Indiana Summer Night, Late

"Whooahh, God Damn!" was all he could say as the pretty punk wrapped his lips around thick shaft. "Better hold myself back," he breathed to himself, without words, "'cause this shit's unreal. It's true what they say about fags and head."

The man looked down on the kid gobbling his rod. On some level he registered the blue eyes gazing upward, some kind of desperate confusion of a knobjob with romance. And those full lips, now stretched to a perfect "O." All right, yeah, the kid's face was kind of good looking if he stopped to think about it, even pretty. Thoughts started running through his mind as he continued to fuck face, and he didn't like it. He just wanted to get off. No, not wanted, needed. And this blowboy's pretty mouth was just a hole.

"Just fuckin' suck," he said out loud, pressing the kid's head deeper into his crotch and thrusting harder until he was satisfied by the muffled sounds of gagging, and the fag's warm wet saliva hung dripped from his thick bush. "Pretty. Like a fuckin' chick," he thought, sneering downward. The passing idea made the whole thing weirder. "Who gives a fuck," he thought idly as he watched his bloated muscle disappear time and again down the kid's throat and reappear slick with the fag's spit. He saw it get a little bigger, harder, and redder with each thrust.

In that moment, time stood still. There was only his dick. And a righteous tool it was. Back when, they'd laughed at him in the locker room, because it was too big. When the other guys were only growing in their starter bushes, he'd already sported a thick, wooly pelt that embarrassed him. It didn't help that his freaky parents for some damn reason "didn't believe" in circumcising their boys, and the head on the fucking thing seemed as big and angular as an apple. And nearly as red. He'd just be showering after a good workout, minding his own business, and he'd hear them coming. "Hey, Look, guys." "It's the one and only Monster Dick, escaped from the Circus!" "Yo, Donkey boy!" "Mr. Ed!" And they'd laughed at him, and all of them looked. It's like they had an excuse to stare. Fucking little homos.

"Aww, fuck off," he'd said, time and again, "Bunch of goddamned pussy boys. You girls just wish that you had a dick, too." He pretended not to care, and turned his back to them so they wouldn't see him blush. But he had hated how naked he felt. There was no hiding it, any of it: that heavy swinging club, that forest of bush, those monstrous balls. He'd just felt so obscene, like he'd been caught jacking off or fucking a watermelon, or some damn thing. Fuck. He was like an animal.

But that was then. Ain't nobody laughing now, he thought, power-fucking the kid's pretty face. "Come on," he rasped like a crazy man, "lemme hear you fucking slurp and suck on that knob!" Sluu-rrpp. As if the kid had a choice. "That's it. Come ON now," he said, working himself up into a fevered state. Just for kicks, he pushed back the kid's forehead, gently but firmly, leaving that open drooling mouth only inches from the rod it needed to be filled with, to make it complete. He saw that he was torturing the poor queer, his pretty suck hole open and squirming all over like you sometimes see on a fish you've just yanked out of water. The kid felt the warmth of that great shaft, and needed its salty taste, but could only whimper helplessly. And wait.

The man played with his tool, worked the long foreskin with his thick fingers, touched his cock all over, right there in front of the fag. Then he wrapped his fist hard around it, just behind the huge head. It looked hard and purple, his piss slit as sexy as anything that he had ever seen. Yeah, this one was for him. Tonight was all about his dick. "O.K., boy. Now you see the head of this cock?" And there were tears in the kid's eyes as he started nodding yes, his head bobbing up and down, like a moron. "All right then, I wanna hear you fuckin' suck on it like a baby on a nipple!" Show me how much you need it, NOW!

