Give It To Me

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Introduction

This book is my tenth collection of gay erotica. It has been a labor of love and hate, which is typical of my Gemini personality. I’m glad it’s over ... and I very much look forward to concentrating my writing on other interests. Yes, I do have interests other than sex. I’m excited to begin working on a couple of nonerotic novels ... and to skyrocketing to the top of all of the bestseller lists!

But I’m also very proud of the ten books I’ve written and had published. I believe strongly that sex is funny and sad, it’s strong and it’s weak, it’s exciting and it’s monotonous, it’s loving and it’s strictly casual, it’s emotional and it’s strictly physical. In short, it’s what we make of it. It’s a reflection of who we are and who we want to be as humans.

My last book, Hard and Fast, was about good boys ... those to whom society has given their blessing as upstanding, honest citizens worthy of praise and attention. As is my practice, I wanted to show that things aren’t always as they appear, and that we should never believe everything we’re told. People aren’t always what they present themselves to be ... and they aren’t always good only because someone else says they are.

Give It to Me is another example of that. This book focuses on those whom most of us in society have deemed bad boys. The main characters are robbers and muggers and drug dealers and liars and manipulators. On the surface, they might not seem to have a whole lot of redeeming qualities.

I hope that reading these stories will allow you to see deeper into the characters, and to see that most of us are not perfect and that we all have room for improvement. But also I hope that you will see that we all are people with hearts and a need for love ... and that sometimes life throws us a curve ball that derails us ... but that we are still worthy of love and support and happiness.

As I wrap up my tenth, and likely last, erotica collection, I hope that I’ve given you some great sex. Hopefully I’ve given you more than just that, though. It is my strongest wish that you will have seen yourself in some of my characters, and maybe also seen someone you wouldn’t mind fucking. And loving.

It’s been a great ride. Thank you for taking it with me ... and allowing me to Give It To You!

The Bad Boy

Part 1

"Miguel, are you going to bring me my goddam medicine, or should I just wait to slip into a coma while I wait on your lazy ass?"

I cringed at the shrieking voice coming from upstairs, and took a deep breath.

Gramma had never been known for her warmth or loving character. She’d smoked two packs a day of unfiltered Camels since she was fourteen years old, and there was never less than half a bottle of whiskey sitting on the kitchen counter, with another full backup bottle above the fridge. She’d married and buried three husbands, each a bigger loser than the previous one. My mother’s father was husband number two, which I suppose means she could have drawn at least a somewhat worse hand than she did, though it was very difficult to think that, knowing what a drug-addicted, alcoholic, sexually abusive thug he was.

I’m coming, I yelled, and hoisted myself up from the sofa and walked to the fridge. It’s not even time yet. It’s still fifteen minutes before you’re supposed to take it.

I think I know when my body needs its medicine, she coughed out through what sounded like a mouthful of phlegm. I can feel my body decaying, and I need the goddam insulin.

When she was diagnosed with diabetes a year earlier, no one was expecting one of those miraculous metamorphosis stories where the nasty Scrooge turned into the loving and cuddly town grandparent who wanted to spend every last minute with his caring and doting family members. But we also didn’t expect that Gramma would become even nastier; honestly, we didn’t think it was possible. Or at least I didn’t. I can’t really speak for my aunts and uncles, though, since they make every effort to avoid me. When they happen to not find a way to stay away from me, they make it known that they despise me.

I grabbed a bottle of insulin from the fridge and then went to the kitchen drawer where we kept her needles, and pulled one out, mentally taking note that there were only half a dozen left. I’d need to run by the pharmacy and pick some more up later that night. Sitting right next to the sink was a bottle of Drain Doctor, which meant that Uncle Efrain had stopped by earlier. He was obsessed with how slowly the kitchen sink drained, and never stopped by for a visit without pouring a quarter of a bottle of the cheap unclogger down the pipes. For just a brief moment I entertained emptying the vial of its contents and replacing it with the thick acid. But I was certain it’d leave a trail of evidence in Gramma’s veins, and I doubted I could convince a jury that it was Uncle Efrain who’d put it there.

Goddam it, Miguel, she shrieked again, and I heard the thud of a glass knock against the wall. Am I gonna have to get up and get my goddam medicine myself? You want me to fall down the goddam stairs and break my fuckin’ neck, don’t you?

If there is a God, I whispered, and dragged myself up the stairs.

