Date: Mon, 23 Oct 2023 00:50:42 +0000
From: jacklynch945 <jacklynch945@proton.me>
Subject: The Prince The Pauper And the Chief Chapter 21

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This story includes episodes involving underage minors having sex with
adults. I expressly condemn this kind of activity. I have made every
attempt to present these acts in a thoughtful, sensitive manner. You may
not agree. If so, I encourage to avoid reading it.

This story mentions real people, real places, and real events, but the
characters and the story are entirely fictional. It contains descriptions
of sexual interactions between minors and adult men.

Your feedback, whether in the form of comments or constructive criticism,
will always be welcome. Please email me: jacklynch945@proton.me.

The Prince. The Pauper. And the Chief.

By Jack Lynch

Chapter 21.

Quash.


It was a long ways from a converted slave shack in Plantersville, Alabama,
to a sea captain's mansion in Edgartown, Massachusetts. Even if he was only
there as a waiter.

Quash Jackson. He'd been given that name by his Grand Mammy, whose father
Quash was a slave on a plantation in nearby Chilton County. Even though it
was now the `70's, it was still a tough life for a Black kid growing up in
a southern town, just twenty miles from Selma.

	As one sweaty pink-faced fat guy chuckled, "We don't got the civil
rights movement here like they does in Selma. We don't got no bridge."

Quash grew like a weed when he hit puberty, hitting six feet well before
any of his friends. He excelled at basketball, of course. Life was going
along swimmingly until he was caught one day, naked in the showers. Caught
on his knees giving the assistant coach a blow job.

Of course, the white coach got to keep his job. Quash, however, was
immediately expelled from both the team and school, summarily kicked out of
the house just after his father beat the shit out of him. At the age of
fifteen, he was on his own.

As Quash sat on a bench in the Montgomery bus station, he reflected on his
prospects. He had no place to go. Three dollars and some change in his
pocket.

A while later, a kindly old man sat down next to him and struck up a
conversation.

	"Come with me," he said in a lyrical tone.

They took the next bus to Atlanta, the old man gently coaxing his way into
Quash's confidence. He eventually spilled his guts. It was the wrong thing
to do, going down on that man. The problem, Quash finally admitted, was
that he enjoyed it.

	"Am I a homo?" He looked sadly out the bus window.

The old man smiled, resting his hand affectionately on Quash's knee.

	"Don't you worry your cute little head."

	Later, just after they arrived in Atlanta, "Let's see if we can get
you situated."

The first time Quash had ever ridden in a taxi. He was mesmerized watching
the hustle and bustle on the streets as they rode through the city.

	"Here we are," the old man said, his sing-song voice returning. The
Clermont Motor Hotel, an impressive five-story edifice, taller than any
building he'd ever seen, even in Selma. Strange that it was located in a
kind of decrepit neighborhood, Quash thought.

	"Follow me."

Instead of walking in the front door, He took a narrow sidewalk around to
the back of the building. A single door with a neon sign above it simply
said, "Lounge."

Down a flight of stairs. Dark, the smell of booz filling his nose, raucous
music coming from a juke box. A circular bar, several patrons slouched on
bar stools, and a stage in the middle. A stripper lazily shook her hips,
her ample breasts bouncing as she moved. Overweight and grotesque, heavily
made up, wearing a ridiculous blonde wig, made more ridiculous, because she
was Black.

Quash had never seen anything like it. He was thoroughly grossed out.

After pausing for a moment to take the scene in, the old man motioned for
Quash to follow. They circled around the room to a plain black door labeled
"Stage 2" in vinyl stickers. A small anteroom led through a second black
door into another dimly lit room. Small cocktail tables and a few chairs
surrounded another stage, this one set just a few inches above the floor.

A hard looking white man sat in the corner, his face mostly enshrouded in
shadow. Bald, large bags under his eyes, gray goatee, a long face. His
rough looking hands rested on the table in front of him. If they were made
into fists, they'd hurt awful bad, Quash thought.

A few questions and the job interview, as it were, was over.

	"So...," he kind of drawled out in a deep gravelly voice. "We have
a select clientele in this room." Pausing for effect as he glanced
around. "Queers."

Quash's mouth dropped open.

