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| I was drunk. The bars had started to close and now all I
wanted to do was find a cab, go home, and pass out for the night.
I was walking back towards Sixth Avenue to find a cab when it
"Hey, faggot!" I heard a split second before the sidewalk leaped up to clip me in the back of my head. Even drunk, I had enough sense to roll once I hit the ground and missed getting skulled by the bastard's follow through. Scrambling and staggering up to my feet, I saw five things: four bashers standing between me and the end of the alley, and that I was in deep trouble. In the streetlight I saw two of the punks holding baseball bats, one other playing with a switchblade in front of his eyes, and the fourth, rubbing his fist, the guy who probably had hit me from behind. Even worse, I was in an alley lined with dumpsters and they stood between me and the street. On the other three sides of the alley were the grey walls of emptied office buildings. The street, only a few second ago alive with people, now was deserted. Knowing it was putting me further away from the safety of the street, I backed further into the alley looking something to use as a weapon.
"You gonna make us work for this, faggot?" the bastard with the switchblade asked? The four moved into the alley towards me and my eyes were switching between the thugs and the dumpsters, looking for something to use. With some luck, I could make them do overtime, even outnumbered. But the dumpsters were shut and they split up to circle me in the middle of the alley. The one with the knife began to playfully swing his knife in front of me, driving me further into the center of the circle. I could see a tatoo on the arm of the guy playing with the knife, all four of them were laughing.
"Put that knife down."
A voice from where? All four turned around and I took the chance; I bolted between two of them towards the streetlight. One of them turned and tripped me; I feel headlong and felt a bomb explode on the back of my head. I turned over on my ass to see where the voice came from.
A shadow walked out from between two of the dumpsters, and the streetlight made it into a man. Taller than the dumpsters, dressed only in leather jeans and sandals, he pointed to me.
"Let him go." The voice was a deep bass with a hint of an accent. West Indian? Dazed, my vision began to blur in and out, I thought I saw a giant, a dreadlocked, obsidian-skinned giant, well over seven feet, emerge further from the shadows of the dumpsters. The bashers were trying to decide whether to attack him as well, shouting at each other for the other to move first.
The tattooed punk tried first, slashing at the giant's chest or would have slashed had an arm of iron cable leashed out to pluck the knife right out of his hand. He casually tossed it over into an open dumpster; the only sound in the alley beside their panicking breaths was the clatter of it hitting the bottom.
"You're next." In a casual-looking swipe, the punk found himself flying over into the air, and found himself being the first dunk shot of the evening, falling into the dumpster with his knife.
"You're gonna get it now, faggot!" One of the thugs gripped his bat for courage and took a swing at the giant's chest, who watched it coming and didn't even bother to dodge it. The bat fell with a hard clunk across a belly with muscles as big and hard as the cobblestones of the alley, and its clunk was matched by the "crack" of the bat snapping in half across his abs; one half flying across to the wall, the other still held in the thug's hands. From the asshole's face, I could tell that his swing had hurt his hands far more than the giant.
The other guy with the bat leaned in to swing at the guy's skull; as if swatting a fly he plucked the aluminum bat out of his hands, and with no more effort than hauling a handful of laundry, grabbed the dude's shirt and lifted him over and over into the air to join his comrade in the dumpster.
In the streetlight I squinted, trying to see more. The man was indeed a giant, with a massive mane of braided hair that swept back over monstrous shoulders and halfway down a back that showed each muscle working against each other.
"Get out of here, man!" he told me as the guy who had ruined a perfectly good Louisville slugger over this guy's belly decided to make one good move that night and run for his life. The skinhead decided to compound his felony by making one last swing with his crowbar and before he could even finish cocking his arms he found himself flying head over heels into the corner of the alley, the giant following him, the crowbar in the fingers of a massive hand.
"Did you drop this?" a quiet calm voice. The giant followed the jerk further until they both were in the far corner, the skinhead's hands tattooing a beat against the alley's walls, whimpering. The skinhead, cornered in several senses of the word, looked up at the bearded guy's face as, casually as handling a pencil, the crowbar appeared at the tips of his fingers.
"I asked you if you dropped this, brave little boy." The voice was playful, but the crowbar's tip waved in front of his face. I could see a pierced nose and the panicked eyes of a cornered rat.
"Maybe you should learn to carry your property, my man."
"Fuck you, faggot! Fuck you!" the punk said over and over as the man reached behind the jerk's neck with the crowbar and with one brief pause to summon the strength of his arms, I saw the muscles of his arms and shoulders underneath the dreadlocks swell and the crowbar twisted around his neck until it was beyond a U shape, the ends of the crowbar crossing over the animal's neck. His swearing died away and I saw his crotch turn dark as he pissed himself, whimpering.
