Out on the Street

Author Note: If you want this story to make any sense, please read Part One first. Also, be advised this work contains scenes of non-consensual sex and exploitative sexual situations. It also makes heavy use of the term 'boy' in its colloquial sense - that is, to indicate a male of younger age and lesser status than the speaker. It is not a reference to children. All characters are 18 years of age or older.

-----

Vittorio:

Neither of us spoke on the journey back home from Frank's house that night. I was quiet because I was wretched, filled with guilt about what I'd entangled Angelo in - again. I was sure he'd hated it, that he'd blame me, that he'd hate me too, now.

I attempted to gauge the nature of his silence...without any luck. It was often hard to tell what Angelo was thinking. My stepfather, who'd never had much time for him, used to say that it was hard to tell

if

Angelo was thinking.

I hoped he wasn't wondering if I'd set him up. I'd been hoping that - pleading internally, with every saint I could think of, for all the good it was likely to do - ever since Frank had instructed me to take him. I'd never imagined doing such a thing, never even thought of thinking it, and I didn't, didn't,

didn't

want to do it, but I was there to do as Frank wished, not as I wished, and so was Angelo...now that I'd lured him there.

It had seemed the worst sort of betrayal, and I felt terrible while I was at it. Yet at the same time I understood in a moment why men sought this, why they bought it. I knew I would finish, though I'd had no desire to start...and for that I felt all the more guilty.

All I could think of to do was apologize, and once I started I couldn't stop that either - I heard my voice, as though from a distance, saying 'sorry, sorry, sorry', over and over, like a novena, hoping he was hearing me, hoping he believed me.

When the tables were turned, I felt nothing much but relief...in my mind, at least. Very little squeamishness, that - ugh - this was Angelo, maybe because at least now I couldn't

see

him, and certainly no resentment...I was getting nothing more than my just desserts.

He was done quickly, and I shook it off, as I had every other fuck, washed it off also, and then, and then...

then

we came back to the bedroom, to the sight of Frank, unbuttoned and clearly very ready, stroking his over-generous endowment, and I felt a sudden urge to bolt. But there was nowhere to go, so instead I did as I was bid, and climbed back up on the bed on all fours.

In some ways it was less bad than I'd feared, no doubt due to his cautious approach, his liberal use of the salve he had a big tin of, sitting on a bureau. It probably also helped to have been primed by Angelo, as he'd inferred.

In other ways it was worse than I could possibly have imagined. The room was brightly lit despite it being dark outside, I was entirely unclothed, on display, and Angelo had a ringside seat. I'd never felt more exposed, more vulnerable. A house may be safer than an alleyway, but in such a moment it doesn't seem that way.

I yearned for the cloak of darkness and anonymity. I found darkness, at least, by closing my eyes, but I couldn't remove myself completely, because I couldn't close my ears, and Frank was talking to me, steady, calm, and continuous, as he speared me. It was an enormously disconcerting experience - his quiet soothing voice, the gentleness of his tracing fingers, in sharp contrast with the unforgiving rigidity of the organ he was gradually embedding in me.

And he was so

slow

- so

dawdling,

almost, about everything! I couldn't just brace myself, let my thoughts flee, allow it go on and pretend all this was happening to someone else. His voice kept pulling me back down, grounding me, reminding me that I was here, that I was me, and his easy, undulating advances supplanted the usual searing blur with layer on layer of detail, of bizarre un-ignorable sensation.

He seemed to have invaded and overcome my mind as much as my rear - it was already too much, and then he sent Angelo in underneath me...

I looked across at him trudging along beside me, our feet in step as often happened, and wondered if he was disgusted with me, if he was disgusted with himself...if I was either of those things.

No, I decided, mulling it over - aside from feeling worried about how he might feel, I was only a bit shaken and very confused just now. Confused that people with such tastes as Frank existed, confused at all the horseplay he'd insisted on between myself and Angelo when he might have just taken either or both us any way he chose without any preamble whatsoever. Confused at his apparent interest in witnessing us climax when it wasn't in any way necessary to the proceedings. Confused by my own apparent ability to do so, not once but twice, and in such outlandish circumstances....

