by Neil Plakcy
Only moments later, with Grant’s asshole snapping around his driving cock, Andrej let go too. Shoving balls-deep, he came. He held himself inside Grant, filling the condom covering his spurting cock, pressing his belly against the pulsing release of Grant’s cock.
They kissed again, enmeshed in sweaty heat, the rocking of the boat beneath them slowly settling.
Afterward they lay side by side and talked with the moon higher in the sky and their naked bodies awash in it. “I have shown you some of my country, and hope to show you more before you must leave us. And perhaps you can show me some of that boring country of Iowa afterward? Yes? But for now, please show me more of that exciting ass of yours!”
Grant rolled over onto his belly and Andrej placed a life preserver under his hips, then took his time exploring that husky butt with fingers, tongue and then cock. The second round lasted even longer than the first.
Grant fell asleep in Andrej’s arms. The gentle rocking of the boat seemed to mimic their breathing and their shared heartbeat. He looked forward to dawn, and whatever it brought.
RIVER RAT
Josephine Myles
My mother said / I never should / play with the gypsies in the wood…I never should play with the gypsies in the wood...
I couldn’t shake the old nursery rhyme as I walked along the towpath. I tried telling myself I wasn’t in the bloody wood, this was the canal running through the middle of Manchester, and I’d probably end up getting clobbered if I mentioned the word gypsy when talking to the bloke. Not that I thought there was anything wrong with gypsies. I had a major hard-on for them, truth be told, but somehow I didn’t reckon the redhead boater with the “fuck off” eyes was going to appreciate that label.
Even if he had called his boat River Rat.
His gaze had been dismissive the first time I clapped eyes on him, almost a fortnight ago. The sun had been making one of its rare appearances and he’d been shirtless, stripping down his engine on the towpath. I couldn’t help staring at the grease mark across his tanned abs, wondering what his skin would taste like if I licked around it. I’d panned up to his face and realized I’d been rumbled. The moisture decided to desert my mouth like a rat from a sinking ship, and I almost went arse over tit stumbling into a pothole in the path as I scurried away. I might have been as tall as the boater, but I was a weedy art student, not a fighter, and wouldn’t have stood a chance if he’d wanted to make something of it.
Of course, once I’d got back to my grotty shared house and locked myself in my room, I spent some quality time with my right hand, imagining what might have happened if he had decided to make something of it. This version involved sweaty naked wrestling, though, rather than the more realistic swift kick to the nuts and possible early watery grave. I conjured up the details I’d noticed in that brief glimpse of flesh: the brown nipples, the tufts of sweat-darkened ginger hair under his powerful arms, the rippling play of his muscles as he moved. I imagined being pinned down by him on the back deck of his narrowboat and taken without mercy. I came so fucking hard I swear I almost blacked out.
After that I took a stroll past his boat whenever I could fit it in around my classes. It wasn’t far from campus, and I’d always used that stretch of towpath as a shortcut home, so I passed River Rat at least twice a day. I know it sounds desperate, but did I mention I had a kink for gypsies? It started when I was fifteen and just beginning to accept that this “fancying girls” thing probably wasn’t ever going to kick in for me. The fair had been in town for the week, and my mates dragged me along saying all the fit birds would be there and we could probably buy some beer from the Pakistani guy who ran the corner shop, as rumor had it he’d accept the dodgiest of fake IDs.
Turned out it wasn’t just rumor, and as I’d strolled along with my head pleasantly spinning, I realized I’d lost my mates to a gaggle of gum-chewing girls. I wandered over to the out-of-order Ghost Train ride and spotted this carny leaning against the side, half-hidden behind the cheesily decorated façade. He was taking a break from tinkering with the generator and was smoking a roll-up. With his grease stained arms and bad-boy swagger, he definitely had that whole disreputable charm thing going on. My blood thundered to my dick as he ran a hot gaze up and down my body, and ten minutes later I was stumbling out of his caravan with an aching jaw and a bitter taste in my mouth.
