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Stallion Station Ch. 01

By: sr71plt



The old dump of a motel that was here nine months ago has been transformed into something pretty nifty, the young carpenter, Constantine—known by everyone but his mother as Dino—thought as he left the movie studio he'd just put the finishing touches on and strode across the line of refurbished motel rooms toward the men's gym at the other end. The only problem was that the town didn't really need another girlie whorehouse, he went on to muse. It could use something that a guy like me could go to to shack up with other guys, but I don't see that happening.

He wasn't a bit fooled by what he'd just finished helping to install in a newly constructed building at one end of the line of kitchenette motel units. Some of those were already occupied—ones on the line on the back side of the building—but he guessed the guys in there would be pitched out when the women were brought in. What he'd just worked on—a studio with black walls, floor, and ceiling and with a royal-blue velvet-covered platform in the center, with a vinyl top and all sorts of camera stands surrounding it and other camera boxes mounted on the walls obviously was a setup for porn films. And some BDSM films too, considering the restraints he'd had to build in tucked away here and there around the platform base and tucked into boxes in the ceiling over the platform, not to mention the paraphernalia that hung on one of the walls.

Dino knew about BDSM. He had found his way to Buckingham, where a male-male BDSM club met.

That was a new wrinkle on whore houses, though, in Dino's experience—the BDSM element. Altogether a slick operation if this Gordon guy could keep it open. The gym, where Dino was headed, was a nice touch. A place where men could gather, and even tell their wives they were going—"Hey, dear, I'm off to the gym for an hour"—and connect to a prostitution operation when they got to this particular gym. Check in at the gym, maybe do a couple of reps so you can be honest with your wife, pay for your lay, and take her to one of the motel rooms right there. Ten minutes on the Treadwell, thirty minutes playing hide the sausage, and twenty minutes lifting a few weights. It would even be a good workout.

Dino had been using the gym himself for several months—it was the first part of the complex in operation—and maybe he would continue to do so, because there were some really good beefed-up men using it, starting with that Jess Gordon, the owner of this place, with his body jewelry and all-over tattoo. But when the girls got put in, he'd have to reassess his interest. Maybe not, though, if Jess kept working out in the gym. He had a body and a half; Dino wouldn't mind being taken a couple of rounds by Jess—a great body and a great cock too. Dino had seen him in the showers. And a thick cock ring. Dino had never been done by a guy with a cock ring before. This just wasn't a town that catered to guys who liked guys, and especially in a rough way. For that Dino had to go to Buckingham.

But Dino liked it in a rough way, and he had actually signaled his interest to Gordon—several times—but had come up flat. He's opening a girlie whorehouse because he wants to sample the goods himself, had been Dino's conclusion. A real waste of prime manhood, he decided.

Gordon was there, in the gym, looking real good in gym shorts and an almost-transparent white athletic shirt, with armholes going almost down to his waist and showing masculine hairy pits and an old-ship naval battle going on across his torso, which could be picked out pretty well through the wide mesh of the shirt.

"All done in the studio building, Mr. Gordon," he called out to the owner of this almost-completed complex. "I'll go back to the company office and let them know. They'll contact you."

"I get a final inspection before you go, I think," Gordon said, walking up to Dino and putting a hand on his shoulder.

Dino liked the intimacy of that feel, and he went a little hard. Boy, would he ever like to get it on with this stud—and be manhandled by him. Gordon was quite a bit older than he was and looked like a thug, but Dino liked older men—and he liked thugs. He'd found that group of guys over in Buckingham who did some of that—bondage and toys and stuff. Rough sex. Two on one. Dino shivered at the thought.

"Final inspection?" Dino asked. "Final inspection of what?"

"The movie studio. You did know I was putting in a movie studio to do gay porn flicks, didn't you? I thought you would have figured that out."

"Gay flicks?" Dino asked. Now he really was going hard.

"Specialty films included," Gordon said. "What did you think you were hooking up all those restraints for?"

"I . . . uh . . . I didn't—"

"And why did you think I asked that you be here alone to finish the carpentry work?"

"I don't—" Dino swallowed hard, because he was beginning to think he did understand.

"I know about the group you attend in Buckingham," Gordon continued, crowding Dino toward the exit from the gym. Dino was going along with him as if in a trance. "You think I didn't know you've been comin' on to me? I was saving you. Nice cute little Italian hottee like you. Can't think of anyone better to do a final inspection and tryout of the studio with. Paid good money for you too. For the rest of the day, your body is mine, and I plan to work it hard. Let's go back to the studio."

They were already halfway there, with the taller, heavier Gordon pulling the younger, smaller Italian along with a firm embrace of an arm around Dino's shoulder and the hand of the other arm firmly locked on Dino's elbow. The young carpenter was already starting to hyperventilate a bit, although he'd definitely gone hard and the panting really could be chalked up to anticipation.

* * * *

Lights were focused on the blue-velvet-skirted, vinyl-covered platform. A matching blue-vinyl cube was positioned in the center of the platform. The cute dark-haired carpenter, Dino, naked, was bent over the cube on his belly, held in place by restraints. His perfectly formed olive-skinned body with the curly black body hair on his chest, forearms, and pubes and the perpetual, sexy five-o'clock shadow on his lower face was closely restrained. A black leather band encased his upper thighs. His wrists were restrained to this band at the sides. A black leather band encased his upper calves, and another held his ankles together. A leather collar around his neck was chained to the base of the front of the cube, pulling his head down. His mouth was filled with a ball gag, which he was biting into while giving muffled cries as, standing over him, naked, a magnificent array of muscles, tattooing, and piercings, Jess Gordon was intent on slowly pulling the fourth of five graduated wooden teardrops out of the young Italian hunk's ass.

Along with the lights beaming in on the platform, cameras, both video and still, were whirring and clicking off at all angles around the platform.

Gordon was humming. So far the final inspection was going splendidly. Everything was working just right. The young Dino had already put on quite a show as the wooden teardrops had been slowly fed into his ass canal.

The young man grunted and groaned as the beads came out and then became more vocal, as he was able, as Gordon mounted his hips, grabbed Dino's waist, and began working his sheathed cock, with the thick cock ring, inside a channel opening that was restricted by Dino's legs being bound together. Both men grunted and groaned as Gordon fucked the bound carpenter hard, deep, and fast to an ejaculation.

Dino's own ejaculation was caught on a video camera positioned at the front of the hollow cube and looking back at the tube encasing Dino's cock and stroking and squeezing the shaft in a motion controlled by the rhythm of Gordon's thrusts.

* * * *

Dino's body was suspended in air over the center of the platform, held by various chains and restraints in a bowed arc that pulled his head and legs back, his arms up and spread, and his midsection distended forward. The legs were spread as well.

Dino's balls were tightly laced with leather thongs ending in weights that pulled the balls toward the floor. The young man's mouth, hanging open and now unrestricted by a gag, was grimacing, although whenever Jess asked him if he was having a good time, he declared that he was.

The young man had a hard on that backed up his claim of being aroused by this treatment. The vinyl sheeting under him had already been christened with his first ejaculation in this position.

Gordon, still naked and once more in erection, was walking around Dino's suspended body and flicking him with a black multistrand leather whip.

Each time Gordon flicked the switch and Dino's body jerked, Gordon barked, "Do you want it?" Dino was answering with a crisp, "Yes, sir, More, sir. Please, sir."

When Gordon stopped with the whip, though, and was standing close beside Dino, fondling the young man's erect dick with one hand, milking him again, and using the other hand to start pushing a twelve-inch-long, two-and-a-half inch thick black rubber dildo into Dino's channel, the young carpenter began to pant deeply, whimper, and groan.

"What do you want?" Gordon asked in a drill sergeant's voice.

"I want you to fuck me, sir."

"What did you say?"

"Fuck me, sir, please fuck me."

"Fuck you with this dildo?"

"No, please, sir. Fuck me with your beautiful cock."

"Don't you want to come first?" Gordon was stroking Dino's cock in long strokes.

"Yes, sir, please sir. Let me come and then fuck me. Punish me with that cock ring."

As the lights strobed and the cameras whirred and clicked, Gordon brought Dino to another ejaculation and then saddled up behind him and fucked him again.

Gordon declared that Dino had helped the studio pass final inspection with flying colors and said he regretted that Dino hadn't been able to view the settings well, although he would receive complimentary copies of the movies, if they turned out.

Of course, if they didn't turn out to be of commercial quality, they'd have to do it all over again and the final inspection would have to be repeated.

"You have any problem with that?"

"No, sir," Dino answered in a weak but satisfied voice.

"Are you interested in doing more movies?"

"Yes, sir, any time." And he meant it.

"Good boy." Gordon was pleased. He reached for the tit clamps, as Dino whimpered his pleasure.

* * * *

Dino was hobbling but feeling like he was on cloud nine after he'd rested a bit and cleaned up. He left the studio, Gordon already having done so, and walked toward where he'd left his car in the gym parking lot. That had been an incredible session. Just the punishment and rough handling he'd wanted to get off on—even better than Buckingham. And it was especially nice that after Jess Gordon had let him down from where he was suspended and been assured that Dino had been good with it all, that Gordon had given him a regular, missionary-position fuck on the edge of the platform, with Gordon crouched over him and holding his legs out, while Dino ran his hands over the tattooing on Gordon's chest and got fucked deep and hard again.

Four ejaculations for him and three for Gordon for the afternoon. Something he hadn't experienced before. His balls ached from the draining, but he'd happily have continued doing it.

Of course, the lights had been on and the cameras had been whirring still during the missionary-position fuck—"A little something for the tamer clientele," Gordon had said.

Gordon had seemed quite pleased with Dino—and said that he was—and there was no way now, knowing that this was to be a male bordello rather than a cat house, that Dino was going to go anyplace else to gym—or to find the discipline and punishment he craved and get his rocks off. Gordon had said that, if he did movies regularly, which was OK with him, his gym fee would be waived.

He'd also suggested that Dino might want to have a room assigned to him and take customers, but he said he wanted to think about that. Being fucked and disciplined by a stud like Gordon was one thing, but by a mousey and pudgy middle-aged bank vice president was quite another.

He could see as he exited the studio into the soft late-afternoon light that the finishing touches were starting to be put on the complex. Bricklayers were at work erecting a privacy wall along the front of the central motel-unit wing, between where the cars would park and the road. And he could see that there was a huge neon sign unit sitting in a truck bed, waiting to be placed when a high pole had been erected—so the sign could be seen from the nearby interstate.

