Getting the Worm

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Illustration by Michael Kirwan 

 Story by Rusty Winter

originally published in Honcho Magazine - July, 1992 issue

 

Early to bed, early to rise!

 

It was still dark in the pine woods when I woke up, but I knew another day had begun.

In a little while there'd be no stars and watery light would creep through the trees. And I would be on the road again. Out there on the interstates was my home now, had been for a couple of months. I'd been bumming rides to get away from a place I had no more use for. From people who'd never had any use for me.

I stood slowly. My joints were cramped and sore; my belly ached with hunger. The dirt I was wearing on my body like a second skin was an accumulation of sweat and grime that no amount of swabbing down in gas station men's rooms seemed to remove. My pores were clogged with minute particles of the fossil fuels and road dust belonging to Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, and every other state I'd hitchhiked through.

Suddenly--oblivious to discomfort--I was alert and functional. Hearing the unmistakable hum of a vehicle approaching triggered an adrenaline charge that activated my limbs. My duffel bag was snatched up and my body, trailing eddies of mist, was propelled through the trees and toward the bobbing headlights on the highway.

As I scrambled down the embankment I lost my footing, crash-landed on the gravelly verge and rolled out onto the blacktop. There was a squeal of locked brakes, blinding beams of light, and the acrid smell of burning rubber. *Jesus! I'm dead!* I thought.

When it occurred to me I wasn't, I picked myself up and stumbled forward to see who the asshole was who'd almost killed me.

The truck that had no choice but to stop for me that morning was in no way remarkable; just another nondescript, mud-spattered Ford. But the driver, learning across the front seat to get a better look at me through the open window, was not the weatherworn, clodhopping old-timer I was expecting to see. Mid- to late-thirties, lean and muscular, this guy was square-jawed, blue-eyed and move-star handsome. His long blond hair was tied back with a leather thong and there was a braided leather band around his right wrist. The faded plaid shirt he was wearing was the only thing countrified about him.

For a while I was scrutinized with so much cautious suspicion I felt like I'd just dropped in from some alien planet. Then a smile flashed.

"Hi, soldier," he grinned, saluting. "Christ almighty, for a minute there I thought I was back in the jungle getting ambushed."

Considering that I'd outfitted myself for the road at an army surplus store and that he was (I learned later) a Vietnam vet, it was not unreasonable that some dirty, hungry, road-weary dude hurtling out of the darkness would be perceived as a guerilla attack.

Since my biceps were my best feature, I'd ripped the sleeves off the khaki shirt I'd bought, using one of them as a headband and knotting the other, hippy-style, around my left thigh. A military web belt was cinched as tight as it would go to keep my camouflage fatigues from sliding over my skinny hips. Even though it was too hot to be wearing them, I had on thick woolen socks turned down twice at the ankle, mainly because my combat boots were two sizes too big.

All things considered--adding three days worth of jaw stubble and pine needles spiking my near-skinhead crewcut--probably did look fearsome.

"Hey, man," I said, "can you give me a ride?"

"Sure, soldier," he laughed. "Hop in."

I slung my duffel bag into the back of the pickup and climbed up into the passenger seat. Then I slammed the door hard, pissed off that he was laughing.

"Where you headed for?" he asked.

Pointing to the road ahead uncurling like a black snake in the dawn light, I told him, "Up there a ways."

A while later he killed the headlights and said, "You're up bright and early."

It sounded to me like he was fishing for information, so I said, "So are you."

He laughed and winked at me and said, looking down at my crotch, "The early bird catches the worm."

"Uh-oh," I said to myself, "I've bagged me a live one." On the road, I'd soon learned that good-looking young guys like myself didn't need ready cash to get by. As I was not strongly opposed to having my dick sucked in exchange for a decent meal, I asked, "Any place to eat around here?"

"You hungry?" he asked.

Hungry? Jesus! I hadn't had anything but a half-rotten apple to eat in two days.

He braked slowly and made a U-turn. When I asked, "Where're we going?" all he said was, "My place." The early bird, I figured, was taking the worm back to his nest.

His place--after we left the highway and bumped along two miles of winding dirt track--was a little log cabin deep in the woods. Inside, in a room that served as both living room and kitchen, he said, "Food first, then a bath."

Even though it had been drummed into me that getting into water straight after a meal was bad for you, I didn't complain. Standing silently by, mouth watering, I watched him pull things out of the fridge: wheat bread, cheese with holes in it, sliced ham, a fat tomato, a whole head of lettuce.

