by Neil Plakcy
Brian got Gavin into position on his hands and knees. The blond skater took one of the condoms and the lube offered by Kye. Slipping the condom over his huge dick, Brian said, “You’d better be fucking tight, too.” Then he slapped Gavin hard on the ass.
In his day-to-day life, Gavin was always in charge—of the film crew, his actors. Now he was giving up control entirely to these two punks and he couldn’t be happier. Not that they cared whether he was enjoying it or not. He could see the cold glint in Kye’s eyes and he knew that once the big kid got horny, nothing was going to stop him getting off however he pleased.
Without warning Brian shoved the head of his dick into Gavin’s ass. Even with the lube, Gavin wasn’t prepared for the skater’s large shaft and he let out a yelp. He was facing the bottom of the bed and Kye moved so that Gavin was staring straight at the man’s monster dick. Kye chuckled as Gavin winced. Brian pushed forward, forcing more of his cock into Gavin’s behind.
“That’s a whole new definition of a shuv-it,” Kye said. He lifted his enormous pole up to Gavin’s lips. “Now suck me, bitch. Suck me good.”
Gavin did. This time he did gag a little as he forced his mouth to take in as much of the enormous cock as he could. Brian began slamming into him with ferocity, smacking Gavin’s ass hard every now and then. Gavin felt like he was being pulled apart but he was helpless, at the mercy of the two young studs. His mouth and ass were being abused as never before. Just as he thought he couldn’t take any more, Kye pulled his cock out of Gavin’s mouth and slapped it hard across Gavin’s face. The wet smack jarred Gavin a little as it had happened so quickly and with no warning, but he loved the young man’s cocky attitude. “You good,” Kye growled, slapping his cock against Gavin’s cheek again, with less power this time, “but you don’t deserve to have my cock in your mouth. I think you need something else in there.”
Gavin watched in fascinated wonder as the muscular man leaned down and pulled off his left shoe. Kye then yanked off his sock and wadded it up.
“Eat this,” he commanded.
Gavin actually opened his mouth to protest, but Kye used the moment to stuff his sweat-soaked gray sock past Gavin’s lips. Any protest Gavin would have made was drowned out by both the sock filling his mouth and the loud smack made by Brian’s hand hitting his ass. Kye used one hand to hold the sock in place and the other to jack his monster cock. Gavin found himself staring at the bulbous head, knowing that at any moment it was going to spray all over his face.
Brian came first, holding on to Gavin’s hips and thrusting his dick harder and harder into Gavin’s ass. He let out a howl as he shot his load, a sound that reminded Gavin of a wolf. Why not, he thought. They fucked like animals.
Kye did indeed shoot his wad all over Gavin’s face. Long ropes of jizz shot forth, drenching Gavin’s cheeks and mouth. Some even seemed to get into his nostrils. Not until he’d drained every last drop out of his cock did Kye remove the sweaty sock from Gavin’s mouth. “Hope you like that,” the black man said.
Brian pulled his dick out of Gavin’s butt, giving the man one last hard slap on the asscheek. “Just remember,” he said, “we can fuck all day. You need to use us in your fucking film.”
Gavin collapsed onto the bed, panting. His ass still felt like it was on fire and his mouth ached, having been stretched first by Kye’s huge cock and then the wadded-up sock. He wanted to reply, but he couldn’t control his breathing. He closed his eyes and waited for his gasping breaths to subside.
The boys didn’t wait for a reply, though. Brian hopped off the bed to retrieve his shorts, and the boys dressed in silence before grabbing their skateboards.
“We be seeing you,” Kye said as they headed for the door.
Gavin smiled as he heard the door close behind them. It had been one hell of an impromptu audition. Gavin tried to move, but his muscles still weren’t working. Hell, neither Wylde nor Mars could fuck like his two skaters. They’d be sensational. Gavin eyed the phone on the nightstand. He needed to call the producer and tell him he’d found two new stars.
That is, as soon as he could move again.
