English Lads

by Adam Carpenter

  Nevil’s fingers grabbed at Jake’s back, fingernails digging into his muscled skin. Legs still wrapped around his ass, keeping Jake’s cock buried deep inside his pliant ass. All the while his dirty talk continued, more, more, fuck, fuck, thick cock, give it, give it, sexy beast, hairy chest…want more, want more…

  Jake felt his cock tighten. Passion built up inside him, and suddenly heat overwhelmed him. His cock exploded, orgasm shattering his body. He felt spurt after spurt shoot from the tip, his head expanding with each powerful burst. Nevil’s legs unraveled from Jake’s ass, letting his fresh lover free of its tight embrace. But then he tossed Jake onto his back, climbing onto his still hardened cock, slipping it inside him again.

  “Oww…” Jake screamed, his cock sensitive from his fresh climax.

  But Nevil would not be deterred. He bounced up and down on Jake’s cock, one hand grazing at Jake’s chest while his other hand stroked his cock. It didn’t take him long. He was already primed, ready, heated. Jake watched the constricted expression overtake Nevil’s face, and he cried out once, twice, his third cry shattering the silence of the room. He was like a wolf howling at the moon, no doubt heard for miles—or at the very least, into the next room. His cries continued as ropey white come shot out, more, more, more, taking to the air and dropping, dripping onto Jake’s chest, mixing against skin and hair. Nevil’s loud cries finally dissipated, eventually becoming stuttered whimpers. Christ, Jake thought, was he about to cry in earnest? Was he one of those momma’s boys who cried after climax? Was he feeling regret too? Missing his old boyfriend? How did he get out of this situation? Hell, how did he get into it in the first place?

  That second question, that easy. He’d been horny, he’d been drinking.

  And like always, regret followed his own orgasm.

  He wanted to get out.

  Nevil got up, finally freeing Jake from his position on the bed. Jake too stood up, stretching his body. He needed the bathroom to wipe away the come that was dripping down his chest and feared he’d have to step out into the hall to do that. But fortunately a door inside the room led to a bathroom. He padded over, closing the door behind him. He flipped on the light and grabbed a towel, wiping the come away. Suddenly a second door from the other bedroom opened, and a naked Jake found himself being observed by the six guys. They were all still naked, lounging, smoking, drinking. When they saw Jake, they began to applaud.

  “What ho, Nevil had himself a hairy bear,” one of them said, and the other boys had a good laugh at that.

  “No wonder he was screaming like a girl,” another said.

  A third got up from the bed and came to the door. “So, Jake, you up for another round? I’d love a ride on that thick cock.”

  Jake just smiled and, remembering Hunter’s exit line, said, “Sorry, boys, gotta run. You know, life calls.”

  He closed the door, turned off the lights, and went to say goodnight to Nevil. He was asleep, or maybe just passed out. Jake got dressed in the dark, slunk his way out past the other party boys, all of whom were eyeing him with a mix of suspicion and envy. They all seemed to be wondering the same thing: who was this new guy who had so royally screwed their friend tonight?

  Jake didn’t stick around to answer any questions.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Sounded like you enjoyed yourselves.”

  Jake nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of the disembodied voice. There was no person attached to it, at least not as far as Jake could see in the swarming dark of night. What was it with these London guys. They couldn’t approach you normally? Why must everyone sneak up on him, jolting his system? First Nevil at Westminster Bridge, Hunter sidling up to him at the party, and now on quiet street at midnight…who the hell was it now? He turned, about to scold whomever had scared him when his eyes once again landed on the handsome, devilish grin of Hunter Abbott.

  “Frightened you, did I?”

  “Startled is all,” Jake said, trying to act casual. His heart was still beating fast though.

  “So, that was you doing Nevil?”

  Jake reddened. “Uh…doing?”

  “Screwing? That better? Fucking, plowing?”

  “That’s not what I meant. I mean, how you do you know it was me…wait, you could hear us? I thought you left. You know, ‘life calls.’”

  “Well, first, thanks for confirming that was you were giving Nevil his birthday present. I suspected, but couldn’t be certain. See, I was intrigued to learn what was going to happen tonight. These parties, Nevil usually scores with someone and it was pretty obvious he’d set his sights on you. So, you gave in? He screams up a storm, that bitch. Let me guess, the window was wide open, guys on the roof were getting off from him getting off. Probably the same damn twinks as always in the next room. Welcome to a Nevil Night—you’ve been initiated. He’s always been quite the howler.”