And then he just leaned back and let the kid sing him his story, with his attentive mouth and sweet touch and undisguised need. As the sounds of wanton mouth music and suck song arose from far below, his lean, athletic form began to move even more hydraulically, faster and harder and deeper like he couldn't believe. He began to feed the kid more and more. "Goddamn, man!," he thought, "this punk fuckin' really needs my milk!" Right then, for just a moment and for reasons he couldn't really understand, the man suddenly felt cold. "Wait a minute, reality check! What kind of man am I, really, letting some queer cockroach suck my dick off in a nasty toilet?" For a moment he even thought of pushing the little whore away and cramming his meat back into his pants and bolting. He could pretend that it had never really happened, maybe, if he stopped it right here.

But maybe a man's gotta give good milk the same way the right kind of pretty boy's got to drink it, and as quickly as the cold feeling had come it was once again eaten up in the heat and sweat, like an ice cube tossed into a roaring bonfire. Once again it was all about the sex, and all useful logic was based upon the undeniable and primal dictates of his huge dick. "I'll have to cum," he suddenly knew. "And this one better not be a tease, either. Maybe I'll tell `em, `You spit it out and you're gonna see your teeth down there with it,' to make him do right." Things suddenly seemed to slide back into place, with a definite click.

"Yeah, he's gonna eat it all, too." And the kid had long since been broken of his token resistance, and become the little whore that he was meant to be. Who gave a fuck, really? The kid didn't even matter, in fact barely existed. There was only a powerful and amazing dick, the man that it drove, and the ripe fullness of his masculine power.

Oh, yeah. And a pretty little warm, wet mouth.

"Will work for cum." The thought tickled his buzz and he snorted out a laugh. The cocksucker looked up for just a moment, almost pausing in his worship, before the stud put an end to his reverie and got him back to work by grabbing the back of his head still more forcefully and guiding it where he needed, as he needed. The boy resumed his righteous task, gratefully. "Fuckin' blowboy," he observed silently, pounding his face harder and harder, "he lives for this shit." Closing his eyes, melting into the boy's warm blowhole, he heard only the sound of his big hairy balls slapping against the punks' smooth skin. And maybe, he imagined, the moonlit clouds passing way up high above, up there in the big Indiana summer sky.

He couldn't believe it. Right here in the truckstop outside of town, just like he'd heard the guys at the shop joking about. All's he'd had to do was just leave it out for second, standing right there over the fuckin urinal. He knew the little faggot had been watching him the whole time, real men know when they're being looked at like meat. And this one didn't like it. But he'd kept his eye on the prize and let the kid go on looking at his ass through his worn jeans, and taken a good long piss. He was gonna give it to him, good.

And then he had turned just a little to the side and lightly grabbed it at the thick base and sort of showed it off. It had been a long time since anyone had made any fun of that dick at all, and he knew this hungry little pretty boy was his. "Grade A Stud," he smiled, proud of his relentless manhood. He didn't even shake it, just let it sort of hang there thick, and drip. You know, like a man. He'd seen the boy's eyes widen with surprise, on the edges of his peripheral vision. Hah! He thought. "Fish in a barrel!"

Without shame he turned to face in the queer's direction head-on, his muscular legs apart to the extent his tight jeans would allow to showcase what they were both there for. He snorted when he saw that the kid couldn't even turn away, though his face turned a bright red and he sort of shuddered. "Damn! Like a deer in the headlights," the man smiled to himself. Then the boy made a pouty face and kind of twisted up his pretty lips and slipped into a stall. "She fuckin' can't help herself," he realized with a physical throb. He glanced at the stall, down at his cock. "Fuck," he smiled. He'd never been harder.

"Maybe I'll just stick right here and torture `em," he thought. It would be kind of cool to make him come back out, and stare him down. But a guy's got needs, he said to himself, and reconsidered after about two seconds. "What the hell," he'd shrugged, "what's gonna get between any real man and a nice warm hole to blow in?" He turned with a swagger toward the booth. Muscle still hanging, free. Unzipped, and ready for service. The air felt good on him.

Yeah. It was good to be a man. And such a man, with a pretty suckboy like this one ready to chow down on him, to really give himself up. Just waiting to be his little girl, right there in that dirty stall, without even a fight! Cool! His cock led him on, a heat-seeking missile definitely in control. He moved powerfully, kind of like a lion, into the waiting stall.

