Homeless Haven

* * * *

"So, do you want to hump me now? You can, if you want. No charge, of course, for the help you've given me. Where do you want to do it?"

Slick was standing in the doorway to the second bedroom—each of the bedrooms in Wyatt's apartment had a full bath attached. Slick had been sent off to take a shower in the second bedroom's bathroom a soon as they'd entered the apartment. Wyatt was across the living/dining room combination, beyond the kitchen island, scrambling eggs for them both. He turned and looked at Slick, naked and rubbing his hair, in the bedroom doorway. Despite the shock of Slick's bald statement, it had registered with Wyatt that the young man's hair, now washed, was not a dirty blond—it was a golden blond and cascaded to his shoulders in curls. The rest of him followed the Michelangelo young man angel mold as well. Wyatt went hard.

"Excuse me?" he said, nearly dropping the pan he was using to scramble the eggs.

"You brought me here to fuck me, didn't you? You were leaving the gay club when you hit me with your car, weren't you? This is all about getting your rocks off, isn't it?"

"No, this most certainly is not about fucking you or getting my rocks off, young man," Wyatt said, indignantly. "And I didn't hit you with my car. You ran into my car. I just want to make sure you're OK. How is your leg? Is it just bruised? If so, I'll give you something to eat and then I'll drive you anywhere you want to go. If it's hurt more seriously than that, I'll take you to a clinic and cover the cost."

Wyatt was filling the air with words because of course he was thinking of fucking the young man. He just didn't intend on really doing so—he wasn't even thinking of actually doing it as long as the young man was filthy and smelly from living on the streets. But now, with the young man clean . . . that beautiful, young, smooth-skinned body . . . and those golden curls . . .

It was then that Slick saw that his backpack was leaning against the wall on one side of the front door of the apartment and the clothes he'd had in it were piled on the other side of the door, neither of the piles had come any farther into the apartment than they had to be. "Hey, what are you doing with my stuff?" he said. "And the clothes I was wearing are on that pile too. I'm standing here starkers because you took my clothes while I was taking a shower. I figured you wanted me naked. It's OK. I can go any way. I have experience with men."

Of course Wyatt wanted the young man naked. Wyatt increasingly wanted the young man totally. "You can't put those clothes back on," he said. "They're filthy. Everything in your backpack is filthy. It's no good taking a shower, getting clean, and then putting filthy clothes back on. The backpack itself is filthy. I think the whole lot needs to be taken out to the trash."

"Fuck that," Slick spat out. "That's my stuff. What am I supposed to wear? Fuck this shit, man."

The guy obviously was angry. And he had a point. Wyatt had to recognize that. He was just so used to making the decisions and to doing what he could to make life better for young men—young men like Slick and like Frank before him. All they had to do to get taken care of was to let Wyatt fuck them. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking. I forgot to tell you. The bedroom there has clothes that should fit you in the closet and the bureau drawers. Just pull out something you like that fits and put it on."

"Why are there clothes that will fit me in this bedroom?" Slick asked, suspicious. "And I don't want you to throw away my stuff."

"That bedroom is Frank's. Frank lived here for three years. He went into the Navy, where they provide all of a sailor's clothes. There should be clothes close to your sizes there. Just pick something out that fits you. You can have it. Or, if you want to stay that long, we'll put these other clothes through the washer and dryer and you can have your own stuff. Everything is filthy, though. You can't just put any of that on now. You should let me wash and dry it for you. Now, why don't you go find something to put on and I'll have something for us to eat when you come back. Scrambled eggs. And do you want white toast or wheat?"

"White," Slick said, mollified and mulling over the mention of a Frank. He'd figured he'd let the guy have a quick fuck for making sure he was OK. His leg was just bruised. He'd be OK, but it was nice of the guy to ask. And the guy was really good looking and was built. Slick wouldn't mind riding him if he had a good cock.

"My leg's OK," he said, as he turned to go back into the bedroom. "It's just a bruise."

They were sitting at the kitchen island, the eggs, toast, and coffee polished off, and Wyatt had scooped out some chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream that Slick couldn't say no to.

"So, it sounds like it's still raining hard outside," Wyatt said as they were finishing up. "Have you thought about your stuff? This would be an opportunity to start off clean with everything before I take you wherever you want. And you might as well stay where it's warm and dry until the rain starts. You're living on the streets, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I'm on the streets. I like it that way."

