Stallion Station

When Rick felt "that way," and especially when he was a little short of cash, he often took a plastic disk Frisbee or two and went out to Wallgreen Park, a few miles beyond the town limits, to go through the Frisbee golf course. He rarely made it through all nine "holes" of the course, and making it to the end rarely was the reason he went out there. He also rarely played the course with anyone else. Playing it alone provided the signaling that he intended.

It was a great day to be out in the park. It was later in the day than Rick usually came to the park—close to 4:00 p.m.—but the sun was still shining and the birds were chirping—and none of them was yammering at him and telling him what to do. He was still smarting from what his boss—the last in a progression of yammering bosses—had said to him right before he'd walked out of the computer store he'd been working in for a couple of weeks—but now no longer was working in.

"You have the memory of a gerbil," the man had said. That wasn't the last thing his boss had said to him. The last thing was something about not bothering to come back, but Rick was already out the door and nearly beyond hearing before that was said. Pretty pissy of him, Rick, thought, especially after Rick had given the man a blow job in the storage room behind the showroom just two nights previously. He wasn't saying there was anything wrong about Rick at all then.

In any event, there was nothing in Rick's way to stop him enjoying a weekday afternoon, on such a fine day, out in the park, playing Frisbee golf. He knew he should be thinking on the next step in covering the rent on his room in the Stevensons' basement and grocery money, but he was too keyed up this afternoon by the want of something else, so he had put all of that out of his mind and come out to the park.

He figured there would be some business by the time he got to the rest area by the "green" of the fourth hole, which had a fountain-like contraption the Frisbee was to be sailed into rather than the hole in the ground that a real golf course would have. The bathrooms were in a small cinderblock building nearby, and there was a water fountain and a couple of picnic tables with benches in a graveled area. A graveled pathway ran into a copse of trees, where there were a few more-privately set picnic tables.

Rick knew the area well. He'd had many "takeoffs" from here. Sometimes right here. Sometimes the man wanted to take him someplace else. He'd been to all different kinds of houses and motel rooms from here. He even had gone down on one guy who turned out to have a badge and everything and said he was a police detective. But instead of taking him to a police station, he'd taken him to some sort of old motel, but with a workout gym on one end of it and a newer building on the other end of it, out by the edge of town, on the Richmond road, where a tatted and inked-up bodybuilder dude of a guy tried to get him to stay and work there as a rent-boy. The detective, if that's what he was, took some money from the bodybuilder. Rick was scared spitless from the possible arrest aspect of this and hadn't been in the mood to change occupations. But he'd sort of like to consider that now, having lost three jobs in as many months. And shitty jobs at that.

He'd told the inked dude he'd think about it, and the bodybuilder had said it wouldn't be a done deal until he'd tried Rick out himself.

He'd have to try to remember where the place was. It was called Stallion Station, if he remembered rightly. They were in the process of putting a big sign up on a tall pole with that name on it while he was standing there. The bodybuilder dude had asked what he felt about being in movies and tied up, which he thought was really weird—but also a bit arousing.

There was only one guy at the hole four restroom, which was OK with Rick. Sometimes when there were more than one loitering around, there was some trouble sorting out who wanted to do what and putting some sort of order to it that was acceptable to everyone. Guys coming there to get something always seemed to be in a touchy, macho mode, and they were always looking around for cops or eyeing each other for signs of a cop.

The man was maybe pushing forty and looked a little mousy, although he wasn't in bad shape—not a bodybuilder, but not fat. Dressed in a light green polo shirt and khakis. He was wearing loafers rather than athletic shoes, so he sure wasn't out here to either be running or hiking in the park. He was standing beside the door to the men's side of the cinderblock latrine. When he saw Rick approaching, he tied his mutt of a dog—as mousy and medium-sized as the man, although later Rick was to think there was more substance to the dog than to his master—to a railing installed for the purpose and disappeared into the bathroom.

Rick wasn't surprised to see the dog. It was a customary blind men cruising here in the park used.

"I was just walking my dog, officer. Honest."

This park allowed walking dogs—even allowed them off the leash two days a week—there was dog shit all over the place to bear out their forbearance. So it was an easy ruse to employ.