"Stallion Station," the sign said. Dino thought that was a great name for the place. He could attest that Jess Gordon, at least, was a stallion.

But he worried whether perhaps Gordon was being too forward with all of this and how long he could keep it open. That's when he saw that, talking with Gordon over by the entrance to the gym, were two men Dino knew by sight and by occupation. Most everyone who tried cruising in this town knew Detective Joe Reilly. He was talking real friendly like to Gordon, though, so maybe his hard-nosed reputation was a cover for his protection of activities like Gordon was putting in. The other, even more powerful person, talking with Gordon and Reilly, though, was someone Dino knew well—because Judge Raymond Snyder was one of the disciplinarians of the BDSM fuck group Dino participated in over in Buckingham.

A senior cop and a judge. That equaled protection. Maybe this would work out OK after all. And maybe Dino would get a nice slice of what was going on.

He didn't make it past the three on his way to his car before he started cutting into that pie.

Gordon called to him. "Com'ere, Dino. I was just talking to these gentlemen about how great the final inspection in the studio went, and they'd be interested in taking you to unit 8 and working you over for, say, a hundred bucks. You game for that? These are guys we like to keep satisfied."

"You bet," Dino answered, a big smile spreading across his face. Good times were already starting and the operation wasn't even up and running yet. 

Stallion Station Ch. 02



"It sounds too complicated for you, Matt," Jason had said. "Getting a list would be the hardest part—impossible, I think. This is a small potatoes town. I think you should just keep it to the street and be happy when it works out. And get a job."

I'll admit that getting a job was what got the plan rolling. Then getting a list turned out to be one of the easiest parts. The roughest part, speaking of rough, was Mr. Gordon that first time and then through all the takes needed to get the video recorded just the way he wanted it.

I first started thinking that something needed to change in my life when two guys in a row took the blow job in their cars and then just pushed me out on the ground, outside town, rather than paying—and left me to hitchhike back. Griff, the guy who got me started thinking about changing my approach, saying I was a natural in looks to turn guys on who were looking for it, did tell me that I should at least move to Richmond, or better, down to Atlanta to do the street work. But I didn't have the money to go that far in any direction yet. That's why I was working the street; I needed the money.

He told me that there was a system for this in the big cities, sort of a recognized behavior for a john to take on—unless you ran into some crazy guy who wanted to do it and then cut you up. But you could usually tell that by their eyes and the sort of smile they had on their face, Griff said. And if they were driving some beat-up old heap. Look for the guys with the new Mustangs and Bimmers, he said. The guys in the Mustangs would give you a good fuck, and the guys in the Bimmers would give you a good tip. Small-town johns didn't seem to know the rules, Griff said. A lot of them were too dumb to realize they'd want it more than once and that there weren't a whole lot of young guys walking the streets who would give it to them once they got a reputation as welchers—or as being too rough and abusive.

That didn't stop those two men in a row from getting their blow jobs and then pushing me out of the car. And I didn't have time for that. Neither one was Mr. America, either. Griff had told me I shouldn't get in the business if I didn't like to get cocked. I told him I liked it fine. I didn't tell him, though, that I wasn't real wild about kissing any frogs in the process—least wise not unless they were good tippers.

There were a whole lot of frogs down here in south central Virginia. At least most of them were built. It was hard making a living down here—which goes back to my original problem—and most jobs in these parts required a whole lot of muscle. I could like being cocked by a guy with muscle even if he had a frog face. Where I usually gave it was in a truck bed out in a forest road at night. There usually was only one muscle I got to see up close and if it was big and fat, that's usually all I needed.

I did, though, prefer doing it inside with a guy who was a looker as well as built. And I kinda liked guys in their forties, if they'd taken good care of themselves. They tended to take it slower and to make sure they took care of me better. They also usually showed that they were grateful that someone would still give it to them.

This all led up to Mr. Gordon and then the idea of the lists. But before that was the opportunity to get off the streets and into a job, which, in the end, made everything else possible.

I got a job working in a video store—an adult video store. And this was one that catered to all interests. The gay section was in a back room. That got pretty good foot traffic, because it was the only adult video store in three counties that also had a gay section.

I got the job because the owner of the store, a middle-aged fat black man who lived over in Lynchburg and had a string of shops like this fanned out across southside Virginia, pulled me off street duty one night and fucked me in the backseat of his old pimpmobile Cadillac. While he was sitting in the middle of the backseat and I was facing him, riding his cock, he was telling me what a nice little piece I was. And then he got the idea that maybe I'd like to work in his video store in the next town, Farmville—that he'd then know where I was if and when he got a hankering to have me again.

Yes, of course I would like that. I was looking for a job that would mean I didn't have to work the streets and hope for a couple of twenties humping the dicks of frogs like him in the backseats of their cars.

I'd already told Jason that I had plans to be making more money with my body than I was making now. I couldn't tell Griff the sort of ideas I was having, because he'd already left for Charlotte. In the end the video list idea turned out better than anything else I was thinking.

The job at the video store was OK. Farmville is a college town and the video store was located out off the 460 bypass. We didn't get a lot of college students in here, but we sure got a lot of professor types.

I had the afternoon-to-early-evening shift. That gave me time afterward to turn a trick or two out on the street most nights. I could easily pass for a college freshman. That already was better than only working the streets.

Sometimes after roaming around the back gay section for a while and working their need up, some of the guys would ask me if I'd blow them or let them blow me for money. This was better than the street, because we did it in the stockroom rather than out in the back of someone's car—and because I'd make them let me lock their wallets up in the drawer under the cash register first so that we both knew they weren't going to get it and then walk out without paying. But the money was still penny-ante. Usually not more than fifteen dollars—and that only for the big spenders—for a blow job, one way or the other. I didn't think it was safe enough to leave the shop long enough for an ass fuck, even though I was asked for that too. I rarely got above twenty dollars for that when I did do it.

That was pretty insulting. They were standing with both me and them in full light. In the light of the video shop they could see exactly what they were getting. I knew I was desirable to a man. But most of them were frogs and still didn't want to pay much. Those who were hunks wanted it for free. Of course, some of them got it for free, after my shift was over, in the backseats of their cars at the back edge of the parking lot. I wouldn't have been doing this at all if I didn't like being cocked regularly. 

But Mr. Gordon. He broke the ice on that—and from there was born the video list idea.

He showed up a couple of times to browse the aisles in the back room. He even bought a few videos. Mr. Gordon was what I would call a Mr. America hunk—but of twenty years ago. He was probably in his forties, but he was built like he worked out half the day. His head was bald—which I have a theory about, that it gives a man extra umpf "down there," which so far has proved to be true—and he looked a little mean. I think it was the hard angles of his face—he was a bit of frog there—but also the tattooing that peeked out below his shirt sleeves and inside the V neck of the polo shirts he liked to wear—pulled real tight across his chest, showing the nubs of his nipples, the outline of thick nipple rings, and how well his torso came down to a flat belly. He liked to chat me up when he was in the shop, and after a few visits, I got the impression he came more to chat me up than to buy videos. In fact, he got real picky about buying those.

"I can make better videos than that myself, in my own studio."

"You've got your own film studio?" I asked

"Yeah. Right where I live. You know that old motel out on the Richmond road?" That road was 460, the main highway through here. We called the part of it on the east of town the Richmond road because that's where it went from here.

"The one with the gym that's been built on the end of it?"

"Yeah, that one. I built the gym and I've made a house for myself by stringing four of the motel rooms together. There are a string of empties, but I went ahead and had them made into bedroom units too. On the other end of the string of rooms, I've got a photo studio set up—a darkroom and a studio. All outfitted and everything. I'm always looking for models. I've filmed some guys from the gym. They'd make better porn stars than a lot of guys on these tapes."

"Porn stars? That's . . . uh . . . interesting."

"Bet a video of one of those guys working you real good could be a best-seller."

I didn't know what to say. He caught me by surprise on that one. He didn't give me much time to come up with anything to say, either.

"I seen you on the street. That's right, ain't it? I seen you working the street."

"Yeah, so?" Even though I responded this time, I still hadn't come up with anything brilliant to say.

"Pretty little guy like you, all innocent face and everything, and young lookin'. I bet a video of a muscle guy working you over would sell real well. How much they pay you on the street for it? Fifty dollars or so?"

"No, they don't pay me any fifty dollars," I said, trying to sound indignant—trying not to sound pathetic because no one had paid me anything close to that for anything.

"I seen you lookin' at me when I come through here. You're interested in my tats, ain't you? And I seen you lookin' close at my chest. Can see the tit rings, can't you? Wonder where else I got them, don't you?"

I was hanging on to the edge of the counter across from him, trying not to hyperventilate. But I bet he could tell by the way I was trembling and how white my knuckles were in gripping the edge of the counter that he had my attention.

He pulled his polo shirt over his head.

"Oh . . . holy . . . shit," I murmured. The guy had an old naval battle being reenacted all over his torso and down his arms. Wooden ships with sails and everything and cannon fire bursts.

"Like the nipple rings?" he asked. "Got a thicker ring in the cock. Bet you wonder how big the cock is. Let's you and me make a movie and you can find out how big it gets."

* * * *

He had video cameras on tripods pointed at all four sides of the blue-velvet-skirted platform with a blue-vinyl surface in the middle of his studio room—and one pointed down from the ceiling—while he rough fucked the stuffing out of me in four long takes. It took much of the night. He wore a black mask, but other than that all that he wore was the tattoo undulating in a sea battle lasting a couple of hours—and his body jewelry. I wore nothing but animated facial expressions of being taken repeatedly and deeply by a big, thick, pistoning cock with a thick ring in it that I had wondered if I'd be able to feel working inside me—and I did.

When he reviewed the film right on the spot, he said my facial expressions would sell the video all by themselves—that I was a natural young, twink-type bottom. He said that when he'd gotten everything spliced together and edited I could see what he meant. When I did see that film, I came in my jeans just watching myself getting fucked like that on tape.

