McCauley and I circled one another slowly, each waiting for an opportunity to land the punch that would bring the fight to an end. McCauley was a nasty son of a bitch who worked on the docks moving freight, and he had both the muscles and the bad temper that went with the territory. He had been known to down a dozen pints and take on three men at one time when his mood went sour or he thought he had been slighted, and more than one street fighter had his career ended after going a round with the man.
I usually tried to avoid fights that drew a lot of attention, preferring smaller rounds with guys who’d had a few too many and wanted to prove something to themselves or their buddies by taking on a bigger man. At six-four and 253 pounds, I gave them something to dream about. I let them get in a few good shots until the crowd that inevitably gathered to watch was in a betting mood. Then, once the pot got big enough, I’d go into action. One good sock to the jaw and the other guy was usually out like a light. When he woke up, he didn’t know what hit him, and I’d be a couple of bucks richer.
But in the years after the stock market crashed, Hoover sent the American economy into the biggest downward spiral in history, and he left office with the dubious distinction of having midwifed the Depression. I’d made it through the first few years after the crash relatively easily, picking up some action here and there around the city’s drinking areas. But by 1932, money was difficult to come by, and I’d had to raise the stakes.
That’s why I was sweating it out trying to hold off the big dockworker. So far I’d managed to stay away from McCauley’s strong left by keeping one step ahead of him. But that also prevented me from getting in any good punches myself. If something didn’t happen soon, we ran the risk of the cops hearing the cheering and coming by to break up the action.
The bettors were anxious to have the fight over with as well, each one calling out encouragement to the man his hopes were pinned on. McCauley, probably because he was better known and this was his turf, had the most supporters. But when I landed the hit to his gut, the chorus of voices calling my name had swelled a little, renewing my quickly fading confidence.
I waited for the opening I needed, my fists balled in front of my face as I danced around. Suddenly McCauley faltered, dropping his fists momentarily. Sensing the opportunity, I stepped forward. As I did, McCauley recovered from his bluff and landed a solid left to my nose. My head flew back under the impact and blood scattered in a dark splash. The Irishman’s trick was a common one among back-alley scrappers, and I should have known it. But I was anxious to get the fight over with, and now I was paying for it.
The crowd went into a frenzy as those who had bet on McCauley began to collect their winnings. They stopped when they saw that I was still standing. Even McCauley was staring at me in awe, as if waiting for me to crash like a tree that has been cut through and is holding on by one last filament. My white shirt was speckled with red, and I looked down at it as if it were the first time I had seen my own blood. I touched the side of my nose and felt pain bloom in my head.
McCauley, furious to see me still standing, rushed at me with a howl. I caught him in midstride with a jab to the chest, knocking him back. As he staggered under the unexpected blow, I landed a right hook to his jaw, sending him to the ground for good. The crowd, at least those who had bet on me, cheered, and the winners collected their rewards.
A couple of men came over to pat me on the back and say congratulations, but I was more interested in the money I’d won. I found the guy I’d delegated to be my holder and he handed me some bills. “About fifteen bucks there, I’d guess,” he said. “Most of it you won in the last three minutes of the fight.”
I thanked him and pocketed the cash. It wasn’t the most I’d ever made, but it would hold me over for a few rounds of drinking and pay for a couple of nights at the flophouse I was crashing in. And as soon as the word got around that I’d decked McCauley, every two-bit tough in town would want to try and get a piece of the new boy who’d downed their king. It wouldn’t be hard to keep a string of fights going.
My nose was still hurting, so I stepped into a bar for a shot of whiskey to dull the pain a little. Although Prohibition had knocked most of the gin joints out of business, you could still find a watering hole if you knew where to look, especially in this part of town. The do-gooders with their signs and Bible verses were too scared to come down there and drive out demon alcohol.
