Shar

"Pretty hot work."

"You can say that again, sir. And that's a pretty hot car you got there."

"Thanks. I'm addicted to Corvettes."

"What year?"

"This year. I usually trade up every other year."

"Shit, man. That's beyond my imagination. Oh, sorry for the 'shit.' We were told not to curse around the motorists."

"No problem. It's a fuckin' good set of wheels."

"Yes, it fuckin' is." The young flagman flashed a broad smile, made comfortable by the man's congeniality, and stepped a couple of steps closer in toward the windshield of the metallic blue Corvette convertible. He was minimally dressed, in keeping with the high heat of summer in western Kansas. He had the requisite fluorescent green safety vest, but no shirt, showing a set of very serious biceps, a tattoo of a sunburst on one. He was blond, with a long ponytail trailing out of the back of his safety helmet, but he'd been tanned deeply by the realities of his job. "Saw the license plate. Shark. That your name or something?"

"No, you could say more that that's what I do," the dark-haired—with gray streaks—dusky-complexioned, goateed middle-aged man behind the Corvette's wheel said, with a laugh. "Hard job standing out here changing a sign from 'slow' to 'stop' hour on end."

"Yeah, gets pretty hot and dry out here—and monotonous, 'cept when someone tools up in a flash car like this one. We've been working this stretch of highway 50 ten miles short of Cimarron for nearly a year now—with nearly a year to go. Pretty much unforgivable desert out here. But it's a job. Don't know what I'll do when the road's done."

"I've got some beer on ice in the chest behind my seat. Could I entice you with one?"

"No, sorry, sir. Can't drink on the job. Sounds wonderful, though."

"I've got bottled water too—ice cold. You allowed to accept that?"

"Yes, thanks, sir."

"Don't need to call me that," the man said as he reached into the cooler and came up with a bottle of designer water. "You can call me Beel, if you've got a name to exchange."

The young man smiled as he reached over and accepted the water. "Zeke. They call me Zeke. Thanks for the water, Bill. I'm sorry you got stuck in line just at the changeover. It shouldn't be more than a couple of more minutes. You might want to put the top up on the Vette, though. It's really hot out here."

"I'm used to heat, Zeke. And it's Beel, not Bill. It's short for something—but I'm sure you don't want to get into that now. It's Friday. You got to do this on Saturday and Sunday too?"

"Naw, we've got the weekend off. And today's pay day. We'll be hitting Wyatt's hard."

"Wyatt's?"

"The local pool and poker hall in Cimarron. We cool off in there Friday nights—trying to double our pay and slaking our thirst from a week of dust out here on the unfinished road."

"So, you're a local, Zeke?"

"Yeah. Cimarron born and raised—which isn't half exciting as it might sound. This town's heyday was back in the Wild West days. Nothin' exciting' has happened here in decades."

"Maybe someone should change that," the Corvette driver said, with a smile. "Any good motels in Cimarron?"

"Well, there's the Cimarron Hotel and the Blue Jay Inn. But notice I didn't answer the 'any good?' question."

"One more private than the other one?"

"Guess that would be the Blue Jay Inn. Here comes the pilot car now, so I gotta step back in the slot and you'll be on your way in no time now. Thanks for the water . . . Beel."

"And thanks for the conversation and view, Zeke. See you around."

Zeke returned to his position, ready to turn his sign from 'stop' to 'slow' without another thought to the man in the Corvette—although he watched the tail of the car drive off with appreciation and envy.

* * * *

"So, you allowed to accept that beer now?"

"What? Oh, the man with the Vette. Bill, was it?"

"No, it's Beel. And I'd really like to buy you that beer—for leading me to Wyatt's. This does look like it's where it's happening."

"Not that anything's happening much around here," Zeke said with a snort.

"I think we'll manage," Beel said in a quiet voice, a little knowing smile on his face.

Out of the automobile, the man—Beel—looked more commanding to Zeke than how he'd remembered him when looking down into the driver's seat of the convertible. He was tall and barrel-chested. Looked like he worked out still, even at his age—which also didn't look as old as before when the gray streaks in his hair and goatee were more prominent. He was wearing an expensive-looking gray tweed Western-cut jacket, matching well-pressed trousers, and finely tooled leather cowboy boots—which gave him the look of a wealthy Texas oilman or cattle rancher. As far as Zeke could tell, that was probably what he was.

