“When are you gonna fix breakfast?”
“When are you going to untie me and take your dick out of me?”
“Now you know that ain’t gonna happen for a while,” Zack said. “You can feel me hardening inside you. You know we’re gonna fuck again. I was just tryin’ to make a joke here.”
“We have time for chocolate chip pancakes or a fuck, Zack,” Cliff Trent answered, “And you’re hurting me, making my body go numb, you big lug.”
“Sorry ’bout that. You picked me because of how big I was. What I got swingin’. But what would you choose?”
Cliff gave Zack a withering look and a groan, and Zack then shrugged and took much of the weight of his body off Cliff. They were in their queen-sized bed in Cliff’s apartment. Cliff was on his back with his wrists tied to the brass headboard above his head, and Zack was on top of him, deep inside Cliff, his cock recovering from their early-morning fuck. Zack moved his legs from on top of Cliff’s and planted a knee on either side of Cliff’s thighs. He lifted his chest and propped himself up on his elbows on either side of Cliff’s chest. He pulled his pelvis back and rammed it forward, deep inside his partner’s channel, snapping Cliff’s head back and causing him to raise his own pelvis and grind the heels of his feet into the sheets.
“Oh, fuck!” he howled. Back and ram, back and ram.
“You. I’d choose the fuck!” Cliff cried out. He looked down the line of the mammoth, but ripped, chocolate-brown chest and flat belly to where he could see the root of the black cock assaulting his channel and the black balls slapping against this thighs. “Oh, yes, fuck me!”
Back and ram, back and ram. “Four. When I hit sixty, I want you to come,” Zach said, with a laugh. “I’ll shoot off at seventy. Then we’ll have chocolate chip pancakes.”
A half hour later, Cliff Trent stood behind the kitchen counter, in an apron and nothing else, and shoveled pancakes onto Zack’s plate with a spatula.
“Hey, these don’t have chocolate chips in them!”
Zack had showered and dressed in his brown sanitation worker uniform and his big construction boots. He was only working a half shift today. If he was working a full shift, he would have been out of here shortly after five and Cliff wouldn’t have gotten the two morning fucks. But if Cliff hadn’t gotten the two morning fucks, he wouldn’t be standing in his kitchen shoveling pancakes and worrying about being late to his own job.
Zack would tie him up and fuck him again in the late afternoon after Cliff got home from his own job as a social worker. The chocolate monster’s big dick was the reason Cliff kept him around. After their afternoon session and a dinner fixed by Cliff, Zack would be off for his night job as a bouncer at a club. When Zack got home from that, he’d wake Cliff up giving him his night fuck. This had been going on for three months. Cliff was getting worn out, but he was a happy worn out.
And this morning he had to get to work on time. Some old lady was coming in to complain about what some young neighbor of hers was doing. Cliff long ago had stopped thinking his job was either important or fulfilling. Zack was filling. That’s what Cliff looked forward to these days.
“I didn’t have time to look for chocolate chips,” Cliff muttered. “You’re lucky you got pancakes rather than warm toast. I haven’t even had time to shower yet.”
“But you like walking around with the swishy feeling of my cum inside you, don’t cha?”
“Let’s not be crude, Zack,” Cliff said. But he didn’t answer the question. Zack was a big-volume ejaculator--he did everything big--and, yes, Cliff did get a little thrill from walking around with Zack’s cum inside him. “You eat that and stay out of the way. I’ve got to shower and dress and go listen to an old busybody lady tattle on her neighbors.”
“You’ll be home by five, though?”
“Yes, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Good. I’ll be waitin’ for you.”
I sure hope so, Cliff thought, but I don’t know how much longer we can go on like this.
* * * *
Luther watched Cliff Trent climb the stairs to the front porch at the Pink Poodle. He was distinctive, because he looked like he was here on business other than buying antiques. His jaw was set tight. Alfred thought he was a disgruntled customer he couldn’t quite place. Tim thought he was a process server. Luther thought he’d be nice looking--looking like a possible friend--if he wasn’t frowning like that. And when he saw Luther, through the window, standing in the dining room furniture room, the man frowned more deeply and looked away.
Luther watched him march through the hallway and back toward the office where Tim kept the accounts.
