Ben Halpern and his bit on the side

Reader discretion is adviced, this story contain graphic content depicting violence which may not be suitable to all readers. This is a fictional story and do not portray real events or real persons.

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A flea in his ear from his dad for not already being hard at work was the least Ben could expect; and what his kind but unimaginative parents would think when they found out that their son had turned gay,- and that for all practical purposes overnight- didn’t bear thinking about right now. Frankly, it was a surprise to Ben himself. Still, late as he was, Ben drew comfort from the fact that once he had done the job at the Smiths on Milton avenue, Halpern senior would still grumble of course, but in the end had agreed to his son having a few days not at work.  

“I’ll message you in a few days” had been Ben’s parting words on Saturday morning as he hurriedly dressed, but still managing to pause between socks to kiss Oliver for the third time in as many minutes. Before heading for the door Ben gazed at his first ever male lover. Despite the afterglow of their night of passion and not least the feeling that Oliver’s manhood was somehow still filling his bum, Ben could hardly believe that he loved a man.

“A bit of business in Lincoln and I’ll be back.” He left a contented Oliver hugging the black bomber jacket.

As Ben set off for the Smiths and then to Lincoln and his, “bit of business in Lincoln”- whatever that was, Oliver Groves was on cloud 9, his heart and mind suffused with thoughts of his new love. By way of light relief Oliver’s news feed informed him that someone whom the national and local media had taken to calling ‘The Cat Burglar’ had struck again. This time in Grantham.

“What is there worth stealing in Grantham?,” the unkind asked aloud.

Meanwhile, 23 miles north of Grantham and some 33 miles east of Oliver in Skelthorpe, Ben Halpern was in an office on the 3rd floor of a nondescript looking Lincoln office block. Across from him, on the other side of the desk sat a heavy set man, his attention mainly on the six gold soup spoons, but occasionally on the young crook before him. The brown eyes. The styled spikey brown hair with its blond highlights stiffened Sidney Tate’s cock. They were alone now, Mr. Tate’s  associate banished to the outer office.

“Look at the George III monogram. Read the documents of provenance” Ben’s words recalled Mr. Tate to the business in hand. This was the second time the two had done business together. But something like this; these six gold spoons were something else. In America he could get £50,000 easily.

“In America these would sell for 50 grand” said Ben, enjoying the other’s fleeting look of surprise, “I’ve done my research.”

“My thoughts exactly young man. You have a deal Ben. £6000 it is then.”

Grinning with relief Ben leant forward offering his hand.

“There is however one small additional precondition; a personal favour to me if you like.”

It was Ben’s turn to looked surprised.

“But you have just said we have a deal.” Ben took a deep breath, knowing that he was turning pale. “You said it just now, seconds ago.”

“And we do, we do,” came tones of pained assurance. “It is just that most of my business associates are nowhere near you in the pulchritude stakes. So, simply put, if you want our deal, I want to see you naked. Here and now.”

At a loss as to what to say and realising that Mr Tate’s associate was in the outer office, between himself and the exit, Ben dismissed thoughts of simply grabbing the six gold spoons together with the documents of provenance and making a run for it.

Thoughts of Oliver, sexy, funny Oliver came to mind.

“I have a boyfriend,” he began softly. “Until I met him I was totally straight. He loves me and I love him.”

“Ahh,” replied Sidney Tate, equally softly. “Then I have the perfect solution. In return for an interlude of your naked society, I shall pay you an additional £1000. It’s not for nothing that people often say that I am an old romantic at heart you know.”

“Go fuck  yourself.” shouted Ben angrily, causing a figure to appear at the office door and to be waived away by Mr. Tate.

“I might be a crook and a thief,-and a pretty good plumbing and domestic heating engineer come to that. - But I am no whore.”

“Ahh,” Sidney Tate repeated, in another moment of meditation. “Then I shall keep the £1000; not pay you the £6000 and of course retain the 6 golden soup spoons, together with the documents of their provenance.”

On cue, the so recently waived away associate reappeared, an expression close to menace complimenting the sound of knuckles being cracked. Oh to have his mates from the Dog and Trumpet and the football terrace with him right now, thought Ben. But they were not.

