Removals Lad Cum #5: The Final Cum

“You know,” I said casually as we were pulling up to the house behind his Uncle’s removal van, “I reckon we can probably get another load out of you, kiddo.”

I turned off the engine before turning to look at him, “you won’t have a problem with that, will you?”

Silence.

“Good. Come on, let’s get moving.”

Since fucking me, Darren had sat slumped in the car beside me, for the most part silent.

Our only brief conversation occurred when we were back on the motorway, and he suddenly shouted out, “I ain’t no fucking animal!”

I sat quietly, thinking for a moment, before replying, “now, do you mean ‘fucking’ in its profane sense, or in its descriptive sense? Because if it’s the latter, then I quite disagree, Darren…it seems to me you are indeed an animal ideally suited to fucking.”

At which point, he just pouted, folded his arms and looked out the window.

And now here we were, at my new house.

The others weren’t too happy at being left on the doorstep, unable to do anything. Brian kept pressing me on why we were late…I didn’t think it best to explain why.

I slid the key into the front door, turned, and swung the door open.

“I just love that new house smell!” I shouted. Everyone else just mumbled some unpleasant rejoinders and started sidling past me with boxes.

I gripped Darren’s wrist and pulled him into the deserted kitchen. “You owe me £200,” he said.

“You let me be the judge of that, boy-o. I reckon I can have another go at you.”

“No you fuckin’ can’t! How are you gonna manage that?”

I wasn’t surprised that Darren was no longer particularly keen to come up with an excuse to get molested again, and was determined to avoid it. Despite it being in contravention of our little rules, I let it slide.

“You leave that to me. I’ll let you know when the right time is.”

Thanks to Uncle Brian’s overly generous break schedule, it was actually pretty easy to find the opportunity to milk his nephew one last time.

When he promptly sat himself down on my sofa in the living room, having just moved it from the van, he cordially informed me that it was time for ‘tea’.

I nodded understandingly.

“Well if you don’t mind, Brian, I think I’ll get on with moving some bits and pieces.”

“Do whatever you want,” he grumbled as he bit into some sort of manky old sandwich.

Darren plopped himself down next to him.

“And I’ll take Darren to help me, I reckon.”

Brian’s eyes widened. “Oh will you now? Not if he doesn’t want to go you bloody won’t.”

“Oh, he does, don’t you Darren?” Before he could respond I continued, “because if he doesn’t come,” I let that word hang, “then he won’t get his tip. Also, Brian – I made sure he ate something nutritious on the drive down, so he’s sorted on that front.”

“Oh, eating with strange men are you, Darren,” his Dad joked.

We all smiled, some more knowingly then others. “Oh, I didn’t give him anything he doesn’t give his treasured girlfriend, Gary.”

Whilst Gary and Big Bessie frowned, I yanked Darren up by his T-shirt and frog-marched him out to the big van.

Extracting Darren’s last load of the day was a fairly methodical, scientific affair.

Was Darren still doing what he was doing for money, or was it because he had become trained to do what I told him?

I really don’t know, but he did not object as I took him to the interior of the large van and got him to sit on the dressing table that was next to be brought out of the van.

He didn’t object as, with him sitting on the furniture and looking out onto the garage the van had backed onto, I unceremoniously removed his sweat pants and underwear, down and off, over his trainers.

His cock, caked with spunky, crusty white remnants, remained shrivelled and curled up within a nest of pubic hair, the cummy stink of which I could detect even when above him.

He didn’t object, or question, as I moved his arms up above his head, and then pulled his polo-shirt up, but not off – just to obscure his head, blind him, and keep his arms above his head.

He could’ve easily broken free. But he didn’t.

He didn’t even object, per se, as I pushed him back so he was lying on the table surface, and took firm grip of his right ankle, and lifted.

Although his head did jerk to one side, as if looking at me through his shirt. As if wordlessly imploring me to stop.

“Oh stop worrying,” I remarked breezily, “I ain’t gonna fuck you. Besides, you’re a big boy, aren’t you?”

I positioned him with his legs mid-way in the air, just revealing the pink little hole between his butt-cheeks.

“W-what are you gonna fuckin’ do to me?” He asked, his voice trembling with fear. But as ever, the lad’s cock gave away his true feelings; it’s subtle creeping lengthening down his thigh becoming all the more apparent when the fat fucker swung up and slapped him on the belly, like a pet with a mind of its own, intent on betraying his master.

