MN Manmacker's mansploitation
Some nigga said the whole rig was counted as a boat under the law, so any alcohol was tantamount to boating under the influence, and you know Steel stays listening to Some Nigga.
A boat did come every week with fresh food, but the boat ain’t allowed to bring no booze. Rig policy. Most technically, nobody on rig was supposed to have any alcohol. It was against the rules. Some nigga said the whole rig was counted as a boat under the law, so any alcohol was tantamount to boating under the influence, and you know Steel stays listening to Some Nigga.
From Steel the Roughneck
“Girlshit on yo’ dingdong, whiteboy, you is so wrong!”
Soon as Buck got to relaxing — putting out ignore ’bout Lem’s nonsense — he got tired of sitting. He put on a clean paira tight-whites and got up to work out. He jogged in place some, then did couple burpees and went thru his routine, while Lem ranted like a old black man.
“Bet it was the Haitians. Bet it. Know that, Buckums! Reagan be lettin’ ’em in left ‘nd right, lettin’ ’em in like pants! Mark my words, them Haitians done touch all my shit. You don’t believe me? I got the receipts, homeboy!”
“I ain’t a homeboy. I believes ya, Lem, Hayshuns do that, they do be like that,” Buck said, voice jiggling up and down with the heft of his chest as he did his burpees — jumping up from the floor to the stool and back again. The pouch of his tight-whites flopped up and down, and his cock popped free. “They’s one of you’uns, you should tell ’em-” Buck grinned at Lem and kept on his burpees, despite his fatty shaft barrumphing up along with his movement. Lem done emphasize numerable times that ‘Haitians ain’t proper niggas’, and sh’ore ’nuff, Buck’s comment set him off once again.
“Girlshit on yo’ dingdong, whiteboy, you is so wrong! First of all, Haitians ain’t proper niggas, I done tol’ you that. Secondmostly, these Haitians in particular, on this rig, they done — they’s racist ‘gainst American niggas, Buckums, you know that. I know you know that! Lord ‘ave mercy! And fourthly or maybe fifthly, I dunno, them’s got knives — they come from a land of cannibals, Buckums — believe that, nigga! You believe that-” He wagged a finger at Buck, who was finishing his burpees. Then he cleared out some space ‘neath a pull-up bar. “They’s French niggas, that’s diff’rent ‘an American black fellahs. Them’s longskin, you know ’bout longskin niggas?”
“I don’t care, Lem.”
“They’s different from nightcheek niggas, you know.” Lem got a whole classifiction of homeboys — nightcheeks, longskins, redbones, high yellows, duckydoos. Buck got no time fer that.
Buck gripped the pull-up bar and lifted his feet off the floor. Buck was so tall he hadta angle his feet out in order to do any pull-ups. His damn near seven-foot-tall body nearabout reached the ceiling here.
“Lem, t’is my God-given right as a white man to not learn all the diff’rent kinds of black guys.” He did a couple pull-ups while Lem lit a cigarette and fumed.
“Firstly, Haitians do that voodoo shit-” Lem started counting off upon his fingers again, having forgetted he was already counting. “They do that, they sacrifice chickens an’ all.”
From Buck on the Oil Rig
Mason saw them standing there, dicks in hand, mid-thwack upon each other.
They were swordfighting in the center of their living space.
Their soft dicks dangled afront them, but it was clear they had been swinging ’em at each other just a second ago. Both men’s hips were angled towards each other, underwear around their ankles. Wry grins popped up on both Buck and Lem. Both men’s bare asses were still dappled with shower water.
Mason stopped short, unable to tear his eyes from their bared crotches. Buck’s cock was huge, and Lem’s was knobbly and darker-skinned than the rest of him. Actually Buck’s was darker than the rest of his skin as well.
Lem’s cock was not as big as Buck’s but seemed bigger cuz Lem was rangy and ropy-muscled. His cock was as thick as his biceps, and Lem was dense like he had crammed a more muscular man inside of himself. Lem and Buck both held back laughter when Mason saw them standing there, dicks in hand, mid-thwack upon each other.
They both stood up on their chagrin.
Buck’s cheeks turned burgundy underneath his unshaved beard. He chuckled, which made his pecker jiggle and his pecs flex. He was meaty and thick all over, but Lem was dark-skinned and taut from head to toe, his muscles dotted with bluish-gray tatttoos, and he had only a smattering of ebon body hair on his sternum. Mason chuckled. “Who’s winning the swordfight, gentleman?”
“Me!”
“Nah, me! Mah hog wrecked his piglet!”
That chagrined look remained on both they faces, then Buck grinned at the same time Lem scowled, and the both them slapped dicks at each other at the same moment.
Detente broken, the swordfight resumed. Buck and Lem battled dick to dick, both of them leaning their upper halves back and their lower halves forward to get better leverage. It was unclear what the point of the competition was.
