by Neil Plakcy
I stood up, ripping open the lube and coating my fingers before pressing them against his already wet back door. After a bit of prodding, one of my fingers slipped inside him, followed quickly by another. I put my hand back into his hair, yanking his head up to steal a gasping kiss from him. He cried against my mouth, nipping at my bottom lip as he worked his ass back against my fingers.
“Dude, please fuck me. I want your cock in me.”
As much as I wanted to torture him, make him flat-out beg for my cock, I was too desperate myself to wait any longer. I pressed him into the table, kicking his legs open wider. Removing my fingers, I slid on the condom and used the rest of the lube on Zack’s quivering hole. Gripping his hip, I pushed forward, easing inside him a bit at a time. He couldn’t keep still, his hands sliding, trying to find a grip on the glass. I started to pull back, not wanting to hurt him, but he followed me, keeping my cock exactly where it was. He exhaled a huge deep breath, and I felt his resistance give way. As I bottomed out he screamed, his voice carrying into the dark night, his hand moving furiously on his own dick.
Riding against him, I grabbed his free wrist and pulled it behind his back. He didn’t try to stop me, letting me restrain him while I pounded into his asshole. His hand grabbed at mine, digging his black nails into my skin as I thrust deeply and deliberately. He felt so good, so tight around my dick.
“Dude, I’m gonna come. I’m so fucking close.”
Zack’s voice broke, his last word barely audible in between his gasping moans. I sped up, my own cock on the verge of exploding. But I held out, waiting to hear Zack blow his wad. He wrenched his hand free, pushing back into my cock with everything he had. His groans became a whimper, then one long deep cry as he came onto the patio, his hand wringing every last drop onto the cement below. I gripped his wayward hips, making him cooperate until I was finished with him. My cock twitched and when Zack turned and looked at me, I lost it. The table moved as I forced both of us forward with my body, my orgasm ripping through me like a freight train. I tried to keep quiet, but there was no use, my mouth was not listening to my brain. My knees buckled, and Zack lay nearly limp beneath me as I emptied my balls.
Resting against him, I finally moved when my back tightened up to the point of pain. As I staggered back from him, I had to sit before I hit the ground. Zack turned around, his face still red and sweaty. He shocked me when he leaned down to plant a kiss on my lips. I returned my hand to his hair, the feeling now familiar and comfortable.
“So, are we cool? Or are the cops going to be knocking on my door in the morning?”
“Yeah, I think we’re cool. No harm done. Besides, an empty pool like that is hard to pass up. It’s a sweet bowl.”
Zack cocked his eyebrow, surprised by my words. He dressed in a hurry, picking up his board from the grass. I pulled my pants up rubbery legs, walking tentatively toward Zack.
“You skate?”
“Used to. When I was young and foolish like you.”
“It really is a nice pool.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“You know, it’s still going to be empty for another day.”
“I know.”
I pulled him into my arms, needing one more taste of his hot mouth. His hair fell into his eyes, and his sleepy gaze cut right through me. “See you tomorrow night, dude.”
Before I could say a word back, Zack dropped his board and skated into the dark. I listened to the clicking of his wheels on the sidewalk until the noise faded away.
BOARDER BOYZ
Logan Zachary
Most people think I’m the badass in the neighborhood, and I can see why. Nineteen, long blond hair that covers my eyes, a few tats, long baggy shorts that don’t cover my boxers: I’m always on a skateboard. What else is there to do in the city? Parks & Rec finally did something right and built ramps, jumps and bowls in the park across the street from the apartment I share with my grandmother. They say they gave the ’hood a place to keep the kids outta trouble. Ha ha.
My bud Tyrone was already at the park by the time I got there. He’s my age, a slim dude with skin the color of coffee with a lot of milk. “Wasssup?” he asked as I skated to a stop in front of him. T’s sculpted compact body looked as if it stepped out of a museum: smooth chest and legs, unlike my hairy ones.
“Nada,” I said.
Our HQ was a table set by the ramp, prime location for a view of the scape, and it showed who was cream.
