Chapter 3
The first voice to speak was Rosabel Maes. (He was conscious of Antonia standing at the closed door behind him.) "It would appear, daughter, we have an unexpected visitor. Offer the gentleman some wine."
He stared at the older woman. Coils of long, black hair formed a high coiffure; thick gold loops hung at each ear; skin of her face was paler than the other faces with the exception of Jimby, who sat on a low stool staring up at Evan; her features, as he'd noticed at the trial, aristocratic, less peasant or Mexican-Indian. (Must be she, with her Spanish land-grant ancestors, who really owns this property!) Her mouth was finely shaped and without lipstick; she was smoking a small black cigar.
He gulped, then managed to blurt, "No thank you... I, uh came to see if we might..." The flat, cold eyes of this formidable woman held his and he stammered, "I... uh, dropped by to say I think..."
A barking laugh broke the silence; he turned his head to stare at Hilario, who was sprawled in the cushions of a couch. "What bugged you, man? Chickening out?" the man said with scathing sarcasm.
"I wanted to talk with Nemecio." Evan shifted his eyes to the old man who'd paid no attention to him, occupied with a comic book. The father, hearing his name, lowered the magazine, glared across tattered pages, belched, went on reading. Evan swiveled around unsteadily to look at Antonia, sensed if help came, it might come from her. "You understand what I'm trying to say, don't you, Miss Maes?" She corrected him in a low voice, "Senora Michaels, Mister Lambert," and he remembered she was married to Scott Michaels, an Anglo like himself, swerved around to stare at the man.
He was seated in an armchair near a table lamp with a shade of colored glass, spots, red and green, splotching his rather florid face and lighting the deep red of his hair. Pale-blue eyes met Evan's; an instant communication sparked between them. I know you as you know me. We're both gay! Scott spoke in a relaxed voice, but Evan suspected it was a pose, "Welcome, neighbor. All of us have been wondering when you'd pay us a social call. Merely good manners, you understand?"
Nemecio snarled something in Spanish from behind his comic magazine; Rosabel shifted her plump body in the high-backed chair as heavy eyelids closed aver blazing black orbs. She raised the small cigar to her lips, sucked in, sent smoke spiraling to the ceiling, opened her eyes again to stare at Evan. "Scott is a fool. We have not been anticipating this visit, Mister Lambert. I speak for myself and the family. We don't like your kind, and, frankly, will do anything possible to get you off our land."
He steadied his weaving body, determined not to look scared, said too loudly, "That will not be as easy as you think, Senora Maes! My father bought the land legally and with attorneys. You have no right to question ownership now."
Her eyes snapped shut and she seemed to withdraw within herself, ignore what he'd said. He glanced around the room at the others. Valentine, with a face so unlike his brothers', light-brown hair slightly balding, brown eyes and lashes. The man smiled, a sullen expression altering to open admiration. Evan smiled at him hoping Valentine, too, would come to his defense but the man's face froze as he dropped his eyes. Next to Valentine on the low stool, Jimby stared up at him and he thought again, The kid is really beautiful! The boy's eyes, enormous and deep-black, stared at him and his pale, dusky face flushed crimson as he met Evan's penetrating glance, turned his face to look at his mother. Seated in a window on a padded cushion at the far end of the room, he saw Valentine's wife, Merlinda, the woman who'd shouted at him and raised a fist in an insulting gesture as he drove past the house that morning. She was plain-featured, glossy-black hair tied in a tight bun, a thin mouth turned down, showing her disapproval.
Jimby -- Jaime Bernardo -- stared at me as if he knew what I'm thinking! How I'd like to make love to that kid and, drunkenly, he grins, staggers, feels Antonia's hand grip his arm; hold him upright. Those liquid black eves, the beauty of the kid's face! and he thinks, Something hard and cruel in those eves! finds his mind filling again with fantasy images. In them, Jimby dominates.
The interior of the house fades to a strange exterior, a landscape, partly beach, partly meadow, which doesn't make any sense, but the warm breezes blowing on his naked body are hypnotizingly sensual. Alex, of his manuscript, stands before him, his great length of tool limp, but his eyes are warmly affectionate.
Then he sees Jimby, shifts his eyes to stare down at the boy who crawls through grassy-sand surfaces on hands and knees, a hairless sac swaying in and out between cheeks of a boyish ass. He wonders what the kid is searching for, squats beside him, touches a bare thigh. Jimby turns his head to stare at him.
