bikers – Mansploitation

Reacharound From a Stepfather

Fletcher doesn’t like his new stepdad, who’s a biker. But when Fletcher comes home from college for spring break, he has to spend time… and a bed with him, which means Fletcher’s about to see his stepdad Sagan in a whole new light. Can he handle what Sagan has in store for him?

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Read the whole thing here!

Fletcher didn’t like his new stepfather, and the more time they spent together, the less he liked him. He knew it made him seem like a whiny kid instead of the young adult college student he actually was, but he couldn’t help it.
Until last year, his mother had always been a liberal, educated woman with a professional career as a paralegal. Then she met Sagan. He was a biker, a redneck and a mechanic, a rough, hairy and tattooed thug, walking with a pimp lean even though he’s white, muscles like a baseball player… They fell in love, and Sagan convinced her it was wrong for a woman to work outside the home.
And so that was that, she quit her job. She began speaking in a Southern accent and reminded people all the time that she was “Alabama-born” — that was technically true, but she had been born in Alabama while her parents passed through on the way to their home in Dover. She was really a Delawarean.
Luckily Fletcher was in college by then. He didn’t have to see Sagan very often, but when he did, he became annoyed by his redneck antics every time. Tonight he was home for spring break, he’d be leaving tomorrow to go on a trip with his friends, so he only had to get through one night with Sagan in the house.
He went to bed early, while Sagan and his friends were still outside smoking cigarettes in the dark and talking about motorcycles. Sagan knew everything about bikes and made sure everyone was aware of it. Fletcher really hated him and his stupid redneck voice. That holler in his accent made this whole house feel like a trailer park.
This family used to be nice. Back when his biological father was here, it wasn’t like this. Mom was sophisticated, smart, professional. The house was clean, and there were never motorcycles revving outside over and over. Why did they have to be so loud?
Fletcher pulled his pillow over his face, and he groaned into it. Outside, the rednecks drawled on and on like youtube videos.
“Them Jap bikes ain’t that bad. I wouldn’t nevuh buy one, but they ain’t as shitty as they used to be.”
“Don’t ever ask me when I’m sober cuz I’ll deny it, but I’d love to buy a Mitsuhama.”
“Chicks dig them bikes, they think they’s sexy. And quiet, girls don’t like loud bikes.”
“If my bitch ever said she ain’t like a bike cuz it’s too loud, I’d bend her over the revving engine and fuck some sense into her. She’ll either go deaf or get smart with a quickness.”
That last voice was Sagan, or so Fletcher suspected. They all sounded the same to him, that same drawling redneck accent. He had told his mother before about the terrible, misogynistic things he said, but she didn’t care. “That’s just his way, sweetie,” was what she said. “He don’t mean it. He just talk rough. He spent time in prison, y’know.”
Fletcher didn’t care why Sagan talked like that. He didn’t like anyone talking about his mother like she was some common slut. But there was nothing he could do, so he just huddled under his covers, trying to pretend the noise wasn’t keeping him awake.
Did they all realize how loud they were being? It wasn’t normal in any neighborhood, was it? To be this loud at night? Who revs engines in the middle of the night?!
“Lemme head in there, guys. I’ll be back. I got some… one to do.”
“You gonna fuck the missus? We’ll help you out if’n you want.”
Sagan must have made some kind of face, because Fletcher didn’t hear him say anything, but the other men laughed. He hoped he wasn’t going to have to hear Sagan and Mom having sex. That would be awful. Fletcher would have to move out.
The front door opened. Sagan snorted and spat on the ground before entering. That was another habit Fletcher found revolting — Sagan spat often, like a baseball player.
After the front door slammed shut, Fletcher heard his stepfather come into the hall. There, he stopped for what seemed like a long time. Fletcher stayed as motionless and silent as possible, buried under his blankets.
Sagan’s heavy footsteps resumed, walking down the hall, but they stopped in front of Fletcher’s room.
“Stick it in her, Sagan! Stick it in her good!”
“Ooh, Sagan, I love you!”
“I love you too, babuh. Hmm-hmm.” They all laughed at that impression of Sagan. Did they think he sounded like Elvis? It sounded like an Elvis impression.
Fletcher rolled over. He pretended to be asleep when Sagan opened the door to his room. The smell of cigarette smoke, engine oil and sweat filled the air, and Sagan’s broad chest heaved with his breathing, like he was out of breath even though he wasn’t.
“Hey, Fletcher,” Sagan said quietly, a leer deep in his voice. “You awake?”
Pretending to be groggy, Fletcher rolled back over and faced him. “Kinda.”
Sagan sat on the edge of the bed, which weighed down the mattress and forced Fletcher to move closer to him. His body pressed against Sagan’s muscular ass right where he sat. Fletcher scooted further away, but the angle of the mattress forced him closer.
In truth, he kind of liked it next to Sagan’s powerful body. Fletcher didn’t like him, but he did appreciate Sagan’s muscular frame. Fletcher found the male form pleasing, at least when it was muscular and well-formed like Sagan. In the light, Sagan’s body was pockmarked with scars and faded prison tats, but in the darkness, he was just a masculine silhouette whose shape made Fletcher’s eyes open wide.
His smell was strong too in the darkness. That aroma, combining manliness and motorcycle and cigarette smoke, was intoxicating and heady, and it made Fletcher dizzy. He inhaled deeply of it.
“I know you don’t like me,” Sagan said.
Fletcher shrugged. “I don’t hate you.”
“That’s nice,” Sagan said. He placed one hand on Fletcher’s shoulder. “I love yer mama. You might not believe it, but I really do. I got s’r’uss feelin’s for her. You believe me?”
Fletcher didn’t respond. It hadn’t occurred to him to even have an opinion on that. He didn’t like his stepfather, he didn’t want the relationship to continue, he didn’t want Sagan to love his mother.
But Fletcher hadn’t considered whether it was true or not. His mother had her own history and goals and secret longings, and Sagan did too. For a moment, it felt like running into a teacher out in the community, it was surprising to learn, or rather to feel viscerally, that they were real people with their own lives, inner feelings, hopes and fears. His mother too, she wanted love, she believed Sagan loved her, and until this very moment, Fletcher had never considered this relationship in any way other than how it affected him.
Did he believe Sagan loved his mother? Well… It couldn’t be a scam, right? Mom didn’t have any money. Why else would Sagan marry her?
But that didn’t mean it was real love. Just because they both believed they were in love didn’t mean they were true loves, in the Disney, Hallmark, romcom kind of way. Or did it? What made some loves true and others not? Permanence? Is there no way to know if love is real except to wait a couple decades and see if it remains? No other emotion is defined that way.
But Fletcher didn’t say any of those things out loud.
Sagan sighed and stripped off his leather jacket. He carefully draped it over the chair by the bed. Then he took off his stained t-shirt and the torn wifebeater he wore under that. His powerful chest, brimming with tattoos, was barely visible in the dim light of night.
