“How old are you, Matt?”
“Twen'y-three.”
Nearly two years my senior. I was afraid he might be even older. The younger the better-for my plans. In the saddle only young studs show real stamina.
Following the same train of thought, I blurted out another question. “How many times can you shoot, Matt?”
I couldn't blame him for looking at me equivocally. Such unkosher queries. Show me your ramrod-how many times can you come, kid? But I had to know. He had unloaded last night, and started snoring two minutes later. That wasn't promising. I had to know.
“You ask funny questions for a guy who don't suck cock,” Matt observed, judiciously. “There's a good reason.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Like to put that whang to work for you. To fuck juicy cunts, two at a time, five at a time. An' get paid for it. Not fucked up blondes smelling of bacon grease. Society girls in ermine with pampered pussies no guy's ever been in before. Like to make 'em go down on it-anyone with a good set of gums and a bank account.”
“Y-you c'n get me all that, Doug.”
It wasn't even a question. The hicksville Hercules trusted me, believed in me. It was the ace card in my plan. That and his giant boffer.
Juicy cunts to fuck-blow jobs-guys to whip. The triple promise dazzled Matt and stiffened his fibers. The fibers of his fucker. It stood erect again, and Matt was jerking it.
A third question. An unnecessary one because I had eyes to estimate. “How many inches have you got, Matt?”
“Idunno.”
At least a dozen inches, at least a foot. More maybe. I grasped the thick raging poker, sorta measuring. Matt rubbed my hanging labe between hairy fingers.
“Let's pull each other off.”
He sounded like a fucking Boy Scout. I hate that pre-teen shit. I twisted out of the way, loosening my hold as Matt dropped my dick. His stiff whammer bobbed up and down as if it were jerking itself off.
I couldn't help it, I had to ask him. “Can you really get anyone to suck you off? A mouth isn't elastic like a cunt. Can you really get that schlang down a girl's throat?”
Matt flashed me a look of contempt. He flicked his fingers over his hard-on. I fell to my knees. My tongue darted out to touch the rubbery, smooth flesh of his bursting buzzer.
“Kiss it,” Matt pleaded. “I'm gonna come in a minute.”
I held his prong tightly, above the crown. The head was aimed flush at my lips. The pisshole fluttered open. A pearly drop of cream had already formed there. It kept fluttering open, like the jaws of a flounder. Like a whale. I knew I couldn't take it. I was holding a dick about to spurt; it would be an act of mercy to suck it, to put him out of his misery. But I knew I couldn't take it. Instead, I licked at the side of his prick, just as he started to unleash a torrent of gism.
Staring at the milky puddle on the grass, Matt shook another drop out of his reddened rod. “See,” he said without rancor, “I c'n shoot again pretty fast.”
That was no locker room exaggeration. If my plans depended only on Matt, I had nothing to worry about.
We put our shorts on.
“Matt, would you drive me to town later?”
“Sure.”
Great! We headed back toward the cabin. Buddies. I'd licked his labe, but I hadn't really gone down on it. We weren't lovers or any of that crap. I still had essential details to work out. Matt didn't realize it yet, but we were partners.
III
Prescott was the model of a Midwestern metropolis. Shady, tree-lined streets, no pressing traffic problem. Busy downtown area where you could buy a tie made in Paris or a tractor made in Michigan. Bars, theaters, restaurants-two of each. Skyscrapers. The Town Hall and County Courthouse, the 6-story Iowan Hotel with its motel annex; the red brick Prescott Office Building. All in all, a bustling heart-of-the-farmland community. To an Easterner's eyes, of course, a shithouse.
Matt parked the jalopy a block away from the hotel. I picked up my battered duffel bag.
“This is where I leave you, Matt. Don't forget to pick me up tomorrow morning. This corner.” Hand on the wheel, Matt nodded. “And Matt, go easy on Debbie, huh?”
He scratched his nuts elaborately, not deigning to answer. Then he was off in a cloud of Iowa gravel. I was on my own again. Sixteen bucks in my pocket, a cock under my Jockeys, and a plan in my head.
I swaggered into the Iowan.
The decor was tasty. Clean, muted colors; new, comfortable furniture; lots of flowers. The desk clerk tried to look busy. A beautiful chick sat behind the cashier's cage. So far, so good-except that I didn't see the one person I wanted.
I ambled up to the cashier's window.
“I'd like a single for tonight, honey.”
Silver-blonde hair, uptilted nose, black eyes carefully disinterested. She spoke coolly. “The desk clerk will be happy to register you.”
Yeah. I knew that. But she was prettier. Because she didn't say, “Sir,” I neglected to tell her that. I just nodded, with a perfunctory, “Thank you, ma'am.” You're gonna call me Sir, baby, I promised myself. Wait'll you have a good prick in you. Those cool black eyes are gonna glitter. Maybe. Right now I have more important things to do.
The desk clerk twirled his card file. “Yes, sir. We have a very nice room on the fifth floor. That's twelve-fifty. Will that do, sir?”
Sure. What's twelve-fifty out of a sixteen-buck bankroll!
I murmured, “Yes,” and held my breath for thirty seconds. The clerk scrawled notations on a fresh card. I added my name and the address of a cathouse in Jersey.
“Luggage?”
I pointed casually to my duffel bag.
The desk clerk sniffed. Then he rang a little bell. Tinkling music. The sound I was waiting for.
The bell, naturally, was used to summon a bellboy. What did you think I was waiting for, so expectantly? The fucking sunrise?
The bell had to be jangled again before the bellboy materialized. A pimply boy about 17. I could have hugged him. And don't get any ideas.
We went up on the self-service elevator. Room 56 was as neat and tasteful as the lobby. The bellboy put my bag on the luggage rack, adjusted the blinds, flicked on the light in the crapper. He didn't put his hand out. This was Iowa, not New York or Frisco.
“What's your name, son?” I asked, jingling tomorrow's breakfast money in my pocket.
“Ernie, sir.”
“I'm from New York, Ernie. Get many visitors from New York?”
“Oh, yes, sir. We get 'em from all over. Prescott's only seventy-six miles from Des Moines.”
Golly! I couldn't waste too much of Ernie's time. He might be needed downstairs to polish the cuspidors. Without preamble, I got to the nitty-gritty.
“Where does a stranger go for a piece of ass in Prescott?”
Ernie blushed redder than Matt's tomato plants.
“I d-don't know, sir.”
“Don't tell me you bellboys can't fix a guy up?”
This was one bellboy who couldn't.
“Gee, I didn't mean to embarrass you, Ernie. Travelers get horny-it's part of the rigors of travel. I mean both sexes. Didn't you ever get any propositions, kid?”
He blushed redder, shaking his pimply head like a pendulum. This rustic probably got 'em, but he wouldn't know a proposition from a corn stalk. Couldn't be better.
One further question and I sent the boy back to his duties. “How many other bellboys in this fleab-establishment?”
Ernie's blushes subsided. “I'm the only one, sir. There's no night man. Ol' Ted-he does odd jobs-Ted helps folks with luggage if necessary.”
Perfect!
Gravely, I handed Ernie one-seventh of my dwindling fortune. He pocketed the four bits, murmuring, “I hope you'll enjoy your stay, sir.”
“Thanks. Uh-last time I was here, years ago, Miss Peterson was the cashier. Know what happened to her?”
“No, sir. Miss Grant's been the cashier since I started working.”