Date: Fri, 23 Jul 2010 01:59:11 +0100 From: tooluser@hushmail.com Subject: Brave enough part 3 This story is fiction, and no similarity to real persons either living or dead is intended. Copyright Tooluser July 2010 Brave Enough - Part 3 Alexander "Andy" Andreeyev squinted through the windscreen at the burger bar they'd been staking out for the last fifteen minutes and then glanced aside at his companion. "He won't be much longer - he's got to leave soon." The man grunted. "Well, Alexei, wherever he is and wherever he goes to, I must be back on duty at two or my boss will fry my ass." Andy nodded. He hardly ever thought of himself as "Alexei" any more. Oh certainly, it was what his mother called him, and it was the name in his passport, but his father and everyone else called him the Americanized "Alex" which Shelley preferred. But inside, in his head, he found he increasingly thought of himself as the "Andy" his customers knew him as when he tricked. Andy did not have a long and boring family history that wound through the gulags, the heroes of the Great Patriotic War and the vicious struggles of a minor family at the court of St Petersburg. Andy did not have a mother who, after a vodka or three too many, told everyone that the blood of the Czars flowed in his veins while calling them "Comrade." Andy did not have a father half-dead in a wheelchair. Andy was a good American boy who believed in free enterprise - the oldest enterprise of all, in fact. But, Andy or Alexei, he still had a stupid younger cousin. Andy sighed. This whole business would be so much easier if he was old enough to drive - then he could just tail Jase himself. Shelly hadn't taken delivery of their car yet, but even if she had, she'd ask too many questions and she didn't like Jase anyway. She always referred to Jase as "Jessie" and he'd more than once overheard her in conversation with her friends referring to him as "that stupid little fag." Right now he could agree with the sentiment, if not the detail. So okay - maybe Jase wasn't the best at balancing his checkbook. Maybe he did agree to do eight different things all at the same time on the same day. Maybe he did go to neighborhoods and to parties with guys that smart white boys would avoid. But he didn't lie about it: not to Andy; not until recently. When they worked together, it had been simple. As the elder, Andy kept things organized: basically Jase had said "yes" to as many guys as he could, and Andy had said "no" as little as necessary. When there was a screw-up, Jase fixed it: he could charm anybody - or at least, any guy. But when Jase had missed their regular Sunday afternoon brunch, he'd claimed it was because he'd met up with Harmony: a big bruiser of a guy that Andy had worked hard to get his little cuz to ditch around six months ago. Jase had sat meekly through Andy's lecture on the unsuitability of rough men with bigger dicks than their IQs as husband material, and then later one of Andy's regular but infrequent johns had mentioned that Harmony was currently working a stint in Saudi. Now Jase was unavailable again: "Harmony" had been so hurt, he said; he wanted to let him down gently. Andy hoped Jase was just turning a trick, but in the back of his mind he could feel that the little countdown timer labeled "Jase in trouble again" had been ringing for a while. A cab pulled into the courtyard of the burger bar just as Jase came out of the entrance, phone in hand, shoulder length blond locks lifting in the afternoon breeze. Andy ducked down out of sight, but not before he'd noted Jase's outfit. His heart sank - the kid looked like he was on his way to church. Gone was the usual hustler uniform of jacket, tight jeans and a tank-top. Instead, Jase's dark pants were neatly pressed, and his cinnamon brown formal jacket set off a crisp shirt that gleamed creamy white. He was even wearing a necktie. Andy groaned. The man next to him raised his eyebrows. "A necktie, Vince!" Andy said. "Jase loathes them - it's *got* to be love. What's he doing now?" "Getting into that cab," Vince said as he started the engine. "Don't follow him too close!" Andy exclaimed. Vince snorted. "And Jase will notice he is being tailed? Come along! He wouldn't notice five drag queens dancing the conga." "Unless they were wearing Versace." Andy felt the car move off, and cautiously moved up onto the seat again. "Thanks, Vince - I really appreciate this." "Between you and me, it is no trouble." Vince glanced aside at him. "And I mean between you and me. David would never believe I spent thirty minutes alone with you without trying to remove your pants." "My lips are sealed," Andy said. "Hustler's honor." The cab was making its way uptown, toward the expensive hotel district. Andy felt a small, burgeoning hope that it was just business after all: some rich, paranoid daddy who'd sworn Jase to secrecy. He clung to that hope, flipped open his cellphone and paged down through the phone numbers of his regular tricks, trying to recall which ones they shared, knowing he was just fooling himself. Jase would only have needed to say he was tricking with Colonel Gadaafi, or Eisenhower or the Red Sox and Andy would have known it was confidential and desisted. He didn't need to *lie* about it, like Andy was an outsider: a john. They passed the campaign headquarters of one of the candidates for the new mayor. Andy turned his head away from promises of lower taxes, family values, of a cleaner, more decent city. Ahead of them, Jase's cab pulled ahead through traffic lights and turned left up a wide boulevard. Vince cursed, braking sharply as the lights changed. "Sorry," he said, over the horns sounding behind them. "I think we will lose him." "Maybe not," Andy said as he flicked his phone into standby and dropped it in his jacket pocket. "I think I know where he's going." He hoped to hell he was wrong. The lights took an eternity to change. Sure enough, when they swung into Westline Boulevard, the cab had gone. Out of sight or lost among the other traffic, it was difficult to tell; their view was hampered by the broad leaf trees planted down the central reservation. Andy stared ahead, peering through the foliage at the ice-blue glass tower of the Litz-Conway Hotel on the far side of the road. "Slow down," he said. Vince followed the direction of his gaze. "You think he's in the Litz? Why?" Andy smiled to himself. Taxi drivers called it the Litz. To hustlers, it was always the Con. "We used to trick there," he said, keeping his voice casual. "Anyway, if he's not there, I've got no clue where he's gone." "So?" Vince grinned as he flipped the indicator to change lanes. "Verry much too classy for you guys, I would think." The central reservation was divided here, allowing vehicles to turn across traffic into the hotel forecourt without the inconvenience of having to circle the block. For the people who stayed at the Litz-Conway, time was money. "What the hell are you doing?" Andy said, startled. "Drive on!" He pointed urgently down the block. "Park over there." "So sorry." Vince shot him an apologetic look as he cancelled the signal. "I have the Cabby's reflex. Will you tell me what is going on?" "Wish I knew." Andy said as they drew up to the curb. He twisted in the seat and groped in his rear jeans pocket. "Here," he said, proffering a twenty. "You got to get back, right?" "Thank you." Vince slipped the note out from between Andy's fingers. "For me, a fantasy come true." "Huh?" "*You* pay *me*." Vince smiled. "So what do you think to do now?" "Hang around, I guess," Andy said as he popped the lock and twisted to peer out at the traffic. "I'm sure as hell not going to walk up to reception and ask if one of their guests is sodomizing a thirteen-year-old boy." He opened the car door and slipped out. "Oh, and by the way -" he indicated the litter of CDs on the dashboard. "I don't think anyone who listens to Mantovani should make cracks about class." * You learned to recognize interest, even at a distance of the best part of a block. The fat guy in the white raincoat couldn't have been more obvious if he'd sent up a sky-rocket. Quickly, Andy turned his head away. The sign still read "Don't Walk", but the traffic was sporadic. He judged his moment and ran across to the central reservation. Unsubtle, maybe, but the last thing he wanted now was someone trying to pick him up right now. He hadn't been quite square with Vince: he did have a plan. Well, something to do beside just wait, anyway. When the signal changed, he walked briskly across to the sidewalk and then headed for a dark alleyway between a real-estate office and a fancy electronics store. Two minutes zig-zagging between dumpsters let him out in the narrow service road back of the hotel. He smiled to see