The Ruby Tuesday’s restaurant is more crowded than I expect. It’s 3:00pm on a Saturday, so a little late for lunch but early for dinner. Fayetteville, North Carolina, is a military town, though, so not everyone works regular hours.
As a single man, I usually go to the bar and hope to be left alone so I can read my trashy fantasy novel on my phone while enjoying a beer and a burger. Only two spaces are available—on either side of a guy who appears just a tad older than my 45 years. He’s not eating, just nursing a bourbon and a beer. He appears to be involved with his phone, so I figure maybe he won’t expect me to be social, so I sit beside him.
I order my Blue Moon and burger, pull out my phone, and start to post on Instagram a picture of a Husky dog.
“Wow, that a beauty. He yours?” the guy beside me asks.
Nosy fucker. Here we go. “No, he’s a rescue I just drove for a part of his trip from his foster to an adopter.”
“You got a dog?”
“No,” I sigh, “I live alone. Don’t want to leave one stranded by himself all day long.”
He pulls out his phone and brings up some photos. “This is Jackson.” He shows me a photo of a German Shepherd.
“Nice looking dog,” I offer, and then look up at the football game on the TV, hoping he’ll get the hint and leave me alone.
“I love dogs. Jackson is the greatest. You from around here?”
Okay. I guess we’re doing this. “Traveling through, just stopped in for a bite.”
I live about an hour south, but I’m trying to be vague.
“I’m just outside of town—a few minutes away. This is a great place to live. Been here my whole life.”
“Military?” I ask. He has a bit of a buzzcut and a cute little moustache but doesn’t strike me as “army.” Fort Bragg… sorry… Fort Liberty does have a few marines and air force stationed here, too, though.
“Nah…” he chuckles. “Thought about it but never did. Daddy had me working for his construction company right out of high school.”
“Really?” I’m a little surprised. He’s maybe 5’8’’, so a little short for that kind of work. He isn’t buff, either, but is certainly in shape. Has a perky little butt.
“Yeah… run the company now.” He takes a swig of his bourbon. “What about you?”
“Boring office stuff,” I lie. This man does not need to know I am a graphic designer. He would be asking me for free advice and work right away.
I look up at the TV again. A commercial about the upcoming news broadcast is on, mentioning the drones popping around New Jersey.
“Now ain’t that some shit,” he says. “I hear there’s a ship offshore—Iranian or some shit—controlling ‘em.”
Fuck me. He’s one of them. A fucking conspiracy lunatic.
“You know what it is, though… controlling the weather… all that flooding in Asheville? Weather control.” He looks at me for confirmation.
“Yeah, that’s what I heard…” I don’t disagree with him because I don’t want to engage him in this conversation.
“Yep, it’s true. The news said about 100 people died, but I have friends that saw it and said it was closer to 1000,” he rants.
“Really? That high?” What an idiot…
“Hell, probably higher than that, but “FEMA” was not letting anybody in, so there’s no way to know…”
“Wow…” is all I can think to say.
“I’m Mike.” He holds out his hand.
“Dave,” I offer. We shake hands. I look around to see if I can catch the bartender. He’s on the other side of the bar. “Excuse me,” I say to Mike, and I walk around the bar to tell him to change my hamburger to a ‘to go’ order. I then go back to Mike.
“So you’re a desk jockey, huh… You seem to be in shape.” He slaps his palm on my tricep and squeezes. “You’re tall, too!”
“Oh, well, I work out some. What about you? You just supervise now, or do you do any real work?”
“Fuck, I wish. Got a bunch of lazy illegals working—have to show ‘em how It’s done,” he laughs. “You know how it is.”
I fucking hate this guy. “Yeah… nobody wants to work these days…”
“Yeah,” he adds, “I love Trump, but if he sends ‘em all away he’ll fucking kill my business.”
Fuck me, I knew it! I try to change the subject, “What was your dog’s name again?”
“Oh! Jackson! Man, he’s great.” He picks his phone up off the bar and starts going through his pictures again.
A picture of his dog on a den couch with a nice-looking woman.
“Nice house,” I say, “that your wife?”
“Yeah, that’s Stacey, we’ve been married almost thirty years.” He quickly swipes to another photo. “Here’s Jackson by the pool. Man, he loves the water.”
