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.”
“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?”
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.