It’s about fuckin’ time, Gramma said as I opened the door and walked into her bedroom.

I noticed that the thud I’d heard earlier had actually come from the bowl from the Malt-O-Meal I’d brought her earlier in the afternoon. She’d flung it against the wall, not caring that it was still a quarter full of the cereal. Thick clumps of the yellow-white wheat meal dripped down the faded wallpaper and congealed on the brown and orange shag carpet. She’d expect that I clean it up before she called it a night.

It’s still ten minutes early, I mumbled as I pulled the insulin into the syringe and pulled Gramma’s bathrobe to one side. I pinched a handful of flab on her thigh and plunged the needle deep into the fatty tissue.

Gramma gasped and dug her nails into my forearm. You did that on purpose, she hissed. Goddam crack baby.

I yanked the needle out of her leg and threw it into the shoebox in the corner of her room with the dozen or so others from the past few days. I looked at her and wanted nothing more than to slap her across the face. She stared back at me, her eyes never leaving mine, and her lips twitched with disgust. I had no doubt that had I raised my hand to her, that she’d lay me out flat on the floor and have me disemboweled before my palm reached her cheek. So I just turned and stormed out of her room, slamming the door behind me.

Inside my room, I turned on my stereo, walked over to the dresser, and stared into the mirror. I don’t know when or how it started, but for as long as I could remember, the only way I could chill and not burst into a violent fury was to stare myself down in the mirror. I’d never met my father; in fact, I had no idea who he was. No one in my family did. But I looked nothing like what I remembered of my mother or the few pictures Gramma had of her, and so I could only assume that I resembled my father, whoever he was. Everyone on my mom’s side of the family had jet black hair, skin the color of a cup of coffee with just a couple drops of cream, and piercing, tar black eyes that looked like they came from every portrait of Satan I’d ever seen. My hair was light brown, bordering on dark blond; my skin was easily three tones lighter than the rest of the family, and my eyes were an almost translucent amber/hazel that twinkled with the slightest smile or ray of light, with long curly lashes. Whenever I got pissed off, I would get away by myself, stare into the reflection of my face, and especially my eyes, and look deep inside them, reveling in the fact that I was not 100 percent Castillo. Eventually, I would calm down and take a few deep breaths before re-engaging with them.

I turned off the light so that I was enveloped in total darkness, and flung myself on the bed. I could still hear Gramma yelling from upstairs for a couple of minutes, and then it got quiet for another couple of minutes. When she started up again, it was at a lower volume and her words were noticeably less intelligible. I knew that she’d lit up a joint and was now just going through the motions of being pissed at me. There wasn’t a chance in hell that she’d get her fat ass off the bed and come looking for me, and in fact would be passed out cold and snoring until the entire house shook in less than ten minutes. So I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and blasted my stereo even louder.

As the guitar licks and airy lyrics of Coldplay filled the room, I relaxed a bit and stretched across the bed. My cock started plumping up, and I reached down to rearrange it inside my shorts.

Go away, I said, as I slapped my hardon.

It was useless, though, and in fact, the slap only made it go from plump to fully hard in about half a second. At twenty-three years old, it didn’t take a lot more than a small slap to get me bone hard. Hell, it didn’t take much more than a sneeze to get me there. But the fact that my girlfriend, Monica, hadn’t put out for the past four days didn’t help matters at all.

I shucked my shorts and t-shirt, throwing them to the floor, and wrapped my fist around my hard cock. My body shuddered as I squeezed the thick shaft, and tiny bolts of lightning zapped the fat head and then traveled down the rod and through my legs and torso.

Fuck, I moaned as a thick stream of precum oozed out of my cock head and down my pipe.

I moved my thumb across the piss hole and spread the slick fluid across the hard head. My foreskin covered three quarters of the knob as I slid my fist up and down the fat rod. The silky underside tickled the sensitive crown and then devoured it, sending shockwaves up my entire body.

My cock is way bigger than most guys’ I’ve seen, and has been since I was about twelve. Back then I was embarrassed by my seven-inch dick. I felt like a freak, because all the other kids my age were barely sprouting pubic hair. It wasn’t until I turned sixteen and fucked for the first time that I realized how lucky I was. By then I was at my current size of over nine inches and almost as thick as a beer can, and it didn’t take long at all to figure out that my cock would get me all the pussy I wanted, and was something to be proud of.