  Jake realized he felt stupid, like he’d been used. No doubt all the boys at the party had known from the start exactly what was going down. Nevil telling him the wrong door so he could see the six-guy orgy, was that his way of getting off? Or trying to turn Jake on to the point where he’d need to screw. What a weird, twisted night. Was this why he’d come to London? How was this different from the bad decisions he made in New York? Wasn’t he trying to avoid these pathetic one-night stands? The defeat must have shown on his face.

  “Buck up, old boy. You’re part of the in crowd now,” Hunter said.

  “Yeah, great. You part of that crowd, too?”

  Hunter faced darkened. “Nah. Nevil’s not my type, no matter how drunk I am. Doesn’t mean he hasn’t tried. Countless times. You should see the lame ways he’s tried to get me out of my clothes. Usually involves spilling a drink all over me. Never works.”

  “Great, you’re able to resist him and I give in on his first try.”

  “Well, he must have enjoyed himself, he was screaming like a banshee.”

  “And just how do you know this?”

  “Like I said, I knew what was going to happen. Nevil’s as predictable as he is loud. I decided to stick around, keep a listen. Call it my way of doing research.” Hunter paused before his hand reached out, rubbing Jake’s goatee.

  “Nevil may not be my type, but you on the other hand…you’re much more to my liking.” He leaned forward, pressing Jake against the building. Jake could feel his warm breath. He could feel the man’s sizable cock pressing against his leg. He was close enough to see the exposed triangle of chest hair. Just then Hunter planted a kiss on Jake’s lips, deep, searching, definitely hot. A wandering hand grazed his growing crotch. Taking advantage of this sudden heated moment, Jake’s fingers slipped inside Hunter’s shirt, getting his first touch of the enticing dark mat that seemed to cover his chest. He wanted more than anything to rip his shirt off, see for himself just how fucking furry he was, run his hands through that carpet. Unbuckle those jeans, too, suck what felt like a big cock. He felt his mouth go dry at the possibility of such a sexy encounter with Hunter.

  But then Hunter pulled back. “Nice. Promising. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”

  Those enigmatic words hung in the tense air between them before Hunter shoved off, his feet making quick work of the cobblestones. He disappeared through a dark mews, leaving Jake a muddled, wobbly-kneed mess. He hadn’t even had a chance to ask Hunter where to find him, or what he meant by his late-night come-on. All Jake knew was that, despite having climaxed just a short while ago, his cock was hard and he was horny as hell, and it was all the fault of the sexy, elusive Hunter Abbott. Shit, Jennie and Steven had been right about him. He was trouble for sure.

  Gathering his wits about him, Jake made his way down the street, emerging onto the still busy Old Compton Road. The narrow street was bustling with the night’s gay frivolity. The night air had noticeably chilled, and Jake was still dressed in his shorts and T-shirt combo. Men were pouring in and out of gay bars like the Admiral Duncan and the old-standby, Compton’s, many of them tossing lee
ring looks and come-ons at Jake. Jake didn’t much feel like hanging around drunken gay men, so he headed toward the end of the street, where he found a noisy pub on the corner of Old Compton Street and Charing Cross. Called the Molly Moggs. He walked into the small, cramped space and ordered a pint of Pride. After he slapped down a five-pound note, he gazed about the room. Men, more men, and even more men. Except for one big blonde wig of a woman, singing into a microphone. Shit, a drag queen. Jake had stumbled into a gay pub.

  He pushed his hand into his pocket, trying his best to suggest a casual pose. That’s when he felt something stuffed inside. Setting down his beer on the wooden bar, he withdrew a piece of crumpled paper. He unfolded it, read it contents with surprise.

  “Hyde Park. Round Pond, near Kensington Gardens. Monday. 12 noon. Hope to see you. Hunter.”

