New story. New characters. Same drama filled, VanillaNight short story. Part one.t
My name is Stryker Caine. I stand well over five feet, my body slender and well-muscled, my hair stained brown with blonder roots hiding beneath. Looking into the mirror, I see my eyes so blue that one would think one were staring into a calm pool of icy water. I smile, run my tongue over my pearly white teeth, one standing slightly crooked in the middle, my one perfection he loves on me. Resting my tongue in its natural place, I close my lips: Full. A dark pink, almost red. Like soft, silken pillows on my face.

Water drips...drips...drips into tiny puddle at my bare feet. My toes blanketed by carpet, the fabric tickling me when I move. But I don't. I stand still, look into the mirror, look into my the person that I have come to be. I see the dark line of brusing on my shoulders, see the faded scars of burns along my left breast, my tanned body a blank canvas for wounds and history.
History of the person I used to be.

History I'd like to conceal completely.

I reach up and draw a line into the fogged portion of the mirror. From that line, I write his name.






Tomas Poole The boy with the skin far darker than mine, hair so thick you'd think it was pure chocolate, eyes so rich you'd think you were swimming in coffee. His lips a lighter pink, less full, his teeth hidden behind of pure perfection; a dentist's dream. Standing slightly shorter than me, his body defined as if from marble, perfect, never failing to workout and become more ripped and toned. Though his body doesn't mirror his eclectic and darkly comical attitude.

Staring at myself, I don't hear him walk to me. I can't hear him take steps on the floor, carpeted or not. He stays to the side, hidden from the window, and places the tips of his fingers along my back. They fall, trace my spine, glide over the hill of my ass. He squeezes gently, then reaches toward my waist and pulls me to him.

His body reads sleep; his eyes read hunger.

He doesn't ask, doesn't take me into account, and feeds his temptation. He pulls me in his arms, wrap his body around mine, forces his lips onto mine, crushes our bodies together. I feel his muscles on mine, hard as rock and completely bare of hair. Just like me. Where I've been completely shaved away, his trmmed pubes tickles my own lower abdomen.

Then he pulls away. "I missed you."

"You were asleep for only two hours," i say to him and bite on his bottom lip. "I thought I'd clean up a bit. See if you wanted to do anything."

His Spanish eyes read my face, but his all-American voice speaks with no trace of his heritage. "The only thing I want to do is you."

Hands finding mine, he doesn't give me moment to protest. He pulls me away from the bathroom. Together, we walk. Bodies naked, his dry, mine damp. Flaccid, I hang three inches, my uncut penis slightly thinner than his. When I walk, it moves, but it doesn't bother me.

He, on the other hand, can't stand the way it bobs from side to side, back and forth with each step. He holds his in his hand, all three-and-a-half inches of his cut member.

We rush down stairs until we find ourselfs at the back door, sliding the glass out of our way, finding the emerald green grass before us.

Together, we run into the open field and feel the way the grass brushes against our feet causing sensations to run rampant through our bodies. Then fall to the ground, twisting our arms and legs together, feeling our lust between each other crescendo to a peak of fleeting yearning for the pull between us without reflecting on our sexual nature.

He takes a breath and stares into my eyes.

He pushes away.

Dives between my legs.

Inhales the sent of my very being. His lips falling gently on my lower abdomen, then reaches up so his tongue can rotate along the edge of my navel. His hand slides up my stomach and over my chest, brushes the edge of my jaw, makes contact with my lips until I suck his finger into my mouth.

He laughs to himself, buries his head into my inner thigh, continuing to kiss my flesh while his other hand tugs lightly on my balls before reaching up and taking hold of my cock. He pulls on my cock, stretches it out as if it’s an elastic band then settling back down on its base. He bites my inner thigh, stares up at me again, then watches as he shakes his fist; the head of my cock circles the air almost as if it was a tornado.

Then, his mouth finds his way to me and sucks in a breath. Almost as instantly as I touch his tongue, blood rushes from my heart to my cock, fueling my desire, making me scream with the wanting of his body, his breath, his ecstasy. Traveling deep into the moist cave of his mouth, I’ve only grown to a full four inches when I meet the back of his throat. He widens his lips around the base of my shaft, takes in a small breath (which hit me real cool from the saliva on my dick), then swallows.

