("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author © 2012. Please don't remove the author information or make any changes to this story. All rights reserved. Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- Real Slick by Mister Harman (address withheld) *** Slick's best friend is having trouble coming out of the closet and it takes a while before he... unloads... his secret on Slick. But Slick's not gay, right? Right? (MM, MF, bi, voy, mast, oral, anal, rom) *** Chapter 1 Neon signs flickered halfheartedly, dreaming neon dreams of what it would be like to hang on a building in Las Vegas. James parked the aging (his mother would have been quick to point out that it had finished aging and was now just waiting to die) Camaro outside of the Café Jé. The place was one of those little treasures of urban dining that crop up in towns where the most touristy thing to do is tour the local brewery and stare at the one interesting building. Milwaukee offered little in the way of entertainment. Which, in fact, probably explained the profusion of bars. James looked around and spotted the familiar face of his oldest friend. Where James was short and skinny, his friend was tall, and built like a draft horse: all strong muscle, well-defined, well-toned, effortless. Where James was pale, his friend was almost dark enough to be called olive-skinned. James had a somewhat large nose that seemed to stand out from his otherwise understated facial features, but his friend's nose looked almost comically small on a face with such powerful features. James was a blonde, his friend had long black hair. They shared a few tastes in common—denim jackets and well-fitting jeans, a mutual love of Cinnabon and all that sprang forth from Cinnabon, a penchant for posters from nineteen-sixties sci-fi movies. Beyond that, all they really shared was their first name. There were those who suspected that they'd become friends merely to confuse others. James—James Larson, the short one, that is—reflected fondly on how they had become friends. It wasn't really a story either boy could ever tell. They tried not to talk about it, even after nine years. Theirs was the only friendship that had survived Jimmy's moving to Milwaukee. The bigger boy had broken the news to his smaller friend on their last day of middle school. For a while, Larson had been angry. But he got over it. They were still in the same state, at least, and even if Fond Du Lac was going to be boring as hell without James "Slick" Slickowski in it, he'd get by. "Larson, you old jackass! There you are!" Slick stood up and extended a hand to his friend, sending a cup of coffee tumbling to the floor in the process. "Sorry I missed the party yesterday," he said, ignoring the cup in favor of apologizing properly. "I know you missed me there." James shrugged. "It was just my seventeenth birthday. You didn't miss sixteen. Don't miss twenty-one and you're fine." "Can I send a cardboard cutout if I'm too busy? You'll be too drunk to notice." James stuck his tongue out. "Try it, Slick. Just try it." he grabbed a bunch of napkins from next to the forks and knives and started sopping up the spilled coffee. Slick finally took notice of his mishap and started helping. "I got you a present, anyways. It's in my bag. It's not much, but... y'know." James smiled as they finished sopping up the spilled coffee and he took a seat. A waitress was headed in their general direction. "I'm glad you could come today," James said. "I'm just feeling really... really depressed lately. You always cheer me up." Slick gestured as though to say "it's what I do", but James shook his head. "No, I mean it. I don't know what I'd do without you, Slick." "James," Slick said after a moment, "I get the feeling there's something you aren't telling me." He looked up at the waitress, who had arrived and was tapping her foot impatiently. "I'll have another coffee, and uh... a mocha for him. You have to try the mochas, James, they're killer." The waitress wrote down the order and walked off, and James sighed. "Yeah, Slick, you're right. There's something I'm not telling you. You uh... you remember Laura?" Slick nodded. "Lemme guess. She left you? James, I told you that girl was no good for you." "You never met her, Slick. I would've been pretty surprised if you had, because she... she didn't exist in the first place." James suddenly regretted not having a cup of coffee in front of him to sip coolly at that particular moment. It would have hidden his deep blush. "I've never actually had a girlfriend, per se," James added. "'Per se,'" Slick repeated. "Clarify." James smirked and gestured lazily in Slick's direction. "I dub thee Claire. There. I Claireified." "Not the time for it, Jimmyboy." James sighed. "I know. It's just that I'm about to admit stuff, and I don't wanna." He looked up at his friend, trying to pretend that his heart wasn't going like a hyperactive jackhammer on crack. That's not an easy thing to pretend. "I think the problem with the idea of me having a girlfriend is kind of a manner of... word choice. Well, choice of a part of a word. Choice of... oh, dammit, Slick, I'm not good at this. I don't... I'm not... oh, hell. This was a mistake, Slick, I'm sorry." He got up to leave, but Slick grabbed him by the elbow, and when Slick grabs you by the anything, you tend to stay right where Slick wants you. "Let go of me, Slick." Slick shook his head. "You, my friend, are a hard nut to crack. But I intend to figure you out someday, and this is something that I intend to figure out today. You know I'm not going to laugh at you or disown you or whatever it is that you're afraid of. Now sit down, shut up, and start talking. Uh, without the shutting up. You know what I meant." James couldn't help grinning. If nothing else, Slick was consistent. But he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Slick. I'm just not ready. I thought I was ready to tell you this, but I'm not. Please let me go." Stubborn and obstinate though he may be, Slick knew he didn't have the right to make James stay there. The waitress arrived with James's mocha three minutes too late. ... James opened the car door, slipped inside, and drove down the block. He turned right on Broadway, found an empty spot over to the side of the road, pulled into it, and turned off the car. He was already starting to breathe in short, sharp breaths. The ragged edges of a panic attack were brushing over him. He hadn't felt this bad in... ever, really. Even when Jesse came to him for that awful conversation, when he knew that it was over, even then, he'd felt sadness, anger, reluctance to listen, even a certain fear of what was coming. But he hadn't panicked. So why should talking to his best friend set him so on edge? He pounded on the steering wheel as he realized that tears were flooding his eyes. "No, dammit!" he cried, but it was useless. He couldn't stop the tears now that they were here. He let them come out, burying his face in the malodorous faux-leather wheel. They came for a long, long time. When the tears finally stopped, he drove home with the radio on, losing himself in the comforting uniformity of modern rap. James stalked into the house, breezed past his mom, and ducked into the shelter of his room. His laptop was sitting open on his desk. A chat window was bugging him for attention. Slick, reminding him that if he needed to talk, there was always time to spare. James didn't want to hear about it. He just sighed and crawled into his bed, but the screen kept glowing and glowing and glowing. He got up and shut the computer, then locked his door and returned to bed. Now that the panic was gone, he just felt... empty. Empty and horny. The whole incident had left him feeling very needy and extremely unsatisfied. He thought about cruising for porn on the web, but that window would be there, tormenting him. He sighed, buried his face in his pillow, and screamed. ... James woke up in the dark. He had the vague impression that he wasn't alone, but being facedown, he couldn't tell for sure. He looked up. Slick was leaning against the doorframe, idly twirling what had—probably—once been a paperclip between thumb and forefinger. Whatever it had been, it was a lock-pick now. He was smiling roguishly. "I figured you out, you know," he said. "What you were trying to say at the café. I figured it out." James flushed deep crimson and looked down at his blue-jean-sheathed legs. He hadn't even taken his shoes off before he collapsed. He kicked them off now, and absently stripped away his jacket, tossing it off the side of the bed. Slick laughed. "You're gay, James." He didn't bother denying it. Slick padded across the thick carpet towards him, quietly closing the door behind him, and took a seat on the bed, kicking off his shoes. "You know," Slick said, leaning in conspiratorially, "there's really nothing wrong with that. In fact, I think I like you better this way than as some boring old... straight guy." James suddenly became very aware of just how nearby Slick was. He could smell the other boy's sweat. He couldn't help it. He felt his body responding to the intimacy, and tried to cover it up, but Slick grabbed him by the wrists. "Hardly, Jimmyboy. You're keeping those hands where I can see them." He stripped off his jacket and draped it over the chair by the desk. One of his hands brushed lightly across James's forearm. James fought down an urge to shudder at the touch. Slick was grinning brightly now, and James was, whether he wanted to be or not, completely alert as his friend climbed up onto the bed, no longer content just to sit on the edge. Now, Slick was kneeling next to James. A moment later, that changed to straddling James's waist. Slick knelt, with one knee on either side of James, his torso straight upright, his eyes fixed on James's. "Besides," he added, "if you cover it up, how will I get to feel complimented?" James opened his mouth to speak, but Slick leaned down and placed one finger delicately over his friend's lips. "Don't ruin it," he suggested. As he spoke, he let his hips fall, and