1989
Apocalyptic rumblings, Ozone summer: Sky like the inside of a burning garbage bag, air so polluted-humid it felt like being held inside some giant animal's mouth. And Christopher Keller, 27, roaring 'round and around the Loop on his latest bike--same one he'd literally "trick"ed a guy into halving the price on just 'cause it was the kind Vern Schillinger always used to say he'd get, if he could make that kinda dough on a Post Office salary.
     Vern not really being a *career* criminal, after all, aside from his various "beliefs"; guy barely ever broke the law, by his own admission--in between prison sentences.
     But fuck it. Schillinger was ten years gone, just like the rest of Chris's term at Lardner. He'd had a horde of experiences since, all equally--if not more--interesting...
     ...though, at the same time, kind of depressingly similar.
     Sleep-deprived, now, and barely coherent even to himself after fourteen hours straight (ha, ha) on the door down at Hangar Ten, his latest bouncer gig, hassling freaks for I.D. and snorting free coke offered by what few grateful losers he DID let in. But his AC was broken, and he was waaay too wired to try and wrestle the Angel of Sleep to the ground *just* yet, thank you very much. So--
     The road. The bike's slow-motion explosion. Exhaust-pipe burning hard against one boot, and his balls sweat-stuck to the crotch of his black leather jumpsuit. Hot air in his mouth, like a continual tongue-kiss. And nowhere to be, no one to see, nothing to do but go, go, go...
     Around the next corner, however, he found himself pulling over to watch some sweat-sheened Yuppie in a suit try to argue a *highly* unimpressed cop out of having his car towed. The gist of the matter seemed to be a substantial whack of unpaid parking tickets, which Yuppie-boy had allowed to slide 'cause he thought he could get away with it. But now he was really screwed, because he had to get to a VERY IMPORTANT MEETING--
     Chris grinned: Yeah, right. Weren't they always?
     "Look, it's not like I *can't* settle this, officer..."
     (So why DIDN'T you, suit-for-brains?)
     "Sorry, sir."
     "Oh, come on! One more hour, is that so much to ask?"
     "Not up to me, sir. *Sorry*."
     (Now step the fuck off, you little leech, and let me do my JOB.)
     Hunched across the handlebars, panting slightly, and studying the scene with a certain nasty curiosity: In his heart of hearts, it always gave Chris a dark little thrill to see rich people get called on the crap they routinely pulled. But the cop just wasn't having any, and the Yuppie was getting a truly panic-stricken look in his eyes...
     Pretty eyes, too, now Chris came to think about it. Pale blue, under those goldybrown-and-puke-colored--WHAT kind of frames were those, exactly?--*tortoiseshell*, right: Old man's glasses, not that he was old. But the same kind of prissy, fussy vibe as his too-plain tie, his overpolished shoes, his SUIT itself--an adult-sized kid, all dressed up in Grampa's clothes, and pissed off because nobody seemed to notice.
     Pale blue eyes, fringed with gold; dull gold brows to match that close-clipped hair, hairline already creeping skullward the way Chris's first started to when he was 15, tops. A sleek, blond...
     (pussy)
     ...cat. Cat in a suit, cute in an uptight kinda way; fighting hard to stay polite, but so embarassed-angry now he seemed to be hovering right on the ragged edge of just wrinkling his flat nose and *hissing* at the cop: Don't you know who I AM, you uniformed ignoramus?
     Well. Apparently--not.
     ('Cause there goes your *car*, honey.)
     A "good deed" impulse, backed with a more-than-slight twinge of real...*interest*. Plus being bored. Plus being tired. Plus--the HEAT.
     Chris kicked the bike's stand up, revved the engine, and looped back around. Pulled up to the Yuppie, now studying his (very nice) gold Rolex and cursing to himself: "Shit, fuck, shit, fuck, fuck, *shit*--"
     "Hey. You wanna ride?"
     The Yuppie's head whipped up and back, startled. Eyes wide, kind of guilty almost, like: Oh my *God*! Someone heard me swear--and in public, too!
     (And: Mmm, baby. I DO like *you*.)
     Looked even better at close range, to Chris; granted, it might have been the fatigue and a  general hovering horniness talking...but then again, maybe not. Just something ABOUT that pristine exterior, undercut by flashes of temper and desperation. If he'd been a woman, he'd have been Chris's type for sure--stand-offish, upwardly mobile (or wanting to be), but with more than enough cracks in the armor to admit a prying, seductive finger or two.
     In terms of male liaisons, Chris usually stayed close to the Daddy-esque paradigms of his youth: Hustler and john, prag and owner. With Chris fronting "hard" enough to attract attention, then rolling over at the critical moment--letting the big dog have his way, and reaping the rewards. This, though--*this* would be...
     ...different.
     (If it actually turned out to BE anything at all.)
     The Yuppie, staring at him. While Chris repeated, impatient:
     "A *ride*. You want one, or what?" Then, realizing: "Shit--'s the helmet, huh? Must sound like the Headless fuckin' Horseman in this thing..."
