him, and he looked back at me and smiled broadly, bearing his teeth. I knew then that he was just feeling the rush of his first grand opening day, of achieving the American dream… but when our eyes locked that Monday afternoon and he smiled down at me and carefully enunciated “one dollar thirty-five,” I fell in love, and I’ve been in love ever since. Walking home, I felt like sprinting. Like flying. My muscles yearned for action, but I resisted because my stomach was doing somersaults. When I got home I was panting as if I had been running anyway. The next morning, something felt wrong was I walked into class. The television was on, and there was an odd silence in the room. Some of the other kids who’d filed in before me weren’t seated yet — they were just standing there halfway to their desks, like deer in headlights. I followed their line of vision to the TV screen, and that was when the second plane hit. Right here. In our city. They sent us home. They sent my mom home too I guess. I didn’t really know what to feel. It was real, yet it felt like an action film. It was right here — yet, I didn’t hear the explosions, the screams. Thousands of lives lost — a number I could count to but could never come close to comprehending. I’d never seen so many adults, even grown men, crying. People were scared. Adults seemed on edge about whether it was over, while I was still struggling to understand the gravity of what had happened. That day, my mother told me to stay away from Haleem. Even at that age, I thought that that was racist, and in an uncharacteristically bold moment I told her so. She said if her racism kept me alive then it was worth it. I didn’t know how to argue with that, and that was the end of it. But, the next day after school I headed straight for his store anyway. I didn’t know why, and again I had no plan, but I just felt like I needed to see him. I was worried. The news broadcasts were inescapable, you could always hear a TV or radio from an open window. People were angry. And the angriest of them were on a witch-hunt. I rounded the corner and my heart sank into the pit of my stomach. Glass was everywhere, dazzling on the sidewalk. “BURN IN HELL” was spray-painted across the door. Inside I could see that all the shelves had been tipped. There were smashed bottles everywhere, the floor flooded in a thin layer of beer and soda. I was so appalled by the wreckage that for a moment I didn’t notice him. He was off to the side, at the mouth of the narrow alley that separated the buildings. He was squatting above the pavement with his back against the brick store. His face was buried in his hands. Without thinking I just ran to him. He heard me approach and looked up for a moment. As he briefly flashed his face to look up, I saw his face. His mouth and chin were caked with dried blood. I gasped and nearly tripped as I got closer. His forearms were bruised and the hairy backs of his hands were smeared with the blood he’d tried to wipe from his face. But what hit me the hardest were the tears. I’d seen men cry, especially just within the last day. But Haleem looked broken, defeated. In that moment I felt like I understood, even just bursa escort a little, the pain he was feeling. How he had come for a chance to start anew, how he had left it all behind and come to a foreign land with a foreign language all by himself, how he had pinched pennies all his life for this golden opportunity. How a monstrous act committed by men who looked like him had destroyed it all in a manner of minutes. I couldn’t understand, not really. But I felt it nonetheless. The dam broke and I started to cry. Without giving myself a chance to hesitate, I reached out and wrapped my arms around as much of his shoulders as I could — which wasn’t much. But I guess it did something, because the tears he’d been holding back returned full force. And I just held him as best I could while his big body shuddered and convulsed, and I felt ashamed for wishing that this horrible awful moment could last forever. After a minute or two he gently pushed me away, trying to regain his composure. He stood up. I looked up at him and saw in him beautiful strength. The color seemed to return to his face. In a moment he’d gone from a victim of a hate crime to a bloodied action hero — maybe too heavy for Hollywood, but not me. He was not beaten. My jaw literally dropped as I took in this image. I felt inspired. My ever-present fear was that I’d be found out as a homosexual. But he couldn’t hide in plain sight like I could. But when I saw him make that choice to live not in fear, but to stand proud, it stuck with me. Though I didn’t come out of the closet for years, I still think of this moment as the reason why I did. When he looked down and saw me with my