I gun the engine, watching the black smoke billow out behind me. The
dull rumble of the V8 becomes a roar, then dies down as I let the beast
settle. It's a stupid thing to love, this car, but I love it anyway,
and I know I won't be able to walk away without making it mine. The
salesman watches me with greedy eyes, knowing he's got me where he
wants me.
I can't help but smile. In front of me lies a long, straight road,
stretching off into the middle distance; it's a metaphor for the coming
weeks. I'm not really sure where it heads, and it's a bit of a blur how
I got here, but I'm following it anyway. The stresses of my redundancy
and the acrimonious split from my girlfriend lie thousands of miles
behind me, back in the UK. For now I'm free, free to do what I want and
be where I want. There is only one target, only one constraint - just
shy of one month from now I am to present myself for my first day of
work in Palo Alto. Until then I am my own man, with a big block vintage
Camaro as my chariot. I've paid over the odds for it, but there is a
guaranteed sale at the other end, for a guaranteed price, so I won't
lose out too badly. Cheaper than hiring, too. The only problem is that
as I sit here with the dull rumble leading the way and the soft leather
of the well worn seats cradling me, I know there is no chance that I
will ever be able to part with the beast. She is, in the parlance of a
well-known car-lovers' movie, my Eleanor.
She's been restored
recently, too, the bodywork shamelessly wrapped in the colours of
Bumblebee from the Transformers films. Childish? Maybe. Fantastic?
Definitely. The moment I laid eyes on her in the car lot I knew she
would be mine, and she agreed, starting first time for the first time,
according to an admittedly astonished dealer. He wanted to be honest
with me, he'd said. Liked my English accent, had a soft spot for the
mother country, as he called it. Wanted me to know the truth, all of
her foibles, all of her painful, tortured history. But nothing he could
have said would have dissuaded me. I needed the car more than I needed
air to breathe, and luckily life had just recently instilled just the
right blend of cash-flow and reckless abandon to make the purchase seem
the only reasonable option.
I glance down at the fuel gauge,
something I've been told to keep a religious eye on. Notoriously
inaccurate, I've been told. It reads three-quarters full, and I've
covered roughly a hundred miles. That means four hundred on a tank, if
I'm lucky. I know I won't be that lucky, and resolve to fill up every
couple of hundred, just in case, regardless of what the gauge says. The
sun is shining down warmly upon me as I head west, the windows down,
nature's air conditioning all I need. I scan the road ahead, picking
cars out of the heat haze, looking for familiar forms. It's a game I
used to play at home, but out here in the States I'm largely clueless -
oh well, I muse, the following few weeks will present an excellent
chance for re-education. I look around the cabin, too, drinking it in.
Basic, but in a good way. Uncluttered. A radio which has been subtly
modernised to pick up satellite radio, but that's about the only
concession to modernisation. I like it.
I let the rumbling engine lull me into a stupor and watch the miles tick by.
The trooper watches me go with a wave and a smile. He's only really
stopped me to have a look at the car, I know. That's why my promise to
fix the tail light has been accepted, and the ticket remains un-issued.
Marv's, he tells me, will be able to help with the light. Run by his
wife's sister's boyfriend's brother's wife's uncle, apparently. I
wonder how far along the branches of his family tree he would have to
go to get back to himself, then chide myself for being so
narrow-minded. A hick he may be, but that doesn't make him any more
inbred than I am.
Marv's sits fifteen miles ahead of me, a
convenient place for a fuel stop, and to get that brake light fixed
before night falls and it becomes even more important that it works. I
had planned to make another hundred miles or so before calling it a
night, but now I'm thinking about changing my plans. The early evening
sun is golden ahead of me, and warm. Flies buzz in the air, set alight
by the rays of our star. It's a great moment to be alive, in this car,
in this country, with no responsibilities and nowhere to be. I press
the loud pedal just to enjoy the noise, and push on for Marv's.
I roll into Marv's, and instantly I'm met either by the man himself,
or by a man wearing Marv's shirt. A quick conversation reveals that
this is indeed the proprietor, and a casual glance at the man's face
tells me that perhaps I shouldn't have been so hard on myself earlier -
it does look as though he shares a remarkable amount of DNA with the
state trooper. We spend a happy few minutes chatting about the car, and
how a 'limey' came to own such a classic piece of Americana. Marv
doesn't mind, though, as long as I don't try to ship it back to
England. I assure him that I won't for the time being, and he accepts
that with a smile. A minute later a gangly teen approaches us, a
delicate cardboard box cradled in his hands. Immediately my senses are
heightened, but as he arrives and hands the box to Marv without a word
I realise that he is far too old to be of interest, and I let the inner
beast subside into its lair.
Marv shakes the box at me, grinning.
"John radioed ahead," he tells me. "Had Billy dig this out of the stores. Knew there was one in there somewhere."
He
hands the box to me, and I read the label. 'Genuine Chevrolet Parts' it
says, and underneath sits a generic line drawn image of a bulb. I'm
impressed, something which Marv notices straight away.
"We never
throw anything out, as long as it's useful," he tells me. "Why don't
you head inside and get a coffee while I fix this?" he says, pointing
to a picture perfect all-American diner sitting to the side of the
forecourt. I smile and nod, offer my thanks, and head inside.
