Doing decades inside for a gang gave Thumper lotta respect. He ain’t know none the niggas in the Baltimore Bloods these days. But Carson set Thumper up and kept him happy. Every single nigga in the organization was watching close. They all knew there was a good chance they’d be locked up at some point. Nobody wanna rely on they parole officer when they graduate outta the iron college. So Carson set Thumper up with employ as a bouncer at that strip club, Lipsweet. But Thumper ain’t allowed to work there cuz the club got a liquor license — the terms of his parole forbidded him to work anywhere they serve booze — so Carson arranged for Thumper to hire on at a private security agency. It was owned by Mr. Gregarian, the same man who own Lipsweet, so he was working at Lipsweet but for a different company, a company that ain’t got no liquor license. Thumper was glad to work a proper job. That road-crew nonsense trifled more than a overflown tub of nobody’s farts, and Thumper bin looking forward to something more his style. “You gotsta wear a clean shirt and pants e’ry day,” said Tyrell Brickley. He was another thick-through Blood who worked for Mr. Gregarian, and he showed Thumper the ropes around the club. “Mistuh Gregarian get a mad curl if you show up lookin’ trashy. He want you wearing clean shoes too. No boots, no sneakers. Jeans is okay. But don’t sag ’em too deep, if he see drawers he get steamy, and he do monologue about it.” Thumper nodded. He could do that. He done rub noses with Mr. Gregarian decades ago, when Thumper was a regular at Lipsweet. Thumper got respect for him. Mr. Gregarian was a long-finger pinkie-ring honky, not some slop-pie hickpile like most the white whombodies Thumper met in lockup. The bar was smoky and lush tonight. Bundles of blunted niggas mumbled luscious words on the underhush as womens juggled they abundant stuff on the stage. Thumper wanna watch too, but he gotsta man the front door, collecting cover charges and checking IDs. He couldn’t catch more than a glimpse of girlbits now and then. He was hoping to peep that Sherry girl again, but she weren’t dancing tonight. Midway through the evening, he got to crack slaps at a couple skulls, after some suited honkies stayed groping upon one of the females. That felt damn good. Thumper ain’t never get to punch a white man in a suit. He could get used to that. “You done good, you knocked them fellahs out cold,” Tyrell said when Thumper got back to the door. “Mistuh Gregarian know lotta cops. If a fellah need a punch, don’t worry, Mistuh Gregarian won’t let’chu get in no kinda trouble for it. He can make shit like that go away, so long as you keep the peace in his club right.” He paused. “And wear clean shoes. He real particular about shoes.” Thumper nodded. “Is my clothes okay, nigga? I know it’s old-fashion. I don’t own lotta options.” Thumper kept it to hisself that he ain’t know how to buy clothes no more. He ain’t find nothing in Baltimore that he considered a normal men’s clothes store. If he asked, Carson would tell him to google it. He did google it, and the only stores he could hoof it to was a place just for tee shirts with dirty jokes on ’em, a “antifascist surf and skater joint” and a store that sold nurses’ scrubs to plus-size ladies. He ended up in a thrift shop buying the kinda clothes he wore before, which was then retro but now was fossils. He might as well wear a dinosaur. Where did a normal nigga buy new rags nowadays? Tyrell waved him off. “Mistuh Gregarian is old-fashioned. I bet he likes yo’ clothes,” he said. “He prolly say you dress classy.” Once Thumper washed the blood off his knuckles in the sink behind the bar, Tyrell bade him back to the door. A line done develop as the nocturne progressed. Couple crackers scattered in alongside some Lay-Oceans and ashamey Arabs, but most the Lipsweet-goers was niggas, who sneaked looks through the doorway even before they paid they cover charge. But mostly all them leery lusters in line stayed nose-deep in they phones. One those sneaky-peekers caught Thumper’s eye. Rashid Somebutt. He couldn’t remember his last name, but he was Rashid. He was in prison, in 19C with Thumper, weren’t he? He was a roundbody darkskin bullethead nigga with dappy eyes, gappy teeth and a fatty neck, steady slapping his belly and laughing with machine gun lungs. But Rashid Somebutt ain’t notice Thumper, or if he did, he hid it good. He was drunk in line, wobbling his thicknesses like jello, talking with volume, deep on the slur. So maybe he really ain’t recognize Thumper. On the other hand, Thumper only bin out a couple months. He ain’t look no different. Rashid Somebutt looked the same too. He was always thick as a dick, lifting mad weights with the big boys, but he ain’t never work out in a organized way. He ain’t never do no cardio, so he got that stout-nigga booty, and his belly ain’t never go away. Rashid sat at the bar, nursing a whiskey and a phone, after his niggas was gone. Lipsweet emptied into quietude, and the only sound in Thumper’s ear was the smell of hungry pussy. Rashid be staring at them remnant females on his lonesome but ain’t none them give Rashid no mind. He only got a lapdance earlier when his niggas paid for it — he was a ghetto-nigga’s nigga, and them strippers and whores could smell his dollar-poor dick. They stayed away. That was prison life sticking to him, Thumper reckoned. A free man can splurge on urges. A prison nigga hoards like a stingy dragon. “Yo, how was yo’ first night?” Tyrell Brickley asked when the bar was damn near dead, just a few minutes before close. They weren’t to let no one else in this late, so Thumper was done doormanning. They was giving the drunks and solos time to down they dregs — Teddy the bartender done last-call a minute ago. Thumper nodded. “Fine,” he said. He motioned to Rashid. “You recollect that nigga?” “Rashid Jenkins? Yeah, he was in 19C wit’ us,” Tyrell said. Thumper licked his teeth. “Hell yeah. I knew it was him. Rashid Jenkins! Couldn’t remembuh his name,” he said. He kept his salty eye on Rashid. “He come here a lot?” Tyrell shrugged. “Yeah, think so. He got prison-brain. He stuck in that cell, nigga, he be getting violent at the drop of a hat, talk too rough for the girls, even the ghetto bitches. That dancer Ebonette say he lick pussy like it was a lollipop that slapped his mama.” Tyrell laughed as he went to assist some drunken lugnuts in wobbling out the door. But Thumper’s brain wrinkled on Rashid, parked at the bar, a-poking at his phone like a lazy baby. Frowning his brown, Rashid phoned down and stood up to peace out, only to see he got no niggas about. “Yo, Rashid?” Thumper said, coming up close as clothes to that jiggity nigga’s crunk mug. He squinted at Thumper like he was far away. “Thumper?” His hips swayed, but he kept his head still. “Hell yeah, nigga!” Thumper said. He patted hisself on the chest and beamed brightly. “Rashid, you son of a bitch, c’m’ere, homeskillet!” He hugged Rashid tight. That nigga was thick and soft like a mushy pillow, and he smelled like a crowded barbershop. That reminded Thumper why Rashid stuck to his mind as fresh as yesterday’s tossed salad. For most his prison sentence, Rashid owed the Bloods big blocks of cheddar. Rashid ain’t never was good at resisting drink, smokes, and dice, and he stay mad underwriting checks his cabbage couldn’t cash — he owed dollars with a profusion. And in prison, there’s rules about that shit. If a nigga owe money, any other nigga is allowed to repay a part of that debt, and that nigga who owe gotsta do what that other nigga say. There was a mountain of rules about what was permissible. Ain’t none those rules suggest they stop applying when that nigga get outta prison. “C’mon, lemme show you this female in the back. She a real eager skeezer, no diggity,” Thumper said. He motioned for Rashid to follow him into the back, and then he headed back there without waiting to see if Rashid would follow. Thumper was glad to get away from the music, which was a threesome of sedated white girl rapping like dreary puppies. “Hell yeah,” Rashid said. “My friends all went home with that bitch Caitlin Smiles. She be chargin’ per head though, and I can’t afford even a handjob from her. Bitches be trippin’.” He followed Thumper into the back hallway and then into a tiny office. Rashid faced the desk, but Thumper stayed behind him to shut the door. Then Thumper grabbed Rashid’s pants and boxers and pulled them down before Rashid could respond. Then all that came out was a discomfitted grunt. He ain’t try to pull away from Thumper. His thick brown asscheeks was bare and soft, and Thumper groaned with desire. His thick fingers gripped Rashid’s buttcrack beneath his pants and drawers. He got one thick booty, enough to make Thumper whistle and smile. “Nah, no nigga, nah, nah, I ain’t locked up no more,” Rashid said. He moved away, towards the desk in the office, but Thumper followed and pushed him over the desktop. That swole booty aimed up, and Thumper bared it thoroughly. He kneaded the flesh of both buttcheeks. “Hmm-hmm, hush up. I’s allowed in you still. Ain’t I pay for booty buncha times on the upfront and you still owe me one?” “No! I done all that! I gave it up e’ry time you paid for, nigga!” Rashid said, squealing like a sweetened seal. “You on that booty bandit trip! We ain’t inside no mo’.” He turned around, but Thumper forcefully shoved him to face the back of the office. Rashid weren’t a weak man, but he ain’t work out on the reg like Thumper neither. Thumper was a semi-pro boxer before his arrest, and though his body got older, it ain’t get a lick weaker. And Rashid got his pants around his ankles, his flop-a-doodah flipping this way and that, so he ain’t got leverage to pull away.
In seconds, Thumper pulled his pud out too, and he be jabbing it into Rashid’s thigh and buttcheek. His skin was hot and soft, and it got Thumper’s limpen meat throbbing. Thumper kept on the stroke to get it hard, but he ain’t stop ramming it.
“Nah, Thump, you can’t-” Rashid tried to shove him off, but all he could do was shuffle forward with his pants around his ankles. There was a wall afront him. He bent his knees to lean over and pull his pants up. “Sssssh…” Thumper grunted and pistoned his hips. His dick rammed into Rashid’s asshole. In most men, Rashid’s clenching woulda kept Thumper from penetrating him. But Rashid done took it up the butt enough that Thumper could push the tip in. He was just barely firm enough to do that. Rashid gritted his teeth. “Ow, shit, nigga-“ “I’ll lube it up,” Thumper said. “If you co’op’rate, nigga.” He ain’t stop drilling it in, pushing Rashid head-first onto the desk. Rashid almost fell. He got a good inch and a half in before the pressure from Rashid’s sphincter, as he tried to repel Thumper’s cocktip, was enough to give him a full-on erection. “Ow, nigga, Thumper!” Rashid gritted his teeth. Thumper’s rod was stiff as sticks now, and it rubbed in harshly. “Fine, shit!” “You co’op’ratin’?” Thumper asked. He stopped thundering his shaft in, but he kept swaying it left and right, just teasing Rashid. He ain’t take none of it out neither. Just an inch or two was in his guts, but that was enough for Rashid to grimace and nod. “Yeah, nigga, I’ll — shit!” Rashid grunted. “Shit, Thump, c’mon, nigga!” The office was Haykh Gregarian’s — Mr. Gregarian’s son — who pimped the bitches out here, so Thumper was sure he had some lube in the desk. Sure enough, there was a big tub of some fancy-looking lube with French on the label. He smeared a fistful on his cock without taking it outta Rashid’s booty, then worked it into the hole by oozing his dick back and forth. He almost lost his hardon as he went, but then the lube got warm and made his ramrod easy to slip in deeper. Finally Rashid just gripped the desk, bent his knees a little and let Thumper at it. He’d learned it was best not to fight it. “C’mon, nigga, make some them noises, you was good at that,” Thumper said. “Nuh-uh-“ “Yeah, like moanin’ like a female. Don’t grunt like that, it’s nasty-“ “Wasn’t me! Shit, nigga!” Rashid gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. His hands snaked to his buttcheeks to spread ’em. He kept grunting and seething with each thrust of Thumper’s cock into him. “You thinkin’ of Banter.” “What? Who?” Thumper stopped moving and cocked his head to the side. “Banter. Remembuh that nigga Banter? Short skinny slimfire, he moaned like-“ “Aaaaaah, shit yeah, got you and him mixed up,” Thumper said. He laughed and rubbed Rashid’s back. “Still, don’t grunt like you takin’ a nasty dump. Make some sounds like a girl.” Thumper moaned like a female then, still laughing, as he resumed humping his cock in and out of Rashid’s ass. Ain’t no feminine sound come outta Rashid, who did try — he got a much deeper voice than Banter. Rashid’s attempt at a feminine moan sounded more like a dying loudspeaker than anything else, but it was better than his dirty-dump grunting. It was enough to get Thumper good and hard, sending shivers of pleasure through Thumper’s body. The muscles of Rashid’s backside clenched hard. Thumper groaned and leaned on Rashid’s shoulders, pinning him onto the desk. “Shit, nigga, you feel better ‘an I remembuh…” Thumper rammed at his asshole until it was fulla his dick, and he plowed him hard, making Rashid’s whole thickness jiggle and press against the desk. Haykh Gregarian’s papers was scattered all over, prolly soaked in Rashid’s painsweats now. Hopefully Haykh would think a dancer brung a john in here. “Here I go, nigga, just like old times,” Thumper said, lowering his head to whisper into Rashid’s ear. “Love you…” Cum spurted into him, a tight little load at first, then a big thick creamy one. Then more jissom flowed into Rashid’s guts. He hated this part. Rashid closed his eyes and tried not to think about the cum filling him up. It was hot and gooey, and some leaked out and ran down his thighs. He wished he done sprung for a handjob from Caitlin. But it was too late now. Just when he thought it was over, another multi-second long flow of jiss seeped into him, then another, and Thumper moaned like he was truly in love. Rashid cringed. He kept his teeth and his legs clenched the best he could, until at last Thumper’s cock softened inside him. Thumper pulled it out with a moist splattering sound. “Goddamn, fuck, nigga, c’mon…!” Rashid sputtered. “Shit!” “Hell yeah, nigga,” Thumper said. He smacked the sweat off his chest, then pinched Rashid’s plump asscheek. “I bet Caitlin Smiles don’t give it up that good.”