he was, rather abruptly, sitting the full weight of his body on James's crotch. James had the distinct impression of being struck by lightning. He whimpered slightly against Slick's finger on his lips, and Slick merely grinned and sat back up, stripping his own shirt off and tossing it away. He was built beautifully, and well-tanned. "You know what's coming by now, don't you, Jimmyboy? I bet you never thought I had it in me." Slick slid down James's legs and his hands slid down James's chest and stomach, and finally came to rest on James's zipper. He pulled it down, opened up the front of James's jeans, pulled them down. "I bet you never thought I had this in me, either," he said, pulling down James's underwear. James felt hands softly grasping his erection. He let out a tiny gasp, and then he felt Slick's mouth enveloping his cock, and a rush of pleasure surged through his body... ... James groaned and his eyes flew open as his orgasm washed over him. For a moment, he had no idea where he was, why he was facedown, and why he was no longer getting a blowjob. Only the last question really held any import at the moment, but then he realized that he was wearing his jacket and his shoes. Which meant that he hadn't woken up in the middle of the night and taken them off. He felt the wetness of his own semen on his stomach. The words "wet dream" drifted through his mind and he squeezed his eyes shut and groaned again, this time not in pleasure. "How in the hell am I gonna tell him?" he asked himself. Chapter 2 Slick found himself confused by James's insistence on mysteriousness. Generally, they'd been very open with each other over the years. He went home irritable. It was his general default reaction to not knowing things. Two days later, he was still irritable. James hadn't responded to his gentle probing, and Slick was unhappy about it. If he had a girlfriend, it wouldn't have been so bad, but June always seemed to be the worst month for that. The last time he got laid in the summertime was the only time in his life that he'd gotten laid in the summertime. So not only was he irritable because of James, he was irritable because he hadn't had a good screw in months. Needless to say, this sort of bullshit could only go on for so long. Slick hopped into the car and drove out to James's house after the fifth unanswered call to his friend's cell phone. Slick pulled into the driveway and slammed the car door as he stepped out onto the gravel. His shoes crunched softly across the driveway, and he knocked on the front door. James's mother answered it, clad in an apron and smiling sweetly. She smelled vaguely of cookies. "Oh, James," she said cheerily. "Jimmy is in his room. I didn't know you were coming over." "Neither did he," Slick replied, and Mrs. Larson smiled. "He'll be delighted to see you, then." Slick nodded and headed for James's room. James was clearly at the computer; it was quiet inside, save for the occasional squeak of the chair that sat in front of James's desk. Slick opened up the door. James was seated in front of the computer. He was nude from the waist down, with his hand in his crotch, still in the middle of a stroke. As the door swung wide, he turned and his eyes went wide just as he went over the edge into orgasm. Cum shot out of him, splattering onto his shirt with the first spurt, splashing up onto the computer desk with the second, and dribbling over his clenched fingers in the third and fourth. Slick saw Mrs. Larson moving in the kitchen down the hallway, and decided that he should probably close the door. Besides, James clearly had porn. Slick shut the door and leaned over to get a better look at the screen. From the door, he could see only a vague impression of bare skin and thrusting. As he got a better look, he was surprised, to say the least. Two very naked young men were tangled together, one penetrating the other, on the screen. James had earbuds plugged into the computer. Only one was in his ear, and from the one dangling free emerged the sounds of grunts and groans of pleasure. A particularly loud groan accompanied the sight of a copious ejaculation from the man being penetrated. His partner came a moment later, pulling out in the process, spraying semen all over his ass. James stared at Slick, panic in his eyes. "Oh, Lord, Slick... I... I didn't mean for you to... oh God..." Slick shook his head. This was unreal. Then again, it answered a few questions. "This is what you were trying to tell me the other day, isn't it, Jimmy?" James turned the most spectacular shade of red that Slick had seen in a week and stared down at his feet, pointedly ignoring his slowly withering erection. "Not... not exactly. Or... not all of it. It's not just that I'm... gay. It's that... that... uh..." Slick sat down on the bed and kicked a pair of pants in James's general direction. "Take your time. But tell me." James glanced back at the computer. The two men on the screen were frozen in a post-coital embrace. James slipped his left leg into the pants and sighed loudly. "I'm... Slick... I think I'm in love with you." He heard Slick get off the bed behind him, heard footsteps padding across the carpet to the door, heard the mechanism click in the door. James squeezed his eyes shut and listened to the pounding of the blood vessels in his ears. "In love, James?" James looked up. Slick's hand wasn't on the doorknob. It was on the lock. "I asked you a question, James. You're in love with me?" James tried to recover what little dignity was left to him. There was depressingly little of it. His pants slid back down his leg. He kicked them away. "I'm sorry, Slick. I shouldn't have said anything." He turned the chair around. "You should probably leave." "I'm not doing that, James." More footsteps on the carpet, and James felt Slick's hand on his shoulder. The hand moved, and there was some shuffling sound, and James saw Slick's jacket land unceremoniously on the bed. "Tell me about it, James." James shook his head. His flush deepened. He looked as though he would soon have blood nowhere but in his face. But he complied. "I dreamed about you the other night. It wasn't the first time. I... I dream about you a lot. I dream that we're making love, I dream that you're just... just holding me. I catch myself thinking about you all the time. I know you don't want me. I know it, and it's stupid..." now tears were running down his cheeks, and he sniffled. "But I can't help it," he finished lamely. Slick sighed reached out to take James's hand. It was still pretty slimey. Slick ignored it. It wasn't a state his own hands had never achieved. He pulled James over to the bed, the smaller boy's body convulsing with his sobs. He hugged him tight, whispering comforting words that meant nothing. Nothing he could say would fix this. He felt a brief, irrational, and unfulfillable desire to rail against fate for making him do this to his friend simply by making him straight. "James. James, I wish... I wish I knew what to say to you. I really do. Is there anything I can do?" James shook his head, drying his tears as well as he could, fighting back the sobbing. "No, I'm sorry... I shouldn't have... I just didn't... oh... oh hell." Slick was never sure afterwards exactly why he did it. He had intended it to be a sort of a farewell gesture, a parting gift, or at least something along those lines. But beyond that, it was just an instinctive response to James's body crushed against his own, wracked with sobs and cold with sweat born of equal parts fear and humiliation. He kissed James gently on the lips, and the other boy responded to the gesture with surprise, and then quiet resignation. Slick pulled back from the kiss and let his hand drift up to brush a tear from James's cheek. "It's gonna be all right, James. Really, it is." James swallowed hard, nodded. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He closed his mouth again, sagging against Slick's body and casting his eyes back downwards. Slick's hand glided down James's face to lift him up by the chin. "You're going to be all right, James." James managed a feeble smile this time, and he looked so hopeful, and so sweetly innocent that before Slick really had time to analyze his own actions, he had plunged into another kiss, longer, more tender. He felt James's hand drifting up his back, and damned if he didn't like it. James's tongue flicked across Slick's lips, and Slick let it into his mouth, trying to hook his tongue on James's. James's hands slid down Slick's sides, roaming around his hips. Slick felt his body stirring, responding to James's exploration. He pushed James back onto the bed, straddling him, unwittingly echoing James's dream. He kicked his shoes off, and they clumped to the floor one at a time. Slick kissed James more deeply, more intensely, and pushed the boy down onto the pillow and the blankets, and Slick's own denim jacket, forgotten by now. Slick's hands wormed their way under James's shirt and pulled it off, tossing it aside. He was silent, stopping his kisses only to let James pull his own shirt off and toss it away. James's hands wandered down Slick's torso and unbuttoned his jeans, pulled down his zipper. Slick wriggled his way out of his pants, leaving him in only his boxers and a pair of white athletic socks. His hard penis had slipped out of the fly, about an inch of engorged flesh visible and tantalizing in front of James's eyes. James reached out and gripped Slick's glans with his left hand while his right pulled the back of Slick's boxers down. Slick gasped sharply. "Slick..." "Shut up, James." Slick pulled James's hand away from his member and pushed his boxers down, ignoring his socks. He ground his erection against James's, letting their tongues tangle again in the wordless, meaningless language of lovers. James reached between them, grabbed both of their cocks in one hand, and began masturbating them together. Slick let out a long, low groan that turned into a growl as he started thrusting into James's hand, and the motion of his manhood against James's own set off a cascade of sensation