by Bob Vickery

I inched slowly down the street, trying to read house numbers and keep my eye on the road at the same time. Why was it, I thought, that the higher the income bracket, the harder it was to find a simple address? Just another way to discourage the riff-raff. I passed by the same stretch of street three times before I finally spotted the number "62", half-buried under a clump of ivy above the front door of a sprawling Tudor mansion. I parked the limo, a little nervously, at the curb. I wasn't use to driving such a tank; the last thing I needed was to put a dent in the damn thing.

The house had a million dollar view of the San Francisco Bay. There was still enough light to watch the wind surfers skimming across the water one last time before they had to call it a day. The front yard was small, immaculate. A breeze blew, and a leaf from a large magnolia tree drifted to the ground. I half expected somebody in a blue blazer to run out and sweep it up.

I rang the bell. A middle-aged Hispanic woman answered the door. "Hello," I said. "Would you please tell Mr. Bigelow his driver is here."

She ushered me into a hallway twice as big as my apartment. "Mr. Bigelow will be down shortly," she said.

I stood there waiting, killing time by counting the pendants on the crystal chandelier above me. I lost count at 103 and gave it up. I heard footsteps on the stone staircase and turned.

Bigelow looked to be in his early forties. He was dressed in a tuxedo, and it looked good on him, set off his trim body nicely. His hair was short-clipped, brown, with gray at the temples, and his face was clean-shaven and rugged. He wore an expression of calm that only the supremely confident could muster. His eyes were alert and intelligent, and I noticed they quickly scanned my body as he walked towards me.

He extended his hand. "I'm Lloyd Bigelow."

"Good evening, Mr. Bigelow. I'm Tom, your driver." We shook hands.

He smiled, but his eyes were thoughtful, still gauging me. "Did the limo agency tell you where we were going?"

"Yes sir. The Burlingame Country Club."

"Good. Sorry I made you wait, but I'm running a little late. We better get going."

"Yes sir."

He didn't speak again until we were on the highway. "I don't remember seeing you before. Are you new to the agency?"

"Yes sir. My first week."

"Oh, really? Were you a driver somewhere else before that?"

"No sir." I paused, wondering how much of my personal history I was suppose to get into. Finally I added, "I was a carpenter before this. Working for a general contractor. But the building industry's taken a nosedive lately in this town and I was laid off. I haven't been able to find any work in construction since."

Bigelow sighed. "We're living in tough times, that's for sure."

I glanced in the rear view mirror at him to see if he was mocking me. But his expression was bland. Yeah, I thought. It looks like you're really suffering. We didn't say anything for the rest of the drive out there.

Something was cooking at the country club, because the parking lot in front of the club house was packed with cars: Mercedes, Cadillacs, Porches, with a few Beemers thrown in for good measure. I could hear music pour out of the lighted windows of the building. I drove up in front of the main entrance, and a doorman rushed over and opened the door for Bigelow.

I parked the limo alongside the club house, where I could get a view of the front entrance but not block the driveway. Two parking valets were sharing a joint in the nearby bushes, unaware that anyone was watching them. I wondered how the members here would feel knowing that their $80,000 cars were being parked by a couple of stoned teenagers.

Hours went by. Bigelow finally came out of the front door, onto the terrace, scanning the parking lot. I pulled up in front of him, got out and opened the door, and he climbed in. A couple of minutes later we were riding once more down the quiet, well-fed streets of Burlingame.

"Did you have a good time, Mr. Bigelow?" I asked.

He snorted. "Hell, no. I just went there to close a damn business deal. I wasn't even able to do that. The son-of-a-bitch Jacobson is playing cagey with me." He gave a short laugh. "You got the right idea, Tom. Just drive cars and keep it simple."

"Yes sir. That's why I decided not to be a corporate executive when I got laid off."

Silence from the back seat. I guessed I had sounded more sarcastic than I had intended. I glanced in the mirror and saw that the expression on Bigelow's face was stony. But then he laughed. "I suppose I was a little patronizing there, wasn't I?"

"Not at all, sir."

"I'm sorry."

"No offense taken."

We pulled onto the highway. "How long were you out of work before this job?" he finally asked.

"Six months."

