Read it now for free from Smashwords!
Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge
Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle
Chapter Seven: Nights of Long Love
Thumper was surprise Mr. Gregarian picked him. When he was a young man, before he got locked up, no honky daddy would send him out with his pretty daughter to keep her safe — a nigga like Thumper, in his come-up, was exactly the kinda man her daddy need her kept safe from. Mr. Gregarian wouldn’t never have done let young-Thumper near his daughter.
Nowadays though, Thumper got long teeth and gray corn in his rows, and Mr. Gregarian knew that Thumper would go back in if he fucked up his parole — that was a mighty good incentive not to get fired. Plus Mr. Gregarian managed the club and all the hos who hoed there, and he promised Thumper a thousand bucks and a free ride on any them once he got back from the assignment.
As long as his daughter was still a virgin.
So Thumper got a car and a company credit card. This should be easy as slack pussy, Thumper thunk.
He was going on spring break.
Miriam was Mr. Gregarian’s daughter, and she was pushing past nineteen. She was a spray-on tangerine-cream white girl, pretty as a pumpkin despite the disaffected curls of hair blocking her face. She was going to spring break now, she said, because Ocean City was strictly 18+ this weekend.
The math suggested Miriam was the same age Thumper was when he got arrested, but Thumper couldn’t wrap his wrinkles around that, so he tried not to ponder it.
As Miriam settled into the backseat of the Jaguar while tapping and dapping at her phone, Thumper wondered if she was really still a virgin. Maybe. She ain’t look it, but you could tell she was trying-a look sluttier than she was. She was all dolled up with ruby lipstick, blooming blush and scarlet mascara, and she got a bare midriff and a bikini under that halter-top. She got a bitch-happy way of talking too.
“You better drive quick,” Miriam said, rolling her eyes already, as soon as the car rocked into motion. “We’re off to a late start. My friend Katie is like almost there.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Ugh, ‘ma’am’. Don’t call me that,” she said with a scoff. She blew one them hair-curls outta her face, but it drooped right back to dangle above her frown as though pointing to it. “You make me sound like a old maid.”
“Uh, yeah, okay, Miss Gregarian-“
“Just call me Miriam, okay? It’s humiliating enough having you as a babysitter.”
“Bodyguard,” Thumper said.
“Same thing.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And don’t try to talk to my friends.” She rolled her eyes. “How old are you anyway?”
“Fifty-three.”
“That’s gross, that’s so ancient. I can’t believe Dad won’t let me go alone. Ocean City is not a ghetto, no offense — I can drive, you know, I have a driver’s license. I drove to Florida last year. I’m almost twenty years old.”
Thumper nodded. “I don’t think it’s the driving he do worry ’bout, miss… Miriam.” He cleared his throat. “He mention you gots a boyfriend gonna meet you there. He wanna make sure the young fellah treat you right. And other fellahs — there gonna be lotta fellahs at the beach. Lotta them fellahs only want one thing, and they got Roman hands-“
“I know! Do you go to church in the 50s?! You don’t have to explain sex to me. I know all the parts of the penis! God, my dad is the worst,” she said. “I know boys are assholes, and I hate them.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “My boyfriend is Caden. He’s very cool, you have to know that. He DJs at a club and has like a hundred thousand followers on Instagram. My dad doesn’t like him. He said he’s a smoothpecker. I don’t know what that means. I think it’s a translation of something Armenian.” She again blew that tendril of hair away from her face with a judgmental puff, but it went right back to the way it was. “I hate being Armenian.”
Thumper got distracted then by a slowdown on the highway, as traffic choked the road. He ain’t wanna admit that his driving skills was weak — Thumper only drove a few times on a highway in his life. He barely drove before, and Carson only helped him get his license back last week. Mr. Gregarian never asked. White folk do be assumptive that everywhom drive everyway everyday. Thumper narrowed his eyes to slits and gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles honkied up, as cars careened past like sleek elephants. Cars went faster nowadays, or maybe time itself was faster. The Jaguar was smooth as a lubed thumb, but lotta the other cars on the road rattled and roared like wraiths on a rampage, like they was finna collapse into a car-shaped pile of car parts. The sound of some squawky whiteboy on the radio pissed Thumper off like squawky whiteboys do, but he gotsta grope around on the dashboard to figure out how to turn it off.
