Be My Punk

By
Araddion

 

© 2017 R. Keith Peck. All rights reserved.

 

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Story Code - MF/oral/vaginal/bareback

 

6.

"Cowboys," Bobby says, resting his elbow in the pickup's open window. "They get off on cowboys."

Feral light glows in his eyes. It's the light of a guy whose to-do list reads:

1) Get laid.

2) See item #1

It's a wolfish thing, and you got to hide it when you're out to score pussy -- it scares off most women -- but fuck if it doesn't make Bobby's face look like a black-and-white portrait of a young cowboy, his profile kissed by wistful, soft moonlight.

"I ain't no cowboy." I pluck at my shirt. Button up. Plaid. Itchy because it's new and we didn't have time to run it through the wash. My hat rests on my knee. I stomp my shoes. "You know, a pair of western boots would've helped."

"Don't worry. I got mine on. Your dressed close enough." He winks. "Boots is expensive, and you need some steel-toed workboats."

I slug his shoulder. "I'll thank ya for the clothes ... if I score."

"Cuz, don't worry. They're gonna be climbing all over ya. You're still hot enough for chicks to jump you." He grins. "Barely."

We both laugh.

It's been a while since I've been over to Calhoun. But, like Peachville, the main drag is unchanged. Orange-glowing streetlights. Cherry-glowing taillights. Streaks of white headlights. Golden Corral. Cracker Barrell. Big-assed Walmart. Motel Six.

We shoot under the interstate bridge. After passing a few fast food joints we come to a stretch of cheap mom-and-pop hotels, clubs, and bars. Bobby slows, looking right, drumming his palms on the steering wheel.

"You plannin' on getting' shitfaced?"

"Yep."

"Let's get a room." He signals a right turn.

It was the phrase, not the way Bobby said it, that stirred the blood in my cock. Get a room. Man, sleaziness just seethes in that sentence. Fuck. I need to get sleazy with Bobby! Let the old days come back like a zombie. I think I earned it, spending two years learning to like getting assfucked by donkey-donged niggers.

While Bobby scribbles on the form, I beam at the chick at the desk. She's young. Betcha she's the owner's daughter. Maybe seventeen. Betcha she'd howl like a motherfucker if I stuffed her with Mitch Grant's throbbing rod. She blushes when I, pretending to be watching something going on in the motel's parking lot, adjust my crotch. Yah. I know what's on her mind.

Bobby dangles the key in my face. "Room 22. Get the beer. Don't forget the ice." He charges out the door.

Outside the lobby I freeze. It feels like a ghost is running chilly fingers up and down the back of my neck.

Bobby's ass is a thing of beauty as he struts down the walkway. Western boots and tight jeans, man, are the way to go. Maybe you don't get to ogle Jockeys, but you get to see the goods. The seam splits his buttcheeks. Pries them apart like you're opening a sweet tangerine with your thumbs. The denim outlines the curves. And those globes, man, surging against each other. It's muscle versus muscle. What sends the steam whistling out of my ears is Bobby's strut. He's walking like a man who knows he looks good and wants to get laid. Picture a palomino bronco, mane long and flowing, tail held high, sauntering towards his harem of mares. That's my cousin, man. The best thing God ever created.

I throw a salute at his back.

Go for it, cuz. I wanna hear your girl moan!

I fetch the case of Millers and the two ice bags from the bed of Bobby's pickup. I heft the case onto a shoulder and let the bags swing from my free hand. Room 22's door is cracked; I kick it open. What a crappy room. Two double beds with cheap bedding. A TV. Fucking Gideon bible sitting on the nightstand between the beds. It smells of cigarettes. And maybe ... no, definitely! ... a hint of pussy. I get it. This motel is sleaze central for this county. All around us, transvestites are buttfucking pudgy Baptist deacons; moms are cheating on their husbands with their sons; prostitutes are shouting Next!

I push into the bathroom. Bobby puffs on a new Marlboro, cock hanging from his fly, piss gushing into the bowl.

"Tub's gonna be outta commission, cuz." The bags thud to the floor. I set the Miller down gently. Don't want to get facehugged by beer foam when I crack a tab later.

"Already showered. " Bobby sniggers. "Maybe I'll skip one tomorrow morning. Goddamn I love the smell of cunt on my dick!"

"I hear ya, cuz." I break open the bags. Pouring, I bury the Miller in ice. "Give me a cigarette."

"Fuck you!" Bending forward, Bobby flushes the toilet. His long dong dangles from the V of his open fly. A big golden droplet clutches his pisslit, unwilling to let that magnificent dong go.

"Come on, cuz. Give me a fucking cigarette!"

Fly still open, snugging his jeans in place on his hips, Bobby just grunts.

The cardboard pack bulges in his back pocket. I grab for it. He's giggling even before I make contact. I palm more buttcheek than pack. Oh man, even the feel is perfect. Velvet over steel. That's a proper man's ass. Bobby twists away, stuffing his prong back into his jeans as he darts out of the bathroom. I follow. I lunge --

"Christ, Mitch!"

