Hot Valley

by James Lear

  “He’s fucking crazy,” Charlie said.

  “He doesn’t look crazy to me,” I said, rubbing my fingers around Charlie’s wet asshole. “Looks like he’s enjoying himself.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “Does it feel good, Billy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You like a cock up there, don’t you, Bill?”

  “You bet.”

  I was pushing into Charlie’s hole harder now, and his ass lips were opening up to my fingers a little.

  “Wouldn’t you like to feel what it’s like, Charlie?”

  “I don’t know…”

  I slipped one finger inside him; his ass ring bit down on it.

  “Hey! What the fuck do you think you’re—Ohhhh…”

  The connection had been made—that first moment when a young man realizes that his ass is a source of pleasure almost as great as his cock. By the time I’d finished with him, I wanted Charlie to regret the wasted years.

  “I’m going to fuck you, Charlie-boy.”

  “No,” he moaned, moving his ass around my invading finger.

  “And you’re going to fucking love it.”

  “Oh God…”

  Picking up his heavy prick, I gently masturbated him while pushing further into his hole, feeling the soft, yielding walls beyond the tight, elastic ring of muscle. Then I found what I was after, the firm bump of his prostate gland, and I gently pressed. Charlie’s eyes shot wide open, and every muscle in his body tensed.

  “What the fuck!”

  “See? You’re going to feel so good, Charlie.”

  “I don’t know… Don’t you hurt me.”

  I went back to eating his ass, and this time he was on fire. He pushed into my face, and I was merciless, digging my tongue in as far as I could, eating him like a ripe peach. When I guessed he was ready—and it didn’t take long—I hitched his ankles over my shoulders and lined up with the target.

  “Okay, man. You better fuck me and get it over with.”

  He was so businesslike and serious-looking, with an expression of such concentration on his face, that I had to kiss him. Just as he was about to complain, I breached his ring with my cockhead. His groan of pain was muffled inside our joined mouths.

  I love breaking in a new colt for riding, and I know how to take my time. Charlie was resistant at first, but determined to prove that he could take it; all I had to do was wait for the pain to turn to pleasure. His cock had softened slightly, so I caressed it back to full stiffness. That done, he was ready to be fucked.

  I started gently, getting him used to the idea, and once his pelvic thrusts were meeting mine I picked up my pace. Charlie was a strong young man, and his taut body was more than a match for my weight bearing down on him. We fucked like crazy, and with each stroke I felt him opening to me. I could tell from his noisy appreciation that each stroke was revealing a new world of sensation of which he’d never dreamed.

  I wanted Charlie to come while I was still fucking him, so I took him by the wrist and placed his hand on his cock. He got the message, just as surely as he did back in the jail cell, and started pumping himself. It didn’t take long before he was coming, and, as I gave him a few more sledgehammer strokes, he shot a load that went way over his head and onto the grass behind him. The last shots covered his neck, chest, and belly.

  I slowed the pace of my fucking, but did not stop entirely; he had to be completely, utterly possessed, and I wanted him to feel the exquisite torture as his hypersensitive ass received its final pummeling. He groaned and wrapped his legs around my back, pulling me into him. My job was done.

  I pulled out, tugged on myself three, four times, and then, taking careful aim, added my load to his before collapsing on top of him.

  Our breathing slowed gradually, and we might have fallen asleep, but for Billy.

  “Hey, what about me?”

  Charlie and I bounded to our feet and leaped on him. Charlie, with a new understanding of these things, stuck two rigid fingers up Billy’s ass and, to my delight, started sucking his cock. I squatted over Billy’s face, allowing him to suck my balls and my limp prick, and within a few moments he was adding his own contribution to the mess on Charlie’s upper body.