Dropping to knees, smiling at him, Alex runs a hand under the boy's ass, fondles his balls, caresses the small stiff cock pressed to his belly. Then, he motions with a hand, lifts one of Jimby's legs to let Evan see fingers clasp the cock, milking and stroking it. Jimby quivers, moans, rolls onto his back as his cock erupts with wet spurts of come; pearly drops splash on his stomach.
As the boy lies there squirming, hips convulsed with his orgasm, dark-haired Alex reaches under, inserts a finger in his asshole, and the boy moans again. Quickly, Alex takes his great length of cock in hand, jacks it in his fist until, with a loud sigh, he, too, shoots milky come all over the boy's stomach. As the last drops ooze from the jerking cockshaft, he motions with his hand for Evan to bend down.
Leaning over them, he licks the come from the heaving belly, swallows it, feels his throat burn with the flavor.
Hilario's amused voice seemed to awaken him. "To refuse our wine, Lambert, is to commit a social error in the Southwest. However," and he laughed, "I think you've had plenty of spirits already and might prefer something stronger?"
"No, thank you," he managed to say; Antonia's fingers were hot on his bare arm.
"Then, there is no reason for your remaining here." Rosabel's voice was icy.
Antonia moved around him to the center of the room, stood glaring at her mother. "Shame! You do discredit to our people, Mama!" She turned to stare at Evan. "He has done nothing to you. Why do you treat him in such a cruel manner? Can't we be friends?" She glanced at her husband as if for affirmation, frowned, returned her eyes to the coldly imperious face in the high-backed chair. "There must be an end to the fighting sometime, Mama."
Nemecio growled in Spanish; Merlinda said in a whining voice, "Oh, shut up, Antonia," and Jimby jumped from the law stool, ran to his mother, shouting at Evan, "Don't you dare make her unhappy you damn Anglo!"
In the oppressive silence that followed, he didn't know what to do or say, shifted his feet on the painted adobe floor, glanced at Scott Michaels for encouragement, met his stony stare. Rosabel's voice was less cold when she spoke.
"My children do not agree with my purpose, Mister Lambert, which is unfortunate. They, like most young people today, care nothing for the past, as we of the older generation must do. They have varying reasons for this attitude. My daughter, married to an Anglo like you, has sympathy with your kind and for selfish reasons, I'm afraid. Her husband is a fool as is my oldest son, Valentine. I'll go no further into family matters for your benefit however." Her half-closed eyelids raised to stare at him; then her fingers, like white bird wings, stroked the curly black hair of Jimby's head in her lap. "Jaime Bernardo," and as the boy jerked up angrily, she corrected, "Jimby, even though my youngest understands what Spanish-Americans must do, don't you, Jimby?" The boy nodded, turned to glower at Evan. "I have not offered you a place to sit in my home, Mister Lambert, because, if I were to do that, I'd be breaking an oath I took when I joined the Entidad never to extend hospitality to an Anglo. If you do not understand what the Entidad is and represents, permit me to explain. It is an organization formed to force all Anglos from this land, this land given us by Spanish kings centuries ago and acquired illegally by your people. It is our land, Mister Lambert! We intend to get it back and no laws of your corrupt government will influence us. If it takes a hundred years, we will reclaim the land for our children and their children!"
This impassioned speech astonished Evan and, unwillingly, he began to empathize with Rosabel Maes. "If I'd known, I wouldn't have come to New Mexico, but, don't you see, Senora, it was the only place I could go? The land my father left me is all I have." These words sounded too crafty so he tried to alter the impression; "I mean, if my being near you disturbs you, I could sell my land, buy other property..."
"Arrogant Anglo thinking!" Hilario's voice interrupted. "Who would sell to you? The Entidad is too powerful, Lambert. Who'd sell their land to an Anglo? Let me advise you, Lambert, get the hell out of New Mexico!"
Merlinda Maes rose from the window seat, and walked slowly to the middle of the room. She stood in front of Evan, gray eyes fixed on his. "We're warning you, sir, if you don't leave voluntarily, we cannot be responsible for what may happen." She turned to glance at Valentine. "Did you hear what I said, husband?" her harsh voice demanded. "I just told Mister Lambert he may get himself killed. Do you agree?" Valentine did not answer, but his face flushed deep red.
Getting up from the couch, Hilario stretched his tall frame, tight pants pulled in at the crotch, outlining the large cock Evan had seen in the trailer. He winked. "HOW about Jimby walking back to your place with you, Lambert?" He winked again. "He'll protect you from anyone who might take a shot at you along the road."
