Tag: in a prison

Bouncering was dull work. Buck ain’t mind it — the pay was good, and the waitresses was purdy as petunias. But damn do it bore him to his soul. He stood there at the door checking idees. Ain’t even gotta look at ’em. Buck held a scanner that said if’n t’was valid, and it do pop up with a high-res photo-pitcher of the feller so’s Buck could check if’n t’was him.
Now and then he gots to punch a man’s lights out. T’was a perk worth remembering, cuz he enjoyed fisticuffs.
But Buck got another job too. His parole officer made him get “gainful employment”. Whatever “gainful” meant, bouncering wasn’t it. Buck axed what “gainful” was, and his parole officer just called him a stone-cold retard. Ain’t ne’er answer.

His gainful job was working as a exterminator. Buck been doing that off and on since the late 80s, working fer Mistah Taggart at Central Pest Control when he weren’t in prison or working on a oil rig. Mistah Taggart learned Buck about all them beetles, cockroaches, ants, earwigs, all them. And rats.

“Slow ya roll, Sampson, nuh-uh,” Crabgut said. “Rat traps is a weapon, can’t give you that. You think I’m a retard like you?”So’s when Buck was in prison and they gots a rat problem, Buck done come up to that guard Officer Crabgut and said he could lay out traps to get ridda them. Crabgut was a jowly, moist-shirt sumbitch, and he looked at Buck like a beetle-meat nugget.
Buck scowled. “But you hirin’ a ext’minatuh to lay out them same traps, he j’st ain’t doin’ it right.” He pointed to a trap. “If’n I wanna use one as a weapon, they’s the’uh. I could grab it. They ain’t sharp though. Ain’t no rat gonna get — he put it right out in the open, suh. T’ain’t-“
“Shut the fuck up, Sampson,” Officer Crabgut said. “Officer Hargrave is the facilities manager, he’s in charge of hirin’ an exterminatuh. A professional put them traps out.”
“I’s a professional too! He put ’em out bad! And he usin’ too much peanut buttuh. And he should use smooth, not crunchy-“
“Rats don’t care, Sampson, you’re crazy. Rats don’t got a peanut butter preference. You just playin’, you tryin’ a-get time outta ya cell,” Crabgut said. “You getting coop-up syndrome. Seen it before.”
“Nah, nah, nah, listen, listen — is he puttin’ traps in the ceiling? Tell him to put traps in the ceiling-“
“Rats don’t live in the ceiling, they don’t live up!” Officer Crabgut pointed to the ceiling, then down to the floor. “They live down. In like sewers and shit.”
Buck narrowed his eyes. “T’ain’t corre’t, suh-“
“Sampson! Quit backtalkin’,” Crabgut said. He brusquely shoved Buck back. “Git! You frustrated, Sampson?”
“Yeah! I got rats in mah cell. Gonna get that… uh… lepto… sis…” Buck was positive he was gonna remember that word right up until his tongue tripped o’er itself. “Leprosis. Or, uh… lepposposis, or…”

“Sampson… You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Crabgut said. He again shoved Buck back towards the cells. Buck was tall enough that Crabgut pushed on his side, below his ribcage, steada his shoulder, cuz Buck towered o’er him. “Miguel is ya cellmate, right?”

Buck nodded as he walked back to his cell, Crabgut close behind. Buck’s feet was bare, flapping upon the cold steel floor of the state prison, which ain’t provide shoes big enough fer Buck’s feet. Usually he wore socks, but they was all dirty now, so’s his feetses was bare.
“He a punk, right? Cornhole ‘im. That’ll calm you down,” Crabgut said. He handed o’er two packets of ramen. “Here, I’ll pay fer it. Just don’t get ornery, Sampson. I don’t want trouble. I’s startin’ a three-day weekend tonight, and I don’t wanna deal wit’ ya’ dumb ass.”
“I won’t — I ain’t ornery!” Buck said with a sigh.
Officer Crabgut reached Buck’s cell, then firmly but not violently shoved him into it. “Relax, Sampson. Hargrave will take care of the rats.” He closed the cell door and walked away. Right now was open-cell time, so’s the door wasn’t locked, but Crabgut’d prolly curl his lip at Buck opening it, so’s Buck stood by the door dopeishly.
Laying there on the lower bunk was his cellmate, Miguel, who got a magazine in his hand and a curious look upon his mug. Buck held them ramen packets in one hand.
Buck lit a cigarette from the battered pack by his upper bunk and fumed. “I tol’ him that ext’minatuh don’t know what he’s doin’,” Buck said. “He looked young. He prolly foolish. Mosta ’em don’t wanna come to a prison, so’n they sent the newest rookie, reckon.” Buck took a long drag off his smoke.

Miguel shrugged. “Prison got rats, gringazo,” he said. Then he added a inscrutable hand gesture and sound effect that presumably signified the inevitableness of entropy, the creeping spread of chaos in a post-capitalist society and his stoic acceptance of dhukha, the imperfection and dissatisfaction inherent to existence in Buddhist theology. “Hszhurhppaa.”

