Wednesday, August 31, 2011



FUGITIVES
By R.J.March



He stood and stretched his arms up over his head. His belly — smooth, pale — went concave. The imprint of his navel narrowed, and I could see where his pubic hair thinned between his pelvic bones, tawny hairs that reminded me of a puppy's belly. He stepped barefoot off the cement pad and out across the grass. At the end of the lawn — if you could call the scrubbed earth and errant patches of weedy grass a lawn — bushes prevailed. He stepped behind a lilac bush long past its bloom to piss. I could hear it and almost see him, though I didn't want to. When he was almost done, he stepped back into full view, and I saw him shaking himself and the scatter of piss and his white prick. I saw his balls hanging over the waistband of his underwear, and I saw the look he gave me.


He had told me his name was Rich, but I wasn't so sure.

He came back to the patio. The furniture was all in the garage; I saw it there. He had yet to break into the house. We'd slept in the car.

We met somewhere in Fells Point, at some crusty bar that tended to locals and hadn't much tourist trade. I don't know what I was doing there. He bought me drink after drink and talked to me about the book he was writing, the people he knew, the places he'd been and was going. His words wreathed me like cigarette smoke, and his eyes — blue-green — fixed me. His gaze was tactile; when he looked at me, at my shoulders, I felt his hands there. He hypnotized me.

I woke up in his backseat, my mouth dry and nasty and my stomach queasy. I saw the back of his head and out the windows, the sunlit landscape rushing by. The radio was on low. I looked at my watch: 10:30. I had a class at 9. I got myself up and hung my shoulders over the front seat. Rich was chewing gum; he snapped it.

"Morning, sunshine," he said easily, drawling. His cheek tensed and relaxed and tensed. He chewed furiously. The wind from the windows blew his honey colored hair around. He had his shirt off, and I noticed a small tattoo on his shoulder, and then I noticed my own pants around my ankles, dried come on my stomach, my dick stuck uncomfortably to my undershorts.

Rich grinned into the rearview mirror, watching me. "I, uh, blew you a couple of hours ago," he said. "You looked so good back there with your pants undone, I couldn't help myself."

I shook my head to tell him to quit. Neither one of us was that way. I'd thought about it — infrequency — but would never, ever . . . and Rich wasn't . . . I shook my head again, but gently, because it was hurting. I pulled up my jeans.

"I also robbed a bank," he said. He lifted a paper bag and threw it over the seat. I opened it and saw the wrapped bills: tens, 20s, 50s. And then he tossed back a silky rag — a nylon end he used for a mask.
"Stop the car," I said, but he didn't. My head was spinning, and my stomach lurched. I leaned out the window and puked.

I like the way you look," he said on the patio.

"What are you going to do with me?" I asked him. He had a gun somewhere; leastwise, that's what he told me. Plainly, it was not on his person now. His T-shirt was tight, his jeans loose and faded, dropping down past his hips.

He fell forward suddenly, landing on his hands, and started doing pushups, grunting and straining near the end of 70, cursing himself: "Come on, pussy, come on." His triceps twitched, and his shoulders went hard against his shirtsleeves. He sat up and pushed the hair out of his eyes. "I’ll do anything you want," he said, smiling, sweat running off his forehead. "You're not my hostage," he added, looking down the lawn. He'd said earlier that there was a lake beyond the trees. "We could swim. Bet the water's not too cold yet." He got up and walked down toward the lake.

I could have run then. I stayed where I was, looking at the shingled cabin. I wasn't sure I was even in Maryland anymore but I suspected I wasn't. I thought about the money in the bag and of myself, passed out in the backseat in the getaway car, a snoring accomplice. I also thought about him taking my pants down and blowing me, and that thought made my dick go heavy and start to rise without my wanting it to.

"Cut it out," I whispered, as if that would have any effect. I'd figured the days of that kind of arousal had ended when my gym teacher in high school stopped asking me to help him put the sports equipment away. My last blow job from a man had been in the equipment room, with Mr. Mason on his knees, banging his nose against my pubes and taking my fast gushing of hot come down his throat. My sudden erection now worried me more than the robbery, the possible gun, and the fact that I didn't know where the hell I was.

I walked around the front of the house with my dick pressed hotly against my thigh. Rich's car, a '78 baby blue Impala, sat on the front lawn like a boat out of water. I checked for its keys and found none. I crawled into the backseat and was out, slipping into a dream about fast cars and flying bullets, with Rich driving, doing 125 with grinning ease, and me in the backseat in a jockstrap and logger boots, hog-tied. I was boning majorly, my little cock head dripping with pearly ooze as I watched Rich's smoke-squinted eyes in the rearview mirror.

