Origins of 'Rub'

*Author's Note: any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.

Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft Spell-check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.

Also, this story contains Male bisexuality. If male to male action offends you, please hit your backspace key now.

*.*

The Latin beauty's full, pouting lips stretched obscenely over the thick shaft of the man's cock. She bobbed her head up and down the length of the long, thick cock. Her small hand toyed with the heavy balls while her other hand played with her hairless pussy.

When the well-muscled white man gave an unintelligible grunt, the Latin beauty giggled. She released his cock from her mouth with an audible 'pop' and let another musical little giggle escape.

Then she swiveled her leg up and over to straddle the young man's hips. Her small hand reached back and pulled her left buttock, exposing her small anus. Her right hand gripped the man's hard cock and aimed it for her tightly clenched anus.

"Ugh!" she cried out, then let a torrent of Spanish words spew from her now grimacing lips.

The thick meat slowly inched upward into the woman's straining anus. She did not let go of her buttock as inch after inch of the massive cock disappeared into her bowels. The man did little to assist his partner, other than grab her obscenely large breasts.

When she was fully impaled on the man's meat, the young beauty sat, shuddering slightly, panting. Then, with a grimace coloring her beauty, she rose up until just the head of the man's cock was still inside of her rectum.

Her descent was quicker this time, but her face still bore the strain of the sodomy. The man continued to maul her large breasts and she forced a smile to her lips.

She did pick up the pace of their anal action and was soon bouncing energetically on his fat dick. Her long black hair flew back and forth as she grunted, groaned, and cursed in Spanish.

The man grunted something unintelligible and she quickly dismounted. She again knelt on the bed next to the man and both man and woman stroked his cock until he began to spurt his semen into her open mouth and onto her face. When his fat meat had quit spurting, the man then used his fingers to scoop his own semen from her face. With a smile, he licked his fingers clean.

"Ugh!" Brandon grunted, stroked his cock to a juicy climax, and then coated his palm with his semen.

As the video changed, showing the same Latin beauty and her white male friend chatting with a Latin man, Brandon licked his palm clean. He watched for a few moments as the Latin woman and Latin man took turns sucking the white man's cock. He then clicked on the 'X' and closed the Caliente Latin Sluts video.

Brandon left his room and went to the hall bathroom. He cleaned himself up, checked that he was not leaving anything behind in the bathroom. Then he stretched out on top of the bed's thick comforter and took a brief nap.

When he woke from his nap, Brandon put his laptop computer into his footlocker. Brandon then checked all drawers of his furniture and the closet, then got on his knees and peered underneath the bed. Satisfied that he'd left nothing behind, Brandon then locked his footlocker,

"Knock knock," Berta, his landlady called out.

"Yes ma'am," Brandon called back, making sure that his snug jeans was zipped up.

Berta came in, sheet of paper in hand. Together, Brandon and Berta looked over her check list. Then both agreed that he had honored the terms of his lease agreement.

"Okay, and it was four hundred dollars security deposit," Berta mused, reaching into her jeans pocket.

"Uh, no ma'am, Ms. Mills. It was five hundred," Brandon corrected. "My lease is right here and it says 'Five Hundred.'"

"Hmm? Oh. But didn't you have trouble coming up with the full amount?" Berta asked.

"No. Must have been someone else, Ms. Mills," Brandon suggested.

With that out of the way, Brandon pulled his leather jacket on. He again wished Ms. Mills good-bye and carried his footlocker to his truck. The footlocker went into the cab of the truck, behind the seat. Then, with one last look at Roberta Jacqueline Mills and her trailer, Brandon drove away.

The road was fairly new; it had been poured when the Oil-field town of Oxmore had sprung up just seven years earlier. But already, the road was showing wear and tear; harsh frozen winters and hot, hazy summers had twisted and buckled the asphalt, pocking it here and there.

Many of the trailers along this road also showed signs of wear and tear, even though many of them had been brand new just a few short years ago. The businesses that had sprung up to feed the crews also showed signs of aging along the street. Brandon drove north until he reached Brown Bear Trail.

Brandon cock was straining in his snug jeans as he turned left at the stop sign, instead of right. His cock pulsed and strained inside of his jockstrap and jeans as he went west on Brown Bear Trail into Lilton, North Dakota. The oil rigs of Oxmore, North Dakota were almost eerie looking in the early evening, lighted by powerful lamps. The rigs looked almost life-like against the backdrop of violet skies.

