1. On His Knees
I had Aaron “Trax” Traxford exactly where I wanted him: on his knees and with his mouth open, ready to pay off his debt. The motherfucker owed me three grand or a comparable amount of meth, whichever he wanted to land me first. He couldn’t pay me with either drugs or money, though, so I figured out the street math and came up with a nonnegotiable deal. If he sucked my cock thirty times and made me shoot my creamy white wad against his pretty-boy city face, I would let him live. If he didn’t, I was going to blow lead into his skull and visit him at St. Bart’s Cemetery on Hale Street next to the grave of his older brother, Bonk. My rules. His choice. That was how I rolled.
“Do I really have to do this again?” He looked up at me with his caramel-brown eyes that reminded me of his puppy named Yap. The tip of my nine-inch cock was almost touching his bottom lip, ready to slip inside and down his tight throat for a smooth fag-ride.
“You have any money for me?” I inquired, knowing he didn’t.
He shook his head, accidentally bumping his right cheek off the tip of my purple-veined dog. The twenty-year-old looked from his left to right to see if we were alone, which we were. He scaned Crane Alley and its Dumpsters, multitudes of litter, the stench of spoiled meat, and a stray dog that looked emaciated and hungry. Granted, it wasn’t the best place to receive a blow job, but sometimes a payment needed to be on the spot, without concern for its whereabouts.
“Do you have the drugs I gave you to sell?”
Again, he shook his head.
“Then eat up, pal. Don’t hold back. I want to cream your insides with my churn.”
“But, Marco,” he begged with tears at the corners of his eyes.
I gave his left cheek a hard slap, listened to him choke on his own saliva and instructed in a harsh manner, “Pay up and eat my cock, Trax. Be a man about this.”
So the straight little fucker grabbed my junk with his right hand, wrapped his fist around the nine inches of throbbing tool, and started sucking on my cock’s cut head, paying off a hundred dollars of the debt he owed me.
As I swung my hips, balls and weight against his pretty-boy face, I half believed he had sucked off a dude before, because he seemed to know what he was doing. Trax’s head shifted to and fro, and his tongue and suction did some magic on my dick. He didn’t gag on my cock like my ex-boyfriend, Stick, and seemed to enjoy himself while he gazed up my chiseled plane of Latino chest and studied my pumped pecs, firm nipples and broad shoulders.
“Suck it, street meat,” I said, thrust my hips against his face in a speedy manner, and felt elation curl within my standing frame, enjoying the guy’s oral payment.
As I banged his throat, building up a conventional orgasm, I thought of the bad little fucker’s past: a few years back he had offed Jompra, one of my compadres, with three shots. Trax liked the sexual company of redheaded women with large breasts; he was pretty fast behind the wheel of any car, especially when he decided to steal it. He knew his shit in the city, was born and raised to raise hell as an independent contractor, but was a terrible meth seller and user. How many times did I tell him not to mix his partying with the rocks he sold? Would he ever comprehend the strategy to separate the two?
“Eat it,” I whispered, brushing a palm through his thick brown curls, and banged his face again, causing him to choke. “Take it all, Trax.”
He gurgled, grunted and bobbed his head in an emphatic east and west motion. My balls slapped against his wrist as we rocked back and forth. Then I chanted, “Getting ready, guy. Gag on my sticky shit. Take it all.”
What transpired within the next few seconds was like a scene in an action-packed movie. Just as I was about to blow my load inside his hole, pig lights lit up the alley and a siren echoed between the string of buildings. Brights from the cruiser spotlighted Trax’s face on my knob and—
I pushed Trax off my dick and saw him tumble backward in the alley. Then I pulled up my jeans, quickly fastened them and bolted down the alley, attempting to escape the blues because I was wanted for a string of conventional crimes: robbery, trespassing, drug and gun possession, among a list of other naughties that comprised my bad-boy doings.
As I climbed a fire escape at the rear of Pony’s Bar & Grill and headed up to the rooftop for my planned escape from the 905s, Trax was being arrested, also wanted by the cops for a number of crimes committed in his youthful past. I listened to a brawl in the alley beneath me and to my left, heard one of the blues call Trax a motherfucking queer, and listened to Trax take a few fist-punches to his skull, jabs to his stomach and a kick to his nuts, which he probably deserved because he was more of a bad boy than me.
2. Damascus in the Shack
No, I didn’t finish myself off on the rooftop, blowing my creamy load over its rubber surface, although the night was perfectly romantic for a solo beef-tug. Instead, I bolted away from Trax and Crane Alley, jumped from rooftop to rooftop like a fucking tomcat, and ended up back at the Shack, a home base for my drug posse.
