scenes featuring frotting – Mansploitation

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 One: Ann Arbor, 1999

Chapter Two: Peremptory Manhood

Chapter Three: Statistics 101

Chapter Four: Systems of Oppression

Chapter Five: Lung Stuff

The Scarred Bouncer: Chapter One

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

Chapter Eleven: A Sweet Release

It was a quiet night at Lipsweet, but Teddy was terrified. That was because the peace was kept by the bouncer Knuckle, and Knuckle was terrifying.
Teddy worked the bar at Lipsweet, a rough-edged strip club on the outskirts of Martinsburg, West Virginia. Knuckle was the bouncer there. Like all the bouncers at Lipsweet, Knuckle was big and strong and tough. Unlike the other bouncers at Lipsweet, Knuckle was also badly scarred, bizarre and scary. He was scary-looking enough that nobody tried anything while Knuckle was on duty. Nobody groped the dancers. Nobody tried to get free drinks. Nobody got loud or obnoxious. Nobody picked fights.
So it was a quiet night at Lipsweet.
It was hard to finger exactly what was scary about Knuckle. Part of it was obvious: his badly scarred face, with a thick cheek scar that gave him a permanent sinister smile visible from one angle, a burn scar that spilled like lava from his shoulder to the side of his face, a long beheading-type scar on his neck, a cut running from his sideburn to his forehead as though an eye was almost sliced open and a constellation of pinprick scars and marks all over his bare arms when he wore a sleeveless shirt.
And aside from the scars, Knuckle glowered and stared with flatness, his face unreadable, his voice low and growling, without emotion, and a lot of what he said was just plain weird or incomprehensible. Nobody liked talking to him.
One benefit of Knuckle working was that folks always left promptly at closing time. The other bouncers had to drag the drunks and the sticky-peepers away from the dancing ladies. There were usually a couple brawls — not serious, as anyone left by then was too drunk to fight effectively, but most nights, somebody refused to leave.

Not when Knuckle worked the door. He gave one glowery look at the last couple drunks, and they hightailed it outta there. The bar was empty before Teddy even put the pre-sliced limes away.

