A New Hire at a North Dakota Oil Field: Life in the Man-Camp

"Throw your bag, in the bunkhouse and make your way, back here, Johnny," the man tells me, my new boss, as I stand in the open doorway, leaning on its doorframe, of the small tight trailer-office, "look for Building B-4, I've assigned you there."

The burly-big framed broad-shouldered man, with his worn haggard stress-pocketed face, orders me as he sits behind his old school metal frame desk, his shirt barely able to contain his exaggerated muscles as they burst forth from his Texas-style button-down. Patches of man-gruffness peek from the strained fabric of the stressed buttons. His oil stained yellow hardhat sits on the cluttered paper-strewn desk in the confined trailer. He demands attention just by his monstrous presence.

"Okay," I answer, almost singing, as I am happy to have finally have found work after months of being unemployed.

"There are only two guys assigned, there, right now, so pick a bunk," he says, "...and make your way back, here, in a hurry."

"I appreciate the opportunity, sir," I say, "I will do you proud."

I am overly appreciative in my tone, gushing like a whimpering baby, but it has been a rough couple of months for me.

"You best, boy," he says, "...or your sorry ass will be out the gate, on the street, faster than a fly on shit."

"Yes, sir," I say, suddenly tensed, somewhat scared but still overwhelming overjoyed for the opportunity.

"Go throw your bag and hurry back, pronto," he says, "One of your bunkmates is bound to be there. I bet."

"Yes, sir," I say, again, as I turn to bolt.

"Hurry your ass," he says, "If you wanna work for me, you can't and will not be wasting my time or yours."

"Yes, sir," I say as I turn and make my way out of the office-trailer, down the red dirt dusty road to Building B-4.

The bright afternoon sun, beats down on me, from the open blue-sky overhead, on my exposed neck as I step from the porch-covered sterile white trailer.

The camp is sprawled out on several inclining acres, converted trailers serve as homes, workshops and offices. On a red dirt hill, a mountain of sterile white squares blanket the ground. In the outlying area, there are other buildings, used for maintenance, upgrades, and out further, still, are the oil rigs, pumping oil from the inner depths of the Earth's thin mantle.

They call these encampments, man-camps, as they are filled with the testosterone-driven cock-welding gender of the human species tribe. Fights are frequent, as it happens where areas of men are confined to small spaces without any means for constructive activities or sexual frustrations to be carried out.

The camp is quite sparse with men, right now, as many are out working on their assigned rigs, or in the shops but there are a few men, out and about, milling, walking around shirtless, some even have their jeans, unbuttoned and partially unzipped, showing wisps of pubes peeking through their parted pants. A group of men is standing in front of Building B-2, drinking beers, listening to a loud booming radio, echoing from inside the building. It is another occupied bunkhouse.

"Hey, bud, whatcha looking for?" a tall, blonde, moderately hairy man, with a obvious razed buzz-cut, of about forty years of age, approaches me, asking me, as he slowly walks towards me, shirtless, with his hand, travelling across the naked flesh of his exposed chest. He walks with a over-confident swagger, projecting his groin out front, as he prances towards me like some King about to sit upon his golden thrown or a prancing cock, hot on the walk.

"Building B-4," I answer.

"It's right behind you, bud. See," he says to me, as he snakes his hand out of his pants, pointing a long digit towards the building across the way. He once again, runs his left hand across his furry-bedded chest, paying special attention to tweak his large circled erect nipples, which are visibly hard and thrusting out like some red beacon from amongst the hair on his manly pectorals.

Painted in a glowing bright red, on the right front face of the building, next to the door, is a large stenciled 'B-4', which takes up the entire outer surface of the building.

"Thanks," I say, "Not sure how I missed that."

It beacons like a lighthouse, except, it is more like a red light, in its apparent nature.

"Distracted, maybe?" he says, as he actively fondles and gropes his bulging package with his lowered left hand while he stands, a few feet from me, while his right hand continues to be buried deep within his open, unzipped, unbuttoned jeans while he fishes inside for his package. His demonstrations are quite seductive as both hands fumble with his concealed cock. He does not seem fazed by my presence, he seems quite intent that I see him continue with his 'groped genital play.'

I feel my own cock twitch from his show.

"Yeah," I answer as I am riveted by the outward display of the mature man.

"Have you met, Derrick?"The man asks me as I feel his eyes, go over every square inch of my somewhat younger body, while he is still occupied with his own personal manual maneuvers.

"Yeah, he's waiting on me, back at the office," I explain.

"You best get a move on, then, bud," he explains, "He does not like to be kept waiting."

"Thanks," I say, "I'm Johnny, Johnny Odom, by the way."

