Bentley Breaks His Cycle -- by Handjob (handjob@sbcglobal.net)
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Bentley Breaks His Cycle
Handjob
Bentley was spinning his wheels again. His bearings were shot. He grumbled against the streaming late afternoon sun as he lifted his bicycle back up and hauled it along beside him down the road toward Spokes. Damn, he’d be late for work again. It had been bad enough getting in trouble for not having his homework done on time, and now this. Like always, he escaped into his daydreams.
Boys cracking up together out in the high school parking lot. Boys cracking to the bat and sending a homer out into the sky. Boys cracking nuts under the cover of a steamy gym shower. Boys.
He shook his brains awake again and grabbed an order of chili fries for the kid waiting at the counter. It was close to seven and time for his break, but there were still several hours to go. Heading off to the dim, detached restroom out at the edge of the lot, Bentley checked again. Dammit, someone had smudged it up a little. He had even tried to clean it up himself as best he could whenever this happened, and he tried his best to help again. He loved that drawing, a finely-detailed pencil sketch of a long, thick dick on the wall above the second of the two urinals. The weak bare bulb cast the thing in a perfect dirty glow. And beneath, so different from the careful artwork, he searched for the gears chaining the drawing to the harshly scrawled words below: show it and get it. Then Bentley’s mind drizzled off into the hottest guys who’d hung at Spokes awhile that afternoon.
“Aced it off the rim again, fuckers; they should have me in the fuckin’ X-Games.” “Shit, check it out – she’s got me soppin’ my shorts here.” “Bailed on her, bro, but I’m gonna bust my crank off if I don’t get some soon.”
Handing back change to the boy who’d bought the shake, Bentley glanced up at the clock overhead. A little past ten. Not much longer to go. Then, drowning out the slam of the old register drawer, a sound howled toward him like the roar of a wild animal. And it was. It was Kraze.
No one really knew what the hell the thing was. Though it couldn’t possibly be true, legend said it was carefully crafted together from all kindsa stuff: part Harley, part Suzuki, part Yamaha – fuck, maybe even part Beamer for all they knew, though no one really knew anything about it. But the bike was unmistakable, and so was the boy.
The stick kicked down into the gravel. A boot flipped a small rock up an inch or two and then flicked it off again into the night. With a quick zip down, the front of the faded brown bomber jacket slid apart as Kraze stood tall and slim, stretching long and wide, his tight chest revealing yet another Kraze-amazin’ t-shirt: SHUT THE FUCK UP AND JUST BLOW ME. Where the hell did he find those things?
Bentley stared silently through the plate windows while the few late-evening stragglers outside paused, surged along inwardly, moved to the crunch beneath the boy’s hard heels. He strode right past the front of Spokes and off toward the can. No one could see, but every ear followed as its door whipped open and, seconds later, two kids scrambled around the side into the soft light of the lot, skidding back toward their buds.
He’d dropped out only a few months back, right in the middle of World Geography: “this is just a fuckin’ joke.” But you could still see Kraze around campus most times – back behind some trees whispering something toward a hidden face; hanging off the top of the chain links as he watched the boys practice baseball; a silent shadow near the Science Building, as his thumb flicked his lighter and ignited a Camel. It was rumored that the school had talked to his parents, but they didn’t know what to do with him either. They just gave him the privacy of their basement and hoped for the best, so everyone said. Bentley could only remember one thing for sure, and even that was a couple years old now: “what the fuck are you lookin’ at, ya little fuck?”
A thin, straight stream of smoke squirted right into the middle of the no-smoking sign as the butt crushed underfoot on the floor and the deep brown eyes stared emptily at Bentley. His long, slender, grimy fingers slid casually through the slightly shaggy dark hair, then down along the pale skin of the face, as Kraze stepped forward toward the counter.
Bentley couldn’t help it. His eyes dropped to the front of the thin-legged jeans and zoomed in to a large lump off the side of the zipper, the mass of it slightly frayed as if the length of a heavy pipe in there had been rubbed up and down countless times through the denim. When Bentley’s eyes jumped back up, a hard look was drilling straight through them to the back of his skull, and there was just the faintest smirk in the finely chiseled face that now stared him down. Bentley looked quickly away.
Kraze closed in. Long, slender fingers, greasy from who knows what, settled on the low counter, the dirty nails tapping slowly and mildly, as the big, soft bulge hooked nastily up over the counter’s edge.
