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Shower Trade: The Green Barn

Here’s the entirety of Shower Trade: The Green Barn, a new story by Bubba Marshall! If you like gay erotica about rednecks, you’ll like the bundle Gay Redneck Erotica, Vol. 2 , which features this story and five more like it!

Roger felt like his body was falling apart. He had gotten a job as a farmworker in the summer of 1951, just to make a little money before he headed off to college at Goldendale Hills University. Luckily he came from a rural part of eastern Mississippi were the soil was poor, which meant there was not enough demand for farmwork to attract very many of the braceros who did most of that labor outside of Mississippi. That was the only reason he and his friends had managed to get a job picking strawberries at all.

It sounded like dainty women’s work. A part of Roger knew that it wasn’t, that just because little girls loved strawberries didn’t mean little girls were capable of picking them. A part of him wanted it to be a difficult job — he had always been pudgy, and he thought a summer of hard work might help him lose the weight. He had a wrestling scholarship to Goldendale Hills University, so he needed to get in shape. He thought a summer job working hard in the fields would be a great way to get himself ready for training in the fall.

But he had no idea how arduous it would be. By the end of his first day, he was dripping with sweat. The hot Mississippi sun pounded on him like a fist, like he could really feel its rays smacking into him. It was windy, but that didn’t help, it just blew more waves of buffeting heat and humid air all over him. His shirt and his pants were caked onto his skin, like he might not ever be able to undress. His socks were soaked in sweat, which also dripped off his brow in rivulets.

He stumbled at the end of the day, unable to even walk normally. He staggered through the fields with the other workers, who talked and laughed like they did this every day — of course, they did do this every day. They were just as sweaty as Roger, but they were better able to tolerate it.

“Yee-haw! I’m going out to the bar once the old lady passes out, who’s with me?! I am gonna get sinful with whichever bar wench looks at me first!”

“It’ll be Suzie-“

“Any bar wench except Suzie!” They all laughed as though this was a hilarious joke, but Roger had the feeling they made this same joke every day. A couple of the men grabbed their crotches, outlining their cocks in the denim of their jeans, and spat on the ground — Roger didn’t know if they were expressing scorn towards Suzie or suggesting that they would, in fact, fornicate with her despite her being unappealing. He suspected it was both. He blushed. His father had always taught him that speaking ill of women, grabbing one’s lower regions, carrying-on and spitting in public were all markers of poor character. But Roger was too shy to say anything to the other workers; he wanted to be accepted just like the others, so he just nodded and went along with it. He was too tired to tell them they were committing serious sins anyway.

There were two barns that the workers split up to go to after their shift was done. There was a red barn at the north edge of the farm, in which the vast majority of the workers went to shower. Roger suspected there would be a line there. There couldn’t possibly be enough showerheads for everyone at once, and Roger didn’t want to wait.

So he decided to go to the green barn, which was a little further away, along the northeastern edge of the farm, away from the road and away from the main farmhouse. That, he thought, must be why the workers had mostly gone to the red barn, because it was closer and larger and newer. The green barn was distant, small, old-fashioned, ramshackle and it smelled permanently of goats.

It was just a small barn that had been rigged with running water for a big group shower. It wasn’t even an actual shower — the red barn had real showerheads in individual stalls, but not the green barn — it was just a powerful hose suspended over the barn floor and possessing many small holes aimed in every direction. It sprayed lukewarm water. There was a little changing area with some slabs of wood to use as benches, and next to it was a shelf lined with ratty thin towels and bars of white, unscented soap.

The green barn was primitive, but it was exactly what Roger wanted in the heat of the moment. He didn’t want hot water — he would have been happy with ice-cold water if that was an option. He didn’t want to choose a spot to shower in or wait for his preferred stall, which is what he would be doing back at the red barn. He’d have to sit there crowded by naked, hairy men older than he was, their bodies brushing against him and everyone having plenty of opportunity to see Roger’s dick. He would feel vulnerable there, not that he really felt safe and comfortable here either.

“New guy’s horny, huh?” someone shouted when they realized Roger was here. The other workers laughed.

Roger smiled. What did that mean? He wasn’t especially horny. He was too tired right now. He didn’t like ribald talk. His father taught him not to act that way. But he knew most of the men here had been in the Army until very recently, fighting in the Pacific and in Europe — they had learned rudeness and crudity there, or so Roger’s father sermonized over and over. Roger respected their service and was intimidated by their machismo; he was just a bit too young to have ever served, and he was raised as a pacifist anyway. He just hoped none of these men ever found out how easily-intimidated he was.

“Green barn! The green barn!” They were shouting, at each other and at Roger, who had no idea what was happening or why they were so excited. Obviously there was some special significance to the green barn, something Roger didn’t know. He pretended to be just like the others, and he nodded along as though he knew why the green barn was important.

He felt small and weak in comparison to the other workers. He was the youngest by far — most of the other young men went to the red barn, it seemed. The men here were rough and tumble types, would-be cowboys and brawny bikers, men who looked like they struggled to come in to work sober every day. Now that they were getting naked, Roger could see their muscles and the military tattoos they had, reminding him yet again that he was youthful, pitiful and frightened. Some of them even had naval-type tattoos. Roger’s father said that tattoos were a sin, and that sailors were not trustworthy. Roger felt a twinge of fear as he steeled his nerves.

“Why did everybody else go to the red barn?” Roger asked Brad Hixton.

Brad was the nicest person in the green barn, at least out of the folks Roger had met so far. He was tall, broad-shouldered, easy-grinned, with a confederate flag tattoo over his heart. He had a thick mop of blond hair that was soaked with sweat even before he got under the spray of the water. Brad guffawed at Roger’s question, attracting attention from the other workers.

“Hey, this guy ain’t know about the green barn!” Brad called out. The others laughed along with him.

“What?”

Brad placed one hand on Roger’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. You can still go to the red barn. Normally we don’t make it easy to change your mind, but we know you’re new. I’ll make sure the others let you go, if you can’t handle the green barn,” he said. “You see… The green barn is for men who want to… Well, it’s for men of loose morals.”

“… What?”

Brad laughed again, and the other workers who were within earshot laughed too. Roger blushed. He was down to his underwear, but most of the others were naked now, including Brad, whose massive cock put Roger to shame. It swung between his legs like a pendulum. Roger found it very distracting, which made it hard to focus on understanding Brad’s words.

“We trade sex,” Brad said with a wide grin. “Sodomy. We trade, uh… womanly acts.” He raised his hand to get attention from the other workers, who filed their hairy, sweaty, tattooed bodies into the shower. Brad addressed them. “Hey, the new guy didn’t know about the barns, guys. Let him leave, okay?”

“Uh…” Roger’s heart skipped a beat. Was this barn really meant for homosexual activity? He couldn’t believe that. Mr. Walsingham — he was the farmer who owned this land, and both barns — was a good, Christian man. He went to church where Roger’s father preached; that was how Roger got this job. Mr. Walsingham wouldn’t tolerate any kind of sodomy, would he?

“So, if you aren’t manly enough to handle this, go ahead back to the red barn. That’s a great place for small, weak men who don’t want anyone to see their manhood,” Brad said. He glanced down at Roger’s cock, which was small. It wasn’t always tiny, it got a lot bigger when it was hard, but Roger blushed just the same. “It’s okay. Only really horny horse-cocked men have a need to drain their balls like this. Don’t be embarrassed. If you don’t need to, you’re a better, more civilized man than us.” He and the other workers cheered on their own barbarism. They pounded on their own chests and smacked each other’s hairy asses, laughing at their horseplay.

But of course, Roger was embarrassed. He didn’t want to seem like half a man. So he cleared his throat and said, “No, I’ll stay. I’ll stay. I’ll… do whatever.” He looked down at his feet as Brad clapped his hands.

“Really? Wow, you did not look like the type,” Brad said. He shrugged and headed into the shower water. He closed his eyes as it ran through his thick blond hair and washed over his flesh. His muscles rippled, attracting Roger’s attention though he tried to look away. He didn’t want to look like what his father called a lavender lad.

Roger went into the water too. It did feel good. Now that he had sat down for a few minutes, he was no longer quite so exhausted as he had been. He had caught his breath But his legs still felt like jelly; they might have even felt worse now that they rested for a bit.

“Now get down on your knees,” Brad said. He wagged his dick in Roger’s direction. It was thick and soapy, fleshy, almost inviting for some reason. Roger really did want to taste it, even if the others were already teasing him for it and he hadn’t even begun.

Suck it down, rookie!

Some of the other men were already touching dicks. They laughed nervously when they did, like they were regretting choosing the green barn. Some of them grabbed each other’s cocks, others touched themselves as they watched.

Roger sunk to his knees. He was shocked at himself for agreeing to this, but he wanted desperately to fit in. Besides, he thought, he might be able to distract anyone from noticing he had a small cock — and if he got hard, they might not even see it until it had gotten bigger.

Brad had a cocky grin on his face. He slapped his cock over Roger’s face and laughed when he winced. The dickmeat was slick and sour. It still tasted like sweat even though it had been washed off by the shower spray; it still tasted of salt and body hair and sunlight and loamy soil, and it still made Roger hungry despite his distaste for it.

Then Roger choked a little as Brad fed his dick into Roger’s throat. The taste of cock filled his senses. Brad’s dick stiffened and hardened so quickly Roger could watch it swell until it was hard as rock.

“Open your mouth wider,” Brad said with a chuckle.

Make him suck it! Make him suck it, Brad!

