FRICTION FICTION: Harboiled

[monshanjik]

HARDBOILED
By Landon Dixon
(Men.April.2007.)

He fanned the pictures across my desk. It was all there in black and
white — me sucking ‘Big Deal’ Rigoletti’s cock, licking his balls,
getting fucked deep in the ass, the expression on my rugged mug one of
inescapable ecstasy. I had to hand it to the thug: he could really
handle a high speed camera and a flashgun and he did it hiding behind a
two way mirror.

But this was now face-to-face and I wasn’t passing out any kudos.

“It’s gonna cost you plenty, Mr. D.A. . . .” Convey sneered, gathering
up the smut picks and stuffing them back into a manila envelope. “The
big, tough, manly crime-crusader for the people getting all swishy with
the state’s number one gang-boss; you’ll be ruined!”

I sat back, crossed my legs nonchalantly, a smile tugging up the corners
of my Valentino like kisser.

Time dragged, with sweat spreading in trickles across Convey’s clock. He
tried a grin but it didn’t take. He pushed a shaking mitt through his
short, thinning, blond hair.

“I — I want dough!” he bleated.

Two-bit blackmailer. I could read him like a pulp magazine on a news
rack a block away.

"You don't want money." I stated.

His gob dropped open. "What?” Either you make with the geetus, and
plenty of it, or I cart these sex shots on over to the papers . . . or
maybe the governor.” He shook the envelope at me.

I rubbed the cigar I’d been toying with underneath my nose, sniffed at
it, then repeated, “You don’t want money.”

His Adam’s apple did a jig. “Huh?”

I filed the fifty cent stogie in the breast pocket of my $200 pinstripe
and climbed to my feet. Then I strode around the wide expanse of my desk
toward Convey.

He backed away, eyes bugging, hands thrusting out the thick envelope
like a shield.

I swatted it aside, and pictures of two big-dicked hard-bodied men
spilled out onto the carpet. I grabbed Convey by his bow tie and shook
him like my prick after a good piss.

"What’re you gonna do?" he yelped. "I’ll scream!"

I jerked his sweaty expression toward me, knocking his fishy glims down
with my blazing headlights. Then I planted a big wet one on him, square
on that mug's moist, red lips. His eyes just about popped out of his
head.

"You don't want money." I snarled, breathing in his hot breath. "You
want me." I plugged his pucker again, holding the lip-lock longer and
harder this time, really working the guy's soft, wet mouth. His body
went as limp as Sammy Wong's famous egg noodles.

"I saw it in your eyes — those pictures turn you on. You got all hot
lensing me and Rigoletti. Didn't you, blackmailer?"

He nodded so hard his neck creaked.

I sailed a hand down to his crotch and grabbed onto the pole that was
testing the seams of his checkered five-and-dime suit. He groaned. And I
kissed him again, shooting my tongue into his open mouth, just to get
his attention.

"You want to suck my cock?"

His eyes burst open. He babbled affirmatives.

"Then do it." I rasped, shoving him down to his knees.

He had me unbelted and unbuttoned in the time it took to spring a dirty
crook with a pile of filthy lucre. He pulled my thicky out of my drawers
and clung to it like it was the stuff that wet dreams were made of. Then
he started fisting my swelling dick with his damp paw. He was getting me
as hard as the law's supposed to be on mugs like him.

"It's beautiful," Convey marveled.

"So — "

"Do o you have an answer for the class. Mr. Schiller?" I blinked the
blur out of my eyes and mouthed, "Huh?"

The class laughed. Professor Convey didn't. "My question was: How did
Raymond Chandler reshape and refine what Dashiell Hammett had done
earlier in his crime dramas and turn it into true literature?"

I blinked again, the fog lifting slowly from my brain. I stared at
Professor Convey, with his tanned, rugged face, his shock of blond-white
hair, piercing blue eyes, and full lips.

"Hammett?" I stalled.

The class erupted with more laughter; Professor Convey snorted. "If you
have any intention of passing Hardboiled American Literature, Mr.
Schiller, I suggest you start paying attention in class."

He moved to another student, while I crossed my legs and buried my
achingly hard erection between my hot thighs.

After class I waited for Professor Convey in the hallway. Not to talk to
the man but to tail him. I just had to know more about this literary
hunk — where he lived, and with whom, his hobbies, what turned him on or
off.

He finally exited the classroom and strode down the hall with his smooth
leather folio tucked under his left arm, as always. I sauntered over to
the water fountain and sprayed the side of my face, too absorbed in the
man's taut, round buttocks as they shuddered back and forth in his tight
slacks.

"You gonna take a shower, too. bub?"

I jerked my head around and stared at the gum-smacking student wailing
for her turn at the tap, then fled down the hall after the professor. He
was just exiting the Arts Building, striding out into the crisp fall
day. I trailed after him.

