Wild Boys Page 3

  “You’ll take a check, right?” I say, ushering him inside.

  “Oh, sure, sir.” He wipes sweat from his sideburns.

  “How much?”

  “Forty? Would that be all right?”

  “Sure. Let’s say fifty, actually. I have a good job, and you need the money. Want a beer?” Shy as I am, I’m also hospitable. Any excuse to keep him around longer.

  “That’d be great! But, first, uh, do you mind if I take a shower? If it ain’t too much trouble?”

  Bold brute; damned tease. I lead him upstairs, show him the bathroom, and set him up with towel and washcloth. Downstairs, I sit on the couch, listening to the rush of water, fighting the urge to join him. I stroke myself, imagining him naked, then, with effort, pull my hand away so my erection will deflate by the time he’s done.

  The splashing stops. Silence, then a padding of bare feet down the stairs. Timmy appears in the door of the living room. He’s wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his lithe loins. Water beads his thick brown chest hair; bruises scatter his ribs, the result, I assume, of more brawling. “Sir, I’ve been thinking. Uh, since you were kind enough to buy me lunch and drive me to Sylvatus, today’s yard work is on me. But, um, if you give me fifty dollars, uh, you can blow me.”

  I stand. My thighs betray me with an unseemly quiver. “I, uh, I’ve never paid for sex before.”

  “But you do want me, sir?” Moving closer, Timmy tosses wet hair out of his eyes. He looks at my crotch and the stiff evidence there. Beneath the towel, his own prick is clearly rising.

  “Yes. God, yes. I do. Very, very much.” I try to keep my voice from shaking; I fail.

  “I’m not a whore, sir. I’ve never charged before. But I, I’m desperate. I need the money real, real bad, and I—”

  Abruptly, he backs up and bows his head. “Oh, god!” he gasps. “I’m sorry, Mr. Laurel. I never should have—”

  “How about fifty dollars if you blow me?” I blurt. “One hundred dollars if I get to eat your ass first.”

  Timmy drops the towel. He turns, bending over, presenting his bare butt. It’s compact, perfectly curved, and covered with fine golden-brown hair. Gripping one cheek, he gives me a glimpse of his hole, barely visible in its grove of fur.

  “Mr. Laurel, sir, it’s a deal.”

  Bent over the end of the couch, Timmy moans with excitement. During those several years with Ed—well, before we stopped having sex—I perfected my rimming skills, and now my little yard-worker is about to receive the benefit of such practice. I knead and nip his fuzzy ass-mounds. Spreading his buttocks, I burrow my face between them, in the fragrant cleft-thicket I find there. I run my tongue up and down the crack, then around the tiny hole, then into it, jabbing and lapping, my face growing wet with my own spit. I emerge from desire’s hot haze just long enough to realize that I’m growling and panting like a dog, then dive in again. It’s been years since I’ve been so aroused.

  Unlike many men I’ve pleasured in this manner, Timmy doesn’t just lie there. His enthusiasm matches mine. He reaches back to spread his own buttocks wider. He bucks back against my face; he humps the couch; he accompanies my efforts with an appreciative chant. “Ohh. Yes, sir! Oh, yes. That’s wonderful. Oh, man. Just great! Goddamn.”

  Now I give Timmy’s ass a squeeze and a slap. He jumps, giggles and cocks his rear-end higher. I give him a few more open-palmed slaps. “Yeah! Mmm! Love it!” he groans, beginning to jack himself. I drag him to the floor, position us on our sides, and push my groin against his face. He wraps an arm around my waist, brushes my cockhead with his chin-beard, runs a stubbly cheek over the glans, tugs on my sack, then takes the head into his mouth. I grip his shaggy hair and pull him onto me. He chokes; my cock slams the back of his throat, once, twice, three times; he slobbers and sucks, head bobbing up and down. Within seconds, my thighs tense, my back arches, and, gasping, “Oh, shit, here I go!” I pound his mouth and cum.

  Timmy giggles and swallows my load. He holds me in his mouth as I lie there, washed out, trembling, growing ever so slowly soft. I stroke his hair; he laps at my shrinking cock. He falls asleep like that, lips still retaining my flesh inside him. I drowse too, then drift off.

