Bryan Frinkle was lying face down on his bed, a pillow propped up under his prominent chin, the May 1937 edition of hero pulp Major Steele spread out on its polyurethane protective cover in front of him.
The studious 19-year-old loved comic books, graphic novels, and all things Yaoi. But most and best of all, he loved pulps, the rough paper fiction magazines that dominated newsstands in the 1920s, 30s, and 40s. Luridly covered and often trashily written magazines that bristled with crackling action and whiplash dialogue. Dishing out garish thrills in every genre from Adventure to Zeppelin in great, pulpy chunks.
Bryan collected pulps, traded pulps, read pulps. His favourites were the hero pulps, whose rugged, wily, earth-shaking, heartbreaking leading men often found their way straight into young Bryan’s very active fantasies.
Like the Man of Iron, Major Steele. A tall, muscular, gunmetal-haired hunk adventurer, and former war hero, who used his brawn and brains, and trusty squad of skilled ex-servicemen cohorts, to thwart evil and rescue damsels in distress. Damsels turned Frinkles, in Bryan’s fevered imagination.
Because right now, as the Major held Penelope Winthrop in his muscle-banded arms, tight to his bare barrel chest, it was young Bryan he was actually gripping in his hot, vice-like clutches. Having just plucked the H.P. Lovecraft lookalike from the slimy, octopi-like tentacles of the mad Professor Fingers, lab experiment gone wrong and leader of an evil army of pickpockets; demented mastermind behind the diabolical plot to lift top secret government documents from America’s top atomic scientists, and threaten to sell them to enemy agents if not properly compensated in the blackest of blackmail dollars.
Bryan was one of those ace scientists, seized bodily by Fingers’ rogue band of digit-mutants and held captive in the multi-limbed freak’s undersea laboratory lair.
But now, ignoring the tentacle-tied, vanquished Professor’s inkless jets of anger, he breathed, ‘Oh, Doc!’ in fantasy and reality. ‘How can I ever repay you for your heroism? Your service to your country?’
The pillow edged down the teen’s chest, his stomach, until his bare hips smothered its fluffy, warm softness, his bare cock bearing down hard. As Major Steele barked out a commanding laugh, then spoke with actions a thousand times louder than words, as usual, drawing the young man closer, tighter, his hot breath steaming over Bryan’s flushed face in spicy gusts, fogging the brainiac’s glasses; his chiselled, tattooed body beating, thumping heatedly against Bryan’s beanpole frame.
‘Here’s how,’ the ever-resourceful giant responded, tilting his battleship head down and mashing his heavy lips against Bryan’s thin lips.
‘Mmmm!’ Bryan groaned, pumping his pillow, skinny buttocks clenching and unclenching, cock burrowing an impassioned groove in the goosedown.
The Major swallowed up Bryan’s moans with his fierce-sucking mouth and ground his animal loins against Bryan’s loins, flame-forged rods meeting and pressing together. The leather-hided warrior for justice then bayoneted his thick tongue into the teenager’s mouth and thrashed it around, ruthlessly exploring every inch of the wet, virgin territory.
Leaving Bryan shaken and dizzy with the musky scent and savage intensity of the he-man, the wicked wonders the Major was performing with his ultra-masculine mouth and tongue and hands. He feebly clawed at the Marine’s muscled back like an undermanned assault force claws at a cliff face, overwhelmed, suffocated by the globetrotter’s overbearing, mountainous body and savagely winding tongue, the infernoic heat of the decorated doughboy. Their cocks grinding, melding together, Bryan’s youthful body rocked by the Major’s powerful thrustings, fuzzy balls boiling on overfull.
‘I-I love you, Major Steele!’ he managed to gasp, his hero pulp fantasy man turning so very graphic and novel.
The Man of Iron didn’t acknowledge such weak sentimentalities, ruggedly chewing on Bryan’s red lips, sucking on his pink tongue. Strong, sure, spade-spanning hands traversing the young man’s trembling body in rough and ready caresses, then landing on bare bum and grasping, mauling, shunting hips driving cock into cock.
Bryan’s brown eyes behind black frames flickered and closed, his mouth open and drooling, the teenager lost in the lusty, gripping, kissing, thumping embrace of the mighty soldier of fortune. ‘Oh Steele!’ he yelped, his thighs desperately clutching the crumpled pillow and hips frantically pumping, cock churning. ‘I-I think I’m going to –’
‘Bryan! Bryan!’
