Friday, May 22, 2009

Livin' on a Prayer by Jude Mason

It was late and the excitement of freedom had worn off. He stuffed the few bills he had remaining back into his wallet and climbed to his feet. The place was small, little more than a single room with a bed, a hot plate on the old lopsided dresser and a chair. The bathroom stank, obviously hadn’t been cleaned in some time and consisted of a toilet, sink, and a shower. But, it was twice the size of what he’d been used to for the last few years.

Logan went to the window and pushed the ratty, once white curtain to the side. Peering out, he smiled at the scene below. The street was almost deserted, except for the occasional car speeding by and the two whores on the corner.

“Yeah, just like home,” he mumbled and let the curtain fall back into place. He turned away and pulled off his t-shirt. Tossing it onto the bed, he sat on the rickety wooden chair and heeled off his boots. A sweaty sock went into each, and then he got to his feet and unfastened his jeans. With them hanging loose, he went into the bathroom and pulled the chain dangling from the single light bulb. Glaring white light made him blink. Dingy grey tile surrounded the tub and most of the tiny room; the rest was painted piss yellow. Stains around the toilet and over the sink made his stomach churn, yet it was no worse than he was used to. He reached past the tattered, green plastic curtain and started the water in the shower.

Satisfied that the water was heating up, he faced the cracked mirror above the sink. He ran his fingers over the stubble on his cheeks and chin, and wondered how he was going to get a job looking like a crazed derelict. His dark hair was too short--prison cut--and his eyes had a haunted look he hoped would fade. His nose was bent, thanks to a fight he’d had several months ago, and a small scar on the left side of his chin reminded him of where a ring had cut his face when he’d poked his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. A con thought he was paying too much attention to his ‘bitch’. Life on the inside could be deadly if you didn’t play the game right.

He stripped out of his jeans and shorts, before stepping into the shower.

At a couple of inches over six feet tall, it was a nice surprise when the water hit him full in the face before it trickled down his chest. Alone for the first time in years, he let his guard down and simply allowed the pleasure to build. He ran his hands over his chest, the thick matting of dark hair plastered flat. His nipples rose like tiny beacons of sensation and he brushed his palms over them until he had to bite his lip to keep from groaning aloud. His cock thickened and rose, the shaft pulsing as it filled with blood.

“Oh, yeah,” he sighed and ran a hand over the taut muscles of his belly. A six-pack rippled against his palm and he silently thanked the free hours he’d spent lifting weights. The palm of his hand brushed the mass of pubic hair surrounding his cock, then his fingers found the shaft. Grasped and squeezed, his prick bounced higher. The head tapped his belly and he shuddered.

With his free hand, he grabbed the small bar of soap from the dish. He rubbed it across his chest and stomach, building a rich fragrant lather before sliding his hand down over his crotch. Slick and wet, his hand slid over his erection.

Leaning against the tile, he spread his legs and allowed his hands free reign. With no one to interrupt or distract him, he simply basked in the growing bliss. His hips churned and his ass clenched.

“Fuck, yeah.” He shifted his feet and slid a hand around to his ass. With one on his cock, the other on his ass, the sensation was driving him insane. His knees buckled and he nearly fell, but he laughed anyway. “Whoa mister. Clean up then hit the sack. A long, leisurely fist fuck, sounds like just the thing.”

Logan washed himself, paying particular care to his genitals and ass, and rinsed off. Shutting the water off, he climbed out and dragged one of the threadbare towels over himself, then headed for the bed. Still hard, his cock led the way and he eagerly grabbed hold.

He pushed his gear onto the floor and pulled the cover back, baring the milky white sheet and a less than plump pair of pillows. He flopped onto the double bed and got comfortably on his back. With his legs wide and his knees raised, he began that slow easy stroke that would carry him to the nirvana he loved. Thoughts of an old lover’s sweet ass and mouth-watering cock filled his mind as he stroked himself. The thick pulsing rod in his hand leaked pre-cum over his fingers and provided the lube he needed to slip a finger over his anus.

The tight pucker clenched around his finger, clutching at it. He groaned as he pushed the sturdy digit in. He had to stop stroking his cock then, for fear he’d shoot before he’d had the chance to really enjoy his first time on the outside since he was nineteen. He knew it couldn’t last long; he was just too excited and primed for pleasure.

When his finger nudged the walnut-sized prostate, he tightened his fist around his cock. The shaft throbbed and a stream of pre-cum oozed over the head and down the shaft. He strained to relax and let the feeling of urgency pass. With his eyes closed, he breathed deeply, enjoying yet not pushing for release. His balls lifted, the light covering of hair tickling his hand. He forced the muscles in his thighs to loosen and the arches of his feet to rest. His heartbeat refused to slow, but he did lose the feeling of imminence.

He took a deep shuddering breath and began a slow stroke. Using a softer grip, he slid his fingers to the base of his cock and reversed the stroke all the way to the flange. He didn’t touch the head, refused to add even that much more stimulation to his already tingling prick. When he thought he could stand it, he eased his finger deeper into his ass, but instantly knew it was too much.

“Yes, fuck yes,” he growled and held his breath. Fireworks exploded behind his eyelids and every muscle in his body tensed. His balls shifted, preparing for the first volley of cum he knew was a heartbeat away. Then it came, a blast of sheer bliss engulfed him. He rammed his finger deep and madly pumped his shaft.

A stream of cum erupted and a jolt of euphoria hit. His body jerked and he saw stars. A wet splat hit his chest. He grunted and another explosion tore through him as a second blast of cum joined the first. The pleasure seemed to go on forever, but he knew it could only have been moments. He unclenched his jaw and opened his eyes, just in time to see the final stream of his ejaculation ooze over his fist and down the shaft.

Logan’s heart was beating so fast it was a wonder it hadn’t exploded from his chest. Sweat streamed off him and his fingers had cramped from the rigid hold he had on himself. The finger buried in his hole slowly eased out and he rolled to his side.

“Holy bloody fuck,” he gasped. He scooped up the pool of cum oozing toward the sheet and sucked it off his finger.

Exhaustion hit and he reached down for the sheet and blankets. Pulled up, he snuggled into the pillow. That’s when realized how quiet it was. Silence was something that never happened inside and something he’d have to get used to again.

Just then, he heard a car pass by. “Won’t take long,” he sighed and closed his eyes.

He heard a noise coming from the rooms beside him and knew he wasn’t truly alone. There would always be someone close by in the flophouse but at least he had a lock on the door that he controlled.

He laid there pondering his new life until he sank into a deep slumber filled with a parade of men he’d fucked and the noises they’d made. He woke once, groaned and went back to sleep only to have nightmare shapes of a man raped and bleeding, begging him for help.




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