Sarge

"I think he's signaling to you, sugar."

I'd stopped to talk to the two guys who regularly positioned themselves at the corner of 4th Street Northwest in Albuquerque and the alley in which I temporarily resided in a cardboard carton. I hadn't been there long following a relocation from Las Vegas and, although I'd found some work as a gofer on a high-rise construction project downtown, I didn't have near enough funds yet to rent a room—or even to have three squares a day.

"What? Who?" I asked, swiveling my head toward the street. A dark sedan had pulled over to the curb, but I didn't see anything unusual in that. That's what they did to pick up one of the guys staked out on this corner—the guys I'd stopped to talk to after a long, dusty day walking the beams of a barebones high-rise structure.

Oh.

"The one in the car, sweetie. He's lookin' at you, I'm sure. Good looker himself too—for his age."

"Go on, honey," the other rent-boy said. "You can have this one. He wants you. Time you got out of that carton back in the alley. Lee and I here have rooms. You want one of those—and, believe me, it can get cold here in the winter, no matter what folks say about the sunny southwest—you need to expand your profit takin'."

"I don't know. I don't—"

"Don't tell me you never sucked a cock before," the first rent-boy said with exaggerated shock. "Pretty boy like you. You gotta have them linin' up."

As a matter of fact I had sucked a cock before—and had fallen into a rut of it here in Albuquerque. The job situation was very tight when I got here. Being picked up here, on 4th Street, while I was walking and minding my own business, by one of the construction foremen on the high rise project had been what had gotten me the minimal job I had. And I made more out of the occasional blow job and quick fuck I had to give him in nooks and crannies of the construction site than I got paid for chasing around on errands on the site.

"Ask for fifty and don't settle for less than twenty," rent-boy number two was advising. "If he wants more, nothin' less than a hundred. Not just for you. We have standards to keep up on this corner."

"And don't expect us to let you cut in on the business," said number one. "You just look like you haven't had a meal for a while."

At the side of the car, I leaned down and looked into the open passenger window. It was obvious what he was there for. He already had his cock out, his hand was wrapped around it, and it was hard—a long, thick hard. He was a military type. Not young, but hunky. Tall, solid, broad-chested, well-muscled. The gray buzz cut showed his age; so did the craggy, yet still handsome face. He was wearing gym shorts, the waistband pulled down to under his meaty balls, and a pristine white T-shirt on top.

I made him speak first.

"You available?"

"Maybe, for a price," I answered. "Fifty dollars. Just a BJ, though."

He gestured to the top of the dashboard, where a ten and twenty were already laid out, side by side. "I know the going rates," he said. "Get in."

I opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. The interior of the car was neat as a pin. He looked clean too. I felt like a pig pen, having just come from the construction site and not having had anyplace to clean up for a couple of days. The water was off at the site for work on the lines. I usually cleaned up there, my foreman finding an opportunity for me in the construction trailer.

I reached over for his cock, one of the biggest I'd ever seen, but he pushed my hand away. "Not here. Too risky. Won't go far, though. I'll bring you right back."

We didn't, in fact, go far—just around the corner and up a block was a closed-down gas station, the pumps having been jerked out being a good sign it wasn't open for business. There still were some clunker cars on the lot, though, and the john pulled his sedan between two of these. We couldn't be seen from the street. Someone would have to walk in almost to the tail end of the car to know it was occupied.

The john obviously had done this before.

He turned and looked at me and seemed to do a double take as if only now seeing me clearly. I felt self-conscious. I wasn't at my best with a streak of dirt on my face and wearing my baggy shorts, plaid shirt open to a dingy white T underneath, and scruffy, worn construction boots. For a second I thought he was going to tell me to get out of his nice, clean car. But his eyes went dull and I saw him relax back into his seat. He'd had his hand on his cock, but he took it off and lowered his arms to his side.

I took all that arranging of himself as a signal, and, leaning over, I took the cock in one of my hands, opened my mouth over the bulb, ran my tongue around that, and put sucking pressure on it. He stiffened and then relaxed again and let out a long groan. I ran my lips down the side of the dick, seeing how far I initially could get. I knew he'd want me to try to deep-throat it. It was a big one, though.

