[This series has five chapters and will post by the middle of March 2016]
“Hi ya,” Mr. Leighton.
Rob Leighton looked up from helping his daughter, Muriel, climb up onto the dock from his fishing boat and waved at the tall, lumbering young man walking south on Lafayette Street back toward Cape May proper.
“Hi to you, too, big guy,” Rob called back. “Hot day. You have to walk all the way back to the antique shop? If so, maybe we can give you a lift.” He looked around with a questioning look at his wife, Madge, who was about to hand the younger daughter, Maia, up to her husband on the dock. She was frowning slightly, but she nodded her head imperceptibly.
“Naw, thanks, Mr. Leighton. Only going as far as the house. The bosses didn’t want me at the shop today. They were getting some china in and said I was needed to do something at the house.”
Rob could almost hear Madge let out a breath of relief.
“Well, you be careful now,” Rob called back. “If that’s where Tim and Alfred want you to be, guess you should be there.”
“It’s OK. They said I could come and see the whale-watching boat come in. I like that boat. I like your boat too. It’s--”
“That’s good to hear, Luther. The Spirit of Cape May is a nice boat. We’ve got to get the girls back to the house now. It’s been nice talking to you.”
Luther stood there, big feet on strong legs planted firmly on the Lafayette sidewalk separated from the Cape May Harbor wharf by a parking lot where Rob and Madge were now bundling their daughters and Rob’s fishing gear into an old station wagon. The young man’s jaw was working like he wanted to say something else but couldn’t think what it was--and thought that maybe it was something he shouldn’t say. He swayed a bit back and forth, at least in front of Rob’s wife and his daughters. He didn’t want Mr. Leighton to be mad at him.
As the station wagon drove away, Madge looked at Rob, started to say something, seemed to think better of it, but then did speak. “I’m sorry to say I’m glad he didn’t take the ride, Rob. He frightens me.”
“He’s harmless, Madge. And he’s a good kid; he means well.”
“He isn’t a kid anymore, Rob. Something needs to be done about him. He’s a young man now, and he’s nearly on his own. What’s going to happen when he gets older? He can’t cope. And there’s been talk. I don’t want the girls--”
“The talk is just because he’s always been slow, Madge. And he’s so big. Tim and Alfred have taken him on at the antique shop and have let him live in those rooms behind the workshop behind their house. He’s being taken care of. I think he’s coping just fine.”
“Tim and Alfred are hardly the influence anyone would want for that young man. If his mother were still alive--”
“She’s not alive, though, is she? And she probably was too protective of him. Someone should have been working with him from the time he was young. But she wouldn’t let anyone near him. I don’t think he’s even that retarded. Just slow. He’ll be OK.”
“Well, all the same, I’m just as glad we didn’t have him in the car with the girls,” Madge said. She crossed her arms tightly on her chest. “And mark my words, something’s going to come to a head with that young man. I don’t like some of the rumors I’ve heard. Not at all.”
As the station wagon drove past him, Luther turned his head south and started the trudge to Tim and Alfred’s house on Washington Street. When he passed the H&H Seafood House before approaching the bridge over the waterway to the inner harbor and before turning east on Texas Avenue, the vision of his mother, Sally, rose into his brain as it always did when he passed where she’d been a waitress for thirty years, and Luther smiled.
His mother had always been very good to him. When they’d told her Luther was different from other boys and needed to go to a special school, she’d shamed them into keeping him in the Cape May school and giving him extra help. It wasn’t her fault the extra help hadn’t been enough, and when everyone at the school sighed with relief the third time he didn’t get into the eighth grade and Sally just pulled him out and set him to refinishing furniture at home, he’d stopped worrying about life. The kids at the school had made fun of him. He was always big and clumsy. He wasn’t ugly or grotesque. Far from it. He was much too good looking and well built for his own good. Part of the sigh of relief at the school was that girls were noticing him--and a boy or two also--and were getting entirely too interested in the big-bodied, older boy in their classes.
He had developed quickly and it soon became apparent he had an attribute that could get very embarrassing at the school and that, although he would be a natural at football when--no, if--he got into middle school, it might not be the best idea if he was in locker room conditions with the other boys--and certainly not where any of the girls could see him.