"I'll be giving you what you need in just a minute, sunshine," he said to me, cigarette bobbing on his lower lip. Then the rear window blew out, showering me with glass, and we walked into some dive bar, and my 9 o'clock lit class was there, telling me I was late, and Rich ordered a pint of beer and said, "I really have to fuck you now," and he poured the beer over my head and began to lick it off.

I opened my eyes to Rich, still naked and dripping from his swim, licking my chest, his tongue swirling around my flattened nipples, coaxing them to hardness. He lifted his head to look at me, and I saw down between us his big white club of a dick. I was sure I'd never seen anything so thick and long and hard, but my experience with dicks was pretty limited — besides my own and Mr. Mason's popping out of the open fly of his athletic shorts and my dad's once on a camping trip, I didn't allow myself many opportunities to see much dick. Rich's was amazing, huge and pale, and he dropped it on my own crotch, and I could feel the weight of it, even through my jeans. He licked my tit again, and I tilted my pelvis involuntarily. Rich laughed.
"What?" I whispered.

"You told me last night that you'd never do a guy."

"Did you ask me?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Where are we?" I asked him. I wanted to do something with my hands. I kept them on the seat alongside my ass.

"Upstate New York," he said.

I groaned, screwing up my face. It was just the beginning of the semester, and I was already on academic probation. The fact that there was a naked man on me, making me hard, seemed almost beside the point. He brought his face close to mine then, and I felt the breath of him on my lips.

"I'm not sure if I want to do you in the backseat again," he said. "Wouldn't you feel cheap?"

"I don't know what I'd feel," I said back.

"You want me to screw you, though," he said. "You do want me to screw you." He put his hand between us, on top of the hardening ridge of my cock. His fingers curled into the waistband of my jeans, and he touched my leaking head.

"My favorite part of today was making you pop and then spitting your come out onto your stomach," he said, and I groaned again because I could see him doing it, and my prick pulsed, and more thick precome oozed out of me.

"That's good, that's fine," he said, getting my pants undone and pulling my straining cock free from the tight, white trap of my briefs.

"I got inside," he said, and I didn't know if he was talking about the cabin. "It's a nice place."

We walked to the front door, which was opened wide. He told me he'd broken a window out back. "There's food, even — stuff in cans." All the furniture was white-sheeted and eerie. I was looking around, holding up my jeans. There was a huge fireplace, un-curtained windows, the ghost furniture. Rich walked into another room and came back with a beer. "It's warm," he said, holding it out to me. I took it, and Rich pulled a sheet off a sofa. It was early American brown Herculon. "Yikes!" he said, throwing the sheet back over it. He sat down, white-skinned and soft now between his legs. "Why don't you come over here?" he wanted to know.

"I'm OK here," I told him, and then: "We're fugitives, aren't we?"

Rich smiled. "I guess we are. Like Bonnie and Clyde."

I stared at nothing in particular. I was actually waiting for him to ask me again. And then he did, but I stayed still. I noticed he'd gotten hard again, and I liked to think I was responsible for that. His prick stood up hugely out of his honey colored bush: a fleshy obelisk, hard and monumental.

"Get over here," he said. "Now."

He did not have a gun. He was even more vulnerable than I. I could have kicked his teeth in if I’d wanted to, and there was a small part of me that wanted to very much. He wasn't much bigger than I muscularly, and I was taller by a couple of inches. I could very easily have swung my boot up and into his face. But there was something about his face, something that spoke to my hands, and I reached out and touched his cheek, stroking his jaw.

He grabbed my wrist hard and pulled me down onto him with an unexpected force that pretty much knocked me off my feet. His mouth was all over my neck, and I felt the hot press of his cock against my sternum. He got me turned around and twisted my head back to kiss me, and I struggled a little, but not really enough to make a difference. His hard-on smeared itself along my backbone, and I opened my mouth and let his probing tongue inside.

He seemed to want to eat me, and I lay across his lap as he slid his tongue in and out of my mouth, down over my chin, probing with the tip of it into my nostrils. I’d never been kissed so thoroughly or with such salivating intensity, and I decided to try kissing him back the way I used to kiss my last girlfriend, though my technique seemed tame in comparison. I abandoned myself to him then, my mouth and the rest of me, whatever he was wanting, and his mouth found mine again, and our teeth clicked, and it seemed as though we were trading tongues.

He slid down to the floor, keeping me on top of him, never breaking the connection our mouths made. He groaned into me and pushed my jeans down my thighs, and our cocks slid together side by side. He took hold of my ass cheeks, gripping them hard and spreading them so that I felt my asshole exposed. He moved his tongue — so much like a hard cock itself — in and out of my mouth, and I sucked on it the way I now wanted to suck on his huge dick, lying like a hot log between us. He filled my mouth and touched the back of my throat, and I pushed my hips against his, and he gently brushed over my pulsing hot bung hole with his fingertips.

