Journey Thru Abilene

by Habu

23 Nov 2018 831 readers Score 9.2 (36 votes) PDF Mobi ePub Txt


Chapter Five: David

Rapier was an interesting setup. Abilene is much like any other small city of about 100,000 people. The vice is there; it just isn’t out in the front room. In the case of Rapier, the club was located in the heart of the red-light district of a few blocks around North and South 1st Streets. But out front was what would ordinarily be taken as a local neighborhood bar that was still barely breathing but was being bypassed for trendier bars in safer areas of the city. The sparsely patronized sports bar was out front and patrons entered from the street into a small vestibule, with one door to the left, leading into the front bar, and a door straight ahead, entering a corridor running the full width of the bar and its back storage room and then, passing through a doorway covered by a beaded curtain, to a door on the right at the end of the corridor.

When you entered the big room on the back of the building, you were entering the gay underbelly of Abilene’s tenderloin district. This was one of three gay men’s clubs in Abilene owned by David Patton. It was the most established of the three, and it’s where Dave Patton himself held court.

“This is the guy I was telling you about,” Clem said as he brought Gordy into the bar for the first time after they had worked on the same construction site but had been let off for the day at lunchtime. The club was nearly deserted at this time of day. A florid, beefy man in his forties was sitting at a table, wearing his obligatory cowboy boots. faded jeans, and plaid shirt. His ten-gallon hat was hooked on the back of another chair at the table. He was smoking a cigar and had piles of business receipts and a calculator strewn in front of him on top of the table.

“Cute,” David Patton said, looking up at Gordy. “Cute blonds we have a lot of, though.”

“Not ones who can suddenly get wild like this one does,” Clem said.

“You danced a pole before?” Patton asked, giving Gordy a second speculative inspection.

“Yes, sir,” Gordy answered. “In Galveston most recently. I’ve worked behind a bar too, but not serving liquor yet.”

Patton looked hard at him again. “How old are you if you can’t work a bar?”

“Nineteen,” Gordy answered.

“That young? Sort of fresh, are you?”

“Not that you would fuckin’ notice if you work him right,” Clem answered.

Patton looked at Clem now. “Gotta respect your picks, Clem. You haven’t done me wrong yet. Usual finder’s fee?”

“OK with me.”

Gordy blushed. So, Clem was into recruitment. Maybe that was the extent of interest Clem had in him. That was deflating. Gordy felt like walking out. But he needed a nest egg of money. He needed it as fast as he could get it if he was going to be able to push on west soon.

“You been ridden before?” Patton had turned his attention back to Gordy.

“Yes, sir.”

“Hard?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Often?”

“Often enough, sir. Even before Galveston. Back East, in South Carolina. I couldn’t bartend, so I serviced the patrons to make my way.”

“Bottomed for them, did you? Men? You worked in a bar fronting a house then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, then, let’s put some music on and you strip down and dance that pole up on the stage for me. Convince me.” He motioned to the bartender and called out, “Gimme some pole music.”

Gordy began to strip down and Clem took a seat at the table beside Patton.

“Oh, and what’s your name, little darlin’? . . . um, yes, very nice. A great body. Love the tattoo.”

Gordy didn’t answer right away. He wanted this to be a watershed of some sort—or maybe just an interlude he could later separate off with the other shitty portions of his life, which so far were most of it. He sensed he was at the nadir of his existence. “It’s Glade, sir,” he said, having spied a can of Glade air freshener spray sitting on a nearby table. He liked the mystery of the word immediately. “You can call me Glade. Just Glade. No last name.” That part, at least, represented Gordy’s life. He’d never known a real surname, so he might as well not have one at all.

Clem gave him an amused look, but he didn’t say anything.

As Gordy walked over to the stage and climbed up on it toward the pole, both Patton and Clem gave him appreciative looks. “Tight little buns,” Patton muttered. “Sweet tattoo. Nice that it’s the only one. Provides focus.”

“About the tattoo . . . ,” Clem murmured. But Gordy was already up on the stage now and the bump and grind music, turned on by the bartender at Patton’s direction, was being turned up louder. So Gordy couldn’t hear what Clem told Patton. But he knew what that would be.