Luther didn’t have much time to think about him, though, because right behind him came that smart-looking man with the yacht, Jonathan, and his wife, Pamela. They were climbing the stairs too. And when they came in, they turned to the right and into the crystal room, although Jonathan did notice Luther standing in the room across the hall and gave him a smile and a wink and a little wave of his hand.
Luther gave a little wave back. Then he crossed the hallway and stood in the doorway to the crystal room.
“Hello,” Jonathan said. “Your name is Luther, isn’t it? You remember me from when we met in the marina, don’t you?”
“This is my wife, Pamela. This is Luther, dear. I told you about him.”
“He’s very nice,” Pamela said. She had sunglasses on, though, so Luther wasn’t really sure she was looking at him. He didn’t notice then that she wasn’t just looking at him; she was eating him up with her eyes. After getting an eye full, she moved into the crystal room.
“We’re just looking around,” Jonathan said. “You work here, do you?”
“Yes, sir. But I can’t help you in that room. Tim and Alfred, they don’t let me in that room.”
“That’s fine. We won’t be long. In fact, we are on our way to lunch. Would you care to join us?--and we can talk about you taking that cruise on our yacht. We’ll be leaving for Newport tomorrow afternoon. We could take the cruise today. But first lunch.”
“I don’t know if Tim and Alfred will let me go to lunch. Usually they go to lunch about now. And when I’m here, they leave me in charge. I sit out on the front porch and point to the ‘gone to lunch’ sign on the door while Tim and Alfred are gone. If anyone wants to come into the store, I point to the sign. They lock the door, but I sit out there on the porch and am in charge while they’re gone.”
“Well, perhaps they’ll make an exception today. Shall we ask them?”
“I don’ know,” Luther said, his voice giving an edge of skepticism. “I’m supposed to work this afternoon.” Anyone could see, though, that he’d like the adventure of someone taking him to lunch--especially a couple as well dressed as Jonathan and Pamela.
Just then Tim came out of his office and into the hall and called up the stairs for Alfred to come down. He seemed perturbed.
“Excuse me,” Jonathan said, saddling up to Tim. “We’re friends of Luther here and wondered if you’d mind if we took him to lunch today. We were thinking of the Pilot House Restaurant. It’s just up the street on Carpenters Lane.”
“Luther to lunch?” Tim said it like he was trying to confirm that someone had declared that aliens had landed in the middle of Decatur Street. He seemed to have stopped fully processing at the suggestion that this obviously wealthy couple might be friends of Luther’s.
“And then after lunch, we could come back here and do some shopping,” Jonathan added.
This obviously sealed the deal, as Tim said, “It’s certainly all right with me if that’s what Luther wants to do.” And then he called up the staircase again, telling Alfred that he was needed in the office right away. His voice had sounded like he was relieved Luther was going off for lunch.
* * * *
“There, was that cheeseburger good, Luther?” Jonathan asked. They were sitting out on the covered verandah overlooking Carpenters Lane. Jonathan had tried to get Luther to order something more exotic--or at least more like an elegant beach resort meal--but Luther had wanted a cheeseburger. Jonathan had gone for the Tialapia Francaise and Pamela the Portabella Paninni. They’d split a bottle of Pino Grigio. Luther had a Coke.
“Yes, real good, thanks.”
“Did you like what you heard about our Yacht?”
“Yeah sure. You have a fuck fuck table? They are nice, but they are hard to find. It would be good if you had one.”
“Excuse me? A what?” Jonathan was shocked. Pamela just turned her head back to the men and gave a little amused smile.
“A table for fuck fuck. You want me to go out on the ocean with you to fuck fuck, don’t you?”
“Excuse me?” Again from Jonathan.
“When we were lookin’ at the boat, you touched me on my back and you feeled me up. You want to fuck fuck on the ocean, don’t you? Chuck at the H&H told me you asked about me. And what you asked about. He said you gave him money--lots of money--to tell you about my dick and to point me out.”
Pamela reached her hand over and gently laid it on Luther’s arm. “Yes, dear boy, we want to fuck you on the ocean. How wonderfully refreshing you are. And I’m sure we can come up with, what was it, a fuck fuck table?” She turned her head toward Jonathan and said, “We can find a fuck fuck table, can’t we darling? Perhaps you can tell us what one looks like, Luther, dear.”