SOMETHING TO REMEMBER YOU BY
Aaron Michaels
The first time Rick saw the skateboarder, he almost hit the kid with the rental car.
Driving a strange car in a strange city with too many one-way streets all going the wrong way, combined with the rental’s annoying GPS and the alarm on his cell going off to remind him he was now late for his meeting, gave Rick one massive headache. At least the traffic on this particular one-way street was light, even if it looked like the GPS was leading him through the worst part of town. All no-tell motels on both sides of the street, punctuated here and there with vacant lots and boarded up storefronts. The sidewalks were cracked concrete, and a pile of broken safety glass on the side of the road gave silent testimony to an automobile break-in.
He took his eyes off the road just long enough to silence his cell phone, and that’s when the skateboarder crested the rise in the road right in front of Rick, boarding straight at him.
Rick yelled, slammed on the brakes and steered to his left, thankful there were no cars immediately behind him or in the next lane. The tires squealed on the asphalt, and the steering wheel shuddered in his hands. A sick smell of burnt rubber came in through the vents as the car came to a stop half in and half out of both one-way lanes.
Heart pumping a mile a minute and head really pounding now, Rick sat there stunned as the kid kept right on boarding. It didn’t even look like he’d slowed down or changed course or done anything at all to avoid becoming roadkill. Had he done this on purpose? Was the kid playing some fucked-up game of chicken?
Except he wasn’t a kid: Rick got a decent look at the guy when he passed by the passenger side of the car. In his midtwenties most likely, tall and lean beneath faded jeans and a black hoodie covered by a green army jacket, the kid had close-cropped dark hair and surprisingly delicate features. He had a bit of beard on his chin, and Rick could see part of a dark tattoo on the kid’s neck creeping up from beneath his jacket.
Rick expected to get flipped off at best, or at worst thought the kid might stop and break in the car’s window with his board. He’d heard about boarders assaulting people with their boards, watched videos of it on YouTube, and there was that pile of broken glass a block back. Rick didn’t expect the kid to laugh at him.
Laugh, and applaud.
The kid actually clapped his hands together as he passed by Rick’s car.
Incredulous, Rick turned around in his seat and watched the boarder keep going the wrong way down the middle of the street. Another car a couple of blocks back switched lanes to get out of the boarder’s way.
What the fuck?
Who the hell did this kid think he was?
Rick was just starting to build up a nice healthy anger when his cell phone alarm went off again. The phone had slid down to the foot well on the passenger side, and Rick couldn’t reach the damn thing to turn it off.
The alarm brought him back to reality. He was late for his meeting, and his car was blocking both lanes of traffic. No one had been hurt, he hadn’t hit another car and except for a decent case of the shakes now that the shot of adrenaline had fled his system, not to mention his pounding head, Rick was basically okay.
He pulled the rental car over to the side of the road and unbuckled his seat belt so he could retrieve his cell phone. He placed a call, coming up with a bullshit reason why he was late for his meeting. Flight delays were always a good excuse.
Even as he turned around in his seat once more, straining for another look at the boarder who was long since gone, Rick knew he’d never tell anyone about this. He’d never forget it either. The kid had been playing chicken with him and Rick had lost.
The second time Rick saw the skateboarder, Rick had just finished buying his new client an expensive steak dinner accompanied by a couple of bottles of more expensive red wine.
The meeting had gone be
tter than Rick expected. The guy wanted to be told how wonderful he was, and Rick was good at that.
Rick was good at being whatever he needed to be to get the job done. He’d had years of practice at being the best son, the best husband, the best dad, the best damn everything everyone thought he should be. Never mind that when he closed his eyes at night, his wife asleep next to him on her side, her back to him, Rick beat himself off to visions of hard bodies and harder dicks. Never mind that the only times he could remember sex being truly great were the few times in strange cities when he’d run into another guy like himself—married with kids, deeply closeted with no intention of opening that door, ever—and they’d fuck each other’s brains out all night long, then leave without a word the next morning.
