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Lost Boy

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Lost Boy

It was an unusual autumn night in Los Angeles, the normally dry air choking me with its eighty percent humidity. I stood on my usual corner, leaning against a lamppost, dragging on my Marlboro. It was bent at an odd angle from shoving the pack carelessly into my back pocket, and the smoke was getting in my eyes. I couldn't bring myself to care. Due to the heat tonight, I was dressed in my lightest ensemble—a pair of cut-off denim shorts with strategically ripped holes—one under my left ass cheek, and one dangerously close to my crotch, offering a glimpse of what my tricks would be paying for. A tight white sleeveless T-shirt—two sizes too small—hugged my lean chest, making my muscles appear larger than they actually were. This outfit never failed me; I was sure to get at least one trick tonight, hopefully more.

I wasn't a gigolo; I wasn't dressed to pick up women. I was a hustler. Although I didn't consider myself gay, I sold my body to men. Men were willing to pay more than women, my friend Emmett had told me. Plus, men come back for more. Emmett was a hustler, too. We'd met when I first arrived in L.A., about a year ago now. I was a fuck-up in school—I'd been kicked out of public school for pulling pranks, then private school, then Catholic school, and finally boarding school. My parents gave up on me and kicked me out—guess getting suspended from Clark Academy was the last straw. I stole enough money from my dad's wallet to make it to the city, but with no prospects and no more cash, I found myself stranded on the street, huddled in an alleyway next to a dumpster, at a loss for what to do next.

That's when Emmett found me. He took pity on me and took me to his apartment. Up until that point, I'd say my life was like a movie. But then, it veered off from the usual Hollywood formula. After I'd cleaned myself up, Emmett noted that I was pretty good-looking, and he introduced me to his way of life—hustling. He taught me where to find the best tricks, and the hottest techniques—the kind that might get you a tip for blowing their mind.

I was understandably nervous, never having been with, or even thought about, being with a guy before. One night, Emmett deemed me ready to try out what I'd learned, and he boozed me up before demanding a blow job. Shutting my eyes tight, I went in for the kill. I made quick work of him, but he freakin' loved it. I'd pay a hundo for that shit, he'd said, and I couldn't help but feel really proud of myself for the first time in a long time. For a while, that was all I offered to my tricks—blow jobs only. Or they could blow me, which I was surprised to find out that there was a market for.

But blow jobs alone only earned so much. Emmett and I were having a tough time making rent. It was time for me to graduate. Emmett told me how to prepare myself, and gifted me with a pretty large dildo to practice with. But nothing could prepare me for the real thing. Memories of the first night I let a guy fuck me sent my heart racing—I never wanted to relive that pain again. But the experience taught me some valuable lessons, and every night after, I was ready for what was in store. Sometimes, if the trick wasn't too rough, it even felt good. Because of the prostate, Emmett had explained. Like a dude's g-spot. The side effect of possible physical pleasure made what I was doing just slightly bearable.
My tricks always seemed ready to just drop trow and fuck me. No foreplay or anything, but what could I expect? They didn't care about me; they just wanted to get their rocks off. I learned this after that first horrible experience, so after that, I always prepared myself extra carefully before taking up on my corner. A nice open hole, wet and ready for the next cock to invade.

The types of guys that picked up hustlers were pretty nasty in general. The ugly gay dudes that can't get a date. The Neanderthal closeted married guys who took out their anger on your ass. Usually, I just closed my eyes and gritted my teeth as I tried to think of anything other than what they were doing to me. Of course, I insisted on using condoms. And I never kissed on the mouth. A shower afterwards was a necessity to make me feel less filthy after some of my encounters. Especially in the seedier motels. I swear, it's like they never cleaned those fucking rooms.

Stubbing out the end of my cigarette with the toe of my sandal (easy on, easy off), I turned my weary gaze up the street. On the opposite corner, Garrett was getting into a beat-up old Volkswagen. The trick inside looked like he was ninety. I shuddered, glad it was Garrett and not me that had caught his eye. There was nothing worse than trying to get hard for a saggy old man with a wrinkly ass and a shriveled dick.

