Billy and the Goon - 11. Chapter 11

Billy was trying on a pair of jeans when the locked changing room door popped open, and a voice ordered, “Turn.” He did, but there wasn’t room to do “Fifty,” so he stayed on his feet.

“Cameras?” he asked cautiously, as the door relocked.

“Would you care?” came the answer. Then the goon stripped Billy and turned his head to see an overhead pipe.

“Chins.”

Like crunches, they weren’t Billy’s favorites, but he did twenty-five, with the goon’s licked thumb working deeper into him, each time he bobbed up and down. Then it popped like a cork, and Billy swore the goon made that sound with his mouth.

“Over the bench,” he was told. It seemed impossible. The seat was maybe three feet wide, half as deep, and pinned to walls on three sides. But Billy dropped to his knees and squeezed his head and neck, face down, onto the ledge.

The goon didn’t care and slowly began to bump Billy from behind, while clamping his nipples tighter every time their bodies came close.

“I can’t scream. I can’t scream. I’ll get arrested,” Billy kept telling himself. And he wasn’t in pain from the goon. As usual, he was using a lubed rubber. But his knees hurt from the concrete under the tile, and the kneeling put more pressure on his neck.

“Did the goon care?” Billy wondered. “Nah.”

And he accidently giggled.

“You think this is funny?” the goon asked.

“Everything you do is funny, macho man.”

It was something he shouldn’t have said because the goon clenched Billy’s nipples in ways that had made him melt down before.

Billy didn’t make a sound.

“I’m impressed,” the goon soon admitted.

“I can’t lose my license,” Billy simply told him. “I’d have to sell my house, and then where would we play?”

“Oh, I think I’d find places,” the goon said.

Billy could only wonder, “Why does this jerk keep taking risks?” But his dick gave him the answer, and, this time, he shot before the goon.

Would he be punished for that?

Nah, the goon didn’t to care.

But the changing room had a louvered door and was open above eight feet – Billy had seen the other rooms while he chinned – so anyone could walk in and hear. He was never loud, but hated shooting silently. It was like being in high school again and living home. The goon had no problem with discipline, so much that Billy couldn’t even tell that he’d finished till he wiped his hands on Billy’s back and tossed wet rubber in the same place.

Billy straightened out, but stayed on his knees till he was told otherwise. His come pooled on the tile before him.

“Lick,” the goon ordered, and Billy dove. He might get sick from the dust, but the goon had worse ways to make him scream.

Done, Billy looked up. But the goon had vanished – and taken Billy’s clothes with him, leaving only the new jeans Billy had been trying on. Billy had to buy them, plus a T-shirt and cheap shoes. Still, the goon had left his keys, wallet, and phone. He wanted to play another day.