After just three rises and falls on the cock, however, he grasped my head and pushed it off his cock, the motion causing me to sit back up in the passenger seat and lean away from him against the passenger door.

"What? It isn't what—?"

"Not here, like this. You smell. Sorry, but I can't get past that. When was the last time you showered? When was the last time you ate anything? You're a great-looking guy, but I can't do this with someone in your condition."

"Uh, sorry," I said. "I didn't plan on this. Was just coming home from work. The guys on the corner said you wanted me, not them."

"I did. I did want you. I do. You looked so . . . and even more when you got in the car. But not like this. Coming home? You have a job? You live somewhere near where I picked you up?"

"Yeah, I got a job. Not much of one, though."

"Don't tell me. You're homeless. That's why you're in this condition."

"That, and, as I said, I was comin' home from a job. I work on that high rise they're building on Central, near the I-25 interchange. I wasn't plannin' on this."

"And you live—?"

"In the alley where you picked me up."

"And that's why you and your clothes are in the condition they're in? You don't have much of a place to get them washed?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"And the last time you had a good meal?"

"There was a bologna sandwich from a lunch wagon at noon."

"And for breakfast?"

"There was a bologna sandwich from a lunch wagon at noon."

"We can't do this here, like this."

"OK, I'll just get out. But I was willin', so at least the ten." I reached out toward the dashboard.

"You can take it all. Get your clothes cleaned at a Laundromat and get a good meal."

"And then you'll come back for me?" I asked. He was a hunk and a half even though he must have been in his late forties, at least. He was a lot better than the construction foreman. Nice big cock too. I'd already had thoughts of what more he could do with me with that cock than just a blow job.

"You'd go with me then?" he asked.

"Yeah, sure. You're hunky."

"You indicated you didn't regularly do this."

"I know what men do with men with their cocks," I said. "Just because I'm not in the business doesn't mean I'm not interested."

"So, what would you charge for all day?"

What was it the guys at the corner had said? The part about not undercharging so as not to undermine their business? Otherwise, I might go with the man for free. He was a hunk and a half, I liked them older, and this thing in the car business was making me horny. But the guys on the corner told me to keep up their standards.

"Another hundred dollars, on top of the thirty, which I use to clean up."

"Tell you what," he said, as he took out a wallet. "I'll make it a hundred and fifty total, paid up to dawn tomorrow, and we'll go back to the alley and get your other clothes, if you have any. You can come to my apartment—I live in an apartment house over on Lomas. I'll feed you and clean all of your clothes tonight and have you back here in the morning. How does that sound?"

"I have to be at work on Central by eight."

"I can get you there. No problem."

The two rent-boys weren't at the corner of 4th and my alley when we drove back, so there were no explanations that I had to give while I gathered up my stuff. There wasn't much more than a small pile of clothes, so I took it all. Better with me tonight than left here and stolen during the night. That's when this alley came to life—at night.

He marched me right to his apartment house in an older, brick-fronted six-story building with maybe two two-bedroom units on each floor. His was the only basement unit, across from a communal laundry room and storage cubicles. He had his own washer and dryer, though. The apartment was adequately furnished, obviously a bachelor's pad, but, like his car, spic and span.

"Straight to the shower," he said. "Toss out all of your clothes, and I'll toss in a pair of briefs you can wear while the clothes are washing."

The briefs were a couple of sizes too big for me, so they hung low on my waist. It's not that he was fat. Far from it. He was a fit as they came. He was just that much bigger than I was. I padded out to the combination living room, dining room, and kitchen area when I had stood under the shower for what seemed to be a half hour, luxuriating in the steam and musk-scented liquid soap and the shampoo I found there. This was heaven. I hadn't been dirty and smelly by choice.

My thoughts went back to Las Vegas and why I'd left. I'd been raised in comfort there. Falling under the control of a bouncer at a casino right out of high school, though, had changed my life—made me need to move out of town and beyond his reach. He wasn't just rough; he had a temper and liked to punch to make his points.

I saddled up on one of the stools on the living room side of a kitchen island while I was still rubbing my wet hair with a towel. The man was working in the kitchen. Steaks were out on a platter for frying in a skillet he was heating up. I could see that there were baked potatoes in the microwave. My stomach gave a lurch. It had been some time since I'd had a steak dinner.

