Searching for It

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Corbin and Ethan go looking for it on the New York docks.
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sr71plt
sr71plt
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"Yo, there, buddy. Lookin' for somethin'? Cause I got somethin' for you."

Corbin took a good look at the burly man who had materialized from behind a stack of metal barrels beyond where the light over the alley door into the Christopher Street bar reached. He took a good look, reaching a quick decision because of the overly friendly way the man was extending a hand toward him.

"Ummm, no, I don't think—"

"I could show you a real good time. A tasty little trick like you."

"Sorry, just made a wrong turn back there," Corbin mumbled and backed out of the alley and into the street-lit gay bar district just up from the Manhattan docks.

He stumbled up the street, toward the upper end of the strip. That was where it was. Back there in the alley. He was sure of it. But it was a bad idea to come down here again. What did he think he'd find? And what did he think he wanted to get out of it if he did find it.

"Got a light?" The man was older, maybe in his forties. He'd been quite a looker in his day. Still not too bad. But there was no way he was right. He was built well enough, but not built like Corbin was looking for. Corbin didn't even have to think about seeing it. He was OK . . . and on a normal trip down here . . . maybe before what had happened, what Corbin was now obsessed with finding . . . it would be just fine. But this wasn't what Corbin had come down to Christopher Street to find.

"Aw, come on. I can pay well for the right service. Up front. And I've got a room. It's a nice room. Clean and just here. Just over there across the street." He gestured toward the Christopher Hotel. Corbin knew it well. He knew it had recently been refurbished and the rooms indeed were clean and better than most here on the strip—certainly better than one of the back rooms in most of the bars here. And better even than the one he'd been in three nights ago.

"I was just ready to leave . . . to go on home," Corbin answered. But that wasn't true. He had checked out more than three bars yet and he had been determined to walk the whole strip tonight until he'd found what he was after. He'd steeled himself for this for two day. Had wanted it again for two days. Had thought about little more than having it again, even though it made him shudder to even think about it.

The man came up close and put an arm around Corbin's waist, loosely though, as if not wanting to push him . . . too much . . . but not wanting him to bolt away either.

"Come on, sweetheart," the man whispered in Corbin's ear. "Good money and I give a good ride."

He smelled clean and the musky scent of his cologne was intoxicating. He felt firm. Trim and well dressed. He probably did have a fat wallet.

"I was going to go home. I just wanted to look in at a couple of more bars and then call it a night." It was true that he was going to check some more of the bars—at least that was what he'd planned to do before the encounter in the alley. That had unnerved him a bit. Too much like the other night, but not the right one. Not the right one at all.

"I can ride all night, and good money each time," the man murmured. "You're sweet. The best I've seen down here all night. You want to go into bars, I'll take you into bars. Give you whatever you want to drink. Here's Joey's right here. Come on it and let me buy you a drink."

It had been Joey's Corbin had been in three nights previously, and he indeed had planned to go in there to check. He had had high hopes that that was where he'd find what he was looking for. He'd come all this way down here—ignored what he should do. Go to the police is what he should do. But he'd built up courage to come down here. It would be a pity to cut and run now.

"Well, maybe just one drink. Here in Joey's."

When they entered the bar, Corbin's eyes scanned the room. Not many in here tonight. Very few of the build he thought was right. Several turned their faces toward him and smiled as he came through the door with his smooth-talking, well-dressed forties guy. The men always smiled for Corbin, and most showed interest. The forties guy put a hand on the small of Corbin's back and guided him toward the bar, his eyes also sweeping the room, challenging, claiming territorial rights.

Corbin continued to look, but what he wanted to see was the right-hand wrist of any guy who was anywhere close to the right build. He wasn't seeing what he was looking for.

Later, Corbin was thinking that the refurbishment if the Christopher Hotel hadn't really changed a couple of things that probably should have topped the list in getting fixed. The bedsprings still made that tinny, irritating grating sound and the headboard still thumped against the wall.

The forties guy had been right. He sure could ride. And he could get back in the saddle fast. Corbin lay on his stomach, naked, on the white chenille-covered bed, his hips raised to give the forties guy, knees clutching Corbin's thighs and fists pressing in the hollows below Corbin's shoulder blades, a good angle to bottom out as he seemed to want to do as he rode Corbin's ass.