“So. . . . How ‘bout a cheeseburger, uh . . . ‘Bentley’?” came a deep, calm voice, as Kraze looked back up from the nametag. Those eyes looked like they knew exactly the stuff Bentley fantasized about in his bed every night.
“Uh. . . . Um. . . . Anything else?”
“Well, not now. . . . Maybe later, though.” The smirk just slightly widened, the bulge pressed just a bit more over the counter, and there seemed almost the faintest dark laugh as Bentley turned quickly to relay the order to the manager in back.
As Bentley wrapped the burger and bagged it, he heard a small splatter of coins on the floor behind him and spun to find that Kraze had turned away and was bent down at the waist, slowly picking them up. The bomber jacket had lifted up a couple inches, the tight little butt aimed up through the faded jeans. Kraze slowly pulled back up and turned to the counter. He dropped the coins into the rest of a pile of change in front of Bentley as he grabbed the bag, burned a look into the kid’s brain and said, “thanks.” Then he spun on a heel and headed away, kicking the door open with his boot.
Through the glass, Bentley’s eyes remained fixed on the boy as he climbed aboard his bike. Kraze sat there alone and stared around him while eating his burger. In a minute, he crushed the bag and hurled a perfectly centered shot into a barrel of trash. The engine roared to life. He paused, gave a sharp look through the window, then tore out of the lot.
Yeah, ya little fuck. Look at it good. C’mon ‘n grab it through my jeans down there. I know ya wanna. C’mon, ya little fuck. Feel it up. Feel it up like the other boys do.
“Beat it, Bentley,” smiled the manager while pausing with the broom. “You’ve got class tomorrow, and I need you longer tomorrow night anyway. I have to leave at closing, and you’ll be on your own cleaning and locking up.”
Bentley nodded and grabbed his thin jacket. He was anxious to get home, get to his bedroom, pull it out and relieve himself. Out in the lot, though, he stared at his worn bicycle and dreaded the long walk dragging it home. He’d be walking back and forth to work until he could get his bearings. He lifted the bike slightly off the ground and watched the wobble as he spun the wheels backward this time. With a heavy sigh, he decided on a quick whizz before heading down the road.
Yeah, c’mon, ya little fuck. I’m ready for ya. Get yer hands down there and mess with me. Lemme get a feel offa yers, too.
Bentley didn’t hear the bike return, but he knew the sound now approaching him. He could hear the heavy boots sliding forward through the gravel toward the little head. The door creaked open wide. The dim bulb illuminated the face emerging from the dark night outside. And there was Kraze. He strode in confidently past the small, old pedestaled sink and right on up to the first urinal beside Bentley. There was a long, slow zip and then the sound of a hard stream.
“’Skuze me,” muttered Kraze, as his right arm moved up past Bentley’s face and a freshly sharpened pencil fixed the lines of the drawing above his head.
Then he was gone.
Yeah, Kraze, yeah. Yeah, that’s it. Oh, fuck, I’m gonna shoot it. Gonna shoot. Oh fuck, I want you so bad.
A few of the guys nodded slightly to Bentley from the open bay of auto-shop class as he passed them on his way to the main building. A couple of the heads turned from the clustered baseball team and followed him as he climbed the steps toward the front door. And some guy on the student council stared silently as he walked by. But Bentley didn’t notice. His mind was wheeling. He whiffed a drift of cigarette smoke and absently wondered who would have been crazy enough to do that right here. Just inside the threshold, a couple of stoner types who were slumped in a corner whispered to each other and smiled up at him as they watched him trudge on down the hallway, lost in his dreams.
Yeah, ya little fuck. Been watchin’ a long time. Been wantin’ ya bad, and now I’m gonna getcha.
Bentley was sitting alone on the side of a small glade, back behind the benches where the other kids were eating lunch. Off at an angle, he caught some movement at the shaded corner of the nearby gym. Seconds later, the wiry shortstop of their City High team peeked around again and stumbled out slightly, his hair messed, his face flushed, half of his shirt yanked out of his pants. Bentley watched, mystified, as the boy beckoned to a teammate who slipped his way over there, stealing glances over his shoulder in case anyone was looking.
The shortstop suddenly saw Bentley. It looked almost as if he’d slightly nodded or even half-grinned before he disappeared again behind the gym. A grip of long, slender fingers grabbed the arriving boy by the arm and dragged him around the corner, too.
