Category: Settings

Jagged Right

The Jagged Right’s clubhouse was a sprawling maze of rooms and outbuildings, all connected to a motorcycle repair shop. That was the principal legal source of income for the Jagged Right. One of the backrooms in the clubhouse was a kitchen with a pantry. One of the walls in the pantry was false, concealing a small closet with some drugs and cash, but no guns. That closet was a decoy, and there was a secret trapdoor in the floor that led down to a basement. That basement was fulla guns, pills and coke. Somebody gotta guard it every minute of every day.

From Cooter the Booty Bandit

Pitnutting

Pitnutting was a common practice among some prison gangs. Buck done work out his inhibitions over that long time back. So this afternoon, when he and his work-crew was just about done, they got to chatting about females. Buck ain’t get lotta man-talk about ladies these days, since he be bunking up with Jeb the preacher’s boy.
So when he and Gooey got to daydreaming out loud, they both was hard in seconds. Gooey was Gui Tengku, Buck’s partner on the Valve Crew. The rest of the Crew was scattered around monitoring, repairing and cursing at the valves that kept the rig working.
Gooey was Malay, and he ain’t a big man. He was skinny by Buck’s standards but ripped, muscles so tight and taut they looked painful, and the trackmarks on his arms was big like pimples. He got a hardon and stuck it in Buck’s shirtless armpit with a big grin — he ain’t even know Buck was down. He just smiled with bloodshot eyes dull-glassed, as his cock humped its way in and out of Buck’s armpit hair. “Whatchoo doin’, Gooey?” Buck asked with a jagged-dagger laugh, watching Gooey’s pecker poke out his armpit. Eventually, in halting English, they negotiated, even as Gooey’s dick still rubbed precum into Buck’s armpit hair.
The agreement was that Gooey would hand over a dub of weed and that Buck would let him keep pitnutting until they contract was over. Neither communicated this well — Gooey thought Buck done promise to smoke the weed with him, while Buck thought it was a one-time transaction.
So they was gonna be steady disputating the details, but for now, both thought they was on the same page.
Then the rest of the Valve Crew showed up, and they all got to nutting on Buck’s back just like Gooey was doing when they walked in. There was Agebisu, the portly Ivorian with a French accent, a trio of hairy and truculent Turks, a older Uzbek with gray hair and a wrinkled face, and a gaggle of Canadians from the far North. Each one of ’em stuck they dicks in Buck’s armpit and shot they wad on Buck’s back.
He ain’t mind one bit. There ain’t no benefit to being squeamish, after all, and if’n Buck could negotiate some exchanges with all them, he got plenty outta it.
It’s just an armpit, he told himself. Lotta them fellers was stinky, but so was Buck. Gooey got a skinny dick, shooting a thin wad out Buck’s armpit. He was followed up by the stubbiest-dicked Turk. Buck know for a fact that Muslims always try and stick it in, so he was ready for it when that Turk rammed his cummy dick onto Buck’s mouth. Buck ain’t open up, and he punch that Turk mid-orgasm in the buttcheek — he gotta reach around his portly ass to get him good.
From Jeb the Farmboy

