bandaging a wounded warrior

The new couch was on sale, but the delivery charges were exorbitant. That was how they got you, Teddy decided.
Well, he decided to show that snooty salesman that Teddy wasn’t gonna fall for his shenanigans. He asked Knuckle to help him move the couch. It wasn’t that heavy. Teddy borrowed a truck from his neighbor, and Knuckle came to help him move it on a day he had off.
When they got the couch off the truck and into Teddy’s apartment, they stopped to drink a couple beers and have a pizza delivered. Then Knuckle helped Teddy get rid of the ratty old couch at the dump and drop off the truck at the end of the street. Teddy hadn’t specifically planned on inviting Knuckle into his apartment again after that.
But Knuckle, in his creepy wordless way, followed, and Teddy hoped to jack him off again, so he didn’t complain. When they got into the apartment, Knuckle immediately opened another beer.
“What happened to your knuckles, Knuckles?” Teddy asked with a chuckle. Knuckles had had bloody knuckles all day, like he got in a fight, but Teddy knew his last couple shifts at Lipsweet had been uneventful.
Knuckles shrugged. “I was fighting last night. In a bare-knuckle boxing league.”
“Really? How’d you get started doing that?” Teddy asked. It was so like Knuckle to have this really interesting hobby that he literally never told anyone about, not because it was a secret, but because nobody knew to ask about it.
“I done it since my carnie days,” he said.
But back then, it weren’t no kind of league or nothing. The carnival just set up fights in the towns they visited, to attract some crowds and make a little money betting on Knuckle. He was still throwing down knuckles when he got sent up a long time ago.
The state prison was the Eastern Panhandle State Penitentiary. That where Knuckle did his nine-year bid. He came out with a crooked nose and one ear ripped up, permanent cauliflower on the other ear.
The prison sponsored the bare-knuckle fighting league to keep the inmates focused on winning insteada picking brawls in the shower or shanking shitheads in the slop hall. The prison allowed each gang to send a fighter into the league, and the prison supplied a guard to coach each fighter.
For Knuckle, the gang was the Gray Snakes. They was bikers, not that Knuckle was much of a motorcyclist, but he was doing dealings with them when he got arrested, and he ain’t snitch not a bit, not even when the sheriff truncheoned him silly. That gave him entrance to the Gray Snakes.
But the Gray Snakes got full members and affiliate members. Full members join on the outside and go through a process — Knuckle ain’t savvy to that process, but it involved bleeding in and bleeding out, he knew that much. A man who ain’t see fit to join up till he get to prison and need protection from the black boys was called a affiliate member. They wasn’t treated as good within the gang, not till they could earn they leather jacket.
So the only way how Knuckle could earn that leather jacket was winning glory for the Gray Snakes boxing with the other gangs. He thought he was gonna win the title fight that first year.
His coach was Officer Turpinelli. He strongly believed that Knuckle was the best fighter in this joint.
So when Knuckle went out there for his first prison-championship bout, Turpinelli was in his corner. He was a middle-aged guido, his black hair now salted with gray, his big milk-chocolate fists callused from a lifetime of amateur boxing and working as a prison guard. Turpinelli was from Staten Island, and he had a thick New Yawker accent. His uniform shirt was mostly unbuttoned to reveal his greasy white undershirt.
“C’mon, Knuckle, you gawt this, you gawt this!” he said when he sent Knuckle out there into the prison yard with a swat on his ass. Knuckle wore only his blue prison shorts, his broad chest — not yet badly scarred — gleaming and bronzed. He was still handsome then, boxy-faced and craggy like an action hero, his torso perfectly tapered and padded with muscle.
His gang was chanting his name. The Gray Snakes were all in one corner of the yard, wearing the full prison uniform — it was a chilly day, and Knuckle, in his shorts and nothing else, still steamed, his hairless chest overheating. Most of the Gray Snakes was eager for Knuckle to win.
But Knuckle wasn’t gonna win. He was told by Denny, the head Gray Snake at the state prison, to throw the match.
Most of the Gray Snakes done bet on the other guy – Deyon Green or Gray or Brown or some color name Knuckle couldn’t remember. Meanwhile Denny been spreading word on the downlow that Deyon was in bad shape. Ain’t nobody betting on him except the Gray Snakes.

