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All Got Our Demons

By Chris Carr

Copyright © November, 1999










"I said, $19.50, man," Tobias irked, pushing the ten dollar bill back. Confused, the man turned to speak to the woman with him, a child balanced on her hip. Prattling something in Spanish, he waved the bill in front of her, the baby reaching to grab at the flashy, green object.

Dejected, the woman reached in her bosom, fishing deep for another bill. Another child tugged at her dress tail, a fine sheen of encrusted snot beneath his nose. A third one stood idly sucking his thumb while two older ones regarded the whole scene quietly removed.

The man returned to the office window, his brow glowing with sweat from the heat and shoved a twenty dollar bill under the partition. Tobias snatched it up, turning to retrieve a key. Pushing it toward the haggled man he instructed,

"Room 117. Check out is at 12:00 noon. And don't be having nobody else in there wit' y'all, man."

Smiling, the man chortled, "No. Just me, and my family," his accent thick. Herding up his crew, he shuffled off, chattering in Spanish with his wife. Lulling back in his chair, Tobias mumbled, "Get some contraceptives." 

Please let that be the last interruption for the day, he prayed. It was just too hot to be bothered.

Returning to his TV, he went through a quick inventory of things to do. Gotta call the ice man 'bout that fuckin' ice machine, he thought. Get some mo' toilet paper, and clean up 106. He wasn't looking forward to that, homeboy had run at least six girls through there last night.

His portly frame oozing trickles of sweat, he glanced over at the broken air conditioner. The repair man was supposed to have stopped by two days ago. In this heat, he didn't blame him, though. He'd be lucky to get the damn thing running by Tuesday.

He'd turned on the fan, but all it was doing was moving hot air. Swirling on its oscillator, it wheezed, dust mites trapped in its cage. Stop thinkin' 'bout it, he scolded, walking over to the fridge to get a beer.

Bending to peer out the window facing away from the courtyard, he gazed at the barren landscape. A two lane highway paralleled the old motel, its rusty sign near the thoroughfare announcing "Bisbee Roadside Motel." Beneath it were the neon letters 'no vacancy', conveniently connected to the office so he could turn the 'no' off and on. In all the time he'd been there, however, he'd never had to turn the 'no' on.

Two years. It was a record. The longest he'd ever stayed anywhere was 8 months and that was because he had steady pussy.

A car whizzed by, stirring up dust in its wake. Plopping down on the tattered old couch, Tobias stared at the TV, opening the beer. It fizzled, angry suds gushing from the pull tab, over his hands and onto his bare legs.

"Shit!" he yelped, spreading his legs to avoid the flow.

Raising the can to his mouth, he slurped the semi-cold brew. Flinging the bubbling liquid off his thighs, he settled back, determined to watch his game.

The announcer was spouting off a bunch of stats about one of the players, a mug shot of the youth plastered to the screen. His team was behind, 27-14 and he wasn't happy. Were they to loose, he was going to be out of 50 bucks! That's the one down side to gamblin', he thought, loosin'.

Sucking on his beer, he thought about Amber. Too bad she stayed so damn far, he'd really like a little trim. Exactly how long has it been, he pondered? Counting the days, he stopped when he got to 9. Too long.

A play rolling into motion, he leaned forward, hopeful. The quarterback fell into the pocket, the ball cocked high in his hand. Pumping once, twice, he scrambled, avoiding a rushing tackler. Poised again, he pointed the ball down field and fired.

Sailing through the air, the ball rose, on its appointed mission, then descended toward a waiting receiver. Leaping high into the air, the youth dove for the ball. Holding his breath, Tobias willed the player to catch it.

His hand clutching the beer can, his viewing was interrupted by the office buzzer. The picture temporarily scrambled by its insistent buzzing, he threw his hands up, aggravated.

"FUCK!" he yelled, slamming his beer can down.

Ignoring the buzzer, he stared at the screen, waiting to see if the instant replay would reveal what had happened.

"Ball is on the 20," the announcer was saying.

