Lewd Conduct


 Art Michael Kirwan

 Story by Mike Montgomery


— Originally published in Stroke magazine - Volume 12, Number 5, 1990's —


When I was twenty and I wanted to get away from my mother, I headed for a little place by the beach called Fantasy Arcade. The fantasies bought and sold there had nothing to do with magic castles or rockets to the moon, but everything having to do with wishes coming true.

Every time I parted the heavy curtains and walked through the dim lit foyer, I considered the hundreds of men who had combed the magazine racks, stalked the narrow hallways and sat in dark booths watching fuzzy 8mm movies in which men fucked women or each other, before me.
How many of them locked the doors to the booths or left them ajar to welcome company? How
many stained their knees on the sticky floors, wiped their jizz on the thin wooden walls, or unzipped their jeans and presented to their willing partners a fat, throbbing cock that only needed a pair of hungry lips to suck it dry?

Of course, I didn't require an answer. I was too busy gathering stats for the score card.

Depending on the time of night (or day), I found several opportunities by the written porn or in the back room booth area. On a late Friday night, I had to elbow my way through a dozen sex-starved dudes. On other nights, I had to settle for the fat janitor in the dark corner, or risk danger by flirting with the hairy, flannel clad trucker who perused the straight XXX-rated mags. One thing remained constant: my hard-on. The combination of sleaze, secrecy and man-smell never failed to arouse me.

The young, attractive clerks didn't hurt business, either. Hank and Bart — who were brothers, or former lovers or maybe co-owners — had dirty blond hair they wore in crew cuts. Hank was the more professional, keeping his eye on the cash register and the closed circuit monitor, while Bart liked to cruise the new customers with brooding stares and the occasional wolfish grin.

Hank enjoyed walking the floor with his hands in his pockets, whistling. I could tell that while he fingered his keys and change, he also played with something else, something he was proud of showing off. He never, while I was patronizing the place, wore underwear.

One afternoon, I decided to visit the Fantasy Arcade. A quick lap around the joint disappointed me. I was the only customer. If it weren't for the ache of anticipation in my gut, of possibility lurking just around the corner, I would've turned around and left. It was that ache that parked me at the magazine rack, where I heard a wolf whistle from the counter. It was Bart.

 "Don't your mama know where you are?" he teased me in mock-cracker voice.

I decided to play along. "I got a note. I could show you."

"That's fine," he said. "I got something even better to show you." Unzipping his baggy jeans, frayed at the crotch and torn at the knees, Bart pulled out what must have been nine inches of fat, uncut cock. My mouth watered.

"What you thinkin' about?" I was speechless. "Well, lemme guess. I'd venture to say you’re thinkin' bout how fine it would be to suck this piece of man-meat. Am I right?"

I looked at the open door and then wondered where Hank went. Neither was ever here alone.

"I should scold you for gettin’ me all hot and bothered. For what you did to me ... " and at those words Bart unrolled his foreskin from his thick sausage, " ... I should whip your little butt."

I grinned.

"Unless," Bart said, drawing out the suspense, "you're willing to relieve this here tension for me."

I set down the Biker Quarterly I'd been reading. "What did you have in mind?"

He kicked the front door shut with his engineer-booted foot. "You tell me," he said, locking the door.

"Goddamn you, Bart," a voice from above called. The Fantasy Arcade, a two story building, had an apartment above the back room.

"You better not be messin’ with the customers again. I've warned you about that!"

Bart walked up to the ceiling vent where we heard Hank's voice. "Get off my fuckin' back," he shouted. His baritone voice spurred on my already throbbing boner.

"Anyway," he said to me, "I got more important business to attend to right now." Jacking himself in front of me, his feet spread and firmly planted, he cocked his head in my direction. "Get down on this floor quick."

I was on my knees in no time, rubbing my hands on his thighs, feeling their masculine power behind the worn denim cloth. I buried my face in his crotch. I inhaled the musky odor of his balls and smeared my face in his pubic hair.

"It's ready and waitin' for you, baby," Bart reminded me. I opened wide. Just before I swallowed his cock, he pulled it away. In frustration, I looked up at him. He grinned devilishly. He spat into his palm and lubricated his pole with the juice. It mixed in with the pre-cum and the thin film of cheese that lay beneath the foreskin. After a few jerks, he wiped his wet hand on my face.

"Sweet sucker, ain't ya?" he said. Then he smacked my cheek. I kinda wanted him to swat me harder, but I chickened out of saying so. "Lemme feed you this here tube. Don't take it all at once — it'd choke a buffalo," Bart said.

Gripping my hair, he slowly begun to fuck my face. His strokes were smooth but hardly shallow, with every thrust he stretched my throat. When he pulled out I could feel the soreness of the skin below my tonsils.

