Donny and Clyde

[Dedicated to Brad Rent]

Deliberate motions as he removed his clothes attracted the recumbent boy’s attention to Dawson’s body. His face, nothing special about that except for the hard stare of its eyes; his shoulders, chest, and stomach, about what a teenager might expect except for muscles and overall fitness the man’s clothes had disguised; his cock and balls, hair-surrounded, impressively large – no, the biggest in Jimmy Timms’ limited experience.

That body approached the bed. One hand reached for a pillow, the other indicated that boy should make room. Dawson lay back. “Put your head on my shoulder, Jimmy, and hand me the ice. Warm your hand on my leg. I’ll take over for your eye. Hmm, some of the swelling’s already gone down. Any headache?”

Afraid to talk, Jimmy shook his head no. His cheek and chin felt the strength of Dawson’s pectoral music flexing as he breathed. Now wet with cold water, its ice having disappeared, the rag felt superfluous. Dawson discarded it in favor of a soft tissue to dab moisture remaining around the swollen eye and that on Jimmy’s neck.

“How many men have you kissed?”

Jimmy started.

“Did the men whose cocks you sucked kiss you?”

“No.”

“You know, your brother doesn’t kiss. But that’s just him and his way. Jimmy, I think you want to know what it’s like to kiss and be kissed, how to receive and to give kisses. And I think you will learn to be spectacularly successful at both. That’s where we will start.”

Dawson smiled at the sight of his new student’s eyes goggling. He saw them reflected in the large framed mirror opposite his bed.

“Bring your hand up to my mouth.”

In Dawson’s own, the hand presented its finger tips – which were touched barely, one after the other, by warm lips.

“Now take my fingers to your lips and do the same. Like that. Yes, Jimmy. Now pucker and treat each tip just as far as your teeth and move your tongue around where the fingerprints are. That’s a good boy.”

“Sorta like beginnin’ a suck job, ain’t it?”

“Shhh. Don’t ask questions. Let me show you how that feels in my mouth.”

A shiver felt, an erection seen forming – and Dawson slipped his tongue to Jimmy’s palm where he flattened its width and licked lasciviously.

“Oh my god,” Jimmy exclaimed, pressing his straining erection into the man’s side. “Please fuck me. Fuck me.”

Dawson drew Jimmy Timms’ slender body onto his. “Not yet.” Seeking Jimmy’s bottom, Dawson hands took possession of each cheek. “Bring your mouth to mine,” he said, pulling the curves apart. “No, don’t try to kiss me. Hold your head where I can kiss your lips. Let’s touch lips together. Uh-huh. Open a little and I’ll find the end of your tongue waiting for me to suck. Yes, that was sweet. Your turn, find mine and suck on it.”

As they traded tongue-tips, Jimmy thrilled to distant fingers reaching deeper behind him. His cock was dripping beside a much-engorged, far larger one. His senses were beginning to reel.

“This time, angle your head to one side – just a bit – and I’ll angle mine. We’ll kiss full-mouth with our tongues until you can’t breathe.”

Dawson’s fingers were on Jimmy’s rearmost, tightly closed muscle, palpating it as the kiss lasted until it could last no longer.

Gasps for air and speech accompanied Jimmy’s growing excitement. “Will you fuck me now?”

A single finger, centered as if to enter, had the boy on the brink of orgasm.

“Hardly. Your tongue’s still uneducated.”

“Goddammit, old man, you’re driving me crazy!”

“Petulant behavior will get you a spanking,” Dawson leveled.

“You ain’t spankin’ me!”

“Oh, but I will – when you’re ready for it.”

Stymied, the uppity teen again became the curious student. “What does my tongue have to do?”

“Bathe my armpits, and take time to smell them. They’re good for your olfactory senses. Then suck my nipples. Travel down my chest to my navel and drill in there until it – your talented tongue – needs to caress my balls before devoting itself to my cock, before your mouth takes it in as far as it thinks it can and you begin to suck me.”

The stare was returned by an implacable one.

With the release of Jimmy’s buttocks, Dawson raised his arms up and back to rest his head on clasped palms. He waited.

Talented. Thought first, then spoken, “You’re talented.”

The word had never been spoken of Jimmy in any context before. Boyish pride heightened somehow. He bent to the first task, not that he thought he would like licking hairy armpits. Dawson’s nodding approval he did like.