Cigarette smoke fuming outta his ugly mug, Buck wrinkled his nose. “I cain smell the rats, Miguel, I smells ’em. Tha’ss rat piss. It’s di’rent than mouse piss.”
“Ay, don’t talk about rat piss, gringazo,” Miguel said, lifting his soccer magazine to cover his face. He was a Latin King, which you could tell by his tats. He done earnt his place among ’em by renting hisself out. Mexicans do that to each other, they do.
So far as Buck was concerned, the most important reason to join up with a gang was to avoid giving up booty. Mexican don’t see it that way. They got l’il peckers, that was why. They was short and fat and got li’l pinkies poking out they oversized bushes. T’weren’t barely a thang to get cornholed by one them.
Miguel was skinny, not fat, but he was short as a donkey was stubborn, and he got a wormy thang. He ain’t like taking it from Buck’s big-boy meat.
Casual as he could muster, Buck tacked up the sheet that covered they cell door and the window in the door. That gave a li’l privacy. When Buck was confident ain’t nobody gonna interrupt, he tossed the two packs of ramen to Miguel.
His bristly mustache jostled as Miguel shrugged, then put the ramen with t’others. Ramen was, ‘long with cigarettes, canned sardines and phone cards, the main currency in this prison. Guards usually toted ramen with ’em cuz they was cheap as hell outside and could be brung in no problem — no restrictions on guards carrying ramen.
Then Miguel got up. He was plum near two feet shorter’an Buck, so’s he dwarfed under him as he smeared a big fistful of prison-kitchen hogfat upon his asscrack. Meanwhile, Buck stroked hisself hard. He fished out a September 1992 issue of a “pickemup truck magazine”, which was fulla purdy ladies near trucks. T’was as risqué as could be easily gotten in prison.
“Go quick, esé. And silencioso,” Miguel said, wiry muscles stretching to get his hand into his buttcrack. He winced as one finger slipped into his hole, then a second. He bit his lower lip. “Shushy, gringazo.”
Buck nodded. “Make guhl sounds, Miguel, I’s picturin’ ya mamacita on mah dick,” he said with a laugh. Miguel sucked upon his teeth. Buck showed him the Latina in the magazine, who was purdy indeed. “She Mexican, and she hot-” He kept one giant hand on his cock, which firmed up in his grip.
“It say right there she Puerto Rican, gringazo,” Miguel said. He winced again as he got a third finger in his own ass, which he forced hisself to endure, as t’would feel better’an letting Buck ramrod him unprepared. His limbs strained and twitched, his tattoos rippling.
“Oh,” Buck’s chuckles turned sheepish. He ain’t see that bit, and Miguel done made his feelings on Puerto Ricans clear as sprite — Miguel soured on Puerto Ricans like tamarind soda. But Buck weren’t interested in the mamacita’s origins, and he got no notions on the nationalities of Hispanics. He liked her ass. He was eye-deep in that magazine when Miguel bent o’er.
T’weren’t a invitation fer Buck to get started. Miguel wanna put his makeshift dildo in his ass, that would loosen him up. Miguel bent o’er to get that dildo from his poke at the foot of his bunk.
But Buck was eyefucking the Puerto Rican lady — who drove a Hyundai! — and he took Miguel bending o’er to mean he was ready. One hand upon the magazine, t’other upon his dick, Buck bent his knees and jabbed his dick like a battery ram.
He missed the butthole entirely.
“Ay ay, wait,” Miguel said. He squirmed, his lubey hands pushing behind hisself upon Buck’s stallion-like body. “Wait!” Buck’s cock stabbed his asscheek hard, like Buck was trying-a poke a new butthole in it.
“Sawry, sawry, I’mma wait, whatchoo wanna do?” Buck said. He was so much taller’an Miguel that t’was hard to get his wang and Miguel’s caboose to line up. He kept thrusting though, having no idear he was ramming Miguel’s back and side hard enough to hurt.
“Ay, ay, wait, lemme get it open, gringazo,” Miguel said. “Ay ay ay.” He found the dildo and smeared hog fat on it. “Don’t press down this time, Buck. You are too big, too grande.” He whistled. Then one hand gingerly inserted the “dildo” — actually a piece of ceramic that broke off a toilet — and t’other flicked Buck’s thirteen-inch rod. T’was thicker’an Miguel’s forearm. He pointed to Buck’s chest. “Don’t press down on my back. You are heavy, and you are hairy, and you smell like a saddle.”
Buck looked at Miguel ’round the magazine. “Maxi said punks gotta-“
“I ain’t a punk!” Miguel said. He done explain this b’fore — Miguel was a Latin King. He hadta pay fer his membership by giving up the booty, but that was a valid membership. A “punk” was not a member of the gang; a punk was owned by the gang. Punks also gave up the booty, so’s the difference seemed negligent to Buck. T’was vital to Miguel.
T’was Buck’s turn to snort like a jaded pony and make a masturbatory hand gesture, which combined to signify his belief in the mutability of socially constructed roles qua the fulfillment of incumbent sociocultural systems and functions, strength and dominance as determiners per se of masculine hierarchies and the civilizational sine qua non of a peremptory conception of so-called manhood to staunch the onslaught of Leviathan.
But he ain’t argue. Once he got his pecker up Miguel’s guts, Buck’d be dictating the position fer sho’re.
“C’mon, I’s hard,” Buck said. He put the magazine down upon Miguel’s bed, hugged his hairy shoulders from behind and pulled him close. Miguel straightened his back.
“Wait, esé, I-” Miguel yelped. Buck’s meaty stomach pressed ‘gainst his head. Miguel squirmed. “It’s still-“
Buck dropped to his knees, which lined his cock up with Miguel’s ass, and he rammed his knob right at Miguel’s butthole, which was stretched wide.
T’was stretched cuz that piece of ceramic dildo was still in there. Buck forgot about that, and his knob jammed into it. Him and Miguel said ow and ay respectively.
“I’ll get it out,” Buck said, slapping Miguel’s hand away. “I’mma lose mah stiffy if’n I don’t stick it in ya soon. Ya asshole is narsty, Miguel.” His crack was lined with black hairs — the cheeks was mostly smooth, but his crack was so hairy Buck ain’t wanna look at it. Buck gingerly used two fingertips to pull the ceramic dildo out, his other hand spreading them asscheeks.
“Put lard on it!” Miguel said. He gave Buck the tub of hog fat, but Buck ain’t take it, as Buck got one hand upon his own cock and t’other spreading Miguel’s buttcheeks the best Buck could without touching any the butthair. “Lard!”
“I will, I will,” Buck said. With a quick thrust, he aimed it fer Miguel’s lubed-up hole, but the tip bounced off. He picked up the tub of hog fat. He tried again, and this time the tip went in. “Got in, keep it open, keep it-“
“Ay! Lard! Put on the lard, esé!” Miguel snapped. His asshole snapped too, and it pushed Buck’s cock right out. Buck still ain’t even open the tub of hog fat.
“I am, I am!” Buck said. His voice was so deep it echoed in the tiny cell, and Miguel hissed fer him to shush. Buck smeared hog fat upon his cock, which was losing its erection. “Sheeit, Miguel, put’cha mouth on it. Get it hard again.”
Miguel smacked his lips shut. “Nuh-uh.” He mumbled. “T’was in my culo, gringazo.”
“Just the tip was, fer like a second!” Buck said. “I swan-!”
“Shush! Keep it down!”
“Why? E’erybody knows you give it up behind,” Buck said.
“They don’t gotta know when!” Miguel said. “Get ya own self hard, Buck.”
Buck grumbled, but he picked up the magazine and stroked his dick again. T’was easier this time since he was lubed up, and his greasy hand slid up and down the shaft. Meanwhile Miguel be working at his own butthole with his fingers. He got four fingers in there.