Along the road and again his drunken imagination projects vivid pictures of Hilario, naked and glistening as if oiled, as they walk together, the man's heavy arm on his shoulder, back to the trailer. The smell of that body in the night air, hairy armpits rancid with sweat, is maddeningly exciting, and he feels his cock, semi-hard between his legs, reacting and enlarge. He can barely walk.
In the trailer, he sits at the table, exhausted by the things whirling in his brain. Hilario stands before him, bare feet planted firmly on the vinyl floor, hips shoved out, thighs quivering, as he fondles the huge cock in his hands, grins down at him. Then, stepping forward, the Spanish-American straddles him and the chair, forces his head back, slaps the stiff cock across his face, snarling, "Eat it, Goddamn you, eat it!"
Okay, he thinks, We're making it, but what does he want? A blow-job? A rim-job? A cock up his ass? Because he's learned there are rough types like this one who get turned on by being fucked.
The hard length of cockflesh slaps his face again and Hilario, gripping it, massages skin of a violently red, spongy head until it becomes taut, glazed, shiny, as it expands in his fingers. Opening his lips, Evan tastes it, slips his tongue over the glazed skin as Hilario, breathing loudly, stares down at the mouth on his dick. "I ain't never seen no Anglo meat," he growls, reaches to squeeze the stiff lump in Evan's pants. "Yank 'er out!"
Fumbling with his fly, the stiff jump in his pants making it difficult to lower the zipper, he stares up at curiously warmer eyes, shoves the naked body away from him, rises.
With a swift, brutal jerk, Hilario rips the pants over his hips to knees, tears his shorts from him to the floor, stares at the large, swaying cock hung from a hairy groin. He begins to laugh. "Shit, you call that little thing a cock?" he says, roaring with laughter. His hand grips it, squeezes until, gasping, Evan feels blood pound in the cockhead; ooze, spurting from it, wets Hilario's palm and he shouts furiously, "Lick the cum off me, you fucking cocksucker."
The bitter taste of his own pre-coital fluid lays on his tongue, but his desires are re-aroused now that this man dominates him once more, and he submissively sinks to his knees, takes the now enormous length of cock in his mouth...
Dazed but excited by his drunken fantasy, Evan tried to speak, gulping back saliva, glanced at Antonia, then Jimby, still crouched at his mother's feet. He heard a voice echo in his mind, "Hell protect you from anyone who might take a shot at you along the road." The Goddamn fucking arrogant bastard! Staring at Hilario, the words came at last. "Well, thanks," he said in a steadier voice, turned to look at Rosabel who ignored him. "Buenas noches," he said.
At the gate, Antonia murmured, "I'm sorry, Mister Lambert, my mother will never change. She is fiercely loyal to the Entidad, which I will never be, but there is nothing more I can do. Good night." As he walked along the rutted access road with less staggering than before, he thought, Hilario tried to force the kid to come with me, why? Jimby obviously hates me. Staring up at the stars, he knew the answer. Hilario had hoped he'd make a pass at the kid! Of course! That's the reason!
The overcharged, dramatic experience in the Maes house seemed to fire his creative processes, so he sat at the table with the last of the Scotch, the typewriter the logical way to ease tension and his fingers moved over the keys involuntarily.
"Odd how those liquid black eyes stared at him as if he were something in a zoo, yet sent blood with sudden restlessness along his veins. The boy had been friendly, more so than the others in the room, and there had been a certain, intangible something passed between them as they stared into each other's eyes."
"Am I in the Skinner Box, like rats psychologists test for pattern reactions? he wondered as his cock, long and heavy in the confining material of his pants, hardened. Striding to windows of the apartment, he stared out at the night a faint glow from the west and the ocean lighting his face. He suspected what drew him to the boy was no more than the desire to conquer, to subjugate, to hold a youthful body in his power. Could there be more or should there be? Didn't sexual attraction and yielding to desire have its own compensations? Did differences in age matter that much?"
"Struggling with these senseless thoughts, his eyes searched the black depths outside the window glass; suddenly, as if a vision rose before him, the boy's face appeared. But no vision, the black eyes staring back at him were real, almost as if, by stretching his hand, he could touch their glittering warmth. There came a hesitant knock on the door."
"Without words, they were in each other's arms. He tried a hard, masculine stance, hoping it might conceal the way his breathing became rapid as the boy's arms wound around his neck, a soft, moist mouth touched his cheek, 'You like my dick?' This blunt question seemed to freeze him in time, in this particular, place, refute his thoughts, waken him from stupid fantasies. 'Sure,' he said."
