For some time Dwight had told me that when the time came, when I’d reached eighteen, and if I was still interested, he’d take me to the Candy Shop for the first time. I tried to tell him that he would be candy enough for me, but Dwight was an honorable man. That’s the only reason why we ever needed to discuss the Candy Shop at all.
The Candy Shop was out on Route 96, beyond the edge of town, and just inside the next county—a much poorer county than ours that needed the revenue and was willing to turn a blind eye. The building it occupied originally had been one of those full-service trucker stops. A gas station out front, whose pumps now had plastic bags permanently over the handles and their gauges zeroed out and just sat there under sagging awnings, rusting away. Inside the storefront had been a combined convenience store and short-order cook counter with a dining area off to the side with a widescreen TV where the truckers could stop to watch and bet on televised sporting events to break up the monotony of their long hauls and to catch up on the gossip of where the cop speed traps were along Route 96. In the back were a communal shower room truckers could use on long, time-sensitive hauls for a minimal fee and eight small rooms where, for less then they would have to fork out for a motel, they could rent rooms with clean sheets and towels by the hour. This served their schedule well. They rarely were able to pull over for a whole night; they had to sleep in three- and four-hour snatches in order to get their loads to their destinations on time.
It didn’t take too long before the girls behind the food counter and at the convenience store register were augmenting their incomes by adding a fringe benefit of a fuck to go with the by-the-hour rooms. And there were few truckers who didn’t appreciate this release of tension in addition to a couple of hours of sleep in a real bed. But this led to the whole operation being shut down, as the local residents put their own sense of morality over the smooth operation of trucking operations.
The place remained dormant for a couple of years and then the Candy Shop moved in, and the commissioners of the poorer county, seeing the folly of letting a revenue-paying business go bust like the trucker stop had done, turned a blind eye on the Candy Shop as long as it was bringing in revenue.
And bring in revenue it did.
When Dwight drove me out there, there must have been more than two dozen cars parked there, although we didn’t see them until we’d swung around to the high-fenced area at the back of the building, where just about everyone going to the Candy Shop parked his car—out of sight of those driving down the highway.
As we came around the side of the building, though, I saw that there were maybe half a dozen guys milling around the old gas pumps and eyeing everyone coming into the Candy Shop. When we showed up, most of them broke off their discussions and ogled Dwight and me up and down. Three of them came up to Dwight and started talking to him, and four of them surrounded me. They asked me if I’d come for candy and said I didn’t have to go into the store—that any of them would be happy to give me a ride in their car and some candy as well.
“Haven’t seen you around here, son,” said one guy, who looked like a trucker left over from the building’s last life. “First time to the Candy Shop?” he asked.
“Umm, yes,” I said. I looked over at Dwight, who seemed to be having a little difficulty with those three guys trying to get up close. I wasn’t really worried about him being able to take care of himself, though. Dwight had been football player and had kept in tip-top shape. I was sort of worried, though, because there were three of them and they were all white. Dwight was what you’d call a mulatto—his father had been black and his mother white, which had left him with the facial features of a Caucasian but with a rich coffee-and-cream brown skin color. One of the guys around him was pretty drunk, and was talking about dipping in the chocolate in a fairly loud voice. The other two seemed to be less belligerent—one had his wallet out and was fanning a wad of bills out where Dwight could see it.
From the looks Dwight was giving me, I think he was more concerned about those four guys trying to make small talk with me, though.
Another of the guys had put on a big smile when I said it was my first visit to the Candy Shop. He was a surfer type with dirty blond stringy hair and shorts and flip flops. No shirt; he had a good tan and a good build, so I didn’t think I was far off on the surfer supposition. “First time for the candy?” he asked. His voice had a hopeful edge to it.
“Yeah,” I said. “Just turned eighteen last week and Dwight here wouldn’t let me have the candy until now.”
The surfer dude sucked in air and then turned and waved to the other guys over at the gas tanks. “First time for the candy over here guys. Anyone who’s interested, let’s pool our resources and see what kinda deal we can make.”