     He snapped the straps and pried it off, only to see the Yuppie gape even wider.
     (Well, WHAT?)
     Ohhhh, that's right. The *hair*.
     Lately--and with the willing collaboration of that chick Bonnie down at the Dye Factory --Chris had been changing his hair color almost every week, just 'cause he could. Two nights ago, she'd bleached it almost white, in striking contrast to his dark, arched brows--stripped it down to the bare roots in preparation for an excursion into deep purple, once the right shipment arrived from New York.
     Well aware of the impression he was making, Chris twisted one of those brows high--smirking--and patted the seat behind him enticingly: C'mon, li'l lady, don't be shy. Let's you 'n' me mount up, now...
     He saw the Yuppie gulp, slightly. Then narrow those lovely eyes, feigning cool corporate hauteur, and force himself to ask:
     "How fast can you get to Tenth and Trellis?"
     Chris smiled. Suggesting, equally cool:
     "Climb on...and see."

Five or so minutes later, therefore--
     Chris took the next couple of curves as hard and fast as he could, leaning into them just to feel the Yuppie hug closer, knitting himself around him. He'd taken the helmet without a murmur--"So if we wipe out, *I*'m the one gets killed," Chris had (half-) joked--and clambered awkwardly astride, one arm ringing Chris's waist, the other clutching his briefcase against Chris's belly and lower chest.
     Even sweatier now, and obviously terrified; Chris could feel his heart beating through his suit, a punk band drum solo. And those square little hands, white-knuckled, dusted with fine gold: Manicured nails digging into fisted palms while the Yuppie dug his helmeted head into Chris's leather-slicked shoulderblade, his arms unexpectedly strong on  Chris's ribcage. Far sturdier all over, in fact, than he'd originally appeared--deep-chested and broad-shouldered, like some teenaged soccer player. Some angel-haired little Catholic schoolboy, just waiting to fight off--or give in to--temptation...
     Chris felt himself harden at his passenger's cautious touch, dick gone almost painfully erect inside his jumpsuit's equally rigid crotch. Tasted hot air in his mouth again, and wished it was the Yuppie's (no doubt) minty-fresh breath.
     (Oh, MAN.)
     He had it bad, all right.
     Muttering, under his breath: "Guess that's *one* good reason to stay awake."
     "*What*?" The Yuppie yelled back, over the bike's roar--feeling the thrum of Chris's words, clearly, though their substance escaped him.
     "Just sayin' how I'd like to suck your cock..."
     "Excuse me, WHAT?"
     "I *SAID*, WHERE YA WANT ME TO *STOP*?"
     "UH--*HERE*?"
     Tenth and Trellis, as advertised. Chris parked in front of a huge corporate monstrosity, accepted the return of his helmet, ignored the Yuppie's offered hand. Just saying, coolly:
     "Better run, you wanna make that meeting."
     "Yeah." Throwing back, hastily, as he turned away: "...thanks!"
     (No, baby: Thank YOU.)
     Chris grinned, happy to have finally found *something* to occupy his all-too-free   time--for the moment, at least. And settled in to wait.

By the time the Yuppie re-emerged, the sun had already begun to dip beneath that disgusting ring of sooty yellow clouds blurring the horizon, and Chris was down to his next-to-last cigarette. He came out in the middle of a crowd, all similarly suited guys (plus the occasional doll), back-slapping and glad-handling as they congratulated each other, keyed cellphones, signalled passing taxis--waving his own arm in the road's direction, distracted by his beeper, then doing a double-take as Chris skidded in between him and the next approaching cab.
     Raising those barely-there  brows, incredulous: "You--*waited* for me?"
     "Yeah, it's official," Chris shot back, blithely. "I got NO life."
     He grinned again, wider this time, as their eyes locked tight: Dark on blue, exchanging sparks. A palpable charge, full-frontal. And--
     --*mutual*, by God. As that mounting blush, seeping up from the Yuppie's tie-choked collar, seemed to testify.
     "Meeting go the way you wanted?"
     "Very much."
     Chris let his lips curl further, smile sliding back into smirk. Dropped his chin just a touch, eyes half-lidding, turning sultry. Suggesting:
     "Then it sounds like YOU...deserve a drink."
     And: Oooh. That got him more sparks, and brighter--'cause in the Yuppie's universe, apparently, the mere prospect of impending alcohol abuse beat unresolved sexual tension *hands fuckin' down*.
     (I sense a key here, ladies and germs.)
     From behind Chris, meanwhile, the cab driver--pissed at losing his prospective fare--leant on his horn, demanding: "Hey! Ya gettin' in, or what?"
     "What..." The Yuppie replied, slowly. His eyes--
     --still on Chris's.
     Adding: "I know a good bar..."
     "Hey, me too: I work there." A pause. "So--interested?"
     "...sure."