  Charlie and Billy proved to be better, and more loyal, companions of the road than any I had previously encountered. But the road was becoming a dangerous place, and the further south we traveled the greater our need to find a safe haven. We were heading toward Richmond, Virginia, the Rebel capital—an odd choice of destination, perhaps, but a city which I know well, and which has become the refuge for all the flotsam and jetsam of the current hostilities. Nobody would come looking for a couple of Union deserters down there, and if my instincts were correct, there would be plenty of opportunities for a man without too many scruples to make a decent living for himself. Besides which, it would put me in a good position to survey the financial chicanery of my so-called family, and to extract from them the money that is mine by rights.

  As we got closer to Richmond, the roads got busier, and by the time we were within 50 miles of the city they were positively crowded. And so we were able to travel by day, more or less unmolested among the flood of displaced persons fleeing the advancing Union regiments. I was not the only one to have decided, rightly or wrongly, that the eye of the storm is the safest place to be. Whole families were moving from the rural areas to the relative safety of the city: farm laborers, deserters, old men, children, and even a few of my black brothers and sisters, all were on the move. In this great wave of humanity, one can travel the roads unchallenged; there is safety in numbers. Perhaps the Union troops were unwilling to attack parties of civilians, although we heard horror stories from upstate about surprise attacks, kidnap, murder, and rape.

  We concentrated on attracting as little attention as possible, although Charlie was unable to resist attaching himself to a family with three fine young daughters. The parents, and certainly the girls, were delighted to have secured such a strong-shouldered young protector, and they believed Charlie’s claim that he was a student returning from the Northeast to his home in the South. He embroidered (unnecessarily, I think) by telling them that Billy was his brother, and that I was their “hired man.” This caused us some laughter when we left the road for a while to bathe, and I forced myself into Charlie’s lying mouth. He sucked and swallowed with enthusiasm, but I am afraid he is only a “companion of the road,” increasingly keen to practice his newfound skills on a young person more to his natural taste. Billy, on the other hand, will travel on the same road as me—and, perhaps, further than me—for the rest of his life.

  The routes into Richmond appeared to be open and undefended, despite the fact that, not so very long ago, there were Union troops besieging the city. We gained the city center unchallenged, and set about finding lodgings and food.

  Our first shelter was a single room at the back of a bar, where Charlie had ingratiated himself with the owner, a typical Virginian whose only interest, it seemed, was how to extract as much money from his customers as possible. Charlie was more than a match for him, with his easy charm and talent for lies, and persuaded him that he was a man of property with a case full of cash with which he was more than ready to part. It was a good thing we had dressed ourselves in stolen clothes before hitting town; if the landlord had seen us, dirty and travel-weary, just a few hours ago, he would never have served us a drink, let alone rented us his precious, massively overpriced accommodation. Eyebrows were raised when I walked into the bar, but I busied myself with our scant “luggage” and tried to look convincingly servile. “The boy can take your bags in now,” the landlord said, as Charlie, acting high-rolling as if to the manner born, downed shots of rye with his new drinking buddies. He waved his permission to me, and I picked up our few possessions, nearly all of them stolen along the way. He would pay for his arrogance later, I swore, with a particularly brutal fucking.

  Billy, meanwhile, was out in town scouting for likely employment
. His first port of call was the theater, or the Richmond Alhambra, as it was rather grandly known, where he inquired of the proprietor if there were any openings for stage hands, cleaners, and the like. A protracted interview followed, in which Billy’s oral and anal skills were put to the test, and he left with jobs for all three of us, and a warning—more of a threat—from the manager that if his wife heard a word of this Billy and his friends would be leaving town without their balls.

  “Dirty old bastard,” Billy said, as we lay down to rest at night. “He was just as interested in cock as I am, just doesn’t have the guts to admit it. Oh well, he’s a good fuck, and he’ll lodge us and pay us as well, especially when he gets a look at these two beauties.” He stopped talking and set to licking the hard pricks—mine and Charlie’s—that he held in his greedy hands.