It's
cool in the interior; this place has real aircon, unlike the Camaro. I
take a seat by the window, looking out over the road with the sun in my
face, and a young girl comes over - she's definitely dressed as a
waitress, but this isn't some sort of pastiche. She's thoroughly
modern, although as if to prove that some things never change she calls
me 'honey'. She looks half my age. I order a Coke and watch her walk
away. I've been living as a straight man for so long that I can't help
but check her out as she leaves, but I'm fooling myself if I think I'm
really interested. Now I've admitted to myself what I really am, I
should stop submitting to stereotypes.
The family sitting two
tables in front of me hold more interest. There's a boy, a cute brown
haired, freckle-nosed thing, about eleven or twelve. He sits, bored,
with chin in hand, watching the road outside, or possibly my car, under
which, I notice, Marv has disappeared. His parents prattle on about
something or other, and it's only when I tune in that I realise, with
some sense of surprise given our location, that the accents are
familiar. Birmingham, England, not Birmingham, Alabama. His little
sister pipes up and confirms my suspicions, her dialect at once both
utterly familiar and totally alien. I've not spoken to another Brit
since I arrived in America. It seems wrong to encounter them here, now,
just when I'm beginning to fall in love with this country and never
want to look back.
I'm as captivated by the boy as he is by my
car. It's definitely the Camaro he's watching. Marv is doing something
under there, and now Billy has popped the hood (see, I'm learning the
language) and peering at something within. Marv appears from beneath
Bumblebee (I can't help calling it that) with a shake of his head.
Something is definitely not right. He talks to Billy, who shrugs, and
then he turns and strides toward the diner.
I glance back at the
boy, who's now looking my way. For the briefest of moments our eyes
meet, then he looks down in embarrassment. God, he's cute, and just the
simple act of eye contact has sent my pulse racing a little. I don't
have anyone to hide it from now, so I let myself watch him for a few
moments longer, before Marv's inevitable interruption.
I have to
practically force him to take a seat to talk to me, and I explain that
I've been watching him crawl around under the Camaro.
"I'm awful
sorry, Mr Zack," he says; I like the way he uses my name. "She's a real
good old girl, but that exhaust is shot from one end to the other, and
your fuel gauge is all wrong."
I groan inwardly, not because the
news is so bad, but because I know my love for the car is going to end
up costing me a lot of money, now and in the future.
"How long and how much, Marv?" I ask, and Marv grins at me.
"Well,
it just so happens I know someone who can do a custom job for you, Mr
Zack. I reckon if you give us three days and five hundred dollars,
we'll put her right. It'll be beautiful stainless steel, and the welds
will..."
I drift away for a moment while Marv carries on
explaining how he's planning to spend my money. I'm drawn to the boy
again, wondering why he keeps looking my way. I immediately dismiss the
ridiculous notion that he's in any way interested in me, and instead
settle on the likely truth: there's now no doubt that I'm the owner of
the intoxicating morsel of purebred American muscle car sat on the
forecourt outside. He's sizing me up, wondering if he might find the
courage to ask me to let him sit in it.
"So if you want," Marv is saying, summing up, "I can get your bags taken over right away and Mary will settle you right in."
He looks at me expectantly.
"Sorry?"
"I said, if you want to stay at the motel while we fix the car, I'll get you sorted right out."
"Oh, yes, thanks," I say, with a smile. "Yeah, that would be great. Don't worry about the bags, though, I'll do that."
Marv
rises and shakes my hand, and I'm left there slightly stunned. God
knows what I've let myself in for with the motel, I think, but then I
crush the thought because that's not who I am now. Since things changed
I'm positive, embracing possibilities, seeing the good in everything.
It feels refreshing.
I watch the boy for a few more minutes, and
catch him watching me, then wander out to get my things from the car.
Billy is out there doing something under the hood. He gives me a
lopsided smile, and for a heartbeat I think there might be something
there, but then I see the tattoo of a girl's name on his arm and
realise two things - not as young as I thought, and not as gay as I
hoped.
I start pulling things out of the trunk (still learning),
and become aware of the English family nearby, the little girl's
not-unpleasant high-pitched voice acting like a beacon. I turn to see
them approach a beast of an SUV, clearly a hire, and climb in. The boy
sees me and eye contact is made once more, and this time he smiles,
then nods to the car. I reach out a hand and lay it protectively on the
yellow paintwork, and he understands the message: yes, it's mine. I
hope he also understands that I wouldn't mind him coming and asking
more, but they're on the move and it's too late for that. I wonder
where they're going, then force myself to banish such thoughts.
I
watch the SUV as the father pilots it around the lot like an errant
barge. They're heading the wrong way, I think, the interstate is over
that way. That is, they're heading the wrong way if the interstate is
their destination, but it turns out not to be. They pull up outside the
front of the motel and pile out, grabbing bags and all sorts and
heading inside. By now my heart is beating so hard and so fast that I
feel faint. Of course there's nothing in it. Of course there's no
chance that just because the family is staying there that I'll come
into contact with the boy. Of course not. But then, hope is a powerful
motivator.
I stroll into reception, feeling the cool air wash over me, a stark
contrast to the muggy evening heat outside. Thunder rumbles in the
distance, a precursor to the storm which is almost certain to hit
within the hour. Marv's daughter, Mary, sits behind the desk, her face
set in a smile which looks genuine, even if I have my suspicions. I've
no reason to suspect Mary of anything other than pure honesty, but a
little of my old inner cynic still comes out to play from time to time.