They watched him go through a routine, impressed enough that both men at the table had their dicks out and were working them up. Glade—as he now thought of himself—withdrew into his own world, concentrating on the beat of the music and the pole dance moves he’d learned in Galveston. Concentrating on getting this job that Clem said paid so well—so well that Glade could get a place of his own, not have to do any more construction work—although that had helped really tone his body up—and save money for the onward journey.

The next thing he knew, the two men were up on the stage with him, trousers off; shirts open to bare, muscular chests, hard-ons pressing at Glade—Clem’s poking at a butt cheek and Patton’s at a thigh.

“Watch this,” Clem said in a deep, throaty voice. He laid a palm on Glade’s tattoo and Glade shuddered and jerked, emitting a deep moan. “Oh, shit,” he cried. “Fuck me!” He raised an arm and hooked it around Clem’s neck and brought their lips together. He reached out with the other hand and grasped the cock pressing at his thigh—Patton’s cock—and began to stroke it. It wasn’t all natural. Glade needed this job and was resolved to do whatever he had to do to get it.

“See, just fuckin’ palm and rub him there,” Clem said as he pulled away from the pole.

Glade’s back was pressed against the pole and his arms were raised over his head, his hands grasping the pole. His knees were hooked on Patton’s hips. Patton was crouched between Glade’s thighs, holding Glade’s waist, the thumb of his right hand careful to continue stroking the rose tattoo, as he thrust up, penetrating Glade’s channel, and fucked the young man hard and deep. Glade kept crying out for more of it, rougher and deeper.

Needless to say, Glade got the job.

* * * *

Glade was sitting at an outdoor café several blocks away from Rapier, eating his lunch, when the young guy paused beside his table, tray in hand—yes, in cowboy boots and hat, but with more of the lean, but muscular, worn jeans and dusty shirt look about him that seemed more authentic Western than most of the men Glade saw about the town. There was at least one diner at all of the other tables.

“Mind if I sit here?” the young cowboy asked. He was dark-haired and deeply tanned. Maybe partly Hispanic. He also had a very nice smile.

“Sure, sit. I’m about finished.”

“Please, don’t let me rush you off,” the young man said. He was maybe a couple of years older than Glade, but younger—and not as hard looking—than most Glade saw, and serviced, at Rapier. Still, there was a familiar air about him.

Glade had taken to eating meals as far away from Rapier as possible. David was a good boss, but he was becoming increasingly attentive—and possessive. He always seemed to want to know what Glade was doing and where he was going—and with whom—when he wasn’t dancing the pole or working in one of the rooms upstairs at Rapier. David didn’t seem to mind other men fucking Glade as long as there was money in it for him, but he was getting increasingly territorial with the rent-boy in other venues. He’d even strongly suggested that Glade should move into his house. The young man was putting him off on that, but he was considering doing so. It would help him save faster.

Even while he was considering it, though, he was struggling with himself. He’d been at Rapier for a couple of months now. Each passing day seemed to be more like settling into this life rather than getting on a bus west.

The young guy had sat down not across from Glade, but beside him, at the table. He tucked right into his food, while Glade toyed with the cherry pie slice he’d gotten for dessert. He knew he should just polish it off and leave, but the guy was giving him sideways glances. He had a great face and hazel eyes. A smile that looked like it easily could segue into a warm laugh. And Glade kept bothering that notion that he recognized the guy from somewhere. The construction projects? The young man looked like he was manual-labor hardened.

Then the young man burst the bubble. “You’re Glade, aren’t you? I’ve seen you at Rapier. My name’s Kevin.”

Glade pushed his plate forward on the table with his fork, gave a disgusted sigh, and started to rise from the table. Kevin reached over and arrested his movement with a hand on his forearm. His grip was like steel.

“Please don’t go. I could have paid for your time at Rapier. I do want to fuck you. And I’m not just here by accident. But I want to do it different from the others—not in one of those rooms at Rapier. I’ll pay you as much, and you can keep it all. You won’t have to give any of it to the house.”

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” Glade said. But he wasn’t moving a muscle. The young man had stood too. His shirt front had parted to show a well-muscled, tan chest, with a gold-chain necklace. The bulge of his jeans backed up his stated interest and caused Glade’s breath to catch.

