scholarships – Mansploitation

The Cookie Jar Collector

Rob is hoping for a studly white collar businessman, and he just might get what he craves! He knows a secret about Mr. Maltley, who’s willing to give Rob the ride of a lifetime in exchange for keeping that secret. Can Rob handle it?

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Read the whole thing here!

“Hello, I’d like to see Jonathan Maltley,” said Rob Winthrop. He smiled at the receptionist, who was a slim-faced loam-eye with a thin, shrill voice that made him seem less handsome once you heard it. He looked like a turtle that lost its shell in a kiln, and you could tell he didn’t have enough testosterone to grow the mustache he thought he deserved.
“Do you have an appointment?” asked the annoying assistant with a wrinkle in his nose like Rob should have already known all this. He sat back in his chair as though he was overlooking his empire, which he was, but ‘his empire’ was this waiting room. Least regal emperor ever. Your average emperor penguin is more commanding. The assistant soured up in Rob’s direction. “Mr. Maltley is a very busy man. He is a tycoon of industry. He oversees companies — companies in the plural. He doesn’t just take meetings with anyone. He’s very busy.”
“Oh, I understand, I really do. I think he’ll want to take this meeting,” Rob said. He glanced at the door into Mr. Maltley’s office, but it was a heavy door latched shut, perhaps even locked. There was no way in without permission. Rob had rather hoped to just barge in, but that was clearly not going to happen.
The waiting area looked like a ski lodge, paneled with rich wood, photos of snow-covered mountains framed and dappling the walls giving the whole area a chill, like just being reminded of a chalet was enough to make Rob shiver. Or maybe it was the overly air-conditioned air. The only part of the office that looked like what it was — an ordinary office on the forty-sixth floor of a skyscraper in Manhattan — was the cheap off-blue carpet, which looked like it had been a luxurious azure at one point years ago.
“Hmm-hmm.” The assistant smiled politely, which just made his rat-like face more weaselish. If he knew how he looked when he smiled, he’d never do it. “What can I tell him this is concerning?”
“Cookie storage.”
“Cookie storage?” He picked up a telephone receiver, but he put it down when he heard Rob say ‘cookie storage’. He smiled again. “I see. So you, uh… represent… a warehouse? Or-“
“No, sorry, this is about the storage of a small number of cookies. Not, like, trucks worth,” Rob said. “It is not a commercial venture.”
“… Is that something Mr. Maltley is interested in?”
“You’d have to ask him,” Rob said. “He’s free to say no. I’ll gladly go if he doesn’t want to see me. Please just ask him.”
His eyebrows fluttered. The assistant, whose nameplate on his desk said he was Prateek Nayka, pursed his lips. Then his eyes lit up. “Ooooh! Cookies, like on the Internet? Internet cookies?”
“No, I mean the baked good,” Rob said. “I am here to discuss with him methods of storing cookies. Chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, etc. Biscuits if you’re British.”
“Hmm.” The assistant sat there like an obnoxious mushroom, phone in hand though he wasn’t yet dialed into Mr. Maltley’s office. He waited a long time, maybe hoping Rob would clarify voluntarily or maybe just too flummoxed to decide on the next course of action.
The assistant looked at the phone as though deciding whether to ask Mr. Maltley about this on the phone or to go in his office and ask in person. He put the phone down and went in. Rob wasn’t surprised. He’d learned a long time ago that it was better to ask for something preposterous in person in a situation like this. If he’d said he was here to discuss becoming the new supplier of steel cables or “bandwidth” (Rob didn’t know what bandwidth was) for Mr. Maltley’s businesses, the assistant would never have let him in or even considered it. If you said something seemingly preposterous, the assistant wouldn’t know if it was a real thing or not, if it was code or a reference to something above his pay grade. There were a lot of possibilities that simply didn’t exist if you claimed you represented something mundane like a steel supplier.
Rob wasn’t lying though. He really was here to speak to Mr. Maltley about cookie storage.
“Mr. Maltley will see you now,” the assistant said, glaring at Rob as he opened the door. He gestured into the office like an ungainly giraffe. Rob entered and shut the door behind himself.
Mr. Maltley sat at his desk, head cocked to the side, eyebrows furrowed with a disapproving glre. He made a face like Prateek should have kept Rob out of his office, even though he would have done so if Mr. Maltley said so. He let Rob because Mr. Maltley said he did want to see him.
He did want to discuss cookie storage, it seemed.
Rob was not surprised by that. He was momentarily flummoxed, however, because Mr. Maltley was handsome. That was also not a surprise — it was the entire reason Rob was here — but it did throw him for a loop when he finally saw him in person. He was broad-shouldered and thick, black-haired but with a few silver roots as though he dyed it and needed to redye it soon. Rob was fine with him like that, since he liked the older men who maintained powerhouse physiques, especially in fine Italian suits.
Billions of dollars to his name didn’t hurt either. That would raise anyone up a notch or two.
“You’re here to talk to me about cookie storage. I don’t know what makes you think that’s an area I’m interested in.” Mr. Maltley said. “I don’t own a bakery.”
“I don’t lecture on feces either, so let’s not talk shit,” Rob said. “You let me in. If you weren’t interested, you’d’ve told that ass-heap to kick me out.”
