Great Smokies Relay Riding System

Great Smokies Relay Riding System

(Rent-boy is handed off one to the next as he hikes the Smokies.)

I wasn’t sleeping--I was dozing really--when he rolled over on top of me in the sleeping bag. I reached down for him and, not surprisingly, found him hard again. He had fucked me every two hours through the night. He was in great shape, coming, I guess, from working in the woods on the mountain tops. I dutifully spread my legs, rolled my pelvis up to give him a straight shot, and hooked my heels on the meat of his calves. He let me fiddle with a condom disk, roll it on him, and guide his bulb to my entrance as he held my head cupped between his hands and looked intently into my face. I knew he wanted to watch my facial expressions when he spiked me. He wanted to know he was big enough to belabor a rent-boy.

He was big enough. When he thrust inside me, deep, my body jerked involuntarily and a look of satisfaction flashed across his eyes. I screwed up my face in shock and momentary pain and let out a deep groan. Liking this, especially coming from a pro rent-boy, he smiled and lowered his face to mine, taking my mouth in a possessive, tongue-swabbing-throat kiss.

He started a strong, steady pump immediately. It was getting lighter in the tent. He’d been inside me three times already--every two hours since he’d entered the tent. I was totally open for him, but I made sure tocause the muscles of my channel to grab him and ripple over his cock as he fucked me to give him the feel of a tight shafting. I’d learned some time ago that this was what men liked.

He was heavy, though--a football player physique and all muscle, very little fat, nothing really to hang on to at his waist as he plowed me, so I reached down and palmed his buttocks, squeezing his cheeks at the moment of each thrust, letting him know I was with him in the fuck. He thrust hard enough to jerk my body each time. There was no drifting of attention away from the fuck at hand with this guy.

Involuntarily groaning and searching for his name, which I’d been told, but I only could come up with Schwartz, I managed a, “Hey, guy, you’re too heavy. You’re crushing the breath out of me.”

“Sorry, Rob,” he said and lifted his chest off mine, supporting much of his torso weight on his forearms. He went enough onto his knees between my spread thighs to take some of his lower weight off me too. But he didn’t miss a beat in his long-slide fuck. Being lifted off my chest allowed his teeth to go to my nipples. Probably knowing this was his last go at me, he power fucked me to an ejaculation, with me releasing myself with a handstroking my own dick. He helped me explode by getting one of his hands down there, entering me with three fingers, which he used to spread me wide, and pumping his cock between them. As if he wasn’t big enough already.

He satisfied me more each successive time he screwed me. This last time, he was inside me forever, the fuck beginning languidly and building up to a frenzy of him pounding me deep and me arching my back ,thrusting my pelvis up into him on each of his rhythmic dives. Clutching his buttocks and his shoulder blades with my fingers, digging my claws in, as he pumped me hard, mercilessly, diving deep, varying his rhythm so that I gasped and clutched at him. Finally, he exhausted me, continuing to ravish me, and I surrendered totally to him, going docile, fully open to him, lying there, panting and vulnerable, and whimpering the mastery of his cocking.

He allowed as he liked this a lot, seeing that I was a rent-boy and had had it all. I praised his prowess and didn’t have to lie about it. Most of the time in the club, the fuck was quick. This man was taking me to the heights again and again, demanding all, taking all.

Afterward he remained in position, licking my nipples and up into my throat and kissing me on the mouth as we cooled down and listened for the birds to come into song at the camp ground off the Appalachian Trail along the top of the Great Smoky Mountains east of Knoxville, Tennessee. He’d taken me inside the sleeping bag in four different positions, plastered to each other with our legs around the other’s hips yoga style, a doggie fuck, and a side split before he did me in a missionary. He was young and strong, fit and virile. I didn’t object to him covering me in the least.

“I’ll get the bathhouse unlocked, and you can slip in there before the other campers wake,” he said, as he rose off of me, pulled on his park ranger uniform, and rolled out of the tent. There weren’t that many campers at the Newfound Gap camp grounds on the Blue Ridge Parkway that night, and I’d pitched my camp away from any of the others. The two of us had eyed each other when I’d first walked into camp. I’d figured he’d be visiting my tent that night.