in both of them. They began thrusting in unison, savoring the feeling of each other's bodies as they made love. "God, James," Slick whispered, rushing to force the words out between deep gasps for air. He shuddered, pre-cum flowing from his penis. James's penis felt warm and damp against him, and he thrust faster, provoking a low groan from James that swelled into a louder gasp and a muffled cry of ecstasy. James's penis throbbed against Slick's, pumping cum out onto his chest, and the sensation was just enough to push Slick over the edge. Slick kissed James with nigh-brutal passion as his own cum rushed out to join his lover's. He sagged against James and groaned in pleasure. Chapter 3 Slick stirred after a few moments, looking down into James's eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. "Slick, that was... oh God, Slick. That was incredible." Slick stared down at James, looked over his body, as though he wasn't quite convinced that they were both covered in their mingled semen. "James," he said after a few moments' contemplation, "that was... I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that." James laughed. It sounded forced. "As far as I'm concerned, Slick, you have nothing to apologize for. That was the best it's felt for me in a long, long time." Slick glanced over at the computer screen. It had gone to screensaver. A starfield, zipping past at warp speed, concealed the two lovers that Slick knew were still frozen together on the screen. "No, James, I can't..." now the tears came to Slick's face instead of James's. "I'm not gay, James. I'm not. I'm not gay." each time he repeated his insistence, he seemed to grow less convinced. Slick slid away, off the bed. James sat up. "James, please... just... I need a towel." Slick's head fell to rest on his upturned palms as he sat heavily on James's chair. He drew in a long breath, and it came out in a ragged, extended half-sob. James's smile fell and he slid off the bed himself. He grabbed a towel that was hanging on his closet's doorknob and tossed it to Slick. Slick began to wipe the semen from his abdomen, paying the task far more attention than it required. His arm bumped the desk, and James's little wireless mouse fell to the floor. The battery compartment popped open when it impacted, but the second the mouse moved, the screensaver blinked away, and there were the two lovers. Slick flinched at the sight and turned away, scrubbing harder at his stomach. By the time he was done cleaning up, the laptop had gone to screensaver again. He tossed the towel to James. "Get cleaned up," he said. "and put some pants on." James nodded mutely. Slick's voice was quiet, tinted with an anger that James had never heard before. "Do you have any soda in the fridge?" James nodded. "Yeah, we have Coke." "Good," Slick said. He grabbed his pants from the floor and stared blankly at them. James tossed him his boxers. Slick, in turn, tossed James an angry look. It seemed that acknowledging what they had just done was forbidden. Slick pulled his boxers on, pulled his pants on, found his shirt and put that on. "Do you want a soda while I'm in there?" James nodded. "Yeah. Thanks." Slick slipped out the door and padded down the hallway, only half-aware of where he was going. He found Mrs. Larson in the kitchen, pulling dishes out of the dishwasher and stacking them in the cupboard. "Hello James," she said. "Will you be staying overnight tonight?" Slick tried not to let how horrifying the question was show on his face. Judging from the frown that appeared on Mrs. Larson's face, he was pretty sure he'd failed. "I don't think so, ma'am," Slick mumbled. "I have plans at home tomorrow." She nodded, and turned slowly back to her dishes. Slick opened the refrigerator and pulled out a pair of Cokes, but before he could turn to leave, Mrs. Larson spoke up again, more softly this time. "Are you all right, dear? You look... well, you look a little pale. Are you feeling okay?" Slick considered for a moment. The answer, of course, was no, but whether or not letting her know that was the right decision was up for debate, to say the least. Letting her know why was simply unthinkable. "Yeah," he lied. "I'm fine. Just... I could probably go for a sandwich, I guess. Or something. Maybe James and I will make a pizza. I don't know." He glanced over at the oven, feeling Mrs. Larson's eyes drilling holes in his head. He didn't move for a few, uncomfortable seconds. Finally, he ripped his eyes away from the oven and fled as calmly as he could to the hallway. He slipped into James's room. James was sitting at the foot of the bed, wearing a pair of blue jeans and precious little else. Slick pointedly ignored James's bare chest. Any other day, he probably would have noted, maybe even commented on it. James had been working out, Slick was fairly sure of it. Now, any thought about the fact that James even had a body to be seen brought blood rushing to Slick's face. Whether it was rage or mortification was anybody's guess, Slick included. He guessed it might be equally divided between the two. He handed James one Coke and put the other on the desk. He didn't open it. "Was there anything you wanted to do?" James asked quietly. Slick stared at him. He felt the muscles in his back knotting up, screaming for him to do something, anything. Finally, he leapt to his feet and felt a strangled cry of anger break out of his mouth. His hand was cocked back, ready to deliver a powerful blow. The fact that James flinched was probably all that saved him from losing teeth. Slick stopped and stared down at James. He shook his head. "No. I'm sorry, no. No." Slick turned and walked out the door, back out through the kitchen. Mrs. Larson looked up as he passed. "James?" "I think you were right after all," he said. "I'm feeling kinda sick." He hurried out the front door and across the driveway to his car. He opened it up, stepped inside, and reached into his pocket for the keys. They weren't there. He thought for a moment, wondering where they were, then groaned as he realized that they were in the pocket of his jacket. Something tapped at the passenger side window. Slick looked up. James was holding his coat up in front of the window. There were tears in his eyes again. Slick moved to open the door, to let James into the car, maybe even talk to him, but James stood up straight, dropped the jacket on the roof, turned on his heel, and walked back to the house. Slick squeezed his eyes shut and fought down an urge to ram his fist into the horn. He stepped out of the car and dragged his coat across the roof and into the car. He pulled out his keys, turned on the car, drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and pulled out of the driveway. Whether or not he would ever come back, he didn't know. He didn't even know if he wanted to. ... James watched Slick pull out of the driveway from the window in the living room. Slick's tires kicked up a spray of gravel, he accelerated so fast out of the driveway. James shuddered and turned away from the window. When Slick had almost hit him, he'd almost felt he deserved it. What he couldn't piece together was why. There shouldn't be any reason for Slick to be angry at him. James, after all, hadn't done anything to provoke Slick's advances. Hell, he'd suggested that Slick should go. Slick must have intended what happened, on some level. The moment James had made his confession, Slick had locked the door. You don't lock a door if you don't want to keep what happens behind it a secret. James pounded a clenched fist into his leg. This was wrong. It shouldn't have happened this way. ... When Slick arrived at home, he was still trembling a little bit. He went to his room and closed the door behind him. His father looked up as he passed and said something, but Slick didn't bother to stop and listen. It couldn't matter all that much, anyways. His father was sitting on the couch, watching football, after all. Recorded football, no less. Slick sat on the end of his bed, giving in to the tremors that were trying to shake him apart. He lay back after a while, and stared at the ceiling. Slowly, the shaking stopped, and Slick gradually fell into sleep. Either he didn't dream at all, or he couldn't remember it. All he did remember was waking up in the morning, feeling dirty and greasy and slimy. He left his room and grabbed a towel, then went back into his room and went through his dresser, pulling out a set of clothes. If it didn't quite match, he didn't notice. He was only just stopping shy of choosing his clothes deliberately for mismatch. If someone noticed that he seemed too well-coordinated today, he reasoned, he might not be able to handle it. A well-coordinated outfit on a boy his age, after all, was as clear a signal as wearing jeans cut for a girl, or a belt that was anything but black or brown. Slick tried to pretend that he didn't feel like he was wearing a neon sign announcing that he'd fucked his best friend the day before. He entered the bathroom, simultaneously furtive and almost painfully nonchalant. He locked the door. He always locked the door, or else his little sister was nearly guaranteed to pop in while he was in the shower and pull some annoying little stunt or another. Once, when he was eleven and she was seven, she had had a disposable camera and decided that it would be funny to sneak in and snap a picture of Slick in the shower. He'd barely prevented her from showing the picture around school. She wasn't that bad anymore, but she was liable to burst in and start washing her face with all the hot water she could pull out of the sink, or if she felt particularly mean-spirited, simply flush the toilet and leave—or worse yet, sit against the door with an issue of Cosmopolitan, waiting for the water to get so cold that he begged her to leave so he could get out. Slick turned on the water and, without a moment's hesitation, cranked the heat as far as it would go. He stripped down and stepped into the shower. The water hurt when it hit his skin, but he clenched his jaw and plunged in again, closing the