featuring trustees – Mansploitation

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 2

The White Trash Veteran

It rained like rhythmic broth in the marshy jungle north of camp. The crippety call of crickets and the rattatat of machine guns boomed outta the steamy yonder and combined with the chop-chop of the helicopters overhead and the chirrup of the frogs and the splashing of Goose’s heavy boots in wetland muck, and his huffing breath lingered like saxophone sounds amid the clap-a-clap of his gun jostling to and fro.
Bwooooooooosh — schhhllaaat!
A bomb went off somewhere, and men cried out — maybe a landmine — them voices sounded gooky. They bumped and chattered and clashed crashing syllables somewhere nearabouts, maybe all around. The echoic jungle indistinctly whooshed past Goose’s ears, as he boot-splashed in some direction or possibly a different one.
“Woo-jai-goo!” sparked some gook, or some shit like that, it all sounded the same to Goose, who just arrived in Vietnam last week. Already, he be plussing.
More ding-dong chatter sounded from thisaway and thataway and yanway and from up on over yonder too, and Goose unclipped his gun. He dunno which direction to point it in, as all he heared now was the jungle calls of critters creepy-crawling. Vietnam got more bugs than sense. Goose hoped to draw his firearm.
But his hand was empty. No gun.
Goose had it a moment ago. Did he drop it?
“Stop! Stop right where you are! Hands in the air!” One the gooks had stellar English, with drawl and a trace of twang. Sounded like he was from somewhere proper, maybe Tennessee.
The peal of a siren shattered Goose’s rainy shards into panes of togethertude, and he stupored into stillness.
Cops surrounded him. Guns aimed himward. The sun blared in his eyes. No endless canopy clouding overhead. No wetlands under his boots. No helicopter sounds.
He was in America. Tennessee? Maybe. Pennsylvania? Indiana? Were those real places? Goose never was convinced Delaware was real.
“Put your hands in the air!” shouted the insistent cop in the lead. His gun glinted in the sun. He had a groomed mustache liketa grow into a beard but never quite got there.
“Aaaah… shit,” Goose said. He ain’t know where he was or what done happen. For a moment, he couldn’t even remember leaving Vietnam. Had he rotated out? Gone AWOL? Fragged his commander? Or did he die there?
Goose sunk to his knees. His mind still whirred as facts filed back into place. He recollected now the floaty-boat back to America. He was honorably discharged, if you can believe it, like a fucking knight. He did the paperwork. He got a medal. The cops stormed forth and slapped cuffs on him. Goose stumbled to the black and white, policemen shoving him this way and that like a sturdy man in a Navy brig, and they squeezed him into the backseat.
Martinsburg seemed very far away. Goose don’t know where he was, so t’was possible it was nearby, but it felt afar. He ain’t wanna ask after his current locale cuz he was feeling lazy in mind and soul, like a pecan floating down the gentle Monongahela. Nothing that happens now matters, because everything done happen, back in Vietnam. His ache for Ellen and for li’l Moses Buck was only a minor eddy in the current of the universe, and there was something comforting in the meaninglessness of it all.
The next few hours swirled through a relentless, incomprehensable tornado of questions and photographs.
But eventually it was over, and he lay in his jail cell, both sobering up and piecing together. He done start a fist and skull with a lippy larry in a bar, and then everything went blurry. He brawled ’em all like a hillbilly do. He punched up purple at a cop in his blues, then, seeing red, Goose took the cop’s black and white. He was going inside for sure. Hopefully for just a couple months.
“You okay, hillbilly?” came a deep voice from the cell next to him. It had a distinct New England tone to it, a portion of stawk and a dose of yip. Not quite New York, not quite Massachusetts. Yankee for sure.
“Who you callin’ hillbilly?!” Goose said as he sat up, which got him swimmy-headed. “Yankee bastard.”
The man across the way, with half-gray curls atop his squareness, chuckled. “Where you think you’s at, hillbilly?”
Goose shrugged. “Good question.”
“You’s in New Juusey,” said the man. “Name’s Dutch.” They both nodded back to each other. “You an Army man?”
Goose nodded. He rubbed his sore temple. “Yeah-um.” He grunted. “It’s 1976, right?”
“Yup.”
“When’s suppuh?”
“You had yu’s. You puked it up,” Dutch said. “You might get Castle to let you make yuuself a sandwich.” He sniffled and shrugged. “Prolly not. He’s a dick.”
Goose sighed. “Fine.” His belly done went queasy as a weasel anyway. He laid back on the bunk. He closed his eyes. He thunk he stayed awake and that only a few seconds passed, but when he opened his eyes, it was hours later. He awoke to the jailhouse door slamming shut, as a uniformed cop came in, looking like a blob-shape frown. He got a scruffy beard and a eyepatch over his right eye, which was blue as the Pacific Ocean.
He stopped at the cell bars by Goose’s head. His nametag read Castle. He held a clipboard. “You alive?”
“Yes suh.”
“What’s ya name, son?”
“Nobody.”
“Fingerprints gonna bring up a name?”
“Yes suh.”
Castle let out a long sigh. “Then why not tell me-?”
“J’st look at mah dog tag!” Goose said. He took off his dog tag and tossed it at Castle, who caught it.