The ranger--his last name Schwartz, I was pretty sure, and the first name a short one, starting with a T; maybe Tom--had made the rounds of the campers, arriving at my tent close to dark. I was cooking over the campfire and offered him some, which he turned down, but he offered me some beer from the satchel he was carrying, saying it was against the rules to have liquor up here, but if I didn’t tell, he wouldn’t.

That’s all it took to disarm me, I’m sure he thought. I’d known when I walked into camp that he’d fuck me if he wanted to. It didn’t hurt that he was a real hunk. He was probably a few years older than I was, but I hadn’t reached twenty yet, so he could still be classified as young. He wore the uniform well, and it didn’t take long, as he settled in, propped up by a boulder, just within the light of the fire, for us to reach an understanding.

I’d been walking the trail and the edge of the parkway from Gatlinburg for two days without having talked to anyone, so I was ready for the company--and, of course, he was easy to look at and was giving me the eye in the way I well understood.

I opened up to him, responding to his easy way of talking and his show of interest rather than judgment. I was on my way to take up a contract with Royal Caribbean in Tampa, Florida, to be in one of their cruiseship dance troops, I told him. He’d said something about everyone knowing what all male stage dancers were, and I didn’t contradict him. I just let that lay there for him to think about.

He said that a dancer must be incredibly flexible and sort of leered at me, and I didn’t contradict either the statement or the leer. I knew then that I’d let him fuck me if he wanted to. He seemed to be working up to wanting to.

I told him I wanted to toughen up and lose a few more pounds more before appearing for work and that I had decided to hike the mountain tops from Gatlinburg to north of Atlanta and then bum rides the rest of the way. Two days out, though, I was beginning to realize how tough walking was going to be.

He showed interest in the cruise ship dancing gigs but really lit up when I told him what club I’d been working in in Gatlinburg. He knew it, I could tell, and I’d mentioned it to check out his preferences in case I was misjudging the looks he was giving me. It was a gay men’s club and I had been riding both the pole and the clientele there for money. It became increasingly obvious that he knew of the place because he’d been there. He knew young guys rode the poles because he’d watched them. And he knew the pole riders rode the patrons because he’d been ridden. He told me this last bit just before we went into the clutches out there by the fire, when we both knew that he was a driver and I was going to be driven--that he was going to drive it in me.

As we worked up to this, the gathering night and the campfire and the beer and the discussion were free flowing and he was a hunk. I opened to him in conversation and honesty about who and what I was. I even told him that I was becoming disenchanted with the idea of walking all of the way to Atlanta now that I’d been on the trail a couple of days. He wanted to talk about what I did at the men’s club in Gatlinburg and how far I’d go with a patron. I told him some of the things I'd let guys do to me. I could tell that excited him as he was rubbing his crotch. He asked how much I usually got for a fuck and I told him. He pulled out a wad of cash, peeled off five twenties, and laid it on a log beside where I was sitting. He gave me a questioning look and I smiled and slightly nodded my head.

“You want to fuck me?” I asked. "You want to do some of those things to me that I told you other guys had done?"

“Yes. If you haven’t been playing me, I think you want me to fuck you--even to mishandle you a bit.”

“That covers more than once at the discounted rate for hunks like you,” I said.

“I was hoping for a deep discount and at least a three rounder,” he said.

I laughed, assuming he was shitting me about his stamina. He laughed too, apparently knowing how long he could keep it up and keep pounding better than I did.

“Let me see you naked,” he said.

And so I stripped off in front of him, making a performance of it, and then said it was unfair for me to be the only one out in the woods in the raw.

Then I wasn’t the only one naked, and I gasped, not just because his cash was laying on the log, but also at the muscularity of his body and that he was hung.

