He still held the snub-nosed revolver in his right hand so he used his left hand to shake away the last drops of urine. “You like a big pecker?”
My ex had only been gone two weeks, but it had been months since we’d been intimate in any way, and I had planned to attend to my own needs later that evening. That’s why I’d purchased the dildo, the lube and the magazines. The man wagging his cock in front of me was so unlike my ex in every way—so brute-like and so unlike the men I usually found attractive—that I was surprised I was getting aroused. Maybe it was my sexual drought or maybe it was the thrill of being carjacked at gunpoint and forced to chauffeur my abductor toward Mexico. Either way, I wanted him. I said, “Yes. I do.”
He glanced around, saw nothing of interest, and said, “Get on your knees.”
After I did as instructed, my abductor stepped close. He slapped my face with his flaccid cock, whipping it against one cheek and then the other. When he attempted to slap me with it a third time, I turned my head and caught it between my lips. I quickly sucked in the spongy-soft helmet head and hooked my teeth behind the glans so that he couldn’t easily pull away.
Surprised, he quickly brought the revolver up and pointed it in my face. Staring into the barrel of the revolver I was also staring into the chambers of the cylinder. The revolver was so close that I noticed in the dim light something I hadn’t noticed earlier, and I realized my abductor had lost his position of power.
He grabbed the back of my head with his free hand and shoved his still-flaccid cock completely into my mouth before he drew back. I played with his cock ’til it grew erect, sucking hard as he shoved his hips forward and pulled them back. When his thick cock was fully erect it was too long for me to take entirely. That didn’t stop him from trying to shove the head of his cock down my throat.
As he face-fucked me, the teeth of his zipper scratched my nose, my cheeks and my lips, and the pain only increased my desire for him.
He began pumping his hips faster, and he grabbed the back of my head with his gun hand, the butt of the handgun smashed against the back of my head.
As he face-fucked me, my cock tented the front of my jeans. I wanted to release it and take it in my hand, but there wasn’t time. My abductor came, filling my mouth with hot spunk. I swallowed as fast I could but wasn’t fast enough. Some of his spunk dribbled from the corner of my lips and dripped to the ground near my knees.
He pulled his cock from my mouth and waved the revolver at me. “Go,” he said. “Get that lube from the truck.”
I pushed myself to my feet and stepped over to the truck. I found the sack halfway under the passenger seat and I pulled the tube of lube from the bag.
Once I had it, my passenger waved me to the back of the truck. He had me lower the tailgate and then lower my pants. He made me squeeze lube onto my hand and reach behind my ball sac to lube my own ass.
Then he made me lube his cum-covered cock, which rapidly regained its former stature, before he had me turn around and bend over the open tailgate. He stepped up behind me and for a moment I worried that he might stick the barrel of his gun into my ass.
He didn’t. He also didn’t bother to drop his pants when he pressed the head of his cock against my tight sphincter. I easily opened to him as he sank his thick shaft deep inside me, but his zipper scratched the cheeks of my ass just as it had scratched my face a few minutes earlier.
As he drew back and pressed forward, I braced myself with one hand and grabbed my cock with the other. Soon my pistoning hand matched the rhythm of his cock driving in and out of my ass, my pace quickening when his pace did.
I came first, sending a thick stream of spunk against the back of my pickup truck.
My abductor slammed into me three more times and then he came, filling my ass with hot spunk. We remained stuck together, catching our breath, until we heard something rustling through the scrub.
He pulled away and spun around. “What was that?”
I had been raised far from the city and hadn’t been startled, but I knew from my abductor’s reaction that he was a city boy clear through to his bones.
“Nothing to worry about.” I pulled up my pants. “If we don’t bother whatever it is, it won’t bother us.”
He used his free hand to tuck his cock into his pants and pull his zipper up.
I closed the tailgate and we each walked around the truck to our respective sides.
We climbed into the truck and, with the revolver still pointed at me, he handed me the keys. They slipped from my fingers and dropped to the floorboard. The entire time I had been driving toward Mexico I had been sitting on my salvation. As I reached down for the key ring, I reached under my seat and pulled my fully permitted automatic pistol from the holster affixed there.
I sat upright, drove the barrel of the automatic into my passenger’s gut, and said, “Get out.”