I can get used to the way they smell.  

Nipples were not much fun either until he heard the whispered instruction, “Take them delicately in your teeth and tease them.” That was more interesting, especially when they began to firm under the combination of nipping and sucking.

Dawson told him to “move on.”

The man’s navel, Jimmy thought, hardly reacted. It dawned on him that he was there to prepare of the real test of his assignment, Dawson’s cock and balls. He went for the cock’s head and began working on it with lips and tongue – only to have his ears seized and his head thrust to smother his nose in public hair and his mouth at Dawson’s balls.

“One at the time, Jimmy. Open wide and suck until you have one where your tongue can coat it liberally all over. Make oral love to my balls. It’s a tribute to…a sign of submission…to the man…you want to…fuck you, son.”

Another first. Son.

Half a second’s puzzlement later, the boy heaved air through his nose and began to lave a hairy, fleshy egg as best he could. A mere touch of his temple sent him to the other. He slurped it in, heedless of any thought of hesitating. Novel, yes; nice, in its way. His mouth – Jimmy Simms’ mouth – was pleasing an expert!

“Jimmy. Jimmy!” Dawson called for his attention. “Come back up here.” He offered the pillow to his left.

Not imagining what would happen, Jimmy crawled into place and lay back prepared, he thought, for anything except what did happen.

Old man Dawson’s tongue flickered between lips, traced teeth, entered his mouth, and touched tongues before lashing Jimmy’s and sucking it into his mouth. His arms enfolding the boy’s upper body and their bodies mashed together, he turned the kiss from another experiment into passion. More than even he had expected. It aroused the languid teen to kiss back with a lover’s fervor – another first.

Finally, Dawson broke away. As Jimmy gasped, the boy’s Adam’s apple was taken and sucked on. The crook of his neck where normally he was ticklish became an erotic stimulant under Dawson’s tongue. Armpits and smooth chest, belly and balls learned what it was to receive from a master the rewards of tasks attempted on order.

The depths of Dawson’s mouth suddenly swept upon, seized, gobbled, and catapulted all of his stiff teen cock and his entire scrotum into hysterically heaving, thrusting, gut-wrenching climaxes – during which Jimmy’s voice went hoarse. Swallowing and gnawing until the boy was past caring, Dawson lifted off, wiped his mouth, sat up, took stock of the effect he had produced, smiled, and said, “That, my young pupil was stage one in what you want to learn here – and will, if you put yourself entirely at my disposal.”

Blinking eyes were close to tears. “Will it be like that when you fuck me?”

The answer was indirect: “It all depends.”

Young Jimmy Timms, staring more intently than before into this curious man’s eyes a few inches from his own, felt queasy. His stomach started to play tricks on him.  In fact, everything below his spit-wet navel grew uneasy. He wanted to follow Dawson’s lead, and to let himself react, but he was not sure how. He did not understand subtlety. Yet.

He reached for Dawson’s excitement. As if under magnetic force, their mouths came together in a sweetly innocent kiss. He shuddered with urgency as the old man ground together their pelvises and again gathered Jimmy in his arms. Two hearts pounded against each other.

“You’re better. You’re going to be wonderful.”

At those words, spoken with quiet earnestness, Jimmy melted into the embrace, all trepidation gone. His enthusiastic tongue sprang through Dawson’s unclosed lips. And was bitten.

“I’m sorry.”

“You just proved you’re ready. That’s good.”

“It’s all right?” He sounded timorous.

“I’ll show you. Relax.”

Here it comes. He’s gonna fuck me. 

It seemed that way. Dawson lifted his pillow, motioned for Jimmy to hoist his legs, and shoved it under.

“Nice view. Keep those up high.” Dawson reached for a tube of Aquaphor ointment, squeezing the first of several dabs he planned to use. He placed it just on the boy’s never-breached opening.

“Feel that?”

A kink of Jimmy’s head was the acknowledgment he needed. From his kneeling position, Dawson pointed his right index finger directly on the dab and pushed no more than a quarter-inch. Another. He twisted as far as the first knuckle, rested, withdrew to push and twist further.

A second grease-thick oily dab followed, packed in the same way, this time to Dawson’s second, broader joint. “You know why I’m doing this, don’t you?”

“So you can fuck me.”

“Yes, eventually.” With that, he ran in the finger’s full length and let it stay.