Then, as we went into the clinches and lay out by the fire and sixty-nined for a while, I opened my legs to him and that’s when he fucked me yoga style, him sitting in the moss with his legs encircling my hips and his arms encircling my waist and me sitting on his thighs, with my legs encircling his hips and my hands cupping the back of his head. He was inside me, me gasping and arching my back as he invaded me deep and thick, and the two of us rocking back and forth against each other in the light of the campfire, concentrating on the resulting movement of his cock inside me until we’d both come.

He provided the condom. While we were still hooked up, he reached over for his trousers, ferreted around in a pocket, and came up with a handful of condom packets.

“You know it can get cold at night here. It’s really best to sleep with extra body heat. Some people travel with a dog.”

“I’m going on cruises,” I said, with a laugh. “No dogs allowed on cruise ships.”

“It’s a pity. You’ll probably get cold tonight.”

“Where are you sleeping? Going back down the mountain or do you pick out a camper every night.”

“I pick out a camper every night,” he answered. I thought he was joking. Later I wasn’t so sure.

“Luckily, when I bought my sleeping bag, they only had doubles for sale.”

“Yes, lucky,” he said. “If I stay with you tonight, though, you won’t get much sleep.”

“I’ll manage,” I answered. I didn’t believe him then. I thought he was just bragging. Before first light the next morning I had found out he hadn’t been shitting me. He was going at me most of the night. He did me again and again, and after the second time, I just lay there, open and vulnerable, and he took what he wanted.

He reached into his trousers pocket, presumably to pull out more money when there was some question how long he’d be in the tent with me ,but I moved my hand to his and whispered, “That’s not needed. Just keep me warm and be good to me.”

“I’ll fuck you all night,” he warned. “What that be good for you?”

“I’ll let you if you can,” I answered, “and, yes, that would be good for me.”

He kept me warm and was very good to me. I didn’t get much sleep, and I managed, but what I managed was a cock that could go hard every two hours and could plow me for much of the next hour before shooting off.

When I came out of the shower room he’d opened for me, he had made us breakfast over the campfire. He was all decked out in his ranger uniform, though, more neatly squared away than before he’d opened the shower room, and I’d heard him talking with other campers outside the building. He was all business now. He was finishing a call when I came for breakfast, and, giving me a salute and a smile, he’d wished me a good ongoing journey and left with just a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand.

No “thanks for the lays” or anything like that. Now all park ranger business. But I’d known he was having as good a time as I was last night. He certainly didn’t seem as tired as the hour-interval couplings had made me.

All he said was, “I suggest you hike the parkway rather than the trail for the next day. It’s easier going and shorter in distance.”

He must have seen that I was walking somewhat bowlegged from his attentions in the night and not exactly in a straight line. Thanks, Mr. Park Ranger.

* * * *

I had walked south on the verge of the parkway for two hours. With each step I took I was increasingly sorry there was so much in my backpack--including that double sleeping bag that had seemed so useful the night before. A double-cab park truck passed me slowly, moving south as well, and pulled over on the side of the road ahead of me. It remained stationary while I walked up to it, and I had just about reached it when a young black guy opened the front passenger door, got out of the truck, and then opened the back passenger door.

“Need a lift for a while?” he asked. “You look like you are dragging.”

“I look that bad?” I asked as I came up to him.

“No, actually you look quite good. Ranger Tim called us. He described you--well, what you looked like dressed--and said you’d probably appreciate being given a lift down the road. He also said you’d give a great ride for the transportation.” The black guy was grinning. The great-looking, young, muscular black guy in a park maintenance uniform was grinning. “He said you were from Nathan’s Den up in Gatlinburg and would give favors for a favor. Sam here and I would be happy to do you the favor of giving you a ride in exchange for you giving us rides. How about it? Interested?”

Tim. That was it. Now I remembered what was on the park ranger’s nametag. It was Tim Schwartz. And I’ll bet that was what the call was that he was making this morning. He was setting up a tag team.

