Sexual content – Page 2 – Mansploitation

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 4

The White Trash Veteran

Goose’s hair flowed free as a wave. He was plopping pretty atop his motorcycle, with li’l Buck clinging on behind him. The sun exploded into a horizon of oranges and yellows, as the motorcycle ate up asphalt and spat out sky. The engine was too loud to talk, but Goose heared Buck’s smile in his fingers clutching Goose’s torso. For now leastways, the both them done fling they worriment behind them — like that song says, let a worse-off man pick up that fig skin, for it is true, there always do be someone suffering more than you. They rode like cowboys, and both was content in that ever-lasting moment.
They made it on through to the campground just as the sun was setting, and they raced to get the tent up before it was dark. They ain’t quite make it, so they gotsta use flashlights to get they sleeping bags into the tent. Then they had just enough time to roast some weiners over an open fire. Buck be grinning like a puppy the whole time.
Goose got pockets fulla cash, greenbacks a-plenty, enough to buy that motorcyle. He been feeling centered enough to come back down to Martinsburg for a visit. Not to live. He could have a crash anytime, could get the bogey-logies, couldn’t let Buck see him how he was.
It was him and Buck’s first trip together. Buck was living with a foster family who owned a turnip farm. He said they worked him hard. He was strong as bourbon cuz the farmwork stretched him tall for his age. Goose beamed proud. Struggle do strengthen a boy, and Buck gots long expectations to fulfill.
The smell of roasting weiners lingered in Goose’s nose as him and Buck finished they supper. When the scent of meat done diminute enough, it was replaced by the bitter and intense aroma of burning wood.
But not just any burning wood. The scent was green wood. Some other family at some other campsite done light a fire with it. Prolly cuz they don’t know no better. Some people is damn fools.
In Vietnam, all wood is wet. Everything is wet in Vietnam. Ain’t nothing there burn without a cloud of steam. Whole damn country is steamy as kisses from a fat lady. But Vietnam don’t got no fat ladies, so how’d that happen?!
The burning green wood launched a catalogue of smells at Goose.
First, the acrid scent of gunpowder filled his nose. That was followed by a burst of coppery blood with the spicy aroma of a Vietnamey feller’s body odor. The gunpowder smell mixed with the burning green wood of the campfire Goose’s squad done cook they supper on. Harley did the cooking of that night.
Harley’s sweat smelled stinkhoggen and pounding in Goose’s nostrils, strong with the rhythm of his fluttery heart. The scent of Harley’s gun was potent too, bitter steel, clammy and reeking of unwashed flesh, which stuck to it cuz he only held it when afreared enough to sweat. For some reason, the gunpowder aroma of Goose’s own gun ain’t hit his nose hard — like his own armpits, he couldn’t smell the stink of it. He could damn well smell Harley’s though. Harley musta sweated through his shirt again, and Goose could smell the rankness of the Vietnameys surrounding him too. Burning plastic and skanky rodent fur filled out Goose’s nostrils.
Goose’s nose stayed stuck in Vietnam, but his eyes trained like snipers on Buck in the darkened here and the shadowy now.
Goose wanna take a shower. Maybe, he thought, that’d reset his nose. But Buck was too tired for a shower, and anyway the shower situation was a problem — there was a showerhouse for adult men and one for women and families. Goose couldn’t take Buck into that showerhouse, nor the other one. The campground people never figgered there might could be a shirt-tail boy with an adult man and no females.
No matter, they was only gonna be here till Sunday morning. Ain’t nothing wrong with a boy skipping a shower.
The Vietnameys used old dirty rope that smelled like a stack of cardboard boxes rotting in the rain. That was how they tied up they prisoners of war. They stinking bodies and breath assaulted Goose’s nose. They ate spices, the Vietnameys did, bunchesa spices, and Goose smelled it on them. The Vietcong uniform had a characteristic smell too, an unclean-laundry gookiness, and it either growed stronger as the war dillydallied onward or Goose’s nose got accustomed to seeking it out more the longer he was kept captive.
The muddy bootprints the Vietnameys left afronta Goose and Harley got the odor of rotting drawers. The smell of American tears was salty-strong, or maybe that was Vietnameys’s tears, cuz somea they own kept getting they bits blown up in a copper-scented mist. Goose preferred to only smell the American tears though.
Goose had gotta shower tonight. He was gonna be funky as a black boy if he ain’t redd up. He ain’t smell it, either cuz he couldn’t smell his own funk or cuz his nose was back in Vietnam, but he knewed he needed a shower.
When Buck was sleepy-deeping, his belly fulla sausages and cookies, Goose left him in the tent. He strolled over into the showerhouse wearing his boxers and carrying with him his ditty bag. He ain’t wanna dawdle, so he hurried to rip them boxers off.
He took a sniff of his bar of soap, which smelled clean and medicinal, and that at last brung his nose outta Vietnam. That was good. He got no desire to smell the prisoner of war camp. They ain’t got toilets, just a bucket to share.
When Goose went into the shower proper he seed a pinkthumb numbnut, less than middle-aged but he got a old soul, you could tell. Goose knewed the type. He stood there like a dotless question mark when Goose walked in, then he blistered like he got a vendetta against Goose.
A discourteous nod passed between ’em. The man still was curling his lip at Goose though, and Goose stood past him. He was foul cuz he was, till moments ago, deep in the first worst day of his life.
The rumpety milkweed man rinsed shampoo outta his hair. When his face was clear, Goose catched sight of his face and reckonized him as this feller who done give him a dirty look before, when Goose came riding in. Goose wondered if he knewed somehow Goose was a ex-con.
Was he a prison guard? He don’t look familiar.
“You got a pro’lem?” Goose stood there in the shower-spray, letting it run down his body. He set his ditty bag on the floor outsidea the water, but he ain’t get his soap or shampoo or nothing outta there. He done learnt in prison to never bend over in the shower when there’s bad blood in the air. Clear the air first.
Or better yet, just don’t bend over.
“This is a nice campground,” said the man, looking quakey like he admiredta walk off. “We don’t want bikers here. It’s for families.”
Now Goose weren’t really a proper biker, not like a Hell’s Angel or nothing like that. He was just a motorcyclist at that time. But the pinkthumb was pissing him off, and Goose don’t wanna explain the particulars of biker gangs and motorcycle clubs. Goose scowled. “I ain’t a biker, I j’st rides me a motorcycle, yes I do. T’ain’t none’ya business. In ar’y case, I’s he’uh wit’ mah son. We a family. You a slim slice of tuhkey, sissy.”
The man frowned. “What? You talk like a hillbilly.”
“You is in West Virginney, yankee.”
“I’m from Iowa!” He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t want a fight-” He ignored Goose scoffing. “I just wanted to make sure you’re not, you know, like… a bootlegger.”
“A bootlegger?!” Goose guffawed. “You in West Virginney, hoss, not the past.”
“Well, I don’t know, any of the… crime, or the drugs, or the gun-running, I don’t know what bikers do,” the man said.
“I ain’t a biker!” Goose shouted.
“That wasn’t a station wagon you rode in on!” The man shouted with such vitupery he dropped his soap. Then he turned around to pick it up off the ground from the river of shower water that ran on down to the drain.
With a cackling laugh, Goose darted from one showerhead to the other and rammed at his ass. His dick was soft, so all he did was wipe it up through the man’s buttcrack, which was moist and hot and sudsy.
The man yelped and stood up. He looked put upon and also shocked by the size of Goose’s cock. Apparently he ain’t look down till this very moment.
Goose got no plan on doing more than that, but the sensation of the man’s asscrack rubbing on his dick reminded him of dirty nights in prison. Goose be plussing. The dowdy pinkthumb in the showerhouse was putting out forlorn, like he ain’t never heared of cornholing. Most likely the case. He don’t look like a ex-con, he ain’t a Navy man for sure and he don’t seem like he spend time with black fellers.
“Get off me, what… what was that? You’re disgusting. Did you just try to…” He dropped to a whisper. “… pee in my butt?”
That made Goose guffaw like a goose. “What the fuck? T’ain’t a thang, hoss. Don’t nobody pee in no butt.” Goose got his pecker in his hand, stroking it hard and wondering if it was possible to pee inside somebody’s butt. Never occurred to him. You’d hafta be hard when you stick it in, then after you cum, leave it in.
Would it spill? Seemed chancy to keep it from spilling.
Goose don’t wanna try it, but he’d like to see a colored boy do it. They can do all kinda things with they peckers. They could prolly figger it out.
Anyway, as Goose pondered that notion, he got his wingwang hard, and the man either ain’t notice or ain’t pick up what Goose was putting down. He was done with his shower even, but he don’t leave. Foolish hawkeye! Naive as a ear of corn!
“Do you go to church?” the man asked.
“Sh’ore do,” Goose said. But before the man could ask any more of his rumpety questions, Goose grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him face first into the grimy wall of the showerhouse.
“Ow!” That knocked his bar of soap outta his hand once more.
The man ain’t acknowledge Goose’s hardon. He prolly come from a world of class, where men don’t have hardons in showers and where it’s okay to bend over afronta man with a pecker. Sounds like a nice world. Guess he was still on the pee-in-the-butt thing and assumpted Goose’s hardon would stop him from doing it again.
When the man was bent over, his ass high in the air, Goose went for it — he rammed hard into the pinkthumb’s pink behind, gripping them asscheeks to keep him in position.
“Oooooowwww!” the man yelped. Only the tippa Goose’s dick went in, but that was enough to make the hawkeye bug out and wriggle. Goose slapped his ass like a rodeo cowboy.
“Yee-haw, mothahfuckah!” Goose called out. The man’s knees buckled in pain, and Goose rode him to the nasty shower floor, sinking his heft atop the poor sucker.
Goose forced it in deeper, a thrill of pleasure rocking up his body. He do love breaking down a intact man’s intactness. He gotsta struggle to force every inch in, but the struggle made it feel good.
He rammed back and forth as the man howled in pain. Goose used all his body weight to slam down on the man’s backside, forcing his dick in and intense pleasure out. He moaned into the man’s ear and made him lick the shower drain, just cuz it got him gagging, which made his booty tighten up in agony all over again.
A burst of cum shot up the man’s guts. Goose spurted out a huge long flow of it, and Goose got the impression the dumbass man only now realized what that huge hot thang was in his asshole. He sobbed onto the shower floor.
A grunt came outta Goose with each thrust of his body and was accompanied by a jerk of pain from the pinkthumb. Goose shot a huge wad that coated his guts, then he slowly let the sissy-shithead clench his ass and force Goose’s cock out, inch by veiny inch.
“Don’chu talk to me again, pansy. Walk off, and walk off good,” Goose said with a chuckle as he rinsed his pecker off in the shower water. He spat on the man’s bawling face and walked out of the showerhouse, towel in hand. He didn’t even dry off until he was out in the moonlit night.
That felt good, and Goose was gladsome to have got a nut off this weekend. This would be his only chance, since he was gonna be with Buck the whole time. He don’t get a lotta time with his son, so he wanna make the mosta it, and he don’t need no hardon slowing him down.
And maybe, he thought, it would keep the pesky past at bay.

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 3

The White Trash Veteran

Goose holed up in Smashwood with Buck and Ellen for mosta the winter, and they lived like family. Goose was at his home, but he ain’t came home. He remained an outlander, like he missed all the inside jokes while he was gone but nobody would explain ’em to him or even repeat ’em with him in the room.
The money ran out by spring, and Goose got turned on to a job on over at a lumber camp in Pennsylvania. He worked there the whole of the summer of 1977. He got to heading back to West Virginia in the fall cuz he received some grim news.
Ellen died. Li’l Buck was an orphan. Or half an orphan at least.
The whole park stayed with sadness, locked in mourning. Goose hung his head proper-like as he workbooted in. Lotta folks came up to him and expressed they sorries and commiseries, and Goose accepted ’em polite as a pony. She got a bad dose of heroin, that was what Goose heared tell of.
Sly as snakes, oodlins of eyeballs judged him. He wished he weared a black shirt at least. But he done return to Smashwood in his wrinkledy workshirt like any other day, flecks of paint and sawdust clinging to the denim. For sure all the parkbodies thunk he shoulda been here, strong enough to control his household like a man, he shoulda been watching over Ellen, providing for her so she don’t gotta sling her cat for horse.
But ain’t nobody say a word about that. Goose heared ’em not say it in his twinging bones.
Lotta folks said Buck be running round like a stray dog, that Ellen weren’t watching him, weren’t keeping him proper. He went and asked folks for food, cuz mama was sleepy-deeping.
Ain’t nobody told Goose on the phone that that was happening. Only now that Ellen was dead. Again, nobody said it was Goose’s fault, which was how that Goose knewed they was all thinking it.
But there weren’t no work round here for a man like Goose, so he had no choice but to go away. He wanna blame Ellen for spending dollars on drugs steada feeding the boy, but a real man don’t blame a woman. A proper man shoulda been here, shoulda found a way. That’s how the cow ate the cabbage. T’is a woman’s nature to dream and dally. T’is on the nearest man to handle reality. That weren’t a duty Goose was living up to at the moment.
The war been tarrying in Goose’s shadow, jumping into light when the moment fit the frame. He been losing his temper at that lumber camp, got a ramstudious reputation, causing ructions over both nothing and everything, and he afreared what might happen when Buck was around. This feller he knewed from the Army, Thad Hoover, he got back to home in Michigan and plum killt his wife and daughters, then hisself. No reason. Just happened. Goose felt a random wheel in him, and he duked up at the dawn, early so nobody would see him boxing walls till his fists grew gnarled and knucklesome; he drownded his outerwards to slay his innermostlies, and it worked. The war be bubbling up, splattering its indignities onto him when he let his guard down, when his brain sputtered and his heart hanged. If he was home with Buck and Ellen, all kinda things might could have done happen. He be spotting ambushes in every corner, and in the lumber camp there was men — mostly veterans theyselfs — who could smack sense into him. Ellen and Buck couldn’t do that. Well, Buck couldn’t, and Ellen really couldn’t.
And yet his brain steady came back to Ellen’s death, telling him he shoulda been here. He did heroin in Vietnam, and he quit before coming over on back to America. He coulda, shoulda and woulda made Ellen do the same. A man should be the master of his home or leastways his own self.
A road is unlike a river in that a driver must know which way to go. A river unlike a road carves out a path that is never wrong. Goose accepted the truth of that but not the reality of it.
It almost felt bad to enjoy visiting with Buck. Soon as he seen the tyke, Goose wrapped him up in his arms. Buck be sobby-lobbing in the trailer of Miss Junebug, that’s who took him on in when Ellen came up dead.
“Is you gonna stay, Pops?” Buck asked when he stopped crying for a spell.
Goose wanna tell him, ‘Can’t stay cuz I got war in my bones, and I don’t wanna bring it to you, Buck. Parta me died in Vietnam, but I gotsta figger out which part’. All Goose said was, “I gonna hafta go out fer work, son. J’st the way t’is.”
Li’l Buck scuffed his feetses. “Oh.” He picked up what Goose was putting down, or he would one day, when his generation found a war or made one.
“You gotsta be tough, Buck. Stay strong. A man lives in the here and now, takin’ on burdens that ain’t fair, beatin’ back the night by buildin’ up the day. You let ya mama stay in ya heart, where’n e’erythang’s perfect,” Goose said.
Buck nodded like a warrior, and he swallowed down his tears as he shared his peanut butter crackers with Goose. They ate ’em together and drank milk and talked about Ellen’s hugs. Goose hugged Buck the bestmost he could, and he felt in them twinging bones that that was enough for Buck.
After that, Miss Junebug went on about the necessities — of foster families and custodianship, that kinda thing. She said Buck was a hellion, he don’t sit still and he do play rough with the other boys, he do! He don’t got control of hisself.
Goose couldn’t hardly complain about that. Goose had long troubles with rules. Goose couldn’t abide by a rule that weren’t enforced, and it don’t feel real till it was enforced against him. That ain’t a trait that agrees with a military life. The army discottoned to fellers who buck rules.
“You hoopie sumbitch think you can get away with not shaving!” his drill sergeant barked at him the day after check-in. Goose done got his head shaved, but the barber ain’t say he gots to shave off the mustache too.
“Suh, no suh!” Goose snapped down. He be solid at attention. The drill sergeant glared close as though daring him to square up. Goose ain’t take the bait. They got so close Goose could feel the aura of his nose, and Goose’s fat cock bulging through his camo pants felt of drill sergeant’s crotch too. “Suh! I ain’t know — I ain’t — nobody said-“
“Waah-waah-waah, I don’t wanna hear it! A soldier finds out the rules, or he suffers for breakin’ ’em, Sampson! Now get down and gimme fifty push-ups! And if you don’t do every one perfectly, ya whole damn barrack is doin’ ’em!”
No doubt drill sergeant thunk Goose wouldn’t do ’em right and the whole barrack would hafta do fifty push-ups. They’d put it off on Goose. But he did do ’em right, cuz he got arms like tractors, and drill sergeant couldn’t say boo about it. He did make the whole barrack do fifty push-ups a few minutes later, but nobody could blame Goose for it.
Drill Sergeant Tucker was like that — he steady punished the whole unit if’n one feller messed up. That forced ’em to hold each other accountable.
The one soldier who couldn’t quite live up to expectations was Samovich, who was skinny as a toothpick and sloppy as a bear. He couldn’t never do enough push-ups or clean his rifle proper-like or keep his bunk in good order. Whole dang unit got in a bad row of stumps again and again for that sumbitch.
Ain’t nobody wanna punish him. They hoped Samovich to improve, but Samovich cried for his mama and he tried a-sneaking like a clumsy ninja, even cheating on an obstacle course, stogging around the obstacles out in the woods where Drill Sergeant Tucker couldn’t see.
That was some low-manhood, high-sissy behavior, so far as Goose was concerned. And per his buddy Harley, who Goose ain’t barely know yet, but they later ran together cuz they shipped out together.
Once Tucker found out about the obstacle course, he shit his lid, and Samovich returned to the barrack with a heavy head, a black eye and a limp, and word soon got back that they wasn’t getting leave this weekend cuzza him.
Whole dang unit got no leave cuz Samovich couldn’t handle his shit.
That pissed ’em all off. It was Harley who badmouthed Samovich so bad them’all took a turn gutpunching him.
By then he was bawling in the corner of the barrack like a rank pussy, god did that weakling shit piss Goose off. It wasn’t even just that Samovich was a pussy — god knows the world’s fulla ’em! — but he was getting the whole barrack in trouble, and Samovich was going off to war! What’d he think this was? Prep for a trip to a circus? He gonna hafta toughen up or the Vietnameys gonna send him dirtwards. A man rises hisself to the situation at hand.
“Hey, watch this,” Harley said. The whole squad done talk trash like them’all was gonna beat him to bumpkins, but they only gave Samovich a lavish of gutpunches. That got the frustration outta the cadets, but they stayed mad. Beating him up was likeish to get them all in trouble. He already done got the breath knocked outta him, and he hurt so bad in the belly he dry-heaved up a mouthful of spit.
A sense of brotherhood done rise among ’em then, a unity of purpose. It felt right. Even Samovich prolly felt it. They moved as one, they acted as one, without thinking. That was a sensation only reckonizable in retrospect. A feller can never step in the same river twice.
Harley was the ringleader, the one daffy-laughing the loudest. “Watch, watch, watch, I’mma mollywop that skinny sumbitch.”
Harley took out his dick and slapped Samovich over the face with it. Harley got a fat pecker, but it weren’t too long, so he gotsta sorta jut his crotch forward, which let him dick-whack Samovich good and hard, solid enough to make a thwap-slap sound.
“Oh shit-“
“Harley dickslappin’ that sissy!”
That made ’em all guffaw, especially when Samovich looked like ain’t nothing happen, like he was stonefacing all of a sudden, despite the tears rolling down his cheeks. Goddamn was he a wussy! Like a woman, he was pretending, couldn’t accept the reality afronta him.
“Get ‘im-“
“-ruined mah damn leave!”
“I wuz gonna get wit’ this chick, maaaaan-“
Before Goose knewed it, bunchesa fellers got they dicks out, jobbing Samovich on the cheeks and chin and forehead. Samovich was looking like a red-faced statue, sniffling back his tears and his cries for mama. The wangs was all limp as hot green beans though. Samovich did wince when Hernandez got his pecker on his upper lip — he musta tasted it — and he held back a bawl.
T’was Goose’s giant cock that made Samovich cry out again. They all done shower with him, so it weren’t no surprise, but maybe them’all ain’t notice or ain’t reckon how big it was up close, till they saw Goose smack Samovich over the face with it. His fatness rested on Samovich’s light hawkbrown face, almost as wide as his face and longer than it for sure.
“Aww, sheeit, that’s a big one, you honky sumbitch!” said one the black fellers, Crowley, who got a fat dick too. He thwacked his thickness onto Goose’s meat and chuckled, as they shafts bounced and jiggled softly over each other.
Goose got no idear who first started ramming at Samovich’s mouth. He was laughing and swordfighting with Crowley, as they all jabbered about the whores they woulda fucked on leave if that pissant Samovich ain’t mess it up. On they first leave last month, most all the barrack ‘cept for Samovich all joined in for a whorish harridan who gave ’em each blowjobs, one after the other. She weren’t much to look at, but she drew a nut out in about two minutes each. Mouth like snappin’ velvet.
When Goose turned back around, Harley was shooting his nut onto Samovich’s mug.
“Oooooh, sheeit!”
“Ewww-!”
“Harley’s nuttin’! Harley’s nuttin’!”
“That honky shoot cream!” Crowley yelped and ran in a little circle in the barrack, guffawing like a barrel. “That honky shootin’ cream!” he said as though there was a chance something else mighta come outta Harley’s erection.
That made them all laugh the dickens! Samovich sat there, teary-eyed and wussy, practically begging a Vietnamey sniper to take him out. Jizz roped over his face from his forehead to his chin.
He did get shot, you know. Goose don’t like to think about it. At the time, when Samovich messed up they leave, Goose and all them all was thinking a rank-ass wussy like him deserved to take a bullet. Somebody got to, and it might as well be someone who couldn’t hack it in basic training.
But that was exactly what happened, Samovich got shot on patrol in Dien Fat Boo, and Goose was sad as a girl when he found out. He ain’t want nobody he knewed to get shot.
And in the end, Samovich did get through basic training. Barely, but that still counts.
Disregardless, at the time, the war seemed too far away to even think about, even though that was all any of them did think about. The war was both too near and too far for studyment.
Harley stepped away, dick swinging between his hands, still dribbling nut onto the floor of the barrack. Harley pumped his biceps like he just conquered a frontier, and everwho did cheer him on. As they did so, Crowley got hard in an instant, you know how black boys is, ain’t even gotta touch his meat, and he held onto Samovich by the ear to plow into his poor little mouth. Harley’s jizz dripped onto Crowley’s pecker.
“C’mon, yo’ mouf is my pussy, Samovich!” Crowley grunted like he was fucking a dislikable whore. He pumped and rammed at Samovich’s mouth, not using his hands so his cock kept slipping out and roping over Samovich’s face, making Samovich gag as both precum and actual cum coated him from bow to stern. “C’mon, pussy-fhroat, gonna wreck yo’ fhroat…” Crowley’s taut muscles rippled.
“Aw, fuck, Crowley, you doin’ it! You doin’ it!” Goose whooped and hollered. He done gone to prison by this point — Goose was old for a basic-training feller. He ain’t mention to nobody that he done shoot his nut in a sissy before. Mosta them’all was just eighteen years old, maybe nineteen in a couple cases. Goose was the old man at twenty-four. Them young’uns acted like they ain’t know a feller could nut in another feller’s mouth — and you just know they never heared tell of butt rangers. Goose acted similar, cuz he ain’t want nobody to guess what he done.
It ended up coming out anyway, but not at that time.
Crowley pounded his cock at Samovich’s throat, and while he did so, some other feller shot a wad onto Samovich’s face. Young’uns is like that, busting a nut in a instant. Whoever that was — Goose don’t remember now — they ain’t even get they dick in Samovich’s mouth. They prolly thwacked it on his face, maybe got some spit on it, definitely got smeared with cream from Harley and maybe Crowley, which was prolly what lubed up they dong. In any case, they was spewing they load onto Crowley’s dick still while Crowley was closing his eyes to fuck Samovich’s throat like a pussy, his heavy balls slapping at Samovich’s chin.
“Aw’ight, aw’ight, here I go,” Crowley closed his eyes and forced his dick down Samovich’s throat. His black shaft pulsated visibly as cum spurted down there. Crowley ain’t let up, not even when Samovich retched up jizz round his eggplanty knob. It plopped onto the ground at his feet.
Then Jerry Whathisname did much the same thing, he only needed a minute, maybe less than one, in Samovich’s mouth, he got a dinky peter, that was why. So did Manny Hernandez, Carl Taggart and that other black boy, the islander —Lucent — who was Trinidadian, skinny like a jaguar — and Yeller, Opie, Lyle, Abe, Nottingham, Goose weren’t sure of the order. He waited till the end.
Goose liked the idea of a well-lubed throat. By the time he swaggered his thirteen-incher in front of Samovich’s face, that sumbitch weren’t even visible. He got prolly thirty-nine cumloads on his face. Well, less, cuz Crowley and some others shot it down his gullet and Lucent missed, got mosta it on his shoulders. Samovich spat up mosta the ackempucky onto his own face, and Hernandez spat on Samovich’s face bunches, he was like that, he did that, made Samovich’s mug ugly, wet and sticky. There was fifty fellers in the barrack, but a couple was gone for various reasons at the time, so maybe thirty-nine loads hit him in various places. Big boy loads too!
Gommy puddles of it coated his face, no bare skin at all there. He was soaked on his ears, his shoulders, his neck. Mosta his crewcut was moist, and Samovich kept smearing it round with his hands, but he ain’t got nothing to wipe it off with — damn was he a sissy! Ain’t nobody holding him down, reckon! He just was too scairt or sad or whatever to move, got a pussy on his soul holding him down. He don’t fight back, he don’t even got smart-ass remarks like a short feller.
“Maaan, come on…” was all he said, leastways all that Goose heared. Then he erupted in more gags, his whole body undulating like a eel.
Samovich weren’t resisting one bit when Goose rammed his meat into that paltry sumbitch’s wide open mouth. He was well broke-in, his throat lubed. Goose got a good four inches in, the others cheering him on, then he held onto Samovich’s face and forced it in more. Samovich stretched his lips around the shaft. Got maybe eight inches in then. Pretty dang good, most fellers can’t get that far in no matter how hard they plowed.
He shot his fat wad onto Samovich’s face — he made sure to pull away, so all them’all could see every drop of it coat Samovich in creamy ropes. His giant balls shot giant loads, and Goose wanna paint Samovich white as cotton. So he aimed his dickmeat for the last few cum-free spots on Samovich’s face.
It felt good, but the main sensation was pride, not pleasure. Goose liked seeing Samovich take his cumload, even if he was jacking his own meat at the time. Samovich kept his mouth open though nobody told him to, he was just that muchuva pussy. He cringed and gagged as his mouth overflowed and spilled.
“Damn, Goose-“
“Whiteboy got mad meat!” Crowley was happy-dapping up and down, his own manhood jiggling like a angry baseball bat.
Still more jizz got Samovich on his back and his nape, as he at last reckoned he could crawl away. He sobbed on all fours, while Goose followed him, laughing so hard he couldn’t even keep ahold on his dick. It fell between his legs and dangled as the last couple drops dribbled onto Samovich’s legs and feet.
Then Goose sighed and pulled away, amid the claps and laughter from the resta the barrack. That felt good as candy, he thunk. Not enough to make up for the lost leave, but still, it felt good to get a nut off.
Even if Samovich was good for nothing else, leastways he could do that.

