CHAPTER 10
Alessio
The next time we made a heist, we ripped off a fentanyl dealer.
Neither Truman or Gunning wanted to use their debit cards to rent a hotel room. Can’t say as I blame them. And of course who carried a hundred dollars in cash anymore—aside from dealers?
Remembering the area of Modesto where Leonard Skinner used to score fentanyl, we rolled around the streets lined with tattered tents, overflowing shopping carts, and makeshift fire pits.
Suddenly on a crusade, all four of us on the same high and low mission to screw the screwers.
With no friends to contact, we were increasingly alone, steadily uniting with each other.
I saw Truman’s walls evaporate, his prudish insistence on steering everyone in the direction he imagined was right. His mind was expanding, allowing that sometimes going high was pointless, and going low more effective in the real world.
Still, I insisted Truman and Gunning stay blocks away when Denmark and I found our mark.
At gunpoint, we peeled almost five hundred dollars from that sleazy idiot leaning against the bricks of a liquor store.
We probably could have done it without the gun.
On his person he had about a hundred fentanyl pills, no doubt with contaminants, maybe tranq, added for bulk.
I grabbed the bottle to dispose of where no one would find it, the bottom of a dumpster.
On our way out, I bought some Jack Daniels. I tossed a few postcards onto the counter. I had a vague idea that Truman could send messages to his Club without giving away our location. Comfort Erin that we weren’t dead.
Far from it. When I got back to Truman’s car, I hummed with electricity. I pasted him with a sloppy kiss, rejuvenated to taste his smile beneath mine. “Let’s get a room in Turlock.”
He practically purred. “Yeah. It’s been a long day.”
That was it. We were an outlaw club.
Truman, the squarest looking guy with no piercings or ink, went into the No-Tell Motel lobby to get two rooms. Denmark would be a bad influence on Gunning, but it was just as true the other way around—Gunning might give Denmark strength, the nobility he exuded after surviving a year in a hole in the ground in Afghanistan.
Denmark needed to remember how noble he was.
To be safe, I changed out Truman’s license plates after he went into our room. We’d have to score some other plates for the bikes. I was high on life, exuberant, prepped for a revenge journey. Truman was my companion in crime, close as brother leaning to brother.
In our room, he took items from the Wendy’s bag and placed them on the table. My cheeseburger was cold, but I’d had worse. Sharing this shitty food with Truman made it feel like a lavish spread.
And he grinned crookedly. I was so relieved he wasn’t angry with me for killing Leonard Skinner, I dared to take the Jack Daniels from the bag. I vowed to not kill Les Moore when we found him.
Truman even accepted a paper cup of the whiskey. “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met,” he admitted, “and I’ve met a lot of characters.”
I knew that. But while it used to be a negative critique of me—never met anyone as whacky as you—now it made me feel understood, appreciated. I dared to say, “Too bad we couldn’t get rid of that body before sticking the kids with it.”
“I thought the same. But you got to admit, we were in a rush to get out of there.”
“Yeah.” I swallowed a bite of burger. “You must’ve dealt with a lot of bodies at your Club.”
Truman swallowed too. I found myself entranced with his Adam’s apple. “Yeah. But the coroner just takes them away. Like a hospital. Never a body that we caused ourselves.”
“But a lot that have no next of kin.”
“Right. A lot. They cremate them and put them in a pauper’s grave. Hey.” I don’t know how one thing led to another, but Truman said, “You must be tired from such a long day. Let me give you a massage. I’m good at that.”
I told myself he was good at it from his marriage to Ashley.
I must’ve crammed the rest of the burger and fries into my piehole, since the next thing I knew I was showered, naked, glugging a few sips of Jack, and lying face down on the tacky chenille bedspread.
With my head to one side, I couldn’t see what Truman was doing.
Being tended to actually made me a little antsy. As he kneeled with thighs on either side of my hips, I blurted, “I’m not used to this. Men just want raw sex. Not to make anyone feel good.”
He chuckled as his oily hands caressed my shoulders. “Well, your history up ‘til now has been misinformed. I love giving pleasure.”
“You’re a twunk.”
“A what?”
“A twunk is a more masculine, muscled twink.”
Truman didn’t seem to like this, as his hands stilled on my trapezius. “Hm. What else can I be?”
“Maybe an otter? Except you’re clean-shaven.”
He seemed to like this, as his fingers swooshed down to my biceps, clutching and squeezing. Ah. I hadn’t realized how sore I was, how tightly I was gripping my own body. “Maybe you’re the twunk, with all your facial hair.”
I frowned into the pillow. “No. I’m more of a gym rat.”
“Do you go to the gym?”
“Hell no. But I get lots of exercise onstage.” I thought. “Or used to.”
When Truman exhaled, a giant sigh of lamentation for my absence of a career, I noted his searing cockhead pressing against my tailbone.
Maybe to take my mind off it, he said softly, “Tell me what feels good and what doesn’t.
” As he swept his fingertips over my upper ribs, dangerously close to my nipples.
