Saturday, March 29, 2014

I Dare You to Disobey - Part Two

Gamin: 
Short Story – 
Part Two
Read Part One Here


The Kid grumbles as I drag him through the alley and toward the office buildings behind Donovan’s. I dig out my keys, passing my keycard against the scanner. The door unlocks with a tonal beep. I use the Kid to shove open the door, pressing him hard against the glass as he grunts. 


“Fucking cop,” the Kid growls as he hocks a loogie at my feet. 

It hits the carpet and I smack him upside his head. “Hey, this is a nice building; don’t fuck it up,” I scold as I march him down the corridor. 

“Where the fuck are we?” he asks as he looks around the shadowed, abandoned hallways. 

“I got friends in real estate,” I tell him. “Got me this building for cheap.” When my aunt died a while back, she left me some cash. Always figured there were worse ways to blow it than renting out the building to small businesses—ones friendly to Donovan’s. Growing ones that maybe need a leg up and who are willing to take business from a more—shall we say—unique clientèle. 

It pays decent—a nice little extra lining my pockets—but mostly I do it to help out the club. Donovan’s been my home for years since before it became big. When it was just a few folks in a bar basement. 

In the years I’ve been dabbling in real estate, I’ve learned that it’s true; it’s all about location, location, location. And the more friendlies I can surround Donovan’s with, the better my home thrives. 

We reach the door I want. I unlock it and shove the Kid in, letting him land hard on the hardwood floors. The squeal of skin on waxed shellac and the sound of his muffled grunt is satisfying.   

I close the door, letting it click menacingly behind me as it locks. Squatting down, I grin at him again. 

But he surprises me by coming up swinging, his head lurching up to try to clip me in the face. With quicker reflexes obtained on the job, I grab him by the shoulders and throw him against the office couch, listening to him slide against the plastic sheet covering the cushions. 

The Kid looks around. “What the hell, man?” he whines. “Are we in someone’s office? What the hell kind of landlord are you?” 

“It’s vacated,” I say as I flip on the lights, revealing the barren space—just that couch and a couple of desks littering the abandoned office. “Used to be rented by an advertising agency. Real good work.” Not exactly my thing, but trendy. Did well. Or at least well enough to pay rent on time.

In addition to all that, they used to do gratis work for Donovan’s. Flyers and posters, party plans and online campaigns. It was a shame to see them go. Real loss to the community. 

“So why’d they leave?” the Kid asks. 

I say nothing. Just smack my lips. Like I said, I rent to folks friendly to Donovan’s. Those that’ll turn a blind eye to what we do, maybe even those who enjoy it.  

But it often gets folks in trouble. Lot of businesses don’t like the noise Donovan’s been dealing with lately. The protesters—who I can hear as I open some of the windows to air out the stuffy office. The news stories. The reporters. The cameras and threats. 

The noise. 

“Neighborhood’s gotten crowded,” I say as I turn back to the Kid still lounging as comfortably as he can handcuffed on the plastic-covered couch. I nod to the window, where the protesters shouts are clear in the night air. “Couldn’t deal with the new tenants.” 

“Sorry.” The Kid sounds sympathetic—almost repentant—a strange twist from his previous sass. 

I shrug. “Happens.”  

“Yeah,” the Kid sighs wistfully, “but it shouldn’t have to. Change changes everything and rarely ever in the way you want.”  

I catch the Kid’s serious face, regretting having even brought it up. I swallow before forcing a scoff. “What would you know of what should and shouldn’t be?” I ask. “You’re, like, two. A baby.”  

Studying him shrewdly, I smirk. “How old are you anyway, Kid?”  

He cocks a cheeky eyebrow at me, his smart mouth curving. “Old enough.”  

I snort. “Which means, I’m guessing, that you don’t have ID, huh?” I eye him right back—my gaze honed and sharpened by years of experience that this boy just don’t have—making him squirm on the abandoned, plastic-covered couch. “Suppose I could find out for myself.” 

I flip the Kid over so his face is smashed against the couch, held there by my hand. I frisk the Kid, finding little more than lint and loose change. 

He bucks beneath me. “Get the fuck off me, pig!” he shouts as he writhes around, wriggling against me. 

I feel his body, strong and small, beneath my bigger one. He’s feisty—a frisky fucker—a spitfire. I straddle him on the couch, my thighs like a vice around his legs as I hook my ankles around his calves, immobilizing him. I lean in close and growl in his ear, “Call me pig one more time, Kid—” 

The Kid lurches forward before bashing back, the back of his head colliding with the bridge of my nose. 

“Fuck!” I curse as I back up, getting off the couch. Little shit, I think as I turn back to him, my eyes watering. He’s gonna pay for that. 

I see him, his arms still cuffed behind him, as he lurches off the couch to sprint toward the door. I tear after him, more pissed than worried. 

