Earning Power

Author's notes. While this is twelve pages long I believe the reader will find twists, turns, ups, down, sex, porn-written, porn photographed, as well as a variety of other male on male amusements. I want to Thank! all the guys on the Gay Sex Chat line for inadvertently contributing. But, in particular, my guy, now a good friend, Jim, the trucker whom I taught how to use his perineum to ejaculate going 70 down Interstate 55. Good buddy, catch you on the flip flop not to mention later tonight when you park, strip, hop in your sleeper and do not give a damn how lovely the Wisconsin Dells are. I'm will keep that promise to...but some things are sacred.

The plant said it was coming but said it so often the eight hundred men working there first didn’t believe then forgot it, just one of those rumors that now and again goes around. Even when the tractors hauling low slung trailers with heavy machines-all wrapped tight-on them showed up, more each day, they still wrote it off. Fuck, you couldn’t keep a plant making money on down time especially when, again, they’d been told, no pay for while they were off. Shit ass foreman, even conned the Union Steward, into saying this was for their good, all done? No one got fired, maybe even some more hirings. When It Was Done. One thing, Butch grumbled to Sam who worked the metal lathe next to his….just how long was all this shit going to take Until It Was Done? Denial is fine but as the yard filled up with more trailers, then an industrial crane rolled in on the railroad spur, denial was a disease...but the cure, turns out, was when on a Friday, the men were told that starting next Wednesday, they’d close down at noon. ‘Get your personal belongings’ from your lockers, clock out and, for real, Get Out. Pay checks with the full day Wednesday paid, will be available the usual Friday.

Even when Wednesday morning came, the men walked into the plant which looked like it had been hit with an organized looting by who or whatever could carry heavy machines. Sam and Butch looked down as they almost slid on whatever the floor had been covered with making movement for things that would need to be dragged out easier. Like their lathes, Sam and Butch weren’t precisely ‘dragged’ out but their leaving didn’t suggest they were going to the lake for a picnic, back later. All the words, the dirties, the nasties, the threats...got sealed in when the gate that separated the plant from the parking lot slammed shut, two heavy, large, steel padlocks put on them. The kind that needed a code to open, probably would resist an AK-47 if you were in a hurry, it was just what it looked like, an old fashioned Lock Out.

To save what little money they’d scrapped up, after the beer, the weekend trip to the dog track as well as the ‘friendly’ Friday Night poker game-only held on Fridays AFTER  payday, all reached into their Carhartts and picked their pockets, the two buddies shared as much as possible. Cost less to drive one truck, less to live next door in a duplex and then their worst mistake, their room mates whose upkeep outdid their wages nearly every two weeks. This was not a week with pay at the end so when Butch came home, not even caring about the screen door, which was still where he’d ripped it off and tossed it just after Christmas, coupled with the lay off, there aren’t warped words to describe his mood.

One thing, another ‘economy’, he and Sam co-operated on owning a large ice box, bought used-fuck, Butch thought, just about everything around him was used-to keep the cases of beer they bought real cheap by going across the county line where there was a liquor store only slightly smaller than the plant they worked in. The owner, clearly aware of his proximity to the eternally thirsty, had ever diddly damn kind of hootch a man might want. (Only rarely did a man come in wanting a single-must be a foreigner-but before he could leave the parking lot his tag number as well as a picture of his face from the security cameras had been thoughtfully sent over to the Sheriff who relayed that information to his deputies. Usually nailed him within an hour, frisked, stripped, locked up while the car was ripped apart looking for whatever shouldn’t be there. Most times, all they found was a half empty can but...that constituted ‘Open Container’ which carried a hefty fine.

There was, however, an alternative to paying up whenever court might be in session, maybe tomorrow or, more likely when Judge Kramer sobered up enough to not fall off the bench. His deputy, strong, good looking man, called, Big Jed, shade over 6’3, touching 400 pounds out at the highway load scale where they weighed him (without his fire power) read the cases, numbers, pushed the Judge back up when needed then announced, on behalf of the bench, whatever fines, penalties or jail time was assessed. Court was adjourned.

The ‘foreigner’, probably a joker from a couple of states away, didn’t have the five grand it would cost so….back to jail. Sheriff, being in a charitable state of mind, said, “Yes, Sir, I guess yer my guest for a little bit...hey, yew wanta get on the phone? Make some calls, see which of yer buddies kin rustle up what you owe...and we only take cash.”