The sequence of me sitting on the side of the platform and sucking his cock while he stood there, hands back on his hips so the cameras got the best shot, was, he said, to show how big the cock was that was going to be working inside me. After that, it was all business: three three-minute teasers starting with me on my belly, facing a camera, and showing in my face what I thought of him looming in the camera frame behind me, his big hands gripping my waist, and fucking my ass hard and deep. This was the shot angle he put into the video, saying my expressions were worth a million. The next sequence was taken from behind his muscled, tapering back and bulbous butt cheeks, with him between my thighs while I was on my back on the platform, and him holding my legs spread up and wide with fists gripping my ankles. He was all tanned and I wasn't, and he said that was an effect the guys would really like. There was a break away in this to the opposite side, showing my head flopped over to the side, with an expression of "I'm in heaven, but it's a heaven of an eight-inch, ringed cock up my ass" on my face. The fade out here is me shooting cum in the air.

The third segment was him on the platform on his back and my back to his chest. He had his arms laced under my pits, imprisoning my arms over his head and his legs were forcing mine out. He made sure that the base of his cock could be seen by the camera as it appeared and disappeared while he was fucking up into me. Once again he said that my expressions were what sold the film. To get those, while he was fucking me, he was telling me about what he was going to do with me later that night in his bedroom, where he had frames on his bed and a sling and velvet cuffs.

The video ended with me on my back and his straddling my chest. He was stroking himself, ready to come and had fisted the hair on my head and brought my head up close to his cock so that he could come on my face. The fadeout was of me taking the cock in my mouth and cleaning it.

He was good as his word. After cleaning up his studio, he took me into the house he'd made in the center of the motel and to a bedroom that had everything he said it did. There was a padded platform with wooden stock with hand and neck holes at one end, but, although I kept thinking about that, he never used it with me. There were cameras here too, but he didn't turn them on. He said he needed to find out where my edges were before we could talk about making that type of film. Through the night he used all of the equipment, including a lash and what he called ball busters, and the bindings—and I found out what he meant about where the edges were.

I'd never been fucked like that before—like what happened during the filming in the studio and certainly not like what happened later in his bedroom.

I was—and am—ready to do it again.

He paid me two-hundred dollars for the night—for the film and then anything he wanted to do with me for the rest of the night. It was more money than I'd ever made in a night. In all, four three-minute scenes faded together, with a two-minute explosive ending. Fifteen minutes.

"I can make more films—longer ones—from the material I have here," he said at breakfast in his kitchen. "This can be something like a teaser. I'll pay you a percentage on the films."

"A teaser, you say?" Suddenly everything fell into place for me, like the tumblers on those wall safes that spies have to get into within seconds on TV programs. "I might have a better, bigger idea."

"I like to hear better, bigger ideas," he answered.

"You say you have a few unused motel rooms."

"Yeah, three."

When I unrolled my whole plan to him, he was enthusiastic, and we celebrated a new partnership by him carrying me back to his bed, slamming me down on my back, jerking my legs open, scooting his knees under my buttocks to raise my pelvis to the perfect angle to take the full-in slide of his cock, and my tracing the undulating ships on the waves on his chest, set in movement by the pistoning of his cock deep inside me.

Jason was a harder sell on the idea.

"I don't get it. It all revolves around having a list. A customer's list. I told you that would be nearly impossible to build."

"Not all on lists, no. The guy's got a gym as part of the complex. When they know the full services they can get, the right kind of guy's going to come to the gym. But we do have a list too. Look at this, Jason," I said. We were standing at the counter in the video store and I showed him a chart on a clipboard.

"Yeah, OK. E-mail addresses on a list," he said in derision. "That's nothing concrete."

"These are guys who come into the back room who I like the looks of. Luckily I like the looks of rich-looking older guys. I smile at them and wink and tell them if they are interested in receiving a special treat, to put an e-mail address down, and I'll send it to them. Most I offer that to put the e-mail address down. It doesn't matter if it's not the e-mail address they use in their straight life. If the e-mail reaches them, that's all that's needed."

"Yeah, so. Then you send them a copy of that video you made and they get their rocks off. What's in it for you?"

"The e-mail back to them tells them they can play too for a hundred dollars for a fuck and twenty-five dollars an hour for a room to do it in."

"And you think anybody's going to bite on that? You've been fucking guys on the street for thirty dollars a hump. I've been doing it for twenty-five. What makes you think anyone will pay a hundred for it, plus room charge?"

"Have you been hearing the dinging in the background while we've talked about this, Jason? We sent out copies of the videos—Mr. Gordon got a list going at his gym too—so that they'd arrive yesterday or today. There were five e-mail responses on the computer when I came in this afternoon. Since then the incoming has been hopping up and down."

"Yeah, OK, but there's only so much that you can—"

"The rooms, Jason. There are lots of rooms available in Mr. Gordon's layout—Mr. Gordon says three of them already are good to go. They are on the backside of the motel and there's a secluded parking lot back there that you can't see from the Richmond road. I've already called Griff. He's on his way back from Charlotte."

"Oh, uh . . ."

"The third room that's ready, Jason. That's why I'm talking to you. That third room could be for you. Of course there'd have to be a teaser video made with Mr. Gordon first. Did I tell you he has a thick cock ring—and an even thicker cock—and that you can watch a sea battle while he fucks you?"

"What's the name of this place again?" Jason asked.

"Stallion Station. Ain't that a gas? It'll make the johns feel like supermen."



Stallion Station Ch. 03



Tucker Singleton stopped in mid stride toward the back of the courtroom, making the man who was following him run into him.

"Uh, sorry," the man said.

Tucker just nodded a distant recognition. Tucker always floated a bit above the normal press of the "little" people. In this instance, though, his attention had gone to the new line of defendants shuffling into the courtroom to be matched with public defenders for ten minutes or so before the next round of arraignments commenced.

Tucker had just managed to get the case of a pool boy of a colleague, arrested for selling pot—to an undercover agent—dismissed. Tucker was one of the best lawyers in town. It was likely that all it took was for the judge to see who was representing the boy for him to decide not to put a marijuana case on the docket. There was an unspoken cut down in pursuing such low-level drug cases. Drug cases had swamped the docket for years and the time had come for some "looking the other way," waiting for laws to liberalize.

The Prince Edward County commonwealth's attorney, Anthony Blaine, floated through the courtroom and the noise level dropped appreciably. In rural counties like this, the commonwealth attorney held the lives of defendants, prosecutors, and defense attorneys alike in the palm of his hands. Everyone was looking for a nod of the head and smile and none of them wanted to see a scowl or a sign of particular interest in any of the defendants. Blaine looked down the row of defendants, his eyes lingering over this one and that one, then sniffed, and the noise level came up again as he exited the chamber.

There was something about the young man shuffling along, chained to several others, that caught Tucker's attention—something he wasn't proud of and normally tried to fight. But he couldn't help looking. His attention had gone to the young man to begin with because he was one who the commonwealth's attorney had give a second, judging look. Maybe it was because all of the others in the line were thuggish looking and so much bigger than the small man—or youth—or whatever he was. He stood out against the others.

The others were either white or black and had the "been here/done this" look about them. This young man was of mixed race, the almost delicate features of a Caucasian, but the chocolate-brown skin color of a black man. And he looked slightly confused, in shock, and scared. He was a handsome young man. Small of stature, closer to beautiful than handsome, rather. Curly black hair, with a ringlet coming down over his glazed-looking brown pupils. There were tear stains on his cheeks. He obviously was overwhelmed by what was happening.

Grimacing at the man who had run into him and was still trying to get around him where he now stood, the aisle being clogged with spectators coming and going, Tucker put his hands on the man's arms and propelled him around to the side. He walked back down the aisle toward the bench and over to the court clerk who was setting up the docket for the next cases.

"What do we have with the small mulatto youngster, Phil?" Tucker asked. "What is he being arraigned for?"

The court clerk shuffled papers around. "His name is Joey Wilson, Mr. Singleton. He's up for slashing another man with a knife in a park restroom."

"Age?"

"Nineteen."

"I think I've represented the family before. Put me down as the attorney. There isn't another one here to represent him, is there?"

"Yes, fine, Mr. Singleton. No one else has stepped up for him yet."

Tucker walked over to where the defendants were being matched up, rather haphazardly, with public defenders by a hefty woman in a police uniform.

"I'm representing Mr. Wilson, here, Gail. Would you be so kind to take him off the chain line and I'll confer with him over in that corner."

"Certainly, Mr. Singleton," the policewoman said differentially as she reached for the locks on the young man's ankle chains. The young man just looked up at Tucker with a glazed, confused look on his face.

When they'd gotten over into a corner, an area apart, where none of the other public defenders were being able to take their sudden clients, the young man spoke first.

"You my lawyer? I can't pay nothin'."

"Yes, I'm your lawyer, at least for the arraignment. You don't have to pay anything."

"You gotta get me off, out of here, man. I can't spend another night in that jail."

"Did someone do something to you in the jail last night?"

The young man just hung his head and didn't respond. Singleton was rather looking forward to hearing some gruesome details.

"Tell me about the restroom in the park, Joey. And the man you're said to have slashed. Are you a rent-boy? Was that a client?"

"No, man, I ain't been in that park ever before. I had to take a leak, and the guy came on to me and then tried to get real funny. I was just protecting myself. Wasn't even my knife. I took it from him. He threatened me. The judge's got to see that. I can't spend another night in that jail."

"Keep your mouth shut when we get before the judge and don't say any more than that and I'll see to it that you don't spend tonight in the jail."

Standing before the judge, though, the defense hit a snag.

"Unless the defendant can give me an address where he'll be, I can't let him out on bail, Tuck . . . . Mr. Singleton."

Tucker turned to Joey, they exchanged whispers, and then Tucker spoke up. "He'll be staying at number 21 Pleasants Mews."

"That would be?" The judge looked down from the bench over his glasses.

"That would be my residence, Judge, here in the town. I'll take responsibility for getting him to his trial."

The judge gave Tucker a hard "you're taking on a lot of responsibility" look, but Tucker Singleton was a known reputable figure in the community. If he wanted to take the risk for a client—which was, the judge thought, a bit outside Singleton's character—then so be it. "In that case, and if he can post a $5,000 bond . . ."

"I ain't got money like that," Joey piped up.

"Shush," Tucker admonished him out of the side of his mouth. "I told you not to speak. The bail will be taken care of."

". . . then I will let him out on your recognizance. Not out of your sight until the trial and a 10:00 p.m. curfew," the judge concluded. "As far as a trial date . . ."

"The defendant will waive the right to a jury trial and agree to a bench verdict," Tucker said.

"I will?" Joey spoke up.

