Sometimes I think I was born with a “fuck me” sign painted on my butt. But then, I seem to have been born with that young and vulnerable look that turns some men on, and I’ll have to admit that I love being touched—especially in one particular sensitive spot below and to the left of my navel, where I have a blue rosebud tattooed. Ever since I started having sex, if a man touched me there, I hardened right up and softened to anything he might suggest. It didn’t help that, no matter how much I fought it, I loved being cocked. And so I had the spot marked with a tattoo for reference.

I was trying to fight it that morning I caught the 9:30 bus from Abilene headed up to Denver. Dave didn’t want me to go. He agreed to drive me down to the bus station, but up to the very last minute I’m sure he didn’t think I really was going. But I’d pole danced in Dave’s men’s clubs for a couple of months now, which was as long as I’d stuck around anywhere since I’d gotten old enough to hit the road. And as nice as Dave’s cocking was and as good as the tips for the extra service to the men in the club were, I had gotten myself in an old familiar rut, and I had started to tell myself that there must be something else out there for me to do other what whoring in sleazy little bars.

And something got into my head that if only I could get to Denver, I could start a whole new life and that this weakness in me—these urges, this vulnerability to the wants of other men—would just go away.

Just before I got on the bus in Abilene, Dave tried his last ploy. He pulled me around to the side of the station and pulled me in close to his chest. A hand sneaked up under the hem of my athletic T, and he pressed a thumb into that blue rosebud tattoo. His lips clamped down on mine, and I involuntarily danced on his pole for a few moments. First one leg went up around his hip and then another, and then he was dry humping me up against the wall—and I was loving it.

I was saved by the loudspeaker calling the “all aboard” for the 9:30 bus from Abilene, though, and I managed to break away and head for the bus without a look back. Instead, I looked up along the windows in the bus and saw that two cowboys were eyeing me real close. I wondered what they could have seen in the shadows at the side of the station house.

I climbed up into the bus and found a seat near the back on the side away from the platform. I didn’t want to see Dave out there. I was fighting with myself, telling myself that life with Dave and in his little clubs wasn’t what I wanted. That I wanted something more from life. But I was afraid if I saw Dave out there, looking oh so forlorn, as Dave was so good at when he wanted something from me, I’d lose my resolve to leave Abilene.

The bus started out, and I felt a sudden sense of freedom. It was going to work. I knew it was.

As the bus moved out into the dusty countryside outside of Abilene and headed north, I looked around to see what there was in the way of travel companions. An Hispanic family, a man and his wife and three children, the oldest a sullen looking teenaged boy of fifteen or sixteen, was sitting near the front. From the way they were dressed, I thought maybe they were field workers moving north to start the harvest up there and to work their way back to Abilene again over the season. A couple of elderly ladies, all dressed out in their Sunday best—off on an adventure. A young woman who always seemed to be huddled close to the window and asleep. And the two cowboys I’d seen in the bus window from the station platform. They must have been together, because they were sitting side by side on a row about two thirds of the way back until the bus got started and then one moved to the window seat in the same row on the opposite side of the bus. One was older than the other, wiry with ropy muscles. Clean shaven, graying at the temples, with startling pale blue eyes in a deeply tanned and weather-lined face. Piercing eyes when he stared at you—eyes that told you you’d better do what he asked if he told you to do something. The other, younger one, was dark-complexioned, probably half Hispanic, equally tanned, but chunkier than the older one. Not fat by any means, but heavily muscled. Both were in checked shirts and jeans, with fancy leather cowboy boots and big fancy silver belt buckles. Both had tattoos running up their arms and the hint at the neckline of more on their chests. And both were looking back at where I was sitting occasionally and then whispering to each other.

Buses weren’t popular anymore as a means to move long distances, but what with the cost of gas and the overall economic conditions in the States at the moment, I thought they’d probably come into their own again. I had chosen the bus because I’d never owned a car, couldn’t afford the plane fare, and there were no rail connections between Abilene and Denver that didn’t go hundreds of miles out of the way and that didn’t, in the long run, take longer—and cost more—than the bus.

I don’t know why I picked Denver. I just had seen posters of it sitting right there next to the snow-capped Rocky Mountains and it looked so prosperous and clean and open that it had become somewhat of a Holy Grail to me, the symbol of a new, cleaner, less-complicated life.