Luther’s name came from his father, who hadn’t been around for more than a couple of days of Luther’s life, having been not-too-gently convinced to leave town by dock workers in the harbor who were none too pleased with a big, strapping black man courting a white woman so intensely. He stayed around long enough for Sally to have gotten pregnant, however. You wouldn’t have known that Luther had any black in him, though--unless you saw him undressed, which became a challenge for his schoolmates to accomplish. The one attribute that Luther inherited from his father was male equipment that was decidedly darker than the rest of him. And the ease with which Luther’s father had gotten his way with Sally might have resulted from the size of his equipment, a trait that Luther also inherited.
It was upon this unusual attribute that many of the rumors about Luther as he grew older were based, although, despite the fears of many Cape May parents, as yet none of their daughters had come forth with news they didn’t want to hear.
When Tim and Alfred had agreed to take Luther on at their Pink Poodle antiques store in a pink Victorian house in the tourist area on Decatur Street, more than one father had told them in no uncertain terms to keep a tight rein on the young man. The two store owners, who lived together in a white Victorian house in the less-touristy area of Washington Street, stepped up to the task.
Because he was big and a little clumsy, they had been reluctant to let Luther near their antique store. But they were careful to keep the lumbering giant away from their rooms filled with more delicate antiques. And in spite of the dangers of having him around, Luther had learned well the craft of furniture refinishing, so they put him to work in the workshop behind their house and in the storerooms at the antique store.
* * * *
“Luther, Luther, Lumbering Luther.”
The taunting litany started as soon as Luther turned onto Texas Street. He was only four blocks from home, though, so he tucked his chin in, set a slight scowl on his face, and kept walking.
“How ya hangin’, Luther? Show us how you’re hangin’,” the taunting continued.
There were four of them, young guys walking back toward the town from the technical college that was located near where Ocean Avenue split off from Lafayette. They had attended the elementary school where Luther had been a student for a couple of years longer than the standard and still hadn’t moved up, but they weren’t the brightest bulbs in the chandelier either. He’d failed to get into the eighth grade, but they had barely managed to get out of the twelfth.
There were actually five of them, but the fifth young man was hanging back. He’d been walking several paces behind the other four anyway, but when they started taunting Luther, he stopped in his tracks and just watched.
One of the youths picked up a rock from the side of the road. And then another one did. Looking at each other, wanting the other youth to initiate that attack, they both went into a grin. “One, two, three.”
Only one of the rocks hit Luther, but it hit him in the chest as he turned to see what they were doing, and it was sharp-edged, tearing his shirt and making blood start to seep across his white shirt front.
“Hey, watch out,” the fifth youth called out. “There’s a police car coming.”
The four taunters evaporated, and Luther swiveled his head, looking for the police car. He liked watching the police cars cruising around. He preferred watching fire trucks, but they didn’t cruise around much.
“I don’t see no police car,” he called out, his voice full of disappointment.
“There isn’t one. I just wanted the guys to stop throwing rocks at you.” The young man was approaching Luther. He put his hand on the giant’s arm when he reached him. “You look like you’re hurt.”
“I go home now anyway. I have bandages. I have a real first aid kit in the workshop.” Luther was beaming like someone had just given him a hospital.
“I’ll come with you and make sure it gets bandaged properly . . . if that’s OK with you. It will be a little difficult for you to bandage your own chest, I think.”
“Well, OK. Tim and Alfred don’t like me to have people at the house. But OK, I think.”
“My name’s Keith,” the young man said, as they turned and branched off south onto Washington Street from Texas.
“My name’s Luther.”
“I know,” Keith said. “I’ve wanted to meet you.”
When they got to Tim and Alfred’s house, Luther guided Keith around to a building in back. He looked around to see if anyone was watching. With the rhythm of each step on the way to the house, Luther’s mind was repeating “No visitors,” the litany that Tim and Alfred had drummed into him for months when he’d first come there. He was afraid that someone might see Keith and him and tell Tim or Alfred--especially Alfred, who got angry so easily--that he’d let someone in the workshop without their permission.
From the kitchen window of the house just to the north of Tim and Alfred’s house, old Mrs. Watson watched the two young men going to the building at the back of the house and took note of Luther looking furtively around. She pursed her lips and shook her head. She had been very displeased when she’d heard those two men--she always thought of them as “those two men” with a little sneer when she said the word “men”--were bringing the young man to live with them. She’d known there would be no good coming from that. And now that retard was bringing young men home himself. Well, she thought, at least it wasn’t young women. That would really be something nobody would want.