  The Alhambra is situated in one of Richmond’s less respectable neighborhoods, a network of three or four streets where every other house is a bar, or a brothel, or divided into lodgings for the most transient of visitors. There were whores in great numbers clustering around the doorways and porches of the most successful houses, which rejoice in such poetic names as Les Champs Elysées and the Chinese Palace. They whistled and called out as we walked down the street this morning, and I could see Charlie preening like a peacock, although his strut was somewhat impeded by a sore ass. He complained, when we woke this morning, that I had used him too roughly—but his performance last night belied his rueful morning mood. He rode my prick like a man in a frenzy, calling out the most obscene endearments, and even took Billy’s cock in his mouth at the same time. He remained rock hard throughout his punishment, and shot one of the biggest loads I have ever seen. A sore ass, and a sore disposition, often follow when a young man goes further into the realms of male sex than he had intended. Charlie feels himself in danger of going completely queer, and is desperate to find a female balance. Well, he won’t have far to look—if he can afford it.

  Mr. Harold Chester, or “Captain” Chester, as he likes to call himself (I don’t believe he’s any more of a captain than I am, despite his pseudomilitary uniform), is an impressive man of about 45 with the finest moustache I have ever seen, a luxuriant nut-brown thing that curls over his mouth, sweeps down in two elegant curves, and sits perkily up at the ends, thanks no doubt to a good deal of daily tending. He is a handsome, shifty-looking fellow, deeply tanned, his hair a little too brown to look natural, tall, and strongly built. It does not surprise me that Billy was down on his knees within five minutes of being in the Captain’s office; he’s just the sort of father figure that appeals to boys like Billy.

  Captain Chester introduced himself to us at the stage door, gave us all warm handshakes, and took us straight to the dressing rooms. As it was only ten in the morning, they were empty—but the odor of sweat, tobacco smoke, powder, and alcohol lingered from the night before. Costumes and underwear hung from rails and over the backs of chairs—and, from the gaudy, scanty nature of those garments, I had little doubt that Captain Chester’s theater was not dedicated to the serious dramatic arts. Charlie’s eyes were out on stalks—the scent was having an aphrodisiac effect on the poor, pussy-starved boy—and even Billy was examining the gowns with an appreciative eye, although perhaps for somewhat different reasons.

  “Now, which one of you boys is the best at cleaning up?” asked the Captain, winking at Billy, who smirked winningly. “You reckon you can get this place cleaned up and fit for human habitation before the girls come in after lunch?”

  “Where do you keep your broom?” Billy asked, already rolling up his sleeves.

  “Now, young man,” Chester said, turning to Charlie, “you look like a presentable young fellow.”

  Charlie puffed out his chest like a good soldier; he seemed to have forgotten that he’s actually a deserter. “Yes, sir!”

  “But can you be trusted, that’s the question?”

  “Yes sir, I can be trusted.”

  “With money?”

  “Sure.”

  Now, I would sooner entrust my money to a habitual thief than hand it over to a pussy-chaser like Charlie, but I kept my own counsel.

  “Well, it just so happens that I have a vacancy in the box office, after my last employee…found an alternative position,” the Captain said, ruefully rubbing his chin. (I suspect some young fellow made off with the week’s takings.) “But you’ll have to fill in all the paperwork, hand me the takings when we close up each night, and it had better all be there, every damn penny of it, or I will—” He coughed, composed himself. “You think you can handle that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Charlie answered. “I learned bookkeeping back home in…er…Pittsburgh.” Charlie could always think of a plausible lie. I knew right away that I’d be helping him cook the books before the night was out.

  “And that leaves you, my fine friend,” the Captain said, walking around me, measuring me up like a piece of livestock. “Does he speak?”

  “Sure he speaks,” Billy said, already rolling up stockings and hanging discarded dresses.

  “What’s your name, sir?”

  “My name,” I said, “is Aaron Johnson.”

  “Whoa! That’s a fine voice! You ain’t from around here, I guess.”

  “On the contrary, I grew up not twenty miles from here.”