Dwight stepped in at that point, however. “Let’s go on in to the store, Jason,” he said. He had moved away from the group of guys he was talking with and put his hand on my arm and guided me toward the store interest.
“Hey, man. We’ve got money,” one of the gas pump guys called out. “More than enough for both of you.”
“Sorry, guys,” Dwight called out over his shoulder. “Gotta do this right. This here’s my boy.”
“I was doing fine, Dwight,” I hissed at him was we walked away from the group. “They weren’t bothering me.”
“I swear I have no idea how I’ve gotten you to eighteen untouched,” Jason muttered back. “Do you want to do this right or not? The first time is all important.”
“I know it is,” I shot back. “So, what are we doing here at all? You know what I want.”
“It’s just too important,” Dwight answered. “You have to be sure. It only happens once. You need to see the choices before you make one.”
That was always the problem with Dwight and me. Dwight had always been more of a father to me than my own dad had been—but that’s not what I’d ever wanted from Dwight. I’d had what you could called a really screwed up home life, but Dwight—who my mother had seen as the cause of it all—was actually the only steadying force in my life for the past three years. And I had known from the beginning what I wanted from Dwight.
Dwight and my dad had been on the same semipro football team, one that had spent more time on the road in small cities far from home than they’d spent at home. Mom blamed what had happened between her and Dad on those separations—and on Dwight. That’s not the way I had seen it. Dad did what Dad wanted to do because he wanted to do it. And if it hadn’t been with Dwight, it would have been with someone else.
I could see that and Mom couldn’t, and she and I fought so much over that point that I guess it was easy for her to leave me with Dad and Dwight when she packed up and left the state. We still talked occasionally, but not much at all in the last two years. When Dad had been killed in that freak busted play on the football field in Richmond and Mom had called and told me she was sending a ticket for me back to Fresno and I told her I wanted to stay with Dwight—and why I wanted to stay with Dwight—she hung up on me and hasn’t spoken to me since. All there were were occasional terse e-mails asking if I’d changed my mind or threatening what she’d do if there was a hint of Dwight stepping out of line with me. For some time, I was terrified that she would step in and do something to make me come to her, but that hadn’t happened. And now that I was eighteen, there was nothing she could do about it.
In the meantime, Dwight had been a dad to me. He’d quit his football career, which showed some promise to stepping up to the NFL, and had settled in as a football coach at a small college—all to give me a settled life in school. He’d even made sure I got a place in the college for the coming fall.
And in all that time, even though I told him what I wanted from him, he hadn’t laid a hand on me. I’d seen him with Dad and that’s what I wanted too—and not just with anyone; only with Dwight.
Dwight wanted me to be sure, though, and he wanted my first taste of candy to be perfect. So, here we were, walking through the door of the Candy Shop.
We walked in and stood inside the door for a moment and scanned the store. The store was laid out in a long rectangle with a counter cutting it in two almost in the middle. On the side the entrance door was on were a series of small malt-shop type tables with café chairs. Several of the tables were occupied—all by men, mostly one per table. Half of the section of the counter separating the two sections were glass-fronted cabinets with displays of candy in them. The rest of the counter was set up as an ice cream shop.
A couple of men stood behind the counter, ready to take orders, but, somewhat strangely, there were several guys sitting in the large space behind the counter, in the area that had once been the truckers’ dining area, who were sitting and watching a big screen TV, probably the same one that had been there when the truckers’ rest stop occupied the space. They didn’t appear to be involved in selling candy or ice cream at all—they were just sitting there waiting for something to happen. There were all types of men and even a couple of guys who looked as young as I was. Those younger guys looked a little nervous and fidgety.
I started toward an empty table, but Dwight put his hand on my arm and murmured that I should stand over by the candy displays for a while until I got an idea of what I really wanted.
As I moved over there, a middle-aged man walked up to the candy counter and perused the display. A salesman came over and stood behind the counter.
“What is your pleasure, sir,” he asked.
“Umm, I’m not sure. I’m checking out what you have.”
“Well, we have available quite a variety today,” the salesman said. “We have the nut-centered chocolates in white chocolate and a limited supply of the milk chocolate. The dark chocolate should be available in an hour or two if you wish to wait for it.”
