When Goose returns from Vietnam, he thought he’d be coming home again. But nothing could be further from the truth! He’s gotta travel for work and to escape the police, and that’s gonna send him an odyssey of alpha male man-on-man action, Buddhist enlightenment and raunchy, filthy situations!
Goose is in for a bevy of rednecks, machos, hicks, hillbillies, soldiers and more, as he overcomes his hangups from war and finds a way home to his family.
When the legendary boxer Thumper White is released from prison, he never thought he’d be rooming up with a doe-eyed prettyboy named Rico! Neither of them will ever be the same. That’s cuz Thumper gets horny sometimes, and he don’t take no for an answer when it comes from a darkskin slice of handsome pie with a pile of alluring frowns on top!
Fletcher is secure in prison cuz he’s a Blood in good standing… or is he?! His new cellmate is a massive brute, the legendary pro football linebacker Tanktop Jones. Is Fletcher still secure in the Bloods?
Or does Tanktop have the right to do what he wants to Fletcher’s tender booty?!
Teddy tends bar alongside the bouncer Arthur, who just might have a secret… Unrelatedly, the masked superhero Captain Right has been taking out the trash and cleaning up the city. Teddy’s about to make a discovery that will change everything!
Buck is out of prison again, and he’s up to his old tricks! He’s got a plan to stay out, but will it work? Buck is a muscle-bound ex-con redneck who doesn’t want to go back to prison and doesn’t want a reputation as a jailhouse booty bandit… but even more than that, he wants to stick his rod in anything that moves! So he’s got to satisfy his needs on the DL, even if that means holding down some hobos, addicts and losers, while doing the dirty in the dirt!
In a world of sword and sorcery fantasy, the men are brimming with masculine energy, muscular power and arrogant machismo! They take what they want and don’t take no for an answer!
This is a hardcore noncon man-on-man journey, so steel your loins and harden up!
Jimmy is a college football jock whose throbbing stiffy distracts him and gets him into trouble… Lucky for him, the local cops keep a trustee ready for just this sort of need. His name is Hassle, a muscle-bound Aryan who will do as he is told, even if that means getting Jimmy off time and time again!
Can Jimmy handle the man-on-man action he’s in for?
Thumper climbed into the rented pickup, and only on the way did Mr. Gregarian tell him about the mission. They was extracting money outta some broke-ass deadteat who owed Mr. Gregarian oodles of doodles. Thumper ain’t mind that mission, but it was gangsterism for sure, and if Mr. Perry found out, he’d fury up on the quickabout. So Thumper gotta be discrete. Discretion ain’t easy driving a speckle-paint roaring-engine truck past Mr. Perry’s office on the way to the ritzy-ditzy neighborhood Oaken Grove in Baltimore County. Luckily they passed a recycling truck when going by the parole office, and it blocked Mr. Perry’s window from them. On the way, Thumper ain’t play no music in the truck, and Mr. Gregarian was okay with that, or at least he ain’t complain. Thumper liked the sound of the engine and the wind cracking past like gusts of freedom. Thumper ain’t yet figure out how to listen to good, old music — every music-listening method required multiple steps he’d have to look up how to do. How did every part of music get worse while he was locked up? Thumper considered asking Mr. Gregarian where to buy clothes. But he got the feeling Mr. Gregarian stopped buying new clothes around the time Thumper got arrested, so they just sat in silence as the white-lady robot directed them into Oaken Grove. A few desperate-limb oaks remaindered from the trees that done got teared down to build Oaken Grove. Thereabout around, the houses was big and spread wide like grassy yawns. The nicest homes was built at odd angles to the road. Most them yards sported trim lawns and spartan scatters of elegant blossoms. Lotta sculpted hedges and little decorative evergreen jawns too. They was pretty yards, as perfectly plotted as a Jewish murder, but you could tell ain’t nobody ever play or cook out or jaw a spell there. When they pulled into the driveway of a house with rundown grass and overgrowed flowerbeds, Mr. Gregarian told Thumper the plan: while Mr. Gregarian flapped his trap at the man, Frank Johnson, Thumper should empty the house of valuables. Anything that could be sold was fair game. Frank owed eleven grand, and Mr. Gregarian said he prolly done sold off anything truly valuable. But Thumper was eager to find something better than chumpy cheddar, so Mr. Gregarian’d call this a success. First he carted out the teevee and the fridge with a hand-truck, while Mr. Gregarian spoke stern as stairs to the deadbeat. “Did you think you had gotten away with it? I don’t forget a debt, Mr. Johnson.” Frank Johnson dropped to his knees. “Please, sir, Mr. Gregarian, just give me another month. Don’t break my knees. I still have a job, and once my divorce is final, I won’t have lawyer bills anymore. Please, sir-” He was a rosy-nosy honky-donkey pudgebutt in sweatpants and a trash tee shirt that advertised a boy scout popcorn fundraiser. He bin divorcifying the missus, that was what done consummate all his money. Thumper saw family photos with wifey’s face cut out. Looked like she got a okay body though, bony in the hips some, and tits small as Salvadoran fists — wouldn’a slowed Thumper down none. That limpwad Frank oughta never gived her up. He ain’t gonna get no shebody better now. “We’re not breaking your knees, you moron,” Mr. Gregarian said with a hot sneer. He shoved Frank away. “I know perfectly well you’d never pay if you were crippled.” Frank nodded and stood up from his knees like still got some pride. “That’s right, that’s right. Thank you! I’ll pay as soon as I can!” Thumper hurried upstairs, but the upstairs done got strippt clean as a virgin dildo — Frank’s wife and kids absconded months ago, and they took all they jawns from the bedrooms. Frank still got his own bedroom, but it was fulla little more than a ratshit mattress, old McDonald’s crinkle-paper and unwashed duds. There weren’t even no teevee in there. Only valuemento was a stack of sticky porno, which Thumper took knowing Mr. Gregarian would call it a pervy waste. It was, he be right, but Thumper could sell it to his homies in state and make a pretty penny for his pocket. Then Thumper looked behind all the framed photos for a safe, and he tapped his foot on the floorboards to listen for a hollow thud. Nothing. Basement got lotta rotting newspapers and a rusty, dusty furnace. He checked the crawlspace under the house too but found nothing ‘cept a dirty shovel and a nest of mice. Getting a nigga who bin locked up for decades prolly weren’t a good idea on Mr. Gregarian’s part. Thumper dunno where a fellah might hide money nowadays, and he got no idea how valuable shit like a ironing board was — he put that in the truck, but Mr. Gregarian later made fun of him for it. Thumper ain’t even get the iron to go with it. Thumper picked up bunches of weird little electronic boxes with no clear purpose. One kept beeping like a cyborg with a stutter, and another got a light flashing inside.
Thumper put a serious flatness on when he came back to Mr. Gregarian. “Ain’t find much, suh,” he said. “There’s the fridge and the teevee out in the truck. I got some jawns that beep and boop too. Should we take his phone?”
