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Rob’s World of Men: Chapter Three

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This skier, Rob thought, had better be worth it. He wished he had stayed in Stockholm until the weather changed, so he could fly. But after a week in that dismal, gray little city, he was ready to move on.
Sweden, thus far, had been a bust. He thought he would find the studliest Swede in the country.
But the studliest Swedes thus far had all eluded him. Oh, there were hot Swedettes a plenty: blondes with blue eyes and alluring grins, Saami babes with thickness in all the right spots, even a bubbling squadron of soccer-playing ladies in skimpy garb (who had filled up the Pressbyrån convenience store that Rob was trying to get gas in at the time).
The men, however, had been a milquetoast collection of duds, sour-faced and scrawny for the most part. He’d seen a few cuties, but Rob hadn’t traveled to Sweden for a nice-looking dude. He’d come here for the studliest hunk Sweden had to offer.
That was why he decided to find this supposedly handsome skier. He wasn’t technically Swedish — the skier was actually Norwegian.
But even that trek to the other side of the country had turned boring and banal. Rob just wanted to go back to his hotel; this whole mission was getting boring. Sweden was a drab green, cloudy, full of emotionless skinny men who made Rob’s dick shrivel up at the sight of them. They all appeared to be sucking on a lemon, Rob thought, but that couldn’t be true because there were no lemons here — that would have been too much flavor for Swedish cuisine. This was a country of heavy, dull carbs with the taste cooked out of them. Here, porridge had been the most delightful thing Rob had yet eaten.
He was driving through Västergötland in the southwest when his car stalled. It happened suddenly, as he was coasting to a stop near a farm. There was a stop-sign for no obvious reason.
The car emitted a dull wheeze like a dying reindeer, then shuddered to a complete stop. Rob tried the key a few times, but it was dead. As if to punctuate the point, there was a cluddy thunking sound and then all of the lights on the dashboard turned on. After a moment, they all turned off. The car had never been more silent.
“Fucking damn it! Sweden is the worst!” Rob got out of the car and muttered obscenities to himself. There was mud and mire everywhere, the ground a soggy, grass-dappled wasteland.
He could either call for an Uber or a tow or call the car-rental company or walk to the farmhouse he saw just over yonder. He figured this area was so rural, he’d probably be waiting awhile regardless, so he headed towards the farmhouse. He called the car-rental agency, and they said they’d send him a replacement car.
What were they growing here?
Rob couldn’t tell. This was some sort of root vegetable, he suspected — though not potatoes. The leaves looked like marigolds, he thought, but were much too long and bunchy, and there were no flowers that he could see. Maybe kale? It looked vaguely kale-esque. Were kale roots edible?
The door to the farmhouse opened well before Rob got there. Out walked an incredible man.
Rob stopped short, both because his eyes opened wide and his heart skipped a beat, and because he wondered if he was in trouble. Would he be perceived as a trespasser? Was this man the studliest Swede?
He very well might have been.
The man stood solidly in front of the farmhouse. He wore a ruddy brown and orange shirt under a navy blue coat and black trousers that ended at the knee, his ankles covered by long white socks.
Though his clothing was ill-matched and rough, he was the most arousing man Rob had seen in weeks. He was tall and broad, muscular like only a farmworker could be, with layers of heft upon muscle upon brawn. His hair was long and scraggly like a Viking, and it extended well past his shoulders.
“Hallå,” he said gruffly when Rob was close enough to hear him.
“Hej,” Rob said, in his rudimentary Swedish. He blushed a little, nervous because the farmer was so arousing and intense. “My name is Rob.”
The farmer grunted, eyeing him suspiciously. His gray-blue eyes reflected the limpid white clouds behind Rob.
“Uh, well, sorry for just barging in on your farm. I’m having car trouble out on the road over there — see, you can see my car from here-“
“I know.”
Rob’s face bloomed red, and he scratched his chin. “Ah… You… You already knew I had car trouble?”
“I witnessed it.” His deep voice boomed in Rob’s ears. He sighed as though surrendering to unseen forces. “You may come in. Do you wish to use the telefon?”
“Uh, no, my cell phone is fine, I just called the car rental company,” Rob said. “Thanks though.” He came in and instantly winced at the foulest odor he’d ever had the misfortune of smelling hit his nose. It was like a fish farted out a different, deader fish in an ocean made of skunk-spray. It smelled so bad, so strongly, that it had a physical presence; Rob had to walk through it like it was a rank cotton ball in the air; it seeped into his pores, and he doubled over. “Oh god-“
“Yes, it is bad. I am sorry, I did forget du är amerikan. That smell is surströmming.” He pointed to a can open on the table. Inside was some goo Rob couldn’t bear to look at more closely — it was fish. Was the farmer really eating that stuff? Had Rob interrupted the world’s most disgusting lunch?
The farmer waited for a moment, and when it became apparent that Rob was not going to acclimate to this smell, he rolled his eyes and motioned for Rob to come with him. “It is a smell you must get used to.”
“Not with this nose!” Rob said, still gagging even when he finally got out into the fresh air. “Oh god, that was nasty. You eat that stuff?”
He nodded. “It is a Swedish custom.”
“That is a terrible custom,” Rob said, “absolutely terrible.” He straightened his back. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude-“
“No, not at all, I do not eat it around outsiders because they react as you do. Even most Swedes do not eat it these days,” he said. He sounded mournful, and he looked down at the ground as he led Rob towards a barn. “The old traditions are dying, gentle Rob. They die not like the turnip, which sweetens and grows in quality as it lays dormant in the winter, but rather like the gray clouds themselves, which dissipate into gentle rain and then… nothingness.” He scoffed. “Bah. It rains again.” Sure enough, a fine mist was starting to fall, and a chill was in the air. “Always it is rain. Regnet är ett lager av död på mig.”
“Oh.” Rob was overwhelmed by the dour man’s aura of angst. Was he suicidal?
Another chill ran up Rob’s spine at the sight of a small gravestone near the barn. It read min älskade Elsa — my beloved Elsa — but had nothing else, no date of birth nor of death, nor any symbols or markings. It was a smallish gravestone, making Rob wonder if it was a child’s. But the look the farmer gave it as they passed was more one of intimate love. Rob could see sweetly summer nights reflected in his eyes, and he knew then that it was no child: It was a wife.
“Yes, that is min älskade Elsa. It is her loss that makes the summertimes so gray. Light itself mourns her,” the farmer said. He looked to Rob and sighed again as though even sighing was an imposition. “I am sorry in my apologizery, I forget my manners. My name is Olle.”
“Hej Olle. It is nice to meet you.”
“You can wait for a new car in here. This barn is very nice, there is water and a toilet,” he said. He pointed to a long trough-like sink, presumably for washing the turnips that were heaped up along the wall like forgotten orphans. A door in one corner presumably led to the bathroom.
Aside from smelling earthy and turnipy, it was indeed nice in here. The smell was pleasant in comparison to the surströmming that lingered in Rob’s nostrils.
“I’ve never been in a barn this nice. I like it, it’s homey and cozy, and-” Rob said.
“It will be gone soon.”
“Oh.” Rob was beginning to get depressed too. Olle’s mood was catching.
“The bank is foreclosing on my farm. They will replace it with an electrical substation. I am but the tracks upon which the train of time progresses,” Olle said, his voice flat and squalid. He grabbed a hacka and hung his head, leaning on it. His grim mood had almost made Rob forget how arousing he was, but when he lifted the hacka off its spot mounted on the wall, he had to raise those beefy farm-working arms. Rob saw them bulge against the stiff fabric of his shirt. “Bah! Bättre brödlös än rådlös.”
“How much do you owe the bank?” Rob asked. “Because I have ten thousand krona in my pocket, and I’m looking for someone who can do something for me.”
For the first time, Olle looked genuinely interested in Rob. His eyebrows raised. “Giving me money would be a waste. I have no skills but the growing of turnips.” He picked one up. “Like my beloved Elsa, this turnip is hard and rough to the touch but beautiful and nourishing to the soul.” He bit into it, through the dirt that clung to the skin, his massive teeth tearing into it — were turnips even edible raw? Rob hadn’t thought so, but Olle didn’t seem to mind — and chewed on the bit of turnip in his mouth, clumps cascading out and clapping moistly onto the ground. “But I am, unlike the lowly turnip, worth nothing. I am best replaced by an electrical substation.”
“Oh, no, Olle… You are, uh… Not… Don’t be, uh… sad,” Rob said. He wasn’t very good at cheering people up, and the more time he spent with Olle, the more depressed they both became.

“Bah. I shall stoically surrender to the maw of progress. Let time devour me like so many salted herring,” Olle said with a dismissive wave of his giant hand. He sat and leaned against a mound of turnips. “I will not do your work. Ten thousand krona is not enough to save the farm. It can only buy me a few months, perhaps, at best. Life is an exercise in grayest futility, a sisyphean chore with neither end nor beginning, only an enduring middle. Do not bother to help me. I am strong but dumb like a getabock.” He tapped himself on the skull. “I don’t have all my horses in the stable.”

