Jimmy Manley shares the cramped backseat of a Volkswagen with two men that he does not know. Roger Bones sits up front, in the passenger seat.
The man sitting next to Jimmy slips his hand onto Jimmy’s thigh.
Jimmy’s body goes tense, but he tries his best to act natural. Jesus, not here, he thinks. Not now. He twists his lean frame, trying to protect his middle. His cock.
The man sitting next to Jimmy is Sven. His knees tent on the car’s center hump. His blonde hair is cut short, like a Marine, and he speaks with a clipped accent that Jimmy can’t place. With his hand still on Jimmy’s thigh, Sven bends his head toward the ear of the man on his other side—the only way to be heard above the din of wind noise that fills the car.
Jimmy can feel his dick swelling unbidden in his jeans. He swallows and looks out his window. He’s a good looking boy. Olive skin in sharp contrast to the ribbed white tank top stretched over his lean frame.
Sven isn’t moving his hand, but he isn’t removing it either.
Jimmy keeps his eyes on the rolling fields passing by. A quiver passes through his bony shoulders, down his strong sinewy arms. With a gentle squeeze, Sven removes his hand from Jimmy’s thigh.
Jimmy feels relieved.
He glances toward Roger. The wind whips his soft brown hair about his head. Had Roger not dropped out of high school, he would have been in Carnal’s senior class with Jimmy. Both boys are eighteen, but Roger is clearly dominant. Jimmy feels lucky to hang out with him. The other boys in Roger’s crowd—an elite group of toughs—wouldn’t even give Jimmy the time of day. Roger waves his slender hands in the air as he talks to the man driving. Although Roger is shouting, Jimmy can’t make out a thing he says. The driver points to his ear and shakes his head.