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 2

The White Trash Veteran

It rained like rhythmic broth in the marshy jungle north of camp. The crippety call of crickets and the rattatat of machine guns boomed outta the steamy yonder and combined with the chop-chop of the helicopters overhead and the chirrup of the frogs and the splashing of Goose’s heavy boots in wetland muck, and his huffing breath lingered like saxophone sounds amid the clap-a-clap of his gun jostling to and fro.
Bwooooooooosh — schhhllaaat!
A bomb went off somewhere, and men cried out — maybe a landmine — them voices sounded gooky. They bumped and chattered and clashed crashing syllables somewhere nearabouts, maybe all around. The echoic jungle indistinctly whooshed past Goose’s ears, as he boot-splashed in some direction or possibly a different one.
“Woo-jai-goo!” sparked some gook, or some shit like that, it all sounded the same to Goose, who just arrived in Vietnam last week. Already, he be plussing.
More ding-dong chatter sounded from thisaway and thataway and yanway and from up on over yonder too, and Goose unclipped his gun. He dunno which direction to point it in, as all he heared now was the jungle calls of critters creepy-crawling. Vietnam got more bugs than sense. Goose hoped to draw his firearm.
But his hand was empty. No gun.
Goose had it a moment ago. Did he drop it?
“Stop! Stop right where you are! Hands in the air!” One the gooks had stellar English, with drawl and a trace of twang. Sounded like he was from somewhere proper, maybe Tennessee.
The peal of a siren shattered Goose’s rainy shards into panes of togethertude, and he stupored into stillness.
Cops surrounded him. Guns aimed himward. The sun blared in his eyes. No endless canopy clouding overhead. No wetlands under his boots. No helicopter sounds.
He was in America. Tennessee? Maybe. Pennsylvania? Indiana? Were those real places? Goose never was convinced Delaware was real.
“Put your hands in the air!” shouted the insistent cop in the lead. His gun glinted in the sun. He had a groomed mustache liketa grow into a beard but never quite got there.
“Aaaah… shit,” Goose said. He ain’t know where he was or what done happen. For a moment, he couldn’t even remember leaving Vietnam. Had he rotated out? Gone AWOL? Fragged his commander? Or did he die there?
Goose sunk to his knees. His mind still whirred as facts filed back into place. He recollected now the floaty-boat back to America. He was honorably discharged, if you can believe it, like a fucking knight. He did the paperwork. He got a medal. The cops stormed forth and slapped cuffs on him. Goose stumbled to the black and white, policemen shoving him this way and that like a sturdy man in a Navy brig, and they squeezed him into the backseat.
Martinsburg seemed very far away. Goose don’t know where he was, so t’was possible it was nearby, but it felt afar. He ain’t wanna ask after his current locale cuz he was feeling lazy in mind and soul, like a pecan floating down the gentle Monongahela. Nothing that happens now matters, because everything done happen, back in Vietnam. His ache for Ellen and for li’l Moses Buck was only a minor eddy in the current of the universe, and there was something comforting in the meaninglessness of it all.
The next few hours swirled through a relentless, incomprehensable tornado of questions and photographs.
But eventually it was over, and he lay in his jail cell, both sobering up and piecing together. He done start a fist and skull with a lippy larry in a bar, and then everything went blurry. He brawled ’em all like a hillbilly do. He punched up purple at a cop in his blues, then, seeing red, Goose took the cop’s black and white. He was going inside for sure. Hopefully for just a couple months.
“You okay, hillbilly?” came a deep voice from the cell next to him. It had a distinct New England tone to it, a portion of stawk and a dose of yip. Not quite New York, not quite Massachusetts. Yankee for sure.
“Who you callin’ hillbilly?!” Goose said as he sat up, which got him swimmy-headed. “Yankee bastard.”
The man across the way, with half-gray curls atop his squareness, chuckled. “Where you think you’s at, hillbilly?”
Goose shrugged. “Good question.”
“You’s in New Juusey,” said the man. “Name’s Dutch.” They both nodded back to each other. “You an Army man?”
Goose nodded. He rubbed his sore temple. “Yeah-um.” He grunted. “It’s 1976, right?”
“Yup.”
“When’s suppuh?”
“You had yu’s. You puked it up,” Dutch said. “You might get Castle to let you make yuuself a sandwich.” He sniffled and shrugged. “Prolly not. He’s a dick.”
Goose sighed. “Fine.” His belly done went queasy as a weasel anyway. He laid back on the bunk. He closed his eyes. He thunk he stayed awake and that only a few seconds passed, but when he opened his eyes, it was hours later. He awoke to the jailhouse door slamming shut, as a uniformed cop came in, looking like a blob-shape frown. He got a scruffy beard and a eyepatch over his right eye, which was blue as the Pacific Ocean.
He stopped at the cell bars by Goose’s head. His nametag read Castle. He held a clipboard. “You alive?”
“Yes suh.”
“What’s ya name, son?”
“Nobody.”
“Fingerprints gonna bring up a name?”
“Yes suh.”
Castle let out a long sigh. “Then why not tell me-?”
“J’st look at mah dog tag!” Goose said. He took off his dog tag and tossed it at Castle, who caught it.
A long pause sat ‘tween them two, and it grew like kudzu, snaking and sneaking, encircling the cell in sullen silence. Goose wondered if Castle done walk away, but he ain’t move his head to see. It was nice to stare at the ceiling, which was solid and unchanging.
“You gonna kill yaself?” Officer Castle finally asked. He scratched his eyepatch, which made him wrinkle his nose.
“No suh.”
“You got any medical whatevers?”
“No suh.”
“Good,” Castle said. He sniffled and rubbed his nose, which again made him wince. He dropped the clipboard and held it by his side. He looked at Goose for the first time since coming in here. “You okay?”
Goose shrugged.
“Ya public defender will be here in the morning.”
“Uh-huh,” Goose said.
“You took a swing at me earlier.”
“Sorry ’bout that. Suh.”
“Sorries don’t cut it, son. What happened? You was putting out crazy,” Officer Castle said. He paused but Goose kept them peepers trained on the ceiling. Goose was thinking of a response, but he ain’t show it and he ain’t wanna give nothing that sound like excuses. Officer Castle frowned so hard Goose heard it. “You lost control. You look strong, but you got weakness in you, son. You too weak to control yaself.” He took a step to the side, where’n he could better see Goose’s face. “You too weak, son-“
“I heared ya.”
“Well? You satisfied with that? Jesus Christ do pull thorns from the paws of lions, son. The pro’lem with you is you think you’re the lion, waiting for Jesus to show up. But really, you’s the thorn,” Castle said.
“Yessuh.” There was a huge bulge in Goose’s boxer shorts. He got a gigantic cock, and the too-small boxers made that obvious. He rearranged it so it didn’t look like he had a hardon. Rearranging it made it look like he did have a hardon and was concealing it.
“If you wanna take carea that stiffy, Dutch’ll jerk you off,” Castle said. He walked off, snorting at Dutch, who was in the cell leaning against his bars and smoking a cigarette.
“Yes suh.” Goose sat up and chuckled. He waggled his dick in his army-green drawers. The door to the jailhouse swung shut, and the lock loudly engaged.
All was still and silent. With no noise, Goose’s ears pricked up, and he soon heared the whirr of the ventilation system, the plink-plink of water dripping somewhere, the scurrying of a mouse in the walls. Them was good sounds, and a sortuva holy calm came over him for a few seconds, lasting until his thoughts commenced to pondering again.
He looked across the way at Dutch.
“I don’t gotta jerk you off.” Dutch puffed on his cigarette from across the way. “You got anything on you? Cigarettes?”
Goose patted his pockets and pulled out two nickels and a lighter. He showed them to Dutch. “Shit… I don’t got none. Can I get a cigarette?”
“No,” Dutch said as though that shoulda been obvious. Then he peered closer at the lighter. “Lemme see the lighter. If it’s full, I’ll trade you a couple cigarettes for it.” Dutch came outta his cell and over to Goose’s. Goose handed him the lighter, which Dutch hefted in one hand and looked at it in the light to see the silhouette of the level of fluid inside. Then he swiped the nickels too. “Three cigarettes.”
Goose nodded. He took the three cigarettes from Dutch and lit one. “I’s in New Juhsey?” he said as he exhaled. That only now sunk into his brain. “How’d I get to New Juhsey?”
“How in the name of Christ could I know that?” Dutch asked. He snubbed his cigarette butt out. He returned to his cell and laid down on the bunk with a magazine in hand. He leafed through it.
Goose puffed on his cigarette. The smoke felt good in his lungs, and it invigorated him. He felt truly alive, and for the first time since he woke up, all five senses was firmly in America.
“I’da signed up, you know, I’da done my part,” Dutch said. He was nose-deep in his magazine yet, laying in his bunk. “If I wasn’t in here. And if I was young enough. I’da signed up for the Army. Or maybe Navy, my dad was Navy.”
“Navy is a buncha nancies,” Goose said. He stood and jogged in place, which made his fat cock jiggle in his britches. Now that he was feeling fully awake, he really did admireta get a nut off, like Castle said. It’d help him get back to sleep. No point in doing anything else here but sleep.
First he finished his cigarette, and he did a quick workout in his cell. That helped settle the heeby-jeebies in his belly. He stopped when the push-ups reminded him of boot camp.
Dutch fiddled with the radio in his cell, trying to pick up a channel that was mostly static. He moved the radio round to find an effective spot. When that proved ineffective, he left his cell and went to the back of the jailhouse. The song finally came in clear. Dutch nodded his head in tune with the beat liketa dance, but he couldn’t cuz he was holding the radio in the one spot where it worked.
Goose checked his cell door, which was locked. “Why’s your’n unlocked?”
Dutch scowled, bopping his head to the beat. “I’m the trustee. I’m allowed out.”
“Ooooh, you the bucket trustee. Mil’tary police had them,” Goose said. He grabbed his cock through his boxers and waggled it in Dutch’s direction.
With a scowl, Dutch came to Goose’s cell and withdrew a key from his pocket. He unlocked the door and came in. “I’m doin’ it how — eckkkk…!” He stopped short when he seed the size of the basket in Goose’s boxers. He whistled. “Shit, you hillbillies don’t play. Don’t even think about puttin’ that in my ass. I don’t do that, Sheriff says I don’t gotto, no matter what. Not even the colored cops can make me do it. He said so.”
“Fine. I don’t wan’cha ass,” Goose said. He pulled down his boxers and thwacked his hefty cock against the palm of his hand. “C’mon, I won’t be able to sleep without blowin’ a nut.”
“Lay on ya bunk,” Dutch said. “I’m not gettin’ on my knees. Don’t blow in my mouth. I’m allowed to hit you if you do.”
“Fine-” Goose aimed his dick at Dutch.
“You can shoot ya nut into the toilet,” Dutch said.
Goose said with a weary sigh. “Fine. J’st do it, Dutch. Jaysus Christ, New Juhsey fellers do thangs slow.” He got one hand working up and down his limpness, but he weren’t trying to get it hard.
“I’m from Rhode Island,” Dutch said.
Goose snorted and settled back on his bunk, boxers round his ankles. Dutch bent over and took Goose’s dick in one hand. He gave it a couple strokes, then lowered his tongue and licked it from tip to root.
It firmed up in his hand. Dutch used just one hand at first, his tongue teasing the tip, slobbering up spit. Then he put both hands on it and kept at it hard. He kept sticking his tongue out like he was gonna lick it again, but his tongue barely touched the tip a couple times.
“C’mon, t’ain’t-“
“I’m gettin’ you off, I choose how to do it!” Dutch said. His tongue teased Goose’s knob, then he winced and pulled away. He spat into the toilet.
“It won’t get hard like that,” Goose said. “C’mon, put’cha mouth on it. Swaller it. I won’t force it in, I won’t throat ya down, I swan.”
Dutch rolled his eyes, but he did stretch his mouth around the tip. He teased it with his tongue. He kept going with both hands too, and Goose’s cock firmed up. It throbbed against Dutch’s lips.
The more Dutch mouthed up on it, the more it tasted like spit, not pecker, so Dutch found it easier and easier. His tongue rocked up and down the shaft, but he didn’t move past the first couple inches, making no effort to throat it. Goose ain’t complain.
Soon enough, his dick was rock-hard, and Goose let out a moan. Dutch ain’t throat it none yet, but he kept both hands on the shaft and his lips upon the knob.
Then all at once, Goose grabbed Dutch’s head and at the same time precum slipped out onto Dutch’s tongue. Goose ain’t force his dick in, but he did push down on Dutch’s head, just enough to signal what he wanted. Dutch paused, pulled off and cast a glare up at him, then moved back to Goose’s cocktip. After a few more seconds, he was overcome by a gag. He leaned over to the toilet and spat into it.
“Ewck, you taste awful,” Dutch said. He gagged up more spit into the toilet.
Overcome by a desire to nut, Goose hurried to a standing position. Dutch was bent over the toilet, so Goose grabbed him by the head and forced his dick into Dutch’s open mouth. Dutch’s broad shoulders tensed up.
He tapped then patted then outright hit Goose on his thighs and the meaty part of his asscheeks. Dutch tried to wrench his head away, but Goose kept a tight hold on his scalp. Goose pistoned his hips. He ain’t force his meat down Dutch’s throat, but he did push it to the backa his mouth and ain’t let Dutch spit it out. That meant precum slicked up Dutch’s throat.
“C’mon, swaller it, j’st throat it a li’l-” Goose murmured. He stopped when his cock hit the back of Dutch’s throat — as far as Goose was concerned, that meant he lived up to his part of the bargain. He hadn’t forced it in, hadn’t “throated him down”, as they say in prison.
But Dutch erupted in gags and whoops, and he shoved Goose off. He spat up into the toilet. “Nah! No way! That ain’t how I do it! No-” His chest muscles roiled and undulated, as he retched again. Goopy white precum clung to his lips and his teeth.
Goose slipped the tip of his dick back into Dutch’s mouth, and despite his protestations, Dutch did swallow the first couple inches. He kept both hands on the root to keep Goose from throating him down. A few meaningless syllables slipped out when Goose let his cocktip come in one of leaving Dutch’s mouth, but Goose ain’t let up enough for Dutch to form any words, specially once Goose felt his orgasm burgeoning deep within him.
Cum spurted into Dutch’s mouth, and Goose sighed grandly. He held firmly onto Dutch’s head, pleasure roiling Goose’s chest, until Dutch managed to drag himself off and gasp for breath. Goose’s second wad spurted onto Dutch’s face. Goose bent his knees to aim his dick for Dutch’s open mouth, as he clasped Goose by the thighs and tried to push him away.
That meant his third and fourth jizzwad jetted straight into Dutch’s mouth, huge fat wads that overflowed and were instantly retched out. Dutch spat up jizz all over his stony face, which turned red as he tried to catch his wind. With his hands behind his back, Goose rammed his meat at Dutch’s mouth and let it rope up his face, so his final couple cumwads matted Dutch’s hair.
“I said no-!” Dutch was overcome by a gag, and he spat up more cum into the toilet. Goose finished himself off with both hands, shooting a few driblets of creamy jizz over Dutch’s face and head.
“Sheeit, sorry, Dutch,” Goose said with a throaty chuckle, his voice wavering cuz the aftershocks of an intense orgasm still rocked him. He thwacked his limpening moist meat onto Dutch’s ear and the side of his cheek.
Dutch scooted away and wiped his face off, holding back gag after gag. He shot Goose a stern look. “Fuck you, asshole,” he said, hoarse as a horse. “That was it, no more. No matter how long you’s here.”
Bouncing his meat between his two hands, Goose chuckled. “Yeah. We’ll see, Dutch.”