So all Knuckle gotta do was take a pounding and make it look real. He was good at getting hit. His face was like stone, and he threw a couple good punches right back. Each time he did, the assembled prisoners erupted in cheers.

Ain’t nobody like the Crips much, so only the Crips was rooting for Deyon. When Knuckle accidentally knocked Deyon to the ground, he thought he mighta won, and his heart sank.
He paused long enough for Officer Bellyfat to hold him back from Deyon, who wobbled but returned to his feet in time. Knuckle kept his face grim and determined. Was the crowd falling for it? He ain’t wanna look to see the reactions on they faces. He could hear them, but he worried looking would make it obvious he was focused on the crowd, not on the fight.
He avoided looking at Officer Turpinelli too. He was sure Turpinelli would know, if they made eye contact, that he ain’t trying to win. He blocked a couple of Deyon’s jabs, then saw a long uppercut coming quick.
Knuckle had only a brief moment to decide — block it and prolong the fight? Or take it to the face and go down? Had the fight gone on long enough?
He ain’t sure he made a decision, but he hesitated long enough that the uppercut hit him good. He really did pass for a few seconds. He coulda got up in time, as Officer Bellyfat was still counting off the knockout, but Knuckle fluttered his eyes like he was dizzy. He stayed on the mat.
“The winner…!” The ref — Officer Brokenose — held up Deyon’s hand, and the colored boys in one corner of the yard all screamed with pride. Deyon was the underdog, so they mostly ain’t expect to win.
And Knuckle’s half-conscious mind struggled avoid smiling, cuz he done won two grand, plus he earned his spot in the Gray Snakes. Blood trickled down his face like a river delta. He heard the dull roar of the crowd and the feigned disappointment of the Gray Snakes — ain’t nobody but them know that they was the only ones betting on Deyon to win.
Someone threw a hunk of wood at Knuckle, and it thunked off his body. Then a coffee mug. Then something wet, maybe spit — he couldn’t tell who was doing what as he pushed through the crowd, blood clouding his vision. He grimaced. He was bleeding from the neck now, just a thin trickle — was somebody throwing glass?
It took a few seconds for Knuckle’s hardened mind to realize a glass bottle got smashed on the meat of his back. He was bleeding like a drain when he finally staggered on sweaty trunks into the locker room.
The lockers stank of rank underwear. The floor was bare concrete spotted with always-wet mildew. A bucket caught a leak that never would get fixed. But it was mercilessly silent.
Knuckle took a deep breath and wiped blood out his eyes. He plopped onto the bench, and Officer Turpinelli came in from the other door with a first aid kit. He ain’t say nothing at first. He just came in, opened the first aid kit, took out a needle and thread and disinfected the needle with a lighter.
He only then noticed the shards of glass in Knuckle’s back. He picked them out with tweezers. “Lotta men bet money on you, Knuckle,” he finally said. “I don’t blame ’em for gettin’ ornery. You coulda won. That Deyon ain’t worth a thing.”
“Yessuh, Officer Turpinelli,” Knuckle said. He ain’t got that raspy note to his voice yet, not till the fire years later, so his voice was low and smooth and rumbling like a distant earthquake. His square jaw worked up and down, and he avoided eye contact with Turpinelli.
“You ain’t give it y’all out there, Knuckle. No disrespect, brothah, but that was a sorry display,” Turpinelli said. He inserted the needle into Knuckle’s back without warning him, so Knuckle flinched. Turpinelli ignored it and stitched up the biggest cut.
“Yessuh,” Knuckle said. When Officer Turpinelli was done with that cut, Knuckle took off his shorts, eager to get into the shower and away from Turpinelli. He wanted back to his cell. The Gray Snakes would protect him from the others — as upset was the others were that Knuckle done lost, the Gray Snakes were gonna be overjoyed about it.
