The Veteran

Avery is hoping to see some admirable male physiques at a notorious campground, so he hangs out cruising the scene. When one alpha male Army vet catches his eye, Avery is off to the races in hopes of landing the outrageous manhood of this military stud.

Can Avery land the man of his dreams?

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Avery leaned back in his camp chair and sipped at his nalgene bottle full of ice-cold water. He had a cooler in the tent. It tasted good. It had taken him hours to get all set up. Putting a tent up seemed to get more arduous every time he did it, he thought, as his joints got older.
Campgrounds always made him feel old these days anyway. It seemed like everyone he saw was younger than him. Public campgrounds like this used to be full of older people. That was what Avery thought about them when he was growing up. It was a place full of old people. Now, he was the old people.
He was in rural Wyoming. He didn’t know any of the people, but he knew that, sooner or later, he’d make a friend. The people in this kind of place were always nice. That was why Avery liked to hang out in campgrounds.
That and the fact that men with excellent physiques were usually there too. Fat and skinny men as well, but not as many. Maybe, Avery thought, the out-of-shape ones were at home eating potato chips and commenting on the internet, leaving the more well-formed men to throng in place like this, the Crambighter Woods campground.
“Anybody wanna drum fo’ us? We need some rhythm, boy howdy!”
“Who got a percussion?”
A band was starting up, an impromptu group around the campfire near Avery’s tent. They had been talking about music and discovered several of them had brought guitars, so they started tuning up.
“I can drum,” Avery said when he casually milled in that direction. He was self-conscious because it seemed a lot of these guys knew each other. But he wanted to fit in, and he was a drummer — he had even been in a band as a teenager.
Someone produced a bongo drum. Avery had never actually used one, but once he got started, he got the hang of it. It wasn’t any different than the drumsticks he was used to.
It was just a jam session — not even any singing. They played popular songs by the Rolling Stones, Beatles, Hank Williams Jr, Dwight Yoakam. Avery just played the rhythm, but he didn’t mind. He liked being part of the group.
There were quite a few women at the Crambighter this weekend. That was a well-known campground with lots of ladies, giving the men plenty of opportunities for sex. That was a big part of why so many men came here. Avery was only interested in the men — women bored him — but he appreciated the women because they attracted the men. A lot of the ladies were’t that ladylike anyway — some were outright prostitutes. That would make it difficult for Avery to find a man willing to swing downlow. The handsomest ones had women hanging off them.
As Avery started banging out a Funkadelic song — a man with a bass had shown up and requested it — he took stock of his options. There was a blond long-haired stud who looked Nordic, but he had a woman with him and Avery gathered from her body language that they were going to go off and fuck soon. There was a scruffy young biker-type (impossible to tell if he was really a biker or not, but his beard and tattoos made him look bikerish, or at least he was attempting to come across that way) who looked promising but had gotten drunk. He would be too drunk by the time Avery managed to get him alone.
All that guy-watch made Avery lose the rhythm for a moment. Luckily no one noticed in the cacophony of guitars. It was hard to stay in sync, because Avery was pretty sure some of the guys were playing “Up for the Downstroke” — technically a Parliament song — instead of “Hit It & Quit It” as they had agreed.
A man caught Avery’s eye, and that made him stop drumming for a moment.
He looked military. He definitely wasn’t, judging from the mustache which was surely not regulation, but he had a crew-cut and he was slightly balding, and he wore a green tee shirt like a soldier over workpants splattered with white paint. He was in his mid-forties, older than most of the men here, and he slightly balding, but his tight tee shirt showed off a potent body. He wore his pants high — very unfashionable — and heavy boots on his broad feet.
Maybe a cop? He looked like maybe a cop. But there were people smoking weed not far away — Avery had smelled it earlier — so he thought a cop, even an off-duty one, would have either intervened or left. Maybe a former cop.
He certainly carried himself like an authority figure, that was for sure. He glowered at the carousing, drunk bikers and rednecks who fell over each other around the campfire. He didn’t say anything. Was he here with someone? Avery didn’t think so.