Thumper sat with an ice-pack on his face and puffed a fug. A short-mouth nigga named Cheeky done talk tall, and Thumper planked Cheeky out. He sat in the parole office, looking across the clutter-top desk at Mr. Perry. Mr. Perry done give him the ice-pack for his swole upper lip. Thumper ain’t need the ice-pack, but he took it anyway. Cheeky was a softnutting nigga who threw fists with weak wrists, and he barely whiffed Thumper. Thumper weren’t shook up, but the beatdown got Mr. Perry eyeing him like a broke-down repair-kit. “You can’t behave this way, Wendell,” Mr. Perry said. “You ain’t in the big house no more. Now, I don’t gotta tell the police, since you ain’t hurt that boy too bad. But you gonna have to find a new job. You got-“ Thumper scoffed. “That pissant Jerry fired me fo’ that? He buggin’.” Mr. Perry frowned. “You’re not in prison anymore, Wendell. Out here, fighting is taken very seriously. Jerry is required to fire you for an act of workplace violence.” Thumper crossed his arms over his chest. Did every nigga who throw fists get fired nowadays? Did they back then too and Thumper ain’t know it? He ain’t know if he was being a cast-iron nigga or if Mr. Perry was a pansyfied pussy. Or maybe both was viable hypothotamuses. Silence hung between them both. Thumper ain’t wanna sorry out. Mr. Perry was hankering for a teary apology, but Thumper ain’t got a lick of regret, and he weren’t gonna promise it won’t happen again. If some other short-mouth nigga notate improper observations, Thumper would gonna hafta deliver a fist-based correction. A nigga need a line that’s easy to cross, so every eyeball can see him enforce it. The world outside was different than prison. Thumper knewed that, and he ain’t need Mr. Perry to point it out. A nut-tapping nobody like Cheeky out here ain’t the same as a no-good nowhom in prison. Inside, a thousand niggas like Cheeky be merking niggas like Thumper to carve out a name for theyself. But plentya them thousand was on that road crew too, witnessing Thumper either showing that prison ain’t weak him down or showing that it did. So Thumper just crossed his arms over his chest and nodded for Mr. Perry to go on. “Lotta guys want road-crew work, so I had to pull in favors to get you that job. You got something to say for yaself?” Thumper licked his teeth. He shrugged. “A white lady on my phone screen said that roads was racist.” “Fine, don’t take this seriously if you don’t want to. You got a week to find a new job,” Mr. Perry said with a snap-down. His plump nose wiggled. “Or you go back inside. That’s a condition of your parole, you have to be gainfully employed.” Thumper stood and snorted. “Fine.” His giant dick bulged against the fabric of his workpants. He angled it to be less obvious. It was because he bin spying on a photograph of Mr. Perry’s wife on the shelf behind the desk. She was so-so beautiful, but she was moreso than Mr. Perry, and when Thumper’s eyes took her in, his pecker responded as peckers do. “Stop. I didn’t say you could go,” Mr. Perry said. He sighed and rubbed his temples. He was a lipless roundbody workface chowder-white lump on a log with a bald head and weary eyes, and you could just tell his wife don’t put out no more. “You got a hardon, Wendell?” “No.” Mr. Perry shot him a disbelievous look and said, “You gotta get that took care of.” He sighed and stood. “Guess you don’t know where to go, huh? C’mon.” Thumper followed him outta the office and into the parking lot. “I know how to jack my nut off, suh.” Mr. Perry winced. “Don’t be crass. You thinkin’ wit’ ya dick, that’s the problem. Ya dick wanna punch a sucker for lookin’ at you. That ain’t ya brain thinkin’, it’s ya dick. You ain’t in prison, Wendell. Ya old patterns was a key that unlock a door you ain’t stuck behind any more. Now them same patterns lock the door instead.” Thumper wanted to explain again, to make Mr. Perry understand. He ain’t just whale out on Cheeky for “lookin’ at him”. That’s how Jerry summed it up to Mr. Perry. But Cheeky bin sneaking disrespect and talking squirrelous shit about Thumper all morning. Then he started mean-mugging on the flagrant. He was escalating, and Thumper do be nipping escalations in the butt. “Folks out here expect civilized behavior,” Mr. Perry said. He got behind the steering wheel of his splatter-paint truck and motioned for Thumper to get in. “I expect a big-time homeboy like you prolly need to get ya nut off e’ery morning. There’s ways. Ain’t expensive neither.” “I can find a hoochie mama to ram, suh,” Thumper said. “Don’t lemme hear that. That’s disrespectful to women,” Mr. Perry said. “Jesus don’t like hearin’ that kinda talk. You a Christian man, right?” “Yessuh.” “Then you best act like it. You got twenty bucks?” “Yessuh,” Thumper said. Mr. Perry said, “Give it to the man by the door. I’ll tell you when.” He continued lecturing Thumper about proper Christian behavior and peppered him with questions about the church he went to — to verify that he was really going to the black church, Ebenezer Baptist. Mr. Perry knew Pastor Cherrymore there and said he was gonna check that Thumper bin attendatory. They parked at a mechanic shop near a sprawling mess of a industrial area. A bus-repair yard lay in the back, and a hodgepodge of small factories and workshops sprawled around like free weights, separated by gravel parking lots and chain-link fences. They parked at the mechanic shop, but that wasn’t where they went. Mr. Perry’s lumpy legs led Thumper to the back of the mechanic shop, where there was a high fence. On the other side was the parking area for the bus-repair workshop — it was chock-fulla buses, about half school buses, the others city buses and greyhounds. But there was a strange little back area, behind the mechanic shop and afronta the fence. A small garage interrupted the fence, so it was accessible both on this side and in the bus-repair yard.
Thumper was confused. It was too tiny to be any kinda business, but there was a humpy-dumpty nigga with a ugly mug at the garage door like a bouncer. He ignored Mr. Perry and Thumper until they was right afront him.
“Twenty bucks,” said that broad-body nigga like he was already bored of this conversation. He glanced at Thumper but spoke to Mr. Perry. Mr. Perry motioned for Thumper to hand the money over, and Mr. Perry did likewise. That ovaltine nigga took the money, unlocked the garage door and opened it to let them in. It was a tiny garage lit up with one bare bulb. The whole space was barely big enough for a car. But there weren’t no mechanic’s tools or nothing in there. The far wall was covered in a sheet. And there was a hole in it, couple feet high off the floor. “This is called the gloryhole,” Mr. Perry said. “When you get a hardon, you come here. Real cheap way to get ya nut off. There’s a female purty as pink on the other side of the sheet.” He murmured into the cloth sheet. “How you doin’, baby?” “She” ain’t say nothing, but Mr. Perry unzipped his fly and plugged his knob in the hole anyway. Then he sighed, and his knees went weak. You could tell from the look on his face when “she” put his honky whodinky in “her” mouth. Thumper stayed disbelieving there was any female involved here, not for a second. They got gloryholes in prison. He knowed how it worked. There was a man on the other side of that wall. Well, not a real man, but a punk anyway. What Thumper ain’t get was how this more Christian than finding a slut to ram, but he ain’t wanna up Mr. Perry’s ire, so he just nodded along like a know-nothing nigga. “Ah, shit, she got mouth like silk, Wendell,” Mr. Perry said. He be thrusting his hips now, making sweet love to that hole like it was the wife who got no affection for him no more. Thumper ain’t wanna stick his dick in a hole in a sheet. The nigga on the outfront would know the real score, so Thumper swaggered towards the garage threshold. The dumptster-shape nigga at the door was tap-a-lapping at his phone screen like it was bothering him. “Yo, nigga, can I go in the back and pop open that punk’s booty? I just got outta prison, and-“ “Extra thirty bucks. Don’t tell yo’ honky what you see back there. White folk isn’t allowed. Can’t handle it.” Thumper whistled. “It cost fifty? Damn…” But he shrugged and passed it over. He ain’t got much to spend money on these days anyhow. That was prolly a good price on the outside for plowing down a punk’s butthole. Thumper hoped it wasn’t some nasty-ass -crack-a-doodle. When he got the money, the girthy nigga led Thumper in and to the sheet, next to which was a door. He unlocked it, and Thumper slipped in. He heard the plumpy nigga say to Mr. Perry, “Only black folk allowed in the back. She love black dick.” Whatever Mr. Perry said, Thumper couldn’t hear it. He was viewing a slimfire nigga with a wild wiggle of hair sticking up. He got slick jittery legs, skittering eyes and drippy spittle. Sitting on the floor beside him was a crack pipe. He got Mr. Perry’s fat honky dingaling resting on his tongue, spewing out slime. Thumper groaned at the sight of the trashy hole he just paid to ramrod. He came up close to that cracky-dappy nigga and spoke into the hole. “Mistuh Perry, suh, I’s in here to make love to this female. She a dime, she fine as a candy fox, ooh-wee, Mistuh Perry! She got me illin’ like a villain! And she got booty like you wouldn’t believe, suh.” “Is she white?” Mr. Perry whispered like he got shame to ask. “Hell yeah, she chowder-white, Mistuh Perry. Chunky clam,” Thumper said with a low whistle. He was gonna describe the ideal white man’s white woman, but all he recalled was the way white women was before — big hair and long skirts and headbands. What was white women even like nowadays, aside from phony-face phone freaks? The punk looked up at Thumper and frowned. He shook his head, but then he shifted his ass towards Thumper. He dropped his basketball shorts, revealing boxers with the assflap torn out. Thumper growled. That was one helluva signal. In prison, a tore-out assflap meant that booty was open for business. He was already hard in anticipation, rapidly forgetting his reluctance to plow up a hobo. The gap-tooth crackhead winced when he saw Thumper’s big-league meat, but he ain’t resist. Thumper rammed his dick in that crackhead’s booty without no lube, no warning and no mercy. “Ah, shit, nigga,” Thumper murmured softly. The one nice thing about a crackhead booty was that it was basically a toy. It ain’t like that boy Rico’s booty from a couple weeks ago — clean and tight, waiting for a nigga to open it up and howl wild as walnuts up his guts. A crackhead booty was loose and dry. You could add yo’ own spit — course you gotsta look at it to spit on it, and that ain’t never a pleasant sight — but you ain’t gotsta worry about ripping him open. This crackhead was well broke-in. He winced a little when Thumper slid in him, but then he ain’t move a muscle. Thumper ain’t gotsta think about him as a human at all, he just a toy, little better than them fleshlights the Latin Kings made on Cell Block G. His butthole rubbed on Thumper’s shaft, and Thumper got in him so deep his balls slapped loudly on the crackhead’s taint. He got coarse knappy hairs running down his buttcrack and between his legs, and the hairs rubbed frictiony against Thumper’s manhood. Thumper was watching real close as the crackhead slurped off Mr. Perry’s withery white knob. It was veiny and pale, throbbing. Thumper gripped it with one hand, stroking it past the crackhead’s lips. Holding back a laugh so Mr. Perry wouldn’t hear, Thumper stroked it hard and strong. He got a pretty big dick for a cracker, but it was skinny like a stick of pepperoni. That nasty-knappy crackhead was trying-a avoid tasting it — he was just slobbering on the sides when Thumper got involved. Thumper ain’t let punks get away with that. “Go deep on it, baby, swallow that-” Thumper said, interrupted by the crackhead gagging on Mr. Perry’s honky-donky-doodah ramming into his throat. His asshole was squeezing painfully on Thumper’s rod too, and the crackhead kept wriggling like a scribble, wincing like he wanna get up but that tub-of-ass nigga outside would mollywhomp him if he tried. Mr. Perry’s prejiss leaked onto Thumper’s hand, while Mr. Perry’s fat-honky huffling orgasm came through the sheet. Mr. Perry blew a nut then, shooting jissom that flowed into the crackhead’s mouth. The crackhead winced like he ain’t expecting that — he normally pulled off so he ain’t gotsta take a mouthful of nut. Most it sprayed over his face mosta the time, which was why he got dry and wet cum dripping up and down his grizzled face and unshaved cheeks. But Thumper wanna watch his mouth fill with that spermy soup. A whimpery gag escaped from his guts, as the crackhead tried to take his mouth off Mr. Perry’s rod. Thumper held him in place until the last second, while Mr. Perry moaned on the other side of the sheet. He shot one final wad that spurted onto both Thumper’s cheek and the crackhead’s face, and Thumper held back a baritone guffaw. As the crackhead bucked, Thumper gripped him tight and threw his head back. He moaned and laughed at the crackhead’s shake, like a jittery version of that Sherry girl’s shimmying dance. His cock spewed that crackhead’s booty fulla creamy seed. When it went into him, wave after wave of old-head nut, the crackhead simmered down and laid his head on the ground, his ass still up high and cringing. He closed his eyes. Jizz spurted into him, more and more seeping into his flesh. Lotta it dripped out his butt and pooled in the flatness of his battered buttcrack. He whimpered and eyed his crackpipe. But Thumper ain’t let him grab it until he was done, until he done drain every drop of jism into that crackhead’s grimy guts. His rod popped outta the crackhead’s ropy ass, and cum dribbled into the dried-white crust in his crack. His knappy black hairs were both soaked with fresh stuff and coated in flakes of old nut. Then he walked outta there, leaving the crackhead heaving for air and cradling his sore buttcheeks. Already the next customer was slipping his winky wiggleworm into the hole. “You gonna love her lips, whiteboy,” Thumper said to the portly dirty-pearl college lug lining up at the sheet. He winked at him and patted him on the back. He nabbed the whiteboy’s wallet as his pants fell to his ankles, pulled a couple dollars outta it and then dropped the wallet back on the pants. Whiteboy focused on digging his nub into the gloryhole, so he ain’t notice his wallet in Thumper’s mitts. “She wanna drink yo’ pee too.” Thumper laughed and wished he could stay and watch that. But Mr. Perry was already waiting at his crackerjack truck and poking at his phone like he was doing surgery on his only baby. Before Thumper got to the truck, he made sure his satisfied pecker was packed tight in his pants. He got in the truck, and Mr. Perry ain’t look up. Both them was silent, the only sound the universal rhythm of finger on phone. “You feel better, Wendell?” Mr. Perry asked when he finally found a way outta his phone. He started the truck engine. “Sho’ do, suh!” Thumper said like a shucksy nigga. “That lady fixed my boner just right. You got this nigga’s numbuh fo’ real!”
