But Vinnie just grabbed Nathan by the back of the head and slammed him face-first into his armpit — he’d been doing push-ups in front of the stove to be sure it was real sweaty; his undershirt was sopping wet by now, and sweat dripped in rivulets down the small of his back. Greg and two other employees stood and watched, smirking with vicarious disgust at first, then gradually laughing.
It took Nathan a moment to even realize what had happened. His nose was squashed into the coarse black hairs, as dense as a jungle and just as moist, and bracingly salty sweat slipped into his mouth. It was so astringent Nathan squealed and squirmed, but Vinnie kept a tight grip on the back of his head.
“C’mon, baby, suck it clean!” Vinnie said with a whoop and a holler. He beamed like he really enjoyed this — which he kind of did; after years of people — even other greasy guidos like himself — making fun of his hairy, sweaty body, he had decided to lean into it. Especially working in front of a hot stove all day, he had no choice but to be “the gross, hairy, sweaty guy”.From The Redneck Ex-Con
Category: Sexual content
What happened?!
“Holy shit, dude, what happened?” Buck said, looking at Nathan.
“What?” Nathan said. Then he realized Buck was looking at his cock. Nathan blushed and covered his crotch with both hands.
“Are you a girl?” Buck asked, furrowing his brow. He touched Nathan’s chest, looking, perhaps, for invisible breasts.
“No! I’m a boy… a man, I mean,” Nathan said. “It’s just… small.”
“Wait, what?” Buck swiped Nathan’s hands away. He didn’t seem to have any compunctions about bending over to examine Nathan’s cock more closely, even in the crowded shower. Buck even gingerly touched it, and it twitched. “Holy fuck, dude, that is a tiny cock. Was it like… an accident?”
“What?”
“I mean… did you lose it in an accident or something?”
“No, that’s just… It’s fine. My doctor says it’s fine,” Nathan said. He covered his crotch again.From The Redneck Ex-Con
Benji and Dwight
Benji and Dwight both groaned and sighed. Dwight’s turn was next, so after taking a deep steam-filled breath, he said, “Dare.”
Marshall smiled. “Put your face in Benji’s armpit for a full minute.” He was gonna add ‘without puking’, but Benji cackled in his big-ass baritone way, and Dwight groaned. Benji was big and hairy for a twenty-year-old, which was cuz he was part-Egyptian, supposedly, that was what Marshall heard. His chest was coated in black fur, and his ass and the small of his back and his arms and thighs and even his shoulders were hairy too. His armpits made him look like he was smuggling skunks.
To his credit, Dwight did it, and Marshall ain’t even gotta make him — as a team captain, he had the right to do that. A man’s gotta do what he’s committed to, even if it’s just a game of truth or dare. Dwight rammed his face into Benji’s sweat-silkened armpit hair, and a ferocious retch came outta him.
“Ooh-“
“Don’t pull away, don’t pull away. One. Two. Three.” Marshall stopped counting cuz he laughed at the frenzied wriggling of Dwight.
“Ewww — ihh — ell — ell — eye — -iiiiiht!” That last word was ‘shit’, for sure, but neither them caught the resta what Dwight said. Salty sweat trickled into Dwight’s mouth, and he gagged again.
There was no clock in there — and this was decades before cell phones, mind you — clocks was still expensive then — so Marshall had no way of measuring a full minute. He laughed too hard to count off. In any case, it wasn’t manly to niggle, so he didn’t complain when Dwight pulled off and spat up like a cat with a hairball, even though it was probably less than a full minute.
In any case, before Dwight had even stopped gagging, Benji grinned and tousled Dwight’s hair. He said, “Dare.”
“Ewhck, man, ewhck,” Dwight said. He picked an armpit hair outta his mouth. “You are so nasty, Benji.”
Benji’s big round cheeks blushed. He shrugged. “It was Marshall’s dare.” Then Benji repeated himself. “I said dare, c’mon, Dwight.”