  I wake to rapturous suction. I’m sprawled on my back on the carpet. Tim’s stretched out on the floor between my spread legs, slurping frantically on my hard-yet-again dick. He releases me long enough to say, “Yum, whatta mouthful! Didn’t think you got your money’s worth the first time,” before renewing his efforts. Before long, I’ve cum in his mouth again. Grinning, he rises; spits in his hand; grips his long, thin cock; straddles my waist and jacks off, spurting cream into my chest hair.

  October’s igniting the forest. Timmy gives me botany lessons as we drive the narrow road winding up the side of Big Walker Mountain. “That hot orange is sugar maples; the bright gold is tulip trees. And that there purple is aster. Pretty, ain’t it?”

  We’ve met every other week since August. I’m a little in love with my hillbilly hustler, and we both know it. He keeps charging me for sex, and his frequent bruises and black eyes indicate a worrisome addiction to street fights, and he hasn’t let me ass-fuck him yet, which is, of course, what I dream of most, but otherwise he’s the perfect companion. He’s smart, despite the lack of a college education; he knows everything about the outdoors, able to identify plants, birds, animal tracks, even rocks. He’s funny, and he’s appreciative, thanking me for every little thing I do for him—buying him clothes, treating him to fast-food lunches, even making him a homemade pizza every now and then. Five times he’s even spent the night, curled up in my arms. Those have been the happiest times of my life. I’ve only known him two months, but already I don’t know what I’ll do if he ever decides he’s had enough of my cock and my cash.

  The boy surely knows how to keep me hooked, that’s for sure. Right now, his flannel shirt is unbuttoned, despite the chilly autumn air, giving me the luxurious sight of his furry chest. Every now and then, in between sips of beer, he squeezes his own denimed crotch, or plays with his tiny pink nipples, or strokes my knee as I drive.

  “This here’s the place,” Timmy says, as we reach the crest of the mountain. I pull off onto the side road he indicates and park behind a moss-streaked boulder. “No one’ll see us back here. Ain’t no one comes up here anyway, ’cept deer-hunters next month. I can’t wait to get your dick in my mouth.”

  With that, he swigs the last of his beer, shucks off his shirt, unzips my fly, hauls out my cock, kneels on the floor of the Jeep and starts sucking me off. I lie back, look out into the burning leaves, finger his stiff nipples and thrust gently into his mouth. We could be making love inside a bonfire, as bright as the autumn colors are.

  As usual, it takes me only minutes to cum. In the months we’ve met, Timmy’s become more and more adept at blow jobs. And, as usual, after he’s swallowed my load, he keeps my cock in his mouth. He kneels there, happily sucking, for a long time. Finally, he rises. I hand him a fifty and another beer. We recline the seats a few notches, lie back and drink.

  “That was wonderful,” I say. “As always.”

  “Thanks, sir.” Timmy blushes, as he does whenever I give him a compliment. “I love the taste of your jizz. When we get back to town, will you suck on my tits while I jack off? No charge for that.”

  “You bet, kid. So when are you going to let me fuck you? You know I really want to. Name your price.”

  “Naw, I ain’t ready for that yet,” he mumbles. “Maybe some day. I’m sorta saving that for…” He slurps his beer, wipes his mouth and stares out into the fiery leaves. Somewhere, a woodpecker’s hammering.

  “Look,” he says, putting his half-drunk beer on the console, then scooting closer and resting his head on my shoulder, “I’m sorry to ask for money. I, uh, really, really like you, sir, and you’ve been super-generous. It’s just that I need regular cash. I can’t say why. I keep trying to find a full-time job, but…”

  “You’re not using, are you, Tim
my? I know there’s supposed to be a lot of drugs in your neighborhood. Just last week they busted another meth lab down the street from you.”

  “No!” Timmy sits up with a jolt. “I hate that stuff! I would never do that! How could you think that?”

  “Relax, kid,” I say, patting his shoulder. “You look tired. How about a nap? How about you put your head in my lap, curl up on the seat and sleep some? I’ll just sit here and enjoy the quiet.”

  Without a word, he arranges himself. I stroke his hair; he sighs. “Can I sleep over tonight? Please? My stepdad’s been a real shit lately, and I don’t want to be around him.”