“You drive so weird, old man! I’m putting TuneBleed on. You’re my driver, not my boss,” Miriam said. She stayed messing about on her phone as if she weren’t allowed to put it down.
He grunted. He was calmer now that he was steady in the slow lane, confident he was heading the right way. “TuneBleed, huh? Never heard of ’em. They a rock band?”
Miriam sneered. “A rock band? That’s not a thing anymore. It’s an app,” she said like it shoulda been obvious. Some awful music blared from the speakers. It got a beat like hip hop, a slow-kidney tinkle-piss beat, like if rain could cry, but no words, cuz every nigga in the world musta got too sleepy to rap over it.
Thumper glinted at Miriam in the rear-view mirror, still white-knuckling the steering wheel. “How do I get the lady back? The directions lady?”
“The what?” She stayed in her phone, tippy-tapping at it like she was finna finish her tippy-tapping but kept finding more tippy-tapping to do.
“The lady who know where to go.”
“You mean GPS? It’s on.”
“The directions thing? Yeah. the woman, like a white-lady robot,” Thumper said.
“The GPS lady is Siri. You know she’s not a real person, right?”
Thumper narrowed his eyes at her in the mirror. “I ain’t a retard. I know there ain’t a woman in the dashboard reading directions off,” he said.
She scoffed and blew strands of hair outta her bratty-brown eyes, only for them to flop right back once again like a bossy octopus. “Can’t you drive faster? You go so slow. I can’t be the last one there, I will absolutely die.”
“Yo’ pa said I gots to bring you back in one piece. It ain’t a race.”
“It is! If I’m the last one there, Caden will be hanging out with Donna Wiltshire, and she will suck off anything that moves, I swear, she is such a skank, and everybody knows it.”
Thumper roared into the rear-view mirror. “Get that white-lady robot back on. What’d you say her name was? Seeree?”
“Siri! You can’t talk to me like that! I’m your boss!” Miriam snapped.
“Yo’ daddy is my boss, and he said to tell you to quit being a ungrateful brat and you ain’t allowed to whine at Wendell like a mouthy hussy all weekend,” he said.
She screwed up her nose. “Okay, first of all, my dad did not say that. Second of all, did you just call me a ‘mouthy hussy’? Third of all, I can’t believe your name is Wendell. It’s like disgustingly uncool, I swear, every time anyone calls you Wendell a celebrity somewhere in the world gets fat-“
“Bring back Siri!” he said. “I dunno where to go! I-“
“You stay on this road, you crazy old moron! Siri is still there!” Miriam screeched like a whole flock of shattering bats. She slammed her hands on the seat and gritted her teeth. She snapped at him, “GPS will cut in over the music when it’s got something to say! You’re ridiculous, how can you be so lame?! Don’t you just, like, want to die? You know nobody likes you.”
“What? You dunno nothin’.”
“I know all the bouncers! All of them! Buck, Rocky, Poahi even, and he’s so dumb he’s nice. They all said you’re a humiliating old fool and they can’t believe you get out of bed in the morning,” she said. She sat back in her seat with a flounce and crossed her arms over her chest, phone still in her hand.
He chuckled. “Not a single one them evuh met me. Only bouncer I know is Tyrell,” Thumper said.
She looked out the window and wrinkled her cutey-tooty nose. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“You need a slap upside the face and a job where you work up a sweat,” Thumper said.
She looked at him with wide-eye shock in the rear-view mirror. “You can’t talk to me like that-“
They was both startled then by Siri cutting in over the music. Prepare to approach the Chess-a-peak Bay Bridge in one mile. Thumper’s fingers fumbled like fretful butterflies around the dashboard in search of a button to press to go back to TuneBleed, but then it did that automatterly.
“Be quiet when I go over the bridge,” Thumper said. He eyed the bridge, which extended over the horizon. It was wide but narrowed by lurching traffic squeezing in away from the sheer, unprotected sides. The sound of the bay’s waves, honking cars and cawing seagulls reverberated through the fog below.