Back to Hangar Ten, therefore, right in time for the next shift: Chris brought his new "friend" in through the kitchen, installed him at a booth by the back wall, and let things take their course. Which they did fairly quickly, since the Yuppie's version of celebration played more like drowning his sorrows: Nothing ever enough for this guy, Chris could tell--if life handed him gold, he'd argue about exchange rates. Just kicked the crap outta some kind of *contract negotiation*, or whatever, and he's knockin' them back like he got his own ass handed to him on a plate.
     (And such a very *nice* ass it was, too...)
     But anyway--
     "Hey, works for ME," Chris said, pouring them both a fresh shot of Tequila. "Big contract, big promotion, big raise--new CAR--"
     (You need *that*, right?)
     "--more hours, more bills, more office politics bullshit--"
     "Yeah, well: You don't exactly strike me as the *lazy* type..."
     "It's not ABOUT "lazy". S'about--" The Yuppie paused, mid-rant, suddenly remembering: "Look...I don't even *know* you."
     Chris let the grin seep back. "Sure," he agreed. "But, see--that's the GOOD part."
     (Means we don't have to tell each other the truth--don't have to tell each other anything, we don't want to. Just talk shit, get drunk...)
     ...and do--whatever.
     Sober, the Yuppie was--as Chris had already observed--uncomfortable with virtually everything about himself. Drunk, however, he loosened up considerably: Became--not belligerent, just voluble, demonstrative, batting his gold lashes in an almost flirtatious way, waving his arms and repeating himself in a truly *precious*, halting kind of drawl.
     And man, did he get drunk FAST.
     "You need'a find someplace a little more private, maybe?" Keller asked, just into the sixth round, after having noticed that the Yuppie seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes focussed. "My apartment's 'cross the street. You're welcome to crash--"
     Drawing himself up, with perilous dignity: "*I*...am nowhere NEAR having to--'crash'. Yet. Thank you...very much."
     ("Much", in this case, sounding a lot more like "mush".)
     While Chris thought, amused: Oh, so. This a fairly regular thing, guy?
     Well, I like a man who knows his limits.
     "You're cute," he told him, reaching for the bottle--and letting his fingers brush across the Yuppie's own, lightly, as he did so. "You know that, right?"
     Blue eyes turned instantly owlish, under those gross glasses. Stammering:
     "Um...no. I'm--not..."
     "Not cute? Oh no, baby: You most definitely *are*."
     The Yuppie stared at him, reddening. Like: did you really--
     (--just call me BABY?)
     Hastening to add:
     "No, no, I'm, uh--I mean, I'm *not*. Whatever..."
     "...whatever--*I* am."
     Backpedaling, hastily: "Well, um--"
     (Yeah, UM.)
     Oh, and blush like that for me *again*. How far down does that go, anyway? Can I see?
     'Cause what I AM, right now, Mr Contract Negotiations Guy--you pretty little pussy--is drunk, and tired, and lingering contact-high, and horny as all get out. And--
     --looking at *you*, seeing *you* drunk. And horny. Too.
     Not like we swapped cards, or anything. You're whoever; I'm whoever. So let's just be--*whatever*...
     (...together.)
     The Yuppie blushed further, and muttered, into his drink--in a tone that'd sound proud, almost defiant, if it weren't so darn MUFFLED--
     "I mean...I like girls."
     Chris nodded. "Oh yeah. Girls rock."
     Snapping, in clarification: "To *sleep* with."
     "Sure."
     Me too, bunny: The tits, the legs, the *smell* of 'em, how all the parts fit together in all the right places--just makes SENSE. And besides, as you (obviously) well know--
     (--all GUYS are good for...is to go out and get *drunk* with.)
     And then, topic exhausted for the moment, it was later--much later. Definitely the pre-crash portion of the early morning.
     Which must be why they suddenly found themselves reeling up the stairs to Chris's attic room, past the always-busted industrial elevator, Chris supporting the lurching, giggling Yuppie with a muscular bicep wedged under either surprisingly-strong arm. Up the stairs, past Chris's front door (no point in locking it, most of the time, 'cause there wasn't much there worth stealing) and back towards the open window onto the roof, busted AC lying abandoned in the corner, thrown wide to catch some faint hope of a breeze--and Chris's "view", just through it: A spectacular industrial wasteland of broken glass and debris, intermittent rising smoke from nearby factory stacks, weeds growing wild in the dirt-filled cracks between broken, tar-encrusted tiles...
     The Yuppie paused, transfixed. Breathing: "Wow. This is, just--sooo--"
     (--ugly? Disgusting? Would *squalid* be the word you're lookin' for, maybe?)
     "Welcome to the BAD part of town," Chris breathed, hot, right into his guest's shell-perfect left ear--and trailed one hand down, idly, to tweak at the spot where he suspected the Yuppie's nipple lay hidden, provoking a gasp and a skittish kind of *leap*.