His house was a couple of blocks off campus, a modest blue and white
bungalow that smacked of singlehood. I rejoiced from behind an oak tree
in the tiny park across the street. A light went on in the living room,
and I settled in alongside the bark.

Three minutes later, my mind was wandering off on its own again — back
to a Depression-era scene playing out in a big-city D.A.'s office. There
was a man on the floor, on his knees, and he had the hardboiled D.A.'s
huge cock in his trembling hands . . .

"So big and hard and smooth." Convey breathed, stroking my beasty boy in
awe. The mug was really getting through to me — my cock throbbing, body
seeping heat, and my balls tightening. Shivers of sensual delight
prickled my skin, as the guy vigorously two-fisted my prick. But I
didn't let on to Convey; I was the one doing him a favor.

"I told you to suck it," I gritted.

He looked up at me with his baby-blues, drool crowding the corners of
his mouth. Then he bent my rod down with his humid mitts and hungrily
gulped my shining hood.

The guy's warm, thick mouth-flaps stretched over my mushroomed cock
knob, and he started sucking on my cap. He moved his head forward,
taking the rigid shaft into his hot, damp maw.

I stripped off my jacket and tie and shirt, draping them carefully over
the back of a green leather chair. I let him get a good gander at my
gleaming, muscle-humped torso. He got an eyeful, all right, along with a
mouthful.

He grabbed my balls and squeezed. I bucked my hips, fingernails biting
into my nipples. Convey's eyes lit up like a Wurlitzer. He excitedly
pulled my gleaming rod out of his mouth and slammed it up against my
washboard abdomen. He stuck out his tongue and lapped at my pinned prick
and dragged his red velvet tongue over the length of my shaft, up from
my hairy balls to my bloated cap — over and over.

"You're going to take it in the ass," I informed the ardent cock-licker,
pushing him away in the nick of time.

He shucked his pants and drawers like it was bath time at the flophouse.
He spread out on his hands and knees: his ass was small, tight, the
mounded half-moons dusted with blond-white hair. I got in behind him and
spread his crack, then spat into his asshole.

"Fuck me, big man!" he squealed.

And I obliged.

I speared my slimy dick head into his man hole, popping his rim and
barging my meat down his chute. He groaned and tugged at his cock as I
sank my shaft inside him to the fur line.

"You're not going to the papers with those pictures. Convey . . . if you
know what's good for you." I gripped the mug's narrow waist and pumped
him hard, slamming the statement home.

"Yes — I mean, no — no. I won't go to the papers!" he shouted, feeling
the full impact of what was good for him.

I started churning his chute, reaming him. setting his body to rocking
and his checks to gyrating. I surged with the wicked sight, the wanton
feel, of my cock plunging up that man's ass.

I slammed back and forth at Convey’s hungry asshole. His face was buried
in the broadloom, hand desperately working his own pecker. The crisp
smack of my powerful thighs against his rippling butt cheeks filled the
heated room, making a sweet mockery of my oath and office.

Convey clutched at a chair leg for support. It knocked against the wall
as I cocked him. Knocking . . .

Someone was knocking on the professor's front door. My eyes came back
into focus, and I pulled my fingernails out of the oak.

The guy knuckling was about my age. The door opened, my hero appeared,
and the two men exchanged greetings. Professor Convey followed the
visitor in, quickly glancing up and down the leafy lane before closing
the door.

I raced across the street and ducked behind the bungalow. The backyard
was small and filled with withered tomato plants. A light burned in the
open kitchen window; I latched onto the frame and pecked inside.

"Five hundred dollars, Brady — give it or leave it," Professor Convey
stated, holding up a manila envelope.

Brady was a beefy blond with the type of cinderblock head, lantern face,
and brick-house body that implied he was a football player.

"That's a lotta green," he groused, rubbing the back of his sunburned
neck. "The test's only worth 1O percent of my final mark."

"Ten out of 1O is better than zero," Convey replied. "And don't complain
to me about money, Brady. I know you're receiving more alumni support
than the college's endowment fund."

I bit my lip, eyebrows skying. He was selling exam answers! The
professor was as crooked as Francois Sagat's dick.

I watched, wide-eyed, as the flattop jock reluctantly forked over the
cash, and received the envelope in return.

I deliberated on what Philip Marlowe would do in this situation. And as
I was pondering, a bird suddenly let loose a caw and took a swoop at my
head. Tweety taloned my hair, and I slammed my face up against the
window, alerting the parties inside.

Brady tucked the envelope under his arm like it was made of pigskin. He
barreled out of the kitchen, steaming for the front exit, while
Professor Convey dashed out the back door and splayed me up against the
wall like a cockroach.

"Mr. Schiller," he growled before yanking me off the wall and marching
me inside his house.

He slammed me down into a kitchen chair, towering over me.

"Just what did you see, Schiller?"