“Routine, customer bottom,” Dwight whispered to me.
“Umm, no, I don’t think so,” the man muttered. “Perhaps something . . . well, a bit more special.”
“There’s the rope candy over here—the licorice or strawberry twists—we have a vanilla version as well. And the pull toffee of course.”
The customer took a step away from the counter, almost visibly recoiling. “No, no. Not that, thanks.”
“SM and bondage,” Dwight muttered.
“Well, perhaps the cream centered, then. We have both white and dark chocolate on hand. And I think the milk chocolate will be coming back in shortly.”
“I thought you’d stopped that line altogether,” the man said.
“Well, I thought . . . since you mentioned special,” the salesman answered. “We do still make those available. Of course we provide certificates—and the customer, of course, as well, needs to provide recent certification. But, we do still have that line, yes.”
The customer looked dubious.
Meanwhile, another customer had sauntered up to the counter and drawn the attention of one of the other salesmen. He asked for vanilla rope candy and turned over a credit card. After running it through a machine, the salesman went back to the area behind the counter where the men were watching the TV and spoke with a swarthy-looking fellow who was on the thin side but all ropy muscle, bulging biceps, and angular facial features. That guy flashed a look over at the customer and nodded his head. He stood and moved toward a door at the end and inside the counter as the salesman guided the customer to a door on the storefront side of the counter.
When the swarthy guy went through the door behind the counter, a young blond guy in gym shorts and an athletic T came into the store through the same door. He was moving toward the section with the TV, when the salesman intercepted him and said something to him. Then the salesman called out “Vanilla Shake Number 6” and one of the guys sitting at the café tables stood. He went through the door the previous customer had gone through and the blond went out again through the door the swarthy guy had used.
I looked at Dwight, the question evident in my expression, and Dwight whispered back to me. “Customer tops; Caucasian bottom. You’re not really interested in any of the shakes, though, are you? Or am I wrong. That’s why we’re here. It’s all your choice. I may not like it if you pick any of the string candy, and, even though I caution against the cream filled, it’s your choice; You were tested and I’ve brought the certificate. Remember, we both got tested. Maybe barebacking the first time is the best way—as long as it is safe. It’s certainly the most incredible feel.”
“The cream filled?” I asked. I had noted that the middle-aged customer and salesman had discussed that briefly.
“Bareback, customer bottoming,” Dwight answered tersely. “Customer doing the barebacking is some form of ice cream Sunday, I think. But . . .”
“Oh,” I responded.
I turned his attention back to the middle-aged customer, who was still hemming and hawing at the candy counter.
“Do you wish to make a selection, sir?” the salesman asked politely, only slightly seeming to be trying to jolly the man along in the transaction. “If you wish to think about it further, you are certainly welcome to sit at one of the tables over there. Or if there’s a particular piece of candy you have spied over there in the television room, I would be more than happy to tell you what kind of candy it is. Some can be more than one kind of candy, I’m sure you’ll be happy to know.”
“Well . . . I wondered . . . I heard,” the middle-aged man said, evidently having something in mind but not being able to get it out. “I’ve heard of there being something . . . well . . . very special on offer.”
“Ah, yes,” the salesman said, with a smile on his lips that didn’t extend to his eyes. “Perhaps you are referring to what we have under the counter here. We have here our double-dipped chocolates. We usually offer them in various combinations: white covering either milk or dark chocolate with either a nut or cream center. Or there also are double-dip shakes or Sundays. We, of course, don’t have all combinations at all times, but if this is your interest, we could see if we have what you want.”
I felt myself beginning to tremble. Dwight looked at me, and I could tell he saw that I was figuring the codes out now. He leaned over and whispered, “Threesomes,” anyway. I just nodded.
The middle-aged man was shaking his head though and looking a little perturbed.
“Or would you perhaps mean our very, very special cherry chocolates?” the salesman went on to ask.
The middle-aged man took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead, but he was smiling. “Why, yes. That’s exactly what I’ve heard about—that latter, the cherry chocolates. Do you . . .?”