As Avery banged on his bongo, he saw the man talk to a woman finally. He looked stiff, nervous like a man half his age, and Avery could tell instantly that she was turned off. She was blatantly the fun-loving youngster-type, Avery thought, she was never going to go for a dowdy daddy like him.
But Avery did overhear — in a brief break in the song — that the man’s name was Bernard. That was a great name for a sturdy man, Avery thought, it made him think of big dogs and mountain passes.
“Play ‘Free Bird’!”
“Who wants to blow this joint?”
“Yeah!” A chorus of agreement rang out. It seemed nobody wanted to play “Free Bird”. Avery certainly didn’t. He had his limits.
The band disbanded to go smoke weed. Avery wasn’t interested in that either. He milled about and saw Bernard talk to another woman, this one a bit older, plumper, precisely the type who might like Bernard’s thick body and burly middle-aged look.
But in the hustle of everyone switching places, Avery was jostled about and he lost track of Bernard. He was pretty sure Bernard had gone into a tent with the thick girl.
Oh well… Avery sighed. That little opportunity was busted. He ought to have gone smoking weed with the other guys. Now he both didn’t have Bernard and wasn’t stoned.
He was alone again. Hot chicks had hooked up with handsome guys with nice cars; fat chicks had hooked up with handsome guys without cars; couples had retired to their tents, and the night was drawing to a close.
It was funny how that happened so fast at campground events like this. Once a few charismatic people realized they were tired — or found someone and somewhere to fuck — the remainder were all introverted weirdos like Avery. The party dwindled.
That wasn’t a problem for Avery’s plans. In an hour or two, any man who had failed to land a woman would be ripe for the plucking. Anyone drunk would be passed out cold. Avery could take his pick from the remainder, most of whom would be horny enough and desperate enough to at least let Avery give them a handjob.
But he had to wait a bit for that. He decided to go take a shower. Not only were there probably lots of men there, he just plain needed to bathe.
The showerhouse was near the entrance to the Crambighter Campground. Avery flopped there in his sandals, carrying a towel and his shower gear. He went to the adult men’s side — it was divided into quarters, for adults and juveniles, both male and female (though this weekend was an adults-only event, which was why drinking was allowed).
No one was in there. Avery was disappointed. Maybe he was going to strike out tonight after all. It seemed the women this weekend were determined to use up all the men. The showerhouse was big and empty, cold until he turned the hot water on. At least the lack of people meant there was plenty of hot water.
Avery started showering by himself. It felt lonely in that big cavernous space all alone. He wished someone else would be here, even some old loser.
The door swung open, and Avery held his breath — it took a few moments for whoever it was to come around the corner.
It was him!
It was Bernard. Avery was giddy, and his heart skipped a beat. Bernard hadn’t hooked up with that plump girl after all. Her loss.
He glanced at Avery and nodded a polite hello, then went to the changing area. Bernard had a furrowed brow, and his muscles were tense from the moment he walked in. Was that a bulge in his workpants? Did he have a hardon?
That was when Avery noticed the little cut on his cheek, which was red. He had been slapped.
That explained it! He had hooked up with the heavy girl, but he must have come on too strong or something. She slapped him, and judging from the bruising Avery saw, she either did it a couple times or she really packed a wallop. Either option seemed possible.
Bernard hesitated. He eyed the slim white man — Avery — with a dim eye. He rather wished he was showering alone, as then he could jack himself off. He needed that. That plump woman had blueballed him. When he dropped his pants — standing behind the barrier that protected the changing area from the showers — he saw that his dick was still hard.
Instead he just stood there and sighed. When he realized that made him seem weirder than having a hardon would be, he just shrugged and went into the showering area. Avery stared at his erect cock when it became visible.
“Don’t make fun, man,” Bernard said, his voice a low throaty growl, like he didn’t speak often and his vocal cords were unpracticed. He looked at his massive dick, still mostly hard and throbbing, begging for action. “I got hard earlier and couldn’t get it down, I was wit’ this female, man, and she slapped the shit outta me. Got me all worked up and then ain’t wanna put out.”
“Oh yeah? That sucks…” Avery clucked his tongue. “You poor baby.”
