“Stay away from Zwykowski,” Karpak hissed. “He’s mean.”
We pulled out of Dugan’s Disposal Service in our shiny green four-ton dumpster.
Karpak pointed to a man several yards away polishing the headlights of his big green truck. “That’s him!” I followed his finger to a sturdy blond man in his forties wearing a red flannel shirt and tight jeans.
“He got an attitude. You say good morning to him, alls you get is the fisheye,” Karpak hissed. He hissed everything, it turned out, because of his lateral lisp. It was the first day of my summer job at Dugan’s Disposal. I wasn’t interested in the politics of the place; my mission was to get through the summer and make a tidy bundle to see me through the next semester. Stay away from Zwykowski? No problem. Just point me to the dumpsters and let me do my job.
Karpak was right. Zwykowski was a cool one. The few times I addressed him, I got a raised eyebrow and the barest nod. I watched Zwykowski in the mornings as we sat around the locker room waiting for our assignments. He always sat alone in a corner reading the paper, sipping his coffee. He was a good-looking man, with the assurance and badass attitude of a Spartan commander. His thick hair shone like gold in the sun, and he kept it in place by running his hands through it. His bright eyes were cold blue with ironic creases around them. He had deep, magnificent dimples he rarely used and a cleft in his strong chin.
Zwykowski’s body was precision built, you could see the man took care of himself. His strong, defined chest was covered in blond fur, and he showed it off in tight, immaculate flannel shirts with three buttons undone. His jeans looked custom-made for his narrow waist, firm butt, and muscular legs. Whoever made them lovingly worked the area around his crotch, so that the seam separated his enormous balls and highlighted the fat sausage that crawled down his left leg.
Dugan’s Disposal yard bathroom was filthy, two ancient stalls begging for glory holes and three old-fashioned bowl urinals. One morning I was taking a leak and Zwykowski came, gave me the cold eye, and stepped up to the next urinal. I looked at the wall and checked out Zwykowski from the corner of my eye. First, I noticed how big his hands were, beefy and articulate with surprisingly impeccable nails. He unzipped and had to dig deep to pull out his hefty tool. Big pink melons popped out of his jeans along with his big pink sausage. He sighed involuntarily. It must have been a relief to free that hefty package. My cock grew in my hand and started drooling. I gaped at Zwykowski as he took a long, satisfying piss. He grunted and I squeaked involuntarily.
My mouth was open and dry. His cock was so rosy and tasty looking, I imagined it on a bed of steamed cabbage, or raw in my mouth. He finished and exhaled, shaking off big pink, jiggling the melons at the same time. He stuffed it all back in, zipped up, looked at me, raised a mean eyebrow, snorted, and walked out. With a couple of strokes, I shot a load that filled the porcelain bowl. It was going to be hard to stay away from Zwykowski now.
Zwykowski had the heaviest, longest route, which he’d worked alone for years. He decided the next day he needed a partner and Old Man Dugan picked me. Zwykowski snorted and gave me the fisheye. I read the verdict in his eyes: Candy Ass.
As we made our stops, I stared at his big brown arms and the way his meat was stuffed into his jeans. I vowed to prove to him that I wasn’t the typical college slacker. I jumped out ahead of him at every stop, hooked up the dumpsters to the back of the truck, and worked the controls, picked up the drums. I saw the raised eyebrow, caught a couple of grunts in my direction but otherwise, silence. I could not think of one intelligent or even stupid thing to say. We pulled up to a warehouse that looked deserted. I followed him in silence out of the truck. We stepped into a freight elevator. He hit a button and we started noisily, shakily up. I looked at him for some clue to our mission, noticing as we stood face to face that I was a head taller than him. He noticed too and it pissed him off.
“Drums are upstairs. We haul them down and dump them,” he said in a smoky voice. It turned me on to hear his voice, to be taller than him, to be stuck in this rusty, clattering box with him. I felt the heat of it as I said, “Oh.” He heard it in my voice and looked up with a curious, cold gaze.
There were six heavy drums loaded with chunks of metal from a print shop. I grabbed one and clumsily dragged it to the elevator. Zwykowski grabbed my arm, “Whoa, hotshot. We do this together.”
