The Hermit Cums
Old Man Larson lived like a ghost on the edge of town, a sun-leathered hermit in his late sixties who raised chickens and spoke to almost no one. At the farmer’s market he only grunted prices for his eggs. Folks bought his eggs just shrugged off his rudeness. No one knew a damn thing about him.
But at Homo Hollow, the quiet old bastard became a filthy-mouthed mother fucker.
He’d show up every few weeks, strip off his overalls, and lean against a tree with that legendary cock hanging heavy between his skinny, hairy thighs. His unwashed stink thick in the air around him. Even soft it was thick. When it hardened it turned into a brutal weapon: a veiny, wrist-thick 9-inch monster with a long, cheesy foreskin that clung to the fat purple head. The shaft was dark, gnarled, and stinking of old sweat and dried piss. His big, low-hanging balls were wrinkled and furry, reeking of days without washing.
The moment that cock came out, men dropped like flies.
One humid evening Larson stood against a thick pine while two grown men fought for space at his crotch. As soon as the first warm, wet mouth stretched around his filthy foreskin, the old hermit’s tongue loosened.
“Get in there, you disgusting fucking faggot,” he growled, voice rough as gravel. “Suck that dirty old cock, you pathetic cum-guzzling whore. Yeah…tongue my smegma out like the nasty pig you are. That’s all you’re good for, cleaning an old man’s rotten foreskin with your worthless mouth.”
He grabbed the cocksucker’s head with both hands and brutally face-fucked him, slamming his thick meat down the man’s throat.
“Choke on it, bitch. Gag like the cock-starved slut you are. I bet your wife has no idea her husband is out here deepthroating a hermit’s stinking dick like a cheap gloryhole cunt. Deeper, faggot, swallow every inch or I’ll piss down your throat instead.”
When the first man started sputtering for air, Larson yanked his sloppy cock free and slapped the drooling face with the heavy, spit-covered shaft.
“Your turn, cum-dump. Open that stupid fucking mouth. That’s right… worship it, you brainless sperm toilet. Look at you, probably coach Little League during the week and here you are on your knees acting like a brain-dead cock pig for an old man’s dick.”
He kept the vicious verbal assault going nonstop, his hips pumping relentlessly. Men gathered around just to listen and snicker at the language he used.
“Fucking pathetic. All you cock-hungry faggots are the same, pretending to be real men in town, then sneaking out here to get your throats ruined and your asses wrecked. You love it, don’t you? Love being an old man’s personal cum rag. Say it with my cock in your mouth, you worthless hole.”
When Larson finally came, he buried every inch down the man’s throat, balls tight against his chin, and snarled through gritted teeth:
“Drink it, you filthy fucking sewer. Take every drop of this old man’s thick load, you pathetic cum bucket. That’s all you are, a warm, wet cum dump for superior cock.”
After he finished, Larson pulled up his overalls, gave a single grunt, and vanished back into the woods toward his chicken farm, silent once more.
Just another dirty secret buried deep in Homo Hollow. No one back in town ever heard him say so much. No one would ever guess that quiet old Larson turned respectable men into whimpering, cock-worshipping faggots with nothing but his thick, cheesy dick and a mouth full of brutal humiliation.
