Jimmy grimaced and let out a gasp as the cock bulb breached his sphincter and the rest of the cock followed it up into his channel. He looked over at the wad of bills—four twenties and a five—laying beside the tube of lube on the seat of the wooden, straight-backed chair pulled up next to the hotel bed. To avoid as much as possible the filling and stretching sensation, and the almost immediate friction from the stroking of the cock inside him, the eighteen-year-old looked beyond the chair, across the bare wooden floor to the only window in the room, draped with flimsy, “just pretend” gauzy curtains. Dusk was creeping in on the D.C. street below, the sound of traffic was decreasing for the evening escape out to the suburbs, and a blue neon light was flickering somewhere, the hint of blue filtering into the room.
He was on all fours, his lithe chest plastered to the dingy sheet and his hands grasping the brass rungs of the headboard over his head. The john, an old, gray-haired and stubbly bearded tall, thin, sinewy-muscled geezer, was covering him from above, crouched down on his bare feet, using the feet as leverage to rise and fall on Jimmy’s buttocks. It had taken the man an age to get inside the diminutive Jimmy and, now in, the john was getting the most he could out of the fuck he was paying for.
The john’s cock was bigger than Jimmy had assessed it would be when the old man picked him up on the street outside the fleabag hotel. The hotel was located four blocks off DuPont Circle in an area of the city that had been blighted by the race riots that had followed the assassination of Martin Luther King earlier that spring in 1968. The man was strong, holding Jimmy securely in place under him. He probably was twice the size of the small teen. He hadn’t asked Jimmy how old he was when he’d picked him up. He obviously didn’t want to know—he was going for the young look and small stature—and the pretty face and the blond, straight hair that tumbled down to Jimmy’s shoulders when the man had undressed him and pulled the ponytail out of the rubber band.
Jimmy had used his young, angelic looks to his advantage in the few days he’d been on the street. He found plenty of men who came to this section of town to cruise who were looking for just that.
The man had cupped Jimmy’s face when he’d let the boy’s hair down and gave him a tender kiss, a tenderness that the man subsequently periodically displayed and, at other times, did not. The care the man took in releasing the boy’s hair told Jimmy that the man would take his time; this would not be a quick fuck and a good-bye.
It had been nearly 6:00 p.m. when the man approached Jimmy on the street, right outside this hotel, and asked Jimmy what the young man would do for him and for how much. Jimmy had asked for a hundred because the man had refused to limit it to a blow job and even to only once.
“I’ll pay you eighty for the night, doing you as much as I want. I’ll pay for the hotel and feed you dinner before I fuck you. You won’t have to leave until checkout tomorrow.”
A hotel for the night. A meal and night in a bed. How great is that? The old guy didn’t look that he could hardly do one. Jimmy thought he’d probably get his rocks off and leave within an hour, giving Jimmy a whole night in a hotel bed, alone. Often at this age, they just wanted to cuddle. Truth be known, that’s what Jimmy would like most too—attention and affection. God knows he hadn’t gotten enough of that at home. Affection, at least. He’d gotten more attention than he could handle. That had helped put him on the street.
“A hamburger at the White Castle?” he asked.
“Sure, if you want.”
“There’s a good hotel near there. Won’t ask questions.”
“But you’d be able to produce an ID claiming you were eighteen, wouldn’t you?”
“Sure, I would. I really am eighteen.”
“There’s a hotel right here.”
“This is a fleabag.”
“I’m paying for your ass, not for room service.”
Jimmy knew then that the guy was comfortable with this—that he knew what he wanted and what it was worth to him. Still, he had looked like an old, gaunt geezer, and this hot and cold in switching from matter-of-fact transaction and something more tender was disconcerting. Who would have known he hung low and had the stamina and jism for three fucks or that across those three fucks Jimmy could be made to feel both treasured and a whore to be used and discarded?
He wasn’t so bad, though, and Jimmy got what he wanted from it. It wasn’t just the money. Jimmy loved having a man’s cock inside him, knowing that the man wanted him so bad that he’d pay for it and he’d get hard for Jimmy and he’d hold Jimmy close and maybe even show him affection while his cock was trying to tear up the young man’s guts. Jimmy hadn’t gotten much attention or affection in life. And this guy showed him some respect and affection. He’d even plunked an extra five dollars down on the chair.
“For breakfast tomorrow. You look like you could use more in your diet.”
Yeah Jimmy was small and slim but give him time. He was only eighteen. His older brother, now in the army, hadn’t begun to shoot up until after he was eighteen. And his guess was that the old geezer had picked him out of the line because he was small and slim hipped—and pretty. Innocent and vulnerable looking. The man was looking for something in particular, someone to really dominate.
The man had confirmed this when Jimmy went down on all fours under the john, and the man, already with a sinewy arm wrapped around Jimmy’s belly, holding him securely in place, had brushed Jimmy’s hair from the side of the young man’s head on the right and planted a kiss in the hollow of Jimmy’s neck. He’d let the hand glide down Jimmy’s side and had stroked him with a light touch of his fingers along Jimmy’s flank.