After that, the dancers and waitresses left one by one. Knuckle escorted each of them to their cars in the parking lot. In between that, he sat silently at the bar and downed a drink Teddy poured for him, while Teddy added up the day’s receipts and shut the register down for the night.
He was always nervous on a Knuckle night, so Teddy was glad when Knuckle disappeared. Teddy finished with the receipts, totaled up the cash register and locked the booze cabinet. Then he poured himself a cheap drink of whiskey, soda water and the last of the apple juice — the only juice in an opened bottle besides cranberry juice, which Teddy didn’t drink this late because it would keep him up peeing. He was past the point in his life where he could drink cranberry juice late at night.
Before leaving though, Teddy went in the back to do a final check — to make sure the dancers were all gone, that none of them had been attacked by a “boyfriend” in their dressing room, that no drunks were passed out in the bathroom, etc.
Plus he was curious where Knuckle went. Lipsweet had a large back area, including dressing rooms, champagne rooms, a locker room and gym for the bouncers, a couple offices and storage spaces for the Gregarian family (who owned Lipsweet) and a locked warehouse that Teddy was pretty sure was full of guns. He didn’t ask about that door though.
“Hello? Knuckle?” Teddy called out before the flickering hall light turned on. The bathroom was deserted. The dressing room was empty — the dancers had left it a pigsty, with clothes and makeup detritus strewn about — Mr. Gregarian was gonna get het up about that if he saw it, Teddy thought.
But there were no signs of Knuckle. So Teddy ought to just go home. He was only supposed to check for drunks passed out by the toilets, and he’d done that. Now he could go home.
Yet the more he thought about it, the more Teddy wondered about Knuckle. Why was he so weird? Why did he act like that? Where did he go? Knuckle had come in after escorting Caitlin Smiles to her car — she’d called him an “ugly ape”, and Teddy distinctly remembered Knuckle coming back in after that; he’d finished his drink at the bar, and then he’d come into the back as though to escort another dancer to the parking lot. But Caitlin was last to leave, so there were no more dancers.
Knuckle was in the gym.
Teddy scampered to hide next to the door into the gym so Knuckle wouldn’t see him. He didn’t know why; Teddy was allowed to be here. Knuckle was just off-putting and odd, and Teddy’s first reaction was to avoid talking to him. Teddy stayed beside the doorway into the tiny gym.
Mystery solved, he thought. Knuckle was working out. That wasn’t so strange. Mr. Gregarian put the gym behind Lipsweet so the bouncers would use it. Knuckle was doing bicep curls. It was a little weird to work out at four o’clock in the morning, but that was hardly the weirdest thing about Knuckle.
The “gym” was a glorified closet with a couple weight machines and a treadmill in it, and he was on the bowflex in the center of the room. His big fleshy arms were sturdy, dotted with sweat. On his left bicep was that burn scar whose edges stretched up onto his neck and cheek, and since he had taken off his button-down shirt to reveal a raggedy wifebeater, Teddy could see now how big it was. He had been very badly burned at some point, it seemed.
There was a bandage on his side, near his back. It looked fresh — from tonight? — because it was still pale white and clean around the edges but soaked in crimson right above the wound. He must have struggled to put the bandage on, because it only partially covered the wound. Where it stretched onto his back, the bandage didn’t quite cover it. That made sense, because Knuckle was so muscular and thick-chested that he probably couldn’t reach that section of his lower back.
“The dancers is all gone,” Knuckle said. His voice was grim, flat, emotionless, like a deflated balloon, but scratchy like his lungs were made from sandpaper. It sounded painful for him to speak, and his voice made Teddy’s hair stand on end.
Why did he say that? Nobody else was in the room. It took Teddy a few seconds to realize Knuckle said that to him. Knuckle knew he was there.
“The dancers is all gone,” Knuckle said again with stopping his bicep curls. “I made sure they left okay.”
Teddy went into the gym-room then, since apparently hiding hadn’t worked. Teddy was just a bartender — he wasn’t in charge of ensuring Knuckle escorted the dancers to their cars, boyfriends or johns, but Knuckle had said that as though proving to Teddy he had done his job. It wasn’t even Knuckle’s job — Mr. Gregarian never said the bouncers had to do it. The other bouncers generally only did it if the girls said they were worried about a stalker. Teddy said, “Oh. Okay. Cool. Thanks, Knuckle. I just wanted to make sure no one was in the backrooms. I gotta lock up.”
“Yes.” Knuckle kept doing bicep curls. The bandage came unstuck from his bare side, which was slick with sweat. He didn’t seem to clock it. The bandage dangled from his muscular back.
What on earth did “yes” mean? Teddy hadn’t asked a question. See, this is why, Knuckle, everyone thinks you’re creepy. Teddy couldn’t tear his eyes away from the thick scar bisecting his neck. Did Knuckle survive getting his throat slit?
“I, uh… Okay. You have your key, right? So you can leave-“
“Yes.”
There was a long pause. Teddy normally liked the bouncers and their muscles. He often rubbed their shoulders when they were done with their shift.
But not Knuckle.
Not that Knuckle didn’t have nice muscles. Mr. Gregarian only hired large men with powerful bodies as bouncers. Knuckle was a muscle-hound and tough enough to have done years in prison. His shoulders were as thick as volleyballs.
A weak sigh came from Teddy’s chest. “Let me help you with that bandage. What happened?” Teddy said. He felt bad about Knuckle apparently unable to take care of his own injury. Teddy inhaled the gloriously zesty scent of Knuckle’s workout sweat.
“A knife.”
What about the knife, Knuckle? Did it come alive and stab you? Did you fall on it? Did Freddie Krueger attack you in your dreams last night?
But Teddy didn’t ask those questions. He went back to the bar to get a first aid kit. When he returned to the gym, Knuckle was still weight-lifting, like he didn’t think Teddy was going to come back to help.
“Who stabbed you? When?” Teddy asked as he disinfected the cut. It didn’t look like Knuckle had cleaned it. He had just slapped a bandage halfway on the wound. Why? What on earth was the point of that? Dried blood had trickled down the side of his back and stained his workout shorts, which looked to be decades old — the kind of basketball shorts they wore when professional basketball players were mostly white. The shorts were too short by modern standards. Knuckle looked ridiculous in them.
And now, they were blood-stained. Knuckle had cleaned off the blood on his skin, so he knew the shorts were bloody. Why hadn’t he changed them?
And this is why the dancers think you’re a creep, Teddy thought but didn’t say. You’ve been working this whole shift, presumably, wearing blood-stained shorts.
He had to admit the scent of Knuckle’s sweat made his dick twitch. He didn’t mind the extensive burn scar on his shoulder, neck and cheek either. It wasn’t classically handsome, of course, but it gave him a certain simmering intensity that Teddy found arousing.
“The man with the whiskey stabbed me,” Knuckle said, his voice rugged with rasps.
“That man who wanted Jim Beam tonight was… Wait, tonight? You got stabbed tonight?” Teddy’s hands stopped when they gripped his shoulder, which was firm like rock. His skin thrummed and buzzed beneath Teddy’s touch.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say? Why didn’t you call the police? That man — wait, you mean the man in the suit? The one who raised a fuss about me being out of Jim Beam and-“
“Yes.”
“And then came back to the bar and settled on vodka?”
“I dunno what he drank after.”
“Knuckle…” Teddy sighed. That man had been drinking at the bar right in front of Teddy. Teddy had no idea he had just stabbed the bouncer. He simply filled the man’s orders. The man went into the champagne room with Caitlyn Smiles! “That man could have been waiting in the parking lot with the knife for you to get off work! That’s dangerous, Knuckle-“
