Breaking The Arrangement

I didn't reply, unsure of what I should say.

"I never thought Old Man Grambs would catch us down there and even after he did I never ever thought he'd have you suck him off. Christ, he's married and he's got a couple of kids older than we are. At least he told me you blew him. Did you? Did he make you suck him off?"

Looking directly into my friend's eyes and watching to see how he'd react, I gave a brief shallow nod of my head. His face began to exhibit a feral excitement like an animal stalking its prey.

"Yeah, he told me you did," his voice still softly pitched but coarsening in tone. "`Your boy Web was on my fat johnson like a bear stealing honey from a bee tree.' That's what he said. `Kid was like a starving man at a banquet. Couldn't get enough, left me as wrung out and limp as an old linen dish rag.' Said you liked it too. Was he right Web? Did you like sucking his black cock?"

Again I nodded my acquiescence and, with the downward stroke of my head, I noticed the fly in his blue cotton pajamas had begun to bulge outward, his boner uncoiling like a thick branch that had been bent into a bow and now was being slowly released.

"God, I wish I'd been there to see it. You on your knees, his dick deep in your mouth. You look so hot with my cock in your mouth. I just love watching you work when you give me head, how your lips stretch, the way your cheeks puff in and out. Well, maybe next time. And next time may be tomorrow."

I managed to force a croaked "Why, why tomorrow" past my dry throat and mouth.

"The old man wants you to suck him off again you know," he told me, each sentence he spoke stimulating both of us. "Asked me to bring you over to his apartment tomorrow before we leave. His wife is at her sister's until Wednesday. Should I do that Web? Should I walk you over to Grambs' so you can have one more taste of his pecker before we leave? And if I do will you let me watch? Maybe you can take even turns and suck us both off. I think we'd all like that."

As he continued to speak, my eyes were again drawn to the fly of his pajamas. His rock hard dick had erupted from his fly and jutting straight out its head gleaming with shiny precum. I felt my dry mouth start to moisten with saliva.

I couldn't help myself. I dropped to my hands and knees on the bed and scuttled across its chenille cover like a crab. Reaching out with my hands, I pulled him closer, capturing his prick in my mouth, locking my lips just behind the ridge of his helmet, my tongue swabbing him clean of precum. He started to rock back and forth driving his cock in and out as I lightly scraped his skin with my teeth. Then quite unexpectedly, so unexpectedly I started to totter, he pulled himself out of my mouth, his dick making a soft, wet "pop" sound as it left. As he kept me from falling forward, I could see the red marks my rasping incisors had left on his skin. "Not so fast Web, I want you to see something. I'm going to the bathroom for a minute and while I'm gone I want you to turn off all the lights except for the TV. Then take off your pajamas and get under the covers. I'll be back in a minute."

I took advantage of his absence to run to the kitchen and drink a big glass of water. As I refilled the glass from the pitcher his grandmother kept in the refrigerator, I could hear him rummaging around in the bathroom and talking to himself. "Now where'd she put it; I know it's around here somewhere.' I could hear drawers opening and closing. "Ah, there it is." I had just managed to finish turning off the lights (I had been too busy to give a lot of thought to what he had been looking for) when my friend came around the corner holding something shiny behind his back. "Web, aren't you supposed to be under those covers right now. Ah hell, it doesn't matter," he told me as he moved up to the edge of the bed. "Come on over here and undo my bottoms. Then get my dick in your mouth just like you had it before."

Nervously I complied wondering what my friend was up to and just what he had behind his back. It didn't take long to find out. I was in mid-stroke when his left hand whipped around from behind his back to reveal _ a hand mirror. He had brought an oval hand mirror out of the bathroom.

"OK Web, stop right there and take a look at yourself in the mirror. I wanted you to see just how sexy you look when you're sucking cock. Told you it was better than anything in Playboy."

I shifted my eyes to look at the mirror (if I moved my head I would have lost contact with his dick) and what I saw made my cock add another inch of diameter to the wet circle my dripping precum was causing on the cover below.

Bathed in the gentle glow of the television was the freshly scrubbed face of a young male teenager with short brown hair and a stubby button nose. A few freckles dotted his cheeks, cheeks which had been rounded inward by the force of his sucking until they resembled the inside surface of a pink rubber ball cut open.