“I ain’t hear no moanin’ yet, Sagan!”
“Oooh, ooh, Sagan, I love your tiny dick-!”
“I wantchoo to fill me with every single millimeter! That’s right, both millimeters, all the way in!”
“You havin’ trouble gettin’ hard, Sagan?”
“You can ignore them,” Sagan said. “Sorry they so loud. They’s a bunch of assholes.”
“Yeah, they are.”
A long pause followed as Sagan’s grease-stained, callused fingers caressed Fletcher’s shoulder. It made Fletcher shudder and scoot closer to Sagan. “You don’t got a girlfriend, huh? You never did, right?” he said.
Fletcher shook his head and blushed, glad that Sagan couldn’t see how red his face was. In the darkness of his unlit room, he found himself inexorably drawn to Sagan’s visible asscrack as he pondered how to respond. Sagan had probably never been eighteen years old and single. He was probably fucking mad chicks back then. And now. Or at least until he got married. And maybe he still was fucking around outside of his marriage.
“Yer mama is still gonna love you,” Sagan said. “She loves you more than me, y’know. You might not think it, but she do. She told me that last week. I been telling her how to think and how to dress and how to vote and she just accept it. Then I tell her you’re a bit of a whiner, and she slapped me. She said she love you more than me and if I ever say somethin’ not nice about you again, she’ll leave me. She said she ain’t gonna put out for a month to punish me.”
“Really?”
“Fer real, man,” Sagan said. “I ain’t even mean to insult you or nuttin’. I was just annoyed you got all whiny about me treading in mud and engine grease on the floor.” He snorted again and spat in the trash can. Fletcher was grossed out but also intensely aroused. He found that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Sagan’s muscular back, which writhed when he hocked a loogie and spat.
“Okay.”
Sagan bent over and began undoing his heavy black boots. Since he was leaning forward, his bare back stretched and his asscrack was visible above the waist of his scuffed jeans. “You can play wit’ it, if you want.”
“What?”
“My ass. I can feel you lookin’ at it,” Sagan said, still facing down to his feet as he untied his boots. “Go ahead. I was in prison, remember? I ain’t gonna freak out at a man touchin’ me.”
“Oh.”
“Go on ‘n touch me.”
Fletcher got past his anxiety and stuck a finger down Sagan’s pants, right in his hairy, sweaty crack. A shudder ran down Fletcher’s spine. His eyes opened wide, and he moved close enough that his nose touched the firmness of Sagan’s back.
That asscrack was hot and hairy and sweaty, and it made Fletcher’s dick stand up under the covers. His finger crept lower and lower until his entire hand was wedged between Sagan’s ass and his dirty jeans.
Fletcher’s finger stopped when it reached the tangle of hair over Sagan’s asshole. Then he pushed through and touched that tight warm ring. He didn’t go in, sensing that Sagan wouldn’t permit that, he just hugged the rim while Sagan pulled off his boots and socks.
“Yee-haw! Make her scream, Sagan!”
Someone outside loudly revved the engine to their motorcycle, and the others laughed.
“She likin’ this sound yet or what?” He revved it again, cackling as he asked over and over whether she liked the sound.
Then Sagan stood without warning. At first Fletcher thought he was mad, that this would be it and Sagan was going to beat him up. But instead he simply dropped his pants and his dingy white boxers. His thick cock dangled, half-hard already. He stood there as though waiting for something.
“You can touch it, if you want,” Sagan said softly.
Fletcher did so, trembling as he wrapped one hand around Sagan’s thick cock. There was a tattoo of a skull-and-crossbones on it, Fletcher could just barely see it in the dark. That was weird. Who tattooed their cockshaft? Fletcher pictured Sagan taking his dick out in a tattoo parlor and the tattooist touching it, holding it still as he worked on it. Must have hurt, Fletcher thought.
His heart pounding, Fletcher hefted up that slab of meat and inhaled deeply of its musty scent. Sagan chuckled. His limp cock throbbed in Fletcher’s grip.
Without giving it another thought, Fletcher swallowed it down, as deep as he could get on it. He drooled as an explosion of masculine flavor hit his tongue, and Sagan moaned. There was a faintly surprised tenor in his voice, as though he didn’t think Fletcher’s unpracticed throat would be smooth and welcoming
“C’mon, Sagan, you put it in her ass yet?”
“I gonna drink all yer beer if you don’t get out here!”
“If you ain’t get hard yet, it ain’t gonna happen!”
Soon Sagan was rock-hard, grunting as he bucked his hips, pushing his dick deeper and deeper down Fletcher’s throat. He held onto the back of Fletcher’s head as though going to throat him down, but didn’t. He just gently worked his dick as far as it would go.
“Yeah…” Sagan voice melted away as his dick spasmed in Fletcher’s mouth.
The taste of precum hit him, and Fletcher gurgled merrily. It was salty and sweet, savory and sour, it tasted like exactly what he had been looking for. He forced himself to deep-throat even more of it.
He continued until his nose was buried in Sagan’s unkempt pubic hair, which stood out from his crotch like a shrub. His dick was even bigger than it had first seemed because the first few inches were concealed by hair, which smelled of metal and stale semen.
Fletcher’s fingers crept up Sagan’s body to his muscular chest. He didn’t have a six-pack, but his barrel-shaped torso was bulging with muscles and the power of his frame emanated from him in his body heat, which enveloped Fletcher. Fletcher withdrew his fingers when he realized that probably seemed too weird to Sagan.
But Sagan shook his head, grabbed his hands and brought them back up to his nipples. “Go on and feel whatever you wanna feel, boy,” Sagan said. He flexed his pecs beneath Fletcher’s grasp. “You wanna stick a finger in my ass? Go on, I’s a prison-man, ‘member? You ain’t gonna shock me.”
Fletcher, however, was shocked. He kept one of his hands on those rock-hard pecs and erect nipples, while his other hand crept to Sagan’s plump ass. He pushed his finger back through the tangled nest of asshair and plunged hesitantly into Sagan’s butthole.
It was warm and tight, and every time he moved his finger even the slightest, it made Sagan grunt and shake. Fletcher smiled as he watched his stepfather writhe beneath his touch. His spongy prostate felt good beneath Fletcher’s fingertip.
“I’m-a ram you in the ass now, boy,” Sagan murmured. He hurried under the blankets as though this was a race, wrapped his muscular body around Fletcher and rammed the tip of his dick right in. Fletcher bucked and tensed as pain shot through him. Sagan stopped moving. “Hey, sorry, I ain’t nevuh ram a man outside of prison. I ain’t used to doin’ it nice,” he said. He sounded genuinely apologetic as he stroked Fletcher’s spasming back. “But I’ll do somethin’ fer you I only ever done on my prison bitch’s birthday and Christmas.” He reached one hand around Fletcher’s body and grabbed his cock, which was already hard.
Then he began working his dick in and out slowly. The motion sent sparks of sensation through Fletcher’s body, and he gasped and moaned and writhed, as the pressure in his ass grew and grew even as it morphed into spams of pleasure that wracked Fletcher’s body. Every minute or two, Sagan seemed to forget that he was trying to be gentle, and he’d hump his hips hard until Fletcher squealed and squirmed. Then he apologized and slowed down again.