Trouble was, I didn’t really want a lot of it. I mean, it was better than beating off, but after the first dozen or so times, I realized I didn’t really dig the girls themselves. They were bitchy and moody and fucking mean as hell. They all thought the world revolved around them, and acted as if they were superstar celebrities. I personally didn’t know of any celebrities who lived in trailers and relied on food stamps and public transportation. But I sure as hell wasn’t about to mention that to them, or I’d be looking at a hell of a lot more than four days without sex.

I wrapped my left fist around the base of my cock and swirled my right fist around the head a couple of times, and a thick stream of precum oozed out of the slit.

Fuck, I moaned loudly as my body tightened and my cock got even harder as I spread the slick fluid around my fat rod.

The phone rang and scared the shit out of me. When I heard the answering machine pick up after seven rings, I knew Gramma had passed out. Yes, we still had one of those answering machines that blared the entire message throughout the house and blinked the number of messages you have. We also had beanbag ashtrays strewn throughout the house, and I prayed that Gramma had used one to put out her joint before losing consciousness.

Oh, my God, I grunted as my knees started shaking and my balls started constricting closer to the base of my cock.

A couple of seconds later my cock exploded. A couple shots of cum flew past my face and landed on my pillow, and three more splashed across my eyes, nose, and lips. I let go of my cock to wipe the spooge from my face, and it spasmed across my belly as the last few spurts dribbled from the head and spread across my navel and down my side.

I yawned and wiped the cum from my body, then looked over at the clock. It was only seven-thirty. Way too early to call it a night. Besides, my stomach was growling. I realized I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch, and decided to fix something to eat.

There was nothing in the cabinets, and the only leftover in the fridge was a Tupperware bowl filled with Hamburger Helper from almost a week prior. I wasn’t sure what the shelf life for the disgusting potato Stroganoff crap was, but it had made me nauseated when it was fresh, so there was no way I was going to eat it then. There weren’t even any frozen burritos or pizza rolls in the freezer, which had to have been a first since I’d been about two years old.

Fuck, I groaned as I sat at the table.

By then I was really hungry. I pulled out my wallet and took a deep breath before looking inside. Nothing. Gramma would be pissed if she woke up the next morning and didn’t have her breakfast.

I laid my head across my arms on the table for a moment, closing my eyes and trying to block out any self-talk that would convince me that there was another way. Because I knew there was not. After a few minutes, I stood up, walked to the sink, and splashed some cold water on my face. Then I went to my room, got my jacket and gym bag, and left the house, careful to close the door quietly.

The century-old stone house was in the middle of the block and, unlike the two homes on either side of it, was situated several yards back from the sidewalk. It was the smallest home in the wealthy neighborhood, yet still easily three times the size of Gramma’s three-bedroom house. The lawn was perfectly manicured, with magnificent statues, sculpted hedges, and a large koi pond.

I’d noticed it many times before. I’d robbed a couple of the other bigger homes in the neighborhood over the last two years, and couldn’t help but admire the smaller, beautiful mansion. But because the other homes were so much bigger and seemed more pretentious, I’d decided to rob them instead.

I was planning on doing the same thing that night. But as I was walking by the house, a black Mustang pulled out of the driveway and almost ran me over. The windows were tinted, and I couldn’t see much inside, other than the driver was a man wearing a baseball cap and talking on a cell phone. He missed me by only a few inches, and when I yelled at him, he flipped me the finger and peeled out of the driveway and down the street.

Fucker, I yelled, and started walking toward the larger house next door.

Then I noticed that all of the lights in his house were off and there was no other car in the driveway. I looked around to make sure my outburst hadn’t drawn any unwanted attention, and when I was convinced it was safe, I pulled the thin, black cotton ski mask over my head and trotted over to the side of the house.

I found the alarm box easily enough; the same company installed almost all of the alarms in the neighborhood and weren’t real creative in their camouflage. It was hidden by a small shrub at the base of the fence near the back of the yard, next to the gazebo and hot tub. I snipped the wires and snuck to the back of the house.

The back door was locked, but the kitchen window right next to it was raised several inches. I slit the screen and then reached inside to find the clamps, and snapped the entire screen from its frame. Then I slid the window all the way up and crawled inside. Once I crawled off the counter, I ruffled through my bag and pulled out the flashlight.