“So small and sweet,” he murmured. “Such slim hips. Shall we see if you can take me?” By now, Jimmy wasn’t all that sure he could. Who would have known the guy was horse hung?
And then they saw that Jimmy could and would take him, but not without a bit of difficulty. Jimmy was a teen whore but not one who had been overused yet. He was tight. He had grimaced and gasped as the bulb went into place and started taxing the sphincter. And then the john was in and doing it, and Jimmy was writhing under him as best he could and crying out, “Yes, yes, Daddy! Do it. Do me! Stick it in me!” because he knew that’s what johns wanted to hear.
Men like this, who emphasized Jimmy’s size and looks, wanted to be a daddy.
And the man did do him, did do it, did stick it in him, banging the shit out of Jimmy, causing him to pull his fists back from the brass headboard because the thrusts of the man were causing the bed frame to rhythmically, and with groans and grinding sounds, bounce off the wall, matching in cadence the slap, slap, slapping of the man’s lemon-sized balls on Jimmy’s tender inner thighs.
They lay there afterward, Jimmy on his back, and the man, after he’d sat on the side of the bed and smoked a cigarette, stretched out on his side along Jimmy’s body, propped up on an elbow, and using his free hand to explore the young man’s small, smooth torso. Mostly it was “mount, bang, and good-bye.” This man was showing Jimmy some attention. Jimmy liked that. He couldn’t say he didn’t like what the man was doing with his hand either. The man’s hand went to cupping Jimmy’s balls and squeezing, rolling, and distending them, and Jimmy raised his pelvis to the touch, giving a little moan. The johns didn’t usually give Jimmy this much attention.
“Like that?” the man asked, rolling Jimmy’s balls together and listening to Jimmy moan.
“Umm, umm, yes,” Jimmy murmured.
“When I build it up again, I’m going to fuck you again.”
“Yes, please, Daddy.”
“You like to call me daddy? You like an older man fucking you?”
“Yes, when he’s hung like you are.”
“I’m almost too big for you.”
“Yes, you are, but I’m not complaining,” Jimmy murmured.
“I like that. I like making them work to fit me. That’s why I go for small guys like you, with slim hips. But the next time you’ll fit me better. We’ll get right to the serious stuff.”
“Yes. I can’t wait, Daddy.” Jimmy probably would have said it anyway. He was learning how to talk to a john and build his pleasure up. But he meant it with this one.
There was some small talk. The man saying only that he was a machinist, from across the Potomac in Alexandria, near the airport.
Jimmy had new respect for machinists. He had just learned that machinists were tough and that they could endure repeated actions forever. He had never been fucked as long and hard before the man had shot his load.
The man didn’t reveal much about himself, other than he claimed his name was Stan, and he got even less out of Jimmy about where he came from, what he was doing here, how he became a male whore—it couldn’t have been long, based on Jimmy’s age, the man said, checking for the umpteenth time for any hint that Jimmy was younger than he claimed—and what Jimmy wanted to do in life. “You can’t do this forever,” he said.
“But you want me to be able to do it until tomorrow morning, right?” Jimmy asked, and they both laughed. The man was stroking Jimmy’s inner thighs, coaxing them to open. And Jimmy didn’t resist in any way, he spread his legs for the man, and moaned as the man nibbled his inner thighs on his way to mouthing the goods. Jimmy knew it wouldn’t be long before they’d be doing it again. Strangely, he was glad. The man had said it would be better the second time because Jimmy would be more open. Jimmy hoped so. He did like a man doing him.
Jimmy continued to assert that he was eighteen—and legal. He, in fact, was almost nineteen now. Stan worried that a bit, but obviously with mixed desires about it. Jimmy wouldn’t show him his driver’s license, though. He’d told the man his name was Jimmy, which was what he was on the street, not what he was on his driver’s license.
The machinist admitted that he liked doing the eighteen-year-olds, especially the small stature ones. He liked their slim hips and the wonder of his cock—and did Jimmy like his cock? Jimmy sure did, he said—being able, with difficulty, to split the difference. He liked to hear the small guy suffer and then transform into begging for it once it was in and thrusting.
Well, he’d gotten what he wanted from me the first time, Jimmy thought, remembering how he’d huffed and puffed when the man’s cockhead was pressing at his ring and had screamed when the cock broke through and filled and stretched him—and then how he’d begged for more of it when it got going.
What did Jimmy like? The man had been circling around and getting to what he wanted to know, what he wanted to hear, seeking assurances about his prowess, even at his age.
“Yes, you were the best,” Jimmy assured him.
“I’m going to be fucking you again. I can fuck all night.” Again, struggling with the concept that it wouldn’t be that long before he couldn’t even get it up.