For his part, Zeke cleaned up real good too—after he'd showered off the dust of the road construction out on route 50 and shampooed his hair, which now showed its golden highlights. He was wearing faded, but clean, tight blue jeans and a tight red T-shirt, exhibiting bulging thighs and a chest tapering down to a flat belly and small waist. All together the package showed that working road construction earned muscles honestly.

"You play poker or pool?" Zeke asked after he accepted the beer.

"You could say that—both. You think you could get me into a poker game with your construction buddies?"

Zeke could, but he began to regret doing so more and more as the evening wore on. His buddies were losing badly. He was losing too—but then managed to recoup most of what he was losing. So, unlike his increasingly glowering buddies who watched their week's pay slide across the table to sit in front of the quiet, smiling, dark stranger with the strange name, Zeke almost didn't notice that his pile was beginning to diminish too.

"You play pool?" Beel asked Zeke, as the poker players began drifting away, unhappy and pockets nearly empty.

"Yeah. I'm said to be pretty good at it," Zeke answered, eyeing Beel's newly won stack of bills. Zeke, in fact, knew he was better than "pretty good" at it, and he figured on getting what he'd lost and some of what his construction friends had donated as well.

He wasn't as good as Beel was, and it soon became apparent that Beel could show him a thing or two about holding the stick and picking his shots. As Zeke's weekly pay slowly moved from his pocket to Beel's, Beel started showing signs of taking pity on him. From time to time he'd stop Zeke as he was ready to make a shot and stand close behind him, showing him how to hold the cue and line up shots. When he did this, Zeke felt an electric current flow through him, but he was concentrating more on his depleting funds and, after the first demonstration, he could see that what Beel was showing him was helpful and was stemming his loses—sort of.

But there came a time when Zeke had lost far more than he could afford to do. He begged off another break of the balls and moved toward the table where the poker players who had been fleeced were drowning their sorrows in beer and commiserating over their loses, but the glares they all gave him showed that it would be at least a couple of hours before they would forgive him for bringing that card shark into their midst.

He veered off and collapsed into a chair at another table. He didn't see Beel sit down beside him, but he felt that electric current course through his body when Beel put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Beel leaned into him and said. "I bet taking a ride in my Vette will help you feel a little bit better. And maybe there's something I can help you with in getting some of your money back."

"A ride in your Corvette?" Zeke asked through a snuffle. He'd wanted to cry, but there was no way that he was going to let any of the construction workers—or Beel—see him do that. "Shit man, I've never ridden in a Vette."

"Now's your chance. It needs letting the lead out of its engine. With all that construction on 50, it was stop and go all afternoon. You can maybe show me where there's some straightaway at night where I can let it blow its engine clean and we'll have a ball."

They sped out on a dirt road north from Cimarron into desolate ranch land, eventually running out of road at the entrance of a homestead marked by log poles with a log cross bar making an arch over the road into a square bordered by a small group of deteriorating buildings with no lights showing.

"What's in there?" Beel asked.

"It's the old Anderson place. They're all dead and gone now, and no one's been able to track down any heirs yet—not that there's anything in there worth handing over."

Beel turned the Vette and drove in under the crossbar and into the courtyard all of the buildings faced. Then he turned off the motor and turned to Zeke. "I told you that maybe there was a way you could get some of that money back."

"Yeah, how's that?" Zeke asked. "I'm not offing your wife or anything." He laughed nervously.

"I don't have a wife, Zeke. I like men."

That took a moment to sink in, but then Zeke shrank as close to the passenger door of the tight-fitting Corvette as he could. "Hey, man. I'm not into any of that shit."

"Then you don't know what you're missing, do you?" Beel asked. "It's not a hard way to earn cash. Certainly not as hard as standing out on a dusty road turning a sign around every half hour."

"I ain't done nothin' like that, man. There's some things money don't buy."

"Oh, well, I guess we'll go back to town then," Beel said, as he turned the ignition key and the Corvette revved up in a rumble. "I've got a roof over my head tonight. How much longer can you cover that department?"

"Wait, man, let me think," Zeke said, the panic in his voice palpable.

"Sure, you think about it," Beel said, as he switched the engine off. His hand moved from the key to Zeke's thigh, and Zeke groaned at the electric touch of him, feeling himself harden up at the mere thought of what was being proposed—and the touch of Beel's long, electric fingers on his thigh. It wasn't as if Zeke hadn't thought about doing it before.

