Great Smokies Relay Riding System

It turned out that Chuck had a film studio behind the dirty book room that was behind the regular bookstore in his shop in Robbinsville. For three days he filmed me by day and fucked me by night. Most of the photos were stills in provocative poses with various backdrops. He paid me $20 for each photo and he turned out high-quality shots. He put a portfolio together for me and I knew I'd be able to use it somehow for future job possibilities. He said they'd come out in a book and he showed me other books of photos of hunky hikers he'd enticed down from the Appalachian Trail for a few days. I wondered then if this was some sort of racket, starting with Ranger Tim, going through Sam and Duane, and ending with the young guy in Chuck's bed and in photo shoots in Robbinsville.

I didn't wonder for long, though. It turns out that several days of walking on the Blue Ridge Parkway through Tennessee didn't cover much ground in the valley. We hadn't left Ranger Tim, Sam, and Duane behind. They appeared the first evening at the bookstore, and I starred in a couple of gang bang porn films. Chuck ran a subscription Web site too, and he paid me $300 for each film I appeared in.

It was all good with me. They all were hunks, and I got paid.

The fourth morning Chuck put me back up on the parkway, on my feet, the backpack on my back. I hadn't walked more than a half hour before a big SUV pulled over in front of me at the edge of the road. The driver's door opened, and a middle-aged bald guy, who later told me his name was Nick and that he was a football coach at a private school down near Robbinsville and who was in great shape, popped out, extended an arm across the roof of the vehicle and called out, "Chuck down in Robbinsville told me a guy looking like you needed a ride down the road in exchange for a good ride. I'm going down to where 76 crosses the parkway. I can give you a lift that far, if you want."

When I climbed into the vehicle, he fanned five twenty-dollar bills out on the dashboard in front of me. "I understand you'll give a good time for a hundred," he said.

He fucked me in the backseat of his SUV, sitting in the seat and holding me in his lap, both facing him and then away from him and slamming my passage up and down brutally but gloriously on a steel rod of a thick, long cock. I was beginning to think that these guys were all members of a club where having a thick, long cock was a membership requirement.

At the intersection of the parkway and Route 76, Nick relayed me to Fire Watch Ranger Aaron, who rode me at the top of a fire tower on Blood Mountain.

"Let me take you up to the fire watch platform," he said when I was getting out of the coach's SUV. "You can see into both Tennessee and Georgia from there."

I can't attest to what how far beyond the platform you can see from on top of Blood Mountain, because all I could see most of the time was the puffed up face of the short, hairy guy named Aaron, as he worked hard over me, me flat on my back on an old mattress in the center of the platform, my legs bent and spread and my pelvis rolled up, as he worked his stubby cock inside me in a missionary fuck and vigorously pumped. This was where my "long comes as a membership requirement" theory went bust. He couldn't reach much beyond the prostate, but he gave that a fantastic beating and I came for him twice, my hands running into the dark curls of the pelting on his pectorals and my head turned to the side, tongue hanging out and panting with every sensation centered on that thick bulb beating on my prostate and my eyes glued to the scattered twenty-dollar bills on the boards beside my head.

He was something different—not intimidatingly huge—and he was a short, squat Jewish guy covered with curly black hair and with something of a pot belly, but his cock bulb bulged and he could put it right on the money and do a tattoo on the spot. God could he pull the cum out of me.

* * * *

Ranger Aaron drove me right up to the base of yet another fire watch tower, this time on Springer Mountain, thirty miles to the south on the parkway and nearly outside of the southern end of the park. Atlanta was about fifty miles away and thus far I'd walked little farther than from one paid fuck to another.

An older man, tall but very thin and sinewy, with a grizzled appearance, salt-and-pepper hair, bushy eyebrows, and two day's growth of beard, was coming down the stairs. He had a uniform on, but it was a different style from that of a park ranger.

"Juan's a game warden," Ranger Aaron explained. "He's a senior ranger in the park. He's over nine inches."

On the basis of that last comment, I looked at the man again, with a little more regard this time and with slight trepidation. He was Hispanic and probably in his fifties, but if he could get it up, I was going to be taxed. I could see that he had a wad of cash in his hand. When the man hit the dirt, he stood up ramrod straight, gave me a piercing look, that told me he was in command and would dominate me, and said, "This the male whore fucking his way south then?"

"Yes, his name's Rob, and he's a great lay."

"Was it a hundred, did you say, and a ride out of the park for all night?"

"Yeah, that's been the going rate," Ranger Aaron said.

They were talking about me like I was a piece of meat that was just hanging on a rack next to them, which I guess I, in fact, was. I might have said something, but I was afraid it would come out as a moan if I tried, because he'd reached out with a strong hand, with long fingers and was fingering my crotch, getting under my balls and weighing them with his hand and then tracing the line of my dick in the loose shorts. My cock reacted by engorging.

"A real looker, ain't he?"

