by Rob Rosen
The lights of the Desert Inn Motel glimmered weakly on the left, and I carefully steered toward them. When I arrived at what I thought was a curb, I tentatively braked and slid into cement with a bump.
“We’re here,” I said, and Ernie said, “Yeah.”
I shut off the motor and I said, “I hope they have a room,” and Ernie said, “Yeah.”
He continued, “I didn’t get my things out of my car,” and I said, “That’s all right. I’m sure that I have whatever you need.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I checked to see what was his reaction to that bit of dialog, which I regretted the moment the words left my mouth. But I didn’t detect a response, probably a good thing. I got my suitcase from the backseat. I locked the car. I thought that was no doubt redundant; who was going to trek outside in these conditions to rob me? But the action was second nature.
Ernie and I struggled through snowdrifts into the motel lobby. No one was at the front desk.
“Anybody here?” I called.
After a moment, a man came out of the office and said in an accusatory tone, “Well, I certainly didn’t expect anyone today.”
“We didn’t expect to be here either,” I responded. The man and I stared at each other, until at last I said, “So, can we register?”
“Yeah,” he said, unenthusiastically. “My housekeepers didn’t come in today, and I cleaned only one room myself, so that’s all I have available.”
He paused, as if he hoped that statement would discourage us from staying and send us back out into the blizzard, but I said, “That’s fine.”
“Okay,” he said, doubtfully. “Sign in. Please.”
I wrote my name in the ledger, and I asked Ernie what his last name was.
“Jones,” he told me.
I wrote that in the book.
“Credit card,” said the clerk, in a tone that indicated he could have been less interested only if he were dead. He regarded the card suspiciously, then told us, “The terminal’s not working,” and laboriously wrote down my information. He gave me a key and said, “The room’s on the first floor, right down the hallway.”
I thanked him, and Ernie and I headed toward our night’s accommodations.
The room was a typical motel room. I was glad to see that there were two beds.
I put my suitcase on the stand and asked Ernie, “Do you want to shower?” It seemed that whatever I said might have a double meaning.
“You go first,” Ernie replied.
The hot water felt good streaming down on me. The heater in my car was an efficient one, but the cold had crept in through every opening in the vehicle, and just the short trudge to the front door of the motel had erased every bit of warmth in my body.
After I was done with the shower, I shaved. I wasn’t sure why. I’d taken a robe into the bathroom, and I put it on and went into the main room. Ernie was on one of the beds watching TV.
“Your turn,” I said, and he got up. When he went into the bathroom, he didn’t close the door completely.
I lay down on the second bed and looked at the talk show on the TV and listened to the shower.
When it stopped, Ernie swung the bathroom door most of the way open, to let out the steam, I supposed. From where I was lying, I could see into the bathroom, and I watched Ernie, naked, go to the mirror.
“Mind if I use your razor and shaving cream?” he asked.
“No, go right ahead.”
He lathered his face and began to shave.
From the side, he appeared in shape, not excessively toned but with the look of a man who took care of himself. His arms were muscular and sculpted, and his legs were bowling pins. The peninsula of his cock stretched out from the continent of his body. His balls were like two plums in a sack.
He lifted his jaw and ran the razor down his neck.
“Do you like what you see?” he asked, not looking at me, still regarding himself in the mirror as he rasped the razor on his skin.
I contemplated his question. What would be the wise answer? Was it advisable to speak the truth? What if I said yes and he objected? Was he going to wreak some sort of havoc on me? Yeah, maybe. On the other hand—
The other hand won.
“Yes,” I said.
He rinsed the razor and laid it on the sink. With a hand towel, he wiped the foam from his face. Did this mean that I hadn’t angered him? Perhaps. But it could mean that he was thinking about how to punish me for letting my desire rule my reason.
He turned from the mirror and walked out of the bathroom toward me.
From the front, his cock was even wider than it had appeared to be from the side, and it was more than substantial.