“Sorry, boy, you squirm real nice-like…” He kissed Fletcher on the nape. His hands squeezed Fletcher’s cock, one hand holding firmly onto the cockroot while the other spit-lubed hand stroked the shaft.
He kept chewing on his lips and snorting, emitting almost a snore-like sound. He even paused every few minutes and spat a loogie into the trash can by the bed. Each time he did, his belly and his powerful chest writhed above Fletcher’s body.
The thick, bristly hair of his chest and arms scratched at Fletcher’s back. He arched his spine as the sensations grew more and more intense, to the point where he wasn’t sure he could stand it. Fletcher couldn’t even tell if it was so intensely painful or pleasurable, it was just too much of everything, and it made him squirm in his stepafather’s powerful arms.
“If it hurts, you can bite my arm, son,” Sagan said softly, his voice sending a shudder up Fletcher’s spine. He put the meaty part of his forearm in front of Fletcher’s face, like a chokehold almost, but not tight.
Fletcher was glad to have the opportunity for a little relief, as the sensations roiling within were so intense it felt like he was going to explode. He bit down hard on the firm muscles of Sagan’s forearm, which made Sagan moan as though he loved being bitten. His forearm was brimming with muscle so big it seemed to barely fit beneath his skin, and his coarse body hairs rubbed against Fletcher’s teeth and lips. There were tattoos there on his skin, but Fletcher couldn’t see them in the dark and his mind was too distracted by the cock in his ass to remember what they were.
“You makin’ babies tonight, Sagan?!”
“Don’t pull out, man!”
“Whoop, whoop!”
He chuckled into Fletcher’s ear. “I ain’t gonna pull out. I’m gonna cum inside you, boy. You like that? You wanna feel me shoot a nut in you?”
“Yeah…”
“Good. I don’t like pullin’ out. Does it still hurt?”
“A little.”
“Good. It should hurt a bit,” Sagan said. “Is it alright if’n I come see you at night every once in a while?”
“Yeah.”
After another long pause, Sagan said, “Every night?”
“Yeah,” Fletcher said. “You’ll do this again, right?”
“Hell yeah. Try and stop me,” Sagan said. He kissed Fletcher on the cheek.
“Hmmm…” Fletcher’s voice broke as a fresh wave of pleasure hit his prostate and rumbled its way up his body. His open mouth gnawed at Sagan’s meaty forearm, but he couldn’t summon the wherewithal to actually bite down anymore. All he could do was writhe amid the tangle of Sagan’s sweat-matted hair and contorting muscles.
The motorcycles outside revved loudly. Sagan grunted, annoyed, waited for the engines to quiet down again, then screamed loud enough that everyone outside could hear. “You quit makin’ that racket, Cooter! I’ll come cornhole you instead, motherfucker, bend you right over that bike and ram you up the backside! You know I will too!”
They all laughed — presumably all except Cooter — and teased each other about who would like it the best if Sagan did ramrod them. Fletcher moaned at the thought of it, his mind picturing Cooter (or at least, the biker he suspected was Cooter, since Fletcher didn’t know who was who out there) bent over as he was sodomized by Sagan’s big tattooed meat.
Fletcher wondered if Sagan actually did that kind of thing. Did he cornhole the other bikers?
“You like that, huh? I did ramrod that Cooter once. He bet he could beat me in a race. I beat his ass down,” Sagan said. “Next time I do that, I let you watch, boy. Maybe you can join in, if you want to. You like that idea?”
“Yes, dad…” Fletcher moaned in ecstasy, as Sagan’s cock rammed all the way in and all the way out with each powerful thrust of Chooper’s body. It made Fletcher’s bed shake under them.
“Good. Now here comes my nut. You ready fer it? Lemme hear you say it.”
“I’m ready for your nut,” Fletcher said, struggling to get the words out.
“Alright, this’ll hurt a bit,” he said, then rammed his dick all the way in. It did send a shiver of pain up Fletcher’s spine, but more prominently it sent Fletcher to new heights of ecstasy as well. His prostate burned with stimulation as his mind reeled.
When Sagan’s orgasm actually came, Fletcher felt it through the quiver of his muscles and the loud rumbling in his throat. Fletcher gasped as his own climax began building at that moment, when he felt Sagan’s manhood spasming deep within him.
“He’e it is, boy, take it, take every drop…” His voice was low and slow. “Lemme hear you say it. Say when you feel it and when you don’t no mo’.”
Cum sprayed into Fletcher’s body, as Sagan’s muscles all tensed. He yelped and squealed directly into Fletcher’s ear and even licked his earlobe as pleasure shot through them both.
“I feel it, daddy,” Fletcher said, his voice weak and small as pleasure overran him. “I feel your cum inside me.” Once the semen flowed into him, it stuck to his innards and Fletcher felt nothing but creamy warmth. It was only after a few full minutes that Fletcher realized he was definitely done, as he kept feeling trickling jizz inside him until then. “That’s it, I think. I don’t feel it anymore,” he said through gritted teeth.
Then Sagan pulled out, laid Fletcher on his back and used both hands to stroke Fletcher off. Fletcher writhed, the intense pleasure overwhelming him. He clutched Sagan’s powerful chest and broad shoulders. Sagan smiled as though he enjoyed the sight of Fletcher’s delicate fingers clutching his muscles and his kinky chest hair.
“I ain’t nevuh done this, boy,” Sagan said before bending his head over and taking Fletcher’s dick in his mouth. He moved all in one smooth motion, as though if he stopped to think about it, he’d back out.
By that time, Fletcher was already beginning to nut. His orgasm overwhelmed him as soon as he felt that warm moisture on his dick. Sagan’s tongue had no sooner touched Fletcher’s manhood when cum sprayed into Sagan’s mouth. He gagged but didn’t stop.
A plentiful load flowed into Sagan’s throat, and though he screwed up his face in disgust, he swallowed every drop. Fletcher had never felt pleasure so intense — he had masturbated, of course, but it had never felt like this. He shot what felt like a massive load, which drained down Sagan’s tattooed neck.
When Fletcher was done, Sagan lifted his head up, wiped his lips off with a tissue and gagged again. He patted Fletcher on the cheek, kissed him chastely there and got out of bed.
“Damn, Sagan, you tryin’-a give her an orgasm tonight? Tryin’ somethin’ new?”
“Lemme tell you a secret, boy,” Sagan said, standing next to the bed. He rubbed Fletcher’s back and asscheeks with one hand. “I been in prison a couple times. I, uh… I mean… I did have a prison bitch. A couple of ’em. But, uh… I also been the prison bitch a few times, and I uh… I had a prison wife for awhile. I ain’t mind swallowin’ that man’s dick. I don’t mind swallowin’ your’n neither. Don’t tell yer mama.”
“Okay,” Fletcher said, too exhausted to process that information.
“Now you just playin’ wit’ it, Sagan!”
Sagan slowly put his clothes on. He smiled at Fletcher and patted him on the head. “Go on, go to sleep, boy, and have a good trip tomorrow. I’ll make those fuckheads shut up.”
“Okay. Thanks, Sagan.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. He paused at the doorway. “I don’t expect you to say this back to me, Fletcher… But I love you, son.”
Fletcher waited until he was gone to say it back, but he had a feeling Sagan knew he had said it. Just seconds later, Sagan barked at his friends outside.
“Shut yer goddamn mouths and turn your engines off, fuckheads! The family I love is tryin’-a sleep!”

