Patrick Spinnaker – Mansploitation

Miriam wore dark sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat. She groaned and clutched her stomach as she got in the back of the Jag. She leaned against the door and fell asleep before Thumper even got the car onto the highway outta Ocean City.
That was fine with Thumper. He ain’t want her bitching the whole way home like she did on the way down. He was relieved that this weekend went good, and he even got Caden to dump Miriam like last month’s turnips — Mr. Gregarian was gonna be pickled pink about that.
After a hour or so, Thumper stopped for gas. That woke Miriam up, but she ain’t say boo. Thumper went inside the gas station and bought her a bottle water.
“Here. Drink this,” he said.
“Oh god, yes, I needed that,” she said, her voice a croak like a creaky frog. “I didn’t mean to drink that much last night. Oh god, Wendell… My head hurts.”
“Yep. It’ll do that,” Thumper said with a dirgey whistle.
He thinked she went back to sleep and maybe she did for awhile. But before he got back onto the Bay Bridge, her phone beeped. She looked at it and groaned. She closed her eyes and clutched her face.
“Ohhhhhhh!” She squealed and wiggled all her limbs like a overturnt turtle. “It’s all over Instagram, my friends are going out with their boyfriends to get pancakes at some place in Stevensville! I’m not invited because I’m single! It’s a couple’s thing, and Taylor Swift ate there once!” She gasped into her phone. “Caden’s going! With… With… if it’s Ripley Grundy, I will stab a dolphin, oh-!” She gasped again. “It is Ripley Grundy! He’s going out with her now!” She squealed. “I could just die!” She looked into the rear-view mirror and made eye contact with Thumper. “I wish I was in prison!”
A long hollow silence hung around the car. Thumper focused on merging onto the Bay Bridge. Miriam put her phone down and looked out the window, but only empty space stretched in every direction. The sound of the wheels whirring atop the ground changed to a metallic clanging when they got onto the bridge. Ahead all was traffic and salt-scent fog, and even the Bay below was not visible. The bridge seemed to traverse the sky itself this morning, no land, no water, but the sound of both reverberated through the air.
“Sorry,” she said after her pouty pause became too much for her to maintain. “I don’t, uh… I didn’t mean that.” She fell quiet again, as still as a suffocating teapot. She vibrated up and down, and she opened her mouth again a couple times like she got something to say with them pretty painted lips. But then each time she ain’t find the words she be seeking.
None that troubled Thumper none. He was stiff-gripping the steering wheel as he once again crossed the Bay Bridge. Once again he hadta fight against the urge to look over the unprotected edge into the pitchy waves below. In the backseat, Miriam cleared her throat like a giggley volcano.
Her tangerine-cream fingers thrummed up and down on the seat, as she finally said, “What is it like in prison?”
He scoffed. “It sucks there. You lose e’ryone you love one by one, and you gotsta spend all yo’ time wit’ niggas you can’t choose, guards watchin’ yo’ e’ry step. Smells like a foot’s patoot too.”
She kept her eyes trained out the windows like something was gonna rise outta the Chesapeake. She glanced at her phone once but then slammed it down and put it under her purse. She sniffled and wiped a tear away from her eye. Her mouth cracked open to speak, but no words came out.
Her feet wiggled. On the way here, her feet done pump up and down because she was impatient to get to Ocean City. Now, they waggled in no direction, impatient only cuz Miriam ain’t know how to be anything else. She sighed couple times, nearly getting her phone out from under her purse, but she stopped herself each time.
Just as they reached the end of the Bay Bridge, she finally said, “I’m glad Caden dumped me. I was only dating him cuz it pissed my dad off.”
“I know,” Thumper said.
“There’s probably a better reason to date a guy,” she said. She blew her curl outta her face, and this time it stayed beside her temple, framing the off-tempo smile that creeped onto her lips.

“You should have a boyfriend who makes you glad to get outta bed in the morning,” Thumper said. “Not humiliated to be alive.”

As the Jaguar thumped off the Bay Bridge and onto the road, she reached up and patted Thumper on the bicep. “You’re not as bad as some of the other bouncers. Like Tyrell, he’s so annoying, I’m glad he didn’t take me to Ocean City. You’re an annoying old fool too, Wendell, but you have a good excuse. That name is still retarded though.”
“My friends call me Thumper.” Thumper’s mind reeled from her fingertips on his arm. He ain’t mean to feel like a little boy — he got no kinda crush on Miriam. Thumper just ain’t get touched a lot in a nice way.