"It must have been hard on you. A strong, young man like yourself being inactive all that time."

"I found ways to kill time."

"Oh, yeah? Doing what."

Is this normal? I wondered. Do clients usually talk this much to their drivers? For the first time I realized that Bigelow was a few sheets to the wind. "I worked out at a gym. Jogged. Went to the movies. Bargain matinees, that is."

"No girl friends?"

"No sir."

"That's surprising. A good-looking guy like yourself." A minute of silence passed. "How are you making out financially?" he finally asked.

Jeez, I thought. A little booze under the belt really makes this guy nosey. "No disrespect intended, Mr. Bigelow, but I rather not answer that question."

"Sorry. I was just making conversation."

We drove in silence for the rest of the way back. I pulled up in front of his house and turned the engine off.

"Tom, can I ask you a another question?"

"Sure."

"How much money do you make doing this?"

Should I answer this? I wondered. After a pause, I replied, "$7.50 an hour. Plus whatever you decide to tip me."

"How would you like to make a quick one hundred bucks?"

This time I let a full thirty seconds go by. "Doing what, Mr. Bigelow?"

"Call me Lloyd."

"Okay. Doing what, Lloyd?"

"Well, it's real simple, Tom. You're a good-looking guy. And I like you. I'd like you to come up with me, let me strip you naked and throw you in bed, and we could just have a little party. It's a big bed. King-size. Plenty of room for fun and games."

I looked at him in my rear view mirror. He gazed back at me, a look of unshakable calm on his face. The look he must wear whenever he closes some minor deal in the board room. You really think I'll jump through hoops for your lousy C-note, don't you? I thought.

I turned around and faced him, doing my best to keep my face expressionless. "Gee, I don't know, Lloyd. I'll have to think about this."

"I'll make it a hundred and fifty bucks."

I put on an expression like I was mulling it over. Finally I smiled. "Let me ask a favor of you first, okay?"

"Shoot."

"Pull out your cock."

Bigelow's composure wavered for a second. I had to fight down an impulse to laugh. "I beg your pardon?"

"Pull out your cock, Lloyd. Let me see it. Since we're negotiating a deal, I want to check out the merchandise first."

After a couple of beats, Bigelow's mouth curled up into a slow smile. "Sure, Tom. It's a reasonable request, I guess." He unzipped his fly, reached inside and pulled out his dick. It was already half-erect, and, exposed to the great outdoors, it hardened quickly. I pretended to examine it closely. Actually, as far as cocks go, it was a nice one, thick, long enough, with a dark red, bulbous head. I could trace one long blue vein running up the length of the shaft. My eyes met his again. That look of smug confidence was all over his face.

"I'll pass," I said.

That sure as hell wiped the smugness off. "What?"

I smiled. "I said I'll pass. Lloyd. I'm not interested."

The blood drained from his face. Then it rushed back up again. His expression grew murderous. "Why, you son of a bitch," he snarled.

"Go fuck your houseboy if you feel like slumming."

He fumbled with his dick, pushing it back inside his trousers, and zipped up his fly. His eyes shot venom at me. "I could get you fired for this, you little prick."

This time I did laugh. "Go ahead. I just told you what I make. Do you think I care?" I stared back at him. "As for me being 'little', I would guess I'm three inches taller than you and outweigh you by thirty pounds. I could mop up the street with you if it came to that." Pause. "Lloyd."

Bigelow opened the car door and pulled himself out of the back seat, slamming the door behind him. He stalked up the walk towards his house.

I rolled down the window. "Does this mean I don't get a tip?" I called after him.

I drove off, sneering. But there was a sour feeling in my belly. I didn't feel amused at all. If anything, I just felt depressed.

The next day I got a call from Benny, the dispatcher at the limo service. "I got a call from your Mr. Bigelow today," he said.

I wondered why they were making Benny fire me. Normally it would have been the agency manager. "Oh, yeah?" I grunted.

"You must have made quite an impression on him. He's got another engagement tonight, and he asked specifically for you as a driver."

I pursed my lips in a noiseless whistle. So Bigelow hadn't complained. "Get somebody else," I said.

"Why? You busy tonight?"

"No. I just don't want to deal with Bigelow again. You got other drivers. Get one of them."