“That ass-heap has a name.” He shifted his weight in his chair, and his eyebrows wiggled. Mr. Maltley was an eyebrow captain, but a handsome one. In an earlier era, he’d have been a salty seadog with a well-weathered face. Instead he was smooth and rugged like a painting of a horse. “I don’t remember it. It’s something Indian.”
“Under the Waxing Moon Proudfeather.”
“Wrong kind of Indian.”
“I know. He just has that ‘Under the Waxing Moon’ energy,” Rob said. “I wanted to show you something and see what you thought-” Rob busied himself with opening his briefcase. It was only two latches, but he wanted to make Mr. Maltley wait, so he pretended to have trouble with it. “Ah, there we go.” He lifted up a beautiful ornate cookie jar and placed it in his lap. It was a panda bear, arms and legs wrapped around a bee whose body was the actual jar. Its insectoid eyes were the lid, giving it an sinister vibe that was counteracted by the jolly bear with its amygdaliformic eyes.
Up until this moment, Rob had thought of the jar as just a tool to get what he wanted out of Mr. Maltley. It didn’t even occur to him to wonder why a cookie jar might be important or valuable or that it might really have an artistic statement. Once he pulled it out of the briefcase, however, he briefly saw it in the same light that Mr. Maltley did, and it made him feel flush with fear, disgust, comfort, humor, hunger, warmth, cold, all at once. It hummed and buzzed and rolled and frolicked, and when he touched it, Rob was struck with sunny warmth and the comfort of a hug, and the smell — no, not the smell, the feel, the vibe — of fresh-baked cookies wafted through his senses. The cookie jar brought him back to a childhood he’d never had, and for a moment that his mind constructed into an eternity, Rob saw the passage of his life, but not his actual life, his life if he had been born to the kind of mother who baked cookies and put them in a jar like this. He saw flashes of himself as a child, helping her cook, sneaking cookies, baking them for her for Mother’s Day, binging on them in his teenage years, eschewing them as baby-stuff, receiving the jar as a gift and filling them with his own cookies to dole out to the children this imaginary Rob presumably had, just out of sight.
He was almost reluctant to give it up. But that was the only reason he bought it, the only reason he brought it here. Of course he was going to give it up.
Mr. Maltley’s eyes opened wide. He gripped his desk tightly, then frowned and gritted his teeth. “First, I’d like to know why you came to see me about this.”
“Because I know you want it. You probably recognized it right away, didn’t you? It’s a Caranzano. They call it L’Abbraccio Eterno-“
“L’Abbraccio Eterno.” Mr. Maltley murmured with a much better Italian accent than Rob. “You believe I have an interest in cookie jars?”
“Look, you don’t have to hide it from me,” Rob said. “I know you went to Cookie-Con in 1991, and I have records from an insurance company showing you have a collection in your home-“
“How did you get that?” His silky voice turned biting and authoritative, and his eyes narrowed to slits.
“None of your business,” Rob said.
“It is precisely my business. My insurance policies are literally an example of business that I do-“
“Relax, relax, I’m not going to blow your secret. It shouldn’t matter to the Board of Directors anyway,” Rob said. He leaned back in the chair opposite Mr. Maltley’s. It was not the kind of chair that should be leaned back, and Mr. Maltley frowned, but Rob pretended he was unaware of the chair’s high-fashion design and of Mr. Maltley’s sourpatch frown. Rob licked his teeth. “But we both know it does. They don’t want a cookie-jar-collecting weirdo as CEO.” He smiled like a sunbeam at Mr. Maltley.
“Hmmm… Are you reaching a point, Mister…?”
“Winthrop.”
“Winthrop. Like Eugene Winthrop? The PayUp guy?”
“That’s my father. Eugene, not the app.”
He licked his teeth then, and he looked Rob up and down. “Is this a negotiation tactic? You think I’m gonna to give way on the processing fees for a Caranzano?”
It was Rob’s turn to throw his eyebrows way back at that. “I didn’t know about that. I don’t talk to my dad. If you’re negotiating with him, that’s not related to this,” Rob said. “I came here to talk about your collection. About adding to it. About adding a Caranzano to it.” Rob lifted the cookie jar he had brought here, the panda hugging a bee. “You don’t have any way to buy something this high-profile without the Board finding out.”
Mr. Maltley’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What do you want?”
“I want to taste your dick,” Rob said. “That’s all. Let me jack you off. I’ll use my mouth, and yes, I do swallow. And… if you want, you can cornhole me. Then you can add this fine Caranzano handmade cookie jar to your collection. They only made a hundred of these-“
“They made a hundred and ten, counting the prototypes.” Mr. Maltley frowned again — he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He clammed up and looked down his nose at Rob.
“You don’t have anything to be ashamed about. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It’s well-made, gorgeous-“
“It doesn’t need to be gorgeous. You don’t understand. A cookie jar is not just a place to store cookies. It is a living, breathing piece of art, a piece of childhood set in a fixed form. It is more than you can dream of, little man,” Mr. Maltley said. He stood and came to the front of his desk. “Why should I let you jack me off? For a cookie jar?! You would sully a cookie jar with tawdry perversion?”
“I would. Yes.”
“Let me pay you for it. The last time one was sold the price was seven thousand dollars. My cock is not worth that much.”
“I know. I think it is definitely worth seven thousand dollars,” Rob said. “I don’t get to taste a lot of billionaire dick.”