“That’s fine. I don’t need brains,” Rob said. “Will you cornhole me?”
Olle looked up after a few moments of pondering his words, like it took him that time for Rob’s meaning to sink through the fog of his mind. He grunted. “What?”
“I want to jack your dick, and I want to feel you inside me. Is that okay? Can you do that? I’ll give you ten thousand krona. Actually, I’ll give you all the cash I’ve got in my pocket. That’s ten thousand krona, and some Canadian dollars and like two hundred euros. I don’t even know what it all adds up to.”
“And you will… jack on my penis? Why?”
“Cuz I’m horny.” Rob shrugged. He actually intended to say more — he wanted to taste Olle’s dick because he needed an affectionate touch, because Olle seemed so down, because it was the only spark that could lighten such grayness as hung over Sweden’s much today.
But Olle’s sadness had caught, and Rob had not the energy nor the vitality to explain himself more fully.
Olle furrowed his thick brow again like this didn’t compute. “Are you aroused by turnips?” He picked one up. “Riken är en sexig grönsak. Det påminner mig om Elsa. Turnips smell of her delicate womanhood, and I do miss it so.”
“No, Olle, I’m aroused by you. You’re really intense. You-“
“False.” Olle stood up and sighed. “Fine. Yes. You may do it. It is, at least, more pleasant than washing turnips and praying for the sweet release of death.”
“Yeah… Yeah, that’s… true. It is better than that,” Rob said. He giggled, feeling like a moron because Olle was so sullen and aloof, making Rob seem like a giddy idiot. Olle stood still in front of him. Rob was much shorter than he was, so he started by having him shrug off that coat, and then he lifted off the shirt.
Olle stood there, his big broad chest gleaming a porcelain vitblek — obviously he rarely went shirtless in the sun. A layer of blond hair covered his massive pecs, and his fleshy belly was flat, another layer of hair leading over it to his crotch.
“Damn, Olle… No one ever told you you’re handsome. Not Elsa?”
“Bah! Yes, of course, she did say it, but she suffered from the cruel illness that the Danes call true love,” he said. “It blinded her to the truth. Oh what a fool she was. A lovely fool, perfection incarnate, now swallowed by gray nothingness.”
“Okay, Olle, relax,” Rob said. He clutched his chest, kneading the meaty part of his belly — he very nearly had a six-pack, but had just a bit of thickness there, probably, Rob thought, because he ate a ton of carb-heavy turnips. His pecs were nice and heavy too, radiating power even as Olle frowned and ignored Rob’s touch. They weren’t like hard and unyielding stones either, they were booming and manlig and hairy and Rob could feel Olle’s powerful heart beating beneath them.
He jacked on Olle’s nipple, while one hand snuck under the waistband of his trousers. Olle twitched like this had only just now become real, like he had barely noticed until now, as Rob’s hands slipped into his crotch. Rob gripped his cock and squeezed.
It was just as big as he was, Rob though, as wide as a turnip but still soft. He’s not too depressed to get hard, is he? Rob hoped not — antidepressants could cause erectile dysfunction, he remembered reading that somewhere.
But before Rob even got those trousers down, Olle’s cock twitched once more, pulsating under his grasp. Olle let out a moan that somehow sounded both pleasurable and sad, som början till en sorglig sång. Rob wanted to sing along with it, but the tune, he suspected, would make Olle cry if he heard another voice sing it.
“You touch me like Elsa…” Olle wiped a single tear away.
“Uh-huh.” Rob decided his best course of action was to just plow forward. Olle obviously was going to continue to pine for Elsa and bemoan his various fates as long as Rob listened. So he just stroked Olle’s manhood as he kissed his way down Olle’s torso.
It popped out, fresh from the dark and damp of his pants but smelling of stale sweat and old turnips, with a bit of that rotten fish-smell to provide a bit of funk. It wasn’t exactly a good smell, of course, but Rob inhaled it deeply as he lowered his head and got to work.
“Her soul lingers here,” Olle said as his dick stiffened up. He turned to face the turnips instead of Rob. “I tell myself that she would have me live on, to endure despite the unbearable grimness of being. But I do not believe it. I am a liar. I can feel her judgments upon me. Oh, my American friend, how I wish I could be carefree as you are.” He plopped back down on his ass on the floor, sprawled out on a bed of turnips, which rolled over the barn.
“I’m not that carefree,” Rob said him, before he went right back to Olle’s cock, which flopped free and slapped against his belly when he laid down. Rob licked him from root to tip, and a shudder of visible pleasure ran up Olle’s spine. At last it was as firm as the uncooked turnips that filled the barn.
But he only moaned as though sad still, even as his dick leaked precum onto Rob’s tongue. Rob deep-throated Olle to the root, his nose nuzzling the warmth and the light brown hair of his crotch, som smakade av ren mark och natt. There, at the base of his dick, was where the earthy soil smell was greatest, and it finally wiped away the last of the surströmming from Rob’s nose.
“This pleasure is a curse. Må min förmögenhet slå mig död, for I can not take this any longer.” Olle’s baritone voice resonated in the high-ceilinged barn.
Rob lifted his head. “Sorry… are you…? Did you want me to stop?”
Olle frowned at him. “No. Do not stop-“
“Oh. You said it was a curse, I just thought-“
“It is utter torture that I should feel pleasure without my Elsa. I am not worthy of it. Min älskade Elsa, how I crave you instead of this wanton lust! I should burn this money and let the bank take my farm, they can sell my battered corpse to the electric company,” he said with an air of resignation on his squarish face He looked back down at Rob and thwacked him across the face with his dick. “Why did you stop?”
“I, uh… You said…” Rob shrugged. He kissed the tip of Olle’s cock. “Are you ready to cornhole me?”
“Yes. You must ride me. Standing is such sweet sorrow. I do not wish for min älskade Elsa to witness me standing for such perversity — I-” He paused and looked at Rob, who used Olle’s thick body for support as he mounted him. Olle cleared his throat. “It is perverse to bring pleasure into a world so saddened by the relentless onslaught of time-“
“Uh-huh.” Rob had to spread his legs wide to fit atop Olle, who continued, ignoring Rob and gesticulating wildly upward, as though he blamed his barn’s roof for all of his misfortune.
Rob didn’t mind having to ride him. Olle’s dick was thick and knobbly like a turnip, and it could easily hurt if he didn’t take it gently. Rob always carried lube in his pocket, so he got his ass good and slick before sitting on Olle’s shaft.
“-Att skiljas är att dö en smula!-” Olle shouted. But Rob had stopped listening as he strained to accept that massive cock. Olle didn’t seem to notice that no one listened but the turnips.
Only when Rob had it in and had sunk down a few inches did Olle stop wailing. Olle’s muscles lay limp, like he was too tired already to even raise his head and look at his dick sliding upwards into Rob’s ass. Rob had to lean on his chest, kneading his muscles as he sank lower and lower.
“Goddamn…” Rob grunted and took a deep breath. At last he felt coarse pubic hairs scratching at his ass, and a moan of unadulterated pleasure escaped from Olle’s lips.
Rob kept his hands on those bulging pecs, which flexed as Olle twisted back and forth without lifting his head up. His arms flailed among the turnips piled around him. Rob played with the sweat-dappled blond chest hairs too, giggling at the sight of Olle groaning and showing a little emotion, just a fleeting bit of bliss visible on his face.
Then, at last, Olle actually gripped Rob’s waist and helped him ride his cock up and down. Rob sighed and moaned along with Olle — adding a sweeter, more mellifluous sound than Olle’s dirge-like wail — as he squeezed his ass on Olle’s cock.
It was as good as Rob could ever have expected. He didn’t know a depressive man like Olle could even cornhole half as good as this. His dick raged inside Rob, finding his prostate and stimulating it until Rob couldn’t take it anymore. His dick was everywhere inside him, and Rob felt his precum flow freely.
Rob stroked himself off, but then found that Olle took his dick in hand. Rob was shocked — he hadn’t asked for that, but Olle, it seemed didn’t mind. He stroked Rob with his big meaty hand, caked with dirt from the turnips. He stroked it furiously, in sync with Rob’s rising up and down on his dick.
It felt like they continued forever, but Rob knew it couldn’t have been very long because his phone didn’t ring to tell him the car rental agency had sent his replacement. It simply felt like a long time because it was the most potent orgasm Rob had experienced since beginning his trip.
“Oh god, Olle!”
Rob’s orgasm began at both ends, with cum spraying into his ass and coating his prostate, just as he reached his own climax in Olle’s hands. Rob cried out and buckled when sheer pleasure washed through him and wracked his body. He gulped, biting his lip so hard he drew blood.
Olle’s squarish jaw clenched shut, and he didn’t even seem to notice Rob shooting his load all over Olle’s bear-like paws and onto his hairy chest. Still more came, wad after wad of creamy juice that coated Olle’s broad body in Rob’s sticky warmth.
The load in his ass was huge too, flowing into him like a river, more and more, gobs of it until Rob could feel it throughout his body and dripping out onto the dirt floor of the barn.
That single glorious moment seemed to last forever. Rob wanted to beg for more, but at the same time, this was too intense to endure. At last, he could take it no longer, and he lifted his ass off Olle’s cock, bit by bit, inch by inch.
Olle showed no emotion, even as Rob panted with anticipation, until Rob’s ass finally slipped off. Then Olle grunted and his whole body writhed. A second little mini-orgasm hit Rob like a steamship as his sensitive asshole adjusted to being empty, and Rob knelt in front of Olle’s still-prone body.
He licked up all the cum that clung to Olle’s big bear-like chest, savoring the sticky-sweetness of his own load. Then he curled up next to Olle, pushing aside turnips to make room. He nuzzled Olle’s bicep.
“Thanks, Olle. I’m glad you’re, you know… slogging through, despite all that… woe you’re experiencing.”
But Olle just nodded. “You will have to go soon. Darkness will fall, and then, I must be alone to experience… myself. Do not return, for I shall be replaced by a power line.”
Rob sighed. “Okay. I won’t be back,” he said.

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Rob’s World of Men: Chapter Two

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Rob didn’t discover that the men were lumberjacks and that they were on strike until much later. When he happened upon them, they appeared to be a couple dozen of the most muscular men he had ever seen, lounging around, drinking coffee and looking nonchalant when pretty girls walked by. It was a very sedate strike.
Rob was here in France in order to taste the masculine fruit of the country. And there was no sweeter fruit than these lumberjacks. Their muscles bulged against the black and white-striped shirts they wore, with low v-necks that showed off their strapping chest muscles.
One, in particular, attracted Rob’s gaze. He was tall, broad-shouldered, mustached and grizzle-chinned, with a tattoo of a French flag visible on his chest and one of Marianne on his left bicep, which was bare beneath a sleeveless shirt.
“Bonjour,” Rob said. He knew his French was good, if Quebecois-accented, since his French teacher was de Montreal. “Je m’appelle Rob.”
The man grunted. He screwed up his nose when Rob sat next to him at the little cafe table. He looked like he was about to say something, but then a pretty middle-aged woman walked by, gabbing on her cell phone. The man watched her with intent interest.
“I would like to pay you money,” Rob said. He blushed, momentarily at a loss for words as the man glared at him.
“I am on strike,” he said.
“No, no, I’m not going to pay you for your job, I have something special in mind,” Rob said. “I want you to come back to my hotel room. I’ll pay you five hundred euros.”
“Quoi?”
“Five hundred euros. You just come back to my hotel room, and… y’know, let me do some stuff.”
“Quoi?”
“You know…”
“You show me,” he said as though he had a good guess and simply wanted confirmation. He frowned. “Under table.”
Rob looked among the other lumberjacks, who smoked cigarettes and lazed like they were taking the day off instead of striking. One of them looked at the man as though he wanted to know what was happening, but he did not ask.
Shivering with fear and anticipation, Rob dove underneath the cafe table. Tourists walked by, sneaking glances at him. The man wore blue pants made of some thick fabric. He didn’t what he was expected to do, but he stuck his head between the man’s legs and kissed his cock.
“Tu es sale.”

The man wore no underwear. His massive, limp dick was palpable beneath the fabric of his pants. He laughed a deep, baritone boom when Rob kissed his dick. When he laughed, his dick twitched.

The man stood up, and Rob crawled out from underneath the table. The man stood there. He lit a cigarette. When Rob stood near him, the man pointed to the ground. He ashed right on Rob’s head.
“Crawl,” he said. He didn’t wait for an answer. He just turned around and walked away, and Rob got down on all fours. He followed after him, keeping his head up and as close as he could get, so he could smell the man’s thick asscheeks.
He didn’t leave the cafe. He walked to the counter, and Rob blushed intensely. The pretty girl clerk looked at him with a curious expression as she sold the man a baguette. She smiled flirtatiously at him, and she called him Hugo.
Hugo smiled at her. “Tu es très jolie,” he said. He kissed her on the lips, and she swooned into his arms.
For a moment, Rob thought he was forgotten, that Hugo was going to take this girl into the men’s room and make love to her. But the girl pushed him away. She squealed and slapped him lightly, though she laughed and blushed as though she was happy to have kissed him despite the slap.
Hugo left her with a shrug, like he didn’t care that she had rejected him. He returned to his table, grabbed the beret he had left there, finished his coffee and walked off. He didn’t glance behind him at Rob, who scampered after him.
“I thought we’d go to my hotel room. I’ll jack your dick and lick your asshole and you can cornhole me,” Rob said. “I’ll do anything you want. Five hundred euros.”
“Oui.”
“Okay. Thanks, Hugo,” Rob said. “My hotel is-“
“Non,” he said. He stopped walking. They were in the cafe’s backyard. It didn’t appear to be used very often, but it was maintained. It was a small grassy plot that faced a cobblestoned alley. There was a row of shrubs that prevented anyone from seeing fully in, but the yard was not concealed — no one could see anything roughly below Hugo’s waist. Of course, people in the cafe’s kitchen could see through a window, but it seemed Hugo didn’t much care about that.
Hugo took off a hunk of the baguette with his teeth. He loudly munched on it, while Rob settled on his knees in front of Hugo’s body. His face was just inches from Hugo’s crotch.
“Is it… do you want me to just…?”
“Lick it,” Hugo said, his mouth full of bread. Baguette crumbs landed on Rob’s face. “Sucer.”
Rob unzipped Hugo’s fly and pulled his pants down. He wasn’t wearing underwear, so his thick cockshaft popped right out. It hit Rob in the face, making Hugo laugh.
“You have a big dick.”
“Oui,” Hugo said. His face was flat and expressionless. He puffed on the cigarette in one hand, then took another bite of the baguette. His burgundy beret almost fell off his head.
Rob kissed his cocktip again. It twitched just like before, but now Rob could taste the musty smell of his sweat. His uncut cock tasted something like a vineyard, Rob thought, not the wine part, but the unused mash, the waste left over after making wine. It was musty and sweet and strong, and it made Rob’s dick hard.
“Colette,” Hugo said. His voice was as grim and flat as his face. Rob didn’t know what he meant at first, but then Hugo repeated it. “Colette.” He took a few steps closer to the window that faced the cafe’s kitchen. Rob had to scramble after him to stay in front of his still-limp cock. That placed Rob up against the ancient brick wall of the cafe, while Hugo’s big body filled the open window into the kitchen. “Colette…”
That pretty waitress from inside walked in there from the cafe. She scoffed at Hugo. “Eh, Hugo, va-t’en, je suis occupé,” she said in French.
From her position in the kitchen, she couldn’t see that Hugo’s dick was out, and she couldn’t see that Rob was letting that entire shaft drop into his mouth. He suckled on it, as passionately as he could without making much noise.
“I have written a poem,” Hugo said. His dick firmed up now that Colette was paying attention to him, and it throbbed in Rob’s throat.
She blushed and laughed again. She waved him off, but she also moved closer, washing dishes near enough to the window that she could hear him.
“Let me see your breasts,” he said. His cock throbbed in Rob’s mouth. “Or just one. They are so beautiful, they are like poems of the flesh. My words can never be as inspired as they are.”
She undid her blouse, and she let one of her tits fly free. She made it look rather casual, as though it was an accident, though she had clearly done so deliberately. Hugo lowered his head and tried to suck on her nipple, as his dick fully perked up to full erection in Rob’s mouth.
“Hush, Hugo, I am married,” she said. She took her breast away and covered it up. “Let me hear your poem.”
He straightened his back. His dick twitched in Rob’s mouth, and he lit another cigarette. He exhaled the smoke away from the cafe. He put the baguette down on a table that sat out back — it had a wobbly leg, so it tottered when he put the baguette on it. His heavy, hairy balls rested on Rob’s chin, dripping sweat onto him while the first few drops of salty precum hit his tongue.