"Now, you've got a nice new necklace, my man." The giant had one massive hand on the twisted metal of the crowbar. Casually, the hand went up and the punk with it, the punk holding his neck over the loop of bent crowbar as the giant walked over to the dumpster holding his other friends and tossed him in as well.
Inside the thugs were yelling for help, the police, anybody. The giant gave the dumpster an uppercut with his right fist and there was a deafening clang of metal. The side of the dumpster showed a deep dimple where his massive fist had made contact. The yelling changed into screaming for mercy as the giant flipped the dumpster lid shut, and grabbed the handles of its side.
"Bottoms up, fellows!" The dumpster floated off the ground in his massive arms and in one twirl, it overturned, floating off the ground as his massive back muscles writhed under black marble skin. The rattling of trash inside not quite drowning out their cries, he carefully put the dumpster back on the ground upside down, lid down, the three thugs trapped inside!
"Are you all right?"
I was still on the ground, trying to back away from what was happening. I was scared of both the superman who had appeared out of the blue and the wet trail I was leaving in the pavement as I tried to crawl away.
I saw him closer and in the glare of the streetlight I could see his face, a close thick beard and a high forehead below the roof of hair. On the two massive plates of his chest I could see curled hairs in a thick mat. I tried to open my mouth, but the banging in the back of my head turned into a sound that drowned out all other thoughts as I saw his hands reach for me.
"Open your eyes."
I awoke to that same voice. I was lying on my back, and from the air on my body I was shirtless, stripped down to my jeans, socks gone.
When I obeyed, I saw a bright light in my eyes.
"Now, follow the light with your eyes" the voice said, and then the light went up, down and from side to side, my eyes tracking as he told me to.
"There!" the light clicked off and after a moment of red, I could see him clearer. I was in a bed of some sort and he was leaning over me, still bare from the chest up.
"I'm Marcus" he introduced himself. "I was worried, you know. They clipped you in the back of the neck and then cut you there as well. I had to close that wound but I couldn't move you too far." Move me? The late realization that I was not, in fact, in the St. Vincent Emergency Room gave me the strength to push up on my elbows to see where in the world I was.
The walls were brick and concrete, but there were no windows. The roof had concrete and metal beams cross over utility cables. It had the feeling of a giant studio but of an underground garage as well. The floor was carpeted and the space had the usual furniture. The lights and the computer on a desk had cords which trailed along the ceiling up to the wires in the roof.
I felt a warm steel girder curl around under my shoulders.
"Now, we get you up" Marcus said, lifting me carefully until I stood. I reached to a bandage on the back of my neck. "That where they cut you."
"Thank you for saving my life." What I really wanted to say was "Why the hell didn't you call 911?" but standing shakily looking at his chest at (my) eye level, I didn't want to ask any questions I didn't know the answers to. In the even light of his space the giant looked even more awesome than in the darkness of the alley. I could not help but staring at his monstrous shoulders, which even relaxed showed cuts over cuts.
"And as for those jerks! -- he smiled, like a fox -- "I had to scare them away. Those dumpsters are good for me, you know. I've picked some excellent stuff out of those things. I don' need the cops circling them." He pointed towards a table with computer equipment on it. "All trashed, and all still work, work just fine. Why do people do that?"
"What were you doing up there?"
"I got out of the bars and got lost. I was sorta drunk."
"Bad move." He shook his head slightly, the great dreads swaying lightly across a coal-black iron back. "Those fools could have killed you, you have to watch your back."
He was walking me around his space as we talked, and I felt the strength returning to my legs and I soon could walk without having to lean on him, but I couldn't keep from rubbing alongside his velvet granite skin. And enough of my brains were returning to sense somehow that he didn't seem to mind it, either.
We stopped at the desk with the computer equipment he said he had stolen. Most of it was old, but all of it worked and was clean. "How I make my living. They send me work on the internet and I send it back that way. They don't have to worry about finding a cubicle big enough for me to fit in and I don't have to deal with those fools up there in person." He waved around at his space. "All of this" he showed me more of his thick white teeth "filched. Taken out of the trash, deserted buildings, scraps. All for free. The power?" He answered his own question. "I tap into the utilities for the phone and lights; they don't know I'm here and they can't tell, either."
