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Let’s see. How do the lyrics go?
The bitch is hot, he’s ready to thrill,
So give him inches, and fuck him well.
My version of the tune, of course. Don’t tell the Scorpions.
Time for a break from our cross-country rumble. For the guys, it’s a piss break, or a fuck break, or just any fucking kind of break they want. We’re off the interstate now, though not far; across the dun desert vista, dotted with cactus and sage, the interstate’s white ribbon unwinds relentless westward. I’ve led ’em up this back road, unpaved and dusty, up to the base of a mesa. Our roaring engines echo off the stone. Now I raise my hand, and in response leather-clad fists clench brakes, and as one we roll to a halt. Obedient, my guys kill their engines, leaving only mine running. I rev my Nighthawk, though, because I want to be the final, memorable note in our leather symphony, before I silence it and let the dry wind rule again.
I peel off my helmet, shoot a glance up the mesa’s heavily eroded slopes. I know how to get up there, to the flat place on top. I scouted the route yesterday. You see, I like to conquer in a public arena, and around here there’s none better. The mesa’s flat crown, enaureoled by wheeling hawks and coolly regarded by distant vultures, is the battlefield I’ve chosen.
I can kill my Nighthawk’s engine just by flicking my thumb. But my cycle’s not the only engine between my thighs. My other engine never stops roaring, rearing, rooting around for a hot butt to plug.
There’s a new one in my gang.
Pay close attention. I rule these men. I’m Master of the Motorcycle, Lord of the Flies, top dog, alpha male, King Dong, the Stallion. They know it, they accept it.
Except for one. Buck. He used to be the Master of this gang. No more. I came, we fought, he lost. That’s not true. We fight; he loses. The war never ended for Buck, nor did my victory. But when I dethroned him, I changed things. I turned Set’s Disciples from a bunch of lazy fuckers drinking beer in a smoky honky-tonk into a chrome-riding leather-armored company dedicated to me. Set’s Disciples became the gang to be feared.
I plot the bank heists. I know how to move stuff from Columbia across the border without attracting attention. And I know that, if you pay the right amount to the right people in the red and blue wings of the Property Party of America — well, local sheriffs get more interested in keeping perverts from attending public pools than in, say, resisting me.
And I turned Set’s Disciples into something to be leered at. I like fucking, and I like hard muscles and hairy sweat and guttural screams and the creak of old, dusty leather. And I want a gang of men to hang with me while I enjoy my own body. Buck flings the gauntlet against me there, too, but he just loses again. In the lists of lust, I beat Buck, can do it again, will do it again. Today. I’ve got so many bitches, stashed in truck stops and farm houses and honky-tonk bars all across this vast neo-medieval empire that even an Ottoman Sultan’s seraglio couldn’t hold them all. I’m king of the hill, top of the heap, cock of the rock of ages.
And all Buck has is the bitch he’s riding with.
His bitch, of course, is the one that I’m going to have.
Buck can pick them. His bitch is pure erotic poetry. He isn’t wearing much. Just the remnants of jeans around his midriff. Loose and baggy, they look almost ready to fall off, reveal a soft tuft of sandy-colored public hair. Above the waistline a hard, flat belly–moist and sweaty in the heat–aches for my touch. His armpits are so swamped it looks like he’s jammed seaweed into them. Fucking huge nipples, man, the size of his eyes, mahogany colored, drooping delicately from his hard pectorals. He is still clean cut — hell, you can’t turn into a tame civilized man into a free animal just by riding with a biker gang for 24 hours. But I like it somehow. His corn-silk hair glitters in the sun. Pretty eyes, the color of forest moss, with a big spray of lashes that gives him a surprised look. Lips like big pink pillows, perfect place to rest my cock. Slender body, sort of like your favorite basketball center from high school, yet his shoulders are wide enough to suggest a V. Just a little flare at the hips, and a lot of firm roundness in his ass. You can only compare his calves to a table leg finely turned by a master craftsman on a lathe.
Buck’s looking at me. He knows what’s up. His bitch doesn’t. His head is turned, and he’s watching the guys, because the action is starting, and I’ve got some hot men riding with me. Buck, however, watches me, his eyes glittering cold and lifeless like a snake’s.
See, every damn bitch Buck’s ever had — from that just-graduated Eagle Scout who showed up on Buck’s Kawasaki minus shirt and most of the fabric of his shorts, through that hot young daddy with the ponytail who traded job, family, and deaconship in the First Baptist Church for hours and hours on the tower of power — well, they just give up on him.
