The Hardest Thing

could brace quickly and stop me. If only he’d move his legs.
    Ferrari was twisting around on top of me—I couldn’t see what he was doing, but from the way the weight was shifting it felt like he was turning… Could it be? Toward my…
    “Fuck!”
    With one sudden move he swiveled around, pivoting on his dick which never left my lips, and lunged toward my groin. This, finally, was what he wanted. His mouth closed over my cock and his lips slid down. We were in a 69 position, Ferrari lying on top of me, and we were both starting to come. I tasted him in my mouth, felt my own cock throbbing in his, and just as I lost all my senses in the brutal mixture of pain and pleasure I tore my right hand free of its restraint and pushed as hard as I could against his hip. Precariously balanced as he was, his body already jerking in the throes of orgasm, he rolled straight over as I clung on to his waist. One agonizing shunt of my hips was enough; the bed, which was already creaking and complaining under the weight of two men, collapsed sideways to the ground. I managed to disengage my mouth during the fall; Ferrari was not so fortunate and landed on his back with me
and the bed on top of him, the entire weight pushing through my cock and into his throat. I couldn’t see him, but I could hear him—tearing gagging noises, and the feel of saliva flooding around my shaft. After fucking his mouth once, twice, three times for luck, until I was sure he was either unconscious or dead, I pulled out.
    The commotion summoned Jackson, who burst through the door and took a couple of seconds to comprehend the scene before he drew his gun. He was fast, but I was faster. I’d already felt the weapon in Ferrari’s waistband, and I didn’t waste time in talking. Jackson took a bullet in the chest, the impact pushing him back out through the door.
    If my luck held, then Gambino still hadn’t come back from “making the delivery.” I had a bad feeling about that delivery. Sounded all too likely to be a dead body, destination the bottom of the river.
    It was just me, Ferrari and Jackson, both of them unconscious, both of them quite possibly dead. No—Ferrari was breathing after a fashion. It was ragged and noisy, and he may have sustained some damage to his windpipe if my dick went down the wrong way at the moment of impact, but he was alive. If he was lucky, I’d put him into the recovery position before I split. As for Jackson—well, I’d deal with him when I’d got myself free from the bed, to which I was still attached at three points. My right wrist was bleeding freely; I needed to staunch that pretty damn quick.
    Ferrari had keys in his pocket. Keys, as everyone knows, are a reasonable substitute for a blade. I needed one with a toothed edge—something that, with a little application, would chew its way through a plastic
cable tie. And so I sat on the floor, in a puddle of my own blood and what looked like Ferrari’s vomit, and sawed through the ties, one after another. It took a little over ten minutes. Every so often I stopped to listen for cars or footsteps or voices. Nothing. No indication of where we were—the city, the country, up high, underground. There were no windows. We could have been anywhere.
    Finally I was free: bleeding, bruised, broken and naked, but free. I rolled Ferrari and then Jackson onto their sides—no point in being unnecessarily cruel—and with torn strips of the filthy sheet I bound my bleeding wrist and even did something to stop the bleeding from Jackson’s chest. He looked pale and sweaty. He might easily die. That was Gambino’s problem.
    And now, all I wanted to do was get out and get back to the City.
    I needed clothes first. I ran down a long passage with bare concrete walls and a carpeted floor, a fluorescent tube flickering and buzzing at the far end. Double doors led through to what looked like an empty warehouse; it smelled faintly of gasoline, and more strongly of piss. I kept to the wall; here, at least, there was a cement path. The rest of the floor was covered in puddles and god knows what ankle-breaking obstacles. There were pigeons somewhere up in the roof; I could hear them calling and flapping. And it was cold as hell. I was glad to be moving, getting some warmth back into my body after the exposure and shock of the last few hours.
    At the far end another door led into another passage, off which there were more doors—offices, I guess, from when this old place had been a