Rudy certainly wouldn’t have said he was bisexual–that was just another word for faggot, in his vocabulary. No, to him, it was just that the mouths of faggots and bitches were all the same–if they wanted to eat his cum, then fucking fine, let them. And so, when he couldn’t find a woman to screw, he’d usually just head down to the local truck stop, where the various faggots hung out. He’d hang out in the woods, and before too long some dumb, whimpering faggot would crawl over and beg him for his cock. Two rules though–they couldn’t touch him, anywhere, and if they did he’d pummel their face into the forest floor. He also was completely against anything anal–that was for shitting only, in his mind. What kind of sick, perverted freak could think it was alright to stick anything in there at all?
At least, until one afternoon. He’d struck out again with his usual bitches, and so he’d stopped by the truck stop to see if he could let loose a few loads in a faggot instead. Sure enough, he found a faggot mouth after a few minutes, who agreed to his two stipulations, and the guy started sucking him off–when Rudy noticed someone was watching them. This wasn’t unusual–there were more than a few fags who seemed more interested in watching someone else than in doing anything themselves. He thought this was strange, but they weren’t breaking his rules, so he let it slide. This watcher, however, wasn’t cut from the same cloth as most watchers. Usually, they were older, chubby, with small cocks–it was no wonder why they were alone, just jacking off–who’d want to fuck with someone like that? No, this guy…from what he was wearing, he was probably a biker, but his clothes…they were filthy. So nasty, that Rudy could smell him even fifteen feet away. It helped that he was downwind, which also meant that the guy’s cigar smoke kept drifting into his eyes. He thought about stopping, but this faggot was good with his mouth–then the biker walked over to them both.
Without speaking, he yanked down the faggot’s jeans and underwear, running his greasy, dirty hands over the fag’s ass and into his crack. Rudy felt the fucker…shiver. That was too much for him, he didn’t want to see this shit. He tried to extricate himself, but the biker said, “No, stay put–we’re gonna put this fucker on a spit.”
There was…something in the way the man said it, in his voice, in the smell of smoke and musk, that…made him stay put, watching the biker haul the fag’s ass up so he was bent over at the waist, and the biker…got down and started licking at the fag’s hole, shoving his tongue in–it was so disgusting, and yet Rudy couldn’t rip his eyes away, watching the biker take a deep inhale of smoke from his cigar and breathe it into the fag’s hole, feeling him moan around Rudy’s cock in his mouth. The biker kept it up for a few minutes, then stood up again, drool in his graying goatee, and he let some spit drop onto his cock, got it wet, and slipped it inside. Between them, the fag started jacking his cock faster, and after a minute he’d exploded all over the leaves between them. Rudy couldn’t stop watching the biker fuck–slow at first, and then he built up a rhythm, the sound was…filthy, and then the biker came, filling the fag’s guts up backwards.
“Turn around bitch, clean off my cock of your nasty hole,” the biker said, and the guy immediately left Rudy’s still hard cock and turned his attention to the biker’s disgusting shaft.
“Hey, I didn’t cum yet,” Rudy said.
“Then use his hole–still tight. Got lot’s of seed to lube it up for ya,” the biker said.
Rudy looked down, the hole oozing cum down the crack. He…he couldn’t. “No, that’s fucking disgusting.”
The biker chuckled. “Little boy, scared of an asshole.”
“You faggots are fucking disgusting, I’m getting the fuck out of here,” Rudy said, and hiked up his jeans, shoving his spit-slick cock back in his underwear. The biker didn’t say anything, but Rudy could feel the man’s eyes on him as he left the woods and returned to his truck outside the restroom. That fag’s mouth had been damn good too–but that nasty fucker had ruined everything. He got in and got back on the freeway, heading home again–the small single wide in the trailer park, which was all he could afford with his shitty job at the factory one town over. It wasn’t much, but it was home, at least. He called up a couple of bitches again; no one even answered the phone, and so he had to resort to his hand that night. Still, it was hard getting even one load out–all he could see, as he got close, was that biker’s seed leaking from that hole, and he’d go soft every time. He eeked out an unsatisfying load, drank way too much whisky, and then climbed into bed.
It was the smoke that woke him, in the dark. His first thought was that something was on fire, but this smoke, he’d smelled it before, back in the woods. He tried to get up, but discovered his arms and legs were tied at the wrists and ankles to the end of the bed. This had to be a dream, it had to be. He still felt a bit drunk from the night before, was this some fucked up nightmare? He looked over, and saw the dull light of an ember in the dark, and heard that same chuckle. The biker?
“What, how the fuck did you get in here?”
“Followed you home, boy,” the biker said, walking slowly into the dim light from Rudy’s window, “Easy enough to pick that shitty lock. You were so out, I didn’t even have to use this,” he said, and some metal glinted–either a gun or a knife, Rudy couldn’t tell which. “But I came because I like ya boy. Because you ‘n I are gonna have some fun together for a while, how does that sound?”
Bracken's Corner 