Page 82 - Leather Blues

70 Jack Fritscher

and laid his head back in the sling. He raised his beefy arms
and held on to the straps of the sling supporting his broad
shoulders. His armpits bushed with thick blond hair. Sweat
poured down his inner biceps. Denny could smell the husky
musk of his sweat in his hairy pits.
“Come on, man.” He lifted his head and smiled at
Denny. “Don’t tease me, babe. Grease up that muscle-fist
and arm-pump me as deep as you can go.”
Denny ground his crotch into the man’s butt and stead-
ied the swinging sling. “You want it bad, man? You want my
hard-knuckled fist up your asshole?”
“Do it, man. Please.”
Denny leaned in forward between the man’s spread legs
and shoved his elbow into the man’s mouth. He sucked it
like a hungry arm wrestler with an appetite for biceps and
forearms and fists. Denny pulled the length of his forearm
through the heavy bush of the man’s blond beard and across
his eager lips. Then slowly he probed two fingers, then three,
into the man’s mouth. He held steady pressure against the
man’s teeth, prying his mouth open farther, working his
whole hand into the chunk’s face, until his entire fist disap-
peared into the bushy bearded circle of his mouth. “Feel it,”
Denny said. “You still want it, fucker?” The man’s eyes, star-
ing wildly around the muscular forearm protruding from
his mouth, widened in lust. Denny slowly pulled his wet
fist free.
Intensity always draws a crowd.
One of the men moving in to watch hung a Coleman
lantern high on the chain between the mountainman’s feet.
The light fell down across him. “Man,” Denny said, slowly
unbuttoning his shirt, “you look like some fucking pro-wres-
tler down for the count.” Denny stripped to the waist. The
light fell down across his broad shoulders and pecs defining
his washboard abs. They were center ring, Denny and this
big block of a blond bearded man. Neither looked anywhere

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