Smashwood Trailer Park – Mansploitation

Seven Minutes in Heaven

Lance is a victorious lawyer given a reward he’ll never forget: Seven Minutes in Heaven with a hunky jock named Chris. He gets seven minutes to do anything he wants to Chris’s studly body, and he fully intends to get the most out of every minute!

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Or read the whole thing here!

Lance didn’t want to go to the party, but it was being thrown in his honor, so he couldn’t refuse. The Smashwood crew had lit a big bonfire by the time he got there, and they were all shotgunning beers — they hadn’t been allowed to drink while they were on house arrest, so now they were making up for lost time.
To Lance, it was bittersweet. He had been living in Oklahoma for most of a year, and he had gotten his local law license in time to defend a group of offenders from Smashwood Trailer Park, who were accused of a series of small-time robberies and assaults. He was proud of his success in getting all of the charges dropped. On the other hand, he knew they were guilty. They had beat a man so badly he spent ten months in the hospital. On the other, other hand, the state of Oklahoma had been unable to prove it, so he didn’t regret getting them off. That was his job, after all, and he was good at it.
“Congrat’lations, man!”
“My girl’s pussy thanks ya!”
“Hell yeah! Best lawyer in Oklahoma!”
Someone handed him a beer, and Lance sipped it at first, then realized the others were all chugging, so he did likewise.
“Come on, broh, drink it!” Chris Hazel yelled through a barrel of drunken laughs, and the others echoed him. Chris was the youngest here, only nineteen, and built like the high school football star he had been just a year or two ago. He had a jolly-cute face though. “Chug it! Chug it!”
“Hey, so… uh…” Math sidled up to Lance, shooing his friends away and telling them to stop pestering him. Math was the leader of the Smashwood guys — a loose-knit gang of small-time thieves — alleged thieves — he was the one who faced the most extensive charges, so he benefited the most by Lance getting the whole crew acquitted. Math leaned in so close his face was right next to Lance’s ear. “So, uh… How crazy is you?”
“Very,” he said. Then without thinking about it, he kissed Math on the lips. Math’s eyes opened wide amid the laughter and shocked gasps from the other rednecks. For a moment, Lance thought Math was going to hit him, but then Math smiled — it hadn’t been much of a kiss, after all, just a dry peck on the lips.
Math pointed to the three girls at the party. They were hot, in a slutty redneck way, and they lounged in one corner as though waiting. They wore skimpy outfits that showed off their tits and ass, and they each had trashy tattoos on their lower back. Lance strongly suspected they were prostitutes.
“You wanna fuck one of them? Or all three?”
Lance shook his head. “Thanks,” he said. “But no thanks. I’m not interested.” That was both because he wasn’t in a mood for women right now and cuz he didn’t do prostitutes. Lance preferred a more elegant class of women. “No prostitutes for me, Lyle.” Lance called him ‘Lyle’ because ‘Math’ was a gang name and he had denied throughout the trial that he was the person known as ‘Math’. Lance chose not to use it when he could avoid it. He had made the argument in court, after all, that Lyle was not Math.
“I told you guys!” Math called out to the others. Math’s voice was suddenly loud, booming across the trailer park. Most of them had moved on and were trying to get a three-wheeler unstuck from a muddy ditch it couldn’t extricate itself from, so the party was quiet enough for an ordinary conversation.
A burst of chatter hit the guys around the bonfire. Lance didn’t hear what they were saying because everyone spoke at once.
“You want a different female?” Math asked.
Lance shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything, Lyle. You already paid me for my services.”
“I ain’t tryna-a pay you,” Math said. “I’m tryna-a congratulate you.” He sneered as though Lance should have known the difference.
“Let ‘im cornhole you, Math!” said someone else with a laugh.
“Yeah, Math, you do it! You the one who had the most to lose.”
That was true — Math had faced some extra charges because he was in charge of the beatdown, plus the bloody bat had been found in his trailer here in the Smashwood Trailer Park. But Math looked horrified at the thought, and he furrowed his brow at Lance as though he hadn’t considered he would be willing to cornhole a man but not fuck a woman.
Then Math’s eyes lit up. He must have concluded Lance was Christian. Which was true, but not the reason Lance didn’t want a prostitute.
“He don’t wanna cornhole me,” Math said with a wrinkle of his nose.
“Uh…?” Lance smiled. “No, Lyke. You’re wrong about that.”
“Really? We was gonna let you swing on some dick if you wanted, but we thought you’d want a woman instead,” Math said.
“You thought that, Math,” someone said with a laugh. Whoever it was shrouded by the darkness beyond the bonfire.
Math shrugged. “Well, fine, pick someone to jerk off,” he said. “Ain’t no one here gonna take no dick up the ass, but a mouth is a mouth, right guys?”
Lance was astonished.
Chris, that young fresh-faced jock, chuckled and blushed. “Seven Minutes in Heaven! We should play Seven Minutes in Heaven with him!” he blurted out a few times until the others heard. He was a husky baby-faced redneck, with a literal red neck and scruffy chin like he only just gained enough facial hair to shave and was growing a beard because he finally could. His meaty lineman-jock body jiggled. “Seven Minutes in Heaven!”
“What are we, middle-schoolers?”
“Shut the fuck up, Chris.”
“What’s Seven Minutes in Heaven?” Lance had never heard of it.
Despite most of the rednecks saying no and telling Chris it was a stupid game for teenagers, they all accepted his idea. Lance had no idea what he was talking about, as the rednecks all formed a tight circle near the bonfire.
Math explained, “So this is a game, we normally play it with just the girls, or we used to play it in high school,” he said. “It’s stupid, a kid’s game. We don’t do it no more.” But despite his words, they got ready to play, Math included. The girls joined the circle as well. “It’s basically Spin-the-Bottle but rather than just kiss, you have to go in the dirty-dawg trailer-” he pointed to an uninhabited trailer next to the bonfire, “for seven minutes.”
“And we… do what??”
“Whatever you want,” Math said.
Math nodded grimly. “Even me, man. It’s just dome, or whatever. Just let ‘im taste yer nut. Ain’t a big deal. We all spent a night in lockup-” He stopped because the other guys clapped and coughed over him as though they had all promised not to speak of whatever had happened there. His voice trailed off.
Someone put the bottle in Lance’s hand. If he weren’t so nervous — and excited — he would have declined. But he spun the bottle anyway.
“Not me! Not me!”
“Hey, after the sissy, let’s keep going, we got three girls, that’s nine holes to fill!”
It almost landed on one of the girls, then just barely managed to rotate to the next person in the circle. Chris.
Lance’s heart started pounding — if he had thought rationally about it, Chris would be exactly whom he would have picked: the handsome jock with the muscles and the dimples… He would be ideal. But this was all happening so fast that Lance didn’t even think about his ideal first choice before it was all done.
“Makes sense, it was your idea,” Math said over the hooting laughter. The others laughed and catcalled at Chris, who blushed beet-red. Somebody smacked him on the ass as he walked towards the trailer. He cast a nervous glance at Lance. He had a nice phat ass, and his cheeks rippled when his friends tapped him on the ass. He bristled like he was uncomfortable with it, but didn’t complain.
“I don’t even care, I’ll let some sissy swing on my dick,” Chris said. “I need to get my dick wet!” He grabbed his overflowing crotch-bulge as he stood in the threshold of the trailer, then entered. His confidence disappeared entirely once he was in the trailer. He made eye contact with Lance and winced.
Chris was a tall, beefy young man, with broad shoulders and a barrel-shaped body. He had been a linebacker on his high school football team, and he still retained all that heft and meat even now, a couple years out of school. He had peachfuzz on his cheek and his chest — visible under the wifebeater he wore — and a thick mop of blond hair on his head. He had a powerful body beneath his layer of padding, which was just thick enough. He had the physique of an athlete who had never watched what he ate, so his perfect frame was concealed by a layer of sexy plumpness. He smelled of sweat and cheap deodorant, a scent that made Lance’s dick get hard in his pants.
“Whatchoo wanna do?” Chris asked, his voice wavering. It sounded like he rarely lacked confidence, and was uncomfortable with it.
“What, uh… What are the rules?” Lance asked.
“You can do whatever you want,” Chris said. He blushed again, as his friends outside called out to him.
“You swallowin’ that sissy dick yet, Chris? Bet you regret comin’ up with this idea?!”
“Fuckin’ retard!”
“Cornhole Chris! Cornhole Chris! Make him cry, Lance!”
Chris sighed. “I know Math said you can say no, but you ain’t s’sposed. Or I ain’t s’sposed to, I mean… neither of us is s’sposed to. It’s bein’ a bad sport.”
“Oh,” Lance said. Not wanting to waste any time, he sunk to his knees. Chris wore dirty, loose jeans, and Lance grabbed his crotch through the denim. He sniffed the filthy material, then looked up at Chris, who watched as though terrified of what was happening.
The rednecks outside outside the trailer were chanting “Cornhole Chris!” over and over as they directed flashlights through the curtains into the trailer. Their light danced on the walls like searchlights. The curtains meant they couldn’t see inside anyway, but the lights were still blinding for Chris and Lance.
Chris nodded. “I play by the rules, suh,” he said. “Just tell them you jerked me off, and I have a huge one. Ain’t gotta lie ‘bout that. I don’t give a shit who swallow my nut.” Despite his words, he sucked in his breath as Lance touched his dick. Lance suspected he had rarely, if ever, let a man jerk him off, except perhaps that one time in jail (when it seemed the whole crew had done so — Lance wondered who had done the swallowing then; had it been one of them? Or was there an outsider in there with them?).
Lance unzipped Chris’s jeans and pulled them down. He wore plain dingy white briefs, which Lance also pulled down. He whistled at the sight of Chris’s massive cockshaft, which hung limply between his trunkish legs.
“Hey, Chris, squeal like a piggie, okay? I know you can do it! Yee-haw!”
A blush spread across Chris’s face, and he frowned like a part of him wanted to run outside and start throwing punches. Lance guzzled down his limp dick before he could change his mind. Chris had a thick, greasy slab of meat, and his youthful vigor meant it perked up in Lance’s mouth right away.
“Ah, damn…” Chris said, a blush appearing on his babyface as though he hadn’t meant to reveal how good this dome was. “You swallow that like a champion mare, boy.”
Lance smiled around the rapidly firming cock in his throat. He slathered spit up and down Chris’s shaft, and he grinned as the plump cocktip tickled the back of his throat.
“He’ll do anything, Lance, remember that! This is Seven Minutes in Heaven, not Seven Minutes in Compromise!”
“Stick it in his ass! Make ‘im squeal!”
They laughed as though it was a huge joke, but also with a trace of seriousness. From the faint grumblings that Lance heard indistinctly outside, he suspected that two men had, on occasion, gone into this trailer before for a similar purpose. They were whispering about it as some long-ago scandal.
Chris grunted as though surprised at how good this spot of dome felt as Lance swallowed his cock down to the root. He quickly got hard, and he humped his hips into Lance’s face. Chris’s round jaw wriggled as he chewed on his lower lip, whether out of passion or anxiety or both Lance wasn’t sure.
The sour flavor of precum coated Lance’s tongue. He moaned and let some of it drip out of his mouth, running in rivulets down the veins that wrapped over Chris’s plump shaft.
Six minutes left!
Lance wanted to see how far he could take Chris, so he licked the man’s heavy, low-hanging balls while taking his own cock out of his pants. He licked a trail from Chris’s cock and over his belly.
Chris was in excellent shape, but he didn’t have a six-pack — it was obvious, to Lance anyway, that he didn’t have the body-type for it. This was probably about as close as he was capable of getting, just a little paunch and a layer of padding over his dictionary-sized pecs. Lance sucked on his nipples as Chris’s muscles rippled and he held back a moan.
Chris either didn’t care or didn’t notice as Lance jousted with his cock and Chris’s. Lance stroked off both shafts at once. Chris was more focused on moaning as his nipples grew erect in Lance’s mouth. With both men’s precum running from their cocktips, it wasn’t obvious to Chris that the sensation on his dick came from Lance’s manhood rather than his fingers.
Then Chris blanched. His hands fluttered like he didn’t know where to put them — he had realized he was touching dicks with Lance. He moaned with pleasure, then blushed as if he was trying to stop from moaning.
“You want me to stop?”
“Nah,” Chris said. He took a deep breath. He spoke quietly to be sure no one outside could hear. From the occasional rocking and banging on the walls, it sounded like the other rednecks were right on the other side, listening for any hint at what was going on in there. “I’ll do anything you want,” Chris whispered. He looked down at his massive trailer park-bred feet. Lance got on his knees and kissed him on the lips, which were dry and thick. Chris opened his mouth as though he had been waiting for that, and their tongues interlocked. Lance was shocked that Chris kissed him back.
As someone outside called out, Five minutes left, Lance decided to hurry up. He sunk back down, tongue leaving a trail of spit down Chris’s thick neck, chest, belly, crotch and thigh. He intended to let Chris ram his face.
But it seemed Chris didn’t get that. Chris instead grumbled a bit but mounted Lance’s body backwards, as though he was going to sixty-nine. Lance gasped with shock as Chris’s cock and balls plopped on his face. Sweat and precum dribbled down his cheek.
“Thanks for getting me outta prison,” Chris said.
Then, before Lance could tell him he didn’t have to do this, Chris swallowed Lance’s dick. He gagged right away, even before it hit the back of his throat, and then he gagged continuously until he got used to it. His tongue battered Lance’s cockshaft, which was already erect and throbbing. Lance sucked in his breath, and his toes curled.
Absolutely shocked by this development, Lance nearly blew his load immediately. He had rarely felt such intense pleasure, as his cock throbbed and pulsated in Chris’s mouth. Chris gurgled, and he sucked down every drop, regardless of how his throat spasmed around the salty precum that leaked down his gullet.
Lance instinctively used one hand to guide Chris’s head up and down, while Chris’s meaty body planted his own cock in Lance’s throat. Lance swallowed it to the root, and he too slathered spit up and down the shaft. Chris hadn’t lost any bit of his erection, so it firmly filled Lance’s throat and it too spewed precum into Lance’s belly.
Seemingly overcome by passion, Chris stopped playing with Lance’s precum-nearly-cumming cock. He lifted his head up and grunted as he slammed his dick deep into Lance’s throat. He gasped, and Lance choked. His thick arms grabbed both of Lance’s legs and held on to them tightly.
His mouth open and his head near Lance’s dick, Chris was trying to swallow that dick once more, but his orgasm was too intense to do it. He couldn’t concentrate, all he could do was moan as pleasure shuddered through his body, while Lance’s dick did little more than bob and spasm, leaving a trail of juices along Chris’s butterface.
“Yee-haw, fuck! Yeah!” Chris said as quietly as he could muster. His back arched and the peachfuzz on his spine stood up.
Chris’s entire muscular body jiggled when he came, spraying a load all the way down Lance’s gullet. He felt up his own nipples with each hand, and his burly body puckered beneath Lance’s grasp. Lance savored the creamy texture and salty flavor as it overwhelmed his senses.
Then Chris kneeled, planting his hairy ass on Lance’s face. He laughed as Lance licked the ticklish taint between his thighs. He reached out and stroked Lance’s dick with one hand, while his other caressed Lance’s smooth chest.
Chris breathed deeply, with a sick smile on his face as he watched Lance lick his sensitive taint. Every few seconds a shudder of post-orgasmic pleasure shot through him, and Chris’s whole body writhed atop Lance’s face.
“Damn, you smooth as hell, boy,” he said.
“Have you ever messed around with a man before?”
Chris looked away. He didn’t answer out loud, but it was obvious the answer was yes — Lance really wanted to ask for details, but he didn’t think Chris would provide any, and regardless, Lance was too aroused to concentrate. He couldn’t believe this football jock was touching his cock.
It was probably in prison, anyway, before the trial, when it seemed Math, Chris and all the others had messed around. As the youngest, they might have made Chris bottom for the whole crew, Lance thought, a possibility that Lance wished he could have watched.
He took his ass off Lance’s face, then mounted Lance’s crotch. He squatted over it and let his ass land on Lance’s hardon. He looked pained even before Lance’s dick sunk inside him. He winced and hung his head to avoid eye contact with Lance.
“Oh shit that hurts!” Chris said with a wince. That made it seem like he was intact, Lance thought, as another burst of bliss wracked his body, emanating from his sensitive cock.
“Sorry, sorry,” Lance murmured, his lithe body growing sweaty as the trailer heated up. He let out a cringing moan of passion as Chris lowered his plump cheeks. Lance chuckled. “Ow, shit, Chris! That’s too big!”
“Ah, damn, horse-cock Chris strikes again!”
“Hold ‘im down, boy! Ain’t no backin’ out!”
His dick disappeared in Chris’s well-muscled ass, which was firm as overinflated basketballs. Chris’s blushing face turned even redder from both embarrassment and pain. His post-orgasmic dick even spasmed a few times when Lance hit Chris’s prostate. Jizz leaked onto Lance’s belly and slid into his crotchhair.
Lance grabbed Chris’s body and felt his muscles, which were tense and flexed. Beneath the padding he was like a statue though, gym-toned muscles firm as rocks, and the feel of his masculine physique made Lance want to ram him like this forever, instead of a mere seven minutes in heaven. Chris remained perfectly still aside from an occasional gasp and wince.
“Damn, Chris, you got a perfect ass…” Lance muttered, as the tightness of it sent waves of sensation through his body. He kissed Chris’s muscular torso and licked the sweat that had collected there.
His dick was all the way inside Chris now, sliding in and out. Chris was such a big boy that his asscrack was huge, matted with dark blond hair and dripping with sweat, spit and assjuice. That meant he was well-lubed, so Lance could easily slid his dick in and out. Chris did suck in his breath every few seconds in pain, but he didn’t complain.
One minute left!
The more they got a good rhythm going, the most Chris seemed to get into it. It wasn’t clear that he even heard the men outside giving him just one minute left. Lance didn’t want Chris to get caught in this position when they opened the door, so he plowed hard back and forth, ignoring the spasming pain of Chris’s muscles. Instead Lance rammed his crotch against Chris over and over as his climax mounted.
Finally that orgasm hit him like a linebacker tackle, just as Lance heard the men outside chanting and counting down the last thirty seconds. Lance gasped, and Chris squealed his discomfort. He blushed at having made such an unmanly sound. Luckily nobody outside seemed to hear it.
As the orgasm washed over him, Lance yelped and squirmed. He made enough noise that the rednecks outside heard and laughed. They were knocking on the door now, but it seemed they had a rule of not opening the door until the seven minutes was up.
Lance’s limp cock plopped out of Chris’s ass. Chris breathed a sigh of relief. Then without another word, he backed up, making all of the jizz up his backside flow out and plop onto Lance’s back.
As the last ten-second countdown began, Chris rested his balls right on Lance’s nostrils, and the scent of his rank sweat coated Lance’s nose. Chris’s balls smelled like his own ass, mixed with feet and cum and perspiration. It was almost enough to make Lance nut all over again.
Chris guffawed. “I’s teabaggin’ him, guys!”
“Four. Three! Two! One!”
They flung the door open, obviously hoping to catch Chris in a compromising situation. But Chris was on top of Lance, leaving no clue that Chris had been penetrated. His gigantic cock was plainly visible — that must have been his goal, Lance thought, to make sure his friends saw he had a giant cock, and Chris was teabagging Lance. Lance’s body was covered in cum — and so was Chris’s ass, not that they could see that.
They clapped at the sight of Lance’s moist face. Chris blushed as though he hadn’t meant to get caught at all, and he pulled his underwear on. Someone handed him a beer as he left the trailer, still wearing nothing but his briefs, and Math smacked his ass with a howl. His asscheeks must have had jizz clinging to them — Lance’s jizz — but Math either didn’t notice or didn’t want to point it out in front of th ewhole crew.
“You alright, Lance?” Math asked. He side-eyed Chris.
“He’s fine,” Chris said, winking at Lance. “His ass couldn’t quite take the Big C-” He grabbed his cock through his shorts and wagged it at Math. “But his mouth managed to hold in there. It was seven minutes in heaven for sure.”
“That’s right,” Lance said with a knowing grin as he too stepped out of the trailer. “It truly was seven minutes in utter heavenly bliss.” He was exhausted but he tried to hide it, thinking it might look obvious that he had done some plowing and that Chris had bottomed.
But most people were drunk by then, and they just guffawed at Chris’s embarrassed look. No one even seemed to consider the possibility that Chris had bottomed.
And in any case, they were all focused on moving onto the next round of the game. That meant getting the remaining men — plus those three prostitutes — to sit down in a circle with a bottle yet again. Lance hung out near that trailer, hoping he would be able to get a peek inside at what happened during the next Seven Minutes in Heaven.

