Tag: featuring gangbangers

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Thumper climbed into the rented pickup, and only on the way did Mr. Gregarian tell him about the mission.
They was extracting money outta some broke-ass deadteat who owed Mr. Gregarian oodles of doodles. Thumper ain’t mind that mission, but it was gangsterism for sure, and if Mr. Perry found out, he’d fury up on the quickabout. So Thumper gotta be discrete. Discretion ain’t easy driving a speckle-paint roaring-engine truck past Mr. Perry’s office on the way to the ritzy-ditzy neighborhood Oaken Grove in Baltimore County. Luckily they passed a recycling truck when going by the parole office, and it blocked Mr. Perry’s window from them.
On the way, Thumper ain’t play no music in the truck, and Mr. Gregarian was okay with that, or at least he ain’t complain. Thumper liked the sound of the engine and the wind cracking past like gusts of freedom. Thumper ain’t yet figure out how to listen to good, old music — every music-listening method required multiple steps he’d have to look up how to do. How did every part of music get worse while he was locked up?
Thumper considered asking Mr. Gregarian where to buy clothes. But he got the feeling Mr. Gregarian stopped buying new clothes around the time Thumper got arrested, so they just sat in silence as the white-lady robot directed them into Oaken Grove.
A few desperate-limb oaks remaindered from the trees that done got teared down to build Oaken Grove. Thereabout around, the houses was big and spread wide like grassy yawns. The nicest homes was built at odd angles to the road. Most them yards sported trim lawns and spartan scatters of elegant blossoms. Lotta sculpted hedges and little decorative evergreen jawns too. They was pretty yards, as perfectly plotted as a Jewish murder, but you could tell ain’t nobody ever play or cook out or jaw a spell there.
When they pulled into the driveway of a house with rundown grass and overgrowed flowerbeds, Mr. Gregarian told Thumper the plan: while Mr. Gregarian flapped his trap at the man, Frank Johnson, Thumper should empty the house of valuables. Anything that could be sold was fair game. Frank owed eleven grand, and Mr. Gregarian said he prolly done sold off anything truly valuable. But Thumper was eager to find something better than chumpy cheddar, so Mr. Gregarian’d call this a success.
First he carted out the teevee and the fridge with a hand-truck, while Mr. Gregarian spoke stern as stairs to the deadbeat. “Did you think you had gotten away with it? I don’t forget a debt, Mr. Johnson.”
Frank Johnson dropped to his knees. “Please, sir, Mr. Gregarian, just give me another month. Don’t break my knees. I still have a job, and once my divorce is final, I won’t have lawyer bills anymore. Please, sir-” He was a rosy-nosy honky-donkey pudgebutt in sweatpants and a trash tee shirt that advertised a boy scout popcorn fundraiser. He bin divorcifying the missus, that was what done consummate all his money. Thumper saw family photos with wifey’s face cut out. Looked like she got a okay body though, bony in the hips some, and tits small as Salvadoran fists — wouldn’a slowed Thumper down none. That limpwad Frank oughta never gived her up. He ain’t gonna get no shebody better now.
“We’re not breaking your knees, you moron,” Mr. Gregarian said with a hot sneer. He shoved Frank away. “I know perfectly well you’d never pay if you were crippled.”
Frank nodded and stood up from his knees like still got some pride. “That’s right, that’s right. Thank you! I’ll pay as soon as I can!”
Thumper hurried upstairs, but the upstairs done got strippt clean as a virgin dildo — Frank’s wife and kids absconded months ago, and they took all they jawns from the bedrooms. Frank still got his own bedroom, but it was fulla little more than a ratshit mattress, old McDonald’s crinkle-paper and unwashed duds. There weren’t even no teevee in there. Only valuemento was a stack of sticky porno, which Thumper took knowing Mr. Gregarian would call it a pervy waste. It was, he be right, but Thumper could sell it to his homies in state and make a pretty penny for his pocket.
Then Thumper looked behind all the framed photos for a safe, and he tapped his foot on the floorboards to listen for a hollow thud. Nothing. Basement got lotta rotting newspapers and a rusty, dusty furnace. He checked the crawlspace under the house too but found nothing ‘cept a dirty shovel and a nest of mice.
Getting a nigga who bin locked up for decades prolly weren’t a good idea on Mr. Gregarian’s part. Thumper dunno where a fellah might hide money nowadays, and he got no idea how valuable shit like a ironing board was — he put that in the truck, but Mr. Gregarian later made fun of him for it. Thumper ain’t even get the iron to go with it. Thumper picked up bunches of weird little electronic boxes with no clear purpose. One kept beeping like a cyborg with a stutter, and another got a light flashing inside.

Thumper put a serious flatness on when he came back to Mr. Gregarian. “Ain’t find much, suh,” he said. “There’s the fridge and the teevee out in the truck. I got some jawns that beep and boop too. Should we take his phone?”

“Please, don’t, Mr. Gregarian-“
“Shut up,” Mr. Gregarian snapped at Frank and slapped him across the face, making a loud ring like a whore’s diamond. He looked back at Thumper. “No, let him keep his phone. It’s too old to sell anyway. Mr. Johnson does need a punishment though, to be sure he finds a payment before next month.”
“Yes, suh,” Thumper said. He brandished a fist, then took off his shirt. This was the part that was easy for him. It felt right as rulers. His broad chest gleamed in the dim light. His prison-built muscles was firm, crudely tatted, the naked Statue of Liberty with the fat-girl vulva on his back dripping with sweat (Thumper done look up what a vulva was). He glowered down Frank, who turned pale as a drained-out klansman.
Thumper advanced to hit the cowering Frank, who crounched down by the front door like he might could skedaddle. But he was quaking and shaking like fry bacon, and he kept crawling his noggin into the bottom of the wall behind him. “Please, wait, no!”
“Just a tap for now, Wendell,” Mr. Gregarian said.
Thumper nodded and grinned, his fist colliding with Frank’s face with a satisfying thud and a cry of pain. Frank curled up into a mewling ball, which put Thumper down — he got a slim lip for beating a man who ain’t fight back or even beg. He just curled up like a deflated fetus. Blood sploded outta Frank’s nose and dripped down Thumper’s fingers.
His eyes on focus on Frank, Thumper let Mr. Gregarian reach from behind him and undo Thumper’s belt.
Thumper’s jeans thudded to the floor. He wished he done put on something classier than prison drawers, but that’s what he was wearing, cuz Mr. Gregarian ain’t tell him this part of the plan. His prison drawers was so fray-thin you could see Thumper’s dinkum and his fat old-nigga berries through the fabric. He ain’t wanna be a cast-iron nigga afront Frank and Mr. Gregarian, but he was wearing trashy drawers, and they was looking at him like a trashy-drawer nigga.
“Cornhole him hard,” Mr. Gregarian said with a sneer. “Make him contrite for his intransigence.”
Thumper nodded confidently. He both grimaced and grinned — seeing that pretty wifey with her face missing made his dick throb-a-lob-dob like a second heart.
But Thumper ain’t like the idea of being ordered to pluck a honky punk. All the niggas around knowed damn well that Thumper was a booty-puckering rump ranger. Most niggas denied it. Not Thumper. He bin got witnessed too much in the cell, and he long past abandoned his need for discretion. Every non-fool nigga with ears in Baltimore musta heard he got up in guts plenty in lockup.
This was the first time whitey indicated he knewed it too — Mr. Gregarian weren’t clued in to the Bloods, so he musta either heard a rumor at Lipsweet or simply deducted it like a savvy honky. Maybe Thumper looked so much like a booty bandit that a pinkie-ring whodat like Mr. Gregarian assumpted he was one.
What did Mistuh Gregarian tell Miriam by way of warning? Does every honky I see think that? What bin Miriam thinking about me?
That was a trashy way to be. Men was gonna be warning they sons when he passed. If you get locked up, don’t drop the soap afront a ramrod nigga like that.
But Thumper weren’t gonna let his compections get in the way of doing Mr. Gregarian’s bidding. He gonna hafta flap at Mr. Gregarian about it. He came forward to Frank and lowered his head down next to his. “Sup, Frank. Name’s Thumper. How you doin’?” Thumper sat next to Frank and bared his feetses. He kept his big-grin jive-and-dime nigga face on as he put one foot on Frank’s mouth.
“Uh… Whath co’nholin’?” Frank asked around the big toe on his tongue. He held back a raspy gag and made a face at the sour-band-aid taste of Thumper’s feet. His eyes opened wide as a cartoon whale.
“That’s a good question. I’s glad you axed, Frank. I ain’t gonna answer, cuz I wanna see the look on yo’ face when you find out-“
“No, Thumper,” Mr. Gregarian said, dreary-eyed and cheerless. He faced away, standing near the doorway. “We have to tell him what it is so he has a chance to pay to avoid it.”
A grimacey grunt of greement came outta Thumper. He patted Frank chummy-like on his pudgy-wudgy shoulder. “Well, Frank, cornholin’ is when I stick my dick in yo’ booty. I use yo’ butt to jack off wit’, then bust a nut in yo’ guts. Lemme warn you it hurt real bad, and-“
“Whaaat?! You can’t do that!”
“I ain’t surprise it sound impossible to you. The challengin’ part is that yo’ butthole is like this big-” Thumper made a small circle one two finger. Then he belabored his prison drawers down and flopped around his giant slab of limpness. He showed how much bigger it was than the circle like he was tryin’-a force it through the tiny hole. “My dick is that big. It’s a conundrummer, buddy.” Thumper rattatat-tapped Frank’s dummy-dumb dome like a drummer. “But we gonna figure it out togethuh. Put’cha head down.” He ain’t give Frank a chance to do it. He gripped the back of his neck and slammed his face to the floor hard enough to make Frank cry out in pain. “I said put’cha head down. If this is gonna work, you gotsta do e’rything I say, Frank. You could get real injuryed if you don’t do it right. You might never hold a dookie in again, if I wreck yo’ sphinctuh-ring. You rememberin’ where you got some dollahs saved for a rainy day? Cuz it’s ’bout to start pourin’ down puddles. It’s ark-buildin’ weather fo’ you, honky,” Thumper asked, stroking his pecker with one hand until it started firming up. He slipped his dicktip into Frank’s butthole, and a squeezy sensation ran through his spine. A smile slipped onto Thumper’s face — he stayed enjoying wrecking a roundbody. Frank gritted his teeth, his eyes bugging out.
Frank shook his head. “Hhhnnn! Hhhnnn! Hhhnnn! C’mon, man, man– I don’t have any — ow, shit, ow, shit, ow, ow!”
Thumper kept on forcing his dick in deeper and deeper, inch by inch, sending waves of pleasure through him. He exaggerated his reactions, even though Frank got his face down and Mr. Gregarian faced outta the room, so nobody saw Thumper making old-nigga faces with every thrust of his pecker into Frank’s reddening buttcheeks. Thumper smacked one asscheek, then the other, Frank squirmed beneath his grasp. Thumper dug his fingers in deeply, digging at Frank’s back. He felt resistance in Frank’s butthole, so he punched him hard in the side. “Quit fightin’ me-!”
“Ow, shit, c’mon, stop! Hhwwwn! Hhwwwn! Hhwwwn!”
He punched Frank in the side once more, and Frank panted. His hands clawed at the ground as though he could dig hisself away. Thumper wrapped one powerful arm around Frank’s neck, not quite choking him but making sure Frank knew he could.
“You fightin’ me, honky, stop it,” Thumper said, his voice grim as gravel. “Frankie-panky, c’mon, I don’t like it when a punk fights me-“
“I’m not!”
“Yes, you is, you clenchin’ yo’ butthole, like you still control it. You ain’t in charge of yo’ butthole no more, so make it go loose. Like you takin’ a shit-“
“No, ow, shit! Hhwwwn! Hhwwwn!”
Thumper flexed his arm, which choked Frank until he stopped making noises, aside from a hoarse wheeze. “Frankie-panky, you gotta listen to me. Remembuh what I said, you can get injuryed if you don’t do this right. You doin’ two things wrong. First of all, don’t make that noise, like you fartin’ out yo’ mouth. Tha’ss nasty as prison loaf, nigga, I know you don’t know what that is, but it ain’t nice.” He let Frank have a breath, and Frank gasped. Thumper’s voice broke, as Frank’s sudden focus on breathing meant his asshole relaxed, and Frank could slide his rod in another inch or two. “More than half in now, buddy,” he said, his voice breaking again in Frank’s ear. “You feel good as shit. Okay, now, the second thing you doin’ wrong is you clenchin’. You feel that, you clenchin’-“
“Ow, c’mon…” Frank was outta breath, unable to recover from being choked. Plus he was trying not to make that sound. Thumper appreciated the effort.
“Quit clenchin’,” Thumper said with a growl. “Pretend like you takin’ a shit, Frankie-panky.” His voice was hot and hard in Frank’s ear. He liked that Mr. Gregarian could hear him right now. This was just him and Frank, like best buds, sharing they own little secret. Ain’t nobody but the two them ever gonna experience this, Thumper thought. He was already feeling twinges of his upcoming orgasm, but Frank’s discooperativity was slowing Thumper down.
And Thumper liked that — it meant he could plow fast and still last.
“Ow!” Frank roared in pain, but when he twitched, his resistance disappeared for a second. Thumper forced his dick in to the root, until his balls slapped against Frank’s taint. Frank shouted, “Ow, stop! Wait! You gotta stop! Just gimme a sec!”
“Don’chu tell me what to do, Frank,” Thumper said. He smacked Frank hard on one buttcheek, and a thrill went up Thumper’s spine, while a chill of pain went up Frank’s. Thumper bin ramrodded plentya honkies in lockup. Nicer ones than Frank too, or at least perkier ones.
But there was something different about it now, plowing into a professional man — a accountant or some shit. Thumper liked that he got to disobey a white man in a nice house. Ain’t lotta opportunities for that in lockup. Mosta the honkies there was meth-goblins, crackheads, Nazis or dirty-hairy rednecks — white trash, basically.
But Frank was a real man, right up until Thumper turnt his behind into a pussy-hole. That made Thumper grin, plowing in and out until he heard his balls slap against Frank’s taint. A nigga’s knapsack made a good’n’grimy thwackuh-thwackuh-smack sound hitting a honky below the booty.
“Love that sound, Frankie-panky. Sounds sexy, don’t it? That’s the sound of you not bein’ a real man no more,” Thumper said. His muscles rippled when he moaned again, aiming the sound right into Frankie-panky’s ear. Thumper’s heavy body pressed down on him, as he smacked in and out. He even pulled all the way out for a second — Thumper liked hearing that sound of relief and then the stuff-a-plug grunt that came when he rammed it right back in that gapey hole.
Thumper ain’t quite feel this right since he left prison.
On the other hand, he was only doing this cuz a white man told him to. That made it less a satisfy. He was a free nigga now. He ain’t gotsta do what a white man say — ‘cept for Mr. Perry, and him only for another year, til his parole was up.
So Thumper ain’t gotta suppordate hisself to Mr. Gregarian. His pole weren’t a tool to get brung out at Mr. Gregarian’s discretion.
He oughta at least tell Mr. Gregarian he wanted a bigger cut. Any big-ass fool could punch Frank. Booty-banditing was a skill, and Thumper wanna get paid for it.
His stick still throbbing and leaking precum up Frank’s guts, Thumper lifted hisself off Frank’s back and grabbed Frank’s phone — the movement made him grunt with pleasure, leaning on Frank for support. He was surprised Mr. Gregarian let him keep it, but it was old, prolly obsolete, Thumper thunk. He saw an app called TuneBleed, which reminded him of Miriam, so Thumper poked it.
On came music, but it was some plastic-twang twinkie-fried country music that never seen a trailer park, so Thumper turned it right off. He typed in fatback, cuz that was what he was looking at, what his ears was craving, what his mouth was hungry for and and what his pecker was currently deep within.
Luckily, Frank Johnson’s honky phone got Fatback in it, and that was Thumper’s kinda funk, so he pumped up the volume. He daggered his dickmeat in time with the rhythm.
Finally, some proper music.
“Love this band, Frankie-panky,” Thumper said, rolling his muscles up and down, grinding his dick in a little circle in Frank’s tight butthole. Frank were past clenching now — he ain’t gonna clench for a month at least — so Thumper got free reign over his booty.
“Thumper, hit him more,” Mr. Gregarian said, like that shoulda been obvious, like he done this a million times and Thumper was the fool for not doing it right. “You gotta hit him-“
“You don’t gotta tell me how to do it, Mistuh Gregarian,” Thumper said with a throaty roar. “I know how to jack off in a man’s booty.”
Mr. Gregarian was took way back by that. He frowned at Thumper. “What?” Mr. Gregarian narrowed his eyebrows.
Thumper motioned for Mr. Gregarian to come closer. He hesitated but did so, still facing away from Frank’s ruint behind. He ain’t like looking at Thumper neither, and he specially avoided seeing Thumper’s thirteen-inch cock. Thumper leaned close enough to whisper into Mr. Gregarian’s ear. “We gonna hafta come to a ‘rrangement, Mistuh Gregarian. You ain’t tell me this was part of it, and I wanna get paid.”
“I’m not paying you extra to cornhole someone. That’s — you’re an ex-con, that was probably what you were gonna do anyway.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
With a grunt, Thumper stopped moving. He looked down his nose at Mr. Gregarian. “Well… I ain’t gonna blueball mahself this time, you called my bluff,” Thumper said. “But, uh… next time…” He leaned on Frank, who screamed through gritted teeth into his own arm, which he bit when Thumper’s dick rasped in and outta his butthole. Thumper let out a creaky-throat moan. His chest was getting steamy with sweat. He smacked Frank in the side. “Quit it, Frank, you silly wiggleworm. Keep still. Head down, ass up.”
“Look, I’m givin’ you fifteen percent of what we get-“
“But he ain’t got nothin’. Fifteen percent of fuck-all ain’t worth my time,” Thumper said. He crossed his arms over his chest, his dick deep in Frank, who writhed in pain impaled on Thumper’s rod. Thumper ain’t move, he just let Frank’s squirmy-wormy body rub his butthole on Thumper’s shaft. He looked at Mr. Gregarian. “I want the first eight hundred, then fifteen percent after that. And a free ride on any the Lipsweet bitches when we get back.”
“Bull-fucking-shit! Do I look like I eat pussy?” Mr. Gregarian said. He weren’t whispering anymore, but he still faced away, like he was too good to see a man receive a ramrod, as if it weren’t his idea in the first place. “Cuz you’re treating me like the kinda pervert who licks a woman’s pisshole.”
Thumper bugged at that. That did explain why Mrs. Gregarian was on the stepout on her man. She do be in need of a nigga tongue. Thumper made a mental note to lick her butthole next time. But Mr. Gregarian still ain’t knowledgeate hisself about his wife on the stepout, and Thumper ain’t wanna let on. So he said, “Yo, why ain’chu just bring that whiteboy Bud along on this trip?” Bud was the deejay at Lipsweet, and he was a short-sneering rumplesilkskin with fake gang tats on his neck. Thumper laughed at Mr. Gregarian a-fume.
“Him? He can’t — he’s never been to prison, for one thing-“
“You right, he can’t. He ain’t a booty bandit, he a white-trash nowhom,” Thumper said. He kept his weight on Frank, who whimpered and squirmed beneath Thumper’s body. Thumper wiggled his cock in Frank’s booty, which made him slither like a sexy snake. “Cuz Bud ain’t got the skill. I do. So I gotsta get more than-“
“Five hundred. I’ll give you the first five hundred, then fifteen percent,” Mr. Gregarian said. “You can fuck any the women, but now new girls, I don’t need you stretchin’ them out.” He paused. “And clean up real good before you fuck her tonight.” He paused again. “Like, real good. I can’t have a escort out with a infected pussy.”
Thumper pondered that for a moment, then he nodded. He gripped Frank by the hair, making Frank squeal like a piglet. “Hear that, Frankie-panky? We gots a ‘greement. I’mma be comin’ back here and doin’ you up ya dirt till you pay yo’ dutiful debt.”
“Yes, I will, I will, oh god…”
With a throb and another light slap on Frank’s cheek, Thumper stopped moving at the apex of his penetration. Frank squealed in agony. Thumper’s dick throbbed painfully inside him, followed by a burst of fresh hot jism. Thumper grunted like a rampaging boar.
Wave after wave of creamy cum flowed into Frank, who choked back a sob. He ain’t never experienced a sensation like this. He hid his face in his arms, as Thumper resumed pounding away at his sensitive asshole. With each thrust, Thumper shot another huge fist-sized wad deep in Frank. The heat seeped into his very bones, and he smelled his own assfunk in the air.
Frank couldn’t breathe. Thumper pressed his massive chest down on Frank’s back and whispered in Frank’s ear. “You my bitch now, you my punk. You hop to e’rything I say fo’ the rest of yo’ life, or you gonna get another mile of meat up yo’ backside. Now lemme finnish nuttin’ yo’ manhood away.” Thumper gyrated his hips, forcing his dick in to the root as he drained the last couple drups of nutjuice into Frank’s innards.
Frank crawled away when Thumper allowed him to wriggle his way free. Thumper ain’t pull off him, he just stopped holding Frank down, and Frank’s worming got him out from under Thumper. A final moan of pleasure came from Thumper’s throat, as his dick slid like a greasy turd outta Frank’s bootyhole. Frank sighed in relief.
Mr. Gregarian was still standing there in the doorway, facing away. He did clock the size of Thumper’s pecker though, Thumper saw that in the corner of Mr. Gregarian’s eye. Thumper let it drip there aimed in Mr. Gregarian’s direction, while he told Frank to get him some toilet paper. Frank thought to dawdle and clean his own butthole first, but Thumper corrected that with a fist and another order to get him toilet paper lickety-split.
“Here you go, sir,” Frank said when he returned with toilet paper. Thumper ain’t tell him to call him sir, but he liked it. He could get used to that. Thumper ain’t take the toilet paper, and soon enough Frank got the message. He gingerly dabbed at Thumper’s dick to get it clean of spit and cum and assfunk, while Frank’s own butthole emptied its mess onto the carpet. Mr. Gregarian still faced away so he ain’t gotta see Thumper’s mammoth.
When Thumper had enough that, he grabbed Frank’s shirt and wiped the resta his pecker off on it. He tossed the shirt on Frank’s head. “You find a way to make a payment, buddy. Or I be back.” He winked at Frank. “I hope I be back.”
“Which girl you want?” Mr. Gregarian asked, when Thumper got his clothes back on and joined him to walk outta the house. “Sherry?”
Thumper scoffed. “I’m off her. Gimme whoevuh use Facebook the least.”
Mr. Gregarian shrugged. “I saw Lacey reading a book once. An actual book. So maybe her. I’ll give you cash to give her. I don’t like them even thinking about freebies,” he said, like he forgot they already went through this — when Thumper came back from Ocean City with a boyfriendless Miriam, Mr. Gregarian paid for him to have a threesome with two girls. He gave Thumper cash to avoid setting a freebie precedent.
That was fine with Thumper. It was good, he thought, to do things the proper way. He was glad he negotiated a deal with Mr. Gregarian too. He got power that he ain’t never have in prison — he could always take his talents elsewhere. He felt like he was on the same level as Mr. Gregarian, as they both climbed into the truck and headed off to pawn the jawns they got from Thumper’s new buddy Frankie-pankie.
Mr. Gregarian sighed after a long silence, and he said, “Miriam has a new boyfriend. Rick something-or-other. I haven’t met him, but she said he was at spring break. Did you see him?”
Thumper nodded. “Yeah. He ain’t do nothin’, he made of blank pages, Mistuh Gregarian. Most of him is leg.”
“Good. I’ll hire you to escort them on dates,” he said. “So this Rick kid doesn’t get any bright ideas.”
“Yessuh, Mistuh Gregarian,” Thumper said with a smile. He ain’t turn the white-lady robot on, cuz he remembered the way home, but Mr. Gregarian put it on anyway. Thumper reckoned folk stopped learning new routes once they used they phones to do it. He ain’t want that to happen to him. So he turned it off. “Don’t need it, suh. I know the way.”