"Sit here," he told me, sliding a plate in front of the only chair at the table. He fixed me a sandwich, a whopper, then left the room. As I tore into the food, I could hear water running in another part of the cabin.

When he came back and saw my empty plate he made another sandwich. I ate that one more slowly, chewing each mouthful a few times before swallowing. As my belly filled up I started to feel more at ease, sort of comfortable and cozy. I was glad this guy wasn't asking questions, prying into the why's and wherefore's of my being on the road. He was not like any of the others who'd put food in my mouth so they could put my dick in theirs. When he poured me a glass of milk, I said, "Thanks."

The first gulp I took was so icy cold it gave me a pain in the head. He made another sandwich which I thought was for himself, but he put it on my plate and walked out of the kitchen again. Water was still rumbling somewhere in another room.

"It's almost ready, soldier," he said, coming through the door.

"Good grub," I told him.

He gave me a thumbs up sign, a salute, and a big grin. I couldn't help but grinning back.

Taking a carton of ice cream out of the freezer, he dumped three big scoops in the bowl. He opened a can of sliced peaches, emptied the lot on top of the ice cream, and sat the bowl on my empty plate. A spoon stuck in the middle stood up by itself. My glass got topped up. Then he was gone.

I polished off the peaches and ice cream, drank the milk and, picking at the ham and cheese, finished the rest of that too. All that remained on the table were dishes, the pale green heart of the lettuce, and a scattering of crumbs--little bits and pieces I dabbed up with a spit-moistened finger.

Listening to the whirr of the fridge, I wondered why the place now seemed so silent. It dawned on me that the water had been turned off at the same moment he called from the doorway, "Bath time."

He had changed out of his shirt and jeans into a bathrobe. It wasn't exactly a bathrobe, more like one of those wraparound things the karate guys wear: white, short and loose, tied with a wide black sash.

He was smiling, but not quite. The way he looked at me--looking at me as if I was not the scum of the earth, as if it really was okay for me to be there in his kitchen--gave me a strange feeling. A good feeling. It also felt great not to be hungry. And I knew it would be good not to feel so stinking dirty.

I got up and followed him to the bathroom.

The big old tub there had the clawed feet of an eagle, and was near full with bluish water and frothy bubbles. The smell was as fresh and tangy as the pine forest outside.

"Get in," he said, a chuckle in his voice.

I stood there, twiddling my thumbs, waiting for him to leave. He didn't, so I got out of my duds, watching him watching me with that weird half-smile. But I didn't mind him seeing me with nothing on. One thing I *did* like about myself was my body.

I had a nice build--admittedly, a bit on the lean side--with well-defined muscles and a smooth, clear skin that tanned easily in the sun. There were none of the ugly homemade tattoos that most of the dumb-fucks in the home had done to each other, just a few growing-up scars in predictable places. For self-protection, I'd learned to act tough, but deep-down I was not like the other guys in that godforsaken place.

It was clear he liked what he saw, and I liked that he did. It made me want to show off, so I flexed and stretched for his benefit, swinging my hips to bounce my manly equipment. My cock went half-hard, but he made no move to take it. Since he probably didn't fancy having a ripe, smelly dick in his mouth, the blow-job, I assumed, would come after the bath.

"Holy fuck!" I squawked when I high-stepped into the tub. "It's hotter 'n hell, man. You trying to boil me, or something?"

"You'll get used to it." He put his hand on my shoulder to let me know there was no escape.

It took a minute until I was brave enough to sit, but when I did it was wonderful. The creamy, scented water closed over me like a healing hand. I dropped my head back and let my eyes close in dreamy contentment while all the nastiness in me melted away.

"Hey! Quit it!" I jumped and my eyes popped open when a hand touched my belly. Getting my dick sucked by a guy was one thing, but I was not prepared for any funny stuff being done to the rest of my body.

"Shush," he said. "Be still."

With a cake of soap and a washcloth, he was washing me. I struggled and cussed for a while to show my disapproval, but there was no real fight in me. *What the hey*, I thought, *go with the flow*.

At first being washed was freaky, as if I was a helpless baby or a complete invalid. But soon I began to feel important, a person worthy of attention, somehow appreciated. I had a hazy flashback to a time when I was a little kid being tended to by my mom's loving hands. A long time ago, before she died, before I--already fatherless and without next of kin--became a ward of the state and was put in the home.

