Email: ukhooder@gmail.com
Wasteland
The sun is a pale disc beyond the remains of Gunner Park, its rays filtering through the carcasses of what were skyscrapers once upon a time. Much of what’s left of the cities has been abandoned since before I was born, and the place is pretty lawless even though the Guard try to rule with an iron fist. It’s best to keep clear of them. It’s also a good idea to keep clear of the boy gangs – they’ll rob you or break you as soon as look at you. Usually both.
I’ve found a fairly safe place up here on the 8th floor. Bits of the climb are a pain where the stairs are missing; it’s not easy even for a fit lad like me – and life here has made me as athletic as they come – but the gangs aren’t too much of a problem unless they have their eye on you for some reason. Like I say, best to disappear if you see them. My best (my only) friend Jezz made the mistake of not disappearing once and they dropped him from a bridge. He was a good kid. I’m on my own now.
A roach scuttles along the floor and vanishes through a hole in the wall.
I stare out of the shattered window munching on a bar I nicked from a guy’s stash a few days ago over by the old church. He thought he’d hidden it, but I’m good at finding hidden things.
I tense, and hide myself more behind what’s left of the window frame: down at street level there’s a couple of Guard stomping along the road in their helmets and shiny black leather gear, their para-guns on their hips. Those are bastard things – a shot from one doesn’t hurt at all, but you can’t fucking move. ‘Para’ stands for paralysis. Lasts thirty minutes, by which time they’ve got you strapped up in their nearest van. I reckon the Guard are recruited from psychos and sadists, and I wouldn’t be surprised if a healthy leather fetish is an advantage as well. Most people are terrified of them – but also secretly fascinated. They do look fucking hot.
I screw up the wrapper of the chocolate bar and drop it in a corner. I wonder what to do today, not that there’s much choice. Most of my time is spent looking for food or clean water. I’ve got some put away up here but I always want to get more. It’s best to be safe.
Last week I found a hotel a few blocks from here. It’s in bad shape and its ground floor’s wrecked down to the girders; the climb is even worse than here, which is probably why it hasn’t been completely looted. There’s a stack of canned food and some bottled water in one of the kitchens. I’ve been meaning to go get some more but every time I’ve tried there’s been gangs or Guard about. I might have another look later today.
I sit on the old mattress with my back against the wall and pull my bag towards me. It contains the few things I’ve still got that are important to me. I take out a faded and torn picture of a house. I think it’s where I was born, but I’m not sure. The path runs alongside a lawn that—
I freeze. I heard something. Sounded like bricks falling somewhere in my building. Could be rats, could always be rats, but maybe not. I never take the chance. Quickly I put the photo back into the bag, push it into the hole and replace the brick over it. Then I stand up silently.
I’m listening hard. Holding my breath. I move my head slowly from side to side – sometimes that catches a sound you’d miss if you stayed completely still. There’s another noise. Glass crunching underfoot. There is somebody on the floor below me.
I edge towards the doorway, staying flat against the wall. I can hear footsteps now and I think they’re getting closer. Sounds like two or three of them. Outside the doorway is a corridor. To the right there’s a long room with the elevator shaft at the far end – but to the left it comes to a T junction with another corridor. If you turn left there you get to the stairs, and if you turn right you can go over to the other side of the building.
I hear a voice. Male. Teenage. A second one answers him. I can’t hear what they’re saying, just the voices. Sounds like they’re at the stairs, one floor down. I’m holding my breath as much as I can and praying they don’t come up here.
They’re climbing the stairs, detritus crunching under boots. I shrink back so that I can get just the thinnest view of the corridor junction. They won’t be able to see me unless they’re looking directly at me. The footsteps reach the top of the staircase, and pause. I see shadows on the far wall – one, two, three? I think there are three of them.
They begin moving again. I count three – no, four – figures go straight past the T junction and on towards the far side of the building. When I’m sure they’ve gone I move out slowly, picking my way silently between rubbish on the floor, to the junction. I look around the corner.
