“Yes. I think you just found a job, if you want it. No more sleeping on the floor or in the alley. No more stealing.” I squeeze a fuzzy buttock and tug tufts of fine cleft-fur. “My salary’s big enough for both of us. And maybe, if you’d like, you can start taking some classes at Tech. You’d make a fine forester or naturalist, country-wise as you are.”
“Yeah, maybe so. Y’gonna untie me? My hands are going numb.”
“In a little. First, I’m going to treat you to a lengthy rimming, and then a slow, deep finger-fucking. Then I’m going to screw you on your belly, your back and your side. After we’ve both cum, I’ll untie you. That all right with you?”
“Christmas comes early, huh?” Timmy sighs and rubs his ass against me. “Yep, it’s time you fucked me. I never told you about my real dad—he died when I was ten, and it’s still hard to speak of him—but…he was so good to me, so protective, so loving. When I realized I was gay—I was fifteen—I swore only a guy who was as kind to me as my dad used to be would ever be…inside me the way you’re wanting to be.”
I stroke Timmy’s asshole with my forefinger, then prod gently. “Damn, so you’re a virgin here?” I sigh. “I want you so badly that way, little man.”
“You got me. I’m ready to take your cock, sir. Just go slow, okay?”
“You bet, kid. I won’t hurt you.”
“Bryan, sir? Tomorrow, can we go for a walk along the New River Trail? If it ain’t raining? I miss the woods. There’s a great old white oak I want you to see. And the milkweed pods’ll be splitting open. Their seeds are like little puffs of fog.”
“Luring me into wild places, huh?” I caress a shaggy thigh. “My little satyr.” Rolling him onto his belly, I nudge wide his legs. I rub my beard over his ass before spreading his cheeks and burying my face in the soft dark crack-moss growing there. “Lead on, little man,” I whisper, tickling his clenched pink hole with the tip of my tongue. “Lead on. We’ll enter that forest together.”
THE HITTER AND THE STALL
Michael Bracken
I clamped my hand around the man’s wrist and squeezed until he whimpered and released my wallet, letting it drop back into my hip pocket. Without loosening my grip, I turned to face him. The subway riders crowded around us were oblivious to what was happening mere inches from them, and I spoke softly to keep it that way. “That’s a terrible dip.”
The slender young blond grimaced but also kept his voice low. “You’re hurting me.”
“You’re lucky I don’t break your wrist.” I showed him his wallet. “Or keep this.”
Astonishment overcame the blond’s pain. “How did you do that?”
I flipped his wallet open and thumbed his driver’s license out far enough that I could read his name and address. Then I thumbed it back into place, tucked his wallet into his shirt pocket and patted it lightly. “I have the gift, Sean.”
The subway slid to a halt and the doors opened. I slipped out with the other exiting passengers before the amateur pickpocket realized I’d released my grip on his wrist. I tried to fade into the crowd but he followed me anyhow and caught me at the top of the stairs. He grabbed my jacket sleeve. “Teach me.”
I examined Sean more carefully this time. At least twenty years my junior, he wasn’t big enough for strong-arm work. Even so, there was a certain spark of intelligence in his pale blue eyes, something I’d not often seen in the young punks more interested in snatch-and-grab opportunities than in the subtle art of dipping. Sean wasn’t bad on the eyes, either, and I suspected I could first teach him to be a stall, the same way an older hitter named Joey “Fingers” Johnson had taken me under his wing and taught me the trade when I was a young man. I asked, “What’s in it for me?”
“What do you want?”
“We can discuss it over dinner.” I’d been looping all afternoon, riding from one end of the subway line to the other, collecting hide along the way, and I was hungry. Even though I had a fat wad of cash tucked in a special pocket hidden inside my jacket that Sean never would have found even if he knew to look for it, I wasn’t about to reveal its existence. “Are you hungry?”
Sean nodded.
“Good,” I said. “You’re paying.” I handed him his wallet a second time, and this time I had stripped it of cash.