Remote, Alaska

Jebediah Turnip returned to his motel room with weary steps upon the frozen Alaskan tundra, his muscles so tired they buzzed and twinged. His arms was sore and tuckered, and his legs ached like sinners on a Sunday. The grass crackled like frozen fingers underfoot until he stepped onto the cold concrete of the motel. His boots left moist prints until he got to the room he shared with another roughneck. He smiled sloe in the lips at the sight of his roommate Buck being somewheres else. Buck musta dallied along the route from the rig where they both labored. But then Jeb frowned at what he did see:
The motel room was a pigsty. And not a nice pig neither. Like a Berkshire pigsty.
Scowling foul, Jeb put his hands on his waist.
Buck’s clothes was spread all over the floor like fallen frogs. The motel room stank of Buck’s dirty socks. A pair of filthy briefs done got tossed willy-nilly to one side and landed on Jeb’s Bible — the Holy Bible, the word of the Lord on high, and it had done been got covered in Buck’s groin hair and grits-and-gravy grease.
None of that was a surprise for those who look with their eyes, mind you, for Jeb been noticing Buck and his slovenly ways since they shacked together in this motel room last week. He chalked it up to Buck growing up in a trailer park. Jeb’s paw said them trailer parks was dens of sin and inequity.
Buck and Jeb done come to Remote, Alaska, to work on a oil rig. They ain’t know each other when they arrived, but they came from the same region on the same bus, so they ended up in the same motel room together. Remote, Alaska, ain’t have enough motel rooms for all the roughnecks who came to work here. The oil rigs right outside of town needed working men, but the town never built no boarding houses or long-term dormitories for the workers.
All there was was this one mud-slush woodpot motel without enough rooms for all the workers. So they gots to double up. Some folks was even more cramped than that, so Jeb was told to count his blessings by Mr. Razinelli, the rig manager.
The bathroom was tiny, barely big enough for the both of them to stand in there. The linoleum was chipped and cracked and simply incomplete in part near the ceiling, like the tiling man done run outta tiles and never wanted to come back to this desolate spot of tundra. It smelled like a summer swimming hole after it dries up so it’s just a muddy patch of dead frogs. The bathtub was tiny too and green with fungus and mushrooms growing from the drain, but they managed to both get in there at the same time, as snug as apples in a pie.
From Jeb the Farmboy

The pantyhose

He held up a pantyhose. He stretched it out so you could see it had a couple holes in it, and makeup was applied around the holes to give it a look like a human face — mascara around the eyeholes, lipstick around the mouth, blush on the cheeks. “This is the mask. Those of you who’ve worked here before know how it works. You can explain it to the newboots.”
It wasn’t until that night, after lights-out, that Lem explained how the mask worked. If you put the pantyhose on, people could pay to ramrod you up the poop-chute or in the mouth. Standard payment was a full flask of liquor. You “couldn’t tell” who was wearing the mask — really, you could, even if you couldn’t see their face, cuz there was height and weight and tattoos and hair — they all showered together, there wasn’t any hiding who it was.
But it was a rule, Lem said, that every fool on the rig gotta pretend they ain’t recognize whoever wear the mask. You was sposedta call him “Sheila” and pretend you was making sweet love to Sheila’s pussy.
It was not until a few days later that Lem revealed the mask didn’t gotta be a choice. If somebody could force it on you, you had to do it just the same. The rule was that you could plow whoever wore the mask, if you paid the price of a flask — that was it, don’t matter if the masker was begging you to stop or even if the masker managed to take it off before you were done. If the Sheila did get it off, then that “you gotta pretend you don’t know who it was” rule got cancelled — you could call that man a bitch for the resta his life.
So mostly, nobody fought it. If you could force the mask on someone and then get your dick in their butthole, they were better off keeping the mask on.

From Avery’s Adventures in Interracial Manhood

Precinct 17

Carl went in and began his search for signs of mouse problems — he’d been working in pest control for nine years, so he knew very well where to look. He made notes on his clipboard.
There were sixteen uniformed officers out on the beat, each with desks, a couple desk-jockeys with unclear roles, four supervisors with their own offices, two deputies and the sheriff, also with their own offices, an evidence room, an IT room filled with computer equipment and mouse turds, a break room (with cockroach oothecae under the sink, in addition to mice), and two jail areas, one for men and one for women and children. There were no people in either jail when Carl went in. The one for women and children looked dusty and disused (disused by people — the mice had had a field day with a roll of toilet paper in one cell).
No men were in the men’s jail, but one of the cell was clearly in use. The door was open; the bed was neatly made with near-military precision, and the sink was stocked with a toothbrush and toothpaste. There was a washer-dryer too, not in the cell, but in the jail. A basket of clean clothes lay next to it — Carl was disappointed there was no used underwear, only clean — including a denim shirt and jeans.