When Thumper woke up, that meth freak he messed with last night was gone. Thumper long snored on the solo while the booty boy smoked meth, haphazardly cleaned the apartment like a overclocked robot and then scuppered sideways in the pre-dawn light. That was good. Thumper ain’t want no meth freak sticking around, after all. He got up just after dawn. It ain’t feel early to him. In prison, he be getting up at the north side of dawn. Nowadays, in the free outside present-day here-and-now of the real world, early rising got niggas tripping, looking at Thumper like sad question marks when he said he got up at six. Lazy-ass punks all over. His sneakers was old-fashion now. He done forgot how to dress. In prison, all the niggas was sporting sameness — orange jumpsuits and tee shirts, scruffy beard, Bloods tats, crucifix cuz no other jewelry was allowable. Out here, niggas was dudding up in polo shirts and tight-leg jeans, with pink drawers showing. Thumper ain’t know how to wear that, cuz ain’t none that flied before. He’d look ridiculous in that. What was up with them homeboys with bleached hair? Thumper pontificated to hisself on on that topic when a recycling truck rattled down the road — there ain’t never was recycling trucks before neither — the driver was a reflective-vest redbone with bleached hair, a shiny grill, steel rods in his eyebrows and a center-of-his-nose ring. That nigga was presenting like a tinfoil supervillain. Ain’t not a single nigga bleach they curls platinum before. What made young cats come up with crazy shit like that? How did Thumper and his homeboys avoid it back in the before? They acted proper. Young pups was freak-show niggas now. He stood mean-mugging the recycling truck. The nigga inside paid him no mind, and neither did the truck as well. The world bin moving on since before, and it weren’t gonna stop now for some creaky-knee nigga heaping harsh at the history of here. He was still scowling short when this nigga Carson arrived at the barbershop on the ground floor. Thumper bin standing out smoking fugs and marinating his grays in dawnlight, cogitating upon the years that done gone and the recycling trucks that passed. The sun was baking the boulevards of Baltimore early this morn. It was gonna be a scorcher today, and the humidity already hung about in the air like a sauna of spiderwebs. But it felt good to be exposed to the weather and the heat and the Chesapeake wind blowing the day’s haze astride the sky. Moisture done condense on Thumper’s skin, and that felt right as rum. “Wendell, hey, nigga,” Carson said. He was a lieutenant in the Bloods, but he got a respectable look about him. He was one them roundbody niggas, in a button-down shirt and nice pants, got a graveled-down voice with a throaty murmur. He run the barbershop on the outfront for the Bloods, and since Thumper done his time standing up for them, Carson was supervising his freedom. Carson gave Thumper a dapper nod. “You out early this morn.” “Yep. Gettin’ a head-start on the day.” Thumper licked his teeth. He ain’t wanna admit that he got up outta prison-toned habit and that he ain’t got nothing on the agenda today. He did have one chore he done got tasked with: his parole officer bin fussing at him to snag some employ. He was sposedta hump it to a job center to apply for work online. The job center was at a library, and it got this dickless sniveling smudgy-specs sunnyskin college-high nothing-muffin with a bone up his butt and quakes in his loafers to teach him how to use the internet. That Chinese boy’s name was Fancypunches, but Thumper ain’t tell him so yet. Thumper weren’t shook up over the job search. Carson said he would arrange it. So Thumper just be milling like a footless fighter on the street, where a stoop mighta been thirty-four years ago. Did they stop making stoops? He ain’t seen no new ones, and plentya old ones he remembered was gone. Everything new looked the same, he thunk. Every building younger than him in Baltimore was identikit boxes in gray and black, like the world’s only architect musta got locked up at the same time he did. He dithered in the barbershop when it opened, checking out the lookbook and considering hisself without no cornrows. He hoped sitting among niggas would feel like coming home again. But they was ticking and tocking on they phones and conversating over soccer, and one them niggas said he got new pajamas, and another one’s girlfriend only ate raw vegans, and Thumper gathered that every single one them males be shaving they pubes, and they was drinking coffees made with butter, mochachiatto and “dragon’s fruit”, and the teevee got a scrawny honky plastic-surgeoning hisself into a starfish to protest the weather and ain’t nobody act like they was confuse about that, and then that grown-ass nigga who wore pajamas said the best teevee shows was not on the teevee, they was streaming outta cloud that his sister changed the password to, and ain’t nobody act like they got confuse about that neither. Something called “Poke He-Man Go” came up, but Thumper ain’t wanna ask what it was and look like some out-of-touch old head, because that was exactly what he was. All morning they listened to some nutty-butter rap, Thumper could hardly believe it. Niggas rapping like a deflating balloon, beats dry as a frigid bitch, and every head in that barbershop a nod-along nelly. They was all sneaking eyes at Thumper like there was something wrong with him that only they could see. When his phone vibrated in his pocket, he got a chill of not knowing what to do, and all them niggas saw it. Thumper wanna punch one’s lightbulb out, just to give ’em something else to remember, but he restrainted the urge. Before, only bankers and coke dealers got cell phones, and they was as big as dictionaries. This one was a plasticy pop-tart as heavy as a nun’s fart. Every single nigga got one too, and mostly they was lost inside they’uns.
He looked at the phone with a flatness. Buncha them in the barbershop was facing him down like a trash-high, offroading, institutionized, broke-apart jailbird numb-nut nigga. The phone was like alien technology in his too-big hand, and all he could think about was them cool cats cackling up his kicks last night.
