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|I have never met Mohammed in person, nor even through the net, but since he was
the one who brought Teao and me together, I should start our story with him.
And of course, since he never even heard of me or Teao he can't help much. But
the Net is like that, especially when you try to explain random chance.
It started for me on a Friday afternoon at work. My job is at an internet company that hosts a variety of web sites that provide "adult entertainment." I had a night planned with my date that wouldn't finish until Sunday afternoon and was trying to finish up my web pages to sneak out the door.
I was cutting and pasting the presidential seal over the Oval Orifice when a shadow, both physical and spiritual, fell over my cubicle. I knew it was Mr. Williams, my boss, without even looking up and knew it was bad news. Even though we're both black, we reside in different ethic groups. I'm African- American; he's Marine. I'd call him a former Marine, but there's no such animal. He has a first name, but nobody in the building has ever dared to use it, except an intern who called him "Jimmy", and then compounded the felony by playfully punching him on the arm. Mr. Williams didn't order him down on the ground for pushups, he just fired the fool. Having gone from managing platoons to managing porn web sites without any recognizable change in his good-to-go approach, he was wearing the telephone headset they will bury him in.
"Do you have a minute?" he asked. Not good. He had a clipboard in his hand. Even worse.
Sitting down, he handed me a faxed picture of a cock. Big, veined, drooping, nothing special. When you look at them fifty hours a week, that's how you look at them.
"I just had a long telephone conference about this picture" he started, in that courtly manner that must have chilled the spines of his recruits.
"Mohammed, you see, has caused quite a stir with it."
"Let me guess" I mused, "Mohammed claims that this is his dick, and he wants royalties."
"I doubt that it's his" my boss mused, "unless they're feeding them much better in the schools nowadays."
"Mohammed is eight years old." I coughed some coffee onto my sweater. "How did Mohammed get this picture off of the site?" I spluttered.
"My call was with the principal of the Fiorello LaGuardia Elementary School, of Astoria, Queens in New York, where Mohammed is a student. The school has recently acquired a set of computers hooked up to the internet, and Mohammed was allowed to play with these computers."
"Don't they supervise these things?" How did I get into this? My hot weekend plans were flapping away on big silver wings.
"The teacher in charge of the computers, who is also the gym teacher, which gives you an idea of how seriously they treat their system, thought they were broken, so he didn't see much harm in letting Mohammed fiddle with them unsupervised."
"How did Mohammed get out onto the net if they were broken?"
"He turned on the modem" my boss grimly mused. "That was how he fixed them. He found our site and collected this" he flipped the fax, "and got a little kick out of it."
"How do you know that?"
"The principal had a very long chat with Mohammed. I did not speak with Mohammed, nor did I ask to. I was having enough trouble talking the principal out of suing us. Which he could not do, but I just had a very long call about this and you're going to have to fix it."
"Why did he want to sue us?"
"It wasn't an especially rational conversation at first. He was so furious about what Mohammed did with this picture that he wanted to take what I would call positive action, without assessing the situation. Apparently, after Mohammed began emailing this--"
"He emailed this?" Omigod. "Don't those schools have filtering software?"
"Yes, they do" he nodded, acknowledging for the first time the existing potential of my intelligence. "And I pointed out to the principal that he would have far better luck chasing the company that sold his school the software than trying to go after what he called 'San Francisco democrats', was the nicest phrase he had for us.
"How did Mohammed get onto our site?" I mean, we have Adult Check, Adult Verify, every kind of kid-get-lost service known to man on our pages.
"Mohammed, being eight, lacks the vocabulary to articulate how he performed this prodigy. According to the principal, he called the mouse the 'clicker.' He called this" and again he shook the faxed dick "a 'peepee'. Mohammed found it funny and a little silly that somebody would put their peepee on the 'television' .
"Mohammed apparently had a crush on one of his schoolmates, a Ms." again he consulted the clipboard, "Ms. Moesha Roscommon, two years' his senior. Mohammed thought that he might impress Ms. Roscommon by emailing this to her as proof of his hipness in hopes of letting him buy her an ice cream cone. Alas for Mohammed, Moesha thinks him to be a bit of a pest and took this picture as proof positive of such. She, in turn emailed it to her friends, along with some commentary to Mohammed's detriment. 'Wicked gross' was used" he read from his clipboard.