Precum leaked down Roger’s throat. It tasted sour and salty-sweet, and it made Roger’s eyes water. He was surprised not just by how quickly Brad was getting hard but also by how hard he got — Roger was never that hard. Brad’s cock was like a crowbar in his throat, a hot rod of steel.

He was also surprised because he really didn’t mind the taste of cock or of precum. It wasn’t exactly delicious, but there was something savory and craveable about it. Roger wouldn’t have minded doing this again.

Not that he planned on doing it again, mind you. He fully intended to shower in the red barn from now on. He didn’t want to admit he had made a mistake, so he would just tell the other workers that he was no longer horny, that he had showered in the green barn today because he wanted to have sex, and after today, he will have chosen to shower in the red barn because he didn’t want to have sex. No mistake. No perversion. No sodomy.

But before he could enact that plan, he had to get through today. He was so focused on sucking cock that he didn’t hear the other workers chant.

Stick it in his ass, Brad!

Make him a whore!

Brad looked a little nervous, like he didn’t expect it to go this far. No one else was having anal sex. There was only one other pair of workers sharing oral sex — most of them just circlejerked. Normally they all circlejerked in a big circle, but today half of them watched Roger suck dick. Roger had no idea that it wasn’t commonplace to suck cock here in the green barn, but he was beginning to get suspicious because no one else had begun doing so.

“Okay, now it’s your turn to bend over,” Brad said. He drew in a deep, satisfied sigh.

“What…?”

“Don’t worry, it’s real easy. Just get down on all fours,” Brad said. He didn’t wait for Roger to get ready, he pushed him into position on his hands and knees. Lukewarm shower water sprayed over Roger’s back, and someone swiped slick soap on Roger’s ass to lube him up.

Then a powerful, mounting pain hit him in the backside. Roger moaned, in pain first and then pleasure as the most incredible sensation of his life hit him. There was intense pressure that he couldn’t quite handle, and he screamed.

The other men clapped and hooted. They were shooting their own loads now as they watched, circlejerking onto the floor of the green barn just a few feet from where Roger crouched.

“Hey, get off!” Brad shouted, yelping as he pushed Lawrence away — Lawrence was a greasy cowboy-type farmworker who had rammed his finger in Brad’s ass because he thought it was funny. While Brad worked his dick into Roger’s butthole, Lawrence got the other workers to watch while he slipped his pinkie finger into Brad. They all guffawed together as Brad shoved Lawrence away.

Brad grabbed ahold of Roger’s hair, and he pulled just tight enough to keep him from squirming. That placed Brad’s strapping chest muscles right against Roger’s bare back, so Roger could feel the strength and the power radiating off him. It made Roger feel weak, but he didn’t mind anymore. He was glad to be weak in front of Brad. He wanted to feel Brad’s dominance on top of him, inside him and throughout every inch of Roger’s body.

“Don’t say I never did nothin’ for you,” Brad said as he reached around to Roger’s cock. It was hard, so it had grown considerably, but Brad still snickered. “Damn, that is one tiny cock.”

“It’s not that small!”

But arguing about it just made Roger seem defensive and drew attention to it. Soon the other workers were kneeling in front of him to see, and they all laughed, gibbering about how tiny it was.

It’s like a fingernail!

Are we sure he ain’t a female?

Cum popped off all over the place. The shower did not feel very clean, and Roger realized he now felt dirtier than he had when he first came in. If it was like this all the time, he thought, then the floor here must be covered in cum. That made him feel grimy and gross because he was on the floor now. How many stale old loads was he rubbing himself into right now?

But he couldn’t concentrate on that. His body writhed in both pain and pleasure, precum leaking down Brad’s fingers as he stroked Roger off. Roger knew it was embarrassing to get hard with a cock in his ass, but he couldn’t help it.

Oh, wow, Li’l-Dick Rookie is into it! He loves it!

With a cock like that, I knew he was a girl!

His prostate sang and screamed as Roger reached orgasm. He grunted. He gasped. He heaved for air, writhing beneath Brad’s farm-toned muscles. Cum sprayed over the floor and Brad’s fingers.

Roger sighed. His entire body went limp and he collapsed belly-first onto the pile of steaming-hot cum he had just sprayed. Brad cheered.

“Hell yeah, I made you blow first! That makes me a champion!”

Every else clapped and laughed. About half the workers were proud of Brad and jeered at Roger, while the other half thought that Brad should be more ashamed of his sinfulness. Brad pumped his biceps and wiped his cum-dripping hands off on Roger’s back. The shower water washed away all of Roger’s load from his back, but his stomach — which had become covered in cum when he laid in his own load on the floor — was not facing the water, so most of his semen stuck to his skin there.

Then he withdrew his cock all the way from Roger’s ass. He called for silence and everyone watched as Brad very slowly pushed his entire manhood back in.

“Gonna finish now, fill you up on the inside…” Brad groaned right into Roger’s ears.

Roger squealed and yelped. He couldn’t even pretend to be in pain anymore — there was a little pain, but it was overshadowed by the mind-blowing pleasure of his prostate being stimulated. Roger moaned. His fingers tightened into claws that ripped at the loose, splintery boards of the green barn floor.

He sensed Brad’s orgasm a few seconds before it began. Brad’s chortling laughter turned into a low, grumbly groan of bliss, a cringing sound so intense it made the hair on the back of Roger’s neck stand on end.

Cum sprayed into his ass, a big, creamy load that soaked into his flesh. It dripped into the folds of his guts as he took wad after wad of hot cum. Its heat seeped into his body, and Roger could feel it in his arms and his legs, his fingers, his toes and even in his face.

Finally it was all over. Roger was limp, on the floor on his belly, both sides of him covered in cum, both his own and the other workers — they had circlejerked onto the floor, but in the confusion and cramped quarters, Roger ended up with more than a little bit all of him as well. He couldn’t tell if he should cry, fight or beg for more. He wanted to do all three.

But more than that, he wanted to lay there and bask in the aftershocks of his orgasm. They cracked through his body like earthquakes, so intense he couldn’t think about anything except the mind-blowing experience he had just had. He didn’t know how long he rested there on the floor. It felt like eons.

Eventually, however, he was done. He crawled to his feet, and sheepishly exchanged glances with the other workers who were still here. Brad had gone, as had most of the others — once they blew their wads and finished their showers, there was no reason to stick around.

One person was left, standing there naked and watching him with pity in his eyes. He was Gerry, the oldest of the farmworkers, well into his forties though with a well-muscled body that could keep up with the younger workers.

“You okay?” Gerry asked. He put one hand on Roger’s shoulders as Roger finally rinsed off all that cum. He felt clean for the first time since he had started work this morning.

Roger nodded.

Gerry smiled. He led Roger back to the changing area, where they both slowly put some clothes on. Roger was dazed and groggy.

“Next time,” Gerry said, “you should hold back. One of the rules of the green barn is that whatever you give, you gotta take too. So if you didn’t cum first, you could have made Brad bend over and take it in the ass.”

“Really?”

Gerry nodded. “Next time. If you’re ready, I’d be glad to fuck you next time.”

“And then I get to fuck you?”

“Well… I’m going to give you a reacharound just like Brad did,” Gerry said with a grin. He headed towards the door to the outside, and Roger followed. “If you blow your load in my hand, then you don’t get to fuck me. So enjoy it, but don’t enjoy it too much.”

“Oh, okay. I, uh, I can do that,” Roger said. He wasn’t very confident in that though. He had enjoyed himself so much he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to hold off on cumming the entire time he was fucked. If it always felt like it did today, he thought, he wouldn’t be able to delay it at all. If it was always like that, he’d never want to slow down.

He decided right then and there that he was going to shower in the green barn every day.

Niggas Can Be Rednecks Too!

Here’s the first chapter of Niggas Can Be Rednecks Too! It’s a hot tale of an urban black thug who finds that life on the run in rural Alabama is going to be sexier than he ever imagined!

The bus ride turned out to be very boring. In retrospect, that should have been obvious.

Topper left in a hurry. He wasn’t technically a fugitive, but the police wanted him for questioning and he knew that, if they questioned him, he would likely end up under arrest. So it made sense to find a way out of the state.

In his mind, he risked the bus being boarded by jackbooted FBI agents interrogating passengers as they tried to find him. But that didn’t happen. It was just a long, slow, boring bus ride to Bumcraw, Alabama. Nobody even looked twice at Topper the entire way down there.

When he finally arrived, it was just a dusty old bus station in the middle of nowhere — there were literally no employees at the station, and the nearest other building was a hundred feet away. One elderly black woman hobbled along the road nearby, and a young white girl had gotten off the bus with him but then disappeared. Other than that, there were no other human beings around.

But his boss Samson had given Topper directions to the bar. It was called the Colored Camper, and it was owned by someone named Barley. Samson knew him well. He had said that Barley would take Topper in and give him a place to stay.

Two years. Samson had said that Topper needed to stay away for two years or risk getting arrested. After that, the murder was going to be a “cold case” and no one would be actively investigating it. If someone did ever ask, Topper could credibly say he didn’t remember anything. No one had an alibi two years later.

The streets here weren’t marked. Topper was annoyed. The directions said things like “make your second right”, but there were many unmarked dirt roads that Topper assumed didn’t count as the first right.

This is why they give roads names and put street signs on ‘em, Topper thought. Did Alabama not get the memo?

Finally he saw a building that looked like a bar. It seemed like a strange place for a bar, out in the woods and far from any main road. But Samson had said it was a nigga-bar and had been since before the civil rights movement. Maybe, Topper thought, it was in an unobtrusive location to avoid drawing attention. Or maybe it had been a busy area decades ago.

