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The White Stud presents

On the Road -- By Rod Stevens

(Shadowjack is delayed by another week; enjoy this, with three commissioned drawings by Zack (Oliver Frey): 

 

Everyone knows, hitchhikers can be trouble

 

It was late summer, I was out of bread and far from home. On holiday in America I'd stayed longer then I meant to - mainly because of a handsome young cowboy up in Montana, but I won't go into that. Anyway, here I was in Arizona with only a handful of dollars in my pocket and no bed for the night. The Greyhound bus had taken me as far a Apache Junction and from there I'd walked twelve miles along the highway. There was little traffic and what there was went on by. At the sound of a car behind me I turned and gave the hitchhiker's thumb sign; the big Cadillac swished past without so much as a glance from the driver. Bastard, I thought, but I couldn't blame him - I knew I looked rough: a sweaty tee-shirt, denim jacket, torn shorts and sneakers don't inspire confidence. Everyone knows  hitchhikers can be trouble. 

Another couple of miles. with the mid afternoon temperature in the high eighties and the altitude over 6,000 feet and I was beginning to feel really shagged. At the summit of the rise a road-side shack came into view about half a mile away. As I got nearer I could see a faded sign saying FOOD DRINK POOL. Well, I could afford a coke and maybe I could wash dishes for my supper. After the brilliant sunlight the inside of the shack seemed pitch dark but in a few seconds I could make out a long bar with bottles and glasses in the reflected glow of a neon beer sign. At the end of the counter the bartender was playing crap with a huge fat man whose vast buttocks spread over the bar-stool like a pear balanced on a pinhead. The bartender came for my order. "Yeah?" 

"A coke, please." 

Without a word he filled a glass with ice, placed it on a paper mat, put the bottle of coke alongside it and went back to his crap game. I sipped my drink and wondered how to broach my problem. The bartender seemed unfriendly and the fat man - well, I'd rather take chances on the road. A minute passed; five, in which the only sounds were the rattle of dice on the counter and the tinkle of ice in my glass. Suddenly, without warning, the bartender ran to the till and began stuffing notes into his pocket. At the same time the fat man lowered his mountainous bulk from the stool and waddled out of the door with surprising speed. The bartender followed; as he went he shouted over his shoulder "Better get going, man." There came the sound of a car engine fading in the distance. Puzzled by their behaviour I stayed where I was. Then, faintly I heard a noise like a swarm of bees. The sound grew rapidly louder, rising to a deafening roar which I recognised as motor bikes. Outside the shack the engines cut abruptly and there was a moment's sinister silence; then the sound of several pairs of heavy boots approaching. My heart beat faster and a cold sweat broke out on my forehead. I sat paralysed on the stool although I knew what was coming: I'd met a Chapter of Hell's Angels before. The door burst open, letting in a shaft of late afternoon sunshine, illuminating me like a dazzling spotlight. 

 

The voice was low and quiet and all the more menacing because of it.

I didn't turn round, I didn't have to: reflected in the  mirror behind the bar was the silhouette of a gigantic man, his frame completely filling the doorway. Behind him crowded several other guys. Slowly the huge figure advanced, came and stood behind me like some monster from a nightmare. Now, in the reflection, I could see he wore a Nazi steel helmet, denim jacket with the sleeves torn out revealing enormous shoulders and great muscular upper arms. There was an iron cross on a chain around the thick bullneck. The figure seated itself on the next bar-stool and our eyes met in the mirror although his, deep-set were just pin-points of lighting the shadow of the helmet. "Get me a beer, kid." 

The voice was low and quiet and all the more menacing because of it. 

"I'm not the barman. Get it yourself." I was horrified at my involuntary reply. How could I have answered so stupidly? He spoke again, without raising his voice, but there was an edge to it like cold steel. "Move ya ass or I'll break ya fuckin' neck." 

I moved my ass. I went behind the bar, found the cooler, placed an ice-cold can of beer in front of him. "Open it." Again my words spewed out unbidden. "You open it." 

Silence. I was aware that the other guys had lined up at the counter, watching, waiting. Suddenly, like a striking snake, his arm came up and with the back of his hand he struck me across the mouth. I reeled against the rear of the bar, dislodging a couple of glasses which shattered on the floor. I too a deep breath, my head ringing; a warm trickle of blood ran from my mouth to my chin. "Open it." 

The voice was even louder, a hoarse whisper. I shook my head. Slowly he got off the stool and came round behind the bar. Now I could see him in frightening detail. He must have been all of six feet tall. The great shoulders tapered to a narrow waist and hips, the powerful thighs flared out in oil-stained jeans held up at the waist with a broad studded belt and stuffed into big boots. Beneath the denim jacket I could see a superb bronzed torso, great deep pectorals and a knotted abdomen. But even more impressive was the enormous bulge in his crotch. For a moment I forgot my terror in sheer amazement at what I saw, thrown into dramatic contours by the neon light. The big bulge was obviously his balls but below that, swelling down the inside left leg, was a great serpentine shaft. It can't really be his cock, I thought, its some obscene joke, a great rubber prick from a porno shop. He stood with his thumbs hooked into the belt loops, staring down at me. 