* * * *
“There, it’s not too bad. But I don’t think you could have wound this bandage around your chest very well yourself.”
“Thanks . . . Keith,” Luther answered in a half whisper. Keith had been standing very close to him and had moved his hands on Luther’s well-muscled chest perhaps a bit more than was required to clean and bandage the wound. Keith remained close in, standing between Luther’s beefy thighs, as Luther perched on the stool in the kitchen-dining-living room area, with a double bedstead peeking around the corner of the L-shaped room attached at the rear of the workshop. Luther had been reluctant to let Keith in this room; he’d wanted to have the dressing done in the workshop on the driveway side of the building, but Keith had insisted that it was too dusty in there to treat a wound.
“Those other guys. What they were saying to you?”
“I didn’t listen to them. My mother told me not to listen to words like that.”
“They wanted you to show it.”
After a brief pause, with Luther looking sheepish. “Yeah, I guess.”
“We’re friends now, aren’t we Luther?”
“Friends show. Could I see it, Luther? I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
Luther was quiet for a couple of moments. Keith had his hands cupping Luther’s bulging biceps.
“Please, Luther. We’re friends, right?”
“Yeah, right. Well, OK, I guess.”
Luther reached down and unzipped the fly of his trousers. A thick snake of a dark brown cock rolled out of the recess. It approached a foot in length and was fat in thickness. And it was half hard.
Luther was blushing. “I’m sorry. It sometimes--”
“Can I hold it, Luther? It’s a very nice one.”
“Well, I guess . . . uh, that feels--”
“It’s OK, Luther. We’re friends. I just want to see how big it can get.” Keith was holding it in two hands that didn’t overlap and was slowing stroking it. “It’s black, Luther. Very different.”
“Yes, but almost black. You shouldn’t keep it secret. You should share it.”
“Will you share it with me, Luther? We’re friends. Would you put it inside me?”
“I don’t know about that. Tim and Alfred tells me I can’t have anyone in here. Maybe you’d better--”
“Well, no, not in here, of course. Tim and Alfred are absolutely right about that. But there’s a place where it’s OK. They just didn’t have a chance to tell you that part.”
“There’s a place it’s all right here?”
“Yes. In the workshop. There’s a nice low table in the workshop, Luther. I saw it when we came in. And when I saw it, I thought to myself, Keith, there’s a very nice fuck fuck table.”
Luther looked a little dubious, but he was breathing heavily from the stroking Keith had continued giving his cock.
“I bet you didn’t even know you had a fuck fuck table, Luther. They are pretty rare. I guess Tim and Alfred have one because they run an antique store. They probably couldn’t turn down buying it when they found one. That’s where it’s perfectly all right for you to put this inside me. Will you take me to your table, Luther?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“Please, Luther. Friends are . . . you know . . . friendly to each other.”
* * * *
“Oh gawd, oh holy shit. Yes, Luther. More. Push harder.”
Keith was laying on his back on the surface of the low table in the workshop, his legs open to Luther, who was standing between his thighs, hunched over him, with his fists pushing into the table on either side of Keith’s quaking shoulders.
He was grunting and groaning, trying to get it all inside Keith’s ass. One of Keith’s hands was encasing the root of Luther’s cock, trying to take it all inside himself as his beleaguered channel slowly expanded to accommodate the huge staff. Keith moved his hands to palming Luther’s bulbous buttocks and pulling Luther as close into his trembling ass as possible.
Keith had had nothing like this before. He’d taken cock from the best in the technical school. But he’d never had it anything like this before. The rumors had gone around about Luther and the monster cock and that it was black. Keith had trembled at the thought of that inside him--and he doubted that it really was black. But it was close enough--and bigger than anything he’d ever seen before, let alone serviced. His channel was slowly giving way, trembling at the feel of the pulsating veins running down the cock and fully aware of the bulbous head on the monster phallus as it dug ever deeper inside him. It was a ebony beauty, and it was pulsing inside him. What he hadn’t been able to come even close to getting inside his mouth was deep inside his channel.
Keith went up on his elbows and searched for Luther’s lips with his. Luther looked surprised, but he took the kiss and started to hum happily.
“All of it. Give me all of it, Luther,” Keith cried out as he arched his back and threw his head back. He locked his legs at the small of Luther’s back and dug his fingers into Luther’s hips.
