Homeboys

by Shane Allison

  Damien still couldn’t believe this was happening. He’d been preparing for a moment like this for at least a decade. Starting out with a mini–butt plug, he’d lube his purty patootie up each morning with a dollop of Pig Oil and then head off to work, keeping the plug in place until he returned home for dinner. He’d diligently experimented with various shapes and sizes before eventually settling on the Anal Bomber Butt Plug. Made of black rubber and sort of shaped like an aerial bomb, it was a modest six inches in length, with a bum-broadening width of two.

  By the time it became apparent that he was never going to get fucked, that the silly notion of being “prepared for anything” was just a fantasy born from watching too many smutty videos, Damien’s hole had already grown accustomed to the butt plug and he had affectionately started calling it “Buddy.” He knew it was clichéd to think he felt empty without Buddy, but he did; he felt a void when he removed him and only whole when he was inserted, complete in some way that he couldn’t fully comprehend, like Buddy was a vital organ, essential for his well-being. He had forgotten all about him—forgotten that Buddy was jammed up his Hershey highway until the cholo’s unseemly discovery.

  He heard the cholo spit and felt a generous spray across his puckering hole.

  My prayers have been answered. Damien closed his eyes and calmly exhaled, his body falling limp. “Take my verga, bitch.” The cholo’s cock slid smoothly into him, right up to the hilt, like it belonged there, Damien’s sphincter muscles clamping around it with the familiarity given to his steadfast Buddy, now resting at the bottom of the toilet. Sorry, Buddy, but you just don’t compare.

  “Give it to me, papi! Fuck me, papi, pleeeeease!” He’d always wanted to say that!

  With one thrust, Damien knew he never wanted to go back to the substitute of Buddy, for the cholo’s tube steak was sizzling hot, a real live fucking machine. Shit, he’d have to get rid of Mack now too!

  As the cholo plowed into him, the warm, tingling sensation that always preceded a climax began to form in his tight little nut sac and Damien moaned out in dismay. No, god no, please, it was too soon! But Damien felt his body’s betrayal, knew he was helpless against the cholo’s ball-bursting assault, and so gave in to it.

  A bolt of molten bliss ignited from his prostate and shot right up through his tiny love muscle, which spasmed several times, spouting thick jets of cream-corn-colored cum upward into the air, the highest projectile shooting right past Damien’s forehead before pelting down onto the toilet, the multiple ropes of discolored jizz splattering across the rim and into the bowl itself. Did I even last a minute? Oh well, let’s milk this cholo!

  Damien always climaxed with little fanfare, and so, unfazed, he continued to work his sphincter muscles, clenching and releasing, his clammy buns bucking backward to meet each of the cholo’s brutal thrusts. He could tell it wouldn’t be long now, the cholo was breathing rapidly, grunting louder with each thrust.

  “Give it to me,” Damien heard himself say, surprised at the authoritative strength in his own voice. “Give me that cholo juice.” Grunting in reply, the cholo grabbed on to Damien’s hips and savagely increased his pumping action, pounding into him now with a relentlessness that nearly toppled Damien forward and into the toilet, a startled cry escaping his mouth as he recovered his stance. Come on and give it to me!

  A straggled, guttural whine that sounded painful to Damien, burst forth from the Cholo’s lips as he stopped all plowing motions and collapsed across Damien’s backside. He’d never taken anyone’s load raw before and was more than a little disappointed that he couldn’t feel anything—no burning bullets of dick seed shooting deep within him, though he knew they were. He thought he might have felt the cholo’s baby maker pulsating, satisfied and spent, but he wasn’t sure. The cholo was breathing heavily into his ear, trying to catch his breath, like he’d narrowly escaped after a foot race with the cops.

  Voice seething in recharged contempt, the cholo hoarsely whispered, “You liked that, huh, maricon?” and then abruptly shoved off him, his emptied tool cruelly withdrawing in the process. Its sudden absence hit Damien like a bucket of ice water and he let out a startled gasp of anguish. It was over too soon.

