Boy of the West End
Boy of the West End
Early summer 1980
Angle moaned delightfully. The kid knew how to enjoy his sex, and Mike Smith wanted to make the most of the opportunity with the Italian stagehand; a celebratory fuck now that he knew he was free of James Rosen for a while. How strange to be in a country where what he and Angle were doing was not illegal, Mike reflected between thrusts. Even though by a few months he was no longer a teen, were they back in England, having sex with another man would land him in prison if anyone caught him "on the job." Oh, and there had been so many opportunities for that! He had Angle up in the doggy position and they had been at it for a good ten minutes. With one hand, he gripped the boy's hollowed flank, and the other he wrapped around and under to stroke Angle's substantial little-guy's cock.
Mike supposed the appeal - more than huge puppy-like eyes which seemed to be all dark brown irises - was that for an eighteen-year-old, Angle looked years younger, and he was possessed of a very long dick. That and his undeniable cute-Italian charm, a mixture of sociability and seduction all rolled up in a sexy package. His name was Angelo, of course, but the Americans on the crew called him Angle, because he always seemed to have one. In this case, Mike well knew it would be wangling a present out of him. At their first encounter it had been: "Americani, all rich. You buy me present. I give you plenty good times at night. I find other boys who do it good."
"I'm British," Mike pointed out with his typical cheeky smile.
"So, Mich-ha-el Smeeth, you fuck better then," Angle came back, even cheekier.
Tonight's sex session was supposed to help relieve a bout of severe randiness brought on by obsessing ( stupid, stupid, stupid ) over the new gofer he had heard was due in from L.A. any day. He had nipped out to a bar he knew some of the Italian crews frequented and, sure enough, Angle was happy to come back to Mike's room and let him bang his skinny butt. The Italian boy weighed the half of Mike, so it was no problem to roll him to his side, then pull him around onto his back while stepping first one knee then the other over his thigh. He completed the maneuver without pulling out of the kid's hot asshole and barely interrupted the pumping motion of his cock. Angelo's shining face peered up, all wide-eyed, dirty innocence and lust.
His balls ached for release, and when Mike came the burst of orgasm expanded the girth of his cock and Angelo grunted hot breaths of bliss. Angle's cock, grasped in Mike's hand oozed pre-cum. For a moment Mike imagined it was James Rosen he was screwing - punishing, really - and he put every last ounce of energy into pumping the kid full of spunk. Angle clenched his ass muscles in syncopation with every snort of air gasped from his little Italian lungs.
And then Mike slowed and brought the boy's face back into focus. What would it feel like to really fuck James Rosen? He grinned with bestial happiness at the release and forgetfulness Angle had brought him - in spite of momentarily imagining Rosen. At least he'd expelled wanton images of sexy young American gofers. In gratitude he pulled his dick from the wet ass, slumped forward, and took the boy's long, slick cock in his mouth. Angle's slender body convulsed with pleasure and his ribs stood up like whalebones from his chest in a heaving framework. He reached with both hands to bury his fingers in Mike's thick hair and then pressed down on the back of his head to urge even harder suction. With only two more pulls, Mike felt the bursting pressure of Angle's orgasm. His choked grunts of pleasure enraptured Mike. Seeing and hearing th