He stopped at the bed. He laughed and said, “You obviously like what you see,” and took hold of my prick. I hadn’t noticed that it was poking up through the front of my robe, which it was, and it was definitely, approvingly stiff.
He climbed onto the bed and straddled me so that his crotch was mere inches from my face. “Show me how much you like it.”
I lifted his cock. It was warm and hefty, so I hefted it, and I slid as much of it as possible between my lips. It tasted of soap and water and something that I couldn’t put my finger on, but could and did put my tongue on, and I tantalized it, and it stiffened. Then it was a promontory jutting out from his flinty flesh, and I encircled it with my fingers as a sort of boundary because I couldn’t take all of it in. He grabbed my hand and put it on the pillow beside my head and held it, and he did the same to my other hand, and he drove into my mouth more and more of his lengthening, thickening prick.
I wanted to tell him to slow down, to relent, but I was so full of him that I could barely breathe, let alone say anything, and he struck again and again, until it began to feel as if somehow he had enlarged my throat and I was increasingly able to ingest him. More and more I could savor the flavor of him, the soap and the water and his fire and the singular taste that I couldn’t identify but that was somehow brisk and bracing and that impelled me to seek further his tartness and his tang. I tried to make as much contact with his still-enlarging cock as possible, but was thwarted by his size and length and vigor.
Were my intermittent tongue touches to his dick giving him pleasure? Was he stimulated by my lips pressed tightly around his cock? Or was any satisfaction he experienced because of the fact that he had complete dominance over me?
I was getting a certain fulfillment from running a sort of oral race with him, as his cock went one direction and my tongue went another. I decidedly wasn’t in control of the situation, but that lack of control was unexpectedly exciting, the feeling that nothing I might do could really affect his actions, or that I might as well not try resistance, that all I could do was accept his insistence and persistence.
My own cock was responding impetuously to the situation, whatever the situation was, and I wasn’t the least sure what the situation was. I felt an ache in my groin, and I knew that an elemental part of me had responded and risen.
His eyes flickered as he pressed down harder on my hands against the mattress.
Suddenly, his cock wasn’t in my mouth, and he seemed to flow off my chest to stand at the side of the bed.
“Get up,” he said.
I got up.
“Take off your robe.”
I took off my robe.
“Turn around.”
I did.
I felt rather than saw him move from his side of the bed to mine. He pressed against my back, bending me over.
“Wear protection, please,” I said.
“What?”
“Wear protection,” I repeated. “I have condoms.”
After a pause, there was an amused exhalation, and he said, “Man, you and your boyfriend must really trust each other.”
“We do. But it’s an open relationship. I mean, he lives in Casper and I live in Riverton, so . . . ”
What else should I tell Ernie, and why had I told him this much?
“So .
. . ” I repeated.
“So,” he echoed, his tone mocking, or so I thought. “See? I’m using protection.”
I watched him tear open a package and slip the sheath onto his imposingly rigid dick, and I thought that it was fortunate that I had brought more than one size, including large.
“Now,” he said, and he made a peremptory gesture that told me to bend over again, and I did. I waited. It was almost a surprise when his hands settled on my hips, and it was a shock when without preparation or preamble he propelled his dick into me. I gasped, and he said, “Shh.”
The suddenness of his attack and the mass of his entire cock abruptly inside me seemed for a moment to be all that existed, my throbbing asshole and his hard burning dick. He became all of my awareness and experience, the agitation that was a hurt and an ignition, and he had thrust into and out of me two, three, four times before everything resolved itself into a pattern as he fucked me.
It was an odd fuck.
It wasn’t a bad fuck, just an odd fuck.
He hit the right places at the right angle with the right pressure and in the right tempo, but he was strangely rhythmic as he assailed me. Men who have fucked me before varied their speed, their twists and turns, their delivery. But Ernie was deliberate, purposeful. Yes, every fuck has a purpose, for both the giver and the receiver, and even if I wasn’t sure what satisfaction Ernie was getting, I certainly knew what effect he was having on me.