The feel of that hot boyish cock in his palm, after the kid's pants had been towered, was searing in his hand; his fingers, manipulating and stroking small balls in a hairless sac, moved under to a not-yet-developed seminal cord. He'd always felt a kind of disembodiment when getting to his knees before another male, as if it were an act of submission performed unwillingly, yet knew he was not unwilling. He was trembling so violently, he was certain his bony knees beat a tattoo on the bare floor. He pressed his nose to that delicious smell of young cock, slightly pungent, pleasantly unwashed. His tongue laved it and the small prick jerked to meet his mouth as hips shoved forward.
Jimby's face was superimposed on the face in his manuscript and Evan stopped punching the typewriter keys, dropped his hand between his spread legs to finger a straining bulge which had risen with images of the boy. "Got to," he muttered, slid his cock from his pants opening. Both hands gripped the hot flesh and he masturbated until, with a loud sigh, sperm oozed over his fingers, and, knees springing apart, he stretched out flat in the chair, the long length of cock spasming in his hands. He continued to pummel the still erect cock, had a second ejaculation which splattered his belly, and, after a shower, went to bed, slept better than he had in weeks.
The next morning he telephoned Caruthers to tell him what happened in the trailer with the graders (eliminating sexual details, perhaps from shame?). The lawyer advised him to lay low, just play it cool, other half-assed suggestions. Disgustedly, he slammed the phone back on its hook, poured another cup of coffee into his pottery mug. They're alike -- Anglos or Spanish-Americans. Greedy, stupid money-grabbers! Fucking animals. The thought "animals" reminded him he's not called the veterinarian for Tazel. Shit! Gotta spend more bread on a house call -- oh, well, it's only money! -- and be dialed.
He fussed around his property and in the barn with the horse, checked constantly to be sure the animal was in no pain, the wound not festering, finally led him outside into the brilliant sunshine. Tazel neighed, rubbing a moist nose on Evan's cheek. If humans were only as loving as horses. Stroking the wet nuzzle, he offered the animal a lump of sugar. Around two in the afternoon, a car drove in, parked, and a big, paunchy man in tan corduroys and cowboy hat waved, and strode to the corral gate. The wound was pronounced not serious, but Tazel could not be ridden for four days. An antibiotic was injected in the leg to prevent infection, and Doc Venable agreed to a cup of coffee.
While the doctor was working over Tazel, Evan wondered if be should mention his troubles with the Maeses and that scene with the graders, but, as they sat at the trailer table, he looked at Doc Venable's shifty eyes, decided to keep his mouth shut. This man, though a fellow Anglo would likely spread the details all over town. However, Venable brought up the court trial. It was obvious everyone in town was talking anyway, so Evan said, relaxed on the plastic seat sticky with heat, "Yeah, as you know, Doc, Judge Lujan adjourned the trial for two weeks. My lawyer -- David Caruthers, know him? -- said we're lucky. Lujan might have delayed the trial for two years." Venable chuckled. "But, Goddamnit, I want the thing settled once and for all!"
The veterinarian grinned at him, smacked his lips around the coffee cup rim. "From what I hear, Lambert, you don't stand a chance no more'n a snowball in hell. I've lived in New Mexico for thirty years, came here right after the Second World War and four years of shit in the Navy. Let me give you some advice. (Another asshole telling me what to do, for chrissakes!) Don't mess with the pricks! Unless you wanta end up in an earlier grave than you want. They've got you by the fucking balls, son."
What the doc had said was no more consoling than he'd expected but he had hoped for, at least, some form of Anglo solidarity. Goddamn!
The four days before he could ride Tazel were aimless and nerve-racking. Without the motel night job, his usual routine now, he didn't know quite what to do with himself but only made trips to town when essential for supplies or booze. He did stop at the pottery shop to make a connection for more peyote, grumbling at the higher price, told by his friend, the potter, dreams were costly these days, man, don't give me no shit! Returning to the trailer, he took two pellets, lay on the crumpled bed, sailed off into dusty delusions. Colors swirl and revolve, shatter; green, like diamond slivers of ice, pierces his frontal lobe, submerge to explode in dazzling points of scarlet and yellow; these disintegrate in his head to black feather tentacles which sparkle like jet, dissolve to two faces; the nameless boy of his manuscript, and Jimby. Both become sailing balloons, luminous white blobs, which fuzz to grinning masks strained purple and indigo; the purple breaks up into a running mass like grape juice; his body seems to drown.