After he described the table in the workshop, Luther asked Pamela, “You want me to be your friends?”
“Do you fuck your friends, Luther?”
“Then, yes, Luther. Jonathan and I want to be your very good and close friends.” Pamela sat back in her chair, gave a little laugh, and inclined her head to her husband.
“Well, is it true what this Chuck said about your equipment, Luther?” Jonathan asked. “Did your friend, Chuck, earn his money?”
“What? My equipment? And Chuck ain’t my friend in that way. He was a before kind of friend. I don’t fuck fuck with Chuck.”
Pamela chuckled. “Fuck fuck with Chuck. How cute. He means your cock, sweetheart, your dick. Does it push a foot long? Is it as thick as a baseball bat? Is it darker than the rest of you? Can you fuck for a long time? Do you go off like the Fountain of Youth? Are you and we going to have a very good time? Chuck got money. If Chuck was right about your cock, you can have so much more than Chuck got. He fucked OK, but nothing special--and he couldn’t keep it up--at least not to our requirements.”
Luther was blushing. “You talk fast. I think I need to go the bathroom now. Is that OK?”
“But Pamela asked you--”
“Don’t you need to go to the bathroom too, Jonathan dear?” Pamela asked, giving him a meaningful look.
“Yes, I guess I do,” he said, standing. Luther was already on his way.
Standing at the urinals, side by side, Jonathan looked over and down--and felt weak in the knees and almost let out a gasp.
“Can . . . can I touch it?” Jonathan asked in a whisper full of awe.
“Yeah sure. Let me shake it off first.”
“Oh, holy fuck,” Jonathan exclaimed as it lay long and heavy in his hands. He wanted to go down on his knees and worship it. He started to mention that the stalls were empty. But then he remembered Pamela back at the table and knew she would be royally pissed of he had a first go. And Pamela pissed was not a good sight. It was her money they were living on.
Returning to the table, Jonathan was rather stumbling. He looked at Pamela and nodded imperceptibly.
“I think we need to do some shopping,” Pamela said with a perky voice. “Show us where the best men’s shops are, Luther.”
“I think they are on the walking mall behind us,” Luther answered. “But I thought you were going back to the shop.”
“Maybe some other time, darling. For now, we need to get you some new clothes worthy of the yacht.”
“And then we’ll take you out on the ocean?” Jonathan said, wording it as a question but trying to make it an accepted statement.
“I can’t today or tomorrow.” Luther said.
“We really--” Jonathan responded. He was getting a little perturbed.
“I can’t today. I work today. I can’t tomorrow. Rob is taking me fishing tomorrow. He needs me to help him. And Tim and Alfred need me to help them at the shop today.” Luther was getting a little agitated.
Pamela stepped in to smooth the corners down. “We have to go to Newport tomorrow. But we’ll be back. Then you will go for a cruise on our yacht with us . . . and we’ll fuck you. OK, Luther? We just talked about this and you said it was OK that we fuck you. We’re your friends, right? We can fuck you silly on the ocean, right? It’s just that we can’t do it today or tomorrow. Because you have to work today and tomorrow. You are needed at work today and tomorrow. Right? But when you aren’t needed here, when you have time off, we can fuck you, right?”
Luther pondered that. “Yeah, sure. I am needed to work today and tomorrow, though.” And then he brightened up. “And when you come back maybe I will have a big ring in my cock. My friend, Keith, said that would be nice for fuck fuck. He says a doctor can do that for me on Wednesday. But then that would not be a good fuck fuck time either. Wednesday wouldn’t be good. And he said it would take maybe--”
“Oh Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Pamela exclaimed. But then, when Luther gave her a strange look, she said, “Let’s go on to the shops now, Luther. While we walk you can tell Jonathan again what a fuck fuck table is. I can’t wait to get one.”
And as an aside to Jonathan, she whispered. “A cock ring. I really can’t wait. We need to be on the move or I’m going to rape him right here on the table.”
“Not before I do,” Jonathan whispered back. “You haven’t seen his cock.”
* * * *
Alfred had yelled to him a lot in the afternoon. He was always where Alfred didn’t want him, and Alfred yelled about where he’d gotten the clothes, and kept saying that Luther couldn’t get into anything because the clothes he was wearing were white and would get dirty.
