Always Conditions

"I don't see the problem," Lawrence said as they were finished and Ken felt Lawrence's cock softening inside him—knowing full well that Lawrence would be ready to go again in just a few minutes. "Just give him what he wants. Clyde is old but he's got a good body. And you know what to do with a willing body."

"I don't know, Lawrence," Ken answered. "I don't really want to get into anything like that with Clyde. He scares me a little. And twice a day. He's already fucked me—twice, so it isn't that. It's the being at his beck and call whenever he wants it."

"So, what's the problem?" Lawrence asked.

"He's cruel and twice a day . . . and I'm not at all sure he'll live up to his side of the bargain in the end anyway."

"You take me fine more than twice in a day."

"Yeah, I can feel another one rising even now," Ken answered in a breathy voice.

And there then were no more words beyond "shit" and "fuck" and "yes, like that," for the next half hour, as Lawrence pushed Ken over on his side on the seat, with Lawrence's body cupping Ken's from behind and one of Ken's legs draped over the back of the front driver's seat as Lawrence's cock mined his channel deep and for what seemed like forever.

"He intrigues me," Lawrence murmured after they both had recovered from the heavy breathing from the effort of a second fucking so soon after the first.

"Then you can have him," Ken said. Months later Ken was reminded he'd said this and was to regret that he had. But for now, he knew he had to get back home and make sure his mother had gotten her lunch. And then it was time to check in on the pups again.

"Sorry about taking your position on the team," Lawrence said as he drove Ken out of the woods.

"Someone had to take it," Ken said. "I'm glad it was you." And he was glad for Lawrence. He just hoped there would still be a position for him to come back to when he started back to college in the next semester—assuming the school and Coach would take him back. It had been quite a sacrifice to put school on hold to save the pups—but each time he went to the kennel to feed and groom them, he knew it had been the right decision to make.

Lawrence left him off on a corner two blocks west of his house so that no one would be the wiser what they had been up to. This wasn't a big town. Gay and black on white would be a double-whammy problem here.

As Ken approached the house, he, first, saw the fire engine on his block, and then, as he broke into a run, he saw the ambulance. It was in the driveway to his own bungalow.

They were bringing Laurie out on a stretcher as he got there. The medics were apologetic when Ken identified himself, and they said they were doing all they could. But Ken knew just by looking at his mother that she already was gone—that the fast trip to the ER and pronouncement there were just formalities.

They were very good to him. Let him go along in the ambulance and spent as much time with him as they were with the woman on the stretcher—probably knowing that the living needed them more than the dead did. And Ken spent the entire time with jumbled thoughts on just where he was now and where it could go from here. He was coming up empty on both counts.

Chapter Three

"Sorry to hear about your mom."

"Thanks, Coach. Say, the team's looking pretty sharp out there."

"Yep. I think we could go all the way this year. Of course it would be easier if you were on the team."

Ken sat up on the bleacher seat from where he'd been sprawled back with his shoulder blades and elbows propped on the bench above it. He'd come out to watch the local college football team practice. He was about to shove off to St. Louis for a special summer job, and if he could get the coach's attention, he wanted to check out what his prospects were for getting back on the team in the fall. The coach had noticed him in the bleachers and had come over to talk to him; he sat down on the next bench seat below Ken and between the younger man's spread legs.

"I don't know. Lawrence is looking pretty good out there," Ken said, torn between wanting the position back and wanting to stay loyal to his boyfriend. Besides, he did think Lawrence was doing a good job at the position he'd had to give up.

"Yes, Lawrence is fine. But he's not as good as you are yet."

"But he might be by fall."

"Yes, he might be by fall."

"So, Coach . . ." Ken paused because what he asked now was really important to him. ". . . So, what are the chances I can get back on the team in the fall if I can get back into the college?"

"Hmmm. That might be possible . . . depending. You're going to be away still when we start summer drills, aren't you?"

"Yes. Yes, I guess I will be. But I think I can be back before the heavy practicing begins."

"Well, it would be a stretch . . . and I don't think I could put you right back on first string. Lawrence is doing me fine. But maybe I could get you back on scholarship and you could move back up. There'd be conditions, of course."

"Conditions?" Ken asked. He looked down and saw that the coach had a hand on his leg.