The Shack was beneath 6th Street in a rough part of the city, north of the Hudson. The sublevel complex sat under an abandoned warehouse where thread spools were once made in the late sixties. Rats inhabited the area, trespassers were shot without questions being asked and drugs of many different colors, side effects, shapes and sizes were stored in the place, which all could be purchased at very reasonable prices by dealers on New York’s streets. Most of the drugs were in a back room the size of a grade school cafeteria. The other rooms in the place consisted of two bedrooms, a kitchenette, a bathroom and a minimally furnished dining area where deals went down.
Pablo was my cousin and looked exactly like me. Our mothers were twin sisters who roomed together in nearby New Jersey. He was the head of Posse, the most powerful, the angriest, and had the most experience regarding street life and selling drugs. Frankly, he had the reputation of breathing fire, would kill anyone who disrespected him and knew how to operate our wholesaling business.
Pablo, Spine and Lark—all high members of Posse—were all in the Shack upon my return from the brisk and eventful affair with Trax on Crane Alley. The three of them stood over the battered dining room table and looked at a twenty-seven-year-old male named Damascus, who was one of the Matelli’s sidearms and sons.
The Matellis were a rough group of Italian drug dealers and our strongest competitor. Although we had an agreement (or oath) not to kill each other, it was quite common to abduct one of their male affiliates, bring them to the Shack, strip them out of their clothes, and sexually humiliate the men, if possible. This is why Damascus was buck-ass naked and tied to the Shack’s dining room table.
Pablo was the one who said, “Marco Balla, come over here. We have a gift for you.”
I walked up to the foursome and admired the naked beefcake on the table. Damascus Matelli was as handsome as his name, except for the wide strip of duct tape pressed over his mouth. He sported his family’s thick black coils of head hair, luscious red cheeks, almost amber-colored eyes, small ears, and a chest covered in spirals of dark hair. The dick between his legs was six inches limp and just waited for my attention yet again.
“What’s going on?” I inquired, knowing damn well what was up, since it wasn’t the first time Damascus was secured to the Shack’s table with leather straps, and it certainly wouldn’t be his last.
“He’s yours,” Pablo said. “We know you get off on abusing the Matelli boys. No judgments on our parts. Do what you want with him, guy. Just don’t hurt him too much, and don’t fucking kill him because we have to return him in one piece to his family.”
Before I knew it, Pablo, Spine and Lark had vanished from the room. One of them had shut the door behind the trio, leaving me alone with Damascus and his chiseled nakedness.
I walked up to the handsome thug on the table, stared into his eyes, pinched one of his erect nipples and said, “We meet again, friend. How have you been?”
Of course he couldn’t respond, since his mouth was sealed off with the silver tape. Therefore, I accomplished a quick removal of the duct tape and listened to him grumble something that I knew was pain related.
First he huffed and puffed for air. His hairy chest rose and fell in search of oxygen. Then he said, “Spine caught me again. The guy is good. He should be working for my father.”
I leaned over, kissed the badass on his red-plump lips, drew in his exorbitant stink, pulled off and away from him just as quickly and replied, “Keep quiet or I will tape your mouth shut again.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
My kissing continued then for the next minute or two. My lips and tongue discovered his hairy chest, a hollow armpit, and the thatch of bristly hair beneath his navel. In a matter of seconds I caused the drug wholesaler’s cock to go mast hard and it stood nine inches stiff at his center.
“Suck me off, Marco,” he begged of me, which is what I usually accomplished when Spine abducted Damascus and brought him back to the Shack. That wasn’t what I had wanted to do tonight, though, since I hadn’t seen him in approximately two weeks, and I’d missed him. I had other plans for the secured beefcake bad boy, which I didn’t want to share with him just yet.
Teasing him, I circled his body, drew fingertips along the length of his cock and over his splay of ripped chest. Then I licked one of his inner thighs, which caused him to jerk to the right a bit in the leather ankle and wrist straps that held him to the table. Once I accomplished that, I circled him yet again, and said, “We should be boyfriends. Why’d we never seal the deal, Damascus?”
“Because my father and your cousin would murder us.”
“Such a pity,” I shared, and leaned over his body, took a lick of his spike, swallowed some of his sweat into my system and came off for air.
“They think you raped me. If they only knew we like each other.”
I nodded. “It’s our little secret, guy.”
He grinned at me, enjoying my company, and whatever games we played together when our clothes came off, used to my body aligned with his. “What do you have in mind for tonight, Marco?”