Brandon drove past the two strip clubs on Decatur Street. Both promised to have the youngest and prettiest girls. He knew from experience that they did have fairly attractive girls, very high cover charges and very pricey beers.

Brandon came to the intersection of Decatur Street and Farmer's Row. His destination was on the left. He wanted to turn left. He looked to the left, then to the right, to the left again, then drove straight.

In the parking lot of an adult bookstore, Brandon sat, trying to get his breathing under control. Then, with a glance around, Brandon backed out of the parking lot and drove east on Decatur Street. Again at the intersection of Decatur and Farmer's Row, Brandon steeled himself and turned right.

His cock ached in his snug jeans. Brandon drove past Jubilee, noting the number of trucks in the parking lot. He wanted to turn his wheel to the right, park in the space next to the large Ford pickup truck. He wanted to unzip his leather jacket, show off his bright red wife beater shirt, model his muscular chest. He wanted to show off his snug jeans. He wanted to saunter up to the bar, his taut buttocks clearly outlined in the faded blue jeans as he walked, and order a beer.

He drove past Jubilee and pulled into the parking lot of Redwood Bar. Redwood had two trucks, but both trucks looked fairly new. Brandon decided that he would go in, see what was going on. Then, if he didn't like the action in Redwood, he'd go down to Jubilee and see what he could find there.

His cock twitched and jerked as he turned off the engine of his Chevy pickup. His anus clenched as he thought about finding a handsome young man in Redwood, they'd talk, get to know one another, then they'd dance to some good Country & Western music. Hopefully Brandon's new friend would have a place of his own and they'd go to his new friend's place and they'd slowly kiss each other while undressing each other. Then Brandon would suck his first cock ever. He would run his tongue up and down the length of his friend's cock, savoring the taste of the sexy young man's sweat, his soap, his excitement. Brandon would savor the feeling, the texture of his friend's hot, throbbing meat as it filled his mouth.

Then, with a groan, his friend would empty his balls into Brandon's hot mouth. Brandon would taste his friend's semen. He would hold it in his mouth, tasting the saltiness, the bitterness of his friend's semen.

Then, his friend would take Brandon's cock into his hand and stroke it a few times. He would put his mouth over the head of Brandon's cock and Brandon would shudder and groan as his friend's wet mouth would swallow more and more of Brandon's meat.

After swallowing all of Brandon's dick juice, his friend's cock would again be nice and hard. He would make Brandon get on his hands and knees on his neatly made bed. Brandon would grunt out as his new friend would grease up his hole, first with two greasy fingers, then with three fingers.

Then, when Brandon's cock would be hard and throbbing again, his new friend would take him. He would grab Brandon's hips and shove his cock into Brandon's hole. Brandon would cry out, but his new friend would be too excited to care. He would just pluck Brandon's virginity with an almost callous brutality.

Brandon stepped out of the truck. He walked toward the front door of the bar.

"Give me your fucking keys, cock sucker," someone ordered.

Brandon felt the muzzle of the gun in his back. He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and handed the keys over his shoulder.

"Thanks, faggot," the unseen man sneered.

He brought the butt of his gun down on Brandon's head and Brandon crumpled to the ground. He did not know how long he'd been out when someone's gentle hands helped him to sit up.

The police were not very helpful; both officers just smirked knowing little smirks as Brandon described the incident.

"And, uh, what was you coming in this place for?" one of the officers asked.

"A beer, maybe shoot a little pool," Brandon snapped. "Aw, and damn it! My trunk; everything I own is in that truck."

Brandon showed the bartender his identification, proving that the handsome young man was indeed twenty one. The man smiled and poured a draft for Brandon. The two officers declined the offered beers and left the bar.

"We uh, man, Wednesday's are dead around here," the bartender admitted. "Especially after they opened that Jubilee's right down the street."

"Shit," Brandon said. "Guess my first time out just wasn't meant to be."

"Stays dead like this? I'll be closing up about eleven," the man continued. "Trailer's right in the back; welcome crash on the couch."

It was one forty two in the morning when the police called Brandon's cell phone. They had found Brandon's truck.

They had found Brandon's truck only because it had been involved in a fatal accident. The driver, most likely the same man that had robbed Brandon had driven into a concrete pillar supporting a railroad trestle.

"Probably doing close to eighty when he hit it," the officer admitted. "Not much left of your truck, kid."

