This is a work of fiction; any resemblance of a character to any person, living or dead, is unintentional. The stories in this series are set in the early 1990s.
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"Brown round?" I said, apprehensively repeating Russ Wilks' words. Whenever Russ brought up something that would lead down a debauched path, he had that shit-eating leer on his face I was seeing right now as he drove us in the company truck to the automobile auction lot.
He chuckled. "Yeah, brown round -- your lady's butthole, son. Have you tried pushing that button yet?"
The 30-minute drive to auction grounds that Saturday morning had devolved pretty quickly into sex talk, as was usually the case with Russ. At least he didn't make any mention of the craziness that had transpired the evening before.
The taste of that was literally still in my mouth -- how Haskell, our mechanic, had showed me Russ' hidden camera system. How we'd watched Russ plow the business owner's wife in his office. How Haskell casually began masturbating and cajoled me into doing the same. And then how Haskell introduced me to the taste of cum -- first mine off his fingers, then his, direct from the source as he plunged his fat cock past my lips and wedged it in my throat.
It had taken me all night to try to process that. Hell, I still was unsettled when I woke up and had a pit in my stomach as I drove back to the used car lot to work -- alone for the first time all day with Russ. Two weeks in, and he'd already conditioned me to get there early. He wasn't there when I arrived, and that was a first.
I was too antsy to wait in my car, so I got out and paced the lot until I heard the throaty rumble of his restored 1964 GTO coming down the main street. I took a deep breath and committed to not acting squirrelly, even though the newfound knowledge over the past 24 hours was upsetting at every level. Russ was fucking the owner's wife. In his office. And videotaping it all. Oh, yeah -- I'd blown a man and swallowed what felt like a pint of cum.
So, I was almost relieved when Russ got in the car and immediately reverted to "normal," which was hammering me with questions about how far I'd gotten with my girlfriend, Katelyn. On this drive, he was asking what she liked, and was starting to give advice on technique.
This, from the man who'd once told me a good masturbation technique would be to fill a bathtub full of water, get an erection in the bath and stick the head up out of the water, catch a fly and pull off its wings, then set it on the head of my cock until it "walked me off." I don't think I'd ever been so dumbfounded in my life. Now he was asking me if I played with my girlfriend's asshole.
"Uh, no -- I'm not sure Kate would appreciate me poking around down there, Russ."
"Son!" he half-shouted as he slapped the steering wheel. "First, you're already poking around 'down there!'" he exclaimed, making air quotes with his fingers over the top of the steering wheel.
"I'm trying to give you a leg up here! A competitive advantage! Dipshits your age don't know squat about the human body. Young, dumb and full of cum." He slugged my thigh with his right fist. "Listen up -- you're getting a master course here in human sexuality!"
He launched into a long discourse on the anatomy of the pussy and pelvic floor, the perineum, anus and the relative merits of the nerve-ending responses in all the different parts.
"But it's not just physical with the butt, no no no," he said, turning to catch my eye. "It's psychological. Assholes are taboo, right? 'Oooh! Don't touch where I pooh,'" he squealed in a mocking girl's voice. "Well, I AM going to touch there, I might lick there, and guess what? You're going to beg for it for the rest of your life!"
He laughed and I squirmed a bit; I was embarrassed that I felt my own asshole tingle in response.
"When are you going out with Katelyn next?" he asked.
"Actually, tonight if I can get home on time," I said. "What time do you think we'll be done?"
"We're moving 12 cars today, three at a time. If we don't have to stand around at the auction office with our dicks in our hands too long this morning, I'd say I can get you out on your pussy hunt by 6 o'clock." He gave a light slap on the upper arm with the back of his hand. "Bust a hump and get the last car offloaded by 5, and I'll even spring for a couple beers."
"Sounds good," I said, I had no clue if "a couple beers" was literal or some kind of euphemism. The previous night with Haskell it had been both.
We arrived at the sprawling auction lot outside South Barton and Russ wheeled the company truck to a stop among a row of other trucks extending in both directions from a white portable trailer office. Our truck had a flatbed that tilted down, allowing one vehicle to be driven up and clamped with chains, and then a tow bar to hook up a second vehicle.
The plan was after we'd secured each load of two vehicles, I would trail behind driving a third. Two trips before lunch, two trips after. Before we left the used car lot that morning, Russ had us go into the locker and shower room and strip down to our undies, then put on clean blue work jumpsuits.
"We're gonna be crawling around in the dirt and working in grime today," he said. "Don't want your Mom giving me a rash of shit for sending you home looking like a dirtball."
I already knew Russ had no qualms about his body, having seen him fully naked on my first day of work. But I was a bit self-conscious and turned away awkwardly as I kicked off and jean shorts and shed my T-shirt.
"You're not in junior high gym class," Russ chided. I began to feel a bit flush in the face as I turned, mostly just to stop the teasing. He was standing in boxer shorts, bent at the waist and folding his shirt on the bench in front of the lockers. As his torso moved, the right leg of his boxers pulsed as his thick flaccid cock lolled around between the cotton and his thigh. The impression it made in the cloth extended all the way to the hem.
Immediately I thought of Haskell's huge ebony cock from the night before, and then just as quickly realized the small electric pulse I felt in my groin when that memory flashed vividly in my mind. I glanced down at my white briefs and the comparatively small mound pressing against the fabric of my crotch, then snuck one more peak over at Russ. He was pulling on one leg of his jumpsuit but saw my eyes.
I feared what he'd say next, but nothing came. We finished dressing in silence, put our clothes into lockers and headed out to the transport truck.
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The day at the auction lot started tedious, then became steady work, and the time went by fast. The first hour was mostly waiting and paperwork. There was no actual auction -- the buyers had actually walked the lot earlier in the week, inspecting cars and running value checks, and then submitted written bids.
Russ had bid on more than three dozen cars, he said, and ended up being the high bid on 12. It was actually a "second-price" auction: Whoever won the bid would pay $1 more than the second-highest bid. That encouraged everyone to bid high, but no one to be punished for bidding TOO high.
"Kind of a cool concept, and a mind fuck, all at the same time, huh?" he asked as we ate ham sandwiches and drank Cokes in the cab of the company transport at lunchtime. Even with the delay at the start of the process, we'd made good time. Two runs were in, and it was only 1 o'clock.
"Yeah, that's pretty interesting," I said. "You have to put yourself out there, maybe more than you're comfortable with, but in the end it also matters what the OTHER guy does."
"Everyone trying to top everyone," Russ said, and there was that lecherous tone again. "That IS life, boy. If you're not the top, then your ass is gonna hurt in the morning!"