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Thumper the Booty Bandit: Chapter Ten

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Thumper got up outta the marital bed. Mrs. Gregarian lay sprawl-out, her whole body a-tremble and a-twitter, as rickety remnants of her last orgasm wracked her body. Thumper licked his teeth. His dong flopped, shiny and gooey, between his legs.
The music — picked by her — made his ears wrinkle. It was a out-of-breath woman huffing like a fat dragon alongside bells and whales and gales of webby twinkles, like the kinda music faeries might make if they was smoking crack. Something, Thumper thunk, done gone wrong in music. They oughta just rewind it to thirty-four years ago.
“Yo’ husband ain’t gonna snoop us out, is he?” Thumper asked. He widewalked to the crapper to wipe his wang with a wad of toilet paper.
She shook her head. “He doesn’t know anything, Wendell.” She smiled at him before poking her nose back into her phone. “You’ll have to come see me again. Next time something breaks, I’ll tell him to send you.”

Thumper smirked. He came over to help with her car when it wouldn’t start. He weren’t sure why Mr. Gregarian believed he could help. He could, but only because the problem was a dead battery. Easy-peasy. And Mr. Gregarian got other cars with good batteries, so Thumper jumper-cabled up and waited. Him and her chatted some, and she showed him how to make his phone flash a picture of folks who called.