"These kids were emailing it back and forth? Out of our site?"
"When the school's new internet class was overenrolled by 500% the teachers suspected that unknown market forces were at work. When the gym teacher discovered the same file sitting in half the student mailboxes in the school, they traced it back to little Mohammed, and in turn to us."
"I'm confident that the New York Post won't be putting us on its front page as the pornographic web site of choice for the third grade of LaGuardia Elementary, mostly because the principal couldn't even explain what he was going to tell Mohammed's parents, much less anybody else."
"Now, sir" I started, trying to find a way out. To hell with my weekend, I could see my job flap away due to this kid. "There's no way to be sure that this kid got this picture off of our site." Lame but better than nothing.
"You mean the header of the file?" Pointing to the top of the fax. Our URL on top. And looking closer, the pattern of veins on the cock looked vaguely familiar.....
"I know you had plans for the evening" he continued, "but I would really appreciate it if you would take charge in correcting this."
I hadn't know you could use nine syllables for 'correcting'.
"Don't worry, I'll birddog this through the weekend." Taking it like a man.
"I knew you would" my boss said warmly, getting up to leave. Leaving me with Mohammed's work.
Hours later, me alone in the office, I was still working on our network and getting nowhere. I called a buddy at his home who works in what he calls a "three-letter agency" and says that if he told he the letters, he would have to kill me. We both work on the same kind of software, and as it turned out, he had an update to fix the security hole.
"I'll send it over by messenger now" he said, "I don't dare send this over the net. Will you still be there in an hour?"
I'll be here all freaking weekend. "I'll wait."
An hour later I was still getting nowhere when the night bell rang. I opened it and saw two things: it was still raining and the messenger. I've seen a lot of messengers in this town, and most of them look like roadkill. But this guy was as tall as I was, way broader across the shoulders, and wore a faded leather jacket over a fishnet shirt. Black lycra shorts around long, big thighs and tight butt. Long hair in a pony tail and chestnut-shaped eyes below a broad, brown forehead. Thick white teeth in a smile.
"Yo," he handed me a CD mailer.
"Hi" I got out. Dripping wet in the door, he held a trail bike in one arm. "Come on in" I offered. "I'm Teao" he started, and we shook hands, my hand wrapped in a big brown hand, callused, wet with sweat and rain. We both walked back into the reception area, and he left the dripping bike by the radiator. I rooted around at the reception desk for a pen while he mumbled something into his cell phone. A couple of years younger than me, maybe, twenty pounds heavier, and from what I tell by scoping out his legs, in hot shape.
"Would you like some coffee?"
"That would be excellent!" His big fingers teeped and beeped across the keys of his clipboard, and he put the thing back in the bike's pouch. We walked back across the empty cubicles towards the kitchen, and I felt myself getting hard over his smell: a heavy mix of sweat, rain and wet crinkling leather. We carried the coffee over to my cubicle, and I put the CD into the workstation.
"Hey, you work on stuff like this?" He was looking at the screen, which had the main URL of our site.
"I have a roommate who has a computer, and he's really into this kind of stuff. It must be hot as hell to look at it all day long, eh?" and he smiled.
"As a matter of fact, most of the time I look at the menu screens, HTML and Java scripting." And I rarely had visitors into the cubicle, especially a dude who smelled like a fresh locker room and had one hand on the back of my chair, sipping coffee with the other. He had hung his wet jacket on the edge of the cubicle's wall and for all the world looked like a middleweight bodybuilder, the loose fabric dark with sweat clinging across delts and the tops of his biceps. I looked at the monitor; the program had started to execute and I didn't have to do a thing. I turned and saw him looking at my cubicle: the fake brick autographed by Soledad O'Brien (I interned at MSNBC two years ago); and a few of the pics on the walls: a video grab of the Chicago Bulls' locker room and a French magazine's cover picture of Lennox Lewis.
"Have you been a messenger in this town long?" I was curious about why a guy with that kind of body rode on the streets as a bike messenger. He had a body that looked like it was born on a surfboard and brought up under a bench press.