"What sort of money are we talking about?"

"I jack you off and you get fifty back. Seventy-five if you blow me. Two hundred back for each fuck."

"Each? Oh, shit, man." There was a moment of silence then, as Zeke fought off hyperventilation—and watched in horror and fascination as Beel moved his hand to Zeke's basket. Zeke knew Beel could feel him hard—and he knew that weakened any denial or negotiating position he had. He needed some of that money back. He also was aroused; he couldn't kid himself about that. He certainly understood that Beel's hand on his cock understood he was aroused. "I'd fuck you?"

"No, that's not the way it would work, Zeke. I'd fuck you."

"Oh, man. I . . . don't know."

"I like you. I want you, Zeke. So, I'll tell you what. I'll double the offer." Beel was speaking with confidence, and this was being driven home, because he already was pulling Zeke's zipper down. And Zeke wasn't stopping him.

All Zeke could manage was a weak-voiced whimper, "I won't do any blowjob."

"We'll manage," Beel said. And then he laughed, a deep-throated laugh, as he pulled Zeke's nearly hard cock out of his opened fly. He didn't take it in hand right away. He stopped long enough to pull Zeke's T-shirt over his head. Then he turned toward the young blond in the seat and, with one hand, grabbed Zeke's pony tail at the base and pulled his head back tight with the headrest, while his other hand took Zeke's cock and began to stroke.

Zeke groaned at the electric touch of Beel's hand on his cock. He gave a little yip when Beel leaned over and took a nipple in his teeth. He moaned as Beel's mouth moved up to the hollow of his neck and sucked him hard there. All of the time, the motion on Zeke's cock was progressively becoming more rapid. Zeke turned his face toward Beel's and opened his mouth to him as Beel moved his lips up Zeke's cheek.

Then Zeke was gasping and writhing and bouncing his hips off the bucket seat of the Corvette and his cock was being pumped with inhuman strength and pistoning motion.

Beel's tongue and lips freed Zeke's mouth and almost immediately the young man was crying out in surprise and ecstasy, as Beel's mouth sheathed his cock and a hand moved to Zeke's balls, squeezing and rolling them hard and pulling them away from his body. The vibration and suction of Beel's mouth was driving Zeke crazy—but only for seconds.

It was all over in a few brief moments, leaving Zeke exhausted and slack jawed.

"I have you now," Beel muttered, with a half laugh. "Step out of the car, Zeke."

"I . . . I don't think I can."

"Now, Zeke. It's time to earn back big money."

Zeke had never imagined it could be like this. The initial invasion of his virgin ass was a few seconds of excruciating pain, but after that no sensation of pain could have made Zeke forego the experience of Beel's cock working inside him.

Zeke was bent over the hood of the Corvette, his cheek to the warm metal, and Beel was palming his belly, pulling Zeke's midsection off the car surface and into Beel's pelvis with one hand and arching his back with a fist at the root of his pony tail, as Beel's cock filled and drilled him, sending flashes of electricity through Zeke's body. Beel's cock was vibrating and pulsing and forcing itself deep, deep inside Zeke's channel, stretching him, sending the mind-blowing pleasure of it through his body. Zeke's legs were jelly, but Beel was holding him up and pulling him higher, onto his toes and then letting him down on his heels with the strength of his buried and pumping cock.

It went on for more than an hour, and Zeke came twice more, before Beel gave a deep-throated, lusty laugh and flooded Zeke's insides with four strong, separate spoutings of ejaculate, which gave Zeke hot flashes that raced out to the ends of his extremities.

When Beel pulled out of him and released his belly and pony tail, Zeke slid to the earth beside the wheel of the Corvette.

Beel sat on the hood of the Corvette and looked down at Zeke. Zeke looked up at him and saw that Beel was still in monstrous erection.

"Again," Zeke murmured. It came out as a prayerful request.

"I think not," Beel answered. "It was nice, but I'm not sure it was worth $400."

"No, no. Again, please. I never knew . . . again, please. Not for money."

Beel laughed and stood down from the Corvette hood where he'd been perched. He leaned down and pulled Zeke up and lowered the young blond's back on the Corvette hood, spread his legs with fists encasing ankles, and thrust inside him strongly. Zeke cried out in surprise and shock and his eyes rolled up in his head, but he immediately started moaning and panting and working his hips in the ever-faster rhythm of the fuck that Beel was establishing and extending for endless time.