I can hear the English family somewhere in the building, but for now
it's just Mary and me, and I hand over my credit card, trying to
suppress any air of resignation. Mary chatters on about her dad, how
good he is with cars, how he'd built up this little empire for himself,
how he started out pumping gas and now he owns the gas station, the
diner and the motel. I accept the history lesson with feigned interest,
ask for the Wi-Fi password and haul my bag up to my room.
I'm
next to the family, or at least half of it. I can hear the excited
chatter of the girl through paper thin walls, and the occasional
non-committal sound from the boy. He's quieter than her, or just can't
get a word in edgeways. I smile at the little slice of family life. I
also allow myself a little wandering of the mind, my thoughts
predictable, though not palatable.
There is a balcony, and I
slide the door open and step outside, and come face to face with the
boy, who is on a balcony of his own. He looks startled to see me, but
then smiles shyly as I, trying to seem normal but at the same time
trying not to be heard by anyone else, give him a low 'hi!'. He raises
a hand briefly, then disappears back into his room at the sound of his
parents, though not before I've noticed a few things: his eyes ought to
be brown, but they're not, they're ice blue; his nose, with its
adorable smattering of freckles, is almost perfect in form; his skin is
free of any blemishes, and glows with a rich tan; the fine hair which
covers his forearms and the nape of his neck has been bleached pale by
the sun, which has also lent subtle highlights to the otherwise plain
brown mop of hair on his head; his limbs are stick thin, jutting out
from oversized shorts and t-shirt, the apparel of a kid, not a sulky,
try-hard tween; his feet are shod in unlaced trainers which are an
outscale termination of his slender calves; perhaps more than anything
else, the subtle swell of his backside pressing against the fabric of
his shorts is disturbingly alluring.
Not wanting to experience
the awkwardness of meeting his mother or father I duck into my room,
and just in time, as I see first the father and then the mother wander
out onto the balcony.
"Look, Sarah," he says, indicating the
view to his wife with an outstretched hand, "perhaps we should have had
this room instead. Oh fine, fine!" he goes on, talking to the kids
who've clearly just protested, "you can keep the room. Just try not to
fall off, yes?"
A chorus of overdone 'yes, dad' comes from the
siblings, followed by giggling. He laughs too, and suddenly I'm
jealous. I can sense that he's a good man, and good with his kids.
Wealthy, too, because - and I always spot these things even at distance
- I spy a Breitling Superocean on his outstretched wrist. Could be
fake, I suppose, but I suspect not. I find myself wondering why a
well-to-do family from Birmingham find themselves in this motel. Don't
get me wrong, it's nice enough, but it's hardly on the tourist trail.
I'm only here because I'm taking a meandering route across country with
no fixed schedule. I can't complain that they're here, because even if
my interaction with the boy is limited to the brief moments we've
already shared, and they're gone in the morning, I'll still be happy
with what my imagination can conjure in the dark hours of the night.
The phone in my room rings, a discordant tone. The thunder rumbles
again, closer this time, an accompanying undertone to the insistent
ringing. I had been thinking of showering, but apparently that will not
be possible just yet.
It's Mary, she wants me to come down to
reception if I can. She hangs up before I can ask why. I arrive in
reception a minute later, to be met by Marv.
"Hi, Mr Zack," he
says, holding out a hand for a brief shake. "I figured you might want
to be getting around town for a few day while we have your car, so I
popped over to my cousin's dealership and borrowed this," he says,
handing over a key on a chunky Chevrolet keyring. I frown in confusion,
and he beckons me outside.
There in the dusk, lit occasionally
by the flashes of lightning which accompany the onrushing storm, stands
a brand new pearl white Camaro with red stripes.
"Are you sure?" I ask, slightly awestruck by the car. She's no Bumblebee, but it's hard not to be impressed.
"Yeah, sure," he says. "Can't have you stuck without a car, now, can we?"
"Do you want me to sign something to say I have it?"
Marv chuckles and shakes his head. "No need, Mr Zack. Reckon yours is worth way more than this one anyways."
We shake hands again and part ways.
I step out onto the balcony, the early dawn light seeping into the
sky in the distance. The storm has washed the air clean, and out here,
far from major cities, it's as fresh-smelling as can be. It's a shame I
couldn't have slept longer, but my body clock is still all over the
place, and it would be a shame, too, to have missed this. I stand and
watch for a moment, listening. Even the interstate is quiet, the
occasional truck passing by, but other than that nearly empty. A deep
breath fills my lungs with cold air, and as I exhale, clears my mind of
the lurid dreams of the night before.
I'm shocked out of my
moment of peace by the sound of the sliding balcony door of the room
next door. I turn to see the boy emerging, blinking into the light. He
wears cotton pyjamas, soft, hanging loosely on his frame, a size big
perhaps. They do nothing to dampen my desire for him, especially as the
material clings to him at the front, showing, if not exactly a morning
hard-on, then at least the chubby remains of one. He doesn't seem to be
surprised to see me, and I wonder if perhaps he's only come out onto
the balcony because I have. He hugs his arms around himself in the cool
air, which raises gorgeous, perfect goosebumps on his forearms. He
responds to my quiet 'hi' with a raised hand, and then turns to
contemplate the view.
"Zack," I say extending my hand across the gap between our balconies.
He
looks a little unsure at this rather adult greeting, but I want to make
him feel at ease around me. If he treats me as a little more of an
equal, he's more likely to open up to me. I'm still not sure what the
end goal is here, but any contact with him is a moment of sunshine in
my life.