Bentley looked downward and dropped his sandwich on its wrapper. Why didn’t he have buddies in the cool crowd? And what the hell was that look? Were those two standing back there making fun of him?
I mean, you know how it is, if your one of the shy types, right? You can’t figure out what stuff means sometimes. And how are you supposed to act? What are you supposed to say that’s quewel enough to get yourself a set of buddies? And, most important, how in hell do you get a boy you like to notice you? Or worse – overcome the queezies and know how to respond if he actually starts givin’ you some signals? If they are signals. Life’s a bitch.
It was even worse, according to Bentley. He knew exactly what he wanted, exactly who he wanted it with. And he knew exactly that he didn’t have a chance.
He drifted into pictures of the boys sharing secrets until their faces fuzzed out of focus, again to be replaced by a tall, pale biker boy. Damn: no matter the drawing – there’s no way he could ever nail a boy like Kraze.
No way, fucker, yer wrong about that – wantcha real bad. An’ my buddies think yer hot, too. Everyone thinks yer hot, Bentley. Everyone. C’mere.
It was getting near closing time, and Spokes was almost empty now. Suddenly, like a wild searchlight, a beam shot through the windows, directly into Bentley’s eyes, as the bike snarled into the lot, stopping right in front.
Kraze burst through the door and then stopped there. No Kraze-amazin’ t-shirt this time. The boy was bare-chested beneath the bomber jacket, but his eyes shot into Bentley just as hard as the night before. There was only a tiny swirl of dark hair at the center of his chest between the sleek, flat pecs, and there was just the thinnest line of dark fuzz traveling from his navel toward his jeans. Kraze scratched at a stiff tit as he approached the counter.
“Bentley, you need to get some meat,” came the manager’s voice. “I’ll take the front awhile and you cook while I get ready to leave.”
Damn. He glanced up. There was only that faint smirk at the edge of Kraze’s lip as Bentley surrendered the counter and headed into the back room.
When he returned with a package from the freezer, Kraze was staring at the reflections in the windows up front. The boy stretched up slowly, his jacket rising, the band of a pair of gray-checked boxers sticking up from behind the tight jeans, hugging his bare back. Bentley couldn’t be sure, but he felt as if their eyes met in reflection for a second before he quickly looked back down to the fiery grill.
He grew distant in his dreams while the meat cooked, but when he looked back up, Kraze was staring right back as it echoed out of the past—
What the fuck are you lookin’ at?
Bentley was looking at the drawing, trying to look between the lines.
He’d finished locking up Spokes and shutting down the lights to the lot. And now he stood there under that single dim bulb in the head. He never even heard the boots this time, never even heard the creak of the door.
Kraze stood staring at him and tossed the butt of his Camel into the sink.
“So ya gonna show it or what?”
He took a step toward Bentley.
“You know. Show it ‘n get it.”
He took a step again.
“I know ya want it.”
Another step closer.
“You been checkin’ me out like crazy.”
Bentley backed into the wall as Kraze pressed his chest against him and leaned in close. Was he wearing Cool Water?
“Relax, man,” Kraze whispered. “It’s all cool. C’mon, we’re gonna have a good time here.”
He backed off just slightly and followed Bentley’s eyes down to his crotch.
“Yeah, jus’ look at it first. Jus’ look at the thing. You want dick, don’tcha? Want dick bad.”
He guided Bentley’s hand to the lump in his jeans and pressed the boy’s palm against it firmly.
“That whatcha want? Huh? Talk to me, man. Don’t look so fuckin’ scared.” He pulled the hand more tightly around the big lump, squeezing the tremble out, bending in the kid’s fingertips to scrape over the denim. “Mmmm.”
What the fuck? The boy was being so cool to him. Bentley looked up. “I’ve never. . . . Um.”
“I know. Don’t worry about it. Trust me.” He moved the boy’s hand around over the mass of meat, and Bentley felt it filling out and traveling down into the leg of Kraze’s jeans. With his other hand, Kraze unbuttoned his fly and slowly slid his zipper all the way down. He pressed the hand harder against the opening flaps. “Mmmm.”
He reached over to Bentley now and fumbled with the boy’s own fly, opening it slowly, then letting go of Bentley’s hand and gripping him at the waist.
