Stumpy shoved the key-card across the table at him. Greg looked down at it and left it untouched, lying in the ring left by some yuppie’s lager.

This whole thing was bound to be a disaster; everything the fat bastard touched was a disaster but he had a big, grubby roll of money sticking out of his shirt pocket—and that got Greg’s attention. Stumpy had got on the cell begging Greg to get down to the bar at the Grand and there’d be cash in it, but he hadn’t been expecting this.

“This is too damn fucked up,” Greg said, folding his arms.

Stumpy glanced around the dark hotel bar. “Keep you fuck’n voice down, prick. It’s the easiest five hundred quid you’ll ever make. I could’a given this to anyone.”

Greg sighed and put his index finger down on the card. Stumpy liked to play the pimp but it didn’t wash. He didn’t know that many boys and most of them were real dogs. Greg was the best thing he had on call, a gangling student with a big crooked nose who hustled a bit on the side. He knew he wasn’t some fucking Ritz gigolo and the Grand was a dive of a hotel that only got by because it was cheap and near the airport.

“Yeah, but he wants me to just go in and, like, do it.”

“And a bit rough, like. You know.”

“I don’t fuck’n know. That’s the problem. Is he sub, does he like being slapped around, anonymous sex? Is this some kind of rape fantasy….”

“Yeah, like that.”

Greg was trying to play it cool but he’d never done more than straight sex. He’d do oral, active, passive, whatever—but he want to know what and for how much up front, no surprises. Five hundred quid off the loan, though. He picked up the white plastic card, feeling it slick between his sweaty fingers. He moved it hand to hand, wiping his palms on his jeans. Besides, the whole thing was a bit close to the truth. The Grand was infamous for not changing its key-codes and not getting the cards back when people checked out. It was a mugger’s paradise and there were rumours of other stuff though no one had gone to the cops yet.

“This is fucked up,” he said again but he knew he was going to do it. “So just straight….”

Stumpy grinned. “Sometimes I think you are, Greg you prick. Yeah, in, up the arse and out not gonna a want a bloody kiss and a cuddle is he? And don’t forget this; he wants you to make it real.” He pulled a flick knife from his pocket and pushed it across the table to. “Make it dead tough, right. Like the real thing or he won’t pay up the other half of the dosh.”

Greg covered the knife quickly with his hand, the plastic handle felt soft and warm. “Fuck,” he said again softly, but it was too late to back out now.

The plastic card said ‘69’ which wasn’t exactly going to happen. Greg looked down the dim corridor, kicked off his shoes and unzipped his fly. His dick lay limp and cold. Greg went to his old stand-by and imagined his college room-mate Ross. Straight as hell but cute as sin; he pictured him lying naked on the bed with his pale, tight buttocks stuck up in the air. A few tugs and he was at least half way to hard and that was just going to have to do. He rolled on a lubed johnny; God knows there was enough wrong about this without going home with a ‘souvenir’.

He pulled the knife from his pocket slid the card in the door and crept into the utter darkness of the room. He blundered forwards, hearing the door slide shut behind him. His shin hit the corner of his bed just as he eyes adjusted a bit to the faint streetlight filtering through the grimy curtains.

Fuck it, he thought.

He grabbed the rumpled corner of the quilt and yanked it off. Adrenaline shot through his system and his cock stiffened. He just made out the dim form of a pretty average looking guy lying on his front. In terms of the guys who used rent boys he wasn’t too bad: middle aged, short, only a bit flabby and still with most of his hair. He was scrambling up to his hands and knees and heading towards the headboard.

Greg’s feeling of fear and uncertainty transformed into an unfamiliar, uncanny sort of rage. He left onto the bed and grabbed the guy’s hair tightly with his left hand. He stepped over the guys back and held the knife up against his neck.

“You wanted this so you just fuck’n lie still and take it,” he hissed, making jabbing movements with the blade to emphasise the point.

He dropped to his knees and pushed the man down flat on the bed. He pulled back his knife hand and used his elbow to push down hard on the guy’s narrow bony shoulders. He used his other hand, still greasy from none too clean hair to position his cock as he squirmed down. He rubbed its head up and down the guy’s cracked but couldn’t bloody find the arsehole. Finally he snagged it and with a bit more spit he pushed in.

For once he did give a damn about taking it easy. Greg’s cock felt harder than it had ever been, tingling and aching. The guy lay perfectly still and Greg went into him right to the root, into an arse as tight as a virgin’s. Greg had never felt such an intense grip, the sphincter fighting against him and rolling down his shaft. Then in reverse as he pulled partway back like a milkmaid’s fingers pulling him off.

Greg went up on his hands, putting the knife between his lips. One hand under next to the guy’s neck and the other on the back of his head grinding his face down onto the pillow. Greg fucked the guy hard, panting through his clenched teeth. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes before he came explosively and almost without warning.