Little kids used the park, and most of us left them alone. The old farts walked the perimeter, but few ventured deeper, probably afraid we’d run their walker-using asses over, breaking their hips and sending them to the home.
Our skills established the pecking order. I was King Shit.
Tyrone nodded to the bag on the table. “Another gift.”
“Didja open it?”
“Nah, all yours.” He pointed to the shooting star drawn on the brown paper. It matched my tat, so the other skaters had assumed it was mine.
These “gifts” started a month ago, slowly becoming daily. No one saw anyone drop them off; no one knew who they were from. Near as I could figure, it was someone from the nearby building, who watched us. The gifts varied based on the previous day’s events. Fancy tricks earned beer and weed. Lazy ass days of sun got us a candy bar or a pack of gum.
“What didja get?” Tyrone asked.
I opened the bag and two cold beers waited inside. I tossed one to T and cracked the other one open. “We must’ve been good yesterday.”
One pattern I figured out was that when my shirt was off, the gifts were better; when T and I wrestled and rolled around, even more. Yesterday, some mom came by and asked if we’d use some suntan lotion, since her son wouldn’t if the big guys didn’t use any.
She was sweet and her kid was a towhead, blond and vampire pale, so we figured, why the hell not.
T wouldn’t use any, but he agreed to cover me with the shit. He started on my back and shoulders, working his way down. The kid watched as T worked.
“It’s your momma’s turn, little man,” T said, stopping.
The little guy allowed his mother to smear his arms.
I grabbed the bottle and massaged lotion down my legs.
The boy’s mom worked his little stick legs at the same time. As she went to smear more on his face, he revolted. “But honey,” she pled.
T laughed, and I sighed. “Hey, chief, I need some on my face and chest, see.”
He looked to T. “Are you going to put it on him like my mom?” he asked, his eyes wide.
T rolled his eyes and grabbed the bottle. He squirted more than he’d ever need and slapped it on my chest. He went up to my face and worked it all around. After finishing my neck, he slowly worked back down my chest.
I lay back on the table. I figured I might as well make the best of it.
T spread it over my pecs, down my torso and across my six-pack. The sun beat down on us, and his stroke felt good as he applied the cool lotion.
My nips rose up as he worked me over. I could feel a stirring in my shorts but tried not to focus on that—bad thing to let your bud know he gave you wood.
The boy and his mom took off for the swings and slide, but T kept up his job.
My eyes were closed, and I enjoyed the rubdown. I’d let him go as long as he wanted. My mind drifted and most of my body relaxed.
T’s fingers worked along my waistband. He pushed the elastic down and worked the lotion lower, lower. I heard a scratch of pubes and sat up fast. His finger had almost found out I was hard. My baggy shorts hid it; at least, I hoped they did; but T never said anything gay or such, so I was cool.
I smiled.
That rubdown earned us two beers.
“Yo, T, come sit next to me.”
And he did.
“I think our man lives in the building.”
“Say what?”
“I feel he’s watching us and shit.” I raised my beer can and saluted the brownstone.
“Yeah?”
“That’s why we get this shit.” I took a long swallow on the beer, just what Granny wanted me to have for breakfast. “Let’s try something.” I moved in front of him and brought my face real close. The smell of beer hung in the air. I tried not to laugh. “Pretend I’m kissing ya.”
T’s body jerked back. His knee almost got my balls.
“Just hold on. I wanna see what we get tomorrow. Besides, I’m not gonna tongue your ass.”
“I know you wanna.”
“Just play along.” I moved my head as if sucking his face good. “Can you see movement in any window?”
“Just your granny flashing her tits.”
I pushed away from T. “Forget it.” I jumped on my board, and T kicked off and rode alongside me. He grabbed my hand, and we tugged each other in tandem across the park. I tossed the paper bag and can in the trash as we rode by.
After a long circuit around the park, T released me and slapped my ass. We split and headed home. We’d see what tomorrow brought.
That night I watched out the window, waiting for any action at our table. The cops patrolled the park, so little nighttime activity ever occurred. I woke up at dawn still sitting at the window, and I rubbed my eyes, slowly remembering why I fell asleep there.
