Cyberbullying Witness Demands STIFF Punishment

Last week, the newspaper where I work graciously asked me to attend a seminar as one of four representatives from our smallish, mid-western daily (no Sunday edition though) publication. The three-day event was held at the University of Wisconsin in beautiful water-surrounded Madison ... a state capital and university town so it's chuck full of interesting people. Translation: hot guys!

But I should have known my bosses had an ulterior motive. You see, the paper was preparing a big series of features on new laws regarding cell phone use while driving and other similar hot topics like "sexting" and cyberbullying among teenagers and young adults. Being a fairly young journalist myself, my superiors asked me to rent a car and drive back from the conference (the others flew home), stopping by in Janesville, Wisconsin, on the way to interview a high school junior and her family .... they were in the process of actually prosecuting another high schooler for threats and intimidation delivered via Facebook and text messages.

It didn't take me long to hit Janesville, a pretty cool county seat town with real touches of history and a sincere sense of community. I had turn-by-turn mapped out my trip to the high schooler's home, so I didn't have to stop for anything. I pulled up to an attractive two-story house sided in a deep blue-gray and parked at the curb. Several people were gathered on a spacious wrap-around porch in assorted chairs and an oversized glider.

I gathered my things ... most notably my trusty digital recorder ... and quickly moved toward the residence, keeping carefully to the sidewalk onto the property to avoid elaborate plantings. A nondescript girl with a pair of nondescript, slightly doughy parents met me just before I stepped onto the edge of the porch.

"You must be the Kleins?" I inquired.

"And you must be another reporter," said a frazzled Mr. Klein. His eyes held a measure of menace as he and his wife sandwiched a teenage girl who hung her head, adopting the universal body language of a kid who wants to be anywhere but where she is.

"Yes, I believe you spoke with my editor about this visit ... hopefully he explained what we're hoping to get from you and your daughter today." When I said the last word, the young girl cowering a bit behind the man. Her gaze wavered, but once she looked directly into my eyes for a few haunting seconds. Her irises were a flat shade of green, and the skin around her eyes was pinched and red ... she looked much too old to be 15 or 16.

"Yeah, we talked ... and we do appreciate this opportunity to tell Tiff's story again." He steeled for more. "But I was promised that you'd just retell our story in very general terms. No last names ... no town of residence ... and absolutely no pictures." The father's stance was increasingly stiff and tense, giving me the impression that he had talked with a few journalists over the last few weeks and the results had not always been kind.

"Absolutely," I nodded, absentmindedly opening my hands in a "palms up" gesture, showing that I wasn't carrying any "weapons" that could hurt him or his daughter Tiffani any further. "We just want our readers to see what a serious issue this is and that it's affecting kids and their families all over the country. I just happened to ..."

"Whatever, as long as you follow the rules."

"No problem, sir ... no problem whatsoever," I said to the back of his head ... he had dismissed me and turned to usher his daughter and wife deeper into the porch area and back to their seats. I just stood there a moment waiting for a more definite invitation."

"You can sit too, man." The voice came from the very farthest corner of the area, behind two other youngsters and a much older woman. He was seated, but from his look he was on the short side ... 5' 8" or 5' 9". I pegged him in his early 50s or maybe older, dressed in a worn t-shirt covered in a unique design of large intersecting fingerprint whorls. His face had small features and was covered in tanned, slightly lined skin. I couldn't tell the color of his eyes from the gloom of the covered porch, but his abundant, stylish hair was well-streaked with silver. He was a little firecracker, no doubt.

My mind finally refocused on my overall surroundings and I moved toward an empty wicker chair, the back and seat covered by a beautifully-made quilt. Catching a nod from both Mr. and Mrs. Klein, I slowly sat and retrieved my notepad and recorder from my messenger bag.

"To start, can I ask Tiffani a few direct questions?" I inquired of the general assembly of what I assumed were family and friends ... no one had bothered to clearly identify Tiffani since I arrived. Mrs. Klein smiled at my politeness and I launched into about 20 minutes of Q & A concerning Tiffani's dealings with a senior girl who did not want Tiffani to play volleyball in the coming school year. I was personally shocked at some of the antics this other girl had pulled, inwardly sickened by the depth of her willingness to cause pain and embarrassment to another classmate ... another human being. I finished up for what I thought would be a decent sidebar piece when I asked if the Kleins would mind if I walked around the neighborhood a bit to get a feel for the surroundings ... I wouldn't be snapping any secret pictures or talking to neighbors or anything. "It's just something I like to do," I explained.

"Fred, Dott, if it would make you feel any better, I can spend a few minutes showing him down the street and around a bit." It was the silver fox who spoke up, standing and making his way toward where I sat. He affectionately patted the heads of the children he wriggled past, and it was then that I saw he was wearing cutoff denim shorts that highlighted a set of very tan, well-muscled legs. His knees were sculpted beautifully and his forearms were dusted with coarse hairs. Leather sandals ... covered with paint splatters ... framed surprisingly delicate feet.