My head is momentarily crushed against his closing throat.

Then he releases me from him, gags into the air and spits into the grass.

And does it again.

And again.

Completeing the cycle four more times until his lips cease to touch base, until his mouth cannot widen around my cock comfortably enough to suck in a good breath, until I’ve managed to grow to my full potential.

He pulls away and admires my beauty for what I am. Held thick in his hands, my cock stands erect close to seven inches, but not quite making the mark. My mushroom no wider than my shaft, curving slighty upward, hidden behind my foreskin. He lets it go for a moment,

watches it curve up to rest over my stomach, the grabs it at the gland and pulls down the foreskin exposing my head.

He gasps and smiles. “It never get’s old looking at this thing,” he says to me. “It’s like…the perfect dick. Man!”

I laugh and reply, “Your’s is pretty fucking amazing too.”

“Oh, yeah?” He winks at me and raises an eyebrow. Then he pushes himself to his feet and waves his dick over my face. He’s not prone to not having boners; they seem to be the only thing he can’t control. He must have one ever hour, on the hour, and some in between. And it never fails to think that he fantasizes about me.

Or any other boy.

Or girl, for that matter.

If it moves, has a heartbeat, and air rushing into its lungs it’s fair game.

He’ll fuck it.

His head never fails to shine brightly, it’s color near to the hue of blood; you could practically see the blood fill his enormous mushroom. Tomas has a dick like no other. Depending on his mood, he varies in size. Some days when he jack for the hell of it, it’s like he only reaches five inches. But on the days like today, when he’s jammed with as much blood as his body will allow, he exedes my close-to-seven-inch cock hitting the halfway mark to eight right on the head. No pun intended. Unlike my head, though, it points straight like a bullet. And like his head, his cock hangs low when standing from weight, but it’s a straight shot from his pubes to his gland.

No curves there.

I reach up and take it in my hand. Thinner than mine, my fingertips easily reach my thumb. I stroke him for a minute, watching his head tilt back and him moan. Then his eyes hit mine and he smiles.

I know what’s on his mind. It’s his favorite thing to do.

Especially with me.


His eyes flick around us until he spots the picnic table. Covered in a thin sheet, he pulls me to my feet and rushes toward it. Kissing my lips, he forces me to sit, dives his tongue into my throat, and holds me there for a moment. Then he instruts me.

“Lie on the top of the table babe. And turn your body so that your head is at my crotch.”
I do as he says. My legs bend over the other side until my feet touch the bench. Then his cock lands on my face. I extend my tongue and rub the bottom of his shaft and nod my head so my nose and chin helps to pleasure him. But it’s not enough. He bends over me, pushes his way through my lips, and find his lips with my own cock.

We sixty-nine like that for a while. To better his position, his knees dig deep into the wooden bench.

Saliva covered, he releases his head from my dick and strokes me at a momentum that causes me to catch my breath. I nearly choke on his cock in my mouth and pull away, trying to breathe again, trying to fight the gagging.

“P—p—please sto—st—stop…”

“On one condition.”

“Anything.” And he lets go.

And allows his lips to fall against mine, kissing me upside-down, fueling my body with even more passion that makes me crave to have his lips on my member again.

And his member slipping past my lips at the same time.

But he stops, stares into my eyes, then bends down to brush his lips over the dark bruise on my shoulder, and kisses each and every scar that litters my left breast. “Tell me, now. Please. Where did these come from, Stryker?”

I turn my head. close my eyes. Refuse to give him even the slightest hint as to what made them…

Who made them…

How they were made…


Telling him my secrets, displaying to him the fact that I’m more vulnerable than a wounded buck in a field of hunters when I’m with him makes me want to cringe.

I can’t.

I won’t.

I shake my head, refuse to answer, start to cry.