“Nothin’ to be afraid of, man. This ain’t no mindfuck.” He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and pulled Bentley’s pants down, down to his knees. He looked over the stiff young stick poking the boy’s briefs out, so hard the waistband was pulling away from his stomach, the tent straining out into the air.
Kraze shucked the fuckers right on down the kid’s thighs.
His fingertips gently fondled Bentley’s teeming balls. “These things sure are swollen, fucker. You need to get yer tubes cleaned.”
His fingers moved up to Bentley’s boner now and hefted it in his hand.
“C’mere,” he whispered, as he pulled the boy toward him by the bone. “Stick it on in there.”
He dragged his own swelling cock over further to the side and pulled Bentley’s boner through the opening of his boxers, the corner of his mouth curling up nastily as Bentley sucked in a nervous breath. He guided the thing under his nuts and let it rest there, a big heavy bullnut hanging over either side of the bone, feeling Bentley throb, feeling the rigid spike smacking harder upward into his sweaty nutsack with each beat of the boy’s heart.
“Oh yeah, yer one stiff kid.”
Kraze clamped his thighs some and felt the surging pulse leaking slightly between his legs.
“Yeah, ya pop a wet one. . . . C’mon, man, relax.”
Tentatively, two trembling hands barely appeared at the sides of Kraze’s waist: “I don’t even know what to do.”
“Who the fuck does? You just do it.”
Kraze placed a palm over each of Bentley’s hands, pressing them more firmly against his waist, faintly rubbing encouragement into the boy, and Bentley’s fears very slowly began to melt. Kraze moved to the wrists. His fingers urged Bentley to slide the hands further around to his back, coaxing the kid into exploring.
Bentley’s boner slipped further in there, and he finally started to press himself forward, his hip bones eventually connecting with Kraze’s, his cock pushing deep.
“Yeah, that’s more like it.” Kraze held Bentley like that with his thighs another minute, his sweaty nuts caressing the thumping stick, but then he slowly slid the boy back out and grabbed his own slim hips this time. “Wanna see it? Wanna check out this dick?”
He slowly pushed his jeans and boxers down off his smooth ass, a swirl of dark pubes emerging, and then his long thick cock swung out and up, aiming right back into a warm slide against Bentley’s pounding boner.
“Play with me, man.”
Bentley knew the look of the thing well. It was precisely like the drawing. Every little vein was there, the exact shading of the circumcision, the shadow against the curving ridge. The artist had studied it with intensity.
Bentley’s hesitant fingers reached out slowly.
“Yeah, it’s all cool, man. Relax and get into it like ya want.”
Kraze rested his forearms over Bentley’s shoulders and hung his head down to watch as the boy slowly slid his fingers around the biker’s hard prick. Bentley felt the blood burning in the thick shaft. He squeezed just slightly and then slipped along the veins, past the cut cock’s scar, over the heavy ridge, until his fingertips rubbed up the spiked dickhead.
It wasn’t just his fingers. He almost felt like his eyes were right in there with them, too, studying every little quarter inch of the rod Kraze was giving him – the yielding skin, the rigid bone underneath. The heat. The surge. He slowly peered up at Kraze. “I want you,” he muttered quietly.
“I know, man. Want you, too.”
Kraze reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle of oil. He flicked the top open and began pouring the stuff over Bentley’s fingers, feeling it leaking through them and slicking along his stiff prong, then dripping off down onto the front of his jeans.
In a minute, he gently pushed the boy back into the wall again, hunched himself just a little, and pressed his hips into Bentley, his strong, slick throbber sliding easily between the smooth thighs where he slowly glided himself in and out. He reached up with his fingertips and took Bentley by the chin, turning the boy’s face up toward his own. If there had been any trace of a smirk remaining, it had long since disappeared. The dark brown eyes only signaled lust.
He pressed forward and slid an arm around, slipping his hand down to Bentley’s tight butt, his middle finger first sliding sturdily down half an inch between the tops of the tense cheeks, then relaxing back. His other arm traveled under and up behind the back of Bentley’s shirt, as Kraze pulled their bodies together tightly. He stuck himself harder through Bentley’s legs now and felt the hands embrace him just faintly more this time. He wagged his boner from side to side, then ground around in a slow circle. The boy was still shivering just a little, but the air was growing warmer.