The bed rattled against the wall, springs creaking and groaning, Bryan bouncing up and down. Major Steele’s blazing, built-for-battling body bearing down on him, thunder cock pistoning his own pulsing member to the blow-off point.
‘Here it comes, Major! God help me, here it comes!’ Bryan wailed. And his surging cock exploded, spouted spunk out its purple-hooded tip.
‘Bryan! Bryan!’
The young pulp buff emptied himself body and soul into his scrunched-up pillow, hips flying against his golden age superhero, coming again and again and …
He heard his mother yelling, ‘Bryan! Bryan!’ Banging on his bedroom door.
And his fuzzy head finally floated free of the blissful clouds of purple prose ecstasy, as his cock pumped on empty.
‘Y-yes, Mom!’ he cried, painfully detaching himself from his powerful pulp dreams. Stickily detaching himself from his pillow and tugging up his pants.
‘Your friend Kevin is here. To take you to the – comic book convention. What are you doing in there, anyway?’
Bryan sighed. It was a pulp magazine and paperback book convention – PPCON VI – not a “comic book” convention at all. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’
He carefully closed the May 1937 edition of Major Steele with a pair of velvet-tipped tweezers. Then gently slid it back into its polyurethane jacket slip with a white-gloved hand and returned the precious pulp to its hermetically sealable chest.
A grin spread across the young man’s bony face, as he thought about all those four-coloured, high-acid paper magazines he was about to view, perhaps lovingly hold – and maybe even purchase and possess as his own.
‘Thanks for the ride, Kev,’ he said, exiting his friend’s car at the downtown convention centre.
Bryan had failed the road portion of the state’s driving exam three times, and counting. Not that he could afford a car, anyway. He was majoring in quantum physics and post-World War I American literature at the local university, president of the tri-state amateur press association. Which left little time for a job. Which was why he was still living at home with his parents.
‘Have fun at the geek-con!’ Kevin yelled, before jamming his customized AMC Gremlin into gear and peeling away from the kerb in a cloud of blue smoke.
Bryan paid his admission fee, then walked into the huge, second-floor ballroom that held 70 or so dealers’ tables groaning under the weight of laid-out pulps and paperbacks, VHS tapes and DVDs, plush Cthulhu Mythos dolls and pulp action figures and tie-ins. He gripped the straps of his Miskatonic U backpack (which contained a fragile sampling of magazines) and breathed deep of the musty atmosphere. Then set out in search of wonder.
‘Damn straight it’s the genuine article! March 1952 Weird Tales issue. With Lovecraft, Clark Ashton Smith, and August Derleth stories. Mint condition. One of a kind. Five hundred bucks – take it or leave it.’
Bryan’s oversized ears pricked up when he overheard Claude Tiddle’s spiel two tables down. He looked up from the April 1932 Doc Savage pulp he was fondling through its protective cover and glanced over.
Tiddle was a red-faced, black-lunged character whose fairly commonplace, dog-eared collection of tattered paperbacks and cover-creased pulps seldom ever surpassed “good” condition. Prone to wilfully overstating quality and exaggerating rarity in dealings with unaware buyers, his red-veined eyes were at present glommed on to a pair of young, blond men, his liver-spotted hand clutching a ragged copy of the March 1952 issue of Weird Tales, his brown teeth showing stumpy in a con man’s sucker grin.
‘But what about all those pieces missing out of the cover?’ one of the blonds asked, pointing at the chunk-holed, spiderwebbed Joseph Eberle cover. ‘That can’t be good.’
‘Sure, adds character value,’ Tiddle oozed. ‘Means it’s been read – collectors like a “working” copy.’ His watery eyes slid left and right, then focused front and centre again. ‘And this copy just happened to be in Stephen King’s personal collection.’
‘Ooooh, buy it! Buy it, Victor!’ the other blond gushed, clasping his hands together. ‘You know how much I love Lovecraft – and Stephen King!’
Victor dubiously regarded the battered pulp. ‘Well …’
‘Its actual value is around $20,’ Bryan commented dryly. ‘It’s not very scarce; the condition is “fair” at best; the Lovecraft story is actually a reprint from the January 1927 issue, and the Clark Ashton Smith is a poem. All in all, hardly collectible at all. And any provenance with Stephen King is probably as fictitious as the stories inside.’
