riding a motorcycle – Mansploitation

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter10

The White Trash Veteran

Goddamn do kids grow up fast! It felt like just yesterday Buck was a boy scared of his own daddy.
When Goose got back to Martinsburg in the winter of 1988, Buck done shot up another full foot in height. He was almost as tall as Goose now. He was strong — skinny, cuz he got so tall so fast, but strong as a ox. He got sweet on this blonde cutie-patootie Lucy. He do swan his love for her oftensome, fooling up his face every time he calls on her, acting like he invented falling moon over mug in love. He got intentions, he do, he do declare ’em on the daily, can’t hardly get him to talk about anything else. She smittened him, that’s what happened, that boy got straight-up smit!
Still don’t do school right though. He got a smart mouth with his teachers, and he failing all his classes. The principal Mister Jones admiredta expel him. T’was why Goose swapped noses with Mister Jones one sunny Saturday. Goose sat across from him at his desk, stacks of forms afront his snooty face. The color of Mister Jones’s tie was the same tan-brown color of the Vietcong’s uniforms, and as Mister Jones be a lecturing larry, Goose lost hisself in that color.
The Vietcong’s tan-brown uniforms strode along past the cage, whose bamboo bars put blisters upon Goose’s grip. Blood coated his hands — from his back, prolly, where they did whip him this morning — but all Goose saw with his hungry eyes was the cooking fire outside the prisoner of war camp and the plume of smoke rising into the inky blue beyond. One the Vietnameys was doling steam-curling soup into bowls for the other gooks.
“Your boy isn’t really academic material,” Mister Jones said, his voice a soundtrack for the soup being ladled out. “Everybody’s mind works differently, and Buck’s does not have the aptitude for education in math and literature-“
“What’s that mean?” Goose snapped more aggressively than he meant to. Mister Jones sniffled like he was snickety about that and put out a calmish murmur. But it was hard to concentrate on Mister Jones cuzza Goose seeing his hillbilly ass dodging the sharpened sticks the gooks poked in between the bars when they walked past. The sticks was cloyed at the tips with clots and scabs, and those who was stabbed usually got infected.
“He’d be better off learning a trade, I think. There are programs for…” Mister Jones said, his chair squeaking as he rolled back in it. “Are you… okay, Mister Sampson? I’m coming to you out of a sincere desire to find Buck a way forward.” He paused again. “You seem upset.” Sounded like he wrinkled his nose.
The gooks pissed in the cages too, a couple of ’em did, aiming they pinkie-winkies in and letting loose with cloudy streams of piss. Goose don’t feel nothing no more, not the cramped cage around him, not the chair in Mister Jones’s office underneath his ass, not the roiling pit of hunger in his belly or the boiling rage churning everhotly inside him.
“He ain’t learnin’ nuttin’!” Goose bellowed, his cheeks burning as tears streamed down. “You shitheads ain’t helpin’! You j’st givin’ up on helpin’ him!” He rattled the chair he could barely contain himself within. He rocked back and forth, so he’d feel the chair moving. His vision rocked too, the bamboo cage shaking around him. Goose grimaced, clenching his teeth till they hurt. He gotsta do his fatherly duty and keep Buck in school, but all he could think about was dodging them poopy sticks. He growled and roared, but it prolly sounded like a choked sob from a failed father to Mister Jones’s ears. Goose gripped the arms of the chair so hard liketa rip ’em off the frame.
“Sir, Mister Sampson, please calm down. You’ll have to leave if you can’t behave.” Mister Jones cleared his throat. “As I’m sure you’re aware, Buck doesn’t study or do homework-“
“Ain’t’choo got teachuhs? You’s sposedta be teachin’ him! You and the dumb-fuck parade he’uh is ‘bandonin’ mah boy!” Goose shrieked, spittle flecking his lips. He wagged his finger in the direction Mister Jones was, and since he ain’t see it, only felt it, it wagged with such energy it hurt, like he damn near wagged it outta its joint. Harley was in the cage next to Goose, praying and wasting away to nothing, to skin and bones. Goose avoided looking down less he reckon he was just as skinny.
“You can’t speak to me like that, you hillbilly! No wonder Buck struggles in school! How often do you read to him?” Mister Jones’s chair creaked under him, sounded like he was standing up now, leaning over the desk or maybe leaning away from it.