The sailing balloons dissolve, reappear as grinning satanic masks which sail in nearer, become Jimby and the unnamed boy's faces again. They stare down at him, hollow-eyed, lips greasy as if oiled with Vaseline. The lips open, engulf him in slime, and, gasping, he tries to shout but submits to the wetness eating him and swallowing him. Now, behind his eyelids, the brilliant colors begin to swirl once more, revolving in his brain, and a high, shrieked shout becomes a scream.
Sharp teeth tear at his flesh, rend it, as blood spurts, and he waves his legs in the air, screaming, screaming, feels teeth clamp on his cock; other teeth grip cheeks of his ass, gnaw them, and he's torn, ripped apart. A huge column of hard cockflesh jam his asshole.
The colors, as they wash over, bum and sear him; he moans with the excruciating sensations which pulsate throughout his body, feels his cock expand, become enormous, rise above his flailing legs a white tower seeming to puff smoke, spurt slimy ooze that glitters and gleams magenta, purple, turns to inky indigo, takes fire and bursts with a shower of sparks.
Now, distinctly aglow in the smoky, many colored landscape, the naked bodies of the two boys join, writhing and twisting, heads between bare thighs and tongues, elongated, oily, become leather coils of braided black, which, in turn, become snakes with darting tongues. These rise, wave in the air, hiss down at him. And, screaming, screaming, he feels Jimby clutch his balls in a vise as the nameless boy, body scaled like a serpent's, wraps himself around his waist, crushing him.
One of the darting tongues enters his rectum, slithers to his prostate, sending agonized tremors through him, then seems to wiggle up into his whole body as muscles spasm, cause him to undulate like a lizard. A hissing noise comes from his lips. The forked thing, stiffly rising between his legs, cannot be his cock, as a tiny threadlike membrane flicks from it towards his face; he smells the odor of shit. As he opens his mouth, panting and screaming, the thing darts inside, slides to his throat, and he retches violently.
Milky spurts of gism splash his face with blinding impact, fiery, hot. His tongue slips from a bleeding mouth to lick the ejaculations from his chin. Come dissolves into feathery black tentacles that smother him.
Waking in the trailer's heat, head stuffed, stomach complaining, he staggered to the kitchen, furious with his stupidity and his need for fantasies, rammed the electric percolator plug in an outlet, stared dizzily out the window. Earlier that day, he'd seen the Maeses moving about in their crappy, junk-littered yard; a few times he'd seen someone ride off among the pinon trees. Now, the flat arid land disappeared without any movement toward the valley below; the sun blinded his eyes.
For the next two days he spent too much time numbed aver the small TV set, bored silly with stupid game shows and stupider talk shows at night, late-late movies, but he decided not to repeat the peyote remedy for his troubles, hid the junk on the top shelf of a cupboard, jerked-off instead, particularly during the Johnny Carson Hour if the grinning MC happened to have a young actor on the program in tight pants. He amused himself lying there on the bed in the dark, only the dim light from the TV, his huge cock gripped in his fist. And, somehow, his orgasming relaxed him.
Finally, the day arrived when he could saddle Tazel. The sky was lead gray; clouds rose over distant mountains. It can't rain, can it? but he rode down into the arroyo and to hell with the rain, glad to get away from the trailer and stop moping around.
The arroyo broadened to a wider valley, hills rising on either side covered with pine and pinon trees; sides of a small canyon cut into the valley through hills stacked with rocky formations, perhaps prehistoric. Here chemisa bushes grew six feet high, blossoms a brilliant yellow, their odors reminding him of the smell of peyote. He inhaled the smell deeply as he stared up at a gray sky. Clouds, hovering over mountains when he left, now raced overhead. If it does rain, what will you do if there's a flash flood?
As he considered this possibility and what to do in an emergency (Race for the hills? Make a run for the arroyo end near the trailer?) he saw a rider atop one of the hills. Not certain from this distance, he thought the rider might be Jimby. Tazel responded to a kick in his flank, cantered up the rise, and the two horses made communication signals. Shielding his eyes, Evan stared at the boy. Jimby wore torn blue jeans, an open sports shirt and boots, and his head was bare. He spoke first. "You shouldn't be out here in the country all alone, Mister Lambert. Remember what my brothers told you?"
Evan laughed. "Why the hell not kid? This is my land." He waved a hand back in the direction of the trailer out of sight. "I can prove it, if you'd like."
Jimby frowned, then his stern, severe features relaxed very slightly and he looked his age. He smiled. "I'm not the same as my brothers, Mister Lambert. Ma wouldn't understand... I hadda con her, you dig? Your quarrel with my father is none of my business."