I see the gang strutting away down near the end of the long corridor. I breathe a sigh of relief – and I almost jump out of my skin as a leather-gloved hand suddenly gags me from behind. A voice close to my ear whispers, “shhh…” I hear a soft pop and feel a momentary sting in my left hip. A Guard! I lose control of my body and strong arms pick me up before I fall. I’m carried back into my room and placed on the mattress. Where the hell did he come from? I didn’t hear a fucking sound.
Life-support functions like heart, breathing etc. are fine, but the only things I have control of are my eyes. I move them up as far as I can and I see a helmeted head. He’s not looking at me; he’s looking at the corridor. He disappears from my field of view as he leaves the room.
I don’t hear his progress at all. He’s good. The roach, or another one like it, comes out again and wanders across to the corner. It investigates the chocolate bar wrapper. I’m lying full-length on the mattress, utterly unable to move a muscle. When the Guard’s done whatever it is he’s doing, no doubt he’ll come back for me: to question me, arrest me – or, very probably, worse.
I hear yells for a moment in the distance, then silence. The crackle of a Guard radio.
Later more booted footsteps, these running up the stairs. They go straight on. Shortly there are voices, and then the booted feet – much heavier now – return more slowly and stomp back down the stairs. No doubt Guard carrying their captives.
I wait.
I know the paralysis will wear off after half an hour or so, so I’m not worried about that; I’m worried about not being able to get out of here before the Guard comes back.
Footsteps approaching. I sense a shadow in the doorway, and then a figure moves into view. We look at each other. He’s tall, muscular, and he’s packing a big bulge between his shiny thighs. If you like hunks in tight black leather you’d go weak at the fucking knees.
He stands at the head end of the mattress and looks down at me. His lips move below the black-and-gold helmet. “And what might you be doing here, boy?”
Of course he knows I can’t reply.
He puts his gloved hands on his hips. “This your home?” He swings round, looking at the décor, then back at me. “Squatting. Contrary to Section two, Subsection 5, City Ordinance.”
I look up mutely at him. Like most people I have a hard-wired fear of the Guard. No, it’s not just fear, it’s a lot more complicated: they’re intensely intimidating, but then they work hard on that; I’m terrified of them because of what they can do to you if they want to; but I’m also in awe of them – a mixture of grudging respect and wide-eyed admiration at the way they look, their power and authority. And their gear is a large part of that power.
He could call it in, lift me over his shoulder and take me down to the street, where I’d be restrained in the van, driven around looking at the inside of a hood for hours while we pick up more miscreants, and eventually taken to one of the Guard stations. There, anything could happen. Questioning, interrogation, torture, arrest – you name it. Whatever they feel like doing to you. But he doesn’t call it in. His leathers creak and the brick dust on the floor crunches under his boots as he sits down on the very end of the mattress beyond my head. I can no longer see him properly but I can hear him. His back is against the wall.
From a pocket he takes out a bar of some kind and starts to chew it. “You were lucky there,” he says. “Those four were Klebb gang. If they’d found you, you would not have been happy.” He pats his para-gun. “Useful things these.”
For a moment I think I can move a finger – but no, false alarm. I wonder what this guy is doing – is he waiting for other Guard? He could handle me with one arm tied behind his back. I’m not a big lad; strong enough, but hardly a match for a Guard in full kit. And he’s got the para-gun.
“Y’know,” he says with his mouth half full, “I like my job. Being a Guard. Oh some days it sucks, but then you find a boy in a room somewhere and you think to yourself I could take him downstairs, drop him in the van. And you never see him again; he gets taken to the station and other guys get to deal with him. And sometimes, just now and then, I don’t necessarily want the others to have all the fun.” He swallows, crumples the wrapper and throws it at the window. It falls to the floor before it gets there.
He wants to have fun with me? Oh shit. That can mean anything from careful work with an electric prod, to cutting bits off slowly. This guy is a psycho.
I try to move the first finger of my right hand – that’s the side that’s away from him. I can feel it move a little. The paralysis is beginning to wear off. I mustn’t let him know that.