“Whatchoo sayin’ about me?! Huh? What’d you bring me here fo’?! You out he’uh accusin’ me-“
“I wanted to explain the scale of the problem, Mister Sampson! Buck won’t sit still. He disrupts class for the other students,” Mister Jones said. “He hit on Missus Gable! Grabbed her breast! The left one!”
Goose let out a growl. “Tha’ss natural-“
“You need to teach him to respect women!” Mister Jones. “And Buck picked a fight with another boy this week. Ryan Darling. Because Ryan called him a retard-“
“Then Ryan picked the fight!” Goose said.
Mister Jones cleared his throat. “Buck has had his chance, he… Mister Sampson? You seem upset.”
“Damn right I’s upset! You — You! I don’t gotta listen to this! You is runnin’ down mah boy, I ain’t a no-good deadbeat, don’chu think that-“
“Maybe we should do this when you’ve calmed down. I don’t think you’re a deadbeat, Mister Sampson, I’m sure… I didn’t set up this meeting to insult-“
“You can’t tell me nuttin’! You dunno, you dunno!” Goose roared, simmering yet as he stood and felt his way outta the office, just enough sense in his mind to stumble his way for the door. He admiredta punch Mister Jones out. When he got outta the principal’s office, he was — blessedly — in the school lobby.
He was in West Virginia, not ‘Nam.
But he maybe knocked over some chair or something, it mighta looked deliberate. He hurried away before he threw a punch and before he saw Mister Jones’s tie again.
Mister Jones followed him. First, he loosened, then took off the tie in his office — he thinked Goose was raising a ruckus on his way out the building — which Goose did do, he was right — Mister Jones removed the tie in anticipation of a donnybrook.
But no donny was brooked. When they got outside into the brilliant West Virginia sunshine, Goose reckoned that Mister Jones was tieless, and the fight mercifully drained outta him. He stopped beside the bike he rode over here.
“Nice motorcycle,” Mister Jones said. His voice wavered, ready for a fist and skull he don’t want. He let out a whistle that was no doubt meant to be appreciative but came across as plaintive.
Goose grunted. The whole world was rushing by, like time was catching up. He grimaced and let the wind run through his hair. That ain’t happen in Vietnam cuz his hair was short. Malnourishment meant it was dry and frizzled when he got outta there. Took months to come in normal.
After a minute or two of recompositioning hisself, Goose reckoned Mister Jones was serious about liking the motorcycle. He was looking at it like he always wanted one. Prolly got a wife who don’t like motorcycles. Women mostly don’t, in Goose’s experience.
“You want a ride?” Goose asked. He figgered Mister Jones wouldn’t want to ride in the bitch seat — behind Goose — but his eyes lit up.
“Hell yeah! Really?…” Mister Jones hesitated. “Are you okay, Mister Sampson? You seemed… upset in there-“
“I’m fine. Get on the bike. I need a ride, and maybe you do too,” Goose said.
With a shrug, Mister Jones got on the bike behind Goose, and they drove off.
That was good. Goose was ornery yet, but on the motorcycle, he wouldn’t hafta hear Mister Jones’s galding voice talk shit about Buck. By the time he stopped at the Gray Snakes bar, a lotta his anger done drain outta him.
“What is this place?” Mister Jones asked when Goose flipped the engine off. They both dismounted the motorcycle.
“Just a bar. Want a drink? I’ll buy,” Goose said with a shrug. He went in without waiting for a response.
Mister Jones followed him. Goose ain’t explain this was a Gray Snakes bar. He did a gig for ’em hauling untaxed liquor around. The nice thing about the Gray Snakes was that they provided females for they bikers in good standing. Not trashy whores too smacked out to complain neither, they had nice girls, who loved getting fucked by biker dick.
Brotherhood is unity of purpose, and Goose felt the Gray Snakes was a purpose, him and Buck as a family were a purpose. A man needs a purpose. That was Buck’s problem at school, Goose was now sure. Too many women, not enough purpose. Buck has gotta earn his manhood, and that’s not a schoolmarm’s domain.
Before the night was through, Goose got Mister Jones laid. She was the prettymost lady in the club tonight, blonde and buxom and big in the ass. She took Mister Jones’s dick all night long. Goose had his own lady in the same bed, but he ain’t let it turn into an orgy — Mister Jones would feel inadequate if he saw Goose’s cock, and he want him feeling good.
Anyway, it worked, and Buck got a second chance to stick around in school. Maybe Mister Jones was thankful for the beer and the poontang or maybe he was scared Goose would blow his head off. Results is results.