(I guess I forgot mention that the man who owned and ran the liquor store was the Sheriff’s brother, brother-in-law to Big Jed and, one way, legal or otherwise, kinfolk to the guys out keeping the public safe. Or directing traffic at the liquor store on payday Fridays….sometimes needed extra help.)

The ‘foreigner’ didn’t notice but the Sheriff had put a small sign out by the road that simply said, “Fresh Today”. Even if he’d seen it wouldn’t have made any difference...at least to him. However...to Butch and Sam, driving by having loaded up as many cases of suds they could put in back without the height and weight tipping it over, saw the sign, almost drove the Jimmy into the ditch while they laughed, punched each other, said, “I guess there’s virgin meat ToNight.” When they got the wheels away from the ditch, they speculated how much a fresh piece of ass would cost?” Course they and half the county knew that the Sheriff was selling something under false pretenses; He liked virgin men but more, he liked making sure they didn’t stay virgin; He used to brag that… “They ain’t a virgin, over 18, in three counties….least ways that I know of.” Depending on what you were up for, even if it had already had his ticket punched, could be kinda fun being locked in a cell with the ‘virgin’ manacled out spread eagle and no time limit….depending on much you’d handed over in ‘visiting privileges’

Burping with the laughter of remembering, they reached over, fondled the growing bulge where they knew the other’s cock and balls were; Rather than pay the Sheriff or one of his men out roaming around looking for big, bad men, they’d solved the virginity problem personally. Probably wouldn’t have confessed it but….now and then….here and there (like those ‘fishing trips’ where, once. Sam forgot to take his fishing pole-the other one was attached...) they kept up their acquaintance on deeply personal basis. And on to their ‘residences’.

Home for both of them was very convenient as it was, as mentioned, a duplex which they shared, came with a pair of closed garages...which also worked out nicely. The truck, which they co-owned, went in one side, the beer cooler-and some other ‘stuff’ which they had now and then for sale to those who knew they had it for sale. (MJ was, conveniently, sold in quantity back at the liquor store and, for real good customers, ones who the county mounties approved and had, it was said, screwed, such as the likes of Sam and Butch you were a bulk buyer. Someone come in, wanted to know where to buy the illicit weed? Ask at the counter; They’d hand you a map….course...while you left, if you didn’t seem local, they’d get your tag, your picture then send it to the Sheriff...(See above for results.) Of course for those known to various and sundry, no map was needed, no call to see if they were home, was necessary and, for their real good customers, no need to bother anyone, just use the supplied key to the garage, take what you needed but...make damn sure you put the cash for your purchase in the old Folgers can nailed to the wall. Anyone with a lick of sense can tell you the honor system works real well but...if it didn’t well, fuck having your tag or picture, just scoop you up wasn’t needed, take you into the jail-passing the door the Sheriff would stick out a sign saying, “Meat for Sale” then, having been relieved of the illegal substance found on you, maybe court but for sure... spread eagle in a cell. Same damn thing. Only difference, the Sheriff didn’t have a can oh his wall, wouldn’t look professional; By the door on your way out, there was an old fashioned school desk with a lift up lid-that’s where you paid for what you’d had.

Butch, and Sam, had a pair of cold ones in their hands, plus a couple more in the kangaroo pockets in the overalls. Just to get ready, they chugged the first pair, went back, got refilled then went home.

Moment he opened the front door he heard the sliding glass door that looked out on the weeds in the ‘back garden’ open and close. He wasn’t home most days, didn’t need to cuz what went on was pretty much the same. The ‘guest’ leaving would be Sam’s roomie, Wanda/John who’d been wasting time with his her/him/it probably watching soap operas. (Butch said their favorite was called, “Love Of Cock.) Used to be when he/she/it could stay as Bob long enough to enjoy fucking him but now….he dropped down on the bent aluminum chair, put one beer on the table, the other to his lips and before he took the second swallow hollered out…

“He, slut, you, Missy, get you hairy ass in here. Now. Daddy’s home.”

