MN Manmacker's mansploitation
He called hisself a deejay, which meant looking studious when he played a pointless track of beats, no funk, no rapping, no singing, no guitar, just some boom-tiss, boom-tiss bullshit, like dance music for people with retarded ears.
“Yo, yo bro,” Vimook said, sidling up to Thumper like a side of spicy rice, after Vimook finished his ‘deejay set’ — he called hisself a deejay, which meant looking studious when he played a pointless track of beats, no funk, no rapping, no singing, no guitar, just some boom-tiss, boom-tiss bullshit, like dance music for people with retarded ears. “Heard you got out the big joint.”
From Thumper on Parole
It sounded like eternal loneliness, like the notion that hell is just the shadows the damned live in and from there they can see into heaven where souls eternally rejoice in God’s radiance. It was reggae that sounded like that concept.
Only difference between music genres now was the singer’s hat. It all sounds the same. If he wear a cowboy hat or a trucker hat, it’s country. If he wear a baseball cap backward, it’s hip hop. If he wear it cocked to the side, it’s R&B. If he wear any other kinda hat, it’s rock. If a female wear a cowboy hat or trucker hat, it’s country, but any other hat or no hat, it’s R&B. Unless she ugly, in which case it’s rock, regardless of the hat situation. If there ain’t no singer, it’s techno. All sounds the same, so if you can’t see the singer’s hat, you can’t know what genre it is.
That actually mighta been reggae. If the singer wore a red, green and black hat, it’s reggae. Don’t sound like reggae though. It sounded like eternal loneliness, like the notion that hell is just the shadows the damned live in and from there they can see into heaven where souls eternally rejoice in God’s radiance. It was reggae that sounded like that concept. Bob Marley be bugging.
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Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge
Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle
Chapter Seven: Nights of Long Love
“This is awful, my life is over!” Miriam screamed. She threw a sharp-heeled shoe at Thumper, who stood in the doorway to her room. “This is because you follow me around everywhere. Caden thinks you’re a creep, that’s what it is!”
“Miriam, I’s sorry, guhl, I ain’t — you bein’ dramatic as a soap star, yo’ life ain’t ovuh-“
“What the hell is a soap star?! Why do you talk like that? Why can’t you talk like a cool black guy from this century? What’s wrong with you?” she said. She stamped her feet. She bin tearful, so her makeup was smudge. “Now I have to fix my makeup, and it’s all your fault!”
She plopped down on the chair facing her mirror, and she grabbed her makeup kit. Her hands shook.
A tense silence lengthened the room. She kept getting out arcane cosmetic tools, but she ain’t concentrate enough to use none and her haircurls be flopping afronta her eyes, so she put her makeup down to fix ’em, only for her hair to go flopagain, flopagain.
“How long was you wit’ him?” Thumper asked. It was the only question he could think of. His gruff baritone deepened the bedroom, chock-ablock with cast-off clothes and empty suitcases.
“Almost two months!” she said. She wiped tear-smudge eyeliner off her cheek. Then she took a long breath and managed to slather a couple layers of makeup on.
“So it weren’t too serious-” Thumper frowned at her through the mirror she still faced.
“It was serious! He loved me! He was the most popular guy in high school!”
“You livin’ in the past, guhl. Need to chillax. Ain’t you done graduate?”
“I said was!” she said. “It was serious. You don’t know anything about girls.” She scowled and turned to look at Thumper direct in his gaze. “I’m not missing putt-putt today. If I don’t show up, everyone will think Caden won.” She gritted her teeth. “So you have to be my partner. All the other girls will have a boyfriend. But I’ve got my babysitter — the discount Mike Tyson. I was the biggest loser in school, Wendell, you know that? Everybody hates me.”
He frowned at her. “Them girls seem to like you-“
“You don’t get them,” she said. She batted her eyes to fix her smudge mascara. “They’re like catastrophic bitches.”
“Why they yo’ friends?”
She turned her head to look at him direct. Her lips remained pursed, lipstick in hand. “You really don’t understand girls, do you?” She finally applied the lipstick, the color of fancy wine.
“I ain’t barely see no female for thirty-four years,” he said. “Not since I was your age.”
She got up and muttered to herself as she checked out her face from a couple different angles. She tweaked her hair, which still blocked her face, then leaned forward to pose as a golfer. She examined in the mirror what she’d look like from that angle. She said, “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go before we’re…” She glanced at him, and her ears perked up like a excited fox. “Wait, what did you say?”
“I barely done seed not a single female until recent-like. I was in prison,” he said. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, and he looked down at his feet. He felt her eyes drilling into him.
“For thirty-four years?”
He nodded.