“You look fine. What about your friend?” I asked. I leaned into the backseat and got a look at another young hunk, a blond, in the driver’s seat. The black guy wasn’t waiting for approval. He was taking the pack off my back and taking it around to throw into the bed of the truck. I would have let him fuck me just for relieving me of my backpack. As it was, he held close behind me as I was leaning into the backseat and he gave me a feel. I wiggled my ass for him, letting him know that Ranger Tim wasn’t setting them up for a cruel joke.

It turned out the black guy wanted a blow job first, which I gave him in the backseat of the truck while, his friend, Sam, drove us down the road. The black guy’s name was Duane, and they were polite enough to show me the money before they used my body.

While Duane was pawing me in the backseat, Sam took a wad of money from somewhere and fanned the twenty-dollar bills out. “Ranger Tim said you’d do a couple of party rounds for $100. So, here, on the dashboard, I’m putting $200. And there’s another $100 if you’ll let us photograph it. You’ll have to sound out if you won’t go with the photography.”

I didn’t really have time to consider that, let alone object to it. Duane already had a very nice black cock out of his fly and was pushing my head down into his lap. For the next pretty long time I had my head below the window line, giving him a blow job. It wasn’t until he came and I came up for air that I noticed that we were turning off the parkway at the sign for a picnic area. The sign also said the picnic area was closed and there was a bar across the main road. Sam just drove the truck around the side of that and into an area where there were picnic tables strewn around beyond sight from the road. He drove to one that was far into the interior of the area, stopped, and we all got out, stripped by the truck, and walked over to a wood picnic table .I was dressed in nothing. They each were dressed in just a video camera. The $300 was already in the pocket of my shorts back in the bed of the truck.

Sam sat on the bench of the picnic table, his arms stretched out on either side of him along the surface of the table. He told me exactly what he wanted from me, and I knelt between his spread thighs and sucked his cock, while Duane filmed us. Then I was on my back on the top of the table, my legs spread, feet on the bench, and Sam knelt between my thighs and sucked my cock. When I had come for him, he came up onto the bench on his knees, hung my legs over his shoulders, and did me with along, thin cock in a missionary fuck, while Duane recorded it all.

When he was done, he coaxed me over onto my belly on the table top, with my knees on the bench, and he took a turn filming, while Duane came up on the bench, with his feet on the outside of my knees, crouched over me, mounted me with more channel stretch than Sam had done with a much thicker, black cock, and pounded me in a doggie fuck while Sam filmed it.

Midway in the fuck, Sam came around to theother side of the picnic table, grabbed me by the hair, pulled my head up, and presented his cock for sucking. I obliged. I did more than this back at Nathan’s Den in Gatlinburg--and for less money than they were giving me. Money was always nice to have. As I’d shown with Ranger Tim, I wasn’t averse to doing it for free either, if the guy was a hunk. Ranger Tim had been a hunk. These two guys were hunks too. Working outside for the park service obviously was good for body building.

I discovered that we still were being filmed, though. I hadn’t heard the other truck drive up, but now I could see it. It wasn’t a park service truck. And the guy filming us now wasn’t in any sort of park service uniform either. He was older than the three I’d already coupled with. His hair was gray and he was gaunt and sinewy. He was well muscled, but in a stringy way, and his face was gaunt-looking too, although he was good looking enough. He had to be in his late forties or early fifties and came across as a man of the area--a mountain man. The park service guys all seemed like they’d come off a college football field.

Duane had stamina. He rode me like a jockey trying to win along-distance race and not caring if his horse finished with him. I enjoyed the ride, going soft at the core for him--and he could reach the core and filled and stretched it to the limit. His cock was a cruel gift, but a gift it was ,and I gave him full value for his money.

And speaking of money, before Duane was finished, the older guy, the new arrival, slapped his $100 down next to me on the table top and, as Sam and Duane withdrew, he climbed up on the table, turned me lengthwise on the boards, put me into a full nelson as he stretched out over me, and, pressing my thighs together with his knees, drove a hard cock up into my now-tight channel. His was the cruelest fuck of the three. He also was the most experienced of the three and didn’t miss a trick in taking what he wanted from me. But I’d managed more demanding before and this outdoor sex was pretty kicky. The money was also good.