“I’s stayin’ here. In the backroom. Not leaving through the parking lot.” That flat murder-hobo voice made Teddy’s spine quake. Knuckle was still doing bicep curls, having not missed a beat.
Knuckle’s claim didn’t solve the problem Teddy had pointed out. At all. The man still had a knife in the bar all night. He could have been waiting for Knuckle in the parking lot. If Knuckle didn’t come, he could have stabbed one of the girls. Or Teddy. He could have been too drunk to know who he was stabbing. He could have had a gun as well. He could have raped Caitlyn in the champagne room. Somebody else could have taken the knife off him when he got drunk. He could have gotten furious when Teddy cut him off for being too drunk. He could have stabbed another customer for looking at Caitlyn.
He hadn’t been banned from Lipsweet! He could be back tomorrow with a bigger knife!
But Knuckle had apparently not told anyone he was stabbed. He just half-bandaged-up and resumed bouncering. He hadn’t even taken a break tonight — had he bandaged himself standing at the door?
He must have guessed what Teddy was thinking because Knuckle said, “Mistuh Gregarian don’t like it when the cops come.”
“He doesn’t like it — that doesn’t apply if you’ve been stabbed, Knuckle,” Teddy said. “You could at least kick the guy out.” Teddy’s hand lingered on Knuckle’s belly, next to the stab-wound from tonight. There was an old puckering circular scar there. “Is that an old stab-wound?”
“That’s a gunshot.”
“You poor baby…” Teddy said, more out of a desire to suck up to the scarfaced weirdo than because he really pitied him. Knuckle was too intimidating to arouse much sympathy. He patted Knuckle on the biceps in lieu of hugging him — Teddy didn’t know if he avoided hugging Knuckle because Knuckle seemed like he might not like it or if Teddy was too intimidated by him. Knuckle was still doing bicep curls too, so it would be awkward to hug him.
But the dancers did treat him badly. They treated all the bouncers like shit — the dancers mostly had high-class boyfriends who were bankers, coke dealers, heirs, etc. The bouncers were a bunch of ex-cons, boxers and freaks like Knuckle. The dancers treated the bouncers like insolent ponies.
And Knuckle wasn’t a jerk like some of the bouncers, like Davon, a prettyboy who seemed nice but never wanted to get his face mussed up and had a side-hustle as a pimp. Teddy didn’t like him.
“Who’s Emma?” Teddy asked as he washed dried blood off Knuckle’s back. EMMA was tattooed on his nape in small Gothic lettering.
“She was a girl. I loved her. That was a long time ago,” he said, and for the first time since Teddy had known him, there was a trace of emotion in his voice. “That was before I looked like this.”
“Oh, Knuckle… Knuckle, I’m sorry — did she…?-“
“She married someone else,” he said.
Teddy hadn’t meant to start rubbing Knuckle’s shoulders and chest like he did with the other bouncers, but as Knuckle talked, that was what he did. Knuckle was tall and thick-bodied, and Teddy had to strain to reach around his thick barrel chest. His pecs flexed, and Teddy found himself hugging Knuckle’s sweat-dappled chest from behind.
“I worked for a traveling carnival when I met her,” Knuckle said. “She had a nice boyfriend even then.”
“You were a carnie?”
Knuckle nodded. “I ran the strength-meter, the one with the hammer.” He paused. “I miss her.” He sounded like he was getting drunk now, his words a little sloshy, and he swayed even though he simply sat on the edge of the bowflex.
His dick twitched in his shorts, and Teddy was glad to see it was huge. He stroked it through the fabric. He was about to ask if Knuckle wanted to be jacked off, but before he could, Knuckle said, “Yes.”
There was no need to ask which question he was answering. In moments, Teddy had Knuckle’s hot, foot-long cock in hand and stroked it slowly. It was even bigger than the other bouncers, he thought. He spat on his hand, then Knuckle grabbed him by the wrist, hocked up a thick loogey of snot and put it back.
Well, that was weird, Teddy thought, but slimy and soft and warm, and he nuzzled the sweaty meat of Knuckle’s scarred shoulder as his hand wrapped around Knuckle’s dick again. The burn-scar was partially orange down the back, and then green towards the spine, the shape distended because it used to be a tattoo — maybe a dragon breathing fire? Teddy didn’t ask because Knuckle leaned his head back, then chugged the last of the liquor in the drink Teddy gave him.
He took his flask out from the pocket of the shorts he had pulled down to bare his cock. He guzzled the rest of that liquor too, as both of Teddy’s hands brought him to orgasm.
A huge wad of cum sprayed over Knuckle’s chest. He moaned — a creaky, flat moan like a malfunctioning grandfather clock — and Teddy licked a few drops up where they landed on his shoulders.
Knuckle groaned like he was either sleepy or drunk or both. He grunted and burped, the sound cavernous to Teddy because he was still behind him on the bowflex. Knuckle pushed back to signal Teddy to leave. His jizz dripped over his chest muscles. Some had gotten all the way up to his chin and lower lip, but Knuckle ignored it.
“I’ll pass out here,” Knuckle said. He glanced up at Teddy, his soulful eyes peering into him. His words lumbered out like a distant volcano. “Thank you, Teddy. For being nice.”
“You’re welcome,” Teddy said. Knuckle was already half-asleep, it seemed. He wasn’t going to wipe the jizz up off his chest or put his dick away. Teddy found a towel in one corner of the gym.
“You can nut on me. Hump my dick, or my chest if you want. Or my mouth when I pass out,” Knuckle said. He shrugged and closed his eyes. “Not when I’m awake.”
“Really?” Teddy furrowed his brow. He often jacked off with the bouncers. They sometimes let him frot their dicks or hump their muscles, as they worked out or drank their post-shift liquor.
But not when they were passed out. And not their mouths.
“Knuckle?” Teddy said softly, his hands rubbing Knuckle’s shoulders lightly. He said it a few more times, then poked Knuckle’s scarred cheek to see if he was awake.
He was out cold.
Teddy giggled and touched his scarred face again, gasping like he was getting away with something. Knuckle’s jizz clung to his chin. Teddy leaned in and sucked it up. The taste was salty and bracing, and when Knuckle didn’t react, Teddy did it again. Then he kissed a trail up Knuckle’s face.
Teddy took out his own dick and frotted it with Knuckle’s giant limp member for a few minutes, until he was sure that Knuckle was fully unconscious. Knuckle snored as Teddy mounted the bench and rubbed his dick on Knuckle’s chest.
He had massive pecs the kind only men in movies had, Teddy thought with a grin. He leaked precum all over those pecs. He found that, when his balls dragged over a nipple, both pecs twitched. He did it again and again, massaging Knuckle’s scarred shoulders.
Then he slipped his dick in Knuckle’s mouth. A hoarse choke came from his throat, but if he was awake, he gave no sign. His mouth was warm and wet, and the sensation sent a shiver up Teddy’s spine.
He moved his dick in and out, rubbing it over Knuckle’s tongue. He twitched a couple times but otherwise didn’t respond. Teddy pushed all the way in, until his balls slapped against Knuckle’s chin.
An intense orgasm overwhelmed Teddy, who moaned out loud and gripped Knuckle’s head. Cum sprayed all over Knuckle’s chin, mouth and neck, but Teddy stuck it back in his mouth, in time to fill it up to overflowing.
A retch and a shake came from Knuckle’s body, but he spat up all that cum, as Teddy’s dick still jizzed, and moistly sputtered, but he didn’t wake up. His big square face was coated in creamy white cum.
“Thanks, Knuckle,” Teddy said softly, still not wanting to wake him up. Teddy dismounted him and pulled up his pants. He was about to leave, but he saw Knuckle sitting there with his pants down, dick out, face and chest dripping with cum.
It seemed undignified, Teddy thought. He wiped off Knuckle’s dick, face and chest, then put his dick away and did his fly back up. He couldn’t put a shirt back on without lifting Knuckle’s giant chest up — an unrealistic proposition — so Teddy left him like that, snoring soundly.
“Have a good night, Knuckle,” was all he said before walking out.