In response, a wriggle – testing the sensation. Jimmy liked it.

Out with that finger, in with the left hand’s index finger. It coasted on the greasy stuff. Dawson’s favored hand, unseen by Jimmy, rustled in the bedside’s drawer.

The object, an inch wide at its base and tapered, replaced the latter finger, a sphincteral snap securing it against Jimmy’s bottom. Artificial pink.

Cute.

“You can put your legs down now. It’s time to suck some more.”

“Do I have to?”

“You don’t know how, Jimmy. I want your head hanging off the bed down here, near me. Now.”

Pink plug agitating him as he relocated – not far enough to suit Dawson – Jimmy began to realize what might happen. Begrudging his fate, he did not resist, although he feared.

“Open.”

He had not heard the tinfoil’s tear nor seen the condom. He felt something rubbery under his lips, against his teeth.

Dawson, in full professorial mode, launched an educational program he had not been charged by Donny to do. Just couldn’t help himself.

“Two fingers from each hand. Hold this. You want a man’s interest, Jimmy? Then you must know how to give him a thrill even when the task is as ordinary as putting on a condom. That’s a good boy. I’ll begin to enter – just to help you. Okay, feel your lips against the unrolled part. Like that. Now take your hands away and reach my hips. We’ll practice. Hold your mouth completely round so I don’t feel your teeth, and you pull my cock in. A little bit at a time. Push me back. You’re in charge. When you feel safely in charge, pull me as far as you can, then push back. Each time, a little more. Get used to how good your mouth feels when full of a good man’s cock. Your tongue will like it more and more. Here comes your first special moment: pull me in real far and swallow at the same time. Gag a little – that’s part of thrilling your man. Repeat, each time trying for more as you swallow. My cock will always retreat when you push. You will not strangle yourself. This is training, Jimmy – training you must complete, if not today, then over the weekend. Find the pleasure in it like you’ve found pleasure in everything else so far.”

To Jimmy went credit for trying. He swallowed, he gagged. Then, when he could do no more than to sniff and lick a little, Dawson recognized the symptoms of unconditional failure.

“Hey, you,” he said softly, “You need a rest. Lie still with me in your mouth, just your mouth. Breathe, Jimmy. Breath in my scent. Learn that smell – it’s a man’s. I’m going to tickle your balls and play with your plug. Don’t let go of my cock. If you have to laugh, suck it right back. Lick on it. Keep it hard.”

Their game meant to Jimmy that he was still in line for the fuck he desired, the fuck his brother had guaranteed would be the best thing that ever could happen to him. The plug! He grasped it when Dawson tugged on it.

Jimmy’s voice, muffled by the cock filling his mouth, called out what unmistakably was, “That’s mine!” With a tight clench, he tugged back only to be out-maneuvered by old man Dawson’s lips fluttering between his super-sensitive balls. He lost the plug but regained his mouthful – until mirth dissolved the battle.

Dawson popped back Jimmy’s plug. Told him to bring them each a beer from his fridge and a bag of pretzels from the kitchen pantry.

The condom disappeared.

Propped, they imbibed the Colt 45, chatting about nothing. Dawson finished only half, handed the rest to Jimmy who was thirsty.

With a burpy smile, the boy asked, “You tryin’ to git me drunk?”

“A little.”

“Okay. Then you’re gonna fuck me, right?”

“In time.”

With a show of brushing off pretzel crumbs, Dawson told Jimmy to hike his legs again. “I’m taking this out,” he said, “to put this in.” This was a long, narrow dildo made, it seemed for Jimmy Timms’ interior. It went in painlessly five or so inches. Looked funny, three or more protruding out.

“Excellent,” Dawson stated. “Stretch out on your tummy – all the way and point your big toes to each other. Scrunch your middle around. Yes, Jimmy. We will exercise the muscle back there. Get it ready for you to discover how the wonder of being fucked starts with trained pliability.”

The words meant nothing but Jimmy caught the drift. Dawson was going to work on his ass.

Irregular movements alternated with slow pistonings. Rest periods varied from mere seconds of inactivity and moments of vacancy to deliberate insertions at six and more inches being held in situ for as long as perhaps a minute. The while, Dawson spoke softly of achievement on “my pupil’s part.” Ever the teacher.