“And what’s this?” Alfred said when he pulled a mere nothing in gold lamé out of a shopping bag.
“That’s my new bathing suit. For the cruise.”
Alfred had screamed that really, really loud. He frightened Luther, and that made Luther stubborn and withdrawn. So he just said, “My someday cruise.” He didn’t say more than that--although he’d already said that Pamela and Jonathan had bought him the clothes.
Alfred didn’t believe that much either, but Tim kept pulling him aside and saying, “Not now, Alfred. We’re skating on thin ice here. We don’t want to get into anything more complicated. We have to discuss this when we get home.” And Tim put everything back in the bags.
Luther was glad they hadn’t taken the bathing suit, although Tim had looked at it real close. Luther thought it was nice. It had a sock that his dick and balls fit in--well, mostly. Lots of the root of his cock showed because it didn’t all fit inside the sock--and who knows how it would fit if he was hard. And it had strings that tied around his waist and went through his butt crack. Luther remembered Pamela had really liked that bathing suit--she was the one who said he had to have it. She had wanted to fuck fuck in the dressing room, but Jonathan said that if he couldn’t do it in the restaurant bathroom, she couldn’t do it in the clothing shop.
Alfred got so angry that Tim told Luther to go on home.
He was walking up Hughes street toward home, when he heard a woman’s voice call out.
“Oh, there you are, Luther. Right on time.”
Luther stopped in his tracks. He could see that it was Mrs. Sims calling to him. She was on the front porch of a house. But he didn’t know what she meant.
“Right on time, Luther. You remembered. It’s just past 3:30. Thank you for coming by to help hang those drapes and put those boxes up. You did remember, didn’t you?”
“Yeah sure,” Luther said. He wasn’t real sure what he was supposed to be remembering. He was glad Mrs. Sims was smiling at him. Alfred hadn’t been smiling all afternoon and even Tim had looked worried about something. Mrs. Sims was a good friend.
Yes, he thought, Mrs. Sims had always been a friend--one of his before friends.
“Come on into the house. My how nice you look. But are those new clothes? And oh so white.”
She drew him into a living room, which was pretty and had a lot of those things in it that were in the rooms at the shop that Alfred wouldn’t let him go into. What really caught his attention, though, was in front of the sofa. How strange to have that in here, Luther thought. But maybe not so strange. This was Mr. and Mrs. Sims’s house. And Mr. Sims was a friend and Mrs. Sims was a before friend and probably was a special friend to her husband.
“Come through here, please, Luther. The drapes go up in the dining room. Oh, but look how dusty everything is. You’ll get those nice new clothes dirty. Oh my.”
“I could take them off, Mrs. Sims,” Luther said.
She gave him a look of disbelief, and then she remembered who she was working with here. He was so innocent.
“Well, that would be fine, Luther. We can fold them and put them right over here on this chair.” Her hands were trembling when she took the clothes. She could hardly speak. His magnificent body, only in briefs now, took her breath away.
“Here, this goes up there, Luther. Be careful now.”
“It’s OK, I’m good with my hands.”
Oh, god, I hope so, Mrs. Sims thought. Could she really go through with this? Was this going to be as easy as it seemed? She hyperventilated as she watched him from behind, his back and leg muscles undulating, already making her wet. She wanted him so badly when he was her student. She’d almost risked her career to make a try for him then.
“OK, now the boxes, and then we’ll sit in the kitchen and have some lemonade and cookies.”
Luther was sitting in a kitchen chair in front of the table, when she came back with her purse. He was drinking his lemonade and looking out through the dining room to the living room.
“Now, let’s see what would be a good--” she said, snapping her purse open.
“Oh, don’t pay me or nothin’, Mrs. Sims. We’re friends.”
“And you do this for your friends?” Mrs. Sims asked, a smile on her face.
“Yeah sure, I do my friends,” Luther answered. He gave her a funny look.
Mrs. Sims was an English teacher. She knew what he was saying--or at least what she wanted him to be saying. She struggled with herself for a moment, but then she pulled a folded piece of paper out of her purse, unfolded it, placed it on the table in front of Luther, and stood behind him, putting her hands on his bare shoulders. Her hands were trembling.