He swipes again. Another photo by the pool of Jackson. In this one, Mike is squatting beside him wearing an American flag Speedo swimsuit.
“Gotcha,” I think to myself.
He swipes again. This one is a picture of a bottle of bourbon.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Oh, a bottle a friend had,” he answers. “Really good…”
“I love bourbon. Will you send that to me?” I ask innocently. I give him my cell number and he messages the photo to me.
The bartender walks over with my burger in a bag.
“You gonna be here for a bit?” I check with Mike.
“I don’t know. You leaving?” He sounds disappointed.
“Just gonna run across the street for a minute. Maybe we can talk more?” I look at him.
He looks at me for a second. “I reckon I can hang out a few more…”
“Great!”
I run across the street to the ABC store and then to the Holiday Inn Express to check in. It takes about 20 minutes.
I text Mike. “You can keep paying $10 a drink or you can come next door, watch the rest of the game, and have a drink with me.” I attach a photo of the 1792 Bourbon I just bought. “Holiday Inn Express. Room 203.”
I grab my overnight bag from the car, some ice from the machine, and go to the room.
I get a text, “Okay, but can’t stay long.”
I barely have time to turn on the TV, put my burger in the fridge, and take off my shoes and socks when there’s a knock.
I open the door. “Mike! C’mon in!”
“Just for a few… Can’t turn down good bourbon!”
I grab two plastic cups from the bathroom, set them on the bedside table between the two double beds, pop a few cubes of ice in them, and pour the bourbon.
“Here you go!” I hold up a cup for Mike as I sit on one of the beds.
He walks over, takes a cup, and sits across from me on the other bed.
I hold up my cup. “Cheers!” We toast and drink.
“Damn, that’s good,” he whistles.
“Fuck, yeah,” I agree.
He looks at the game. “Who’s winning?”
“Gators! But halftime just started.” I mute the TV.
“So… why you out drinking by yourself today?” I kick his shoe with my bare foot.
“Wife’s with her sister… at a church thing… and, well, you just gotta get out of the house sometimes, you know…” He looks at me. We hold eye contact a little too long. He looks down.
“Must be nice…” I throw out.
“What?”
“Having the wife. Can’t tell you the last time I got laid…” I sip my bourbon.
“It’s alright. But you? You’re a stud, man… ain’t nothin’ stopping you.”
I can play this game all day.
“I was fucking this girl…” I start, “for almost a year, until…”
“Until… what?”
Ah. I have him hooked. Of course, there was no girl, but I knew what would get Mike going…
“I came home early one day. No big reason. I was just horny as hell and I knew she had the day off, so I was gonna surprise her… I get to her house. Her car is in the driveway. Some yard guys are there. You know the type. One of ‘em is working out front. I go to the door, and it’s cracked open. I knock. Not too hard, ‘cause like I say, I want to surprise her.”
“No one answers, so I push the door open and walk in. I mean, I had a key, so that didn’t seem to be too big of a deal. I say, “Hello,” but not too loud… I don’t see Fran in the living room or kitchen, so I head back to the bedroom… and, well…”
“Uh oh,” Mike laugh.
“Yeah…” I look at him. “Her bedroom door’s about halfway open and I look into the room and I see… Fuck… Fran’s on her knees. In front of her is this Mexican dude—one of the yard guys—and his pants are down around his ankles…”
“Jesus Christ…” Mike whispers.
“And Fran is sucking his dick...”
“Holy fuck, what did you do?”
I take a sip of bourbon. “Fuck, I just stood there in shock for a minute… and then I started to say something, but I’m just standing there looking, and this guy… he was taller than me, so 6’3” or so. Maybe 25 years old. And he’s just standing there, and his dick… Mike, I ain’t kiddin,’ man, it was huge. Like eight, maybe nine inches. And Fran was looking up at him, her tongue out, just licking underneath that fat dickhead…”
“Mmmph…” is all Mike could manage.
I set my cup down and leaned back on my elbows on the bed. “And that dude, he was just looking down at her smiling, and she was looking up at him, and she grabbed his dick and looked at like it was a god. It was fat and uncut. And she just stuck her tongue under the hood and rolled it around the head of his dick…”
“Fucker…” Mike groans.