“Relax, enjoy yourself and you’ll soon find out.”
3. Urban Rider
I climbed between his legs after removing my clothes and dropping them to the hardwood floor. My tongue rolled around the tip of his steel-like shaft and down its purple and pulsing veins. My fingers toyed with his fuzzy balls, strumming them with playful skill.
Damascus moaned with unyielding pleasure on the table, strapped to its flat surface. He growled a number of times, gritted his teeth and proved that he was enjoying himself to the fullest, incapable of feeling like an abducted street thug who sold drugs.
Within seconds my mouth lowered over his nine-inch tool and began to bob up and down in a frisky manner. Head-bobbing continued to be swift on his dick, and my elongated fingers prolonged the man’s state of euphoria as they toyed with his droopy balls.
Of course, I almost made him come in my mouth, draining his post. But at that very last second when a wave of exultation meandered through his erection, and joy was almost discovered, I pulled off and away from him, reluctant to let the Italian stud explode his creamy and pent-up cargo.
While I was wiping the back of my hand across my mouth, he said, “You’re too good at that, Marco. Shame on you.”
Shame was finding myself unmarried to the guy, failing to keep him forever at my side and not using his cock for my pleasure, since I did have a soft spot in my heart for his bad-boy attributes. Frankly, I didn’t care how many men he had murdered on the streets, what group of sexy thugs he fucked around with, or what his destructive past entailed. I enjoyed the guy’s company without judgment, and longed for his inevitable sexiness without limits.
“I’m not done with you yet, pal,” I told him, showing off my sculpted Latino frame, which consisted of a hairless chest, molded pecs and abs and a wanker that was hard like his, and the same width and length.
“Bring it,” he said. “Hurt me.”
We are not meant to be together. The streets have ruined us. We are the product of a tragedy. This is what I thought while standing over him on the table jacking my crank once, twice, three times, and giving him a little show.
But thereafter the thoughts vanished because I had things to accomplish with his chiseled street meat. What comes before tragedy is pleasure, or so I had learned from the Posse and its uncivilized underground members. Within seconds I lowered my sculpted weight onto his latex-covered dick and slid the nine inches of his mass inside my warm, tight body.
Beneath me, the thug winced with utter bliss. He let out a jarring groan of unnatural pleasure, attempted to buck his tool inside me, realized that such an action was not going to be accomplished and whispered, “Ride me, Marco. Get me off.”
Ride I did: up and down in frisky motion, humping myself with his solid shaft, rubbing the skin of his condom-covered cock with my tight ass canal, and building up a fine friction between us. I bolted north and south on his stick numerous times, pinched his nipples, slapped at his firm pecs and called him the nastiest names.
Thick perspiration covered his hairy chest and glazed his nipples. The cords that lined the ruffian’s neck throbbed, proving that he was elated by my constant ass-action. Sweat also decorated his puffed cheeks and his unwrinkled forehead.
Following a string of minutes that comprised my feisty ass-ride on his nine-inch weapon, the gangster gasped, “Stroke your meat, Marco.”
I listened, because I liked a man who told me what to do, particularly when it came to fucking around with him. As I rose and fell on his crank, my two fists found the pulsing dog between my thighs and started to accomplish a steady jack-job on the meat, which was hard and warm.
“Faster,” he instructed me.
Again, I listened. My fists flew up and down on my post at the same speed as my ass manipulated his pulsing dick. Minutes ticked by as the motion became more aggressive. Although I was doing all the work with the brute positioned under me, I didn’t mind at all. How could I when I lusted for such man-connected-to-man moments with Damascus?
As I continued to stroke my beef his face turned a ruby shade of red. He huffed and puffed for oxygen, attempted to jolt me upward with his hips but failed miserably, and looked as if he were going to burst a thick white load inside the condom that separated our compressed bodies.
“Don’t you come yet, motherfucker. I’ll tell you when you can explode,” I told him.
“I don’t know how long I can hold it in.”
“You’ll hold it in until I tell you to release it.”
Our XXX-motion continued for ten…fifteen…twenty minutes: my ass rushing up and down on his gun; his hip-thrusts into my taut bottom; sweat lining our torsos and faces; my fists working overtime on the joint between my muscular legs. We became hectic, meshed within a whirlwind of male lust, and maybe even something stronger and heart tugging. Our bodies collided with skill as a symphony of grunts and moans filled the underground dining room inside the Shack.
“Come,” I finally said to him, ready to fire my creamy, thick load on his plated chest. “Don’t hold it in a second longer.”
