"We have reason to believe that man first walked upright to free his hands for masturbation."

Thursday, May 28, 2015

All Male Fiction: House Rules

By: Walker Davis & Ryan Michaels



The Deauville was a broken down hotel smack dab in the middle of Center City, which isn't saying much. In that part of the country anyplace where two roads cross has the makings of a town. Throw in a gas station, a diner serving greasy food and maybe a store for provisions and you've got a town — add a name with the word 'city' in it, and it's a city.

Center City lay somewhere between Abilene and the rest of the world; it sat out in the middle of the flat, Texas scrub like a carbuncle on a smooth back, waiting for something exciting to happen — which never did. No one seemed to remember why Center City got started, and no one seemed to care now why it kept going. But, like so many people who drifted down its dusty streets, it just didn't have the sense to die.

If you grew up in this part of the world you got out as fast as you could, heading towards Galveston or Houston or sometimes even towards Dallas. If you didn't come from Center City that meant you were just passing through and, after shelling out a couple of bucks for gas, the place was no more a memory than was being born.

The Deauville had been around as long as Center City and still sported its first coat of paint. It was a weather beaten building that creaked in a strong wind and stayed wet from a downpour for a couple of days. Originally it was built to house the crews of oil companies who flooded West Texas looking for black gold. The oil boom came and went inside a couple of months and with it went the men. The building then became a cheap hotel and restaurant, serving the greasiest food west of the Pecos, so it was said locally.

When that failed, The Deauville just sat there in the middle of town, its two stories with the false front towering over the rest of the buildings on Main Street like some king presiding over his court. The men from the oil company who had run it stayed on, somehow keeping the place running, somehow keeping it open for travelers or locals who'd had too much to drink on their nights off.

No one actually knew how The Deauville managed to stay open; it seemed no one ever went in or out of the place, but there were rumors. The name used to come up out on the ranches after dinner when a big meal had made the men's bellies full and their tongues loose. They said you could have sex in any shape or form in The Deauville day or night. Just ask for room 1612, they'd say, and the secrets of the hotel were yours. Hank Throp had heard the stories for years but had never paid a lot of mind to them. In this part of the country you heard a lot of stories about a lot of strange things.

Hank was twenty eight, and had been born and bred in a Center City-like town of his own over in Oklahoma. He'd moved to Texas when he was twenty two because he felt it was manlier to be from Texas. Hank stood just over six feet tall and his body and muscles were nicely formed from working on a ranch day after day. His brown hair was almost always covered by a Stetson, making him look like a genuine Texas cowboy, and his blue eyes shone from his face like mountain lakes at sunrise.

Hank didn't mess with anyone. He did his job, earned his money and now and again went into Califax to get laid. He had never dreamt his life would fall into this routine, but then he had never really dreamt about his life at all, so what he was given was enough. His dreams only happened at night when he was asleep and usually by daybreak they were gone. Hank only wanted food and rest and a sexual release from his aching nuts once or twice a month or so. He never jacked off because he didn't consider it manly, and he always wore a rubber when he fucked the whores in Califax because he didn't want to get a disease.

Somewhere around eight o'clock on this particular night, the temperature dipped down to eighty three, the coolest it had been all day. High, black clouds like thick clouds of rich soil scudded along the darkened sky foretelling a storm that, like so many in these parts, might never come. Hank wiped his brow with his right hand while his left held tightly to the wheel of the jeep. Shit, it was hot! He'd busted his ass all day long mending some fence off in the northeast corner of the ranch. Thinking of a fistful of cold beers was the only thing that had kept him there working. Now, driving into Center City, Hank could almost taste that first cold one washing the dust from his mouth and throat.

Almost as soon as the flickering lights of Dora's Diner came into view Hank was out of the jeep and seated at his favorite booth slurping down a cool, crisp Coors like it was mother's milk. The diner still smelled of the evening's last batch of French fries, but there was something about it that was real homey. Dora herself looked like every grandmother south of the Mason-Dixon Line and treated everyone like a favorite child. What her cooking lacked in taste, Dora made up for in motherly charm and good humor.

Hank drank his way through a river of good beer and was just settling in for a while when the rain came. It started so softly that no one heard it hitting the aluminum roof of Dora's at all. Then it got up a full head of steam and the sound became like a drum roll across the roof. Hank looked gloomily out the window, watching several months' worth of dirt loosen and drain away in the rain. Shit, the jeep was parked out back, open to the weather; he'd be a drowned dog by the time he got back to the ranch.

"Hey, bubba," Dora called out to Hank affectionately, "looks like you're in for some ride home. Hope you brought along some rubbers to fit your feet, too," she said lewdly, then broke out into a fit of laughter that rocked the diner.

