Lakes of Malabar

Julio finished sweeping the party room in the Lakes of Malabar community center and took a look around to see if everything was in order. Lakes of Malabar was a seniors-only manufactured home retirement community just south of Melbourne, Florida. No one else was inside the center this early in the day. All of the activity inside was at night--or, more specifically, in the evening, as most residents were in bed by 10:00 p.m. There would be a few swimming in the community pool this morning, which he could see through the windows of the party room. Yes, Mr. Dawson, the retired Marine colonel was there, already swimming laps. He could do laps in the pool forever. A few others were there too--the morning regulars, including a few older women who were making quite clear that they'd like to go a few laps with Mr. Dawson.

Fat lot they knew about Mr. Dawson, Julio thought. They certainly didn't know as much about Mr. Dawson as Julio knew.

He went out into the covered lanai bordering on the pool terrace and saw where Mr. Dawson's lounger and table, half in the shadow line from the lanai roof and half out, were located. The small wad of folded-over bills was there, with a clip around them and the Post-It note, with Julio's name scrawled on it. Julio picked the money up and went back inside. He counted it there, behind a counter--$100 in twenties. He slipped it into the pocket of his shorts and went into the men's locker room. There, he stripped off his shorts and T-shirt and exchanged his sneakers for sandals, and secured his clothes in his locker. He was a very fit twenty, hard-bodied and golden brown, part from heritage and part from the sun. He also was a handsome lad, turning heads wherever he went. He was attending the local community college, studying to manage what he was doing already at the Lakes of Malabar--maintenance of a community park and facility.

He had been wearing a shiny black Speedo under his shorts and T, so he was ready to go. He looked magnificent in the skimpy bathing suit. The last thing he did before going out to do morning maintenance in the pool was to check out the small sauna to ensure it was turned off. He left on the subtle recessed lighting in there giving a reddish glow on the cedar wood walls, though. He put the "Closed for Maintenance" sign on the door to the sauna before sauntering out to the pool.

When Julio came out onto the pool deck with a leaf pole, the colonel, Dawson, was out of the water, doing calisthenics on the pool terrace. The man's body was hard as a rock. He exercised all of the time--or at least all the time Julio saw him. The others at the pool, some not as old as the colonel was at, the young Hispanic estimated, sixty, but none as fit as he was, were watching the man with envy or with what passed at their ages, lust. He was tall and lean, hairless-skinned even to the billiard-ball head. He had bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows and an intense look out of dark eyes out of them.

He, like Julio, was in a shiny black Speedo, which showed that he was still flat-bellied, narrow hipped, and hung. His skin was dark tanned and leathery from having been in the sun for decades. He was wiry, his body so lean that the veins in his arms, legs, and chest popped out on the surface, having no fat to burrow through. His biceps were massive even for his age and he had a swirl of a tattoo covering his left pec. His nipples popped out.

If his nation called, he still was ready and able to go.

All the time Julio was walking around the pool, skimming leaves and twigs out of it and Dawson was doing his calisthenics the colonel's eyes were glued to the young Hispanic, boring into him. Julio was not unaware he was being watched.

His exercises finished, Dawson went into the locker room, the pool facilities being a wing of the community center, and to the showers. He came out of the showers with a towel around him, his manhood swinging free, proud, and low, and, ignoring the closed sign on the sauna door, went in, climbed to the second tier, opened his towel under him to sit on, and spread his legs. The tan lines from his nearly bikini Speedo, contrasting the whiteness of his midsection with the leathery mahogany brown of the rest of him, highlighted how hung he was.

His hand grasped his long, thick half-hard shaft, and he slow stroked himself, seemingly uncaring that the moist heat was not going in the sauna. Ten minutes later, Julio entered, having showered, naked, with a towel in his hand. He too was deep bronzed everywhere, but what the tan lines showed from his past Speedo coverage, as was the case with the Marine colonel, highlighted that the young man was well endowed and in erection.

Julio shot the lock on the sauna door home from the inside, folded his towel, and spread it on the bench below where the colonel was sitting, legs spread, cock in hand. Julio raised his eyebrows and gave a little groan deep inside him when he saw how thick and long the old man was--and that he could make it rock hard. Everything about the colonel was still rock hard. Julio knelt on the towel, leaned in, took Dawson's cock in his mouth, and gave the colonel head. Dawson put his hands on Julio's head, running his fingers into the lush, black curls of the Hispanic's hair, and guided the deep-throating suck. Julio gagged as he found out just how deep in the throat he'd have to take it.