"Matt," he replies, taking my hand at last. His hot
hand feels tiny in mine, and his handshake is not firm. It sends
shivers down my spine to touch him like this.
"Can't sleep either?" I ask, and he shakes his head. "Yeah, I'm having a bit of trouble too. You're from Birmingham, right?"
Another shake of the head.
"No, just dad. We live in Somerset."
"Oh,
cool," I reply, for want of anything better to say. We're silent for a
moment, awkwardly watching each other, until out of nowhere he speaks.
"I really like your car."
"Oh, thanks," I reply, suddenly more in love with it than ever. "It's an old Camaro."
"It looks like Bumblebee," he says with a grin, as if I hadn't known this already.
"Yeah,
I know. That's half the reason I bought it. It's a shame it's getting
fixed at the moment, or I could let you sit in it, or maybe come for a
ride."
He nods, as if to say yes, it is a shame, because otherwise he would definitely have come for a ride.
"Of
course," I say, beginning to play with the idea of getting him alone
for a while, "I do have the other Camaro while it's being fixed, a new
one."
"The red and white one in the car park?" he asks, voice full of excitement. I nod, and he gives me another grin.
"Do you want to go for a drive in it some time?"
He practically starts jumping up and down with excitement, but then it fades.
"No, I can't. My dad will never let me."
"Well," I begin, really going out on a limb here, "what time will they get up?"
He shrugs, and says, "About eight o'clock, probably. My dad was drinking beer at dinner so he won't be up early. Why?"
I
take my phone out of my pocket and press the power button. The screen
lights up, showing the time, and I turn it in Matt's direction. "I
reckon we've got a couple of hours, then."
He grins at me. It's back on.
"I'll tell my sister I'm going for a walk. I do that with the dogs at home. She can just watch TV or something while I'm out."
Ten
minutes later we're getting into the car. I admire his slender legs,
poking out from beneath a pair of board shorts, and his narrow
shoulders with a Chelsea strip draped across them. As I fire up the
Camaro - a rude bark in the quiet morning - goosebumps reappear on his
arms and legs. I wonder if it's the sudden chilly blast from the
aircon, or the excitement of feeling so much raw power come to life in
front of him.
I glance across at Matt, and he's looking out of the window. My eyes track downwards of their own accord, into his crotch.
Jesus,
he's hard! He is physically excited by being in the car. The tent is
modest, but inviting. Does he realise what he has on show? He's made no
effort to cover up, none at all. Can't he feel it poking into the
fabric of his shorts? I try not to be too obvious, and there's a job to
do keeping the car pointing in the right direction, but I can't help
but steal as many glances as I can. He chatters away still, unaware of
my growing desire to rip his shorts from his body and plunge my face
into his lap. For the briefest moment I consider doing so without his
consent, then for a much longer minute I feel sick at my own thoughts.
God,
I wonder how big it is? Is he uncut? Probably, he's British, white and
middle-class - a pretty sure fire thing. I really hope it's a long
foreskin, too, hanging over the end. If it is, I would want to pinch it
and pull it about, showing him how -
"Watch out!" he shouts, and
with a start I return my attention to the road just in time to steer us
out of the path of an onrushing lorry.
"Sorry!" I say, but he's
grinning at me, amused rather than afraid. I know he has no idea why I
wasn't paying attention, but unless he asks I'm certainly not going to
tell him. A few moments later I spot a sign for a road to the summit of
a local hill, and decide to see how the new car handles.
It's a fairly fantastic view from the top: rolling grasslands are
laid out before us as far as the eye can see, golden brown in the late
summer heat, broken here and there by rivers of tarmac and islands of
towns. Dawn's pallid light is the perfect counterpoint to the rich hues
of the land below, and for a moment we both sit awestruck. I wouldn't
expect Matt to be interested in the view, but he is, gazing in wonder
at a sight we hadn't expected to see.
It distracts him, and I
notice his hand dropping onto his shorts to pinch himself there, to
relieve an itch, I suppose. It's a perfectly normal, not even slightly
erotic thing to do, but now I know his erection has remained, and as a
lover of boys of just his type the knowledge that he's sitting two feet
to my right with his stiff little willy straining at his shorts sets my
heart beating faster than ever before. I can hear the blood pounding in
my ears, and I'm overcome by the sense that this cannot possibly be
real.
If, as I am rapidly coming to suspect, this is the most
vivid of dreams, certain truths must apply. Foremost among them is that
even if I do try something, the worst that can happen is to get turned
down - pretty sad for a dream, but at least not the end of the world.
They can't arrest you for the wrongs you make in dreams, can they?
I
hesitate, and he catches me staring at him. I've zoned out completely,
in a little world of my own, and I've forgotten that I was looking his
way.
"What?" he says, his voice uncertain. What must my face look like, to unnerve him so?
My
eyes flick downward without even seeking permission, let alone having
it granted. He sees, and he realises, perhaps for the first time, that
I know he's got a stiffie. His cheeks flush crimson, and he draws his
knee up to hide the evidence.
"It's alright," I hear myself say, "it happens to me when I'm in this car."
Bloody
cliche, but you know what? It's true, as long as I neglect to mention
to him that the effect is only apparent when he is in the car with me.
It doesn't really have the desired effect, though - he's still silent,
looking out of the window. Long, painfully quiet moments pass, and then
suddenly he says,
"Oh my God!", and is giggling almost
uncontrollably. Whatever he's spotted out of the window, it's clearly
hilarious. When I manage to wrangle an answer out of him it's the sort
of thing which is only funny to a young boy.