“Gotcha, Buckums-!”
“Ow, don’t hit mah balls!”
“Whiteboy, yo’ ugly dick best surrenduh, or I’mma treat it harsh-“
“You narsty, Lem!”
“You smell like velveeta, hillbilly!”
They learnt from a mandatory video that the most important part of drilling fer oil was respeck fer diversity.
Whatever status made Habib hafta put Buck’s and Lem’s feet in his mouth, it might as well be slavery. They ain’t ax cuz they ain’t wanna be distolerant of his culture — they learnt from a mandatory video that the most important part of drilling fer oil was respeck fer diversity.
Imagine that! The most important part! That wrinkled Buck’s brain.
From Buck on the Oil Rig
Ezra is a factory foreman.
Descriptions
He was a tall, thick-bodied black man with a mustache like a 70s porn star, bushier than Rob thought possible. He had a dour, no-nonsense look. He wore dickeys, in which he had tucked in a wrinkled black shirt, which seemed small for his broad shoulders. It was apparent that he kept the shirt around only to talk to people like Rob; he probably wore some sort of workshirt most days… Ezra McClintock gave off the vibe that he was in charge (even if Rob was his boss) and it was tough for Rob to focus on his words when he watched his upper-body stretch the confines of that shirt. He had a deep rumbly voice and a fantastically declarative way of speaking… He came to stand next to Rob, whose heart thumped. He was so close Rob could feel his pants rubbing against Rob’s arm. His crotch was right at Rob’s face-height, so he turned to see the large bulge pushing against the fabric of Mr. McClintock’s workpants. That bulge was huge, and Rob could tell the fabric was threadbare there around his fly — he must have had these pants for a long time and had zipped and unzipped them numerous times… He unzipped Mr. McClintock’s pants and his big black dick popped right out. It smelled of work and sawdust and extruded plastic, and it reeked of ball-sweat — which Rob loved. He inhaled deeply of the scent.
Lee dreaded his Tuesday-night dinners with his mother nowadays. That was because of her “boyfriend”, Ezra McClintock. He was there every week, ruining everything, making Lee feel as small as a shrunken sponge. He wore khakhis and a polo shirt tonight, like a banker at a golf course, and his thick biceps strained the fabric.
He had tattoos. When Lee was a boy, Mom told him to never trust anybody with tattoos. Now she was dating one. A black man — not that Lee minded that part, of course — with tattoos, probably “gangland tats”. Lee had drawn the tattoos on Ezra’s arms and the side of his neck the best he could, and he looked them up on the Internet, reveling in a fantasy wherein he discovered that Ezra was an escaped serial killer based on his distinctive tattoos.
But none of what Lee saw was that distinctive. A Bible verse, a crucifix, a king of spades, a pair of crossed tools of a sort that Lee didn’t recognize and a woman’s name — Eleanor. None of them were apparent gangland tattoos. The crossed tools looked like a symbol of something, but all that came up on Google was a vaguely similar white-supremacist symbol. This was different, and Ezra was as dark-skinned as Professor Mbutu, so he was obviously not a white supremacist.
Ezra was so tall and so powerfully built, his big barrel chest radiating heat, that Lee found it difficult to think clearly around him. And he wore a zesty, musty deodorant, which combined with his menthol cigarettes and coppery hair to make him smell like a homeless mummy. The odor distracted Lee.
From The Factory Foreman
Books
The Factory Foreman: Lee hankers to become more manly, and he’s found an intriguing way to do it — by dallying on the downlow with big, tough, muscular men! That includes his mother’s new boyfriend, a big black factory foreman, Ezra McClintock. Does Lee see the hardcore gains he was hoping for? Find out in this down and dirty illustrated, interracial, trashy-hobo noncon adventure in man-on-man action!
Mr. McClintock the Foreman: Rob is at it again! He’s managing a factory, and that means he can get the foreman, Mr. McClintock, to do whatever he wants — even playing with his manly meat! Plus Rob gets to have fun with the other workers, especially the dirty, filthy ones with muscles and manhoods he can savor for hours… Can Rob save his factory… and his men?!
Jeb is the son of a preacher and farmer.
Books
Jeb the Farmboy: Jeb is a farmboy starting a career as a roughneck in Alaska, and he’s not ready for the big wide outside world. This preacher’s son is sheltered and naive, but he’s about to learn some hard, throbbing lessons! With his new friend Buck, Jeb discovers some new ways to jack off and to pass the time without women. Can he handle Buck’s slovenly ways and the down and dirty man-on-man action that roughnecks are known for?!
Lem is a roughneck and, allegedly, the world’s greatest uncle.
Description
Lem sported salt-and-pepper cornrows on his dark brown scalp, yellowed eyes and teeth, and long lanky limbs brimming with muscle. He was wiry like a stack of weasels.