"Nice to meet ya, Johnny," he says, as he extends his muscled right hand toward me, taking it out of his opened packaged pants, releasing it from his gripped cock-strangling, into a forcibly-gripped handshake, "I'm MacArthur."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. MacArthur," I answer back to him as I grip this hand appropriately in our shared shake. I can feel his ball and cock sweat in our clasped hands, from his forced prideful fondling of his buried balls, deep in his pants as we shake hands, testing the strength of the other.

"It's just MacArthur, not, Mister," he ponders.

"Okay," I respond, shyly, "thanks."

"Tommy should be inside," MacArthur explains, "he works with us but we do not have enough room over here in our bunkhouse, so he is over there, where you will be. You best hurry; Derrick does not abide with lazy slowpokes."

"Okay, "I say, "Thanks, MacArthur, I best get a move-on, I don't want to anger the boss before I even get a chance to get to work out in the field."

I bring my hand to my nose, smelling the last vestiges of this hot sweaty intense roughneck's aroma as I walk toward my assigned bunkhouse. I feel my cock stiffen in my jeans as I walk away.

I walk about a bit, turning to the steps, which lead in, over the threshold of the place that I will lay my head down, at night or day, to rest my tired and weary bones, that I know will eventually happen. Hard work, does that to a man, it is expected and welcomed by me.

I open and quietly close the door behind me. I am greeted by a row of three metal framed racks on each side of the building, so there is room for twelve men in this trailer. It is gonna get loud with twelve testosterone-fueled men packed in here.

"UHHH!"

What is that? I ask myself.

A hearty moan comes from the rear of the room.

"UHHH! AHHH! UHH!"

Another moan, much louder, this time, than the previous one comes from the same direction as the first, it sounds as if someone is in pain.

"UHHH! FUCK!"

It is not pain, I am hearing.

I sling my duffle bag to the slick shiny floor; a soft thud, heard, as it hits the linoleum of the many-bedded chamber.

I walk to the sound that continues to emanate from the rear of the building. As I walk down the open center aisle, between the stacked beds, I look to the right and see a bare leg, hanging over from a small mattress, on the farthest bed from the door, nearest to what appears to be the shower room and visible urinals and toilets in the bathroom.

"UHHH! UHHH! FUCK! FUCK!"

The moaning sound grows louder as the dark naked hairy body of man of about twenty-five years old, somewhat younger than I am. He is squat down, sprawled out in his bed, a pleasant sight, which happily greets me.

The man is stroking his swelled cock, predominantly displayed, as he jacks his cock, with such friction that his cock is glowing bright red with an intensity between his youthful spread legs.

He is covered in a glistening thin sheen of bodily sweat, his hair, soaked, either from his physical exertions or from a previous showering, it covers his lean masculine muscled frame. A bottle of lube rest against his hairy thigh, its lid open, his erect cock shines with this lubricant as both of his hands roughly double-team the length of his swelled cock. His crowned cockhead glistens with its unholy redness, as the blood fuels his cocks thickness and stiffness with his added intense stroking.

"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!"

As I leer at him, he shoots his load, covering his treasure trail and pubes with his white spermed-spooge. The spooge is thick, virginal in its whiteness, it puddles in the dark contrast of his body hair.

He shivers, quakes and quivers as his body is overtaken with an extreme external ecstasy as his body recoils from the spilt seed that covers his cock, pubes, and lower abdomen.

CLAP, CLAP, CLAP, CLAP.

I celebrate his maleness with a my fierce display of applause. His volcanic blast of cum deserved ample recognition, and was quite impressive in its release.

"Nice load," I voice to the now startled man, as astonishment and praise leave my lips, "You must be Tommy?"

"SHIT! FUCK! WHO THE FUCK, ARE YOU, MAN?"

Alarm is apparent on his face, once he realizes that his intimate display has been witnessed by another man.

"Your new bunkmate," I attempt to explain, myself, "I'm Johnny."

I extent my hand, wanting to receive some of his essential spunk onto my already sweaty covered hand from the man I met in the trailer-alleyways on my way here.

He smears his excessive man-cream over his exposed chest, massaging it into his open skin and pubes, still not taking my hand in friendship.

SLAM!

I hear the door bang loudly behind me as it is forcibly closed. The man, named Derrick and my new boss, greets me in his gruff voice that is his calling card.

"What the fuck are you doing? I am tired of waiting on your sorry ass, you are not starting out on the right foot, Johnny," Derrick says as he sees the naked form of Tommy, splayed out on his rack, "clean your sorry ass up, Tommy, playing with that cock, again, I see."

Tommy does not cover or cower back, his naked self nor does he take his hands off his exposed cum-covered body.

He just lays there as the cum steadily leaking from his still hard tool, seeping onto the already pooled and gathered cum resting in the eaves of his hairy legs. He smiles, arrogantly and proudly at us, as he revels in his man-pride.

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The IDEA for this story came about from a mention on a national news show about 'man camps' in the North Dakota oil fields.