The tackle carries us onto a bed. For one pristine moment we're bulge to bulge. I'm between his thighs, staring down at him, hypnotized by his boyish mirth. Then he swings a leg and we're wrestling. I smell tobacco on his moist breath. We tumble onto the floor. While the battle rages -- we crash into at least three of the walls, pissing off God knows how many drag queens -- his clean scent transforms into the spicy muskiness that's pure Bobby Allen.

"OK, OK, I give, cuz, you win, here!"

Bobby wriggles out from under me, stands, and fishes the pack out of his pocket.

I grin. "They're no good, cuz. You crushed 'em!"

"Dammit, Mitch, take the fuckin' cig!" Bobby thumbs one out of the pack. The cigarette bends to the right.

I pop it between my lips. "Light?"

He flicks his lighter. Our eyes glint at each other. Ever stare into an opal's depths? I haven't either, but I've stared into Bobby Allen's eyes, and that's ten thousand times richer. I move the tip into the flame. I puff. I thump him.

"Mitch and Bobby, on the prowl. Come on, stud, its poontang season!"

"Ya might wanna try tuckin' in them shirt tails, 'cause you don't' want the poontang laughin' at ya."

Bobby's a clever fucker, because it turns out that to get to Mickeys from the motel all you've got to do is cross a thin strip of weeds between parking lots. Mickey's lot is unpaved. And packed. License tags from every state round here, and some from further away. From the outside Mickey's is nothing special, neither tiny nor huge nor swank nor a dive. Neon advertising Budweiser glows on its brick.

"When did ya find this?"

Bobby chortles. "Oh, 'bout the time I realized Heidi wasn't comin' back. Some of these ladies are skanks, some are snooty, but they'll go for a redneck."

"Fuckin' A. Mine's been sunburnt for years."

Bobby handles the cover charge. I really fucking hate being broke. It's way too much like being a kid, hoping Dad or Mom will pay for this or that. It's cool when you ten but when your balls drop you want to be your own man, right?

Mickey's bar stretches along two walls. They've got a Western thing going but it's that fake kind of Western, like all they've seen of it are a few '80s-era Western flicks. Or music videos. Too many mirrors, too much polished brass, not enough sawdust strewn on the floor. And that jukebox? Kee-rist, country music should mosey into town on the back of a sleepy nag, not gallop in riding some mechanical Euro-techno beat. Tucked in a corner is a little stage. Instruments in the stands, no musicians in sight. Tables spread between bar and stage. The crowd hums with a pleasant vibe.

At the bar, Bobby slips me two twenties.

"What for?"

"Look, Mitch, yer pretty, but ya ain't gonna score beggin' money off me." Bobby signals the bar tender. "Hey! Two Buds!"

"You're a pal, cuz. The best." I palm my groin. Grin when his eyes flick south. "I need it. Bad."

"Whatever happens ..." Bobby taps my chest for emphasis. "We share."

Bobby settles his tight butt onto a leather-topped stool. I lean against the bar on my elbow. Legs spread. Crotch thrust forward. Light glints on my belt buckle. Check me out, ladies.

The beers arrive. We joke, thumping each other's chests. The guy on the other side of me abandons his stool. I settle onto it. Me and bobby face the crowd. Our legs spread. Our bulges are tennis-ball sized mounds in our denim. No one can miss the long shapes running down the inside of our thighs. At first only our knees touch. But, after the second beer -- and some asskicking honky-tonk -- our thighs bounce off each other.

"Let's cruise, cuz," I say.

Bobby circles clockwise, me counter-clockwise. The whole point is to make eye contact. I find plenty seeking out mine. There are others checking out Bobby's progress. These I pay special attention to, because anyone checking out Bobby Allen's faux-cowboy strut is a kindred spirit I wanna fuck.

"You a real cowboy?"

I'd missed her because she's scrunched in a niche and hiding behind a cocktail decorated with a big parasol. She isn't from around these parts. Her voice sounds world weary, but her body language is confident. She's hot. Pure brunette fox. Shoulder length chestnut hair, lit up with blond highlights. Nice round boobs barely clad by a skimpy blouse. Yep. I'd hit it. And boast about it.

I tilt my hat back, grin, and set my vocalizer to one hundred percent hick. "Yes, ma'am!" I thrust out my hand. "Mitch Grant. Pleased to meetcha!"

She sucks on her straw until the cocktail slurps. Nice lips. Wouldn't mind them sucking something else. She eyes my hand for a long, long time. When she finally takes it, she lifts it to her lips and brushes my knuckles against them.

"Cowboy," she purrs, "you look mighty fine in them tight jeans." She heaves a sigh. "But I like boys more than I like men." She tilts her head. "It's my friend. Over there. She's into men."

Sirens go off in my head. Ugly ho alert. My grin fades. I turn. The sirens fall silent and my grin perks up.