  “Sure, kid. Sure.” My heart swells at the thought of another night together. “I’ll make you a big meal of spaghetti and meatballs, okay? We’ll have a nice bottle of Chianti.”

  No answer. The boy’s already drifted off. I caress his bare chest, kiss his inked shoulder and watch him sleep.

  “I didn’t take them!”

  Timmy grabs his backpack and heads for the door. He’s poised to dash out into the cold night, the November rain, when I seize him by the arm.

  “Hey, kid. I was just asking. Sit down and let’s talk.”

  He’s trembling beneath my grasp. I tug him back into the living room and push him down onto the couch. For just a second, the sweet memory swamps me, Timmy bent over this very piece of furniture, moaning with bliss as I work my tongue deeper up his asshole. But now, dammit, things have gone all to hell.

  Timmy drops his backpack on the floor. He squirms; his eyes roam the room, avoiding mine.

  “So what am I to think? You’re always saying that you need cash. Now the watch my mother gave me has disappeared. So has my coin collection. So has my gold Phi Beta Kappa key. No one else has been in this house but you and me.”

  “Maybe someone broke in! Maybe somebody—”

  “I have an alarm system, remember? Why, Timmy? Haven’t I been good to you?”

  Timmy leaps up. He grabs his backpack and pulls a knife from its side pocket. He flips the blade open and extends it toward me with a shaking hand.

  “I’m leaving now! Don’t you try to stop me!”

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I say, taking a step toward him. “A knife? Seriously?”

  It’s over before I know it. One second I’m about to grab his shoulder; the next, there’s sharp pain as he stabs my forearm; the next, I’ve punched him in the face; and the next, the boy’s out cold on my living room floor.

  Dazed, I pace about, then fetch peroxide and bandages. It takes a while to stanch the bleeding. I pick up the phone, dial nine, then one. I hang up. Knees wobbly with adrenaline, I hunker down beside my guest. He’s still unconscious, his right eye already swelling. Gusts of rain spatter the window. I lift Timmy in my arms—he’s heavier than he looks—and carry him upstairs.

  I watch the clock. At least two hours, I’d decided. Greedy bastard. Charging me hundreds of dollars over the last three months. Then stealing from me. Let him suffer. Let him sweat and struggle and shout and whine.

  Well, hard-heartedness has never been my strong suit, especially when it comes to handsome men or beautiful boys. I’ve tried to work through some online tasks, tried to read, tried to ignore the sounds upstairs—a thumping outrage waning rapidly into pitiful pleading—for only forty-five minutes before I relent. Rising, I finish my scotch, lope up the steps, and open the walk-in closet.

  Timmy’s naked, lying on his side in a mess of dress shoes and work boots. He stares up at me, brown eyes wide with futility and fright. Against the tight rope hog-tie, his limbs strain. Against the layers of bandanas and duct tape, he makes unintelligible sounds, no doubt pleas for mercy and release.

  “Had enough, huh?” I say, nudging his butt with my boot. “I’m not done with you yet, bad boy.”

  I work loose the cord securing his ankles to his wrists but leave his hands and feet tied. I drag him out of the closet, sit on the bed’s edge, pull him onto my lap, hold him down and swat his ass. Hard. Harder. He screams and struggles only briefly before his cock hardens against my jeans.

  “You like this, huh?”

  He nods wildly, grinding his crotch against me.

  “I thought so.” I chuckle, spanking him harder still. He thrashes, humping my thigh. Within a minute, he stiffens, then, with a low groan, climaxes against my leg.

  “Nice!” I say, wiping up the ejaculate and licking it from my hand. I lift him off me and roll him onto the bed, where he curls into a frightened ball, knees folded against his chest. “As badly as I want up your ass, I should rape you right now,” I say, slipping a finger between his asscheeks and probing his butthole, “but I won’t. If you tell me the truth. Why you stole from me. Okay?”

  Timmy nods. He’s shivering, so I strip off my clothes, climb into bed, pull the covers over us and wrap my body around his. I stroke his bruised face for a moment before peeling the tape off his lips, unknotting the bandana tied between his teeth and pulling out the spit-soaked ball of cloth stuffed in his mouth.

  “Timmy, dammit. I was really starting to care for you. Why’d you ruin it?”

