Halfway

As they say, the jig was up.

"I'm not sure I can afford any of this," I said, transitioning to what I sensed he wanted me to be. My stance went into that of a female and I gave him a come-on look. I let my voice go into a higher register. "My suitcase is in the car that hasn't come back for me yet." My helpless lass pose.

"And, so, you don't just need a new duffle bag"—he was helping himself to rummaging around in my slit duffel, not being visibly surprised at some of the items he found—"you could use more clothes and maybe a place to sleep."

"Yes, probably," I said. "But I don't really have enough to pay for—"

"Yes, I think you do," he said, giving me a meaningful look. "I live in the apartment upstairs—with Gus, who runs the gas station. We've got beds up there. I think you can provide more than enough to cover the cost of anything here and a place to sleep if you come upstairs with Gus and me."

At Kirk's request—he had told me his name was Kirk, and exchange, having taken the stance he obviously wanted, I told him my name was Angel—I straddled his hips on his bed upstairs, wearing just the red satin shift he'd picked out. He was naked, and his body was fine enough, the cock adequate for the need. He'd given me time to do some makeup, so that I was mostly female for him. He appreciated the part that wasn't, though, putting his hands on my buttocks and pulling me forward over his chest until, brushing the hem of the shift up, my hard cock was exposed to the attentions of his mouth.

I had already given him a blow job and he was working himself hard again while giving me some attention.

Raising his torso up to me, an arm went around my waist, pushing the shift up to below my tits, his cheek went to my bare belly, and his free hand traveled up to squeeze my tits and pinch my nipples. I gave him the sounds I was sure he wanted to hear. Coaxing my buttocks forward and down, I helped his sheathed cock head center on my lubed and puckered entrance and then, as he gasped and groaned, I descended on his shaft.

His lips went to my nipples, and as we rocked back and forth and he panted, I murmured, "Yes, big boy, fuck me deep. Yes, just like that. Fuck me, fuck me."

As we rocked against each other I sensed we weren't alone in the bedroom. The hulk from the gas station—Gus—had entered the room at some point. He was pulling his clothes off and had his meat out. He was erect and, where Kirk was adequate, Gus was much more than adequate. He was big, tall, and heavy—but much of the heaviness was in muscle. Whereas Kirk was more bookish, Gus was just the sort of guy who came into the bar I'd worked at in Harrisburg and paid for hard use of my ass.

He came up on the bed behind me, straddling Kirk's thighs with his knees. His hands went to my breasts, and he leaned my shoulder blades back into his hairy chest. "I don't want to wait for a turn," he murmured in my ear. "Can you—?"

"Yes," I answered before he finished. He was my kind of guy. I wanted him inside me. Strangely, though, as he pulled the shift off of me in one movement and pushed my chest down onto Kirk's, causing my buttocks to rise to the need of his slow invasion of me on top of Kirk's buried shaft, my thoughts went to the commanding presence of the man in the diner—the obvious bid daddy of this tiny burg of Halfway—and fantasies of him being inside me.

Gus began to pump, squeezing my breasts hard, latching onto the side of my neck with his teeth, as Kirk encased my cock in one of his hands and started to stroke me.

"Yes, Daddy, yes. Fuck me, fuck me. Fuck me hard."

Where I slept that night wasn't a problem. I was wedged between Kirk and Gus on the bed they apparently shared. I'd been shown a bedroom I could use, but I didn't use it that night.

* * * *

I stopped out by the road in front of the consignment shop to catch my breath and steel myself for what came next. It hadn't rained here since the landing of Noah's ark on the mountain, I didn't think, and each passing semitruck, entering or exiting I-81 raised dust up to my ankles. That's all I could see moving hereabouts. Semis. Not that the small groupings of buildings were lifeless. Just that everything was on hold—and watching me. Kirk was standing into the doorway of the consignment shop, watching me as I paused at the road. Gus and the shy Dan were stationed at the gas station window, watching me. The tattooed waiter in the diner was just outside the diner door, back against a window column, one leg bent with the sole of his boot against the diner wall, smoking a cigarette—and watching me. Faces of men—truckers—inside the diner: all were turned to me, watching me.

