There are lots of ways for a man to find his level of failure. For some, it arrives on taunts and jeers, fueled by missteps, ignorance or naivete. For others, they had to work at it, make it a choice.

And then there were some who slipped into the cracks, in the in-between of discovery and oh shit…

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Some of us in the bowels of the destroyer had strung hammocks up, lacing them to exposed girders. It had taken some ingenuity to work out a system where you got enough support from whatever materials you scrounged to make the sling sufficiently sturdy to hold a grown man’s weight. None of us was looking for comfort, far from it. The ship’s motion was enough to make staying in the damn things a challenge until you figured out you needed to lie at an angle to keep your ass from bouncing off the steel deck.

Stripped to our skivvies but still booted, overhauls close to hand, we each claimed small parcels of deck space for our own. For me it was a little island of privacy for when the non-cons paid a visit, laying me crosswise, ass high, cheeks spread. Sometimes they’d give me a second or two to settle myself, but mostly it was a rough toss, the forward edge of the sailcloth hitting me mid-chest if I was lucky. Sometimes I wasn’t and landed on my Adam’s apple, knocking out air and keeping it out while they reamed me hard, rocking ’n rolling with the ship’s motion, my throat gagging at the impact. Cock and tonsils, a one-two punch.

The big ones, the bears, they always had wingspans on them, the kind of reach that got hold of whatever tickled their fancy… my hair, ear, back of my neck. Lifting, thrusting down, thrusting in, me grunting, air expelling, none coming back in. Lungs screamed in panic, black dots danced in my field of vision. Unh, unh, unh…

Hitting that spot, that special spot… Oh, fuck me giddy… some of ’em knew how, had experience, angled their cocks perfect until it near killed me greedy. The air, hot and humid, coated us with sweat and the stink of musk, until, lightheaded, I came hard, so hard it made them roar with appreciation.

They pulled out. A soft, sucky pop underscored with vocals… fuck, shit… then flesh slapping flesh… unh fuck unh. It was our rule, our agreement—they added their contribution to mine, until the deck was slippery with fluids, one after another. There’d be more, a queue of lust, of bargaining for release, each one deliciously different. At the edge of exhaustion I’d come dry, the perversion painfully exquisite. Each pass left me aching, sore for more.

Some liked to touch, to feel around the inside of my mouth. The nice ones wouldn’t gag me, the others pushed my limits with turgid dicks, the ropey veins so prominent the ridges fit like jigsaw puzzle pieces in a gap, and we’d seesaw, them hissing, me wrapping my tongue to hold in the flavors until they withdrew, sneering at the puny fag lying in the puddle of piss and cum.

Faint slurs, combat boots receding, a whisper, “You okay, Coy?” Yeah, I’m fine, better than fine. They’d made me feel good. Content. Used and used up. But not pleasured, never that.

It wasn’t until later, when the psychos showed up, I realized how much more I had to learn.

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Book #2 in the Ranch to Market Chronicles: Coy’s Attraction. Posted HERE as a serial #FreeRead.

Book #1 is Coy’s Boy Toy