Snitches

By Habu

When a U.S. senator is named as a possible vice presidential running mate, all hell breaks out in his attempt to hide that he has a weakness for sadistic sex with rent-boys. When his thugs mess up an attempt to silence one in a D.C. hotel, snitches descend on D.C. vice cop Hardesty, not a stranger to vice himself, particularly with snitch rent-boys. Hardesty’s attempts to figure out what is what and who is doing who are complicated by his own partner’s decision to freelance blackmail the situation and to cut down on the competition in the process. Hardesty’s efforts to save the one rent-boy who isn’t snitching leads him on a merry out-of-town chase.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BarbarianSpy
• Release date: Jul 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781925190854

Habu

Habu is one of the pen names of a former supersonic spy jet pilot, intelligence agent, male model, movie actor, and diplomat. A wild youth in South East Asia was spent enjoying whatever sexual opportunities came his way, and much of his gay male writing is about recalling incidents from those days and inventing ones he’d perhaps have liked to experience. He now leads a very quiet and ordinary life.Check out our blog and get free stories. Feedback and reviews are always appreciated.

Book preview

Chapter One: Day One

He should have known. He should have known that Hal Etheridge wouldn’t have had him brought to a fleabag hotel like the Downtowner on 14th Street. Etheridge wouldn’t be in a place like this. Chaz and Fred, two of Etheridge’s minions—goons, really—had met Jason at the elevators on the 12th floor and virtually frog marched him down the corridor to a room off the back of the hotel.

Is he here? Is Etheridge here? Jason asked with a shaky voice. He didn’t like it that it was Chaz and Fred who had picked him up. They’d always leered at him when he was brought someplace to service Etheridge.

What d’ya care as long as you get paid? Fred asked. You don’t care who uses you as long as you’re paid.

Shh, keep your voices down in the corridor, Chaz admonished. Chaz was the leader of the two. Neither of them was really bright enough to be considered a leader. But they both were just the type of muscle a politician like Hal Etheridge needed to do his dirty work and cover it over, when needed.

Jason only now was getting the idea that maybe he’d been moved to the cover-it-over phase. Maybe he’d gone too far in his snit with Etheridge the last time they’d trysted. He didn’t know then, though, that a candidate likely to get a party’s nomination for president had already named U.S. Senator Hal Etheridge as a vice presidential running mate.

They stopped by a door at the end of the hall next to a window with a fire escape outside it and the brick wall of yet another building, probably built in the thirties as this hotel had been, across the alley. The neighboring building probably was as dreary and outdated as this hotel was.

Inside, Chaz growled as he turned the lock of the door to a room with an old-style key. The door swung open, and Jason saw a smallish sort of hotel room with scruffed up furnishings, a window overlooking yet another solid brick building wall, and a tired-looking bed with a brass head and footboard and a yellowing white chenille bedspread.

It wasn’t the sort of room vice-presidential contender Hal Etheridge would pick for a sex session with a regular servicing rent-boy like Jason Stuart. He didn’t go in for hotel rooms at all. He required special equipment to scratch his itch—and insulated walls. Jason was trained to serve these needs. The young blond was a real looker—a male model, minor porn star, and barista in a trending coffee bar. With blond hair, a small and perfect body, and boyish facial features, he didn’t have any trouble keeping his dance card filled in. Hal Etheridge might be his most prominent client, but he wasn’t the only up and coming politician Jason serviced.

Where’s Senator Etheridge? Jason asked in panic, well knowing the answer to that.

Inside, I said, Chaz repeated and pushed Jason inside the room, making the young man stumble forward. And I said no talkin’ in the corridor.

As the door clicked shut, Fred voiced the obvious. The senator isn’t coming. He’s busy with more important matters. We’re taking care of this for him. We’re your clients tonight. Who’s first, you or me? he said, turning to Chaz, who had Jason contained with one arm around his neck and the other around his waist, holding Jason into his body. Jason could feel that the big bruiser was hard.

Show him the cash. My back pocket.

Fred pulled a wallet out of Chaz’ back pocket while Chaz was working Jason’s belt buckle and zipper. Jason moaned, but he didn’t struggle. He did it for money and they were talking money. Fred fished four fifties out of Chaz’ wallet and went over and slapped them down on the top of a scruffed dresser.

Quickly making Jason naked, Chaz draped him bent over the back of an upholstered, low-backed boudoir chair, on his belly. Fred stood in front of the chair, holding Jason’s wrists captive and face fucking Jason with a meaty cock he’d pulled out of his unzipped pants, while Chaz knelt behind Chaz and ate his ass out while pulling on his own cock.

When he was ready, Chaz did a circle of the room holding Jason in front of him, Jason’s knees hooked on his hips and Jason’s fists locked behind Chaz’ neck, while the big bruiser crouched a bit, held Jason’s slim waist between his hands, and bounced Jason’s channel up and down on his hard cock until he’d ejaculated. Jason had come first.

Jason was calming down. This was his world, what he did for men. He even fell into the Yes, yes, you’re so big. Give it to me; be good to me, daddy routine he used to inflame johns. His eyes were on the money on the dresser. They had shown the money. Everything was going to be all right. They’d shown the money.

Chaz then dropped Jason on the bed on his belly, and before Jason could respond—even if a response were possible with these two muscle men manhandling him in the small hotel room—he had been trussed up with three pairs of handcuffs—two on his ankles, chained to the corners of the brass foot rail, with his legs spread, and the other pair handcuffing his wrists behind him. Chaz stuffed the young rent-boy’s mouth with his own briefs.

Jason started to struggle with Fred when he was handcuffing his wrists, but a fist to chin had sent Jason sprawled with an ooff. After that lashes to his buttocks and back again and again and again with Jason’s own leather belt subdued him to whimpers and ended any fight he had in him. Even this wasn’t beyond the zone yet. The fetishes Jason served—indeed what he took with the senator—included the lash and a bit of beating.

You love the strap, Fred hissed at him. Almost as much as you love the fuck.

Your turn. I’m gonna take a shower, Chaz said.

Where do you think . . . afterward? Down river or a public dump near Baltimore?

Shut your yap, Chaz admonished. He’s still got ears.

Won’t do him much good though, will they? Fred asked. They both laughed. So, you wanna do him again, or—?

Naw. No time for that, Chaz responded. You can finish him. I’m taking a dump and then a shower. Nothing we have to clean up later, or you have to do the cleaning.

Now they were beyond the zone.

Jason, paralyzed with fear, heard the door to the bathroom close and Fred’s belt buckle thump on the threadbare carpet. Then Fred, all 230 pounds of him, was on top of Jason’s hips, his knees gripping Jason’s thighs and the palms of his hands pressing down on Jason’s shoulder blades. He was thicker than Chaz had been, so it took him a minute to bury