At eleven o'clock the next morning, Brandon was allowed to get his trunk from the rear of the truck. He searched the glove box and the console and put a few items into his jacket pockets. The police report was faxed to his insurance company and Brandon thanked the police officer for his assistance.

Heavy footlocker perched on the small luggage dolly he'd bought for it, Brandon glumly began walking toward the Greyhound bus station. Even though it was October first, it was already growing chilly and Brandon zipped up his leather jacket.

Five blocks from the Greyhound station, Brandon saw a young man trying to get a large box into the bed of his pickup truck. The box appeared to be extremely heavy and the man's face was coated in sweat.

"Here, let me give you a hand," Brandon offered.

"Shit! Thanks," the handsome young man smiled.

Brandon put his footlocker down, then squatted down. The young man got into the bed of the truck and together, he and Brandon managed to wiggle, jiggle, push and pull the box into the truck.

"Man! Okay," the young man said and got out of the bed of the truck. "Now, how 'bout you come help me unload it?"

"Yeah, sure," Brandon shrugged. "I'm not in any particular hurry. Where you taking it?"

"Oakleaf, Texas," the young man laughed as he slammed the tailgate shut.

"Oak, where?" Brandon asked.

"Oakleaf, Texas," the young man smiled. "I'm originally from Portland? Oregon? But Jesus! I got handle one more winter like this? Anyway, met this girl on line? Man! She is gorgeous! And she's down in Oakleaf, so I'm going there be with her."

"Aw, lucky duck," Brandon smiled, bending to grab the handle of his luggage dolly. "Well, off to the Greyhound; see you later."

"Where you headed?" the young man asked.

"You know what? I don't have a clue," Brandon admitted. "I'm originally from Manzurak, Utah but I just have no desire to go back there."

"So, nowhere to go, nothing to do? Seriously, why don't you come with me?" the young man said.

Brandon looked at the young man, at the truck, then up the road in the general direction of the Greyhound station. He shook his head, then shrugged and put his trunk into the rear of the pickup truck.

"Dwight Campbell," the young man said, holding out his hand.

"Brandon Schopes," Brandon said, shaking the offered hand.

In the cab of the pickup truck, Brandon got a better look at his newfound friend. Dwight was roughly five foot eleven or possibly six feet tall, like himself. Dwight had short brown hair, almost as short and neatly groomed as Brandon's own brown hair. Just like Brandon, Dwight had ice blue eyes. He had a square face, slightly large nose and even, white smile.

Brandon and Dwight seemed to be cut from the same cloth. Both were well-muscled; Brandon found out that Dwight too had worked on the rigs in and around Oxmore, North Dakota. He had been working there since he'd turned eighteen, just like Brandon.

"Yeah, was real big into football in high school," Dwight chattered as they drove south for a few miles. "Grades were terrible, though. Figured I could either go into the Army, or go into the oil field."

"Me too! What position?" Brandon asked.

"Right tackle. You?" Dwight asked.

"Right cornerback," but did get switched over to right tackle a few times, do some slot work," Brandon said.

Brandon looked at the small gold hoop earring in Dwight's right ear. Supposedly, the earring in the right ear indicated that the man was gay, but Dwight kept talking about a 'Linda' in Oakleaf, Texas.

When Dwight swiveled his head, checking traffic, Brandon saw that Dwight also had a hoop earring in his left ear, along with a second piercing, a diamond stud.

"And eight twelve runs into..." Dwight mused, looking at the screen of his phone. "Okay, left on eight twelve..."

He then smiled at Brandon. He held out his cell phone toward Brandon.

"Picture of Linda right here," he said.

Brandon took the phone from Dwight's calloused hand and looked. On the small digital screen was a very attractive blonde woman, possibly twenty, twenty one years of age, sitting on a bar stool.

Linda was nude as she perched on the bar stool. Her breasts were large, possibly a 36D or 36DD in size. Her nipples were crinkled hard and stuck out from silver dollar sized areolae.

Linda's belly had just the hint of a paunch; Linda was not slim. Her belly button was a tunnel in her small paunch.

Her thighs were thick and her hips were full in her seated position. Her pubic mound was bald, very plump, with a deep furrow bisecting the mound.

Her eyes were blue, large, smiling. Her nose was slightly large and her lips were full and pouting.

"Uh, nice," Brandon said, cock swelling in his jock strap.

Thirty six double d, thirty three inch waist, thirty seven hips. Says needs do a couple of sit ups, I say not if it's going make them titties smaller, huh?" Dwight cheerfully said.