little stall's door behind him. He pulled out the shampoo and soaped up his hair, rinsed it out, and washed it again. He pulled the washcloth down from where it was slung over the door and poured soap into it until he felt the soap soaking through to his hand. He scrubbed his entire body, head to toe. He had to resist the temptation to scrub out the inside of his mouth. By the time he was finished, he felt like he'd been scrubbed raw, and he was red not only from the heat of the water, but from the vigor of his own scrubbing. Slick leaned back against one of the walls of his tiny, rainy world. Clean. He felt clean, at last. He sank to the floor, crouching in the fiercely hot stream. More than clean, he felt like he could believe his assertion of the previous day again. He was straight. He had had sex with girls. Plenty of girls. He recalled Melinda Becket, his first. She'd been hot, and she'd wanted him bad. As he thought of the sensation of driving himself into her pussy, his member swelled. He reached down to stroke it, shifting to sit cross-legged on the floor. He grabbed the body wash from where he'd left it on the floor and dribbled some into his palm, reflecting on his vivid memories of Melinda. How tight and warm she'd been, how she'd pushed him down on his back and impaled herself on him. Slick's hand closed over his cock and squished the body wash around. He pumped it up and down his shaft, closing his eyes and drifting into memory. He was thirteen again, in his head, lying back in Scott Hertsen's bedroom, or perhaps Scott's parent's room. Melinda was sitting on top of him, straddling his waist and slowly lowering her inviting pussy down onto his meat. As he entered a girl for the first time, his hand sped up on his cock. She lowered herself down on him, taking his shaft deep into the recesses of her vagina. He thrust gently into her, unable to gain much leverage lying on his back. Her hands wandered over his chest as she started bouncing up and down on him. Slick's cock throbbed in his hand. He noticed that his other hand was stroking his chest. He thrust into his hand and cast his mind back to the bedroom. Melinda bobbed slowly up and down on his cock, letting out a sigh that swelled into a moan as she milked his body for pleasure as well as semen. He thrust up into her, and she gasped. He thrust again, and was rewarded with another gasp, and another, and then, suddenly, she cried out and her pussy clamped down on him, her orgasm rippling along his member until he let out a cry to echo hers and thrust deep into her. His hand sped up and a wave of pleasure washed across Slick's pelvis as he thought about the first time he'd had sex. But he had never taken very long back then. He thought about another time, when he'd been more experienced, and forced himself to slow down his hand. Lucy lay back on the bed, waiting for him, inviting him in with her legs spread wide. He crawled between her legs and lowered his cock down to her labia. He grabbed it and ran it over her clit. She sucked in a sharp breath and told him to stop teasing her. He was only too happy to acquiesce, and pushed into her cunt, thrusting as deep as he could with one fast stroke. She groaned underneath him as his hand sped up on his tingling cock, and he thrust mercilessly into her. Lucy's breathing sped up, and Slick thrust hard, fast, breathing hard. Her legs wrapped around his waist and he pulled her into a sitting position, still thrusting deep into her. Her first orgasm struck as he pushed as deep as he could, rippling rhythmic contractions down his member, and setting him grunting in pleasure and thrusting faster. Slick's hand pumped faster at his cock, and he thrust hard into it as he concentrated on how it had felt to thrust, almost exactly from the same position as he was in now, into Lucy's eager vagina. She gasped and rolled her hips on his thrusting manhood, pressing her lips to his. He pushed into the kiss, thrusting faster and faster and faster, setting off a second orgasm that gripped his penis and sent him into his own orgasm. He groaned as he pumped his spunk up into her vagina, down across James's stomach, in a powerful, incredible jet that leapt from his hand and splattered against the wall of the stall. A second jet joined it, hitting lower on the wall, and a third rushed out just to his feet. The fourth spurt oozed down his fingers and left him shuddering and cursing as the image of James's chest collecting blast after blast of his semen lingered in his head. He remembered looking up into James's face as James finished his own orgasm, groaning beneath him, his cock still throbbing against Slick's. Slick thought about the feeling of power he'd had, controlling, touching off James's orgasm. He had held James in his fingers, molding his actions. Slick's penis refused to go down. Slowly, his hand sped up again, and flashes of his experience with James roamed through his mind. James thrust up against him, his cock sliding against Slick's. Slick bore down hard on James's pelvis, grinding hard into his friend. James's penis throbbed with his orgasm. James's penis slowly grew hard against Slick's body as Slick pushed him down onto the bed. Slick's hand sped up. He gasped as James fondled his glans before his boxers were even off. James's penis pumped out semen onto his chest, spraying and convulsing. Slick thrust in long strokes, massaging as much pleasure as he could out of James. James's feet wandered along Slick's calves as they both thrust against each other... Slick bit off the ragged end of a shout as his cock jerked and jumped in his hand, letting loose another powerful jet of cum that landed on the floor just beyond his feet, coated his heels, covered his hand. He shuddered and let the slowly cooling water sheet down his back. Chapter 4 When Slick left the bathroom, his sister was outside the door, glaring at it. "Oh," she said. "Are you finally done jerking off? Is it safe to go in now?" She waited only long enough to confirm that he was blushing bright red before she brushed past him into the bathroom and slammed the door shut and locked it behind her. Slick rushed to his room and tossed himself onto his bed. What could it mean? At the penultimate moment, his fantasy had shifted irresistibly to James. That would have been bad enough, but thinking about it, he'd masturbated to orgasm a second time, not even bothering to steer his thoughts towards girls. "I just need a girl, that's all," Slick mused to the ceiling. "Just need to get my rocks off the right way." He thought about the various phone numbers that he kept in his drawer for just such an emergency. Well, okay, maybe not this exact emergency, but the need for a good screw, in any case. He could call Melinda, if he wanted to. She still enjoyed getting together with him once in a while. But she did that thing where she pinched his ass. He didn't feel like getting his ass assaulted today. Too near to the cause of his worry for his mind. He could call any one of the girls whose numbers he had—there were at least a half-dozen of them—but maybe that was the problem. Maybe he needed to go out and get a girl. Slick stood up, found his shoes, and was halfway to the door when he spotted himself in the mirror. Flannel shirt, blue slacks. The first word that popped into his head was not "fuckable". It was more like "mentally impaired". He sighed and went back to his room. He got rid of the flannel, stripped out of the slacks, and thought for a moment. "Jesus, James! Close the door if you're gonna be hangin' your ass out all over the place!" His sister slammed his door shut. Apparently, he thought wryly, the bathroom was free again. "Screw you too, Katie!" he shouted after her. She didn't reply. Slick shrugged and pulled out a pair of cargo shorts and a t-shirt with a band logo on it. The band hadn't been on tour in at least a decade. He put on his clothes, grabbed his jacket from where it sat on his bed, and glanced out the window. It didn't look too hot out there. He'd be perfectly fine wearing the jacket, which was good, because the jacket made him look good. He headed out the door and elected to walk instead of driving. That much more time to think, after all. The baristas at the nearest Starbucks were, for the most part, pretty cute. But they weren't fantastically hot or anything like that, and Slick felt like getting his mind blown today. After all, the mind and the body must live together. So he went further into the city, and finally settled on going down to the lakefront. It was Saturday, the Calatrava should be open if he wanted to cool off—and blow a few bucks—the beach would be full if he wanted to try the bikini circuit. He might manage both. Slick hopped a bus for the ten blocks down to the art museum and headed for the weirdest building in town. The tourists were out in full force today, he mused. All seven of them. The no-money beach lovers would be down by the lake already. He headed for the sand. There was always one idiot ruining the lake on a day like this by trying to pretend it could be surfed on. Today, the patented Milwaukee Idiot was wearing a wetsuit and wielding a white surfboard. He was familiar. Probably the same idiot that tried to surf when the weather turned stormy. He looked rather disappointed today. Passing cargo ships made his head pop up until he realized that they probably wouldn't be creating a decent enough wave to knock over a toddler, let alone surf on. Slick ignored him and walked on. A gaggle of girls—the kind of bleach-blonde wannabe- clones that populated high schools and might be more properly called a flock—gave him an intense and evaluating look as he passed. The whole time, they never broke off their chatter. None of them were worth the effort it would take to get them alone. Slick had already chosen his first target, anyways. A little ways down the beach, two guys absorbed in a contest of who-can-throw-the-biggest-thing-into-the- lake were completely oblivious to the fact that they were being watched, intently, by a leggy brunette who wasn't wearing her bikini