If there was mercy in the colonel's makeup, he wasn't showing it now in how fully he as making Julio throat his erection.

Ten minutes later, the two had exchanged positions. Julio was perched on the upper bench, legs splayed wide, toes pressed into the lower bench, knuckles pressed to the slats of the upper bench beside him, torso reclining back, shoulder blades pressed to the wall, head arched back, eyes flashing, his mouth hanging open in a yawn of suffering-pleasure.

Dawson crouched below the young man, between Julio's spread, extended legs. The colonel was, in turn, giving the young man vigorous head. One of Dawson's strong hands was palming the young man's heaving belly to hold him in place. The other hand was snaked under Julio's balls. As the colonel sucked Julio off, he opened the young man's channel up with first one, then two, and finally three fingers penetrating up to the knuckles. He finger fucked the young man's passage hard and deep for several minutes, as Julio groaned and moaned and, eventually, unloaded in Dawson's throat. Unwavering, Dawson pulled his mouth off the cock; laughed; grasped Julio's ankles in his fists, wishboned the young man wide and high, rolling Julio's pelvis up; and dove for the young man's now-gaping hole with his mouth.

The Marine colonel was on campaign, pursuing his goals; Julio was docilely lying there, giving the soldier value for his money. The older man clearly was in charge.

Ten minutes later than that, the lower bench had been pulled out to the center of the small space, Julio was lying on it on his back, his legs were raised and extended in a wide V, and the colonel was crouched between his thighs, one hand gliding over the young man's belly and pecs and the other one beating Julio's cock off again as, taking long, strong thrusts, Dawson was power fucking the young Hispanic.

Well into the fuck, the intensity got to the young man, writhing under the older man, and Julio pressed the heel of a hand into Dawson's sternum to try to push the man away a bit, signaling that it was a bit too vigorous. Dawson was seated on the bench, in a standing crouch over it, using the powerful muscles of his thighs to enable power thrusts, each one jolting Julio and causing the young man to jerk, gasp, and give a little cry with each thrust. Looking intensely down into Julio's face, a little cruel smile on his lips, Dawson slapped Julio across the face. Julio gasped, his head snaping back over the top edge of the bench, the power of the thrusts having inched his body up on the bench. With a little laugh, Dawson grabbed the young man's ankles and hooked them on his shoulders. A hand went to Julio's throat, holding the young Hispanic's head down. Dawson remained in the standing crouch and continued his power-thrusting strokes. Julio was cowed and under the older man's complete control.

Julio grasped his own cock with one hand and palmed Dawson's flat lower belly as it moved into his shaved pubes, stroking himself off and symbolically signaling the colonel to thrust slower and without as much power--but not receiving any mercy there. With a little cry, the young man came again, spouting cum up the older man's belly. Dawson fucked on, not breaking his stride. For Dawson, it was all about him. He'd paid for this. The young Mexican was just a male whore.

The colonel stood up in place, grasping Julio's ankles again, stretching and wishboning the young guy's legs, pulling Julio's pelvis up, getting into a position to reach deeper, and pounding, pounding, pounding.

Julio's arms dangling off the side of the bench and his head was turned toward the door of the sauna, from which he seemingly sought, but could not expect, help. His eyes were wide, wildly searching around the corners of the wood-paneled almost-closet, as if looking for but not finding relief from some quarter. His eyes flashed with a mix of pain and passion. He was getting one of the fucks of his life--who would have known a sixty-year-old man could have this power and could be so cruel in dispensing it?--but he was being overwhelmed. The man was thick and long and still virile and full of power.

And he was fucking, fucking, fucking. Stretching the young man to the limit inside, working him deep, punishing him in his soft core, caressing and punishing... and... release, release, release... breeding him. The Marine colonel jerked and tensed and spouted. Jerked and tensed and breeded. Jerked and tensed and laid his marker of possession. Whimpering and gasping, Julio felt every blast deep in his core.