"YEAH!" Tobias cheered. "Show it again," he pleaded.

The Arizona offense gathering into their huddle, the picture switched, replaying the triumphant play. On bated breath, Tobias edged to the end of the couch, transfixed. The quarterback moved through the same series of runs, his arm cocking back and firing as before. The ball sailing again, Tobias grinned in glee.

Falling from the sky like a felled geese, it glided toward the waiting receivers' outstretched hands. Blinking, Tobias raised slightly, lending his effort to that of the straining player's.

"Com'on… com'on…"


"Aw shit!" he exploded, charging from his seat.

Stomping to the office window he bellowed,

"The fuck you want!"

His angry eyes glaring at the boy opposite the window, he paused, intrigued. This had to be the weirdest thing he'd ever seen.

Blue eyes blinked at him, a little taken aback. A combination of blonde, shoestring sized braids dropping about his face, each plait was secured by a clash of multicolored rubber bands.

"Yo, you da' manager?"

Staring into his sun tanned baby face, Tobias was sure his ears were playing jokes on him.

"Who wants to know?" he contested.

"Me. Yeah, you hirin'?"

"Man, you layin' on my buzzer, askin' fo a job?"

"Sorry, bro. My bad. I'm just lookin' fo' some work. A nigga need some money, man."

"Say what?"

"Com'on, bro, help a nigga out."

"First of all, you ain't my bro! And second of all, where you get off callin' yo'self a nigga, saltine?"

"Aw, that's messed up. How you gon' play a nigga?"

"Man, you betta get the fuck outta my face!"

"Com'on, man. You gon' make me beg?"

"Listen, Vanilla White, I done told you, I ain't hirin'."

Distressed, the boy stared at Tobias, the slightest hint of tears welling up in his blue eyes. Licking his captivating rosy red lips, he petitioned,

"The man at the gas station said you’d let me do a li’l work. I ain't got no place else to go, man, and I ain't ate in two days. Just let me work for a coupla' days, and I'll tip."

Stunned, Tobias observed the oddity staring at him.







...Blowing the acrid smoke out, he found himself face to face with a pair of blue eyes. Startled, he huffed,

"Boy, what you still doin' here?"

"You cain't you let me do that?" the boy entreated, indicating the sheets in Tobias' hand.

"How many times I got to tell you, I ain't hirin'?"

"Twenty dollars a day. That's all, homey, pleeeez?"

"Man you don't give up, do you?"

"You ain't knownin', holmes. I just need a little skrilla to get ma' grub on, man."

"Skrilla… You have got to be kiddin. Where the hell you learn to talk like that?"

"Dunno," the kid said, hunching his shoulders.

"Man, I don't know if you checked the mirror lately, but…you know you white?"

"Just on the surface, brotha."

"No… You WHITE. And I done told you, you ain't my brotha."

Shaken, the boy dropped his head again. Tobias gazed at him, astonished. Although he was white as the day was long, his dress was glaringly urban. From the gold chain about his fawn-like neck to the baggy jeans sagging off his slim, tender ass, he was working hard on his g. What is white bread's game, he pondered?

"What's yo' name?"


Laughing, Tobias, took another toke on his cigarette.

"Nah-gee? The fuck you think I am, a fuckin' idiot?" Naije, blinked, confused. "Boy, what's yo' real name?"

"That is my real name?"

"Yo' mother named you Nah-gee?"

"Don't know my mother. I named myself."

"Named yo'self? Man, what is yo' trip?"


"Damn, you stupid or something? You come waltizin' up here, yo' hair all twisted in some skanchy braids, eyes as blue as the Parker river, pants saggin' off yo' li'l, tired ass and tryin' to talk to me like you black or somethin. What the fuck is yo' trip?"

"Why everybody always trippin' over the way I talk? I can't help the way I talk."





...The room worse than he'd expected Tobias was loathed to clean it. Looking over his shoulder, he discovered Naije still there. How the hell would he explain him to Rita? She barely had enough money to pay his salary, let alone a stray teenager.