“You don’t like me? I’m not as good as all those fat middle-aged men fucking you? You’re not interested in young, vigorous cock. My money stinks?”

Glade had been fucking so many toads and this man was a prince.

They fucked in the backseat of Kevin’s old Ford convertible, the rust spots belying any claim to being a show car, out by a lake near Dyess Air Force Base southwest of town. They really got going well when, Glade sitting on the cock and facing Kevin, Kevin’s hand strayed to the rose tattoo. Kevin was every bit as hard bodied as Glade thought he’d be and as vigorous and deep reaching as Kevin said he’d be.

Barring the times Glade was at work, Kevin owning a vintage car repair shop and working on his own time, they fucked almost continuously for two weeks, Glade never asking for a cent, just being taken with a younger, more power hitting, and companionable lover than anyone Glade had known since Beaufort.

They were talking about moving in together, saving rent money for both of them, when David Patton asked Glade again about moving into his house. Glade was caught off guard and was naïve enough to tell Patton that he was thinking of moving in with someone else—that he’d found someone he liked.

Two days later Kevin was out of the picture. David Patton called Glade into his office at Rapier and gave him the news, saying that Kevin had decided to move to another town. David also declared that Glade would move into his house—if he wanted to keep his job.

David had offered Glade a cigarette when Glade first came into the office, and although Glade didn’t usually smoke, he was nervous enough on seeing the serious look on David’s face when he came into the office that he took the cigarette. It wasn’t just any cigarette, though, and Glade was feeling a little more spaced out the more he dragged on it—and he was mellow enough that he took the news on Kevin without getting violent. David had a paper towel laid out on his desk top too, with strands of white powder lined up on it. There was a straw in David’s hand when Glade entered and a residue of white powder on his nostrils.

When Glade was mellow, David offered him the straw and, cupping the back of Glade’s head with a hand, push Glade’s face down toward the paper towel. Glade hadn’t done this before—and he did everything he could do not do it subsequently—but David had found a new way to keep Glade under a modicum of control.

After Glade had taken a snort, he just lay back in his seat and watched as David lifted his legs over the arms of the chair, knelt in front of him, unzipped and pulled off his trousers and briefs, and, after playing with Glade’s cock with his mouth until both men were hard and panting, crouched over Glade and fucked him in the chair. David didn’t want Glade going wild in the fuck; he just wanted the young man lying there, taking the cock, and acknowledging David as the master. Glade did just that.

“Now I own you completely,” David muttered when he was done. “When you go home tonight, it will be to my house—and my bed. And we won’t be hearing any more about any Kevin.”

That was, Glade thought, the low point of Glade’s life in Abilene, although he could have gone lower. He could have lost himself to the drugs, but he fought them hard enough and didn’t take them long enough for them to take over his life. But he was owned now. And he’d let himself be maneuvered into that position. The night after he’d moved into Patton’s house and found that he had no bedroom of his own—that he’d be sleeping in Patton’s bed—Glade stole away down the block from the house and called Josh Caldwell in Beaufort, begging for his old position back if Josh sent him money for the trip. Glade had enough money saved now, but he needed some sort of sign of commitment from Caldwell. He didn’t get it.

“That ship has sailed, Gordy,” Caldwell answered. “I have other cuties to play with now. That business with the Marine officer was the last straw with you.”

“The Marine officer?” Glade asked. He hadn’t realized that Caldwell knew anything at all about Dean Horton.

“Yeah. I had a couple of boys rough him up and put him on the plane for where he was going. He was leaving you anyway. And still you took off on me. So, I’m not trusting you again.”

Stunned, Glade just clicked off the phone. Dean hadn’t just left him without a word. He’d been beaten up and driven out town. Glade gave a deep sob and then he steeled himself. That’s when he decided he wouldn’t be going any farther down. That’s when he dropped his plan to go west—and also his plan to save more money before he did so. That’s when he decided he was going north. Dean’s assignment had been to Billings, Montana. Glade didn’t know where that was other than knowing it was north of where he now was. But he was sure a bus could get him there. He had no idea whether he could find Dean now—or even if Dean would remember him. But at least now Glade had a solid goal. To go north rather than west. His next call was to check out bus schedules.