"Yeah conditions. I know about you and Lawrence . . . and if you were to give me what Lawrence . . ." Coach's hand moved to Ken's crotch.

"You've been balling Lawrence?" Ken exclaimed. It didn't surprise him that Coach leaned in that direction. There had been rumors and Ken had seen how Coach would come into the locker room after practice and watch the guys shower and dress. But Lawrence? Ken now wondered what Lawrence had done to get his position on the squad. Maybe Lawrence wasn't really as prepared to step into Ken's position on game days as Ken thought he might be. But Lawrence was a top. And coach was acting an awful lot like a top now too.

"I . . . I don't know, Coach."

"I could show you a good time," the coach said, giving Ken's cock a squeeze through his jeans material, leaving no doubt what Coach wanted. "I know you are giving it to Clyde Snepp too, Ken. No, no, don't be like that. Just calm down. There are just a few conditions—nothing you aren't doing for others, Ken. But there are always conditions for getting anything you want, you know." Coach's fingers were on the zipper pull for Ken's jeans.

"I don't know," Ken managed to say, sitting up straighter on the bleachers and causing the coach's hand to drop off his crotch. "I'll write to you from St. Louis. We'll . . . see."

Always these conditions. Ken felt his life was beginning to be ruled by conditions. And it was like a vice closing in on him—all of his options being reduced to the same one—with just the name of the guy who wanted him varying from moment to moment.

A whistle blew from the field, and the team was moving into another drill. The coach grunted and stood up from the bleachers. "It could be fun, Ken. And you'd probably get your starting position back in no time. Anyway, think about it. And, again, I'm sorry about your mom's passing. I know it makes it rough on you."

Yes, it made it rough on Ken. It did so partly because it meant he was losing the roof over his head within a week. The rent was due and now the Social Security checks his mother had been bringing in on her own account and her husband's survivor's benefits had dried up. Ken was over eighteen and on his own. It was all he could do to scrape up that $800 Clyde wanted for Dusty and then he'd have to move someplace else anyway. That's why he had taken a summer job out in St. Louis. He'd be working in a training kennel there and hoped to maybe pick up some marketable skills in training service dogs. That would earn him enough money to get back into college in the fall, it would provide him room and board, and, the clincher, they'd said he could bring a dog with him.

The one thing Ken knew was that he wanted Dusty. He wanted one thing he could cling to that gave him loyalty and affection that didn't come with conditions. He'd thought that Lawrence could provide that—but if Lawrence was doing the coach behind Ken's back to get his position on the football team, Ken knew he couldn't count on even Lawrence.

Ken climbed down off the bleachers and headed for Clyde's. He had time to put in there and he had his $800 to pay for Dusty.

"Dusty?" Clyde asked. Then he laughed. "No, I don't remember telling you that you could pick which of the three pups you could have for $800. For that you can have Dexter. That one's eating me out of house and home anyway."

"It's Dusty I want," Ken said stubbornly. "All along it's been Dusty we've been talking about. Dusty's the runt. You've never considered him worth anything. It's Dusty. Why do you suddenly value Dusty higher than Dexter?"

"You know why. It's not the money I want."

Ken cast his eyes down at Dusty, who was squirming with delight in his lap as he crouched down. Ken was almost in tears, and he buried his face in Dusty's neck so that Clyde couldn't see the effect this was having on him.

"These are my conditions, Ken. You can have Dusty, and you can have him for the $800. If. If you move in with me—in my bed—but I keep the papers on him. You let me take you down to my basement and bind you and use my toys and you can have Dusty for free, with the papers." Clyde laughed. "I figure after that experience, you'll want me so much you'll just move in here and Dusty won't be going anywhere. Those are the conditions. Or, give me $1,200 and you can have Dusty here, on the spot, complete with papers. Otherwise walk out of here for your summer job and take Dexter for the $800. It's up to you. Pretty good deal, I think. I don't know why you don't jump at it. I know you're doing it with Lawrence. I've seen you off on Larson's lane and doing it in the backseat of his car. And I'm twice as good as he is, I don't doubt."

Clyde knew Ken didn't have $1,200 and couldn't get it. He was surprised as hell that Ken had managed to scrape up the $800.