From Mr. Taggart the Burly White Daddy

Cornerside Gym

At the downtown gym, the group showers were small and cramped, with a central pillar spraying in every direction at once. The water was always a little colder than Carl liked, and the shower was lined with chipped cement and graffitied walls.
But the men…
That was where the young guys in the Riverside District worked out — they were young, mainly factory workers or dockworkers. Muscles, jaws, shoulders you just wanted to suck on like nipples. Carl had a big hardon whenever he was here — Carl wasn’t very good with women, but he got stiffies easily around men. He had to hide it at the gym, so he wore big billowy trackpants.
The other men at the Cornerside Gym wore shorts, mostly, except for a few who must have been making weight by working out in sweatpants and sweatshirts. Even they turned Carl on, their muscles bulging, roundly, asses prortruding like shelves against the fabric of their sweatpants.

From Mr. Taggart the Burly White Daddy

Not muchuva game

“Lost it, Buck, got’cha,” said Jermaine. He was a muscle-bound homeboy, t’other muscle-man in the cell with Buck — the two them worked out loads. He been counting off Buck’s push-ups, and when Buck laughed, his push-ups missed the beat. Buck skipped one.
That meant Buck lost the game him and Jermaine played. One counted off, t’other did his workout. Whoever lost the rhythm lost the game. T’other could make him lose the beat by teasing, light punching, snubbing cigarettes out upon his back, that kinda thang. Punishment fer losing was nuttin’ really, sometimes teasing, light punches, snubbing cigarettes out upon the loser’s back, that kinda thang.
T’weren’t muchuva game.
Jermaine kicked Buck hard in the side, and Buck yelped. Then he stood up and scowled at Jermaine — the resta the cell was still laughing at Reggie Winner. “That don’t count, Jermaine. Li’l one distracted me-” He motioned to Reggie Winner, who be laughing and carrying on like a silly sally.
Or like a pengwin, they’s funny! Reggie Winner was funning up like a pengwin!
But his funning up was in t’other corner of the cell. Buck and Jermaine was sposedta focus on they push-ups.
With a shrug, Jermaine said, “You lost the beat. That’s the game, Buck.” He puffed upon his cigarette, then made liketa gutpunch Buck, and when Buck blistered and feinted, Jermaine snubbed his cigarette out on Buck’s bicep instead. “Got’cha-“
“Damn!” Buck yelp-laughed and grabbed fer Jermaine, who danced away.

From Fists, Men and Muscles

Who knows what frotting is?

That’s called ‘frotting’. Kax don’t know it had a name, and he was surprised Buck knewed sump’in he don’t. Buck don’t got a reputation as a smarty-pants.

“Fuck you, Buckums!” Lem said and groaned. But he sat down, facing Buck, still holding Buck’s thirteen-inch dick in both hands. He flopped it left and right. He scooted closer and thwacked both his dick and Buck’s in both hands. They was both soft. Slightly hard but mostly soft. Maybe ten percent hard.
That’s called ‘frotting’. Kax don’t know it had a name, and he was surprised Buck knewed sump’in he don’t. Buck don’t got a reputation as a smarty-pants. But he knewed ’bout frotting — rubbing two dicks together til they both nut. Seemed pointless to Buck. It was just like jacking off, but less enjoyable, more time-consuming, messier and you get touched by a elderly homeboy who smell like he’s about ninety percent armpits.
But black boys in prison stay frotting. T’is like a eggplant salad in there. Kax be making faces like he wanna dispute that but can’t cuz Buck got facts and truth and testymonials and witnesses and Lem’s ugly pecker all vouching for its accuracy. Anywayhowwhatever, Lem be frotting his hardon with Buck’s softy, and Buck just endured it like a bored sausage. Lem be panting and huffing on Buck’s chest, complaining about the body hair — why he admireta frot a honky if’n he don’t like body hair? Homeboys do be like that.
Buck groaned and looked away. He picked up the safety manual. He liked the pitcher of the light-skinned gal showing off how to use the eyewarshing station. She was fully clothed but got a banging paira tits. He tried to ignore the feel of Lem’s narsty old-man hands stroking both dingdongs together. Buck’s dick stayed soft still, while Lem’s was gradually turning firm as hot marshmallows.
“Aww, yeah, lemme see that,” Lem said. Buck held it up so’s the lady with hydraulic fluid in her eyes could be seen by both them, while Lem stroked both they cocks together. Lem was badmouthing the idea of jacking off with the manual earlier. T’was why he paid fer the porno magazine.
The eyewarshing gal was purdier’an a’ry the porno ladies. But she was fully clothed in all the safety gear. Somehow she ain’t even get wet using that eyewarshing station.