"I don't want to sleep alone," Beel said as they were cruising back into Cimarron. "I presume that even in a town this size you know of some presentable young man who will keep me warm tonight for a hundred bucks."

"I'll do it," Zeke shot back without hesitation. "Please."

Beel laughed. "I've had you already. I want variety."

"For free. I'll do it for free," Zeke whined.

But Beel ignored that and continued speaking. "An Hispanic maybe. Small and not too stale. But willing. You get me one and I'll sweeten your take by $200.

His name was Manuel. Barely legal, and just starting doing it for money. He was small boned, and a bit delicate—and maybe just a little more swishy than Beel would have liked if he'd had a lineup to pick from. And when he saw Beel's cock, he cried out and headed for the door in the Blue Jay Inn motel. But Beel was too fast for him, and covered his mouth with one hand as he pulled the frightened Hispanic down into his lap and proved that the Hispanic could—with considerable effort and grunting—take all of him, although it was seemingly magic that was required to get all of Beel inside him and the small Hispanic was gasping and working his mouth in a wide-gaped yawn as if he expected the head of the cock to appear on top of his tongue.

As Manuel felt the searching vibration and pulsing and electric current over his channel walls, he began to moan and melt into the lap fuck. Somehow Beel maneuvered his torso around so that his mouth sheathed Manuel's own cock, and they were working in consort as one pleasure-producing machine, as, like with Zeke, Manuel blew and rebuilt and blew again before Beel bathed his insides with his own ejaculate.

After that Manuel couldn't get enough of Beel throughout the night—and Beel demonstrated that there was no limit to what he had to give.

It was nearly dawn before they both slept. And it wasn't more than an hour later before the telephone in the room rang—on the side of the bed Manuel was facing, on his side, Beel's still-half-hard cock deep inside his channel.

Manuel picked up the receiver.

"It's Zeke Candrell," Manuel said sleepily. Then he went back to the telephone and what Zeke had to tell him put him on immediate alert. "He says the construction workers you took all of the money from last night are on their way here. They beat out of Zeke where you were. They've decided you cheated them, and they want their money back."

"Time to move on, then," Beel said in an almost jovial tone as he pulled out of the Hispanic youth and sat on the side of the bed and reached for his elegantly stenciled boots.

"Zeke says he'll meet you out at the edge of town. He wants to go with you."

"Tell him that's impossible. I ride alone—and I have his soul now, what further need do I have of his body."

Manuel disappeared as Beel was finishing dressing—but he reappeared in the passenger seat of the Corvette the older man had parked around on the side of the motel, shielded from view from the street, when Beel came out of the motel room.

Beel laughed and picked him up and carried him back into the motel room. He threw him in the motel room's closet and pulled the bed in front of the door—which is where the construction workers found Manuel five minutes later when they arrived at the motel room, its door gaping open.

Three hours later, west of Dodge City, on route 50, young, golden-blond, honestly muscled Jim Steele was standing at his family's mail box at the end of a long dusty dirt road back to the house and outbuildings of their cattle spread. He was on edge and a little piqued because he'd walked all this way down from the barn, where, stripped down to his jeans, he'd been putting the feed out for the horses, only to find there was no mail in the box.

The previous night hadn't been good for him. His steady, Gail, had let him feel her up, but she'd stopped his hand as his trembling finger was about to enter the wet darkness of her. He'd been keyed up and ready to blow ever since. He was feeling sorry for himself and wondering if he'd get anything before he turned old and gray.

He looked north, east, and west, away from the farm, at the slightly rolling, wholly monotonous countryside, wishing he was anywhere but here.

He heard the car approach just as he was walking back to the farm and then turned and looked back at the road when it didn't pass. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief and walked closer. What was a gorgeous new metallic-blue top-down Corvette convertible doing out here on route 50 between nowhere and nowhere else at 7:00 AM in the morning?

The driver, the lone passenger in the car, a dusky-complexioned man with an interesting, almost Asian face and black, gray-streaked hair and an unusual goatee smiled at him. Jim smiled back, hospitality being a hallmark of good, honest rancher farmers in the Kansas badlands.

"Hey, you sure look like you're in the need of a cooling drink," the stranger said. "Can I offer you a cold beer? Got them back here just in the cooler?"