“Pretty hot, huh?” Kraze breathed softly in that low, deep voice. He started in again on another long, slow fuck between the firm thighs, keeping it rammed in hard a few seconds every few strokes, sliding a palm down to hold the boy tight by the butt.
He soon pulled back and let his stonehard slab slide wetly up through Bentley’s balls and then grabbed the kid’s dick against his own, pulling the shafts upward together in his fist as he began a steady, horny fuck in his hand, the oil smearing over his own fingers now and slicking both boys completely.
Kraze ground along harder against the rod in his fist. “Fuck. Yeah. C’mon ‘n catch the rhythm.”
Cylinders glided and pistons cranked. Both boys looked down at the sticks in Kraze’s hand. A seep of clear fluid was smearing out along Kraze’s iron shaft.
“Aw yeah, man, fuck. Yer leakin’ it off all over me.”
“Ngh. . . . Ngh. . . . Kraze,” huffed Bentley. Finally. His breathing raged, the voice still very quiet. “I want you so bad.”
A rivulet of sweat trickled out from under Kraze’s hair and riddled its way down the side of his face. He moved in hotly and grazed his nose against Bentley’s ear, increasing the volume of his soft, uneven panting as he picked up speed.
“C’mon, man. C’mon. Yeah, that’s it. Fuck along with me, kid. Fuck my fist. Feel those two stiff fuckbones fuckin’ away against each other.”
Bentley’s breath grew sharper with each intake as he tried to keep control, but within minutes he was losing it. He was desperate to hold out longer, but there wasn't a chance in a first-time like this.
“Nnnnth . . . nnnnth. . . . Kraze. . . . I want you so bad. I’m gonna– gonna. . . .”
“Yeah, man, that’s it. Give in to it. Give it to me. Gimme yer stuff.”
Bentley groaned and shuddered, and his head bashed back against the wall, his knees shaking, the muscles in his thighs quivering. Kraze whacked with his hand and humped Bentley’s stiffness against his own until Bentley bucked and whined and started chucking up his load.
A blast of jizz gushed up and saturated both stiff cocks. A second hose of it skewered through Kraze’s fingers and sloshed down off his balls to his jeans. Bentley wailed and shoved upward, and a long hard squirt pissed into the stretched skin beneath Kraze’s ridge, fountaining up further and splattering across the front of the bomber jacket. He spunked up a bit higher into the tiny wisp of sprigs sprouting from the faint cleft of Kraze’s chest, matting the tiny dark things down and straight against the pale skin.
“Spray, fucker.”
Bullets of fresh young cream spanked into Kraze’s ribs and skated down his firm, tight stomach, bright white stripes racing each other along either side of the centered line of fuzz, on down into Kraze’s pubes, sliding onto his thighs and soaking his boxers. Kraze kept pumping the bones against each other with a strong, knowing grip as the boy huffed and hissed. He worked and mashed the staffs together, ramming his own raging spike up and down in wicked thrusts, letting the kid get off all over his rod, making the spitting tip of the boy’s spurter slide tight along the whole length of his own surging hardon. He jacked and humped until nothing more came out.
Kraze folded the boy into him and held him close to his chest, just a second or so, before capturing the kid’s eyes with an upturned eyebrow: “bet ya wanted that a long time, huh?”
Then Kraze pushed him back and stood the kid before him. He reached around past either side of Bentley’s neck and pressed his palms into the wall. He nodded downward, and they both looked as Bentley curled his fingers around the heavy rod.
“Do me.”
Bentley smoothed his steamy load over the biker dick and began fooling around. The tremble was gone, and he moved in heatedly as he felt Kraze up and down. He twisted his fingers back and forth. He boinged the boner around. He added his other hand and started in on fondling like a master – first together, then one up and off after the other, then sliding them against each other in opposite directions.
“Fuck yeah, man. Get all over my dog there. Whip that fuckin’ puppy around.”
Bentley went on playing, but he was struggling for a voice. “K-Kraze,” he finally managed. “I want– I want you.”
“You got me, man. It's cool.”
The fingers flickered hornily all around the soaked shaft, and soon Bentley found a rhythm and set into sturdy strokes on the bone. The air grew thick with a musky odor as Bentley beat excitedly on Kraze’s cock.
The biker boy pushed himself back from the wall, gripped the kid’s shoulders, and hung on tight for a loud, hard ride: “yeah, that’s fuckin’ nasty, man. Crank away.”
