by Tom Graham
Buck straddled him. “Damn it, open them eyes,” he said, and when Les did, he said, “What do you see?”
Les shrugged. “A naked man,” he said, and when Buck waited, he added, “With a boner.” After another long moment, he said, “All right, goddamn it, a beautiful man.”
Buck grinned. “Who’s going to fuck you raw.”
“Am I supposed to turn over, or what?”
“Why don’t you just leave this to me? I’m the one knows what he’s doing.” He lifted Les’s legs over his shoulders and reached down to grease the man’s waiting hole.
“Shit!” Les exclaimed as Buck’s knob forced its way in.
“You gonna be a baby, or you gonna take this like a man?”
“I reckon you can get that bitty thing in there without too much trouble,” Les said, gritting his teeth.
“Fuck you,” Buck told him, and he did. But he stopped and rested about halfway in to give Les time to get used to it.
Les felt like he was being split in two. Seemed like Buck’s cock must have doubled in size since he’d looked at it a moment before. Buck leaned down and kissed him. After a minute or two, Les felt his butt muscles relax. Buck felt it too. He began to fuck him, slow and gentle, but he knew by instinct when the pain had turned to pleasure, and he began to fuck him harder then.
“Shit,” Les said. “That’s—that’s…” But he didn’t have words to describe it.
Buck bent further and took Les’s prick into his mouth. Les moaned with pleasure. All those different sensations: the pole plowing steadily in and out of his butt, the mouth on his knob, even the slap of balls that made his upturned ass tingle. He wanted everything all at once: to kiss Buck, to hug him fiercely, to fuck him too.
Not a puppy, he thought suddenly: a gato montez—a wildcat. “Ride ’em, cowboy!” he gasped. He raised his ass and hugged Buck even closer.
Something changed. Buck’s prick swelled enormously and exploded, and Les realized that Buck was firing a load up his ass. Knowing it made his cock go off, spurt after spurt. Buck choked and swallowed furiously—but the fucker never spilled a drop.
They lay locked together for a while. “Got to drive them longhorns up to Wichita,” Les said. “You fixing to come along?”
Buck kissed him. “Darlin’,” he said, “ain’t you figured out yet about you and me?” And, just like that, damned if Les’s prick wasn’t standing at attention again. Buck slid down and began to suck on it. He paused to say, “I like it regular.”
“I reckon you won’t suffer none,” Les said flatly. After another moment, he added, “You think the boys’ll guess? About us?”
Buck snickered. “You damn fool, them boys been taking bets.”
Les snorted and gave Buck’s head a push. “If you’re gonna suck, suck. You can jaw anytime.” Buck obeyed enthusiastically.
Darlin’, Les thought. Nobody’d ever called him that before. He rolled the word around on his tongue, savoring it. He lifted his head and looked down, realizing how ripe and kissable Buck’s lips were, cock bruised and berry red by now. He hadn’t ever kissed nobody either. He wished Buck could kiss him and suck him at the same time.
Just now, though, sucking took precedence. He gave Buck’s head another shove, case Buck might want to take it a little deeper. He did. Les sighed happily.
“One thing’s sure,” Les said. “My bedroll’s gonna be a lot less lonesome.”
THE PICKUP MAN
Shane Allison
I’m relieved I’m able to make it to Billy’s in my piece-of-shit car. It crackles over rock and gravel as I make my way into the parking lot. A week ago it wouldn’t start when I was leaving the baths. The last thing I wanted was to call my dad to tell him the carburetor was acting up again and he’d have to pick me up from a bathhouse. He’s already embarrassed that I can’t tell a flat tire from a dead battery. What can I say? All I know how to do is put gas in ’em and drive ’em.
When I open the thick wooden door, Lynard Skynard blasts out of the hole-in-the-wall country-western bar that’s on the ass end of Tallahassee. It’s a popular spot for local rednecks, not to mention a slew of cops who get called at least twice a week to break up a fight between a couple of drunken hicks. When I enter, I get more than a few stares, all eyes dead set on burning a hole the size of Florida clean through me.