"So you wanna play games?" he said. 

I was trembling all over but maybe that was the sight of the enormous cock as much as fright. It really turned me on. 

"No," I said, "but you can pour your own beer - can't you?" My voice was shaky, too, and the last two words sounded shamefully weak, like a surrender. His arm came up again and I ducked instinctively but he didn't hit me. Instead, he placed a huge hand behind my neck and pulled me towards him. In close proximity my head came up to his chest, accentuating his size - and my lack of it. I've always  been a bit touchy about my stature. I've a good, hard muscular body, kept in trim by running and rowing and swimming, but I can t pretend I'm big. The only thing that's big is my cock which looks even bigger because of my compact physique but against this Goliath - well, forget it. With his fingers still encircling the back of my neck he moved his thumb against the corner of my mouth, wiping away the blood. It was a surprising gentle gesture and with it a release of tension. Disappointed, the other guys swarmed behind the bar, grabbing bottles of liquor which they carried outside. He opened the can of beer and held it out to me. I took a couple of gulps and handed it back; he drained it in one swallow then crushed the can in his fist as if it was paper. I think it was done out of habit rather than with intention to impress. No one could have doubted his strength. "Get me another - p!ease kid." 

He grinned at his own politeness and the sudden show of perfect white teeth in the overwide mouth transformed his face from a grim mask into something engagingly human. 

"Sure." I wanted to show that after my foolhardy defiance I was ready to do what he wanted. Correction: looking at that enormous equipment I was ready to do anything he wanted. Well, almost. 

"My name's Blackie," he said. "What ya doin' 'here, kid?" 

I told him, briefly, howl was on my way back to England, how all I had was a few dollars and my plane ticket from New York. He turned to the others, still busy ransacking the bar. "Hey, you guys, looks like I've got me a little Limey to play with." Then he turned back to me. "C'mon, kid, we gotta get outta here, the Highway Patrol 'll be comin 'by any minute." 

We hurried back outside and Blackie motioned me to get on the pillion of his bike, a gleaming black and chromium 'chopped hog'. As he swung into the saddle I saw, emblazoned on the back of his denim jacket, a skull wearing a Hun helmet and underneath the words 'Black Baron'. He kicked the starter and the big 1,000cc engine throbbed beneath us. In formation the whole group wheeled away from the shack, heading down the highway, the setting sun lengthening the shadows on the stark landscape. After about ten miles we turned off on to a rough track that wandered across the mesa. All the time we were ascending and then, between two outcrops of rock, I saw a group of crude huts made of adobe, scrap timber and plaited grasses in the manner of the summer hogans built by the Navaho Indians. We pulled up in a choking cloud of dust. Blackie indicated a hut with the same skull insignia on the makeshift door and I went in. It was very dark but Blackie followed, struck a match and lit an oil lamp. The soft golden glow illuminated a surprisingly cosy interior, a mattress covered with Indian blankets, a crudely carpentered table, a washbowl, a litter of paperbacks. "Hungry?" Blackie asked. I nodded. "Hash, beans and beer is all we got." 

"That's fine." 

I watched while he prepared the meal over a small camping stove, moving quickly and quietly, lithe as a cat despite his size. He had taken off his helmet and I  saw his hair was cut very short, a skull-cap of matted black curls in direct contrast to my own streaky blond mop which had grown rather long during the holiday. When the food was ready Blackie piled the hash on to two enamel plates, set them on the table and opened a pack of beer. I was ravenous and he watched, faintly amused, as I shovelled down the food. While we were eating there was a knock on the door. Blackie called "come in" and a tall, slim guy entered carrying a bottle of Bourbon.

 "Thought you might need this," the guy said, speaking to Blackie but looking at me, sizing me up. "Thanks snake. You okay?" 

"Oh, sure. I'm bunking in with Chuck. Enjoy yourselves." 

I sensed something hidden in this brief exchange and Blackie's next words gave me a clue. "Snake's my regular buddy. He usually shares my bed," he said, simply.

 "I see." (I said; at least I thought I did). There seemed to be the unspoken assumption that I had taken Snake's place. "Won't he mind if. . ." I began. Incredibly, I felt myself blushing (Blushing!) I hoped the lamplight was too dim, my suntan too dark, for Blackie to see. 

"He don't mind. He knows I like a change." There it was, then. I was the sacrificial lamb to lie down with the lion. The meal over Blackie opened the bottle of Bourbon and sat down on the mattress. "C'mon kid," he said, jerking his head. 

I went across and sat next to him. He passed me the bottle and I took a swig. He swallowed some more and then, putting the bottle aside, he turned towards me, leant over and pressed his wide mouth over mine. His tongue probed delicately, his saliva flavoured by the Bourbon.