A long pause sat ‘tween them two, and it grew like kudzu, snaking and sneaking, encircling the cell in sullen silence. Goose wondered if Castle done walk away, but he ain’t move his head to see. It was nice to stare at the ceiling, which was solid and unchanging.
“You gonna kill yaself?” Officer Castle finally asked. He scratched his eyepatch, which made him wrinkle his nose.
“No suh.”
“You got any medical whatevers?”
“No suh.”
“Good,” Castle said. He sniffled and rubbed his nose, which again made him wince. He dropped the clipboard and held it by his side. He looked at Goose for the first time since coming in here. “You okay?”
Goose shrugged.
“Ya public defender will be here in the morning.”
“Uh-huh,” Goose said.
“You took a swing at me earlier.”
“Sorry ’bout that. Suh.”
“Sorries don’t cut it, son. What happened? You was putting out crazy,” Officer Castle said. He paused but Goose kept them peepers trained on the ceiling. Goose was thinking of a response, but he ain’t show it and he ain’t wanna give nothing that sound like excuses. Officer Castle frowned so hard Goose heard it. “You lost control. You look strong, but you got weakness in you, son. You too weak to control yaself.” He took a step to the side, where’n he could better see Goose’s face. “You too weak, son-“
“I heared ya.”
“Well? You satisfied with that? Jesus Christ do pull thorns from the paws of lions, son. The pro’lem with you is you think you’re the lion, waiting for Jesus to show up. But really, you’s the thorn,” Castle said.
“Yessuh.” There was a huge bulge in Goose’s boxer shorts. He got a gigantic cock, and the too-small boxers made that obvious. He rearranged it so it didn’t look like he had a hardon. Rearranging it made it look like he did have a hardon and was concealing it.
“If you wanna take carea that stiffy, Dutch’ll jerk you off,” Castle said. He walked off, snorting at Dutch, who was in the cell leaning against his bars and smoking a cigarette.
“Yes suh.” Goose sat up and chuckled. He waggled his dick in his army-green drawers. The door to the jailhouse swung shut, and the lock loudly engaged.
All was still and silent. With no noise, Goose’s ears pricked up, and he soon heared the whirr of the ventilation system, the plink-plink of water dripping somewhere, the scurrying of a mouse in the walls. Them was good sounds, and a sortuva holy calm came over him for a few seconds, lasting until his thoughts commenced to pondering again.
He looked across the way at Dutch.
“I don’t gotta jerk you off.” Dutch puffed on his cigarette from across the way. “You got anything on you? Cigarettes?”
Goose patted his pockets and pulled out two nickels and a lighter. He showed them to Dutch. “Shit… I don’t got none. Can I get a cigarette?”
“No,” Dutch said as though that shoulda been obvious. Then he peered closer at the lighter. “Lemme see the lighter. If it’s full, I’ll trade you a couple cigarettes for it.” Dutch came outta his cell and over to Goose’s. Goose handed him the lighter, which Dutch hefted in one hand and looked at it in the light to see the silhouette of the level of fluid inside. Then he swiped the nickels too. “Three cigarettes.”
Goose nodded. He took the three cigarettes from Dutch and lit one. “I’s in New Juhsey?” he said as he exhaled. That only now sunk into his brain. “How’d I get to New Juhsey?”
“How in the name of Christ could I know that?” Dutch asked. He snubbed his cigarette butt out. He returned to his cell and laid down on the bunk with a magazine in hand. He leafed through it.
Goose puffed on his cigarette. The smoke felt good in his lungs, and it invigorated him. He felt truly alive, and for the first time since he woke up, all five senses was firmly in America.
“I’da signed up, you know, I’da done my part,” Dutch said. He was nose-deep in his magazine yet, laying in his bunk. “If I wasn’t in here. And if I was young enough. I’da signed up for the Army. Or maybe Navy, my dad was Navy.”
“Navy is a buncha nancies,” Goose said. He stood and jogged in place, which made his fat cock jiggle in his britches. Now that he was feeling fully awake, he really did admireta get a nut off, like Castle said. It’d help him get back to sleep. No point in doing anything else here but sleep.
First he finished his cigarette, and he did a quick workout in his cell. That helped settle the heeby-jeebies in his belly. He stopped when the push-ups reminded him of boot camp.
Dutch fiddled with the radio in his cell, trying to pick up a channel that was mostly static. He moved the radio round to find an effective spot. When that proved ineffective, he left his cell and went to the back of the jailhouse. The song finally came in clear. Dutch nodded his head in tune with the beat liketa dance, but he couldn’t cuz he was holding the radio in the one spot where it worked.
Goose checked his cell door, which was locked. “Why’s your’n unlocked?”
Dutch scowled, bopping his head to the beat. “I’m the trustee. I’m allowed out.”
“Ooooh, you the bucket trustee. Mil’tary police had them,” Goose said. He grabbed his cock through his boxers and waggled it in Dutch’s direction.
With a scowl, Dutch came to Goose’s cell and withdrew a key from his pocket. He unlocked the door and came in. “I’m doin’ it how — eckkkk…!” He stopped short when he seed the size of the basket in Goose’s boxers. He whistled. “Shit, you hillbillies don’t play. Don’t even think about puttin’ that in my ass. I don’t do that, Sheriff says I don’t gotto, no matter what. Not even the colored cops can make me do it. He said so.”