She was took far aback, but she fussed with a floppy-woppy hat with fake flowers in it as she said, “Ew, that is so gross. Don’t tell anybody, okay?” She left the room, and Thumper followed. “That is… I don’t even know how to take that. My dad is so weird. He’s a freak. So are you. If Caroline knew you were a ex-con, she’d totally spazz out, she got trauma from a black guy on the transit who was, like, yelling crazy loud this one time, it was so insane. Oh look at me, I got trauma, I got so much trauma. That is so her, could she be more of a pick-me try-hard?”
“Uh… Uh-huh.” Thumper ain’t get how those words added up to a question. Miriam was on the move regardless, so he followed her.
“Are you good at putt-putt?”
“You keep saying that, but I dunno what it is. It sound like butt-butt. So yes,” he said.
“Ew,” Miriam said with a petite smile. “It’s mini-golf.”
So that was how Thumper wound up playing putt-putt, which was just small golf with nonsense in the way. The putt-putt place crawled with fresh-face drunkos, even though it was still morning. One group of late teens from “HoCo” joined Miriam and her girlfriends’ game. Thumper was suspicious because they was lidded from the get-go, on something more than alcohol — Thumper couldn’t tell what, but they was walking like dream-scented swaypots with plump pupils, and they ain’t seem to know what was going on.
The putt-putting ain’t get very far. Folks was drunken fucking afronta the mini-windmill, so they gotsta skip that hole. Thumper woulda stayed to watch, but the girlie-gals declared it gross. The gorilla hole got a pool of puke, and they all agreed that was gross, so they skipped that hole too. Then Miriam’s friends got to making kissy lips with they boyfriends, and the game more or less stopped entirely.
“You can’t hang around me all day,” Miriam eventually said. She stood on her lonesome except for Thumper, both of them frumping frowns at the necking teenyboppers. “Go on, get outta here, we’re not really playing the game anyway. The boys all think I’m with you, which is just so disgusting. You could be my grandfather, if you smelled like flatbread instead of newspaper.” She snorted down a laugh.
“I ain’t leavin’ you.”
Miriam sighed. “I’m not gonna put out. You don’t have to watch me to make sure I don’t. Did my dad tell you to check I don’t fuck Caden?”
Thumper furrowed his brow at her. He licked his teeth. “Yo’ daddy said I should keep Caden from takin’ advantage of you. That’s what Caden wanted, you know that, right? He was putting malt liquor down yo’ throat so you’d pass out and he could plow yo’ lady-garden. Or maybe he go knocking on your back door.” He knocked on a imaginary door in the air.
She looked upside at him. “Eww…! What? He wouldn’t…”
Thumper scoffed. “He would. Guarantee that. That’s why he put his disappoint face on when he seen me.”
“He’s not that bad, Wendell. My dad just hates his father, that’s the only reason he doesn’t like Caden,” Miriam said. She shook her head and feisty-growled. “Whatever, grr, you suck, and Caden sucks. Nobody will ask me out as long as you’re around.”
“Why don’t you ask one? I seen you eyeballing deep into that tall drink of watuh over there,” he said. There bin this long-leg stretchy-arm pinkthumb following the group around — his gawky butt ain’t got a female or even any male friends. He be loitering like a forgettable spider.
“Rick? Okay, first of all, he’s a total freak, and I can’t believe you’d suggest him. He’s like the only one in the whole school who’s as much of a loser as me, to have to go to Baltimore College like some ghetto trash piece of shit. No offense. Second of all, I can’t just walk up to a boy and ask him out. That’s not how this works-“
“Why not?”
“I’m not a man!” she said. “Maybe you don’t get it cuz you were in prison for so long. I have to let boys ask me out. I’m not a skank like Lisa Ann Slattery. She’ll go right up to any guy, even like… Puerto Rican guys.” You could tell she woulda said ‘black guys’ if she was with her friends. “You don’t know her, but she’s a total gutter-skank. With so many guys here, if she came on this trip she’d be like slipping on her own snail trail. Everybody knows, she’s so trashy. She’s, like, my best friend who couldn’t be here.”
They putt-putt was interrupted then by a torrent of female laughs, as a gaggle of gigglous golf-club-carrying girls ganged the course. Thumper stood afront Miriam at first, presumptittive that they was gunning for her.
But they phone screens was friends with her friends’ phone screens, so all them white girls mingled like saucy noodles, sharing infinite commentary and considerations on unspecific plans to go clubbing tonight. Thumper heard more words than he heard in thirty-four years in prison.
Thumper growled but assented to the nightclubbery. He couldn’t think of a reason to say no besides “clubs is crowded”, which was true, but Ocean City was crowded. So Thumper and themwhoms went back to the beachhouse, where he rested his weary ears, while Miriam and them other girls tried on every single article of clothing any them brung. They took photos of theyselfs with they phones and then used some kinda phone magic to make the photos hotter, then assured each other that they was really that pretty.