"Jon, you don't have to do that," answered Mrs. Klein. "We're actually on our way to do some shopping so he's free to wonder around all he likes." The way she said "he" made me realize that behind her puffy face and bright smile, Mrs. Klein really didn't much care for me or my intrusion. She had fooled me with her aura of support and that didn't occur very often.

"I really don't mind ... probably the most excitement I'll get all week." And with that, the older gentleman barked a dark, mischievous laugh. Everyone on the porch, all in the act of dispersing for a trip to various local stores and mini-malls, seemed to relax.

"Suit yourself ... and thanks," the lady of the house chimed.

I shook both parents' hands ... they were very formal ... and followed this Jon fellow off the porch. I stopped by my car and dropped off my bag, loosening a few buttons on my shirt to accommodate the afternoon warmth. We watched the Kleins depart down the street in a fairly new minivan. We took a few more strides before Jon slowed, turned his body toward mine, and extended his hand. I took it and shared a warm, sturdy handshake. "Name's Jon Nielson, friend to all and an unofficial uncle to Tiffani," he explained. "I told Fred I'd stop over during your visit for moral support. That girl's been through the wringer ... I don't think you got a true reading on how hard this has been on them all." Now, out in the open air and sunlight, I saw that this stud's eyes were incredibly brown like rich, plowed soil.

So for the next 15 minutes, sexy Jon and his flexing legs walked me down cracked sidewalks and around overgrown hedges. He told me about the Kleins ... good, upstanding people, for sure, but just regular Joes. With pride, he detailed Tiffani's volleyball skills and how she had quickly become a standout in school, earning a spot on the varsity squad as a sophomore. Fred and Dott Klein were even dreaming of a possible scholarship to allow their eldest daughter a better shot at a college education. But then Jon's mood shifted abruptly ... he became angry and animated as he described the threats that started coming ... and the gossip about Tiffani's supposed sexual activities that followed. According to him, friends from the church turned on the Kleins and teachers were caught whispering about Tiffani at school. Then a Facebook group surfaced dedicated to denigrating her. It was a real campaign of terror.

As his story wound down, Jon and I arrived back at my rented Corolla. I was about to shake his hand again and thank him for the tour and insights when he excitedly grabbed my right arm and started maneuvering me up the Kleins driveway. "Before you run off, let me show you something that might shed a little extra light on your Pulitzer." I smiled at the journalistic reference and, because I was sincerely curious, picked up my feet and followed him up to and through a gate at the side of the Klein's home. Their backyard was small but well maintained. Just inside the gate and placed up against the side of their two-car garage was a large playhouse ... probably 12' by 12' ... with open curtain-covered windows and intricate pink shingles. "Tiffani's Cottage" was painted in a darker pink over the door. Jon hurriedly worked the latch on the door and ducked a bit to enter the play space. I hung back, wondering what could be in a kid's playhouse that could make my story any better.

"Are you coming in or not?" squeaked an elf-like voice from within the dim space inside the door. I steeled myself for something silly or inane and entered.

The inside of the "cottage" was dusty and painted a very light pink, fade marks down to the original cheap pine were numerous. The centerline of the roof "soared" to about six feet, dropping to about 4 feet in the sides and corners ... I was slightly hunched to avoid a head injury. Several chairs and a table sat in one corner with shelving, sports equipment, and a variety of rugs and sleeping bags dotting the room haphazardly. One whole wall was covered with skiing paraphernalia.

Jon stood pretty much in the middle of the room, light from the small windows brightening patches of his trim form. "Didn't mean to be all mysterious, but there's something I think you oughta see before you leave Janesville." I was about to demand a few further details when Jon reached down, unzipped the front of his cutoffs, and pulled out a beautiful, semi-hard little chub resting in a neatly clipped mat of salt-and-pepper curls.

I remained where I was, blocking the view and the light from the doorway as this sexy older stud pushed his shorts and briefs all the way to the dusty playhouse floor and then stepped out of them. He was gorgeous, with a pale ass that matched his powerful thighs and calves. I still hadn't budged an inch, but my own dick was thickening rapidly in my khakis. As I adjusted my growing groin, Jon walked over to a pile of blankets and moved a few toward the center of the room. He asked me to close the door while he arranged a pile of three quilts into a sizable cushion and then fell to his knees, still kneading his pecker like a lump of clay.

"Son, this is an invitation ... either take it or leave it, but do something, for Christ's sake!" Their was laughter in his tone, and I quickly undid my own belt and got naked from the waist down. I moved to stand directly in front of Jon and he promptly enveloped my rigid dick in his hot mouth. "Aaahhhhh," I hissed through my teeth as he suctioned my knob and brought a hand up to roughly squeeze my hairless balls. My hands were on his shoulders, grabbing t-shirt and most assuredly skin. When he gobbled, I dug in my fingers with more pressure. When he tweaked my nuts individually, I practically worked my digits into his bones.