     (Uh, whuh, EEEP--)
     The Yuppie half-turning, thigh catching on Chris's inseam, overbalancing them both in a flash--and bringing them down, together, sprawled back on a pile of dirty laundry. With Chris on top.
     Looking down, transfixed, as the Yuppie stared back, paralyzed. Feeling himself already popping-hard, with his abdomen firmly crushed up against an answering, equally rigid erection, caged under silk-weave suit-pants--the two of them plastered together by sweat and sexual energy, skin to promise of skin, hot and SLICK.
     Glad to have finally gotten close enough to do so, Chris pushed those offensive senior citizen-type specs up and back, freeing the Yuppie's myopic, blinking eyes: So wide, so dazed, so gas refinery-skyline *blue*. Admired how the alcohol had left his lips all flushed and puffy, as though kiss-bruised--pursed in a vague, wondering pout.
     As the Yuppie, acting on purest instinct, humped his hips sharply up into Chris's, only to recoil--automatically--from contact with Chris's engorged cock...
     (and his own)
     ...but then do it again, almost immediately, as though addicted--burying his face in Chris's shoulder, with a soft little throat-caught cry, almost a *whine*, that went STRAIGHT to Chris's groin. Eyes squeezed shut, like he didn't want to see, or KNOW, what he was doing...
     Whispering, his voice tiny with intoxication:
     "What...what're you...gonna..."
     "WE, baby," Chris corrected, quickly. "What're *we* gonna."
     And thinking: Man. This apprehensive, drunken, rich-boy geek--
     --is nothing less than sex on a fuckin' STICK.
    He traced the Yuppie's sweet pink mouth with one calloused thumb, then let it slip--unexpectedly-- inside, along this inner rim of his lower lip, where wet heat began. And was surprised--
    (make that *amazed*)
    --when The Yuppie suddenly sucked it in further: Taking it deep, kitten-teeth coming together in a brief, needle-sharp bite. And moaning again, gutteral, strangled--as though both horrified and aroused by his own actions.
     (Ooooh, *yeah*.)
     Chris felt a strange surge of affection for this complex little bag of tricks trapped beneath him. Asking, gently:
     "Oh, man. Did nobody ever tell you, seriously? How *sexy* you really are?"
     A tiny headshake, muffled against Chris's collarbone.
     Thinking: But then again, you really do like making the other person do all the work, don'tcha, baby? Poor me, swept away, couldn't help myself, officer. I was just--*lying* there, and it just--HAPPENED.
     Well--not THIS time.
     Murmuring, in the Yuppie's other ear:
     "So just let me see you, 'kay?"
     "...see...me...?"
     "YOU know. *Naked*."
     Another spasm, as though cattle-prodded--Chris practically had to hold him down 'till it passed, kissing his way up and down that resurgent tide of blush: Collarbone, neck, jawline, cheek. Edge of lip.
     *Mouth*.
     Tongue to tongue, hip to hip, grinding and groping. Real first-year frat boy shit; guy MUST be used to *that*, right? Swapping spit, sharing breath, making him pant and groan...then finding the same nipple again, twisting harder--trying to evoke *just* the right note of deep, sweet, hot, twisting pain, enough to crack him at the crotch, springing him wide...
     "You're making me crazy, here," Chris told him, a growl building. "I mean, c'mon. Can't you *feel* it?"
     No? Then--
     (--let me help you out.)
     Bringing that square-fingered, well-kept little hand to his crotch, and hearing him HISS at the feel of Chris's arousal made flesh--then hissing himself, shamelessly loud, to prove how the Yuppie's inquiring touch was enough to render him, instantly, equally helpless. Getting him curious. Getting him hot...about getting *Chris* hot.
     Assuring him: "Just wanna see you, that's all." His most winning smile: "Please?"
     Mutinous: "THEN what?"
     "Then nothing, baby. Nothing--"
     (--you don't want.)
     And peeling his shirt away, button by button--popping his fly, and working those slacks down off his sturdy hips. Hooking the waistband of his tented shorts, and letting what's inside slap up against that dull gold belly-fur, that incipent softness, leaving a glistening smear.
     Chris unzipped his jumpsuit, shrugging the leather from his wide shoulders--the visible legacy of all that post-Lardner pumping, already come so much in handy with pick-ups of either sex--
     --and slipped down between the Yuppie's spread legs, fast, before the poor bastard even had a chance to object: Mouth glued straight to that slick, purple-red head, lapping precum like it was honey, teasing his reluctant guest with tiny sips and licks as he writhed and squirmed beneath him.
     The Yuppie had one hand to his mouth, as though to choke back his own cries; Chris held the guy's other wrist fast to prevent interference, and kept right on kissing down further, tracing the seam of his balls, tasting his perineum. Then slicked a spit-wet finger back over the rosy knot of his anus, teasing it, ringing it lightly 'till it opened just that LITTLE bit--then slipping in a stealthy fingertip, up to just past the nail--
     --only to have him jump once more, skittering backwards, scrambling upright and declaring--looking beautifully ridiculous, with one knee already hiked over Chris's shoulder and Chris smirking predatory, hawk-sharp, up from between his thighs--
     "Oh *ho*, NO. I think you have *me* confused with someone a LOT more drunk--er. Than I--uh..."