“You really want to jack me off with your mouth — which is utterly foul — instead of making seven thousand dollars?” Mr. Maltley said. When Rob didn’t immediately answer, he added, “Ten thousand.”
“Do you really want to pay ten grand instead of blow a nut?”
“This isn’t really something I do. I never spent time in a Turkish prison.”
“Oh, you should!” Rob said with a grin. He smacked his lips and slipped out of his chair. Mr. Maltley stood so close to him Rob would have been unable to stand up if he wanted to.
But he wasn’t trying to stand. He got on his knees in front of Mr. Maltley. He had jacked off enough men to know that they would say no if the answer was no. If they started trying to convince him to want something else, the answer was yes, they just didn’t want to admit to themselves that they were willing to do it without proving they tried really hard to get around it.
“You have to tell me where you got it. I can’t add it to my collection without a documented provenance,” Mr. Maltley said. “Is it stolen?”
“No! I inherited it from my great aunt. I barely knew her, this was just in a storage locker I got. Don’t worry, I have the paperwork from the will. I’ll send it to you. She paid for it, she bought it in Italy in 1994. She went there on a tour of the gigolos of Genoa,” Rob said.
“Why did she give it to you?”
“Do you really care? I don’t know, if you must know,” Rob said. “Probably she knew the rest of my family would just sell it to the highest bidder.”
“What’s wrong with that? I’m the highest bidder.”
“In dollars, yes, but I’m not looking to get paid in dollars,” Rob said. “And I have no desire for a fancy cookie jar. Or even a normal one. I don’t eat carbs.”
“You don’t store cookies in a cookie jar, that would be insane.”
“What do you do with them?”
“Appreciate them. Allow them to mature, to flourish in a spiritual way.” He pronounced ‘mature’ with a hard t, which made Rob frown.
“I see.”
“And you don’t want the money?” Mr. Maltley asked. “You’re not asking for ten grand?”
“I have plenty of money. What I don’t have is a your cock in my mouth.” Rob crossed his arms over his chest.
Mr. Maltley pursed his lips and nodded. “Fine…”
Rob slowly tweaked Mr. Maltley’s cock through the soft fabric of his slacks. When Mr. Maltley just sighed without complaining, Rob stroked it more fully, and leaned forward as Mr. Maltley sat on the edge of his desk.
He leaned back farther, both to give Rob easy access to his crotch and to reach his phone. He pressed a button. “Please hold my calls and don’t disturb us in here.”
“Yes, sir,” Prateek said through the intercom. His desire to know what was going in here was audible even through the tinny speakers, and Rob smirked. He suspected Prateek would be out there listening at the door before Rob was finished. But the door was too thick for any sound to travel through it.
When he hung up the phone, Mr. Maltley came back around to this side of his desk. He sat his plump ass on the edge of it, with the body language of a man expecting someone else to take his dick out and service it.
That was exactly the look Rob came here hoping to see.
He unzipped Mr. Maltley’s slacks and hefted his cock out. It was thick and smooth, heavy-balled, veinless or nearly so, and it was nice and meaty like a slab of beef. Rob slapped himself over the face with it. Mr. Maltley yawned and rolled his eyes.
“Have you ever been gotten a nut off in a man before?”
Mr. Maltley crossed his arms over his chest. He closed his eyes when Rob licked his shaft, then cleared his throat. “I was poor in college. I… I may have made some money in… in ways I do not tell people about now.”
“Oh yeah? I bet you had lots of fans back then,” Rob said with a shrug. “Those blue eyes… they’re the color of this sapphire on my mother’s favorite necklace.”
“The shade is called ‘endless sky’,” Mr. Maltley said as though Rob should have known that.
“I’m sure you were handsome then, but I like you better a little older.” Before Mr. Maltley could respond to that, Rob started throating him deeply, opening his throat wide to swallow every inch of his foot-long meat. It tasted warm and sunny, and it throbbed even now, fully soft, where it rubbed against Rob’s tongue.
“Goddamn…” Mr. Maltley had obviously not expected this to actually feel good. His eyes opened wide and he looked down. His face simmered ruddily and sweat dappled his chin. His chest rippled underneath his fine suit, as he licked his teeth and sparks of pleasure rocked his body.
He watched as his cock firmed up in Rob’s mouth, until it was rock-hard, veiny now, throbbing, pulsating. Rob slipped all the way down it until his nose was buried in Mr. Maltley’s dense pubic bush, which was past the fly of his slacks, so Rob’s face nuzzled his crotch in his pants.
Rob looked up at him and made eye contact as Mr. Maltley threw his head back, shuddered and bit back a moan.. He gripped the surface of the desk he sat on as though he might fall over if he didn’t hold on.
His cock popped out of Rob’s mouth, and this time, Rob did not chase it. He let it bob around in front of his face, dribbling precum onto his nose and upper lip. “You want to ramrod me? In the ass?” Rob asked, his mouth moist with precum.
“A rude way to put it. I’m not a convict,” Mr. Maltley said with a snarl, which he tried to relax into a snooty smirk. His chest rumbled beneath his suit, cock throbbing and leaking precum so fast it coated Rob’s face. Mr. Maltley leaned forward so it wouldn’t get on his suit pants. “Or a Puerto Rican.” He sniffled. “But yes. Get up and turn around.”