“You win,” conceded Ben with as much dignity as he could muster. “You get 15 minutes; no touching and he fucks off.”

“20 minutes- and of course Dean here will withdraw.”

Ben nodded in silent agreement. The look of triumph, tinctured with libidinous anticipation on Sidney Tate’s face almost turned his stomach. But the passing thought that the safe in the corner would present no problem if ever the opportunity presented itself, was all the digestive calming Ben need. Besides, the fact that Mr. Tate was busily retrieving cash from its depth was a welcome indication that his side of the bargain would be kept.

A brief search of Ben’s capacious carnal memory bank brought to mind the sensual display he put on for Gina Ingleby during his first year as an undergraduate. As he  slowly writhed for Mr. Tate’s delectation and removed each thread of clothing, thoughts of Gina’s smile and sweet enthusiasm served as a welcome counter to the dead  eyed leering reality in front of him. From Gina, the cooing delight, the indications that Ben should twirl and display for her pleasure, served only to encourage his wish to please her. The way she manipulated his cock as his novice fingers fumbled at first and then with confidence explored her welcoming cunt, filled some part of his mind as Sidney Tate’s clambering hands roamed across his nakedness.

So much it seemed for Mr. Tate’s acceptance of Ben’s ‘no touching’ rule.

Oh hell! Oh fuck! The Tate hands and lips had dribbled and slavered across most of  of his face and chest in ten revolting minutes and now centred themselves on Ben’s muscular arse. The trough-like grunts that had punctuated much of the Mr. Tate usage of the hot piece of meat before which the snorting wheeler-dealer now knelt, became even louder. Ben winced as the kisses to his arse cheeks became soft bites; then harder bites. All the while Ben was noting the passing minutes. Mr. Tate had already exceeded his agreed 20 minutes.

Much as he had hoped that Gina might have rimmed him,-even though at the time Ben did not know that is what it was called,- she did not; and Ben was too embarrassed to ask her. A few years later, hours ago indeed, Oliver who clung to Ben’s bomber jacket in token of their love and his return, had been the first person ever to delve into Ben’s rear; to rim Ben and to do so with such a depth of love and appreciation. How different it was now, at this moment. Sidney Tate’s face and tongue was as far into the place where only Oliver Peter Groves had been; as deep into Ben as it was possible to get. To Oliver, Ben the straight man against whom their mutual friend Charli Stansfield had gently warned him, had happily given his anal virginity.

And here was the arrogant and entitled Sidney Tate, treating him like so much trash.

At least the cunt is still fully dressed Ben reflected silently, as it became clear from the noises centred on his arse that a Tate orgasm was at last imminent. But this comforting reflection ceased upon the instant as the dishevelled and self- satisfied anilingulist rose to his feet and moved to look Ben in the face.

“You’ve got some arse there Ben Halpern.” The voice spoke conviviality; the eyes, total contempt. “Whoever the man is who has made you one of us, is a lucky chap.”

“I’m nothing like you,” snapped Ben; “and nor is Oliver.”

“Hmm. So his name is Oliver is it?”

So saying, Mr. Tate grabbed Ben’s steel hard cock, gathered the nectar that is precum between his fingers and popped them into his mouth.

“Delicious,” he sighed, in a close approximation of sincerity. “Now to conclude this most agreeable part of our business, you are going to get those sweet lips around my needful cock and make me cum.”

Just for a moment, Sidney Tate thought that the younger and fitter man standing so close and so naked, was going to hit him. But he was an astute judge of character. He knew that whatever physical advantages and strengths Ben so manifestly possessed, the will to be violent towards others was not one of them. So that when the other swore at him, the very British Mr. Tate simply shrugged,- the way the French and the Fiorentines are often said to do,- and waited for the anger to subside.

“Look,” said he, as one offering consolation and understanding in the imperfect world the two criminals inhabited. “Before you leave here, I am going to shoot my load thanks to your attentive ministrations. Either that or Dean and another of my associates who await without, are going to beat you up. Now I realize that you are perfectly capable of defending yourself and of injuring them in the in the process. But you see for them, this would be in the nature of an in-house training exercise. Besides, they would win in the end of course.

“And your boyfriend,.. er… Oliver, I think you said. What would he make  of your hotness become all bruises and broken bones? Is he a natural Florence Nightingale, do you suppose?”

