— Originally published in Inches magazine - November, 1995 —

It's a treat to beat yer meat...

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I got married when I was twenty. Married the local seventeen-year-old homecoming queen. By the time she was twenty-one and old enough to drink, she'd put on fifty pounds, pushed out three kids and gave new meaning to the phrase "Hell on earth." I didn't want to be around her. But I didn't want to lose my kids, either.

As if my home life wasn't bad enough, I was working at a minimum-wage factory job. Even with overtime — and there wasn't much of that — I wasn't making enough to make ends meet. I had to get a second job. And I got it, working as a laborer on a local farm.

Mr. Miller, the owner, wasn't much of a talker. He was pushing fifty, but worked like a guy half his age. He could throw around bales of hay or feed sacks like they were nothing. I hope I'm in the shape he's in when I'm his age. He had huge shoulders, a broad back and arms about the size of my thighs. The only thing that gave away his age was the fact that he was almost bald; just a close-cropped strip of salt and pepper hair outlined his well-tanned skull.

I was working alone in the cow barn, shoveling shit — literally. It was stinking hot and the sweat was pouring off me. I was glad for the break when Mr. Miller called me outside to where he was hitching the trailer to his truck.

"Come on, boy," he yelled. "Give me a hand with these calves. And get them crates over there. Put 'em up in the trailer."

I did as I was told. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Mr. Miller was taking the animals to the livestock auction.

"You ain't busy tonight, I wouldn't mind some help at the auction." It wasn't really a question. Mr. Miller meant that I was going to the auction whether I wanted to or not. But what the hell, it was either that or going home to the two-ton beauty queen and a house full of squalling kids.

"Sure. No problem," I said.

It took almost two hours to get to the auction. During the ride, Mr. Miller kept tugging at his crotch. It wasn't like he was playing with himself; it was more like he just couldn't get everything adjusted and comfortable. Not that I was interested, but it made me wonder what he was packing down there.

If you've never been to a livestock auction, they're not much, unless you're interested in livestock. Nothing but a bunch of farmers and ranchers dressed in overalls, baseball caps and work boots come to buy and sell cattle and horses and such.

The auction hall was connected to a year-round indoor flea market. There were stalls and booths ranging from butchers and bakers to antiques and just plain junk.

After we got the animals unloaded, there wasn't much to do but hang around and wait until they got sold. Then, Mr. Miller could collect his money and we'd drive the two hours back home.

In the meantime, I wandered around the flea market, had a couple of slices of pizza and an ice cream cone. There was plenty of stuff I wanted to buy, but on my budget, anything beyond my supper was out of the question.

With all the sweating I'd done earlier in the day, you'd think it would take awhile before I had to take a leak. Well, I guess a while had gone by and the coffee and sodas were kicking in. Almost without warning, I had to go so bad I wondered if I'd even make it to the restrooms.

Just my luck — it was packed. There was no way I was going to wait, so I headed out to the parking lot and found myself a nice quite place between two trailers. I was just about done pissing when some other guy walked between the trailers, apparently needing to take a leak himself. He could have stood anywhere, but I guess he wasn't much on privacy 'cause he pulled up right next to me.

"Howdy," he said, nonchalantly pulling out his dick and balls and adding, "They need to get another bathroom in this place."

I grunted my agreement, shaking the last couple of drops off the end of my dick. I was starting to pull up my zipper when he said, "Hold up there, fella. It's Saturday night; why not give that thing some air?"

He stared me straight in the eyes, pissing away, never missing a beat. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I mean, I've heard about gay guys and JO buddies and stuff, but this guy didn't look like any fruit. He was built like a brick shithouse.

"Hey, don't get yourself all twisted," he said, giving his balls a tug. "I'm just talking about a little helping hand here." He was through pissing and just kind of waving his meat back and forth.

Now I'm not queer. Never even played around like some of the other guys. But I was horny. And the thought of somebody else pulling on it for a few minutes sounded interesting. At least my dick thought so, because it was starting to twitch and puff up a little bit.

"That's the idea," The guy said. His dick was starting to expand, too.

We turned to face each other, dicks swinging free in the warm evening breeze. He reached out and took hold of my dick, examining it like it was a blue ribbon exhibit at the county fair.

"Nice piece of meat," he said.

I liked the feel of his hand. I liked it a lot. "OK," I thought to myself, "I'm letting some guy get his kicks playing with my dick. Don't mean nothing." I was starting to get into it when three guys, obviously drunk, careened around the side of the trailer in search of a place to piss.