He panted and gave a little surprised scream as Luther thrust harder inside him, and Keith felt his channel walls expanding, his muscles there shimmering over the invading staff, images of a baseball bat floating before his eyes. Just like “Shoeless” Joe Jackson’s Black Betsy bat.
Luther grunted. “It’s OK? You said you wanted--”
“Oh gawd yes,” Keith cried. “It’s in. We did it. Oh shit, we--” He was about to tell Luther what to do next, but Luther had figured that out all by himself. “Oh shit yessss!”
Keith sucked in his breath as he felt the huge dick pulling back out, slowly, a good eight or nine inches. Then, “Oh holy christ!” as it slid back in all the way. Back and in. Back and in. Backandin, backandin. BACKANDIN.
“Oh shit! fuck me, fuck me, fuckmefuckme! I’m gonna come. Oh, God.” Whimpering as, after he had come, Luther kept on fucking.
* * * *
“Tim told me you would be here, Luther.”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Sims. You surprised me. I’m washing Alfred’s car.”
“Yes, you are, and you’re doing a very fine job of it too.”
Grant Sims hadn’t really asked Tim or Alfred if he could come over to the Washington Street house. But he’d wanted to come. He’d wanted to come for some time. He’d even pulled some old chairs and a drop-leaf table out of his attic and took them to Tim and Alfred for refinishing because he’d wanted to visit Luther here.
Mr. Sims was a physical education teacher at the school where Luther had spent three years trying to get into the eighth grade. Mr. Sims had done what he could to keep Luther in the gym program there if for no other reason than to be around when the boys took their showers. It had been a sad day for him when he was told that Luther wouldn’t be coming back for a fourth crack at advancement--and another naked shower in the school’s locker room.
He was in ninth heaven that he’d found Luther washing Alfred’s vintage Thunderbird in the driveway of the white Victorian house on Washington Street, after having checked and made sure that both Tim and Alfred were at their antique store. Quite unconsciously Luther was wearing nothing but gym shorts. Gym shorts he’d gotten soaked while working on Alfred’s car and that were pulled low on his hips by the water logging. The shorts were so plastered to his body that nothing was left to the imagination--especially since, with drawn breath, Mr. Sims was quite sure he could see something brown and smooth and knobby peeking out of one of the leg holes of Luther’s gym shorts.
But that didn’t seem to either be something that concerned Luther or made him the least bit self-conscious. Even if he caught glimpses of the disapproving scowl of Mrs. Watson in her kitchen window, he didn’t seem a bit affected by the magnificence of his muscled body--or that he hung so low inside his water-soaked shorts--or that the blackness of his cock, clearly discernible in his soaked shorts, was a shocking attention getter.
“Uh. I thought I’d check on that furniture you’re refinishing for me,” Mr. Sims said. “Tim told me you had it here at the house. In the workshop.”
“Yeah, I do,” Luther said, as he continued to rinse the soap off the Thunderbird.
“Well, could I see it?”
“I don’t know. Tim and Alfred always say--”
“That’s what I came over to see, Luther. Tim said it was here in the workshop. He wants me to see the furniture. Have you done any work on it?”
This was the most dangerous moment for Grant. What if the answer was no? How would he maneuver Luther into the double bed in the studio apartment behind the workshop if there hadn’t been any work on the furniture yet?
“Yeah, I’ve worked on one of the chairs. It didn’t need much refinishing. All three pieces are in pretty good shape.”
“So, can we go in and look at it?”
“OK, I guess. If Tim says it’s OK.”
Grant didn’t respond to that. Tim didn’t even know he was here.
Luther stood there, water streaming out of the end of the hose and onto the trunk of the Thunderbird.
“Maybe you should turn the hose off and show me into the workshop,” Grant said. He said it very quietly, trying to sound calm. Didn’t this lunkhead get it? And, god, speaking of hose. Gotta get some of that. I’ve been salivating for that for years.
“OK.” Luther smiled and went over and turned off the hose. “The workshop is back here,” he said as he moved toward the end of the driveway.
I fuckin’ know where the friggin’ workshop is, Grant screamed in his mind. But what he said was. “Good, so let’s go there.”
If he’d looked around like Luther had done when he brought Keith to the building in the rear of the lot, he’d probably have seen the curtains in Mrs. Watson’s kitchen shaking with indignation. But neither he nor Luther looked.
“This is it,” Luther said when they entered the dimly lit workshop. “Want me to turn on a light?”
