Two Men in a Pickup
by Rock Lane Cooper

This is a work of gay erotic fiction. If you are offended by such material or if you are not allowed access to it under the laws where you live, please exit now. This work is copyrighted by the author and may not be copied or distributed in any form without the written permission of the author. I may be contacted at:

Chapter 6, part 2


For a split second, Kirk considers turning tail and dashing straight out of the room, but that would mean letting them see his butt, and it's quicker to jump behind the chair Rich is sitting in.

Veronica is in halter top and short shorts, the cat pressing back and forth across her bare shins. "Gordon pulled your car out of the ditch," she's saying to Kirk.

"Yeah, it's parked out there by the house," Gordon says, a wicked grin slanting across his face.

Kirk is speechless, aware that his face is burning.

"It's OK," Gordon says standing up, "You don't have to thank me." Veronica jumps to her feet beside him. The cat dodges away to keep from getting stepped on.

"Thanks," Kirk says, his voice cracking.

"Now the two of you can just make yourselves scarce," Gordon says and with an arm around her waist, pulls Veronica against his hip. "We've got business to take care of." And they head for the back of the trailer.

The two boys say nothing, watching them go.

"And clean up the fuckin' mess you made in the kitchen," Gordon says over his shoulder. Veronica giggles as his fingers press into her ribs and then slip down the back of her shorts. They disappear into the bedroom. And there's the sound of more giggling.

"You two met already?" Rich says, puzzled. And Kirk tells him the whole story of going into the ditch, riding with Gordon into the pasture, and then running for his life.

"Fucker, he's always pulling shit like that," Rich says.

"With you?" Kirk asks.

"Not anymore" is all Rich says and jerks his towel tight around him.

They look at the kitchen floor, which could pass for an abstract painting of chocolate syrup, broken eggs, and spilled orange juice -- streaks and pools of color, with assorted handprints, footprints, assprints. There's more on the cupboard doors and counter top.

Rich puts his arm over Kirk's shoulder. "Did we do that?" he says.

Noises start coming from the bedroom. Veronica is letting out loud sighs in a steady rhythm. Gordon has wasted no time with foreplay.

"He's fucking both of them," Rich says. "Her and Betty."

"How does that work?" Kirk wants to know.

"God's gift to women, I guess," Rich says. Then he tiptoes down the hall to the back of the trailer, beckoning Kirk to follow.

The sighing has escalated to loud moans now, and they've been joined by the sound of Gordon's grunts. Then it all stops for two, three beats and starts up again.

Gordon's stroke is steady. No shifting gears or pumping the clutch, just foot to the floorboard, going-to-town.

The door isn't closed all the way. Rich pushes on it, and it opens wide enough for them to look in. Peering over Rich's shoulder, Kirk can see the two of them on the bed, a pair of legs in the air, heels to the ceiling, and Gordon's naked ass, humping and bucking. The bed is rocking.

"Mind if we watch?" Rich says and takes a step through the door.

Gordon doesn't stop. "Get the fuck outta here," he hisses.

"Not till you apologize to my friend," Rich says. "You jumped him and took his pants."

"I said, get the fuck outta here," Gordon says again.

Veronica says, "What ya -- do that for -- honey?" between strokes.

"And his boots," Rich adds. "Where are his boots?"

"Shuddup alla ya!" Gordon says.

Rich turns, bumping into Kirk, who's still in the doorway. "Watch this," he says to Kirk in a low voice. In a minute he's back with a yellow plastic water pistol.

He takes aim through the open door and hits Gordon square in the ass.

"What the fuck!" Gordon shouts, rising up from the bed and lunging toward the door in a single move, his stiff cock big in a wet rubber and slapping against his belly.

There's a sudden rush of bodies down the hall, arms and legs flying. Gordon grabs for Rich and gets only his towel. The two boys converge at the trailer door and burst naked out into the drizzle.

"My car!" Kirk says, and there's the Fairlane pulled up to the front gate of the house, the back fenders and wheel wells plastered with mud, clumps of stringy ditch grass hanging from the grill and chrome strips. They head for it, slipping and sliding.

