Redneck Rim Artist

I’m face down, sprawled diagonally across a double-sized mattress, listening for footsteps and hearing nothing louder than the refrigerator’s purr in the corner. I’ve turned on the bathroom bulb and closed the door so that only a cupful of light spills through the crack; at the hotel room’s other end, I’ve slipped the security latch between the outside door and its frame, keeping it slightly ajar. I’m facing away from the sliver of illumination from the parking lot and third-floor outdoors walkway, angled in my direction.

I’m naked, legs spread, pillow clutched to my chest. And I’m waiting for a stranger to join me.

He’d messaged me on the apps only twenty minutes before. I’m a lil horny. U?

I don’t usually talk to profiles without photos, but it’s my first night in Richmond. After a six-and-a-half-hour drive and dinner with my dad, maybe my judgment was impaired. Or maybe I’m intrigued by his screen name: RimUDown. Me too, I’d told him.

Looking for some ass to eat, he’d sent me. He’d followed up the invitation with a photo that had made my heart beat a little more quickly. The shot had been of him in baggy denim and an open plaid shirt with the arms ripped out. He’s twenty-six, maybe twenty-eight. A backward trucker hat tames a strawberry-blond mane. His shoulders are broad and defined; his biceps bulge. His chest is lightly furry. A treasure trail leads down from his navel to the top button of his jeans. It’s not the photo of a man posing for a mirror selfie—he’s tousled and carrying a rake as he laughs at the camera, as if someone he knows has caught him walking up the driveway from taking care of the lawn. Really need to munch a fuzzy hole for a long long time.

My insides had unglued at his words. I don’t get many men offering to eat my ass, even though I always crave a good rimming. Most bottoms seem more intent on getting my mouth on their own rears as a prelude to fucking, though intellectually I know the act doesn’t have to end in penetration. This stranger hasn’t mentioned topping me, though, or insinuated it's on his agenda. So I’d taken his offer at face value, and replied, Haven’t been eaten out in a real long time.

Let’s change that right now, he’d texted.

I’d immediately clicked the location button at the screen’s bottom, to let him know where I was.

That was fifteen minutes before. Moments ago, he’d sent a message to let me know he was in the parking lot. Before planting myself prone on the mattress, I’d given him the room number and cracked the door. And now I wait. I look at my watch. It’s 9:35.

My eyes are squeezed tight shut when I hear the door open, then shut behind him. There’s one soft thud, then two, as he kicks off his sneakers so they collide against the hotel room’s chair. His hands, warm, callused, seize my ass cheeks, They squeeze, pull, appraise. “Turn over,” says the boy in a soft drawl. “Let me see the man I’m gettin’.”

I obey. My cock is rigid, erect at an incline from my body, a textbook example of an acute angle. The shaggy-haired boy standing at the foot my my hotel bed is wearing the same trucker cap and jeans as in his photo, but tonight his top is clad in an old NASCAR tee that’s seen better days. Again, the arms have been ripped at at the seams to expose muscles of which he’s obviously proud. “Fuck, daddy,” he says, leaning down to rub his hand over my beard. “You are hotter’n hell.”

When he looms close, in the twilight I see his cheeks and chin are covered by wispy facial hair. He smells of beer. The stranger removes his hat, and allows his wavy flow to hang on the sides of his face. “Thank you,” I say, a little breathless as he reaches between my legs to feel me.

“Damn, daddy.” His fingertips pry at my hole. “I bet you're gonna taste good.” I watch as he removes his shirt, but leaves his pants intact. His arms are a deep red-brown, while his chest is nearly as white as my own—a real farmer’s tan. The boy's deep drawl and his dress and mannerisms have a direct effect on my cock, making it even more rigid. I’ve landed a redneck after my ass, and the knowledge leaves me panting.

As his probing becomes more insistent, he once more leans in close. Long hair tickles my ears and chin as his lips press against mine, surprisingly soft. Usually I’m not aroused by the taste of cigarettes on a man’s tongue, but I’m already hungering for his man’s attention. He could smoke a pack and I’d not bat an eye. “Get that ass up,” he orders, his voice still quiet. “I need t’get in there.”

I’ve barely managed to roll over when I feel the sensation of his hands forcing apart my cheeks, followed by the tickle of his hair on my skin. When his mouth meets my hole, I gasp aloud. With only twenty minutes between his first text on the app and our meeting, I’d not had the time for a deep douching—but I’m glad I had the foresight to hop in the shower and give myself a two-finger soap-and-rinse to the second knuckle.