In a flurry, Buck pulled Miguel’s fingers outta his own ass, then rammed his dick in as far as t’would go — he wanna go fast both so’s Miguel don’t come up with more delays and so’s his asshole don’t snap shut. Miguel wheezed and squirmed, and maybe four, five inches of dickmeat disappeared up there.
“Aaaah, sheeit, here we go-“
“Damn, gringazo, gimme a warnin’,” Miguel said.
“Sawry, sawry,” Buck said. Miguel stood, while Buck kneeled behind him, so’s Buck’s strong arms held him upright when Miguel’s knees got weak. He spread his legs the best he could. Miguel clenched his teeth and his ropy limbs all tensed up. “You’s tensin’ up, Miguel, relax, relax, relax-“
“Ay, ay-“
“You clenchin’, wait, wait-” Buck hugged him close, despite the bristly body hair all o’er Miguel’s chest. It turned Buck off. He couldn’t imagine tits if’n his hands was where’n tits should be and there weren’t no tits, and he used both hands to hold squirmy Miguel, so’s he couldn’t hold the magazine open. Miguel’s asshole was clenching and pushing Buck’s cock out, which Buck accepted was not deliberate — they done go thru this argument — but he got a right to force Miguel to slacken his booty. “You clenchin’, Miguel-“
“Sshhhiiiizzhzhhh!” Miguel roared. He lurched forward, banging his head ‘gainst the wall. Buck tried to support him, but Miguel couldn’t help but wriggle. His tattooed hands clawed behind hisself at Buck’s chest.
“Goddamn that feels good…” Buck murmured. Miguel done took mosta Buck’s shaft, and he was heaving on a rhythm like a woman in labor. Buck tried to keep Miguel in place as pleasure wracked his body, but Buck admired to use one hand to get that magazine back where’n he could see it.
Soon as he leggo Miguel though, Miguel squirmed hard again — that made his ass squeeze and massage Buck’s cock, which was leaking gobs of precum now. That helped further grease up Miguel’s broke-in booty.
Buck worked his dick back and forth, as Miguel’s panting slowed down. Each time he thrust, he tried to force it a l’il deeper, but he ain’t try to ram him too hard, cuz Miguel was a amigo fer real.
Finally Miguel seethed and said weakly, “Ay, wait, gimme a sec, Buck…”
“Nah, I’mma nut real quick, promise,” Buck said. He admired to look at the magazine, but e’ery time he got it in position, Miguel wriggled, and Buck gotta use both hands to steady him. He found hisself looking at Miguel’s back, which got a tattoo of a sexy grim reaper-lady, who filled Buck with contrary feelings. He preferred the magazine.
A rat moved, and Buck jerked away from Miguel. His lard-goop dick popped outta Miguel’s ass.
The rat paused like t’ain’t mean to show itself. Buck stepped to it and stomped with one bare foot, only fer the rat to dart away.
It went to the cell door, and Buck followed, his hardon dripping precum onto the cement floor. Buck hesitated cuz he ain’t wanna stomp a rat with his bare feet. He picked up one Miguel’s prison sandals.
“Ay, shit, la rata!” Miguel jumped up onto his bunk, then winced and cradled his sore asscheeks.
The rat squealed and wriggled ’round the shut cell door, which weren’t latched shut. When it creaked open enough, the rat squirmed out the cell and into the prison proper. Buck chased after it, his erect dick still dribbling onto the cold steel floor. He stopped when he realized he was naked with a hardon afronta the whole cell block.
“Eww, Buck’s bootysmashin’!” Buncha fellers started laughing. They pointed, and ain’t nobody even notice the rat, which disappeared into the walls somewhere.
“Bootysmasher!”
“Hillbillies do that, they do…”
“Ewww, his cellmate’s Miguel, right?”
Buck blushed and covered his crotch with both hands, his fat cock spilling out the sides of his grip. He hurried back to the cell
“Nah, nah, I’s gettin’ ready — I’s changin’ my clothes!” Buck called out, but ain’t nobody believe him. They done seed his dick in the shower, and don’t nobody believe a big-dick man like Buck was going thru his prison sentence without smashing booties. And e’erybody knewed Miguel do give up the booty if’n he get paid.
“You cabronazo!” Miguel hissed. “Everybody saw that-“
“I was goin’ aftuh the rat!”
Miguel still stood upon the edge of his bunk, gripping the upper bunk (Buck’s) to keep his bare feet off the cell floor. He sucked on his teeth. “Is that how you exterminate rats, Buck? You chase ’em each one?”
But Buck just grumbled, as some homeboys knocked upon the cell door and shared hushed laughs. They wasn’t allowed to open the door — T’was unlocked, but opening a cell door without permission was a stabbable offense. They kept banging on it and saying sump’in incomprehensive, maybe pretending they was guards ordering Buck to open the door. They peeked ’round the sheet curtain too.
That all only took less than a minute, and Buck’s hardon was still throbbing. He admired to defend his name, but even as he did, he lined his crotch up with Miguel’s ass — easy to do while Miguel stood upon his bunk. That lifted his hairy asscrack up enough fer Buck to get behind him and ram it right in.
“Shuddup out the’uh!” Buck called out. “I was changin’ mah clothes!”
A twitch came o’er Miguel as Buck’s cock entered his ass once more, and Miguel tensed up again. He clenched his teeth. “Shit, go slow, cabronazo.”
Buck nodded. He lowered his holler-heavy voice. “Spread ya legs, Miguel, c’mon…”
Miguel did so, wincing when Buck’s dick pushed in inch after inch. He shook like a hound-dog shitting a peach pit. His legs spread wide, and he gripped Buck’s bunk, the upper one, fer support.
“Ay ay ay…” Miguel muttered, as pain enveloped him again. Buck’s powerful arms wrapped ’round him so’s he couldn’t squirm too bad. Miguel panted, while Buck’s chest muscles writhed with the intense spasms of pleasure running thru his body.
The sound of the homeboys banging upon the cell door faded. Buck pounded now, relentless, and soon Miguel wasn’t really supporting hisself ‘t all — Buck hugged him and lifted him off the bunk, so’n Miguel was swallowed up by Buck’s barrel chest. Then Miguel could squirm all he wanted, he got no leverage, and Buck could use his ass more like a fleshlight than a pussy.
That hurt, but it sent Buck right o’er the edge.
A thick wave of nut filled Miguel’s ass. Buck let out a long, chamberous moan, and he felt his tensions draining away like melted butter. Crabgut was right, he did needta blow a nut.
“Ay…”
Grimacing his teeth, Miguel scrunched his eyes shut. The pressure in his ass was so intense it felt like he was being split in two, like Buck done broke sump’in in his backside. But Miguel knewed it always felt like this — Buck got big meat. Wave after wave of creamy cum flowed into Miguel, a bigger load than he thought possible. Mexicans ain’t shoot that much he thought, or maybe they was just more apt to pull out and shoot on his back, while Buck preferred to get e’ery drop all the way up in Miguel’s guts.
Buck at last pulled out and sighed, and he put Miguel down. He blanched at sight of buncha black fellers outside the cell, peering in ’round the edge of the sheet curtain blocking the window on the door. They was laughing at Buck wiping his dingdong clean. Buck moved the sheet they got set up so’s it blocked the window again — he ne’er done fix it correct-like after coming back in here. Buck felt like an idiot. Them homeboys was gonna be calling him a booty bandit fer months.
As though they ain’t done it too. Homeboys was all booty bandits, in Buck’s experience. They all either be ramrodding or getting it up the dookie by a bigger one. But they think it’s funny when a whiteboy do it.
“Goddamn that hurt, esé,” Miguel said, caressing his sore ass. A wave of cum poured down his inner thighs as he got off his bunk and stretched his legs. “And you’s estúpido fer goin’ out there. Everybody saw it! Fuckin’ dumbass cabron.”