"He's got a great body too," Aaron said, "and he's real flexible—a dancer, you know." I wasn't sure I could live up to his testimonials—or that I really wanted to. The words "more than nine inches" came to mind. And then "a cruel master" flowed into my thoughts as his hand closed over my balls through the thin material, and he squeezed. My eyes began to water and he gave me a sharp look. I wasn't about to show weakness, so I just stared back at him, producing a bit of a smile.

"He's a pretty boy. You sure he can take it?"

"From what I hear, he's taken in almost constantly all the way from just south of Gatlinburg. He didn't have any trouble taking me. And you should of seen the positions I put him in to bury it."

Ranger Juan gave Ranger Aaron a somewhat disdainful look, like he knew Aaron was kind of stubby, but he must have been satisfied, because he stuffed the wad of money in the hand he wasn't squeezing my crotch with in my pocket, turned, and said, "Well, come on up then and let's get it on."

The fire watch platform was much the same as the one on Blood Mountain, down to the bare mattress laying in the center of the covered space. The platform was open on all four sides, with strong railings all around. And it was a good thing they were strong. I still worried about the one that Ranger Aaron was leaning his back into as he crouched, facing the interior of the tower, and put me on his crouched thighs, facing him, both of us naked, and him embracing me around my waist as I leaned back, skewered on his cock, his bulb pressing at my prostate and rubbing it languidly.

Ranger Juan watched us a while. He too was naked, and I couldn't take my eyes off him—and off his cock, which kept growing and hardening, and curving upward as he watched me rise and fall on Aaron's cock, using the leverage of my feet pushing off on the log slats of the platform railing. Fuck nine inches. My experienced eye measured him at ten or more before I lost sight of Juan as he moved behind us, straddled Aaron's thighs, and, after positioning his cock head at my hole above where Aaron was dug in, moved my legs so that my ankles were hooked on the top of the railing on either side of Aaron, grabbed my waist between his hands, and started the long journey up into my channel.

My passageway measured him out as more than ten hard inches too.

Between them, they fucked the shit out of me, Ranger Aaron worrying my prostate mercilessly and Ranger Juan pounding me hard, fast, and deep. After Aaron had gone, Juan put me on all fours on the mattress, mounted me, and fucked the shit out of me again.

He gave me a bit of rest and a beer and then, as twilight was setting in, put me back on all fours, mounted me, and fucked the shit out of me again. He fed me dinner and then fucked the shit out of me. He took me down from the tower and to his nearby cabin, tied my wrists to his headboard, and fucked the shit out of me, missionary style, through the night.

I lost count of how many times he came and how many times I came. I just know that he was perpetually hard, well over the advertized nine inches, and my balls ached from being pumped dry. In the morning, he untied me, turned on to his back, put me, straddling his pelvis, on his hard ten inches, and I rode him one last time.

I was glad to do it. I now knew I could outlast someone as long, virile, and vigorous as he was.

Over breakfast, he said, "I can take you down to where 5 meets Interstate 575. You'll still be forty miles north of Atlanta. I can take you today, or I can hook you up with a ride from there the day after tomorrow. If you stay, I won't pay you, but I'll fuck the stuffing out of you. You're a good lay and you can keep up with me. Which will it be?"

He banged me for two more glorious days and turned me over at the 575 interchange to a group of Hispanic seasonal workers he knew were headed south in a beat-up old bus.

A good week earlier than I had programmed my hike for, since I'd thought I'd be walking the whole way, I was coming south into Atlanta in the back of an old bus loaded with toned-up and boisterous Hispanic seasonal workers who gang banged me on my sleeping bag in the aisle on the floor of the rear of the bus all the way. If it was only forty miles to Atlanta as Ranger Juan had said it was from that point, they must have gone off on slow-route back roads. I couldn't verify that, as I was on my back on the floor of the bus, with my legs spread and my ankles propped up on seats on either side of the aisles, my backpack under the small of my back to elevate my buttocks, and my eyes counting the dried-up wads of bubblegum stuck to the underside of bus seats, while a succession of muscular, berry-brown men fucked me.

The fact is that I liked being fucked and having guys want to fuck me, and I was seasoned to lay there and take it all day.

They couldn't pay me, but they certainly could show me a good time and I didn't have to do any more relay hitching into Atlanta. They were willing to drive me all the way down to Florida, but I didn't think my body could take them that far. Also, I didn't need their money and I didn't need to hitch anymore. I had more than enough money to fly from Atlanta to Tampa in style. I gave them all of the camping stuff from my backpack, including that double sleeping bag, which made what was left a quite manageable weight, and had them drop me off at the Atlanta airport.

I could hardly walk as I entered the departure lounge. Still, I think I would have been hobbling just as much if I'd had to hike the whole way on my feet rather than ride south through the park on men's cocks.

I highly recommend the Great Smokies Relay Riding System for anyone whose channel can take the beating and upwards of ten inches of cock; who likes to fuck in the outdoors and in the back of cars, trucks, and buses; who looks good enough and is experienced enough to command $100 a fuck session; and who appreciates variety in his men.

If you go and start where I did, tell Ranger Tim hi for me.