He found a dolly and we loaded the drums onto it. He took off his shirt and I gawked at his furry, golden chest as his full pecs flexed and shook with the effort. A spiral of golden fur ran down to his flat, washboard stomach. We were sweating so much by the time we reached the elevator that I took off my tee shirt. I felt him watching me.
The elevator shuddered as it began its descent. Zwykowski leaned against a splintery wall, his fat sausage growing down his leg. My mouth went dry. He read my face coolly and accurately. I moved toward him in the stifling heat. He unbuttoned his jeans.
“Come and get it,” he said as his cock sprang out, fat and rosy with a full mushroom head. My hand reached for it, but Zwykowski clamped one paw behind my neck and pulled my head down. I sank before him, pulling down his jeans on the way, his big tool thumping in my face. His crackling golden bush smelled of Irish Spring and testosterone as I took his bulbous cock head in my mouth and licked at its salty tip. Zwykowski grunted and pulled my hair, shoving his tasty meat down my throat. I gagged, recovered, and let it thump against the back of my throat, keeping time with my heartbeat. I yanked my painfully stiff poker out of my jeans and let it wave in the air, knowing one stroke and I’d be squatting in a pool of jizz.
The elevator shuddered slowly downward, and I shuddered with pleasure as I wrapped one hand around his big balls and pulled his cock deeper into my mouth. I felt the rumble in Zwykowski’s nuggets as they tightened, and the first hot licks of sweet cream pumped down my throat. I gave my stiff dick one stroke and shot a spray of boy juice into the air, hitting everything within five feet.
The elevator clumped to a halt. Zwykowski shook the last drop of dew off his mighty pecker and stuffed it back into his pants.
“Nice,” he snorted. We went silently back to work.
The next day I got the silent treatment. I felt the heat of him all day, caught whiffs of him, soap, tobacco, sweat, fabric softener. As he drove, I gaped at his sandy pink profile, the contours of his chest pressed against the flannel, the outline of his meat crammed into his jeans. I had a boner all day. If he broke his silence, if the only words he said to me were, “I want to tie you by your hair around the rear bumper and drag you around all day,” I would only ask how he wanted me, face up or face down.
The next day, I could sense Zwykowski thinking about conversation. I tried to help him.
“Hot today,” I said.
“Yep.”
We pulled into the dump as we did at the end of every day, following the convoy of trucks up the bumpy, dusty, cratered road to the top of the landfill. The convoy kicked up a cloud of pungent dust that settled over every inch of the truck and our skins. We could see the top of the landfill, and its fleet of bulldozers shimmered in the heat. Zwykowski stopped the truck for a moment and skillfully slipped out of his shirt. He folded it neatly and tucked it in the glove compartment.
I watched Zwykowski’s biceps gleam in the heat and watched his sinewy forearm as he downshifted. The golden fur on his chest glistened and a fat trickle of sweat worked its way down between his mighty pecs to the tangle of hair around his navel.
We got to the top of the landfill and one of the bulldozer operators guided us back, back, back to the edge of the landfill. I jumped out and released the lever on the dumpster as Zwykowski worked the controls and lifted its fat, stuffed body in the air. The dumpster emptied, we pulled out and the bulldozer pushed our load over the edge of the landfill.
On the way down the hill, Zwykowski couldn’t avoid a treacherous crater. Our rear wheels bounced into it with a blood-freezing thud, followed by a loud pop. The truck hopped, then listed to one side. I jumped out to check the damage: we had two flats on the right rear wheel. There was no way we could limp back to the yard in this
condition. Zwykowski radioed Dugan’s for the maintenance crew. We pulled off the road onto a clear patch surrounded by overgrown stinkweed. It was almost closing time at the dump. Zwykowski sighed and lit a cigarette.
“Nothing to do but wait,” he said.
I was hot and dirty and pulled off my tee shirt. Zwykowski glanced at me, yawned, and stretched. I watched another bead of sweat trickle down from his armpit. My mouth was dry, and it wasn’t just the dust. I cleared my throat.