mouth agape, he laughed. I’ll never be sure what he thought I was thinking then, but that the man actually could laugh at a moment like this… I felt like his strength was pouring into me. Then he said, softly, but still carefully enunciating his English, simply: “thank you.” And he brushed the dust off his pants and turned the corner, back to the storefront, stepping into his store, shoes crunching loudly on the broken glass. I headed home. I looked over my shoulder as I headed away, just in time to catch Haleem grab a broom. The cops were finally pulling up. I smiled, feeling upset and somehow simultaneously elated. I ran up to the apartment, grabbing some detergent and stain remover, and headed back down to the laundromat to wash Haleem’s blood off my shirt before my mom got home. Four days later the store was reopened, and business was surprisingly good from then on. He never made quite enough to hire any help though, and somehow he tirelessly ran and maintained the store from 7 a.m. to 9 p.m., seven days a week. Nervous about our last encounter, I avoided Haleem for a few weeks after that. But even though we were halfway through October by now, the heat was still blistering. The swamp cooler was again out of commission, I sat in my underwear struggling with my math homework with the windows and front door open to catch any breeze. My mom wasn’t due home for a few hours still; not that she could help me anyway. It was around 5:30 p.m. when the power went out on the block. Without power, Haleem had to close the store; I heard him approach in the hallway and stop right out front our door, with his door being opposite. I was in plain view, and he glanced in as he was rummaging for his keys. Feeling brave and stupid, I called out to him, to ask him if he could help me with my homework. To my surprise, he smiled and said “yes.” Then, to my disappointment, he added, “Get dressed. Come in.” Then he turned back and slipped into his apartment. I threw on my T-shirt and gym shorts and bounded over to his door. I’d never been inside his place before! And in the back of my mind, there was still a morbid curiosity about the previous tenant, though I wasn’t superstitious, and of course I knew it wasn’t like there was going to be some blood splatter on the ceiling or something. It was even more deplorable than ours. There were large cracks in the walls and ceiling. The neighbor he shared a wall with was pumping rap music with the deep bass thudding. His only window faced a wall that would almost never receive sun. And yet he kept the place with dignity. Somehow, despite seeming to be at work at all hours of the day, he had made a home for himself. The dingy countertops were as clean as they could be kept; the coffee table was polished, his bed in the corner made up neatly. His head peeked out from behind the only door in the whole place besides the front door which I suddenly realized with embarrassment was, of course, the bathroom. My eyes widened when I realized that the neck and chest that head was attached to were bare. “Oh! Hi,” he laughed. “I am going to shower. Come back?” he asked. I nodded dumbly, then made my break for the exit. My mind was spinning when I popped back inside home, and my heart was pounding. I had had an idea. A very, very bad, naughty idea. An opportunity, one I would perhaps never have again. I rushed to my mom’s closet, digging out the digital camera. This was my chance! I carefully eased his door open and slipped back inside the apartment. With the electricity out, he’d left the bathroom door open to let in the light. I tip-toed closer, then braved a quick peek inside. It was originally a glass-encased shower with a glass door, but the door had been removed some time ago… affording a perfectly clear look straight inside. He was facing away from me. Not wanting to miss the moment I grabbed the camera and took a picture. His back and ass were coated with more of the same fur, now wet and slicked back. I watched his shoulders gyrating, realizing that at this moment I was watching him scrub his furry balls, or maybe folding back his foreskin and washing his cock. He turned, and I quickly ducked back out, then took another chance to look. Now I could see his profile; he hadn’t turned a full 180, but now I knew all he had to do was turn his head to catch me. I was scared, but I was even more thrilled. Without a moment to lose I leaned into the bathroom to snap a few more shots before ducking out again. Looking down at the digital screen I had a chance to absorb the image. His bulbous chest and belly protruded forward. He was looking down. His nipples were so big and round, with a special pattern of hair around them. And… Oh, his cock. There it was. And not just that. Rock. Hard. Sticking straight