Loading...I got a simple question. You ready? I mean, where does it say the little guys always got to lose? That don’t make no sense.
Okay, take my case. I live on the Gulf Coast, meaning Nature somehow don’t seem on our side. If ya’ll live in the Gulf, you know what I’m saying. Thanks to BP and the ol’ corporate greed, we got a whole lifestyle around here starving away.
My old man, rest his soul, wasn’t no big guy. Five-foot-one, just like me. Not a weakling, though. Not some softy. He had what it takes. Hey, I’m here, ain’t I?
And he took care of us. Built hisself up this genuine fleet of shrimp boats, three of them. Everything’s grits and gravy, right? St. Brouillard Seafood. Our fishing company. We moved to a nice house. Found ourselves driving GMC pickups instead of used-lot Toyotas.
So my angel mother, she up and dies. Sad time, that. Damn sad. Anyway, my daddy done spent his money right, and we had a couple of properties here and there in the town as well as the boats. Not long after Mama passed away, though, zappa-zing, Miz Amelia Shamson shows up outa nowhere, cleavage hanging out, smiling like a damn gator. I didn’t like her. Never did, wished to hell I could’ve done something to turn Daddy off, but dammit, after what they call a “respectful stretch of time,” I found myself with a stepmother and two–I got to say it–wicked stepsisters. I mean, those bitches were bitches! Both taller than me and arrogant as hell.
When Daddy passed on and the family fortune passed into the hands of Her Majesty, suddenly I found myself a flipping guest in my own house. No, not a guest, a servant. One fucking step above homeless.
“Cendrel St. Brouillard, you get in here!” The bitch’s call. Like the roar of the MGM lion. “As a cost-cutting measure, and keeping my daughters’ nails from needing a do every other day”–again that grin of a rattlesnake–“we’re thinking you won’t mind washing up after dinners.”
So not only did I have to go out on the shrimp boat every day, I had three meals’ worth of dishes in the sink at night. Washing dishes for three bitches. Fuck. Next thing you know, they’ll be calling me Quasimodo.
I heard about the guy Evangeline and Brondine were hot for. Xavier Prince. Just his arm, just the leg of this guy was worth a million, so they said. I could imagine him covered with $100 bills, and that would certainly be a come-on, right? (Hey, you tell me! You see a stripper come out with $100 bills pasted all over her, you ain’t hot all over?)
Anybody who scored Prince would be wearing Prada for the rest of her life. An Audi for everyday, and the limo–they said he had one–was enough to make my stepsisters wet, loose, and easy. I got a couple of looks at him through the crack of the door. Not bad looking, but if he was into them, he had to be an asshole.
Happened one morning when I was about to hop on the boat for the day’s shrimping. I was captain of one of them. I looked the boats over and sighed. Old boats. They was old when Daddy bought them. They got the job done, but they was dirty, forever slimy, and looked a little rotten. Ah, what the hell. Just then up walked the guy.
Xavier Prince. Shit. I don’t want anything to do with that asshole. I had a simple black mask left over from Mardi Gras in the wheelhouse of the boat. I ran and got it.
He wasn’t in a suit and tie or nothing, just a Hawaiian shirt and shorts, but they was nice ones, I could tell. Wanted to ask me some questions. His company was thinking of buying some shrimp boats.
Oh, hell, boy, ask away! All I want is to get more competition out there! He marries into the St. Brouillard family, and takes everything with him.
Had to admit it, though, up close the guy was not hard on the eyes. Had a face like Superman or one of them super-heroes. Little sweat on it on account of the humidity, but chiseled and handsome anyway. Sharp nose. Square jaw. Black, curly hair. Maybe a little pock-marked on his forehead, but that don’t matter none. Made him look more working-class, more manly. Dark sunglasses–couldn’t see his eyes, but the dark shadow along his chin and jaw told me he had a heavy beard. I liked that. Means he got testyrostone. You show me a man with a heavy beard, I’ll show you a guy with big balls.