Carson done hookt him up with the phone and showed him how to use it, but Thumper blanked on what he said now. He touched the phone. That musta worked, cuz he heard Carson’s voice. “Yo, Thump? You in the barbershop?” “Uh… Yeah.” Thumper said. He held the phone up to his face like a handheld radio. “Come into the backroom, I’ll be there in a sec.” Some in the shop simmered with subdued snickers like slippery niggas. Sidefacing that whack pack of rats, Thumper stepped out, still holding the phone up though he ain’t think Carson was there no more. Did folks leave the room if they took a cell call? Seemed like niggas be broadcasting private tidbits on the flagrant. But he ain’t want them to know he be fucking this up, so he strutted fly and blithe into the back the barbershop, and he ain’t return the phone to his pocket till nobody could see him unsure if it was hung up or not. “Yo, you wanna check out some females tonight?” Carson asked when Thumper got to the office. “I’ll take you to Lipsweet. You remember Lipsweet, right?” “Hell yeah…” Thumper said with a soft whistle, realizing he ain’t heard no niggas whistle since his release — did niggas stop whistling? Lipsweet was a strip club around long before Thumper’s lockup. Entirely different ladies dancing there now, of course. He’d like to find the ladies who was dancing a couple decades ago and see what they was up to. Bet they’d still purr fine as foxfur in they own way. Thumper could dig a old lady with nice flappy pussylips too. He ain’t mind that one bit. Some sag’d sit nice on his pecker, and Thumper could dig a droopy tit or two. A old bitch wouldn’t snigga when he ask how to use his phone neither. Carson said he’d “text him the details”. Couple minutes later, his phone vibrated again. Some words popped up on the screen and got a time on it. So Thumper went up to his apartment and was ready to dip at that time. Sure enough, Carson swung by in a SUV then and drove him to Lipsweet. The neighborhood was different than Thumper recollected it. All the neighborhoods they drove through was different — Ramspoint was ritzy and white, Bay North ain’t even a thing no more, Castle Street was desolate, East Middle was fulla young white folk with unpleasant hairstyles, and Factory Ridge got some kinda burnt-bamboo Chinese that Carson said was Lay-Oceans. But Lipsweet was still a grime-down shithole. The grime made it feel like home, and he liked that it was the same as ever. Actually, a few things did change — the bar area was bigger, so there was less tables, and there weren’t no tiki jawns no more, plus it looked like the backrooms done got expanded. Place was slow and low now though. To a lazy beat with a hazy melody, a couple dozen niggas watched the dancers as if none them mattered, sneaking peeks at they phones like beepy crack-pipes. Droopy-eyed black girls be dancing like they was tired of it. Prolly wishing they was back on they phones. One them females looked at Thumper with a fraction of a smile and a beckonsome finger. “Yo, you wanna get a private lapdance?” Carson asked. He carried a chocolatey grin when he reckoned the graceless hardon rocking Thumper’s pants. “Fuck yeah, baby,” Thumper said. He ain’t realize how blatant his boner was until he stood up and Carson bugged at it. His stiffy was stabbing like a dagger, making Thumper bent over, too awkward to stand up straight. “Arrange yo’ dick, old man,” Carson said with a dryness. Thumper pointed his pecker up so the hardon weren’t so obvious. “Shit, nigga, lookit all them females…” He whistled. “Ain’t see females like that in prison.” “Which one you want?” “That one ovuh there, wigglin’ like a riddle,” Thumper said without a second think. He let out a low-boil growl at the sight of her. She was a fancy-fine lightskin gal with a ripe badonkadonk and tits spilling outta her skimpy top. She made Thumper’s dick hurt, and her thighs made the hurt worth it. A silver grin on his foolish-ass face, Thumper widewalked around his hardon to the champagne room, while Carson retrieved the black girl with the bounciful booty. She came to Thumper with a shimmy in her hips and her eyes wide like a cartoon skunk. “Aw, fuck yeah, guhl,” Thumper murmured. He plopped his erection into the chair in the center of the champagne room. Wither-dicking R&B boomed out the speakers as she backed her ass up to him, but Thumper’s manhood drooled regardless. “I’m Sherry,” she said with a shrug and a snort, like she preferred no nigga remember her name. Thumper grabbed at her booty, moaning at its plumpness and tensing tall when she dragged his hands up her side to her tits. She mighta said something else, Thumper ain’t know cuz the music was loud and nauseating and her sultry bosoms was soft as Santa’s belly. His dick throbbed like a hypertensive nigga and leaked precum all over his balls. She rubbed her booty, grinding it hard atop his crotch, like she was trying-a make him nut down under. That was exactly what he did too, like a drippy teenager. Just as the song ended, Thumper closed his eyes and filled his drawers with a massive wad of cream. The jissom kept on flooding his thighs and his asscheeks and soaking into his socks. But then the song was over, and Sherry murmured some words of low import before she slid out into the bar proper, on the prowl for another nigga with a prick aimed at her. Thumper grimaced when he stood, his swampy crotch marinating in his own juices now. He found some napkins to get up what he could, then he headed outta the champagne room hoping nobody could see. A cigarette puffed in Carson’s lips, while uninterestedly he watched a girl dance onstage. Smoke fumed above Carson’s head, his stubbled mien lit by his cherry and the glow of the phone he ain’t never put down. Thumper came back to the table and sat in the cummy puddle of his pants. “You the man, Carson,” Thumper said. “I know you ain’t gotsta do this much fo’ me.” Carson scoffed. He got a cool-capping tone to his voice, like he want listeners to know he could honky down if he wanted to. “Nonsense, nigga. This organization has to respect its elders. You done yo’ time for us.” “Wish I had my old homies around. But they scattered like peanuts, nigga.” Carson shook his head and exhaled a thick plume of cigarette smoke. They both watched a new girl, a swarthy Asian lady, begin her dance — Lay-Ocean — real pretty but short and bony like a ant-farm scarecrow, with a tiny ass — Thumper seen bigger ballsacs on niggas in prison — but she look pretty enough if you sat real close. Then Carson said, “You can look ’em up on Facebook.” He saw Thumper’s face frumping aloud, and Carson picked up his phone. “Gimme a name.” “Jerome Barkley.” It took a few minutes. Finally Carson said, “Oh. He died three years ago.” “Tyrone Franks.” Carson sighed. “He died in prison in Oregon.” They went through all Thumper’s old niggas, but his face soured and sagged lower with each one. Reg O’Leary overdosed on his own supply. Tangiers Garraty shot hisself. Carl Munters got run over by a bus. Shankem Jones and Willie Donald both got shot by some nigga or another. Casey Carlisle’s fat heart gave out. Elsa Spit — the only dancer at Lipsweet whose real name Thumper recalled — got breast cancer and died just eight months ago. There wasn’t a head from before who was still alive, ‘cept for Thumper. He sat there nursing his drink, his dick limper than ever and shrinking like it done run outta shit to do in this life, while Carson be mad beeping and booping at his phone on the hunt for Thumper’s final nigga — Robert Smith, which ain’t a easy name to look up — there was about a million of ’em, including a rock singer. But then Carson’s phone rang, startling both them. Carson was peering at the screen and dropped it with a little yelp when it vibrated. He picked it up to answer it. “Yo, what?” Carson’s calm smile turned into a tense frown. “Yo, what?! He… Aw, shit, Rico, that fuckin’ nigga… I’ll get him.” He hung up and like swiped or something at his phone, then he looked at Thumper. “You wanna take a ride?” They dipped. Outside, the streets was a swampy night, and the sidewalks was choked with shiesty scrubs. They all knew Carson though and stayed outta his way. Thumper sat in the passenger seat of Carson’s SUV. It turned out that one of Carson’s dealers got arrested, not for nothing too serious — some itty-bitty possession beef, plus resisting arrest and disorderly conduct. Carson drove to the police station and went inside to bail him out. “Oooooh, shit…” Thumper licked his teeth when Carson emerged from the jailhouse with the young cat. That nigga was darkskin and glamor-muscle but not big, with a nice smooth face like any shebody would fall in love with. Thumper loved him too. He got feelings in his heart from the moment he spied that nigga. Thumper ain’t feel much love in prison, and he got used to finding it where he could. And if he saw that nigga behind bars, he’d brew up a pot of love in that nigga’s phat booty, and he’d season that stew with all the right herbs and spices. You just know he got a drumskin-tight intact booty too. Could load lotta love into that dumptruck. “Rico, this is Thumper. He a ex-con, just got released,” Carson said. “You two make nice, cuz you gonna be rooming together for awhile-“ “Aw, man, Carson, what?” Rico said with bickerish bitterness, like he ain’t never got disappoint before. Thumper was already imagineering how Rico would look without no clothes on. He’d be smooth and dark and undulating when the lights was off. He’d shimmy and shake just like that Sherry creature, and remembrancing her movements got Thumper so hard his nuts was finna splode in his soupy pants again. But for now, Rico was whipping out whine and sucking on his teeth. “I gotta share a place with him? Old head smells like a band-aid, nigga! Gimme my own place. I can’t live with old nigga, he prolly drink tea and shit. Put his hair in the drain-“ “Coffee gimme lumpy throat, nigga!” Thumper wagged a finger at Rico. “Bullshit, Rico, fuck you!” Carson said. He got behind the wheel and drove off, Thumper and Rico in the back. “I gotta come bail you out. You got a ounce of coke confiscated. You was arrested just cuz you can’t shut your fool mouth. Now I am givin’ you a home to lay your dome down in, and you bitchin’ cuz you gotta share it? You best recalibrate your expectations, cuz I am not a endless nigga. You done reach my limit, I gone beyond it, and if I gotta go any farther, you gonna feel some consequences from the great beyond.” Rico rolled his eyes but murmured, “Yeah, fine, whatevuh. Makin’ me move in wit’ old nigga past his prime, he a would-be has-been…” Carson muttered out his mean-muggery. “Shit, nigguh can’t even act right when I am in the middle of doing him a favor…” That car was fulla hostile mumbles, but Thumper was lost in his need for booty and maybe some decaf tea. Nigga got him thirsty. Soon enough they was back in the hood, and the shivering silence in the car ain’t diminish when they all got out. Thumper showed Rico to the apartment above the barbershop — the Bloods gave him that apartment on the free-up, so Thumper ain’t mind sharing it, specially with a prettyface nigga like Rico. Rico wore that handsome frown as his crown the whole time. He be sneaking dirty-dog eyes in Thumper’s direction as though any Rico’s predickyment was Thumper’s fault. “You only got one bed,” Rico said when he saw the bedroom and its lonesome mattress. “You count good. We gotsta double up,” Thumper said. “We gonna be snug as a hug, mah nigga.” He grinned. He patted Rico on the back. His hands lingered there, then moved under Rico’s shirt to rub his smooth back. “Lemme uh…” Rico shrugged his shoulders to make Thumper leggo his back. “Lemme call my lawyer. And my girlfriend.” “Oh, you got a guhl? Bring her ovuh!” Thumper said. He returned his hands to Rico’s back, and he whispered right into Rico’s ear. “Lemme mack on her. I’ll suck her clit while you fuck her.” “Whaaat?!” Rico held his phone in hand. “If yo’ dick slip out and I lick it some, won’t bothuh me none. C’mon, nigga… Get me some trim,” Thumper said. He rammed his hand down the back of Rico’s saggy jeans. He gripped his asscheek hard, like he was trying-a rip it off. It was damn smooth, pert near hairless, and you could just tell it was gonna shine — Thumper loved a shiny nigga. He growled into Rico’s ear. “Lemme fuck yo’ guhl. Tell her to give up her booty if she bleedin’ outta her period. She do booty, right? Does she lick yo’ butthole? Cuz I will lick her’n. I will eat her asshole like a chicky pot pie.” He mimed eating a very big pot pie with a itty-bitty spoon. “What, no?!” Rico backed away. “Step off, nigga!” He shortfooted from Thumper, then left the apartment without dropping his hound-dog frown. Thumper heard him out in the hallway on that relentless phone, talking to his lawyer, then his girl, then some niggas, then his mama — Rico be mad after a place to park his poker. Not wanting to make his roommate discomfitted, Thumper showered and cleaned his cummy balls. Then he went out in stale-scent duds straight from the thrift shop. It was getting to early evening, past suppertime in prison, and his clock-happy stomach let him know it. So he hightailed it to a pizza jawn and bringed back food. When he returned to the apartment, Rico done dip. Thumper weren’t shook up. Rico prolly staying with his girlie, Thumper thunk. Or he sleeping on some nigga’s couch. That won’t last. He ate his pizza alone. All he thinking about was choking down mushy food at crowded tables that smelled like too many niggas. In prison, everywhere was cramped and full-up. Out here, everyspot was empty ‘cept for phone screens. Baltimore was a quiet blip upon the world’s surface. The longer Thumper spent past the prison gates, the worse he got with the broad open tangles of the free world. Confinatory walls circumscribed chaos into legibility, but the night-sky teemed fulla forever, and Thumper got lost in the sterile black screen of the buttonless teevee. He ain’t even try working that remote control. Them sky-bound stars in the window ain’t sparkle the same as those precious stars he peeped seldom as angels behind bars. When his belly was fulla greasy pizza, Thumper worked his jimmies out. Carson bought him a gym membership, but Thumper ain’t know where the gym was or what the plastic jawn Carson gave him meant — presumitably, he gotsta display it to get through the door, but it ain’t look like no identification. Thumper just did burpees like he was used to, and he lifted a gallon of milk before gulping from it. So he bedded down lonefully. About thirty seconds after he laid his melon, there came a knockity-knock at the door. “Rico?” Thumper opened it on Rico a-frowning that face, so forlorn like a frayed wire. He pushed past Thumper to enter the apartment. “Alright, old head, I’ll stay here,” Rico said with a scowl. He be mad on that frowning trip. “My girl dumped me!” “Aw, shit, nigga, that’s some horsehockey, yes it is,” Thumper said. He touched Rico on the cheek. “You forget about that bitch. She ain’t worth yo’ time.” Rico wrinkled his nose at notice of Thumper wearing nothing but prison drawers, his biggity dickmeat bulging against the fabric, his unkempt pubes poking out