Rob nodded. He stood, and he bent his body over the desk where Mr. Maltley had been leaning the other direction a moment ago. He jutted his ass up.
Mr. Maltley waited. “Well? Take your pants down.”
“You do it. I took your dick out,” Rob said.
“So? Oh… fine, you prancing little shit,” Mr. Maltley said. He wrinkled his nose as though this part was distasteful, as he reached around Rob’s body to handle his belt. He undid the buckle, and Rob’s pants fell down.
Mr. Maltley squeezed first one asscheek, then the other, through his underwear. He tugged down Rob’s underwear as though it was some foul thing he didn’t want to touch. Rob sensed he had rarely or never touched another man’s underwear.
He spread Rob’s asscheeks with one hand. A little sneer came on his face, and it turned into a frown when Rob’s cheeks were bare. He looked away. “I’m not some prissy nerd, you know.”
“Uh-huh.” Rob felt the hotness of Mr. Maltley’s cock throbbing between his asscheeks.
“I went to Princeton on a scholarship. A needy youths scholarship,” he said.
“Awesome, man, is this the right time to be talking about that?”
“You probably think I’m some cleancut WASP, who thinks ramrodding is something Tupac invented after he was shot. I’m not like that.”
Rob sighed and turned his head around so he could see Mr. Maltley, who stood behind him, still spreading Rob’s asscheeks with one hand. His other hand held his throbbing erection like a javelin waiting for a go-order. Rob said, “I’m more of a Biggie Smalls guy. Are you gonna do this or not?”
“I am, I am. Just don’t get the wrong idea about me,” he said. He straightened his tie. Then he pistoned his hips, forcing his cock in Rob’s tight hole.
He slipped the knob in his ass, and a burst of painful pleasure wracked Rob’s body. Rob wasn’t ready for that. He clenched his teeth and took a deep breath through his nose, forcing his ass to relax. That let Mr. Maltley’s cock slide in far enough to hit Rob’s prostate.
As a wave of pleasure hit Rob’s body, his whole body undulated, and he cried out. Mr. Maltley pushed harder, his dick entering deeper and deeper with each thrust of his hips. He was already on the verge of cumming when Rob stopped licking it, so the tightness of Rob’s ass soon sent him to the precipice of an orgasm.
“Oh god, they taught you well at Princeton,” Rob said, his breathing jagged and panty, sensations sparkling over his body.
“Watch it. Don’t insult the Tiger,” he said, and his own chest muscles rippled beneath his tailored Italian suit.
“I didn’t!” Rob’s voice wavered because a jolt of pleasure coursed through his body. “I said they taught you well!”
Plowing back and forth, Mr. Maltley’s balls slapped against Rob’s asscheeks. He grumbled and maybe had a response, but his cock felt too good in Rob’s ass for him to hear it. Finally Mr. Maltley’s whole cock was ramming in and out of Rob’s dick, long-dicking him like, apparently, only a Princeton man could.
A wave of ecstasy hit Rob’s senses. His prostate came alive more and more, thrumming and humming, the pleasure growing with each collision of Mr. Maltley’s cocktip with Rob’s prostate. Rob cried out loud enough that fuckfaced assistant in the other room heard it faintly through the locked door and tried to guess what was happening.
A gurgling moan escaped from Rob’s lips as he felt Mr. Maltley approach orgasm. His cock pulsated like a beast in Rob’s ass, and the motion made Rob cried out with desire. His heavy balls rose up in his sac.
And then he moved suddenly, reaching behind Rob. For just a moment, Rob thought he was robbing him — Rob did a lot of rough-trade, so that happened. Then he realized that was ridiculous — why would a billionaire pick some random man’s pocket?
He had grabbed the cookie-jar. Rob leaning forward had nearly knocked it off the edge of the desk, and it would have shattered on the floor of the office. Mr. Maltley frowned and swore.
“You clumsy oaf! You almost broke it! You ridiculous mincing fool-!” Mr. Maltley gasped, his face turning red as he held onto the cookie jar with all the concentration he could muster. He shuddered and his voice broke. “Aaaaah-!
Since he was doing something else as he came, Mr. Maltley’s orgasm was strained, almost painful. He grunted. He was going to keep scolding Rob for almost breaking the cookie jar, then he stopped because the pleasure wracking his body was too intense to speak through. His cock stayed in Rob’s ass the whole time, as though he couldn’t bare to take it out for even a moment.
“Ah, oh…” he sighed and groaned, his face turning red.
Finally creamy cum sprayed into Rob’s ass, great gobs of it that spurted into his guts. At first he didn’t taste it because Mr. Maltley’s horsey cock was so big and so long that it aimed deep into his ass, further than Rob had ever experienced.
Ssome of it slipped onto his thighs, and Mr. Maltley slowly withdrew his shaft, as Rob’s cock spewed its own load. A wave of intensity overcame Rob, who adored the sensation of Mr. Maltley’s cock sliding out of him as it limpened, bringing with it a wave of jizz that plopped ontop the floor of the office.
“Ah, man…” Rob sighed as he pulled off his cock. Cum dripped down his thighs, and a shudder wracked his body.
“You… You made a mess on the floor, your graceless oaf,” Mr. Maltley said with a gasp. He gently placed the cookie jar on his desk. He frowned again, both at the cookie jar — he didn’t have any easy way of taking it home without his assistant seeing it — and because he was flummoxed by the mind-blowing orgasm he had just experienced. He never thought a man could make him feel like that. Certainly no woman had ever taken his dick in the ass as deeply as that.