Sure enough, physical-like, he was like a sailfish, long, sleek, and muscular. Real long. I figured him at 6`4″ or so, and oh, 225-250 pounds. Big man. Made me feel like a Hobbit. That Hula shirt fit him real healthy. They’re supposed to be loose, but them flamingos flew tight over his chest (had to be a good 59″), and the palm trees down lower floated loose, meaning his pecs were a big overhanging cliff, and the shirt underneath hung loose over a hard tree trunk of a belly.
Big arms. I like big arms. I ain’t exactly got them. Too short. I mean, I ain’t weak or nothing, just I ain’t got no great physique. Oh, one more thing: I could even see his nipples. Jutting out in the cloth. Damn, this boy is one hot piece.
He asked me why I was wearing a mask. I made up some bullshit. Ancient tradition or something. Voodoo, Cajun magic. Every year on this date I wore a mask to confuse the evil spirits. What the hell.
Had to admit it–the ol’ boy was making me feel sorta horny. Hey, I ain’t no slave to my cojonies, but that guy’s black hair tumbling over his face sorta put me in a frame of mind, you might say. We went on talking, told me his name: Xavier Prince (tell me what I don’t know), and he let on as how he might be more interested in fishing than shrimping. I credit the rotten look of the boats for that.
Hmm, maybe I could convince him that he should go compete with them guys instead of us. He asked me my name. “Cendrel St. Brouillard.”
“I’ll be damned, I’m seeing a couple of your relatives, maybe your sisters?” Shit! “No, no relation. There’s a lot of St. Brouillards around here.”
With that as a warning, I don’t know what come over me: “Tell you what, buddy, you wanna learn about shrimping, you can come out with us in the Gulf. Hop on over, and we’ll set off.” Never done that before.
As the boat chugged out through the pass, he looked around at the slimy condition of the boat–“No sense going out with us in any clothes you ain’t ready to burn the second you get home, Mr. Prince.” He looked at me.
“I got an old shirt and some pants in the wheelhouse you can wear.” He smiled, pulled his shirt open, and yanked it off. He unbuckled his belt and with–I got to say it–a dramatic yank, he pulled it through the belt loops and off. I wasn’t exactly “waiting,” but when he pulled open his fly, I was, you could say, “attentive.”
Damn. The boy was going commando. Nice cock. It was soft, but I figured a good six or seven inches when it got interested. Nice nuts. Like I said, went with the dark beard.
I wasn’t, you know, awe-struck. I got little secret of my own. According to what ever’body says, I’m hung. Hey, you never know who’s going to get one. Mine is, oh, I’d say seven or eight inches, but the big attraction is thickness. Bigger than I can reach around, not quite the size of a beer can, it’s about the size of one of them plastic water bottles. About that long, about that thick. Even has the ribs and curves, what with all the veins and bumps.
I tossed him the old T-shirt and pants, and he put them on. After sailing a while, we set up shop once we reached our area. Instead of talking to him about shrimp, though, I turned the conversation over to fishing. “Now, you take the mullet. Anywhere else, it’s a junk fish. Chopped up to attract sharks. Crab bait. But around here? Hey, mullet is the soul food of the Gulf Coast.”
“What’s a mullet.”
Damn, boy, you ain’t in Kansas anymore! “Mullet is a fish about yay-long”–I held my hands apart about a foot or so–“shaped like a cigar.”
“What do they eat?”
“Bottom-feeders. School of mullet can really sift through the sand on the bottom. Clean it out. We’re sorta hoping they’ll go through and filter the oil out of the bottom.” My mind was beginning to wander. Wouldn’t mind sifting through his bottom. He leaned over the side, and I smiled down at buttocks like hard, round casabas covered with some tight cloth. Bubble-butt. Wonder if anybody’s ever called him that.
Don’t know exactly why, but suddenly I had to take a leak. I stepped up beside him (downwind, of course; I ain’t about to piss on the guy), and I fetched out ol’ Poumoneur. At first he looked away like the sophisticate he was–then he turned back to gaze. And he said it, he actually said it: “Damn, are you ever hung!”