He stared at me. “How the hell did you do that to me again?”
I smiled. “There’s a deli at the corner. They make a good pastrami on rye.”
Without waiting to see if Sean would follow, I turned and headed up the block. He matched my stride and held the door open for me when we reached the deli. We ordered, found an empty booth in the back and sat with our sandwiches. The din of the busy deli prevented people around us from easily overhearing anything we might say.
“This is a terrible business to get into,” I explained. I was working twice as hard as twenty years earlier just to maintain my lifestyle. “Fewer and fewer people are carrying significant amounts of cash.”
“Cash is old-school,” Sean said. “I’m after plastic—credit cards, debit cards, gift cards.”
“You can turn those?”
“I know a guy.”
“We all know a guy,” I said. My leg brushed against his under the table. He didn’t pull away. “Can you trust yours?”
Sean shrugged. “So far.”
His cavalier attitude bothered me. It should have bothered me more but I was watching him eat—the way he wrapped his lips around the sandwich, the way he took the meat into his mouth, the way he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue between bites—and thoughts that had nothing to do with my profession distracted me. I shifted my leg, rubbing it against his in a way that could seem accidental, but he still didn’t pull away. I said, “You need to have a lot of faith in a guy like that. He turns on you and then where will you be?”
“Having my room and board paid by the state.”
“That’s why I prefer to stick with cash,” I said. “Less back-end risk.”
Sean leaned forward, “But you have to dip more often than I do,” he said, “which exposes you up front.”
Above the table we were having a conversation that may have been about fences and risk, but under the table our legs were having a quieter conversation, one that made my cock hard.
We talked—above the table and below—for several more minutes, then finished our sandwiches and stood to go. I dropped some of Sean’s money on the table before fanning the young blond. Fanning is the act of lightly touching a pocket to determine if it contains money or a wallet, but I wasn’t checking Sean’s pockets; I was determining the length, girth and firmness of his erection.
I was impressed and he didn’t even know it.
Once we stood on the sidewalk outside the deli, Sean held out his hand and asked, “Do I get my change?”
I ignored both his question and his outstretched hand. I didn’t like the idea of taking a stranger to my apartment, but if I wanted him I had no choice. “Follow me.”
My apartment was a third-floor walk-up above a two-story used bookstore three blocks from the deli, and the entrance was a doorway sandwiched between the bookstore and a pawnshop. The building didn’t inspire confidence, nor did the stairwell, but my living space occupied the entire top floor, with a large living room, eat-in kitchen, two bedrooms and large bath, all protected by a steel door with a serious deadbolt.
Once inside my apartment, Sean’s eyes widened. My ex-boyfriend had decorated the place, and he’d had impeccable taste. He’d also had my bankroll to work with.
“You didn’t get all this lifting wallets,” Sean said, as I closed and bolted the door.
The young blond standing before me was correct, but I didn’t admit it. Over the years I’d lifted many things: jewelry, bearer bonds and other easily fenced valuables, much of it when I was working with Fingers because it often required the work of both a stall and a hitter to walk off with purses, briefcases, courier pouches and other portable containers used to transport valuables. I had b
een working solo ever since Alzheimer’s made Fingers worthless even as a stall, and teaming with my own stall I could again target high-end marks. My cock had grown flaccid during the walk from the deli, but the thought of once again taking down big scores firmed it right up.
I pushed Sean back against the steel door, covered his mouth with mine and shoved my tongue down his throat. I slipped one hand between us and had Sean’s belt unfastened, his zipper open and his pants slithering down his thighs before he realized I had my fist wrapped around his cock. I could tell without looking that he’d manscaped his pubic hair into oblivion.
His cock quickly stiffened in my grasp and I pistoned my fist up and down the thick shaft. My weight pinned Sean to the door, and he could barely move his hips forward and back as I fist-fucked him. When he moaned in my mouth, I knew he was about to come and I quickly covered his cockhead with my hand. He came on my palm and when he finished ejaculating I wiped my hand on his shirt.