“Why, yes. We do have just two on offer today. And a choice. White or milk chocolate.” The salesman had half turned and he was gesturing over to the TV area, a finger pointing to the two young men of about my age, one Caucasian and one a light-skinned black, who were sitting and fidgeting and looking just slightly scared.
“Ah, yes. Nice, very nice. White . . . white chocolate, I do believe.”
“Good choice,” the salesman said. “A bit pricey though, of course.”
“Do you take American Express?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
Moments later, credit card verified and signed for, the Caucasian youth went through the one door, the middle-aged man had gone through the other door, and the salesman approached Dwight and me.
“Yes, may I help you? Did you come for candy . . . or did you perhaps come to apply to be candy? I’m sure we would be happy to employ you—both of you. Shall I call the candymaker down?”
“Buying,” Dwight said. “My young friend here is interested in some candy. But I understand there is a tour—for a fee? I want to make sure he chooses just exactly the candy he wants for his first time.”
“His first time?” the salesman was practically salivating. “He has never had candy before? And such a handsome young man. Beautifully formed.”
“No. Do you have such a tour—for a fee.”
“Of course, we would be happy for you to tour what is being made in the way of candy at the moment. We have several varieties being prepared. And, this being the first time for our very . . . luscious . . . young friend here, we would be happy to waive the fees. Please, please, just go through that door over there and take your time watching the candy being prepared. There are several rooms in operation and there are one-way windows in the walls into the rooms from the corridor. Please, please make yourselves comfortable.”
While Dwight and I were walking back toward the door in which the middle-aged man had recently entered, the salesman was scurrying off toward a door beyond the television waiting area.
As we were walking through the door, I said, “I already have made my choice. We don’t really—”
“This is important, Jason,” Dwight said. “There can only be one first time. I want you to be very, very sure. So I want you to see what is really involved in this.”
The first room we looked into was where the Vanilla Shake Number 6 customer had gone into with the young blond man who had obviously gone straight from one session to the other. The blond was bent over a massage table, and the Number 6 customer was fucking him from behind in strong deep thrusts. The blond was gripping the edges of the table hard to keep himself in place. His head was turned away from the viewing wall, so Dwight and I had no idea how he was taking the thrusts, but customer Number 6 seemed to be enjoying himself.
In the next room, the swarthy man from the candy pool was fucking his customer in much the same vein, except that the customer’s wrists and ankles were bound to hooks on the massage table and the swarthy string candy man had a riding crop that he was lightly beating on the customer’s buttocks as he fucked him from behind. There were thin red welts already across the customer’s back and his butt cheeks and he was making a good bit of noise.
The third room was where the middle-aged man and the Caucasian youth had gone. They were not very far into their session, but they had had time to strip and the youth was on his back on the massage table, and the middle-aged man, who was a little paunchy, but who had quite a thick and long—and very hard and rosy red—cock was standing on a stool that put his pelvis at the level of the youth’s butt cheeks. The youth’s near leg was hanging down over the foot of the massage table and the man was holding his other leg up and out with a fist around the youth’s ankle. The man’s dick head was just inside the rim of the youth’s hole, and the youth was panting hard and arching his back and scrabbling at the edges of the massage table with his white-knuckled hands. He was crying out and groaning and moaning loud enough to be heard in the corridor.
I watched in fascination, knowing that this would soon be me too. I welcomed it; I had been looking forward to it, and only Dwight’s strict substitute parenting had made me wait until now. Well, that and I didn’t want to do anything that might have taken Dwight away from me. I could never be sure what my mother would do—whether she would make another stab at “saving” me even after I’d turned eighteen, even though I had told her in no uncertain terms what I wanted out of life.
As Dwight and I watched, the man managed to work his dick inside the virginal hole several inches. The youth was writhing and begging for mercy, but when the man half-heartedly asked him if he should stop or at least take it slower, the youth cried out “no”—that he could not get his fee unless the candymaker was assured that the customer had gotten full value and that the youth had applied for this.