Rednecks in the Dark

Jacob and Ransom never thought inviting the weird old biker Cooter to their camping trip to ride dirtbikes in the woods would lead to a hardcore stretch of man-on-man redneck action! But this camping trip just turn into their most intense weekend ever!

Can they handle this much hardcore alpha male action?!

Read it now as an ebook!

Or read the whole thing here!

When Jacob and Ransom went camping, they always brought their dirtbike along. Only it was never really their dirtbike, it was Jacob’s brother’s, and this week Jacob’s brother had had to sell it to make bail money for his girlfriend. So they had no dirtbike for this weekend’s camping trip.
“No dirtbike? You li’l ingrates, shit!” Cooter said when they told him. His anger made his big bushy beard jiggle. He scowled at them both.
“It’s not my fault!” Jacob said. “If you don’t want to go camping, that’s fine-“
“Nah, nah, I’ll still come,” Cooter said. His scowl turned into a shrug like he wasn’t angry a moment ago. “We’ll just get drunk. That’s usually all I do campin’. Tha’ss the whole point, reckon.” He clucked his tongue and winked at them. “See you boys later.”
He went off then, presumably to get his things for the camping trip. Jacob and Ransom exchanged knowing looks. The whole point of inviting Cooter was to ride dirtbikes. They were trying to impress him. What would they even talk about with a middle-aged man all weekend?
Ransom sighed. “Aw man, I kinda wish he wasn’t coming now.” Josh nodded his agreement. They were both ambivalent because Cooter was scary. The good kind of scary. Or at least not the really bad kind. Jacob and Ransom would never admit that, it’d make them look weak, but it was true. Cooter was a middle-aged biker — his license was suspended, his motorcycle in police custody, so he was only a biker in a cultural sense — who was active in the Jagged Right, a badass motorcycle gang who controlled the underground in this neck of the woods, that neck being Martinsburg, West Virginia. Cooter had an old-timey beardy like a gold prospector, with a broad burly body and a perpetual scowl. He was stacked like a rugby player despite being fortyish (or maybe older, he seemed positively ancient to Jacob, but he never complained of sore knees, so maybe not that old, it was hard to tell, he’s the kind of guy you can’t imagine ever looking young). They’d been trying to get him to go dirtbike riding with them for months. Both Jacob and Ransom wanted to be badasses like Cooter, and they hoped to get in with the Jagged Right through him.
Their spot was in the Crambighter Woods Campground. That was a low-budget spot near the highway, somewhere between a campground and a homeless encampment. It was a semi-legal encampment of semi-homeless men, a little splat of tents and trailers, a splat that was hoping to grow up into a trailer park one day. Anyway, the campsites were spread over a two-mile-long road that looped back on itself, but you were allowed to go deeper into the woods to set up your own site. A few of those informal campsites were well-maintainted, and one of them was where Jacob and Ransom always went. They considered it their campsite.
So it was unfortunate that they had to go camping this weekend with no dirtbike. Cooter was shooting them dirty looks as they got to the campground and set up for the night. That at least was something Jacob and Ransom could do in their sleep, which was good because they got there late, just as the sun was going down.
“We’re sorry, Cooter,” Jacob finally said. “It was my brother, he’s such a dumbass! He was driving the dirtbike on the highway! The Interstate! I told him, he’s gonna get arrested.”
Cooter was quiet at first. “That’s pretty badass. Bet he caused a traffic jam though.”
“It was like three in the morning. And he was drunk. And on probation. And he had two green downers in his pocket,” Jacob said. “They’re auctioning off the dirtbike, cuz he owes like twelve grand in fees and shit.” A grim silence spread around the campfire, which Cooter was waving to get it going. He wasn’t doing a very good job, but the other two didn’t point it out to him. When Cooter finally let out a chuckle, then another one. Jacob and Ransom followed, and before long all three were laughing out loud.
“I got you boys a surprise too,” Cooter said when the laughter died down. “I think he’s comin’ now.”
“Who?”
“You brought someone else?” Ransom bit his lip. If it was anyone other than Cooter, he’d have been pissed they invited some stranger.
It turned out not to be a stranger though.
It was Yancey Garraty, the sissy at the trailer park they all came from. Yancey was a slim thirty-something man with a limp wrist and a high-pitched voice like a girl. He was always vaguely creepy, like he had extra eyes hidden somewhere. Jacob and Ransom wrinkled their nose when they heard the sound of Yancey approaching, which was the sound of a dirtbike.
Yancey brought a brand-new dirtbike with him, as he followed the trail from Crambighter Woods that Cooter directed him to. Yancey drove it at slow speed to the campsite where Cooter, Ransom and Jacob sat around a fire. Ransom was tall and fresh-faced, with a big confident chest and broad shoulders. He had a deep voice, ruddy cheeks and dark hair. Jacob was the youngest, at barely twenty-one. He was thin and lanky, deeply-bearded, and he wore camo pants as if they were his uniform.
Cooter stood up when Yancey parked the dirtbike near their campsite. The other two stood as well, but Cooter came closer. Jacob and Ransom stayed behind, wary — they assumed at first that Yancey was here to attack them or challenge them in some way. Cooter hadn’t told his friends what was going on.
“Who’re you, man?!”
“Hey! This is our campsite. Whatchoo doin’?”
Cooter held one hand up for silence. His dark face was in shadows cast by the campfire. Jacob and Ransom both fell silent. Cooter didn’t look at the other two, he just came closer to Yancey and shook his hand. He inspected the dirtbike, which was sparkling clean, having only been purchased earlier today.
“Cooter, what’s going on? Hey.”
“Hey boys,” Yancey said with a flounce and a smirk in their direction, then he blushed and fell silent. He licked his lips.
Cooter nodded that he was satisfied. He looked at his friends. “You boys know Yancey, right?” He wagged his finger at them. “You call him Mistah Yancey, show him respec’.” They hadn’t disrespected him, but they both looked down as if chagrined anyway. Yancey wasn’t even his last name, which it wasn’t clear Cooter understood, but neither Jacob nor Ransom pointed that out. Cooter glared at them. “He a straight-up sissy, boys and we gonna ram the ever-lovin’ shit outta him tonight. He gonna give us the dirtbike.”
They looked at each other, then at Cooter, then at Yancey, then back at each other again with wide eyes and a series of stammers.
“What?”
“Yo, what? We ain’t like that, dawg. We ain’t… We ain’t, y’know, booty bandits like you-“
“You for real?”
“Ah, shit, Yancey…” Ransom shook his head, not like he was refusing, like he was mourning.
Cooter growled. “Shut up, both you fuckwits,” he said. He straightened his back. “Once you been locked up, you need the booty, boys, you know that.”
“You know that, Cooter.” Ransom chuckled, his jaw-droppingly deep voice echoing in the forest. “You say that all the time. But we ain’t been in prison-“
“I’ll do it,” Jacob blurted out. He tried to sound cocky. Usually Ransom came off as the badass leader of the two of them — and their little friend group — so Jacob was eager to show that he could ball. He chugged the rest of the can of beer he had opened, and he belched. “No problem.”
“Hell yeah!” Cooter clapped his hands once, then clasped Jacob on the book. “You gonna like this, you the shit, Jacob.” He winked at Jacob, and he grabbed another beer for himself and one for Jacob.
“Yeah, cool,” Ransom chimed in, as if this wasn’t a reversal of positions for himself. He couldn’t be shown up by his friend. He only thought about what he was agreeing to — sticking his dick in Yancey’s butthole — after he said it.
Cooter had been in prison for years, and everybody knew he was a booty bandit. He had a “girlfriend” in there, and he said all the time that only a wuss jacks himself off. Real men have girlfriends or they swing on the downlow. Jacob and Ransom had never disputed that because they didn’t want to admit they were scared to do anything more than jack off next to each other and both were sort of still virgins. Neither would admit that to each other or to Cooter.