Gordon is in hot pursuit, yelling, "You little sonsabitches," but loses his footing in a patch of wet grass and goes down like a water buffalo. The boys jump in the car, Kirk behind the wheel, and discover the keys in the ignition.

"Let's get the hell outta here," Rich says.

The engine turns over and fires. Kirk throws the automatic transmission into reverse and swings around, tires spinning, kicking up gravel stones. Gordon is on his feet again, splattered with mud from chest to knees, his dick swinging in low loops.

He's reaching out for the car door as Kirk throws it into drive. Jackrabbiting toward the driveway and the road beyond, Kirk catches a glimpse of Gordon running beside the car, finally going down again, and dropping out of sight.

Rich is bent over with laughter. When they get to the road, Rich says, "Keep going! Keep going!" And as they go, the farm disappears behind them in the foggy mist.

After a half mile, they stop at the next corner. "Which way?" Kirk wants to know.

Rich tells him to keep going straight. Finally, they have to pull over because a pickup is coming the other way. Inside Kirk can see two guys in cowboy hats.

"Stop," Rich says. "It's the Olsen twins."

The truck pulls up beside them and the driver looks in. "Whoa-hoa!" he laughs. "What have we here?" He leans out to get a good look and sees they're bare-assed.

Rich says, "Get in; we're goin' to town."

They don't have to be asked twice. The truck gets parked behind a row of willows leading into a slough, and the two boys come running.

The Olsen brothers are identical twins, wrestlers. And a pair of corkers. Discovered circle jerking at an early age and never got much beyond it. Big guys, big arms, legs, feet; big chests. The rear of the car slumps down when they drop their butts onto the back seat and slam the doors.

"Which way's town?" Kirk says.

Everybody points, "Thatta way!"

Their new passengers are Otto and Otis or, as they're known, Ott and Oat. They're already pulling off their boots and socks. One reaches into the front seat to shake Kirk's hand. "How's it hangin'?"

"Yeah, how's it hangin'?" says the other one.

They're jerking sweatshirts over their heads, exposing acres of muscle, then unbuckling belts and bumping elbows as flies pop open and they're shoving down their levi's. Identical penises flip out of their underwear. In about 30 seconds, they're down to the skin. Except for their cowboy hats.

Turns out this is a favorite pastime for the Kearney boys, getting naked and riding around. Started out as a dare nobody knows how long ago. A pastime for idle minds with too much time to kill.

Kirk drives on until they hit the highway, and then follows it into town. They drive by the high school and along the main drag. In the rain, there's not much action on the streets. The windows steam over, and the windshield wipers are snapping back and forth.

Kirk realizes the backseat has become very quiet, and a steady rhythm of stroking has started up. "Turn right here," Ott says. "Now go around the block," says Oat. They're in a neighborhood of new ranch-style houses, picture windows, big front lawns, and two-car garages with wide driveways.

They pull again by a house with a little wishing well in the front yard and a trike on the sidewalk, tipped over on its side. "Slow down," says Ott. "Yeah, slow down," says Oat. They open the back window a crack and crowd up against it, jerking on their dicks.

"Who lives here?" Rich says.

"Maryanne Delaney," they sigh in unison, starting to breathe heavy.

"You want me to stop?" Kirk says. He can feel the car gently rocking.

"Fuck, no! Keep movin'," they say, and then direct him to another house several blocks away. And the sighing and jerking start up again. This goes on until they've cruised by four more places.

Now they're sitting at a stop light, and a big truck pulls up beside them. The driver in a plaid shirt and feed cap looks down from the cab and breaks into a grin. The light changes and they keep going.

"I need a banana," Ott says all of a sudden. "Yeah," Oat says, "me, too. Go by the IGA."

This is a grocery store, two blocks ahead, but Kirk doesn't get what they're talking about.

"Just pull up by the front door and keep the engine running," Ott says.

Kirk pulls off the street and crosses the parking lot, stopping along the curb in front of the building. Maybe two seconds after his foot hits the brake pedal, Ott leaps from the car, still butt naked, and streaks into the store.