Benny sighed. "Tommy, Tommy. We can't afford to be prima donnas in this business. It's too competitive. Mr. Bigelow's a big client of ours, and he asked for you. Now don't make me lean on you, all right?"

I felt my grip on the receiver tighten. That bastard Bigelow is convinced he calls all the shots, I thought. "Okay, Benny. I'll do it," I said in a tight voice.

"Thanks, Tom. You're a good man. I knew I could count on you. I'll call Mr. Bigelow and tell him to expect you."

"You do that."

I hung up. I picked up the receiver again and dialed Joe Ortega, another one of our drivers. Joe picked up the phone after the third ring.

"Joe," I asked. "Are you working tonight?"

"No."

"Would you like to do a gig?"

"Sure."

"Benny's got me lined up with this client, but I got a hot date tonight I don't want to break," I lied. "Can you cover for me?"

"I dunno. Benny might not like it. You know what a stickler he is for going by the book."

"Hey, Joe, I'll take full responsibility, okay? And it means you'll be making a little extra cash, too, right?."

Pause. "Okay. I'll cover for you. But you owe me one."

"Right." I gave him Bigelow's address. I hung up, grinning. Joe was sixty-three years old, balding, and with a beer paunch so big he had trouble squeezing it behind the steering wheel. Let Bigelow offer Benny a night of "fun and games". I might get canned for pulling a stunt like this, but frankly, I didn't give a rat's ass.

I didn't get fired. Apparently Bigelow never complained. But when Joe turned in his time card and Benny found out about the switch, I got a royal ass-chewing. He made it clear to me that if I pulled another stunt like that I was history.

I ran into Bigelow two weeks later, quite by accident. It was late Saturday night, or rather, early Sunday morning, around one o'clock. I was walking out of a Folsom Street bar and almost collided with him outside as he was entering. He was dressed in an expensive looking brown leather jacket and a pair of old jeans. There was an awkward silence as we stared at each other.

I was the first to break it. "Hello, Lloyd." I said.

His face was unreadable. "This is sure one hell of a surprise."

"Yeah, well, it's a small world." I started to walk away.

He caught my arm. "The only reason I called the agency and asked for you again was so I could apologize. I was drunk that night and I behaved like a jerk. I can understand you acting the way you did."

"It's no big deal."

He motioned his head towards the door. "Look, can I buy you a drink?"

I shook my head. "It's late, and my last bus leaves in fifteen minutes."

"Let me give you a ride, then."

I gave a short laugh. "You just got here."

"I don't mind. Look at it as a sort of peace offering."

I was about to refuse when an idea flashed inside my head. I smiled. "Sure."

He had a Mercedes, parked a block away. He unlocked the front passenger door for me. "No," I said. "I want to sit in the back."

His face grew cold. "What the hell is this, some kind of a game?"

"Yeah. That's exactly what it is. A game. You can either play it with me, or I'll take the fucking bus."

After a while he smiled. "All right." He unlocked the back door and opened it. "Hop in." I climbed in and he closed the door after me. He got in behind the wheel. "Where do you want me to drive you?"

"I'll give you directions. For the time being just go straight."

He pulled away from the curb. There was no conversation between us except for an occasional direction on my part. I reached into my pocket and counted my change. I had sixty-seven cents.

"Tell me, Lloyd," I asked. "How much money do you make? On an hourly basis."

"I don't get paid by the hour, so I wouldn't know."

"Just give me an estimate."

Bigelow was silent as he thought about it. "I'd guess around $650 to $700 per hour. Of course, it varies, depending on how my investments are doing."

"Pull over." We were in a dark, isolated warehouse district. Bigelow pulled alongside the curb without a question. "I'll give you sixty-seven cents for a blow job."

Bigelow turned around and looked at me. "Why don't we just go back to my place?"

"I don't ball the servants in their quarters. That would be degrading."

Bigelow said nothing. I could almost hear the gears inside his head spinning, as he contemplated the options. "All right," he finally said. He got out from behind the wheel and opened the back door. We were parked by a street lamp and its light flooded the back seat. He climbed in.

I leaned back, with my hands behind my head. "Go ahead. You do all the work."

He smiled. "I want my money first."