“If you don’t cornhole him, this ain’t ya dirtbike,” Cooter said. He had a deep, glowery voice, like he was simmeringly angry all the time. “Whoever do it get to share it. It’s ours.”
“Wait, he bought us a dirtbike?” Jacob asked.
“Hell yeah,” Ransom said. His big-boy voice boomed. “No problem. You should know I’m gonna plow like a stallion, man, I swear, I might break you into little lavender pieces, boy. You okay wit’ that?” He was nervous, but he felt he had to lean into it. No looking like a wuss in front of Cooter. “When I fuck women, I’ll go slow and gentle, but if’n you gonna bend ovuh for me, you best not back out.” He chugged his beer just like the others, then grabbed another and chugged that. He really wanted to be good and drunk for this.
“Yes, sir,” Yancey said. He giggled and sashayed towards the campfire. He went to Ransom, whose massive chest puffed out like he was being threatened by tiny little Yancey. Yancey was shorter and thinner than Ransom, looking like a child’s doll next to him. He stuck one hand under Ransom’s shirt and tweaked his nipples. Ransom’s chest rippled and he gasped. He almost pushed Yancey away instinctively, but then didn’t. He just sniffled and looked away.
“Aw, man, aw, man, aw, man,” Ransom said with a laugh. His big dumb face turned deep, dark red. He was one of those people that laughed when he was nervous, and his big hairy body shook. He suddenly became very ticklish. Yancey’s fingers got his armpits, and Ransom flexed his muscles and smiled to cover up his ticklish laughter.
“Take off your shirt,” Yancey said. That was the only reason he agreed to this: Ransom was the handsome one with the splendid chest. He groped every inch of his torso. Cooter had his alpha-male allure, Yancey thought, but he could have Cooter’s dick anytime for free. Jacob was cute like a puppy or a sad refugee, but he wasn’t worth a dirtbike.
Yancey wanted Ransom.
Ransom took his shirt off, laughing so hard he was nearly hyperventilating. “Aw, man, this is crazy, you know, you know, okay, okay, no big deal, but like, you know, shit, that’s crazy,” Ransom’s eyes bugged out. “Like whatever, it’s cool.” He had grown up on a farm, and he looked like it — he had a thickly padded body filled with muscles. Yancey licked a trail down his muscles and pulled down his loose-fitting jeans to reveal a plump cock.
Cooter was already naked. He wrinkled his nose as he stroked his dick, looking at that tight asshole he was about to ram. Jacob was a few feet away, getting undressed more slowly. Cooter got naked a lot. Ever since his time in prison, he had no shame about taking his clothes off. Jacob tried to have the same confidence; he had a big barrel chest like Cooter.
But no matter what Jacob did, it was always obvious that Cooter was stronger, tougher and had a bigger cock. His foot-long horse-cock always made Jacob feel small. Ransom too had a huge dick, though not quite as long as Jacob’s. They all showered together cuz their trailer park only had hot water in the communal showerhouse, but Jacob and Ransom had never seen Cooter’s leviathan erect before.
They were both bugging out at sight of it, but they played it cool. Cooter’s hairy body gleamed in the campfirelight.
“C’mon, stick that ass up, boy,” Cooter said. He spat on the palm of his hand and wiped into into Yancey’s ass. That was for lube, but Jacob and Ransom silently thought that was crazy. Cooter just casually stuck his finger in Yancey’s ass, and Yancey let out a moan like he liked it. then he grabbed Ransom’s cock and put the whole thing in his mouth — it was big but soft and seemed shrunken in the cool night air. Ransom sucked in his breath.
“Yeah, shit, get it wet, man, shit…” Ransom was suddenly stricken with fear that he wouldn’t get hard. He didn’t show it though, and after a few seconds, a pleasurable tingle did arise at the root of his cock. Yancey’s warm mouth encircled his whole shaft, which his tongue battered as he choked up mouthloads of spit that soaked Ransom’s ballsac.
Jacob watched, heart beating fast. He was the only one not involved right now. Did he look like a pussy? He felt he needed to assert his masculinity, so he touched Yancey’s asscheek with one hand. He grunted like he was satisfied with how plump it was, while inside his heart did flips because he realized he was touching Cooter’s pubic hair, as Cooter was sliding his dick into Yancey’s ass.
“Yeah, spread his cheeks, man, come on,” Cooter murmured as his cock slid deeper into Yancey’s ass. He snarled when Yancey moved to handle his cock again, and Cooter slammed his fists on Yancey’s back to keep him still. “Don’t let ‘im move, Jacob. I’m-a make him squeal like a piggie.”
Jacob gulped. He hadn’t mean to be this involved. He had to use both hands to separate Yancey’s asscheeks, feeling both Yancey’s soft fuzz and Cooter’s kinky dark pubic hairs. Jacob had to suppress a gag. If he was going to be as hardcore as Cooter, he thought, he needed to be willing to do what Cooter did.
And Cooter just plunged right in, like it was nothing, like he did it all the time! Which he presumably did, Jacob and Ransom were just surprised to see it.
Cooter closed his eyes and moaned while his cock slid in and out of Yancey’s ass. His big sweaty redneck muscles glistened. When Yancey squirmed, Cooter smacked his back, sending a wave of pleasure up Yancey’s spine
“Oh, he got a nice tight hole…”
Unable to focus on his mouth while he endured Cooter’s intense penetration, Yancey pulled Ransom’s cock out of his mouth. He thwacked it over his face. Every time he did, Ransom jumped up and blushed a little brighter.
“Damn, boy,” Ransom said with a barrel-throated laugh, “You been swallowin’ my cock like you got somethin’ to prove. You should give lessons to females, hell.” His dick was already leaking precum, and he had an embarrassed grin on his face. He was genuinely getting into this now, his anxiety vanishing. It was better than a blowjob from a woman, he thought, because Yancey swallowed him all the way to the root, and he didn’t even complain when Ransom began forcing his dick in and out of Yancey’s throat. He fucked it like a pussy, and Yancey barely gagged.
Felt good as anything! Ransom wasn’t about to admit that though. He was definitely gonna hafta say later on, in the tent, that he would rather have a blowjob, even from an ugly woman.
Yancey moaned through a mouthload of cock, but the pain and pleasure of the foot-long meat sliding into him made it too hard to think. When he lifted his head, Cooter growled and grabbed his hair.
“Who’s cock is in ya, princess?”
“Cooter…” Yancey said softly, moaning. Pangs of pleasure shot up his spine as Cooter’s manhood tickled his prostate.
“Nah, you say that loud, boy. Say it loud and proud.” Cooter smacked Yancey’s ass hard, reawakening the pain deep inside him. Yancey grunted, his face turning red.
“Cooter!”
“You say my full name, princess. Jethro Wilde. Say that.”
“Jethro Wilde’s cock is in my ass! I’m his bitch! He can do with me-“
He smacked Yancey’s ass again. “I ain’t tell you to say none of that. Yeah, you my bitch. ‘Course you my bitch.” He paused and roared like an angry tiger. He growled at Jacob, who quaked back, “Keep his cheeks separated, man.”
Jacob grunted. He was trying hard to avoid looking like he was uncomfortable. He had been trying to establish himself as a hardcore thug for a long time — he thought he could get Cooter to invite him in on some criminal shit, most likely making meth (that was Jacob’s guess as to what Cooter did when he disappeared every couple days). So Jacob wanted to look like he knew how to do this. Cooter had told him that, in prison, it was normal to give a man a few puffs on a cigarette in exchange for helping to spread his prison bitch’s cheeks and maybe even guide his cock in by hand. Jacob found that difficult to stomach. He only needed to do it once though, he figured, then he could refuse to do it again and no one could say he was too much of a pussy to do it at all.
“Your turn, boy,” Cooter said with a sick smile. He pulled out of Yancey’s ass, wiping his massive cock off on Yancey’s cheeks. There was some brief glancing contact with Jacob’s hand, making Jacob jump back and bite his lip. It was clear that Cooter didn’t think it was such a big deal, however, so Jacob tried to shrug it off.
He wished he could just do oral like Ransom. Jacob enjoyed plowing girls in the ass, but this was a stressful situation. What if he lost his erection and couldn’t get it back?