The cops who arrested him treated him rough. Prison doctors poked and prodded. The guards picked fistfights with him for fun — Thumper was a boxer before his arrest, well-known locally, and the guards all wanted a chance to mess with him, so they could brag that they punched out the Chesapeake champ.
It weren’t until Thumper got through his stint in local jail during his trial and sentencing and then got processed into prison that he met his cellmates, his fellow Bloods.
They was all from Baltimore, same as him. They all knew the same places and the same niggas. It felt like home — a cramped, sweaty kinda home.
It was a slimfire nigga named Patrick Spinnaker who shined on Thumper from the get-go. They both came up in the same housing project, but Patrick was a couple years older. He was always cool as a clam to Thumper. Patrick was a smooth-talking lady-macking kinda nigga, with long fingers and a smooth chest, and you could tell he was used to wearing gems on each finger. He weren’t a big-time nigga, but he carried hisself like one, like he ain’t realize he was skinny and short.
“Yo, nigga, you got through yo’ first day,” Patrick said when they returned to the cell that night, after Thumper got intook. Thumper done plopped his ass down on his bunk. His back was to the bars — one of they cell’s walls was bars, and niggas be mad pacing back and forth out there. Nowadays, after thirty-four years in cages a lot like that one, Thumper wouldn’t never sit with his back to the bars. But on day one, he ain’t know no better. Patrick got his back to the wall. “How you feelin’?”
Thumper shrugged. “Fine.” He got a purple bump on his left eye, his nose crooked and stuffed with cotton balls, so his voice be huffy and squat. His chest was slick and shiny with sweat. He was in the infirmerary getting a cut on his shoulder sewed up during shower-time, so he weren’t gonna get to wash the grime off till the day after tomorrow.
“That all you got to say? I ain’t just yo’ cellmate, Thump,” Patrick said like a cool cat, dipping and diving across the cell — like three steps of open space — to where Thumper was sat on the cell’s only chair. Thumper sat on it backwards, so his legs was splayed, his bare bronze chest steaming with sweat and swole with growing bruises. “I’s yo’ nigga in this organization. I know it ain’t easy, making the transition. If anything is troublin’ you… You gotsta let yo’ nigga know. Don’t sit and stew like a gumbo, homie.”
He shrugged. “I gots a pro’lem with them screws comin’ hard at me. I can’t fight ’em like that e’ry day.”
“Shit, nigga, you be fine,” Patrick said. “If them screws gots a real problem wit’choo, they’d send you up to solitary so you ain’t go to no infirmary, and they’d break a bone fo’ sure. They’s just messin’ wit’cha cuz you famous. Lemme see you box, nigga.” Patrick stood up and shadowboxed afront Thumper.
He looked up at him, too tired to do anything more than sit a spell before lights-out. But Thumper was under Patrick’s command — Patrick was a lieutenant in the Bloods, and Thumper was brand-new. Thumper’s job in the Bloods was enforcer. He couldn’t hardly complain too bad about taking a beating or practicing punches.
Patrick was also pushing fifty years old, and Thumper was less than half that age, and he was a semi-pro boxer literally a month ago. So Thumper ain’t think nothing of standing and putting his dukes up.
“You know you can’t hold no grudge against the screws who hit’cha, right?” Patrick said. He threw a couple punches that Thumper blocked with an open palm.
“What? Why not? Whatchoo mean?”
“That’s just how shit goes, nigga,” Patrick said. “And lotta them… we do truck wit’ ’em.” He paused and let Thumper punch him back on his open palms. “I’s an old nigga, Thump, don’t get too rough wit’ me.”
Thumper nodded and threw couple punches. He stopped before he punched Patrick’s hand at all, so he made only glancing contact. It did feel good to get his blood pumping again. “Man, that one smirky blond guard, I wanna smash that bastard’s face in.”
“Higgins? Yeah, he prolly Higgins, he a fuckhead. Jerome Watley fucks his wife, if that makes it feel better,” Patrick said. He was jostled this way and that by Thumper boxing him even without any real contact between them, and he steadied hisself by grabbing Thumper’s waist. “You hella boxer, Thump.”
Lights-out in five minutes!
Thumper stopped boxing. “Shit, I’m sweaty, nigga. Lemme wash off some in the sink or somethin’. I don’t wanna go to bed sweaty like this,” he said. He hadta squeeze past Patrick to get to the sink. He washclothed sweat off his belly and chest.
As Thumper rinsed the washcloth to do it again, Patrick came up behind him. That was another thing Thumper wouldn’t stand for these days.
But he ain’t know no better then. He stood there wiping his chest with a washcloth awkward-like, while Patrick got real close behind him, his slim hands wrapping around Thumper’s barrel-shape high-yellow body.