He crosses his arms and is silent. Time passes.
I can move my arm now – I guess I could move the left one too but I don’t try; I don’t want him to see. It tingles a bit as the ability to move something comes back. Nothing much but I realise I can use that to tell how far it’s progressing.
He uncrosses his arms and pushes himself to his feet. Walks to the window, looks out into the street. I can move my legs now, but I keep still.
He turns, looks at me, walks back over, looks down. “You’re acting, boy. You can move again.”
For a moment I consider jumping up and bolting out of the room, running to the old elevator shaft and getting lost in the floors below.
It’s as if he can hear my thoughts. He shakes his head. “Don’t,” he says.
I know that I wouldn’t even get to the doorway.
“What are you going to do to me?” It’s probably the residual effects of the para-gun, but my voice comes out much more shaky than I’d intended.
He kneels on the mattress, astride my thighs, gazing down at me. Having a Guard over me like that is unbelievably intimidating. The helmet concealing his face, the shiny black leathers bulging with his muscles and his manhood. The tight, thin gloves. His power, his masculinity. He is a beautiful shape under that kit. But I am terrified.
I tense as I see him reach into a pocket. I expect him to bring out his knife, or an electric prod. But he holds a nut bar in his shiny black fingers. He offers it to me.
“Food. Eat.”
I’m still paralysed – but now from fear rather than by the drug.
“Go on. Take it. You know you want to.” He tears it open, offers it again.
Tentatively I reach up, ready for him to snatch it away and drive his fist into my stomach, my balls, or my face. But he doesn’t. My fingers take it and he smiles. I cram it into my mouth. It’s good.
When it’s finished, I whisper, “thank you.”
He pushes himself backwards and then, very gently, he lays on top of me. He’s careful not to squash me too much but I can feel his weight on me, pushing me down. Holding me down. I can smell the heavy leather. I can see my own reflection in the gold visor of his helmet. I can feel his bulge pressing into my crotch. It feels like it’s hard – but perhaps there’s a stiff protector of some kind under the leather. Yeah, that’s what it’ll be.
He runs a finger across my blond fringe. “You are a very pretty boy,” he says.
Oh shit. I’m going to get fucked and raped and… That is not protection under his leathers, that is hard cock.
“Please don’t -”
He puts his finger over my lips. “Shhh…” He kneels up again, then he grips my tee shirt and slowly pulls it off over my head. He strokes my chest and stomach gently with his leather fingers, and when they come to rest on the button of my jeans he undoes it. Very slowly, he pulls the zip down. “Take them off,” he says quietly.
I know I have no choice. I pull my boots off, then I stand up and remove my jeans.
“And those.”
I take off my boxers. He stands as well, watching me.
I am totally naked, he is in his full kit. We’re facing each other and I’m looking at him: a Guard. Here. In my room. Oh shit.
I’m conscious of terror and something else battling in my mind. After what seems like an eternity the something else wins: I suddenly feel the need, the urgent need, to feel him. I step forward, put my arms around him tightly.
He doesn’t move for a while, and then his arms come up and they’re around me. Oh God, he feels amazing. I can feel his leathers touching every square inch of me. I feel his muscles – he could crush me so easily if he wanted to – his power, his sexuality.
I don’t believe this is happening. I’m embracing a fucking Guard. My cock is hard now. It’s rubbing against his leather bulge.
He looks at me for a long moment, then he says “Do whatever you like, boy. Anything at all.”
I could grab his para-gun and shoot him with it. I could knee him in the balls and run away. There are many things I could try to do to him. But I don’t. I reach down to his bulge and feel his hard cock under the leather. I move it from side to side, grip it. Then I bend down and take the end of it gently between my lips. I lick it. I lick over the end, and down the length of it as far as the leather will allow. Then back up again.
I hold the bulge of his cock with my hand and I bury my face in his leather jacket. I lick that too.