"I said button it," Tucker said out of the side of his mouth. "A jury trial won't be for months. A bench trial can be within a week or so. I'll get you off either way."

"In that case, there's an opening on Judge Snyder's docket next Thursday at 4:30 p.m.," the judge said.

"Perfect," Tucker said. "Absolutely perfect."

Back at home, Tucker told the housekeeper to take the night off—that he felt like fixing dinner himself. He puttered about the kitchen while, on the other side of the kitchen island, in the family room. Joey sat on a sofa, with his back to the kitchen, watching a football game on the TV. He'd made himself right at home. The first thing he'd done when Tucker showed him the guest room was to change into baggy gym shorts, no shirt, and flip-flops.

All Tucker could see was the back of Joey's head, covered in black curls—and his legs stretched out on the coffee table. And, of course, his bare, well muscled for a little guy, shoulders.

Feet off the table, Tucker instantly thought, but then he decided that, no, let the young man feel at home. Besides, the feet were bare too and heated Tucker up a bit.

"I've got wine and beer. We might as well start with that while the steaks marinate for a bit. Which?"

"Beer would be great."

"Soon as I finish tossing the salad," Tucker said in a cheery voice.

When he'd put that in the refrigerator, he came into the family room with two beers.

"You really shouldn't have any alcohol. I forgot about that. I think it's in paperwork we came home with."

"Nobody will know if you don't tell them," Joey said, reaching out for the frosty can and giving Tucker a secretive smile. "You wouldn't tell no one, would you?"

"I don't see any reason why I should," Tucker said, giving the young man a little smile and a conspiratorial wink.

Joey smiled back. "You have time to watch some TV?"

"Sure, I could do that," Tucker said, moving toward an easy chair beside the sofa and facing the TV.

"No, here," Joey said, sliding to one side of the sofa and patting the seat next to him. Tucker sat down next to Joey. "You can see the TV set better from here."

"Who's winning?" Tucker asked, as he sat on the sofa cushion Joey had patted.

"Don't really know. Don't even know who's playing. Football isn't my thing, really. Just didn't find anything else worth shit watching."

"Well, we could—"

"I found some DVDs while you were getting stuff out for supper. You've got some nice ones. Like this one."

Joey clicked the remote and the TV screen went from the football game to a well-muscled middle-aged man fucking a young man on a bed.

"Fuck," Tucker exclaimed.

"I'd like that," Joey answered dryly.

"You want to watch that?"

"No, I want to do it. You have the DVDs, don't you? I think you want to do it too."

* * * *

Tucker first fucked Joey with Joey on his back stretched along the sofa cushions and his legs spread and raised, Tucker holding one leg up and out across the coffee table and the heel of Joey's other leg on top of the sofa back. Joey arched his back, muttered, "fuck me, yeah, yeah, yeah, fuck me" over and over again, his hands clutching Tucker's bare buttocks cheeks to him, as, kneeling between Joey's thighs, Tucker did just that, while he held Joey's throat in one hand and used the other to stroke Joey's cock.

"Oh god, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Tucker kept muttering as he fucked. That didn't prevent him from pulling Joey up and pushing his belly down on the arm of the sofa, his head and arms draped toward the carpet at the side of the sofa, though, both of them with eyes on the fucking going on on the DVD, while Tucker crouched over Joey's back and pumped him from the rear.

"Doin' it with you don't mean you think I'm guilty of doin' it in the park, does it? I mean, you can still be my lawyer, can't you?" Joey asked, when they were done. It was spoken it such a way as to lead the answer he got.

"No, one doesn't mean the other," Tucker answered. "And, yes, I'm still your lawyer. And I'm going to get you off on this charge." Tucker said this despite all ethical considerations screaming that it shouldn't be true, that Joey was obviously guilty as sin.

"Just let me know when you want to get me off again," Joey said.

The salad was wilted and steaks were very well marinated before they ever touched the grill, and Tucker didn't sleep alone that night or the next night—or the night after.

* * * *

"Joey, this is Detective Reilly. He wanted to meet you and ask you a couple of questions about the day you were arrested in the park."

Joey froze in the doorway of Tucker's home office. Flip-flops and loose gym shorts and nothing else had become his standard wear in Tucker's house. He also was getting restless, having been confined to the house—and more often than not—under Tucker in the bed or the shower, or on the sofa or the dining room table. They hadn't done it in the home office yet, though. The wooden desk in the center of the room was the largest piece of furniture. The walls were lined with bookcases, the bookcases packed with books. There were three chairs, the executive swivel chair behind the desk and the two Chippendale armchairs side by side, turned a bit to each other, in front of the desk. Tucker was sitting in the swivel chair. A bulky man in a cheap suit was sitting in one of the Chippendale armchairs.

"I know him. He's the one who arrested me." Joey, surprised at seeing the man there, took on a tense stance.

"He would like to hear your story again, Joey," Tucker said in a cajoling voice. "You want to cooperate here."

"He knows what happened. I told him. Should he be talking to me here, in your house?"

"Think, Joey. The house is a perfect place for the two of you to . . . talk. He can help you with the case. You just need to be nice to him."

Joey noticeably relaxed, relaxed enough that he leaned against the door frame with an arm over his head, pulling his torso taut. He was smiling now. "Sure, I guess that's cool."

"Come sit here beside me, Joey," Detective Reilly said, patting the chair beside him. "And tell me your side of the story again, from the beginning."

As Joey talked, Detective Reilly leaned into him. Reilly urged Joey to tell him more than just about the incident, to talk to him about his life and what he liked and didn't like. Joey was still talking about the problems on the street of having a black mother and white father, a father who Joey had never even met, who existed only in a photograph, when Reilly had both hands on his thigh, above his knee.

"Tell me what you were doing in the restroom in the park, Joey—in detail."

"I told you. I wasn't doin' nothin'."

"Well, then tell me what you think the other guy would say you were doing—in detail. Just so we can compare stories. And perhaps you can show me."

Joey got the drift of what the man wanted to hear, and so he spun a story for him that satisfied what the man wanted to hear before being urged to go back and talk about his background—what had gotten him to this place.

Joey was into his high school days when the hands had moved up to under the leg holes of the baggy pants, and he was barely back into what had taken him to that park when the hands met inside his shorts at the crotch, Reilly leaned over Joey in the chair and stopped Joey's monologue with his lips possessing Joey's. Joey reached between them and unzipped Reilly's trousers, moved from his chair to the detective's, put his ankles on Reilly's shoulders, and made the noises of satisfaction he knew would impress the detective as Reilly slid inside him and fucked him hard.

When Tucker cleared his voice loudly, pointing out that he was still there, Reilly put his arms under Joey, pulled him out of the chair, swiveled, and laid Joey on his back on the top of the desk. He accomplished the maneuver without dislodging his cock from Joey's channel. Joey's head dropped over the top of the desk at just the right angle for Tucker to slide inside him almost to the depths of the young man's tonsils. Reilly, holding Joey's legs up and spread, continued to pump, as Tucker leaned his torso over Joey's and took Joey's cock in his mouth.

"How'd I do?" Joey asked Tucker when they were alone.

"I think we're constructing your defense nicely," Tucker answered.

* * * *

"The defense is ready with its case," Tucker pontificated in front of judge Snyder. "If the prosecution can't produce the alleged victim . . ."

Commonwealth Attorney Anthony Blaine had chosen to prosecute this case himself, which was unusual and was causing electricity to zing through the air in the courtroom.

Joey sat next to Tucker at the defense table. He was all slicked up and looking innocent—and quite sexy. Tucker had worked hard to get the desired effect.

"How about that, Mr. Blaine?" Judge Snyder asked with a touch of irritation in his voice. "Where is the complainant?"

"I'm . . . I'm not sure. Perhaps Detective Reilly—the arresting detective—at the back of the courtroom could . . ."

"How about that, Detective Reilly? Where is the alleged victim?" the judge asked.

"We can't locate him, Your Honor," Detective Reilly spoke up from in back of the court, being informally held, as this was a bench trial—there was no jury to intimidate. "I have checked for days. I think he's left the city."

The judge glowered at the detective and the commonwealth attorney, in turn. Blaine's eyes narrowed as well and his mouth set in a thin line.

"Normally this would be grounds for dismissal," the judge declared. "But a knife slashing, that's a pretty serious charge. I think—"

"If you please, judge, could you see the defendant in chambers. There are some extenuating circumstances I think that would help—"

"Very well, I will listen to these extenuating circumstances in my chambers, if the defendant can make his remarks short. Then . . ." He paused for a moment, perhaps only now actually having looked at Joey for the first time. ". . . Then we will see what we see."

A half hour later, Tucker and Joey came out of the courthouse, both all smiles. It had been the last case of the day and very few were still in the building or on the front steps. As they walked down the steps, a black limousine with smoked windows pulled up at the curb and the rear door opened. The commonwealth attorney was standing at the top of the steps into the courthouse, making notes on a clip board, his eyes glued to what was transpiring down at the curb.

"I think this car is for you," Tucker turned and said to Joey.

Joey took a deep breath and then entered the limousine. Tucker leaned over and winked at the occupant of the backseat and then closed the car door.

"Take the long route, several times around the park," Judge Snyder said to the limo driver as Joey knelt on the car floor between his spread knees and unzipped the man's trousers. As the window between the front and back seats rolled up, Joey briefly wondered if this would be the same park where his trouble had started.

He didn't have long to think about this, though, because his trousers and briefs were off, and Judge Snyder was already pulling Joey onto his lap, facing him, and positioning a hard, thick, long cock. There was no blow job preliminary. Joey had already taken care of that in the judge's chambers.

As Joey was climbing out of the judge's car, Snyder leaned across the seat, gave him a little smile, and said, "How do you feel about bondage and a bit of flogging?"

Under the circumstances, Joey could only smile wanly and mutter, "Doesn't bother me a bit." This was enough to tell him that the payout to the judge for this bailout was not a closed deal.

* * * *

Matt Munson looked up, startled, from behind the reception desk at the Stallion Station male brothel as Joey walked in the door.

"Joey! I thought we'd lost you, man. Last I knew you were in the slammer for slashing a mark in the pissery in Jackson park for trying to stiff you on a blowjob."

"It all worked out fine," Joey said, with a smile. "Got me a real good lawyer. He got me off."

"How'd you swing a good lawyer?"

"I got him off. And the detective who arrested me. And the judge who tried me."