I freaked. Doing it with one guy, or at least letting some guy jerk me off, is one thing. Getting caught by a bunch of drunken rednecks is another. I stuffed my dick back into my pants as best I could and hauled ass out of there.

Dazed, embarrassed and horny as Hell, I wandered around the flea market some more, then went to watch the auction. My bladder started filling up again. This time I headed to the bathroom knowing that I'd probably have to wait in line.

I wasn't disappointed. There were seven or eight guys ahead of me. The men's room consisted of three stalls without doors and one of those open-trough type urinals able to accommodate six men at a time. Only thing was, nobody seemed to be leaving the urinal. Some guy finally zipped up and left and I found myself standing shoulder to shoulder next to my boss.

Not that I was looking, but in a situation like this while you're hauling out your own dick and taking aim, it's hard not to notice what's dangling on either side of you. Nothing special on the right, but Mr. Miller's dick belonged on a prize bull, not a man. Limp, just using it to take a piss, he held it in his fist, not his fingers like most guys. And even at that, his fist didn't close around the whole thing.

And the skin had a leathery, well-used look to it. This wasn't a dick that got used once a month. You could tell that this dick got used daily. That made me think about the guy in the parking lot who wanted to take a swing on my pole. And all the while I'm thinking about this, I guess I was staring at Mr. Miller's amazing slab of meat without even thinking about it.

"What're you staring at?" hissed Mr. Miller, breaking the code of silence men adhere to in public bathrooms.

I was too stunned to respond. Instinctively my eyes snapped front and center, staring at the cinder block wall less than a foot in front of my face.

"You gonna piss or what?" Mr. Miller asked in a sneering whisper. I was so embarrassed and self-conscious by this point, I couldn't have pissed if my life depended on it. My knees felt weak and there was a roaring in my ears, which I'm sure were beet red. Suddenly, being able to piss in public seemed like the most important, and impossible, task in the world.

"'Course you ain't gonna piss. Looks like you're throwin' a hard-on there, boy."

I could tell without looking that Mr. Miller was speaking the truth. I could also tell from the motion in his right arm that he was starting to fiddle with himself. He was playing with his humongous hog right out there in the open like he didn't care if anyone saw.

I didn't look. I didn't care. I just stared straight ahead at that cinder block wall for all I was worth. And I could tell the guy on my right was looking at my dick. And then, he started stroking himself, too.

I wanted to die. I wanted to get out of there. I wanted to stuff my dick in my pants and walk out of there. But there was no way I was going to get this hard-on back in my pants. Wasn't going to happen. It was so hard and swollen that I could feel every beat of my heart throbbing along the shaft. I could feel the veins pulsing in the palm of my hand. I could feel the blood swirling around in the head. Oh, man, the head of my dick felt all spongy and stretched out at the same time. I knew if I looked at it the head would be all shiny and red-purple.

Stroke. Stroke. I could feel Mr. Miller's arm moving in slow steady strokes. Stroke. Stroke. The guy on my right was matching Miller's rhythm beat for beat. My dick was dancin' and twitchin' in my hand and all I could do was stare at the damn wall.

"Go on, boy. Take a look," hissed Mr. Miller. "Take a look at what they're all doin' to themselves."

Slowly, hoping that no one would notice, I turned my head to the right and looked down the length of the urinal. Five men stared blankly at the wall in front of them while they slowly tugged on their rock-hard cocks.

There was no way I could help but stare now. The guy at the end had a huge beer gut and balls to match along with a fat dick sporting a huge mushroom head. Slowly, leisurely he stroked it. Stroke. Stroke. And with each stroke, his low-hanging ball sack swung out over the urinal then bounced back against his thighs.

Next to him stood a kid who couldn't have been more than nineteen. He was tall, well-built and clean shaven. His dick was definitely the longest, though not the fattest of the bunch. His cheeks were pink, whether from blushing or lust, I couldn't tell. Stroke. Stroke. He closed his eyes and threw his head back. A thin string of pre-cum drooled out of his piss slit and into the urinal. His breathing was short and shallow. Hell, he was panting. He was almost ready to pop.

The next two guys were dark and swarthy, flannel shirts rolled up to reveal gnarly forearms covered with thick black hair. They both wore identical coveralls, caps and work boots. And they had identical cocks. It didn't take a genius to figure out that this was a father and son. The only discernible difference, other than age, was that the younger one had a full beard while the one next to me had only a mustache. Stroke. Stroke. The younger one worked his veiny cock with his right hand smooth as silk. With his left hand he reached over and pulled out his father's balls. Stroke. Stroke. Tug. Tug. Both men stared intently at the wall in front of them.

