Date: Fri, 15 Sep 2023 11:53:55 +0000 From: jacklynch945 Subject: The Prince The Pauper And the Chief Chapter 6 Can you imagine life without Nifty? Please show your support with contributions to keep the Archive online. You can find out how at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html 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 6. Winkie. Wendell Philip Wilkie. The Prince family's Greenwich neighbor. Grandson of that Wendell Wilkie, the one who lost to Roosevelt in 1940. When he was barely twenty-one, Winkie's father, Philip, committed suicide. It resulted in an all-out family war over the money but, in the end, Winkie got most of it. Winkie moved from Indiana to Connecticut, bought a big house, joined the Greenwich Country Club, wormed his way into local society and learned to talk through clenched jaws just like all the other WASPs in town. He even joined the Episcopal church, a bit of a stretch since he had been raised Southern Baptist. The only thing he needed to complete his pedigree was a wife and a couple of kids. But, Winkie couldn't bring himself to marry a woman. He was, after all, gay. Thirty-eight years old, dark brown wavy hair, carefully coiffed to cover his widow's peaks. Slightly roly-poly, 5'8" 175 pounds, clean shaven, dark eyebrows kept narrow because he plucked them from time-to-time. His life revolved around the Men's Grill at the Greenwich where he played cards or at the Belle Haven Club where he kept his Catalina 30 sailboat. Other than that, Winkie's only outlet for real fun came when he took periodic trips into Manhattan. Dressed like any other investment banker or lawyer, he would jump the New Haven Railroad for the one hour trip to Grand Central. Instead of following the crowd into the downtown subway toward Wall Street or walking onto Park Avenue where many of the law firms and ad agencies were located, he would saunter toward Times Square. After a leisurely lunch at a Horn & Hardart, his first stop was usually one of the dirty book stores that lined 42nd Street just west of Broadway. First perusing the cellophane wrapped girlie magazines that lined most of the store, he would make a slow turn into the last aisle where the men's magazines were usually located. Most of the magazine covers were, quite frankly, pretty gross. Big hunky men, hairy, ridiculously large dicks. Think Ron Jeremy. Once in awhile, usually stuck behind another magazine at the bottom of the rack, he'd find a few boy magazines. Those delightful teenagers on the covers with their hairless chests and smooth flanks. Most had a neat crop of wiry pubic hair over a sweet looking cock and a luscious pair of balls. Because the magazines were sealed in plastic, there was no telling what surprises lay within. He frequently avoided looking at the cashier when he paid. Likewise, the cashier paid no attention either. One time, however, the guy leaned over the counter and, in a half whisper, asked, "Wanna see some more like this one?" Winkie just nodded, a blank stare on his face. The man reached under the counter to bring up a battered cardboard box. "Help yourself." Winkie could hardly believe it as he thumbed through the stack of periodicals. A veritable treasure trove of magazines featuring naked teen and adolescent boys. He was tempted to buy them all but that would have been insane. There must have been twenty-five or thirty of them. At $2.50 and $3.00 each, twice as much as the other magazines in the store, it would have been a small fortune. Nevertheless, he picked out five of them, forked over the cash, and was out the door. Once he got home later that day, ripping the plastic off of those magazines, his heart raced as he poured over the pages. A masturbation marathon took place over the next several days. When the adult bookstores failed to provide enough satisfaction, there were the peep shows. His favorite stop was The Gaiety on 8th Avenue. After a quick glance at the young male prostitutes leaning against the parking meters at the curb, he ducked through the door, quickly climbing up the stairs to the second floor. The strong smell of Clorox immediately wafted into his nose. The floors were shiny after being mopped, a continuous process due to the gobs of cum that were frequently spewed everywhere. Even still, the floor always felt sticky under foot. The lobby was painted black, a single bare light bulb in the corner. The live action male burlesque was on the left. Winkie tried it once, finding it a hopelessly uninspiring experience. The place had a kind of rank smell, a mixture of sweat, body odor, and stale balls. Dancers swinging their hips, waving their outsized limp dicks around. Sleazy characters, drooling and clapping in the audience. The peeps on the right were what interested him more. One set of peep shows consisted of open partitions with small TV screens. After depositing a quarter, you were treated to about thirty seconds of a clip from a fuzzy porn flick. If it looked good, you could keep feeding quarters into the machine, eventually getting the gist of some raunchy storyline. Once in awhile, another guy would slide in next to him, eventually bringing his hand up to Winkie's crotch. He was rarely in