New Man at the Village Café

Me, trembling. I'd just noticed you watching me at the café in the square. I was sitting where the young men displayed themselves for the tourists, but I was new to this. More curious than anything else. Sure I could handle one of those paunchy, cigar-chewing, middle-aged American tourists—just a surreptitious suck—usually him sucking me—in the alley nearby and a quick 20 pesos and then maybe an East European. But I was told to look out for those. They'd pay for a suck—almost always them—but then take you deep in the alley and ass fuck you rough and hard. The advice was to stay near the mouth of the alley with those East Europeans.

You were watching me from where you were standing at the doorway of the café. I was sitting where we were told to sit, so I didn't know why you were watching me like that. You owned the café, but you made more off of the percentages young men like me slipped you to be able to display here than you made on selling thick coffee to rude foreign tourists.

You scared me a bit. Twice my size and a cruel look about you. Maybe it was the red-welted rapier scar that extended down your cheek from your ear lobe. Maybe that's what made you seem dangerous, dangerous in a swarthy, handsome, mysterious way. Rumors were that you had been a pirate off the Colombian coast before buying this café—that this was where the money for the café had come from. And there were other rumors too.

Walking my way now, your eyes blazing, staring at me. Surely you weren't coming to me. I was sitting in the right place. You'd get your percentage. You were twice my size and so strong; you had nothing to worry about from me.

Bending your lips down to my ear. "In the alley. 50 pesos for a suck."

Shuffling toward the alley, the two of us. Me having second thoughts. More dangerous than an East European, I was thinking. I started to walk faster. You picked up the pace and grab on to the tail of my shirt, which I had been wearing open, an advertisement for the tourist clients. My shirt coming away in your hands as you did. You laughing; me beginning to pant a bit. Everything moving too fast. Your arm around my shoulder, as you guided me into the mouth of the ally, slipping a hand in my pocket, moving it to cup me and feel me and play with me while you found a place behind trash barrels near the mouth of the alley. Stay near the mouth of the alley, I was thinking, hoping, praying.

Pushing me against the dirty stuccoed wall and down on my knees between your thighs. Unzipping yourself and pulling out a huge, half-ready tool. I gurgled and you hummed as I sucked you. You giving me little time to adjust, thrusting and thrusting at me.

You dragged me up and pulled me toward the back of the alley. No, not back there, I screamed in my head. I resisted, but what resistance is possible to one such as you? And you own the café; if I wanted the easy money, I would need to keep you well pleased.

"Stop your struggling," you hissed in my ear. "200 pesos for your ass. If willing. Otherwise, who knows? Maybe you can find another café. Maybe I'll take you anyway—for free."

I stopped struggling and let you drag me to the darkness at the back of the alley. But what use the struggle anyway? You could have me if you wanted me now without the threat of banishment from the café. And 200 pesos was so much more than I dreamed of making today.

You impatient and cruel and thick and long, all of what I had been warned of the East European tourists and more. And overarching that, you were masterful, and I flowed and moaned and cried out for you, as I lay back over the bales of used paper and you crouched between my thighs and fed me fast and hard and deep. Passion and cruelty combining to lust—and not just yours but mine as well. And all good steeling for the future, I had to admit to myself.

"That was very pleasant," you muttered as you finished. "Well worth the 200 pesos; well worth more time and attention."

I didn't know what you meant, until after you had guided me back to the café, through the café, to the stairs in the dimly lit hallway beside the café's indoor room, now deserted because the warm weather has beckoned all out to the tables rimming the square.

The room above that you manhandled me to had a single iron-railed bed in the center. Ochre paint, probably once white, blistered off of the barren walls in tatters. Unvarnished, stained wood-planked flooring underneath. A scarlet scarf and a violet scarf draped over the headboard, the only adornment in the room.

Soon adorning me, the scarlet scarf wound around my wrists and tied off at the headboard rails, the violet scarf stuffed in my mouth.

Your cock stuffed once again inside me, thrusting, thrusting, thrusting, as I writhed underneath you. Overtaken in exhaustion by sleep while you were still riding me hard. Waking up, alone, if only briefly. The room dimmer in the late afternoon. The sound of your footsteps on the stairs. Your cock stuffed once again inside me . . .