From Buck the Roughneck
There he met up with this old feller Lem, one the few Americans upon that rig. He do keep in touch with Lem yet. Lem goes all o’er to find work. He don’t got a home to go back to, or maybe he did and don’t nobody want his ripply ass there. Lem was a elderly homeboy with elbows all o’er, he was strong as hell despite being skinny, he one them kinda angular homeboys. He was darkskin. Or maybe t’other homeboys might call him a nightcheek, cuzza his face, but don’t tell him that, cuz Lem Staggerman disrumbles to Africans.
Lem’s dick stayed limp as a worm. It weren’t as long as Buck’s, but it was thick as hell, specially next to Lem’s wiry-muscled body, shit, that old head was built like a buncha telephone poles got smushed together.
From Buck on Bottom
Lem was wearing his tight-whites and shadowboxing in the dead-end him and he bedded down in. He got no fat on him, all lean muscle, so nothing moved ‘cept his old-nigga dingdong in his drawers, which flopped about like it weren’t really attached to nothing in there. When Steel gets drunk enough, he laughs at that, cuz there was something funny as hell about Lem’s jiggle-free body ‘cept for the pecker jiggling like a jello store in a tornado. But Steel weren’t yet drunk enough to laugh it tonight.
Lem be going all around for work, he work on oil rigs, he be lumberjacking and shit, he be setting up factories and laying down roads, claimed he was a bodyguard for Manuel Noriega, which Steel disbelieved but ain’t say so.
Buck placed one foot on Lem’s cornrows. His scalp was palpable and smooth beneath the coarse rows of silver-and-black hair. “Old black men with cornrows look ridiculous, Lem, you know that, right?”
“Shut the fuck up. What do you know about black hair?” Lem glared at the foot resting on his scalp, but he didn’t push it off. Buck’s balls dangled between his legs in front of Lem’s face.
“I know it ain’t nevuh been cool to got cornrows lookin’ like graverows. Ya scalp look like the cemetery you ’bout to move into, Lem-” He put both feet on Lem’s shoulders.
From Buck the Roughneck
He that dumbass nasty trashy old homeboy who stink like a dirty doorknob.
Lem’s whole body felt like layers of salty sandpaper, and he was too bony. Buck wouldn’t wanna fuck a woman Lem’s shape. He might buy her a hot meal and a bus ticket home, but he wouldn’t fuck her… Anyway, Lem got a face like a crackhead who got crowned king of all the hobos.
From Buck on the Oil Rig
Anyways, Lem held his own in gen-pop that first weekend. Shit always kicked off on weekends cuz there was less guards then. Lem got cracked upside his head, as he was a hard worker and a passionate lover and also the world’s greatest uncle at that time but not a fighter. He wasn’t gonna make it in gen-pop forever. There was more crackheads with shivs there than Lem had muscles… His prison work ain’t pay enough, and Lem got nobody sending him dollars in his commissary — supparently being the world’s greatest uncle, Christmas, 1977, don’t get a nigga no funds. Lem still got the tee shirt to prove it if any fat-nose hillbilly wanna call him on that.
From Buck on the Oil Rig
Lem was swaying like a wiggley inflatable tube thing like they got advertising car dealerships along the highway, like he was dancing to two different songs at once. Lem was old — only some fifteen years older than Steel, not that much really, but he seemed old for real to Steel, old as a turtle. He was wiry too, all muscle and sinew, like a frown came to life. Lem’s whole body was hard as iron raisins.
From Steel the Roughneck
Lem was just as skinny then as he was nowadays — back then he wasn’t “skinny”, he was “ripped”, six-packed, handsome, but his same body shape now was “ropy“, “wiry” and “raisiny” — that was how Steel did describe him. Anyway, Lem was a young whoopty nigga then, and Big Eddie was the same age.
From Steel the Roughneck
Mason knew Lem back when he drank, and Lem drank a lot. He quit last year. Mason thought Lem’s eccentric behavior and wild tangents were due to his drinking, but after a year of sobriety, Lem was just as off the wall as ever. Maybe even more so. Maybe the liquor had kept him calm back before.
As Buck lay upon his back, done with his workout and catching his breath, Lem stood up, then stepped his gnarly old feet upon Buck’s belly. He was dry like tree bark, and Buck was slick with sweat, his chest hair matted to his skin.
Before Lem could finish fixing the cardboard, Buck pulled down his briefs and let his dick hang free. He thwacked his dick against the small of Lem’s back. In the dim light of their space, for about a half-second, Buck thought it felt like a woman’s skin. But then he felt coarse hairs, and Lem’s firm muscle, and his old-head wrinkles, and the puckered scar of a bullet wound. He left it resting there on the sweaty skin of Lem’s back.