Breaking Alpha

Madhu is cooking meth for a biker gang, who supply him with a bodyguard. That’s Knuckle, a terrifying brute of a man who just might have a softer side, one that Madhu is excited to explore.

Will Madhu survive alongside Knuckle’s brand of massive masculinity?!

Read it now as an ebook!

Or read the whole thing here!

Madhu Sharma was always nervous when he came to “work”. He was only just starting to see it as a job at all, but that’s what it was. He certainly didn’t enjoy doing it, and he only did it for the money. He was in desperate need of cash.
It sure felt like a job. It was only missing an obnoxious HR person to make him go on team-building workshops.
Madhu had started cooking meth because he needed money. It wasn’t his plan to make money that way. He had simply graduated with a degree in chemistry and no way to make money with it. The only people hiring a chemist were drug dealers.
He had also had nowhere to live, and the Jagged Right — a biker gang here in Smashwood Trailer Park — provided a solution to both of his problems. They gave Madhu a trailer to live in, and they paid him a weekly, tax-free stipend to make meth. He was doing better than most of the people he went to college with; they struggled to find jobs with major multinationals, while Madhu was rolling in the dough from the beginning.
It was easy, really. There was a lot to the process, but Madhu was well-practiced at it.
So Madhu was always nervous when he came to work. That simply entailed leaving his trailer and walking to the trailer next door. The trailer park was closed to outsiders, with bikers sitting by the gate to alert when visitors arrived — uninvited visitors were treated with extreme suspicion.
When Knuckle arrived, Madhu was terrified. Even as Math (the head biker in charge around here) explained, Madhu couldn’t pay attention because his heart fluttered. Knuckle was a giant, nearly seven feet tall, and built like a linebacker. He had a mean, craggy face that made him look older than he was, and his tanned skin was marked with what looked like prison tats.
“Knuckle here is gonna be your bodyguard. Don’t go nowhere without him,” Math had said, and that was it. That was the only explanation Madhu was given.
Knuckle grunted. He ignored Madhu. He went to the door to the trailer and stood there, unmoving, like a statue. He remained motionless for a few minutes, but eventually he walked around the perimeter of the trailer. He tried each of the windows, which had been sealed shut already.
Only then did he come in and speak. “What is the opening on the roof?” His voice was deep and gravelly. He was so big, with cavernous lungs, that he was hard to understand, his voice resonating and bouncing around in his body.
He wore only a sleeveless shirt, revealing a crude network of colorful tattoos. It wasn’t an “arm-sleeve”, it was more haphazard than that, but it coated his left arm and much of his right, and more tattoos — including what appeared to be a couple of weasels humping — were visible on his chest. He even had a network of camouflage designs on the side of his neck, which was so short and thick it was barely visible. He pointed up at the roof of the trailer.
“Uh… That? The ventilation system?” Madhu pointed upwards. His heart skipped a beat. “It’s, uh… ventilation.”
“It ain’t secure. Someone could get in.”
Madhu blushed. “Uh, well, maybe, but we need ventilation. These chemicals put out toxic fumes. This trailer would be a lethal gas chamber in an hour or two if you made it airtight.”
He frowned. He was quiet for a long time. He looked Madhu up and down. Knuckle furrowed his brow.
“Fine.” He frowned. “I will fix it.”
Madhu’s heart skipped a beat. Knuckle was so scary it hurt. He had an amazing body though — oh god those muscles, Madhu had to suppress a leer and a lick of his teeth. Madhu wondered if Knuckle understood that the ventilation system was absolutely required. He seemed to think Madhu was making that up, that the chemicals weren’t really poisonous.
This was not some debatable liberal agenda though, Madhu thought. If made airtight, this trailer could be used as a gas chamber to execute inmates; it was highly toxic; it would make his lungs melt if the concentration got high enough. The whole trailer could explode too. Madhu didn’t think Knuckle got that.
Sure enough, soon, Knuckle was up on the roof banging away. Madhu stepped outside. Should I confront him? Am I allowed to? Should I go to Math and complain? If he blocks up the ventilation, I’m going to die.
“Uh, Knuckle… what, uh… what are you doing?”
Knuckle came to the edge of the roof of the trailer and looked down. He scowled, then jumped to the ground. He grabbed Madhu and dragged him back into the trailer.
Knuckle grunted. He tossed Madhu into the trailer. Madhu was shocked because that had happened so fast, and because he was more than a little turned on by the feel of Knuckle’s muscles. He felt like his body was filled with writhing snakes, Madhu thought, and his sweat tasted salty and clean and delicious.
“What-?”
“You gotta stay in here, man. It ain’t secure for you to be off wanderin’ around,” Knuckle said. “When you on duty, you gotta stay in here.”
“Oh, uh… okay.” Madhu thought he should argue or leave or go get Math, but he didn’t. He was worried he’d get in trouble. He could always talk to Math about it later. Did he really even need security? He hadn’t needed this kind of security up until now.
Knuckle nodded. He again paused to look Madhu up and down, and he even licked his lips. He almost looked like he was aroused, but Madhu assumed that wasn’t it. Knuckle left the trailer and went back to the roof.
Madhu returned to his lab. The day was almost done anyway, and then he’d need to leave the reaction to catalyze all night. He was about to leave the trailer when the door opened and Knuckle walked in.
“I installed a lock. It can still ventilate,” Knuckle said, “But no one can break in.”
“Oh. Cool, okay,” Madhu said. He blushed.
“I do not want anyone to hurt you.” He glowered, sucking on his teeth and chewing his lower lip.
“Right. Thanks.” Madhu cringed, the situation suddenly too intense for him to think. Knuckle peered deep into his eyes. The aroma of his unwashed scent turned Madhu on.
He had no way of knowing that Knuckle was thinking similar things. He found his eyes drawn to Madhu’s perky young body all day. He had a delightfully feminine shape to his ass, and though his voice wasn’t obviously girlish, it was flamboyant and lilting and it made Knuckle’s dick twitch.
Madhu smiled nervously, and Knuckle’s eyes opened wide. He wanted him bad.
I could just pretend this is prison. This trailer is about the size of a prison cell. Knuckle refused to let himself consider that. Yet when he looked down at his feet, he saw that his dick was out. Did I take that out? Knuckle didn’t remember doing so, but he surely would have noticed if Madhu unzipped his pants.
“Didja take my dick out?”
Madhu gasped. “No!” He thought he might cry. What was he even being accused of? “You took your dick out like two seconds ago!”
Knuckle grunted. He stood there, not sure what he should do next. All he could think about was getting his rocks off. He hadn’t blown a nut off in what felt like forever. The funny thing was he hadn’t been horny until he saw Madhu.
Another grunt escaped from his lips when Madhu wrapped one hand around his cock. Knuckle moaned. Madhu grinned, his anxiety slowly diminishing now that it was more apparent what Knuckle wanted.
Though Madhu would have enjoyed getting rammed, he knew better than to try to push his luck. He still wasn’t even sure Knuckle was comfortable getting a handjob — he hadn’t said no, hadn’t made Madhu stop, and he was the one who took his dick out in the first place, which all seemed like pretty clear signals. But Madhu didn’t want to push his luck by trying to jerk off the brutish giant. Knuckle was terrifyingly massive, and he had that big bull head like an ape. Madhu didn’t want to do anything that might make him uncomfortable.
So he just stroked his cock to full erection — that took only a few seconds because Knuckle was unbelievably horny to begin with. Soon his dick was hard as iron, throbbing like its own living entity. Madhu could feel his heartbeat.
It twitched, and Knuckle moaned. His deep voice rang out. “Why you doin’ that?”
Madhu said softly. “Do you want me to stop?”
Knuckle growled and gripped Madhu’s hand with both of his big meaty paws. He closed his eyes and began to pump his hips, plowing Madhu’s hand with that massive manhood. His balls swayed beneath him and slapped Madhu’s side as he stroked.
It was an exhilarating experience for Madhu, exciting and frightening at the same time, like a poorly-maintained roller coaster. He moved his head closer to the dingy sleeveless shirt, and inhaled deeply of Knuckle’s musky scent. One of his hands crept up, under that shirt, massaging his belly before reaching his chest.
His pectorals twitched and flexed beneath Madhu’s touch, and Knuckle grunted. He rammed Madhu’s hand hard, like he wanted to punish it. Madhu could do little more than squeeze and hold on until Knuckle finally reached his orgasm.
“Ah….” Knuckle bit his lip as pleasure overwhelmed him, and cum sprayed onto Madhu’s leg and hand.
The smell of salty-sour cum filled the air. Knuckle gasped, and his whole hefty body leaned forward. His cock pressed against Madhu’s hip, still pulsating, spraying wad after wad up over Madhu’s shirt and even onto his chin.
“Oh-” Madhu blushed. He kept his hand in position, both of Knuckle’s hands gripping it so firmly it hurt a little. =
Finally, with cum still shooting out of his dick, Knuckle leaned far enough that Madhu couldn’t support him. He leaned against the table, then a chair, and then sunk to the floor. Knuckle grabbed the chair before he fell — which was good because he would have toppled onto Madhu, probably hurt him and possibly knocked over some of the chemicals.
“Damn…” Knuckle said. He stood, dick limpening as it still dripped a few droplets of creamy cum onto Madhu’s face.
“Hmmm…” Madhu blushed and sat up. “That was…-“
“Shut up.” Knuckle grunted. “You seduced me. That ain’t right. I ain’t into that poervert nonsense. I don’t do that. Don’t seduce me no more.”
Then he turned around and walked out of the trailer, leaving Madhu there to clean up and savor the sweet scent of Knuckle’s alpha male body. Madhu sighed.
Maybe, he thought, this job won’t be as bad as I had thought.
Madhu assumed that the handjob was going to be kept secret. Something like this could only be on the downlow, he thought. That just seemed like a reasonable guess. He didn’t even think about it. It wasn’t like he socialized with the trailer trash of Smashwood Trailer Park anyway.
But the next morning, he saw grimy rednecks — the shirtless swastika-ed perpetual drunks who spent their days searching for smokeable cigarette butts in city ashtrays — laughing at him, and making murmured jokes about Knuckle. Knuckle ignored them but wrinkled his nose a little. He remained standing at the entrance to the trailer, eyeing the addicts and dealer that came through to buy meth. He wore the same clothes as yesterday.
Since Madhu knew he hadn’t told anyone, it could only have been Knuckle.
“Freak! Ugly-ass Knuckle…”
“Who you gonna ramrod today, booty bandit?!”
The grimy rednecks (who were constantly around though Madhu wasn’t aware of any purpose here) laughed at Knuckle, but he didn’t respond in the slightest. He grimaced, his squat neck turning ruddy at first before he relaxed.
But he didn’t say anything to Madhu all day. He didn’t even look at him. It was a lonely day — the only person Madhu talked to was the clerk at the drug store where he went, Knuckle in tow, to buy more cough medicine.
Knuckle got drunk on Saturday. That was Knuckle’s day off, and Madhu’s too. Madhu spent the day in his trailer as he normally did, reading, trying not to think about his life. He heard Knuckle getting drunk all day outside. He could hear the men laughing at Knuckle too.
Knuckle’s low voice rumbled, his words slurred. But Madhu couldn’t make out his words, just the other’s response.
Madhu tried not to listen. He felt a little bad for Knuckle, but Knuckle didn’t seem to mind. He hadn’t even attempted to keep it a secret.
He was just about to go to bed when Knuckle drunkenly stumbled into his trailer. Knuckle belched loudly, his sweat-soaked body gleaming. Blood trickled from his crooked nose.
“Jzzzheeerkk meee offf.” Knuckle pulled his camo pants down, waving his dick in front of Madhu’s face. He stepped forward but toppled to the floor so hard Madhu yelped and ran to him.
“Are you okay?”
Knuckle rolled over. His massive dick was soft, blood now pouring from his nose. Madhu sighed and stopped the bleeding, while Knuckle drunkenly squirmed. He kept demanding Madhu jerk him off, but he didn’t make any effort to force Madhu’s head down.
“I’m not giving you dome when you’re this drunk. It’s gross. You’ll probably puke on me. Or pass out on me,” Madhu said. He wasn’t sure Knuckle heard or accepted that, but he didn’t argue — or if he did, he was too drunk to be clear.
It took ten minutes for Knuckle’s nose to stop bleeding — he still had a big nasty bruise on his cheek from the fall though — and then another hour and a half for Madhu to get Knuckle up into bed. By then, Madhu was exhausted. He put a glass of water on the bed next to Knuckle and climbed in on the other side.
Knuckle was out cold, like sleeping next to a big warm stone. Madhu fell asleep nuzzling his bicep, one hand resting on his meaty chest.
It was the most satisfying sleep Madhu had had in years, since before he graduated college. He didn’t wake up until early the next morning, when Knuckle slid back into bed — Madhu hadn’t awoken when he left the bed, but he did when he came back.
Knuckle was sober now. His head hurt, but he wasn’t hungover. He had never been a big drinker, and spending time behind bars meant his tolerance had gone down, so it didn’t take too much for Knuckle to pass out last night. He then showered, drank some water and ate dry bread in Madhu’s kitchen. He wasn’t drunk anymore, just a little queasy.
Now as he slid under the covers again, Madhu’s smooth fingers clutching his belly, Knuckle felt well again. He shushed Madhu — even though he hadn’t said anything — and gripped the back of his head.
“Good mornin’-“
“Shush, I said.” Knuckle guided Madhu’s head, gently but firmly, to his crotch. His dick was limp, and it smelled of spilled beer and man-sweat. Madhu inhaled deeply of it.
He picked up the shaft and kissed Knuckle’s cocktip before driving it into his mouth. He suckled on the tip. He began to get the idea of what Knuckle wanted — he wanted Madhu to resist a little. He wanted to be in charge, overcoming Madhu’s reluctance.
So Madhu pretended to have difficulty with the size of Knuckle’s cock — he didn’t have to pretend much, because it was big and extremely girthy, but Madhu had handled enough big cocks to deep-throat it. He choked and hesitated, and Knuckle clucked his tongue, pushing his head down deeper.
He covered Madhu with a sheet. It felt like he was with his prison wife again, Knuckle thought, since he couldn’t see anything but that sheet and Madhu’s writhing body beneath it, all that mattered was Knuckle and the potent pleasure coursing through his veins. He raised his hips, firmly plowing his meat down Madhu’s throat.
Despite the size of Knuckle’s cock, it didn’t hurt a bit, and Madhu even moaned around the cock as it filled his throat. Madhu tried to jack himself off, but found that he needed to use both hands to stroke Knuckle’s dick. Madhu’s own cock rubbed over Knuckle’s leg, and when Knuckle didn’t complain, Madhu began dry-humping him.
“Ugh….” Knuckle grunted and his whole body twitched. He used both hands on Madhu’s head, holding him in place as wad after wad of sweet cum flowed down Madhu’s throat.
Madhu shot his own load right onto Knuckle’s leg — Knuckle barely noticed — while guzzling down every drop of Knuckle’s own juices. It coated his belly and its body heat seeped into his flesh. Madhu gurgled, choking on the intense flow of cum down his throat.
At last, they were both done. Madhu fell limp and slid off Knuckle’s cock. He curled up next to him on the bed, kissed him on the neck and cuddled up with him.
“Thanks-“
“Shush.” Knuckle turned his head. He placed one hand over Madhu’s mouth. “No talking. I’m going back to sleep.”
The next morning, Madhu awoke happy and content. Knuckle was already awake, just waiting for Madhu to disentangle himself from his arms. Then Knuckle yawned and went to the trailer door.
That was where the officers of the Northern Florida Methamphetamine Task Force were waiting.
They streamed into the trailer, putting Knuckle in handcuffs and roughing him up. Madhu didn’t look like such a thug, so they treated him a little better, but still, he was marched out of the trailer park in handcuffs and driven away, in a different van than Knuckle was in.
So that was the end of Madhu’s foray into drug manufacture. He didn’t last very long. He would have been better off hustling for multinational jobs like his pharmacy school classmates.
Maybe it was always fated to end like this. Madhu did his part though, he cooperated with the cops arrested him, but he didn’t tell them anything. He let his lawyer do the talking. He already planned on pleading guilty. His lawyer said he’d do okay because he didn’t have a record like all the others. He would look like a nice man who had been forced into manufacturing meth.
That was small comfort to Madhu, who couldn’t hold his own in prison like the other Jagged Right could. He thought they would protect him — they said they would — but then the bikers and rednecks were all transferred from jail to prison, whereas Madhu was not seen as enough of a risk to bother. So Madhu stayed there there in jail, with no one to protect him from the legion of drunks, thugs and ruffians who came through.
His first week was bad. Madhu considered killing himself. But his lawyer had said he’d be out in a few years. He thought he could handle that. He might even be able to start a new life when he left. He thought about writing a book, maybe he could make some money on the outside as a writer.
But first, he needed to survive.
When his cell door opened and Knuckle walked in, Madhu’s first thought was that Knuckle was here to kill him. Maybe Knuckle thought Madhu would squeal, or maybe he blamed Madhu for the trailer park being busted, or maybe he just wanted to kill.
“What are you doing here-?”
“They said we gotta go on trial together. Cuz we was arrested together.” Knuckle’s gravelly voice filled the cell. The door slammed shut behind him. Knuckle came into the cell and scowled at Madhu. Madhu sat at the little writing desk in the cell, watching as Knuckle moved all of Madhu’s things from the top bunk to the bottom. “I’m taking the top bunk. That’s for real men.”
“Oh, uh… okay.” Madhu thought it was best not to fight about that. “I guess I’m glad I got you as a cellmate. I-“
“Shut up. Why you gotta talk about everything?”
“I guess… That’s just how I am.” Madhu opened his mouth to continue explaining, but he realized Knuckle wouldn’t want that. Madhu just fell quiet.
Then Knuckle began working out. He didn’t tell Madhu to move out of his way, but Madhu got the message anyway. Knuckle was so big he took up all the space in the cell. Madhu could do little more than crouch in his bunk and watch Knuckle’s massive body move.
He did push-ups until he couldn’t anymore, and then he did a series of lunges and lifts, using whatever he could find as a weight. He even made Madhu climb up on his back and hold on while Knuckle did a round of deep-knee squats.
That was what he did when the lights finally flicked out. Madhu was so surprised he almost fell off Knuckle’s back, sliding over his sweat-soaked bare flesh.
“They don’t give any warning before turning out the lights,” Madhu said. “In movies, they always announce it.”
“This ain’t a movie,” Knuckle said. Then he wrapped his big bearish arms around Madhu and plowed his tongue down his throat. He brought Madhu to the floor, his heavy body pinning him down.
Madhu squealed and squirmed out of sheer shock. He had assumed Knuckle would want dome at some point — he’d always said he didn’t do that kind of thing except in prison, which was a lie, but Madhu figured the “except in prison” part was probably not a lie. But he didn’t think Knuckle would kiss him.
“Boy, I been lustin’ for you wit’chu since I first saw you. You got pretty all over, and I wanna taste it.” Knuckle growled, slathering Madhu’s face in kisses. He moved to Madhu’s neck, which was long and slender. It felt so smooth, like porcelain, Knuckle thought. His dick twitched. It was so hard it hurt. “I been waiting for this for a long time.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Waiting to lust fo’ you. I don’t mess wit’ males outside of prison,” Knuckle said. “But in here, wit’ the lights out… That’s where lust is real.” He whispered into Madhu’s ear and sucked his earlobe. “I wanna ram you so bad, boy. Get my dick wet.”
He mounted Madhu’s chest and jabbed his rock-hard dick into Madhu’s mouth with incredible urgency, like his life depended on getting his dick in there as soon as possible. He moaned right away.
Hey keep it down in there! 37A, if you’re plowing, I don’t wanna see it or hear it and I definitely don’t wanna smell it!
“Ssssssssssshhh….” Knuckle chuckled throatily, his shushing disappearing into a baritone growl aimed right in Madhu’s ear. “We gotta be private.” He kept shushing Madhu like that even though, once again, Knuckle was the one making noise.
When Knuckle was good and hard, he slid down behind Madhu. He kissed him on the lips, sucking up all the precum and spit that clung to Madhu’s cheeks.
“Oh god…” Madhu whimpered. The bunk they shared was narrow, barely big enough for one person, much less two. But they both laid on their side, and Knuckle laid with his back flat against the cold concrete wall.
His cock rubbed between Madhu’s cheeks. Knuckle reached up to his own bunk for his sheet and blanket. The cell was cold, so he laid it out on top of both he and Madhu. Madhu snuggled deep in his arms as he finally managed to feel warm.
No fighting! Are you fighting in there?
That was about the only thing the guards would do anything about at night, so Madhu heard them scatter away from the central control area in the cell block. More grunts and bellowing could be heard too. Somone was fighting in another cell.
“I guess we can make a little noise now,” Knuckle said. His deep voice was impossibly loud, echoic in the tiny room, resonating around in Madhu’s ear. Madhu shuddered and rubbed his ass over Knuckle’s pulsating cock.
“Yeah… Will you be gentle?”
“Yes, baby, I be real gentle,” Knuckle said. He kissed Madhu on the back of the head. “I been waitin’ so long to get inside you…”
His dick slipped in, moistened and lubed by Madhu’s spit. There wasn’t a bit of pain, which astonished Madhu — Knuckle’s dick was so thick it seemed there had to be a little pain, but there was only an incredible, overwhelming pleasure.
Either Madhu or Knuckle must have cried out, because inmates in other cells all laughed, but neither were aware — Knuckle grunted and snorted as he drilled his dick in, ignoring the increasingly loud jeers from the other cells.
“I hear some marital bliss over there! Woop-woop!”
“Honeymoon!”
“Who is it? Raymont?”
“Nah, I’m spankin’ it over here, I got that big-butt magazine-!”
They all laughed until they shushed each other. The guards were involved in breaking up the fight, so the inmates in this corner of the cell block were emboldened.
But then Madhu’s pressure grew too great for him to pay attention to their words. It was all a meaningless blur of shouts and profanity, and whistle squeals, but above all that, Madhu was aware of Knuckle’s body covering him, tongue coating his face as his dick rammed in and out. Madhu’s had never been plowed as hard, but somehow he had never been rammed as easily and softly at the same time. He took it all, and his dick throbbed in Knuckle’s hand. Madhu had no way of knowing it but, for Knuckle — based on his previous prison experience — giving a reacharound was the ultimate form of intimacy behind bars. It was akin to a proposal of marriage.
Madhu didn’t know any of that, and his whole body melted in Knuckle’s arms as he reached the most intense orgasm of his life. Cum sprayed into his body, great rivers of it flowing into him. He felt it coating his insides, as Madhu shot his own load onto the floor of the cell.
“Oh god, I been beggin’ for a chance to get in that ass-” Knuckle kept his mouth open, intending to keep talking, but all that came out was a chest-rattling roar. He had never shot so much, not even with his previous prison wife.
At last, Knuckle fell limp, his heavy body resting on Madhu. For a moment, Madhu couldn’t breathe due to his heaviness, then Knuckle rolled back onto his side.
Madhu sighed and clutched him close. “Thanks, Knuckle.”
“No,” Knuckle said. “Thank you.”

