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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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.”