Lighting up another cigarette, he posited,

"Where you gon' sleep?"

"You got a bed? I don't snore," Naije added, observing the anguished look on Tobias' face.

Why, he didn't know, but taking another pull on his cigarette, he tossed the sheets to the boy. Naije, hustled into action, ecstatic. Tobias lingered, observing the boy. Naije buzzed around the room, ripping the dirty sheets off the bed, tossing them in a corner. Grabbing the clean linen, he wrestled them onto the bed, bunching the sheets beneath the top mattress in a disarrayed mangle.

"Where you learn to make beds?" Tobias accosted, unloosening the sheets.

Straightening the tangled cloth, he smoothed them about the lumpy bed, puffing on his cigarette all the while. Smoke burning his eyes, he squinted, inhaling again on the blazing stick.

Tucking the sheets in nicely formed corners, he looked up at the boy, instructing,

"Get the shit straight first. Then make yo' box corners, like this." Gesturing at the neat corners, he ripped the sheets loose again then stepped back.

Straightening them, Naije slaved over the corners, his slight hands shoving the sheets beneath the top mattress. It wasn't to his liking, but it would do, Tobias acquiesced.

Blowing another cloud of blue smoke, he gestured at the top blanket. Naije picked it up, throwing it on the sagging bed. Smoothing the wrinkles out, he picked up a pillow and quickly changed the cases. Satisfied the bed would do, Tobias headed back for the office.

"Need to have my head examined," he grumbled.








...His first meal, he all but cleared Tobias' scant refrigerator out. By the time Rita came by that Friday with his check, they'd resorted to eating at the Rally burger up the road. Naije conveniently away that afternoon, he narrowly escaped explaining his presence to his boss.

Naije seemed to do a lot of disappearing. Tobias didn't care, the less he knew the better. Besides, he wasn't planning on keeping Scary White, much longer. He'd worked hard on carving himself a little private hideaway and the last thing he needed was baggage.

It was nice having a little help, though. Naije was so eager to please, he couldn't keep him from working. Promptly pouncing on vacated rooms, he tirelessly slaved, changing sheets and sweeping the floor for good measure. Tobias couldn't remember the last time he'd changed a cum encrusted bed and that was fine with him.

The long hot days wearing on, he'd sit in his office, casually observing the boy. A child at heart, Naije would play with the patrons kids, chasing them about the courtyard in glee. On other occasions, he'd play air basketball, feinting about the square, motioning as if he was Michael Jordan. Least he entertain himself, Tobias thought.

On Wednesday he glanced out the office window, searching the courtyard for Naije, but the boy was nowhere to be found. Figuring his little stint with the stray youth was up, he dismissed the whole incident, returning to his TV. When the sun started to descend in the blazing Arizona sky, he trudged over to 112, resigning himself to cleaning dirty rooms again.

As he walked past the opened window, he heard the faint sound of a TV playing. Thought that sucka had checked out. Bending to peek beneath the tattered curtain, he spied Naije sprawled on the motel bed. Naked as the day was long, the boy was heartily stroking a stiff erection.

"The fuck…" he grumbled, watching Naije palm his aching hardness. His lithe body gyrating and twisting on the bed, the boy was watching one of the porno films on the motel's TV circuit. Impatiently rubbing his stroking fist around his flared helmet, he grunted, his toes wiggling, a hot shower of pent up cum spewing across his quivering stomach.

"Horny ass white boy," Tobias dismissed, shuffling away.








...Crammed beneath him nightly on their narrow bed, Naije seemed pretty content, though. The boy's feathery breath caressing his face, Tobias would sometime gaze at him, intrigued despite his attempts to remain unattached.

He'd learned little about the boy's past and that suited him well. All he knew for certain was that Naije strove hard to look, act and be accepted as black. He knew all the hottest rap artists and could spout any given tune, verbatim. He coveted black athletes, incessantly watching every sport he could find. And true to his word, he spoke like an urban youth, all the time.