out. Nestled in a forest of thick pubic hair, just as I’d suspected. This wasn’t just the perfect opportunity to see Haleem naked. No, I had won the lottery. I’d caught him jerking off. I poked my head in one more time, but to my horror this time he was looking directly my way. Oh, fuck. I dashed away, but not before seeing his reaction, that horrible look of humiliation. I ran back home and slammed the door behind me, trying and failing to catch my breath. I of course did not return to ask for help with my homework, nor did I hear a knock on the door. I didn’t go back to the store, and despite the heat I would slam the door shut every day as soon as I got home. I felt disgusted with myself for days. I loved him, and I had violated his privacy and humiliated him. I’d sabotaged whatever friendship I might’ve been able to have with him. That feeling faded though my fascination with the pictures grew. Later that week, I took a trip to the public library and printed out copies of the photos, awkwardly shielding the giant copy machine’s output tray with my body. I hastily snatched the sheets as soon as the printer released its grip on them, stuffing them one by one into my backpack. I deleted them from the camera and returned it to its spot among my mother’s things. I continued to avoid him for the rest of the year, and instead got more than enough stimulation from the photos. Until late winter, just before our two-week school break, when they disappeared from my hiding place. I was mortified. Sleepless, I waited for days for my mother to confront me. She said nothing and I said nothing. I could tell her mood had changed. I knew that she knew… but the conversation never came. Instead, she quite suddenly became insistent that we move to a new place. And we did — on Christmas Day. It was an equally shitty apartment six blocks away, with a grand total of eleven more square feet than our old place. I couldn’t understand why, when the rent was higher at the new place, and she was actually farther away from work than before. I solemnly resigned bursa escort bayan to never seeing Haleem again, and to holding that pain and sense of loss deep inside. And I grew up. I stayed in the closet, pretending once or twice to date a girl before saying it wasn’t working out. And for whatever reason, this simple crush of a nine-year-old stuck with me. Even as his finer details got hazy with time, I would find myself pining for him and daydreaming about him nearly every day. And I found myself always worrying for him, afraid that one day he’d again be robbed and beaten and humiliated, and that he would be alone. I couldn’t help but hope and imagine that on that awful day he had needed me just as much as I had needed to see him stand tall and strong like that. There was a distance I felt even among my closer friends, because I had such a major influence and an ache that never left me, and this huge part of me was just something I could never share. So instead I started to dedicate more time to my own studies, becoming immersed in the world of computer programming. By eleventh grade, I’d managed to save enough up to buy an old laptop. I had a real knack for it — and almost right after high school, I landed a job as a software engineer. Two years later I was the team lead and breaking a six-figure salary; I’d earned myself a much more comfortable home, even if it still shared walls, and to help cover my mother’s rent for a nicer place of her own as well. Things were going well. I’d grown tall, handsome by conventional opinion, and while I only exercised casually, I was blessed with a great metabolism and kept in shape without that much effort. Though, I did feel lonely, and silently embarrassed at my silly childhood infatuation. Why wouldn’t I move on? The closest I came to losing my virginity wasn’t close at all. When I was twenty-four I loitered in the alley next to a gay bear bar and watched some customers come and go. When a guy spotted me and beckoned me over, I just walked away without looking back. I felt… seedy. Wrong. I wasn’t craving sex, but a connection. Only one connection… and it was fantasy. I was thirty and home for Christmas when she asked me again about when I was going to “re-enter the dating pool,” while I was still “young and cute.” I don’t know what it was about that day — it didn’t feel different from any of the other times she’d asked. I didn’t spend any time contemplating my reply this time. “I’m gay, Mom. That’s why I don’t date,” I just stated in monotone. My mother began to sob. I reached forward to hug her, unsure of what this meant, unsure if I’d just ruined Christmas or if I’d finally broken down a wall that I’d struggled so hard to keep up all my life. And then she spoke, and I felt sick. “What did he do to