Benji and Dwight both groaned and sighed. Dwight’s turn was next, so after taking a deep steam-filled breath, he said, “Dare.”
Marshall smiled. “Put your face in Benji’s armpit for a full minute.” He was gonna add ‘without puking’, but Benji cackled in his big-ass baritone way, and Dwight groaned. Benji was big and hairy for a twenty-year-old, which was cuz he was part-Egyptian, supposedly, that was what Marshall heard. His chest was coated in black fur, and his ass and the small of his back and his arms and thighs and even his shoulders were hairy too. His armpits made him look like he was smuggling skunks.
To his credit, Dwight did it, and Marshall ain’t even gotta make him — as a team captain, he had the right to do that. A man’s gotta do what he’s committed to, even if it’s just a game of truth or dare. Dwight rammed his face into Benji’s sweat-silkened armpit hair, and a ferocious retch came outta him.
“Ooh-“
“Don’t pull away, don’t pull away. One. Two. Three.” Marshall stopped counting cuz he laughed at the frenzied wriggling of Dwight.
“Ewww — ihh — ell — ell — eye — -iiiiiht!” That last word was ‘shit’, for sure, but neither them caught the resta what Dwight said. Salty sweat trickled into Dwight’s mouth, and he gagged again.
There was no clock in there — and this was decades before cell phones, mind you — clocks was still expensive then — so Marshall had no way of measuring a full minute. He laughed too hard to count off. In any case, it wasn’t manly to niggle, so he didn’t complain when Dwight pulled off and spat up like a cat with a hairball, even though it was probably less than a full minute.
In any case, before Dwight had even stopped gagging, Benji grinned and tousled Dwight’s hair. He said, “Dare.”
“Ewhck, man, ewhck,” Dwight said. He picked an armpit hair outta his mouth. “You are so nasty, Benji.”
Benji’s big round cheeks blushed. He shrugged. “It was Marshall’s dare.” Then Benji repeated himself. “I said dare, c’mon, Dwight.”
Dwight had to regain his composure still. He wiped sweat off with both hands, not that it had much effect — Dwight’s hands were sweaty too. Everything in here was sweaty. Dwight looked at Marshall, who sat there with his cock sticking to his thighs. Dwight grinned.
From Marshall the Coach
Author: MNManmacker
Jagged Right
The Jagged Right’s clubhouse was a sprawling maze of rooms and outbuildings, all connected to a motorcycle repair shop. That was the principal legal source of income for the Jagged Right. One of the backrooms in the clubhouse was a kitchen with a pantry. One of the walls in the pantry was false, concealing a small closet with some drugs and cash, but no guns. That closet was a decoy, and there was a secret trapdoor in the floor that led down to a basement. That basement was fulla guns, pills and coke. Somebody gotta guard it every minute of every day.
Pitnutting
Pitnutting was a common practice among some prison gangs. Buck done work out his inhibitions over that long time back. So this afternoon, when he and his work-crew was just about done, they got to chatting about females. Buck ain’t get lotta man-talk about ladies these days, since he be bunking up with Jeb the preacher’s boy.
So when he and Gooey got to daydreaming out loud, they both was hard in seconds. Gooey was Gui Tengku, Buck’s partner on the Valve Crew. The rest of the Crew was scattered around monitoring, repairing and cursing at the valves that kept the rig working.
Gooey was Malay, and he ain’t a big man. He was skinny by Buck’s standards but ripped, muscles so tight and taut they looked painful, and the trackmarks on his arms was big like pimples. He got a hardon and stuck it in Buck’s shirtless armpit with a big grin — he ain’t even know Buck was down. He just smiled with bloodshot eyes dull-glassed, as his cock humped its way in and out of Buck’s armpit hair. “Whatchoo doin’, Gooey?” Buck asked with a jagged-dagger laugh, watching Gooey’s pecker poke out his armpit. Eventually, in halting English, they negotiated, even as Gooey’s dick still rubbed precum into Buck’s armpit hair.
The agreement was that Gooey would hand over a dub of weed and that Buck would let him keep pitnutting until they contract was over. Neither communicated this well — Gooey thought Buck done promise to smoke the weed with him, while Buck thought it was a one-time transaction.
So they was gonna be steady disputating the details, but for now, both thought they was on the same page.
Then the rest of the Valve Crew showed up, and they all got to nutting on Buck’s back just like Gooey was doing when they walked in. There was Agebisu, the portly Ivorian with a French accent, a trio of hairy and truculent Turks, a older Uzbek with gray hair and a wrinkled face, and a gaggle of Canadians from the far North. Each one of ’em stuck they dicks in Buck’s armpit and shot they wad on Buck’s back.