Rick had mementos of those few times: a matchbook from a bar or a piece of hotel stationery, or once a half-used bottle of shower gel to remember the feel of his cock buried deep inside some hot ass while steaming water beat down on his shoulders. No one but Rick knew what those things meant. He told himself it was enough.
Rick had left the rental car on the third level of a municipal parking garage, brilliant with fluorescent lights. He squinted against the glare, aware he’d had just enough to drink that he’d have to be careful with his driving. The client had downed most of the wine. Rick had poured the man into a taxi and sent him on his way home. The guy was regrettably one-hundred-percent straight, which meant Rick would be spending the night alone. Just as well.
The client was a good ten years older than Rick’s forty-three, not really Rick’s type.
Rick liked his men his own age or younger. He liked them muscular. He had enough of soft with his wife. He supposed he cared for her as a companion, as the mother of his children, whom he unabashedly loved. But his wife wasn’t fond of sex and especially wasn’t fond of hot, sweaty, hard sex. It made Rick’s out-of-town fuck fests rest easier on his conscience.
He heard the rasp of wheels on concrete when he was half a row away from his car. The boarders, three of them, rounded the row of cars at the top of the parking level and sailed past Rick. He was startled to recognize the kid from that afternoon’s game of chicken in the lead.
Only this time the kid wasn’t laughing.
What Rick initially took to be a race down the ramp soon proved to be something else entirely. The other two boarders caught up with the kid. One cut him off and the other shoved him from behind. Off balance, the kid crashed hard into the trunk of a gunmetal gray sedan. His board flew out from under his feet.
The kid grabbed at the car, trying to keep himself upright, even as the other two boarders came to a stop, kicked up their boards and stalked toward him. The menace in the hunch of their broad shoulders and the way they walked was unmistakable.
Fuck. Rick was about to witness a beating. Or worse.
He’d had just enough wine with dinner to make him reckless. He should have pulled out his cell phone and called 9-1-1. Instead he yelled, “Hey!” in what he hoped was a threatening manner.
Rick played football in high school—defensive lineman—and in college he had played all of three games before a low hit blew out his knee. He didn’t have the same kind of bulky muscle he’d had back then, but he kept himself fit. Even so, he’d have no chance against a couple of boarders if they decided to use their boards like baseball bats.
“Never let your opponent see fear on your face,” his long-ago high school coach had said. “The meanest motherfuckers out there? The guys who don’t back down. They’re the guys who win the game.”
Rick dredged up the old feeling of marching onto a football field. He stalked down the row of cars toward the skateboarders like he was setting himself against the opposing team’s offensive line. He had no idea what he’d do if the boarders turned on him, but he was in the game now. He’d made himself known. He wasn’t about to lose at chicken twice in one day.
“This ain’t your business,” the tallest of the attackers said. He was a pale-faced white kid, skull covered by a dark, knitted hat. He had on a dark hoodie and dark jeans and wore fingerless knit gloves on both hands. He would have been totally unremarkable if Rick had seen him walking down the street, just another white kid in his late teens trying to be cool, not a handsome face but not ugly, not goth kid or meth head or menacing.
Except for his eyes: the kid’s eyes were narrow and mean, and close set and devoid of emotion. Whatever lived in this kid had died a long time ago, and that made him as dangerous as any steroid-pumped football player.
Pale Face’s buddy, a hanger-on type if Rick had ever seen one, said, “Yeah. Go back to your Beemer, man, before you get yourself hurt.”
Rick spared Hanger On one withering glance, then turned his attention back to Pale Face. “Get the fuck out of here,” he said. “I already called the cops.”
“Right. Over this piece of shit?” Pale Face gestured with one hand at the kid who was slowly peeling himself off the trunk of the gray sedan. “Cops don’t give a crap about us.”
Behind Pale Face, the kid who’d played chicken with Rick on the road had finished dragging himself to his feet. He had blood on his forehead and more running down his face from his nose, but he looked steady enough. He was backing away from Pale Face and his buddy. At first Rick thought the kid was going to run, leave Rick alone with Pale Face and his grungy buddy, but he should have known better. The kid’s board had come to a stop against the back wheel of an SUV parked two slots away from the gray sedan. The kid was going for his weapon.
