I unbutton the top of his shorts then slowly tug the zipper down, spreading the fabric apart. Frank’s cock springs free, big, hard and proud. “Wel...,” he says, “there are many different ways of saying ‘thank you’!” “Oh, yes.” I can barely close my hand around him and I start stroking him up and down slowly. ‘I just hope I can thank you enough.” It is so hot and heavy in my hand. I gaze at the bulbous head, pulsing and throbbing as I pump him, a little moisture appearing at the opening. I lean. Fridays were reserved for Jummah prayer, which was the Muslim equivalent of a Sunday church sermon. I’d be gentle with my body on those days, icing my sore muscles and drinking enough water to satisfy a horse. I ate clean, even though it could’ve been a cheat day, but there were no cheat days for people like me.Hitmen don’t cheat.The streets smelled of betel leaf and ittar, a combination of the paan that most men chewed, and the musky cologne they wore. Dirt roads with open bazaars, donkeys. More

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