You are pretty like Paris
When it lights up at night
You are an oasis of illumination
In a desert of night-time
You are where the camel drinks at last
Before it dies
Under the fierce Algerian sun
You are my canteen
The final drink
The last one I need
To die on sand, satisfied
And thirst, quenched

Vous êtes jolie comme Paris
Quand il allume la nuit
Vous êtes une oasis d’illumination
Dans un désert de nuit
Vous êtes là où le chameau boit enfin,
Avant qu’il ne meurt
Sous le soleil algérien féroce
Vous êtes ma cantine
La boisson finale
La dernière que je dois
Pour mourir sur le sable, satisfait
Et la soif, trempé

She blushed and smiled. “That is very pretty, Hugo,” she said. She patted him on the muscular belly beneath his lumberjack shirt. His skin puckered at her touch, and his dick twitched. She bared her tit again for him, making him growl with desire. She covered it back up with a giggle. “But you did tell the same poem to Maria last week. She has told me about it.”
Hugo’s mouth opened but no words came out. His deep voice rumbled. He had obviously not meant to get caught at this. She laughed at his reaction, then turned around and walked away.
“Damn it!” Hugo snorted when she was gone. “Merde!” The kitchen was empty.
He pistoned his hips before Rob could react. That pushed his entire cock down Rob’s throat. Rob choked and spasmed, and his own dick leaked precum into his fingers. His head banged painfully into the wall behind him.
He slathered spit all along the shaft, coughing up so much saliva it dripped in clumps. Hugo’s muscles bulged beneath his black-and-white striped shirt, which had a few dark spots now where he sweated through it.
Rob’s hands stretched up to Hugo’s chest, slipping under that shirt to massage his hairy muscles. He had a thick nest of fur there on his torso, which Rob loved. He wished he could get up and lick his chest clean, but he had a feeling Hugo would not allow that.
As Rob groped Hugo, Hugo groped as well — his hands slipped into the window, where he felt around until he found a cheese plate. He pulled it out. The smell of funky cheese filled the air, overpowering even the precum and sweat scent of Hugo’s cock.
As he pumped his hips, forcing his cock into Rob’s throat, Hugo ignored his choking and his frenzied jacking. He just grabbed the baguette he had half-eaten, and he made himself a cheese sandwich, just by ripping off hunks of bread and cheese. He ate it vociferously, crumbs landing all over Rob and even on Hugo’s dick so Rob could taste the bread and the sour cheese.
All of a sudden, Hugo pulled off Rob’s face. He jammed the baguette into Rob’s face as though trying to make him deepthroat that as well. He laughed cruelly when the baguette left crumbs all over Rob’s cheeks.
“Lick my ass. Lécher mon cul.”
Then he turned around. His asscheeks were big and plump and tanned brown. They were hairy, but not extremely so, they were just hairy enough for Rob. He dove his face between those cheeks.
Hugo grunted like he was surprised. Rob loved licking ass though, so he enthusiastically lapped at the sweat that trickled between Hugo’s cheeks. His body was big and plump, so his ass was juicy. Rob’s entire face fit between those delicious cheeks. He slurped up every inch of Hugo’s funky hole.
His eyes and his nose were covered, but Rob could hear that something was happening. Hugo shifted his weight a little, like he faced a different direction now. Hugo said something and laughed — was that aimed at Rob? He couldn’t tell.
Eventually Rob had to come up for air. He was still pinned between the wall and Hugo’s big ass, but he could see just barely that there was a white-faced mime in the alley. He must have been walking by and seen Hugo getting his ass licked.
Now the mime was bent over, leaning against the fence with his ass in the air. He wiggled his ass like a dog trying to scratch an itch. That made Hugo laugh, and Rob joined in — the mime was making fun of them. He was in the same position as Hugo, moving his ass as though an invisible man licked it.
Rob licked all the way from the top of Hugo’s ass, right at the small of his back, down his asscrack, over his hole and through the funky hair of his taint. Rob’s head appeared on the other side of his body, where Rob swallowed his heavy ballsac.
Hugo grunted. He lifted his balls up, then plopped them back in Rob’s mouth a few times.
Sensing that Hugo was ready to move on, Rob stood up, very slowly, keeping his tongue out so he licked Hugo’s cockshaft then all the way up his chest and over that black-and-white striped shirt he still wore.
He nearly managed to lick all the way up to Hugo’s face so he could kiss him on the lips, but Hugo roughly pushed his face away.
Oh well, Rob thought, that was okay with him. He knew what he wanted to do next. He dropped his own pants to bare his ass, while Hugo watched. He reached into the kitchen again, this time pulling out a bottle of red wine and a glass. He poured himself a drink. He laughed at the mime who mimicked everything Hugo did.
The mime finished his invisible wine and smashed the invisible glass on the road. Then he grabbed an invisible ass and pretended to cornhole it, making Hugo laugh some more.
As Hugo actually bent Rob over for real, the mime beckoned for someone. Rob blushed as he realized he was about to have an audience.
He bit his lip and threw his head back as Hugo rammed his dick in without a word of warning. He didn’t use any lube at first, but he started to spit on his cockshaft once he felt resistance. The pain in Rob’s ass was extraordinary, and he moaned in both desire and agony.
It turned out the mime beckoned a musician, an accordionist who laughed when he saw Hugo cornholing Rob. The accordionist began playing musette, which made the entire experience seem almost romantic to Rob. The crooning accordion filled the air, covering up the sound of Rob’s gasping as he accepted more and more of Hugo’s meat.
“Ooh la la,” Rob said through his moans. His prostate came alive and sent tingles through his body. His pleasure grew in waves with every touch of Hugo’s cock inside him.
Hugo’s sausage-like fingers grabbed ahold of Rob’s back and held on. His dick was all the way in Rob’s ass now, his balls slapping against Rob’s thighs. Rob squirmed. Hugo grunted.
The tune coming from the accordion changed to a new song. Rob recognized it but he couldn’t place it at first. He was too overwhelmed by sensations from deep within him to think about it.
It was only when Hugo began singing that Rob recognized the words and placed it to the tune — it was “La Marseillaise”, the national anthem of France. It was a bloody, martial song and, despite the romance of the accordion, that atmosphere shone through because Hugo sang it with his deep, baritone voice, crackling, booming, pumping his biceps and his pecs on the accented words. He sounded like a soldier marching off to war, Rob thought, covering up his own moans so he didn’t overpower the sound of Hugo singing.
At last an orgasm ran through Rob’s body. He loved cumming with a man’s cock in his ass because it always made the top react — Hugo stopped singing for a moment. He grumbled, then groaned in surprise as Rob’s asshole clenched around his cock.
When Hugo began to gyrate his hips again, the pain was worse than ever on account of Rob’s orgasm-tightened ass. That didn’t last long, however, as the smell of cum filled the air, crowding out the bleu cheese and wine that still lingered, and the passion of Hugo’s thrusting made Rob relax
Now he shuddered, aftershocks of his orgasm wracking his body. He was fully limp though, barely able to remain on all fours in front of Hugo, with his ass in the air and his head on the ground.
Since Rob no longer jacked himself off, Hugo could — and did — treat him like a ragdoll. He held onto Rob’s asscheeks tightly, riding him, grinding his dick inside Rob’s body as though he needed to cornhole every inch of Rob’s innards. He grunted out a few indecipherable French syllables.
Once he finished his wine, he smashed the delicate glass on Rob’s back. A few shards of glass sprayed onto the ground at Rob’s feet, and the slight twinge of pain made Rob writhe. The smell of wine was strong now. Rob squirmed but Hugo kept a tight grip on his body.
“I will drown your ass now,” Hugo said with a broken moan. “Je vais noyer ton cul maintenant…”He slapped Rob’s cheeks and watched them ripple. His own muscles flexed and rippled as well, as an orgasm washed over his body.
His lit cigarette fell out of his mouth and landed on Rob’s back, scorching him briefly before it rolled off him and fell onto the ground. He yelped a little, as the pain reawakened the exquisite sensations in his asshole.
Hugo plowed in and out relentlessly, still breaking into the words of “La Marseillaise” every few seconds as the accordionist continued the song (or maybe started it over, Rob couldn’t tell). Hugo grunted and roared, and cum spurted out of his uncut cock.
It filled up Rob’s ass, dripping into every corner of his body. He shot so much that some of it slipped out his ass, coating his butt and his inner thighs in creamy goodness. It was hot and thick, and it made Rob moan when he felt wad after wad of semen land on his prostate.
He squirmed. He moved his ass back and forth, rubbing his insides with Hugo’s dick. Hugo stood perfectly still. He lit yet another cigarette as he still moaned with the power of his own orgasm.
“Ooh la la…” Hugo murmured with a dry, throaty chuckle.
Then his dick was perfectly limp. Rob pulled off him and sighed. The most incredible relief of his life flooded his body now that his ass was empty. He turned around and dove his face between Hugo’s lumberjack arm and his body. As Hugo breathed heavily, and the mime and accordionist walked away, Rob licked all the sweat that had collected there in Hugo’s damp armpit.
At last it was over. Hugo flopped his limp dick between his fingers, and he wiped his shaft off with the last little bit of baguette. He rammed the crusty, ass-and-cum-soaked bread into Rob’s mouth, laughing when it made Rob cough and choke.
He pulled his pants up, took a drag off his cigarette, then glanced towards the street. There was a pretty girl walking past, and Hugo’s eyes lit up.
“Money,” Hugo said. “Argent, maintenant.”
Rob had forgotten he hadn’t actually paid yet. He pulled out his wallet, carefully counted out five hundred euros and handed it over. Hugo took it, nodded, then took the rest of the cash out of Rob’s wallet. He pushed Rob away and walked out to the main street, calling after the pretty girl.
“Antoinette! Antoinette! Attends-moi!”
Finally left alone, Rob sighed. He pulled his own pants up and leaned against the fence. Inside the cafe’s kitchen, Colette had returned with a plate of dirty dishes. She wrinkled her nose at Rob as though she either thought he was homeless or knew he was a tourist and didn’t like them.
But she didn’t tell him to leave the yard, so Rob just stayed there, smelling the wine, bleu cheese and cum, the combined scent of which would forever make him think of France and the greatest French stud he had ever met.
He smiled. This European tour, he thought, was going to be even better than he had hoped.

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Rob’s World of Men: Chapter One

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Rob had no idea he was talking to a celebrity. When he later mentioned that he knew Sam “The Yee-Haw Yank” Washington, people reacted like that was a big deal. But at the time, Rob only knew that he was a college football player and that he wore a broad-brimmed cowboy hat. Rob had no interest in football — though he loved football jocks — so he didn’t even think about Sam as a potential celebrity.
When they met, Sam was still in college, at the height of his career. He was tall, broad-shouldered, six-packed, with perfectly taut skin and high cheekbones and a godlike chin, and his face was framed by the cowboy hat he rarely took off. He wore a Hawaiian shirt too, because he was between football seasons, so he was technically on vacation, and here, the sun beat down upon the landscape, baking the acres of prairie that stretched in every direction. The shirt was unbuttoned though, revealed his broad and powerful chest. His face was impossibly squarish, his jaw perfectly jutting, like an action hero.
Last year, Sam’s football team was on the other side of the country, where nobody knew him and no girls threw themselves at him, so Rob had propositioned him. He offered to jack Sam off, thinking he would need a little release since he was away from his girlfriends.

Only Sam said no. He had scoffed as though it was impossible. And now, more than a year later, Sam was back. He was in town again (visiting his brother and a gaggle of nieces and nephews) and again, he was alone as long as he was here. He drove his giant pickup truck to the gym, where he had bought a temporary membership, then heavy-foot padded his way inside. He moved more gracefully than a powerfully heavy man like him seemed capable of. He hadn’t come to the gym intending to cornhole Rob. He had totally forgotten about being propositioned last year. He was horny though, his dick stirring every time he saw a sexy woman in the gym. This particular gym had a lot of fatties but also enough trim and fit babes to get Sam’s juices revving.

