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The pickup basketball game at the dorm ran late and I had to get out to the polo field lickety-split or I’d miss the start of practice. So, I stripped off my T and used it to dry off my chest and pits, tossed it in the backseat of the trusty vintage T-Bird convertible, and roared off toward the mountains, toward the practice field at the Moss Grove winery in the foothills of the Smokies. My gym bag with my jodhpurs, practice jersey, and riding boots was in the front seat beside me; I’d have to change when I got out to the winery. That would mean letting the winery owner, Chet, get an eyeful. But as I’d fucked him the previous weekend, we were beyond modesty in that realm.
The old T-Bird didn’t prove to be that trusty that afternoon, though. Miles out of the university town, where Prussian Road had narrowed down to barely two lanes of broken asphalt, the convertible’s engine sputtered and died just as I managed to get it far enough to the right for a car to pass me. I’d been too smart for my own good. I hadn’t taken the most-frequented road between town and the winery; I’d taken a little-used road I thought would be a shortcut. The ruts in this old road might have been what the T-Bird couldn’t handle. I’d probably knocked something important loose.
Great. I was out here, half naked—in just my jock strap and gym shorts—and with barely enough money in the wallet to pay for dinner, let alone a tow. But I did have my cell phone, and, rummaging through my wallet, I was reminded that Dear Old Dad had signed me up for AAA road service coverage before I left home for the spring university session. So I was saved. Or so I thought.
I rang the number on the AAA card and told them I needed a tow back to Peyton and then I rang the winery and asked Chet to tell the team that they would be one less for practice this afternoon because I was having car trouble. Chet seemed very disappointed, but I promised to see him and do him again in the coming weekend, so he rang off happy enough.
An hour later, I heard the chugging of a heavy-duty engine, and a pretty formidable-looking wrecker with a car flatbed rolled up beside me. The truck was a shiny black and it had red and yellow flames painted on the side with “Almost Heaven” written in blue inside the flames.
A rangy, swarthy, dark-headed, oily-haired guy who I outweighed by about 50 pounds but who looked like solid, ropy muscle and mean business, poked his head and a heavily tattooed arm out of the truck cab window and mumbled through clinched lips, trying to hold a cigarette and conversation at the same time, “You the guy lookin’ for a tow?”
Well, duh, I thought. How many other guys would there be out here on the side of the road looking for a tow? Typical lower class mindless banter. But, of course, my immediate future was in his hands—a thought I was soon going to think harder about—so I answered, not altogether without irony, “Yes, that’s right. You the AAA tow guy?”
“That would be me,” he answered with a big grin and with no indication he had caught onto my little joke. “Well, let’s see what we’ve got here, then. Great ride. Ya don’t see too many of these around anymore. Must have set you—or your papa—back a bundle.”
I could discern the start of a class war in his voice, but, again, this was his show now, so I held my tongue.
“Yes. It’s a ’56 T-Bird. I’ve worked on it a lot. but not quite enough, I guess.”
He quickly and efficiently got the T-Bird on the wrecker’s platform and lashed it in place. He moved real well. He wasn’t fat but not what you’d call thin either, and he’d lifted a lot of weight—probably honestly, through his job, rather than at the gym. Probably another class distinction he could needle me about. He’d stripped off his T to do his work and the tattooing extended all over his torso—in black and blue and green and a faded red. Some sort of Oriental design with a fancy water pattern that moved like the ocean as he worked his muscles. Ships dancing on an ocean. It was a design I found mesmerizing, but he probably had no artistic investment in it. It seemed to be much too sophisticated for him.
When the platform had been raised and T-Bird secured, he hit me with the kicker.
“A tow to Peyton’s gonna cost you a hundred bucks. Up front.”
I didn’t have any hundred bucks on me, beyond the fact that this was an outrageous sum.
“I called AAA,” I said, somewhat indignantly. “The tow isn’t supposed to go over $25.”