“Why? Are you sneaking up on it?”
“I never drove on it before,” Thumper said softly. He ain’t like how the traffic was slowing down, and one of the that-way lanes was fulla cars going this-way, and the bridge rumbled like jagged rags under a trillion tons of too many cars, but he ain’t wanna let on to Miriam that he ain’t never drove outta Baltimore before and ain’t never even drove on no big-time bridge. The lanes narrowed as the cars seemed to grow wider, and a utility truck ahead looked too broad to fit.
Thumper sucked in his breath as if that’d make the car smaller or the lanes bigger.
The Bay Bridge stretched far into the distance. The water loomed low below, and there weren’t no shoulders or even a real guardrail, and the edge nipped at Thumper’s side. There weren’t barely nothing to stop the car from a icy plummet. Thumper could only go with the flow of trapped cars. He got a tight grip on the wheel like it was trying-a escape, or he was.
His heart raced. He ain’t realize how long this bridge was. Weren’t there islands in the Chesapeake?
It felt like a cage even though it was the exact opposite of one — it was wide open, no barriers to speak of ‘cept the bridge itself underneath. The Earth stretched to surround it, but the cars hemmed Thumper and Miriam in like shrunk tighty-whiteys. If Thumper got out, he couldn’t even fit between the trafficky cars. He was as trapped as a rat in a eagle’s talons seeing the openness and freedom it never knew it had on the ground.
Miriam stared out the window. Her legs were crossed, her lower-down foot tapping the upholstery like a drumless drummer, as she shot bosomy, judgemental sighs up to Thumper.
“It’s no big deal,” she said. “It’s just a bridge. I could drive it in my sleep.”
But Thumper’s honky-up knuckles was taking all his attention. His concentration went towards fitting the Jag through these tiny lanes and praying for the sight of land on the far side of the bridge.
“Can’t you go faster?”
“No!” he snapped at her. He looked at her in the mirror. “Ain’t nowhere to go!”
“It’s just a bridge. Grr,” she said with a roar like a bored tiger. “Honk your horn or something! Go faster-“
“That won’t make nobody go faster.”
“I can’t be there last! You have to go like a hundred miles an hour the rest of the way!”
“You ain’t in charge of speed,” Thumper said, eyeing her in the rear-view mirror.
Miriam fumed like a flirty volcano and called her girlfriends one by one to tell ’em the traffic on the bridge was “mega-bad”. She said it like ain’t none her friends ever heard of traffic, so she gotta explain it to ’em.
Finally, the Eastern Shore did appear ahead, rising over the horizon and beckoning the line of cars. Thumper held his breath until the cars’ wheels switched from echoic thrumming on steel to dull solidity atop the ground.
He prayed his thanks to the Lord in Heaven. Miriam gabbed on her phone with a friend about another friend, Kylie Jenner. Miriam gossipped with her friend that this Kylie Jenner was a “butt-slut” who was into black guys. Thumper wondered if Kylie Jenner was gonna be at the beach this weekend. Miriam whispered that part about Kylie Jenner liking black guys. Thumper ain’t let on that he heard.
If she thunked Thumper couldn’t hear, she was more likely to talk to her friend out loud. That was good, cuz Thumper wanted to know her plans.
“Yeah, I’ll get so drunk tonight. Me and Caden. Ew, no, I’m not gonna — that is so gross, you don’t even know,” she said. “What’d he buy? Uh-huh. I don’t know what that is. Is it cool? It sounds manly, like something a coal miner would drink.” Then she grunted like a macho man. “Steel Reserve.” She giggled. “Prolly has a lotta calories. I don’t care, I’m not eating this weekend. I’m so fat. Oh don’t say that, I wish I had your thighs. I am! I’m so fat, I’m like groundhog-shaped.”
Thumper locked his eyes askew at her in the mirror, but she ain’t clock his mug. Steel Reserve was a malt liquor. Hobos drank that.
At least, long time ago, before, hobos drank it. God only knows what people did with it nowadays. Enemas, prolly, Thumper thunk with a chuckle, until Miriam saw him laughing his foolish ass at nothing.