This gym also had a water cooler with lemon and cucumber slices in it, which pissed Sam off. That wasn’t how it was in his home gym. He wanted plain water, ice-cold, the ice cubes clinking around it. The water here wasn’t particularly cold, and it had freaking vegetables in it — ridiculous, as far as the Yee-Haw Yank was concerned.
Sam’s half-hard dick firmed up in his shorts as he fumed about the water and watched the women work out. Rob was there, and Sam remembered Rob propositioning him last year. Sam had said no last year, but now he wanted to get a nut off so bad it hurt. His balls ached.
So, wearing his cowboy hat and Hawaiian shirt on the way into the locker room to change, he said to Rob, “Hey, dude, bro, hey, remember me? Yippee-kay-eye, buddy!” He grinned like he was making a stellar joke and expected universal adulation.
“Oh, hi… Uh… Yeah.” Rob bit his lip, nervous that he could still get in trouble for having propositioned Sam last year.
Sam’s jaw gaped. He didn’t know how to talk to girls without using his fame as a crutch, and he certainly didn’t know how to talk to a weird man like Rob. He hadn’t thought about it before opening his mouth, and now he couldn’t think of what to say. He blushed sheepishly.
Before, Rob had offered to jack him off without any hesitation. Sam didn’t have to think about how to make it happen. But of course Rob wouldn’t do that now, because Sam had responded poorly the first time.
“Howdy, pardner,” Sam said with a smile, showing off those dimples and his perfect teeth. “I remembuh what you done offer last year, yee-haw!” He paused like he expected Rob to burst into laughter or cheering. “I’m hornier ‘an a junebug in July.”
“Oh. Okay.” Rob paused. “I don’t know what that means”
“Last year, you made a offer, and I said no, but I done reconsider. Used-ta have females drippin’ from me,” Sam said. “But they all gone right now. They be back. They can’t resist me.” He smiled bigly and shouted, “Yee-haw!”. Yee-haw was sort of a catchphrase of his — Sam was from New York, so he had adopted the habit of shouting yee-haw after moving to Texas.
“Oh!” Rob’s eyes lit up. His heart skipped a beat. “You wanna do it? You wanna cornhole me?”
“Uh, well… I mean…” He grabbed his dick through his sweatpants. “I mean… Yeah, or kinda, or whatevuh, y’know. No disrespect, dude.” He paused. “I can get girls. There’s this chick who digs me… Nevermind, I can, like… I got girls all ovuh, dude. You don’t even know.”
It was pretty obvious that wasn’t true, but Rob wasn’t about to mention that. “Of course you do, look at you. How could any girl turn you down?”
“I know, right,” Sam said. “Chicks love me so much, rubbin’ free in a rut, a butt a nut… hmmm-hmm…” That was a rap of sorts, freestyle, but his rhythm faded. Then Sam said, “I’m from the Bronx. You know we invented rap, right?”
“Uh-huh.” Rob was entranced by the curving muscles of Sam’s body, stretching thickly like the noble buffalo ranging the open lands and amber waves that constituted the Texas landscape. He motioned for Rob to follow him outside. He had parked his pickup truck behind the gym. It was a huge truck with a great big bed in the back, and it sported an American flag and bald eagle with a bazooka shooting commies painted on the side.
“Yeah,” Sam said as he showed Rob to the truck. His heart pounded just as fast as Rob’s, though Sam tried to play it cool, so he seemed nonchalant. He didn’t want this pervy stranger to think he was squeamish or weird. His dick stirred and came alive. “Ah, shit, man… I need to blow a nut, fo’ real.” It sounded like he was imitating a black man he knew well.
Rob bent over and bared his ass on the far side of the truck, so the truck itself shielded them from view by anyone behind the gym. On the other side was just open woods with a dense layer of shrubs and thorns to provide privacy.
His shirt came off, and Sam’s eyes opened wide. He had an American flag and a Statue of Liberty tattooed on his chest, and GI Joes parachuting into Normandy tattooed on his shoulder blades. He stroked his dick with one hand while Rob pulled out a tube of lube and spread some over his asshole. The shocked look on Sam’s face made Rob giggle. He looked back and forth from Rob’s ass to his face and back again, then he glanced at his own dick, which was getting hard.
“You’re ready,” Rob said, and Sam nodded as though it was a question and he was answering it.
Sam closed his eyes. He opened his mouth but no words came out, just a dull creaking sound. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to actually do this — was he expected to guide his own dick in? He’d accidentally touch Rob’s ass if he did, and that seemed like too much to Sam — but luckily Rob did it instead. Rob reached behind himself and led Sam’s cock into his asshole.
Once he actually got in, however, Sam’s instincts took over. He had plowed into plenty of girls in the ass before they gave up because his cock was too big. He grabbed Rob’s asscheeks and held on tight. “Yee-haw!” he said again. He tried to go gentle at first, but it soon became clear that Rob wasn’t going to back out like some cheerleader.
Rob loved getting cornholed by huge cocks. He loved a little pain with his climax, and he loved the feel of a massive man utterly dominating him. He backed his own ass up, clenching hard on Sam’s throbbing manhood.
A jolt of pain did hit him. Rob cleared his throat and shook his head. He let out a howl of desire. Then he remembered he was in public, so he tried to muffle the sound with his own forearm. That was tough, but soon Sam’s arm was there instead, and Rob could rub his face into his iron-firm muscles, tattooed with an American flag rippling in a breeze.
“Oh, damn…” Sam murmured, his voice low and slow. “Yee-fuckin’-haw!” He wrapped both of his arms around Rob’s chest and held on tight as he lowered himself until his muscular chest pressed down on Rob’s back.
He felt so much like a girl. Sam hadn’t expected that. He knew Rob’s actual ass should feel more or less like any female’s, but his back too had a feminine shape, and was soft and smooth like a girl. He used a feminine soap too, so he smelled of berries and watermelon, and his hair had an intoxicatingly female aura to it. It was enough to make Sam forget he wasn’t with a woman at all.
Then, as an orgasm ripped through both men’s bodies, Sam’s instincts overwhelmed him — he always kissed girls when he came, if they let him cum inside them. He didn’t intend to kiss Rob, of course, because Rob was not a girl.
But Sam kissed Rob all the same. He did it without a second thought.
He planted his lips on Rob’s and pushed his tongue into his mouth, while his massive paw-like hands caressed every inch of Rob’s smooth twink body. He even accidentally touched Rob’s dick as he did, as their tongues interlocked in Rob’s mouth, Rob moaning and panting right onto Sam’s tongue.
It was a wild and passionate kiss, intensely moist, as both men’s lips slid over each other’s cheeks. Rob was at least as surprised as Sam — he loved kissing his rough trade, but he hadn’t mentioned that to Sam, so he had assumed it wouldn’t happen. He lost himself in Sam’s mouth and in the broad shoulders and pectoral muscles rubbing against Rob’s back.
“Holy shit…” As Rob sprayed his own wad onto the floor, he was shocked by Sam’s mouth pressing on his. He could feel the orgasm in Sam’s spasming muscles and his warm mouth on his.
Finally they were done. Rob moaned as he felt wave after wave of cum filling him up. He twitched. Sam grunted again.
Then Sam blushed intensely when he realized what he had done — he had kissed a man. He sat up, his dick popping out of Rob’s ass. The last few drops of cum dribbled out and into Rob’s asscrack. He wiped his lips off. “Oh, uh, sorry, dude… I-“
“You don’t need to be embarrassed. You’re really good, you have a great cock,” Rob said. “How’d that feel?”
Sam grinned sheepishly. “It was good. Even that kiss… I ain’t mean to do that, y’know.”
“I know, sweetie,” Rob said. Then he slowly brought his mouth forward to kiss Sam chastely on the lips. It felt funny to kiss someone so much bigger than he was, like he could crawl in Sam’s mouth and take a nap if he wanted to. Rob smiled as Sam’s eyes bugged out.
Then Rob pulled away and headed for the gym door, clothes in hand. “I didn’t mean to do that either.”
“You gonna stick around?” Sam asked. “Cuz I might wanna take another ride sometime.” He sheepishly ran his fingers through his hair, then put back on his cowboy hat and held it in place with one hand. “Yee-fuckin’-haw!” The sweat evaporated coolly off his D-Day-tattooed shoulder-blades.
Rob shook his head. “I’m going on a trip. To Europe, first,” he said. “Probly Australia later.”
“Wow, you got a passport?” Sam asked. He put his dick back in his sweatpants and put the Hawaiian shirt back on, ready for a shower as well as a cheeseburger and root beer. “That’s so cool. I heard the McDonaldses abroad are better than they are here.”
Rob patted him on the back, where his GI-Joes-on-D-Day tattoo was now dappled with his sweat. The scent of Sam’s unwashed muscles filled Rob’s nostrils. “I sincerely hope so, Sam.”

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Two

Knuckle fat-lipped in the doorway, speaking only when he gotta. Knuckle liked working the door. It was liminal, and he hovered neither inside nor out but in the middle like a child hiding in scattered shadows. The sky drizzled lightly tonight, and his right shoulder got wet, but his left shoulder remained dry. He done confiscated a greaser’s switchblade. But the crowd lusted quietly tonight. He knew his scarred face scared men into submission and prevented brouhahas. As far as he was concerned, that was a good thing. Mr. Gregarian said it was a double-edged sword — no rowdiness, so no fighting, but no rowdiness, so no overdoing it on overpriced drinks either. Knuckle ain’t know if Mr. Gregarian told him that because he expected him to fix it or not, but Knuckle ain’t savvy changing how he got perceived, so he never did nothing about it. The switchblade still sat hotly in Knuckle’s pocket.
“Hey, scarface, is Caitlyn Smiles working tonight?”
“-got a pussy on his neck.”
“Sssssh, ssh, ssh, he’ll hear.”
The men all fell silent as sand before they shuffled up to the doorway where Knuckle stood, basking in the luscious leather napkin of the West Virginia night while being buffeted by the overwhelming warmth and wafts of cigarette smoke pluming out from the club’s insides. He checked IDs and sent them in. No cover charges on Sunday, only Friday and Saturday nights and some holidays, Mr. Gregarian said, because otherwise the place got too crowded and the men focused on tipping dancers instead of ordering drinks from Teddy.
Teddy has very soft fingers.
Ever since that night when Teddy jacked him off in the weight room, Knuckle thought about those fingers and returned to the weight room to see if Teddy might meet him there again and touch him with those fingers that were soft like a kitten’s tail. Those fingers had danced and teased his skin, caressing, affectionate, warm, inviting like a hot stove heaping out heat.
And that mouth was soft and warm too, and Knuckle craved it. Lips. Tongue.
Teddy said nice words. Knuckle ain’t recall them, but he remembered the tone and timbre, which resonated in his ears and remained there like resounding church bells and made his toes tingle every time he thought about them. He snuck drinks from his flask as he worked tonight. The vodka in the flask was thinly redolent of sun-baked plastic. It probably came in a plastic bottle, but he ain’t remember the bottle.
Just before midnight, Knuckle had to go in and lay hands on a black fellah who was getting garish and jagged in the mouth, cuz he done grabbed Caitlyn Smiles’s tits, and she looked at Knuckle with a ruddy face and a puckering pair of eyes and a torn bra, and she said, “You better wreck that bastard, Knuckle!”, and so Knuckle grabbed the man by the neck and dragged him into the back alley like a outside dog, and he punched him and kicked him behind the dumpster and left him there sputtering and bathing bloodwise in moonlight because tonight a full moon splashed effulgence through the clouds, and Knuckle liked that he could see so clearly, even in the alley where there ain’t no streetlight.
The black man had a gold crucifix with a ruby at the base. Knuckle took it. He gave it to Caitlyn Smiles later, and he wanted to tell her so many things that were true both inside the club and out, that the necklace was pretty like her, that Jesus would protect her, that Knuckle would protect her, that no man had the right to treat her like that or to paw her like a possessive puppy. In his mind, Knuckle thought all those things, but out loud, he croaked in a bumpy baritone, “Here. I’s givin’ this to you.” She took it and popped a tit out of her dress as though the necklace was a tip and she needed to earn it, but Knuckle ain’t even look at the naked breast. She stood there for a second with her tit out, realized Knuckle had no intention of groping it, then she screwed up her pretty face and scuttered away like she done see a ghost. She blushed. Caitlin Smiles never blushed except deliberately to seduce a man, but Knuckle made her blush by not looking at her bare tit.
Later, Knuckle saw her whispering about it to Teddy with the soft fingers and the lime-slicing knife in one hand. She said “he’s such a freak!” with a giggled-up laugh, and Teddy nodded grimly. They both took a shot of cinammon liqueur and scrupulously avoided looking in Knuckle’s direction.
But Knuckle ain’t let on that he heard. He stood in the doorway. Nobody thought he was where they were when he was in the doorway — Teddy was inside and treated Knuckle like he was outside, so Teddy and Caitlyn could share snickers about him in private, while the men approaching the door outside nervously talked about how to get past the scary-looking bouncer as though he was a statue who couldn’t hear what they said from a few feet away.
That was why Knuckle liked liminal spaces.
“Hey, Knuckle, is the shower in the back nice? Plenty of hot water?” Teddy asked a few minutes after close that night. The last of the men done skedaddle before Knuckle could tell them to leave. The dancers left in a big group because nobody wanted Knuckle to escort them one-on-one through the parking lot.
Knuckle plopped down at the bar. Teddy slid him a cheap drink, while he finished closing down and locking up the bar. Knuckle downed it in one gulp. “No,” he said.
Teddy looked at him like that hadn’t answered his question. He shrugged. “Oh. Okay. Well, I don’t wanna use all your hot water.”
“I do not shower a lot,” Knuckle said.
“Uhhhh…” Teddy stammered and blushed. “Yeah, the dancers complain about that, and… Nevermind. Knuckle, I, uh…” He thought for a long time, then broke eye contact with Knuckle. “Nevermind,” he said again. “I’m having trouble with the shower at my place. There’s this bum who keeps squatting there.” Teddy lived in a ratty old apartment building down the street, and it came with a group shower. Teddy said, “It’s fine. He’s usually passed out cold this late. It just makes the shower seem dirty, and I thought I could shower here before I leave for the night. But I know you’ve been staying here, so-“
“Let’s go,” Knuckle said. He stood up as though to leave, while Teddy was still closing down the bar.
Teddy paused. “What?”
“I will slit his throat if he does not leave,” Knuckle said. He walked to the door.
Teddy had to race after him. “Who? The hobo! Wait, Knuckle! That’s… a little extreme. Wait!” Knuckle stopped by the door and stood motionless. It took Teddy a few seconds to realize that was Knuckle waiting — he just stopped in the middle of Lipsweet like a robot whose off-switch had gotten flicked. “Wait, uh… don’t kill him. You don’t gotta kill him.”
After a pause, Knuckle said, “yes.”
“Okay, just… Talk to him sternly, maybe. Thanks for helping. Don’t kill anybody,” Teddy said. “Lemme just get the bar shut down.” He paused and said again, “Don’t kill anyone.” He raced to finish closing Lipsweet, then he and Knuckle piled into Teddy’s four-door to head to his building.
It was a square building with cardboard replacing most of the windows on the first floor. Teddy lived on the third floor though, which was the top floor. Knuckle saw a row of windows with blinds and curtains and flickering TV screens visible through them. One of those windows was Teddy’s place, the thought of which made Knuckle’s heart tumble over its beat.
Teddy followed Knuckle up the stairs to the third floor. The stairwell was a cold concrete column with spraypainted graffiti scrawled on every surface. The dancers would be shocked and exhilarated to learn Teddy had invited Knuckle to his home — it was an accident, but still, Teddy was going with Knuckle to a second location. The dancers wouldn’t even go with Knuckle into the next room.
Knuckle done took off his shirt and his wifebeater because it was a warm and humid night. His chest cooled, and the nasty burn scar on his shoulder heaved up and down with every breath. Teddy kept sneaking glances at his broad, powerful muscles. Those scars were stark in the dimly lit arteries of Teddy’s building.
Twenty apartments lined the central corridor of the third floor, and they all shared one group shower with just two showerheads. Teddy showed Knuckle to his apartment and pointed out the shower, but Knuckle went straight there, not into Teddy’s place. Teddy followed him, key in hand, into the shower.
The hobo, Bax, sprawled on his back, bugging out in a nest of rotting old clothes and scraps of cardboard. He lay in the middle of the shower area, so he ain’t gonna get wet even if both showerheads was running. That was rare though, as usually men showered alone here.
He ain’t move until Knuckle picked him up by the throat, smacked him in the face and growled. “You don’t live here! You-“
“Aaaagchk!” Bax’s eyes opened wide — he had been awake for days, on a meth binge, but he was unaware of Knuckle until he started hitting him. Knuckle slapped him again. Bax barked, “Git off me!”