“You have a nice dick, it’s just big enough to fuck with,” Rob said as he cleaned his dick off. He stood. “Thanks.”
“No. Thank you,” Mr. Maltley said. Only now did he realize his own dick dangled out the fly of his slacks, and he tucked it away. “Perhaps if you encounter any new… pieces in the future, you will contact me. I would be glad to set up future trades of this sort.”
“I will definitely let you know,” Rob said.
“Next time, please come to my home, not my office,” Mr. Maltley said. He wrote down his address. “I will instruct the doorman to let you in. He’s not as bad as my assistant.”

The Boss

Lamar is glad to have work, even if it’s difficult, dirty and remote. He’s gotta shower with other men, including his boss Nelson. When it turns out Nelson has some ideas on how two men can meet their needs far from women, Lamar just might have to swing on the downlow whether he wants to or not!

Read it now as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Lamar stumbled through the worksite towards the temporary showers. Moonlight shone upon the upturned dirt and scattered heavy equipment. Lamar’s hardhat almost fell off, but he righted it. He wasn’t drunk, but in the dark and on the uneven surface of the construction site, it looked like he was. He nearly fell several times.
Behind him, the rest of the work crew hooted and clapped. They were drunk. The crickets were impossibly loud here too — Lamar had thought coming here to the middle of nowhere would be a nice, quiet place to relax, but during the day his fellow workers catcalled each other (since there were no women here) amid the rumbling of heavy machinery, and at night, the crickets crippeted, the sound joining with the men to create a lively chorus louder than any city street Lamar had lived on.
He couldn’t complain. He hadn’t come here for peace and quiet, that was just something he had hoped to find anyway. He had come here to escape a debt.
A lot of what he had expected turned out not to be true. Lamar was a strong young man, a high school basketball star and all-around ladysman. His life was made — he was a good student, a good player, a law-abiding kid who wanted to go to college and was good enough to get a scholarship.
Only he wasn’t quite that good. His senior year had been a disaster. It wasn’t really his fault, the team just fell apart. His grades were awful. In the end, he had been offered a five hundred dollar scholarship to a podunk school that cost thirty-eight times that amount per semester. It was a joke.
And so that had been the end of all his dreams. There was no other way to do it, and he had fucked up.
Now here he was, working for his uncle’s friend, Nelson, who helped Lamar pay off his debt and gave him this job out in the middle of nowhere.
The rural construction site was in south Louisiana, near but not quite on the Gulf Coast. Nelson’s crew was building worker housing for an oil rig that would be built nearby afterwards. They were some thirty miles from the nearest road, living in tents, using endless generators to power makeshift equipment with limited supplies. The pay was not bad, especially since it was impossible to spend any of it most of the time.
But conditions were tough. Nature was loud, the work was long, the heat was stultifying, and the lack of electricity made everything boring.
At least the shower — which was just a tent with a hose contraption attached — seemed likely to feel good. It had its own generator to make its own hot water. That had seemed useless when he started and the day’s heat was like a woolen blanket he couldn’t throw off. But he was getting used to it, and it was chilly at night. A warm shower was going to feel good.
It was funny how something you took for granted could become a luxury in a matter of hours. Hot running water is too basic to be thankful for until the moment you don’t have it anymore, and then it’s the only thing that matters.
He stepped into the shower tent and sighed. He was glad to get away from the other workers. Nelson was the only black man on the crew, and he was the crew leader. That meant Lamar was the only black man among the rank and file. Lamar’s arrival had doubled the black population here, and he wasn’t sure that wase a good thing. The others seemed to see him as an extension of Nelson.
The rest were rednecks and roughnecks and other kinds of necks, Lamar didn’t know. He didn’t understand most of what they said, the drawl, holler and stawk in their voices mixing like currents in an eddy, and what came out was an incomprehensible wash of syllables. Nelson was in charge, and it was plainly obvious that none of them liked taking orders from a black man.
Nelson didn’t take any shit from them, but Lamar commanded no such respect. He was a rookie. He tried to let their words roll off him, but it was tough — if they had been outright racist, that would have been easier, he thought. He could fight them or at least dismiss them as ignorant hillbillies in his mind.
But they weren’t racist, at least not openly, not in a way Lamar could be sure he wasn’t imagining. They just gave Lamar all the worst tasks to do. They delighted in making fun of his skinny arms and relative lack of experience. In the showers, they had taken to pretending his dick was small even though it wasn’t.
That was the other reason he was glad to shower by himself at night. He hadn’t realized the only light in the shower tent came from the sun. It seemed obvious now, but he hadn’t even thought about it before stepping into the tent and realizing he was going to be showering in the dark. That must be why they all showered as soon as work stopped, when the sun was just setting.
Still, the shower tent was just a big wide open area, so there was nothing to bump into, and there was enough moonlight that it wasn’t pitch-black. He sighed when he got in, glad to be able to shower without a bunch of white rednecks crowding in around him.