"Why, ma'am, that's the prettiest friend of yours I ever laid eyes on."

Leaning against the opposite wall -- Bobby's turf -- is brunette chick's friend. And she's hot too, though a hippie. Frowsy blond hair. Hat knitted out of a rainbow of yarn. I'm not sure about her figure -- her dress is shapeless -- but she isn't fat. I'd hit it. And brag about it.

"Now, ma'am, we cowboys don't like to be rude," I say to the brunette beauty, "so you won't be mad if I go over and make your friend acquainted with me?"

"Maaaaybe." Coyly, she swirls ice cubes in her glass. "Your friend."

"Yeah? What about him?" I like where this is going.

"Um. He looks kinda like I bet you did. When you were a spunky young jock."

"He looks like I did when I was just a boy, ma'am. That's what all the kinsfolk say."

Her eyelids flutter like she just came in her panties. "Um. Huh. Um. Well. Why don't you send him over ... then acquaint yourself to my friend.?"

I wink. "I like the way ya think, little lady."

"I," said the girl loftily, "ain't no lady." Then she busts out laughing.

I make my way towards Bobby. Man, this chick is something special. She's like one of those hot substitute teachers me and Bobby use to yak about back in junior high. You know, the ones that rode horny teenaged dick, wanting nothing more than to feel about fifteen gallons of underage spunk sloshing in their wombs. The airheaded, horny kind that were stupid enough to let the lad she was molesting film his ever-rigid rod thrusting into the shadows under her miniskirt. The kind that got busted when Mom checked Junior's smartphone. Shit, she's hot.

One hip against the jukebox, Bobby ogles a foursome at one of the tables. I twitch my hip into his.

"Go check that girl out."

Bobby's eyes flick away from the foursome. Low whistle. "What's her name?"

"Forgot to ask. Chat her up. She likes young cowboys. Act stupid."

"Who needs to act?"

He's gone in a flash. The smell of his sweat lingers in my nostrils. I watch him, hoping nobody notices I'm focused on his ass. If only he'd worn a T shirt, he'd could casually hike it up and show off his smooth abs. Bet you the dark-haired girl, watching that bulging crotch headed her way, is glad to see Bobby's a man, fully grown where it counts.

I get a queasy feeling as I sidle up to the frowsy-haired blond. She withdraws into herself. So totally I start worrying maybe she's going to dart for safety in the ladies' room. Have I been played? This chick won't make eye contact. Maybe it's my smile that keeps her where she is, or maybe it's the way I hang my thumbs off my belt and frame my groin with my forefingers. Whatever. She stays right where she is.

"Hi!" Again, I rock back my hat. "I'm Mitch Grant. You mind if I ask you your name, ma'am?"

She's meek as a sheep. "I'm Parsley. Parsley Flakes."

Stunned, it takes me a few seconds to wrap my head around this. Holy Christ, she's serious. That can only mean one thing. "You Californian?"

"How'd you guess?" Her eyes, innocent as a baby's, are blue as a spring sky.

"Watcha doing here? You know, in the south?"

"I study anthropology. Berkeley. Ever hear of it?"

"Nope."

Parsley giggles. "It's a college. See, Emma's got to write a paper next term on primitive cultures. And I want to contact one of those isolated Amazonian tribes. We figured an expedition to the south would get good data. And good training.""

"Huh. That so." I flash her a grin so bright I'm surprised she doesn't blink. "Wanna beer?"

"They got anything from a microbrewery?"

"Doubt it. In this county, we kick midgets, and they ain't dumb enough to put up with that, so what shorty's gonna run a brewery round here?"

It takes Parsley a few seconds, but she processes it and realizes it's a bad joke. She's got the grace to smile at my effort. I squire her to the bar. Heineken is all she'll tolerate. She loosens up, and she turns out to be a pretty nice girl. A bit bubbleheaded, because California, but I wouldn't have it any other way. I get this feeling Parsley is one of those chicks you got to spend about ten, fifteen minutes lapping at her labia. Once you melt her butter, though, you can do anything.

Cupping the brunette's elbow, Bobby joins us at the bar. Yeah, he's grinning, but Bobby always grins. You want to know how pleased he is to be this girl's boy? Check out his thigh. That bulge stretches a little longer, and it bulges more firmly, more definitively against the denim.

"Her name's Emma, Mitch," says Bobby, wiping foam off his upper lip. "Damn yer stupid."

I do the cowboy-tipping-hat thing again. "Pleased to meetcha, Miss Emma."

Emma bursts out laughing. "You're both so full of shit. I love it!"

"Come clean," says Parsley.

"'Bout what?"

"Are you real cowboys?" Parsley asks. "There's so many fakes out there."

Bobby's eyes glint, challenging me to do mischief.

"Oh, yeah," I say, standing tall and casually adjusting my buckle. "Our dad's got a big spread on the other side of Peachville." I wink at Bobby. "Right, bro?"

