At the Horseman Club

Arrival

The e-mail answer arrived this morning before work. It was simply titled, ‘the Horseman Club.’ I yelled out, happily, “Thank the fuck! Thank the fuck!” at its reception when I opened the much-anticipated reply.

I jumped up and down, my cock hitting both side of my hairy thighs and swinging between my legs, like a fleshy pendulum. I was standing naked with my usual morning hard-on, jutting out. In its prominence. It did not matter. The time and place were stated, days before, when the call went out, they were accepting new members to this limited membership riding club.

So, I saved it and dutifully sent in a request, in hopes that I would be among those invited for attendance, and I waited. And I waited. It felt like weeks. But it was only a day or two. I meet all the necessary criteria. I checked and re-checked before I sent off the first e-mail.

This answered reply in this e-mail means that I do. At least for now. I do and it arrived the day of. Today. Thank Gawd. The day of the event.

I could hardly concentrate on the day’s work; I was supposed to be doing. The ride is rough, and the vehicle is all but worn out; a battered and barely put-together State vehicle, a blight upon my day. It was to be a simple day, load the dump trunk, haul it down the road, wait in line, and then dump the dirt onto the shoulder. That was it. Well, there has been one problem after another on this Thursday.

First, I got a flat tire, on a barely travelled back road of Clench County, as I stood and took a much-needed piss and saw it slowly deflating where I had to park on the side of the newly asphalted road. Changed it. With the help of power equipment. At this point, I am drenched in sweat. Later after lunch, the lift stopped midway up as I was dumping a load. It took some time but eventually, along with the mechanic, we got it back down. The hydraulic fluid had gotten below the minimum amount needed. So, it was just an all-out exasperating day, to top it off. Grim and dirt cover my tee and jeans. It is not how I wanted to show up, but “oh well, damn it. I cannot go home and change.” I whispered angrily under my breathe in frustration.

“You all, we have got time to get three more loads each,” he barks, the sorry lazy-assed Area-Wide foreman, as he walks back to his State-issued yellow pick-up. I cannot stand the arrogant sum-bitch. And that was the last exasperation. The one too many.

“Asshole,” I say under my muffled breath. I say it again before I step up onto the running board of my truck. Back inside. Behind the wheel.

The guy who helped me and the mechanic looks over and smirks. He must have heard me. He agrees and nods his head and quietly mouths, ‘asshole.’

“By the way, you, asshats, I will not be here tomorrow, got a long weekend ahead of me on the lake…” he says, while I ignore the rest of what he says. I do not want to be bothered. I just want this fucking day. Over.

I will not be here either. I zone him out.

He says ‘asshats’ like it is a joke. It sounds more as if he is arrogant. I tend to believe he is the arrogant asshole, as do others. Why is he so arrogant? What makes a man like him, behave in the way he does? Gerry is the negative to my positive, in our looks, and in our attitudes. I am pale. The man seems brown under the rays of high South Georgia sun. I wish I did.

The interior of the dump truck is stifling hot and smells of my farts and sweat, as once again, my sweat-soaked tee melds into the seat. I wish I could take it off, but Federal employees are not allowed that privilege.

The three hours remaining were uneventful. We got two loads apiece, between us, instead of the three that the ‘great’ and ‘mighty’ Gerald the Asshole expected. All of us like to call him Gerry, just to be a briar in his craw. I pulled back into the barn, my regular county headquarters, at 15 minutes after 5 p.m. The others had already left when they were supposed to. I figured as such when I left from, out there in the middle of bum-fuck Hicksville but ‘the Ass’ would not let me leave early. Although after his announcement, none of us saw him again. No surprise from Gerry the Ass, he is quite the donkey, but I prefer, ass.

I have an hour and a half to get there. I say to myself as I look to the clock on my dash.

“Damn! Damn! Damn!”

The ‘Welcome to Florida’ sign comes into my vision and out of it, as fast, as it had appeared, when I crossed over the long expansive bridge into the Sunshine State. It is only about 35 minutes to my destination from the state line. I can feel my cock pressing hard against the zipper on my jeans. I need this, I do. I really do.

The directions said to pass through the tiny berg of Pinevale and look for County Road 152, turn right onto it and go to the 12 Mile Marker. I do. The directions are easy.

I told Ronny that I was taking a personal day of leave on Friday and I would be out of town for the weekend. In typical Ronny fashion, he wanted to know all the personal details. I told him nothing besides, “I’ll see you, Monday, Ronny.” He did not like it but like the foreman on the Area-Wide Crew, he is just as lazy, maybe more so. Where does the State get these guys?

To get an invite and assurance that you would be given consideration, for future visits, you had to promise to commit to an overnight. I did so willingly. Tonight, is an overnight. As was Friday. I am prepared.