you?” she asked between sniffles. “W-what?!” I stammered. “What are you talking about?” “That man, that man! The Afghan!” she cried. “What did he do to my baby?” “M-mom, I don’t understand… you… are you talking about the photos?” “Yes, of course I’m talking about the photos,” she snapped. “Those disgusting photos of his disgusting body he gave to you.” “Mom, no… Mom, he didn’t give me those photos. It was my fault! I took the photos!” “Oh God,” she bellowed and sobbed loudly. “N-no, Mom, you don’t understand… Mom, he didn’t even know… I… I snuck into his apartment when he was in the shower! Mom, it was all me!” I cried, exasperated. She looked up at me and I knew that she had absorbed nothing. She had a look of anguish, of defeat. She didn’t believe a word. Not that her son could be gay, just because he was. In her eyes, I was a victim in denial of a hideous act of pedophilia. Inside, I felt a profound anger and frustration, chaotic and directionless. I had felt a rush of excitement at the act of opening up, and now it came all flooding in. It was all my fault… I took the photos. I held onto them, never considering that the consequences of their discovery didn’t affect only me. Why?! Why didn’t she ever ask me about them? How could she have assumed all of this? Suddenly the fury found its direction, pointing inward: what else could she possibly have thought? Why didn’t I tell her? If I had just once acted on the inspiration he’d given me… if I had come out then, she’d never have drawn the conclusions that she had. We wouldn’t have moved, she would never have accused him of such a heinous crime… she wouldn’t have had spent years thinking her son had been raped. She had calmed down some. “Do you even believe me?” I asked quietly. After some silence, she spoke. “I confronted him, yes. I did not bring the pictures… I had already tore up those disgusting things. I told him that he invited my little boy into his home and masturbated in the shower for him. I called him a lot of things. I threatened to call the police, but… but I didn’t want to involve you. I… I just wish I had done something more. Therapy, for what he did to you… before–” her voice broke, and she stammered, “before it was too late…” “Mom… that isn’t what happened.” “Well, he never denied it,” she said, her voice suddenly ice cold. It was spoken with an air of finality. The fury began to freeze over. I was coming to a calm realization. No, she wouldn’t believe me — not now anyway, perhaps never. But I didn’t require this validation. I just knew what I knew — that I really, genuinely loved Haleem, even if that was only the imaginary partner I wished he could be for me. There were no moral implications to this whatsoever; to love him was neither right nor wrong — it just was. And it had remained a powerful driving and defining force, guiding my personal development through adolescence. When times were tough, I still drew strength from my distant memories of him. And in this moment, feeling exasperated and broken, unloved and misunderstood, finally out yet still alone, I knew that I needed him. And in this realization, even though I knew realistically that my love would never be reciprocated, I felt awash with peace and a sudden sense of purpose. I stood and calmly, deliberately walked out. I ignored her shouting after me, and she didn’t follow. It was Christmas Eve, nearly ten p.m. I braced for the cold, but to my surprise I felt invigorated. The sensation reminded me of that day, when I felt I had to hold back my urge to sprint. This time I released it, and my muscles screamed with exultation. I flew down the block. I felt faster than the fastest man alive; it was as if I barely had enough time to avoid colliding with pedestrians, dodging them with super-reflexive precision. Each breath seemed to flood my veins with blood, and I could no longer feel my feet slap the pavement. I could no longer hear the hobo across the street shouting, could no longer smell the coffee shop I’d passed in a flash. Just my steady breath and the wind against my skin. Our old apartment building was miles away; if I’d had any sense, I’d have called a cab. But, no… I couldn’t handle sitting still. No, something primal in me yearned to get there by my own power. It had been twenty years. He’d probably moved by now. I didn’t even know if he was alive. Somehow none of that seemed to deter me in the slightest. Those were situations that I would react to if and when they presented themselves. Pessimism required energy that I couldn’t spare. I arrived winded, probably some time after midnight, so I guess it was Christmas morning. Even after hours of running, I somehow bounded up the flights of steps as if I were weightless. The hallway passed in a blur and suddenly I was standing