“This is what you drew in church on Sunday and gave to me, Luther. Is there a reason you gave this to me?”
“Yeah sure, you’re my friend.” And you asked for it, Luther thought. But she would know that, so he didn’t remind her of it. His mother had told him never to treat anyone like a dummy, especially if he didn’t want to be treated like one. Also, he had forgotten Mrs. Sims wanted him to stop by in the afternoon, which he now remembered--between 3:00 and, uh, sometime--so he didn’t want to be talking about remembering stuff.
“And do you know what you were drawing when you drew that? Not the secretary. It’s very nice, yes. No, the other thing you drew.”
“I forgot,” Luther said.
She had let her hands slide down to cover his pecs. He wasn’t reacting.
“But you remember now?”
Oh, fuck, Luther thought. She’s going to ask me if I forgot I was supposed to come here in the afternoon. “Yes ma’am.”
“What is it, Luther?”
“It’s a dick.”
“Is it your . . . dick . . . Luther?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I ran out of paper. It should have been longer.”
Mrs. Sims drew her breath in sharply. “May I see it, Luther? Your . . . dick?”
“You want to fuck fuck with me?”
“What? What did you say?”
“You want to fuck fuck with me? You have a fuck fuck table.”
“A what?” She followed the line of where his arm was pointing. “Oh, that tea table in the living room? Tea tables are higher than a coffee table but lower than a kitchen table. We use them for . . .” She stopped. She’d been right there, and now she was being stupid and going off the critical point.
“Oh, I thought--”
“Yes, Luther. You’re right. We only call it that to friends. Yes, that’s a fuck fuck table. And I’d love for you to fuck me on it, yes.”
“I can fuck friends. Keith told me Tim said it was OK. And specially if there was a fuck fuck table.”
Mrs. Sims was initially afraid the legs on the table wouldn’t take their weight. But it was only hers, really. She was on her back and Luther stood between her thighs and fucked her. She had had to move his cock away from her anus at first, telling him, “Maybe later, dear,” and then she’d had to hold the root of his cock and help him to slowly feed it in and in and in--and she had to pay attention to her clit herself--but other than that, he knew how to establish a rhythm, and she panted and moaned her way through the thickest and deepest cocking she’d ever had in her life--and she’d tried a variety of men, being just as willing to do so as she knew her husband was.
As he fucked, Luther was patting her breasts gently back and forth and giggling.
“You can suck them--the nipples--Luther,” she murmured between groans. “They will like that.” She cradled his head in her hands and lowered it to her breasts. He sucked on them expertly while she felt herself building and building on waves to heaven. She clutched his shoulder blades with her hands and then down to his butt cheeks, holding him close inside her. She was writhing and panting shallowly and seeing fireworks--and exploding. She collapsed under him.
“Are we done?” Luther asked.
“Not unless you want to be done, Luther.”
“I like the other hole.”
“We can try, Luther.”
At 5:00, while they were standing on the steps, Mrs. Sims looking up the street, expecting Mr. Sims back at any moment, she went for broke.
“I have other chores needing done. Can you come back next week?”
“To fuck fuck too?”
“Maybe not next week. My friend, Keith, he said I could have a big ring put in my dickhead. Maybe this Wednesday. Next week maybe I won’t feel like--”
“Oh, good lord,” she exclaimed, almost fainting away on the porch. But she recovered enough to weakly say, “Well, when you’ve healed then. I’d like that. I’d like that very much.”
* * * *
“So, you see, Luther, you need to be very careful. You need to be very careful who you have at the workshop, and you need to be extra careful when the social worker comes to talk to you. We tried to talk him out of a home visit. You aren’t a child. You’re an adult. But he said he also had jurisdiction for people who were, well . . . Anyway you need to be careful.” Tim had run out of steam.
“I don’t know why he has to make a visit here. I called the office and they said that wasn’t usual,” Alfred groused.
“Well, you know Mrs. Watson,” Tim resumed. “She probably has been bugging them for weeks. Hasn’t said boo to us, though, the witch.”
“Well, you know what she’s been passing around about us too, Tim,” Alfred said.
Luther just sat there, at Tim and Alfred’s dining room table, looking from one to the other. No, he didn’t understand.
“So do you see that, Luther?” Tim asked.
