Category: Ink

Because fuck…

I didn't care that he had a little daughter. I didn't care that he had another one on the way. I didn't care if he sometimes treated his dogs better than he treated me. Hell, I didn't care if he had a wife. I liked his wife. She was nicer than most of my buddy's old ladies. You could tell she doted on him. And, he was good to her, too. Solid, they were. Real solid.

I didn't care about any of that, because every Friday night we'd head down to the local tavern after work, have a few beers, shoot the shit, maybe play a game of pool or two. And no matter what, eventually he'd wink at me, and say, "Let's get the hell out of here."

And we would. Me following his pick-up truck to a place out on the edge of the town, just this side of the State Park. And, then he'd fuck me – always in the back of his truck. Sometimes it was quick and dirty. Sometimes we didn't get our clothes off, we were so hot for each other. Sometimes, when I was real lucky, he'd go at it again, really driving into me, all that muscle bearing down, riding it like there was no tomorrow.

Fuck, it was hot.