I slid Bart's jeans down and gripped his rock solid buns, which he tightened every time he bucked against my mug. When he backed away my mouth spat out his cock and I pouted. "Don't worry, the party ain't over yet," Bart, grinned. "Follow me."

Forcing his cock back in my mouth, he walked to the doorway that lead to the peep show booths. I looked up at his face, which was marked with determination and a glint of pure evil. "Whatever you do," he added, "don't let go of my piece or there'll be hell to pay."

He literally backed into the peep show room, making me crawl on my hands and knees with his rod throbbing in my mouth. I actually loved it. I felt honored to be chosen to be Bart’s personal sex slave for a while; I must be kinda special for him to think about closing up shop.

Bart chose the booth the furthest from the entrance, which was also the roomiest. I'd visited there a couple of times before. It was rarely vacant, for the booth was big enough to fit an easy chair and still leave room for someone to kneel in front of. I can't say I knew what it was like to sit in the easy chair. I was pretty sure I wouldn't get the opportunity that day, either.

Once inside, he plopped himself on the easy chair and wrapped his hot legs around my back. With a key he turned on the movie projector; a fuzzy picture of two women romping naked in the woods covered the wall facing him. "Now, cocksucker, put on a show for me," Bart said.

I continued my oral service, dripping spit down my chin and lapping it back up in order to lubricate Bart's powerful tool, "Why don't you get to work on my balls, son?" be suggested. In a heartbeat, I rolled his nuts, big and hard as avocado seeds, in my mouth. "Hot little pussy you got there. Good tongue work. Now let's see you slick up my poop chute," Bart said. He gripped his hands around his knees and lifted his legs. There, beneath a thatch of reddish brown fur, Bart's asshole opened itself wide, beckoning me to dive in with my hungry tongue.

"Aw shit, keep it up, babe!" Bart sighed as I twirled my licker around the rim of his butt-wink, sniffing the musky funk of my dick-master, breathing in his stink as if it were another brand of oxygen. I stabbed his cavity the way he had fucked my throat, in slow, even strokes. I wrapped my forearms around his arms, which rocked his legs over our heads like a hammock. As I rimmed and rimmed him I massaged his skin, which was leathery from the sun but soft, like a horse's belly.

Hungry for the rest of him, I began gnawing on his thighs, sucking in the furry, muscular legs as I lowered his Levi's to his knees. I ran my tongue up and down his left thigh, then moved to the right. He loved the sensation, but when I kept switching legs he grabbed hold of my hair and forced me back to his cock, leaky with neglect. Just as I was about to impale myself on his monster rod, someone hanged loudly on the door.

"Open up! It's the police."

I panicked. I crouched in the corner, clutching my balls. The threat of a police record burned in my brain as I heard three more thumps.

"Just a second, officer," Bart sighed, standing up but not lifting his trousers. He unlatched the door almost casually, as if he were annoyed that a customer's demands had ruined his fun.

Standing before us, shaking his head at the sight of Bart's dropped pants, was a gorgeous blond officer in full uniform. A pair of mirrored glasses prevented me from seeing the look in his eyes. Was it disgust, or could it be something illegal? It had to be the former; after all, we were breaking the law.

Trembling. I rose to my feet and bowed my head. "Sorry, officer. I . . . "

He poked my chest with his nightstick. “Remember, punk, anything you say will be used against you in a court of law."

“Yes, sir,” I said to the floor.

He tapped the end of the stick at my chin. “Look at me, pal. Do you understand?”

When I saw the resemblance in the jaw line, and the slightly cruel twist in the lower lip, I began to understand, but not what he originally intended.

“Yes, sir,” I said, no longer afraid. “I understand.”

Actually, the giveaway was the absence of a badge on the police uniform of Hank, Bart’s co-worker. I’d be damned if I’d let them know I was on to their tricks, though. I decided to play along.

“Now, you, sir —" Hank poked Bart’s chest. “Did you take advantage of this whore here, or did he lure you in this booth with impure intentions?”

“Oh, definitely. Strictly impure intentions, officer," Bart nodded. “He knew what he was doing all along. Me, I was just mindin' the store."

"He's absolutely right, officer," I added. The ham rising within me, I decided to push it further. "I'm real sorry, and I'd hate for this one transgression to go on my record. Is there anything I could do . . ." I said while looking up at his scowling face, then looking down at his sleek black knee-length boots. ". . . to make it up to you guys?"

Hank grinned, and then stifled his amusement in a bark, "Don't tell anyone. But, if you promise to do a real good job, I’ll come up with a few duties for you to perform."

"Why don't you test him out to see if he's up for it?" Bart offered, his hands back on his crotch.