Plus they’d give him liquor, which would be a better pain relief than anything Officer Turpinelli was gonna do. Knuckle ain’t got a choice about that though. He just took his shorts and jockstrap off, and his heavy cock plopped fatly on the bench.
His whole body was so sweaty his skin felt slimy.
“I know we practiced better than that,” Turpinelli said. He stitched up the cut on Knuckle’s temple. He ain’t try to be gentle like he when he did the same thing after Knuckle won a fight. He wrenched Knuckle’s head this way and that. “You listenin’? Listen to me when I’s talkin’ to you, lard-brain!” He rapped Knuckle on the skull.
“Yessuh,” Knuckle said. He winced when the rapping on his head went from playful to painful. Turpinelli slapped him hard on the cheek like a woman. Knuckle’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“You was jack-jawin’ when I know you know better, you shoulda let that punk-ass Crip tucker himself out,” Turpinelli said. He stood back and looked Knuckle’s naked chest up and down. He examined the cuts on Knuckle’s chest, then his back, to see if any others needed stitching.
Then he punched Knuckle right in the gut. Still seating, Knuckle oomphed and clutched his belly for a second. He clambered to stand only to stop himself even before Officer Turpinelli could smack him down. He stood real close to Knuckle and gripped his head with both hands.
Knuckle remained stout-faced naked on the bench. He wrinkled his nose. The smell of Officer Turpinelli’s uniform slacks — clean laundry, old-man balls and loose change — filled his nostrils, now that the swelling had gone down enough he could smell again.
“I am gonna have to teach you a lesson,” Turpinelli said. He unzipped the fly of his ironed slacks, and his stinky Italian hog flopped free. He untucked and undid the buttons on his uniform shirt, so his undershirt was bared, ringed by silver and black hairs poking out from under the fabric.
Knuckle’s loose and crooked nose wrinkled. He hocked up a loogey of blood, spat it on the concrete floor, sighed and looked away. Turpinelli leaned back to make his swarthy cock dangle forward, and he slapped it over Knuckle’s cheek. Knuckle ain’t respond.
“Knuckle?” Turpinelli said. “C’mon, you know what to do. I ain’t gonna put it in ya mouth, you gotta do that. Show me the respect you ain’t been showin’ me.”
He again thwack-thwacked his limp knob on Knuckle’s face, on his nose and lip. Knuckle cringed at the smell of Turpinelli’s crotch hair sticking out the fly of his slacks. He took hold of Turpinelli’s cock with one hand and gave it a few strokes without looking at it..
He spat up more blood onto the concrete floor of the locker room, as he gracelessly flopped Turpinelli’s shaft in one hand. Turpinelli aimed his hips to drag his cocktip over Knuckle’s face, mainly the bruised and swollen area around his left eye. Knuckle winced in pain.
“You wasn’t following the strategy we laid out,” Turpinelli said. He kept his hands on his hips as Knuckle flopped his dick around with one hand. Turpinelli frowned. “Now I look like a fool in front of the other staff.”
“Yessuh. I’m sorry, suh,” Knuckle said. He avoided looking up, his one hand lazily gripping Turpinelli’s shaft as Turpinelli pumped his hips and humped Knuckle’s grip. It was as soft as cooked spaghetti and thick like a doll’s leg.
With another wince that hurt his bruised face, Knuckle put Officer Turpinelli’s cocktip in his mouth. The salty taste of skin hit his tongue. He winced again.
“Hmmmmm, I shoulda been doing this all along,” Turpinelli said with a throaty laugh. “Maybe this is the only way to knock some sense into ya lard-brain.” A jolt ran up his cock, which began to firm. Knuckle slathered spit up and down the shaft, stimulating it with his tongue to avoid putting it back in his mouth — tasted the same, it just seemed less humiliating to lick it like a meaty lollipop. “You need a ongoing lesson to remember to listen to me. I tol’ you he got a strong right hook and a uppercut. I tol’ you what his pattern was. You ain’t look out for it, Knuckle,” Turpinelli said. He began moving his dick in and out of Knuckle’s mouth. He swatted Knuckle’s hand outta the way. “No hand. You shoulda been blockin’ — you remembuh? We talked ’bout it. He always do couple jabs.” Turpinelli jabbed the air with his left fist, above Knuckle’s head as Turpinelli humped his mouth. “Then he hit with the mad uppercut. You left yaself wide open, you lard-brain!” That was a harsh word where Turpinelli came from, Knuckle done gathered. “You got somethin’ to say for yahself?”