When Bax peeped Knuckle’s scarred face and murderous mein, he squealed and squirmed. He clawed at Knuckle’s chest. His feet kicked the cold floor, but Knuckle brought him outta the showers and ignored his blows and cries.
Knuckle dragged him down the stairs and out into the West Virginia night. “If you come back, I will slit your throat,” Knuckle said. He tossed Bax like a sac of seed towards the road.

Then he turned around and came back inside with Teddy, who crouched by the door with wide eyes. Knuckle stood there as though waiting for another assignment.
“Thanks,” Teddy said, blushing. Bax stumbled off into the night, blood trickling from his nose. “You wanna come into my apartment? We could have a drink.”
Knuckle nodded.
They went into Teddy’s apartment. Knuckle stood there like a gravestone, while Teddy fixed them both a quick drink. Then Teddy saw him standing blankly and motioned to the couch. Knuckle sat down. He gulped his drink down in one motion. Teddy sat on the back of the couch, spreading his legs so he could rub Knuckle’s shoulders.
“Tell me about Emma,” Teddy said when he saw that tattoo again on the nape of Knuckle’s neck. His fingers hesitated before touching the burn scar on Knuckle’s neck, but Knuckle’s whole body relaxed at his touch, so he gathered Knuckle liked it or at least tolerated it. He wondered what kind of a woman would love Knuckle. Had Knuckle said she loved him? He definitely said he loved her, but had it gone the other direction? Teddy couldn’t remember.
Knuckle nodded. He waited for Teddy to pour him another drink, then he described the traveling carnival he had joined when he was a mere teenage runaway. He traveled all over the country with that carnival.
She was a glittering blonde beauty when Knuckle first saw her, swathed in bulb light from the carnival. She glid like a galleon through the crowd. She was accompanied by a boyfriend, Tom, but Knuckle ain’t clock him. The world parted like clouds around the sun, so nobody else existed, just her, serene and curving to forever, making Knuckle’s knees go weak.
The Sammy Smack-It Strength Meter dinged and belled behind him, but Knuckle couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.
“Mister! Mister! You s’posed to gimme them tickets!” said the old man who had just scored nearly top marks on the Strength Meter. Thirty tickets had been dispensed from the machine behind Knuckle, so he tore them off the roll and gave them to the wiry old man.
When Knuckle looked again for her, she was gone, lost in the crowd of Indiana appleseeds.
They were in Peoria. It took Knuckle a few minutes to remember that — all these towns looked the same to him, the same people in the same clothes, speaking the same words as they lifted the same hammer and brought it down on the same strength machine.
The one thing different here was her.
Knuckle’s eyes opened wide when he caught a glimpse of her again later. This time she was swathed in swimming darkness, just outside the well-lit carnival grounds. Children streamed past in front of Knuckle, running outta the carnival with caramel apples and sacs of Candy Annie’s home-made sweets. Knuckle pushed past them to get close enough to hear the pretty blonde lady, whose face was pursed tight, her lips bloodless, glowing when she passed under a streetlight, where she stopped to snap something harsh to that man she was with.
“You are such a asshole!” she said to him.
It was only when she said that that Knuckle finally saw she was with a man. A boyfriend. Of course a woman like her wouldn’t be single. She probably had a line of suitors trying to meet her, Knuckle thought.
He went back to the strength meter. That was it. She was gone. He might see her again before the carnival left whatever dipshit town this was, but probably not. He could have talked to her.
But he didn’t, and that was that.
The carnival shut down at ten-thirty, but Knuckle was already done by then. Nobody came by the strength meter that late. He went to the tent he lived in and sat in the lawnchair he done place out front. The sky was dappled with stars overhead, and the night was cool and calm like that woman’s eyes. But inside, Knuckle was afrenzied, with desire and with rage, and he soon got overwhelmed by the feelings coursing through him.
He stood, as the other carnies came in for the night, and he spat curse words. He formed a fist with one hand and punched his other hand in palm hard enough to hurt. He kept doing it, stalking and pacing afront his trailer.
“What’s wrong with you?” asked Pavel when he walked past. He was the horse-tamer and expert for the carnival, and he set up people — mainly little girls — with horseback rides. He always smelled like a barnyard. “There’s women here, Knuckle, don’t make ’em uncomfortable.”
Knuckle nodded. His face was grim and ruddy. He stood motionless, unsure what he could say or do that Pavel wouldn’t think made the lady carnies uncomfortable. There weren’t even any women around, most likely. The handful of female carnies were probably in their own tent by now.
“Let’s go for a bath,” Pavel said. That was where he was headed when he saw Knuckle. He always bathed first because he smelled so much like a horse. He ain’t like laying in bed in a cloud of horsehair and straw.
As he led Knuckle into the bath tent, Pavel listened to him talk about the girl he done saw. Pavel was older than Knuckle, and wiser, so he just smiled and patted Knuckle on the back.
“You’re getting this worked up over a girl you ain’t even talk to yet?” Pavel asked.
Knuckle nodded. “I guess it is kinda silly.” He blushed. His face ain’t riddled with scars then. He had a strong, straight jaw with a masculine jawline and a shaggy mane of jet hair.
Pavel filled up two wooden tubs with hot water, then he hurried to rip off his stableboy clothes. He was lean and ripped, powerfully built on his own merits, though he looked skinny next to Knuckle’s barrel-shaped body. Knuckle was slow, his eyes still dreamy and far away. By the time Knuckle was done, Pavel was already sighing and sinking into the warm water.
He leaned back in the tub and sighed. “C’mon into the water, Knuckle. Don’t get’cha hopes up about pretty nice girls. Set your sights on a carnie, most likely. Caroline Nazzir likes you.” She was a carnie, a mermaid in the Hall of Wonders, as well as a pickpocket. She done made it very clear she would sleep with any man, more or less.
But Knuckle never liked her.
His hardon jutted against his briefs when Knuckle dropped his pants. He ain’t even realize that until he took his underwear off and saw it. He covered it up with both hands, not because it would be scandalous for Pavel to see him sporting a stiffy but simply because Pavel would make of him being smitten when he did see it.
And Knuckle had to admit, he was smitten. He couldn’t stop thinking about that girl, Emma, as he climbed into the tub and sat across from Pavel. Their legs were intertwined. Since Knuckle was bigger, his legs were on the outside, pressed against the sides of the wooden tub.
“I see that, you horny dog, you sportin’ wood,” Pavel said with a baritone laugh. “You still thinkin’ about her, ain’cha?”
Knuckle nodded. He got an awkward grin on his face. “She was so pretty, Pavel…”
One of Pavel’s big knobbly feet gripped Knuckle’s dick under the water. He rubbed it up and down and laughed at the look on Knuckle’s face — Knuckle’s eyes lit up with surprise, then disgust, then a long slow melting bliss as his half-hardon turned into a full-on.
Pavel grimaced and laughed at the same time, and he put his other foot on it too. Knuckle’s dick throbbed under Pavel’s callused feet, softened by the water. Knuckle twitched.
Pavel was jacking Knuckle off with his feet for two reasons. The first was that it was funny. The second was that it would mean Knuckle ain’t gonna make Pavel use his mouth or even butt later. That was an option because Pavel owed a lot of money to this carnival, and he had to pay it by giving up the butt to any carnie who needed it. That mattered because a horny carnie was liable to start trouble in the small towns they visited.
But his plan backfired — Knuckle stood up, and, in one smooth motion, bathwater still dripping from his cock, Knuckle slipped his dick into Pavel’s mouth. Knuckle bent his knees, his eyes still upcast and dreamy, like he was moving on autopilot.
Pavel made a sourpuss puckering face, but he ain’t refuse. He been taking dick for years in this carnival, and it was better than starving to death in Poland. At least here, the food was plentiful. He slurped spit up and down Knuckle’s shaft.
A baritone grunt came from Knuckle’s mouth, and he pistoned his hips. His dick rammed into Pavel’s throat. Pavel was a tall man, so he managed to swallow almost the whole thing, until his nose was nestled in Knuckle’s pubic bush.
“Ooooohhhhmmmmm…” Knuckle moaned. He thought getting hard and blowing a nut would make him forget about that blonde woman, but it didn’t. He kept thinking about her anyway. She was too pretty to imagine himself fucking her, so he pictured her talking to him and touching his arm and giggling when he spoke — giggling with her eyes too, not just her mouth.
Sour, salty precum coated Pavel’s tongue. A moist gurgling sound came from Pavel, who patted Knuckle’s big asscheeks to signal he needed a break. Pavel spat a mouthful of prenut and wiped pubic hair off his lips.
“Gimme a sec,” Pavel said. He clutched his belly with one hand, his face tense and queasy. He held back a gag and pursed his lips shut tightly.
But Knuckle kept humping, his hips gyrating, his cock jabbing back and forth, without Knuckle paying any attention. Knuckle’s mind was fixated on her. He ain’t even notice at first that his dick moved through the air, not Pavel’s mouth. It poked Pavel in the nose when he was trying not to gag, and that caused him to retch violently.
“Uaaaaggghhhhk…!” Pavel held his stomach again and spat outta the bathtub. He intended to keep spitting until the eye-wateringly salty taste of precum vanished, but Knuckle’s dick kept poking him in the face like it was trying to find his mouth. “Gimme a sec, Knuckle-“
But his mouth opened to speak, and Knuckle — his eyes still closed — aimed his rod right for it. Pavel’s whole body buckled as Knuckle’s knob invaded his mouth, instantly filling it again with precum.
Pavel ain’t try to spit it out, though his wiry chest muscles all flexed as he held back a gag. Knuckle’s pecker pulsated like an alien beast in his mouth, and Pavel’s tongue slathered spit up and down the shaft.
Cum flowed into Pavel’s throat. Knuckle grunted again, and he pounded on his chest. Pavel winced, scrunching his eyes shut. The taste was intensely salty and powerful. He held back a gag.
Finally, Knuckle let go, and Pavel pulled off. He simultaneously gasped for air and spat jizz onto the ground outside the wooden tub. He paused for a moment. “Ecchk, your jizz tastes awful, Knuckle.” He spat again, as Knuckle sighed and wiped his dicktip off on Pavel’s cheek.
“Thanks, Pavel,” Knuckle said. His nostrils flared, and he sat back down in the spermy water of the wooden bathtub. “But I still can’t stop thinking about her.”