Dwight had to regain his composure still. He wiped sweat off with both hands, not that it had much effect — Dwight’s hands were sweaty too. Everything in here was sweaty. Dwight looked at Marshall, who sat there with his cock sticking to his thighs. Dwight grinned.
From Marshall the Coach
Pitnutting
Pitnutting was a common practice among some prison gangs. Buck done work out his inhibitions over that long time back. So this afternoon, when he and his work-crew was just about done, they got to chatting about females. Buck ain’t get lotta man-talk about ladies these days, since he be bunking up with Jeb the preacher’s boy.
So when he and Gooey got to daydreaming out loud, they both was hard in seconds. Gooey was Gui Tengku, Buck’s partner on the Valve Crew. The rest of the Crew was scattered around monitoring, repairing and cursing at the valves that kept the rig working.
Gooey was Malay, and he ain’t a big man. He was skinny by Buck’s standards but ripped, muscles so tight and taut they looked painful, and the trackmarks on his arms was big like pimples. He got a hardon and stuck it in Buck’s shirtless armpit with a big grin — he ain’t even know Buck was down. He just smiled with bloodshot eyes dull-glassed, as his cock humped its way in and out of Buck’s armpit hair. “Whatchoo doin’, Gooey?” Buck asked with a jagged-dagger laugh, watching Gooey’s pecker poke out his armpit. Eventually, in halting English, they negotiated, even as Gooey’s dick still rubbed precum into Buck’s armpit hair.
The agreement was that Gooey would hand over a dub of weed and that Buck would let him keep pitnutting until they contract was over. Neither communicated this well — Gooey thought Buck done promise to smoke the weed with him, while Buck thought it was a one-time transaction.
So they was gonna be steady disputating the details, but for now, both thought they was on the same page.
Then the rest of the Valve Crew showed up, and they all got to nutting on Buck’s back just like Gooey was doing when they walked in. There was Agebisu, the portly Ivorian with a French accent, a trio of hairy and truculent Turks, a older Uzbek with gray hair and a wrinkled face, and a gaggle of Canadians from the far North. Each one of ’em stuck they dicks in Buck’s armpit and shot they wad on Buck’s back.
He ain’t mind one bit. There ain’t no benefit to being squeamish, after all, and if’n Buck could negotiate some exchanges with all them, he got plenty outta it.
It’s just an armpit, he told himself. Lotta them fellers was stinky, but so was Buck. Gooey got a skinny dick, shooting a thin wad out Buck’s armpit. He was followed up by the stubbiest-dicked Turk. Buck know for a fact that Muslims always try and stick it in, so he was ready for it when that Turk rammed his cummy dick onto Buck’s mouth. Buck ain’t open up, and he punch that Turk mid-orgasm in the buttcheek — he gotta reach around his portly ass to get him good.
From Jeb the Farmboy
Jeb and Buck
It took all of Buck’s concentration to take his pants and shirt off. He heaved and persevered, nearly ripping rhe shirt. It was a huge production, and Buck wriggled outta the pants like they was a pair of wrassling snakes. Then Buck lay there stark a lark on the bed. He ain’t even mean to take his briefs off at the same time, but they went down with the pants, so his pecker poked free in the dark motel room. Jeb wore a pair of shorts to bed, and he slid to one side to avoid getting in Buck’s expansive way.
“Oh but she be slammin’ tonight. There’s two of ’em. Waitressssshees. Waiteresssshh… Waituh… Girls,” Buck said. He got under the covers and lay on his side, facing Jeb. His dick thwacked onto Jeb’s bare thigh, and Buck played with his limp rod, letting it slap Jeb on the leg again and again. “Ain’t nevuh sssheen the one of ’em before. The one you saaaww, the blonde, she sshtill there, but there another one, a dahk-hair girl — I think she might be Native. She got dat nose. She pretty asssh pie, Jeb-a-Leb.”From Jeb the Farmboy
Cody and Ripley
The cell was crowded with men and stank of manhood — not just the b.o. of Buck and the other enforcers, whose bump-outs, push-ups and burpees cast a scent of zesty sweat, but also the liniment of Ripley and the other old fellers, the stale air and stacks of mildewed clothes, soaked-in cigarette smoke, caked-on mud, spit-soaked concrete and pissy stainless steel, cold, stretched sacs of canned sardines for free weights, it all combined to make for the grungy-dumpy odor of prison life.