We shed clothes as I led Sean down the hall to the master bedroom where I kept a tube of lube and a box of condoms in the dresser drawer. By the time we reached the bedroom, we were both naked and I could appreciate his smooth, young skin; at the same time I realized that I had not manscaped in months, not since the night Leo realized exactly how I earned my living and declared that he would have no part of it.
Sean didn’t seem to care that I’d not groomed. In fact, my mansweater seemed to turn him on in a way that it had never excited my ex. I grabbed the lube and condoms from the dresser, spun Sean around so that he was leaning over the end of the bed, and slathered his ass crack with lube. Then I pulled on a condom and pressed the head of my cock against his slick sphincter. I grabbed his hips and held tight as I pushed forward, easing my cockhead into him. Then I drove my shaft deep inside Sean, pulled back and did it again.
I fucked him hard and I fucked him fast, slamming into the young blond again and again and again until I couldn’t hold back any longer. I drove myself into him one last time and then filled the condom with wad after wad of hot ejaculate.
When I finally pulled away, Sean collapsed on the bed. I disposed of the used condom and joined him, holding him in my arms until he unexpectedly fell asleep. Then I eased away from him and, while he slept, went through all of his pockets and examined everything in his wallet.
When I finished, I shook him awake. “You have to leave.”
“Why?”
“There’s supposed to be honor among thieves,” I said, “but I don’t really know you and I don’t trust you. Not yet. Maybe never.”
Sean rubbed his eyes and crawled out of bed. He pulled on his clothes and I walked him to the door. He was about to step onto the landing when he stopped and patted his pockets. He turned back and held out his hand. “My wallet?”
I handed it to him and he shoved it in his pocket, not even realizing that I’d examined everything in it and that I knew far more about him than he knew about me. He asked, “When will I see you again?”
“Tomorrow morning, early.” I told him what time and what subway station. “We’ll work the morning rush. I want to watch you dip.”
Sean was at the station awaiting my arrival the next morning. He’d already lifted two wallets and he showed me his paltry earnings: thirteen dollars and a stack of credit cards.
“Ditch the plastic,” I ordered.
“Why?”
“We’re going to spend the morning looping. We get caught with cash it’ll be hard to prove where we got it,” I explained. “We get caught with plastic there’ll be no doubt of its source.”
Sean reluctantly discarded the credit cards into the nearest trashcan when we walked past. “What’s looping?”
I glanced at my new apprentice. He didn’t even know the lingo.
“We’re going to ride to the end of the line, then to the other end and then return here,” I explained. Some subway lines are only good for morning and evening rush hour during the week, other lines are best on weekends, still others are packed on holidays when out-of-towners visit the city. Over time I would need to teach Sean the differences.
Once aboard, I watched him work the subway train, noted how he picked his marks, and saw how often he failed to come away with anything. At the same time I was watching Sean I was also dipping, sometimes even lifting wallets from marks he’d been unable to hit. When we stopped for lunch I dissected his technique, from how he selected his marks to his actual handwork.
People near Sean’s age are easy marks. Many of them wear earbuds, talk on cell phones, or are wrapped up in some other electronic device and pay no attention to their environment. Unfortunately, they were weaned on plastic and are the least likely to carry cash. The best marks are older people who came of age before the universal acceptance of credit and debit cards, who grew up paying cash and still often do, and who can tell a cashier their change before the cashier can get the answer from the register.
I explained all this to Sean over tuna salad on wheat. He ate a heavier meal despite my observation that it would weigh on his stomach and make him lethargic by midafternoon.
After lunch we returned to the subway and I taught him how to spot players and the jostling squad—fellow pickpockets and the police—and made him watch me work. He did, indeed, get tired midafternoon, but he also learned fast, and soon I had him working again. During the afternoon I fanned the crotches of a few attractive men, and I copped a good feel of Sean’s crotch when we neared our last stop of the day, using a heavy touch so that he knew what was on my mind.