As the man bottomed inside the youth and began to slowly pump him, the youth’s writhings gradually turned to undulations of his own hip action. The man moved up onto the surface of the massage table with his knees, moving them under the youth’s buttocks and thus raising the youth’s hips. Then the man grabbed the youth’s hips and pulled him back and forth, slowly on the impaling cock. The youth shuddered and his cock spouted off up onto the man’s belly. The man then pulled the youth’s torso up to his and they were kissing when the man’s turn to shudder came.
I was fascinated at what I was watching, and Dwight had to pull me away from that window and to the only other room in operation at the moment. Here, there was a threesome that appeared to be just finishing—or at least changing positioning. Two men, one Caucasian and one a deep brown, were standing in the center of the room, facing each other, both of them bent at the knees in a half crouch. And between them was suspended a third, older man, impaled on both of the other two men’s cocks. The customer looked absolutely wilted and totally used, but there was a sloppy grin on his face.
“Double dipped white and dark chocolate,” I murmured, striving to show that I had learned the code.
As we watched, the two men pulled the customer off their uncrowned cocks and laid him gently down on his side on the massage table.
“Ah, cream centered too,” Dwight said.
The dark-skinned man had moved to other side of the table and stepped up on a stool. He pulled the customer’s pelvis to his, lifted the customer’s leg, and thrust his dick into the customer’s ass, as the Caucasian candy man stepped up on a stool on the near side at the head of the customer and presented his cock for sucking.
Dwight pulled me away from the window. “I rather hope—”
“Don’t worry, Dwight,” I said. “No, that doesn’t appeal to me. I’ve really made up my—”
“Come back out front, Jason,” Dwight interrupted me. “We can sit at a table for a few minutes, and you can think this through.”
I wanted to complete my sentence—to put a stop to all of this—but I decided not to. It seemed so important to Dwight that I make the next step very carefully, that I never feel like I was taken advantage of. I just shrugged and followed Dwight back out into the shop front. Dwight would have to face up to reality pretty soon anyway.
We were met by a small delegation. There to greet them, big smiles on their faces, were the salesman we had talked to and an officious-looking gentlemen who obviously was the chief candymaker. And fanned out around those two, wearing smiles that were a bit more lust filled, were a half dozen of the customers who had been sitting at the tables contemplating their choice of candy.
The chief candymaker stepped forward. “I hear this is our young friend’s first candy,” he said. He was looking at Dwight for affirmation.
“Yes,” Dwight answered.
“You wouldn’t perhaps have a certificate on him, would you?”
“Yes,” Dwight answered. “Both of us have a clean bill of health certificate in hand. But I—”
The candymaker was quivering with delight at that news, and the men fanned around him were ooing and ahhing and jockeying a bit with each other for frontline position.
“Well, perhaps I have a little offer—for both of you handsome men—you are both premium candy, worthy of our gourmet line. Perhaps you don’t have to spend any money here today at all. Your young friend here has already elicited several cherry chocolate offers—at as much as four times the going rate if cream center is included. Which we would, of course, split. I don’t know when I’ve seen as ripe a cherry for plucking as this. And you yourself, sir, have been the subject of a couple of requests—also at a very good rate—premium milk chocolate nut or cream centered, as desired. Perhaps if we could . . .”
“I’m sorry,” I spoke up before Dwight could answer. “I’m very interested in a cream-filled milk cherry chocolate. But not in this candy shop, thanks. I have my own candy shop. Come, Dwight, take me home, please. I made my choice of candy before you brought me here.”
Not very much later, I was naked and stretched out in the center of Dwight’s king-sized bed, and Dwight was making love to me, chocolate on white, and slowly kissing and tonguing me from ears to toes, exploring every crease and curve, while I sighed. My proud, young cock was already at full salute and my hips were undulating in the instinctive dance of the fuck when Dwight’s lips went down over my cock head and his tongue flicked in and out of my piss slit.
Anxious and long suffering as I was for this moment, I came almost immediately, and Dwight swallowed my essence and sighed in appreciation.
