Hard Start

(gay prostitution, age difference, gay interracial, tough times, street rent-boys, car sex, fake cops, gay anal, rough gay sex, historical)

[There is no under-18 sex activity in this story.]

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.