He lasted almost as long as Duane had and was a power driver. When they were done, they sat around on the bench, with me, still panting, lying full length on the table top, and drank beer and chatted. It was evident that, just as they were called by Ranger Tim, they had called this guy, named Chuck, and that I was going to be relayed to him at this point if I didn’t want to get back to hoofing it down the road.

I’d figured out that if I stuck with the relay, I was going to be stuck by a whole bunch of cocks along the road.

They put a beer on the table for me too, but I didn’t get into the mood to drink it before they got into the mood to do me again, which each of them did.

"God, you're good," Sam said.

"And easy," Duane added.

I took both comments as compliments.

As Sam and Duane were dressing by their truck and preparing to leave, Chuck patted me on the rump and said, “If you’re tired of walking fora while, I can drive you down into Robbinsville for a day or two and provide a comfortable bed, hot showers, and your meals. I have a bookstore down there. You might like the books I have in the back room. I put together photo books too. I’d pay you for letting me use stills from this afternoon and doing some other photo shoots. Interested in taking a breather from the trail?”

Well, sure, who wouldn’t be? Duane hauled my backpack from the back of the park service truck to the back of Chuck’s red Dodge Ram, waved at us, and then he and Sam were gone. Chuck hauled me off the picnic table and threw me over his shoulder like a I just a sack of feed. He walked us over to his truck, pulled open the driver’s door, jumped up into the cab, sitting, facing the side, put me on my knees between his thighs on the running board, and pulled my face down into his crotch. He took his turn of getting a blow job from me, before he drove me farther south on the parkway and then off onto highway 74 and into Robbinsville.

It turned out that Chuck had a film studio behind the dirty book room that was behind the regular bookstore in his shop in Robbinsville. For three days he filmed me by day and fucked me by night. Most of the photos were stills in provocative poses with various backdrops. He paid me $20 for each photo and he turned out high-quality shots. He put a portfolio together for me and I knew I’d be able to use it somehow for future job possibilities. He said they’d come out in a book and he showed me other books of photos of hunky hikers he’d enticed down from the Appalachian Trail for a few days. I wondered then if this was some sort of racket, starting with Ranger Tim, going through Sam and Duane, and ending with the young guy in Chuck’s bed and in photo shoots in Robbinsville.

I didn’t wonder for long, though. It turns out that several days of walking on the Blue Ridge Parkway through Tennessee didn’t cover much ground in the valley. We hadn’t left Ranger Tim, Sam, and Duane behind. They appeared the first evening at the bookstore, and I starred in a couple of gang bang porn films. Chuck ran a subscription Web site too, and he paid me $300 for each film I appeared in.

It was all good with me. They all were hunks, and I got paid. I also wasn't ashamed of showing my body--or even my body being fucked.

The fourth morning Chuck put me back up on the parkway, on my feet, the backpack on my back. I hadn’t walked more than a half hour before a big SUV pulled over in front of me at the edge of the road. The driver’s door opened, and a middle-aged bald guy, who later told me his name was Nick and that he was a football coach at a private school down near Robbinsville and who was in great shape, popped out, extended an arm across the roof of the vehicle and called out, “Chuck down in Robbinsville told me a guy looking like you needed a ride down the road in exchange for a good ride. I’m going down to where 76 crosses the parkway. I can give you a lift that far, if you want.”

When I climbed into the vehicle, he fanned five twenty-dollar bills out on the dashboard in front of me. “I understand you’ll give a good time for a hundred,” he said.

He fucked me in the backseat of his SUV, sitting in the seat and holding me in his lap, both facing him and then away from him and slamming my passage up and down brutally but gloriously on a steel rod of a thick, long cock. I was beginning to think that these guys were all members of a club where having a thick, long cock was a membership requirement.

At the intersection of the parkway and Route 76, Nick relayed me to Fire Watch Ranger Aaron, who rode me at the top of a fire tower on Blood Mountain.

“Let me take you up to the fire watch platform,” he said when I was getting out of the coach’s SUV. “You can see into both Tennessee and Georgia from there.”