The Scarred Bouncer

Chapter One: An Affectionate Touch

Chapter Two: The Liminal Space

Chapter Three: A Glorious Face

Chapter Four: An Unexpected Connection

Chapter Five: A Deserved Choke

Chapter Six: A Good Friend

Chapter Seven: A Present of Sorts

Chapter Eight: That Sweet Release

Chapter Nine: A Plan for Repayment

Chapter Ten: An Unpleasant Chore

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil: Chapter One

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil

Chapter One: Out of Touch
Chapter Two: The Fossil
Chapter Three: That Ain’t Gangsta
Chapter Four: Old Nigga
Chapter Five: Unfashioned
Chapter Six: A Corrective Statement
Chapter Seven: Cool at Last

Inside the bar was smoky and slow like a steamed cigarette. Thumper White got there just past five o’clock, and the jawn was quiet. He worked the door at the strip club Lipsweet. Outside, it looked like it might rain. Thumper hoped it did, as he wanna feel rain upon his brow. He spent thirty-four years in prison, where the screws canceled outside time if it might rain — they thinks rain might help a nigga escape — or “abscond” if you a prison guard. He bin waiting to get rained on.
But his dome stayed dry all night as he worked the door alongside this statue-shape nigga Davon. They mostly checked idees, but Thumper saw some nice titties too. After so much time without women, that was a perk that got Thumper reeling.
The lead-up to Thumper’s release was intense. His world opened up again and seemed as limitless as the teeming night sky. A nigga don’t see many stars in prison. But now he was out, and he relied on the club’s owner Mr. Gregarian for a cheapy-deapy place to sleep above the bar and for the job he needed to keep his parole — he gotsta work forty hours or go back to prison, even if he ain’t need all that to pay the bills. He got mandatory therapist appointments and narcotics anonymous meetings even though he never been a mental nor did he ever get accused of using narcotics anonymously. He gotta answer his goddamn phone anytime day or night in case his parole officer called. No excuses. Fucking phone was like a manacle.
A manacle that beeped unscrutable-like. If anybody reading this know how to make a whoopy-doopy-whoop beep stop, let a nigga know. Any nigga wearing red will do. Word’ll get back to Thumper.
His schedule was just as determined on the outside as it was on the inside. He got more privacy on the outside, and his apartment was nicer. But he had homies and choices and free backrubs from the reverend at chapel every Sunday on the inside.
Out here, homies was scarce. Every nigga he knew before his arrest was outta his life now. World was never smaller than now that he was free to walk it alone. Shoulda “absconded” when he was young enough that living free was worth it. Now he ain’t even allowed to leave the state of Maine, so he couldn’t go home to Baltimore and dip his toes in the mighty Chesapeake again.
Thumper was sposedta start bouncering tomorrow night, but the bouncer who was scheduled for tonight done bounce without telling nobody. They was surmising he quit cuz he ain’t show up. Just gone, like a ghost. Maybe he was dead, ain’t nobody check. Cuz he wasn’t around, Mr. Gregarian brought Thumper in tonight to work alongside Davon, who was the head bouncer.
“A’ight, old nigga, we comin’ up on the night proper,” Davon said around nine o’clock, shattering Thumper’s nod. Davon grinned ear to ear. “They be bustling in now. You ready?” A foursome of cars was pulling into the parking lot, each of ’em plum with hipstering honkies lashing on liquidishly like they done start they drinking back home.

