AUTHOR'S NOTE: This short story is quite different from most of my postings on nifty.org. The incident is true. The circumstances of the trip have been fictionalized, but the events happened exactly as depicted.
Like G.B. Shaw in "Pygmalion," who only rendered Eliza's first line in International Phonetics, I have attempted to represent Southern patois only in the desk clerk's initial speech. But that is the accent we can expect from Frank's visitor as well. Those who have difficulty determining what the desk clerk says can find a translation at the end of the story.
If you are underage or offended by explicit sexual activity, please read no further.
I would love to hear from you. Write me at macoutmann@yahoo.com.
Also, please remember nifty.org with a donation to keep this wonderful service available to all.
A GOOD SAMARITAN STORY
A Remembrance
by Macout Mann
Frank Schmutz sat on the side of the bed. A half hour earlier he'd been dropped back at the motel by his clients after dinner at what passed for the town's best restaurant. The food had not been bad, but the town and the county were dry, and after an afternoon of conferences Frank would have loved to relax with a drink both before and after his meal.
Instead he was back at the Holiday Inn with nothing to do. It was a nice-enough place. This was the era when Holiday Inns was the world's largest hospitality company. Each inn had an ample number of identical rooms, a swimming pool, a good restaurant, a kennel for visiting dogs, and where it was legal, a cocktail lounge. If it had no vacancies, the front desk would call around to find somewhere else potential lodgers could be accommodated. It was certainly the best place in town to stay.
Frank had already called his wife. When he was away from home that was a nightly ritual. He had been happily married for almost twenty-five years, had a son and a daughter, both in college, and financially he was very well off.
Frank was an educational consultant. He specialized in College Financial Aid problems. He had been lucky enough to attend an elite eastern university and had remained after graduation as a member of the college's admissions staff. He soon became an expert in determining which students should get financial help, what kind, and how much.
Before the depression of the 1930s, financial aid at most private schools took the form of Legacy Scholarships. Any descendant of Hyrum Smithton of Stoughton, Massachusetts, might be eligible to have his tuition and sometimes even his room and board paid in full or in part. Neither financial need nor academic qualifications mattered.
In the age of Robber Barons, wealthy industrialists began to endow scholarships for needy boys that showed real academic promise, often naming the scholarship for a mentor or protégé, but most often for himself.
During the Great Depression, for the first time some families who had sent their sons to this or that school for generations could no longer afford to do so. So general scholarship funds came into vogue, and a portion of elite college endowments, some as large as the budgets of the states where they were chartered, came to be used for financial aid. Any needy student who could meet the admissions requirements might apply.
After the Second World War, the cultural significance of a college education changed radically. As more and more poor students applied, the need for financial aid outstripped the amounts budgeted. That's when Frank's alma mater invented the student loan. Students who needed help but who didn't qualify for full scholarships could borrow up to a specified amount from the university at a nominal interest rate with a legal obligation to repay. And some who needed even more might be given additional loans with a moral obligation to repay.
From this system sprang the round of grants and federal and private loan programs, which now burden not only private but state supported institutions.
It was a Deep South State University with some twenty-thousand students that Frank was in town to advise. It had been a hard day, and tomorrow would be no less difficult. Some college administrators just didn't get it. Frank was no alkie but he really wanted a drink.
More sophisticated clients probably would have feted him at a country club or the bar of a major hotel. But even if he'd been left back at his hotel, there should be bars to go to. This fucking town was dry!
Despite his current exalted position Frank had been a beneficiary of financial aid himself. He considered himself the luckiest bastard in the world. He was very smart, and so he went to college on a full tuition scholarship. But growing up in Boston, he was a "Southie." That explains why, when he arrived back at his room, he shed his $750 J. Press Suit, his button-down oxford cloth shirt, his silken boxers, and pulled on a tattered chambray shirt and well-worn Levis 501s. His wife always gave him hell when he did that. "You should at least wear chinos," she'd chide.
He would have loved to go and hit the raunchiest joints in town. But this fucking place was dry!
He took the long walk to the front desk, and said to the college-age clerk, "There has to be someplace to get a drink around here, son."
"Wayul, suh," the skinny-looking boy drawled, "thair's lickuh stows dowun et Maw-gun. It's craws thuh caun-ti lion, `baut fiteen myuls bak toad thuh sidi."*
Frank was really glad that he'd turned down his clients' offer to pick him up at the metropolitan airport and had rented a car instead. He thanked the clerk for the information and began the eastward drive down the interstate. The weather had been threatening all day, and now he was treated to a huge downpour, so hard he could hardly see the highway.
He did find a liquor store and opted to buy a cold six-pack.
Driving back he saw a drenched hitchhiker, visible only because of the flashes of lightning. Being a Good Samaritan, Frank stopped.