Was she allowed to get drunk? Mr. Gregarian ain’t said Thumper should stop it. But Mr. Gregarian wouldn’t want her puking streetside like a trash-high ho.
By the time they made it to Ocean City, Miriam done made it very clear she intended to get drunk as a cup tonight. Her boyfriend Caden wanted to drink — he was who bought the malt liquor.
Him and her was the last of her friend-group to arrive, but ain’t nobody but Miriam seemed to notice that.
Caden was already drinking a forty of malt liquor from a brown paper bag, sitting on a brick wall by a bank of rented beach-houses and staring at the sea beyond like a poet, a image that was undercut every time he halted his handsomeness to hop on his phone with fingers like bony breadsticks. Thumper disliked him right away. He was a necky sumbitch, a shoulderless chowder-white honky with shiny teeth. He got this foppish mess of blond hair like a limp mop, and he be bitsy-sipping at his brown-bag forty.
“Yo, babe, wuddup?” Caden said with no chalance when Miriam came close-up. He glanced at Thumper, then looked away, then glanced back at him with flurries of worry on his mug. Nearby, waves in batches bashed the beach and crashed against the craggy shore, where rowdy crowds shouted out loud and brohed down like broken clowns. Thumper hung around Miriam with a bare, uncaring stare at Caden until he looked away again. Miriam was gobbling on about some girlish shit and ain’t clock the men mean-mugging.
The bounce in Miriam’s step vanished when she turned from her gal-pals to Caden, and her excited eagerness gave way to the same slow tone as his cracker ass. “Hey,” she said with a shrug. She arranged her hair tendrils outta her eyes only for them to slip back afronta her gaze, and she ain’t fix ’em again.
He leaned in to kiss her, but his eyes fluttered once more upon Thumper looming down on Caden like a slimy bug he was finna smash. Thumper ain’t blink once since Caden thought he was man enough to make eye contact with him, which was likely not the first time Caden misestimated his manhood. Caden whispered to Miriam, who whispered back as they kissy-kissed, and they both laughed like giddy guppies. His hands roamed over Miriam’s back.
“Oh, that’s Wendell. He’s my driver. Ignore him,” Miriam said, both to Caden and to her other assembled friends, as Miriam, Caden and them other multiracial whobodies gathered up and headed on to the beachhouse they was doing a “airbee inbee” weekend in.
The crowded streets was bustling out loud and packed as canned sardines. Thumper ain’t realize it was gonna be asses to elbows here. Ain’t no way even a dozen bodyguards could keep track of the dimwits ambling down the ave, so Thumper kept his eye eagling on Miriam.
He also kept a surly eye on Caden, who be running his fingers through his hair and walking with a uptight butt like a prison therapist. He showed off his flatty-flat chest cuz of a tattoo he just got — the word liberation writted in a “hardcore punk font”. Thumper disliked him more with every passing moment. Mr. Gregarian was right: Caden was a smoothpecker. Thumper ain’t even know what that meant, and he was sure it applied.
Somebody oughta slap that boy’s daddy in the balls.
The beachhouse was as sad, small and plain as a half a packetless ramen. You could tell nobody actually lived there — it was like a overgrowed hotel room. Everything was too clean and too polished, and it smelled like a lemon got the hershey squirts in there. The floppy-cheap furniture inside was uncomfortable and awkward. Nobody would choose this furniture if they hadta use it every day. That was what Thumper decided when he plopped down into a awkward rattan chair, while Miriam and the other girls changed into and outta each other’s bikinis in the bedroom. They stayed reassuring each other that they all looked better than they did in they own bikinis.
The beachhouse living room was silent as a dead man’s shoes until Caden spoke — except for the next-room-over giggling-atop-each-other girls changing they clothes and hair and makeup. Thumper scowled at Caden, who said, “Yo, dawg, I think it’s great you’re protecting Miriam this weekend,” Caden gave Thumper a chinless nod. “Men can be such pigs. Somebody could easily take advantage of her this weekend, y’know, if I’m not around or whatever.”