I reach down and adjust my own dick, now hard and bulging my jeans, tucked along my right hip. “And Fran is drooling, and he reaches down and grabs his dick and lifts it up, and Fran starts licking his sweaty, hairy balls. He jacks his dick, but real slow, and then pulls the skin back and that fat purple head of his dick pops out…”
“Nasty…” Mike whispers. “They didn’t see you? You didn’t say anything?”
“I thought about it. They didn’t see me, not at first, but… just watching it had me so fucking hard, Mike… I mean, his cock was leaking juice, and he touched his finger to it and then stuck it in her mouth… and, fuck, man, his dick was just so fuckin’ big. I mean, I’m not small, but it was…”
“What happened next?”
“Well, she sucked him for another minute or so, and then he sat on the bed with that big sausage of his sticking up…”
Mike groans.
“And she straddles him. Her back is to me, so she doesn’t see me, and that fat dick head of his is rubbing against her cunt, and she’s moaning, and he’s rubbing it back and forth right at her lips, and she starts to lower herself, but it takes her a minute…”
Mike shoots the rest of his bourbon and sets the cup on the bedside table. He looks at me.
I look directly at him. “That cock is so big, man, and it’s even fatter around the middle, and she slowly gets the head in… and at this point… Jesus, Mike, I was about ready to shoot in my jeans… I had to get my dick out… but before I could… he looked over her shoulder… and… he saw me… he looked right at me”
“Shit…” Mike is looking at me. “What…”
“And he had this grin, and he lifted his chin toward me… like, ‘Whassup?” you know? And I… fuck… Mike, dude, he just spread his legs so I could get a better view, and he put his hands on Fran’s ass and started moving her up and down on his dick… and, I…”
“What?”
“I’m embarrassed to say it, Mike, but I just had to… I pulled my dick out of my pants. My underwear was soaking wet by this point, and I was leaking so much… I just rubbed my juice all up and down my dick… and watched that big dick fucking my girlfriend…”
I look at Mike. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking at my dick throbbing up along my right hip. Bouncing in my jeans. His eyes are glazed over.
“And he spoke to me, Mike…”
Mike looks up at me. “What did he say?”
He said, “You want this dick?”
“What did you say?”
“I don’t know, Mike.” I looked at him for a second. “What would you say?”
“Huh?”
He watches me massage my pole through my jeans. If someone, like right now, asks you “You want this dick?”
He looks up at me. His eyes glaze over. I undo my belt and open my jeans.
“What would you say, Mike?”
Before I can even get my dick out, he drops to his knees in front of me.
I laugh. “Guess that answers that question…”
He’s practically drooling as my fat dick pops out of my boxers. He starts slobbering on my knob right away.
“Holy fuck, Mike, slow down!” I yelp.
But there’s no stopping him. He’s going down to the root on my seven plus inches, and this fucker is good, too. I grab him by the side of the head and pull him up off my dick.
“Mike!” Holy fuck, this man looks up at me and he has tears in his eyes. He’s panting.
“Jesus Christ, dude. Take a breather. Pour us a drink!”
He sits back on the bed across from me. His hands are shaking as he grabs the bottle.
“Nevermind.” I take the bottle and pour us a couple of fingers each. I take a sip. I hand him his cup and downs half.
I take off my shirt. I nod at him. He takes his off, too. “Pants, too,” I say, “and then you can get back on this dick for a minute.”
He practically jumps out of his pants. He has on red striped bikini briefs that are already soaking wet from his precum. He arranges his hard dick so it’s up against his belly and sticking out of the waistband.
He gets on his knees in front of me. I stand up, and he pulls my jeans and underwear down. He looks up at me.
“Slow. Nice and slow,” I instruct him. I take another sip of my bourbon as I feel his tongue on my glans. “Just the head for now.” He reaches up to massage my balls. “No hands. Just hold the head in your mouth while I sip my bourbon.”
I take another sip. His dick is bouncing, pushing the waistband of his briefs in and out, and he’s leaking cock snot like a faucet.
I shove his head off my dick.
“Stand up.” He stands. His head comes up to my nose. “You’re a horny little fucker, aren’t you? Was it my story that got you going? I thought that might do the trick.” I reach out and pinch his nipple. He groans. A little shot of precum from his dick flies up and out and hits my hairy leg.
“On the bed. Hands and knees.”
He gets up on the bed. His ass toward me. His ass is perky. I reach over and pull his briefs down to his knees.