Bernard nodded and stepped under the showerhead furthest from Avery. “Wish I was drunk,” Bernard said. The water sprayed over his broad chest. His body hair was already matted to his skin with sweat — he was palpably hot, Avery could feel his body heat when he walked by, his plump but chunky thick-body ass jiggling as he did. Avery saw that erect cock and had to stop himself from drooling.
Avery’s mind raced as he considered what it might take to land a taste of Bernard’s excellent meat.
“Man, she invited me into her tent, ‘nd shit, man, swear to god, she was beggin’ for it. Then all of a sudden she say she only doin’ handstuff.” He threw his hands in the air — revealing big bushy armpits — and scowled. “What the fuck? Is we in middle school again? She was like nearly thirty…” He rolled his eyes. “Doin’ handstuff…”
Avery chuckled. “Yeah… girls can be teases.”
“Yeah.” Bernard grunted. “I can do handstuff mah own goddamn self!” He poured shampoo into his hand and washed his scalp — his hair was so short Avery didn’t see the point, but he didn’t say that out loud. Maybe it was dandruff shampoo.
“You still have a hardon.”
As he rinsed the shampoo off his scalp, Bernard opened his eyes and glowered darkly at Avery. Obviously Avery wasn’t supposed to mention it after Bernard already apologized for it. Avery smiled at him, and he turned his hips so Bernard could see his pale, smooth ass.
Bernard groaned.
Avery saw the thoughts flicker over Bernard’s face. Avery didn’t make any offer yet, wanting to give Bernard a chance to ruminate on his options. Avery continued washing his body with a washcloth, making sure his smoothness and petite frame were visible in the dim light of the showerhouse. He turned around to dance his ass towards Bernard.
Bernard narrowed his eyes to slits at the sight of Avery’s plump bubble-butt. Avery was slim, but his ass was thick, plump, smooth. It looked tight too. Bernard could just plow into that. It would feel so good, he thought.
But he wasn’t going to do that.
He had done it, once, back in boot camp. He and a buddy had had leave together, and when Bernard was unable to find a prostitute — this was back in the 1970s in a remote part of Alaska — he had traded mouth with his buddy. They just jacked each other off first, but when that proved difficult to cum to, they had sixty-nined. Later, Bernard woke up to find himself grinding his cock into his buddy’s asshole and giving a reacharound as he did it.
That had been one crazy weekend that he had blocked out of his mind. Bernard didn’t think about that, and when he did think about it, he tried to convince himself it hadn’t happened.
But his cock, he soon realized, had gotten harder since he walked in here. It wasn’t going to go down. It throbbed and pulsated like it had a mind of its own, a mind that was demanding a warm, tight place to ram itself into. The more he looked at Avery’s taut ass and his creamy smooth skin like a woman’s, the more Bernard wanted him.
He has such soft lips too, Bernard though, be he could do amazing things with those lips.
“So do you have a wife?” Avery asked. He already guessed the answer, but he wanted to keep Bernard thinking about women and sex.
“No.” Bernard grunted. His mind raced too fast to think of anything to say except touch my dick, which he couldn’t bring himself to say no matter how much he wanted it to happen.
“Are you okay? You looked upset,” Avery said. “Or maybe it’s just that hardon that won’t go away. You want me to help?”
“Uh…” Bernard closed his eyes. He spread his legs and put his hands behind his back as though he was at parade rest. He jutted his hips forward enough to make his foot-long dick stick out, making it look even bigger. His chest muscles rippled.
That was a pretty clear signal, Avery thought. He came closer.
Bernard looked so handsome, like an AWOL soldier about to be scolded by his commanding officer. He winced even before Avery got on his knees in front of him. Avery waited a good long time to give him a chance to change his mind — he knew Bernard was ready when he peeked his eyes open to see why Avery hadn’t started yet.
Avery plunged deep on his dick then, all in one smooth motion, slamming his head all the way down. He wanted to interrupt that parade-rest position, but Bernard forced himself to stay put. He swayed back and forth but didn’t move his feet or his hands. His chest muscles all flexed like it took all of his effort to avoid moving his hands — he no doubt wanted to hold Avery’s head and ram his throat — alphas always wanted that — but thought that would feel too weird.