I wasn't anyway in one direction today yet. I was half way, my hair pulled back in a pony tail, no facial makeup, but still the lilac nail polish, and I was wearing a tight T-shirt from the consignment shop. Today I had tits that showed. The satchel I'd taken from the consignment shop was stuffed with makeup. I had the red slinky shift and lacy panties folded into the purse as well. Kirk had told me to take anything I wanted from the shop—and to come back to bed.

With a sigh, I set my shoulders and turned and walked toward the bridge over I-81—headed for that flashing neon Halfway Adult Bookstore sign beckoning from across the bridge.

Over breakfast Kirk confirmed my assumption that there was more going on at the bookstore than books—that there was a gay bar behind the store front and rooms upstairs. He said this was the place that men who wanted men gathered from all over central Pennsylvania. This had come out when I remarked that I hadn't seen any women around here yet.

"You wouldn't," he'd answered. "Half way is strictly a man's world. But half men are welcome here too—especially welcome," he'd been quick to add.

I'd asked about work around here and places to stay.

"Mostly small farms around here," he said. "Pretty self-sufficient. You could work part time right here in the shop, but there's not much need for extra help. You can, of course, bunk out upstairs for as long as you want. But if I was you . . . and knowing now what you're prepared to do for a man . . . well, I'd go over to the other side of the bridge. They'd eat you up over there, I'm sure. That's where you could make money. Afternoons here in the store; evenings over there."

"You say they have a bar going?"

"Yep, they sure do."

"And entertainment? I worked the pole in some bars in Harrisburg."

"Then you'd find work over there. Just assert yourself and what you have to offer in the storefront and I'm sure they'd be eager to show you what's happening in back. But to work there, you have to pass muster with Mr. Kincaid."

"Mr. Kincaid? Who's he?"

"He owns the operation over there. Hell, he owns all of the operations here. The rest of us just work for him. You want to work here, you have to work for him too. And work hard for him. But whatever you do, don't let him take you back to his farm."

Ah, the big daddy I saw in the diner, I thought. Yeah I could work for him. "What's at his farm I wouldn't like?"

"The same that he'll give you a taste of in deciding to hire you. The same, but much more. Young men who go out to his farm with him never come back—at least not to here."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."

And I did keep it in mind all the time I was walking toward the bookstore. I paused in the middle of the bridge spanning I-81, and stood there, looking down on the traffic roaring past. Semis. A whole bunch of semis. But cars too. I found myself picking out the Buicks and wondering about Larry. Wondering if he was having second thoughts and would come back for me. I found myself leaning over the parapet, thinking about how easy it would be just to pitch over the side into oncoming traffic. Change it all here. Not being half of anything anymore. Being a whole, mangled corpse. Visions of Larry coming back to me and coming upon my crumpled body in the middle of the roadway below. He'd be sorry. Yeah, right.

What scared me was that I found that attractive—a viable option.

I thought about this Mr. Kincaid. I had dreamed of the man in the diner fucking me while Kirk and Gus were doing that last night. Being given the hint that he was demanding, taxing, in sex by Kirk didn't change my attraction to him. Rather the opposite. That scared me too.

Nearly everything scared me in my life of half this, half that. But, hell, I found that attractive too.

I turned and marched on to the bookstore.

The store part itself didn't take up much room. It was obvious that there was more going on here behind the scenes. The parking lot was full of semis and yet I was the only one in the store, other than the clerk, when I entered. The guy, a gawky nondescript guy other than the big biceps and covering tattoos, was hunched over the counter, staring into a muscle-builder magazine when I entered. He looked up and suddenly was all attention.

"Yes, may I help you?" he asked, giving the impression that he would move mountains to help me.

"I'm looking for work," I answered. "I dance the pole in Harrisburg, was dropped here without ongoing prospects, and have been told there might be work for me in whatever is behind this store." I had decided not to start off with any lies. They quickly caught up with you in a dive like this.

"That's a distinct possibility," the guy answered, giving me a big grin and almost whistling for me. "Not my call, though. Come on to the back. You're in luck. Mr. Kincaid is here."

"You have a john I can use before I go back?" I asked.

"Over in the corner. You want company?" We both knew what he was proposing—and that he was just flirting. The way he was treating me like visiting royalty pretty much revealed that he knew I was above his pay grade in terms of servicing.