I spread his ass cheeks and look at his hairy pucker.
“Fuck, Mike! Did you plan on this?” I reach a finger to his asshole. A little dab of Vaseline is there. I use my middle finger to rub around his pucker. He groans. Loudly.
“You can talk, Mike. Did you plan on this?”
“No, sir,” he grunts, and pushes back against my finger a little.
“Then what the fuck is this?” I push and my finger goes in up to the first knuckle.
“Ungh… well, I mean, I was hopeful, yes, sir, that when you messaged me the room number…” He pushes back. My finger goes up to the second knuckle. “I put a dab of grease on in the truck.”
“I’m a little disappointed, Mike,” I sigh. “I mean, I’m flattered, but I was hoping for a tight hole to fuck, and, well, this one is…”
“I’m sorry, sir, but…” He pushes back. My finger goes all the way in.
I add a second finger. “Well, maybe, we can work with this, but you’re lucky I have a pretty fat dick, otherwise…” I start fucking his hole with my fingers.
“Uhhh… fuck…” he moans.
“Or would you prefer a big, uncut, illegal dick…” I add a third finger.
“No, sir, no fucking way!” His cock dribbles juice down on to the bedspread as he arches his back.
“Maybe one up your ass and another one down your throat!” I jam my fingers into his ass.
“Hell, no! Goddamn it” he yells, and he cums all over the bedspread. He shoots four or five big jets and still keeps fucking himself back onto my fingers.
I pull my fingers out and he collapses onto the bed.
I go into the bathroom and wash off my hands. Goddamn Vaseline. Oil based shit hardly washes off. I use the towel.
I go to the bedside table and pour myself another couple of fingers of bourbon. I take a sip.
“Roll over.”
He rolls over. The neatly trimmed hair on his belly and chest glistens from where he had collapsed into his own cum. His dick is semi-hard and still leaking.
I walk around to the other side of the bed. I take my dick and start rubbing it on his forehead. He tries to ignore it. My dick leaves trails of snot across his forehead and cheeks. He starts sticking out his tongue. I back up a bit. He scoots up so his head is hanging off the edge of the bed. He opens his mouth. Wide.
“Yeah, that’s it, you fucker,” I rasp, “somebody knows how to get throat-fucked!”
I step forward and slide my dick down his throat. He moans. I start slowly fucking it.
“Maybe next time I bring my wife’s yard crew with me, Mike, and you can have a nasty, uncut, stinky sausage down your throat.”
He groans and I feel it through my dick. His own five-inch dick jumps, too, and a glob of juice dribbles out.
“I think there’s three or four of ‘em. The one I saw, his little eighteen-year-old hermano, and sometimes their padre and tio. You think you could handle three or four illegals ramming their big dicks up your ass and down your throat?”
Mike was hard as a rock now, groaning and dribbling. I was fucking his throat harder now.
I pull my dick out of his mouth. He gasps. He sticks his tongue out. He wants it back.
“You like dick, Mike?”
“Yes, sir!”
I lean over and pinch his nipples. “You ready to get fucked, Mike?”
“Please, sir, yes, sir!”
I walk around to the other side of the bed. I grab his feet and pull him toward me. I lift his ankles and spread his legs. His hole is pink and a little raw from my finger-banging, but it’s nice and greasy.
I jam my cock into him. All the way to the pubes. He yelps. I start fucking him hard. He’s not that tight, but I slap his chest and he tightens his ass.
He reaches for his dick. I slap his hand away.
I plunge away. Maybe a minute, and his little dick starts spurting again. He groans and reaches for it. I slap his hand again. I keep fucking him. Another minute or two.
“Uhhh…” he groans. “Stop…”
I keep pounding him.
“It’s too much…”
I pull out. I climb up on the bed and sit on his chest. I jack my dick and I shoot my load all over his face. It’s a big load. It’s in his hair, his moustache.
I get up and go to the bathroom. I throw a towel at him.
“Wipe yourself off, and get out, you fucking racist.”
I go in the bathroom and take a quick shower.
When I get out, he’s gone.
I heat up my burger in the microwave. Nothing to work up an appetite like a good grudge fuck.
My phone buzzes. A text from Mike. “Let me know when you come back through Fayetteville.”
Fucker.