Chapter Six: 9:30 Bus from Abilene

Sometimes Glade thought he was born with a “fuck me” sign painted on his butt. But then, he acknowledged that he seemed to have been born with that young and vulnerable look that turns some men on and had to admit that he loved being touched—especially in that sensitive spot below and to the left of his navel, where a blue rosebud was tattooed. But it wasn’t the tattoo that pulled men in. Men wanted to fuck him before they learned the power of the tattoo.

The tattoo lifted their arousal for him, though. Ever since Glade, or Gordy as he then was named, started having sex, if a man touched him there, Glade hardened right up and softened to anything the man might suggest. Glade would just lay down and open his legs to the man and let him do whatever he wanted. It didn’t help that, no matter how much Glade fought it, he loved being cocked. The first, dominating man who found Glade’s sweet sex spot, his old boss, Josh Caldwell, had the spot marked with a tattoo for reference. Thereafter, If Glade really, really liked the guy, he’d move the guy’s hand there himself to short-circuit any early indecision on his part.

These thoughts ran through Glade’s mind as his bus ate up the miles north from Abilene. This was a history and these were impulses he knew he couldn’t change or escape just by getting on a Greyhound bus.

Something got into his head that if only he could go north, he could start a whole new life and that this weakness in him—these urges, this vulnerability to the wants of other men—would just go away.

Just before Glade got on the bus in Abilene, David tried his last ploy. He pulled Glade around to the side of the station and embraced the young man in close to his chest. A hand sneaked up under the hem of Glade’s athletic T, and David pressed a thumb into that blue rosebud tattoo. His lips clamped down on Glade’s, and the younger man involuntarily danced on David’s pole for a few moments. First one leg went up around David’s hip and then another, and then he was dry humping Glade up against the wall—and the young man was loving it.

Glade was saved by the loudspeaker calling the “all aboard” for the 9:30 bus from Abilene, though, and he managed to break away from David and head for the bus without a look back. Instead, he looked up along the windows in the bus and saw that two cowboys were eyeing him real close. He wondered what they could have seen in the shadows at the side of the station house.

He climbed up into the bus and found a seat near the back on the side away from the platform. He didn’t want to see David out there. Glade was fighting with himself, telling himself that life with David and in his sleazy little clubs weren’t what Glade wanted. That he wanted something more from life. But he was afraid if he saw David out there, looking oh so forlorn, as David was so good at when he wanted something from Glade, he’d lose his resolve to leave Abilene.

The bus started out, and Glade felt a sudden sense of freedom. It was going to work. He knew it was.

As the bus moved out into the dusty countryside outside of Abilene and headed north, Glade looked around to see what there was in the way of travel companions. A Hispanic family, a man and his wife and three children, the oldest a sullen-looking teenage boy of fifteen or sixteen, was sitting near the front. From the way they were dressed, Glade thought maybe they were field workers moving north to start the harvest up there and to work their way back to Abilene again over the season. A couple of elderly ladies, both dressed out in their Sunday best—off on an adventure. A young woman who always seemed to be huddled close to the window and asleep. And the two cowboys Glade had seen in the bus window from the station platform.

The cowboys must have been together, because they were sitting side by side on a row about two thirds of the way back until the bus got started and then one moved to the window seat in the same row on the opposite side of the bus. One was older than the other, wiry with ropy muscles. Clean shaven, graying at the temples, with startling pale blue eyes in a deeply tanned and weather-lined face. Piercing eyes when he stared at you—eyes that told you you’d better do what he asked if he told you to do something. The other, younger one, was dark-complexioned, probably half Hispanic, equally tanned, but chunkier than the older one. Not fat by any means, but heavily muscled. Both were in checked flannel shirts and worn jeans, with fancy leather cowboy boots and big fancy silver belt buckles. Both had tattoos running up their arms and the hint at the neckline of more on their chests. And both occasionally were looking back at where Glade was sitting and then whispering to each other.

Buses weren’t popular anymore as a means to move long distances, but what with the cost of gas and the overall economic conditions in the States at the moment, Glade thought they’d probably come into their own again. He had chosen the bus because he never had owned a car, couldn’t afford the plane fare, and there were no rail connections between Abilene and Denver that didn’t go hundreds of miles out of the way and that didn’t, in the long run, take longer—and cost more—than the bus.

