by Neil Plakcy
“Fucking ready for it, dude,” he purred. “Give it to me.”
I kissed him again, my mouth zooming to his neck for a suck and a slurp, a bite on a tender lobe, a whisper in his ear. “Close your eyes, Gus.” I leaned back up.
He hesitated, then did as I asked, while I reached into my nightstand, then click, click and the handcuffs were around his wrists locking him to my bed, captive. His lids popped open, a look of angry confusion on his face. “What the hell?” he roared.
“Now who was fucking with the wrong dude?” I asked, calmly, my hand reaching out, gliding down his face, almost in a caress, almost, his eyes wide before the slap. “Stop staring, dude,” I told him, waving my finger at him. “Costs to fucking look. Five bucks, asshole.”
“You’re gonna fucking pay,” he yelled.
I snickered. “I already did, Gus. Now it’s your turn.” He yanked his arms, the bed shaking, but he wasn’t going anywhere. I reached down to his shorts and took out his wallet. My five was in there, and another. “Interest,” I informed him, before throwing it back down on the floor and hopping on the bed with him, my mouth on his nipple as he thrashed beneath me. I delivered a slap across his chest, then another, his cock still rigid beneath me. I moved my face to his, my fingers yanking on both his rings, his eyelids fluttering for the briefest of moments. “You like that, skater dude?” I whispered. “Huh, you fucking like it?”
“Asshole,” he grunted, still squirming, his eyes afire, defiant, though the kiss was returned, hard, greedy, his tongue lashing around mine.
“Speaking of assholes,” I said, my mouth pulling away, my body sliding down his until I was kneeling between his pushed-apart legs, lifting them up, resting his feet on my shoulders. He kicked his heel down. I returned the favor by yanking on his balls, hard. “Play nice,” I cautioned.
“Fuck off,” he spat, thrashing around, his billy club of a cock swaying back and forth.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that somewhere before.” I spanked his bruised belly. He grimaced, but quieted down. I reached for his feet again and pushed them toward his chest, his ass now up, a hair-rimmed hole winking out at me. “Prettier than I imagined,” I commented, my fingers running circles around it.
“Tastes even better,” he grunted.
I bent down, my nose up close, the smell of musk and sweat wafting up my nostrils, the aroma exquisite. “Let’s find out,” I replied, my tongue diving in, cramming inside, his ass rocking into my face. I pulled away, kneeling over him. “I think we have a tie. Looks great, tastes great.” I slid a spit-slick finger in, then two. “Yep, feels great, too.”
His ring clenched around my digits as he sucked in his breath, copious amounts of precum gliding down his thick shaft; an exhale, and then he relaxed. I added a third to the mix, gliding it all up and in and back, his smooth muscled interior sucking me in like a Hoover. He moaned, loudly, while my free hand jacked his cock, hard as granite in my grip. Working his ass and dick now, I leaned my face in again, mouth to mouth, his eyes sparkling beneath my bedroom light. “You want me to fuck you, Gus?” I breathed into his mouth.
“Asshole,” he panted back. “Get the fuck off me.”
I chuckled. “Oh, I think you want it, dude. You want my big dick up your ass, don’t you?” I kissed him, my lips jammed into his lips. “Tell me you want it, tough guy.” I pushed and prodded my fingers up inside of him, my hand working his cock like a piston. “Come on, dude, beg for my cock up your ass.”
He groaned, his back arching, a mean look on his face, mean mixed with abject pleasure. “Fuck me,” he grunted. “Fuckin’ fuck me already.”
“Sweet talker,” I cooed, biting down on his lip before popping my fingers out of his ass and releasing my stranglehold on his throbbing prick. Again I reached into my nightstand, this time removing a rubber and some lube. I hopped off the bed and rolled the latex around my rod, staring down at him as I did so; his breath was ragged, his stomach and chest rising and falling, muscles flexing, all that beautiful ink etched into even more beautiful pale skin. He stared back, eyeing me hungrily now, body limp from his exertions.