before his door, the same as it ever was. No turning back now. I knocked. Just as I did, a surge of physical fatigue washed over me. The door creaked open. I was leaning forward, hands clasped over my knees, hyperventilating, and suddenly too afraid to look up to see if it was really him. “Hey man, you okay?” he said in perfectly natural English, though I was delighted to hear he hadn’t lost his accent. The door swung open and he reached out a hand to help steady me. “Hi Haleem,” I said quietly, still catching my breath. My heart had begun slowing down, but upon seeing him up close it was speeding up again. “Sorry, do I know you?” And he looked into my eyes. He recognized me. I could see it. And I didn’t know what to do so I hugged him. I was a few inches taller than him now, and my arms could encircle him… it was like a reversal of our last, and only, hug. And he hugged me back, hard. “I escort bursa am so sorry…” he said quietly. He didn’t cry, but I could tell he was holding back emotion. “What?!” I asked, startled. I pulled back, holding his shoulders to look at him. He hadn’t changed too much… maybe gained a few more pounds, and perhaps the hair of his beard was a few shades lighter than the jet black it had been. “I just needed to take a quick shower because I was sweaty… I didn’t think that you would come in right away. I… I wasn’t trying to do something sexual with you, I swear. I… I don’t know why I had to `take care of business’ right then… I didn’t consider that you would come back in and see… God, I am so sorry…” “But — but why would I think that? I was the pervert! Don’t you get it?! I came back… to… to see more…” His expression switched from anguish to confusion. “Sorry, what? See what?” I grimaced and my face flushed as I realized that we’d reached the inevitable pinnacle of this conversation. “To see more of you.” “I…” he said, then dropped off, not sure what to say next. I held my breath in the long awkward silence while I waited for him to figure out what to say. I was suddenly stricken with a terrible fear that he’d lash out at me, that we weren’t alone in the same way at all, that I was just a sick faggot. “I — … Who… would want to see more of… me?” he said quietly, almost to himself. And then that strength flowed back into me. Calmly and confidently, I looked him in the eye and simply delivered the truth: “You’re beautiful.” I felt a sense of satisfaction at finally having said what I’d needed. “…sorry to make it weird,” I added when he didn’t seem to react to what I’d said. He looked up at me, and I smiled. I didn’t feel insecure. I was ready to accept that he was straight, ready even if he told me to get the fuck away. Hell, I was ready to take a kick to the groin. I had said what I had needed to say, what I had always needed him to hear. I’d never again need to wonder about what could have been if I’d only had the courage to tell him. “You… you really do think that?” he asked, eyes watering. “…why did you tell your mother?” “I didn’t… I… I did a really stupid thing, Haleem,” I confessed. “I… I took some photos. Of you. And, well, she found them. It’s my fault, Haleem… I am the one who needs to apologize.” He pulled me back into an embrace, and I sunk into his warm flesh. Not wanting to publicize our moment, I kicked his door closed behind us. “You know why I came here? To America?” he asked. “…I had gotten my hands on a copy of a gay porno mag… and my father found it. “I had to get out of the country. I thought that they might kill me,” he whispered. I tried to be repulsed by this tragic information, yet all I could feel was an inescapable thrill. The thing I had wanted, thing I had came here for while never even considering to be possible — maybe it was possible. And… well, even if he didn’t want me back — I was suddenly no longer alone. “Thank you,” he said. “Thanks for… coming. Like you did back then… 9/11.” He smiled. “I–I really needed that… I… I have just always been on my own.” My motions felt automatic. I moved in and kissed him, pushing our faces together. His lips melted at my touch. It was happening, not in my imagination, no — he was kissing me back. Knowing I needed to act before I chickened out, I released myself from the embrace and eagerly reached for the buttons on his shirt. He moved to stop me. “There really isn’t anything to see,” he said sheepishly. Gently I pushed his hands away and he didn’t resist. I undid the buttons and pulled his shirt open. I was greeted again by that familiar thick chest hair, closer than ever before. Silver hair grew in a diamond shape on his abdomen, the rest still dark black. The diamond came to a point in the center of his chest. His large dark brown nipples stuck rigidly from his fleshy pecs. Hair sprouted from nests in his underarms. I