"No shit, brother!"

The girls exchange a secretive smile they clearly don't realize that I see. I sense shivers running down two female spines. The scent of freshly-moistened poontang hangs in the air. Yep, they got a thing about doing it with brothers. This is perfect. They're a pair of West Coast perverts, and me and Bobby are their sex fantasy. It can't get better than this. Behind Parsley's back I shoot Bobby a thumb's up.

The house band filters onto the stage and starts a set. We're at the stage where you can throw your arm round shoulders if you're not too gropey. From the way Parsley's butt sways against my thigh, I guess she'd rather be either dancing or fucking. Hard to tell exactly what's flitting through any hippie's head. But Emma? From the way she's groping Bobby -- knee, thigh, back, butt -- I figure she's one of those girls who'll fuck in a bathroom stall and give head while shooting down the interstate. In other words, perfect.

There's a smattering of applause as the band exits the stage. I catch Bobby's eye and give him a brief, urgent nod.

"Um, ladies," Bobby says. "We got some beer back in the room."

"Well, then," says Emma, "why're we wasting time here?"

We order one for the road and head for the door. Parsley presses against me, grinning up at me and slipping her arm round my waist. No doubt about it. I'm going to get in there. I pull her tight. We clink bottles, then swig. With my knuckle I swipe foam off her upper lip. Parsley giggles.

Gravel crunches as we cross Mickey's lot. Emma's arm, hugging Bobby's hip to her own, fascinates me. It presses his shirt against his back, lifting the hem, exposing a sliver of smooth flesh. Hint of waistband kissing the bottom of his spine. Bobby grinds back against Emma, high stepping and clapping hands in time to whatever tune is traipsing through his head. All this showboating turns Bobby Allen into a porn poem. I think Parsley's having a harder time breathing than me.

Room 22 takes its sweet time showing up. We chat outside it, but I'm antsy. I want action now.

"Yo. brother. Unlock the door, will you?"

"You got it. Brother." Bobby snickers. Then, suddenly his eyes go wide as a notion strikes him. He turns to Emma. "Shit! I can't remember which pocket I put my keys in!" He laughs. "You know us rednecks are stupid."

"Stupid? Nah." Emma rolls her eyes. "But you got that redneck act down. You want me to look, cowboy? Fine. I'll look." She thrusts her hand deep into Bobby's left pocket and begins to play like she's fishing for them.

Bobby squirms. His butt shimmies like a methhead go-go dancer. "Ya findin' 'em? I don't think ya are! Keep lookin', Emma!"

"This pocket's empty as your head, redneck. Turn round. Let me check the other."

Bobby, sipping from the bottle, winks at me over his shoulder. "Ya can reach across." He leans back, thrusting his crotch forward.

But Emma doesn't go for it. Her hand crawls behind his back along his belt. Clever girl sneaks a pinch. She snakes her arm around him then thrusts her hand down his right pocket. Bobby jumps.

"Found something," Emma breathes. You can hear the admiration -- the lust -- trembling in her voice.

"Um. Hate to break this to ya, but that ain't no key."

"That so, redneck? Let me check." She squeezes and Bobby jumps. "Yeah, well, guess you are right. Keys don't swell, do they? Not like this." Emma's hand continues to dig, dragging Bobby's belt and jeans lower and lower. I can't breathe. Fuck, there they are. Tighty whiteys like a flag of surrender.

"Uh, Emma, ya keep that up I'm gonna make a mess down my jeans."

"Pervert." But she giggles. Emma's hand emerges, the room key dangling.

"Hand 'em here."

Emma drops them into Bobby's palm. Bobby fumbles at the lock. Eyes wide as a stunned deer's, Emma mouths over her shoulder: It's huuuuuuuuge. Parsley's eyes gleam. She looks up at me. Trying not to break into a smug smile, I set my jaw. Shrug modestly. Stare right into Parsley's gaze.

"Runs in the family."

I lower my eyes, staring down my body. Parsley's follow. She inspects my package. I spread my thighs to give her a better view. When her eyes again meet mine, they blaze like Kevin Spacey's just after he's found out he's been appointed director of a community youth theater.

"Got it." Bobby kicks the door open.

"'Bout time," I say. "Thought I was gonna have to send ya back to retard school."

"Oh, ya ain't gotta do that. I'm pretty good at bein' a retard, brother!"

Parsley whispers, "Are you guys really brothers?"

"All our lives."

Emma and Parsley choose the beds they'll occupy. With a sigh, both kick off their shoes.

Emma stretches like a lioness. "Beer. Now."

"Beer?" I grin. "What beer?"

"Don't fuck with me, cowboy. Fetch my beer. Chop-chop."

Bobby and I trade cocky looks. Man, Bobby Allen is in the groove. The testosterone boiling in his blood spikes his nipples. I wish Emma had the guts to have stripped off his shirt. He'd look like a bantamweight, muscles chiseled into his skin, strutting and preening for the girl who's already his. Betcha is Jockeys are bulging, trying to restrain his swelling dong.