Finally they made it to the boardwalk nightclub, which was battered by oceanfront winds, while waves battered the beach underneath. The moon beamed bright as babies against the shore, and the boardwalk was lit like a stage due to the rows of nightclubs and souvenir shops that stayed open late spilling light and drunken collegiate kittens.
He struggled keeping track of Miriam in the elbowy nightclub. He kept an eye on her the best he could though, specially once she got to dancing with this darkskin roundbody with polished eyes and a chocolate nugget for a face. He was older than her, and he rubbed Thumper sideways from the first moment.
So Thumper waited for Miriam and her girlfriends to herd off to the ladies’ to phone around in a different room, then he got up real close to him. “Yo, nigga,” he said, direct into his ear so his voice would drown out the clanging clatter (which was maybe a band called “Dubstep” and sounded like computers being tortured). The nigga threw his slick eyebrows back — there weren’t barely a handful of niggas in this room, and Thumper gotta be the eldest. That chocolate-nugget nigga stumbled a step aside like a folding napkin. Thumper stayed near enough that he could talk clear over the loud thrum of shitty music. “Yo, nigga, you hear me? You best treat that girl right. If you plow her, I will rip yo’ nuggety head off and send it to her daddy wit’ a bow on top and a card fo’ him to sign fo’ yo’ grief-sicken mama.” That nigga’s eyes bugged his mug out, as Thumper fingered a line of tears down one cheek. He said, “You may lick Miriam’s pussy, but only if you good at it. Stick yo’ tongue out.” His tongue trembled outta his mouth. In the dark of the club and swaddled in that terrible tune, ain’t nobody see his terrified tongue and Thumper’s face atop it. “Nah. You got babytongue, nigga. Hand stuff only. But don’t break her maidenhead if she still got one. Or I will wreck you.”
The chocolate nugget nodded, just in time for Miriam to return from the ladies’ room. She looked at Thumper like he shouldn’t be talking to her man, then she sidled up close to his butterface and they got to dancing again. Thumper stayed back but made sure that clumpy chump saw how close he was observating.
When Miriam and her girlfriends headed outta the club, Thumper kept close behind. They was all kissing they boys hard and hot. That chocolate nugget held Miriam’s hand and shot her flirtsome smiles, but he ain’t do more than give her a peck on the cheek.
“He doesn’t like me,” she said when his babytongue fucked off without even no handiwork, leaving her surrounded by her girlfriends and they wooing boys. They was all playing with they phones between making moist lips upon the moonlit beach, but Miriam trudged back to the beachhouse with a sniffle and a droopy neck, Thumper close behind. “I thought he did. He asked me to dance. He prolly thought I was beautiful in the dark, in the club, but once we got out in the street with all the lights, he saw what I really look like.”
“Nah, Miriam, he ain’t drop you like that,” Thumper said. “He tryin’-a treat you proper, I ‘xpect. He shouldn’t be trying nothin’ on you on your first date. You don’t wanna screw around the night you met him, don’t be loose like that, like a greasy gravyboat-“
She hit him with hurtful eyes. “Ewww! Don’t say it like that, that’s so disgusting! I wasn’t gonna put out. But he’s supposed to try! Anyway, that wasn’t a date. It’s spring break. That’s not how it works on spring break. Or anytime this century,” she said. “I mean… Whatever, that wasn’t a prison reference.” She looked down at her feet before opening the sliding-glass door into the rental house. “I just wanted to…” She blew her curl outta her vision, but it dropped back in place. “I just wanted my friends to see me with him. I didn’t even really like him, not really… He’s tubby, and he has a weird forehead, it’s gross.”
“Yo’ friends is bitches, the boy you dance with is gross… Guhl, why don’chu spend time wit’ someone you like?”
She flared her pretty little nostrils. “You have a lot to learn about women.” She went into the bathroom then to take a shower. Thumper investigated the kitchen in hopes of food, but there weren’t none.
As the other couples came in to the beachhouse hoppy and sloppy, Thumper stood by the door so the boys would see him and know he was monitoring the situation. He crossed his arms over his chest.
Though Thumper weren’t hereing and nowing to defend the honor of these other females, he ain’t gonna let no scoundrel take advantage of ’em. Most the boys got the message from him standing over them, and a couple more slippt into slumber like sacks of sleepy peaches.
But one pair kept a-canoodling, until Thumper saw that the girl — Alexa or Alyssa or some white-girl shit like that — was barely awake. The long and tall honky atop her either ain’t notice or ain’t care.
