Hot Valley (2 page)

“Hold it for me, then, Jack.” He put his hands on his hips, pushed them forward, and started pissing into the bucket—a few drops at first, but then a torrent. I could feel the vibration of it passing through his prick as I held it. My own cock became hard without me even noticing, it happened so quickly.

Before he was even halfway through, Mick grabbed me by the back of the neck and drew my face toward his. The skin on his cock was smooth as satin—but his face, whiskered and weather-beaten, was like a combination of leather and sandpaper. The first contact was like an electric shock. At first I flinched, but his hand prevented me from pulling back. And then his lips opened and found mine, and we kissed. It was my first kiss, outside the chaste pecks of the family circle, and it was wet and hot and tasted of whiskey. I staggered a little, my grip on his cock faltered, and the ebbing stream of his piss went all over the floor and both our legs. It didn't seem to bother Mick, who kept kissing me with the greed of a starving man. I guess he didn't get too much affection in his line of work, whatever it might be.

Eventually we broke apart, and two hard cocks faced each other in the stinking gloom.

“I got a room upstairs,” he said. “Want to join me?”

I needed no second invitation. Hardly bothering to dress ourselves properly, and making no effort to disguise the damp patches on our pants, we entered the bar. To my astonishment, we were greeted not with suspicious stares or frosty dismissal, but with a gale of bawdy laughter. Mick acknowledged it with a wave of his hand, and led me by the hand through the bar.

“Got yourself a piece of ass,” the barman said, a swarthy-looking man with a bald pate and thick black eyebrows. Mick clacked his tongue in response. He took a key from a hook above the bar and led me up a flight of dark, unlit stairs. He seemed to know his way.

“Long time since I had company like yours,” he said, lighting the lamp in the small square upper room. It contained a single bed, a washstand, a chair, and a chamber pot, and that was all. A piece of muslin was tacked across the window.

“Do you work in town?” I asked.

“Yeah, sometimes. I come and go. Laboring work's scarce. I go where I'm wanted. Bishopstown's as good as anywhere,” he said, casually unbuckling his belt and drawing it through the loops. “What brings you down here? Don't often see a face as pretty as that down here.”

I had never been called “pretty” before, although I thought, in my vanity, that I wasn't bad looking, with my wavy blond hair and my regular features, and the smooth pale skin that I had often inspected in the mirror, alone in my room at night, longing for company. My mother's friends sometimes said I was “a fine young man,” and my arrival in a room was often heralded by a certain amount of twittering from girls of my sisters' age.

“Oh, I just thought I'd look in…”

“To the White Horse? Your sort don't belong here. You go to the fine hotels on the other side of town.” He was sitting on the chair, unlacing his boots.

“I wanted something different.”

He laughed. “Well, you certainly got that.” Then he frowned, concentrating on a knotted bootlace. “God damn. Can't see a thing.”

This was my cue. I knelt at his feet. “Here, let me.”

He leaned back, extended his legs, and rested his heavy-shod foot in my lap. “That's a good boy. Your eyes are sharper than mine. You sort it out.”

I quickly unraveled the knot, unlaced his boot, and pulled it off. The thick wool sock underneath smelled of leather and fresh sweat, but wasn't too offensive. I pulled it down, eased it off his foot, then rubbed his foot as I'd seen my mother do to my father after a hard day's work.

“Oh, that's good,” he sighed. “You're a good kid.”

“Thanks,” I said, freeing his other foot.

“Jack, ain't it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jack. You ever been fucked up the ass before, Jack?”

His directness took my breath away.

“No, sir.”

“Well, that's what you're going to get tonight. Think you can take it?”

“I don't know.”

“Want it?”

I hardly knew. I looked down, still rubbing his feet.

“Yeah, you want it, boy, I can tell. Why else would you be here with me? You want this, don't you?” He squeezed the mighty mound at the front of his trousers.

“Yes, sir.”

“You want it bad.”

“I want it bad.”

“You got it, boy. You got all of it, all night, any way you want it. Up your ass, down your throat. You ride it any way you like.”