Folks did that now. It was trash-high behavior back before, but nowadays every whombody did it. Drinks was expensive for real.

“Hell yeah, Davon, I bin waitin’ for this day for thirty-four years.”
Davon nodded, with a smirky grin like he ain’t get why Thumper said that but ain’t wanna listen to any clarification. He knew Thumper was a ex-con, he just don’t care enough to think about it. Davon was a Blood, same as Thumper. Unlike Thumper, Davon was also a mud-color darkskin prettyboy with teeth like a skeleton and lips made for kissing buttflaps. He was a jubilous talkalot who pretended to pal with people like a pushy puppy. Already he be pimping palms with honkies and addressing ’em like he knew ’em. “There you is, welcome back! Love to see ya, sohn! You keepin’ it real… Scott.” He got they names off they idees as he checked ’em, but he pretended he remembered ’em. In return, they all pretended to be charmed by him. Thumper done hung out with farts that was more interesting than that nothing-muffin. His forgettable six-pack and baby-clean name-brand jeans stretched a teaspoon of charismatic gravy over two hundred fifty pounds of that nigga’s salisbury steak. If niggas was books, Davon’d be a romance novel that was ten pages long but fulla correctly spelled words. Davon was a sea of smiles and dimples, the velveeta of niggas, like a cushion and a cloud didn’t bake a cake, and that cake was sugar-free, fat-free, declawed, defanged and stuffed with puffs of nothingness. That nigga gladhanded every one them no-hoot pecker-toters who lined up to exercise they stiffies in Lipsweet.
The difference between Thumper and Davon — aside from the obvious ones — was that Davon got no problem saying all the fool-ass shit the world want him to say. He do stick to the lines he been given, and he wanna be nice to everyone in case they got more lines to give him in the future. Thumper got no choice to follow Davon.
Well, not true. He could beat that handsome nigga into a ugly stain. Doing so might be preferable one night to pushing obedience at a smooth sac like Davon.
But for now, he do what Davon say, at least as it relates to bouncering.
Not much happened, even when the club filled up. Thumper was hoping for more excitement. Prison was buncha boredom, but at least there was chances to stab a Mexican. The one time a trio of numptious niggas nipped at a dancer’s derriere without proffering payment, it was Davon who brung them a basket of dimple-fried smiles to tell ’em to lay off — nigga was smiling! Seemed nuggety to Thumper, but it worked. Davon smiled more than every nigga Thumper met in prison combined.
Eventually, as time do be doing, it went on, and night’s close drew near. This was it. Thumper was a free nigga, and he got a job, and here it was. This was freedom. He bin imagined hisself living like he did when he was nineteen and a champion boxer and got a coach and high-quality knees and a posse of niggas with plans and he couldn’t swing his dick around without knocking down a white bitch flinging her pussy at him. Now, he gotta speak up to get any fool to pay him mind. He was just another nigga, not in charge of shit, not even within earshot of being in charge.
And, as Teddy the bartender did his last-call bit and Davon began hustling drunks and skunks out the bar like it was his job, Thumper ain’t like it that he was the low soul on the totem pole here. He was twice the age of Davon and Teddy, but they was calling his shots. Shit’s bullshit, nigga.
In prison, Thumper was the nigga who did and everybody knew it. Here, he was just the creepy old head, the new nigga, nobody’s uncle, the graybeard whoever over there.
Ain’t neither of ’em, Davon or Teddy, pick up any what Thumper was putting out. That was good, cuz Thumper need this job. He be simmering though.
He was still simmering when Lipsweet finally closed, and Teddy locked the door. Davon told Thumper to take this unconscious ruddynut to the alley out back and slap the drunkness outta him. Thumper just dropped him by the dumpster and went back in, more outta desire to be disobedient than cuzza mercy. The door back into Lipsweet done lock when it slammed shut, so Thumper gotta rattle his key in the knob to open it up. He ain’t tell Davon he left the ruddynut drunk unsmacked. Davon’s prettyboy mug was putting on a show for the girlies, who watched him tell a story like they worshipped him. Thumper wanna make a shiv, stab his bitch-ass and rip the smirk off his face.
But thirty-four years of prison ran through his old-nigga mind. Thumper fights mean, but he fights clean. So he ain’t do jack shit to Davon. He helped Teddy put the chairs on the tables, so the janitor Ernie could quit spinning his wheels in the backcorridor like a haunted car and come up front to mop.
While Ernie pretended not to steal drinks from behind the bar, Davon disappeared, so Thumper escorted the dancers out to they cars by hisself. When Thumper saw him later, he got the impression Davon got sucked off by one the dancers. Prolly this fiery chowder-white Cherry. None the dancers gave Thumper a second look. Half them ain’t give him a first look.
Looks is scarce for a old nigga outsidea prison.
Thumper overheard the dancers whisper about him as the uncool old nigga, as out-of-touch as a frozen caveman. Davon too, he was joking earlier with Bud the club deejay that Thumper was “old-school but not the cool kind of old-school, he’s old-school like an abandoned orphanage”. They all looked at him like a car nobody makes parts for anymore. Thumper pretended not to hear all them all badmouthing him. That was easy cuz they thought he got old-nigga ears.
When the strippers was all gone home to they coke dealers and/or the highest bidder — they gots expectations to fill, and they fills ’em good — Davon and Teddy dipped. Thumper went upstairs. The apartment Mr. Gregarian gave him was on the second floor.
This whole jawn, the Gregarian building, was a ratmaze of renovated hallways and uncomprehendable architecture, hallways to nowhere, lor tumor-like spaces that done pop up in corridors, scatterings of solitary steps and three-stair staircases. It prolly started off as a mansion. But it done got scrambled and scattered since then, and Thumper got lost when he went looking for the laundry room or Rajesh’s office (Rajesh was the computer man for the club, and he fixed Thumper’s phone when he got a undismissable storm about a missing Spanish girl named Kia Sorento).
He stopped short at a ruffle of fabric, a off-white like light bone, billowing just outta sight to the right atoppa the stairs. “Who’s’at? Yo, uh… ma’am?”
A old-fashioned dress, he thunk, but its tail was all he saw. No way, nothing the strippers at Lipsweet would wear. Them’s the only women he got a expectation to see here now. But outfronts was all over the block in this building, so getting lost and wandering up here was plausibility for a female.
Mind ain’t working right? Wonderment on whether he was having a stroke tolled within Thumper’s mind.
The ruffling sound stopped like a timeless clock. From bottom to top, Thumper got blocked. “You — ain’t — s’posed-ta — be — up — here…” Stumbling short to cork his lungs, Thumper de-posed and unbeckoned like a unloaded weapon, unable to reckon the undead howls afronta his face and bowels.
Beneath a lacy hood like a owl’s head, battle-spike leather and satellite dish feathers surrounded around her mask. A porcelain corpse, she stood like a goblin, in a necklace of coffins, dress waffling in a breeze Thumper ain’t feel. Buggy-mugging, Thumper’s stout mouth and burnt tongue crowded about curtly, but no words emerged to be heard. She silently brayed like birds and bees. Fabric faded like a murky wheeze, silent as a lady’s pleas, lined with lace from rusty seas, the musty dress must be dusty like shaker cheese. Her flaky bust squeezing together with the mask and the ghastly dress made up a way Thumper’s brain couldn’t grasp.
She slid like dead flowers fading fast past showers of parchment in this petrified hall of broken doors in rows run nigga run dead light flowing like salted moths. His boots got rooted soft, and his broth froze awful in the cold wafting off her. He wanna go run leave flee sprint depart, but he couldn’t start, stuck tucked in to unlucky skin. Something missing within, felt like prison again, boxed in like a outfoxed hen, a would-be has-been with a fist-free tin chin who spent his ever-lasting hell in a thin cell of superlative sin. He be dropping nocked wins and bleeding blistered insight.
“Indeed, Mister White,” she said kiss-tight, voice skin-deep and slight, flinty as blight and thick as grout. “I done lost my route in this labyrinth of drought.”
At a standstill-turnt-rout, Thumper was cloudy and stout like a landfill of doubt, crowded with the devout, and his will filled without tingles at all, leaving him small and unshingled. His brain dewrinkled. Self-caging, Thumper felt hisself aging. “Wha… What’cha lookin’ for…?” Enraging in stages, Thumper face to face with her, her lacy grace hurt like a basic church.
A racing lurch under that mask was, like a bug on her face, scuttling like gutter butter into her gullet. Thumper bugged up bullets, agasp at last, after thirty-four years of crafting sass at white crap.
Her voice done did clasp tight as a flask, highly muffled and slightly rasped. “My vast dear, I did dash here to bask in the theatre of fat and fear.” Her mask skittered still as her head cocked aside like a lizard in a rancorous blizzard. Her words set off one and two thoughtful missiles. “You a actor? You come new to the Bangor official, yes?”
“I just moved in. There.” His regret at saying that rumbled soon as spores of doom, but that score was all he got in store. His point was one finger at the door above the floor. He got wishes galore he ain’t spill which apartment was his. This was one white bitch he don’t want dropping by. “The theatre — the movie theatre is closed down. It’s on the other side of the building. It outfronts on Stranger. It’s down those stairs I think.”
“No, Mister White, it ain’t closed, but thank yo’ bones.” She spoke dank as hoes.
“Who… is you?”
“I’s only the bereft wedge of empty woes,” she said, after laughter bounced her dulcet hair. “But you may call me Delsinerr.” A blot of a nod did crest her croney pall, and her blunt cunt glid smooth as a fall down the hall as though she floated above the floor, yet the clogs she wore clicked like clomps on blocks of gore. A stompy rhythm bore her stepless tour, and the wetness of her necklace did clink more and more in sync with the swirling squall of her furious footfalls, hauling gall down Thumper’s maw, for She is They, a slay-bent cabal that shall rend and maul to the end of it all.