I can’t attest to what how far beyond the platform you can see from on top of Blood Mountain, because all I could see most of the time was the puffed up face of the short, hairy guy named Aaron, as he worked hard over me, me flat on my back on an old mattress in the center of the platform, my legs bent and spread and my pelvis rolled up, as he worked his stubby cock inside me in a missionary fuck and vigorously pumped. This was where my “long comes as a membership requirement” theory went bust. He couldn’t reach much beyond the prostate, but he gave that a fantastic beating and I came for him twice, my hands running into the dark curls of the pelting on his pectorals and my head turned to the side, tongue hanging out and panting with every sensation centered on that thick bulb beating on my prostate and my eyes glued to the scattered twenty-dollar bills on the boards beside my head.

He was something different--not intimidatingly huge--and he was a short, squat Jewish guy covered with curly black hair and with something of a pot belly, but his cock bulb bulged and he could put it right on the money and do a tattoo on the spot. God could he pull the cum out of me.

* * * *

Ranger Aaron drove me right up to the base of yet another fire watch tower, this time on Springer Mountain, thirty miles to the south on the parkway and nearly outside of the southern end of the park. Atlanta was about fifty miles away and thus far I’d walked little farther than from one paid fuck to another.

An older man, tall but very thin and sinewy, with a grizzled appearance, salt-and-pepper hair, bushy eyebrows, and two day’s growth of beard, was coming down the stairs. He had a uniform on, but it was a different style from that of a park ranger.

“Juan’s a game warden,” Ranger Aaron explained. “He’s a senior ranger in the park. He’s over nine inches.”

On the basis of that last comment, I looked at the man again, with a little more regard this time and with slight trepidation. He was Hispanic and probably in his fifties, but if he could get it up, I was going to be taxed. I could see that he had a wad of cash in his hand. When the man hit the dirt, he stood up ramrod straight, gave me a piercing look, that told me he was in command and would dominate me, and said, “This the male whore fucking his way south then?”

“Yes, his name’s Rob, and he’s a great lay.”

“Was it a hundred, did you say, and a ride out of the park for all night?”

“Yeah, that’s been the going rate,” Ranger Aaron said.

They were talking about me like I was a piece of meat that was just hanging on a rack next to them, which I guess I, in fact, was. I might have said something, but I was afraid it would come out as a moan if I tried, because he’d reached out with a strong hand, with long fingers and was fingering my crotch, getting under my balls and weighing them with his hand and then tracing the line of my dick in the loose shorts. My cock reacted by engorging.

“A real looker, ain’t he?”

“He’s got a great body too,” Aaron said, “and he’s real flexible--a dancer, you know.” I wasn’t sure I could live up to his testimonials--or that I really wanted to. The words “more than nine inches” came to mind. And then “a cruel master” flowed into my thoughts as his hand closed over my balls through the thin material, and he squeezed. My eyes began to water and he gave me a sharp look. I wasn’t about to show weakness, so I just stared back at him, producing a bit of a smile.

“He’s a pretty boy. You sure he can take it?”

“From what I hear, he’s taken in almost constantly all the way from just south of Gatlinburg. He didn’t have any trouble taking me. And you should of seen the positions I put him in to bury it.”

Ranger Juan gave Ranger Aaron a somewhat disdainful look, like he knew Aaron was kind of stubby, but he must have been satisfied, because he stuffed the wad of money in the hand he wasn’t squeezing my crotch with in my pocket, turned, and said, “Well, come on up then and let’s get it on.”

The fire watch platform was much the same as the one on Blood Mountain, down to the bare mattress laying in the center of the covered space. The platform was open on all four sides, with strong railings all around. And it was a good thing they were strong. I still worried about the one that Ranger Aaron was leaning his back into as he crouched, facing the interior of the tower, and put me on his crouched thighs, facing him, both of us naked, and him embracing me around my waist as I leaned back, skewered on his cock, his bulb pressing at my prostate and rubbing it languidly.