Kid isn’t going anywhere. Even if the door wasn’t locked, he’d have a hell of time trying to turn the knob without hands. 

But that isn’t the point. 

The point is respect. And the Kid's going to learn some before the night's through. 

I smile as I stalk the Kid, a wolfish glee in the grin. Diving toward the door, I grab the Kid by the waist, tumbling us both down onto the hard floor, the wood knocking the air out of his lungs as we land. 

We wrestle on the floor. His long legs, stringy but strong, kick like a mother, his knees and heels and toes and shins hitting every part of my body. His shoulders twist, jamming into my chest and neck and face. 

I was right. Kid’s a fighter. A good one, but untrained. 

He’s no real match for me. With a hard hand on each shoulder, I press him hard into the wood. The rest of my body large and menacing pushes into his, covering him completely. 

My smile widens as I feel the press of his cock, hard and long, against my stomach. I rub against it, letting my hard abdomen slide against its length. 

His voice is breathy, hot and weak, as he says, “Get off me.” 

I move again over his dick, feeling him press up into the stroke. “Is that really what you want, Kid?” Then I push down hard against the Kid’s thighs, letting their crease cup and cradle my own cock, hard and insistent. 

“Fuck yourself,” he spits at me. 

“When you’re right here, so conveniently?” I say as I let my hands coast down the length of his forearms, the taut line of his torso, to rest at his waist. I reach between us, slipping my hand between us to grip—grab—his cock, making him jerk into my palm. “Tell me again you want to get up.” 

The Kid just moans as I start to stroke him. His eyes close as his back arches, his hips grinding against my hand.  

“Tell me what you want, Kid,” I say as my grip tightens and my rhythm speeds. 

“Fuck you,” he spits at me as he tries to twist away. 

I laugh as I rip open the front of his pants. “Fuck me?” I chuckle as I nod. “Yeah, that was what I had in mind.” I tug down his jeans—tight motherfuckers—tearing them down his kicking legs. Peeling his Banana Republic pants from him. 

I get them to his knees, where they get stuck, not budging no matter how I pull. 

I shrug; even better as the jeans serve to bind his legs together.  

Sitting back on my haunches, I sniff down at him and the perfect picture he makes. His cheeks flushed and his eyes spitting. His thighs and cock bare. The hard length of his penis juts up toward me, an angry, needy red. 

I can smell him, hot and musky, as I wrap my fist around his throbbing shaft. Leaning down, I taste him, salty and smooth on my tongue. His groan is thick in my ears. I let my hand wander lower between his thighs to toy with his soft sack. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. 

I take him into my mouth, let his cock slide inside. I suck as I blow him, my spit making a sloppy, slippery mess of us both.  

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” A mantra from his mouth. A sweet, desperate plea as he writhes, trying to press closer—deeper—into me. 

I give one more good suck before I let him slip out of my mouth. 

He sputters a protest stinging on his tongue. 

I grab his shirt, jerking him toward me as I seal his mouth with mine, jamming my tongue in against his. He moans again, his ire turning hotter as he tries to eat at my lips, to suck deep my tongue. He bites my lip—nips with sharp teeth. “Fuck me,” he growls when I back away laughing. “Fuck me or fuck off, you fucking pig.” 

I shake my head. I did warn him. 

“You’re in trouble now, smart ass,” I smirk as I grab him about the waist, hauling him up as he squeals. He squirms on my shoulder, testing my hold. I smack his ass hard, making him jump and then still. 

I throw him against the couch, his stomach hitting the sofa’s edge as his backside hangs off the end. 

I stare at him, ass-up and helpless. I grin as I take the condom and lube out of my pocket and lay it on the back of the couch. Tugging at my own pants, I shove them down, freeing my own hard dick. I reach around him as I kneel, stroking his penis again as I pull his belt free from his jeans. 

Even as he thrusts into my hand, he tries to stare over the couch edge to see me. “What are you doing?” he asks as I squeeze his cock before letting him go again to stand, legs braced behind him. “What are you going to—” 

His cry is loud as the hard, folded-over leather strikes his flesh with a vicious crack. “Call me a pig,” I grunt out as I rear my hand back again. 

“You fucking asshole pig!” the kid shouts as he tries to shimmy off the couch before I shove him hard against the cushioned back again. 

I hit him again, his ass jerking as the belt leaves a severe-looking slash across the cheeks. “Call me a pig,” I taunt as I hear his breath hitch, catching—choking—in his throat as he gasps. “Do it.” 

He says nothing, just breathes in and out in loud, audible pants. 

“Do it,” I order through clenched teeth.  

Still nothing.  

I lean down, grab a handful of his hair—the gel or whatever crisp and crunchy in my hand. I pull his head back as I say in his ear, my breath hot as it hits his cheek, “Do it.” 