When she was gone, Thumper’s mind cleared swift as bisquick, and he breathed normal again. Reality reordered.

Thumper scurried into his apartment and locked the door. He dragged the couch to block the door too. Only then did he start pacing and peeping through his peephole until dawn.
He was lucky the next night was a night off, cuz he ain’t sleep a nickel. He decided to move out, to go to the homeless shelter until he could find a new apartment. He ain’t wanna spend another night in that building where She might come by again, and he sat by the window until daylight flooded his room.
Seeing the sun rise made him think of prison and getting up early as roosters to start work detail, him and bunchesa niggas and Aryans bleary-eyed watching the horizon from the prison bus. He liked seeing the sun rise. Makes a nigga feel human, and watching it now made that crazy Woman in White feel like a dream.
So, in the warm light of day, Thumper decided he musta hallucinated. That was some crazy nightmare or something. She weren’t real. He peered in the window of the movie theater that afternoon, the one on Stranger Street, and it was dusty as a sneeze, unused in years, just a empty lobby and ticket window, one overturnt chair the only furniture. Scatterings of tarnished pennies dotted the counter where the concession-stand register woulda been.
It was just a dream. Thumper weren’t gonna tell nobody about it, cuz if he did, they’d make him for a notiony nigga telling tales. Maybe they would be right.
Somehow, after a full day of sunlight, he did sleep that eve. He thought he’d lay awake again, trying not to think of that masked woman whose presence broke his mind. But he did eventually drift into a fitless sleep and awoke even more tired than the night before.
Then Davon came by after noon, arriving without warning, like a bland tornado. He came to take Thumper to the private gym in the building, outfronting near that movie theater on Stranger. Thumper bin meaning to get down to the gym, but he ain’t do it till Davon brung him there. Davon gave him a doodad to wave around another doodad on the door to make it open. Doodad magic, look it up.
Inside was battle ropes, dumbbells and medicine balls, plus treadmills and one them home bowflex sets. Davon went right to the bowflex and got to flexing, while Thumper walked slow and steady on the treadmill. Felt good to exercise his lungs — not lotta chances to ambulate in prison. The sunnyskin prison doc said to go easy on his heart though, cuz he got a rhythm, so Thumper kept the treadmill turtley.
“Man, my girl sucked me off last night so much my dick hurts,” Davon said between sets. He bin talking about his girl like he expected Thumper to care and be jealous and wanna know the details, but Thumper weren’t gonna give him the satisfaction. Davon done pause his lifting as he raised his eyebrows at Thumper. He was muscled, but he was polished like glass — you could tell he never used them muscles for nothing but impressing females. If a nigga gonna lift, he oughta lift proper. Be the nigga you is pretending to be. Davon said, with a snorty laugh, “Nutted like a dozen times. She got down to the root.”
“Which one?” Thumper asked. “A dancer?”
“Not a dancer. Got sucked off by a dancer too, the other day, but Cherry ain’t my girl. She just a side thang,” Davon said with a laugh. “That side thang keeps it real too, on the downlow. She know what she is.” He resumed lifting intermittent-like, stopping every couple words to look dreamy like a disney stallion. “Shit, my girlfriend is white. Not trashy neither. She nice white, and her mama got a hunk of butt.”
While Davon bothered on about his girl, Thumper got off the treadmill. His old-nigga meat was flopping up and down as he ran, and he wanna put on a jockstrap before he got back on there. Imagineering Davon’s female made Thumper wanna bust a nut, so he took his dick out and gave it a stroke.
In prison, that weren’t no thing. Nobody complained when Thumper let his pecker swing free. That’s cuz Thumper was the complaints department for his cell block, and he do regulate complainers. No room for whining, cells are too cramped. A nigga gots to maintain.
When Davon saw Thumper’s plonker plonking in the cold light of day, he wrinkled his nose — which you could tell never done got broke. If you never broke your nose, you never said nothing pointy, so you either never noticed nothing or you did but kept your pussywillow shut about it. Either way is bad news for a nigga. Both prolly apply to Davon’s buttery mug.
“Shit, you ain’t in prison no mo’, old man. Outside niggas don’t drop dong,” Davon said. “Put’cha drawers on.”
“Nah. You ain’t the boss of me, nigga,” Thumper said. Davon bin acting like he thought maybe he was the boss, and perhaps he was — in the club. But the world outside Lipsweet was vast, and Davon was nothing in it. Thumper let his dingadingdoo jiggle near Davon’s face.
“Man, Thump-“
“Shut up when a old nigga is talking to you. You is in charge of the bouncers, Davon. You tell me how to bounce, you tell me how to clock in at the pill-” That made Davon suck on his teeth — the time-clock for the bar was on a “tablet” — which was a big phone — Thumper don’t like phones and he don’t like tablets — but a tablet was also a pill, so Thumper called the tablet a pill — Davon was too cute for wordplay. “But you don’t tell me how to do nothing else. Is there any female back here? Or kiddies?”
“No.”
“Then I’mma take my dick out when I feel like it. Get to liftin’, nigga. You ain’t big enough yet.” Thumper gently pushed Davon to lay down and do some bench-presses.
Davon turned up that perfect nose that never got broke. “Don’chu — this is a Gregarian gym, nigga. I work for Mr. Gregarian.”
Thumper scoffed. “Mistuh Gregarian work for the Bloods.” He pretend-rammed his dick at Davon’s face, but he ain’t touch Davon’s lips. Yet. Davon did look sickly at the smell of Thumper’s sweaty old-nigga balls dangling in the direction of his handsomeness. “And I did thirty-four years for the Bloods. You ain’t been alive thirty-four years. Lift, nigga. Use them muscles.” Davon did a benchpress, but he did it with a snort like he weren’t doing it cuz Thumper said so.
Looming large as a barge, Thumper remained overtop Davon’s crotch, straddling him now like a conquering colossus and slapping his stick on Davon’s six-pack. Davon kept his too-good face stoic as he lifted. Thumper pulled down Davon’s shorts.
“Whatchoo doin’, nigga?”
“Just playin’, don’t be squeamish,” Thumper said. Davon’s smooth cock spilled out, and Thumper gave it a stroke. Davon kept doing his bench presses like a smile-hard nigga who wouldn’t never challenge nothing. So he just lifted weights and let Thumper frot they wigwams together.
A hard sigh came from Davon, and Thumper felt the sigh rattle up and down Davon’s smooth shaft. Davon rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a freak, Thump. Get with the times,” he said softly, like he don’t expect Thumper to respond. Thumper got no response to that. He was getting with the times. He stepped outta time for thirty-four years, that was all. Thumper weren’t sure yet he even wanna catch up.
Thumper liked the feel of Davon’s prettyboy meat, limp as lips, rubbing on his shaft. Soon enough Thumper was firming up. He humped his erect cock onto Davon’s softness. Felt good to touch tugboats with another nigga again. Thumper ain’t done that since prison. Davon ain’t never been locked up, so he weren’t used to it and he ain’t get hard. That was fine. Made his dingaling squishy and moist and warm and fun to rub up against, like humping pudding.
“Yo, Davon, you know a masked woman? You seen her around this building?” Thumper asked. Davon looked at him like a crazy old fool, and Thumper added, “She like… wearin’ a dress, got a mask like a owl. She… weird. Weird as hell, nigga.”
Davon shrugged. “Maryanne wear a mask when she dance sometimes.”
“I met Maryanne. It weren’t Maryanne,” Thumper said. Precum oozed outta his cocktip and soaked Davon’s shaft. “Does that theater ever do plays?”
“The theater? On Stranger? That’s a movie theater,” Davon said. He stopped doing bench presses. “And it don’t even do movies no more. Shut down years ago. Nothing in there.” He looked down his body at his own cock, which was fat and juicy, glistening with Thumper’s precum. Thumper be stabbing his own manhood atop Davon’s over and over, like he was fucking a invisible pussy.
Thumper nodded. “Thought so, nigga,” he said like that was the answer he was expecting. He threw his head back as he orgasmed all over Davon’s limp meat. Thumper do love frotting with a squeamish nigga like Davon, who screwed up his face like a screwdriver, as a long flow of jizz sprayed atop his chest.
He got them perky chest muscles that girls love, pecs that’s big but never see no use aside from flexing to impress the females. Thumper’s first jizz was a big-ass splat of nut that went all the way from Davon’s shoulders to his glamorous six-pack — shit, don’t that nigga ever eat a carb? Then it puddled in his sternum, and Thumper scooted forward to aim his spasming pecker for Davon’s mouth.
That jizz only reached to his chin and lower lip though. It was enough to make Davon sour up, and Thumper shot yet another burst of cream onto Davon’s soap-opera jawline. Davon’s eyes wrinkled. Cum roped over his cheeks and nose.
“Ewwhhh, ni-hha!” Davon clenched his mouth shut.
All that cum lay congealing in a soup on Davon’s stomach and face. Big creamy wads of jism kept on coming out, until Davon’s entire face gleamed in the dim gym light. Davon twitched and writhed like he ain’t never before struggle to show off his nonchalance. Thumper chuckled and kept on humping Davon’s shaved cum-splattered chest till Thumper’s dick was just as soft and spongy as Davon’s.
That nigga weren’t so clean no more. That was good to see. Thumper do enjoy making clean niggas dirty.
Thumper got off him, and Davon sat up. He wiped nut off his nose. “You is one nasty old nigga-” He stopped to gag cuz some salty cum slipped into his mouth. “Be cool-” Another gag rippled through him, and he spat up jizz like a burping baby. “Nigga, be cool, shit, Thump…”
“Never forget, Davon, that you is only in charge of my bouncering,” Thumper said. He flicked his dick in Davon’s direction, making a few drops of jizz splatter over Davon’s shoulder. “In e’rrything else, this nasty old nigga do pave his own road.”

Thumper Meets the Ultimate Evil

Chapter One: Out of Touch
Chapter Two: The Fossil
Chapter Three: That Ain’t Gangsta
Chapter Four: Old Nigga
Chapter Five: Unfashioned
Chapter Six: A Corrective Statement
Chapter Seven: Cool at Last

Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!: Chapter 2

Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!: Chapter Two

Roughnecks Got Oral Needs!

