By Simon Traum

Damon's deep, dark eyes stare out through the ticking carapace of the drizzle-spattered windshield into the gathering dusk. Uncharacteristically silent, he's surveying the parking lot, having backed his small truck into a space that turns the property into the closest thing possible to a panopticon, giving him an unobstructed view down several rows of floodlit cars and two sides of Trask's, an urban roadhouse located just off the Interstate. Distantly glowing under orange neon, a bull-like man with short blond hair and a tight black SECURITY t-shirt patrols the perimeter of the bar, baby-face looking bored but alertly at the passing groups and couples making their way inside. A dull, thumping rhythmic pulse escapes the building, vibrations infecting and blurring the surroundings, adding weight to the deepening dark.

"What'd you call this earlier, 'going sharping'?" Chump asks from the passenger seat.

"Going 'sharking'," Damon corrects him.

"What's that mean?"

"It means that here's where we separate the men from the boys. If Oscar Wilde was feasting with panthers, then we're going sharking!" Chump's heard of Oscar Wilde, but frankly has no idea what Damon's talking about. He nods uncertainly, hoping for some clarification.

Damon's handsome face grins at the windshield, showing all his teeth. "You said you wanted to see how I did it. This is how." His gaze shifts over to Chump. "You worried about keeping up?"

"Fuck no!" Chump responds to the challenge. He flexes his shoulders, clearly restless. "So what are we doing?"

"We're gonna go inside. Beyond that, I don't know. I don't usually take passengers on these outings."

"I got your back," Chump asserts, a little worried. "You been here before?"

"Uh-uh," Damon shakes his head, distracted, staring at the bar. "Noticed it a while back, but I haven't seen it busy the way it's getting tonight. This looks good." He turns abruptly toward Chump. "See, what we're doing is going into an environment that is typically not conducive to man-sex, but we're gonna make it conductible."

Having seen both what Damon's capable of as well as a certain number of rowdy bars, Chump's not actually surprised at Damon's megalomaniac audacity, but privately he clenches both fists, expecting the worst. He's pretty sure they'll both have to fight their way out of there, probably after Damon gets lucky again.

Chump was specifically curious about Damon's oft-demonstrated ability to pick up strange guys in unlikely places. Chump wanted to learn a few new tricks. He knows how to cruise, but what Damon does in public leaves his jaw on the ground. ("Improvisation, son," Damon's told him.) He's beginning to suspect that what he's dealing with in Damon is probably borderline insanity, if not a death wish. The trouble is the guy consistently gets away with it, as if the universe were meeting him halfway.

The two of them have been hanging out for a couple of hours, during which Damon's already sucked off a complete (but very cute and surprised) stranger in a department store fitting room. He made Chump stand guard outside, giving him a peck on the cheek as he and his shellshocked paramour emerged smiling. "Thanks for waiting, sweetheart," Damon said brightly to Chump as if they were a couple, as whoever-he-was went scurrying off through the racks of jackets.

Glancing back through the windshield, Damon registers the twin facts that the rain is falling a little faster and there's now a line outside the bar's door. "Okay, I think we've about hit critical mass," he announces before grabbing Chump's head and thrusting his tongue past his lips. They suck face for a few. "I can see why Tucker likes you," Damon grins when they separate. (Tucker being Damon's best friend and the guy Chump usually sleeps with.) "Let's go inside and get it on!" Pulling on the truck's door handle, he steps out into the increasing downpour, followed by Chump.

Looking at Damon now, you'd never know that once upon a time, he was withdrawn and timid. Chump certainly hasn't guessed, not having known him that long, but Damon, whose deep eyes and evil smile can inspire guys to do things they're sometimes surprised about later, actually took quite a while getting comfortable with his own body and magnetism. For years he didn't realize he was attractive, gazing from afar at men he didn't think he'd ever have a chance with. He thought anyone good-looking was out of his league. After some tentative experiments, he determined that a lot of these guys thought the same thing about him, and if someone didn't make the first move, nobody was getting what they wanted. His first experiences pushing the envelope were so successful that he never looked back. His final taboo - having his ass fucked - came shattering down two boyfriends ago. Now, a few years later, Damon's grown into a sex monster par excellence, a versatile, charisma-dripping, pitbull-cute horndog.