“Please, don’t, Mr. Gregarian-“ “Shut up,” Mr. Gregarian snapped at Frank and slapped him across the face, making a loud ring like a whore’s diamond. He looked back at Thumper. “No, let him keep his phone. It’s too old to sell anyway. Mr. Johnson does need a punishment though, to be sure he finds a payment before next month.” “Yes, suh,” Thumper said. He brandished a fist, then took off his shirt. This was the part that was easy for him. It felt right as rulers. His broad chest gleamed in the dim light. His prison-built muscles was firm, crudely tatted, the naked Statue of Liberty with the fat-girl vulva on his back dripping with sweat (Thumper done look up what a vulva was). He glowered down Frank, who turned pale as a drained-out klansman. Thumper advanced to hit the cowering Frank, who crounched down by the front door like he might could skedaddle. But he was quaking and shaking like fry bacon, and he kept crawling his noggin into the bottom of the wall behind him. “Please, wait, no!” “Just a tap for now, Wendell,” Mr. Gregarian said. Thumper nodded and grinned, his fist colliding with Frank’s face with a satisfying thud and a cry of pain. Frank curled up into a mewling ball, which put Thumper down — he got a slim lip for beating a man who ain’t fight back or even beg. He just curled up like a deflated fetus. Blood sploded outta Frank’s nose and dripped down Thumper’s fingers. His eyes on focus on Frank, Thumper let Mr. Gregarian reach from behind him and undo Thumper’s belt. Thumper’s jeans thudded to the floor. He wished he done put on something classier than prison drawers, but that’s what he was wearing, cuz Mr. Gregarian ain’t tell him this part of the plan. His prison drawers was so fray-thin you could see Thumper’s dinkum and his fat old-nigga berries through the fabric. He ain’t wanna be a cast-iron nigga afront Frank and Mr. Gregarian, but he was wearing trashy drawers, and they was looking at him like a trashy-drawer nigga. “Cornhole him hard,” Mr. Gregarian said with a sneer. “Make him contrite for his intransigence.” Thumper nodded confidently. He both grimaced and grinned — seeing that pretty wifey with her face missing made his dick throb-a-lob-dob like a second heart. But Thumper ain’t like the idea of being ordered to pluck a honky punk. All the niggas around knowed damn well that Thumper was a booty-puckering rump ranger. Most niggas denied it. Not Thumper. He bin got witnessed too much in the cell, and he long past abandoned his need for discretion. Every non-fool nigga with ears in Baltimore musta heard he got up in guts plenty in lockup. This was the first time whitey indicated he knewed it too — Mr. Gregarian weren’t clued in to the Bloods, so he musta either heard a rumor at Lipsweet or simply deducted it like a savvy honky. Maybe Thumper looked so much like a booty bandit that a pinkie-ring whodat like Mr. Gregarian assumpted he was one. What did Mistuh Gregarian tell Miriam by way of warning? Does every honky I see think that? What bin Miriam thinking about me? That was a trashy way to be. Men was gonna be warning they sons when he passed. If you get locked up, don’t drop the soap afront a ramrod nigga like that. But Thumper weren’t gonna let his compections get in the way of doing Mr. Gregarian’s bidding. He gonna hafta flap at Mr. Gregarian about it. He came forward to Frank and lowered his head down next to his. “Sup, Frank. Name’s Thumper. How you doin’?” Thumper sat next to Frank and bared his feetses. He kept his big-grin jive-and-dime nigga face on as he put one foot on Frank’s mouth. “Uh… Whath co’nholin’?” Frank asked around the big toe on his tongue. He held back a raspy gag and made a face at the sour-band-aid taste of Thumper’s feet. His eyes opened wide as a cartoon whale. “That’s a good question. I’s glad you axed, Frank. I ain’t gonna answer, cuz I wanna see the look on yo’ face when you find out-“ “No, Thumper,” Mr. Gregarian said, dreary-eyed and cheerless. He faced away, standing near the doorway. “We have to tell him what it is so he has a chance to pay to avoid it.” A grimacey grunt of greement came outta Thumper. He patted Frank chummy-like on his pudgy-wudgy shoulder. “Well, Frank, cornholin’ is when I stick my dick in yo’ booty. I use yo’ butt to jack off wit’, then bust a nut in yo’ guts. Lemme warn you it hurt real bad, and-“ “Whaaat?! You can’t do that!” “I ain’t surprise it sound impossible to you. The challengin’ part is that yo’ butthole is like this big-” Thumper made a small circle one two finger. Then he belabored his prison drawers down and flopped around his giant slab of limpness. He showed how much bigger it was than the circle like he was tryin’-a force it through the tiny hole. “My dick is that big. It’s a conundrummer, buddy.” Thumper rattatat-tapped Frank’s dummy-dumb dome like a drummer. “But we gonna figure it out togethuh. Put’cha head down.” He ain’t give Frank a chance to do it. He gripped the back of his neck and slammed his face to the floor hard enough to make Frank cry out in pain. “I said put’cha head down. If this is gonna work, you gotsta do e’rything I say, Frank. You could get real injuryed if you don’t do it right. You might never hold a dookie in again, if I wreck yo’ sphinctuh-ring. You rememberin’ where you got some dollahs saved for a rainy day? Cuz it’s ’bout to start pourin’ down puddles. It’s ark-buildin’ weather fo’ you, honky,” Thumper asked, stroking his pecker with one hand until it started firming up. He slipped his dicktip into Frank’s butthole, and a squeezy sensation ran through his spine. A smile slipped onto Thumper’s face — he stayed enjoying wrecking a roundbody. Frank gritted his teeth, his eyes bugging out. Frank shook his head. “Hhhnnn! Hhhnnn! Hhhnnn! C’mon, man, man– I don’t have any — ow, shit, ow, shit, ow, ow!” Thumper kept on forcing his dick in deeper and deeper, inch by inch, sending waves of pleasure through him. He exaggerated his reactions, even though Frank got his face down and Mr. Gregarian faced outta the room, so nobody saw Thumper making old-nigga faces with every thrust of his pecker into Frank’s reddening buttcheeks. Thumper smacked one asscheek, then the other, Frank squirmed beneath his grasp. Thumper dug his fingers in deeply, digging at Frank’s back. He felt resistance in Frank’s butthole, so he punched him hard in the side. “Quit fightin’ me-!” “Ow, shit, c’mon, stop! Hhwwwn! Hhwwwn! Hhwwwn!” He punched Frank in the side once more, and Frank panted. His hands clawed at the ground as though he could dig hisself away. Thumper wrapped one powerful arm around Frank’s neck, not quite choking him but making sure Frank knew he could. “You fightin’ me, honky, stop it,” Thumper said, his voice grim as gravel. “Frankie-panky, c’mon, I don’t like it when a punk fights me-“ “I’m not!” “Yes, you is, you clenchin’ yo’ butthole, like you still control it. You ain’t in charge of yo’ butthole no more, so make it go loose. Like you takin’ a shit-“ “No, ow, shit! Hhwwwn! Hhwwwn!” Thumper flexed his arm, which choked Frank until he stopped making noises, aside from a hoarse wheeze. “Frankie-panky, you gotta listen to me. Remembuh what I said, you can get injuryed if you don’t do this right. You doin’ two things wrong. First of all, don’t make that noise, like you fartin’ out yo’ mouth. Tha’ss nasty as prison loaf, nigga, I know you don’t know what that is, but it ain’t nice.” He let Frank have a breath, and Frank gasped. Thumper’s voice broke, as Frank’s sudden focus on breathing meant his asshole relaxed, and Frank could slide his rod in another inch or two. “More than half in now, buddy,” he said, his voice breaking again in Frank’s ear. “You feel good as shit. Okay, now, the second thing you doin’ wrong is you clenchin’. You feel that, you clenchin’-“ “Ow, c’mon…” Frank was outta breath, unable to recover from being choked. Plus he was trying not to make that sound. Thumper appreciated the effort. “Quit clenchin’,” Thumper said with a growl. “Pretend like you takin’ a shit, Frankie-panky.” His voice was hot and hard in Frank’s ear. He liked that Mr. Gregarian could hear him right now. This was just him and Frank, like best buds, sharing they own little secret. Ain’t nobody but the two them ever gonna experience this, Thumper thought. He was already feeling twinges of his upcoming orgasm, but Frank’s discooperativity was slowing Thumper down. And Thumper liked that — it meant he could plow fast and still last. “Ow!” Frank roared in pain, but when he twitched, his resistance disappeared for a second. Thumper forced his dick in to the root, until his balls slapped against Frank’s taint. Frank shouted, “Ow, stop! Wait! You gotta stop! Just gimme a sec!” “Don’chu tell me what to do, Frank,” Thumper said. He smacked Frank hard on one buttcheek, and a thrill went up Thumper’s spine, while a chill of pain went up Frank’s. Thumper bin ramrodded plentya honkies in lockup. Nicer ones than Frank too, or at least perkier ones. But there was something different about it now, plowing into a professional man — a accountant or some shit. Thumper liked that he got to disobey a white man in a nice house. Ain’t lotta opportunities for that in lockup. Mosta the honkies there was meth-goblins, crackheads, Nazis or dirty-hairy rednecks — white trash, basically. But Frank was a real man, right up until Thumper turnt his behind into a pussy-hole. That made Thumper grin, plowing in and out until he heard his balls slap against Frank’s taint. A nigga’s knapsack made a good’n’grimy thwackuh-thwackuh-smack sound hitting a honky below the booty. “Love that sound, Frankie-panky. Sounds sexy, don’t it? That’s the sound of you not bein’ a real man no more,” Thumper said. His muscles rippled when he moaned again, aiming the sound right into Frankie-panky’s ear. Thumper’s heavy body pressed down on him, as he smacked in and out. He even pulled all the way out for a second — Thumper liked hearing that sound of relief and then the stuff-a-plug grunt that came when he rammed it right back in that gapey hole. Thumper ain’t quite feel this right since he left prison. On the other hand, he was only doing this cuz a white man told him to. That made it less a satisfy. He was a free nigga now. He ain’t gotsta do what a white man say — ‘cept for Mr. Perry, and him only for another year, til his parole was up. So Thumper ain’t gotta suppordate hisself to Mr. Gregarian. His pole weren’t a tool to get brung out at Mr. Gregarian’s discretion. He oughta at least tell Mr. Gregarian he wanted a bigger cut. Any big-ass fool could punch