[FMK] 12 Hard Inches: Chapter 4 (Patreon)

CHAPTER FOUR

I wasn’t quite as ashamed of myself as I probably should have been. The reality of sucking that cock was much different than the dreadful, horrific, disgusting nightmare I would have expected. I slept fine that night, worried more about the lunatic trailer park supervisor who lived next door than I was about the trans prostitute I gave oral to.

In fact, I was hardly thinking about that blowjob at all. Every little noise brought me to my feet. I kept sauntering over to the window and peeking out at their trailer. I saw them fighting around midnight. Daryl launched an empty bottle across his living room, almost hitting his wife while she screamed at him. I even heard him scream out, “You’re just a filthy whore!” And in that moment, I thought that maybe she spilled the beans; maybe she told him what happened in an attempt to get under his skin.

I rushed around the trailer to make sure the doors and windows were locked—not that it mattered. If the man wanted me dead, some flimsy locks weren’t going to stop him—and they definitely weren’t going to stop the power of his 12-gauge shotgun.

But he never came over. They just kept fighting, and then they had loud sex; apparently, he was able to get it up just fine. It was 3:00 AM when the lights in their trailer went dark, and I was able to take a breath of relief—though some kids set off some firecrackers around 4:00 AM, stopping me from falling asleep (and I really was just on the verge of falling asleep). The firecrackers had my heart pounding, and it didn’t settle until 5:30AM, minutes before my alarm for work went off.

But I was happy to get away from that park, happy to be in the shop where there was no trailer park supervisor—or assistant trailer park supervisor—breathing down my neck.

All of the guys were talking about girls. One of the guys had found an old porno magazine in his uncle’s house, while cleaning it out after his uncle died. “You’ve gotta see the pussies on some of these girls!” he said. It was a fetish magazine for guys who were into massive bushes of pubic hair. The guys all laughed and swooned over the models in the magazine, and I took a few peeks as well. I didn’t mind pubic hair, but some of those pictures were too over the top for me.

One of the guys said, “Not for me,” while folding his arms. “With all that hair, she looks like me—minus the cock. I’d feel like I was fucking a guy.”

The other guys laughed. “It’s just natural, Ian. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. You know, the way God made it. You’re supposed to be attracted to hairy cunts.”

“Well, I’m not. I guess I’m more evolved than that.”

“No,” said Henry with a big smirk. “It just means that you’re a fucked-up loser who’s into little girls.”

“What the fuck did you just say about me?”

The men got into a fight. Henry argued that girls only shaved to look like teenagers—or pre-teens. “But don’t be weird about it,” he chuckled. “For most of human history, it’s been perfectly acceptable to be attracted to young girls. Everyone knows it, at least on a subconscious level. That’s why girls shave, and that’s why guys want their girls to shave.”

“You’re such a fucking creep,” I said, shaking my head. “Listen to yourself.”

“Hey!” he said. “Don’t freak out at me! I told you: I like hairy girls. The more hair, the better. I just want to bury my face in a huge bush. In fact, I’ll give you ten bucks for the magazine.”

“Sold,” said Stan, the guy who brought the magazine in. He handed Henry the magazine.

“You think that I’m secretly into little girls” said Lewis, shaking his head. “But I think you’re secretly into dudes.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” said Henry.

“Dudes have pubic hair like that. You probably wish your girl had a big, fat cock that you could stroke and suck.”

The men laughed, and my heart skipped a beat. Of course I thought about Bambi and her large cock—though she didn’t have a huge bush of pubic hair. She was more feminine than most of the women I’d been with.

“You know,” said Stan. “My uncle has a massive stack of magazines. I’m pretty sure I saw a few chicks-with-dicks mags in there if you want those too.”

“Ah, fuck you,” said Henry, waving him off.

“I’ll take ‘em,” said Joe with a big smirk.

Then everyone turned to Joe, perplexed. Joe was in his fifties, grey hair, long grey beard. He had a deep voice and huge muscles. Nobody fucked with Joe. He spent his twenties and thirties with the Hell’s Angels, and he spent his forties in prison for reasons that were never revealed publicly. From time to time, his old gang members would come into the shop, and they would always get their bikes fixed for free, no matter who was working.