Buck the Dumbass: Chapter 3

Buck laid a smackdown upon this twerpy white thang with a name too big fer his trouser-pants, which he sagged like a yo’ boy. He was MC Nutty or some dumbass college-boy wannabe Vanilla Ice shit like that, and he got loud all night, hooting at the waitresses. Buck hadta go tell him classy-like to keep his voice down. The man looked subduified by Buck’s bigness and firm words, but after couple more drinks, he got gropey as a octopus upon a waitress. Buck don’t like a man who treat a woman unproper, so’n he planked the fuzz outta him. He drug him sputtering, bloody-nosed and bruising up, into the back alley and deposited him beside the dumpster.
And then he went back to his eternal post at the door. Nuttin’ much happened after that. Nary the customers or waitresses axed about the man, MC Nutbag. In the alley, the man musta got up, cuz he was gone when Buck went to piss on him later. He been looking forward to that, so’s now he got nuttin’ to do the resta the night, unless’n one the remaindering broh boys got fresh. They simmered on low though, all night long, and Buck was dreary to droop by the time Teddy called last call.
Damn but bouncering was a boring-ass job lotta the time. T’was more boring than prison somehow. ‘Least in prison, a feller knows he gonna have nuttin’ to do fer the foreseeable. Ain’t nuttin’ gonna change that. Outsidea prison, here at Lipsweet, sump’in better was always right ’round the corner, a corner Buck couldn’t go round cuz he was stuck at the dingdarn door.
T’was enough to remind Buck of school. School gave him that same feeling, that he be jumping thru pointless hoops steada living a life with meaning.
Buck always did struggle in school, and he only barely graduated. The only parta school life that felt right was the wrestling team. His coaches ensured he ain’t waste time upon schoolwork, which was good, cuz Buck woulda dropped out if’n he gotta do his work. They even put him in a college-prep class, and then he was recruited by GHU fer they wrestling team. That was what brung him to Ann Arbor in the first place back in the 80s.
‘Course, even when he was a college student, he ain’t do nary his coursework. Officially, Buck done earn mosta his degree in physical education. Ne’er got a diploma though.
In Buck’s freshman year, he got a tutor name Donovan, this sniveling spectacled knowitall who be eye-gauging Buck up a retard. At first, Buck ain’t care ’bout them looks. He got bigger things on his mind — tourneyments, coeds, lunch.
The longer his freshman year went on, the more Donovan discomfitted Buck. They was both freshmen, though Buck was older cuz he got held back loads in school. Donovan scowled at that when he found out, like he thought Buck shouldn’t-a been allowed to come to GHU cuzza his school record. He always talked like he was struggling not to sneer in Buck’s direction.
Donovan was a stick of a nerd in Buck’s gaze though, weak as a thimble in the stormy sea. He was short and beaky-nosed and soft-spoke, and he was kinda feminine in a weird way. It made Buck wanna give him a wedgie.
But he resisted the urge.
He got back to the team house after practice one afternoon, and Donovan was there upon the front porch waiting fer him. He got a superior arch to his brow.
“I have your stat homework.”
“Mah what?”
“Stat homework,” Donovan said with a harsh snap.

Buck got no idear what that meant — he first heered I have ya’s at homework, which ain’t make sense, and he ain’t connect stat to his statistics class, which he ne’er done attend. He was only vaguely aware that statistics had to do with like percents and shit. Finally, after a awkward pause, Buck said, “Yeah,” as though that was obvious. He took the homework from Donovan. Why’d he make that so difficult? Both Buck and Donovan thought that as they separated. Donovan scurried back to his dorm.

Meanwhile, Buck went inside, where’n his wrestling-team buddies was sitting round drinking beer and talking ’bout girls. T’was a endlessly fruitful topic round here. Buck got into it with ’em, and they discussed the merits of tits versus legs versus ass all evening long, till some real ladies showed up from Omega house to parade ’round they tits, legs and asses.
In a’ry case, once him and t’other wrestlers filled they moist womanhoods up, Buck and t’other wrestlers got sleepy. The Omega girls went back to they house so’s they wouldn’t get in trouble, and Buck was slumbering fulla snores in his room. When Donovan came o’er with a page of stat homework he done forget to include b’fore, Buck remained sound asleep in his room.
“Buck. Hey, Buck, wake up,” Donovan said. He touched Buck’s broad chest, only slightly hairy then cuz he was a young man still. His pecs were firm and round, like a man in a movie — Donovan went to a small private school fulla skinny nerds with pocket protectors and thick-rimmed glasses; Donovan was virtually a jock there. Even the gym teacher had a degree in kinesiology. Donovan ain’t ne’er seen a man with real pecs b’fore.
Them pics rippled ‘neath Donovan’s fingers. He sucked in his breath. His hands explored Buck’s bare chest, dappled with the remains of fucksweat and Omega-babe juices.
Buck’s eyes blinked open, and he stirred. He was bleary, his breath reeking of skunk beer. He belched in Donovan’s face. Though Buck done awake, Donovan was still touching his chest. Them heavyweight muscles all flexed at once, but Donovan ain’t stop. He full-on groped Buck’s muscles like Coach Walker when he gave a massage (he gave very rough massages with painfully callused fingers).
“I forgot to give you one of the pages of your stat homework,” Donovan said.
Buck shrugged. “‘Kay.” He closed his eyes again. T’weren’t clear he was aware of what Donovan said or even who was speaking to him right now. His muscles kept rippling though, which entranced Donovan.
A feminine giggle escaped from Donovan’s lips. God damn Buck was an idiot, he thought. Donovan’s father let him get drunk once a few months ago, so’s he could do it once b’fore coming to college. He said only idiots get pass-out drunk. Buck and his jock buddies did it e’ery weekend and some weekdays.
And Buck was huge! Imagine how much he hadta drink to get that drunk.
When even Donovan’s giggles didn’t wake Buck up, he slowly, gently pulled Buck’s underwear down. Since he lay on his back upon his bed, Donovan couldn’t get the underwear all the way down — Buck was much too heavy. He did lower his tight-whites enough to bare his massive cock, which made Donovan’s eyes bug out.
That thang was more’an a foot long!
That was why he admired to tutor Buck in the first place, after all, cuz he heered rumors that he had a giant dick. The rumors came from both women Donovan overheard when him and his nerdy friends peeped on the women’s locker room as well as from one friend who showered and changed with Buck in the men’s locker room. He ain’t believed it.
But here it was, in his grip, so hefty t’was actually heavy. It throbbed and pulsated, veiny and knobby. Donovan’s dick was smooth as porcelain in comparison. Was cocks sposeda to be vein-shafted knobbly clubs like Buck’s? Donovan ain’t know.
Buck’s shaft flopped left and right in Donovan’s hand, while he sucked in his breath and checked if’n Buck would awake. He ain’t. He slumbered like a log, and his dick remained limp as could be.

Donovan ain’t mind that. He liked the heft of it. It felt right in his hands. T’was as thick as Donovan’s wrist. He bent o’er and put the tip of it in his mouth, and Buck still ain’t respond.