Frank. Booty-banditing was a skill, and Thumper wanna get paid for it. His stick still throbbing and leaking precum up Frank’s guts, Thumper lifted hisself off Frank’s back and grabbed Frank’s phone — the movement made him grunt with pleasure, leaning on Frank for support. He was surprised Mr. Gregarian let him keep it, but it was old, prolly obsolete, Thumper thunk. He saw an app called TuneBleed, which reminded him of Miriam, so Thumper poked it. On came music, but it was some plastic-twang twinkie-fried country music that never seen a trailer park, so Thumper turned it right off. He typed in fatback, cuz that was what he was looking at, what his ears was craving, what his mouth was hungry for and and what his pecker was currently deep within. Luckily, Frank Johnson’s honky phone got Fatback in it, and that was Thumper’s kinda funk, so he pumped up the volume. He daggered his dickmeat in time with the rhythm. Finally, some proper music. “Love this band, Frankie-panky,” Thumper said, rolling his muscles up and down, grinding his dick in a little circle in Frank’s tight butthole. Frank were past clenching now — he ain’t gonna clench for a month at least — so Thumper got free reign over his booty. “Thumper, hit him more,” Mr. Gregarian said, like that shoulda been obvious, like he done this a million times and Thumper was the fool for not doing it right. “You gotta hit him-“ “You don’t gotta tell me how to do it, Mistuh Gregarian,” Thumper said with a throaty roar. “I know how to jack off in a man’s booty.” Mr. Gregarian was took way back by that. He frowned at Thumper. “What?” Mr. Gregarian narrowed his eyebrows. Thumper motioned for Mr. Gregarian to come closer. He hesitated but did so, still facing away from Frank’s ruint behind. He ain’t like looking at Thumper neither, and he specially avoided seeing Thumper’s thirteen-inch cock. Thumper leaned close enough to whisper into Mr. Gregarian’s ear. “We gonna hafta come to a ‘rrangement, Mistuh Gregarian. You ain’t tell me this was part of it, and I wanna get paid.” “I’m not paying you extra to cornhole someone. That’s — you’re an ex-con, that was probably what you were gonna do anyway.” He crossed his arms over his chest. With a grunt, Thumper stopped moving. He looked down his nose at Mr. Gregarian. “Well… I ain’t gonna blueball mahself this time, you called my bluff,” Thumper said. “But, uh… next time…” He leaned on Frank, who screamed through gritted teeth into his own arm, which he bit when Thumper’s dick rasped in and outta his butthole. Thumper let out a creaky-throat moan. His chest was getting steamy with sweat. He smacked Frank in the side. “Quit it, Frank, you silly wiggleworm. Keep still. Head down, ass up.” “Look, I’m givin’ you fifteen percent of what we get-“ “But he ain’t got nothin’. Fifteen percent of fuck-all ain’t worth my time,” Thumper said. He crossed his arms over his chest, his dick deep in Frank, who writhed in pain impaled on Thumper’s rod. Thumper ain’t move, he just let Frank’s squirmy-wormy body rub his butthole on Thumper’s shaft. He looked at Mr. Gregarian. “I want the first eight hundred, then fifteen percent after that. And a free ride on any the Lipsweet bitches when we get back.” “Bull-fucking-shit! Do I look like I eat pussy?” Mr. Gregarian said. He weren’t whispering anymore, but he still faced away, like he was too good to see a man receive a ramrod, as if it weren’t his idea in the first place. “Cuz you’re treating me like the kinda pervert who licks a woman’s pisshole.” Thumper bugged at that. That did explain why Mrs. Gregarian was on the stepout on her man. She do be in need of a nigga tongue. Thumper made a mental note to lick her butthole next time. But Mr. Gregarian still ain’t knowledgeate hisself about his wife on the stepout, and Thumper ain’t wanna let on. So he said, “Yo, why ain’chu just bring that whiteboy Bud along on this trip?” Bud was the deejay at Lipsweet, and he was a short-sneering rumplesilkskin with fake gang tats on his neck. Thumper laughed at Mr. Gregarian a-fume. “Him? He can’t — he’s never been to prison, for one thing-“ “You right, he can’t. He ain’t a booty bandit, he a white-trash nowhom,” Thumper said. He kept his weight on Frank, who whimpered and squirmed beneath Thumper’s body. Thumper wiggled his cock in Frank’s booty, which made him slither like a sexy snake. “Cuz Bud ain’t got the skill. I do. So I gotsta get more than-“ “Five hundred. I’ll give you the first five hundred, then fifteen percent,” Mr. Gregarian said. “You can fuck any the women, but now new girls, I don’t need you stretchin’ them out.” He paused. “And clean up real good before you fuck her tonight.” He paused again. “Like, real good. I can’t have a escort out with a infected pussy.” Thumper pondered that for a moment, then he nodded. He gripped Frank by the hair, making Frank squeal like a piglet. “Hear that, Frankie-panky? We gots a ‘greement. I’mma be comin’ back here and doin’ you up ya dirt till you pay yo’ dutiful debt.” “Yes, I will, I will, oh god…” With a throb and another light slap on Frank’s cheek, Thumper stopped moving at the apex of his penetration. Frank squealed in agony. Thumper’s dick throbbed painfully inside him, followed by a burst of fresh hot jism. Thumper grunted like a rampaging boar. Wave after wave of creamy cum flowed into Frank, who choked back a sob. He ain’t never experienced a sensation like this. He hid his face in his arms, as Thumper resumed pounding away at his sensitive asshole. With each thrust, Thumper shot another huge fist-sized wad deep in Frank. The heat seeped into his very bones, and he smelled his own assfunk in the air. Frank couldn’t breathe. Thumper pressed his massive chest down on Frank’s back and whispered in Frank’s ear. “You my bitch now, you my punk. You hop to e’rything I say fo’ the rest of yo’ life, or you gonna get another mile of meat up yo’ backside. Now lemme finnish nuttin’ yo’ manhood away.” Thumper gyrated his hips, forcing his dick in to the root as he drained the last couple drups of nutjuice into Frank’s innards. Frank crawled away when Thumper allowed him to wriggle his way free. Thumper ain’t pull off him, he just stopped holding Frank down, and Frank’s worming got him out from under Thumper. A final moan of pleasure came from Thumper’s throat, as his dick slid like a greasy turd outta Frank’s bootyhole. Frank sighed in relief. Mr. Gregarian was still standing there in the doorway, facing away. He did clock the size of Thumper’s pecker though, Thumper saw that in the corner of Mr. Gregarian’s eye. Thumper let it drip there aimed in Mr. Gregarian’s direction, while he told Frank to get him some toilet paper. Frank thought to dawdle and clean his own butthole first, but Thumper corrected that with a fist and another order to get him toilet paper lickety-split. “Here you go, sir,” Frank said when he returned with toilet paper. Thumper ain’t tell him to call him sir, but he liked it. He could get used to that. Thumper ain’t take the toilet paper, and soon enough Frank got the message. He gingerly dabbed at Thumper’s dick to get it clean of spit and cum and assfunk, while Frank’s own butthole emptied its mess onto the carpet. Mr. Gregarian still faced away so he ain’t gotta see Thumper’s mammoth. When Thumper had enough that, he grabbed Frank’s shirt and wiped the resta his pecker off on it. He tossed the shirt on Frank’s head. “You find a way to make a payment, buddy. Or I be back.” He winked at Frank. “I hope I be back.” “Which girl you want?” Mr. Gregarian asked, when Thumper got his clothes back on and joined him to walk outta the house. “Sherry?” Thumper scoffed. “I’m off her. Gimme whoevuh use Facebook the least.” Mr. Gregarian shrugged. “I saw Lacey reading a book once. An actual book. So maybe her. I’ll give you cash to give her. I don’t like them even thinking about freebies,” he said, like he forgot they already went through this — when Thumper came back from Ocean City with a boyfriendless Miriam, Mr. Gregarian paid for him to have a threesome with two girls. He gave Thumper cash to avoid setting a freebie precedent. That was fine with Thumper. It was good, he thought, to do things the proper way. He was glad he negotiated a deal with Mr. Gregarian too. He got power that he ain’t never have in prison — he could always take his talents elsewhere. He felt like he was on the same level as Mr. Gregarian, as they both climbed into the truck and headed off to pawn the jawns they got from Thumper’s new buddy Frankie-pankie. Mr. Gregarian sighed after a long silence, and he said, “Miriam has a new boyfriend. Rick something-or-other. I haven’t met him, but she said he was at spring break. Did you see him?” Thumper nodded. “Yeah. He ain’t do nothin’, he made of blank pages, Mistuh Gregarian. Most of him is leg.” “Good. I’ll hire you to escort them on dates,” he said. “So this Rick kid doesn’t get any bright ideas.” “Yessuh, Mistuh Gregarian,” Thumper said with a smile. He ain’t turn the white-lady robot on, cuz he remembered the way home, but Mr. Gregarian put it on anyway. Thumper reckoned folk stopped learning new routes once they used they phones to do it. He ain’t want that to happen to him. So he turned it off. “Don’t need it, suh. I know the way.”
Thumper got up outta the marital bed. Mrs. Gregarian lay sprawl-out, her whole body a-tremble and a-twitter, as rickety remnants of her last orgasm wracked her body. Thumper licked his teeth. His dong flopped, shiny and gooey, between his legs. The music — picked by her — made his ears wrinkle. It was a out-of-breath woman huffing like a fat dragon alongside bells and whales and gales of webby twinkles, like the kinda music faeries might make if they was smoking crack. Something, Thumper thunk, done gone wrong in music. They oughta just rewind it to thirty-four years ago. “Yo’ husband ain’t gonna snoop us out, is he?” Thumper asked. He widewalked to the crapper to wipe his wang with a wad of toilet paper. She shook her head. “He doesn’t know anything, Wendell.” She smiled at him before poking her nose back into her phone. “You’ll have to come see me again. Next time something breaks, I’ll tell him to send you.”
Thumper smirked. He came over to help with her car when it wouldn’t start. He weren’t sure why Mr. Gregarian believed he could help. He could, but only because the problem was a dead battery. Easy-peasy. And Mr. Gregarian got other cars with good batteries, so Thumper jumper-cabled up and waited. Him and her chatted some, and she showed him how to make his phone flash a picture of folks who called.