That wasn’t even all! “An elephant-cock! Where’d you get that? I never saw such a thing!” He smiled. “I’m not gay, but if I were… And what must that thing do to the ladies? Any cunt that thing passed through would be stretched to the max.” The dude was getting so hot and bothered, I got a little whiff of his scent. A mix of a cologne or something expensive, and sweat. Horny sweat. I started to lift off, myself.
Then he paused, and I figured he realized how stupid he sounded, and–I’ll be damned–he blushed. “Let’s change the subject!”
But straight or not, he had a sorta glint in his eye, know what I’m talking about? What the hell, I had no problem with a little “scorin’ aboard,” as they called it.
He cleared his throat. “Doesn’t the oil affect the mullet’s taste?”
“Hard to tell. There’s them as says they can tell the difference between mullet caught over there in Big Lagoon in Florida as opposed to them caught in Mobile Bay.” I began to steer the conversation–in a lowered voice: “Kinda like the taste of … one man over another.”
He cleared his throat again. “Wh-what do you mean?” I glanced down. Them old pants was tented out, all right.
I smiled. “Oh, I meant women. Different women taste different, don’t they?”
“Yeah. Yeah, they do.” He looked into my face and took off his sunglasses. “I … guess men taste different, too.”
Yes! I had finished pissing, but I didn’t tuck ol’ Poumoneur back in. It was getting bigger. I stepped back from the rail, holding it, slowly beginning to stroke.
I didn’t care about the crew. We’d all fucked each other sooner or later. Prince, though, was nervous as hell. He was staring down at my cock but biting his lip. No fucking way was I going to let the moment pass, though. It suddenly hit me: if he’s that impressed with my dick, he’s already thinking about what to do with it. I can get a blowjob here.
I sidled up to him, grinning, holding it out. “Do you … want to touch ol’ Poumoneur?”
“Ol’ Poumoneur? What does that mean?”
“Ol’ Thruster.”
“No!” he snapped. But he didn’t stop staring. Oh, yeah, I been around the block. Prince was doing as them as wants it usually does. When I moved still closer, his big shoulders shook, and slow, ever so slow, his huge arm reached out … and his fingers touched my cock.
He looked back and forth, worried, but all the other guys were busy at work. “Don’t worry about them. Come with me!” My voice was a hiss, but I was commanding. I opened the door and let us into the wheelhouse. Anchored for a while, we weren’t going anywhere, and with the door closed behind us, I brought his hand back down to my cock, and he grasped it. “Fuck! I can’t close my fingers around it!” Heard that before.
He was staring down at my cock, but my head was more than 12 inches lower than his, so I couldn’t exactly whisper sexy in his ear. I had to say it. “Bend down and kiss it.”
Moment of truth. If he’s stone straight, it’s a deal-killer. But the giant man bent over. Funny: he couldn’t bend over that far. He had to kneel. Yes! And with my big schlong in his face, you could say the spotlight was on him. The balls in his court, so to speak. He kissed it, all right. Once. “Breathe in!” I ordered. “Smell it.”
I don’t know–I ain’t all that likely to bend all the way down to get a whiff of my own crotch, but I ain’t had a bath for three, four days, and whatever Prince was inhaling down there had to be pure stink. But he didn’t turn away. Kept his face in there. I figure he saw where all this was going and made a decision. He opened his mouth and sucked my cock in–or tried to.
My curse. Too big to get a real blowjob. Best I get is a good licking over the head and up and down the shaft. It’s good PR, though. Anybody realizing he ain’t gonna get his mouth around it is mind-blown.
Made it a little harder to lead the man through the maze of becoming a cocksucker, though. I liked the way the big boy was shaking and trembling away as he licked me over, but if he wasn’t glommed on, it would be sorta hard to surprise him with his first mouthful of jizz.
When I felt the nut coming, I waited till the last second, then “Put your mouth over it! Over the top! Suck it!” He did, and a second later his eyes popped open wide as I hit the back of his throat with my first spurt. He paid his dues, though. Didn’t back off. I saw him gulping. Good boy, he swallowed like he liked it. Which I knew was true. As I burnt out and tapered down, he licked around the head, slurping up the final dribbles. “Liked that, did you?”