	"You'll serve drinks and, uh, perform," the man said, making air
quotes with that last word.

	"But, I'm underage," Quash protested.

	"Oh yeah, speaking of that, let's see the goods."

Quash immediately felt his pulse quickening. He looked at both men. The old
man just sort of twirled a hand in encouragement and smiled.

Quash huffed. Then with a shrug he pulled his shirt over his head, dropped
his pants, and nudged his briefs down.

	"Do I gots to go all the way?" He glared.

The man licked his lips, his eyes glued to Quash's impressive equipment.

	"Naw, I think we're good."

	Turning to the old man, he said, "Nice work, Elwood."

The old man bowed at the waist, and promptly disappeared.

The first time he walked out of the small back room mostly naked, Quash
thought he would faint from fear and embarrassment. Delivering drinks from
the a window connected to the bar, he became acutely aware that eyes
followed him everywhere. The room was more than half filled with men of all
ages. Tips were generous, fifty percent of which went to the house.

Once he began to catch his breath and settle down, Quash started to realize
that maybe he was okay looking. Long legs made to look even longer in the
high heels he'd been issued, his hips a bit thrust forward, lifting his
butt and making it look tantalizing. He was cool with his chest. It had
some nice definition from playing so much basketball. Red bikini underpants
were cut so high and tight that both his balls and his pubic hair were
partially visible.

After watching the other guys dance for a few days, Quash got his turn. He
was awful but it didn't matter that much. He couldn't help it. He got hard,
his erection pushing the tip of his cock well above the waistband of his
shorts. Applause was long and enthusiastic.

The weeks sort of melted together. Quash seemed to lose all sense of
time. And values. At first, he swatted away the touches and grabs. After
being introduced to the numbing qualities of marijuana, he didn't mind as
much. Fingers pinching his nipples, others reaching under the leg of his
bikini bottoms to caress one of his butt cheeks. Once in awhile, a bold
grab for his joint.

He caught Quash's eye almost immediately. Sitting in the back in the
shadows, his light blond hair kind of glowing. A supremely good looking,
all American college boy. Preppy, right down to his v-neck sweater and
penny loafers. Quash stood obligingly next to him, allowing the guy's hands
to rove up and down his body and underneath his bikini bottoms.

	"Do you want to get together?" He whispered in a hoarse voice, a
hopeful look on his face.

He waited for Quash out in the parking lot, leaning casually against his
bright red Pontiac Firebird.

	"I'm Ty," he said, shaking Quash's hand. "Wanna go for a ride?"

Light banter on the drive to the Georgia State campus. Ty was
nineteen. Quash told him he was eighteen. A lie, of course.

Ty sneaked him through a side door of the Kappa Sig
fraternity. Technically, the house was open to everybody. Practically
speaking, however, Blacks were unwelcome, especially above the first floor.

Door locked, privacy insured, their clothes ripped off of each
other. Quash's first blow job. It felt like he poured a gallon of jizz down
Ty's throat. Salty and bitter, Quash licked around Ty's balls and perineum,
his tongue dipping occasionally into his lightly hairy butthole. He was
just so beautiful! The best part, though, was the kissing. It seemed like
they made out for hours. Pure love.

As dawn approached, Quash slumped in the back seat of the cab, on the way
back to The Clermont Motor Hotel. Well, I guess that's it. I'm gay, he
thought.

He never had a chance to reconnect with Ty again. A couple of days later,
that man reappeared, the one with the goatee, knocking on his hotel room
door.

	"Here," he said, handing Quash a bus ticket. "We have an
opportunity for you." Those air quotes again.

Quash looked at the ticket. New York City.

Elwood, the old man, appeared a few hours later to act as chaperone.

There wasn't a lot to say during the trip so Quash mostly looked out the
bus window and napped.

They didn't even need to take a cab from the Port Authority Bus
Terminal. The Gaiety was just a couple of short blocks away.

Introduced to a man named Lenny. After another bow, Elwood disappeared
again.

Lenny showed him the ropes. Half the time he was expected to dance. Not
much different than his experience at The Clermont Lounge. Except, at The
Gaiety, he was expected to be completely naked.

The other half of the shift required working the Ball Room. Not exactly
like a real ballroom. The title meant something else. First, the rotating
disco ball on the ceiling. Second, the expectation that a guy's balls would
be fondled along with everything else normally considered private.

