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Is Rhylonda Home?

By Chris Carr

July, 2000

 

 

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...on the day in question, my wife had taken my daughters to a school function, a drill team tournament or something. Happily strutting around the house in my skivvies (sheer bliss!) I'd just got comfortable when, the doorbell rang.

"This better be good," I griped, opening it. There stood Marlon.

"Hey Mr. Sparks," he beamed, his braces twinkling. "Rhylonda home?"

I almost closed the door in his face. Well dammit, this was my day alone and the last thing I wanted was a worrisome little, buttinski, horning in on my time.

"No," I snapped.

Accepting I wasn't going to run him off with my glare, god knows I've tried, I stepped aside, letting him in....

 

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...his rapt attention on the pointless game never waning, I could no longer deny mine was waxing cold, dragging me further into the abyss. Squeezed there, next to him on that cramped couch, I kept nervously glancing at him every few minutes.

From his baseball capped head to his stylish athletic shoes, I beheld him, couldn't keep my eyes off of him. He had to have seen me looking, but he never flinched, never looked up. It was almost like he wanted me next to him. Like I belonged there by his side. But why? Was Marlon gay? Maybe he was a bit more sensitive than I'd originally thought.

Feeling like that helpless, eternally horny kid from my youth once more, I broke out in a light sweat as my dick defiantly sprouted hard in my boxers. I prayed Marlon wouldn't notice it, the room shrinking. He merely stared at the game, in effect, refusing to acknowledge my depraved condition.

The flames so hot I could smell my flesh burning now, I was consumed. Like one of those horrendous nightmares where all you can do is watch and scream, I listened to the blood pounding in my ears as my hand slowly gravitated toward his silky thigh. Deliberately, moving only a millimeter per second, it edged closer....

 

 

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