"You mean, you don't hate me, want to be friends?"
"All that stuff about who owns the land turns me oft man. Shit, soon as I finish college, I'm leaving anyway, go to California. You're from California, aren't you, Mister Lambert? Know any movie stars like Elvis Presley?"
"Never had the pleasure, kid. I didn't live in Hollywood, and those movie stars are not easy to meet. Where you riding?"
"I don't know, just riding. You going any place in particular?"
"No." Tazel jerked his head and Evan patted the animal's sleek white neck. "Want to ride together?" He glanced up at the sky. "Got any suggestions what we should do in case of rain?"
Large, soft-black eyes stared at him. "Ain't gonna rain. If it does, you're a damn good rider. I've watched you." The eyes slid to Evan's legs straddling the horse and a large lump in tight cords. "For an Anglo, you sit a saddle real neat." He struck his horse with the bridle, kicked its side and, waving his arm, shouted, "Come on, I'll race you across the arroyo!"
His quickened breathing with the thought the kid had made an obvious pass sexually did not improve his riding, but he clung to the saddle and, when they galloped up the opposite bill through pine trees, he was really breathing very hard and with difficulty. At the top of the rise, a large meadow spread out before them with grasses and wild flowers, odd for the dry parched ground of New Mexico this time of year. Reining in Tazel, he glanced at the boy. Jimby's eyes danced with amusement. "Wow, Mister Lambert, that was a groove!" and, kicking his horse, he shouted again, "Come on!"
"Hold it, kid!" Evan shouted. "I'm not as young as you, for chrissakes! Gotta catch my damn breath first." Sliding from the saddle, he leaned against Tazel's flank, wiped perspiration from his forehead. Then, tossing the bridle over the animal's head, he squatted in the deep grass, took a package of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one.
Walking the horse slowly back, the boy leaned down to him. "You shouldn't smoke, Mister Lambert. My brother says it's bad for your health and at your age..."
"Knock that off. I'm not that much older. Twenty-four. You're nineteen, right?"
The face leaning down became serious. "Right, but I don't dig your calling me kid." He jumped from the saddle, placed the bridle carefully on his horse's neck, squatted beside Evan. "I'll make a deal. You don't call me kid, I'll call you Evan."
Grinning, the cigarette hung from his lower lip, he gripped the boy's hand. "Deal, Jimby." Fingers in his palm were hot, and he held them as long as he dared, his breath once more becoming rapid as he stared into those luminous, moist black eyes, felt awkward with that look of complete innocence. "Uh... Jimby? I... uh I like you very much." He gave the boy a quick glance to see how he'd react, saw a slow sly smile curve red lips.
"Okay, Evan," Jimby said, "I know what you want."
The fingers in his palm now moved with a caressing gesture as the large black eyes peered at him from sleepy lids. "And, if you was wondering if I'd like what you plan, all I gotta say is it beats jerking off." Reaching into Evan's shirt pocket for the cigarette package, he lighted one, lay on the grass, went on in a lazy tone of voice, "guy at school -- you dig, one of my teachers gets turned on by my cock, and I ain't as dumb as I look, Evan. This dude blows me and, when he does, I make sure he passes my exams, follow? Wouldn't you?" Curling smoke from his nose gave that young face the look of crafty wisdom as the boy glanced at Evan from the corners of his eyes. "You're gonna ask me if I fool around with this john, too, right?" He laughed. "Well, that depends, see? Like sometimes I just let him suck me... he calls it 'doing me for trade', know what that means?" and he chuckled. "Hell, I pop my nuts three or four times and, man, can he suck good. This dude's got a monster cock hangin' between his damn legs, believe me. Now I ain't never took that thing in my mouth, I swear I never, but I played with it enough. Shit, I ain't never seen anything like it!" He shifted closer to Evan, eyes half-closed, and went on in an insinuatingly alluring voice.
"You know something? When a dude has a big whang like that, what can he do with the damn thing? Sure as hell no cunt's gonna take it, right? This guy, this teacher I got, likes to show off, dig? I mean, when I get to his pad, he's already bare-ass naked, walks around there with that monster cock swingin' back and forth. It's got a head on it the size of a Goddamned football!" Laughing, he puffed on the cigarette, glanced at Evan to see how he'd reacted to this lurid tale, lay back in the grass raising his hips to show a bulge in his crotch, then continued.
"Now, this dude, see? He knows a young guy like me ain't gonna do nothin' with that whang, but he wants me to play with the damn thing. Like I said, I played with the fucker plenty! Man, I'm telling you, feel of that dick in my hands I don' like at all -- it's weird, creepy! -- but I do what he wants if he's gonna okay my exam papers, dig?"