That felt good, and it reminded Goose he did get outta that bamboo cage alive. He barely remembered that whole parta it. The Army doc said he might never remember cuzza malnourishment — he was so hungry his brain ain’t form memories right.
It ain’t feel proper when he was rescued, like he weren’t really outta there, not until he found hisself in Cuba. Him and Harley done hitch a ride on a series of Navy ships heading home. Maybe t’was a good thing it took awhile. It gave ’em time to gain weight again and to realize they wasn’t captives no more.
For a whole week, they was stuck in Guantanamo Bay, an island off the coast of Cuba. They was so close to home, yet they still hadta wait a week to get a ship. Clarkson met them there. He was another Army soldier waiting for a ride home. He been in Guantanamo for a couple months, cuz he was recovering from a injury.
“You guys wanna see somethin’ great?” he axed of one night. Goose and Harley was sitting around smoking cigarettes in the moonlight and listening mournful-like to joyous calypsos when Clarkson approached ’em. T’was past lights-out, but that kinda thang weren’t enforced on Guantanamo.
The only thang to talk about was boredom, aside from all the bloodshed and horror and corpses and getting thrown in a tiger cage and poked with a shit-covered stick — aside from all that, the only thing Goose and Harley been talking about was being bored. Goddamn was it nice to be bored!
Goose and Harley and Clarkson all walked different paths to get here, but they surpassed the same barriers, and that felt right. Goose dunno at the time what civilian life was gonna be like. He ain’t barely recollect what life was like before the Army, before Vietnam, before Masterson and Berringer and the rest got killed. Sam.
Ain’t none of Goose’s problems done start yet. Life was calm in the after war. If only it could last forever and then real life could start. Goose saw dams arising ahead, blocking the river, but for now he was content to float upon the lazy lake of brotherhood.
When Clarkson offered to show Goose and Harley something interesting, they immediately snubbed out they cigarettes and agreed.
Clarkson led ’em to the other side of the base, the side of Guatanamo Bay that was closest to the Cuban mainland, which Goose could see across the water. There was a tiny pier there, just big enough for rowboats. That was how that the Cuban workers came across to clean and serve food and that kinda thing.
There was a derelict building here too. Maybe a disused office. Maybe this pier usedta be bigger. Coulda been a proper fishing village on the island a long time ago.
Clarkson led Goose and Harley to that building, from which emerged a pair of guilty-smile soldiers. They stopped short as they left cuz they saw Clarkson, Goose and Harley. Them’all gave awkward little nods and went on they way. Goose went into the building.
There stood a burly Cuban man in a linen shirt, who looked disinterested as he took twelve dollars from Clarkson. Behind him was a long curtain that stretched from one side of the building to the other.
The curtain got five holes in it at varying heights. Clarkson walked right up to one them holes, a big shit-eating grin on his face, and he unzipped his camos. He flopped his pecker into the hole, then he turned to look at Goose and Harley. “Go on, I paid for you two, only cost four bucks each. You can pay extra if you wanna piss in the hole.”
“Who…-“
“Aaah, shit, hell yeah!” Harley stepped right up and put his dick in one of the holes.
Feeling more cautious though, Goose ain’t do the same — he weren’t the ram-his-pecker-into-a-hole-in-order-to-find-out-what-was-on-the-other-side kinda guy. That was a very distinct breed of man, and Goose weren’t one of ’em! Instead, Goose bent over and peered through one of the holes.
It was too dark to see anything on the other side, but he sensed movement over there.
“It’s… a machine? What’s on the other side?” Goose asked. “It’s not a woman, right?”
As though the answer had oughta been obvious, Clarkson scoffed, while Harley whooped like a crane and plowed at his hole with enthusiasm. His balls thwapped against the curtain — he got massive balls considering his dingus was dinky. Harley said, “It’s a man, retard. I’ve heard of these, it’s a gloryhole. It’s probably like a rapist from the prison on the mainland.” He gripped the flat curtain the best he could, so he could pound his pecker in there..
Clarkson said something in Spanish to the linen-clad bouncer behind him, who responded likewise. Then Clarkson said in English, “Yeah, he said the guy raped like thirty women.”
“Which guy? There’s five holes,” Goose asked.
Looking at Goose like he was an idiot, Clarkson said, “I guess there’s five rapists, I dunno.”
Harley was already blowing his wad, cuz he was like that. He ain’t hide it neither. He was throwing his head back and moaning like a cowboy. Clarkson rammed at the mouth on the other side of his hole pretty dang hard too, his face tensing up as he neared his orgasm.