My view of Garrett was blocked as a flashy sports car rolled up to my corner. The windows were tinted, so I couldn't be sure if this person was just pulling over for a minute, or if they wanted to pick me up. Well, I might as well try—with a car like this, the driver definitely had money to blow on me, no pun intended. I could probably even jack up my price.
Plastering a smile on my face, I sauntered over to the car and leaned a forearm on the doorframe, knocking gently on the passenger side window. I stared at my reflection while I waited—my green eyes shone in the lamp light, my coppery hair slightly mussed. I looked hot.

After a moment, the window rolled down. I was taken aback as I leaned forward and crystal-clear blue eyes met mine. This guy was young and extremely well-groomed; he wore a suit, and his blond hair was combed neatly. He looked like a professional dude—a doctor, or a lawyer maybe.

Jackpot. This would be easy—it always was better when a guy was actually attractive.

"Looking for a date?" I asked, maybe a little too hopefully.

His face remained expressionless, and when he spoke, his voice was cool and controlled.
"As a matter of fact, I am. How much?"

"Depends on what you want. Fifty for a blowjob. One fifty to fuck me."

"Get in."

I heard the lock click open and unceremoniously stuffed myself into the car before he could change his mind. He gave me a slight smile before turning his attention back to the road and peeling off.

The ride was filled with an awkward silence. The guy seemed agitated—I would catch him glancing nervously at me out of the corner of my eye. After ten minutes of this, I decided to break the ice. "Is everything all right?"

He nodded, licking his lips, staring straight ahead. "Yeah, it's fine. Just got some bad news today."

"Aw, I'm sorry to hear that," I replied in my best seductive tone. Sliding my hand over his thigh, he jumped at my sudden touch. "But don't worry, I'll help you forget."

He let out a huff with the breath he'd been holding, but didn't respond. I left my hand where it was, however, giving his thigh a squeeze from time to time. He didn't want to talk, and that was okay. I was pretty used to that.

Soon, we were pulling up to a nice hotel. It wasn't super fancy—a Marriott, not a Ritz—but it was a lot nicer than the hotels I was used to going to. But this guy looked like he had a lot of money, so why wasn't he staying at the Ritz?

"I was expecting someplace fancier," I said as we got out of the car and the man handed his keys to the valet.

"I like to lie low," was his quiet response.

He slipped his jacket off of his shoulders and handed it to me, gesturing for me to put it on. Of course, I looked like exactly what I was. Wouldn't want to draw attention to the fact that this gentleman was paying for sex…with a boy. He quickly ushered me through the lobby to the elevators. He glanced furtively around as we waited, as if he was hoping someone specific wouldn't see us. He sighed in relief as the elevator doors opened, and he gently pushed me inside, following behind. He pushed the button for the top floor, and then he pushed the 'Door Close' button, so no one else could join us for the ride.

Once the doors opened to the top floor, Richie Rich ushered me to one of two doors, opening it with a keycard. Stepping inside, my breath caught in my throat. The room was gorgeous, and enormous. It looked to be a suite or something, complete with a living area, a workspace, and a dining area. There was even a piano in the living area—so strange. The bedroom was to our left, and I headed inside, taking a cursory glance at the king-sized four-poster bed before turning to face him and beckoning for him to follow me with a crook of my finger.

The man swallowed audibly, but came inside, shutting the door needlessly behind him. By the time he turned back around to face me, I had divested myself of the coat and pulled out a few condom options from my back pocket.

"So, what are we doing tonight?"

"Umm, I don't know. I have to admit, I've never done this before."

"Well, honey, I've done it all. Anything you want, we can do." He seemed like the type of guy who would be harboring some strange kink.

He shuffled his feet, looking down at the floor for a moment. When he finally met my gaze, he seemed sort of shell-shocked, like he couldn't believe what he'd gotten himself into. A lot of guys said they'd never hired a hustler before. Maybe, in this man's case, it was actually true.

"What's your name?" he asked.

I considered giving him a false name, but something about his nervous behavior endeared him to me, so I told him the truth.

"It's Edward."

A smile crept across his lips. He had an inviting smile. "I'm Carlisle," he said, extending his hand. I took it—he had a firm, warm handshake. "It's nice to meet you, Edward."

"Sure. So, should we get started?" I held up the condoms again, splaying them with my fingers so he could see the different colors.

"You choose," he said. I didn't really care, so I shoved all but one back into my pocket.