His eyes widened in surprise, but he kept his cool. The handgun he had pointed at me never wavered. He said, “Looks like we have a stalemate.”
“You go first,” I said. “Pull the trigger.”
He did and the revolver’s hammer snapped down multiple times, slamming the firing pin against spent bullet cases, as I had known it would when I looked into the bullet-less chambers while giving him a blow job. Whatever he had done before he climbed into my truck had used every bullet, leaving only spent cases behind.
He swore.
“Get out,” I repeated. “Leave the bag.”
He eyed me, perhaps calculating his odds. Then he slid from the truck and stood where I could see him.
“Take your boots off and throw them in the back.”
As he did as instructed I used my left hand to key the ignition. Then I shifted the truck into gear, spun the wheel and pressed the accelerator. The Dakota spun in a half circle, causing the passenger door to slam shut and gravel to pepper my abductor.
I drove away, his cum leaking from my zipper-scratched ass to stain my underwear, but I didn’t care. If my abductor survived the night in the scrub, if he managed to walk barefoot back to the highway and catch a ride and if he remembered the name I had given him, it would lead him to my ex. They deserved each other.
Like my ex said. I’m passive-aggressive.
Straight Dick
Timothy McGivney
A quarter of an inch was all he could see through. He’d stuck the stream of toilet paper into the top corner of the bathroom stall, positioning the length of it to conceal most of the one-inch opening that looked into the neighboring stall. Why the partitions that made up the stall walls didn’t meet completely was undoubtedly a flaw in design, but one that he was extremely grateful for.
The low-grade institutional sheet of toilet paper was usually in place. Like most modest people, patrons of this particular bathroom assumed privacy was a given, that no one would be peeking at them while nature called. Or maybe they never gave it a second thought beyond a peculiar glance; after all, no one really liked to touch unrolled toilet paper.
Damien, however, always made sure the toilet paper was properly positioned because he used it as a shield of sorts—as camouflage—to hide behind while he watched and waited…waited and watched…for his life’s blood…
Cock.
It was all he ever thought about.
Beer-can thick dicks or hot-dog thin wieners, when it came to shape, size and color, he had no preference. Ramrod straight, curved, hooked, bent favorably to the right or left, or with an excess of purple and blue veins—it didn’t matter—Damien relished them all. A bright-pink penis was just as fascinating to him as a dark-chocolate one, or a light beige, yellow or, hell, he’d even seen some multicolored ones, two-toned or spotted with birthmarks—dog dicks, he called them, affectionately of course.
It was beyond him why people could be so judgmental toward a man’s schlong, so critically cruel, especially when it came to the timeless debate of circumcised versus uncut. The way Damien saw it, some one-eyed monsters just happened to hide behind generous foreskin, t
heir inner heads poking forth like a tentative tortoise from its protective shell, while others were surgically blessed without helmets, just smooth, mushroom-domed heads, visible as soon as they were freed from baggy jeans or yanked from a sexy pair of boxer shorts.
The grooming particulars of one’s pubic region didn’t matter to Damien either: a thick, overgrown bush was just as enchanting to him as a cleanly shaved one. As for testicles, they were but accessories, nice ones to be sure, but whether they hung like giant bull balls or petite, suckable kumquats, was of no real concern. Each man’s overall package was distinct in its own way, as unique as its owner’s face and as precious as a fine jewel.
Not so unlike the expensive jewelry his mother used to covet from the sidewalk out front of Hugh’s Fine Jewelry. How could Damien ever forget that almost daily ritual? Freezing his caboose off, he’d stare at his mother as she peered longingly through the store window at all the sparkling jewels on display, always hoping they’d just go in the damn store already so he could get out of the cold.
Unfortunately, his mother could never afford the finer stuff and spent what little she had on costume jewelry, like gaudy green gemstones or strings of faux pink pearls. Instead of blowing it on all those worthless pieces, Damien always thought his mother should have saved her money and bought herself one spectacular piece, one of the breathtaking diamonds or rubies that always seemed to mock them from the black-velvet displays. Those unattainable jewels reminded Damien of all the cocks that were constantly on his mind, the forbidden cocks that he could only seek out in public bathrooms—that was his burden, his cross to bear, for he was cursed.