I jumped back into bed, kneeling again between his legs, his feet once more on my shoulders, all the fight gone from him, replaced by resignation, hunger. I thwacked his cock and spanked his hole. He twitched and moaned, sweat now trickling down his torso.
I lubed up his hole and his cock, stroking him slowly and evenly as I butted my dick against his portal. “Knock, knock,” I teased.
“Fuck off,” he mumbled, eyes boring through me.
“Wrong answer,” I replied, shoving the tip in, then the whole head, an inch of cock. There was a sharp inhale from him, a deep exhale from me and a pump on his throbbing cock. I pushed another inch, then another, and half of me was impaled up his ass. “That feel good, tough guy? You like that dick up your ass?”
He panted and nodded, his head tilted back, mouth open in ecstasy. “Fuckin’ give it to me, asshole.”
I pulled it out instead, pop, then rammed it on home again, still halfway. Out and in, out and in I moved, each time adding an inch, each time eliciting a grunt and a sigh from him, a moan from me, a million volts of electricity riding up and down my spine like wildfire. Then I gave one long, deep push, and all eight solid inches were buried up his ass, my balls lapping up against his perfect little ass, my body over his, sweat dripping down, my mouth against his laying down hungry kisses. “You like your ass used, Gus?” I whispered in his mouth, my prick just barely moving now, enjoying the pleasure of filling him up to the brim.
“Fuck you,” he whispered back, the words drawn out.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” I pulled almost all the way out and then rammed it back in again, and again, and again, my cock on fire, cum rising, each thrust battering up against his rock-hard prostate, my mouth pressed to his. I let go of his prick. I wanted to come first, come deep inside his tight ass.
And come I did, load after creamy load, my body quaking and spasming on top of him, my ass bucking, that rubber filling with ounce after hot ounce of it as I moaned into his mouth, my hands pulling and tweaking his nipple rings, his body squirming under me, fully controlled.
I pulled out and got up. “Make me come, asshole,” he pled, eyes wide, cock like a steel bar.
I pulled one more item from my nightstand: a digital camera. “Insurance,” I told him. “For when I unlock you.” I snapped away, every angle captured, lifting his legs up, butthole to the lens, not much good for street cred. I uploaded all of them and then returned to the bed, face to crotch, fist on his cock, licking and sucking his heavy balls as I jacked him off. Seconds later he came in a torrent, his dick throbbing as it shot, ropes and ropes of cum splattering on his taut belly, dousing all that ink in a sheet of white.
“Fuuuck,” he moaned loudly, his body twisting and turning above my sheets, eyes closed now, mouth panting, with me watching in rapt delight.
I waited for the show to end, then got up and cleaned him off, unlocking the cuffs. He shook his wrists out, looking away from me, not a word said. He got dressed while I watched, his cock shrinking, fine ass sadly covered back up. I handed him his board. He snatched it from me and hightailed it out of there.
I went to my window, opened it and stared down. He hopped on his board and started rolling away. “Watch out for those Korean grocers,” I shouted down to him.
He lifted his middle finger high up in the air. “Fuck off!” he shouted, zooming down the street in a blur of flesh and ink.
“I just did, dude,” I chuckled, closing the window. “I just fucking did.”
A PLACE TO SKATE
Neil Plakcy
Tyler had just fallen asleep when he heard the noise coming from the backyard. At first he thought the sounds came from a boat out on Indian Creek, the waterway that snaked down the middle of the barrier island of Miami Beach. He rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but the noise continued, punctuated by a banging sound. It sounded like someone dragging a
dolly across the paved walkways that ran along the waterfront.
He groaned. When he agreed to take the job of caretaker for this estate, he thought it would be an easy gig that wouldn’t interfere with his schoolwork. He had spent the first two years of the golf management program at Johnson & Wales University living in the dorms and playing on the golf team. He wasn’t the next Tiger Woods; he knew that. He’d probably never even be good enough to play the pro circuit. But with his degree, he’d be able to get a job at a club somewhere, teaching and managing the grounds. For a poor kid who had lucked into golf because his Big Brother took an interest in him, bought him his first clubs and taught him the game, that was enough.