“You evuh ram a man in the ass?” Cooter asked.
Jacob gulped and shook his head as he wedged his dick into Yancey’s tight hole. Cooter spread his cheeks. He had no compunctions about getting close — he watched Jacob’s dick slide in like it was a science experiment he was deeply interested in. He even grabbed Jacob’s dick and made sure it went in when Jacob felt resistance.
“Damn, man, you touchin’ his dick, you touchin’ it, it’s crazy, you lettin’ that freak do it, I, shit, I am, shit…” Ransom sounded like he was about to burst into hyperventilating laughter again. “Aww, man, shit!” He was closest to the campfire, so the heat from it — and the stress of the situation — made him sweaty and ruddy. His sweat trickled down his body and into Yancey’s mouth.
Cooter grumbled. “Shut up, idiot. I’s just helpin’ his dick in.” But still, his fingers on Jacob’s cock made Jacob feel self-conscious. He grunted, avoiding eye contact with Ransom because he knew Ransom would get him to smile or laugh or something like that. Jacob closed his eyes and tried to focus on the physical sensations of Yancey’s tight ass.
“You can plow me harder,” Yancey said like a sassy bitch. He stuck his tongue out, licking Ransom’s throbbing veiny cockshaft. He slurped up the precum that ran down the side.
“I don’t know if he can,” Cooter said. “Let me at it again, boy, you ain’t doin’ it right.”
“Cooter, I can-“
“Shut up and move,” Cooter said with a snarl. He pushed Jacob out of the way, and for a moment, Yancey’s ass was empty. Then Cooter rammed his dick right back in.
This time Yancey was more used to getting rammed, and his asshole stretched to accommodate Cooter’s cock easily. He moaned. He managed to keep Ransom’s cocktip in his mouth, tasting the precum and enjoying the shocked, beet-red look on Ransom’s big round face.
“See, you gotta ram him hard, man, you gotsta destroy his ass. He ain’t a girl you makin’ love to, see, he a girlyboy you gonna demolish. That’s what they there for,” Cooter said. He dragged Jacob’s head close once more, so Jacob had to once again pretend he wasn’t upset by the taste of Cooter’s hairy chest-sweat trickling into his mouth because his face was jammed up against Cooter’s belly. He could smell Yancey’s ass getting rammed, and he could feel little droplets of what he very much hoped was sweat splashing onto his face. Cooter’s dick was inches from Jacob’s face. “See? Watch it, boy!”
“Yeah, okay,” Jacob said. “You gotta gimme a chance, Cooter. I was gonna ram him plenty hard-“
“Why ain’t you do it?”
Jacob gulped. “I was just… I dunno, man, you surprised me, I was bangin’ that ass pretty hard you know, and I was — I only just got started. I was, you know… rampin’ up-“
“A real man don’t need to ramp up,” Cooter said. He frowned and wiped sweat off his forehead. “Let’s see you do it again. You wanna be ass brothers?”
“What…?” Jacob didn’t know what that was, but he knew he probably didn’t want it. He nodded though, ignoring his own body’s cry to just hurry up and cum so he could quit this.
But it turned out that “ass-brothers” — which Jacob suspected Cooter made up or was just a silly joke that no one took seriously in prison — meant that Jacob kneeled behind Yancey to ram him, while Cooter mounted Yancey from behind and above. That meant Jacob couldn’t even see the person he was plowing, all he could see was Cooter’s big hairy ass in front of his face. When he stuck his dick in, Cooter’s balls touched his shaft, and he could feel Cooter’s precum clinging to his shaft.
They took turns. That’s what being “ass brothers” was. Jacob pushed his dick into Yancey’s hole, then Cooter did, they were supposed to get a rhythm going, but that was more difficult than it might seem.
“See? Now we like brothers,” Cooter said with a laugh. It was a deep, throaty chuckle. Cooter didn’t laugh often, so that was about the most animated laughter Jacob had ever seen from him.
Having nowhere else to put his hands, Jacob kept touching Cooter’s thighs or the side of his asscheeks. He gulped. His skin was hairy and sweaty, and it reminded Jacob what he was doing right now. It was easy to forget that Yancey was a man because he was slim and delicate and smooth, but now Jacob could barely even see him. He just kept getting facefulls of Cooter’s plump and hairy ass.
Cooter let out a loud grunt. He slammed his dick all the way in — he was still taking turns with Jacob, and it was Jacob’s turn, so Cooter rubbed his throbbing, mid-orgasm cock right over Jacob’s shaft — and rammed Yancey one last time. Jacob was glad at first, then saw Cooter pull his dick out just in time to spray his wad right on Jacob’s dick.
“Aw, man, what?!” Jacob groaned. He felt sick looking at cum dripping off his dick. Cooter shot what appeared to be a huge load that just kept on getting bigger, his massive balls spraying more and more until it covered Jacob’s cock. “Ewww, man, Cooter…”
Cooter grunted and wiped his dick off on Yancey’s asscheeks. He laughed and playfully smacked Jacob’s biceps. “What’s wrong, princess? You don’t like gettin’ dirty? You can go make love to some pretty girl anytime you want — assuming you know a pretty girl, which I know you don’t — but if you gonna get down and dirty wit’ me, we gonna do it my way,” Cooter said. “Now that’s called prison-lube, boy, and it’s the best kinda lube there is.”
“Yeah, I mean… I know, sure…” Jacob said. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He couldn’t stop thinking about the creamy cum clinging to his cockshaft. “It’s just… Okay, no problem. Yeah. Yeah. It’s prolly good lube. For sure.”
But he had only barely got his dick back in Yancey’s tight hole when there was a burst of cummy scent. Ransom got his first jet of cum right on Yancey’s face. Ransom was blushing still, and his eyes were closed. He looked surprised that he was cumming already.
“Don’t waste that, Ransom!” Cooter grunted. He grabbed Ransom’s dick and aimed it right for Jacob’s crotch.
Jacob gulped, gagged and squirmed. Cooter manhandled Ransom’s cock in the middle of his orgasm, making Ransom writhe as his load joined Cooter’s on Jacob’s cockshaft. Jacob felt like shouting, running away, running off to clean his dick off.
No, he told himself, you’re gonna fit in. You gotta do what Cooter does. “Ransom, don’t act like a fuckin’ pussy,” Jacob said. “It’s no big deal.” He rammed his dick all the way into Yancey’s tight ass.
It was much easier this time, since he no longer had Cooter’s big hairy body in front of his face. Jacob watched Yancey’s feminine ass shake as he rammed harder and harder. He had to admit the cum was an effective lubricant, and Jacob managed to slip his dick in and out easily.
He was worried he wouldn’t be able to cum due to stress and anxiety, but that wasn’t an issue — he had been so turned off previously that the lack of other cocks and hairy muscles all around made it easier now. He groaned as his balls crawled up in his sac.
A hot, creamy load sprayed into Yancey’s ass. Yancey moaned. He had been jacking himself off for some time, and he finally allowed himself to shoot his own load onto the forest floor. None of the rednecks noticed. Powerful pangs of climactic bliss shot up Yancey’s spine as Jacob pounded away at his cum-soaked prostate, each thrust of his hips sending a new wave of pleasure through Yancey’s body.
Cooter clapped and hooted a little like an appreciative audience. He clasped Jacob on the shoulder, which smeared his sweat on Jacob’s skin. The biggest load of Jacob’s life filled Yancey’s ass with his seed, so much that it dripped out and onto the forest floor. He could do nothing more than squirm, impaled on Jacob’s dick.
“God damn,” Jacob said with a sigh as he pulled out.
Yancey squirmed and sighed. He collapsed onto the floor. He was a sticky, cummy mess, exactly how he liked to be. He lay there limply, then rolled over and smiled. The three rednecks were all lighting cigarettes and looking over the dirtbike, limp cocks dangling — none of them wanted to be the self-conscious one, so they had all eschewed re-dressing. Yancey didn’t mind that at all.
He went to them, touched Ransom’s plump, jiggling ass and giggled when he yelped. “Hope you boys enjoy the dirtbike,” Yancey said, blushing as he stroked Ransom’s hairy ass. “I hope you enjoy using it as much I enjoyed you paying for it.”
They blushed and mumbled responses. Now that all that was over, they didn’t really want to have anything to do with Yancey. They just wanted to play with their dirtbike and ignore him, and then not ever think about this again.