"A real pisser you are, Joey. Might be careful about that outside work from now on, though."

"Yeah, but if I do get in trouble, I got me a real good lawyer. And I know a good detective and a great judge."

"How good?"

"Seven inches and randy good."

"That's the best kind," Matt said, and they both laughed.



Stallion Station Ch. 04



When Rick felt "that way," and especially when he was a little short of cash, he often took a plastic disk Frisbee or two and went out to Wallgreen Park, a few miles beyond the town limits, to go through the Frisbee golf course. He rarely made it through all nine "holes" of the course, and making it to the end rarely was the reason he went out there. He also rarely played the course with anyone else. Playing it alone provided the signaling that he intended.

It was a great day to be out in the park. It was later in the day than Rick usually came to the park—close to 4:00 p.m.—but the sun was still shining and the birds were chirping—and none of them was yammering at him and telling him what to do. He was still smarting from what his boss—the last in a progression of yammering bosses—had said to him right before he'd walked out of the computer store he'd been working in for a couple of weeks—but now no longer was working in.

"You have the memory of a gerbil," the man had said. That wasn't the last thing his boss had said to him. The last thing was something about not bothering to come back, but Rick was already out the door and nearly beyond hearing before that was said. Pretty pissy of him, Rick, thought, especially after Rick had given the man a blow job in the storage room behind the showroom just two nights previously. He wasn't saying there was anything wrong about Rick at all then.

In any event, there was nothing in Rick's way to stop him enjoying a weekday afternoon, on such a fine day, out in the park, playing Frisbee golf. He knew he should be thinking on the next step in covering the rent on his room in the Stevensons' basement and grocery money, but he was too keyed up this afternoon by the want of something else, so he had put all of that out of his mind and come out to the park.

He figured there would be some business by the time he got to the rest area by the "green" of the fourth hole, which had a fountain-like contraption the Frisbee was to be sailed into rather than the hole in the ground that a real golf course would have. The bathrooms were in a small cinderblock building nearby, and there was a water fountain and a couple of picnic tables with benches in a graveled area. A graveled pathway ran into a copse of trees, where there were a few more-privately set picnic tables.

Rick knew the area well. He'd had many "takeoffs" from here. Sometimes right here. Sometimes the man wanted to take him someplace else. He'd been to all different kinds of houses and motel rooms from here. He even had gone down on one guy who turned out to have a badge and everything and said he was a police detective. But instead of taking him to a police station, he'd taken him to some sort of old motel, but with a workout gym on one end of it and a newer building on the other end of it, out by the edge of town, on the Richmond road, where a tatted and inked-up bodybuilder dude of a guy tried to get him to stay and work there as a rent-boy. The detective, if that's what he was, took some money from the bodybuilder. Rick was scared spitless from the possible arrest aspect of this and hadn't been in the mood to change occupations. But he'd sort of like to consider that now, having lost three jobs in as many months. And shitty jobs at that.

He'd told the inked dude he'd think about it, and the bodybuilder had said it wouldn't be a done deal until he'd tried Rick out himself.

He'd have to try to remember where the place was. It was called Stallion Station, if he remembered rightly. They were in the process of putting a big sign up on a tall pole with that name on it while he was standing there. The bodybuilder dude had asked what he felt about being in movies and tied up, which he thought was really weird—but also a bit arousing.

There was only one guy at the hole four restroom, which was OK with Rick. Sometimes when there were more than one loitering around, there was some trouble sorting out who wanted to do what and putting some sort of order to it that was acceptable to everyone. Guys coming there to get something always seemed to be in a touchy, macho mode, and they were always looking around for cops or eyeing each other for signs of a cop.

The man was maybe pushing forty and looked a little mousy, although he wasn't in bad shape—not a bodybuilder, but not fat. Dressed in a light green polo shirt and khakis. He was wearing loafers rather than athletic shoes, so he sure wasn't out here to either be running or hiking in the park. He was standing beside the door to the men's side of the cinderblock latrine. When he saw Rick approaching, he tied his mutt of a dog—as mousy and medium-sized as the man, although later Rick was to think there was more substance to the dog than to his master—to a railing installed for the purpose and disappeared into the bathroom.

Rick wasn't surprised to see the dog. It was a customary blind men cruising here in the park used.

"I was just walking my dog, officer. Honest."

This park allowed walking dogs—even allowed them off the leash two days a week—there was dog shit all over the place to bear out their forbearance. So it was an easy ruse to employ.

When Rick entered the bathroom, the man was belly up to one of three urinals—the middle one, naturally, so that whichever other one Rick chose, he'd be standing beside the guy. The man seemed nervous. Rick hadn't seen him in the park before. He'd leave it up to the guy to make the moves, though. No way he was going to make a first move and legitimately be hauled in for solicitation. If the guy was a cop, though—but he seemed too nervous for this to be a sting—it wouldn't matter to anyone who counted what had actually been offered by who when he wrote up his report.

The man had been looking at the door as Rick entered, likely making sure Rick was coming in, and then he turned and faced the wall behind the urinals, maybe a bit too rigidly. He had his fly open, and Rick caught a glimpse of a cock that was more promising than the man was. It was hard, so the guy wasn't really in here to piss. He wouldn't be doing any pissing until that cock went down a good bit. For a price, Rick would be the one to fix that for him.

Rick saddled up to the urinal to the right of the man and turned a bit in his direction, to give him a good look at the goods as he unzipped and fished his dick out of his pants. He wasn't hard and could piss, and did so. Then they stood there painfully long—long enough for both of them to know that the other wasn't really there to piss—before the man tentatively reached out to touch Rick's cock.

"What do you want, and what's it worth to you?" Rick muttered almost under his breath.

"How would twenty dollars for you to suck me be?" the man asked in a wavering voice, the question put tentatively. He obviously wasn't sure of what the going price at this park should be.

"Sure, why not?" Rick whispered. And why not, indeed? That was twice the going rate. The man really was new to this park. Rick started to sink to his knees in front of the urinals, facing the man, but almost as if he'd been given an electric shock, the man hissed at him.

"No, not here. Somewhere else. Anyone could—"

"There are picnic tables up in the woods from here. We could sit so that no one—"

"Yes, OK," the man interrupted. But he didn't move. It seemed obvious he didn't know where to go.

"I'll show you where," Rick said, with a sigh. He just hoped he didn't have to show the man how to. Maybe the guy would fumble enough with this to make him earn the twenty dollars. "Better bring your dog along too. Wouldn't make much sense for you to be at a picnic table with me and your dog still tied up here."

The man sat on the bench on the far side of the picnic table from the restroom clearing, with his back to the restroom and his dog tied to the other bench, as Rick knelt between his legs and gave him the blow job he had paid for. The man shuddered and ran his hand through Rick's strawberry blond curls that reached to his shoulders. Rick's attributes as a redhead—fair complexion; tall, lanky build; a freckled face, making him appear several years younger than he was; and a mischievous smile—were what made him attractive to many men. He was almost as young as he looked, but was legal.

Rick left the man there, humming and twenty dollars poorer, went back to the apparatus in the middle of the fourth hole green, retrieved his Frisbee, and went on to the next hole. He had no plans to finish the course today. He'd just come for the buzz of one encounter and a bit of cash, and he had achieved that goal.

But, at the seventh hole, as he was tossing his Frisbee at the apparatus marking the hole, he felt himself embraced from behind by arms stronger than he could ever hope to push off. His body was raised from the ground, and he was being bounced along so quickly and roughly that his teeth were chattering. He was hustled through a clearing, with more picnic tables, where he saw three biker type roughnecks spread out and drinking beer. Two more were manhandling him through the clearing and into the woods beyond.

It hit him only now that he had seen five motorcycles parked in a five-spot dice pattern in the park's main parking lot when he'd driven in. He'd been so preoccupied with telling his boss off, using his dashboard to stand in for his former boss, in terms that he'd only thought of after leaving the computer store that the bikes hadn't registered. If they had, he probably wouldn't have stayed at the park, because having bikers in the park was known to be a sign of trouble to be avoided, if possible.

He wasn't going to avoid any trouble there was to be had now, though, and there was plenty of trouble to be had. The two bikers took him standing, in a little clearing deep enough in the woods that it didn't matter if he made noise. Rick was angry and frustrated but more from knowing the two wouldn't pay for it and that he could have just avoided it by not coming into the park when he saw the bikes, but had ignored the signs.

He didn't struggle with them. They were both mean-looking bruisers who very likely would have cut or pounded him if he'd resisted. As it was, they manhandled him quite roughly. One bruiser stood behind him, trapping his arms uselessly out from his body by doing a full Nelson hold on him. The other one, standing in front of Rick, held his legs up and stripped him of his shorts and briefs.

Other than heavy breathing, an occasional "Holy shit" and "Take it, fucker" comment, the only thing that either of the bruisers said while they were fucking Rick was the one in front of him, commenting when he'd stripped Rick of his shorts and briefs, saying, "God almighty, we got ourselves a player. A hole you could drive a semi up and opened up real nice. We could both do him at the same time."

This they proceeded to do, after the man in front, still holding Rick's legs up with hands under his thighs had walked his way into Rick's pelvis, skewered him, and pumped for a while. With his cock still buried in Rick's channel, he wrapped his arms around Rick's waist and tipped Rick forward, so that the bruiser behind him could penetrate him as well from behind.

Rick just lay there docilely, suspended between the two bikers, and let them double fuck him, with no more reaction than low moans and groans. It wasn't like he'd never done this before nor that he didn't sort of enjoy doing it now.

They exhausted him, though, and he just lay on the ground and moaned when they had finished, zipped up, and walked off. He was about to struggle up to leave when the third biker showed up, pushed him prone onto his back, fisted his ankles, jerked his legs open, thrust inside him, and began to bang him hard. After this one was the fourth biker Rick had seen in the clearing by the seventh hole—and then the fifth.

Adding insult to injury, the last biker threw down a five-dollar bill before he left. Rick now couldn't say he hadn't been paid for it if it became official business. But of course it wouldn't be made official business by Rick. That would mark him as someone to be watched and hassled by the cops.

Rick had been laying there, alone, for a good half an hour, legs bent and open, an arm over his eyes, and moaning softly, when a dog bounded up to him and started licking his face. The sun was setting across the park, and the long shadows were turning into pools of darkness around him. Rick instinctively reached out with the arm not laying across his face and ran his hand into the dog's pelt, glad for any companionship that wasn't going to be thrusting anything between his butt cheeks.