So Thumper stood next to ’em and cleared his throat some.
The whiteboy, a dimple-pimple kindle-limb ruddynut cracker with a pointless tribal tattoo, looked up at Thumper with a tremor in his eyes and flustering fingers. He stood up, his pants tented. “I think, uh, she’s getting tired. Will you help me put her to bed?” he asked.
Thumper nodded. He ain’t trusting none those words tumbling outta that boy’s mouth, but he ain’t wanna leave the girl on the floor neither. So they carried her to her bed. Thumper ain’t need no help and coulda carried her hisself. That ruddynut boy, Adrian, got arms like twiggy pencils.
When they got back out to the living room, Adrian looked around the piles of shoes for his own. Thumper stood behind him, checking out Adrian’s pooper, cradled by tight jeans.
“Yo, why you wear tight pants?” Thumper asked.
Adrian yelped. He done found a pair shoes but got trouble coordating his drunk limbs enough to get them on. He looked at Thumper like he forgot he was there. “Whaaat?”
“Them pants. You spraypainted ’em on,” Thumper said.
“Oh. That’s the style,” Adrian said with a shrug and a burp. He fell over, toppling onto his ass with two shoes in hand — they was two sneakers that looked similar but wasn’t a matching pair — for one thing, they was both left-foot shoes.
“Uh-huh. You was gonna stick yo’ dingdong in that girl, wasn’t ya?” Thumper said.
Adrian nodded. “She wanted it real bad. She said it earlier.”
“But then she passed out,” Thumper said. He got one hand in his pants now, getting hisself good and hard. He kneeled beside Adrian, who done struggled one shoe on and held the laces like he was thinking about tying them. “You was still gonna stick her? That girl a virgin?”
Adrian shrugged. “Prolly not. But she nineteen, and gawddamn, man, her pussy wus tight. Got my finger in there, almost got to fuck her, but, uh…” He furrowed his face like he was trying-a remember why he ain’t get in her pussy.
“Lemme help wit’ them shoes,” Thumper said. He grabbed both Adrian’s feet and lifted them up, so Adrian fell onto his back on the carpeted floor. Thumper pulled Adrian’s pants and drawers off to bare his booty. “I’ll let you see how it feels when a bigger man takes advantage of you bein’ drunk.”
“Whaaat?” Adrian asked. He tried to sit up on his elbows, but Thumper was already drilling his dick into Adrian’s asshole. Adrian’s socked feet kicked the air behind Thumper.
That tight hole resisted. Thumper ain’t have no lube. He coulda snooped around the kitchen for something that’d work, but he kinda liked the idea of doing it the old-fashion way. He was a old-fashion nigga after all. Adrian sucked in his breath. Thumper spat on his palm and wiped it on his cocktip. He plowed in, just the tip, but stopped when more resistance stopped him from going deeper, and Adrian’s groan of pain turned first into wordless wince of silence. Thumper pushed past his tightness, and a couple inches more slid in.
“Oooh, boy, here we go now,” Thumper said with a chuckle, as Adrian panted and wriggled. His ass squeezed Thumper’s shaft. That made him shimmy with the sensations sparking up his spine. Adrian squirmed like a dying fish. He almost squirmed away, but Thumper got a grip on his neck, squeezing just enough to let Adrian know who was in charge here and to keep him from shouting out loud. He ain’t cut off his air entirely, so Thumper could hear his panting and begging.
“Oooooowww!” Adrian tried to howl, but Thumper plugged his mouth up with his own tongue. He kissed Adrian and swallowed up them cries of pain like oatmeal. He moaned into Adrian’s mouth too, as Adrian’s ass got goopy like a sloppy ho. Adrian’s eyes opened wide as Thumper pulled his lips off him, and then stuffed Adrian’s mouth with his own drawers. Adrian’s feet kicked up a storm, but he ain’t couldn’t make much noise.
And still Thumper pressed in deeper, deeper still with every thrust of his hips. Each movement sent a wave of pleasure through Thumper’s body. It reminded him of the coziness of prison — a small part of cell-bound life, but a part he missed. Getting a nut off in the dark, surrounded by sleeping whombodies… As he ramrodded like a stallion, Adrian’s hands clawed at Thumper’s chest, and that too felt like home.
He forced it in until his balls slapped at Adrian’s taint. Thwackity-thwack-thwack, thwackity-thwack-thwack. Thumper smirked down at Adrian, who still seemed unsure what was going on. He spat on Adrian’s face, then covered it with a pillow.
Adrian threw his head back, unaware of the spit on drip down his cheeks. He felt that asshole cracking open to accommodate Thumper’s throbbing manhood. He yelped the best he could despite the pain and the pillow blocking his face.