Regardless, it was the Colored Camper, and Topper went in. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, so only a few dour-faced old niggas drank alone at the bar. They all glared at Topper when he made eye contact with them.

He went straight to the bartender, a burly middle-aged black man with a scruffy beard and a mouth full of chewing tobacco. He spat on the floor behind the bar when Topper came to him.

“Hey, I’m looking for Barley,” Topper said.

The bartender snorted. “Found ‘im,” he said.

“Oh. Hi,” Topper said. “I’m Topper-“

“Sssh,” the bartender said. He nodded to the dour old men. “Tommy. Nice to see ya again, nephew.” He spoke loud enough that everyone in the bar could hear. The drinkers all looked to Topper, who tried to look like he knew what was going on. Barley was not his uncle, so Topper knew that Barley was covering for him — were these old drunks snitches? Or was Barley just careful, assuming that everyone was a snitch? Barley cleared his throat. “Yo. This is my sister’s boy. Tommy.” The men all nodded at Topper.

“Hi. Uh, hi, e’rybody,” Topper said. His northern, urban accent felt very out-of-place here in Alabama. He wouldn’t be able to fit in until he installed a drawl into his voice.

Barley lowered his voice. “Go in the back. Wait in there.” Then he spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m glad to put ya up for a night befo’ you head off to college, nephew.”

“Uh, yeah, thanks for that, Uncle Barley,” Topper said. It didn’t look like anyone in the bar paid attention, but he played along anyway. He went into the backroom. There was not much there, just storage of stuff for the bar. From a window in the back, he could see a farm.

Topper soon learned that the farm was Barley’s. This bar was on the outskirts of his property. Barley didn’t make a lot of money from the bar — he mainly owned it as a way to launder money, which he actually made from growing marijuana on his farm. That was how he knew Samson. He was Samson’s supplier.

But Topper only figured all that out gradually over the next few days. He soon learned that the bar made the bus seem exciting, but Topper was only allowed to be here in the backroom of the bar or in an abandoned barn on the farm, which was where Barley had made up a small sleeping area for him.

It was boring and hot — neither the backroom nor the barn were air-conditioned — but it was better than jail, which was also both boring and hot. Topper had thought that he’d miss alcohol and weed while he was on the run, but as it turned out, he had plenty of both since the two places he was allowed to be were a bar and a marijuana field.

But he soon lost his taste for both. He spent his days lounging around and working out in the barn, then he read at night, or listened to the radio. It wasn’t even satellite radio. Living as a fugitive in Alabama was like living in the eighties, he thought, right down to the afro he started to grow since he couldn’t arrange for a haircut.

Barley mostly ignored him. The first time he came to hang out was a month after Topper arrived, when Barley’s wife was gone for a trip to see her sister. Topper wasn’t expecting him. He just showed up in the barn late at night.

“G’evenin’, hoss,” Barley said.

Topper was excited to have a visitor, but he tried to hide it. It would seem weird if he was giddy about seeing a man, and Barley — though kind — was a gruff, sweaty, hairy-bodied redneck. Topper had never met a black man who was such a redneck; he hadn’t even believed they still existed.

“You know my wife is gone,” Barley said. He chewed on a piece of straw right now because he was trying to quit chewing tobacco, but he chewed on the straw as though it would turn into tobacco if he chewed hard enough.

“Yeah. How she doin’?”

“She fine. She prolly in Texas right about now,” Barley said. “Look, nigga… Samson tol’ you the rules, right?”

Topper nodded. “He said I can’t have no contact wit’ my family, or wit’ no one else.”

“That’s right.” Barley sighed. “Includin’ girls.”

“Right.”

“So you must be gettin’ right horny, huh?”

Topper shrugged. “Yeah. I am. Yeah,” he said. He wasn’t really all that horny, but he didn’t want to admit to Barley that going a month without sex was normal for him.

“Me too,” Barley said. He took off his shirt to reveal a powerful body, dark brown and gleaming with drying sweat. He cleared his throat. “Whatcha wanna do about it?” The piece of straw moved to the other side of his mouth.

Topper’s heart skipped a beat as he realized what Barley was asking him. This wouldn’t be the first time Topper messed around on the downlow, but it would be the first time he did it with someone he didn’t know well. He and his best friend used to trade blowjobs a few times. Topper had never even touched anyone else’s cock besides his buddy’s. He wasn’t sure he could handle sucking off someone he didn’t know, someone bigger, older and tougher than him, and a foul redneck to boot. He wasn’t dirty, exactly, but he wasn’t really clean either.

Could Topper do this? He didn’t want to go to jail, or almost as bad, take another bus all the way to Oregon where his grandmother would take him in. That would be even more humiliating, he thought. At least she wouldn’t make him suck any dicks.

But even as he told himself not to do it, Topper dropped to his knees in front of Barley. His dick smelled like the farm, like a combination of sweat and mud and hay and sunlight, with a faint acridity from chewing tobacco as well.

Barley’s callused fingers gripped Topper’s chin, pulling his jaw apart. Topper didn’t resist, but he didn’t open his mouth either, allowing Barley to do it for him. That made Topper feel a little better — at least he could always claim that Barley “made” him do it even if that wasn’t exactly true. As Topper’s mouth parted, Barley flopped his limp dick over Topper’s lips.

That sent a wave of salty taste through Topper’s senses. Even though he hadn’t even made tongue-on-dick contact, he tasted Barley’s redneck meat.

Then at last Barley pushed his dick in. He laughed when Topper gagged the moment he felt that spongy limp cock on his tongue, and he relentlessly pushed it in to Topper’s mouth.

But he had to admit that the taste diminished rapidly. Soon it just tasted like spit — rather foul to be sure, but not anything Topper hadn’t experienced before. It tasted, he thought, like his mouth did after a night of drinking, when he awoke with a dry mouth and an upset stomach that meant he didn’t want to wetten his tongue with anything.

His stomach was upset now too, just like those hungover mornings, and he gagged with every thrust of Barley’s dick down his throat. He was soon rock-hard, his cock growing into a long piece of brown meat that jabbed into Topper’s mouth.

“Yeah, hoss, you got nice, soft lips… Samson tol’ me you’d suck real good…”

The one good thing about this, Topper thought, was that he didn’t really have to do anything — Barley didn’t seem to expect Topper to actually suck. Instead, he held on to Topper’s short hair and his ears, and he gyrated his hips.

He moved slowly at first, not really trying to force his cock in. He let Topper just take the tip. But with every grinding thrust of his waist, he shoved a bit more of his cock down Topper’s throat.

Soon Topper found his entire belly roiling each time. It felt like an alien probe, he thought, and it was impossibly hard — was his own cock that hard when he had a boner? It didn’t seem that way now, but of course right now his dick had never been softer.

“Take it deep in there, hoss, take it real deep…”

The taste of precum reminded him how disgusting this was. By then Topper’s throat had widened up enough that Barley’s entire rod nearly fit in there. Topper’s nose brushed his pubic hair, and Barley’s swinging ballsack slapped against Topper’s chin.

The sour and salty flavor of precum assaulted Topper’s senses. It was all he could think about, and even Barley’s moist heaving breath seemed like a distant distraction. The precum flowed like water down Topper’s throat, coating his flesh and settling deep in his gullet.

“Alright, nigga, you go’n swallow, right?” Barley asked as though that wasn’t a real question.

When Topper and his nigga used to exchange blowjobs, they never swallowed. That was unthinkable. Tasting dick was humiliating enough, but could he really taste cum too? Even as his mind said no, Topper knew the answer was yes — he wasn’t about to just get up and leave now. He’d be humiliated running away to grandma with his tail between his legs and precum dripping from his chin.

Topper preferred to shoot his load right down girls’ throats. That felt good because it meant their entire mouth encircled his cock. He assumed that was what everyone wanted in a blowjob.

But it soon became apparent that Barley wanted something different. As he neared his orgasm, he pulled his cock out. He kept the moist precum-soaked tip resting right on Topper’s tongue, but he didn’t try to shove it back into Topper’s throat.

“Now use bot’ hands, nigga,” Barley said. He guided Topper’s hands to his dripping-wet shaft.

Topper shuddered but did as he was told. He felt like he was humiliating himself this way, but he had to admit it should be better than the alternative. Surely, he thought, this was better than actually being throat-fucked when Barley shot his wad. He couldn’t think of a reason to complain even if he felt like this was worse.

“Oh, yeah, nigga, swallow that nut…”

He could sense the orgasm in Barley’s cock throbbing beneath his fingers and in the loud snorting from Barley’s mouth. He sounded like an angry oxen, and for a moment Topper really felt like he was draining cum out of an animal and not a person.

He shot a huge, creamy load, which again felt like too much for a person. But Topper didn’t really know what was a normal amount. He gagged profusely as his mouth filled with cum, so much that it dripped down his chin.

“Ugh, yeah, yeah, nigga, yeah…”

He couldn’t swallow yet because Barley kept dipping his dick in to Topper’s mouth, which spasmed as he felt hot cum and little swimming sperms coating his tongue and lips and cheeks. Barley chuckled at Topper’s writhing, and he used his limpening dickshaft to spread cum all over Topper’s face.

In the end, when Topper actually swallowed, there wasn’t much cum left in his mouth. Most of it clung to his face or dripped down his chest and onto the floor beneath him. The lemony smell of semen filled the air, so he continued to taste cum even after he pulled away from Barley’s limp dick.

“Damn, nigga,” Barley said. He snorted loudly and wiped his dick off with a rag. “You suck dick good. Did Samson teach ya that?”

“No…”

Barley nodded. “You a natural then, nigga. You got a nice, purty mouth. You ever wanna do that again, you come find me, nigga. You ain’t got to, but, y’know… If’n you wanna show a little respec’, you come find me.”

