The sun was blazing down, the humidity thick enough to cut with a knife. I stepped onto the dock and mopped my face with the front of my T-shirt, looking at the kid with the rod and reel sitting on the end of the dock.
It’d been a long trip down from the north, to the Deep South. Heat and fatigue were taking their toll. But the plane crash information was mine exclusively for only a short time, so I had to act fast.
‘How’re they biting?’ I called out, walking down the dock towards the kid.
The sun-bleached boards creaked under my feet, the green bayou water glittering in the sun, dazzling my tired eyes. I was wearing just the white T-shirt and a pair of tan cotton pants, sneakers, and it felt like I was wearing a suit of armour in that sultry inferno. The kid didn’t even turn his head and look at me, until I was right up in behind him. Didn’t have a care or an enemy in the world, or so he wanted me to believe.
He was dressed in faded, torn blue overalls, nothing else. His bare arms and chest shone dark and smooth. His face was long, like his lanky body, his brown eyes brilliant white around the edges, nose flat at the bridge, wide at the nostrils, hair thick and black and bushy. He was maybe 18 or 19. The rod and reel were brand-new.
‘What’s that, mister?’
‘I said: how’re they biting?’
He shrugged, drew back his thick, dark lips and grinned rows of bright white teeth. ‘Got a couple of nibbles.’
I got right to the point, before I melted out there on that open dock. The trees were already swaying across the water, and not from any wind. ‘You heard anything about a plane going down in these parts?’
Rick Anson’s single-engine Cessna had crashed twelve hours earlier, the last fix on the craft and its precious cargo within a 50-mile radius of where I was standing and sweating. The guy hadn’t filed a flight plan, was deliberately not looking to be tracked. Fifty miles was a lot of steaming, thick bayou.
The kid squinted up at me. ‘Huh?’
I smiled, my face muscles straining with the effort. ‘Name’s Terrance Freeman. I’m with the FAA, investigating a reported plane crash in this area. What’s your name?’
He turned his head away, looking at his float bobbing in the murky green water. ‘Milt.’
‘OK, Milt, like I …’
‘You got a badge or something?’
I slammed the bottom of my right foot into the small of his back. He went flying off the end of the dock, splatted face-first into the water. The anger just boiled out of me. I was short on time.
‘Listen, punk!’ I growled when Milt surfaced, splashed around to face me. ‘I asked you a straight question and I want a straight answer.’ I towered up above him, glaring down at him.
He shook water from his shining face, his hair sparkling with it. Then he grinned again. ‘I don’t do anything straight, mister.’
He slipped the straps of his overalls off his shoulders, floated on to his back, skinned the one-piece garment right off his lean body. His cock bobbed up on the surface of the water, a black snake glistening in the sun, growing harder, getting longer.
I licked my lips, looked around. We had that enclosed section of the bayou all to ourselves, just the incessant buzzing of insects to disturb the oppressive silence. I took the bait, and plunged into the water with the kid.
My feet hit sucking bottom. The brackish water went up to my chest, nipple-level. Milt craned his neck, looking down his body, over the humped cord of cock, at me. I waded in between his floating legs and grabbed onto his prick, pulled it upright and stuffed the blue-black cap into my mouth.
He took it like a man who’s taken it many times before, tilting his head back into the water and spreading his arms wide, cock seizing up harder and longer in my hand and mouth. I cupped his big shaven balls, gripping his pole at the base, and bobbed my head up and down, sucking on the water-slick pipe.
The hood was cobra-huge, the shaft wrist-thick and smooth. The kid’s cock throbbed in my clasping hand and sucking mouth.
‘Caught yourself a big one, huh, Milt?’
I choked on shaft halfway down, swung my head around, spinning Milt’s body with me. A man stood on the end of the dock. He was short and squat, built like a black fireplug, dressed like Milt had been. He cradled a shotgun in his large hands.