“Fine. I don’t wan’cha ass,” Goose said. He pulled down his boxers and thwacked his hefty cock against the palm of his hand. “C’mon, I won’t be able to sleep without blowin’ a nut.”
“Lay on ya bunk,” Dutch said. “I’m not gettin’ on my knees. Don’t blow in my mouth. I’m allowed to hit you if you do.”
“Fine-” Goose aimed his dick at Dutch.
“You can shoot ya nut into the toilet,” Dutch said.
Goose said with a weary sigh. “Fine. J’st do it, Dutch. Jaysus Christ, New Juhsey fellers do thangs slow.” He got one hand working up and down his limpness, but he weren’t trying to get it hard.
“I’m from Rhode Island,” Dutch said.
Goose snorted and settled back on his bunk, boxers round his ankles. Dutch bent over and took Goose’s dick in one hand. He gave it a couple strokes, then lowered his tongue and licked it from tip to root.
It firmed up in his hand. Dutch used just one hand at first, his tongue teasing the tip, slobbering up spit. Then he put both hands on it and kept at it hard. He kept sticking his tongue out like he was gonna lick it again, but his tongue barely touched the tip a couple times.
“C’mon, t’ain’t-“
“I’m gettin’ you off, I choose how to do it!” Dutch said. His tongue teased Goose’s knob, then he winced and pulled away. He spat into the toilet.
“It won’t get hard like that,” Goose said. “C’mon, put’cha mouth on it. Swaller it. I won’t force it in, I won’t throat ya down, I swan.”
Dutch rolled his eyes, but he did stretch his mouth around the tip. He teased it with his tongue. He kept going with both hands too, and Goose’s cock firmed up. It throbbed against Dutch’s lips.
The more Dutch mouthed up on it, the more it tasted like spit, not pecker, so Dutch found it easier and easier. His tongue rocked up and down the shaft, but he didn’t move past the first couple inches, making no effort to throat it. Goose ain’t complain.
Soon enough, his dick was rock-hard, and Goose let out a moan. Dutch ain’t throat it none yet, but he kept both hands on the shaft and his lips upon the knob.
Then all at once, Goose grabbed Dutch’s head and at the same time precum slipped out onto Dutch’s tongue. Goose ain’t force his dick in, but he did push down on Dutch’s head, just enough to signal what he wanted. Dutch paused, pulled off and cast a glare up at him, then moved back to Goose’s cocktip. After a few more seconds, he was overcome by a gag. He leaned over to the toilet and spat into it.
“Ewck, you taste awful,” Dutch said. He gagged up more spit into the toilet.
Overcome by a desire to nut, Goose hurried to a standing position. Dutch was bent over the toilet, so Goose grabbed him by the head and forced his dick into Dutch’s open mouth. Dutch’s broad shoulders tensed up.
He tapped then patted then outright hit Goose on his thighs and the meaty part of his asscheeks. Dutch tried to wrench his head away, but Goose kept a tight hold on his scalp. Goose pistoned his hips. He ain’t force his meat down Dutch’s throat, but he did push it to the backa his mouth and ain’t let Dutch spit it out. That meant precum slicked up Dutch’s throat.
“C’mon, swaller it, j’st throat it a li’l-” Goose murmured. He stopped when his cock hit the back of Dutch’s throat — as far as Goose was concerned, that meant he lived up to his part of the bargain. He hadn’t forced it in, hadn’t “throated him down”, as they say in prison.
But Dutch erupted in gags and whoops, and he shoved Goose off. He spat up into the toilet. “Nah! No way! That ain’t how I do it! No-” His chest muscles roiled and undulated, as he retched again. Goopy white precum clung to his lips and his teeth.
Goose slipped the tip of his dick back into Dutch’s mouth, and despite his protestations, Dutch did swallow the first couple inches. He kept both hands on the root to keep Goose from throating him down. A few meaningless syllables slipped out when Goose let his cocktip come in one of leaving Dutch’s mouth, but Goose ain’t let up enough for Dutch to form any words, specially once Goose felt his orgasm burgeoning deep within him.
Cum spurted into Dutch’s mouth, and Goose sighed grandly. He held firmly onto Dutch’s head, pleasure roiling Goose’s chest, until Dutch managed to drag himself off and gasp for breath. Goose’s second wad spurted onto Dutch’s face. Goose bent his knees to aim his dick for Dutch’s open mouth, as he clasped Goose by the thighs and tried to push him away.
That meant his third and fourth jizzwad jetted straight into Dutch’s mouth, huge fat wads that overflowed and were instantly retched out. Dutch spat up jizz all over his stony face, which turned red as he tried to catch his wind. With his hands behind his back, Goose rammed his meat at Dutch’s mouth and let it rope up his face, so his final couple cumwads matted Dutch’s hair.
“I said no-!” Dutch was overcome by a gag, and he spat up more cum into the toilet. Goose finished himself off with both hands, shooting a few driblets of creamy jizz over Dutch’s face and head.
“Sheeit, sorry, Dutch,” Goose said with a throaty chuckle, his voice wavering cuz the aftershocks of an intense orgasm still rocked him. He thwacked his limpening moist meat onto Dutch’s ear and the side of his cheek.
Dutch scooted away and wiped his face off, holding back gag after gag. He shot Goose a stern look. “Fuck you, asshole,” he said, hoarse as a horse. “That was it, no more. No matter how long you’s here.”
Bouncing his meat between his two hands, Goose chuckled. “Yeah. We’ll see, Dutch.”