Topper nodded his understanding, but he had no plan to do that. If this was how redneck niggas in Alabama showed respect, Topper had every intention to be disrespectful.

Str8 Till Dark: The Roommates

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Str8 Till Dark: The Roommates, a hardcore gay redneck erotica story you’ll have to read to believe!

 

“Is this gonna be yer first home wit’ a roommate, Charlie?” Tommy had asked when Charlie first arrived.

Charlie had shook his head, and Tommy had laughed as though it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. If Charlie weren’t so lacking in confidence in that moment, he would have asked what was so funny — he would have asked in an aggressive way, with feinting and mean-mugging, and it would have probably ended in Tommy being beaten up.

Now Charlie regretted not asking for details, because he now had a guess what made Tommy laugh. He knew Charlie would not like the person he was going to share a room with — his new roommate was a hillbilly named Piggie.

Charlie himself was not a hillbilly, and he didn’t like rednecks at all. He was from urban Detroit. He had been one of six white kids in his entire high school. He was covered in urban tats, wore a baseball cap backwards and talked like a gangsta.

And like a gangsta, he was currently on the run from the cops. His fingerprints had been found at a murder scene. Charlie was genuinely innocent of the murder, but was guilty of plenty of other things. If he was caught, he was likely to end up convicted of at least one serious felony, so he had gone on the run.

That was when he had been sent to Tommy’s operation out in rural Michigan, in the Upper Peninsula. Tommy grew weed for the Barren Nine, which was the gang Charlie had pledged himself to years ago. Tommy and Piggie had been growing marijuana out here in the middle of nowhere for years.

And now Charlie was supposed to help. His first day, however, he had done little more than walk around the fields. He had never seen so many marijuana plants, or smelled such an intense fresh-weed scent. For someone who had always struggled to afford weed, it seemed like heaven, even if Charlie wasn’t allowed to smoke any of that — Piggie and Tommy did buy their own weed to smoke, but Charlie wasn’t allowed to smoke any of the fields upon fields of high-quality bud.

He had shared a few drinks with Charlie and Piggie before retiring. Tommy had shown him to his room, which was a small chamber with a bed and a dresser and not much else. It wasn’t even much bigger than a prison cell. Charlie didn’t really have much stuff, so that wasn’t a problem for him.

It was only when he brushed his teeth and sank into the strange, unfamiliar bed that he remembered Tommy laughing about him having a roommate. Wasn’t that a strange wording? Tommy was one of his roommates, so why had he worded his question like that?

Wait… Weren’t there only two bedrooms? Tommy had never been given a formal tour, but when he looked around, he only saw two.

But maybe, he thought, Piggie slept elsewhere. Tommy was a redneck, but Piggie was a hillbilly; he seemed like the kind of man who might live in a barn outside. Maybe he guarded the fields at night. He spoke like a gibbering cartoon character, and Charlie could barely understand a word. Piggie wasn’t fat at all — they said he got the name because he used to be fat — but he was big and barrel-chested, with a prominent Confederate flag tattooed on his neck. Charlie was surprised his boss, a black man named Tyson, had agreed to work with a neo-Confederate.

He checked the alarm clock — it was set already. Tommy had told him to be up at six o’clock (which seemed ungodly early), so Charlie assumed Tommy had set the clock so he would have no excuse to be late. Why were there boots there by the door and clothes in the drawers? Charlie assumed Tyson had provided those, because Charlie was on the run and hadn’t been able to go back to his mama’s house for clothes.

But still, he felt unsettled. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep. He felt like there was something here he was missing. A part of him wondered if this room had been someone else’s, and that person was… gone. This wasn’t the kind of job you quit, so whoever it was could only be dead or in prison (and if he were in prison, Piggie and Tommy would be too).

His mind raced. He felt tired, but he was nowhere’s near falling asleep. He was simply in too strange of a place, his life in flux, and he was unable to relax. Piggie and Tommy were out in the main room drinking, but they were getting quieter and quieter.

Tommy seemed cool, he thought, but Piggie was both strange and off-putting. His accent was intimidating and hard-to-understand. He was bigger than Charlie, and looked quite possibly meaner; that was not a combination Charlie liked. Charlie really wished it could just be him and Tommy.

The door to his room slid open, and Piggie walked in. Charlie only saw the silhouette, but he knew it had to be Piggie because of his size and shape (Tommy was skinny, while Piggie was broad and strapping). Piggie stumbled a little, burped loudly and mumbled an apology.

Charlie sat up straight. “Whatchoo want, man?”

“Sssh, just goin’ to bed,” Piggie said.

“What?”

“Scoot over,” he said. He sat on the edge of the bed and began untying his shoes.

Mississippi Prison Life: Redneck Submission

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Mississippi Prison Life: Redneck Submission, a hardcore Brutewood Maximum Security Penitentiary story! Beware, it’s full of redneck non-consenting sex!

 

Kevin didn’t know he was asleep until he woke up with hands roaming over his body. He was confused at first, and didn’t know where he was. For one glorious moment he thought the last couple months had been a dream, and he was waking up next to Suzie.

But no, time was linear; reality was dismayingly predictable. Time had progressed forward while he was asleep, not backwards. Kevin was waking up to the feeling of his cellmate touching him. He shuddered with terror at the realization that this was it — he had gone nearly three months behind bars, and now finally, someone was trying to rape him.

Of course there was only one person it could be. He was locked in a tiny cell with Joshua Stockard, a hillbilly and former marijuana farmer. He went by Piggie, he had said, because he used to be fat. He had bulked up since coming to prison here at Brutewood Prison of Mississippi.

“You awake, huh? Hush though,” Piggie whispered. “Don’t make a lotta noise.”

The sound of his words shook the grogginess from Kevin’s mind. He shuddered, trying to decide whether to make a lot of noise to attract attention from the guards, fight back or give in. No option was appealing. He had trouble concentrating with Piggie’s thick fingers caressing Kevin’s smooth back. His hand moved down to Kevin’s ass, squeezed between his clenched cheeks and rubbed the rim of his asshole. Kevin yelped at his sensitivity, and his whole body tightened beneath Piggie’s muscles.

“Piggie-“

“Hush yer mouth, boy,” Piggie said softly, his moist breath warm and humid on Kevin’s cheek. “I am gonna make love to you now. That’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna stew up some love inside ya asshole.”

“Why-?”

“I said hush yer mouth,” he said. “I’s tellin’ ya what’s gonna happen. Ain’t lookin’ for feedback. We gonna get wrapped up closer ‘an a Mama and Papa Bear in winter. I’m gonna fuck e’ry inch of yer body, boy, and I’m gonna keep fuckin’ it till you like it.” He wrapped one meaty hand over Kevin’s lips. His hairy, sweaty chest pressed against Kevin’s back, as he sucked on Kevin’s earlobe. Kevin shuddered in disgust, but found that he couldn’t move. He couldn’t even breathe deep enough to shout now if he wanted to, Piggie was right on top of him. His dick was rock-hard and wedged between Kevin’s asscheeks. He made no effort to fuck him at the moment, but Kevin was already awash with humiliation. “Good for you fo’ shuttin’ up. I ain’t gonna tell you twice in the future though. I’m gonna fuck you now. Got that? No point discussin’ it, that’s gonna happen, surer than a cock’s crow. There’s two ways this can go down now. I could whisper, keep it quiet, don’t tell no one. I still pretend we friends during the day. At night, I fuck you quiet and I use lube and I be as nice as I can be. I might even give you a reacharound if you behave. Let’s call that the coop’ation option. You understand that one? You can say yes.”

“Yes,” Kevin said, his voice weak and tremulous, muffled by Piggie’s hand.

“The second choice we call the ‘punk option’. If you pick that one, I’ll make a lotta noise. You will too — different noise, but just as loud. Everyone gonna know. I fuck you in the lunchline when I’m bored. You gonna lick my asshole, drink my piss and suck my balls, and you gonna do it in front of everyone. And I’ll start pimpin’ you out too. If you choose the punk option, Kevin, you can’t change yo’ mind later. If you choose to coop’ate, you can change yo’ mind. Ya understand the difference between those two choices?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Now the next word out of yer mouth can either be coop’ate or it can be… anything else. Anything else is a vote for punk.”

Halloween Hairback Worship

Here’s a sample from Halloween Hairback Worship, an outrageous new story by Forrest Manacre!

 

The party had been a bust. As a freshman, Kyle didn’t have the right connections to get invited to the good parties. He found something to do, and he had had a reasonably good time — but all the parties here at campus were designed for straight men and straight women to hook up together. Kyle was an openly gay man,

He was the only gay man in his fraternity, and on this tiny campus, he was one of only a few gay men around. He didn’t get along with most of them anyway.

The house looked empty as he approached, which he was glad for. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone now. The lights were all off, even the porch light.

But as soon as he walked in, he did hear something. Was it a cough? A sneeze? A laugh? Something like that, he thought. His pulse raced as he crept through the house.

He went upstairs. The possibility of a burglar flitted through his mind, but that didn’t seem reasonable — everyone knew this was fraternity row, and there were notoriously wealthy frats just down the road. Plus there were game systems hooked up to the big-screen TV on the main floor; a burglar would have taken that and run, probably. He wished had a weapon besides the plastic sword that came with the pirate costume he had worn.

There was an angry roar, and something like a sob all at once. It sent a chill up Kyle’s spine as he hurried up the stairs. The plastic parrot on his shoulder fell off and tumbled to the ground. After a second choked growl, he identified the voice.