I whispered, “you wanna stop and go chomp on your sandwich with your girlfriend, you just say, ‘k? Ain’t no skin off my nose, and I would hate – HATE – for you to be in anyway uncomfortable with this. Yep, you just say the word, and you can go back to the house, hardon still swingin’ between yer legs, and get the monetary equivalent of sweet fuck all.”

I looked hungrily at his dick, now half-hard and still lengthening. I wrapped my hand around the sticky lad-joint, and it felt like I was wrapping my hand around a half-sucked sugar cane, all sticky with sweet, dried-on dribble.

“But the thing is, kiddo, I think we both know what’s happening, don’t we? I think we both know that you’ve developed a bit of a taste for this sort of thing. For getting milked…having this thing taken out of your hands, so to speak.” I started drawing back his foreskin, the air rapidly filling with the fetid stink of his over-ripe knob.

“So, I’ve got a better idea. I ain’t gonna tie you up or nothin’, but how about I give you one more cum, ok? Sure, I know it’ll be a little bit painful, what with your dick being so tuckered out, but we both know you’ll enjoy it, and in a couple of hours, you’ll get your money for a hard, hard day’s work.”

I was gently wanking his stiff half-hard cock, with him grunting and mewling each time my fist slid over the delicately sensitive glans. “Ok? Don’t worry, I know it’s embarrassing to answer that; so you just shut the fuck up now, and I’ll do all the work. We ain’t people; this ain’t a relationship; this is business. I’m just a farmer, milkin’ my livestock one last time.”

Leaving his cock, and the boy with his legs still in the air, I rummaged around a little bit through various boxes at the far end of the truck, and quickly prepped my little surprise.

Chuckling as I found what I was looking for, I returned to the boy who still had his head covered. I stood between his upright legs, now bare except for his socks and trainers.

I wrapped my first around his leftward warm socked ankle, and lifted, placing it on my shoulder, before doing the same with the rightward one.

Each foot was now slack, and pointing skyward, just as I wanted.

And thenI took the menacingly large (but mercifully lubed) black dildo I was holding, and punctured the lad’s straight arsehole.

Oh, how he howled. Howled like a fucking wolf. A pained howl, filled with primal intensity and reignited need.

Momentarily incapable of maintaining his own body, his right ankle slid from my shoulder, the entire leg slack, and began to fall to the ground – but clearly this movement had a negative impact on the lattice of muscles deep within his guts. Before it had hit the ground, the errant leg jerked, froze, and then began to slowly return back up into the air, where it remained of its own volition.

With the other foot still on my shoulder, I planted my hand firmly on his ridged pectoral to take control of his core and keep him down on the table, taking the opportunity to yank and twist his right nipple as I did so.

His cock was now filling with blood more urgently. His thighs clenched and his cock throbbed with pained need as I methodically and slowly slid the dildo further into his rectum.

His howling had stopped now, replaced by a constant incoherent babble of disjointed phrases; one minute to take it out, the next to push it harder; one minute crying out for his dad, the next crying out threats that if I told his dad, I’d be dead.

All the while, I slid the device further into him. My hand moved from his chest and down to his tummy, which I briefly scratched and fussed over, before bringing my fingers once more into the richly scented scruffy pubic bush at his centre.

The temptation was to frig him senselessly, but I resisted.

My faithful billy-goat deserved better.

Instead, I just ran my fingers through the oily hair, and when the device bottomed out, I carefully dabbed and scratched the slick surface of his exposed glans, now purple with pressure, and resting atop his sticky stiff prick.

What little moisture the well of his piss-slit contained – and it was more pissy sweat than anything else – I carefully, cooly applied to the red domed cone.

I thought this’d be a good time to turn the dildo on.

My hand curled around his left leg to keep it in place on my shoulder and quickly planted itself back on his chest: poor Darren was jumping around on the table as if he was being electrocuted.

Pushing him forcefully down onto the table, I quietly shushed him and smiled as I noticed for the first time that his grey socks had written around the top in pink, ‘I ♥ UR MUM’, which as you might imagine given our current situation, made me smile something fierce.

Although Darren, still writhing around on the table with a buzzing dildo shoved up his arse, probably wouldn’t of appreciated the irony, or found it particularly amusing.