You gonna scare our white ladies

You, l’il’un, you can sleep it off in the empty cell. No drunken moseys on my streets.

Officer Peanut glowered at Buck, and he said, “I ain’t havin’ you walkin’ round my town wit’ chubbies, Haystack. You gonna scare our white ladies. Stick him, this is Hassle, he a bucket trustee. You know what that is?” He ain’t wait for an answer from Buck. He glanced down at Cody. “You, l’il’un, you can sleep it off in the empty cell. No drunken moseys on my streets.” He walked away and kept talking. “Nuh-uh, whiteboys, y’all keep it indoors in Goober’s town. Sh’riff Terwiliger don’t like men walkin’ wit’ a stiffness — we got nice wimmin in this town fo’ real, shit…” He prolly tongued on but ain’t nobody could hear him cuz he done gone out the jailhouse into the police station proper. The jailhouse was silentious, ‘cept for the drunken bodies snoring away they bubbles in the front cells.

From Cody the Roughneck

Hassle (Barry) Havens

Hassle is a bucket trustee at the police station, Precinct 17.

Bartholomew “Hassle” Havens, aka Barry Havens

Hassle was tall, broad-shouldered, as strong as an ox. He had thick callused fingers, which gripped Anthony’s cock like it was nothing, looking up at Anthony as if Anthony was supposed to say something.
But all Anthony could think about was his cock in Hassle’s grip. That, plus the swastikas.
His brother had mentioned that Hassle was a Nazi. Anthony thought that was an exaggeration. But Hassle had a shaved head, pale as fresh snow, and his back was adorned with a giant red swastika, which rippled over his taut muscles. German words were printed in Gothic letters on his chest. His square jaw jutted, as he grimaced at Anthony, those club-like fingers still tweezering Anthony’s limp dick.

From Cholos and the Raunchy Hobos of Santa Monica

Anyway, everybody called him Hassle, not Barry. Hassle was a Nazi. He said he weren’t a real heil-Hitler kinda Nazi, he just joined up with the Aryan Way in prison. Maybe perhaps he was telling the truth. But his broad shoulders was tattooed with German lettering on the front, while a huge red swastika took up mosta his back. He got a typical white-man face with a jutting jaw so square it looked painful, and he got a permanent scowl on his face. He the kinda honky you couldn’t ever imagine smiling.

From Winston Steel & the White Man

Officer Goober came back out a few moments later, followed by a stately man with broad, alabaster shoulders contained within a strappy wifebeater. His muscles barely fit beneath the fabric. He had a tight six-pack, barely visible because that wifebeater was too small for him and had a giant hole in it, and he wore a pair of sweatpants that you could tell were his pajamas. His eyes were dim and clouded, like Goober had just woken him up.
It took Simon a minute to realize that was Hassle. The swastikas tattooed over his heart, belly and shoulder were the giveaway. He also had the name HASSLE tattooed across his neck, but it was harder to make those letters out because they were shadowed by his square, jutting jaw. The big dark blob of a tattoo on his chest was Hitler’s flinty face.
Hassle was as strong as Buck, maybe, Simon thought, or at least close to it. He was shorter than Buck by a little. And he was basically hairless, very much unlike Buck. Hassle had a shaved head like an albino cue ball, and his chest was just as smooth — either naturally hairless or maybe he shaved that too. Simon hadn’t got a look at his legs because he was wearing those sweatpants. Now those sweatpants were crumpled up on the floor by the bunk.
His back was tattooed with the number 88 and some arcane Gothic lettering. Simon moved closer to read it, only for Hassle to let go of his cock because the angle was awkward. Simon pressed his dick on the meaty muscle between Hassle’s shoulder blades, right on an unidentifiable shape (which Simon gathered was a crude map of the Nazi empire at its height).

From Simon and the Bouncers

He was not as tall as Buck, but he was built the same, huge and blocky, big prison-toned muscles gleaming white where’n he weren’t tattooed. Hassle was a chowder-white Aryan Way feller, so’n those tattoos was swastikas and German words and obscure symbols and shit like that. He done say he weren’t a real Nazi, he just joined up in prison. Buck softly believed that. Hassle was pale as could be and got a face ugly like a microwave dinner.

From Buck on Bottom

Hassle was a big-ass skinhead — he got swastikas and Hitler quotes tattooed all over his back under that denim workshirt, including a giant red swastika that stretched from his shoulderblades to the top of his buttcheeks. His shaved cueball head and square jaw made him look fierce, and his well-muscled body towered over Cody.

From Bunkmates in the Dark

He was tall, and as bald as a cue ball cuz he shaved it on the regular at the sink in the hall. He was broad in the shoulders and chest, his muscles working and jerking as he got the vomit up. He done sprinkled sawdust on it to make it easy to sweep up into a dustpan, and he wrinkled his nose when he whiffed of it.
In his long-sleeve prison shirt and denim trousers, the only visible tattoo was a red swastika on his neck, but he got dozens of ’em lining his muscles and running up and down his buttcheeks. Hassle used to be a member of the Aryan Way. He ain’t never been a committed Nazi, he often said, but he joined in prison, and he joined for life.

From Malcolm the Burly Black Daddy

“Thumper,” Hassle said with a frown upon his squareness — he got a big square face, all the parts of which seemed too big for each other, like he was made of inflated rectangles. He be stone-facing. He do that, Hassle is like that. He looked down on Bill, who got even paler than usual.
That’s cuz Hassle got a swastika on his right bicep, and his shirt-sleeves was rolled up, so Bill clocked it. Hassle was covered in iron crosses, swastikas, quotes in German, all that hoohah. He done told Thumper he weren’t never a real nazi, he just played at one cuz in prison.
Could be true. Thumper don’t know. It happens. Thumper and the Aryan Way was stab-mad with each other, but lucky for Hassle, Hassle was on the outs with the Aryans too. So Thumper ain’t feel no urge to gut him.

From Thumper on Parole

Hassle was a chowder-white Nazi, straight-up Nazi like a shot of vodka! He claimed he only joined the Aryan Way in prison and he don’t believe in the swastikas and German quotations tattooed on his body, and he was on the deep-out from the Aryan Way regardless.

From Thumper the Bodyguard

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.

From Thumper the Booty Bandit

Hassle was a bull-headed neo-Nazi, his boxer’s body covered in swastikas and German words. His head was as smooth as a cue ball. He had been a trustee, living at the jail and doing odd jobs for the cops, for a long time. His skin was porcelain, untanned and unblemished, aside from the tattoos.

