Hooch and Cake

by Heidi Cullinan

  “Oh, I think I could, yes.” Randy’s voice was silk, and he made Sam gasp, fucking his fingers in and out of Sam’s ass. “And you want Mitch watching that happen to you, don’t you, Peaches?”

  Sam’s voice was strained. “Yes. I do want that. Please.”

  “Then I guess I’ll have to give it to you.” There was a sharp slap of a hand against flesh, and Sam startled. “Going to give you something right now, honey. Shimmy forward between the front seats as best you can and stick your ass in the air and spread your knees.”

  Mitch saw Sam’s flush of eagerness in the rearview mirror, but also his wariness. “What if people see—?”

  “I’m putting the coat over your ass. No worries.” Randy pinched Sam’s ass. “Go on.”

  Sam crawled forward—and then Mitch wasn’t watching Sam in the mirror anymore. He had only to glance to the side, because Sam was right beside him, flushed and breathing hard, holding himself up on his forearms as Randy maneuvered the rest of him behind.

  He gave Mitch a shy smile. “Hi.”

  Mitch winked and reached over to tweak his nose. “Howdy. What’s up, Sunshine?”

  “Not sure yet. I—Oh.” Sam’s cheeks colored and his mouth fell open, his pupils dilating.

  Mitch combed fingers through Sam’s hair, petting him then settling in as a gentle anchor. “Tell me what he’s doing to you, baby.”

  Sam’s voice was shaky, occasionally breaking. “He’s sucking the inside of my—oh—thigh, but he has…two fingers in me, and…” He stopped to grip the armrest. “He’s tugging on my balls.”

  Mitch growled in approval and tightened his grip on Sam’s hair. “He fucking you with those fingers?”

  “Not…not yet. Just spreading and turning—oh. Ah!” Sam shut his eyes as his body was thrust forward. “N-now he is.”

  Mitch checked the mirror and saw Randy positioned behind Sam, arm working hard beneath his coat, which was draped over Sam’s backside. Mitch nearly purred. “He using lube on you? Getting you good and wet?”

  “L-lots of—oh God—lube. Jesus.” Sam gasped, his breath punctuated by the thrusts coming at his body. “So wet.”

  “He got more fingers in you now?”

  “Yes. Three, I think.”

  “Gonna go for four once you get slick enough. Let you feel my knuckles in there.” Randy’s voice was sleek as sin. “Still working his balls, though. He likes that, don’t you, Peaches?”

  Sam nodded. Mitch dared a glance at him, heart skipping a beat as he saw the telltale glaze on his lover’s face. Sam was going under. Hard.

  Full of love, Mitch massaged the top of Sam’s head. “Answer him, baby. Tell Skeet you like it when he works your balls.”

  Sam answered dutifully, as if from somewhere far away. “I like it when you play with my balls, Randy.”

  “You’re getting all worked open. You’re a good little slut, Sam. You like being Randy’s slut, honey?”

  Sam’s lips parted on a soft sigh as Randy started thrusting once more. The way Sam’s body shuddered told Mitch he’d added that last finger. “I love being his slut. For you.”

  Mitch cast his eyes to the road again, but his heart was beside him, wrapped up in Sam getting finger fucked between the seats. He let his fingers trail down Sam’s cheek, over Sam’s mouth.

  Sam kissed the digits, then sucked them into his mouth and whimpered around them as Randy continued his torture.

  Once they entered Middleton, Sam extricated himself from Randy and buttoned himself up, trying to play it cool, even though he was shaking and clearly anything but collected. Mitch parked in their alley parking space, and as he carried Randy’s suitcase up the stairs, he watched Sam squirm away from Skeet all the way into the apartment, whispering hotly about the neighbors.

  They’re going to explode the second they get in the door. Mitch grinned and adjusted the chub in his jeans.

  Explode they did—as soon as they were inside, Randy pushed Sam face-first into the hall wall, where Sam swore, then moaned as Randy stripped Sam’s jeans to his ankles and went to work on his ass, sucking at his flesh. Mitch shut the door, locked it, and pulled up a chair to watch.