From Buck the Roughneck
His scalp was palpable and smooth beneath the coarse rows of silver-and-black hair. “Old black men with cornrows look ridiculous, Lem, you know that, right?”
“Shut the fuck up. What do you know about black hair?” Lem glared at the foot resting on his scalp, but he didn’t push it off. Buck’s balls dangled between his legs in front of Lem’s face.
“I know it ain’t nevuh been cool to got cornrows lookin’ like graverows. Ya scalp look like the cemetery you ’bout to move into, Lem-” He put both feet on Lem’s shoulders.
With both of Buck’s feet on his shoulders, his cock and balls were right in front of Lem’s face.
From Buck the Roughneck
Lem was skinny-muscled, like he was made of stretched raisins, so’s he got cold easy and wore long johns, sweatpants and a heavy shirt to the shower… Lem was a elbow-mad homeboy with ashy knees, brown skin and black hair. He was pushing past fifty, Buck reckoned, but he got taut muscles. He was wiry though, not bulky like Buck. Plus Buck was well o’er six and a half feet tall, while Lem was short as sugar.
From Buck on the Oil Rig
Lem drank and smoked constantly when he was off-duty (and more subtly when he was on-duty), so Buck did likewise. Lem had been working on rigs most of his life. Specifically, he’d done a couple contracts for Mr. Chow, so he knew his way around the rig already.
From Buck the Roughneck
Nobody wanna taste Lem’s “nasty old black pecker” (Buck’s words), and Lem’s body was rough and not big and squishy like Buck’s. Lem was a “sandpapery chimney of a homeboy” (also Buck’s words).
In fact, Mason didn’t mind Lem being too taut for it to feel proper, as Buck described it.
Lem’s body was wiry, like he was naturally skinny but forced by a hard life to cram muscles on. His thighs were firm and corded-muscle, and his cock was soft as he swaggered over to Mason.
Books
Buck the Roughneck: Buck is off to a rig to make a little dough… and maybe a friend! He’s bunking up with an older black fellah named Lem, and the two are gonna get into some crazy shenanigans, both on the rig and on leave. They’re ain’t no females around most of the time, so Buck and Lem are gonna have to satisfy their needs one way or another. That means they’re in for a world of gloryholes, roughhousing, horseplay and hot, throbbing manhood!
Steel the Roughneck: Steel is off to work on an oil rig, which means he’s surrounded by men without any women to tame them! Him and Lem are the only two American black men on board, and they need to get their rocks off one way or another. That’s a recipe for hardcore man-on-man action, which Steel just might have to endure… Can Steel get through his stint as a roughneck?
Buck on the Oil Rig: Buck Sampson is working on an oil rig once more, and without women around, the hard-edged roughnecks there get their rocks off through whatever means necessary! Buck’s bunking down with Lem, an old black feller with dick for days and muscles to match, and when the two of them have leave, they really do get down and dirty! Can Buck make it through his contract with his booty intact? Can Lem?
Content
Pictures
Read it now for free as an ebook!
Chapter One: Court Fees Got Me Down
Chapter Three: Fraternity Hazing
Chapter Six: The Bouncer’s Bottom
Chapter Seven: The Hunky Pool Boy
Rob was expecting Lindsey Wilds to be a woman. He thought he was being all progressive and shit by calling the lady-electrician — something about Lindsey Wilds’ website made that seem like a good idea — Wilds Electric Work had good reviews on Yelp but not suspiciously good, and the website said they did work on weekends. Rob was pretty sure he had never seen a female electrician in person, nor in TV or movies, so it felt like a blow for female empowerment to hire Wilds Electric.
He had been without electricity for a camping trip for a weekend, and then came home to a house without electricity and a refrigerator full of rotten food. The whole place stank of fish because of the freezer going out — it actually didn’t smell bad until Rob opened up the fridge and freezer doors, and now nothing would make the smell go away.
So he had called Lindsey Wilds, expecting some rough-edged blue-collar woman. Rob cleaned his kitchen the best he could despite the smell and got ready to mop the floor before he was interrupted by the service van pulling into his driveway — Rob was staying at a female vacation property with no servants, so he had to do all the work himself. Rob went to his window expecting to see the Yelp-recommended female electrician.
But Yelp had not pointed out that Lindsey was a man, and it certainly didn’t inform Rob he was handsome. So Rob’s knees went weak when he saw him climb out of the service van. Rob had been assuming Lindsey was a woman for so long he continued to think this man was some sort of assistant. Even after the handsome man came to the door and Rob saw the name-tag sewn on his jumpsuit, Rob thought that they had switched jumpsuits as a joke.
And then, all at once, while Lindsey examined the fuse-box and the circuit breaker, Rob remembered that Lindsey was a gender-neutral name. He groaned at his mistake but also grinned: If he had known how handsome Lindsey Wilds was, he’d have hired him for sure.