We stopped at a gas station-convenience store just off the highway in the middle of nowhere for a lunch break. There was a small dining room off the lunch counter with only three tables. The young woman didn’t leave the bus, but the elderly ladies took one table and the Hispanic family another, and I sat down at the third after I’d gotten my burger and fries.

The two cowboys sat down at my table.

“Hi, I’m Tex,” the older one said as he sat down. “This here’s Dusty.” They were both wearing the traditional ten-gallon cowboy’s hat and Dusty just tipped his hat at me without saying anything. But he had a big grin on his face.

“Hi, I’m Glade,” I answered.

“Glade. That’s an unusual name,” Tex said.

“Yeah. I sorta picked it out myself,” I said. “Didn’t much care for what I’d been called before that.” I didn’t tell them that it was my stage name. All of us pole dancers picked out names that the customers would find intriguing and easy to remember. Most picked out suggestive or downright explicit names. I had wanted to be a bit more subtle with mine.

“Goin’ far?” Tex asked.

“All the way to Denver,” I answered.

“Dusty and me are gettin’ off in Durango. We work a cattle ranch west of there. Been down in Abilene to see the sights. Were you in Abilene long or just passing through from somewheres else?”

“I was there a couple of months,” I answered. I was feeling a little disconcerted. Dusty wasn’t saying anything, but his leg was touching mine and I felt those old yearnings building up inside me. Dusty was a real hunk. The strong silent type. And he was touching me. Any man who touched me set me going.

“Found something to do in Abilene, did you?” Tex asked. He was eyeing me with those piercing blues of his. It made it scared to lie.

“Oh, this and that,” I answered.

“You look kinda familiar, like we’ve seen you before. Dusty was remarking on that when we saw you climb into the bus. Spent any time around the tenderloin district? That’s mostly where Dusty and me sat drinkin’ our beers. Place called Rapier mostly. Any chance we’d have seen you there?”

“I’ve heard of it,” I answered in a rather tight voice. More than heard of it, it was one of three clubs Dave owned. I’d pole danced there. I wondered if Tex was establishing something with me—not just about me, but about him and Dusty too. You didn’t go into the Rapier looking for women.

Tex started to say something else, but the bus driver was tooting his horn, and it was time for all of us to make that last rest stop and to return to the bus.

When we climbed back into the bus, Dusty returned to his seat, but Tex followed me back to where I’d been sitting and sat down in the aisle seat right next to me.

The driver started up the bus and got back onto the road. I tried to settle my nerves. Tex’s leg was right up against mine, as was his upper arm. I could feel the hardness of his lean body through his checkered shirt. I was wearing an athletic T, so my biceps were bare. Just a thin layer of shirting between me and Tex’s hard, warm skin.

“Born and raised in Texas?” Tex asked.

“No,” I responded. “Lived here and there before that—mostly in the Midwest.”

“Family in Texas or in Denver? Going to Denver to visit family?” Tex asked.

“No. No family,” I answered. “No family anywhere.”

“None at all?” Tex asked. His face was turned to me and his pale blue eyes were full of sympathy.

“No. I was an orphan. Floated around a lot. A couple of foster families, but not anything I’d want to talk much about.” I certainly didn’t want to talk about those foster families. If I’d gone down a bent path, it could all be traced back to that part of my life. I’d had a pretty rough life up to now; it looked like the only way I could go from here was up. I turned my head toward the window. My eyes had suddenly gotten a little watery, and I didn’t want Tex to see that.

“No one at all waitin’ for you in Denver, either?” Tex asked. His voice was soft, full of concern.

“No. No one at all,” I answered. “Just startin’ out again. I do that a lot. I start out again a lot.”

I was still looking out the window, but I could see the reflection of Tex’s face in the window, as I thought he could see mine.

He had a hand on my thigh, just above the knee now, and I’m sure he could feel me trembling.

“Just relax, Glade,” he was whispering to me. “You’re so tense. I can help you with that.”

His voice had gotten low and guttural and his hand had moved up my thigh and was gripping me hard.

“Nice name, Glade,” he was murmuring. “An unusual name. I think I saw that on a poster at the Rapier. Not a name you’d forget too fast. Not a body, either. Some even had distinctive markings. Dusty and me like tattoos. We’ve got ‘em all over our bodies. Would like to show them to you. Would you like that?”