Glade didn’t know why he picked Denver as his next destination—he ultimately was headed further north than that. He just knew he had to take this journey slow, just to be sure. He just had seen posters of Denver sitting right there next to the snow-capped Rocky Mountains and it looked so prosperous and clean and open that it had become somewhat of a Holy Grail to Glade in his last couple of weeks in Abilene, the symbol of a new, cleaner, less-complicated life. A place that wasn’t Abilene.

The bus stopped at a gas station–convenience store just off the highway in the middle of nowhere for a lunch break. There was a small dining room off the lunch counter with only three tables. The young woman didn’t leave the bus, but the elderly ladies took one table and the Hispanic family another, and Glade sat down at the third after he’d gotten his burger and fries.

The two cowboys sat down at his table.

“Hi, I’m Tex,” the older one said as he sat down. “This here’s Dusty.” They were both wearing the traditional ten-gallon cowboy’s hat and Dusty just tipped his hat at Glade without saying anything. But he had a big grin on his face.

“Hi, I’m Glade,” he answered.

“Glade. That’s an unusual name,” Tex said.

“Yeah. I sorta picked it out myself,” Glade said. “Didn’t much care for what I’d been called before that.” He didn’t tell them that it was his stage name and that he’d picked it off an air-freshener can. All of the pole dancers picked out names that the customers would find intriguing and easy to remember. Most picked out suggestive or downright explicit names. Glade had wanted to be a bit more subtle with his.

“Goin’ far?” Tex asked.

“All the way to Denver on this ride,” Glade answered.

“Dusty and me are gettin’ off in Durango. We work a cattle ranch west of there. Been down in Abilene to see the sights. Were you in Abilene long or just passing through from somewheres else?”

“I was there a couple of months,” Glade answered. He was feeling a little disconcerted. Dusty wasn’t saying anything, but his leg was touching Glade’s, and the young man felt those old yearnings building up inside him. Dusty was a real hunk. The strong silent type. And he was touching Glade’s leg. Any man who touched him set him going a bit. It was the conditioning of what he’d been doing for months.

“Found something to do in Abilene, did you?” Tex asked. He was eyeing Glade with those piercing blues of his. It made the young dancer scared to lie.

“Oh, this and that,” Glade answered.

“You look kinda familiar, like we’ve seen you before. Dusty was remarking on that when we saw you climb into the bus. Spent any time around the tenderloin district around North 1st Street? That’s mostly where Dusty and me sat drinkin’ our beers. Place called Rapier mostly. Any chance we’d have seen you there?”

“I’ve heard of it,” Glade answered in a rather tight voice. More than heard of it. Glade had pole danced there. He wondered if Tex was establishing something with him—not just about him, but about Tex and Dusty too. You didn’t go into Rapier looking for women.

Tex started to say something else, but the bus driver was tooting his horn, and it was time for all of the passengers to make that last rest stop and to return to the bus.

When they climbed back into the bus, Dusty returned to his seat, but Tex followed Glade back to where he’d been sitting and sat down in the aisle seat right next to him.

The driver started up the bus and got back onto the road. Glade tried to settle his nerves. Tex’s leg was right up against Glade’s, as was his upper arm. Glade could feel the hardness of the man’s lean body through his checkered shirt. Glade was wearing an athletic T, so his biceps were bare. Just a thin layer of shirting between the young dancer and Tex’s hard, warm skin.

“Born and raised in Texas?” Tex asked.

“No,” Glade responded. “Lived here and there before that—mostly in the South, on the coast. A place called Beaufort, in South Carolina.”

“Family in Texas or in Denver? Going to Denver to visit family?” Tex asked.

“No. No family,” Glade answered. “No family . . . anywhere.”

“None at all?” Tex asked. His face was turned to Glade and his pale blue eyes were full of sympathy.

“No. I was an orphan. Floated around a lot. A couple of foster families, but not anything I’d want to talk much about.” Glade certainly didn’t want to talk about those foster families. If he’d gone down a bent path, it could all be traced back to that part of his life. He’d had a pretty rough life up to now; it looked like the only way he could go from here was up. Glade turned his head toward the window. His eyes had suddenly gotten a little watery, and he didn’t want Tex to see that.