It was cute to watch. Bernard furiously squeezed his eyes shut and refused to move either his feet or his arms. He was so focused on keeping his limbs still that he made lots of horse-like snorting and whinnying sounds as his hips tossed his upper body around like a bobblehead.
His dick tasted like the paint-stained workpants he had been wearing. That was because he had gotten hard wearing them, Avery thought — he’d long noticed that men who concealed hardons in their pants ended up smelling like their pants when they finally got their dick out, like the scent of his fabric had seeped into his dickshaft. He must have been horny enough with that woman to leak some precum from his dick, because Avery could taste the salt of recently dried funk on his shaft as well. Avery’s tongue slathered spit up and down, gathering up all that stale flavor and the desperate sexual frustration in Bernard’s manhood.
“Ah, goddamn, man… Shit, I needed that…” Bernard’s tension slowly melted away. His muscles gradually relaxed. He remained at parade-rest, hands firmly locked on his own wrists behind his ass. His whole body tensed and flexed and buckled, as he let out petite groans and grunts.
“Can I slurp on your balls, sir?” Avery asked, letting his voice gurgle moistly with the salty precum that coated his lips.
“Hmmm… Oh god, yeah… lick my balls, man, c’mon…” Bernard’s deep voice echoed. “I love that…” He was one of those people who didn’t really have the ability to whisper, Avery thought. He was so big that he had a deep, rumbling voice, which melded in with the hum of the fluorescent lights and the excited shouts outside by the campfire, so his voice wasn’t very disruptive even if it was quiet. It sort of melded in with the atmosphere of the campground.
Avery produced copious spit that flowed down Bernard’s shaft all the way to his heavy balls, which Avery slurped and licked loudly, his tongue working all over the hairy sac. He made his own saliva drip into puddles on the linoleum floor before running to the drain. Two showers still sprayed warm water, but Bernard had backed up to the wall, so he was out of the spray of both showers.
“Hmmm, ah yeah, man… it’s been a long time since, uh… someone licked my balls,” Bernard said. He very nearly said ‘a dude’ but stopped himself because he wasn’t ready to admit he’d messed with a man back in boot camp. But it was true, no girl had ever licked his balls for more than a few seconds because they were too big, too heavy, too low-hanging, and too hairy.
They were just plain too much.
Those traits were exactly why Avery loved them. Women don’t know how to value a hairy, sweaty ballsac. He slurped down every drop of shower-water that still clung to Bernard’s sac, and he slipped his head between those powerful legs too.
Soon, Avery was on the other side, kissing each of his work-weary asscheeks below which his hands had a death-grip on each other. “You ready to ram me?” Avery asked, as he licked the mighty meat of Bernard’s ass.
“Hell yeah…” Bernard murmured.
Avery slid back in front of Bernard on the smooth linoleum floor, arranging himself on all fours, with his ass high in the air. Bernard’s eyes opened wide.
There’s that ass again. It’s so tight. Tell him no. Tell him you only want to do mouth-stuff.
But his asshole beckoned, and Bernard didn’t want to back out. It was so warm and smooth, better than that girl’s chunky ass would have been, Bernard thought but would never say out loud. He blushed as though someone might have heard his thought. He was already kneeling behind Avery before he even decided to do it.
It was like his body was on autopilot. Even with his buddy in boot camp, Bernard had never done it like this. That had been fumbling in the dark, not an actual hardcore cock-in-ass ramrodding, like they were prisoners on lockdown.
“Aaaah…” He finally used his hands on Avery’s body. He gripped each of this thick bubble-butt cheeks and held on tight as he plowed in. Avery’s hole was tight and resisted at first, but with just a little push, Bernard’s cock sank in deeply.
“Shit!” Avery yelped. Bernard had a big dick, and there was a potent pinching pressure in Avery’s backside. Avery lifted one foot off the ground and howled.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, go on, keep going,” Avery said breathlessly as more and more of Bernard’s mature meat slid into him, ignoring his body’s instinctual resistance. Avery moaned, as his prostate came alive and sent waves of sensation through his body. He heard activity outside the showerhouse — he suspected some men had heard what was going on in here and left so they wouldn’t walk in on it. That made Avery laugh to himself even as he grunted in pain.