the fly. “Nigga, put some shorts on or some shit.” “Nah.” Thumper led Rico to the bedroom. “C’mon, it’s bedtime.” “It’s ten o’clock,” Rico said. It took Thumper a second to realize Rico said the time because that was early to him. “Ten o’clock bin lights-out for damn near e’ry night I spent on God’s green Earth,” Thumper said. “So c’mon.” He went into the bedroom. “Leave yo’ phone out here.” “I ain’t tired,” Rico said. Thumper ain’t used to niggas being free men making they own choices. In the cell, if he telled a nigga it was time for bed, that nigga best get sleepy. Thumper ran that cell on point. “Go take a shower, nigga. Shower is in the hall.” Rico sucked on his teeth and nodded. “I ain’t got… y’know, no towel or nothin’.” “Hmm-hmm,” Thumper murmured. He liked the idea of Rico hiking up the hall buffly brown, his tight tushy dripping like a nigga popsicle melting in the night. But that old bat Vera might see his dingading-doo. So Thumper gave him a towel, a washcloth and a bar soap, and Rico frowned out that not a single nigga in the universe used bar soap no more — a modern nigga be using “body wash” — but he scampered off to the shower to scrub up irregardless. Thumper wanted Rico clean as a squeaky puppy. Somebody must buy bar soap, they got ’em in the store, Thumper thunk. He lay down waiting for Rico. Sleep hit him good and hard up the skull — Thumper got that regulatory sleep schedule. Ten o’clock came, and his body was presumitave that the time for slumber was now. So he was only dimly awake when Rico returned from the shower, his skin a-tingling and burnished. Rico hesitated in the dark apartment, but he sensed that Thumper wouldn’t tolerate him turning on the teevee or no lights or nothing, so he plugged his phone in and slipped into bed when it seemed Thumper was deep in nod. He lay there in the darkness and silence. Thumper’s body radiated warmth and that old-band-aid smell, and his weight hefted heavy on the mattress, which made Rico slide bit by bit closer to him. He ain’t feel hisself moving, but he gotsta keep scooting back to the edge or he’d be nuzzling Thumper’s shoulder. Rico sighed and closed his eyes. He wished he ain’t backtalk that cop. Soon, Rico found Thumper’s heavy body curling up around him. He smelled musty and salty as a few beads of nightsweat popped up on Thumper’s shoulders, and his arm was thicker than Rico’s head. His nose nuzzled Rico’s neck. That rendered Rico wide awake. “Yo, nigga! Nigga!” Rico hissed, quiet though there weren’t nobody around to overhear. Thumper’s nuzzles turned to moist kissery on Rico’s handsome cheekbones. “Thumper, wake up! Get off me!” “Ssshhh…” Thumper’s lips planted on Rico’s. Thumper moaned into Rico’s mouth as his tongue invaded. That nigga tasted as sweet as Thumper bin expecting, sweet as a free summer’s day, sweet as meadowy candy. Thumper licked his loving face. Rico squirmed. His tight little muscles was hard as metal bars beneath Thumper’s grasp, but they wasn’t big. He got no heft on Thumper, whose chest pressed down on Rico’s tautness. His muscles flexed perky under Thumper’s callused fingers like battering bats. The bedroom filled with Rico squealing outta the sides of his mouth plugged up by Thumper’s tongue. The smell and taste of Thumper’s liniment or pomade or some old-nigga shit like that overwhelmed Rico and bringed tears to his eyes. Thumper’s callused hands roamed over Rico’s smooth body, rough-handling him like a disobedient steak. Thumper was immovable, despite Rico on claw at his back. Thumper ain’t care. He just kissed. It felt damn good to kiss a clean nigga like Rico. In prison, a nigga like that would be expensive. A nigga like Carson wouldn’t just put a nigga like Rico in with a nigga like Thumper in prison. He pulled down Rico’s boxers, tongue still invading Rico’s mouth, and he gripped Rico’s cock and balls with both hands. Rico finally squirmed his mouth off Thumper’s. “What the fuck, old man?!” he sputtered. “You said you ain’t got no female no more,” Thumper said. Rico sat up, but Thumper kissed him on the cheek, hugging his little body close. He stroked Rico’s limp dick too. Rico panted and pushed Thumper’s chest. Thumper was too heavy though, and he just moaned at Rico’s touch. His scratchy voice resonated in Rico’s ear. “C’mon, nigga, lemme pull a nut out. I’ll fill you up so good you forget where babies come from. We be deep in the downlow, nigga, ain’t nobody gotsta know.” “I don’t — what does that mean?!?!?!!” Rico cried out, but Thumper plugged up that nonsense with his tongue again. He grabbed a tube of lube from the bedside table, and he smeared a big wad of it over Rico’s shiny booty. He pulled Rico to lay on his side, and one Thumper’s hands massaged his buttcrack with a palmful of lube, while Thumper’s other callus-thick hand aggressively stroked Rico’s limp pecker. “Hey, nigga, what’s Poke He-Man Go?” Thumper asked. The question was so incongruent Rico stopped a-wriggling. “Huh?” Rico gulped. Thumper’s brick-like fingers smeared more cold goop in his ass, then he rolled Rico over. Thumper’s chest hair rubbed against Rico’s back, and Rico struggled but remained ensconced in Thumper’s powerful arms. Thumper took that moment to ram his cocktip into Rico’s tight asshole. Rico squealed, and his whole body tightened. His butt clenched around Thumper’s cock. “I axed, what’s a Poke He-Man Go?” “Wha…? Ow, shit, nigga, ow, ow, ow, shit, whatchoo doin’, Thumper? Thump! Quit playin’-“ “What’s Poke He-Man Go?” Thumper asked again. He was kneeling behind Rico, who be on his knees too. The bed creaked under them. Rico tried to squirm away, but the pain made him wince, and Thumper drilled in a little deeper. “What’s Poke He-Man Go? Explain this shit, c’mon. You my nigga, right? So help a nigga out, damn. Why’s it a pro’lem when a li’l Lay-Ocean guhl come to a barbershop for a Poke He-Man Go Jim?” “You mean Pokemon Go! It’s a game!” Rico said. His voice was tense and clipped. “It’s a mobile game!” His hands waved around behind hisself as he tried to dig at Thumper. “It’s… augmented reality.” Thumpter stopped moving. He lowered his noggin and furrowed his forehead at Rico. “What?” “Nigga, lemme go!” “Whats’at mean?” Thumper asked. He gripped Rico’s shoulders and held on tight, drilling his dick in deeper. He threw out a moan and slapped Rico’s buttcheek. That broke something open, and Thumper was able to ram mad inches into that nigga behind. Intense pain erupted in Rico’s backside. He squirmed and tried to scream, but Thumper placed one meaty hand over his mouth. His other hand gripped Rico’s cock and gave it a few strokes. It was limp as a spineless snake. Shivers of pleasure ran through Thumper’s body, and he let out a creaky moan like a crypt being opened. That made Rico shudder. He bit at the pillow beneath his head. “It’s — ow, fuck, c’mon, nigga, whatchoo doin’?” Rico panted. He hung his head, his whole body sagging like he wanted to lay down but it hurt. “C’mon, nigga, don’t be shamey,” Thumper said. “We just messin’ around on the downlow. You want a reacharound, right? You ain’t a punk if you get yo’ nut off at the same time.” His callused old-man hand kept on jacking Rico’s dick as he plowed into his butt, like Thumper ain’t realize yet that Rico’s meat stayed soft. “Yo’ butt feel damn good. Squeeze it around my dick some, squeeze it good-“ “Ow, fuck, fuck, c’mon, Thump, don’t be a booty bandit!” Rico’s daddy and uncle Jermaine bin told him to stay away from ex-cons and don’t never bend over afront them, and now Rico realized how good that advice was. “That’s nasty pervert shit!” “Shut the fuck up,” Thumper snapped. His meaty hands caressed Rico’s back and kneaded his flesh. “Ain’t nobody gots a right to judge — nigga, please!” He was annoyed now. He pushed Rico’s head down, pulled his ass up and gripped his nape to keep him in place. His barrel chest done left a sheen of sweat on Rico’s clean back. “You ain’t nevuh got locked up for thirty-four years, nigga, don’chu tell me what to do!” “Ow, fuck! I ain’t-! It ain’t-! I ain’t-! C’mon, Thumper, c’mon-!” Rico cried out. Thumper was all the way in now, plowing so hard Rico’s whole body shook. Rico bit back a scream of pain. He pushed hisself face-first into the mattress, which stank like Thumper’s band-aidy ass. Thumper massaged Rico’s back and shoulders as he pounded back and forth. He was so damn lean, ain’t got extra skin and scars and smudgey tattoos done by Italians. It made Thumper wanna own him forever. Thumper kissed him on the prettiness of his back, and Rico squirmed and roared like a sexy cougar. “Hey nigga,” Thumper said as he lowered hisself again to the apex of his descent, all the way in, so Rico was holding his breath, asscheeks quivering like jello. His booty squeezed and massaged Thumper’s shaft just right, like it was begging for nuts. He was all the way into the wreck of Rico’s guts, his balls laying heavy on Rico’s taint. “Hey nigga?” “What?!” Rico gritted his teeth and shouted into the mattress. “If we was in prison, you’d be in love right now,” Thumper grunted out into Rico’s ear. Thumper’s cock throbbed and spewed a wad into Rico. Thumper groaned into his ear and nibbled on his earlobe, as his voice broke and a wave of pleasure frissoned up Thumper’s spine. Heat seeped into Rico’s flesh, and both them niggas moaned, Thumper’s a croon of desire and Rico’s a cringe of pain. He felt jissom trickling inside him, and Rico winced and gritted. At last, Thumper pulled most the way out, still nutting, so he could see his veiny shaft pulsate in the dim light. Splashes of manjuice leaked out Rico and down to the mattress. “Oh shit, nigga, we makin’ a mess. I blame you. You a spillsy nigga,” Thumper said with another thrust all the way into him for one more jissing. That caused Rico’s sensitive asshole to twinge with pain, and he howled. His final cumwad flowed into Rico, but Thumper ain’t stop right away — he was plowing on auto-pilot. He rammed his dick back in and out, churning his nut into a big frothy mess. Soon his shaft was limp and doubling up like a phone cable on Rico’s shinier-than-ever backside, and it popped out. “Oh god, fuck, Thumper, don’t… thank god, that hurt, nigga-“ Oodles of ooz gooed up Rico’s buttcrack, but Thumper licked up every drop of that felchy fluid outta Rico’s shine. He tasted like funk-a-butt, and Thumper slathered love in Rico’s tender crack. Then he mounted Rico’s smoothness and kissed it all into his pretty-nigga mouth. The taste of his own assjuice and Thumper’s salty semen made Rico’s eyes opened wide, when he realized what that foul taste was. He screamed but Thumper still kissed him, and he swallowed that scream up. The stink smeared between both nigga faces. It got into Thumper’s salty beard hairs and between the cornrows on his old head. Eventually, Thumper moistly pulled his tongue outta Rico’s mouth. Rico lay, a-breathing heavy and suppressing gags because Thumper pinched him when he retched. So Thumper again kissed him, and this time Rico didn’t resist, even when he again tasted his own ass-funk on Thumper’s lips. Thumper’s hand wrapped around his cock and stroked. Rico ignored it, trying-a settle his stomach and ignore his sore ass. He whimpered a little. Thumper’s hand was so big and so callused it was like sandpapery leather on Rico’s dick, which shrinky-dinked with every passing moment. Rico wiped his face off, but the smell of cum and ass persisted. “C’mon, nigga, get hard,” Thumper whispered into Rico’s ear. “I’ll help.” He moved his head down, licking a trail over Rico’s pecs and belly, and he put Rico’s cocktip in his mouth. He suckled on it like he was getting something outta it, and Rico gasped in surprise. He ain’t expect that at all. He was still in too much pain to get hard, he thunk, but his dick did begin to firm up despite hisself. The goo on his face made it hard to focus on the warm wetness of Thumper’s mouth encircle his shaft. Thumper gripped it with one hand and licked the length of it, shuddering back a gag. Rico was still rumbling up a retch too, as Thumper soon lay on his side, opposite to Rico, so he could slurp on Rico’s knob. That placed Thumper’s own santorum-coated cock not far from Rico’s face. It flopped onto Rico’s chin. The smell of his own ass and the slimy remains of Thumper’s cumwad clinging to the shaft made Rico wrinkle his nose. A painful wrack of pleasure made Rico suck in his breath. “Shit, nigga!” Rico banged his head on the wall, as Thumper’s mouth filled with oozes of prenut. Thumper was merely getting Rico started — that was a prison thing. It cost less than actually paying a nigga to swallow a nut. “Getting a nigga started” meant putting his pecker in your mouth and stiffening it, then pulling off when you taste prenut and finishing the nigga with your hand. Lotta niggas would get’cha started for cheap but consider it humiliating to actually taste a nut. And Thumper ain’t mind that too bad. But Thumper got carried away when he tasted salty precum, and it felt so real, so visceral, that he ain’t wanna pull off. He be thinking he got more time. So he throated that nigga dick until his nose smushed into Rico’s trimmed pubes. Thumper let his throat stretch around it, and he savored the feel of its hotness throbbing in his belly like a second heart. Then Rico shot a big creamy load that coated Thumper’s gullet. Neither them niggas was expecting it — Rico was barely aware he was even hard, while Thumper was off in dreamland and exulting in the smooth young muscles of Rico’s body. He liked the cocoa-butter flavor of Rico’s skin, so he ain’t pull off until his mouth overflowed with sunshines of jissom. He removed his lips from Rico’s manhood and spat all that cum up onto Rico’s face. He mounted Rico’s limp body so he couldn’t get away, and though Rico shook his head left and right, Thumper pinned him down and coated his face in juices. Eventually the cum dwindled to pure spit, but Thumper liked that too. All that whatever on Rico’s face made him a extra-shiny nigga. Rico gagged violently. He tried to get up, but Thumper still wouldn’t let him. “Nah, nah, you done made a mess, lemme make it bigguh.” Thumper smeared the nut all over Rico’s face with his tongue. The bracing saltiness and the intense funk made Thumper wrinkle his nose, but every time he did, Rico let out a shallow-breath gag and undulated his perky frame beneath Thumper’s tired old muscles. Then he lay down and pulled Rico to lay down with him on the soggy mattress. Rico’s whole body was covered in body fluids. “C’mon, let’s go to sleep,” Thumper whispered hotly into his ear, which he nibbled on like a juicy raisin. “In the mornin’, you gonna be dry again, and then you can shower.” Making a man sleep covered in jizz made him more amenable to the downlow in the future, and he was likely to make Rico dirty again when he woke up at dawn anyway. He still got that prison schedule in him, after all. “Man, nigga, Thumper, that hurt,” Rico said in a hoarse whisper. “That was so gross. Lemme shower-“ “Sorry, nigga. You’ll get used to it,” Thumper said. He hugged Rico buddy-tight and snuffled up the fudgey nuts and full-butt scent that clung to Rico’s lumps. “You nevuh finished explainin’ what ‘Pokemon Go’ is. Do I gotsta get one?”