His eyes had grown darker. It was a look I was familiar with, so he must have accepted his decision. I started my usual routine. Flashing him my trademark crooked smirk, I whipped the wifebeater up over my head and threw it to the side. With one hand on my zipper, I rolled my hips seductively before starting to pull it down.


I stopped, surprised by his sudden outburst. I think he shocked himself too, because he stared at me open-mouthed for a moment before continuing.

"I...I want to do it," he whispered.

I smiled wider as he approached me, pushing me gently on the shoulder, telling me with his gesture to sit on the edge of the bed. He sat down next to me, leaning forward to kiss me. I turned my head at the last second, giving him my cheek.

"I don't kiss."

A look of disappointment crossed his face, but he didn't comment on it. He just smiled slightly and nodded as he cupped my cheek in his large warm hand, his lips descending to caress my neck.

Immediately, I felt self-conscious. Did I smell okay? I wasn't used to this close contact. Normally, I was just an anonymous hole to be fucked. But Carlisle...whenever his eyes met mine, they pierced into me, looking at me too deeply. He was confident in his intimate actions, taking care to make sure I was stimulated. It was awkward for me at first, feeling his lips trail down the slope of my neck, across my shoulder, over my chest. When he took my nipple into his mouth, I couldn't help but moan at the sensation. All thoughts left my mind as I focused on the sensations he was giving me—sensations I'd never felt before.

His hands roamed, exploring my back, my stomach, his wet lips following close behind. I was so lost in what he was doing to me, I didn't notice when or how he had removed his shirt, but it was somehow gone. I took my opportunity to let my hands explore him—his body was similar to mine, but his muscles were a little bigger and his chest was much hairier—more to grab on to.

Soon, he pushed me to lie back on the bed, my legs still dangling over the end. The bed shifted as he got up, and I lifted myself up on my elbows to see what he was doing. A hustler could never be too sure what might happen; you should always be vigilant. Some crazy trick might try to shoot you up with heroin or something, or he might pull a gun on you. I've heard stories about that shit; I'd known guys who never came home.

But Carlisle didn't do any of those things. Instead, he knelt down on the floor between my legs as he undid my shorts. Lifting my hips so he could easily slide them down my legs, internally I breathed a sigh of relief. So he wanted to blow me. Easy street.

Carlisle stared at my cock for a minute, his mouth practically watering at the sight of it. I had to admit, my cock was pretty nice. It was only average in length, but it was thick and it was straight—no weird curves or strange little bumps. But it had nothing on my ass.

"You're gorgeous," he growled. I blushed at his compliment but lost my focus as his hot mouth descended over me. He was a damn good cocksucker, using just the right pressure and rhythm. Maybe Emmett taught him, I joked to myself.

All too soon, Carlisle released me from his mouth with a loud pop. I assumed he would turn me over now, spreading my legs wide so he could fuck me. But he didn't. Instead, his lips moved down to my balls, his hands beneath me, cupping my ass cheeks. Moans left my lips unbidden as he lathed my sac with his tongue and his long fingers massaged my cheeks. Nobody but me had ever paid any attention to my balls before, and I fisted the sheets in an attempt to distract myself. I didn't want to come too soon—tricks liked it when you came while they fucked you, because your ass muscles tighten and it feels that much better for them. Just when I thought I was done for, his mouth was gone and one hand moved between my legs to palm my balls. He lifted them up, and his head ducked lower. All of a sudden, I felt something wet against my asshole. A jolt ran up my spine at the contact, and I let out a shocked yelp.

Carlisle quickly drew back and met my gaze, frowning. "You don't like it?"

"No!" Was he kidding? "It's not that. I just…I didn't expect you to do that."

"Oh." He grinned before ducking back down between my legs, continuing to tease my ass with his strong tongue. He alternated between long flat licks and little swirls with the point. It felt so fucking good; it was all I could do not to clamp my thighs around his head. Soon, I was no longer able to control my moaning and my hips bucked against his mouth of their own accord. I couldn't take it; I was gonna blow if he continued probing me with his tongue like this.

"Please…" I whimpered. "Please just fuck me."

It was as if that was what he'd been waiting to hear. As he rose from his knees, I scooted back on the center of the bed. He watched me as he quickly undid his trousers, shoving them down, along with his boxers, over his thighs. The garments were pooled at his feet, and he stepped out of them. His cock was leaking with precum, long and slender and standing at attention against his belly. I licked my lips seductively, making him chuckle. That wasn't my goal, but it was a welcome reaction. It was always nicer to lighten the mood. With a grin and a wink, I tossed the condom and a small packet of lube to him. As he rolled it on and soaked himself, I began to turn over onto my stomach.