  Nobody gave a show like those two, and nobody loved a front-row seat more than Mitch. The sex was hot, yes—he’d always loved playing voyeur. But with Sam and Randy, it was something special. It was the way Mitch could see, because he knew them both so well, how they let go with one another. In the year since Mitch had moved in with Sam, they’d been together three times, twice in Vegas, once on an un-fucking-forgettable trip to Florida. Every time Mitch could see how much Randy both loved and feared Sam. How much he loved that he could be himself, asshole and all, with Sam—and how much he worried any second now Sam would cut him off. That fear came out in the way he dominated Sam, a kind of desperate terror Mitch wasn’t sure Sam consciously realized and yet still responded to.

  It had been three months since their last hookup with each other, and they were pretty intense.

  Randy ate Sam out for a good ten minutes, spreading Sam naked against the wall and licking his hole lazily while Sam pleaded at him to fuck him, sobbing when Randy only spread the opening with his hands and stuck his tongue inside.

  “Please, Randy.” Sam’s whole body shook now. “Please let me come.”

  “Blow me first,” Randy ordered, pulling away from Sam’s ass and rising, leaning against the wall lazily.

  Sam clambered to undo Randy’s jeans and fumbled for his dick like he was a kid unwrapping a long-sought Christmas present. When he finally freed it, he cried out, then fell onto it with a grunt, sucking and moving fast—but he also cast his gaze up to Randy, because that was what Randy had trained him to do.

  “Good boy.” Randy watched him idly, resting a hand on Sam’s hair, occasionally holding his head in place to force the cock deeper, longer into his throat. “You look good with a cock in your throat. A proper slut. Maybe later tonight I’ll make you kneel in front of me, and then I’ll fuck your mouth with a fat dildo for an hour. Make your mouth good and swollen, baby. As swollen as your ass is. You can feel that, can’t you? Your poor ass, stuffed full of fingers for an hour. Now it’s going to be pounded by dick. And you want it, don’t you, Peaches? You want me to make your ass even more swollen, baby?”

  Sam groaned around Randy’s cock, sucking it harder, taking it to the root.

  Now Randy trembled, but he laughed too, pushing Sam away. “You can’t make me come yet, sweet thing. I’m coming in that ass of yours.” He bent and slapped it. “Hands and knees, facing your man. Let him see your show while you get fucked.”

  Mitch didn’t smile as Sam arranged himself, arms and legs shuddering with want. Mitch was too focused on the scene, too turned on by the knowledge Sam was seriously under Randy at the moment, so far gone he’d do about anything Randy told him to do. Mitch was also aware, however, that Sam was hyper-fixated on him, that though he was following Randy’s commands, it was Mitch he watched, Mitch he stared at glassy-eyed as Randy pushed into him and began to fuck. He never looked away, closing his eyes only as he orgasmed, but he met Mitch’s gaze again as Randy finished inside him, and as Randy pulled out to dispose of the condom, it was Mitch Sam leaned on, shaking and soft, still staring up at his face.

  Not once had Mitch asked for that devotion. Not one time had Sam ever failed to give it to him.

  Once Sam was less sensitized and could take another pounding, Mitch took his turn at his lover’s ass, a perfunctory fucking, except he had Sam face Randy this time. That quickly degenerated, since Randy didn’t like watching, he liked doing, and so soon Sam had Randy’s cock in his mouth while he had Mitch’s in his ass. Once everyone was sated and cleaned up, all fell into the bed in a tangle.

  Sam, who’d finished a huge exam that morning, passed out in a wink. Mitch dozed for a minute, but when he woke and heard Randy in the kitchen, he shut the door to the bedroom so he could have a heart-to-heart with his oldest friend.

  Randy didn’t tu
rn around as Mitch came in, opening and shutting cupboards. “All right, wise guy. Where are the coffee filters?”

  “Canister beside the fridge. The one that says sugar.”

  Randy snorted and opened it. “Guess that answers my question about whether or not I have to go to the store to make my apple pie for Thursday.”

  “We have sugar. It’s in a bag on the round-and-round thing in the corner.” When Randy gave him a murderous look, Mitch sideways smiled and took a seat at the breakfast bar. “You can rearrange. Just let Sam know what you’ve changed. It’s been madness here since Emma moved out. He’s always at school, and I’m always on the road. Don’t say anything about the apartment. He cleaned like crazy, or tried to, but I made him stop last night to study.”

  As Mitch expected, this softened Randy, and he glanced worriedly at the closed bedroom door. “Tell me about this wedding planning. Give me every detail about what’s gone wrong and why.”