Chapter One: Tusslin’

Chapter Two: The Sandwich

Chapter Three: Vaccination

Chapter Two: The Sandwich

Mason went to the kitchen after ten bells. Dinner was done then, but there were usually snacks available until they ran out. Mason went to make himself a sandwich and bring it to his clinic. He’d eat that before bed, or maybe first thing in the morning so he didn’t have to get up for breakfast.
Salami, sliced onions, lettuce, mayonnaise and mustard. For some reason, there were eight varieties of mustard in the fridge. Mason used two of them.
He saw Buck outside the clinic, having just knocked — and presumably not noticed the handwritten sign on the door — be right back, wait five minutes. Buck looked like he was embarrassed to be seen here.
“Hey, uh, I’s wonderin’ if’n you gots eyebooproefen,” Buck said. With all the holler in his accent, it took Mason a second to understand what he was asking for. Then he saw the hungry look in Buck’s eyes, aimed at the sandwich, and Mason sighed. He both wondered if and hoped that Buck was here to get jacked off again.
“Yeah, yeah, c’mon in. What hurts, Buck?” Mason said as he opened the clinic door. He went in, and Buck plopped his giant frame down on the bunk. He kept his eyes on the sandwich.
And those eyes stayed on the sandwich. Mason cleared his throat, but Buck looked fixated. Buck had made it clear on this rig that he was always hungry, that he wanted whatever leftovers were available, and that the food was insufficient. It had become clear that no amount of food would be sufficient.
“What hurts, Buck?” Mason asked again. “And do you want my sandwich?” He pointed to the sandwich on his desk. Mason felt a curious urge to watch him eat. He’d seen Buck eat in the mess, and there was something strangely arousing about it.
Damn was Buck good at it too! He really shoveled it in. The mess made three lines of food — Indian, Middle-Eastern and Western. The cooks were mostly Portuguese, but they catered to a diverse crowd. Buck was the only one who went through all three lines. Last week, Mason saw him eat a croque monsieur tagine wrapped up in a garlic naan.
“Ah, I mean… hell yeah,” Buck said. He ran his fingers through his mullet. “You don’t want it?”
Mason shook his head. “I only made it cuz I planned earlier on eating it. Then after I made it… I’m not hungry anymore,” he said. Then, yet again, he said, “What hurts?”
But Buck was fixated on the sandwich, which he grabbed and ripped off a huge bite of — his giant frame meant he had a giant mouth that took giant bites. Mason was impressed. But Buck seemed to have forgotten he didn’t come here for a sandwich.
“What can I do for you, Buck?” Mason asked between bites. He had to ask it a couple times before Buck heard. Mason had a feeling that, if he stood too close to Buck, he might get chomped on along with the sandwich.
“I was hopin’ fer some eyebooproefen,” Buck said around mouthfuls of sandwich. Crumbs dropped to the floor.
“What hurts, Buck?” Mason asked, more insistently this time. “I can’t give you anything without writing something down in the logbook.”
“I got pain!” Buck said. “Mah shoulders is sore as the dickens! Feels like I nogginned up onna pile of crawdads this morn’, hoss.”
Mason flattened his nose. He grabbed a pen and the logbook. “Okay, well, Buck… I recognize some of the words in there. Your shoulders hurt.”
“Yep. I done all the auntychambuh stuff yestuhday, tha’ss why. Habibby was sick, so I gots to do it all. Hard on the shoulders, it is, reckon.” He stuffed the last of the sandwich into his mouth. “And I’s hungry. You cain’t get me more food, right? Cuz I’m bigguh than the li’l fellahs, reckon I oughta get more suppuh.”
“That’s not how it works, I don’t have any authority over the mess hall,” Mason said. He filled out the logbook, then gave Buck a dose of ibuprofen and a little plastic cup of water. Buck downed the pills. “Do you want me to rub your shoulders?”
Buck nodded a little too eagerly. He leaned into it, and the look in his eyes suggested to Mason he wanted to get jacked off again. That was probably why he came here in the first place. His shoulders were probably sore, that wasn’t just an excuse, but that came with the roughneck life. Buck probably brought his own over-the-counter stuff and maybe some black-market stronger stuff. Lem definitely got opiates on the downlow, Mason thought. He seemed like the type. In his experience, most roughnecks did, and essentially all of them over fifty years old did.
So if Buck wanted stronger painkillers, he could get them one way or another. The real reason he came to see Mason was cuz he wanted Mason’s soft fingers to touch him again.
Mason wanted that too, and he eagerly got behind Buck. Buck was so tall that Mason was dwarfed by his broad back, the muscles of which were so thick they looked painful.
Sweat clung to the groove between Buck’s shoulderblades. Mason’s fingers gripped Buck’s meaty back, and he kneaded the flesh. As Mason rubbed the firmness of his shoulders, Buck let out a low lingering moan, his muscles turning to hot silly-putty in Mason’s fingers.
Settling onto his knees on the bunk, Mason got a good angle to massage Buck’s back. Mason’s legs splayed to each side, and he basked in the heat radiating off Buck’s flesh. Soon Buck seemed on the verge of sleep, and Mason kept working his muscles softly. Mason often massaged the roughnecks on the rig — and most often, his massages turned to at least handjobs. That was why Mason was such a popular medic.
A noose made of barbed wire was tattooed on Buck’s back, running up the length of his spine. The loop of the noose ended right where Buck’s beefy asscheeks began. The tattoo was dotted with the coarse black hairs of Buck’s back. “Is this tattoo significant?” Mason asked.
Buck groaned from the massage. He half-nodded, half-yawned. “Got it when I left prison,” he said. “It’s a Bloods thang.”
“Bloods?”
“The gang,” Buck said. He mimed shooting a gun. “The homeboy gang. I ain’t a shooty-homeboy feller, mind you, I keeps the peace, Mason. I was in the Bloods in prison though, and when I got out, they lemme get the noose on my back. It means I’s allowed to pledge the Bloods in any cell block.”
“What’d you do to earn that?”
Buck wrinkled his nose.
“Oh, if you don’t wanna say, it’s…”
Buck shrugged. “T’wouldn’t be propuh.” He leaned back like he forgot Mason was behind him, and Mason was almost crushed by his weighty body. But he didn’t lay back all the way, just enough to put some heft on Mason. Mason’s hands wandered to Buck’s chest, groping and rubbing his now-relaxed pecs and hairy belly. “Will you, uh, massage mah dick again?” Before Mason could answer, Buck said, “I got a stiffy today fer real, it wouldn’t go down. It’s cuzza that calendar in the Porchagees room, the calendar with a hot babe. I hadta walk by it like a hunnert times today.” He chuckled, making his back bounce up and down on Mason’s lap. “I was waitin’ fer the Porchagees to leave the room so’s I could nab some food outta there. They got stacks of anchovies, Mason! Stacks!” He whistled. “The Porchagees lady on the calendar be callin’ to me though. They got purty ladies in Portugal, reckon. Do they speak English?”
“No. They speak Portuguese,” Mason said. His hands stretched down to Buck’s workpants, which Buck raced to unzip. Buck fished out his own massive shaft, soft but slightly stiff, like it was trying to find something to point at. Buck was so tall Mason had to stretch to reach it, since Buck was still leaning back and pinning him to the wall.
“If’n you could put ya mout’ on it again, it’d be most ‘ppreciated,” Buck said. He finally realized Mason was pinned behind him and lifted his chest up. Mason scooted out to the other side of the bunk, away from the wall, while Buck lay on his back. His dick stuck straight up like a sundial. Even stretched out on the bunk, Buck was too tall to fit. That was why he lived in the dead-end with Lem — Buck didn’t want to cram his big-ass body into a bunk at night. Him and Lem slept on the floor on a pile of mattresses and blankets.
Without another word, Mason dropped his head and licked Buck’s giant shaft, which rocketed straight to full erection. It pulsated against his tongue. Mason’s hands roamed up his chest, making Buck’s powerful pecs ripple. Memories of that Portuguese woman on the calendar thrummed through Buck’s muscles.
“Aaaah…” Buck sighed. “I j’st don’t cotton to jackin’ off wit’ Lem. Not cuz he’s black, I got no prejudices. But he got hands like sandpaper, Mason. And his lips is dry! Oow-eee! Cain’t pretend he a female for any length of time, fer real!” His hand gently lay on Mason’s head, not forcing it down, just guiding it deeper on his cock.