He pulled outta Knuckle’s mouth, his dick still only part hard — Turpinelli wasn’t even trying to get hard yet. It poked around on Knuckle’s bruised-up face, as Knuckle took a deep breath. “Sorry, suh. I had a off-day,” Knuckle said. He kept his eyes on Turpinelli’s knob.
Officer Turpinelli scoffed. He rammed his rod back into Knuckle’s mouth. Knuckle slackened his jaw, letting Turpinelli use it. He closed his mouth to hold back a violent gag, but a moist squelching sound did come out, followed by another one.
“Don’t make that sound, it’s gross,” Turpinelli said. His voice was lower now, calmer, his dick good and hard. His veiny shaft throbbed in Knuckle’s throat. Knuckle couldn’t help himself though, suppressing a little gag only to be overcome by a painfully large one. He retched up Turpinelli’s cock. Turpinelli scoffed like he ain’t approve of that sound neither. Knuckle couldn’t help it, as the intense taste and the jab down his throat were impossible to resist.
Before he could take another breath, Turpinelli drilled it back down his throat.
“Look up at me.”
Knuckle cringed but did so. He knew he’d see Officer Turpinelli grimacing at him, frowning, disappointed in him. When he looked up, he also saw his throbbing dick and tendrils of precum clinging to Knuckle’s fingers, but what stuck in Knuckle’s mind was the disapproving look on Turpinelli’s face.
“Open up,” Turpinelli said.
Knuckle was going to say again that it was just an off-day, but when he opened his mouth, no words came out. Instead, Turpinelli’s dick pushed in.
“Don’chu fight me. I can shift you into gen-pop anytime, Knuckle,” Turpinelli said. He clucked his tongue. “I gotta teach you to respect me.” His cock slid deeper into Knuckle’s mouth.
He choked on it and closed his eyes until Officer Turpinelli clucked his tongue.
“Open them peepers, Knuckle. I wanna see your respect.”
Knuckle’s muscles flexed and spasmed as he held back a gag, and he worked his tongue up and down Turpinelli’s shaft. It tasted stale and salty, especially after precum began flowing and coating Knuckle’s mouth.
Turpinelli stopped moving and grunted with his dick protruding deep down Knuckle’s gullet. Cum flowed, and a rattling sigh escaped from Officer Turpinelli’s mouth. He made a sound like he was gonna talk, but the words were overcome by another sigh and a moan of slow-melting bliss, followed by a flood of sticky jizz into Knuckle’s mouth.
Lotta it spilled out onto his cheeks and chin, and some even got in his nose. Knuckle closed his eyes and tried not to retch. He kept his jaw slack so his mouth drained as quick as it was filled.
Knuckle choked and sputtered, but he ain’t fight back. He had done what he needed to. Now all that mattered was submitting and getting through this. The taste of cum was sticky and intense, but he avoided vomiting too hard, his throat plugged up by Turpinelli’s cock.
At last it popped out, connected with tendrils of saliva to Knuckle’s jaw. Knuckle tried to move away, but Turpinelli kept both his big mitts on Knuckle’s head. His limp dick throbbed and spewed a few final drops onto Knuckle’s forehead.
“Next time, pay attention during your training,” Turpinelli said.
“Yessuh,” Knuckle said. He held back a gag. Despite that, he was glad that it seemed Turpinelli had no suspicion Knuckle threw the match. He breathed a sigh of relief, only for that to cause his nose to fill with the scent of Turpinelli’s gooey jizz, which covered his face. Knuckle couldn’t help but gag.
“Go’n and showuh up, Knuckle,” Turpinelli said. “If I gotta ram some sense into you again, it’s goin’ in the othuh end.”