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 1

The White Trash Veteran

The cricks and thickety hollers of West Virginia smelled just like Goose Sampson recollected. While he was gone, he wouldn’ta, couldn’ta and repeatedly did not conjure up the aroma in his imagination. It was unlike any scent his nose done made acquaintanceship with in the jungles of Vietnam. T’was fresh like snow but musty like rain, both dirtsy and woodish, earthy like a campfire and airy like a whetstone, memorable as mama and homey as hugs. He appreciated the fougère of the terroire, though Goose remained polite-nod strangers with both them words.
Carrying a poke fulla dollars and a pocket fulla pantyhose, he hurried by shanks’ mare on through the Appalachian woodlands, darting from sods to bald and back. Sirens blared yonder. Goose stopped when he got to a babbling run and sent the pantyhose floating yanway.
He knewed the area round Martinsburg like the upper sidea his pecker, and he learnt plenty about sneak-a-sleeking through the wooly wilderness of Vietnam. T’wasn’t so different here. Scurrying like a stinky sally on over muddy drafts fulla ferns and towering trees past critters and bugs and varmints chirping and growling and hissing, and there he was, a hillbilly blundering again through laps and laurel hells.
Vietnam got more wetlands, that was the only difference. T’was enough though. Goose discottoned to wetlands.
And skeeters. Vietnam got a peck of skeeters.
Of nightfall, he made it back to Smashwood Trailer Park. He was outta wind, dirty like a cellar, armpits sweat-soaked, but he sauntered in, casual as a bowl of buttermilk. The park was working alive with folks and fellers who Goose knewed since he was a boy. Did them’all know he robbed a bank? They couldn’t know, and ain’t nobody took no note of him. He returned from Vietnam a couple weeks back, so nary the whombodies got whopper-jawed at him moseying home buttermilk-like. He had a poke, t’was all. Just a knapsack, like any feller might could tote.
Nobody knewed it was fulla red-hot greenbacks.
Nobody knewed Ellen been hooking it on the other side of town neither. Ellen was Goose’s wife. They ain’t never done live in matrimony, as they jumped the broom only days before Goose shipped out to the steamy greens. Ellen done come up in the family fashion, so they got married with a hurry and a hoop-dee-hoo. Now Goose returned to the joyness of meeting his newborned son Moses and to the sadness of Ellen admitting she been turning tricks to pay the bills. Army don’t pay diddly.
Goose did more shouting than he cared to admit, and he blistered and kicked up purple, raring and pitching, then he punched a hole in the wall and regretted letting his son see that and afrearing from it, and nothing Goose could do would make him stop crying. He said no wife of his gonna go and sell her God-given ladyness to any pecker-toter with dollars and a stiffy, cuz what was the point of being a man if you can’t keep your little lady from hooking it? But he done got drafted to the other side of the ever-blesséd world, so what was he sposedta do about it? Can’t do squat! Goose screamed like a river at a dam, til Ellen begged him to stop or the neighbors gonna call the sheriff, and Goose wanna ram his noggin into the wall until something somewhere broke.
The whatnots rising in him, Goose only regained hisself when he saw Vietnameys watching him like sentries from the woods behind the trailer. That turned out to be an illusion, but it got Goose calm as a clam, sending Ellen and Moses inside. Then he felt hisself a fool when he reckoned t’was just some shadowy tree swaying in the breeze, and he pretended ain’t nothing happen. He don’t want Ellen to think he couldn’t cope or Moses to think his pops was fearful.
So he steeled up for the woman and the boy. They got needs, and a rock don’t. He ain’t think twice about giving Ellen the cash-money from the robbery. “Don’t spend it all at oncet,” he said.
And he felt bad that he felt good about leaving. He gotsta skedaddle while the heat was on. And he gotsta go less he lose control of his fists again. That boy ain’t a wall, and the lady ain’t a soldier.
She nodded, and she whispered, “Thank you…”. She kissed Goose upon the cheek. That felt good. Damn good. Something about tenderness from a lady reassures a man he is alright and cures a touchous soul. Her lips wouldn’t tremble so soft-like if he was a monster. Ellen wouldn’t kiss a john the way she kissed Goose. He ain’t tell her not to whore it out no more cuz it was implied from the hole in the wall and cuz he ain’t want her to lie and say she would quit off when she really wouldn’t.
The only thing better than kissing Ellen was playing with his son — Moses, but Ellen said everwhom was calling him Buck, cuz he be climbing like a goat. Goose liked that, cuz he was called Buck as a tyke too, on account of his buck teeth. Ellen ain’t know that when she fell to calling Moses Buck.
Buck afreared Goose all afternoon. He ain’t never met the hairy stranger — Goose been letting his hair and his beard go wild now that he ain’t got a sergeant jawing at him about it — it was still coming in dry and coarse though, only gradually returning to health. When Goose smiled like a lamb and pooped down onto the floor of the trailer at Buck’s height to vroom-vroom with his toy truck, Buck giggled and played along. He clum on Goose’s back and rode him like a pony.
Playtime was interrupted when there came a knocky-knock upon the trailer door. It was Anita Daylily, a high-headed whomgoody with a puff of hair and her muff in a huff that some policeman was on the wander, asking if anybody in the trailer park seen Goose — course he asked after his real name, Martin Sampson.
Ain’t nobody in the park gonna make it easy on a policeman. Goose was from round here. Officer Whomsoever was not. Or maybe he was, Goose don’t know. Anyway, that was his cue to scram. Some snoop-nose peckerwood at the bank musta reckonized his voice.
“I gotta go, son,” Goose said. He got down upon his knee to give li’l Moses a big hug goodbye. “Moses…”
“Bye.” T’was all li’l Moses Buck said. He weren’t muchuva talker yet.
Goose kissed him goodbye, and he kissed Ellen goodbye too but in a different way, then he went on back to bush in the wilds up behind Smashwood. He ain’t wanna whisk off, but he ain’t wanna stay even harder. It was better this way, for him to be gone. He gotsta get a grip on hisself, and a man gotsta do that alone.
The world seemed right before the war, right in a way he couldn’t perceive then or articulate now. Expectations done broke, he thought. Goose went to war, he pulled the appropriate trigger at appropriate times, he followed orders mostly, he came back alive, he got money, he gave it to a woman to spend. He did his part. He completed the minimum requisited of a man. But it felt like he done jack up every single thing in the world. He was a retard in boot camp, he dropped his rifle, he got scared as a bunny, he was captured, needed rescue, he lost, he failed, he fell, he wailed. He could get done up by the Vietnameys prolly crawly-trawling the countryside anytime. He done develop a sixth sense about ’em, and it been twinging like a siren. Ain’t quit off since Muck Dan Foo. He don’t wanna go look in the woods lest he either get took captive again or see that he imagined phantoms.
He stayed on the hoof, alert but hazed. He gotsta hide til the cops stop looking for him, wander til the sun sets, lay awake til the dawn comes. One day at a time.
He left Smashwood Trailer Park, but in a way, it felt like he ain’t never return from the Army. He only ever left Smashwood once really. Wise honkies say home is the place where, when you show up, they have to take you in. But war is too. Dumb hillbilly says home is the place where, once you leave, you can never return. War is that too.
The road ran to the highway, and Goose stayed parallel to it so nary a cop or a Vietnamey could see him. They did that in Vietnam, staying parallel to rivers, not roads, but it was the same idea. A river was just the universe’s road. If the Army controlled a river, they’d travel on a riverboat afloat, but if the Vietnameys did, they’d walk parallel to the river, far enough away to be unseen from it.
He noodled on a destination, any one would do, so long as it was away from Ellen and the boy and the skeeters and slant-eyed jaspers of Vietnam. He armybooted through the woods till he wound up on the highway. Rambling along the roadside for a spell, he let his mind dangle like a rod. Plans formed like constellations, but Goose bit back the bubbles of his notions and pondered like a buddha.
The camp cook Sam learned him pondering, but moments jumbled and mixed like phuh. Goose put one foot in front of the other, like the first drop of water striking out a path to sea. T’was hard to build a river with cops and Vietcong and Ellen’s johns blocking the route.
He might as well hitch a ride, he thought, so he thumbed out. It was mostuva hour before a truck pulled over, a big rig hauling cabbages to Roanoke, Virginia. The truck cab smelled of raw cabbage and chewing tobacco.
T’was good enough for Goose, who said he wanna go to Roanoke too. The trucker got a calypso song playing on the eight-track, and Goose wondered why a white man got a feel for calypso, but Goose ain’t ask after it. Goose was in boot camp with a Trinidadian feller, who did flop his dingdong on the regular to calypso records. Goose got no quarrel with calypso.
The driver was Buford, a right-country sumbitch with a ruddynut face and a extra-ruddy mustache that drooped in two lines down to his chin. He got a big head of curly hair.
“You was in the Army?” Buford asked.
Goose dunno how that Buford could tell he was Army. Maybe he done seed Goose’s dog-tags or something. Maybe he just assumpted — Goose weren’t cowering in Canada, and he looked too dumb for the Air Force and too tough for the Navy. Goose said, “Yessuh.”
Buford nodded. “I’s a Navy man, mahself.”
“Oh, tha’ss nice, didya enjoy ya vacation durin’ the war?” Goose said with one whoop, two guffaws and a series of slaps upon his knee.
Buford laughed along with him, and them two swapped insults and war stories like ornery nurses. Turnt out they was both in the same engagement in Na Doong. They might well have done pop off at the same damn gook. Felt good to know it, it settled the cockles of Goose’s manhood. The war was only over a couple months ago, so it warmed his heart to speak of it like history.
But it lingered upon his mind like only the present could. The future stopped the moment he arrived in Vietnam, and Goose ain’t slow his uppermostness down, not then, not now. The past might could still pop outta the woods anytime. There oughta be a after-war boot camp, so somebody could demonstrate that there was a thing called Not-War and that he was in it.
“Hey, you got cash for gas?” Buford asked when they pulled over at a gas station.
“No, suh,” Goose said.
“You got grass?”
Goose shook his head.
“Hmmh… hmm.” Buford said. He got out to pay for the gas hisself.
But Goose reckonized what that murmur meant. A Navy man can’t help hisself. Buford hoped Goose to pay up in cash, grass or ass. That’s how hitchhiking works out in the country.
But Goose don’t give up his bootyhole if he can help it, so when Buford returned, Goose said, “I’ll get’cha started, Buford. But if’n you go’n make me give up the bootyhole, lemme off right now.”
Buford made a dismissive snort. “I ain’t a niggruh,” he said. “I don’t wan’cha rear.” He unzipped his jeans and pulled out a long fat cock. He gave it a couple strokes, then leaned back in the driver’s seat the best he could while still steering the truck onto the highway.
“Sheeit,” Goose said as he wrapped one hand around Buford’s meaty cock. “You Navy men is all the same.” Goose leaned over and put his mouth upon Buford’s knob. It twitched against Goose’s lips when Buford laughed.
“Army is jealous cuz a sailor’s dick do work,” Buford said. He put his left hand upon Goose’s head to push it deeper on his shaft, while his right hand stayed upon the steering wheel. “Ship got no place for a limp dick. Send ’em to the Army!” He cackled. “Or the Marines, I don’t vouch for them.”
Goose made some mouthy noises to communify that he disagreed with Buford’s as to regarding the Army, but he ain’t stop slurping and also don’t dispute the Marine Corps’s reputation. He don’t welch. Goose do what he gotsto. He done so numberous times before, and he likeish would again.
In any case, he know how to get a man going. He commenced to batter Buford’s knobtip with his tongue, and he slicked his lips up and down the shaft. Lotta fellers don’t realize jackin’ a man off with ya tongue is the same as doing it with ya hands — you don’t gotta taste it longer than it takes, just move ya lips up and down same as you would ya hand. If a man’s dick works, it’ll happen quick as candy.
Sure enough, Buford got to leaking prenut in no time. When Goose tasted it, he pulled off, but he kept stroking it with one hand. T’was called ‘starting it off’. Leastways that was what they called it in the Army. Navy prolly calls it ‘e’ry morn’ b’fore breakfast’! They do that, they do be like that. Never get put in the brig on a Navy base, or you gonna taste more meat than a vulture, Goose learnt that good. He learnt that like math.
Buford held onto his head, jabbing at his face and trying a-force Goose to put it back in his mouth. Goose did plant his tongue upon the tip a couple times to mollify Buford, but the taste of pre-jizz got him gagging, qualmish. Buford couldn’t tussle with his head too much while steering, ‘specially once he got close to busting a nut.
Stroking Buford’s dingus fast as a badger, Goose got both hands upon it. His left hand worked the shaft, and his right hand squeezed the base. Buford’s dick was big enough to accommodate both hands. The precum flowed like wine, lubing up Goose’s mitts.
“Ah, wait, wait, here I go, wait, shit…” Buford sucked in his breath. His cock went throbby-lobby like an alien beast, and Goose hurried his rhythm. Buford grunted like it hurt. “Wait, ah, shit, wait, got it, shit-” He cut his own self off with a hiss.
A fat spurt of jizz came outta his dick, jetting into the air and landing back in his hairy crotch. Goose ain’t stop stroking, even when his hand was coated in ackempucky. He kept working Buford’s meat up and down till his balls was good and drained. Cum got all the way up Goose’s arm to his bicep, but he ain’t miss a beat.
Buford’s dick roped limply in Goose’s left hand even before plopping out one final wad of fatness, but Goose leggo with his right hand. Buford was still making noises, whole body contorting, his veiny shaft still throbbing. Then at last Buford sighed and twitched, and a few final drops dribbled into Goose’s grip.
Goose leggo. He wiped up the gom with a napkin, while Buford tucked his man-meat away and redid his jeans with one hand. His other hand stayed on the wheel.
“A Navy man j’st can’t help hisself,” Goose said with a chuckle and a mournful whistle. “You know you ain’t gotta get a man to jerk ya meat? You can stick it in a woman.”
Buford laughed and countered that Goose’s face was ugly as pussy, which worked on two levels, then he turned up the volume on the eight-track. That calypso jangled out bright and clear. Goose liked that. T’was good music to whisk off unthoughted, its lively beat like a river’s current carrying Goose away to benighted shores, and the best part was that it don’t sound nothing like Vietnam.

The Raunchy Hobo

Lance has to go into the ghetto to buy coke, which makes him nervous. But when his dealer is hassled by a muscle-bound hobo, Lance gets the chance for a raunchy and filthy threesome that he’ll never forget!

Can he handle the utter depravity he craves?!

Read it now as an ebook! Or read the whole thing here!