"Tell you what, you give up the idea of going off for the summer and move in here with me and give me pleasure down in my basement. You satisfy me, and I'll sign over half the kennel to you—on the condition that you continue satisfying me. That would solve all of your problems."

Ken shuddered and stood up, releasing Dusty with great reluctance. Dusty wove in and out of his legs, rubbing against him and pawing at his calves.

"I'll be back at the end of the summer with the $1,200 for Dusty. Take good care of him until then, please."

And then Ken turned and strode out of the barn without a look back. He knew if he took another look at Dusty, he'd start crying. Worse, if he did that, he was afraid he would cave in to Clyde's expanding conditions—all given with every prospect that Clyde would just keep dangling new conditions in front of his face and not honoring them.

Chapter Four

"You're looking good. By the end of the summer, you'll be able to handle the training all by yourself."

"Thanks, Brad," Ken answered. "You know I won't be staying to the end of the summer, though, don't you? Got accepted back at school, and I'd like to get back in time to try to regain my football scholarship."

"So I've heard," the dog trainer most of the guys working at the St. Louis Service Dog Academy called "Big Guy" said. "Hate to lose you. You've been a big help around here. That's not the only reason I hate to lose you, of course. Ken, I . . ."

Ken moved uneasily from the sitting position he'd taken on the top of the rail fence while he and the head trainer watched Cindy take the Lab service dog Apache through his paces out on the training field. "I've got to go back, Brad. There's something there I need."

"That Lab puppy you've told me about."

"Yeah."

"You know we have a couple of litters coming on in the kennel here. You know you could have one of those."

Ken turned and looked sharply at Brad, waiting for what the "conditions" were, having known for some time what Brad's preferences were and that Brad fancied him.

"And what would I—?"

Brad laughed an easy, open laugh. "No charge. You've earned it. One of the hardest workers I've known, and you came with skills. You'd worked with dogs before."

"Yeah, I've helped raise them to sell. But that isn't anything like you do with them here, Brad—training them as guide and seeing-eye dogs for people who need the help. It's a mighty fine thing you're doing here. And I wish I could stay. Maybe after I've finished college. Maybe Dusty and I will come back then—if you still want to hire me on then."

"Dusty. Is that the pup's name you're going back for?"

"Yes. I raised his mother. And she died having the litter that Dusty was in. I appreciate the offer of one from a litter here, but it isn't just that I want a dog. I want that dog—the runt from Daisy's litter. It's sort of like having Daisy too. I can't really explain it."

"And, you don't really need to explain it," Brad said. "But it will be nearly three months," he continued after a spell of silence. "You know a dog can grow and change in that time. How will you even know you'd be getting Dusty? From what you've said about the kennel owner, I wouldn't put it past him to pull a switch on you—just out of meanness."

"I'm sure I'll recognize Dusty," Ken answered. "For one thing, he's got a notch out of his ear. I was there when one of his litter mates did that to him. Clyde wanted to put him down again then, but I told him I was the one meaning to buy Dusty and having the notch didn't bother me, so there was no reason why it should bother him either."

"Well, you and your Dusty will always be welcome here, Ken. Don't doubt that. And it's not just because you are a real good worker."

Brad was looking down toward the ground when he said that, but he lifted his head and what Ken saw in his face was raw emotion, wanting Ken to understand. And Ken understood all too well. He'd been fighting the impulse himself for nearly four weeks now. Brad was a great guy, and, despite being so tall and muscular, he was gentle with the dogs in a way that moved Ken to admiration and something else too, something Ken didn't want to think about, didn't want to acknowledge he was feeling. But the look on Brad's face was just too raw, too wanting.

"Think we could get into your room at the bunkhouse without being seen?" Ken asked in a low voice.

"You'd do that?" Brad asked. "You'd let me . . . without anything . . .?"

"I want you, Brad. There's no conditions from me. Just you. Now, if you want."

They fucked languidly for much of the rest of the afternoon on Brad's bed. They disrobed for each other, standing across the room from one another, their eyes glued to the other man. And, when naked, they moved, simultaneously, as if by signal, close together and began running their hands over the other, the breath of both becoming progressively heavier, the touch progressively more intimate. When their mouths met, Brad's hands went to their cocks, holding them together and gently pumping as they swayed back and forth, one unit, until, with a shudder, Ken came. Ken had put a hand down to get the measure of Brad and he moaned and came all the sooner at discovering a cock that justified his "Big Guy" nickname—bigger than either Clyde or Lawrence—or possibly both together.