With a final potent push, Bernard’s entire cock was inside him. Avery cried out for more, as Bernard began pumping his hips back and forth. Bernard was shocked — few girls could take his dick in its entirety, especially without a lot of lube and extra time to adjust. Avery had simply taken it with a minimum of whimpering, and now he moaned with pleasure that grew with every thrust of Bernard’s cock in and out of him.
“Damn, ah, shit!” Avery cried out again. His hands tightened into claws that dug at the linoleum floor of the showerhouse. He had scooted forward enough that his face was in the warm shower-water, while Bernard stayed mostly dry.
Bernard couldn’t ever fuck a woman like this, she would say he was doing it too hard, too rough, not romantic enough. It was nice to be able to just plow without worrying about that. He gripped Avery’s asscheeks and held on tight, using all of his weight and his strength to ram his meat in and out. He was so aroused he even found his hands roaming around to Avery’s cock.
He had given a reacharound back in boot camp, and he did it again out of instinct or habit, or maybe just plain repressed desire. He didn’t realize he had done it until his hands gripped Avery’s thick shaft and felt it pulsating beneath his grasp. Cum flowed over his fingers, as his grasp instantly sent Avery over the edge to his climax. It was hot and sticky, and it made Bernard focus his entire attention on that.
He was jacking a stranger off in the shower. He couldn’t believe it, but it didn’t slow him down any. He reached his own orgasm moments later, amid the frenzied moans arising from Avery’s throat. Jizz spurted out of both men, Avery’s puddling up near the drain it then flowed into while Bernard filled Avery’s ass with his creamy seed.
“Ah, shit, yeah, take it!”
Creamy cum sprayed deep into Avery’s ass. Avery had been just as surprised as Bernard about the sudden reacharound, but he certainly wasn’t about to complain. He just used both hands to support himself as he rammed his ass back and forth on Bernard’s studly cock.
More and more juices filled Avery up, turning into a frothy mess that dripped onto the floor of the showerhouse. The smell of funk was intense and potent, and it didn’t wash away even with the pair of showers still on.
Finally he was done. Bernard leaned back until his cock plopped out. Both men felt a surge of relief and an intense twinge of pleasure that dwindled slowly.
He sighed grandly. “Shit, man… I don’t even miss that girl.”
“Wanna sleep in my tent?” Avery asked, breathless and sweaty. He needed to take a whole nother shower, he thought with a laugh.
Bernard blushed and bit his lip. “I mean… I dunno…”
“How about this? It’s the red tent at the corner there by the campfire ring. You know where I mean…? The big one? You can just come in, so no one will know I’m already in there when you come in. You can just slide right in,” Avery said. “I’ll wake up if I’m already asleep.”
“Okay…” Bernard gulped.
“Don’t worry, it’ll be a ton of fun,” Avery said. He displayed his ass as Bernard backed out towards the changing area again. Avery stuck a finger in, brought some cum out and smeared it over his asscheek. “I’ll just get ready.”
Bernard grabbed his clothes and ran out. He didn’t even bother to get dressed first. His cock flopped between his legs as he tumbled out into the darkness. Luckily, nobody noticed.
Was he really going to sleep with that man tonight? He told himself no, but he had a feeling the answer was yes.
If I can’t find a woman, I’ll go back to him. But I’ll really try. For real. I won’t just wait a few minutes and then go there. Sir, no, sir.

His pa was in prison for shooting a cop on a jet-ski, but Cody still idolized him

He wished he had struggled to get hard

He wished he had struggled to get hard — not because he wanted to be impotent, he just wished this freak would think Cody had to concentrate. Cody’s father had once said — where Cody could overhear — that he let his buddy jerk him off on a camping trip but that it took him forever to get hard. That sounded manly, Cody had thought, like he didn’t even want to do it but his cock was powerful he couldn’t deprive someone of its salty load, so he felt obligated to oblige.