Lance normally preferred to meet Tyrell in a public place, somewhere near Lance’s home but not at home. That’s because Tyrell was a thug who often bragged to Lance of how good he was at robbing idiot white boys who wanted to buy crack off him. Lance bought cocaine but he was white, so he felt vulnerable. Whenever he said that, Tyrell always said, oh, but you safe, Lance. I ain’t gonna hurtchoo. You my best customer. You never ask me for a short like a fucking crackhead.
And every time Lance heard that, and every time he had another tense buy with Tyrell, when he felt certain Tyrell was going to rob him or maybe just kill him for fun, Lance swore he’d find a new coke dealer. But coke dealers were so damn unreliable. Every single time Lance met someone, he’d do one test buy, get a short bag that was badly cut, and he’d go back to Tyrell again.
Tyrell was, at least, reliable. And it would be rational not to rob Lance, who made good money and bought coke regularly. Tyrell didn’t want to kill his cash cow. Hopefully.
So that was who Lance relied on when he needed cocaine for his friend’s housewarming party. Lance was known as “the guy who brought coke”, and he didn’t want to live down his reputation. This time, however, Tyrell said he couldn’t leave the city, so Lance needed to come to his place.
It wasn’t his home though — Tyrell met him in a ramshackle rundown house, with caution tape over the door (Tyrell told him to ignore that and just come in). When he walked in, the house smelled of cobwebs and piss. Tyrell stood there in the living room with a gun in his hand as though considering whether or not to shoot Lance.
Lance’s heart raced. He threw his hands in the air. He knew he shouldn’t have trusted Tyrell.
Should never have come to a crackhouse. Never go with a drug dealer to a second location, that’s basically what this was. Lance knew better.
“Ah, don’t worry about this, honky,” Tyrell said with a loud laugh. He put the gun in his waistband. “I was just cleanin’ it. Ain’t even loaded. Might just shoot the addict in the other room though. Motherfucker was beggin’ to jerk me off the other day for some fent.”
“That’s nasty,” Lance said, too nervous to think of anything else to say. Not wanting to sound like a nerd, he repeated it more casually, “That’s so nasty, man.”
Tyrell nodded, then led him into the other room. He opened up a lockbox, pulled out an eight-ball of coke and handed it over. Lance gave him the money and slipped the bag into his pocket.
Went pretty easy. Still wasn’t a good idea to come here. Better be a good party, Lance thought.
That was when he noticed the semiconscious man lounging around on the floor. He was tall and very dark-skinned but still clearly white — perhaps of Greek or Italian extraction — with wiry, ropy muscles, like his body was too small for his strength. His hair and beard were unkempt and wild. Lance must have passed him when they first came in the traphouse, but he hadn’t noticed him then. He was too nervous about the deal going bad.
“Hey Tyrell,” Lance asked when they had finished up. He whispered so the addict wouldn’t hear. “Is that the man who wanted to jerk you off for fent?” he asked, blushing. Tyrell nodded, and Lance smiled. “How much do you think I’d have to offer to get him to lemme cornhole him?”
“You wanna plow him?”
Lance nodded. He blushed again. Tyrell had a horrified expression, like he didn’t know why Lance would want to plow a trashy addict, despite his filth. Lance had a flair for nasty, disgusting stuff though, and this would not be the first time he cornholed a hobo. But he was concerned the guy would become cognizant partway through and would turn violent. Fent addicts were like that.
“Shit… gimme forty bucks. I’ll make him do whatever you want,” Tyrell said.
Lance nodded and handed the money over. His heart skipped a beat. This was all happening so fast. He felt tiny in comparison to Tyrell, and, though the addict was hardly big, he was a lot stronger and tougher than Lance. Would Tyrell really make the addict stop if he got violent?
“What’s his name?” Lance asked as he kneeled next to the man on the floor. He caressed those broad shoulders, and the man stirred. He was powerfully muscled, more than Lance was expecting for a hobo.
“Uh… Greg, I think,” Tyrell said. “I mostly call him Shitweasel. He’s racist as shit, y’know. He called me a nigger one time when I told him I was all outta fent.”
“Oh, that’s not nice, Greg,” Lance said. He rubbed the man’s well-muscled shoulders. “He’s strong.”
“He works on a oil rig, most of the time,” Tyrell said. “Whenever he on land, he spends all his money on fent. Ends up beggin’ me for a short before he gets called away. Then he comes back when he gets paid again.”
Greg lifted his head. His groggy eyes looked at Lance in confusion. Lance pushed his head back down. Greg was tall and muscular, so he could have easily outmuscled Lance, but it seemed he wasn’t quite aware of that. He just submitted. His muscles flexed, but they had no power in them at the moment, it seemed.
“Open your mouth, Shitweasel,” Tyrell said. “This pervert here is gonna plow you. You gonna submit, okay?”
“Tyrell…” Greg croaked. “You fuckin’ shit.”
Tyrell looked disappointed that wasn’t a racist insult.
“You ever swallow a dick before?” Lance asked. His fingers continued stroking Greg’s hairy chest and shoulders. His muscles felt too big for his body — that was that addict gauntness, Lance thought, but since Greg worked hard on the oil rig, he didn’t get skinny and threadbare like most addicts, he remained thick and bulging. Greg shook his bleary-eyed head, then looked at Tyrell, who laughed.
“Hell yeah, he swallows himself some nuts. Don’t you lie, Greg. Tell him about it,” Tyrell said. He crossed his arms over his chest.
Greg closed his eyes and sighed. “I… Man, fuck you, Tyrell!” He looked at Lance’s dick, which he took out of his pants and stroked right in front of Greg’s face. Greg wrinkled his nose. “I jerked this guy off once.”
“What kinda nigga was he?” Tyrell asked.
“He was… homeless.”
“He was a addict, an old, fat gross-ass addict,” Tyrell said. He cackled. “Shitweasel here was actin’ like a fuckin’ piece of shit, trying-a buy fent when he was short. So I told him I ain’t gonna sell him none unless he go and find the nastiest addict on the streets, bring him back here, jerk him off and show me a mouth full of nigga-addict cum.” Tyrell laughed so hard he slapped his own thigh. “This stupid honky forget what he was s’sposed to do while he jerkin’ that nasty-ass dick. He spit the cum out, an’ I told him not to do that. I wanted to see his mouth full of slimy nut. So I made him go find me a different addict. That one was even nastier. But he remembered to follow instructions. And nowadays he only calls me when he got money. That’s a better system.”
Greg’s face was a bright red, but from the expression in his eyes, Lance guessed that the story was entirely accurate. As Tyrell told it, Lance flopped his dick in front of Greg’s face.
“Jerk me off, Greg,” Lance said softly. “Use your mouth.”
Greg sighed and opened his mouth. His scruffy chin trembled as Lance shoved his dick in. Greg gagged and his throat resisted, but he didn’t try to stop. It was hot and moist, and instantly it sent a wave of pleasure through Lance’s body. Lance laughed though, because he was kinda ticklish and cuz the indignant look on Greg’s face was funny.
“You nasty,” Tyrell said. He looked at Lance. “You both nasty. Nasty-ass whiteboys…”
“I know,” Lance said. He let Greg spit his cock out. “How good are you at deep-throating, Greg?”
“Not good!” Greg said like he was proud of that.
Lance grabbed a couch cushion that was laying on the floor — it looked like Greg had originally been using that as a pillow, but in his fent-induced stupor, he had rolled off it. Lance placed it on the floor and instructed Greg to lay on his back.
“Put your head hanging off the back, like this,” Lance said, demonstrating the position he wanted. Greg stumbled and slowly moved. He paused to wipe his face off, but Tyrell smacked him hard in the chin.
“Get to it, honky-ass bitch!”
Greg stepped to Lance as though going to fight him, but he was too wobbly and uncertain on his feet. He nearly fell even before Tyrell reached back and punched him hard. Greg collapsed to the floor, and Tyrell dragged him into position for Lance.
Greg groaned. His neck and upper back rested on the cushion, while his head hung over the edge. That gave Lance the perfect position to slam his dick right down Greg’s throat. Greg couldn’t resist deep-throating it even if he wanted to, which it wasn’t clear he did.
As soon as his dick pushed past Greg’s lips, Greg let out a loud gag. He sputtered but Lance was relentless. He pushed his cock in even further despite his throat’s resistance.
The smell of cigarette smoke filled the air as Tyrell lit one up. He looked on in disgust, but with a faintly amused expression on his face. He took a deep drag on his cigarette, then kneeled behind Lance. He watched Lance’s balls thwack on Greg’s chin, as he began plowing back and forth in his throat.
He looked closely at Greg’s face, which turned red from both humiliation and lack of oxygen. He sneered and blew smoke at him, filling his nostrils with it and making tears well up in his eyes from the acrid smoke.
“You one nasty-ass addict, Shitweasel.”
As pleasure emanated up his dick, Lance humped wildly. He couldn’t see Greg’s face, so he couldn’t see the utter shame and pain in his eyes, but he could hear it in Greg’s sputtering. Lance leaned forward as he humped Greg’s mouth, his hands extending across Greg’s broad chest. Despite Greg’s apparent disgust, he was obviously experienced at swallowing a cock. Lance was big enough most men (and all women) couldn’t do it, not in any position.
But Lance got every inch down Greg’s throat, which squeezed and massaged his shaft as it sent waves of bliss up Lance’s body. He loved a revolting hobo. The scent of Greg’s unwashed body filled the air, mixed with the cloying aroma of saliva and Lance’s precum.
Lance had always thought of addicts as being skinny, but Greg was actually well-muscled. He wasn’t thick like a bodybuilder though; he was thick like a naturally thick man, one who bulked up regularly aboard the oil rig. There was a scrappy tightness to him too, which Lance attributed to his lack of nutrition and hard living. All of those muscles tensed up every time Greg gagged on Lance’s dick, and Lance pounded hard enough to make Greg’s pecs jiggle with each thrust.
Tyrell’s deep voice was gravely. “I’m gonna put this cigarette out on ya forehead now, Shitweasel. Gonna make you my ashtray.”
Lance gripped Greg’s ropy, spongy muscles with both hands. He clearly couldn’t hold Greg down, but Greg was overwhelmed by the fent, so his muscles were loose and slack. Greg could do little more than buck as his skin sizzled.
Lance turned around in time to see Tyrell put the cigarette out, right in the center of his forehead. Greg’s throat spasmed, squeezing around Lance’s dick.
With a loud sigh, Lance withdrew his dick. Greg gasped for air, the first time in what felt like forever to Lance, though he knew that couldn’t be right; he had probably been sneaking little breaths in between Lance’s thrusts.
“Will you plow him, Tyrell?”
Tyrell shook his head. “That’s nasty. I’ll help you do it, Lance, but I ain’t stickin’ my dick inside that addict.”
Lance nodded. He smacked his dick against Greg’s face. He smiled. “Will you… sit on his face? Make him lick your asshole.”
“A rimjob?” Tyrell was about to shake his head, then considered it. He shrugged. “Whatever, fine. That ain’t nuthin’. Gimme another twenty bucks.”
“Uh… I don’t have it on me, but I can go to an ATM after,” Lance said.
“Fine-“
“You’re… paying me?” Greg asked, still heaving for air as Lance smeared his spit-covered cock over Greg’s face. Greg had flushed a bright red now, as blood pooled in his low-hanging head .
“He’s payin’ me, addict-bitch!” Tyrell said with a laugh. “I ain’t givin’ you jack-shit. I own yo’ ass, bitch.”
Lance slid down Greg’s body. His balls left a trail of sweat through the center of his chest. Then he pulled down Greg’s filthy jeans and threw them on the floor. Greg had a huge cock, uncut, limp as could be. Lance gave it a few strokes.
“You ain’t gonna get much outta that, man,” Tyrell said. “Addicts can’t get hard.”
“I can get hard!” Greg said. His voice moist cuz his mouth was still clogged with spit and precum.
Tyrell laughed. “No, you can’t.”
“Lift your legs up,” Lance said. Greg’s thick, trunk-like thicks elevated, separating his asscheeks and baring his hairy hole. Lance rammed a finger in and smiled as Greg gasped in pain. “You ever been cornholed before?”
“No!” Greg said.
“You sure? I know you was in prison,” Tyrell said.
“I never was. I joined an Aryan gang in prison,” Greg said. “I was protected. I kept my ass pure, intact, like it should be.”
“Well, I’m gonna enjoy this, you Aryan fuck. Get ready to lick Tyrell’s ass,” Lance said.
Greg moaned and gagged just at the sight of Tyrell’s bare brown ass. Lance waited with his dick right at the entrance to Greg’s hole, while Tyrell slowly lowered his unwashed ass onto Greg’s face.
Greg’s whole body bucked when he actually felt Tyrell’s ass on his face. Lance took that moment to slam his dick in, chortling in laughter at Greg’s body’s resistance. He was so distracted by the ass on his face that his own ass was wide open.
But Lance still felt substantial resistance. He shoved as hard as he could, laughing when Greg’s big roughneck body shook and flexed hard. He still didn’t seem to realize that he could overpower Lance, or maybe he just didn’t care; maybe he was willing to do anything Tyrell said on the assumption that disobedience would mean less fent down the line.
“Get your tongue in there, bitch!” Tyrell shouted. He had never taken his pants off, just pulled them down. His balls rested right above Greg’s frantic eyes. Then Tyrell yelped and moaned, a low, blood-curdling sound, as Greg did precisely that. The moan was exaggerated, Lance was pretty sure, Tyrell was funning, maybe to tease Greg or maybe he thought Lance would be more willing to pay for this again if Tyrell seemed to enjoy it.
That was a thought Lance hadn’t considered — maybe Tyrell was gonna bring a hobo every time Lance bought coke. That would be fun.
Lance sighed. He could feel it when Greg stopped resisting and stuck his tongue into Tyrell’s ass; he could feel it in the sudden relaxation of Greg’s sphincter. Greg choked and sobbed into Tyrell’s big black ass.
“Is he making that feel good, Tyrell?” Lance asked.
Tyrell shrugged and clicked his tongue against his teeth. He angled his body away from Lance, so Lance couldn’t actually see the expression on his face, but from his tone and body language, Lance guessed it actually felt very good, and Tyrell just didn’t want to admit he enjoyed a rimjob from an addict. Tyrell didn’t seem to plan on getting hard, but it happened anyway, and he made Greg stroke his dick off.
Soon Greg had trouble keeping his legs in the air, and he kept trying to lower them. Lance barked at him to keep them up, which made Greg try again until his fent-exhausted muscles gave up again. It felt incredible to Lance, whose cock was massaged by Greg’s powerful thighs coming together in an attempt to keep him out. He didn’t have any tightness in his asshole though, so his clenching did nothing to keep Lance’s shaft out. Every thrust of Lance’s crotch sent sparks of bliss through Lance’s body, while Greg’s muscles twitched in pain each time.
Tyrell moaned and shuddered. He muttered something Lance didn’t catch, then lifted himself up. He turned around and rammed his dick right into Greg’s mouth — violating his own ‘no-penetrating-the-addict’ rule.
He sighed as cum flowed, and Tyrell’s cock pulsated. Creamy cum burst into Greg’s open mouth. Greg gagged loudly, and much of the cum spilled past his lips and down his chin or running in rivulets into Tyrell’s unkempt pubic bush. Tyrell flexed his hips to slam his throbbing dick down Greg’s throat.
Greg bucked and gagged over and over, but Tyrell kept his cock in place. Greg’s pecs were hard as rocks as he heaved, his nipples like razorblades beneath Lance’s grasp. The cum was plentiful and thick, and it stuck his skin. Some of it even sputtered out of his nostrils as he tried everything to avoid swallowing it.
At last Tyrell pulled out. He lightly smacked Greg’s face as Greg gasped for air. Then Lance leaned forward, leaving his dick planted deep in Greg’s ass, and he reached forward to smear Tyrell’s cum into Greg’s mouth.
He continued to gag — it seemed he was unable to get used to the taste of cum, or maybe it was the residual taste of ass that did it. Every time he did gag, his asshole clenched hard around Lance’s dick, sending another pleasurable thrill up Lance’s spine.
“You licked ass pretty good, honky,” Tyrell said with a surprised laugh, like he had thought the rimjob would be a crushing bore. “You eat farts too?”
“No-!”
“Let’s find out,” Tyrell said. He turned around and plopped his ass right on Greg’s face yet again. He closed his eyes, and then a loud rumbling fart filled the air. Greg bucked and fought again, his fent-addled arms failing to push Tyrell away as Tyrell cackled.
When Tyrell finally pulled away, Greg’s face was bright red, smeared with tears and various fluids. Tyrell looked at him like he was a dirty diaper, and he spat over and over onto his face. He hocked up big loogies, making certain they covered his eyes and nose.
That put Lance in utter heaven. Greg’s entire muscular body rejected the mask of filth on his face, but Tyrell kept smacking his hands down so he couldn’t wipe his mouth off. The ruddiness of his face extended down to his chest and shoulders now.
Greg’s dick remained limp, even as Lance lazily stroked it. He had a nice big cock that felt perfect in Lance’s hand, and he didn’t even mind that it remained soft.
“Hey, Greg,” Lance said softly. He had to repeat himself a few times until Greg responded by lowering his eyes to look at Lance. Lance continued pounding away, gripping those massive upright thighs as though he was holding them aloft. Lance grinned at his pained expression. “I’m gonna cum in a minute or two. I’m gonna cum in your mouth. You understand me? Repeat what I just said but put it in your own words.”
As the last remnants of Greg’s pride deflated, he stumbled and staggered over his words. “Uh… You’re gonna cum… soon. In a minute or two. You’re gonna nut in my mouth.”
“That’s right. Good boy. Now when I say I’m gonna nut in your mouth, you might think I mean like they do in porn — where I’d jack myself off and shoot my cum on your tongue. That way the camera sees it. But there isn’t any camera here, Greg, so I’m going to shove my dick all the way in your throat. You understand.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be able to deep-throat it because it’s nicely lubed with your own assjuices. You ever taste assjuice before today?”
“No…” Greg said. His voice sounded weak, like he was already about to vomit.
“His throat is lubed up wit’ my cum too, plus that fart I blew down his gullet,” Tyrell said. He stood up now and pulled his pants up. He looked on as though utterly disgusted with what he saw.
“That’s a good point, Tyrell,” Lance said. “Are you ready, Greg?”
“Yes, damnit! Just do it! You fuckin’ pervert!” Greg screamed, his face was red. He tried again to wipe it off, but Gun easily kicked his hands away. His face gleamed with the mask of body fluids stuck to his skin.
As frustration roiled his body, his asshole clenched once again. This time it was so tight that Lance paused, unable to keep grinding. He groaned as his dick spasmed, and he shoved it in anyway. Greg gasped, bit his lip and gripped the cushion beneath himself with his fists.
Lance was a little disappointed that he wasn’t going to cum in Greg’s ass, but he so-very-rarely got the chance to do some ass-to-mouth. So he pulled out and scooted to Greg’s face.
Greg took a deep breath and dry heaved in the few seconds Lance’s throbbing dick hesitated in front of his face. The anal remnants clung to his shaft, glistening in the dim light of the crackhouse. Then Lance shoved it in.
A loud retching sound emanated from Greg’s throat, which spasmed and pulled. Lance felt such intense pleasure as he had never known before roll through his body. He jerked and his knees went weak. He leaned forward to support himself on Greg’s strong, sweat-covered body.
Cum flowed down his throat, a huge, plentiful load that coated the sides of his gullet. Tyrell kneeled down to watch again, and he traced Lance’s dick through Greg’s neck, where he could see spasming cockshaft and the flow of cum into his stomach.
“You nasty-ass deadbeat…”
The gagging was so loud it resonated in the ramshackle crackhouse. Lance was certain that anyone walking by outside could hear, but he supposed they probably heard that sort of thing a lot. Lance shook, lifting one leg like a dog as he humped his limpening dick down Greg’s throat. His grizzled chin and cheek hair scratched at Lance’s smooth skin.
At last it was over and Lance pulled out. He sighed as Greg retched, once again trying to sit up and clean himself off. But Tyrell used his feet to force Greg to stay on the ground — Tyrell no longer wanted to use his hands because Greg was entirely covered in assjuice and cum.
Lance laughed as he watched Greg struggle. His big body writhed, covered in so much sweat he was slick and slippery. Lance massaged his muscles and smeared around the body fluids that covered him.
“You don’t get to clean yourself off yet, addict-bitch,” Tyrell said. “Wait till the men who plowed you is done. That’s proper, bitch. You lay there and let the cum dry on yo’ stupid bitch-face, thinkin’ ‘bout how to show proper respect to me. Don’t come beggin’ for shorts no mo’.”
Lance stood up and wiped his dick off with the wetnaps he always kept in his pocket. He tucked it away as he pulled his pants up. Tyrell kneeled next to Greg’s red face. Lance made sure the eight-ball of coke was still in his pocket, plus his wallet — Tyrell hadn’t lifted it — and watched Greg retch violently, using every muscle in his body to do so.
“Hey, Shitweasel,” Tyrell said. He had to repeat it a few times to get his attention. “You my bitch now. I ain’t nevuh been a pimp for men, but I’m thinkin’ I might start. You my first bitch.”
“Tyrell, please-“
Tyrell kicked him in the side. “Nah. You call me sir from now on,” he said. “You gonna get out there tonight and work?”
“Fuck you! I will kill-“
“No you won’t,” Tyrell said. “Don’t you get mouthy wit’ me, honky. I will pimp you out for however much money I can get. If you beg me nice, I’ll let you have some fent now and then.”
Greg settled back, grumbling and spitting invective, but it seemed the promise of fent pacified him somewhat. He closed his eyes as though trying to forget what was drying on his face.
“You know more perverts that’d pay to plow him?” Tyrell asked.
Lance sighed. He fingered the eight-ball in his pocket to be sure it was still there. “Yeah,” he said. “I could bring some friends by.”
“Well, charge ‘em a hundred bucks a person. I’ll let ‘em do whatever they want to his bitch ass, and I’ll give you a little commission,” Tyrell said with a laugh. “Gonna turn this bitch from a fent addict to a cock addict!”

Roid-Rage

When petite twink Avery is beat up by a road-raging weightlifter, he thought he was done for. But then the cops give him the chance to take his revenge in a way he never expected. It’s a Twink on Top extravaganza that steroid-freak never saw coming!

Read it now as an ebook! Or read the whole thing here!

