Gto

"A cherry red convertible? 1965?"

"Yep, six coats of base under six coats of clear."

"And completely rebuilt"

"Yep, all genuine Pontiac GTO parts. A 389 V8 trimotor, four-speed manual, with 3.73 gears. I'm telling you you won't find a honey classic GTO like this anywhere else for much under a hundred grand."

"Can you hold it for three hours? No, two hours. I'm in Asheville. I can be in Knoxville in two hours. Can you just hold it that long? I'll bring cash."

"Well, OK—unless, of course, someone comes in offering more for it than I listed. I doubt that will happen . . . but no one ever can tell, can they?"

"$85,000. If it's what you say it is, I'll go $85,000, if you'll just hold off on any other offers until I get there."

"You'll be needing directions then, I guess. I live just south of the city on . . ."

That started Craig's long journey out of his hermit-like existence. It seems ironic that this is how it started, because developing a love for collecting classic muscle cars was what Craig had chosen to sustain himself in his life of isolation in the first place.

Craig hadn't always been a recluse. He had been an open and friendly guy, with few cares in the world; a good, if not great, job; and comfortable in having come out in his late teens and established that he was who he was and going to get his sexual enjoyment where his inclinations led him. And he had quite an appetite for what men could give him.

Then he'd been so lucky that it drove him into seclusion and a life of distrust. He'd won $20 million in the North Carolina lottery. From that point he'd become one of the most popular guys in Asheville. And suddenly he was everyone's friend and he was the most handsome and studliest guy at the local gay bars.

He now had his pick of men. And it wasn't more than two months until he'd met, Franco, the love of his life, the golf pro at the Grove Park Inn resort, and that Franco had moved into Craig's new mansion out near the Biltmore Estate. Franco was a classic car enthusiast, so Craig started buying classic cars and added a ten-car garage at the rear of his new mansion. Franco liked name-brand tailored suits, so Craig bought him a closet full of those. Franco liked expensive wines. Craig didn't care much for wine, but he bought Franco a wine cellar full. Franco liked Rolex watches; Craig was happy with his own Timex, but he was happy to buy Franco a Rolex.

Then one afternoon Craig visited the Grove Park Inn golf club unexpectedly and found Franco liking one of the women members too closely and intimately on top of the desk in his pro shop office.

When Franco was gone, along with Craig's trust and self-respect, Craig was left with a collection of classic cars. They at least still pleased him and didn't laugh at him for his naiveté. So, he shut himself off from the world and concentrated his love on his cars.

"I'll take it, Mr. Williams. It's exactly what I needed for my collection." Craig had hightailed it over the Great Smoky Mountains from Asheville to Knoxville in record time and had fallen in love with the GTO convertible the moment he laid eyes on it. He'd been looking for exactly this car for a year; he'd just recently been to a car show in St. Louis where he heard one was for sale—but it never was brought forward there.

He'd had a little trouble finding the place south of Knoxville, although it was a nice enough place when he got there. No more classic cars about, which Craig had found surprising. But the house, a log cabin affair, but of a modern design, was sitting in a nice stand of forested land, and the owner was a young, clean-cut guy. Actually, he was quite good looking, and, from the looks of his muscled body, Craig would have believed he'd built the log cabin himself. He had a nice, friendly smile.

"You can call me Bob, please. Well, I'll sell my baby to you on one condition."

"What's that, Bob. I assure you that I'm offering top dollar."

"And don't I know it," Bob said. And then he laughed. "But I really wasn't lookin' to sell this honey, except for the economy bein' the way it is, ya know. I'll sell it to you, but I'd like to visit it occasionally."

"Well . . . that's not a problem, of course," Craig said. "But isn't it sort of far to come over the mountains just to visit a car?"

"It ain't just a car," Bob said, his voice dripping with shock. "It's a 1965 Pontiac GTO. It's the classic muscle car of all time. But it so happens I'm resettling near Asheville anyways—down near Hendersonville."

"Well, then, it's a deal," Craig said. "I have the cash here, and I'll arrange for delivery."