He ain’t mind one bit. There ain’t no benefit to being squeamish, after all, and if’n Buck could negotiate some exchanges with all them, he got plenty outta it.
It’s just an armpit, he told himself. Lotta them fellers was stinky, but so was Buck. Gooey got a skinny dick, shooting a thin wad out Buck’s armpit. He was followed up by the stubbiest-dicked Turk. Buck know for a fact that Muslims always try and stick it in, so he was ready for it when that Turk rammed his cummy dick onto Buck’s mouth. Buck ain’t open up, and he punch that Turk mid-orgasm in the buttcheek — he gotta reach around his portly ass to get him good.
From Jeb the Farmboy
Jeb and Buck
It took all of Buck’s concentration to take his pants and shirt off. He heaved and persevered, nearly ripping rhe shirt. It was a huge production, and Buck wriggled outta the pants like they was a pair of wrassling snakes. Then Buck lay there stark a lark on the bed. He ain’t even mean to take his briefs off at the same time, but they went down with the pants, so his pecker poked free in the dark motel room. Jeb wore a pair of shorts to bed, and he slid to one side to avoid getting in Buck’s expansive way.
“Oh but she be slammin’ tonight. There’s two of ’em. Waitressssshees. Waiteresssshh… Waituh… Girls,” Buck said. He got under the covers and lay on his side, facing Jeb. His dick thwacked onto Jeb’s bare thigh, and Buck played with his limp rod, letting it slap Jeb on the leg again and again. “Ain’t nevuh sssheen the one of ’em before. The one you saaaww, the blonde, she sshtill there, but there another one, a dahk-hair girl — I think she might be Native. She got dat nose. She pretty asssh pie, Jeb-a-Leb.”From Jeb the Farmboy
Remote, Alaska
Jebediah Turnip returned to his motel room with weary steps upon the frozen Alaskan tundra, his muscles so tired they buzzed and twinged. His arms was sore and tuckered, and his legs ached like sinners on a Sunday. The grass crackled like frozen fingers underfoot until he stepped onto the cold concrete of the motel. His boots left moist prints until he got to the room he shared with another roughneck. He smiled sloe in the lips at the sight of his roommate Buck being somewheres else. Buck musta dallied along the route from the rig where they both labored. But then Jeb frowned at what he did see:
The motel room was a pigsty. And not a nice pig neither. Like a Berkshire pigsty.
Scowling foul, Jeb put his hands on his waist.
Buck’s clothes was spread all over the floor like fallen frogs. The motel room stank of Buck’s dirty socks. A pair of filthy briefs done got tossed willy-nilly to one side and landed on Jeb’s Bible — the Holy Bible, the word of the Lord on high, and it had done been got covered in Buck’s groin hair and grits-and-gravy grease.
None of that was a surprise for those who look with their eyes, mind you, for Jeb been noticing Buck and his slovenly ways since they shacked together in this motel room last week. He chalked it up to Buck growing up in a trailer park. Jeb’s paw said them trailer parks was dens of sin and inequity.
Buck and Jeb done come to Remote, Alaska, to work on a oil rig. They ain’t know each other when they arrived, but they came from the same region on the same bus, so they ended up in the same motel room together. Remote, Alaska, ain’t have enough motel rooms for all the roughnecks who came to work here. The oil rigs right outside of town needed working men, but the town never built no boarding houses or long-term dormitories for the workers.
All there was was this one mud-slush woodpot motel without enough rooms for all the workers. So they gots to double up. Some folks was even more cramped than that, so Jeb was told to count his blessings by Mr. Razinelli, the rig manager.
The bathroom was tiny, barely big enough for the both of them to stand in there. The linoleum was chipped and cracked and simply incomplete in part near the ceiling, like the tiling man done run outta tiles and never wanted to come back to this desolate spot of tundra. It smelled like a summer swimming hole after it dries up so it’s just a muddy patch of dead frogs. The bathtub was tiny too and green with fungus and mushrooms growing from the drain, but they managed to both get in there at the same time, as snug as apples in a pie.
From Jeb the Farmboy
John Claymore
It turned out to be John Claymore. He was a goon-faced enforcer, just like Buck. John had only been here a month or so. John got a big nasty scar on his neck that he said was cuz he “gone and got my throat slit by my first ex-wife but from the third time I ain’t divorce her yet”. He was from Texas, so he got a whole lariat’s worth of twang in his voice, but it was real scratchy and hoarse as though he was recent-like choking on smoke. He ain’t as tall as Buck or most the other enforcers, but he was scrappy and tough, and, reportabledly, he be knifing numberous cholos before he got sent up. So he was tough enough to get shuttled into enforcement for the Jagged Right.