That was what Cody wanted to be like. His pa was in prison for shooting a cop on a jet-ski, but Cody still idolized him.

From The Hick

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 5

The White Trash Veteran

“Reckon I shouldn’t say his name,” said Missus Adams with a snooty wrinkle of her nose. “You dunneed anothuh reason fer the judge to take Buck away from ya, Martin Sampson.” She carved a hefty frown upon her lemon-sour face, hair rising into a judgemental updo. She wagged her finger at Goose like a hound-dog.
Goose understood that. He do be simmering like phuh though.
He worked upon a ship mosta this past year, buffetted by winds and beset by man-eating whores in lousy ports. The sailor’s life do turn men into pigs, and Goose don’t like how that seamen treat they whores. Pay was good though. He done return back to Smashwood Trailer Park in the fall of 1981 with his pockets fulla cash. He found Buck staying with Missus Adams, not his foster family.
It turnt out that family with the farm weren’t so nice after all. They was working Buck over and withholding food cuz he was mouthy and don’t know his letters good. Buck was ravenous when he ran away to Smashwood, and he said he ain’t eat in two days. Them foster parents be beating him when he don’t do his farmwork quick enough. That boy got scars on his back like he was getting whipped.
Goose don’t like nobody whipping his boy. So it was maybe wise that Missus Adams wouldn’t tell Goose the foster family’s name, and she made Goose promise not to ask Buck cuz Buck get agitatious when he talk about ’em. Goose liketa lay down the common law upon they skulls.
So they threw a football back and forth behind the trailer, and Buck was impressed by how far Goose could throw the ball. They ate supper and jello for dessert. Buck wanna know all about Goose’s job in a giant ship’s big-ass engine — Buck love machines and trucks and that — and Goose wanna know about Buck starting school and his first-grade teacher. She was strict as sunshine, don’t let Buck give no excuses, which was good as Goose saw it, a boy do need that. Buck had so much energy Missus Adams made ’em go out so Buck could chase fireflies in the early evening dimness. Goose chased ’em too, but he enjoyed watching Buck do it. Then Buck tripped and skinned his knees something terrible on a rock.
“I know it hurts when you falls,” Goose said. He got down on one knee to look Buck square in the face like a man. “No matter the pain, no matter the fear. Never let ’em see it. J’st get back up again. Let ’em know they pain don’t define you.” He patted Buck upon his bloody knee.
“Yes, Pops.”
“I got took captive in that war, you know. Vietnam, you heared-a that? I surrendered. But a man’s gotta go on, provide, do the work that keeps the river flowin’. Them farmers you was livin’ wit’, you stood tough ‘gainst them, reckon, and I’s proud of you. They ain’t win ‘gainst you so long as you don’t let ’em.”
Buck nodded, solemn as a ram, and he sniffled back his tears. Then he spoke in a Cambodian accent, “When you experience something painful, you must move on from it and leave it behind you. The hurt is in you, in your expectations and your cravings. A wise man doesn’t dwell, always moving on, continuing like unflappable time, like a river, which is never late, because it is its own path. When a river bumps into a dam, its relentless flow builds into a lake, and, when it has grown big enough, the lake overcomes, and the river resumes.” Then, in his Appalachian holler, he added. “I’s fittin’ to make a island of mahself, and I strives me to become wise, free of stains and passions.”
Okay, Buck ain’t drop them pearls. What he said was, “I ain’t never afreared cuz I knewed you was gonna come fer me.”
That was a mighty fine lake to sit beside. Goose could sit on the shore of that lake and fish for eternities.
Missus Adams done told the social worker she was Buck’s grandmaw, and Buck be calling her Grammaw Adams now, so they let her take custody. She was a persnickety old lady, she do persnicket like a champion, but Goose got confidence she wouldn’t treat Buck wrong. Goose gave her the dollars he done save. She was on a fixed income, so she was needing help to pay for groceries and that. Buck could and quite possibly has done eat a horse.
Seems like Goose steady gives up his pay packets soon as he gets ’em.
Even back in Vietnam, he sent mosta his pay home to Ellen. He kept a little for himself too, and it went a long way. Money’s cheap out there. Or is it more right to say money’s expensive? You can buy more in US dollars there than here.