Thumper paused. He wanted to wipe his balls, but Patrick was so close it seem rude to drop his drawers. Thumper could even feel the bulge of Patrick’s soft pecker through the boxers both them wore.
“Hey, nigga, you know ’bout yo’ lights-out duties?” Patrick asked. One his hands reached around his body to touch Thumper’s nipple, making his pec bounce. His hot breath condensed on Thumper’s back.
Thumper shook his head. “Not really. Switcher said you was gonna tell me somethin’ ’bout… I gotsta do somethin’ sometimes after lights-out. Like beat a nigga or some shit, I ‘xpect.” He formed a fist and punched the palm of his other hand with it. “Just point me at him, nigga.”
“Nah, nah, ain’t about fighting… Well, you might sometimes gotsta fight a nigga after lights-out too. But that ain’t what lights-out duties is,” Patrick said. His hands kneaded Thumper’s shoulders, which was thick with muscle and rock-hard. “Gimme that washcloth,” he said when Thumper done wrung it out.
Patrick took the washcloth and lowered Thumper’s boxers all the way down. Thumper’s ass was bare and faced the wall of cell bars, on the other side of which niggas was still dapping and rapping. Thumper wiggled a little, but he ain’t wanna attract no attention.
His dong was dangling bare at the cell bars. Couple niggas walked by, but they ain’t act like they saw nothing.
The cell was quiet as a dead choir, and the chaos outside growed more and more distant, rumbling softer as niggas found they way to they cells. Patrick wiped Thumper’s buttcrack clean, and he got deep in there too. He ain’t just wipe the crack, he went down into it. The washcloth rubbed rough as rubble against Thumper’s butthole.
“Ow, nigga-” Thumper grunted and tried to step away, but Patrick stopped him with a hand around his torso. “You rubbin’ mah poop-chute-” He lowered his voice cuz somebutt hustled by to get to his cell. Whoever it was ain’t look. “It hurts, nigga!”
“Sssshh…” Patrick clucked his tongue. He held onto Thumper tight.
Of course, Thumper was much bigger than Patrick and could overpower him. Patrick ain’t even try to hold Thumper in place. But Thumper was told he gotsta do everything Patrick say.
The lights flickered out, and all was darkness. The sound outside the cell dwindled on the rapid, as leftover niggas scurried to they cells before the screws came through for the first night check.
“Nigga, I-” Thumper again tried to move, but Patrick stopped him with his fingers gentle on Thumper’s waist. Thumper’s boxers was still down hugging his ankles, and his dick swinged between his legs.
“Sssssh… Stay where you are,” Patrick said. He kissed Thumper on the sweat of his nape, and Thumper shuddered. Patrick closed his eyes and murmured into his skin. “It’d be best if you stayed right there. Don’t move till I tell you.” He stayed behind Thumper and reached around him to hold Thumper’s thirteen-inch cock. It was thick-a-brick and floppy. “You got nice big meat.”
“Uh-huh. Nigga, whatchoo doin’?” Thumper sucked in his breath, his boxer pecs flexing up and down, then staying tense.
“Ain’t no women ’round, Thumper, so we gonna hafta get creative,” Patrick murmured as his hands kneaded the meat of Thumper’s chest and belly. “We gonna jack off togethuh now.” Thumper sensed Patrick’s naked body, though all he saw was a slim silhouette next to his own hulking shadow, cast by the emergency light outside the cell. He turned Thumper around, and Patrick frotted both dicks together. His own was already half-hard, but Thumper’s roped around like a live snake. He was too nervous to get hard. Patrick ain’t seem to care or even notice though. He got his own dick throbbing hard like rebar. It jabbed over and over into Thumper’s pubic hair.
Sticky precum came from his cocktip, lubricating his hand. He let go of his own dick and stroked Thumper’s alone for a few seconds. Thumper still couldn’t get hard and ain’t even realize that was expected of him. He just stood there like Patrick was his coach, inspectorating his body.
“Sit on the floor,” Patrick said.
Thumper plopped down on his ass and had no sooner got hisself situated before he was confronted with Patrick’s dick in his face. He grunted, and Patrick rubbed his cock over Thumper’s teeth and lips. The musty smell of his salty balls combined with the astringency of the precum on his darkskin cocktip.
“Whatchoo doin’-? That’s nasty, that-“
“Sssssh, keep it quiet,” Patrick whispered. The sound outside the cell was dwindling fast, and every peep Thumper made could be heard in the nearby cells. Patrick sucked in his breath and pushed his cocktip past Thumper’s lips, running along his teeth, while Patrick’s bony fingers gripped Thumper’s face.