"Hey! Quit it!" This time I was giggling, not complaining. The soapy washcloth and busy hands tickled, and the swirling on my chest made my tits stand up, tight and pointy.

"Hey, yourself," he chuckled, and his big strong hands moved up my neck, under my unshaven chin, around my ears. Swabbing away at the crud. Then down across my shoulders, out along my arms, kneading the muscles like bread dough.

I couldn't help moaning, "Mmmm, yeah." When I heard a telltale rustling sound I opened one eye, and sure enough he had shucked out of his robe. Because I wasn't too happy about this turn of events, I kept my eye open a crack.

Buck naked now, moving to the end of the tub, he washed my legs, lifting them out of the water one at a time. Then my feet, giving each one its turn, propping it on his broad chest to soap it, working his fingers between every toe. This tickled in an unusual way, making my legs tingle all the way up to my crotch. I wriggled my toes crazily, and he laughed. "This 'un here's as fat as a cow's tits," he said, putting his mouth around one of my big toes and sucking on it like he was a milk-hungry calf.

My cock jerked and started to grow. I thought I ought to yank my foot away, but I didn't want to. I just kept still and quiet, letting him suck every toe on that foot, amazed that having them in a guy's mouth could feel so good. My balls pulled up tight and my cock inched out along my belly. Without even touching myself, I had a hard-on.

When he came back to the middle of the tub and squatted down, it didn't bother me anymore that he'd taken off his robe. He had a great build, easy to look at. It was a working man's body, hard-packed, all solid muscle that put my lanky eighteen-year-old kid's body to shame. Not wanting to appear interested, I kept my eyes off his dick.

Leaning over the edge of the tub, he started soaping up my stomach. Not using the washcloth, he slid a flattened palm round and round in small circles on my slippery skin. As the circles grew bigger his hand matted down my little patch of wet dick-hair and bumped against my stiff prick.

"This is it," I said to myself. "This's were my boner reminds him of a cow's fat titty and gets the big-toe treatment." I closed my eyes, allowing all thoughts to slip away in pleasant expectation.

Nothing happened. His hand gradually moved up to my chest, leaving my poor deprived dick to leak its clear juice into my belly button. Maybe a scummy coating of soap bubbles, I rationalized, didn't make my cock look too appetizing. Once I was dry, though, smelling fresh as a daisy, the early bird would surely gobble up his worm.

"Turns out you're a white boy, after all," the guy said, standing up and unfurling a towel the size of a blanket. "C'mon out so's we can finish you off."

The water I stepped out of reminded me of the tasteless, shit-brown soup they served daily at the home. He draped the bath sheet around my shoulders and began patting down my legs with a hand towel. "I can dry myself," I told him.

"Lift your foot," he said, and not able to think of a single reason not to, I did.

He painstakingly dried between each toe, forcing me to keep my balance by holding onto his shoulders. My cock was still rock-hard, pointing at the ceiling. His ponytail was brushing against it. I was unbelievably horny, hoping he would blow me soon.

"Now the other," he continued.

As I lifted my leg, my cock bumped the side of his cheek, leaving a smear of clear juice. He dried off that foot and moved up my ankles. My dick was bobbing about two inches from his nose. "He's gonna suck it now," I said to myself.

"Spread your legs," he said. He wiped up between my parted thighs, then pushed way up between the cheeks of my ass. My cock drooled more juice, a long string of it that went down to the floorboards. Carefully, he dabbed at my dick-hair and wiped my balls, handling them like they were hen's eggs.

By now I couldn't think of anything else but getting my rocks off. "Go on, man, suck that big dick," I thought. "I need to shoot off real bad."

But he didn't. I couldn't stand it; I had to get off. My throbbing cock was so near his face all he had to do was open his mouth and it would've popped right inside all by itself. "Now! Take it now! Eat that goddamn dick, why don't you?" I wanted to yell.

But the guy was toweling my belly, moving up to my chest. He was standing so close to me the head of my dick bounced up the front of his body, leaving silvery wet trails as if a snail had run amok on his bare flesh. "Turn around and I'll wipe your back," he said.

I couldn't believe my ears; this guy was unreal. Surely he could see I was in bad shape. What had he brought me here for anyway? Instead of obliging him by turning my back, I confronted him. "Hey, man!" I blurted out. "What about that damn early bird shit ... I mean, about him getting the *worm*, for chrissakes?"