I stare at my reflection in his gold visor, and then, tentatively, I reach up and grip his helmet. He doesn’t stop me as I carefully lift it off. Every helmet is custom-fitted to the individual officer and so it’s not easy to remove. And I know that he could be severely admonished for taking it off.
The helmet comes up, and I’m looking into a pair of soft, deep blue eyes. His hair is black, short, spiky, and he has a slight stubble. Like most of the Guard he’s in his twenties. He’s very handsome. He looks masculine, very straight. But I suppose he can’t be straight.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hello.” He smiles, then he pulls my head close and kisses me.
His hands are on my shoulders, pushing me down onto the mattress. He lays me face down. I expect to get fucked immediately, but instead he brushes his lips over the back of my neck, smells my hair. He nibbles my ear for a while, then runs his hands over my back and buttocks, my thighs.
I feel his leather-clad legs between mine and he pushes them apart. A moment later the quiet sound of press-studs, and then I hear him spit on his hand. Then his weight is back on me. I know from when I was feeling it under the leather that his cock is big, and I screw my face up expecting agony as he thrusts it into me. But he doesn’t. I feel the tip nuzzling against my sphincter, and then pressure as it opens and the head slips inside. There is no pain. There is only wonder.
He pauses, to let me get used to the feeling, then pushes slowly further in. He must know he’s a big boy because he’s so careful. In a bit, pause, in a bit further. Before I know it, it’s all inside me.
He begins to fuck me. I’m stunned by – and ridiculously grateful for - his gentleness. I’m conscious of his weight on me, his warm breath on the side of my neck, his gloved hands on my shoulders, the smell of leather. God this is wonderful. I want to make it feel beautiful for him but I’ve never been fucked before and I have no idea what to do. Do I relax everything? Do I squeeze? If so at what point in the stroke? All these things go through my mind. In the end I don’t worry about any of them – I just do what feels right. That seems to be fine with him.
Every time he pushes into me I can feel his leathers against my skin. I don’t understand it, but that feels so good. I want to feel them more. I grab a hand, bring it to my face and cover my mouth with it. He gets the idea and gags me hard.
His strokes are speeding up. I can hear his breath, now panting in time with his thrusts, next to my ear. My own cock is rubbing against the mattress but I know that’s not going to make me cum. I don’t care. I want this Guard in me. I want to be fucked by this Guard in his combat leathers.
He groans through gritted teeth, his muscles tense, and there’s an extra-hard thrust. He spears me with his cock. His spunk pumps out into me and I can feel every spurt. I suck and lick the palm of his gagging leather hand.
He exhales – a long, shuddering breath. Then he takes his hand from my mouth and squeezes me with both arms, his hands on my shoulders. He carefully pulls out of me and then rolls off. I hear press studs as he fastens himself up.
I turn over. He is smiling. So am I.
He kneels over me, takes my hands and puts them on his hips. Then he takes my hard cock in one gloved hand and begins to stroke me very slowly indeed. I move my fingers, running them over his shiny black leathers: his jacket, his belt, his thighs, his bulge.
He seems to know when I’m not far from cumming, and speeds his hand up. At the same time he leans forward and gags me again. My body jerks and I cum into the milking leather glove, his soft blue eyes inches from mine.
I stare into them, surprised and grateful. I’d have expected him to lose interest in me completely after he’d cum, but he didn’t. This Guard didn’t just take pleasure, he wanted to give me pleasure as well.
We lay for a while together on the mattress.
Then he gets up, tosses me another nut bar, and tousles my hair. He puts his helmet back on and walks to the doorway, his booted feet echoing in the bare room. He turns to me. “Thank you, pretty boy.”
“Will I see you again?” I ask.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “We know where you live, now.”
He’s gone.
I put my clothes back on, and look out of the window down into the street. Perhaps I’ll see him leave the building. Will he look up?
I watch for ages but I don’t see him. Eventually I sit on the mattress again. I turn the nut bar over in my fingers – its wrapper smells of leather from being in his pocket. Carefully, I put it with my other treasured things in the bag.
I close my eyes. I feel strangely complete.