The bar—actually a small room you got to by going behind the beef carcasses in a slaughterhouse—was filled with smoke and the smell of home-brewed liquor. I waited while the bartender pulled a couple of drafts for some customers and then ordered my drink. Although the flophouse I was staying in was no palace, I wanted to get back and get some sleep.
The bartender brought me my beer, as well as some ice for my nose. I put a couple of coins on the counter and pushed them toward him. As he was putting his hand on them, an arm reached out and stopped him. “Hold it, Pete. This one’s on me.”
I turned to see who the voice belonged to and found myself looking at a man in a dark jacket. A few inches shorter than I, he had a dark complexion and eyes. His short black hair was neatly combed and slicked back over his head, and he was clean shaven. He smiled warmly and shook my hand, his grip firm and sure. A thick gold ring encircled a finger on his right hand, and the watch on his wrist was expensive looking. He wasn’t the type to be hanging around this part of town, and I wondered what he was looking for.
“That was a great fight out there,” he said, the accent in his voice heavy with the masculine cadence bred on New York’s rougher streets and out of character with his expensive clothes. “You won me seventy-five bucks. Figure I owe you one.”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
The man took a long sip on his whiskey and wiped the foam from his lip. “You always been a fighter?”
I laughed, wincing at the pain shooting through my head from my sore nose. “Used to be a steamfitter. But I kept coming home from the bars with a split lip or a black eye. Finally figured if I was going to get roughed up I might as well get paid for it. Been doing it ever since.”
The man chuckled. “Funny how we get ourselves pushed into things, isn’t it?” He took a cigarette out of a pack in his shirt pocket and lit it. The smoke swirled from the end and hung thickly in the air around his head. “By the way, my name’s Haber.”
“Tom. So, you really won seventy-five bucks off me, huh? That’s quite a bit of dough to have to throw around these days.”
Haber laughed. “Guess it is if you don’t have it.”
He downed the rest of his whiskey and looked at me. “How’d you like to make another hundred?”
I stared at him in amazement. A hundred bucks was more than I’d ever make from two weeks of fighting. I tried to look cool as I asked him, “How?”
Haber leaned toward me. His hand brushed against my leg. “I’d like to get my own taste of that body of yours. Come out back with me and the money’s yours.”
This guy was gambling big. If he’d asked the wrong guy what he’d just asked me, he might have ended up with his head bashed in. Now I knew what he was doing at the bar, and I knew I’d be able to give him just what he was looking for.
I finished my drink, giving him a minute to worry about whether I was going to deck him or not. When I saw him start to get fidgety, as if he were about to run out, I nodded. “Sure. Let’s go.”
I walked ahead of Haber, leading him out the bar and across the sloppy floor of the slaughterhouse to the back door. The alley behind the bar was dark except for a dim light coming from a sign that buzzed outside the entrance at the end where it emptied onto a side street. Once it had said MEAT, but somewhere along the line the A had died out, leaving a gap in the word like a missing tooth. The alley was largely empty except for a few scattered bottles and the stink of piss from the men who sometimes used it to empty themselves before going home.
Haber walked carefully through the alley to the rear, where some crates of empty
Coca-Cola bottles were stacked. I stood in front of him, letting him look at me in the dim light. He reached out a hand and ran it lightly over my shirt, fingering the suspenders that ran down my chest and connected with the buttons on my waistband.
“You’re a tough guy, Tom,” he said softly. “I want you to show me just how tough you can be.”
I pushed him back, feeling his back meet the wall with a dull thud. Leaning forward, I pressed my mouth against his. His lips were full and smooth, and I could taste the remnants of the cigarette and whiskey on them like a thin skin. The feeling of my two-day beard growth against his face excited me, and I kissed him harder, forcing my tongue between his teeth and flicking it against his.
As we kissed, Haber’s hands ran over my sides and around my back, pressing me against him. I could feel the hardness of his cock through his pants, pressing against my leg. It was surprisingly big.
“I want it rough,” he whispered. “I want you to do it to me hard.”