"Heineken?" Parsley calls.

"If you got the time," I sing-song, "we got the Miller."

"Don't worry, babe," says Emma, reaching for her purse. "I got us covered." Emma rummages in her purse and pulls out an iPod. "You rednecks mind if I handle the music?"

"Depends," Bobby says. "Watcha got?"

Emma's eyes flicker like burning brimstone. "Something Swedish. And Satanic."

Bobby looks horrified. "Abba?"

Emma rolls her eyes and jabs the iPod's screen. The music sounds more like old school psychedelic rock. Something hippies grooved to, when hippies were groovy. Then Emma extracts the biggest, fattest blunt I've ever seen in my life. Parsley looks relieved. Bobby looks like he's watching the Second Coming.

"If one of you cowboys will stop drooling and start fetching," Emma says, "I'll light this."

The room is already hazy with ganja fog when I return with four beers. Parsley's curled in the chair, toying with the TV remote. Nope. Can't let her retreat. I crack two cans and set them on the nightstand between the beds. I pluck the blunt from Bobby and Emma, who, stretched out on the bed, have been exchanging it. I carry it to Parsley and put it to her lips. Her eyes shine as she inhales.

"Here." Her voice is soft and sultry.

"Not my thing." I rock my hat back with my beer. "But I'm cool with it. Here. This'll take care of that cotton mouth." I hold the can to her lips and tilt. She drinks. "Good girl. No. Another toke. That's it."

I hear soft smacking sounds behind me. Bobby and Emma lay on their sides, necking, cooing, caressing. Emma brazenly cups Bobby's bulge. Her other hand fumbles at his belt buckle. For a few moments he's content to hump her palm. Then he tries to throw his leg over hers, aiming to leverage her onto her back. Emma's too canny for this. She throws him off and rolls on top, straddling his thighs. Bobby's eyes smolder at her. Emma rips his belt free and flings it away. Her fingertips caress Bobby's stiff rod, which stretches almost all the way to his knee.

"Hey Parsley?"

Her smile ripples into foggy existence. "Yeah, cowboy?"

"Let me have this."

Taking the blunt from her fingers, I pad to the bed. Emma, eyes blazing as she appraises my own swollen bulge, extends her arm.

"Thanks, cowboy.".

"My pleasure, ma'am." My voice is throaty.

She tokes and passes it to Bobby. Her nails trail over his smooth chest, circling his spiked pink nipples. Goosebumps swarm over his skin.

"Um. Cowboy?" Parsley sounds like a lonely puppy.

I squat by her chair. Her thigh is warm and moist in my palm. We murmur. I rub my cheek against hers. As the pot fog thickens, my hand moves north, her knees east and west. Under her skirt its steamy. Swampy. Her panties are moist. I get one hand over her cooze. I stroke it, and she purrs. Thanks, Ted Nugent.

"You like this music?" Parsley breathes in my ear.

Come together,
Together as a one
Come together
For Lucifer's son

"Dunno. Can't hear it too well. "Betcha that bed's in the right place for listenin'."

I nuzzle her cheek. Parsley melts. Her lips sizzle against mine. For a moment they resist my tongue, but she's just playing a game. I thrust and I'm inside. Moaning, she yields. I scoop her up. Parsley throws her arms around my neck. We slurp at each other. Her stiff nipples poke my chest. I toss her onto the bed. Parsley, sprawled on the bed, gazes up at me. What's that emotion on her face? Awe? Fear? Admiration? Naw. Pure lust. Exultation blazes in me, pouring out of my heart and racing to my groin. My chest swells.

"Don't you worry, little lady," I say, unbuttoning my shirt. "We're gonna have fun."

I crawl up her, drawing up her skirt, lavishing kisses on each leg, sniffing her cooze. I kiss her breasts through the fabric then make my way to her neck. She writhes under me. My hands slip down her flanks to her hips. I peck at her and nuzzle her nose, my eyes as soft as I can make them.

Then we're at it like wolves, snarling, yowling, teeth sinking into each other's flesh. I go for her dress. Too soon. She bats me away. Fine, we'll play it the old-fashioned way. I grind my throbbing crotch against her thigh, hunching, squirming, making her feel every inch. No woman can resist Mitch Grant's monster cock. She moans, and I try again to unbutton her dress, but again she bats me away. My tongue swirls in her mouth. I try a third time -- but she's the one who sends the dress whirling away.

I shoot a look at the other bed. Those two are ahead in the race. Emma got Bobby out of his shirt and jeans but his Jockeys still cling to his hips. They amuse her; she toys with his waistband and palms the bulge of his nuts. He flashes a grin at me then scurries up her body. He kneels over Emma's face. Slack-jawed she stares into his crotch.

"Damn." Emma sounds hungry. "Fresh young ponycock."