Rob loved rough trade, the rougher the better. Lindsey seemed like an excellent, reachable target. He had that “will do anything” vibe that Rob had become an expert in identifying.
“The problem is that you got a bad barnhouse fuse, that’s what you call this right here. These old houses in the woods usually have them.” Lindsey kept going, explaining what he had found, but Rob zoned out. He was entranced by Lindsey’s strong jaw and luxurious black hair, which extended well past his shoulders.
He was Native American, Rob was fairly certain. Lindsey had dusky skin that was immaculately smooth, with deep-set eyes and broad shoulders. Rob wanted him so bad he could taste it. Lindsey’s jaw was strong and high, totally hairless, as was the part of his chest that Rob could see under the tight tee shirt he wore beneath his jumpsuit.
“Uh-huh.”
“So I’ll have to replace that. The barnhouse fuse’ll be four hundred dollars. The labor to replace it, that’ll be maybe another…” Lindsey paused and took a quick, sneaky look around the house. “Another four hundred, so like eight hundred total-“
“I have homeowner’s insurance,” Rob said. “They’ll cover it.” He grinned. It was obvious Lindsey had looked at Rob’s furnishings and decided to charge him a lot. Rob wasn’t surprised — he was, in fact, very wealthy. But that was why his dad had homeowner’s insurance. When you were rich, every plumber, electrician and handyman upped his rates to compensate. Rob didn’t have the time or wherewithal to negotiate with them, so his dad paid a homeowner’s insurance company to do it instead.
Lindsey furrowed his brow. “Fine. I will call them,” he said. Rob gave him his insurance card, and Lindsey stepped away to make a call. He returned quickly to say that they would call him back with an approval or not.
Rob cleared his throat. “Maybe we could pass the time somehow,” Rob said with a seductive smile. That bulge in Lindsey’s jumpsuit attracted his eye and made him giggle winsomely. “I was thinking… I could pay you an extra five hundred dollars for something-“
Lindsey’s face was dour, looking down on Rob as though he thought Rob should know how to do this stuff. “Your homeowner’s insurance will probably cover it, you don’t need to pay. They might not pay for the nice replacement barnhouse fuse, so it’ll probably blow out again in a year or so. You could pay the difference. You really get what you pay for, either a really cheap Mexican-made one that’ll last you a year or a nicer one made in Germany that’ll last a lifetime. You won’t need to pay five hundred dollars though, the difference between them is like a hundred bucks-“
“There’s no… American-made option?” Rob asked. He thought his seductive tone should be obvious, but Lindsey just shrugged like he didn’t notice. Rob’s eyes roamed up and down his body, checking out the bulge of his crotch in that electrician’s jumpsuit. He had a nice plump ass too, and his hands were just a bit gnarled and callused, with some scars perhaps from being shocked — Rob loved a nice pair of blue-collar hands, especially in this case because they were a stark contrast to the pristine look of Lindsey’s face and his unblemished skin everywhere other than his hands. Rob batted his eyes at Lindsey. “I was hoping for something American and solid and-“
Lindsey shrugged and went to the fusebox to point it out. “No, there’s no American manufacturer. The people who built this house used the Mexican kind, see? It says ‘Made in Mexico’-“
“No, I was offering you five hundred dollars to do-“
Lindsey pointed into the fusebox, his finger glancingly touching a bit of exposed wire with the end of his fingernail.
An explosion of sparks filled the air. Rob was just inches from Lindsey’s body, smelling the cheap deodorant covering up his masculine scent, and his heart nearly leapt into his throat. For just a moment, he thought Lindsey was so handsome he had exploded.
And then he realized it was the fuse-box. Lindsey collapsed to the ground and grunted, while sparks rained upon the carpet of Rob’s basement.
“Oh… Oh shit!” Rob ran to Lindsey, stopping himself at the last second so he didn’t touch him — he wasn’t sure if he was conducting electricity; Rob didn’t want to electrocute himself. Then Rob saw the sparks on the carpet triggering smoldering and flames. This house is about to burn down. “Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh… Shit… Fuck! Fire! Fire!” Rob yelled as though there were firemen within earshot. Stop panicking and do something!
This was all happening so fast, he thought, he couldn’t decide what to do. Help Lindsey and risk getting shocked? Put the fire out somehow? How could he put the fire out? Lindsey groaned and moved, so Rob knew he was still alive.
Rob darted into the bathroom, and, unable to find any other container, he grabbed the mop-bucket he had gotten ready with heavy-duty cleaning solvents in order to get that smell out of the kitchen. He wheeled it out into the den. He dumped the water over the floor, and it sizzled, putting out the fire before it got out of control.
Lindsey staggered to his feet. He looked dizzy, and his hair was frizzy, no longer laying perfectly straight behind him. The carpet now stank of mopwater — the water had been clean and soapy, in preparation for mopping upstairs, but the bucket itself stank of stale mopwater. So the entire basement reeked of soil and whatever muck clung to the mop-bucket.
