DARK

ALLEYS &
DUSTBIN
LIDS
LLOYD
MANGRAM

I was working pretty late that night. At least it felt late with the nights drawing
in as winter approached; it was probably eight-thirty. Gusts of rain spattered dismally
against the front window like the fitful tappings of a skeletal hand. The office was
empty and my sense of isolation increased with the low moaning of wind coming
through the badly fitting rear window. The office was a tip, but what would you
expect from a run down leather shop?
I had a go at drowning out the rain with the typewriter but its clatter was
distressing. Should have given it to Oxfam years ago. I stopped. I was pissed off, no
doubt, and randy as hell too. What I needed was a really good fuck. Some hope. My
eyes roved listlessly over some of the hanging leather goods, studded jockstraps,
harnesses, dildos and so on. There were some mags piled in a corner and I found
myself walking round and leafing through them. One was full of kids sucking each
other off, an old tatty and well used thing with jerk-off stains marking the juicier
pages. One beefy looking guy was pumping an eager, youthful mouth full of cum and
it was pouring down the shaft of his heaving cock. Just looking at it made my own
meat heave. Jeez - I could do with a good blow job too.
I dropped it and picked up another. Big Falcon men fucking. I got my cock out
and began idly stroking it. It was good and hard already. I never intended it but I soon
found myself wanking in earnest. My mind searched for a memory and found it. That
guy the other night . . he had a dick the size and shape of a tree trunk and used it like
he hated the world. Not a nice guy but a good screw. I felt the heat rising in my balls,
beginning to well up the shaft of my rigid cock.
The door bell rang.
"Shit a brick."' I moaned. I stuffed my cock back inside the denim jeans and
zipped up. It was a tight fit and the throbbing shape showed through. I didn't give a
fuck. I walked across the office, round the partition and saw the lowering shape
through the trusted glass of the door.
I pulled it open. The guy standing there, slouched against the light rain just
looked at me. Yellow stained sodium light swirled round his dark silhouette. His
short cropped hair was slick with wet and it glistened on his leather jacket.
"I've come with the buckle," he said, the quiet gruff voice barely heard above
the roaring traffic in the street behind him. Tyres swished on the streaming road,
adding a strange echo to his words.
It sounded kind of right, "buckle," so I stepped back a touch to let him in. For a
second he didn't move, just stood there, head tucked down into his jacket, taking a
good eyeful of my still hard cock pounding behind its canvas prison. I opened the
door wider and he moved like a recently fed and slothful tiger, kind of sloppy but
dangerous. He didn't look any too bright.
 The office light streaked down his face and I saw his hair was a yellow colour,
sitting like a spiky hat on top of a slightly plump face. Not a pretty face, but
somehow demanding attention. Perhaps it was the coal black eyes. I watched them as
they roved up from my crotch but avoiding my own. I let the door go and walked
back into the office behind the partition. The sound of traffic faded as the door clicked
shut under its spring. He followed me in. I unsuccessfully tried to adjust my hard-on
without his noticing the movement. When I turned round to face him again there was
a slight smile on his lips. They were surprisingly full. He looked a bit sluttish and that
was somehow exciting as well. In his hand I was a small package. He held it out.
I took it, unwrapped the tissue. Inside was a two inch chrome buckle. "What's it
for?" I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Dunno, I was jus' told to bring it round." He
walked away from me, round the table to where I had left the magazine open. I cursed
myself.
"Is it paid for?"
He looked up, nodded.
I turned away to put the buckle on a shelf for the morning and heard the rustle
of pages.
"This yours?'' he asked.
I turned back to see him holding up the magazine with the sucking kids.
"Those?" I replied innocently. "No, they belong to the guys that run this place."
He gave another of those minute smiles. "I was talking about the cum stains."