The mirror revealed a gaping mouth which spoke of unrestrained passions and wantonness, the juvenile lips thrust tautly forward along a pillar of stiff smooth flesh, a small line of wetness escaping from the tiny pocket in the mouth's corner where the connection between the two bodies failed. There could be no question this was a mouth made to give pleasure to other males, to slobber over countless men, vacuuming their throbbing poles deep into its connecting throat, with a tongue intend to roll their manly essences around the mouth like a fine brandy.

Above all the mirror exposed the visage of an individual whose eyes expressed a sense of contentment and fulfillment as he nursed on the prick in his mouth, someone unburdened by the knowledge he liked to suck cocks, unafraid to give full range to his desires.

To this day I wish I had a copy of the reflection of the young man I saw in that mirror.

Almost as quickly as it had appeared, the mirror vanished, set on floor by the side of the sofa bed. My friend's strong hands pushed me flat on my back, temporarily breaking our carnal connection. As I rose to give him room to lie down he pushed me flat on my back again, this time positioning himself over my prostrate body with his knees locked tightly around my rib cage.

As he propped my head up with a pillow, I gave myself over to his desires and mine. Who was I to deny what the looking glass had finally made plain. He moved his way forward until his ass was firm against my chest; his prick was pounding against my lips like a medieval battering ram. I surrendered; opening wide while my tongue played the role of the lowered drawbridge, allowing him unhindered passage into my oral courtyard.

He took full advantage of my capitulation, thrusting forward until he reached the back of my throat and then back until just the tip sat on the edge of my front teeth, sawing in and out while my lips quivered along the sides of his dick and his ballsack scraped up and down on my chest. In this new and unfamiliar position the salvia began to pool in the back of my throat threatening to choke me when the level rose too high. My need to swallow to avoid gagging just added another new thrill for my friend as my lips, mouth and sometimes even my throat would contract around his dick, squeezing it tight in a hot, moist, fleshy vice.

The end came quickly for both of us, the events of the day and the earlier release we had been denied had aroused us to new heights of excitement, added urgency to our movements, fervor to our coupling. My friend's legs began to shake against my ribs, a sure sign he was growing close to orgasm and I increased the intensity of my sucking.

We had not spoken since he pushed me to the bed, words seemed unnecessary to the task at hand. But, as his climax neared, my friend managed to gasp out one question between breaths: "You know what to do?" I answered him first with my eyes, "Yes, I know what to do," and then with my actions. With a heavy grunt my friend bent over, his hands coming to rest on the top of the sofa, his dick sliding backwards to the outer edge of my mouth. Once, twice, three times he spurted his hot cream across the waiting surface of my tongue, thoroughly coating it with a white effusion of sperm before he withdrew.

Sitting up slowly, I stuck my semi-curled tongue out at him like a little child mad at the world. But the real reason was to prove to him his offering had been accepted. I watched him watch me, his eyes going first at the puddle of come on top of my tongue and then to my throat as its muscles convulsed when I swallowed.

"Thank you," I told my friend and then asked, "When you're ready to go again, can I have some more?"

The Arrangement --- Chapter Four

My hand is shaking as I knock on the Grambs' door. At least twice during the walk down the hall I start to turn back only to stop as my friend reminds me of what is at stake. I really don't need reminding, the shock of being found my knees over in a corner of the basement storeroom with my mouth full of my friend's cock, a thin string of saliva dribbling from the corners of my mouth to dampen my shirt is something I didn't think I'll ever forget. I don't know what I'd do if Mr. Grambs had carried through on his threat to tell my friend's grandmother what he had found.

Although brief, the walk down the hall from Evan's grandmother's apartment to the Grambs' at the back of the building still gives me time to try and answer the question buzzing around my head.

I've come a long way since the first furtive handjob I had given my friend in his barn. Now I know I am a cocksucker, know that I like the feel of a male rod brushing back and forth against my lips, its oozing juices and my salvia combining to lubricate its passage. I've been trained to crave the salty, coppery taste of a wad of come splattering on the back of my tongue, to enjoy the pleasure of rolling it around in my mouth before swallowing, to savor its syrupy passage down my throat, its aftertaste lingering for long minutes reminding me of my subservience, my acquiescence to the desires of another.