“What’s up?” he asked.
I shook my head. I saw my hand reach for his arm and feel the mass of his bicep.
He clamped a paw around my wrist and held it in front of him. He studied my face.
“You’re kinda pretty,” he said.
I shrugged and watched the last of the trucks head down the dusty trail back to civilization. Zwykowski released my wrist and I let my hand drop onto his furry, bulging chest. My fingers groped through the glistening tangle, feeling the mounds of his pecs. He grunted when I brushed his nipples, grunted again when I pinched them. I watched his tool thicken down his leg.
Zwykowski leaned back in his seat, clasped his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. I leaned forward and buried my nose in his damp, tangy armpit and took a deep whiff of him while I pinched one of his taut nipples. I licked his armpit, drinking his salty essence, while he stretched and grunted. I gently kissed one then the other nipple while stroking his lean, hard stomach and my hand reached down to where his juicy tool strained against his jeans. He purred like a big jungle cat as I unbuttoned his jeans and my tongue navigated the magnificent architecture of his chest, following the muscular trail to his hairy navel. I inhaled deeply as I pulled down his zipper and nuzzled the golden patch of fur that tufted out of his jeans. I hooked my arms under his thighs and turned him toward me. I lifted his short legs over the stick shift and pulled his jeans down over his white marble butt. He arched his back to accommodate me and his fierce, thick cock, sprung from its prison stood in the air, then flopped, mightily against his stomach. His big, rosy balls flopped onto the hot leather seat with a sizzle.
I cupped his balls, kneading their fullness in my hand as he kicked off his boots. I pulled his jeans off and held his strong legs in my grip. His feet, in white socks, dangled out the window. I pried his thick, iron cock off his stomach and wrapped my lips around its swollen mushroom cap, squeezing his balls with my free hand. He wove his fingers through my hair and guided my head down the length of his sinewy shaft. My mouth took long, slow strokes up and down. He wasn’t going to pop and run this time.
My thumb followed the damp trail from his balls to the downy stretch where I felt his man-juice grumbling. My thumb traveled further down and felt the clenched rosebud of his butt hole. I grazed it gently and felt the thrill surge through his body, his cock jumping in my mouth. I ran my hand along his hard marble haunches and gripped his mighty thighs. I hoisted his legs into the air so I could get a look at his tight butt hole. It looked small and tasty, hidden in curly blond hair and ripe for kissing. He let me push his sturdy legs back as my mouth traveled down to his fat balls and I lapped at them with my hungry tongue. He groaned and spread his legs as his balls rolled and rose in my mouth. Zwykowski wrapped his golden thighs around my head.
His balls fell from my mouth with a satisfying plop as I grazed the downy patch that lead to his exposed pucker hole. He drew his legs further back as I ran my nose around his hot ass, breathing in the smell of him. I licked at the blond curls just under his hefty balls and felt his juices surge beneath my tongue. I took one lick at his butt hole and felt it quiver and tighten, then I buried my face in his fragrant ass, gnawing at its tenderness. My cock strained against my jeans, and I pulled my pants down as I chewed at his hole. My long, young poker sprang into the air, glistening with boy jizz as it grazed the hot leather seat. Zwykowski’s marble butt shook with excitement under my tongue lashing. I reached up and pried his stiff cock off his stomach, running my tongue from his ass, up and over his balls and up the length of his veiny shaft. A pearl of jizz emerged from his dong and I licked it off. My stiff cock grazed his steaming hole, ready to explode. I took his fat dong in my mouth and sucked the length of it, felt a spurt of his juice trickle down my throat. My cock thrashed around his juicy butt, and I felt myself shoot hot licks of boy juice all over his gasping hole. I held his cock in my mouth and jammed a finger into his juicy ass, feeling the tremors of a huge eruption inside him. His twitching ass contracted around my probing finger, his balls tightened, and his cock swelled in my mouth. Like a piston, it pumped load after load of his sweet cream down my parched throat.
Zwykowski smiled, yawned, and stretched his golden brawn the length of the cab. He swatted me playfully across the cheek with a paw.