"Hey, it keeps the body fat down, you know? Especially going up and down the streets in this town!" With that he pulled up his shirt's front and his fingers ran over the deep gouges of his abs, the skin so tight over the muscles it didn't even pinch. Body fat down to about zero, in fact.
"Hey, if I worked in a place like this I would be hard as a rock all day." We locked eyes. With a quiet click he put his coffee mug on the table and I felt his hand moving across my chair. His smile broadened. He now knew what I liked and I knew what he liked. I felt thick damp fingers slide across my shirt's shoulders before they rested lightly on my neck, a few fingers sliding back down under the fabric. I reached over and began to explore where those lycra tights met the skin of his back.
With his other hand he reached behind his neck and pulled off his fishet, and sweat-dotted muscles rolled and ground under tight tea-colored skin too tight to pinch. He rolled my chair around until it faced him and he put his big sneakered foot into the center of my seat, an inch away from my own swelling basket, and I started to unlace his sneakers while watching his own cock push the lycra out from his hips. Popping off the shoe, I massaged his damp calf before moving up to play with the lycra-six pack border with my fingers. He pushed my chair back to the table with his other foot and I popped his other sneaker off.
I don't know how I got on my feet, but the next thing I remember is that we were in each other's arms, his hard bare muscles rubbing across my shirt and butt, my left hand exploring his broad back and my right digging down under his shorts and tried to massage the dense muscles of his butt. Our lips were lightly brushing and I could smell something fried and greasy he had for dinner, the coffee he had just sipped. His fingers were pulling slow on my fly of my jeans.
The part of my head that wasn't scoping out his thick pecs and tiny hard nipples was trying to decide: where can we get it on? There was a small room off of the stairs where there was a cot for quick naps, but I imagined Mr. Williams bouncing a quarter off of the sheets every time he walked by it in the morning. The bed-and-breakfast down the street screwed Multimedia Gulch customers to the tune of $250 a night.
My thinking was cut off by the feel of his fingers winding around my own cock and balls, pulling them out of my pants. Pulling his lips down to rub them across my throat, his other hand blindly groped along the cubicle's wall until he found his jacket. He slid it off onto the rug and pulled away from me, shucking his tights until he was buck naked, pulling my shirt over my head and tossing it next to the damp leather on the floor.
"Put your butt on my jacket" he panted. "Now, right now."
Uh, here, now? This is my cubicle. Critical network administration gets done here. Coffee is spilled. Dilbert cartoons are posted.
I folded myself down until I was sitting on his jacket on the floor, while I fumbled to take off my pants and jockey shorts. My own boner was swelling fast, especially when the cheeks of my ass rubbed across the faded soft leather. My jeans weren't off a second before he spread himself over me, one arm supporting himself, while the other reached under me to fumble in one of the jacket's pockets. A new layer of fresh sweat rolled out of his armpits, and he pulled out a condom to rip open with his teeth.
"Uhhhh" I started to say something, but my word turned into a gasp as he rolled that condom over a great cut boner, angry red with blood, spearing straight out of a thick tight patch of pubic hair. Heavy fingers clamped over me and he switched his weight to my shoulder, holding me down while the condom rolled back and back. My own breaths were getting thicker and deeper, out of the itching in my butt for that cock and without another word, Teao grabbed my legs and swung them in his heavy arms until my butt was exposed in the cool office air, and I could see the hairs on my knees as he shoved them up over his shoulders.
"Do it" I muttered. Teao looked at me, rubbing his shoulders over my legs.
"I'm gonna nail you to the floor" I heard him promise before a red spear of pain slashed through my butt and I hissed through clenched teeth. His strong hips pushed again and again and my ass, never feeling this size before, couldn't stretch fast enough and I moaned in new pain. Looking up I saw hair starting to stray out of his pony tail and sweat drip down his nose. His eyes were locked into mine and he speared my butt deeper with another stroke. His smile broadened as my moaning grew louder, and I felt helpless over his muscles, my job, my screwed up date. I dimly felt his arm break away to grab something, and I smelled it before I saw it: his jockstrap.
Strong fingers fumbled the fabric towards my mouth and pried open my jaws.
