Category: Atticus Montgomery

That’s because Atticus was six and a half feet tall and built like a brick factory. He had kept his mind occupied in that cage by working out for eight to ten hours a day, and he kept that up as much as he could on the outside. He used his size as an assistant manager, to keep the other boys in line. They ain’t respect the Indian owner, Mr. Chandrupati, but they respected Atticus, that was for sure. He preferred busy days with lots to do. Time flew by if there was a line of customers. When no one was in the store, that’s when time dragged, that’s when Atticus started thinking too much, reliving pasts he wanted to forget. The just-graduated post-high schoolers ain’t see it like that. The best times in their lives were the most recent years; nostalgia was fun for them, so boring days with no customers were a good thing.
But Atticus had perspective, something that the young pups who worked here ain’t possess, not yet. He was the only one working today who wasn’t a just-graduated teenager or early twenty-something. Atticus was a forty-three year old ex-convict. He done his time. He knew very well about time dragging. He had spent nine years behind bars, dragging his time around like sand in a locked sandbox.

From Massive Black Alphas

Atticus, whose arms didn’t really fit in that uniform polo shirt. He had dark brown skin lined with tattoos normally covered by the shirt, but as he worked on the baskets of bagels, his shirt fabric moved a little, and Teddy couldn’t tear his eyes away from those bulging biceps and peeks at his tattoos.
He was tall too. At well over six feet tall, Atticus was barrel-chested and broad-shouldered, and he looked damn good with that polo shirt tucked into his khakis. He looked adorable in those khakis, Teddy thought; you could tell he only wore them because it was the uniform. They were too loose, too short, of course (it was probably difficult to find pants that fit) and too tight around the waist.
Atticus called out, his great big voice booming brightly, echoing in the tiny donut shop. He had a rough-tinged tone, like there was a single strip of sandpaper in his throat. He stood there near the cash register, bellowing much louder than was necessary to be heard in the tiny store.
He hurried back behind the counter again, those gorgeous asscheeks plumping back and forth with each step. Since he didn’t really fit in his khakis, Atticus’s ass bulged against the asscheeks. What massive asscheeks, Teddy thought, each one bigger than Teddy’s head, and juicy, firm and soft at once, probably dappled in sweat right now.
Atticus took off his polo shirt, revealing a broad brown chest covered in faded off-blue tattoos, including Fuck Tha Police printed over his heart; he carefully replaced the napkin over his belly and added more napkins to soak up more cum, like a big belly bib. He lifted his left arm, which bared a hairy armpit that gleamed with sweat. Warmth and body odor filled the car.

From Atticus the Ex-Con