Chump, by comparison, remains quiet and moody, staying in the background much of the time. Physically more compact than Damon, he's disarmingly handsome, with a freckled German face and dark black hair, but can be difficult to approach at first. If Damon can come on like the solar Apollo, dazzling as he enters the temple, Chump is darker, more lunar in aspect, peripheral by nature. Chump's strategy is subterfuge. They both have a knack for attracting the partners they want, but they do it in completely different ways.

"See," Damon pontificates, having recovered his motor-mouth as he walks, "this place is crammed full of guys who spend most of their time repressing their most basic drives and instincts, doing what their girlfriends or families think is best for them. They put their own desires on hold in favor of social respectability. They hold the pattern and look happy about it in public, but they're not getting what they need and it's backing up on them. Once they cut loose and start drinking, you can see they're so walled in with frustration that they'll start fights just to have some human contact." He leans toward Chump, dropping the level of his voice. "They just want to be touched. This is what hedonic engineering is about. Imagine what they're gonna make of two horned-up sex-yoga adepts fully equipped to give them exactly what they really want..."

"You've got some strange hobbies," Chump says, aroused and impressed.

Walking through the door, the sound and atmosphere change. Pressure builds, the muscular low end suddenly gains a high and now the amplified music becomes recognizable, slightly disorienting at its volume level, promising big confusion before the night is over. The bass hits down in the gut, sending vibrations outward through the bone structure, musculature, warming the surface of the skin, gradually becoming commonplace, shouted over, ignored. Moving into new space. Colored lighting, with an accent toward the red-orange end of the spectrum, spills dimly over the rest of the room from the half-full wooden dance floor, illuminating a cocktail area with standing tables nearby. A lumpy mass of people sprawls across the interior, obscuring any clearer view, trying to hear themselves over the incipient chaos. Darkness, noise, intoxication, garish colors that skew one's consciousness toward hallucination, something to stir the warm depths, spike the blood with tangy, spiced adrenaline.

They're not even in the place for five minutes before Damon's excitedly rubbernecking at the crowd, eyes practically shining in the dark, suggesting they split up for a while. "We'll have better pull on our own," he shouts into Chump's ear. "Otherwise we're just gonna get in each other's way." Chump nods; Damon's right. They make arrangements to meet if one can't find the other, and then Damon's off like a shot, a kid in a candy store. Chump watches him go, fishtailing through the press of bodies, then figures he should make for the nearest bartender.

Billy's not in a good mood tonight. A tall, dark-haired, reasonably large man of 37, he's been in charge of security at Trask's for several years now, responsible for making sure the place doesn't get too off-kilter. That's going to be more challenging than usual this evening, since two of his crew called in sick, leaving him with just enough manpower to handle the night if it doesn't get too crazy. Jesus, please don't let it get too crazy. The bar manager's been breathing down his neck lately.

At least, Zark and Tony and the others showed up. Zark's big enough that most dudes won't take him on. He's good for crowd control; Billy's glad he's here. He takes a deep breath and tells himself not to worry. Down at the other end of the room, Tony's chatting it up with a group of skirts, clearly enjoying the attention as they fawn over him. He watches Tony lift one of his treetrunk arms and flex his biceps, followed by titters from the group. It doesn't make Billy feel all that much better.

Billy's been fighting the feeling all night that something's going to go wrong. He can see no evidence that anything out of the ordinary is occurring, but he's developed a feel for these things. What's troubling him is the nightmarish suspicion that even though he knows something's about to happen, he won't be able do anything to stop it. This is making him very crabby.

A passing redhead in tight jeans and a burgundy sweater that hugs her tits individually smiles at him, and he feels his dick grow in the crotch of his pants. He hasn't been laid in a week. Fuckin' Diana stopped putting out three nights back after she got angry with him for not "supporting" her in some argument with her brother that he can't even remember. He thinks to himself, he really is reaching the limits of his patience and beginning to wonder what he thought he would get out of a relationship in the first place. Every damn time it just ends up in fights over worthless possessions, recriminations over lost status. He feels a dull ache in his jaw and realizes that he's been gritting his teeth. Not in a good mood.