I was pleased to see that the lad’s cock, tired and distressed with the heavy cums that had previously been required of it, was once more unrepentantly erect. I wondered how much cream Darren had left in his balls.

Asking the question made my hand leave his chest, and briefly jiggle his nuts in their round sack, my other hand remaining on the base of the device as I began to slowly slide it back out of his guts.

He bravely tried to silence himself, no longer screaming or babbling, but the humming, buzzing and uncoordinated flitting the device caused around his colon as I began to slowly remove it from his fundament.

This clearly had an erotic effect on him.

His cock, harder than I had ever seen it, throbbed in time with his heart-beat and the trainered feet on either side of my head both flexed from a vertical position to a horizontal one, as the muscles in his lithe legs contracted in response to the sweet ecstasy occurring in his bowels.

Ecstasy the poor straight boy had previously been blissfully ignorant about, but which I could imagine him trying to work into his hetrosexual sex-life, with hilarious results.

With just the bulbous head of the plastic organ remaining in his slick hole, I cruelly rammed the entirety of the thick shaft back into him. It was like ramming a dildo through partially melted butter…possible, but not easy, and requiring a certain degree of brutalising strength.

But I knew the little slut loved it, even if he didn’t know it himself, so I just kept on keeping on, pushing until the base was once more abutting his muscular, splayed buttocks.

“ARGHHNO!” he screamed urgently; I knew we’d reached that special point when he groaned “AAAGHRAAAAGH” as his cock, untouched by me, pitifully pulsed stiffly in the open air, swaying this way and that – almost waving to me for help; for the relief of even the slightly reassuring contact; for a comforting, firm yank.

The glans stretched tight across his spike, still stinky and glassy, and I intently watched his peehole as he screamed loudly and breathlessly. Each earth-shattering pulse racked his body like an earthquake, causing the musculature of his chest and stomach to spasm and exhibit themselves delightfully for my perusal.

But only after the third such cataclysm beset him did about half a teaspoon of syrupy spit slowly, tortuously slide out of the mouth of his cock, with great, pained effort, and pool on his stomach.

I carefully scraped up the lad’s small sex-deposit, sniffed the raw muskiness of it, before sliding my greasy digit through the gap between buttons on his polo shirt, and into his own mouth.

His head still covered, I felt his tongue dart around the finger, happily consuming whatever gently warmed sauce his pained nuts had seen fit to exorcise a moment before.

The shirt gave him legitimate cover; ‘he didn’t know’; but we both knew he knew what he was guzzling down.

And who was I to say anything? I enjoyed his robust produce, so why shouldn’t he also enjoy it?

Even with the rear door of the van open to the world, the van stank of the lad’s round arse and domed cockhead, the latter of which had already softened and retreated deep into the folds of his foreskin, as if screaming ‘no more, no more!’

I shrugged my shoulder, unlatching the boy’s foot from my body, and causing it to join the other foot now on the ground. Darren, still breathing heavily, returned his polo-shirt to its previous, proper position, taking the trouble to lift up the collar again.

He propped himself up on his elbows, looking around the van.

I looked at him, but he didn’t look at me.

He snorted, and then remarked, “give us hand with those boxes,” pointing to some of the boxes near the rear of the van.

I frowned. “Sure. Um…you might wanna put your trousers on though. And lemme put this dildo back…”

He looked outside, at the garage door to which the rear of the truck was facing. “Whatever.”

I surreptitiously slid the lad’s boxers into my pocket – before he grabbed my fist, and extracted the shorts from my clenched fingers.

I allowed him his pathetic little victory.

I expected Darren’s last cum to take around an hour, maybe longer. But because he was so unused to exploring his own anus, we were done in a little over half an hour.

4.45pm: Darren the straight removals lad had been milked of his afternoon load.

Epilogue

Darren earned his money that day. £200. I gave it to him, at the same time I gave his Uncle payment for the job, but the lad still wouldn’t look at me.

Oh, he was polite enough. But we both knew he’d been robbed.

Gary asked what the extra money was for; before I could come out with some witty rejoinder which again highlighted the fact I’d spent the day pillaging his son’s arse, Darren gruffly said, “let’s go.”

And off he went. I never saw him again, but I think of him often.

I wonder if he thinks of me?

Email the author your thoughts:  Just_Some_Chap@Hotmail.co.uk