The kitchen was massive, with stainless steel appliances, low hanging mini pendant light fixtures that were very dimly lit, and an expansive marble-topped island that hosted eight mid-backed wrought-iron stools with thick cushions. There were several crystal bowls and vases with fresh-cut flowers all over the kitchen, and I was sure they were each worth Gramma’s mortgage. But they were too large to fit into my bag, and I had no doubt that there would be more valuable items that would more easily fit into it throughout the house, so I trained my flashlight in front of me and continued forward.

In the dining room I found the china cabinet, and emptied the silverware chest into the gym bag. The stuff was heavy but didn’t take up much room in the bag, and there was a pawn shop on the other side of town that couldn’t get enough silver.

The living room was also very large and two-leveled. A giant plasma TV dominated almost the entire main wall, and plushly cushioned sofas were strategically placed around the expansive room. I could easily see the room filled with a few dozen guests at one of the fancy parties I’m sure he hosted on a regular basis.

Dimly lit recessed wall lighting illuminated the stairs, and I followed them upstairs to a bedroom. It was easily the size of the ground floor of Gramma’s house. There was a fireplace in one corner, and just to the side of it was a large, glass sliding door that led to the balcony, where I saw a second, smaller hot tub. A giant walk-in closet lay behind the entire opposite wall, and a bathroom was behind the wall that the bed abutted.

A large wooden bureau was along the wall just next to the door, and that’s where I knew I’d hit gold. An old engraved jewelry box sat atop it, and I dumped it upside down into the gym bag, not even taking the time to see what it held. It sounded good, though, and I was excited to get home and see what I’d found. The first two top drawers held nothing more exciting than designer underwear and a variety of dress socks, and I rummaged through them quickly. But the bottom drawers were where all the good stuff always was, and I quickly made my way to them.

The light flipped on, and my heart stopped in my chest.

What the fuck are you ...

I gasped, and scrambled to my feet and rushed the door, in the general direction of the deep voice. The guy was silhouetted in front of the light behind the doorway, and I didn’t get a very good look at him. But I noticed that he was a couple inches shorter than me, and maybe twenty pounds lighter. I grabbed him by the arm and threw him to the floor.

The guy struggled to gain his footing, and was stronger than I expected. But my heart was beating fast, and the adrenaline rushed through my body like heroin. In the four years that I’d been robbing homes and businesses around town, I’d never been caught. To be honest, I’d never thought about how to react or handle the situation. I wasn’t a violent person, and I certainly never even thought about carrying a weapon, let alone using one. And I wasn’t a hulk or anything, but was big and strong and muscular, and I’d always been able to rely on that to keep me out of trouble.

But this guy didn’t seem intimidated by my size and strength, and he fought back hard. My mind reeled as I tried to figure out how I could get out of the situation, but I was drawing a blank. Not knowing what else to do, I lay on top of his back, hoping my weight would keep him still, but he was quick and wiry, and I could tell I wouldn’t be able to keep him pinned much longer.

He tried to scream, but my weight limited his breath, and the cry for help came out weak. Still, I was afraid he’d catch his breath soon, so I clamped my hand over his mouth. I leaned down so that my mouth was right next to his ear.

Shut up, man, I whispered. I don’t wanna hurt you, but you gotta ...

Sharp pain ripped through my palm and shot up my arm. The fucker had bitten me!

Goddam it, I cried out, and shook my hand painfully.

Ahhh, the man screamed.

I brought my knee up and kicked him hard in the kidney. His scream stopped immediately, and I felt his body go limp beneath me. I caught my breath and grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to his feet. His eyes were glazed over, and there was no fight in him at that point. I pushed him over to the bed and threw him onto it.

As he lay limp on the bed and groaned in pain, I reached into my gym bag and pulled out two long strands of nylon rope. I’d never used them before, but my cousin Toño had given them to me and made me promise never to go on a run without them in my bag. In the seven or eight years he’d been burgling, he’d run into a few home or business owners and had to tie them up. In my wildest dreams I’d never imagined having to use them, but I was grateful they were in my bag then.

I rolled the guy over onto his stomach, thinking he’d be less able to kick and use his feet as a weapon if he were in that position. Pinning him to the mattress with one knee, I quickly tied both of his hands to the headboard.

Exhausted after the struggle, I allowed myself to relax, and lay on top of him. My heart was beating faster than I could ever remember, a loud high-pitched ringing filled my dizzy head, and I struggled to catch my breath. But I needed to let him know that I was in charge.

If you move, I’ll fucking kill you, I leaned forward and whispered into