The usual riot of Saturday night characters has arrived, decanting itself into the deafening, multicolored murk: nervous young men, overcompensating by acting like they own the place; somewhat more confident groups of older ones; trepidacious, sluttily-dressed young women unlikely to cut loose unless their attendant friends do so as well; regulars who cling to the bar itself, rarely relinquishing their perches. And every so often, one of his guys in a black SECURITY shirt, scanning the room. That does make him feel better, since he's already noted with interest that at least one certified troublemaker has made his way into the building. He thumbs his walkie-talkie to life as he raises it to call Zark in from the parking lot. He'll have to let the other guys know that Red's in the house tonight.

Red is a guy that probably shouldn't ever drink, but of course, does, copiously. "Red", by the way, is the security team's nickname for him, more because of his temperament (as in Red Flag) than his hair color, which is blond - besides, Billy can never remember the kid's real name. An ex-military vet in his late-20's who hasn't adjusted particularly well to his civilian existence, Red becomes aggressively antagonistic the more he drinks, and everyone on the security crew knows to keep an eye out for him. The guy's only 5'6" and weighs maybe 160 pounds, but it's all muscle, and he goes berserk unpredictably. Being related somehow to the bar's owner apparently keeps him coming in, despite Billy having to frequently eject him from the premises. He's not looking forward to having to do it again tonight. How does somebody get that angry?

It seems to Billy like the only thing he really does at work, other than stand around waiting for it to happen, is stop these walking powder-kegs from doing too much damage when they inevitably explode from the internal pressure they're carrying around inside. Another day, another brawler. Why does everyone ignore this? What's gone wrong with everybody? Although, he thinks, if they ever stop, I'm out of a job.

Glancing around the room to see how his guys are spread out, he sees a flash of black he doesn't expect moving on his left, and zeroes his attention in on it. It's not one of his guys, it's someone else in a tight black t-shirt. His eyes take in the back of a closely-cropped, stubbly head above a pair of broad shoulders.

Then the head turns, giving him a profile view, and he freezes, heart stopped. The man he's looking at is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He can't even think, forgets where he is, goes deaf and stares mute at the face of a god. He takes it in, savoring details; the darkly gorgeous eyes under thick black brows, full lips, perfectly proportioned ears and jawline. It's like sculpture.

As if aware that he's being watched, the face swings fully around and locks eyes with Billy's, starting his heart up again painfully in his chest. They're maybe fifteen feet apart, taking each other in, and Billy's still paralyzed when the guy grins, winks, and moves away into the now-crowded room.

The head of security suddenly becomes aware that his mouth is hanging open.

Damon's been hopping from group to group, making quick friends, worming his way through the crowd. He has to introduce himself repeatedly; no one seems to hear his name right the first time, or sometimes at all. ("Diamond?" "Did he say his name was Demon?" "Hey, D-Man!") He grins to himself. It feels like reality's getting a little bit soft around the edges, always a good sign. He's still walking around with the chub he grew when that tall, dark security guy was checking him out. Maybe there's some potential there...

Chump's started drinking. First shots, then a few beers. He's out of practice and it's hitting him harder than he was prepared for, but he's enjoying it, getting hornier all the time. He's borrowed Tucker's faded yellow cowboy hat for the night, and he knows he looks good in it. Women are all over him, while he's locking eyes with their boyfriends. It looks to him as if Damon's doing the same thing over by the pinball machine on the other side of the room.

A mid-size brunette in tight jeans and her own cowboy hat asks him if he wants to dance. Chump's got his buzzed swagger on now, and he knows how to two-step, so they're off, and the room doesn't spin too much. The girl's a good dancer, so it's fun.

In the midst of his movement, however, Chump's eyes scan past something that sticks out, so that he has to crane his head to take it in again. Looking back, he spots a shock of blond hair over two glowering eyes, a badly-reset broken nose and a mouth that's twisted in on itself like a scar. All this above a bright red shirt. The guy's not big, but his eyes remind Chump of Charles Manson and are staring right back at him, kind of freaking him out. He begins to think maybe he might be dancing with this furious-looking man's significant other.

"Do you know that guy?" Chump asks.

She glances quickly over to where he's indicating. "No," she says, then giggles as if maybe she really does.

He decides to ignore it, but when they come around to that part of the floor again the blond guy's still giving him the evil eye, giving him the finger now as well.

"What's your name, honey?" the brunette inquires.

"You can call me Chump," he tells her, distracted.