I was also a little confused about whether or not to repeat the experience. On the one hand, it would be stupid to turn down a guaranteed five dollars a week - though what other whimsies might Frank subject us to, if that was just the beginning?

But...five dollars, and a bath. Bread with jam spooned on in great dollops, in place of smeary scrapes. And cigarettes and apples and cheese...and only once a week.

I weighed the possibilities one against another, and decided I'd go back if Angelo would. I also knew I could

only

go back if Angelo would. And that if my concerns about being a bad influence on him were genuine at all, I had to let him decide, and not try to persuade him.

Angelo went to bed and to sleep as soon as we arrived back to our bunks. He said nothing about it the next day, or about anything much else. The topic wasn't mentioned Monday, either. By then I was sure he was angry, and I was miserable. I decided it would be best to drop the whole thing. I'd do a lot for five dollars a week, but not if it meant sacrificing our friendship.

Tuesday morning he was cheerful enough and I was reserved, nearly full to the brim with self-blame. In the evening after the hooter blew, we followed our usual routine, aimlessly walking the streets until we came across a place offering soup and hash for cheap, eating, resuming our wandering.

After about ten minutes, Angelo crouched down beside a wagon in the lee of the wind to light a cigarette, and I followed suit.

He looked at me as he drew on it. "Well, what are we going to do?"

In the moment, I didn't understand. "About what?"

He frowned. "About your friend on the Upper East Side, of course!"

I glared back, protesting, "He isn't any friend of mine!"

He stood and reached a hand down to me, to haul me to my feet. "Mmh - well, you know what I mean. You heard him. We have to decide to together. And if we aren't allowed to do any...other stuff, then we ought to decide tonight."

He was right. Tuesday was a good evening to stake out a spot where you could be found by someone on the prowl. Sundays were no good because the taverns were closed, and Mondays were usually slim pickings as well, so after two days of restraint, there were plenty of men looking to cut loose a little.

I nodded, unsure of what to say, not wanting to push him in one direction or another.

"What do you think we should do?" he prompted.

"I don't know," I confessed, "but I'm sorry about some of that...stuff, that happened. You have to believe me, I had no idea it was going to be like that."

"It was something else," he agreed. "But maybe it was worth it, for five dollars."

I felt relief beginning to seep through my body. If he was evaluating the experience in this pragmatic way, then any horror or disgust he might've felt had run its course.

"So you didn't dislike it too much?" I ventured.

He gave me an odd look. "I'd say I pretty much did. But I don't suppose anybody

enjoys

being buggered," adding, "though it does...improve things, when you have a tongue wrapped about your prick while it's going on." He grinned, and dug me in the ribs.

I couldn't believe he would joke about it...I went hot all over with embarrassment and shied away from him a little. He gave me a hard shove then, making me stagger and almost lose my footing. I tilted back at him and before I knew it, we were boxing one another on the sidewalk.

We were separated in short order by a tall, forbidding-looking man, who simply snapped at us to 'take it elsewhere', before striding away.

"Where were we?" said Angelo, re-settling his clothes, reaching down to pick up a shirt button I'd managed to rip off.

"We were discussing Frank," I reminded him. "But you know, we

don't

have to decide tonight. We have five dollars from Saturday. That's enough for now. We can decide later in the week."

He shrugged. "If you like. You're right, five dollars is about as much as I ever made in a week on my knees in an alley. Let's give it away for today."

We walked on companionably, no destination in mind, kicking at objects on the sidewalk, the silence between us no longer a gulf. I couldn't help thinking that five dollars was well

more

than I'd ever made in a week on my knees, and feeling a tiny stab of jealousy.

I was still chiding myself for that, when Angelo spoke again.

"Would

you go back?"

"I don't want to say," I admitted. "I want you to decide. I landed you in this...this whole thing, actually. I'll do what you want."

"Mmh," he grunted, again. Then, after a few seconds, "I thought it might be risky, getting involved with somebody like that. We can't afford to do anything to make him angry. I mean, you saw his house - if he isn't important himself, he'll have important friends. But then...we saw his house. We know where he lives. We might be able to find out other things about him as well. You probably could, anyway. You're the clever one."