"There's a condom out there on the floor, and I think there are sperms in it still!"
He giggles again, then goes serious.
"Why is there a condom out there?"
"I imagine this is a spot which people come to, to get all sexy," I tell him.
"What, so they can do fucking?"
He looks at me to see how I'm going to react to his use of the f-word, and when I don't tell him off, he grins at me.
"Is that why you brought me up here?" he asks, suddenly very serious, and nervous.
"No, mate, I had no idea it was even here, actually."
"Oh," he says, in a tone which could conceivably have been either relief or disappointment, depending on your level of optimism.
He
sits in silence a while longer, and then with no ceremony at all he
pulls his shorts down to his ankles and grabs my hand and places it
directly onto his hard, three-inch penis.
"Go on then, wank me off."
He
makes no noise, just watches my hand at work. His skin is soft beneath
my fingers, and glides silk-like across the raging hardness beneath. I
glory in the feel of it, especially the ridge at the back of his head,
standing proud of the shaft. He wriggles his hips when I pinch the very
end of his foreskin, wanking it up and down just on the very tip, where
the sensations are at their most extreme. Finally a sound - a gasp as I
wrap my hand around the whole thing and wank him hard and fast, then
let it free to smack back against his belly. It jerks in time with the
pulsing of the vein on his neck.
He looks across at me, panting
slightly. He was close, and he wants to know why I've stopped. I've got
other plans, though, and without asking his permission I plunge my head
into his lap, sucking him deep into my mouth. His legs jerk up, warm
thighs pressed against my left cheek, his tummy against my right, and
my nose pressed hard against his hip. His hands land on the back of my
head, and as I suck he pushes me down, insistent in his need.
He
is young and thoroughly horny, and the sensations are too much. He
comes hard in under a minute, his rod unable to become any stiffer, but
able to jerk and kick in my mouth, and spit the faintest trace of
tangy, salty juvenile semen onto my waiting tongue. He gives a
high-pitched, whimpering moan, then a machine gun 'ah-ah-ah', sucks
breath back through clenched teeth, and then exhales once more through
pursed lips, a cold breeze across the back of my neck. I suckle his
rapidly deflating penis until he pulls me free - by this time it's
almost entirely soft again, and I finally succumb to my groaning,
eyes-closed, hands-free orgasm when I see it lying across his taut
scrotum, glistening wetly.
Our ardour diminished, we are both
suddenly aware of our acute embarrassment. We cannot look at each
other, and remain wordless as we drive back down the hill toward the
motel. It has just turned 6am.
"If you wanted, you could come and see me in my room later, and we
could do it again," I say. I don't need to explain what 'it' is.
He
looks down at his lap, cheeks afire with shame, and gently shakes his
head. I can see a tear forming in the corner of his eye.
"I better go," he says, barely audible of the burble of the engine.
"Sorry,
Matt, I shouldn't have said that. Are you OK?" I ask to his back as he
exits the car and walks away across the car park. He doesn't respond,
but I see him rub the back of his hands across his eyes. I hate myself
for having done this, for having made him feel so guilty and
uncomfortable. There's no way he can possibly deal with the realisation
of what he has just done. I consider fleeing, getting my things from my
room and running before he reports me, but then I remember that this
isn't my car I'm sitting in. Not only would I be stealing it, but I'd
be leaving Bumblebee behind. I can't do that.
And I don't really
think he will report me, either. I don't know where such a confident
opinion comes from. Perhaps it was the moment, as he turned around the
corner of the building and out of sight that his head turned towards
the car, and, though he didn't smile, he lifted his hand ever so
slightly, the tiniest wave you've ever seen. I become aware of the
rapidly cooling mess inside my pants, and decide that a shower and a
nap are in order.
I pass them on the stairs. They're on their way back from breakfast
at the diner - I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but it's pretty obvious from
their conversation. He doesn't look at me as we pass, but as I turn at
the bottom and glance up, he's leaning over the rail looking down at
me. His expression gives me no idea what he's thinking, and then he's
gone.
I wander across to the workshop, where I can see
Bumblebee's backside sticking out in the sun, up on a hoist. Marv sees
me coming, and steps out to greet me.
"I'm taking a few days
off pumping gas," he says as he holds out an oily hand to shake my own.
I love the fact that he feels no need to apologise for having oily
hands. "Figured I would have fun doing this instead."
I'm
treated to a tour of the undersides of the car, and what I can see is
in surprisingly good condition, all except for the exhaust, which I can
see is being forensically extracted. Marv shows me the various places
it's no longer sound, poking a screwdriver through patches of rust
which are far too close together for comfort. He's right, it needed
replacing, and to that end there's a man in the corner with a whole lot
of steel pipe and a number of rather mediaeval tools. I'm introduced to
Marv's friend Clay, who is a wizard. There can be no doubt of that,
because of his long grey beard, and the fact that he can do things with
steel pipes which shouldn't be possible. He's welded a few bits
together already - "the easy bits" - and the welds are nigh on perfect.
I should know, I used to weld bike frames for a living, and I thought I
was pretty good. Clay's in another league altogether.
I spend
a while with the guys, enjoying the easygoing way they approach life,
and discussing the tuning of the exhaust note - I go for something a
bit more rounded and fuller than the old system, which had a rather
harsh edge to it at higher revs.