     Chris, patient: "Honey, c'mon."
     The Yuppie: "*No*."
     "Just a LITTLE, baby, a tiny little bit. I'll pull out..."
     (Honest!)
     "Look, what part of NO do you not--"
     Chris kissed the Yuppie's straining inner hip flexor, leaving a soft purple suck-mark; slipped his hand down between his own legs, palming extra lube from his leaking, weeping cock. Pleading, hopefully:
     "Just one finger?"
     "I mean it, *no*."
     "Then...just my tongue."
     The Yuppie goggled down at him, momentarily distracted by disbelief. Repeating:
     "Your...why the HELL would you want to stick your *tongue* up my a-HA-haaaOWWW, *God*--"
     Like a girl getting her pussy eaten for the first time, gulping and twitching, legs kicking out helpless as Chris fastened in, rimmed him as deep as his virgin tightness would allow. The Yuppie's thighs spread instinctively, falling limply open--
     (and NOW we can finally get down to *business*)
     One finger. Two. Hooking for the prostate. Seeing the Yuppie's tormented cock jerk and shiver, sticky-slick--then sliding back up again, thrusting HARD between those untouched cheeks, flipping the Yuppie's slack ankles up onto his shoulders--centring and feeling his target pulse and flutter, practically *inviting* him in--
     But:
     Hearing, also, much as he might like to ignore it...a defeated little moan into the shoulder Chris eventually planned to decorate with a tattoo of Christ crucified--not 'cause he was Catholic or anything, but just 'cause it looked the way he sometimes *felt*--once he had something that oh-so-artistic motherfucker Lenny C. might be willing to trade for it (besides what Chris kept in his pants, all of which Lenny'd already seen and sampled, and didn't think quite RATED a full reduction in price)...
     ...the Yuppie's drunken voice, begging quietly--like he didn't really expect it to make much of a difference, but just *had* to try before his cherry went the way of all flesh...
     "...don't?"
     (Aw, MAN.)
     Chris glared down into that edge-of-tearful face, those mournful eyes, so hard he literally hurt, and obscurely angry to boot. Thinking:
     You dumb fuckin' upscale, soft-ass son-of-a-bitch--go out with me, get me all hot, get yourself plastered like a damn WALL or somethin', come back to my *place*--
     --I mean, shit, man! What the hell did you *think* was gonna happen? Are you really that...
     (...innocent?)
     Got YOURSELF into this one, *negotiator*. And now you want me to--what? Show *mercy*?
     Too bad that ain't the way it works, out here in the REAL world. As I should--
     (and DO)
     --know.
     Seeing the guy turn away, then, hopeless; hide his eyes in Chris's collarbone again, and let out a sob so subvocal it barely registered at all, except as a brief shiver of air against muscle. An unspoken plea, too beaten into conflicted, aching submission to even expect an answer...
     Chris let out a long, ragged sigh. And said, equally quiet:
     "You...are one big serious pain in the fuckin' ass, my friend."
     While the Yuppie, raising red-threaded lids, gave a liquid little sniff, before replying--
     "--but...there's other stuff, right? Stuff we...*can*...do?"
     That eye-lock, blue on dark. Those sparks, flying. Making it very, very clear:
     Because...I DO want to *do* something.
     (With you.)
     Just--not that.
     (...yet.)
     Like they were ever likely TO do anything again, together.
     Chris hissed again, through his proud nose--and felt his balls clench tight and hot, albeit involuntarily, at very thought.
     And:
     "Oh, yeah," he said. "There's--*stuff*."
 
An immediate, 360-degree switch to Tobias Beecher's POV: Trapped beneath the biker, legs already spread and hefted, his leaking dick crushed up against his own abdomen. Though fear had drained away much of his initial lingering booze cocoon, that warmth spreading from his groin on outward was more than beginning to take its place; he felt light-headed, skin singing and cracking with impatient energy, every dull gold hair on edge. Stared up into those incongruously dark eyes, that wicked, smiling  face--and saw the guy stare back down, murmuring, infinitely carnal:
     "Het boy...I'm gonna make you come so hard, you won't even be able to *see* straight."
     And: Ohhhh my GOD--
     (--what the *hell* have I just gotten myself into?)
     But before Toby could think better of it, before he could even *think*, the biker swooped down on him again, tongue-first--kissing and nipping, scalding him with the same crazy pleasure that'd rendered him limp and aquiescent beneath the assault on his dick, not to mention that...*amazing*, blush-provoking thing the guy had done right after. He felt himself moan, arch, clutch back so hard it surprised even HIM, legs slipping back down to lock around the biker's slim waist, hooking over those smooth hipbones. Felt the guy's hard-on dig into *his* hip, slick and pumping--their balls nudging, fresh sweat gluing them together at the lips, chest, GROIN...
