Fuck Me Ragged
Fuck Me Ragged Part 1 - "The ride."
The van's tires scraped the curb as it inched along next to the sidewalk, making the fossa behind the steering wheel wince and shift the wheel. Those were his white-walled tires - recently bought and kind of expensive.
"What's your name, cutiepie?"
Padding barefoot next to the van was a young boy of around 8 or so. Cotton white from head to toe, long floppy ears, big pretty blue eyes, and an ass like heaven.
"Momma says I ain't s'posed to talk to strangers," giggled the boy, tucking an ear over his shoulder with a casual pass of the hand.
"D'aww...," purred the fossa. He rested a chiseled tricep on the windowsill, grinning handsomely. "Whatchu mean 'strangers'? I'm strange?" The cub had actually slowed his walk to keep pace with the creeping van - a courtesy the fossa almost resented. After all, it was that rear view which had made him speed through a four-way intersection and circle the block.
Sensing his follower wasn't going away anytime soon, the little bunny turned his head, looking the driver over. His eyes went wide. His nose turned bright red. He looked away.
The fossa grinned. That had always been his ace in the hole. He was man-pretty. Even in his late 30's the fossa was sleek and toned, easily mistakable for a boy half his age. When he smiled, the patterns along his mouth parted and all you saw was teeth. There might have been a few too many sharp ones for comfort, but fucked if they weren't all pearly and white and even.
"I'm Bob," lied the fossa. "I live just a little ways from here. And you. . ." he nosed in the bunny boy's direction. ". . . have a VERY cute ass."
The bunny boy's pretty blue eyes went wider and he squeaked, reaching back and slapping his little hammy paws down protectively over his ass - something the fossa would gladly have paid money to watch from behind.
Up ahead, the street sloped off into curbside parking - which "Bob" was grateful for. A suped-up V8 isn't designed for creeping and all this flirting was burning up his gas. He eased into the abandoned slot and nudged the brake, shifting into park. To his amazement, when he looked up the little boy had stopped too. The cub rocked back and forth on the pads of his bare feet, shifting the heavy-looking backpack between his narrow shoulders.
"That looks like it weighs a ton," Bob grinned from ear to ear, making sure the cub saw his nice, regularly-spaced white tombstones. "They make you kids lug all those books home with you every day?"
The bunbun swallowed loudly, nodding and keeping his face down.
"Jeez... back in my day, we had lockers. Big tall fancy metal things you could put all your shit in." The fossa slid the key out of the ignition, popping the door open and swinging his feet out to rest on the sidewalk, leaning down over his elbows.
The little boy watched him, eyes eagerly tracing the chiseled muscles showing through the clean black wifebeater. "Oh..." he said after a while, seeming to snap from a daze. "No, my school has 'em... they just won't let us use 'em. Say we might keep guns in them or something."
To this Bob tsk-tsked, flicking his big metal lighter open, lighting up a Djarum Black and clapping it closed again. Within moments the street corner smelled like cloves.
"I'm Kevin." The bunny boy rasped, hands gripping tightly to the shoulder straps of his backpack. "You can call me Kev. Or Kevin. If you want."
This made Bob smirk. Less than five minutes in and the boy was already offering him nicknames.
"Kev," purred the fossa, stretching his arms out above the roof of the van, popping his back, making sure that his prey got a good view of his anteriors and obliques. "So Kev... they let you go to school in pants that short? Used to be your fingers couldn't touch fur if you held 'em to your sides."
The boy looked down at his own tiny lycra bike shorts. They were gray-blue with a thick white stripe. They left nothing to the imagination.
One corner of the bun's mouth turned up in a shy grin. "That's mostly for girls. They don't check boys so much." Kev arched his back, rearing up on his toes and slowly lowering himself back down. It was a wonderfully childish gesture - one which Bob drank in like gas station wine. This kid had a kittenish kind of roll to him that was almost better than sex. Almost.
"Need a lift?"
You could plainly see the trepidation flittering through the cub's eyes - the alarms going off. He must have been thinking back to all those talks he'd heard, sitting cross-legged on the gymnasium floor with his schoolmates, nodding off as some disinterested desk jockey from the local precinct droned on about sketchy characters in dark fedoras and trenchcoats. Bob could practically hear little Kevin's mother lecturing her son about climbing into unmarked vans filled with candy and Playstations. The little boy fidgeted. He rubbed his shoulder, looking hesitant.
"Oh c'maan," the fossa said with an exaggerated roll of his big yellow eyes. He pushed off from the van's plush leather seat, joining Kevin on the sidewalk, drawing himself up to full height. "Do I really look like a creep to you?"
Kevin's blue eyes went wide. His gaze slowly climbed Mount Handsome, following over the man's heavy leather jeans... tracing up his narrow waist... his eight-pack... double gun shows... rows upon rows of sharpened white teeth... craning his little neck back to see the spooky yellow eyes... the ears pierced and knicked by needles and knife fights...
The boy gulped.
"And does this look like a creepy van?" Bob rapped on the side of his van with a broad knuckle. Late 80's model Chevy, beautifully restored. Pearlescent green-and-orange paintjob. White-walled tires (now slightly scuffed). Flame decals. Spoiler on the back.
"M-m-mama always s-said--"
"Mamas say a lot of things," the fossa chuckled, allowing the subtlest tinge of annoyance to creep into the undertones of his voice. "If we did everything Mama told us, we'd never get to have any fun, now, would we?"
The bunny didn't say anything. His eyes just wandered from the fossa to the van, van to fossa, biceps to abs, abs to crotch line, crotch line to van.
Bob shrugged, feigning disinterest. "Hey, it's cool. Walking is good exercise. Welp," the fossa dropped his cigarette, grinding it beneath a heavy boot heel. "You take care Kev. I drive through this way all the time. Maybe I'll see ya. Might blow my horn. See if I can't make you jump outta yer fur." Bob chuckled, making a show of sliding back into the van, clicking his seatbelt in place.
Just as he'd gone to lay a calloused palm on the 8-ball shifter--
"WAIT!"
-- a sly grin split his face.
The sound of bare pads scampering over concrete. A glint of white over the hood of his van. Precious Moments blue eyes looking in from the passenger-side window, just begging to be let in.
Bob reached out. Click. Unlocked the door. It popped open, swiveling on it's freshly oiled hinges. In came a backpack, slumping like a sack of potatoes underneath the foot rest, followed shortly by a pair of bike shorts wiggling down comfortably against the seat.
The fossa didn't look at the boy as he fished around in the console with one hand, retrieving his Oakleys and putting them on.
"Buckle up." A nasty grin curled at the corners of his broad mouth as he lit his second Djarum Black of the evening and shifted into drive.