Tuesday the fifth of August, two twenty two PM
The
motel's pool isn't huge, but it's clean and blessedly cool in the mid
afternoon heat. I lean back against the edge and close my eyes, and let
my mind wander to Matt's little spike. Truthfully, I've thought of
little else since this morning's encounter. Just to think of it sets my
head spinning with desire, and my heart trying to hammer its way out of
my chest.
There's a noise behind me in the motel. The sound of
children. Matt and his sister, no doubt. The sound comes rapidly
closer, and then the sun is blotted out by a screaming ball of boy who
soars overhead before hammering into the water, sending, I would
estimate, roughly half of the contents of the pool flying.
A
yell comes from behind. My ears are full of water, having been
thoroughly drenched by Matt's cannonball, and so I can't make out the
words, but it's easy to tell the intent. Matt turns in the water,
standing in front of me, and shouts back to his dad.
"It's OK, he doesn't mind!"
Well,
actually, I did rather, but I wasn't about to disagree with him. I
raise my hand by way of agreement, and that appears to be an end of it.
Matt's father is placated, and his sister doesn't appear to be joining
us, leaving just Matt and I in the pool.
"Hiya!" he says, a big grin on his face. "Sorry about that."
"It's OK," I tell him, "no problem. What've you been up to?"
"Not
much. Dad has business here for a couple of days. He sells farm
machinery, so we do these long holidays where he works sometimes. It's
not very interesting around here."
I laugh. "You're right, it's pretty boring. Nothing to do at all."
"Well,
there are some things," he says, and there's an undertone to his voice
which suggested that his feelings on our earlier escapades have changed
somewhat. He gives me a sly, seductive smile I wouldn't think a young
boy capable of.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah," he replies.
We
say nothing more of it while he plays in the water, swimming back and
forth. His sister turns up about fifteen minutes later, and the two of
them play together like normal kids. I exit a short while later,
leaving them to their play.
I'm
sitting on my balcony with my laptop, catching up on a few emails. My
new boss has been in touch, and wants to meet me in person a few days
before I start - we've had video conferences, but we've never before
met in person. I was recommended the position as a mountain bike frame
designer by an old friend back in the UK; I've been out of the business
for some years, working in the automotive industry for a change, and so
I've basically been offered the position on trust. There's still time
for either party to back out, and so the request is reasonable, even if
it does bring forward the end of my travels by a few days. I fire off a
quick reply accepting the invitation, and then sit back to contemplate
what it means for my half-baked plans for the coming few weeks.
There's
a heated, but giggle-filled conversation drifting out of the room next
door, through the open balcony door. I hear Matt's sister - whose name
I've now discovered to be Sophie - saying,
"No, Matt, you can't! What if someone sees you?"
I
don't hear Matt's response, but over the next ten seconds it becomes
quite clear what they are discussing. Calm as you like, Matt strolls
out onto the balcony with his wet swim suit and drapes it over the
railing. This in itself is not remarkable. No, what makes this event so
special, and makes sense of Sophie's reluctance is the fact that he is
stark, bollock naked, and even better than that, sporting a stiffened,
if not exactly erect penis. He sees me, but doesn't react beyond a
slight curling of the lips. Then, just as I'm beginning to enjoy the
view he steps back into the room and disappears from sight.
A few moments later, I hear Sophie's voice again.
"So,
just because you didn't see anyone doesn't mean there isn't anyone out
there!" she says, and then a few moments later, "No!", and then a
handful of seconds after that, "Ugh, fine!"
It now appears to be
Sophie's turn to match her brother's bravado. Up to this point in my
life I've considered myself to be at first a straight man, and then,
for the last few months, a boylover. When Sophie, as naked as Matt and
sharing the same physique, steps out onto the balcony, I become
instantly aware of a desire for young girls which I had managed to hide
from myself even deeper in my twisted psyche than my love for
pre-pubescent boys. It's not as strong as my appetite for boys, but
it's still there, and Sophie manages to trigger it in style.
She
does really well, too, reaching the point were she is ready to place
her suit over the rail. Unfortunately, it's at that point that her head
turns and she sees me sitting there, one eyebrow raised. She shrieks
and drops the suit, covering her bald sex with one hand and her flat
chest with the opposite forearm, and darts back into the room. It's too
late, though - I've seen it all now, and I like it.
Moments
later, Matt emerges once more, now sporting a very stiff hard-on,
calmly picks up the suit and drapes it over the rail. He tugs his dick
in my direction a couple of times, then disappears back through the
door, pulling it shut and closing the curtains, too. I don't know what
he and Sophie are about to get up to, but I can't help wishing there
was a hole between our two rooms so I could see for myself.
With
images of the two of them in all their naked glory spinning around my
mind, I head back into my room for a lie down and some special time.
I've
spent the evening in Marv's company, funnily enough. He calls for me
during the afternoon, asks if I'd be interested in joining him and Clay
at a local car rally. It's an informal gathering of some of the finest
bits of classic American muscle I've ever seen. I don't even recognise
anything much, but I don't need to in order to appreciate the quality.
When everyone else has dispersed, Marv - having already sought my
permission - brings a few friends back to see Bumblebee's half-finished
work, and the old girl gets plenty of admiring glances. I'm given
credit for my taste, though the more serious of Marv's buddies question
the paintwork - according to an online register one of the guys call
up, the car's original paint would have been dark green. All in all,
though, it's a fantastic evening, and it makes me realise what I've
been missing recently - the company of some good friends.