It was Forrest, one of his frat brothers. He was a senior on the football and wrestling teams, and he hung out with all the popular athletes. But he was a little different because he lacked any urbanity, sophistication, wit or charm. He was simply a big redneck brimming with swagger. Girls didn’t like him, or at least that was the impression Kyle got.

Was he crying? Or was he angry? Kyle wasn’t sure if he wanted to interrupt him either way. He was in the hallway bathroom, doing something — washing his face, maybe? Wiping away tears?

“Fuck it!” He held an electric razor in his hand, glaring at it, his deep dull eyes enraged as though it had done him a grave wrong. He fumed. He was both angry and sad, Kyle thought, or maybe just drunk. It was hard to tell.

Was he done? If so, if he left the bathroom, he’d likely walk past Kyle. Figuring he might as well reveal himself now, Kyle walked towards the bathroom as though he had just arrived.

“Oh, hey, Forrest, hi…” Kyle said. As soon as he spoke, he knew he had failed to seem nonchalant — he had never been a great liar. It was obvious from his tension that he knew Forrest was upset.

Forrest blushed a beet red. His bare chest swelled and turned away from Kyle. He put the razor down. “Hi,” he said.

“I thought you were going to the party,” Kyle said.

“Yeah, well…!” He shouted as though whatever had happened was Kyle’s fault. “I… uh… I didn’t go. Nevermind. It don’t matter.”

Kyle hesitated to walk away. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I just… I need to shave my back,” Forrest said. “It’s… uh, can you reach? Can you…? I mean… if it’s cool, or whatever, man. I know you’re… y’know, homosexual, and, uh-“

“You can say gay.”

“Well, yeah… Gay, then,” Forrest said. He wasn’t making eye contact with Kyle. He was still bright red. He sat on the lid of the toilet, and Kyle came into the bathroom with him. He stank of sweat beneath drug-store cologne, which turned Kyle on. Forrest wore only a tattered strip of gray cloth, and he had mud smeared artfully over his pecs. He had dressed up as a caveman for the Halloween party.

His back was substantially hairy. It went well down the top of his shoulder. Kyle had noticed it before, but he thought it was kind of a turn-on.

“Them girls kicked me out,” Forrest said, his slightly slurred drawl dripping from his lips. “Or technically it was that fuckin’ dickweasel Garrett who kicked me out, but the girls said to. One of them accidentally touched my backhair. She said it was the grossest thing she evuh touched. Garrett dun say-” Forrest stopped suddenly, and Kyle got the impression it was because he was going to cry.

“Oh. That sucks, man,” Kyle said. He wasn’t very good at succor, and he knew it. “I know I’m not your target demographic or whatever, but for what it’s worth, I think it’s sexy. I think you’re sexy.”

Overseers Downlow

Here’s a new sample from Overseers Downlow, a hardcore antebellum American plantation sex story about the extreme redneck overseers of Brutewood Plantation.

“We dun’t ‘llow any kinda perversion with the slave-women,” Mister Armstrong said as he showed Nathaniel around the plantation. “Dat’s cuz we tightly control breeding. Takes nine months to pop out a new nigguh, and we ain’t gonna let ‘em spend time on anyone but the best fatherin’ nigguhs we got. Not you.”

Nathaniel was so relieved that he had been hired he barely listened. He just smiled and nodded. He had been raised to believe it was a grave sin to fornicate with a Negro, so Mister Armstrong’s rules didn’t bother him.

Brutewood Plantation was beautiful. Nathaniel had been so nervous about coming here that he didn’t notice until he followed Mister Armstrong over a hill, and when they stopped on its crest, he saw the rolling countryside of the plantation’s carefully tended fields, the bounteous forest beyond that and the babbling network of streams that fed the farm. There was even a little pond with fish in it, though Mister Armstrong said that that was reserved for the slaves alone. Nathaniel hoped he might be able to sneak in a little fishing at some point.

“Oh…” Mister Armstrong said, shaking his head in disappointment. For a moment, Nathaniel’s heart stopped as he thought he had failed to secure the position after all; maybe Mister Armstrong wanted him to passionately argue in favor of impregnating Negros. That seemed unlikely, but some redneck overseers like Armstrong had odd views on that kind of thing.

Then he saw that Mister Armstrong wasn’t looking at him. He was disappointed in something else. Nathaniel followed his sun-tarnished eyes’ gaze to a stand of peach trees at the base of the hill, where the soil was too rocky to support much else. There was a young Negro lad sitting in one of the lower branches, biting into a peach.

“Tha’s Walter,” Mister Armstrong said. “He a good worker, but he’s a wastrel. He gunna try ’nd git one ovuh on you.”

“Oh, okay, well I know how to handle slaves like him,” Nathaniel said. That wasn’t entirely true, but he had learned a lot about discipline from his father and mother, so he felt sure he could apply those principles in his new job. Disciplining a slave was not so different than disciplining his little brothers.

A long silence fell between them, and then Mister Armstrong raised his eyebrows. He nodded towards Walter, who still sat in the tree, unaware or uncaring of the overseers standing not that far away.

“Well? Go’n, sun,” Mister Armstrong said. “I’m-a let you figger out what to do wit’ ‘im. Now’s the time to start showin’ who’s boss.”

Heart pounding, Nathaniel strode over to the peach orchard. He knew that confidence was the most important part of disciplining a worker; if he wavered, Walter would never respect him. A man lived and died by his respect, as Nathaniel had learned. He frowned and put on a stern face as he approached.

“Ah, shit!” Walter exclaimed. He dropped the peach and nearly fell out of the tree when he saw Mister Armstrong and Nathaniel. He landed on his feet and eyed Nathaniel even as he spoke to Mister Armstrong. “Ay, Mistuh Armstrong! I’s jest here checkin’ out the trees for dat peach blight. Yup. I wuz-“

“Hush boy,” Nathaniel said.

He continued to face Armstrong. “Mistuh Armstrong, I’s sayin’-“

“Listen to Mastuh Greene. He gonna be in charge of this orch’rd anyhow,” Mister Armstrong said.

“Walter, where are you s’posed to be right now?” Nathaniel asked. When Walter didn’t immediately respond, Nathaniel added, “I’m new here. I dunno where you s’posed to be, but I got a wild hair sayin’ it ain’t here.” After another pause, Nathaniel raised his eyebrows. “Ain’t nevuh a time some nigger should be eatin’ peaches during harvest time, that’s fo’ sure.”

“Yessuh. I’s s’posed to be bringin’ dem rakes back from de barn,” he said. There was a pile of rakes on the ground near the tree he had climbed. “I’s just-“

“Hush, go bring the rakes back,” Nathaniel said. “Do as you was told. But you may pick a bushel of peaches to bring with you.”

Walter’s face brightened.

“They are for anyone who been workin’,” Nathaniel said. “Not wastrels who sit in trees like a lazy chipmunk. I know that there’s twelve slaves over there waitin’, so you bring twelve peaches and those rakes. If any of them twelve don’t get a peach, I will be tannin’ yer hide.” To accentuate his point, Nathaniel picked up the peach Walter had been eating in the tree. He had only gotten a few bites into it. Nathaniel brushed the dirt off and ate the rest, right in front of Walter’s disappointed face. Then Walter used his shirt to make a sac of sorts, to carry the peaches, and struggled to get the rakes in hand. He dragged them off towards the fields.

Nathaniel frowned. “Sorry,” he said. “Was that alright? I shouldn’t’ve jest given up a bunch of peaches-“

“Nah, don’t worry ‘bout it. Ain’t no money in peaches anyway,” Mister Armstrong said. “They’s just here for pie, and to give ‘em as rewards to the slaves who work hard. So you did fine. You did good. Walter ain’t easy to deal wit’.”

Nathaniel nodded. He was glad to have succeeded, and he felt more secure in his new position. At least he knew he wasn’t a laughably incompetent overseer.

The peach trees would be Nathaniel’s responsibility, or one of many. Peach blight had been a recurring problem, and while the peaches weren’t technically vital to the running of the plantation, Mister Armstrong said that the nearly peach-free winter last year had been arduous. The slaves had come to expect peach pie and preserves all winter long, as did Mister Armstrong himself. Once Nathaniel got the hang of the orchard, he’d be assigned the cotton fields that constituted the bulk of the plantation’s economy.

By the time he finished the tour of the plantation — and checked on Walter to be sure he had followed orders (he had) — Mister Armstrong said it was time for supper.

“Overseers gotta eat in the cabin,” he said as he showed Nathaniel to it. The overseer’s quarters was a small cabin with three beds (there used to be a third overseer) and a hearth. There wasn’t much to it, but one of the slave women brought them two big bowls of stew not longer after they arrived. Then a pair of boys brought a big wash basin after dinner.

Nathaniel was starving, so he devoured every bite. He wondered if this was the same food the slaves ate — his father had raised him not to submit to anything like that. A white man should always eat better food than a nigger. But he was hungry enough he didn’t care, and it was definitely not the exact same food: Mister Armstrong had a passel of dried squirrel meat he added a handful of to the stew. Squirrel wasn’t exactly meat fit for a proper white man, but Nathaniel decided it would have to do.

“What did your father do?” Mister Armstrong asked during the meal. It sounded like he had been waiting a long time to ask.

Nathaniel sighed. He had known this question was coming — Armstrong had hinted in this direction before hiring him; he clearly saw parentage as important in judging a man’s character; Nathaniel had told him only that his father was dead, which was true — and though Nathaniel was proud of his family and his father, he didn’t much enjoy answering this. He paused to take a bite of the stew, then said, “He was an overseer like you.”