"I'll pay you after you've earned it." I made my voice harsher. "Now get going, fucker!"

Bigelow began unbuckling my belt. He hands were trembling slightly. I knew then that I controlled this situation completely. It was an exhilarating feeling. Bigelow slowly pulled down my pants and my shorts. I was rock hard, and my cock sprung to attention.

"Beautiful," he murmured. He took my cock in his hand, bent down and kissed it gently. He ran his tongue along the length of the shaft and then down along my balls. He put one ball in his mouth and sucked, and then the other, as he began stroking my spit-slicked dick. His mouth returned to my meaty shaft, and this time he swallowed it completely, all eight inches of it, until his nose was buried in my pubes.

I grabbed his head with both hands and began pumping his mouth hard. "That's it, fucker." I growled. "Take it all in. Service your master."

I quickly pivoted around so that he was lying on the car seat as I sat on his chest, fucking his face. I reached back, unzipped his jeans and pulled out his dick. Spitting hard in my hand, I began stroking it. Bigelow groaned, his voice muffled by a mouthful of dick meat.

I pulled my cock out of his mouth and dropped my balls in. I began beating his face with my hard-on. "That's good prole meat, Bigelow." I growled. "Strictly blue collar. Just the way you like it." He looked up at me, still tonguing my nut sac. His hands moved up my torso, over my hard belly and across my chest. His fingers gripped my nipples and squeezed hard.

"Yeah, that's right," I rasped. "Play with my titties."

I pushed myself off him and pulled off my pants and shirt. "Take off your clothes," I said. Bigelow hesitated and looked nervously out of the window. I thought how embarrassing it would be for him if we got caught by a passing patrol car and smiled. I looked down at him, with dick sticking straight out, my balls hanging just above his mouth. "What's the matter, Bigelow," I growled. "You got a problem?" He shook his head and took off his clothes.

I lay down on top of him, feeling the length of his naked body against mine, as we kissed, our tongues probing into each other's mouth. I began dry humping him, poking his belly with my cock. He reached down and grabbed both our cocks together, fusing them into one giant fuck muscle. I wrapped my arms around him in a bear hug and we rolled all over the back seat, the two of us crashing into ashtrays, arm rests, door handles. Our bodies were drenched in sweat, our flesh came together and separated in great, wet, slapping noises.

Bigelow broke away and swooped down on my dickmeat again, cramming it down his throat. I swiveled and descended on his cock as well, gorging on it. I breathed in deeply, taking in the sweaty odor of balls. Bigelow sucked cock like a pro, twisting his head from side to side, nibbling on my cock head, sliding his tongue down the shaft in long, wet slurps. I felt him work a finger up my ass, past the second knuckle, and twist it, and whole new sensations crashed over me. I went fucking wild, bucking and heaving like a bronco, working over Bigelow's fat dick like I was on some kind of feeding frenzy. I could feel Bigelow's skillful tongue pulling my load out of my balls, sucking me into climax. I was almost at the brink. A couple of deep thrusts with my hips pushed me over. I sat up and cried out, still pumping Bigelow's mouth hard, squirting what felt like a couple of quarts of jism down that rich bastard's million dollar throat.

I started to pull out, but Bigelow would have none of that. He kept sucking voraciously on my dickmeat as he pummeled his own cock with his hand. I watched his balls bounce up and down hypnotically, still panting from the load I had just dropped. I reached down and squeezed his nipples hard. That did the trick. He began moaning; the moans became cries and he arched his back as thick gobs of cum spurted out of his dick. Even after he had stopped shooting, he continued sucking my now softening manmeat. "You can't get enough of that, can you, fucker?" I growled. But he didn't answer, just kept sucking.

Eventually Bigelow drove me home. As I climbed out of the car, he handed me a card from his wallet. It had his telephone number on it. "I'd like to see you again," he said. "You can dictate the circumstances. Just make it happen."

I put the card in my shirt pocket. "I'll think about it," I said. I grinned. "And I got something for you too." I handed him the sixty-seven cents. "Next time, if there is a next time, I might make it a full dollar."

As I climbed the stairs to my place, I laughed. Being born with a silver spoon in your mouth was okay, I thought. But when it got down to the bottom line, a nice, stiff cock was always better.