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Category: Erotica/Bisexual Erotica
Description: Strong Plot, Unexpected Twists!Bisexual thieves Phillip Johns, with a passion for expensive paintings, and Harry Hatch, mesmerized by the sparkle of diamonds, are cellmates and, when released from prison, become partners in crime, with the able help of beautiful Carol Stoddard, their fence. The thieves have no problem sharing the product of their safe-cracking abilities, but can they share the woman they both desire, and who seems to desire both of them?
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions,
eBookwise Release Date: June 2009
5 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [207 KB]
Reading time: 123-173 min.
Their silent pounding bodies were suddenly accompanied by the jangling of door keys getting closer to the cell. They rushed their pleasure, hoping to cheat the always present, always might-be-present guard.
"Faster, faster, for Christ's sake," the younger man pleaded. And the rattling created by their bodies stopped, replaced by the unmistakable sound of a key sliding into the heavy iron lock. The older man with the wise lined face pulled his body away from the young imploring animal. "You're insane." The door was swinging open, and his fear made him limp.
"Coward, coward," Harry mocked, and with a graceful arc, his body was off the cot and standing at the sink, his back to the unannounced guard. The jailer looked knowingly at Phillip, stretched out on the cot, lighting a long American cigarette. Then he regarded the shuddering back of the tall blond thief. The young ones needed it a lot. The older ones could do without, but they taught their inexperienced brothers. Showed them more in a six-month stretch than they learned in ten years on the streets.
The guard humiliated the gasping back by addressing it.
"You've got a visitor, Harry."
That surprised him. Phillip often had callers, but Harry had no connection, no sentimental patchwork outside the prison.
"A visitor?" he turned, buttoning his trousers.
"A woman," the guard announced curtly. "She says she's not your sister." She obviously impressed him. Harry didn't answer. He silently followed the guard out of his cell, not looking at Phillip who was watching the burning tip of his cigarette with scientific intensity. Harry followed the guard noiselessly to the waiting room. The guard banged his stick against the cell doors as they walked the long corridor, and shouted in, "Stow those burners, do ya hear me? You can smell them in the warden's apartment. Stow them, or there'll be a midnight shakedown."
The two men walked into the large cold waiting room, tables that looked like waiting room tables bordered by chairs that looked like waiting room chairs. In one of the chairs was an elegant woman of about twenty seven. She was dressed in a grey suit with a French fit, curving her hips and breasts, the hem ending an immeasurable moment before it would on an American or English skirt. She was sitting straight and unaffected by her surroundings, a woman who created her own atmosphere and rested comfortable and secure in the nimbus of contempt that blessed her. It had been a long time, seven months, since Harry had had a woman, and this one looked as if she'd be a lot of work. Two hours to get the clothes off, and six hours to convince her she'd done the wise thing. And the cool ones only got convinced in their cunts.
"There she is," said the guard bluntly.
The woman pulled tight her blanket of correctness and looked over the guard's head into Harry's eyes. "Mr. Hatch," she said, "may I have a few words with you?" Her tone suggested that Mr. Hatch might now be too busy and his secretary would check his calendar and surely give her an appointment.
"Certainly," agreed Harry, living the scene she had created. He sat down lightly in the free chair across from her and waited for her to speak.
"There will be work for you in New York when you get out." He looked curiously at her. "Work you should enjoy." Neither of them seemed interested in pleasure.
"How?" he finally asked.
"Just call me," her boarding school voice enunciated, "at Plaza 5-7000--ask for Miss Stoddard."
"Yes Miss Stoddard."
"I'm sorry," she almost blushed, "we haven't been introduced. I'm Carol Stoddard, and I shall wait for your call. I'm leaving two hundred and fifty dollars in the office for you. Will that be enough?"
"That will be quite enough."
"Till next month, Mr. Hatch." She was getting to her feet. There was, except for the brief business, not a human word for them. She put her striped, gloved hand into his, and had removed it before he could experience its pressure. "Good day then," and she walked carefully out of the waiting room, taking with her the breath of civilization.
Harry was being led back to his cell. The guard was saying something about class. The guard's tiny little mind, if you let it in, could irritate.
Back in the cell, Phillip looked up and said, "Who was it?"
It was not intrusive for him to ask. Little happened in the prison and a man shared his experiences, the way he shared his cock. Harry started to explain. He looked down at the shrewd cool man stretched out on the bed, and for a moment he was sinking into the cool eyes of the woman who had sat with him a brief five minutes and given him a strong odor of the world outside.
Phillip had a portable outside world that he carried with him. Maybe that was the attraction. Harry had never been hot for men, not for women either, except when a detached heat would spread through him, and then he'd find a cunt, thin and clinging or wide and comfortable and exhaust his prick. He'd pull it out of them, depleted and eager to leave them.
There were better ways to make it. Not get your prick into anything, just feel it ponderous like an arrow leading you into strange experience. But that way it had to be without heat, just a cool fucking erection in the head. Phillip was strange enough to be a constant invitation. He never was hot for Phillip, but that was the only place for the cool fuck to go. So his prick never got finished and ready for something else.
Now he was beginning to plan the Llewellyn job; that was where his maleness wanted to be. An immense job, absorbing and satisfying. It would take brains and courage; it would take maleness.
Phillip was watching him, seeing him go off into a world nobody could touch. There was something pathetic and childlike about Harry's dream world, yet it had to be taken seriously. There was no question that the visions, created by a deprived child became the acts of the man. That was how they all got there, wasn't it?