“Your trust in me is growing, Jimmy. The more it does, the more you want to trust me with your body, the greater will be your pleasure – and something you know little about, the meaning of your ass for the best men ahead in your life.”

Responding to the Colt 45’s alcohol and to Dawson’s verbal encouragements, Jimmy Timms’ moment approached.

The better part of wisdom dictates a different dildo – my spiraled one.

Sheathed in a condom of its own and lavished with Astroglide, the new dildo was screwed through the now-relaxed muscle to reactions like small quakes of the boy’s pelvis. Its withdrawals and straight-in repositionings had Jimmy’s entire rectum humming silently. He, on the other hand, moaned, sighed, groaned, whined…

Taken away so gently he almost failed to notice the lapse before he was re-entered, Jimmy basked in anal sensations that had him in their thrall. So what if the next dildo was wider and was being jiggled sideways to work its way in?

Not cold this time. Ohmigod, it’s him! I’m being fucked!

Oh, his “god” indeed. The heft into him by Dawson, Dawson’s weight driving deep, Jimmy’s insides shoved where the big organ demanded; hands hauling his shoulders back, Dawson heaving into a man’s rightful place. Boy conquered.

Jimmy, for all that bore down upon and up inside him, began to tremble. Skin crawled. Guts churned. Glutes tensed. The moment overwhelmed him. He choked back a complex of reactions in favor of sensations crowding his perceptions.

Thoughts scrambled. My ass is having a fit. It burns. I’m cold. Damnnn…

His slab-like cock undergoing flexing tests by the teen’s none-too-muscular rectal tube, Dawson stalled.  Not a move would he make until the area and its boy surrendered totally.

My cock’s steaming in a hot marinade! And when I stir the pot…

In Jimmy’s vacillating consciousness, gradual awareness came to him. Before being handed over to old man Dawson by Donny, he had never really had sex. A few past blowjobs were nothing but dammed-up glands being emptied. Now, sensuality frazzled his mind as Dawson’s cock had burned his ass going in. Already, kissing and oral – real oral – had been out of this world. So much tonguing! Rolling on a condom in his mouth! Being plugged and dildoed. Now fucked. Or starting to be.

This kid’s sex drive needs kindling.

That thought in mind, Dawson determined to drive out any confusion about his ass’s destiny from Jimmy’s unused mind. With his cock on the move, Dawson searched for and found the boy’s prostate. Resting against it, he noticed how alert Jimmy had become.

Bigger than Donny’s. I’ll coax it.

Helpless against the urgency of Dawson’s nudges, Jimmy writhed, anxiety heightening as messages from his prostate assaulted his brain.

The primordial pace of mating started. Considerately slow, rhythmically even – rubbing, pulsing – it ministered entrancingly with supple strokes to Jimmy Timms’ longing. Tender concern for the stunned youth’s tissue assured gentleness. Coats of two lubricants assuaged friction.

Dawson’s forwards and reversals soothed and smoothed the path for a cock which controlled the rectum’s capitulation. As his full-length probes became firmer plunges, Dawson’s intentions made themselves felt more intensely. They were beginning to define the fuck as more than skilled penetrations. The young fellow’s libido soared into orbit.

Running his course back and forth faster dizzied and dazzled Dawson almost as much as the increase created wavelets of stimulus to flicker, then to surge with the force of waves to rock the unresisting body as if caught in tidal flows. Sweat streamed, adapting its rivulets to the creases and wrinkles of the man who strove mightily at the fuck. Armpit-secreted pheromones mixed with earlier saliva deposits to yield an aroma new to that of rapid anal sex’s heady atmosphere.

Other essences added subtle scents. Jimmy’s balls sweated. His cock secreted pre-cum to dampen Dawson’s bed as thoroughly as though ejaculation had occurred. From his gaping mouth, through which breaths heaved, drool dribbled. His neck and hair were wet from Dawson’s spittle.

Unbounded physicality liberated desires from mundane vulnerability. The kid’s elasticity and his fucker’s longitudinal pole, inelastic in his task, lifted the act from something ordinarily akin to coring an apple to that of a chef de cuisine setting forth conditions for the invention of a new delight.

Prof. Wilfred “Will” Dawson’s referential imagination flipped into metaphorical convergence mode – slightly confused with agriculture – as he plowed the whining boy. Sowing time – digging deep, burying my seed for the great harvest ahead. Cornucopias to be crammed. Thanksgiving’s to come – to cum!