so much as trying desperately to convince people that she had accidentally put it on when she left for the beach. Slick walked up to her. "Ten bucks says the tall one brains his buddy with the next stick," he offered. "Not on purpose, of course. But he'll still laugh about it." "Too late," the Brunette replied. "Only it was the short one. About five minutes ago." She waggled her thumb in a generally southern direction. "They were down that way when it happened. The tall one wound up in the drink." "So I'd guess you're watching the short one so carefully, then. He probably smells a lot better." "What," she said, "you staking your claim or something?" Slick fought a losing battle against a rather insistent need to blush and stammered, "N... no. I was... I was just making conversation." "Oh, relax," the Brunette said. "I'm teasing you. Siddown, relax. My name's Jessica, but you can call me Jess." She stuck out her right hand and Slick shook it. "Slick. Well, James Slickowski, if you wanna get all technical about it, but I don't." Jess chuckled. "Ooh, last name, getting' all fancy on me. Next thing you know we'll be adding titles." "Call me Doctor S, please," Slick laughed. He looked around. Now or never. "You know, really, I mostly just came over here to ask if I could buy you a soda or something. I mean, pretty girl like you, I'd have to be crazy or gay not to want to be seen with you." Jess gave him a grin that looked a little bit predatory. "I'd be delighted, Slick. Or should I call you Doc?" She rose to her feet, shaking her head so that her hair bounced cheerily across her breasts. Slick had the feeling that if she did that too often, her hair might brush away her bikini top. "And I'm thirsty," she added, "so there's that to consider. You just have good timing, Doc." Slick shrugged. "I don't know about that. I think maybe I'm just attractive." Jess laughed. "That too," she said. He led her to the nearest restaraunt-type establishment, a burger stand that seemed to only have tables on the outside. Jess took a seat at one of the tables and glanced over the menu. "Get me a Pepsi," she said. Slick spent the next five minutes in line. There was a time when a guy could walk up to a girl and just say, "hey, you wanna go fuck?" but Slick didn't feel like waiting for the next drunken party, so he had to play the ridiculous little game. The guy behind the counter looked very bored with his job. Considering that the last few people to come through had been girls whose main reason for existence seemed to be breast support, Slick began formulating a theory that the guy was actually a recent addition to the ranks of the undead. That or lakefront fast-food work was even more soul-sucking than its inland counterpart. The two were probably about equally likely. Slick ordered two Pepsis. He wasn't really all that thirsty, but what the hell. He had to have something to do while he pretended to pretend not to stare at Jess's chest. The food-zombie handed over the drinks, grunted something that was either a deeply unenthusiastic version of have-a-nice-day or else a quiet curse upon Slick and all his family, and turned his head to the next person. Slick sat down at the table and handed Jess her soda. She smiled at him and started sipping away. "So," she said. "Are you a local boy?" Slick nodded. "Why, are you not from around here? You don't have an accent." Jess laughed. "Oh, no, I just like to know where people come from. It's my thing." As she spoke, her foot tapped his, and then started to run up his shin. He took a calm sip of his soda and listened to her talk. She was going on about how her friends were from all over, really, if you just asked them about it, but her mile-a-minute rambling was by far less interesting than the way her foot was moving up his leg. She stopped in the middle of a sentence to take a long pull at her straw and smack her lips in a very moist way, then launched back into her inane speech. Slick was only barely keeping up the appearance that he cared. As she spoke, Jess's breasts shifted in her bikini top, and if she made an enthusiastic point and jumped up a bit, they bounced. Between her foot still making its slow way up his leg and the absolute fascination of her breasts, Slick quickly forgot he even had a drink. Her legs were incredibly long, Slick thought as her toes toyed with the hem of his shorts. Ideas about those legs wandered through his head, and he felt himself growing very, very hard inside his shorts. Jess let out a voluble "aaah" as she drained her soda. "Anyways," she said, "do you wanna get out of here and go do something a little more fun?" A little scoreboard in the back of Slick's head chalked up another point for him. He nodded. "Yeah, that would be great." He had to force the irony into his voice as he said, "your place or mine?" Jess laughed. "My place is in Madison, Slick. Is your place really available?" Well, that was direct. He shook his head. Jess frowned, and then seemed to have an idea. She grabbed him by the hand and led him, boner and all, away from the table. "We'll just find a nice quiet place that's private and we'll go there," she said. "Nobody will know." Slick harbored his own, private doubts, but this wasn't a level of craziness he'd never achieved before, and it was basically guaranteed sex, so he followed mutely along behind her. Jess stopped in her tracks. "Hey," she said, "are you a quiet fuck?" One of Slick's eyebrows made an involuntary attempt at the summit. "Well, I'm usually pretty quiet, but I've been known to make some girls get really loud." "Oh, play nice," Jess teased. "Come on, I know where we can go." She led him towards the burger stand. The fact that this was insaner than most insane anonymous hookups occurred to Slick, but he didn't question it. One of the doors on the burger stand was hanging open, and Jess ducked into it and pulled it shut behind her. Darkness. Slick felt hard floor beneath his feet. He looked down. A trickle of light from outside revealed a concrete floor, and blank walls that were, for some unsearchable reason, wallpapered, surrounded him. There was another door that seemed to lead into the stand proper, and a door that led into what might be an office-slash-locker-room. Jess pulled him into the office-slash-locker-room. A single wooden bench hung from one wall, and in front of a computer—the screen was dark—there was, instead of an office chair, a recliner. The boss was either a comfort hound or couldn't afford a proper office chair. Judging from the sorry state of the recliner, the latter seemed likely. At least, Slick thought as Jess pushed him into the recliner, it was clean. Of course, it was so dark in here that that was only a guess, and when she stood and closed the door, it got even darker. There was a soft thump and a curse as she barked her shin on the bench, and then she was sitting on his lap. "Well," she said. "Someone's excited. Does being all alone in the dark with me get you turned on? Or maybe it's the danger. We could get caught any second." Slick grinned and reached out to touch her. His fingers brushed against her stomach and he felt her leaning forward. She kissed him, and his hands slid around behind her and found that her bikini top was already unhooked. He had to wonder when she'd had time to do that. He'd ask later, he decided, and he peeled away the meager containment. Her breasts must not have been all that restricted by the swimsuit; they barely changed their position against him. Jess shifted in the darkness and he felt her taking off her bikini bottom, heard it drop to the floor. "Your turn," she said. Quietly, Slick whispered back, "There's something I want to do first." He reached out and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her close and eliciting a shocked giggle. His hands felt down her sides, around her legs, in between her thighs, and found her aroused and sensitive. He ran his fingers over her groin, rubbed her clit, and smirked as she let out a long, breathy, whispering whimper. "Oh, you're good at that," she said. "I've had some practice," he replied, and he pushed her off of him and stood to take off his clothes. Because they were in such a vulnerable place, and might have to leave in a hurry, he debated for a moment over whether to take his shoes off. He decided not to. He could slip his shorts over them, and he did just that, kissing down Jess's body by feel alone as he crouched. He got to her pussy and immediately dove in to run his tongue around, exploring her anatomy with practiced eagerness. She was soon breathing very, very hard, and she kept going that way until he had his shorts off. He changed his mind about the shoes, too, and pulled them off of his feet, then slowly stood up, running his tongue up her body and putting his hands on her hips. He turned her around and pushed her into the chair. He could just see her, silhouetted against the very small amount of light from the computer's keyboard. Someone had left caps lock on. Slick dropped his boxer shorts and stepped out of them, approaching her eagerly, already nearly tremoring in anticipation. He leaned against the chair, and suddenly her legs wrapped around his waist, forcing him in close to her. So close, in fact, that his penis slipped into her and he found himself enfolded in her insides. She was warm, wet, and tight. And her legs were working, her heels digging into his ass and prompting him to thrust. He was only too happy to comply, pushing into her energetically. She gasped softly under him, and he thrust faster, letting out a low grunt. She was sweating hard and gripping his ass with her heels, and he pushed himself deeper and faster. Jess's back arched and her breasts rubbed against Slick's chest as he pounded into her. "Oh, God," she moaned quietly, and he pushed harder into her, letting his hips roll in long, deep strokes that pushed his cock deep into her. She moaned again, louder, and he clamped his hand over her mouth even as her volume increased again, and then her vagina was convulsing as every muscle below her waist twitched and