“Oh god…”
“Are you okay?” Rob asked. It occurred to him only now that there was a fire-extinguisher on the patio, right outside, by the barbecue — that would have been quicker than the mop-bucket. He felt like an idiot; he went to all the trouble of buying a fire-extinguisher and then forgot about it when he needed it.
Lindsey nodded. He held up his hand to show that the fingers he had touched the fusebox with were scorched black. His arms and legs jittered. “I think… there is something else wrong besides the barnhouse fuse.” His cell phone chirped and he turned off the ringer. “That was your homeowner’s insurance, but the quote I asked them for no longer applies. I’m going to need to turn the electricity off here at the circuit breaker.”
“Yeah, sure, yeah,” Rob said. “Yeah. Cool.” He was still too exhilarated from the electrocution and near-fire to think about anything else, even Lindsey’s body.
“You were offering to hire me for something else before I touched the fusebox?” Lindsey said. He wrinkled his nose, the mop-bucket smell growing more intense by the moment.
“Yeah, stick me,” Rob said with a sigh. He looked at the carpet. “I’m going to have to get new carpet down here. This is nasty, it smells like a burnt dog-“
“Stick you?”
Rob nodded. “I could shampoo it, but that won’t get the scorch marks out. It was a nasty carpet to begin with.”
“You want to hire me to stick you?”
Rob looked up. He hadn’t mean to be so abrupt about it. He was so focused on what had just happened that it had all slipped out without thinking about it. “Yeah, uh… Sorry, I was… I just wanted to offer you five hundred dollars to cornhole me. Sorry. I usually am, uh… Sorry, I’m unfocused right now.”
Lindsey was silent for a long time. His face was expressionless except for the furrowing of his eyebrows. “You want to… cornhole me?”
“No! No, I’m a bottom, I want you to cornhole me.”
“Oh.” Lindsey shook his head. “No way. I’m not a pervert. I…” He sighed. “No.”
“Okay, cool, no problem, no biggie,” Rob said. He was disappointed, but rejection came with being into rough trade. Lindsey didn’t even look like he might haggle, so Rob didn’t offer more money. This day had turned out to be too stressful to worry much about that anyway, and Rob could always go to the biker bar if he got really horny; there was always someone there with a slab of meat Rob could swing on.
Lindsey just turned off the electricity for a few hours, and Rob played on his cell phone upstairs since he couldn’t really do much else without power. He had re-stocked the refrigerator and freezer, and now, he thought, it was all going to go bad again.
Around five o’clock, the electricity turned back on, Lindsey came upstairs and said he had fixed it — he hadn’t gotten to the barnhouse fuse, but he had fixed the main circuit breaker, and that meant the house could have working electricity for now. It would probably break within a week again, but by then, he’d have fixed the fuse so the circuit breaker didn’t get overloaded again.
Lindsey left, leaving Rob in the living room to watch his ass shake as he got in his van and drove off. Rob was disappointed, but that near-disaster earlier today had left him so shook up he didn’t think about it too much. Today could have gone much worse than simply not getting laid. Rob even thought about going out to one of his regular haunts — he could go to the biker bar, for example, where there was always some one up for a bit of fun.
He just didn’t feel like it though. That was another reason he hadn’t offered Lindsey more money. He had been reminded of his own mortality, and Rob couldn’t stop thinking of what it would be like to die from fire, electrocution or smoke. So he just stayed in for the night. Tomorrow, he thought, he’d find an electrician he could jack off. If not Lindsey, than someone else.
It was nearly midnight when he heard a knock on the door. Rob saw through the window that it was Lindsey, his tall, stately body tottering on unsteady legs. He was obviously drunk. He looked bleary-eyed and half-asleep.
“Hey, hi, Lindsey, what’s up? Are you okay?”
“I…” Lindsey burped and swayed as though the burp had knocked him off-balance. “I… I wh-whi-lllllll do it.”
“What?”
“I’ll… I’ll lll lll lll ll lll…” He laughed at his own torrent of L-sounds. “Lllllllllllluh…”
“Lindsey, I-?”
“I’ll do it!” He blurted out. “The whole… uh…thing. Doin’ it. That… thing.” He pointed to his own crotch. “That.”
“Yeah, okay, I get it, but uh… you’re very drunk.”
He nodded. Then he launched into a long, incomprehensible drunken monologue. “Thass all I was… wassssh all at the… … sssssshump all ovuh…. … … There I ahhhhm! What issssssh it? I will do… what I, I am in the nnnnnnnnnnight, at that… Where I am.” He belched again and took a deep breath. He scrunched his eyes up. Then he over-enunciated with all the effort he could muster. “I. Am. Drunk. Enoughffffffff. Right. Now. To. Do. It. Diiiiick. Diiiiick.” He laughed at the word. “Diiiiiiiiiick.”