The Hick

Ray is investigating a poacher when he winds up in the legendary Smashwood Trailer Park. That’s where he meets up with the raunchiest hick around: Cody Lankford! Cody is a filthy redneck who always says “a mouth is a mouth”, which is a philosophy Ray can get behind… or underneath!

Can Ray find what he’s looking for?!

Read it now as an ebook!

Or read the whole thing here!

Ray parked in the public lot facing the Smashwood Trailer Park in Bunson, Arkansas. He got out of his car and stretched. It had been a long drive from Little Rock.
This area was beautiful, he thought. He had passed verdant hills and sun-choked meadows that rolled into the horizon like thunderclouds. Dense forests with layers of old growth and explosions of wildlife scattered along the roadside, where little campgrounds and isolated farms were the only landmarks for miles.
But Ray wasn’t here just to sightsee. He was here for business.
When he headed into the trailer park, he was first struck by the man in boxer shorts staring at him. He was tattooed, smudged with dirt all over as though he had been used as a sponge to clean a dirty window. His hair was pale brown and hung back in a mullet that extended well below his shoulders. He wore only boxers and was covered in soap suds — he was bathing himself with a hose.
Ray nodded across the ditch that demarcated the end boundary of the trailer park. The bathing redneck nodded back. He was lean and lanky, ropy-muscled, suds covering his dusky tattoos. He rinsed, getting some of that dirt off and soaking his boxers in water and soap. He still had smudges of dirt all over, and his tanned skin looked the color of dirt anyway — or maybe he wasn’t tanned, and the dirt had been ground into his skin until he was the color of dried-out-clay.
“Howdy,” Ray said with a grin.
“Howdy stranger,” said the man, Cletus, who scratched his balls nonchalantly, as though he bathed here in these nearly-translucent white boxers every day. They were threadbare and plastered to his ropy legs with soapy water. They were plain white boxers, and, Ray suspected, prison-issue.
“I’m looking for someone named Cody Lankford,” Ray said with a smile. He extended his hand to shake, but the man just scowled. Ray added, “I’m not a police officer.”
“Don’t know ‘im.” The man turned his head away.
Ray shrugged and continued. Ray had Cody Lankford’s picture, and he was certain he was here. He thought he could find him. In any case, he didn’t believe this half-naked trashy man. Ray meandered towards a group of children playing ball. He thought maybe they would be more willing to answer. Then he heard deep-throated guffaws from the other side of a trailer.
He headed to the backside, where the trailer faced a row of trees. There stood a trio of black men. They were just as dirty as the white man upfront, wearing ratty old wifebeaters above mud-splattered jeans. One of them reeked strongly of body odor when Ray approached and wrinkled his nose.
“Whatchoo want?”
“Hey, uh, sorry for interrupting,” Ray said. They appeared to be dumping out a bucket that smelled of rubbing alcohol — was this moonshine? It looked like they were getting rid of a bad batch of moonshine. But Ray pretended not to notice. “I was looking for Cody Lankford. He-“
They all laughed, and one of the black men clutched his meaty belly beneath his wifebeater, which was formerly white but now gray like dishwater. He howled with laughter. “Cody?! You lookin’ for Cody?”
“Whatchoo want wit’ him? You studyin’ hicks?”
“He the raunchiest hick in this whole trailer park, man, you don’t want him-“
“He prolly fuckin’ a fat girl who make a face like this-” The younger black man made a funny, possibly orgasmic face, and they all guffawed. “And she got hair the color of raccoon piss, he be in there-” He pantomimed eating pussy and gagging on the taste. “Ummm…. Yum-yum, yummy in my tummy, I love eatin’ rancid snatch-“
“He prolly wallowin’ in sum mud-pit, mistuh.”
“He is nasty, right nasty. You police? He ain’t a bad fellah, just a stinky one-“
“And he loves fat-girl pussy-“
“Shut the hell up, Mane, yo’ female ain’t exactly skinny neither-“
“Least she don’t smell like a beached whale!”
“Smellin’ like a whale in the ocean ain’t that much better, Mane-“
“Like either of you two niggas ever see a whale. You never even seen the ocean-“
“He seen a whale! He eat whale pussy up!”
Ray walked away. It seemed this argument was going to continue indefinitely. He heard them laughing and arguing over who fucked fatter women. Ray had no interest in that. At least he knew he was on the right track.
He was surprised that nobody had reacted like Cody Lankford was a bad guy. They had asked if he was police, but that was probably pretty typical for around here. They hadn’t reacted like they were scared of him, or like Ray could have been a rival gangbanger, or like Ray should just run away. The inescapable conclusion was that they didn’t see Cody as a threat.
He headed deeper into the trailer park. He saw a bevy of haggard women who appeared to be smoking meth, but Ray didn’t want to talk to them — it was clear they wouldn’t give useful information anyway, they were hazed out and dim. He saw a fat man in holey white briefs guzzling vodka from a bottle as he picked shards of broken glass from his foot. But Ray just continued. He thought he should walk through the whole park before deciding on what to do next. He stopped only when he heard an engine roaring, coming closer. It was zippy, buzzy, not rumbly like a car.
It was a dirtbike.
Ray turned around just in time to see a shirtless white man in a tangled blond mullet approach on the back of a mud-splattered dirtbike. The dirtbike was slowing down, and the blond man guffawed as he came to a stop near Ray.
“Goddamn hell!” the blond man said. He hopped off the dirtbike. Ray couldn’t tell if he was talking to him, or just plain talking. It was weird to stop next to a stranger in a trailer park as though continuing a conversation with him. “It was chokin’, I swear it was chokin’ like Chucky gobblin’ cock. I gotta get back in the engine and fix it up, I don’t like it chokin’ when I’s out runnin’, swear to God! That was a good run, I say! Woo-hoo!” He looked at Ray as though he had only just now realized he didn’t know him. “Who are you?”
“I’m Ray.”
“Cody.”
“Hi, Cody,” Ray said.
Cody had deep dimples which belied the trashy look, and he was well-muscled though short, wiry like he struggled to gain weight. His hair was unwashed, his furry armpits glistening with sweat. His body was splattered with wet clumps of mud that dripped off him as he brought the dirtbike to a tattered trailer. He flopped onto a lawnchair.
There appeared to be more mud on him as well, not only the wet mud from the dirtbike ride he had just finished. He had been muddy even before then. He had never bathed from last night, when his boss made him come over to start assembling a gazebo. He had bought all the wood and the plans, and Cody started work on it until the rain got too bad and he went home.
“You Donna’s brother?” Cody asked after a brief pause, nodding towards one of the trailers next to his own. He spread his legs in his rank jeans as he settled down in his lawn chair. He pulled out a pouch of tobacco and rolling papers, and he began to roll a cigarette of his own.
“No, I don’t know Donna,” Ray said. “I think I came here to talk to you. You Cody Lankford?”
“Aaaaah, man… I swear, I know that bitch ain’t have my baby, okay? She wasn’t even pregnant like three months after we fucked, okay? I swear, I’ll do a DNA test, no pro’lem-“
“No, it’s not that,” Ray said. “Two years ago, you were arrested with a gun. A Beretta M9-“
“Hey, I did my time, man. I don’t drink neither, ask my parole officer. I see him e’ry other week. I don’t give ‘im no trouble neither, nosuh-“
“Yes, yes, that’s fine. I just wanted to know what happened to the gun.”
Cody paused and raised his eyebrows like he thought this was a trick question. “I got arrested, man. I ain’t have a license for the gun. The police took it.”
“So what happened to it?”
“It sat in a evidence locker till I pled guilty.”
“Then?”
Cody shrugged. “I dunno. Never thought about it. Don’t they auction that shit?”
“They don’t auction guns, no. Police don’t want to spread them around, and plus they can’t be sure you didn’t modify it to make it more likely to malfunction.”
“I ain’t modify shit, mothahfuckah. What’s this about?”
“A few months ago, that gun was used to kill an elephant. Someone shot the elephant nine times in the head,” Ray said. “A poacher who just wanted the ivory, left the elephant to rot in the grass. That’s what I do, I’m hunting down ivory poachers-“
“What?”
“I’m just trying to find what happened to that gun. I matched the ballistics through an Interpol search of convicted-“
“What? You accusin’ me of shootin’ a elephant?”
“No! Not you, I know you didn’t do it. I already investigated you. You don’t even have a passport.”
“That’s right, shit…”
“I guess somebody with the police department must have taken the gun,” Ray said. “Either a cop or someone in the evidence room. They probably took all the guns that were supposed to be destroyed and sold them. Do you have any thoughts on who might have done that?”
Cody’s smiling face had gone dour and frowning. He glared at Ray. “I ain’t… I don’t work wit’ police.”
“I’m not the police. I’m hoping to get a cop arrested. That’s the opposite of what police do-“
“I know. But it’s still kinda like bein’ a cop — it’s a con-undrum.” Cody sounded like he had never said that word before. “I don’t help the police arrest no one. No snitchin’ is a rule we gots around here, boy. It’s a rule we take mighty serious.” He spat on the ground, some of it landing on his ankle. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He took a deep drag off his home-rolled cigarette. His scruffy beard hairs wiggled as he inhaled. “I dunno if it applies if the person gettin’ arrested is a police officer too.”
“Well, I can’t arrest anyone-“
“Man, you tuggin’ on my shit and tellin’ me it ain’t a turd,” Cody said. “You workin’ to solve a crime, right? ‘Round here, man solve his own crime. If’n you think someone done killed an elephant, you take the fight to him. Don’t go gettin’ po-lice involved, nosir.”
“Okay.”
“What?”
“I’ll do that. I’m not really looking to arrest whoever this is. I’d settle for making sure everyone knows they’re an elephant poacher, and maybe kicking a little ass. What do you think?”
“Man… jerk me off,” Cody said with an absent-minded sigh. He hobbled out of his chair, his big fleshy body shaking. He flexed his biceps and punched his own palm.
“Whip it out then.”
Cody didn’t seem to be listening. He went into the trailer and rummaged around. He finally emerged with a stack of papers. “Here. The fellah who signed my evidence out of storage was named Robin Thorne — oh…” Cody had clearly just realized something, but he didn’t say it.
“What happened? You know him?”
“He… Man, I don’t like folks who pry into anothah man’s business. I just… I know he got a side business dealin’. He know folks who might could know other folks who might could buy some guns now and then. Ain’t sayin’ nothin’ more, mistuh, and you can jerk me off, shit…” Cody went pale and guffawed nervously as he realized only then that when he said “jerk ne off” a few moment ago, Ray had told him to whip it out. Cody said “jerk me off” so often it threw him for a loop that Ray had taken it literally.
“I said, whip it out,” Ray said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
Cody shifted his weight between his big meaty feet. His pecs rippled. He frowned. “What?”
“You keep demanding I jerk you off. But you have to take it out,” Ray said. “I promise I won’t let anyone know you put me onto Mr. Thorne. It’s in the court papers, so I didn’t technically need anyone to tell me. I could have found that out myself, if I had known to look.”
“Hmmm.” Cody blushed and laughed uproariously. He clutched his belly. “You serious ‘bout swallowin’ my dick, mistuh? Cuz I don’t mess around ‘bout that-“
Ray dropped to his knees right there at the side of Cody’s trailer. He opened his mouth. Then he nodded to the trailer next to it. “Maybe we should go somewhere more private-“
“Nah. Donna’s gone. She in jail for a week,” Cody said. He swaggered back and forth, trying to work up the courage to do it. He loved dome, and he even loved getting them from men — he didn’t much care — a mouth was a mouth was a mouth, after all, that was what his pappy always said.
“Oh. Okay then,” Ray said. He liked the idea of kneeling in the mud and servicing Cody’s filthy body anyway. Cody reeked of sweat, but it wasn’t foul — it was fresh, recent from the dirtbike-ride he had just finished. His jeans were more rank, like they hadn’t been washed in months. Ray could smell layers of sweat that had soaked into the denim. Mud splattered all over him, weighing down those jeans.
“You serious ‘bout swallowin’ sum dick? Sheeit, man, sheeit…” Cody cackled. He took another drag off his home-rolled cigarette and undid his fly. His cock flopped out and slapped Ray in the face. Cody chuckled, making his dick bounce up and down and jab Ray in the nose. It smelled especially strongly of crotch-sweat, filthy manhood and stale funk. Somehow a few drops of mud had gotten in there and stuck to his dickshaft.
But Ray certainly didn’t mind. He enjoyed his honkies rough-and-tumble and as dirty as they came. Cody certainly seemed to live up to his reputation as the raunchiest honky in the trailer park, so Ray put his cocktip in his mouth and suckled loudly.
“Goddamn, boy!” Cody bellowed, a little overconfidence in his voice, like he was covering up his own discomfort with bluster. He shook his ass back and forth, swaying like a stripper and making Ray follow his cock with his mouth. “You was serious ‘bout this shit. You ain’t even thinkin’ twice, swear to God. You like dirty boys?”
Ray nodded without pulling Cody’s dick out. It slowly firmed up as it rubbed against his tongue, and Ray slathered it with spit. He ran down the shaft, bit by bit, making eye contact with Cody’s shocked face the whole way, until soon he was nuzzling that coppery pubic hair that scratched at Ray’s cheeks and lips.
“Holy sheeit, boy! Goddamn!” Cody smiled. He wished he had struggled to get hard — not because he wanted to be impotent, he just wanted it to look like Cody had to concentrate. Cody’s father had once said — where Cody could overhear — that he let his buddy jerk him off on a camping trip but that it took him forever to get hard. That sounded manly, Cody had thought, like he didn’t even want to do it but his cock was powerful he couldn’t deprive someone of its salty load, so he felt obligated to oblige.
That was what Cody wanted to be like. His pa was in prison for shooting a cop on a jet-ski, but Cody still idolized him.
Ray moved to licking Cody’s shaft, his tongue curling over its thickness and sucking off the mud that had splattered there. Cody threw his head back, ran his fingers through his tangled, knotted mullet and howled. He beat on his chest, making sweat and something sour — old fruit juice or maybe beer that had spilled on his furred skin some time ago — ran down to Ray’s face. It was sweet but rancid on Ray’s tongue like hot garbage baking in a dumpster, and he guzzled it down.
Then Ray moved lower. He was in a mood for some serious raunch today, and he more he drank of Cody’s filth, the more he wanted.
Cody was shocked that Ray wanted to jerk him off. The trailer park sissy around here always made Cody shower first. That was the most common reason Cody showered — or sprayed himself with the hose, since he didn’t actually have running water in his trailer. He had sold the copper pipes for money years ago, figuring that the hose outside would do just fine.
“Hang on, hoss, lemme get a beer,” Cody said. He only ever let that local perv jerk him off when he’d been drinking, so doing it sober this time, he thought, was probably why he felt weird about it. He reached for the cooler in the shade underneath his trailer and popped the top on a can of beer. He barely drank from it, cuz he was focused on the pleasure arising from his cock.
Ray lowered his head to Cody’s balls, which were even more foul. They had a medicinal scent from the talcum powder Cody used — that was the only bit of personal hygiene he actually did even when he had no meeting with his parole officer or mother to prepare for, because his balls got mad-sweaty until it felt like they had become saltwater.
So his balls smelled and tasted of chalky medicine, though that flavor disappeared quickly in Ray’s mouth, replaced by the sour taste of sweaty balls. His sac was hairy and moist, his balls full and heavy, spreading to fill Ray’s mouth with the flavor of unadulterated, unwashed, unclean manhood.
Ray kept licking until he was sucking on Cody’s taint, sliding through his legs and necessitating Cody to spread his feet as though being arrested. Then Cody turned around. He’d never gotten anyone to lick his ass before. He never even tried — people called him a filthy hick since he was a boy — he didn’t think it was possible for someone to want to lick his ass.
It was thick and hairy and fleshy and a bit reddish from having sat on the rumbling dirtbike for so long. Ray didn’t mind the foul stink emanating from it — that, he thought, was the purest expression of manhood. He loved the struggle of getting through it, of exploring the folds of funk and stench that exploded with every tickle of his tongue into Cody’s tight crack.
“Goddam, boy, you gonna put me to shame! I think we gots a new nastiest mothahfuckah in the park!”
He’d never been rammed, fingered or even rimmed, so his asshole was tight, choked with tangled blackish-blond hairs. Ray’s tongue rammed in quickly, unceremoniously, so thick it stretched Cody’s asshole and made him grunt.
“Shit, damn! You lick like a mutt lookin’ fo’ peanut buttuh on the ground, goddamn!” Cody laughed. He couldn’t decide if it felt good. It had a certain pleasurable quality to it, a deep-burning pit of sensation that roiled within him as his prostate was stimulated for the first time. But it was also kind of like getting rammed with a moist, fleshy dildo, he thought, and there was just a bit of stretching pain.
He was so focused on that that he didn’t realize it made his dick throb and leak copious precum. Cody pounded on the wall of his own trailer, spreading his legs wider and then using one hand to spread his ass the best he could. That gave Ray perfect access to chow down on his hairy crack.
Ray’s entire face was lost in his plump asscheeks. Ray gagged a few times as he lapped at the hair that rubbed against his face. There was so much flavor here, he thought with a giggle. He could have kept tasting it all day, even if it was disgusting. The disgust, he thought, was the best part.
But Ray didn’t want to leave without getting it up the ass. He pulled away, leaving behind such moisture and a sense of desire in Cody’s undulating body that Cody didn’t even notice right away.
“Whatchoo doin’, boy? Get ya tongue back in there, swear to God-” Cody turned around and his eyes opened wide at the sight of Ray’s tight asshole beckoning. Ray backed up and rubbed his asscheeks against Cody’s shaft.
Cody grumbled. He’d only rammed a man in the ass a few times, and he had been drunk enough then he hadn’t remembered it — he only knew because his friends made fun of him for it the next day. But Cody was hard and he had never before turned down a nut.
So he grimaced, stroked his dick one time and wedged it into Ray’s asscrack. He was glad it was smooth and clean. Cody was neither of those things, but if he was going to ram a man in the ass, he was glad it was a man whose ass was smooth and pristine like Ray’s.
The one nice thing about plowing men, Cody thought, was that you could really ram into them. Wrinkling his nose and whinnying like a horse, Cody pressed down on Ray’s back to keep him in position.
“Gettin’ in ya dirt road now, boy, damn! Gimme ya hands!” Cody took Ray’s hands in his and held onto them, forcing Ray to lay his head on the muddy ground with his ass in the air. Cody slipped his cocktip in and shook his head, making his mullet waver. “Goddamn, boy, don’t fight me now! If you want me to stop, say it!”
“Don’t stop! Oh god, don’t stop!”
Cody had dropped his beer, which now spilled out. He frowned — he had spilled most of his first beer of the day. It put him in a foul mood because he couldn’t afford “enough” beer, so he often had to buy that disgusting moonshine from the black men in the front of the park — and that stuff, he thought, would eventually make him go blind. So he didn’t want to waste beer, even this piss-cheap nasty shit that spilled out into the mud and trickled into Ray’s face.
Cody’s bare foot was just inches from Ray’s face. He lifted Ray’s ass to use it like a sex-toy, ramming his dick in and squealing with delight as Ray squirmed beneath him. It felt better than any female he’d ever been with, Cody thought as his cock slid all the way in and out with just the right amount of resistance, enough to make Ray clench and send waves of pleasure through Cody’s body.
A howl and a hoot escaped from Cody’s chest. He tried to spit on his dick to provide more lube, but he plowed back and forth too energetically for that, moving all around the muddy grass between his trailer and Donna’s. Ray could do little more than undulate with pleasure as he was dragged this way and that by the asshole.
Someone he ended up mostly underneath Donna’s trailer, in the little crawlspace there surrounded by water pipes and electrical wires. Cody hadn’t meant to go under here, it was just where he had ended up, and it felt right, hiding underneath a trailer in the dirt. Ray’s face was pressed into the dirt, smashing onto a worm as it tried to wriggle away.
“Oh god! Shit!” Ray shouted out loud, the sound resonant and ringing in the little crawlspace. He could barely reach his dick, but he got enough of a hold on it to stroke himself off, instantly triggering the orgasm his body had been waiting for since Cody’s knobbly dick hit his prostate.
He sprayed cum all over the muddy clay beneath Donna’s trailer. He tightened up as Cody orgasmed as well, then relaxed, letting Cody’s cock shoot the most massive load of his life deep into Ray’s guts. It spilled into him, seeping through his flesh like syrup, creaminess flowing through every nook and cranny of his body.
Cody lifted his head to howl once more, a few drops of drool dripping onto Ray’s shoulders as he did. He painfully banged his head into the trailer above and winced. “Damn-” he pounded on Ray’s ass, the pain in his head overshadowed by the intense climax flowing through his veins. “Take it, man, don’t spill none, don’t move, don’t move, shit, shit…” His breath condensed on Ray’s tense face.
He pinned Ray in position as he emptied those rank, unwashed balls into Ray’s guts. He had never gotten to cum like that, he thought as he watched his cock throb, shooting all the way into a woman’s tight ass.
“Ah, shit…”
“Hmmmm…” Ray sighed, but even that motion was enough to reawaken his orgasm and make him twitch. He was painfully sensitive right now, but he loved every minute of it. Cody’s dick limpened as it marinated in Ray’s cummy asshole, which clenched around it.
“Gonna make you dirty, boy,” Cody said, snorting and whispering right into Ray’s ear. When he saw Ray moan, Cody spat on his face and smeared the fluids all over his cheeks and nose. That made Ray gag and his asshole tighten once more.
Cody kept plowing. Girls never let him do this. It was arduous and painful for Cody, whose dick was soft now. But he liked doing it anyway. He bit his lip and rocked back and forth, turning his load into a big frothy, bubbly mess that coated Ray’s ass.
Ray squirmed as he felt cum slide out of his behind. He was delirious with the pleasure still rocking him in waves. His ass was a giant puddle of cum now, and he loved every moment of it. The heat of Cody’s load seeped through Ray’s flesh.
At last, it was done. Cody’s dick popped out, and Ray let out the loudest sigh of relief ever. He sprawled out in the dirt beneath Donna’s trailer.
Cody climbed out with a hefty chortle. His asscheeks rippled and his back muscles all flexed as he stretched, his goopy dick dangling between his legs. He gave it one last stroke and roared, then wiped his hand clean on Donna’s trailer, leaving behind a whitish-brown mixture of cum, mud and who knew what else. He laughed. She would be furious about that if she had seen it.
“Remember, prettyboy, don’t tell no one I gave you no kinda help,” Cody said. He kicked gently at Ray’s feet. “You hear me under there?”
From under the trailer Ray called out, “Yeah, no problem. I’ll see you later.”
Cody chuckled as he walked away. “Tha’ss right, bitch,” he said.

The Dallas Alpha

When Rob meets a mysterious biker, he never thought he’d wind up exploring every inch of the man’s studly body. But at the legendary bar Lipsweet, anything is possible, and the redneck ex-con Cooter is willing to give Rob a swing on his most studly of meats!

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Read the whole thing right here