contracted, slamming tighter and then looser on his penis, leaving him gasping on the edge of an orgasm himself. She began to thrust her hips up and down in time with him, pulling up as he thrust in, pushing down as he pulled back to plunge deeper again. His breath came in ragged pants as he sped up, desperately putting more friction on his member, pouring more speed into his hips. Slick's hands wandered over her chest, playing with her breasts, slowly teasing towards her nipples. "Suck on them," she demanded urgently, and he clamped his mouth down on one nipple, flicking his tongue over it and over it, again and again. Even as he worked at her nipple, she came again, biting her lip and throwing her whole body into the orgasm that rocked through her. Slick couldn't take any more. He came too, pumping furiously into her and then, only slowly and reluctantly, pulling out. Jess was breathing hard, and when she kissed him again, her breath even made it through into the kiss. "Thanks, tiger," she said. "I needed that." He gave her a goofy grin that she couldn't see anyways. "You're welcome. Any time at all. Seriously. If you want..." "I'd tell you not to get cocky, but, well... too late, I think," she said. "You were moving like a demon," she added, handing him up his boxer shorts. "The last guy I had given me a fucking that thorough was having a fight with his girlfriend at the time. Who are you fighting with, and may I recommend that you stay angry at her?" The memory of James's face, flinching as Slick moved to strike him, popped, very unwelcome, into Slick's head. "I'm not fighting with anybody," he lied. "Maybe I'm just a really great lay." Jess shrugged. "Maybe so," she said. She finished refastening her bikini top and kicked one of Slick's shoes over to him, then she left Slick alone to pull his clothes back on in the darkness. He couldn't find his shorts. This was ridiculous. Alone, in a burger stand's pathetic excuse for a back office, and unable to find his shorts. Slick swore under his breath. "Here," a voice said, and the light turned on. Slick froze. His eyes drifted up to the door. The food- zombie was leaning against the doorjamb, a smug, knowing smile on his face. "Hook, line, and sinker, eh kid?" Slick stared. This guy couldn't be serious. For one, he's just called Slick "kid", and that simply wasn't right. Slick had at least two years on him. But what was all this business about "hook, line and sinker"? "What are you talking about?" Slick asked as he reached for his shorts. The food-zombie chuckled. "Nothing that'll be a big problem for you," he said. "Jess just has certain needs. I let her use the stand to fill them as long as she can prove she's clean beforehand. Usually when I start my shift. She's not a cuddler." "I hate to call another guy an idiot," Slick said after a moment's thought, "but if you're seeing her at the beginning of your shift any time she wants to have a random fuck, why don't you just, like, arrive early and give it to her yourself?" Zombieboy grinned a lopsided little grin. "Two reasons," he said, stepping into the room. He walked with a swagger. "One, she would never want something that regular. And two..." his hand reached out and flicked the zipper on the shorts hanging almost- forgotten from Slick's hands, "I'm a lot more interested in what the pussycat drags in the door. A lot of guys are pretty willing to do a lot of things for somebody who just made a good screw possible for them. What do you say to that?" Slick felt a hint of a stirring in his boxers at the suggestion, so he decked the creep and pulled his shorts on while the food-zombie was still lying insensate on the floor. He stuffed his feet back into his shoes as the guy sat up. "I'm gonna go with 'that's the shittiest chair I ever sat in, and if you lay one finger on me you'll have two more black eyes and two fewer balls than you started out with,'" Slick said. He walked out the door. Jess was standing just outside the burger stand, looking down at her watch. "Well," she said, "either that was the quickest blowjob in history, or you—" "The only reason you're still standing up right now," Slick growled, leaning in close to her, "is that I make it a policy not to hit girls unless they ask me to do it during sex. You're coming dangerously close to meeting the qualifications, bitch. Get away from me." Jess turned and ran. Slick stalked home. He spent the whole bus ride hiding a boner. Chapter 5 Slick woke up the next day feeling irritable and confused. It might have had something to do with the dream he'd had the night before—James about to fall into a sea of magma, and Slick rescuing him. There'd been hugging—or it might just be that he was awakened by Katie throwing something warm and soft into his bed. He looked down at the object that was now on his legs and nearly had a heart attack. "Dad bought a rat," Katie announced calmly. "Dear God, why!?" She shrugged. "I'm guessing he was drunk. That's usually why he does stupid stuff. Anyways, he said we should make the best of it, because he's not getting rid of it. Do you think an omelet would be the best, or should I get a deli slicer?" Slick stared at her. He could never quite be sure if she was joking. It was scary as hell, really. He fully expected her to slit his throat some night. "No, you little sociopath, stick the... thing... in a cage. I'd suggest you feed it, but you're not the nurturing type." "I'm not dealing with it," Katie said. "I'm 'not the nurturing type,' but you are. It's your job now. And if I find it in my room, God help me, I will nail it to your door and let it hang by its tail until—" Slick picked up the rat and glared at his sister. "Go away, Katie," he snapped. He held the rather confused varmint up to his face, eyes level with it. Its nose twitched. "Real cute. I suppose you're looking forward to having me provide all your needs, then." The rat pooped on him. Slick thought over his situation for a moment and rolled off his bed. He found a laundry basket, upended it, and put the rat down on the floor underneath it. Plastic had about as much chance of holding a rat permanently as it did of writing a hit musical, but at least it would make an acceptable temporary cage. But then, he had no idea where to get a permanent one, and he knew better than to pawn off an involuntary pet on his sister. The tarantula incident would haunt him forever. His first instinct was to call James. But then he realized that that would be a bad idea. That his logic ended rather pathetically with the idea that it was a bad idea because it was a bad idea either didn't occur to him or stoutly refused to bother him. He thought about who else to call. Who could he even give a rat to? Rather bitterly, he concluded that if someone didn't give a rat's ass, it was likely due to the fact that nobody wanted a rat's ass—or the rest of the rat, for that matter. Failing miserably to think of a way to rid himself of the rat, and flatly refusing to accept the idea of caring for it himself, Slick deduced that the best course of action would be to take it into the city and either "lose" it or sell it, or maybe give it away. It would be happier in the wild, anyways. He searched around for fresh clothes and got dressed. With a sigh, Slick reached under the basket, retrieving his rat. "You suck," he informed it, and with that, he started heading for the door. He wasn't quite sure what he was going to do, but the opportunities for a boy and his rat to be separated in a city were bound to be endless. Right? Slick made his escape into the streets and groaned. Wisconsin seemed to have suddenly realized that it was summer. It was at least eighty degrees, which would have been fine if it weren't also so humid that he was effectively sweating in reverse, absorbing water rather than losing it. The rat gave him an accusing look, as though to say "You did this to us both, you know. We could go back inside." Slick glared at it. "You just keep your eyeballs to yourself and don't crap on me again." He didn't notice it at first, but he was wandering down to the lakefront again. Whether it was because of the instinctive knowledge, ground into him by countless weathermen, that it was cooler near the lake, or the vague idea that a rat might thrive if released near the shore, or the thought that all the crazy people would be in the lake cooling off today and might be willing to take in a rat, he didn't really care. He just wanted to get rid of the damn thing. He turned north at the Calatrava, and headed for the beach again. Sure enough, it was packed. Old men in far too little bathing suit mingled with doting mothers and their uncounted giggling spawn. Beach umbrellas were planted like flags marking the locations of oases of either pleasant, boozy calm or quiet, desperate pretense of sophistication. Frat boys were plentiful. Slick tried to be very visible as he walked down the beach, and he tried to make the rat even more visible, but he had no luck in that regard. Nobody asked him, and he knew better than to walk up to people at random and ask if they wanted his rat. That was a great way to get arrested. Eventually, he found himself staring over at the burger stand he had visited the day before. The temptation to throw the rat in the building and have it done with was quelled only by the fact that the building was surrounded by people. There would be witnesses. And he was thirsty. He wanted a lemonade or something. Slick looked around for some other place to get something to drink. His options were few, and, more importantly, far between. He went to the burger stand and stood in line. The person behind him—a large man in a non-large speedo—kept his distance from the crazy rat-boy. At least there were some advantages to having vermin stuck to his shoulder. Slick just hoped that he wouldn't end up facing the food-zombie. The line advanced. "Well, hello there." Slick groaned. "Live in hope, die in despair," he mumbled. "Give me a lemonade and say nothing," he said. He tried not to look up, but he couldn't stop himself. The little weirdo had