  Pulling at his boxer shorts and slacks, Damien tried to stand up straight, lifting them up past his sex-drenched heinie, but his legs were trembling and it was difficult to do so. He heard the stall door swing open and turned around in time to see the back of the cholo disappearing from view. An empty sadness suddenly engulfed him and he felt utterly deflated, his high obliterated. Well, what did he expect, the bastard was straight.

  Licking his chapped lips, he buttoned up his pants and stepped stiffly out of the stall. Wow, he finally understood what it felt like to be “fucked by a horse.” Haphazardly tucking in his shirt, he walked toward the sink and caught his refection in the mirror. His normally pasty complexion was flushed, but otherwise nothing out of the ordinary. No one would be the wiser. Oh, shit—the time!

  Damien bolted toward the bathroom door, pushing it open and running out into the bustling hall and almost colliding with a family of five; the worn-out expressions on the parents’ faces not even flinching at the near collision as they meekly followed their snickering teenage delinquents up the corridor.

  The hallway near the criminal courts was always full, which was good for Damien’s career and favorite pastime, but for right now, he was just hoping Judge Cunt Thorpe was running late.

  “All rise,” he heard Andre, the bailiff, say, as he rushed through the front double doors of courtroom number three, an image of Andre’s chubby, uncut sausage flashing before him. He’d seen the friendly bailiff piss countless times and nodded at the burly black man as he hastily made his way down the empty center aisle before taking a quick seat behind his steno machine, fingers already working the keyboard.

  As a stenographer, Damien had one of the best seats in the house. Positioned beneath the judge and off to one side, he had an unobstructed view of the entire court. Usually he would scan the galley for any potential hotties, or stare at his favorite prosecutor’s crotch, a hot Cuban transplant from Miami. Not today though, not now.

  On autopilot, Damien’s spider-like fingers typed out every sound he heard, recording all court proceedings effortlessly, his stream of consciousness separate from his inner thoughts, for he was reliving the greatest moment of his life: on one continuous loop, he was back in the bathroom stall getting drilled by a straight-dicked, motherfucking cholo.

  “Guilty.” Judge Cunt Thorpe’s verdict abruptly brought Damien back to the courtroom and he glanced over at the defendant’s table for the first time, eyes locking with those of the convicted—the cholo who fucked him.

  He winked at Damien and his worked-over sphincter clenched in response, the cholo’s semen seeping out from him, coagulating into a cool, soggy mass against his silk boxers. Damien squirmed slightly in his seat, ass grinding downward as he keenly watched handcuffs being placed on the cholo’s wrists, watched him led from the courtroom.

  Damien wanted to run after him, to thank him, to beg for more…but he knew that was impossible, ludicrous. No, his harsh truth was waiting for him back in the bathroom stall—back in the bottom of the toilet.

  Buddy.

  His tried and true was waiting for him.

  For Damien knew, with absolute certainty, that before he left the Hall of Justice, his empty bunghole would be plugged full once again.

  Tricked

  Huck Pilgrim

  Jimmy Manley shares the cramped backseat of a Volkswagen with two men that he does not know. Roger Bones sits up front, in the passenger seat.

  The man sitting next to Jimmy slips his hand onto Jimmy’s thigh.

  Jimmy’s body goes tense, but he tries his best to act natural. Jesus, not here, he thinks. Not now. He twists his lean frame, trying to protect his middle. His cock.

  The man sitting next to Jimmy is Sven. His knees tent on the car’s center hump. His blond hair is cut short, like
a Marine’s, and he speaks with a clipped accent that Jimmy can’t place. With his hand still on Jimmy’s thigh, Sven bends his head toward the ear of the man on his other side—the only way to be heard above the din of wind noise that fills the car.

  Jimmy can feel his dick swelling unbidden in his jeans. He swallows and looks out his window. He’s a good-looking boy. Olive skin in sharp contrast to the ribbed white tank top stretched over his lean frame.

  Sven isn’t moving his hand, but he isn’t removing it either.

  Jimmy keeps his eyes on the rolling fields passing by. A quiver passes through his bony shoulders, down his strong sinewy arms. With a gentle squeeze, Sven removes his hand from Jimmy’s thigh.

  Jimmy feels relieved.