They were entirely too comfortable with man-on-man contact for Lamar’s taste. They had a game they called the Crack Game, which basically meant they tried to thwack each other with their dicks in the asscrack. It wasn’t even a real game, there was no way to win or lose, no points, no beginning, no end. Lamar panicked the first time one of those hairy hillbillies attempted at Lamar, ramming his cock between Lamar’s plump brown cheeks — half the reason he had never joined a gang was that people had been telling him since he was a boy that his ass was too perfect for prison.
These workers were not too perfect for prison. Most of them had records, and a handful were open about being booty bandits. Lamar tried to stay away from them.
He turned the water on, and let it warm up before stepping under the stream. He sighed. He felt the day’s sweat wash over him, and the pounding stream of water pushed anxiety and aches from his labored muscles. He really liked being in here alone in the dark, he thought, deciding right then and there that he was going to continue showering at night as long as he worked here.
“Who dat?” came Nelson’s deeply accented rural voice.
“Lamar, man. I’m just showerin’-“
“I see that. What’d I tell you ’bout callin’ me man, nigga?”
Lamar rolled his eyes. Luckily Nelson couldn’t see that. Lamar said, “Sorry, sir.” Nelson had told him to call him sir so it didn’t look like he was showing favoritism to his friend’s nephew. Lamar had never called anyone ‘sir’ consistently like that.
He took off his hardhat and placed it next to Lamar’s. Since this entire area was technically a worksite, the hardhat was legally required everywhere except the sleeping quarters and the showers. He’d had it on so long Lamar’s scalp was super-sensitive when he first took it off tonight.
Lamar sighed, annoyed that he wasn’t getting his shower alone. That was another luxury that seemed basic until he didn’t have it anymore.
Even though he couldn’t see the man’s crotch, Lamar kept his eyes scrupulously above Nelson’s waist. That was just polite, that was how he and his fellow teammates had done it in the showers in the projects he grew up in — the juvenile shower had individual stalls, but when they moved up to the adult showering area, they did it in small groups of awkward, gaze-avoiding young men. They pretended not to have ever seen each other’s cocks no matter how often they showered together.
But the rednecks here didn’t do that at all. They compared sizes and pretended to masturbate on each other. They grabbed each other’s nuts and held on just to get the other person’s attention.
A part of Lamar wondered if he would feel better if he could be that relaxed and uninhibited. It wasn’t good to be uptight. They were right, it was just nudity. It was just a dick. We all have them, why not let them out? None of the men here had anything to hide. They all had imperfect bodies, with bellies and hairy backs and some of them have little dinky dicks that they weren’t even ashamed of it.
“Woo-hoo! I’m the undisputed champion of the Crack Game! Ain’t nobody can compete with me!” A hillbilly drawl echoed from the campsite. Sound traveled so clearly at night that Lamar could hear it easily even here in the shower. “Got a cock like a baseball bat!”
Lamar shuddered. That was a hillbilly named Cooter, who had a Confederate flag on his belly and a hoggish cock, ugly as a dead baby in a puddle, shit! He had hair on his back, he was one of those kinds of white men. Lamar did not like that kind of white man. Not in a racist way, he felt the same way about an Arab or a Jew or a Mexican whose chest hair had grown up over his shoulders and onto his back. Nah. Lamar don’t play that way. Cooter loved the Crack Game, the other workers must have been playing it outside.
“Cooter is shameful white trash,” Nelson said. He shook his head, wrinkling his nose as he got in the shower next to Lamar. “He dirty.”
Lamar wanted to complain and ask him to use a different shower, further away, but he didn’t dare. He just nodded and trembled.
“You seen that Confederate flag tattoo, right?” he asked and Lamar nodded. Nelson spat on the wooden floor of the shower tent. “He racist as shit.”
“He told me he wasn’t, he said he lost his virginity to a black girl,” Lamar said.
“Yeah, that’s just what he say. It’s true — I think — but he ain’t tellin’ the whole story cuz he don’t know you yet. That black girl was a prostitute his papa bought him. He told me that last year,” Nelson said.
“Oh. Okay.”
“They’s all racist. They don’t like me givin’ ’em orders,” Nelson said.
“They seem to respect you.”
“They do, but they don’t like it,” Nelson said. He cleared his throat and leaned back so the water ran over his powerful chest and big cock — Lamar couldn’t tell how big it really was because he refused to look directly at it, but even out the corner of his eye, he could tell it was big. “You like it here?”
Lamar shrugged. “The pay’s good.”
“That ain’t what I asked, boy. I’m gonna talk to yo’ uncle when I go back to the office tomorrow,” he said. “What should I tell him?”
“Tell him it’s fine, tell him I’m doin’ good,” Lamar said.
Nelson nodded. “Okay.” He paused, then whistled and placed one hand on Lamar’s flat belly. “You got a nice six-pack, boy. You probably get all kinds of girls with that, huh?”
Lamar burned with embarrassment as he mumbled his agreement. The other workers had been making fun of his ladysman smile and taut belly as well. Really Nelson had pretty close to a six-pack too — not quite, there was a hint of pudge there, but it was close enough that Lamar didn’t see much of a difference between their bellies.
His entire body tensed at the touch of Nelson’s hand. Lamar was a star basketball player, so he was used to his coach slapping his ass and rubbing his back. But something about the darkened, humid environment made this more nerve-wracking.
“You doin’ okay wit’out a girl here?”
