The Hardest Thing

world’s most accomplished
cocksucker—the holder of that title was sleeping soundly in the cabin—but he sure was eager, and for those of us who like to see a cute face looking up with lips stretched around the widest part of the shaft—well, this was the jackpot. I ran my fingers through his dark brown curls, pushing his cap to the forest floor, then grabbed hold and eased him downward until he gagged. He brushed tears from his eyes with one grease-stained hand, leaving a black smear on his cheek. He wanted to do everything at once—suck my cock, lick my balls, play with my tits, play with my ass, kiss me, rim me, everything he’d watched online and never managed to do in reality.
    I’m a great believer in doing one job at a time and doing it properly. Time for a little old-school discipline.
    “Hey! Quit that,” I said as he attempted to get both my nuts into his mouth. “Suck my cock, boy.”
    That had the desired effect. He took a deep breath, opened wide and took it like a man, all the way to the base. I held him there for a while before letting him back off and catch his breath. And then, like all good cocksuckers, he settled into a rhythm. Nice and slow, savoring every mouthful, imprinting the sensation on his memory for repeated playback, eager for the prize but reluctant to end the game.
    One hand was ferreting around inside his coveralls.
    “Get it out, Kenny. I want to see you.”
    He stood up, unbuttoned all the way down and shucked the top half. His body was lean and firm, furry in all the right places, with a tattoo on the right-hand side of his stomach. His tits poked through the hair on his chest. It was too much to resist. I pinched them hard;
he closed his eyes and sighed. I put a hand on his ass and pulled him in; he was so hairy back there I thought he was wearing underpants. I was going to have to come back to the White Mountains some time, find this furry little critter and fuck him hard.
    But for now, concentrate on the job in hand. Or rather mouth.
    He wriggled the grubby denim over his slim hips, letting his cock bounce free, then dropped to his knees again and started sucking. This was not going to take long for either of us. I watched his mouth stretching, saliva running down his chin, his cheeks suctioned in, his fist pumping his dick.
    “Look at me, boy.”
    He turned his eyes up, tears running unchecked down his cheeks, and that did the trick. I started coming, shooting into his mouth. He choked once when he realized what was happening, but held on like a man. His fist was a blur, white jets flying out to sizzle on the carpet of pine needles.

    Kenny left the way he came, silent and surefooted down the mountain paths, with a grin on his face, promises that he’d say nothing, and a belly full of semen. Yeah, only a short while ago I was shaking my fist at heaven, telling whoever was listening that I was going to survive, that I was going to protect the man I loved, the violins were soaring and the camera was panning out to show a brave man in a majestic wilderness, the usual widescreen crap. And now I’d fucked the first cute face that came along while Jody was asleep a few yards away. Very noble, Dan. Very heroic. Wow, what a role
model you are. What an inspiration.
    On an operational level, however, it was justified; Kenny knew where we are, and I’d taken steps to secure his silence.
    Sounds good, right? That blow job was operationally justified. Try it some time.
    I went back to the cabin. Jody was still asleep. If Kenny was as good as his word—and judging by the fuss he made over my dick, he seemed sincere—we were safe for a couple of hours before we continued on foot. Time for him to rest some more, then discuss tactics. Find out if there was anything more that I needed to know. Like, for instance, why exactly Julian Marshall was trying to kill him and frame me.

    Jody was cute, Jody was adorable, but Jody had been a hustler since he was fourteen years old, and I guess he found it hard to tell the truth. Even to me. He’d lied about the hit on 54th Street, and for all I knew he was lying still. Trey Peters? Marshall’s promise of leaving his wife and playing house with Jody? It could all be a fairy tale. I looked down at his sleeping face, the lips parted, a tear gathering at the corner of the eye, and I thought—it’s a mask. He’s holding out. There’s something in that head that I need to access. Operational information.
    Once a marine, always a