I
contemplate this as I sit on the balcony in the growing gloom. It's
almost dark, but the motel is lit up bright, and I can sit there and
listen to the sounds of the world around me. I like this little part of
America, this semi-rural town which only appears to serve the purpose
of existing, nothing else. I wasn't meant to stop here, but I did, and
now I'm glad of it. I'm even happier with all that's happened with
Matt, and seeing Sophie's nude little body was an unexpected bonus. I
sit in the near darkness, contemplating these things, gently mulling
over in my mind the possible ramifications of what I've done.
I'm
just berating myself for succumbing to desire far too easily when I
hear a 'psst' sound from behind me. I turn my head sharply and there he
is, standing on the balcony in his soft cotton pyjamas, which make him
look even younger than he is. I groan inwardly - this is the
innocent boy I have abused. For once, seeing his happy boyhood pushing
the fabric out into a tent doesn't arouse me.
"Hi," I whisper, acutely aware how quiet it is out here, and how easily we could be overheard.
"Hey," he replies, with a little wave of the hand. "Um, do you want to see something cool?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Ok, can you get over to my balcony?"
"Yeah, should be able to. Why?"
"Do you want to see what me and Sophie do when we go to bed?"
Suddenly
I'm very intrigued. Of course I'd prefer to join in with them, but
watching will do. I'm not sure being outside on the balcony is a good
idea, but my brain has ceded control to my loins, and I agree. I wait
for Matt to disappear inside and make the pretence of closing the
curtains, and then clamber across, crouching down and finding the gap
he has left for me to spy through.
Sophie sits on the end of her
bed, remote control in hand, flicking through the countless television
channels available in the motel. A remarkable number of them are
shopping channels, I've noticed from my own experience. Matt walks over
and says something to her, and a grin appears on her face - she nods
eagerly in agreement with whatever it was which has passed between
them, and I smile to myself, knowing now that whatever is going to
happen, little Sophie is a willing and eager participant. That makes it
even more erotic, to my mind.
She scoots back up the bed, and
lies down, skinning her shorts and pants of in one easy move, throwing
them onto the floor at the foot of the bed. She keeps her t-shirt on,
and her socks, but is otherwise naked. Her sex is a soft mound rising
from her smooth belly, with a sharp slit through its centre. Her skin
is milky-white and perfectly smooth where it is never touched by the
sun, and my mouth waters at the thought of running my tongue over it.
Her hand drops to her snatch, a finger idly crooked, its tip dipping
into those soft folds of skin. She is readying herself for something
more.
Matt, in contrast to his sister, makes himself completely
nude, and the proud little spike I held this morning points to the
ceiling, quivering slightly with his heartbeat. He's gorgeous
unclothed, lithe and well-toned. He has the body of a boy who plays
football a lot - legs a little coltish, arms thin. His penis looks big
on him, though it felt small in my hand; it's outgrowing him just at
the moment. He cannot keep his fingers from touching it, wanking
himself as he walks to the bedside.
He sits down between
Sophie's legs. His finger reaches out and hers retreats. It touches her
flesh and pushes in between the lips, disappearing slowly until there
is nothing left outside. He pulls it free, moving to crush the
prominent bulge of her clitoris hard against her pubic bone, bringing a
stifled cry from her lips. He returns to her vagina, pushing into the
dark depths until his knuckles press against her mound; she can take
more than he can give, and pushes insistently up at him, trying to
force his finger deeper inside herself. In and out he pistons the
finger, twisting this way and that.
Sophie writhes on the bed,
grabbing handfuls of the sheets and gripping tightly as the invader
violates her sex. Her skin flushes pink, and beads of sweat form on her
brow, glinting in the light from the bedside lamps. Her eyes are
squeezed shut, her head rolling from side to side, her mouth hanging
open. I fancy I can hear the soft whimpering of her desire through the
glass. Matt pulls his finger free and inspects it - the skin is
darkened with the wetness of her desire, and they both smile as he
shows it to her. Kneeling now he moves over her, and lies down - this
is basic coupling, missionary style. Her hand moves between them,
guiding him in, and his hips push forward in one easy, practised
motion. This is far from their first union, a fact amply demonstrated
by the fluid, rolling motion of Matt's hips as he begins to pump in and
out of his sister.
I'd always doubted my abilities as a lover,
because I never had a girlfriend who would orgasm from penetration
alone, but perhaps I had never gone to bed with the right girl. Sophie
is definitely the right girl - she moans and writhes, grinds her teeth
and arches her back. She is in absolute ecstasy from the finger-width
shaft which is gliding in and out of her tiny hole. For a moment I
allow myself to imagine how much more pleasure she would achieve were
it my thicker, man-sized shaft there instead, but only for a moment.
Their
dance is frantic, but brief. Matt pushes hard forward, his buttocks
clenched as he cums inside his sister, his little droplets adding to
her slickness. He pulls out while his spike still pulses, and grabs it
in one hand, furiously wanking, throwing his head back as another
orgasm comes hot on the heels of his first. I've never seen that
before, and the all-consuming, agonising pleasure he shows is what tips
me over the edge. I fall forward onto my hands, panting as the
sensation or reaching my peak without ever touching myself overwhelms
me.
A knock
on the door awakes me. I've drifted off while watching sport on ESPN.