  Despite all sorts of warning bells going off in his head, Jake Westbury grinned. Hunter must have stuffed this into his pocket when he’d pressed him against the wall. The anticipation of meeting up with Hunter was rife with possibilities, not the least of which was fulfilling the promise of his earlier tease. Yes, he was intrigued by Hunter, definitely attracted to him. But only now did Jake get the sense that Hunter had developed a thing for him. His London trip was off to a fast start. Not even here a week and he’d already had sex once and the possibility of more was just a weekend away. But this trip wasn’t just about sex. It was about making a connection with someone. A connection that lasted beyond one night, beyond a shattering climax or a quick grope of a hairy chest on a darkened street. Still, Jake felt his body relax, and at last he could enjoy the antics of the big drag queen who was praising the fact that it was raining men. Hallelujah the crowd roared.

  Hallelujah, indeed, Jake thought.

  The sexy image of Hunter Abbott stayed with him long into the night.

  Was it more than just sex he wanted from Hunter?

  Hell, he hadn’t even had an official date with him and already he was thinking about the future.

  * * *

  Twelve ten and still no sign of Hunter. Jake Westbury had to consider the possibility that he had the location wrong. But no, as meticulous as Jake was, there was no way he could have screwed this up, even as distracted as he was about the man he was meeting. Wait, correct that, supposed to be meeting. Where the hell was he? Besides, Jake had scoped out the location over the weekend to ensure no mistakes or delays.

  Jake sat down on the bench, gazing at the few people who were meandering through the lush park. None of them matched Hunter. He checked his watch again. Ten after twelve. Jake was on time, Hunter was late. But Jake was always on time, punctuality was another of his strengths. Though when it came to elusive creatures like Hunter, it could be considered a weakness. Was he too eager to be with this man? Was Hunter toying with him, seeing how far he could push him? What if Hunter didn’t even show? Jake was getting way ahead of himself, both in this moment and on this trip. Calm down, breath, relax, let things happen as they will. Which was akin to telling Jake don’t be yourself.

  Hyde Park was huge, and Jake was glad he had taken the time on Saturday to take a tour. From the giant Marble Arch off Oxford Street all the way to the gilt-edged Albert Memorial and the wandering paths, the ponds, the ducks, the beautiful Kensington Palace and accompanying gardens, Jake had lost himself for hours during his sojourn. He thought again of Friday night when Hunter had cornered him after Nevil’s party. He’d been a big tease, drawing Jake into his sexy web, but then pulling back at the last minute. The man was an enigma. A freaking sexy enigma. Which explained why a horny Jake was waiting alone on a park bench in the middle of a Monday afternoon in mid-June in London.

  Another check of his watch. Twelve eighteen.

  Just how long should he wait?

  Just how much did he want to sleep with this guy?

  Okay, he could wait a bit longer.

  Whore.

  Jake laughed at his own inner thoughts, wondered then how his friends Matt and Freddie were faring on their own European excursions. Had Matt met the man of his dreams along the Seine, moved into some fabulous artist’s studio and posed nude for him? Had Freddie slept his way through a Coliseum full of men? He hoped they were having more success than Jake, who so far could rack up a cheap blow job onboard the airplane and a howling encounter with Nevil. And now this, a failed date with the hottest guy he’d ever met.

  Wait, there he was…

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jake could see Hunter approaching the series of benches situated around the aptly named Round Pond. He was dressed in tight jeans and a black T-shirt, thick, hairy arms exposed to the bright sunlight. His hair tousled, face scruffy from days of not shaving, he looked hot and sexy. Add to that the sunglasses covering his eyes, Jake was glad he’d waited around for him to appear. Still, he couldn’t be sure if contact had been made. He watched as Hunter made his way innocently toward an empty bench opposite to where Jake sat. Did he really not see him? Should Jake get up and make his way over? He started to get up, but that’s when he noticed the slightest shake of Hunter’s head. As though he was saying no. No, what? As in, don’t approach? Why not? A sudden memory came to Jake, the big thug of a man who had entered the Railway Pub last week, only to leave disappointed when his prey had failed to materialize. His prey. Had that been Hunter?

  Was that thug around somewhere?

  And if so, what did it mean?