I groaned.
“Shh,” he hissed again, and with no modification in rhythm or angle or pace, he continued to fuck me.
No matter how singular was his method of fucking, it was also efficient, as evidenced by the rousing effect he was having on my crotch, and I closed my eyes in pleasure. When I opened them again, I was looking at a cowboy riding a horse. Then I realized that I wasn’t really looking at a cowboy riding a horse, but was instead gazing at a belt buckle, attached to a belt, attached to a pair of jeans, attached to a man who stood in the doorway.
“Well,” said the man, regarding my upturned face, “you seem to have made friends quickly.”
“He who hesitates,” said Ernie, hesitating not one stroke in his screwing.
The other man laughed. He was shorter than Ernie and chunkier and not, in my slanted viewpoint, as appealing as Ernie.
“Can I get in on the action?” the man asked.
“Sure . . . Bert,” responded Ernie. “I have a feeling that Hal won’t object.”
I was momentarily annoyed that Ernie had invited Bert into our action without consulting me, but not after Bert shrugged off his coat and unzipped his jeans and produced a prick that was already firm and stuck it into the mouth that remained open from my initial surprise at seeing him in front of me.
His cock did not taste of soap and water as Ernie’s did; it tasted of perspiration and musk. But it was goodly sized, and, I confess, in my sexual enthusiasm, I was quite pleased to accept its insertion.
And so I was fucked at both ends with mute, brute force and in a coordinated cadence of cock, and I felt like an accordion squashed from two sides, their cocks squeezing me simultaneously, or a set of drums being pounded in a percussive duet, and all of this sexual symphony in silence.
Abruptly, there was a pause. Ernie’s cock remained in place, at rest, and Bert withdrew his prick.
“Protection, Bert,” Ernie said mockingly, and after a brief intermission I heard Bert open and put on a condom. Ernie’s cock was pulled out and Bert’s ramrod was shoved into my ass as he began his rhythmic battering.
Ernie lay on one of the beds and watched us, stroking his dick. His eyes and his smile were enigmatic. He was enjoying seeing his friend fuck me and seeing me fucked by his friend. And was there something else in his expression? It seemed that both men were still within me, banging together, impelling my own cock to an almost painful expansion.
Ernie closed his eyes and his body arched and his cock spurted like the wind and snow outside, onto himself, and shooting up onto his chest and arms and into his bush and over his balls.
Bert drove into me with a final blast and his fingers gripped my hips so strongly that I thought he must surely be leaving permanent indentations. His body bent over me so that he was almost lying on my back, and he came inside me, and his breath was hot on my skin, and even though I knew that he was expelling himself into a condom, his explosion seemed to scorch my asshole with its fire.
I jerked and shuddered and shook in the climax that streamed down onto the rug and lasted forever and was too short, and I also was noiseless even though a shout was building inside of me. We were all silent in our spasms.
Exhausted by the fervor that had racked me, I fell asleep.
When I awoke, the other two men were whispering together.
“Boy, that was some piece of ass,” said Bert. “I want more.”
“We’ve got to go,” responded Ernie. “When the sun rises and if the storm is over and if the streets are passable, we’ve got to go. Are you parked in front of the motel?”
“Yeah, I found a car where some idiot from the farm had put his keys under the mat. Boy, will he be surprised tomorrow to find that it’s gone. I can just see him running around looking under every snowdrift. It was a bitch getting here.”
“It’s a good thing Hal happened by when he did. I thought I was going to freeze out there.”
“And see how warm it got in here,” Bert said and laughed.
“I was nervous waiting for you,” Ernie said. “There were a couple of times when I thought you weren’t going to make it.”
“There were a couple of times when I thought I wasn’t going to make it. I followed the directions you phoned me on your cell to this motel.”