Desmond wished he could just buy meth and find his way home on Baltimore’s byzantine transit system. That’d be so simple. But he gotta meet his man, Jaython, and do the deal with him. Buying from Jaython was always complicated. “Yo, nigga, hey, how you doin’? There you are, I see you. What’s crack-a-lackin’, you stayin’ upright? You got it goin’ on, right?” Jaython said. Jaython was speaking to Desmond but aimed his words over Desmond’s shoulders. So Desmond just mumbled a yes and went along with him. Jaython continued without listening. “I know you do! Hell yeah, nigga! I know how you play it. You keep it low-key, huh? Yep, that’s you, nigga, I seen that!”. Jaython walked away as though Desmond was supposed to follow him, but normally Jaython would say if they had to go somewhere. They met in a burger joint downtown, which was normal. But instead of leading Desmond into a booth — where he could put the meth under a napkin, slide it over to Desmond and receive the money in the same manner — he headed out the door. Desmond followed. The air outside was hot and humid, a typical late-summer evening in Baltimore, and Desmond was sweaty as soon as he walked one block. Desmond wrinkled his nose at Jaython, who kept motormouthing. He grimaced. Jaython was so obnoxious. Why couldn’t drug dealers be normal? “I’m glad you called me, I was settin’ some shit aside for you. I figured you was about to call me. That’s what I said, this other nigga be like ‘lemme get a couple, Jaython’, and I say ‘nah, I ain’t got none’. But I got three jawns set aside just for that friendly-face Desmond. I ain’t tell that nigga I got ’em set aside, he just keep talkin’ shit ’bout my ‘nventory. He always tryin’ not to pay anyhow, all oh ‘you know, I get you back, Jaython’, then I gotta go call him up all the time like a goddamn stork.” That made Desmond scrunch up his eyes — what did Jaython think a stork was? But he let him continue. “That ain’t me. I like you, friendly-face, you always pay up front and on time. Uh-huh. Hear that.” “Uh-huh. Where are we going?” Desmond asked when he could get a word in. “Yessuh, back to my place, that’s where I got whatchoo need, friendly-face,” he said. He groaned and nodded towards the squat brick building down the road. “That’s my building, the one wit’ the barbershop on the outfront. Don’t be surprised by that old head hangin’ out there, like he pretending there a stoop and he be filling it up. He just moved in a week ago, and he done got my goat-“ “Yo, Jaython, my nigga! How you doin’? You got them females on point, right? You got one to share? We could double-team her! Our sacs, nigga, slappity-slap!” That old head with gray tinges barked up the street at Jaython, along with a beatboxing slappy noise like two ballsacks thwacking together. The old head glanced at Desmond, looked away, then looked back and stared at him like a hungry wolf. His eyes taking in Desmond, the old head spoke to Jaython in a high-calm voice. “‘Sup Jaython. You keepin’ it real?” Desmond sucked in his breath as he got up close to him, the liniment-and-lotion scent of that barrelhouse nigga sending Desmond reeling with desire. Men like that made Desmond wanna smoke meth and jack off. The old head was maybe fifty or so, and his unkempt beard was salt with black streaks, but the hair on his head, done down in tight cornrows, was jet-black and thinly peppered with silver. He wore a ruddy brown jacket with a lapel like a pool shark atop old-fashioned daddy-bear jeans. He was broad-shouldered and thick as a boxer. “You can ignore him, he old as shit. He just move in, but he stay up in my grill,” Jaython said under his breath. “Yo, Jaython, hey nigga! Hey, I’m rappin’ at’cha!” The old head drank from a bottle of something concealed by a brown paper bag. He put it down on the sidewalk. “Hey!” Jaython rolled his eyes. “Yo, Thumper, ‘sup-“ “Hey, how’s yo’ dick, homie?” Thumper grabbed at Jaython’s cock through his jeans and cackled. Jaython swatted his hand away, keeping a serious-nigga look on his face. The old head Thumper drank from the bottle in his other hand. “Where’s yo’ females at? Huh? I know you got females, ain’t ya gonna share? Lemme hollah at ’em. Did’ja tell ’em I lick pussy?” He stuck his tongue out between two of his fingers, again looking at Desmond as he spoke to Jaython. “Tell ’em I got the tongue of a much younger man.” “They don’t want yo’ old ass, Thumper, lay off,” Jaython said. He again smacked Thumper’s hand off his crotch, and he looked that old head upside his melon crossways. “Oh, you talkin’ some shit now, boy! You happy-flappin’ nigga!” Thumper called out, flapping the fingers of one hand in front of his lips. He cackled again and seemed about to say something else when he saw Desmond once more, and his eyes turned serious. “Thumper, shut yo’ old head up,” Jaython said, brushing past him as he led Desmond into the building. Desmond followed but shook his ass and turned around to make eye contact with Thumper. Thumper removed his old-fashioned newsie cap as though going to formally woo a female, but he ain’t say peep. Desmond made a kissy face and licked his lips. But he went in through the little door in the narrow alley beside the door to the barbershop, following Jaython. Desmond wanted to jack off with Thumper, but he needed to smoke meth. “Fuckin’ old heads, man, I swear. If I ever get real old and obnoxious like that ashy-knee mothahfucker, just slit my goddamn throat, Desmond,” Jaython said. He almost never called Desmond by name, and it made Desmond smile — he was horny and excited about Thumper. As Desmond’s heart sped up in anticipation, Jaython opened the door to his apartment. He did the deal as quick as he could with Jaython prattling on, and then Desmond pocketed the meth. He wanted to get back out there, so he bade his goodbye to Jaython and skedaddled. He had meth in his pocket straining to get smoked when he strode out to the building’s outfront. He barely even listened to Jaython say goodbye. Desmond could only think about Thumper. And the meth. “Sup,” Thumper said when Desmond came out. He was playing it cool, leaning against the wall of the barbershop. He glanced at Desmond with deep and dirty eyes. He musta known Desmond was here buying drugs, but he didn’t ask which one. Thumper was too thick to smoke meth, so Desmond didn’t mention it. He wasn’t one to share unless he had to. His old head booty thickly beckoned Desmond. He sashayed in front of Thumper, who still played it cool. Desmond could tell he wanted to jack off too. For one thing, Thumper been waiting out here, knowing Desmond would come out eventually. Now he rumbled like a demure earthquake, licking his teeth in Desmond’s direction. He shifted his hefty weight between his feet, and his wide nose wrinkled. “Hi,” Desmond said with a winsome giggle. “My name’s Desmond.” “Hmmm, you smooth as shit, Desmond.” Thumper took his newsie cap off, and his wrinkled face ruttled as he chewed on his lower lip. Desmond leaned in and whispered near Thumper’s neck — he wore some kind of strong-smelling lotion, which Desmond inhaled deeply of. It was astringent and harsh, vaguely medicinal. “You wanna go somewhere?” He moaned in as feminine a manner as he could muster. A baritone, raspy grunt came outta Thumper, like he was cumming already. He touched his crotch through his pants, rearranging the hardon that strained the fabric. He let out a little growl. “Boy, I bin lookin’ to get my dick wet, and you look plenty moist. I-“ “Yo old head, nice shoes!” A couple young black men walking by snickered. Thumper looked at them and nodded as though he ain’t realize they was teasing him. Thumper wore sneakers that was old and frayed and faded. As the young men left, they shoved each other towards Thumper and whispered as though issuing dares to approach him. Thumper muttered, “Fuck them. Whatchoo doin’, boy?” With an insouciant shrug, Desmond said, “I got no plans I couldn’t change, y’know… if something better came up.” “Shit, you wanna come up to my place, sweetheart?” Desmond nodded. “You aren’t gonna hurt me, will you?” He shook his ass in Thumper’s direction and followed him into the lobby of Jaython’s building. Thumper whistled, a long, low sound. He glanced up and down the hallways to make sure ain’t no one there. Then he turned around, planted his lips on Desmond’s and rammed his tongue in. He wrapped his arms around Desmond, swooning, bending him and kissing him more passionately than any woman ever could. But only for a few seconds. He let go, and Desmond almost fell to the ground. “Sweetheart, I couldn’t nevuh hurt someone as pretty as you,” Thumper said. “You look like you ready to bust a nut, and I wanna jack off wit’choo.” He sidled up behind Desmond, his rock-hard dick plainly palpable and jutting against the fabric of his khakhis. He pistoned his hips against Desmond, dry-humping him through their clothes for a moment. Then he grunted. “Shit, I gonna make you feel so good you grow some titties. I can’t resist that. I was in prison fo’ a long time, boy, and I done learnt some lessons in there I wanna teach you.” Exulting in the feel of Thumper’s heft and the warmth radiating off him, Desmond giggled and touched his bulgey-muscled arm through his shirt and jacket. “Hmmm… We need to go somewhere more private.” “I can’t wait, baby, c’mon, lemme inside you-” He kept dry-humping Desmond, who made it to the elevators and pressed the up-button. His rammed rigid as rebar into Desmond’s thigh. “Oh shit, baby, I need you. You feel me? I’s hard fo’ you. I don’t even care you male, don’t bothuh me none, I can pretend like none othuh. Shit… You shook yo’ ass at me out there, I need you-“ “Okay, baby, wait-” Desmond said, grunting when Thumper’s muscle-humping became too intense to take — he was leaning on Desmond, and he was much heavier, so Desmond couldn’t support him. Thumper’s cock jutted against his pants and jabbed Desmond in the side through both men’s clothes. The elevator door opened, and they both walked in. Thumper kissed him on the back of the neck. “Shit… we could stop this elevator between floors and-“ “Wait for me!” An old woman’s voice filled the air. Then, moments later, just as the doors shut, a cane appeared in the threshold. The doors stayed open. A fat old lady in a colorful hat came in to the elevator, bustling in bursts and murmuring musically to herself. “Thank you, sweethearts — oh hello, Wendell, so good to see you. It was a lovely sermon this mornin’, wasn’t it?” “Oh yes, Vera, Rev. Cherrymore is a wise man, drippin’ wit’ righteous,” Thumper said. He leaned awkwardly against the wall. His cock strained against the fabric of his pants. It would have been obvious if Vera looked down, but she seemed oblivious. “Vera, this my nephew…” “Desmond.” “My nephew Desmond,” Thumper said. His voice was throaty and tense. The elevator whirred into action and ascended. Thumper’s hand roamed over Desmond’s back, then slipped under his shirt and caressed his smooth skin. Thumper flexed his muscles and arched his back, subduing a moan. “Nice to meet you, Desmond,” Vera said. “Did you go to church today, Desmond?” “Uh…” Desmond paused for a long time. Then he said, “Yeah. Yeah, I did. I was, uh… not around here though-“ “Well, as long as you go. Glory goes to the good lord on high,” Vera said. The elevator came to a stop on the second floor. She smiled at Thumper. “God bless you and yours, Wendell.” She gave Desmond a nod. “Desmond.” Then she walked out.
“Hmm-hmm, you too, ma’am,” Thumper said in a low growl. He shuffled out behind Desmond, who walked much more slowly than him. Thumper bumped into him from behind, and that massive erect dick rammed into the small of Desmond’s back.