"Chew on this" he gasped, and my mouth opened wide to devour the fabric, smelling of thick old sweat and a little of piss. His thumb pushed the cloth down into my mouth and my moans were muffled but deeper through his jockstrap. The red slashes of pain were turning into scratches of deep hot itches of my butt and the rhythm of his strokes slowed, nailed to the hilt in my butt. The buckles and seams of his jacket were scratching the skin of my naked back, and he leaned down, eyes closed, his nose sniffing his own jockstrap filtered through my own saliva. His growls and moans echoed my snuffling through my nostrils and moaning around the dense mass in my own mouth.
The own swinging of his hips slowed suddenly and his moan turned into a gasp. His fingers dug into my own arms so deep I felt them trying to grind into the bones and I felt dropping across my own abs the first shots of my own cock. His cock nailed to the full in my butt, he rolled his hips slow, around and around and around.
When he started to pull out, I tried to yelp but I was sucking on his jock so hard I could only grunt. Every time I grunted, he smiled and kept playing with his own cock on the way out, sliding slowly back and forth until at last I felt my ass open to the air, and the tingling of my numb legs where his thick arms had stopped the circulation.
Teao lay on top of me now, quiet, his big plastic-sheathed cock filled with his juice on top of my exposed smaller cock drooling the last of its come. When he pulled his jock out of my choking mouth, he held it up to his nose to snuffle it like a dog. He shifted his long hard body until he was sitting on my belly, his butt on my abs, and put on his fishnet shirt. He took the soggy jock and shifted his bulk around on top of me while he struggled to put it on, finally sliding its saliva-soaked pouch into his own basket, the swollen cock clearly outlined in its dark fabric.
"That was excellent." With that, he gave me one last deep kiss, smelling his jock on my mouth, and one thick arm rolling me off his jacket. With a malicious grin he took my own Gap shirt and rolled me back onto it so my wounded ass lay on the clean cotton.
In his stained jacket and jockstrap, he straddled me while adjusting his biker's tights onto his hips and smiled down at me, squatting down until his butt was almost my crotch, for one last kiss. I wanted to chow down on his cock through the lycra, but he held me in the kiss too hard.
"Take care, guy" he purred, stretching his lean hard body up and up, and I heard rather than saw him walk back towards his bike and the door open and close.
It was a few more minutes before I wanted to move a muscle where I lay on my on sweaty come-streaked clothes on the rug of my cubicle. It was way more minutes before I could stand up and try to get dressed. It was the condom that finally got me moving up off the floor to clean up. Where had it gone? I hadn't seen Teao strip it off that huge dick of his and it had to have gone somewhere. If I didn't find it now, Mr. Williams would probably find it tomorrow by tripping over it.
I stood up, my ass raw and sore and stretched, the toes of my feet curled into the fabric of the rug, and I opened the window for some fresh air. The cubicle looked the same: same calendar, posters, Dilbert and Dogbert, except for the floor, where you can tell two big studs had wrestled, sweated, fucked and shot. No wonder Clinton settled for blow jobs.
After I cleaned up the cubicle, I stretched down on the floor again 'cuz I didn't want to sit in that chair. Leaning back I was smelling Teao's come and sweat in my shirt when after a while it registered on my mind that the night phone line was ringing. And my pager, tangled in the belt of my jeans, was buzzing too.
I slowly and stiffly pulled myself up and over to the phone.
"We're under attack!" the voice rasped over the phone.
"Isn't it incredible" I muttered.
"Somebody's screwing us!" The phone almost rattled in my ear, it was so loud. It hit me who was calling: my Three-Letter-Agency friend who lent me the software CD.
"We've got a hacker, dammit! We found the guy fifteen minutes ago, and we gotta track him down!"
"Are you finished with that software? We need the CD back, and fast! We're gonna catch this Israeli sonofabitch good!" I looked over at my screen; the program had finished running.
"No prob at all." I was confused. "How do you know this guy is Israeli?"
"We found where the attack is originating, and we're supposed to think that somebody in the Fiorello LaGuardia Elementary School is online tonight. And get this: the hacker is going under the email name of Mohammed. This has got to be some Israeli cracker with a twisted sense of humor!"
"Look" he continued, "I just called the messenger service, and the same messenger I sent the CD over with is still local. He can be there in fifteen minutes. Can you be ready for him that soon?"
God, I didn't hear that.
"I'll help anyway I can."
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