Brad guided Ken to the bed and laid him down, full prone on his belly, and straddled his hips. He didn't enter him immediately, but ran his hands over Ken's torso and while he slowly ran his cock up and down on Ken's buttocks crack. He held the bulb of his cock at the entrance of Ken's hole, every so slowly working it in, as Ken gasped and groaned. Ken reached back with his hands and spread his butt cheeks and came up a bit on his knees to present better to Brad. And then there was a long slide deep inside Ken as he panted and moaned and declared that no, he didn't want Brad to stop or hold back.

And then Ken was going to heaven, never having been fucked like that before—never wanting it to stop—and gasping and groaning when it very nearly never did stop.

Later that evening, in his own bunk, reality started to set in. Life was too complicated. Ken couldn't stay here. He wanted to finish college and he still wanted to play football—and he had Lawrence waiting for him back home. Why did life have to be so complicated?

But Ken heard the door squeak quietly on the hinges and the weight of Brad's torso on his and the hands spreading his thighs. And the cock head once again insistently pressing at his hole and then possessing him and beginning its rhythm of complete mastery.

"Sorry, I couldn't keep away."

"Shhh, don't speak," Ken moaned. "Just fuck."

Much later, exhausted, Ken turned his eyes and watched Brad walk away from him in the light of the dawn. A million-dollar man, that. Worth all of that to someone lucky enough to have him. Just if life weren't so complicated.

* * * *

It was Ken's last weekend in St. Louis, and he was all keyed up. His attraction to Brad hadn't waned in the last couple of weeks—it had strengthened. And now Ken was torn by what he wanted to do, what he wanted out of life. He wasn't all that sure that he wanted to return to his college now. There were colleges here too, and Brad, in a last-ditch effort to entice him to stay had said that Ken could tailor his work hours around going to college here and that the training academy would even help with tuition.

The more Ken thought about going back on the football team, the more he was reminded of the conditions Coach had blatantly specified. Clyde was bad enough, always after him. If Ken went back on the team, he'd still have to work part time for Clyde—or for someone else—and he'd have them both at him. Maybe it would be best to just let Lawrence have his position on the team. And to have Coach too.

That seemed to be the real glitch here. Ken had something going with Lawrence. But if Lawrence was giving it to the football coach, where did Ken really fit into that? Dusty certainly wasn't an impediment to coming back. Brad had said Dusty would be welcome here.

Brad, Brad. Everything seemed to be coming back to Brad.

There was just too much of this to think about.

Ken felt he needed to blow off some steam. So, when Brad's assistant, Cindy, said she was driving into town and would be busy for a couple of hours down there on Saturday evening, Ken hitched a ride with her and arranged a drop off and pick up place and time. Brad wasn't at the kennel. He had a bunk room at the kennel, but he lived downtown and hadn't worked this Saturday.

Cindy let Ken off on Manchester Avenue. Ken had Brad's address in his pocket and a general location. Brad had said he lived near the St. Louis University Medical Center. Ken had a vague notion of going to Brad's and surprising him, and relieving this tension that was building up inside him and putting an end to the indecision. But here, on the street, where Cindy had left him off, Ken got cold feet. Instead of walking toward where he thought Brad lived, Ken started off in a tangent direction.

He needed time to think and to gather his wits about him—and maybe a drink or two to steady his nerve and his resolve. This indecision and beating around the bush—not knowing what he wanted, what he should do next—was tearing him apart.

Ken was walking up Chouteau Avenue when he saw a couple of guys dressed out in leathers entering a bar. The side of the bar facing the street had four blacked-out windows with a logo identifying it as Bad Dog.

Prophetic, Ken thought. Dogs had become Ken's life, and here was an establishment that was welcoming him on his own turf—and matching the mood he was in. So he walked into the Bad Dog and up to the bar and ordered a beer. It was a pool hall sort of place, laughter and smoke. All guys, and most of them dressed in leather. The noise rolled over Ken, making him feel protected and unnoticed. So he sat up on a stool at the bar and ordered a second beer.