"Chump," she repeats, bemused. "That's a weird name. Doesn't it mean loser?"

"I guess," Chump says, not caring to explain that it's just a stupid nickname that stuck. He's already tuning her out.

She is a good dancer, though.

Billy's been stuck in the same spot for the past thirteen minutes, while his mind thrashes around like a sealed bag full of cats. He scans the crowd, searching for the man he saw, then pointedly asks himself what the fuck he thinks he's doing. Billy is heterosexual. There is no question about this. He has never even thought about another male as an attractive creature.

But the man he saw...

He's never felt this way about anyone. It's the biggest thing in his brain, it's crowding everything else out, he can't even think around it. His penis is almost painfully hard and stiff; he thanks God for the dim lighting. Billy is swiftly coming to recognize that if he doesn't act on this feeling, it could be the death of him.

Walking like he's using someone else's body, Billy plods off in the direction opposite of the one he was standing in, hoping this will provide some results, since he is unable to construct a more detailed plan at the moment. He feels the bottom of his stomach drop away through the floor, speeding up as it falls echoing through the earth below. As he walks, he knows it won't come back again. It doesn't matter; he has to find that man...

He does find him, holding court in the shadowy corner by the ancient pinball machine. Somebody's plugged the damned thing in again, but it doesn't work right anymore. The machine throws an infernal illumination across the guy's handsome features. Billy's torturing himself, trying to decide what to do when the man looks right at him.

Billy stands rooted to the spot, trembling uncontrollably as the man walks closer, smiling like a shark.

Damon can see the poor guy shaking as he closes the space between them. A look of concern crosses his features. "Are you all right?" The security guy's losing his color, looking pale and spacey. Damon places his hands on the man's torso to steady him and the man groans like he's in pain. He guides the two of them back to the flickering lights of the pinball machine, to prop themselves against its side. "Hey, what's going on?" he asks.

"I-- I don't know," Billy lies, then goes silent, staring as his hands, seemingly of their own accord, find their way to the surface of Damon's body, which stretches and presses luxuriantly back at him.

Billy takes a panicked look around to check if anyone's caught sight of the head of security blatantly feeling up one of the male patrons (miraculously, they haven't), then pulls Damon behind the machine and mashes their mouths together. His mouth and hands drink Damon in like a man dying of thirst. When he comes up for air again, he still grasps the other man's body, panting like a dog.

Damon knows he's struck gold here. This guy wants him so bad he can't even function. It's adorable, especially with a man this size. He starts to explore the guy's physique. Sweet. "What's your name, bud?" he asks.

"Billy," the large man breathes. "Please, don't stop..."

"I won't. My name's Damon," he informs him before their mouths are hungrily meeting again.

Damon's hands are exploring Billy's denim-clad butt, pressing on it, when Billy moans again. Damon can feel what seems like the end of a crowbar pressing up against his own crotch. Moving one hand around to Billy's bulge, he confirms that the guy's got a murderous hard-on. He doesn't wait for permission; Billy's having trouble talking anyway. Pulling the security guy's black jeans open, he lifts the stiff prong out for some air, fingering its rigid length.

"Oh, thank God..." Billy sighs as he licks Damon's earlobe.

Damon strokes it a few times, liking its pulsing feel in his palm. Billy stares at him as he swipes a finger over the engorged head to wipe some pre-come off, then sticks it into Billy's mouth. Billy sucks it in, feeling his cock pumping out a few more drops. His eyes roll.

He's not thinking too clearly right now, so he's not entirely sure what Damon's getting on his knees for; maybe he dropped his wallet. What Damon begins to do to him next erases his ability to think almost entirely. Feeling Damon's hot mouth tighten down on his leaking erection flips him out of anything like recognizable reality, blowing every circuit he has.

Riding the most incredible dunes and valleys of pleasure, Billy may as well be stranded on Mars.

The broken-nose blond guy's been tailing Chump for the past forty minutes; every time Chump looks around he finds the dude close by, glaring at him. Setting another empty bottle on the bar, Chump lopes off toward the Men's room. Sure enough, blondie's following him. Chump knows this game: Fight it or fuck it. Maybe both. Unzipping before the urinal, he idly wonders if the guy's gonna try to rape him. He can't help chuckling. Good fucking luck. Chump's just drunk enough now to fight the guy down for fun, then see if he can make him shoot his load...