"How old are you?"

"I'm nineteen."

"Come on, Slick. We both know you aren't more than sixteen."

"I'm eighteen," the young man shot back. "I have ID if you want to check it."

"There. I knew it was younger than nineteen. And you're on your own?"

"Totally, yes. And I like it that way."

"And you've finished high school?"

"Not the whole way. But I'm good on my own."

"That's fine. But it makes sense, doesn't it, not to go back out into the rain until it stops and to get your clothes washed and dried while you're waiting?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Looking at the pile over there, it won't all get dried until late in the night. You might as well stay here tonight. You can have the second bedroom."

"What about the young man you mentioned? Frank. He's your son? He won't come back and want his bedroom?"

"Frank's grown now. He went into the Navy. He's off in an ocean now. Nobody's using the bed in there. You might as well. Just if you want. Just for tonight while your clothes are getting clean. Then tomorrow I'll take you anywhere you want to go. I think it's raining even harder out there now." Slick didn't seem to notice that Wyatt hadn't said whether or not Frank was his son. Wyatt didn't want to go there yet.

"You really want me to sleep in that bed?" Slick asked. "Or do you want me to sleep in your bed? I've seen the way you look at me. I don't mind. I'll owe you for the meal and the wash and the roof over my head tonight. I admit that would be nice—not to have to sleep out there in the rain. I could show you a good time."

"I didn't bring you here to take advantage of you," Wyatt said, his voice stiff. And, indeed, he hadn't originally brought Slick home with that purpose in mind—that he chose to remember. He hadn't formed any intentions toward the young man. He'd just been worried about the young man tangling with the RC F and had wanted to be a good guy. And he was used to doing for Frank. He'd missed that. But it wasn't only his voice that was stiff at this moment. So, yes, he now wanted to fuck the young man. But he knew he should stick to his original, more noble intent. "You go on into the bedroom over there. I'll put a wash in and clean up these dishes. I'm glad your leg isn't broken."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure . . . Slick. Wish you'd tell me your real name. I don't think your parents gave you the name Slick."

"My parents didn't give me much of anything but a hard time," the young man said, as he slipped into the second bedroom. He left the door open though.

Wyatt struggled with the strong desire to follow the young man into the bedroom. Slick had told him he could. The guy's willingness to be covered wasn't helping Wyatt's resolve not to do that. He'd said again that he owed Wyatt for taking him in and feeding him and washing his clothes and the young man didn't want to owe Wyatt anything. He hadn't taken the twenty dollars Wyatt had told him he would give him; he had forty dollars of his own he'd earned by himself. He wanted what he'd said he knew Wyatt wanted from him and hadn't had the strength to directly say he did, though. He'd said that Wyatt could have it, not that Slick wanted Wyatt to take it. The man was a hunk. And he'd assured Wyatt that he'd done it before—that it was one way he managed to live on the street. He even said he'd been with a couple of Navy guys in the alley before the car accident. When push came to shove, Slick would like to have someone to hold him in the night, to hear someone breathing beside him, both of them under clean sheets, safe—even having done it before they went to sleep. Slick thought he'd done everything he could to let the man know it was OK.

Wyatt had stuck to his guns. It was a matter of pride now. But, shit, it took all the control Wyatt could muster not to follow the young man into the bedroom. God, he missed Frank. With a sigh, he climbed off the kitchen stool and went over to start the young man's clothes—more, his rags—in the washer. It would be a long night before he'd get to bed. Just as well, Wyatt thought, as he was determined to go to his own bed tonight and not Slick's.

Wyatt turned out his light a little after 4:00 in the morning, the washing, drying, and folding all done. Slick didn't have enough clothes to take up the whole night. They were in bad condition, even when clean. He'd have to think of a way for the young man to take some of the clothes that Frank hadn't needed for some time—what he'd worn at eighteen when he'd first lived with Wyatt—and slept in Wyatt's bed. There had always been that second bedroom, with a bed, and Wyatt had bought all of the clothes. But the bed in there had only rarely been used. Wyatt had let Frank decide, though. Just as he was letting Slick decide.