Naije was still like a sponge, however, soaking up everything he could about urban life. Constantly observing Tobias, he mimicked his every move, from his patented scowl, to his slow gansta shuffle.

"You ever banged?" he asked, one day.

"You mean gang bang?"


"Not really. Knew some niggas did, though."

"Yeah, who?"

"Rollin' 60's."

"From L.A., huh?"

"Right," Tobias replied, amazed. "How you know 'bout that?"

"I know 'bout all the gangs, man."

"You ever gang banged?"

"Naw. You ever seen a white boy in a gang?"


"No shit!"

"You ain't needin' be gettin' in no gang, though," Tobias mandated.

"I wasn't gon' get in no gang. I was just surprised you'd seen a white boy in a gang."

"They people just like everybody else. We just don't be lettin' them run things, that's all."

"Ya'll be bonin' the bitches hard, I bet." Recalling the boy, stroking his rigid digit, he chuckled, lighting up a cigarette.

"Yeah, we bone the bitches, shorty. How 'bout you, though, you do anything 'sides watch grease?"


"Jack off, fool."

"Damn, that's cool. Ima 'member that, 'watch grease.'"

Tobias chuckled again, exhaling a long curl of blue smoke....






Somewhere about their third week together, Tobias noticed Naije talking to one of the patrons. A frail black boy, he stood almost 6 feet tall and looked to be 20 or so. Tobias knew right off that the boy was trouble. A nagging feeling that nothing good could come from Naije hooking up with him, he refrained from intervening, nevertheless.

When Naije ducked into the boy's room one afternoon, he held out as long as he could, determined to not get involved. Cursing himself, he eventually rose, crossing the courtyard towards the junkie's room. At the window, he peered beneath the curtains again, this time his mouth falling open in sheer alarm.

There on the bed was the lanky black boy, his legs spread, his long dick ensconced in Naije's sucking mouth. Slipping his ruby red lips down the boy's towering length, he hungrily slurped. Whereas the boy had removed everything save his dingy tank top T, Naije was naked as a jay bird. His hand between his legs, he was busily fisting his own hardness as he sucked.

Tobias gawked, dumbfounded, what he was seeing beyond comprehension. This punk skull dick? Bewildered, he observed the teen's expert technique. Licking and sucking around the youth's sensitive head, Naije diligently slaved to bring him off.

In minutes, the boy raised his hips off the bed, his dick hardening in Naije's talented mouth.... 














A few days later, Tobias was due to run up to Wichum, for food and supplies. His car on the blink, he was relegated to riding the bus. Certain Naije would no doubt want to tag along, he was surprised when the boy flatly turned him down.

"What you up to?" he asked, suspicious.

"What you mean? I ain't up to nothin'."

Tobias actually considered canceling his trip, fearing for Naije's safety. The errant junky had long since checked out, but that brought little consolation. Nigga, leave that li'l boy to his bizness, he resigned.

Catching the bus around 10:00 a.m., he watched the motel disappear on the horizon, his brow furrowed in consternation. Shouldn't 've never let that boy stay wit' you, he grumbled. Picking up his book, he settled into his seat, the trip before him long.

Returning late that afternoon, he dragged into an empty courtyard, heavy laden with shopping bags. The hell was Naije?

Entering the office apartment, he placed the bags on the counter, quickly searching the bathroom and bedroom. Snatching the refrigerator door opened, he fussed, "Cain't keep doin' this."

Transferring the contents of the first bag to the refrigerator, he tossed it aside, moving a few inches to retrieve another. From the corner of his eye, he caught movement in the courtyard. Standing, he glimpsed two boys, darting into room 111. Seconds later, he saw another youth dart across the courtyard, Naije in tow.

"Aw shit."

Staring out the office window, he went through a series of options. Store yo' groceries, one mind insisted. Yeah, fo'get that stupid little boy, another assented. Ignoring the other mind that screamed, 'help him,' he picked up a package of Van De Kamp's fish sticks.