The directions said once you get to mile marker 12, look for a red striped, white painted mailbox. I found the NASCAR-looking mailbox and the dirt road, opposite of it.

The road to the house is down a winding dirt road of about a half-mile, deep into the woods, south of mailbox. It said that I would know I have arrived by all the vehicles, parked. As I rounded the last turn. There they are.

“There it is. Finally,” I say in the solitary cab of my pick-up. I feel a stirring in my man-parts. I have gotten hard and soft so much today, my cock is confused. Wanting to let go off the pent-up confusion.

There were all the vehicles, and a few horse trailers behind them and a short line of men at the front door. It is a ranch-style farmhouse, out amid a manicured pasture, nothing remarkable and typical of the many homes, which dot the landscapes across North Florida and South Georgia. But appearances can be deceiving. Are. The woods of North Florida surround this humble abode.

In front of the house, I see a short line of men, four of them, dressed as I am, in the clothes of the blue-collar man, minus the dirt and grime of my rough workday. I suspect some maybe college kids. They go through all the motions, as I expected they would when they spelled out all in the e-mail. One man is turned away. He carries on for a minute or two, in a huff, before he finally relents and walks away, back to his truck. His two friends, a muscular ginger and a lanky dark haired lad, are ushered in, minus him. Each man does not talk of the leaving of their lone friend, they go in, and it is as if the man was not with them. Non-existent. As the discarded friend walks by me, the scowl on his face is apparent as the veins pop out on his boiling mad face, like a two-year old holding back a temper tantrum in the grocery store. The point is to get inside. They did. He did not.

Then comes my turn.

“You read the rules?” he asks, as he gets my name and looks at my driver’s license.

“Yes,” I say, “Yes.”

The word storms out of my mouth in anticipated excitement. Maybe too much anticipation.

Two men, apparently a pair, walk up behind me as the questions, start. The same I had heard asked to those before me by the same interrogator, as he begins his spiel to me.

“Will you abide by the Stable Rules?” he asks.

“Yes. Yes, I will.”

“What happens here,” he says, “Stays here, you understand. You do understand? Doncha?”

The emphasis very strong on this question is apparent to me. He means it.

“Yes,” I answer with the same seriousness.

This man is all business and I know it.

“Can you go above ‘the Nine’?”

“Yes,” I say with a slight pause before I say it again, “Yes, I can go above ‘the Nine.’”

“Prove it!” he demands, “Prove it!”

The sharpness of his voice tells me it is a challenge.

“Prove it?” I answer.

“What the fuck are you, a damned mockingbird?” he says, an irritated shit sound in his voice.

I unsnap, unzip, and let gravity take over as my worn work pants fall to the grass and blanket my work boots. I am not wearing any under drawers. I have not worn any since the day in my sophomore year of high school when I realized that I did not have to wear them.

He looks at me and I then, I follow his eyes, I see them linger on my crotch and my cock, tucked deep in my thick nest of 1970s reminiscent pubes, all full and bushy.

He smirks and gives a slight giggle.

“…that does not look like more than nine inches, brother. You fuck, you damn motherfucker,” he says, “You best get that fucker hard if you ever want to be let in.”

He is reacting in the same way that he did to the kid he sent packing.

We look at each other. I smirk but he does not, he grimaces.

“Whatcha waitin’ for, get that damned cock hard.”

I do. It does not take long. The two guys in line behind me. Lean out, waiting to see if I can deliver.

My cock aims out of my groin. I am as hard as the early morning hard-on that I had when I greeted the day. It makes me proud. It makes me an equal among men, maybe more, in this particular instance. I am otherwise, a quiet man, but when I am naked. I am like the loud mouths.

“…that’s more like it,” he says, the voice, a little less course, as he jams the cloth tape-measure into my forest of pubes between my legs, against the bone, measuring me from base to head.

When he finishes, he smiles, this time with a different attitude.

They say I am veiny. I think I am more like the tangled running roots of an oak tree; each blood vessel weaves itself all over my fleshy tool.

“Well, it seems like, you do measure up and with much more. Go on in…please. Please. Please,” he says.

I smile at him. I am a grow-ERR not a show-ERR. I consider myself a chameleon. You expect one thing but are pleasantly surprised when the truth is revealed.

His hand felt warm on my balls, as he squeezed and cupped them before he lingered and removed them. He even took the time to rub the pre-cum that had seeped out of my piss-slit over the crown of my cock before he took the wetness to his tongue. He liked my taste.

“Next!” he says before I walk to the front door and walk in, “by the way, I’ll see you inside, later.”

I smile at him.

