You, l’il’un, you can sleep it off in the empty cell. No drunken moseys on my streets.
Officer Peanut glowered at Buck, and he said, “I ain’t havin’ you walkin’ round my town wit’ chubbies, Haystack. You gonna scare our white ladies. Stick him, this is Hassle, he a bucket trustee. You know what that is?” He ain’t wait for an answer from Buck. He glanced down at Cody. “You, l’il’un, you can sleep it off in the empty cell. No drunken moseys on my streets.” He walked away and kept talking. “Nuh-uh, whiteboys, y’all keep it indoors in Goober’s town. Sh’riff Terwiliger don’t like men walkin’ wit’ a stiffness — we got nice wimmin in this town fo’ real, shit…” He prolly tongued on but ain’t nobody could hear him cuz he done gone out the jailhouse into the police station proper. The jailhouse was silentious, ‘cept for the drunken bodies snoring away they bubbles in the front cells.
Hassle is a bucket trustee at the police station, Precinct 17.
Bartholomew “Hassle” Havens, aka Barry Havens
Hassle was tall, broad-shouldered, as strong as an ox. He had thick callused fingers, which gripped Anthony’s cock like it was nothing, looking up at Anthony as if Anthony was supposed to say something. But all Anthony could think about was his cock in Hassle’s grip. That, plus the swastikas. His brother had mentioned that Hassle was a Nazi. Anthony thought that was an exaggeration. But Hassle had a shaved head, pale as fresh snow, and his back was adorned with a giant red swastika, which rippled over his taut muscles. German words were printed in Gothic letters on his chest. His square jaw jutted, as he grimaced at Anthony, those club-like fingers still tweezering Anthony’s limp dick.
Officer Goober came back out a few moments later, followed by a stately man with broad, alabaster shoulders contained within a strappy wifebeater. His muscles barely fit beneath the fabric. He had a tight six-pack, barely visible because that wifebeater was too small for him and had a giant hole in it, and he wore a pair of sweatpants that you could tell were his pajamas. His eyes were dim and clouded, like Goober had just woken him up. It took Simon a minute to realize that was Hassle. The swastikas tattooed over his heart, belly and shoulder were the giveaway. He also had the name HASSLE tattooed across his neck, but it was harder to make those letters out because they were shadowed by his square, jutting jaw. The big dark blob of a tattoo on his chest was Hitler’s flinty face. Hassle was as strong as Buck, maybe, Simon thought, or at least close to it. He was shorter than Buck by a little. And he was basically hairless, very much unlike Buck. Hassle had a shaved head like an albino cue ball, and his chest was just as smooth — either naturally hairless or maybe he shaved that too. Simon hadn’t got a look at his legs because he was wearing those sweatpants. Now those sweatpants were crumpled up on the floor by the bunk. His back was tattooed with the number 88 and some arcane Gothic lettering. Simon moved closer to read it, only for Hassle to let go of his cock because the angle was awkward. Simon pressed his dick on the meaty muscle between Hassle’s shoulder blades, right on an unidentifiable shape (which Simon gathered was a crude map of the Nazi empire at its height).
Hassle was a big-ass skinhead — he got swastikas and Hitler quotes tattooed all over his back under that denim workshirt, including a giant red swastika that stretched from his shoulderblades to the top of his buttcheeks. His shaved cueball head and square jaw made him look fierce, and his well-muscled body towered over Cody.
He was tall, and as bald as a cue ball cuz he shaved it on the regular at the sink in the hall. He was broad in the shoulders and chest, his muscles working and jerking as he got the vomit up. He done sprinkled sawdust on it to make it easy to sweep up into a dustpan, and he wrinkled his nose when he whiffed of it. In his long-sleeve prison shirt and denim trousers, the only visible tattoo was a red swastika on his neck, but he got dozens of ’em lining his muscles and running up and down his buttcheeks. Hassle used to be a member of the Aryan Way. He ain’t never been a committed Nazi, he often said, but he joined in prison, and he joined for life.
“Thumper,” Hassle said with a frown upon his squareness — he got a big square face, all the parts of which seemed too big for each other, like he was made of inflated rectangles. He be stone-facing. He do that, Hassle is like that. He looked down on Bill, who got even paler than usual. That’s cuz Hassle got a swastika on his right bicep, and his shirt-sleeves was rolled up, so Bill clocked it. Hassle was covered in iron crosses, swastikas, quotes in German, all that hoohah. He done told Thumper he weren’t never a real nazi, he just played at one cuz in prison. Could be true. Thumper don’t know. It happens. Thumper and the Aryan Way was stab-mad with each other, but lucky for Hassle, Hassle was on the outs with the Aryans too. So Thumper ain’t feel no urge to gut him.