Though Goose weren’t horny, he was bored, and he don’t wanna look like wussy willie. He’d rather come back and do this in the middle of the night alone. That’d be better. But they prolly go back to the mainland eventually.
In any case, Goose stuck his dick through the hole. A very awkward warmth overwhelmed him. The man on the other side musta gagged or something, cuz a lotta moisture came running down Goose’s shaft, soaking his pubes.
Or maybe he just used alotta spit. That was nice, it felt good, so long as Goose ain’t think too much about what he was doing. He closed his eyes and pictured women — not Vietnameys, he pictured white women or black women or Indian women, he don’t care, just nothing Vietnamey, not ever.
A potent orgasm wracked his body — he dunno how long it took, Goose was so focused on not picturing no Vietnamey female that he barely noticed hisself getting close. Cum exploded through the gloryhole and soaked the curtain. Goose’s knees buckled, it felt so good yet almost painful. Harley and Clarkson stood behind him and laughed.
“Shit, can’t believe that only cost four bucks,” Goose said, shivers of pleasure still rocking him. His cock slid out the gloryhole. The man on the other side musta stopped slurping the moment he tasted cum, which was kinda disappointing. Mosta Goose’s jizz spurted off into the air.
Yet, for four bucks, Goose couldn’t complain too much.
By the time he done tuck his dick away, Harley was paying the Cuban in the linen shirt to piss in the hole. It was kinda funny, Goose hadta admit that. But they ain’t get to see the man getting pissed on, and there weren’t even no guarantee he was getting pissed on — he coulda moved away. Harley said he could tell he was pissing into a open mouth, but his dick weren’t in that mouth at the time.
They debated all the particulars of that the whole way back. Harley was insistent he pissed on a Cuban rapist, Goose was less sure. Clarkson sided with Harley.
By the time they got back to they bunks, the conversation done drift to the relative merits of blowjobs from different kinds of whores. They all done make acquaintanceships with some in the before-time, before the war. They compared notes on pre-war prostitutes. They all most likely fucked Vietnamey prostitutes too. But nobody talked about that.
The word ‘Vietnam’ wasn’t said one time, and that felt right as rum to Goose.

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 4

The White Trash Veteran

Goose’s hair flowed free as a wave. He was plopping pretty atop his motorcycle, with li’l Buck clinging on behind him. The sun exploded into a horizon of oranges and yellows, as the motorcycle ate up asphalt and spat out sky. The engine was too loud to talk, but Goose heared Buck’s smile in his fingers clutching Goose’s torso. For now leastways, the both them done fling they worriment behind them — like that song says, let a worse-off man pick up that fig skin, for it is true, there always do be someone suffering more than you. They rode like cowboys, and both was content in that ever-lasting moment.
They made it on through to the campground just as the sun was setting, and they raced to get the tent up before it was dark. They ain’t quite make it, so they gotsta use flashlights to get they sleeping bags into the tent. Then they had just enough time to roast some weiners over an open fire. Buck be grinning like a puppy the whole time.
Goose got pockets fulla cash, greenbacks a-plenty, enough to buy that motorcyle. He been feeling centered enough to come back down to Martinsburg for a visit. Not to live. He could have a crash anytime, could get the bogey-logies, couldn’t let Buck see him how he was.
It was him and Buck’s first trip together. Buck was living with a foster family who owned a turnip farm. He said they worked him hard. He was strong as bourbon cuz the farmwork stretched him tall for his age. Goose beamed proud. Struggle do strengthen a boy, and Buck gots long expectations to fulfill.
The smell of roasting weiners lingered in Goose’s nose as him and Buck finished they supper. When the scent of meat done diminute enough, it was replaced by the bitter and intense aroma of burning wood.
But not just any burning wood. The scent was green wood. Some other family at some other campsite done light a fire with it. Prolly cuz they don’t know no better. Some people is damn fools.
In Vietnam, all wood is wet. Everything is wet in Vietnam. Ain’t nothing there burn without a cloud of steam. Whole damn country is steamy as kisses from a fat lady. But Vietnam don’t got no fat ladies, so how’d that happen?!
The burning green wood launched a catalogue of smells at Goose.
First, the acrid scent of gunpowder filled his nose. That was followed by a burst of coppery blood with the spicy aroma of a Vietnamey feller’s body odor. The gunpowder smell mixed with the burning green wood of the campfire Goose’s squad done cook they supper on. Harley did the cooking of that night.