  The boy sniffles. “I’m so, so sorry I cut you. Are you going to call the cops? Please don’t.”

  “I might. But I’d rather strike a new deal.”

  “Whatta you mean? Please don’t tell on me. I don’t want to go to jail. My stepdad’ll kill me.”

  “The new deal’s this. I don’t call the cops if you stop charging me for sex. And you give me your ass. And you never steal from me again, okay?”

  “I was gonna give up my ass anyway. I was saving it for someone special, and, as sweet as you’ve treated me…that was gonna be your Christmas present.”

  I pat Timmy’s hip and run a finger along his ass crack. “I’m someone special? So why’d you steal from someone special?”

  “My stepdad!” Timmy gives a hoarse sob. “Fuck! Naw, I ain’t gonna cry again. He’s made me cry enough!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I owe you the truth. Why I needed the money. Here goes.”

  It’s nearly midnight, the rain shifting to sleet. I pound the door hard. When Silas flips on the stoop-light and cracks the door, I size him up. He’s shorter than I am, and skinny. Glad I lift weights. I’ll break his jaw if he gets nasty.

  “Are you Silas?”

  “Yep. What you want? It’s late.”

  “This won’t take long. I’m a friend of Timmy’s. He tells me that you beat him. That you charge him a high rent and make him sleep on the floor. That sometimes you even make him sleep in the alley when he can’t pay what you ask.”

  “What the fuck? You can’t prove any of that,” Silas snarls. “And what business is this of yours? He’s my stepson. I’ll treat him any goddamn way I want.”

  “He also says that you’re so addicted to a certain substance that you’re in constant need of money, that you’ve stolen and you’ve forced him to steal. He’s told me who your dealer is.”

  “That goddamn brat! That’s all lies!” Silas throws the door open, fists clenched, and strides out onto the stoop. “Get the fuck outta here, or I’ll—”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” I say, flexing an arm and smiling. “I’m a lot bigger than you. You tweaked-out types tend to be scrawny.”

  He hesitates, takes in the size of my build, and backs up. “I got a gun inside.”

  “I’m sure you do. But I’m not here to bust you. The police don’t need to be involved. I could report you for any number of crimes, but I figure the universe will give you what you deserve soon enough. I’m here to work out a gentleman’s agreement.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Timmy stays with me. You leave us alone. We leave you alone. How’s that sound?”

  Silas chews his lip, then spits on the stoop, barely missing my right boot. “Why you want him around? You some kind of queer? God hates that kind.”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  Sila
s’s face twitches. He scratches his hair and rolls his eyes. “I’m tired of feeding that little shit anyway. You can have ’im. Is that it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Tell him I said, ‘Good riddance.’” Silas turns on his heel and slams the door behind him.

  I find Timmy as I left him, snuggled beneath bedcovers behind a locked door. His mouth’s taped, his hands bound behind him and his neck loosely chained to the bedpost. All necessary precautions. No way I was going to take the chance that he’d bolt before I got home.

  Despite his restraints, he’s fast asleep. I sit beside him, listening to him breathe. Then I undress, climb in beside him, wrap my arms around him, and kiss his stubble-rough cheek. He mumbles, sighs, and nestles back against me. We lie that way for a while before I remove the neck-chain and unpeel the mouth-tape.

  “Still here, huh?”

  “Yep.” Timmy grins wearily. “You didn’t need to tie me, man. I ain’t going nowhere, I swear. So did it work?”

  “I think so. Silas said you could stay here. Do you want to stay here?”

  “Lord, yes.”

  “He’ll leave us alone in return for our silence. You want me to go by in the morning and fetch your stuff?”

  Timmy sniggers. “My stuff? All I own’s some wore-out clothes and a few graphic novels. Hell, I ain’t even got one of them fancy phones all the other guys my age are thumb-tapping on. So how long can I stay?”

  “As long as you want. As long as you don’t fuck up again. We’ll see how things go. Maybe I’ll adopt you. Adults adopting adults. It’s the new craze. Think you can learn to cook and do laundry?” I run my fingers through Timmy’s chest hair, then focus my attentions on a nipple.

  “Whoa, that feels good. Keep that up. So I get to sleep with you every night in this big cozy bed? Rent boy graduates to houseboy, huh?”