Hassle was a chowder-white Nazi, straight-up Nazi like a shot of vodka! He claimed he only joined the Aryan Way in prison and he don’t believe in the swastikas and German quotations tattooed on his body, and he was on the deep-out from the Aryan Way regardless.
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.
Hassle was a bull-headed neo-Nazi, his boxer’s body covered in swastikas and German words. His head was as smooth as a cue ball. He had been a trustee, living at the jail and doing odd jobs for the cops, for a long time. His skin was porcelain, untanned and unblemished, aside from the tattoos.
A large man walked around the police station in a denim outfit — grass-stained jeans and a thick workshirt, his arms stretching the fabric. He got a shaved head and colorful tattoos barely visible on the edges of the fabric. He carried a painfully block-shaped face with a beat-up fist of a nose. His name was Barry Havens. Hassle. They be calling him Hassle. Bull-headed. Chowder-white. Some six-three, maybe six-four. Heavyset. Late thirties. Aryan Way tats.
Hassle was a “bucket trustee”. That meant he was a long-time prison inmate, possibly a lifer. Rather than do his sentence in the state pen, he worked at the police station, mopping floors and keeping the lawn trim. That meant he gotta get the cops off when they needa blow a nut, as well as sometimes whoeversoelse was walking around town with a uncontrollable stiffy. Better to let Hassle get ’em off than have ’em groping waitresses and nice girls.
Now Wayne remembered him well. Those colorful tattoos was German quotes in gothic letters, iron crosses and swastikas. He claimed before that he weren’t a Nazi. He done join the Aryan Way in prison, before he got this trustee job. Wayne weren’t sure he believed Hassle wasn’t a real Nazi. It was believable enough though. Wayne ain’t much care. He wouldn’t leave Hassle alone with a little Jewish girl, let’s leave it at that. From Wayne the Ex-Cop
In the back cell, the biggest, there was a well-furnished cell. Inside sat a cuehead Hassle. He was tall and stacked with corded muscles, and he glowered at the assembled wrestlers. Something about him was offputting to them — he had a big square face, no neck and a broad body covered with scars and swastika tattoos. His flat mien made the wrestlers all fall silent and awkward. They were quieter than ever. Not even Coach Marshall could get them that quiet. It was those white-power tattoos that did it. Some of them was bigger than Hassle, but they all sensed he could and would kick their asses if he wasn’t a trustee. Being a trustee meant he was a prison lifer, he just worked off his sentence here at the local precinct. He mopped floors and mowed lawns.
It was Hassle — an Aryan skinhead who was the trustee here at the jail and who Buck knew. They’d met a year or two back. Hassle was big and broad, but his head and chest were hairless and his skin was as pale as a piglet.
There, mopping the floor, was a tall, burly and broad-shouldered white man with a shaved head and a thick square jaw like Buck’s. He wore workpants and a denim shirt that read TRUSTEE in big block letters above his heart.
He was a bull-headed man with portentous tattoos, including a bright red swastika upon his back. He was muscular and broad-shouldered, and he put out ignore even when t’was clear Buck was staring at him.
A muscular man with a shaved head came to the cell bars in that other cell at the back of the jailhouse. He was solid as bricks, arms like steel girders, shoulders broader than a doorway. He wasn’t as tall as Jimmy, but he was cut, while Jimmy was more meaty. Anyway, his size wasn’t what Jimmy focused on, once his eyes focused on the man. It was his tattoos. Specifically, the iron cross on his neck and the swastika on his bicep.
You could tell Hassle been in prison a long time cuz his skin was pale as plaster — he was chowder white fer real, in ‘tween the colorful swastikas and German words. His asscheeks in particular ain’t seed the sun in decades. Buck do skimp to starkers off and on, so’s his own booty got a tan to it.
Hassle’s cell was the last one on the left. It was bigger than the others, and it had a small teevee, a chair and personal photos, clothes and shelves all over. The other cells were unfurnished except for a toilet and sink.
The only cell with a’rythang in it was Hassle’s, the last one on the left. T’was outfitted with a bunk covered in nice blankets and pillows, a bean-bag chair, a writing desk with pictures of his daughter upon it and a mirror aside the sink and toilet.
The Alpha Jock & the Trustee: 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?
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 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.”