“Intact booties do be drawing out a nut quick, ruddynut. Goddamn, you gonna be walkin’ crooked fo’ a week. Hope you don’t got no sit-down engagements comin’ up,” Thumper boomed out a laugh along with his orgasm, and he gyrated his hips. “You gonna feel some warm inside ya. That’s just me-” Thumper’s voice broke, as he pressed his cock all the way in and held in Adrian’s asshole. That made it hard for Adrian to take a breath, and Thumper ground his dick in a long circle within Adrian’s guts. “That’s me nuttin’.”
A long hot jet of cum sploded in Adrian’s asshole, and he screamed into the pillow that muffled his mouth. Thumper held it there with one hand, as he moaned into Adrian’s ear. Wad after wad of sticky goo seeped into Adrian and dripped outta his loose ass.
“This’ll teach you to take advantage of females,” Thumper said with a sigh, while his balls emptied another spurt of jissom into Adrian’s tight booty. “Yo’ farts is gonna smell like me fo’ a long time. E’ery time you smell that, you remembuh to treat girls proper, ruddynut.”
Thumper pulled out and let his cumwad flow onto the carpet. He watched it plop out in a couple great big creamy wads, followed by a trickle of smaller droplets.
Just when he thinked it was done, and Adrian lifted his head to let out a crinkly grunt of pain, a loud farting sound came and a fist-sized globule of cum spurted out into Adrian’s plump asscheeks. Thumper done smashed ’em so hard they was already bruising.
“Shit, you one messy whiteboy,” Thumper said, at the sight of cum soaking onto the floor. He punched Adrian in the face hard enough to knock him out.
He carried Adrian over his shoulder out to the beach. He draped Adrian’s unconscious face on a bench, his knees on the ground so his bare ass was plainly accessible. Some them beach bums, Thumper thunk, was likely gonna get a nut off in him before he woke up.
That would be fun to watch, but Thumper ain’t wanna leave Miriam alone for so long. He hurried back to the beachhouse to make sure Miriam and the other girlies were safe. He was gonna go straight to bed, but he got worry about they morals, so he picked up all the sleepy-weepy boys and bringed them into his room. He put ’em on the floor. That way he could be sure they wasn’t gonna hurt none the females.
Plus, he thunk, he could get a nut off again in the night, if he felt like it. Which he almost certainly would.
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Chapter Five: Crossing the Bridge
Chapter Six: The Sauciest Noodle
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Rob was stuffed full of sausage and mustard, and now he was eager to find a different kind of sausage. Rob had been touring Europe for weeks now, and he was enjoying the sights and sounds of Berlin.
The city was warm and windy tonight. Rob wanted to stay outside, but he didn’t want to waste his time. It didn’t seem there was anything going on on the streets of Berlin.
So he went into the first nightclub he saw. It turned out to be a rather old, not very hip club, playing dansmusik, which was just dorky enough to be charming. There were a wide range of both men and women. The men were not really his type, however. They were mostly thin, tall, stately — he liked men who were rough, crude and at least a little bit dangerous.
He made his way across the dancefloor. There were a lot of women here, that was the first thing he had noticed. A lot of hot women. That did not bode well for his chances of finding a man. A lot of women meant no desperate guys.
He decided to try his luck elsewhere. He headed out and towards the seedy side of town. He hadn’t gotten very far when he saw a Bier Palas that was still open. It was very touristy, so he wasn’t sure if it was for him. Rob wasn’t in Germany for the tourist stuff — he wanted men. He wanted to touch and taste them; he wanted to savor every drop of German manhood.
He went to the door just to pop his head inside. It was mostly women, he saw, once again, just like the nightclub (why are there so many German women?! Damn it!). Fat tourists guzzled cheap, watered-down beer. The girls were dressed as frumpy fraus in dirndls, with big tits mostly visible, like if a Hooters restaurant were tossed back in time to the late 19th century.
“Guten Abend.” A man’s dour voice filled the air.
Rob turned around and gulped nervously. The man in front of him was an intimidating sight. He was nearly seven feet tall and built like a professional wrestler, with arms bigger than Rob’s head and a broad strapping chest like he was part-Volkswagen. He was blond and squarish, with a very Teutonic face and a crooked nose like der Kämpfer. His hair was short and neatly combed. He crossed those massive arms over his chest.
“Oh, hallo,” Rob said. Now that he had taken in the man’s towering physique, Rob was turned on. He also noticed now that this man — Otto according to his nametag — worked for the Bier Palas. He was a bouncer or security guard of some sort.
That meant he was dressed like an employee, in traditional German garb. He wore liederhosen and a green and white shirt. This Bier Palas did not have a uniform that fit him well, so the liederhosen were too short, stopping at the knee, and his muscles bulged out of the clothes.