"Fish sticks. Ain't nobody wantin' that but that stupid white boy." Glowering at the courtyard again, he slammed the freezer door. "God Damn!" he fumed.

This the madness, I left L.A. fo', he raged, stomping across the courtyard. "Gon' kick his ass," he muttered, sidling beside the door. Pressing against the cold concrete, he held his breath, listening. A radio was playing loudly in the room. Above the angry rapper's litany, he heard an occasional laugh.

Sliding quietly along the wall, he froze in front of the door, a bloodcurdling scream ushering from the windows. More giggling, then slapping sounds.

"Dammmmnnn," Tobias groaned.

A door flung open, a wild eyed patron poking his head out at the scream. Raising his hand to his lips, Tobias shushed him, the patron ducking back inside, spooked.

Sticking his room key in the lock, Tobias took a deep breath, then hurled the door open. His gun raised high, he rushed into the room, pointing it at the first thing that moved. Sensing someone behind him, he twirled, bringing the butt of his gun down on the unsuspecting youth's head. There was a dull thud as it connected, followed by the louder thump of the boy hitting the ground.

"Let 'em go!" Tobias yelled, directing his gun at the other two boys...





"The fuck you think you doin?" Tobias glared, "You know them busta's was Hope street Crips? Could've got yo' pasty ass killed! 'Swrong wit you?"

"They… I…" At a loss for words, Naije paused, dropping his head. "I thought they was cool, Tob."

"They walkin' 'round with bandanas on and you thought they was cool."

"They didn't have no bandanas on, first time I saw them," Naije said, sitting up.

"What's wit you? Why you doin' stupid shit like this?" Naije studied his hands, silent. "You got to stop this shit. Ain't no reason fo' you to be tryin' to kill yo'self like this."

Registering the boy's naked state, he directed, "Man, put yo' clothes on." Naije quietly dressed, quizzically regarding Tobias as he did. Exiting the room, he and Tobias quietly walked across the courtyard, hidden eyes observing them behind curtained windows.



"You mad at me?" Naije asked, entering Tobias' apartment. Placing the remainder of his supplies away, Tobias replied,

"Why you think I'm mad at you?"


Opening a can of beer, Tobias slumped on the couch. His eyes trained on the boy, Naije looked away, shoving his hands in his pockets. Sipping a couple swigs of his brew, Tobias motioned for the boy to sit next to him.

"They hurt you?"

"No," Naije said, his head down.

"Don't lie to me, I heard you scream."

Naije gazed at Tobias' poster of Malcom X, silent. Tobias gulped another swallow, watching him, but said nothing. A car passed on the highway, raucous Latin music belching from its speakers as it passed. Hearing it, Tobias was reminded how far away from his roots he actually was. He hadn't asked, but suspected that, like him, the boy was on the run.


Naije finally turned and looked at Tobias.

"I'm ok," he muttered, his eyes moist.






The lone cry of a coyote, echoing across the desert floor, Naije stared at the cracked ceiling. Hearing the creature howl always sent chills up his spine. Once, when he was around ten, he was skulking around an old deserted gas station, looking for shelter. A cold winter night, he hadn't eaten in days and was exhausted. Finding an old canvas, he curled up beneath it and was swiftly drifting off when he heard a sound.

Sitting up, he spotted a pair of eyes peeking into the garage door. Trembling, Naije held his breath, praying the animal wouldn't attack. The coyote sniffed around a little, finally wandering off. Jumping up after it left, Naije crept into the old station office and closed the door. Thankful his ignorance hadn't cost him his life, he huddled in a corner, eventually falling into a fretful sleep.

Another unnerving bay ringing out, he turned to look at Tobias. His eyes closed, he lay on his back, his stout chest softly rising and falling. Observing his exposed nipples, Naije wondered at their unusually large dimensions. From the first time Tobias stripped his shirt off, he'd been drawn to them. Like twin Hershey kisses, they speared from his chest, almost two inches in diameter.