Ranger Juan watched us a while. He too was naked, and I couldn’t take my eyes off him--and off his cock, which kept growing and hardening, and curving upward as he watched me rise and fall on Aaron’s cock, using the leverage of my feet pushing off on the log slats of the platform railing. Fuck nine inches. My experienced eye measured him at ten or more before I lost sight of Juan as he moved behind us, straddled Aaron’s thighs, and, after positioning his cock head at my hole above where Aaron was dug in, moved my legs so that my ankles were hooked on the top of the railing on either side of Aaron, grabbed my waist between his hands, and started the long journey up into my channel.

My passageway measured him out as more than ten hard inches too.

Between them, they fucked the shit out of me, Ranger Aaron worrying my prostate mercilessly and Ranger Juan pounding me hard, fast, and deep. After Aaron had gone, Juan put me on all fours on the mattress, mounted me, and fucked the shit out of me again.

He gave me a bit of rest and a beer and then, as twilight was setting in, put me back on all fours, mounted me, and fucked the shit out of me again. He fed me dinner and then, knowing I was lost to the length of him, just lay on his back, his fists locked behind his neck and his eyes watching me, as I rode him, doing all of the work. He took me down from the tower and to his nearby cabin, tied my wrists to his headboard, and fucked the shit out of me, missionary style, through the night.

I lost count of how many times he came and how many times I came. I just know that he was perpetually hard, well over the advertized nine inches, and my balls ached from being pumped dry. In the morning, he untied me, turned onto his back, put me, straddling his pelvis, on his hard ten inches, and, once again knowing having a nine-inch-plus cock was all he needed to contribute to me having a good time, lay back and watched me as I rode him one last time.

I was glad to do it. I now knew I could outlast someone as long, virile, and vigorous as he was.

Over breakfast, he said, “I can take you down to where 5 meets Interstate 575. You’ll still be forty miles north of Atlanta. I can take you today, or I can hook you up with a ride from there the day after tomorrow. If you stay, I won’t pay you, but I’ll fuck the stuffing out of you. You’re a good lay and you can keep up with me. Which will it be?”

He banged me for two more glorious days and turned me over at the 575 interchange to a group of Hispanic seasonal workers he knew were headed south in a beat-up old bus.

A good week earlier than I had programmed my hike for, since I’d thought I’d be walking the whole way, I was coming south into Atlanta in the back of an old bus loaded with toned-up and boisterous Hispanic seasonal workers who gang banged me on my sleeping bag in the aisle on the floor of the rear of the bus all the way. If it was only forty miles to Atlanta as Ranger Juan had said it was from that point, they must have gone off on slow-route back roads. I couldn’t verify that, as I was on my back on the floor of the bus, with my legs spread and my ankles propped up on seats on either side of the aisles, my backpack under the small of my back to elevate my buttocks, and my eyes counting the dried-up wads of bubblegum stuck to the underside of bus seats, while a succession of muscular, berry-brown men fucked me.

The fact is that I liked being fucked and having guys wanting to fuck me, and I was seasoned to lay there and take it all day.

They couldn’t pay me, but they certainly could show me a good time and I didn’t have to do any more relay hitching into Atlanta. They were willing to drive me all the way down to Florida, but I didn’t think my body could take them that far. Also, I didn’t need their money and I didn’t need to hitch anymore. I had more than enough money to fly from Atlanta toTampa in style. I gave them all of the camping stuff from my backpack, including that double sleeping bag, which made what was left a quite manageable weight, and had them drop me off at the Atlanta airport.

I could hardly walk as I entered the departure lounge. Still, I think I would have been hobbling just as much if I’d had to hike the whole way on my feet rather than ride south through the park on men’s cocks.

I highly recommend the Great Smokies Relay Riding System for anyone whose channel can take the beating and upwards of ten inches of cock; who likes to fuck in the outdoors and in the back of cars, trucks, and buses; who looks good enough and is experienced enough to command $100 a fuck session; and who appreciates variety in his men.

If you go and start where I did, tell Ranger Tim hi for me.