It's Matt, and he pushes past me into my room without a word. I think
he understands that I couldn't refuse him even if I wanted to. He has
ammunition should he wish to blackmail me.
"Did you see it?" he asks in an excited voice.
"Yeah," I smile. "Fucking hot."
He grins. "Yeah, it is, isn't it?"
"How long have you and Sophie been doing that?"
"Dunno. About six months maybe. We can't do it every night, but we do when we can."
"Looks like you both enjoyed it."
He shrugs, curiously. I'd expected unequivocal support for the act, but he looks unsure.
"Sophie really likes it," he says. "It was my idea the first time we did it, but now it's usually her who wants to do it."
I'm surprised - a girl wanting it more than a boy is, let's be honest, fairly unusual.
"And you're not that bothered?" I ask.
"I am, it's just that... well... you know this morning?"
I nod, knowing full well what he's referring to.
"Well, that kind of felt better than when me and Sophie did it."
Well,
fuck me. It's not that the idea of him enjoying sex more with a man is
shocking, it's the fact he's prepared to admit it to me. It strikes me
that he would only make the admission if he was extremely horny, and
that makes my next move clear as day.
"Do you want to do it again?"
He
looks at me, torn. There is conflict inside him, the fight between
desire on the one hand and fear on the other. If he asks me to have sex
with him, even if it's just me wanking him off, he's admitting
something quite fundamental - he might not be gay, but he has both gay
and straight sex available, and he prefers the former. It's not like he
needs to come to me to get off, he has his sister for that. No, he's
come to me because he needs something more, because he isn't satisfied.
I
don't wait for an answer, because I'm note sure one will be
forthcoming. I take him by the shoulders, backing him up until he hits
the bed, and falls backward onto it. All the time he says nothing,
makes no moves to resist me. He simply stares into my eyes, as if by
looking away he'll be forced to accept where he is and what he is
allowing to happen to him. He's pushed his feet into untied trainers to
walk the few metres from his door to mine, so I kneel and remove these,
and then from my position on the floor reach up to grab the waistband
of his shorts. He doesn't raise his hips to help, but he's so light I
can pull them down his body and off in one move. He wears no underwear,
and his hard penis is tight to his stomach, balls drawn up tight
beneath. He watches impassively as I take it into my hand.
I
work him slowly, as much for my enjoyment as to prolong his. The feel
of it beneath the tips of my fingers, the way the soft skin glides over
the steel hardness beneath, these things are as delightful as I
imagined they might be in my wildest fantasies. It is there, in my hand
inches from my face. I've sucked it before, and my mouth waters at the
prospect of doing so again, but this time I want to see him shoot, if
he still can after having wetted his sisters pussy already this
evening. His excitement builds in an endearingly similar way to hers -
eyes squeezed shut, hands gripping the sheets, hips bucking up in
search of greater pleasure. When his orgasm hits he pants, grunts and
groans his way through it, firing the tiniest drop of almost clear cum
out to land on his stomach. I lean forward and lick it up, and he
giggles at the ticklish sensation, pushing my head away. He looks up at
me, eyes wide with wonder. I'd expected guilt to wash through him, but
it doesn't. He lies there, his deflated penis flopped to one side,
watching me with a slight smile curling the corner of his mouth.
I
need release. I need to feel the sensation of an orgasm. I rise to my
feet, pulling my shorts to mid-thigh and releasing my shaft. His eyes
widen slightly, and there's more of a definite grin. I take it in hand,
standing over him as I wank, but I'm not allowed to finish. He sits,
pulling his t-shirt over his head and throwing it on the floor, and
then his hand replaces my own. It's not a practised motion, but that
makes it even more erotic. This is almost certainly the first time he's
done this with an adult, but as he sits looking up at me, and then
leans his head forward to pull at the skin of my foreskin with his
lips, I know this is something he has thought about doing. His hot
tongue swipes over the exposed part of my head, sending shivers down my
spine, and the impossibly soft heat of his mouth as it slips over the
first few inches of my shaft is a sensation beyond description.
"Matt,
stop... ahhh.... I'm going to shoot," I manage to get out, just as my
semen boils up my shaft. He pulls back and watches as thick ropes of
cum fire out into the air to land in a series of dull 'splats' against
his chest, his stomach, his crotch, his legs. He sits there dripping in
cum as I fall to my knees, head spinning and stars before my eyes.
He
lets me wash him in the shower. He looks a little confused as to why I
would want to, but for me it is a wonderful way to show my caring for
him, to show that I'm not just into him for sex. He becomes hard, of
course, but I do nothing about it, and it goes down by itself mere
moments later. As he goes to leave he returns to hug me.
"We're going first thing in the morning," he says, and as he walks through the door my heart breaks a little.
I
look down at the now fully functioning fuel gauge. It's been bang on
the money for a week now, ever since I left Marv's, and if it tells me
I'm running low, I'm running low. I pull into an independent gas
station, and hop out of the car to talk to the attendant. Except I'm
not really talking to him, or at least not with all my attention. No,
I'm looking over his shoulder to where, in the car park of a motel
rather like Marv's a family are emptying their bags from the boot of a
large, black SUV.
As they walk into the motel, Matt turns and
smiles. He's spotted me, just like at the last two motels, and he knows
I've spotted him. My hand naturally drifts to Bumblebee's flank, and in
response his touches the material of the crotch of his shorts. It may
not last for ever, this game, but for now it's all kinds of fun.