I guess I must have blushed angrily, because his smile increased as his eyes
dropped purposefully down to my bulging crotch. He put the magazine down on the
table and leaned over, looking at it intently, eyes sliding over the pages. He turned
them with one hand, then lowered it to,his jeans fondling himself. For the first time I
got to see his crotch. It was satisfyingly sized. He carried on stroking himself, seeming
to take no further notice of me. Slightly embarrassed I began shuffling papers and
tidying up so that I could leave.
"Well, I must be getting along," I said.
He didn't look up. "I could do with some of this," was all he said.
I put my jacket on and zipped it up. He still made no move so I came round the
table to open the back door. The keys were in my hand. Then he flipped the magazine
shut and threw it down on the pile. "Okay," he muttered. I opened the door for him
and he walked ahead of me down the corridor to the back door.
Outside the rain had lessened. The back alleyway behind the buildings was
dark with only a little orange light seeping down from the street lights at the end.
Highlights glinted from the edges of wet, crumbling bricks and there was a smokiness
in the air. I fiddled with the door and pulled it shut, locked it.. I thought he would say
goodbye and go his own way, but he just stood there, waiting. I straightened up and
put the keys in my pocket. I faced him ,he was a couple of inches taller and more
thickset than me. We stood there for a long minute, wordless. Then with an almost
liquid grace, he reached down and pressed his hand against my jeans, the thick fingers
tracing out the shape of my cock. Its semi-hardness mutated into a full stiffness again.
I didn't want to respond, I wasn't sure I even liked him. But I didn't seem to have any
control over this.
 He pulled on the edge of my jacket tugging me with him as he sat back on the
nearest dustbin. I stood between his outstretched legs. Playfully, he slowly pulled the
fly zipper down and fished my cock out with difficulty. His eyes travelled down and
took it in as he stroked it to full erection.
Then he bent forward and enveloped it with those full lips sliding it fully into
his warm mouth. An involuntary sigh escaped me and he took me deeper. My head
fell back, rain stinging my eyes. He gave me a tremendous licking while undoing his
own jeans and wanking himself. Then he sat back and produced his own meat.
Medium thick and pretty long. A good cock for fucking and real good to suck on He
leaned back so that it arched up fully. pressing down on my shoulder with one and I
fell to my knees and felt the wet of a puddle seeping into the material of my jeans. But
I didn't care. All I wanted was to get that cock down my throat. And I did. He kept
bucking under me, driving it deeper in and then pulling it out to the tip and plunging
it in again so that I got the full sensation of flesh sliding against the lining of my
mouth.
Underneath him the dustbin lid creaked and groaned in protest. It was one of
those old tin ones and I could see its crenellated sides gleaming in the distant light. I
sucked on his meat for a full five minutes at the end of which he pushed me back but
made me stay kneeling in front of him. Then he wanked himself, the other hand
pressing me within inches of the end of his saliva and rain slicked weapon. His breath
began coming faster as he neared climax. I tried to go down on it again.
"No, no, not yet. Wait." he groaned. I waited. His fist pumped up and down
harder and faster. My eyes were riveted on the cock head as it appeared momentarily
between his working fingers. Then at last an ooze of cum trickled from the hole. Still
he held me back. "Almost," he gasped. One more stroke and the first proper spurt leapt
from the tip. He moaned and let go, at the same time shoving my head down. My
mouth closed over him as the second, harder spurt came. He shoved up viciously as a
spicy fountain of cum filled my mouth. My own cock was just about there too and I
was wanking it. I sucked him off real good and then got to my feet. He pulled me too
him and took me in his mouth, taking over the wanking motion with his lips. I came
seconds later and he sucked it all in greedily.