"Hey." Mr. Miller was hissing in my ear again. "Come on, boy; touch it."

I wasn't sure what he was talking about until I looked to my left and saw his cock, now fully hard, jutting out over the urinal. I'd never seen anything like it in my life. It still looked mean and leathery. It pulsed and jumped with a life of its own. It looked like something that needed to be tamed.

"Go on, boy. Touch it. Make it feel good."

Slowly I reached out my left hand and wrapped it around Mr. Miller's cock. The heat practically seared my palm. It was huge. It was leathery. And it was surging with life.

"That's it. That's it," he hissed. "Now pump it. Nice and slow. Just pump it back and forth. Ten nice slow strokes, and I'll shoot a load like you've never seen," he whispered. Stroke. Stroke. I did as I was told.

Stroke. Stroke. Someone at the far end whimpered. I looked down in time to see the tall kid fire off a load with such force that it smacked onto the back of the trough with a splat. Three splats in fact. The kid could shoot.

The sound was enough to push the beer-bellied guy over the edge. He rose up on his toes, knees buckling, shoulders hunching. In a frenzy he whipped his dick with a series of short little strokes. His eyes closed and his mouth snapped open in a silent scream as the cum poured out of his dick.

Stroke. Stroke. Mr. Miller' s dick was getting hotter and harder than ever.

Next to me the father and son team kept their eyes glued to the wall. Perfectly synchronized, they pumped their dicks stroke for stroke. It was like they weren't aware of anyone else around them. Stroke. Stroke. One long last quivering pull and — like father, like son — they were pumping out gallons of cum. Thick, ropy puddles piling up in the urinal beneath their twitching dicks.

"Come on, boy. Pay attention," commanded Mr. Miller He was no longer whispering, but growling like a bull moose in full rut. "Now. Do it."

I tried holding onto his cock the best I could, but it was getting fatter and fatter. My hand didn't fit around it. "Good Christ," he groaned. "Here it comes in three..." Stroke. "Two..." Stroke. "One!"

The men's room was dead silent. Mr. Miller's dick exploded out of my hand. His cum slammed into the back of the trough not with a splat, but with a sound like someone pounding an old iron tub with a hammer.

BANG! Followed almost immediately by another BANG! Mr. Miller's breath came in ragged gasps. His knees buckled slightly. He had to put his arms out against the wall over the trough to support himself. His thick, leathery hog was already starting to soften. Even only semi-hard, it stretched over the side and halfway across the bottom of the urinal, little rivers of cum still drooling out of its head.

Six men standing at a urinal staring at the wall ahead. Five nut-busting orgasms. And me, alone, with the remaining hard-on swinging in the breeze. I didn't know what to do.

Mr. Miller did. He moved behind me, his monstrous dick swinging free between his legs. Grabbing me in bear hug, he wrapped one arm around my chest, and wrapped his other hand around my throbbing cock. I probably should have been embarrassed, but couldn't think of anything but cumming.

Mr. Miller bit into my neck and growled, "Now you know how real men do it. You like the feel of my hand on your dick, don't ya, boy?" He jerked my cock roughly, his callused hand literally pumping the spunk up from my nuts stroke by stroke.

Every drop of blood in my body was rushing into the head of my dick. I thought the skin would explode. My whole body was shaking. My neck went limp and my head was rolling around on my shoulders like a rag doll. I had to cum. There wasn't any choice in the matter. But I couldn't. Not with all these guys watching.

I didn't even realize my mouth was hanging open until a string of saliva drooled down and slicked up my raging hard on. That did it. It started in my toes. They felt like they were going to sleep. My legs and arms went numb. Gathering strength, the wave hit me with a crash. I opened my eyes and looked down in time to see Mr. Miller's meaty paw give a last final stroke before my dick started spraying and spewing and pumping out cum by the bucket. Again. And again. And again. The cum just kept pouring out of me like my dick was some busted old faucet.

My whole world was telescoped into eight inches of throbbing meat. My body went limp. Mr. Miller was literally holding me up with one arm while pumping away on my dick with the other.

Stroke. Stroke. He kept pumping away until there was no more spunk to be had. The well was dry. Slowly I felt my legs grow steady again. My breathing started to return to normal.

"Liked that, huh? Maybe now you won't complain so much about working overtime," he growled, wiping his cum drenched hand on the bib of his overalls.

Mr. Miller backed away, stuffing his huge meat back inside his pants. One by one, the rest of the men did the same. No one said a word. One by one, the men filed out of the bathroom. I was just about out the door when Mr. Miller issued his final command.

"Don't forget to tip the attendant, boy."
 

THE     END