“Ah. Around here?”

He must have already known the answer to that. Mister Armstrong knew all the overseers in this corner of Virginia, and if Nathaniel’s father had good employment nearby, Nathaniel would have surely been working there, not here.

“No,” Nathaniel said. “Near Newport News.”

Mister Armstrong nodded. “He taught you ‘bout farmin?”

“Some, yes,” Nathaniel said. He sighed. There was no point in delaying things. Mister Armstrong would know sooner or later. “He is dead, sir. He died in prison. He was convicted of takin’ liberties with a female.”

“I see. A female slave?”

“No, sir, Mister Armstrong.”

“That’s good. The master’s only daughter is awful bony and dowdy, and she live in Baltimore now anyways,” he said. “So there ain’t often white wimmen around here.”

“Yes.”

Mister Armstrong tipped his bowl of stew to his mouth, swallowing the last few drops of thickened broth. He frowned at Nathaniel. “Reckon ain’t mah place to judge. You learned better than that, sounds like, and anyway there won’t be no white women here to take liberties with. You sure you ain’t got no hankerin’ for colored females?”

“I’m sure.”

“Good,” Mister Armstrong said. He walked to the tub of lukewarm water right next to the table. “Now let’s wash up.”

“Yes, sir.” Nathaniel breathed a sigh of relief. A part of him had been sure that Mister Armstrong would fire him once he found out about his father’s fate, so he was overjoyed to have come clean about it without consequences.

“You know how to show respect to yer boss, don’t you, Nat’aniel?” Mister Armstrong asked. He dropped his trousers. His hairy crotch hung free. Nathaniel’s heart started pounding.

“Uh…”

“You should get on your knees.” Mister Armstrong took off his shirt. He had a big hairy, greasy chest. It was plastered with hair, matted against his broad, whip-toned torso.

“Yessuh,” Nathaniel said.

“Respec’ is the most impo’tant thing for a man, doncha think?” he asked. He came closer to Nathaniel, who stepped away from the washbasin. Nathaniel’s own clothes were plastered to his skin with sweat from the day’s work, and now a fresh layer of sweat from nervousness. He had never seen a man naked besides his brothers, but it looked like Mister Armstrong thought it was normal.

“Yessuh.”

“If’n ye ain’t gettin’ respec’ from the nigguhs, you ain’t worth nothin’. You can command respec’, right?”

“Yessuh,” Nathaniel said, as commandingly as he could. He was always brash and headstrong, the broadest-shouldered of he and his brothers, the oldest, the one with a history of bullying. But in this moment, he didn’t feel like he could command respect from anyone, not even a Negro slave.

“I thought you could. I think you’s gonna make a fine overseer, lad,” he said. “Not as firm a hand as me, but still. I liked the way you handled that sit’ation out there, with Waltuh.”

“Yessuh.”

“But a second ago I said to get on yer knees, and you still standin’,” Mister Armstrong said. He scratched his scruffy chin and flexed a bicep in front of Nathaniel’s face. “So why ain’t you followin’ my command?”

Nathaniel did lower himself to his knees then. His pa had always told him not to get on his knees — that was what slaves did, not free men. But Nathaniel needed the money, and he besides, he had lost bets and had his mouth violated by his brothers before. This wouldn’t be too bad, he thought.

“If’n you’s gonna command respect, you gotta also show it,” Mister Armstrong said.

“Yessuh, Mistuh Armstrong.”

“So open that mouth.”

Nathaniel did. He gagged right away, as Mister Armstrong’s hairy crotch was right in front of his mouth. He tasted it on his lips and wanted to throw up. He wasn’t a nancy-boy, that was for sure.

“Good job, boy.”

Then that hairy cock slid down his throat. It was sweatier than his brothers’ — they had only ever done it after washing up, but Mister Armstrong was doing it before cleaning himself. Nathaniel really wished he didn’t. The soap and clear water waited just inches away from Mister Armstrong’s sweat-stained body.

Almost right away that thick cock got hard in his mouth. It made Nathaniel gag all over again; his body bucked and spat up a wad of saliva that landed on the floor.

“Stroke it off wit’ one of yer hands,” he said. When Nathaniel didn’t respond right away, he guided one hand up and into position. Nathaniel gingerly stroked the shaft, which was smooth and fleshy and warm. Was his own cock like that? All of a sudden Nathaniel couldn’t remember what his own manhood felt like.

Bitter-salty precum invaded Nathaniel’s mouth. It made his eyes water, and he wanted to run away. But he had come this far, and he didn’t want to keep traveling between plantations — once he got settled in one place, it’d be easier to establish some references and move onto somewhere better.

Oh damm, Massa Armstron’ be fukkin’ dat new man in da mouf!

Nathaniel blushed. It was Walter, that young male slave, peering in through a crack in the plain wooden wall. Walter’s eyes danced with vicarious pride at seeing Nathaniel in submission.

“Get the hell outta here, Waltuh, ‘fore I beat yer ass till it’s blue!” Mister Armstrong shouted. He pounded on the wall as Walter loped away back towards the slave quarters. Mister Armstrong frowned at Nathaniel. “Ignore him. He makes up stories all the time. The other slaves won’t believe him.”

That was small comfort for Nathaniel, whose eyes watered from both humiliation and the intensely salty taste of Mister Armstrong’s precum. Even as he spoke to Nathaniel, Mister Armstrong didn’t stop fucking his throat; he just kept that shaft gliding in and out of Nathaniel’s mouth.

Then Mister Armstrong gripped Nathaniel’s head tightly. He grunted and groaned as he bucked his hips. “Alright, this is the tough part, boy. You doin’ alright though. Get ready a-taste it.”

He slammed his hips against Nathaniel’s face, pushing his dick down his throat. Nathaniel grunted and choked. Semen flowed into his gullet.

The taste was cottony and thick, creamy, and overwhelming in its snotty texture. Nathaniel spat it up so quickly it spurted from his nostrils all over Mister Armstrong’s cockshaft as it exited from his mouth.

The spit and cum dripped from his rapidly limpening dick. Mister Armstrong smiled and sighed. “Hell yeah,” he said, “That was some good respect, boy.” When Nathaniel didn’t respond, Mister Armstrong frowned. “Say yessir, boy.”

“Yessir.”

“I ain’t gonna ask you fo’ this every day,” Mister Armstrong said. “But I’s glad you can do it when I needs you to.”

Mississippi Prison Sex

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Mississippi Prison Sex, a new story of gay prison erotica from Brutewood Medium Security Penitentiary!

 

Robbie was beginning to feel comfortable in prison. Or not “comfortable”, exactly, but he wasn’t terrified anymore. He had been at the fearsome Brutewood Correctional Facility for a month and so far, things hadn’t really been too bad.

The main reason he wasn’t suffering was that Robbie had not squealed. He could have avoided any prison time at all if he had simply told the prosecutors what happened, but he declined. It had felt like a noble choice right up until he made it, when he realized it meant he’d be spending the next ten years nobly behind bars.

“Two pair,” Robbie said as he put his cards down. That brought him out of his reverie — he had won the hand, he was fairly certain of it, and that made him feel good. This was only his third time playing poker since coming to Cell Block Love, but it was the first time he really played his best. On the previous two occasions he had allowed himself to lose just a little money, so he didn’t upset anyone by winning too much. “Queen high.”

He smiled, thinking his victory was imminent. He still didn’t even really want to win any money overall, he just didn’t want to lose this hand because he had put all of his cash in the pot. The only other person still in this round was Forrest, a burly redneck like Robbie, with neck tats and bulging biceps. Robbie was confident he was bluffing. Forrest had been a bit scary when Robbie first came to this cell, but Forrest had proven substantially stupid, so Robbie was sure he could win in a contest of wits like poker.

“That’s a nice pair you got… But I gots two of mah own,” Forrest said with a grin, his deep Mississippi drawl resonating in the tiny prison cell. He paused for effect, then flipped over his hand. “King high.”

The cell burst into laughter, and they all clasped Robbie on the back. He blushed, astonished that he had lost — Forrest was a better bluffer than Robbie had suspected.

“Take off that shirt, boi!” Forrest said, his voice booming in Robbie’s ear. He was a tall farmboy turned marijuana-farmer, with a deep ruddy chest and just enough of a beer gut to cover up his six-pack. He had been joking about turning this game into strip poker — the Warden took away conjugal visits last month, so Forrest, and several other inmates, had gotten increasingly desperate for sex.

But so far, there had not been any rape in this prison, which made Robbie feel good. Possibly in the black or Latino cell blocks, he knew there was rape there — or maybe Forrest and the other older guys just liked using those cell blocks as a threat when they needed to.  They certainly made it seem like a rape-factory.

But Forrest had been joking about strip poker since Robbie got here. So far, nobody had taken off any clothes.

Just as he was about to hand over the four dollars he had lost, Robbie heard the cell door click. He had to make a quick decision: put the money back in his pocket? Try to hide it? Hand it over to Forrest now?

In the end, he didn’t make a decision in time. Money wasn’t allowed in the cells, it was required to be in your Commissary account, and as soon as the uniformed guard walked in, Robbie knew he was caught. Everyone else had money tucked into the their slippers or the waistband of their shorts. Only Robbie had been too slow. His heart started pounding as his cellmates scattered back to their bunks.

He looked up into the stern face of Officer Barnett, who opened his mouth to speak then saw the cash in Robbie’s hand. He stopped for a moment, chewed on his lip and said, “Inmate O’Doyle? What is that in your hand?”

“Uh…”

“Hand it over.”

“Sir, I… I just found it, and, uh-“

“So it isn’t yours?”