“Uh… no,” Rob said. “You’re way too drunk. You’d probably puke on me.”
“What? You — You — You — You — You offffffffffered, man, you sssshaid it, you-“
“Lindsey, I never said I’d do it any time no matter what. You’re much too drunk. Did you drive here?” He looked at the van, which had been parked slightly off the driveway, one wheel crushing Rob’s begonias. “Damn it, you are way too drunk to drive. You killed my begonias.”
“No I ammm… ammmmm… I am not!” he shouted triumphantly but then tripped over his own foot and leaned against the house for support.
“You’re too drunk to stand, you obviously can’t drive. Or anything else,” Rob said. Then he realized there was little point in trying to be polite and convince him of anything — he was too drunk to think and wouldn’t remember this tomorrow anyway. “Do you want to come in?”
“You willlllll… get me off?”
“No,” Rob said, but he motioned for Lindsey to come in.
Lindsey frowned and arduously stepped up into the house. He grunted and roared in frustration. “You ssssshaid you would!”
“No, I — Nevermind, just go lay down on the couch. I’ll jack you off in a minute,” Rob said. Lindsey flopped onto the couch, sighed, tried to undo his jeans but just fumbled for a few seconds before quitting. He murmured something about Rob taking his pants off, and then he was asleep. He snored loudly.
Rob sighed and took Lindsey’s shoes off, but nothing else — he didn’t want Lindsey to think Rob had touched him during the night. Rob then laid out a glass of water, some aspirin and a bowl to vomit in, before he went to bed by himself.
The house was quiet all night, Lindsey passed out cold and Rob sleeping soundly.
Rob awoke late, to the sound of water running in the kitchen. He crept out to see if Lindsey was alright.
He must have undressed in the night, Rob thought, because he wore nothing but a pair of boxer shorts now. His muscular torso gleamed. He was rinsing out that vomit bowl, and his hair was wet like he had taken a shower. A few drops of moisture remained on his golden-bronze back, which was broad, gleaming, curving as he flexed his shoulders muscles wiping out the bowl.
“You should not have let me in,” Lindsey said without turning around.
Rob blushed. Had it been obvious he was looking at Lindsey’s ass from behind?
“I would have been fine sleeping on the ground outside,” Lindsey said.
“Oh, well… Yeah, I guess that’d be fine,” Rob said. He shrugged. “Are you feeling okay?”
Lindsey nodded. “I do not get hungover.”
“Cool, cool,” Rob said with a nervous laugh. “Are you…?”
“Still going to cornhole you for money? Yes,” Lindsey said. He turned around and sighed. He dropped his boxer shorts, revealing a big uncut cock that he thwacked against his palm. “Five hundred dollars.”
Rob nodded and blushed. “Are you still going to fix the fusebox today too?”
“Yes. Hurry up and I will get to it today,” Lindsey said with a dramatic sigh like this was a big imposition for him. He scowled and Rob sunk to his knees in front of him. Lindsey grabbed a pack of cigarettes off the counter and lit one, pointedly glaring at Rob as though daring him to object. Rob didn’t mind that bad — the house already reeked of rotten food, mopwater and scorched carpet, so he could hardly complain about a little cigarette smoke.
Though Lindsey himself smelled clean, his cock was deliciously filthy. It reeked of cigarettes and beer — Rob suspected he had spilled beer on himself last night, or someone else did, and Lindsey’s shower today had been hungover, quick and focused more on his head and hair than on getting his whole body genuinely clean.
It was musty too, and it stayed semi-limp in Rob’s mouth for a couple minutes, presumably because Lindsey had been so drunk last night. He had beer-dick at first. Then Lindsey’s motionless body twitched, and he shifted his weight on his feet. His cock finally popped into full erection and throbbed in Rob’s throat.
Lindsey acted as though he wasn’t allowed to touch Rob’s head; his hands flailed and moving around at his side, while he pistoned his hips back and forth. Rob didn’t use his hands either, so he focused entirely on loosening up his throat. That way Lindsey could plow in and out, treating Rob’s throat as a tight pussy, without any need for hands.
“Ah, yes…” Lindsey closed his eyes. His broad chest muscles rippled, and then flexed all at once when Rob reached up to touch them — Lindsey was surprised; the girls he was with rarely did anything like that. This, he thought, was much better than he had predicted.
It wasn’t awkward at all, once he got past his initial inhibitions. Pleasure shot up his spine, and he forgot about the lingering pain in his hand from when he had been shocked. He put his arms behind his back, enjoying the challenge of ramming his cock down Rob’s throat completely hands-free.
“Are you ready to cornhole me?” Rob asked when he finally pulled off. He tasted precum on his tongue, salty and sunny, and a little beery too. It was strongly flavored but copious and watered, again presumably because of all the heavy-drinking last night.