I had been prepared to work my way past the bookstore clerk if that was necessary, but it apparently wasn't necessary, so I just smiled and said, "No thanks." But I added, "Maybe later." No sense burning any bridges.

I spent several minutes in the john becoming fully Angel, and, when I came out with my hair down, my face made up, and wearing the panties and the red satin shift, the clerk's eyes bugged out and he actually did whistle.

"God damn," he said in a hoarse voice.

"Can you show me how to get into the bar?" I asked, using my breathy Angel voice, cultivated from watching numerous Marilyn Monroe movies.

"God Damn," was all he was able to say, but he did usher me to a door at the back of the store that was shielded by a beaded curtain. That opened to a smoky room, with a low hub bub of voices coming from a smattering of men hunched over tables. Sitting alone at a table, facing the room, at one end of a bar, was the same man I'd seen in the diner. Undoubtedly Mr. Kincaid.

All sound stopped for a few seconds when I appeared at the door and then it started again in earnest.

The clerk went over to Kincaid to tell him what I was interested in doing for this operation, and Kincaid waved me over to his table.

"Russ Kincaid," he said, as I sauntered over to the table, remembering to use my hips. He didn't ask me to sit down, so I stood there, letting his eyes undress and ravish me. "I understand you're an entertainer and looking for a job."

"I'm Angel," I answered. "Yes, I'd like to do a gig here. I've danced the pole at some bars in Harrisburg. As you no doubt figured out, I was stranded here. Need to make some transportation money."

"You dance the pole? And, tell me Angel, do you lay on your back and open our legs too for a cut of the profit?"

"Yes."

"Tell you what. I'll give you a trial. Go over there and pick your music out on the juke box and do fifteen minutes of dancing on the stage there. Any of these guys who wants to take you upstairs afterward, you'll get half. What they pay will depend on demand and what I think they can afford. After that there will be a private audition with me, though, to determine whether you come back tonight for a full session."

"Sounds fair to me." I didn't bother to ask how much half of a fuck session would be. I was lucky to get half, this being an audition and all. And maybe there wouldn't be any takers.

As I moved over to the juke box, though, the chance of there being takers was increasing alarmingly. The clerk in the bookstore must have made some phone calls, because there suddenly were about twenty men—of all ages and sizes and shapes—gathering around the stage, with its solitary pole.

I danced the pole, briefly in the red sheath, but then in just the panties for a half hour or more. After the first song, the crowd was asking for more and someone was at the juke box bringing up another song. Kincaid didn't stop the show until after the sixth song and until after men stopped drifting back to his table to consult with him.

Afterward, the bartender ushered me upstairs to a room with a bed, a straight chair, and a dresser, and told me that I might as well lay on my back at the foot of the bed, strip off the panties, and open my legs.

Wham bang, right after that a quick succession of four guys were shown into the room, their hard dongs already exposed, and got right down to the business of fucking me—two in the missionary position and two doggy style. They must have been on a time clock, because there was little talking and they all worked to an ejaculation in less than fifteen minutes each.

Afterward the bartender reappeared, told me to put the panties and shift on again, handed me $200 in cash, and told me that Mr. Kincaid was waiting in his car out back.

"He's not doing it here?" I asked, afraid that he was going to take me out to his farm—where Kirk had warned me not to go.

"He has a room he likes to use at the motel across the highway," the bartender said.

Kincaid drove a fancy Mercedes. He said nothing in the short ride, but when we got to the motel, instead of going immediately inside, he pulled my face down into his lap and made me give him a blow job. His cock was long and thick. Somehow I'd known it would be.

Dan from over at the gas station was at the desk in the motel office when we entered. His eyes went big and his face revealed a look of concern when he saw me enter with Kincaid.

"I'll take the key to room 8, Dan," Kincaid said.

"Yes, Mr. Kincaid," Dan said. As he turned to take the key off the rack, he flashed me a warning look. I was touched that there was someone—anyone—who cared what happened to me.

In the room, which I realized Kincaid kept and prepared for just this sort of session, the big hunk beat the hell out of me before fucking me. As the door clicked shut, locked, he caught my cheek in an unexpected backswing that sent me reeling across the room and landing belly over the foot of the bed. He pulled me up by my hair, spun me around, and punched me in the stomach. I doubled over, and he pulled me up by my hair again and slapped me twice.