He moved the arm from across his eyes and saw that it was the mutt of the man he'd sucked off back at the fourth hole. Then he heard the voice.

"Honey? Honey? Where have you gotten off to. Come here, girl."

Rick remembered to wonder to himself, "What gay guy names his bitch dog Honey?" before the man was there, at his side, tsk tsking, and asking Rick if he thought he could walk on his own.

"My car. Parking lot."

"You're in no condition to drive, son," the man said. "Come back to my place, it's just a couple of blocks over in that direction. I'll help support you. We'll come back for your car when we've got you cleaned up and made sure nothing's broken. I can call—"

"No callin' nobody," Rick answered in an anxious voice. There weren't any questions he could think of that he wanted anyone to ask him.

* * * *

Rick stayed with Carl—the mousy guy with the dog was named Carl—for nearly a week, even though Rick's cuts and bruises, such as they were, healed quickly. The man was giving him room and board, so Rick wasn't in a hurry to bop out. It took the man three days to get around to getting what he obviously wanted and that Rick would have given him back there in the park if he'd paid the equivalent of room and board for it. And even at that three-day mark, Rick had to initiate the action.

Rick knew what Carl wanted. Even Carl's dog knew what he wanted. Carl was giving Rick looks that even a dog could figure out, and Honey was probably a lot smarter than Carl was—and all the time he was treating Rick like a royal visitor, fussing around and doing for him. Rick let it go on for three days and two nights, but the tension of when Carl was going to ask for what he wanted got to Rick and the irritation overwhelmed the satisfaction of being taken care of at no expense to himself.

On the third night, Rick crept into Carl's bedroom. The dog was there on the foot of the bed, but she merely lifted her muzzle, gave Rick a "What took you so long?" disgusted look, hopped down from the bed, and strutted out to the kitchen to check her food bowl. Sure enough, Rick had put enough fresh food in her bowl to keep her busy for a while. Rick didn't like to perform in front of anyone or any breathing thing really right there. (After that trip to Stallion Station, though, he'd decided he probably wouldn't mind it being recorded and played back to guys when he wasn't there, especially if there was money in it for him.)

Thirty minutes and it was done, starting with Carl on his back and Rick sucking his cock big when Carl opened his eyes. His eyes went big and stayed big, plastered on Rick's, and his face showed not only his surprise but also his gratefulness and almost unguarded lust as Rick saddled himself over Carl's pelvis, lowered his channel on Carl's now-hard cock, leaned forward and grabbed Carl's wrists with his fists, and rode the cock to a mutual ejaculation, Carl's coming arriving nervously quick.

If anything, Carl was even more solicitous and domestic the next day, not being able to stop himself from smiling a little smile and touching Rick intimately, but tentatively, whenever Rick was close to him, even though Carl blushed and had to look away when arousal started to get to him. Rick did little things to show Carl that they could do it during the day, but Carl seemed only capable of understanding that sex with a man—penetration sex—was only for night, in the dark, on the bed, after the dog had jumped off the bed, sniffed derisively, and padded out of the bedroom, tail wagging, to check out the treats that had been left in her bowl in the kitchen.

On the fourth and fifth night, Rick coaxed—slowly—Carl to take more control. On the fourth night, Carl sat on the edge of the bed and Rick sat in his lap, facing away from him, and fucking himself on the cock by leveraging his toes off the edge of the bed where the mattress met the box springs. Eventually, not long before they came, one after the other, Rick turned 180 degrees; pushed Carl flat on his back; bent his legs that were encasing Carl's hips; set his feet flat on the surface of the bed; and leaned forward. At Rick's urging, Carl took control, holding Rick's waist in his hands and pulling Rick's buttocks on and off the cock.

The fifth night Carl fucked Rick doggy style, with Rick on all fours on the bed and Carl crouched over his hips and holding Rick's waist in his hands. Although at the height of the mutual lust Rick was pushing back on the cock to add to the effect of the thrusts, Carl was essentially fully in control of the fuck—and was having a ball at balling Rick.

The next morning, Rick decided they'd progressed far enough for him to move in. Telling Carl he had some errands to run, he went out to his beat-up old Ford. Carl stood in the doorway and watched Rick leave. Trepidation and a sense of loss were painted across the man's face. The dog, Honey, was a bit mournful too, but her regret was attached to that extra meal she was getting at night. Before Rick's car left the driveway of the tidy little bungalow, Honey had turned and waddled back into the house, aware that it was getting a little more difficult to walk, but not connecting that with the midnight snacking she'd been doing.

Rick hadn't told Carl his errand was to pick up what little was his at the room he was renting, to give notice to his landlord, and to bring the stuff back to the house. All the possessions he had in the world easily fit into the Ford.

Regardless of that, Carl blanched when he saw the stuff starting to be carried into the bungalow.

"What's that? What are you doing?" he asked.

"Moving in. I figured it was what you wanted," Rick answered.

"Oh, god, no, you can't do that."

"I can't do that? You married or something? Your wife is just taking care of a sick aunt and will reappear here?"

"No, nothing like that," Carl asked, on the edge of hysteria.

"You're tired of fucking me already—just when you've started to get the hang of it?" Rick wasn't moving in just for the security of a roof over his head and food in his plate. Carl was sweet, and he had a cock that a much more aggressive man deserved and would make great use of—and that Rick thought he could train to be quite an asset.

"No, nothing like that. I'd hate to give you up, but you can't live here. I teach. I'm a high school teacher. I can't have a young man—one like you, really sexy, really young looking—living here. People would notice. They'd assume you were one of my students. I'd lose my job."

"So you want me to leave?"

"I don't want you to leave—or, I don't want to stop seeing you. Let me think. There must be some way for us to continue seeing each other but for you to have someplace to live and a way to cover your expenses without my losing you. I can't afford to keep you in an apartment, but there must be a way."

When Carl's eyes lit up, Rick knew he'd thought of a way. Rick gave him all the time he needed to think it out. He certainly wasn't going to do the man's thinking for him. At least not anymore.

* * * *

Rick laughed out loud when he pulled his Ford up behind Carl's Corolla. He'd been here before. He parked under the pole with the Stallion Station sign hanging up there in the sky above the tree tops so that it could be seen—if not fully understood—from the nearby Farmville bypass.




Stallion Station Ch. 05



Heinz Trebel and his Algerian bodyguard, Jordo, went straight to the Terra Nova All Suites Hotel in Kingston upon landing in Jamaica. Jordo left Heinz there to recover at the pool from the long private jet flight from Frankfurt while Jordo contacted the local "finder" to make sure the snatch was on for the next day.

Everything had been carefully orchestrated. Heinz had specialized needs and interests and everything for this "double first" had been planned to a T. Those specialized needs included a nasty appetizer followed by a longer, slowly enjoyed meal. And Heinz, a young, spoiled German industrialist in his late thirties, who had inherited his empire but who had enough smarts not to let what he had inherited deteriorate, could well afford his fetish. He could indulge in it a couple of times a week, doing much of his selection in the various gyms he went to to tone up his muscular body or at college student gatherings where he could shop the fresh, hopefully unused young men—young men who were inclined emotionally to say yes and who valued the money they could earn over their present condition. But there were times when he wanted to go on vacation to indulge in his fetish and fantasy. This trip was one of those times, and he was sparing no expense to pursue his pleasure.

After Heinz' leisurely dinner of steak at the Red Bones Blues Café, Jordo was waiting for him back at the hotel to report that all was a go for the next day. The target had only an early-morning class at the University College of the Caribbean, and the jet was fueled and preapproved for a noon takeoff. It the primary target didn't show for some reason, there was a backup target. But Heinz had poured over several files that had been provided by the Jamaican finder, and he really wanted the primary target.

The fantasy that was evoked in Heinz—that gave him a high—went beyond the surface understanding of what the expensive, complex operation entailed. The young man was, in fact, bought, paid for, and signed off, whether he had intended to carry through with his end of the deal or not. He had advertised the sale of his virginity on the Internet—on Craig's list. He'd received his payment. No one had yet called in the contract to the point that the young man, working through cutouts in addresses and names, probably thought he had worked a scam. Trebel's people had the paperwork tracing back to him in hand. He just had no idea he wasn't as clever as he thought he was.

The beauty of the plan was that not only was the young Jamaican man selected a perfectly formed beauty, but kidnappings among the rich and upper-middle class on Jamaica were routine. That was a big reason that Heinz had included Jamaica in his plan. They would have come and snatched and been well away, with time for Heinz to have his leisurely pleasure at the next stop, before anyone would know to look for the young man anywhere but among the shanty towns of the island's underbelly.

And, in the end, the young man would be returned in far better condition than if he had been snatched in Jamaica for the traditional reasons.

The snatch worked a charm. The Jamaican college student was grabbed and pushed into the van provided by the finder, with Jordo's assistance, right after he'd parted with his friends at the gate into the grounds of UCC. There was no indication that anyone had seen them. Jordo, a hulking six-foot-eight tower of muscle was definitely noticed on the streets of Frankfurt. But here, beyond his height and bulk—although many Jamaicans, including the finder, offered both—Jordo's black skin didn't make him the standout he was in Germany.

Between the finder and Jordo, the young Jamaican was trussed up like a pig ready for the barbeque and driven to the jet, where Heinz Trebel was waiting for them, not being willing, naturally, to be involved in the initial kidnapping himself.

When Jordo had muscled the struggling young man into the aft cabin and he'd returned to take his seat and buckle up for takeoff, he spoke across the aisle to Heinz. "When we are at altitude, do you want me to prepare him for you, Herr Trebel?"

"No, thank you, Jordo. I want to save him until the other one is in hand too. You know I get a little rough with the first one. I want to get past that before doing the American. You've seen the files, I think. The American deserves special attention."

"Yes, sir. You picked wisely this time, I think," Jordo answered.

"Quite expensive, but worth it to have the first crack. I think you'll like where we're going next, Jordo. And, don't worry, you will get to have your pleasure while I'm taking mine. I will take care of you."

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," Jordo answered with a big smile. "You always do take care of me."

As well, I must, Heinz thought, even though you leave them in worse condition than I do. There weren't too many men who would give him the service and loyalty that the Algerian giant gave him.