“Yes, please,” Jimmy answered, not entirely lying, but mistakenly not fully believing him either, not that he’d be as strong and vigorous the second time. He’d felt alive when the man was inside him, deep, plowing him. It had been a good fuck. The man was clean. They’d both showered before going to bed. And he was strong and virile, surprisingly so for his age. He had a great body for his age too, tightly muscular, not an ounce of fat on him. He was big too where it counted with Jimmy. Jimmy had no doubt that he’d been fucked. And the money was good—even if there would be another round, which obviously there would be. The man already was hard, and the hand he had free to roam Jimmy’s body was doing so more intimately.
When the hand dropped between Jimmy’s thighs again and a finger snaked up into his hole, the man leaned his face down to Jimmy’s and they kissed. It was a good kiss, the man pressing the tip of his tongue between Jimmy’s lips, and Jimmy let him in. And then let the tongue in further, opening his mouth wide to the invasion. An old machinist who knew how to French kiss. He did it as good as Vince did.
Jimmy raised his tailbone and began to set his hips in a rolling motion as the finger inside him became two and moved.
Almost showtime again.
Jimmy moaned and gasped as they came out of the kiss, whispering, “Please,” and meaning it. The man’s fingers slipped out of him and the hand glided down Jimmy’s inner thighs, first one and then the other. The “spread your legs” tease again. Jimmy spread his legs under the man’s gentle, almost imperceptible guidance, bending his right one and placing his right foot flat on the bed when the man was manipulating his left leg in that position. It was done almost in slow motion—an “I’m gonna fuck your lights out” preamble that made Jimmy go hard again.
The second time was going to be in the missionary position, Jimmy now knew.
The man’s mouth buried itself in the hollow of Jimmy’s throat, kissing and nibbling him there as the man swung his legs, first the left and then the right, over Jimmy’s left leg. He was in place now, kneeling between Jimmy’s spread thighs. The man’s left arm snaked under Jimmy’s waist and lifted the young man’s pelvis off the bed.
Definitely showtime. Here we go . . .
“Yes, yes. YES!” Jimmy cried out, again meaning it, as the cock entered him and entered him and entered him and started moving in and out, in and out. The muffled sound of the headboard grating against the wall behind their heads, a more gentle rocking cadence now than before, gave cadence to the thrusts as the two moved together in the dance of the fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Jimmy woke to flickering blue light filling the room and to the sound of gentle snoring beside him. The old man was on his back, an arm flung over his face, sleeping. He had to be at least fifty. Jimmy wondered whether he had had a hard life. Had he always fucked young guys? Did he fuck a lot of them? How did Jimmy fit in with the young guys the man picked out to fuck? Stan, he had said his name was; Jimmy had told him that his name was Jimmy. Jimmy had always liked that name. He’d said Jimmy was good—the best—but did he mean it?
Did he just tell the young male whores what they wanted to hear?
Jimmy had said the same to the man—to Stan, who probably wasn’t really Stan—but he hadn’t really meant it when he said it. After the second fuck he could say it and mean it, though.
The man hadn’t just fucked him; he’d made love to him. He’d made Jimmy feel special. He’d laid him out on his back, covered him in a deep penetrating missionary, and Jimmy had given him everything, sprawling, open, vulnerable to the man. The man had fucked him in the soft, spongy core for what seemed to be forever, coming deep inside him, fucking him until it was certain he’d breeded him. To Jimmy, being breeded wasn’t just unprotected sex, it was the cock entering his soft core and flooding its cum there, impregnating him had he been a woman. And, when breeded, Jimmy was owned by the man. If Jimmy had been a woman, he knew he’d have been impregnated by this man now. There was enough of the man’s semen in him, deep, to populate a town. There were times that Jimmy wished he were a woman and could capture of the feeling of the moment of conception, the second the man had impregnated him.
Had it really just been one fuck, though? When the man had come, he’d pulled out and creamed Jimmy at the entrance to his hole, but he’d pushed his cock back in, still hard, through the cum, going immediately to the soft, spongy core again, and had fucked Jimmy some more. Jimmy thought he’d come again, deep inside. Breeded him again. Was that two fucks?
He couldn’t think about that, though. He realized why he had awakened. It wasn’t really because the man was snoring or even that a police car, siren going, but on a muted tone, had passed in the street below. He had to piss. He rolled out of bed, as gently as he could, not wanting to wake the man. Knowing the man probably was exhausted. Jimmy certainly had been. The man was stronger than he was, by far, and Jimmy had let go and relaxed a long time before the man had stopped stroking. Letting go like that had given the man’s cock access to the very core of Jimmy and had sent Jimmy vaulting up into the sensual heavens. He’d have to remember to try to relax like that with johns in the future. Give them both a thrill. Add to his tips.
Jimmy thought of the man with affection now, especially after the second, sensual fuck. The man snorted when Jimmy got out of bed, but he didn’t open his eyes.
