Page 6 of Baiting Kong

The first brush of a fingertip over his nipple made him clench around Kong, who groaned and did it again, feather soft in a teasing circle that made Scout keen.

“That’s it, let me feel that ass,” Kong growled as he slid questing fingers over to play with the other one.

Scout went from halfway sated to wanting more in seconds and whined, shaking when Kong pinched one.

“Fuck yeah,” Kong growled, giving one last, savage twist before gripping Scout’s hips, fingers digging into flesh as he fucked into him.

Scout was right on the edge, again, when Kong’s strokes grew shorter as he drilled him faster, harder and with far less care than he’d shown before. There was no holding back now and Scout knew he was going to ache in the morning, but in the moment, all he wanted was to tumble off the edge with him.

Kong’s breath tickled the nape of his neck when he growled, slamming in deeper, the pulse of him filling the condom driving Scout over the edge. He hurt in all the best ways, from his shoulders to his hips, to the ache he was starting to feel in his ass as Kong slowly started softening. Movement was impossible, even after the man lifted off him and gave him a little room tostart stretching out. He just couldn’t do it. Kong had to rearrange him, but the best part of all was when Kong slid up behind him, tugged him close and held him tight, light pants making his hair puff against his neck, as Kong nuzzled him.

“You were a welcome gift tonight,” he hissed, kissing the shell of Scout’s ear. “I just might have to keep you.”

Purring, Scout slid a hand up for rest on Kong’s forearm. “I wouldn’t mind being kept.”

“Oh really,” Kong murmured. “Well, in that case, you be a good boy and don’t go getting into any trouble and we’ll see about keeping you in a more permanent capacity.”

“You promise?”

“I do.”

“Then I can be good.”

Chapter 3

(Axel)

“Come on, Pops, let’s get you back to bed,” Axel encouraged.

“You don’t need ta get me nuthin’ but another beer,” his father snarled, slapping at his hands as Axel tried to help him up.

Axel grabbed hold of his sweaty, crusty shirt anyway and dragged him away from the puddle of puke he was about to faceplant in.

“I said get off me, you ungrateful little shit.”

“Ungrateful?” Axel snarled, hauling him all the way to the stale-smelling bedroom, where everything smelled of spilled beer and cigarette smoke. “Would you rather pass out in a pile of puke again?”

“Pass out wherever the hell I please,” his pops grumbled, but most of the fight had gone out of him now, and his words were starting to slur together more. “This is my place. My place. Don’t you come up in here tellin’ me what to do. I’m your father; I make the rules here. I make the rules.”

“Yeah, pops, you make the rules, and one of them is that I bring in my half of the bills,” Axel reminded him. “So I need to get to work.”

“Don’t forget the goddamn milk this time,” his father grumbled from behind him as he left the room, whatever else he had to say muffled behind cheap wood dotted with several holes from his fists.

The door hung crooked again. Might be a good idea to try and find one at the salvage store before this one came down completely. Last time it had taken the old man months to get a replacement, treating Axel to a view of him and his on-again, off-again girlfriend going at it more times than he could count. The worst had been when she’d spotted him slinking past on his way to the bathroom and drunkenly called out for him to join them.

As if there was any scenario someone could dream up to make that happen.

The gas station didn’t pay enough to let him sock away much cash, not after he’d forked over his half of the bills and covered anything his old man missed when he was busy throwing his paycheck away on booze and bets at the casino. Even when he did get lucky, he just pissed that away too, instead of investing in the materials to fix the place before it fell in on their heads. It just sucked that there was no getting out of this trailer.

And no time to fix anything for breakfast, not that there was much left in the fridge anyway, just two cracked eggs in a carton and a potato with eyes sprouting from it that he didn’t have time to peel or dice to fry up. He grabbed the bag from the Frosted Flakes box and the inch of cereal and dust it held at the bottom, eating it on his walk to work. It wasn’t enough to fill his belly, but at least there was something in it to slow down the gnawing feeling he’d woken up with. That burger he’d scarfed at the end of yesterday’s shift hadn’t really been enough to carry him through to morning, but at four dollars a pop, he hadn’t had enough in his pocket for two.

But at least today was payday, and Mrs. Martinez and her husband, who owned the combination gas station-grocery store, always paid him in cash because they knew he didn’t have a bank account. He was grateful to them for that too, since the check-cashing place he’d have had to use always demanded eight percent to cash something. That sixteen bucks might not seemlike a lot to some, but the two hundred dollars he made each week rarely stretched as far as he needed it to. He'd rather hand that sixteen dollars back to Mrs. Martinez and take home a gallon of milk, a pound of ground beef, and a box of pasta he could use to make supper for him and his pops. Might soak up enough of the beer in the old man’s belly to put him in a good mood, maybe even enough to play a card game the way they used to.

He had that on his mind as he started his day, stocking shelves and rotating products until the older stuff was in the front and the newer in the back, so things stayed fresh. They didn’t have a lot of loss, but from time to time something expired on the shelf. There was always a sheet to fill out with product removal; it helped Mr. Martinez decide what to order and what to change out, so the shelves stayed filled with the things the people in the community needed and used. When he finished, he did the same with the coolers and changed out the price tags for this week’s sales while Mrs. Martinez manned the registers and the pumps, happily engaging with regulars and occasionally giving directions to the Merchant’s Market when out-of-towners couldn’t locate it with their GPS.

Market Square did have a unique location, but that was part of what made it such a special part of the town. It could only be accessed through one of the shops on the four blocks that bordered it, and the reason for that was easy to understand once you stepped into the space. The back of each building opened to it, with shop owners lining the backs of the buildings with products from inside their shops, while other tables filled the center, selling everything from mini-pies and honey to handmade jewelry, woven baskets, and original artwork proudly displayed by the artist who’d created them. Pottery, stained glass—it was all so beautiful, too beautiful for him to risk bringing apiece home. Even in his room it wouldn’t have been safe from one of his old man’s more ferocious benders.

“Axel, come here a moment, please,” Mrs. Martinez called.

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