“Open your mouth, Thumper,” Patrick said soft as cotton.
“Nigga, I-” Thumper ain’t mean to open his mouth, but he did, and Patrick drilled into him. Patrick’s long cockshaft invaded his throat. Instantly Thumper gagged — he ain’t expect that, so his whole torso flexed and expelled Patrick’s dong. “Ew, shit, nigga-“
“Ssssshhh…” Patrick said, clucking his tongue. He pushed it back in before Thumper could even stop gagging.
This time Thumper managed to keep his mouth open. He closed his eyes, though Patrick’s fingers rubbed his cheeks like to force his eyes open — in the dark, all Patrick could see was the whites of Thumper’s eyes. The salt-dappled taste of his dick filled Thumper’s mouth.
“Move yo’ lips up and down on it,” Patrick said when Thumper was quiet. Thumper still ain’t move. He ain’t even shut his mouth, so his lips flapped far from Patrick’s shaft. “Move yo’ lips up and down.”
As soon as he moved at all, Thumper again gagged, but this time he couldn’t spit it out. Patrick forced his dick to stay in there. Patrick’s scrappy rope-a-dope muscles sheened in the dim light. He was so short Thumper gotsta stoop his head to swallow his pecker, and Patrick stood on his toes. Thumper wanted to get up, but he stayed crounching next to the sink and toilet. It reeked of piss over here.
A retch escaped from Thumper’s throat. He got both big hands on Patrick’s thinly muscled body. Patrick ain’t try to resist Thumper’s biceps shoving him off, and his cock popped out with a splash of spit on Thumper’s face. Thumper took a deep moist breath. “Ew, shit, ew!”
Somenigga somewhere tittered out laughter. Thumper could tell it was aimed at him. He was finna speak, but he gotsta hold back another gag as Patrick’s dick touched his nostrils and he worried speaking would give away who was on his knees in this cell.
And Thumper ain’t realize that every nigga already knew. As long as Thumper was quiet, it was impolite to acknowledge.
“Ssssh, you gotsta jack me off,” Patrick said low as lips. He held Thumper’s head with both hands. “Like using yo’ hands when you stroke yo’ own meat, but yo’ lips instead. Don’t think about yo’ tongue or yo’ throat. Think ’bout yo’ lips.” His cock throbbed in Thumper’s hands, which was coated in Patrick’s precum.
Thumper nodded. “Do I got to? I ain’t-“
“Sssssh, this is part of yo’ cell duties, as a new nigga in the Bloods,” Patrick said. He pushed his dick back in, and it rested there, not moving, on Thumper’s big-nigga tongue. Thumper’s lips fluttered around, until Patrick clucked and said, “Get’cha lips on it, nigga. Put’cha lips — aw, shit, yeah, there you go. Li’l faster.”
Thumper was doing it now, though his throat rebelled and his stomach churned. His head moved up and down. Every couple seconds the back of Patrick’s gooey-bubbling cock hit his throat and he gots to suppress another gag. But he found that Patrick was right — it was easier to not think about it if he focused on his lips. He pressed ’em on the shaft firm, which made Patrick shake and moan on the downlow.
“When you get older and you get assigned a cellmate, you’ll understand why this is important,” Patrick said, his hands mostly on his hips, until every few seconds he gotsta grip Thumper’s face to guide his cock in. Then he pulled out and flopped his spitty pecker over Thumper’s face, leaving a layer of fluids there. Thumper’s mouth gotta stay open cuz breathing through his nose made him want to throw up.
Patrick’s dingaling smelled like an old dirty dishrag. He closed his eyes. It was so fleshy, and it seemed to have extra skin. It rubbed in and outta his mouth, though it was clear Patrick wanted to stop and move onto something else.
At last, Patrick pulled out and murmured. “Now get on all fours. Spread yo’ legs as wide as you can.”
In yo’ cells, maggots! That was the guard coming by on his first nightchecks. He wasn’t looking in any cells though, just making sure no one was outside ’em. So Thumper stood there, Patrick’s hands kneading his buttcheeks, until the guard done pass.
Then he climbed down to all fours. Thumper’s big-ass took up most the cell. Patrick kneeled behind him and stuck his dick into the asscrack. Thumper got wide asscheeks, each one bigger than Patrick’s head, and his thighs was massive cables. His body was firm as could be.
It felt gooey and hot in his buttcrack, and it throbbed against his butthole. Thumper gritted his teeth. “Ew, shit, nigga, feels weird-“
“Ssssssh… No talkin’. Okay? Bloods don’t beg. Bloods don’t cry,” he said.