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!: Chapter 1

Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!: Chapter One

Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!

Chapter One: Tusslin’

Chapter Two: The Sandwich

Chapter Three: Vaccination

Chapter One: Tusslin’

“Hey, Mason, Mason, hoss, hey,” came a thick-and-raspy, holler-heavy voice in the darkness, so deep you could tell the speaker was tall and big-chested. He sounded like a church bell come to life, and his voice filled the small first-aid clinic, which flooded with light from the corridor when the big man opened the door.
Mason was slow to rouse. He wriggled upright in his little clinic bed, and he leaned back on his elbows. “Huh?”
A heavy knock on the door filled the room. “Mason?” The big man had already opened the door, he just knocked to wake Mason up more fully.
“Huh, what?” Mason sat up. “Oh… Hey, uh, come in.”
The roughneck gotta stoop to come into the first-aid clinic. He was indeed a mighty stack of shoulders. He was Buck Sampson, the biggest worker on Rig E19 in the North Pacific. He was as broad as an ox and as tall as a gorilla, well past six and a half feet, tall enough to duck when he walked through the rig’s doorways. He had a big mane of greasy black curls. His shirtless chest rippled, his body hair clinging to his skin because of a sheen of sweat gleaming in the light that spilled in from the corridor. He exuded heat that Mason could feel, amid the cold barreling in from the harshly lit and unheated corridor.
Buck let the door shut behind him. He turned on the light, and Mason squinted until his eyes adjusted.
“Hey, I got cut,” Buck said in that abyssal and dull voice, words resounding low as a bassoon and dutifully masculine. It made Mason’s heart wobble. Blood poured down Buck’s cheek. “You gots a buttuhfly bandage, hoss?”
Mason yawned and nodded. Only now did he wake up enough to realize Buck was nearly naked, wearing only a pair of scrawny tight-whites that ain’t fit on him. The pouch was overstuffed, the outline of his giant cock clearly visible, pubic hairs protruding around the sides.
And he was bleeding from his head.
“Oh. Oh shit! Oh, oh…! Oh, Buck, hey, c’mon in,” Mason said. He real quick got gloves on and slapped some rubbing alcohol and gauze on the cut in Buck’s forehead. The laceration was shallow. Long, but shallow. Even when Buck sat in the chair, Mason had to stand on his toes to reach Buck’s forehead. Buck’s bare chest muscles rippled as if he had to use them to sit there motionless, first each pec in turn, then his sides and his abs. The smell of his unwashed body hair and salty armpits hit Mason’s nostrils. “What happened?”
“I was tusslin’ wit’ Lem, tha’ss all. J’st a tussle,” Buck said. He shrugged, which made the wound wiggle as Mason tended to it. Buck’s torso rippled again as he laughed. Him and Lem Hammer were bunkmates, bedding down together in a dead-end on the other side of the rig, not in an actual barrack, in a disused dead-end they covered with mattresses, blankets, pillows and space heaters. It was like an adult’s pillow fort, and Mason was secretly jealous that he had to live in the first-aid clinic. Buck’s chuckles reverberated in the tiny room. “We was play-fightin’, and he gots a jagged toenail. Cut me good he did.”

“Oh, shit, boy, he got’cha good. Damn…” Mason said, wiping the wound with rubbing alcohol. The laceration was already clotted, but it had spurted out at first and Buck’s face was coated in crimson, so it looked much worse than it was. Mason wiped off blood with a wetnap to make sure there were no hidden cuts. “He was like a half-inch from slicing your eyeball open, Buck.”

“That toenail deadly,” Buck said. His baritone voice dripped with the glacier-carved hollers of his native West Virginia. “I tol’ him he best cut it.”
“I’ll do it, if he can’t,” Mason said.
“Might could need a chainsaw.”
“That can be arranged.” Mason chuckled. He’d actually trimmed Lem’s toenails for him before, cuz Lem didn’t always do it properly. Mason squeezed the laceration on Buck’s head shut with one hand, then lined up the butterfly bandage with the other. “Hold still.”
Neither of them said anything for a second, as Mason applied the butterfly bandage and stood back to be sure it took. Buck was still too, his giant bloody head looking dour as a dinosaur. He got big features — a big nose that was cattywompus and bulging, like a swollen fist — he was an ex-boxer, that was why, his nose busted up like his cauliflowery ears — big lips, big chin, big ears, big square cheeks — and his damn near seven-foot frame took up lotta room in the clinic. He radiated heat from his hairy chest.
When Mason was satisfied that Buck was bandaged and disinfected, he cleaned more blood off Buck’s face. The meat of his torso was firm like a rock with a pleasantly plump layer of padding atop it — Buck was no bodybuilder. He was as strong as one, but he ate like a champion and wasn’t ripped.
That other guy, Lem, he was ripped. Scrawny though, ropy, he was ripped like a heroin addict on steroids. Buck was ripped like a well-fed horse. Both were strong as tequila though, and both exuded an aura of masculine energy that Mason found invigorating.
“Lem’s a shit, I says he gonna cut me wit’ that toenail, I do be sayin’ that, I do,” Buck said with a low laugh. The motion coulda reopened the wound, so Mason kept a watch on it, but the butterfly bandage took. “Tha’ss the old black feller, you know him, right?”
“I know Lem,” Mason said. “Me and Lem go way back.”
“Oh sheeit, hoss, was he always crazy?”
Mason nodded. He grabbed some babywipes from a container by the desk, and he wiped the last few patches of blood off Buck’s face and his chest. “Used to be crazy and drunk. Now he’s sober. Still crazy.” Mason shrugged and patted Buck on his mountainous bicep. “You got blood on your underpants, you might want to-“