"You sleep?" he whispered.

"No," Tobias grumbled.

"You hate me?"

"Why you keep askin' dumb questions?"

"Just answer me. You hate me?"

"No, now go to sleep."

Turning to face him, Naije gazed at his strong, ethnic features. His hair plaited in thick cornrows, it suggested the typical street gangster. A scowl continually etched on his face, Tobias was a force to be reckoned with. From the first time he'd snarled at him through the office window, Naije understood he didn't take any shit. Three weeks was a long time for him to stay put. He'd rarely spent more than two weeks at any given location, but there was something else behind that scowl. Something Naije latched onto, refusing to let go.

Blinking in the darkness, his baby blues regarded the boy, remembering the thought that first entered his mind upon viewing Tobias' round face. Ice Cube, he registered. Tobias looks like Ice Cube, the rapper.

Like the rapper, the youth styled a close trimmed beard that ran from his sideburns and up into a ring of hair around his thick, succulent lips. At times, he'd stroke it, complaining it itched.

"Why don't you just shave it off?" Naije questioned.

"Cain't. Get them bumps all on my face."

Strong arms, rippling with sensuous muscles, a tattoo of a skull and cross emblazoned over his right shoulder. A smooth, caramel colored body that bordered on obesity, but was tight, his hard demeanor alluring. Round, full pecs, each stamped with those chewable darts of chocolate. A slightly rounding stomach that seemed almost paternal, stout stocky legs and large flat feet, that slapped when he padded across the hard bare floor.


Naije was always conscious of his appearance. His face gaunt at times, haggard by his rapid lifestyle, he would stare at it in some barren gas station mirror. His eyes… his cobalt blue, dreamy eyes. That was what most people were always drawn to. Whether it was an old lady, dragging a box down the street, or the infrequent admirer, gazing into them as he manipulated their hardened girth, he knew they were his finest asset.

That he couldn't style his hair in a wave or 'fro like the boys he yearned after was the drawback. His fine, flaxen hair refusing to lay against his head as he wished, he opted to twist it into thin, flowing braids. It was when he'd gone long periods of time, wandering the arid desert countryside, he hated it the most. Turning into some sort of dingy grayish yellow mess, his beloved braids would become frizzy, some actually unraveling.

It was after many unsuccessful attempts he finally learned how to twist his hair into the desired affect. Determined, he'd petition every black youth he met to help him. Becoming offended, most of the boys would tell him to fuck off. On one of his frequent stops, a boy agreed to give him pointers following a steamy romp.

Having him sit between his knees, he pulled the boy's long, golden hair between his fingers, twining it into intricate strands.
"Why you want yo' hair like this so bad?" the boy asked, Naije watching his technique in a hand mirror.

"It's really dope," Naije exuded.

"Shit, I had blond hair like this, I'd be stylin' that shit!"

He was styling it though, Naije contested. Observing himself in the mirror, he smiled broadly, his dream finally a reality.

Fortunately, he wasn't one of those people that burned, no sooner sunlight struck them. Years spent, out on the Arizona desert had browned his skin nicely, concealing his fair complexion. A small button nose smack the middle of his face, he could almost pass for a black boy, especially if you added his full, sensuous red lips.

His distinctive urban attire rounding the effect out, he was as close to his coveted ethnicity obtainable. The only disadvantage was the constant haggling he got from the people he most wanted to be like.

"You ain't black," was his never ending burden. His walk, his speech, his dress, it didn't matter, all the boys saw was a little white boy, "perpetratin’".

"You saw me with Devon?" he whispered in the darkness.

"That skinny assed crack head?"


"Yeah," Tobias acknowledged.

His eyes blinking in the dim light, Tobias reached for his pack of cigarettes. Plucking one in his mouth, he lit up, puffing a cloud of smoke into the sky. Returning to his lumpy pillow, he stared at the ceiling the calming effect of the nicotine, coursing through his body.

"And you didn't throw me out?" Naije continued.