Bentley could hardly believe what he was doing to Kraze, and that Kraze was all horny from him doing it, stiffdicked silly in his hands. He wanted the boy to know. He wanted to say it better.
“I want– I wanted this dick so bad. Wanted to look at it, feel it. I want you so bad."
Kraze bucked hard into his fist. “You got me, man. You got me, an' yer gettin' into it good, too. Havin' yourself some fun.”
Bentley worked his hands all over. He smacked and jacked and jerked that steel bar. All of his dreams were exploding to the surface, working out the fantasies through imaginative fingers, deep dark ideas about beating a boy off.
Kraze began hissing like a steam valve, spitting out a "fuck" every few seconds.
“So stiff, Kraze. You’re so stiff.”
“Fuck. Yeah, kid, jack it. Fuck. Jack my fuckin’ joint. Fuck. Do what you fuckin’ want on me. Fuck. Gonna get me off so hard, man. Fuck.”
Bentley picked up speed and soon was only spewing out a quiet stutter of meaningless mumbles as he lost the difference between the dick and his dreams.
Kraze’s eyes narrowed and glazed as he puffed into the air and murmured quick and horny, too: “beat it, fucker; beat me, fucker; beat it, fucker.” He was close, so close. Bentley was whacking him perfectly, as if he knew Kraze’s dick as well as his own.
In another second, Kraze’s boots curled up as he lifted to his toes, shoved his body forward, jabbed his rod up high and tight through Bentley’s smacking fingers, and slammed a fist into the wall: “aw, yeah; oh, fuck; aw yeah, fuckin’ fuck!”
A hard bolt of blow bashed Bentley in the jaw. Another hunk slugged his neck, followed fast and thick with streams of streaking squirts that sprayed down his shirt, the sperm filling the musty air with a harsh, rank smell like cleanser. Kraze had packed well for this.
“Aw yeah, take it, kid. Drill it the fuck outa there.”
He kept banging on the wall of the can and dancing on his toes as he whizzed his best gunk, busting up strong and proud and drenching the boy down.
Bentley squeezed the spasming hardon in his fist and looked straight into the hole, just as a big ball of cream whirled up and exploded into the air, a rich smell filling his face as the stuff plastered one side of his forehead and thickly slid down his cheek in full white clumps. He hauled in a hot, hard breath, then clenched his jaw and milked for more.
“Fuckin’ yeah, fucker,” Kraze rasped loudly as he humped the fist, jabbing with a spray to the beat of his words. “Drill that fuckin' spunk right outa me. Knew you’d be hot at this. Knew ya wanted dick. Knew you were wantin’ my dick real bad.”
Bentley was coated, but Kraze wasn't done. He smashed on forward, gripping the boy tight, humping his hardon into Bentley's stomach and spewing sauce like crazy. He needed another minute before pressing his teeth tightly down against the kid’s collar, snarling, shivering out a last dense knot.
They were both still breathing hard when Kraze finally let go and backed up a step. And it took a long moment after that before the boys came back down into the room, where Bentley’s worries returned. But soon, Kraze draped an arm over Bentley’s shoulder and dragged him out to the front of Spokes where they stood quietly a second beside Kraze’s bike.
Bentley kicked at the gravel. “I guess I wanna thank you–”
“–wanna thank you, too, man.”
The kid looked up at Kraze, at that Kraze-amazin’ face. “I wish I were more. . . .”
“You know, you really oughta look in the fuckin’ mirror closer. Oughta see in yer own eyes.”
Bentley gazed into space through the spokes of the bike. Within the haze, he dreamily wondered how anything could be cooler than memories of this.
“Quit it, ya little fuck. The action’s right the fuck in fronta yer eyes, get it? You got any idea how much yer missin'?”
There was the slightest something that creeped quietly into Kraze’s deep brown eyes, and his long, slender fingers threaded once just barely through Bentley’s hair. But then the fingers were gone and so was the look.
“C’mon. I wanna show you some stuff in my basement. I draw a lot more dick.” He dragged Bentley behind him onto his bike and fired it up. “Hang on,” he yelled behind him.
Bentley gripped Kraze at the boy’s slim waist. “Nah, here,” Kraze thundered over the engine as he pulled Bentley’s hands down to his crotch.
“You got me by the balls, Bent. Better.” The wheels flew them forward. All the dust blew back behind. Kraze and Bent shot out of there like it was a race.
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