  He glances toward Roger. The wind whips his soft brown hair about his head. Had Roger not dropped out of high school, he would have been in Carnal’s senior class with Jimmy. Both boys are eighteen, but Roger is clearly dominant. Jimmy feels lucky to hang out with him. The other boys in Roger’s crowd—an elite group of toughs—wouldn’t even give Jimmy the time of day. Roger waves his slender hands in the air as he talks to the man driving. Although Roger is shouting, Jimmy can’t make out a thing he says. The driver points to his ear and shakes his head.

  Roger grins, his brown eyes glittering. He brushes the hair back from his forehead, closes his eyes and rests his head on the seat. With the curls dancing on his head, Jimmy thinks Roger has the face of an angel.

  Jimmy had an idea how the afternoon might play itself out back in the mall. Roger left Jimmy standing alone and raced off to greet these men. After striking up a conversation, Roger pointed to Jimmy from across the wide corridor. Sven scrutinized Jimmy and Jimmy knew right then which way things were headed. When Roger returned, announced his plan, Jimmy was coy. He felt the butterflies in his stomach, even as his dick swelled in his pants.

  He hid his erection.

  “Why can’t we find girls to suck our dicks?” he asked.

  Jimmy said this with such earnestness Roger laughed.

  Roger looked at Jimmy expectantly and no one said anything for a beat. People in the mall floated past. Finally Jimmy nodded.

  Roger grinned. He tucked Jimmy under his arm.

  Led him toward the parking lot.

  Sven shouts into Jimmy’s ear: “I want to check you out.”

  Jimmy’s heart races. He knows the wind noise makes it impossible for anyone else to have heard, but he doesn’t want Sven to say that out loud again. He opens his legs.

  Sven’s hand goes back into Jimmy’s lap.

  Tilting his head, Jimmy looks toward the other person in the backseat, a young man with thin hair and a delicate mustache. He is staring out the window. Jimmy feels Sven’s hand roam between his legs. Roger has his whole head out the window, his face turned into the wind. Sven’s fingers play along Jimmy’s fly, the inseam of his jeans. Squeezing his thighs together, Jimmy traps the hand between his legs. He wants to buy himself some time. Make sure no one else in the car is watching. But then he begins to enjoy the pressure of having something captured between his locked thighs. It’s a deliciously dirty feeling and he realizes that the wind noise has created a comfortable cocoon in which he can hide.

  And so, Jimmy gives in. He surrenders.

  Relaxing his thighs, he offers himself up to whatever will come next. Sven begins to explore, and Jimmy’s breathing gets shallower. His mouth drier. He licks his lips. Allows his hips to gently rock. Jimmy wishes he could open his legs even wider so Sven could place his hand on the shaft of his cock, but the backseat is too cramped.

  With a stab of terror, Jimmy remembers the rearview mirror.

  He glances up to the windshield and sees the driver’s eyes holding steady on the twisting back road. As the car lurches around a bend, Sven presses into Jimmy and Jimmy scans the others again, who all seem lost in their own thoughts. Feeling as if he is on a deliciously dirty roller-coaster ride, he allows himself a noisy sigh that no one else can hear. He imagines how humiliating it would be if Roger were to turn around right now and see the lust in his eyes as he lets the man sitting next to him stroke his cock. Roger has told Jimmy that in jail even the toughest guys let other guys suck their dicks. Roger has said that homos give the best head. Jimmy wonders if this is true. He has had exactly one blow job in his eighteen years.

  Jimmy’s dick crimps in his pants. He fidgets uncomfortably, but he can’t get anything straightened out. Sven’s attention is only making it worse.

  Sven gives Jimmy a curious look, then withdraws his hand.

  Jimmy’s cock has grown too hard for the position it’s in. His penis has somehow slipped out of the leg hole of his underwear. He has to twist in his seat and readjust his legs. He accidentally steps on Sven’s foot and puts his knee into the back of the driver’s seat. The driver complains. Sven tries to make a little room. Jimmy can’t help himself. With both hands, he adjusts himself until he has his now half-hard cock back where it’s supposed to be, right behind his fly.

  Jimmy sighs. He apologizes to Sven. Uses the rearview mirror to offer a contrite expression to the driver.