He reeled in his tongue, and I hovered over his ruggedly handsome face with my mouth hanging open. "You're drooling," he said.

"I’m sorry," I said, swallowing. He drummed his fingers over my asshole.

"You're hairy as hell down here," he said, and I apologized again.

"No, I like it!" he said, stroking my crack from my balls to my tailbone. "Now, tell me you want me to screw you."

I didn't say anything. I couldn't. Not that. I looked down at his face. His eyes were the color of mahogany and flecked around the irises with rusty glints. One day without a razor had made his cheeks rough and dark, his beard coming in darker than the longish hair that covered his head, dark like the sparse hairs of his chest that swirled around his nipples and gathered at his sternum, making a straight drop to a crazy bush of pubes.

"I’m gonna screw your ass whether you want it or not, so you might as well want it," he said, his lip curling. He pushed a finger up into me.

"I don't want it," I said to him. His poke had stung, and I was fairly certain that I wanted nothing up my butt. I felt the pulse of his prick and of my own between us as well as the sweat that had come to form on our bellies.

But then I was on my back, suddenly and roughly, and Rich was scrambling to get his long legs between mine. I was well pinned, shoulders scraping the floor, his hands on my wrists. I was immobilized. His dripping cock knob humped painfully against my ball sac.

"You don't have much fight in you," he said, his eyes half-lidded. "You're gonna be my fucking hole from here on in. You're gonna be my pussy. You like that?" He fucked hard against my nuts, and I cried out, it hurt so much. He looked down at himself, his big oozing head hovering between us. "This cock is gonna ruin you," he said quietly.

I found my voice, finally. I told him I wanted to suck him. I said please. I wanted to get his mind off my asshole, and I wanted to get him into my mouth. More than anything, I wanted to fill my mouth with that big, thick whiteness, I wanted to choke on his hot flood of come and feel his tightened nuts butting up against my chin.

He straddled my face and pushed his big, hard prick into my mouth. "Wet it up," he said, and I opened my mouth wide to accommodate maybe half of him. I made my tongue flat on his inward strokes and used it to curl over the swollen head on its way out. I breathed in the smell of him with my eyes closed, and when I opened them and looked up, tilting my head to see him, I saw a rolling drop of sweat slide from Rich's armpit. His eyes regarded mine, then watched the long slow slide of his own hard pecker, as he pulled it out of my slobbering mouth.

"Enough," he said, bouncing his dripping meat off my chin.

He hoisted my legs in the air, catching them in the hooks of his arms. I felt the spitty end of his dick butting hard against my asshole. He was telling me how badly he wanted to fuck me up my ass, telling me how hard he was going to screw me and how bad it was going to hurt. He whisperingly said these things while lying on top of me, my thighs pushed up against my chest, his face on mine, his lips against my cheek.

His entrance was fast and hard, and the pain shot through me. He pushed himself all the way in, making sure I felt the tickling brush of his pubic hair. I stopped breathing, and I think he did too, and we stayed still, the two of us, while my asshole throbbed and ached. My eyes watered from the hurting, and he dipped his head down to lick away what he thought were tears.

"You'll get your chance," he said, and he slowly pulled himself back out. I took another breath — gasped, actually — and held it, just as Rich thrust back in again. He began to fuck my ass with slow, short strokes, hiking himself up into me as if he thought he could get in any deeper. I touched his thighs and his hips and his muscled sides. I felt his heavy balls resting on my crack.

"It does hurt, doesn't it?" he said, and I nodded, and now he broadened his strokes — a slow withdrawal so that I could feel every last thick inch of him, and then a sharp plunge, daggering me with his thick, unwieldy meat sword.

You fucker," I said, squirming. He had me manacled with his arms, pinned to the floor. I struggled against the lock of his embrace, even butting him with my head, making him wince in pain and then laugh and grit his teeth and fuck me all the harder. I breathed in his breath, hating him and wanting him, because as much as it did hurt, it felt good too, and I liked the sounds he made inside me and the way I farted out the air he pumped me full of and the way his big balls knocked rowdily against my butt.

"Now you are mine," he said, and his fucking became murderous, and I was begging for it, getting my hand on my cock and jacking it, harder and harder, until I was ready to go.

And when I shot off it first was straight between us, up over my head, and then into my hair and across my face. The rest of it dribbled lazily over my knuckles and into my pubes.

Rich grunted and pulled back violently and put his hands on his head. He fucked against my balls again and heaved a huge sigh as he sprayed my chest and stomach with his creamy white load.