It tasted salty with old sweat — and from the Omega cheerleader who came by so’s Buck could fuck her, but Donovan ain’t know about her and ne’er tasted no cheerleader pussyjuice, so’s he got no frame of reference — and it made Donovan’s whole body tingle. He ain’t ne’er taste nuttin’ like this. T’was warm and soft at first, but as Donovan ran his tongue up and down the shaft, it slowly firmed up in his grasp.
A snort came outta Buck’s fat nose, but he ain’t wake up. His cock twitched in Donovan’s mouth. It stayed soft though.
T’ain’t stay soft fer long. Donovan ain’t know Buck done blow three loads in Omega-babe snatch couple hours back, but he was young enough then that his balls was already full-up again. His cock was a-mite slow to rouse. Once Donovan started working his hand up and down though, tongue exploring the piss-slit and slathering spit upon the tip, it firmed up bit by bit.
He kept stroking Buck’s dick until t’was hard. T’was even thicker now, and Buck stirred slightly but he ain’t wake up. Donovan slurped upon the tip until his spit ran down the shaft into Buck’s crotch hair.
Taking his own clothes off, Donovan felt a twinge of embarrassment at his skinny frame and small dick — neither of which was notable — Donovan weren’t ‘specially skinny and his cock was normal-sized, but he looked tiny next to Buck. Donovan was glad ain’t nobody wakeful to see though. His own dick done got hard, and it pulsated in his grip. He straddled Buck and rubbed his manhood upon Buck’s much bigger shaft. Donovan frotted both cocks together until his own was leaking precum. Buck’s dick spat much more prejizz, and his was extra strong-tasting, salty and sweaty.
Cum sprayed o’er Buck’s chest. Since Buck was asleep, Donovan was surprised by it, Buck’s stony face giving no cues t’was coming. A long and continuous flow roped o’er and o’er onto his pecs, and then Donovan rammed his mouth back upon Buck’s knob.
A sleepy moan came outta Buck’s throat, same time as another wad of jizz spurted out. Donovan caught mosta it in his mouth.
Great gobs of jizz exploded into his Donovan’s throat. He couldn’t swallow it, so’n it instantly overflowed and spilled onto Buck’s legs. Some got upon his thick thighs and ran onto the bedsheets below.
Just when Donovan thought Buck was done and pulled off, a jerk hit Buck’s body, and his hands fluttered, then falled limp again, and a final cumwad sprayed Donovan in his open, gasping mouth. It spilled o’er his face and onto the mattress below.
All that cum dripped off Donovan’s face. T’was warm and gooey, and he savored the feel of it drying there, as his sopping-wet hands rubbed Buck’s limpening meat. T’was so long it took both his hands, and if’n he’d had a third, he coulda used that too.
When Buck’s glistening cock was soft again, Donovan finally pulled off it. He frotted his dick upon Buck’s limpness. T’was hot and sopping wet. Cum dripped down Buck’s pecs and streaked his six-pack abs.
He was sound asleep now. “Sleepy-deeping” — Donovan done heered Buck say that last month. T’was one of his redneckisms, which lotta men thought was funny, maybe women too. Donovan discottoned to rednecks though.
“Good night, Buck,” Donovan said softly. His hands smeared cum all o’er Buck’s chest and even onto his face. Buck wrinkled his crooked nose, but he ain’t respond. Jizz clung milkily upon his cheeks and his square jaw.
Donovan stood up and laughed under his breath. Buck was like a rock now, passed out. He done seem deeply asleep couple minutes ago, but now, Donovan could tell he was out fer the night. That orgasm put him under.
So’n Donovan could do whatever he admired to Buck’s wrestler muscles. He held back another giggle, more outta habit than stealth — if’n Buck were wakeful, he’d prolly tease Donovan fer giggling like a girl. But nobody was around, so’s Donovan could giggle all he wanted as he massaged Buck’s massive biceps and broad shoulders.
His dick poked Buck in his stomach, which was just slightly too meaty to be a perfect six-pack — when he cut weight fer wrestling, he sometimes had a six-pack, but Buck was naturally beefy. Donovan’s dick jabbed Buck in the sternum, and Donovan humped his pecs, holding onto Buck’s massive head fer support.
Then he worked his way up Buck’s thick neck to his chin and face. Donovan’s cock dabbed precum onto Buck’s nose and upper lip. When Buck still slept on, Donovan rammed his cock into Buck’s open, ready-to-snore mouth. Buck choked, and Donovan panicked. He pulled his cock out.
But Buck stayed sleeping.
After a couple seconds, Donovan again let his throbbing-hard cock touch Buck’s chin and lower lip. No response. The scruff of Buck’s unshaven cheeks scratched at Donovan’s shaft. Like most college freshmen, Donovan didn’t need-a shave e’ery day and didn’t get scruff like that.
‘Course, Buck was old fer a freshman.
Donovan pushed his dick back in Buck’s waiting mouth, and Buck remained still as a eggplant. His tongue lay flat and moist, waiting fer Donovan to hump his gooey shaft ‘long the top of it. His cock slid into Buck’s throat. Donovan could easily push the whole shaft down there, as Buck was so big his mouth was huge. Donovan gasped.
Precum flowed into Buck’s mouth, and Donovan intended to pull out to prolong this, but b’fore’n he could think, an orgasm overcame him. A cumwad spurted into Buck’s mouth, then his second jizz coated Buck’s square jaw and face. A moist choke came outta Buck’s unconscious body, which spat Donovan’s dick out mid-orgasm.
“Oh god…” Donovan wondered if’n this was what sex was like. It felt so good, like milk chocolate flowed thru his veins. He had to hold onto Buck’s solid shoulders fer support. He wanna get his cock back into Buck’s mouth, but it felt so incredible Donovan couldn’t coordinate his movements well enough. He rammed Buck in his stony face and spurted wad after wad o’er goo o’er his crooked nose and square cheeks. He got the tip in Buck’s hot mouth again, only fer Buck’s throat to instinctively choke it back out. Donovan sucked in his breath and gritted his teeth as his final jizz coated Buck’s forehead and even reached the bottom of his mullet behind his nape.
Donovan kept stroking his limp dick until e’ery last drop had dribbled onto Buck’s chin or into the peach fuzz upon his chest. He was hairy fer a college student. Donovan rubbed his dick in Buck’s chest hair too. He’d ne’er felt anythang like that — Buck wasn’t as hairy as he was as an old man, but fer a college freshman, he might as well have been sasquatch.
When Donovan was soft, he got paranoid about being caught. He pulled up his pants in a hurry, suddenly certain Buck was gonna wake up soon. Donovan scurried out into the night.
And the best part was, Donovan thought, that Buck was too dumb to realize why he was so sticky in the morning.

Buck the Dumbass: Chapter 4

Buck left Lucy’s house just after dawn, that way nary the neighbors would see. Lucy was his long-time girlfriend. Unfortunately, she been shacked up with another man fer awhile. She was still seeing Buck on the side, so’s he gotta sneak out pre-dawn. He ain’t have enough time fer a morning quickie, which meant he gotta run the whole way with a hardon.
Another reason to leave early was that Buck gotta go in to work — not bouncering at Lipsweet, he also got that part-time job as a exterminator with Central Pest Control. Buck discottoned to the early-morning work, but he gotta have that “gainful” job to keep his parole officer calm.