The dome light let him see that his passenger was in his early twenties. His matted black hair was soaked and both his sopping denim jacket and threadbare jeans had seen better days. But he was ruggedly good looking and showed a dazzling smile as he thanked Frank for picking him up. He closed the door and the car was again plunged into darkness.
Frank learned that the boy was a house painter. He worked for a guy who had decided to take a few days off between jobs, so he was headed home, a few towns further west.
Frank's motel was only a hundred yards from the interstate exit, and the storm was still raging. So Frank suggested that his passenger come to his room until the rain abated. He could join Frank in a beer or two.
The room had the standard table at the window with two chairs, so the two of them sat, enjoyed their brews, and chatted about nothing in particular.
Frank had done some construction work summers, when he was in high school. "So you can paint a ceiling without spattering stuff all over the floor?" he asked.
"Now I can," his guest laughed. "When I started I couldn't even dip a fuckin' brush in a can without getting paint on me or somethin'."
"I've done some construction in my time," Frank rejoined. "Painting wasn't my favorite thing. But drywall finishing was the worst. I've known guys that could take mud and just go swish and it'd be as smooth as a baby's ass. It'd take me an hour to do one seam."
"I know what you mean. I've had to put up some sheetrock. Paintin's a whole lot easier. My boss still says I'm a fuckin' beginner, though."
"You work for him long?"
"Ever since I left school. He's an o.k. guy. Likes to take time off, like now. Some guys would hate to lose the pay; but I figure if I've got enough clothes so I don't get arrested in the summertime or freeze to death in the wintertime, have a good meal every so often, a few beers every so often, get a nut every so often—shit, that's all a growin' boy's gotta have."
"I can relate to that," Frank mused. "How old's your boss?" he asked.
"'Bout forty, I guess. He's got a pretty little wife though. Younger than him. And they have a kid in elementary school."
"You play any sports in school?" Frank asked, changing the subject.
"Nah. I'm not big enough for football, not tall enough for basketball, and that's about all folks are interested in around here." Frank's guest did demonstrate the universal interest in football by singing the praises of the state's sole AAA football program at its flagship university. "Maybe next year we can be number one in the nation again!"
Frank found it interesting that the kid had never been to a game or even set foot on the university's campus but was so avid in his support of the football team that he could comment on every play of every game.
An hour and a half later they had finished the beer and Frank was ready for bed. The rain was still coming down. "You're not going to get a ride in this downpour," he said. "You can sleep here if you want. I've only got one bed but it's a big one."
"You don't mind?" Frank was asked.
"Wouldn't have offered if I did."
"Thanks a million, man."
Frank got up, crossed to the bed, and stripped off as usual. He climbed under the sheet and pulled up the covers.
"Can I sleep naked too?" his guest asked.
"Sure," Frank groggily replied. "I don't give a shit."
The kid got in on the other side of the king sized bed and Frank flipped off the lamp and lay on his back. A minute or so later he felt a hand embrace his dick.
Now Frank spent lots of nights away from home, and he took advantage of the opportunity to have sex with either women or men about as often as he could. He'd been introduced to fun with guys by a couple of construction workers when he was in high school. But he'd had no thought of messing around with this guy. They'd not talked about sex of any kind. So he was really surprised.
"Hmmm," he murmured. "Feels good."
His partner didn't answer. He simply fingered Frank's tool until it was fully hard and up to its full eight inches. Then he threw back the covers and went down. The boy's mouth slobbering on Frank's dick felt especially great, since it was so unexpected.
After a couple of minutes of passionate sucking the younger man straddled Frank's torso and sat down on his well moistened rod. It easily plunged all the way into the kid's ass. It had obviously been well used.
Up and down the boy slid. Slowly at first, Frank's full length massaged his prostate. Frank wished that he could turn on a light to see the young guy's face, but he didn't want to break the spell. He just lay back and savored the feeling of passively fucking the asshole of a youngster whose name he didn't even know.
Frank felt that the kid made it last as long as he could, but finally the pace of his movements sped up, the length of Frank's involuntary thrusts were shortened, until finally Frank's balls sent the biggest gush he could remember into his partner's willing colon.
The kid tumbled over on the other side of the bed and pulled the covers back up. They were both exhausted and quickly fell asleep.
When Frank awoke, the rain has stopped. It was just before sunrise. The young painter was up and pulling on his clothes. He let himself out of the room to continue his hitch home.
His destination was less than an hour's drive away. Frank was on the verge of calling, "Come back. Let me have more of that ass, and I'll drive you where you want to go."
Then he figured it would be embarrassing, if he wasn't back at the motel by the time his clients came to pick him up. So he remained silent, and dozed off again. His wake up call interrupted a dream about what might have happened.
THE END
*"Well, sir, there's liquor stores down at Morgan. It's across the county line about fifteen miles toward the city."
Copyright 2013 by Macout Mann. All rights reserved.