When it was dark Rich lit candles. He'd found a dusty bottle of wine, and I felt as though I was on some holiday and not a fugitive from the law. Rich lay on the floor, his head against my thigh, and I kept my hand on his hair, gently massaging his scalp. I started laughing.

"What's so funny?" Rich asked, his voice sleepy.

"Just everything," I said. "You robbing a bank, breaking and entering, getting fucked and blown, and all in the same day. Just strikes me as kind of funny." I couldn't stop laughing, and Rich started too, which made me laugh harder. And then we were kissing, chortling into each other's mouths, and Rich backed off, his face suddenly serious, and said that it was my turn. And for half a second I thought he was going to do something to me — hurt me, kill me, I didn't know. My mouth hung open dumbly.

"I want you to fuck me, stupid," he said.

He stripped for me, and I felt familiar with his body and found it beautiful. I ran my hand over his calf, up behind his knee to the back of his thigh. His prick was heavy and thick, about to make its ascent to full erection. I got it all into my mouth while it was still a little soft and not nearly so big, and I chewed gently on the whole of it. It responded quickly, filling my mouth, growing down my throat. I heard him say "Awesome," and I looked up.

"Cocksucker," he said, and I hummed over his shaft, catching the head with my teeth.

"Get yours out," he ordered. "I want to see you playing with yourself." I pulled my boner out and began to stroke it for him.

"Pointy head," he said, "like a torpedo. That'll slip in just fine; little worried about that base, though." And I knew what he was talking about. Lengthwise, Rich was a couple of heads over me, but he was hard-pressed to touch his thumb to his forefinger around the root of my pecker.

I got up on my haunches to take more of him into my mouth, and Rich pulled free and turned around. He bent at the waist, and his butt split like a clam shell, exposing his pinkness. "Eat it," he commanded, and I ate, licking up his crack, pushing my nose into his stinking cunt, and chinning the channel of flesh just under his balls. My boner was weeping, and I gave up a big, happy sigh.

"Screw me now," I heard him say, and I stood up and forced myself against his slickened asshole with my hardness, bullying myself into him with just a swipe of spit. I saw him reach for his crotch.

"Are you going to fuck me or what?" he said, and I pushed into him, sliding in easily, making him draw a sharp breath. I did him with short strokes, not venturing to full hilt; not just yet, I was thinking, because I wanted him to beg me for it, because I knew he would. And when he did, when he started barking for more, then I gave it to him hard, with a merciless, ass-stretching fucking that had him hollering. I dug my fingers into his sides and pounded up into him, making him stutter and moan, and I gave him something to yell about when I slammed my pubic bone hard against his stretched-out ass lips. I kissed his spine and licked the sweat off his shoulder blades while Rich threatened my life if I stopped for so much as a second. He threatened to come and to kill me and to fuck me just as hard, and I felt on the edge of an explosion, giddy and tense. And I thought that maybe this is what bank robbery feels like.

'That's it," he said, and he stood up straight with his tight asshole becoming a vise as he pounded his pud and hosed the room down with his monster load, all the while working his asshole muscles like a hot, hungry mouth pulling me off. I gushed off into him with a whoop, filling his ass with my thick and clotted cream.

The next morning we drove into the nearest town for some hot food and coffee. We ate as if we hadn't for days, silently, intently, and when we were done and heading for the car, Rich said goodbye.

I smiled at what I thought was his joke. I was about to get into the car when he leaned against the door. "I'm taking off," he said.

"I’m coming with you."

"Forget it." he said, looking everywhere but at me.



"No, you forget it," I said, trying to maintain some composure. He stuffed a wad of bills into my shirt pocket.

"That'll get you home," he said. "There's a bus station down the street."

I shook my head. "No way," I said. "I'm coming with you."

"Look," he said, getting up in my face, his finger poking my chest. "Nobody saw you in that car. You were in the backseat, passed out." His voice was low. His eyes were on mine, and I felt as though the whole world was contained there. I wanted to kiss him and fuck him. I wanted to blow him in the backseat of his shitbox car.

He surprised me with a left that pretty much knocked me out. I found myself on the ground, seeing the wings of black birds fluttering overhead. Then I saw the waitress from the diner and a crowd of onlookers. The car was gone. And so was Rich.

"What happened?" I heard someone say.

"I saw the whole thing," the waitress said. "He was your friend, honey."

"That's no friend," somebody else said.

I got myself up. My lip was bleeding, and the back of my head too. The waitress said I needed medical attention. It sounded funny. "You shouldn't move yourself," she said, but I was already up, up and walking away. I had no idea where I was or where I was heading, but I knew I was going home.


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