And we all wanted to laugh at Joe, but we all kept it to ourselves. “Wait. Are you serious?” Henry asked.

Joe just shrugged his shoulders. “The girls,” he said. “Do they look like girls or do they look like guys with makeup on?”

“They look like girls, Joe,” said Stan. “I mean—they’ve got dicks. One mag was full of chicks with big monster-dicks, and the other had asian girls and petite white girls with little erections.”

The men laughed, but not Joe. “I’ll take all of them,” he said.

And I must say that Joe’s uncaring attitude made me feel a bit better about what I did with Bambi. Hell, I was almost tempted to confess to Joe; I could even get him in touch with Bambi if that was something he was into.

But Joe definitely wasn’t what the guys in the shop would call ‘a faggot’—even behind his back, and not just because we were all scared to death of the guy. He was a manly dude. He had scars from gunfights. He rolled his own cigarettes and he shaved with an old hunting knife. And he had the amazing ability to fix any bike in the world, no matter how it was rigged up.

“I’m not going to lie, Joe,” I said. “You didn’t strike me as the type.”

“And what type is that?” he said, glaring into my eyes in a threatening sort of way, urging me to be careful with my next words.

“I just assumed you were a more vanilla kind of guy—that’s all.”

“Never judge a man for what he likes in the bedroom,” he said in a sagely kind of way. “What a man likes to do behind closed doors—as long as it ain’t hurting no one—it’s not anyone else’s business.”

Lewis shrugged Stan with his elbow. “Any other weird shit in that pile?” he asked. “Since we’re all opening up about our weird fetishes—I’m really into girls peeing, especially if they’re wearing clothes. But I’ll take nude if you’ve got any.”

“I can take a look,” said Stan.

“What about farting?” asked another guy, and then everyone laughed—including Joe. “What? A few years ago, I was fucking this girl I met at a bar. She started farting, like, uncontrollably while she was orgasming. It smelled horrible, but holy fuck, was it ever hot!”

“You’re a freak,” said Stan. “How could a magazine have pictures of girls farting?”

“I don’t know, I suppose. Maybe, like, they use computers to put in clouds of green around their butts or something.”

Everyone laughed. It was so absurd.

“She farted the whole time you fucked her? And you were into that?” I asked.

“I didn’t think I would be,” he said. “But there was something hot about it—like, she couldn’t control it anymore. I guess it’s kind of hot to think that I made her feel so good that she couldn’t control herself.”

“But why did she have so much gas in her ass?”

“I don’t know, but she was like that. The moment I started fucking her, she started farting—damn near shitting herself. I asked that girl to marry me and I never even knew her damned last name.”

The guys all laughed.

“What?” he said. “It’s true! I asked her to marry me. Bought her a ring and everything. Well, she turned me down. Turns out she was already married. We stopped fucking after that—but every time I’m with a girl now, I pray that she’ll let a few farts slip while I’m inside of her.”

“That’s enough!” Henry said, throwing his hands in the air. “If you say the word ‘fart’ one more time, I’m going to be sick! Hell, I’m already sick! What a fucking sin!”

“Hey! Like Joe said, don’t judge a guy for what he does in the bedroom.”

“I’m going to judge you all I want, you freak.”

The men laughed. I walked away to start working on a truck that had a mysterious hydraulic fluid leak. I’d been working on that truck for two days already, but I couldn’t figure out where the leak was coming from. It was mindless work, really: disconnecting fittings, running the engine, watching for drips, cleaning parts, reconnecting fittings, and so on. I suppose it’s kind of like doing a jigsaw puzzle (I used to do puzzles with my grandma before she died when I was fourteen). You kind of get into this blank, meditative state as you go through the motions…

Well, it wasn’t long before I started thinking about Bambi, and thinking about what Joe said. Joe’s sagely words really made me feel like less of a degenerate for sucking off a transgender prostitute. It was something he was into, after all, and he was a perfectly respectable man—no less respectable after he admitted he liked girls with cocks. So maybe I didn’t have to stress so much; maybe I didn’t have to worry that I was going to regret it for life.

The image of Bambi stayed in my mind. I swear I could even smell her soft perfume. Later that morning, a client came in to pick up his Audi. She was smoking a cigarette—the same brand Bambi smoked. That smell brought the image of Bambi’s fit body into my mind. I could picture her perfectly, dragging on that smoke, brushing her long hair away from her eyes.