Tiddle glared daggers at the well-informed young man, his hunchbacked body shaking with rage.
The two blonds edged away from the dealer’s table and over towards Bryan.
They ended up on the sunny banks of the Missouri River out back of the convention centre, scarfing down hot dogs and Cokes that the pair had bought for Bryan in gratitude.
‘Thanks again,’ Victor said to Bryan, taking a rather deliberate bite out of his wiener and slowly chewing. ‘You really saved our lives.’
‘You did! You really did!’ his friend, Adam, agreed enthusiastically, before wrapping his plush lips around his straw and sucking hard and suggestively on his Coke.
Both men were in their early 20s, with the same short, honey-blond hair and deep, all-over tans. Victor was the stockier of the two, with gleaming green eyes, while Adam had sparkling blue eyes and looked, and acted, as light as a feather. They could’ve been Swedish or Teutonic twins. But their overt affection for one another suggested an even closer relationship.
‘We just dropped into the convention centre for something to do on a boring old Sunday,’ Adam said. ‘But I do so adore H.P. Lovecraft! Don’t I, Victor?’
‘You do,’ Victor concurred. ‘And our new friend Bryan here does bear a rather striking resemblance, wouldn’t you say?’
Adam sighed, and sucked, staring across the picnic table at the blushing teen.
Victor stood up and brushed off his butt. ‘You know, Adam, I think we should really, truly thank Bryan for rescuing us from that unscrupulous dealer.’
Adam squealed and jumped to his feet, clapping his hands. ‘Our hero!’
And before Bryan could even gulp down another mouthful of hot dog, the pair of impetuous blonds were busily and happily pulling off their T-shirts and down their jeans. Until, under the shade of the cluster of birch and oak trees, on the edge of the twinkling blue waters of the gently flowing river, the two men stood as naked as Claude Tiddle’s greed, except for their white sneakers.
Bryan sat there, stunned, staring up at the nude blonds smiling down at him – at their glowing brown, lean-muscled limbs and smooth, caramel-nippled chests, their clean-cut cocks hanging heavy and semi-erect from trimmed thickets of blond pubes. ‘Uh, um, the, uh, hot dog and drink is all the thanks I –’
‘Nonsense!’ Adam cried. Cock bobbing, he scampered around to Bryan’s side of the picnic table and grabbed the young man by the arm. ‘Help me, Victor!’
The pair pulled the gaping teenager to his feet. Then expertly peeled off his white cotton Operator No. 5 T-shirt and tan cotton pants. Followed by his briefs.
Bryan’s pink cock was as startled as the rest of him, but quicker to get over the surprise – swelling, lengthening, rising up as it caught the warm breeze, felt the warm eyes of the men on it, appreciated the smooth, bronze beauty of their own bodies and cocks in the only way it knew how.
‘Well, hello there!’ Adam giggled, dropping to his knees in the grass and grabbing Bryan’s cock, stroking.
‘Yikes!’ the young man yelped, jerking at the touch of the other man’s hot, brown hand on his prick – tugging and stroking.
‘And I’ll take care of our hero from the waist up,’ Victor stated, proceeding to cup Bryan’s pale, hairless pecs in his soothing hands, tickle a rigid, pink nipple with his wet, extended tongue.
Bryan jerked again, his body and brain hardly believing what was happening. It had all happened so fast, right out there in the open Midwestern air with only a few trees to shield the obscene action from the convention site across the street. This was high adventure of the spiciest pulp variety!
Victor swirled his deft tongue around and around one of Bryan’s buzzing nipples. Then the other. Groping the teen’s tingling chest. As Adam swirled his soft, sure hand up and down and around Bryan’s now throbbing erection, grasping and gently squeezing the teenager’s tightened balls with his other hand. Making Bryan moan and close his eyes, send up a fervent prayer of thanks to the pulp gods for making it all possible.
Victor closed his supple lips over a nipple and sucked. Adam closed his pouty lips over the mushroomed head of Bryan’s cock and sucked. The young man’s mint condition, ivory-pure body quivered in the throes of the twin erotic onslaught.
And then he flat-out vibrated, when Adam clutched his jumping buttocks and took Bryan’s swollen shaft into his warm, wet mouth in a heated rush, until the talented, sensuous blond was kissing black bush with his nose and lips. Victor dragged his tongue up Bryan’s chest and kissed and licked and bit into the soft, vulnerable flesh of the young man’s neck.