But that is the question. Do I really want to be a cocksucker? Sure I've sucked off Evan off plenty of times. But that was just playing around wasn't it? And yeah, I've sucked the man we were now going to see, a visit aimed at my servicing him again. But I really didn't have a choice did I? I was blackmailed (or black-maled) into that first blowjob, even if I had enjoyed it.

That is part of the problem, I do enjoy it. It's fun, it's fulfilling (in more ways than one) and I look forward to it. But, ever since that first handjob, there are times, especially after the passion of the moment has passed, that I have doubts about what I'm doing. And there are times when I wonder if these events should be more mutual, if my cock should reside in another's mouth, my sperm coat another's molars. Or is the pleasure I feel while spit-polishing someone else's knob reward enough? Like the last person picked for a game of ball, am I always going to be the catcher and never get a chance to be the pitcher? Abruptly, as we reach the Grambs' apartment, my self-examination comes to an end.

Moments after my first tentative knock on the door, it swings open to reveal Mr. Grambs standing there wrapped only in a yellow cotton towel. "You're early. Well, don't just stand there and stare Web," he says opening the door wider. "You and Evan get in here before the flies do, and shuts the door behind you. No sense in giving any nosey neighbors a free look. Make sure the lock catches."

Moving into the living room Mr. Grambs drops his towel. "OK Webster, now you can look to your heart's content. But hurry up, I was going to shower before you two got here and I still want to clean up before we gets started."

Hungrily, I run my eyes up and down his body, my momentary qualms from the hallway overcome, as they always are, by my growing desire.

Down in the basement I had seen very little of Mr. Grambs, only those portions I had revealed when I lowered his pants: his thighs, his knees, the front of his calves and, of course, his ebony manhood. Now, standing before me like a sculpture, nothing was concealed from my view.

Mr. Grambs makes his living in construction, pushing wheelbarrows to and fro on the jobsites, hauling timbers, wielding a shovel or pick. His mature body is well muscled, firm but not overly so. There is still a little roundness to his stomach, a bit of softness along his ribcage. His chest is covered with a mat of kinky black hair, thick enough on his pecs that his nipples are almost hidden. The hair takes the shape of an hourglass, broader on his chest, narrowing as it works its way down his stomach and then widening again when it reaches his groin. His navel is an outie and large. It looks like a dark chocolate bon-bon nestled in a wrinkled paper wrapper, just waiting to be nibbled by some naughty boy. The hair on his legs stops just below his crotch, leaving a smooth, surface that ran down to his feet where the hair resumes.

It is the body of a man who works hard for his keep, not the overly honed torso of a narcissistic body builder who pumps iron to create an overly-sculptured piece of beefcake that graced some of the magazines I had furtively perused in the bookstores.

I knew from the day before how firm and solid his ass was. My fingers had almost cramped while I was kneading it as I sucked. But what surprises me now is his dick. The day before, even under my best ministrations, it had been well, not soft or limp exactly, but doughy and somewhat malleable. It was its flexibility that had allowed me to take its entire length down my throat and nestle my nose in his public hairs. One glance tells me that isn't going to happen today.

Mr. Grambs' cock is jutting out like a steel pier reaching for the ocean at Atlantic City. Yesterday it had pointed toward the floor. Today it rises toward the heavens, its lighter cafe au lait mushroom head capping the heavily veined nut-brown column like the masthead on the prow of a boat.

Without thinking I move across the room and grasp his dick, its heat coursing through my fingers. Even as I sink to the floor, my mouth agape, my hand tries without success to bend his rod.

Before my knees can hit the floor, strong thick hands insinuate themselves under my arms and raise me back to a standing position. "Don't be in such a hurry Webster," says Mr. Grambs. "We ain't down in the basement today. We're going to take our time and maybe even teach you a couple of more good things. Now you just make yourself at home while I go shower. Then we'll get started." I nod my agreement, my eyes still fixed on his rigid dick.

Noticing where my eyes were focused, Mr. Grambs lets out a little laugh. "Surprised at my johnson today? How hard it is?" Again I nod, my mouth too dry to speak without croaking.