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Three

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 Five

The new couch was on sale, but the delivery charges were exorbitant. That was how they got you, Teddy decided.
Well, he decided to show that snooty salesman that Teddy wasn’t gonna fall for his shenanigans. He asked Knuckle to help him move the couch. It wasn’t that heavy. Teddy borrowed a truck from his neighbor, and Knuckle came to help him move it on a day he had off.
When they got the couch off the truck and into Teddy’s apartment, they stopped to drink a couple beers and have a pizza delivered. Then Knuckle helped Teddy get rid of the ratty old couch at the dump and drop off the truck at the end of the street. Teddy hadn’t specifically planned on inviting Knuckle into his apartment again after that.
But Knuckle, in his creepy wordless way, followed, and Teddy hoped to jack him off again, so he didn’t complain. When they got into the apartment, Knuckle immediately opened another beer.
“What happened to your knuckles, Knuckles?” Teddy asked with a chuckle. Knuckles had had bloody knuckles all day, like he got in a fight, but Teddy knew his last couple shifts at Lipsweet had been uneventful.
Knuckles shrugged. “I was fighting last night. In a bare-knuckle boxing league.”
“Really? How’d you get started doing that?” Teddy asked. It was so like Knuckle to have this really interesting hobby that he literally never told anyone about, not because it was a secret, but because nobody knew to ask about it.
“I done it since my carnie days,” he said.
But back then, it weren’t no kind of league or nothing. The carnival just set up fights in the towns they visited, to attract some crowds and make a little money betting on Knuckle. He was still throwing down knuckles when he got sent up a long time ago.
The state prison was the Eastern Panhandle State Penitentiary. That where Knuckle did his nine-year bid. He came out with a crooked nose and one ear ripped up, permanent cauliflower on the other ear.
The prison sponsored the bare-knuckle fighting league to keep the inmates focused on winning insteada picking brawls in the shower or shanking shitheads in the slop hall. The prison allowed each gang to send a fighter into the league, and the prison supplied a guard to coach each fighter.
For Knuckle, the gang was the Gray Snakes. They was bikers, not that Knuckle was much of a motorcyclist, but he was doing dealings with them when he got arrested, and he ain’t snitch not a bit, not even when the sheriff truncheoned him silly. That gave him entrance to the Gray Snakes.
But the Gray Snakes got full members and affiliate members. Full members join on the outside and go through a process — Knuckle ain’t savvy to that process, but it involved bleeding in and bleeding out, he knew that much. A man who ain’t see fit to join up till he get to prison and need protection from the black boys was called a affiliate member. They wasn’t treated as good within the gang, not till they could earn they leather jacket.
So the only way how Knuckle could earn that leather jacket was winning glory for the Gray Snakes boxing with the other gangs. He thought he was gonna win the title fight that first year.
His coach was Officer Turpinelli. He strongly believed that Knuckle was the best fighter in this joint.
So when Knuckle went out there for his first prison-championship bout, Turpinelli was in his corner. He was a middle-aged guido, his black hair now salted with gray, his big milk-chocolate fists callused from a lifetime of amateur boxing and working as a prison guard. Turpinelli was from Staten Island, and he had a thick New Yawker accent. His uniform shirt was mostly unbuttoned to reveal his greasy white undershirt.
“C’mon, Knuckle, you gawt this, you gawt this!” he said when he sent Knuckle out there into the prison yard with a swat on his ass. Knuckle wore only his blue prison shorts, his broad chest — not yet badly scarred — gleaming and bronzed. He was still handsome then, boxy-faced and craggy like an action hero, his torso perfectly tapered and padded with muscle.
His gang was chanting his name. The Gray Snakes were all in one corner of the yard, wearing the full prison uniform — it was a chilly day, and Knuckle, in his shorts and nothing else, still steamed, his hairless chest overheating. Most of the Gray Snakes was eager for Knuckle to win.
But Knuckle wasn’t gonna win. He was told by Denny, the head Gray Snake at the state prison, to throw the match.
Most of the Gray Snakes done bet on the other guy – Deyon Green or Gray or Brown or some color name Knuckle couldn’t remember. Meanwhile Denny been spreading word on the downlow that Deyon was in bad shape. Ain’t nobody betting on him except the Gray Snakes.

So all Knuckle gotta do was take a pounding and make it look real. He was good at getting hit. His face was like stone, and he threw a couple good punches right back. Each time he did, the assembled prisoners erupted in cheers.

Ain’t nobody like the Crips much, so only the Crips was rooting for Deyon. When Knuckle accidentally knocked Deyon to the ground, he thought he mighta won, and his heart sank.
He paused long enough for Officer Bellyfat to hold him back from Deyon, who wobbled but returned to his feet in time. Knuckle kept his face grim and determined. Was the crowd falling for it? He ain’t wanna look to see the reactions on they faces. He could hear them, but he worried looking would make it obvious he was focused on the crowd, not on the fight.
He avoided looking at Officer Turpinelli too. He was sure Turpinelli would know, if they made eye contact, that he ain’t trying to win. He blocked a couple of Deyon’s jabs, then saw a long uppercut coming quick.
Knuckle had only a brief moment to decide — block it and prolong the fight? Or take it to the face and go down? Had the fight gone on long enough?
He ain’t sure he made a decision, but he hesitated long enough that the uppercut hit him good. He really did pass for a few seconds. He coulda got up in time, as Officer Bellyfat was still counting off the knockout, but Knuckle fluttered his eyes like he was dizzy. He stayed on the mat.
“The winner…!” The ref — Officer Brokenose — held up Deyon’s hand, and the colored boys in one corner of the yard all screamed with pride. Deyon was the underdog, so they mostly ain’t expect to win.
And Knuckle’s half-conscious mind struggled avoid smiling, cuz he done won two grand, plus he earned his spot in the Gray Snakes. Blood trickled down his face like a river delta. He heard the dull roar of the crowd and the feigned disappointment of the Gray Snakes — ain’t nobody but them know that they was the only ones betting on Deyon to win.
Someone threw a hunk of wood at Knuckle, and it thunked off his body. Then a coffee mug. Then something wet, maybe spit — he couldn’t tell who was doing what as he pushed through the crowd, blood clouding his vision. He grimaced. He was bleeding from the neck now, just a thin trickle — was somebody throwing glass?
It took a few seconds for Knuckle’s hardened mind to realize a glass bottle got smashed on the meat of his back. He was bleeding like a drain when he finally staggered on sweaty trunks into the locker room.
The lockers stank of rank underwear. The floor was bare concrete spotted with always-wet mildew. A bucket caught a leak that never would get fixed. But it was mercilessly silent.
Knuckle took a deep breath and wiped blood out his eyes. He plopped onto the bench, and Officer Turpinelli came in from the other door with a first aid kit. He ain’t say nothing at first. He just came in, opened the first aid kit, took out a needle and thread and disinfected the needle with a lighter.
He only then noticed the shards of glass in Knuckle’s back. He picked them out with tweezers. “Lotta men bet money on you, Knuckle,” he finally said. “I don’t blame ’em for gettin’ ornery. You coulda won. That Deyon ain’t worth a thing.”
“Yessuh, Officer Turpinelli,” Knuckle said. He ain’t got that raspy note to his voice yet, not till the fire years later, so his voice was low and smooth and rumbling like a distant earthquake. His square jaw worked up and down, and he avoided eye contact with Turpinelli.
“You ain’t give it y’all out there, Knuckle. No disrespect, brothah, but that was a sorry display,” Turpinelli said. He inserted the needle into Knuckle’s back without warning him, so Knuckle flinched. Turpinelli ignored it and stitched up the biggest cut.
“Yessuh,” Knuckle said. When Officer Turpinelli was done with that cut, Knuckle took off his shorts, eager to get into the shower and away from Turpinelli. He wanted back to his cell. The Gray Snakes would protect him from the others — as upset was the others were that Knuckle done lost, the Gray Snakes were gonna be overjoyed about it.
Plus they’d give him liquor, which would be a better pain relief than anything Officer Turpinelli was gonna do. Knuckle ain’t got a choice about that though. He just took his shorts and jockstrap off, and his heavy cock plopped fatly on the bench.
His whole body was so sweaty his skin felt slimy.
“I know we practiced better than that,” Turpinelli said. He stitched up the cut on Knuckle’s temple. He ain’t try to be gentle like he when he did the same thing after Knuckle won a fight. He wrenched Knuckle’s head this way and that. “You listenin’? Listen to me when I’s talkin’ to you, lard-brain!” He rapped Knuckle on the skull.
“Yessuh,” Knuckle said. He winced when the rapping on his head went from playful to painful. Turpinelli slapped him hard on the cheek like a woman. Knuckle’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“You was jack-jawin’ when I know you know better, you shoulda let that punk-ass Crip tucker himself out,” Turpinelli said. He stood back and looked Knuckle’s naked chest up and down. He examined the cuts on Knuckle’s chest, then his back, to see if any others needed stitching.
Then he punched Knuckle right in the gut. Still seating, Knuckle oomphed and clutched his belly for a second. He clambered to stand only to stop himself even before Officer Turpinelli could smack him down. He stood real close to Knuckle and gripped his head with both hands.
Knuckle remained stout-faced naked on the bench. He wrinkled his nose. The smell of Officer Turpinelli’s uniform slacks — clean laundry, old-man balls and loose change — filled his nostrils, now that the swelling had gone down enough he could smell again.
“I am gonna have to teach you a lesson,” Turpinelli said. He unzipped the fly of his ironed slacks, and his stinky Italian hog flopped free. He untucked and undid the buttons on his uniform shirt, so his undershirt was bared, ringed by silver and black hairs poking out from under the fabric.
Knuckle’s loose and crooked nose wrinkled. He hocked up a loogey of blood, spat it on the concrete floor, sighed and looked away. Turpinelli leaned back to make his swarthy cock dangle forward, and he slapped it over Knuckle’s cheek. Knuckle ain’t respond.
“Knuckle?” Turpinelli said. “C’mon, you know what to do. I ain’t gonna put it in ya mouth, you gotta do that. Show me the respect you ain’t been showin’ me.”
He again thwack-thwacked his limp knob on Knuckle’s face, on his nose and lip. Knuckle cringed at the smell of Turpinelli’s crotch hair sticking out the fly of his slacks. He took hold of Turpinelli’s cock with one hand and gave it a few strokes without looking at it..
He spat up more blood onto the concrete floor of the locker room, as he gracelessly flopped Turpinelli’s shaft in one hand. Turpinelli aimed his hips to drag his cocktip over Knuckle’s face, mainly the bruised and swollen area around his left eye. Knuckle winced in pain.
“You wasn’t following the strategy we laid out,” Turpinelli said. He kept his hands on his hips as Knuckle flopped his dick around with one hand. Turpinelli frowned. “Now I look like a fool in front of the other staff.”
“Yessuh. I’m sorry, suh,” Knuckle said. He avoided looking up, his one hand lazily gripping Turpinelli’s shaft as Turpinelli pumped his hips and humped Knuckle’s grip. It was as soft as cooked spaghetti and thick like a doll’s leg.
With another wince that hurt his bruised face, Knuckle put Officer Turpinelli’s cocktip in his mouth. The salty taste of skin hit his tongue. He winced again.
“Hmmmmm, I shoulda been doing this all along,” Turpinelli said with a throaty laugh. “Maybe this is the only way to knock some sense into ya lard-brain.” A jolt ran up his cock, which began to firm. Knuckle slathered spit up and down the shaft, stimulating it with his tongue to avoid putting it back in his mouth — tasted the same, it just seemed less humiliating to lick it like a meaty lollipop. “You need a ongoing lesson to remember to listen to me. I tol’ you he got a strong right hook and a uppercut. I tol’ you what his pattern was. You ain’t look out for it, Knuckle,” Turpinelli said. He began moving his dick in and out of Knuckle’s mouth. He swatted Knuckle’s hand outta the way. “No hand. You shoulda been blockin’ — you remembuh? We talked ’bout it. He always do couple jabs.” Turpinelli jabbed the air with his left fist, above Knuckle’s head as Turpinelli humped his mouth. “Then he hit with the mad uppercut. You left yaself wide open, you lard-brain!” That was a harsh word where Turpinelli came from, Knuckle done gathered. “You got somethin’ to say for yahself?”
He pulled outta Knuckle’s mouth, his dick still only part hard — Turpinelli wasn’t even trying to get hard yet. It poked around on Knuckle’s bruised-up face, as Knuckle took a deep breath. “Sorry, suh. I had a off-day,” Knuckle said. He kept his eyes on Turpinelli’s knob.
Officer Turpinelli scoffed. He rammed his rod back into Knuckle’s mouth. Knuckle slackened his jaw, letting Turpinelli use it. He closed his mouth to hold back a violent gag, but a moist squelching sound did come out, followed by another one.
“Don’t make that sound, it’s gross,” Turpinelli said. His voice was lower now, calmer, his dick good and hard. His veiny shaft throbbed in Knuckle’s throat. Knuckle couldn’t help himself though, suppressing a little gag only to be overcome by a painfully large one. He retched up Turpinelli’s cock. Turpinelli scoffed like he ain’t approve of that sound neither. Knuckle couldn’t help it, as the intense taste and the jab down his throat were impossible to resist.
Before he could take another breath, Turpinelli drilled it back down his throat.
“Look up at me.”
Knuckle cringed but did so. He knew he’d see Officer Turpinelli grimacing at him, frowning, disappointed in him. When he looked up, he also saw his throbbing dick and tendrils of precum clinging to Knuckle’s fingers, but what stuck in Knuckle’s mind was the disapproving look on Turpinelli’s face.
“Open up,” Turpinelli said.
Knuckle was going to say again that it was just an off-day, but when he opened his mouth, no words came out. Instead, Turpinelli’s dick pushed in.
“Don’chu fight me. I can shift you into gen-pop anytime, Knuckle,” Turpinelli said. He clucked his tongue. “I gotta teach you to respect me.” His cock slid deeper into Knuckle’s mouth.
He choked on it and closed his eyes until Officer Turpinelli clucked his tongue.
“Open them peepers, Knuckle. I wanna see your respect.”
Knuckle’s muscles flexed and spasmed as he held back a gag, and he worked his tongue up and down Turpinelli’s shaft. It tasted stale and salty, especially after precum began flowing and coating Knuckle’s mouth.
Turpinelli stopped moving and grunted with his dick protruding deep down Knuckle’s gullet. Cum flowed, and a rattling sigh escaped from Officer Turpinelli’s mouth. He made a sound like he was gonna talk, but the words were overcome by another sigh and a moan of slow-melting bliss, followed by a flood of sticky jizz into Knuckle’s mouth.
Lotta it spilled out onto his cheeks and chin, and some even got in his nose. Knuckle closed his eyes and tried not to retch. He kept his jaw slack so his mouth drained as quick as it was filled.
Knuckle choked and sputtered, but he ain’t fight back. He had done what he needed to. Now all that mattered was submitting and getting through this. The taste of cum was sticky and intense, but he avoided vomiting too hard, his throat plugged up by Turpinelli’s cock.
At last it popped out, connected with tendrils of saliva to Knuckle’s jaw. Knuckle tried to move away, but Turpinelli kept both his big mitts on Knuckle’s head. His limp dick throbbed and spewed a few final drops onto Knuckle’s forehead.
“Next time, pay attention during your training,” Turpinelli said.
“Yessuh,” Knuckle said. He held back a gag. Despite that, he was glad that it seemed Turpinelli had no suspicion Knuckle threw the match. He breathed a sigh of relief, only for that to cause his nose to fill with the scent of Turpinelli’s gooey jizz, which covered his face. Knuckle couldn’t help but gag.
“Go’n and showuh up, Knuckle,” Turpinelli said. “If I gotta ram some sense into you again, it’s goin’ in the othuh end.”