Letting Julio's legs down, the young man's toes touching the cedar floorboards; standing full up; and hovering over Julio, conquered and lying, moaning, on the bench under him, Colonel Dawson shook out the last of his cum on Julio's belly, leaned over and slapped the young man on the hip, smiled, and said, "Good job, soldier. We'll go again real soon. I like a guy who has a little 'No, please don't' in him but then gives it up as easily as you did."

Julio groaned in reply.

"We'd maybe go again right now but I've got a golf date."

That earned another groan from Julio.

Moments later Dawson was gone, in the shower, humming. He'd gotten his hundred dollars' worth. For twenty minutes after that, Julio was still lying on his back on the bench, both arms and legs dangling off to the sides, face turned toward the now-slightly-open sauna door, blowing bubbles, a silly little grin on his face, panting slightly, and moaning lightly.

As he mentally checked over his body for damage--bruising and straining--he cursed the advice he'd been given. Get in with doing seniors for pay, his friends had told him. The area's swimming in old folks' communities. Older guys are generous, being happy you'll lay down with them, and it won't be strain. If you can get them up just enough to dribble cum, they'll love you forever. Easy, right? This guy had ravished him. Julio couldn't help giving a little smile, though. It might have been the best fuck he'd ever gotten.

He wondered what this "real soon" for another session was. He hoped it wouldn't be too long. The Marine was a master.

* * * *

In the men's locker room in the Lakes of Malabar community center, Julio pulled on a jock and his athletic shorts. He put athletic socks on his feet and pulled the work boots he wore to do landscaping work around the complex out of the locker. He went to the toolshed, pulled the power mower out, and started it up. He'd finished mowing around the community center building and was doing the center strip up to the park's entrance gates when he saw old Mister Goldberg walking his pug.

Sol Goldberg stopped and watched the beautiful, bronzed young Hispanic man mowing the grass in just athletic shorts and work boots. The sixty-three-year old Jewish former owner and manager and still owner of a string of laundromats in nearby Melbourne sighed as he watched Julio and his pug, Hector, did his business by a fire hydrant. At length, he caught the young man's attention, motioned that he wanted to talk to him, held up three fingers, and gave Julio a questioning look. Julio switched off the mower and walked across the entry drive to where the short, pudgy little man with the unruly gray hair and bushy beard was standing, in shorts, knee-high compression socks, and a loudly colored Hawaiian sports shirt, tail out.

"Any chance of a visit at 3:00?" Goldberg asked.

"I'm free, yes," Julio answered. He saw that the old man was extending his hand, and he felt the small wad of bills in Goldberg's mitt as their palms met. Goldberg maintained the grip.

"You know that you are what keeps me alive," he said, his eyes misting a bit. "I live for these visits of yours."

Julio lowered his eyes. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but it was men like Mr. Goldberg--and Lenny, four manufactured homes up from the Jewish guy--who kept Julio feeling human in doing what he did. The former Marine colonel was a predator and a desire that Julio himself needed to have itched. Conversely, men like Goldberg justified what Julio did in his mind as a beneficial and needed service.

"I'm glad of that, Mr. G."

As he was going back to the mower and before slipping the wad of bills in his pocket, Julio checked. Five twenty-dollar bills, just as agreed. It was every two weeks with Mr. Goldberg, as steady as clockwork.

Julio appeared at Sol Goldberg's house at 3:00 p.m. The Jewish man had one of the larger two-bedroom units, backing onto one of the small, almost canal-like lakes in the community that justified its name. So, he was one of the better-heeled residents. He'd been here since the park opened, moving into the park right after he had become a single-person family. The unit was crammed with heavy antique furniture from the old country. Goldberg had no idea where that would go after he died, but he didn't really care. He was the last in the line of a family that had been battered about for centuries and still managed to survive to this point. The only possession he worried about finding a home after he died was Hector, his pug.

For the next half hour Goldberg and Julio sat on the screened porch overlooking the canal and the tight line of manufactured homes pressing up against the other side of that and drank beer and exchanged stories of how they and theirs had fared in a white protestant man's world, both of them admitting that they were better off here than in some of the places their ancestors had been. This was perhaps the favorite part of the visit for Sol. He would have paid $100 just for this half hour of the visit. Julio found the time centering as well.