He turned and looked at me. For a moment I saw the same look of surprise and what seemed to be both sadness and yearning in his eyes before he went duller, more remote in expression. It wasn't just his eyes that were hard, I could see him getting harder under the flimsy material of his gym shorts too as he moved along the kitchen counter, cooking with fluid, efficient movements, washing cooking pans and utensils in soapy water in the sink as he moved. Spic and span man. That was him. I thought of the Mr. Clean commercials figure. That was this guy, except that this guy had hair, albeit a close buzz clip, and craggy facial features. Same hunky build, though.

He set out a cold beer in a bottle for me. Didn't even ask my age, although I was prepared to show him my driver's license, if he did, to prove I was old enough. He nursed another one himself, while moving around in his compact kitchen area. As he cooked, he took snatches of looks at me, each time that shocked and sad expression followed by a hardening and distancing.

We ate in silence. I more like inhaled the food. He got up and fried another steak, and I devoured that one as well.

"Sorry," I said afterward. "I'm a pig."

"I can see you were hungry. I'll fry up another one if you want."

"No, thanks. I'm not that much of a pig."

"You aren't a pig at all. You are a lovely young man. You are so much like . . . well, you are achingly good looking."

"Thanks," I answered. "You're a hunk and a half yourself."

This was it then, I thought. To the bedroom to earn that $150. But, no, that wasn't happening—yet.

"You look worn out too," he said. "Both my washer and dryer are really slow. You'll have nothing to wear all night."

Here it comes, I thought.

"Why don't you go on back to the bedroom I showed you, turn in, and get a good sleep? I'll set my alarm for six, and we'll get you to work on time in the morning."

"But the $150."

"You needed setting back on your feet again. Just something I felt I needed to do. Go on now. I have some paperwork to do. I'll keep the noise down. Can't say the same for the tenants in the apartment above us. Should have evicted them a long time ago."

* * * *

He was right about the people overhead. Probably a couple. Both a male and female voice, the female voice very shrill, turning breathy later. A vocal battle raged in their living area for two hours, during which I only got snatches of sleep on the double bed taking up most of the room of the man's second bedroom. Then, when they moved to their bedroom, bedroom calisthenics, with screeching bedsprings and a headboard rhythmically bouncing against the wall behind my head for another thirty or forty minutes. When there was silence, I went out like a light.

The man visited me in the darkest of night. I wasn't surprised that he would. I don't know how long he'd been cuddled in behind me, naked, his hard cock pressing up the small of my back, embracing me, with a hand encasing my cock, and kissing the back of my neck, before I was awake enough to know he was there. The hand work was sporadic, hesitating, as if he was trying to make up his mind what he wanted to do.

I was still in a hazy zone when I felt him slipping the briefs I'd worn to bed—his briefs—off my legs.

When I was fully awake, I just sighed for him and pressed my body back into his, letting him know he could have me. He'd paid for me, he'd treated me real well, and, well, he was a hunk and a half with a big cock that I'd already wondered about taking. It's not that I was fast or easy. But it also wasn't as if I hadn't been fucked before. And I had taken his money for staying the night.

I had agreed to give him sex before I'd ever gotten into his car.

Once having been reassured that I'd take him, he started off slow and sensual. Kissing my neck and shoulders and, when I turned my face to him, kissing me tenderly on the lips. His hands glided all over my body, always pausing to give my cock strokes. I felt like I should give him attention, and I did reach back for his cock, but he moved it away from me, signaling that he wanted to work my body. And work it, he did, tenderly and gently, but with a sensuality that had me moaning and sighing and moving my hips. As he kissed and tongued and worked my body with one hand, he loosened the grip on my cock to provide a sleeve for me to fuck his fist. At some point, he'd slathered his hand with lube, and I stroked in the sheath his hand provided until, with a long sigh, I came.

He moved down my naked body, pressing his hands on my butt cheeks and pulling them apart. I felt his hot breath on my hole, blowing on it, and then his tongue pressing against the rim, breaching the rim, pushing into me deep. I raised my buttocks to him—presenting not only for what he was doing now, but for a good angle for the slide of the cock.