That was when Mrs. Gregarian looked at him with a sultry lip. Before long, they was kissing heavy in the backseat of the car, and then they hurried inside to fuck like forbidden bunnies. Thumper ain’t mind a bit that she sagged like raggedy teabags and got droopy tits and flappy pussylips. He still savored that bitch’s flavor. She got enough cat for any numbera niggas, and she sometimes put her phone down for many minutes. Plus, she enjoyed sucking dick.
Long time done passt since he got slurped off by someone who weren’t cringing and gagging the whole time. He sorta forgot it was possible to mouth a nigga off without retching on the rampant. Mrs. Gregarian made seductive humming noises, and her mouth felt smooth as porridge and her lips soft as a pair of plump pillows.
Jacking off behind bars ain’t like that. Gagging got a gross sound, but it was like a throaty massage on his hee-haw. Took him a couple tries to get the hang of enjoying it and ignoring the stomach-churning sound. Eventually, he learnt to appreciate the sound too. But when he first got a chance to throat down a nigga in lockup, he tried to make that nigga stop gagging — that was this hefty kitcat named Mikey Donohue.
Mikey Donohue couldn’t taste no dick without gagging — not like a little gag neither, not like a kitten with a hairball — he gagged like it hurt, like it took his whole body to do it. And he used his whole big broad body too.
That nigga Mikey Donohue got assigned to Thumper’s bunk — inmates was bunking together at the time, on account of a shortage of cells or a excess of niggas. He frowned slick as a trick when he found out he gotsta bunk with Thumper, but he ain’t complain.
Mikey was a powerful nigga, not tall but thick, with broad shoulders and a back that kept on going. He played football on a semipro team, the Baltimore Electric Crabs, before his arrest. Thumper ain’t think nothing of it. He bin exulting in the fact that he ain’t gotta give up his booty no more.
And it ain’t even occur to him right away that he could take some booty of his own if he wanted. He did want that, mightily indeed once he thunk it. There ain’t lot to do in lockup besides stab Crips, work out and jack off, and Thumper’s stabbing hand was sore.
So he waited until the cell was in they zeez one night, including Mikey Donohue. He took up most the bunk, cuz he was sleeping on his back, while Thumper was on his side. Once Mikey was good and sleep-eyed, Thumper’s hands reached for his chest. He ain’t wake up. His skin was smooth and warm like a cup of coffee, and he got nice thick pecs for Thumper to play with. They was too firm for boobs, but Thumper could imagine ’em anyway. Thumper’s fingers slipped up and down Mikey’s torso.
He tweaked Mikey’s nipple. Still no reaction but a instinctual twitch of his pecs.
No response when Thumper touched his chin neither. He pulled Mikey’s chin to open his mouth. He got a nice big mouth. Thumper could punch this nigga in the face, and ain’t nobody in the cell would even ask if he got a good reason. He could pound that handsome nigga to smithereenies. Thumper owned this particular fresh fish.
Thumper ain’t wanna do that. He weren’t like that. But he liked that he got the option.
“Sssshhhh…” Thumper said as softly as he could. He clucked his tongue and worked his fingers into Mikey’s mouth. His heart pounding and his eyes opening wide, Thumper licked his own lips as he spread Mikey’s far apart. His pink mouth-hole was wet and inviting.
Once his mouth was open, Thumper got onto his knees on the bunk, straddling Mikey’s chest without putting any weight on him. He moved up Mikey’s body until he could gently ease his dick into Mikey’s mouth. A thrill of pleasure ran up him, though his limpness remained soft as dough. Mikey’s tongue was warm and moist.
But Thumper’s shaft was still flop-a-loppy, like a fatty sausage. He touched his cocktip to Mikey’s nostrils and cheeks, and his heavy ballsac plopped on Mikey’s chin. He pushed the tip back into Mikey’s mouth. Mikey stirred like a steamy soup, but he ain’t wake up yet.
His dick began to firm. Thumper licked his lips. He could get into this. When females sucked him off, it weren’t like this — they was awake, for one thing. They got smaller mouths. Mikey was a big-jaw nigga. He got plentya room in there for Thumper’s big throbbing meat. A nigga could play house in that mouth.
And Thumper owned this nigga’s throat. He could put whatever he wanted in there. He could make Mikey drink peepee or jerk off every nigga in this cell. He was allowed to rent Mikey’s throat out to honkies and screws and that tubby cholo in 41D who liked a nigga tongue up his greasy butthole.
But Thumper ain’t wanna do none that neither. Thumper was still young, barely older than Mikey. He wanted to keep Mikey’s mouth all to his own. He slipped his half-hard pecker down Mikey’s throat until he gagged.
That was enough to wake Mikey up. His eyes opened wide. He startled and grunted, spitting Thumper’s dick back out. It danced atop Mikey’s face.
“Ssssssssshhhh…” Thumper said again, and he forced Mikey’s mouth closed. His dick still rested on Mikey’s lower lip. “Don’t make noise. E’rynigga sleepin’ deep,” Thumper whispered. He dragged Mikey’s hand to his cock. “Jack me off into yo’ mouth, Mikey, c’mon. Lemme feel that tongue.”
“Wait-” Mikey tried to speak, but Thumper’s dick pushed into his mouth. That made him gag it out and try to sit up.
“Nah, ssssshhhh, nigga, no gaggin’,” Thumper said, his voice soft as syrup. He pushed Mikey’s shoulder to make him stay on his back on the bunk. “Stay down-“
“Whatchoo doin’, nigga?” Mikey asked in a harsh whisper. He opened his mouth again to say more, but Thumper rammed right in again. He ain’t force it to the back of his throat though. Felt good enough just to put the tip on Mikey’s tongue. That let Mikey talk some. “C’mon, nigga… Tha’th nathy, c’on, kit p’ayin’, nikka.”
When Mikey tried to sit up once more, Thumper let him this time. He stood next to the bunk instead of straddling Mikey. That gave Mikey a better angle to deepthroat Thumper’s rod, not that Mikey took it. He tried to move his face away, but Thumper followed and murmured, “Sssssh….” Thumper’s cock bobbed around afronta Mikey’s face.
“C’mon, nigga, whatchoo playin’ at?” Mikey’s eyes opened wide. When he opened his mouth to talk again, Thumper pushed his cocktip in. Mikey retched up loud as a feisty ferret. Thumper’s dick slipped onto his face, and Mikey moved his head to dodge it. “Quit it — Thumper!” Mikey whispered. He took Thumper’s shaft in two fingers and lifted its fattiness off his face. “Ewww, nigga!”
“No playtime,” Thumper said softly. “You new, you gotsta do yo’ time, nigga. Now be quiet. Ain’t e’ry nigga here gotta know you tonguin’ dong like a slurpy-durpy nutsponge. Quit gaggin’ so much, it’s loud and it do turn me off.”
A playful quiet slap came, as Thumper again pumped his limp dick into Mikey’s mouth. He slapped him again, real soft, just to get his attention, not make no sound.
With a snap-down, both niggas stopped moving — somenigga in a bunk stirred. Mikey’s eyes bugged out. He ain’t wanna get seen with a cockle-doodle-doo in his mouth even more than Thumper ain’t want a audience. He kept his mouth open wide, lips far apart, so Thumper’s cock rested on his teeth.
“Ssssh,” Thumper murmured, one finger on his lips. Some other nigga done stood up, on the other side of the gymnasium-like cell. That other nigga coughed couple times. He padded off other-nigga-like to the pisser against the wall of the cell.
The long-tinkle sound of his pissing filled the air, and Thumper gotsta hold back laughter. Mikey looked like he was finna splode. His mouth was garglingg around, trying-a not taste Thumper’s dick without making no noise. He juggled it between his teeth and his lips.
Still keeping one finger up over his mouth, Thumper pulled Mikey’s long tongue out so he could rub it on his dick. Mikey twitched and wriggled beneath him. His pecs flexed, and his biceps turnt firm, like he wanna fight but wanna remain a anonymouse even more. That other nigga finally finished pissing and returned to his bunk.
But they stayed silent as silk still. Thumper leggo his tongue, but he ain’t let up on Mikey’s mouth. Mikey gagged again but managed to keep it quiet, while Thumper kept pushing his dick in past Mikey’s lips. Mikey winced and scrunched his eyes shut. “Uggghhhhckkk…”
“Sssssh, nigga, Mikey, c’mon, just do it quick,” Thumper whispered, quiet as a snail. “Put yo’ hand on it too and make buncha spit. No gaggin’.”
His hand gripped the root, and Mikey winced but stroked it slowly, the tip descending into his mouth once more. He cringed violently. It slid atop his discoopative tongue. His other hand cradled his nauseated belly.
A twinge of firmness finally hit Thumper’s shaft, as Mikey twitched his lips around it. He squeezed it some. Thumper pumped his hips to work it in and out. He held onto Mikey’s cheeks, loose as a goose at first, then stronger when he felt Mikey trying-a sputter it out.
“Nigga-” Mikey tried to say, when he managed to expel Thumper’s cock. He couldn’t get no more than that out, as a violent gag erupted when he tasted that clammy cockmeat lingering on his tongue. His gagging-up was loud enough for Thumper to shush him, and Mikey swallowed it back. He got a swamp-green look on his face. Another quiet gag came out.
“Stroke it wit’cha hand, nigga, c’mon, I don’t gotsta explain how to do this,” Thumper said. “Quit gaggin’, nigga, and make lotta spit. Tha’ss a nasty sound. Make it sloppy-wet.”
Another loud retch came from Mikey when he choked up spit. He looked around the cell the best he could with Thumper’s dick limp but stuck in his mouth. Nobody was obviously awake, but both niggas got the sensation of someone watching. He closed his eyes and moved his mouth up and down the shaft, holding back a loud gag. He kept his lips firmly wrapped around it.
That was finally enough to get Thumper good and hard. His veiny dick pulsated, and the firmer it got, the harder Thumper rammed it down Mikey’s throat. His fingers spread over Mikey’s face. He forced Mikey’s cringy eyes open. “Lemme see them peepuhs, nigga.”
A couple drops of precum hit his tongue. It was slimy and intensely salty. Mikey mumbled up a mouthful of dong, unable to move his head. Thumper got a smut-filled grin on his cheesy face, as he got hornier than he had since he first hadta taste Patrick’s pecker. He humped Mikey’s mouth hard enough to make the bunk wheeze back and forth. Part of Thumper realized he was being loud as a crowd, but he ain’t care no more.
Salty precum overfilled his mouth, and Mikey held back a gross-out gag when it oozed out his lower lip. He held back another one, but then he stopped moving entirely. It took all his strength not to retch up again. Thumper shifted his weight back and forth, and his belly hair scratched at Mikey’s nose.
“Ssssh, you doin’ good, nigga,” Thumper said, cool as a cube. He gripped the back of Mikey’s head to force it in deep, until he retched again. This time it wasn’t loud because Thumper’s whole body muffled it. But then Thumper leaned back, while keeping his cock — a good nine inches of it — in Mikey’s maw.
Mikey couldn’t hold back his next gag. He expelled Thumper’s shaft along with a big clump of spit. Before he could take a breath, Thumper forced it back in around Mikey’s guffing and panting. A series of quietish gags came, as Mikey hyperventilated but couldn’t stop sniffing the scent of Thumper’s gooey piss-slit.
“You got nice mouth, nigga,” Thumper whispered. He chuckled as Mikey’s broad chest muscles heaved with furious gags, each one quiet though the overall effect was loud enough to notice. Thumper was on a roll now. He weren’t gonna let up. He got both hands on the back of Mikey’s head. His balls swayed and slapped at Mikey’s square chin.
“Who that?”
“Wassat? Huh? Shut the fuck up!”
Thumper stopped moving for a moment. A big smile appeared on his face. He whispered, “Oh, you gone and done it, you woke ’em up.”
So Thumper could plow his throat with abandon now, not a care in his noggin that all them niggas was likely peeping they gaze at his dick. Mikey ain’t able to hold back the sound of his throat resisterating, so he sputtered and spewed up gloopy saliva. He choked up a loud vomity sound, as that big ball of fluids plopped onto Thumper’s dick and then Mikey’s chest.
Thumper’s cheeks flexed as he rammed down Mikey’s throat. Long tendrils of spit dripped all the way down Mikey’s chest and his sweatpants.
“Ew, is that Thumper?”
“Nasty shit. Sorry, Mikey.”
“Sucks to be the new nigga…”
A few titters of laughter filled the cell. Thumper groaned and threw his head back, smirking in the darkness. He pumped his biceps. Now that he couldn’t stop it anyways, Thumper kinda liked all these niggas witnessing. That way he was sure they was aware he weren’t a bottoming nigga no more.
“Shine on this nigga’s face, I wanna see it,” Thumper said. The light moved to Mikey, just as his mouth filled with creamy white cum. It flowed out his chin. Ropy layer after ropy layer plastered across Mikey’s roundish face.
“Hey!” A guard’s distinctly white voice barked into the cell, and all them niggas fell silent. That included Thumper as he was rabbit-dicking his dick in Mikey’s spitty mouth. After just a moment, the only sound was Mikey’s moist gagging, so loud it sounded like a dozen niggas vomiting in sync. A long flow of jizz filled Mikey’s mouth and overspillt his face, and Thumper let out a chest-rattling moan that made the cell laugh. The guard said, “You boys is carrying on!” A flashlight beamed in from the hall. It beamed right on some niggas squinting at the brilliance. “Whatchoo-?”
The cell filled with stifled giggles, Thumper laughed too, his voice breaking as he orgasmed, and another huge jizz spurted over Mikey’s face. He was covered now. Mikey gagged. Just as he did, the guard’s flashlight illuminated Mikey’s face. All them niggas and the white guard outside saw it, and they erupted in shouts.
“Quit that pervert shit!” the guard barked. He kept the flashlight beamed on Mikey. Another rope of jiss splatted on Mikey’s swole-nigga face. Out came another vicious gag from Mikey, which caused some nigga to clap.
“Ewww, nigga!”
“Mikey, you nasty-!”
“You got a mouthful, nigga!” some nigga said, coming right up to Mikey and using his limp dick to smear cum over his cheek. That nigga guffawed up loud like he was getting away with something, then he scampered off.
Jizz dripping down his cheeks. Mikey held back a gag and covered his face with one hand. He spilled up all the jass, which flowed down his muscular chest and into a puddle on the floor.
“Shut up in there!” the guard barked, and everyone fell silent again. “I’mma wait for silence.”
Everyone was still and quiet for a few seconds. But then Mikey couldn’t help but retch once again, loud as hell, spitting up a giant wad of spooge onto his pecs. He tried to catch it with a hand, but it just spooged out his mouth too widely for that. Thumper flicked his dick in Mikey’s direction, smirking on silent.
The whole cell erupted in laughter again, as Mikey gagged and twisted away. He sprinted to the toilet against the cell wall, and he spat up a bellyful of nut into the bowl. Howls and claps came from the bunks, as Thumper alone was quiet — followed the guard’s instructions — and did a silent touchdown dance, his dick flapping against his thigh. Only the couple niggas around him saw, cuz the flashlight followed Mikey to the toilet.
“Hey, shut-” The guard barked for order, but everynigga ignored him. Mikey’s gagging kept hitting him hard, his whole body undulating. He tried to say something, but his gags was the only sound.
Some nigga emerged from the bunks and got behind Mikey, who yelped in pain. That nigga was Ratty — a skinnybones crack-smoking OG who swore he got no addiction to his rock. Thumper wouldn’t normally credit that, but Ratty made it clear his booty-sticker worked fine. He got hard as a rod with a quickabout, and he ramrodded it up Mikey’s booty. Ratty was known for that. He was too little to force any nigga into anything, but if a nigga was distracted and loose — like spitting into a toilet or talking to his mama on the phone — Ratty got skill in getting his shaft up in that nigga’s guts.
So before anywhosomever even realized it, Ratty’s rope-a-dope crackhead body was rapping at Mikey’s backdoor. Mikey howled into the toilet bowl. Ratty smacked him hard on the back of the head. Ratty’s skinny-nigga balls slapped at Mikey’s fat booty.
“Ah, shit-! Ow, fuck-!”
“Open up, nigga, I’s in ya now!”
“Shut the fuck up in there! What’re you maggots doin’?!”
Ratty ain’t miss a beat, not even when the cell screamed back peals and Thumper roared. The guard pounded on the cell door. Thumper and the screw both reacted at once. The guard ran off to get the key, while Thumper strode forward.
“You shitty nigga,” Thumper said. He gripped Ratty on the back of the neck, only to see he done start his nut. His balls was drawn up, his skinny dick throbbing. “Ratty! He mine! You can’t-!” Thumper stopped shouting, cuz the whole damn-a-lamb cell was chanting Mikey’s name, and Mikey was still spitting up into the toilet and wiping spermies off his pain-up face. “You owe me, Ratty!”
With a uncaring shrug, Ratty pulled out. He wiped his cock off on Mikey’s asscheeks, while dirty nut dribbled down his crack. “Bill me, nigga,” Ratty said. He cackled out loud. Ratty stalked off, and Thumper scowled. He was too low-ranking to beat Ratty up — Ratty got lotta respect in this cell, despite being a rat-faced, skinny-braid crack-smoking sumbitch. His jiggle-free booty disappeared into the darkness, and Thumper sat on the toilet seat afront Mikey.
Thumper made Mikey lift his head, and he rubbed his cock over Mikey’s face. Mikey gagged once more — he ain’t never really recover from when Thumper nutted couple minutes back — but Thumper’s rod on his face just made him gag all the harder. “Mikey, you best apologize to the cell fo’ wakin’ everyone up wit’cho nasty-ass gaggin’.”
“I’m sorry, y’all,” Mikey said, his voice muffled by Thumper’s dick and by his own deep-throat spitting into the toilet.
“You cool, Mikey!”
“I’mma get down that nigga throat later…”
“All them fresh fish gag bunches. You’ll get the hang of it, nigga.”
Thumper was enjoying being the center of attention, now that it was too late to be discrete. He stood up with his cock still rubbing over Mikey’s face. “How you doin’, nigga? Welcome to yo’ cell,” Thumper said. “You gonna be my nightwife, okay? That’s what this-“
But Mikey couldn’t stop gagging. He spat up goo onto Thumper’s already slimy dick, and that just made him gag harder. Thumper flexed his biceps above Mikey’s face like a conquering god, which was exactly what he felt like. He done conquer that football-booty nigga.
At last, the cell quieted down, when the sound of that guard on the return came, with the jingle-jingle of his keys. Thumper weren’t in no hurry. He was enjoying the feel of Mikey’s big face on his dick, still rubbing it when he twitched and gagged. That was just enough to feel good on his sensitive post-climax cock without being too much.
That flashlight light filled the cell, and Thumper saw all them niggas sitting up. They laid they melons down when the light came on, pretending they noggins done nod off. Thumper just flexed his muscles and laughed as the guard came in.
“You two, inmates, back to your bunks — eww, oh god-” The guard came closer, then wrinkled his nose and stepped back. “You smell like a brothel, shit-” A few titters came from the pretend-sleepers. “C’mon, no jacking off, you know that. Warden don’t tolerate perversion.”
With a smirk on his face, Thumper returned to his bunk next to Mikey. He laid down, while Mikey got on tentative legs. Mikey gulped, cradling his belly.
“C’mon, son, hurry ya booty back, or I’mma take you out,” the guard snapped. Mikey sped back to the bunk, limping cuz of his pained butt and still trying-a wipe ooze off his face and chest.
“Can’t I take a shower? Shit, c’mon…” Mikey asked weakly.
“No! You made your bed, son, now you gotta lie in it,” said the guard, as Mikey cringed his way into the bunk. He climbed back in to lay next to Thumper. He closed his eyes.
Thumper lay on his side, spooning Mikey’s spit-drenched body. He hugged Mikey’s trembling muscles.
“All you shitheads shut your fuckin’ faces!” the guard said. “If I gotta come in here again, I’mma make all of you take cold showers for a month!” He shouted on his way outta the cell. The heavy door slammed shut.
“Ewww, nigga, that was nasty,” Mikey said, softly, when the guard was good and gone. Thumper clucked his tongue and used his bath towel to sop up what he could off Mikey’s body. “And my ass hurts.”
Thumper nodded. He kissed Mikey on the cheek, tasting his own cum. He ain’t feel this vibrant and alive since he got used to taking Patrick’s pecker up his booty. Now he was exulting in the fact that he ain’t gotta do that never again. “I know,” Thumper said, his hands pinching Mikey’s muscles. “You done good, nigga. I’ll make Ratty pay good fo’ takin’ yo’ cherry.”