When Rick entered the bathroom, the man was belly up to one of three urinals—the middle one, naturally, so that whichever other one Rick chose, he'd be standing beside the guy. The man seemed nervous. Rick hadn't seen him in the park before. He'd leave it up to the guy to make the moves, though. No way he was going to make a first move and legitimately be hauled in for solicitation. If the guy was a cop, though—but he seemed too nervous for this to be a sting—it wouldn't matter to anyone who counted what had actually been offered by who when he wrote up his report.

The man had been looking at the door as Rick entered, likely making sure Rick was coming in, and then he turned and faced the wall behind the urinals, maybe a bit too rigidly. He had his fly open, and Rick caught a glimpse of a cock that was more promising than the man was. It was hard, so the guy wasn't really in here to piss. He wouldn't be doing any pissing until that cock went down a good bit. For a price, Rick would be the one to fix that for him.

Rick saddled up to the urinal to the right of the man and turned a bit in his direction, to give him a good look at the goods as he unzipped and fished his dick out of his pants. He wasn't hard and could piss, and did so. Then they stood there painfully long—long enough for both of them to know that the other wasn't really there to piss—before the man tentatively reached out to touch Rick's cock.

"What do you want, and what's it worth to you?" Rick muttered almost under his breath.

"How would twenty dollars for you to suck me be?" the man asked in a wavering voice, the question put tentatively. He obviously wasn't sure of what the going price at this park should be.

"Sure, why not?" Rick whispered. And why not, indeed? That was twice the going rate. The man really was new to this park. Rick started to sink to his knees in front of the urinals, facing the man, but almost as if he'd been given an electric shock, the man hissed at him.

"No, not here. Somewhere else. Anyone could—"

"There are picnic tables up in the woods from here. We could sit so that no one—"

"Yes, OK," the man interrupted. But he didn't move. It seemed obvious he didn't know where to go.

"I'll show you where," Rick said, with a sigh. He just hoped he didn't have to show the man how to. Maybe the guy would fumble enough with this to make him earn the twenty dollars. "Better bring your dog along too. Wouldn't make much sense for you to be at a picnic table with me and your dog still tied up here."

The man sat on the bench on the far side of the picnic table from the restroom clearing, with his back to the restroom and his dog tied to the other bench, as Rick knelt between his legs and gave him the blow job he had paid for. The man shuddered and ran his hand through Rick's strawberry blond curls that reached to his shoulders. Rick's attributes as a redhead—fair complexion; tall, lanky build; a freckled face, making him appear several years younger than he was; and a mischievous smile—were what made him attractive to many men. He was almost as young as he looked, but was legal.

Rick left the man there, humming and twenty dollars poorer, went back to the apparatus in the middle of the fourth hole green, retrieved his Frisbee, and went on to the next hole. He had no plans to finish the course today. He'd just come for the buzz of one encounter and a bit of cash, and he had achieved that goal.

But, at the seventh hole, as he was tossing his Frisbee at the apparatus marking the hole, he felt himself embraced from behind by arms stronger than he could ever hope to push off. His body was raised from the ground, and he was being bounced along so quickly and roughly that his teeth were chattering. He was hustled through a clearing, with more picnic tables, where he saw three biker type roughnecks spread out and drinking beer. Two more were manhandling him through the clearing and into the woods beyond.

It hit him only now that he had seen five motorcycles parked in a five-spot dice pattern in the park's main parking lot when he'd driven in. He'd been so preoccupied with telling his boss off, using his dashboard to stand in for his former boss, in terms that he'd only thought of after leaving the computer store that the bikes hadn't registered. If they had, he probably wouldn't have stayed at the park, because having bikers in the park was known to be a sign of trouble to be avoided, if possible.

He wasn't going to avoid any trouble there was to be had now, though, and there was plenty of trouble to be had. The two bikers took him standing, in a little clearing deep enough in the woods that it didn't matter if he made noise. Rick was angry and frustrated but more from knowing the two wouldn't pay for it and that he could have just avoided it by not coming into the park when he saw the bikes, but had ignored the signs.