The Alpha in a Black Leather Jacket

When bikers fill up Avery’s town, he isn’t sure how to react. Then one studly alpha catches his eye, and before Avery knows it, he’s made an offer the biker is too horny to turn down!

Can Avery get that macho biker to stop scaring the customers away from his store?!

Read it now as an ebook!

Or read the whole thing here!

Avery sighed as motorcycles whizzed past outside his flower shop. He wasn’t even sure he should bother to be open today — there was a biker festival just down the street, so Avery’s hometown was temporarily home to thousands of bikers. They roared by, engines rumbling like dragons.
He didn’t think they were likely to buy very many flowers. But as long as they were around, not many people were out on the street, and no one was out shopping for things like flowers. So it had killed his business for the day.
Oh no, there’s one right outside… Avery’s heart fluttered for a couple reasons. Firstly, the biker milling about had an incredible physique, and he sent Avery’s blood into overdrive. Second, he was scary, and he made Avery want to run and hide. Third, he was intimidating and his presence would guarantee that no customers came into the shop today.
But Avery couldn’t decide whether to run in fear or call the police or ask to jerk him off. This biker looked like he might consider it with the right persuasion.
He was swarthy-skinned, with an old-fashioned mustache that was well-groomed atop a beard that was scruffy and poorly-groomed. He wore a series of black clothes — they blended in, in layers, so much that it was hard to tell how many shirts, vests and patches he wore. But above it all was a sterling black leather jacket, under which his chest was broad. His hair was long and curly, in a jet-black mullet that piled up behind his neck.
Was he dangerous? He certainly didn’t look safe. But Avery would feel like an asshole if he called the police on some random man who wasn’t a threat. He’d look like a fool too — this town was full of bikers; the cop would tell Avery that a lot of people are going to look rough today and he should try to relax, it would be patronizing and humiliating.
But Avery didn’t want him hanging out in front of the store. There was no way anyone would come in to buy flowers if they had to go past this biker. Sure enough, as though intending to demonstrate it, the biker scowled at two nice ladies walking past.
“Smile, lady, c’mon,” said the biker, his voice a low throaty growl. “You’d be prettier if ya smiled.”
The women just quickened their pace and kept going. The biker watched and lit a cigarette.
Avery took a deep breath. He thought he needed to go out there and do something. He didn’t know what, but it needed to be something.
He went out there without a second thought. The biker turned to look at him.
“Hey, uh, so, I got-“
The biker grunted. “I ain’t stayin’.”
A long pause filled the air, and Avery blushed. This biker was thickly built, and he reeked of engine oil and stale sweat — not like he was sweaty, but more like it had soaked into the black leather of his biker jacket.
“I’m sorry?”
“You came out here to stay I can’t hang out in front of ya store, right?” The biker peered inside the window. He scoffed. “Fuckin’ flowers… You know there’s an Internet, right? You can buy flowers online. Probably.”
“Some people like buying flowers in stores.”
The biker rolled his eyes. “Well, I ain’t stayin’ so don’t worry. My bike gots a pro’lem and it ain’t runnin’, boy.” He pointed to a motorcycle parked on the side of the road. “Waitin’ for my buddy to show up wit’ some tools.”
“Oh, uh, well, do you have to wait right here in front of my door?”
“You want me to buy somethin’? I ain’t got shit for cash, man. I got ‘bout five bucks to my name, not countin’ what I needs for gas to get home, and beer — you best believe I ain’t goin’ wit’out beer at the festival, boy, swear to God, I’ll box ya goddamn ears.”
“Oh, well… I dunno, I don’t, uh… my flowers are all more expensive, uh, than…” Avery’s voice trailed off because the biker glared at him, eyes drilling into his soul. Avery cleared his throat.
“Whatchoo want? Why you still talkin’ to me?”
“I, uh…” Avery cleared his throat. “I thought… uh… maybe-“
“Get it out, boy,” the biker said. He grabbed Avery by the chin, his callused fingers rubbing over Avery’s smooth skin.
Avery went pale. “I wanted, uh-“
“I ain’t a pervert,” the biker said, chewing on his lip as he forced Avery to look him in the eye. His hot breath condensed on Avery’s lips — it was virtually a kiss. Avery instinctively reached out and touched the man’s chest for support, holding onto his powerful body. He sensed curly chest hairs underneath those layers of biker gear.
“Good…” Avery’s voice was a mousy squeak.
The biker laughed, a harsh and guttural sound. It didn’t sound like a real laugh, more like he wanted Avery to think he was laughing at him. Still he was so close they nearly kissed.
Then, they did.
The biker pecked Avery right on the lips. He tasted of cigarettes and smog, and he guffawed at the shocked look on Avery’s face. He shoved Avery against the wall in front of his door.
“Don’t worry, ma’am, I’ll be gone toot-sweet, my dear,” the biker said. “Just as soon as my buddy shows up wit’ his tools.”
Avery blushed and went back into his shop. His hands were clenched into fists as a torrent of confusing emotions enveloped him — he was angry, humiliated, aroused, mollified, eager, offended and frightened all at once.
But it was his hard dick that made him struggle the most to keep focus. He tried to do his inventory — he’d be meaning to do that anyway, and it was easier now that no one was in the shop. But he kept finding himself looking out the window at the biker.
It was during such a moment, when Avery lifted his face, that he saw the biker leaning casually against the parking meter in front of the shop. He had raised his ass up — cradled by mud-splattered black jeans which were speckled with pale bleach spots — and shook it subtly. He turned around and guffawed again, looking in the dark window.
It was impossible to see in past the display case in the window, because Avery had purchased very dark glass (he hated glare). The biker had been performing like that for some time, laughing at what he imagined Avery was doing. He turned around and grabbed his dick through his jeans, showing off its size and heft and aiming it towards the window.
For the first time, Avery wondered if this biker actually wanted something from him. He was so used to needing to make the first move on a fresh slice of rough trade, he didn’t always think of the possibility that they wanted to do it too, that they were trying to make him do it.
They wouldn’t just ask.
The biker paced in front of the shop. After awhile, he stopped teasing Avery through the window. He stroked his scraggly beard hairs and alternated between leaning on his motorcycle, catcalling at women and mean-mugging men.
Finally, the biker checked his phone, threw his hands in the air and came in. He looked at Avery as though trying to gauge whether or not he had noticed what he did out there. Avery kept his face stony and expressionless.
“My battery’s dead. I don’t think my buddy’s coming,” the biker said. He growled. “You got a outlet?” He looked around until he found an outlet, then plugged his phone charger in before Avery could answer.
“Uh… So…-“
“You don’t talk much, huh?”
“Hmmm… No.” Avery blushed. “I, uh.. Well, maybe, I like… Sometimes, I talk more… I’m not exactly shy, but-“
“Uh-huh, yeah.” The biker waited for something he didn’t say out loud. His dark eyes looked Avery over. “What’s ya name, boy?”
“Avery.”
“I’m Cooter.” He absent-mindedly rifled through some flowers by the counter. “You, uh… you got work? I gotta get my bike fixed. I ain’t, y’know… a flower-buyin’ kinda guy. But I got, y’know… skills, in like… other shit.”
“Hmmm… Like what?” Avery asked. He was now more confident that Cooter wanted to get paid to let Avery jerk him off. Avery had been around long enough to sense it radiating off him.
“Well… I learned how to cook in prison. I know you ain’t a restaurant or nothin’, but you know…” Cooter laughed that dry, throaty laugh. “I can’t really cook. I can cook spaghetti for like six hundred guys, but I always fuck it up cooking for just me.” He bit his lip. “I ain’t got no skills, ‘kay? Least, not no legal ones. You want me to cook up some meth?”
Avery blushed. “No…”
“You scared of me, huh, boy? Don’t let me bein’ in prison scare you neither, I ain’t never stab no one who ain’t deserve it.” He paused. “I mean, that ain’t strictly true, lemme be honest wit’ ya, I gotta be honest under God’s watchful eye, right? Lemme be honest, I did done stab this one bitch on account of he was lookin’ at me wrong, but he turned out to be a child molester anyhow. I ain’t know that then, so, y’know… it’s questionable, that’s all I’m sayin’.”
“Right… Uh… cool…” Avery was finding it very hard to concentrate. He was positive Cooter wanted to be paid for a swing on his dick. He even grabbed his cock through his jeans. Avery was overwhelmed by fear and desire, and the scent of his asphalt-reeking leather jacket — he had fallen off his motorcycle enough that the blacktop had been ground into the leather. His limbs even vibrated a little like he still imagined himself atop his motorcycle.
“You lookin’ like you wanna say somethin’ but you too scared. Huh? You scared, boy?” He spoke more softly and touched Avery’s cheek, pinching it like a grandmother. Though he seemed to be trying to be less intimidating, it only came across as even more frightening.
“Umm… Yeah.”
Cooter rolled his eyes. “Man, I ain’t a prideful fella.” He got down on his knees and lowered his eyes. “See? Now you taller ‘an me, and you ain’t gotta look me in the eye. So whatchoo think? You know a way I can earn some money? Maybe I got some skills I learn in prison you might enjoy.”
“Well… Maybe. I, uh… I was kind of hoping, that, uh… maybe-” Avery caught a glimpse of Cooter’s eyes when he glanced up, and Avery blushed. “I…”
“Ah, man, I done scare you, huh? You wanna punch me? You might feel better ‘bout it if you punched me?” Cooter reached up and touched Avery’s lips. He pulled his tongue out of his mouth. “What’s wrong? I know you got words on ya tongue. You prolly got all kinda… remnants on ya tongue. You got remnants of different activities on there? I bet you do all kinda things with that tongue. That’s a nice, big, wet tongue. I could come up wit’ lots of activities you could do wit’ that if we shared a cell.” He chuckled. “But we don’t. So you gotta come up wit’ them activities, and you gots to pay, boy. You ready to pay?” He leaned back and shrugged off his jacket. “Go’n, punch me, it’ll make you feel better.”
“I, uh… I don’t want to.” Avery felt weak and tinny.
“Then what do you want to do?” Cooter closed his eyes. “You just lemme know.” He pursed his lips like he was kissing the air. “Or you can just do it.”
Avery couldn’t resist it. He planted his lips on Cooter’s. Just like the kiss out on the sidewalk, it lasted only a moment, and it was chaste and dry. As soon as Avery’s tongue tried to enter Cooter’s mouth, Cooter pushed him away.