“No, that’s not necessary,” Grant answered. He was glad that Luther had pointed the chair out. He could tell that some work had been done on it, but the furniture hadn’t really needed to be refinished. It would have been hard for him to tell that chair from the one that hadn’t been touched yet.
He took his time looking over the chair, spending the time trying to figure out his next move.
Luther was wandering aimlessly around the workshop. He’d picked an old, rusted harmonica off the shelf of a bookcase and was trying to get a tune out of it without much success. The tune sounded as rusty as the harmonica looked.
“You’ve got some really interesting furniture in here,” Grant Sims said, reaching for anything to start up a conversation that could be bent to his purposes.
“We sure do. Some of it is real rare,” Luther answered, with a sloppy smile on his face. “You ever seen a fuck fuck table?” he casually asked as he brushed by the table where he’d thoroughly fucked his new friend, Keith. Keith had been back twice for fuck sessions.
“Excuse me? A what?” Grant looked up in shock, not believing what he’d heard.
“A fuck fuck table. Lower than a dining table. My friend told me this was good for fucking. He said it was a fuck fuck table. And he said Tim and Alfred put it in here because this was where I should fuck fuck. They told me not to bring anyone into my room. But my friend said they put this fuck fuck table in here just for me.”
Still somewhat bewildered, Grant responded in a croaking voice, “Yes, it’s a very nice fuck fuck table, Luther. I like using those too. I would like to be your fuck fuck friend too. I see that you need a new harmonica. I have a nice new shiny one. Would you like to have it? I would like to give it to you as a present--if, of course, you have a present for me.”
* * * *
“Yes, yes. Give it to me. GIVE IT TO ME. GIVEITTOME! Ram it in!” Grant Sims screamed when Luther did just that, as Grant stood on the floor and bent over Luther’s fuck fuck table, grasping the opposite rim of the table with white-knuckled fists, pounding his cheek on the surface of the table, and letting the tears flow.
Luther, humming and thinking of the new harmonica he would have, stood between Grant’s spread thighs from the rear, held his old gym teacher’s waist with his hands, and pounded the older man’s ass hard and deep. Mr. Sims had asked for it hard, Mr. Sims had been Luther’s gym teacher, and Luther always wanted to please his teachers.
It was bigger, thicker, blacker even than Sims had remembered from four years earlier. And, oh gawd, it was splitting him. And he’d taken it all. The glory of the biggest, blackest cock he’d ever had.
“Oh, please, yesss!”
Luther was pushing him up on the surface of the table, and following him up. Sims was raised on his knees, his chest and cheek flat on the table top, his fists still gripping the opposite rim. Yodeling for it. Luther was crouched over his hips and fucking him like a dog.
Just like Grant Sims had fantasized for the past four years. Who would have known it would be this easy?
Afterward, Grant stopped Luther as they reached the door to the driveway.
“Tim might not like me giving you a new harmonica. So, we’ll just keep me being here a secret, shall we? I’ll be back in a few days with your new harmonica.”
“And will you want to use the fuck fuck table again?” Luther was giving his former gym teacher a friendly, open smile. Not the least bit of embarrassment or concern. Just like what they had just been doing was the natural thing to do. His friend, Keith, had told him it was the natural thing for young men their ages to do--that all young men did this at this age. Luther wanted to show that he was as good as any other young man his age. He wanted to do what they all were doing. He was happy that his new friend, Keith, had told him about this. It was fun. But then there were a few things that even Keith didn’t know.
“Oh, yes, Luther. I very much will want to use the fuck fuck table again. If it wasn’t about time for Tim and Alfred to come home, I’d want to use it again right now.” Grant felt brave saying that. He felt so reamed out that he wouldn’t be able to put his legs together for a week. But he’d taken it. It was a telephone pole, and he’d had it all inside him. And he could hardly wait until he’d recovered enough to ride it again.
“We can’t go into my room, you know,” Luther said, all innocent smile. “Tim and Alfred say I can’t bring friends into that room.”
“That’s why they put your fuck fuck table out here in the shop, I’m sure,” Grant said. “They want you to fuck fuck out here. And this is fine with me.”
You don’t know just how fine, Grant was thinking. You might be retarded, but you do the best cocking in the State of New Jersey. And you don’t even know it. Huge and black and a power driver. Oh, gawd.
Luther just smiled and waved as Grant Sims walked bowlegged to the car he’d parked on the street. The kitchen window curtains in Mrs. Watson’s house ruffled angrily.