moved my kiss down to his neck, kneeling slightly, and finished stripping his shirt from his beefy forearms. Then I slowly continued venturing lower, stroking his chest and arms as I licked the sweat from the creases between his pecs and abdomen. I explored his furry back and manhandles until I could take it no longer. I carefully undid his belt, with as much grace as I could, having no experience with any of this. Then I slid his pants down to his ankles, exposing his boxers. The outline of his thick cock straining the fabric was intoxicating. I cupped his big balls through the cloth and pressed my face against his crotch, getting drunk on his scent. Then I guided his cock to the opening, and it sprung out, finally free, bouncing before me in all its glory. It was surrounded by a thick forest of pubic hair, most of which was still behind his underwear. Thick veins ran its length. Tenderly, I pulled back his foreskin with my fingers, exposing his red moistened cockhead. He sighed loudly when I did this, and I looked up. He was looking down at me, with an expression that seemed to indicate he was as transfixed by all of this as I was. Still looking up at him, I opened my jaw as wide as I could. His eyes widened with surprise, as if he really hadn’t guessed where this was going. And I moved in, my lips encircling the tip, using my tongue to explore his sensitive cockhead under the foreskin. His whole body shivered a little when I did this, and he even reached forward, steadying himself by holding one hand against the front door behind me. I was in heaven now, working my way up his shaft, first filling my mouth, then pausing to adjust to the gag reflex before inching closer and closer to his pungent crotch. Finally my lips brushed against the root, my nose tickled by his pubes and my forehead pressed into his big belly. I was engulfed in darkness, focused only on breathing what little air I could muster and on the texture of his member on my tongue and throat. I swallowed compulsively to fight the gag reflex, and this seemed to stimulate him even more, causing his legs to shake. I had him now. I kept up with the swallowing technique and swirled and pressed my tongue against him. I kept him as far deep as I could, imagining how it’d feel to be deepthroated. Suddenly, his legs were spasming. I started to pull away, to reclaim my mouth and ask him if he was alright — but at that moment instead he shoved me forward violently, thrusting his cock farther in. The back of my head collided with the door, but I felt no pain. Instead I felt bliss as he leaned forward, putting his weight on me, pinning me against the wall. I realized I could no longer breathe and my vision was starting to swim, before I again plunged into darkness as his abdomen wrapped around me and he strained to reach farther down my throat. I released my painful hard-on from my pants fly, stroking only sporadically, knowing I was constantly on the edge from the excitement. And then I felt it. The warm, thick liquid was splashing against the back of my throat. I wanted to pull back and get a taste, but there would be another time for that, I had no doubt now. Instead I let him ride out the orgasm however he wanted. And he did just that, pushing ever harder against my skull with his wide pelvis, gyrating slightly from side to side, allowing me just enough wiggle room to grab the occasional small breath. Finally the pulsing of his cock began to slow, its contents spent. His legs were trembling violently; I caressed the backs of his calves gently. This seemed to bring him back to reality; he backed up, snaking his cock out from my throat. As his head parted from my lips, I began taking big, heaving gasps, and my vision began to clear. “Oh Jesus — I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me! Are you okay?!” He knelt and rested his big hands on my shoulders. I answered with a loud, guttural grunt — and promptly started ejaculating, even though I was no longer even touching myself anymore. Rope after hot, sticky rope shot out of me, fountaining up. Haleem, squatting in front of me, watched with a massive grin as it splattered on his legs, some of it launching even higher to meet his big belly. I couldn’t see anything else but his beautiful round face, could feel nothing but exaltation at watching him witness my climax with the same excitement and pleasure I had. I didn’t sleep that night, riding the euphoric rush of my fantasy coming true. Instead, I nestled up close against him, the hair of his back bristling and tickling my chest, my arm wrapped around his big soft torso, relishing the rhythm of his chest rising and falling, feeling the tiny vibrations of his quiet snores. Merry Christmas.

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