Aha! His brain lights up. This is what Damon was talking about - going sharking!

A hand roughly shoves at his hip, knocking him off balance and out of his reverie. He doesn't fall, but stumbles, redistributing his weight over his feet, shoving his dick back into his jeans.

"Think you can just walk away from me, faggot?" The blond guy steps up, chin thrust forward, staring him in the face with a growing storm of psychosis behind his eyes. The other two men pissing glance over in frank curiosity.

Seeing him for the first time in some decent light, Chump decides the dude's gorgeous, broken nose and all. Without thinking, his body takes over and he watches, drunkenly pleased, as he launches himself at the blond's midsection and tackles him into the open stall behind. The stall door flies open, violently whacking into the face of another entering patron. This patron falls sideways into one of the men pissing, knocking him into the stall.

The pisser looks down at his now-wet clothing, and his face darkens. "Motherfucker..." He wheels around on the guy who stumbled into him, still dazed by his impact with the door, and decks him one to the jaw. This clears the victim's head long enough to realize he should be pissed off, and when he knocks his sparring partner into the other drunken pisser, the logic of mutually assured destruction takes over.

While all this is happening, Chump and the blond are busy trying to choke each other as they roll around the floor of the stall, whose door has returned from its destructive trip to the outer reaches of its trajectory and slammed shut again, lodging itself into the jamb and effectively sealing the two inside. Despite a genuine wish to do some harm to this egregious fucker, Chump is surprised to find he's got an aching hard-on. And he never had time to fasten his fly; his jeans are flopping wide open in front.

With some effort, he wrestles his way on top of the struggling, spitting blond, who seems too drunk to be much of a threat now that he's lost the element of surprise, and pins his head down on the floor beside the toilet. Their hands are still locked around the other's throat and Chump starts to grind his crotch into the blond's. He grins ferally, feeling no pain, only a divine exertion. He realizes his lip's bleeding when a drop falls onto the blond's sweating jaw, splashing into a crimson Rorschach blot.

Unable to breathe, the blond's eyes protrude, bloodshot, then roll up behind half-closed eyelids. Chump releases the pressure when the guy stops moving and his arms drop, feeling his pulse hammering under his palm. He sits up, straddling the guy's hips, losing whatever urge he had to hurt him, and stares transfixed at the body beneath him.

The racket outside as the other three men pummel each other over a series of accidents is unignorable, but irritating, so he bangs on the metal sides of the stall and yells to match them. They pay absolutely no attention to him. Listening more carefully, it comes to him that it sounds like an awful lot of people are throwing themselves around out there. Maybe he should rethink his exit strategy...

The blond guy picks this moment to start woozily moving around. Chump drops his torso back over him, pinning him to the ground. "Owww!" the guy whines, still groggy. He's lost whatever fight he had in him, but Chump's not ready to let him up yet. He stares down at the other guy, digging his helplessness.

"Look, dude, I'm sorry, okay?" the guy croaks, coughing. "I don't know why I did that. I don't even know you. I shouldn't have started it; let me up--" He frees one hand and tries to push Chump back off of him, but his fingers brush up against Chump's iron erection, sticking out of his fly. He shuts up then, slowly wrapping his fingers around the warm shaft.

His eyes dart up to Chump staring down at him, holding him down. He feels the cock get hotter in his hand.

"Want to do something to make up for it?" Chump asks him, huskily.

The blond nods, then stammers, "I don't take it up the ass, but I'll suck your dick."

Chump grins. "How 'bout we cut to the chase and you can fuck me?"

The blond smiles for the first time all night.

Billy's riding the waves of bliss as Damon sucks his hog, but keeping one eye on the rest of the bar out of habit. He plants a big hand on the back of Damon's bobbing head to guide his rhythm. His own head falls back for a second. "Uuuuhhhhhh..." His cock feels like hot stone in the beautiful man's mouth. As he feels Damon's fingers begin to explore under his shirt, seeking out a hairy nipple, he notices a strange current of movement toward the other end of the bar. Something's happening, he thinks as he disengages from the sucking mouth. Damon stands up; he's drooled all down the middle of his t-shirt.

Billy's walkie-talkie crackles. "Billy, it's Zark, what's your twenty?"