Despite apparently being the clever one, I was trailing behind. "What are you driving at?"

"Well," he said, peeking at me out the corner of his eye, "I doubt he would want any of his important friends finding out about his strange appetites."

"How do you suppose we would track down his important friends?" I demanded, irritated. "How do you suppose we would even get

access

to them - get

heard,

never mind believed?"

"I didn't mean that," he replied, unruffled. "Only that he's taking some kind of a risk, same as we are...and that makes it safer."

If my stepfather had been present, I'd have been able to throw open my arms, and say;

"See? He

does

think! He thinks

just fine!"

Though if my stepfather had heard any of the context, he'd have been too busy being outraged at the pair of us to appreciate Angelo's impeccable logic.

"So," I prompted, "are you saying you might give it a try?"

"I reckon I will, if you will - for a while, anyway," he replied. "Better to have a sure five dollars than a maybe, seems to me. What do you think?"

"Alright," I agreed, "alright, we'll give it a go."

-----

Frank:

The certainty I felt that those boys would return, was, as it turned out, a mere mirage - a chemical by-product of the blazing triumph of orgasm. It passed, and I evaluated the situation in a level-headed way, acknowledging that the chances of encountering them again were even at best.

But hope was always at my elbow, breaking in, like a pestering nephew in pursuit of sweets. And my libido!

That

was like a horse turned out to pasture after a winter in stables, careening here and there, shying at nothing, kicking up its heels, dropping down to roll, haring off again in no particular direction.

I wondered how long it would take to settle down again if those boys didn't come back. I wondered how long it would take to settle down again if they

did.

And whether I wanted it to.

My pulse spiked, giving me an odd edge-of-the-cliff feeling, when I saw them waiting there for me at the corner on Sunday, looking plenty at home, despite the fact that this was likely an unfamiliar part of the city for them - practised loiterers, both - young and lithe and fundamentally free, untrammelled by the many constraints that pressed in on me from all sides.

Though of course, I confessed to myself, I wouldn't exchange my stability or my comfort for what they had, which was essentially the freedom of having nothing much left to lose - but there was something undeniably alluring about the combination of their obvious youth, their assurance, and their independence.

"Good evening," I said, as I drew alongside, subtly beckoning them to follow. "Have you had a pleasant week?"

Immediately, the ease between them evaporated - I caught them darting a quick glance at one another, before Vittorio simply replied;

"Sir?" - which I understood to be more of a respectful place-filler than either an answer or a question.

A pleasant week, I thought to myself. A pleasant week? No I don't suppose you have. What are you going to say next, Frank? Lovely weather we're having, isn't it? Just leave them be for now.

I had them bathe again. I watched them while they did it, again. I went a little easier on them once we adjourned to the bedroom - no need to be doing everything every time. Particularly given it seemed there were going to be other times.

In the weeks that followed, I strove to progress things, working patiently with - on - them, trying in some small way to mould them to whatever fantasy was insurgent in my mind that day without turning them into simple puppets, without erasing what either of them were, and weren't.

After a month or so I thought I could see the limits of what we'd be able to achieve. They were no longer overawed by either me or the backdrop of my house, my bedroom. They were biddable without being servile, politely tolerant of my foibles. But they remained stilted and apologetic with each other if I asked them to simulate any sort of foreplay, engage in any kissing, caressing - more comfortable with the business end of things.

I supposed I could hardly blame them - it's an oddity of men in general to happily copulate with someone we know barely at all, but kissing - supposedly a step on the way - is avoided in such situations because it feels too intimate.

They were also, I felt, more accepting of being utilized than they were of being watched. I supposed the delectation of voyeurism was likely to remain confusing for anyone reared in an environment where there was no such thing as privacy, and hence no taboo to break. No doubt they perfectly understood that a man needs to get one off now and then, but they couldn't wrap their heads around why he must needs watch others at it.

These small considerations aside, both my mind and my body were extremely appreciative of the arrangement we'd formed - I always started to feel a sort of small pleasurable tingle of anticipation, beginning somewhere in my abdomen, about Friday, increasing in strength and intrusiveness, making the slow drag of Sunday afternoon a sort of pain-pleasure, by the time it rolled around - and I never ceased to experience the sudden wash of exultation when there they were, once again, waiting for me.