Emma snaps down the waistband, hooking it under his nuts. Bobby's iron-hard dong springs into the air, swaying over Emma's face. It thrusts and bounces, big as a muscled forearm, throbbing and twitching. Even from here I smell his aroused musk.

"Like it?" Bobby sweetly caresses her hair. "I'm really proud of it."

Emma nods. Her eyes blaze like a demon's. Her hand crawls across the bed and seizes Bobby's hat. "Here. Put this on."

"Yes, ma'am!"

Parsley's smell hits me the moment I dive into her muff. Slut. Mare. Bitch in heat. Her panties are sopping. We work them off. The oily wine oozing from her slit tastes like sin, and I lap at it like I was a dog thirsty from crossing the Sahara. She clamps my head with her hands, trying to guide me back to her bud when I wander through the wonders of her vulva. But I shrug her off. No, no, girl. Mitch Grant is back, and he's back in style. He doesn't need a lesson from a bitch. He knows how it feels to be one.

Hoarsely, Bobby says, "She tasty, brother?"

I arch my back and kick my thighs open. I peer at him over her thigh, grinning, my face shiny with Parsley's ooze. "You bet!"

I lick her slimy cooze. Lick it, and lash it, until her moans start edging towards a shriek. Until her snatch drools froth. I shift focus to her clit. She squeals loud as a pen full of pigs.

Something gurgles. Someone coughs. Emma says huskily, "You OK, Parse?"

"'S OK, babe," Bobby soothes. "Mitch is just warmin' her up. Now. Please. Swallow it again. Oh, that's it! Yeah!"

Parsley's thighs clamp to my head. She jams my face into her snatch. She cums. I think her screaming broke glass for miles. Her squirting juice dribbles down my chin. No mercy from Mitch Grant, though. I keep working her clit, humming, laughing, soaring on the sensation of driving this hippie chick totally fucking bonkers. Parsley thrashes like Regan MacNeil in The Exorcist.

"Mitch," Bobby murmurs, "if you don't let up, she's gonna go crazy." There's an undercurrent of awe in his voice.

I eyeball Emma. She's got all of Bobby's long dong down her throat, contentedly nursing on it, apparently not even needing to breathe. She probably wouldn't choke even on Frank Bailey's Jamaican doomsday weapon. She whorfs up Bobby's cock. She catches it, bends the head down, and swipes it with her lips.

"Cowboy," she says, "this love affair's gonna end real soon unless you swing round and do me like that hick's doing Parse."

"Yes, ma'am!"

While Bobby's tongue flurries into action, mine slows down. Ever so slowly Parsley comes down from her high. Her screaming subsides, becoming the squeaking of deranged rats, then fading into meek moans. I sit up, grinning down at her. Cuntjuice gleams on my cheeks, jaw, and chin.

"You like?"

Parsley can't answer. You can almost see cartoon birds twittering around her head.

The sixty-nine in the next bed is mouthwatering. Emma's still stretched on her back, slurping on Bobby's rod, her eyes closed as if she's dreaming of teenaged jocks. Arms twined around her thighs, Bobby's face is plastered to her quim. His jaw works -- Bobby's just as addicted to savory cooze as I am -- and he's licking her right because Emma's body oscillates between spring-loaded tension and rubbery pliancy. Somehow, during the move, she got Bobby out of his Jockeys. The curves of Bobby's naked butt tighten and relax. Tighten and relax. Is this how you get hypnotized? Wow, man. I stare slack-jawed as his muscles ebb and flow. He's never looked so good.

Parsley giggles. I snap back to where I'm supposed to be.

"Um. Mitch. If you wanna do that some more ...I won't mind!"

"Um. Um." I wanna watch Bobby in action, but laying lengthwise on this bed is making that hard. "Um. Let's turn this a bit."

Parsley's limp as a hay sack when I pick her up. I rotate her through a right angle, aiming her towards Bobby's bed. Perfect. I resume. More muff diving. More frenzied licking. She babbles and, while she babbles, I sight up her body. Man, look at the arch in Bobby's back. He sits up, sees me looking, wipes cuntjuice off his face, grins like a devil, and dives back in. I groove on his upturned butt. My ramrod bounces off my belly.

"Oh Mitch!"

"Damn, Parsley. Damn!"

I stand and whip off my jeans, underwear, shirt. I straddle Parsley. Looking into her eyes, I see right through that meek crap. She's like me. She's into this. She's all about body. My body. Muscle. My muscle. Cock. My cock, stiff and hard and ready to shoot. I walk on my knees towards her face. Parsley licks her lips.

"Would ya lick my balls, ma'am?"

Parsley's tongue unrolls. She licks. Just once. I sigh.

"Again. Please."

She licks. Even with my eyes shut I can tell it's a girl on my junk. Too many women are tentative. Like they're not sure if they want to be seen with a dick in their mouth. But guys? Well, that's totally different. They groove on the oils. The musk. The heat. The steam. Even straight guys after they've been broken in. I bet the best way to turn a straight guy to the dark side is to fuck his girlfriend then dangle your dong, reeking of her pussy, in his face. Her scent will lure him in but it'll be you he ends up worshipping. Dudes live to get drunk on testosterone. Any testosterone, even if someone else made it.