Lamar nodded, then realized Nelson couldn’t see that. “Yeah,” he said, as casually as he could muster. Nelson’s hand slipped around his belly and clutched the small of his back. It rested there, gripping him loosely. Nelson’s hand was callused and firm, his fingers thick.
“You ever mess around on the downlow?”
His words hung there in the humid shower air. Lamar gulped. “No,” he said. He trembled, cursing himself for looking weak in front of Nelson.
Nelson chuckled dryly. “Really? That don’t sound like the truth, nigga.”
“Well… I mean…”
“You ain’t gotta go on,” he said. “I know what that means, you don’t wanna mess wit’ those rednecks. I don’t mess around with white men neither. Reminds me too much of prison life.”
“Okay.”
“You ain’t no kinda white man,” he said.
“Yeah…”
“You wanna jack me off?”
“No…”
“You wanna take it in the ass?”
“No way!” Lamar yelped and bit his lip as Nelson took his hand and placed it on Nelson’s thick rod. It spasmed as soon as Lamar touched it. Lamar felt a shudder of disgust, as well as horniness, run up his body. He’d been on the DL with some buddies in the past but never an older man like Nelson. Nelson sighed loudly, right in Lamar’s ear. Lamar’s heart raced and he shuddered. He tried to take his hand away, but Nelson held it in place, and Lamar had no choice but to hold onto its hot, throbbing thickness. Lamar gulped. “I, uh… If we on the downlow, that means I get to stick you too, right, nigga?”
“What was that?”
“I mean… sir.”
“Thank you. No, that ain’t right, Lamar. I’m yo’ boss. How would it look if I let you put it in me?” He said, softly, moving his mouth right next to Lamar’s ear.
“Nobody is here-“
“They could walk in,” he said. He kissed Lamar on the ear. “How about this, nigga? I’ll give you a reacharound.”
“What’s that?” Lamar asked before he had even given it any thought — of course it was obvious if you paused to consider it. He blushed, thinking he probably sounded naive. He knew what a reacharound was. His mind simply wasn’t working fast enough to keep up with the reality unfolding around him.
Nelson laughed. “Your uncle ain’t nevuh tell you what a reacharound is? He ain’t tell you ’bout prison?”
“Uh… My mom won’t let him tell me that stuff. She says it’s impolite to talk about prison.”
“Oh, you one of dem sheltered chilluns, huh?”
“No!”
In one smooth motion, Nelson slid behind Lamar. He wedged his dick between Lamar’s cheeks. Nelson was rock-hard, already leaking precum into Lamar’s ass.
“Well, when yo’ uncle and me was in prison together, we had sum rules. The guards took it serious, nigga,” Nelson said. He leaned in close so he could whisper in Lamar’s ear. “They ain’t wanna get involved when inmates get in fights with stiffies. So they make up a rule. You can do whatevuh it takes to blow a nut if the nigga on top give a reacharound. Then you ain’t a bitch, not a punk, you just lettin’ another man use yo’ butthole for awhile.”
Lamar shuddered. He bit his lip and looked down.
“Don’t be like that, nigga. We messin’ around on the downlow,” Nelson said. “Don’t go telling yo’ uncle I hurt you. I ain’t. You can tell me to fuck off if you want.”
A part of Lamar did want to tell him that, but a bigger part of him didn’t want to. Not only would it be easier to just go along with it, Lamar was very horny. He hadn’t realized how much he was going to miss girls. Back when he messed around on the DL in his old neighborhood, Lamar had always sworn he wouldn’t do it again, but when the opportunity presented itself and he was horny… the prospect of getting it in the butt seemed like a good trade for getting to blow a nut himself. He let his stiffies guide him then. It was only after it was all over that Lamar again promised himself that next time he would say no.
He was older now, more mature, better able to handle the sometimes intense horniness arising from his crotch.
“Will you jerk me off too? On the downlow?” Lamar asked. “I mean… since you don’t wanna take it in the ass-“
“Nah, I don’t do that,” Nelson said, taking Lamar’s words as acquiescence. “Thank you, baby. I’ll tell yo’ uncle you doin’ real good. I won’t tell ‘im about this.”
“Okay.”
“It don’t count in the dark, nigga. By the time morning comes around, you gonna be walkin’ normal again,” he said. “And if not, I’ll take you with me back to the office, so you get a whole day to recover. It’ll be like this nevuh happened.”
Then Nelson pumped his hips, slamming his dick into Lamar’s ass. Lamar bucked and squealed. A sharp burst of pain hit him, and he arched his back. Lamar held his breath and gripped the hose supplying his showerhead for support.
“Sssh, sssh,” Nelson said. “When you and yo’ buddies mess around on the downlow, you ever do it in the butt?”
“Uh… no…” That wasn’t true, but Lamar didn’t want to admit it to Nelson.
Nelson smiled. “I ain’t realize that, nigga. Hmm-hmm, I’s takin’ yo’ intactness,” he said. “Sorry ’bout that.” He paused to grab a bar of soap and work up a lather. He used that as lube as he slowly worked more of his dick into Lamar. He handed Lamar the bar of soap so he could use both hands to guide his cock.
As soon as he grabbed the soap, Lamar knew he was going to drop it. It slipped right out of his hand and plopped onto the wet wooden floor. Lamar gasped, and Nelson laughed.
“Go on then, bend over,” Nelson said. “That’s a better position anyway.”