He stood at the door to the second bedroom, the door being open, for several minutes before going into his own bed. The young man was on the bed, on top of the sheets, wearing briefs only. He was an angel. Wyatt unzipped himself and stood there, pulling out and stroking his cock as he watched the young man sleep. He could have finished himself there, but he was afraid Slick would wake and see him. With a sigh, he went to his own room, took a quick shower, and climbed, in sleeping shorts, into bed.

He woke, moaning, with the young man lying between his legs, his mouth covering Wyatt's engorged shaft.

"What?" he muttered. And then "Oh, shit. Fuck," as he looked down to see the golden curls of the young man's head, bouncing up and down as Slick gave him head.

"Slick, no. You don't have to—"

"But you want me to, and I don't want to owe you for anything," the young man said, taking his mouth off the shaft momentarily. "Shit, you're big. You got a nice one. It's OK for you to put it in me. You're a hunk and a half; a lot better than most I let fuck me. You want me to suck you off, don't you?" he added as he went back to sucking the cock.

"Yes, I want you to suck me off," Wyatt moaned. "Oh, Slick. Oh, fuck."

The young man was moving up Wyatt's body, positioning himself over Wyatt's pelvis, holding Wyatt's shaft in position.

"You want to fuck me too, don't you?" Slick asked. "You don't want to do me, tell me now."

Wyatt couldn't bring himself to say anything. Slick laughed and descended on Wyatt's cock, sheathing the older man with his tight channel—and rising and falling, rising and falling.

"Oh, Slick. Oh, you beautiful boy!"

Later, the two stretched out against each other, Wyatt having rolled off the young man's slight body, which he had taken in the missionary position, the older man held the youth close to his body in an embrace and whispered in his ear, "Oh, my dear young man. You are so beautiful. Flexible, tight, yielding. You have no idea how much this means to me."

"You're good," Slick whispered. "Big, thick. I could stay here, you inside me, forever."

Wyatt's spirit soared. "I can't think of you as Slick. You have to tell me your given name. We have to start new."

"It's Steve. I was named Steve," the young man answered after a pause and a sigh. "But I want to be called Slick."

"Tomorrow we'll go shopping for clothes, Steve," Wyatt said. "And a haircut. The hair is beautiful, but you have to get it cut sometime. We'll get that done tomorrow."

The young man didn't respond, though, because he was asleep.

* * * *

Steve wasn't asleep at 7:00 a.m., though, when, waking and seeing that the young man's eyes were open, Wyatt gathered Steve's back into his chest and held him close. He worked his shaft into Steve's ass from behind and took him in a slow side split. And Steve wasn't asleep at 10:00 a.m., when Wyatt woke to the young man's total surrender and positional expertise as Steve coaxed the older man onto his back and hovered over his body, supported above Wyatt on bent arms and legs, hands and feet pressed into the mattress on each side of the older man's body, facing up to the ceiling, while Wyatt grasped the young man's waist and raised and lowered Steve on his buried cock.

They didn't rise, the young man rising first and going into the other bedroom, until noon. It had been raining all night and was still raining.

Wyatt, back in his sleeping shorts, was laying breakfast out on the kitchen island and the shower in the second bedroom had stopped providing stereo in the sound of falling water with the rain outside when there was a knock at the door. Wyatt went to the door and opened it.

"Brad," he said. The nineteen-year-old dark and sultry pole dancer was leaning on the doorframe in a provocative pose, not unlike one he had taken on the pole at Hershee the previous evening, when the door was opened. He was wearing just athletic shorts and had a six-pack of Budweiser hanging from the fingers of one hand.

"Hi, Mr. Cooper," Brad said. "I saw you at Hershee last night and thought for a minute we might, you know, hook up there. We haven't like . . . you know . . . since that time when I moved in. It's too rainy to go out today, and I thought you might be out of beer and, with Frank gone to the Navy, might want some . . . company."

He had hesitated because, as he was reaching the end of his speech, his gaze had gone beyond Wyatt, across the living area of the apartment to the door into the second bedroom, where Steve was emerging, naked, and drying his hair.

The two young men paused and squared off, each assessing the other.

"Thanks for thinking of me," Wyatt said. "Steve here and I are going out for a while after we eat, though. We have a little shopping to do." He reached out with a hand and placed it on Brad's forearm to reassure the young man. "Just a bad time," he said. "Another time for sure."