The guy was good and the cock was thick and long enough, and Corbin didn't have any trouble giving him the gasps and groans and the usual "Yes, fuck me just like that" and "Give it to me good, Daddy," phrases that were expected of him, as he bunched up folds of the coverlet in his fists and thought about what he'd hoped to find down on Christopher Street tonight. And it wasn't this. But this was safe . . . a lot safer than the other. And maybe he could build up the courage to give it another try in the next couple of days.

* * * *

Ethan had never been in New York before, and the buildings soaring overhead, picked out majestically in the gathering twilight, exhilarated him. In fact, having grown up in Vancouver, British Colombia, he had never been on this side of the continent before, having signed on as crew for Ted Gleason's yacht and pretty much just sailed between Gleason's interests in the United States, most of them in Boston, and his preferred home in Bermuda.

What Ethan did know as he was tying the bow of the yacht up to the pier in the shadow of Manhattan skyscrapers is that he wanted to get laid—and bad. When he'd signed on with theSeaskipper crew, Liam, one of his fuck buddies from the fishing fleet in Vancouver, had gone east and gotten this cushy job on the yacht. He had enticed Ethan to follow him and he'd been taking care of Ethan's needs. And he done a great job of it—so good that Ted Gleason wanted Liam to take care of his needs too, and now Liam was laid up on land in Bermuda as manager of Gleason's estate.

Ethan had been four days on the Seaskipper without getting any. Liam had told him, with a wink, though, that he'd helped take the yacht to New York before, and that all Ethan needed to do was walk up a street called Christopher Street from where the yacht would tie up and he'd get all of the taking care of he needed. Ethan sure hoped so.

He didn't know what guys wore for cruising in New York—or how they signaled their need. But another guy on the crew had warned him that he'd probably not want to wear his working duds—baggy white cargo shorts, hanging low at the waist; a white cut-off T-shirt, showing his hard-muscled midriff; white deck shoes; and gold stud earrings—around this area of the city if he didn't want to get hit on. And so that's exactly what he wore. He just tied off his auburn hair in a ponytail, and didn't bother to shave his four-day beard—mostly because it made him look older than his nineteen years, and he didn't want guys passing him by thinking he was too young—and started walking up Christopher Street from the docks as soon as he saw where it opened up from the water.

He had been warned correctly. He basked in the cat whistles he heard as he sauntered up the street. A group of three black guys waved at him from across the street and started to cross. Ethan had no experience with black guys—and he didn't like the idea of there being three of them—so he waved and shrugged as if he was meeting someone, and then turned and entered the closest bar door to him. A flashing neon sign over the door told him it was Joey's Bar. The black silhouette of a well-built guy was slouching against the "J" of the bar name with his back, so Ethan figured he'd guessed right on what sort of bar this was. As soon as he entered, he knew he was right.

The light was dim, the music was loud, and there was smoke reflecting in the roving multicolored beams of light revolving around the room, which gave the initial impression that the bar was crowded. But when Ethan's eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see that that wasn't so. Still, most of the attention of the men in the room—of those who weren't already far into making moves on each other—became focused on him.

The three black guys entered the bar and Ethan moved defensively away from the bar and farther into the area with tables as the three bellied up to the bar and, after voicing their drink orders to a bartender, turned toward the room. All three of them were staring at Ethan and smiling. Ethan moved back farther into the table area, until a hand reached out, gripped his wrist, and pulled him into enfolding arms.

"Hello there, sailor," a deep, gruff voice rumbled from the dimness. Ethan found himself drawn into the lap of a bulky, big-boned, heavily muscled bruiser of a man in jeans and a black muscle T-shirt. The man's strong arms encircled him and held him close. Even before more could be said, Ethan could feel the hardness of the man's staff rising at the cleft of his buttocks. The cargo shorts were light-weight material. Part of his Bermuda duds. A large, strong, calloused palm was pressing on Ethan's belly, holding him firmly in place. "Playing sailor today, are we?"

"I am a sailor," Ethan muttered defensively, gasping from the suddenness of being imprisoned. He turned his face toward that of the other man, seeing him more clearly with each passing second as his eyes adjusted to the light. The man was ugly as sin. His features were severe, bordering on gross. He was bald but he had dark, bushy eyebrows that made it look like he was permanently glowering. There was a wild look about the dark eyes, his nose had been broken and badly reset, and there was a scar that sliced down from the corner of an eye and across both of his thin lips. His chin jutted. But while he was ugly and thuggish, he had the air of power and "able to have what he wanted" about him.