He didn't struggle with them. They were both mean-looking bruisers who very likely would have cut or pounded him if he'd resisted. As it was, they manhandled him quite roughly. One bruiser stood behind him, trapping his arms uselessly out from his body by doing a full Nelson hold on him. The other one, standing in front of Rick, held his legs up and stripped him of his shorts and briefs.

Other than heavy breathing, an occasional "Holy shit" and "Take it, fucker" comment, the only thing that either of the bruisers said while they were fucking Rick was the one in front of him, commenting when he'd stripped Rick of his shorts and briefs, saying, "God almighty, we got ourselves a player. A hole you could drive a semi up and opened up real nice. We could both do him at the same time."

This they proceeded to do, after the man in front, still holding Rick's legs up with hands under his thighs had walked his way into Rick's pelvis, skewered him, and pumped for a while. With his cock still buried in Rick's channel, he wrapped his arms around Rick's waist and tipped Rick forward, so that the bruiser behind him could penetrate him as well from behind.

Rick just lay there docilely, suspended between the two bikers, and let them double fuck him, with no more reaction than low moans and groans. It wasn't like he'd never done this before nor that he didn't sort of enjoy doing it now.

They exhausted him, though, and he just lay on the ground and moaned when they had finished, zipped up, and walked off. He was about to struggle up to leave when the third biker showed up, pushed him prone onto his back, fisted his ankles, jerked his legs open, thrust inside him, and began to bang him hard. After this one was the fourth biker Rick had seen in the clearing by the seventh hole—and then the fifth.

Adding insult to injury, the last biker threw down a five-dollar bill before he left. Rick now couldn't say he hadn't been paid for it if it became official business. But of course it wouldn't be made official business by Rick. That would mark him as someone to be watched and hassled by the cops.

Rick had been laying there, alone, for a good half an hour, legs bent and open, an arm over his eyes, and moaning softly, when a dog bounded up to him and started licking his face. The sun was setting across the park, and the long shadows were turning into pools of darkness around him. Rick instinctively reached out with the arm not laying across his face and ran his hand into the dog's pelt, glad for any companionship that wasn't going to be thrusting anything between his butt cheeks.

He moved the arm from across his eyes and saw that it was the mutt of the man he'd sucked off back at the fourth hole. Then he heard the voice.

"Honey? Honey? Where have you gotten off to. Come here, girl."

Rick remembered to wonder to himself, "What gay guy names his bitch dog Honey?" before the man was there, at his side, tsk tsking, and asking Rick if he thought he could walk on his own.

"My car. Parking lot."

"You're in no condition to drive, son," the man said. "Come back to my place, it's just a couple of blocks over in that direction. I'll help support you. We'll come back for your car when we've got you cleaned up and made sure nothing's broken. I can call—"

"No callin' nobody," Rick answered in an anxious voice. There weren't any questions he could think of that he wanted anyone to ask him.

* * * *

Rick stayed with Carl—the mousy guy with the dog was named Carl—for nearly a week, even though Rick's cuts and bruises, such as they were, healed quickly. The man was giving him room and board, so Rick wasn't in a hurry to bop out. It took the man three days to get around to getting what he obviously wanted and that Rick would have given him back there in the park if he'd paid the equivalent of room and board for it. And even at that three-day mark, Rick had to initiate the action.

Rick knew what Carl wanted. Even Carl's dog knew what he wanted. Carl was giving Rick looks that even a dog could figure out, and Honey was probably a lot smarter than Carl was—and all the time he was treating Rick like a royal visitor, fussing around and doing for him. Rick let it go on for three days and two nights, but the tension of when Carl was going to ask for what he wanted got to Rick and the irritation overwhelmed the satisfaction of being taken care of at no expense to himself.

On the third night, Rick crept into Carl's bedroom. The dog was there on the foot of the bed, but she merely lifted her muzzle, gave Rick a "What took you so long?" disgusted look, hopped down from the bed, and strutted out to the kitchen to check her food bowl. Sure enough, Rick had put enough fresh food in her bowl to keep her busy for a while. Rick didn't like to perform in front of anyone or any breathing thing really right there. (After that trip to Stallion Station, though, he'd decided he probably wouldn't mind it being recorded and played back to guys when he wasn't there, especially if there was money in it for him.)