None of it was full force, but I was fully cowed and malleable now, just going into whatever position he wanted and giving him anything he wanted. What he first wanted was to rip off the shift and panties, force me down on all fours on the carpet, mount me, and fuck me hard. His hands went to my throat, and as he rhythmically pumped me deep, the pressure of his hands took me to the brink of unconsciousness and back until, as he gushed his cum, he didn't release the pressure and I blacked out.

I woke to the sound and the feel of the lashes on my back and buttocks. I was spread-eagled, belly down, on the bed, my wrists and ankles restrained at all four corners of the bed. He lashed me with the hand whip until I was fully awake and moaning and begging him to fuck me again. I much preferred that to this. When he came down on top of me, entered me, and began to pump, I whimpered the, "Yes, Yes, fuck me. Fuck me, Daddy, fuck me hard," that I knew he wanted to hear.

I must have passed the audition, because when he was done, had dressed, and released my restraints, he said, "You start at the bar tomorrow night at 8:00 p.m. The room you were in there is yours to sleep in. You may use this room until then. Get plenty of rest."

And then he was gone. I heard the powerful motor of his Mercedes start up and then silence. I lay there, assessing the damage, which wasn't all that much. Some welts and bruises. Once started, Kincaid gave me the impression that he was holding himself in check for now, but that he had so much more to give of what turned him on. I was still money in the bank to him now. I pulled myself up into a fetal position and moaned deeply.

"Are you OK?"

I turned my face toward the door to the room. Dan was standing there, looking very concerned.

"I will be," I answered in a weary voice. "Maybe in a hundred years."

"I have something that can help. Some salve. But it's over in my room behind the garage. If you give me a few minutes, I'll go over and get it and—"

"No, not here," I muttered. "I don't want to spend any more time in this room than I have to."

"I understand," Dan said. His voice was gentle and it was as if he really did understand—that this was a common occurrence here in Halfway. Suddenly, the little village wasn't benign anymore. I had now met the owner, the führer of the town.

"Can we go to the salve?" I asked, sitting up on the side of the bed, with effort. "In my satchel there. my shirt and trousers, please."

With trembling hands, Dan helped me to dress. He blushed as he touched tender skin. I knew what he'd like to have. I also knew that he probably was the only man in town who wouldn't simply take it given the opportunity and power to.

He was just as sensitive in applying the salve to my back and buttocks when we were sitting on the single bed in the small room he had off the back of the garage across the road from the motel. He clucked and groaned as he rubbed on the cream as if the wounds, the slight pain—I didn't want to overrepresent how much real damage Kincaid had done—were his as much as mine.

When he was done, I slid down onto my knees on the floor, pressing in between his knees.

He looked down at me, paralyzed with shock, a rumbling coming up from deep inside him, as I unzipped him and fished out his cock. He was hard, of course, and it was a very nice cock, maybe the nicest physical attribute of him. I rubbed the shaft against my cheeks and looked up and gave him a saucy look.

"God . . . no . . . you don't have to do this," he stammered, his face contorted and beet red.

"That's why I'm doing it," I said, "because I don't have to. I'm doing it because I want to."

He groaned and laced his fingers into my hair at the back of my head. There was a momentary pull of my head, as if he wanted to pull me away, but then I had his cock in my mouth and was sucking hard on his bulb. With a shudder, all of the tension went out of him, his hands cupping my head began to fall into the rhythm I was establishing of my lips gliding up and down his shaft, and he moaned in sheer ecstasy.

I didn't have to, and Dan certainly didn't expect me to, but I stretched out on his bed on my back then and let him explore my body with his hands at will—which he did at great length. He didn't suck me off, but he did stroke me to an ejaculation, and I gave him an award-winning performance with that, arching my back, writhing my hips against the slow pumping of his hand, grasping his elbow with my hand, whimpering for him, and, upon ejaculation, crying out for him to fuck me as I shot my load.

With coaxing, he took me in a side split from behind, and as long as he was behind me I could imagine it was the hunkiest of Hollywood actors mining my channel. There was nothing wrong with the size of his cock and what he could do with it. There was a brief awkwardness when I realized he had nothing in the room in the way of lube or condoms, but I was able to supply them from my satchel.