Jimmy was standing at the toilet, peeing in an arc into the bowl when the man, naked as Jimmy was, came into the bathroom and saddled up close behind him. A hand came around Jimmy’s hip and grasped his cock while he was still pissing.
“Here, let me help you with that, son,” the man said. There was something different about the man now. He was more tense, hard edged. His voice was more raspy—more demanding. “Watchin’ ’em piss turns me on. Lean into the wall. Palm the wall,” he commanded. “Keep pissing.” Jimmy reached out wide with his arms, leaned toward the wall of cracked white and black tiles, and spread his palms against the cool tiles—and he pissed some more.
“I’m finished pissing,” he said after he had been done for nearly a minute and they were just hovering there, Stan breathing heavy.
“I’m not finished getting my money’s worth, though,” the man growled. “We’ve just been playing around. I want it all. I want it hard now.”
Holding Jimmy in position, the man beat the young man’s cock off to an ejaculation. And then, as Jimmy gasped and groaned, the man thrust his cock up into Jimmy’s hole and banged him hard. Jimmy tried to writhe away from him. but the man grabbed the hair on the back of his head, pulled Jimmy’s head cruelly back into his chest, and fucked away. Jimmy tried to relax, to pull the man’s cock into his soft core and calm him down, but it wasn’t working. Stan wasn’t making love to him; he was seizing Jimmy’s core and trying to rip it out of him. Jimmy shut his core off. The man could reach it with his cock, but it no longer was soft and spongy for him.
Jimmy was being assaulted. Not being made love to—not even being part of the fuck other than providing a hole to be penetrated and filled. He was having the man’s own need and pleasure being made everything. The man was ripping it out of Jimmy. He was just using Jimmy for his sexual release. Getting his money’s worth.
What scared Jimmy was that it turned him on, being taken rough and hard like this. He didn’t even think of trying to say no to this. He wanted to know what being taken this cruelly felt like. It was making him feel alive right this minute.
Stan didn’t finish Jimmy there. He pulled out of him, dragged him away from the toilet and into the hotel room, pushed the young man’s back against the wall next to the bathroom door, lifted him up and set him down on the cock, and banged him some more. Hooking his knees on the man’s hips and digging his fingernails into the man’s wiry biceps, Jimmy hung on for dear life and took it and took it and took it, crying out, “Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. Fuckin’ yes!” Chagrinned because he was into the fuck. The man was banging him hard after Jimmy had shot a load and come down from the clouds. He concentrated on the window and the pulsing blue neon light it was allowing to filter into the room, waiting Stan to be done now.
He’d been fucked like this before. This was more like the treatment Jimmy was used to receiving—hurried, frantic banging away, showing him no regard and no mercy. It was as if in the cover of darkness, the john had become an entirely different man from how he acted in the light. He was an animal and he was tearing what he wanted out of Jimmy with no regard for what Jimmy needed or would freely give him for their mutual pleasure.
The fuck ended up on the bed, with the man drawn up to his height on his knees, holding Jimmy in front of him, Jimmy’s knees again hooked on the man’s hips and his torso arced down to the bed, his weight on his shoulder blades, while the john grasped his slim hips and slammed his channel on and off the cock. As the man moved into an ejaculation, he shot his cum down on Jimmy’s belly and chest. He let Jimmy collapse on the bed and licked his way, through his cum, up Jimmy’s body, ending saddled on Jimmy’s chest and forcing his cock into Jimmy’s mouth for cleanup and some post-fuck suck.
Jimmy escaped the bed and curled up in a ripped-upholstered easy chair in the corner of the room. The john pulled himself up into a reclining position against the brass headboard, smoked a cigarette in the eerie blue light coming through the window, and played with his cock. Occasionally his gaze went to Jimmy, in a fetal position in the chair, as if he were contemplating yet another go at him.
The john—for he was no longer Stan or even “the man” now; he had, at last become just the john—didn’t apologize for having lost control and brutalizing Jimmy after they had melded so well in the second fuck. He didn’t touch Jimmy again that night, though.
Whether or not the john was contemplating another fuck, it wasn’t to be. The john started to snore, and Jimmy slipped into an exhausted sleep. When he woke, he was alone in the room and it was day outside. The clock on the nightstand, if it was accurate, said he didn’t have to vacate the room for another two hours. He stumbled over to the bed and fell on the sheets, looking at the wooden chair seat in passing. The john had taken the lube, but he hadn’t taken back the money.
Life was cruel, but at least the john was honest.
* * * *
Jimmy was sitting in the john’s lap, sheathing the man’s shaft, in the passenger seat of a 1963 Chevrolet Impala sedan beside the inspection bay of a closed gas station, the pumps burned out by the recent race riots, three blocks northwest of D.C.’s DuPont Circle. Both of them were naked below the shirt line, although if you looked into the windshield as you passed by on the street, they both would be thought to be clothed. The john was slouched down in the seat anyway and Jimmy was leaning forward, arms splayed and the heels of his hands pressed into the dashboard, his fingers thrumming on the dash to the cadence of his channel rising and falling on the cock. He was making money, but he also was having a good time. Chances were that anyone passing by would only see Jimmy. Would they see the grimace on his face, though?