“You bastard. You know nothing of Oliver,  Mr. Tate. Mention Oliver’s name again and I’ll knock your teeth out before your two goons get through that door. For your own sake believe me!!”

In all his years of criminality Sidney Tate had seen the combination of hatred and determination that now held him in its gaze only once before.

“My, in the face of such righteous anger it would be imprudent I think not to believe you. However, your Oli…Pardon me, your lucky boyfriend, to one side, the substance of my proposal stands.”

“The £6000, plus the £1000?”

The older man nodded, “Indeed so.”

“Then I have one small change to make. I won’t give you head Mr. Tate. But for an additional 500 quid I’ll give you the best hand job you have ever experienced. Take it, or leave it, as you like. This change is not negotiable.”

In hardly the blink of an eye, the Tate features registered incredulity, followed by cold fury, and finally resolved themselves into a so an unaccustomed laughter that it drew Dean and another thuggish looking individual into the office.

“Get out! Get out! Shouted their boss gasping for breath as he tried to bring his mirth under control. Tears flowing down his cheeks and exclamations of “Ooo my diaphragm, my diaphragm,” to the fore, Sidney Tate eventually managed to compose himself.

“I admire your balls, by the Lord Harry I do,” he assured the naked young man adorning his office. “I haven’t been spoken to like that since I met the Chief Constable at a charity function last year. I accept your impudent proposal Ben Halpern.”

With some difficulty owing to spasms of the laughter that would not readily subside and a couple of false starts for the same reason, at length Sidney Tate was to be found naked from the waist down seated in a large armchair, with Ben on his knees in front of the delighted man.

Ben was as good as his word and more than his word.  

He took the not very substantial penis in hand, examining it with the same care and interest a connoisseur of such matters might bring to the task.  Sidney Tate thinking himself the centre of the spikey haired beauty’s universe sighed, cooed and simpered, as slowly Ben wanked the Tate appendage. Mr. Tate marvelled in gratitude. Ben had brought the often unresponsive cock to an extent of stiffness its owner was so very pleased to experience again, after what had been  a prolonged absence of such delights in his life. Oh what bliss it was to have a twenty something stud holding his manhood again and with such dexterity and skill, rekindling its potential. Mr. Tate’s entire frame tingled. His mind, his very being, centred on what Ben was doing to him. Not since  being fucked by that rent boy in Barbados had anything felt as good as this. And now unbidden, Ben’s lips closed around the revivified Tate cock. Ben’s tongue tantalized it’s unprepossessing length. Mr. Tate groaned with mounting enthusiasm as the first intimations of orgasm gathered. He panted. He attempted to complain when Ben’s oral attentions quite suddenly ended. But the complaint simply sounded like just another expression of rediscovered pleasure. Thankfully, his disappointment was but short lived. A heartbeat later Ben resumed the firm and rhythmic wanking, quietly, though not too obviously, he hoped, to bring  Mr. Tate to the much desired climax,-and with it an end to this near vomit inducing experience. His limited but entirely joyous experience of wanking off someone else was thanks to the good and lovely Oliver. Or had he first wanked off that guy he met in the cottage? It was all a blur. All that mattered about that day was that he had first met Oliver. How different then to the heaving lump Ben was wanking just now. It was clear that the point of no return was close. It occurred to Ben as he pretended an enthusiasm for the climax he was about to induce, that if bastard heaved, gurgled and screamed much more, he might actually die in the throes of an orgasm and heart failure.

Yet more noise from Mr. Tate there certainly was. But the accompanying orgasm did not prove fatal. Instead, it energised and delighted Sidney Tate and caused Ben to be covered in Tate semen.

As Sidney Tate punched the air in triumph and shouted for his two associates, Ben managed not to puke and grabbed the large handkerchief hitherto simply adorning the jacket of Mr. Tate’s Saville Row suite.

“Help yourself, why don’t you,” said the beaming Sidney Tate. “You were excellent,” he continued. “If there is ever anything I can do for you Ben, you need only say.”

Keeping on the man’s good side until he could get out of here with his £7500, was now Ben’s only priority.

“Thanks,” he replied lightly as he retrieved his clothing. “I don’t suppose there is a shower is there?”