Damien was a slave to straight dick.
As in married dick, frat boy, corn-fed jock, down-low gangsta, blue collar, cholo, military motherfucking dick. No pansy, faggy, homo peen for him; uh-uh, it had to be all man, a hundred percent certified straight-man dick.
The gyms and public bathrooms were the best place to find said dick of course, nightclubs especially. He didn’t even bother with the gay bars anymore—all the real dick was at the breeder clubs. The smell of straight piss and disinfectant had become an aphrodisiac to Damien and he could stand at a urinal pretending to pee for hours, losing track of the time, all for just a quick, split-second glance at some nice, straight limp dick. That’s right, it didn’t even have to be hard; they usually weren’t.
Getting in and getting out, the straight men were all about the business of pissing. They wasted little time in unzipping and pulling out their man meat, usually looking dead ahead, or tilting their heads back and closing their eyes, preparing for release. Their obnoxious groans of relief, accompanied by the sound of piss hitting the porcelain urinal, always made Damien’s pitiful, sweet pickle of a dick grow stiff. If their eyes ever wandered, or glanced to the side, Damien knew he had a fag in view and quickly lost interest.
The swooshing creak of the bathroom door pulled Damien from his obsessive-compulsive thoughts and he anxiously sucked in his breath, hoping whoever walked in would bypass the row of urinals and use the stall instead. He was running out of time today; it’d been a total bust, but that was par for the course and to be expected. Patience was definitely a virtue when scoping out straight dick.
Bingo! He heard the familiar lock on the neighboring stall door click into place and he swallowed eagerly, throat dry with anticipation. Hmmm, let’s see what Mr. Johnson looks like today.
Closing one eye, Damien leaned in to peer through the slit in the partition. A bright red tie came into view, followed by the flash of a navy-suited arm. He’s too close, damn it. Move back. The man muttered something under his breath and raised a hand, revealing a cell phone. Texting. Shit. He’s texting? Annoyed, Damien cleared his throat and the man immediately looked up from his phone and turned in Damien’s direction. Whoops! Too loud? The man cocked his head to one side, listening.
That’s better. Well, hellooo there! Damien could now see the man clearly. Even though he wore a business suit, he was unmistakably one of those cholo-type gangsters. Tan skinned with a meticulously groomed goatee and slicked-back, jet-black hair. There were even the obligatory homie-style prison tattoos covering his neck; the inked calligraphy a mix of green and black so intense that it looked like he was sporting a turtleneck under his suit.
There’s no way he can see me, right? Damien wondered, even as the man locked eyes on him. Oh, shit. Damien let out an audible gasp and cupped both hands over his mouth.
“Pinche puta,” the man cursed from the other side of the stall and then reared back a clenched fist and punched the stall wall. “Maricon.” Damien backed away from the dividing wall and turned hesitantly toward his stall’s door, freezing at the sound of the cholo’s stall slamming open. What do I do what do I do?
There was one moment of silence, one moment of suspended belief before the mounting terror in Damien’s gut spewed forth in a high-pitched shriek when the door to his stall came swinging inward with a jarring boom, the cholo appearing on the other side, his raised foot lowering from the kick as he barged inward.
Damien felt his eyes widening, threatening to burst from their sockets, and heard himself stammering nonsense while his mind reeled. Oh my god. I’m fucked. Say I’m sorry. I’m fucked. No, don’t admit a thing, I could be arrested, marked a perv. Oh god, oh god. Not a word. Deny, deny, to the bitter end, deny, deny…
His faltering seconds of blubbering ineptitude infuriated the cholo even more, and his tatted fists reached out and grabbed Damien by the suit, wrenching him forward and slamming him backward, up against the tiled wall, his legs thrown wide apart, straddling the toilet. Damien heard a cowardly whimper forced from his throat and felt an impossible pressure against his stomach as he tried to inhale, the air having been knocked clear out of him. “The fuck you doin’?”
Their noses were practically touching and Damien smelled cinnamon on the cholo’s breath. “Answer me, puta.” The cholo tightened his grip on Damien, who had grabbed on to the cholo’s shoulders without realizing it, trying to keep himself from falling; his patent-leather business shoes kept sliding outward against the bathroom floor. I’ve really done it this time.