The place reeks of stale beer and prejudice. I carefully tear past grungy denim-clad cowboys with bloodshot eyes to make my way to the bar. I sandwich myself tightly between two drunkards nursing a couple of longnecks. They look me over disgustedly, as if I don’t belong there. And to be honest, Billy’s is the last joint I want my black ass to be caught dead in. I stick out like a sore thumb in my Timberlands and baggy FUBUs. I wait and watch the burly bartender pop tops off bottles of cold German beer before I wave him down. He gives me a stern glare. I yell through the brash country tunes roaring from the jukebox that sits against a wall of cinder blocks, “Excuse me. Where’s your bathroom?” I hold out my oil-soiled hands. He points past ten-gallon-hooded heads to the far end of the bar. I saunter past mean, prying eyes that continue to watch me as if I’m going to magically sprout wings from my ass.
I press the door open to the men’s room where a bunch of cowboys stand side by side at the urinal trough. My dick twitches in my baggy jeans to the sizzle of piss splashing against the glossy porcelain. Some turn to take a look at the new addition; others focus on emptying their bladders. At the sink, I turn the tap with the side of my hand, careful not to smudge it with oil. Cowboy after cowboy enters the shitter, each with a dick full of piss. I’m a bundle of nerves in this den of country boys. I press pink liquid soap into my dirty palms and work it into a frantic lather.
My dick gets thick as I gawk at the row of tight, redneck booties flexing and farting in jeans. I rinse the soap off my hands as I run them under a tongue of cold water. I stare at these muscular, big-butt cowboys as streams of gold shower the trough. I gotta pee so bad I’m about to explode—I’ve been holding it in since I left home, thinking I could wait until I got to Brian’s party. A space opens up between two guys, and I quickly elbow my way between them. “Sorry,” I tell them, as I take my place alongside their flannel-clad bear bodies.
As I unzip and fish my dick out of my underwear, I nonchalantly take a peek at soft peckers the size of Vienna sausages being shaken clean of pee. Others are fully erect with cockheads of all shapes and sizes. Some have the typical mushroom head while others are simply cloaked in tender pink foreskin. Some dicks are riddled with veins; others look sweaty and ripe from being held captive in briefs all day. Some even sport Prince Albert crowns. I want nothing more than to drop to my knees and worship each and every erection in all its glory.
I feel a slight burn as I make my own donation into the golden river. I watch for prying eyes to see if any of these country ruffians are checking out my equipment. I’m not what you’d call “porn-star big,” but I hold my own, and the boys don’t complain. I don’t care if they’re looking. I’m a dirty little exhibitionist anyway. Like what you see? I think. Several of the men have come and gone and have hauled out into a vortex of Brooks and Dunn vibrating against paneled walls and the shoddy Sheetrocked ceiling.
There are only three of us left draining the last droplets from the slits of our dicks. A short, pudgy Mexican dude wearing a cream-colored cowboy hat and caramel-brown boots has finished up, tucking his uncut dick into a tomb of boxers. The medium-build guy to the right of me wears a red and black long-sleeve flannel shirt, a gray cowboy hat, and faded jeans with holes in the knees. He’s got a round, bubble, black-boy booty that’s firm in dirty denim. His dick is cut, the head slightly freckled. We stand together, close as any two men can get, each playing with ourself for the other to see. I watch excitedly as his dirty fingers squeeze his curved dick.
Just when he’s about to grab my cock, two men walk in and take their places next to us. The cowboy nervously puts away his boner and saunters to a vacant sink to wash up. I swad
dle my sex back into my Hanes and duck into a stall that’s filled with wads of wet toilet paper and soggy cigarette butts. I unroll some tissue and try to clean the toilet rim of pee and what can only be described as tobacco that has been spewed from the dirtiest mouth in town.
A hole’s been gutted in the wall of the stall to the left of me. The partition is caked with mostly racist and homophobic graffiti: NIGGERS GO HOME and DIE STALL FAGS. An intricate picture of a Confederate flag has been drawn above the glory hole. The best part of public shitters is reading the ridiculous messages guys scribble while they’re pinching a loaf. Some people have way too much time on their hands. I’m one to talk, though, since I’m guilty of sprawling my own dirty messages across bathroom walls.
I push my jeans around my knees to keep them from dragging across the disgusting floor. As I hear the heels of the cowboy’s boots against the tile, I stoop over to watch a pair of cruddy snakeskins make their way into the stall next to mine. My glasses graze against the partition. I take them off and stuff them into my shirt pocket. I play with myself as I watch him undress from the waist down. He takes his dick out, then wraps his fingers around it, giving me a state-of-the-art glory-hole show. I glide my index finger within the circle, letting him know I hunger for what hangs between his thick, hairy thighs.