There was a long silence in which I mostly looked at the floor, embarrassed. After a while he put his hands on my shoulders and made me meet him eye to eye. "Is that what you want?" he asked. "Do you *really* want another guy to do that to you?"

"Hell no!" I angrily barked back, feeling humiliated and trapped.

"You're a good-looking kid," he said. "You've got a great body and a beautiful cock... a cock I'd love to suck-but only if you want me to."

Yes, I *did* want him to. Jesus! I did. But I couldn't make myself say the words. I couldn't come face to face with something I'd fought so long to suppress. Shrugging his hands off my shoulders, I started for the kitchen. For my clothes. For escape.

"Hey, soldier," he called very softly, "that's a war I hope you can someday stop fighting."

His words stopped me in the doorway. How did he know? Why did he care? The towel slipped away from me, leaving me more than just naked; it was as if my whole inner self had been laid bare.

"C'm here, kid," he said in a whisper.

Hesitating, trying not to, I turned to look back at him. He held out his arms and I walked into them.

"The war's over, soldier," he promised, holding me tightly. For some stupid reason I started crying, sobbing more piteously than I could remember having ever done before.

"Hey, it's awright," he said, wiping my tear-streaked face with his fingers . "I know 'cause I've been there myself."

"I'm awright," I told him, sniffling. And that was the truth. It was as if a great weight I'd been carrying for years had been lifted from me. That men, not girls, were the reason my dreams turned wet now seemed easy to admit. "It is what I want," I said as my cock, still needing to be dealt with, pressed urgently against his flat belly.

His body weight took me down to floorboards strewn with damp towels. Before I had a chance to stretch out, get comfortable, his head was at my crotch. His mouth found me, and my cock was engulfed in fiery heat. The feeling was so intense, my need so great, that the blowjob I was dying for was over before it started.

I heard myself cry out: "Oh, fucking Jesus!" Then my whole body seemed to explode.

The fierce bursts of cum he took with no trouble, swallowing them as hard and fast as I was giving them to him. He kept on sucking and swallowing until I was finished.

"Hmmm ... honey-sweet boy cream." The guy grinned, pulling off my dick only long enough to say the words. My cock might've softened a bit. But when his mouth came back on me, I was just as hard and needful as before.

I spread my legs and wadded some towel under my head to make a pillow, consoling myself with the thought that a premature cum-shoot would slow things down enough to get me a decent blow-job the second time around.

The guy must've been thinking along the same lines because he was making long, slow, easy-does-it pulls up and down my rod, humming to himself, doing me as if he had all the time in the world. He seemed to be worshipping my dick, and I loved it. Every now and then I gave him a little grunt of approval.

A while later, when he switched to a faster, spiraling stroke, my grunts turned into gasps. There was another hot load simmering in my balls. The guy accelerated his tempo until he was hammering on the full length of my dick, deep-throating me on every downbeat. I could feel the head of my cock punching through the tight entrance to his gullet; the sensation was driving me wild.

I pushed my ass up off the floorboards and fucked my cock into the guy's bobbing head. I couldn't help myself; it was something I had to do.

"Oh, shit!" I moaned as my nuts let loose. "I'm cumming ..."

Clamping his face to my groin and grabbing me around the butt, the guy shoved my squirting cock down his throat. It was like my dick was being used to force-fed some cum-hungry animal. My guess was he didn't even need to swallow, that each wad I let fly slid down his gullet the way a raw oyster would. Of all the blow jobs I'd had--countable on two hands' worth of fingers, minus thumbs--this guy's was the best ever.

I was hopping around on one foot, trying to put on my pants, when he said, "A soldier's clean body deserves a clean outfit, I reckon."

He had a good point, but those smelly fatigues were all I had. "You in a tearing hurry to get someplace?" he asked.

I was going to tell him yes, make up a story about a sick mother or something, yet the way he was looking at me made lying seem pointless. A kid's way out.

"We'll get your gear washed in town," he said. Then, chuckling, "That's where I was headed earlier, before I ran into a roadblock."

He took me another room barely large enough to contain the big, old-fashioned furniture in it: a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, and an iron-framed bed.

I had to use my belt to keep up the jeans he gave me, and when he handed me a T-shirt with words printed on the back, I read them aloud: "International Union of Elevator Constructors. Founded July 18, 1901. Local 3." I asked him what I already knew: "You're not country-born, are you?"

