Free From Morocco to Paris by Lydia Nyx Page A

agony without another second of privacy made him push his pants down.
    He thought he’d be too nervous, but after a few strokes, lubricated by sweat and a palm full of spit, his cock had no qualms. He bit his lip and tilted his head back, closing his eyes so he could pretend Davey wasn’t there. He braced his feet on the floor, pushing back against the seat.
    Pretending Davey wasn’t there proved futile, since Davey shoehorned himself right into his fantasy. Zane didn’t need much help, but the sound of the road and the wind rushing by, the jolting of the Jeep, the sweat trickling down his spine -- all these were terrible distractions and he needed something to focus on. He pictured Davey’s mouth, imagining the slick-wet movement of his own hand on the shaft of his cock as Davey’s lips. He wanted to cup his balls, like he usually did while masturbating, but he figured Davey had enough of a show already. The pleasure sharpened, intensified, spread. Fantasy-Davey took him deep into his throat, slurping around him. Zane curled his toes in his boots. Finally, at last …
    Davey’s voice cut through the cloud of pleasure. “What are you thinking about?”
    Zane groaned, pulled back sharply from the edge. “Come on, I didn’t bother you!”
    “I’m not trying to bother you. I thought it might make you hotter.”
    “I’m hot enough already.” Zane squeezed his cock, the turgid organ aching, begging for release.
    “Know what I was thinking about?” Davey asked.
    Zane knew he wouldn’t get another second to himself until he let him speak. He stroked, keeping the knot of tension tight.
    “What?” Zane asked.
    “I was thinking about the other day, against Elliot’s trailer. Only instead of what we were doing, you had me turned around and your fingers were inside me.”
    Zane closed his eyes again. “Nice,” he said. He tried to imagine the scenario, but the scene changed to him against the trailer, Davey kneeling in front of him. Where was he again? Ah yes …right there in Davey’s mouth, about to let go down his throat.
    Davey suddenly whipped the Jeep off the road, and Zane shrieked in rather unmanly fashion, grabbing at the roll bar above him in alarm. The vehicle rattled over the rocky ground, past scrubby brush, lurching into the desert. Zane held on for his life, cock bobbing dementedly in his lap.
    “Davey!” Zane yelled. But Davey drove on, not speaking. Dust billowed thick around the Jeep, making Zane cough and shield his eyes.
    About a hundred yards out, Davey turned the Jeep around, pointing the vehicle toward the road, and came to a sudden stop, making Zane lurch forward. He turned off the engine.
    “What the fuck!” Zane bellowed, brushing dust off. His cock had quickly gone soft. “What the hell are you doing!” He coughed and sputtered.
    Davey turned toward him, eyes gleaming through the settling dust.
    “Get in the back seat,” Davey said.
    Zane stared at him. Davey stared back, gaze intense.
    “We can’t fucking -- “ Zane began.
    “We’re far enough from the road no one can see us. And if anybody comes, we’ll have enough time to straighten ourselves out. Now,” he leaned toward Zane, “get in the back seat.” He undid his seatbelt.
    Zane realized he had two choices: he could keep arguing and never get off -- and possibly become Davey’s desert-land sex prisoner and never see civilization again, the crazy bastard -- or have his cock ridden and enjoy the experience. He glanced toward the road, empty both ways. Zane got in the back seat.
    Davey wrenched off and deposited his boots on the floorboards up front, then made short work of his pants, which he tossed into the passenger seat. He clambered bare and sweaty into the backseat and over Zane’s lap, making Zane’s cock perk right back up. Zane pulled him closer, and Davey straddled him on the narrow seat, their cocks nestled between them, rubbing silkily together.
    “Lube,” Zane blurted, barely remembering English. He