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Thumper the Booty Bandit: Chapter Nine

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Thumper churched every Sunday. He bin going to Ebenezer Baptist, but when his parole officer let slip which church he went to — a boring white church — Thumper decided he oughta go to that one. He could suck up to Mr. Perry there.
Sure enough, Mr. Perry sat in the front pew. Thumper got there too late to sit nearby. He was shunted into a rear pew with the mamas carrying babies and them teenagers in all black.. Pastor Steve was a chucklesome stringfellow who thought he got a sense of humor, and the congregation laughed along with his jokes. It made Thumper miss Reverend Cherrymore at Ebenezer Baptist. The good Reverend Cherrymore understood that church only mattered if it was serious and somber and purported potent positions, while Pastor Steve wish-washed and told his worshipers to follow they conscience. Who needs church if you can follow your own conscience? Pastor Steve replaced meaning with humor, and he weren’t funny.
More than half them pew-ploppers was sticky in they phones throughout.
But Thumper pretended to nod along with that sea of paltry honkies, listening still as spillt milk to ear-shattering Christian pop insteada singing they praises theyselfs.
After the service, he made sure Mr. Perry peeped his presence — Thumper was big and broad and baritone, so it was easy to draw attention when he got to. All them white fellahs craved photos of theyselfs shaking the hand of a nigga in a suit, so Thumper introducyfied hisself to ’em in a boom-big voice until he got Mr. Perry’s attention. They took pics with they ubiquitish phones, and Thumper smiled for ’em like a jolly-hogging nigga.
Mr. Perry nodded at Thumper and motioned to meet him outside amid the massive post-service crowd. Folks was gripping gladhands and grinning cheek to cheek, clogging up the aisles and exits like clumps of cheerful cholesterol. Thumper took a few minutes to make his way outside, on account of the crowd and the need to check out some the hip-mad mamas sending him desiraceous glances.
This church was boring as boogers, Thumper thunk, but it got gobs of white ladies with steamy slices of pecan pie between they legs. Thumper could get used to that. He might need to provide his own lube for they dry-bone snatches, but he had thirty-four years of creativity in that area, so he was well-equipped to get them white bitches slippery as shady otters.
“Wendell, I’m glad to see you here today,” Mr. Perry said, jowls wrinkling down at his phone, when he met Thumper in the parking lot. He looked Thumper up and down, taking in his too-small suit — he buyed it in Goodwill special for church, and Thumper was too staturous a man to find secondhand clothes that fit. Mr. Perry frowned at the sight of his tight-pants crotch. “You got a bulge, son. You sportin’ a stiffy at church? That ain’t right.”
“Ain’t a stiffy, suh,” Thumper said. “I just… These pants is small.” He ain’t realize how obvious his bulge was. That was likely why them lady-crackers was checking him out. They was eager to ride a rod with a real man attached and listen to music with a beat you can fuck to.
But Mr. Perry gripped his dick through his secondhand slacks, unconcerned by the churchgoers filing past them. He frowned even deeper. “May not be fully stiff, but you got that mandingo meat. Gonna scare the nice white ladies, son. Go’n see that black fellah over there, the one with the mustache. He’ll take care of it.”
Thumper ain’t know what that meant, but he goed to the nigga Perry pointed out. Ain’t but a handful of black folk at this church, so he was easy to see. They musta had some kinda arrangement, cuz Thumper ain’t say much — couldn’t hear nothing anyhow in the crowd of plain-suited honkies pushing politenesses — but that darkskin nigga with the push-broom on his lip motioned for Thumper to come with him. They got in his beat-up bucket of peely-brown Buick and made they way outta the crowded parking lot.
“Where you takin’ me? Mr. Perry ain’t say nothin’,” Thumper said.
“Hmm-hmm,” the mustachioed nigga said. He got a run-around face, circle-cheeked and round-jawed like he was made of stacked tires. It took Thumper till now to recognize he a cop for sure. That was a copstache if Thumper ever saw one, and he got authority dripping outta his midgety fingers. You could tell he lick lotta pussy, but he too good to eat a bitch’s butthole. “You one of his parolees, right?”
Thumper nodded.
“And you got a stiffy at church?”

Thumper shook his head. “He makin’ it seem I was doin’ somethin’ pervy. I got big meat, nigga, I ain’t always stiff just cuz you can see a bulge.”

“Uh-huh. How long was you in for?” the nigga driving said.
“Thirty-four years,” Thumper said. The pushbroom nigga whistled, and then Thumper asked, “Why you go to a white chu’ch?”
“Mayor and sheriff church there,” said that nigga behind the wheel. He straightened his suit and tie. “Gotta suck up to them honkies for my career ‘nd shit. Goddamn, white church is boring though.”
Thumper nodded. “I only went so Mistuh Perry see me do it. I bin goin’ to Ebenezuh Baptist.”
The policeman nodded, the bristles on his upper lip moving up and down. “You see that fine rosy-nose lady in the purple dress?” he said with a guilty grin on his face. “Golly darn do she stay lovin’ a nigga dick. I’s tryin’ to be holy upon my wife and that matrimony trip now…” He rearranged his cock in his slacks. “She do get me bothered though. I can enjoy myself a white female.” He whistled to hisself. “I is Officer Goober, by the way. Harrison Peanut, but most bodies call me Goober.”
Thumper nodded and introducyfied hisself. “You takin’ me to get down wit’ a white bitch?”
“Nah, nigga,” Officer Goober said with a throaty chuckle. “Mistuh Perry ain’t that cool.” He pulled his car into the parking lot of Precinct 17. “We bein’ good boys today. No sex.” He sighed. “No females, ‘nless you got a godly wife hidden in yo’ pocket.”
He led Thumper into the police station. It felt weird enough to sit a spell next to a uniformed officer, and now he was hoofing it friendly-like into a precinct. Six months ago, Thumper’d slit a nigga on a rumor about sitting copioacetic alongside a cop.
But shit was different on the outside.
The police station was crowded with burly cops, prodding they eternal phones and shooting Thumper nasty looks like they knew he came outta the iron college recent-like. They could smell it on him. Or maybe they just looked at all black fellahs like that, or maybe, Thumper thunk, he was imagining it. Both he and Goober was in they Sunday best, but them cops knowed Goober. They all nodded they hellos, but ain’t nobody say boo to Thumper.
They mosey-butted into the jailhouse, where there was a cell at the back reserved for the station trustee. That was a prison lifer entrusted to work as a janitor here at the police station. It gave him lotta freedom, more than he’d get at the prison, and it put him nearby enough to visitation with his daughter every month.
His name was Hassle, and he be scribbling a letter to his daughter when Officer Goober and Thumper came to his cell. Hassle was a chowder-white Aryan — complete with swastikas visible on his back around the moth-nibble holes and raggedy edges of his wifebeater. He got a cueball head and a bald chin, a big noble jaw and a fist-shape nose.
He looked up and frowned. “Goober? You off today, whatchoo want?” His eyes flicked over to Thumper.
Goober made a little grunt and gestured Hassle up. “Get up, Hassle. This is Thumper. He need a nut.”
Hassle wrinkled his nose and resumated scribbling that epistle. He side-glanced at Thumper again with his square honky face. Thumper coulda applied to be a trustee too — prolly wouldn’t-a got it, but he had the option to apply. He ain’t do it on account of his self-respect. Thumper ain’t wanna be sitting right where Hassle was now.
“‘G’on, Wendell, take yo’ dong out. Hassle’ll do it,” Goober said.
Still in his Sunday best, Officer Goober came into Hassle’s cell and rubbed his shoulders through his wifebeater, kneading the big iron cross on his nape. That was a colorful, professional-done tattoo, not a prison tat. Most the rest his tats was crooked and simple-color, faded and sagging.
“You a Aryan Way brothah?” Thumper asked. He bin trucking against the Aryan Way since back in the day, and he recognized some them prison tats. He stood up close to Hassle a-bent over his writing desk.
“No,” Hassle said. He bristled his shoulders to push Goober’s hands off him. He went back to them words he be writing, putting out ignore about Thumper afronta his grill and Goober behind.
“Don’t be shitty, Hassle,” Goober said. “Tonight’s pork chops and mashed taters-“
Hassle turned to look at Goober. “Really? Ah shit, hell yeah. You bring me all them potatoes you can. They’re tasty as a angel’s asshole.”
Goober threw his hands in the air. “She gonna want leftovuhs, Hassle, you can’t have ’em all,” he said. “Wifey like leftovuh taters. She fry ’em up like pancakes.” He licked his teeth. “You can have my sprouts though.”
With a long pause outta his squareness, Hassle said, “I’mma tell Edna you ain’t eatin’ ya sprouts.”
“I’s a grown man, Hassle, I don’t gotta eat sprouts if I don’t want to,” Goober said. Hassle kept that stone upon his visage like he ain’t believe Goober would say that afront his wife. Goober looked down at his feet and said to Thumper, “Go’n, take yo’ meat out, nigga. Hassle’ll get’cha off.”
A smile creeped onto Thumper’s face. He ain’t got no stiffy, but something about caboosing in a jailhouse again made his pecker fit to pop. He kicked off his shoes and jacket, then loosened up his church tie. He ain’t drop his pants cuz he enjoyed making punks do that.
With a heavy-hearty sigh, Hassle undid Thumper’s belt and his suit pants plummeted. Thumper’s shirt dangled down his drawers, until Hassle tugged ’em to his ankles. He ain’t even look at Thumper’s dingdong swanging between his legs.
After a couple seconds, Thumper plopped his pecker on Hassle’s shoulder, beside the strap of his wifebeater. His skin was warm and soft, and Thumper’s shaft rested on some scrawly prison-tat symbols that he recognized — another Nazi once told Thumper some similar tats was “Nordic runes”. He asked what Nordic runes was but never got a answer, cuz some stabbings happened.
Thumper moved his body to make his dicktip smackify Hassle in the cheek. He got them high honky cheekbones and a blockish jaw, pale as could be and contrastsome with Thumper’s tawny cock. Hassle ignored the meat going slappity slap on his face. “Was writin’ a letter to my daughter, Goober-“
“She’ll still be yo’ daughter when yo’ guts is fulla dingaling,” Goober said. “It’s Sunday. Mailman ain’t comin’ till tomorruh anyhow.”
With a scowl, Hassle leaned back and took Thumper’s softy in one hand, still without looking at it. He was slow and desultory. Thumper ain’t mind. He pressed his thirteen-incher onto Hassle’s cauliflower ear like his piss-slit was whispering something Hassle gotta hear. Hassle put down his pen, as Thumper’s sweaty ballsac went plop-a-plop-a-poo on his shoulder.
“Quit it, I’m doin’ it,” Hassle said.
“If you was doin’ it, my dick’d be hard and wet right now. Put’cha lips on it,” Thumper said, aiming his limpness for Hassle’s mouth. Hassle ain’t open it, so it just poked him in the upper lip. “Dang, I know you know how. Bet’choo slurped up plenty dingdong in prison, right? I know them Aryan Way honkies all do it — they all got a ‘olduh brothuh’, right? Thank you big brothuh, can I get anothuh?” Thumper laughed up-roaring.
“I ain’t Aryan Way,” Hassle said. He grunted. He took Thumper’s dick in one hand, but he ain’t stroke it, he just held it so as Thumper couldn’t mollywop him with it no more. His palm was thick with rough calluses. Thumper pumped hisself back and forth to lazy-hump his hand regardless, and he aimed it to again ram limp as a cripple onto Hassle’s face. Hassle’s squashy-fat nose wrinkled.
“Cuz they kicked you out,” Goober said with a chuckle. He took his own dick out through the fly of his church pants. He let his peanut-buttery flapper flop atop Hassle’s alabaster face alongside Thumper’s, while Hassle’s cheeks went from marble-white to blushing-virgin pink. Both them big-nigga dicks was coating his paleness in crotchsweat. Goober said, “He was Aryan Way, he snitched to get this trustee jawn-“
“Shuddup, Goober,” Hassle said, his voice swallowed up by the two black dicks upon his face. He stayed ignoring them soft nigga dicks til Goober got his’n to jab Hassle’s eye. Hassle blinked and sniffled. “You s’posed to keep my information private. Ain’t accurate any-” Goober got his dick in Hassle’s mouth, making Hassle sputter and spit it out. “Uehck — you spoutin’ falsehoods, Goober. I’mma tell Edna you eat french fries for lunch.” He opened his mouth and put Goober’s cocktip on his tongue. He kept stroking Thumper’s dick with one hand, while he slurped up some spit onto Goober’s cocktip. He was slow to get it going, but Hassle was experienced at this, and he slobbered tight on Goober’s knob. It rocketed right to full erection and pushed into his unresistant mouth.
“Fuck you, Hassle,” Goober said with a impish frown, watching his dick explore Hassle’s mouth. “Edna ain’t the boss of my lunch. You don’t gotta tell her nothin’.”
His voice crinkly-wet from mouthing Goober’s veiny brown meat, Hassle said, “She make you a salad e’ry day, and you throw it away.”
“She ain’t gonna believe yo’ nazi ass,” Goober said. “I don’t throw it all away, I eat the croutons.”
“Croutons don’t count, Goober!” Hassle snapped.
Thumper nodded at Goober.
Goober said, “Whatevuh. I eat the chickpeas too.” He gripped the back of Hassle’s head and plowed his half-hard meat down Hassle’s throat. Hassle smacked at Goober’s asscheeks, which was still clothed cuz Goober was just poking his pecker out his fly. Goober clucked his tongue, and Hassle’s throat visibly stretched to accommodate his cock then spat it back out. Goober’s moist brown shaft popped out to seep spit onto Hassle’s forehead. “C’mon, Hassle, lemme down that throat. I know you can swallow the whole thing. Lemme feel yo’ nose in my pubes.”
Still Thumper’s foot-long shaft flapped around in Hassle’s hand. He weren’t in no hurry, and he liked watching a Aryan Way honky slurp-a-durp a nigga. He slow-stroked Thumper’s rod with one lazy hand, but he focused on pushing Goober away so he could get a breath. Goober again forced his wingwang down Hassle’s throat, and again Hassle ain’t fight it. His lips and throat stretched. Thumper touched his neck so he could feel Goober’s dick throbbing beneath the skin.
“Aw, fuck yeah, go deeper, deeper-” Goober threw back his run-around face and moaned, a-holding Hassle’s cue ball. Hassle twitched and swallowed it ’til his nose was nuzzling Goober’s coppery pubes. “Shit yeah, there you go, hold it — fuck yeah, Hassle-“
Couple seconds in, Hassle punched Goober in the thigh and squiggled. His paleness turned red. He went twitchy, but Goober got a grip on his scalp.
Clucking his tongue against his teeth, Goober moaned again. He fought against Hassle’s cranberry noggin pulling from him. “Shit, c’mon, Hassle, hold it, hold it-“
With a loud choke, Hassle squirmed away. Goober’s cock slipped outta his mouth, and the Aryan took a hoarse breath as both Goober’s and Thumper’s big black cocks rubbed into each other atop Hassle’s face. Goober was hard as a trump card, but Thumper remained mostly limp.
“Fuck you, Goober, c’mon!” Hassle said, and he spat a ball of fluids into a washcloth. Then he went back to slurping up Goober’s cock, with one hand on Thumper’s meat and the other smacking Goober’s hand away so he couldn’t throat it down Hassle again.
“Hey, can I ramrod his poop chute?” Thumper asked. He took off his shirt and rubbed his dick on Hassle’s smooth cheek, which was wet with his own spit and maybe some policeman precum. Hassle kept a hand on Thumper’s shaft but weren’t doing nothing with it. “He just touchin’ it, lemme fill up his backside, Goober.”
Goober shrugged, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “Go ‘head.” He leaned like he wished there was a wall behind him, then put one hand on Hassle’s shaved scalp to support hisself. He ain’t throat Hassle down though, so Hassle kept stroking it with one hand and going slurp-a-spit on the tip — Hassle done learnt that trick prison bitches do where they stroke it mostly and spit up a little, with a tiny bit of lip. If a nigga don’t pay attention, he mightn’t realize his bitch is slipping tricks in. Thumper wouldn’t let no bitch get away with that, but Goober was a small-ball nigga, so he let Hassle take the lead.
A prison punk was the only chance most homeboys had to get they whole meat swallowed up, so you best believe Thumper was gonna make a bitch go deep. But Thumper’s dick was bigger than Goober’s, and he’d rather make room in Hassle’s rump than his neck.
“Nah, nah — no way. I don’t gotta do that,” Hassle said when he pulled his lips off Goober’s eggplanty knob. Despite his words, he stood so Thumper could sit on his chair. Hassle grunted. “Edna makin’ dessert?”
Goober shrugged. His eyes was closed, his pecker jabbing Hassle in the nose and dripping prenut onto his upper lip. “Prolly ‘nana puddin’,” he said. “But I’s eatin’ all of it.” He laughed and patted his belly through the church suit he still wore. He did loosen the tie, but he ain’t take nothing else off. His pecker poked out the fly of his billowy slacks, which was getting wet spots where oozy prenut done drip. “Bare yo’ butt, Hassle, don’chu whine ’bout it, I know how loose yo’ guts is. I’ll bring you a apple pie from McDonald’s. Sheriff Terwiliger say-“
“Don’t buy it now though!” Hassle said, precum dripping from his lip. He scowled at Goober as he pulled down his denim trustee pants. He got a big pale-as-marble booty, and you could just tell it was well broke-in. His hole was winking like a flirty girl. “T’ain’t no good once it get cold, Goober! Can’t microwave it, shit, the crust get the texture of a demon’s butthole.”
“A’ight, I will, I’ll buy you it fresh as a prom queen’s cooter, if you don’t tell Edna ’bout my lunches,” Goober said. Hassle nodded dour-faced, and Goober muttered, “damn, shut up and do yo’ job…” He firmly shoved his dick into Hassle’s mouth. Hassle was still stooped over and dropping his trustee denims. He was a big boy, and he got big marble bootycheeks. Thumper sat in Hassle’s chair and grabbed ’em with both hands and a giant grin, while Hassle smeared a big wad of some kinda lube onto his buttcrack.
Thumper leaned back with his hand on his dick, which he stuck upwards. He was only half-hard yet, so he just rubbed the tip on Hassle’s butthole. It stretched right open and accepted Thumper’s cocktip. “Aw, shit, you is goddamn loose, Hassle. Yo’ butthole be invitin’ in this nigga dick-“
“Shuddup,” Hassle said. “I’m doin’ it, ain’t I? No whinin’.” He moved his ass down with a disgusted sneer on his face. He still got Goober’s knob knobbling up and down his lips and nose, prejissom dribbling out. A little wince of pain hit him when Thumper’s tip pushed in deeper.
Officer Goober chuckled throaty as could be. He thwacked his manhood onto Hassle’s face, but Hassle ignored it, focusing on sitting his dirt down onto Thumper’s dick. It slid up Hassle’s asshole. He gritted his teeth.
“Ah, shit, you got nice booty, despite the slack hole-“
“Shuddup!” Hassle said with a frustrated roar. “I can do it quicker if you shut up.” Goober slipped his cocktip into Hassle’s mouth. Hassle ain’t fight it, but he spat it out as he kept talking. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong wit’ my ass, you shithead-“
“Ain’t say nothin’ was wrong wit’ it,” Thumper said. He gripped Hassle by the shoulders and rammed upwards hard. A whinge of pleasure hit him, and he start thrusting his rod back and forth.
Hassle groaned in pain, but he ain’t whine or nothing. He was well broke-in. He managed to hold his mouth open too, so Goober could hump his tongue and throat. He spread his asscheeks with one hand, his other hand holdin’ Goober’s waist for support. His muscles was getting dappled in sweat, which made his wifebeater cling to his broadly-marble body. His pecs shifted up and down with his hips.
“Here I go, almost done, buddy,” Thumper said with a groan. He put his hands behind his head. That was a lie — he ain’t near done. Thumper just liked it when Hassle loosened up a bit. He moaned and smacked one of Hassle’s asscheeks, which was too firm to really jiggle. Hassle still kept ’em spread apart with one hand, while his other hand stroked Goober off into his mouth.
Being in a jailhouse reminded Thumper of prison. If you’d-a asked him yesterday, he’d-a said that was a bad thing. He ain’t wanna be reminded of it.
But Hassle’s cell was warm and comfortable, and so was his butthole. It was nice to have a simple, clean line of authority — Mr. Perry and Officer Goober, then Thumper, and Hassle at the bottom. The hierarchy made sense here. Shit was pell-mell out there — Carson was in charge of the Bloods of Baltimore, but Carson was doing everything Thumper wanted, even though Thumper ain’t even got a role in the organization, because Carson gotta prove to other niggas that the Bloods would take care of they own. Thumper was in charge of that punk-ass nigga Rico, though Rico ain’t wanna admit it, and that sly bitch Miriam was kinda like Thumper’s boss, even though he was kinda like her babysitter too. And then there was that batty old bint Vera — got not a lick of authority, but she still manage to boss niggas about.
In jail, life was simple and smooth like Hassle’s buttcrack. You stayed knoing who’s in charge behind bars.
You could tell Hassle done took miles of dick up that poop-chute, Thumper thunk, watching Hassle’s heft slide up and down. He gripped the bright red swastika on Hassle’s back. Hassle was muscle like a oxe — he musta kept up his prison-training regiment even after trusteeing out. Thumper ain’t even gotta do nothing, Hassle was slipping his butt back and forth on it, squeezing tight like he was eager to feel a nut inside him.
“Hey, you a real Nazi?” Thumper asked. He knew about a thousand “Nazis” in prison, and he always asked if they really believe in it.
He still got Goober’s pecker in his mouth, so Hassle ain’t answer. He soured on precum and fluttered his arms behind hisself in a way that maybe suggested “no”. His back muscles flexed hard against his too-tight wifebeater.
“Why you got swastikas all over?”
Hassle pulled off Goober, his mouth fulla pre-nut. “Shut the fuck up, we ain’t gettin’ to know each other,” he said with a grunt as he lowered hisself as low as he could on Thumper’s shaft, precum dribbling onto his face. “Just finish jacking off.”
That was exactly what Thumper did, a-grumbling that Hassle ain’t answer. He shrugged it off though, as he grabbed Hassle’s buttcheeks. He smacked Hassle’s hand away and pulled him down until Hassle’s heft fell onto Thumper’s meat.
A loud groan of pain came from Hassle’s throat, the sound coming around the policeman meat still jabbing down his throat. Goober’s church shirt dangled on Hassle’s face, and his balls went smackity-smack on Hassle’s chin. They left a sheen of ballsweat there.
“Ah, shit, humdinger-” Thumper moan-laughed. His orgasm wracked his body. He kept a tight grip on Hassle so he couldn’t get up off Thumper’s lap. Thumper’s dick was all the way in him, his bushy pubes rubbing on Hassle’s pair of porcelains. Hassle wiggled mighty hard, but Thumper kept a grip on him. Bitches stayed trying-a not get they guts full of goo. Thumper’s other hand fingered Hassle’s cock.
“Ow, fuck! You ain’t gotta stick the whole thing in there!” Hassle shouted. He was gonna say more, but Goober put his sticky dick back in there. Hassle’s asshole split open — he was well broke-in, but Thumper got damn big meat, so he stretched him good.
Grinding his dick in Hassle’s booty, Thumper moaned into the meat of his back, and he watched Hassle’s slurp-and-burp on Goober’s fat cock. With one hand still on Hassle’s limp cock, Thumper also stroked Goober’s meat at the root to jack it off down Hassle’s gullet, as a climax wracked Thumper’s frame. He pulled up Hassle’s wifebeater so he could kiss him right on the bottom of that red swastika on his back, and he moaned into the meat of Hassle’s body. Cum brayed into Hassle’s asshole, a great thick flow that seeped through his body. His first cumload went on for a good ten seconds, while Thumper sighed and groped Hassle’s body.
A second wad spurted into his guts, and Hassle tried to slap Thumper’s hand away. He ain’t able to get enough leverage to lift off Thumper’s old-head crotch, so he gotta let his booty swallow up all them spermies. Thumper’s hands roamed up and down Hassle’s chest as he shot wad after creamy wad up Hassle’s booty.
It dripped down his taint and into Thumper’s crotch. Thumper shot great big gobs of creamy jizz that flowed into Hassle’s guts. Since Hassle was upright, it all gooed right down outta Hassle as soon as Thumper could fill him up, while Hassle wrinkled on the sour taste of Officer Goober’s precum filling his mouth.
He did feel an intense relief though, when Thumper let his limp pecker slip out. All that jissom leaked down Hassle’s cabled booty, making his porcelain cheeks gleam. He still wore his denims and his wifebeater, so his tighty-whiteys was soaked with Thumper’s cockjuice.
Grabbing a wad of toilet paper, Hassle tried to pull off Goober’s meat, as he mumbled incomprehensible-like through all that free-flowing precum. It dripped down his lips. Goober was fitting to nut too, so he gripped ahold of Hassle’s mouth and forced his cock deep down his throat.
Once again, Hassle’s neck and lips stretched and quivered, but he again accepted every inch of Goober’s dick, down to the root, until Hassle’s crooked blotch of a nose rammed into Goober’s coarse pubes.
Hassle couldn’t pull off, though he smacked Goober in the meat of his buttcheeks. Goober gripped the back of his skull and shot his salty wad deep down Hassle’s throat. “Aw, fuck yeah…” Goober murmured, riding Hassle’s twitchy throat.
The scent of jiss bloomed wild in the cell, while Goober’s rod throbbed betwee his lips. Hassle gagged so violent-like Goober couldn’t keep him in place. Buncha that nutjuice leaked out Hassle’s mouth and plopped onto Thumper’s face, as Hassle was still sat on Thumper’s lap. Thumper ain’t care. He wiped up that goop with one hand and smeared it on Hassle’s drippy face.
Goober clucked his tongue, still spewing a long flow of cum onto Hassle’s cheeks and nose. “Lemme see, lemme see,” Goober said with a crooning moan. He tried to put his dick back in Hassle’s mouth, but Hassle smacked his lips shut. A jissom spurted onto Hassle’s crooked nose and stuck there for a few before it rolled down his upper lip. Goober again rammed his dick at Hassle’s mouth and said, “Lemme see, Hassle-” His voice broke, desperate and plaintive, as more cum dribbled onto Hassle’s lower lip. “Two apple pies then,” Goober said desperately. Hassle cringed but opened his mouth, holding back a gag as one last big jazz flowed in. It filled then overflowed past his lips. Hassle closed his eyes and gagged couple times, wincing, but he ain’t spit none of it up — that was rare, Thumper knew that, most bitches couldn’t gag without spitting, but Hassle did. He kept that mouth open while Goober’s piss-slit dribbled jiss in.
With Hassle’s mouth still open, Goober grunted, and his whole body buckled. He jacked his dick like a hose, getting the last couple drops out, even as his shaft was already limpifying. He dropped his cocktip into the cummy soup in Hassle’s mouth. He was still wearing all his church clothes, his manhood coming out the fly, so he kept hisself leaning back to keep the dribbling cum off his smooth slacks.
Goober sneered and laughed. “Okay, you can swallow it,” he said.
With a painful-looking cringe, Hassle swallowed the cumload in his mouth, cradled his belly and waddled, pants around his ankles, to the toilet to spit up what remained in his mouth, finally using a wad of toilet paper he bin clutching to wipe his asshole off at the same time. Thumper’s cum still dripped down his legs into the cup of his briefs and denims, which was still around his ankle. He tried to speak but only gagged again. Thumper came up behind him and rubbed his limp, sensitive dick between Hassle’s buttcheeks, smearing all his assjuices right where he just wiped hisself clean. Hassle was spitting up into the toilet, so he ain’t stop Thumper at first, then he shoved him back and pulled his pants up.
With a stern, cum-dripping frown, he managed to choke out, “You two are done. You can get the fuck outta my cell.” He spat again, forceful enough to make jizz bubble out his butthole. “And bring me plenty of mashed taters with them hot apple pies.”