the mood for getting jerked off, though. The whole thing was so tawdry. On the other hand, the ambience alone sort of got him juiced up. Another set of peep shows in the far corner offered a whole other level of entertainment. Here, a quarter deposited into a slot caused a narrow window to slowly roll open, close to eye level. On the other side, naked men roamed around a small room illuminated by a slowly rotating disco ball. The floor inside was elevated just enough so a cock attached to one of the models was about eye level with the window. Beckoning one of the men over with the wave of a dollar bill, Winkie could cop a feel for around thirty seconds before the window slowly closed. Over and over, Winkie would deposit quarters, handing over dollar after dollar, for the privilege of running his hands around some guy's cock or up and down his butt. If he was lucky, once in awhile, his finger might brush across an asshole before the guy squirmed away. Overall, the men were pretty good looking. Young, well built, narrow waists, cute hips. Cocks and balls that were mostly cut, uniformly large, and flaccid. Some of them had shaved their pubic hair, a look Winkie found somewhat arresting. Outside of the loud acid rock playing over the sound system there was no sound. The guys were completely silent, roaming around the room, in a kind of trance, trying to look aloof and disengaged. Except for one guy. Not quite Black, more like chocolate colored skin, big lips, a flat nose, dark brown eyes, medium length kinky hair. Smooth, shiny skin. Slender, almost skinny, a nicely defined chest, oval shaped nipples. Young, probably still a teenager. He sort of slinked to the back of the room, looking a little embarrassed or afraid to be there. The clincher for Winkie: he wore a pair of hooker heels that lifted his hips up and made his adorable butt stick up and out. It took two quarters worth with Winkie waving at him both times to get his attention. He meandered over, either a bit shy or scared, to Winkie's window, his ample cock and balls bobbing softly. Standing to the side, he obligingly lifted his arms up, placing them on top of his head. When Winkie grabbed onto his cock, it was slightly cool to the touch, almost rubbery when he squeezed it. His stomach and chest were smooth as silk. His hands lingered before the window closed. With the next quarter, he was able to caress his hips and ass. A dollar, two dollars, a third, and a fourth. The last time, Winkie was pleased that the young man's cock thickened and began to rise. The final time, fully hard, a speck of cream forming at the tip. "Meet me outside," Winkie whispered hoarsely as the window closed. "Wanna date?" A teen hooker leered at Winkie. He was disgusting looking with his thin mustache and chain necklaces. Winkie just glared back at him. He stood on the sidewalk outside The Gaiety waiting patiently to see if the boy would show up. Five minutes later, he actually did. Now dressed in a pair of sweat pants, crudely cut off at the knees, a loose tank top, and dirty white athletic shoes. Without a word, they both turned, walked to the corner, and crossed 8th Avenue. They went almost as far as 9th before Winkie signaled to the boy. They dodged traffic as they both crossed the street to the other side. The Elk Hotel. Gritty. That was the kindest thing you could say. Winkie held the door for the boy and he walked in. "I'll take two hours," he said to the desk clerk, some wizened old man sitting behind a desk, protected by metal bars. He pushed two ten-dollar bills through a narrow slot. "$25 for three hours, if ya want," he half grinned, as he peered around Winkie and looked at the boy. "Nah. That's ok." The desk clerk shrugged, pushing a key through the slot. Without another word, he jerked his head toward a laundry basket on the side filled with weather beaten towels. When they got off the creaky elevator on the 6th floor, Winkie could have sworn he saw something crawling along the edge of the hallway. It was big. And it had a tail. Not much of a room. A bed cloaked in a gross pink paisley bedspread, walls covered in stained and faded floral wallpaper. A bathroom on one side. Winkie could hear the toilet running. "I'll be right back," the boy said. Winkie realized he'd never heard his voice. It sounded nice. Soft, almost a whisper, kind of effeminate. He sat down on the side of the bed to wait. A minute later, he heard the toilet flush and the bathroom door bumped open. The boy stood there naked, his long thick extraordinary cock, almost sticking straight out, throbbing. They hardly needed an hour, let alone three. In a twenty minute span, some furious sex took place. The boy got his brains fucked out. Winkie got fucked himself, too. For good measure, he gave the boy a torrid blow job. The boy obliged by shooting a healthy load of cum into the back of Winkie's throat. A lot for the second go around. Winkie was laying sideways on the bed, supported by his elbow, when the boy came out of the bathroom, already dressed. Winkie had a twenty laying on the bed. As the boy snatched it up, Winkie asked, "How old are you, anyway?" The boy turned to look at him as he was heading to the door. "Seventeen."