Avery trembled for what seemed like days, sitting there in the hospital waiting room. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t really that big of a deal.
But it sure could have been. Avery had never been so near death, and it all happened so fast. He could have died and not known it until he woke up in the afterlife.
A man attacked him with a crowbar in a parking lot. Apparently, Avery had cut him off in traffic, but Avery hadn’t noticed because he was dancing in the driver’s seat to Israeli trance music. The attacker was a short, squat bodybuilder in a sleeveless shirt, fleshy arms like a gymnast’s thighs, that was all Avery remembered of what he looked like. Avery had suffered one good whack in the head before a policeman on a bicycle happened past and saw the encounter.
So Avery remained at the hospital for a few hours to treat his head wound, then went back to the police station to make his formal complaint. The neurologist said he should be fine but to call emergency services if he felt symptoms of a concussion again, and he couldn’t sleep for a couple hours. That wouldn’t be a problem, Avery was wired. By then it felt like the attack had happened weeks ago, not this morning. So much had happened since then.
The cop who brought Avery from the hospital to the station opened the door to the interrogation room. He was Officer Cherton, a gruff, no-nonsense ex-marine type, chewing on an unlit cigar. “Mr. Flowers, I wanna make you an offer. That fellah who attacked ya — his name is Levi Hechinger — he regrets what happened something fierce. If you want, I’s gonna recommend that the DA press charges. But you got a second option too. You can save me some paperwork, you can help the state budget crisis by keeping that meathead out of lockup and… you can cornhole him.”
“What?” Avery’s foot was tapping furiously, and he both couldn’t stop doing it and couldn’t focus on anything else.
“He said it’s okay, but we’ll tie him down,” Officer Cherton said. He spat out fragments of the unlit cigar he’d been chewing on. “He’s having a bit of a roidrage sit’ation right now.”
“You want me to cornhole him?” Avery said, furrowing his brow. That was not an offer he was expecting.
Cherton shrugged. “It’s bettuh than me doin’ papuhwork.”
“Oh… uh… Yeah.” Avery agreed more because he couldn’t think of a reason to say no than because he had thought about it and decided he wanted it. He did want it, that just wasn’t a fact he was in the right headspace to figure out right away.
“Good, alright,” Cherton said. He led Avery to the back of the police station, where the local jailhouse was set up. Then he handed Avery a small box with a taser inside, along with a tube of lube and a few other objects Avery didn’t immediately recognize. The cop blushed. “This is our Joybox. That’s what we call it.”
“You cornhole a lot of men?”
“Me? No, I got a girlfriend,” he said. “I don’t need to cornhole perps. But there’s a lotta married or single men at this station, they don’t get laid much, so they get desperate.” He opened a cell door and nodded. “There ya go. Just come on out when you’re done.”
The roidraging man was there, tied to a plain wooden chair, on which he sat backwards, so the back of the chair extended from his crotch up to his chin. He wore only a pair of off-white tattered boxers, the edges of which were mouse-nibbled. He was barrel-chested, so thick it look hard to breathe, and he had a steroid-freak belly, like his abs were as thick as his pecs. His face was aged — young, but aged — and leathery, his hair balding but shaved smooth.
The chair had a short seat, so the man’s meaty ass overhung the back. That left his asshole clear and ready to access, Avery thought with a shiver. The chair was designed to make sure he was in a rammable position, even by someone much smaller than him, like Avery was.
Levi Hechinger was his name. It felt weird to give a name to the man whose blind rage had nearly killed Avery a few hours ago; he had been thinking of him as simply That Steroid Man. Now he had an identity. He wondered if Levi was going to tell anybody about this.
When Avery got closer, he smelled stale sweat and the clinky iron of free weights, like an abandoned factory. He was broad-shouldered, with veiny arms and tight skin. He breathed heavily, both cocky and terrified of what would come next or maybe he was still in the midst of a steroid rage. He was squat and thickly built, massive lats, bulging body with a thick torso despite very low body fat.
Had he agreed to this? Avery wasn’t sure. The cop Cherton implied he had requested it instead of arrest and conviction, but now Avery wasn’t sure. Levi trembled like he didn’t know what was coming. It was possible the cops were tricking Levi, Avery or both.
But Avery had no intention of backing down. He had felt like such a weak, pitiful creature this morning. He had to do something to regain his masculinity.
“What’re you gonna do to me?” barked Levi. Despite his apparent fear, he remained angry — that must be the roidrage, Avery thought. Levi’s voice was guttural and rough like an old broom.
“I’m gonna ram you, Levi,” Avery said. “I thought you knew.” That answers that question, the cops were tricking them both into doing this. Cherton simply didn’t want to do any paperwork, that’s all that was.
Levi laughed, a deep booming sound. “You sound like a fuckin’ pansy.” He wrinkled his nose. “You fuckin’ wuss! C’mon, fight me like a man!”
“I can’t fight you, I’m like a third your weight,” Avery said. He came around to Levi’s front so he could see him. “I know my limits. You tried to kill me earlier.”
“I wasn’t tryin’ to kill ya.”
“You tried to hit me in the head with a crowbar,” Avery said.
“I wasn’t hopin’ you’d die,” Levi said. He had a sharp, stawky accent with that rough-edged cadence like he sucked on tailpipes. He sounded like he was from Manhattan, Avery thought. He didn’t want to ask because he didn’t want to know more about Levi as a person.
“You were sure willing to risk it. What was the point of the crowbar if-? No… Wait, nevermind,” Avery said. “I don’t need to hear your excuses. I’m not your probation officer.” He grabbed Levi’s ass where it hung over the edge of the seat. He massaged the plump, hard muscles there. Levi threw his head back and gritted his teeth. Avery smiled at the huge man’s tension, the rolling flex of his muscles. “Have you ever been cornholed before, Levi?”
“No! I ain’t no wuss!”
“Oh good, I can’t wait to wreck it-“
“Fuck you, asshole!”
“What do you want me to stick up your ass first? A finger? A dildo? The Joybox here has a couple dildos. Let’s see, there’s a very small one, see?” He showed Levi the tiny green dildo, the size of a large thumb. “And see then you got this big black one. That’s insane.” He showed Levi that one as well, a big coal-black dildo the size of Levi’s bodybuilder forearm.
“Man, don’t you stick anything up there! That is a one-way hole, fuckhead!”
“If you don’t choose, I’m gonna assume you love big black things sliding up your ass,” Avery said. “You look like the type. I bet that ass can take some punishment.” He giggled as he rubbed that black dildo against the surface of Levi’s asshole. Levi trembled and bit his lip, his length of his spine shuddering at the sensation.
“Man, jerkoff! Fuck you!” Levi took a deep breath and sighed, his pride deflating rapidly. “The… finger… Make it your pinkie finger, man.”
“You should be nicer to me, Levi. You could be charged with attempted murder. That’ll be like twenty years in prison. You’ll take bigger things than my finger in twenty years,” Avery said. He dropped the dildo and placed his fingers right there at the smooth rim of Levi’s asshole. Levi shuddered, his ass twitching and his muscles straining against the ropes binding him. “You’re not the Incredible Hulk, Levi. You can’t snap rope just by flexing your muscles.”
“Fuck y-you!” Levi’s voice broke because Avery inserted his pinkie finger. Levi’s asshole was tight and moist, and Avery let out a long, slow exhalation right onto Levi’s broad back as he felt his own dick get rock-hard in his pants. This was turning out to be even more fun than he ever thought possible.
He slowly inserted his pinkie, then drew it almost all the way out. Levi grunted as though trying to take a shit. Avery giggled. He reached around Levi’s torso to feel his dick, and his giggle turned into a laugh as he realized how small it was.
“Was your dick always tiny? Or did the steroids do that?” Avery asked. Levi didn’t answer. He just bit his lip and hung his head low as Avery felt his shriveled balls. “Oh, that’s natural, huh? I’m sure the steroids didn’t help though.”
“Man, fuck you-” Levi yelped and stopped speaking as Avery curled his finger up inside his ass. Levi’s entire body clenched, which just made the pain worse. Levi’s face had started out reddish, but it now turned outright crimson.
“Let’s try a second finger now,” Avery said. He pushed his ring finger in next to his pinkie, but he felt resistance. He barely got the tip in and was stuck. Levi’s muscles all heaved at once as he struggled to accept it all. “You prolly think that I got a little dick cuz I’m small and skinny and I don’t use steroids. But you are wrong, Levi. I got a big piece of meat. You’re gonna take every inch of it. If you want it to hurt real bad, you keep resistin’ my fingers. I’m using my fingers to warm you up so I don’t rip your sphincter apart when we actually start. My dick is a lot bigger than my fingers.”
“Fuck you!”
“You say that a lot, but when has it ever solved anything for you?” Avery asked. He shoved his ring finger all the way in, and Levi screamed in agony. His face was bright red, soaked in a swathe of sweat, his squashed features scrunched up. Blood dried beneath his nostrils, Avery hadn’t noticed that until now — the cops must have had to rough him up to get him in jail, or maybe he had smashed his face against the chair back in front of him.
“Fuck you, jerkoff! I fight my way outta problems all the time. I ain’t a pansy-ass pussy like you!”
“Really? Cuz I’m fingerin’ your butthole like a pussy. You sure you ain’t a pussy? I’m fucking you like one.”
Levi bit his lip then as Avery smiled, Levi’s broad muscles writhing and tensing between Avery’s grip, while Avery’s other hand slipped fingers in and outta that tight hole. Levi rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. His asshole loosened then, enough that Avery could wiggle his fingers back and forth some. Each motion made Levi spasm and pull against the ropes binding him.
“Okay, are you ready to try a dildo? Or do you want to swallow some dick first?”
“I’ll bite off anything you put in my mouth, jerkoff!”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Avery said. He withdrew both of his fingers and dropped his pants. He lined up behind Levi and put his dick right there at the entrance to his ass, which began to retighten now that it was empty. Avery took that big black dildo from the Joybox and placed it in front of Levi’s mouth. Levi kept his lips tightly sealed, so Avery just rubbed it in front of his face.
“Ugh, it smells like ass…” Levi said.
“Well, I doubt it gets cleaned that often,” Avery said.
Levi gagged, the sight of which was apparent in the rippling of his back muscles. He spat on the ground, though most of it clung to his chin or the back of the chair in front of his face. He retched and heaved. “That is fuckin’ nasty, I ain’t puttin’ that in my mouth, jerkoff.”
Then Avery rammed his dick in, all the way up Levi’s ass, without a word of warning. A howl came outta Levi, who clenched down right away. Just the tip got in before Avery was unable to go any further. Avery sighed and leaned his head against Levi’s smoothly-muscled back.
The tip was enough. Levi’s ass squeezed and massaged Avery’s cocktip.
“Oh, Levi…” Avery removed a clothesline clip from the Joybox. He placed it on Levi’s nose, and it squeezed tight. His gasps of pain were nasal now, but still booming on account of his deep voice. The surprise made him loosen his ass for a moment, and Avery shoved the rest of his dick in all at once, pushing past Levi’s resistance. Levi gasped and groaned. He spat again, still unable to spit forcefully, so he just let saliva drool past his lips.
With the clip forcing his nostrils shut, Levi was unable to prevent himself from opening his mouth. As soon as he did, Avery shoved the black dildo in until Levi gagged violently. His asshole clenched around Avery’s dick.
As Avery worked his dick in and out, he made sure to grind it in deep, hitting every corner of Levi’s insides. Levi screamed around the dildo in his throat, but all he could do was make muffled grunting noises.
“Oh, Levi… If you beg me to use lube, I’ll use lube,” Avery said. He withdrew the black dildo to give him a chance to speak.
“Fuck you, pansy! I’ll never submit,” he said, choking on his own words. Tears twinkled in his eyes, and he was overcome by a chorus of gags before he even finished speaking.
Avery smiled. Again, he was glad that Levi was being less than cooperative. He grabbed a strappy mouthguard from the Joybox. He hadn’t known what it was for at first, but now he had it figured out. It was like a horse’s bit, it dug into his gums whenever he tried to close his mouth. That forced his jaws apart and kept him from closing them in the slightest.
Levi tried to spit, but the mouthguard straps clipped together behind his head. There was nothing he could do. With his mouth pried so far apart it looked like it must be hurting his jaws, Levi was unable to resist as Avery deep-throated him with that dildo.
He rammed it in over and over, cackling as Levi gagged each time as though he was surprised. Levi again tried to flex his muscles like he could shatter the ropes binding him that way, but of course all that happened was his asshole clenched and massaged Avery’s dick, sending waves of pleasure up his body. Levi didn’t seem to realize that the more he struggled, the more intensely blissful it felt to Avery.
Then he pulled the dildo out, and removed his dick from Levi’s ass. A wordless cry came from Levi’s propped-open mouth.
“Oh this is gonna be fun,” Avery said. He switched the dildo and his dick, starting by pushing the huge black dildo past Levi’s sphincter. Levi screamed, eyes bugging out as he wordlessly heaved through his open mouth.
The dildo didn’t really go in, not past the first centimeter or so. It was just too wide. Avery was disappointed, but he decided to keep working at it.
Meanwhile, he placed the dildo beneath Levi’s ass so he still felt it, and then used his muscular back and shoulders to awkwardly climb the back of the chair. He wedged himself between Levi’s face and the chair-back, which put Avery’s dick right at mouth height.
Since he had been facing the jail cell wall, this was the first time Avery got a good close-up look at Levi’s face. He was really unattractive, Avery realized, not really “ugly” per se, but crude, like a caveman, with a squashed nose and boxed ears, like he had been in a lot of fights. He was missing one of his front teeth.
He flailed and gurgled as Avery swiped his ass-covered cockshaft over Levi’s face. He made sure to get all that assjuice sticking to his nose. Levi’s cheeks were bright red even before Avery slammed his dick into Levi’s throat. A violent retch reawakened the pleasure flowing through Avery’s body.
He gripped Levi’s shaved head and held on as he pounded his dick in and out, all the way down Levi’s gullet. Not many men could deep-throat Avery’s entire dick, and those who did needed to work up to it — they couldn’t really do it consistently. But Levi’s mouth was forced as wide as it could go, and his throat had no ability to keep Avery’s dick from forcing itself in. Even as his throat squeezed and spasmed, Avery rammed it in hard.
“Keep your eyes open, bitch,” Avery said. He used his fingers to pry Levi’s eyelids open. His eyes fluttered as his face turned red, demanding oxygen. Avery kept going though, holding on with his dick blocking Levi’s airway. He was shocked at how easy it was — with Levi’s muscles all tied to that chair, and his mouth stuck open, Avery could stay there, occupying his throat until he jizzed right into his stomach. He could watch Levi suffocate all day, but he didn’t. He pulled out and smiled at Levi’s hoarse gasping.
“That was some nice dome,” Avery said. “But I’m gonna cornhole you some more. I want my dick to be nice and assy when you taste it again.” He climbed down behind Levi once again. He pulled the mouthguard off.
“You sick… jerkoff… freak,” Levi said between gasps for air.
“You still tried to kill me, over a traffic dispute,” Avery said with a sorrowful shake of his head. “I think I still come on out on top in the morality scale. I bet that wasn’t the first time you beat someone up due to a case of road-rage, was it?”
“Fuck you,” Levi said, but the fight had gone out of him. He sounded less angry than resigned. He twitched a moment later as Avery rammed his dick back in, and he seethed through his clenched teeth. “I gots a temper, so what? What’s it to you? I’m a real man, pansy! I kick any bitch’s teeth in if he do me wrong.”
“How’s that plan workin’ out for ya?” Avery asked. He felt intense pleasure rolling through his body as he plowed Levi hard. Levi jerked and spasmed, the pain not getting any better, it seemed, presumably because Avery didn’t use any lube aside from Levi’s own spit.
“Fuck you…” Levi said, but he said it softly, like he knew he had been beaten.
Avery pulled out and pushed one of the little dildos in this time, because he wanted it to stay in. Levi harshly inhaled and held his breath — the dildo was very cold. His asshole clenched around it.
Once again he applied the mouth guard, even as Levi begged him not to. “I’ll do it, I swear, I won’t bite-” But that was all he got out before Avery put the mouthguard on. He didn’t believe Levi’s promise at all, though he appreciated that Levi was trying.
This time he had cornholed Levi’s ass even longer, so his dick was smeary with creamy assjuice, flecked with specks of juices and ass-sweat. Avery made sure to display his dick in front of Levi’s eyes and nose, so he knew exactly what he was about to taste.
Then he pushed it in. As he did, Levi’s throat squeezed yet again, and Levi’s eyes slammed shut. Avery had to pry them open yet again. That was okay with him — he rather liked it. He threw his head back and moaned.
A surge of disappointment hit him because Avery realized that he was about to cum. He might have been able to hold off even longer, but that didn’t seem sporting, Levi had submitted, and now that it was nearly over, he had lost all of his arrogance. He was begging for mercy, and he hadn’t called Avery a jerkoff in a few minutes.
He gripped Levi’s cauliflower ears and held on tight. His balls slapped against Levi’s chin as he thrust his hips back and forth. Each time he did, his dick slammed through Levi’s violent gag reflex, and then when he withdrew on the backthrust, a torrent of spit and bile spilled out. It flowed over the wooden chair, sticking to it and making Avery wonder how many men’s fluids were on this chair — he had a feeling the cops used it every time they brought the Joybox out, and they probably never cleaned it.
When he finally felt his orgasm approach, Avery pushed his dick all the way in, so Levi’s flattened, oft-broken nose smashed into the meat of Avery’s shaved crotch. His balls rose up in their sac where it lay pressed against Levi’s chin.
Levi’s eyes bugged, frantically darting to either side as though he might find some means of escape. But there was no way he could move, he just submitted and turned red as cum flowed down his throat.
The most intense orgasm of Avery’s life hit him. He groaned and grunted. He rutted and squealed, snorting while he rode Levi’s spasming face.
He shot a huge load that poured into Levi’s gullet. Levi coughed and sputtered, face now a bright red as his eyes begged for oxygen. But Avery kept ahold of his face with both hands, smiling. He spat right on Levi’s nose.
Finally he withdrew his limpening dick, and Levi sputtered. Cum flew all over the chair back and he spat up a gigantic ball of saliva, a fist-sized droplet that landed with a plop on the chair. Moisture was smeared all across Levi’s broad chest.
Levi went limp as he sobbed. Avery was relentless though. He forced Levi to lean his head back, then Avery dropped both of his hairy balls in Levi’s mouth. Levi hadn’t even gotten his breath back yet, so he hoarsely gasped around the scrotum in his mouth.
At last it was over; Avery’s dick was as limp and spent as it had ever been. Avery pulled his balls out, then used some wetwipes he found in the Joybox to clean himself off. He didn’t clean off Levi, who heaved for breath the entire time. It wasn’t until Avery was putting his clothes back on that Levi managed to speak.
“Please… take the dildo out of my ass,” Levi said.
“Oh… I forgot about that one,” Avery said. “I’ll take it out if you promise to clean it with your tongue.”
“Fine, whatever. Please… I’ll do anything you want,” Levi said. Tears streamed down his cheeks, from both lack of oxygen and relief that it was finally over.
Avery pulled the dildo out, and Levi’s entire body went limp. His muscles sagged as he stopped fighting against the ropes binding him. Avery didn’t wait for him to open his mouth, he just shoved the small green dildo in. Levi accepted it easily, even as his tongue tasted the slimy assjuice and his throat retched all over again.
Avery walked away with Levi there, fighting, but not against his ropes anymore. He tried to stop himself from gagging on the dildo instead, taking a deep breath then trembling as he submitted to the reaction. He gagged violently, then tried to pause and regain control over himself.
But Avery was done. He no longer felt like the weak, pitiful victim he had been earlier in the morning. He watch Levi’s contortions and walked out of the cell. He slammed the prison door shut behind himself as he whistled, heading for the front of the police station. “Have a nice day, Levi,” he called out behind himself. “Drive safely!”

Workers in the Dark

Eagle and Tekaronhonte are high-rise construction workers in New York, but they’re not from the city, they’re Mohawk Indians, and Eagle is still new. He’s not comfortable with urban living or the heights he scales every day, until one night he finds solace and comfort in Tekaronhonte’s arms.

Can Eagle That Soars find a way to flourish so far from home?

Read it now as an ebook! Or read the whole thing here!