A fruity giggle came from Desmond’s lips. “She called you Wendell,” he said. Thumper squeezed his shoulder. “Hush up ’bout that,” he said. “That’s my chu’ch name.” Desmond continued to walk slowly. Thumper grunted, huffed and puffled, holding Desmond by the shoulder as though to push him — but he remained gentle, not actually pushing. His bulge rubbed against Desmond’s back. Finally they made it to an apartment, and Thumper fumbled with his keys before he got the door open. It was a sparse bachelor’s abode. There were no personal belongings, no decorations, just a plain couch, a chair, a Super Nintendo and clothes neatly folded in compact piles on the floor. Towels and clothes hung to dry on all the interior doors. They smelled like body soap, not laundry detergent. His mattress was on the floor, and the sheets wasn’t done up right, the bed unmade, just a tangle-pile of blankets, dirty socks and bedsheets. “Oh my god, do you have the original Mario Kart?” Desmond said. He went right to the Super Nintendo. “I was unbeatable in that game.” Thumper sidled up behind him, pawing over Desmond’s side. “You wanna play games, or… you wanna play a game?” He nuzzled Desmond’s back. “I wanna hear you make that sound you made before, that girlish sound. Let’s go in the other room. Leave yo’ phone out here.” With a slim smile, Desmond squealed and moaned like a female. “Hmmm… Thumper, I want you to ravage me. I love jacking off.” He blushed and turned around to face Thumper, who hurried to drop his khakhis, all while slathering Desmond in sloppy kisses. Desmond dropped his phone as they made they way into the bedroom. “Sorry, I-” Desmond was cut off by a kiss. “Thumper, baby-“ “I need you, sweetheart. Whatchoo want me to do? Huh? I’ll make you feel so good, you don’t even know-” Thumper gyrated his hips, slamming his powerful body against Desmond. “Why don’t you go sit down on that couch and relax. Let me worship you,” Desmond said. He pushed Thumper away and clucked his tongue, and then Thumper raced to jump onto the couch. He winced because his erect dick was slammed into his prison drawers, which he pulled down. His manhood stuck straight up, massive and already throbbing. It was thick and veiny, and it beckoned Desmond. Desmond touched his dick, and Thumper threw his head back and moaned as though already finna cum. He gyrated his hips to hump Desmond’s hand. With a guttural grunt, Thumper moaned, “C’mon, sweetheart, lick it, please? Please?-” His whole body buckled, like he gotsta hold back from humping Desmond hard. “You don’t need to beg me, Thumper,” Desmond said. He licked his lips and ran his hand up and down Thumper’s pulsating shaft. “I want to worship you-” The more Desmond lazily stroked his dick, the more agitated Thumper became. It pulsated and humped Desmond’s hand. Thumper hyperventilated, hands flailing because he didn’t want to touch Desmond — he knew if he did, he would lose control. His cock throbbed angrily in Desmond’s grip. “I want to make you feel so good, baby. Will you take your shirt off?” “Hell yeah, please, make it wet, okay? Make it wet? I need it, I need it, I need it-” Thumper ripped his shirt in his haste to get it off. He tossed it on the floor. “Sweetheart, I think I love you. Let me in you, okay? Lemme in you right now, get my dick wet.” He moved frenetically, while Desmond got down on his knees, stroking with one hand and moving closer to actually slurping on Thumper’s manhood. Thumper’s thick body twisted above Desmond’s head. Finally, Desmond planted his lips right on Thumper’s cocktip. He loudly, moistly suckled, producing as much spit as he could. He made a big mess. Thumper was in a frenzy the whole time, sitting up on his ass, then lifting his ass up and resting his fists on the couch, then dropping back, leaning his head back and moaning. He grabbed Desmond’s head, tried to plow into him, but Desmond resisted, so he let go. “Shit, sweetheart, goddamn, you, shit, ah, damn, nigga, nigga, oh fuck, awwwwww goddamn,” Thumper said, gasping and moaning over and over. Desmond smiled and pulled off his dick. “You taste so good.” He moaned and flopped Thumper’s cock — with precum already flowing down the shaft — over his face. “I love your dick, baby. I haven’t even tasted most of it. What part did you want me to lick next? The underside, like this?” Desmond giggled and slathered spit on the underside of his cock, tongue running up and down it. Thumper twitched. “Or maybe the other side-“ “Shit, c’mon, sweetheart, you got such nice lips, you know what I want, you know where I want ’em, I know you do. You just teasin’ me now. You teasin’ me-“ Desmond laughed. “Hmmm…. I bet you want me to do something like this.” He put Thumper’s dick back in his mouth and rammed his head all the way down, until his face was buried in Thumper’s unkempt pubic bush. Thumper let out a long low howl. He barked and twisted beneath Desmond, licking his lips and sucking in his breath. “Goddamn, shit, shit, shit… You got it, go back and fort’ on it, go back and fort’ on it-” He gripped the couch cushions beneath himself, his toes curling. “You makin’ me feel good, nigga!” Desmond went back to just sucking on the tip. He kept stroking too, with one hand, while his other gently massaged Thumper’s balls. They were heavy and low, and Desmond dragged his tongue down to them. He made eye contact with Thumper as he slurped the sweat off his sac. “Shit, sweetheart, lemme stick you now, okay? Please? I wanna get in yo’ butt. I’ll make it nice and open first, okay? I’ll get in there and lick yo’ butt until it feels good. Lemme suck yo’ asshole.” He paused. “You shave yo’ ass, right?” “Of course,” Desmond said. He bent over the couch next to Thumper, who was still sitting there. Thumper grumbled and took a deep breath. He didn’t like eating boy-ass, but he had learned to slam males in prison, and in there, it became deeply ingrained in him that, if you wanted to be nice to a man, you got to lick his ass to open him up. Thumper wouldn’t want to do it if Desmond’s ass was hairy. But it was smooth and inviting. As always happened, when he got close to that sweet boy-ass, Thumper’s inhibitions melted away. As long as his boy got a feminine shape and made feminine sounds and his skin was smooth like a girl’s, Thumper could lick a booty. It was a little bit of funk, a little difficult, a little gross, but that seemed like something necessary — it shouldn’t be too easy, Thumper thought, and he knew his dick hurt his bottoms, even the experienced ones, on account of his thickness, so it made sense to sacrifice to make it easier. Desmond smelled of girlish fruity perfume anyway, so with his eyes closed, Thumper didn’t even have think about what he was licking. He plowed his face in there, scratchy beard hairs rubbing against Desmond’s cheeks. His tongue rammed right into Desmond’s tight hole. “Ooh, your tongue is so big… It feels nice, lick it, baby, oh god…” Desmond moaned. He gritted his teeth as his own dick twitched and flexed. Pleasure wafted up his spine. Thumper had never enjoyed licking ass like this. It had never tasted so good, so filthy and so clean all at once. He growled, lapping at that tight hole. At first he was just doing it because he thought he should, it was a rule in his mind — if a man is cooperating, a nigga should eat his butt open and get him off too — but now he did it cuz he wanted it, so he could taste every inch of it. That faintly funky odor just made it taste better. Thumper savored the mind-blowing flavor. Then his tongue ran up Desmond’s back, making his spine pucker. He ignored the sound of Desmond’s shaky hands lighting his meth-pipe, and his nose wrinkled at the cloud of meth smoke blooming in the air. Thumper kissed a trail of moisture up Desmond’s spine, while Thumper’s cock moved up his legs to his sweet brown bottom. Thumper’s dick slid right into his ass. “Ah, damn, nigga, I’s inside ya…” Thumper hadn’t even meant to do that. He was going to rub his dick in Desmond’s moist asscrack first, before finally penetrating him, but Desmond’s ass had been so inviting it virtually sucked him in. “Oh fuck, that okay? You a’ight, sweetheart? You okay?” “Hmm yeah, that-” Desmond gritted his teeth as a jolt of pain finally hit him — he was well-lubed with spit, so most of Thumper’s cock made it into him before there was any resistance. The meth in his lungs turned that pain to pleasure, so Desmond moaned and sucked in his breath. “It feels good, papi. It hurts just a bit, you can keep going-“ “Nah. Nah, I said I wasn’t gonna hurt’cha, no way,” Thumper said. He pulled his dick out, bent back over and went back to licking Desmond’s ass. This time his asshole gaped already, and Thumper’s tongue stretched it. Desmond cried out. Thumper noisily licked, slurping, sucking. He gagged because he could taste his own precum and the flavor of Desmond’s ass’s deepest recesses. But Thumper ain’t care — he loved watching Desmond squirm beneath his tongue’s tender touch. “Oh god! Oh god!” Desmond gasped. He clutched the couch cushions beneath himself and lowered his head, raising his ass as high as he could. “You ready, baby? I’m gettin’ back in there. Won’t hurt a bit! No way, I forbid it,” Thumper said. He gripped Desmond’s cheeks and slid in. This time there was indeed not a scrap of pain. Desmond’s ass was open wide and loose, ready to accept every inch of Thumper’s cock. That was what Thumper wanted, and he was willing to lick male ass to get it — he got to plow in and out of Desmond, all the way, the full length of his cock ramming in. Desmond couldn’t stop huffing for more. Intense pleasure exploded in Thumper’s dick, running through his body in his veins and making him shout so loud his downstairs neighbors banged on the floor with a broomstick. “Shush, sweetheart, we wakin’ up the neighbors…” He said even though he was the only one making noise, because he had been stamping his feet. He whinnied and got down even lower, his strapping-muscled chest rubbing over Desmond’s back. “Cum inside me, okay? I wanna feel you cumming in me…” Desmond begged. He knew men loved to cum inside their bottoms, and they loved to hear him beg for it — since women often didn’t want it or used condoms to avoid pregnancy. Desmond cried out, repeating himself over and over. “Fill me up with your nut, please? Please?” “Of course, of course, sweetheart, shit, goodness me-” He bit his lip and grunted as though his orgasm hurt. His hands even roamed around and gripped Desmond’s cock, stroking him just a few times to bring him to a methy orgasm. He simply needed to stimulate and touch and experience Desmond orgasming; he wanted to feel every bit of it. So he stroked Desmond off with one hand, while his other hand kept Desmond’s ass in position. Grinding his dick around, he soon felt Desmond’s prostate — he could tell because, when he touched it, spraying his cumwad onto it, Desmond’s cock pulsated in his grasp. Desmond even dropped the glass pipe. “Ah, shit, shit…. You feel me cummin’ in you? Lemme hear you, okay? Say it loud-“ “Oh god, you feel so good inside me! Yes! Yes!” Desmond shouted until Thumper shushed him and then put his free hand onto Desmond’s mouth. It tasted of clean assjuice and body hair and salty cum. Desmond sucked it all up off his palm, then sucked on each of Thumper’s fingers as he was filled with creamy hot jiss. “Ah, shit, boy…” Thumper shot the last few drops of cum in him and shook his hips, making Desmond throw his head back and howl. Again the people beneath his apartment banged on their ceiling, and Thumper grumbled. “Them niggas best shut they fuckin’ faces up. We makin’ stink in here.” “Hmmm… You feel so good inside me, baby…” Desmond said, his voice breaking because of the limpening dick inside his ass. He leaned back and kissed Thumper’s neck, while his hands desperately grabbed the glass pipe he had dropped. When Thumper began to remove his dick, Desmond gasped. “Wait, no, I ain’t done. Leave yo’ dick in me for a minute. I wanna feel it some more, it’s so big and so hot inside me… Please don’t take it out yet…” “Course, sweetheart…” Thumper said with a chuckle. His cock was beginning to get pained because it was soft now, but his machismo wouldn’t let him take it out before his bottom was done. Desmond knew that, that was why he asked even though his own ass was beginning to get sore. Thumper gasped. The exquisite sensitivity of his cock became apparent as his whole body twitched above Desmond. When Desmond clenched his ass around Thumper’s shaft, Thumper cried out loud, stamped his feet and kissed Desmond right on the lips. “Hell, sweetheart, shit, shit… I love you so much…” Desmond clucked his tongue. “No you don’t, baby, you’re just feeling good cuz I made you feel good. Okay, you can pull out now, I’m finished.” He sighed as Thumper pulled out. A banging sound could be heard downstairs. “Shit… We ain’t gonna be alone much longer,” Thumper said with a chuckle. “Go hide, baby, they can’t know I’m messin’ wit’cha.” He kissed Desmond on the lips. “Them niggas ain’t never got locked up. They don’t get it.” Desmond was gonna ask where he should hide when there came a loud banging on the door. Desmond scurried off to the bedroom, where he shut the door and shut his ears. He had his meth pipe in hand and cum dribbling out of his behind, and that was all that mattered. The baritone arguments wafting from the front door bothered him none. “Yo! Thumper! You old-head mothahfuckah! I am tryin’ to get some goddamn sleep! I got off work-“ Thumper opened the door, still naked, his cock limp now but shiny and thickly throbbing between his legs. “You best not come up here yellin’ like a damn fool-“ “Whatchoo stompin’ around ’bout, naked as a shaved pussy, graytag?” “I’s stompin’ to protest yo’ mama’s tasteless asshole!” Thumper shouted in that downstairs man’s face. Their screaming degenerated into a brawl, as Thumper threw down a flurry of fists. Desmond poked his head out and smiled at the sight of them fighting. There was something arousing about seeing a naked man fight, Desmond thought. Thumper’s dick gleamed, flopping against his legs as he passed punches on to that downstairs neighbor, a younger prettyboy with fashion tats, short dreads and a swole lip. Desmond hid again when he was almost seen. He settled down and sighed. He lit his pipe and exhaled a long plume of thick cloud. He loved the look of clouding meth smoke. It felt good to have plenty of meth for the night, not to mention a macho nigga with as much dick than Desmond could take. It was gonna be a good night.