When he finally pulled away, “Damn! That was something!” He still held onto my cock with his hands. “Ol’ Poumoneur.” Dreamy voice.
“What’d it taste like, boy?” Had to add that “boy.” Keep my foot on his neck less’n he come to and realize who was the strongest in this little fucky-fuck.
“Thought it would make me sick … but it didn’t … salty … kinda bleachy.” He let out a long moan, bent over, and kissed my cock. “I … loved it.”
Yes! The ball was back in my court, but if I was going to break this guy in good, I had some work to do. Again, I had to shock him.
I gripped his arm in what I wished was a vise-like hold (although I knew he could shrug me off like an itchy tick) and pulled him up to me. Damn, I thought his eyes, first time I saw them, was blue. His eyes were dark, almost blue-black as he looked down at me. With a shove I pressed against him, pushing him back up into the damp, slimy wall. I reached up to his shoulders and pulled rich ol’ Xavier Prince down to me–and I pushed my tongue into his open mouth, forcing the invasion. My next move on the chess board of man-sex.
Good boy, he plunged his thick tongue back against mine, all the while moving his head from side to side, giving me deeper access–and the taste of my own cum. But I didn’t give a damn. I raped and bullied his mouth, bruising his lips, and when he fought back, my teeth bit on his lower lip. When he groaned, I switched to sucking on it, growling low as he rubbed his bulging pants against me.
I broke the kiss for a second. “Get off them pants!”
Then I latched back onto him again. While my tongue licked at his mouth, tasting blood I’d made with my teeth, his hands dropped to tear open his pants and wriggled them down. I moaned into his mouth as the violent kiss continued.
I had him broke down. Then I had to rearrange him. Words do that. I had to show him what to think and feel. I broke the kiss and pulled his face down so I could move my head beside it. Spoke into his ear. “You–one hot cocksucker–ain’t you?” I made a big point of breathing hard. Breaking up my words. Let him know I was turned on. Get him turned on. “You a real feast–for the eyes–Prince.” He groaned. “Real feast–for my cock!”
With that, he moaned louder, reached down to stroke me, and at the same time I reached out to give him a few jacking yanks. Hard as a Live Oak tree. The boy was hot for me.
Had to keep on with my dominance. “Ya’ll like this–don’t ya–cocksucker!”
He was panting like a fat girl at a chocolate sampling. “Yeah!–Never been so–hot!”
I decided to go for it. “I’m taking ya’ll. Whether ya’ll like it or not.”
He let out a long moan then turned his head to kiss me again. “Yes! Oh, yes!”
He was ready. Ordinarily it takes a rim-job to get a newbie hot enough to give me his cherry, but ol’ Prince was hot to trot. Something else: I wanted to take him face-to-face. Imprint on him. Let him memorize my face. The man who first mounted him.
I pushed him onto his back on the filthy, slimy wood deck and lifted his legs up by his ankles. He knew the highway we were on and what I was after, but he wasn’t quite yet broke to the collar. He tried to stop me. Tried to get up.
That was a shitpile because if he wanted to, I was just a Spaniel puppy trying to hop onto him. But I knew what I was doing. I had him right on the edge, his ass exposed to me.
“No, please! Not that!”
Too late. His luck ran out when he got on the boat. With my big cockhead at his ass, he made one, last, desperate bid for time: “A rubber! You got to put on a rubber!”
Damn. That wasn’t a deal-breaker, no way, but it broke the mood. Fuck! I dug into my pocket for my wallet. Always carry one around. Trouble is, whenever I get a demand like this, it’s a-costing me money. I mean, I can’t slip into a drugstore Trojan. Like putting my leg into a little girl’s pantyhose.
I gotta send off for the Trustex Extra-Large, and they don’t sell them by the each. It’s a chunk of change. Every time I get a demand for a safe, it’s like I got to put money in a parking meter. Love ain’t free.
Anyhoo, I rolled it over ol’ Poumoneur, then I reached into a bucket and smeared some of the slime from a chum bucket onto his ass. My muzzled cock was slick from the rubber’s lube, so Prince’s doom had come.