"Wait. No," he said, his tone husky as he grabbed my ankle to keep me in place. "Like this."

Nobody, and I mean nobody, ever wanted to fuck me so they could see my face. I think most tricks wanted to imagine whoever they wanted when they were inside me. I shouldn't have been surprised—Carlisle had already proven to be different in so many ways. But I couldn't help feeling a little bit nervous. What if he tried to kiss me? Should I keep my eyes closed? Would he be watching me?

As he crawled onto the bed and situated himself above me, he seemed to notice my apprehension. "Don't worry, I'll be gentle." I swallowed hard, not really knowing what to say. Hooking his arms under my legs, he brought my knees up to the level of his shoulders. I felt the bulbous head of his sheathed cock press against me, and then he was pushing inside, breaching me, filling me. Never having fucked in this position before, my breath caught in my throat, and I squeezed my eyes shut as he sank deep inside me—it seemed like I could feel him all the way up to my ribcage.

When he began to thrust, I met his hips with mine, trying to find his rhythm and match it. My cock bobbed between us—I was so used to it going untouched by my tricks that the occasional friction as his abs rubbing against my cock felt electric. His grunts and groans were sexy—I found myself wanting to hear more of them, so I crossed my feet behind his head and scratched my nails down his back.

He let out a long drawn out moan at the sensation, and his position inside me shifted a little. With his next inward thrust, stars exploded behind my eyelids, and I heard someone cry out loudly. It took me a second to realize it was me.

"Oh yeah," he groaned, obviously pleased that he'd found my sweet spot, and his pace picked up, his cock never ceasing to hit my prostate with each subsequent thrust. My head thrashed about against the pillow, my hands gripped his ass, trying to pull him in deeper, my hips bucked against his. My cries got louder as I felt my balls begin to tighten—I was so close.

Lost in sensation, I opened my eyes to look at him. His hair was sweaty and plastered to his forehead, his eyes closed, and his face wearing a blissful expression. It made me feel proud—I did this to him. As if sensing my eyes on him, he opened his and we stared at each other as we chased our orgasms. His hand found my cock, hungry for attention. Two pumps and I was done, my ass clenching around his long, hard cock, my cum painting our chests in spurts, our eyes never breaking contact. He let out an animalistic groan as his hips stilled, before he quickly pulled out and collapsed next to me on the bed.

We lay beside each other in the afterglow, silent for a few minutes as we recovered. For the first time, I actually enjoyed myself while in bed with another man. He hadn't fucked me; he hadn't used me. He'd made love to me. This revelation left me overwhelmed. I should leave now—that was the custom—but I didn't want to. I wanted to stay with this man. This man who actually cared if I felt pleasure. This man who wasn't like any of my other tricks.


No! I had to leave. I couldn't allow myself to get attached. Besides, I wasn't even gay. And he wouldn't want a piece of street trash like me staying here any longer than necessary.
Reluctantly, I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Just as my feet settled on the floor, I felt Carlisle's hand on my arm, clasping it firmly.

"Where are you going?" he asked, sounding confused and maybe a little bit…hurt?

Turning to face him, I smiled sadly. "Back where I belong."

His lips pressed together in a tight line, his brow furrowed. "You belong right here. Lay back down."

He gently tugged on my arm, urging me to come closer. Willingly, I fitted myself against his side without another word, my head resting in the crook of his shoulder. He began to lightly stroke my hair. No one ever stroked my hair before.

His chest rose and fell evenly, and I felt myself being lulled to sleep by his rhythmic breathing and steady heartbeat.

As I was falling asleep, I thought I heard him whisper, "Stay with me, Edward. I want you to stay."

But maybe it was just my imagination. In any case, I would stay, but only for tonight. Tomorrow would be a new day, and who knew what he would think about my presence when the morning came. Besides, I wasn't gay, not really, so nothing could really come of this. For now, I just lay there, enjoying the feeling of someone actually caring about me, even if it was fleeting.

Tomorrow I'd be back on the street, back to my dark reality. But tonight, this one night, I would allow myself to dream of a better life.