Or anywhat, Goose don’t know economics. But they could live like kings when they got somewhere with stuff worth buying. That ain’t happen often. They did eventually hire a Vietnamese feller named Sam as a camp cook though.
Hootenanny holler could that gook cook! He made noodles in a wok, flavors like the almighty beyond, got spices and jungle shit in it, tasted like a nun’s tits, you know Goose could spoon that stuff up! All the Vietnameys could cook.
But Sam was the goodest.
Them Vietnameys was needful for US dollars. A couple weeks after hiring Sam, Harley reckoned he could pay just a dollar to get Sam to jerk him off and even swallow his nut. Sam be panting and gagging the whole time, and he got a shallow throat, but Harley don’t mind. Harley’s pecker weren’t that big, recall, and Sam could just barely get the whole thing in his mouth.
T’was very possible that Sam ain’t never agree to do that. Goose never once heared Sam agree. But he don’t fight back vigorous-like, and as Harley seed it, not fighting back was agreeing to it.
For a feller. Harley don’t rape no woman.
“Aaah shit, Goose, bet you wish you could-” Harley’s knees went weak and he steadied hisself, as Sam squirmed on his knees afronta him. Sam was in the middle of washing dishes after supper, and he was on his knees with a bucket of water and a rag. He winced with his eyes as Harley rammed his ugly pecker in and outta Sam’s li’l bitty throat. Harley got one hand on Sam’s head, the other on his chin. “Bet you wish you could get ya whole pecker in there.” His balls slapped on Sam’s throat.
Goose nodded and shrugged.
“You should ramrod him. Wreck his asshole, that’d be so funny,” Harley said. He closed his eyes as cum poured into Sam’s throat. Sam choked but managed not to spit it out, as the jiss filled up his belly. “I bet he’d do it for like two bucks.” Harley’s voice broke, and he sighed. He pumped his hips.
At last Sam could resist retching no longer, and a mouthload of jizz spilled onto the ground. He spat up a second mouthload, while Harley spewed jizz onto his face.
Goose shook his head. “No way, that’d be…” He chuckled. He ain’t have much experience then, so he assumed there was no way Sam’s ass’d open up that much. Sam was barely five feet tall and weighed maybe a hundred pounds. He was well-muscled for his size, ain’t have a lick of fat on him.
Plus he was nice. Goose don’t wanna wreck a nice man’s ass. Vietnam was too stressful for him to get horny easy. Harley was different — Harley loved blowjobs, and when there wasn’t a woman around — most always — he would bust a nut in Sam’s mouth every chance he got. He usedta have some shame about it. He’d sneak away into his tent and do it when nobody noticed. Goose did notice, cuz it was his tent too.
But the more time they unit spent together, the less Harley bothered to hide it.
They had leave of the next day, and they went down on into town. The brothel was the second place they went, after the bar. T’was the same place, but they went to the bar first to get a drink and a plate of something that looked like collards but tasted like fire, then they both hired a whore in the backa the bar.
But when Goose got into the back room with his whore, she took one look at his baseball bat and whisked off. Goose sighed. That weren’t a surprise. It happened. They prolly got a fat lady for men with big dicks. He could fuck with a fat lady. Wouldn’t even be fat by American standards. Goose ain’t see a proper fat Vietnamey yet.
But then the crying lady with the Chinese lettering tattooed on her back was shoved back into the room. She quaked and quivered as she got on her knees and picked up Goose’s dick with her delicate fingers. His dick looked like a club next to her, it was thicker than any parta her body.
“Nah, nah,” Goose said. “I don’t rape a woman.” He said it in English, then in halting Vietnameyse, which Sam been teaching him. Goose don’t know the word for ‘rape’ yet, but he got his point across.
He pulled his britches up, went into the backroom and laid out a series of punches upon the burly-faced Vietnamey who done push her back into the room. He gave that pimp a pair of black eyes and a smashed nose and took out one his teeth for him. Ain’t even send him a dental work bill, which Goose considered a kindness.