I can feel his pulse fluttering, see him struggle to swallow. I can practically taste the adrenaline pumping through him. I smell lust—an intoxicating mix of fear and heat—and sweat on his skin. I lick his neck and nip at his earlobe. “Say it.” 

His face is held tight—he can feel the moment, unavoidable and looming, ahead. He swallowed again, his Adam’s apple bobbing desperately. “Pig,” he says, his voice a small, almost silent thing. 

“Oink for me,” I tell him as I grind my cock into the soft, inviting crack of his ass. 

His jaw clenches hard, stalling as the tension builds. I reach beneath him, grab his balls and pull, giving just a quick yank, careful not to twist. He yelps, jumping back against me as I snort a laugh.  

“Oink,” I order as my hand tightens with threat on his still rock-hard dick. 

He does, humiliation hot as his cheeks and neck and chest flush. 

Good boy. I stroke him. “Again.” 

He does, this time the sound sweet and wanting. 

“Again,” I say as I stroke him harder, churning my hips against him.  “Don’t stop until I tell you to.” He does, his hips thrusting as the animalistic sounds tumble from his lips.  

He’s about to come; I can tell. Can feel it like a pot about to boil or a fire about to flare. I pull back as he screams in frustration. I laugh. 

I grip the belt still in my hand. “Now, squeal for me, piglet,” I tell him as I pull back my arm and strike him again. 

The high-pitched sound he makes pinches my ear, the indignity of it ringing in my head.  

I strike again. And again. And again and again. I lay into him until his ass is crisscrossed with sharp, red lines and his voice is harsh and raw. 

Then I drop the belt and cup his burning ass in my hands, feeling him jump at the touch as my fingers press deep into the hot flesh. 

Fuck, yeah. 

I reach for the condom on the couch, slipping it over my hard cock as I listen to him breathe heavily in expectation. 

I grab the lube and drench one finger before I hold his cheeks apart. I watch his ass relax—Kid’s got experience—as I slide the thick digit knuckle-deep inside him. He ruts as I slip my finger in and out of his tight hole. My cock hardens while I watch him take my finger. And then another. Over and over. 

Yeah. 

His squeal turns into throaty moans as I pour on the lube, spreading it slippery over the head of my covered cock. Positioning myself behind him, I take my fingers from him as his ass instinctively tenses. I smooth my hand over his ass as I soothe him, urging him to relax again. 

He does as I work my cock slowly—inch by inch—inside him. His face clenches even as his body eases. Good, Kid, I think as my own jaw squares. So fucking good. 

“You okay?” I push the words through gritted teeth. 

“Mmm,” the Kid answers as he pushes against me, taking me in that very last inch. 

“Damn,” I hiss, finally seated to the hilt. I look down at his bent back, feeling the roaring heat emanating off of him. I start to thrust, just small, gentle movements, careful to take it easy. To take him easy. 

He groans beneath me. “Fuck me,” he mutters mindlessly, almost incoherently, “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.” 

So I do. Hard, like I want to. Like I’ve wanted to since I first saw him. I fuck his ass, pressing his cuffed wrists into his back, until I come—groaning and shuddering—inside him. I grab his hip, feeling the slippery slide of his come, wet as it seeps down the plastic. 

Exhausted and spent, we both lay on the couch for a moment, still and silent as the protesters yell below us. They’re louder now as the club closes and the patrons pour out of the doors and into the night. 

Perverts. Sinners. Monsters. Sluts. The cries float up through the window, ruining the moment a bit. 

I slide, flaccid and sensitive, out of him. I slip the condom off, tying the end and tossing it out the window—hoping, rather than expecting, it’ll hit one of the pretentious, judgmental pricks. 

“I am sorry, Rand,” he says as he triggers the release on the handcuffs, freeing his hands. He shakes his tense arms a bit before I reach for his wrists, rubbing them softly in my hands.  

I cluck my tongue and study the Kid. Harlan St. James, the twenty-something prodigal genius of Saint’s Marketing. 

I grab him and flip him as I lay us both down on the couch, sweeping his mussed hair out of his cherubic face. “Don’t worry about it, Kid,” I tell him as we both listen to the rhythmic chanting of the mob outside, the sweet sound of laughter and freedom inside, and the strange, uncomfortable silence as the two mix. “You’re young,” I say, holding him close, “so’s your company; you’re not big enough to afford the fallout. Gotta look out for you and yours, I get it. So does Donovan’s.”  

The Kid’s eyes widen as wetness glosses away the redness the pot and booze had left, his gaze sober, somber. He sighs as he looks around his former office—his former home. “Damn, I’m going to miss this place.”  

“Yeah,” I agree as I look at the barren remains in the room. I can safely say it’s going to miss him too.


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