That was when Mrs. Gregarian looked at him with a sultry lip. Before long, they was kissing heavy in the backseat of the car, and then they hurried inside to fuck like forbidden bunnies. Thumper ain’t mind a bit that she sagged like raggedy teabags and got droopy tits and flappy pussylips. He still savored that bitch’s flavor. She got enough cat for any numbera niggas, and she sometimes put her phone down for many minutes. Plus, she enjoyed sucking dick. Long time done passt since he got slurped off by someone who weren’t cringing and gagging the whole time. He sorta forgot it was possible to mouth a nigga off without retching on the rampant. Mrs. Gregarian made seductive humming noises, and her mouth felt smooth as porridge and her lips soft as a pair of plump pillows. Jacking off behind bars ain’t like that. Gagging got a gross sound, but it was like a throaty massage on his hee-haw. Took him a couple tries to get the hang of enjoying it and ignoring the stomach-churning sound. Eventually, he learnt to appreciate the sound too. But when he first got a chance to throat down a nigga in lockup, he tried to make that nigga stop gagging — that was this hefty kitcat named Mikey Donohue. Mikey Donohue couldn’t taste no dick without gagging — not like a little gag neither, not like a kitten with a hairball — he gagged like it hurt, like it took his whole body to do it. And he used his whole big broad body too. That nigga Mikey Donohue got assigned to Thumper’s bunk — inmates was bunking together at the time, on account of a shortage of cells or a excess of niggas. He frowned slick as a trick when he found out he gotsta bunk with Thumper, but he ain’t complain. Mikey was a powerful nigga, not tall but thick, with broad shoulders and a back that kept on going. He played football on a semipro team, the Baltimore Electric Crabs, before his arrest. Thumper ain’t think nothing of it. He bin exulting in the fact that he ain’t gotta give up his booty no more. And it ain’t even occur to him right away that he could take some booty of his own if he wanted. He did want that, mightily indeed once he thunk it. There ain’t lot to do in lockup besides stab Crips, work out and jack off, and Thumper’s stabbing hand was sore. So he waited until the cell was in they zeez one night, including Mikey Donohue. He took up most the bunk, cuz he was sleeping on his back, while Thumper was on his side. Once Mikey was good and sleep-eyed, Thumper’s hands reached for his chest. He ain’t wake up. His skin was smooth and warm like a cup of coffee, and he got nice thick pecs for Thumper to play with. They was too firm for boobs, but Thumper could imagine ’em anyway. Thumper’s fingers slipped up and down Mikey’s torso. He tweaked Mikey’s nipple. Still no reaction but a instinctual twitch of his pecs. No response when Thumper touched his chin neither. He pulled Mikey’s chin to open his mouth. He got a nice big mouth. Thumper could punch this nigga in the face, and ain’t nobody in the cell would even ask if he got a good reason. He could pound that handsome nigga to smithereenies. Thumper owned this particular fresh fish. Thumper ain’t wanna do that. He weren’t like that. But he liked that he got the option. “Sssshhhh…” Thumper said as softly as he could. He clucked his tongue and worked his fingers into Mikey’s mouth. His heart pounding and his eyes opening wide, Thumper licked his own lips as he spread Mikey’s far apart. His pink mouth-hole was wet and inviting. Once his mouth was open, Thumper got onto his knees on the bunk, straddling Mikey’s chest without putting any weight on him. He moved up Mikey’s body until he could gently ease his dick into Mikey’s mouth. A thrill of pleasure ran up him, though his limpness remained soft as dough. Mikey’s tongue was warm and moist. But Thumper’s shaft was still flop-a-loppy, like a fatty sausage. He touched his cocktip to Mikey’s nostrils and cheeks, and his heavy ballsac plopped on Mikey’s chin. He pushed the tip back into Mikey’s mouth. Mikey stirred like a steamy soup, but he ain’t wake up yet. His dick began to firm. Thumper licked his lips. He could get into this. When females sucked him off, it weren’t like this — they was awake, for one thing. They got smaller mouths. Mikey was a big-jaw nigga. He got plentya room in there for Thumper’s big throbbing meat. A nigga could play house in that mouth. And Thumper owned this nigga’s throat. He could put whatever he wanted in there. He could make Mikey drink peepee or jerk off every nigga in this cell. He was allowed to rent Mikey’s throat out to honkies and screws and that tubby cholo in 41D who liked a nigga tongue up his greasy butthole. But Thumper ain’t wanna do none that neither. Thumper was still young, barely older than Mikey. He wanted to keep Mikey’s mouth all to his own. He slipped his half-hard pecker down Mikey’s throat until he gagged. That was enough to wake Mikey up. His eyes opened wide. He startled and grunted, spitting Thumper’s dick back out. It danced atop Mikey’s face. “Ssssssssshhhh…” Thumper said again, and he forced Mikey’s mouth closed. His dick still rested on Mikey’s lower lip. “Don’t make noise. E’rynigga sleepin’ deep,” Thumper whispered. He dragged Mikey’s hand to his cock. “Jack me off into yo’ mouth, Mikey, c’mon. Lemme feel that tongue.” “Wait-” Mikey tried to speak, but Thumper’s dick pushed into his mouth. That made him gag it out and try to sit up. “Nah, ssssshhhh, nigga, no gaggin’,” Thumper said, his voice soft as syrup. He pushed Mikey’s shoulder to make him stay on his back on the bunk. “Stay down-“ “Whatchoo doin’, nigga?” Mikey asked in a harsh whisper. He opened his mouth again to say more, but Thumper rammed right in again. He ain’t force it to the back of his throat though. Felt good enough just to put the tip on Mikey’s tongue. That let Mikey talk some. “C’mon, nigga… Tha’th nathy, c’on, kit p’ayin’, nikka.” When Mikey tried to sit up once more, Thumper let him this time. He stood next to the bunk instead of straddling Mikey. That gave Mikey a better angle to deepthroat Thumper’s rod, not that Mikey took it. He tried to move his face away, but Thumper followed and murmured, “Sssssh….” Thumper’s cock bobbed around afronta Mikey’s face. “C’mon, nigga, whatchoo playin’ at?” Mikey’s eyes opened wide. When he opened his mouth to talk again, Thumper pushed his cocktip in. Mikey retched up loud as a feisty ferret. Thumper’s dick slipped onto his face, and Mikey moved his head to dodge it. “Quit it — Thumper!” Mikey whispered. He took Thumper’s shaft in two fingers and lifted its fattiness off his face. “Ewww, nigga!” “No playtime,” Thumper said softly. “You new, you gotsta do yo’ time, nigga. Now be quiet. Ain’t e’ry nigga here gotta know you tonguin’ dong like a slurpy-durpy nutsponge. Quit gaggin’ so much, it’s loud and it do turn me off.” A playful quiet slap came, as Thumper again pumped his limp dick into Mikey’s mouth. He slapped him again, real soft, just to get his attention, not make no sound. With a snap-down, both niggas stopped moving — somenigga in a bunk stirred. Mikey’s eyes bugged out. He ain’t wanna get seen with a cockle-doodle-doo in his mouth even more than Thumper ain’t want a audience. He kept his mouth open wide, lips far apart, so Thumper’s cock rested on his teeth. “Ssssh,” Thumper murmured, one finger on his lips. Some other nigga done stood up, on the other side of the gymnasium-like cell. That other nigga coughed couple times. He padded off other-nigga-like to the pisser against the wall of the cell. The long-tinkle sound of his pissing filled the air, and Thumper gotsta hold back laughter. Mikey looked like he was finna splode. His mouth was garglingg around, trying-a not taste Thumper’s dick without making no noise. He juggled it between his teeth and his lips. Still keeping one finger up over his mouth, Thumper pulled Mikey’s long tongue out so he could rub it on his dick. Mikey twitched and wriggled beneath him. His pecs flexed, and his biceps turnt firm, like he wanna fight but wanna remain a anonymouse even more. That other nigga finally finished pissing and returned to his bunk. But they stayed silent as silk still. Thumper leggo his tongue, but he ain’t let up on Mikey’s mouth. Mikey gagged again but managed to keep it quiet, while Thumper kept pushing his dick in past Mikey’s lips. Mikey winced and scrunched his eyes shut. “Uggghhhhckkk…” “Sssssh, nigga, Mikey, c’mon, just do it quick,” Thumper whispered, quiet as a snail. “Put yo’ hand on it too and make buncha spit. No gaggin’.” His hand gripped the root, and Mikey winced but stroked it slowly, the tip descending into his mouth once more. He cringed violently. It slid atop his discoopative tongue. His other hand cradled his nauseated belly. A twinge of firmness finally hit Thumper’s shaft, as Mikey twitched his lips around it. He squeezed it some. Thumper pumped his hips to work it in and out. He held onto Mikey’s cheeks, loose as a goose at first, then stronger when he felt Mikey trying-a sputter it out. “Nigga-” Mikey tried to say, when he managed to expel Thumper’s cock. He couldn’t get no more than that out, as a violent gag erupted when he tasted that clammy cockmeat lingering on his tongue. His gagging-up was loud enough for Thumper to shush him, and Mikey swallowed it back. He got a swamp-green look on his face. Another quiet gag came out. “Stroke it wit’cha hand, nigga, c’mon, I don’t gotsta explain how to do this,” Thumper said. “Quit gaggin’, nigga, and make lotta spit. Tha’ss a nasty sound. Make it sloppy-wet.” Another loud retch came from Mikey when he choked up spit. He looked around the cell the best he could with Thumper’s dick limp but stuck in his mouth. Nobody was obviously awake, but both niggas got the sensation of someone watching. He closed his eyes and moved his mouth up and down the shaft, holding back a loud gag. He kept his lips firmly wrapped around it. That was finally enough to get Thumper good and hard. His veiny dick pulsated, and the firmer it got, the harder Thumper rammed it down Mikey’s throat. His fingers spread over Mikey’s face. He forced Mikey’s cringy eyes open. “Lemme see them peepuhs, nigga.” A couple drops of precum hit his tongue. It was slimy and intensely salty. Mikey mumbled up a mouthful of dong, unable to move his head. Thumper got a smut-filled grin on his cheesy face, as he got hornier than he had since he first hadta taste Patrick’s pecker. He humped Mikey’s mouth hard enough to make the bunk wheeze back and forth. Part of Thumper realized he was being loud as a crowd, but he ain’t