Looking out at the table, I saw another bag was waiting. I raced out of my room, through the apartment and down the hall. I dropped my board at the ramp that leads from the front door down to the street and sped down it and across the street. No cars were coming that early. Good thing, since I didn’t look both ways, not even one.
I kicked the ground and sped up, snatching the bag off the table as I passed, and then heading home. Gran would kill if she knew I was out this early. I peered in as I skated through the park.
Money!
There was a wad of bills inside.
Drug drop? Gang payoff? Dark thoughts ran through my mind as I sailed off the curb. My board continued on without me as I tumbled to the gutter. My knee scraped the concrete, but otherwise I was in one dazed piece.
I peered up at the windows that faced the park. Which one was it? Who watched my every move, and what did he want from me?
My goal for the day was to find which window had the peeper. What should I use as bait? Oh, yeah, my ass.
I found a pair of jeans and cut the legs off. After I tried them on, I cut them even shorter. I slipped off my boxers, put the shorts back on and admired my ass in the bathroom mirror.
I wanted to go shirtless but figured playing hard to get would arouse more interest than letting it all hang out. My shirt was sleeveless and the sides were cut nearly to the bottom. My tan torso flashed each time I moved. Around noon I grabbed my board and headed out. Riding down the ramp, I felt a cool breeze blow up my shorts and tickle the hair on my balls.
Stepping back on my board, I edged the tip up and bridged the curb. As the front wheels touched down, my nads felt like they’d slipped out. I tugged the shorts down to keep them covered. My waistband slipped down, and I felt my pubes burst out of the top. Either way, something was hanging out.
T was nowhere in sight, so I hit the ramp. The sun beat down and reflected off the windows. I squinted at each trying to see any motion. I rolled up one side and sped down, using the momentum on the flip side. Building speed, my ride reached higher and higher. My shirt flapped, flashing tan skin to all who watched.
I crouched low, and my board went off the end. One hand grabbed the ramp as the other reached for my board. I flew until the big G pulled my ass back. Flipping the board in line, I landed on it and zipped down the tube, but the flip caused my business to dangle. Damn my second cut. As I slipped the beans and sausage in, my balance shifted, and I wiped out.
Exposed flesh and tiny shirt and shorts made for some gnarly road rash. As I lay sprawled over the concrete, a flash of light caught my attention.
Gotcha.
It came from the first floor, to the left of the entrance, Apartment 1C. I lay back, letting the pain and blood flow. What was my next move?
The rasp of wheels approached, and I turned to see. T kicked again and came up short. He hopped off and walked around me. “Whoa, dude, show your junk much?”
I remembered my shorts and pulled them down. My bush grew as I covered my tenders. Flipping my leg to the side, I revealed an angry scrape on my thigh. Blood oozed. I ripped off my shirt and wiped it away, and another wave rose.
“Shit,” I said, and sat up. I wiped the crap from my hands and pushed up.
T’s eyes scanned my body, way too long. I felt my boner start to grow. I rubbed my shorts, adjusting myself. “I’ve gotta get cleaned up.” Bending over, I flipped my ride on all wheels and noticed T checking out my ass. I flexed my butt and saw him swallow hard.
T licked his lips, and I knew we might finally have some fun. But just to prove that nothing’s all good in this damn world, as I stepped on my board, pain shot down my leg. Fuck it. Reaching down, showing my ass in its best light, I grabbed my ride. Think on that, T, I thought, and walked home.
Limping up the ramp, I finally saw why the damn things helped so much. I entered the kitchen and saw the note: Gone shopping, be back by supper. Love, Gran.
“Great,” I said and headed to the bathroom. As I opened the mirrored cabinet above the sink, I paused as I saw my reflection. I smiled at myself and closed it. I slipped my blood-stained T-shirt back on, headed out of the apartment and limped down the hall to Apartment 1C.
I knocked on the door, then pressed my ear against it and listened.
A thump and a strange sound came from inside.