The john was grasping Jimmy’s slim hips between his hands and raising and lowering the young man’s channel on his buried cock. Jimmy was passive, letting the man take it as he wanted.
Jimmy had seen the dark-blue Ford sedan with what looked like two cops, one white and one black, in its glide by in the first pass. The john hadn’t and fucked on. Jimmy was clutching a twenty and a five in his right hand. The five was for the blow job that had started this encounter. The twenty for the anal fuck.
The young man had been picked up as he was being shooed away from the streetwalkers’ corner in front of a boarded-up warehouse. The guys and girls milling around on the corner hadn’t wanted him there. They had nothing against Jimmy. They liked Jimmy—well, most of them did. But he looked underage, even though he wasn’t, and they weren’t asking for that kind of trouble.
Jimmy was dressed brave and hopeful. He was wearing a red mesh muscle T and low-riding, worn blue jeans, torn at the knees. They were torn there not as a fashion statement but because of the number of times Jimmy had worked on his knees on rough ground. He wore the cocky clothes, but his body was small and willowy—a legal question mark body—so he didn’t really fill out the role.
There were men who wanted that, though, and one of them had pulled up alongside Jimmy in his red ’63 Chevy Impala as Jimmy was a half block away from the corner he’d been turned away from. The car pulled up to the curb several yards ahead of Jimmy and stopped. When Jimmy got level with the passenger door, he stopped, and the window rolled down. The face of a good-looking guy appearing to be in his early thirties and with a mop of dark, curly hair appeared at the window with a friendly smile on his face.
“Hey, good looking, you need a ride somewhere?”
“What sort of ride were you thinking about?” Jimmy said, coming over to the side of the car and leaning into it with elbows on either side of the open window. Try to make them say it, he’d been taught. The day was moving on, and Jimmy needed a successful hookup. A hand came out of the window. Fingers touched Jimmy first on the cheek, caressing it, and, when Jimmy didn’t recoil, on a nipple that was visible and attainable through the mesh of his T-shirt.
“Sweet,” the man murmured.
“You want to put it through the window right here and have me work on it?” Jimmy asked.
“I’m thinking of the sort of ride that could send me up to heaven in a more private location, sweet cheeks, he said. A twenty-dollar ride, maybe with something first for five dollars.”
“That’s not much,” Jimmy said. It was enough for him today, though. Life was tough in the race-riots burned-out section of D.C. in 1968.
“It wouldn’t take long. We’ll ride in the car, just around the corner, and I’d bring you back. Twenty minutes tops. You’ll like it—a seven-inch ride. Already hard for you. How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-one,” Jimmy answered.
“How old again? I didn’t hear you. That’s pretty old.”
“Nineteen,” Jimmy adjusted.
“Oh, well. I thought from looking at you . . . nice and small and boyish. Slim hips. I would have liked—”
“OK, eighteen.”
“Nice. Legal but boyish. Get in the car.”
They had driven just around the corner to the abandoned gas station and parked as out of sight as the man thought he could get the Impala. He’d leaned back in the bench seat behind the wheel then and said, “Well, get to it, sweet cheeks. Suck me hard and make it good.” He unzipped himself but made Jimmy take it out. It was already hard, but Jimmy sucked it good anyway.
Then the man slid over onto the passenger side as he slipped his trousers off and Jimmy shucked his jeans. Jimmy huffed and puffed from the lack of preparation as the man put him on his cock. He was no seven inches, but he was big enough to have trouble getting inside Jimmy with what little preparation had been applied. But he made clear that that was just the thrill he wanted, and it wasn’t long before he was holding Jimmy’s hips between his hands and raising and lowering the young man on his cock.
“Such slim hips,” he whispered. Jimmy was getting references to that fetish a lot.
It was a run-of-the mill fuck. Jimmy closed down on letting the man into his soft core. Emotionally, Jimmy couldn’t take too much of that. He protected himself against it. The guy in the hotel room had taken him by surprise in that second fuck. The john pulled Jimmy’s buttocks up and off the cock, and he came on the small of Jimmy’s back at about the same moment as the blue sedan passed by again and stopped. Opening his eyes after his moment of thrill, the man looked through the windshield over Jimmy’s shoulders.
“Are those cops?” he asked, his voice panicked.
“Maybe,” Jimmy answered.
“Pull your jeans on and get out of the car,” the man said, as he reached down for his trousers.
In less than a minute, Jimmy, still buttoning up his jeans and twenty-five dollars wadded up in his hand, was standing on the broken concrete apron by the closed gas station, and the red Impala was coasting out of the gas station lot, past the blue sedan.