“Kid, I gotta tell you,” he said, “you sure are interesting to have around.”
The sky had turned charcoal gray around us, the air moist and grumbling. A storm pushed in from the East with a bright pink sky behind it. The first fat drops of rain hit the windshield, followed by a refreshing downpour. Zwykowski pulled on his jeans and boots and jumped out of the truck. He stood, laughing, in the rain, running his hands over his chest. I jumped out and stood with him. It felt wonderful. When Karpak pulled up with the maintenance truck to fix our flats, he found us laughing and jumping around in the rain.
The next day in the truck, the first thing Zwykowski said was, “You go to college, right?”
“Right.”
“Ever study music?”
“I used to play the bassoon.”
“No shit. There’s some interesting literature for the bassoon. You must have played the Mozart.”
“Um, I’ve heard it, but I don’t know if I could play it,” I said, shocked.
“I could help you with it.”
“I haven’t played in a couple of years. I’d have to dig out the bassoon. I think it’s in the garage.”
“Dig it out and come over to my place tonight. I can get the music and there are some other nice pieces you could play. Don’t let it get away from you. Music makes life worth living,” Zwykowski said.
He couldn’t stop talking. Did I like Prokofiev, Stravinsky, Ravel, Debussy? Sure. Did I know this concerto, that symphony? My head was spinning. This glowering, golden hulk was a music lover? All it took was a couple of blowjobs to get on his good side.
Finally, I asked, “Zwykowski, if you love music so much, what are you doing this for?”
“It pays the bills,” he said. He chirped about music all day, like a prince awakened from a curse. I was touched by his excitement. It gave me a beneficent boner.
When we got to the dumps at the end of the day, there were no flat tires, damn it, and we pulled out with Zwykowski telling me Ravel’s life story.
“You don’t know ‘Daphnis and Chloe’?” he said. “I’ll play it for you tonight. Come by around seven. I’ll make you dinner.”
I stood outside his door, holding a bottle of wine. It was a well-kept brownstone on a genteel, shady street. His apartment was on the first floor. I buzzed and he opened the door wearing only khaki shorts that just about covered his dong. He looked at the bottle of wine in my hand.
“I couldn’t find the bassoon,” I said.
He ushered me in, shyly, as if few people passed this threshold. His apartment was cool and gray, sleek gunmetal gray furniture, high-tech fixtures, soft recessed lighting, a solid wall of the most expensive audio equipment. The place was soothing and immaculate. A baby grand shimmered in the next room, which was lined with books: ah, the library. Zwykowski stood shyly in the center of the living room. I noticed he was barefoot.
“Hindemith?” he asked.
“Anything. As long as it’s cold.”
He shook his head and extracted an album from his vast collection. “Only analog for me. You can’t beat the sound.”
Sad, solitary piano music filled the room. His hand rested on my back as he guided me to his bright, roomy kitchen. The Hindemith followed us through every room into the kitchen. One window was filled with herbs in clay pots. He had set the table with a white tablecloth and goblets and cutlery that looked like family heirlooms. In the center was a vase full of yellow roses he had picked from his garden. I could see the roses brushing against the window. He took the bottle of wine I’d brought and poured. We clinked golden glasses. “To music,” he said.
He served me a huge plate of creamy pasta with prosciutto and peas. It was delicious. He watched me as I wolfed it down.
“Were you in the navy?” I asked. There was something about his precision.
“Yes.”
“Iraq?”
“Yes.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No,” he said quietly.
Was he ever married? No. Did he have a girlfriend? No. Did he ever have a girlfriend? Sure. Where did the music come from and why was he at Dugan’s Disposal?
His parents were music teachers. He was born in this house. Right after college it was 2001 and he wanted to do his duty, so he enlisted. Something terrible happened to him there, I could sense, as he brushed past the subject. When he came home, he went back to school, planning to compose and teach, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore. His father died and he came back to town to live with his mother who was ailing. Old Mr. Dugan was a friend of his father’s, and he took the job at the yard to make ends meet. When his mother died, he was thirty-five, the house was his and he’d invested ten years in the job. He planned to retire in five years. This information issued from him in terse, reluctant bulletins.