And never looked back. He enjoyed sticking his crotch right there, in the kid's face. He reached behind him to slide shut the lock on the stall door. He'd just finished off a pretty good joint, but still: this all didn't seem quite real. The man liked it. "The fag's all nervous and shit," he thought with disgust, seeing the boy's delicate fingers tremble. "Or at least pretending to be, more like it." And damned if the little fucker hadn't slipped his baseball cap on backwards, unbuttoned the man's 501's like a pro, and fallen right down to his knees on that filthy floor! "Fuck," chortled the stud to himself. "She's done this before!" And the man was in control, and his dick needed and deserved worship, and this punk had led him much too far to back out now, even if she'd wanted to.

The man saw the kid start to reach down to pull his own dick out of his jockeys, and gently but firmly pressed the tip of his boot right there at the top of his nice new underpants, saying without words, "No." There was gonna be one dick in that bathroom stall, and guess what? It wasn't gonna be the little blowboy's! The stud definitely wasn't here to see no fuckin' dick.

And the kid seemed to understand. He just sort of kept his eyes looking downward, toward the dirty floor, lifted up his pretty face, and opened up his sweet mouth in supplication. "That's it. Yeah, that's more like it. Good little fag," he'd observed before feeding him shaft. He felt distant, but excited and right there. Like he was watching a movie. But he was in this one, and he was the star. Most definitely.

Yeah.

But then he'd suddenly felt the wet warmth burning his shaft, and it was like he was suddenly awakened from the dream, and Ka-Plow! everything was suddenly real. Or had he suddenly fallen deep into an amazing dream? He couldn't know, but then again he didn't really care. He just felt the breath knocked right out of him, as thought melted away. And it was sweet. Now there was only cock. His. He surrendered to something deeper, something unknown. A realization, "This is always true," struck him like a gentle thunderbolt. And he was standing still, but barely. Fuck!! Was that him or the punk making that gurgling sound?

Was it a few seconds or a year later that he'd come to? Another passing curiosity. "C'mon, now, get to work!," he muttered just for the hell of it, "MOVE, Sweetheart. I don't have all night!" The thrill from deep inside him, under and throughout his heavy-hanging sac, told him he was gonna be blowing out some legendary load, tonight. When he came, he shot volley after volley of that thick white stuff, big time. A couple of the chicks he used to date a long time ago, some real sluts, had told him how good it was and how sweet it tasted. "C'mon, Baby, try it!" this one whore had said, wiping a thick strand from the salty lake he'd shot all over her face and hair before spackling her throat.

"Disgusting," he thought to himself, even as he smiled coolly and wiped the fuck sweat from his brow. She had to be mother-fuckin' high, he recalled. Usually was. "Naww, sweetie," he'd said, "it's all yours now." Then he'd held her dripping finger and guided it right back into her lipsticked mouth, where it belonged. And left it there, no matter how she moved her head. She'd hesitated, but only briefly. "Why you waiting, Bitch," he thought to himself, "if it's so damn good?"

And he had continued to feed her, make her his good little cream lapper, until her made-up face was left blotched and sticky, but dry. He stroked her hair, like he cared. "That's my girl," he'd cooed. And she went for it! When his bloated shaft got excited and a few more drops had puddled out on to his hairy stomach, he'd fed her that, too. "Oh Yeah, Darling, now that's the way to please your man!" he'd said, and pulled her to his side to act like he cared, or some shit. But there was no way he was gonna kiss her, after that, and so after a couple minutes had passed he'd suddenly gotten up to pull on his jeans and jump in his truck and get the fuck out of there.