Feeling his cock in the tight, confining cord fabric of his pants harden with his erotic story, Evan looked from the corner of his eye down at the boy's crotch to see that he, too, had a lump in his jeans, but, deciding not to interrupt, to let Jimby talk himself into a heat of passion, he murmured, "And this guy blows you. You like that okay, don't you?"
Jimby sat up. "Wow! Like I told you, it sure beats jerking off! You know something, this dude takes my dick and my balls in his mouth at the same time. How about that?" Lying back on the grass again, he ran his hand down to the bulge in his jeans, stroked it, then went on.
"Yeah he undresses me... that's his thing, see? Real slow like, you know, a piece of my clothes, then another, usually my shirt first my shoes and socks, jeans, and since I don' wear no underwear, there the Goddamn cock is for him to look at, dig? He begins to lick me all over. Shit, I don' mind that, because it makes me hornier, but while he's doin' this he's pawin' me, you know, my meat, under by balls -- oh, and he likes to lick them, too, man, and my asshole! That really turns me on! Just thinkin' of them wet lips and tongue on my asshole makes me wanta blow my mind, dig?" Squirming, the boy shifted on the grass as if pretending to hide an embarrassing hard object in his jeans, then went on in a panting voice, "How many times you shpt your wad in one day, Evan? Ain't never counted, I guess, but I could do it ten or more times, I bet! This dud says he digs me 'cause I'm a horny little guy," and Jimby laughed. "Okay. I'm horny but ain't all guys my age horny? You ever sucked off a kid -- I mean, a guy my age?"
"Uh... well, I guess you wouldn't ask if it weren't important. Sure I have, why?" His cock dripped pre-coital fluid in his Jockeys and Evan wondered how much longer he could endure this torture.
"I mean, do you dig guys my age?" The boy chuckled, turned liquid-black eyes to stare at Evan. "What's so great about young guys? I'd think you older gents would go for guys your age, with big pricks like this teacher-dude."
Even knowing this whole conversation was planned to arouse him, force a first move, he controlled his urge to grab the kid, rip off his clothes and fuck his mouth, said easily, "That's dumb. What the fuck has age got to do with anything?"
As Jimby laughed, a warm thigh touched Evan's. "You know something? When I shoot my wad, this guy swallows the stuff? Shit, I know nobody gets babies swallowing, but won't that goop make a guy puke?" and he chuckled, added, "Not this dude! Man, he gobbles it up like it's strawberry ice cream." His voice was now breathless, face flushed, with the erotic images he talked about, and he squirmed narrow hips, waggled his neat little ass deeper in the grass. "What does jizz taste like, Evan?"
"Like strawberry ice cream. Why don't you find out for yourself sometime?" He held his breath, wondered if he'd gone too far, if what he'd said might anger the boy.
Jimby chuckled. "I never sucked a dick, never." He made an ugly face, spitting as if to rid himself of an unpleasant taste. "I don't gotta suck this dude. I told you that, didn't I? And I let the bastard blow me as often as he wants to. Hell, who wouldn't?" The boy inched closer to Evan, a warm thigh pressed to his.
"Hey, Evan. You got a big one? Wanta show it to me, huh?" The body pressed to Evan's thighs wiggled, then Jimby went on, "Man, when that dude wraps his thick lips around my cock, I don't never want him to stop. Do you know why queers dig eating each other? Seems..."
He took the boy roughly in his arms; as Jimby's head lay on a shoulder, he touched the full red lips hesitantly, not knowing how he'd react to a kiss and, feeling the immature but muscular body quiver, he opened the lips with his tongue, and, shifting his hand to the open shirt, unfastened its buttons to the waist, jerked the shirttails from his jeans, and the lips opened wider to suck in his tongue. With a swift movement, Jimby opened the top grommet of his jeans, the zipper, shoved the frayed material to his knees. He wore no underwear, was naked, and Evan shifted his eyes to that enticing boy-cock.
Not large, but beautifully shaped, it had an exposed wet head the color of walnut shell, the rigidly erect cockflesh a dusky pole. "You like it?" Jimby whispered. Leaning forward, Evan jerked off the confining jeans over boots, removed the sport shirt from Jimby's trembling shoulders, and now the boy lay completely naked. Hands on his crotch and zipper fumbled; fingers touched his hot skin and damp pubic hairs under the Y-front of his Jockeys. "Jimby, Christ, Jimby," he panted. "Take those things off." The words, said in a hissing tone of voice, excited him unbearably; he snaked cords and Jockeys down to his knees, raised to pull them further, his cock like a rock, pulsating and spasming on his belly. The boy touched it, drew his hand back, then caressed it as Evan shuddered. "Hell, you got a bigger one than that dude Prof," Jimby muttered.