 

My breezing became quick and shallow

Strong fingers gripped my shoulders and pushed me down beneath him. After some minutes of passionate kissing he straightened up and took off his jacket. The lamplight glowed on his skin, catching the subtle planes of his magnificent body. My breathing became quick and shallow. I was tremendously excited by this superb man, big and brutal but paradoxically capable of being gentle and tender. He sat up and undid his fly; his hand went in and slowly he uncoiled his unbelievably huge cock. Then he stood astride me and pulled down his jeans, finally exposing the whole glorious apparatus, the balls like some swollen fruit, the great tool gradually becoming tumescent. Size isn't everything, is it? I mean shape and proportion are important, too. Blackie's was, well fantastically beautiful. Breathtakingly big, sure, but evenly shaped with a glistening glans revealed by a fully retracted foreskin. He began manipulating himself, the great shaft visibly pulsating but still only half hard. I thought, we only have eight pints of blood in us and that is going to take a whole pint to get it hard! Mesmerised, 

I knelt and put my arms round his massive thighs.I moistened my lips and took the great shining knob in my mouth. It was like trying to swallow a large mandarin orange except that the skin was soft as silk. Now, I thought, you've always prided yourself on your technique, now show what you can do. Blackie put his hand behind my neck and gently pushed the head of his prick to the back of my throat. My throat was filled with his throbbing flesh and momentarily  I gagged. I closed my eyes but was aware of him fumbling with something. Then a wad of cotton wool was thrust under my nostrils and those familiar, acrid fumes came to my rescue. As if by magic - how resilient are the mucus membranes of the mouth! - my throat opened and expanded and the knob thrust down followed by inch upon inch of that tremendous shaft, rock-hard now, completely stopping all passage of air. Desperately I felt for Blackie's fist and the cotton wool, held it to my nostrils as more inches slid inexorably down my gullet, seeming to tear my throat open. Then he began the withdrawl stroke, slowly, slowly until I thought my lungs would burst; as  the knob came into my mouth again I gasped for oxygen. Once more the great piston- prick began its journey, sliding faster this time, thrusting more ruthlessly, Blackie's  steely fingers enfolding my skull, playing with my hair, beginning to pump his cock with a savage rhythm. My own cock had swollen and was trying to find some way out of my imprisoned shorts. I felt Blackie's hand gripping the waist-band, undoing the buckle...pulling my shorts down, releasing my trapped cock which was immediately encased by his hand, folding, caressing, pulling back the foreskin until in an agony of ecstacy I felt the spunk beginning to well up from my balls. His hand moved to my chest, found the nipple, squeezed hard at the same time as he thrust with his huge phallus. He slid the great slippery length in and out as I fought to open my throat and take every inch. My own cock was bursting, aching,throbbing, as the juice surged towards release. Then Blackie started to come, too. The first great spurt began ash is cock was on the backward stroke, jetting a stream of cream into my mouth. I swallowed the thick, salty spunk greedily as another great ejaculation spilled out, then another as he thrust down my throat again. The endless fountain of come overflowed my mouth, ran down my chin, dripped on to my chest - and still he kept shooting! I'm going to drown in his spunk, I thought, as I writhed and twisted under my own shattering orgasm my crotch and thighs sticky with warm fluid. After aeons of time he collapsed his enormous weight on top of me, panting, sweating, shuddering and jerking as if he were convulsed by electric shocks, moaning like an animal. I clung to the massive body, stroking the powerful black muscles, crushed and breathless but revelling in the feel of his magnificent masculinity. We both fell into an exhausted sleep but some hours later I woke to find him stroking my arse. "I want to fuck ya kid," he whispered, one great arm pinioning me to the bed. 

"No way, Blackie,' 'I said. "It may be a great way to die but I'm not quite ready yet." 

I thought I might have a struggle on my hands but at that moment Snake burst in unceremoniously. Through the door I could see the first streaks of dawn. "There's a police chopper nosin' aroun"' Snake said, "We better hit the road, Blackie." 

"Okay." 

That was it, then. Honestly, I don't know whether I could have handled another session - certainly not a fuck - but I didn't have the chance. Within twenty minutes Blackie, Snake and the other guys had packed all their gear and were ready to move off. "Winter's comm' on. We had to quit soon, anyway," Blackie said  philosophically. 

They dropped me at a truck shop a few miles down the highway. When I dismounted Blackie gave me a grin and a pat on the arse. "So long, kid," he said, "I'll see ya sometime." 

Then he accelerated away, leading his pack towards the West. There goes the biggest cock in America, I thought ruefully. As I stood there a huge intercontinental truck began pulling out of the park. I gave the hitchhiker's sign and it stopped. The cab door opened and the driver signalled me to climb up. He wasn't as big as Blackie but he looked good - a spotless white singlet accentuated a lean torso, tight, clean jeans revealed strong legs and a nicely bulging crotch. 

"Where ya goin?" the trucker asked. 

"East. As far as you can take me." 

"Okay." He put the big rig in gear and we moved off down the highway. I looked at him and, momentarily taking his eyes off the road, he glanced across at me. The thin-lipped, rather cruel mouth gave a wry smile. I couldn't see the expression in his eyes which were shaded by dark glasses but knew he was appraising me, my rather grimy appearance, my torn shorts. "I reckon you an' me's goin' ta get along jus'fine,"he said.



Art by Zack (Oliver Frey), commissioned for this piece (which was written a long time ago).

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