I pulled away from him and stood looking at him, my hand rubbing my own prick as it stiffened inside my pants. Haber looked at it stretching along my thigh and began to moan softly. I massaged my balls roughly, enjoying the lust I saw building behind his eyes.
“Would you like to touch me, Haber?” I asked him.
He nodded, licking his lips nervously.
“Good. Then I want you to strip for me. Get rid of those clothes.”
Haber undressed quickly, throwing his jacket on the ground, then stepping out of his highly polished shoes and kicking them aside. His shirt went next, revealing a chest covered in dark hair that ran down his stomach and ended in a thick patch at his waist. When he unzipped his pants, he pulled them off hurriedly. He was not wearing underwear, and his cock swung freely when he stood back up. It was even bigger than it had felt through his pants. The heavy shaft ended in a wide head, and the balls beneath it were plump and round.
Haber stood in front of me completely nude, seemingly oblivious to the fact that someone could walk out and catch us at any time. I stepped forward and took his hand, placing it on my chest. Haber began to fumble with the buttons of my shirt, his hands shaking as he tried to loose the buttons from their holes until finally I had to help him. When my shirt was open to the waist, he reached in and stroked the muscles of my chest, letting his fingers glide over my smooth skin. My nipples were stiff, and he tugged at them gently, pinching them between his thumb and forefinger.
Putting my hands on his shoulders, I pushed him to the ground. When he was on his knees in front of me, I leaned back against the wall. Sliding my hand into my pants, I slowly unbuttoned my fly, watching the hunger in Haber’s face grow as he waited to see what I had in store for him. Leaving my suspenders on, I spread the material open and reached in. Pulling my cock out, I let it hang in front of Haber. He stared at the shaft, thick as his wrist, and at the fat head that swayed before his lips. Because I still had my suspenders over my shoulders, my pants pulled up and under my hefty balls, pressing them close to my prick and making it stand out even further.
“Now,” I said, “I want to see that dick in your mouth, and I better not feel any teeth on it. Is that clear, Haber?”
Haber nodded, then leaned forward, brushing his lips against my dickhead. He opened his mouth and began to slide the head into his throat. Grabbing him by the hair, I pushed forward, slamming the full length of my cock into his tight throat. He let out a yell that was muffled by the thick meat stretching his mouth, then sucked hungrily.
“You like sucking my big cock, don’t you, Haber?” I growled, doing my best to sound like the street rough he wanted me to be. “You like sitting naked in this slimy alley servicing my prick.”
Haber answered by squeezing the length of my prong tightly with his lips and throat. His spit was slicking my skin, and I slid in and out easily, my hand guiding his head so that he maintained the speed that gave me the most pleasure. I got off on watching my cock disappear between his appreciative lips, then emerge again until the head appeared and he waited, lips slightly apart, until I buried it home again.
After a few minutes of deep-throating him, I pushed Haber away. Pulling him up, I looked him in the face. “That’s one hungry mouth you have, cocksucker. I hope your asshole is just as hungry.”
I pushed Haber over the stack of Coca-Cola bottles next to me. His upper body lay across the top crate, his butt spread out in front of me. The mounds of his ass were round and firm, covered with the same hair that dusted the rest of him. I slapped one of them sharply, enjoying the feel of my hand on his tensed muscles.
I stood behind Haber and let my cock fall on his back, just above the valley formed by the globes of his butt. Spitting into my hand, I rubbed it along the length of my prick. Then I spit again and rubbed my fingers into the crack of Haber’s ass. His hole was eager, opening to my finger and surrounding it in a kiss. I pushed in deeply, feeling him press back against me until I was buried up to the knuckle in his sweet warmth.
“You’re a horny bastard, aren’t you, Haber? You can’t wait to have me plowing your butt.”
Haber was loosening up, but I knew he wasn’t loose enough to take what I had for him without at least some pain. He knew it too, and it excited him. He squirmed against my hand invitingly, begging me to enter him. Pulling my finger out, I positioned the head of my prick against the opening of his chute and pushed. Because I was really getting off on fucking Haber in the alley, I was even thicker than usual, and the walls of his ass screamed around the shaft of my cock as it invaded his hole.