that Leo's coffee shop was still where it used to be. Leo was still sat behind the same counter, and by the smell of it, the same pot of coffee was still boiling on the hotplate. "Hey," Andy said. Leo raised two graying caterpillar eyebrows. "Hey yourself. I thought you club whores didn't work the hotels no more. Demarcation." His shirt was a little tighter round the waist than Andy recalled, and his gleaming, balding head was tanned a little darker, but his watchful brown eyes were the same. Andy shrugged. "Business is business," he said. "Not like it used to be. They got a combo lock on the kitchen door now." Leo tilted his head in the direction of the Litz-Conway. "Change it every day too." "Stupid," Andy said. "Ten-per-cent still the bell captain?" "Yah." Leo grinned, his false teeth showed incongruously white in his face, but his eyes were narrow, suspicious. "Reckon you got a helluva lot of back commission to pay before you're in there again, kid." "So you were just gonna sell me the combo for excitement, then?" It was Leo's turn to shrug. "Business is business," he said. "You thinking of paying him out in trade?" Andy swallowed. "No. A different deal." He'd seen boys after they'd paid back their dues in kind to ten-per-cent. "Just a feeler." Leo blinked, tortoise like. "You got business, I'll talk to you after ten-per-cent talks to me. Don't tell me any of the hotels around here will play ball unless he's in." "Of course he'll be in, Leo - all legit. I wouldn't try it otherwise - you think I'm a fool?" All he got in reply was another reptilian blink, so Andy turned out of the shop, trying to keep his face a blank. If a client in the Con had sent out for a boy, the word would go via the bell captain and then Leo. So either Jase wasn't in the Con, or he was, but he wasn't tricking. Andy paced down the narrow street deep in thought, trying to recall everything Jase had said, or not said, trying to put his finger on exactly what was getting him so scared. A big guy loomed in front of him, blocking out the light. Andy hunched, knowing trouble had found him. He knew the type - if you cut this guy in half, he'd have the word "security" right through him. Andy mumbled an apology as he started to step off the sidewalk, but a meaty, dark haired hand grasped his collar and jerked him off balance, tilting him expertly toward the narrow dark slot of a nearby service entrance. Andy drew breath to speak - or to yell, he wasn't sure, but the big guy hit him, a short, economical blow in the gut that spoke volumes about his experience. He doubled up, gaping like a beached fish after breath that wouldn't come. As the guy lifted him off his feet, Andy groped in his jacket pocket for his cellphone. Marcus was on speed-dial, but he'd had his "tricks" directory opened. God knew who he'd be phoning, but anything was worth trying. As the big guy carried him into the alleyway, Andy jabbed his thumb at the smooth, cool screen, praying he'd get lucky. * * * Ben sat in the back of his car cradling Mickey on his lap, breathing the warm, sex-scented air as he listened to the distant shouts of the boys playing basketball. Their high, clear voices echoed across the parking lot, and he smiled as he stroked the boy's smooth thigh. Mickey was small, but he was all bone and muscle, so was heavier than Ben had expected. Ben could feel his legs going numb, but he was loath to let the boy go. It was so long since he'd been close to anyone that he found the warmth of the boy's body both a surprise and a delight. His very weight was a pleasure: the boy's comfortable solidity reassured Ben that this was reality, not some fantasy he would wake from to find himself twisted in his lonely bed-sheets, staring at the ceiling and counting heartbeats until morning. The boy's soft sighs of pleasure as Ben stroked his silky, firm little body were pleasing to hear, but above all Ben loved the way Mickey relaxed against him, defenceless: the trust soothed some raw place deep inside himself. For too long he'd taken the world's judgement of himself as the truth: a predator and corrupter of youth and innocence. It was an odd feeling, realizing that he respected this smart little kid's judgement. Mickey thought he was a nice guy who could be trusted, and so, just maybe, it could be true. He stroked his big, square hand further down Mickey's leg, loving the feel of his