"Don't worry 'bout me, Dora. I'm so wet inside, hardly matters how I get on the outside," Hank replied as he raised a beer in salute.

Twenty minutes later the rain still droned on. Hank stood up unsteadily and paid the bill, over-tipping Dora by nearly two bucks. "Take care, Dora," he called out as he made his way to the door.

"You drive careful, you hear?" Dora shot after him. "It's a bitch outside. Don't want to read about you in the papers."

"I will, Dora. Goodnight," Hank waved, and then he stepped out into the rain.

The wind whipped across the flatlands like a crazed steer on the run. There was no hiding from it. Hank ducked his head low but the wind caught hold of his hat and ripped it from his head. Since there was no use in trying to get it, Hank staggered to the jeep, found his keys and gave it a try. Nothing. He tried again. Nothing. The points had gotten wet in the storm. Shit!

He was about to go back to Dora's to ask if she'd mind a guest for the night in one of her booths, when Hank saw the lights of The Deauville blinking at him between the rain drops. He stopped in his tracks, ignoring the rain. Unconsciously he slipped his hand into his pocket and began to massage his heavy balls as he thought about those rumors, and how it had been nearly three weeks since he'd cum. A dull ache quickly started throbbing in his groin, and he suddenly found himself making his way quickly through the rain to the front porch of the old hotel.

Hank never expected he'd spend the night at The Deauville any more than he had expected he'd live in Center City for six years, and, after convincing himself that the rumors were true, he hoped that no one had seen him go inside the place. He just didn't want his personal needs to be known all over town — there were some things a man needed to keep private, and needing pussy was one of them.

The lobby of The Deauville smelled of dust and decay and lemon wax. Hank shook himself off on a very tired Oriental rug and looked around. The lobby was surprisingly grand; tall palm trees were scattered about among the heavy velvet covered pieces of furniture; there were spittoons near each chair and old magazines and newspapers on the tables; gas lights flickered and swayed in the dusky light.

Behind the desk a tall, thin, balding man stood staring at Hank. He smiled. "Help you, son?" he queried.

"I got caught in the rain," Hank replied uncomfortably.

"It came a gully-washer, that's for sure," the man said quickly. "Need a room?"

Hank nodded.

"Any special room?" he asked, the tone of his voice changing just slightly.

"I hear room 1612 is pretty good," he said, the color rising to his cheeks.

"That it is," the man grinned. "Just sign in and you'll be on your way." The clerk watched Hank sloppily sign his name, and then said, "Here's the key. There's the stairs. 1612 is on the first floor."

Hank took the key and headed for the stairs. At the first floor he walked down the hallway peering at the numbers: 1609, 1610, 1611, and finally, there it was — room 1612. Hank inserted the key in the lock and turned the door. It opened into total darkness. He felt the walls for a switch, but there was none, only the cold, clammy feel of age and decay.

Hank stepped into the darkness, both hands stretched out at his sides, both hands touching a wall — he was in a hallway. He moved now, slowly, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. The darkness enveloped him like a cloak, wrapping itself around him, drawing him in deeper. He moved forward, going further into the heart of the darkness, hearing only the sounds of his footsteps and his heavy breathing.

Further along there was a glimmer of light to the right. Hank edged towards it, feeling along the wall. The light grew brighter until it gushed into the darkness through the frame of a door — an unopened door. Hank quickened his pace, until finally he stood at the door. Slowly, he reached out and turned the knob, and then cautiously opened the door. A dazzling light from within the room shone out into the darkness, momentarily blinding him.

"Come on in. Sit down a spell," a voice called out to him.

"Who's there?" Hank asked, shielding his eyes from the light.

"Tom Bolton," the voice replied.

"I know you?" Hank asked, searching his mind for the name.

"Can't say you do. How about a beer?" Bolton asked.

That sounded good to Hank. He moved into the room. "I was just looking around," he said in way of an unasked for explanation.

"We all are," Bolton answered.

Hank blinked his eyes several times. When they adjusted to the light he saw that he was in a small room. There was just an armchair, a dresser, some sort of tropical plant and a bed. Bolton lay in the bed covered to his waist with just a sheet. He was sipping from a can of Coke. "About that beer?" Hank asked.

"In the cooler," Bolton said pointing to a large, red cooler sitting atop the bureau.

Hank got himself a cold one, broke open the top and drank thirstily. Shit, he had worked up a thirst from all this spooky business of walking down dark halls. "What's the story here? You waiting for someone?"