Since that rough-and-ready blow job I’d fully embraced my sexuality (and a lot of other blokes along the way), but somehow that first experience had imprinted on me, and now whenever I caught a whiff of machine oil, all that excitement flooded back. I know, I know, I should just date a mechanic, but that wasn’t enough. I wanted someone reckless and footloose. I wanted someone who stuck two fingers up at the establishment.
I wanted someone like my river rat.
I’d caught sight of him a couple more times, but he was always busy doing things to his engine and I don’t think he noticed me checking him out—at best he’d give me a brief glare and get back to his work. Maybe he just thought I was staring at the boat. It was definitely eye-catching: jet black with the traditional signage on the side, the gleaming portholes and the array of knotted rope fenders on the roof that the hand-painted sign announced he made and sold. I could see some of them in action, hanging down the side of the boat to prevent it scraping against the concrete bank. I wondered if all that knotting had made his fingers deft and skillful, capable of wringing every last drop of pleasure from my body.
I wondered if I’d ever dare say anything to him. It would be easy if he sat out on the bank crafting his stupid bloody fenders because I could ask him something about that. I could pretend an artist’s interest in handicrafts and engage him in conversation so he’d notice me. Remember me. Give me a fucking clue as to whether he was interested in other men.
But then last night I got my clue, and it was even more bloody frustrating. I was heading into one of the bars on Canal Street—one with a reputation for rough trade that I’d never dared venture into before—when I almost walked straight into him leaving the place. I could have kicked myself for spending so long getting ready, as he already had a tarty-looking goth boy hanging onto him. I shot the drunken twink a death-ray glare, but when I looked up to my river rat he just gave me this apologetic leer and raised his eyebrows before steering his prize off in the direction of his boat. I thought I heard him mutter “See you tomorrow,” as they headed off, but I might have just been imagining things. I was so pissed off that even sucking off a huge biker in the toilets didn’t do much to improve my mood, and his jizz could have tasted like the snakebite and black I’d been necking for all I noticed.
So anyway, there I was the next afternoon, walking along the towpath in my best pulling clothes, the painted-on jeans and black silk shirt, only marginally soiled from last night’s escapade. I’d used as much hair putty as I thought I could get away with before turning into a hedgehog, and lined my eyes with enough kohl to make Marilyn Manson look restrained. I was hoping the smug twink wouldn’t still be there, but if he was, I reckoned I could out-goth him any day.
Only problem was, I’d left my coat at home because the sun had been shining, but now a cold wind whipped out of nowhere and went right through me. I should know better, living in Manchester, but I’d selected my wardrobe using my little brain rather than the one best suited for forward planning. I hugged my arms tight around me as I stomped down the stretch of towpath toward his boat.
It wasn’t there.
Just an empty stretch of bank, strewn with litter and crowned off with the most almighty pile of dog shit I’ve ever seen. As the first fat drops of rain hit my face, my eyes began to sting. Fucking typical. I was wearing cheap eye makeup that wasn’t waterproof, and my favorite canvas shoes with the rainbow skulls on them were going to get soaked through. Seems the weather had it in for me, as rather than easing into a light splatter, the rain started bucketing down and I was soaked to the skin in moments.
“Fucking bastard!” I screamed up a
t the sky, although whether I was shouting at some imaginary deity or the absconded river rat, I have no idea.
“There you are. Thought I might find you hanging around. Come on, you’re gonna get soaked.”
I spun around to find him there behind me. The boater with the “fuck off” eyes. Except right now they weren’t saying that at all; they were warm and he was close enough for me to see the amber flecks in the green. He wore a great big parka with one of those fur-lined hoods, which made me instantly jealous, even though you wouldn’t catch me wearing one if it was the last item of clothing left in the world. I was too surprised to say anything, and he took hold of my arm with a firm grip and tutted, walking off and pulling me with him. I had to trot to keep up with his long strides.
“Come on, I’ve got the stove going and it’s not far.”
“Why’d you move?” I eventually remembered to ask him.
“Easier than cleaning up that pile of shit, wasn’t it? Fucking arseholes, shouldn’t be allowed to keep dogs if they don’t clean up after them.”