The cops didn’t follow the Impala. The blue sedan pulled into the gas station lot and two cops, a big muscular black guy and a regular-sized white guy, got out of the car. The white cop motioned for Jimmy to come over to him.
* * * *
“Watcha’ doin’, kid?” the white cop asked.
“Just on my way to a bookstore over on DuPont Circle,” Jimmy said.
“Lookin’ for a book in that car where the man was screwing you, were you?” Again the white cop.
“He wasn’t screwing me, but I think he might have been thinking about trying to do it.” Jimmy had been taught to hide a lie in a version of the truth. “He’d offered me a ride, but he was getting a little squirrelly and I asked him to let me out. He wasn’t letting me leave the car. I guess you panicked him. I’m glad you came along, Officer.”
“Yeah, I bet you are. How old are you, boy?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Try again. You’re too scrawny by several years. We can find out how old you really are. It will go rougher with us if you continue to lie about it.”
“Eighteen, honest.” Jimmy acknowledged. He didn’t want to, but he’d show the cops his driver’s license if he had to. “But I am on my way to the bookstore, honest.”
“I think not. Let’s you saddle up to the fender of my car here, with your arms stretched and hands on the hood. And spread ’em. I’ll bet you know the routine.” It was the white cop again. The black one wasn’t saying anything. He was just standing there, eyes boring into Jimmy, looking like a big black silent bull, which Jimmy thought he probably was—the big black bull part. He’d been screwed by a black bull once. He hadn’t been able to walk straight for a week, but he’d been smiling the entire week. There was quite a bulge at this black bull’s crotch. Jimmy noticed these kinds of things. And, no, he hadn’t had opportunities to know the pat-down routines yet. He’d seen cop dramas on TV, though, so he managed to assume the position.
“Well, lookee here, Clarence. Money. Enough to buy a whole lot of books, if they’re pulp paperbacks.” The white cop stepped back from where Jimmy was stretched out on the fender of the blue sedan and flashed the bills—$120 that Jimmy had earned, including with the john in the red Impala just now, since he’d last gotten to his stash drop off. He’d done an on-his-knees-in-an-alley blow job between the old guy in the hotel room and the dude in the Impala.
“Hey, that’s mine,” he said.
“Earned how?” asked the white cop.
“It’s my allowance money.”
“I’ll bet I can guess what you have to do for your allowance.”
Jimmy’s face turned red. That, in fact, was a large reason he was out here. His mother’s boyfriend and what Jimmy had to do to receive his allowance. Vince had moved into the apartment and taken over the finances, although Jimmy’s mother had done much of the work to earn it—some of it on her back, which had given Jimmy the idea how he could make money too. Her boyfriend was randy in a lot of different ways, and Jimmy had been earning his allowance on his back for the boyfriend too until he didn’t want to do that anymore. It was getting too personal; he was liking it too much; he’d been breeded for the first time and it had scared him silly.
The white cop looked over to the black cop and said, “Whatcha think, Clarence? You think we should run the kid in and talk to him about how he made this money?”
“I think that’s a plan, Lenny,” Clarence answered, speaking for the first time. His was a deep, rumbling bass voice.
“No, please. I don’t want to go,” Jimmy said, pushing off the fender of the car and turning to walk away.
“Resisting arrest, eh? You got your cuffs handy, partner?”
“Yep,” Clarence answered, pulling them off his utility belt.
“No, please,” Jimmy said, taking another step, but doubling up as Lenny came around and punched him in the belly. The punch didn’t have much force behind it, and it served more to shock Jimmy and let him know who was in charge than to damage him.
They didn’t drive him far. They turned the sedan into the alley behind a line of derelict townhouses, one end of the row burned out from the riots and the rest of the row boarded up all around. The boards were loosely applied, though. They shuffled Jimmy into the back door of one of the row houses, after pulling three loosely nailed boards away from the entrance. Jimmy’s wrists were handcuffed together behind his back. They pushed him up a set of stairs to two rooms and a torn-up bath upstairs. There was a stained slumped-mattress cot and nothing else but debris and dust in one of the bedrooms.
“This isn’t the police station,” Jimmy had said as he was being hustled upstairs.
“No, it isn’t, Sherlock,” the white cop said. “You can either take us here, or we can take you into the station house. Which do you think would be best for you? You’re a pretty little thing. Even if we took you in and put you in the tank, you’d probably wind up rough fucked. Put out for Clarence and me here and we’ll let you go. No official cop stuff. Which is it? Say yes, boy,” the white cop said.
“Say yes to what?” Jimmy asked.
“Don’t give me lip. You know what say yes means. Give consent. It’s nothin’ you’re not doin’ for pay. This will just be for good will. It’ll go easier with you if you give consent. Say yes.”
Jimmy didn’t think long on that. They were going to do him here anyway. They already were stripping, and both were erect—Clarence hugely so. After everything was off, they tied their utility belts back on. “Yes,” he said with a sigh.