My hands were idly fishing around the papers on the desk, trying to think up a subtle way to ask where I was. Behind the machines on a bulletin board I saw scraps of paper with writing in several languages on them; in the corner I saw a picture. It showed a small group of soldiers in brown uniforms standing in the desert, smiling, posing for the camera, waving the V with their fingers. On the far left was what looked like a younger and very scrawny version of Marcus, beardless, beaming with them. In the
far background of the picture was an enormous brown cloud of smoke from an explosion on the ground, a cloud shot through with yellow streams.
"Where's that?" I asked. When in doubt, keep them talking.
"That's in Iraq, man."
"Where was that taken?" I asked. I looked over to see him staring at his picture, obsidian arms crossed over his chest.
Uh. Whatever happened over there had changed him somehow, more than I could see and more than what he was happy with. I knew that if I said anything I would probably make it worse, which of course is exactly what I did next.
"And you never sued, or applied for disability, or something?"
"Disabled?" he arched his eyebrows at me with a edge to his voice. He reached down to a corner and came up with a brick in one hand. Holding it a foot in front of my face, I watched as the massive cords of his forearms and biceps swell and split against each other and his hand clamped around the brick. In a second, it crumbled under his fingers like a box of crackers, red dust dripping around dark broad fingers onto the carpet, until he opened his hand empty. He slowly, playfully, touched my chest with his index finger and ran a light trail of red brick dust from my pecs down to the top of my briefs.
"That's disabled" he purred. His hand stayed at my underwear and I lunged at the front of his jeans trying to find the zipper. I found it but his chaps were built so strong I couldn't even unzip them. "I'll do that" and he did, stripping the tight leather jeans off of legs that were long, broad kegs of muscle with a thick spread of hair over his thighs. Without knowing how we got there, I found us on the bed.
My hands ran up over a body that was its own armor until I reached his head. Wanting to keep feeling him up but wanting to set him off differently, I reached to his head and massaged his scalp under the great mane of his dreads. For a moment I felt scared as his body tensed under mine, but after a minute of massage, I was rewarded with a thick purr and growl of pleasure. It took effort to reach around and under his mass of beautiful hair, but I could see over his shoulder his circumcised cock swinging slowly up like a derrick, veins inflating as I watched.
My hands ran up and down a cut cock corded and thick like the rest of him, and my lips found a vein as thick as a drinking straw and as hard as the rest of his cock. My tongue ran down the vein until I reached the underside of his cockhead and lingered, my tip slowly circling under that massive head, as Marcus' arms wrapped around my torso and I found myself locked into his embrace like a gun in its holster. He was using his close beard as sandpaper over my cock and balls, my precum already beginning to flow.
I kept the tip of my tongue under his cockhead, lingering and massaging his tissue there, feeling his massive torso breaking into a clean-smelling hot sweat. I switched to running my tongue and then my teeth back and forth along a pulsing vein in his cock that was as hard as the rest of him and the purring and growling gave way to a long moan. I tried to obsess on his cock because Marcus was way too close to bringing me off the edge as well, my cock fitting easily into his hot mouth and throat, his thick fingers clamped over my butt, massaging its muscles easily, and toying with my asshole.
The moan grew and echoed around the room as I felt my head snapped back by something. It took the second shot for me to realize that his cum had knocked my head back with its power, and I lunged down to capture his cockhead with my lips as my hips began to pump my own load down Marcus' tight throat. Shot after shot followed until I had to break off, the last few spilling across my shoulders and the last one I felt shoot across both nipples of my pecs. The buzzing in my head faded and I could hear Marcus gasp for air, and I knew he had finished on my cock. His coal skin
shining like marble under his sweat, he leaned over me and began to brush his beard across my pecs, turned around and cleaned his own load off my chest and then to the stray shots that coated my shoulders. I returned the favor, licking my own cum that matted his thick beard.
Gasping for air, I dropped onto his massive torso, our sweat mixing over our skins and my tongue following up massaging his balls. My legs slid over his sweat and down his barrel chest down to the bed. I felt him curl around and over until I was flat on my back, him towering over me. His hands were rolling over my shoulder blades, as big as catcher's mitts. Flashing a smile again, he leaned down to kiss and his dreads fell around either side of his shoulders over our heads as I tasted and smelled my own cum on his beard. His fingers massaged around the bandage and then around my neck as a long kiss turned longer and I melted into his arms and slept.
I woke up with a start. I was back in my own bed!
The sun stabbed painfully through the windows of my studio as I pulled myself up to sit. I was still wearing my jeans and socks. Had it been a dream?
But I knew it was real. I felt a bandage on my neck; I smelled Marcus' sweet sweat on my chest. I reached into my pocket and found the slip of paper from Marcus' desk.
I had his internet address.
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