“That’s just the fact of the tow,” he responded canlı bahis şirketleri with a lazy grin. “It’s not including the cost of mileage. This ain’t exactly downtown civilization out here. Besides, do you even have the $25?”
He leaned languidly back on the bumped out wheel well, taking a pose—a pose that didn’t look half bad—below my cream-colored T-Bird, now being held prisoner on his flatbed.
“Do you take American Express?” I asked, holding my wallet open so he could see that just about all I had, really, was plastic.
He just snorted at me, tossed his spent cigarette aside, dug into the back pocket of his tight, faded, low-slung jeans, and pulled out a crushed pack. He slowly lit up a cigarette with a lighter that had been stashed in the pack, and just leaned back and looked me up and down with that silly half-smile of his. I felt like he was doing more than just looking at me, and I was feeling pretty naked now.
Then he pushed the cigarette pack back in his pocket and dug into a side pocket.
“Of course there are ways of paying and there are ways of paying,” he said in a slow drawl that sounded almost like a low growl.
“What does that mean?” I asked. He had my attention now.
He opened his hand and revealed a handful of condom packets. “Well, you could always work it off. Say $25 a used rubber?”
So, that was the name of the game.
He let that sink in, and then he continued, “Of course, if you have Daddy’s checkbook in those gym shorts of yours, I’d take a personal check for $150. Or I’d drive you into Peyton and deliver your car to the garage of your choice if you forked over $200 in cash before it came off the flatbed.”
There I was, stranded out in nowhere, little money, almost no clothes. What were my options? I didn’t hesitate for long. It’s not like I hadn’t done it before.
He told me to get in the wrecker and then drove farther down the road and turned off on a dirt driveway past a sad-looking wooden house that was overly thirsty for paint and back behind what looked like an abandoned barn.
When he’d parked the truck, he peeled his jeans down and off his legs, wrapped a fist around my neck, and brought my face down into his lap. “Suck me through the briefs. Get ’em good and wet, and then pull me out and get me big,” he said in a guttural voice.
As I did what he asked, he leaned back in the driver’s seat of the wrecker and took big drags on his cigarette. He ran his free hand down between my shoulder blades and beyond the waistband of my shorts. A finger ran between my butt cheeks, rimmed my hole for a few minutes, and then started working its way into me. He sighed at what I was doing to his piece, having worked it out of his briefs now, and I moaned at what he was doing with that finger.
“That’s real good, real nice,” he gasped at the attention I was giving his dick. “You’ve done this before haven’t you? Made those other hot stuff college guys real happy, haven’t you?”
I was getting him pretty hot and bothered and he was huffing and beginning to pump his hips up, stroking him cock in and out of my mouth with some force. But then he stopped and pushed me off of him.
“Outta the truck, now. Strip off those shorts and assume the position on the side of the truck hood. Better yet, up there on the flatbed, your back on the trunk of the T-Bird. It’s better. It’s lower.”
I climbed out of the truck cab, stripped off my shorts and started to do the same with the jock strap.
“No. Leave that on,” he said with a hoarse voice. “I like you in that for now. Up on the flatbed. Now.”
We went up on the flatbed and he pushed me down on my back on the trunk of my T-Bird and started tonguing my chest and arms.
“Um, um, sweet sweat, honest sweat” he murmured. “At least you’re doin’ something honest with your body. Not all sittin’ in libraries and bars and pretending you’re smarter than other folks. But I could tell right off when I saw you beside the road that you got exercise. Nice body. Very nice body.”
He had his mouth and nose in one of my pits now. He was almost humming his satisfaction, drinking me in, sniffing deeply and tonguing me like a cat would. He moved to the other pit and did some more humming and ingesting. Then down my torso, and then working my cock and balls through the tangy fabric of the jock strap pouch. He spread my thighs with his strong, workman’s hands then, and I tilted my pelvis up to give him better access to my hole. He laughed at this accommodation canlı kaçak iddaa of mine. His nose and tongue were in the creases where my thighs met my groin, drinking me in there as he had done in my pits, obviously turned on by the man smell of me after a pickup game of basketball. He was at my rim, sniffing with great satisfaction again and tonguing my hole, opening me to him.