Harley’s sweat smelled stinkhoggen and pounding in Goose’s nostrils, strong with the rhythm of his fluttery heart. The scent of Harley’s gun was potent too, bitter steel, clammy and reeking of unwashed flesh, which stuck to it cuz he only held it when afreared enough to sweat. For some reason, the gunpowder aroma of Goose’s own gun ain’t hit his nose hard — like his own armpits, he couldn’t smell the stink of it. He could damn well smell Harley’s though. Harley musta sweated through his shirt again, and Goose could smell the rankness of the Vietnameys surrounding him too. Burning plastic and skanky rodent fur filled out Goose’s nostrils.
Goose’s nose stayed stuck in Vietnam, but his eyes trained like snipers on Buck in the darkened here and the shadowy now.
Goose wanna take a shower. Maybe, he thought, that’d reset his nose. But Buck was too tired for a shower, and anyway the shower situation was a problem — there was a showerhouse for adult men and one for women and families. Goose couldn’t take Buck into that showerhouse, nor the other one. The campground people never figgered there might could be a shirt-tail boy with an adult man and no females.
No matter, they was only gonna be here till Sunday morning. Ain’t nothing wrong with a boy skipping a shower.
The Vietnameys used old dirty rope that smelled like a stack of cardboard boxes rotting in the rain. That was how they tied up they prisoners of war. They stinking bodies and breath assaulted Goose’s nose. They ate spices, the Vietnameys did, bunchesa spices, and Goose smelled it on them. The Vietcong uniform had a characteristic smell too, an unclean-laundry gookiness, and it either growed stronger as the war dillydallied onward or Goose’s nose got accustomed to seeking it out more the longer he was kept captive.
The muddy bootprints the Vietnameys left afronta Goose and Harley got the odor of rotting drawers. The smell of American tears was salty-strong, or maybe that was Vietnameys’s tears, cuz somea they own kept getting they bits blown up in a copper-scented mist. Goose preferred to only smell the American tears though.
Goose had gotta shower tonight. He was gonna be funky as a black boy if he ain’t redd up. He ain’t smell it, either cuz he couldn’t smell his own funk or cuz his nose was back in Vietnam, but he knewed he needed a shower.
When Buck was sleepy-deeping, his belly fulla sausages and cookies, Goose left him in the tent. He strolled over into the showerhouse wearing his boxers and carrying with him his ditty bag. He ain’t wanna dawdle, so he hurried to rip them boxers off.
He took a sniff of his bar of soap, which smelled clean and medicinal, and that at last brung his nose outta Vietnam. That was good. He got no desire to smell the prisoner of war camp. They ain’t got toilets, just a bucket to share.
When Goose went into the shower proper he seed a pinkthumb numbnut, less than middle-aged but he got a old soul, you could tell. Goose knewed the type. He stood there like a dotless question mark when Goose walked in, then he blistered like he got a vendetta against Goose.
A discourteous nod passed between ’em. The man still was curling his lip at Goose though, and Goose stood past him. He was foul cuz he was, till moments ago, deep in the first worst day of his life.
The rumpety milkweed man rinsed shampoo outta his hair. When his face was clear, Goose catched sight of his face and reckonized him as this feller who done give him a dirty look before, when Goose came riding in. Goose wondered if he knewed somehow Goose was a ex-con.
Was he a prison guard? He don’t look familiar.
“You got a pro’lem?” Goose stood there in the shower-spray, letting it run down his body. He set his ditty bag on the floor outsidea the water, but he ain’t get his soap or shampoo or nothing outta there. He done learnt in prison to never bend over in the shower when there’s bad blood in the air. Clear the air first.
Or better yet, just don’t bend over.
“This is a nice campground,” said the man, looking quakey like he admiredta walk off. “We don’t want bikers here. It’s for families.”
Now Goose weren’t really a proper biker, not like a Hell’s Angel or nothing like that. He was just a motorcyclist at that time. But the pinkthumb was pissing him off, and Goose don’t wanna explain the particulars of biker gangs and motorcycle clubs. Goose scowled. “I ain’t a biker, I j’st rides me a motorcycle, yes I do. T’ain’t none’ya business. In ar’y case, I’s he’uh wit’ mah son. We a family. You a slim slice of tuhkey, sissy.”
The man frowned. “What? You talk like a hillbilly.”
“You is in West Virginney, yankee.”
“I’m from Iowa!” He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t want a fight-” He ignored Goose scoffing. “I just wanted to make sure you’re not, you know, like… a bootlegger.”