"Oh, a real sailor, then. Not Navy?"

"No I work a private yacht," Ethan answered through heavy breathing.

"Too bad. Navy guys fuck well; usually have well-used holes."

Ethan squirmed to get up, but the man held him fast.

"Calm down," the man muttered. "You came in for this, didn't you? Or did you come in with those guys at the bar staring you down."

"No, I didn't come in with them."

"And don't want to be with them, I guess."

Ethan didn't answer. But his trembling probably answered for him.

"You'd rather be with me, wouldn't you? Black guys are known for big dicks, but I bet mine will do you just as well."

Ethan didn't answer that either. He had been squirming, but he could feel that that was only arousing the man—and he knew he couldn't break the guy's grip anyway—so he settled down.

"Yes, good. Just quiet down. You a working piece?"

"Excuse me?"

"Did you come in here to pick up a john?"

"No," Ethan made his answer sound wounded without the least bit of acting.

"But you did come in here to get fucked, didn't you? Comin' in a bar like this, dressed like that. You came in to get laid. Feel that? Like that?" He was moving Ethan's butt around in his lap, letting him get the feel of the hardening cock. A hand had gone up under the hem of Ethan's cut-off T-shirt too and had found a nipple. His face was close in to Ethan's ear and he was licking the side of Ethan's neck under his ear lobe. All Ethan could think of was that he didn't think he could kiss the guy on the mouth. No, that wasn't all. He also was very much aware of the strength of the hardening cock he was sitting on. Ethan wasn't a large man—it seemed to him he was only half the size and weight of the big bruiser. He could barely touch the floor with the balls of his feet. But when he did so and tried to rise a bit out of the bruiser's lap, he was pulled back down, hard on the hardness of the man's tool.

Ethan moaned, which the man chose to take as a vote of appreciation for the feel of his cock.

"You want me to fuck you or do you want me to walk you over to those three black dudes at the bar? They look like they want to give you what you came in for too, but times three. Bet they could try to double you."

Ethan looked at the bar. The black guys were still watching him—closely. They weren't making any moves of approaching the table, however, even though there were three of them. This only added to Ethan's feeling of being overpowered by this man. Three well-built guys and they were just hovering there, watching.

"I . . . I don't . . . know. Here?!" he burst forth with, as he felt the man working on knotting of his belt.

"Maybe here, yes. Maybe no. But you're going to sit on my cock and ride it like a good little boy, ain't you?" His hand moved to grab and squeeze Ethan's cock through the material of the cargo pants. "Or do you want me to give you to those black dudes?"

"No . . . I mean yes."

"Yes, what?"

"I want you to fuck me."

"You want to ride Daddy's cock?"

"Uh . . . yes." Ethan's eyes were on the black guys at the bar. They still were watching. He was panting shallowly now. The man was stroking his cock through the material of the shorts—and the man's cock was rhythmically pushing between his butt cheeks.

"Yes, what? Say it."

"I want to ride your cock, Daddy."

"Good. see what's on the table top right here?"

Ethan looked down at the surface of the table. There was a sheaf of condom packets beside a half-full beer mug.

"Oh. Please."

"I want you to open one of those rubbers and put it in my hand."

With trembling fingers, Ethan picked up the sheaf and pulled one packet away. He was shaking so badly that even with two hands it was hard for him to slit open the packet.

The man laughed and brushed the packet out of Ethan's hands. "Just testing you. Seeing how much you wanted it. But we'll play a bit."

The hand that had brushed the packet away was on Ethan's bare knee and began working its way up Ethan's thigh, up under the wide leg opening of the baggy cargo pants. Ethan could feel the metal of a ring on the man's finger—and he felt something else there, but couldn't quite figure out what it was. The hand was going under the hem of the pouch of the jock strap he was wearing when the man turned Ethan's face to his with his other hand and pushed a thick tongue between Ethan's lips. Ethan gasped and almost choked, but the man maintained his possession, his control of Ethan's mouth.