The German man grunted. “Are you the thief?”
“What?”
He paused, eyeing Rob up and down. He frowned, and Rob’s heart raced. Otto casually opened Rob’s shirt pocket and peered inside. “Someone has been picking the pockets of our customers as they leave.” He paused. “Wenn du der Dieb bist, werde ich dich fangen.” He waited for Rob to show he understood the German — which Rob did, but poorly enough he could pretend he didn’t.
Rob nodded. “Oh, yeah, I swear, that wasn’t me. I don’t do that. I actually have plenty of money,” he said. “I wanted to ask you something. My name is Rob,” he said. He blushed and stammered because Otto was such an imposing figure wie eine Statue eines heidnischen Gottes. “I wanted to offer you a job, of sorts. It’s not the kind of job you are used to, I assume-“
“Please be quick.” He inhaled deeply and glowered at Rob. “I have a tight schedule. I must be home shortly.”
“Oh, yes, well, I can offer you money,” Rob said. “I will pay you five hundred euros to cornhole me.” He paused, but Otto had no reaction. “Are you okay? What do you think?” He tweaked Otto’s bicep, which was harder than Rob expected; Otto must have been an amateur bodybuilder, he thought, with skin like Alabasterstein. He giggled and stroked it again, but Otto pushed his hand away.
“You are offering me money for sex. That is prostitution. Die Hure.”
“Well… Yes, that’s right,” Rob said. “Glad we’re on the same page.”
He flared his nostrils. “Fine. But I will not interrupt my workplace. That would be inefficient. I have a job to do.” He pointed to a door in the alley, behind the door into the Bier Palas. “Go in there and wait.”
He didn’t stick around to see if Rob would do it. Rob hesitated but did so. It was a small vestibule with a locked door on the other side, beyond which were a few offices. Rob guessed these were the administrative offices for the Bier Palas.
After an hour or so, Otto returned. He still had his lederhosen on. He came into the small vestible, locked the door behind himself and frowned at Rob.
“Do it.”
Rob’s eyes opened wide. “Uh… Otto? You mean-?”
Otto’s lips were pursed. “I said do it. You want me to give penis, you must do it.”
“Oh, yeah, okay. I just thought, uh…”
Otto stood there stiff as a board, arms crossed over his massive chest. He was so tall Rob could barely reach his shoulders at all. Rob touched Otto’s flat stomach through his shirt, then started to lift it over his chest. The blond hairs on his belly were fine und Weich, and his skin was perfectly smooth. His six-pack rippled beneath Rob’s touch.
Otto stopped him. “You said you wished to have dick of mine. Like oral and anal penis? Yes?”
“Uh, well… yeah.”
“You do not need to take my shirt off. It could become wrinkled. It would be inefficient,” Otto said.
“Oh. I, uh… I mean, I think if I am paying for it… It would be nice… Okay, fine…” Rob’s voice trailed off. Otto narrowed his eyes to slits, and Rob realized it was best to just move on. He didn’t mind jacking off guys in clothes.
Otto wore lederhosen, which were like britches and overalls combined, so they were held up with straps that ran over his chest. Rob was going to undo the straps, but Otto raced to do it like he was in a hurry. He gently but firmly pushed Rob to his knees.
“You are wasting time,” Otto said. His ill-fitting lederhosen were tight around the knees, so they didn’t fall all the way down. They just lowered enough to give Rob access zu seinem Schritt, clad in plain, unadorned but perfectly clean briefs. Rob thought that was cute: virtually no men between eighteen and eighty wore briefs back in America.
Otto took his briefs down, again doing it before Rob could. Rob couldn’t tell if Otto was in a hurry now because he wanted to get this over with (perhaps worried he’d get caught) or if he was embarrassed about it or if Otto simply never dawdled.
His dick bobbed and weaved. Rob hesitated, giggling until Otto took charge and dropped his cocktip into Rob’s mouth. Rob started jacking then, teasing the tip and sliding his tongue over the shaft and into Otto’s pisshole.
An emotionless grunt escaped from Otto’s mouth. His Schwanz twitched, then began to stiffen up in Rob’s mouth. Rob’s hands roamed up to his chest, underneath his shirt, and he managed to just barely reach the bottom of Otto’s pecs. Otto snarled and looked displeased, but he didn’t make Rob stop feeling him up.
“Stop.” Otto’s voice filled the vestibule.
Rob looked up at him. He pulled off Otto’s cock but left it there resting above his head. He licked the underside of the shaft. Otto showed no pleasure on his face, which made Rob giggle.
“If you wish to do it in anal sex, you must do it now.” Otto motioned for him to turn around. “It is best to do it with you an all four of your hands and feet. Stick your buttocks high in the air.”