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Thumper the Booty Bandit: Chapter Eight

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Thumper parked the Jaguar near the Baltimore County College campus. He ain’t never gone to college as a student or even as a visitor before. The lawn — the quad, though Thumper ain’t never heard it called that — was clipped clean, crawling with college kids playing frisbee and taking phone-photos of theyselfs playing frisbee. A few picnicked on blankets spread out on the grass and took phone-photos of theyselfs picnicking. One foursome used they phone to play something that sounded like a water-brain retard screaming obscenities over a romantic movie soundtrack and then took phone-photos of theyselfs listening to it.
He looked around for Miriam. She done called her dad to ask for a ride home from college. She be getting rides from her friend Katie, but Katie got car trouble and “oobered”. Mr. Gregarian said Miriam gotta wait for Thumper, not do a “oober”. When Thumper asked what a “oober” was, Mr. Gregarian said it was a phone company that sent a Pakistani to give women a ride home and rape them.
So Thumper strode onto campus, hoping he resembled the kinda nigga who went to college. He ain’t know where to go. Miriam weren’t a-loiter-about in the parking lot. Thumper ventured deeper into the campus on the peep for her.
“Keep it up, men!” came a laughing voice.
“Don’t drop the line!”
“Hold those tomatoes, men!”
Thumper saw a line of naked fellahs coming this way. He stopped short and threw his eyebrows way back. The boys in they buff was marching like soldiers, but they got an odd pace about ’em. Most ’em was white but one was a nightcheek nigga you could just tell was like Nigerian or some shit, and a couple was sundry Asian squint-a-lots.
When they got closer, he saw they wasn’t fully naked — they was all wearing jockstraps and nothing else, so even they feets was bare. They sniggled out giggles, and the fully clothed men watching them go counted off they pace. The reason they be moving like defective soldiers was that each one got a tomato a-squeeze between they buttcheeks.
“Keep it up, Danny! You won’t get through pledge week if that’s as fast as you can go!”
“If you make tomato sauce, you’re goin’ straight to the Beta house!”
The ones in charge was laughing harder and harder, as the young’uns sallied through the quad. The other dopes and drips scattered around looked at ’em like naked bugaboos when they bare bottoms got in the backgrounds of they phone-photos. Thumper ain’t never seen nothing like this. Was it a college class? Ain’t none ’em look like teachers.
“Thumper?” Miriam was behind him. She somehow found him without taking her face outta her phone. Maybe she got a nigga-finder on that jawn.
“Oh, there you is,” Thumper said. He stood to spare her seeing them fellahs in they jockstraps, though she musta spied ’em on the way here. “C’mon, you ready to go home?”

That sea of plump behinds was dancing in Thumper’s eyes. Every single one them was likely intact in the booty, he thunk. College whombutts locked up usually was, till Thumper got ahold of ’em.