From Johnny Redcob the Bouncer

A large man walked around the police station in a denim outfit — grass-stained jeans and a thick workshirt, his arms stretching the fabric. He got a shaved head and colorful tattoos barely visible on the edges of the fabric. He carried a painfully block-shaped face with a beat-up fist of a nose.
His name was Barry Havens.
Hassle. They be calling him Hassle. Bull-headed. Chowder-white. Some six-three, maybe six-four. Heavyset. Late thirties. Aryan Way tats.

From Wayne the Ex-Cop

Hassle was a “bucket trustee”. That meant he was a long-time prison inmate, possibly a lifer. Rather than do his sentence in the state pen, he worked at the police station, mopping floors and keeping the lawn trim.
That meant he gotta get the cops off when they needa blow a nut, as well as sometimes whoeversoelse was walking around town with a uncontrollable stiffy. Better to let Hassle get ’em off than have ’em groping waitresses and nice girls.

From Wayne the Ex-Cop

Now Wayne remembered him well. Those colorful tattoos was German quotes in gothic letters, iron crosses and swastikas. He claimed before that he weren’t a Nazi. He done join the Aryan Way in prison, before he got this trustee job. Wayne weren’t sure he believed Hassle wasn’t a real Nazi.
It was believable enough though. Wayne ain’t much care. He wouldn’t leave Hassle alone with a little Jewish girl, let’s leave it at that.
From Wayne the Ex-Cop

In the back cell, the biggest, there was a well-furnished cell. Inside sat a cuehead Hassle. He was tall and stacked with corded muscles, and he glowered at the assembled wrestlers. Something about him was offputting to them — he had a big square face, no neck and a broad body covered with scars and swastika tattoos. His flat mien made the wrestlers all fall silent and awkward.
They were quieter than ever. Not even Coach Marshall could get them that quiet. It was those white-power tattoos that did it.
Some of them was bigger than Hassle, but they all sensed he could and would kick their asses if he wasn’t a trustee. Being a trustee meant he was a prison lifer, he just worked off his sentence here at the local precinct. He mopped floors and mowed lawns.

From Marshall the Coach

It was Hassle — an Aryan skinhead who was the trustee here at the jail and who Buck knew. They’d met a year or two back. Hassle was big and broad, but his head and chest were hairless and his skin was as pale as a piglet.

From Buck the Ex-Con

There, mopping the floor, was a tall, burly and broad-shouldered white man with a shaved head and a thick square jaw like Buck’s. He wore workpants and a denim shirt that read TRUSTEE in big block letters above his heart.

From Aroused by Ex-Cons

He was a bull-headed man with portentous tattoos, including a bright red swastika upon his back. He was muscular and broad-shouldered, and he put out ignore even when t’was clear Buck was staring at him.

From Buck the Conservative

A muscular man with a shaved head came to the cell bars in that other cell at the back of the jailhouse. He was solid as bricks, arms like steel girders, shoulders broader than a doorway. He wasn’t as tall as Jimmy, but he was cut, while Jimmy was more meaty. Anyway, his size wasn’t what Jimmy focused on, once his eyes focused on the man.
It was his tattoos.
Specifically, the iron cross on his neck and the swastika on his bicep.

From The Alpha Jock & the Trustee

You could tell Hassle been in prison a long time cuz his skin was pale as plaster — he was chowder white fer real, in ‘tween the colorful swastikas and German words. His asscheeks in particular ain’t seed the sun in decades. Buck do skimp to starkers off and on, so’s his own booty got a tan to it.

From Buck the Workin’ Man

Barry’s cell

Hassle’s cell was the last one on the left. It was bigger than the others, and it had a small teevee, a chair and personal photos, clothes and shelves all over. The other cells were unfurnished except for a toilet and sink.

From Marshall the Coach

The only cell with a’rythang in it was Hassle’s, the last one on the left. T’was outfitted with a bunk covered in nice blankets and pillows, a bean-bag chair, a writing desk with pictures of his daughter upon it and a mirror aside the sink and toilet.

From Buck the Workin’ Man

Books

The Alpha Jock & the Trustee: Jimmy is a college football jock whose throbbing stiffy distracts him and gets him into trouble… Lucky for him, the local cops keep a trustee ready for just this sort of need. His name is Hassle, a muscle-bound Aryan who will do as he is told, even if that means getting Jimmy off time and time again! Can Jimmy handle the man-on-man action he’s in for?

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The Alpha Jock & the Trustee

Jimmy is a college football jock whose throbbing stiffy distracts him and gets him into trouble… Lucky for him, the local cops keep a trustee ready for just this sort of need. His name is Hassle, a muscle-bound Aryan who will do as he is told, even if that means getting Jimmy off time and time again!

Can Jimmy handle the man-on-man action he’s in for?

Read it now!

Thumper the Booty Bandit: Chapter Nine

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Thumper the Booty Bandit

Chapter One: The Old Head

Chapter Two: Still Whistlin’

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

Chapter Four: Debt

Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge

Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle

Chapter Seven: Nights of Long Love

Chapter Eight: Hazing

Chapter Nine: The Trustee

Chapter Ten: Missus

Chapter Eleven: Whitey

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.”