Ripley done sprawl out on his back. Cody gotta squeeze in next to him, between Ripley’s side and the edge of the bunk. The cot was sposedta be for two men, but it weren’t huge and Ripley weren’t trying-a make it work. The sheet was thin and grungy, and the blanket they shared was scratchy. It all stank awful of Ripley’s old-man armpits and the noxious liniment he done rub into his knees. Cody gotta wedge in on the edge, and Ripley put one heavy hand on Cody’s chest under the sheet.
He woke up to Ripley’s hands on him. His fingers was rough and callused, but they caressed him gentle-like. Ripley’s right hand stroked Cody’s bruised side, running from his ribs down to his ass. Cody tensed up. Ripley curled his broad body around Cody. The sound of cellbodies snoring and tossing to and fro on they bunks filled the air, muffled by the sheet hung up as a curtain around Ripley and Cody’s bunk.
The pantyhose
He held up a pantyhose. He stretched it out so you could see it had a couple holes in it, and makeup was applied around the holes to give it a look like a human face — mascara around the eyeholes, lipstick around the mouth, blush on the cheeks. “This is the mask. Those of you who’ve worked here before know how it works. You can explain it to the newboots.”
It wasn’t until that night, after lights-out, that Lem explained how the mask worked. If you put the pantyhose on, people could pay to ramrod you up the poop-chute or in the mouth. Standard payment was a full flask of liquor. You “couldn’t tell” who was wearing the mask — really, you could, even if you couldn’t see their face, cuz there was height and weight and tattoos and hair — they all showered together, there wasn’t any hiding who it was.
But it was a rule, Lem said, that every fool on the rig gotta pretend they ain’t recognize whoever wear the mask. You was sposedta call him “Sheila” and pretend you was making sweet love to Sheila’s pussy.
It was not until a few days later that Lem revealed the mask didn’t gotta be a choice. If somebody could force it on you, you had to do it just the same. The rule was that you could plow whoever wore the mask, if you paid the price of a flask — that was it, don’t matter if the masker was begging you to stop or even if the masker managed to take it off before you were done. If the Sheila did get it off, then that “you gotta pretend you don’t know who it was” rule got cancelled — you could call that man a bitch for the resta his life.
So mostly, nobody fought it. If you could force the mask on someone and then get your dick in their butthole, they were better off keeping the mask on.
How to make a fist
“Go’n, hit me. As hard as you can, go fer it, Simon, wit’ all ya might,” Buck said. His voice stayed jagged cuzza Simon jostling him up and down, back and forth. He bobbed and weaved with his body like he was boxing — Buck usedta be a amateur boxer — and pretended liketa dodge Simon’s strikes. He ain’t move away though, just kept letting Simon bag on him. “You gotsta put ya thumb on the outsidea ya fist,” Buck said, “Or you gonna break ya thumb.”
Readjusting his fist, Simon punched harder and harder. His shoulders ached, but he didn’t stop. His punches did slow down and get weaker though. Finally he got Buck right above the navel, which was nuff to make Buck grunt. His belly and pecs rippled. The punch ain’t hurt, it just hit right ‘tween breaths, and Buck threw his eyebrows way back. But he played it up to encourage Simon.
“Damn, Simon, you throw a firm fist fer a li’l feller!” Buck said with a whistle.
“I’m tired, Buck,” Simon said. He blushed. He didn’t move away though, he just stopped punching Buck’s chest and started groping it. Buck’s pecs rippled when Simon’s fingers gripped it tight like he wanna see how firm it was under the layer of padding Buck had. He was so tall Simon couldn’t reach past his shoulders. Simon’s hands crept into the hefty under-pec area, the sweaty crevice ‘neath his pectoral muscles, and Simon even stuck his nose under there and took a long deep sniff.
