Pull of the Groove
By Habu
()
About this ebook
Mixed breed Krit, brought along with his mother to the States from Thailand by an abusive Navy man stepfather, has been bred from the time he graduates high school to be an “anything goes” rough-sex rent boy. It is a life that Krit thinks of as “the groove” and as his natural lot in life.
As soon as he is able to break away from his abusive home situation, Krit leaves the area of the Norfolk Navy bases for Philadelphia. But “the groove” of servicing Navy men, who are drawn to his androgynous nature, is so deeply engrained in Krit that he relocates near the Navy shipyard there and continues his life of street male prostitution. He falls into a life of cruising the parks for men with fetish tastes that include rough sex, bondage, sounding, cross-dressing, and double penetration, and he becomes so used to being used roughly that he believes he is completely immune to any emotional attachment to sex. That is until he meets young, naïve, but hunky Navy sailor, Austin, who is looking for a first male-male coupling and is determined to pay to have it with Krit.
Is Krit so lost in servicing “the groove,” though, that he can’t take pleasure in a more loving and sensual give-and-take sexual relationship?
Habu
Habu is one of the pen names of a former supersonic spy jet pilot, intelligence agent, male model, movie actor, and diplomat. A wild youth in South East Asia was spent enjoying whatever sexual opportunities came his way, and much of his gay male writing is about recalling incidents from those days and inventing ones he’d perhaps have liked to experience. He now leads a very quiet and ordinary life.Check out our blog and get free stories. Feedback and reviews are always appreciated.
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Pull of the Groove - Habu
Chapter One: Marconi Plaza Cruising
You mean like tying me up?
I asked.
Though he was sitting across from me at the table in a shadowed corner of Merry’s bar, the round table was very small and he was pressing his knees into mine under the table and gripping my forearm firmly in a strong hand. The sleeve of the overcoat was pushed up his wiry-muscled, shaved, and colorfully tattooed forearm, giving me goose bumps from knowing already what was underneath the coat. I wasn’t going anywhere until he released his grip. As far as customers went, this one was a scary one.
No, I mean trussed up—more than just tying.
When he said this, he took an object out of his coat pocket that, at first glance, looked like those attached plastic rings that came on six-packs of soft drinks to hold them together from store to home. But these weren’t plastic. They were a black material, thicker than the plastic rings and probably stronger, and there were only four round openings. They looked more like two attached pairs of handcuffs. He laid them down on the top of the table and I let my eyes stray to them on and off for the rest of the conversation.
I felt a shudder travel down my back, from fear, certainly, but also from something else. Something more arousing and provocative. It was the old groove thing I had been conditioned to. By Zack. I had learned that scary could be enticing and that pain could be pleasure.
One hundred dollars,
I said, naming a price that I thought would not be me saying no, but one that gave the conversation a chance of ending without it being my fault that I’d lost trade. I was enticed—that groove thing—but I also was scared witless.
Part of that was the man himself. He seemed so intense, and he was totally hairless. He had what I thought of as a death’s head. Gaunt, almost emaciated, the skin tight over the high, pronounced cheek bones. A sneery smile. His head was bald and he had no eyebrows. He was tattooed, though. There was a design on the side of his neck disappearing down into the collar of the heavy black overcoat he was wearing. The tattoo wrapped around his neck and came up to under and around his left earlobe. He could have been anywhere from his mid forties to early fifties. But an athletic forties or early fifties. Or he could be one who hadn’t seen more meals put before him than absolutely necessary.
His stare from out of cold, steely, washed-out blue eyes was intense. I felt like they were boring right through me.
But he didn’t flinch at the price. Have you taken it rough?
I just looked back at him. Would I be in this neighborhood, in this bar, if that wasn’t the norm around here?
And have you ever been sounded?
he continued, when I hadn’t answered other than the look I gave back to him, which was enough of an answer.
I paused, shuddering again, with the tremble going through my body. He surely could feel it in the forearm he was gripping. I’ve had it rough, yes. And I’ve heard of sounding—only heard of it,
I managed to choke out. I waited for him to say it wouldn’t be necessary, but that’s not what he said when he next spoke.
You’re a sweet little piece,
he said. Don’t look like you’ve been broke bad yet. I want to do you. Want to do you my way. Can’t place what you are, though. Some black in you?
A little,
I answered, not wanting to discuss this, but glad to move away from the topic of sounding so that I’d have time to adjust to it if I was going to. By the old 1 percent rule, one drop of black blood was enough; I was black. There were guys who wouldn’t touch a black and others who wanted to punish a black. No telling if this guy was either of those.
He hadn’t flinched at the quote of a hundred dollars. I had to pay Demont five hundred a week regardless—one hundred dollars each working day, he said. He claimed he gave us weekends off, but it usually took the whole week, seven days, down here in South Philly to feed both his demands and our needs. A hundred dollars went a long way for one trick.
I already knew that he’d fuck rough. He hadn’t had to