He undressed in the locker room, last one there, so’s he gotta race to get his uniform on. He hoped Mistah Taggart seed that he weren’t late to arrive, cuz he was late by the time he got his job clipboard from the box by the office. Mistah Taggart was in there scowling.

“I was he’uh on time, suh,” Buck said. Technically, he walked in the door one minute late, and he was leaving the workshop late. He picked up the clipboard fer his pickemup. The clipboard got a long list of addresses, but more importantly it came with a printed-out map of the county. The addresses was labeled upon it. Buck knewed this county like a hound-dog knows its dish-bowl, so’s he could find the locations easy as ice cream.
“Fine, go,” Mistah Taggart said like he ain’t entirely believe Buck. But he shrugged him off anyways.
Buck stopped and showed Mistah Taggart the clipboard. “This one got two addresses, suh. Which one do I go to?”
Mistah Taggart raised his eyebrows. “Go to the first address to get the key. Second address is where you gonna spray.” He paused. “That’s a broke-down building, Sampson. Be careful. Kick the hobos out before you spray. That’s why I gave you that one, you’s a big feller, you can handle a rough situation. That building was abandoned two years ago, and some squatters moved in. If’n they give you too much trouble, call the police.”
“Yes, suh,” Buck said.
Buck nodded as he walked out. The clipboard listed the pesticide to use. Buck don’t know them sciencey words, but he could match ’em up with the labels, and he got a good memory fer the details of how to use each one.
Still waking off his nods, Buck headed to the nearby gas station fer a breakfast sandwich, a cuppa coffee and a full tank. Then he went out to his first couple stops, which all went swift as a breeze. He set down some rat traps and bait stations, put a one-way flap in a lady’s bat-filled attic and picked up a raccoon in a cage.
After letting the raccoon go free in a state park, he went to get the key to the abandoned building, and he drove to it. The building looked fine from a distance, but when he got close, he seed all the shattered windows and the untended grass.
He went in the old apartment building — ain’t need the key, it turned out, as the front door was ripped off its hinges. He smacked a stick upon a rustbucket icebox near the door, which made a loud ringing sound.
“Hey! All y’all! Anybody in this buildin’ best get out!” Buck shouted. His deep-chested baritone echoed. “I’mma fill it wit’ poison! Central Pest Control he’uh, ’bout to kill lit’ally e’erythang he’uh’! You gotto skedaddle!”
A shambly black man glanced at him, then hobble-footed out the door. He was followed by two more fellers, and then a woman with blue hair and safety-pin piercings lurched out. She was smacking two fingers upon her elbow like she was fitting to shoot up. Buck ain’t say nuttin’ to nary the squatters, as they was leaving peaceable-like, and he ain’t wanna interrupt that.

When he was satisfied there weren’t no hobos left on the first floor, he went up the creaky step-staircase on the lookout fer more. He kept repeating hisself and making buncha noise. He imitated a siren’s squeal too, hoping that might rouse some lazy hobos. “Gonna fill this place wit’ poison gas, y’all! Best skedaddle!”
Nobody on the second floor. Buck went up to the top floor, the third, and looked round there. Seemed quiet, but he kept calling out regardless-like.

Gonna cost a purdy penny to fix this place up, he thought. It musta been got abandoned to the squatters a long time ago. The grime was caked in. Plumbing and wiring gonna hafta be redone entirely. Roof too, likeishly.
“Hey!” Buck snapped when he seed some mohawky whiteboy, who be lingering like a rash. “You gotsta get out.” The whiteboy got a blanket and some clothes spread out in the least rubble-filled room upon the third floor. A boombox and a heroin kit was the only furniture. Sunlight streamed in from the shattered windows upon one wall, illuminating the cloud of dust and drug smoke that filled the room.
The mohawky whiteboy looked at Buck like one them two was a idiot, but he weren’t sho’re which. “I’m stayin’ here, I claimed this place in the name of freedom. You can’t institute your system of oppression here, you fascist!”
“Ain’t no fashist, you fashist,” Buck said. He got no inkling what a fascist was. “I’mma fill this place wit’ poison, mothahfuckah. Fashist! You fash e’erybody-“
“No! You can’t!”
“It’s fulla cockroaches, hoss. Rats too, fer sho’re. It’s bad, they’s fixin’ it up-“
“No!” The mohawky thang tottered left and right. He was on sump’in fer sho’re, or maybe he was off it at the moment and jonesing fer more. Buck seed his heroin kit but ain’t see no heroin. The mohawk on a needle frowned and eyebrowed hard upon Buck. “Nothin’ wrong, nothin’ wrong, nothin’ wrong with cockroaches, you’re a — they’re my friend. You’re a fascist! You’re a fascist, man. You’re imposing your… whatever, and… All life is sacred anyway.”
“A’ight, dawg, you gots to go,” Buck said. He took him by the arm, which was muscled but shrunk, with track marks abundant.
“Nah, nah, no, you gonna get outta here, gotta go, gotta go, I’ll kick ya hillbilly fascist ass redneck motherfucker-“
“Hey! Don’t test me! You is vexin’ mah ire now,” Buck said and wagged his finger at the mohawky whiteboy, who jerked away from him. He feinted hard at Buck, but Buck do stoneface.
The two squared up, Buck big and burly, the squatter dim-eyed, ripple-muscled and padding-less. Anarchy symbols and a portrait of Che Guevara covered his muscle-limbed body. His name was Jenner, and he snarled at Buck like he wanna fight, like he ain’t notice Buck was so much bigger’an him.
“Come at me then, fascist!” Jenner patted his own chest like a skinny Hulk Hogan — like Hulk Hogan had a baby with a rake. Then he punched Buck right in the belly, and Buck shrugged it off like a meow. He was too addled to punch effectively, and he got wiry arms, strong but withered. Buck shoved him away.
“Quit it, I ain’t playin’, hoss, you best step off,” Buck said.
“Shuddup, I’ll fuck you up, you think you’re hot shit!” the mohawked punk said. “C’mon! You work fer the police, huh? You a piggie?”
“No! I’s a ext’minatuh, son, slow ya toe! C’mon, I’s j’st killin’ the cockroaches. You cain take ya shit wit’cha,” he said. “You cain even come back in four hours, I don’t care. If’n you come back early, you gonna die.”
But the mohawky Jenner punched him again, his fist colliding with the meat of Buck’s belly. Flinchless, Buck gritted his teeth. He shoved the mohawked stack of string down like a disrespectful tombstone.
“Lay off!”

“Fascist!” Jenner bounced back onto his feet, and Buck shoved him to the wall. His pants dropped to his ankles, baring a ratty pair of boxers. Buck ain’t mean to do that, but it got the mohawk stumbling. He ain’t seem to grasp that his pants was ’round his ankles, and he steady tripped on ’em.