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Six

The city of Martinsburg was vibrant and inky-black tonight, as Teddy strode and Knuckle limped back to Teddy’s apartment. Knuckle was bruised-up again, ice on his black eye, his nose bandaged by the nurse at the fight — Knuckle had just competed in a bare-knuckle boxing match against a stout Bulgarian fellow.
Knuckle limped victoriously because he had smashed that Bulgarian man into the dirt. He limped because the Bulgarian got a buncha good hits in first. Teddy walked with a pumped-up gait to his step because he had bet big-time on Knuckle, and he was now eight hundred dollars richer. He had never done anything as exciting.
The fight was brief, but a half-dozen matches between smaller men came up before the heavyweights. During the bouts between smaller men, Teddy stood behind a short but well-muscled Mexican man with macabre tattoos covering his bare back and neck (and probably his front, but Teddy couldn’t see that). Teddy had gotten up so close to him that he was shoved face-first into the man’s sweaty shoulder muscles.
Seeing that other men were touching each other too, Teddy’s own fingers had moved to the Mexican’s warm belly and up his side. Teddy gripped him as though he was being jostled hard from behind.
The Mexican ain’t respond. His back was so sweaty, his muscles firm beneath a thick layer of padding. Teddy couldn’t help but moan into his manly meat. The roar of the crowd was loud — Teddy couldn’t even have heard the Mexican complain if he said something, but he ignored Teddy’s fingers creeping around to his chest.
Then before Teddy knew it his own dick was out, his hands moving on autopilot now. The Mexican man had a thick layer of fur on his chest, which Teddy teased with one hand, while his other slipped lower, into the Mexican man’s pants.
His dick was warm and wet with sweat, and the Mexican man shouted then, startling Teddy — but he was just cheering because the Mexican fighter he had bet on just won his match. The Mexican still ignored Teddy, giving no signs he had even noticed Teddy’s hand jacking him off his in his mud-crusted workpants or Teddy’s cock leaking precum into the puddle of sweat in the small of the Mexican man’s hairy back.
Teddy had no idea which of them came first. The Mexican’s crotch was so wet with sweat that it wasn’t until his dick got limp that Teddy realized the crotch-sweat was now creamy and sticky with jizz. Then Teddy shot his own wad over the Mexican man’s hairy, tattooed back.
He stepped away. Had anyone noticed? He didn’t think so. Teddy giggled and put his cock away, watching his jizz drip over the Mexican man’s gang tats.
But then Knuckle’s fight began, and Teddy paid attention to that. It was over quick, and Knuckle showed no emotion when the burly black man refereeing the bout held up one of Knuckle’s arms to show his victory.

Then Knuckle collected his share of the take, and Teddy got his winnings from the pimp in a green suit flanked by scantily clad hos. Teddy was so excited he didn’t even notice the hos trying to seduce him or the pimp scowling cuz Teddy ignored the hos.

All Teddy cared about was making sure Knuckle was okay and that he got home okay.
Teddy’s apartment building was quiet and dark by the time they got there. The walls were thin like water, so the sounds of TVs and radios and air conditioners were audible in the halls. They went up the stairs to the third floor.
“Oh, that smell,” Teddy wrinkled his nose. “I think that must be a rat or something. I smell it sometimes.” It was a sort of a cat-piss-in-a-sandbox aroma.
“Meth.”
“The landlord’s a dick. He sent an exterminator around last year, but he was just looking for roaches,” Teddy said. He went to his apartment and opened the door. “Did you say meth?”
Knuckle nodded. “That’s meth. Somebody’s smoking meth.” He strode down the hall to the showers. Teddy shut his apartment door and followed Knuckle.
There, right where Knuckle had kicked his ass a couple months ago, was Bax. He crouched and smoked his meth from a glass stem. The dense smoke filled the shower area. He glanced up at Knuckle when he came in, but he didn’t seem to recognize him.
“Hey, mistuh, you got a nasty scar on ya face, you all beat up,” Bax said. “You look like you went through the ringer, the ringer, the ringer, what is that? What are you doing? You live here, huh, do you? I am just getting high, exploring the linoleum. Linoleum. Linoleum.”
He yelped when Knuckle punched him in the face, then grabbed him by the back of the neck and shoved him face-first into the wall. Knuckle growled. “I thought I told you to get outta here and nevuh show yo’ face.”
“You bitch-ass! I live here!” Bax spat and fell limp, groaning in pain. Knuckle dropped him to the ground. Bax crawled around at Knuckle’s feet, unable to get upright, either because he was hurt or because he was too methed up, or maybe some of both.
This had all happened so fast that Teddy could do little more than stare. He went pale. He realized Knuckle was talking to him, repeating himself over and over, but it took some time for Teddy to focus.
“If I hit him more, he won’t be able to leave,” Knuckle said.
Teddy gulped. He hadn’t meant for Bax to get seriously hurt, so he didn’t want Knuckle to hit him again. But without a serious injury, Bax seemed likely to come right back.
Teddy slyly smiled. “Knuckle… will you show me what ramrodding is? I’ve heard about it, it’s a prison thing, right?”
Knuckle shrugged and nodded. He got down behind the barely conscious Bax and dropped his pants. He shoved his limp dick at Bax’s butthole. Knuckle seemed unaware until he tried that he had no erection and couldn’t possibly get his dick into Bax’s bony bottom.
The motion definitely woke Bax up thoroughly though. His wiry limbs flexed as he tried to get up. Knuckle smacked him hard. Bax yelped and tried to squirm away, but Knuckle held onto him by the back of the neck.
“Don’t move, punk.” Knuckle rabbit-punched Bax in the back of the head. Bax howled. “I said don’t move. On your hands and knees-“
“What the fuck is you doin’-?”
“Shut up.” Knuckle kept aiming his dick for Bax’s asshole, but he wasn’t hard so it didn’t go in. He did stroke it though with one hand, so it was getting hard slowly. “This is ramrodding.” He was so matter-of-fact that Teddy didn’t realize Knuckle was talking to him.
“Oh, I-” Teddy gasped.
“Ow, ow, ow! You fuckin’ freak!” Bax howled. Knuckle punched him again in the back of the head, then in the side. Bax flinched in agony. He clutched his already-bruised ribs where Knuckle had bruised them again. “Ow! You owe me then! You owe me! I charge fifty bucks to take it up the rear!”
Knuckle shoved his dick in, still only part hard but hard enough now to get purchase on Bax’s buckhole. His dick doubled up then — it looked painful — as it almost slipped out. He kept stroking his pecker with one hand. He plowed his hips, forcing his dick in a little deeper.
“Get ready,” Knuckle said. He kept a tight grip on Bax’s neck. Now that his dick was rock-hard, he forced it in, using one hand to hold Bax in place and the other to motion for Teddy to get ready behind him. “Be done in a sec.”
“I don’t care how quick you done!” Bax roared. He thought Knuckle was talking to him. “You still gotta-!” He squealed as Knuckle squeezed his neck to shut him up.
But Teddy realized Knuckle was telling him to go next. Teddy’s heart raced. Knuckle’s whole body flexed right in front of his face, as Knuckle blew a nut and Teddy massaged his weary asscheeks and powerful back.
Cum filled Bax’s butthole. Knuckle didn’t move a beat or make a sound, he simply kept going, churning Bax’s loose butthole into a giant bubbly mess of white. He stopped only when his balls were thoroughly drained.
“You ready for a go?” Knuckle asked.
Teddy nodded, and Knuckle pulled his limp dick out. Teddy raced to take his place. He got behind Bax, who still squirmed and wriggled, but he didn’t try to get up.
Teddy shoved his dick in. Bax’s grimy asshole gaped in front of him. He howled in pain, and Teddy almost backed off out of instinct.
“Ow, shit!” Bax roared. Teddy wanted to tell him that he would pay for his ass, as long as Bax agreed to leave and not come back.
But mind-blowing bliss enveloped Teddy and compelled him to stay quiet, to push on, penetrating deeper into Bax’s loose hole. There was no resistance in the hole, though he sensed Bax’s whole body trying to flex his butthole — he wasn’t intact and couldn’t squeeze effectively.
It did send a wave of pleasure through Teddy though, whose whole body shook and tensed as he reached orgasm.
A burst of jizz sprayed into Bax’s now-loose butthole. Teddy cried out loud, virtually screaming, the sound ricocheting off the linoleum walls of the shower. Bax sprawled out flat on his belly. Teddy kept humping, making a puddle of jizz form beneath his taint.
Teddy’s cock plopped out of his ass, followed by a pair of giant cumloads dripping onto the shower floor. Bax grunted with relief, then staggered upright on unsteady feet. His pants were around his ankles, and he was dizzy with bruises on his face and ribs. He croaked out loud.
“If anybody evuh see you in this buildin’ again,” Knuckle said, “I will slit ya dumb bitch throat.” He shoved the still-mostly-naked Bax towards the door. “Now run.”
Bax sprinted out with his pants around his ankles.