My trembling increased. He had fingers at my waistband now, very near my belly, with the grip of that other hand still on my upper thigh.

“Tex . . .” I said in a choked voice.

“Shush, it’ll be fine. No one can see us back here.” Tex stripped off his shirt to reveal full-body tattooing in a riot of colors and patterns against a rock-hard muscled chest. “Do you like my tattoos, Glade? If I remember rightly, you have a very nice one yourself. Somewhere near here, wasn’t it? That’s what I remember of you on that pole, dancin’ away. That nice little tattoo. A rosebud, isn’t it?”

He was pulling the T out of my shorts and a finger was moving across my belly and his thumb was on the rosebud tattoo. He was rubbing it and his other hand was on my basket, and I was falling apart.

“Happy day. You’re just aching for it, ain’t you?” Tex muttered through his heavy breathing. “Hot damn, you harden up fast.” His hand snaked under the waistband of my gym shorts and he was pulling them down below my balls. My dick was standing straight up, betraying my arousal from his thumbing on my rosebud tattoo.

“Tex . . .”

“So tense. We must do somethin’ about that,” Tex was whispering. His ten-gallon hat came off and he dropped it onto my lap and fisted my cock under it and started to slow pump me. I turned my face to him and he could tell from the look in my eyes that I was lost to him. He leaned over and gave me a kiss and then he just pulled away and we sat there, staring into each other’s eyes from six inches away, our cheeks resting on the nubby material of the seat backs, and he slowly beat me off, enjoying the look in my eyes as I was transported by his hand job.

“You can touch my tattoos, Glade. Go ahead.”

I tentatively, involuntarily reached out with my fingers and ran than over the markings on his hard chest. His nipples were taut—ready for me. He could feel the trembling of my fingers as I got lost in the sensuousness of his tattooing.

When I had jacked off up into his hat, he gave a little laugh and leaned over and kissed me again. Then he stood up in the aisle and rummaged around in the overhead compartment. He opened a duffle bag he had up there and took something out and then reached up and pulled down a blanket.

“Time for a little nap, don’t ya think?” he said, and then he winked at me.

What he’d gotten out of his bag was a condom packet and a small tube of lubricant. When he sat back down, he leaned over and pulled down on the waistband of my gym shorts and, out of instinct, I raised my hips for him so that he could strip them off.

I knew what was happening, but still I made some effort to resist. I was trying my best to get beyond Abilene. “Tex . . . No, I don’t think . . .”

“Shush,” he whispered. “I wanted to do this back in the Rapier. But you’d gone off with some other customer before I could get to you. Come on. You know you want it. Look at what I got for you.” He unbuttoned his jeans and fished out a nice plump cock, already hard. Tattooing wound down around that too, and I moaned.

But still I fought the cravings. “Here? Now?” I asked incredulously. “There isn’t much room . . .”

“Hush. We’ll manage. Just don’t do much yelling. They always yelp for me. Just try to keep it quiet like. Too bad it’s dark in here and we have to use the blanket. They always like to see the designs on my pecker disappearing into their holes. You know you can see them through the rubbers. I buy ones that you can do that with.”

“Tex . . .”

But he just kept going. I watched as he opened the condom packet and rolled the transparent condom on his cock. Then he slathered himself with lube. He covered us with the blanket and turned me toward the window onto my hip and I felt the cold lubricant at my hole and searching and stretching fingers. The palm of his other hand was on my belly and his thumb was on my tattoo and he was rubbing it. All of the resistance drained out of me. It was almost as though he knew that that was the key to my ass channel.

I shuddered as he worked his hips under mine, both of us turned toward the window. And then we was entering me, slowly, but relentlessly—showing me that indeed we could do it in bus seats. He slowly pumped up into me. His thumb was stroking my rosebud tattoo, and I was moaning and sighing softly for him. My head was against the cool window, and I watched the desert landscape drift by, as in another dimension I could also see the reflection of Tex’s face and see how deeply he was enjoying the fuck.

I pretty much cleared my mind, enjoying the fuck myself, but being frustrated that I was doing so. Why was it so hard to leave Abilene and all that was Abilene so far behind, I wondered.

Tex left me under the blanket with no more than a kiss on the neck and a pat on my naked butt cheek. He pulled his shirt back on and buttoned up and went back up and sat down with Dusty, and the two of them whispered in low tones and laughed.