“I ain’t kissin’ a feller,” Cooter said. “So use ya words and make me an offer.”
“I’ll… I’d like you to cornhole me,” Avery said with a blush.
“How much?”
“One hundred dollars-“
Cooter stood and went to the cash register. He shook it open and counted out more than three hundred dollars from the till — including the twenties and fifties that were under the drawer. “It just so happens, boy, that my price for that is exactly three hundred twenty-seven dollars. That is a mighty coincidence on account of that’s the amount you got in the till.” He paused. “And get me some flowers.”
“What?”
“I need flowers. Somethin’ classy, for an old lady. For my great-aunt. Her birthday is Monday.”
“Oh, uh… Well, we have this one, it’s very nice-“
“Just gimme the goddamn flowers, asshole,” he said with a snarl. He grabbed the bouquet out of Avery’s hand. He didn’t even look at it, he just set the bouquet down by the door. “Alright.” He stood there by the shop counter. “Well? You gonna start jerkin’ or what? Don’t even try to make me take no dick, lemme tell you. I don’t do that shit.”
“I… Can we go up to my apartment?” Avery asked. He locked the store door.
“Fine.” Cooter sighed. “Let’s go.”
Avery brought him into the back of the shop, which led to a stairwell. It was narrow and humid here, with spiderwebs in each corner of the ceiling. The dust was visible in the rays of late afternoon sunlight that filled the air.
Cooter placed one hand on Avery’s ass. He gripped his jeans by the waistband and held on, preventing Avery from taking the next step up the staircase. He let out a growl and grinned when Avery turned around.
Avery’s heart raced. Was he going to punch him? Was he going to rob him? (More than he already sort of had?)
“Lotta folks think that, in prison, you ramrod a man in the shower, or you ramrod a man in ya cell, or whatever, ya feel me?” He passed Avery, standing higher than him on the stairs, and when Avery was too engrossed to respond — overwhelmed still by the awkward situation — he took Avery’s hand and placed it on his belly. His muscles rippled. “Ya feel me now?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But in fact, there’s guards in the shower, and there’s cameras in ya cell, and you ain’t allowed to ram, boy, they’ll stop you on account of it’s a law. So when the pressure get too much and you gots to ram, you do it somewhere else. Like in a hallway, or in the stairwell or some shit,” Cooter said. “So I wanna do it here.” He put both hands on Avery’s head and pushed him to his knees.
Avery was too short to reach Cooter’s crotch like this. Cooter was a few steps higher than Avery, so he had to sit on the stairs and spread his legs wide. He unceremoniously unzipped his jeans and let a darkly tan cock flop out.
It was thick and meaty, still limp but Avery could tell when he got close that it had been half-hard recently, maybe even fully erect. Cooter had definitely been trying to get a nut off for awhile.
“Hey…” He grabbed Avery by the hair, just at the moment Avery wrapped his lips around the tip of his funky cock. “A man’s gotta take whatever affection he can get.” Cooter pulled Avery’s head up, kissed him on the lips and rammed his tongue into his mouth.
Avery squealed and squirmed in surprise. His hands clawed at Cooter’s chest, which was hard like iron beneath his leather clothes. Avery’s tongue tasted like cigarettes and steel, and it was huge, so it filled up Avery’s mouth. Avery’s hands wrapped around Cooter’s shoulders, and for a moment, they made intense, passionate love with their mouths.
Just a moment though. Once Avery got over his shock and awe, and started kissing Cooter back, Cooter let go and pushed him back down to his crotch.
“Jerk me off, boy,” Cooter said. “And don’t try to kiss me no more. I don’t kiss boys.”
“Oh… … Uh… Sorry,” Avery said. He lowered his head to his crotch, while Cooter lit another cigarette and took his shirts off. Avery suckled on his cocktip — he had gotten fully erect while being kissed — and looked up at his face and his bare chest.
Cooter was covered in tattoos, and a few scars. There was a bullet wound on his belly, and an oddly-shaped dragon over his heart — Avery soon realized it was oddly-shaped because it covered up a swastika that had been carved into his chest.
His dick tasted like sweat and industrial soap, and it was firm, veiny, throbbing like a motorcycle engine as it rubbed against Avery’s tongue. Cooter gripped Avery by the ears, dragging his head up and down on his shaft.
“Open wide, boy…”
Soon, Cooter stood, still using both hands on Avery’s ears and his lips to keep the lit cigarette in his mouth. He swayed his hips, grinding his dick in deep. He didn’t ram Avery’s throat in an aggressive or mean way, not like a lot of alphas did — Avery wouldn’t have minded — he made sweet love to his throat. He didn’t stop when Avery choked, but he wasn’t violent about it either. He just clucked his tongue and kept on plowing.
Soon his balls smacked and rubbed against Avery’s chin. Cooter took a deep drag on his cigarette. He let go of Avery’s head, watching him slide up and down on his moistened shaft.
“Hmmm… You want me to stick you, boy?”
Avery nodded without taking Cooter’s dick out of his mouth. He suckled moistly, slurping down every drop of salty precum he could find. He kept slurping even as Cooter tried to pull his head off. Avery giggled — he liked the frustrated look on Cooter’s face.
Cooter snarled and bent Avery over on the stairs. Since they faced opposite directions, Cooter had to go over Avery to be lower than him on the narrow staircase. He could have stepped around Avery’s body to get beneath him, but instead he sat on his back and rubbed his hairy ass — laughing the whole way — until he was lower on the staircase.
“You like my ass-slide, boy,” Cooter said. He chuckled. “Now, I am guessin’ this is prolly implied, but lemme be totally clear, son, when we are done here, you ain’t gonna never tell no one ‘bout it. Not the police, not ya priest, ya rabbi, not some other biker you might jerk off a couple hours from now, or a couple decades from now. If’n you ever even think ‘bout tellin’ folks what’s ‘bout to happen, I will bury you in wet cement and I’ll send ya mama a rude limerick describin’ how you died, ya feel me?”
“I won’t tell, I would never-“
“Good.” Cooter didn’t wait for a second. He jammed his dick in, just the tip at first. He grabbed Avery by the hair and held his head in place as Avery howled in pain. Cooter waited for him to stop, with just the first inch or so of his dick in Avery’s ass. “You ready?”
“Yeah. Just go slow.”
Cooter wrapped one of his well-muscled arms around Avery’s throat. Again, he didn’t choke him, but he held on firmly enough he did slightly restrict his breathing. As he did, he pistoned his dick in farther, ignoring Avery’s intense writhing.
“Goddamn!” Avery cried out.
“Hmmm… You ready to get started?” Cooter asked, whispering in his ears. “Here’s the skills I learned in prison, boy. Don’t you nevuh let no one know.” He kissed Avery again, and he rammed his tongue into his mouth. Meanwhile his other hand roamed lower and lower on Avery’s chest, then his belly, then to his crotch.
He held onto Avery’s cock with one hand, while his other kept Avery’s head upright. It took all of Avery’s concentration just to balance on the stairs, even with Cooter holding him in place.
“Good boy, good boy, keep that ass high, keep it up there, I’m goin’ deep now!” Cooter called out and moaned. He whooped like a cowboy. “You feel me? Huh? You like that? Say somethin’.”
“Yeah… Fill me up.” Avery couldn’t say much. He gasped. If he had been jacking himself off, he’d have cum already. But Cooter’s hand was callused and he stroked in a disrhythmic way, somewhat uncomfortable, more like a farmer masturbating his livestock than someone who genuinely wanted to give a reacharound, though the medley of moans and grunts that moistly emanated from his mouth sounded authentically desirous.
“You gonna nut? Tell me when you nut, I wanna hear it. Lemme hear you say it. Use my name, okay? Say ‘Cooter is makin’ me nut cuz he so handsome’, okay? Say that.”
“Cooter… is making… me nut cuz… he’s so… handsome…” Avery moaned and squirmed. He would have collapsed onto his belly but Cooter held him tightly in position.
“Good… I can feel ya nut, don’t worry, I don’t mind you nuttin’ on my hand, ain’t nothin’ wrong wit’ that,” he said. He kept on stroking as Avery’s face turned red. Then, just before cum actually sprayed from Avery’s dick, Cooter again kissed him on the lips from behind.
He rammed hard then. He had waited for that — he loved plowing men who orgasmed with his cock in their ass. He could feel that orgasm in how Avery clenched around his dick, and in the gasping that was swallowed up by Cooter’s bicep.
His tongue slathered spit over Avery’s lips and cheeks, as Cooter reached his own orgasm and couldn’t quite kiss anymore — it felt so good he shuddered and shook, and his tongue lolled over Avery’s face. Cooter loved having his bottom all wrapped up in his arms so he could keep him right at the perfect level, swallowing up his dick and every drop of cum.
His balls crawled up in his sac as he filled Avery with his creamy load. It was thick and hot, and it seeped in Avery’s flesh. It trickled through his body more and more with each thrust of Cooter’s manhood into him.
“You okay, boy? Say you okay, and I’ll take my dick out. Tell me whatchoo think,” Cooter said.
“I… I loved that,” Avery said through gritted teeth. The moist pressure was intense in his ass, and it made him buck in Cooter’s arms.
“Okay, when I pull out, remember, nothing happened here today. No strokin’, no reachin’ around nobody’s delicate body that could be so easily smashed to pieces. No talking ‘bout nothin’ nasty, okay? Rammin’ ain’t a topic of conversation. It’s somethin’ that only happened as long as we’re in this stairwell. When we’re done… I robbed you. If any bikers asked, I grabbed the money outta ya cash register. If any cops ask, you smash ‘em in the face with a whiskey bottle and don’t say a goddamn word. Ya understand?”
Avery nodded. “I, uh… if a cop — ah-” He sighed as Cooter finally pulled his cock out. “If a cop asks, I won’t hit him, I mean…” He sighed again and collapsed on the stairs. “I won’t tell him either, I just, I don’t feel comfortable attacking a cop-“
“Shut up, boy. I was kiddin’.” Cooter wiped his dick off on Avery’s asscheeks, then tucked it back in his pants. He put his clothes on and walked out of the stairwell. “Hey, gimme yo’ phone number, boy.”
“Okay…”
Cooter smiled that harsh, intimidating smile. His mustache quivered. “If’n I don’t find a female who gonna give up the booty tonight, I’ll come over and Avery you again. Have some cash ready.”
“Okay.” Avery was breathless, eyes wide as he watched Cooter leave. Cooter grabbed his pack with the flower for his great-aunt in it and his phone from the outlet, then walked out the door. Avery breathed a sigh of relief.
And he turned over the “open” sign to read “closed”.

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.