He'd been meaning to see if the sexy nineteen-year-old would go for another round after Frank had gone, and he would have been up for it—he, in fact, had been up—hard—for it watching Brad ride the pole the previous night. But now there was Steve. Eighteen-year-old Steve. The magical age. Brad had ridden his pole that first time as well as he was dancing the pole at Hershee the previous night, though. Just such difficult timing.

Brad decided to end the embarrassment for both of them. Handing Wyatt the six pack, he said, "As good in your refrigerator as mine, I guess. Maybe . . . some other time."

"Yes, for sure . . . ," Wyatt said, but Brad had just given him a sad look and turned and was gone.

Steve—Wyatt had been calling the young man Steve from the time the young man had taken over riding his cock that morning, signaling that he'd surrendered fully to Wyatt's wants—drifted over to the dining table where his clothes were folded and piled while the awkwardness at the door was playing out.

As Wyatt closed the front door, the young man spoke up in slight irritation. "Where's my backpack? I don't see it here. I was going to pack my clothes."

"Your clean clothes, Steve?" Wyatt asked. "The clothes I washed and dried for you? You're welcome for that." If the young man was going to stay around, he'd need polishing. Wyatt had gone through all of that with Frank. No time better than the present to start civilizing the young man.

"Yeah, OK, thanks for washing them. But where's my backpack?"

"It was filthy, through and through," Wyatt said. "I tossed it. It's down in the trash. We'll buy you a new one when we go out clothes shopping."

"I hadn't said I wanted new clothes," Steve said, "and I don't want a new backpack. You said you'd drive me wherever I wanted to go after you'd washed and dried the clothes . . . and fucked me."

"I didn't say you had to let me cover you, son—you came to me. You wanted to do it. And I said I'd take you where you wanted to go when the rain stopped. It's still raining. I did say I'd take you clothes shopping today. And now you need something to put the clothes in, so we'll need to buy you a new backpack before you can pack. Right?"

"I guess." It was reluctantly admitted, but it was admitted.

"Right. Now breakfast, and find something to wear in Frank's stuff, and we'll go shopping. OK?"

"OK," Steve said, although it was a slightly belligerent "OK."

The conversation was pretty stilted during breakfast. Wyatt leaned into the young man and kissed him on the lips when they were mounting the stools and he touched and stroked the young man's body here and there as if checking that the young man was real and was still there while they ate. Steve didn't respond in kind, but he tolerated the touching. The man had fucked him three times—and had done so really well—in the last eight hours, so he would ride this out until the rain stopped. But then . . .

Wyatt left first to take a shower in the bathroom off the master bedroom and to dress. He shut the door to the bedroom, out of habit, when he left. Slick, Slick again in his own mind now in an effort to regain a bit of himself, waited, watching the master bedroom door, until he heard the shower start. He then hopped off the stool, went into the second bedroom, quickly found shorts and a T-shirt from Frank's bureau drawers that fit him, and pulled on his sneakers. He then left the apartment, making sure the door was unlocked so he could get back in, and moved quickly down the stairs and to the back of the building. He was back, with his backpack, before the shower in the master bath had stopped running. He was soaked, as the rain had picked up and was now accompanied by thunder and lightning. He got the backpack tucked away in the closet of the second bedroom, though, had dried off, changed to dry clothes from the Frank collection, and was back in the living room, sitting on the sofa, before Wyatt emerged from the bedroom, wearing just briefs and drying his hair with a towel.

"You settling in OK, Steve?" he asked.

"Yeah, sure," the young man answered. "I was just checking the TV schedule. It's raining real hard now." As if to punctuate that, the lights flickered, but they held.

"We'll go out later then, when the rain lets up. There's a DVD on the set now. It might be something you'd like. We'll have to think of something to do with ourselves until we can go shopping."

The DVD was a gay porn film—a Daddy film, a thirty-something muscle guy screwing a twink on a sofa.

Steve lay on his back along the sofa cushions, his face turned to the TV set, his fingers pressing into Wyatt's biceps, his ankles hooked on Wyatt's shoulders, as the older man knelt on the sofa between the young man's thighs and moved his hard cock in and out, in and out of Steve's passage. Steve clutched Wyatt's biceps, arched his back, and cried out his pleasure, as Wyatt creamed him deep. The young man had no complaints to give about Wyatt's screwing technique. Wyatt didn't voice any disappointment with the young man's submissiveness to him either. Their fucking had mirrored that of the porn flick on the TV set.