I had a million more questions but saw it was painful for him to have said that much. He lived like a monk, doing his chores by day and lighting candles to the Gods of music by night. His remarkable body and handsome face were clues to his solitary life, as if he’d been frozen in peak condition, untouched by the elements or human hands.
I tried to help him clean up, but he poured me a brandy and told me to relax. He seemed smaller as he padded around his pretty kitchen and asked me questions about school and my family. He wasn’t used to asking questions, it took him a while to think them up. I felt the weight of his solitude, the weight of this invitation. He seemed to trust me, maybe because I was different, like him. Maybe he first offered me his cock because he saw how much I wanted it. Or maybe, just maybe, I was so fucking hot even he couldn’t resist me.
He walked me into the living room and offered more brandy.
We stopped at the piano. “I want to play something for you,” he said.
“Great,” I said. I wanted to touch him, but I was afraid to. I watched his firm, round ass as it slid onto the piano bench.
“How about some Chopin?’” he asked. “Yeah. The ‘Berceuse.” Do you know it?
“I think so,” I said.
“Every time I play it, I get a raging hard-on,” Zwykowski said.
“Then play it! Play it!” I said.
His big hands arched gracefully over the keys and beautiful sounds echoed through the room. He seemed to lose himself in the music as I watched him brawny back. The muscles heaved and rippled beneath his smooth skin. I stood behind him and thought about putting my hands on his shoulders. My hands were on his taut shoulders. I saw the fat head of his cock poke through his shorts as his cock inched down his leg, growing thicker with every note. He came to the end of the piece quietly, masterfully stroking the keys. I put my arms around him and kissed his neck. He liked the way it felt and grunted when I ran my tongue around his tiny ear. He stood and turned, undid the button on his shorts, and kicked them off. I reached for his stiff, throbbing dong, beating time like a metronome. He took my hand in his and led me toward the back of the house, his cock pointing the way.
We were in his bedroom, a simple room painted gray with a big gray platform bed in the middle of it. We stood before the bed and I wrapped my arms around him, felt his fat cock pulse against my stomach. I nuzzled his neck and brushed his closed lips with mine. He turned me around and pushed me onto the bed, face down. His big hands snatched off my loafers, pulled off my pants and yanked my shirt over my head. One callused paw clamped to my neck forced my face into his fragrant pillow, the other ran a rough trail over my ass, administering two stinging slaps across both cheeks. I struggled to get up. He straddled my butt, pinned my arms down and I felt his tool throb against my virgin butt cheeks.
“Zwykowski,” I said into the pillow, “I don’t do this.”
“Learn,” he said.
I wrestled under the grip of his hands and thighs. “I can’t. I’ll do anything else.”
“I’m not going to hurt you. You know that. Just lay still. Breath deep,” he said.
I took deep breaths. He tangled his fingers through my long hair, then manfully massaged my shoulders with his rough hands as I felt the heft of his balls resting against the crack of my ass. His hands ran down my back as I felt his dong pry apart my butt cheeks. His informed hands worked the small of my back, they knew where the muscles were, where the pain was. I groaned and began to melt under his touch.
“Nice,” he said.
He massaged the mounds of my ass, spread my legs with his knees, dew from his cock trickling down the back of my thigh. His big thumb scratchily explored my tense BOYy hole, running up and down the divide to my balls. He spread my legs wider, lifted my hips with hot hands. “I want to see,” he said. He spread my butt cheeks apart and spent a long time looking, just looking at my virgin hole. I could feel his breath.
“Pretty,” he said. His index finger ran up and down the divide, diddling my butthole as it passed. His paw rubbed the hot space between my hoisted quivering cheeks. I felt his breath again and felt him spit on my hole. My balls and soft, scared dick dangled in the air and a string of pre jizz oozed out of me. Zwykowski massaged my wet hole with one finger and my ass moved to meet it. He gently worked his finger into my hot ass and my cock grew, spurting some juice. His finger moved in deeper, feeling scratchy, strange, interesting. He slowly, purposefully massaged me from the inside as my cock swelled and my ass opened up to accommodate his probe. It felt strange and it felt good. His other hand kneaded my balls as his finger withdrew, pushed back in, and withdrew. He spit on my hole again and gently inserted two fingers, working them around and around inside me. I moaned and stopped thinking, pushed my ass up against his gentle, insistent fingers. His other hand worked and reworked my balls, then reached further and squeezed my hard dick.