At length he rose and stripped off his briefs. He wadded those and stuffed them in my mouth, with a, “Here, hold these for me. This is a working man’s sweat.” He ripped open one of the condom packets and made me roll it onto a cock that was admirably long in erection, if not terribly thick. It had a decided crook upwards, however, and I knew from taking Chet’s similar cock that the sensation of that mushroom cap dragging along my passage wall as it worked its way in would be quite a turn on.
He took me slow and easy, almost affectionately. And as he pumped me, he let his hands fondle my package through the jock pouch and became better acquainted with my nipples and abs and inner thighs. He lifted my legs, in turn, and sniffed and sucked on my toes. I lay there, in fascination, really, entertained as much by the undulating of his chest muscles as he worked me—fleets of Oriental boats riding the waves—as I was with the expert screwing he was giving my ass. While tonguing the toes of my left foot, he came for the first time. I came too, in the jock pouch.
“That was almost heaven,” he said as he pulled out of me and jerked the condom off his dick. And then I knew where the name of his truck had come from.
“There. That’s $25 down,” he continued. “You got $75 in that wallet of yours, or do you want to take a rest and then work the bill down some more? That was real nice. Let’s say $30 off for the next fuck.”
I just lay there, my back sliding in my own sex-driven sweat on the trunk of the T-Bird. All I could give him was a sloppy grin, and he took that for assent to another session. He stripped off my jock strap then and took a deep, happy whiff of the pouch. I’d shot off in that, so he had a lot to take in. He took another big whiff and then sighed.
“I’ll just keep this, if you don’t mind. I’ll take $10 off your bill for it. And you can give me back my own shorts now. You’ve had the enjoyment of them long enough.” Truth be known, I wasn’t all that fond of his briefs—especially gagging my mouth—so I handed them right back. I didn’t quibble about my jock strap. If a jock fetish got him off, and especially my cum-filled jock, I could get a little off on that too, I guess.
He had risen from being stretched on top of me and waltzed around the side of the T-Bird.
“OK. You just rest there for a while so’s I can reload. I’ll just look around this little classic beauty of yours to see what’s to see. Two classic beauty’s here, as a matter of fact. The car and you on top of the car. My lucky day at sightseeing, I guess.” And he chuckled at his own joke as he wandered around to the side of the car and took a gander at the instrument panel.
He was clucking his approval and admiration for the T-Bird for a good fifteen minutes, and then I heard him rummaging around in my gym bag. “Well, lookie here,” he said with a snort. “What sort of hotsie totsie gear is this?”
I looked over and he was holding up my boots, the jodhpurs, and a riding crop.
“Polo. I play on the university polo team. I was on the way to practice when the car broke down.”
“Polo. Polo,” he repeated, almost as if it were foreign word to him—and, in many ways, it was, of course. “Ain’t that something high brows play on a horse?” he asked, his voice dripping with social commentary.
“Yes, it is,” I answered simply and warily. I had no intention of having a discussion on the subjugation of the lower classes by the upper classes with a swarthy tattooed home boy that I still owed $65 of fucking to. I was sure he’d fail to see the irony in those two things coming together in one circumstance.
“Well, well, I think I’ll just play me some of that polo,” he said.
And then he was telling me to come down off the flatbed and was leading me over to a picnic table in the weeds by the side of the barnyard.
“Up on that there table on your knees,” he said. “And present your ass to me. We’re about to play some polo, and you’re my ride.”