"Hell Web, when I went down in the basement and found you blowing Evan. I'd already jacked off four times. With my wife out of town at her sister's and my girlfriend working double shifts at the restaurant this weekend I figured the only fun I was going to have was what I gave myself or what I bought on the street. Course, that was before I made your acquaintance. Things sure did change after that.

"Now I'm going to go shower. You both showered just before you came over right?" This time both of us nod. "Good, cleanliness is next to godliness and there ain't much worse than having sex with someone that stinks. That's another thing you should know Web, never have sex with someone who's dirty and always be clean your own self."

Looking straight at the my friend Mr. Grambs asks "Now you boys are going to behave yourselves while I'm in the shower right? I'm not gonna come out and find a repeat of the basement am I?"

"No sir, Mr. Grambs," replies my friend talking for the first time that day.

"Good. Then you boys relax and I'll get ready. You're both going to learn some lessons today and we're gonna have some fun doing it."

The door to the bathroom has barely closed and the water is just starting to run when my friend punches my arm. "Damn, Web you are a slut," he tells me his voice crinkling with excitement. "I thought Old Man Grambs was kidding when he told me how you jumped right on his cock. Christ on a crutch, I guess he wasn't. That towel hadn't even all hit the floor before you went running over to him and grabbed his stiffie. I thought you were going to swallow him right then and there."

I don't know what to say so I turn away. My friend is right, I am a slut and, all my misgivings aside, the minute I had laid eyes on Mr. Grambs cock all I could think about was coaxing his man juice up from his wrinkly balls, across his throbbing cock and down into my waiting mouth.

To distract myself, I start to look around the apartment. Mr. Grambs' place is at the opposite end of the hallway from my friend's grandmother's. Her apartment faces the front street and a small city park across the road. Mr. Grambs' overlooks an alley full of trashcans and a windowless brick wall on the other side of the alley.

Walking into my friend's grandmother's apartment means entering a spotless world where time passes slower than outside. Much of the furniture is antique, family heirlooms at least two and sometimes three generations old. The walls are adorned with landscapes, still-lives and, in one case, a painting of a wide-eyed young girl holding a bouquet of Black-eyed Susans. The tables hold the latest local papers and copies of Life and Look magazines. There are always cut flowers in several vases scattered throughout the apartment and everything is overlaid with the scent of the violets she grows in the front room and talcum powder, a sweet not unfamiliar atmosphere.

It's different in the Grambs' apartment. It's clean, just as clean as my friend's grandmother's apartment but the similarities end there. The worn furniture is second and even third-hand, not antique, a mixture of styles including an overstuffed couch upholstered in a garish red and yellow check. The walls hold a series of what I take to be family portraits as well as a picture of John Kennedy cut out a magazine and stuck into a ready-made frame. A depiction of Jesus graces the opposing wall while copies of Jet and Ebony magazine are stacked neatly on one corner of the coffee table next to a crumpled copy of the local African-American newspaper. In place of violets and talcum powder, the more earthy scent of greens and southern-fired chicken tantalize the nose. This is an apartment that is lived in, not just occupied.

Preoccupied by my inspection of the apartment, I jump like a gigged frog when Mr. Grambs' damp palm caresses the side of my face. "Hey Web, settle down there boy. No need to be so jumpy," he says as he walks around to the front of the couch.

Once again I find myself falling under a spell, his moist skin still coated in places by a glistening combination of oil and water, reflecting the apartment's light as though a handful of diamonds had been crushed and sprinkled over his skin. I want to fall off the couch and kneel before him, worship his manhood, take as my communion his very essence. It's only by the strictest self-discipline that I remain on the couch quivering, a sporting dog at heel poised to spring at the master's command.

Mr. Grambs looks at me and smiles at what he sees, my eagerness matching his intentions like adjoining pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Out of the corner of my eyes I look at my friend. He too is sitting straight up on the couch his breathing deep and faster than normal.

Suddenly Mr. Grambs' face grows serious. He orders me to disrobe. I comply. When I am naked he asks my friend to get up from the couch and move toward the center of the room.

"Web, I want you to undress Evan, nothing else understand? Just undress him," he commands. Again I comply. My friend is tense as I remove his clothes in front of Mr. Grambs. I understand. Until now our sex play has been a private affair carried out in secret away from prying eyes. No more. All that would happen today would be seen and shared and a secret shared is no longer a secret.