“No one at all waitin’ for you in Denver, either?” Tex asked. His voice was soft, full of concern.

“No. No one at all,” Glade answered. “Just startin’ out again. I do that a lot. I start out again a lot.”

Glade was still looking out the window, but he could see the reflection of Tex’s face in the window, as he thought Tex could see his.

He had a hand on Glade’s thigh, just above the knee now, and Glade was sure Tex could feel him trembling.

“Just relax, Glade,” Tex was whispering to him. “You’re so tense. I can help you with that.”

His voice had gotten low and guttural and his hand had moved up Glade’s thigh and was gripping him hard.

“Nice name, Glade,” he was murmuring. “An unusual name. I think I saw that on a poster at Rapier. Not a name you’d forget too fast. Not a body, either. Some even had distinctive markings. Dusty and me like tattoos. We’ve got ’em all over our bodies. Would like to show them to you. Would you like that?”

Glade’s trembling increased. Tex had fingers at his waistband now, very near his belly, with the grip of that other hand still on his upper thigh.

“Tex . . .” Glade said in a choked voice.

“Shush, it’ll be fine. No one can see us back here.” Tex stripped off his shirt to reveal full-body tattooing in a riot of colors and patterns against a rock-hard muscled chest. “Do you like my tattoos, Glade? If I remember rightly, you have a very nice one yourself. Somewhere near here, wasn’t it? That’s what I remember of you on that pole, dancin’ away. That nice little tattoo. A rosebud, isn’t it?”

He was pulling the T out of Glade’s shorts and a finger was moving across the young man’s belly and his thumb was on the rosebud tattoo. He was rubbing it and his other hand was on Glade’s basket, and Glade was falling apart.

“Happy day. You’re just aching for it, ain’t you?” Tex muttered through his heavy breathing. “Hot damn, you harden up fast.” His hand snaked under the waistband of Glade’s gym shorts and he was pulling them down below the young man’s balls. Glade’s dick was standing straight up, betraying his arousal from Tex’s thumbing on the rosebud tattoo.

“Tex . . .”

“So tense. We must do somethin’ about that,” Tex was whispering. His ten-gallon hat came off and he dropped it onto Glade’s lap, fisted the young man’s cock under it, and started to slow pump him. Glade turned his face to Tex, and the cowboy could tell from the look in Glade’s eyes that the young man was lost to him. He leaned over and gave Glade a kiss and then he just pulled away and the two sat there, staring into each other’s eyes from six inches away, their cheeks resting on the nubby material of the seat backs. Tex then slowly beat the young man off, enjoying the look in Glade’s eyes as he was transported by the hand job.

“You can touch my tattoos, Glade. Go ahead.”

Glade tentatively, involuntarily reached out with his fingers and ran them over the markings on the cowboy’s hard chest. His nipples were taut—ready for Glade. Tex could feel the trembling of Glade’s fingers as he got lost in the sensuousness of the cowboy’s tattooing.

When Glade had jacked off up into Tex’s hat, the cowboy gave a little laugh and leaned over and kissed Glade again. Then he stood up in the aisle and rummaged around in the overhead compartment. He opened a duffle bag he had up there and took something out and then reached up and pulled down a blanket.

“Time for a little nap, don’t ya think?” he said, and then he winked at Glade.

What he’d gotten out of his bag was a condom packet and a small tube of lubricant. When he sat back down, he leaned over and pulled down on the waistband of Glade’s gym shorts and, out of instinct, the rent-boy raised his hips for Tex so that he could strip them off.

Glade knew what was happening, but still he made some effort to resist. He was trying his best to get beyond Abilene. “Tex . . . No, I don’t think . . .”

“Shush,” he whispered. “I wanted to do this back in Rapier. But you’d gone off with some other customer before I could get to you. Come on. You know you want it. Look at what I got for you.” He unbuttoned his jeans and fished out a nice plump cock, already hard. Tattooing wound down around that too, and Glade moaned.

But still he fought the cravings. “Here? Now?” he asked incredulously. “There isn’t much room . . .”

“Hush. We’ll manage. Just don’t do much yelling. They always yelp for me. Just try to keep it quiet like. Too bad it’s dark in here and we have to use the blanket. They always like to see the designs on my pecker disappearing into their holes. You know you can see them through the rubbers. I buy ones that you can do that with.”