warm, smooth hairlessness, which contrasted so with the soft brushed cotton of the boy's athletic socks. He stroked the arch of the boy's foot and Mickey giggled, wiggling his toes. "You want to take 'em off me?" Mickey whispered into Ben's neck, his breath tickling. "You can, if you like." "It's okay," Ben said. "I mean, I will if you want me to, but I kind of like you not being quite naked." Mickey giggled and wriggled on his lap. "Uh-huh," he said. "It's kind of naughty, yeah?" Ben could feel himself stiffening again as Mickey's firm little buns rubbed against his cock. "Hey there," he said, now stroking up the inside of the boy's leg. "Easy now. You bounce up and down on my lap like that and there'll be an accident." "Sorry, mister!" Mickey said, at once sitting still again. "I didn't hurt you did I? I once sat on Uncle Pete wrong and hurt him real bad." "Oh no," Ben said. He smiled at Mickey's earnest expression and stroked the boy's petal-soft freckled cheek with the back of one finger. "I just meant you might sit on my dick and it would go where it shouldn't, that's all." Mickey looked down, his cheeks flushing. "You want to? I -, I don't mind." Ben kissed the top of the boy's head. "Not before you talk to your Uncle Pete, okay? Or you might hurt him worse than when you sat on his balls." "Yeah," Mickey said. He glanced up at Ben out of the corner of one eye. It was an odd look, the meaning of which Ben couldn't fathom. "I guess. Only it's been a real long time." Mickey spread his legs and reached down between them. "My butt gets lonely too." He grunted softly, and Ben felt his cock come to full mast as he guessed what the boy was doing. "Want me to rub you while you finger-fuck your butt?" he murmured, lightly stroking the boy's shoulders. "You want to?" Mickey looked hopeful. "Sure I do! Actually -" Ben hesitated, then plowed on: "actually I'd really like to blow you: how'd you feel about that?" "Oh yeah! Neat!" Mickey exclaimed. It was cramped in the back of the car, but to Ben that felt like an advantage: a chance to brush their warm bodies one against the other as they maneuvered, to touch and tease with gentle games of chase and capture. Little Mickey was flushed and excited as he wriggled backward off Ben's lap and lay down on the smooth, dark vinyl. Ben leaned over and kissed the boy's chest, tasting smooth skin and the salacious tang of sweat before he slid down off the seat to crouch in the foot well, smiling as Mickey's giggles echoed in the car. Mickey drew a leg up, pressing one small knee against his chest, exposing his dick, balls and little asshole to the man. Ben admired the curve of Mickey's little round buttcheek, then playfully grabbed the boy's foot and gently bit at his big toe through the soft cotton. "No tickling!" Mickey squealed, squirming splay-legged on the seat, his little stiffie waggling. "Please - no tickling!" "What, not even this?" Ben asked as he lightly ran his fingers down the boy's trapped leg. "You mean I mustn't touch you here?" He dabbled his fingertips behind Mickey's knee, and the boy squeaked and thrashed. "Or maybe you mean - here?" Ben ran his fingers in gentle circles over the boy's thigh, advancing toward his groin. As Ben's tickling got closer, it seemed Mickey's little dicklet stood up even stiffer from his bare mound. It was slightly longer than Ben's middle finger, and crowned with a pretty, strawberry colored little head. Mickey's balls were still up tight against his body in their creamy, wrinkled little pouch and Ben stroked his fingers along the boy's thigh and then tickled his fingertips over and behind Mickey's little grape-sized balls. "Ohh, mister!" Mickey groaned and shifted his hips, inviting Ben to stroke the darker, coffee-cream pucker of his little asshole. "Please!" Ben leaned down and kissed the boy's balls, very gently. He tongued the firm little nuggets inside their soft pouch until Mickey was cooing with pleasure. Only then did Ben kiss the bone-hard little stalk and begin to lick the smooth skin, feeling the warmth of the boy's body close to his face. He listened to Mickey's frustrated moans as he worked his tongue upwards along the boy's hard little dicklet. He stroked the boy's legs, sliding his hands along to the back of Mickey's little knees, and then pushed them both against his narrow chest. The boy lay doubled up and helpless, breathing hard