Hank sized up Bart in a look of jealous disapproval. "Like an audition, you mean?"

I watched him slapping his nightstick against his palm, his right boot tapping against the ce­ment floor.

"Well, punk, why don't you git back down on all fours where you belong, while I decide what to do with you?" Officer Hank said. Naturally, I obeyed. And that's when he poked the tip of his nightstick between my lips. "Jes' pretend you got yourself a stiff black dick that don't shoot all over your pretty face. Get to work on this." I then began to suck on Hank's nightstick.

"So hot," Bart said, jerking himself off.

"Yeah, he might do," Hank said gruffly. He spotted me with my eyes fixed at his boots. "You know how to shine a man's boots? Ever been taught how to make 'em gleam with nothin' but your own spit?"

"Yes, sir." I didn't go into the times I licked my uncle's boots while locking myself in his bedroom closet on the farm. He'd be somewhere outside chopping wood, and I'd be imagining his foot inside his boot while I gorged away.

"Well," he said, stepping back, "why don't you show me what you can do with these?" He stepped in­to the hallway; almost reflexively, I crawled outside with him.

My butt up in the air, I bent down and slavered over his already gleaming boots. I licked from the base of the toe all the way around his ankles, up his calf and back down again, keeping the leather slick with spit and my mouth half black with boot polish. Behind me, I felt Bart's presence as he unbuttoned my pants and pulled them down around my thighs.

"Looky there," he whistled, "Is that a butt worth plugging or what?"

"Nah," Hank said, "too sweet. That ass's made for spanking!"

"Is that an order, officer?"

"You tell me," Hank said. I heard him unzipping his own trousers and pulling out his man-sausage. I felt Bart's rough hands rubbing my cheeks in circles, as if working himself up for a few good swats. In time, I took them, stoically, with gratitude. While I continued to lick Hank's police boots, his buddy slapped both of my cheeks with his hot palms.

"Check out that glow," Bart said. "That does it — sweet or not — I gotta fuck this pussy!" He spat several times on his cock and a few more in his hand, which he wiped on my ass. I thought I'd cry out from the burning pain of his fingers piercing and loosening up my asshole, but then Hank had knelt down himself and forced his piece of meat between my molars. While I chomped on his thick dick, Bart got his cockhead and a couple of inches of rubber- coated man-root up my tube with nary a complaint from me.

"Let's cooperate on the rhythm, Hank," his buddy said.

"Don't make him too happy," Officer Hank maintained. Still, each time Bart thrust himself into me, Hank pulled away from my watering lips. If it wasn't necessarily God's, this was someone's idea of heaven: getting plugged and worked over by two hot studs in a sleazy environment. I couldn't control myself any longer. I bucked my ass up to match Bart's strokes, and with my right hand jerked myself to the beat of the man-sex they crammed into me.

They must've double-fucked me for a good half hour, keeping up the slow, rock steady rhythm until all three of us were about to go out of our minds. Sweat poured from our bodies and slickened the concrete beneath us. Bart had rubbed my skin for so long that the touch of his sweaty palm stung my thighs.

"If I don't shoot," Hank called out to Bart, "I think I'm gonna blow my top!"

"Who's stopping you?" Bart replied, increasing his strokes. "Go for it, and pay the price."

One by one, they slid out of me and beat their cocks over my sore body. To relieve the emptiness I jacked myself off.

"Roll over, baby. I wanna get your face," Hank ordered.

"No fair," Bart pouted. "That was my spot!"

"Aim, guys," I said, breathlessly, "both of you. Go for it — same time. Come on, shoot your spunk all over my fuckin' mug."

Sure enough, they plopped enough come on my face to meet my daily requirement for the day. It was the most.

They gave me several free magazines on my way out, not to mention a group hug.

Bart patted my back, which was still sore from the workout they'd given me. "That's cool. But he made it up to you in spades, didn't he?"

Walking away from us, Hank pointed an accusatory finger at his co-worker. "Next time, get my permission before closing up shop!"

"Yes sir," Bart replied — sarcastically saluting him. He winked at me. "Fat chance!"

Then he did something I didn't expect. He took me in his arms and gave me a full-tongued kiss. We clenched for at least a minute. I pulled away, surprised. "Hey, pal," he said, mussing my hair, "don't be a stranger."

"I won't," I promised. Before I had to pack up and go off to college, to face a new set of challenges and sleazy environments, I knew I'd be back to this waterfront hole again. I had a few more wishes that Bart and Hank could help me to fulfill.





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They may not be: redistributed; sold; altered; enhanced; modified by artificial, digital or computer imaging;
used on another website or blog; posted to any internet or computer newsgroup, forum or media sharing site;
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