I waited ten seconds and knocked again. I heard a scraping from inside and stepped back. Maybe this wasn’t…
A broad-shouldered man in a wheelchair pulled the door open. He had a buzz-cut head with dark stubble. “Yes?” he said. I was surprised at how young his voice sounded, not the gravely senior croak of most of the neighbors.
His body was slender and fine, black leather gloves without fingers covered his palms, and his bright blue eyes looked up with mine.
This was my stalker? The one who gave me beer and grass? The one who watched my ass? This was hardly the scumbag I expected.
“Can I help you?”
“My name is Jessie Fraizer. My grandma left, and I wiped out in the park.” I turned to the side and showed him my leg. I tugged up on my shorts and flashed a white fleshy asscheek at him.
The man wheeled his chair back. “I’m Peter. Come in, and I’ll see what I can do.” I stepped inside as he pushed himself down the hall.
The room was weird—all the furniture low down, so he could reach everything from his chair. I stepped into the front room, which overlooked the park. Shelves were filled with trophies, and the walls were covered with pictures of skateboarders.
“Does it hurt?” he called from the other room.
I rubbed my eyes and tried to make tears. “Yeah,” I squeaked out.
He rolled back into the room with a pile of gauze bandages and a tube of salve on his lap. “Have a seat,” he said.
A leather couch was the only place to land, but I hesitated, not wanting to get blood on it. “It’s fine there,” he said, motioning me to sit. He moved his chair right up next to me, so close I could feel the heat coming off his skin. He squirted some salve onto a piece of gauze, and I shivered as he touched it to my skin, even though he was as gentle as could be.
He wet the gauze and cleaned the blood and crap from the road rash on my thigh, but cleaning the dirt away just made my leg bleed even more. I tore my shirt off, folded it bloody side in and slipped it under my leg. “Don’t want to stain your couch.”
His eyes met mine and I flushed as he smiled. My micro-shorts did little to cover me, and I pulled on the hem to cover my jewels. A cool draft flowed up my denim, and I could smell my ball sweat.
I felt my beast stir and start to swell in its skimpy confines. My hands covered my lap; one of my fingers slipped up the leg hole and
tickled a hairy ball. Shit. My wood grew, spouting into a tree trunk. This wasn’t the time. Maybe coming over here wasn’t a good idea.
He wrapped the gauze around my thigh, ignoring my naked and smelly state. His long fingers worked fast, and as he finished applying the tape I shivered and my dick pulsed.
His hand stopped and his head moved slightly. I could feel his gaze burn me. “Does it hurt?” he asked.
“What?” I said, startled. “No.” I dropped my hand over my cock, trying to hide my erection, but the damned thing only swelled more from the pressure. I coughed and pressed the fingers of my other hand up the leg hole, trying to cram my business deeper inside.
He backed the chair up and lifted my leg to his lap. He grasped my ankle and I gasped. “Did you twist your ankle?” he asked, his voice all business. Before I could respond, he slipped off my sneaker and removed my sock. He rubbed his knuckles over my instep, exerting just a little pressure. My wood shot to full length, and my body jerked.
“Tender?”
Hell yes, my mind screamed. I could feel a wet trickle forming at my knob. Instead, I just nodded.
He gently bent my foot down and up, then side to side. “No clicking or snapping, I doubt anything is broken; it’s probably sprained.” His fingers worked up my calf, around my knee and continued north. He avoided the raw area but continued up to my shorts.
My hands clamped down harder on my balls.
He smiled. “How’s your hip?” he said, as if he was some kind of doctor and this was a real medical exam.
“Fine.”
His hands moved up to my bare torso and explored up to my pit. “No bruises or cuts.” His finger trailed over my chest and over my nipple.
It rose under his touch.
“You didn’t pull anything in your chest?” His hand worked down my six-pack and followed the stray hairs that ran down into my shorts.
I couldn’t look into his eyes, so I turned to the wall and stared at the framed poster there. A guy in Billabong shorts and a hoodie that read MAKE TRICKS, NOT WAR, was hung in the middle of a McTwist, his board airborne beneath him. I peered closely at the face on the poster and realized it was the same face I was avoiding. My head snapped back. “That’s you?”