“Yes. Today was horrible, Wendell! My social justice in American media professor hates me,” Miriam said. She harped on about an unfair grade on an essay, while he led her to the Jag. “I spent hours writing it. He said it lacked verve. What does that even mean?!” She ain’t act like she was expecting an answer, so Thumper ain’t give her one. They left the tomato-butt boys behind. “He’s kinda hot, actually. My professor, I mean. Oh god, don’t tell my dad I said that. He’s old, he’s like thirty. My professor, I mean, not my dad.” She snorted back a laugh.
“What was up with those boys in they drawers?” Thumper asked when he opened the door to the Jag. Miriam slid into the passenger seat this time, not the back.
“Drawers? You mean their jockstraps? Don’t say ‘drawers’, this isn’t like Kentucky or wherever they say that.”
“They say it in Baltimore,” Thumper said with a snapdown. “I’m from here.”
“Those Kappa boys are so gross, I, like, totally got trauma from it. I’m probably gonna dissociate from it. Or anxiety. Maybe I’ll get anxiety. This whole week has been like that,” she said. “I heard the Kappa boys were farting on each other this morning. Boys are disgusting.”
“Uh-huh, sure are.” Thumper sat behind the wheel and started the engine.
“It’s fraternity hazing,” she said. “Frat boys are lame. I’m so over them.” She done pull her hair back, so it ain’t block her face. “I’m not joining a sorority. I was gonna. The Epsilon Tau Gamma sisters are the hottest sorority, but… They’re a bunch of slutty bitches. Whatever, grr. One of them is like so fat, it’s hilarious.” She snorted. They drove past the line of fraternity freshmen, they pale asscheeks jiggling in the bright sunshine. Miriam watched them go past. She sighed. “Popularity is dumb, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter after high school.”
“A free adult can choose whose popularity matters. That’s a freedom ain’t nobody can take from you. The people you choose is yo’ niggas. Or whatevuh the white-girl equivalent of a nigga is.”
She laughed. Thumper ain’t never heard her laugh like she meant it.
There was a long pause. “I don’t want to know what you got arrested for. I was thinking, before, about how to ask you and whether it would be rude. But I decided I’m not asking because I don’t want to know. People aren’t just the sum of how everybody has seen them.” She touched Thumper’s arm, just like she done in the Jag on the way home from Ocean City. Just like then, it got Thumper’s heart pounding and his head circling. He kept feeling her touch after she let go.
She kept talking on the ride, and Thumper even responded, but he ain’t listen. He was savoring the softness of her fingers on his skin.
After dropping Miriam off at the Gregarian house, Thumper gotsta swap noses with his parole officer. Mr. Perry again scolded Thumper like a disagreeable diaper about being late and finding a job, even though he both got gainful employment and wasn’t late. Thumper scowled through it. Mr. Perry was just delivering the only messages in his databank.
Then, Thumper ain’t scoot his booty back to Lipsweet to see Mr. Gregarian. He shoulda — he was trying-a garner greens and Mr. Gregarian often got odd jobs for him.
Something, however, drew him back to that college campus. He ain’t get in a trembling whiteboy since Ocean City couple weeks back, and he was eager to drop a load.
He could go back to Lipsweet and likely end up in one of the dancers by the time the night was done. But them dancers was worn through, and that lightskin badonkadonk Sherry made him stop over and over so she could do new facebooks and check up on her prior facebooks. Once she blueballed him cuz the computer voted down her facebook and put her in “facebook jail” for “subposting the truth about Mexican sluts” — Thumper seen niggas on fire less freaked out than she was, and her pussy snapped shut like a shy clam. After that she wasn’t hot no more to Thumper.
Thumper craved them clean college boys with intact booties and dirty jockstraps. They looked smooth as platypuses and perky as morning coffee. So he wandered about the campus. Whatever kinda hazing was going on before, it musta got done with. The quad was quiet as a quackless duck, ‘cept for the raucous rhythmic chorus of crickets ringing the campus.
But just off campus, there was a house with a rowdy party going on. Thumper’s ears hopped onto that sound like a city bus. He heard young’uns laughing and carrying on to loud music — like rock and roll, but you could just tell the singer ain’t never get laid — plus it got a banjo — and all them deep on the slur. They was drunk enough to struggle to take photos of theyselfs with they phones. The party sounded wild as werewolves with phone addictions. Thumper sauntered over to check it out.
It seemed they was all drunk enough to ignore him, or maybe it was dark enough outside that they ain’t notice he weren’t one among them, so long as he stayed outta the house itself. He sidled up into the frontyard, which was dark and shadowy and filled with couples kissing, frat boys doped out in the grass and two girls arguing in frantic hushes. Every single one got a phone in hand.
In the backyard though, the hazing was still going on. A half-dozen freshface buttsniffers in jockstraps chugged beers while older dipsticks cheered them on, and one by one, they each passed out. Thumper stood in the shadows and watched.
He grabbed a Natty Boh, and he drank it quick as candy. Couple fellahs did see him and realize he was old and prison-tatted and not a college student by far, but they was too drunk to come to any kinda conclusion — Thumper was just standing and smoking ciggies, not doing a dillynigging thing, not even dithering at his phone, so not a bone wiggled a niggle about him.
A mountain of empty beers pyramided up beside the sliding-glass door in the rear of the party house. The smell of puke was barely overpowered by the reek of spilled drink.
One pimple-face curled-olive gal showed off her titties soon enough, and that got Thumper’s root reviving. She was maybe involved with a sorority or some shit, Thumper gathered, but he ain’t know enough about college life to pick up on what he eyeballed.
In any case, she got fine bazoombas, but he ain’t the kinda nigga to mess with a drunk-to-fuck woman. He ain’t lose his morals in prison.
‘Sides that, them frat boys got booties that was looking mighty fine and ain’t require no woo or obsess about “tweet ratios”.
The backyard was empty of consciousness, and just a half-dozen or so freshmen was there, sleeping it off, they phones resting in they pockets. Thumper ain’t sure if that meant they passed the hazing or they failed it. In any case, he already got his sights set on one.
His name was Danny, and he played college lacrosse, not that Thumper knew that. Danny was a champion laxxer back in his elite prep school — all the elite prep schools in Maryland had well-regarded lacrosse teams because it was the state team sport. Thumper ain’t know that either, despite having never left the state, nor did he know what a prep school was. He got only a glimmer of a idea what lacrosse was.
Danny was unconscious clutching his phone when Thumper grabbed him from the backyard and dragged him to the row of cars parked on the grass. He got him behind a car, walled off by another car on one side and a cold brick wall on the other.
“Hmph, whatchoo doin’?” Danny said, awakening enough to grip the back of the car when Thumper telled him to. He looked around like he wondered if he was dreaming.
Thumper pulled down Danny’s pants and made him spread his legs. Danny was still too drunk to realize he oughta resist. Thumper slipped his erect dick right into the hole, and Danny hissed. Thumper laughed. He pushed his whole cocktip in. There weren’t no resistance, cuz Danny was too drunk to clench, even in tremendous pain. “You just hangin’ out wit’ a slappy-dappy nigga, spunkface. You the coolest honky in the world.”
“Ow, shit. Really? Whaaaat?” Danny wriggled and tensed, unaware of what was happening to his backside. His hands flailed above the car like he was trying-a fight someone off from that direction. He held back a gag, then erupted in dry heaving, still too goggled to understand what was happening. He tried lamely to push Thumper away. “Whassshhhh…?”
“Shush, whiteboy, don’t be loud,” Thumper said, as his cock slid in past Danny’s hole. He smacked Danny’s bare asscheeks.
Danny clawed at the car. “Owwww!”
But Thumper was relentless, ramming his unlubed dick in and out over and over. Every time Danny wiggled, his butthole clenched, which sent a wave of pleasure through Thumper’s body. He aimed his pecker in different directions to hump each angle of Danny’s guts, and the fact that he ain’t use no lube only made it all the more visceral and real. It was like Danny’s guts was holding onto Thumper’s cock and ain’t gonna let him go till he fill Danny up with seed.
“Ow, shsshshshiiii!” Danny screamed, but he was too drunk to make much noise. He still ain’t understand what the strange black man behind him was doing or why his insides hurt so bad. He thought maybe he had got stabbed or shot.
But Thumper ignored his pain, threw his head back and groaned as he neared his orgasm. Danny’s asshole pulsated around his throbbing cock. Creamy pre-jizz now provided a little lube, which made it easier for Thumper to plow in and out.
With every drop of precum, he could ram deeper in and smoother out, while Danny’s huffing and puffing turned into a squealing whine. “Ew oo ah — ew oo ah — ew oo ah — hwwwwwhwhwhwhwhwhnnnnnnn!”
“G’on, squeal like a piggie, whiteboy,” Thumper murmured. He wrapped an arm around Danny’s neck and lifted his upper half up. Danny was entirely enconsced in his grip. “Got’choo good, shit… Sorry, I ain’t got a diaper to give you, you gonna need it…”
At last, he blew a massive wad deep into Danny’s guts. Only then did Danny’s drunken mind understand what was happening to him. He felt that goopy jizz seeping into him. He felt Thumper’s manhood throbbing in his sensitive asshole. He felt the heat of the cum flowing throughout his body. But he ain’t feel the jizz itself until it dripped down his taint.
Another jerk of Thumper’s hips came with another explosion of jissom inside him. Danny panted. Thumper moaned. He smacked one of Danny’s asscheeks, which made him writhe as Thumper ejaculated again and again. Thumper pounded into him with each thrust of his daggersome dick resulting in a splashy spurt of juices.
“All done, honky,” Thumper said when his cock plopped out with a satisfyingly heavy thump. Jissom ran down his thighs. “Love you, baby.” He kissed Danny on the lips.
Then Thumper sauntered off, leaving Danny there with his phone and his pants around his ankles in the party house’s overparked driveway. As he abandoned Danny, Thumper tucked his dick away and said, “You’d make yo’ cellmate the happiest nigga in the world.”

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Thumper the Booty Bandit: Chapter Seven

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Miriam wore dark sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat. She groaned and clutched her stomach as she got in the back of the Jag. She leaned against the door and fell asleep before Thumper even got the car onto the highway outta Ocean City.
That was fine with Thumper. He ain’t want her bitching the whole way home like she did on the way down. He was relieved that this weekend went good, and he even got Caden to dump Miriam like last month’s turnips — Mr. Gregarian was gonna be pickled pink about that.
After a hour or so, Thumper stopped for gas. That woke Miriam up, but she ain’t say boo. Thumper went inside the gas station and bought her a bottle water.
“Here. Drink this,” he said.
“Oh god, yes, I needed that,” she said, her voice a croak like a creaky frog. “I didn’t mean to drink that much last night. Oh god, Wendell… My head hurts.”
“Yep. It’ll do that,” Thumper said with a dirgey whistle.
He thinked she went back to sleep and maybe she did for awhile. But before he got back onto the Bay Bridge, her phone beeped. She looked at it and groaned. She closed her eyes and clutched her face.
“Ohhhhhhh!” She squealed and wiggled all her limbs like a overturnt turtle. “It’s all over Instagram, my friends are going out with their boyfriends to get pancakes at some place in Stevensville! I’m not invited because I’m single! It’s a couple’s thing, and Taylor Swift ate there once!” She gasped into her phone. “Caden’s going! With… With… if it’s Ripley Grundy, I will stab a dolphin, oh-!” She gasped again. “It is Ripley Grundy! He’s going out with her now!” She squealed. “I could just die!” She looked into the rear-view mirror and made eye contact with Thumper. “I wish I was in prison!”
A long hollow silence hung around the car. Thumper focused on merging onto the Bay Bridge. Miriam put her phone down and looked out the window, but only empty space stretched in every direction. The sound of the wheels whirring atop the ground changed to a metallic clanging when they got onto the bridge. Ahead all was traffic and salt-scent fog, and even the Bay below was not visible. The bridge seemed to traverse the sky itself this morning, no land, no water, but the sound of both reverberated through the air.
“Sorry,” she said after her pouty pause became too much for her to maintain. “I don’t, uh… I didn’t mean that.” She fell quiet again, as still as a suffocating teapot. She vibrated up and down, and she opened her mouth again a couple times like she got something to say with them pretty painted lips. But then each time she ain’t find the words she be seeking.
None that troubled Thumper none. He was stiff-gripping the steering wheel as he once again crossed the Bay Bridge. Once again he hadta fight against the urge to look over the unprotected edge into the pitchy waves below. In the backseat, Miriam cleared her throat like a giggley volcano.
Her tangerine-cream fingers thrummed up and down on the seat, as she finally said, “What is it like in prison?”
He scoffed. “It sucks there. You lose e’ryone you love one by one, and you gotsta spend all yo’ time wit’ niggas you can’t choose, guards watchin’ yo’ e’ry step. Smells like a foot’s patoot too.”
She kept her eyes trained out the windows like something was gonna rise outta the Chesapeake. She glanced at her phone once but then slammed it down and put it under her purse. She sniffled and wiped a tear away from her eye. Her mouth cracked open to speak, but no words came out.
Her feet wiggled. On the way here, her feet done pump up and down because she was impatient to get to Ocean City. Now, they waggled in no direction, impatient only cuz Miriam ain’t know how to be anything else. She sighed couple times, nearly getting her phone out from under her purse, but she stopped herself each time.
Just as they reached the end of the Bay Bridge, she finally said, “I’m glad Caden dumped me. I was only dating him cuz it pissed my dad off.”
“I know,” Thumper said.
“There’s probably a better reason to date a guy,” she said. She blew her curl outta her face, and this time it stayed beside her temple, framing the off-tempo smile that creeped onto her lips.

“You should have a boyfriend who makes you glad to get outta bed in the morning,” Thumper said. “Not humiliated to be alive.”