Billy thumbs the button, "Got my hands full, buddy. What's going on?"

The speaker squawks again. "Some kinda fight spillin' out the Men's room. It's gettin' bigger--" It cuts off.

Damon's got his hand on Billy's stiff prick, just holding it. Everyone around them is drifting in the general direction of the Men's room, where something noisy and intriguing is happening; no one's paying attention to the two of them. Billy knows what he's about to do is completely unprofessional.

And then he doesn't know anything except that he's bent Damon over the pinball machine, pulled his jeans down over his incredible ass, lubed himself up with some spit and pushed his hard cock roughly into Damon's spasming asshole. Damon's head arches back, eyes squeezed shut, and he gives out with the most gorgeous grunt. Billy can tell he won't last long; the sex is too hot, more than he can handle, especially with a week's buildup. He's gonna come a bucket up this incredible fucker's ass. He needs to do this, fuck his job, fuck everything else.

He pounds Damon's butt hard enough to shake the machine under him, large, sweaty hands holding onto the other man's hips as he pushes desperately inside, over and over. He can hear Damon grunting with every thrust up his burning pleasure-tunnel.

Suddenly, he sees the bar's manager stalking around through the crowd, head swiveling. And here Billy is, boning another guy up the rump against the pinball machine. Thinking quickly, and realizing there's a fire escape door about four yards down the wall, he sees a way out.

"Sorry about this," Billy says gruffly, pulling his dick out and putting Damon into a full-Nelson headlock, dragging him struggling out the fire door, which sets off the alarm. They're out in back of the building now, and no one else is around, so he pushes Damon against the wall and slides back inside his butt. He bellows, he can't help it.

"Oh, fuck yeah..." breathes Damon, whose cock is sticking straight out from his crotch, bouncing as Billy hammers at him. "Uh, uh, uh, uhh, Uhh fuck, man!" he grunts under the assault. "Uhh, you're makin' me shoot! UUUuuuuhhhhh!" Without touching himself, his dick spews a mammoth load on the wall he's supporting himself against. He whines as Billy fucks his come out.

Then Billy's coming, too, screaming as he unloads into Damon's hot butt. It feels like fireworks going off inside him. He's never had an orgasm like this, and never needed it so badly. He sees flashes of light explode in front of him and he collapses over Damon's back, holding him tight, whole body buzzing to the rhythm of the shrieking fire alarm.

His breath's just returned to its usual pace when he hears, "There you are! I-- uhhh...." Lifting his head, he finds himself looking right back through slackening rain at Zark, who's stopped dead in his tracks in the open fire doorway.

Zark stares, frozen, at his boss with his cock buried balls-deep in another man's asshole. After a moment, he takes a breath and says, "Look, it's goin' eight shades'a crazy in here. Tony got knocked out. I think we maybe got a riot on our hands." He gestures awkwardly. "Hell, just get in here and give me a hand, hey?" With that, he rushes back inside to the crashes and shouting. The music stops abruptly, the better to hear the fire alarm.

Billy pulls out of Damon, starts buttoning his fly back up, red in the face. "I gotta get back in there, man," he says, shaking his head regretfully. "I'm sorry. God, if Zark says anything..."

Damon looks at him. "I don't think Zark's gonna say anything, Billy."

"Look, I've never done this before. I'm not usually like this... I, uh--"

"Well, if you were, I think Zark could help you out."

Billy stares at Damon, uncomprehending, then shakes his head again. "Shit, I might be out of a job after tonight."

Damon kisses him quickly on the lips. "Go do your job, stud. We'll catch up later." Billy runs back into the building. Damon takes a look in the open door, decides he wants nothing to do with the mess in there and lopes around to the front of the building to await further developments. He's got tiny drops of water coating his face and he's feeling no pain.

Damon, who was watching carefully, saw something in Zark's face that Billy was too disconcerted to pick up on. That look he had when he saw what Billy was up to. Damon would lay odds that big ol' Zark's got a monstrous crush on his boss.

The trick is to make it sound like they're fighting, so they bang on the sides of the stall and grunt and moan just like they would if there were no one else around. Honestly, whatever hell's breaking loose outside the stall is so deafening that they can barely hear themselves. They'd get more curious about it if they weren't busy fucking. Chump's face up, supporting his upper body on the safety rail as the blond holds his ass in both arms and fucks his hard cock in and out. He looks great, Chump thinks, screwing away as he grunts and sweats, his whole body flexing, his shirt pulled back behind his head.