  Roger is watching. He grins, shakes his head and goes back to adjusting the radio dial.

  Jimmy settles back into his seat.

  He feels exhausted. There is a damp spot in his underwear where his cock must have leaked something wet. Jimmy knows the tough guys in jail let other men suck their cocks because they’re locked up. They have no choice.

  Trying to be subtle, Jimmy glances at Sven.

  He catches Sven’s eye, glances between his legs, then looks quickly away.

  Jimmy stares out the window. He can feel sweat accumulating along the back of his neck. Jimmy knows he lets men suck his dick because he likes it. The deliciously slippery feeling of his cock in another man’s mouth.

  He feels the hand on his thigh. Opening his legs, he continues to look out the window. When Jimmy feels Sven’s hand on the shaft of his cock, an electric stab of something pulses through his chest. He bites his lower lip, closes his eyes. He gives himself over to whatever is welling up inside of him. He lets his hips roll. Rides the hand between his legs. He doesn’t think of the others in the car. Doesn’t think about Roger. Doesn’t think about angels, tough guys or jail.

  He thinks only of his own strong needs and what’s going on between his legs.

  Sven lightly strokes Jimmy’s cock, allowing it to find its proper length along the inseam of his pants. Jimmy resists the urge to moan, but his breathing gets much heavier, more labored. The only hands that have worked his cock like this have been his own. Sven traces the outline of Jimmy’s dick with one finger. Jimmy feels big salty tears welling up in his eyes. He isn’t sure why he is crying, but he can’t stop. Why should it feel so good? Why can’t he find a girl to help him achieve these heights? He twists his head toward the window so no one else can see. What if Roger were to look back and see him crying? Would it be more humiliating if Roger were to look back and see his eyes filled with lust or with tears?

  Sven puts his lips near Jimmy’s ear. “You okay?” he whispers.

  Jimmy feels the hand withdraw from his lap. He sniffles. Squeezes his eyes shut. He wipes his face with his forearm and nods his head.

  “I’m cool,” Jimmy says. “Cool.”

  Jimmy blows air from his mouth. Forces a smile.

  The truth is his cock has never felt bigger, fuller or more ready to burst. He only wishes he were one of the tough men in jail. He knows he’s not. If Jimmy were to go to prison, those tough guys would probably make Jimmy suck their cocks. Then—then—poor Jimmy would really have no choice. The thought sends an electric ripple of unbidden desire through his body.

  Forced to suck another man’s cock.

  With a sinking feeling, Jimmy realizes he’d probably like it. He only wishes he had little choice. Wishes he could deny the exquisite pleasure of another man’s touch. Another man’s mouth. In fact, he knows he can’t. He’s just as much prisoner
—a prisoner of his own desire.

  The driver slows the car and turns into an apartment complex.

  Sven leans toward Jimmy. “You,” Sven whispers, “have a huge cock.”

  Jimmy flushes with unexpected pride. He turns to the window, this time to hide his grin. Wiping his eyes with his hands and sniffling loudly, Jimmy finally meets Sven’s gaze. Intense blue eyes, whisker stubble on cheeks and chin.

  Jimmy feels his cheeks go hot.

  The apartment is small, air-conditioned.

  Roger goes into the kitchen to chat with the other men. Sven steers Jimmy toward a bedroom down a long hall. Jimmy wants to ask Roger something, or at least make eye contact, but Roger won’t look at him and there is no way to discreetly get his attention.

  Sven smiles, coos something comforting. Jimmy feels trepidation, but he doesn’t want to embarrass Roger or make a big scene. Sven’s accent makes the things he says hard to understand. His hands are on Jimmy’s shoulders. Jimmy allows himself to be shepherded down the hall, away from the others.

  The room is large, dark, with a queen-size bed, neatly made.

  Sven flips on a bedside lamp and invites Jimmy to sit on the bed. Jimmy sits carefully, his back straight. He rubs his hands on his thighs. He sees a desk and chest of drawers. Heavy curtains on one wall. A large mirror hangs on the opposite wall.

  “Do you want a book?” Sven asks.

  “A book?” Jimmy looks at him curiously. “Like, to read?”