Missy/Bob had been a full back, almost, at Alabama until he/she/it got caught doing something nasty with a sneaky quarterback. Flip of the coin, or common sense, said you could get another full back but they’d ‘developed’ the quarter back so….while they said it was for ‘Academic Reasons’, Bob found himself on the outskirts of Tuscaloosa with the general idea that he would not be welcome back.. Word got around, he’d heard, there’d been plans to sit him down on a sharpened rail; No point in running out of town, why risk ricking Alumni backs? When just weighting his legs until his ball sack was almost sliced was good enough. Another reason he left town. Double quick.

For a while, Butch, Sam and their steadily feminizing room mates had all worked at the same plant. The silk hose and panties under overalls was...okay but when Bob’s well developed chest, from weight lifting, was seen to be in what looked very much like a bra, (the tips cut open for a display of hard, raised nipple) that was it for him….followed closely by Wanda/John for reasons that...were just reasons. Butch and Sam suffered about their choice of live-ins but they could honestly say when they moved in, things were a lot different. A Lot. That was then.

“Bitch, where the fuck are you? Get in here, we gotta talk. Turn off that damn show...which one is it? Porn or that dumb Love of Cock? And get yourself in here.”

Not exactly her master’s voice-just sometimes-but today she, and, of course, Wanda, had been relaxing not expecting company and for fucking sure, not Butch and Sam. They, too, had heard the rumors about closing but, like everyone else didn’t believe it. Even with Butch at the table, hadn’t quite sunk in...he went for the sweet approach.

“Honey, you’re home early...something wrong?”

Butch surveyed the wreck that had once been a man he liked to fuck, enjoyed getting his cock sucked, did all sort of nasty things, tried like hell to remember a picture in a bookcase somewhere of Missy in what now seemed like a Halloween costume, all done up as a rough, muscular football player. Next to it….Missy and Wanda had found a photographer who took pictures of them in their satin, silk and lace finery. Lots of pictures; like the guys who do high school photographs you could buy a ‘package’, the largest of which, the one they selected, allowed them God only knew how many, five in color. And one of those….A black lace garter belt holding up sheer hose and that was all; Sticking out from below the frills of the belt was a hard, shaved cock as well as two big balls, also shaved. It had been a Christmas present to Butch-who had NOT appreciated the gift, the thought behind it or the giver: If there’d been a tree Missy/Bob would have found her mouth full of Butch’s present, as much cum as his annoyance pushed out of him.

(Next door Wanda had presented Sam with, well, it was a picture but, depending on how you judge these things, even less welcome than what was now laying on the floor next door the frame and glass smashed. What Wanda/John showed in hers was, of course, the Christmas red garter belt and silk hose but, rather than facing out, she was backward with her (shaved) ass being filled by Missy/Bob’s very large, shaved, cock. To be fair, there are certainly some publications that would have accepted at least one, probably both, for publication. Sam was about as unwelcoming as Butch but, his anger took the form of finding a gynormous strap on he knew one-or both-of the best friends used, put it on, then recreated the image in the picture with the exception that the cock wasn’t real; The ass it was stuck in was the same as the first.)

Butch looked at what was standing in front of him, tried to remember Bob, tried to remember fucking and sucking each other, even remembered when Bob ‘laughed’ and said, “Hey, make me up like a girl then screw me stupid.” There was an awful moment, he recalled when he thought, yeah, that might be fun...so he let Bob ‘surprize’ him at the door one evening wearing a few ‘lady like’ bits and pieces saying, or maybe it was squealing, “Oh, Honey, you’re home early...come here and kiss your big mama. Put one finger there, another one up there and….”

He was, sort of turned on, well, a lot turned on, so much so that he had Bob, lipstick and hose on the floor exercising his manly right and fucking him stupid. They both liked it. That time. Once.

What neither man knew was that this was a set up. While Bob was playing cutesy with Butch, next door, John was doing about the same thing with Sam. Well, they didn’t know it until next day driving to work when Sam smirked and said, “Hey, buddy, you will NEVER guess what that crazy John did last night….:” Then told him. After a few sentences, Butch almost ran the truck into a light pole as he ground it to a halt, looked at Sam and said, in disbelief, “Say that again? He did what?”

While it wasn’t verbatim, what Butch told Sam had a real familiar ring, like less than 24 hours old. He got skinny eyed, thought, looked at Sam…

“How would you like to be late for dinner….”