* * * *

"Are you sure?" Bill Cain asked. He was sitting across the breakfast bar from his nephew, Andy, at the old farmhouse he owned near the Hampton Sydney college, near Farmville, where he taught mathematics. This was to be Andy's big day. Andy, a student at Hampton Sydney, was celebrating his nineteenth birthday. He and his uncle had been discussing this for a year, and Andy hadn't lost his resolve.

"Yes, this is what I want," Andy answered. "I don't want to pretend. You are doing fine with it, and I get so frustrated that I haven't done it all yet. I get up to the brink and then . . . I just need to be pushed over the edge."

"That's not what I was asking," Cain said. "I mean are you sure you haven't gone over that edge already. Because if we do it this way, if we take money for it, and they find out you're not a virgin to it, there will be hell to pay."

"No, as soon as I found you had a way for us to get something out of it, I made sure I didn't go any further with anyone. I always was too nervous to do it all anyway. But I've cuddled and made out a bit . . . and there have been a few hand jobs, but . . ."

"No blow jobs?" Cain asked sharply.

"Not much of any. I've never given any and the couple I've gotten didn't last long or amount to much."

"But no ass play?"

"Nothing except what you've suggested for the past couple of weeks. Just to make it easier, like you said."

"How often, though?"

"I've got a butt plug in now," Andy answered. "Bet you didn't even notice. Have used it enough not to be walkin' funny or anything anymore."

"It's going to be much more taxing than that if you go through with this," Cain said. "You've given this thought, I hope."

"Shit, let's just do it. All of it. Let's just get past as rough as it gets. I've waited too long."

Bill Cain gave his nephew a pointed look. What could he say when Andy had declared he was gay and wanted to be? Cain had declared that himself years before, and Andy had accepted it. He'd known he was gay when he had been Andy's age, and he'd acted on it—the whole way—when he was younger than Andy was now. Of course, his form of gay was to take and Andy insisted that he wanted to be the one taken. And no, he'd never had the urge to hook up with his nephew.

Cain hadn't come out before Andy had come to live with him. If he had, California child services probably wouldn't have given him custody after Bill's sister, Andy's mother, and her husband had died in a car wreck, leaving Andy with no living relatives other than Bill. But Bill had taken the child in and raised him as his own. Andy had been a beautiful child—and was a gorgeous hunk of a young man—all California surfer blond, even if they'd left California some time ago. But in all that time Bill hadn't given a thought to touching him himself. It wasn't just that his tastes in men were different; it also was because Bill couldn't stomach having sex within his own family.

When the rumors had started in California that Bill was gay, he'd left his job in Stanford and moved as far away from California as he could find another job, bringing Andy with him. He'd done that for Andy. Because he didn't want to lose custody. Family was family, and he was the only family Andy had.

It had become complicated later when Andy started to show that he had interest in men too. By this time Bill was out in the open and there was nothing he could say about the lifestyle to turn Andy away from it without being two-faced. All he could do was be honest about the pitfalls. None of that had mattered to Andy.

Bill had nervously negotiated his way through Andy's late teens, doing what he could to steer some of his gay community friends away from Andy, who was like a magnet for them, and suffering with Andy through several inappropriate adolescent crushes, carefully guiding Andy on the dangers of underage sex. Andy had navigated all of that, and, if anything, had been overly indoctrinated. Now, at nineteen, he had had some hookups with men but had never been able to go all of the way, possibly because of how closely Bill had tried to steer him.

When Bill had asked Andy what he wanted for his nineteenth birthday, Andy had been straightforward. "I want to be fucked. Butt fucked. Taken the whole way. Repeatedly. I want to be taken across the barrier, forcefully, if necessary. I know it's what I'll want once I'm on the other side. I don't want any more of this 'just petting' stuff. I hear you in the bedroom with your men—with Tom and Brady and Stu. I want to feel what they feel, to scream my passion of being fully taken. That's what I want, Bill, if you have to ask."

It wasn't the first time that Bill got the feeling that Andy resented him for not taking care of it himself, but there was no way the uncle was going to go there. But he did feel the obligation to help make it happen. Andy was old enough to decide for himself it was what he wanted. And if, having done it, Andy found he didn't really want it, that would be fine with Bill too.

Andy had flounced away then, leaving Bill a little sad. But the sadness was that, because he himself had had joy in being with other men, perhaps he had overcontrolled his nephew. Perhaps if Andy was so sure of what he wanted, it wasn't just because of the environment he'd been raised in. Andy had shown no interest in girls—ever—and he was one beautiful specimen of a young man. Perhaps Bill had gone on too long after Andy's eighteenth birthday gatekeeping the men showing interest in Andy.

He went over in his mind the men he knew—the men he knew who would love to fuck Andy and give Andy what he wanted for his birthday.

There was a men's gym he went to, out on the Richmond road, in a complex that had evolved into a male brothel. The owner of Stallion Station, Jess Gordon, would be perfect if Andy really wanted it all at one time, wanted to be completely taken and initiated—and if Jess could be convinced to go easy on it. And there were a few other men going to the gym because they also used the young men in the former motel rooms attached to it. Bill himself went there, having first hooked up with a young rent-boy he liked named Matt, when Matt had worked at an adult video store.

He had asked Jess about it, and of course Jess was interested. But a few weeks later, Jess suggested that there was some way they all could make money off of it if Andy truly was a virgin to the ass fuck.

"I have a buyer."

"A buyer? What do you mean a buyer?" Cain asked.

"The Internet has some real opportunities floating around on it. If the kid really wants to lose his virginity—and you can guarantee he's a virgin—I have a buyer who's interested in popping his cherry. Two buyers, actually, and the second one is willing to pay a thousand to get in there second."

"If the second is willing to pay a thousand . . ."

"The first one in is willing to pay ten thousand."

"Ten thousand!"

"Yeah. He's a German industrialist. Not that old. Late thirties. In top shape, and popping man cherries is a fetish of his."

"Good god, willing to pay that much?"

"We'd have to split it. I, as the finder, would get half. But he's already seen photos of your Andy—I have plenty of good ones from when Andy works out in the gym here—and the German says he's randy for it. He said it wouldn't be rough fuck, but it would have to be a long fuck. He'd want to come twice. But he guaranteed Andy would like it. Insists on bareback, though, with certificates."

"And he'd pay for the trip to Germany?"

"He'll come here. All at his own expense."

"I don't know. Andy would have to be good with it."

"Here's the German's photo—a couple of them. He's hung, of course. But he promises not to ruin Andy. You can show the photos to Andy to see if he's interested."

"OK, I'll do that," Cain said, liking what he saw in the photos. "I don't know anything about a certificate, though."

"I can arrange that," Gordon answered. "I have a doctor on retainer for checking the guys here over regularly."

"You said there's a second guy."

"Yeah. But he knows of Andy firsthand. Says he's had his eye on Andy for some time. He doesn't mind going second, but there'd be some kinky stuff. Bondage, maybe a bit of flogging. No permanent damage."

"Can that one be put on a contingency? Can Andy make the call after his first experience?"

"You said Andy insists on seeing rough and kinky too, didn't you? There's nothing in this that he wouldn't get from me. And we were close to a deal of me doing it with you payin' something. This is a much better deal."

"I understand. But I can't be sure Andy is really ready for it all. Can the second one be on contingency?"

"Yes, but it would have to be right after the first. The second wants him before Andy gets cleaned up from having been barebacked. That's the deal. And I said fifty-fifty, but I'd be providing the rooms for it—right here. So the profit's heavy on your side. I'll cover the cost of the certificate."

"I'd have to be doing something while I wait for Andy," Cain said. "Throw in free access for me to Matt while this is going on and I'll see what Andy thinks about it."

"Done. There's one other thing, though."

"What?" Cain asked. He knew it must be a corker if Gordon hadn't brought it up earlier.

"The German wants a movie taken. Not for distribution. We'd have a contract on that. But a movie for him, for his personal use."

"I don't know," Cain said. "You know how easy it is for these things to get on the Internet."

"The guy's paying ten thousand for it and signing a contract. And he says Andy can wear a mask, so no one could be real sure unless he decides to go pro porn—which you can ask him about too. He's a real cute trick—men'll go crazy over him. I got an eleven-thousand-dollar offer for his first two goes without hardly lifting my finger. I could use him. The German wouldn't be wearing nothin', and he's well known in Germany. It's doubtful he wants to be seen on the Internet fucking a young man."

"I don't know," Cain said. "All I can do is ask Andy. He's an adult now. If he wants to do this, he can do this and I don't have any say in it."

"One thing, though, Bill," Gordon said. "You aren't dealing used goods, are you? You haven't been spiking him for years, have you? 'Cause if I found out . . ."

Cain gave Gordon a withering look. "He's my nephew. I wouldn't be doing any of this except that he's been begging for it for a year. I haven't laid a finger on him. Ever. And he tells me he's been too nervous to do it yet. That's the reason he wants something definite set up that he can't wriggle out of."

"I had to ask. This much money on the line. And who knows how nasty the German could get for that much money."

* * * *

Griff climbed off his client's exhausted, panting body and padded over to the bureau to retrieve the hundred-dollar bill for declaration to the house, plus the two twenties as a tip. He took it with him when he went into the bathroom and closed the door with a click. This was his client's signal that the session was over.

The small blond dancer was the most professional rent-boy that Jess Gordon had installed in the rooms on the reverse side of the former motel wing of Stallion Station. Griff had left Farmville for the more lucrative pickings in North Carolina, but had been lured back to head up Gordon's stable of rent-boys.

The client, one of Griff's regulars—Griff's time already almost exclusively being devoted to a small list of regulars—just lay on the bed on his back, moaning. Steeped in pleasure with what the flexible and inventive little blond had done with his ass as he rode the client's cock in several different positions, pulling two ejaculations out of the client before he stopped.

Clients didn't ride Griff. Mostly they just lay there, marveling at the different positions he could take in riding their cocks. Mostly Griff rode the client. And hard, pulling every bit of cum out of them until their balls ached.

Before Griff had locked himself in the bathroom, he, by custom, put a basin of warm water and a washcloth out on the bureau. That was all the client was going to get. He had to clean himself up and hobble out of the room on his own. If Griff came out of the bathroom before the client was gone, that was an automatic write up of another hundred-dollar session. Griff could go the extra mile, but few clients could after what he'd drawn out of them the first time.