Buck grabbed Jenner by the mohawk and pulled his boxers down. “See what you makin’ me do?” Buck wrapped one arm ’round him to squeeze his neck. Buck’s free hand undid the fly of his workpants and fished out his cock, which he rubbed limply upon the mohawked man’s buttcheeks.
Still unaware, Jenner stumbled in place and shouted. He stopped only when Buck rammed his cock in the man’s ass, the knob slipping in, followed by just an inch or so of shaft b’fore’n he hit resistance.
But Buck weren’t in the mood to honor resistance. He squeezed the man’s neck till his body tensed, then he leggo and the mohawked man took a deep breath. The relaxation opened his butthole too, and Buck’s cock rammed in deep as a ditch.
“Oh god!”
“Sssshush, I done gave you a chance, motherfucker,” Buck said. He shuddered as pleasure coursed thru him. “Now this is happenin’.”
He spat upon his hand and smeared that on his shaft to give a li’l lube. But not much, cuz Buck ain’t intend this to go easy. His cock cornholed in and out till the mohawked man’s knees went weak, l’il deeper each time, and Buck followed him to the ground.
His asshole was well-worked and not intact in the least. Buck weren’t surprised. He prolly give it up fer heroin and whatever, you ne’er can tell with the ones with mohawks and anarchy shit. His ropy asscheeks squeezed ’round Buck’s manhood and sent more shivers of sensations thru Buck’s nerves.
“Ow, fu-uuuuuck…!” Jenner panted and wriggled. Buck slammed down on him with all his might, and Jenner’s bony ass got no resistance left. Buck moaned into his ear.
“You gonna get the fuck out?” Buck murmured. Jenner opened his mouth to say sump’in, but Buck bit his earlobe, and Jenner wriggled again. Buck grunted as his orgasm came nigh. Jenner shuddered. Buck said again, “You gonna leave, fashist?”
“Yeah!” Jenner said thru gritted teeth.
Buck’s heavy chest pinned Jenner to the ground, so’s he could scream into the ratty floor as much as he want, he ain’t make much noise. The hairy meat of Buck’s chest pressed ‘gainst Jenner’s bony back. Buck pistoned his hips, forcing the final couple inches into his guts as a climax wracked him. He spat upon the side of the man’s face.
A vast wave of cum seeped into Jenner, who closed his eyes and cringed. Buck moaned again and again, as he jerked his hips, pumping a fat flow of goo into Jenner’s guts.
Buck was right: Jenner done went thru this b’fore. Don’t make it no easier though. He heaved fer breath as his ass struggled to accommodate Buck’s cockshaft and his river of jizz. Jenner felt it flowing thru his body and puddling up under him.
His grunts condensed hotly upon Jenner’s cheek. One final cumwad spurted into him. Buck growled, and his muscles twitched ‘gainst Jenner’s back. Jenner twitched too.
When he done drain his dong, Buck slowly lifted his still-clothed body off the mohawked man’s bareness. Buck raised up till his cock plopped out. Jenner lay like he wanna crawl away, but when Buck got off him, Jenner plopped and sprawled out his lanky limbs in the puddle of Buck’s jizz. He lay there like a sleepy earwig.
“You best run, hoss,” Buck said. “Or I’mma redd up mah dick wit’cha tongue.”
“I’m outta here, you better not spray anything before I leave! You’re a fuckin’ fascist asshole piece of shit moron!” Jenner spat into the ground as he struggled to his feet. “You talk like a retard!”

Buck the Dumbass: Chapter 5

Buck got outta the Jag, which he done park in a lawny neighborhood with bunchesa young homeboys riding round on bicycles. He snorted and rubbed his nose, then opened the door fer Mistah Gregarian in the backseat. Mistah Gregarian took it that Buck delayed opening the door cuz he forgot, whereas in fact Buck remembered, he admired to keep eye upon them homeboys. Security was his job, after all.
But Mistah Gregarian sucked on his teeth when he got outta the Jag, and he said, “Can’t you remember anything, you ape?”
All Buck said was, “Sawry, suh.” Seemed easier to go ‘long with it. If’n Buck said anythang about homeboys or tried to pronounce s’cuh’ty, Mistah Gregarian’d have words to say.

He followed Mistah Gregarian o’er on up to the run-down house. Buck hadta step ’round a bucket of children’s toys and generic-brand cabbage-patch dolls that musta sat there fer a coon’s age, judging from the moss growing upon ’em. The paint on the house was fading.

The man hisself opened the door — James Macklevan was his name. He was sump’in called a “pullman-ologist”. It seemed to be a doctor, but Macklevan ain’t got no money. So’s maybe he was like a charity doctor or some shit, or maybe Macklevan weren’t very good at it.
“Mr. Gregarian! I was going to call you,” Macklevan said.
“Hmm-hmm.” Mistah Gregarian waited, then motioned fer Buck to go in as though Buck shoulda knewed that. Buck walked past him and barreled into the house.
“Please, wait-“
But Buck knocked him out with a fist to the side of the head-noggin. Macklevan crumpled to the ground like a snotty tissue.
“Goddamnit, Buck,” Mistah Gregarian said with a sigh. He checked Macklevan. “He’s unconscious!”
“Oh. Sawry, suh,” Buck said. “I thought I was sposedta heeit ‘im.”
“You were!” Mistah Gregarian said.
“Sawry.” Buck looked down at his feet. “H’ain’t mean to heeit him that hard.” Mistah Gregarian scowled. T’was unfair — Mistah Gregarian thought Buck oughta know what he wanted without saying so. That’s how it worked in the movies. The boss clucks his tongue or sump’in, and his lackeys know whether that means ‘kill this dude’ or ‘close the door’ or ‘punch him hard enough to hurt but not knock him out’ or whatever.
Outside the movies though, Buck got no way of knowing what Mistah Gregarian wanted unless’n Mistah Gregarian say so. T’ain’t classy to give direct orders.
How does the mafia do it? Buck don’t know — as a general rule, Buck don’t know thangs — and Mistah Gregarian was too small-potatoes to find out.
With a light slap upon his face, Macklevan roused. He stumbled to his feet. He was only unconscious fer a minute. Not really a big deal, Buck thought, not that Mistah Gregarian would treat it that way.
“You owe me money, Dr. Macklevan,” Mistah Gregarian said. He had to repeat it a couple times. Finally Macklevan nodded his understanding.
“I… I do,” Macklevan said. “I owe you money. I’ll pay, I really will. I’ve got a divorce lawyer, you see. It’s expensive. I-“
“So you’re paying your lawyer and not me? Is he more important than me?”
“Well, well, Mr. Gregarian, it’s complicated. If he can get my payments down, I’ll have more money to pay you,” Macklevan said. “Almost all my income goes to my wife right now.”
“You got anything you can sell?” Mistah Gregarian said. He motioned fer Buck to do sump’in — Buck woulda assumpted that meant ‘punch him again’, but he done got that wrong once, and he ain’t wanna do it again. Mistah Gregarian turned to him and scowled. “Go look for stuff to sell.”