The hand wasn’t necessary though, as Mason tried to get even deeper than last time. He wanted to taste every inch of Buck’s meat. He stretched his neck and lips as wide as he could manage. Buck grunted, chest tensing, pleasure coursing through him. His veiny shaft throbbed in Mason’s mouth, getting thicker as it fully stiffened.

Unable to breathe, Mason held onto his mouth in position. Spit slobbered down Buck’s rod, lubing up Mason’s hands, both of which stroked his cock too. Mason’s throat struggled to open up more and to breathe as well, and eventually Mason couldn’t help but pull off to take a deep breath. Salty precum coated his lips and tongue.
“Goddamn, Mason… you’s a great medic,” Buck said with a laugh that turned into a moan of desire, as he accidentally and suddenly reached his climax. His voice broke cuz that was unexpected. It was just as much a surprise to Mason, who choked on the first flow of jizz.
A burst of cum flowed into Mason’s mouth, followed by another, great creamy gobs of salty goodness sliding down Mason’s gullet. Buck gasped like he didn’t see that coming, and it made his muscles all flex at once. Another wad of creamy jizz hit Mason’s throat, and it coated his tongue.
“Damn, hoss!” Buck’s chest muscles rippled as his voice broke again.
This was Mason’s favorite part, so he tried to drag it out. His lungs craved oxygen though, and he couldn’t swallow it all. Buck’s bushy pubic hair became soggy with all the cum that overflowed from Mason’s mouth.
It fell limp in Mason’s grip, even as a few drops of cum kept dribbling out. Buck’s thirteen-inch cock flopped meatily left and right in his grip. Buck lay back, arms and legs spread wide, like he got no intention of going back to his barrack. Cum coated both Mason’s face and Buck’s crotch.
Maybe he did want to sleep here. Mason wasn’t supposed to allow it unless it was for medical reasons — because somebody could come in here with a problem, and Buck’s presence would violate their medical confidentiality. But Mason could always make Buck step out.
Before Mason could bring that up, however, he took his own dick out and gave it a few strokes. Buck ignored it.
“Do you mind if I jack off?” Mason asked. “While I play with your cock?” He blushed, glad that Buck seemed uninterested in what Mason was doing now. Buck yawned and nodded.
Mason climbed on the bunk so as to mount Buck’s powerful body. He frotted both dicks together, his rock-hard one and Buck’s much bigger but soft cock. His shaft, ballsac and crotch hair were all soaked in jizz, the rank smell of which wafted into Mason’s nostrils.
“Can I smoke in here?” Buck asked.
Pointing to the vent, Mason shrugged. “Not really. But if you exhale towards the vent, it’ll be okay.”
Buck nodded. He lit a cigarette like he ain’t notice Mason rubbing his erect dick on Buck’s soft one. Mason used one hand to keep both dick’s together, while his other kneaded the muscles of Buck’s chest. Buck sighed and let out a long plume of smoke, aimed at the vent, which sucked up the fumes.
Everyone smoked on the rig, which was actually very well-ventilated, making the smoke largely irrelevant. As long as nobody was currently hooked up to an oxygen tank in here, Mason wasn’t worried about the smoke. There was little chance of a health inspection in the middle of the frozen North Pacific Ocean.
His muscles were rock-hard beneath Mason’s fingers, and his cock was soft as pudding. Mason’s was hard though. Buck’s dick was too soft to really get him off, Mason needed more friction. But it was enough to get him firm and leaking precum down Buck’s already cummy shaft.
“Is it okay if I cum on your chest?” Mason asked.
Buck shrugged. “You gonna clean it off after?”
Mason nodded.
“Fine then.” Buck closed his eyes and puffed on his cigarette. “Try not to get it on mah face.” It seemed he was trying to ignore Mason’s dick. That was fine with Mason, who let out a bit-back moan as he stroked his hard cock along with Buck’s much bigger one. The smell of Buck’s cum was cloying in Mason’s nostrils. His fingers made Buck’s pecs ripple.
He smelled strongly of sweat. The roughnecks on the rig always accused each other of stinking. Mason didn’t like to admit he didn’t mind the smell, cuz they’d make fun of him for it. He kinda liked it. He let out a moan as precum spurted out his knob and into Buck’s crotch.
“You nevuh been to prison?” Buck asked without opening his eyes. He exhaled a plume of smoke into the vent above his head.
“Nope,” Mason said.
Buck finally opened his eyes again, looking down at Mason’s dick throbbing against his own. “Usually only guys who been to prison do this kinda shit. You been workin’ on rigs loads, right? That must be why.”
Mason nodded and let out a moan as he climaxed at last. A shiver of intense pleasure ran up his body, and he kissed Buck right on the meat of his chest muscles. Buck chortled, which made his whole torso tense up beneath Mason’s grip.
Mason’s fat load spurted out, laying a thick rope of cum over Buck’s strapping chest muscles. That was followed by another jissom that sprayed over Buck’s chest and even up to his chin. Buck chuckled throatily. His neck was splatterd with cum.
A long sigh came outta Mason, as he stroked the last of his cum onto Buck’s chest. Mason shot a huge wad, bigger than he was used to. Maybe Buck’s bigness was rubbing off on him. Mason even thought his dick seemed bigger.
When he was done, Mason scurried off to grab a washcloth. He wiped off both his dick and Buck’s, and he dabbed up all the cum he could get to from Buck’s chest and crotch. Buck lay sprawl-out on the bunk as he finished his cigarette.
Finally, they both finished their tasks, and Buck put out his cigarette in an empty can of coke on the desk. He sighed. “Guess I gots to go back to the dead-end with Lem,” he said. “Come see me sometime, Mason. If’n you cain handle Lem bein’ a crazy old coot.”