Why? Because after I crack ’em bahis firmaları open and fuck ’em hard, Buck kind of pales in comparison. Now Buck’s hung. Big like a firehose. I mean, I’ve seen a stallion glance at Buck’s pissing cock and slink off, ashamed. But that’s all Buck has. Size. And for most guys — real men, I mean — that’s just not enough. I’m not Tiny Tim in my crotch — more like Donkey-donged Dave — but I got more where it counts.
And that’s skill. I’m the best fuck there is, ever was, ever will be. I can talk my way into any pair of tight oil-stained jeans in the country. I know how to growl in a guy’s ear so he knows he’s wanted. And I got a special stroke that goes just where they like, and it’s so good I bet I could make a corpse cum.
Not that I’ve tried that.
Kickstand down, I throw a leg over the gas tank, dismount. I saunter towards Buck and his bitch. Past Snake, my guy, who’s crazy, just fucking crazy, likes to ride down rural roads doing ninety jerking himself like mad so all the good little daddies and sons can see a real man having some real fun. Past Pantana, who’s already got his bitch straddling his Ninja and his cock out of his oily jeans. Past Carlos plugging away between the obsidian spheres of his dreadlocked bitch.
Buck’s sucking on a cigarette. His bitch clings to his back, but Buck’s eyes are on me. Cold.
I unlace my pants, the old leather creaking, and haul out my dong. Do you know what a public urinal smells like when it hasn’t been cleaned for a week? Do you know what a cockhead smells like when someone refuses to wash the headcheese off for a week? Do you know what a singlet smells like when a man, himself naturally pungent, has been sweating into it for a month? If so, then you still have no inkling of my odor. It is an unpleasant reek, vile and sour, but it is the essence of testosterone. If the inside of a man’s testicles had a smell they would smell like me. My crotch stench never fails to get looks, and most of the time the sheer power of it can get a good bitch drooling.
His nostrils flaring, Buck’s bitch now eyes me.
I cut loose a gusher of piss against the bike’s back tire. “Shit, that’s good,” I say.
Buck flicks his cigarette away, spits disgustedly. Buck’s eyes are dark, like the inside of a gun barrel. His bitch plays with his long, greasy, black ponytail, caressing it, putting it in his mouth, sucking at it. One of the bitch’s hands encircles his waist, fingers in the waistband of Buck’s chaps, questing for the cock.
It is, I think, a cute gesture of defiance, and futile.
“We gonna do it now?” Buck growls.
Still dribbling piss I cram my cock down into my pants. The warm trickling down my thigh feels as if a ghostly hand explores me there. “Oh yeah.”
Buck presents his jaw to his bitch, who nuzzles his cheek against Buck’s stubble. How touching. “Told ya,” Buck murmurs.
They dismount. As soon as the bitch is off the cycle I’m onto him, sliding my hand inside the thigh of his shorts, his flesh moist silk beneath my fingers. I grin at him. “I’m the Lizard King,” I introduce myself.
He smiles. Demure, like a debutante.
This’ll be fun.
When he backs away, slipping an arm around Buck’s waist, I let him go. The bitch darts a look at his stud, whose muscled bulk looms a half-head over the bitch. Buck’s expression is blank. The bitch says nothing.
“What’s his name, Buck?” I ask.
“Mikey,” Buck growls.
“I like it! Hey Mikey!” I chortle. “Come on. Let’s do this.”
Mikey glances at Buck again. Buck nods, puts a big hairy paw on the kid’s ass, shoves him forward. “You lead. Up the hill.”
Buck knows the routine.
“That gully,” I say, pointing.
The bitch clambers up the steep gully. We follow, dodging gravel and stones dislodged by the bitch. I’ve never seen a better tease. His shorts slip halfway down his globes, revealing a perfect bitch ass, hairless and athletic. Smooth, slender, sweaty. I can tell he’s twitching his hips. He wants us excited.
“Where’d you get him?” I ask. I know the general details. I’d sent Buck away on a mission, as I like to say. Won’t tell you why; let me just pull a Presidential nature-of-which-cannot-be-at-this-time-divulged. What the Drug Czar doesn’t know will save me from handing a sack of cash to a party treasurer. When Buck came back from it the bitch was with him, riding behind him in those shorts and smelling like an orgy.
“Some diner. He was on a church outing.”
“Didn’t know they had those kind of churches round here.”
Buck shrugs. “He was easy to convert.” A memory brings a grin. “Saw God he did, between my legs. Though no one ever told me back in Alabama the messiah’s middle name was motherfuckin’.”
“How’d you meet?”
“He kept starin’ at me. I knew what he needed. Then the waitress brought him some hot dogs. I got up, went over, yanked the dog off the bun, showed him what real meat looked like between buns.” Buck palms his crotch. “Needed two buns.” He laughs. kaçak iddaa “Mikey didn’t need any more persuading. We kinda had to get out of there quick.”