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Thumper the Booty Bandit

Chapter One: The Old Head

Chapter Two: Still Whistlin’

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

Chapter Four: Debt

Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge

Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle

Chapter Seven: Nights of Long Love

Chapter Eight: Hazing

Chapter Nine: The Trustee

Chapter Ten: Missus

Chapter Eleven: Whitey

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Three

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

Chapter Eleven: A Sweet Release

At first, Teddy thought the flat voice on the phone was a recording. It didn’t quite sound like a real person. He gradually realized it could only be Knuckle.
“Teddy. Come get me. I need a ride,” said Knuckle.
Teddy crossed his arms over his chest and wondered who was on the phone. Then the distinctive voice of Knuckle flooded his memory. He stammered over a hello, flustered, unsure what Knuckle was asking or if he should agree.
“Hello, hey, hi, Knuckle, I, uh… Hey.”
“936 Motter Street.” A man’s heavy panting, like he was hurt, could be heard near the phone. Then Knuckle hung up.
The whole conversation took maybe three seconds. Teddy stood there, needing to think — about how Knuckle got his phone number, who was that panting in pain, was Motter Street in Martinsburg, what was what number? 936? Teddy hadn’t been expecting a message, so he wasn’t sure he remembered.
It turned out that the reason Knuckle didn’t give him an explanation or wait for a yes was that he was on a mission for Mr. Gregarian. Mr. Gregarian had told him to call Teddy for a ride and to tell him he could get paid for his time as though at work. Knuckle hadn’t need a ride to his location because he could walk, but he was now blood-splattered and would attract attention if he walked home. So he needed a ride.

Knuckle didn’t tell Teddy any of that, Teddy figured it out later when Mr. Gregarian gave him the money.