I felt his fingers withdraw and waited, gasping, for the next step. My body jumped when I felt the brush of his stubble across my butt cheeks, first one, and then the other I felt the thrill of his mouth between my legs and felt him bite gently at my balls. His rough lips worked slowly up to my steaming butt hole, scratching, and biting gently along the way. I shook with excitement. His callused hands pried my ass open wider, then he buried his beautiful nose in my ass and inhaled.
“Nice,” he murmured.
I felt his lips plant themselves against my twitching hole, then his tongue darted in and out in feathery kisses. My ass rose and fell to meet his mouth, my face buried in his pillow. I heard him sucking hungrily at my quivering butt and his big mitts started slapping my ass with stinging assurance. Suddenly he stopped.
I turned to look at him. I saw him rise to mount me, his swollen pecker looked
dangerous. I thought I said no, but it came out yes. I closed my eyes and felt the heat and throb of his velvety punisher along the crack of my ass. The bulbous head of his dong was juicy as it probed my gasping butt hole, slowly, scarily edging its way inside me. His mushroom head spread my ass wide as it pulsed steadily, surely into my virgin fuck hole. I closed my eyes as the minutes went by and his satin tool pushed deeper into my butt. I turned my head and looked at the digital clock next to the bed, It’s 9:27 and I’m getting fucked for the first time. He inched forward and I felt a new sensation that turned out to be pain. I yelped.
“Shh…” he whispered.
My ass was wrapped tight around him. There didn’t seem to be much further he
could go, though less than half of him was inside me. He put his hand on the small of my back and pushed my body down on the bed. My cock had gone soft with fear. I wanted him to get out of me. We were stuck at some point of no return with him rock hard and pulsing inside me. He took my leg and carefully began to turn me over, keeping me impaled on his cock. I felt the thrilling squeak of skin on skin within me as he hoisted my long legs and rested them on his powerful shoulders. I was frightened and excited by the sight of his powerful, hairy torso and his handsome face, flushed with desire, its mean edges gone. His blue eyes were smoky with lust, but they regarded me with a tenderness I had never seen in anyone before. I felt pinned and helpless, and it wasn’t a bad feeling. I thought, if you have to give it up, this is the way to do it.
I ran my tongue over my dry lips. Zwykowski smiled and leaned over to kiss me, pushing deeper inside me in the motion. His lips were tight and rough as they brushed mine. He pushed slowly, deeply into me and I gasped. He covered my mouth with his, his lips suddenly soft and plush and his tongue digging down my throat. I wrapped myself around him as he plunged all the way inside me. It hurt, but as he forcefully rocked my body against his, the pain gave way to a delicious new sensation. My ankles clasped around his neck and my body arched to meet each thrust. My rock-hard cock and balls were crushed up against his hard, furry stomach. I wanted this to end, not to end.
Deep inside my ass, I felt a twitching, sputtering sensation, a rumbling. It felt like I was going to explode. I was coming, no I wasn’t. A steady trickle of boy juice seeped out of my crushed, stiff cock. He felt my ass tense up and his mouth juicily met mine. His groan filled my mouth as I felt his swollen tool spurt his hot juice deep into my ass. My cock swelled and shot hot licks of cream between our clenched bodies.
It was dark. I looked at the clock: 11:08. I was nestled in the crook of Zwykowski’s big, brown arm. His breathing was deep and rhythmic.
“Zwykowski,” I said. “I don’t want to presume too much, but if you wanted to get together on a regular basis, I think I could handle it. I mean we could be, like, friends.”
Silence. I looked at him. His eyes were closed.
“Zwykowski?”
“Call me Jack. And shut up.”
THE END