We were both drenched through by this time and I was shaking from the effort
of sex. I wondered if it was over, but it wasn't. He liked to come once before fucking,
so that the fuck would last longer. As he stood up his sodden jeans fell down and he
left them there, reaching round my waist to slip a finger up into my arse. As he did so
his cock bucked again and became stiff. I felt a little irritated and it fuelled my anger. I
turned him round and flung him hard across the dustbin. I expected him to retaliate,
but he didn't, he lay there supine and ready. We didn't need any lubrication. The
weather was taking care of that. I wanked myself up into a full erection again and
slammed into him. He grunted as my cock entered him and I wasn't gentle. I shoved it
in good and hard and reamed him flat out. The whole situation was so exciting that I
came for a second time much quicker than I had intended. I flopped back against the
damp, fungal wall, exhausted.
He stood up slowly, a calm quiet smile playing on those enigmatic lips. I
watched him as he came up to me, jeans around his knees. He reached out a hand and
pushed my head against the wall, fingers locked round my jaw. He held me there for a
long while as he gradually brought his meat to attention with the other hand. The
very deliberateness of this was full of menace, but not without excitement either.
When he was ready he grabbed me by the waist and forced me to face the wall, one
hand on the back of my head, crushing my face into the roughness of the wall. The
other hand attacked my arse, worming its way in. I struggled but he held me harder.
Then he pulled me away from the wall, back onto his waiting cock. He urged it in and
I felt its length penetrating me. I groaned in pain but he took no notice. Then the pain
eased. He was fully in and fucking like a steam engine. My soaked knees banged on
the wall as he pulled me backwards onto him. He was standing under me, back
arched, so that he could thrust upwards as far as possible.
We both staggered back under the effort. I think he must have tripped over the
dustbin because I heard it fall and he fell with it, dragging me down too. In a heap we
landed on the ground on our backs with him under me. He screamed in pleasure,
coming as we fell, climaxing as we thrashed around on the rain soaked pavement
stones, my head hitting the dustbin. Its lid was off and drenched papers and cigarette
stubs fell over my head. I gagged and struggled but he wasn't finished and still
pumped me full of cum. I rolled away from him, the ground grazing my bared thighs.
I got against the wall and sat there, panting for breath. He lay still, tangled up in his
clothes and the dustbin lid.
That's when I began to laugh. It started as a suppressible chuckle, but then grew
uncontrollably. I opened my mouth and roared. I saw his head lift and he blinked rain
from his eyes. Then he sat up and looked at me as if I were mad. I pointed at both of us
and laughed again. I guess he must have seen the funny side too. We were a mess. He
grinned and gave a short laugh. Then he stood up and pulled his jeans back into place.
Still chuckling he strolled off and left me there. I saw his distant silhouette swallowed
up by orange street light at the end of the alleyway, disappearing in the way he came
surrounded by swirling drizzle.
I was as uncomfortable as hell. Drenched, covered in ash and grit, scratched,
grazed, bruised and aching like mad from my rear end. On the credit side, however, I
no longer felt randy and frustrated. I never saw the guy again. It turned out he was
only used as a messenger on that occasion. But I often wondered about him, the man
who used his cock like he hated the world.
In between filling in time and getting a little cash at the leather shop I do a bit
of writing. We're always told that stories must be built on character to be worth
while, but there's something about sex that almost precludes character. Magazines are
good for wanking over. So are guys seen leaning on the bar in the pub and in the
discos. Of course, if you take them home there's always the danger that they may turn
into real people and climb into your life. That can be good too, but it's safer to keep
them at distance. Perhaps that's why I like the New York backrooms, especially in the
big discos where you get all sorts and you can go round and have several good sucks,
get sucked, fuck and get fucked and never say a word to an y one.
Trouble is, though, you run the risk of turning into a guy who fucks like he
hates the world.
It's pretty late again. They've gone home and the office is quiet and empty.
There's rain beating at the window pane like a demented horde of skeletal hands and
the window still isn't properly fixed. I'm typing ferociously, trying to get this finished
to send off to a magazine tomorrow. that's if the typewriter will let me. I swear I'll
take it down to the Oxfam shop next week and tell my boss he needs a new one. "Shit!
That's the doorbell . . I'll have to finish this later. Who can it be?"