Free The Hardest Thing by James Lear Page B

to have at kids’ birthday parties? You fitted the little limp bit of rubber over the nozzle at the end, then you pumped the big cylindrical cardboard plunger in and out, watching the balloon stand up and swell,
growing and growing until one more pump would make it burst. That’s the effect my fucking had on Stirling’s dick. For the first few strokes, it lay there like a shriveled mushroom. Then it began to stir. It seemed to stretch itself, elongating against his groin, the head aiming for his navel. Each thrust of my dick into his ass pumped more blood into his prick. And when it was halfway there, it launched itself into the air, cantilevering away from the body, getting longer and thicker until the skin, so recently wrinkled, was tight and shiny.
    I fucked him harder, holding his ankles in my hands, staring down into his face, knowing that I possessed him as completely as one human being can possess another.
    I said it wouldn’t take long, and it didn’t. I’d just about got up to ramming speed when I felt my nuts tighten, felt my orgasm starting somewhere deep in my belly, traveling upward and outward until there was no stopping it. I leaned forward, cupped his head in my hand and hammered into him, shooting hard and heavy up his ass. With the last thrust I righted myself, just in time to see his hand fly to his cock and milk out another load—less forceful than before, it landed in glistening milky puddles on his tight stomach, pooled for a while then ran down his lean sides.
    We didn’t say much while we disengaged and started to dress. For once, my head was empty: no worries, no theories, no thoughts.
    “Hey, Dan.” He was pointing over the edge, beyond the boulder. Way down where it would take ropes and pulleys to reach them was a pair of denim cut-offs. I slapped his ass and shoved my boxers in his face. We wrestled a bit, and eventually he put them on. I pulled
my jeans over my bare ass and laced up my shoes.
    Not a moment too soon. There were voices through the trees, figures climbing up the slope toward us. Two men, blue shirts, dark blue pants.
    Cops.
    I hadn’t heard a car, but that’s not surprising; they could have landed a helicopter and I wouldn’t have noticed, not while I was fucking that ass.
    Operational misjudgment, Stagg. Bad mistake. What had they seen? The last thing we needed was to be busted for lewd behavior, indecent exposure or whatever charge they bring for open-air fucking in New Hampshire.
    “Hey, officers.” It’s always best to initiate conversation with potential hostiles. Start off friendly, things might just not be so bad.
    They looked us up and down; it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out what we’d been doing. Stirling’s slim belly, visible through his unbuttoned shirt, was glistening with jizz.
    “Is that your car parked below, sir?”
    “Sir” rather than “faggot” or “asshole”—always a good sign, I think.
    “Yup. Rental.”
    “Can you tell us the license number?”
    “Sure.” I had the keys in my pocket, and the number was on the fob.
    “And the point of origin?”
    “I guess you know that already, officer.” Start off friendly, I said—but establish boundaries. If the cops had something to say, let ’em say it.
    “What’s your name?”

    “I beg your pardon, sergeant?” I know how to speak to inferiors, and he recognized the tone.
    “Sir. What’s your name, sir?”
    “Stagg. Dan Stagg.” I almost added “Major,” but they took that title from me along with everything else.
    The two cops looked at each other; one of them shook his head. Then they both looked at Stirling. “And you, sir?”
    Without missing a beat, he said “Jody Miller.”
    “Miller?”
    “Yes, sir,” said Stirling. “Jody Miller. M-i-l-l—”
    “Miller. Sure. I got it,” said the cop. They looked at each other again, shifting from foot to foot like they were standing in an ants’ nest.
    “Is there a problem?” I asked, folding my arms across my