"Uh, yeah, nice," Brandon agreed, giving the smiling girl's picture one more glance before handing the phone back to Dwight.

"So, how'd your truck get stolen?" Dwight asked.

"I uh, I'd heard, uh, Redwood? On the Row, good place get a beer, shoot a little pool," Brandon stammered, blushing hotly.

"Redwood? Hmm, never been there," Dwight mused. "The Row? In Lilton?"

"Yeah. Anyway, get out my truck, haven't even taken three steps and guy's got a gun in my back wanting the keys," Brandon said.

"Dude!" Dwight sympathized.

"So, got kind of a late start on the day, huh?" Brandon asked, wanting to change the subject.

He was afraid of Dwight asking too many questions. He was afraid of Dwight putting two and two together, figuring out that Brandon had gone to the Row, to a gay bar, hoping for some man on man action.

"Yeah, overslept. Then douche landlord and his wife, man, I fart too loud? They're right there. Time to do a walk-through, see about my security deposit? Nowhere in sight," Dwight smiled. "Then, get this, get this, want charge me for an additional day because it's after twelve o'clock."

"What? It was just after twelve when I stopped to help you," Brandon said.

"I know, right?" Dwight laughed.

Then Dwight again shifted the conversation to Linda Clark, the hot little nineteen year old girl he had waiting for him in Texas. He and Linda had met on-line, but not in a dating web site.

"We're both into hot-house orchids," Dwight smiled. "See, her old lady? She had a rear lawn, nothing but greenhouses back there, grew championship orchids. I'd heard of Darlene Clark and her orchids; she had one that was almost twelve inches around. Anyway, hadn't heard that Darlene had died, lung cancer, isn't that some shit? Woman never smoked a day in her life, dies of lung cancer, but anyway, Linda's now carrying on the orchids and had a couple of pictures on-line and she and I started chatting and now, hey Linda! I'm on my way!"

"Orchids?" Brandon made the mistake of saying.

For the next six hours, Dwight told Brandon everything he'd ever want to know about orchids, the different varieties, how to care for them. Brandon had a love of photography. He enjoyed the old-school method of film, darkroom developing, the various principles and techniques of still photography.

Unlike many that enjoyed old-school photography, Brandon did not shy away from digital photography. He enjoyed the potentials and the advantages that both film and digital afforded.

But he didn't think he could talk for six hours straight about either method of taking photographs. And, even if he could, Brandon did not think he would want to talk for six hours straight about photography.

Brandon had no idea where they were when Dwight decided he was hungry. In a town that seemed to be little more than a gas station, a Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Wal-Mart, they found a diner. Four of the seven tables were occupied when Dwight and Brandon sauntered in and an old woman waved them to sit anywhere.

"Bathroom?" Brandon asked and the woman jerked with her thumb.

Brandon used the facilities, then washed his hands. He found Dwight looking over the single sheet of laminated paper.

"Ordered two coffees and two waters, my turn," Dwight said, walking toward the bathroom.

The menu had five meals on it, along with a few sandwiches. Brandon looked around and spotted a handsome older man just finishing his meal.

"Hi there. What's good here?" Brandon asked and the man looked up, surprised.

"I uh, I always get the roast turkey," the man said.

"Thanks," Brandon said.

"But, I've had the chopped steak, with the mushroom gravy? Hard to beat that," the man suggested.

"Merle, better not be telling that boy any lies, hear?" the waitress called out.

"I'm just telling him how Timmy burns everything," Merle called back. "Sonny, order anything off the menu; you won't be able to tell what it is anyway."

"Pot roast is a real winner," another customer suggested.

"So, what are you getting?" Dwight asked as he came back to the table.

"Roast turkey, giblet gravy," Brandon decided.

"Won't be sorry," Merle said.

After a satisfying meal, Brandon and Dwight got on the road again. Dwight declined Brandon's offer of driving for a while.

Nearly three hours later, they came to a small town and Dwight claimed he was too tired to go any further this evening. A search on his phone showed them that, just off of Highway 812, on Nerrbass Street was a motel.

Brandon kept an eye on his trunk and Dwight's four suitcases while Dwight went inside and registered. A few moments later, Dwight pointed to Room 115. He and Brandon made quick work of hustling the luggage into the small, clean room. Brandon looked at the queen sized bed with the four lumpy foam pillows and shrugged.