“Th-thank you.”

“Now git up.” I stood before him as he sat, legs splayed, shirt unbuttoned to reveal the thick hair on his chest, bare-footed. “Undress yourself.”

The thought of being naked, vulnerable and exposed, in front of this powerful, confident man only a few years younger than my own father excited me to the point of faintness. My hands shook as I pulled off my necktie, threw down my jacket, and fumbled with my shirt buttons. Soon I was topless.

“Stop there.”

I stood still.

“Come here.”

I stepped toward him, standing between his open legs.

“You got a skin on you like a woman's.” His rough hands ran up my sides, feeling the ribs, across my back. “So smooth and fine. But just here”—he ran the back of his knuckles from my belly down to my belt, where a bush of darker hair was growing thicker by the month—“that ain't like any woman I ever seen. Well, maybe there was one girl in Chicago. Hairy Mary they called her. She had a tail like a brown bear.” He leaned forward and started kissing me on the belly while his hands explored my ass. Again, the roughness of his whiskers caught me off guard.

“You're going to be red and raw all over in the morning, boy.”

“I don't care.”

“Now let's see your ass.”

Thank God he took control; without his guidance, I might still have lost my nerve. Instead I turned around and dropped my pants. I was wearing silk underclothes, a gift from my parents.

“Wooh!” hollered Mick. “We got some fine French drawers on!”

“They were a birthday present,” I stammered, blushing like the virgin I was.

“Nice,” he said, letting a hot hand wander over my silk-covered cheeks. “Very nice. Now let's see how fast you can take 'em off.” The underpants were soon around my ankles, bunched up over my boots and pants.

Mick whistled. “That is the finest piece of ass I've ever seen in all my days,” he said. “You sure you want me to fuck it? Almost seems a shame.”

“I… I want you…”

“You got me, boy, any way you want me.” He stood up and put his arms around me from behind. I felt the hair on his chest tickling my back, the hardness of his groin pushing into my bare ass. He kissed me on the neck, on the ears; my arms hung limply by my side. He was in control.

He pushed me forward till my knees made contact with the cold metal of the bedstead, and I fell forward. The blankets, when they hit my naked body, felt as rough as his beard, as if he was kissing me all over at once. With my ass exposed and pointing upward, he started to undress my lower limbs, quickly removing each boot, pulling off my clothes till I was completely naked.

“Fuck,” he said. “Am I dreaming?”

“No, sir,” I said, and to convince him that he was very much awake I reached around and pulled my butt cheeks apart. That was all the reassurance he needed, and suddenly I felt that hot breath on my hole, felt the sandpaper of his face against my buttocks, and then—oh, brave new world!—felt his tongue lapping at me, licking me, caressing me where I had never been touched before.

For years I had dreamed of what it would be like to be with another man, to have his body at my fingers' end, to feel him and explore him with all my senses. Now that it came to it, however, I could concentrate only on one thing—the sensations that were happening to me. My entire body was on fire, tense and yet more relaxed than it had ever been, as Mick's tongue worked around my ass. His rough
hands pulled my cheeks further apart, and then, when he dived in and forced his tongue past my ass ring, where I had never imagined a tongue would go, I gasped and jerked my legs back. He came up for air for a moment, saw that I was not about to cry out for help, and got back down to work. The sensations were so intense that I had almost forgotten about my cock, which was rock hard, pressed down against the edge of the bed, pointing back between my thighs—but when Mick grasped it, still lapping at my ass, and jerked it a few times, the sensations were suddenly doubled, tripled, multiplied to a crazy infinity. I felt as if I was falling into a chasm, I called out and struggled, and then, before I knew what was happening, I was spewing hot white sperm all over the dusty floorboards.

Mick kept holding and squeezing my cock, reluctant to let it go, and lay forward so that his body covered mine, the rough cloth and wiry hair against the smooth, sweaty skin of my back. The heat felt good; without it, I might have started to shiver. I felt weak, I felt helpless, I felt like crying.