     The biker broke away, gasping. "*Shit*," he said, in clear amazement.
     Then: "We better take this to the bed."
     There's a BED in here? Toby thought, dazed. Allowing himself to be hauled to his feet, those strong arms keeping him hugged close enough to feel the biker's heartbeat meet his, hammering through their pressed-together ribs--then adding, mentally, as the biker steered him around--
     Oh, *that*.
     (The thing I thought was just a much BIGGER pile of dirty clothes.)
     The biker practically threw him down on top of its rucked and tangled sheets, sprawling full-length beside him--one hand slipping (shamelessly quick) between Toby's thighs, to cup his quaking sac, while the other lingered--stroking--on the rippling muscles of Toby's gold-furred stomach.
     "Nice," he said. "You work out?"
     Toby, breathless: "Not...much."
     "Good habit to get into, man, you wanna keep yourself--active."
     "I'll, uh--*oh!*--try to...keep that in...mind..."
     Biting his lip and hissing, as the guy's thumb retraced his seam--then making a weird little SQUEAL when the biker leaned forward, snake-quick, to take him in his mouth once more. No fucking around this time (so to speak): Practically inhaling Toby's pole with one powerful suck, the biker curled his tongue around the head, scraping the sides with his teeth. Toby shuddered, spasmed, felt his palmed balls lift and dilate--
     (so *soon*, my Christ, I'm gonna--oh, Geez, SHIT)
     --so wet, so GOOD, like nothing he'd ever experienced. The biker went down even *further*, impossibly far, and gave a gurgling laugh at Toby's reaction, throat thrumming against his underside. At the same time, his Judas finger found Toby's distracted, spit-wet asshole and wormed back inside, all the way to the root--touched something inside that felt like a key turning, a concentrated kernel of pure pleasure.
     Toby shrieked, kicked out HARD, and came like a dam bursting. The biker choked slightly on the overflow, snorting semen, but swallowed the rest like the pro he no doubt was--each successive clutching gulp wringing more and more from Toby's amazed and clenching testicles. As Toby lay back, still wracked with aftershocks, he continued to lave and tease, peppering his bucking thighs with hickeys.
     "Christ, *please*," Toby heard himself groan, in genuine pain and overwhelming pleasure. While the biker murmured, around Toby's softening cock:
     "Oh no, c'mon, baby--I know you got *just* a bit more in there..."
     "BLOOD, maybe, that's all, oh *God*--"
     --and felt the finger hook, TWIST, making his back contract like a plucked bow; a final jet of milky cum hit the biker's palate, pulled from somewhere so deep it mock-hurt like an impromptu aspiration of spinal fluid.
     "AAAIIIUUUGGGHHH!"
     Collapsing, limp and boneless, wrung dry from the inside out. The biker slid back up, drew him close and kissed his rolled-back eyes, his gaping, panting mouth. Crooning--
    "Honey, so *nice*, sssh now. Sssh, rest, sssh."
    Toby, sweat-plastered and jerking in the man's warm, merciless grip. Eking out, through gritted teeth:
    "Heaaaart attack...gonna...DIE, or some...thin'..."
    "No, baby, believe me. Just *feels* that way."
     They stayed that way for a moment. Then, as Toby's breathing and pulse slowed back down to normal, he became inexorably aware of the biker's erection still cutting into his side, diamond-stiff and slick with flowing precum. The man humping up against him, tiny but reflexive movements, his arousal almost embarassing in the face of Toby's utter, earth-shattering repletion.
     A fresh tide of flush spread upward, lit his neck and face, made his nipples spark and flare. And prompted him to ask, tongue gone slow and numb--
     "--'s there, um--anything I can uh...do? For--you?"
     Casting the biker a shy, sidelong glance from under his lashes, feeling himself redden even further--and meeting that *grin* once more, rendered all the more swoonily powerful by a thin but obvious glaze of Toby's own juices.
     (Uh. Gross.)
     Yet...strangely enticing, all the same.
     Noticing how Toby's stare widened--and knowing well WHY--the biker licked his lips, deliberately. Stroked his dick to pump it up yet *harder*, then turned it in Toby's direction. And replied, slowly:
     "Welllllll...since you *asked*..."

Hands behind his head, Chris watched the Yuppie mull over the task before him, and well remembered his *own*--LONG-past, now--initial close encounter with the fabled one-eyed trouser snake.
     Thinking: Won't *bite* you, sweet thing, really. Just LOOKS that way, I swear.
     From this angle it seemed huge even to Chris, cartoonishly red and engorged; he could see the Yuppie's flat nostrils flare at the scent, so strange and hot and enticing--muskily familiar, yet offputtingly alien. Saw that pink tongue test the air, touch lightly to a dubious, kiss-puffed lower lip...
     Moment a' truth, Chris thought, so aroused he felt cored, barely able to move. Men from the boys, honey-bunny-doll. Rite of passage, all a' that...
     (...so go on ahead and SUCK it, you dizzy brat, you *bitch*, you...)
     And the back of the Yuppie's head, his neck's wet, ruffled NAPE, bending. That first  delicate, cat-rough *lick*.
     (Oh, oooooghhh)
     Chris flopped back, swept away, hips already churning weakly. Began to pant like an overheated dog as the Yuppie's needle-sharp kitten-teeth closed dangerously over his nerve-rich helmet--heard himself WHINE, aloud, and bit down on the flap of skin between thumb and forefinger to muffle the incongruous sound of his own helpless desire.
     (Ah, *huh*, HOLY fuckin' CROW)
     Never quite got up the courage to take it all in his mouth, exactly, and Chris wasn't going to press--not like the son-of-a-bitch who'd showed HIM the ropes, and left him too bruised to talk afterward. But the Yuppie *was* giving Chris's dick a slow, prim, stunningly sensual tongue-wash, coating his sensitive shaft with cool, wet, delicate little strokes from weeping flange to throbbing, aching stem, tracing each distended vein like a roadmap. Sliding his manicured little hands down to cup Chris's asscheeks and running an exploratory thumb over the crack, making Chris squirm, bob, whine and gulp over and over, unable to stop himself. One forefinger creeping further, followed by the other, to tease at the pursed gate of Chris's anus--
     (HA, *God*, here we fuckin' *GO*)
     --then slip *inside*, fast and hard--both at once, lubed by innocent curiosity and eager sweat--to SPREAD it wide, just as he finally tasted Chris's skinned-back dick from tip to halfway-mark...
     (eeeEEEAAAIII)
     ...and Chris jerked back as though shocked, freeing himself *fast* in a spurt of spit to spew all OVER that upturned, too-clean face--a shocking, white-hot cum facial, rapturous and horrific in equal measure--
     (--oh *shit*!)
     The Yuppie sputtering, gagging, hair and eyes abruptly full of Chris's sperm. Jolting up like a jack-in-the-box, trapped in Chris's arms, and thrashing, snarling:
     "LegGO, let me, lemme *go*, UCK, *FUCK*--"
     But Chris, still alight with afterglow, just hauled him forward--stroking, soothing, praising him--licking the offending evidence of what this crazy, drunken little suit had just DONE to him away, then kissing him deep and sharing it...feeling the Yuppie melt at the taste, his sweet mouth softening yet again...
     "Oh, BABY," he whispered, into those lips, that *tongue*. "You are one of this world's true wonders, you *know* that, right? A for-real million fuckin' buck FUCK."
     The Yuppie groaning back into Chris's mouth, in turn: Dazed and confused, but rousing yet *again* at Chris's expert touch. His face distending, turning bright beet-red as Chris steered their groins together, using his own spend as lube and rubbing, grunting, forcing the Yuppie to one more climax, a final explosion that soaked Chris's belly and pubes. And the Yuppie making this NOISE, nothing Chris had ever thought he'd hear from a "civilized" man's throat, inebriated or not: Growling, yowling, a feral, cat-scratch fever *howl* to go with the full-body RETCH of his orgasm, the light but painful bite he inflicted to Chris's upper arm, his sturdy body shaking like a prisoner strapped in the electric chair...
     Chris stroked that sticky, dull gold hair as the Yuppie sobbed, soundless, into his shoulder. Wheezing, broken:
     "...aaah, oh...whah ya...*doooo* tuh...ME..."
     "Nothin', baby."
     "...uh, nuuuuuh..."
     "Hmm, sleep now, honey. Go to sleep. 'S nothin', nothin' at all. Nothin'..."
     (you didn't want)
     And will you remember this, tomorrow? Will *I*?
     Fuck it, Chris decided, exhaustion sweeping up over him as well. At least we had tonight, one way or another. And anything else--
     (--wherever, whenever, IF ever--)
     --will just be gravy.

The two of them lapsing into dreamless slumber, blithely unaware of destiny already coiling like a spring, kissing both their fucked-out asses goodbye--and propelling them, headlong, into a future neither could have possibly imagined in either their most secret fantasies...
     ...or their worst nightmares.

The next morning, meanwhile, Toby woke with (yet another) pounding hangover headache and the sun in his eyes, sprawled full-length naked beside some scary-looking--if darkly handsome--freak whose albino-white hair didn't match his eyebrows, armpits OR pubes. Nearby, he could see yesterday's thousand-dollar contract-signing suit balled up on top of a sweat-stained heap of leather motorcycle fetish gear. Couldn't see his shoes, though, and since he needed his glasses to FIND his glasses...
     His skull felt like a drop-kicked melon, crammed full of vague, alcohol-blurred mnemonic freeze-frames: His car, being towed--this guy, giving him a ride--that *bar*--this PLACE--
     --that *GUY*--
     That guy, and him. Here. Doing--
     (oh, Christ)
     --everything.
     Except...one particular thing.
     (THANK you, Jesus.)
     Could still taste him, even now, at the back of his constricting throat--a warm, not unpleasant tang, half salt, half musk. Like the smell of his skin, weirdly inviting. That outflung arm, with just enough space left to snuggle close, sink back down into a sensual morass--remember and revel in the range and intensity of last night's pleasure, so alien, so addictive--take a long weekend with this bedmate of yours, 'cause Lord knows you deserve it, getting Dyshare to sign on the dotted line and all...
     But: What the *fuck* am I THINKING?
     Toby levered himself out of bed, carefully, quietly; felt the guy turn over, mumbling, and scurried over to snag his clothes. Pants, then shirt, then--oh, *there* his shoes were! Right next to his briefcase...
     Screw the glasses, anyway. He'd always hated tortoiseshell.
     Looping his tie, one-handed, as he took the stairs one listing step at a time, fighting nausea every inch of the way. Then out onto the street, blinking around, unable to identify even what PART of town he's stranded himself in--
     (*this* time)
     Knowing only that, wherever it is, there will be NO taxis for at least a mile in any given direction.
     ('Cause there never ARE.)
     But knowing, also, that it's not exactly like he could go back up and ask...
     ...oh, God--what IS that guy's *name*, for Your sweet sake...
     ...to drive him home.

Eleven years later, meanwhile--in Oz--
     "So it's a deal, right?"
     "Your hack gets me into Em City, I hook up with this guy--what's his name?"
     "Beecher. ToBIas." Schillinger almost spits the words out. "Fuckin' nutbucket *prag*."
     While Chris just nods, thinking: Oh, Vern, you sentimental old fuck.
     As Vern adds, jerking his bald head sharply to the left: "That's him, over there."
     Chris risks a look, sidelong, and sees a dull gold shadow loping away from the head of the mess hall line, tray in hand--crowd parting to let him through, mainly, though he has to show his teeth to one lingering homeboy, who shoots him the finger and draws a mad-dog snarl for his trouble. Body swathed in extra layers of workout clothes, stocky and newly muscular; flat little face like a Persian's muzzle, blue eyes slitted, features kept deliberately hidden behind a truly UGLY mess of muttonchop sideburns and multiforked beard.
     A mere year in, and this Beecher--an "overeducated pussy", by Vern's standards--looks like a stone freak con, hardcore to the bone: Kind of guy who'd shank you fast as think about it, maybe faster--
     --or put your eye out. Knock you down, take a shit on your face. Lose you your *parole*, in front of everybody in Em City...
     (And man, Chris would've paid GOOD fuckin' MONEY to see that middle part.)
     "Don't really seem like your *type*," he comments, idly. To which Vern snaps back:
     "Yeah, well--not any MORE, he don't."
     (But then, neither did *you*, as I recall. Remember?)
     Yeah. *I* remember.
     "Just get him to 'like' you," Vern says, putting contemptuous emphasis on the word "like". "Pansy-ass bitch, he'll roll right over." He snorts to himself. "Way things been goin', probably WANTS someone to 'like'."
     (And how weak is THAT, anyway?)
     Chris gives the old Nazi a narrow look, assessing the untapped depths of Schillinger's obvious obsession with this Beecher guy. Just Chris's typical brand of luck to come in on a double life sentence, and find his old "owner" at the heart of Oz's power-structure; just his typical brand of *luck* to rob a store while high, kill some moron, take a header off his bike and break his Goddamn fuckin' ARM...
     ...though, the more he considers it--when he allows himself to--Chris begins to suspect that LUCK may not have all that much to do with any of it, really.
     "'Like'," Chris repeats. "So what is the guy, some kind'a *virgin*?"
     To which Schillinger gives his patented, fake-mild smile. And rumbles, in reply:
     "Well...not *exactly*." A pause. "But then, we all were once--weren't we, Chris-to-pher?"
     (Sweetpea.)
     Walking away, leaving Chris alone to "think it over". Like he's really got a choice in the matter.
     Chris sneaks another look at Beecher, sizing him up: Sure, why not? Dude looks doable.
     (Same way everybody else is, you get 'em in the right position.)
     He doesn't see the Yuppie in Beecher, any more than Beecher--when he finds Keller in his cell tomorrow, and bristles at being forced to play the role of Em City welcoming wagon, hissing out that stupid rhyme about rats in the cornfield (the first thing that comes to mind, sinister AND silly, not to mention wholly unhinged)--will see the biker who almost talked him into drunkenly giving away his bodily integrity, years before Vern got the chance to steal it outright by working his similar...though far cruder...wiles.
     And it only makes sense, in a sick--Oz-esque, one might say--way. Considering that Keller was basically imitating Vern, though only subconsciously: Picking his prey, and moving in for the kill. Using soft words and promises to get what he wanted...or to get WHO he wanted into a position where he could just *take* it, regardless. If he cared to.
     Which, as it turns out--he didn't.
     (And that...would be the difference.)

THE END