“We’ll take your car in the morning,” Ernie said. “The other car, the one I stole and that broke down, can stay out there in the middle of the highway. Hal can drive his car to Casper or wherever he’s going. I mean, I don’t want him to get totally screwed. It’s going to take a while for the authorities to get their shit together, and by that time, we’ll be gone.”
I understood then what I should have at least presumed before. Bert’s words “the farm” were the trigger. Bert meant “the Farm.” “The Farm” was the Honor Farm, frequently referred to by its neighbors as the Prison Farm. It was a medium-security detention center located about a mile north of Riverton. The inmates, generally incarcerated for fairly minor crimes, worked in several outdoor jobs, including farming and training wild horses. The facility’s recidivism was low, and so was the escape rate. Bert and Ernie were obviously exceptions.
Bert and Ernie—shouldn’t their names have alerted me that all was not well? But by the time Bert made his entrance onto the scene and into me, I was so enveloped in a sexual fog that I couldn’t see the lighthouse of reality that was directly in front of me, and I continued on my way toward the collision with the facts that I’d willingly, willfully ignored.
Perhaps the fact that they had been prisoners explained their singular method of fucking. By necessity, they would have grabbed sexual pleasures when they found them, and their fusions had to be as quick and as noiseless as possible so that satisfaction was achieved before other prisoners or the guards reached the clandestine couplers. A moan issued at just the wrong moment might give away illicit activity. Silence was not only golden, it was a necessity.
And did their confinement, I wondered, cause the strange flavor of Ernie’s cock? No, that was too fanciful a thought. Wasn’t it?
“I want to fuck him again,” said Bert.
They were sitting at a table, nude, and their cocks surged down between their legs and my own cock issued its response before I did or said anything.
I was lying on the sticky rug, and I stood up, and my dick stood up.
“I guess that means he’s willing,” said Bert and laughed.
The three of us moved into position.
“Don’t forget the protection,” Ernie said with a grin, and Bert nodded somewhat exaggeratedl
y and slipped a condom over his broad dick.
Bert was behind, and Ernie was in front. In wordless coordination, they entered me.
I was still smarting from their last assault, and so their cocks felt bigger and longer and stronger in this new intrusion. After the beginning discomfort, I welcomed all of the hardness, the speed, the strength, the vehemence, even the strangely rhythmic fucking.
Ernie’s cock was expansive in size and taste, and Bert’s cock was remorseless in its bombardment of my stinging, hospitable hole. My own dick felt as rough and tough as a brick, and the juices boiled in my stomach as the two men struck me over and over, silently, deeply, powerfully.
Then Ernie, with just the slightest moan, exploded into me. His come was copious and tangy as I had expected, and I wanted to hold it in my mouth and relish its taste, but there was so much that I had to swallow, and the surfeit overflowed my mouth and ran down my chin.
And Bert, with just the slightest moan, heaved into me with a final lacerating thrust and gripped my hips with his hands and burst inside of me, and even through the condom the waterfall of his fluids seemed to flow into me.
And I, with just the slightest moan, because that was all I could achieve with Ernie’s dick still in my mouth, had a climax that earned that name, an explosion that shook me and poured out onto the rug in a violent venting that seemed to endure in a forever that all too abruptly ended.
Then we three, with just the slightest moans, toppled onto the floor.
And I, again, fell asleep.
When I awoke, there was no one with me.
I was naked, sticky, and alone.
The air was heavy with the redolence of spent sperm and faded passion.
I stood and went to the window that looked out onto the parking lot. Only my car was there. A snowplow was slicing through the heavy mounds of white. Bert and Ernie were gone. There were two roads at the other end of Shoshoni. Maybe Bert and Ernie had taken the one to Casper and from there down I-25 to Denver. Perhaps they were on the road to Thermopolis, or they might have taken one of the cutoffs that led to another of Wyoming’s myriad of small towns.