I was glad I’d tucked my prick up, safely between my stomach and mattress. “It all feels good. Never had this before.”
He thumbed my shoulder blades. “I can’t believe that. Not even when you left . . . foster care? On tour around the world?”
“Nah. Groupies don’t do things like this.”
We fell into a sort of dual breathing, in and out, in and out.
Truman took my right arm and did like he was wringing a dish towel.
Now that was the most exquisite feeling so far, and I told him.
So he did the other arm, too. As a sometimes conductor, I liked to think my arms were fairly robust, but his tenderizing made me aware how badly they ached.
Still, his burning hot cockhead on my butt cheek kept taking center stage. If he was doing that on purpose, it sure was a sly move. I felt as if he was telling me he was in charge . . . which he basically was. I couldn’t bear that anymore.
In one frustrated move, I rolled onto my back. Penis freed from the mattress, it bounced against my hip. I hitched myself up onto a few pillows against the headboard. “Now,” I commanded, looking him straight in the eye. “Give me that fucking oil.”
With a crooked smile like a mischievous elf, on his knees Truman reached for what turned out to be a bottle of olive oil.
When he handed it to me, his bobbing cock just demanded a stroking.
Jutting and proud, I wanted to do service to it.
Wait . . . service? Was I the one praying at his shrine?
I swished my oily hand around his length, reminding myself I was the one in control. I held his vulnerability in my hands.
Arcing his spine, Truman placed his fists against the small of his back, his head thrashing, bangs poking his eyes. “Oh yessss . . . “
When I stroked my palm down to his bulging balls and lightly squeezed, it was like he could stand it no more, and threaded his fingers together at the back of his neck. But he watched my handiwork. He watched it avidly, his lower lip gleaming with spittle. I wondered if any man had ever jacked him.
I added some dirty talk to the mix. “I’m gonna pop your cherry,” I growled. “Look at your big dick. Long, thick, veined, throbbing in my fist. You’re just dying to spurt all over my face.”
“Oh God, yes,” Truman admitted lustily. “God, yes. Don’t stop.”
I swirled my thumb over his pisshole. Fuck, how I wanted to inhale that beautiful limb down my throat. “You’ve been wasting this big dick your whole life. Now I’ve got you right in my hands.” Precum dribbled from my hole, and my cock twitched for attention.
Truman must’ve noticed this. Dropping down so his ass touched his heels—yet my hand still gripped his prick—he snatched the oil bottle from the bedspread and dribbled some on my penis.
Ah. The old mutual masturbation would level the playing field.
I told myself Truman was still my slave, a slave to the pleasure I gave him with my hand, and servant to his worship of my prick.
I flung one arm above my head. “Oh, that’s good. You’re such an expert at cock worship, Truman.” I twitched a grin. “How long’ve you been doing this? Ah!” His stroking became so swift so quickly my eyeballs rolled into my skull, my fingers stilling on his dick.
“Not long enough,” he said salaciously. “I’ve been waiting decades to jack a dick like yours.” Inching his knees under mine, our cocks came close to touching.
Speeding up my jacking, my hands were almost a blur. “You’re a well-hung otter, my little twunk.”
Truman raised his upper lip. “Fuck you. You’re the well-hung gym rat.” His free hand stroked my chest, fingers delving through the hair, thumbing my nipples, making my cock jump in his hand.
My ribcage swelled knowing we played the power game.
Am I a fucking switch? It filled me with bliss to see what putty Truman was in my hands, how much exquisite ecstasy I gave him.
And how fascinated he was with the pleasure he gave me, eyes frozen on my big dick, heavy and massive in his grip.
A power play to see who would get the upper hand, so to speak.
Was whoever came first the bottom, the sub?
I couldn’t be the obedient servant, so I massaged and squeezed his balls.
Sitting straighter so our noses almost touched, I growled, “Look at you. You’d never get this hard if a woman was jacking you.
You want to come against a hairy chest. You want to kiss a man with a soul patch.
You want to grab a man’s big cock and taste his jizz when he comes in your face. You want to—”
He lost it then. When he tossed his head back, I plastered my mouth to that achingly sexy Adam’s apple.
I felt his load roll up the underside of his penis, my thumb pumping it out the tip.
The warm jizz splashed my chest, my pubic mound, and dripped down my pecs.
I pumped him through wave after wave of come, his teeth gnashing, chest so tight his nipples were like bullets.
My own climax jolted me like thunder. Truman’s cock still spurted when the jizz shot out my hole.
Forcing my eyes open, I watched in awe as jolting streams unloaded on Truman’s taut belly.
He looked down openmouthed—neither one of us breathed.
I couldn’t. The climax was stronger than anything I’d ever experienced.
It seems as though I passed out for a few seconds.
We still gripped each other’s dicks, but reality sank in fuzzily when I gasped.
Huffing hot air, we finally brought our eyes to meet.
I knew how easy it was to just break away after a giant climax.
But with Truman, that would be too shallow, too trivial.
He was the first to grin crookedly. “Wow. What the fuck.”
I could think of nothing to say that would top that.