Hard Start

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."