"That's nice, Parsley."

She beams at me, her tongue painting saliva onto my seam.

Bobby. Oh Bobby. You ought to be in porn. Nah. You ought to be the bible of the one true religion. His butt dimples. Relaxes. He stuffs Emma's swollen throat with his massive prong, withdraws it with a rude slurp, then fills her up again. Sometimes he thrusts so hard I catch a glimpse of his sack swaying between his thighs. His ass, white as turkey meat, humps and grinds and twists as he pleasures himself. Sweat gleams on the back of his neck. Trickles from his pits. Bobby's a thoroughbred. Just pure grace and sex.

"She doin' ya right, Bobby?"

He lifts his face from Emma's snatch. "Oh Mitch oh Mitch oh Mitch. Can't tell ya how right she's doin' me!"

Bobby's lip curls into a sneer. He rams. Emma gags. Triumph glows in his eyes. He draws back, inch after inch of gleaming rod stretching the girl's lips as it emerges. Drool trickles down her chin. Then he stabs deep. Her eyes bulge. For a split second I think she's royally pissed. I see her hands quaver as if they're about to reach up and claw off Bobby's stud nuts. But she grooves on it, gobbling the ramrod, trying to snuffle her way along the last few inches of shaft.

But, in the end, it's too much. Emma bucks and coughs him up.

"Jesus, cowboy. Jesus." Emma wipes spit off her lips. "I got a big mouth but damn I can't suck off a horse! You put a rubber on and you can fuck the other end all night long."

Bobby directs a mournful look my way. "Um. Mitch. I ain't holdin'. You got a rubber?"

I grin. This is the oldest game in our playbook. Your average chick, by this time, is too hot to turn down a bareback ride from us frisky ponies. "Fraid not, brother."

Bobby starts looking like he's just won the big game -- but then Emma simply reaches for her purse and ruins everything. She pulls out a rubber. Bobby looks stunned. Like she's about to snip off his nuts with rusty garden shears. God damn these Californians! But Bobby isn't about to give in so easy.

"I'm a Christian boy and, you know, I just don't believe in that contraception thing ..."

But Emma, I guess, knows bullshit when she hears it. She grabs his shaft, levels it, and swipes her tongue along his pisslit. Challenge blazes in her eyes.

Bobby surrenders. "But for you ... anything."

Emma rolls onto her side, eager to watch Parsley slobbering on my balls. And my throbbing rod. Bobby spoons against her. He nibbles on her ear. His eyes gleam at me, and he winks. Then he peels her cunt open, showing off her oily pink gash. He diddles her clit.

"Feel good, ma'am?"

Emma moans and squirms wildly. Eyes foggy, expression vague, she drops the foil package onto the sheets.

"Brother," I say, "I think you're gonna be the county fingerbanging champion again this year."

Bobby knees her legs apart. He slices his cock through. His cockhead is big as an apple. But the shaft? Fuck, the damn thing just keeps coming. He finagles the base into her dripping groove. The big shaft stretches along her belly. Beyond her thatch. Beyond her navel. Looks to me like the head kisses the underside of her tits. His balls pulsate. Bobby, eyes smoldering, grins at me.

"Here." Emma hands the condom to Bobby. She tosses her purse onto our bed. "For you, cowboy."

Though I'm miffed -- I fucking hate wearing raincoats -- I don't forget I'm playing a game here. I pretend to tug at my hat. "Thank ya kindly, ma'am."

"Gotta help out the hicks."

I ease back and push my cockhead between Parsley's lips. "Open wide. No. Wider. Yeah. Now -- oh!"

Tongue flailing, Parsley gobbles happily on my cocksnot. I caress her face and her neck, rocking back and forth, slowly stretching her lips.

"Careful with those teeth, sweetie." My hips crunch as I saw away at Parsley's mouth, using my shortest strokes.

Then Bobby does the cleverest thing I've ever seen any human being do.

Holding the foil package where Emma can see it, he rips it open. He pulls out the rubber, spinning it on his forefinger. Then he yanks his cock behind her. Emma, watching me gently mouthfuck Parsley, moans softly. Bobby pokes his finger into the nibble. He slices it along his teeth. Deftly he rolls the damaged goods onto his prong. Even fully unrolled, half his shaft is still bare.

"Let's rock and roll, babe!"

Bobby's rubber-clad cock thrusts between Emma's legs. It still looks intact. Lining up, Emma gyrates her hips. His cockhead pushes at the dripping slit. Her cunt opens like a flower, sucking the cockhead inside. She groans.

"You OK?"

"It's big!" There's a hint of pain in Emma's voice.

"You want me to take it out?"

"No!"