‘Been hunting, myself,’ he said, grinning. ‘Didn’t bag nothin’ – till now.’ He canted the shotgun down with his right hand, unfastened his overalls with his left. The tattered blue garment dropped down to his sturdy ankles. He picked his dick up, hefted the heavy black rod.
‘My cousin – Marvis,’ Milt said.
Marvis nodded, gestured with the shotgun, stroking his snake.
I pulled Milt’s dong out of my mouth and climbed up out of the water and onto the dock, slipped off my sodden T-shirt and pants. My own cock popped out hard and long in the steambath air.
Marvis was in his early 30s, had a square-shaped, shaven head and a hard, high-cheekboned face, narrow brown eyes and thin black lips. His compact body was ribbed with muscle, pitch-black. He meant business, had the equipment to back it up.
I dropped down on to all-fours on the dock. Milt stuck his cock in my face, Marvis stuck his cock in my ass.
I groaned, mouth full of Milt’s member again. Marvis had oiled his gun, and slid it in smoothly, gliding every inch of veined, pulsing meat into my chute. The shotgun clattered down on the boards behind me, when his pubed balls bumped up against my quivering cheeks. Then he gripped my hips, pumped his, stroking long and deep and hard into my anus. Milt grasped my hair and fucked my face with his dong.
They got a rhythm going, faster and faster. Marvis pounded into my ass, reaming my chute. Milt plunged back and forth in my mouth, bending down my throat and out again.
My dizzy head was pushed up, my swollen ass pulled back. I gasped air through my flaring nostrils, burning with heat, sweating out of every pore, struggling to stay conscious with all of that meat stuffing my butt and filling my face. They gave it to me at both ends, backwoods busted style.
Milt yelped, jerked, his fingers biting into my scalp. Hot, salty semen spurted against the back of my throat, squirted out the sides of my mouth, the kid’s cock jumping and spunking.
Marvis rammed my ass with a vengeance, the crack of his clenched thighs against my rippling cheeks blasting the heavy air above even Milt’s cries of joy. Then he grunted, shuddered. His cock surged in my chute, shot searing sperm up against my bowels, the guy dousing me with his lust like his cousin.
I wrenched a hand off the wood and grabbed onto my own thundering wood. One stroke was all it took. I shivered in the throes of the two men’s ecstasy, and my own, spilling seed all over the boards, before blacking out.
They showed me the plane, when it became clear I wasn’t leaving the bayou until I’d found it.
The Cessna was buried nose-deep in a stagnant swamp pool about two miles north of where the guys kept a shack. They’d seen it go down, had lit out for it in their flat-bottomed boat, which now sported a brand-new outboard motor, I noticed.
I jumped out of the boat and waded through the scummy water to the plane, combed through the cabin and cockpit. I didn’t find a thing – except the body of Rick Anson, still strapped into the pilot’s seat.
We went back to the shack. I grabbed the shotgun when Marvis attempted to hand it to Milt, so he could go out for a leak.
‘OK, boys, enough fun and games. Where’s the money?’ I rasped, pointing both barrels at both men.
Milt licked his lips. Marvis grinned. The sticky, suffocating heat in the small shack weighed down on me like a living, breathing thing.
‘There wasn’t any …’
‘There was money! Five hundred thousand dollars that Anson robbed from the Brinks’ armoured car depot in Utica. Where is it?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Milt offered. ‘We turned that over to the sheriff’s department, mister. When we told them about the crash.’
‘That’s right,’ Marvis chimed in. ‘We’re supposed to get a reward for recovering it.’
They nodded at each other, grinning.
I raised the shotgun up to my shoulder and locked it in, tightening my finger on the trigger. ‘If you told the sheriff, there should be cops crawling all over this sweltering backwater, no body still hanging up in the plane. And you two shouldn’t have new fishing and boating gear – until after you’ve received your “reward”.’ I aimed the shotgun at their heads. ‘Go on – with the truth this time. Where’d you hide …’
‘Drop it, mister!’