Maybe I did want to see her again. Maybe a proper go with the trans whore would have been nice… She was hotter than the whores that lingered around our park—and she was hotter than the single women who frequented the bars near the park.

I slipped into a bit of a fantasy, imagining myself with her again. I imagined myself kissing her, feeling her hardening cock against my abdomen. In my daydream, I spun her around and bent her over. I stuck my cock into her tight asshole and I reached around to stroke her long shaft while she moaned.

My skin tingled as I entertained that fantasy. I tried to push it away a few times, but it kept coming back. My mind was determined to undress her, to reveal those large breasts an that thick, full cock.

“Raymond!” my boss shouted.

Then, startled, I smashed my forehead against the underside of that truck. “Son of a fucking bitch!”

“Why aren’t you finished with that truck yet? The owner keeps calling me. He needs it for work. Time’s up. Have you fixed the leak or not?”

“I think I finally found it now,” I said, rubbing my forehead with grease-covered fingers. “I just need another hour. I have to take the fuel filter off to get to the fitting.”

“Get it done,” he growled before storming off.

It was a long day at work, operating on no sleep. But the exhaustion didn’t end with work. When I got back to the trailer park, Darcy from down the road was waving me over. She blushed and smiled and eyed my truck before saying, “Daryl’s making me move trailers. I’ve got all this furniture, but nothing to move it with.” She kept her gaze on my truck, making it very clear that she was asking me to use my truck.

“How many trips back and forth, do you think?” I said with a groan.

“No more than ten—fifteen at most,” she smiled.

Darcy was short and fat, but cute in her own way. She had a dark red nose and splotchy red cheeks, but she had massive breasts that could stretch out any shirt in any size. I didn’t mind helping her, knowing that she would probably give me some action the next time we were at a party together; it was good to keep up good relations in the park.

But I didn’t realize she wanted me to help her load everything as well—and I didn’t know that she couldn’t drive a stick, so I had to do all the back-and-forth trips for her. “Son of a bitch,” I groaned. After three trips, she seemed to vanish, and I was moving her stuff for her, without help. I was tempted to walk away, leaving her to figure it out on her own, and then I noticed someone watching me from across the road.

There she was: Bambi, cigarette in her mouth, puffing away with a grin on her face. She had a coat on, covering up her skimpy lingerie—but I could still see glimpses of that red lace, and the tight black leather boots that didn’t really go with the outfit, but was sexy nonetheless. “Frank’s got you coming here daily now?” I said.

“He’s good for five times a week,” she said.

“How the hell can he afford it?”

“Well, I don’t think I can tell you that,” she said. “What my clients tell me stays between me and my clients.”

I grinned. “Well, did you not say that I’m one of your clients? So that means you can tell me—right?” There was just no way Frank could afford to see a hundred-dollar prostitute five times a week. He probably made around half of that working for Daryl, and he never left the park to do any other job that I was aware of. Maybe it wasn’t any of my business, but I loved to think that he was off selling drugs—doing something that would prove he was nothing but a loser and a hypocrite.

Bambi grinned. “So you’re accepting it, huh?” she said.

“Look,” I said. “You’re fine—I’m not going to lie. I’d lay you down and fuck your brains out any day of the week—and I bet it would feel a lot better than whatever Frank’s giving to you. But I’m not some loser; I don’t have to pay to fuck girls.”

“I’m not just any girl,” she said with a proud smile. “You and I both know that I’m special.”

“You think very highly of yourself,” I said. “You’re cute, don’t get me wrong—but if you expect me to pay you to fuck, then you can beat it. I think you’re hot, but I’m not desperate.”

“So, what I’m hearing is: you liked sucking my dick and now you want to do it again. Is that right?”

“I’d prefer sex,” I said.

“Okay, horny boy. Let’s go into your trailer then.”

“Free?” I said.

“Don’t be so cheap,” she said.

“I’m just making sure.”

“Yes—it’s free. But it won’t always be free. Alright? And if I’m giving you a handout, we’re doing it my way. Got it?”

“Whatever,” I said. I figured she just meant she wanted to choose the position. But really, I was agreeing to much more than just letting her pick whether we did it doggy-style or missionary.