“Uh-huh.” Thumper grunted.
Caden still got his forty of Steel Reserve. “Yo, homeboy, you want some malt liquor? I got more forties in the fridge. This is a sweet pad, isn’t it?”
“Hmmm… Why you drink malt liquor, boy?” Thumper narrowed his eyes to slits.
“It’s badass, my homie.” Then he did a little singsong imitation of some cheesy nigga. “Sittin’ on the stoop, drinkin’ forties wit’ my homies…” He grinned like he thought Thumper was gonna sing along with him. “Steel Reserve is good drink.”
“No, it ain’t,” Thumper said, a-beating his feet on the floor. He got a curl lip for that Caden.
Eventually, the girls emerged in they final bikinis, which was the same as they first bikinis but a hour later. Caden went right up to Miriam — Thumper couldn’t hear what he said, on account of those girlfolk being loud as lightbulbs. They came herding into the living room giggling like drunken donkeys and braying like bitches and exuding hormones like a pack of wild glands.
And Thumper couldn’t deny that his dick twitched in his pants at seeing them in they bikinis. They was pretty young things fresh outta high school — all legal age, but Thumper was old enough they felt too young to look at. Did girls get younger while he was locked up? He was them girls’ age when he got arrested, but they looked younger than he ever felt. Girls before ain’t look like girls now, he thunk. Most ’em was spilling bits of tits outta those stringy things. Mr. Gregarian musta ain’t never seen Miriam’s bikini or he’d-a blowed up.
Thumper got no bathing trunks. But he did strip down to basketball shorts and his clean sneakers. His bare chest scared off Caden and displayed his tats. He was glad to wear the basketball shorts cuz they was the only article of clothing he took with him to prison thirty-four years ago and still had, plus basketball shorts looked the same now as they did before. It was the only thing he got that ain’t look old-fashion.
“You look ridiculous,” Miriam said to Thumper as they all left the beachhouse and headed to the boardwalk and beach. “You’re like a thousand times older than anyone else here. What even are those shorts? What century did they make them in?”
“What?” Thumper’s heart sagged like a stuck balloon. “Basketball shorts ain’t change-“
“The stitching on the elastic is all wrong, they’re like a half-inch too short, the material is thin like a whore’s lingerie, oh my god, and they’re like fraying, look at those loose threads. Do you live in a mouse nest? And your tattoos look like crap, those aren’t even cool tattoos! You have a naked woman tattooed on your back, that’s disgusting and probably misogynist!”
“It’s the Statue of Liberty,” Thumper said, looking down at his shorts. Now that she pointed out all the differences, he could tell that his was old-style and the ones Caden and them wore was new.
“Gross. She has a vulva like a fat girl.”
Thumper got no response to that. He couldn’t see his back, and he weren’t sure what a vulva was.
The town of Ocean City swarmed with late teens and twenty-whatevers on spring break — thousands them flocked here, outnumbering the beleagured locals like lambs in a slaughterhouse. Miriam, Caden, Thumper and the rest struggled to remain in a tight group, as they filtered through the thronging streets. The smell of beery vomit and sea-spray filled the air, and Thumper felt sand in his shoes, though he ain’t goed on the beach yet.
“Didn’t you bring swim trunks?”
Thumper shook his head. “I ain’t goin’ in the ocean, Miriam.”
“You’re going to make us look like freaks on the beach!” Miriam said in a quiet hiss. They group of young’uns done combine up with another group of identical young’uns, and Caden was hububbing with some boistery boys, all them porting forties in brown bags.
One whiteboy whooped, “Drinkin’ forties like a shorty, dawg! Fuck yeah!” They all whooped and chugged they forties, clutching phones in they other hands.
Thumper wrinkled his nose. It felt good to be shirtless. His tats gleamed in the sun. The rambuncting whiteboys sang through that song about drinking forties, and Thumper was ready to strangle them and then whichever shit-snack wrote that song.
“Yo, you some kinda gangsta?” Caden asked, his words starting to slur, when he saw the prison tats adornmenting Thumper. “Bet you pop a cap in countless niggas, huh, broh?” He whooped and yelped like he made a joke, and the other paleface pusses scattered around all whooped like they was in on it. Caden finger-gunned at his brohs.