“Give you a thrill here,” Lenny said, “and our guns—the ones on our belts and the ones swinging between our legs—will be close by then in case you resist.”
Jimmy didn’t resist, but in the end he nearly fainted.
They fucked him on the cot.
They took the cuffs off long enough to strip him down, but they recuffed him behind his back and put him on his knees on the cot, his chest pressed into the thin mattress. Clarence mounted him and fucked him in a doggie. Despite the situation he was in, Jimmy nearly died and went to heaven. So much did he love the thickness, length, and backstroke of the big black that he felt the gates of his soft core open to the cock, and the big black breeded him, lathering him deep with his cum.
The black bull was only in Jimmy’s soft core for some thirty seconds, but it was time when the beleaguered circumstances and the fear and the dingy room and rickety cot melted away and Jimmy was gliding on the clouds, a man making love to him, caressing him deep, Jimmy’s legs trembling and the big black holding him up with a strong forearm under his shimmering belly. Less than ten seconds of the big black cock pumping its prodigious, warm cum deep inside, with Jimmy moaning “fuck” with each release. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Jimmy had been breeded again.
This was what it was all about, this willingness to risk walking the streets, this need to have a man’s expert cock inside him.
Clarence felt the connection too. After he’d done Jimmy, he had a lot less enthusiasm for roughing him up further.
When the big black bull was done, opening Jimmy up like he’d never been opened before, they put him on his back on the cot and recuffed him, arms over his head, to the iron rail on top. He was forced to turn his head and clean Clarence’s cock with his mouth, the big black not oblivious to the knowledge that he had touched the boy at the soft core and that Clarence now owned him—and that maybe Jimmy owned Clarence just a bit too. Regardless of the circumstances, Jimmy now would give the black bull anything he wanted.
Lenny sat beside the captive’s calves and ran his hands over the Jimmy’s legs and belly. Jimmy’s moans were still for Clarence’s buried cock, but he gave no resistance to Lenny. The white cop was going to fuck him too. That was a given.
The white cop moved Jimmy’s legs to where they were spread and bent, feet on the surface of the cot. Passive and submissive, the young man let his body be manipulated into the position Lenny wanted it. Jimmy’s clothes got stuffed under the small of his back, rolling his pelvis up, and Lenny played with his cock and balls, as Jimmy panted and Clarence worked on getting as much cock into the young man’s mouth as he could.
Jimmy gasped and, pulling his mouth off Clarence’s cock, cried out, and arched his back as Lenny pushed the end of the Billy club he’d taken off his utility belt and greased up the young man’s ass and fucked him with it. The saving grace was that Clarence had just reamed Jimmy’s channel gaping open with his shaft. It also helped that Clarence said “easy there,” with a low growl. Lenny wasn’t quite as brutal with the Billy club after that, although he continued club-fucking the captive and beating off Jimmy’s cock, until the young man came. Then he rolled over between Jimmy’s legs and exchanged the Billy club with his own shaft, fucking Jimmy to his ejaculation. The club wasn’t any thicker than Clarence’s cock had been, but there was no flexibility to it. No opening of the core to this. It was hard going in every sense of the word. Lenny’s cock was easy to take, which was good considering what Jimmy had taken before.
For a finale, Lenny and Clarence stood in the middle of the floor, with Jimmy sandwiched between them, his knees hooked on Lenny’s hips, as the two doubled him and he writhed between them at the attentions two cocks inside his small body were giving him. Jimmy was too far gone into exhaustion by then to offer any resistance—or help, for that matter. They had rendered him into a rag doll and could have done anything with him that they wanted.
They left him there, stretched out on the cot and panting and whimpering. They uncuffed him, but Lenny didn’t return the money Jimmy had earned over the last day and a half.
“Maybe you want to think about staying off the street,” Lenny growled as they left. “Think of what someone could have done to you after this point.” This was how Lenny justified using Jimmy to get his rocks off.
* * * *
They kept his money, terming it “confiscated ill-gotten gains.”
“If we don’t confiscate this, we got to arrest you and take you in,” Lenny had said.
They had robbed him, was the way Jimmy saw it, although they’d say they confiscated unlawfully gained funds, and they’d get away with saying it. Jimmy was broke again now and needed another score if he was going to get dinner. He went back into the area he’d cruised before but found another corner, where they were all young guys like him and didn’t try to push him away.
“Have you been warned about the fake cops?” one of the guys said to him as they chatted and waited for the johns to come out.
“The fake cops?” Jimmy asked.
“Yeah, there are two guys, a white dude and a really, really big black one, cruising in the area in a blue sedan pretending to be cops and preying on the boys. From what I heard about the black bull he can prey on me anytime he wants. Be on the lookout for them and don’t let them corner you—unless you want them to, of course.” The guy winked at Jimmy, who wondered if, maybe, just maybe, the whore had, in fact, been cornered by Clarence before.