"What fo'?"

"'Cause that's faggot."

"All got our demons," Tobias said, blowing another cloud.

An owl hooting in the distance, Naije lay on his side, watching Tobias smoke. The heat was relentless and, to compensate, they both slept in the nude. From day one, Tobias made no real beef about Naije sleeping beneath him. Like an angry bob cat, the boy tossed and turned, ripping covers off them several times during the night. Tobias never complained, gently pushing the boy away when he crawled atop him.

"Why you let me stay with you?"

"You was looking pitiful."

"But a li'l white boy?"

"Make no difference to me what color you was. Yo' ass was to'e up."

Finishing his cigarette, Tobias stubbed the butt out in the bedside ash tray. Fluffing his pillow, he turned onto his side, facing away from Naije. Naije stared at his broad back, a birthmark the shape of a carrot, just under his left shoulder blade. Reaching out, he gently caressed it, awestruck. Tracing gingerly around its edges, he followed the contour of the youth's back, up and over his shoulder blade.

When he caressed the youth's stout neck, Tobias called out,

"Nigga, what you doin'?" Naije ignored him, reversing direction, his hand gliding down the center of Tobias' back. Tensing up, Tobias pulled the sheets up over his shoulders. Naije scuttled across the bed, snuggling close behind him. Enfolding his arms about the boy's chest, he gently lay his head against Tobias' back.

Laying like that for an extended time, Naije squeezed the boy slightly, his hand traveling across his stomach. Stroking it softly, he continued further down. As he neared the boy's private area, Tobias gripped his hand in a vice grip, calmly stating,

"You don't wanna do that, homey."

Naije pulled away, returning towards the boy's jewels. "I said, you don't wanna do that homey," Tobias repeated, gripping his hand again.

"Why, Tob? Why can't I?" Tobias said nothing, releasing his hand after a prolonged period.

Snuggling closer to the youth, Naije pressed his lips against his upper back. Laying additional tender kisses across his back, he traveled down, caressing Tobias' shoulders and upper back as he traveled. Squirming slightly beneath his ministrations, Tobias kept his back turned, silent.

Naije worked the entire of Tobias' back, softly pecking each inch in loving caresses. Working back up, he heard Tobias gently sigh, when he latched onto the boy's neck. Suckling and sucking, he pulled the soft skin into his mouth, raising a welt in its wake.

Insistently pulling on Tobias' shoulder, he urged him onto his back. Pecking lightly up his neck, he laid a tender caress on Tobias' bristly beard, his hand returning the boy's stomach. Nibbling his tender earlobe, he moved his hand further down again.

"What you doin'?" Tobias resisted. "Don't do this, Naije," he pleaded, the boy's hand nearing his package.

Naije lapped at his ear, dabbling his tongue in the boy's sensitive orifice, his hand groping Tobias' wickedly hard girth. Tobias twitched, his most private possession in the confines of another's hand.

"Nai-je…," he whispered, closing his eyes.

Enclosing the youth's imposing organ in his slender hand, Naije tenderly caressed it. "Ahhh," Tobias, hissed, his dick standing between his legs. Naije stared at it in the darkness, passing his hand up and down it's length.

He'd seen Tobias' ample size many times, but never as it was now. Springing madly from his slightly jarred legs, it stood an easy 8 inches tall. His battering ram designed for fucking, the head was wide, a ridged flare encircling its circumference. Like an early morning mushroom, it crowned his pulsing dick, shining in the scant moonlight.

A lanky length of powerful man meat throbbing beneath this knob-like helmet, Naije slid his hand up its girth, extracting a pearl drop of precum from the boy's pulsing pole. Tobias squeezed his eyes shut, hissing softly into the night air. As Naije spread the clear liquid around the top of his spear, Tobias whispered,

"Don't do this, nigga."

Naije continued fingering his hard inches, his sweet, crimson lips osculating closer and closer to Tobias' mouth. Edging slowly astride the youth, he kissed higher.. higher…


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