  “Well, here’s my advice, Aaron Johnson,” the Captain said, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. People around here like to think they know what’s what. An educated Negro, that’s something they just won’t understand. What they want is this.” He squeezed my shoulder and ran his hand down my arm. “A bit of muscle. Think you can provide that, Aaron Johnson?”

  “Sure, if that’s what’s needed.”

  “I need someone to exercise a little control over the drunken bums that spend their money in my theater,” he said. “Someone who inspires, shall we say, respect.”

  “A doorman?”

  “That’s the idea. I guess you can handle yourself.”

  Charlie and Billy both spluttered, trying to suppress laughter.

  “I guess I can.”

  “Good, then you’re hired, all three of you. Got myself a cleaner, a desk clerk, and a doorman. That’s the best bargain I done all week.”

  “And the pay?” I asked.

  “You get your lodging and one meal a day, and I’ll give you…let me see…a couple of bucks a week. That’s enough to get drunk on.”

  “Hey, that’s—”

  I interrupted Charlie, “That’s just fine, Captain Chester.”

  “Good,” he said, shaking my hand—having realized, I suspect, that I was the ringleader of our ill-matched gang. “We have a deal. And Billy? When you’ve finished in here, come to my office. I got a few jobs that need attending to back there.”

  And so we find ourselves employed in the world of entertainment—which, to my astonishment, not only survives but thrives in Richmond. Never has the appetite for distraction been greater, according to Captain Chester, who walked me around the premises and shared a smoke with me on the theater roof, which commands a good view of the city. It was late yesterday afternoon, and the Alhambra was about to open its doors for business.

  “Each and every one of them has a secret,” Chester said, waving a large hand across the horizon, a trail of fragrant smoke in its wake. “The highfalutin folk in the big houses, the clerks and the scribes and the honest shopkeepers, the soldiers and the sheriff, the drifters and bums in the streets. They have their public face, and their private face. And who’s to say who’s the good guys and who’s the bad guys?”

  I was surprised to find the Captain in such a philosophical frame of mind, especially with me—the hired muscle—and I wondered what he was leading up to. I suspected that Billy had said something to him while attending to those various “jobs” in the Captain’s office earlier in the day.

  “I’ve learned one thing on my travels,” I said, to break the silence as much as anything, “and that�
�s to trust no man but myself, to take my pleasure where I find it, and to endure injustice with as much fortitude as I can muster.”

  “That sounds mighty fine, Mister Johnson,” the Captain said, leaning over the low wall that capped the Alhambra’s facade, “and a good philosophy of life in this uncertain world of ours. Young Billy told me you were a wise man.”

  “Did he, indeed?”

  “Good lad, young Billy.”

  “Very good.”

  “Obliging.”

  “Extremely.”

  The Captain stared out over the town, and silence fell again.

  “Pleasure…” he eventually said, after smoking another half-inch of his cigar.

  “Ah, yes.”

  “The quest for pleasure leads us to interesting places.”

  I began to hope that the abstract conversation would soon resolve itself into something more positively carnal, but I supposed that Captain Chester, like many married men, took his time to work around to what he really wanted.

  “It leads a paying public into your theater,” I said.

  “It sure does, and they pay well, as you’ll find out.”

  “I hope so. And shouldn’t I be down there on the door?”

  “Not yet, Johnson. The fun never starts much before ten. That’s when I’ll be needing your strong arm.”

  “And what should I do with the rest of my time?”

  “Man like you, never short of opportunities.”

  “That’s as may be.”

  The Captain turned his back to the town, and faced me, leaning against the rampart. Surely he didn’t expect me to get down on my knees for him?

  “Thing is, Johnson,” he said, “that young Billy’s given me a few ideas.”

  “Oh yeah? Showed you a trick or two, has he?”

  “He certainly has. I mean, he done things that no woman ever—Well, I expect you know what I mean.”

  “You mean he sucked your cock?”

  The Captain looked around—which made me smile, as we could not possibly be overheard, or indeed overlooked, ours being much the tallest building in the neighborhood.