Perspiration-soaked pits and a flushed face were the pinnacle of Damien’s meek fight or flight mechanisms, his fear having rendered him immobile. Hell, he was still fighting to breathe. All he could manage was to stare back at the cholo, stare into those pissed-off, befuddled black eyes.
The buzzing sound of a vibrating phone suddenly interrupted the violence in the cholo’s eyes and he blinked, inhaling sharply before slightly loosening his hold. He ignored the phone, letting it buzz into silence. Squinting, a sly amusement crept over the cholo’s face that replaced all traces of rage as he studied Damien’s appearance, glancing over his hair and face before moving lower down his body, one Damien found embarrassingly slight in stature.
As luck would have it, Damien had struck out in the looks department. At five four and a buck twenty, there was no way around the fact that he was the runt of the litter, especially when compared to his Adonis-like brothers. In decent lighting, he might have passed for an average twink in his younger years, but now that he’d gained a little weight down below, his skeletal arms and concave chest looked repulsive next to the baby Butterball turkey that had become his gut. His hair was thinning too, which he tried to embrace by frosting the tips, but really, it made him look desperate, like he was trying to hold on to his youth. That same youth had left a permanent scar in the form of a pockmarked complexion that could rival even Edward James Olmos. Was it any wonder he took to spying in public bathrooms like a cockroach took to a garbage bin?
And his one redeeming feature was sort of a curse as well. His eyes were such a vibrant, stunning green that they appeared otherworldly. The color of Kryptonite or Listerine, so uncanny were they that they cast a negative effect on his overall appearance, drawing attention to him in a peculiar way, for most people assumed the coloring was fake, that he wore tinted contacts—like all those ha
gged-out, bitter queens from the Powerhouse. Screw them!
“Didn’t get to see much in there, huh, cat eyes? We’re you hoping to see some hombre dick?” Damien opened his mouth again, but still couldn’t form an actual word. “No prob, I’ve got what you need. Right here in my pants.” The cholo grabbed his crotch with one hand and spun Damien around with the other. “Show me some ass.”
He heard the sound of a fly opening—and it wasn’t his. Oh god, was this really happening? Was he really about to get fucked right here? Damien reached for his belt buckle, fingers fumbling. His whole body was shaking and he felt weak in the knees.
Eyes downcast, Damien tentatively glanced behind him. “Are you sure—?” His train of thought broke off at the sight of the cholo’s massive erection; his pants still fastened at the waist, it stuck straight out of his unzipped crotch—throbbing an angry beet red, its glistening uncut head was unsheathed and threatening serious damage.
“Don’t look at me, puta.” The cholo pushed at the back of Damien’s skull, steering his head back around and shoving it downward. Damien let out a soft moan of consent, his fingers freeing his belt and unbuttoning his pants, which slid from his thighs, catching at the knees. He always wore silk boxer shorts, and he heard them make a tearing sound as the cholo roughly tugged them downward, exposing his bare ass, which, next to his eyes, was runner-up as his best feature: still firm and plump, like a teenager’s. Damien took pride in his bubble butt, making sure it was prepared at all times. “Ahh, nice.” Damien jumped, inhaling sharply as the cholo smacked a hand across his right cheek and then the left, giving them both a firm, two-handed squeeze. “What the fuck?” he heard the cholo whisper in disgust as he felt fingers investigating his poop shoot. Oh, oh. He’d found Buddy! Damien raised his head again and began to turn around.
“That’s my—”
“Shut up, you sick fuck.” The cholo pushed him back again, one hand placed at the nape of his neck holding him forcibly while the other hand reached up in between his asscheeks and pulled out Buddy, Damien’s beloved butt plug, a slurping suction emanating with his release. Buddy! His sphincter muscles seized at the sudden withdrawal. “What the fuck is this?” The cholo held Buddy out in front of him, practically shoving him in Damien’s face. “You filthy pig.” With a flick of his wrist, he flung Buddy against the bathroom wall and he bounced back, smacking Damien across the chin, hitting the toilet seat, then boomeranging within the rim before plopping into the toilet with the splash of a furious turd.
Homeboys Page 13