The other hand had reached Ethan's cock, flesh on flesh, and it was slowly stroking him hard. Ethan involuntarily was moving his hips, pressing and then releasing on the man's covered cock. He suddenly wanted the cock inside him. This is what he'd come for. It didn't matter that the man was ugly, Ethan could tell that he had a monster cock and could do him well.

Ethan's mouth was freed and he gasped at the arousing sensations he was being given below the waist.

"What'yer three lookin' at," the man's voice bellowed out. "This one's taken. Go find your own pigeon."

Ethan turned his face to the bar. The three black guys looked angry. But they also looked defeated. Two of them downed their drinks and then joined the other one who was already half way to the door.

"Please," Ethan murmured.

"Please what?"

"Please. Fuck me"

The man laughed a low, husky laugh. "Here and now?"

"If you want. But soon. Please."

"So, you want me to make you come?"

"Yes. Yes!"

The man laughed again. Then he retook possession of Ethan's mouth with his. The man's mouth tasted like stale tobacco and booze, but Ethan didn't care anymore. He'd come here to get a good fuck, and this man would give him that. A back room? a fleabag hotel room? right here? It didn't matter. Not as long as he could cock as well as he could make Ethan want it.

But then Ethan was shuddering and trying to pull away to gasp and object and ask what the hell was going on. The strange feeling of the hand coming up his leg. It must have been the underside of the ring on the guy's finger. A metal bead. A big one. Being pressed in his piss slit.

The man held him fast in a strong hold, with one arm encasing his torso, a thumb and finger pinching Ethan's nipple. Ethan's mouth fully possessed. A hard cock between his butt cheeks, pressing at his hole even between the layers of intervening material. And the big bead on the underside of a ring pressing into his piss slit. Releasing and pressing. Releasing and pushing in. Rhythmically fucking his piss slit.

Ethan came in a pent-up spouting of cum and collapsed in the man's arms.

The man laughed another deep-chested, hoarse laugh and released his hold on Ethan so that the young sailor just sank into himself on the man's lap. The man reached over and tossed off his beer at one go, swept up the packets of condoms, and pushed Ethan off his lap. Ethan almost fell to the floor, but the man swung him around as he himself stood and dropped Ethan into the chair.

"Like piss slit fucking?" he leaned down and asked.

"It's . . . it's different," Ethan murmured.

"I asked if you liked it. There's more like that if you liked it. Did you like it?"

"Yes," Ethan answered truthfully, although he was a bit ashamed that he had liked it as much as he did.

The man took a couple of steps toward the bar exit.

"What? Are we . . .?"

"Those guys are gone now. That's what you really wanted, isn't it? And you got to come. I got other things to do. Unless you want more of what you just got."

He laughed his way to the exit and was gone. Ethan just sat there, wilted. When he looked up, he saw that there were still guys interested in him. One, leaning at the bar and looking back at him, was a well-dressed, slim guy who was maybe in his forties. He'd obviously been a looker in his day, and he still looked like he was in good shape. He was dressed expensively. He lifted a glass and inclined his head like he was offering to buy a drink for Ethan.

They fucked in a back room of Joey's, which Ethan on the small of his back cross-wise on a massage table, and the forties guy holding his legs up and together with fists on his ankles while he pumped Ethan's hole vigorously with a fair-sized cock.

This was the fuck that Ethan had come for but, even though this guy was handsome and had a good, strong stroke, the young sailor couldn't help but feel having been let down by the dangerous, ugly bruiser. And that fucking of his piss slit. He had never . . . ever . . . And the guy had teased him. Asked him if he liked it and maybe wanted more and when he said he did, just walked off.

* * * *

The forties man had released his legs and was pulling off his condom and releasing his seed on Ethan's stomach.

Ethan rolled to his right, ready to pull himself off the bed.

"Hey, wait. Where are you going? I told you $100 for two fucks. Roll onto your back. I'll be ready again in a few minutes."

* * * *

Ethan stumbled out of Joey's. He needed to piss, and he probably should have done it in the bar. But for some reason he just wanted to be gone. The forties guy was OK, but he wanted to exchange phone numbers and addresses and such, and Ethan wasn't into that. He still had the sour feeling in his stomach that the ugly guy had ruined his night. Ethan was $100 richer when that wasn't even required, but, despite what should have been two decent fucks, he felt unsatisfied. And it was all the big bruiser's fault.

sr71plt
sr71plt
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