Young and virile as I was, however, I didn’t go soft. Dwight turned me on my belly, and I raised my pelvis, my weight supported on my chest and knees, as Dwight’s lips and tongue went to my young, virginal ass opening and one hand played with my taut nipples and the other slowly worked my cock, rubbing the bulb across the red satin sheets Dwight had not used since he had last fucked my father just like this and in this very bed.
I began to moan from deep down inside my chest. This was how I had watched my father being taken by Dwight. This was exactly what I wanted Dwight to do to me for years. This was the perfect first time.
I came again as my cock head was being fucked against the sheets and Dwight’s tongue was fucking me deep in the ass.
And still I didn’t go soft. I had dreamed of this for years. I had been building toward this almost forever. The mere thought of Dwight fucking me kept me hard.
Dwight was covering me close from behind with me on his knees on the red satin sheets and the underside of Dwight’s hard cock stroking up and down in my butt crease, rubbing across the puckered hole Dwight had already opened and slathered with his tongue.
The moment of deflowering had come, but I gave a little laugh and turned underneath Dwight and scooted down across the sheets until my mouth found Dwight’s big, thick, hard cock. And I opened my mouth and brought my lips over Dwight’s cock and sucked him inside.
Dwight, taken completely by surprised, groaned and then moaned and then sighed as I palmed his butt cheeks and started Dwight’s hips in a languid face-fucking motion. Dwight soon took up the motion himself, slowly fucking his cock in and out of my open mouth. It wasn’t long before he started to shudder, though, and reaching down and grabbing me by the waist, dragged me back up the bed until our pelvises were in parallel.
I gave a little laugh and spread my legs, and Dwight, trembling from the effort not to spill his seed carelessly, moved his bulb to my puckered hole as I raised my hips to meet him.
The momentous occasion was too much for Dwight, though. He barely had his bulb inside my opening, with me arching my back and crying out at the hugeness of the bulb inside my virginal rim, than Dwight shuddered and came in great globs of come at my entrance.
Losing control then, and with his own cum as a natural lubricant, Dwight’s cock started slowly entering my channel, as I writhed under him and sobbed and moaned and groaned and grunted at my first glorious, long-awaited taking.
Like me, Dwight remained hard and was quickly reloading. Half inside, he stopped, wanting to give my walls time to stretch to him, but I had waited for this too long. I dug his nails into Dwight’s ass cheeks and pulled Dwight deeper inside my channel. And when Dwight had bottomed, it was I who pushed Dwight’s hips up a bit, drawing his dick almost to my entrance, and than it was I who moved my pelvis in a slow, but increasingly rapid, pumping action. Me, fucking myself on Dwight’s impaling staff, as Dwight held position above me, but dipping his face down to mine for deep kisses on the lips and nuzzling in the hollow of his young lover’s neck and then down further to suck on my taut nipples.
We came nearly simultaneously—and in the next fucking as well, as I stretched out on the bed on his belly and Dwight rode my ass hard, skin of dick sliding upon skin of ass walls in an elating barebacking and the constant and prodigious flow of lubricating and filling semen—and the third time as well, when I lay on his back at the foot of the bed and Dwight held my legs wide and stood between my thighs and pistoned me to a frenzied completion as our eyes were locked in love—the same love that I had seen between Dwight and my dad, when Dwight fucked him. We fucked on through the night until almost dawn.
Before sleep stole up on us as my ass was spooned into Dwight’s belly, I murmured, “Surely you knew it was you and only you I wanted.”
“I barely dared hope,” Dwight answered. “I’ve held off all these years, but it was hard.”
“But surely you knew,” I repeated.
“I did hope,” Dwight said. And then he gave a low, throaty laugh. “And yes, I prepared, in case it might be so. That’s why I got the health certificate too—so that we could bareback, if my dream came true. And why I put these red satin sheets on my bed this morning. I wanted your first time to be special and to be completely your choice. But, yes, I did hope it would be me who plucked your cherry chocolate.”
“But do you have any idea how much money we passed up in that candy shop?” Dwight whispered.
“I don’t care, Daddy.” I murmured. “Your dick inside me is worth all the money in the Candy Shop to me.”