New York City was a scary place. On his first day in the city, Eagle That Soars Mailloux had seen more people than he had ever seen before. A sea of cars flowed over the roads, and tpeople on the sidewalks thronged like a human river. Even the battlefields of Europe hadn’t been so crowded.
The rise and fall of Tekaronhonte’s breath was relaxing for Eagle. He didn’t know Tekaronhonte until recently, but they were both Mohawk Indians, so Eagle felt a certain kinship for the older man and tribemate. Tekaronhonte had been in the city for more than twelve years. Eagle couldn’t imagine living in a place like this for twelve years. He’d go crazy if he had to live here even half that long.
But then, he couldn’t imagine fighting a war in Europe, and he had done precisely that. Eagle had gone home to the reservation after Germany surrendered, but there was nothing for him there. There were no jobs, and the only excitement was the nightly brawl in the bar parking lot. The young people had left for the Army when the war broke out, and few came back. Some died in Germany or Japan, others found a wife or work or who-knows-what-else, something not found in the Mohawk village Eagle was from.
A construction company was recruiting. Eagle signed up because — like signing up for the Army before the draft board came calling — that was what young Mohawk men did. He was, or would become no matter what, a fearless warrior and a fearless worker. He would not be good enough for a wife if he did not have a job.
Yet Eagle had never felt fearless. He thought he might be able to look brave when he made it through boot camp with ease. But his first day in battle in Europe, he threw up in his own helmet and nearly shot his foot off. He hoped that, by the time he came to New York and signed up to work in high-rise construction, the fear would have been blasted out of him. Maybe he had left his fear on the bloody grassy fields of France.
He sure wished he left it there.
But he was scared after all. The other Indians on the project literally danced on the steel beams that connected like solid clouds as they labored together the framework of a skyscraper. They were fearless. They showed no emotions, no trace of awareness that they could plummet to their doom at any moment.
Eagle barely got any work done his first day. It was all he could do to keep from vomiting. It took all his concentration not to look down, because when he did the world reeled and he had to clutch whatever was nearby lest his sudden dizziness make him fall.
He was proud that he at least hadn’t vomited. He wouldn’t have told anyone that, because the other Indians would have called him a weakling for being afraid at all.
Maybe, he thought, the war did make him braver after all. In the war, he did throw up. Now he didn’t. That was something, but it wasn’t bravery.
And after two weeks working, Eagle managed to feel a modicum of comfort up there on the steel girders. He had had to sit down only once today, when he was overcome with terror and dizziness. It had happened maybe fifteen times on his first day. So that was an improvement.
It happens to a lot of us. Not me. I was a natural up here.
I never panicked. I am like a cat in a tree. But a lot of workers are afraid when they are new.
Their words were not that reassuring. The only reason the Mohawks were hired was because of their lack of fear, and none of the old-timers admitted they had been afraid when they were new. So Eagle still felt like an outsider who might never fit in. Maybe the reason the old-timers denied being afraid was that the weakest among them quit (or fell), so only the bravest remained in New York.
Tekaronhonte’s hand touched Eagle’s chest, which brought Eagle out of his reverie. Eagle drew in his breath and rolled over to see Tekaronhonte’s face staring at him in the dark. He put one finger to his lips.
“Ssssh,” Tekaronhonte said, his voice an achingly low thrumming murmur.
The apartment was chock-full of Indians. It was a four-bedroom apartment with sixteen men living in it. There were three people in each bedroom and four scattered among the hallway and the living room. Eagle and Tekaronhonte took the living room. The couch was too short for either Eagle or Tekaronhonte, both of whom were tall, so they slept on the floor. Tekaronhonte was by the window, but Eagle didn’t want to see outside — this was a ninth floor apartment, plenty high enough to reawaken Eagle’s fear. Nothing in any Mohawk village was nine floors high, and this building went up twice that far. The building Eagle was putting up was going to be twice that even, which blew Eagle’s mind.
It was Tekaronhonte who slipped over to Eagle’s bedspread and slid under the thin sheet he used, his worn older body rubbing up against Eagle’s thinner frame. The hard wood floor underneath was unyielding and cold. Sometimes Eagle could hear the Spanish-inflected arguments of the Cuban couple who lived underneath this apartment.
Eagle raised his eyebrows. “What… What are you doing?”
“There are no women here,” Tekaronhonte whispered as though that explained it. Then he leaned his head down and kissed Eagle on the lips.
Eagle instantly felt two equal reactions. A part of him wanted to push Tekaronhonte away and go sleep in the hall with Benjamin and Delisle.
But another part of Eagle’s mind wanted to kiss him back. He wanted to shove his tongue into Tekaronhonte’s mouth. He wanted to taste every inch of Tekaronhonte’s bronze body and feel himself getting lost in Tekaronhonte’s broad muscles.
So he compromised by not doing anything at all. He laid there and let it happen as Tekaronhonte kissed him on the lips. Their tongues collided in Eagle’s mouth. Tekaronhonte rolled over to lay atop Eagle, showering him with kisses as his hands explored Eagle’s smooth chest.
“You are a pretty boy,” Tekaronhonte said when he came up for air. “You do soar, like your namesake. Majestic.”
Eagle smiled and blushed. “Why did you kiss me?” Eagle asked. His hands wrapped around Tekaronhonte’s back as though to hug him close, but he was already so close his chest muscles pressed down on Eagle’s smoothness.
“It is the secret.”
“What?”
“It is the secret to doing well in construction. Once you have been touched by an older man, you will not be so scared of being on a high-rise,” Tekaronhonte said. “I will give you of my bravery.” His face was flat and grim, shadowy in the unlit living room.
Eagle couldn’t tell if he was joking or not or whether he was saying this just to get Eagle to submit. It did seem like the kind of thing Tekaronhonte might say as a joke — he had told Eagle to get a “left-handed smoke-shifter” on his first day, then laughed as though it was the funniest thing in the world when Eagle failed to find it. That prank was actually the only time Eagle had seen Tekaronhonte laugh since he came to the city. So it wasn’t unreasonable to think he was making up stories again to tease Eagle.
But regardless, Eagle didn’t want to refuse. He hadn’t had sex since Europe and even that was with a French prostitute whom Eagle could only afford because she had never screwed an Indian and gave him a discount. She had said he was “cute like a puppy”, which he took as an insult at the time. He had been too frightened to pleasure himself as well, and he was overcome by horniness every time he saw a woman in the city. They were so pretty here… So glamorous.
“You are handsome like an eagle, and I want to pretend you are a woman,” Tekaronhonte whispered into Eagle’s ear. “I do not normally do this. I do not do it anywhere but here. In this apartment, there are no women, so we take care of each other.”
“You mean everyone does this?”
Tekaronhonte nodded. “Do not tell anyone. It is against the white man’s rules, and we do not speak of it-” He pecked Eagle on the cheek.
“So what do I do?” Eagle asked. He inhaled of Tekaronhonte’s musk, and his kisses traveled down Tekaronhonte’s neck to his powerful chest.
“You may pleasure me,” Tekaronhonte said. He bristled. “I will not do the same to you. I am older, stronger, better at work. I will not do it.”
“That, uh, doesn’t seem fair,” Eagle said.
“Then say no.” Tekaronhonte paused and flared his nostrils. When Eagle didn’t say no, he kissed him again. He ran his hands through the long silken hair that ringed Eagle’s head.
Eagle’s mind whirred as he thought of ways to tell Tekaronhonte that he only wanted to do this if Tekaronhonte reciprocated, but Eagle knew that was a hollow threat. It had been so long since anyone touched him intimately — and even longer since anyone had touched it without being paid — that he realized only as Tekaronhonte reached into his shorts how much he wanted this to happen.
Now that he was listening for it, Eagle thought he might have heard two men doing something similar in one of the bedrooms as well. There was some moist kissing and suckling sounds. In the dark apartment, he saw hands reaching under blankets, tented fabric deliberately shaped to conceal erections, he heard the thump-thump of vigorous masturbation, and he smelled the cottony-sour scent of precum.
They were all getting off. Had they been doing that all this time, since Eagle had moved in here? Maybe. Eagle was so focused on his own experiences he hadn’t noticed, and he had been so tired he fell asleep right away. He awoke later than the others. Perhaps he had missed it.
Eagle was glad that he shared a living room with Tekaronhonte, who was in good shape and healthy. He was tall, broad-shouldered, smooth-skinned, and he had his hair pulled back into a long ponytail. He had a square, jutting jaw and a face lined with just a few wrinkles that came from his age — he was nearly forty.
But right now all Eagle could feel was his awe-striking muscles. Tekaronhonte had been a construction worker for a long time, so his body had grown as thick and as solid as the steel he worked with every day. He looked like he was skinny by nature, and his muscles barely fit within his frame.
In comparison, Eagle was lean and wiry. He was strong, but he was not anywhere’s near as big as Tekaronhonte. He was dwarfed by the bigger man’s powerful arms.
As Tekaronhonte pulled away from Eagle’s mouth, he pulled down his underwear. A big, half-hard cock flopped out. All Eagle could see in the darkness was a thick silhouette, which made his mouth water. He was glad that he was in the dark so no one — not even Tekaronhonte — could see that Eagle was eager to taste it.
Then Tekaronhonte pushed his cocktip into Eagle’s mouth. It was a little sour, very salty and had a faintly sweet aftertaste that made Eagle want more and more. He opened his mouth as wide as it would go so he could swallow every inch of that throbbing meat.
Tekaronhonte groaned but muffled the sound. It seemed that the men in the bedroom had finished whatever they were doing, so the only sound Eagle heard now was Tekaronhonte’s arousal and the heavy breathing of Benjamin, who was asleep in the hall near (the much quieter and slimmer) Delisle. Eagle was glad now that he wasn’t with Benjamin, who might also want to blow a nut off but he was fat and mean, so Eagle wouldn’t have wanted to do it.
He hadn’t realized how much he wanted Tekaronhonte until this started, but now Eagle couldn’t imagine making love to anyone else. He loved the feeling of Tekaronhonte’s massive cock plowing into his throat over and over.
Eagle gagged out of instinct as his throat cried out for a break and for air, but he didn’t want to stop. He loved how Tekaronhonte’s cock throbbed and pulsated, leaking precum down Eagle’s throat and coating his lips and chin with it. Eagle could feel the pleasure emanating throughout Tekaronhonte’s body; he could sense it as though it was his own pleasure, in the tensing of Tekaronhonte’s muscles and the dappling of sweat that appeared on his chest and shoulders.
Finally Tekaronhonte pulled out of Eagle’s mouth, cock flopped over his face and leaving a layer of moist flavor there. Eagle wasn’t sure what was about to happen — or rather, he did know what Tekaronhonte was going to want next, but Eagle was too nervous to think about it.
“Sssh… Do not worry,” Tekaronhonte whispered as though he had read Eagle’s mind. “When it happens in New York City, it does not count.”
“Yes, Tekaronhonte. Please do it.”
“Do not be ashamed. You are just showing respect. You are being respectful. It is appropriate,” Tekaronhonte said. He kissed Eagle on the back of the neck.
Eagle was on his belly now on the floor. He quivered and his whole body tightened just from the fear of what was about to happen — he knew he was going to do it, he wanted to see how it felt and he accepted Tekaronhonte’s promise that it wouldn’t count here in New York.
But in the Army, Eagle had been taught that the most humiliating thing a man can do is accept another man’s penis in his ass. But Mohawks did not see it the same way, and Eagle wanted it in this moment more than he had ever wanted to have sex with a woman. Tekaronhonte’s cock would feel so good in his ass.
That was why Eagle firmly wanted to try it now, despite remaining nervous about what it would be like. He had to admit he enjoyed the feel of Tekaronhonte’s strapping chest muscles rubbing against Eagle’s back as they both got in position. Tekaronhonte was hard and firm, and his cock was likewise, poking like a battering ram at Eagle’s buttcheeks and thighs.
“Lift your butt,” Tekaronhonte said softly, his hand caressed Tekaronhonte’s ass. Tekaronhonte placed a couch cushion underneath Eagle’s belly, then bent Eagle over it, raising his ass up. “I have bear grease.”
Eagle didn’t know why that mattered. No one in New York even used bear grease. Back in the village, bear grease was used mainly in making soap, though bears were scarce in that area nowadays. The gamy smell of it filled Eagle’s nostrils and reminded him of home.
But he figured out the reason for Tekaronhonte using it moments later, when a bolt of pain ran up his spine. Tekaronhonte’s cock squeezed into his ass painfully.
The agony soon diminished, however, as the bear grease did its work. It made Eagle’s entire ass, and Tekaronhonte’s crotch, so slippery Eagle thought he couldn’t have sat down now if he wanted to, he would have just slid right over the floor like a hockey puck. A potent sensation erupted in his ass.
He bit his lip and gasped. The pain was mostly gone, but there was still an intense, not entirely comfortable pressure. He oomphed and his face turned red.
A twinge of pain did hit him then, not too much but enough to make Eagle clench his teeth and suck in his breath. His whole body undulated beneath Tekaronhonte’s heft, his muscles flexing as he gently forced his cock up Eagle’s asshole.
Just when Eagle was about to tell Tekaronhonte to stop, his body relaxed some, and a wave of pleasure flowed through him. Tekaronhonte’s cock sank the rest of the way in, and Eagle felt Tekaronhonte’s balls slap on Eagle’s smooth ass. There was a sensitive spot deep in his behind, and, when Tekaronhonte’s cock touched it, Eagle felt a twang of desire ring out within him.
He lifted his head and gasped. He had to force himself to breathe as the mind-melting pressure and the overwhelming pleasure combined to make his entire mind and body shut down. His lungs clawed for air even though nothing prevented him from breathing — he was just experiencing so much that he didn’t have any real control over his body now.
He went limp, which turned out to be the key to make this feel as good as possible, for both himself and for Tekaronhonte. His limbs were like jelly, his muscles soft, in stark contrast to Tekaronhonte’s stony, hairless body. It felt like a smooth and warm statue slamming onto Eagle’s back and ass over and over again, like Tekaronhonte was made out of granite and Eagle himself was made of nothing more substantial than bear grease.
The bear grease splashed and slipped all over Eagle’s body. He could taste it and smell it now, since it had clung to Tekaronhonte’s hands as his fingers roamed over Eagle’s flesh. He could taste its astringent bitterness, the thick, billowy aroma that was so intense it felt physical, like Eagle could grab clouds of the scent. It smelled like bear-meat and smoke and a little like lipstick, Eagle thought — it reminded him of that French prostitute. She had been so beautiful, but Eagle was glad she wasn’t here; he was glad he hadn’t hired a whore in New York; he was glad to be rammed by Tekaronhonte instead.
At some point, Eagle’s cock had gotten so hard it felt like it was going to burst, and each thrust of Tekaronhonte’s manhood inside him only brought Eagle closer and closer to orgasm. He cried out for more, only for Tekaronhonte to shush him.
When Eagle felt Tekaronhonte’s imminent climax, he was glad. He enjoyed the feeling of giant cockmeat sliding into him, and he loved how it stimulated every inch of his insides, but Eagle was ready to be done. He still hoped he wasn’t seen by the others — no matter how normal and acceptable it was here and even if their roommates did the same thing, Eagle wanted to be able to deny it had happened.
But then Tekaronhonte grunted like he did not approve of something, as his hand stretched around Eagle’s delicate body. He caressed Eagle’s chest muscles — which were basically nonexistent compared to Tekaronhonte’s powerful pecs — and then lowered his hand to Eagle’s cock.
“I will give you pleasure,” Tekaronhonte said as though it was a rare and special gift, which, Eagle supposed, it probably was.
Almost immediately, Eagle could feel his orgasm rising. It grew a little more potent with each downstroke of Tekaronhonte’s hand, when it was all the way at the base of Eagle’s cock. Shivers of desire flowed through Eagle’s body.
It felt like he was being penetrated by all of Tekaronhonte’s muscles; Eagle could feel each muscle fiber flexing and stretching atop his back, intertwining with his limbs. Eagle felt so good he gasped and couldn’t muffle the sound in time — he hoped no one else in the apartment was awake.
His toes curled and his fingers tightened into claws that grabbed at the floor beneath him. His face was bright red, his back covered in both his own sweat and Tekaronhonte’s, which clung to Eagle’s skin. He didn’t get why people acted like this was bad, it certainly didn’t feel bad, Eagle thought. He went with the flow, moving in sync with Tekaronhonte’s cock. He enjoyed the sensation, and he wanted to make it last.
“I am going to fill you up now, boy,” Tekaronhonte said. His deep voice boomed in Eagle’s ear. In addition to hearing his promise, Eagle could feel Tekaronhonte’s words through his chest muscles throbbing against Eagle’s back.
Then it came. An orgasm overwhelmed them both at once. Eagle threw his head back and bit his lip to avoid screaming out his climax. The most intense pleasure of his life rocketed up and down his spine. He writhed, the sensation so good it felt bad, but then became so bad it felt good all over again. Eagle’s eyes bugged out.
Cum sprayed within him, great big wads of hot juice that coated Eagle’s insides. He felt its creaminess sinking into his flesh, spreading to every inch of his body. He sighed, and Tekaronhonte did so at the same time, like they were harmonizing together.
Eagle’s own load was big too — bigger than he thought he had ever shot before, though it was dark so he couldn’t quite tell. Tekaronhonte kept stroking his cock even as it became more and more sensitive, and every motion of Tekaronhonte’s hand on his shaft made Eagle writhe beneath Tekaronhonte’s body.
He had no idea how long it lasted. It felt like eons. Eagle was aware of nothing but Tekaronhonte’s slowly limpening cock in his ass, sending aftershocks of orgasmic bliss through Eagle’s body.
Then he pulled out, and the real world came rushing back to Eagle. Eagle’s sigh turned from an expression of intense excitement to incredible relief. His ass was briefly in pain again, but then Eagle relaxed.
He sank back into Tekaronhonte’s arms. The living room was cramped, so it was more comfortable to move closer to Tekaronhonte than to try to sleep by himself like he had done his first week here. He rested his head between Tekaronhonte’s bicep and his chest.
There, Eagle tasted his smooth, clean flesh and the fresh salty sweat that collected there. He inhaled of Tekaronhonte’s steely aroma. His delicate fingers rested on Tekaronhonte’s flat belly and bulging chest.
“Thank you, Tekaronhonte. I hope that was respectful enough for you.” Eagle shivered and looked around, realizing only now that the apartment was filled with writhing construction workers.
“It was. You are a very good boy. Very good respect,” Tekaronhonte said. “You will be a good construction worker. You will find that tomorrow, there is no fear in you. You are a real man.”
“That made me a real man?”
“The most enjoyable summer comes only on those warm days in the middle of winter,” Tekaronhonte said. He kissed Eagle on the cheek. “Do not tell anyone back on the reservation. It is… different there than it is here.”
“Okay.”
“Good. Sleep now. You will have to stretch in the morning, or your bottom will hurt very bad all day,” he said. “Now that you have shown respect, you will be expected to do a full day’s worth of men’s work on the tower tomorrow. Do not worry. You will be stronger, braver now.”
“Oh… I don’t feel braver.”
“When you are scared from now on, you can think of me,” Tekaronhonte said. “Now go to sleep.”
Eagle sighed and fell silent. He didn’t think that would work. He remembered the terror he felt every time he looked down. Tekaronhonte wasn’t going to make that fear go away.
But somehow, Eagle realized, that was exactly what happened. The next day, when Eagle thought of his fear and recalled his moments of terror on that tower, he had been overcome with panic again. He wanted to flee downstairs to the safety of the ground. Now though, he felt that Tekaronhonte would catch him if he fell. He could see the ground beneath him and the cars like bugs crawling along the crowded streets, and there was no fear in him.
Tekaronhonte was right. It worked. Eagle had no fear in the morning. He danced along those steel girders just like Tekaronhonte did.
And that night once again, Eagle smiled and nuzzled closer to Tekaronhonte, whose warm muscles rose and fell in sleep once more. Eagle kissed the side of his chest.
“Thank you, Tekaronhonte. I’m glad we’re roommates.”

The Cholo Bottoms

Anthony got it bad in prison, and he never thought his fortunes would be turned upside-down! That’s cuz the bad-ass cholo who hurt him is gonna hafta turn around and bend over, so that tiny twink Anthony gets to climb on top!

Read it now as an ebook! Or read the whole thing below!