“A’ight, buddy,” Buck said with a shrug. He gently pushed Simon off his pecs, then sat down upon the edge of the bed. “Relax, relax, you don’t gotta…”
Simon nodded. Though Buck done move, Simon moved with him, and he was again caressing the curves of Buck’s powerful chest. “How’d you get so strong, Buck?”
Not muchuva game
“Lost it, Buck, got’cha,” said Jermaine. He was a muscle-bound homeboy, t’other muscle-man in the cell with Buck — the two them worked out loads. He been counting off Buck’s push-ups, and when Buck laughed, his push-ups missed the beat. Buck skipped one.
That meant Buck lost the game him and Jermaine played. One counted off, t’other did his workout. Whoever lost the rhythm lost the game. T’other could make him lose the beat by teasing, light punching, snubbing cigarettes out upon his back, that kinda thang. Punishment fer losing was nuttin’ really, sometimes teasing, light punches, snubbing cigarettes out upon the loser’s back, that kinda thang.
T’weren’t muchuva game.
Jermaine kicked Buck hard in the side, and Buck yelped. Then he stood up and scowled at Jermaine — the resta the cell was still laughing at Reggie Winner. “That don’t count, Jermaine. Li’l one distracted me-” He motioned to Reggie Winner, who be laughing and carrying on like a silly sally.
Or like a pengwin, they’s funny! Reggie Winner was funning up like a pengwin!
But his funning up was in t’other corner of the cell. Buck and Jermaine was sposedta focus on they push-ups.
With a shrug, Jermaine said, “You lost the beat. That’s the game, Buck.” He puffed upon his cigarette, then made liketa gutpunch Buck, and when Buck blistered and feinted, Jermaine snubbed his cigarette out on Buck’s bicep instead. “Got’cha-“
“Damn!” Buck yelp-laughed and grabbed fer Jermaine, who danced away.
Who knows what frotting is?
That’s called ‘frotting’. Kax don’t know it had a name, and he was surprised Buck knewed sump’in he don’t. Buck don’t got a reputation as a smarty-pants.
“Fuck you, Buckums!” Lem said and groaned. But he sat down, facing Buck, still holding Buck’s thirteen-inch dick in both hands. He flopped it left and right. He scooted closer and thwacked both his dick and Buck’s in both hands. They was both soft. Slightly hard but mostly soft. Maybe ten percent hard.
That’s called ‘frotting’. Kax don’t know it had a name, and he was surprised Buck knewed sump’in he don’t. Buck don’t got a reputation as a smarty-pants. But he knewed ’bout frotting — rubbing two dicks together til they both nut. Seemed pointless to Buck. It was just like jacking off, but less enjoyable, more time-consuming, messier and you get touched by a elderly homeboy who smell like he’s about ninety percent armpits.
But black boys in prison stay frotting. T’is like a eggplant salad in there. Kax be making faces like he wanna dispute that but can’t cuz Buck got facts and truth and testymonials and witnesses and Lem’s ugly pecker all vouching for its accuracy. Anywayhowwhatever, Lem be frotting his hardon with Buck’s softy, and Buck just endured it like a bored sausage. Lem be panting and huffing on Buck’s chest, complaining about the body hair — why he admireta frot a honky if’n he don’t like body hair? Homeboys do be like that.
Buck groaned and looked away. He picked up the safety manual. He liked the pitcher of the light-skinned gal showing off how to use the eyewarshing station. She was fully clothed but got a banging paira tits. He tried to ignore the feel of Lem’s narsty old-man hands stroking both dingdongs together. Buck’s dick stayed soft still, while Lem’s was gradually turning firm as hot marshmallows.
“Aww, yeah, lemme see that,” Lem said. Buck held it up so’s the lady with hydraulic fluid in her eyes could be seen by both them, while Lem stroked both they cocks together. Lem was badmouthing the idea of jacking off with the manual earlier. T’was why he paid fer the porno magazine.
The eyewarshing gal was purdier’an a’ry the porno ladies. But she was fully clothed in all the safety gear. Somehow she ain’t even get wet using that eyewarshing station.