Robbie hesitated. This was the last of his cash. He had a little money in his Commissary, but he wouldn’t be able to get that out in cash. Oh well, he thought, I can just stop playing poker. And I’ll pay Forrest in honey buns, he’ll just have to wait until tomorrow.

Robbie handed the cash over. He felt like he should admit he had been lying, so Officer Barnett would put it in his Commissary — Barnett could be a rules-obsessed dickhole sometimes, but he was a stickler for fairness, so Robbie was certain he would deposit the money appropriately. However Robbie had an instinctual urge not to admit he was lying, even when the consequences were minimal, so he just bit his lip.

“I’ll put this money in the Christmas party fund then,” Barnett said, “Since it isn’t yours, Inmate O’Doyle — unless anyone else wants to claim it? I didn’t think so. I came here to tell y’all that we’s on skeleton crew tonight, so don’t expect to get up early tomorrow.” He paused, then nodded and shut the cell door. “Have a good night, gentlemen.”

Forrest smiled — he liked a skeleton crew of guards, because, he said, it meant he could stick his dick in whoever he wanted, and no one could stop him — despite his frequent boasts to that effect, Forrest hadn’t had sex with any men since Robbie got here. He just liked to make sure everyone knew he had a big dick and big enough muscles he could shove it in whomever he wanted.

The other cellmates groaned. With a skeleton crew, lights-out would come early and they’d be in their cells until late in the morning, so aside from Forrest, no one liked it. Barnett just smiled and shut the cell door.

Man! I was gonna write a lettuh to mah daughter tonight, fuck!

Everyone knows you can’t read or write, fuckhead.

Robbie sighed as his cellmates began complaining and bickering. The poker game seemed to be over, which he was fine with — he had no cash anyway. He stood up and stretched his legs.

“Hey. Hey! Hey!” Forrest’s deep, gravely voice filled the cell. He growled until everyone fell silent. “Shut the fuck up. All o’ you bastards is too fuckin’ loud. I was gonna get my magazines out, but ‘parently I can’t, cuz we got a gottamn skeleton crew again. So don’t blame me for what you’s ‘bout to see.”

There was a mixture of groans and cheers at that. Forrest blushed as someone grabbed for his cock through his white prison shorts. It wasn’t gay, just a prank — Forrest had a bevy of pornographic magazines, and he thought it was hilarious to bring them out and jack off openly in front of his cellmates. Officer Barnett no longer allowed him to keep the magazines in the cell due to complaints.

Robbie just sat on his bunk. He didn’t want to attract any attention to himself, especially not since he owed money to Forrest. He just laid back with his book.

“I’s a real man, nigguh, I can’t jest go to bed without a nut,” Forrest said as he pulled his shorts down, revealing a huge cock. That was, Robbie suspected, the real reason Forrest liked to jack off in front of everyone: it reminded them that he had the biggest dick on the cell block, if not the whole prison. That might have also been why he called them all nigguh even though everyone in this cell was white. Forrest liked being compared to a mandingo, and besides, he knew no one would stop him from using whatever words he wanted to.

He caught a whiff of Forrest’s sweaty balls then, as Forrest climbed on Robbie’s bunk to his own bed above that — Robbie was on the bottom of a three-bunk column, and Forrest was on top. So for a few seconds, Forrest’s hairy balls and trunk-like thighs were in Robbie’s bunkspace.

Oh fuckin’ Forrest…

“I ain’t fuckin’. That’s what’s going on right now, dumbass,” Forrest said. His bunk creaked above Robbie’s. Robbie could hear the moist meaty sound of Forrest jacking himself off.

Thought you was playin’ strip poker anyway, man, remembuh?

“Fuck yeah!” Forrest shouted. He jumped to his feet and nearly fell off the bunk above Robbie, who tried to tune it out. He didn’t want to get involved, but had a sinking suspicion he was about to be.

Forrest jumped onto the floor. His dick was half-hard, sticking straight out from his hairy crotch — he had a huge pubic bush, which covered up just how huge his cock actually was. He lowered his head to look into Robbie’s bunkspace, then smiled.

“Howdy,” he said.

Robbie’s heart sank. He had a feeling he knew what was coming. He had been here more than a month without any sex happening, consensual or otherwise, but it sounded like his luck was about to run out.

Oh damn, that fuckin’ hillbilly is doin’ it!

This is gross…

You gonna fight back, Robbie?

“Hey!” Forrest barked. He was fiddling with something on his bunk and the middle bunk, which was currently unclaimed. Robbie blushed but stayed quiet even as his other cellmates peered at him with guilty, ashamed smiles, like they were watching a porn movie they didn’t like but couldn’t look away from. “I ain’t rapin’ no one. Y’all know I just kid around about that shit, I’s a Christian man.”

He had sheets in his hand. Forrest had taken the sheets off his own bunk and off the empty middle-bunk. He smiled at Robbie, barked for silence and said, “Howdy…” again. This time, when he said it there was a certain nervous energy, like he was a teenager asking a girl to prom.

There was some tittering laughter as Forrest pinned the sheets around Robbie’s bunk, forming a primitive wall. Robbie stammered over his words as he tried to think of a way out of this.

“Uh, so Forrest, you know… I, uh, I got two hundred dollars in my Commissary-“

“How much you got on you?” He poked his big, scruffy head through the corner of the sheets.

“Well… None.”

He smiled. “That’s okay, nigguh. I ain’t worried ‘bout it.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“You can suck mah dick, that’s all.”

“But, uh…”

“I mean, you ain’t gotta,” Forrest said. “I can sell yer debt.”

Robbie knew that was true. It would get him out of the sex, but it wouldn’t solve the problem. Forrest could sell his debt to the Italians, who were always eager to buy off a debt because they were ruthless about charging interest and getting their money back one way or another. It would be much simpler to simply suck dick.

How ‘bout it, newbie? You wanna owe the wops?

“No, no,” Robbie said. The Italians were both kinder and crueler about debt — they were too Catholic to demand sex, but they’d end up taking Robbie’s income from his prison job, and they’d humiliate him by sending folks on the outside to collect from his parents and brother. His four dollar-debt would double instantly, and they’d end up tacking on fees like a payday loan joint.

“Well you owe me tonight,” Forrest said. He finished pinning the sheet up, and Robbie couldn’t see anything but the dingy off-white of the prison linen. Forrest must have made some gesture because the other inmates in the cell all laughed.

Then he crawled into the bunk. Robbie curled his feet up, blushing. Forrest was blushing too, as though he didn’t really want to do this. But he grinned as well. His dick wasn’t hard anymore, and it hung like a limp greasy link of sausage between his legs.

“Uh, Forrest…”

Forrest whispered. “You ain’t gotta do this. It’s only four bucks.” Je smiled.

A part of Robbie wanted to say no, to finagle over it. He could have paid off the Italians pretty quick, but they would no doubt charge a few dollars right off the bat.

How’s dat taste, Robbie?

But was that worth it? He’d end up paying this off for some time, and he’d still be humiliated — the other prisoners would basically treat him as though he had sucked cock anyway. So, Robbie thought, he might as well do it. He nodded despite waves of humiliation washing through him.

Redneck Baseball Jock Hazing

Here’s a sample from Redneck Baseball Jock Hazing, a new story from the All-Strong League! It’s full of redneck circlejerks and reluctant hazing blowjobs!

 

Josh was glad they had won the game. He was on the Bumcraw Bucks, an amateur baseball team whose players were mostly the men he worked with at the factory. He hadn’t felt like he was bonding well with them at work, so when they invited him onto the team and treated him like any other player, he felt much better about his new life in the South.

They filed into the dugout after the game. It was a hot Texas day, and Josh was dripping with sweat. The other guys were sweaty too, and the smell inside the dugout was incredible, spicy and musky, overpoweringly strong. Josh wondered if there was a shower available for them somewhere — this was an amateur league, so most of the fields had no locker room. This dugout had neither running water nor electricity — it was really just a paved ditch with a roof.

He heard murmuring about a circle, but Josh didn’t know what that meant. He saw that they were checking the tiny bleachers to wait for everyone to file out into the parking lot, and a few guys were taking their shirts off. Josh did likewise, though he was nervous about being naked in front of so many strangers, and with so many more strangers right outside the dugout. He felt very vulnerable and exposed.

Yee-haw, fuck yah! My gurl say she gon’ lemme do her in the ass if we won today! Gonna rek that!

Willie and Forrest were the first to touch cocks. They were both outfielders, and powerful hitters, among the best on the team, and they both had thick biceps to match. Forrest grabbed Willie’s at the same time as Willie grabbed Rick’s, the man to his left. Josh gasped and wanted to call them gay, to bring attention to it, but didn’t when he saw that nobody else seemed bothered by it.

As a matter of fact, not only was no one upset, Josh noticed, they weren’t surprised either. It looked like a circlejerk was how they traditionally ended a game, and they were all getting in position for it.

“You gon’ join in?” Willie asked. He let go of Rick’s cock, then lightly tapped Josh on the cheek, a gentle slap that resulted in Rick’s cocksweat being smeared over Josh’s face. The team laughed and someone clapped Josh on the back.

Blushing a brilliant scarlet, Josh frowned at the acrid sweat on his face. He really wanted a shower, but he didn’t want to refuse to participate in a team activity. It looked like the only person who didn’t join in the circlejerk was Lyle, the born-again preacher, who frowned, muttered and walked out of the dugout so quickly he was still pulling his shirt over his head as he left.

A part of Josh wanted desperately to follow him, but he decided to stay. It wouldn’t be his first circlejerk, after all — he had played baseball in high school, and his team did the same thing at a late night party — and it might help him make friends among his teammates and coworkers.