care no more. Salty precum overfilled his mouth, and Mikey held back a gross-out gag when it oozed out his lower lip. He held back another one, but then he stopped moving entirely. It took all his strength not to retch up again. Thumper shifted his weight back and forth, and his belly hair scratched at Mikey’s nose. “Ssssh, you doin’ good, nigga,” Thumper said, cool as a cube. He gripped the back of Mikey’s head to force it in deep, until he retched again. This time it wasn’t loud because Thumper’s whole body muffled it. But then Thumper leaned back, while keeping his cock — a good nine inches of it — in Mikey’s maw. Mikey couldn’t hold back his next gag. He expelled Thumper’s shaft along with a big clump of spit. Before he could take a breath, Thumper forced it back in around Mikey’s guffing and panting. A series of quietish gags came, as Mikey hyperventilated but couldn’t stop sniffing the scent of Thumper’s gooey piss-slit. “You got nice mouth, nigga,” Thumper whispered. He chuckled as Mikey’s broad chest muscles heaved with furious gags, each one quiet though the overall effect was loud enough to notice. Thumper was on a roll now. He weren’t gonna let up. He got both hands on the back of Mikey’s head. His balls swayed and slapped at Mikey’s square chin. “Who that?” “Wassat? Huh? Shut the fuck up!” Thumper stopped moving for a moment. A big smile appeared on his face. He whispered, “Oh, you gone and done it, you woke ’em up.” So Thumper could plow his throat with abandon now, not a care in his noggin that all them niggas was likely peeping they gaze at his dick. Mikey ain’t able to hold back the sound of his throat resisterating, so he sputtered and spewed up gloopy saliva. He choked up a loud vomity sound, as that big ball of fluids plopped onto Thumper’s dick and then Mikey’s chest. Thumper’s cheeks flexed as he rammed down Mikey’s throat. Long tendrils of spit dripped all the way down Mikey’s chest and his sweatpants. “Ew, is that Thumper?” “Nasty shit. Sorry, Mikey.” “Sucks to be the new nigga…” A few titters of laughter filled the cell. Thumper groaned and threw his head back, smirking in the darkness. He pumped his biceps. Now that he couldn’t stop it anyways, Thumper kinda liked all these niggas witnessing. That way he was sure they was aware he weren’t a bottoming nigga no more. “Shine on this nigga’s face, I wanna see it,” Thumper said. The light moved to Mikey, just as his mouth filled with creamy white cum. It flowed out his chin. Ropy layer after ropy layer plastered across Mikey’s roundish face. “Hey!” A guard’s distinctly white voice barked into the cell, and all them niggas fell silent. That included Thumper as he was rabbit-dicking his dick in Mikey’s spitty mouth. After just a moment, the only sound was Mikey’s moist gagging, so loud it sounded like a dozen niggas vomiting in sync. A long flow of jizz filled Mikey’s mouth and overspillt his face, and Thumper let out a chest-rattling moan that made the cell laugh. The guard said, “You boys is carrying on!” A flashlight beamed in from the hall. It beamed right on some niggas squinting at the brilliance. “Whatchoo-?” The cell filled with stifled giggles, Thumper laughed too, his voice breaking as he orgasmed, and another huge jizz spurted over Mikey’s face. He was covered now. Mikey gagged. Just as he did, the guard’s flashlight illuminated Mikey’s face. All them niggas and the white guard outside saw it, and they erupted in shouts. “Quit that pervert shit!” the guard barked. He kept the flashlight beamed on Mikey. Another rope of jiss splatted on Mikey’s swole-nigga face. Out came another vicious gag from Mikey, which caused some nigga to clap. “Ewww, nigga!” “Mikey, you nasty-!” “You got a mouthful, nigga!” some nigga said, coming right up to Mikey and using his limp dick to smear cum over his cheek. That nigga guffawed up loud like he was getting away with something, then he scampered off. Jizz dripping down his cheeks. Mikey held back a gag and covered his face with one hand. He spilled up all the jass, which flowed down his muscular chest and into a puddle on the floor. “Shut up in there!” the guard barked, and everyone fell silent again. “I’mma wait for silence.” Everyone was still and quiet for a few seconds. But then Mikey couldn’t help but retch once again, loud as hell, spitting up a giant wad of spooge onto his pecs. He tried to catch it with a hand, but it just spooged out his mouth too widely for that. Thumper flicked his dick in Mikey’s direction, smirking on silent. The whole cell erupted in laughter again, as Mikey gagged and twisted away. He sprinted to the toilet against the cell wall, and he spat up a bellyful of nut into the bowl. Howls and claps came from the bunks, as Thumper alone was quiet — followed the guard’s instructions — and did a silent touchdown dance, his dick flapping against his thigh. Only the couple niggas around him saw, cuz the flashlight followed Mikey to the toilet. “Hey, shut-” The guard barked for order, but everynigga ignored him. Mikey’s gagging kept hitting him hard, his whole body undulating. He tried to say something, but his gags was the only sound. Some nigga emerged from the bunks and got behind Mikey, who yelped in pain. That nigga was Ratty — a skinnybones crack-smoking OG who swore he got no addiction to his rock. Thumper wouldn’t normally credit that, but Ratty made it clear his booty-sticker worked fine. He got hard as a rod with a quickabout, and he ramrodded it up Mikey’s booty. Ratty was known for that. He was too little to force any nigga into anything, but if a nigga was distracted and loose — like spitting into a toilet or talking to his mama on the phone — Ratty got skill in getting his shaft up in that nigga’s guts. So before anywhosomever even realized it, Ratty’s rope-a-dope crackhead body was rapping at Mikey’s backdoor. Mikey howled into the toilet bowl. Ratty smacked him hard on the back of the head. Ratty’s skinny-nigga balls slapped at Mikey’s fat booty. “Ah, shit-! Ow, fuck-!” “Open up, nigga, I’s in ya now!” “Shut the fuck up in there! What’re you maggots doin’?!” Ratty ain’t miss a beat, not even when the cell screamed back peals and Thumper roared. The guard pounded on the cell door. Thumper and the screw both reacted at once. The guard ran off to get the key, while Thumper strode forward. “You shitty nigga,” Thumper said. He gripped Ratty on the back of the neck, only to see he done start his nut. His balls was drawn up, his skinny dick throbbing. “Ratty! He mine! You can’t-!” Thumper stopped shouting, cuz the whole damn-a-lamb cell was chanting Mikey’s name, and Mikey was still spitting up into the toilet and wiping spermies off his pain-up face. “You owe me, Ratty!” With a uncaring shrug, Ratty pulled out. He wiped his cock off on Mikey’s asscheeks, while dirty nut dribbled down his crack. “Bill me, nigga,” Ratty said. He cackled out loud. Ratty stalked off, and Thumper scowled. He was too low-ranking to beat Ratty up — Ratty got lotta respect in this cell, despite being a rat-faced, skinny-braid crack-smoking sumbitch. His jiggle-free booty disappeared into the darkness, and Thumper sat on the toilet seat afront Mikey. Thumper made Mikey lift his head, and he rubbed his cock over Mikey’s face. Mikey gagged once more — he ain’t never really recover from when Thumper nutted couple minutes back — but Thumper’s rod on his face just made him gag all the harder. “Mikey, you best apologize to the cell fo’ wakin’ everyone up wit’cho nasty-ass gaggin’.” “I’m sorry, y’all,” Mikey said, his voice muffled by Thumper’s dick and by his own deep-throat spitting into the toilet. “You cool, Mikey!” “I’mma get down that nigga throat later…” “All them fresh fish gag bunches. You’ll get the hang of it, nigga.” Thumper was enjoying being the center of attention, now that it was too late to be discrete. He stood up with his cock still rubbing over Mikey’s face. “How you doin’, nigga? Welcome to yo’ cell,” Thumper said. “You gonna be my nightwife, okay? That’s what this-“ But Mikey couldn’t stop gagging. He spat up goo onto Thumper’s already slimy dick, and that just made him gag harder. Thumper flexed his biceps above Mikey’s face like a conquering god, which was exactly what he felt like. He done conquer that football-booty nigga. At last, the cell quieted down, when the sound of that guard on the return came, with the jingle-jingle of his keys. Thumper weren’t in no hurry. He was enjoying the feel of Mikey’s big face on his dick, still rubbing it when he twitched and gagged. That was just enough to feel good on his sensitive post-climax cock without being too much. That flashlight light filled the cell, and Thumper saw all them niggas sitting up. They laid they melons down when the light came on, pretending they noggins done nod off. Thumper just flexed his muscles and laughed as the guard came in. “You two, inmates, back to your bunks — eww, oh god-” The guard came closer, then wrinkled his nose and stepped back. “You smell like a brothel, shit-” A few titters came from the pretend-sleepers. “C’mon, no jacking off, you know that. Warden don’t tolerate perversion.” With a smirk on his face, Thumper returned to his bunk next to Mikey. He laid down, while Mikey got on tentative legs. Mikey gulped, cradling his belly. “C’mon, son, hurry ya booty back, or I’mma take you out,” the guard snapped. Mikey sped back to the bunk, limping cuz of his pained butt and still trying-a wipe ooze off his face and chest. “Can’t I take a shower? Shit, c’mon…” Mikey asked weakly. “No! You made your bed, son, now you gotta lie in it,” said the guard, as Mikey cringed his way into the bunk. He climbed back in to lay next to Thumper. He closed his eyes. Thumper lay on his side, spooning Mikey’s spit-drenched body. He hugged Mikey’s trembling muscles. “All you shitheads shut your fuckin’ faces!” the guard said. “If I gotta come in here again, I’mma make all of you take cold showers for a month!” He shouted on his way outta the cell. The heavy door slammed shut. “Ewww, nigga, that was nasty,” Mikey said, softly, when the guard was good and gone. Thumper clucked his tongue and used his bath towel to sop up what he could off Mikey’s body. “And my ass hurts.” Thumper nodded. He kissed Mikey on the cheek, tasting his own cum. He ain’t feel this vibrant and alive since he got used to taking Patrick’s pecker up his booty. Now he was exulting in the fact that he ain’t gotta do that never again. “I know,” Thumper said, his hands pinching Mikey’s muscles. “You done good, nigga. I’ll make Ratty pay good fo’ takin’ yo’ cherry.”