John’s muscles radiated warmth, and Cody scooted close to him. John’s soft, silky hair on his chest was surrounded by tattoos of motorcycles and crucifixes, plus one sexy nun humping a Star of David. The sound of the rest the cell turned to a muffled roar, but it diminished on the rapid, as the guards would be coming by soon to shush anybody still noising.
Cody and Ripley
The cell was crowded with men and stank of manhood — not just the b.o. of Buck and the other enforcers, whose bump-outs, push-ups and burpees cast a scent of zesty sweat, but also the liniment of Ripley and the other old fellers, the stale air and stacks of mildewed clothes, soaked-in cigarette smoke, caked-on mud, spit-soaked concrete and pissy stainless steel, cold, stretched sacs of canned sardines for free weights, it all combined to make for the grungy-dumpy odor of prison life.
Ripley done sprawl out on his back. Cody gotta squeeze in next to him, between Ripley’s side and the edge of the bunk. The cot was sposedta be for two men, but it weren’t huge and Ripley weren’t trying-a make it work. The sheet was thin and grungy, and the blanket they shared was scratchy. It all stank awful of Ripley’s old-man armpits and the noxious liniment he done rub into his knees. Cody gotta wedge in on the edge, and Ripley put one heavy hand on Cody’s chest under the sheet.
He woke up to Ripley’s hands on him. His fingers was rough and callused, but they caressed him gentle-like. Ripley’s right hand stroked Cody’s bruised side, running from his ribs down to his ass. Cody tensed up. Ripley curled his broad body around Cody. The sound of cellbodies snoring and tossing to and fro on they bunks filled the air, muffled by the sheet hung up as a curtain around Ripley and Cody’s bunk.
Ashleigh Ripley
This older raventack feller with a wild beard, a wiry chest and a weathered face like a swampy marshmallow: Ripley. Ripley sat hisself down behind Cody. He spread his legs, so Cody was just inches from Ripley’s briefs-clad crotch. He wore holey tight-whites with his pubes protruding from the worn-bare threads imprinted with West Virginia State Penitentiary in faded lettering. Them drawers was terrible stained with ballsweat.
The pantyhose
He held up a pantyhose. He stretched it out so you could see it had a couple holes in it, and makeup was applied around the holes to give it a look like a human face — mascara around the eyeholes, lipstick around the mouth, blush on the cheeks. “This is the mask. Those of you who’ve worked here before know how it works. You can explain it to the newboots.”
It wasn’t until that night, after lights-out, that Lem explained how the mask worked. If you put the pantyhose on, people could pay to ramrod you up the poop-chute or in the mouth. Standard payment was a full flask of liquor. You “couldn’t tell” who was wearing the mask — really, you could, even if you couldn’t see their face, cuz there was height and weight and tattoos and hair — they all showered together, there wasn’t any hiding who it was.
But it was a rule, Lem said, that every fool on the rig gotta pretend they ain’t recognize whoever wear the mask. You was sposedta call him “Sheila” and pretend you was making sweet love to Sheila’s pussy.
It was not until a few days later that Lem revealed the mask didn’t gotta be a choice. If somebody could force it on you, you had to do it just the same. The rule was that you could plow whoever wore the mask, if you paid the price of a flask — that was it, don’t matter if the masker was begging you to stop or even if the masker managed to take it off before you were done. If the Sheila did get it off, then that “you gotta pretend you don’t know who it was” rule got cancelled — you could call that man a bitch for the resta his life.
So mostly, nobody fought it. If you could force the mask on someone and then get your dick in their butthole, they were better off keeping the mask on.
Precinct 17
Carl went in and began his search for signs of mouse problems — he’d been working in pest control for nine years, so he knew very well where to look. He made notes on his clipboard.
There were sixteen uniformed officers out on the beat, each with desks, a couple desk-jockeys with unclear roles, four supervisors with their own offices, two deputies and the sheriff, also with their own offices, an evidence room, an IT room filled with computer equipment and mouse turds, a break room (with cockroach oothecae under the sink, in addition to mice), and two jail areas, one for men and one for women and children. There were no people in either jail when Carl went in. The one for women and children looked dusty and disused (disused by people — the mice had had a field day with a roll of toilet paper in one cell).
No men were in the men’s jail, but one of the cell was clearly in use. The door was open; the bed was neatly made with near-military precision, and the sink was stocked with a toothbrush and toothpaste. There was a washer-dryer too, not in the cell, but in the jail. A basket of clean clothes lay next to it — Carl was disappointed there was no used underwear, only clean — including a denim shirt and jeans.