I went up on the picnic table on my hands and elbows and I heard him pulling on my polo boots and tearing another condom packet open. I heard the canlı kaçak bahis clumping of the boots coming up on the table and straddling my hips. I saw a ruffle of my university colors on silk, as the long sash I used on my practice jodhpurs was looped around my neck. He was holding the tail ends of that in one fist and using it as reins to either let my head down, or pull it up to his head for a brief kiss and tonguing while he fucked me. He was balanced on his bent legs over and just behind me, and he thrust his cock in me with a cry of “Tally Ho!” and rode me hard and long. He held my riding crop in his other hand and flicked me occasionally with it on the butt cheeks, thighs, and shoulders. It stung a bit, but he never got brutal with the lashings. As a horse, I would not have rejected such a rider—and I didn’t reject him as a rider either. I rather enjoyed the game, actually, and sometimes in subsequent months I’d get hard during a real game of polo just thinking about it—and no one around me knew why I was smiling so.
While he fucked down into me, he was doing a game commentary—not of real polo, of course, but of something akin to a football game on horseback. As he scored a touchdown in his commentary, he ballooned out the tip of the condom with his celebration ejaculation.
After he disengaged and let me stiffly come down off the picnic table, he gave me a big smile and declared, “Now that was heaven.”
I was flattered, of course. but I wondered if he had been sent into heaven enough over the fuck to rename his truck in my honor.
We sat there on the picnic table benches, me trying to recover regular breathing and he smoking another cigarette while I wondered how the next $25 would be worked off.
“So, was that worth the promised $30 off?” I asked. I wasn’t sure I could go a fourth fucking, but I had at least $5 in my wallet, so if this was valued at $30 and the next one was too, I could maybe make it out with just the three fucks. But I had to admit to myself that maybe I’d want the fourth one—to watch the boats on his chest put to sea again if nothing else.
“$40,” he said. “That was a good $40 fuck. I love doin’ your ass, and I’m beginning to get fond of that polo shit too.”
“So . . .” I said, wanting him to get on with it. I didn’t have all day for this.
“So, now I want you to do me,” he said simply. “In the house. In my bed. Real proper like. I want your kind to know that my kind have regular lives too.”
So, this was his place. That run-down house we’d passed on the way in was his. He wanted me to see the difference of how he had to live and how I got to live. I didn’t want to fight him on this. I actually had grown fond of him.
I took him by the hand and led him to and into his house. I didn’t remark on the scuffed floors or the dirty wallpaper hanging in shreds off the wall or the tired curtains on the windows in his bedroom or the untidy, threadbare chenille bedspread that had seen better decades.
I gently pushed him down on the bed and settled behind him, cuddling his back into my chest. And I made slow and gently love to him. I glided my hands across his body, following the contours of him. My fingers traced the passage of the ships across his torso and played in the waves. He was trembling at first as I made love to him, but then he settled down and sighed and moaned and groaned for me, as I came closer and closer to the center of him, becoming more and more intimate with him. Taking my time with him. Listening to his reactions and pursuing what seemed to be most arousing to him.
When I’d crowned my cock with the third condom and entered him, it was like coming home to an old, dear friend. He opened wide to me, welcoming me, wanting me inside him. I was sidesplitting him, intimately, from behind, my hand lifting and gliding along his firmly muscled thigh, and my lips buried in the hollow of his neck. Kissing and sucking him there.
His sighs and moans turned to gasps and grunts as I plowed deeper into him. I was longer and thicker than he was. And I was younger and more virile. I fucked him, gently and languidly, but relentlessly for over a half hour, as his cries for more turned to begging me to finish him to cries of having reached new heights of passion. No one had done this for him before. No one had taken him like this, slowly at first, but, finally in a frenzy of deep, rhythmic, relentless stroking that transported him up, up, up. That took him to heaven.
When he drove his wrecker into the Peyton Ford garage later that afternoon, he pulled over to where there was a high wall beside the driver’s door and pulled me out for one last intimate kiss.
When I stuck my hand in the pocket of my gym shorts as he drove off, I found a hundred dollar bill.