I watch as his crotch comes through the hole. I tilt the soft-hanging member under my nose to give it my infamous smell test. I approve, and work the rest of it past my lips and into my warmth mouth. My tongue slithers along the belly of his snake. The traffic from new visitors is thick, but we’re both locked securely in our stalls. Some piss and leave, while others linger, as if they know what’s up. I struggle to keep my slurping to a minimum by wrapping my lips tighter around his stuff.
Suddenly he uncorks his dick from my mouth. With traces of drool at the corners of my yapper, I watch for his next move. “Let’s go back to my truck,” he whispers through the hole, his breath reeking of booze. I make out a coarse brown mustache that covers his top lip. We hurry to make ourselves decent, so much so that my dick nearly catches in the copper jaws of my zipper. When I exit the stall, there’s a new row of bodacious cowboys taking leaks, but I couldn’t care less.
My dick guides me past a school of pool-playing, beer-guzzling men and into a poorly lit lot of cars, jeeps, and dirty four-by-fours. Whether my crappy car will crank or not is the last thing on my mind. I turn the corner of a green Dumpster to find a pickup near the fence with its parking lights on. It’s caked with dried mud. I walk to the front of the truck. THE PICKUP MAN is painted in neat letters across the top of the windshield. I try to make out the cowboy’s face through his dark-tinted windows. He pushes open the passenger-side door, but I’m hesitant to get in: I don’t know this guy from Adam, and his truck reeks of dead deer.
“How’s it goin’?” I ask.
“Hey,” he replies. It’s dark in the parking lot, but I can make out some of his features.
“That was hot back there,” I tell him, even though I’m a bit uneasy about all this. Suddenly I feel like a fly in this dude’s web, thinking maybe he’s out to spill a punk’s blood and leave me for dead in a ditch off some lonely highway. Don’t be stupid, I think.
“I know a place we can go,” he says gruffly.
I usually don’t get into cars with guys I don’t know—especially guys driving big-ass pickups with tinted windows—but he’s a piece of ass too good to pass up. When guys start talking about going back to their place, I usually change my mind and get the hell outta Dodge. Cars with tinted windows really freak me out. A month ago, a local girl was raped and sodomized after she accepted a ride from a stranger. Cops describe the vehicle as a white van with blue stripes and dark windows. They still haven’t found the bastard.
“I don’t know about going anywhere,” I tell him. I look around nervously to study my surroundings just in case this guy tries to kidnap my ass.
“It’s cool. I ain’t weird or nothin’,” he tells me.
After careful consideration, I make up my mind to go along, and I climb into the cab of his pickup. Besides, I have a switch-blade in case this motherfucker wants to kick up some shit. I don’t want to have to cut a bitch, but I will if things get critical. “Lead the way,” I tell him. My heart beats heavy as his truck bucks slowly out of the lot. He drives farther and farther out of the clutches of the city limits, past greasy spoons and signs with store names that end in “4 Less.”
“So where we goin’?” I ask him.
“There’s a rest stop off Highway 10,” he says. “Don’t worry. We’re almost there.”
The pickup roars like a mythical beast as he presses deep into the gas, making his way down a dirt road that slices apart a wooded area off the bustling freeway. There are a few cars in sight, and the ruffian jostles his pickup between two of them, neither of which is occupied by the drivers.
“Dude, is this safe?” I ask.
“It’s pretty quiet ’round this time of night. Come on. Let’s go in back.” He lets down the tail end of the truck exposing the bed strewn with tools and sawed-off pieces of paneling. I press the knife in my pocket, ready to pull it out in case he tries anything. I can’t help thinking of the van-driving rapist. “Hop in,” he says. “Just push some of this shit off to the side.”
As I crawl in on my knees, pushing junk out of the way, he grabs my ass and presses a finger in the crevice of my butt. He climbs in behind me and collapses into a nest of heavy, hard things that pushes into our flesh. He takes off his cowboy hat and tosses it inside the truck on the seat. Feathers of sweaty black hair are exposed, along with a touch of gray in his brows. His pot roast of a gut is snug under his T-shirt, which displays a pit bull bearing its teeth beneath a Confederate flag. His nipples are pert under the cotton. Like erasers, these things. His big metal belt buckle hangs limply from his waist as he unzips his Wranglers. I watch as he pulls the snakeskin boots off his tube sock-covered feet. “Aintcha gonna get undressed?” he asks.
“I don’t know about this, man. Somebody might see us out here.”
“It’s cool,” he assures me. “Nobody’ll fuck with us.”
He starts to unbutton my shirt with his gritty fingers. It doesn’t take me long to get out of my clothes. We’re both still in our socks and underwear when he asks me what I’m into.
“Well, you already know I like to suck,” I tell him. “I’m pretty versatile, really. I’ll try almost anything once.”
He reaches into the cotton crotch panel of his briefs and pulls out the dick I’d worshiped a short while ago in the crapper at Billy’s. “Anything, huh?” he says. He peels his briefs off hulking legs and tosses them in a nowhere-special direction. A salt-and-pepper thicket surrounds his horse-hung erection. Compared to this rough, redneck of a thing, I have nothing much to offer between my legs.
When I move in to give his nipples a taste test, the congestion in the bed of his truck shuffles beneath my bare, black ass. They blush as I bite and suck them with love. “Ow, fuck!” he yells.
I move between his thighs and take his dick in my nervous palm. His ball sac is tender and coarse. He runs his hands through the kinky crop of my hair as I manhandle his nipples. “Suck me, boy,” he demands, pushing me with force past his beer belly. I waste no time putting his dick in my mouth. I nuzzle my nose in his nest of cowboy-crotch stink. “Awesome, man!” he says. “You suck purty good.”
His calling me “boy” gets me hot, causing my dick to thicken even more as I struggle not to gag on his sex. I want him to know I can take a dick proper like a good boy. We turn our bodies in a sixty-nine position. He spreads his legs as I lick along the shaft and suckle the tender goose-bump flesh of his sac. His sweaty hair is cold against the inside of my thigh as he devours my cock. His teeth graze against it, but what’s hot sex without a little pain? I brace myself each time his choppers skim along my dick.
“Roll on over, boy. On your back,” he says.
My knees point up to the stars as he s
ervices me with unrelenting fervor. I squeeze his booty as he runs my dick in and out of his mouth again. He’s ripe and sweaty as I glide my tongue along his cherry. “Oh, man, that’s awesome. Do that,” he says.
He leisurely works his burly butt upon the throne of my face. There you are, Daddy, I think, tongue-tickling his button. His dick grazes my chest as I munch away on his butt. The tip of my ring finger slides in easily up his wet stuff. I’m careful not to damage his goods, for his butt is as precious to me as the night sky. I lick and spit continuously on the cowboy’s sphincter, fucking him with four fingers, which go up him without a hitch.
“You wanna fuck me, boy?” I’m too busy with his backside to answer. “I wanna fuck.”
“You got a rubber?” I ask him.
The cowboy grabs the leg of his jeans and drags them toward our nude bodies. He feels around in one of the pockets and pulls out a cellophane packet. He tears it with his teeth then uses his mouth to roll the prophylactic over my sex. He pulls his cheeks apart with calloused, cruddy fingers, and my dick slides easily up his country ass. In amazement I watch as his walls gorge on my dick.
“Oh, man that’s it,” he announces. I claw his butt as he rides me like one of those mechanical bulls back at Billy’s. Beads of sweat trickle from his furry back as I thrust my sex up his butt with wild abandon. “God, fuck!” he yells.
I never thought I was that great at fucking, but with all the cursing and fussing this hick is doing, I guess I’m not as bad as I thought. I give him a reach around, tugging on his dick like a cow’s udder. “Yeah, like that,” he says. “I’m close.”
The screwing and jerking is in perfect synchronization. “Let’s nut together,” I tell him.
His moans are sweet music to my ears. “Um comin’,” he announces.
You and me both. When I expectedly feel something warm between my fingers, I tug his dick, milking him of every drop. My breaths are heavy; my gluteus maximus muscles ache and burn. I yell silently in my dirty mind that I’m about to come. I brace against his bear shoulders as I climax up his ass, into the flesh-colored rubber. My body relaxes as he slides off my cock.