Sam looked puzzled. “You mean whatever was defrosted and microwaved? That dinner?”

“Same as we have at our side. I fucking forgot what a real fork looks like, even take out, they’re plastic but tonight….” He was silent, cogitating, coming up with something, looked at his buddy whom he really liked then smiled. A lot.

Missy and Wanda/ Bob and John weren’t exactly worried but whatever else they were, their guys were on time; Working made them hungry so it was straight from the door, put down a liquid layer of suds then….dinner. But tonight….Wanda called Missy,

“Hey, man (they wandered back and forth as to whom they were going to play so they went on voice identification; Butch and Sam were both grateful they’d stuck with their normal, masculine voices, even when one screamed, “Oh, Daddy, shove it up me harder”.) how long before we call someone…they’re two hours behind.”

What he got back was silence. In the back of his mind, well, both their minds, had always been that one day they’d play the garter belt and lace panties too far; They’d find themselves as they were right now with the creeping fear that maybe….they weren’t coming on, they’d had it...left them. It was an unexpressed concern that was rapidly turning to fear when….there was a knock at the door. Quick look outside...black and white with the full Christmas tree on top lit up.

“Police, important business...you mind coming to the door?”

They did. On each doorstep there was an officer, ones they vaguely knew, but not smiling, hat under the arms, each one held up a picture...of course they recognized Butch and Sam, said so.
Very officiously, each officer said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me...I. D. something.?”

Whatever it was, clearly, was worse then their dumping them...they might have alreadty left them on a full time basis.

In the car, in the dark, two scared men who were not being sissies, but genuinely terrified that something….may have happened to the men they actually loved. One thought about an accident with both of them in the pickup, the other wondered if, at the plant, something, crushing….

It seemed a very long ride but finally got to Sheriff’s office, walked in, saw him, looking grim.

“C’mon back….” They followed.

It was gloomy where the cells were, chilly, but there were two that had a little light. Before they got there the Sheriff asked them to wait only be a second. When he came back took first Bob then John held them tight….then pushed each of them in a cell, slammed the gate and locked it.

“You’re men are taking the evening off, wanted to be sure you ‘girls’ would not be alone….”

When he left them he walked back to the front, from the school desk took something from it then, where it was lit outside, put the sign that said, “Fresh Meat”; The word had gotten out, he was pleased to see the parking lot was filling up. On his desk he had a new sign, one that listed prices for times but concluded with the disclaimer that this ‘meat’ might fight back so if they enjoyed a good, rough house, maybe even get a fuck-if they weren’t fucked themselves, it was that way, cells numbers six and eight. “Shit, he thought to himself, I coulda cuffed ‘em….” Also, thinking things through, he decided to not limit the number of visitors to one cell at a time.

Good thing the pickup had a crew cab; Butch and Sam sat up front, Bob and John sulked in the back. Bout halfway home Butch took out an envelope, removed the contents. Held it up. “Congratulations, you’re now officially whores. And thanks, took you hand to hand combat, for the money right here….guess some of it was hard fought for-” In the rear view mirror he could see bruises, each one had a black eye, various places that suggested more than sexual battery. Still somebody had to have conquered them for, as Butch said, “They’s at least five hundred dollars in here. Next time we send you out, remember, you’re working girls and...you got live in pimps...got it? Hope so.” The rest of the drive, indeed the next several days were notably silent.

A few days later in an envelope from the Sheriff were the booking sheet with prints, pictures, full face and profile with their occupation listed as “Prostitute”. Butch and Sam put them up, Bob an John took them down but knowing that getting more was just a phone call away.

For a couple of months after that things on both sides quieted down. The men were at work, the other couple were at home, trapped for lack of transportation. Just to gig them, the guys had some friends of theirs call and make ‘offers’ for favors. They got hung up on, but everyone who was listening at the plant rolled with laughter. Some of the requests were...vulgar, some were nasty, some were physically impossible-but they were offered the most money to do those. Of course, no sale. However…..

One of the virtues of being home alone all day, beyond indulging themselves in dressing how they wanted as well as going through catalogs, which now came often, for more, different, exotic garments that they’d like...at least for ‘personal use’. And they came in plain brown wrappers at times when their men were not home. Also, since the guys had a very limited wardrobe-essentially work clothes or sitting around in some ratty shorts, T shirt, socks-and, though they weren’t ‘wearable’, hard foam things that held beer.