“I know you can hear me. Spread your legs. Wider! I’m going to flood you, Jimmy.”

Seeing himself in the already-reddened hole he had dug, Dawson shook with desire and peaked. Explosions jettisoned cum in rapid-fire fusillades, shocking Jimmy’s insides past trauma to insensibility. What puddled deep within was matched by the drenched heap the two made on Dawson’s bed.

Enough oxygen later, Jimmy protested, “You’re squashing me.”

For Dawson, their physical connection remained solid although even he recognized a plea when he heard one. Relenting, he released his hold on Jimmy Timms’ shoulders, removed his sopping, still-plumped cock, sat back, assessed the sodden ass, smirked with the corners of his mouth turned down, got off the bed, and headed for the bathroom.

A large towel in his hand, he returned to dab at and wipe off the body that, to his eyes, now held more allure than before it had been so completely his. In hushed, husky tones he said what he was thinking.

“Jimmy, you trusted me. You did. You made me so proud of you. I think it’s dawning on you that your psycho-sexual need is masochistic. I’ll tell you what that means, why it’s important. Rough, demanding sex, sex which forces you to comply, that’s the sex for you.”

Jimmy’s eyelids opened and closed in bewilderment as he listened prone, fully exposed, enjoying the attention. He heard something about being “suited to serve men with very special needs.”  That he was “broken in” pleased him. He rolled to the middle of the bed and accepted more of the towel’s progress from his ankles to his genitals, over his stomach and chest, up his neck, a fluffing of his very damp hair.

“You’re cooling down. Look at me. In my eyes – directly. Yours is a rare disposition. You want to submit to the will of superior men. To please them. To serve. But, Jimmy, you can be of service to men far beyond anything Donny is or will ever be, of service to men who will cherish you and provide for you in ways you can’t imagine. So, join me in the shower. We’ll clean up. Okay?”

* * * *

The bed was refreshed by being remade, the two joining forces and making light over some stories about Donny. Propped again side by side, smelling of Dawson’s expensive lavender soap, they watched early evening news. A reference almost missed was about “Author Clyde Victor’s problems continue over misstatements he made during an investigation.” It seemed an anonymous tipster had accused the author “of hiding a secret life from his fans” and that authorities “were checking into the matter.”

With a goose to Jimmy’s ribs, old man Dawson asked if he liked yogurt.

“I won’t force any on you but I will spill the beans about your brother Donny and that author.”

Hilarity followed the story’s actual details. Tickling, overt and surreptitious, was involved. Chuckles shared.

“You know what I admire about you besides that fact that you trusted me?”

“What?”

“That you’re now trusting yourself, Jimmy.” Lightly kissing the teen, he snuggled him. “How’s your bottom?”

In a whisper, Jimmy confided, “Outside, it’s kinda sore.”

“Inside? How about inside?”

The small voice sounded very young, “Empty.”                                                                                   

“Then advanced therapy’s called for. Hand me the Aquaphor. Thank you.”

Dawson unscrewed the cap and set it aside. “A hand, please.”

Jimmy’s hand received several inches, coiled, of the wondrous ointment with which he first had been opened to Dawson’s finger.

“It’s for me, down there.”

The boy’s fingers touched and pulled from its resting place his mentor’s limp but burgeoning lump. Administering clumsily around the tip and flange, and upon the penis’s plumping shoulders, Jimmy brought into play his other hand.

“Thoroughly coat me. Use more.”

The organ lurched into full erection. Its size and heat impressed the boy. He let go to watch it sway, to notice its blood vessels churning, to see what was oozing from its tip. His personal penis hardened and was secreting as well. To refrain from clenching ass muscles was impossible. They had developed expectations of their own.

“Rub what’s left in your palms on my balls to encourage them… Beautiful, Jimmy… Shall we begin your therapy?”

Mistaking the question for an instruction to resume his former position face-down, Jimmy’s effort to flop over was stopped. “Not this time, my willing one. You’re a prime candidate for the realest of fucks – if your hips have the flexibility to rotate sufficiently.”