The bar was less crowded than it usually was, although Rob didn’t normally go on a Thursday night, so he couldn’t say for sure. He noticed a few regulars — Francis playing pool with Deshawn and Tiny, Suzette in her tied-up flannel shirt and cut-off denim shorts, Tall Bear with a few beers already lined up in front of him on the bar. Rob nodded a greeting to a few folks he knew as he passed by, making his way to the bar and sitting a few stools down from Tall Bear, whom he gave a half-hearted wave to.
Tall Bear wore a Cowboys jersey, as Lipsweet was a football bar, and in Dallas, that meant the Cowboys. TVs mounted on the walls blared a highlights show running through clips from previous games. Rob ignored it. He wasn’t a football guy. Most of the other patrons too, but for the opposite reason — they ignored the clips show because they’d watched the games. They already knew the highlights.
But there was no actual game to watch at three o’clock in the afternoon on a Tuesday.
Rob nodded again to some acquaintances and ordered a beer from Teddy. He made small talk with Tall Bear and a few other imbibers he knew, sipping on his beer, until the loud sound of a gravelly motor growing louder quieted the din of conversation.
Around here, a motorcycle meant bikers, which meant the Jagged Right, which meant trouble.
The bar practically held its breath. Rob turned around in time to see the door open, revealing a tall, solid man in a black tee-shirt, leather jacket, and tight, fitted denim pants. His boots thumped solid and heavy against the concrete floor as he walked up to the bar and sat down right next to Rob. He was middle-aged but powerfully built, with a spring in his step like a much younger man. His wild beard like a gold prospector made him look like a vicious Amish or maybe a redneck Muslim.
A new murmur of conversation sprang up, people craning their necks to get a better view of the interloper. Rob watched the man out of the corner of his eye. He was tanned and had a strong jaw, dark brown hair, darker brown eyes. He sat with a confidence that was inherently alluring, and Rob shifted uncomfortably in his seat, turning his attention back to his beer. The man’s biceps flexed within the confines of his t-shirt, almost bursting the seams, and Rob couldn’t think of anything else but what those muscles would feel like wrapped around his body.
Conversation resumed when it became apparent this was not a robbery, a fistfight, a naked woman or the arrival of a football player, which were the only things that could interrupt drinking at Lipsweet. Rob resumed drinking his beer.
After a few minutes, though, Rob sensed someone’s eyes on him and turned to see that interloper looking at him, a knowing smirk on his face. “How ya doin’?” he asked. His accent was thick with redneckery, but with a Western twang to it, the sound of a native longhorn. Rob was from out east, but here in Texas, most folks jawed like that stranger storming in like a silent tornado.
Rob fought the impulse to check behind him for another person, knowing that the man could only be addressing him. “Doin’ alright. Yourself?”
“Pretty good,” the man answered. He let his eyes trail slowly over Rob, blatantly checking him out, and smiled. “Name’s Cooter.” He held out a large, callussed hand, and Rob shook it. His heart was pounding, as the man’s alpha male demeanor and his well-muscled solidity gave Rob a frisson of excitement. Rob did appreciate the male form.
“Rob. You new around here?” In this tiny town, everybody knew everybody, so Rob was the only one who didn’t know that Cooter was from elsewhere. He was not one of Dallas’s Jagged Right.
That was a motorcycle gang in these parts and most other parts as well. The Jagged Right was strongly regional though. If Cooter wasn’t from the local club, he couldn’t try anything in Dallas, or the local club would come after him. In any case, Cooter looked more likely to drive an unlicensed dirtbike on a public road than to do any serious crime.
“Nah, not really. Just tryin’ a change of pace for a night. Hey, let’s have another drink,” Cooter said. He let his hand trail down Rob’s arm after he signaled for the bartender.
Rob gulped, determined not to show how eager he was. “Yeah, sounds great.” Cooter’s muscles thrummed and flexed beneath his black leather jacket.
The bartender — Teddy — brought over two beers, passing one to Rob and the other to Cooter, watching them with suspicion and interest until Cooter glared hard enough for Teddy to turn around. Rob took a sip of his beer, trying to ignore the way Cooter watched his mouth wrap around the lip of the bottle.
He tried to ignore it, but he failed, and he sensed that Cooter wanted the same thing Rob wanted. Cooter was a biker, on the road, needing a little release, and Rob was willing to release whatever Cooter had pent up.
Goddamn do I love a biker! Rob thought to himself.
“So, you come here often?” Rob asked, wanting to hit himself as soon as it was out of his mouth. It sounded like some cheesy pick-up line from a bad movie, and he was sorry to have said it without thinking about it.
Cooter laughed, ignoring Rob’s question. His shoulders clenched and flexed as he let out a dry, dusty chuckle. He licked his teeth and looked Rob up and down. He glanced around the bar too, maybe checking out if there was a woman he could go away with. But he was an out-of-towner and not a football player or even a football enthusiast, it seemed, so none of the women here seemed likely to give him the time of day. Actual football players did come here — the Titans, a local semi-pro team haunted Lipsweet — so the jock-chasing women of Lipsweet were likely going to wait for them.
Nobody told Cooter that, but nobody needed to. Cooter is nobody’s fool.
“I got a bike outside,” Cooter said with a casual sneer. He looked down his nose at Rob, not in a haughty way, just in a way that recognized that Cooter was an alpha and Rob was a passive sissy. Well, maybe not quite a sissy, but a passivo nonetheless. “Wanna see it?”
“Yeah, sure,” Rob agreed.
Cooter reached into his back pocket and pulled out his leather wallet, throwing a few bills onto the bar, more than enough for both his and Rob’s drinks. Cooter downed the remainder of his beer in one gulp, then did the same to Rob’s beer. With one smooth motion, Cooter refilled his beer from the tap behind the bar — Teddy was engrossed in a conversation with Tall Bear — and shot Rob a confiding glance. Then he headed for the door.
Without even an explicit invitation, Rob sensed that he was to follow, so he followed. The thrum of expectant conversation continued behind him. Cooter opened the door to the parking lot, which Rob thought was held open for him — what a gallant gentleman! — but then Cooter pushed in front of him and went out first. Rob wondered if that was deliberate, if Cooter wanted to signal that Rob was no woman and would not be treated like one.
That was true, of course, Rob was no woman, but he did like to be treated like one by big alphas like Cooter.
Rob followed Cooter out into the lot, receiving curious and disapproving stares from the other people in the bar as he went.
The bike was parked sideways across what could have been two spots in the gravel parking lot, and looked thrillingly, strikingly out-of-place among the pickups and rusted jeeps surrounding it. Rob had never seen a motorcycle up close like that before, he didn’t know any bikers or even any casual riders. His own family — the Winthrops — were the kind of classy Southern upper-class twats who looked down on bikers. Not Rob though. As long as they were alphas with muscles and grizzle and scruff and big fat cocks, he appreciated them, and he sensed Cooter made the grade in every way.
Gravel crunched under his feet. Rob took a couple steps closer, admiring the spotless black frame and, upon further inspection, the tribal sun painted on the black in red and gold, the symbol for the Jagged Right biker gang. It was painted into the motorcycle. That symbol sent a rush of excitement through him, adrenaline pounding through his veins — Cooter was a real biker. The Jagged Right don’t play, they were the ones who robbed that bank last week. Rob saw that on the news.
He felt Cooter step behind him, pressed close to his back. Cooter leaned down to speak in Rob’s ear. The heat from his bearish chest burned, and Rob squirmed with desire. He felt the firmity of Cooter’s muscles just centimeters from his back, and then, tantalizingly enough, Cooter came even closer. His breath condensed on Rob’s nape, and his chest pressed against Rob’s back.
“Wanna go for a ride?” Cooter asked, in that deep drawl- and twang-dripping voice.
It sent a shudder up Rob’s spine. “Yeah,” Rob nodded, trying to keep his voice steady. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
Cooter smiled a cruel and predatory grin, then offered Rob a spare helmet. Rob put it on. his heart thumped. Dad would hate it if he knew Rob was going to ride on a motorcycle, with some stranger, a stranger in a gang!
In front of Rob, Cooter straddled the bike like it was made for him, the denim of his pants straining across his ass and thighs. Rob hesitantly copied the position, his chest pressed flush against Cooter’s back and his thighs pressed against Cooter’s. Cooter revved the engine once as a warning before he kicked off, flying down the dirt road with Rob twining his arms around Cooter’s torso. Rob couldn’t believe his luck in being allowed — nay, forced, by circumstances — to fondle the great barrel chest and greasemonkey muscles of this mysterious man’s body.
Once he was no longer entranced by Cooter’s words and his presence, Rob did feel a surge of worry — his father would say this was a grave risk. Cooter could be robbing him. This could be a kidnapping.
Maybe Cooter was gonna ransom him. That thought was somehow alluring too. Rob giggled, and Cooter bristled like he sensed that despite the roar and rush of the Texas landscape whooshing by.
The wind stung Rob’s cheeks, and a few times he had to clutch desperately onto Cooter so he didn’t fall off as they went over a bump too quickly . The ride was exhilarating: the vibrations, the warmth of Cooter’s body, the mystery inherent in the dusky night air, the looks they got from people on their porches as they whipped past in a cloud of diesel and dust — all of it churned together into a current of lust with eddies of warm, burning need, and by the time Cooter pulled up to a trailer home and cut the engine, Rob was embarrassingly hard in his jeans. From the look Cooter gave him, he must have known it, too. He probably felt Rob’s cock pressing through both pairs of jeans into Cooter’s sweaty asscrack.
But he didn’t complain, even when Rob had to rearrange his manhood in his pants as he dismounted from the motorcycle. Rob still felt the thrum of the engine rocking through his body.
They were in Smashwood Trailer Park, which was on the outskirts of Amarillo. Rob had passed it by many times. It had a reputation in Amarillo as a trashy spot, with shanties and abandoned trailers in the back where hobos lived. Rob had been told to never go there to buy drugs, as he would be surely robbed. This wasn’t a drug deal, and Rob didn’t want any drugs, but still, the warning rang out in his memory.
“Do ya wanna come in?” Cooter asked. He stepped away from the bike and put his helmet on the seat. The warm firmness of his muscular arm brushed against Rob’s own thinner arm, but he felt it and barely managed to bite back a groan.
Rob greatly appreciates a man with muscles, and Cooter was powerfully built, strong as a bear. Rob had to fight back the urge to worship his muscles here and now.
Having asked Rob to come in, Cooter headed straight for the door to the trailer as though Rob’s answer was assumed. “Yeah, yes, that’d be great,” he rushed to answer, his voice pitchy and breathless. He was too horny to care about playing it cool. Rob hurried behind Cooter, and they both passed a bench press in the grass, weights scattered around it and reeking of mansweat so strong Rob could smell it without going near.
Cooter led him up the flimsy steps at the door of his trailer and pressed open the door, and this time he gestured for Rob to go first. He did, taking in the unmade bed; the couch piled with papers and wrappers; television set; the table with a gun, polish, and a cleaning kit; a counter with a six-pack of beer on it. A Confederate flag was mounted on the wall.
“Sorry, ain’t have a chance to clean up earlier, and I don’t got much furniture,” Cooter said, “But you can sit on the bed if you want.” Indeed, there were no chairs in the trailer.
Rob just smiled and moved to the bed, shucking his canvas jacket onto the couch as he went. He tried to avoid staring at the pile of dirty, sweat-stained t-shirts and boxers shorts on the floor by his feet. When he turned and sat on the bed, Cooter was right there in front of him.
“You beautiful, you know that? Pretty like a girl…” Cooter said as he ran his hands through Rob’s hair, down his body, making Rob tense and shiver. His fingers were callused and firm, gripping like a vise. “I wanna know how those lips would feel on my meat, I been thinking about that from the minute I saw you back at the bar. I sensed them lips would feel soft as silk on a man’s pecker. Wanna know how my lips feel? I sure as sugah you gonna like ’em. I sawn how you was lookin’ at me, and I felt yo’ dick gettin’ hard on my bike.”
Rob nodded, eagerly licking his lips, which made Cooter smile while he unbuckled his belt. Rob’s eyes lit up, his heart racing — that started the moment he saw Cooter back in the bar, in Lipsweet, back when Rob thought tonight would be boring and fruitless. Now he was ready to have a night of his dreams with a man of his fantasies.
A groan was already escaping from Cooter’s mouth, as Rob reached forward and unzipped Cooter’s jeans. He tugged them down until they were around his ankles, leaving behind a pair of black boxers that showed the clear outline of Cooter’s hard dick. They were plain white boxers, starchy like linen — possibly prison drawers, Rob thought. He didn’t have the presence of mind to ask though, as Rob was overwhelmed by the rush of passion.
The scent of Cooter’s unwashed crotch sent Rob reeling, his mouth watering. Cooter put his hand on the back of Rob’s head, encouraging him to get on with it, but Rob took his time — he liks to tease.
Holding back his flirtatious giggle, Rob touched the bulge in Cooter’s boxes. The merest of touches made Cooter moan again with desire. Rob palmed Cooter through the soft fabric of his underwear until Cooter leaned his head back, his mouth open and chest panting, pressing his crotch forward. Then, at last, Rob leaned forward and released Cooter’s dick from the fabric of his underwear, pushing it down to join the jeans bunched up at his ankles.
“Yeah, come on, don’t be a tease,” Cooter groaned. “That’s what I don’t like about females. That, and child support.” His cock jabbed in the air like a javelin waiting to be thrown, and it throbbed like it was already on the verge of cumming. He must have gotten hard on the rumbling motorcycle just like Rob did, Rob thought but didn’t say.
Pumping his hips like to fuck an invisible pussy in front of Rob’s face, Cooter’s cock rammed around his head. It touched his cheek, his nose, his ear, and Rob chased it with his mouth as though unable to catch it. He stuck his tongue out, and Cooter finally got a direct hit, square on his mouth and his waiting tongue.
“Awwww, damn…” Cooter’s whole body shook, as the flavor of unwashed musk and potent manhood flooded Rob’s senses.
Rob took Cooter’s dick in his hand and stroked up and down the length of it a few times, making Cooter hiss through his teeth at the contact. The smell of sweat zest and black leather astringency assaulted Rob’s nostrils, making his rod iron-hard in the prison of his own pants. Cooter’s hands tightened in Rob’s hair, gripping his scalp, and Rob let himself be guided forward, until his lips were against the head of Cooter’s cock and he was spreading them open, taking Cooter into his mouth. He licked up the underside of Cooter’s dick slowly, teasing, letting his teeth graze just slightly.
“Shit, Rob, oh my fuck….” Cooter moaned. “Shit, if you was my cellmate, I’d make you my prison…”
That was exactly what Rob was just thinking — he’d serviced plenty of alpha males, and he suspected Cooter was an ex-con. Maybe only recently released. You could tell in how he demanded, no, craved a physical touch and seemed averse to actual womanhood. He needed a man to service him because he had lost his capacity for tenderness, and for Rob, that was ideal.
There was nothing better than getting pounded by a man who could treat you no other way.
Rob pulled off again, licking his way down the shaft and to Cooter’s balls, where he licked, nipped and jerked, until Cooter was groaning and pulling Rob’s face back to his dick, using one hand to hold Rob still and the other hand to guide his manhood back into Rob’s mouth.
Spit now ran up and down the shaft, which gleamed and throbbed like a beast in Rob’s grip. It was huge, more than a foot long, long enough for Rob to get both hands on it. He gripped the root tightly with one hand, stroked the shaft with the other and sucked mightily on the knob like a stubborn straw.
His tongue teased the piss-slit, which now let out a stream of salty precum. Rob sucked down every drop he could get, and he savored the intensely salty flavor of it. It was creamy and warm, and it tasted musty, like you could sense the cooped-up manhood of Cooter’s prison stay in his prejizz.
Rob kept his mouth open and loose, letting Cooter hold Rob’s head between his hands and force his dick into Rob’s throat. When Cooter tightened his grip, Rob hollowed out his cheeks, taking in as much of Cooter’s length as possible until Cooter was shooting hot and thick ropes of down Rob’s throat.
More and more flowed into him. Rob had rarely swallowed such a massive load, but Cooter had his cock deep down that throat, and Rob could easily gulp down every drop. Cooter’s balls lay against Rob’s chin, and they drew up as they spewed their seed down Rob’s gullet.
“Hmmm-hmmmm, you got a helluva throat, hoss,” Cooter said, his voice shaking and breaking like a hormonal teenager. His knees even went weak. He very gently fucked Rob’s throat through the last of his orgasm, which made his final cumwad fill Rob’s mouth.
It overflowed past his lips, and Cooter’s muscles rippled as he coated Rob’s mug in his cream and spit. A moan escaped from Rob’s mouth, followed by a flood of jizz that Cooter’s continued humping turned into a frothy mess. It coated Rob’s face from his scalp to his neck, and the cottony smell of Cooter’s orgasm filled Rob’s nostrils.
“So good, that was so good,” Cooter said, still breathless and shaky. His cock dangled between his legs.
He pulled up his underwear and jeans, tucking himself away again without even wiping his dick off. Then he pushed Rob onto the mattress, laying on his back, and Rob was still so overcome by the sunny taste of Cooter’s jizz that he din’t react.
Cooter did nothing with Rob’s flannel shirt, but he roughly pulled down Rob’s jeans and boxers, exposing his red, swollen cock and pale, toned thighs. Cooter let out a long low rumble of desire, as his rough hands kneaded the soft flesh of Rob’s torso.
“I don’t jerk men off,” Cooter said in a thrummy growl. “But I know it’s wrong not to finish a man off after he gets a nut out. I learned that in prison, yessirree. You gotsta recip-ro-cate.” His hand touched Rob’s cock, which was ready to bust its own nut at any moment.
It sounded like he didn’t quite know what reciprocate meant, but Rob was in no mood to educate him.
Without preamble, Cooter took Rob into his hand and started jerking him off, steady and relentless. Most likely Rob would have cum in literally moments, as he was on the verge already, but Cooter’s hands were rough and callused and kind of painful, but in a good way, and it made Rob writhe and bash his head against the pillow under him.
His cock throbbing like a heart, Rob wanted to cry out for more. He fisted his hands in the sheets beneath him, biting his lip to keep from screaming out. He should have done so, of course, as this trailer was separated from the others in the trailer park, but Rob was used to hiding his passions.
When it felt too good to resist, Rob tried to shift himself around, fucking his dick up into Cooter’s hand, but Cooter held Rob’s hips down with his free hand, leaving Rob totally reliant on the rough, twisting motions of Cooter’s grip. It wasn’t long before Rob was spilling over Cooter’s hands, a scream tearing from his throat despite himself. A hot wad of sticky cum spewed out of his massive cockhead.
His own hands kneading the muscles of Cooter’s chest, Rob shot a massive wad onto his belly and over Cooter’s fingertips. Cooter kept stroking the whole time, not missing a single beat, as Rob endured the most intense orgasm of his lifetime.
“A screamer?” Cooter said, standing up to wipe his hands off on a towel. “I like that.” He walked over to the couch where Rob had dropped his jacket and tossed it to Rob, who was barely cognizant enough to catch it. Rob was still shaking through the aftershocks of his orgasm. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride back.”
Rob, after a shaky minute, managed to get himself back into his pants and put on his jacket. The denim felt too rough and the canvas was itchy against his now-sensitive skin. Cooter was already outside by his bike when Rob came down the steps. The ride back wasn’t as awkward as Rob had been expecting, and he grew sleepy in his post-orgasmic stupor. When they stopped at the bar, Rob hopped off the back of the bike and handed Cooter the helmet.
“Do you come to this bar often, Rob?” Cooter asked as Rob started to walk to the door to Lipsweet..
“Yeah,” Rob answered, smiling, his heart ready to pound out of his chest. “I sure do.”

Buck on Bottom

Buck is outta prison once more, and this time he’s about to get turned upside down… because this book is full of Buck on bottom! That’s right, a whole novel of legendary top Buck Sampson doing nothing but bottoming in myriad and sundry ways. You won’t believe where this one goes!

From the prison cell to the oil rig to the trailer park, Buck is in for it in a big way!

Read it now!