A third man, another cousin. His name was Malcolm. He carried a pistol, was tall and wide and coal-black, had close-cropped hair and a gold ring in his right ear. His head was huge, to go along with his body, his features thick and heavy, brown eyes hooded by sleepy lids.
‘You’re going to go back to where you came from and never come here again,’ he advised me. ‘No hard feelings. Unless you want ’em.’
‘He wants it,’ Marvis said, taking the shotgun from me.
I was hard, had feelings. All those men in those close, sweaty quarters, had stirred up the feelings in my loins again. And I wasn’t alone. ‘A farewell send-off, eh?’ I said, smiling good-naturedly.
They stretched me out on top of the low wooden table that occupied a third of the shack. Malcolm gripped my bare legs to his massive, muscle-cleaved chest, his nightstick pointing ominously at my ass. While Milt eagerly lapped at my nipples, ran his hands all over my bare chest and stomach. And Marvis stuffed his engorged cock into my open mouth.
I sucked on Marvis’ prong, shifting my head back and forth, wet-vaccing cap and shaft. Milt spun his bright pink tongue all around my nipples, making them buzz, bud higher and harder. He sucked on them, bit into them, cupping my shimmering pecs and caressing my heaving stomach, fondling my hard cock. Malcolm pressed his lube-greased hood in between my butt cheeks and up against my pucker.
Marvis took my moan of pleasure full length along his cock in my mouth. As Malcolm squished his hood through my starfish, sunk liquorice log shaft into my anus. He drilled deep as his dong was long, clutching my quivering thighs, rocking my body with cock.
Milt picked up my prick and sucked on it. I sucked on Marvis’ prick, the guy guiding my head to and fro. But I hardly felt the one man’s velvety mouth, the other man’s oiling dong; as the biggest of the three men pounded into my ass with his sledge of a hammer, blasting my anus and body full of sensation. His shunting slammer filled me entirely, swelling my being, stroking and stoking my soul.
Milt dropped my dick and crowded in close to my head, anxious to get sucked like his cousin. The two men fed me cock in long, treacle tubes, each fucking my face in turn. As the giant gored my asshole with his ebony horn.
I knew I wouldn’t walk straight for a week, be able to sit up in a chair, and I welcomed it. Excitedly sucking off two men, getting brutally fucked by a third. My eye still on the prize, all the same.
Marvis groaned and clawed at my hair. He flung his hips at my head in a frenzy, balls bouncing off my drooling chin, cock pistoning my mouth and throat. Then he howled, jetted, jizzing me. I gulped madly.
Milt jerked my head his way, sawed my face with his cock. He cried out, and creamed me, spouting his rubbery sperm right down my throat. I swallowed for all I was worth, getting showered with semen and sweat.
They twisted my head back and forth between their spurting dongs, sticking and spunking my mouth; my ass and body getting banged to and fro by Malcolm’s mammoth member. The big guy cursed, hollered, ferociously splitting my anus with his axe. Then he shook out of control, muscles popping all over his gleaming noir body. Semen scorched my chute, blast after blast, squirted out of my overstuffed burning raw butt.
I came hands-free and hard as huge Malcolm. My cock leapt up off my stomach and geysered come, Malcolm’s pumping dong propelling my own lust all over my face and chest. I clung to blurred consciousness by the skin of my teeth biting into Marvis’ cock.
They let me go with that warning never to return, that flying fucking send-off.
I returned six hours later, with a search warrant and ten fellow Treasury Agents. I’d lied to the boys about being with the FAA, but I was a member of a federal authority, with a duty I was sworn to perform.
Because if I couldn’t get my sweaty hands on that money for myself, dishonestly, pursue my dream of a life of leisure on the Mediterranean coast; at least I could recover it for the armoured car company, honestly, maybe garner a promotion and pay raise for breaking the case.