Rob scoffed. “I know how to do it-“
“Then do it! Why do Americans dilly-dally so much?”
“Okay, first of all,” Rob said as he bent over. “I was technically born in Toronto. Second of all, how did you learn the word dilly-dally? No one says that-“
“Shut up. All Americans say they are Canadian.”
Rob was bent over now in front of him, and he had to drop to his knees to get himself lined up with Otto’s manhood. He still hadn’t taken off his lederhosen, which were around his ankles, or his traditional shirt, which he just unbuttoned a bit near the bottom to give himself unfettered access to Rob’s ass.
He drilled into Rob’s ass without any fanfare. He didn’t give Rob much of a chance to adjust to it either. He just slammed his Schwanz in and kept pushing, even as Rob writhed and cried out.
“You must open your buttocks hole.” Otto grunted. He smacked Rob’s asscheeks. “Relax it-“
“Yeah, I know how, thanks,” Rob said through gritted teeth. The pain was substantial. He wasn’t sure if Otto had never done this, or if he’d only done it with very slutty women with loose asses, or maybe only with kinky women who enjoyed it painful. Or maybe this was just how it went in Germany, Rob thought, and it was expected to be difficult.
Soon, Rob’s ass did adjust, despite Otto pounding away at it. Rob gripped the floor and howled in both pain and pleasure. The pain, however, slowly diminished with each thrust of Otto’s cock inside him. The pleasure grew and grew, until Rob was covered in sweat and moaning.
His prostate sent wave after wave of bliss through his veins. Once he got used to it, Rob enjoyed Otto’s rough, awkward way of cornholing. It was very efficient — he got his dick in right away, and every time he thrust, he brought his cock virtually all the way out, so just the tip remained in Rob’s ass, then he plowed all the way in until his balls slapped against Rob’s body.
Whenever Rob shifted his weight even a little, Otto wordlessly brought him back to the position he was in to begin with. Otto kept Rob perfectly straight in front of his body, centered, so that when Otto penetrated him, he could go in perfectly straight and symmetrically.
“Goddamn…” Rob cried out. He stroked himself off as he got cornholeed, and he lowered his head until Otto forced him back into position once more.
“Wait.” Otto stopped with his dick all the way in Rob. He reached for the lederhosen around his waist. His cock was so big that Rob mewled and whimpered, and he squirmed, but Otto stopped him. “I said wait. There is no need to make any noise.”
“I’m sorry, it feels so good-“
“Hush, that is not necessary.” Otto pulled a small paper bag out of his pocket. Inside was a styrofoam container — leftovers from lunch. He kept his dick in Rob’s ass as he opened it up.
“Are you-?”
“Hush. Ich muss jetzt essen,” Otto said. “I will finish when I am ready.”
“Oh, I-“
“Hush.” Inside the container was about a third of a sausage resting on a bed of sauerkraut. He took a bite of the sausage. “I saved this from my lunch to eat on my home after work. That would be now, if I weren’t here with you.”
“Oh.” That still seemed weird to Rob, but it was hard to think about anything except that massive Teutonic cock in his ass. Rob sucked in his breath. Otto took another bite of the sausage.
The smell of sausage and potently funky sauerkraut filled the air. It was enough to cut through the intense sensations rsouroiling Rob’s body. His voice broke and he lowered his body, jutting his ass back um es tiefer auf den Schwanz zu pochen, der in seinem Arsch pocht. Otto grunted but didn’t complain, he just used a plastic fork to eat sauerkraut from the to-go container.
Then he spent an inordinate amount of time cleaning up, all still without moving a muscle, that massive cock still throbbing against Rob’s prostate. Otto put the plastic fork, the container and the napkins he had used back into the to-go bag he had come with. He carefully folded the top of the paper bag, then placed it by the door to grab on the way out.
“Okay, can we finish?” Rob asked. He was getting annoyed. He had paid for this, after all, and Otto had forbidden him from touching his chest or removing his shirt, had strictly decided on the position he would take, right down to the orientation of his head, which didn’t even affect Otto, and now he made Rob wait while he ate leftovers. It hardly seemed fair to pay for that. Wasn’t the customer always right?
But when Rob turned his head to say something, he saw Otto’s broad chest muscles flexing beneath his shirt, ruddiness running up his neck to the pale skin of his cheeks as he resumed cornholing Rob. He put headphones on too, so Rob realized there was no point in complaining, Otto wouldn’t hear. Otto forced Rob’s head to face forward again.
Then he began plowing hard, his orgasm slowly building. He finally moved a little too as he went, lowering himself, first to pin Rob down and in place, then as Otto reached orgasm, he got lower and lower.