But before Thumper could say nothing, Caden and the other boys was moving on, roughhousing and playing down afront the girls. Some commandy light-hawk whiteboy was organizing up a volleyball game, but the beach was crowded like a Brazilian prison and nobody got a volleyball or a net and everywhom was tipsy as drippy drains. So the volleyball plan seemed unrealistic. They just drank.
By the time the sun setted and the moon rised and the star and open sky spreaded over the horizon, Thumper guided them on they way back to the rented home, and Thumper held Miriam’s hair back as she puked into the toilet. Her bony body undulated like a slender manatee with every vomit.
And them tits bounced in her bikini, not that Thumper watched ’em go.
“Malt liquor is strong, guhl,” Thumper said. “It tastes like beer, but it get you drunk like liquor.”
“Oh god, ssshut up… I hate you,” she gasped. She wiped a few tears off her cheek. “Where’s Caaaayden?”
Thumper shrugged. “He and his boys rumored off to buy shrooms,” he said.
She nodded. “Oh god, I can’t do mushrooms.”
Thumper frowned. “No, you can’t. Yo’ daddy wouldn’t approve that, reckon,” he said. “Betcha big beans they get ripped off anyhow.”
Half-standing on her wobbly legs, Miriam almost fell. Thumper supported her and gave her another glass of water. She gulped from it. “He’sss gonna fuck that biiiiiiiitch Caroline, I just know it.”
Shaking his head, Thumper said, “Nah, nah, no way,” he said. Thumper ain’t know which of the identical girls Caroline was. “Caroline’s fatter than you, and she got that messed-up hairdo. Caden ain’t goin’ aftuh her.”
“Thank you!” she said. “She can’t pull off bangs, I knew it!” She touched her ears. “She doeshn’t have the right ears for bangs.”
Thumper nodded like the kinda nigga who got opinions on bangs. “C’mon, guhl, you best sleep it off.” He put another glass of water beside the bed, then helped her to it. “You sleep late, guhl.”
“Ssssshut up, Wendell,” she said, but she plopped onto the bed and closed her eyes. “You sssshuck.”
Thumper stood over her until he was sure she was asleep. Once she was thoroughly conk-a-zonk, Thumper was glad to have some time to hisself. He could wander out to find a slut to bang. There was plentya women hot to trot in this town. Maybe that Kylie Jenner was hopping about.
But could he leave the house with Miriam slumbering? How many other men were on the wander looking for a ho to poke?
He went to his own room and took a shower. He rinsed Miriam’s vomit off. He went lookie-loo around the beachhouse, dressed only in his boxers, to make sure the doors and windows was all locked — even at close to two o’clock in the morning, the phone-lit streets of Ocean City was choked with drunken revellers.
One of those drunken revellers was outside Thumper’s bedroom when he returned to it. The shadowy figure fumbled with Thumper’s window, making a loud racket as he worked it unstuck from outside. The light was off in the room, so Thumper stood there by the window with his arms crisscrossing his chest.
Finally, the window was forced open, and the familiar blond tousle upon Caden’s dome appeared. He was so drunk he ain’t notice Thumper standing there. Caden crawled in and toppled onto the floor.
“Baaaby…” Caden said when he got up and checked that his phone weren’t smasht. He saw Thumper and the empty bed. “Oh. Sssshit. Thissssh ain’t Mere-yum’sssh room. Ssshorry, homie.”
“I ain’t yo’ homie, Caden,” Thumper said. “‘d you buy shrooms?”
Caden shook his head with a slowness, like his whole body was made of honky-flavor jello. “Was a ripoff. Where’s Mirre… Mirre… Where’s she at, dawg?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Thumper said. “If you think I’mma let you go in there and plunder that female like she a bag of doritos, you are even dumber ‘an you look, and you look dumb as dogshit, Caden.” He said his name with a sneer.
“I-“
But Thumper grabbed Caden by the cheek and turned him around. He shoved him face-first into the wall, and he spread Caden’s legs before lowering his pants. Caden wiggled to get away, but he was so drunk and so slow that Thumper ignored his efforts.