Lobbing the boy’s legs up, over, and away until their knees closed in on his ears, Dawson admired the exposed symmetry punctuated by balls on either side of a straight, teen cock. That is, until his attention strayed to the fidgeting circlet below. Perfect aim took the target’s center. He sank to a sustained noise of pleasure. All the way. Small flinches and clenches confirmed his presence. Surroundings conformed irresistibly.

The bliss of being embedded to his pubic bone nearly cost Dawson the load he wanted to deliver next, but not quickly. His professorial mind, challenged by the desire to fuck with a difference, wrestled with a progression of concepts – loitering, meandering, browsing, determining, angling, stirring, grinding, plunging, pounding, eventually to blast.

Body and spirit, Jimmy acquiesced submissively. Then, roused by the man’s determined expression and mounting excitement, became involved. He moved himself about, against, along with, contrary to, and eccentrically. His possessed ass took over. It spun his feelings so wildly that he spurted prematurely and sprinkled a wide area of himself and the fresh bedclothes.

Phenomenal response was triggered. Dawson lost control. Jimmy Timms’ spasms threatened to rip off the man’s discharging organ. Two beasts out of their minds, they fought blindly, raucously in feral fury. Bloodlessly, the battle ended.

Awash in bodily effluvia, the two had no words for each other. Rather, they had something akin to the understanding of lovers. Each possessed the means to satisfy the other’s sexual needs, now fully awakened.

Dawson was appalled at himself. To fall for an uneducated creature such as notorious Donny Timms’ brother – unthinkable! Was it real? Bewildered, he sought refuge in reason. It took him as far as his lust for butts. Donny’s butt: the best, but little more, tempered to a degree by their kind of friendship. But this boy Jimmy! Everything about mating with him from first sight, first touches, first kisses, and their fitting together to the way the boy not only let him do what he wanted but participated in it: breathtaking.

The way I had him immobilized, thoroughly skewered – he knew he was more than special. In fact, important. That look was in his face. I saw it.

For his part, Jimmy knew only that he was in love – with a phenomenal man. Rather, he guessed that he was in love. He felt important. This man, old man Dawson the professor, needed him.

Fatigue claimed them.

* * * *

Midmorning at Dawson’s house found freshly-salved, fully-clad Jimmy helping out. Idly, he ran the vacuum while taking in each room.

All them books. Place’s nice, though. Don’t look like nobody’s here much less in the kitchen or Dawson’s bedroom. Got another bedroom. Damn, even a basement. 

 The doorbell ding-donged. Twice.

With no sign of Dawson, Jimmy answered it.

Sal Poole grabbed Gene Claxton’s arm at the domestic beauty standing there, running a cordless vacuum cleaner, sporting a black eye.

“Are you Jimmy?” Sal asked over the noise. “You look like Donny. I know him.”

Matter-of-factly, Jimmy said, “Lotta guys know Donny.”

Gene found his voice, “We’re friends of Will’s. Is he here?”

“Someplace, maybe outside. Did y’look in the garage?”

The awkward moment was relieved. Will Dawson came through the house, surprised at callers who had not phoned earlier. He made introductions, noting Gene’s acute interest in Jimmy, and invited them in.

There was no subtlety to Gene Claxton’s question, asked of Jimmy while pointing at Will, “Did that awful man smack you in the eye?”

The boy’s hard-edge reply stopped all conversation, “He ain’t done nothin’ to me that I didn’t want him to.”

Will’s face burned with a blush. He reached for Jimmy, who evaded his hand and left with the vacuum.

Sal sputtered to Gene, “Guess he told you.”

“Explanations will come later,” Will advised before asking, “Why are you here?”

“News, my dear. Sal’s friend Dick has supplied a few interesting items and I’ve talked to Clyde Victor.” Gene was smug. “This will take a while. Got something for your…pro-té-gé…to do?”

Within minutes, Jimmy happily applied himself to a game on Will’s computer in the basement.

The phone rang. Caller ID displayed a name and number unknown to Will. He picked it up, “Dawson residence.”

“Hey, old man, d’you fuck my brother? Like I told you to?”

“Why, Donny, where are you calling from?”

“Nice guy’s. Picked me up last night from the park. Got a nice place. He don’t know you. So, what happened? Did y’fuck Jimmy or what? Was he good?”

Dawson grew tight-lipped, “We worked everything out, yes. You want me to take him to you, or what?”

“Hell no. He’s yours for the weekend. You treat him right ’n’ get him all fired up so he can make some money. Gonna sell that ass for plenty, believe me. Where is he? I wanna talk to him.”