“Hey, thanks for the tip,” Jimmy said. It was too late coming, of course, but it was nice of the guys to look out for each other.
They were standing around when a new white Chrysler drove slowly past and pulled to the curb a quarter of a block away. One of the more assertive guys walked up the street and leaned into the passenger window of the car, talking with the guy in the driver’s seat. He didn’t get in the car, though. He came sauntering back to the corner.
“He wants you, Jimmy,” the guy said. “He’s got money. He gave me a five just to bring you back. He’s waving a thirty. You go, guy.”
Jimmy went. The passenger door popped open as he approached, and he swung into the front seat before even looking over at the driver.
“Vince!” he said, startled and panicked when he saw who it was. His mother’s boyfriend.
“Shut the door, Billy.” Vince said, adding. “Just stay in the car and shut the door and you can have the thirty.”
Billy—now who what his family knew him by and what it said on his driver’s license rather than his street name—shut the door. “Where did you get this car? This isn’t Mom’s car.”
“Borrowed it. It’s a friend’s. You wouldn’t have gotten into your mom’s car with me at the wheel, would you?”
“You’ve got that right.”
“She misses you, Billy. We both miss you. Come on home. We’ll talk about it. It will be better. You need to get back in school. I don’t know how in the hell we’re going to get you finished with high school. You’re already a year behind in schooling. You need that certificate.”
“I don’t think so, Vince.”
“Do you have money even for dinner? Money to cover someplace to stay for the night?”
“I have thirty dollars and the rest of the afternoon and evening to work the magic. You said all I had to do for it was to close the fuckin’ car door. I can open it again.”
“I lied. You can’t have it unless you come home for dinner. How could this be better than being at home, Billy?”
“When I’m home and you ain’t fucking Mom, you’re fucking me. You’re supposed to be Mom’s boyfriend, not mine.”
“Have any of your johns fucked you better than I do?”
Billy didn’t want to answer that. One had, but only one out of three goes at it. Another one, Clarence, certainly had.
“And what are you doing out here?” Vince continued. “You’re letting any man who offers you money fuck you, aren’t you? Even weirdos who could stick a knife in you.”
Billy didn’t answer.
“We’re going home. We can discuss this there.” He pulled the car away from the curb. Billy didn’t try to get out. He was weakening to the man. That’s why he’d run away; he couldn’t defend himself against this man.
Vince didn’t drive straight back to the apartment house. He went to the same abandoned gas station Billy had been at earlier in the day, and he found a way to drive behind the building so that they were entirely out of sight from the street.
“Get in the backseat,” he said when they were parked.
“Vince.” It wasn’t that Billy didn’t melt to Vince’s cocking; it was just that it wasn’t getting Billy anywhere.
“You want the thirty dollars, get in the fuckin’ backseat and strip your jeans off. Stop fighting it. You know you’re gonna do it.”
Vince climbed on top of the young man in the backseat of the Chrysler and fucked his lights out. They lay lengthways on the seat. Vince got between Billy’s knees, shoved his knees under the young man’s buttocks, palmed Billy’s lower back, and pulled Billy’s pelvis up to him, the young man’s torso arching back to the cushion. Billy gasped as Vince entered him strongly and deep. Vince had such a nice, big cock, and he knew how to use it, making Billy melt when he went off cadence and found nooks and crannies with it that no other man did. Billy’s legs went to jelly. The gates to his core opened and Vince sank right into the spongy softness, caressing Billy’s walls deep inside his gut where Billy was destined to be owned by any man who could reach and work him there. Billy lay there on the seat, legs useless, arms dangling at his sides, the palm of Vince’s hand on the small of his back holding his pelvis in position, all of his sensations centering on the shaft moving inside him, as Vince had his way with him.
Given knowledge of his power, Stan could own him. Clarence could own him. And Vince could own him. And Billy was only eighteen and already a whore for men. It was going to be quite a ride through life for him.
“God, you’re so sweet. But you’re not as tight as you were,” Vince muttered. “You’ve been a naughty boy. You need to be punished.”
“Yes, Daddy, punish me,” Billy whispered, too easily falling back into the game he and his mother’s boyfriend played. “Do me hard, Daddy. Fuck me deep.” He wanted to tell him to stay and play in his soft core, but he didn’t think Vince would understand what he meant.
Vince did him again hard, playing deep in his core, reveling in Billy’s total submission to him. And he breeded him. Billy loved it, and his response gave Vince newly recognized power. The young man lay there, in Vince’s arms, giving himself fully to the power of Vince’s fuck. He always melted to it when Vince fucked him, but even more now that Billy had learned to unlock his core and sink down into it.
That was key to the problem. Billy loved being fucked by Vince. But he’d left once. He could leave again. And this time he wouldn’t be so green as to let two fake cops fuck him. That Clarence, though, he was one hummer of a black bull. And he too had the key to Billy’s core.
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