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter12

The White Trash Veteran

“Hey, Pops… was Mama a…?” Buck’s voice trailed off. “Was she like…?” He gulped. “A… nice lady?”
Goose put the truck in park. They done come over to a cathouse outsidea Martinsburg — Lipsweet, it was called. It wasn’t owned by the Gray Snakes, so Goose was gonna hafta pay. He could take Buck to a Gray Snakes bar and get him a free slut, but he admiredta hire Buck someone special. Buck just turned eigheen a couple weeks back, and Goose done come home. After rejoicing in togetherness, Goose took him to Lipsweet as a birthday present. Buck got that raga in him, and Goose could understand for sure. He was young once too. Just once.
They was laughing mosta the way from Smashwood. Goose done come home wearing old ratty jeans and a wifebeater, and his gray-spackled beard was raggedy, so Buck came in one of walking right past him at first — Goose looked like one the hobos who moped around the trailer park.
But Goose felt less like a hobo than he had in a very long time.
“What do you mean?” Goose frowned at Buck.
“I heared… Lotta guys say, like…” Buck shrugged and looked down at his feet. He got a big jaw, big nose, big face and a broad pair of shoulders. Damn was Goose proud of him. He done growed into a mountain of man, and he got a hercules mullet. “Some guys got notions ’bout her.”
“If’n any fellers say one unkind word ’bout’cha mama, you best smack the stuffing outta ’em, Buck,” Goose said. He done lost the smile he had the whole way here. “Nah, that ain’t ahimsa. Don’t hit ’em. But don’t tol’ate dirty words and unclean claims neither. She was a saint, toting heaps of metta,” Goose said. He paused to attend to his anapanasati, while Buck pondered and plumped and rolled his eyes at Goose’s orientalisms. “There ain’t no such thang as permanence to a soul, Buck, not yor’n and not her’n. She was not her actions, she was her wisdoms, quiet as they was. She wouldn’t nevuh do nuttin’ foul, nothing. She done e’rythang she could fer you. She nevuh had nuttin’ but love fer you. And fer me. And the world really, she was all love, Moses.”
Buck nodded. “Good. Thought so. I ain’t believe ’em…” That did sound like a lie, but it was one Goose was glad to hear. If there was anything worth lying about, this was it.
“C’mon, son,” Goose said.
He done arrange for Buck to come with him of a Wednesday night cuz Helena was working. Goose knewed her well. She was a plus-size lady of indeterminate race, she got ass that don’t quit and she got pussy that takes a big boy dick when the occasion do arise.
That was good, cuz Buck’s dick was almost as big as Goose’s. Maybe bigger. Goose don’t wanna measure. Buck was a taller than Goose anyhow — Buck was damn near seven feet tall.
Anyway, couple minutes later, Goose was curling his naked body round Helena’s side so he could watch his boy blow up her pussy. She be canoodling, begging for more, Helena know how to play the game. She got more prajna than she seemed.
The plan was for Buck to fuck her, then Goose. Then they’d drink, for which Goose’d hafta sneak likker for Buck, cuz the drinking age was twenty-one — that was new, nationwide. Buck was barely eighteen.
But in the end, Goose slipped out without even blowing his wad. He handed over the dollars he had to the pinkie-ring whomberry Mr. Gregarian, so’s Buck could spend the whole night with Helena. Buck was young, dumb and fulla cum for sure. He done watch Buck pour gallons of nut up her pussy, and it ain’t even slow him down. Ain’t slow her down neither. He barely lit a cigarette before his dick was hard again, and he splashed his knob into the jizz flooding outta her snatch. She was clawing at his back and begging for more, and not just cuzza the money. Goose could tell when a woman was fooling, and that whore was not fooling. She was needful for Buck’s dick.
So Goose let Buck spend the wad for tonight, so Buck could exercise his raga, Goose his dana and the hooker her rigpa. It felt good to restrain, and Goose liked seeing his boy growed up. He don’t need to satisfy his own lusts. He is the master of hisself.
Whenever he sees with insight the rise and fall of the aggregates, he is full of joy and happiness. Duck Fat said that, and he was one wise gook.
When Goose left, dropping his lobha into the nothingness of the universe, he kept only a couple dollars for a drink. He went outside to get a breath of fresh air and sacca, and he decided to leave without buying a single drink.
He went on down by to the police station. Precinct 17 was nigh. Goose done made hisself known there on a couple drunk in public charges, and he was told they gots a bucket trustee a couple weeks back.
His name was Hassle, and he was a dowdy chowder-white Nazi, complete with swastikas and German words tattooed on his muscle-bound body. Hassle said he only joined up with the Aryan Way cuz he gotto in the state pen, he don’t got him no dvesha. Goose dunno if that was true.
Anyway, Hassle was the bucket trustee at Precinct 17, and Goose had an in there with Officer Jackson. He was a squat sumbitch who knewed some of the same fellers Goose knewed in the Army. Jackson let him know about the bucket trustee.
A bucket trustee is a man hired by prison guards or cops to do shit like mop floors, redd toilets, etc. All the shit work they don’t wanna do. Or rather, that’s what a ‘trustee’ does. A ‘bucket trustee’ do all that plus slurp cop dingdong.
When a cop wanna get off, the bucket trustee gotsta do it. That’s why no self-respecting man would tale the position.
But Gose don’t mind taking advantage. None those hangups matter anyway. Reality is an illusion called maya, and devotion to it is the fundamental ignorance of moha. Hassle got moha in spades. Goose could see it in Hassle’s sunken eyes.
“Hey, Hassle, you up?” Goose said when Jackson let him into the jailhouse.
Hassle groaned. “Yep.” He stood there in his cell, next to the free weights he was lifting a minute ago. His pale skin gleamed with sweat. “Goose. No ass.”
Goose shrugged. “Fine. But you swallow, and you go deep.”
Hassle sat on the side of his bunk and motioned for Goose to come into the cell, which he did. “You stop when I tap you on the ass.” Hassle had a six-pack of beer waiting beside his bunk too. Goose eyed that with upadana eyes, but he tamped his thirst down. Sunyata was better than beer, sukha better than preya.
“Cops say you gotsta swallow,” Goose said with a grin. That part weren’t true. He heared a rumor the cops made Hassle swallow they cum. Ain’t nobody say nothing about Hassle swallowing nobody else’s. He just get fellers off, reckon. But Hassle seemed to accept that the Goose was transmitting the word of the policemen in the front of the precinct.
Pulling down his trouser-pants and drawers, Goose hefted his fat meat in hand. He fed it into Hassle’s mouth, then let his eyes roll back as his dick firmed up. Hassle done get plenty of dicks hard, and he knewed how to do it with a quickness and with upekkha. He slurped up and down Goose’s knob. He don’t shirky-dick it. He was methodical like a fucking pro.
In the Army, Goose got a blowjob once from a Turkish whore, and she sucked dick like that, like so good it was too quick and he barely felt it. Took like ninety seconds. Hassle was like her. Goose was older now, and he saw it coming, this weren’t his first time with Hassle. Goose’s first time he cum before he meant to, he was planning on sticking it up Hassle’s behind neverminding Hassle’s protestations.
But he got good at delaying it. He don’t wanna premature nut. That experience was burned into his alayavijnana — that’s the deepness of a man’s notions — and like everything that ever done happen, Lucent shooting himself in the face, Masterson and Berringer, Sam’s brains, Ellen, the river, Buck raising up like the everyday sun, all of it was in there. They was meanders and dams and oxbows, but Goose ain’t let none of it interfere. He experienced only the sensation of the moment.
When Goose felt an orgasm coming on strong, he pulled outta Hassle’s mouth like he was gonna finish hisself off with his hands. Hassle even got up to wipe his face off.
That meant his ass was turned round, so Goose ripped down Hassle’s workpants and drawers. He shoved Hassle off-balance and onto the floor on all fours.
“Hey-!”
Then, before Hassle could move, Goose mounted him and rammed his dick into his ass. The only lube was Hassle’s spit, but that was enough to get started. Maybe two inches of Goose’s dick slid in.
“Get off me!” Hassle roared. He bumped his head into the wall of his cell. Goose had a good grip on his shoulders though, and Hassle couldn’t get enough leverage to stand.
“Relax, relax, Jackson said I could,” Goose said. He forced his dick in with all his might. He grinned. Jackson did say Goose could, but ain’t nobody gonna come hold Hassle down. All three them — Goose, Jackson, Hassle — was the culmination of they vasana, which led them like fate to this conflict in this cell. There ain’t no use fighting over it. You gotsta just let it play out.
Easy for Goose to say, cuz he was on top.
“Owwww shit!”
When a burst of pain hit Hassle, he collapsed to the floor. Goose grabbed the bottle of lube Hassle kept beside his bunk, and he went down with Hassle, who screamed in pain. Hassle lay on his belly on the floor, and Goose pressed down atop him.
“Ow, fuck, Goose-!”
“Sssh, relax, lemme just put the tip in,” Goose said. He already got the tip in and then some, but he done hit resistance. He be plowing against it though, holding onto Hassle by the nape.
Goose smeared lube on his dick and stabbed again into the hole. This time it mostly went in, but Hassle yet wriggled and grunted in agony. A wave of pleasure made Goose’s chest ripple. Hassle’s chowder-white face turned red like a Indian, and he buckled and wriggled beneath Goose.
“Oww, shit, man, c’mon! Sheriff said I only gotsta take cop dick up behind!” Hassle said. He wrenched his head this way and that. “Ow, shit! C’mon!”
“I’ll be done in a sec, just a sec,” Goose said. He laid his face on Hassle’s back and pumped his hips at every angle he could find. It felt good as Goose hoped, Hassle was well-broke-in from all that policeman dingdong and who-knows-who-else. A tight intact booty was nice, but a soft and warm chute was good too. Hassle don’t got a no in his bones, so he could say it over and over like a tractor, but he couldn’t clench.
A shot of creamy jizz spurted into Hassle’s guts. A long flow of it went in, and Hassle groaned in disgust and pain. Goose shot a huge load, it just kept on filling up his guts and dripping down his fat buttcrack onto the cell floor.
A moan came from both men but with very different cadences. Goose’s hot breath condensed on Hassle’s shoulder muscles. More jizz spurted into Hassle’s tight ass, and Hassle grunted with each wad of cum to coat his guts. Hassle’s whole body shook beneath Goose.
Both men was still. Then Goose pistoned his hips, ramming it in deep to drain the last couple drops of nutjuice. Hassle grunted, his muscles and swastikas jostling up and down with Goose’s thrusts.
At last, Goose raised his chest off Hassle, and he let his cock slip out. “Sorry, Hassle,” he said. He ain’t sound sorry at all. He had no regrets. No fetters. He got only shrugs, as he calmly wiped his pecker clean, got his garb back on and debouched into one of the unlocked cells.
Despite Hassle’s dirty looks, Goose slept there in his own cell, letting the waves of night lull him to slumber, and in the morning, he left and roused his hungover son from his lady’s arms. The sun did shine, like a bowl of merriment, upon Goose’s brow and upon Buck’s dozey dome. With viriya in they step, them two went by shanks’ mare back to they trailer in Smashwood.
Goose was from there, so coming home to it was the best thing ever.

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter11

The White Trash Veteran

Goose learned meditation at a lumber camp near Yakima, where he was the only white feller. The other workers was all Cambodian, fresh off the boat. They taught him to cook on a wok and to experience samatha and sati, two words he was only beginning to acquaint hisself with, though he been searching for ’em since he left America fifteen years ago. Goose taught them too, how to make cornbread, dodge a skunk, play the banjo.