The client groaned, rolled over to the side of the bed, and sat up. His feet hit the floor on top of the three spent condoms he'd used. Those went to the house along with its seventy-five-dollar cut of the basic fee, to give Gordon an indication that everything had gone on as it should. The rent-boys thus made their best money off the tips. Both management and the clients were cool with this. If you got the service that Griff gave, you had to expect to tip well. If Griff lost interest, you'd have to move down the line of Gordon's rent-boys until you reached your balance of what you got being worth what you spent.

If you picked a guy up in the gym who wasn't one of Gordon's boys, you could have a room for fifty dollars for every two hours, no one-hour splits. But then whatever the fuck cost was up to you.

This particular client never settled for anything less than Griff.

He cleaned himself up as best he could; hobbled to the door; and, looking around in all directions before stepping out of the shadows of the covered walkway stretching across the motel wing front. He climbed into his rented Buick—he always rented a car to come here; never came in his own car or one from the office—and slowly drove around the side of the motel to the front of the complex, which connected to the Richmond road east of Farmville.

* * * *

Gordon had been called ahead and was standing by the door of the movie studio when the black Mercedes limousine with smoked windows drove up close to the studio door. He opened the passenger door but stood back as the doorway was overfilled with a black African body. Gordon didn't know who this was. It wasn't the German industrialist, Heinz Trebel, that much was clear.

But even though Gordon was no slouch, he got the "hands off" message and pulled back, going to the door into the studio and holding it open. Jordo, Trebel's bodyguard and Mr. Fixit, turned and literally pulled the sluggish body of a young, very handsome and well-formed milk-chocolate black man out of the back of the limousine. The young man couldn't stand on his own, but had to be supported by the bodyguard.

The young man clearly had been drugged, Gordon could tell. But he asked no questions. He was being paid well for this—over and above the fee he had told Bill Cain about. This first part of the agreement was the dangerous part for him. Andy Roberts had agreed to everything Gordon had proposed—and had signed an agreement to that effect. And Trebel had signed an agreement to stick to limits on the taking of the young American.




Stallion Station Ch. 06



Anthony Blaine didn't broach the subject with Griff as soon as he arrived for his weekly relief. Griff was too much in a state when Blaine arrived to hear what Blaine had to say. Griff didn't even say anything about Blaine being there two days earlier than usual. He just ranted on about wondering what was happening at Stallion Station.

"They're gone."

"Who's gone," Blaine asked.

"Matt and Jason. The first guys in the operation. Matt apparently went off with a client, and Jason took off after some monster African guy did him totally. Did Joey too, and he hasn't come out of his room since. He's threatening to leave too when he can walk straight. I don't know what's happening at—"

"What's happening is that I'm here to get laid. Get naked and mount me."

Griff wasn't focusing on what Blaine was saying. He was still moving around the room and ranting. So Blaine did what he'd never done before. He grabbed the little blond, spun him around, and bent him over the bed. Blaine pulled down Griff's shorts and briefs, unzipped himself, thrust inside Griff's ass, and fucked him hard.

Blaine had never taken the aggressive position with Griff before, but it was working in terms of calming the young man down. The rent-boy went docile fairly quickly, subsiding into sighs and stifled sniffling. Blaine pulled out of him, as he hadn't rolled on a condom, remedied that, and then returned to stroking Griff's ass hard and deep, with Griff whimpering and his fists opening and closing on wads of the bedspread in rhythm to the fuck. From the sounds he was making, it was clear he was enjoying this change of routine.

When Blaine had ejaculated, he lowered his torso onto Griff's back and ran his hands up Griff's arms and grasped his wrists.

"You don't have to stay here if you don't want to either," he whispered in Griff's ear.

"What do you mean. This is my life. I can't go anywhere else. Leastwise on the drop of a dime."

"I have an opening at the house for a pool boy and groundskeeper. A cottage you could use too."

"And fucking privileges too?"

"Yes, of course."

"You got a wife? And kids at the house."

"Yes, so what? We wouldn't be doing anything in the open. You'd just have to do it only with me."

"I don't see why—"

"You don't have to decide right now," Blaine said, as he raise himself off Griff's back, zipped up, and moved to the door of the room. He opened the door and motioned in police detective Joe Reilly, who had been lurking outside.

"Come in and cuff this one somewhere in the room where he can't get away. Then we'd better go on over."

"Tony?" Griff asked in a shocked voice as he rolled over and started to pull up his shorts and briefs but was intercepted by the police detective, who had a pair of handcuffs out.

"As I said, you'll have time later to think whether it's a good idea," Blaine said from outside the door. "But it may be that I don't need to make the offer. Depends on how this next bit goes."

Griff was sitting, cross-legged, crouching under the bathroom sink, handcuffed to the flow pipe when he had been left alone.

"You might be able to pull that pipe out, but you'd get awfully wet before you could get out of here. And I don't really think you have anywhere to run to anyway," Reilly had said before he left the room and joined the commonwealth attorney out on the porch.

* * * *

"Going someplace on short notice, Jess?"

Jess Gordon, who was in his cobbled-together apartment in the motel wing of Stallion Station and cleaning out his bureau drawers and closet into a couple of suitcases, whipped around to face the door. Arrayed just inside the doorway were Judge Raymond Snyder, Commonwealth Attorney Anthony Blaine, and police detective Joe Reilly.

"Yes, I managed to clear time for a short vacation," Jess answered. "Anything I can do for you gentlemen?"

"Looks like you're packing for a much longer trip than a short vacation," Judge Snyder said. "We don't want to stop you from going on a long vacation, though. Were you thinking of abandoning Stallion Station?"

"No, of course not. Why would I abandon Stallion Station? It's setting up to be a gold mine for me. I've left Dino Mucci in charge while I'm gone."

"I think Mucci's already gone himself, Jess," Joe Reilly interjected. "I just had a talk with him on what's going down here, and he made an instantaneous decision to return to construction work at least until the dust settles here."

"Dino gone? What do you mean until the dust settles here?"

"You've already been overreaching, Jess," Blaine picked up the conversation. "You could have had a good thing going here, but you stepped up the service too fast and too high profile."

"I don't know what you mean. What's this all about, guys?" Gordon asked. "You've all had it good here. What the fuck are you up to?"

"What the fuck we're up to is that we're taking over the business and putting it on low profile," the judge said.

"You can't do that. This is my business."

"Which you have only managed to establish with our protection," Blaine said. "What this is about, Jess, is that black guy—that Jamaican college student—you allowed to be brought in here and worked over without his consent a couple of days ago."

"What black guy? What nonconsent?" Gordon's response was an automatic defense, but he was looking more wary now, more circumspect. "And what the fuck about a Jamaican? I don't know anything about a Jamaican. When's the last time you saw a Jamaican in south-central Virginia?"

"Three days ago, apparently," Blaine shot back. "I didn't know he was Jamaican, though, at the time. I saw some big, black bruiser manhandling him out of a black Mercedes into the video studio of yours. You were standing in the door, ushering them in, so you saw him too. What do you bet I can find some film footage in your studio of a special client of yours pounding his ass? We didn't sign up to protect you from that kind of shit, Jess."

"I don't know—" Gordon was backing away from them, clearly knowing very well what they were talking about.

"That special client of yours grabbed a college student off the street in Kingston, Jamaica, and brought him down here and fucked the shit out of him. Dumped him on the doorstep of the Jamaican embassy in Washington before taking off to who knows where."

"I don't know what this has to do—"

"The Jamaican student's father is a government minister, Jess. All hell broke loose. And the student saw that damn sign you've got stuck way up on that pole for everyone in the county to see. He saw the Stallion Station sign. I walked into the office this morning to face enquiries from Washington on what the hell a business down here in Farmville named Stallion Station was up to."

"It wasn't all that it seemed," Jess declared. "Much of it was fantasy. The black kid had signed a waver and been paid. It wasn't really nonconsent. He just didn't know when and how—"

"So you did know more about it than you claim," Blaine broke in. "That will be nice going for you in court."

"Shit," Gordon said. His knees gave out and he sat down hard on bed. "So, what are we gonna do?"

The judge took up the conversation. "There's no we. You are going to do one thing and the three of us are going to do another. You are going to go ahead on that long vacation of yours, Jess. And you're going to sell the business to us. We'll put it back on a discreet footing. And the first thing we'll do is take that damn sign down. Everything simmers down and maybe after a while you can come back to manage the gym and the movie studio. But you won't own a piece of the action anymore or make the big decisions, like what the services are going to be."

"I've already e-mailed Washington that we shut this business down yesterday, and that the owner is on the lam," Blaine added. "You need to make that true."

"But sell it to you? For how much?"

"Considering the trouble we've gone through and now have to go through again," the Judge said, "I think one dollar is a good sales price. I already have the paperwork here. All you need do is sign the papers and clear out."

"One dollar. No fuckin' way. I'll—"

"You'll do just that." This came from Detective Reilly, who had a more menacing growl than the other two did. "Think about it, Jess. We could be here to arrest you on this claim. You could be in jail in fifteen minutes. You could have suffered a fatal accident two hours from now. And who would be charged with checking this out? The police? Me. The prosecutor? Tony. A judge, maybe? Ray. Use your brain, Jess. You're in a heap of trouble here. We're giving you an out. I bet you scored big from whatever client you let do this."

"Where are the papers?" Gordon said, with a sigh.

* * * *

Andy Roberts was sitting in a club chair in his uncle Bill's bedroom, watching Bill fuck Matt Munson in a close-hold missionary position while taking mental notes in the art of being a bottom. Matt was groaning and had his fingernails buried in Bill's shoulder blades and his ankles crossed on the small of Bill's back. His face was turned toward Andy, and his expression was one of such pleasure that Andy could hardly wait to go out and say yes to some of those hunks who had propositioned him when Matt was too scared and nervous to cross that barrier.

Now he would do so enthusiastically, given the right top. Matt obviously was finding Bill Cain the right top and Bill was clearly pleased with the arrangement too. Both had said as much even before the three of them had heard the news of the Stallion Station sign coming down on the complex out on the Richmond road and Jess Gordon having left town.

None of them knew for sure what this meant yet, but all three knew that it didn't mean much for them anymore. Matt was out of the operation, and with Matt out of it, there was no reason for Bill Cain to go out there anymore either. And, as for Andy, he was grateful for what he'd learned and experienced there, but he had no trouble having men nose around him wanting it. For a good many years to come, he could pick and choose without the aid of anything like Stallion Station.

[Finis]