Always Conditions

“You’re looking good. By the end of the summer, you’ll be able to handle the training all by yourself.”

“Thanks, Brad,” Ken answered. “You know I won’t be staying to the end of the summer, though, don’t you? Got accepted back at school, and I’d like to get back in time to try to regain my football scholarship.”

“So I’ve heard,” the dog trainer most of the guys working at the St. Louis Service Dog Academy called “Big Guy” said. “Hate to lose you. You’ve been a big help around here. That’s not the only reason I hate to lose you, of course. Ken, I . . .”

Ken moved uneasily from the sitting position he’d taken on the top of the rail fence while he and the head trainer watched Cindy take the Lab service dog Apache through his paces out on the training field. “I’ve got to go back, Brad. There’s something there I need.”

“That Lab puppy you’ve told me about.”

“Yeah.”

“You know we have a couple of litters coming on in the kennel here. You know you could have one of those.”

Ken turned and looked sharply at Brad, waiting for what the “conditions” were, having known for some time what Brad’s preferences were and that Brad fancied him.

“And what would I—?”

Brad laughed an easy, open laugh. “No charge. You’ve earned it. One of the hardest workers I’ve known, and you came with skills. You’d worked with dogs before.”

“Yeah, I’ve helped raise them to sell. But that isn’t anything like you do with them here, Brad—training them as guide and seeing-eye dogs for people who need the help. It’s a mighty fine thing you’re doing here. And I wish I could stay. Maybe after I’ve finished college. Maybe Dusty and I will come back then—if you still want to hire me on then.”

“Dusty. Is that the pup’s name you’re going back for?”

“Yes. I raised his mother. And she died having the litter that Dusty was in. I appreciate the offer of one from a litter here, but it isn’t just that I want a dog. I want that dog—the runt from Daisy’s litter. It’s sort of like having Daisy too. I can’t really explain it.”

“And, you don’t really need to explain it,” Brad said. “But it will be nearly three months,” he continued after a spell of silence. “You know a dog can grow and change in that time. How will you even know you’d be getting Dusty? From what you’ve said about the kennel owner, I wouldn’t put it past him to pull a switch on you—just out of meanness.”

“I’m sure I’ll recognize Dusty,” Ken answered. “For one thing, he’s got a notch out of his ear. I was there when one of his litter mates did that to him. Clyde wanted to put him down again then, but I told him I was the one meaning to buy Dusty and having the notch didn’t bother me, so there was no reason why it should bother him either.”

“Well, you and your Dusty will always be welcome here, Ken. Don’t doubt that. And it’s not just because you are a real good worker.”

Brad was looking down toward the ground when he said that, but he lifted his head and what Ken saw in his face was raw emotion, wanting Ken to understand. And Ken understood all too well. He’d been fighting the impulse himself for nearly four weeks now. Brad was a great guy, and, despite being so tall and muscular, he was gentle with the dogs in a way that moved Ken to admiration and something else too, something Ken didn’t want to think about, didn’t want to acknowledge he was feeling. But the look on Brad’s face was just too raw, too wanting.

“Think we could get into your room at the bunkhouse without being seen?” Ken asked in a low voice.

“You’d do that?” Brad asked. “You’d let me . . . without anything . . .?”

“I want you, Brad. There’s no conditions from me. Just you. Now, if you want.”

They fucked languidly for much of the rest of the afternoon on Brad’s bed. They disrobed for each other, standing across the room from one another, their eyes glued to the other man. And, when naked, they moved, simultaneously, as if by signal, close together and began running their hands over the other, the breath of both becoming progressively heavier, the touch progressively more intimate. When their mouths met, Brad’s hands went to their cocks, holding them together and gently pumping as they swayed back and forth, one unit, until, with a shudder, Ken came. Ken had put a hand down to get the measure of Brad and he moaned and came all the sooner at discovering a cock that justified his “Big Guy” nickname—bigger than either Clyde or Lawrence—or possibly both together Bigger, almost, than Coach’s.

Brad guided Ken to the bed and laid him down, full prone on his belly, and straddled his hips. He didn’t enter him immediately but ran his hands over Ken’s torso and while he slowly ran his cock up and down on Ken’s buttocks crack. He held the bulb of his cock at the entrance of Ken’s hole, ever so slowly working it in, as Ken gasped and groaned.

“You sure?” Brad whispered.

“Do it. Fuck me. I want it,” Ken cried out. He reached back with his hands and spread his butt cheeks and came up a bit on his knees to present better to Brad. And then there was a long slide deep inside Ken as he panted and moaned and declared that no, he didn’t want Brad to stop or hold back.

And then Ken was going to heaven, never having been fucked like that before—never wanting it to stop—and gasping and groaning when it very nearly never did stop.

Later that evening, in his own bunk, reality started to set in. Life was too complicated. Ken couldn’t stay here. He wanted to finish college and he still wanted to play football—and he had Lawrence waiting for him back home. He tried not think about Clyde and Coach waiting for him back at home too. Why did life have to be so complicated?

But Ken heard the door squeak quietly on the hinges and the weight of Brad’s torso on his and the hands spreading his thighs. And the cock head once again insistently pressing at his hole and then possessing him and beginning its rhythm of complete mastery.

“Sorry, I couldn’t keep away.”

“Shhh, don’t speak,” Ken moaned. “Just fuck.”

Much later, exhausted, Ken turned his eyes and watched Brad walk away from him in the light of the dawn. A million-dollar man, that. Worth all of that to someone lucky enough to have him. Just if life weren’t so complicated.