"The only thing I regret about leaving is Hector," Goldberg said.

"Hector? Leaving? You going someplace you can't take Hector?" Julio asked.

"Yes, eventually. We all do." Sol strongly suspected his eventually was sooner rather than later. "Hector, my pug. I worry about where he will go." Recognizing his name, Hector, who was lying at full stretch on the cool concrete between the two men, looked up at his master, prepared to respond to anything the man wanted him to do. Everything the old man asked of him was something Hector enjoyed.

"You don't need to worry about that, Mr. G.," Julio said. "Hector, he's a good dog and no trouble. You don't find anyone else you prefer to take him, I'll take him if you move away to someplace that won't let you have him."

"That's a good thing to hear--you're a good boy, Julio." The young man had no idea how much of a relief that was for Goldberg to know. "Maybe we go into the house now?"

Sol Goldberg fucked Julio on a huge, heavy, mahogany four-poster bed that had started its life in some Rhine River castle. Julio was stretched out on his belly on the bed, moaning, as Sol, three inches shorter than Julio, pudgy, and hirsute, moved on top of him. Sol was embarrassed by his age and physical condition and the need that he couldn't deny, and thus always insisted that Julio be on his belly, not looking at him. There was nothing inferior about the thickness and length of him or, even at sixty-three, his ability to harden and plow.

He spent an interminable time preparing the young man, crouched below Julio and between his spread thighs and working the young man's hole with his tongue, while pulling Julio's cock through his legs and stroking it and playing with the young Hispanic's balls. Sol's hands were everywhere on Julio's very fine body, exploring crevices, gliding over mounds, brushing the young man's back with Sol's silky salt-and-pepper chest hair, making love to the youth with all of Sol's long experience pleasing young men with the limited endowment but unlimited skill he possessed.

"Oh, fuck, Mr. G. You're gonna make me come. Now. Now. Stick it to me. Fuck me," Julio moaned.

It wasn't feigned. Goldberg was old and dumpy and well beyond his "sell by" date, but he hadn't forgotten the skills of a lover. He had prepared the young man well. He always did. When the old man moved up Julio's body, his silky chest hair brushing up from the young man's buttocks to his back, and he was saddled on the boy's hips, Julio raised his buttocks to the man. Goldberg embraced him close from above, nuzzled his face into Julio's throat, brought himself into position, slid inside the young man, and started a slow pump.

Julio moaned and moved a hand under his belly, stroking himself off as the old man stroked inside him. Julio gave a little cry of "Fuck! I'm gonna..." And then he did and collapsed under Sol on the bed. Sol fucked on toward and to his own finish.

At Sol's climax, he cried out, "David!" This wasn't the first time he had done so at the height of passion. Julio never asked who David was or had been to Sol. Some things were just too private to ask about, Julio thought.

Julio's grandmother's house was two streets over, in a two-bedroom prefab house on a lot not much bigger than the footprint of the house. The house was within eight feet of those on either side and the one it backed on, with no screened porch or anything else off the back. The house was sparsely furnished with thrift-store pieces, but the house was spotlessly cleaned, just as Consuela kept the houses she cleaned for other people. Julio had lived with her, sleeping in the house's small second bedroom, for the seven years his mother had been in prison for killing his father while he was beating her.

"You going to be here for supper, Julio?" the old woman asked. "We're eating early 'cause I have girls coming over for a card game later."

"No, Abuela, it's Tuesday. Lenny's caregiver has Tuesdays off now, and Wednesday. I'll go fix his dinner and stay and eat with him. He likes the company and I can see if he needs anything he's not asking for."

"You're a good friend to that poor man, Julio. I hope he appreciates it. He pays you, doesn't he?"

"He pays $25 for each visit. The State pays that, so I don't feel like I'm taking money from him that he needs."

"You need money too, Julio. You need to get a better job. You'll come right back home after that, won't you?"

Julio suspected he knew how those two thoughts went together. "Sí, Abuela. But I'll go out later tonight. Just for a while. And I'll get a better job after my studies are over. Then I can get a better job. I make enough now, though. There are a couple of small units here in the park for rent. I've figured out how I can afford one. Maybe the one on Pond Drive with a bit of backyard. One that would be good for a dog."