He looked down in horror as I began to push in. For sure, I knew the pain was intense. I took a water bottle once and tried to stick it up my ass. No way!
I knew the big man below me had never experienced anything like that, but he didn’t have any “No” left. I kept pushing and lunging, and–like it always does–I stretched his man-pussy out into a real shrimping porthole. He yelled out, flailing his arms, and he actually tore the front of my shirt open–buttons flying everywhere–but he was had. With a big pop we could almost hear, my cockhead slid past his guard-ring, and I was in! “Got ya! Yer cherry’s mine!”
“Angh, god! Oh, fuck!”
I held there for a while. Letting him get used to it. Spreading his legs wide, I looked down at him. “Yer so hot, Prince, ya ain’t getting past me! Gonna treadmill ya so hard, yer gonna beg me to fuck ya to death!”
He looked up at me, mouth open, moaning loud.
“Feel my cock in there? Don’t hurt as much now, do it. Know what that means? The longer ya get bred, the less it hurts–and the more yer my bitch!” His eyes grew wide. “Oh, yeah, it’s too late. Yer fucked. Got my cock in yer ass.” I grinned. “Yer cherry is mine.” I bent over him and lowered my voice. “Know what that means? Yer ass is mine. Belongs to me. Yer my bitch, and I can fuck ya anytime I ever want.”
With that, figuring he’d stretched as much as he was liable to, I sank another few inches into him. Another scream. But then another pause. “Ya got a nice ass, Prince. Nice and tight. What’s it feel like, getting yer turn to lose yer virginity?” I reached down and pinched his nipples. He held his legs spread wide by himself–natural-born bitch.
“Can’t believe–” he gasped, panting–“I could ever–take so much–cock!”
“Oh, we ain’t half done!” I sank him another couple of inches, and again he yelled, writhing in pain. Again I let him get used to me, and I pushed in the rest of the way, up to the balls. “Looka me, Prince! First man in yer saddle!”
With my balls pressed against his mighty cheeks, I began to pay my honest man’s dues, fucking the hell out of him, working up a good sweat of my own. What a prize he was! Like a big stag deer over the hood of my pickup! He begged me to stop or slow down, but I had to teach him his place.
Poor guy, his asshole was stretched out three, maybe four times as wide as the last time he wiped his ass. I was in him to the root, feeling myself bang past his prostate on every stroke. That sweet slurping, schlucking sound! My cock was hotter than a torch, and for a second I worried about the rubber melting around it.
“Ohhh, myyy, goddd! Cendrel!” Prince could only gasp, his voice a gurgling growl, and his prick, a nice piece (but really run-of-the-mill), began spitting out white, telescoping spurts of spunk, and his ass-ring cinched down tight around my cock, milking me, dragging me along with him until Yahoo! I couldn’t stop my balls from blasting it all out into his greedy ass!
Oh, yes! I love to do the big ones! The tall super-hero under me jerked and trembled, gasping and panting, wallowing in the slime on the floor, dripping his own jizz in streams off his chest and belly, his ass-cheeks sliding back and forth in the pool of my cum collecting under him as it spurted back out alongside my cock.
Couldn’t understand a word he said. All nonsense. All grunting, panting, moaning sounds. Heard my name a couple of times. Heard the word “fuck” over and over. And it went on forever.
Astonished the hell out of me, really. He went into his orgasm afore I did, and I was calmed back down, beginning to soften, just about to pull out, but he was still in ecstasy! I saw his cock lurching in dry-pumps, his balls clicking on empty.
But all good things come to an end–ain’t it the truth?–and finally Prince stopped lurching about, he relaxed, and he let out a huge sigh. He opened his eyes and looked up. “My. God.”
“Naw, I’m just Cendrel St. Brouillard the shrimper.”
“You. You are the hottest stud I have ever known.” He breathed for a few moments, then, “I never … never dreamed–oh, god, it’s so beautiful! My asshole is … is a fucking rose!”
Oh, shit, have I fucked this guy into insanity?