"Yes, yes," I murmured. I couldn't signal any better than this that he could fuck me.

Kneading my butt cheeks, keeping them pressed apart, the wetness of lube, the pressing of fingers. One . . . two . . . three.

"Open for me. Open for me, baby," I heard him murmur. "I'll be good to you. I don't want to hurt you."

To the extent I could open to that big cock of his, I did. "Yes, yes," I whispered with a sigh. My hips involuntary raised themselves further and went into a fucking motion. My cock was hard again, the bulb dragging back and forth on the sheet. He encased it again with a hand.

"Fuck me, fuck me. Give it to me now," I whined.

I heard the snap of the condom being rolled onto this cock and adjusted, and I moaned in want for him. "Yes, fuck me," I murmured again, more eloquent words escaping me in my need for it.

When he started sliding it into me, I was almost open enough to take him. Almost. He was patient, moving into me at a glacial pace. I kept chanting, "Give it to me. Bury it deep. Give it to me. Giveittome."

Fully mounted, he moved slowly inside me, giving me all of it, pulling back, slowly sliding in. He was stretched out above me, but not putting his full weight on me, an arm embracing my chest, his lips in the hollow of my neck, a hand slow stroking my cock.

Whispering in my ear, "You're so nice, so tight, so good." And he seemed to be whispering a name too. Not mine, though, one I couldn't quite hear. It hit me then that he didn't know my name—and I didn't know his. We hadn't exchanged names. How weird, I briefly thought. But this wasn't a time for thought. This was a time for pleasure and for building up to that next ejaculation.

"Faster, harder. Give it to me harder," I cried out, feeling my sap rising again, but wanting to blow in fury, not romance.

With a groan and a grunt, he pulled me up fully to my knees, grasped my waist with one strong hand, and buried the other one in the hair at the back of my head and arching me, painfully, back toward him. He was crouching over me, though, set in a stance of power, set to pound my ass, hard and deep, the power of his whole weight going into each thrust. Each thrust causing me to jerk and cry out.

"Shit! Fuck! Shitshitshit!" I screamed as he pounded me hard. Pounded, pounded, pounded.

I came again. He pulled out of me, jerked off the condom, and gave me three wads of cum over the small of my back. He immediately climbed down from the bed, muttering, "Sorry. I'm so sorry."

He was out of the room before I could say, "Don't be sorry. I asked for it. I wanted. I loved it." But I said it anyway.

* * * *

He couldn't look at me in the morning while he was fixing our breakfast—a full country breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, even a couple of pancakes with butter and syrup. A pint of OJ; a gallon of coffee.

The most he would say was, "A construction worker needs a good start on the day."

Especially one who'd had the stuffing exhaustively fucked out of him the night before, I thought. I wanted to say that I wasn't a real construction worker, just a gofer for tools and construction material and guys' lunch boxes. But I could see that each time I said something, he winced. Like he preferred to pretend I wasn't even there. At least that I couldn't speak, couldn't call him out for losing control with me last night.

He drove me to the construction site in silence. Before I got out of the car, he said, "Your clothes will be ready by the time you finish work. Sorry I didn't get them folded before we left this morning."

Ironed and folded, I'll bet, I thought. "It's OK, there are buses back to where you live. I'll stop in for them."

"And I'll feed you dinner?" It was a question, not a statement. He wasn't claiming possession or anything.

"Yeah, sure, that would be great," I answered as I got out of the car. It could just be dinner and that was all. I'd take him again if he wanted me. I'd be happy to, without money. He already was giving me stuff. His cooking was great—and free. I'd be happy to lie under him again. It just didn't seem to be what he wanted. Last night had really shut him down. Guess I wasn't that great after all, I thought.

I couldn't figure out what I was supposed to do last night, what would have pleased him. I somehow did something wrong and made him angry during the fuck. I just didn't know what it was. But it was good for me both ways.

That day, although the construction foreman made suggestions of getting me alone, I fended them off. I had no idea why I did that. I did, though, stay hard most of the day thinking of the royal fucking I'd gotten the previous night.

When I got back to the apartment, the man was a bit more relaxed, more open.

"I went through your things. Most of your stuff is beyond its last leg. And those boots. They're about to fall apart. What say we go shopping after dinner."