"Oh, that's OK. I'll drive it over to you myself. I can do that now, if you like. I already got folks and a car down in Hendersonville I can use for the return trip."

It was dinnertime when they got back to Asheville, and it would have been impolite for Craig not to invite Bob in for a bite to eat. They hit if off famously over a meal and a couple of beers, while sitting on the back screened porch and watching twilight set over the GTO on the parking apron. They talked a lot about classic cars and car rallies, and Bob mentioned there was one in Winston-Salem the next weekend that Craig should take the GTO to. And Craig noted he hadn't heard about that rally and that he didn't really go to the car rallies—that he didn't go out much at all, just to a car dealer's show every once in a while when he knew a car he wanted was being shown and sold.

"Well, you really should go, Craig," Bob said, turning his winning smile on his new acquaintance. "I had half promised to bring the GTO there myself. I probably would have if it hadn't sold before then. They're gonna be a mite disappointed when it doesn't show up."

"I don't really go—"

"Say, I could come over and drive you there in the GTO."

"Well—"

Bob had said the rally would probably run late and maybe they should spend the night in Winston-Salem. And then he said he'd make the arrangements himself.

But that day, when they got to the motel, there had been some mix-up and there was only one room reserved.

"I'll check the reservation," a concerned, frowning desk clerk said.

"Ah, no bother. We can make do in the one room, can't we, Craig?" prompted Bob. That winning smile again.

"Well, I—"

"And there isn't time to find another one anyway," Bob cut in. "We're pretty late gettin' to the rally as it is. We really—"

"It's not really a problem," the desk clerk said. "We do have—"

"No, no, it's just fine," Bob cut in. "Just let me have the key, and we'll drop our bags and be on our way to the rally."

Craig thoroughly enjoyed the rally. It was the most pleasure he'd had in some time, and he quickly lost the shyness he'd built up from months of seclusion. And he warmed even more to Bob, who was glad-handing everyone and looking good as he sauntered around the maze of cars in his tight, low-rise jeans, a cut-off T he said he wore to keep himself cool and that showed off his washboard abs and a very intriguing belly button, and his brown-leather cowboy boots. He was the star of the show—if you didn't count the cars.

They stopped for dinner and beers at a steak house and didn't make it back to the motel until late.

Bob declared he had to have a shower right there and then and, with a wink, told Craig to choose one of the double beds in the room for himself while Bob was gone.

When he came out of the bathroom, with just a towel around his waist, Bob asked Craig which bed he'd picked, and Craig, having spent the time fighting with the thoughts he was having rather than picking a bed, hazily pointed to one of them.

"That's the nicest one," Bob said, flashing that smile again. Then he dropped his towel and said. "Do you mind if we share it?"

It had been months since Craig had kicked Franco out of the house, and he had lived in isolation from that time, not even going to any of his old haunts down on the strip. He'd been pretty active before that, so he'd be the first one to admit that he was ripe for what Bob was offering.

Bob was built and strong and virile and long lasting. Craig had no idea that a man could be taken in as many positions—not to speak of so frequently in the span of a night—as Bob fucked him on the shared bed that night and over the desk chair in the morning and in the shower as they were getting ready for the hearty breakfast they then both needed.

Bob had talented hands and a sweet mouth on Craig's cock and an ability to bring Craig to the brink and then back and then up again and not nearly as far back as the first time, and then to clamp his lips and teeth down at the base of Craig's glans and to pull and roll Craig's balls at the point of ejaculation in a way that made Craig come in waves of intense pleasure. And then Bob stood between Craig's legs and spread them, and laughed as Craig arched his back and cried out when Bob slowly entered him with an upward curved cock that made love to Craig's channel walls and responded instantaneously to what the intensity of Craig's moans revealed he found most arousing.

Bob arranged to visit the GTO nearly monthly for the next half year, always about a week after Craig was in so much heat over the memory of what Bob could do to him that he rushed, flushed and aroused, to the door to greet Bob on arrival. It was almost like Bob was timing his visits for that rather than for a need to see the GTO.