But tonight was gonna be even better. He was hot and in control, and knew it. Anything I want! Anything! His dick was still getting bigger and bigger, and the suckboy on the dirty floor beneath him bobbing up and down it like the craziest kind of bitch in heat. "I got the oxygen, baby," he smiled to himself, "so you better work that straw, real good. You need it, so I get it the way I want it!" And it was like the kid could read his mind, and had to obey. Because men make the rules, and some needs are not to be denied, and the suckboy knew all these things and more. He had willingly stepped in deep, way over his head. The kid had made his choices, and shut the door on all options other than this one. His time for thinking was done. It wouldn't help him, at all.

"Too cool," the guy thought, sneering downward. "Good," he muttered in a tone of mock caring. "Yeah, do it." And he knew the punk would. Whatever it takes, he would do it for him. The way it should be. Yeah. Damn, that dick was beautiful. Everything else in the room, in his life, in the great world outside, shifted out of focus. Go on ahead and moan, Queerbait, see if I care. I know what you need!

After what must have been a couple of hours the boy suddenly made motions to move, to stand up. "Aww, no. That's not gonna happen," the man said, pressing him decisively back down to the grungy floor with a hand on either shoulder. When the kid wanted to start to whine, even resist, the man acted reflexively, dipping his right hand into the filthy toilet water and clamping it, dripping, right over the boy's pouting lips. Hard. The bright yellow water stank, but the man didn't give a shit. He knew that sometimes boys needed to be shown the right way.

Exactly as he'd figured, the boy squirmed only for a moment. His face seemed to turn all kinds of colors, and his pretty eyes watered with tears. The man's dick jerked, hard. He removed his hand from the kid's shiny face, placed it gently under his chin, and tilted his face upward. "Now, look at me, kid," he commanded. He saw fear in the boy's eyes, and it turned him on. "Listen to me, now: be cool. It's gonna be all right. I am not gonna hurt you." He looked into the kid's eyes. "It's not like I hate fags or nothing. Just think about it: Now, if I did, now why would I let you suck off this big fat dick?" As a dramatic gesture, he slowly swung his sticky club and patted the boy's face with it. "Fuck," he thought to himself, draping his thick hose across the length of the kid's face, "the cocksucker looks pretty with that beautiful cock on his face." For a while he just stared downward. Just because he could.

He pulled himself out of his reverie to finish coaching the boy, so they could get back to the business at hand. "Listen up, buddy," he quietly commanded. "Here's the thing, and there's gonna be ZERO conversation on this point: I am calling the shots here, no one else-- let's be clear. And you will finish what you started. So, come on, boy. Get with it!" After only a moment's hesitation the man felt that wet mouth clamp down once again against his hard flesh, at first a little hesitant. All he'd had to do was mutter "Come on, now," and lean over to splash his hand back in the raunchy water, hard, and hold it just above the bowl and let it drip. It was that easy. And right away the kid was back, his mouth as eager and nasty and shameless as ever.

"THAT's it," he assured the boy, wiping his hand dry on the wall facing him. Oo-o-ohh, FUCK! that sweet tongue flicking feverishly all over his sticky knob and veiny shaft. He swelled with pride, imagining the queer's gratitude for having come across such an excellent coach. The kid was sucking like there was no tomorrow, his hungry mouth slurping like on high-speed cruise control, and his thick muscle just kept feeling better and better. Suddenly this was more than sex, it was a victory! Every real man, of course, loves to win. It's natural.

He knew without a doubt that he had won, and that there would no more confusion, or nonsense. Safe in that assurance, having earned his pleasure, he let himself fall back against the graffiti-scribbled wall, close his eyes, and drift off into his own world. He chuckled, remembering those days in the locker room, long ago. Hey, he thought, It really isn't so bad to be an animal! Not so bad at all...

Yeah. He let himself really go, pounding, thrusting, maybe to find out exactly what kind of animal he really was. He felt like beating his chest, or howling out loud, but restrained himself. Still, he felt free as a bird, free at last. He was a little high, all right, but he did feel great. He'd had no idea how much he needed this. That's it, he whispered to the kid. Sluur-rrp-p. Yeah!

Life was just all right. And he knew that the night was only just beginning.

The End, so far...