* * * *

It was Ken’s last weekend in St. Louis, and he was all keyed up. His attraction to Brad hadn’t waned in the last couple of weeks—it had strengthened. And now Ken was torn by what he wanted to do, what he wanted out of life. He wasn’t all that sure that he wanted to return to his college now. There were colleges here too, and Brad, in a last-ditch effort to entice him to stay had said that Ken could tailor his work hours around going to college here and that the training academy would even help with tuition.

The more Ken thought about going back on the football team, the more he was reminded of the conditions Coach had blatantly specified. Clyde was bad enough, always after him. If Ken went back on the team, he’d still have to work part time for Clyde—or for someone else—and he’d have them both at him. Maybe it would be best to just let Lawrence have his position on the team. And to have Coach too.

That seemed to be the real glitch here. Ken had something going with Lawrence. But if Lawrence was giving it to the football coach, where did Ken really fit into that? Dusty certainly wasn’t an impediment to coming back. Brad had said Dusty would be welcome here.

Brad, Brad. Everything seemed to be coming back to Brad.

There was just too much of this to think about.

Ken felt he needed to blow off some steam. So, when Brad’s assistant, Cindy, said she was driving into town and would be busy for a couple of hours down there on Saturday evening, Ken hitched a ride with her and arranged a drop off and pick up place and time. Brad wasn’t at the kennel. He had a bunk room at the kennel, but he lived downtown and hadn’t worked this Saturday.

Cindy let Ken off on Manchester Avenue. Ken had Brad’s address in his pocket and a general location. Brad had said he lived near the St. Louis University Medical Center. Ken had a vague notion of going to Brad’s and surprising him, and relieving this tension that was building up inside him and putting an end to the indecision. But here, on the street, where Cindy had left him off, Ken got cold feet. Instead of walking toward where he thought Brad lived, Ken started off in a tangent direction.

He needed time to think and to gather his wits about him—and maybe a drink or two to steady his nerve and his resolve. This indecision and beating around the bush—not knowing what he wanted, what he should do next—was tearing him apart.

Ken was walking up Chouteau Avenue when he saw a couple of guys dressed out in leathers entering a bar. The side of the bar facing the street had four blacked-out windows with a logo identifying it as Bad Dog.

Prophetic, Ken thought. Dogs had become Ken’s life, and here was an establishment that was welcoming him on his own turf—and matching the mood he was in. So he walked into the Bad Dog and up to the bar and ordered a beer. It was a pool hall sort of place, laughter and smoke. All guys, and most of them dressed in leather. The noise rolled over Ken, making him feel protected and unnoticed. So he sat up on a stool at the bar and ordered a second beer.

But Ken wasn’t unnoticed. Several of the guys at the tables and playing pool were watching him out of the corner of their eyes and marking him as fresh tail—and inviting.

First one guy and then another were at the bar, engaging Ken in chit-chat conversation and finding anything he wanted to talk about fascinating. Finding chit-chat a good cover for not having to think about what he didn’t want to think about, and thinking these were really friendly guys, Ken felt comfortable with them and was happy to talk to them about St. Louis and how it differed from where he came from. And he was happy to let the two guys buy him another beer. And then there were three guys and yet another beer.

And before he knew it, Ken found himself in the alley behind the bar, with the biggest of the guys who had been talking to him backing him up to a grimy brick wall between a set of trash dumpsters, his face leering into Ken’s, the tip of a pool stick under Ken’s chin and forcing his head back against the bricks, and the other guy’s big fist gripping Ken’s crotch.

There was a guy on either side of Ken holding his arms up against the brick wall with grips on his wrists, and cutting through the beer buzz he had on, Ken heard one of the guys mutter, “You first, then me. Sam, you’ll have to take sloppy thirds.”

Ken began to moan as he felt fingers at his belt buckle.

But then he heard a godawful noise that he barely was able to identify as a car horn and the alley was being lit up by the beams of two headlights.

The guys accosting Ken evaporated and Ken sank to the ground, only to feel himself being lifted and being hazily conscious of the concerned face of Brad looming into his vision.

Somehow Brad got Ken out of the alley and into his car, and Ken was only vaguely aware of being taken back to Brad’s apartment, a cup of strong coffee being lifted to his mouth by Brad’s hands, and being stripped and tossed in the shower and soaked with cold water.

When Ken woke, it was morning, and his head was pounding, but he was conscious enough to know that he had escaped an involuntary assault—if, certainly, not a subsequent deep fuck from Brad—and had been very stupid to allow himself to get into that position.

He knew before he opened his eyes that he was naked and between sheets and felt very warm and content. He felt the pressure along his side and opened his eyes to find that Brad was laying there next to him. He wasn’t asleep, though. His eyes were open and were staring at Ken.

“Hey,” Ken said in a quiet voice.

“Hey, yourself,” Brad murmured.

“My Prince Valiant. You saved me.”

“It appears so.”

“How did you know I was there?” Ken asked

“I didn’t. I go to that bar. I was entering as you were being hustled out the back. It’s happened before at the back of Bad Dog’s. And there were three of them. So, I thought it best to get my truck on our side. It worked out.”

“Yes, it seems to have.”

“What were you doing down there?” Brad asked.

“I thought I was coming to see you. But I got cold feet, I guess. I wound up in Bad Dog’s just because it was there and I thought a drink would help me get courage.”

“And how did that work out for you?”

“Not too well, or pretty well, depending on how you look at it,” Ken answered.

“How do you feel?”

“Like a bad dog.”

“Anything I can get for you.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. You can get under these sheets.” Brad smiled and lifted his body so that Ken could pull the covers out from underneath him and flip them over him.

Then, as Brad rolled over to face Ken and Ken’s hands went to Brad’s belt buckle, Ken murmured, “Of course I think you’ll find I still have cold feet.”

“I’ll manage,” Brad whispered with a husky voice.

[To be continued.]