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Seven

Teddy brought a duffel bag of mostly clothes from Knuckle’s place to the big central booking station in downtown Martinsburg. Teddy had never been there before. It was nerve-wracking.
But he made it through the inspection process and was allowed to bring the duffel bag to the prisoner, Knuckle. He had been arrested for that unlicensed bare-knuckle boxing match. He only had to do eight months, which seemed like a long time to Teddy, though Knuckle described it as “as easy as leaves”, whatever that meant.
“Thank you,” Knuckle said, his voice gravelly and grim. He took the duffel bag from Teddy. It had all of his belongings that he was allowed to take with him to prison. Teddy had agreed to store Knuckle’s other stuff in his apartment, so Knuckle wouldn’t lose anything while he was away.
“Don’t mention it,” Teddy said off-handedly. “You sure you’ll be okay in there? I know, you’ll have Buck, just be careful…” Buck Sampson was another bouncer from Lipsweet. He was inside doing a year-long bid for an unrelated incident, and Mr. Gregarian had arranged for Knuckle and Buck to be cellmates. They were both under the protection of the Gray Snakes.
So they should be safe, or as safe as anyone in prison could be.
Knuckle’s lip quivered. It was maybe one-sixteenth of a smile, but it was the closest thing to a smile Teddy had seen yet on Knuckle’s face. All Knuckle said was, “I’ll repay you. Fer bein’ nice.”
“You don’t need to do that, it’s just keeping some stuff in my closet,” Teddy said. But even as he said it, he knew that wasn’t the main nice thing Knuckle meant — what he meant was that Teddy had come to see him and said he hoped he was safe. That was the nice thing that Knuckle appreciated.
Knuckle thought for a moment, then said, “I’ll send you a gift. You workin’ tonight?”
Teddy nodded. “I’m going straight to Lipsweet from here.”
And then the guard came to get Teddy to escort him out, so they said goodbye to each other. He made sure to write down the state prison’s phone number and Knuckle’s intake number before he left. Then he went back to Lipsweet to work a shift with a heavy heart.
He was surprised by how much he missed Knuckle. Working the door tonight was Davon, that asshole-pimp, whom the girls loved because he was so handsome. Honestly, Teddy also got a thrill in his heart when Davon spoke to him, but that wasn’t often. He treated Teddy like it was beneath him to talk to him.
Finally, the end of the night came, and Teddy hightailed it home. He was glad to see there was still no Bax in the shower — Bax had finally gotten the message, it seemed. So he showered alone, then got ready for bed.
But there came a low, quiet, knock at the door. “Hey, uh, Teddy? I’m lookin’ fer a Teddy.”
It was a low growly voice, much too baritone and expressive to be Knuckle, though it had a certain gravelliness to it that reminded Teddy of Knuckle. He looked through the peephole.
It was a biker, it seemed. He was a young man with a tattooed gray snake visible on his neck, likely more beneath his leather jacket. Military-style patches dotted the jacket. His hair was jet-black and greasy, and he had a blockish jaw like a caveman.
“Teddy?”
“What? Who’re you?”
“I’m Python. I’m with the Gray Snakes-” He was fixing to say more, but the door opened. Teddy stood there in his sweatpants, his slim torso naked.
“Is Knuckle okay? He only just got to the state prison, right? Did something happen already?”

“He’s fine,” Python said. He shrugged. “Probly. I dunno.” He pushed his way inside. “You got someone you need me to take a run at?” He made little fists and shadowboxed the air. His heavy booted feet clomped on the floor. His leather jacket shuffled with his punches, and his jeans were scuffed and caked with dried mud that he was tracking into the apartment.

“Stop, stop, stop stomping on the floor. My downstairs neighbors hate that,” Teddy said. “I… What? You want to fight someone?”
Python shrugged. “Whatevuh. Knuckle ain’t speak clear. I talked to him a couple hours ago. He say I gotta come do what’choo want.” He looked at Teddy like Teddy was supposed to tell him something.
Teddy just raised his eyebrows. “Okay…”
“He said somethin’ ’bout me bein’ a present, fer you. You need somethin’. Prolly a fight, cuz he wanted me here late at night and said it was gonna hurt,” Python said. He shrugged and cocked his head like he was being punched. His tough-guy jaw chewed. “Whatevuh. I can take some punishment.”
“Oooooh… You owe him a favor, I guess?”
Python blushed a little and looked down. “I, uh… I owe the gang a favor. The Gray Snakes. Like… a lotta favors. Like… ’bout twenty-four grand in favors,” he said. “So they pick me to go fight guys a lot.” He took off his leather jacket and tossed it on the couch. His biceps were bared by a cut-off black tee shirt, which was ripped down the side to reveal his ropy-muscled chest. He again shadowboxed, this time keeping his heavy feet still so he didn’t clomp on the floor. Teddy watched his hefty pecs shifting up and down with each punch. Python was sweaty, jazzed up, like he’d been working himself up for a fight. “So who is it? Ya landlord, I ‘xpect?”
“No, it’s… It’s not that,” Teddy said. “Why don’t you take your pants off? You want a drink?”
“Hell yeah.” He stood there, no longer shadowboxing, just looking at Teddy like he didn’t make sense. “Take my pants off?”
Teddy shrugged as he went into the kitchen. “I have rum. You want some rum?”
“I could murder a rum and coke,” Python said. He stood with his hands on his belt, ready to take his pants off. But he thought he musta misheard that. “What’d you say? You want me to take my pants off?”
“Yeah,” Teddy said from the kitchen. “I don’t have any soda. Or any mixers really. Sorry, I’m a bad bartender.” He chuckled. “I don’t keep anything with carbs in the kitchen, I would just drink too much of it. So you’ll have to drink it straight. You want ice? It’s spiced rum, if that makes a difference.”
“Yeah, ice is cool.” Python scrunched up his eyes, his belt half undone. Finally he shrugged and dropped his jeans. He wore plain white boxers. Teddy came in with the drinks, and Python said, “So you don’t want me to fight nobody?”
Teddy shook his head. He motioned for Python to sit on the couch, but then Teddy didn’t sit next to him. He went to the closet rack of DVDs by the TV, and he found one that was unmarked. “No, no fighting. Just hang out with me tonight.” He put the DVD in the machine.
“Oh, you gettin’ threats?” Python said. “If I gotta get up and out in a hurry, I should have my pants on-“
“No, no threats.” Teddy finally sat down next to Python.
Python’s questions stopped when he saw the screen. It was a hardcore porno. A pretty blonde woman was visible, undressing to faintly heard music. Python’s eyes opened wide. “Oh shit, porno?”
Teddy nodded. “Don’t tell anyone. All porno is illegal in the city of Martinsburg,” he said. He got up to cut the light off, then he got up on the back of the couch instead of a cushion. He sat behind Python, who ignored him, and Teddy casually lifted the wifebeater over Python’s head.
Python was deeply engrossed in the porno and sipping his rum. He barely noticed Teddy undressing behind him.
But instead, Teddy’s dick pressed against Python’s spine. It was rock-hard already, and he rubbed it up and down Python’s muscles.
“Oh goddamn, she’s hot. See how her ass jiggles like that…” Python whistled. He leaned back — still ignoring Teddy’s dick rubbing against him, so his lean put his whole torso in front of Teddy, whose hands roamed across his powerfully muscled torso. Python dropped his underwear.
He had a thick knobbly cock, already hard, as he began stroking it without taking his eyes off the screen. Teddy slid down to the couch cushions and put it in his mouth.
“Ah, shit, you owe Knuckle too? You don’t gotta jerk me off, man,” Python said. But when Teddy didn’t stop, he just sucked in his breath and leaned back on the couch. Unsure whether he was doing something wrong, Python closed his eyes and tried not think about it. His dick slid into Teddy’s soft, warm throat. “You really don’t got to. Ain’t — did somebody — ooooooh, shit, yeah, did somebody tell you you hafta do it?”
Teddy looked up at Python without taking his dick outta his mouth and shook his head, but Python’s eyes were still closed, so he didn’t see that. His cock rocketed to erection in Teddy’s throat.
As Teddy’s tongue worked its way up and down Python’s shaft, his dick throbbed and pulsated its way down Teddy’s throat. Cum sprayed into Teddy’s mouth.
“Ah, shit yeah, oh yeah…” Python murmured, his voice breaking. He took a drink from his glass while cum still spewed from his pecker. The taste was intensely bright, salty and sunny, and Teddy savored every drop’s flavor.
More and more kept coming. Teddy swallowed as much as he could, but he didn’t want to take Python’s rod out, so he let his mouth fill to the brim and overflow, soaking Python’s crotch. Even then he kept going.
“Aaaah, shit, man… Ah, thanks, I needed that,” Python said with a moan. “My ladyfriend don’t never suck me off.” He moaned again when Teddy finally pulled off his cock.
His eyes were still closed, so he didn’t see Teddy kiss him on his grizzled lips until it happened. He didn’t realize Teddy had neither spat nor swallowed. His mouth was full of jizz.
So he slid all of that semen into Python’s mouth when they kissed.
Python gagged, both from surprise and disgust when he realized what was in his mouth. Cum splattered all over Teddy’s smooth face but even more coated Python’s wind-grizzled face and scruffy beard. Teddy kept kissing, as Python squirmed beneath Teddy’s much smaller body. He grunted and squelched around the mask of cum, but he didn’t try to get out from under Teddy.
Teddy stood. He blushed. This was the awkward part. He had a big stiffy, and he gave it a stroke as he got closer to Python’s head. Python sneered.
“Aw, man, buddy, I ain’t know you was gonna want me to do it too,” Python said. His sneer turned into a gulp. One of his great big mitts gripped Teddy’s cock and stroked it lazily, limply. That was nice for Teddy, as his callused hands and disrhythmic rubbing brought Teddy back from the brink of orgasm.
Teddy held back a triumphant grin as Python stuck his tongue out. He didn’t lick Teddy’s dick, he just slowly stroked it in front of his tongue. Precum coated his tattooed hand, slicking up the calluses built up from there from his vibrating motorcycle. Teddy’s hands ran through Python’s tangled greasy mound of hair.
“You owe Knuckle a lot of money,” Teddy said. He leaned forward his dick jabbing Python in the nostrils.
Python gag-laughed. “Ewcchk,” he said, clearly disgusted but not especially upset by it. “Nah, I don’t owe Knuckle nothin’ personally. Knuckle got a higher rank than me.” He planted his tongue on Teddy’s cocktip only for his muscular body to shake as he gagged again.
The sight of that made Teddy moan. His whole body buckled, and he almost came. He giggled and leaned on Python’s tattooed shoulders, firm with muscle. His dick spewed precum that dripped onto Python’s mouth and chin.
“Sorry,” Teddy said. His cheeks were red. “I’m just… so horny. I need a girlfriend.” Python looked away, as Teddy’s dick slid into his mouth. Teddy thought he was going to cum, and he very nearly did, but his rod spewed so much precum that Python’s mouth overflowed and Python gagged.
Python’s whole body squirmed, then fell tensely still.
He patted Teddy on the backside. Teddy retreated, and Python hesitated, one hand up. Python had one hand over his mouth like he was holding in vomit.
Then all at once, his whole hairy body did undulate. He held his mouth shut with both hands and scampered off the couch. He ran to the bathroom.
“Uaaacchhhhkk!” Python spat up into the toilet. He gripped the toilet rim and spat up again. His legs were spread, baring his hairy asscheeks. “Sorry, fellah, I ain’t — I just hate that taste, tha’ss all.” He retched again.
His wiry, almost skinny body was taut, as he spat into the toilet. All of his muscles flexed with each retch.
He had no idea Teddy kneeled behind him. Teddy jerked his cock with one hand while he got into position. Python’s back writhed with each gag, and Python gripped the toilet-bowl rim with his tattooed hands. His asscheeks were spread wide.
So, without a word of warning, Teddy could easily slam his pecker into Python’s butthole, no lube — he was grabbing the bottle of lube from the medicine cabinet as he did it, but his cock moved on autopilot. Teddy gripped Python’s greasy hair.
“Ow, shit!” Python said. His back arched, and his face bumped on the toilet rim. “You gotta give a warning…”
Still holding the unused bottle of lube, Teddy moaned and undulated his body, humping Python’s butthole. Cum flowed into him. Teddy hadn’t meant to cum so quick, but he was already on the verge and couldn’t help himself.
Great creamy gobs of it filled Python up and dripped onto the bathroom floor. Teddy forced his dick in all the way mid-jizz, so Python’s ass squeezed around his cock. A frisson of orgasmic pleasure ran through Teddy’s body.
He pumped his dick all the way into Python’s guts and held it there. Python sucked in his breath.
“Oh god, that feels so good…” Teddy said with another moan. He leaned on Python’s broad back and licked some of the pained sweat up there, as Python violently gagged and groaned in pain into the toilet water. Teddy pulled on his greasy hair, still humping his limp dick in and out and turning Python’s butthole into a frothy mess of jizz.
“Shit, you best tell Knuckle I was good,” Python said, his voice staggered with each thrust of Teddy’s dick inside him.
He winced in pain as Teddy slowly let his limp dick slide out. Python still had his face over the toilet bowl, and when the pain grew exquisite enough, Teddy moaned and Python gagged once more into the toilet water. Then, finally, Teddy was done.
They both took deep chamberous breaths. Teddy leaned on Python’s warm back and hugged his muscles from behind, while Python lifted his head up away from the toilet.
Python grunted. “But can you tell Knuckle you had me beat up a guy? That’s what I’m gonna tell people.”

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Eight