Bath House Slave

Excerpt

“Hi,” he said.

The trucker grinned back at him. “Hi, there, yourself. Aren’t you a little young to be in this den of iniquity?”

That hadn’t occurred to Mark. He remembered that the desk clerk hadn’t so much as questioned his age, let alone asked to see proof of it. No doubt the owner paid the local cops off to look the other way.

“I’m old enough to know what I like,” he boasted, eyeing the man’s crotch.

The stud laughed. “Oh yeah? You like this, kid?”

He unzipped his fly and nonchalantly pulled out the largest cock Mark had yet seen! It measured ten inches, soft, and when the guy pulled that fat, limp sausage inch by inch from his jeans, Mark almost pissed in sheer horny excitement. He couldn’t stop gaping at it, openmouthed, glassy-eyed, his hands instinctively going down to his crotch to caress his own cock, which was already getting stiff again.

“Well?” the truckdriver asked.

He was already casually unbuttoning his denim worksirt and tugging it free from his soiled jeans. He smelled of the highway, of gas and oil and sweat, thrilling Mark’s nostrils when the naked boy stepped closer to him for a better look at the huge prick.

“You like my dick, baby?” The driver’s biceps and pecs bulged; his chest was furry and matted with sweat. He shoved his jeans down his legs. From his navel down, his body hair was like the thatched roof of a hut, vanishing abruptly under the elastic waistband of a pair of grimy jockey shorts, from the fly of which that horse prick extended, still soft but grotesquely long and thick, with a head on it the size and shape and color of a ripe tomato.

Mark finally found his voice: “You know I like it.”

“Most guys do… why don’t you come over here and give it a little suck?”

“Let me see it hard first.”

The handsome trucker laughed. “What’s the matter? It’s not big enough for you, soft? Shit… watch this!”