We headed under a bridge and the momentary shelter allowed me to rub my eyes, clearing them enough to see that familiar black boat on the other side. Unfortunately, clearing my eyes led to me getting huge smears of black over my hands. I looked like I’d been sketching with charcoal. God knew what state my hair was in. It felt like it had been plastered to my skull—not a good look for someone as bony as me.
My rescuer didn’t seem to mind, though. I chanced a quick look at him, and he was squinting at me with a bemused smile.
“I’m Ryan, by the way,” I blurted out. He kept staring. “And this is the bit where you’re meant to tell me your name.”
“Does it matter?” He leered. “You’ll get fucked whether you know it or not.”
“Oh. I, uh…no, I suppose not.” I thought about it a moment. “But I won’t know whose name to shout when I’m coming.”
He laughed at that and I caught sight of a gold tooth. “It’s Kev, but most people call me Ratty. On account of the boat,” he added, which made me think he must have me down as a moron. Mind you, since all I’d done up until now was gawk at him, I suppose he didn’t have much else to go on.
“I think I’d rather shout Kev, if it’s all the same to you.”
Kev chuckled, and then we were at his boat and he was pulling me after him onto the River Rat’s front deck. There was barely enough room for us both on there, and I had to fall against him to avoid getting smacked in the chin when he opened the double doors. I had a fleeting impression of hot, hard flesh under his bulky coat before he pulled away to enter his home. I followed, disoriented by the slight rock of the floor beneath me, the blast of warm, coal-scented air, and the dim, coffin-like interior of the River Rat.
But then Kev hit a light switch somewhere, and everything leapt into warm tones, all rich wood and copper.
“Wow!” I couldn’t help doing the open-mouthed moron thing again, but Kev’s boat wasn’t like any home I’d ever been into before. I was standing in what must be the living room, as there was a low sofa covered in a rich red throw along one side, the stove on the other. A huge pile of those fender things he sold was placed where it could make a perfect footrest, a coil of fine rope crowning the heap. It felt extra cozy with the rain drumming loudly on the roof and running over the portholes.
“So, you gonna let all my hot air out or what?”
I mumbled an apology as I shut the doors behind me and fumbled with the latch. Eventually I got the bloody thing fastened, and turned around to find Kev grinning at me from behind what must be a kitchen counter, judging by all the utensils swaying from hooks on the ceiling.
“You want to get straight to the fucking, or would you like a cup of tea first?”
What a choice! I was going to opt for fucking first, because the very mention of it had my prick perking up, but then a massive sneeze ripped through me and I stumbled to sit on the sofa.
“Better make it a brandy by the sound of it. Here.”
I took the mug, which had a good inch or so of the stuff in it, and downed it as fast as I could. Having Kev standing there in front of me was definitely helping to warm me up. My jeans were literally steaming. Mind you, that might have been due to the stove, which was kicking out heat like nobody’s business.
I handed the mug back and looked up at him. His eyes glowed in the watery light spilling through the portholes, and I figured he was waiting for me to make a move. I leaned forward to bury my face in his crotch. He was wearing urban camouflage combat trousers, and I mouthed the thick shaft of his prick through the fabric.
I felt the weight of his hand on my head, and then a surprised sound. “You’re drenched, aren’t you? I’m getting you a towel. You’d better strip those wet things off.”
And so there I was, ten minutes later, sitting dressed in nothing more than a threadbare towel, with a mug of brandy-scented tea in my hands. This seduction thing wasn’t really going to plan: I might be naked, but there wasn’t any action happening. No, instead, Kev was treating me to a rundown of how he knotted the ropes to make those bloody boat fenders. I’m not into handicrafts—they’re just fine art’s dowdy cousins—hicks from the country. But then I got to thinking about this website I’d found with pictures of guys all tied up in a decorative way. Something Japanese, I recalled, and struggled to remember the name.
“Shibari!” I exclaimed, interrupting Kev’s demonstration of a knot.
He raised his eyebrows and gave me this long, assessing stare. I brazened it out.