I heeded my own instruction, jacked my nine inches with a heated frenzy, listened to the both of us murmur indecipherable sounds of queer desire and…
An upsurge of jubilation swept throughout my insides and rolled down and along my spine. My ass was throbbing with an overwhelming amount of pain, but it was soon forgotten because an orgasm was just about to happen.
On his back, wide-eyed now with a open mouth, Damascus warned, “Shooting, Marco.” The veins on his chest swelled and he gave his best thrusts to my rear. He panted with exhilaration and goo exploded out of his knob, filling the plastic balloon between our connected frames.
At the same time, I continued to jack my post with both fists, felt a final wave of lust tingle along my midsection, gave a grunt of rider’s passion and washed his chest down with my sticky seed. Within seconds his hairy mass was covered with my white sap, which accessorized his mounded pecs, cut abs and fuzzy navel, filling the divot to its rim like a coconut juice cocktail.
Of course, I thought of feeding the street-beast some of my thick cream, sliding two cum-lathered fingertips inside his mouth, swirling the pair around his tongue and teeth. There wasn’t any time for such a treat, though. Instead, I simply climbed off him, jumped down from the table, and said over my right shoulder, “One of the Posse will take care of you now, Damascus. See you at our next fuck-session.”
“Marco!” he called out to me before my exit, which prompted me to spin around, look into his dark and alluring eyes and listen to him. “Thanks for the ride, man. Your ass is my only passion in this city. I want you to know that.”
“I know. Until next time,” I said, turning away from him and simply vanishing from the room, heading deeper inside the Shack to shower, already missing the bully of a man, his wicked and untamable ways and his lust for me, which I knew instinctively that he could not contain.
4. Pricks and Payback
Five days later I was back on Crane Alley by myself, though I shouldn’t have been. Shame on me. Truth was I had just finished beating the fuck out of Andy “Biter” Britehouse because he owed me twenty thousand dollars, borrowing it six months ago and failing to return the stack of green to me, with a ten percent surcharge, of course. After I broke his left hand, I informed him, “You’ll be missing the hand next time, and your cock.”
Lark should have been with me on Crane, of course, but he was sick with a summer cold, back at the Shack, which left me alone. Honestly, I was just passing through Crane, the same classless alley on the outskirts of Chinatown where Trax blew me and then got arrested. What the fuck was I thinking being there by myself? Shame on me again, I should have known better.
Five of Trax’s cohorts discovered me there alone, backed me against a brick wall, slapped my face a few times, punched me in the gut twice, and informed me, “Trax has a message for you, Marco.”
“What kind of message?” I inquired, knowing I was in deep shit.
“This kind,” answered a bare-chested and bald meathead with muscles out the wazoo as he tugged on his denim-covered crank and balls. He stood at six two, had a thin scar over his left cheek and probably specialized in sniper action.
They were going to do a train on me, I knew. Five brutish men with their five urban cocks. I could see it in their dangerous and horny stares. “A revenge gang bang,” fell out of my mouth in a nervous tone.
A blond beefcake smiled at me and nodded.
A redheaded crew-cut hottie grinned from ear to ear.
Some thin guy with Hollywood looks said, “We’re going to take you inside an abandoned apartment and have some fun with you.”
Truthfully, I was ready for their train or whatever sexual man-acts they wanted to carry out with my muscled skin. My ass craved cock and…five dicks inside my man-tunnel seemed fitting. Why not? As long as the payback pricks didn’t break any of my bones or slash my face, I was willing and ready to take on their tools. Could I do it? Fuck yeah. Did I want to? Of course.
“Bring it,” I said. “Fuck me raw, guys. Don’t hold back.”
The redheaded guy laughed.
The beefcake blond moved up to me, squeezed behind me, pressed his denim-covered cock against my tight bottom, aligned one of his hulking palms over my right shoulder and grasped his massive left palm around my wrists. Wile doing so, he informed his fuck-ready buddies, “The fifth floor in this building is vacant. We’ll take him up there and fuck him up.”
The thin guy nodded and added, “My dick needs some Posse ass. Let’s get this done for Trax.”
I was led down the alley, shoved through one of the building’s back entrances and then up five flights of narrow stairs. Excitement careened through my mind and frame, knowing what was going to happen to my bulbous bottom, craving such urban action. When was the last time I’d had a five-man pileup on my ass? I couldn’t recall. But I was ready for it, whatever their cock train entailed, hungry for their firm tools, unlimited desires and a shower in their white male-spray as each became spent and exhausted from the payback that I whorishly considered fun.