After a while—maybe a minute, maybe 20—he pushed himself up and stood. I rolled over, flexed my legs, rubbed my face. For a moment, I didn't know where to look, I felt awkward and bashful. I suppose he sensed this.

“You'll be leaving now, then,” he said, picking my shirt from the floor and holding it out to me. I took it and held it limply. I felt disappointed. Obviously our encounter was at an end.

“Can I see you again?” I asked.

He looked puzzled. “What do you mean?” His voice was suspicious.

“I mean—can we do this again?”

His eyes met mine. “We can do this anytime you want.” He stood over me, looking down hungrily at my still naked body. I could see from the bulge in his pants that he hoped it would be sooner rather than later.

“How about now?”

“You mean it? You want more?”

“I want you. I want to see you, touch you.”

He smiled. “Boy, it's all yours.” He pulled his shirt over his head, bunched it up and threw it over the chair. His body was massive, bulky, far from graceful. There was a deep scar from under his left armpit down to his abdomen. There was thick, browny-yellow hair all over, from the razor line right down to his belt, over his shoulders, all over his arms. His waist was thick, his arms long. I stood up—we were the same height, almost—and pressed myself against him, reveling in the touch of his skin, his hair, his hands. We kissed, long and deep, and my cock stirred back to life. His grasped it, and it grew quickly to full hardness.

“How old are you, Jack?”

“Nineteen today.”

“Yeah,” he said, squeezing my dick. “I remember nineteen. Always ready for more. Well, I ain't got much to give you for your birthday, Jack, but take whatever you can find.”

I dropped to my knees and buried my face in his crotch. It still smelled of piss, where our earlier efforts had splashed his pants. I could feel how hard he was, how big. I undid his belt, let his pants fall around his ankles, and fished around in his drawers for my prize. I drew it out of the fly with difficulty, as it was rock hard and inflexible—and it stuck out from the faded white cotton, thick and dark and heavy.

“Happy birthday, Jack.”

I may have entered that room a timid virgin, but by the time I left it I was a fully committed, cock-hungry slut. From my first taste of Mick's cock, with its mixture of sweat and piss and precum, I was hooked. I grasped it by the base and kissed the tip, then tentatively licked it; Mick stood there with his hands on his hips, watching my first steps with amusement.

“Come on, Jack. Open your mouth and suck it.”

I didn't need to be asked twice. I took the head between my lips, then moved down an inch or so. It was too much—I gagged—but not enough. With tears running down my cheeks, I worked my way down. I wanted him to fill me. I wanted to possess him.

“That's it, boy. Suck my dick.”

He moved one hand to the back of my head, caressing me and gently initiating an up-and-down, back-and-forth movement. With each stroke my lips were stretched further, my mouth was fuller, and my throat protested. But I would not be defeated. I breathed when I could, sucked and stroked him with a greedy vigor.

“Take it easy, Jack. I don't want to come just yet. See, at my age it takes a little longer to get ready again.”

I sat back on my heels and watched him undress. Finally he stood before me, fully naked, his thighs like tree trunks, his great prick and balls hanging there, swinging with each movement, throbbing. I did not know what to do. I wanted him, all of him, I wanted everything, I wanted to be annihilated, to be completed.

Fortunately, Mick took a more practical approach to achieving the same ends.

“You ready to be fucked, Jack?”

“I guess so.”

“It's gonna hurt like hell.”

“I don't care.”

“I'll stop if you want me to.”

I sniffed and tossed my head defiantly. “I won't.”

He laughed. “Get up on the bed. We'll take it easy to start with. Lie on your side.”

At first he held me, kissed me on the neck, caressed my cock. Then his fingers started probing into my crack, still wet from the tongue bath he'd given it earlier. If fucking was anything like that, I thought, I was in for a good night. He pushed and rubbed my hole, and slipped one wet finger in up to the first knuckle. It felt strange, but not so strange; I'd done as much and more at home alone with my fingers and one or two inanimate objects, such as candles. The finger worked its way in, and it felt good; I pushed against his hand, wanting more.