Thirty minutes and it was done, starting with Carl on his back and Rick sucking his cock big when Carl opened his eyes. His eyes went big and stayed big, plastered on Rick's, and his face showed not only his surprise but also his gratefulness and almost unguarded lust as Rick saddled himself over Carl's pelvis, lowered his channel on Carl's now-hard cock, leaned forward and grabbed Carl's wrists with his fists, and rode the cock to a mutual ejaculation, Carl's coming arriving nervously quick.

If anything, Carl was even more solicitous and domestic the next day, not being able to stop himself from smiling a little smile and touching Rick intimately, but tentatively, whenever Rick was close to him, even though Carl blushed and had to look away when arousal started to get to him. Rick did little things to show Carl that they could do it during the day, but Carl seemed only capable of understanding that sex with a man—penetration sex—was only for night, in the dark, on the bed, after the dog had jumped off the bed, sniffed derisively, and padded out of the bedroom, tail wagging, to check out the treats that had been left in her bowl in the kitchen.

On the fourth and fifth night, Rick coaxed—slowly—Carl to take more control. On the fourth night, Carl sat on the edge of the bed and Rick sat in his lap, facing away from him, and fucking himself on the cock by leveraging his toes off the edge of the bed where the mattress met the box springs. Eventually, not long before they came, one after the other, Rick turned 180 degrees; pushed Carl flat on his back; bent his legs that were encasing Carl's hips; set his feet flat on the surface of the bed; and leaned forward. At Rick's urging, Carl took control, holding Rick's waist in his hands and pulling Rick's buttocks on and off the cock.

The fifth night Carl fucked Rick doggy style, with Rick on all fours on the bed and Carl crouched over his hips and holding Rick's waist in his hands. Although at the height of the mutual lust Rick was pushing back on the cock to add to the effect of the thrusts, Carl was essentially fully in control of the fuck—and was having a ball at balling Rick.

The next morning, Rick decided they'd progressed far enough for him to move in. Telling Carl he had some errands to run, he went out to his beat-up old Ford. Carl stood in the doorway and watched Rick leave. Trepidation and a sense of loss were painted across the man's face. The dog, Honey, was a bit mournful too, but her regret was attached to that extra meal she was getting at night. Before Rick's car left the driveway of the tidy little bungalow, Honey had turned and waddled back into the house, aware that it was getting a little more difficult to walk, but not connecting that with the midnight snacking she'd been doing.

Rick hadn't told Carl his errand was to pick up what little was his at the room he was renting, to give notice to his landlord, and to bring the stuff back to the house. All the possessions he had in the world easily fit into the Ford.

Regardless of that, Carl blanched when he saw the stuff starting to be carried into the bungalow.

"What's that? What are you doing?" he asked.

"Moving in. I figured it was what you wanted," Rick answered.

"Oh, god, no, you can't do that."

"I can't do that? You married or something? Your wife is just taking care of a sick aunt and will reappear here?"

"No, nothing like that," Carl asked, on the edge of hysteria.

"You're tired of fucking me already—just when you've started to get the hang of it?" Rick wasn't moving in just for the security of a roof over his head and food in his plate. Carl was sweet, and he had a cock that a much more aggressive man deserved and would make great use of—and that Rick thought he could train to be quite an asset.

"No, nothing like that. I'd hate to give you up, but you can't live here. I teach. I'm a high school teacher. I can't have a young man—one like you, really sexy, really young looking—living here. People would notice. They'd assume you were one of my students. I'd lose my job."

"So you want me to leave?"

"I don't want you to leave—or, I don't want to stop seeing you. Let me think. There must be some way for us to continue seeing each other but for you to have someplace to live and a way to cover your expenses without my losing you. I can't afford to keep you in an apartment, but there must be a way."

When Carl's eyes lit up, Rick knew he'd thought of a way. Rick gave him all the time he needed to think it out. He certainly wasn't going to do the man's thinking for him. At least not anymore.

* * * *

Rick laughed out loud when he pulled his Ford up behind Carl's Corolla. He'd been here before. He parked under the pole with the Stallion Station sign hanging up there in the sky above the tree tops so that it could be seen—if not fully understood—from the nearby Farmville bypass.