“A bootlegger?!” Goose guffawed. “You in West Virginney, hoss, not the past.”
“Well, I don’t know, any of the… crime, or the drugs, or the gun-running, I don’t know what bikers do,” the man said.
“I ain’t a biker!” Goose shouted.
“That wasn’t a station wagon you rode in on!” The man shouted with such vitupery he dropped his soap. Then he turned around to pick it up off the ground from the river of shower water that ran on down to the drain.
With a cackling laugh, Goose darted from one showerhead to the other and rammed at his ass. His dick was soft, so all he did was wipe it up through the man’s buttcrack, which was moist and hot and sudsy.
The man yelped and stood up. He looked put upon and also shocked by the size of Goose’s cock. Apparently he ain’t look down till this very moment.
Goose got no plan on doing more than that, but the sensation of the man’s asscrack rubbing on his dick reminded him of dirty nights in prison. Goose be plussing. The dowdy pinkthumb in the showerhouse was putting out forlorn, like he ain’t never heared of cornholing. Most likely the case. He don’t look like a ex-con, he ain’t a Navy man for sure and he don’t seem like he spend time with black fellers.
“Get off me, what… what was that? You’re disgusting. Did you just try to…” He dropped to a whisper. “… pee in my butt?”
That made Goose guffaw like a goose. “What the fuck? T’ain’t a thang, hoss. Don’t nobody pee in no butt.” Goose got his pecker in his hand, stroking it hard and wondering if it was possible to pee inside somebody’s butt. Never occurred to him. You’d hafta be hard when you stick it in, then after you cum, leave it in.
Would it spill? Seemed chancy to keep it from spilling.
Goose don’t wanna try it, but he’d like to see a colored boy do it. They can do all kinda things with they peckers. They could prolly figger it out.
Anyway, as Goose pondered that notion, he got his wingwang hard, and the man either ain’t notice or ain’t pick up what Goose was putting down. He was done with his shower even, but he don’t leave. Foolish hawkeye! Naive as a ear of corn!
“Do you go to church?” the man asked.
“Sh’ore do,” Goose said. But before the man could ask any more of his rumpety questions, Goose grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him face first into the grimy wall of the showerhouse.
“Ow!” That knocked his bar of soap outta his hand once more.
The man ain’t acknowledge Goose’s hardon. He prolly come from a world of class, where men don’t have hardons in showers and where it’s okay to bend over afronta man with a pecker. Sounds like a nice world. Guess he was still on the pee-in-the-butt thing and assumpted Goose’s hardon would stop him from doing it again.
When the man was bent over, his ass high in the air, Goose went for it — he rammed hard into the pinkthumb’s pink behind, gripping them asscheeks to keep him in position.
“Oooooowwww!” the man yelped. Only the tippa Goose’s dick went in, but that was enough to make the hawkeye bug out and wriggle. Goose slapped his ass like a rodeo cowboy.
“Yee-haw, mothahfuckah!” Goose called out. The man’s knees buckled in pain, and Goose rode him to the nasty shower floor, sinking his heft atop the poor sucker.
Goose forced it in deeper, a thrill of pleasure rocking up his body. He do love breaking down a intact man’s intactness. He gotsta struggle to force every inch in, but the struggle made it feel good.
He rammed back and forth as the man howled in pain. Goose used all his body weight to slam down on the man’s backside, forcing his dick in and intense pleasure out. He moaned into the man’s ear and made him lick the shower drain, just cuz it got him gagging, which made his booty tighten up in agony all over again.
A burst of cum shot up the man’s guts. Goose spurted out a huge long flow of it, and Goose got the impression the dumbass man only now realized what that huge hot thang was in his asshole. He sobbed onto the shower floor.
A grunt came outta Goose with each thrust of his body and was accompanied by a jerk of pain from the pinkthumb. Goose shot a huge wad that coated his guts, then he slowly let the sissy-shithead clench his ass and force Goose’s cock out, inch by veiny inch.
“Don’chu talk to me again, pansy. Walk off, and walk off good,” Goose said with a chuckle as he rinsed his pecker off in the shower water. He spat on the man’s bawling face and walked out of the showerhouse, towel in hand. He didn’t even dry off until he was out in the moonlit night.
That felt good, and Goose was gladsome to have got a nut off this weekend. This would be his only chance, since he was gonna be with Buck the whole time. He don’t get a lotta time with his son, so he wanna make the mosta it, and he don’t need no hardon slowing him down.
And maybe, he thought, it would keep the pesky past at bay.