plastered a smug grin across his face. "What's with the rat?" Slick glared at him. "My dad drinks a lot." his cheeks were slowly heating up. This was just about the height of humiliation. But at least the creep didn't have an answer for that. He turned and gave Slick his lemonade. Slick very nearly snuck to a table and sat down, nursing his drink. He was about halfway through it when somebody sat down across from him at the table. "You know, I think we got off on the wrong foot," the food-zombie said. His ability to maintain a conversational tone when talking to a guy with a rat on his shoulder who had recently applied a left hook to his jaw was admirable. He stuck out a hand. "My name is Eric." Slick nodded. "Uh huh, Eric. You just wait right here for a second. I gotta go grab something." he got up and looked at the counter. It was being manned by a very burly woman. Slick shuddered. Women should not be capable of burliness. He walked up to the counter anyways, grabbed one of the plastic forks from the slightly-dingy holder they were sitting in, and returned to the table. Before Eric could question what he was doing, Slick swung the fork down into Eric's right hand. The boy screamed and clutched at his hand, which, Slick was pleased to note, had a fork sticking out of it now. "You'll probably want to sterilize that," Slick said. "Odds are you're right-handed, which means that's probably your masturbating hand, and you clearly need that, perverted little fuck that you are." Eric clenched his jaw and glared at Slick. "You're not getting rid of me that easy. You're interesting, and I intend to learn more about you." By now, his hand was bleeding, and blood was seeping through the other hand, which he had clamped over it. He seemed to be doing a very good job of ignoring it. "So," he said again, "what's with the rat?" "I already told you," Slick replied. "My dad drinks. A lot." He took another pull at his lemonade. "That does not explain the rat," Eric said. "He bought the rat last night while he was out drinking. I'm trying to get rid of it." "The lake is a little further east," Eric said, gesturing lakeward with his head. "Are you really gonna sit there with your hand bleeding, talking to me about a stupid rat?" Slick said as blood began to trickle slowly away from Eric's hand on the table. Eric shrugged. "It's not that serious. I'll be fine." "You are fantastically stupid, aren't you? Show me your hand, pervert." Eric shook his head. "No, I told you, I'll be fine." Slick grabbed Eric's hand and pulled it forcibly across the table. Eric tried to pull it back, and Slick was jerked toward the table. The rat squeaked irritably and Eric stopped resisting. Slick stared at the wound. It was oozing, not spurting, so that was something. But it was also fairly deep. "You got first aid stuff in that crapshack you call a burger joint?" Eric didn't object to the label Slick applied. He just staunchly refused to look at his hand and nodded. "Yeah, we do. It's... uh... you've been in the room that it's in, actually." "You got some kinda problem with blood?" Slick asked. Eric nodded. "Yeah, a little bit." Slick shrugged and went around to the back door that he'd gone in the day before. It was standing open. Eric walked up behind him and reached his uninjured hand into the hallway. He turned on a light switch. "Hey!" The burly woman called. "Who's back there!" "It's just me, Martha," Eric called back. "I uh... I managed to take a pretty hard fall on my way to the bus stop, and I need the first aid kit. I got somebody in here helping me out." He led Slick into the office, opened one of the lockers on the wall opposite the bench, and pulled out the first-aid kit, all with his left hand. He was holding his right hand well out of sight. Slick grabbed the little weirdo's hand and rather unceremoniously pulled it over towards him. He pulled out some antiseptic. He debated his options. He could spring the antiseptic's sting on Eric by surprise. That would be startling, but at least he wouldn't be in agony over anticipation. "Okay," Slick said, "This is gonna sting. You ready?" Eric nodded and grunted an affirmative. His hand tensed up in Slick's, and Slick grinned. "You know, we should rinse that off first." Between rinsing the wounded hand, and cleaning it with gauze, and leading Eric around by the hand that he was steadfastly refusing to look at, all while making sure that the antiseptic was clearly ready for use at all times, Slick managed to tease a good five minutes of entertainment out of watching Eric squirm. Finally, he settled Eric's hand over the little sink in the little bathroom in the little burger shop. "Okay," he said for the third time. "This time, for real. Ready?" Another nod. Eric cringed. "Here it comes," Slick said, and then, only after about a second of waiting, to let the tension build up, he poured the antiseptic into the wound. Slowly. Eric yelled in a delightfully un-masculine manner, startling the rat. Slick distinctly heard Martha laughing outside. "Pussy!" she shouted in Eric's general direction. Slick let Eric suffer for a little longer than was strictly necessary, finished cleaning the wound, and bandaged it. "There," Slick said. "You're fine." He started to walk out of the room, but Eric caught him by the hand. "You enjoyed that," he said. When Slick raised an eyebrow and started to reply, Eric shook his head. "You enjoyed it. You thought it was just... tons of fun to make me squirm." Slick grinned wickedly. "Yeah," he said, stepping closer. He had at least five inches on the burgerboy, and he was using it. "Yeah, I did. I liked making you scream, too, so don't think I won't do it again. Most people usually get the message if I stick a fork in 'em. Usually means you're done. But hey, if you're gonna stick around and let me jam pointy shit into you, I'll gladly go ahead and do it. It's easier than a voodoo doll." Now he was grinning down menacingly at Eric, and Eric was looking up at him with something halfway between gratitude and fear in his eyes. "Well, you took good care of it," he said. He raised his bandaged hand up in front of his face. The rat jumped off of Slick's shoulder onto Eric's arm, and it suddenly occurred to Slick just how close he was standing to Eric. Slick also came to the more uncomfortable realization that he had an erection. The rat ran up to Eric's shoulder and the silence grew more uncomfortable as it stretched out longer. Slick thought that he should really step away, but he couldn't seem to move his feet. Eric surprised him by moving first. He strode out of the bathroom and stuck his head out into the serving area. Martha came in the door and talked quietly to him for a few minutes. Slick didn't come out of the bathroom. Eric came back in after Martha left. He was sans rat. "Martha is a really creepy lady," Eric explained. She returned a few minutes later, and Eric led Slick out of the burger stand. They stood behind the little building for a few moments, and then Eric said, "Well, I guess you got rid of your rat, then." Slick nodded. "Yeah. Well, actually, you got rid of it, but... I helped?" Eric nodded, and Slick added, as an afterthought, "I still don't like you, you know." "I'm fine with that," Eric said. He reached up to lay a finger in the center of Slick's chest. "I got to get those strong arms of yours holding my hands," he said. If he had any more to say, Slick didn't hear it. His hand snapped up and grabbed Eric's wrist. Eric winced. "I don't need you touching me," Slick said. He twisted his hand, forcing Eric to stumble closer to him. He was perfectly aware of his erection now, and he figured that drawing a little bit of quasi-sadistic pleasure from tormenting the food-zombie would be a tiny vengeance, all things considered. Eric met Slick's eyes evenly. "Did... did you, uh, want something?" Slick stared at him. He let the silence get longer, longer, and finally, Eric filled it up the only way that popped into his head. He kissed Slick as softly as he possibly could. Slick was startled at first, but his erection, which had been standing at half-mast or so, suddenly took on new ambitions. Eric noticed. "Do you want to go to my car?" he suggested quietly. Slick didn't respond, but when Eric started moving towards the nearest parking lot, he followed. Throughout the short car ride to a dilapidated townhouse that was trying hard to look like it wasn't hurting anybody, Slick leaned back in the passenger seat and thought of baseball. It didn't help. Eric led him into the unit on the north end of the townhouse and up to his bedroom. The bed was large, with a wooden frame that had been painted black. The whole room smelled too clean to belong to this kind of a person. Eric started walking towards the bed, but Slick grabbed him by the back of his collar and turned him around, pulling him close. He was almost snarling. "Strip," he commanded. Eric stripped dutifully, starting at the shoes and working his way up. Socks came off, and were left in the shoes, and then his pants. He was wearing white briefs. They had absorbed enough sweat to be damp and cling to his legs as he pulled them off, then moved on to his shirt. He stood nude in front of Slick, and Slick stepped forward, leaving Eric no choice but to back up, heading for the bed. Slick stopped just short of actually forcing Eric to fall. He reached out and grabbed Eric by the shoulders, then pushed him roughly to the bed. The frame thudded against the wall. "Scoot back. I want your head against the headboard," Slick snapped. Eric did as he was told, and Slick got a good view of him for the first time. He was skinny, without any seriously developed muscles. His boner was angled ever so slightly to the left. Slick slipped his shoes off and climbed up into the bed, straddling Eric. He got himself up over Eric's chest and snapped, "Pull out my dick and stroke it." Eric complied with the eagerness of someone who has finally gotten to the fun part of a game. He quickly unfastened Slick's pants and pulled them and the underwear as far down as they would go. He wrapped his