The boy grunts as he dives in. The sensation of his mouth on my hole is so sudden, so forceful, that without knowing what I’m doing, I arch my back. My head flies up as I let out a cry of joy, or of need, or of animal instinct. Perhaps all three at once. He places the butt of his hand on the small of my back and pushes down. I’m his to command, for the duration of what’s to come.

From time to time his teeth scrape against my ass cheeks in gentle, lingering bites. Otherwise, though, his mouth never leaves my hole. For long minutes he licks and abrades his bearded chin against its tender length. He grunts like an animal as he takes me with his tongue, sending it deep within. I gasp and shudder when his cupped hand collides with my ass in a loud smack. “You like that, daddy?” he asks, releasing his prey from his mouth for the first time. “You like gettin’ your ass whupped?”

“Fuck yes, I do,” I manage to gasp. “I like it…sir.”

He lets out a feral growl. “Callin’ me sir is gonna make me get aggressive,” he warns.

The redneck is clenching my butt wide open; he’s already given me the most thorough rimming I’ve had in years. If he wants to get more aggressive, I’m willing to let him bring it on. “Do what you want...sir,” I manage to say, as I look over my shoulder.

I’m rewarded by him pulling himself beside me on the mattress. The flat of his hand lands on my ass with another slap. “What I want is to punish that ass, faggot,” he growls, as he kisses me roughly. He spanks me again, harder. My flesh prickles and twinges as the blood rushes to the surface, but I don’t regret my offer. The room echos with the sounds of his hand against my butt, as he wallops it again and again, pushing me closer to my limits. “Then reward it.”

And again I’m over the pillow, ass stinging from his thrashing. The hotel room’s air conditioning blows frigid air over my over-warm flesh as his mouth probes its deep, protected center. My eyes roll to the back of my head. Drool oozes from the corners of my mouth onto the sheets.

I don’t know how long he’s in there. I just know that for endless moments I’m his. Once every while I’ll moan when he gives me a paddling, no doubt adding depth of color to an ass already scarlet from his punishment. “Love me some handsome daddy ass,” he murmurs with affection at some moments. Then, at others, “Gimme that hole, faggot.”

I respond to both endearments with equal fervor. If he wanted to fuck me, I’d let him. But he never makes that move; he doesn’t even unbutton his jeans, though with insistence he humps the bed’s corner and sometimes plunges his hands beneath his tight, narrow waistband. He’d doing exactly what he promised, by giving my hole the attention it didn’t know it needed.

At one point he grabs a bottle of poppers from his pocket, twists off the cap, and inhales deeply. One side, then the other. “Your turn, cocksucker,” he growls. Before I know it, he’s straddling my ribs, cupping my chin with one hand to tilt back my head. He holds my left nostril shut and hands me the bottle. I half-cover its aperture with my thumb and take a deep sniff. He repeats the gesture on the right. “That’ll loosen you up good,” he says, satisfied, as he lands another smack on my backside.

His occasional paddlings keep me from completely drifting away on the waves of pleasure his lips and tongue set into motion. These sharp bursts of not-quite-pain are my anchor to reality, between what feels like the endless attention he pays to my hole. I alternate between whimpering and panting, between moaning and simply huffing with pleasure. At times he’s so determined to dive deeper that he propels me across the mattress. I scarcely notice that I’m contorted against the padded headboard or am even dangling off the mattress and sprawled halfway onto the floor until, with his rough hands, he grabs my waist and hauls me like a fertilizer sack back into position over the pillows. I’m no longer thinking. I’m operating on sensation and instinct only. I respond to his every order: Back that ass up, daddy, or C’mon, faggot. Open up that pucker for me.

After what could be an hour, or perhaps even days, he lifts himself up and sits on the edge of the mattress. I hear him twist open the cap of the bottled water I’ve left for him on the bedside table. Still trembling, my ass sore, I twist myself around and try to summon words. “I…that was fucking amazing,” I say, feeling sheepish at accepting so much attention. It’s a rare luxury to take a deep dive in that vast reservoir of pleasure. “You really didn’t have to…”

Sweat is pouring down his face, but he cuts me off with a grin. “Oh, I ain’t finished, daddy. Just getting my mouth wet for the real rim job I’m gonna give ya.” With a shove, he pushes me back into the pillows. "Now hush."

I am helpless to resist.