“Yeah sure,” Luther answered. The knitting of his brow showed the two men that he hadn’t understood a word.
“Geez,” Alfred exclaimed, exasperated.
“Now, Alfred,” Time said, laying a limp hand on his arm. “This isn’t helping.”
He turned to Luther. “The problem is, Luther, that the man who is coming to talk to you tomorrow can send you to a school, far from here. And you’d have to live there, not here. He can do that even at your age. You need to be very polite to him, but you shouldn’t say much at all about anything but your work at the shop and how much you like it there. You should say that when you’re not working, you are in your room reading--and practicing your furniture making. You can tell him whatever you want about your work with furniture. Show him your drawings. Spend a lot of time showing him your drawings.”
“I should show him the fu--”
“Yes, showing him the furniture in the workshop and your drawings would be very nice. Make him your friend,” Alfred chimed in.
“Ah, you want me to make him my friend?”
“Yes, that would help a lot,” Tim said. “And if customers come over or you have other friends come, take them the other way around the house. Don’t bring them up the driveway.”
“Don’t bring them up the driveway?”
“No. And keep an eye out for Mrs. Watson, looking at what you’re doing from her house.”
“Yes, she’s the troublemaker. She’s even reported that the visits here by Mr. Sims are suspicious--when we’re refinishing furniture for him here.”
“Mr. Sims? He’s a friend. We use the table, the fu--”
“Are you working on his table?” Alfred asked. “You’ve finished with the chairs already?”
“Yes, I work him on the table,” Luther said. “He’s nice. He’s a friend.”
“That’s nice,” Tim said, “by all means keep doing what you’re doing for him. But it’s getting late. We should go upstairs now. We want you to come upstairs with us tonight, Luther.”
Alfred was first. He liked to be fucked on all fours on the braided rug beside his and Tim’s bed. He wanted Luther to cover him like a dog, and he like to yap like a dog when he was being fucked. When they were fucking like this, Alfred reminded Luther of a Pomeranian, even though he couldn’t pronounce that name. But he’d seen one in the antique store one day, with a big, fat, old lady, and he thought that was exactly like Alfred acted when he was fucking him on the braided rug. Alfred’s tongue would be out and he’d be panting, just like one of those Pomeranian dogs.
This was the best way Luther liked Alfred. When Luther was riding Alfred’s ass, Alfred wasn’t nasty or screaming with him. He whimpered like a dog and asked Luther to be good to him. When Luther was pumping him deep was when Alfred said Luther was being good to him.
Tim, now, he came later. Tonight, after Luther had filled Alfred’s insides, and Alfred had stopped barking, they got up off the floor and Alfred told Luther to lay down on his back on the bed.
A few minutes later Tim came in. His hair was down and he had bright red lipstick on. He was wearing a brassiere and a lady’s taupe-colored satin slip. He had on a garter belt and stockings, but no panties.
All Tim ever wanted Luther to do was to lay on his back on the bed, grasp the brass headboard above his head with his hands, and stay hard. Tim would kiss him all over his body, leaving red lipstick marks, and then he would mount Luther’s cock and ride him until Luther ejaculated.
For this, Tim and Alfred gave Luther a home and a semblance of a job, and would protect him as well as they could from the rest of the world--and from the predators they knew were out there. Well, the <i>other</i> predators.
When Tim was finished with Luther’s cock, he climbed off and murmured with a thick voice, “Where is that gold bathing suit you bought today, Luther?”
“Downstairs, in the bags,” Luther answered. “I didn’t put the stuff away, I’m sorry. It’s still in the bags. Downstairs. I stopped at the house before going to my room, and, I just left . . .”
“Could you go get that bathing suit and put it on for us? And, Alfred, could you go find the camera?”
* * * *
When Luther left them later in the evening, Tim and Alfred where stretched out against each other on the bed in a 69 position, not paying a bit of attention to Luther. This was how he usually left them, and he had no idea what they did afterward--nor did he have any curiosity what that was.
He padded downstairs in his new bathing suit, gathered up his bags of clothes Pamela and Jonathan had purchased for him, and went to his room behind the workshop. Luck was with him; this was the time for one of Mrs. Watson’s favorite television shows that she had to watch in her parlor on the other side of her house.