Near dusk we stopped for dinner and a change in drivers at a stop almost identical to the lunch stop, and I got my burger and fries from the fast food counter and took it out and ate it standing up by the gas pumps. As I ate, the young woman stumbled out of the bus, looking dazed and her eyes all puffed up. She came back moments later with a sack of food and climbed back up in the bus. I wondered what her story was and whether it was any rougher than mine. It made me feel a little better, if a little guilty, that there may be folks in the world worse off than I was.

In my case, I enjoyed the cocking. Couldn’t get enough of it really. What I was having trouble with was the guilt of enjoying it and wanting more of it. That and the somewhat downtrodden feeling that I was being taken advantage of all of the time. What I really needed and wanted was just one guy. An older man, maybe. One with a good income who would stick by me and give me a somewhat normal life. I’d want him to be virile and have a nice cock, though. I knew myself enough to know I didn’t want to stop the cocking. Maybe in Denver. Surely in Denver that’s what I’d find.

When we got back on the bus, I waited until Tex and Dusty had gotten on and settled themselves before I climbed into the bus. I wasn’t in the mood for Tex to visit me again—at least not this soon. He cocked real well, though, and those tattoos of his were a real turn on, so I wouldn’t mind having him again at some point.

Dusk turned into night, and I managed to go to sleep, huddled under the blanket that Tex had covered us with earlier in the day.

It was quite dark when I felt a nudge on my shoulder and swam up from a groggy, unsatisfying sleep into the grinning face of Dusty.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Want to show you something in the back of the bus.” He’d already stripped off his shirt and he was almost as tattooed as Tex was. He was covered in swirled, some of which curved under the bulge of his pecs and made them stand out and emphasize how well-defined he was there.

I struggled up, knowing full well what he wanted to show me, but he was already reaching down and palming my belly under my T, and the touch was enough for me to want what he was going to give me.

He followed behind me to the back seat of the bus, a bench seat that stretched the width of the bus carriage, with the palm of his hand on my belly and his forefinger rubbing that rosebud tattoo. My knees were going to jelly, and I was whimpering, my dick hardening and forming precum, the rim of my hole already puckering.

When we reached the back of the bus, Dusty scooted into the seat all the way into the corner, pulled me down onto the center of the seat, a good two and a half feet from him, and unbuttoned the fly of his jeans and pulled a thick, stubby cock out. He reached for one of my wrists and pressed my palm to his chest so I could feel how hard his nipples were for me and he moved my other hand to the root of his cock. Then he wrapped a hand around my neck and brought my face down to his cock and I gave him head. I was good at it.

He didn’t say anything. He just sat there and moaned and sighed softly, with his hand on the back of my head guiding me, and his hips slowly rolling up as I deepthroated him and his stubby cock slowly became not in the least stubby.

After I’d gotten him all hot and bothered, he turned me, full length on my belly on the backseat, one of my legs hanging down, the ball of my foot leveraging on the floor of the bus to keep me steady in the tossing and turning motion of the bus, which was pronounced at the back. Then he pulled my gym shorts off my legs; crowned his cock with a condom; and straddled my hips and fucked down in me to his ejaculation. He had both of my arms pinned behind my back, holding my wrists together with one strong hand, holding me quite immobile and giving me the feeling of being taken almost against my will in a dark, enclosed corner of the world, which gave me a little thrill.

We were both breathing hard when he was done, but I knew he wasn’t finished. I knew these young, virile cowboys with their hard and hard-worked bodies. I’d had them by the hundreds, it seemed, in Abilene on their one night a month off and coming into town to get their rocks off. He’d shot off, I could tell, but he was still hard. I’d known of guys like him who could recharge and fountain off three times before they went soft. Just one night of relief a month that wasn’t self-initiated for a young cowboy can build up a whole lot of cum.

And, sure enough, He was pulling me up. Not dislodging his cock, which had lengthened out to gigantic proportions. He struggled up into a sitting position, with me lapped, his lips and teeth working my shoulder blades and the hollow of my neck, his hands wrapped around my belly, a finger pressing into that rosebud tattoo. Almost in a frenzy myself again, not least at watching the muscle roll on those tattooed arms encase me, I started fucking myself on his impaling cock in long strokes. One of his hands snaked around and fisted my cock, and we came almost simultaneously, all the time softly moaning and groaning, careful not to project the sounds of sex toward the front of the bus.

September 2018
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