Then he pulled down his boxers — plain white but thick and weirdly nice — Thumper ain’t never in his life seen high-fashion-brand men’s underwear before — and revealed a plump white ass. Thumper loved smashing a pair of porcelains.
He rubbed his dick on Caden’s buttcrack until it was good and hard. Caden’s whole body undulated as he tried not to vomit. “What’rrrre you doin’?” Caden asked. He was sobered up a little by the surprise and the pain from Thumper holding his hands behind his back.
“This is called ramroddin’ in prison,” Thumper said. His dick was hot and hard now. Caden felt it in his buttcheeks but couldn’t figure out what it was. Every time he tried to move his head, his world swam and his belly swayed inside, so he stopped, and Thumper wouldn’t let him look all the way behind hisself anyway. Thumper said, “Whiteboys call it cornholin’. Black fellahs call it ramroddin’.”
“Hmm… I heard of that,” Caden said softly. He tried to remember the rapper who says he was “ramroddin’ bigger niggas with a quicker trigger finger”. He always thought the line was “ham-waddin’ bigger niggas”, but he looked it up a couple weeks ago cuz he ain’t know what “ham-waddin'” was. He also ain’t know what “ramrodding” was.
Then a fiery ball of pain erupted in his backside. He bit back a howl, while Thumper placed his dirty drawers in Caden’s mouth as a gag. Caden ain’t know he shoulda bin clenching, but once Thumper’s manhood pushed into his hole, Caden couldn’t expel it no more.
His cock forced its way deeper into Caden’s backside, as a firestorm of pleasure ran up Thumper’s spine. Thumper howled along with Caden, licking his lips. Caden cringed and grunted, and he bit his tongue so hard it bled. Thumper kneaded his buttcheeks like rising dough. Every motion Caden made sent another frisson up Thumper’s spine. He ain’t plowed down a whiteboy since prison, and it felt good to plunder his hip little guts.
“Hmm, whiteboy, yo’ booty feels damn good…” Thumper moaned and his voice broke in Caden’s ear. Caden shivered and bit back a cry of agony. Thumper nibbled on his earlobe.
With a whine and a whimper, Caden felt a throb in his ass. Thumper grunted. A spurt of hot liquid washed into Caden’s flesh, and the heat of Thumper’s load suffused throughout his body. Cum flowed into him, great creamy wads of it that filled him up.
“Don’chu mess wit’ Miriam this weekend,” Thumper said with a growl, still nutting inside Caden. He thrust into Caden’s ass and shot jiss deep into his guts. His moist voice echoed in Caden’s ear. “Or I’ll get a dozen niggas to split you in two, and I’ll make you call yo’ mama so she can hear her son stop bein’ a real man.”
“Yes! Okay! Yes, sir!” Caden said, shouting the best he could without taking a deep breath. More jissom flowed into him, more than he thought possible. It dripped down his thighs. Thumper’s heavy body pressed against his back still, and Thumper’s hot breath condensed on Caden’s ear. Finally, there was one last spurt, then only a few drops leaking into him.
Thumper’s dick limpened slow in Caden’s ass, while Caden whimpered and stamped his feet. Thumper smacked his buttcheek one more time.
That made Caden tense and grit his teeth. His whole body wiggled like an agonized snake. “Hhnnnnnnn!”
“That was some nice booty, Caden,” Thumper said with a grin that grew as he watched his big black pecker ooze out, along with rivulets of pearly nut. “Hope you don’t gotsta walk straight anytime soon.”
His cocktip emerged with a moist plop, and Caden sighed. Jiss flowed down his thighs. “Ow, shit!” Caden groaned out loud. He tried to stand up too quick, and dizziness struck him.
“Don’t forget, whiteboy: leave Miriam’s virtue alone,” Thumper said before he tucked his dirty dinky away. He shoved Caden back out the window he done crawl in through, and Caden collapsed with his pants down outside. Thumper threw his phone after him.
Then he locked the window. That, he thunk, was one problem solved.
Read it now for free from Smashwords!
Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge
Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle
