Spit Shine

The barber's hands are quick and sure, sending dustings of red hair down the cutting cape tied around Richie's neck.

"And there you are, sir," says Tom, twirling his scissors with a flourish. He holds up a little square mirror. "How's the back look?"

Richie squirms as Tom spins him in his chair, prickly hair trickling down the back of his shirt. Even the world's best barber can't change the back of Richie's head—scrawny neck with Dumbo ears. "Looks great, Tom."

The cape is gone almost before he can think about it, a quick flick of Tom's hands sending the cut hair flying. Before Tom can do much more than fold the white cloth on itself, Richie chews on his lip and says, "I thought the haircut came with a shave."

Tom gives him an indulgent smile. "How 'bout we throw in a shoe-shine instead? Can't let you walk out the door without Belmont Hotel's finest." His eyes flicker down to Richie's chin.

Why, the nerve. There's plenty of stubble there!

Before Richie can actually voice his indignation, though, a warm palm cups the back of his foot. Richie looks down and nearly gasps.

His first impression is of big, strong hands, wide enough to engulf his shoes, the thick knuckles crisscrossed with white scars in contrast to the delicate way he rolls up Richie's trouser cuffs. A voice like black molasses says, "What's the occasion?"

The man lifts his head, and Richie's ears burn. Dark eyes, gorgeous jawline, hair shot through with silver at the temples, and a generous mouth that splits into a smile when Richie squeaks, "Going back to school on Monday." Jesus, he sounds half his age. "I don't believe I've seen you here before?"

"You got good eyes there, son," says the man, and Richie didn't know his ears could go hotter. "First day on the job. George Fontaine, at your service."

"Of course," says Richie, faintly, watching George dab saddle soap on his brush.

---

The phantom touches of George's hand lingers. Richie doesn't make it much further than his room before he has to slam the door shut and plunge a hand down his trousers, braced against the wood. The first touch makes him hiss. He's already damp and so hard the first stroke makes his toes curl in his shoes.

God, his shoes. Brown leather oxfords buffed to a shine under the George's array of brushes, the muscles of his forearms bunching and flexing.

Would he touch Richie just as expertly? Guilt and want twist in his gut, making his cock kick in his fist. Or would he be gentle, as warm and patient as his voice?

That's it, croons a voice like aged bourbon, Don't you look so pretty like that?

Richie stuffs a fist in his mouth before he can whimper out loud. He's not going to last, canting his hips up desperately to meet his fist.

There's a warm smile, George's face between his knees as his big hand—

No, as he presses Richie down into the bed, all that strength surrounding him as he strokes Richie off. Just like that, George would whisper, broad chest pressed against Richie's own, Aren't you so good for me, son?

Richie comes so hard he nearly whites out.

---

It's just a short car ride away.

One of the first things Richie did after receiving his acceptance letter was to insist on living in the dormitories. Mother had her concerns, of course, but in the end, it was for the best, especially when the house was as busy as this morning.

"—going to the Moon with Magdalene for the weekend and—"

"What?" says Richie, nearly dropping his roll, "Who's Magdalene?"

Doris leans her chin on her palm. "That's what caught your attention?" she says with all the scorn a seventeen-year-old can muster.

"Elbows off the table," says the Captain mildly. He turns the page of the newspaper.

Doris scowls but complies. "So where'd you go off to, anyhow?"

"I'm—" trying not to think about skipping class to make eyes at a man twice my age, Richie doesn't say. "—worried about wedding rehearsals."

"What do you have to worry about?" says Doris, wrinkling her nose at where Mother and Eva are engrossed over little squares of fabric. "You just have to show up. Think of what I have to go through."

"You don't have to be maid of honor if it's such a hassle," says Eva, sweetly, without looking up, "I'm sure Stephanie would be happy to lighten your load."

"Says here they're looking to expand the State Guard," says the Captain, before that fight can start again. Doris glares furiously past his shoulder at Eva. "Seems to me like the burden of war's falling unreasonably on our shoulders."

"It's a just cause," says Richie. Eva rolls her eyes right back at Doris. "What's wrong with telling able-bodied men to serve?"

The Captain finally looks up, eyes flicking over Richie. "Like yourself?"

The table goes silent.

"It's been so long since everyone has sat down at the table together," says Mother, brightly, "Doris, dear, why don't you tell your daddy about blue ribbon project, Doris?"

The Captain folds up his newspaper. "I'm going for a walk."

The roll has gone cold in Richie's hands. For some reason, Doris glares at Richie.

---

It had started with a pair of nylons someone had left behind in his suitemate's room. Richie had slipped them on one lonely night and admired how they made his legs look. It was the one advantage of his single room, being able to tiptoe in front of the full-length mirror, feeling the sheer material slide between his thighs.

From there, it was easy to steal one of Eva's old girdles, just to hold them up.

Or at least he told himself at the time. It's harder to lie when he spreads his legs in front of the mirror, watching the way the lace fabric squeezes his waist into an hourglass shape, his dick jotting obscenely out of the front. He'll return them if she notices, he tells himself, but she doesn't. He'll return them after the novelty wears off, after the thrill of wearing them under his trousers stops feeling so good.

But it doesn't. He lasts a week, and then gives in and buys a pair of panties. For a Valentine's Day surprise, he stammers to the sales lady.

---

The ballroom is stifling hot, the prickling ends of Richie's hair itching under his collar. He needs another haircut, but George might be there, in the barbershop of the Belmont's ground level, and Richie doesn't know if he can survive George between his legs, his hands just inches from his nylons.

Which are starting to slip, now that he thinks about them. No one notices as he ducks out of a conversation about securities and finds himself in the hall, where he can hide in the nearest—

"Oh!"

Strong hands catch him around the elbows before he can crash into a familiar chest. It's George, raising his eyebrows as Richie blushes up to his hairline.

"What are you doing here?" says Richie, keeping himself from swaying into that clean, barbershop smell, until he can find the traces of shoe polish still lingering on his hands and shirtsleeves. "I thought you had Saturdays off."

"And I thought you were at school," says George.

Even the amusement crinkling his eyes can't lessen the way Richie's stomach flutters at his gruff voice, deep and paternal. Clearing his throat, Richie waves a hand at the banner instead. Belle Meade Country Club, it reads, centered perfectly over the Circassian paneled-wood doors.

Richie twists his hands, watching George read the banner. "I would have told you if I—"

"Richard," barks the Captain, appearing from around the corner. "Cdr. Ingham wants to talk to you."

"Yes, sir," says Richie, straightening automatically and tugging his jacket straight. He turns to say goodbye to George, but—

"And you, boy," says the Captain, turning on George. "Tell your supervisor that if any of his other shoeshine boys shirk their duties, none of you get bonuses."

For a split second, Richie sees George the way the Captain does. A middle-aged colored man in an ill-fitting suit and cracks in his shoes, looking tired and a little annoyed. He blinks again, and it's just George, tipping an imaginary hat to the Captain. "Of course, sir. Have a good day."

And with that he disappears down the dark halls. The Captain marches in the opposite direction, towing Richie in his wake.

"Cpt. Preston!" says Cdr. Ingham, shaking the Captain's hand and then Richie's. "And this must be—?"

"My son, Richard," says the Captain, grudgingly. "He's studying at Vanderbilt."

"Economics major," says Richie.

"With that grip, I wouldn't have guessed," says Cdr. Ingham, winking. The Captain right hand curls in a loose fist, the most movement he can manage after an old war wound he won't tell Richie. "Have you considered joining the ROTC?"

The Captain grits out a smile. "He's studying to take over the hotel."

"Oh, of course," says Cdr. Ingham smoothly. "And I look forward to working with him as part of the Board—"

"If you're part of the Board," says the Captain.

Richie fights the urge to fidget. His stockings might not even be attached to the garter clips anymore. If he moved, would they puddle around his ankles? His skin itches under his stolen girdle.

"It's your hotel," says Cdr. Ingham, finally. "Mr. Preston, would you be so kind to show me the way to the gentleman's room? The Belmont's got quite the layout."

The blush rises hot up his collar. "Just Richie's fine. It's what everyone calls me."

The Belmont is indeed quite the hotel, but after a few years of wandering the halls waiting for the Captain to finish his business, Richie could navigate his way with his eyes closed. Cdr. Ingham says, "Don't mind what your father says. You're a bright, young man of, what, eighteen?"

"Twenty, sir," says Richie. "The Captain didn't mean—"

"Of course he did," says Cdr. Ingham, cheerfully. He turns, leaning against the Tennessee marble of the bathroom entrance. "And I did, too. Our country needs fine young men like yourself, and I can put in a good word with the Officer Candidate School. I'm good friends with the folks at Ft. Sill, you know."

"Me?" says Richie. "An officer?"

"Think it over," says Cdr. Ingham. "I think you'll do fine."

He looks in the glassy, dark marble after the Major steps inside. Pointy elbows, big ears, scrawny and awkward. Richie shakes his head and heads back towards the ballroom, where another conversation on interest rates is probably waiting.

A hand yanks him into a hotel room.

His chest hits the thick, mahogany door, his arm twisted behind him. Fireproof, dustproof and noiseproof—the jingle runs nonsensically through his head as Richie kicks out blindly at his assailant.

"Quiet," growls a voice behind him. Richie shivers at the familiar combination of Belmont's house aftershave and shoe polish. It's George, his deep honey voice twisted into something darker. "The hotel's walls are thick, but not exactly as advertised."

Richie stifles a whimper as George leans in even closer, his mouth against Richie's ear. "Now, here's how this is going to go. You're going to be good for me, son," Something swoops low in Richie's belly as George's hand slides up from his hip. "And you can walk away from this—"

George freezes, his hand pressed against the tight lace of Richie's garter.

"What's this?" purrs George, as Richie's heartbeat hammers in his throat. He knows, he knows, he knows, screams the voice in Richie's head, as his shirt tails are worked free from his trousers, as George's big, hot hand presses against thin lace, just millimeters from Richie's bare skin.

He doesn't know which of them gasps.

"Is this a present for me?" whispers George, as both of his hands span Richie's narrow hips.

It's too much, George's heavy body trapping him against smooth wood, their combined weight grinding his straining dick into his silk panties and the door. Richie gasps, "Please."

George mouths at the goose bumps pebbling the back of his neck. "Please, what?"

"George, I can't—" Richie moans helplessly as George slips a finger under the hem of his girdle, stroking so close to where he needs it. "Please, George."

Even the rumble of George's laugh against Richie's back is enough to make him arch back, gasping as he feels the hard line of George's cock against his backside. Richie shivers. George says, "Try again."

It's not fair, thinks Richie, as George continues to kiss down his spine, his hands playing with the hem. He gasps when a rough thumb brushes just under the crease of his ass. "I'm going to die if you keep teasing me, George. Please, sir—"

Richie nearly chokes as George's hand wraps around his cock, bypassing layers of silk and wool entirely. He's coming before he can even fully process the drag of rough palm against his prick, melting bonelessly against the door as George pulls gush after gush of come out of him.

He's still shuddering through his aftershocks when George pulls away, leaving nothing holding Richie up except the door. He slides onto the floor.

"Where are you going?" says George.

Richie presses his face against George's trousers, where he can feel the hard line of his cock even through the wool against his lips. His mouth waters. "Let me make you feel good."

George groans as Richie traces the outline of his cock with his lips. "Yeah, okay. Take me out."

Richie nearly moans. His hands aren't as sure as he undoes George's fly, letting George help him pull his cock out of his underwear. It's intimidatingly huge from this close up, bigger than Richie's own, with a slight curve to the end, his balls pushed up and out by his underwear.

All in all, it's enough to make Richie's mouth water.

"Have you done this before?" says George.

Richie shakes his head, mesmerized by the way George slowly glides his fist up the shaft, twisting at the head.

"Kiss the balls first," says George.

Richie sucks one into his mouth, then the other, tracing the wrinkled seam with his tongue, the taste of salt and musk flooding his mouth. George's dick lies sticky on his face, pressed against his nose, surrounding Richie with the smell of George's sex.

"Good," said George, patient as ever, "Now trace the vein in the shaft with your tongue."

Richie gives George's balls one last kiss before leaving sucking kisses up his shaft as he holds the base steady, fluttering his tongue against the pulsating vein. A heavy hand slides through Richie's hair as George sighs. "Good boy."

Richie whimpers against George's cock. "Please, can I taste—" George's hand tightens in Richie's hair. "Please, sir, I—"

"Suck on the head. Ah ah," says George, when Richie greedily tries swallow more, "Just the head."

It's torture, feeling his cock fattening up in his wet panties, his knees sinking into the thick carpet, trying to be good and not take more than he's given. George's cock is steadily leaking precum, twitching against Richie's tongue as he swallows.