I took him back to my apartment, and we went directly to the master bedroom, where removing our clothes caused only a momentary delay. Sean dropped to his knees in front of me, cupped my heavy ball sac in one hand and held my stiff shaft with his other hand as he leaned forward and took the swollen mushroom cap between his lips. He painted my cockhead with his tongue and then slowly took my entire length into his mouth. As soon as I felt his warm breath against the dark tangle of my crotch hair, he pulled all the way back until his teeth caught on my glans.
He did it again and again, kneading my balls at the same time. Sean’s oral skills were like his pickpocketing skills—they were effective but lacked finesse—and soon I wrapped my fingers in his short silky hair and held his head as I began pulling my hips back and pushing forward, meeting his descending face with each of my thrusts.
When it became obvious I was about to come, Sean squeezed my balls together and I slammed into his face one last time, spewing thick wads of hot ejaculate against the back of his throat. He held my rapidly deflating cock in his mouth until it stopped spasming, and then he pushed himself to his feet.
I wasn’t completely satisfied and my cock rapidly regained its former stature. I grabbed the lube and condoms from my dresser drawer, spun Sean around and took him from behind, just as I had the previous day. This time, though, Sean’s cock was hard when I entered him. As I pounded into his ass, he took his own cock in his fist and beat a staccato rhythm in opposition to the steady pounding he was receiving from behind.
He came first, spewing ejaculate across my carpet, and then I came, filling the condom and holding his ass tight against my crotch until I could easily pull away. I discarded the cum-filled condom and then we fell across the bed together.
We talked about the things Sean had learned that day, and we talked about the things he had yet to learn. He was eager, undisciplined and lacked the gift to be a truly great hitter. But he could develop into an excellent stall, a great lay and a partner in all things.
I looked into his pale blue eyes and smiled.
There’s so much I can teach Sean, in the subway and in the bedroom, and I know we have a lifetime of adventures ahead of us.
THE OUTLAW PAULIE CREED
Dale Chase
Paulie Creed is a wanted man and, as a lawman, I have a duty to pursue him. Problem is, I am a sheriff looking for more than justice. A newspaper account of his return to Arizona by way of holding up the Citizen’s Bank
in Benson brings on a recollection that gets my dick up to such extent I leave my deputy in charge of the office and go home, where I strip naked and indulge myself for some time.
Creed has to be twenty-two now, but I’d venture he still looks much the boy I knew four years back, the wild boy I fucked until I thought I’d expire, the wild boy who can kill a man so many ways.
I do not know if life turned him wild or he was born clawing, but his widowed Ma lost control early on. She managed to teach him reading and writing and get a few books into his head before he killed a man who fooled with her. He was fourteen, the golden child who took to guns and horses like he was born to the life.
An outlaw from then on, he made his name as a good shot, a ruthless killer and at times a most entertaining fellow. He rode with various low characters and did two years in a Colorado prison before he came to Globe, Arizona in 1884, back when I was Marshal there. I should have arrested him on sight but I was so taken with him laughing it up in the Silver Dollar Saloon that I held off. I’d been Marshal but a year and sought to keep the peace rather than tear it up, thus I studied him and his cohorts who played cards while I remained at the bar.
I had seen his picture on wanted notices, but none did him justice. It took light to make that golden hair shine, a riot of curls that set off his ruddy color and blue eyes. His fine features were smudged with dirt like some child resistant to washing and his laugh was infectious, all around him having a fine time by way of his antics.
I had known a good many men in a carnal manner, but here was one who drew me to him without any effort on his part. He could scarcely sit still which led me to believe him pent up, his young balls full of spunk. He’d be good for two or three rounds, maybe more, and though I was seven or eight years older, I knew I could give him just that. As I looked on, I reached down to arrange my privates as my dick was now stiff as a gun barrel.
Wild Boys Page 4