He found 936 Motter Street near the city college campus. This was a party-zone most of the year, choked with fraternities, sororities, teams of young men marching through with jockstraps on their faces (Teddy had seen that once). 936 was a frat house.
But it wasn’t the frat that owed money, or even any of the fraternity brothers. Greg Hardinger’s father owed money, but he had been playing hard-to-find with Mr. Gregarian, who cottoned to that like a cat on fire. He didn’t mess around — if Mr. Hardinger was gonna hide from his debt, Mr. Gregarian would either get the money or send a message or both through the young Greg Hardinger.
It was a hockey frat — not by rule, but most of the hockey players on campus were in Kappa Gamma Phi, and the frat brothers who lived in the house were all on the team.
And they were tied up in the kitchen.
Teddy knocked on the door, having no idea of any of this — Knuckle hadn’t told him a thing — and his eyes opened wide at the sight of Greg Hardinger’s handsome face a bloody mess. He was crawling around on the frat house floor. Knuckle came out with blood splattered on his scarred cheeks. He held a small wad of cash — Greg’s emergency stash.
It was only a small payment towards the debt, but it would satisfy Mr. Gregarian for now. And Greg had promised to deliver the message to his father: debt must be repaid.
Greg wasn’t that badly hurt. Knuckle went easy on him.
That feller ain’t gone easy on you… The words now hung in Knuckle’s mind like a trapeze artist. He ain’t thought about those times — the carnival days, with Emma and them — in a long time. But Teddy been steady asking about it. Nobody ever asked Knuckle nothing about his past usually. They assumed he was sensitive about it.
Which was true.
When Knuckle saw Emma for that first time, he ain’t get a chance to talk to her. The next morning though, he saw her on the street. She was like a golden angel, and Knuckle said hello to her, and she said hello back like she ain’t know who he was, and then she recognized him from the carnival last night, so she must have looked at him at some point, even though Knuckle ain’t seen her do it, and that thought made Knuckle’s heart race. He smiled at her. She smiled back. Then her dickhead boyfriend Tom yelled for her to come to him, as he was coming out of a store, struggling with a buncha bags, and Emma looked away from Knuckle to Tom, but she winced like she ain’t wanna do it even as she padded softly over there. Tom shot Knuckle a mean look.
Knuckle ain’t give that mean look much regard. Tom was a middle-class mudclot, and Knuckle ain’t got a lick of worry for him.
But Knuckle done misjudge Tom. He musta learned from Emma that Knuckle was a carnie, because later that evening, when Knuckle left the carnival grounds to find a hardware store, he was beset upon by Tom and a gaggle of his coiffed polo-prep prickless pals, who broed around him like agreeable jackdaws.
“That’s for talking to Emma!” Tom said when he kicked the bloody and broken Knuckle in the side. “She’s got better things waiting for her in this life than some carnie!” He kicked him again. He and his buddies chortled off into the night. “C’mon, guys, let’s get back to my place.”
He musta told Emma what he did, because she came and found Knuckle a few minutes later. He done prop himself up and leaned against the brick wall of a brush factory, hidden from the street by a dumpster that smelled of rotten Chinese food and insulated him from the rumbling engines of the cars putt-putting along on the other side. He cradled his badly bruised ribs. He ain’t think none of his ribs was broken, but it hurt to breathe, and pain bloomed all over like endless marigolds.
“Oh, you got hurt! That’s so awful, oh no…” Emma said when she came upon him. She clucked her tongue like a nurse. “Oh, you poor dear… C’mon, can you stand?”
“I’m okay, miss,” Knuckle said, blushing, eyes opening wide when she looked at him so nicely. When she got down beside him, he kissed her, and though he tasted only blood and sweat, his heart swelled with rising roses, while his heart rapidly raced and shudders wracked his frame. His meaty hands swept over her shoulders.
She pulled away with a pause, lips trembling and hovering above his own. “C’mon, you have to go to the hospital.”
He shook his head, which flung a few drops of blood onto the ground beside the dumpster. “The carnies will take care of me. I’m fine.” He struggled to his feet. His legs wobbled.
“You’re not fine!” she said. But she didn’t insist on it. She wrapped one arm around his waist, as though she could provide any support to his towering frame. He didn’t need it though. He could still walk, despite his bloody and broken face. He lumbered like a lovelorn frankenstein.
They made it onto the street and headed north, towards the carnie encampment. Knuckle limped, but his gait straightened and smoothed once he walked a block or two, and Emma talked but Knuckle’s mind whirred too fast to hear a word she said, so he listened only to her mellifluous tinkling tones, which hung in his head like a heavenly harp.
A siren whooped, and a cop car pulled up behind them. Emma stopped. Knuckle kept going at first, but he stopped when Emma ain’t continue alongside. He turned around.
“You okay, missus?” asked the cop, a stout middle-aged black man with a shaved head and a dense mustache like a push broom, which wriggled when he wrinkled his nose at the sight of Knuckle’s beat-up, swollen and bloody body. But he went right to Emma, who got a little of Knuckle’s blood on her face and flecking her sundress. “He hittin’ on you? You one of dem carnies, fellah?”
“I’m fine,” Emma said. “I wasn’t hurt. He was. He’s hurt.”
“I do’n need-uh go to the hospu’al,” Knuckle said. His broken nose made it hard to talk.
The cop, whose badge ided him as Officer Castle, sighed. “You drunk?” Knuckle shook his head. Officer Castle pointed to the chain-link fence beside the road, sectioning off the university parking lot from the road. “Hands on that fence, carnie.”
Knuckle did as he was told, while Officer Castle listened to what Emma told him. She patiently explained that her boyfriend had beaten Knuckle up for no good reason. She spoke in a dulcet timbre that calmed Knuckle’s agonized nerves. Castle was sympathetic throughout, then put her in the front seat of the squad car, while Knuckle got in the back.
“I’ll drop you off at home, missus,” Officer Castle said. He started the squad car and headed off.
“Then you’ll take him to the hospital?” Emma asked.
“I don’ need-uh go!” Knuckle said from the backseat.
Officer Castle winked at her. “I’ll make sure he gets took care of, missus,” he said. “Where do you live, miss?”
She gave him directions, but her voice was clipped and her lips were tense, like she was holding back a pout. She kept shooting Knuckle apologetic glances. Knuckle ain’t know how to react, so he just sat there and tried to look like he weren’t in pain, for both her benefit and so Officer Castle ain’t think Knuckle really needed a hospital.
Finally, the squad car pulled into a streetside spot next to Emma’s building.
“You never told me your name,” Emma said after Officer Castle got out. She didn’t move to open her door, so Castle came around to that side to open it. She and Knuckle had a few seconds of perfect silence.
“Knuckle,” he said, his voice a bloody flat croak that ruined the silence.
“I”m Emma,” she said. She smiled so softly she looked like a pillow. Knuckle’s eyes opened wide. His cheeks burned a bright pink.
Then splendid silence ended. Officer Castle opened up Emma’s door, and she got out. He walked her to her front door. Before she went inside, there was an awkward moment as Officer Castle leaned in to kiss her, but she deftly maneuvered away. He did get his hands on her waist though, and he gently cupped one buttcheek before she scuppered into her house.
Officer Castle arranged his now-erect cock in his uniform slacks before he walked stiffly back to the squad car. He got behind the wheel. He whistled. “Reckon I ain’t surprised you got tempted by that sweet young thang. She is a fine woman.”
Knuckle nodded.