and suddenly quiet. Ben knew he could climb up onto the seat and fuck this kid; knew that right now Mickey would welcome it - moan with deep satisfaction as he felt his empty, twitching little asshole stuffed full of hard man-cock; gasp and whimper, clinging like a little limpet as Ben fucked him. In his imagination Ben could feel the boy's hot, sticky warmth stretched around his cock; the boy's tight ring rhythmically gripping his manhood, squeezing as it moved up and down. He could imagine the boy's breathy little gasps of need: Oh yes! the kid would gasp in his high, sexy little voice. Fuck me, Uncle Pete! Fuck me! He couldn't do that to Mickey, the kid who knew he was a good guy: he couldn't spoil Mickey's next meeting with his beloved Uncle Pete. So Ben ignored his own throbbing cock and kept his ass firmly on the floor as he licked along the boy's pretty dick, and the moan he heard as he slipped Mickey's little red berry back and forth between his lips made him so happy that he sighed and kissed it in true contentment, welcoming the hard fingerlength of boy-dick into his mouth in every way his imagination could suggest. Ben sucked, bobbing his head up and down as he teased the rod of the twitching, gasping boy with his lips and tongue. "Nnnnh!" Mickey gasped, and Ben felt the boy's hands on the back of his head as he enveloped the slick stiffie in his mouth and then worked his tongue against its slender, hard length. He found he could massage the head of Mickey's pricklet using the back of his tongue at the same time as he could tickle the base of the boy's dick, just above his balls, with the tip of it. Ben rubbed his tongue back and forth on the hard boy-meat in his mouth and Mickey whimpered, grinding his bare little mound against Ben's lips. Mickey squeaked, trying to hump Ben's mouth, trembling with effort as he moved his dick faster and faster, until Ben felt the boy's dick begin twitching in his mouth. The boy's gasps were loud in the car. Ben kept his mouth on Mickey's dick as the kid thrashed through his orgasm, not stimulating it any further, just enclosing it in companionable warmth. He could taste nothing: Mickey was too young, but his body was warm and sweet-smelling and Ben breathed deep, feeling a deep contentment filling himself. Ben let go of Mickey's legs at the same time he released his dick. Mickey uncurled and slumped, and Ben stroked the boy's tummy and then ran his hand up over his ribs. He squeezed Mickey's shoulder, letting his arm rest heavily across the boy's small body. "Better now?" Ben asked, still sitting in the footwell, leaning comfortably against the seat. "Or is your little butt still lonely?" Mickey smiled at him. "A bit," he admitted, still breathing heavily, "but I can wait now." He blushed. "Thanks, mister." Ben chuckled and squeezed the boy's shoulder again. "I think under the circumstances, you can call me Ben." Ben winced as he climbed out of the car, and then stood on the lumpy, sun-heated asphalt, stretching his back and breathing in the hot, close air, now overlaid with the scent of hot tar. Back-seat sex had disadvantages he hadn't considered. It wasn't only that his legs had gone to sleep, but twisting sideways to give the boy that blow-job had really stretched some under-exercised muscles. "Sorry kiddo," Ben said, turning his face up and squinting into the sun as he stretched again. "You in a hurry to get back to the grid? Only I need to recover a bit before I drive anywhere." Behind him, high boy's voices yelled in excitement or argument both. "No, it's okay." Mickey shifted onto the folded-down passenger seat, and began turning his top right-side out. Somewhere a cell-phone tinkled. Immediately Mickey threw his top aside, grabbed at his jeans and pawed through the pockets, at last pulling out a trilling phone. "Yah," he said, almost before he'd flipped it open. "It's okay Amber, I'm fine. Splendiferous. Still P.O.B. - I'll check in later." He flipped the phone shut and smiled up at Ben. "The guys kinda worry about me. I've told 'em everything's cool for now." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the basketball court. "I'm gonna go check-out Boy Central - you wanna come?" He reached over and picked up his top again. Ben flinched at the thought of the boy with other men, but remembering the lesson he'd learned with Andy, tried to play it cool. He decided not to offer Mickey his cellphone number - Andy had never called, after all. "Won't I, uh, discourage your trade?" "Naaaw." Mickey wrestled his head through the neck-hole. "I'll just show you to my buddies, if they're there, and then we'll either go looking separately or split, see?" * * * After separating from Mickey, as Ben drove home a black cloud seemed to settle over his vision that had nothing to do with the setting sun. He felt that since visiting the Grid he'd stepped off a precipice. Just a few weeks ago he'd never have contemplated anything so nasty as what he'd done today, with that little boy right in the back of this very car. He'd been confident that kids were safe around him. He was a responsible guy. Nothing special: just an ordinary guy; decent and easy-going, the same as millions of other Americans. Except he wasn't. He fucked teenage boys. Ben's chest tightened - his pants too - as he recalled the session with Andy. The sex had been hot, and he hadn't felt too bad after. His conscience had jolted him some, but he'd told himself that Andy was smart and seemed to know what he was doing. Being a teenager was about starting to make decisions for yourself; about learning how the world worked. Sex was part of that, he'd told himself. A horn blared, and Ben jumped, staring through the windscreen at an unfamiliar street. He'd taken a wrong turning somewhere. He slowed, hung a right rather too fast, feeling sick. The junk on his dashboard - his cellphone, a note-pad, a half-used pack of gum - slithered half across. More horns sounded behind him. Smart, Ben. Real smart, he told himself. Drive like a crazy and get pulled over by the cops. And where are you travelling from, sir? Oh, nowhere, officer. Just out fucking boys. Because that's what Mickey was. Oh, he could duck and dive, dodging the issue with Andy, claiming that teenagers were old enough to know what they were doing, but no stretch of the truth could make Mickey into anything but a boy. A child, Ben thought, focusing on the word as though concentration could somehow burn it into his brain. He felt an urge to lower all the windows, as though blowing the smell of sex out of the car would somehow clean him too. The steering wheel was hurting his hands. Ben forced himself to relax his grip, and took his foot off the gas. The road ahead was half dark, nowhere he knew; just a double-carriage highway through industrial badlands. Low zigzag-roofed factories and storage depots rolled past on either side, shades of gray in the failing light. A floodlit sign reared up ahead, showing a feeder for the highway. If Mickey's "Uncle Pete" was a truck driver, he'd probably driven this route in his rig, Ben thought. He watched out for the turn. Followed it. It wasn't the fact of sex with Mickey (a child, part of his mind reiterated) that frightened him the most. It was the feelings when they were together. He'd held the boy on his lap; stroked his body, and the little sigh Mickey had let out of his throat had soothed Ben too. Ben swallowed bile, his eyes automatically scanning left and right as he emerged onto the freeway, merging with the other traffic. He remembered how the little boy had brushed his lips against Ben's chest, murmuring something indistinct, probably still tasting Ben's cum as he was saying it, and Ben had held him, feeling happy, and at peace. If he'd felt like a monster, a predator, then maybe he'd have reached some kind of limit; he'd have some sort of guide to what the future might hold. But he hadn't. Ben stared unseeing at the lines of traffic, now just lights against the dark. His palm itched as he recalled the exact shape and feel of Mickey's little butt-cheek as he'd cradled it in his hand. He'd brushed these fingertips along the boy's soft, smooth valley. He'd thought about fucking the boy - hell he was thinking about it now - but with no sense of disgust, or wrongness. Just a contradictory urge to care for and protect Mickey even as he violated him. Ben let go the wheel and rubbed that hand against his pants leg, harder and harder until his palm burned from the friction with the coarse fabric. The road unreeled in front of him, climbing into the hills outside the city. Ben stared through the windscreen and stepped on the gas, fleeing into the night. On the dashboard the "call received" light on his cellphone blinked, unregarded. End of part 3.