“Yes,” Lindsey said. He tried to look nonchalant. He ran his fingers through his long hair, which shimmered — it was cleaner than it had been for awhile because he washed it very well in the shower this morning. He still felt just a bit queasy, but the more he did, the more his post-drunk mind cleared up.
He was glad Rob had refused him last night. Lindsey would have felt like a jerk if he had woken up today having passed out all over Rob’s bed. Plus, last night he would have been sloppy and probably wouldn’t even remember it today.
This felt good enough he didn’t want to forget. His eyes lit up at the sight of Rob’s bare ass. He had psyched himself up last night as he drank by thinking he could get through cornholing a man despite his ass being big and hairy and gross — but that had always been a worst-case scenario. Lindsey had known even before he started drinking that Rob was kind of girlish, almost as hairless as Lindsey, and not at all gross. He had simply prepared himself so much for the worst-case scenario that he had forgotten that was not the scenario he was in.
Rob’s ass was tight, his cheeks plump, pure white and unblemished like porcelain. Lindsey kneaded his flesh with one hand as he rubbed his dick in Rob’s asscrack. He just humped his hole at first, waiting for Rob to buckle and moan with desire.
“Oh god, stick it in me!” Rob panted, his ass tingling and begging. He needed it inside him. He couldn’t think about anything else. He lowered his head, lifted his ass and rammed it right back on Lindsey’s crotch, with one hand craned behind himself to guide it in.
Lindsey smirked. It felt good to not have to use his hands once again. He could just stand there and wait for his orgasm to come — it barely even counted, he thought, he was just standing here with an erection, and he was only here, he could always claim later, to fix the fusebox.
But as his orgasm approached, Lindsey found he didn’t want to stand there anymore, letting Rob do all the work. He wanted to plow.
He let out a simmering growl, bent his knees a bit and grabbed ahold of Rob’s side roughly. Rob winced and moaned with desire. Lindsey gripped him on both sides and rammed his ass back hard.
“Shit!” Rob cried out as pain and bliss flowed through him in equal measure. His ass rubbed against Lindsey’s crotch, and Lindsey started plowing into him repeatedly, using all his might to get deep in his ass.
Lindsey swayed his hips back and forth. He threw his head back, long wet hair dangling behind him. His chest muscles rippled and the veins in his neck popped against the surface. “Ah, goddamn…”
For a moment, Lindsey thought, it was like Rob disappeared, leaving behind just a tight hole that Lindsey could do with as he pleasure. He could demolish his ass, which was so moist and drippy that it was like sticking his dick in an ocean. Lindsey didn’t even realize he was already cumming — it felt so good he wasn’t aware of his own orgasm until it hit him like a punch to the head.
He howled and slapped Rob’s cheeks, the rippling of his flesh sending Lindsey to new heights of pleasure. He wasn’t even aware of Rob jacking himself off, onto the kitchen floor, at the same time. It was like nothing mattered but the intense pleasure coursing through Lindsey’s veins, little sparks of orgasmic energy flying across his field of vision. He had never experienced anything like it.
“Goddamn,” was all he said as he fell limp, flopping onto the ground on his ass. I wish women let me plow like that. He snorted and wiped sweat off his forehead. He had just showered, and now, he thought, he felt dirty again.
Rob was sprawled out on the floor. He had rarely been ramrodded so hard, and it was especially surprising in this case because Lindsey began so withdrawn and reserved. He had even refused first — Rob didn’t often experience a second-chance that went well.
Rob stood on sore legs as the phone on the counter buzzed. He glanced at it and handed it to Lindsey. Lindsey listened to a voice-mail, frowning, still sprawled out on the floor, his chest dappled with sweat.
“Bah,” Lindsey said, “Your homeowner’s insurance won’t cover anything to do with the barnhouse fuse. They want their own electrician to make sure you’ve been maintaining it. Which you haven’t been, so your insurance won’t cover it.”
“What maintenance?” Rob asked. He knew he was annoyed, he felt that annoyance in the back of his mind — what had been the point of buying homeowner’s insurance?!?!?! — but it all seemed distant and unimportant.
“You’re supposed to flip the circuit breaker on and off once a year. I could tell you never did it. No one ever does. These old houses with-“
“That’s bullshit…” Rob sighed. It was hard to get worked up about stuff when basking in post-orgasmic glow. He shrugged. “Fine. I’ll just pay for it. Will it take you all day?”
Lindsey smirked and nodded. “I might have to come back tomorrow,” he said. “And do even more work for you.”
Rob blushed before agreeing. “Well,” Rob said with a chuckle. “Go ahead and get started.”
Read it now for free as an ebook!
Chapter One: Court Fees Got Me Down
Chapter Three: Fraternity Hazing