Chump launches himself off the rail, wrapping both arms around the other guy's shoulders. Their shifted weight sends them crashing against the other side of the stall, and Chump's thighs take over, pistoning his ass up and down over the the blond's rigid tool.

"Oh fuck--" the guy whines.

"Damn right," growls Chump, flexing his freckled pecs.

Buzzing nicely now, good and horned and fucking deep, they're surrounded by the lattice of shouts, thumps and crashes coming from outside, using the chaos and noise as fuel for their own lunatic coupling. The blond wedges his shoulders against the side of the stall and throws his fuck up into Chump while the other braces his feet against the side, keeping himself suspended. His sweaty, gasping face is pushed up with ecstatic effort to the flickering fluorescent light directly above, looking like a very dirty saint.

"You're gonna make me come," blondie tells him right before he descends into a series of barks and squeals, shooting his spunk up Chump's fuckhole.

"Stay inside me," Chump orders, stroking his engorged prong. "God, I'm almost there... What the fuck's going on outside? OH FUCK--" His dick suddenly erupts with a geyser of semen at the same instant that the music stops outside. He still can't hear himself and the blond panting over the increasingly shrill sounds of what might be the battle of Armageddon. As his orgasm ebbs, he recognizes the sound of screaming and thinks he smells smoke. "What the fuck is going on out there?" he asks again as they begin to hear distant sirens.

The blond's not listening, can't take his hands off Chump, who's still suspended against the wall, skewered up the ass. Arms flexed, he moves his mouth down to slurp some of the come off Chump's smooth, freckled chest.

"My name's Donny," the blond tells him, smitten.

"Call me Chump."

"Chump." Donny smiles, nuzzling Chump's chin-dirt with his nose.

The rain's stopped and the cops have showed up by the time he's gotten outside through the mad press of sweaty, adrenaline-soaked bodies, adding redwhiteblue strobes to the bizarre, atavistic surreality of the scene. It's like the lightshow moved outside. Two officers have someone face-down on the ground in a brilliantly-lit puddle, who knows for what reason. Chump's still buzzing pretty hard and he can feel his split lip pounding. Once he gets home, he'll discover he's got a black eye as well. He doesn't know what happened to half of his clothes; he's down to boots, jeans and a torn, stained wifebeater undershirt. He still looks great, but his heart sinks when he remembers he doesn't know where Tucker's hat is. He vaguely recalls some chick removing it from his head, placing it on her own and walking away, trying to get him to follow. That was the last he saw of her.

A little downtrodden now, he makes his way to the back of the lot. Damon's sitting on the hood of his truck. He watches Chump approach with interest, taking in his generally disheveled appearance.

"Looks like you had some fun," Damon comments. "What's wrong?"

"Aw, Tucker's gonna be mad I lost his hat."

A deep Southern drawl comes from behind him. "Is this your hat?"

Chump turns to find the huge blond security guy (Zark, Damon recognizes him) clutching Tucker's cowboy hat in both hands.

"It is," Chump confirms, smiling. Zark hands it to him. "Thanks. Where'd you find it?"

"There's a drunk lady hurlin' out back. She was wearing two of 'em at once, then they both fell off. I thought yours looked familiar." He falls silent, as if afraid to say anything else. But he doesn't leave, either.

Damon can see what's up, decides to break the tension. "You know, there's a reward for bringing back that hat," he purrs.

Catching on, Chump starts grinning uncontrollably. "It's true. I'm real grateful, big guy." Casually, he runs a palm over his own chest and abdomen. The tip of his ring finger snags on one of the rips in his wifebeater. Zark stares, turning red. Slowly, tentatively, he moves closer to Chump, lays a huge, shaking hand on his freckled shoulder, head spinning.

"He doesn't like it in his ass," Damon tells Zark with a wicked grin.

"He's lying," Chump shoots back, casually. "You can stick it in me. I ain't no cocktease."

Zark blushes furiously. "Jeez, what planet did you guys come from?" Normal folks don't act like this. He's out of his depth, but he thinks he likes it. He's got a humungous boner.

Damon and Chump have caught themselves another shark.


Simon Traum

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