Thumper churched every Sunday. He bin going to Ebenezer Baptist, but when his parole officer let slip which church he went to — a boring white church — Thumper decided he oughta go to that one. He could suck up to Mr. Perry there. Sure enough, Mr. Perry sat in the front pew. Thumper got there too late to sit nearby. He was shunted into a rear pew with the mamas carrying babies and them teenagers in all black.. Pastor Steve was a chucklesome stringfellow who thought he got a sense of humor, and the congregation laughed along with his jokes. It made Thumper miss Reverend Cherrymore at Ebenezer Baptist. The good Reverend Cherrymore understood that church only mattered if it was serious and somber and purported potent positions, while Pastor Steve wish-washed and told his worshipers to follow they conscience. Who needs church if you can follow your own conscience? Pastor Steve replaced meaning with humor, and he weren’t funny. More than half them pew-ploppers was sticky in they phones throughout. But Thumper pretended to nod along with that sea of paltry honkies, listening still as spillt milk to ear-shattering Christian pop insteada singing they praises theyselfs. After the service, he made sure Mr. Perry peeped his presence — Thumper was big and broad and baritone, so it was easy to draw attention when he got to. All them white fellahs craved photos of theyselfs shaking the hand of a nigga in a suit, so Thumper introducyfied hisself to ’em in a boom-big voice until he got Mr. Perry’s attention. They took pics with they ubiquitish phones, and Thumper smiled for ’em like a jolly-hogging nigga. Mr. Perry nodded at Thumper and motioned to meet him outside amid the massive post-service crowd. Folks was gripping gladhands and grinning cheek to cheek, clogging up the aisles and exits like clumps of cheerful cholesterol. Thumper took a few minutes to make his way outside, on account of the crowd and the need to check out some the hip-mad mamas sending him desiraceous glances. This church was boring as boogers, Thumper thunk, but it got gobs of white ladies with steamy slices of pecan pie between they legs. Thumper could get used to that. He might need to provide his own lube for they dry-bone snatches, but he had thirty-four years of creativity in that area, so he was well-equipped to get them white bitches slippery as shady otters. “Wendell, I’m glad to see you here today,” Mr. Perry said, jowls wrinkling down at his phone, when he met Thumper in the parking lot. He looked Thumper up and down, taking in his too-small suit — he buyed it in Goodwill special for church, and Thumper was too staturous a man to find secondhand clothes that fit. Mr. Perry frowned at the sight of his tight-pants crotch. “You got a bulge, son. You sportin’ a stiffy at church? That ain’t right.” “Ain’t a stiffy, suh,” Thumper said. “I just… These pants is small.” He ain’t realize how obvious his bulge was. That was likely why them lady-crackers was checking him out. They was eager to ride a rod with a real man attached and listen to music with a beat you can fuck to. But Mr. Perry gripped his dick through his secondhand slacks, unconcerned by the churchgoers filing past them. He frowned even deeper. “May not be fully stiff, but you got that mandingo meat. Gonna scare the nice white ladies, son. Go’n see that black fellah over there, the one with the mustache. He’ll take care of it.” Thumper ain’t know what that meant, but he goed to the nigga Perry pointed out. Ain’t but a handful of black folk at this church, so he was easy to see. They musta had some kinda arrangement, cuz Thumper ain’t say much — couldn’t hear nothing anyhow in the crowd of plain-suited honkies pushing politenesses — but that darkskin nigga with the push-broom on his lip motioned for Thumper to come with him. They got in his beat-up bucket of peely-brown Buick and made they way outta the crowded parking lot. “Where you takin’ me? Mr. Perry ain’t say nothin’,” Thumper said. “Hmm-hmm,” the mustachioed nigga said. He got a run-around face, circle-cheeked and round-jawed like he was made of stacked tires. It took Thumper till now to recognize he a cop for sure. That was a copstache if Thumper ever saw one, and he got authority dripping outta his midgety fingers. You could tell he lick lotta pussy, but he too good to eat a bitch’s butthole. “You one of his parolees, right?” Thumper nodded. “And you got a stiffy at church?”
Thumper shook his head. “He makin’ it seem I was doin’ somethin’ pervy. I got big meat, nigga, I ain’t always stiff just cuz you can see a bulge.”
“Uh-huh. How long was you in for?” the nigga driving said. “Thirty-four years,” Thumper said. The pushbroom nigga whistled, and then Thumper asked, “Why you go to a white chu’ch?” “Mayor and sheriff church there,” said that nigga behind the wheel. He straightened his suit and tie. “Gotta suck up to them honkies for my career ‘nd shit. Goddamn, white church is boring though.” Thumper nodded. “I only went so Mistuh Perry see me do it. I bin goin’ to Ebenezuh Baptist.” The policeman nodded, the bristles on his upper lip moving up and down. “You see that fine rosy-nose lady in the purple dress?” he said with a guilty grin on his face. “Golly darn do she stay lovin’ a nigga dick. I’s tryin’ to be holy upon my wife and that matrimony trip now…” He rearranged his cock in his slacks. “She do get me bothered though. I can enjoy myself a white female.” He whistled to hisself. “I is Officer Goober, by the way. Harrison Peanut, but most bodies call me Goober.” Thumper nodded and introducyfied hisself. “You takin’ me to get down wit’ a white bitch?” “Nah, nigga,” Officer Goober said with a throaty chuckle. “Mistuh Perry ain’t that cool.” He pulled his car into the parking lot of Precinct 17. “We bein’ good boys today. No sex.” He sighed. “No females, ‘nless you got a godly wife hidden in yo’ pocket.” He led Thumper into the police station. It felt weird enough to sit a spell next to a uniformed officer, and now he was hoofing it friendly-like into a precinct. Six months ago, Thumper’d slit a nigga on a rumor about sitting copioacetic alongside a cop. But shit was different on the outside. The police station was crowded with burly cops, prodding they eternal phones and shooting Thumper nasty looks like they knew he came outta the iron college recent-like. They could smell it on him. Or maybe they just looked at all black fellahs like that, or maybe, Thumper thunk, he was imagining it. Both he and Goober was in they Sunday best, but them cops knowed Goober. They all nodded they hellos, but ain’t nobody say boo to Thumper. They mosey-butted into the jailhouse, where there was a cell at the back reserved for the station trustee. That was a prison lifer entrusted to work as a janitor here at the police station. It gave him lotta freedom, more than he’d get at the prison, and it put him nearby enough to visitation with his daughter every month. His name was Hassle, and he be scribbling a letter to his daughter when Officer Goober and Thumper came to his cell. Hassle was a chowder-white Aryan — complete with swastikas visible on his back around the moth-nibble holes and raggedy edges of his wifebeater. He got a cueball head and a bald chin, a big noble jaw and a fist-shape nose. He looked up and frowned. “Goober? You off today, whatchoo want?” His eyes flicked over to Thumper. Goober made a little grunt and gestured Hassle up. “Get up, Hassle. This is Thumper. He need a nut.” Hassle wrinkled his nose and resumated scribbling that epistle. He side-glanced at Thumper again with his square honky face. Thumper coulda applied to be a trustee too — prolly wouldn’t-a got it, but he had the option to apply. He ain’t do it on account of his self-respect. Thumper ain’t wanna be sitting right where Hassle was now. “‘G’on, Wendell, take yo’ dong out. Hassle’ll do it,” Goober said. Still in his Sunday best, Officer Goober came into Hassle’s cell and rubbed his shoulders through his wifebeater, kneading the big iron cross on his nape. That was a colorful, professional-done tattoo, not a prison tat. Most the rest his tats was crooked and simple-color, faded and sagging. “You a Aryan Way brothah?” Thumper asked. He bin trucking against the Aryan Way since back in the day, and he recognized some them prison tats. He stood up close to Hassle a-bent over his writing desk. “No,” Hassle said. He bristled his shoulders to push Goober’s hands off him. He went back to them words he be writing, putting out ignore about Thumper afronta his grill and Goober behind. “Don’t be shitty, Hassle,” Goober said. “Tonight’s pork chops and mashed taters-“ Hassle turned to look at Goober. “Really? Ah shit, hell yeah. You bring me all them potatoes you can. They’re tasty as a angel’s asshole.” Goober threw his hands in the air. “She gonna want leftovuhs, Hassle, you can’t have ’em all,” he said. “Wifey like leftovuh taters. She fry ’em up like pancakes.” He licked his teeth. “You can have my sprouts though.” With a long pause outta his squareness, Hassle said, “I’mma tell Edna you ain’t eatin’ ya sprouts.” “I’s a grown man, Hassle, I don’t gotta eat sprouts if I don’t want to,” Goober said. Hassle kept that stone upon his visage like he ain’t believe Goober would say that afront his wife. Goober looked down at his feet and said to Thumper, “Go’n, take yo’ meat out, nigga. Hassle’ll get’cha off.” A smile creeped onto Thumper’s face. He ain’t got no stiffy, but something about caboosing in a jailhouse again made his pecker fit to pop. He kicked off his shoes and jacket, then loosened up his church tie. He ain’t drop his pants cuz he