Buck dropped his tight-whites and threw them in the trash. “I got more.” He had a massive thirteen-inch cock, which unfurled from the pouch of his briefs like a length of rope. It was fat and jiggly, and it glistened with the sweat that made it cling to Buck’s powerful thigh.

That was a roughneck thing, getting naked at the drop of a hat. Mason was more shy than that. He did appreciate the male form though, and he liked getting to see the whole thing.
Buck stood there, smears of blood still on his powerful shoulders, cock dangling like a swollen salami. He looked like he thought Mason might have extra underwear for him to wear. Mason did not, and Buck was too big for ordinary underwear anyway — at well over six and a half feet tall, Buck had to shop in a specialty store.
“Oh, okay…” Mason’s eyes opened wide. He used his gloved hands to pick up the tight-whites from the trash and put them in the medical waste bin. “You have a big dick.” He blushed. “Sorry, I just…” He laughed as he dabbed up more of the blood off Buck’s chest. “Bet that thing gets in the way a lot, huh?”
Buck nodded. “I get stiffies all the time too, tell you what!” Buck laughed again. It made the fat of his cock jiggle and sway between his thighs. He flopped it around, making him laugh harder as it picked up speed. He helicoptered it back and forth between his thighs. Then he stopped and sighed. “Seems like I get stiffies mo’ now that I’s on rig and there ain’t no wimmin about. Wussup wit’ that?” He sucked on his teeth. “Mistah Chow think it’s cuzza Confucius!”
With a chortle, Mason said, “I don’t think that’s what he meant.” Mister Chow, the rig boss, did get after the roughnecks recently for general slovenliness, poor behavior and lack of virtue. One point Mister Chow made was that a lack of Confucian values in the West rendered them unable to control their urges.
And a lack of education made Buck unable to understand that complaint.
“I do love a Asian lady,” Buck said. His dick twitched as he looked dreamy for a moment. Then he blushed. “Sorry.”
Mason said, as casual as he could, so he didn’t seem overly eager. “I could help you with it. I’ll massage it, if you want.”
“Really? Aw, yeah, hot sheeit, you do that?” Buck said. He flapped his pecker in Mason’s direction. “Hell yeah. J’st don’t tell Lem. Or anywhom, but ‘specially not Lem. Lem do it too, he steady tryin’-a jack off wit’ me. I tells him he cain get me off any way he want, but I ain’t admire touchin’ his narsty old-feller dingdong. Feels like a sad baseball bat.” His cockfat jiggled as he spoke, bouncing up and down afront his pendulous balls. His eyes lit up like a little boy on Christmas. “You gonna use ya mouf?”
His cheeks burning, Mason nodded. “If you want.” He took off his bloody latex gloves.
“Hell yeah, I done went to prison, Mason. I know ’bout gettin’ off wit’ a feller,” Buck said. “I j’st don’t admire to touch Lem’s wigwam. If’n you tells him, he gonna be comin’ he’uh all the time! All the time like weather! He like that, he is like that, Mason.” He wagged a finger at Mason as if scolding Lem, then he stood up and waggled his dick in front of Mason’s face. He didn’t ram it in though, he just held it near Mason’s lips. The thick shaft felt hot — Buck ran warm and exuded heat like a furnace — even before Mason touched it, he could feel the heat coming off it.
His shaft was wide and long, more than a foot in length and thick like a bicep, not as thick as Buck’s massive bicep, as Buck worked in the drillhead antechamber. Mason didn’t know enough about the rig’s drilling technology to know what that meant, but the men who worked there were the strongest and thickest-bodied.
They didn’t all have massive uncut cocks like Buck though. Mason’s fingers curled around it. He felt Buck’s heart beating through the veins that ran from the shaft to the foreskin, which he pulled back to reveal the head. Buck remained standing, but he leaned back so Mason had to stretch his grip above his head to pull Buck off.