“Are you trying to tell me you want to be tied up?” Kev asked, his voice sounding rougher than it had a moment ago.
“Do you know how?” I licked my lips and shifted so that the towel fell open, revealing a slice of pale thigh. Kev’s gaze tracked down, and his eyes turned dark as a nightclub ceiling.
“Hang on a second. Don’t want to give any passersby a free show.” Kev flicked a brass switch on the wall behind him and we were plunged into the gloom again, lit only by dull daylight filtering through the portholes. But it was enough to see Kev pick up the coil of rope and run it through his hands.
“This isn’t the right sort of rope. It’s gonna hurt you.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yeah, but maybe I do.” Kev’s voice got soft there, making me think wild and unlikely things I quickly shoved to the back of my mind. This was just a one-off hookup. No point hoping for anything more.
“Besides,” Kev said, straddling me on the sofa, then leaning in to speak in a low rumble against my neck, “I don’t think you should go about letting strange men tie you up. You could get into all kinds of trouble.”
He emphasized the last word with a squeeze to my dick that made me gasp and buck up into his hand.
“I mean,” Kev continued, rough stubble rasping my neck, “I could tie you and gag you, then cruise off and no one would have any idea where you were. I could keep you here as my slave and fuck you whenever I wanted.”
I groaned, his words making my heart pound and my dick throb along with it.
“Oh, you’d like that, would you?”
“Yeah,” I managed to pant out. “So long as you let me out to go to college. Don’t wanna fuck it all up this close to graduation.”
Kev laughed against my neck, rubbing my skin deliciously sore. I wanted him to use me and spread me and fuck me raw. I raised my hands up above my head and clung on to the brass light fixture.
Kev sat back up and looked at me again, his gaze burrowing right into me and pulling out all my secret desires and kinks.
“Tell me what you want, Ryan.”
“I want you to fuck my mouth.” It wasn’t everything I wanted, but it would certainly do for now.
Kev nodded once, then stood and stripped off his boots and trousers. He went commando, which I’d somehow expected, but I wasn’t anticipating how white he’d be. There was a stark line at his belt where the freckled bronze of his upper body gave way to ivory skin, only
slightly darkened by the fuzz of his coppery hair. But then I lost concentration as he was kneeling over me again, but this time with his hand pressing down on my head and his ruddy cock pushing against my lips.
I opened wide for him, drooling as he thrust inside, shallow strokes quickly giving way to deep plunges. I felt my jaw begin to ache and my throat bruise as he used me. It was fucking perfect, me clinging onto the light fixture and choking on his thick, meaty dick, and him forcing his way in with a grunt. I gasped for air whenever I could, but kept up the suction and tried not to whimper too pathetically when he slammed into the back of my throat.
My nuts were threatening to burst by the time he pulled out, and I stared down at my neglected cock. It dribbled some precome as I watched. I lowered one of my hands, thinking to give it a little attention, and felt my arm muscles scream in protest. And then a hand locked around my wrist like a manacle.
“No, you don’t.” Kev’s voice sounded hoarse, but the tone of command was unmistakable. It prompted even more blood to rush to the party in my dick.
“On your knees,” Kev ordered, releasing his hold on my wrist. “Face-down. Yeah, that’s it. You’ve got such a tight. Fuckable. Little. Arse.” He punctuated the last words with dry finger thrusts inside me. I didn’t know whether I wanted to pull away from the pain or push back into it. It felt like he had at least two fingers in me; they were thick and calloused, catching my rim with a sharp sting every time he pumped in and out. I sobbed with frustration, until the burn gave way to sharp pleasure.
“Yeah, that’s right. Ride my fingers.”
I did so gladly, despite the friction of his rough skin. I knew I’d be feeling this for days, and the thought made me moan. But just as the sensations threatened to send me over the edge again, Kev pulled out. I heard cursing behind me, felt the boat sway as Kev stomped around, but I kept my forehead buried against the sofa cushion, panting in an effort to calm my body’s responses. I know I hadn’t been specifically told not to, but I doubted Kev would approve if I shot my load before he’d had a chance to shove his dick in me.