Soon that seven-foot tall body landed on Rob, pinning him to the floor. Rob struggled to breathe, but he didn’t complain — he loved it. He finally sensed some passion and real desire in Otto’s body. Otto breathed heavily and grunted.
“Okay, I am going to finish now, cowboy. I am going to shoot my semen into your ass, and you will take every drop. That is the plan, do you understand it?” His voice was still flat and firm, but there was a note of urgency now, like he raced to say this before he finally shot his wad.
“Yes, okay!” Rob cried out the best he could beneath Otto’s chest. Since Otto was so tall, Rob was crushed beneath his chest and flat stomach, so Otto could feel his pecs on the back of his head. Rob’s own face was above the floor, Rob’s entire body squirming beneath Otto’s muscles, which were like a blanket that weighed him down.
He still had those headphones on, and his eyes were closed. Pulsating Technomusik was audible from the headphones, and it pounded like a soundtrack as Otto rutted. Otto grunted, a few drops of spit slipping past his lips and onto Rob’s cheeks.
Then, finally, he was done, and cum filled Rob up. He shot a massive load, thick and milky, which seeped into Rob’s flesh. Its heat overwhelmed him, along with the body heat of Otto’s broad muscles, until Rob could feel it all over himself, like he had been literally covered inside and out.
“Aaaaah….” Otto moaned directly into Rob’s ear. Then he wrapped one of those powerful corded-muscle arms around Rob’s thin, reedy chest. He lifted Rob up.
The other orgasm running through Rob was so intense he had little awareness of what was happening. He didn’t get why Otto lifted him up, not until Otto’s hand reached around to Rob’s own cock and touched it.
Rob couldn’t speak right now, so he didn’t ask why Otto gave him a reacharound — and he wouldn’t have asked even if he could, because he worried asking would make Otto realize he didn’t need to and therefore stop.
Otto actually just thought this was part of it. He found it distasteful, but it was just a handjob. He kept his limpening dick in Rob’s ass — he just assumed that was what most men did, because it seemed logical and efficient — as he stroked him off.
Since he had just gotten plowed and Otto’s cock still teased his prostate, Rob began orgasming basically the moment Otto started stroking him off. He writhed, impaled on Otto’s dick, wrapped up in his pale stone-like arms.
Finally cum sprayed over Otto’s fingers and onto the floor. Rob cried out, his whole body vibrating in a ferocious frenzy that was only more intense because Rob knew how much he stood out — Otto barely moved at all, no more than necessary, so Rob’s wild motions seemed odd and unsuitable to Otto.
Not that he would ever say that. Otto was intensely aware of the sticky cum dripping from his fingers, but he didn’t let himself get bothered by it. He waited until Rob was done shooting his wad.
Then Otto let go. His dick flopped out, and Rob toppled to the ground, letting out a loud post-orgasmic sigh. Otto stood. He shook his dick between his fingers, then grabbed the remaining napkins from his to-go bag.
He quickly and efficiently wiped up his own hands and cock, then he even wiped up the cum off the floor and off Rob’s ass. He threw the napkins back into the bag that waited by the door to be thrown away. He pulled his lederhosen back up, cursing at the sight of a few drops of cum that had hit the fabric.
“I will have to wash these now. You must pay extra,” Otto said. “Hand over the money now. Five hundred and twenty euros.”
Rob didn’t really think it was reasonable to pay to clean the lederhosen. If it was up to him, after all, he’d have had Otto take his clothes off, and they wouldn’t have gotten cum-stained.
But Otto didn’t look like he would entertain any haggling. That was something Rob had noticed in Germany so far — no haggling, no special deals or sales, just plain posted prices. It was nice, he thought, even if annoying at times.
He handed over the five hundred and twenty euros, then smiled at Otto. “Thanks for that.”
He nodded. “I hope you have a good time in Germany, sir.” Then he added. “It is simply inspiring.” He smiled, which was awkward on his big squarish face. “Simply Inspiring” was the tourism slogan of Germany and was printed back in that Bier Palas in several languages on one of the walls.
But Rob didn’t know that. He just thought Otto was awkwardly describing Germany as “simply inspiring”. He nodded and smiled. “Oh. Yeah. Cool. Germany’s, uh… been nice.”
“Good. Tell the tourism board I am nice to tourists and I do not frighten you even though I am very big, tell them that,” he said. He nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
He turned around and left, grabbing the paper bag to throw away before he was gone. He put his headphones back on too, and before Rob could even say goodbye, Otto was gone, tapping his feet to the sound of techno before he got on a bus going home.
Rob smiled when he finally left the vestibule. He had done what he set out to do in Germany, he thought, and he was ready to move on.