The Cambodians worked him hard. His shoulders got to aching, knees creaky as a scary movie, and for the first time in his life, he felt physically old. He’d felt mentally old before, but now, approaching forty, he felt his limbs a-clacking and his joints a-popping. The Cambodians taught him to savor that, to use it to live in the moment, to savor the joy of being the kind of conscious animal that rises above its suffering.
Living with males was good, and living with Buddhists was salvatious. Goose meditated like a stone. No mind, no past, no dam. He polished ten perfections, but Goose did got a boy he needta return to. A man do sacrifice everything, even enlightenment, for his kin.
Buck was fifteen now. His teacher was a nice old lady with two sigogglin’ heavy-hangers drooping low like a paira sleepy grapefruits. She set up Buck with special lessons after school, and Buck was eager to do ’em too. But his grades stayed basementy. Buck don’t put in the effort, that’s the problem.
Smarts is overrated anyway. The most unhappy people Goose ever met was smart as laundry. Dumbdumbism may mean you won’t invent some new kinda computer or something, but it ain’t a barrier to happiness.
The Buddhists say that consciousness is the awareness that life is imperfect. Like, take the skunk. It may be dumb, but it accepts that it sees the world as a skunk do, fulla skunky thangs and not-skunky thangs, thangs that could be predators, thangs that could be prey, and e’erythang it sees aligns with its perceptions. It could see a alien spaceship, wouldn’t pluss a skunk, cuz it just put all big loud things in the same category. To a skunk, the world is perfect. E’rythang is in its place, cuz a skunk only knows a couple places. But a human’s conscious soul sees the multitudes and all the thangs that don’t fit into ar’y one of ’em. Like a battle without a war, a fight you both won and lost, a past that circles the present like a vulture and pecks at the future. A skunk don’t ponder. A skunk do swim with the current in the river of it all, while Goose be building a flotsam raft outta hillbilly jetsam to fight through flawed rapids to the wise, wise ocean. Things happen in they own way, as is they wont, and it is our way to never reason why, only to do or do die. A skunk don’t never try to reason why. Idiot blunders is a monster on the left, and overthinking intellects is a monster on the right, while wisdom is a middle route on the righteous and narrow.
When Goose was in boot camp, he had his difficulties with the academic side of Army life. Goose’s drill sergeant acted like his donkey-skull was a deliberate decision, not a failure of competence.
“You a retard, boy?!” shouted Drill Sergeant Tucker when Goose flunked some dumb-ass test about tactics and equipment and jargon, not the true suchness of the world.
“Suh, no, suh!” Goose said. He stood at attention in Tucker’s office.
“Why ain’t you got the answers then? I taught you all this shit.”
“Suh-!”
“Only reason to not know ’em is if you was a retard or you chose to forget ’em, which is it?”
“Suh… I was confused ’bout the questions, some of ’em — and the time limit was tough, I ran outta time-“
“All I hear is excuses! You is finally right about one thing, Sampson! You done ran outta time!” Sergeant Tucker said. His face was cranberrying up hard, his wrinkles smudging, jowls jowling. He got asraddhya coming outta his old-man pores. He jabbed a finger at Goose. “Was you tryin’ to fail?”
“No suh!” Goose said.
“Hopin’ to get outta the Army by bein’ dumb?”
“No suh!”
“Boy, what?!”
“No suh!”
“Do I gotsta beat some smarts into ya dumb skull!” Tucker barked, and he was already throwing a punch before he finished his threat. His fist collided with the meaty thickness of Goose’s belly. Goose be oomphing like a tuba, but he stonefaced. This too would pass, as all things demonstrate the impermanence of anicca.
Goose was shirtless, so his torso turned red as Sergeant Tucker punched him again and again. Goose thunk he was sposedta not show his pain, but when he couldn’t anymore, he doubled over, gasping for air, his torso turning yellow and purple. Ten fetters anchored him, cuz he thought he shouldn’t be feeling pain. How wrong he was!
“Well? Sampson!? Whatchoo got to say for ya candy-ass self?” Drill Sergeant Tucker said when he stopped stopped hitting him. Tucker dunno that there is no self, that atman is an illusion, and so’s candy and asses for that matter.
He stood and waited for Goose to catch his breath. Finally, Goose choked out a few words. “Suh… I… suh…” He wanna say he got no pramada, but this was before Goose thunk about enlightenment, he ain’t yet hold no Choo Dye Bee in his grubby mitts. All he could do was bristle and rare, his lungs clawing for wind.
“Uh-huh. Sampson, I am gonna drill this shit into you one way or another. I will put the facts into ya brain by hand if I gotto. Nobody gets outta the Army on a brainpower issue, not on my watch.”
“Suh, I wasn’t…” Goose took a deep, painful breath. “I wasn’t tryin’ to fail, suh. I reads slow, tha’ss all. Suh, I was a-studyin’-“
“Don’t gimme that, I’m gonna make you hurt til learning seems easier than flunking. You gonna learn every last word, Sampson,” Tucker said. He held up the study guide everybody done get givened. He tossed it at Goose. “Hold it close to ya heart. I’ll drill it in that way.”
“Suh, yes, suh,” Goose said. He clutched the study guide to his chest, unaware that this moment, like all moments, was the bija, or seed, of everything that came later. That’s another of time’s blips that can only be reckonized downstream. “I’ll read it again-“
“I know you will.” Sergeant Tucker got behind Goose. “Memorize it, Sampson. No leave, no free time, till you memorize every word.” He reached round Goose and undid the belt holding up Goose’s camo trousers, which toppled to his ankles. “Stay at attention. Hold the study guide.” Then before Goose knewed it, his green drawers was ripped down, and Goose’s foot-long cock dangled.
Goose sucked in his breath. Sergeant Tucker remained behind him, so he had to look round Goose to see it. He clucked his tongue like he don’t approve of big dingdongs. He grabbed Goose’s cock from behind and slapped it left and right. It jiggled like gelatin, and his heavy body pressed into Goose’s back.
“Thought so. Thick-ass dumb fuck!” Sergeant Tucker said from behind Goose, who could hear the tanha in his voice, but also cetana. Sergeant Tucker got great cetana. That’s how a military officer is, sacrificing his volition for craving. Karma is a curse to war, but soldiers are a society’s upaya. “A smart man’s smarts is in his brain. A dumb motherfucker’s dumbs is in his dick. And ya dick is overflowin’ with dumb, Sampson.”
“Yes, suh.”
His arms wrapped round Goose’s torso, Tucker rammed his dick into Goose’s ass. It glanced off his intact hole. Tucker rammed again, hard, hard enough to hurt even though it didn’t go in. Goose ain’t show no pain.
“You gonna fight me, Sampson? Spread ’em, private. Make a hole and make it wide,” he said. That was what he always said when the squad was jogging and he came up in the middle of ’em.
Goose did spread his legs, but he ain’t open his ass. He got his pride. He couldn’t tell a officer no without getting court-martialed, but no rule says he gotsta make it easy for him. He stayed up straight and all, legs spread.
That did open his bootyhole up enough for Tucker’s dick tip to tease in, just the tip. That was all. Goose thought maybe he’d be satisfied with that. It was technically penetration. It did go in. He could hold his head high and so could Goose.
But then Tucker surprised him by reaching around and grabbing his ballsac. He squeezed it with one hand. A jolt of electric agony shot up Goose’s spine.
And when the pain vanished, cuz Tucker leggo, Goose’s ass momentarily unclenched. Sergeant Tucker was waiting for that.
His rock-hard cock forced its way into Goose’s butthole, heaps of dickmeat ramming right in. Goose couldn’t help but scream, as pain exploded up his spine. He cut it short when Tucker barked incomprehensibly behind him.
“Sssssuh…?!” Goose’s voice trembled. A howl came outta Goose’s mouth, but he choked it back, and he stayed upright. Tucker’s hands gripped Goose’s chest to hold him in place at attention.
“Don’chu dare fight me, son!”
“Suh, yes, suh!” Goose struggled to speak with the pain exploding in his ass.
One of Tucker’s callused hands wrapped round Goose’s cock and squeezed it. “Does ya dick work?” Tucker’s dick ain’t move yet, it just rammed in and stayed still. Goose’s whole body trembled and shook.
“Suh, yes, suh!”
“Then get hard, Sampson!” Sergeant Tucker said. He was mad stroking Goose’s cock, his own dick planted deep in Goose’s ass like a poplar. It throbbed hotly, and Goose sensed it felt good to Sergeant Tucker, who ain’t show no response to the sensation. He focused on stroking Goose’s dick into firmity. Tucker chuckled. “Is this thang why they call you Goose?”
“Suh, yes, suh.”
“Best get hard, son, I ain’t gonna finish in ya ass till you blow a nut. Maybe you’ll shoot some of the dumb outta that pecker,” Tucker said. His breathing growed jagged though, and his words was clipped like he was holding back a moan of desire. He be dimpling his hips too, as if he was resisting the instinct to ram back and forth.
Somehow Goose did get hard. He was in too much pain to think about it. Maybe it was the tension of the situation, but before he knewed it, his dick was firm and throbbing in Tucker’s hand. It both hurt and felt good, the pain and the pleasure erupting from oppposite ends. He writhed and gasped in Tucker’s strong arms.
Precum dribbled out and coated Sergeant Tucker’s hand, then both hands when he started using ’em both on Goose’s shaft. Every couple seconds, he again gave Goose’s balls a light squeeze.
“Ow, shit-“
“Hush ya mouth, son,” Sergeant Tucker said. His breath condensed like steam on Goose’s ear. He was daggering slightly now, unable to resist moving his sensitive cock, which only strengthened the agony in Goose’s ass. The pleasure in Goose cock growed stronger though, with every stroke of Sergeant Tucker’s hands.
Pain still exploding in his rear, Goose shot a massive load onto the floor. The first arrow was the agony of the moment, but that is fleeting like a leaf in a river. The second arrow was the stress and fear that come with pain, and it was that Goose needed to avoid. Course, that hillbilly ain’t learn that lesson at this time, he was just a dumbass grunt with a big dick, shooting ropes upon ropes of creamy jizz onto the ground. Tucker stroked the entire time, not missing a beat. His painfully callused hand felt much better on Goose’s sensitive shaft after it was coated in sticky jizz. Sergeant Tucker groaned as he teased out Goose’s cum.
Only then did Tucker begin moving his dick back and forth, the final few wads of nut was still on the dribble outta Goose’s pecker. The motion reawakened the pain in Goose’s ass.
Goose sucked in his breath and clamped his mouth shut, breathing through clenched teeth as little sparks of pleasure kept erupting outta his dick. Behind him, he heared Sergeant Tucker’s broad chest muscles ripple, and he sensed how good Goose’s intact booty felt to him.
With a chest-thumping old-man roar, Sergeant Tucker held Goose close and pounded hard at his ass. Goose struggled to stay upright cuzza the pain and the lingering sensitivity in his dickshaft — which Tucker never leggo of, he kept stroking it even limp as twine — as he moaned directly at him, so loud it made Goose’s whole body shake. Or maybe that was the pain from Sergeant Tucker’s cock rocking his innards. Cum sprayed into Goose’s ass. A fat hot burst of it exploded in Goose’s guts, and his knees went weak.
“Stay strong, soldier! At attention!”
Goose worked out staying upright — both experiencing and wishing for khanti — and he resumed his at-attention stance while Tucker pounded away at his ass. Cum poured down his legs as fast as Tucker could shoot it into his booty. It was hot like lava and goopy like slime, sticking to his innards and to his thighs where it dripped down his legs.
“Get this place mopped up, son,” Tucker said, still finishing his nut off in Goose’s muscled ass. He swallowed up a moan by gently biting Goose’s nape. Goose stayed at attention. Tucker’s cock growed soft, but he ain’t take it out. “And I’ll give you one more try at passin’ that test.”
“Thank you-” Goose’s voice wavered from the pain. “Suh, thank you, suh.”