He jumped off, the knife fell somewhere on the bed. He headed straight out of the room and for the stairs still zipping up with a sodden condom in his hands. By the time he got to the lobby loos it was like it had all happened to somebody else.

Stumpy caught him coming out of the loo with his face damp and a damp stain down the front of his shirt.

“All right then, piss off,” Stumpy said. “He won’t want see you when he comes to pay up.”

“And leave you to pocket the other monkey. No chance. Give me the half up front and you can get your share off him.”

“Fuck off. All right, go over to the piano bar but keep your head down, right.”

Stumpy play tough was reminiscent of a bullfrog doing its mating display. Greg shrugged and left the main lounge. He slid along the chrome bar so that he could still see into the main area. There was a radio blaring Duran Duran from behind the bar where a tall man was drying glasses and watching Greg without even pretending not to. Greg tried to ignore him. He spent a spell watching Stumpy giggling his thighs up and down in a nervous tremor. Then a man with long permed hair came over to him.

Stumpy and the man carried out a vehement conversation and then the man snatched the money from Stumpy’s shirt pocket. He stormed off back towards the guest area. Greg started to stand, but stopped himself. Stumpy looked scared. He looked up around and then came over to Greg.

“He says you never did it”

“That was him? That was the guy, it was for him?”

“Of course it is, what do you….”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck”

“Fuck”

Greg felt sweat break out simultaneously across every inch of his body and his voice shook as he spoke again. “No, the key card worked, room sixty-nine.”

“Ninety-six, room ninety-six he said it just now it was on the card!”

A succession of images cascaded over Greg’s numbed mind. The card as he read it upright in his hand, the card still in the door with his fingerprints all over it, the knife covered in his spit, the man scrambling across the bed. The whole field of his vision blurred but for a single grubby spot on Stumpy’s shirt.

Stumpy backed away from him and then ran for the front door, he ran off past the plate front window faster than you’d think a guy that size could move. It didn’t really make any sense. Even the Grand must have each door coded differently, surely? Greg remember when he’d found out that the locks of the high school lockers repeated after a certain number. Trying the key around became a popular pastime for a while and a lot of people got stuff nicked.

The barman pushed a rink under his nose, something golden and aromatic over ice.

“I didn’t….”

“There’s something I need to explain,” the barman said and there was a smug tone to his voice that made Greg take notice.

Sean took the card key out of the lock with a smile and slipped it into his pocket. He stepped inside and shut the door.

“How was he?”

The man on the bed answered with a chuckle. “Possibly the best yet, of his sort. Come over here, Sean.”

Sean slipped his shirt over his head and undid his belt looking down onto the bed, the sheet was torn and the covers on the floor. Brett lay on his back looking like the cat that got the cream. He was a right weirdo and Sean put it about that he only stuck with him because the bastard was filthy rich, but he had to admit it was just a little more than that.

He slipped off his pants and shoes and stepped over to the bed. He had already palmed the condom from his pocket and now he opened it and rolled it on. This was another part of the game; after he’d had it rough he wanted Sean. He was a pig like that.

Sean slipped into Brett’s arms. Insistent thighs gripped his hips and pulled him in. They were familiar with each others bodies and Sean knew what his lover wanted. Never any fooling around, never gentle. He tried not to dwell on what he wanted ‘cause that was hardly the point.

He slid in harm and wet, trying not to think about the other bloke hoping he’d be okay. After all, he did what he could.

“The older bloke some kind of big business man. He gets off on two things, rough trade and getting a bargain.”

“It’s a con?”

“Some weird arse con if you ask me,” the barman said. “The younger bloke said to explain if I got a chance and give you this. Tell you to let it go if you’re smart.”

A shoved a couple of folded fifties over the surface of the bar.

“You knew, and you didn’t say anything?”

The barman left his broad index finger planted on the bills. “You got yourself into this, mate,” he said in a flat voice.

“Yeah, sorry.”

The barman shrugged. “We’ll, you’d be shaken up. But take the money and forget about it. After all, who can you tell, what can you do about it? You’re lucky you didn’t walk out of here without learning the truth.”

Greg downed his drink in one, the ice cubes bouncing off his teeth. As he stood to leave on shaking legs the barman leaned over to him.

“Perhaps you ought-a take this as a sign,” he said, sotto voice.

“What?”

“This trick would never have work on a real pro. You mate’s a fuck’n joke as a pimp and you’re hardly cutting it as trade. Give it up. Now I’m being nice, passing on the bills and giving you the barman-style words of wisdom. I see your skinny arse here again and I’ll bounce you into the alley and try kicking some smarts into you instead. And I’m doing you a favour; Fatso won’t even get a warning. Anyone can tell he ain’t go the brains God gave Britney”

Greg backed away and headed for the door. Damned if the big bastard didn’t make some sense. He wasn’t a rapist but he wasn’t much of a hustler either…. But in the back of his head now the panic was receding—the feeling of holding a man down and fucking him hard, lingered.

 

© 2005 Emily Veinglory - Contributor's Bio