Knuckle had offered Teddy a free fuck of any of the Gray Snakes’ prostitutes. Knuckle was allowed a free fuck because that was a perk of doing time on the Gray Snakes behalf (the bare-knuckle bout he was arrested for was put on by the Gray Snakes). Knuckle was willing to give the lay up to Teddy. But Teddy refused. He was just glad Knuckle had made it out of prison in one piece. So after Knuckle got his free fuck from a bad-ass biker prostitute, he came by Teddy’s place. He was going to stay there for a few days, since that’s where his belongings were anyway, until he rented a place of his own. “When I get drunk,” Knuckle said as soon as Teddy shut the door behind him. “You can do whatever you want to me. Ramrod my butt if you want. Your dick ain’t big enough to hurt. I’ll get drunk enough to pass out cold. I ain’t been able to get very drunk in prison.” He undressed, as Teddy made them both a drink. “Really?” Teddy handed Knuckle a drink, then started sipping his own. But Knuckle took the drink, chugged the whole thing, then grabbed the bottle and chugged from that. “I just wanna get drunk,” he said when he was done, rum spilling past his lips and wetting his shirt. “You sure you don’t wanna fuck a slut? I can get a Gray Snakes bitch like that.” He snapped his fingers. “She gonna be as butch as a baseball bat, not like one of Mistuh Gregarian’s ladies. She be a biker bitch, likely.” He chugged again from the rum. “No, no, I don’t, uh, I’m sure she’d be very… No thanks,” Teddy said. “I’m saving myself for marriage.” Knuckle cradled his belly like he was gonna be sick, but he took another swig from the bottle anyway. Teddy said, “Don’t rush yourself, you’ve got all night. I’m sure your tolerance has gone down.” Knuckle nodded, but he already looked blitzed. He leaned back on the couch. Teddy unzipped his jeans and pulled Knuckle’s dick out. He’d fucked a ho a few hours ago, so it still smelled rancid of old pussy, plus Knuckle hadn’t showered in days, so his ball-stench was intense. Teddy put the tip in his mouth. “I ain’t shuh….” Knuckle mumbled, trying to take his dick away. He wanted to explain to Teddy that his dick had been in his bitch’s asshole a couple times since his last shower, but he was incomprehensible, and Teddy didn’t care anyway.
He gobbled down Knuckle’s dick. It took awhile to get hard since he had cum this morning — in Lance’s asshole — and then again in a biker bitch’s pussy a few hours ago, plus Knuckle was drunk enough that his dick flopped around in Teddy’s mouth for a few minutes. Teddy didn’t mind a bit. He enjoyed playing with a limp dick and savoring its funky, sweaty taste.
Finally Knuckle’s manhood firmed up, and it leaked precum into his mouth. Teddy smacked it upon his face. He thought Knuckle was passed out already, but when he looked up, Knuckle was bleary-eyed looking at him. He had a faint smile on his flat face. “Hmmmm… Shigggarette…” Knuckle murmured. He lit a smoke. It cleared his mind a little, so he could talk. “I had a fine-ash bitsh in prissshon, Teddy.” He chuckled. “You’d-a liked him. Till me and Buck wreckt him.” He sighed and exhaled a long plume of smoke. “Really? A real prison bitch?” Teddy asked with a guilty grin. “So you, like, made him turn tricks?” Knuckle nodded. He opened up the duffel bag he had brought. He had to lean over to pick it up, which he managed to do without letting his cock pop out of Teddy’s mouth again. He withdrew a thick stack of cash. He dropped it at Teddy’s feet. “Here. That’s what we made off him.” Teddy looked up at him. “What? You’re giving it to me. All this?” With just a little nod, Knuckle slipped his dick back into Teddy’s mouth. Teddy tried to say something else, but Knuckle held his head in place. Knuckle shrugged. “It’s less than it looks. It’s all small bills.” Teddy tried to say that it was too much, that Knuckle didn’t need to do that for him. But Knuckle was gently humping his throat still, and the taste of precum was strong, so all Teddy could do was swallow and savor it. The wad of cash turned out to be seven hundred dollars. Knuckle and Buck had split fourteen hundred dollars — not just from pimping out Lance. It also came from smuggling in porn, brewing bucket hooch and extorting protection fees from newmeat, plus they sold Lance to the Crips on their last morning. He was pretty well used-up by then, his asshole so slack he couldn’t walk straight, but the Crips didn’t mind crowding into a ruint butthole. Teddy was still recounting the cash to be sure he got the correct total, because it was hard to count with Knuckle’s cock spilling precum into his mouth. But then all of a sudden, Knuckle spewed a thick jizzwad into Teddy’s mouth, and he moaned sleepily. It was a shock, so Teddy choked and spat most of it out. He dropped the cash mid-count and resumed stroking Knuckle through his orgasm. Knuckle’s muscles all flexed as he filled Teddy’s belly with creamy seed. Knuckle groaned again, but his eyes were closed. “Hmmm… Your cum tastes good,” Teddy said softly, checking whether Knuckle was awake. Even as a few more drops of jizz spilled into Teddy’s mouth, Knuckle began snoring. Teddy licked up every bit of cum he could find. Then Teddy stood and kissed Knuckle on the lips. He didn’t respond. Teddy kissed him again, his tongue pushing into Knuckle’s mouth. “You okay, buddy?” Knuckle nodded, but then laid down on his side on the couch. He tottered drunkenly and nearly fell off the coach, then climbed down to the floor. He lifted his head when Teddy got him a pillow. Knuckle laid there stark-naked on his back. Soon he was snoring, as Teddy re-counted the cash more carefully and played with Knuckle’s limp wang. Finally, Teddy got on his knees and touched Knuckle’s cheek with his dick. “Knuckle? You awake?” He slipped his cocktip into Knuckle’s mouth. It was wet and warm, and Teddy moaned. He instantly roared to full erection. Teddy’s fingers massaged Knuckle’s cheeks and throat, working him loose. Knuckle kept snoring when Teddy’s dick didn’t go too deep in his throat, but when Teddy really got it in there, Knuckle’s snore turned into a choking sound. Each one made his throat clench around Teddy’s dick and was followed by a big ball of spit leaking from his mouth. “Sorry, you okay?” Teddy said a couple times, but Knuckle was sound asleep. “You okay, Knuckle?” Knuckle’s pecs gleamed with his spit and Teddy’s precum, and thick tendrils of those fluids connected Teddy’s twinky little body to Knuckle’s scarred face. After a few more chokes, Knuckle’s neck relaxed. That meant Teddy could get his whole dick in, until his balls rested on Knuckle’s chin. Knuckle’s square jaw worked up and down a little as though trying to snore, but all that came out was a moist gurgling sound. The movement resulted in his tongue caressing Teddy’s shaft. “Oh god, fuck yeah, oh god, thanks, Knuckle…” Teddy moaned, leaning on Knuckle’s massive head as he pumped a load down his unconscious throat. Teddy filled Knuckle’s gullet with his jizz, and then all at once, Knuckle’s muscles tensed, and he vomited up Teddy’s dick. “Oh sorry,” Teddy hastened to say as he pulled off. Knuckle blank, bleary eyes were wide open. But Knuckle just covered his mouth with one hand, retched and tottered drunkenly to the bathroom. It wasn’t far away, and the door was open. He vomited right into the toilet. “Sorry, Knuckle. Sorry!” Teddy said a couple times in between heaves. “Nuh-urry ‘out it…” Knuckle murmured as he leaned over the toilet bowl. “That wasssh the boooze.” “Really?” Knuckle nodded. He slumped over, unconscious again. His naked body wrapped around the commode. But this time, his muscular asshole was accessible. He was crouched at first, leaning on the toilet bowl. Teddy sat down behind him and massaged his back. “You done throwing up, buddy?” Teddy asked. But Knuckle didn’t respond. So Teddy pushed his limp dick into Knuckle’s asshole. He had cum just minutes ago, so he was still totally soft. But Knuckle’s butt was warm and inviting, and in his crouched position, it was easily accessible and stretched open. So as Teddy groped Knuckle’s unconscious muscles, he got hard again and instantly slipped it in. Knuckle let out a little grunt when Teddy got in. He wasn’t intact, Teddy noticed. He didn’t feel much resistance. He moaned into the meat of Knuckle’s back as his dick slipped right in. His butt clenched tightly around his dick, while Teddy worked his dick up and down. Intense pleasure overwhelmed him, and his gentleness gradually diminished as Knuckle didn’t respond, aside from some instinctual flinching at first. With a load moan, Teddy shot a massive wad deep into him. Though he had already cum not long ago, Teddy still managed to fill Knuckle up. Since Knuckle was crouched and slumped over the toilet, all Teddy’s jizz immediately spilled out onto Teddy’s crotch and the floor between Knuckle’s feet. Knuckle’s muscles were soft, relaxed as could be, though his body jerked every few seconds with Teddy’s dick in his butt. Teddy lightly massaged his shoulders. “Thanks, Knuckle,” Teddy said. He didn’t pull his dick out. He just wanted to let it marinate in there a little while. He let it soften in Knuckle’s body, as Teddy leaned against his face against Knuckle’s back and groped Knuckle’s firm, scarred shoulders. “I’m glad we’re friends.”
Tyrell is outta prison again, and he’s back to Baltimore. He hopes to nab some women, but he just might end up getting down and dirty with men instead. He’s desperate to ensure nobody sees him as a booty bandit, even if that’s exactly what prison life turned him into, so he’ll get his rocks off one way or another!
Can he keep his booty-bandit secret and still get his jollies off?!
Tyrell is outta prison again, and he’s gonna do what it takes to survive these mean streets… even if that means giving a pounding! He’s been locked up a long time, so he’s learned a thing or two that just might shock any fool who’s never been inside. But can he make the transition to free life?
Thumper is outta prison after thirty-four long years, and he’s learned a thing or two about getting down and dirty without any women around! That puts him on a collision course with some of the toughest alphas, raunchiest deadbeats and soon-to-be submissive losers in Baltimore, each of whom is about to learn that when this ex-con wants to get his rocks off, he doesn’t take no for an answer.
He gets involved in the manliest of adventures, with a mouthy young coke dealer, an aryan trustee, a college jock and so much more! Thumper’s ready for the rough ride of his life!
The white trash alpha ex-con Buck Simpson is out of prison again, and he’s got a new partner-in-crime, Nathan. If Nathan doesn’t meet Buck’s standards, he might be in for a pretty rough time, because as much as Buck tries to deny it, he’s a jailhouse booty bandit who doesn’t take no for an answer!
That means Nathan is in for a bevy of noncon man-on-man action full of rednecks, raunchy prison sex and disgusting hobo rutting!
Get ready for a filthy, nasty, raunchy trip across the United States!
Buck the ex-con is at it again, this time making his way from Idaho to West Virginia, and he’s in for an intense and wild time. That’s because he’s fresh outta prison, where he explored the world of booty banditry. So he’s gonna ride hard and deep all across the continent!