As we spent more time together, I came to know them, some - or I felt I did. It was good to have the two of them, even aside from the opportunity it presented for watching them play - their obvious contrasts threw one another into relief and each amplified the other, somehow.

My obsession with Angelo's beauty continued unabated, but as time went on I noticed that though he was a thoroughbred in body, he was more of a cart-horse mentally. I had the sense that the world surrounding him, in all it's colorful gory potential, simply didn't fascinate him. He was essentially incurious, his existence composed of routine and bland fact, stripped of conjecture. It didn't make him any less of a feast for the eyes.

Vittorio, on the other hand, was mighty inquisitive at times. Once, perched on my spare bed, naked as a jaybird, he asked me what was in my glass.

"It's Scotch," I told him, without thinking to explain further.

Back he came, more like a cheeky sparrow than a jaybird. "What's that, then?"

"It's whisky, made in Scotland," I specified. "Do you know where Scotland is?"

He screwed up his face for a moment. "It's on top of England, is it?"

"Something like that," I agreed. "They make a lot of whisky there, and it's drunk all over the world - no-one else can make it quite the same."

On another occasion, clothed this time, eating slices of apple at the end of an evening, he said;

"Sir, what do you do? What's your work?"

"I'm an importer," I replied. "Of tableware, in the main. I have the license to distribute in the States, for a number of European manufacturing houses. Some china, but mostly crystal, like this," tilting my tumbler toward him slightly, "which was made in Ireland, at the Waterford works."

Angelo intervened to ask me how much the tumbler was worth.

"This one?" I asked, frowning down at it, as it winked light back at me from its facets. In truth, it wasn't an especially expensive piece. I'd simply developed an attachment to it over time - it was weighty, but not too weighty, and it fit well to my hand.

"I'm not entirely sure nowadays," I admitted. "I've had it for a while. I think probably about a dollar, maybe a little more."

Angelo went wide-eyed and silent, but Vittorio asked me if I actually

bought

the goods and then sold them here, or if there was some other way of doing it, 'because how would you gather the money to buy such quantities of expensive goods, months before you could get to sell them again?' I was amused and impressed in equal measure, and spent ten minutes or so skating over the basics of distribution contracts and business loans with him, before waving them off into the night once more.

Inevitably, our activities shook down into something resembling a routine. This wasn't reflective of any guttering of my desire - rather, I settled on the things which gratified me most. Always, I would watch the two of them together first, choreographing them closely.

I'd have them handle one another or go down on one another until they were both aroused, a tactic which never failed - they were young and apparently healthy, and could easily obtain erections under direct stimulation even in trying circumstances.

Then I'd set them to wrestling and nuzzling and frotting against one another, talking with them about foreplay, about the creation of a sense of anticipation, the possibility of a desire that extended beyond the animal urge to empty their gonads, about gratification being sweeter when delayed.

Usually I'd wind up this aspect of the evening by having Angelo mount his friend in some pose or another. Occasionally I suffered some qualms about the rank hypocrisy of my lecturing them on eroticism being largely in the mind, having specifically put them in a position where they were now hostage to the needs of their bodies, helpless in the face of their own potency.

I was also aware that the division of labor wasn't wholly fair to Vittorio in this regard, but Angelo showed to such advantage when he was active, slowly, deliberately thrusting, working up a sheen of sweat, raised up on his fists, neck and torso corded with muscle - besides, with his small, lissome physique, Vittorio folded up neatly a hundred different ways under or around him without any particular evidence of strain.

I never tired of watching them at it, and I endeavored to enlarge my window of opportunity by requiring Angelo to hold off his climax for longer and longer periods, and despite not seeming an especially teachable individual, he improved considerably in this regard as time went on.

When he was done, I usually went one of two ways, despite having a tableful of options in front of me. Either I'd excuse Vittorio to wash and dress and rest with a cigarette, lounging against the wall of the bathroom, and have Angelo bring me off with his mouth, or I'd excuse Angelo instead, and take his place inside Vittorio.