“Tex . . .”

But he just kept going. Glade watched as Tex opened the condom packet and rolled the transparent condom on his cock. Then he slathered himself with lube. He covered the two of them with the blanket and turned Glade toward the window onto his hip. Glade felt the cold lubricant at his hole and searching and stretching fingers. The palm of the cowboy’s other hand was on Glade’s belly, his thumb was on the blue rose tattoo, and he was rubbing it. All of the resistance drained out of Glade. It was almost as though Tex knew that that was the key to Glade’s ass channel.

Glade shuddered as Tex worked his hips under Glade’s, both of them turned toward the window. And then Tex was entering Glade, slowly, but relentlessly—showing the young rent-boy that indeed they could do it in bus seats. He slowly pumped up into Glade’s ass. His thumb was stroking the rosebud tattoo, and his young prey was moaning and sighing softly for him. Glade’s head was against the cool window, and he watched the desert landscape drift by, as in another dimension he could also see the reflection of Tex’s face and see how deeply he was enjoying the fuck.

Glade pretty much cleared his mind, enjoying the fuck himself, but being frustrated that he was doing so. Why was it so hard to leave Abilene and all that was Abilene so far behind, he wondered.

Tex left Glade under the blanket with no more than a kiss on the neck and a pat on his naked butt cheek. He pulled his shirt back on, buttoned up, and went back up and sat down with Dusty. The two of them whispered in low tones and laughed.

Near dusk the bus stopped for dinner and a change in drivers at a stop almost identical to the lunch stop, and Glade got a burger and fries from the fast food counter and took it out and ate it standing up by the gas pumps. As he ate, the young woman stumbled out of the bus, looking dazed and her eyes all puffed up. She came back moments later with a sack of food and climbed back up in the bus. Glade wondered what her story was and whether it was any rougher than his. It made Glade feel a little better, if a little guilty, that there may be folks in the world worse off than he was.

In Glade’s case, he enjoyed the cocking. Couldn’t get enough of it really. What he was having trouble with was the guilt of enjoying it and wanting more of it. That and the somewhat downtrodden feeling that he was being taken advantage of all of the time. What he really needed and wanted was just one guy. An older man, maybe. One with a good income who would stick by him and give him a somewhat normal life. He’d want the man to be virile and have a nice cock, though. Glade knew himself enough to know he didn’t want to stop the cocking. Maybe in Denver. Surely in Denver that’s what he’d find.

But then he thought of Dean, the Marine back in South Carolina, the Marine he was traveling toward now. Who was he kidding? That’s who he really wanted. But Dean had left him. He’d been thrown out of Beaufort, but he’d never tried to contact Glade afterward. No, he’d find Dean again, but he doubted he’d end up with him. It would be some older man—someone who would be good to him and keep him protected from all this. Maybe someone with a remote ranch that would keep Gordy—no longer Glade—out of the big cities, where he was vulnerable.

When they got back on the bus, Glade waited until Tex and Dusty had gotten on and settled themselves before he climbed into the bus. He wasn’t in the mood for Tex to visit him again—at least not this soon. Tex cocked real well, though, and those tattoos of his were a real turn on, so Glade thought he wouldn’t mind having him again at some point.

Dusk turned into night, and Glade managed to go to sleep, huddled under the blanket that Tex had covered the two of them with earlier in the day.

It was quite dark when Glade felt a nudge on his shoulder and swam up from a groggy, unsatisfying sleep into the grinning face of Dusty.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Want to show you something in the back of the bus.” He’d already stripped off his shirt and he was almost as tattooed as Tex was. He was covered in a swirled design, some of which curved under the bulge of his pecs and made them stand out and emphasize how well-defined he was there.

Glade struggled up, knowing full well what Dusty wanted to show him, but Dusty was already reaching down and palming the young man’s belly under his T, and the touch was enough for Glade to want what Dusty was going to give him.

Dusty followed behind Glade to the backseat of the bus, a bench seat that stretched the width of the bus carriage, with the palm of his hand on Glade’s belly and his forefinger rubbing that rosebud tattoo. Glade’s knees were going to jelly, and he was whimpering, his dick hardening and forming precum, the rim of his hole already puckering.