When Anthony got out of the prison infirmary, he struggled to walk at all. The doctors had sewn up his cuts and got his bruising to go down, but he was still in intense pain with every step he took. That’s because he got cornholed, and it felt like his ass tore in half, like wet tissue paper, like he was being torn up all over again each time he stepped forward. The stairs were especially difficult to make it down.
Much to his surprise, the guards were kind. Officer Bignose in particular allowed him to walk back to his cell as slowly as he needed. Usually he pushed guys along, practically dragging anyone who didn’t hurry.
Anthony’s ramrod was named Franco, but he went by Sucio — a Spanish word that means “filthy or vulgar” and implies sexual perversion as well. He was tall, heavily tattooed from forehead to feet, broad-shouldered and meaty, strong as an ox. He had cornholed Anthony harder and harder until Anthony begged him to stop. He made Anthony lick the prison toilet seat; he stuck his assjuice-stained dick in Anthony’s mouth, and he pissed on his face. It was a tortuous experience.
Anthony certainly didn’t intend to wag his ass at any more cholos. He had thought he’d be able to get on Sucio’s good side by seducing him, but he didn’t know Sucio’s intense desire to remain uno hombre. His authoritarian manhood demanded he take charge of uno pasivo like Anthony.
But he was safe now. Anthony shared a cell with an elderly man, and he didn’t plan on leaving the cell any more than he had to. Sucio was sent to solitary confinement as punishment for the attack, so Anthony didn’t see him for a long time.
When he finally did return to the cell block on the same day Anthony did, Sucio made a kissy face as he walked by in chains, and the sight of that reawakened the lingering pain in Anthony’s ass. Shame flooded him, and he blushed as he looked down at his feet. Everybody knew Anthony was small and weak in comparison to Sucio, but he was still embarrassed for that to be made obvious. Officer Bignose led Sucio through the cell block. When they saw the kissy face, Bignose pulled on the manacle connected to Sucio’s legs, tripping him. He fell in a big bronze lump on the floor.
Sucio’s dingy white prison shorts and wifebeater were filthy with his sweat and raunch from his time cooped up in solitary. Anthony felt a surge of sexual desire, followed by shame. Anthony wished he could have serviced him in a consensual way. On the outside, he’d have said he wanted Sucio to ravage him. But it didn’t go how he had pictured it in his head. Anthony guessed that Sucio would never allow it — Sucio wouldn’t want to do it so Anthony enjoyed it. He was always going to do it harder than his victim wanted. His machismo demanded it.
“Come on out here,” Officer Bignose said, poking his head into the cell Anthony shared with the old man. Anthony had backed away from the door, not wanting Sucio to see him. Fear surged all over again as he wondered if Bignose’s kindness had only been a front for his true aim: retorturing Anthony by setting up another ramrodding. When Anthony didn’t respond right away, Bignose barked his order again, “Inmate Delunez, get the fuck out here right now!”
Anthony trembled but nodded and crept out of the cell. The cell block was having a Sunday afternoon indoors today, since it was raining outside. That meant dozens of men milled about, almost all of them vatos and cholos — Cell S99 was reserved for inmates associated with the Latin Kings. Anthony had only a glancing connection with them, which was why he had been turned out as Sucio’s bitch.
Bignose held a hand up, palm out, which made the cell block stop whispering. They all glared at Bignose. Anthony shivered with fear — was Bignose going to cornhole him now as well?
Outside of prison, Anthony hadn’t been a thug at all. He had only pledged himself to the Latin Kings because he was going in for a year and needed protection, and luckily his brother was a well-respected vato who could vouch for him. Of course, that hadn’t ended up mattering for very much.
“Listen up, you shitheaps. A lot of you are aware of what happened awhile ago. Inmate Delunez here was treated… poorly, to say the least-” Bignose was interrupted by a chorus of cheers and jeers from the assembled cholos, who yelled insults at Anthony. He blushed, especially when Sucio — standing nearby in chains — sneered at him. Someone pinched Anthony’s ass. Bignose whistled and demanded silence; everyone ignored him until he brought out the taser and brandished it. “Shut the fuck up! There’s a prison policy here we ain’t always followed. That’s because the victims are usually as bad as the perpetrators, but it’s a rule we got a right to enforce.”
“Fuck yo’ rules, esé!” Sucio said. He pumped his hips as though literally fucking Bignose’s rules. His dick-bulge shook in his prison shorts, and he rolled his tongue beneath his lips.
Bignose smiled at Sucio. He nodded to the other guards around him, and one of them jumped into action. Before Anthony could process the sudden turn of events, Sucio had a mouthguard placed on his face. Sucio roared and pulled away, but there were four guards on him, and they kept him in place, even forcing him to his knees. His complaints vanished into a wordless burst of syllables.
The mouthguard was a plain piece of plastic with wire forceps-like edges and a strap binding it to the face. It was made for prison dentists who couldn’t otherwise safely put their hands near the inmates’s mouths. Sucio tried to spit but with his jaw stuck pried apart, all he could do was sputter and writhe in the muscular guards’s arms.
“The rule that we’re going to enforce from now on,” Officer Bignose said with a cruel smile, “is that prison tops get bottomed.”
Total silence filled the room. Then there was a torrent of shouting, angry Spanish and vituperative English — a few of them were in support of the policy, it seemed, but many were against it, and some just wanted to watch the world burn. A few of the inmates rushed towards Bignose as though going to fight him, but Bignose flipped his taser on and they backed off when the sound of electricity crackling hit the air.
Silence once again fell over the cell block.
“Now, not all you alpha cholos are gonna get it up the ass. I ain’t got no interest in that,” Bignose said. “But if yer bitch complains, then I’m gonna let him treat you the same way you got treated. That’s how we gonna decide what’s consensual or not. If your bitch is upset enough to file a complaint, he’s gonna get to climb on top of yer stupid ass. Inmate Delunez here is gonna be first.” He smiled at Anthony, and extended his arm like a fancy butler unveiling an expensive dish.
It all happened so fast that Anthony only realized what was happening right now, as he stepped towards Sucio. The inmates mostly quieted down. None of them really loved Sucio, after all. Bignose had no doubt started off with what seemed like terrible news in order to be sure they’d be supportive and happy when he backed up into a less atrocious rule.
Anthony blushed as he took his dick out. He had been showering with these men, and occasionally jerking them off, for more than a month before Sucio attacked him, so this wasn’t the first time they had seen his dick. But he was still self-conscious knowing that they were looking at him now, and no doubt comparing his dick to theirs — when he was just another prison punk, they avoided looking at his manhood; his ass and his mouth were his only body parts that mattered.
But now his rather thick dick was the center of attention. Anthony had never felt smaller, despite the grande size of his meat. Sucio roared as he tried to pull away, but the guards kept him on his knees. His chest and shoulders were soaked with sweat, which made his wifebeater stick to his flesh. His muscles strained the fabric.
¡Destrozar el culo! ¡Que sea sangrienta!
Anthony chuckled as he flopped his limp dick onto Sucio’s face, his heart racing — this felt so dangerous, even if it wasn’t. Sucio’s face was heavily tattooed, seven tears dripping from his eyes (which meant he had murdered seven people, and the fact that one of the tears was colored red meant that one of those seven was either a cop or a snitch).
¡Su garganta es su culo!
Sucio flinched and writhed. He breathed heavily, drool dripping past his lips. It was obvious he was trying to say something but couldn’t with his mouth pried open. All he could do was champ up moutfuls of saliva.
“You ever tasted cock before, bitch?” Anthony asked, simply because the silence made this all more intense, and he felt a need to do something to break the tension. The pain in his ass was gone now, and he smiled as the cholos filling the cell block burst into laughter and applause. Sucio was a powerful gangbanger, and though they were all nominally allied with him, no one liked him — now that he was a bitch, they’d treat him like one, which meant everyone here could move up a rung in the Latin Kings hierarchy.
Fuck ‘is throat, Anthony. Make him choke! ¡Hacer que se ahogue!
Anthony pushed his dick into Sucio’s big, wide mouth. His moist tongue shook as though trying to find a place to hide, but Anthony just pushed his dick all the way in to the root in one smooth motion — Sucio was big enough to swallow a lot of meat. Sucio retched and gagged, a big ball of spit dripping down his chin and onto his wifebeater.
“Keep your eyes open, puta!” Anthony said. He pounded on his thin twinky chest. This was exactly how Sucio had treated him, so he enjoyed returning the favor. “Bitches should look in they owners’ eyes. I wanna see yo’ stupid bitch face suffocating on my cock, esé.”
He rammed his dick in all the way, even lifting one leg to hump his face like a dog. The mouthguard on Sucio’s face pinched at his jaw whenever he tried to open it, so his mouth was open as wide as it would go — every time he stretched it a little wider, the mouthguard didn’t allow it to go back without pinching into his gums.
Anthony rubbed the Gothic lettering tattooed on Sucio’s forehead — Latin Kings por vida, it read. He spat right onto that tattoo, and when he saw that Sucio shook and gagged, he did it again. He spat on Sucio’s nose and hocked up a big loogie, which he plopped into Sucio’s mouth.
This felt so good that Anthony would have gladly kept going until he came. But he felt his orgasm coming and he knew Officer Bignose wouldn’t hold Sucio down again, at least not unless Sucio cornholed him again. So Anthony decided to go after him in the ass while he could.
After all, he wasn’t gonna get more chances to ramrod a muscle-bound alpha like Sucio.
There were now five guards holding Sucio down. One was on each limb (which were also manacled), and one kept him in a bear hug from behind. That one behind Sucio winced like he was disgusted when Anthony pulled out of Sucio’s mouth — he was awfully close to the action, getting splashed. Anthony blushed, still unused to being the center of attention.
The guard with Sucio in a bear hug leaned onto his back, forcing Sucio onto his back as well, his big body resting on the guard’s chest. He squirmed but with his chained arms and legs held by the other quartet of guards, there was little Sucio could do.
Officer Bignose pulled on the chains of Sucio’s legs and attached them to the wall nearby. That forced Sucio’s legs up. Anthony pulled those dingy prison-issued boxers up, revealing a thick and meaty ass coated in kinky black hairs and amateur tattoos. His cheeks quivered and tensed — he was clenching his ass.
Not that that was gonna stop Anthony.
When Anthony saw that cock again, he knew he was going to stroke Sucio off — both because he genuinely wanted to, and because he knew he could get Sucio hard in front of the entire cell block. Nothing would be more humiliating than treating Sucio like a bitch and making him like it, in front of every cholo in this joint.
There was a Salvadoran flag tattooed right on Sucio’s dick, its blue and white stripes waving in unseen wind. Anthony gave it a stroke while just resting his dick at the entrance to Sucio’s ass.
“You want this real bad, donchu?” Anthony asked, then repeated it loud enough that he could be heard over the hoots and hollers of the other inmates.
¡Si, él realmente quiere!
Sucio’s body roiled and writhed. He struggled against the guards holding him down, but there was nothing he could do, especially on his back with his legs in the air — he was like a turtle stuck on its back.
“You ever took it in the ass before?” Anthony asked. Sucio shook his head and heaved out some indecipherable syllables, but Anthony couldn’t understand him. He cupped one hand behind his ear as though asking Sucio to speak up. The inmates behind him all roared their approval of Sucio’s humiliation. Anthony smiled and said, in an overly loud voice, “Oh, you loved getting rammed by sumisos?! Well, I got exactly what you want! Don’t worry, I’ll ram you again whenever you want. You just let me know.”
He rammed one finger in Sucio’s ass, keeping his dick right there so Sucio could feel it. His other hand remained on Sucio’s cockshaft, lightly stroking it — it was just a bit hard right now, no doubt more from anxiety than actual arousal.
Sucio arched his back and clenched his ass when Anthony’s pinkie entered him. Anthony laughed and smacked him on the asscheek, over and over until Sucio let go of his clenching for just a second, long enough that Anthony could ram his pinkie all the way in.
The sweat drenched Sucio’s body now, soaking those guards who held him down. They looked like they regretted agreeing to this — they probably enjoyed the idea of holding a giant cholo like Sucio down while he got cornholed — Sucio had been insulting and threatening them for years, after all — but now realized that the actuality of it was more difficult and less satisfying than they had predicted beforehand. His sweaty muscles and coarse black hairs rubbed all over their bodies, especially the burly redneck guard who held onto Sucio’s bare back.
“Gonna get that ass to open up one way or another…” Anthony shouted over the din — that was another thing Sucio had said over and over while cornholing Anthony hard. Anthony did it the same way Sucio had, by strangling him.
His thin, delicate fingers gripped Sucio by the neck and squeezed, just hard enough to make him heave and writhe. It was a sudden enough surprise that his ass unclenched when Anthony let go a moment later, and Anthony rammed his ring finger in alongside his pinkie. Sucio breathlessly gasped, his tongue writhing in his mouth as he tried to shout.
Anthony had been so focused on watching Sucio’s agony that he hadn’t really taken a moment to savor the fingering. With two fingers now in Sucio’s virgin ass, he wiggled them. He loved that tight moistness and he especially enjoyed how Sucio’s dick pulsated in his hands now that Anthony was on his prostate.
“Muy apretado…” Anthony said with a slow smile. The other inmates rushed forward to either join in or clap Anthony on the back, but Officer Bignose waved them away.
He rammed his fingers in and out, each thrust making Sucio contort. His muscles were pulling the guards this way and that as they held him down — they couldn’t quite keep him from moving, but they could keep him from getting up. His chains rattled loud enough to be heard over the roar of the crowd of inmates.
Then Anthony pulled out. He pushed his dick in before Sucio’s ass had time to clench again, but Anthony didn’t want to go too fast. He just put the tip of his dick in and held on as Sucio flexed all over. Motionless, Anthony bit back his burgeoning climax, so he could drag this out.
Pain rattled up and down Sucio’s body; Anthony could see it in the undulating tension in his muscles, which tightened and loosened in waves from his trunk-like thighs to his broad muscles. Those muscles clenched his ass as though to grip Anthony’s cock.
“Taste some ass, puta!” Anthony shouted, too aroused to think of anything wittier to say. He wished he could — Sucio had thought of lots of (relatively) clever insults and threats to shout as he had fucked Anthony, but Anthony couldn’t think of a single one right now. He just laughed as he pushed his ass-slickened fingers into Sucio’s mouth.
Sucio sputtered and gagged as soon as he tasted his own ass. He spat the best he could with an open mouth, but Anthony just wiped his fingers off on Sucio’s tongue, groaning as he slid a few more inches of his manhood into Sucio’s behind.
“You feel it in you, bitch?” Anthony asked. “Huh? You feel my dick in you?”
Sucio shook his head, throwing his neck back and forth. He wasn’t really saying no, probably didn’t even hear Anthony’s question, but Anthony decided to take it as a no.
“Oh, okay, I’ll ram you harder then, so you can feel it!” Anthony said. He smiled as the cholos behind him screamed their approval.
Make ‘im bleed, Anthony! Wreck his ass!
Anthony pistoned his hips, slamming his dick the rest of the way in. He pushed his cock all the way to the root, which made Sucio arch his back. He gasped and choked on the fingers Anthony still kept in his mouth.
Then Anthony remained still for a moment, working on Sucio’s dick. It was rock-hard, but he gathered that Sucio wasn’t even aware; he was in too much pain to notice his erection. Anthony used both hands on the meaty, uncut shaft, then cupped his low-hanging balls. He gathered up all the sweat from Sucio’s own crotch and then wiped it over Sucio’s tongue, which stuck out of his mouth like a panting dog.
He wanted to really humiliate Sucio by making him cum with a dick all the way up his guts. So he stimulated Sucio’s prostate while stroking off his manhood.
The tension was so great that it was actually quite easy — Sucio was too distracted to fight against it, so his body’s instinctual arousal was enough to send him right over the line. His orgasm was painful, bringing tears to his eyes as his asshole clenched around Anthony’s rampaging dick.
Cum sprayed over Sucio’s chest and belly. He blushed a bright red as the other inmates, his fellow gangmates, all roared their shocked approval. Some of the cum missed Sucio’s body and landed on the face of the guard holding onto his right arm, who flinched but didn’t pull away even as the semen dripped down his lips.
Anthony pumped his biceps over Sucio’s body. He knew he looked ridiculous, since he was acting like he had overpowered Sucio when he was actually about a third Sucio’s size. But it felt good to be victorious — Anthony hadn’t felt like a real man since even before Sucio plowed him.
Gathering that the guards were losing patience and weren’t going to hold Sucio down for much longer, Anthony decided to finish up. He had been on the verge of orgasm pretty much since this began, so he focused his energy on going hard. His hands sopped up all that cum and wiped it off on Sucio’s tongue, making Sucio retch, writhe and clench down on Anthony’s dick.
The pain must have been excruciating; Anthony knew well that getting plowed with a clenched asshole was excruciating, and Anthony wasn’t even using lube besides Sucio’s own spit, so it was no doubt tortuous. He rammed his dick back and forth, cackling with laughter as Sucio heaved for breath, gagging on his own cum which he couldn’t wipe away. Anthony made sure that what semen that did leak out his mouth got smeared all over his tattooed face.
When his orgasm finally hit, Anthony pulled out — a part of him wanted to cum inside Sucio’s guts, which would have been humiliating for him, turning his culo into a panocha. But it would have been invisible to all the men watching.
So he pulled out instead. Sucio breathed a deep sigh until he saw that Anthony aimed for his face. He gagged again even before Anthony had made it to his head, a potent orgasm rocketing through Anthony’s body. His dick was more slimy than he had ever seen it — Sucio’s ass had really reacted to the hardcore fucking, excreting copious fluids that clung to his cockshaft.
He managed to get his dick in Sucio’s mouth just moments before he came. Sucio wretched and writhed, and spat up a big ball of bile that just leaked out over his face. Anthony groaned as the orgasm finally hit him. His little lithe body writhed, ass clenching and fingers gripping Sucio’s face tightly.
Anthony had never seen someone retch so badly. He shot a huge load right into Sucio’s gullet, but Sucio just spat it right back up. Cum dripped from his lips and coated his face, alongside that slimy assjuice that Anthony brought back from Sucio’s hole. His face was shiny with fluids, eyes scrunched up and flashing bright.
A long, loud sigh escaped from Anthony’s lips as he finally fell limp. His knees buckled, the orgasm so intense he could barely support himself. He used Sucio’s meaty belly for support, and he tweaked Sucio’s nipples.
Finally the guards — disgusted by all the fluids that had leaked to every inch of Sucio’s body — slipped away. Sucio dropped to the ground and landed with a thud. He writhed and rolled over, groaning as he tried to get to his feet. He winced in pain every time he moved, just like Anthony had when he had been led away from the infirmary.
Officer Bignose grabbed the chain attached to Sucio’s neck and pulled until Sucio could do nothing more than pull against the chain, n his knees. Bignose pulled the mouthguard off and Sucio screamed a litany of Spanish insults. He couldn’t reach his face to wipe off.
“Shut your mouth, or we’re all gonna ram you!” Bignose said. Sucio couldn’t breathe with his chain pulled taut, so he soon had no choice but to fall silent. Bignose cleared his throat. “I’m gonna take you back to solitary to chill out for awhile. You’re a bitch now. You’ll have to accept that.” The other inmates roared their approval, but Bignose waved them quiet with one hand. “Now thank Inmate Delunez.” Sucio pulled against the chain again as he growled, but Bignose snapped it tight. Sucio sputtered, spit dripping past his lips. Bignose smiled. “Thank him.” When Sucio didn’t respond right away, Bignose whispered something in his ear.
Sucio blanched. “Thank you… Anthony,” he said through gritted teeth. “I… am alegre you done ram me.”
“Why, you’re welcome, Sucio, de nada. Anytime, I’d be alegre to ram you again.” Anthony held his hand up.
Sucio narrowed his eyes but kissed Anthony’s hand like a suitor wooing his girl. Anthony giggled at the sight of his big cholo body being dragged away. The other inmates clapped Anthony on the back, congratulating him and Anthony’s red face smiled.
The pain in his ass had diminished entirely, and Anthony was beginning to think his prison stay might not be as bad as it had initially seemed. He wondered if he could afford to buy a bitch, and if so, he knew exactly which one it would be. Anthony strode back to his cell like a returning champion.

Deep on the Downlow

When the legendary boxer Thumper White is released from prison, he never thought he’d be rooming up with a doe-eyed prettyboy named Rico! Neither of them will ever be the same. That’s cuz Thumper gets horny sometimes, and he don’t take no for an answer when it comes from a darkskin slice of handsome pie with a pile of alluring frowns on top!