Mason held Buck’s dick in one hand, his heart racing. He loved jacking off — honestly, he preferred jacking off with men like Buck than he did fucking women. Roughecks often came to him to get jacked off on these rigs, but it was never really the ones he wanted.
Until now. Buck was tall and muscular, and his chest rippled at Mason’s touch. Once Mason built up a rhythm stroking him off, Buck sat on Mason’s bunk and leaned back, so Mason had easy access to his massive dick and his low-hanging balls that plopped onto the bunk mattress.
“Aaah, sheeit, I need this,” Buck said. He slitted his eyes shut, sighing though he didn’t get hard yet. His dick flopped in Mason’s hand like over-thick rope. Mason didn’t mind that at all. “I swan, you can’t even mention a woman without me gettin’ a hardon. The less I sees ’em, the more I need ’em.”
In fact, a lot of roughnecks had said something similar. If a man sees random women, clothed, going about their business, he doesn’t get random hardons. If the only women are the beautiful naked ones in his mind, then everytime someone says something, even something as simple as “my sister just graduated college”, he pictures the most beautiful woman ever, wearing nothing but a mortarboard.
As Buck’s eyes serioused up, his dick got firmer and firmer. Even before Mason got both hands on it, it was hard and throbbing. It was easily the biggest dick Mason had ever seen, and he’d seen plenty — men were always going around naked on oil rigs, when they were off-duty. Not so much this rig, cuz it was in the North Pacific and only the rooms, not the corridors, were heated. Few men were as big as Buck’s near seven-foot frame, so they mostly bundled up here.
But Buck was often shirtless and sometimes stripped down to heavy socks and underwear. Mason enjoyed the sight of muscular men, and Buck was a perfect specimen of that. His meaty, non-sixpacked body tasted savory like pizza dough, and Mason slurped sweat off Buck’s pecs. That made Buck laugh like a bear.
“Sheeit, you don’t gotta do that, Mason. I know it must taste baad!” Buck slapped one knee, making his cock jiggle and throb in Mason’s hand. His eyes were still closed.
“Just tryin’ to get you feelin’ good,” Mason said. His tongue ran down Buck’s furry belly, which stank of unwashed roughneck sweat, then all the way to his cock. Buck sucked in his breath when Mason’s tongue hit his shaft, and a long chest-rattling sigh chambered outta Buck’s chest.
The taste was salty and potent, and the veins on Buck’s cockshaft pulsated against Mason’s tongue. Mason licked from root to tip, then let his mouth slurp down to Buck’s apricot-sized balls, each of them heavy and swollen with unreleased cum. Mason took each ball in his mouth and let the hairy sac plop over his face.
“Dang, Mason!” Buck said with a deep chuckle. Mason pulled off his balls and blushed, but Buck kept his eyes closed, which helped Mason avoid feeling self-conscious.
Still kneeling in front of Buck, Mason put his knobtip in his mouth, and he teased his tongue around the piss-slit. His hands went up Buck’s chest to knead his expansive muscles. They all flexed and twitched beneath Mason’s grasp. His pecs were so firm, so strong and palpably hot to Mason’s touch, it made Mason moan with desire, the sound plugged up by Buck’s cock.
Buck sighed and leaned back on Mason’s bunk. “I miss my girlfriend Lucy. She lives back on Long Island. Seems so far away. She might as well be on Mars.”
“You’re from Long Island? I’m from Long Island,” Mason said, his voice garbled by Buck’s cock in his mouth. It tasted warm and hearty, Mason couldn’t get enough, with a faint tinge of saltiness growing stronger by the moment. As soon as he asked his question, he rammed his head down as deep as it could go. Which wasn’t that deep, at least not without a lot of work. It’s not easy to swallow a thirteen-inch cock as thick a muscular man’s wrist, especially since it wasn’t hard yet.