"That I'm not, soldier. Mine's pretty much the same story as yours. Had me a life I couldn't live anymore."

In a flash I was on the defensive again. "How'd you know that about me?"

He put his hands on my shoulders, squeezed, shook his head slowly. "My handle's Joe Eddy," he smiled, "and when you're good and ready you might be willing to tell me yours."

That smile of his, his hands warm and strong on my bare shoulders, those clear blue eyes that seemed to read everything inside me, made the threat drain away.

"Hey! Mister Joe Eddy," grinned back at him, "them's both first names, man."

And suddenly we were both laughing our damn fool heads off.

Our day in town was a blast, messing around in the laundromat, acting like a couple of silly kids in the shops where he was stocking up on provisions. When he asked me if I liked fried chicken, because that's what he planned to fix for our supper, I got a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wanted to grab the guy and hug him to death right there in the butcher's.

That evening, helping him clear away dishes and stuff, I told Joe Eddy I'd never before in my life put so much good food in my belly in one day. He told me he had not, since he could remember, enjoyed a day as much as he'd enjoyed this day. Feeling the need to hug him, this time I had no reason to hold back.

Two minutes later we were both naked on his bed.

He rolled into me and took me in his arms. Jesus! All I could think of was his hard hot dick rubbing against my thigh. I wanted to reach for it, take it in my mouth, and suck it.

As ifhe knew what was on my mind, Joe Eddy whispered, "Tonight, you're the guest of honor, so you get to do anything you want." The words were so close to my ear that they gave me goose bumps.

When I felt brave enough, I asked: "Can I, um ... sort of play with you ... your ...it ..."

He didn't say anything, so I reached out and put my hand on his flat belly. The muscles there tensed, then relaxed to my touch. I fingered the line of curly hair that ran down to the thick bush at the base of his cock. I let my fingers brush against its club-like shaft. The skin was warm and unbelievably soft.

Touching him wasn't nearly enough. Now suddenly fearless, I coiled my fist around the thick girth of his dick. When that wasn't enough either, I squeezed and stroked, doing without shame or guilt what I'd always wanted to do another guy.

Moving my head closer, I parted my lips and gingerly took the tip of his dick in my mouth. The taste and smell were new to me, but they sparked an immediate and insatiable hunger for him. I took more and more of his cock into my mouth, trying hard not to scrape the tender flesh with my teeth. The guy hummed with pleasure, so I was pleased my inexperienced mouth could give him good feelings.

As I gained confidence, I sucked as much of his dick as I could without gagging. He had one hand on my neck, gently massaging, while the other ruffled the bristly hair on my head. Pretty soon I was trying all the things he'd done to me: licking and tonguing, sawing up and down, making spiraling strokes and shaking my head like a dog worrying a bone. As I sucked him harder and faster, I didn't neglect to play with his balls. Compared to mine, they were enormous--heavy and full.

"I'm getting close," the guy warned me. "D'you want me to shoot it in your mouth?"

Nodding my head was the only way I could tell him. The next thing I knew there were streams of thick, musky-flavored spunk hitting the back of my throat. I swallowed as fast as I could, getting most of it, amazed at the quantity.

When I'd licked the last dribbles from his spit-drenched cock, I moved up and lay next to him. His eyes were closed, and a satisfied smile curled his lips, which I kissed without hesitating. Strong arms closed around me, drew me tight against his muscular body, and held me close. I kissed him again. Then I couldn't stop kissing him.

Joe Eddy opened his eyes, looked into mine. "Stay a while," he said. "There's a chance it could be good for both of us."

"I dunno ... I guess ..." I didn't say yes, but it was what I meant.
 


THE     END

Stories Main Listing

 

 

Any images, writings or other content on this website may be copied for personal viewing only. They may not be: redistributed; sold; altered; enhanced; modified by artificial, digital or computer imaging; used on another website or blog; posted to any internet or computer newsgroup, forum or media sharing site; nor used for any other purpose without the express written permission of the artist or KirwanArts.com.

Any images, writings or other content on this website may be copied for personal viewing only.
They may not be: redistributed; sold; altered; enhanced; modified by artificial, digital or computer imaging;
used on another website or blog; posted to any internet or computer newsgroup, forum or media sharing site;
nor used for any other purpose without the express written permission of the artist or KirwanArts.com.