  Mitch explained about the money, the venue, and the guest list as Randy started a pot of coffee brewing. “It doesn’t help that his best friend is also planning a wedding and having exactly the opposite experience. Mom all involved, three-hundred-person guest list they’re trying to whittle down to two-fifty, nobody looking down their nose when they book a place.”

  “You do know you can make a fuss if people refuse you service, right?”

  “Yeah—but they’re not saying no. If they did, it’d be better. I’d send a note to one of those gay blogs, and the whole world would be up in arms in ten minutes. They don’t say no. They say absolutely but with their mouths in a pucker. Let me tell you, that’s ten times worse.”

  Randy grimaced as he poured two cups of coffee, passing the first to Mitch. “I wish you could just come to Vegas. I could plan a wedding in ten minutes that would make you fifty friends for life, and you’d never wish you had anything different.” He took a sip of his coffee and stared hard at the far wall as he tapped his fingers absently on the mug. Eventually he sighed and put the mug down. “One crisis at a time. Am I right in assuming there’s no plan yet for Thanksgiving dinner?”

  “That would be a correct assumption. Sam’s got school through Wednesday, and his days are long with a lot of homework in the evenings, plus hours at the pharmacy. I gotta head out Sunday afternoon for a run to Dallas, and I’m going to try to get another gig from there if I can. I’ll be back by Wednesday night for sure.”

  “Jesus Christ. Is this how you two’ve been living?”

  Mitch shrugged. “Not much else to do. Rent’s a bitch, and so’s his aunt. He graduates at the end of next summer, but that means he’s got to work like hell until then, both at school and at the pharmacy. And so do I.”

  “You guys are pieces of work, you know that?” Randy sighed. “Don’t worry about Thanksgiving, obviously—and don’t worry, period. I’ll get it straightened out. Fairy-god-gay, at your service.”

  Mitch wanted to hug him, but he settled for a coffee-cup salute. “Thanks, Skeet.”

  Randy glanced at the closed bedroom door, heat coming back into his gaze. “So. You’re going to be gone three days, and I’ll be here alone with Peaches. What are the rules, Old Man?”

  “Whatever he tells you.”

  Randy laughed. “God, you’re so cheesy.”

  Happy, Mitch thought but didn’t say, because now that they were in front of each other again, he could see that Randy wasn’t.

  “Rules are whatever he tells you he wants to do.” Mitch rose and clapped his best friend on the shoulder. “Wouldn’t mind getting some dirty pics on the road, though.”

  Chapter Two

  AS THE WEEKEND of his arrival in Iowa unfolded, Randy Jansen digested the depth of quiet misery his friends had sunk into.

  Only a little of Sam and Mitch’s despair was because of work, school, and wedding stress, no matter how they tried to pass it off as such. Most of it was the acute torture that came with living in a small town. They could pretend they liked living here, that they had assimilated, but the truth was, they hadn’t, and they weren’t happy. And that made Randy unhappy.

  They were sure pigheaded about the topic, though. When Randy tried to bring up the idea that perhaps this was not the perfect place for them after all, that maybe they should acknowledge Iowa’s flaws, Mitch only said Middleton couldn’t hold a candle to his hometown of McAllen, Texas, which, while true, didn’t mean shit. Hell came in an assortment of shapes and sizes, most of it hating the fuck out of a rainbow.

  It was clear, too, from watching Sam in the grocery store and at his favorite Mexican restaurant, that the carefree young man Randy knew in Las Vegas and on the road was someone else entirely in Middleton. Randy didn’t care for this Sam: nervous, embarrassed of himself in a way that made it abundantly clear why he’d been so hesitant about his kink. Mitch wasn’t as affected, but it was clear he too felt the pressure of a small town. Head down, out of the way, don’t invite trouble.

  Fuck. That.

  Randy saw Mitch off on Sunday night, watched some bad TV with Peaches, and snuggled him in bed—without sex.

  “I know he said it was okay to fool around without him here, but it feels like cheating to me.” Sam blushed as he said this and looked up guiltily at Randy. “I’m sorry.”

  Randy kissed his forehead and held him tight enough to let them feel each other’s erections. “That’s all right. I don’t mind.”

  Sam sighed, settling into Randy’s embrace. “Well, I think Mitch will. He wanted pictures. And don’t forget he said point-blank on the way out the door he wanted some marks on my ass when he got back.”

  “Then I guess you’ll have to let me bully you into baring your ass, won’t you, and sending some naughty pics that don’t involve me touching you. And I’ll have to put the marks on you with a crop.”