Can Rico handle Thumper’s brand of downlow love?!

Read it now!

The Drunkard at the Saloon

When a cruel and rugged cowboy gets drunk at a saloon, the town pansy is called to give him a taste of something more savory than whiskey! The cowboy is Alfie, a muscle-bound bully, and the pansy is Simon, who’s ready to get his rocks off whether Alfie wants it or not!

Can Alfie take the twink-on-ranchhand pounding that Simon is fixin’-a dole out?!

Read it now as an ebook! Or continue below for the whole story!

Simon was a dandy, in the parlance of the time. Lotta fellers in these parts discottoned to dandies, so Simon thought it might be a trap when Bud Mitchum came to see him. Bud worked at the only saloon in the town of Cheyenne in Wyoming Territory.
“Reckon I needs a favor you might could enjoy givin’,” Bud said, his voice low and hesitant. He avoided making eye contact.
Simon batted his eyes and shook his ass for Bud’s benefit. Bud blushed, his mustache bristling.
“That sounds exciting,” Simon said. A lot of the men here in Cheyenne were willing to let Simon service them on account of there being no women around. Bud never had done so, however. That made Simon eager to see what he wanted. “But don’t just assume I’ll jerk you off just cuz you want it, I have standards and you hafta earn it-”
Bud wrinkled his nose and jumped to interrupt him. “No! It ain’t like that. I… I is too muchuva gentleman to say it out loud, Simon. Jest come wit’ me. You’ll enjoy it, fo’ sho’re.”
He turned on his heels and walked away with military precision, a legacy of his time in the Union Army during the Civil War. Simon had always thought Bud was appealing, in a short and lanky kind of way, but he had always been too strait-laced to let Simon service him. Wondering and hoping if maybe that was what Bud was offering, Simon hurried after him. He barely had time to put his hickory shirt on before following Bud into the center of town.
That was where Lipsweet was, near Mr. Corrente’s apothecary on the main street. It was after one o’clock in the morning, so the apothecary was closed, of course, and Lipsweet was quiet and dark as well. It was deserted, but the smell of drunken cowboys lingered. It seemed to have been a good night, Simon thought, and he was disappointed no one came to get him. Normally at least one desperate gold-prospector or cowboy would come see him at the end of the night, but lately things had changed.
A prostitute named Maryanne had shown up a few days ago. She was all the rage in Cheyenne, which meant Simon had been left behind. He was trying not to get jealous. Whores like Maryanne usually disappeared pretty soon, so Simon thought he’d be back to his old tricks quickly enough.
“There he is,” Bud said. He pointed to a young cowboy sitting on a chair in the corner. Bud curled up his lip. “Tarnations! Alfie! Alfie!”
Alfie startled and woke up then, bleary-eyed and sweaty. He said something, but his drunkenness was so advanced all that came out was an incomprehensible blur of syllables. It was something like mussu hulifu to Simon’s ears.
Alfie was a local cowboy, one who had a reputation for being a drunk and a bully. He had a huge cock that he let Simon jerk off once before, though he had been mean the entire time and he even punched Simon when it was all over. He robbed and stole, and he had been perpetually on the verge of being run out of town. The only reason Sheriff Torkelson hadn’t ever done so was that Alfie worked on the Goodman ranch, which was big — Mr. Goodman had a lot of pull in this town. Alfie helped him enforce order among the farmworkers, ranchhands and cowboys who worked for him.
Simon had heard legends of how Alfie kept order there. He had always dismissed it as mere rumor, but he liked imagining it on cold and sleepless nights — supposedly, Alfie made men who displeased him bend over and grab their ankles. Alfie rammed his massive meat inside them and tore them up from head to toe. When they recovered and could walk again, they always worked a hundred times harder to prevent another occurrence of the same punishment.
But Simon didn’t think that was true, or maybe it had happened one time and the rumor mill had turned it into a nearly daily event. But now Alfie was passed out, and Simon wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do about that.
“You want me to take him back to the Goodman farm?”
“What? Can you? If you can-“
“No, obviously not. Am I supposed to carry him? He’s three times my size,” Simon said with a laugh. “I couldn’t lift his arm up.”
Bud furrowed his brow. “Yeah, that wasn’t my plan. I just want you to teach him a lesson he won’t soon forget.
“Uh… He doesn’t look like he’s in a receptive mood to learn a lesson,” Simon said. He chuckled, then his eyes went wide as he saw Bud’s expectant expression on his face. Simon realized then that Bud was asking him to plow Alfie, just like Alfie was rumored to plow farmhands and cowboys. “Oh,” Simon said. “Are you… serious?”
“I told him it would gonna happen. If’n he passed out in my bar again, I’s gonna shove somethin’ up his ass. That’s what I said. I told him that. I warned him, a buncha times, over and over,” he said. “Sheriff Torkelson said I can do whatever I want-“
“Mr. Goodman?”
“As long as he can still work tomorruh, Mr. Goodman don’t care either. I… I heard he hit you and called you names,” Bud said. “He’s always mean to me. I j’st don’t know what else to do. I can’t let him sit in here all night, he’ll just piss all over the place, then wake up and demand free booze again. I’ll have to get the Sheriff in here to kick him out. That’s been happening nearly every morning for weeks. You can humiliate him, Simon. Make him wake up with… y’know… gom on his face.”
Simon shrugged. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of plowing a man who was nearly unconscious, but he wanted to try it. If he was ever going to, this bulging-muscled farmboy with a square jaw and grizzled chin was his ideal target.
He approached Alfie, who was slumped over the wooden table now. His face was buried in his meaty arms, but he was clearly not asleep. He stirred every few seconds, and he seemed to be chewing on his own arm. He might have thought it was some body part of a woman.
“Mo’ ‘um…” he said, lifting his head up suddenly. His eyes were big and wet, and at first Simon thought he was crying, then realized it was laughter. It was silent, like he barely breathed, but he was still laughing at something that happened before or maybe just a thousand in his head. He said that a few more times, “Mo’ ‘um…” Simon eventually reckoned it was more rum, and he grabbed a nearly empty bottle of rum off the bar.
“I’ll be… in my room,” Bud said. “Please tell me when you’re done.” He looked sickly as he disappeared into the back of the bar. Then he poked his head out and said, “You can finish off that bottle, give him the rest if you want, Simon, but no more than that.”
“Sure, fine,” Simon said. He drank a bit straight from the bottle. It was fine, sweet Barbadian rum. He showed it to Simon, who uselessly grabbed for it, his meaty bare arm shaking. His biceps were as big as Simon’s face, but he couldn’t reach the bottle now. His hands flailed around far from the bottle., which Simon dangled above his head. “Take off your clothes, Alfie, and I’ll let you have a drink from the bottle.”
Alfie grumbled and mumbled. He unbuttoned his shirt but was too uncoordinated to be successful at it. He became frustrated and ripped the shirt. Buttons flew everywhere. Then he pulled his undershirt over his head, only to again be stymied by a lack of coordination. He ended up with the shirt covering his face but stuck, and he banged his head on the table as he roared in frustration. He almost fell to the floor. His frustration gave way to hysterical laughter.
Finally he managed to get the shirt off. His hairy barrel chest gleamed with sweat. He continued to speak, but Simon didn’t understand a word he was saying. He grabbed for the bottle and Simon pushed his hand away. Alfie fell back into his chair, as though he didn’t realize he could simply overpower Simon.
“Lemme see your dick. Drop your trousers,” Simon said, shaking one finger at him like a schoolmarm. Alfie was drunk enough to be suggestible, and he reacted as though Simon was an authority figure he had to obey. It wasn’t clear if he recognized Simon at all. Alfie blushed and stood on swaying legs. He dropped his leather britches and the smell of his crotch hit Simon’s senses. It was a musty and warm scent that made Simon excited to get going.
Then he saw Alfie’s big slab of meat. Simon had jerked him off in the alley behind this very bar, but he had never seen it in good light. He whistled his approval and licked his lips. It was nearly a foot long and as thick as a small man’s forearm.
Using a big brandy glass so it would be hard to gauge exactly how much was in there, Simon poured him a bit of rum. It wasn’t much. Alfie looked at it cross-eyed as though he had no idea what it was, then he drank it and gurgled appreciatively.
“There you go, good job, Alfie,” Simon said. He kept his voice kind and feminine, both because it was easier for him and because he didn’t want to accidentally provoke Alfie into drunken rage. Simon wanted to get Alfie to take off Simon’s trousers as well, but he was such a fumbling fool right now that might have taken a long time and he might have ripped the fabric like he ripped his own shirt. Simon pulled off his own shirt and pants himself, shivering in the chilly night air.
“Szhin?” Alfie asked. He sounded hopeful. After he repeated it a few times, Simon reckoned he was asking for gin.
“Maybe in a bit, Alfie. First you need to do what you promised. You don’t want to be a welcher, right?”
“Nevuh…” He burped, and the rancid smell hit Simon on the face. Even though it smelled bad, the masculine aroma turned Simon on. He sat on the wooden table right in front of Alfie.
“You promised me you’d open your mouth for me? Do you remember that?”
He shook his head and furrowed his brow. He frowned. “Misshuh ‘oouhhn shay i’?” Again, Simon struggled to understand, then heard Mister Goodman said it?
“Yes! Mister Goodman said you have to do this,” Simon said. He cocked his head to the side. “Does Mister Goodman make you jerk him off?”
Alfie nodded glumly. He rolled his eyes. “He ish mean…”
“Ah, well… Yeah, it’s sort of an epidemic over there, I guess. I should start working for the Goodmans,” Simon said to himself. “I-“
“Yoo err too leetle,” Alfie said. He made a bicep with his right arm, which sent a thrill up Simon’s spine. He told Alfie to do it again, and Simon caressed those big muscles. He kissed each side of the bicep and licked the trail-dust and drying sweat off. Alfie giggled like a ticklish boy.
“Oh, you’re right. I couldn’t be a farmhand,” Simon said. He laughed along with Alfie, who was too drunk to keep laughing out loud, so he just chuckled quietly. He reached for the bottle of rum again but Simon kept it out of arm’s length. Alfie looked disappointed.
Simon scooted closer to the edge of the table. His feet rested on Alfie’s thighs, and his toes curled around those hairy trunk-like thigh muscles. His foot roamed forward to Alfie’s dick, which was limp and clammy but jumped into life as soon as he touched it. He stroked the shaft with his toes, and Simon closed his eyes as Alfie groaned.
Taking Alfie’s hand in his, Simon guided it to his own dick. Alfie looked on as though it was happening to someone else. He laughed nervously when his hand wrapped around Simon’s dick. He stroked it slowly and lowered his head.
“Good, I’ll tell Mister Goodman you did a good job,” Simon said. “Now lower your head.”
Alfie had definitely done this before, Simon realized — Mr. Goodman must have demanded his mouth before, no doubt as a condition of remaining in his employ. That was why Goodman refused to fire him no matter what. Alfie lowered his head and swallowed Simon’s dick to the root. He was so big his throat was cavernous, and it slid right in.
He gagged as soon as it touched his tongue, but that didn’t slow him down at all. His giant head had to stretch to get that low — he was so much taller than Simon that it was difficult to get his head down to Simon’s crotch even with Simon sitting on the table in front of him.
Intense pleasure rolled up Simon’s spine as his cock disappeared in Alfie’s maw and Simon’s nose rammed into his crotch hair. He gasped and guided Alfie’s head. It was not an expert job — it was sloppy and clumsy — but it was not that bad, and the awkwardness of it made it even more intense in Simon’s mind. His dick straightened and stiffened right away, and Alfie gagged with every motion of his head.
Despite his apparent dislike for the taste of Simon’s dick, Alfie didn’t resist at all, which Simon assumed was because he had been jerking off his boss for awhile. It seemed he was drunk enough that once he got started, he continued without giving it much thought, even as his body choked and rejected the cock in his mouth.
“Oh damn…” Simon’s voice broke.
Alfie’s scruffy chin scratched at Simon’s flesh as he jerked, his chiseled jaw stretching to get Simon’s thickness in his mouth. His tongue slathered spit up and down the shaft, though Simon could perceive the drunken awkwardness even in the motion of his tongue as it pleasured him — even the man’s tongue was drunk. Simon’s hips flexed, humping that magnificent square jaw.
Simon was shocked at how goood it felt, despite Alfie’s drunkenness and lack of desire.
“If you get the whole thing in your throat and hold it there for five seconds, I’ll pour you another drink,” Simon said. Alfie nodded, moisture twinkling in his eyes as he struggled for air. Then he did as Simon said, forcing his mouth all the way down on Simon’s dick. He gagged profusely as his nose nestled in Simon’s pubic hair. Simon held onto the thick mop of hair on his head as though he could force him to remain in place even though he was so much smaller than Alfie. Simon counted out five seconds but made it so slow it was closer to twenty seconds. “Good job, Alfie. Good boy.” Simon’s voice broke as his dick spasmed in Alfie’s throat.
Alfie retched up a big ball of saliva that landed on the table and dripped onto the floor. He took a deep breath when he finally pulled away again. Simon stepped forward, literally standing on the man’s thighs like a little boy hugging his father. He caressed those hairy chest muscles as he climbed up to Alfie’s shoulders.
With his fingers on Alfie’s forehead, Simon pushed his head back and then dropped his balls into Alfie’s mouth. Alfie again gagged when he jerked on those sweaty, hairy orbs. He coughed and sputtered, and Simon looked into those dark quivering eyes as he spread the saliva all over the man’s grizzled face.
Sensing that he was going to cum if he didn’t move on soon, Simon jumped down to the ground. He again poured Alfie a small drink of gin, which Alfie chugged before slamming the brandy glass back down on the table. In moments, Alfie seemed to have forgotten the disgust and shame he felt when jerking on Simon’s dick. He might have forgotten entirely what happened.
“Mo’ ‘um!” he said once again.
“You can have some more rum once you finish,” Simon said. “Get on your knees here on the floor, and bend over the chair.”
Alfie moved very slowly, on weak, hesitant knees. He dropped to the ground and bent over the chair he had just been sitting in. He didn’t seem to understand where this was going, so he just draped his arms and upper chest over the chair at first.
“No, you have to lean up,” Simon said, tugging on those massive arms. Alfie finally realized what he was supposed to do and crawled forward until his ass was in the air, again like a little boy, this time preparing to be spanked.
Simon hadn’t intended that, but his big hairy asscheeks beckoned, and Simon decided to give them a smack. He hit as hard as he could, making a loud slapping sound. But Alfie didn’t even seem to notice. He looked around the bar as though seeing it from this height was mesmerizing.
Simon slipped a finger between those hairy cheeks and found the man’s tight hole — though he noticed it wasn’t as tight as most normal men. He had been penetrated before, Simon thought, presumably by Mr. Goodman.
He pushed his finger in. Alfie yelped and squirmed, and his ass clenched around the finger. Simon sighed and used his free hand to caress Alfie’s strapping back muscles.
“Ah, ‘amm, a ooss,” Alfie said, insistently, as though it was very important. Simon made some supportive clucking sounds but didn’t both responding.
Alfie tried to sneak a hand up and grab the bottle of rum, which was virtually empty, but he moved so slow that Simon just grabbed it out of the way. He was going to put it on the floor, then took the neck and pushed it between those asscheeks.
“I’ll let you drink from the bottle, Alfie, but you gotta loosen up a bit,” he said. He swiped the neck of the bottle between those asscheeks and under the man’s sweaty ballsack. Alfie grunted and heaved, opening up his ass. Simon pushed the open neck into his asshole, and Alfie let out a pained snort. He banged his face into the wooden chair as he let out a howl of pain.
He ground his face into the wood while Simon pushed the bottle’s neck into his ass. When he pulled it out, the opening was sticky with assjuice and sweat. He passed the bottle to Alfie’s face, and Alfie wrinkled his nose as he tried to drink from it. The ass-slime smeared all over his face, and much of the rum missed his mouth, but Alfie didn’t seem to notice.
Simon slammed his own dick into Alfie’s ass while it was still loose. It immediately tightened around him, and Alfie grunted loudly. He squirmed beneath Simon’s grasp as Simon climbed atop his back. Alfie was so huge that it was awkward getting in position, but Simon enjoyed climbing up his muscular back.
Pounding his dick in and out as he stood on the edge of the chair, Simon gripped Alfie’s greasy black hair. Alfie squirmed and moaned, the motion making Simon’s dick feel even better as he plundered that broad farmhand ass.
The man’s ass tightened around Simon’s dick so much that his knees went weak from the intense pleasure. He grunted and groaned, losing all of his feminine grace; he rutted like an animal atop Alfie, whose pained contortions were slow, as though he was struggling through a pool of molasses.
His speed grew — Simon so rarely topped that he had been unsure how he could handle such a big man beneath him. But he soon got the hang of it, and Alfie’s heavy panting as he struggled turned Simon on even more.
His own orgasm came on quickly, and Simon made sure to pull out before it actually happened. He ran around the table and rammed his ass-covered dick into Alfie’s open mouth. Alfie gagged and retched but accepted it. He made a sour face as he tasted his own ass.
“How’s that taste, Alfie? You’re doing real good, boy…” Simon said. Incredible pleasure like nothing he had ever experienced washed over his body then, and he sprayed his cum right in Alfie’s mouth. Alfie sputtered, spitting most of it out as his body rejected the salty issue.
With sexual bliss rollicking his petite frame, Simon sighed. He smeared all the cum over Alfie’s sun-darkened face, its pearly whiteness contrasting with his swarthy skin.
Then Simon reinserted the bottle into his tired ass. Alfie yelped as tears welled up in his eyes. He tried to wipe his face off but Simon pushed his hand away. He looked Alfie in the eye as he worked that bottle back in and out of the man’s ass.
Meanwhile Simon let his other hand explore Alfie’s body. He grabbed his giant cock, which was half-hard and dangling next to the chair on which Alfie was still bent over. Simon gave it a stroke and giggled as Alfie moaned. He seemed to forget about the pain in his ass. He closed his eyes and submitted to Simon’s hand.
In no time, Alfie shot his load as well. Simon was waiting for it, as the man’s bulky muscles tensed and flexed. Cum sprayed into Simon’s waiting hand. Alfie gasped as though his orgasm was painful which Simon supposed it probably was since that bottle was still in Alfie’s ass.
“Alright, you just need to lick this up, boy,” Simon said, keeping his voice as stern as possible. The thick cum of Alfie’s nut sat hotly, steaming and dense, on Simon’s hand.
He held his palm in front of Alfie’s face. Alfie seemed to accept that he had to do what Simon said, and he grumbled but licked. He gagged and trembled as soon as he tasted his own thick creamy cum.
That was fine with Simon, who didn’t really want him to swallow it all. He laughed at Alfie’s gagging and smeared the cum over his face, which was now shiny with juices and fluids. He removed the bottle from Alfie’s ass and again allowed him to drink from it. Alfie breathed a sigh of relief and again didn’t seem to notice the taste of his own ass on the bottle.
When he had finally swallowed every drop of ass-sweat-and-rum, Simon replaced the bottle in his ass. Alfie accepted it easily this time.
Then he slipped off the edge of the chair, collaping into a pile of sleeping muscle on the floor. It was obvious that that was it. He was out for the night and wouldn’t be waking up no matter what.
Simon quickly replaced his own clothes. He wished he could stay here all night, but he didn’t want to be here when Alfie woke up. He was covered in semen and assjuice, and he had a bottle sticking out of his rear. He was going to be humiliated and furious when he woke up, Simon thought with a sense of satisfaction.
He knocked on Bud’s door and said he was done. Bud sighed as though he had been trying to forget about the lavender nastiness happening in his bar, but he said alright and thanked Simon.
“I could never have brought myself to do that,” Bud said when he opened the door to his room. He blushed a bright red. “I hope you taught him a lesson. I’ll make sure Sheriff Torkelson is there when he wakes up, so there’ll be a witness.”
“And you won’t tell him it was me?”
He shook his head. “I’ll just tell him he was drunk and I couldn’t stop him from begging a bunch of cowboys to use his body. I’ll say he did it for a few free drinks.”
“Oh, Bud… You have such wonderful ideas,” Simon said. Come get me if you have any trouble with anyone else.”