When they reached the back of the bus, Dusty scooted into the seat all the way into the corner, pulled Glade down onto the center of the seat, a good two and a half feet from him, unbuttoned the fly of his jeans, and pulled a thick, stubby cock out. He reached for one of Glade’s wrists and pressed Glade’s palm to his chest so the young man could feel how hard Dusty’s nipples were for Glade, and he moved Glade’s other hand to the root of his cock. Then he wrapped a hand around Glade’s neck and brought the young man’s face down to his cock. Glade started giving Dusty head. He was good at it.

Dusty didn’t say anything. He just sat there and moaned and sighed softly, with his hand on the back of Glade’s head, guiding the young man, and his hips slowly rolling up as Glade deep throated him and his stubby cock slowly became not in the least bit stubby.

After Glade had gotten him all hot and bothered, Dusty turned the young rent-boy full length on his belly on the backseat, one of Glade’s legs hanging down, the ball of his foot leveraging on the floor of the bus to keep him steady in the tossing and turning motion of the bus, which was more pronounced at the back. Then he pulled Glade’s gym shorts off his legs, crowned his own cock with a condom, and straddled Glade’s hips. He began using Glade as rent-boys were created to be used, fucking down in his ass to an ejaculation.

Dusty had both of Glade’s arms pinned behind his back, holding his wrists together with one strong hand, holding him quite immobile and giving him the feeling of being taken almost against his will in a dark, enclosed corner of the world, which gave Glade a little thrill.

They were both breathing hard when Dusty was done, but Glade knew Dusty wasn’t finished. He knew these young, virile cowboys with their hard and hard-worked bodies. Glade had had them by the hundreds, it seemed, in Abilene on their one night a month off and coming into town to get their rocks off. Dusty had shot off, Glade could tell, but he was still hard. Glade had known of guys like him who could recharge and fountain off three times before they went soft. Just one night of relief a month that wasn’t self-initiated for a young cowboy can build up a whole lot of cum.

And, sure enough, Dusty was pulling Glade up. Not dislodging his cock, which had lengthened out to gigantic proportions. He struggled up into a sitting position, with Glade lapped, his lips and teeth working the young rent-boy’s shoulder blades and the hollow of Glade’s neck, his hands wrapped around the young man’s belly, a finger pressing into that rosebud tattoo. Almost in a frenzy himself again, not least at watching the muscles roll on those tattooed arms encasing him, Glade started fucking himself on Dusty’s impaling cock in long strokes. One of Dusty’s hands snaked around and fisted Glade’s cock, and they came almost simultaneously, all the time softly moaning and groaning, careful not to project the sounds of sex toward the front of the bus.

Glade looked up as they climaxed—and into Tex’s eyes and then down to his naked, tattooed chest. Tex had come back to watch the second fucking and was leaning over the seat, knees on the seat bottom, and face almost touching Glade’s. His pale blue eyes were alight with lust. He leaned in and took Glade’s lips with his as Glade spouted off onto the back of the bus seat in front of him.

Dusty pulled out from underneath Glade and, after a little whispering session with Tex, moved back up the aisle. When he got to Glade’s now-empty seat, he picked up the blanket and brought it back and draped it over the aisle between two seats a couple of rows up from the back. In the darkness, no one from the front of the bus could see what was happening in the aisle beyond that blanket, and the interior of the bus was so dark they couldn’t even have told the aisle was blocked unless they were coming back to use the bathroom in the rear corner.

Tex pulled Glade over and planted his butt in the center of the backseat, lifted his ankles to the tops of the separated aisle seats in front of the backseat, crouched between his thighs, and fucked him long and deep. Dusty sat there, turned around in an aisle seat in front of the backseat, and watched the action. And when Tex was done, Dusty replaced him again, turning Glade and pressing his head and chest into the center seat of the backseat, his rump pointed up the aisle, and doggy fucked him.

They left Glade wondering if maybe they hadn’t had any success in getting their rocks off while they were in Abilene. And leave Glade they did, to stumble back to his seat on his own, exhausted and stretched and sore—but well-fucked and happy. This wasn’t anything Glade hadn’t endured on any given night in David’s club.

He thought he had left that behind. He hadn’t.

by Habu

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