enjoyed making punks do that. With a heavy-hearty sigh, Hassle undid Thumper’s belt and his suit pants plummeted. Thumper’s shirt dangled down his drawers, until Hassle tugged ’em to his ankles. He ain’t even look at Thumper’s dingdong swanging between his legs. After a couple seconds, Thumper plopped his pecker on Hassle’s shoulder, beside the strap of his wifebeater. His skin was warm and soft, and Thumper’s shaft rested on some scrawly prison-tat symbols that he recognized — another Nazi once told Thumper some similar tats was “Nordic runes”. He asked what Nordic runes was but never got a answer, cuz some stabbings happened. Thumper moved his body to make his dicktip smackify Hassle in the cheek. He got them high honky cheekbones and a blockish jaw, pale as could be and contrastsome with Thumper’s tawny cock. Hassle ignored the meat going slappity slap on his face. “Was writin’ a letter to my daughter, Goober-“ “She’ll still be yo’ daughter when yo’ guts is fulla dingaling,” Goober said. “It’s Sunday. Mailman ain’t comin’ till tomorruh anyhow.” With a scowl, Hassle leaned back and took Thumper’s softy in one hand, still without looking at it. He was slow and desultory. Thumper ain’t mind. He pressed his thirteen-incher onto Hassle’s cauliflower ear like his piss-slit was whispering something Hassle gotta hear. Hassle put down his pen, as Thumper’s sweaty ballsac went plop-a-plop-a-poo on his shoulder. “Quit it, I’m doin’ it,” Hassle said. “If you was doin’ it, my dick’d be hard and wet right now. Put’cha lips on it,” Thumper said, aiming his limpness for Hassle’s mouth. Hassle ain’t open it, so it just poked him in the upper lip. “Dang, I know you know how. Bet’choo slurped up plenty dingdong in prison, right? I know them Aryan Way honkies all do it — they all got a ‘olduh brothuh’, right? Thank you big brothuh, can I get anothuh?” Thumper laughed up-roaring. “I ain’t Aryan Way,” Hassle said. He grunted. He took Thumper’s dick in one hand, but he ain’t stroke it, he just held it so as Thumper couldn’t mollywop him with it no more. His palm was thick with rough calluses. Thumper pumped hisself back and forth to lazy-hump his hand regardless, and he aimed it to again ram limp as a cripple onto Hassle’s face. Hassle’s squashy-fat nose wrinkled. “Cuz they kicked you out,” Goober said with a chuckle. He took his own dick out through the fly of his church pants. He let his peanut-buttery flapper flop atop Hassle’s alabaster face alongside Thumper’s, while Hassle’s cheeks went from marble-white to blushing-virgin pink. Both them big-nigga dicks was coating his paleness in crotchsweat. Goober said, “He was Aryan Way, he snitched to get this trustee jawn-“ “Shuddup, Goober,” Hassle said, his voice swallowed up by the two black dicks upon his face. He stayed ignoring them soft nigga dicks til Goober got his’n to jab Hassle’s eye. Hassle blinked and sniffled. “You s’posed to keep my information private. Ain’t accurate any-” Goober got his dick in Hassle’s mouth, making Hassle sputter and spit it out. “Uehck — you spoutin’ falsehoods, Goober. I’mma tell Edna you eat french fries for lunch.” He opened his mouth and put Goober’s cocktip on his tongue. He kept stroking Thumper’s dick with one hand, while he slurped up some spit onto Goober’s cocktip. He was slow to get it going, but Hassle was experienced at this, and he slobbered tight on Goober’s knob. It rocketed right to full erection and pushed into his unresistant mouth. “Fuck you, Hassle,” Goober said with a impish frown, watching his dick explore Hassle’s mouth. “Edna ain’t the boss of my lunch. You don’t gotta tell her nothin’.” His voice crinkly-wet from mouthing Goober’s veiny brown meat, Hassle said, “She make you a salad e’ry day, and you throw it away.” “She ain’t gonna believe yo’ nazi ass,” Goober said. “I don’t throw it all away, I eat the croutons.” “Croutons don’t count, Goober!” Hassle snapped. Thumper nodded at Goober. Goober said, “Whatevuh. I eat the chickpeas too.” He gripped the back of Hassle’s head and plowed his half-hard meat down Hassle’s throat. Hassle smacked at Goober’s asscheeks, which was still clothed cuz Goober was just poking his pecker out his fly. Goober clucked his tongue, and Hassle’s throat visibly stretched to accommodate his cock then spat it back out. Goober’s moist brown shaft popped out to seep spit onto Hassle’s forehead. “C’mon, Hassle, lemme down that throat. I know you can swallow the whole thing. Lemme feel yo’ nose in my pubes.” Still Thumper’s foot-long shaft flapped around in Hassle’s hand. He weren’t in no hurry, and he liked watching a Aryan Way honky slurp-a-durp a nigga. He slow-stroked Thumper’s rod with one lazy hand, but he focused on pushing Goober away so he could get a breath. Goober again forced his wingwang down Hassle’s throat, and again Hassle ain’t fight it. His lips and throat stretched. Thumper touched his neck so he could feel Goober’s dick throbbing beneath the skin. “Aw, fuck yeah, go deeper, deeper-” Goober threw back his run-around face and moaned, a-holding Hassle’s cue ball. Hassle twitched and swallowed it ’til his nose was nuzzling Goober’s coppery pubes. “Shit yeah, there you go, hold it — fuck yeah, Hassle-“ Couple seconds in, Hassle punched Goober in the thigh and squiggled. His paleness turned red. He went twitchy, but Goober got a grip on his scalp. Clucking his tongue against his teeth, Goober moaned again. He fought against Hassle’s cranberry noggin pulling from him. “Shit, c’mon, Hassle, hold it, hold it-“ With a loud choke, Hassle squirmed away. Goober’s cock slipped outta his mouth, and the Aryan took a hoarse breath as both Goober’s and Thumper’s big black cocks rubbed into each other atop Hassle’s face. Goober was hard as a trump card, but Thumper remained mostly limp. “Fuck you, Goober, c’mon!” Hassle said, and he spat a ball of fluids into a washcloth. Then he went back to slurping up Goober’s cock, with one hand on Thumper’s meat and the other smacking Goober’s hand away so he couldn’t throat it down Hassle again. “Hey, can I ramrod his poop chute?” Thumper asked. He took off his shirt and rubbed his dick on Hassle’s smooth cheek, which was wet with his own spit and maybe some policeman precum. Hassle kept a hand on Thumper’s shaft but weren’t doing nothing with it. “He just touchin’ it, lemme fill up his backside, Goober.” Goober shrugged, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “Go ‘head.” He leaned like he wished there was a wall behind him, then put one hand on Hassle’s shaved scalp to support hisself. He ain’t throat Hassle down though, so Hassle kept stroking it with one hand and going slurp-a-spit on the tip — Hassle done learnt that trick prison bitches do where they stroke it mostly and spit up a little, with a tiny bit of lip. If a nigga don’t pay attention, he mightn’t realize his bitch is slipping tricks in. Thumper wouldn’t let no bitch get away with that, but Goober was a small-ball nigga, so he let Hassle take the lead. A prison punk was the only chance most homeboys had to get they whole meat swallowed up, so you best believe Thumper was gonna make a bitch go deep. But Thumper’s dick was bigger than Goober’s, and he’d rather make room in Hassle’s rump than his neck. “Nah, nah — no way. I don’t gotta do that,” Hassle said when he pulled his lips off Goober’s eggplanty knob. Despite his words, he stood so Thumper could sit on his chair. Hassle grunted. “Edna makin’ dessert?” Goober shrugged. His eyes was closed, his pecker jabbing Hassle in the nose and dripping prenut onto his upper lip. “Prolly ‘nana puddin’,” he said. “But I’s eatin’ all of it.” He laughed and patted his belly through the church suit he still wore. He did loosen the tie, but he ain’t take nothing else off. His pecker poked out the fly of his billowy slacks, which was getting wet spots where oozy prenut done drip. “Bare yo’ butt, Hassle, don’chu whine ’bout it, I know how loose yo’ guts is. I’ll bring you a apple pie from McDonald’s. Sheriff Terwiliger say-“ “Don’t buy it now though!” Hassle said, precum dripping from his lip. He scowled at Goober as he pulled down his denim trustee pants. He got a big pale-as-marble booty, and you could just tell it was well broke-in. His hole was winking like a flirty girl. “T’ain’t no good once it get cold, Goober! Can’t microwave it, shit, the crust get the texture of a demon’s butthole.” “A’ight, I will, I’ll buy you it fresh as a prom queen’s cooter, if you don’t tell Edna ’bout my lunches,” Goober said. Hassle nodded dour-faced, and Goober muttered, “damn, shut up and do yo’ job…” He firmly shoved his dick into Hassle’s mouth. Hassle was still stooped over and dropping his trustee denims. He was a big boy, and he got big marble bootycheeks. Thumper sat in Hassle’s chair and grabbed ’em with both hands and a giant grin, while Hassle smeared a big wad of some kinda lube onto his buttcrack. Thumper leaned back with his hand on his dick, which he stuck upwards. He was only half-hard yet, so he just rubbed the tip on Hassle’s butthole. It stretched right open and accepted Thumper’s cocktip. “Aw, shit, you is goddamn loose, Hassle. Yo’ butthole be invitin’ in this nigga dick-“ “Shuddup,” Hassle said. “I’m doin’ it, ain’t I? No whinin’.” He moved his ass down with a disgusted sneer on his face. He still got Goober’s knob knobbling up and down his lips and nose, prejissom dribbling out. A little wince of pain hit him when Thumper’s tip pushed in deeper. Officer Goober chuckled throaty as could be. He thwacked his manhood onto Hassle’s face, but Hassle ignored it, focusing on sitting his dirt down onto Thumper’s dick. It slid up Hassle’s asshole. He gritted his teeth. “Ah, shit, you got nice booty, despite the slack hole-“ “Shuddup!” Hassle said with a frustrated roar. “I can do it quicker if you shut up.” Goober slipped his cocktip into Hassle’s mouth. Hassle ain’t fight it, but he spat it out as he kept talking. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong wit’ my ass, you shithead-“ “Ain’t say nothin’ was wrong wit’ it,” Thumper said. He gripped Hassle by the shoulders and rammed upwards hard. A whinge of pleasure hit him, and he start thrusting his rod back and forth. Hassle groaned in pain, but he ain’t whine or nothing. He was well broke-in. He managed to hold his mouth open too, so Goober could hump his tongue and throat. He spread his asscheeks with one hand, his other hand holdin’ Goober’s waist for support. His muscles was getting dappled in sweat, which made his wifebeater cling to his broadly-marble body. His pecs shifted up and down with his hips. “Here I go, almost done, buddy,” Thumper said with a groan. He put his hands behind his head. That was a lie — he ain’t near done. Thumper just liked it when Hassle loosened up a bit. He moaned and smacked one of Hassle’s asscheeks, which was too firm to really jiggle. Hassle still kept ’em spread apart with one hand, while his other hand stroked Goober off into his mouth. Being in a jailhouse reminded Thumper of prison. If you’d-a asked him yesterday, he’d-a said that was a bad thing. He ain’t wanna be reminded of it. But Hassle’s cell was warm and comfortable, and so was his butthole. It was nice to have a simple, clean line of authority — Mr. Perry and Officer Goober, then Thumper, and Hassle at the bottom. The hierarchy made sense here. Shit was pell-mell out there — Carson was in charge of the Bloods of Baltimore, but Carson was doing everything Thumper wanted, even though Thumper ain’t even got a role in the organization, because Carson gotta prove to other niggas that the Bloods would take care of they own. Thumper was in charge of that punk-ass nigga Rico, though Rico ain’t wanna admit it, and that sly bitch Miriam was kinda like Thumper’s boss, even though he was kinda like her babysitter too. And then there was that batty old bint Vera — got not a lick of authority, but she still manage to boss niggas about. In jail, life was simple and smooth like Hassle’s buttcrack. You stayed knoing who’s in charge behind bars. You could tell Hassle done took miles of dick up that poop-chute, Thumper thunk, watching Hassle’s heft slide up and down. He gripped the bright red swastika on Hassle’s back. Hassle was muscle like a oxe — he musta kept up his prison-training regiment even after trusteeing out. Thumper ain’t even gotta do nothing, Hassle was slipping his butt back and forth on it, squeezing tight like he was eager to feel a nut inside him. “Hey, you a real Nazi?” Thumper asked. He knew about a thousand “Nazis” in prison, and he always asked if they really believe in it. He still got Goober’s pecker in his mouth, so Hassle ain’t answer. He soured on precum and fluttered his arms behind hisself in a way that maybe suggested “no”. His back muscles flexed hard against his too-tight wifebeater. “Why you got swastikas all over?” Hassle pulled off Goober, his mouth fulla pre-nut. “Shut the fuck up, we ain’t gettin’ to know each other,” he said with a grunt as he lowered hisself as low as he could on Thumper’s shaft, precum dribbling onto his face. “Just finish jacking off.” That was exactly what Thumper did, a-grumbling that Hassle ain’t answer. He shrugged it off though, as he grabbed Hassle’s buttcheeks. He smacked Hassle’s hand away and pulled him down until Hassle’s heft fell onto Thumper’s meat. A loud groan of pain came from Hassle’s throat, the sound coming around the policeman meat still jabbing down his throat. Goober’s church shirt dangled on Hassle’s face, and his balls went smackity-smack on Hassle’s chin. They left a sheen of ballsweat there. “Ah, shit, humdinger-” Thumper moan-laughed. His orgasm wracked his body. He kept a tight grip on Hassle so he couldn’t get up off Thumper’s lap. Thumper’s dick was all the way in him, his bushy pubes rubbing on Hassle’s pair of porcelains. Hassle wiggled mighty hard, but Thumper kept a grip on him. Bitches stayed trying-a not get they guts full of goo. Thumper’s other hand fingered Hassle’s cock. “Ow, fuck! You ain’t gotta stick the whole thing in there!” Hassle shouted. He was gonna say more, but Goober put his sticky dick back in there. Hassle’s asshole split open — he was well broke-in, but Thumper got damn big meat, so he stretched him good. Grinding his dick in Hassle’s booty, Thumper moaned into the meat of his back, and he watched Hassle’s slurp-and-burp on Goober’s fat cock. With one hand still on Hassle’s limp cock, Thumper also stroked Goober’s meat at the root to jack it off down Hassle’s gullet, as a climax wracked Thumper’s frame. He pulled up Hassle’s wifebeater so he could kiss him right on the bottom of that red swastika on his back, and he moaned into the meat of Hassle’s body. Cum brayed into Hassle’s asshole, a great thick flow that seeped through his body. His first cumload went on for a good ten seconds, while Thumper sighed and groped Hassle’s body. A second wad spurted into his guts, and Hassle tried to slap Thumper’s hand away. He ain’t able to get enough leverage to lift off Thumper’s old-head crotch, so he gotta let his booty swallow up all them spermies. Thumper’s hands roamed up and down Hassle’s chest as he shot wad after creamy wad up Hassle’s booty. It dripped down his taint and into Thumper’s crotch. Thumper shot great big gobs of creamy jizz that flowed into Hassle’s guts. Since Hassle was upright, it all gooed right down outta Hassle as soon as Thumper could fill him up, while Hassle wrinkled on the sour taste of Officer Goober’s precum filling his mouth. He did feel an intense relief though, when Thumper let his limp pecker slip out. All that jissom leaked down Hassle’s cabled booty, making his porcelain cheeks gleam. He still wore his denims and his wifebeater, so his tighty-whiteys was soaked with Thumper’s cockjuice. Grabbing a wad of toilet paper, Hassle tried to pull off Goober’s meat, as he mumbled incomprehensible-like through all that free-flowing precum. It dripped down his lips. Goober was fitting to nut too, so he gripped ahold of Hassle’s mouth and forced his cock deep down his throat. Once again, Hassle’s neck and lips stretched and quivered, but he again accepted every inch of Goober’s dick, down to the root, until Hassle’s crooked blotch of a nose rammed into Goober’s coarse pubes. Hassle couldn’t pull off, though he smacked Goober in the meat of his buttcheeks. Goober gripped the back of his skull and shot his salty wad deep down Hassle’s throat. “Aw, fuck yeah…” Goober murmured, riding Hassle’s twitchy throat. The scent of jiss bloomed wild in the cell, while Goober’s rod throbbed betwee his lips. Hassle gagged so violent-like Goober couldn’t keep him in place. Buncha that nutjuice leaked out Hassle’s mouth and plopped onto Thumper’s face, as Hassle was still sat on Thumper’s lap. Thumper ain’t care. He wiped up that goop with one hand and smeared it on Hassle’s drippy face. Goober clucked his tongue, still spewing a long flow of cum onto Hassle’s cheeks and nose. “Lemme see, lemme see,” Goober said with a crooning moan. He tried to put his dick back in Hassle’s mouth, but Hassle smacked his lips shut. A jissom spurted onto Hassle’s crooked nose and stuck there for a few before it rolled down his upper lip. Goober again rammed his dick at Hassle’s mouth and said, “Lemme see, Hassle-” His voice broke, desperate and plaintive, as more cum dribbled onto Hassle’s lower lip. “Two apple pies then,” Goober said desperately. Hassle cringed but opened his mouth, holding back a gag as one last big jazz flowed in. It filled then overflowed past his lips. Hassle closed his eyes and gagged couple times, wincing, but he ain’t spit none of it up — that was rare, Thumper knew that, most bitches couldn’t gag without spitting, but Hassle did. He kept that mouth open while Goober’s piss-slit dribbled jiss in. With Hassle’s mouth still open, Goober grunted, and his whole body buckled. He jacked his dick like a hose, getting the last couple drops out, even as his shaft was already limpifying. He dropped his cocktip into the cummy soup in Hassle’s mouth. He was still wearing all his church clothes, his manhood coming out the fly, so he kept hisself leaning back to keep the dribbling cum off his smooth slacks. Goober sneered and laughed. “Okay, you can swallow it,” he said. With a painful-looking cringe, Hassle swallowed the cumload in his mouth, cradled his belly and waddled, pants around his ankles, to the toilet to spit up what remained in his mouth, finally using a wad of toilet paper he bin clutching to wipe his asshole off at the same time. Thumper’s cum still dripped down his legs into the cup of his briefs and denims, which was still around his ankle. He tried to speak but only gagged again. Thumper came up behind him and rubbed his limp, sensitive dick between Hassle’s buttcheeks, smearing all his assjuices right where he just wiped hisself clean. Hassle was spitting up into the toilet, so he ain’t stop Thumper at first, then he shoved him back and pulled his pants up. With a stern, cum-dripping frown, he managed to choke out, “You two are done. You can get the fuck outta my cell.” He spat again, forceful enough to make jizz bubble out his butthole. “And bring me plenty of mashed taters with them hot apple pies.”
