Haziran 15, 2024

Swim Team Ch. 04 – On the Street

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“Ok,” With his palm, Keith hit the steering wheel. “Be careful, and–“

“Don’t tell Stanley,” I finished his sentence, showing irritation.

I put my backpack strap over my shoulder and slid off the leather seat, my feet reaching the asphalt. I closed the door. Keith drove away, and I waved.

Down my right pant leg, my still hard cock plunged. When I adjusted it, the attention only made it harder and less compliant. From my swim bag, I pull out a damp towel. It reeked of chlorine and mildew, my face scrunched in disgust.

Around my waist, I wrapped the smelly cloth, pants visible below its edge covering my calves and ankles. I considered removing them, but I’d still be some kid in a towel wandering the street at night. It wouldn’t look normal under any circumstances, so left them on.

Headlights blasted my eyes. I raised my hand to shield them, squinting.

A station wagon pulled to the curb next to me. I deviated to the far edge of the sidewalk, against the chain-linked fence, my fingers curled, clinging to it. The linked chains chiming against the metal posts.

The front passenger side of the window descended, a low voice said, “How much?”

I glanced toward the vehicle, my eyebrows furrowed, my steps quickened. Then the driver hauled forward and did a U-turn, then sped up ahead, then another U-Turn. My heart rate jumped, eyes darting between the approaching vehicle and the sidewalk.

He pulled up next to me again. “Twenty-five,” the low voice said from the car.

Eyebrow raised, I approached, “What?” I asked.


It clicked. This guy was soliciting me for sex. I recoiled, stepping backward.

With thirty dollars, though, I could buy a speedo, no more baggy swim trunks at practice. Then the sexy circle would welcome me. Plus, I’m was so fucking horny, too. I wondered if he intends to give or receive.

“Thirty,” I said.

The silhouetted driver nodded. “Get in,” he said.

I gripped the handle and pulled. Then the door opened, and I swung my hips into the car, taking off my backpack and pushing it into the backseat. The inertia as we moved closed the door, my foot barely clearing the swing. Streetlights whipped across his face, then down to his dress pants. With dark short hair and thick black-rimmed glasses, a light blue collared buttoned up over his chest and belly, he looked middle age. Acne scars covered his cheeks, along with patches of scruff across his jaw. Down his neck and beneath a white undershirt, body hair rambled with increasing abundance.

Am I about to be murdered? What am I supposed to say? Is he supposed to say something? When will I get the money?

My head reeled.

A minute later, he pulled into a disintegrating asphalt parking lot, a boarded-up single-story shop between us and the crumbling main street. On the dash in front of me, the man presented a spread of two fives and a twenty. He unhooked and unzipped his pants, then he flattened his hand against his lower stomach, sliding it under his white underwear. I braced, holding tight istanbul travesti to the armrest. He whipped it through the open fly, uncut, approximately six inches, good thickness. I exhaled, unexpectedly relieved.

He reclined, maintaining the angle of his shaft perpendicular to the ceiling

I got up on my knees from the passenger seat and leaned over the console.

When I grabbed his dick, he released his grip, pulling both hands behind his head. I looked up at his face, he down at mine. Tongue over lips, I pressed my mouth closed and gulped. I stared down at his shaft, but keeping one eye on him. I opened up, then descended, my lips closing around the first three inches, then descended deep into his crotch. The man lifted his chin upward and moaned. Cock wet, I used my right hand to stroke the base, my mouth and tongue movement focused on the head.

He trembled and grunted in spurts. I reached into his open fly, played with his balls, jerked him for a minute, and pounded his cock hard with my lips. He said nothing and without warning, he pressed down hard on my head. My nose smashed painfully against his thigh and zipper. Jets of semen pumped into my mouth. He writhed and groaned, trying to penetrate deeper. Mouth full of cum, my face wrinkled in disgust. I lifted my head, thinking of my options. Warm, salty, burned coffee-flavored snot, is how it tasted. I reached for the door, eager to spit it out.

“Five more to swallow,” the man said.

I whipped my face to his, scowling. Fingers and thumbs spread I raised both my hands, showing him my palms.

“Ok.” he said. I swallowed, stifling the reflex to gag. Then I coughed hard, my eyes watering.

He opened his wallet and tossed a ten on top of the other bills. I snatched them and counted. Forty bucks. I undid my towel and lifted my hips to push the cash into my pocket.

“Goddamn, son.”

I looked at him; I followed his gaze. He stared at the bulge down my right leg.

“Could I–can I touch it?” the guy asked.

I peered back at him staring at my pants.

“Listen, man, I’m really–“

“Twenty,” he said, licking his lips.

I frowned, knowing I really needed the money.

“Twenty to see it, forty to touch.”

“Forty and you let me suck it,” the fellow said.

I said, “fine, show me the cash.”

Then he pulled two tens and a twenty out, held it in front of my face, and smacked it down on the dashboard.

Hips lifted, I undid my belt, button, zipper, and pull them and my undies down past my knees. My dick vaulted up.

“Shit, what a beast,” he said.

From the base, I teetered it between my legs and torso.

“Mmmm,” he reached over, clutching it around the top of my shaft, stroking up and down slowly.

I was so fucking ready to blow after swallowing two loads. From the tip, pre-cum oozed. Then the man rubbed his thumb in my juices, switching hands and licking the viscous liquid. He moaned, closing his eyes, sucking on the slickened thumb.

“Kneel on top of the seat,” he said.