Pants and Jockeys removed now, he lay on top of the other naked body and its warmth, a smaller erect cock moving against his belly, its head dripping hot ooze. His mouth still clamped to those full red ups, Evan moaned, dizzy with passion, slid down quickly to take the smaller cock in his lips as Jimby's body heaved upward and he shouted, "Jesus!" Evan stroked small balls in a hairless sac, caressed a swollen seminal cord, heard the boy groan. He shifted, leaned on an elbow to stare at that beautiful, contorted face under him, remembering his own reaction to someone sucking him when he was the same age, his desire to hold back an ejaculation so the sensations would last forever. "I'm going to swallow you," he muttered, leaning forward again; closed eyelids snapped open. Jimby said, "Go ahead, man, blow me!"
He knelt between spread thighs, took the wet cock in his ups, sank down further until his nose pressed to soft tendrils of black hair; balls, tight in their sac, quivered on his chin. As hands clutched at the hair on his head, then gripped his ears hard, with a loud, keening shout Jimby orgasmed. As he swallowed the thick come, Evan pressed his face further into that yielding, delicious body and the belly jerked as legs clamped to his head. A second surge of come filled his throat and, with his ejaculation, as rich and sweet as the first, his cock poured milky sperm over his thigh, and, moaning with this orgasm, hips jerking up and down, he lay, finally, nose pressed to that boyish crotch, inhaled the wonderful odors of that body.
The body shifted, raised, then, crouching beside him, naked thighs straddled his face and knees sank to the grass; the boy's hot ass was pressed to Evan's nose; a panting voice muttered, "Lick me, damnit, lick me!" Odors filled his mouth and nostrils as he tongued the brown pucker of Jimby's asshole, tasting the musky flavor of shit, spread asscheeks wide, as Jimby squirmed arid wiggled his hips. Evan wound his arms around the squatted thighs, gripped the soft cock between them, felt it jerk as he began to masturbate it, heard the boy's moans. The hot asshole in his lips quivered and opened to permit his tongue to slide in deeper, and he licked it rapidly as he continued to masturbate the now-hardened rod, his own cock once more rigid and dripping with fluid.
The voice above him hissed, "Suck, suck, suck," and hips spasming, a hand gripped the rigid cock in a firm fist, pummeled it up and down as the voice went on hissing, "Suck, suck, suck." As the hand moved more rapidly on his now painfully hard flesh, his tongue glued to the quivering brown pucker of the asshole, the body over him plunged down shuddering and a splatter of come fell on his forehead. He opened his mouth, shouted, as his cock foamed over with sperm onto his naked belly.
Grass scratchy on his back, he stared up at Jimby, who now stood fastening the jeans. Black eyes looked down at him coldly. Then the boy strode to his horse, flung a leg over the saddle, remounted. "Come on, Mister Lambert, it's gonna rain."
Laughing to himself, he got into the cords and shirt, walked to Tazel. Okay, okay, what'd you expect, love, far chrissakes? From the corner of his eyes, he thought he saw another figure on horseback at the top of a rise. He turned his head, shielded his eyes. Whoever had been there vanished behind a screen of pine trees. Evan glanced at Jimby. "You see anything over there, kid?"
"You're crazy!" the boy said scoffingly, heeled his horse and galloped off. However, instinctively, Evan knew he'd seen one of the Maes brothers. Which? How much did he see?
When they reached the trailer, Evan panting for breath, Jimby jerked his horse's head around, stood in the stirrups. "Your age, Mister Lambert, should take it easy with sex and horses. Might have a heart attack, you dig?" and whipping the horse with his bridle, he cantered in the direction of the Maes' houses.
Evan tethered Tazel in the corral, filled the feed and water boxes, set the animal loose again, locked the gate. Inside the trailer as he poured coffee into a mug, he wondered which brother had been watching him and the boy roll naked in the grass.
"So, the kid set you up, right? If that was Hilario, you just kissed any chance of ever winning that trial good-bye!" He sat at the table, sipped coffee, eyes on the arroyo outside the window and beyond. Fuck the sonovabitch! He shivered slightly, gulped down the hot liquid, the thought of what the Spanish-American might do to him causing his sex-soft cock to harden.