“You were right! Everything!” He looked into my eyes. “You’re right–I’m yours! My ass belongs to you! Anytime you want it!”
Well, to make a long story short (yeah, yeah, I know: too late!) I personal-wise didn’t get much shrimping done that day. Lucky I was the captain and the crew had been with me for years–knew what to do. Prince and I stayed in the little captain’s cabin practically all day, and I fucked him so many times, we ended up squeezing my load out of the rubber and using it over and over.
Back at the dock, Prince wanted to know how to contact me again. “Just check down here at the dock. I’m out shrimping ever’ day.” I watched him walk around the building to the parking lot. With a limp. Sore ass.
That night, back at the house, I got The Word from my stepmother. “Cendrel, we’ve decided that the liability of one of our shrimp boats being run by a 20-year-old captain can be overcome by using you here in the house.” She looked at me. “From now on, you’re the butler.”
“Butler!”
“Don’t take that tone with me, Cendrel. I never did adopt you, you know, and since the will gave me complete ownership of your father’s assets, you can easily find yourself out on the street. Homeless.” She looked hard at me. “Without a job!”
Fuck!
So one day about a week later, while my stepmother and her daughters were entertaining a man, I was the waiter/bartender. The second I walked into the drawing room, I almost stumbled. Xavier Prince! I almost bolted, but then I remembered he’d never seen my face.
When he looked up and saw me, his eyes lit up, but not really from recognition. Still I was worried, and I hurried back into the kitchen. A little while later, I heard the door open behind me, and when I looked around, he stood there.
“Hi. I’m Xavier Prince.”
“Hi. Nice to meetcha.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jimmy Joe Jones.”
From his pocket he pulled something shapeless, like a little dead octopus. With his fingers, he spread it out. A rubber! “I’ve been going through the short men in this town. My life depends on finding the man who can fit this.”
Well, I’ll be damned. With a glance at the door, I yanked down my pants and underwear. Ol’ Poumoneur swelled up on cue, and Prince reverently unrolled the old rubber over him.
“Ahh, god! How I missed you! I kept the used rubber. I sucked and licked very drop of your sperm out of it.”
“You’ve been courting my stepsisters–”
–“That’s over! I’ve found the one I belong to.”
“How’re you going to tell them it’s over?”
“I don’t know … I’ll find a way.”
I smiled. “I’ve got an idea.”
A few minutes later, somebody banged on the kitchen door. “Cendrel! Cendrel! What’s taking you so long? And have you seen Mr. Prince?”
I looked to the side and saw the door open. Heard the scream. Then two more screams.
To my stepmother’s horrified eyes was Xavier Prince, dominated, on his hands and knees, head down on his arms, his ass uplifted to his master. I was between his legs, pushing ol’ Poumoneur up his man-pussy. He was letting out such pleasured groans, anybody could tell he wanted it. I was back in his saddle again, and he allowed me into him–my bitch.
They’d never seen my family jewels before, and they were getting in-action views of my happy tallywhacker. I’ll be damned–I heard three astonished gasps.
Funny. I was on an amazing high, but my brain was the orgasm, not my cock; just knowing my three B’s were seeing the real me and knowing I had conquered them vultures with a fuck–something they couldn’t do–was such a great feeling I knew it would be part of jackoff fantasies for years to come.
I didn’t hide anything. “You want me to stop, Xavier?”
“No! Fuck, no! Make me your bitch! Give me your baby!”
Music to my ears.
After several minutes–long time, really–something told me their bitchnesses were not as “horrified” as they put on, but finally I heard the door slam. I looked over. My true bitch and I were alone (unless maybe baby made three).
Well, I moved out of Daddy’s house, kissed the shrimp fleet goodbye, and spent my afternoons on the beach reading about how Dear Stepmother gradually fucked up the St. Brouillard shrimp business so much it went under. She sold the house. Moved out of town. Went back to whoring, I suppose.
Meanwhile, I was really getting used to life in Key West, where we finally moved. I didn’t go back to shrimping, and Xavier didn’t have all that much interest in it, either. His Ace was real estate, and he had so much of that, I was sorta running out of stuff to buy.