One day a man dropped by, one they knew...had professionally used….Once. He came with an offer that, at first was easy to refuse but….on consideration, had some promise. Oh, and he was interested in meeting their men, didn’t say why but given his profession, photographer, why he wanted to meet them, look them over, even suggested that...might be interested to have some, for sale to media, studies of ‘happy couples’ who had ‘interesting’ life styles. At the moment the gentlemen was discussing this he was surrounded by two big men wearing garter belts, panties, silky hose and...they’d only recently got these, a man’s bra with open holes for his nipples-for those who had theirs pierced. The gentleman admired their style, their taste, took a few ‘casual’ snaps just for his personal file. Oh, and if his, uh, former models would care to return for another session, that was easily arranged. Money was mentioned. A surprising amount of it. Seems men in lingerie was of rising popularity in porn circles and he had two clearly masculine men. (Hell one had almost been on the football team at Alabama; Didn’t get much more male than that and….as he drove and thought….he could begin to see a series devoted to the Crimson Tide in a way the tide, crimson or otherwise never considered. One thing, it would certainly be red. And read.

Bob and John, thinking about things, started working out, improving their bodies, thinking about the money almost on the table...and planning.

Sitting at the chair in his kitchen, looking at Bob who hadn’t expected him home, took another swill of beer, Butch was diverted by several things. By now the apparition in, today, peach and black, wasn’t the most important thing, it was how would he-and Sam-live until the day the plant reopened at which time they’d have a steady income. He knew how much they had ‘on hand’-there was no bank account, at least one they knew about-so he could easily calculate how far what he had in his pocket would take them which wasn’t very far. He looked at Bob and realized whatever that was he was wearing, he’d never seen it before. Although he wasn’t ‘into’ ladies fashions for large men, of one thing he was sure, it cost money and, he wondered, where that money came from. For once, something Bob and John and done would now be turned on them.

Looking right at Bob he said, “Rip off that shit, get nekkid, come over here, on your knees and put your lips around this.” He reached down and held his cock which, as usual, was only middling hard but would rise to the occasion with a little tongue swirling, sucking, tongue washing and enthusiasm.

Bob knew this was not a choice question...plus what he was wearing pretty much fell off so...the few steps toward him, on his knees, started blowing him. He heard Butch, in a really snarling voice, say, “Sweet thing, you just keep down there, I want to be empty when you finish and then we’ll go elsewhere, you can put your ass in the air ….I’m going to piss on your prostate...cuz there won’t be any cum left to dump in you. Oh, yeah, I think we need the cuffs….we’re gonna do what you like, that role playing shit, I’m gonna be the Master and you’re the slave...for a long, long time...spare you wearing clothes….” Bob realized that this was the day he’d heard about...the plant was closed and he was going to have Butch around the house until…..? His mind didn’t like the idea of that.

Although the scenario was somewhat different next door, Sam started displaying his anger by fucking John, then dragged him off to their bed where he administered a professional spanking, one probably only a grown man could take.

The next day Bob and Sam went off to ‘the lake’ where, their roomies were told, they would be for at least five or six days...since there was nothing else to do and fucking their partners wasn’t interesting just then, except as a grudge match….

Things at the lake went nicely, having filled the bed of the truck up to the edge with beer, much of their vacation drifted into non-memory. Also, some of their buddies from the plant were also there, everyone liquidating their sorrow as they chose but...Bob and Sam made a little money selling some of what they’d hauled up.

Bob and John were suddenly faced with a problem that, if the guys were at work could have been handled differently. That they were ‘away’ helped and is what saved their hairy asses-not recently shaved. It all turned around a visit from someone they didn’t know, but who had a key to the other garage. While he was their about the weed, he was more interested in the Folgers can and it’s contents….which weren’t there. Although it cost them a beating, as well as being fucked by several men, none of whom they knew, the missing money problem was deferred if not solved. There was the issue of knowing that Butch and Sam would be told but this time, it probably had a real unhappy ending; Being thrown out.

