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Taking Care of Business

by shalott

I didn't tell anyone who he was. Not because I gave a shit about anyone knowing I'd been beat by a blind man. That kind of shit doesn't make a difference after the first week anyway, whatever that pretty boy thought about Rikers. Most of the boys there knew me already. The ones who didn't learned quick. No, that's not why I didn't tell anyone.

I just wanted him waiting for me when I got out.

Dreamed about it most nights, that prison stink of sweat and fear in the back of my mouth with every breath, thick enough to taste. Dreamed it was his fear I was tasting, and smiled in my sleep. Yeah. I wanted him waiting.

He wasn't business anymore. And when you stop putting business first, that's when you get sloppy. Make mistakes. No one knows that better than I do. But what I also know is, sometimes you just have to fuck business and do what's necessary.

So now the cops are on the way, ten minutes away best guess. If I left right now I could still make it to the subway entrance in the basement before they block it off, but otherwise I'm not making it out of here outside a pair of cuffs. I'm not built for jumping between buildings, unlike some. And if I sit in Rikers for another couple of years it's going to be a bitch building things back up.

I'm thinking about that while he's sliding down the wall, his breathing making sweet little bubbles of blood on his lower lip. Wind's coming through the busted window, and he's turning his face into it. He still doesn't smell of fear, just sweat and blood and leather.

Like I said. Sometimes you just have to fuck business.

He gets in a couple of solid hits to my gut when I grab him by the shoulder and the waist, but I learned how to take those when I was a hell of a lot shorter than I am now. He's not a little guy himself, but the leather makes it easy to get a good solid grip; nice, thick belt just like a handhold.

I smear him over the walls a couple more times, just softening him up a little, then shove him up against the counter and push him down. He's coughing, hands sliding over the marble, trying to get a hold, and I don't think he even realizes I've pulled his pants down until I'm already up against him. He's got the sweet, tight ass of a swimmer, a runner, and he says Jesus' name while I'm pushing in.

I take my time, fuck the sirens getting louder down below. Keep one hand on the back of his neck and do him quick a couple times, in and out, and his hands curl up the way they do when a man's just waiting it out, knows he can't get loose. I go deep and let the laugh come out, let him feel it in his belly, let him know this isn't going to be over anytime soon.

Then I slide most of the way out and go back in slow and sweet, listen to him groan all the way in. The mask came off a while ago, so I can press my face up against the back of his neck, and fuck it all if the bastard still doesn't smell of fear. He's sweating like a pig though, breathing hard and loud, and that's good enough for now, good enough to get that prison taste out of my mouth.

Can't move fast while I'm pressed up tight all along his back, but that's all right. Slow, slow, that's the key. Let his body get used to it while his legs and his gut get tired, and before he knows it he's easing up, muscles getting loose, and when I hit the sweet spot he hitches, jerks under me, and it takes some work keeping him still so I can keep doing him right there. Yeah, and now he's forgetting what he already figured out, trying to fight me, and it's all good, hearing the breath whistling between his teeth while he keeps in the curses, except the son of a bitch still isn't afraid.

Well, all right. I lick the sweat off his neck, and it's not sour, and I can work with that. His body's working for me now, whether he wants it to or not, rocking back and forth, and damn, it's good, all that long hard muscle, leather slick under my chest and his ass hot and tight against my thighs. Too good to last, but that's just as well, because I can hear the cops on the stairs, taking it slow and careful, but getting closer.

He's probably been hearing them climb the stairs for the last ten flights. I slide back in deep and give him another laugh, then tell him to squeeze down and finish me off. He gets the message, smart boy, and it pisses him off like hell. Beautiful to watch anger crawling red up the back of his neck while he tries to think himself a way out of this, and even more beautiful when he gives up and puts his head down, clenches around me like he wants to squeeze my dick right off, and... yes. That's all it takes, but I fuck him hard and fast through it anyway, even though my dick's already feeling tender, but hell, it's too good to waste this. Too goddamn good.

He's breathing like a subway train when I slide out of him. I pull up my pants and haul him up so I can see his dick's hard, smack his ass just to watch it jump. He's swaying like a three-day drunk, ready to fall over.

And then the son of a bitch sucker-punches me, right in the kidney, and I'm staggering around trying to get my breath back while he yanks his pants back up. He snaps a kick to my jaw, and by the time I manage to roll myself back up off the ground, he's out the window and gone, and the cops are pouring in through the stairwell.

But I figure he can still hear me laughing all the way down to the squad car.

- end -