“Only a washroom, stroke toilet, I’m afraid. As soon as I’ve done, it’s all yours.”

“Thanks again,” said Ben. Despite himself, he winced at the prospect of following Mr. Tate, dangly bits and all, into the washroom. He had winced and he noticed that the two associates who would beat him up if told to do so, saw him wince.

“You look and smell like a slut in a boy brothel,” announced Dean, with not a trace of humour.

“All thanks to your bastard boss’s poxy cum,” is what Ben wanted to say by way of a considered reply.

“Well, that’s life,” is what Ben actually did say and in tones of some joviality at that. At this moment, what he would not give for a pint of beer or three.

In the washroom, Ben sniffed his armpits and looked at himself in the mirror. The thuggish Dean was right. He did look and  smell like a slut in a boy brothel.

When Ben emerged from the washroom, he certainly did look and  smell a good deal more appealing: A small consolation. But a welcome one.

Digital age or not, in his present frame of mind Bank of England currency is what Ben wanted to see and touch. Dean was watching him, so he took care not to draw attention to himself as Mr. Tate took more money from a safe so uncomplicated it was an embarrassment to any thief who might happen upon it.

Still suffused with thoughts of the naked Ben and the mind blowing hand job of course, Sidney Tate was in an expansive mood.

“£7500 as agreed; PLUS an additional £500 as an extra special token of my esteem.”

He gasped for a moment, as a matron clutching her pearls: Ben was actually counting the money.

“Don’t you trust me?,” enquired Mr. Tate. There was genuine hurt in his voice.

“Well mate, it is like this: The more I count the money, the more I trust people.”

A kind of lull halted the earth’s orbit for a second before  Sidney Tate gathered himself. This time, the ensuing laughter had a distinctly mirthless edge to it.

“My, what a caution you are young Benjamin Halpern. For the second time Today, I find myself admiring your impudence, I really do.”

Ben’s response was a shrug. Not the insouciant French, or was it Fiorentine kind, Sidney Tate like to imitate. But one that wordlessly shouted contempt at him.

“A moment,” called Tate.

Ben turned. “What?”

“Are you the Cat Burglar by any chance?”

If Ben could have been bothered he might have laughed.

“You see young Ben, it occurs to me that breaking into Alscar House to steal these exquisite gold spoons from their rightful owners, was quite an achievement, don’t you think?”

“The owners are on an Adriatic cruise; their security was shit; and I hope their insurance company shafts them, is what I think.”

So saying and with a final glance at the safe, Ben left what during most hours of the day was the office of Sidney W. Tate Ltd, Investment Consultant. He paused before leaving the building. He already knew how he would get into the building. The CCTV system was easily overcome. Entry into Tate’s office was if anything easier than opening his Noddy and Big Ears of a safe.

I’ll have to act quickly, Ben resolved to himself. Members of his profession would be falling over themselves if they gave this building a second glance.

After what Ben had just been through the streets of Lincoln were a welcome embrace. He wanted a bath, a shower and a change of clothes to cleanse himself of every hint of Tate. A thought struck him and in minutes he booked a room for the night. The pub across the road looked inviting. Saturday afternoon shoppers were on their way home. It was too early for nightlife to get going and tourists, always a pocket picking opportunity, were heading for the coach or train stations, probably en route for Eastampton, Ben mused.

The Waitrose bag containing his £8000 safely in his holdall, Ben carried three pints of what passes for the city’s local beer and a double Bush Mills chaser, to a corner table. Tension drained from his bones. An attractive redhead of his own age came bearing a plate of sandwiches. For a few minutes he and she flirted gently and harmlessly with each other.

Now that he and Oliver were an item he assumed that he was not allowed to flirt with other men. But he had never-well hardly ever-did that anyway. Drinking his beer and being careful to eat his sandwiches, he wondered if he could still flirt with women, now that Oliver…

Oliver! Thoughts of Oliver made him smile- and he now discovered very much to his surprise,- made him blush as well. A shiver, the like of which Ben had never known before strolled rather than ran down his spine; and he knew it was not the drink. The shiver concluded its leisurely  progress and at that precise moment what he must do became vividly clear, in Ben’s mind.