I complied, istanbul travestileri my palm on the steering wheel, the other’s forearm on his headrest, back against the cabin ceiling, hips over the console.

My shirt draped forward. Beneath it, he leaned his head.

One fist squeezed the base, the other took hold just below the head. His wet, warm tongue flicked my glands. I bit my lip.

My eyes shut; the man traced his tongue down my shaft. Still gripping my base, he looked behind him and retrieved a small plastic bottle from the door pocket. He released me; the cap popped, the vial bubbled and spewed with a squeeze. The man’s hands rubbed together, and re-established their hold on my rod, distributing the lube up and down. The sensation of his hand and the slipperiness when he gripped my cock and stroked altered my breath and pushed me close. I gasped.

He wasn’t touching the tip any longer.

Please lick it, lick me. I wanna cum so bad.

Silent, the mantra repeated in my head, my lips mouthing the words.

His tongue pressed against the tip, and lips closed around it. He sucked and licked it like a thirsty pet.

My breathing labored; my lungs convulsed.

More interested in his own satisfaction, the man was eager and rough.

He let go of the base.

Suddenly, a mechanical click was audible, but I pushed the thought aside.

A jab of guilt hit me. I could understand, understand the difference. Stan was attentive, gentle, and accommodating, his focus on me and my pleasure, my comfort. This was not like that. My cock deep in Stanley’s throat, the image edged me further. The jizz boiled inside. I plunged over the ledge, a rhythmic throb shooting jets into the man’s mouth. He moaned and slurped, pressing against the floor on my urethra, all the way to the tip. The man lapped up every drop greedily.

He swallowed again. I sat my bare ass down, my cock losing its rigidity and draping over the front of my pants. I crammed it back into my underwear.

“When you workin’ next?”

I hadn’t considered this might happen again.

“Uh,” I said. “I–uh, I’d have to–the car, it’s too small.”

Then the man stared ahead, one hand atop the steering wheel. He grunted, agreeing.

“In the, uh, tomorrow night? 1AM?”

“Here?” he asked.

I peered around and nodded.

“From here…to a better spot,” I said.

He grunted.

Next, he said, “You’re going to need help.”

I turned to him; an eyebrow raised.

He continued, “You let me do things I didn’t pay for. How much if someone wants a hand job?”

“Ten bucks?” I asked, doubt in my voice.

“Yeah, they give you the money, then they beat the shit out of you in the privacy of your ‘better spot.'”

My throat tightened, my blood pressure rose. I said nothing.

“They fuck your ass raw and bloody, then take the ten back,” he said. “How you planning to handle this yourself?”

I swallowed; my esophagus dry.

“And you, uh,” I coughed. “You, uh, think you’re the one who, uh, travesti istanbul can?” I asked, my voice horse.

“I’m more capable than I look,” the man said, never looking at me, but confident, insistent. He stared out the windshield.

In my brain, I tried to decode what this man was about. Was this his plan all along? Did he have others he ‘protected?’

“Best thing is to minimize the chance of trouble. I’ll take care of that.”

My chin descended to my chest in a reluctant nod.

“I’ll get you ten for any hand-cock stuff, twenty for any oral, including assplay.”

“What?” I said, choking.

“Yes. ass licking and rimming.”

“Ew, no,” I said. “I’m not gonna lick anyone’s ass.”

I folded my arms and looked forward, shaking my head.

He twisted at the neck and studied me, then groaned.

“What about yours?”

“What, like lick mine?” I asked.

He made a grunt.

“I don’t know.”

I turned away further, adjusting my ass in the seat.

“Fifty to fuck.”

At him again, my face whipped.

“Fuck? My ass?”

He grunted, “Mm-hm.”

“I’ve never, I don’t. No. No way…No.”

“Lots of people are gonna want a pretty piece like you.”

I looked elsewhere.

“Two hundred to get it,” he said.

I spun my face back to him, my eyes squinting, lips together.

“Get it,” I said, imitating his inflection.

“Take it in the ass.”

“Why so much more?” I asked.

Wedged between the seat and his console, I saw a digital camera.

“What the fuck? Did you,” I coughed again and hastily cleared my throat. “Take a picture of me?”

Adrenaline flooded my body. Then I lunged for it.

He snatched my wrist and forced my arm into contortion. I bent forward, my ribcage over the console.

“As I said, I’m capable… and I didn’t pay for everything. We need to get paid for every single thing.”

My teeth grit together. I twisted and winced when he pressed into the hold. I cried out in pain.

“Let me go, motherfucker.”

“People will take as much as they can. Remember that.”

Finally, he released me. I sat up and I rubbed my wrist.

Then, he continued, “There’s a small group of mostly men, but also a couple of women who want what you got.”

In his seat, he repositioned.

“They’ll pay, pay for at least one ride, some of them will come back again and again.”

With my hand on the handle, I pulled and jumped out.

The man rolled down the window, “Your number.”

I didn’t wish to tell him. My brain screamed to not do it.

He could, he would take it, willing or not.

He rummaged in his console and ripped a piece of paper, handing me a pen and a fragment.

I should give him a false one.

No. He’d call right away and find out. I wrote my number on the paper and returned both to him through the open window.

He examined it and lifted his phone. Tones marking each pressed key.

A vibration came from inside the car. In response, the driver twisted to the backseat, then glanced at me, “Don’t forget your stuff.”

Arm extended, I pulled on the door to the rear seats, then removed my pack.

Without another word, the man rode away, the door closing as he did.

On my phone display, “Missed Call.”

I selected “Ok.”

“Unknown Caller.”

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