"I hope so. I'm just the same as you, bud. I'm looking for a little action." Bolton was in his early thirties. A good deal of his body was exposed in the bed, revealing a heavily muscled chest, bulging biceps and an abdomen whose muscles you could count one by one. "I been here awhile. You?"

"Just got here," Hank said, wondering what he was supposed to do next. "What's the story here? I've never been here before."

"Well, this is it," Bolton said with a sweeping gesture.

It took a second for that to register with Hank. "This is it? You mean there ain't nothin' else?"

Bolton shook his head.

"And what the fuck am I supposed to do? Fuck you?" He took a long swig of the beer. Shit, he'd been conned!

Bolton leaned back. "They got a rule here. Whoever is in the bed gets served first by whomever comes along. I been here about three hours already and you're the first person I've seen."

"It's a waste of money," Hank complained.

"Don't be so sure," Bolton said as he sipped his Coke. "You ever made it with a guy?" When Hank didn't answer he continued, "I never did either, until I was in the Army."

"Shit, the Army don't allow no fags," Hank said, standing up now, still feeling like he'd been had.

"Fucking with a guy don't mean anything unless you want it to," Bolton said. "Who gives a fuck where you stick your dick anyway? In a cunt, in an asshole…"

"In a knothole," Hank laughed loudly at the idea. He'd heard of guys so horny they'd fuck anything with a hole in it. The dull ache in his balls started to come back, and he reached in his pocket and cupped his balls, massaging them gently. Shit, and he thought he was going to get laid. "I'm looking for a woman, not a guy. You're barking up the wrong tree, Bolton."

"What's your name, bud?"

"Hank."

Bolton leaned on his side, resting on one arm, and the sheet fell further below his waist outlining the thick extension of his erection. "Well, Hank, you're not getting shit till I get out of here. Them's the house rules."

Hank drained the beer as his eyes caught Bolton's hard-on, and he stared at it for a second. Shit, he's as horny as I am, Hank thought. He rubbed his aching balls a little and felt his cock start to grow. Shit, if I get a hard-on this guy's going to think I'm after him, Hank thought, but it was too late. Totally out of his control now, his dick edged it way up, stretching and pulling against the fabric of his well-worn jeans.

"You want to get off, man, and so do I," Bolton said. "So let's help each other. What do you say?"

"I ain't a queer, Bolton," Hank snapped in reply.

"And I ain't asking you to be one. Look," he pulled down the sheet and exposed his hard-on. It stood proudly away from his muscular body, growing from the dense patch of pubic hair like a soldier saluting. "I ain't no different than you, man. Shit, we're both looking for the same thing, aren't we?"

Hank nodded his head.

"So, what's the problem?"

"It's not right."

"Save your morality for Sunday, Hank. Let's just do it," Bolton stated, and then he turned over, shoving his ass up in the air. "Don't matter where you stick it, bud. A stiff prick doesn't have a conscience, as they say." Bolton then put his hands back and took a cheek in each and spread them wide, exposing the pink asshole to Hank. "Shit, you got one, too. What's the difference where you put it, Hank? You'd fuck a bitch in the ass if she asked for it."

Hank felt his dick pressing against his jeans. His balls were loaded now, ready to shoot. Bolton was getting him hot, real hot. It's not that he was after a man, but shit, there was this guy with his ass in the air spreading that little hole for him to slip his hard dick in. Bolton spit in his hand and greased up the hole; Hank stood up.

"Come on, Hank, you need it, and I need it." Bolton spread his ass even further, pulling his asshole open slightly. "Just slide your dick right on up my ass; it's clean, nothing to worry about."

Hank's hand dropped to his pants and released his fly; his dick came pouncing out into the open. Bolton looked over his shoulder enviously at the big dick which was dripping a single, gleaming drop of pre-cum from the tip. Hank was embarrassed; he wasn't used to showing his dick to any man, and he'd never let another guy see it hard. Shit, he didn't know what to do.

"Come on, Hank, don't pussy out on me now; stick that dick up my ass and give me a good fuckin'." Bolton slid his middle finger into his asshole as if to show the other man just how it was done. "But you got to get naked first. House rules."

Hank nervously unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down, then removed his cowboy boots and socks before removing his jeans completely. He then took off his shirt, then, finally, he removed his underwear. Naked, and with a hard-on, Hank climbed onto the bed and looked down at Bolton's raised, naked ass. He felt something close to fear as his eyes fixed on the tight asshole that lay embedded in the center of the flesh. Still, he was super horny by this point, and he just shrugged and put the tip of his dick against Bolton's hole. The area was warm and moist and Hank's dick leaked another drop of pre-cum.