“I’s from West Virginney,” Buck said, eyes opening to watch Mason impale his own throat on his meat. His voice wavered as his cock squeezed into Mason’s throat, sending a wave of pleasure up his body. “But I been livin’ recent-like on Long Island. Tha’ss where’n I got recruited to work he’uh.” He threw his head back and subdued a moan, his hands fluttering above Mason’s head like he wanna throat him down but wouldn’t do it. His rod was rock-hard now, stabbing Mason at the back of the throat.
His shaft was so long that Mason could deep-throat it while also stroking it with both hands. He jerked it right into his own mouth.
As the precum started to really flow, Mason swallowed every drop he could. He let it pop outta his mouth and leak juices over his face. Buck couldn’t help but moan at that. His chest muscles rippled, and his pecs flexed. His arms gripped Mason’s head, then let go.
“You can force it down my throat, if you want,” Mason said softly, his voice moist from the flow of precum coating his tongue and gums. He let some of that gooey mess leak out and down Buck’s veiny shaft. “I’ll swallow it the best I can. It’s hard to force myself though-“
“Ah, sheeit, yeah, you into that?” Buck asked with a look of wide-eyed amazement. Mason nodded without taking the dick outta his mouth. Buck held onto the back of Mason’s head and forced his dick as deep as it could, not stopping even when Mason let out a choke. “Aaaah, goddamn…”
Though both men woulda dragged this out longer if they could, Buck was horny as heckfire — he ain’t barely bust a nut since he got here, cuz Lem was always around and Buck ain’t wanna jack off with him.
Buck’s muscled chest rippled as pleasure coursed through his veins, and the precum poured into Mason’s mouth. The taste was bright and sunny. Mason savored each drop he could get.
He couldn’t swallow it all, though he wanted to. Every couple seconds, Mason pulled off Buck, swallowed a mouthload of it and opened up again. The whole time Buck kept pushing his head back towards his spasming cocktip, eagerly forcing him back down. As soon as Mason could take a breath, he opened up again and went as deep down Buck’s veiny shaft as he could.
That triggered Buck’s sensitive cock. Buck’s baritone erupted in a long, warbling moan, as an initial burst of cum flowed like a fountain down Mason’s throat. He kept going as long as he could, but that wasn’t long, and that first wad kept going even when Mason choked it up. It filled his mouth, then overflowed back into Buck’s crotch.
Cum sprayed over Mason’s face, as he couldn’t help but spit it out to take a breath. Then he went right back to sucking on the tip, and Buck’s second cumwad overflowed his mouth. The taste was wild and clean, intensely salty. Mason loved the taste of jizz — he knew he was unusual in that, most men hated it, but he could swallow his fill and then swallow more.
“Aaah, ooooh…” Buck’s whole body writhed beneath Mason’s mouth.
He slurped it all down, as Buck shot a series of smaller and smaller cumloads — damn did he shoot big ones! Eventually though, just a few more drops dribbled into Mason’s mouth, and then at last Mason let it pop out past his lips.
His face coated in jizz, Mason blushed, the color covered by creamy white. He grabbed a paper towel to wipe himself off, as Buck stood. His cock rapidly softened afronta Mason’s face.
“Sheeit, thanks,” Buck said. “I feel a lot bettuh. You a good medic, Mason. Real good.” He twirled his glistening cock around between his legs, then wiped it off with a babywipe. He tossed it in the medical waste bin and heavyfooted outta the medic room. “Remembuh, don’t tell Lem. He that dumbass nasty trashy old homeboy who stink like a dirty doorknob. Don’t tell him nuttin’.”

Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!

Chapter One: Tusslin’

Chapter Two: The Sandwich

Chapter Three: Vaccination

Tag: bandaging a wounded warrior

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Five

Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!: Chapter 1