Bobby thrusts. Slow. Steady. Relentless. His fat babymaker fills her. Oily droplets drizzle from her stretched labia. Halfway in, he can't take it anymore. He rams. Emma oomphs like she's been gutpunched. His balls quaver against her snatch. I see a half-inch of bareback base crammed between her clutching folds. His urethra throbs. For a moment Bobby looks concerned, then something pops, and relief floods him. Wriggling his eyebrows triumphantly, he withdraws. His gleaming shaft slithers free. At the halfway mark the burst remnants of latex, still ringing his dong, plop out of her cunt. Pure bareback shaft continues to emerge. He pauses, wedging open her slit with his cockhead. Emma, drooling, is too out of it to notice.

"You OK, babe?" Bobby coons.

Emma nods.

Bobby fixes me with a serious and intent look. You got the message, cuz?

I not. Damn right Mitch Grant got the message. As Bobby and Emma start to really rock and roll, I look down.

"Parsley, babe," I croon, "I gotta get inside you!"

Parsley pops my cockhead out of her mouth. She grins.

"Saddle up, cowboy!"

She reaches, snags Emma's purse, and flings a foil packet at me. Grinning down at her, I rip it open with my teeth. I wink at Bobby, but he doesn't notice, since he's fully absorbed sawing away at Emma's cunt.

"Gotta get me a taste before the main show starts," I purr. "You OK with that?"

"Yeah!"

I kiss my way down her body. If I tongue her nipples, will that be enough to get her mind foggy and hazy? Nope. She's staring down at me, smiling wanly, wanting me to go lower. So, I do a General Sherman and march south until I smell fish. Her labia are a Holy Grail, cupping a lake of oil instead of some fraudulent savior's jism. I dive headfirst. Parsley's sharp moans elicit a query from Emma, but Emma's concern dies away as my tongue turns Parsley's moaning into something sinuously eel-like and buttery.

I rip open the packet. I mimic Bobby's gesture, stabbing my finger into the nipple. A deft slice across my teeth -- fuck, I ripped the damn thing wide open! I lash her gash furiously, and she thrashes. I roll on the rubber. Palming my exposed cockhead, I rise on my knees. Parsleys' eyes flick to my prick. Her smile is that of a she-wolf who knows she's about to take on the real alpha. I kiss her and guide my cock to her slit. She's so wet she sucks me inside.

"Oh, sweetie," I purr. "That's nice."

My back arches. I ram. The rubber unrolls down my shaft. Pure cunt, slimy as an oyster, welcomes me back to the land of real men. I catch Bobby's eye and wink. He's way too absorbed with barebacking Emma to acknowledge me. That's my man.

I fuck deep and hard, battering past the gates of Parsley's womb. Her shriek should've busted the windows. I sympathize. I know what she's feeling. Damn it's nice to have a big cock throbbing inside you. Nothing matches it. But I'm not the one getting fucked here. I'm the man, and her pussy, slimy -- spongy, squirming -- is fucking heaven. Panting, I saw away.

"You're big," Parsley breathes. "Bigger even than a black guy."

"Yeah, I know."

Her cunt's the drug I've been looking for. I rabbitfuck her. Long strokes because that's how you assert ownership of a pussy. Thirty seconds into it Parsley's next orgasm goes off like a tactical nuclear weapon. Yeah, guys. Mitch Grant's back in business.

"You OK?"

For a few moments Parsley merely slobbers. Then she summons up a nod.

"Let's rock and roll, babe!"

I jackhammer her, which makes her juice again. This time I don't stop. No pause. No mercy. Nothing stands between Mitch Grant and a good nut --

But Bobby gets there first.

"Oh yeah ... oh yeah .... oh fuck YEAH!"

Bobby is the upper lip of a smile, arching downward, thrusting, thrashing, jetting. Emma is the lower lip, bowing under him. He's the star of the show. Every muscle in his arched back strains. Muscles cord in his neck. His face is a grimace of sheer delight. With each gout fired into her a puff of air explodes from him. Emma's too wrapped in her own orgasm, moaning and thrashing beneath his steely tension, to be aware of the life-bearing fluid splashing into her womb. He collapses onto her, sweat-shiny buttocks quivering like a pony who's just run a long, long race.

My turn.

"Fuck!"

Lightning stabs me in the back of my head. I go blank. Howling, writhing, I jet into Parsley. It's a good one, but not a nut-drainer.

Stripping off the busted rubber, I roll off. I fling it into the trash. Parsley spoons behind me, her hands caressing my pectorals. My belly. I think of Johnson. He used to do the same after filling my ass with cum. Then her hands slide towards my crotch. Johnson did that to. Grinning lazily, I ease my thighs open for her. The same way I used to do for him.

"Um," says Parsley over my shoulder, "you up for a second rodeo, cowboy?"

Instead of jabbing into my sloppy hole, her hand cups my balls.

To the other bed I call, "Ready for another go, bro?"

Bobby's grin transforms his weary face. "Give me five, will ya? Gotta catch my breath!"