After maybe five minutes of world-class cocksucking, Jon released my member and pulled me down onto the blankets. I opened my shirt to make my movements less restrictive and kicked in a seizure-like manner until my pants and jock strap lay in an inside-out heap off to the side of our naked forms. Like practiced partners, Jon and I fell into a 69 of lust. He returned to my cock, taking a bit more of it deep into his throat. I spent a few moments taking stock of this man's tool ... just about six inches but plump and thick. He was uncut ... like me ... but his skin was tight and hot to the touch, and his 'nads were covered in tiny little graying curls. Not wasting another second, I started licking Jon's rod like an all-day sucker, long strokes before finally swallowing it all to the root.

"Fuck, junior ... you're good. You're ... God damn, gonna get this old timer's nut too soon. Slow down a bit." But I ignored him and continued to suck and squeeze him until he was really whimpering. And we were so in tune. If I slurped up a nut, so did Jon. And if he took a moment to nibble my taint or finger my sensitive hole, then I found his own crinkly opening and did the same as I continuously ran my hands along his beefy can and sinewy flanks. We were a few years apart, I had to admit, but on the exact same page and paragraph as we shared a carnal afternoon tryst.

So there in the dark, we continued to wrestle like four-year-olds. I was dripping pre-cum everywhere ... I could catch glimpses of wetness as Jon occasionally took a break and lifted his head to smile lustily at me. A sheen of sweat had formed on my face and chest, and my loosened hole had been teased and licked enough to be ready for the main event.

"Jon," I panted. "I can't keep this up, man ... you're killing me ... I'm so ... so close. You gotta get that dick inside me now. It's go time, dude! GO TIME!!"

And that's when everything stopped. Jon's head popped up from my crotch with a sort of sad expression. "My dick's not very big," he muttered, indicating his squat but deliciously thick and hard prong. It jutted up proud from a bed of soft gray fir. "I'm not very experienced at topping, son" he said demurely, "I'm not really that good at, well ..."

"Fuck it, Jon. I'm primed and hot for you. My hole's winking an S.O.S. for rescue and your fat dick's the life raft! "

"But ..."

"Fuck it," I repeated in a serious snarl and abruptly sat up, while at the same time pressing Jon flat on his back. I found my pants in the thin light and extracted a condom from my wallet. Jon just laid there in a stupor, catching his breath as I rolled the rubber over his fat, red rod. Once done, I squatted over Jon, facing him. He looked up slightly and I saw a mixture of trepidation and desire. He was ready, too. With a slight grimace from balancing all my weight on my still-shoed feet, I spit in my right hand three times and reached around to smear my hole. I jammed two fingers deep inside to spread around a little of nature's lubricant, and then I adjusted my pelvis and hovered with the tip of Jon's prod lined up perfectly with my pouty asshole. Then I let gravity take over.

"AAAAGGGHHHH!!" I'm not sure who screamed louder ... Jon for having his breath forced out by the drop of my weight onto his groin, or me from having that thick little monster enter me to the balls in one stroke. But after I rested a few seconds, poised on the edge of the fuck to come, the warmth of his dick inside me and the fullness of its girth transformed my tentativeness into an unstoppable need to be fucked! I rode that cock for everything I was worth. I swore incoherently. I grabbed Jon's nipples through his shirt and twisted them mercilessly. I had been close to orgasm even before being penetrated so I just kept grinding until the friction pushed me past my limits and my pecker spit out three or four good blasts of jizz to decorate Jon's fingerprint tee and the line of hairy tummy that peeked out of the bottom hem.

After my flow dropped to a trickle of cum, I rolled gingerly to one side, carefully extracting Jon's spent cock from my anus, and laid panting beside this surprisingly virile silver fox. "Damn, Jon," I huffed, "that was one of the best surprise fucks I've ever had! No way do you not top very often. That was, well ... you raped my little hole!!"

It was then in the afterglow that I noticed two things: Jon had this dreamy, angelic smile on his face like 20-year-old gigolo ... and the reservoir on his condom was empty. In the dim light of the playhouse, he seemed to become aware or the concerned look on my face. "What's wrong? Did I say something? ... do something?"

"Your dick ... you didn't shoot."

"Oh, that, ... well I actually have a condition where I don't ejaculate." I must have looked stunned or scared or something because he hurriedly continued, "but I do have orgasms. Oh, yeah ... my body gets off in a big way. Son, do you honestly think I just faked all that. It's been ages since someone made me feel that sexy ... that hot and wanted." And then his Cheshire cat grin reappeared. "Shit, I just lured a man ... a complete stranger ... into a pink playhouse for sex! I'm going to hell for sure!!" We both started giggling at that.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly between laughs, "I just thought maybe YOU didn't enjoy yourself as much as I did."

John ruffled my sweaty hair and ran a finger slowly down my cheek and lovingly across my lips. "What's not to enjoy ... sex with a beautiful man half my age."

"Well, I'm not beautiful and I'm sure as hell not half your age. In a couple of months, I'll be 30."

"And tomorrow I'm turning 60!"

I looked into Jon's brown orbs and saw not a trace of falsehood. Maintaining his gaze, I used my one free hand to remove the condom from his flaccid putz while, dropping my head to spit into the other hand, I began to rub life back into my friend's fleshy fuckstick. "Well then, Happy Birthday, Jon!"

HEADLINE: Cyberbullying Witness Demands STIFF Punishment