  Sam shivered. “We don’t have a crop, though. Mitch always uses his hands, because that’s how I like it.”

  “I brought a crop and a cane in my carry-on.” He pinched Sam’s ass. “Mmm, that’s going to make a nice picture. You with your pants down, the crop in your mouth. Looking up at the camera all desperate, your cock swinging.”

  Sam squirmed. “Randy.”

  They did take exactly that picture, which Randy sent to Mitch with the added comment, I also brought my cane.

  Mitch replied within fifteen minutes. Pic with that next.

  Randy sent Mitch several more pictures that night, and a video of him using the cane over Sam’s jeans—then one last pic of Sam’s reddened ass when they were done. Once Mitch got to a rest stop, Sam shooed Randy away and had a private Skype session with his fiancé, one that Randy could hear even when he went to stand on the balcony. He went to bed blue-balled beside a sore but sated Sam.

  He didn’t mind. He told himself he’d channel his sexual frustration into keeping his mind sharp, planning his attack.

  He launched into it Monday morning, in total stealth. He fixed Sam breakfast and made jokes about sack lunches coming as soon as he could get to the store. Then he dropped Sam off at community college, waving and promising to pick him up at four thirty.

  Once his charge was safely tucked away at school, Randy set off to unpack the nasty little town full of good people who liked to judge kinky boys.

  He started with a self-guided tour, which didn’t take long. The town was not much more than a postage stamp. Randy went through the downtown then followed the highway north to the high school. He drove out to Cherry Hill, which he knew from Sam was where his aunt and uncle lived. He scoped out the mini-mall, the farm implement store. When he spied the grocery, he parked and went inside, emerging forty-five minutes later with five cloth bags full of food. After a stop at the apartment to put everything away, he set an alarm to make sure he didn’t miss Sam, and then he locked up the apartment and went, on foot, into the belly of the beast.

  Downtown Middleton was, as far as Randy could tell, Mayberry. It was the sort of cute village he’d pined for as a kid until he got old enough to
spy the cancer lurking beneath such places. The streets were tidy, the storefronts homey, but lift the lid and you found mold right away. Which was sad because there was real color and all kinds of potential in the town. Middleton was about fifteen thousand people, the county seat and a metropolitan hub for the stream of microscopic towns surrounding it. It had two high schools, public and private (Catholic), a community college, and a vibrant amateur theater. It had a coffee shop that whispered of hippies and book clubs.

  The residents were, to Randy’s surprise, not entirely white, but also Latino and a small representation of African-Americans. The ethnic groups didn’t mix with each other, instead living in weird parallel versions of the town. Different neighborhoods, different streets for their businesses, different groups of kids loitering around parked cars or walking down the street.

  The white people, no surprise, were the source of most of Middleton’s skunkiness. They did their best to pretend it was 1950 or at least a world without competitive commerce: there was a furniture store where everything was overpriced as hell, a clothing store which was more of the same, and four kitschy antique stores. The proprietors regarded Randy suspiciously as he browsed their merchandise, though that was nothing compared to the tension when a person of color drifted inside. Smiles were reserved for Caucasians and people who could be in Tea Party ads. Which meant the shop owners rarely smiled, because these patrons were few and far between.

  Down side streets, however, were Latino stores that thrived. Randy discovered a Mexican grocery and a bakery, both overflowing with happy customers of all races chattering in Spanish and English. A Mexican general store with every sign in the window in Spanish clearly did brisk business as well. There were several Mexican restaurants and a bar, and the Latino businesses had young, aggressive shopkeepers welcoming anyone with money to spend.

  The hub for angry old white people was the Middleton Cafe, which was retro-chic only because it hadn’t once been updated, only the prices on the menus increasing. Randy spent an hour there reading The Des Moines Register and The Middleton Herald Leader as well as the PennySaver while he had an early lunch and eavesdropped. He heard an almost perfect robotic rehashing of the latest conservative talking points from one table, and some idealistic garbage from a pack of retired do-gooding liberals in a booth behind him. The whole room was nothing but theory and wishes about what was wrong with the world and how things could be fixed if people would only do this, that, or the other thing, or if so-and-so would die/get out of the way. The local newspaper was more of the same, and for that matter the opinion pages of The Register weren’t much better. Everybody practiced armchair governance and revolution.