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter10

The White Trash Veteran

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

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 9

The White Trash Veteran

By the end of 1987, Goose found his hillbilly ass on a oil rig in the North Atlantic, nigh to a place called the Pharaoh Islands. Goose never heared of ’em. It wasn’t Egyptian, though it sounded like it, it was much farther north than that. It was cold as frozen turds up there!
The oil rig itself was toasty warm though. Got plentya heat throughout, and the pay was good, so they could live it up when back on land on leave.
Till then, there weren’t much to do besides work. Goose was tuckered as a tire for sure. He did get mail from Buck and Missus Bridge though. She kept Goose in the loop on Buck’s school troubles. He was getting remedials, which she thinked was gonna help.
He be wilding, got hisself suspended. That schoolteacher said he gotsta “decorate his binder how he likes it”, but he don’t like it decorated, so he up and ran around, raising hell, you know how a hillbilly do! He ain’t yet understand that when a woman says to do something as you like it, what she means is to do it as she likes it.
Buck took it on the chin. He was like that, he take it all in stride. All he gots is women in his life though. He lives with Missus Bridge, he got a lady schoolteacher, his daddy be gone all the time. Maybe that was why he was struggling in school, Goose thought. He sees it as a womanly thing.
Even Buck’s gym teacher was a woman! A sturdy lass for sure, but she don’t let ‘em do no wrestling or tackle football or nothing. Buck do get in trouble when he’s bored.
Buck sent him drawings of school and the tree fort he built with his buddy Cody, and Goose be sending him back drawings of the oil rig’s drilling room. Buck love that shit. Goose even got this feller with a camera to take some pictures of the machinery, and Goose sent ‘em on to Buck.
“Shit, man, aftuh I drop off them pitchers in the mail, I’mma kick off in town tomorruh,” Goose said when him and the other Americans all got back on down to they barrack after suppuh one night. They all lived together by nationality. It helped avoid conflicts, or so the old-timers said.
“Shit yeah, booooy!” said Jamal. He was the black feller — the black American feller, as there was other black fellers from like Africa and such. Jamal ain’t get along with them one bit though. He wanted nothing to do with the Africans or the Dominicans. Neither did Goose. Leave he to his own, that’s in the Bible. He do make a exception for the wisdom of the Orient that Sam introduced him to, prior to Goose eating his brains that one time.
Goose wondered if Sam’s teachings on rivers and meditation done stuck to Goose’s mind cuz Sam’s brain got in Goose’s mouth. Prolly not. Prolly no science in behind that. But he do dwell on it.
“I’mma get that lamb, with the sauce! Heckfire!” said Jenderson, a tall reedy motherfucker from Minnesota.
They all agreed on that one. The restaurant on the Pharoah Islands where they got dinner on leave had a rack of lamb that was pricey as fuck but tasted so good it made Goose drool just thinking about it.
“The beer with the bear on the label too-“
“Oooh yeah!”
“Remembuh that blonde waitress?”
“My god, she was hot as hell!”
“Hmmphh!” said this youngish feller Jethro Wilde with a mustache and a scruffy beard beneath it. He grabbed his crotch through his workjeans. He pumped his hips like he was fucking a invisible woman. Then he loosened his belt and dropped his jeans.
They all stripped to drawers after work. The living quarters was warm, often uncomfortably hot, so they gots to get as undressed as possible. With them all grabbing they peckers and miming what they wanna do to the blonde waitress, stiffies was popping up.
And the black feller Jamal was the one with the most obvious stiffy. “Hey, I’mma see if anyone put on that miniskirt,” Jamal said with a guilty laugh. He been dancing along with rap music, which was new then, Goose ain’t never heared it — t’was like calypso but worse, he found. He played calypso instead, but Jamal be plussing. Goose settled. Jamal got a ear for that rap. He grappled with his crotch as the others all laughed alongside him. “Needta find a lady, don’t care how ugly!”
Them’all guffawed and slapped they knees. Jamal was short as a petunia, but he steady popped stiffies. He was little enough that his medium-sized pecker looked big as hell on him. He weared only tight-white drawers, as he went off into the corridors of the oil rig in search of the “barrel room”.
That was a small bedroom with a box in it. Inside the box was a miniskirt. The old-timers did say over and over that anybody who want to can put on the miniskirt. Then the other fellers was “allowed” to ram him up the booty — course ain’t nobody gonna scotch ya even without the miniskirt. On rig, a feller can either hold his own or he can’t. Don’t need a miniskirt to let a man in ya backdoor.
But anyway, if he put on a miniskirt, another man is allowed to put it up behind, gotsta pay out in likker, that was all. The old-timers would enforce that one, if a feller refused to pay up.
Or supposably they would. Ain’t not a soul do it yet, and Goose and them all done spread the notion that nobody ever did. T’was just a prank, a way to scare newbies by pretending you was gonna put the miniskirt on ’em.
But Jamal been checking every night, it seemed. You know how black boys is, they love ass. If Jamal was a foot taller, he’d prolly try and put the miniskirt on a small feller. Black boys is like that. Most likeishly, the Africans on rig would do the same, and maybe they did among they own. Nobody talked about that though. Jamal returned to the barrack every night with a stiffy, which he jacked off right there in front of everybody.
That ain’t a fun parta brotherhood, seeing a black boy shooting nut on his belly. Still felt good to Goose though. Lotta the Americans on rig was veterans, not all of ’em went to ‘Nam though. It hurt to hear it the first time, when some feller said he was in the Army in peace. It made Goose feel old, used-up, abandoned like a waste house, irrelevant, forgotted, like everything that happened was never gonna matter. The Army done move on. Vietnam done move on.
But that feller got his own troubles, his own dams blocking up his self-same river. It’s good for a man to get away. Among women and children, a man had gotta keep his head up, keep his shoulders straight. A man falls apart like a jigsaw puzzle; a woman falls apart like shattered glass. Without women, men holds each other together like log cabins. Without men, women holds each other down like a bucket of frogs.
Since leave was upcoming soon, Goose held off on his own wingwang. He was gonna get to that brothel, and he was gonna fuck like a stallion. There was beautiful Nordic ladies — blonde-haired beauties like Viking princesses waited for ’em in the Pharaoh Islands.
Thinking about them Viking ladies got Goose an inconvenient hardon the night before leave. It was too early for lights out, and Goose don’t like to jack hisself off in the lightness, with a dozen fellers watching or worse, whacking it alongside him. That’s nasty, and that’s what Jamal do. If Goose ain’t better than a colored feller, then what’s the point of being white?
T’wasn’t until just before lights-out that Goose reckonized Jamal’s absence. He never did come back from the trip to the barrel room. Did that mean someone did have on the miniskirt after all? Maybe Jamal was deep in some feller’s asshole right now.
So Goose excused hisself to go take a shit, but then he went through to the barrel room, carrying with himself the bottle of rum he been sipping from. Sure nuff, he heared Jamal’s voice in the barrel room, and when he went in, Jamal was plowing into the behind of a much larger man.
It was one the dark-haired ones who lived altogether in a corner barrack, white but swarthy — someone said they was Greek, someone else said Gypsies. Maybe both. This one was Bosko, and he was a broad-shouldered powerhouse, the miniskirt barely fitting round his waist.
“Ah shit, honky, you caught me! This girl is tight!” Jamal said with a big bright smile. Bosko was strong as a ox and a foot taller than Jamal’s bitsy booty, so Jamal looked ridiculous ramming at his backdoor, like it took all of Jamal’s strength just to bump into him. Jamal then closed his eyes as he jetted his nut into Bosko’s tight ass. “Hmm, baby, you okay?” He tenderly rubbed Bosko’s asscheek.
Parta the rule was that whoever weared the miniskirt was “technically” a female. You had to treat “her” like a woman, and you hadta pretend it was a different person. Jamal wasn’t sposedta ever acknowledge that it was Bosko in the miniskirt. Jamal’s whole body twitched as he shot Bosko fulla jizz. Goose got up close to watch, but there weren’t much to see, cuz Jamal done ram his whole manhood up there.
All Goose sawed was Bosko’s ass quivering as he clenched and expelled Jamal’s limpening dickshaft. It plopped out with a moist shlurping sound that made Goose both chuckle and groan.
“No ass.” Bosko had a thin accent to his English. He glared at Goose, as Jamal chuckled and wiped his black boy pecker off, then pulled his drawers up.
Before Jamal left, he grabbed Goose by the balls through his drawers and squeezed hard enough to make Goose squirm. Then Jamal guffawed and stepped outta the barrel room. Jamal thought a white man with a big dingdong was hilarious.
“Good luck, Bosko!” Jamal said. Then he hushed hisself, “I mean… lady… ma’am, whoever you is.”
The door swung shut behind him, and Goose was left alone with Bosko.
Goose looked sheepishly at Bosko. He showed him the third of a bottle of rum he had, which Bosko peered at, then sniffed then put in a corner with a few other bottles of liquor, beer and wine.
“Mouth only.” Bosko said, his miniskirt riding up to bare his hairy Greek thighs. He got on his knees in front of Goose. He got a wide layer of scruff round his lips and a hairy chest. Shit, he was hairy enough to make the whole room smell like body hair.
Goose wrinkled his nose. He ain’t never decide to do this, he just had liquor in hand and Bosko thinked that was supposed to be payment. Goose did wanna bust a load out, but damn, couldn’t they shave Bosko’s Greek ass? Or Gypsy or anywhat? Whatever race Bosko was, they was some hairballs, that was for sure.
Slipping his limp dick into Bosko’s mouth, Goose furrowed his brow. Bosko made no effort to throat him. Goose had trouble getting hard like that. Bosko’s beard hairs was coarse and reminded Goose there was no woman around, and Bosko ain’t even do nothing, he just sat there gawping like a dead fish.
His mouth was open, and Goose could play round in there all he wanted. Bosko ain’t even gag a bit. But he also ain’t lick it or slurp on it or make any spit or even just move his lips back and forth. Goose did the best he could.
His tongue did feel good, kinda, rubbing on Goose’s meat. It felt better than Goose’s own hand anyway. It ain’t feel much like a blowjob though, more like a discount fleshlight.
“Hey, I’m allowed to ram you up the asshole,” Goose said with a frown. He put his hands on his hips, then swayed his waist to make his dick limply rub over Bosko’s msuatchioed face. “I can’t even see the miniskirt like that, man.”
Bosko grumbled in whatever dumbass language he spoke, but he got up onto the bed in one corner of the room. He laid on his back so his head dangled just off the back edge.
“A’ight, a’ight,” Goose said with a smile. He bent his knees to get his dick into Bosko’s mouth, which stretched open to accommodate it. Goose tried to picture a woman in the miniskirt, ignoring Bosko’s hairy legs and the treasure trail going down his belly and into the miniskirt.
This was more like it.
With Bosko laying over the edge of the bed, Goose had a perfect angle to go deep in his throat. Bosko musta been well broke-in — damn well broke-in — cuz he ain’t resist a bit. Goose’s limpness hit the backa his throat and slipped in past his gag reflex, and that was it! A surge of melted pleasure hit Goose’s body, and he moaned as his cock flexed to full erection in moments.
Goose’s pecker was too big for any woman to deep-throat, so he never got real deep like that. He did throat down some fellers pretty hard in his day, but ain’t none of ’em was as broke-open as Bosko was and ain’t mosta ’em bend over backwards like this neither.
That Gypsy throat opened up deep enough that Goose’s whole erection could ram down there, his balls slapping Bosko on the nose. “Oh fuck yeah, baby…” Goose pictured one the Viking women he was gonna fuck on leave. He ain’t even needta look at the miniskirt.
Later on, Goose found out Bosko was indeed a Gypsy, and they gots a rule that when they run outta liquor on rig, they draw straws and make one of they own take dick till they earn enough liquor to last till leave. Over the next couple days, Bosko musta took gallons of nut. Gypsies is like that, reckon.
Bosko gagged over and over, but he got deeper on Goose’s dick than any man ever had. Goose got so into it that he even pulled down Bosko’s miniskirt as though he might see a pussy. All that was there was Bosko’s uncut cock, bouncing around. Goose chuckled at the sight, then covered it up again.
He shot a fat load down Bosko’s throat. A bigger load than Goose thunk possible, wad after creamy wad filled up Bosko’s belly and overflowed from his throat. Bosko squirmed, but Goose held him tightly in place.
“Fuck yeah…” Goose’s voice wavered and broke. Another flood of jizz spurted right down Bosko’s gullet. Goose’s cock was so deep in his tight throat that Bosko couldn’t spit it up if he hoped to, which he did, and his whole body be twitching as Goose spewed load after load straight into his belly.
His cock plopped out, followed by a frenzy of gags and squirming retches from Bosko. Stomachfuls of jizz spilled outta Bosko’s mouth and soaked his chest, dripping down to his miniskirt. Goose was dribbling yet a few drops of nut and saliva onto Bosko’s head, even as Bosko stood and bent over to spit up into a bucket by the bed.
“Goddamn, that felt good,” Goose said, backing away from Bosko. He twirled his limp dick in hand before wiping his wetness off and tucking it back in his drawers. “Lemme know when you put that thang on again, shit, lady. I’ll get a blowjob outta ya throat anytime.”
Satisfied as a kitten, Goose returned to his barrack, where Jamal and them was fitting to fall asleep like wise lotuses. Goose stayed up for awhile. It felt good to be among men, but it couldn’t last. He needta see his son, rejoin civilization and prove that he could build a lake behind hisself, flowing on to the ocean yanway. Forward, he thought, forward at last.