Of course he realized  that he had got it all arse about face. He knew that now. He should have wooed Oliver; should have got to know him better before leaping into bed with him. Yes. But neither he, nor Oliver could have foreseen where their chance meeting hardly 3 weeks ago might lead. Not that Oliver can actually leap anywhere. But he could if I were holding him, came the happy realisation as Ben sipped the second pint. 

An enjoyment of alcohol and despite what some said to the contrary, his firm control of it, ensured that Ben was aware when it was the alcohol talking and not he. From this moment on, I am going to give up burglary and pickpocketing he resolved, with his first sip of the final pint.

Contemplatively he fed a ham sandwich to the licensee’s mongrel who genially patrolled the establishment in hope of just such happy instances as this. The last sandwich he munched himself. The money from his now abjured career, what of that? He could not give it back. He was not Mother Theresa  after all. Counting today’s £8000 Ben reckoned to have about 15 grand salted away. On finishing his whiskey, inspiration presented itself: 4 grand he would keep and the rest he would somehow give to his parents.

A dozen messages remained unanswered. None were important; or at least not as important as two he must now send. To Frazer Shaw went:

           ‘Need desperately to see you.

            Meet me tomorrow @ 3pm.

            Greenwood Park, Fixby.

            Lvya XXX

Almost instantly came the reply:

           ‘Well come home then u cock end.

             Im sure an old lady will see you

             across the busy rd if you ask nicely.

            Will be there. Uok? Where r U? XX.’

To Oliver, Ben texted:

        ‘I Love you Oliver Peter Groves. Love you. Love

        You. You have changed my life. Back Tuesday PM.

                      XXXXXXXXXXX’

He could with equal accuracy have added: ‘You have turned my life upside down.’

“Betsy says come again,” called out a member of the bar staff, indicating the dog who had shared his sandwiches.

Ben just saluted a friendly farewell as he left. An hour later, holdall as firm as ever in his grip he had purchased fresh clothes and was in a budget hotel room, glad of the solitude. In a few minutes he would step into the bath and the shower would wash away from his body all traces of the repellent Tate.  

An insistent knock on the door propelled Ben without hesitation. He opened it with care so that only his face could be seen. That was all it took. Seconds later he was pinned to the bed by two familiar figures.

“You are always fucking naked,” laughed Dean. Slaps sent stars and pain through Ben’s head. The other thug dragged Ben to his feet, whilst Dean struck again. This time a punch to the stomach  doubled up his choking frame. Tears formed and somewhere in his brain a voice told him belatedly not to let Tate’s men see him cry.

Ben flinched, but the expected blow did not come.

“What the shit do you want?”

Slaps across the face came as if in reply. Ben was no gym rat. Just a regular with Frazer Shaw mostly, to keep himself fit,- and until very recently,-the ladies interested. But as he absorbed the slaps, he realized that that is all they were.

“We waited like a real pair of fucking chumps, expecting you to turn up at the multi-story to drive home.”

To underline evident displeasure, a kick that landed mercifully off centre lost momentum and only made his rib cage shudder rather than crack.

“For Christ sake stop. Please stop. Take the money back. But please stop.”

“Best cool it,” said the 2nd thug. We don’t want to disturb the other guests and have plod taking an interest.”

“We are here to express the anger of Mr. Tate,” announced Dean, his face almost touching Ben’s. “You cheeked him, defied him, threatened him and took too much interest in his safe. So we are here to chastise you. And my colleague  who has even less good taste than I do, wants to fuck you.”

“No I don’t” the colleague replied so quickly that in other circumstances Ben might have felt offended.

“No he doesn’t” confirmed Dean. “I was just teasing the both of you. Now where is Mr. Sidney Tate’s money?”

“Holdall, Waitrose bag,” groaned Ben aware that as much as he hurt and was panting, the blur in his vision was reducing.

“You know it is not often Mr. Tate is moved to fury. If you had behaved yourself, he would not be taking back this money. Mr Tate wishes you to know how personally grieved he feels at this unhappy turn of events.”

The second Thug who was no fashion plate and was never fully reconciled to that unhappy fact of life stared with loathing. “You pretty boys are useless; Mr Tate said you would not fight back.”

To be continued.