bandaged right hand around Slick's shaft and started stroking it. Slick thrust into his hand, pulling his shirt off and tossing it away. Already, he felt waves of pleasure rolling over him. He almost didn't want to do anything but this, but he decided that that wouldn't quite be fair. Slick rolled away from Eric's hand only long enough to take his pants off, then he returned to his position and thought to ask the question that hadn't, until now, occurred to him. As Eric stroked his penis, Slick said, "I'm guessing you have lube, right?" "It's all in my bedside table's drawer over there." Slick looked over at the bedside table. He had an idea in mind. "Grab it," he said. "But suck me while you're doing it." Eric let go of Slick's member and immediately slid his mouth over it. Slick grunted in approval as Eric started leaning to rummage around in the drawer. His tongue worked up and down Slick's shaft, and Slick thrust none-too-gently into his mouth, forcing Eric to deep-throat him. Eric became more enthusiastic in his sucking, if anything, and it took him a minute or two to sort out lube from the myriad random crap in his drawer. By the time it was extracted, Slick was getting tempted to just finish in Eric's mouth. Tempted, but not tempted enough. He pulled back and ordered Eric to put the lube on him. Eric did so, with a lot of unnecessary stroking and rubbing. Slick slipped down his body and, without any preamble, plunged dick-deep into Eric's anus. Eric drew in a sharp breath, but Slick wasn't in the mood to give him time to adjust. He immediately began thrusting hard into Eric, grabbing him by the hips and pushing deep. Eric's penis bobbed obscenely with the motion in front of Slick, and then Eric's hand was on it, stroking it and running his thumb across the head. A shiny coating of pre-cum glistened on Eric's glans, and he started thrusting into his hand and clenching his ass on Slick's cock. Slick thrust faster, grunting and panting as the pleasure between his legs grew. Suddenly, Eric shouted and cum blasted out of his penis. One drop landed on his chin. The sight pushed Slick over the edge, and he groaned as his prick twitched in Eric's ass, spraying spurt after spurt of cum into him. Eric moaned in concert with him, relishing the feeling, and gradually they both slowed to a halt. Slick pulled out of Eric. Chapter 6 Slick leaned back on the bed and stared down at Eric. "Holy crap!" he gasped. Eric, apparently, agreed. He was grinning like an idiot, despite having been abused and bullied the whole time. If anything, he looked as though he wanted more. Slick, however, had no intention of giving it to him. Because now that he was looking at Eric, lying blissed out on his back, all he could see was James. James, sitting in a mud puddle at age eight. He'd been the victim of bullies, then. Too small to fight back, too proud to run to teacher for help. Slick hadn't wanted to be associated with the little dweeb, but something about James was too good to leave in the mud. James, hovering over him on the ice at age thirteen, making him laugh through the tears. Slick had broken his leg in a hockey game, and James refused to leave his best friend's side until the cast was on. James, lying beneath him on the bed at seventeen, in the warm aftermath of pleasure and confession. James, sitting on the edge of his bed five minutes later, flinching. He had shown his heart to Slick, made love to him, but something in the boy was too much to take. Slick had reacted with rage. "Oh, God," Slick whispered. Eric raised an eyebrow. "Not as bad as you thought it would be, huh?" "I... I'm an idiot," Slick muttered, burying his face in his hands. "I've been so stupid." "Okay, now come on," Eric said, "you don't have to be mean." "Not you," Slick said irritably. "James. I've been so unfair. He's my best friend, and I was angry at him for it." Eric quirked one eyebrow up. "I take you've had an epiphany then? Something about a missed opportunity, I'd wager?" "Yeah. I have to go talk to him. I'm sorry... I shouldn't have... I shouldn't be so heartless to you, but... you're not James." Eric shook his head. "Hey, that was sex. We're talking love here. I get it. Do you wanna use my shower?" Slick nodded. "Yeah. I... I'm gonna go to him as soon as I can. Right after I get home and into the car." ... Slick pulled into the gravel driveway, but he stopped about halfway in. The Camaro was gone. He looked around in a mild panic. Where could James have gone? He stepped out of the car and ran to the front door. He didn't bother knocking. If anybody was home, it would be open. He turned the knob, pushed, and found himself inside. Mrs. Larson, who had previously looked busy in the kitchen, now looked startled, holding a tray of cookies in one oven-mitted hand, the other one perfectly manicured and over her breast in her surprise. With the apron on, she seemed to have become lost on her way to a nineteen-fifties kitchenware ad. "Oh, goodness, James! You startled me. If you're looking for Jimmy, I'm afraid he's gone out to meet a friend of his." "Do you know where?" Slick asked. Mrs. Larson looked rather confused. "It's important," Slick insisted. "I think he's gone to the Culvers in town," she said. Slick thanked her and ran back to the car. It started irritably, but it started. He drove a bit faster than was strictly necessary, legal, or sane, but he arrived at Culvers intact, and sure enough, there was the Camaro. Slick jumped down out of the car and started running for the restaurant. He spotted James inside, talking to some guy in a cheap leather jacket. He was laughing. Slick rounded the corner and sprinted into the burger joint—a lot of his life seemed to center around burgers lately—immediately fixing his course on James's table. But he stopped short when he saw James lean forward and gently kiss his companion. He nearly fell to his knees. As it was, he sat down at a nearby booth, no longer trusting himself to stand. He'd lost James. Lost him as a friend to his own stupidity, to say nothing of as a lover. He put his head down on the table. A shadow passed over him and he heard James's voice, caught up in a low laugh as he passed. Slick watched James go, retreating hand-in- hand with his newfound boyfriend. Two days ago, I hated the idea that I'd had sex with him, he thought to himself. Now, my heart is breaking because I'll never kiss him again. This is ridiculous. The Camaro passed outside the window, and Slick got up and drove back to Milwaukee. He looked at the road in front of him when he got to thirtieth street. He could turn south and go home. He should turn south and go home. He went straight. Slick pulled up in front of a dilapidated townhouse that was trying very hard to look like it wasn't hurting anybody. He had the feeling that he had gotten exactly what he deserved. Slick stared out the window at the townhouse. He turned the car off and slipped the keys into his pocket. There were tears in his eyes. He ignored them. Let them stay there, there would only be more to replace them if he wiped them away. Slick walked up to the door that he'd entered through earlier that day. He rang the doorbell. There was a loud crash inside, and a louder obscenity, and the door opened up. Eric looked Slick up and down a couple of times. "Oh, Slick... I'm so sorry," he said. "I don't know what to say, Slick." Slick sniffled loudly. "Don't say anything," he advised. "Just hold me." Eric led him into the house, sat him down on the couch, and gave him a cup of hot tea. ... The neon signs on Broadway buzzed halfheartedly today. The one over Café Jé was glowing a little brighter than usual today, or so it seemed to James. He walked into the coffeehouse and looked around until he spotted what he was looking for. Nestled between the hipsters and the emo-wannabes that crowded the café at this time of day, Slick was sipping his coffee and talking animatedly to a slightly younger boy. His friend had bright red hair— clearly not natural—and a quick, engaging smile that suggested secret knowledge. James approached him cautiously. He couldn't quite bring himself to believe the message that had been left on his voicemail, but here it was proving true. Slick laughed, then leaned over the table and kissed Eric, grinning. "I should have known you'd tell her that. Imagine it! Martha, trying to say the word 'orgy', let alone getting an invitation to one! That was just mean, Eric." Eric, too, was laughing. "Oh, but it was great! There was nice fancy lettering, and I'd even embossed it with a screwdriver. There were these little stylized dildos in the corners..." he looked up as someone loomed over their table. "Slick?" Slick looked up, and for a moment, it looked as though he might panic and run away. For another moment, it seemed he was about to start crying. "I'm sorry, James," he said at last. "I'm so sorry for what I did to you." "Slick, you didn't do anything to me. You cut yourself off from me so completely, I didn't know what happened to you. It took your... uh... this guy here... finding my number and calling me for me to even find you. He told me. You thought you lost a friend, Slick. I'm sorry, I should have called you. But you didn't call me, and I didn't call you, and we just kept... not calling. I'm your friend, Slick. If you'll have me, that is." Slick smiled and pulled a chair that a hipster had been about to sit down in over to the table. The hipster gave him an irritated look and slunk off to suckle on his coffee elsewhere. "Sit down, James. I'd like you to meet Eric. He's my boyfriend now. I should thank you. Without you, I never would have met him." "And if he never met me," Eric added, "he never would have stabbed me with a fork." James sat down and settled in to listen to a long story. We need to get this Eric guy a denim jacket, he thought. Finitas, mi amigos. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world contract HIV every year. You only have one body per lifetime, so take good care of it! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Kristen's collection - Directory 73