"What the fuck?" Kirk says, turning to Rich, and Rich just gives him a look.

In a moment, Ott is flying back outside, dick and balls flapping side to side, a bunch of bananas in one hand, holding his hat on tight with the other. He jumps into the backseat, slamming the door behind him and yells, "Step on it!"

Kirk floors it, and they are soon blocks away, heading out of town. A banana gets handed to the front seat, and then another one.

"What's going on?" Kirk wants to know.

"Just keep driving," Rich says, peeling one of the bananas.

They turn off the highway, and the road takes them up and over a low hill, where there's an open gate into a hay field, and they follow a fence line to a far corner and park the Fairlane under a row of trees.

Kirk cuts the engine, and there's the sound of rain drops on the roof. On the other side of the fence, several cows stare back at them through the low hanging tree branches.

He glances into the rear view mirror, and there in the backseat are the Olsen twins, their mouths full of banana. The car is rocking again, and when he turns to look at them, he sees that they've wrapped the peels over their dicks and are pumping away.

"Sgrate!" Ott says around the banana in his mouth. "Yeah, sgrate!" says Oat.

"Try it," Rich says, handing him a peel, and Kirk watches as Rich opens his mouth, sticks out his tongue, and slides the skinned banana slowly between his lips.

The sight of this makes Kirk's dick pop right up. He takes another look at the twins, cheeks still stuffed, legs spread wide, knees bumping, their fists working the peels up and down on stiff, pink penises, their balls bobbing on the upholstery.

"Banana fucking," Rich says. "Get the idea?" Then he takes the peel and slips it down over Kirk's cock, which jumps up to full length. The inside of the peel is soft and moist, and as Rich takes a grip around the outside, Kirk sucks in a deep breath.

The car is shaking again; the twins are sighing and making high-pitched moans. And Kirk feels the pressure of Rich's hand moving slowly up and down along his dick. The inside of the banana peel is like cool crushed velvet. He sinks down in the seat, body going limp.

"OK," Rich says, "you do it now." And he lets go.

"No, don't stop," Kirk says.

Rich laughs. "Sorry, Charlie; it's every man for himself," and he starts peeling the other banana.

"I'm ready to pop," one of the twins says. "Me, too," says the other one, and the shaking and sighing intensify.

Kirk grabs his peel and continues rubbing his cock, as he watches Rich pull on his penis a couple of times. Then it disappears into the peel. They're now jerking off together, Rich's long frame spread out over the seat, head tilting back.

Kirk studies Rich's closed eyes and his mouth, and with each stroke of himself lets his gaze take in Rich's naked body, from chin to the nipples on his chest, his flat stomach and belly button, the hair trailing down from it to the curly bush that spreads out into his crotch and over his balls.

And Kirk is overtaken by a feeling he hasn't had before -- a feeling he has no word for. There's a rush welling in his gut that swirls down and under the skin between his legs. Shit, he thinks, I'm in love.

"Heads up!" someone shouts from the back. "Whoo-hoo! it's a gusher!" Followed by a lot of grunting and panting and another "Whoo-hoo!!" Drops of hot cum are splashing down from above and into the front seat.

Kirk grabs his dick hard, and there's a burst of his own cum suddenly warming the inside of the banana peel and gliding from the tip down into his lap. He sinks back into a bath of affection and warmth for himself, Rich, and the whole world. Even the two knuckleheads in the back seat. Shit, he thinks again, I must be in love.

He looks over at Rich, who is looking back at him, smiling and dreamy eyed, arching himself into one-two-three last pushes into his banana peel, and then falling still, cum oozing all around his fingers. Eyes never leaving Kirk's.

"How you like them apples?" a voice says from behind Kirk's ear. It's Ott, leaning into the front seat. Oat's face presses in beside him, and he throws an arm over his brother's bare shoulder. They are both grinning. Over their heads, there are gobs of cum on the ceiling, dripping down onto the brims of their cowboy hats.