  Jake eased back onto his bench, trying to assume a casual pose but all the while uncertain what his next move should be. Turns out, someone made it for him. He was joined on the bench by a man who appeared to be his 30s; short, no more than 5’9”, with close-cropped dark hair and a heavy shadow of dark beard. He also wore sunglasses, and, oddly, a three-piece suit and tie. He looked as uncomfortable as Jake felt nervous. Sweat formed on the man’s forehead, whether from the combination of heat and that suit, or at what was to transpire, Jake couldn’t be sure. The man had brought with him a large knapsack and he placed it between himself and Jake.

  “Just leave it for now,” the man said.

  “Huh?”

  “Act innocent.”

  “Easy. I am.”

  “Not anymore,” the man said.

  Jake couldn’t help it, his head turned and looked at the man’s profile. The man refused to look directly at him. “You know, sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m just waiting for a friend…”

  “I know who you are, Jake. Trust me. We’re being watched.”

  We’re being watched…

  Like something out of a spy movie. If he hadn’t actually said Jake’s name, he’d still be convinced the guy had mistaken him for someone else. This wasn’t some old Alfred Hitchcock movie, he didn’t know what The 39 Steps meant…and besides, what was inside the bag that he shouldn’t even look at it, much less touch it.

  “I’m going to leave. And when I do, the bag stays with you.”

  “I don’t want the bag…”

  The short man wiped his brow once, then said, this time aloud, “I say, chap, do you have a spare tissue? Seems I’ve left my handkerchief back at the office. Terrible sun today, don’t you think? Quite unlike our gloomy London days, don’t you think?”

  What the hell was this guy talking about?

  “Uh, a tissue…?”

  “Perhaps in your bag?”

  “My…oh, “ Jake said, figuring this was how the transfer was to be done. Pretend suddenly that Jake had had it with him all along. If anyone was looking (and just who might that be?) it had to appear that the knapsack sitting between them on the bench was actually Jake’s, not Mr. Suit’s. Jake reluctantly played along, not even sure why. He reached for the strings, untying them to open the bag. What he saw inside nearly stopped his heart. The Queen’s face stared back at him—or rather, many Queen’s faces stared back at him, in the form of bundles of cash. Twenty pound notes, 50s, 100s. The bag was filled with them, nearly overstuffed. What was not inside, of course, were tissues. But Jake suppose
d that was a ruse, too, just like this entire exchange.

  “Uh, sorry, no tissues.”

  “Ah, here is mine,” the man said, pulling a white handkerchief from his inside suit pocket. Jake could see the initials S.D. sewn in to the expensive fabric. “Just put in the wrong pocket, must have been distracted. Well, enjoy your day, sir. Stay cool.”

  That last statement didn’t appear to be weather related.

  The man got up from the bench and without another word, another look, started off down the path, weaving his way between two mothers and a pair of baby strollers, before finally disappearing into a copse of trees. Jake looked at the space where the man had been, then back at the knapsack full of money that had been left in his possession. Then he stared across the pond at the bench where Hunter was sitting.

  Had been sitting.

  The bench was empty.

  Jake’s head spun around, suddenly searching for his date, wondering where the man had gone. Where was he, and what was all this about the man in the suit and the bag of cash? Just what was Jake supposed to do with it? Obviously he couldn’t leave it for any random stranger to find. Clearly this was a drop-off, the little man had been instructed to sit beside Jake and leave this precious cargo with him. But why? Surely Hunter was behind the entire scenario, but what was the point? All Jake could surmise was that he’d been set-up, seduced on a dark street into thinking Hunter wanted to have sex with him, and instead he’d used him for some kind of clandestine, perhaps criminal, enterprise. At least when Nevil had used him at the party he’d allowed Jake to enjoy the moment too.

  Jake sat in the baking sun, considering what to do.

  Was Hunter going to show up and rescue him?

  Was the thug looming somewhere, waiting for the moment when Jake left…with bag in tow?

  And then what?

  Jake supposed there was only one way to find out. He grabbed hold of the knapsack, slipping it over his shoulders as he got up from the bench. Adjusting it so that the weight was comfortable against his back, he took a few hesitant steps forward, his eyes darting for any sudden movements. He didn’t see any. Not from Hunter, not from some mysterious thug. And why did he keep thinking of the guy as a thug, anyway? What was this, a gangster movie? So the guy was large, built like a truck, a face like it had met the business end of one. Still, look at what his shallowness had gotten him? Attracted to Hunter’s body alone had done nothing for him but land him in this current predicament, right?