In the vestibule is a handwritten poster board sign with the same rules mentioned in the e-mail that brought me here. I scan them before I trudge into dining room where black trash bags filled with clothes dot the room. I expected more but the bags are sparse. I guess maybe ten to twenty but I do not get an accurate count. I want to get naked as fast as I can.

The Stable Rules

Naked
Hard is best -EXPECTED
Taste is mandatory
Empty holes are to be filled
Once is not enough

New foals – a mandatory red ribbon will be wrapped around your cock & balls

DO NOT REMOVE IT

“Get those clothes off, buddy,” a man seated at the table yells out as he sees me reading the sign, “You are new, ain’t you?”

He resembles a granddaddy biker-type with a beard that covers the gray chest hair and the beer belly that I know is hidden behind the table.

“Yes.”

To the side of the room, stand the two college-aged guys that had entered before me. Each man stands naked, with a neat red ribbon tightly-wrapped around their bound cock and balls, each man’s cock aimed like a spear from their nearly naked pubic region.

“I hope you have more pubes than these guys do. Then these squirreling college boys,” he says, “Men should have some fur around their tools and everywhere else. They are supposed to have it. Do you? Do you?”

I wink at him, this total stranger.

I pull my tee over my head. Then kick the boots from my feet. Once I am naked. I can smell my sweat as it reeks from my tired-but-charged-up body.

“Man, why didn’t you take a shower before you came?” the gray-beard of man says as he sniffs the air around me.

“I just got off from work.”

“What do you do, shovel crap?”

“No, I am a heavy equipment operator,” I explain.

“I can see that,” he says as I feel his eyes roam over my nakedness.

The two college kids do the same. I suspect they are from the State University, a few counties over in Tallahassee, at the capitol. Or from Gainesville. It does not matter. Which. They obviously met the criteria. The spears between their legs prove why they are here. If college cock is what I see, in these two young men, damn, I missed that college experience, had I gone to college to begin with.

“Boys, this is what a real man looks like,” ole gray-bear says, ”Oh, shit, this is what a man looks like.”

He looks me over, stealing his eyes on my cock in his survey.

“Why doncha lick the heads of those boys’ cocks?”

“What?”

“You heard me. You know the rules. You agreed to them,” ole gray-beard says, “Do it!”

The tile on the floor is rough on my knees. Each boy has their hands on their hips. Their hips thrust forward in anticipation for me to taste. Apparently, they have been told not to move. Why would you do, a lick is a lick, lolli-cocks need attention.

I take a gentle lick of the sweet boy’s aromatic nectar that has formed on the cockhead of the ginger-haired boy that is nearest me. He is sweet with the underlining hint of salt and musk, like fine wine, the year of the vintage matters. I swirl his juice around my mouth before I swallow it. I take another, holding back from locking my lips onto the boy’s extended rod. He sighs, loudly.

“Taste the other one,” gray-beard says from behind me, “he’s leaking more than his friend.”

I can feel gray-beard’s eyes on my harried backside. It is among my best assets, just one.

Gray-beard is right. His dark-haired friend is dribbling like a spigot with a missing washer, a minuscule puddle directly below the kid’s piss-slit. I take his clear seed into my mouth, but he is not as tasty as his pal, but I do not turn down an offering when it is in my line of sight. He leaks more once he is in my mouth.

“Stand up! Stand up,” I hear behind me, the now familiar voice of the man I have labeled gray-beard. I do what he tells me.

“Get your ass over here, boy,” he yells, “we have to wrap that magnificent piece of meat in a red ribbon. I do not think anyone will have a problem identifying you as a ‘full horse’.”

I am facing the man as his eyes once again roams across me. I feel him and see that his cock has risen to full strength, too. I silently mouth, ‘damn’ to myself, under my breath, Papa is packing some serious meat. But all men at this ‘club’ are nine inches or above. Or more.

Gray-beard wraps the ribbon around the base of my cock and balls, squeezing them and holding the blood in the veins and keeping me fully engorged. As I suspect it is the sole purpose of the makeshift cockring besides pointing out the fresh meat.

I hear the front door slam behind me as gray-beard finishes wrapping me, like a human Christmas package, ready to be opened by all gathered around my fleshy tree.

“I hear that we have a man in here with a nearly 11-inch cock, like mine,” booms the sound of a distinct voice, a familiar voice, “where is this man? Where is he?’

I turn, cock swollen as it much as it has ever been and the steady dripping my own juice from it.

“Gerry the Ass!” I say.

It is he.

“I’ve heard that is what the men called me on the Area-Wide crew,” Gerry says, “…but here they call me Donkey Dick, and Head Trainer.”

“Fuck! Fuck!” I say once I realize I have told him about his nickname.

“We’ll take care of that, too,” Gerry says, “now for me to get naked.”

At his side, he holds a riding crop next to his leg as he gently taps it against his jeans.

End Part One