As if he knew their distress, the man with the camera returned with a very definite offer that, if they could get it done quickly, would solve their money problem. That it would create a more serious problem, at least potentially, when you’re drowning you take the rope that thrown to you. Along with the panties, the garter belt, the hose, the corset….and the bra with the open nipples. Actually, on their way to the studio they stopped by a reputable piercing parlor where Bob acquired a pair of hoops while John’s now dangling hearts; It was explained to them this could be temporary if they chose to take them out but….for the titless bras, they were essential.

It was a rushed three days; Their object was to get home before the guys at the lake returned; It could be a closely run race but one they had to win.

As to the photography session? What had been explained and what actually was done was….different. Jake, the photographer, knew what would sell and that was more than two guys parading around in girls lingerie. The lingerie, at least a few pieces of it, could remain but the activities photographed were closer to hard core than nudie cuties; There wasn’t one picture in which some sexual act wasn’t taking place, some of them involving props, toys, rope….the things that fetish and kink use and, now, used for, with and on them. All they saw were proof sheets but the images on them made them aware that if Sam and Butch saw them, it would probably just be better for them to get out before they did. At least the money for weed problem was solved.

Oh, and the drive home, Jake said he knew their room mates weren’t employed so...he thought it would be a good idea for them to come by, peel down and do a series loosely based on the working man, one that would not require great bodies, just reality..and, of course, fucking. At the very least.

Leaving home increasingly seemed not a good idea but a necessity. If nothing else, enplaning the pierced nipples was going to be...impossible but they had to come up with something….in this instance, the truth would only make them free to pack up and get out. There was some loose discussion about telling ‘their guys’ that this was done as a way to show that they were ‘attached’ to them. Sure, it was a crummy answer but, again, the truth….plus against the backdrop of weed money. Bob wondered if the Sheriff would ‘put them up’ and also put out his sign; Their only condition being that Butch and Sam not be allowed near them….

You couldn’t say the guys had a good time at the lake...just what kind of time it really was probably doesn’t have a good adjective. Best thing was they were away from home, cooled down, endured some poisonous hangovers and now were headed home, no beer plus the money they got for selling some of it went into the kitty of an ‘informal’ poker game at which they lost. Broke when they left home, if it’s possible to say they were now broker. Interesting, the idea of taking their roomies back to the Sheriff and negotiating some sort of deal for ‘fresh meat’ also was considered.

What they did finally decide on was, even to them, a really poor idea, too many bad things could happen but….it had been weeks, maybe months but….the money in the Folgers can could be used, only temporarily, as their ‘bank’; They’d check it after they got home.

This need for cash increased while, on the drive back, the truck developed an odd noise which they both recognized as a failing water pump. The answer now had to be the Folgers can….at least they got a friend to fix the truck on credit, having been assured he’d be paid back in ‘a few days, no more’.

The atmosphere at home was, to both sides, unreal. EVERYBODY smiled, even the tit decorations were….sort of admired. It was if there was a treaty that nobody had negotiated but everyone was honoring; It lasted two days until the guys went into the locked garage to get the money to pay for the water pump, plus, they decided, maybe just a few extra dollars to get them by….the man who had franchised this to them would surely understand about the plant, no pay, their situation. It’s the sort of logic you can talk yourself into believing until you really don’t….but on the moment, it’s comforting, almost like the six beers they got into themselves before going home. They had a secret not to be told but, of course, secrets were all over the place...or at least concealment of past activity was. Oh, and while cozying up to the beer keeper, they remembered the good old days….and while they were a little too sloshed to do much, staying on the ground was safe also was the best place for a ‘69’. After which, cum on their lips, they either A. Went to sleep or B, Passed out.

Good things, which this really wasn’t, do not have much of a shelf live; In this case, it expired when the two guys decided, in desperation, they had to make a withdrawal from the Folgers First National. Turned out the bank was not only empty but closed. Fuck yeah they were mad-they KNEW how that had to have happened- but that quickly turned to a genuine fear; Jolly as the liquor store owner was, they knew stories, real ones, seen pictures about what happened to men when they failed in some way….and not having any money was at the top of the list in terms of failure also in what they knew, not wondered, what might happen to them. Sitting in their other garage, romancing their beer cooler, there was one thing and one thing only that got their asses of this tight, potentially painful crack: Money. Spelled backward, Yenom. Cash, Moola, long green, lots of it in their hands….Now or sooner.

Calling the Sheriff to report a major robbery, wisely, never even occurred to them.