Craig wasn't totally dumb about what possibly was going on here. It hadn't been just Franco. There'd been various other schemes afoot to part Craig from the portion of the lottery winnings the government hadn't taken in taxes, so that he was already down to something under a third of the original sum. There'd been a lot of people with their hands out, all with plausible stories of needs, and it had taken Craig some time to steel himself against them. The Franco fleecing had just been the most cutting, the most hurtful of all.

Still, Craig was besotted with Bob. On the sixth visit, he met Bob at the door, naked, and ran with him to the GTO, and they fucked in the car as it sat under the crepe myrtles out on the parking apron. Bob's beautiful, young, lithe body was slouched across the backseat, and Craig straddled his pelvis and rode his cock, yodeling his pleasure. Happily, there were no neighbors close enough to see or hear how wanton Craig had become.

"It's a long way from Hendersonville," Bob whispered in Craig's ear when Craig had collapsed across his body in the GTO's backseat.

"Uh, huh," Craig murmured back.

"I wouldn't mind seein' the GTO more often," Bob whispered.

"That would be nice," Craig responded, thinking of more than the car at the moment. More visits by Bob would mean more attention paid to Craig's channel.

"Perhaps it's time for us to start thinkin' of me movin' in here," Bob said. Craig lifted his head and looked into Bob's eyes. All he saw was the friendly, fetching smile he always saw there.

Still, Craig's antennae and defenses clanked into position. He didn't want Bob to sense the sudden chill in the air, so he moved off of him slowly. "That's certainly something we should talk about. Maybe the next time you come. But the reason we got right to it today is that I have someplace I need to go. So, maybe I'll just leave you out here, visiting the GTO this evening, and I'll go get ready for that—and we'll talk more about this the next time you visit."

If Bob noticed the sudden change in climate, he didn't say anything about it. Still, he had to call to try to arrange the next meeting several times before Craig set a date and time.

"I don't see the GTO out here," Bob said on that date when Craig answered the door. "You've always had it parked out here when I came."

"It's not here, Bob," Craig said, not opening the door all of the way, not giving room for Bob to feel like he was being welcomed into the house. "I sold it."

"You sold it?" Bob asked, in astonishment. "You can't just have sold it."

"But I did, Bob. So, you see there's no reason for you to stalk me now. I can't be worth your effort now."

"Stalking? Effort?"

"I've been hurt before, Bob. This lottery money has become a curse. You are too good. I could give up a piece of fluff like Franco. I knew—in my heart—what he was when I bought him. But it's getting to be something else with you, Bob—it is getting too close to my heart. It's best we just cut it off here. The car is gone. There's nothing here for you to visit anymore."

"You think I've been comin' here to visit a fuckin car, Craig?" Bob burst out. "God, man, I'm here for you."

"No, please, Bob. Don't. I can't—"

But Bob had already pushed his way into the foyer, bringing Craig with him, stripping Craig down as he pushed him to the floor, and fucked him hard and deep on the circular carpet in front of the gracefully curved staircase rising to the second floor. Bob struggled and fought him, but only until Bob had mounted and skewered him, and then he moaned and groaned and slowly gave into the invasion of the curved cock of his channel, his channel walls beginning to undulate in waves of pleasure and his betraying hips taking up the rhythm of the fuck.

After he had come and Bob had ejaculated deep inside him, Bob stood and took Craig up in his arms and carried him up the staircase to the master bedroom and started the fuck all over again.

Hours later, when both were exhausted, Bob moved his lips to Craig's ear and whispered, "I lied about the stalking. I've stalked you from the beginning. I saw you at a car show in St. Louis and knew I wanted you. And I was told you were there lookin' for a 1965 GTO convertible. It took me three months to find one, and then I told dealers you were in contact with that I had one—but that I'd only sell it to you. I paid more for it than you paid me. It's not the GTO I want, or your money—I've got money aplenty—it's you, you dumbass."

They kissed, and Craig smiled at Bob through his tears. "I lied too. I didn't sell the GTO. It's in the last bay in the back of the garage."