But with his mother’s death a few months before, he’d faced a financial crisis. His scholarship only covered tuition, and his part-time job at the Doral Golf Course, where the team played, barely covered his equipment and car expenses. He’d considered dropping out or transferring to the state university. He could get a degree in hospitality, maybe still manage to find a golf job. But there was no men’s golf team at FIU, and transferring there would be saying good-bye to any hope of a pro career.
He had been looking for cheap apartments on Craig’s List when he found the ad for the gig on Indian Creek. An old man had lived in the house for decades, modifying it when he became confined to a wheelchair. His family, including three sets of kids from three different wives, was battling over the division of his estate. One family wanted to hold on to the house, another wanted to demolish it and build townhouses, and the third family simply wanted it sold and the cash distributed.
The attorney in charge of the estate needed someone to take care of the house until he could negotiate a compromise—which he said might take up to a year. The gig would put a roof over Tyler’s head, and the stipend would cover all his expenses, leaving him free to concentrate on his game and his studies.
It seemed too good to be true. The sprawling ranch house had four bedrooms, with extrawide hallways and doors. All the rooms except the master bedroom and the kitchen were empty, and the low counters in the kitchen were a bit of a pain for Tyler, who was six two. The old man had pulled out most of the grass from the waterfront yard, replacing it with concrete walkways and ramps that gave him a place to exercise as well as rest and enjoy the view.
The house had been empty for a couple of months and Tyler spent most of his first evening cleaning, removing layers of dust, scrubbing the floors and repairing a leaky faucet. By the time he fell into bed, he was exhausted.
He wasn’t going to get any sleep as long as that noise in the backyard continued, though. So he heaved himself out of bed, pulled on a pair of skimpy nylon shorts and walked over to the master bedroom window, which looked out at the backyard.
A blur moved past, almost impossibly fast, swooping down the ramp that led to the water’s edge. Tyler watched in horrified fascination as a guy on a skateboard zoomed downhill, destined for a launch into the waters of Indian Creek.
At the last minute, the guy turned onto the part of the walkway that paralleled the waterway, then did an amazing flip that ended with his board facing the opposite direction.
In the light of the full moon, Tyler observed the skateboarder as he stopped to catch his breath. He was about Tyler’s age, with shoulder-length dark hair parted in the center. He was shirtless, and his chest glistened with sweat in the bright moonlight. His biceps bulged and his chest tapered down to a narrow waist.
His shorts were almost as skimpy as Tyler’s, his legs pale and skinny. Tyler thought he could make out a sinuous tattoo snaked around each thigh and reaching under the tiny shorts. He watched as the skater jumped onto his board again and took off, circling the concrete walkways and building up speed to attempt that daredevil maneuver again. But then a powerful spotlight came on from the yard next door, and a middle-aged man in a bathrobe stepped outside.
“Get the fuck out of that yard!” the man yelled at the skater. “I’m calling the cops!”
The skater raised his middle finger to the man, then turned and pulled his shorts down, mooning the man, who responded with a series of expletives.
The skater’s dick flopped out and faced Tyler as the kid mooned. The moonlight was bright enough that Tyler could see the dick was gorgeous—fat and uncircumcised, swaying from side to side as the kid wagged his ass at the man.
But the moment didn’t last. The kid pulled his shorts back up, grabbed his board and vaulted over the fence on the other side of the yard, disappearing into the night.
Tyler dropped his own shorts and got back into bed, but his hard-on wouldn’t quit as he remembered the look of the handsome skater’s dick flopping in the night air. He teased a finger around the head of his own circumcised dick, spreading the dot of viscous precum. Then he ran that finger up and down the length of his dick, closing his eyes and thinking of the skater.
With his other hand he teased his nipples to hardness, imagining the skater’s lips around them, his teeth nibbling. They were both naked, there in the king-sized bed that had come with the house, and the skater’s long dark hair fell over Tyler’s bare chest, tickling him in a dozen different places.