“Yeah, I’ll join in…” Josh said with a sigh to signify that he really didn’t want to, but he was going along with the others.

He ended up in between Willie and Forrest, with Josh’s hands wrapping around Willie’s thick cock, while Forrest’s sausage-like fingers gripped Josh’s cock tight. Josh had not often had a man touch him like this, so he was momentarily terrified, as though Forrest — a giant beast of a Texan, with the perfectly curvy body of a man whose strength came from work and toil, not gyms and exercise — was going to rape him. But of course Forrest just growled with disgust when he touched Josh’s cock, and began stroking it to erection.

“Hey Forrest, you sure your sister ain’t around no mo’?” Willie asked with a blush. The other players all burst into laughter like this was an inside joke — Josh got the impression that Forrest’s sister had, in fact, volunteered to suck every dick on the team, or at least a rumor had appeared suggesting she wanted to. In any case, Forrest — who was by far the biggest man there — grunted, leaned over Josh’s body and punched Willie right in the arm. It was a quick donkey-punch, but Forrest was so big it must have hurt, Josh thought.

“What the fuck, man? I was just kiddin’!”

Willie jumped, yelped and stepped out of the circle. He faced Forrest, looking up at the man who was at least a whole foot taller than him. If they had been equal sizes, Willie probably would have fought for real, but instead he just glared at Forrest until a few other players got between them.

“Come on, Willie, back off…” another player, Rick, whispered. He wrapped his arms around Willie’s muscular body and held him loosely as he dragged Willie back. Rick’s semi-erect cock pressed against Willie’s backside, and Josh watched with a sense of horror — his old teammates would have freaked out from that kind of cock-to-ass contact, but it seemed that the local Texans were more comfortable with genital touching.

No fightin’, Forrest! You know we’s gonna get in trubs with the league if you do it again!

If we gotta forfeit next game, mothahfukka…!

Then that was it, and the “fight”, such was it was, was over. Josh’s erection had deflated, but he noticed Willie’s had not; his dick stuck straight out from his light-colored bush. His dick looked impossibly huge simply because Willie was so short, it was big in comparison.

Despite realizing that the size difference was all relative, Josh was self-conscious. Willie’s dick looked big because his body was small. Josh had a big dick, but it looked small in Forrest’s huge hand.

“You shouldn’t-a stood across the way from me, new guy,” said Charlie, a burly redhead with a shaved head and a body like a porcelain bull. He jabbed his thick cock towards Josh, who was indeed right across the circle from Charlie. Charlie grinned. “I shoot ‘em big, and I shoot ‘em long, Joshie. So you might have to dodge.”

Josh blushed. He tried to come up with a smart-aleck remark, but he couldn’t think of one in time, before the team erupted in laughter and shared memories. They often attempted to aim each other’s dick at each other, and they each bragged about being uniquely good at shooting long distances.

Gonna git ya!

Gonna paint yer thighs white, boi!

Cuckolded by Rednecks

Here’s a sample from Cuckolded by Rednecks, a new story by Ruby Redman!

I had noticed the men putting their tents together across the way while Tom and I set up our own campsite. They were just an ordinary group of men, but something about them stuck in my attention. I soon realized what it was: they were sexy.

That wasn’t so surprising in and of itself of course, though I never expected to see a half-dozen sexy men. The surprising thing was that they weren’t the staid middle-class black men I normally found appealing. Instead, they were rednecks, with deep voices whose drawls echoed all the way over to our campsite, and they wore tattered t-shirts and patched jeans, sun-battered skin visible where it wasn’t covered by tufts of hair. They were athletic, moving like animals, muscles flexing beneath their tight clothes.

The other surprising thought was that I thought they were sexy. Normally I found rednecks unappealing, and I didn’t even like cowboys. I thought hairy chest were ugly. I was a black woman who only really found black men attractive. These men had no qualities I liked, and I doubted they had any interest in black women like me.

But still, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from them. They had a certain bestial quality to their movements, which I found entrancing even if not outright attractive. My husband chattered on the whole time, explaining the physics of campfires — ugh! He could make anything boring.

“Well, sweetie, I better go take my second shower,” he said with a nervous look to the rednecks. His chapped lips kissed me on the cheek. “I want to do it before it gets crowded. I’d rather not share a shower with them.”

I sighed and nodded. I loved Tom, but he was boring and annoying. He had to take two showers a day, per his dermatologist’s recommendation, and he had to use hypo-allergenic soap. His second shower had a whole procedure — he showered in water as hot as he could stand it, then dried (with an undyed cotton towel) and moisturized with hypo-allergenic cream and a salicylic acid solution, then had to let that sit for fifteen minutes before jumping back in the shower for a cold rinse. His skin was terrible if he didn’t take good care of it.

The rednecks didn’t look like they had any elaborate showering routine. It looked like they barely showered at all. For once, I thought that might be sexy. I wanted more than anything to smell their unripened, bestial lust. They must smell like everything Tom wasn’t, I decided.

Tom was gone and I found myself unable to look away from the rednecks. They were laughing so loud I could hear the Southern drawl in their voices even without any words, and I wanted them so bad I could taste the dust on their bodies.

Were they getting naked? It almost looked like it. They were stripping off their shirts and pants, though they all wore shorts underneath. They were carrying objects too, garishly colored container-like objects — showering stuff! They were getting ready for a shower, I realized when I saw them each grab a towel. That was why they were stripped to shorts and sandals, carrying their soap-on-a-rope. I wished I could think of some excuse to hang out in the shower with them.

But Tom would be there, I thought, which would make it pointless. He’d be so boring and paunchy that he’d make the rednecks less sexy by comparison — he was so unsexy he removed sexiness from whatever room he was in. He was a swagger-vacuum, sucking up sex appeal and replacing it with flabby precision and attention to detail.

“Hey, uh, guys…” I said as they came close enough to hear my words, passing by the campsite on the way to the showerhouse.

The rednecks stopped and nodded a polite hello at me. They were surprised that I would talk them, it seemed, presumably either because my race or theirs, or maybe they just looked like such rough hicks no stranger ever talked to them.

“The shower is full,” I said. “My husband’s there.”

The one in front, a lean, ropy-muscled man with tattoos covering his chest and arms, shrugged. “It’s a group shower, ma’am.”

“Oh but you won’t want to share with him,” I said. “Besides, we could have fun while he’s gone. He takes very long showers.”

The Workcamp Hairback Jerk in a Circle

Here’s a sample from the beginning of The Workcamp Hairback Jerk in a Circle, a hot new story that you can read in KU or buy for a great value price in the three-story bundle, The Reddest Necks, Vol. 15!

When his first day on the job came to a close, Gareth was glad it was finally done. He was absolutely exhausted, and it felt like his shoulders were going to fall off. He didn’t know how the other workers managed to keep going all day — he felt like this even with a couple extra minutes off here and there while he waited for someone to tell him what to do. Once he got into the swing of things, he wasn’t going to have more than a few seconds to himself during the day.

The worksite was a small collection of tents in a large clearing. Gareth and a bevy of men were here to build a more permanent work-camp, with buildings and plumbing and electricity. A mining company was about to begin digging in this area and needed accomodations for workers. Since they were about four hours drive from the nearest town (Bumcraw, Alabama), Gareth and the other workers were going to have to camp for the entire time.

The pay was pretty good, so Gareth couldn’t complain. He wasn’t that experienced, and it was only through pure luck that he even got this job — since they didn’t want to hire more people than necessary, they largely only hired workers who were proficient in at least one technical area like plumbing or electrical work while still being knowledgeable enough to help out in other areas. Gareth had a little experience with all of the relevant areas of building, but he wasn’t an expert in anything. That meant he was destined to remain the lowest man on every single totem pole here.

His muscles burned as he followed the guys to the sleeping tent. It was the largest Gareth had ever seen, with plenty of room for all the workers — it could have accomodated twice as many people — but it was still just a tent. There were six bunks lining one wall, and Gareth sat down, sighing as his weary muscles relaxed for the first time all day.

The other workers began to take their clothes off. There was a shower tent nearby, Gareth didn’t yet know what sort of facilities would be in there, but he had a feeling they would be primitive. He also assumed it was some sort of group shower situation. He didn’t much like that, but he had had plenty of jobs that required a group shower afterward. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

As his workmates undressed, Gareth noticed how hairy they were. Maybe that meant he’d fit in. His most recent jobs came with coworkers who were mostly either black or Native American, making Gareth by far the hairiest one of the group. He had been called sasquatch for so long he forgot it wasn’t really a nickname, just an insult.

It was his back that was especially hard to handle, because Gareth couldn’t really shave it himself, especially not out here in the woods. He had often been teased for having a hairy back, but here, he was actually a lot less hairbacked than some of the others.

“Hey, Gareth, we got a daily tradition,” said Mitchell, one of the more outgoing of the other workers. He wasn’t technically in charge, but he sometimes acted like it. “Before we shower, we do a quick circlejerk. It’s a tradition. You don’t have to join in… you know, if you’re a pussy.” He snickered. He was already naked, ready for his shower, and he was among the hairiest here. He was of Greek extraction, Gareth suspected, with swarthy skin and thick, coarse black hair coating his chest and upper back.

“A circlejerk?”

“Yeah. You know what that is?”

Gareth nodded. He didn’t think anyone outside of fraternities actually did that, and possibly not even them. He wasn’t about to be left behind though. “Before we shower?”

Mitchell laughed. “Yeah. Makes it a challenge. Besides, if we smell too good, you might turn into a queer. We don’t want that.”