Make myself completely isolated from the world that I have no recollection of when he moved. I only know he has when I feel his hands at my side, his knees aside my thighs, his lower abdomen and cock falling down against mine, our naked bodies touching once more.
And I have to hope to myself that he’ll forget it and dive right back into sex. I have to hope that he’ll see my tears and want to end them by kissing me, tasting me, lifting me into the air and making us one for the first time ever.

I have to hope that he’ll take my body on his, dig himself into my very soul, give me all that he has.

And more.

But he doesn’t. He just brushes his lips across mine to give only a touch, not a kiss. He grabs my face with his hands. He peers into my eyes as if he’s trying to look into a mirror.
“Will you tell me when you’re ready?”

I nod to give him some sort of answer.

Then decide against myself and take ready to divert where this is going. I reach up and pull him down to me, wrap my arms and legs around his body, make him kiss me like I want.

Together we lay in the afternoon sun, rubbing our bodies together, letting the friction of his hardening cock work against mine until we both produce enough precum to make our dicks glide better.

He moans, kisses me more, then pushes his hips further into mine causing more pressure on our cocks.

While I have him here, while I’m making some sort of love to him (other than our constant hand— blowjobs, I look into his face and ask,

“Will you ever love me?”

Stopping his grind into me, he just closes his eyes and shakes his head—an act that, although I did the same thing, says that “no” is final.

He will never love me.

He climbs from me and stands back to his feet. I sit up, sit back on my elbows, look away into the grass at our feet. “I’m sorry…”

“No, you’re not,” he replies back and sits down on the bench. Plummeting his head into his hands, he wipes his face and eyes and continues, “If you were sorry, you wouldn’t have asked that. We shouldn’t be doing this at all.”

“Doing what?”

“SUCKING EACH OTHER’S DICKS AND MAKING OUT!” His voice echoes in the distance. He spits into the grass. “That’s what, Stryker. This is leading you on in a direction going entirely in the wrong way. It’s wrong.”

I push myself from the picnic table and stand to my feet. Fists clenching at my side, I start to shake as the blood starts to boil in my veins. Tomas Poole and I, Stryker Caine, have never had a fight. And this was leading up to one. And I couldn’t handle it if it actually did.

“I guess I’ll go get dressed and leave then.” I turn away, my body stumbles and falls back when his hand wraps around my wrist and tugs.

Falling to my knees, I fall in place by his legs and look up. “What was that for.”

“For you to stay. And to listen.”

“To what?”

“To me when I tell you that I’m sorry. So fucking sorry for even starting this. So fucking sorry for working against the things that you’ve told me and allowing us to experiment, allowing me to find out that I could never love a guy like I will one day love a woman.
“And as much fun as it is to have sex with a guy, I’ll never love them.


“And I should have taken that into account when I knew damn well and good that you loved me, Stryker—”


“—I shouldn’t have even allowed this weekend to happen. This was never supposed to happen.”

“Then what am I to do?”

He shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders, wipes tears from his eyes. “What about Reni? You’re still together with him.”

My hand instinctively falls against my bruise on my shoulder, immediately traces the burned scars on my chest.

And his eyes catch that, and grow big. “Reni…he did that?”

“Yeah,” I say back to him and close my eyes. Leaning into him, my head falls against his thigh.

“Can you do one thing for me,” I whisper.

He nods his head and pulls my hand into his. Lifting me into the air, he stands me in front of him and looks over my face. “Anything.”

“Make love to me. Like, real love. Just once. Make me feel like I’ve wanted to feel for forever now?”

Sighing, hoping he will never have to regret this, he rises from his seat and takes my hand.
Together, we walk into the house.

Up the stairs.

And fall atop his bed.


If you would like to read a second part, let me know. If you would like me to delve into Stryker’s story with Reni, let me.

If you just want me to stop this story completely, feel free too.

anonymous readerReport

2012-02-07 07:56:15

anonymous readerReport

2012-01-25 20:16:44
I really like this story!
Please continue!

anonymous readerReport

2011-11-10 09:42:43
Good...good storyB-)

anonymous readerReport

2011-08-23 00:03:03
please please please continue writing

anonymous readerReport

2011-08-21 03:42:53
Love it please keep going. I would like to know some about the scars.

You are not logged in.
Characters count: