Gay Erotic Stories

Part I

“FUCK!” The kid pounds the steering wheel with the heel of his hand.

Third time’s a fucking charm, he thinks. He pulls the car to the side of the road, watching the angry red light on the dashboard and noticing that a plume of steam is now building at the front of the hood.

He jumps out of the car and slams the door behind him. Kicking the left front tire a few times for good measure, he storms around to the front of the car, pulls at the hood latch and props the hood open.

He reaches for the radiator cap, but thinks better of it at the last minute. He peels off the gray T-shirt he’s wearing, and wraps it around his hand. A few minutes later, he’s leaning against the side of the car, using the dirty T-shirt to mop the sweat off his face, with the engine hissing and clicking behind him.

The last two times the car overheated were bad enough, he thinks, but at least there were homes and farms around back there. He knows this road, and there’s nothing but hills and trees, hills and trees for 15 miles or so ahead, more like 20 behind him.

Nothing to do but wait for someone to come along and help, he thinks. He throws his T-shirt over the car’s radio antenna and moves toward the back of the car. Not worried about the paint job on this old junk heap, he hoists himself up on the trunk to sit. As he does this, he catches a glimpse of his distorted reflection in the back window, and he likes what he sees.

He’s always been in good shape -- played varsity basketball and football in high school, and kept himself in shape with weightlifting and intramurals during his freshman year in college -- but this summer has been a really great workout. He got a job helping a roofer working on a new retirement community in the middle of Pennsylvania -- one of those huge complexes -- enough condos to make up a small town by itself, a big community center and an even larger health care facility for residents who can no longer care for themselves. He had started the summer carrying heavy packs of asphalt shingles two stories up to the roofs of the condos, eventually graduating to installing shingles, which meant standing in the sun all day wearing nothing but work boots, cut-offs and a tool belt. The result is that he is leaner and more defined than he has even been before, his skin is a rich golden tan and his shaggy, light brown hair has been bleached by the sun back to the straw color it was when he was three years old.

The sun is strong, and it feels good on his skin, so he lies back on the rear window. He stretches one leg out so that the foot dangles off the end of the car; the other leg is bent so that his knee is up in the air and the foot is planted on the truck of the car. He puts one hand behind his head, closes eyes and relaxes. He lays his other hand on his stomach, and, as he drifts into a half-sleep in the arm sun, his fingers brush gently up and down his torso and linger now and then at his nipples.

***

The road is straight at this point, so the man sees the disabled car from a long way off. At first, he can’t figure out what the thing on the trunk is. But as he approaches, he realizes that it’s a body -- or rather, a person -- lying on the back of the car. Before he gets too close, he reaches under the passenger seat to check something. Satisfied, he straightens up.

The man pulls his truck off onto the shoulder a good distance from the car ahead, making sure he’s moving slowly enough to make almost no noise on the gravel. He steps out of the truck and starts to walk ahead, tucking his undershirt -- the kind the kids now call a “wife-beater” -- into his jeans.

As he approaches, the man sees that the person lying on the back of the car is a kid -- probably 19 or 20 years old -- good looking, in great shape. He stands over the kid, who seems to be dozing in the sun, and admires the kid’s physique. Sweat has begun to glisten on the kid’s chest and stomach, and it accentuates the contours of the kid’s well-defined pectorals and abdominals. The man reaches out.

“Kid,” the man says, shaking the kid’s knee.

“What?” the kid says, looking around and shielding his eyes from the sun. He realizes he must have fallen asleep, but he’s amazed someone was able to pull up behind him and walk right up to the car without his hearing. He sits up and looks at the person who’s surprised him.

The man is older, probably 45 or so, with a square jaw, high cheekbones and a steel gray crew cut. The man’s tight-fitting undershirt reveals muscular arms and a trident tattoo. Something about the man makes the kid think, Marine.

“Trouble?” the man asks, flipping a thumb in the direction of the car’s open hood.

“Yeah,” the kid says, jumping off the trunk. He walks around the man to the front of the car, grabbing his shirt as he passes the antenna and pulling it on.

“Overheated,” he says when they are both looking into the engine compartment. “Third time today. I don’t think it’s going to make it to the next town. I’m gonna need a tow.”

“Well, it’s a long walk,” the man says. “Hop in. I’ll take you.”

The kid is thanking the man for the third time when the man asks if he’s local.

“No,” the kid says. “Been working out in central Pennsylvania all summer. Heading home to Cherry Hill, New Jersey, so I can pack and get on to school.”

“It’s still a little early for school,” the man says. “Most places don’t start up until after the first of September.”

“That’s true,” the kid replies. “My parents don’t expect me home until next week.”

There is an almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of the man’s mouth, the shadow of a smile.

“Hey,” the man says, “you must be dying of thirst, lying out there in that sun all this time. There’s a water bottle under your seat if you need something.”

“God, thanks,” the kid says, fishing under the seat. “I am thirsty.”

He twists the top off the plastic bottle and chugs almost half of it down.

“Want some?” he asks, making to hand the bottle over to the man.

“Don’t worry about me,” the man says. “Finish that yourself if you like.”

A few minutes later, the kid has drained the bottle. He suddenly starts to blink, and then to shake his head.

“What’s wrong?” the man asks.

“I don’t know,” the kid says. “Everything’s….” He tries to say “fuzzy,” but he can’t get his tongue to cooperate. Suddenly the kid’s head rolls back, and his entire body relaxes.

“Hey, kid. Kid?” the man says, shaking the kid’s shoulder. There is no response. The man’s smile broadens, and he turns the truck around. The gas station will have to wait.

***

When the kid wakes, it is with a headache so blinding he does want to open his eyes. His brain is trying to make sense of the information filtering through the haze he is in. With his eyes closed, all he knows for sure is that he is lying on his right side, probably on the ground. It’s the smell of dirt and the texture of the surface beneath him that tell him it’s the ground, as opposed to a floor. And there’s mustiness, a smell sort of like dried grass as well.

Even with his eyes closed, he can tell he’s no longer in the sun. In fact, he senses that it’s downright dark wherever he is -- not pitch black, but dark nonetheless.

He tries to move his left arm to the ground in front of him, so that he can push himself up, but he is stopped somehow. He flexes his muscles and realizes his hands are held behind him. He hears the sound of a small length of chain: Handcuffs? But it’s more complicated than that, because his ankles, pulled up behind him, are involved as well. Hog-tied, the kid thinks, and then mentally erases the word and searches his brain for another that fits better with chains instead of ropes. But the word doesn’t come, and he thinks there may not even be a word for this.

“Kid’s coming to,” says an unfamiliar voice. “Better get the boss in here.” From the direction, someone standing behind him.

“Yep,” says yet another voice.

There’s the sound of a door on rusty hinges and the kid gets the sense that light has flooded into this space, whatever it is, for an instant. But the door bangs shut against its frame, and the light dims again.

The kid opens his eyes.

He is on his side, on the hard-packed dirt floor of a barn. It’s a very old barn; the weathered gray boards let in cracks of red-tinted light that arrow across the space to bright spots in the dirt. Dust floats in the slanted columns of light.

The color of the light indicates that it is late -- probably after 8 p.m. It was close to 3 when I broke down, the kid thinks. I’ve been out for a long time. The farther reaches of the barn fade away from him in darkness, except that he can see there’s a vast loft space. Hay, the kid thinks. I’m smelling hay.

He hears the door again, and he looks over his left shoulder to catch two figures silhouetted against a bright triangle of sunlight. Another figure -- probably the owner of the first voice he just heard -- is standing nearby, arms folded across his chest. The three men stand together in the darkness for a second, and then the one in the middle says, “Get him up.” It is the man from the truck.

To be continued.