Stockton County Cowboys Box Set

Chapter 8: Against Me

Chapter 8: Against Me

Turtle Bay Apartments

Naples, Florida

11:29 P.M.

There we were in my third-floor bedroom, face to face, just two guys among the straight and queer population of Naples. Cord stood at the foot of the bed and took in my room. “This place isn’t bad at all,” he said.

What he saw: medium-blue walls; a window seat covered in yellow pillows; a shelf of paperback books by contemporary gay writers like J.M. Snyder, Jeff Adams, and Steve Nugent; a leather reading chair with arms worn from too much use; a closet cluttered with sports jerseys, running shoes, and Kenneth Cole dress shirts; a nightstand with one drawer, where I keep ultra-slick lube and ribbed condoms; a Steve Walker print called Rain that hung above the queen-size bed strewn with giant pillows; a fake Tiffany lamp on the nightstand; cork floor that feels like walking on a cloud.

What he didn’t see: a faux leather diary tucked between the mattress and box spring that detailed my s****l adventures with a handful of men. It held my racy notes and details of erotic positions. Names and c**k sizes of dubious men who’d bedded me—or vice versa. I’d written XXXOOOs on some pages and scribbled stick drawings of promiscuous positions on other pages. I’d written graphic words into my entries about s*x scenes: c**k-eater, ass-humper, and ooze-covered lips. There were glossy pictures of men between the diary’s naughty pages: of Land Barker, Jax Temple, Bill Sottingham, Randolf Baau, Timmy Waterkill, and others who’d allowed me to take pictures of them after, or during, heated s*x.

But I simply nodded at Cord’s compliment. That certainly didn’t count as conversation, but I began to seduce him. My fingers unbuttoned his shirt, removed it and dropped it to the floor in seconds. I let my eyes wander over his voluptuous naked chest: furry abs and pecs; saucer-size nips; chiseled shoulders; fine tangles of coal-colored hair around his navel. I licked my lips, unable to restrain my need for that Stockton County man. I trailed my fingertips down his torso, toyed with his bull-shaped pewter belt buckle. Thanks to my research, I knew that his company had launched it just this spring, and that it was selling pretty well.

“What are your intentions?” he asked in his thick cowboy drawl. He hadn’t really used it since his arrival three days before, but it was a complete turn-on.

“I want your d**k in my mouth.”

“Like all the city boys,” he admitted, chortling.

“Help me with your bull buckle,” I said, grabbing the damn thing with both hands, unable to release it for access to his denim-covered stick.

Cord pushed my hands away and had the belt undone within seconds. He let the buckle fall, and it bounced heavily against his muscular left thigh. He unbuttoned his jeans and, before I knew what was happening, he’d brought his dog out to play: nine erect inches in his left hand, a drop of pre-come clinging to its mushroom-shaped head. His balls hung in their hairy sack between his sculpted legs, wisps of black hair curling in all directions.

“You don’t waste any time, do you, Cord?”

He looked at me, shook his head, and said, “Suck me off, city boy. I want to feel the back of your throat against the head of my dick.”

* * * *

I’ve never told anyone—not even Melanie Banks, my oldest and wisest friend—that Cord’s c**k was bigger than any I’d ever sucked before: bigger than Land’s and Jax’s, bigger than English professor Randolph Baau’s c**k, and certainly bigger than the otherwise fine c**k belonging to fireman Timmy Waterkill. Although Cord was only nine inches long, it felt like he was ramming a fencepost down my throat, choking off my oxygen.

On my knees, kneeling on my own cork floor, I sucked him with exuberant skill. I buried my nose and lips in his pubic triangle, took a generous whiff of his man-stink, and pulled away to dive in again.

While I blew him, his balls bobbed sweetly against my clean-shaven chin and his fingertips dug into the base of my skull. I glanced up at Cord, who looked entranced by my mouth work.

“f*****g you,” he said above me in a harsh whisper. “Bashing your city face with my big dick.”

I gurgled, unable to breathe as his shaft filled my throat. His balls slapped my neck. No matter, I was enjoying myself, relishing the way his meat filled my mouth and throat.

I dragged my palms slowly up his thick thighs, through the triangular patch of hair above his c**k, against his navel and hairy, ripped abs. I wasn’t about to stop there, though. I palmed his pecs and twisted his n*****s excitedly.

Cord grunted and moaned, swinging his hips into my face. His fingers slid and clawed against the back of my skull. After five, ten minutes of sucking him off, he groaned at me, “It’s unbearable—stop before I shoot.”

I pulled off his pulsing knob unhappily and caught my breath. He roughly wiped the saliva off my mouth and stroked my lips and chin. Then he pulled me up by my shoulder. Our mouths met in an intoxicating kiss and his slick, bulging d**k pressed against my own ripped stomach. He pulled away from me and whispered roughly, “I want your ass, Bradley. Let me have it. You’ve set me on fire.”