"That's a good boy," says George, and Richie has to press a palm against his own cock to keep from going off. "On the bed now."

Richie shakes his head. "No, I'll be good. I won't—"

"Don't make me say it again," says George, and Richie's scrambling to obey before he can even process the order. The steel in George's voice has him rock hard again, his prick pointing to the sky as he sits on the bed. "Clothes off."

Richie nearly flings his jacket off, shucking his shirt as he kicks his pants over the side of the bed. He starts on the girdle, but George's hand lands on his thigh.

"No," says George, sitting on the side of the bed, his eyes drinking in every inch of Richie's skin. "Leave that on."

He pulls the thigh to the side, splaying Richie open.

Richie swallows. He spreads his legs further, just to see the way George's eyes darken. "Like what you see?"

George's answer is a dark rumble. "Don't start getting a smart mouth now," he says, slipping two fingers in Richie's mouth. He sighs when Richie applies his lesson, sucking and swirling his tongue around the digits. "That's one hell of a look. Get them wet now."

He plunges the fingers into Richie's mouth, deep enough that he gags until George pulls back. He does it again, until Richie gets with the program and bobs his head shallowly, choking himself on George's fingers. It's hypnotic enough, the rocking motion, that when George finally pulls away, Richie tries to chase after him, panting like he'd been running stairs.

"Look at you," says George, as Richie tries to blink away his reflexive tears.

He leans in close, and—Richie nearly bites his tongue in surprise—presses their lips together. Richie feels like he's burning up as George licks into his mouth, like he's floating above his own body and like he can feel each individual thread of lace against his skin. It's distracting enough that he barely registers his panties being pushed aside, gasping as wet fingers press firmly against his hole.

George's kiss turns wild, all teeth and tongue until Richie feels like he's drowning, rocking desperately against the hard line of George's body, until the first finger slips past the rim, burning a little as it plunges into his body.

Richie gasps at the foreign feeling, but it's relentless, George kissing the breath out of him as his fingers saw in and out. He wants to pull away from the overwhelming sensation, he wants to squirm into it.

A second finger, stretching him even further. Richie arches his back desperately, tossing his head. "Please, sir, I—"

"Quick learner," says George, approvingly, and bends down to lick at Richie's nipple.

Richie shouts and nearly jackknifes off the bed.

"That won't do," says George, clicking his tongue, and worse, pulling his fingers out. "Hips up."

Richie plants his feet on the bed and lifts his hips in confusion, feeling even more so when George carefully slides his panties off.

"Open wide," says George, holding the sopping panties right near his face.

Richie opens wide to tell George exactly what a terrible idea it is—only to have the panties shoved right into his mouth. His—he doesn't—it—

George takes advantage of his confusion to latch onto a nipple.

Pleasure shoots straight through him. It's like a live wire going straight to his dick, all that wet suction lighting him up like Christmas lights. Richie can't keep still, squirming and twisting to shove his chest against George's mouth, his own come flooding his tastebuds as he sucks frantically on the panties.

He can't help the string of moans falling out of his mouth, thankfully muffled by the gag as George switches sides, pinching and pulling at the abandoned nipple as he sucks the other one into a peak. He's never been so hard so quickly after coming, but he's going to die if he doesn't come again.

"No," says George, grabbing Richie's hand before he can touch himself. "Hands above your head."

Richie swallows a sob, clutching the headboard. He watches, bug-eyed, as George slides down his body with the grace he does everything else, completely bypassing Richie's weeping dick, and spreading his legs further.

His brain freezes, watching George press his face right between his cheeks.

Something wet and warm glides up his crack. His tongue, supplies Richie's brain, helpfully, but it refuses to make sense until George does it again, the tip pressing briefly into his softened hole before it completes its swipe.

Richie's cock bounces against his stomach with a pleasure so sharp it hurts. Richie whimpers.

Encouraged, George focuses his attention on Richie's hole. Flicking, circling, dipping inside, until Richie's hips are rocking without his permission against George's tongue, plunging ever deeper into his hole. It's stretching him further yet, the burn as sweet as the spooling pleasure.

George sits back.

Richie wails into his gag as George bends him in half, his ass in the air and his knees nearly touching his shoulders, his loosened hole clutching around the sudden emptiness, cold with cooling spit. He needs—he needs something in him to fill the sudden void.