* * * *

One hour before his Monday classes, Prof. Wilfred Dawson phoned that he was ill, asked that notices be posted at the lecture hall for this day only. All sessions would resume on Wednesday – assignments to be completed by then.

Ill? Hardly. True, he walked with difficulty. His lower back, Tylenol #3 or not, had been exercised at the max too many times in too few days and nights. His penis dangled exhausted, his testicles shriveled. Physical energy had drained away. Sapped entirely.

His spirit, however, glowed as electrically as the aurora borealis. Obsession charged him psychically. Poignantly, given the distance of their ages and social status.

Jimmy! Whether kneeling over an ottoman, heels-over-head, flat-out prone, on his side, or in some other placement, sixteen-year-old Jimmy Timms had taken possession of Will Dawson. For the rapacious boy, recovery from one of their unions, no matter how shattering the raw sex, was a matter of minutes. Dawson’s took two hours, three when he could be spared that long. Four was better.

Cajolery was needed to persuade Jimmy to go out to a restaurant on Saturday and to a hotel buffet for Sunday brunch. His reluctance, even recalcitrance was revealed to be simple insecurity. He had never been in such settings, did not know how to act. With assurances that he would “be all right,” Jimmy attempted to make conversation, tried to have a good time. Yes, the food was good, yet nothing – not even frothy desserts – made him more at ease and happier than to return home with his lover, Will, and to receive more of what he really wanted all the time.

Will needed him. Soup from a can, sliced cheese with crackers, glasses of milk or water were the extent of Jimmy’s culinary abilities. Served to Will in bed with good intentions, such sustenance was appreciated. Grapes, if there were any. But there were limits. Sal was summoned.

Quick in a kitchen, Will’s long-time friend demonstrated the making of high-energy protein shakes, of chopped salads, and of quick-fried hamburger patties. He supervised Jimmy’s efforts. When the boy was out of earshot, he and Will conversed.

“You’ve unleashed a demon and the demon’s consuming you,” Sal was blunt.

Will was sad, “I realize that, but he loves me. Nobody’s loved me in years. And his ass is preternaturally muscular. Sal, none of the rest of him is remotely as strong. I could die when I’m fucking him.”

“Right. You could die. You might if you don’t shed yourself of him. Listen, it’s impossible this relationship. Your retirement’s years away, ‘old man,’ and you’ve duties at the U. and to yourself, to your health. Don’t look at me like that! I know, you’re about to give me your line about sex being part of a healthy lifestyle. It is, yes. But man, look at yourself. You let your enthusiasm become a fixation, now a craze. Result, you’re virtually bedridden.”

“And you’re being preachy. I’ll get my groin back. And my back, back.” Reason was returning. “What about Gene’s idea of the other day? Thought about it anymore? I have.”

“You trying to distract me, or are you serious?”

“Serious.” Will said it, eyes welling up.

“Then yes, I have, and he and I have talked with Dick Watson – because we’re really, really concerned about you. Gene’s got the diabolical plan sort of worked out. He hates Clyde Victor for more reasons than you know. Wants to bury him further because of the morass the damn fool’s made for himself – in part because he loathes the guy’s trashy books, in part because he’s got designs on Jimmy. Donny’s involvement with that Victor guy and the whole yogurt nonsense has him thinking if he helps Donny, Donny’ll help him get Jimmy…”

“Sal, skip the convolutions. I get it. Let me fix Gene up with Jimmy. I can talk that sweet thing into thinking he’ll be showing me his love by helping out my friend and, at the same time he’ll be helping out his brother who brought him to me.” A bit winded, Will breathed deeply.

Both paused.

Jimmy entered with a glass of ice and soda.

Pretty as a picture.

Sipping gratefully, Dawson waved off Sal. He studied his teen nurse’s concerned face, “Jimmy, I’m sorry I can’t do anything for you yet. I need more rest, honey. So, I was thinking… My friend Gene Claxton, who knows Donny, would love to fill you in tonight if you’d be willing to spend it with him. You’ve been tending to me so much, you haven’t had any reward. Gene could do us both a favor, and he would if I ask him to.”

“You mean it? You would ask him to do that for me? Is he nice?”

[Concluded in “DONNY AND CLYDE PART THREE”]

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