Once I was in, I didn’t give him any time to adjust to my size. Pulling out, I rammed back in immediately. Haber was whimpering, his hand clutching the edges of the crate tightly, but he never once asked me to stop. He was enjoying my overpowering him, absorbing every thrust of my hefty tool.
I fucked Haber’s ass steadily, pulling out just enough to tease his ass ring before plunging back in. My balls slapped his hairy ass wetly as the mixture of spit and his ass juice slipped from his hole and slid over my sac. The more I pumped him, the more excited I got, until soon I was bucking in and out of his ass fiercely. With each thrust the bottles in the crate rattled, the glass tinkling together like the voices of an onlooking chorus.
Grabbing Haber under his arms, I pulled him up roughly and pushed him flat against the wall face first. This new position forced his ass to hug my cock tightly. And because I was taller than he was, I had to crouch somewhat, creating a wonderful ache in my thigh muscles. Pushing upward, I could ram my crank straight up into him until his ass cheeks rested against my legs.
Leaning forward, I rubbed my belly against Haber’s back as I fucked him. He hugged the wall tightly, his lips pressed against the brick as he groaned from the reaming I was giving him. I could feel his cock rubbing against the rough stone with each thrust.
Then I couldn’t hold back any longer. Pulling out of Haber, I turned him around and pushed him to his knees once more. I fisted my cock three or four times and the spunk rocketed from my overworked balls, gushing across his face and onto the wall behind him. I shoved Haber away from me, staying within my role as rough. Looking down I saw that the fur of his stomach was sticky with ropes of silvery cum. He must have shot his load at the same time I did.
Putting my prick back into my pants, I buttoned up quickly, tucking my shirt into the waistband. Walking over to Haber’s jacket, I picked it up and took his wallet out of the pocket. Counting out five twenty-dollar bills, I folded them roughly and jammed them into my pocket, then tossed the wallet on the ground.
As I walked toward the end of the alley and the street beyond, I heard Haber behind me putting on his clothes. Fingering the crisp bills in my pocket, I thought maybe the Depression wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
The Checkup
I used to go to an incredibly sexy dentist. One day, while having extensive surgery for an impacted wisdom tooth, I distracted myself by thinking up this story.
“You’re going
to have to relax some more if I’m going to get my whole hand in,” he said. “Right now I can barely get four fingers in there because you’re all tensed up.”
He was wrong; I wasn’t tense. It was just the opposite. He’d been working on me for almost an hour already, and I was becoming very sore from the insistent prodding of his thick fingers. But I loved having his hand inside me, loved the way it filled me so well. And even though he was fully clothed, I was becoming increasingly aroused by my close proximity to him. I even welcomed the pain, knowing that it came from him. As his hands, encased tightly in blue latex gloves, rubbed invitingly against my skin and patiently massaged my aching muscles, I tried to calm myself so that he could get as far in as he wanted to be.
“That’s better,” he said as I forced myself to stretch just a little bit farther, small fingers of pain scratching at my nerves, and he was able to slide his fingers deep inside. “You’re getting much better at this.”
I tried to smile, wondering if he would notice. His fingers moving back and forth over my insides felt like a cock burrowing deep within my ass, and he was really getting me worked up. I’d gotten hard almost the moment he’d laid his hands on me, and now my prick was aching from being stiff so long without being touched. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine him fucking me, picturing the look on his face as he rammed his prick into my hole. Just as I was getting to where I could almost smell the sweat and lube on our bodies, he pulled out, shattering my daydream.
“There,” he said. “Looks good. All I have to do is polish up the surface and your filling is finished. You’ll feel like you have a brand-new set of teeth. I can’t believe you did the whole thing without novocaine, though. You must like the pain.”
Tangled Sheets Page 13