The first time, he was a little scared. He hung around the back wall, naked
except for a pair of hooker shoes he'd found in the dressing room. The more
experienced guys showed him how it worked. Small windows rolled open one
after another, hands extended through, faces barely visible. The other guys
sauntered over, accepted a dollar tip, each one enduring a few seconds of
groping before the window rolled down.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed someone beckoning him over. He
tried to ignore him but the guy was persistent. After the second time the
window opened and closed, Quash took a deep breath and decided to give him
a chance.

His hands felt surprisingly warm and soft when he grabbed onto his
cock. One of his hands wrapped around his hip, his fingers pushed against
his asshole. He couldn't help it. He stiffened up. The last time the window
opened, Quash looked down to see cum pooling at the tip of his cock.

Quash got fucked for the first time less than an hour later. Legs pushed
back over his head. The man was a little heavy, his stomach crushed against
the backs of his legs. His dick wasn't very big though, so when he pushed
it through his virgin hole, it didn't hurt too bad. The poor guy came
pretty quickly. Quash was just starting to loosen up, the sting fading
away. The twenty dollar bill he left with wasn't bad, either.

Months later, early Spring, Quash was on his way to the Gaiety for his
overnight shift, normally the busiest time of the day. Alarmed, he stood
near the theater behind police barricades. A large crowd on the sidewalk
and spilling into the street surrounded numerous police cars and
ambulances.

Several performers and customers had been either stabbed or shot. A couple
of them were dead according to several bystanders.

	"Serves `em right! The damn fags!" Some jerk yelled.

Quash did an about face, returning to the tenement apartment he shared with
a couple of other dancers. Curled up in a ball, unable to move, he just
stayed there until morning. Unsure of what to do exactly, he threw his few
clothes and personal items into a bag and left. Not before he had secured
some $7,000 in cash inside the lining of his jacket.

Walking swiftly uptown along 9th Avenue, he stopped at a drug store near
50th Street where he knew there were phone booths in a quiet back
corner. Calling a number scribbled on a small piece of paper, he waited
anxiously for someone to answer.

	"Smith Barney, Harris Upham. How may I direct your call?" A low
melodious female voice said.

In his best white voice, Quash gave an extension number.

	"Ben Dinnerstein's phone," another woman, this one with a shrill
voice yelled.

	"Mr. Dinnerstein, please." Still in his white voice.

	"Who is this?" Abrupt and rude.

	"Baron Von Steuben." The name they'd agreed upon if he ever had to
call. The most famous openly gay military leader who fought in the
Revolutionary War.

	"Hold on."

A minute later Ben Dinnerstein was on the phone with Quash listening to him
plead tearfully for help. He needed to get out of town right away. He was
afraid for his life. Ben cut him off, telling him he would meet him later
in a booth in the back of a small coffee shop near his office.

They'd first met at the Gaiety. A Sunday night, Ben's wife and kids off to
see her parents in Chicago. Later, a rendezvous at his East 82nd Street
townhouse. A delightful romp in bed. The boy was the most fuckable kid he'd
ever been with. His chocolate skin, delightful nipples, gorgeous lips, his
soulful eyes. Not to mention the most amazing cock he'd ever pleasured. It
wasn't often, but whenever he got the chance, they spent a few hours
together.

Benjamin Franklin Dinnerstein, Wharton grad, vice president at Smith
Barney, and a closet queer. Along with that persona, he had a wicked sense
of humor. His initials, BFD. He used them in the quirkiest ways. Most
recently, on the vanity plates of his new Mercedes. Big Fucking Deal.

By the time they met up, Ben already had plans ready for Quash. Another bus
trip, this time to Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Take the ferry to Martha's
Vineyard, he told Quash. Find a guy by the name of Bill Smith. He'll have a
job for you working for his clambake and catering company. Legit work,
decent pay, and he'll even give you housing, Ben told him.

A silent nod of his head, Quash opened his jacket. With a fork from the
table, he pried the threads loose on the lining of his jacket. Handful
after handful, he pulled the cash out of his jacket lining, leaving a small
amount for his most immediate expenses.

	"Can you take care of this for me?" He asked.

	"No problem."