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 8

The White Trash Veteran

The air was thick in wafts and gummous throughout, steamy like a sauna of algae. Harley bumped into Goose, and the gunboat smoothly glid underneath him, jostled by an occasional rock or maybe a river crocodile.
Blood splattered, and water splashed. Goose leaped into action onto the pibber’s wooden deck. His own gun was hot and heavy in his hand, rumbling and jumping up and down when bullets popped outta it. His chest heaved and huffed and probably shouted out something, Goose ain’t listen, cuz he was pulling the trigger harder than anything ever been pulled.
“Goose, you okay? Hey! Sampson!” That was the voice of Willamee Bowder, this old-timey feller with a gray beard and a gravel-choked throat. His voice rattled out next to Goose. Willamee sat behind the wheel of the work-truck. “You in dream-time, Sampson. We got a day’s work aheada us. Get ready.”
Willamee Bowder weren’t in Vietnam. Neither was Goose. Neverthelessly, he felt a bullet pass close to his shoulder, wind like death scything down stillness. Gooks on shore musta done been were firing at the pibber, which teetered beneath Goose’s boots — turbulence from the soldiers rushing into action, shifting the weight on the boat. River water splickety-splashed, blood puddled up sticky as spillt wine and sunshine wafted like heat from an opened oven.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” Goose said. He seed the work-truck come to a stop, and he seed Willamee get out from the driver’s side of the cab.
Goose left the truck too, moving like a dream, no friction, no weight, no texture. The real world was a cloud whooshing by, and the whole universe lingered like a fart. His Garand made his arms shake when he fired it, the heavy gun weighing down on his tired muscles. Liquid leaked onto his ankle, hopefully river water but prolly not, as he bumped into a barrel of something or another, he couldn’t remember, but it was solid enough to stop bullets.
“A’ight, old man,” Goose said to Willamee. “Hooray! Let’s get this shit unloaded! Let’s do it! Fuckhead Squad on it!” He knewed he was being too enthusastic, he wasn’t making sense to Willamee. “Come on!” he screamed. Spittle splattered afront his eyes or maybe that was tears, Goose couldn’t tell. “Get it done!” A clapping sound came from his hands coming together, and Goose jumped, fitting to work. They was laying pipes for a irrigation system at a farm — a soon-to-be farm — in Nowheresburg, California. T’was just dirt at the moment.
Willamee stood beside the truck like a cowboy, furrowing his brow. Goose’s heart pumped much too fast for the situation, but he ain’t feel it. He felt only the pibber reaching rocks, which made it rattle and roll like a drummer beneath his feet. Jostling bursts of pow-pow closemostly punctuated the whitewater frothing down below.
“Relax. It ain’t a race,” Willamee said. He spoke so slow, like he was talking to a retard. His words snipped and festered like skeeters from the future.
“We just gotta do it! Do it! Do it!” Goose screamed at the truck. He grabbed something, some pipe or anywhat, he moved too fast to look at it. “I’s unloadin’, fuck you! You gonna help!? Huh?!” He tossed it off the truck and onto the ground. It felt like nothingness in his grip. Hot blood splattered on his face, probably Delmonico’s, cuz he died then, maybe — Goose couldn’t remember, somebody did and there was blood flecked like drool on his mouth, wonder if they told his mama that part. Water ricocheting outta the river’s turbulence washed the scarlet away. Goose saw hisself ripping irrigation piping outta the back the truck, his chest heaving like it took all his might. “Do it! Get it done, Willamee! We gotta do it! It’s the job! I’s doin’ it!”
“A’ight, we will, we will, slow down, Goose, you is freakin’ out, man-“
“It’s all happenin’! We gotsto finish it!” Goose said. He either fell or jumped outta the bed of the truck — possibly intending to lay out the irrigation pipes, but they wasn’t in the right place and the ground wasn’t prepped for it and he ain’t grab the right pipes to start with. He paced like a furious pendulum. “Let’s unload this shit!” A bullet got him in the leg, and pain splintered up him. Goose yowled like a deer, and he plopped onto the pibber surface. Blood spurted, which Goose felt but ain’t see, cuz he seed hisself collapsing like a coffin into the cold California topsoil.
All thanks to the Lord above, the sudden movement of his tumble and the smell of the American dirt snapped him outta it. He was fully in the present now — the year was 1986, and everything that happened was real, just like all the places between California and Vietnam was real. Death was real. Buck was real. Delaware was real — Goose seen it, he punched a fry cook at a Shoney’s in Rehobeth last year — Manhood was real. Time was real. War was real. Jury was still out on peace.
He weren’t dying from that bullet in his leg cuz he done not die from it. Army doc took it out.
In a tent, like on Mash! That was Korea, but the tent was the same. War is war. Comedy don’t stop bullets. That was a good show though. His heart was pumping like a dyke, liketa bust outta his chest, like that alien in that movie.
“We will, we’ll do it — you’re not even unloadin’ the right shit. Slow ya toes, Goose, you gonna break something,” Willamee said. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Goose said, and he was fine. Well, not fine, but he was finer than some things. He no longer felt Vietnam around him. He was in California, and he could touch it. He did touch it. He touched the soil to remind him what California felt like. It ain’t feel like a wetland, that was for damn sure. “I’m fine.”
“What happened the’eh?”
“Nothing. I’m fine,” Goose said. “Let’s get to work.” He looked at Willamee as though to explain, but he didn’t. Work answers itself, so they unloaded gear from the backa the truck.
They was building heaps of farms out here. The pay was good, and they don’t got enough people in the locale to do the job. Cuz Goose had experience, they snapped him right up.
He got that experience in his first prison stay, which was before he got called up for ‘Nam. T’was just a six-month bid, and he did it in comfort cuzza Goose’s daddy being dead. His daddy was a Gray Snake — the biker club — and he died in the line of duty. Gray Snakes honor they dead by gifting the orphans a lifetime of protection.
That meant Goose could get right into the Gray Snakes’s good graces, soon as he arrived at the Virginia State Pen — Goose got to stealing cars in Staunton, Virginia, so he done his time across the state line. The work crew was employed laying irrigation pipes at a Mennonite farm out that way.
He worked alongside this hippie sumbitch Steve. He got long stringy hair like a dirty girl and a love for LSD, which was something Goose knewed nothing about. It was everywhere a couple years later. Steve was aheada the curve on that one.
“It makes you see beyond the universe. Well, not see, exactly,” Steve said by way of explanation. Goose done ask if it was like the mary jane, and Steve spent several million words explaining the difference. “But you can sense the breathing, the pulsations of the universe, the oneness of all things.”
“Oneness?”
“We’re all the same, really. You and me, and the trees and birds and rocks, we’re all just stellar stardust,” Steve said.
“Uh-huh.”
He went on, but Goose quit off listening. He ain’t need to hear tell of drugs he got no chance of doing.
Plus Goose was hot on the wonder about what was for supper tonight. He hoped it was Salisbury steak. Salisbury steak was proper at the Virginia State Pen. He pondered on that, letting the desire flow through and away, contemplating the moment, not that Goose was aware of that way of thinking. Steve did, but Goose ain’t listen at the time. Steve’s wisdom only resonated in retrospect. Not a problem for a Buddhist, cuzza time being an illusion and all that. Goose could grasp his contemplation retroactively.
Supper turned out to be meatloaf, which was virtually the same thing as Salisbury steak. Not as good though. Salisbury steak was meatloaf with a pretty dress and enough ass to fall in love with.
Goose and Steve sat with the Gray Snakes in the mess hall, and Steve managed to stop talking about LSD. Steve weren’t really no Gray Snake, but he joined in with them after his arrest. Since he was a rank pussy and not a proper biker, the others could and did tease the hippie sucker.
“Ooh, Stevina is smelling purdy today!” someone said, and they all cackled. They was calling Steve Stevina cuz he got long hair like a girl. He weared some kinda solid deodorant that smelled like wildflowers vomited into a bucket of ballsweat.
Normally Goose’d join in. He was the one who came up with ‘Stevina’. But at the moment, he weren’t feeling it. Goose found out his draft number was called.
He was going to ‘Nam.
‘Course, he was in prison now, so he was exempt from the draft. But his release date was in three weeks, and he’d end up transferring straight to the Army. He got only a couple days to make it to boot camp. He ain’t even got time to kiss his mama both hello and goodbye. He just hafta say aloha instead.
Somebody mentioned Vietnam during dinner, so that was all Goose could think about. Even afterwards, when they was led to they cell — Goose and Steve together — Goose kept running through his options in his mind: go to boot camp or go AWOL. Goose weren’t a coward or a commie, so only one of those options was optional.
He was going to war. He’d be blowing down gooks by Christmas, most likeishly. A man’s gotta give it, and a man’s gotta take it. Goose dunno yet which side of that equation was which in the grand scheme of things, but he knewed where he was in the here and now.
But time is a ‘llusion, so that’s fine!
“Gots to take mah mind off it, Steve,” Goose said with a sympathetic clucking of his tongue. They been back in they cell for mostuva hour. Lights out loomed ahead with ominous imminence like a war, but for now, they got free time. Not that there was much to do.
There was one thing.
“Aw, c’mon, Goose…” Steve hung his head. He looked up at Goose. “Uncle, I mean. C’mon, Uncle Goose-“
“Nah.” Goose weren’t really Steve’s uncle.
But the Gray Snakes at the Virginia State Pen got a uncle and wife system. When a biker first does time for the Gray Snakes, he is a “wife”. That means he do laundry and shit for his cellmate. Wifey stuff. Second time, he is a “uncle”. That means he gets a wife to do his laundry. Lifers are automatically uncles, and so’s orphans, like Goose.
Steve was a wife. He done sweep the floor, and he done wash Goose’s sheets today. Only one wifing duty remained.
Goose plopped his ass down on Steve’s bunk, which was thin and scratchy. Steve don’t got no pillow, cuz Goose done took it. Goose leaned back on the bunk. When that ain’t prompt no response, Goose frowned at his wife. He spread his legs and aimed a nod at Steve.
“Maaaaan, c’mon…” Steve murmured. He rolled his eyes, but he tacked up the curtain that blocked they door and the window in it. Outside, inmates streamed past, getting they chores done and hurrying back to they cells before lights-out, rushing like they gotsta beat a air-raid.
Slow as a turtle, Steve got on his knees afront Goose. He unzipped Goose’s blue jumpsuit, which went down to his crotch; everybody had the blue jumpsuits like a uniform ‘cept the oldest inmates, who, like officers, had snazzier denim uniforms. Goose’s fat cock popped out, as long and as thick as Steve’s forearm. Steve picked that jiggly torpedo up with two fingers and sniffed it. “Ewh, dude,” he murmured. He held out his tongue as though to lick it, but then he hesitated. He held back a gag and dropped Goose’s cock. It dangled like a landmine from Goose’s overgrowed wetland of a crotch.
“A wife don’t do that, Steve,” Goose said. He lightly smacked Steve’s cheek. “J’st lick it.” He done punch Steve ’bout his dallyiance. Steve was calcitrant about it.
Holding his breath, Steve licked it from tip to root, his tongue moving up and down like a cat cleaning itself on an army base. He ain’t pick it up, he just licked, and it stayed limp as a dead snake, bet they got lotta snakes in Vietnam. His tongue was cold and unpleasant.
“You gotsta do sump’in wit’ it, Stevina,” Goose said with a chuckle. He yawned and leaned back even farther, making his cock flop and rope round upon Steve’s face.
“I’m trying,” Steve whined. His tongue done dry out, so it kinda tickled, but not much else happened, ‘cept that Goose’s draft date growed nigh, nigh as hell. He still kept his hands off Goose’s foot-long dick. It was like blubber in his hands, haggling and wiggling. “It’s not getting hard.”
“Tha’ss cuz you’s j’st playin’ wit’ it, baby,” Goose said. He shrugged. “I kinda like it. No rush. Take all night if’n you want.”
With a sigh, Steve took hold of Goose’s cock by the root with one hand, his other hand slowly working up and down the shaft. Then he put his mouth on the tip for just a moment. “Can I just use my hands? No mouth?”
“Nah. That ain’t proper wifing,” Goose said. “Would you marry a woman who only use her hands?”
“Well, I mean…”
“I got hands, Stevina,” Goose said. He aimed his crotch to bap his dickfat onto Steve’s nose. “I can’t reach mah mouf onto mah pecker. Only you can do that.”
Steve sighed, only for the deep breath to almost make him gag again. He held it back, and he again planted his tongue on Goose’s shaft. He spat on it.
Both his hands worked up and down, and he got a good rhythm going. Goose gotsta give him that one. But he kept spitting on Goose’s dick. His tongue sorta glancingly touched it. He ain’t slurp on it though.
He be shirky-dicking, that’s what that is. Goose don’t tolerate it in a prison wife.
He pushed Steve’s mouth onto his knob. “C’mon, hold it in ya mouf, Stevina.” He closed his eyes. “Just hold the tip there and move ya tongue, make lotta spit.” As Steve began to get a rhythm with his hands, Goose let out a little moan. “There you go, there you go,” he said. Steve either spat or gagged up spit, either way, it got some moisture onto Goose’s knob.
It slowly firmed up in Steve’s grip, not so much from Steve’s touch as from Goose’s imagination. He let himself remember women from back home — that was the only way he could stop thinking about his upcoming enlistment.
He wanna recollect local women. Virginia gals sure is gorgeous, pretty as peanuts. Goose tightened his grip on Steve’s head. He pushed down, gently, but dumbass Steve couldn’t even take that, and he erupted into a ferocious gag.
“Uccckkkkkk!” Steve spat up into the toilet. He clutched the rim. “Man, dude, c’mon. That tastes so bad!”
Wondering if Army got latrines or what in the field, in Vietnam, Goose stood. His hefty cock slapped back and forth. It bapped Steve on the face a couple times, as Steve winced but avoided outright whining. He sat on his ass.
“Okay, wait, I can get you off-“
“Nah. I have trouble cummin’ from mouf-stuff,” Goose said with a chuckle. He done tell Steve that before, but Steve really admired to avoid taking Goose’s meat up behind. He motioned for Steve to get off his ass, which Steve did slowly.
“C’mon, man, don’t harsh my mellow,” Steve said. He wearily got up and gripped the wall with both hands. He was already wincing like he was in pain, like a prisoner of war in a bamboo cage.
Goose swaggered his thickness behind Steve, who unzipped his jumpsuit slow as a aircraft carrier and let it drop to his ankles. He shivered. Goose thwapped his cock on Steve’s lower back, which was a signal for Steve to stand on his toes. He did so, and Goose bent his knees too. That lined up his dick with Steve’s ass.
He rammed hard at the hole, way too hard to actually go in. Steve winced as Goose’s cock deflected like a bullet off a tank and slid up his buttcrack. Then Goose aimed it again.
“A’ight, open up, wifey-“
“Owww, shiiiiit!” Steve cried out and clopped his face onto the wall. He tensed up, but Goose got the tip of his dick in there. Steve clenched, trying to expel Goose’s meat.
Goose was ready for that. Like a draft board, he weren’t taking ‘ow shit’ for a answer. He rammed hard, and Steve slammed into the wall. Goose kept pushing, getting a couple inches of dickmeat in.
“Ow, c’mon, wait a sec, wait-“
“Sssssh,” Goose said. He got a fistful of Steve’s hair in one hand and pulled it to get Steve’s attention. “Remembuh? Wifey? Say sexy thangs.”
Steve howled in pain, as Goose kept pushing in deeper. He did spit on his hand, smearing that on his shaft. That was being nice, like a GI Joe. He ain’t got to. Once you get real deep in a booty, it ain’t possible to clench no more. Steve was past that point.
Maybe some words was gurgling outta Steve’s mouth, but they ain’t make no sense. Steve be squirming like a vermin. Prolly got lotta rats in Vietnam too.
How’s a country gonna have lotta both rats and snakes? One them had gotta give!
“C’mon, say sexy thangs or I’mma lose mah hardon,” Goose said. That weren’t true, this was feeling better than it had in awhile — Goose was really letting loose, and Steve was broke-in enough that Goose could pound hard. Waves of pleasure hit Goose with each thrust into him, and Steve’s whole body puckered and shook on the withdraw. Goose held him by his long hippie hair.
“Oooh, uh, baby, ooh, I love you,” Steve said, panting. He ain’t sound sexy at all. That was fine. Goose appreciated the effort.
As a wild waft of sensations rocked his body, Goose let out a chest-rattling moan. He pumped his dick in deep, and he held it in place all the way up Steve’s behind. A tense howl came outta Steve’s mouth — do they got wolves? Nah… — then he clamped it shut. Goose shot a fat wad deep up his guts, and he ain’t think about the Army the whole time.
“Aaaah-“
“Ewww, c’mon-” Steve bit his lip. Goose do dole out punches for whine. Steve hung his head and kept his whine to hisself.
Another burst of jizz coated his booty. Goose pistoned his hips as hard as he could, and Steve yelped. More melty bliss hit Goose’s senses, and he sighed and moaned, collapsing his body onto Steve’s back. Steve smushed his face into the floor as though to burrow outta here. One more final cumwad sprayed into him.
But Goose ain’t pull out right away. He savored the long slow undulations rocking through his muscles, as his sweat smeared onto Steve’s back. Steve’s hands fluttered behind hisself like a Vietnamey butterfly — Goose was assumpting Vietnam got butterflies, everybody got butterflies. Steve patted and clawed at Goose’s hairy asscheeks the best he could reach.
“Sssh, almost done, almost done,” Goose murmured. He lifted his chest off Steve, and he rolled his body, flexing all his muscles as he humped his exquisitely sensitive dick in Steve’s ass. Steve grunted, pounding on the cold cement floor.
“C’mon, man…” Steve whispered through clenched teeth.
Goose let his cock plop out, slowly, inch by inch. Steve winced and seethed the whole time, cuz Goose made him poop his meat out. That meant it hurt more and more with every passing moment. Then at last, Goose’s meat dropped to sway between his legs, glistening with jizz and booty juices.
“You gotta relax about Vietnam. You gotta abandon your attachments to earthly struggle. Can’t argue with a river, can’t worry a bridge into existence,” Steve said as he gingerly wiped his ass clean with a wad of toilet paper. “You probably won’t even end up on the front lines.”
Goose slapped him. “Bitch, don’t bring that up!”