I swallowed hard and looked up at — but no longer up to — him. He wasn't
a revered sexpot scholar anymore: he was just a man — a greedy, grubbing
man like the rest of us, but with five bills in his pocket. And I was
just a hard up college kid — like any student outside the athletic
program and the blueblood set — who could use some extra dough. Tuition
and textbooks didn't come cheap, not like academic integrity.

I stood up and thrust out what little chin I had to the point where it
just about poked Convey in the chest. "I saw you selling test answers to
the starting D-line is what I saw. Grades for gelt." I squared my bony
shoulders and said some more: "And now I want a piece of the action. And
a boost in my grades!"

Convey rubbed his dimpled chin with a big, brown mitt. Then he slapped
me across the face, sending my glasses and bravado flying.

"You pay attention here but not in class, eh?" he mused. "Just why were
you watching me, anyway?"

I hung my head like a shattered bum in a breadline.

"I think I know." he continued, staring into my watery eyes. "Maybe we
can make some sort of . . . arrangement." I lit up like a Philco radio.
Professor Convey gripped my shoulders and shoved me down to my knees,
and he had his belt and zipper undone before my brain stopped spinning.
Like an astute educator, he observed. "I've noticed the looks you've
given me in class . . . Melvin. I understand why your attention
wanders."

I gulped, staring at the big bulge in the big man's blazingly white
briefs. It was moving, growing, uncoiling, taking shape long and hard in
front of me — stretching the fabric and my endurance to the edge.
Professor Convey dug his hand in and pulled his cock out, slapping it
against my burning face.

"This is what you really want, isn't it, blackmailer?"

I answered by eagerly grabbing onto the man's monster erection, the both
of us shuddering with the erotic impact. His huge snake pulsed as I took
hold and tugged.

The professor's cock was beautiful: pink and smooth, clean-cut, purple
hood, thick and shining. I pumped his pulsating shaft with my sweaty
hands, pulling so hard his balls flapped.

He stood firm, hips pushed forward. "You want to suck on my cock, don't
you?" he said. "Well, do it."

I pulled his awesome tool down until the slit was level with my mouth.
Then I opened wide and engulfed his cock head.

"Yes!" he groaned, using two hands to clutch my black curls.

His hood was soft and chewable. I pulled on it with my lips, scraped it
with my teeth — I felt the man's entire body vibrate through his cock.

He yanked my head forward, forcing more of his meat into my mouth. I
happily consumed all I could before gagging, his knob bumping against
the back of my throat. He grunted and pumped his hips, fucking my mouth.

I gripped his moving hips and went cross-eyed watching his gleaming pole
glide back and forth between my stretched lips. It tasted so very good.

The professor churned my mouth until snot bubbled out of my nose and
spit hung down in spaghetti strings from the corners of my overfull
kisser. When I grabbed his hairy balls and squeezed, he pumped even
faster, fucking my face like it was his own personal glory hole.

I gained strength from his strength, from what he was doing to me and
what I was doing to him. I jerked my head back, leaving him dangling and
dripping. I gulped for air and courageously stated. "I'm going to fuck
you!"

"Like hell you are!" he roared. "That's a man's job."

He shoved me backward, toppling me onto all fours. Then he pulled my
pants and shorts down, digging in behind me with his now-latexed prick
and a squirt from a bottle of lube. I clawed at the tile as he greased
up my crack.

"Fuck me, big man!" I squealed.

And he obliged.

Professor Convey hung onto my hips and pounded his cock into my asshole,
stretching my chute like never before. I flooded with wicked, tingling
heat, sliding back and forth on the linoleum, desperately pulling on my
own hard dong whenever I could.

"You're getting what you deserve!" the professor bellowed, spanking my
ass cheeks with his heavy balls and blowing me wide open with his sledge
of a fuck tool.

I frantically jacked in rhythm to the man's pistoning prick, my face
mopping the floor, my body and ass swollen with sexual electricity,
brimming with sensual joy. The quick smack of his powerful thighs
against my rippling buttocks was erotic music to my cars, striking above
our ragged grunting and groaning.

"Here it comes, Melvin! The payoff!"

His rugged body jerked, and his cock jumped in my butt. Hot come spilled
into his condom, deep within my ass just as my own balls boiled over,
and I was jolted by ecstasy, spurting my juice all over the floor in
rapid, fiery bursts.

We danced like we were dodging bullets connected at the ass and cock,
coming and coming. I full body quivered with the ball draining strength
of my hand cranked orgasm and the wicked rush of the big man emptying
himself up inside my raw, fucked-over anus.

My bank account and grades are as low as ever these days, but I'm
getting all the hard-boiled sex and literature I can handle. Professor
Convey hasn't gotten any nicer, but he gives me what I want, if not
always what I ask for.

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Thanks to original poster in Yahoo! gaymagazinefiction group!
Enjoy!