“Ain’t cryin’, Patrick, nigga-” Thumper said. He sucked in his breath as a twinge of pain hit him. He realized Patrick wasn’t gonna hump his crack — he was gonna stick it in.
And it ain’t feel like it was gonna fit. Thumper gritted his teeth, and his hands gripped his own bunk tight. He heaved and grunted with each thrust of Patrick’s shaft. “Ow, shit, ow, shit-“
“Ssssh…” Patrick pushed more in. “No beggin’. That’s beggin’, Thumper. I can punish you for that,” he said. “Sound sexy, no beggin’… C’mon, nigga, get me off, get me off, nigga…”
Thumper wanted to say that that wasn’t begging, but he had a feeling Patrick would say saying that was begging too. And anyway, all of a sudden it hurt to speak, so Thumper shut his muffin up.
Patrick worked his rod back and forth, and Thumper let out a baritone seethe with each thrust of Patrick’s dick, but he kept the volume low enough that the sound ain’t bother Patrick. The pain was extraordinary. He spread his legs so wide his hips hurt.
Then Patrick stopped moving. “I lost it. Stop gruntin’, Thumper. I lost my hardon,” he said. He pulled his dick out. It was indeed mostly soft. “Sounds like you takin’ a shit when you do that, nigga.”
“Sorry, Patrick, that really hurt,” Thumper whispered.
“C’mon, lay on your back on these pillows,” Patrick said. He got both he and Thumper’s pillows arranged on the floor, and Thumper lay on them with his feet in the air. “It feels kinda like fucking a girl that way, with your feet up.”
Patrick rubbed his limp dick over Thumper’s taint and thighs, trying-a get it hard. He made Thumper jack it off too, with hogfat-lubed fingers, while Patrick rubbed more hog fat into Thumper’s butthole. It seemed swole in Thumper’s grasp, even before it re-firmed. Then it was hard like a iron nail.
Then he drilled it in once more, and Thumper hissed and clenched his cheeks. “Ow, shit-” He sucked in his breath before he could start begging. “Hmmmm… Hmmmmmmmmm!”
“Sssh, just be quiet, if you can’t make girly sounds,” Patrick said. He began working his rod back and forth. He closed his eyes and put one hand over Thumper’s mouth. “Sssh, you gonna make me lose it. Just focus on bein’ quiet, nigga. Ignore e’rything but yo’ own voice. I’s just usin’ yo’ backside to get off.”
With Thumper’s mouth plugged up by Patrick’s hand, his frenzied panting sounded vaguely girlish — a very bass girl — and Patrick’s other hand roamed over Thumper’s chest. He was still young then, with taut skin and enough pectoral meat for Patrick to grope it like a breast. Thumper felt the heat of more precum seeping into him.
“Oh god…” Thumper winced, as Patrick’s balls slapped at his taint. Twinges of pain still ran through him, as cum filled Thumper’s backside. He groaned into Patrick’s hand.
“Fuck yeah, baby, baby, shit, lemme kiss you.” Patrick sounded desperate. “Moan like a girl, nigga, c’mon-” Patrick removed his hand and slathered his lips onto Thumper’s. Thumper’s eyes opened wide in the dark. Another jet of cum coated his guts. Thumper twitched. He felt droplets of goo sliding out his butthole and down his thighs. Patrick’s tongue invaded his mouth.
“Oooohhh…” Thumper ain’t mean at first to moan like a girl, like Patrick wanted, but he managed to raise his grunt to a girlish tone. Patrick moaned like a casanova and kissed him again, his cock rubbing fiery as a moist missile in Thumper’s backside.
One final explosion of jissom erupted within Thumper, who breathed a sigh of relief when Patrick’s mouth pulled off his, and his cock plopped out slow. “We gonna have to work on that, nigga,” he said, “But that was okay for a first night. I’m glad you ain’t ask a guard to make me stop. If you did that, I’d have to get a dozen niggas to beat you down. Bloods rules.” He wiped his dick off with some toilet paper, then he wiped down Thumper’s buttcheek. “It won’t hurt as bad next time, nigga,” Patrick said as he threw away the toilet paper.
Thumper nodded and stood. He stretched his sore legs. Then he crawled into his bunk. Patrick met him with a kiss when he laid down, and Patrick’s tongue invaded Thumper’s mouth again, gentle as a dewy lamb. “Nigga-“
“Sssshhhh…” Patrick said. “I’m gonna make you love me, Thump.” He climbed up to his bunk. “Buckle up, cuz we gonna have nights of long love, nigga.”