Oat's other arm snakes around from behind Kirk, and a heavy, wet hand drops onto his chest, still gripping a bruised and blackened banana peel. "Yeah, how about them apples?" he says.

Then, like it's an old Broadway musical one of the Olsens breaks into song.

This is followed by a rousing chorus, heads bobbing back and forth, hat brims bumping:

The other Olsen takes a deep breath and swings into another stanza:

More "ai-ai-ai-ais" and more verses, and soon they are all rocking back and forth and breaking into harmony, a naked barbershop quartet, with now and then a drop of cum still falling from the ceiling, and more of it oozing from the banana peel on Kirk's chest.

"I know one, I know one," Kirk says, laughing:

"Good one; good one!" the Olsens yell and sing it again. Then after a pause, and they're catching their breath, warm and happy in each other's company, Oat begins singing sweetly:

And they all join in like choir boys: There is a reverent moment of silence, heads pressed together, the Olsen boys' muscular arms wrapped tightly around them.

Then someone shouts, "Piss call," and they are diving out the car doors and into the wet grass, lining up along the fence to point dicks toward the trees on the other side, waving and looping streams in the air before one of them flips a splash of warm pee on someone's leg and they are soon hopping around, cussing, and dodging each other's arcing spray.

When they're drained dry, there's some pushing and grab-assing, and then the rain starts up again, and they're all piling into the back seat, wrestling and reaching between legs. The Fairlane rocks under their weight. Someone slaps Rich on his bare ass and he's saying, "Don't hit it; rub it!!"

Kirk feels rough fingers give his balls a long squeeze and then wrap around his dick, which seems to be getting hard again. His face is pressed against a bare chest, and he can see into Ott's face, inches away, but Ott's eyes are closed and he's saying, "Oh, oh, oh."

Some practiced fingers are working Kirk's wiener, a thumbnail stroking the soft skin under the tip. There's warm breath along the back of one thigh, and a warm tongue working slowly up to his butt.

His own hands are reaching over arms, shoulders, backsides pressed tightly together and squirming, wet skin sliding over wet skin. He can feel all of them twisting and turning in a heap, like piglets in a pile.

One of his hands finally touches home -- someone's home -- a chunky penis lying solo along a thigh, his knuckles bumping it first, then stroking what he can reach of it. It bobs and throbs, warm under his fingertips.

The hand on his own dick is doing some small miracle he can't quite make out. It's sending shivers right down to the roots, all the way to his toes, which are out the open car door, where the rain is falling hard now, like little bits of stinging ice.

"Oh, oh, oh," Ott is moaning. And someone starts up a bucking motion that seems to be attached to the dick Kirk is stroking. His fingers are getting wet with slippery precum as he slips them round and round the firm head.

"Oh, oh, oh," comes another muffled voice from under the pile. It's Oat. And the bucking motion gets more intense, pushing legs and arms against him, the tongue now working its way between his ass cheeks in hot, wet circles. The springs under the car are squeaking as it rocks.

Suddenly the hand between his legs wraps itself tightly around his dick. "Ah, ah, ah," someone is gasping, and the bucking stops. In a moment, there is hot cum seeping through to him from somewhere, a pool of it gathering on his stomach and then dribbling down in a little waterfall over his side.

One by one they cum over each other, the rich smell of it and their sweat filling the backseat. Kirk is last, the hand on his dick milking him like a cow's teat, his burst of semen spilling over those magic fingers, making the last strokes wet, slippery, and sticky.

He pulls away and rises up from the pile of limp, sweaty bodies. Catching his breath, he looks around the car and out the doors, all of them still open in the falling rain.

His eyes move to the rear view mirror, where he can see himself looking back and bare butts and other body parts. One hand is still lazily stroking a dick wet and oozing.

A bit of movement draws his eyes to what he can see of the back window, still partly steamed over. It takes him a moment to make out what he's seeing. Then suddenly there's no mistake about it. Slowly and quietly pulling up behind them on the wet grass is another car.

"Oh, shit," he says. "It's a cop."


© 2003 Rock Lane Cooper