‘Zounds!’ Bryan cried pulpishly, back to the river, front to his two new heroes. Cock embedded in one blond’s mouth and throat, Adam’s apple getting sucked by the other blond. His body and mind shimmering with a super-sensual joy not even an unread copy of The Spider could bring him.
Adam pulled his head back, pushed it forward, easily and vigorously sucking full length on Bryan’s smooth as silk, hard as rock cock, lips sealed tight around the pulsating shaft, tongue wet velvet painting the sensitive underside. As Victor lapped his beaded tongue up over Bryan’s prominent chin and into the young man’s open mouth, tracing liquid fire over the tingling skin every lick of the way; then swallowing up Bryan’s moans of pleasure.
The teenager gulped and groaned into Victor’s mouth, his face flushed and body shaking, suffused with sweat and heat. His fondled balls bubbled and boiled, Adam’s tugging lips and caressing tongue sending him sailing straight towards the edge, past the point of no return.
‘Not yet, baby,’ Victor breathed into Bryan’s mouth, sensing the impending eruption. ‘Get that gorgeous cock out of your mouth and into your ass,’ he said down to Adam. ‘We want to give this boy the full hero treatment, don’t we?’
‘Do we ever!’ Adam gurgled, yanking Bryan’s loaded rod out of his loose-lipped mouth and stretched-out throat with a saucy pop.
They guided Bryan, gilded Bryan with his very first triple-decker. First pulling lube out of their discarded jeans and thoroughly oiling up everyone’s working parts for action.
Then Victor sat down on the grass, back to a smooth-barked birch, and held his long, hard cock up and beckoned at Bryan to take a seat on it. Adam helped the inexperienced teen embed himself on the upthrust stake, Bryan moaning when he felt the bloated top of Victor’s cock pop through his pucker, groaning when he felt the vein-striated shaft slide in and in and into his ass, filling his burning chute to bursting.
But he was given little time to recover his spinning head as he carried out Victor’s instructions, grabbing Adam’s slim hips and lowering the blond down onto his own straining pole. Bryan’s slick, swollen cock sunk slow and sweet into Adam’s gripping chute, the blond easing himself right down until he was sitting in Bryan’s lap, fully impaled. The young, trembling pulpster getting it hard and hot and tight from both ends. And loving every second and inch of it.
Victor moved his hips, Bryan moved his hips; a slow, deep, fucking rhythm getting going. Victor gliding his cock back and forth in Bryan’s anus, Bryan sliding his cock in and out of Adam’s ass. The pace picking up, the passion mounting, the heated action packing more thrills and bungs than the wildest of pulp yarns; a real man’s story that Bryan would remember and relive the rest of his life.
‘I – I can’t … I’m coming!’ the overstimulated Bryan wailed, frantically bouncing up and down on Victor’s cock, frenziedly plugging away at Adam’s love tunnel.
But before Bryan could blast off, he suddenly felt the sharp, scalding splash of semen against his bowels, as Victor grunted, and came. Coming in searing wave after wave inside the gyrating teen’s electrified ass.
Bryan almost fainted, hardly able to take it. Then heroed up and took it to a whole other level, jolted to his very sexual core by his own wicked orgasm, chute-clutched cock exploding and rocketing white-hot semen into Adam’s ass. Over and over and over, Adam joyfully riding the orgasmic storm and singing out his own manmade ecstasy, sizzling jizz leaping out of his hand-cranked cock, streams of it.
The piled-up men bucked and blasted and bellowed away on the sun-swept banks of the breeze-rippled river. While a forgotten pulp and paperback convention droned on in the distance.
Bryan lay stunned, and drained, on the soft grass for a good, long time after Adam and Victor had reclothed themselves and departed. Naked in the sun, mellow as never before, his sweat-dewed body limp and reamed-out ass and bunged-out cock still buzzing and throbbing, feeling the erotic echoes of all those wicked sensations.
Finally, the young man dreamily sighed one last time and crawled back into his clothes. And quickly discovered that his backpack full of pulps had gone missing.
‘The weed of crime bears beautiful fruits,’ he paraphrased The Shadow with a knowing chuckle.
All of the magazines were just “poor” copies of fairly common issues – for trading with other pulpmeisters for equally poor condition issues he didn’t have but simply wanted to read, rather than collect. What Bryan had actually gotten in return for them, however, was worth far, far more.