Page 81 - Leather Blues

Leather Blues 69

tongue far out of his mouth. Arrow whimpered with a look
of hungry hope in his eyes. Then Chuck dropped him to the
floor. He pulled Denny away. “You’ve a lot to learn,” he said.
“Teach me,” Den said, “tonight.”
“My pleasure. Follow me. Follow Doc. Follow any scene
here until you’re ready to strike out on your own.” Chuck
reached into his leather jacket. “Swallow this,” he said.
“You’re the boss.” Denny swallowed the capsule-and-tab
cocktail. “For awhile.”
“Circulate until you come on. You’ll like most of these
guys. Check out Doc’s action. You’ll learn a thing or two
fast.”
“See you, buddy.” Denny took off on a tour of the
farmhouse.
Men sat in small groups, drinking and smoking. A guy
with long blond Buffalo-Bill hair, and a full mountainman
bush of beard, lay back cradled in a leather sling. His feet,
laced up knee-high in black pro-wrestling boots, rode in
stirrups spread up and in front of him. He crossed his arms
on his chest to massage his own nipples. He was built like
a fireplug: probably five-foot-eight and two hundred solid
pounds. He looked Denny straight in the eye. His tongue
came out of the bushy cave of his mouth, licked once around
his lips, then headed out and down. He held his mouth open
and receptive. He moved his big butt like a pair of warm
hams in the sling.
“Fist me,” he said. His voice graveled up from deep
within the pair of big furry balls hanging between his spread
legs. “Come on, man. Grease up your fist. I’ll make your
hand feel real good. Come on, man. Grease that big fuckin’
arm of yours up to the elbow.”
Denny moved in between the man’s logger thighs. He
pushed his basket up against the thick pucker of the waiting
asshole. He bumped into the guy. Once. Twice. Slow at first.
Nice. Easy. Then harder. The mountainman smiled at him

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