As the Jaguar thumped off the Bay Bridge and onto the road, she reached up and patted Thumper on the bicep. “You’re not as bad as some of the other bouncers. Like Tyrell, he’s so annoying, I’m glad he didn’t take me to Ocean City. You’re an annoying old fool too, Wendell, but you have a good excuse. That name is still retarded though.”
“My friends call me Thumper.” Thumper’s mind reeled from her fingertips on his arm. He ain’t mean to feel like a little boy — he got no kinda crush on Miriam. Thumper just ain’t get touched a lot in a nice way.
The cops who arrested him treated him rough. Prison doctors poked and prodded. The guards picked fistfights with him for fun — Thumper was a boxer before his arrest, well-known locally, and the guards all wanted a chance to mess with him, so they could brag that they punched out the Chesapeake champ.
It weren’t until Thumper got through his stint in local jail during his trial and sentencing and then got processed into prison that he met his cellmates, his fellow Bloods.
They was all from Baltimore, same as him. They all knew the same places and the same niggas. It felt like home — a cramped, sweaty kinda home.
It was a slimfire nigga named Patrick Spinnaker who shined on Thumper from the get-go. They both came up in the same housing project, but Patrick was a couple years older. He was always cool as a clam to Thumper. Patrick was a smooth-talking lady-macking kinda nigga, with long fingers and a smooth chest, and you could tell he was used to wearing gems on each finger. He weren’t a big-time nigga, but he carried hisself like one, like he ain’t realize he was skinny and short.
“Yo, nigga, you got through yo’ first day,” Patrick said when they returned to the cell that night, after Thumper got intook. Thumper done plopped his ass down on his bunk. His back was to the bars — one of they cell’s walls was bars, and niggas be mad pacing back and forth out there. Nowadays, after thirty-four years in cages a lot like that one, Thumper wouldn’t never sit with his back to the bars. But on day one, he ain’t know no better. Patrick got his back to the wall. “How you feelin’?”
Thumper shrugged. “Fine.” He got a purple bump on his left eye, his nose crooked and stuffed with cotton balls, so his voice be huffy and squat. His chest was slick and shiny with sweat. He was in the infirmerary getting a cut on his shoulder sewed up during shower-time, so he weren’t gonna get to wash the grime off till the day after tomorrow.
“That all you got to say? I ain’t just yo’ cellmate, Thump,” Patrick said like a cool cat, dipping and diving across the cell — like three steps of open space — to where Thumper was sat on the cell’s only chair. Thumper sat on it backwards, so his legs was splayed, his bare bronze chest steaming with sweat and swole with growing bruises. “I’s yo’ nigga in this organization. I know it ain’t easy, making the transition. If anything is troublin’ you… You gotsta let yo’ nigga know. Don’t sit and stew like a gumbo, homie.”
He shrugged. “I gots a pro’lem with them screws comin’ hard at me. I can’t fight ’em like that e’ry day.”
“Shit, nigga, you be fine,” Patrick said. “If them screws gots a real problem wit’choo, they’d send you up to solitary so you ain’t go to no infirmary, and they’d break a bone fo’ sure. They’s just messin’ wit’cha cuz you famous. Lemme see you box, nigga.” Patrick stood up and shadowboxed afront Thumper.
He looked up at him, too tired to do anything more than sit a spell before lights-out. But Thumper was under Patrick’s command — Patrick was a lieutenant in the Bloods, and Thumper was brand-new. Thumper’s job in the Bloods was enforcer. He couldn’t hardly complain too bad about taking a beating or practicing punches.
Patrick was also pushing fifty years old, and Thumper was less than half that age, and he was a semi-pro boxer literally a month ago. So Thumper ain’t think nothing of standing and putting his dukes up.
“You know you can’t hold no grudge against the screws who hit’cha, right?” Patrick said. He threw a couple punches that Thumper blocked with an open palm.
“What? Why not? Whatchoo mean?”
“That’s just how shit goes, nigga,” Patrick said. “And lotta them… we do truck wit’ ’em.” He paused and let Thumper punch him back on his open palms. “I’s an old nigga, Thump, don’t get too rough wit’ me.”
Thumper nodded and threw couple punches. He stopped before he punched Patrick’s hand at all, so he made only glancing contact. It did feel good to get his blood pumping again. “Man, that one smirky blond guard, I wanna smash that bastard’s face in.”
“Higgins? Yeah, he prolly Higgins, he a fuckhead. Jerome Watley fucks his wife, if that makes it feel better,” Patrick said. He was jostled this way and that by Thumper boxing him even without any real contact between them, and he steadied hisself by grabbing Thumper’s waist. “You hella boxer, Thump.”
Lights-out in five minutes!
Thumper stopped boxing. “Shit, I’m sweaty, nigga. Lemme wash off some in the sink or somethin’. I don’t wanna go to bed sweaty like this,” he said. He hadta squeeze past Patrick to get to the sink. He washclothed sweat off his belly and chest.
As Thumper rinsed the washcloth to do it again, Patrick came up behind him. That was another thing Thumper wouldn’t stand for these days.
But he ain’t know no better then. He stood there wiping his chest with a washcloth awkward-like, while Patrick got real close behind him, his slim hands wrapping around Thumper’s barrel-shape high-yellow body.
Thumper paused. He wanted to wipe his balls, but Patrick was so close it seem rude to drop his drawers. Thumper could even feel the bulge of Patrick’s soft pecker through the boxers both them wore.
“Hey, nigga, you know ’bout yo’ lights-out duties?” Patrick asked. One his hands reached around his body to touch Thumper’s nipple, making his pec bounce. His hot breath condensed on Thumper’s back.
Thumper shook his head. “Not really. Switcher said you was gonna tell me somethin’ ’bout… I gotsta do somethin’ sometimes after lights-out. Like beat a nigga or some shit, I ‘xpect.” He formed a fist and punched the palm of his other hand with it. “Just point me at him, nigga.”
“Nah, nah, ain’t about fighting… Well, you might sometimes gotsta fight a nigga after lights-out too. But that ain’t what lights-out duties is,” Patrick said. His hands kneaded Thumper’s shoulders, which was thick with muscle and rock-hard. “Gimme that washcloth,” he said when Thumper done wrung it out.
Patrick took the washcloth and lowered Thumper’s boxers all the way down. Thumper’s ass was bare and faced the wall of cell bars, on the other side of which niggas was still dapping and rapping. Thumper wiggled a little, but he ain’t wanna attract no attention.
His dong was dangling bare at the cell bars. Couple niggas walked by, but they ain’t act like they saw nothing.
The cell was quiet as a dead choir, and the chaos outside growed more and more distant, rumbling softer as niggas found they way to they cells. Patrick wiped Thumper’s buttcrack clean, and he got deep in there too. He ain’t just wipe the crack, he went down into it. The washcloth rubbed rough as rubble against Thumper’s butthole.
“Ow, nigga-” Thumper grunted and tried to step away, but Patrick stopped him with a hand around his torso. “You rubbin’ mah poop-chute-” He lowered his voice cuz somebutt hustled by to get to his cell. Whoever it was ain’t look. “It hurts, nigga!”
“Sssshh…” Patrick clucked his tongue. He held onto Thumper tight.
Of course, Thumper was much bigger than Patrick and could overpower him. Patrick ain’t even try to hold Thumper in place. But Thumper was told he gotsta do everything Patrick say.
The lights flickered out, and all was darkness. The sound outside the cell dwindled on the rapid, as leftover niggas scurried to they cells before the screws came through for the first night check.
“Nigga, I-” Thumper again tried to move, but Patrick stopped him with his fingers gentle on Thumper’s waist. Thumper’s boxers was still down hugging his ankles, and his dick swinged between his legs.
“Sssssh… Stay where you are,” Patrick said. He kissed Thumper on the sweat of his nape, and Thumper shuddered. Patrick closed his eyes and murmured into his skin. “It’d be best if you stayed right there. Don’t move till I tell you.” He stayed behind Thumper and reached around him to hold Thumper’s thirteen-inch cock. It was thick-a-brick and floppy. “You got nice big meat.”
“Uh-huh. Nigga, whatchoo doin’?” Thumper sucked in his breath, his boxer pecs flexing up and down, then staying tense.
“Ain’t no women ’round, Thumper, so we gonna hafta get creative,” Patrick murmured as his hands kneaded the meat of Thumper’s chest and belly. “We gonna jack off togethuh now.” Thumper sensed Patrick’s naked body, though all he saw was a slim silhouette next to his own hulking shadow, cast by the emergency light outside the cell. He turned Thumper around, and Patrick frotted both dicks together. His own was already half-hard, but Thumper’s roped around like a live snake. He was too nervous to get hard. Patrick ain’t seem to care or even notice though. He got his own dick throbbing hard like rebar. It jabbed over and over into Thumper’s pubic hair.
Sticky precum came from his cocktip, lubricating his hand. He let go of his own dick and stroked Thumper’s alone for a few seconds. Thumper still couldn’t get hard and ain’t even realize that was expected of him. He just stood there like Patrick was his coach, inspectorating his body.
“Sit on the floor,” Patrick said.
Thumper plopped down on his ass and had no sooner got hisself situated before he was confronted with Patrick’s dick in his face. He grunted, and Patrick rubbed his cock over Thumper’s teeth and lips. The musty smell of his salty balls combined with the astringency of the precum on his darkskin cocktip.
“Whatchoo doin’-? That’s nasty, that-“
“Sssssh, keep it quiet,” Patrick whispered. The sound outside the cell was dwindling fast, and every peep Thumper made could be heard in the nearby cells. Patrick sucked in his breath and pushed his cocktip past Thumper’s lips, running along his teeth, while Patrick’s bony fingers gripped Thumper’s face.
“Open your mouth, Thumper,” Patrick said soft as cotton.
“Nigga, I-” Thumper ain’t mean to open his mouth, but he did, and Patrick drilled into him. Patrick’s long cockshaft invaded his throat. Instantly Thumper gagged — he ain’t expect that, so his whole torso flexed and expelled Patrick’s dong. “Ew, shit, nigga-“
“Ssssshhh…” Patrick said, clucking his tongue. He pushed it back in before Thumper could even stop gagging.
This time Thumper managed to keep his mouth open. He closed his eyes, though Patrick’s fingers rubbed his cheeks like to force his eyes open — in the dark, all Patrick could see was the whites of Thumper’s eyes. The salt-dappled taste of his dick filled Thumper’s mouth.
“Move yo’ lips up and down on it,” Patrick said when Thumper was quiet. Thumper still ain’t move. He ain’t even shut his mouth, so his lips flapped far from Patrick’s shaft. “Move yo’ lips up and down.”
As soon as he moved at all, Thumper again gagged, but this time he couldn’t spit it out. Patrick forced his dick to stay in there. Patrick’s scrappy rope-a-dope muscles sheened in the dim light. He was so short Thumper gotsta stoop his head to swallow his pecker, and Patrick stood on his toes. Thumper wanted to get up, but he stayed crounching next to the sink and toilet. It reeked of piss over here.
A retch escaped from Thumper’s throat. He got both big hands on Patrick’s thinly muscled body. Patrick ain’t try to resist Thumper’s biceps shoving him off, and his cock popped out with a splash of spit on Thumper’s face. Thumper took a deep moist breath. “Ew, shit, ew!”
Somenigga somewhere tittered out laughter. Thumper could tell it was aimed at him. He was finna speak, but he gotsta hold back another gag as Patrick’s dick touched his nostrils and he worried speaking would give away who was on his knees in this cell.
And Thumper ain’t realize that every nigga already knew. As long as Thumper was quiet, it was impolite to acknowledge.
“Ssssh, you gotsta jack me off,” Patrick said low as lips. He held Thumper’s head with both hands. “Like using yo’ hands when you stroke yo’ own meat, but yo’ lips instead. Don’t think about yo’ tongue or yo’ throat. Think ’bout yo’ lips.” His cock throbbed in Thumper’s hands, which was coated in Patrick’s precum.
Thumper nodded. “Do I got to? I ain’t-“
“Sssssh, this is part of yo’ cell duties, as a new nigga in the Bloods,” Patrick said. He pushed his dick back in, and it rested there, not moving, on Thumper’s big-nigga tongue. Thumper’s lips fluttered around, until Patrick clucked and said, “Get’cha lips on it, nigga. Put’cha lips — aw, shit, yeah, there you go. Li’l faster.”
Thumper was doing it now, though his throat rebelled and his stomach churned. His head moved up and down. Every couple seconds the back of Patrick’s gooey-bubbling cock hit his throat and he gots to suppress another gag. But he found that Patrick was right — it was easier to not think about it if he focused on his lips. He pressed ’em on the shaft firm, which made Patrick shake and moan on the downlow.
“When you get older and you get assigned a cellmate, you’ll understand why this is important,” Patrick said, his hands mostly on his hips, until every few seconds he gotsta grip Thumper’s face to guide his cock in. Then he pulled out and flopped his spitty pecker over Thumper’s face, leaving a layer of fluids there. Thumper’s mouth gotta stay open cuz breathing through his nose made him want to throw up.
Patrick’s dingaling smelled like an old dirty dishrag. He closed his eyes. It was so fleshy, and it seemed to have extra skin. It rubbed in and outta his mouth, though it was clear Patrick wanted to stop and move onto something else.
At last, Patrick pulled out and murmured. “Now get on all fours. Spread yo’ legs as wide as you can.”
In yo’ cells, maggots! That was the guard coming by on his first nightchecks. He wasn’t looking in any cells though, just making sure no one was outside ’em. So Thumper stood there, Patrick’s hands kneading his buttcheeks, until the guard done pass.
Then he climbed down to all fours. Thumper’s big-ass took up most the cell. Patrick kneeled behind him and stuck his dick into the asscrack. Thumper got wide asscheeks, each one bigger than Patrick’s head, and his thighs was massive cables. His body was firm as could be.
It felt gooey and hot in his buttcrack, and it throbbed against his butthole. Thumper gritted his teeth. “Ew, shit, nigga, feels weird-“
“Ssssssh… No talkin’. Okay? Bloods don’t beg. Bloods don’t cry,” he said.
“Ain’t cryin’, Patrick, nigga-” Thumper said. He sucked in his breath as a twinge of pain hit him. He realized Patrick wasn’t gonna hump his crack — he was gonna stick it in.
And it ain’t feel like it was gonna fit. Thumper gritted his teeth, and his hands gripped his own bunk tight. He heaved and grunted with each thrust of Patrick’s shaft. “Ow, shit, ow, shit-“
“Ssssh…” Patrick pushed more in. “No beggin’. That’s beggin’, Thumper. I can punish you for that,” he said. “Sound sexy, no beggin’… C’mon, nigga, get me off, get me off, nigga…”
Thumper wanted to say that that wasn’t begging, but he had a feeling Patrick would say saying that was begging too. And anyway, all of a sudden it hurt to speak, so Thumper shut his muffin up.
Patrick worked his rod back and forth, and Thumper let out a baritone seethe with each thrust of Patrick’s dick, but he kept the volume low enough that the sound ain’t bother Patrick. The pain was extraordinary. He spread his legs so wide his hips hurt.
Then Patrick stopped moving. “I lost it. Stop gruntin’, Thumper. I lost my hardon,” he said. He pulled his dick out. It was indeed mostly soft. “Sounds like you takin’ a shit when you do that, nigga.”
“Sorry, Patrick, that really hurt,” Thumper whispered.
“C’mon, lay on your back on these pillows,” Patrick said. He got both he and Thumper’s pillows arranged on the floor, and Thumper lay on them with his feet in the air. “It feels kinda like fucking a girl that way, with your feet up.”
Patrick rubbed his limp dick over Thumper’s taint and thighs, trying-a get it hard. He made Thumper jack it off too, with hogfat-lubed fingers, while Patrick rubbed more hog fat into Thumper’s butthole. It seemed swole in Thumper’s grasp, even before it re-firmed. Then it was hard like a iron nail.
Then he drilled it in once more, and Thumper hissed and clenched his cheeks. “Ow, shit-” He sucked in his breath before he could start begging. “Hmmmm… Hmmmmmmmmm!”
“Sssh, just be quiet, if you can’t make girly sounds,” Patrick said. He began working his rod back and forth. He closed his eyes and put one hand over Thumper’s mouth. “Sssh, you gonna make me lose it. Just focus on bein’ quiet, nigga. Ignore e’rything but yo’ own voice. I’s just usin’ yo’ backside to get off.”
With Thumper’s mouth plugged up by Patrick’s hand, his frenzied panting sounded vaguely girlish — a very bass girl — and Patrick’s other hand roamed over Thumper’s chest. He was still young then, with taut skin and enough pectoral meat for Patrick to grope it like a breast. Thumper felt the heat of more precum seeping into him.
“Oh god…” Thumper winced, as Patrick’s balls slapped at his taint. Twinges of pain still ran through him, as cum filled Thumper’s backside. He groaned into Patrick’s hand.
“Fuck yeah, baby, baby, shit, lemme kiss you.” Patrick sounded desperate. “Moan like a girl, nigga, c’mon-” Patrick removed his hand and slathered his lips onto Thumper’s. Thumper’s eyes opened wide in the dark. Another jet of cum coated his guts. Thumper twitched. He felt droplets of goo sliding out his butthole and down his thighs. Patrick’s tongue invaded his mouth.
“Oooohhh…” Thumper ain’t mean at first to moan like a girl, like Patrick wanted, but he managed to raise his grunt to a girlish tone. Patrick moaned like a casanova and kissed him again, his cock rubbing fiery as a moist missile in Thumper’s backside.
One final explosion of jissom erupted within Thumper, who breathed a sigh of relief when Patrick’s mouth pulled off his, and his cock plopped out slow. “We gonna have to work on that, nigga,” he said, “But that was okay for a first night. I’m glad you ain’t ask a guard to make me stop. If you did that, I’d have to get a dozen niggas to beat you down. Bloods rules.” He wiped his dick off with some toilet paper, then he wiped down Thumper’s buttcheek. “It won’t hurt as bad next time, nigga,” Patrick said as he threw away the toilet paper.
Thumper nodded and stood. He stretched his sore legs. Then he crawled into his bunk. Patrick met him with a kiss when he laid down, and Patrick’s tongue invaded Thumper’s mouth again, gentle as a dewy lamb. “Nigga-“
“Sssshhhh…” Patrick said. “I’m gonna make you love me, Thump.” He climbed up to his bunk. “Buckle up, cuz we gonna have nights of long love, nigga.”

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Thumper the Booty Bandit: Chapter Six

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

“This is awful, my life is over!” Miriam screamed. She threw a sharp-heeled shoe at Thumper, who stood in the doorway to her room. “This is because you follow me around everywhere. Caden thinks you’re a creep, that’s what it is!”
“Miriam, I’s sorry, guhl, I ain’t — you bein’ dramatic as a soap star, yo’ life ain’t ovuh-“
“What the hell is a soap star?! Why do you talk like that? Why can’t you talk like a cool black guy from this century? What’s wrong with you?” she said. She stamped her feet. She bin tearful, so her makeup was smudge. “Now I have to fix my makeup, and it’s all your fault!”
She plopped down on the chair facing her mirror, and she grabbed her makeup kit. Her hands shook.
A tense silence lengthened the room. She kept getting out arcane cosmetic tools, but she ain’t concentrate enough to use none and her haircurls be flopping afronta her eyes, so she put her makeup down to fix ’em, only for her hair to go flopagain, flopagain.
“How long was you wit’ him?” Thumper asked. It was the only question he could think of. His gruff baritone deepened the bedroom, chock-ablock with cast-off clothes and empty suitcases.
“Almost two months!” she said. She wiped tear-smudge eyeliner off her cheek. Then she took a long breath and managed to slather a couple layers of makeup on.
“So it weren’t too serious-” Thumper frowned at her through the mirror she still faced.
“It was serious! He loved me! He was the most popular guy in high school!”
“You livin’ in the past, guhl. Need to chillax. Ain’t you done graduate?”
“I said was!” she said. “It was serious. You don’t know anything about girls.” She scowled and turned to look at Thumper direct in his gaze. “I’m not missing putt-putt today. If I don’t show up, everyone will think Caden won.” She gritted her teeth. “So you have to be my partner. All the other girls will have a boyfriend. But I’ve got my babysitter — the discount Mike Tyson. I was the biggest loser in school, Wendell, you know that? Everybody hates me.”
He frowned at her. “Them girls seem to like you-“
“You don’t get them,” she said. She batted her eyes to fix her smudge mascara. “They’re like catastrophic bitches.”
“Why they yo’ friends?”
She turned her head to look at him direct. Her lips remained pursed, lipstick in hand. “You really don’t understand girls, do you?” She finally applied the lipstick, the color of fancy wine.
“I ain’t barely see no female for thirty-four years,” he said. “Not since I was your age.”
She got up and muttered to herself as she checked out her face from a couple different angles. She tweaked her hair, which still blocked her face, then leaned forward to pose as a golfer. She examined in the mirror what she’d look like from that angle. She said, “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go before we’re…” She glanced at him, and her ears perked up like a excited fox. “Wait, what did you say?”
“I barely done seed not a single female until recent-like. I was in prison,” he said. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, and he looked down at his feet. He felt her eyes drilling into him.
“For thirty-four years?”
He nodded.
She was took far aback, but she fussed with a floppy-woppy hat with fake flowers in it as she said, “Ew, that is so gross. Don’t tell anybody, okay?” She left the room, and Thumper followed. “That is… I don’t even know how to take that. My dad is so weird. He’s a freak. So are you. If Caroline knew you were a ex-con, she’d totally spazz out, she got trauma from a black guy on the transit who was, like, yelling crazy loud this one time, it was so insane. Oh look at me, I got trauma, I got so much trauma. That is so her, could she be more of a pick-me try-hard?”