“Hmmmmmm…” Castle sighed. “Look, buddy, she a nice girl. She got a nice man for a boyfriend. He gonna set her up wit’ a nice life. Don’chu you ruin that for her wit’cha low-trash self, you feel me? You shouldn’t be messin’ wit’ no local girls anyway. I know Sheriff Torkelson wouldn’t like that at all. He don’t like carnies. So I can’t arrest this Tom fellah for assaulting you. Don’t look like he did much damage anyhow.”
After a long quiet pause, Knuckle said, “Are you taking me to the hospital?”
“No,” Officer Castle said. “I told that nice lady I’d get you took care of.” He pulled into the parking lot of precinct 17. “Don’t’chu worry, you ain’t under arrest neither. Just come in.”
He led Knuckle into the police station, whose lights was mostly off. A few emergency lights remained, along with a room in the back. They navigated among the desks into that backroom, which was the local jail.
A couple jail cells lined each side. One of them was the drunk tank, and it stank of piss and vomit and was choked with passed-out coal miners — there was a brawl in a miner’s bar this afternoon. The rear cell on the left was the one with the light on, and in there was a tall hairy man in his boxers, watching TV.
He was almost as tall as Knuckle, and he was powerfully built too. He ain’t have a barrel-shaped chest like Knuckle though, he was more of a naturally lanky man who grew muscular because there was nothing else to do but work out in prison.
His name was Baker, and he was a trustee. That was why he was allowed a TV in his cell, which was furnished comfortably. He scowled though at the sight of Officer Castle and then Knuckle’s beat-up and bloody body. He turned down the volume on the talk show on the TV.
“Whatchoo want, Castle? I finished cleanin’ the ter’lets,” Baker said.
“Get this fellah bandaged up,” Officer Castle said. “He don’t wanna go to the hospital, and he a carnie, so the hospital prolly wouldn’t want him neither. I’ll get doc’s kit.” He went back out into the main room of the police station and rummaged through drawers.
“Sit.” Baker pointed to the chair in the center of the cell. Knuckle sat down, while Baker used a towel to dab off the dirt and blood on his face. “What happened to you?”
“A fight.” Knuckle ain’t wanna say that he had gotten ganged up on, and he ain’t wanna talk about Emma lest Officer Castle launch into another tirade about nice girls and carnies. So he couldn’t think of any details to add.
Baker let out a hoarse chuckle. “Okay, yeah. Makes sense, buddy.”
By the time Baker got off enough blood to see the wounds, Officer Castle done come back with the doctor’s kit. Baker was experienced with it — he’d worked in the infirmary back in the prison — so he got to work bandaging up Knuckle’s wounds. He put a butterfly bandage on the deepest one first. That made Knuckle wince, as he had to force the torn flesh together.
Officer Castle told Baker a little more about what happened, focusing mainly on how pretty Emma was. Soon Castle was looking dreamy-eyed. “She got legs like you wouldn’t believe, Baker, I ain’t seen ’em till she get in the light of her front porch.” His hands were on Baker’s smooth bare back now, massaging his tattooed muscles.
“Goddamn, I love a girl wit’ legs,” Baker said. He was distracted by applying another butterfly bandage, this time to Knuckle’s side. “You want some ice, fellah? I’ll get’cha an ice-pack.” Baker tried to get up, but Officer Castle clucked his tongue and massaged Baker’s back more firmly.
“Nah, Baker. I put a ice-pack in the bag,” Castle said softly.
Baker grabbed the ice-pack from the doctor’s kit, grumbling. He put it on Knuckle’s sore belly, and Knuckle sighed with relief. Baker gave his ribs a couple pokes to see if they were broken, but Knuckle ain’t seem fazed.
Then Castle took his dick out through the fly of his uniform slacks. It jabbed, already hard, into Baker’s side. Baker grunted and swatted it away. “C’mon, Castle, I is fixin’ him up-“
“Don’t lemme stop you,” Castle said. “Hmmm-hmm, you got nice smooth skin, Baker. No hair neither. Like that. I like that,” he said emphatically. He winked at Knuckle. His dick rubbed Baker’s spine. Then his hands pulled down Knuckle’s boxers.
“Here. Ibuprofren,” Baker said. He handed over some pills he found in the doctor’s kit. He poked around in there as though looking for more bandages, but he was actually hoping to find more pills. He ignored Castle’s fat fingers groping him like a girl.
Before he could put gauze on the asphalt-scraped shoulder, Baker grunted and gritted his teeth. Castle’s cock slid into his ass.
“Carnies do ramrodding, right, fellah?” Castle said, his voice a low simmer. His hands reached around Baker’s body to his chest. One hand squeezed his pec, the other groped the flesh and nipple — you could almost sort of pretend it was a tit.
“Yes, suh,” Knuckle said.
“Well, if you wanna do it next, you can,” Castle said. His whole body tensed as he flexed his hips.
Baker grunted and closed his eyes. “Ow, shit, Castle!” He spread his asscheeks with both hands, which always seemed like it should reduce the pain but never did.
“Hmm-hmm, c’mon, Baker… Moan for me, get me goin’-“
“You goin’, shit, ow, ow, ow, Castle, c’mon! You already goin’ good and hard!” Baker’s knees went weak, and he winced. He took Knuckle’s dick in hand as though to put it in his mouth, but he didn’t, as Officer Castle behind him spurted jizz into his booty.
“Hmmm-hmm…” Officer Castle murmured.
A huge wad of cum bloomed within Baker, whose cheeks went red. He did manage to get Knuckle’s limp dick in his mouth for a second, but then he lifted his head to grab some toilet paper. He sopped up all the cum leaking from his butthole when Officer Castle pulled out. He screwed up his nose at the messy wad of toilet paper in his hand, then threw it away into the little trash bin in his cell.
“Ya turn, big boy,” Baker muttered. He stroked Knuckle’s dick with one hand, which he lotioned up with some vaseline. Knuckle leaned back on the chair.
“Shit, you jack off e’ry dude that come in here?” Knuckle asked.
Baker scoffed. “No. Just the cops and, y’know… visitors,” he said. He shrugged. “It’s better than prison.” He kept stroking Knuckle’s dick with one hand, his butt hovering above it. It stiffened up in his grasp. “I got a pretty loose butthole.” He grimaced as he lowered his ass onto Knuckle’s dick. It entered the hole.
When Knuckle’s hands touched his waist to pull him down, Baker clucked his tongue and stopped him.
“Nah, son, wait. You got big meat, I’m goin’ slow,” Baker said. His eyes flicked back to the TV, which had finished the commercials and was back on the talk show. “And keep it down. I’s still watchin’ my show.”
Knuckle’s hands hovered above Baker’s asscheeks. He didn’t touch it, though the sensations arising from his ass were intense. He threw his head back and moaned.
Cum spurted into Baker’s butthole. A long flow of it filled him up, and Knuckle sucked in his breath. His massive dong flopped out. Baker winced again, ready with a wad of toilet paper to wipe up the cum that plopped out. Baker kept his eyes trained on the TV the whole time.
Finally, Baker’s butt was clean, and Knuckle leaned back in the chair, relaxing. Knuckle’s dick was still covered in juices. He took a deep breath, only for images of Emma to return to his mind.
Baker tossed him the roll of toilet paper. “Clean ya dick up, son. Then get outta my cell.”

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

Jake the Trustee

Jake is a trustee, which means he works for the cops and has to do anything they say, even if they want him to bend over and take it! He’s in for some wild action, whether he’s into it or not. Some cops like to get their rocks off anytime they get bored, or when their wives won’t give them what they want, but others just like to see what they can make Jake do!

Can he make it through his time as a trustee?

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The Trustee and the Cops

Dustin is the new trustee at the police station, which means he has to do whatever the cops say or go back to prison. So he’s got no choice but to bend over and take it! The cops use him in every hole, and Dustin feels every inch of their authority!

Can Dustin handle his new position?

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