Even Phillip cared enough about something to get here, and not mind the ten month stretch. He cared about money. How original! The things you could do with money. There was no Midas touch about him, no sensuous thrill in spilling the sheckles through stretched fingers. He put all the money back into gracious living, fantastic expression, something out of a woman's magazine. The one thing, the one raison d'etre were the paintings. To line his walls with the brilliance, the most selective vision of all ages. Phillip despised museums, despised the keepers, despised the confused giggling viewers or the awed small town viewers or the arrogant student viewers. A painting had to be lived with, had to be cultivated. There should be a master-slave relationship, sometimes the painting master, sometimes Phillip master. To keep the thing interesting. Like sex, only better. Museums were like prisons, and he wanted to tear down the precious colors that became barred windows on the long corridor walls.
Phillip felt the attraction of Harry's long relaxed body. Harry was as perfect as a master's etching, perfect and simple without a wasted line or a decorative curve. Phillip lifted himself from his cot, and crossed his arms on the rim of Harry's decker, a layer above his. He ran his fingers across the sharp planes of the upraised face. It should have felt like steel, cold and smooth to the touch. Instead, he was surprised to find his flesh damp, and the bristles of his heavy beard rough against his palm. He moved his fingers down to the what-could-be female flesh of his neck.
Harry lay as if in a dream, musing to himself. His mind's absence allowed Phillip to possess his body freely. To possess him coldly, to watch him as a snake watches a drowsy rabbit in the hypnotic sun.
"Harry," he said, as softly as a woman.
Harry lay immobile, unresponding.
"What will you do when you get out?" Phillip murmured.
"What I've always done."
"Take the pretty diamonds out of the pretty girls' ears?"
"Out of the ugly safes, off the ugly chests."
"Don't you like women, Harry?" Phillip's hands were moving under the rough shirt, down to the leather belt, loose around Harry's waist. He swung himself up on the bed.
"I like diamonds."
"Why Harry? Because they're so cold and deep, cold and perfect. Time makes it perfect?"
"A diamond is perfect. Time makes it perfect. Time makes it more beautiful. Flesh decays."
"Diamonds turn to dust. Someday all the diamonds will turn to dust."
"Not before me."
"But Harry," Phillip's hand had edged beneath the buckled belt soft into the hairy field that surrounded the dozing man's lazy prick, "you're so insignificant." The prick gave a responding jump, the face remained immobile.
"More significant than women, less significant than diamonds."
"Is it all a question of what turns to dust first. I'll be dust before you are Harry."
"I'm more significant than you." Harry turned bored grey eyes on Phillip's mocking face.
"Why do you say that, my diamond merchant?" Phillip was speaking as if to a drugged child. "Aren't all men equal?"
Harry coughed a spontaneous laugh, "You have no courage, Phillip. You have no depth."
"Ahhh," Phillip sighed, "my diamond merchant is also a philosopher. My hard as a diamond lover," and his fingers were a fist around Harry's cock. He pressed his thumb against the bulging vein. "Hard as a diamond," he approved, and lowered his head to the swaying erection.
"You're so weak Phillip, there's so much you want. A diamond doesn't want anything."
"So you've modeled yourself after a diamond. But no facets, Harry. Just a rough uncut stone." Harry's prick was supremely erect. He did not move to touch Phillip, but his penis declared his awareness of the male caress. His prick was high and free, curving subtly like an unstrung bow. "You've got a fine cock, Harry." It stretched bigger than Phillip's hand span. He moved his fingers into the hidden valley where the rod and balls joined. "Your cock is the best part of you. Better than your mind, or your diamonds, or your courage." His fist moved tight over the satiny skin. "Why don't you let me put my inferior member into you, and still hold on to this precious stone?"
Harry nodded like a much used woman. At first he'd resented being buggered. It had been just a game for him to stick his hungry flesh into Phillip and see how much Phillip could hold of him. But Phillip had sucked him all in, absorbed the throbbing erection with the ease of a child swallowing a gumdrop. He had used Phillip like a cunt, setting him on his knees and pounding into his unexpressive back. Now he could be a cunt for Phillip, and it was all the same, like faces in the funny papers that you could turn upside down. The beard became the hair, and the chin became the bald head. And the two men were the same backwards or forwards, prick in or prick out, asshole stuffed or empty. They ate together, worked together, came together. Soon they'd be out, Harry in a month, Phillip a week before him. They'd never see each other again. Harry didn't know how Phillip had been pulled into jail. Probably fucked little boys, elegant little boys, elegant little prep-school boys. A man of the finest tastes. But he'd take off to another world and Harry would go back to cracking the biggest safes in the country; for a while they could be cunts for each other.
"Turn around Harry, don't make an old man, I'm almost dust now, do all the work."
Harry was hot now, his mouth open to let the air rush out that was filling the cavity of his chest. He got doglike on all fours. Phillip held on to his immense penis, Harry had to swing his leg over Phillip's head, the only exercise of the day. "We should be in the Olympics." His voice shook.
"We'd win Harry." Phillip was shoving his untouched prick into the raised behind. "We're pretty good at this. We're fucking perfect." He was pumping his body back and forth, seeing it sink into Harry's dark hole, and then come out all the way to the tip, dry and palpitating. "We'd win, we'd win," his voice mocking the rhythm of his body. He pumped his loaded hand. "Make it this time, make it this time, Harry." The two bodies were silent and pounding. No footsteps of guards, no jangling of keys. Just the usual uninterrupted before-dinner fuck. The stomach and back slapped urgently, and when Phillip felt the cock grow mutely rigid in his hand, then the first few drops of sperm on his fingertips, he released himself into the swinging ass. The men fell away from each other and lay panting on the narrow cot. As always, Phillip spoke first.
"Was your visitor beautiful?" he asked.
"Yes, she was beautiful."
"She had eyes like emeralds," and the two men laughed mirthlessly.