After a minute of fumbling around, Bolton reached back and grabbed Hank's dick in his hand; Hank started to pull back. "I'm just putting it in, man. That's all." And then Bolton slid the tip of the dick into his asshole just as far as the end of the head.

Hank felt the muscle grab it, then relax. He pushed further and harder until the shaft had completely penetrated Bolton. It was just like he'd always heard: really tight; not like a woman at all — but good, just the same. Hank looked down at his dick sliding in and out of the other man's asshole. Shit, this is real hot, he thought. The sound of his cock slurping in and out of the other man's body excited him, too, and soon, too soon, he felt the tension build up.

"Aw, shit, I'm gonna cum!" Hank groaned and, only then realizing that in his drunken haze and horny state he had totally forgotten to slip a condom over his cock before slipping it into another man's ass, he started to withdraw his dick.

"Naw, don’t yank it out, bud," Bolton huffed.

"You sure?" Hank questioned.

"I'm sure. There ain't nothing wrong with getting fucked by another man, nothing wrong at all. Shit, it feels so good, you know it's got to be right. Fill me up with that sweet load of cum, Hank," Bolton urged.

"O-ok," Hank panted and then he shot his wad. "Oh god!" he groaned as he finally unloaded his nuts after nearly three weeks.

"Oh, yeah, fuck, yeah," Bolton grunted as he felt Hank's hot cum shooting up inside his ass, stroking his own dick at the same time until he came all over the sheets below seconds later.

"Ohhh, fuck!" Hank cried out as he felt the new and incredible sensation of Bolton's tight asshole contracting around his still hard cock, milking out every last drop of cum he had to offer.

"See, it's like I said, Hank, don't much matter where you stick it; dicks and assholes and cunts don't have no brains; they don't know what's right or wrong; they just know what feels good," Bolton said as he climbed out of the bed and started dressing.

Hank looked embarrassed. The beers were beginning to wear off and he was feeling awkward. His eyes drifted to the cooler and Bolton invited him to have another.

"You leaving, too, Hank?" Bolton asked as he pulled on his boots.

"I think I'm going to stay. I came here for a woman and that's what I want." His eyes caught Bolton's for a second. "No hard feelings."

Bolton laughed. "Sure as hell not. But, remember, you got to take what comes through that door… man, or woman. It's one at a time here. House rules," he said as he pulled on a shiny, black rain slicker.

"I got you," Hank said.

"As long as you understand. Well, I'm getting out of here. Nice meeting you, Hank." Bolton extended his hand and the two men shook. "Best of luck."

Hank slid his naked body under the covers as soon as Bolton was gone. The sheets were still warm from Bolton's body. Shit, I might be here all night, he thought. Then he spied the cooler which Bolton had left — or maybe it belonged to the hotel — and it didn't seem quite as dreary a prospect.

An hour or so later Hank heard someone walking down the hallway. He hoped it was some nice broad with big boobs. He liked women with tits you could swing on, rub over your face, and really get lost in. He started to get hard. The footsteps drew nearer. Hank leaned up on one elbow and waited, sipping his beer while he did. A few minutes later a dark shape loomed in the doorway.

"Shit, it's bright in here," a male voice said. He moved into the room. "Mind if I sit down?" The man was in his early twenties, about twenty or twenty-one, had dark hair, green eyes, was tall with a swimmers build, and was nice looking, for a guy. "You been here long, buddy?" he asked Hank.

"Long enough," He sipped on his beer staring at the other man but seeing Bolton's writhing ass in his mind's eye. Shit, Bolton had looked like he enjoyed getting fucked up the ass. "You know I got priority here. House rules."

The man leaned back in his chair. "Sure, I know. It ain't my first time here. Mind if I have a beer?" When Hank nodded the guy went right to the cooler and picked himself a cool one.

"I never been here before," Hank said evenly.

"Shit, I knew that the minute I saw you. You can always tell a first-timer; there's a look in their eyes when what they're looking for don't come waltzing through that door. You're out for a piece of ass, ain't you? Some pussy?" He slurped the beer.

"I ain't been laid in nearly three weeks," Hank replied and rubbed his balls, which were beginning to ache again.

"If you're lying in that bed you sure enough just had some kind of sex," the man laughed. "Look, man, I been coming to this dump for nearly two years now and I never, and I mean never, ever seen a piece of pussy in here yet. It's all a rumor." He swilled down the last of the beer.

Hank felt angry, then resigned. It seemed too good to be true. "Shit, what am I going to do?"

The man smiled, stood up and went to the door. As he closed it, then locked it behind him, he turned and said, "You're going to turn over on your stomach, and take it up the ass, just like everybody else. House rules."

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