“Good work, man.” I yawn. “Need me something new.”
Atop the mesa the scenery is magnificently desolate. But my eyes are on the bitch. His landscape entrances me in the way the virginal wilderness appealed to the old conquistadors. Twin hills peer over his denim horizon, and a river of sweat carves a deep canyon between them. My hardon wants a closer look, so I unlace my pants and let it telescope into the dry heat. Approving, it spits precum.
You wanna know why Buck keeps submitting to this ritual? Why he loves to lose? Why he doesn’t ride off with this bitch into the sunset, invade a home somewhere and screw little Mikey into orgasming gold dust? Because he’s a voyeur. He likes to watch. He can’t resist. He likes looking at my dong because he knows I’m a master, something he can never be again. His day is past. My cock is a totem that reminds him of better days.
He’s squeezing his own trouser snake, a two handed squeeze. And he’s panting, like a dog, just looking at me. Like Mikey is, but Mikey’s looking over his shoulder at me.
No need to sweet talk this one. He’s hot for me. He’s really hot. Virgin by nurture, slut by nature.
I glance at Buck. He is smirking, and there is something secretive in the way his eyes will not meet mine.
Ah-hah. Something’s up. Buck must be really close to this bitch. They’re scheming. No need to know the details. Buck knows my routine; their scheme must depend on his knowledge of my routine. Let’s change it, then.
“You first,” I say.
Buck’s lips thin and his eyes go flinty. But he obeys, like he always does. He saunters toward the bitch, undoing his fly. He hauls out that mutant bratwurst he calls a whang. Man, how can he have trouble satisfying a bitch with meat like that? It juts out of his groin, thick as a fencepost, long as an anaconda. His foreskin’s peeled back, and the polished tomato of his cockhead is drenched with rich, pungent cottage cheese.
He don’t have nothing on my funk, though.
Buck runs one hand up little Mikey’s sweaty thigh, caressing his butt with the other. He whispers something in the bitch’s ear. Then Buck pushes him forward, bending him over. He tugs the loose shorts down; eager to be naked, the bitch kicks them away.
The bitch is hard, all right. I’ve done that to him, just being near him. And his ass, revealed fully now, shimmers in the heat. It is muscled, and round, and deeply cleft. Soft hairs like down line the crevice. I burn to stroke that fur now, when it’s not drenched in spunk and in it’s natural state. Briefly I regret allowing Buck first penetration. But then again — this bitch will be mine soon, and I can touch him all that I want.
“Watch,” says Buck. “Watch and learn.”
No preliminaries. He simply mounts the bitch. With both hands he guides his fat cockhead between the bitch’s cheeks. It’s all on display, no need for tricky angles in order to see the action. Buck’s prong is so long there’s about two feet of space between his crotch and Mikey’s cunt.
Buck leans forward, his hands roaming up the bitch’s flanks. They creep forwards, caress the gentle mounds of his pectorals. Rough fingertips meet on the bitch’s big nipples. The bitch moans, and I see the light in his eyes — that peculiar quality which separates humans from animals — go out.
You’d think that after all the pounding Buck’s laid into him, the bitch would have no trouble absorbing Buck’s monster up his butt. You’d be wrong. He howls like a wolf caught in a trap when Buck jams his cheesy tomato into him. He jerks and twists, agonized by the immensity of the intrusion, until Buck shoves the last turgid sliver of flesh into him. Both of them suddenly are still, panting, except for Buck’s fingers, kneading the bitch’s nipples.
The slender blond boy suddenly screeches, scaring the hawks and possibly exciting the vultures. A long thin rope of sperm squirts from his cockhead. His globes pump frantically down Buck’s shaft, and I can tell from the look in Buck’s eyes that the bitch has an impossibly tight pussy, and that it’s now spasming on his prong, and that Buck really likes it.
Puffing like a dragon oxygenating for a white-hot blast, Buck explodes. Sheets of semen explode between the bitch’s asscheeks, cascade against Buck’s hard belly and soak his swaying ballsack. The bitch is coming fore and aft, firing spermy cannonballs from muzzle and breech. What a whore, to be so vulnerable to a stud’s touch.
And I will grant that, compared to most of the pathetic, flabby men who strut as if they were masters of this puritan empire, Buck is a stud. Though, next to me, Buck is a pathetic, flabby man.
Buck struggles against the twin obstacles of his own orgasm and his bitch’s spasming ass. He does well this time. I admire his efforts. He impales the bitch, drives his spurting weapon deeper into bowels kaçak bahis he’s come to love, and breeds him. The sharp smell of jism obliterates the flinty odor of the desert. Pure male essence defeats the desolation.
Bucking like a colt, the bitch lasers sperm onto the mesa’s sizzling stone. Spunky blasts fart from his butt, drenching Buck’s pubic thatch. You’d have to watch one of the Alien flicks to see more reproductive slime than this. Buck stretches Mikey’s nipples into long, pink spikes of flesh, deliciously painful. His cries are ethereal, and terrifying. It is as if he is some aboriginal entity, long forgotten by man but dwelling still in the world, and he shrieks the note of his existence as he cums.
It doesn’t stop till Buck drops his hands, releasing those nipples, and freeing the bitch from torture.
No, it wasn’t event a true fuck. No in-and-out. But it was enough. It counts. Semen drip-drip-drips onto the wind-scoured mesa.
A sleepy snake, Buck’s cock slips out. He strips off his tee shirt, wipes the bitch’s ass. The hot wind brings the smell of sperm to my nose. Smells hot, man. Smells hot. Makes the blood boil.
“Not bad,” I say. I stride up to the pair, shove Buck out of the way. “Now watch. And learn.”
I pry open the bitch’s asscheeks. They’re slippery with sweat and jism. The sight mesmerizes me. The rubbery hole emits milky effluent. His flesh quivers under my fingers. I slurp at the sweat-dampened hair on the back of his neck. Mikey giggles at first, but the sound deliquesces into a sigh.
Oh yeah, bitch, you’re mine.
“He likes — ” Buck begins.
“Shut up, man, I know what he likes.” Who does Buck fucking think I am?
I take my time. That’s critical. My tongue draws arabesques of saliva down his spine. He knows where my tongue is going to go — that’s obvious from the direction. But he doesn’t know when. I can conceal that moment from him by many devious arts. I track back up to his neck, then down again, and over, slurping his armpits. Mikey loves it; he starts hopping from one foot to another. I have to steady him with firm hands on his hips.
No, bitch, you’re not getting away. I’m gonna show you how good I am. It isn’t the size, it’s the skill. In a little while you won’t even remember Buck’s name.
Once I’ve teased him sufficiently, I kneel and bury my face between his buttocks. He’s enthusiastic. He grinds his butt on my face. I smell chlorox mingled with rancid ass sweat, the hallmark of the well-bred man. His insides must be bloated with Buck’s potent goo. I picture a delicate pink tunnel, moist, slimed white with semen.
Sloppy seconds. I love sloppy seconds.
I taste him. His pucker is loose and spicy with semen. Oh yeah, there’s slime there, good slime, fertile, spunky, tangy, tart like lime mixed with egg white.
And then he learns my secret. I’ve got a long tongue — why do you think they call me the Lizard King? Some people are frightened by it. But no man can resist it up his cunt. I can make it stiff, like a cock. And I’ve made many, many bitches cum humming the Star Spangled Motherfucking Banner in their pussies.
A trick I’ll save for our next session.
I content myself now with a simple thrust into the juice oozing in his chute. It is a revelation for him. He moans loudly, and I swear I hear rock shiver on rock. He pushes his butt back, burying my nostrils in his crack. He squirms in that eager bitch-manner I know so well. I lap up Buck’s jism like so much melted ice cream.
Say good-bye, Mikey, you’ll never want Buck’s stuff again.
Good stuff, though. Tasty. Memorable.
A thick strand of Buck’s semen descends like a spider from his hole after I pull out. He’s sufficiently lubed, a proper bitch, itching for cock, ready to ride prong — my prong — all day and all night. I toss my tee shirt on the ground, right in front of Buck’s boots. Not a gauntlet, but the meaning’s clear. The stud has shed the bridle, and nothing can separate him from his chosen mate.
My foreskin’s retracted. My cockhead gleams with headcheese. I don’t know where all that glorious fromage comes from, I just know it smells like a locker room and it makes my blood boil. I bend my hardon down, probe between Mikey’s smooth cheeks. The slime despoils his valley as I line up with –.
Ah, yeah. There it is. I feel it, a hot squirming ring, twitching as if tickled by the cockhead poking it. I grab little Mikey, my bitch, by the hips and center up.
This fucker makes me too goddamned horny. He’s gonna pay. I want him sore. I want the pain to linger in his flesh. It will make him long for me.
One hard yank. Boom. One fell swoop and my bush is at home in his crack. I’m in, and I’m a god, and I let him know his religion is undergoing a reformation by slapping his right buttock.
“Let me show ya,” I growl in his ear.
He squeals as I spear him — not a virginal moan, no, his is the short, high-pitched squawk of a cock-hungry bitch to whom the perfect cock has been revealed. Yeah, Buck gets the moans, but the squeal is mine: the sharp, unanticipated delight that comes as if from the ethereal. His butthole flutters, anoints my sour-smelling crotch with a few more teaspoons of Buckspunk.
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