“Yessuh,” Buck said. He went off to the kitchen first. Mistah Gregarian musta forgot Buck done scour this house fer pawnable items couple months back. Buck weren’t gonna point that out though, or Mistah Gregarian’d snap at him.
He ain’t find nuttin’. Last time they was here, he even took the icebox. Macklevan done found or maybe bought a mini-fridge, but Buck figgered t’weren’t worth much. He ate a cooked sausage outta it though, real quick so’s Mistah Gregarian wouldn’t see. He ain’t like Buck eating during missions, or even ‘tween missions.

When he came back to the front hall, Mistah Gregarian scowled in Buck’s direction. “Where have you been?”
“Lookin’ fer shit to sell,” Buck said. “He got nuttin’ in the kitchen.”
Mistah Gregarian shook his head like he was ashamed. He shoved Macklevan ‘gainst the wall. “Do it, Buck.”
Again, Buck hesitated. He ain’t know what it was. He got the notion Mistah Gregarian been threatening the doctor, but Buck ain’t know what the threat was. Mistah Gregarian done aim Macklevan at the wall, so’s t’ain’t seem like hitting him was the goal. Buck raised his eyebrows at Mistah Gregarian.
“Ramrod him, Buck,” Mistah Gregarian said with a vituperative slit to his eyelids.
That made Buck frown. He admired not to get a reputation as a booty bandit. As a man who done went to prison, which e’erybody knewed, and a man who done bandit buncha booties behind bars, which lotta fellers knewed, Buck was sensitive to a reputation. He done told Mistah Gregarian b’fore not to plan on him cornholing men to get ’em to pay back they debt.
Fer one thang, it don’t work. Don’t nobody keep money up they butthole.
At least there wasn’t no witnesses this time, and Buck done got on Mistah Gregarian’s bad side, so’n he ain’t complain. But he side-eyed Mistah Gregarian as he grabbed Macklevan by the pants, and the doctor’s cloudy eyes ain’t realize what was happening. Macklevan squirmed and squealed. He got no clear words to say though, he just looked at Buck like a lost puppy.
He pulled Macklevan’s sweatpants down and bared his ass. He squeezed Macklevan’s cheeks. They was plump, strong fer a middle-aged doctor — maybe pullman-ologists was like… the gym teachers of medical school, Buck thought. Or maybe he been living rough since he was on the feud with wifey.
In a’ry case, Buck lowered his own workpants just enough to get his dick out, and he thwacked it upon Macklevan’s buttcheeks. They rippled, and Buck chuckled. He stroked hisself hard. Macklevan weren’t even trying-a run away.
Do doctors know ’bout cornholing? Prison doctors do. But prisons don’t got pullmanologists. Macklevan grunted and stayed stoic like he thought the punishment was getting thwacked on the buttcheek by a hillbilly dingdong. That was just Buck getting hard. So maybe doctors don’t know about cornholing, or at least pullmanologists don’t.
Regardless-like, Buck rammed his hardon into Macklevan’s butthole. Macklevan cramped and cried out, cringing and whinging. “Hey, hey…! Hey, shit, what’re you doin’?!”
“Shuddup,” Buck murmured. He rammed a li’l harder. His cock slipped into Macklevan’s ass, and Macklevan’s eyes bugged out.
He was intact, so’n Buck hit resistance right away. Mistah Gregarian done left the room — he don’t wanna watch — and he ain’t see Buck struggling to get his dick in b’fore’n he lost his hardon. Macklevan’s booty was too tight, and Buck got no lube but his own spit, plus he was too tall, so’s he gotta bend his knees.
And Macklevan be making all these pained noises and panting and wordless begging, all of which Mistah Gregarian could prolly hear. Buck kinda wanna stop, as he weren’t ‘specially horny. Macklevan even done took all the photo-pitchers off the wall, so’s Buck got no females to look at it. The rectangles of faded paint showed where’n they usedta be.
“Ow, shit, c’mon, c’mon, Buck, c’mon…” Macklevan panted. Despite not wanting to go thru with it, Buck weren’t gonna stop. He got a hardon. A man gotta blow a nut, or the stuffed-up juices in his balls gonna get him in trouble.
And with a l’il spit, Buck got his shaft working back and forth in Macklevan’s grippy butthole.
T’ain’t feel good. It felt fine, Buck could get thru it, but this ain’t like t’was in prison. Ramrodding don’t feel the same out in the real world. He wouldn’t ne’er-a did it if’n Mistah Gregarian ain’t tell him he had to. Coulda drug it out fer hours too — Buck gotta close his eyes and concentrate to blow a nut. He was going back and forth fer a couple minutes b’fore’n he realized he gotta work at finishing up. By then, Macklevan was wincing, weak-kneed, panting and clawing at the wall of his own unkempt house.
Buck closed his eyes and remembered the last time he was with a beautiful woman, one the waitresses who spread her legs fer him couple nights ago. That got his manhood throbbing, and it got him pumping his hips powerful enough to make Macklevan cry out again and again. Buck’s neck and face ruddened, and his cheeks grew taut. The vein upon his forehead throbbed.
It took all his concentration to send him o’er the edge. Then, like a dam was burst, he let out a long moan and thrust his meat deep into Macklevan’s guts.
“Ow, fuuuuuuuuuuck-“
“Goddamn, doc…” Buck’s voice broke and his knees buckled, but he stayed upright and slamming. A massive flow of jizz spurted outta his cock and spread thru Macklevan’s guts. A long wave of it kept on coming. The fact that Buck hadta work at it meant he shot a big load, big even fer Buck, who’s muscles all tensed up like it took e’ery ounce of strength he got to shoot his jizz. “Daaaamn…”

He filled his ass with cum, a great creamy wave that flowed thru Macklevan’s body. He grunted, and Buck did too. Another spurt of jizz seeped into Macklevan’s ass. Finally, Macklevan sensed Buck was done, and he winced. He wriggled, only fer the motion to make the pain worse.

He stayed still, letting Buck grind his sensitive cock in the soup of Macklevan’s booty. Spasms of pain ran up Macklevan’s spine, while Buck shuddered with spasms of pleasure.
Now that he’d done it, Buck was glad Mistah Gregarian made him do it. He’d needed that. But he was still gonna hafta remind Mistah Gregarian that he wasn’t a booty bandit.
“Ewwh, uhcckk-” Macklevan grunted. He wriggled the best he could in Buck’s grip.
“You bettuh pay ya debt,” Buck said as his cock slipped out to dangle ‘tween the good doctor’s cheeks. “Or Mistah Gregarian gonna make me do that again.”
Macklevan darted away. Cum dribbled down his legs. He sneered at Buck. “That was gross,” He winced, wiping cum off his thighs. “And unsanitary. You’re a barbarian.”
Buck shrugged. “I is what I is, mothahfuckah, and you is a deadbeat.”

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Two

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

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

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

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Three

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

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

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

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Five

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

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

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

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter Six