Goose went along on down back to camp by hisself. He don’t cotton to fellers treating women improper. Even a whore got a right to choose her men. That was how Goose was raised.
But he had a hardon that whole time. Goddamn that whore gave him a stiffy before she fell to sob-a-lobbing, and it was still stiffing! He ain’t notice it when he was punching her pimp, and it seemed like a distant problem when he walked back to camp alone in the dismal jungle rain.
Now it felt real, and it was throbbing, and he couldn’t do nothing about it.
Well, he could jack off.
But daaamn did he hope for a hole to stick it in. He was looking forward to that visit to a brothel for a long time, and that Vietnamey lady was pretty as a bowl of soup on a rainy day!
Goose was alone in camp, so he could slap his own meat like a pimpley teenager. He tried to get ridda his hardon, and he succeeded long enough to drain his bladder — he been aching to piss since he left the brothel. He woulda pissed on the pimp if his dick weren’t stiff at the time.
But soon as he was done peeing, he thunk of that whore’s naked tits again, and he seed a photo-picture of Miss November in a magazine in Harley’s belonguns. Goose sighed and pulled his britches down.
A burst of chingchong chatter attracted Goose’s gaze, and he jumped to his feet. He jumped outta his tent, grabbed his gun and went out.
It was just Sam. He done gone to town too, and he bought seeds, powders and leaves. The chingchong shit was him talking to his rangy mustache-on-a-stick self.
“Hey.” Goose added a hello-howdy in holler-heavy Vietnameyse, and Sam nodded his approval of the pronunciation. Then he went to put his shopping away with the other kitchen stuff. Goose stood there, cuz he was pondering possibilities.
“Hey, Sam, c’m’e’uh,” he said. He motioned to a thick-trunked tree beside him. Sam obediently came closer, and Goose handed over a greenback. Sam winced and sunk to his knees. Goose laughed and patted him on the head. “It’ll be okay, I’ll be gentle,” Goose said. “And quick.”
That was true. It ain’t take long at all. Goose was already rock-hard when he pushed his knob into Sam’s mouth. It was hot and wet like the jungle itself. Goose moved his hips back and forth, cuz Sam couldn’t swallow very deep — he was skinny and Goose’s dickshaft was fat. Sam only got maybe three inches in, four if Goose really pushed it in there.
But he don’t wanna treat Sam’s throat like a pussy like Harley did. Sam weren’t a prison punk. Goose felt sorry for him. He went left and right, humping his knob within Sam’s mouth, but he don’t force it down.
“Aaaah…” That did feel good. Goose got it now. He understood why Harley enjoyed this. Even with Sam’s shallow mouth, it felt nice as napkins. It was like a blowjob but better cuz Goose skipped the woo.
Soon enough, pleasure was rocking Goose’s veins, much delayed pleasure cuz he been anticipating the whorehouse since days ago. He recollected the brothel he just left and the hooker he left there — he recollected her from before she started crying. His cock filled Sam’s mouth with goops of prenut, and Sam obediently swallowed it, or leastways he ain’t try to spit Goose’s knob out.
“He’uh I go,” Goose murmured. He stroked his dick at the root with one hand, the knob filling up Sam’s mouth. So as an orgasm ran through his body, he shot his wad directly onto Sam’s tongue.
A gag overcame Sam, but he was pinned against the tree, so Goose kept his dick there. Sam retched again and again, jizz spilling forth all over his shirt and his crotch and onto the jungle floor. The cum drained outta Goose’s sac like it been building up for weeks, which it kinda was — Goose ain’t feel like busting a nut until recently. War was too stressful for nuts.
A chuckle wracked Goose’s body, making his dingdong dongle and his sac splatter against Sam’s chin. Burst after burst of cream overflowed from Sam’s mouth and puddled up in the mud and muck. Goose shuddered with pleasure, holding onto Sam’s head so he could hump every inch of his tongue.
Goose let his cock dangle free. “Sorry, Sam,” he said as Sam spat up fluids from the deeps of his belly. Goose was about to add I won’t do that again, but he thunk better of it.
He ain’t wanna make a promise he weren’t gonna keep.

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.