“Cops give a crap about me,” Rick said. He touched his suit jacket over his inside pocket. “Cell phone on speaker. Right where they can hear everything you say.”
“Bullshit,” Pale Face said, but Rick was close enough now to see the doubt in his eyes.
“Call my bluff,” Rick said. He felt more confident now, hyped up like he used to get right before he took down some running back heading for a hole in the line, pads smacking hard against his body leaving new bruises, but so jazzed he never felt any of it until hours after the game.
Even with the threat of cops, Pale Face wasn’t the kind of kid to back down. He had twenty years and a good twenty pounds on Rick, and he knew it. He sneered at Rick, took one step forward, and that’s when the kid, blood still running down his face, smacked Pale Face with the flat of his board.
The kid must have put his all into the swing. The blow struck the top of Pale Face’s shoulder. Rick heard the crunch of bone, and Pale Face let out a shriek as his right arm went limp.
“You fucking fag!” Pale Face yelled. He whirled around just in time for a second swing of the board to connect with a glancing blow to his chin. It was enough to spin Pale Face’s head around and send him down, body smacking the concrete with a bone-jarring thud.
If the blow had been dead on, it might have killed him.
“Leave me the fuck alone!” the kid yelled at Pale Face’s inert body, but it was pretty clear Pale Face was out for the count.
Hanger On started to make a move, but the kid raised his board again. Like true wimps everywhere, Hanger On turned tail and ran, putting one row and then another of parked cars between himself and the fight.
“Just leave me the fuck alone!” the kid screamed after him. “I’m nothing to you. I’m nothing to any of you.”
The kid’s chest was heaving. He still held his board like a weapon. He turned wild-looking eyes on Rick. “What the fuck do you want?”
Rick held his hands out, palms up, figuring it was as nonthreatening as he could make himself look. “Nothing. Not a thing.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I don’t like two on one, that’s all.”
But was it? He could blame his bravado on the wine, but Rick had thought about this kid on and off all day, and it wasn’t because the kid had beaten him at chicken. Or at least, it wasn’t just because the kid had called his bluff. When Rick had let his mind wander, it wasn’t the street scene he saw. It was the kid’s delicate features an
d that glimpse of tattoo peeking out from beneath his jacket.
Pale Face had called the kid a fag. It could have just been Pale Face’s insult of choice, but something about the whole encounter made Rick think it was more personal than that.
“Why were they hassling you?” Rick asked.
The kid wiped his face on his jacket sleeve, grimaced at the blood left behind on the green material. “None of your business,” he said.
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. I didn’t do anything except risk life and limb to save your ass.”
The kid inspected his board in the harsh fluorescent light. “Didn’t ask you to.” He frowned and rubbed at something on the board with his sleeve. “From my perspective, it looks like I saved your ass.”
Pale Face groaned and started to shift. Both Rick and the kid backed up, and that’s when Rick heard the first siren.
The kid frowned at him. “You really called the cops?”
Rick shook his head. “It was a bluff.” But this level in the parking garage was nearly full. It could have been anyone on the way to or from a car who called.
The kid dropped his board on the concrete, wheels down, then he cursed. Even Rick could see the encounter between board and Pale Face hadn’t left the board unscathed.
“I’d love to stay and chat,” the kid said, picking his board back up, “but the cops won’t care that that asshole started it. The last thing I want is to land my own happy ass in jail.”
“They see you leave, they’ll just chase you down.”
“Not if they’re busy arresting you.”
A stupid idea was forming in Rick’s brain. “I look like any other upstanding citizen. Don’t have a weapon or a scratch on me. You, on the other hand…” Rick gestured at the kid’s face. “You look like shit.”
The kid’s face tensed up. He glanced nervously in the direction of the siren. “Been a blast,” he said.