Sharp, shooting pains ran up his side as Lamar bent over. He had no sooner touched the soap when another ray of agony shot through him. Lamar gasped as a deep ball of pleasure boiled up too — it felt distant for now, like it occurred behind all the pain, but it was undeniably there.
“Grab yo’ ankles, boi,” Nelson said.
Lamar did so. He couldn’t decide if this was a more or less painful position than any others. He gritted his teeth as Nelson pushed another inch or two of his dick in, and that pit of pleasure grew stronger.
Then Nelson’s hand crept around and grabbed Lamar’s dick. Lamar yelped again, even though it wasn’t a surprise. He lifted his head as intense pre-orgasmic energy roiled through him.
His ass loosened up enough that Nelson could plow him more easily, a fact that Lamar found humiliating. It was comforting to know that Nelson wouldn’t bring this up tomorrow. Nelson even kissed him on his grizzled neck, his own thick mustache bristling against Lamar’s skin.
Then Nelson’s free arm wrapped around Lamar’s body and held him close. His smooth chest rubbed against Lamar’s back, muscles rippling. Lamar’s dick pulsated beneath Nelson’s grip. Lamar wanted to let go but didn’t. The more he squeezed, the more Nelson’s whole body rippled and his muscles flexed where they pressed against Lamar’s limbs.
“You gonna nut now, nigga?”
“I dunno…” Lamar said, breathless. He wasn’t lying, but as soon as he said it, he knew the correct answer was yes.
Nelson seemed to realize that. He licked Lamar’s cheek. “I love feelin’ niggas orgasm when my dick’s inside ’em. So go on. I wanna feel it,” he said. He repeated himself over and over, his deep, gruff voice resonating in Lamar’s ear. Lamar really wanted to tell him to shut up, but before he could, his orgasm hit him. He moaned and bucked, hips flexing as he pushed his ass backwards onto Nelson’s manhood.
Hot cum sprayed within the shower, mixing with the warm water and slipping between the slats of wood that made up the floor. Lamar writhed in Nelson’s biceps as pleasure erupted deep within him.
Nelson held on tight as the orgasm burst in Lamar’s ass, spreading throughout his body. Then Nelson let out a long low sigh right in Lamar’s ear, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
Both of Nelson’s arms wrapped around Lamar’s belly. “Sorry ’bout this, nigga. Might hurt a bit,” he said softly. Then he rammed his dick in and out in a series of long, smooth actions. Blinding pain erupted in Lamar’s ass, and he bit his lip to avoid screaming. The pain grew more and more intense before transforming into intense bliss.
He didn’t know how long Nelson plowed him hard like that. It felt like eons, but was probably only a few seconds. Soon enough, it was over and Nelson held on with his dick at maximum penetration.
Then hot semen spurted out, coating Lamar’s insides. Lamar moaned, embarrassed at how orgasmic the sound was — he didn’t mean to sound like he was enjoying this, even if a part of him did enjoy it. Intense sensations wracked his body, and he cried out as spasms of pleasure spread through his frame. He hoped it sounded like pain to Nelson, so he wouldn’t think Lamar wanted to do this again.
He did want to do it again. He just didn’t want to want to do it again.
He shuddered with humiliation as wad after wad of cum flowed into him. It dripped down his thighs and landed on the floor. The creamy semen seeped into every corner of Lamar’s body.
“Gimme yo’ hand, boy,” Nelson said with a growl. “I don’t like it when my dick just fall out of a nigga’s ass. Keep stroking it, okay?” He placed Lamar’s hand on the root of his limpening dick as he slowly withdrew it.
Lamar gulped nervously but did as he was told. Nelson’s dick was thick and slimy, dripping with shower water, soap suds, dried sweat and sticky semen. Lamar’s stomach churned and he gagged at the warm texture of it.
Finally it was all the way out. Nelson kissed him on the lips, and even shoved his tongue into Lamar’s mouth. Then he stepped away and washed his dick off in the stream of hot shower water.
“You okay, nigga?” he asked.
Lamar winced and straightened his legs. He still felt burning pain, and deep inside, remnants of his orgasm, but he tried to hide it. He mumbled, “Yeah, it’s okay, nigga.”
“What?”
“I mean… I’m okay, sir.”
“Good. I put a tub of aloe in yo’ bunk. It’s under yo’ pillow,” Nelson said as he walked back to his clothes. He didn’t put them on though, he just put that hardhat back on his head — that was legally required, after all — and picked his clothes up. “Put that aloe in your ass. It’ll help,” he said, then walked out of the tent, bare cock flapping in the breeze.
Lamar breathed a sigh of relief. That hadn’t been too painful, he thought, and at least he didn’t get caught. He shuddered at the silhouettes of his redneck coworkers, who were still hanging out by the campfire, hollering at each other and thwacking each other’s asses with their cocks.
The sound of their carrying on filled the night sky. Lamar just smiled, washed his ass off and walked to his tent. That had been humiliating, he thought, but fun as well, and it seemed like a worthwhile trade if it gave him a chance to work here and pay off his debt. Just like Nelson, he remained naked on the walk to his bunk except for the hardhat he kept on his head. The aloe was there at his bunk, just as Nelson had promised, and it did help the pain.
He managed to sink into restful sleep before the rednecks even got back to their bunks, and for the first time since he got there, Lamar felt like he was where he was supposed to be.