“Uh… Uh-huh.” Thumper ain’t get how those words added up to a question. Miriam was on the move regardless, so he followed her.

“Are you good at putt-putt?”
“You keep saying that, but I dunno what it is. It sound like butt-butt. So yes,” he said.
“Ew,” Miriam said with a petite smile. “It’s mini-golf.”
So that was how Thumper wound up playing putt-putt, which was just small golf with nonsense in the way. The putt-putt place crawled with fresh-face drunkos, even though it was still morning. One group of late teens from “HoCo” joined Miriam and her girlfriends’ game. Thumper was suspicious because they was lidded from the get-go, on something more than alcohol — Thumper couldn’t tell what, but they was walking like dream-scented swaypots with plump pupils, and they ain’t seem to know what was going on.
The putt-putting ain’t get very far. Folks was drunken fucking afronta the mini-windmill, so they gotsta skip that hole. Thumper woulda stayed to watch, but the girlie-gals declared it gross. The gorilla hole got a pool of puke, and they all agreed that was gross, so they skipped that hole too. Then Miriam’s friends got to making kissy lips with they boyfriends, and the game more or less stopped entirely.
“You can’t hang around me all day,” Miriam eventually said. She stood on her lonesome except for Thumper, both of them frumping frowns at the necking teenyboppers. “Go on, get outta here, we’re not really playing the game anyway. The boys all think I’m with you, which is just so disgusting. You could be my grandfather, if you smelled like flatbread instead of newspaper.” She snorted down a laugh.
“I ain’t leavin’ you.”
Miriam sighed. “I’m not gonna put out. You don’t have to watch me to make sure I don’t. Did my dad tell you to check I don’t fuck Caden?”
Thumper furrowed his brow at her. He licked his teeth. “Yo’ daddy said I should keep Caden from takin’ advantage of you. That’s what Caden wanted, you know that, right? He was putting malt liquor down yo’ throat so you’d pass out and he could plow yo’ lady-garden. Or maybe he go knocking on your back door.” He knocked on a imaginary door in the air.
She looked upside at him. “Eww…! What? He wouldn’t…”
Thumper scoffed. “He would. Guarantee that. That’s why he put his disappoint face on when he seen me.”
“He’s not that bad, Wendell. My dad just hates his father, that’s the only reason he doesn’t like Caden,” Miriam said. She shook her head and feisty-growled. “Whatever, grr, you suck, and Caden sucks. Nobody will ask me out as long as you’re around.”
“Why don’t you ask one? I seen you eyeballing deep into that tall drink of watuh over there,” he said. There bin this long-leg stretchy-arm pinkthumb following the group around — his gawky butt ain’t got a female or even any male friends. He be loitering like a forgettable spider.
“Rick? Okay, first of all, he’s a total freak, and I can’t believe you’d suggest him. He’s like the only one in the whole school who’s as much of a loser as me, to have to go to Baltimore College like some ghetto trash piece of shit. No offense. Second of all, I can’t just walk up to a boy and ask him out. That’s not how this works-“
“Why not?”
“I’m not a man!” she said. “Maybe you don’t get it cuz you were in prison for so long. I have to let boys ask me out. I’m not a skank like Lisa Ann Slattery. She’ll go right up to any guy, even like… Puerto Rican guys.” You could tell she woulda said ‘black guys’ if she was with her friends. “You don’t know her, but she’s a total gutter-skank. With so many guys here, if she came on this trip she’d be like slipping on her own snail trail. Everybody knows, she’s so trashy. She’s, like, my best friend who couldn’t be here.”
They putt-putt was interrupted then by a torrent of female laughs, as a gaggle of gigglous golf-club-carrying girls ganged the course. Thumper stood afront Miriam at first, presumptittive that they was gunning for her.
But they phone screens was friends with her friends’ phone screens, so all them white girls mingled like saucy noodles, sharing infinite commentary and considerations on unspecific plans to go clubbing tonight. Thumper heard more words than he heard in thirty-four years in prison.
Thumper growled but assented to the nightclubbery. He couldn’t think of a reason to say no besides “clubs is crowded”, which was true, but Ocean City was crowded. So Thumper and themwhoms went back to the beachhouse, where he rested his weary ears, while Miriam and them other girls tried on every single article of clothing any them brung. They took photos of theyselfs with they phones and then used some kinda phone magic to make the photos hotter, then assured each other that they was really that pretty.
Finally they made it to the boardwalk nightclub, which was battered by oceanfront winds, while waves battered the beach underneath. The moon beamed bright as babies against the shore, and the boardwalk was lit like a stage due to the rows of nightclubs and souvenir shops that stayed open late spilling light and drunken collegiate kittens.
He struggled keeping track of Miriam in the elbowy nightclub. He kept an eye on her the best he could though, specially once she got to dancing with this darkskin roundbody with polished eyes and a chocolate nugget for a face. He was older than her, and he rubbed Thumper sideways from the first moment.
So Thumper waited for Miriam and her girlfriends to herd off to the ladies’ to phone around in a different room, then he got up real close to him. “Yo, nigga,” he said, direct into his ear so his voice would drown out the clanging clatter (which was maybe a band called “Dubstep” and sounded like computers being tortured). The nigga threw his slick eyebrows back — there weren’t barely a handful of niggas in this room, and Thumper gotta be the eldest. That chocolate-nugget nigga stumbled a step aside like a folding napkin. Thumper stayed near enough that he could talk clear over the loud thrum of shitty music. “Yo, nigga, you hear me? You best treat that girl right. If you plow her, I will rip yo’ nuggety head off and send it to her daddy wit’ a bow on top and a card fo’ him to sign fo’ yo’ grief-sicken mama.” That nigga’s eyes bugged his mug out, as Thumper fingered a line of tears down one cheek. He said, “You may lick Miriam’s pussy, but only if you good at it. Stick yo’ tongue out.” His tongue trembled outta his mouth. In the dark of the club and swaddled in that terrible tune, ain’t nobody see his terrified tongue and Thumper’s face atop it. “Nah. You got babytongue, nigga. Hand stuff only. But don’t break her maidenhead if she still got one. Or I will wreck you.”
The chocolate nugget nodded, just in time for Miriam to return from the ladies’ room. She looked at Thumper like he shouldn’t be talking to her man, then she sidled up close to his butterface and they got to dancing again. Thumper stayed back but made sure that clumpy chump saw how close he was observating.
When Miriam and her girlfriends headed outta the club, Thumper kept close behind. They was all kissing they boys hard and hot. That chocolate nugget held Miriam’s hand and shot her flirtsome smiles, but he ain’t do more than give her a peck on the cheek.
“He doesn’t like me,” she said when his babytongue fucked off without even no handiwork, leaving her surrounded by her girlfriends and they wooing boys. They was all playing with they phones between making moist lips upon the moonlit beach, but Miriam trudged back to the beachhouse with a sniffle and a droopy neck, Thumper close behind. “I thought he did. He asked me to dance. He prolly thought I was beautiful in the dark, in the club, but once we got out in the street with all the lights, he saw what I really look like.”
“Nah, Miriam, he ain’t drop you like that,” Thumper said. “He tryin’-a treat you proper, I ‘xpect. He shouldn’t be trying nothin’ on you on your first date. You don’t wanna screw around the night you met him, don’t be loose like that, like a greasy gravyboat-“
She hit him with hurtful eyes. “Ewww! Don’t say it like that, that’s so disgusting! I wasn’t gonna put out. But he’s supposed to try! Anyway, that wasn’t a date. It’s spring break. That’s not how it works on spring break. Or anytime this century,” she said. “I mean… Whatever, that wasn’t a prison reference.” She looked down at her feet before opening the sliding-glass door into the rental house. “I just wanted to…” She blew her curl outta her vision, but it dropped back in place. “I just wanted my friends to see me with him. I didn’t even really like him, not really… He’s tubby, and he has a weird forehead, it’s gross.”
“Yo’ friends is bitches, the boy you dance with is gross… Guhl, why don’chu spend time wit’ someone you like?”
She flared her pretty little nostrils. “You have a lot to learn about women.” She went into the bathroom then to take a shower. Thumper investigated the kitchen in hopes of food, but there weren’t none.
As the other couples came in to the beachhouse hoppy and sloppy, Thumper stood by the door so the boys would see him and know he was monitoring the situation. He crossed his arms over his chest.
Though Thumper weren’t hereing and nowing to defend the honor of these other females, he ain’t gonna let no scoundrel take advantage of ’em. Most the boys got the message from him standing over them, and a couple more slippt into slumber like sacks of sleepy peaches.
But one pair kept a-canoodling, until Thumper saw that the girl — Alexa or Alyssa or some white-girl shit like that — was barely awake. The long and tall honky atop her either ain’t notice or ain’t care.
So Thumper stood next to ’em and cleared his throat some.
The whiteboy, a dimple-pimple kindle-limb ruddynut cracker with a pointless tribal tattoo, looked up at Thumper with a tremor in his eyes and flustering fingers. He stood up, his pants tented. “I think, uh, she’s getting tired. Will you help me put her to bed?” he asked.
Thumper nodded. He ain’t trusting none those words tumbling outta that boy’s mouth, but he ain’t wanna leave the girl on the floor neither. So they carried her to her bed. Thumper ain’t need no help and coulda carried her hisself. That ruddynut boy, Adrian, got arms like twiggy pencils.
When they got back out to the living room, Adrian looked around the piles of shoes for his own. Thumper stood behind him, checking out Adrian’s pooper, cradled by tight jeans.
“Yo, why you wear tight pants?” Thumper asked.
Adrian yelped. He done found a pair shoes but got trouble coordating his drunk limbs enough to get them on. He looked at Thumper like he forgot he was there. “Whaaat?”
“Them pants. You spraypainted ’em on,” Thumper said.
“Oh. That’s the style,” Adrian said with a shrug and a burp. He fell over, toppling onto his ass with two shoes in hand — they was two sneakers that looked similar but wasn’t a matching pair — for one thing, they was both left-foot shoes.
“Uh-huh. You was gonna stick yo’ dingdong in that girl, wasn’t ya?” Thumper said.
Adrian nodded. “She wanted it real bad. She said it earlier.”
“But then she passed out,” Thumper said. He got one hand in his pants now, getting hisself good and hard. He kneeled beside Adrian, who done struggled one shoe on and held the laces like he was thinking about tying them. “You was still gonna stick her? That girl a virgin?”
Adrian shrugged. “Prolly not. But she nineteen, and gawddamn, man, her pussy wus tight. Got my finger in there, almost got to fuck her, but, uh…” He furrowed his face like he was trying-a remember why he ain’t get in her pussy.
“Lemme help wit’ them shoes,” Thumper said. He grabbed both Adrian’s feet and lifted them up, so Adrian fell onto his back on the carpeted floor. Thumper pulled Adrian’s pants and drawers off to bare his booty. “I’ll let you see how it feels when a bigger man takes advantage of you bein’ drunk.”
“Whaaat?” Adrian asked. He tried to sit up on his elbows, but Thumper was already drilling his dick into Adrian’s asshole. Adrian’s socked feet kicked the air behind Thumper.
That tight hole resisted. Thumper ain’t have no lube. He coulda snooped around the kitchen for something that’d work, but he kinda liked the idea of doing it the old-fashion way. He was a old-fashion nigga after all. Adrian sucked in his breath. Thumper spat on his palm and wiped it on his cocktip. He plowed in, just the tip, but stopped when more resistance stopped him from going deeper, and Adrian’s groan of pain turned first into wordless wince of silence. Thumper pushed past his tightness, and a couple inches more slid in.
“Oooh, boy, here we go now,” Thumper said with a chuckle, as Adrian panted and wriggled. His ass squeezed Thumper’s shaft. That made him shimmy with the sensations sparking up his spine. Adrian squirmed like a dying fish. He almost squirmed away, but Thumper got a grip on his neck, squeezing just enough to let Adrian know who was in charge here and to keep him from shouting out loud. He ain’t cut off his air entirely, so Thumper could hear his panting and begging.
“Oooooowww!” Adrian tried to howl, but Thumper plugged his mouth up with his own tongue. He kissed Adrian and swallowed up them cries of pain like oatmeal. He moaned into Adrian’s mouth too, as Adrian’s ass got goopy like a sloppy ho. Adrian’s eyes opened wide as Thumper pulled his lips off him, and then stuffed Adrian’s mouth with his own drawers. Adrian’s feet kicked up a storm, but he ain’t couldn’t make much noise.
And still Thumper pressed in deeper, deeper still with every thrust of his hips. Each movement sent a wave of pleasure through Thumper’s body. It reminded him of the coziness of prison — a small part of cell-bound life, but a part he missed. Getting a nut off in the dark, surrounded by sleeping whombodies… As he ramrodded like a stallion, Adrian’s hands clawed at Thumper’s chest, and that too felt like home.
He forced it in until his balls slapped at Adrian’s taint. Thwackity-thwack-thwack, thwackity-thwack-thwack. Thumper smirked down at Adrian, who still seemed unsure what was going on. He spat on Adrian’s face, then covered it with a pillow.
Adrian threw his head back, unaware of the spit on drip down his cheeks. He felt that asshole cracking open to accommodate Thumper’s throbbing manhood. He yelped the best he could despite the pain and the pillow blocking his face.
“Intact booties do be drawing out a nut quick, ruddynut. Goddamn, you gonna be walkin’ crooked fo’ a week. Hope you don’t got no sit-down engagements comin’ up,” Thumper boomed out a laugh along with his orgasm, and he gyrated his hips. “You gonna feel some warm inside ya. That’s just me-” Thumper’s voice broke, as he pressed his cock all the way in and held in Adrian’s asshole. That made it hard for Adrian to take a breath, and Thumper ground his dick in a long circle within Adrian’s guts. “That’s me nuttin’.”
A long hot jet of cum sploded in Adrian’s asshole, and he screamed into the pillow that muffled his mouth. Thumper held it there with one hand, as he moaned into Adrian’s ear. Wad after wad of sticky goo seeped into Adrian and dripped outta his loose ass.
“This’ll teach you to take advantage of females,” Thumper said with a sigh, while his balls emptied another spurt of jissom into Adrian’s tight booty. “Yo’ farts is gonna smell like me fo’ a long time. E’ery time you smell that, you remembuh to treat girls proper, ruddynut.”
Thumper pulled out and let his cumwad flow onto the carpet. He watched it plop out in a couple great big creamy wads, followed by a trickle of smaller droplets.
Just when he thinked it was done, and Adrian lifted his head to let out a crinkly grunt of pain, a loud farting sound came and a fist-sized globule of cum spurted out into Adrian’s plump asscheeks. Thumper done smashed ’em so hard they was already bruising.
“Shit, you one messy whiteboy,” Thumper said, at the sight of cum soaking onto the floor. He punched Adrian in the face hard enough to knock him out.
He carried Adrian over his shoulder out to the beach. He draped Adrian’s unconscious face on a bench, his knees on the ground so his bare ass was plainly accessible. Some them beach bums, Thumper thunk, was likely gonna get a nut off in him before he woke up.
That would be fun to watch, but Thumper ain’t wanna leave Miriam alone for so long. He hurried back to the beachhouse to make sure Miriam and the other girlies were safe. He was gonna go straight to bed, but he got worry about they morals, so he picked up all the sleepy-weepy boys and bringed them into his room. He put ’em on the floor. That way he could be sure they wasn’t gonna hurt none the females.
Plus, he thunk, he could get a nut off again in the night, if he felt like it. Which he almost certainly would.

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression

Thumper the Booty Bandit: Chapter Five

Chapter Three: On the Systemic Racism of the So-Called “Road” and Its Origins in Patriarchal Patterns of Oppression