From Fists, Men and Muscles

A prudent nigga

So Thumper walked all rappy-dapper, like his rickety walk was a gangsta lean, as he brought the other two to the back porch, where a sheet-curtained corner got a hole in the sheet and a nigga sticking his dick in that hole. That duckydoo nigga was moaning like a moist walrus when they got there, his voice breaking and him rabbit-ramming his crotch at the sheet.
His jiggly asscheeks was covered by his pants — he ain’t drop his pants, just undone the fly — a prudent nigga wouldn’t bare his butthole in a place like this — but that duckydoo nigga got giant meaty cheeks jiggling up a quake in them pants. “C’mon, swallow it, bitch, swallow, ah, fuck yeah… You slut…” he murmured with a sneer.
“There ain’t no pretty lady on the other side of that hole, Thump,” Jaekwel said when he and Deon added up what they was seeing and what Thumper done said. The ram-face nigga with his dick in the hole pulled it out, and his shaft gleamed with spit and droplets of his own nutjuice. He glanced over at Jaekwel and them like they was assholes for walking in here before he was done.

From Thumper the Mover

The slurpy side

Buck ain’t axe what a gloryhole was, not even when he overheard a Portuguese feller exclaim how good the gloryhole on the rig was. Finally, Lem showed it to him one night, and he said there was a bootyful A-rab gal on t’other side of the hole drilled ‘tween two unused rooms. “She love dick, whiteboy,” Lem said. “That’s why she sign up fo’ it. Pay’s prolly good, reckon. But she love swallowin’ nuts. She wish she got jizz on tap.”
“Really? I ain’t think no guhls like cum,” Buck said. “H’ain’t it gross?” He eyed Lem suspicious-like. Lem got a crooked-serious face, like he was maybe funning. But t’other fellers on the rig all agreed it was a fine A-rab lady on her knees, not no fleshlight.
And it was the A-rabs on the rig who ran the gloryhole. A-rabs was way more likely to do it to a fleshlight ‘an a Muslim lady, Buck thought. So’n it must be a fleshlight. But t’other hand, they wouldn’t claim it was a A-rab lady if’n it wasn’t true, since that’d be shameful upon them Muslim cultures. So’n they’d only say it was a woman if’n it was.
In the end, that was what he settled on. He wouldn’t bet money it was a woman, but he guessed it was. Besides’n, he could talk to a woman as though she was real, and t’wouldn’t hurt nuttin’ if’n turned out to be a fleshlight. He invited her to come see him in his and Lem’s li’l home on the rig, but she ain’t ne’er come.
The weird thing was that Buck ne’er did see nobody come in or outta the gloryhole room — that’s the room on t’other side, where’n the purportory lady was on her knees. Lotta fellers came in and outta the hole side, but not the side with the lady. Even if’n it was a fleshlight, somebody gotsta go in and out.
Buck poked his head into the slurpy side once, during the day, and there wasn’t nuttin’ ‘t all in it ‘cept the ghosts of cigarettes. No fleshlight, no knee pads, no hijabis, no ashtray, no bucketful of nutjuice. Smelled of unfiltered cigarettes though. Later on, Buck’s buddy Lem started going in and outta the hole room. Lem said that he was allowed cuz the lady in there love black dick so much — Lem was black as charcoal, and he got a dick that was somehow even darker ‘an him.

From Buck the Trailer Trash