I look at my watch when, at last, he flops his back across the foot of his bed. It’s 11:42. The fucker has been at it for two hours. Two hours. My ass cheeks burn mildly, as if someone’s holding a flame to the bare skin; I swear I can feel every scrape of my redneck’s teeth across them still. “Damn, daddy,” he pants. In the dark, I can see how slick with sweat is his torso; a tattoo of Tigger dances across one deltoid. The redneck stretches like a cat. “You fuckin’ wore me out.”

He’s got to be kidding. I’m the one whose brain is still on the centrifuge he set into motion. “Let me do something for you,” I whisper. I don’t know who I’m kidding. At this point, I’m pleading.

“Y’ain’t gotta,” he assures. But neither does he protest when I loosen the button at his waistband, nor when I tug down his zipper. From a thatch of ginger hair springs his cock. It’s not especially large, but when it lunges upward, released from its prison of ragged denim, the sight of multiple filaments of the ample precum that’s been flowing for the last two hours, binding cock to pubes, make my own erection harder. Each sticky rope looks Lilliputian, tiny tethers straining to contain the giant, Gulliver. “C’mon,” he says, catching at my wrist as I dive forward. “You don’t gotta.”

I do gotta. I engulf his cock to the base, and then some. It’s salty from the fluid he’s been leaking and natural tasting, as if he’s been freeballing in these jeans all day. I have to show him my gratitude, though, and neither a bit of scent nor traces of hours-old pee are going to stop me. I caress his nuts in my left hand, and encircle the base of his meat with my right as I throat his thick, cut cock.

“Suck it, daddy,” he whispers at last. Both thumbs flick against his nipples. “Suck that hog, faggot. That’s what you wanted all night, wasn’t it.”

I grunt and nod.

When I look up for his response, he riffles fingers across my short hair. “Just like that. C’mon. Fuck!”

I’m prepared to suck for as long as it takes, considering the attention he’s lavished on me. But I’m barely a minute into the blow job when he lets loose his load. Growling obscenities, he clutches the back of my head with both hands and drives in deep, holding me down on him as his cock pulses and contracts. His cum is bitter-tasting on my tongue, but I swallow it all with gratitude. After a gasp for air, I go down on his softening dick and nurse it until every last oozing trace of his seed is down my throat. Then I settle back on my haunches on the floor, waiting to see what he’ll do.

After a moment he stirs, then laughs. “Didn’t expect you to do that, daddy.” He sits up and helps himself to what’s left of the bottle, then checks the cap to the poppers and shoves them in his pocket. “But you sure are good at it.”

“Thank you,” I say. Then I add, for his benefit, “Sir.”

He growls once more with pleasure at the title, then stands and yanks me to my feet. The cock that had been softening swells as it jabs against my thigh. It’s the first time I’ve stood since his arrival, and I now see I’m a full head taller than he. He’s still the boss, though, when he grabs the back of my neck and pulls me in for a deep kiss. “Beat that cock off thinking about me when I leave,” he orders, as he pulls on his tee.

It’s the one order tonight that I disobey. Even though I still stink of his spit and cum and sweat, and jerking off would bring me release, I content myself with lying there in the dark, atop that strange bed, sleepily remembering everything that’s gone before. It’s rare that I’m treated like another man's hole. I’m in no hurry to cut short the novelty.

He messages me on the app the next day, while I’m in a doctor’s waiting room, waiting for my father to emerge from the offices within. Sorry for tuckering out last night, it reads. Had a long day at work and didn’t have all the energy I wanted for eating that daddy hole. If you’re around tonight late, though, I’ll make it up to you.

My short bark of laughter attracts attention from the waiting room’s other occupants. Beneath my mask, I clear my throat and compose myself. I’d like that a lot. I’m yours tonight, sir.

What kind of underwear do you wear? he asks.

Trunks, I tell him.

He sends me a sad-faced emoji. I really love daddy in briefs, follows. If I walked into that hotel room and found my daddy faggot in briefs tonight, I might just have to lay him over my knees and give him a real paddling before I go to town on his hole.

I manage to catch the sharp inhalation his words arouse, before anyone around me can hear. Understood, sir, my fingers stab out on the screen. 

There’s a Target between my dad’s house and the hotel where I’m staying. I can pay a visit when I’ve dropped him off after dinner. My cheeks are still sensitive to the touch, but the notion of further manhandling excites them. I hate wearing briefs and think they look ridiculous...this evening, though, my redneck with the farmer’s tan will enter my room and find daddy face down, wearing a black pair by Hanes, ready and willing for as much abuse and molestation as he cares to deliver.

Last night was the work of a tuckered-out man? What the fuck are his usual rim jobs like, then?

I’m itching to find out.