Letting him in on their ‘problem’ was the same as telling the liquor store dealer but, with the Sheriff involved, whatever happened, or was done to them, would carry a legal precedent that could be seen as just crime followed by oh so fucking horrible punishment.

You can only wallow in fear and beer for just so long; The Absolutely Only Fucking thing to do was, together-safety in numbers-go inside, see if they could get ‘em up, fuck their roomies then tell both of them all of the mess they were in. Course, they didn’t quite know the fuller, more devastating trouble but….that could wait. At least an hour or so….

Home. That place of comfort, warm, welcoming, that place where your problems and troubles get parked outside, yeah, home….sweet….home.

Butch and Sam slunk in only to find the other pair of occupants dressed more or less like they they just got off work at the plant but….shaking, trying to smile, shuddering cuz….Bob was holding an envelope that contained a proof sheet of some pictures of them….not like they looked now….and, uh, there was also a DVD…

The guys looked at the sheet but...with blood shot eyes...didn’t seem to care. Somehow, right then, dirty pictures seemed like just another layer on the pile of shit..with them on the bottom. Sam sorta raised his head and in a voice that didn’t even sound human, fuck, didn’t sound like a recording putting you on hold he, with Butch adding and explaining bits and pieces, told their partners just how much trouble they were ALL in because, yeah, they knew who robbed the cookie jar also known as the Folgers can. In words, unexpected words, they both said that it didn’t matter...now. There was only one cure for the problem, money. Can’t come up with that, then, it would be an excellent time for all four of them to scoot out to the truck, grabbing whatever they could then start down the road until they passed at least five county signs, crossed into another state and wondered if they could swim the Rio Grande the other way headed for Mexico….

In a pondering sounding voice Bob wondered A. How much money? B. When did it have to be paid and C…...What if, just maybe IF there might be away to get enough, even to pay for the fuel pump, filling the truck with gas as well as the Folgers can with money….

Sam looked at him, not mad, not anything but a man in a mess then said… “Yeah, and is Santa Claus gonna come down a wood burning fireplace….one we ain’t got? Forget it”..deep shit just looked shallow….

Bob said, “Uh”….if you look back in history the word “Uh” has preceded some great, some grim ideas. Edison, Bell, Ford, the Wright Brothers all said, “Uh?” just before they suggested an idea so damn dumb that it was up to them to do or, well, have to wait until some other man said “Uh”.

Butch looked at him. No panties, no garter belt, just a man he kinda remembered with crew cut, needed a shave but looked back at him like he once had….just for then they both started to remember...back then.

“Uh, Butch, uh, you ain’t gonna like this but there IS  a way, maybe, out of this...” He stopped, looked at what was then, really, always had been, his man, took a big gulp then started to talk. And while he did Sam looked up while John kinda looked away thinking, well, at least there’s no going to work tomorrow so the bruises will have some time to cure…

Six weeks later, just as Bob as suggested might be possible, the can was full of money, fuel pump paid for, all debts had been cleared.

Six weeks later both Butch and Sam had fully shaved bodies, were wearing a garter belt, white, lace panties, white, long silk white hose, a nipple-less bra, a veil while they held Bob and John’s hands. Those two looked very handsome in their tuxedos, cut tight to show their bulges, all of them waiting for the lights to be reset so the next scene in their next picture, called ‘Love and Marriage’ could be set. When they started up again, two hands ripped off the white lace panties, grabbed the balls that were hanging, laid a kiss on their man then said,

“Oh sweet thing, I am going to fuck you deeper than someone digging a cesspool.”

When released, as the previous one, about courtship was, it would have the earning power for all of them to live, well, unusually ever after.

Jake, the photographer, looked at the happy (?) couples and wondered….if a pair of love birds tattooed on the biceps of the ‘brides’ might look good? He’d already decided on the dangly earrings for their yet to be pierced ears. And, thinking ahead, he was plotting out the picture after this one; in his mind it was all about how, on a ‘wedding’ night, the brides were fucked for the first time…..?

God, and his porn distributor, knew the earning power of two muscular asses having their white panties ripped off then stuffed in their mouths to prevent their screaming when their “virtue” was fucked away….

“Uh”, Jake wondered what they all might make if he brought in some of his other well hung studs for the film he was considering about….non-consensual rape?