He imagined the skater’s head snaking down, taking Tyler’s cock in his mouth, as he wrapped his hand around his dick and began stroking in earnest. It didn’t take long before his body shuddered in mounting passion and his dick erupted.
The next day, his cell phone rang as he was leaving the golf course after a long practice. “Tyler? It’s Sonia from Mr. Lightner’s office. Can you stop by this afternoon? He’d like to talk to you.”
Lightner was the attorney handling the old man’s estate. “Sure,” Tyler said. “I’ll be there in about half an hour.”
The office was in a run-down building on 41st Street on Miami Beach, a few blocks from the house on Indian Creek. Tyler was still wearing his team uniform, a navy polo shirt with the Johnson & Wales logo and a pair of khaki pants, when he walked in. He’d combed his blond hair in the elevator and sniffed under his arms to make sure he was still presentable.
Lightner didn’t waste time on formalities. “I got a call this morning from Jim Sbroggio, your next-door neighbor,” he said. “Apparently the skateboarder was back at the Starkey house.”
“Yeah, there was a kid skating in the backyard last night,” Tyler said.
Lightner frowned. “You didn’t chase him away? That’s what you’re there for. To protect the property.”
“You never told me there was a problem with a skateboarder,” Tyler said. “So I was surprised last night. By the time I figured out what was going on, Mr. Sbroggio was already outside chasing the kid away.”
“Well, I don’t want to hear from him again,” Lightner said. “The next time the kid shows up, I want you to deal with him. Or else I’ll be looking for another caretaker.”
“Message received,” Tyler said. He was tempted to moon the attorney, the way the skater had done with the asshole neighbor the night before, but he needed the gig too much to piss it away. Instead he put on his best smile and walked out of the attorney’s office.
“Tyler,” Sonia whispered as he passed her desk. “Come here.”
He slid into the chair next to her desk. Sonia was a pretty young Latina, dressed in a very severe dark suit and white blouse. “Lightner should have told you about the skateboarder,” she said. “He’s the reason you got the job. He’s been using the backyard as his private skate park for the last couple of weeks. Lightner’s worried about liability, and he hates getting those calls from Mr. Sbroggio.”
“What am I supposed to do about it?” Tyler asked. “I’m not a cop.”
“See if you can talk to him,” Sonia said. “If that doesn’t work, sit outside if you have to, and keep him from getting on the property. Otherwise Lightner’s going to fire you.”
“Sonia! Where’s the Schwarzman file?” Lightner bellowed from his office.
Sonia jumped to her feet, looking like a kid who’d been caught talki
ng in class, and Tyler left the office.
When he got home, he stopped in the living room to stare out at the waterway and the towers of Miami Beach on the other side. Two tall pines, one on either side of the yard, framed the spectacular vista. The waterway sparkled in the late summer sunshine, and the glass and steel towers gleamed with the last rays of the setting sun.
A long boat with eight rowers skimmed past. I could get used to this, Tyler thought. Sitting out in the backyard, watching hot guys row past. He watched until the team disappeared from sight under the 41st Street bridge.
He sighed, then went back inside to do some homework for his class in turfgrass management. But it was hard to concentrate on pest and weed control when all he wanted to do was see the skateboarder again; touch, taste and smell him.
That night, he sat out in the backyard, watching the moon rise over Miami Beach. It was a beautiful sight, and the night was perfect for some romantic canoodling. If he only had a boyfriend.
He wasn’t out at school; a lot of the guys who played golf came from wealthy, traditional families, and he was already at a disadvantage with his public school background. He worked hard, studied golf texts and practiced endlessly. He didn’t need another issue to get in the way of his progress.
The result, though, was that he couldn’t meet guys at school. There was a gay student group, but the guys on the golf team had a few choice names for them, and Tyler didn’t want to risk being outed to his teammates.
He’d ventured to South Beach a few times but always felt out of place. He didn’t have money or flashy clothes, and he couldn’t dance. He had never so much as kissed another guy, and the thought of doing something more both excited and frightened him. He didn’t have much tolerance for alcohol, either, and he was deadly afraid that if he had too much to drink he’d make a fool of himself or do something dangerous.