Protecting Ronny's Need

Ronny was driving his old pickup toward his riverside cabin on the virtual fire lane gravel road, where the treetops met over the track, between Lewisburg, West Virginia, the Greenbrier River, and the Virginia State line when he came across another old pickup that required him to carefully maneuver around to be able to continue. A mountain of a bearded and muscular man in jeans and a sweatshirt was standing in front of the parked pickup, looking frustrated and rattling a cellphone. Ronny, about half the other man's size--small, short, slim and more dark-haired "cute" than masculine, stopped and exited his pickup after he'd maneuvered around the other vehicle.

"Got car trouble or are you lost?" he asked as he approached the other man--but not too close. The guy was a stranger and some wild things happened in the West Virginia woods. Ronny had been in and out of trouble himself and very well knew life on the fringe. The real question was what the guy was doing on this road at all. It didn't lead to much of anywhere other than Ronny's remote cabin on the bank of the river.

The young man was returning from his stint at the fast-food restaurant counter in Lewisburg. It wasn't much of a job and he couldn't have managed to live off what he made there if he hadn't inherited the cabin and this old Ford pickup from his father, but he was lucky to have gotten a job at all at twenty-five, but looking a lot younger than that, since he was only six months out of the state penitentiary. As it was, he lived a far piece from where he worked, and he led a solitary life. If prison had taught him anything, it was to keep quiet and unnoticed and don't make waves. But this was the hand he'd been dealt and he rather liked the isolation of living on the river. He also hadn't gotten over the joy of living in a lush forest rather than a prison cell.

"Been an idiot," the man answered. "I let myself run out of gas and my cellphone's dead too." He was older than Ronny. He was tall and muscular and solid. He could be called a chunk--not quite fat, but very solid, quite tall, very big. Not handsome by any means, a country man. What he had exposed showed tattoos that weren't very professionally done. By appearances he could go either way--good ole country boy or redneck thug. Ronny had met many like him in the pen, all of whom could, by appearance, go either way and some of whom made a tasty meal out of small, good-lookers like Ronny. Whether or not they preferred going either way, in the pen their choices were pretty much confined to one way.

Ronny had been a tasty meal on occasion himself, more so before he hooked up with a protector, which put him into a lifestyle and preference he hadn't realized was the one he preferred--but he now did, not that he was indulging in it. He had survived to get out of the pen, though. I lot of "chickens" like him were used up in prison. He was androgynous and small enough to be a favorite.

The power tops and men in charge inside the prison cells were all named "Big" this and "Big" that. It designated their status and where they fit at the top of the fucking order in prison. If you didn't qualify for the name and tried to use it, the other inmates would beat you down until you either stopped using it or demonstrated you'd earned it. Many got the name because they, in fact, were big and thus catered to. Actual size was the quickest way to earn the title. Ronny was leery of this guy, who could easily be called "Big" from what Ronny could see.

"We can fix that," he said, giving it a tentative tone. "But how did you find yourself back here on this road? It don't really go anywhere. Are you lost?" He wasn't ready to reveal that it went to his remote cabin and not much anywhere else, although there were a couple of tracks from it that went down to the Greenbrier Riverbank, where guys from the Lewisburg area liked to do their fishing.

"Came back here looking for a dude I was asked to check up on. Ronny Johnson. You wouldn't know where he lives by any chance, would you? I was directed out this way."

"I might. What do you want with Ron?"

"Friend asked me to check up on him. A guy by the name of Russell. Big Russell. I just been where he was, and he asked me if I'd check up on his friend, Ronny Johnson, when I got out. Big Russ is concerned how his boy is making out."

"His boy." Ronny was six months out of prison, and Big Russell was still thinking of him this way and sending someone to check up on him. Big Russell, Ronny's protector in the pen. "You were held in Beckley Camp with Big Russell?" Ronny asked, referring to a minimum-security state prison.

"Yep. Got out a month ago. Working in Lewisburg now and living in a group home. Russell told me his boy was living and working here now too, but he hadn't heard from him in a while and was worried about him."

It had pained Ronny to stop sending letters to Big Russell, but his probation officer had told him it would be best to break off all ties. But then the probation officer hadn't had the relationship with Big Russell that Ronny had, one that may have started in brutal subjugation but that ended in much affection. Ronny wouldn't still be alive if Big Russell hadn't protected him, but it had cost Ronny, a cost he'd come to realize he wanted to pay--and by the time Big Russell came around, Ronny didn't have anything else to lose. Ronny's probation officer also didn't know that Ronny had been Big Russell's boy in the pen--or he pretended not to know. Probation officers didn't reveal all they knew about the penitentiary and what went on in there.

"My name's Steve. Steve Spander. They called me Big Steve in the pen. You know about Beckley Camp and Big Russell? So, you know this Ronny guy?" It was clear the guy now knew he'd found Ronny Johnson.

There it was, and Ronny wasn't surprised--another "big." This was one of the guys who did and got what he wanted in the pen. Big Russell would have seen him as a friend or as competition. That would determine what the guy was doing here, looking for him. Had this Steve been a friend of Big Russell's and meant Ronny no harm, or was this Steve now in a position to get revenge on Big Russell for some grudge between them? Ronny had to make a choice. He had to admit that the guy aroused him. He'd decide the man was on the up and up about being Big Russell's friend and Big Russell being worried enough about how Ronny was doing that he'd send a recently released guy like him to check up on his boy. "Yeah, you found him. I'm Ronny Johnson. Is Russell OK?"

"You know Big Russell. He can take care of himself. You can call me Big Steve, if you like."

If he'd still been in the pen, this would have been a proposition from a possible protector. But in the pen it would have been more of a command, and Ronny would have succumbed to it without question, simply for survival--unless he already was living under the wing of a more powerful "Big." With the all-over look this guy was giving him, Ronny could be confident it was a proposition. He wasn't in the pen, trapped with the guy in an iron-barred cage, but he was on an isolated forest road. There wasn't much of a functional difference. The mantra of a "Big" in prison was just to take what he wanted when he could get away with it. Ronny would have to move carefully here, but there was no change from prison in that. The save grace was that this guy was a hunk.

Ronny had had a few protectors in prison before Big Russell said to call him that and stared down any and all others who might have objected, and he hadn't been a virgin or still thought he had anything to protect before Big Russell had covered and owned him. By then Ronny had come to accept his lot in life and had opened his mouth to the big man's cock and lain on his back and opened his legs to the man docilely and without fuss. Still, Big Russell had beat him down and taken him hard that first time, making quite clear who was master and who was slave.

Ronny had become adjusted and groomed to this, and although he'd had a few encounters after leaving prison, they hadn't gone too well. Too much had been expected from him. He had been trained to just lie down and open his legs and to let the other man do it all. And that's how he was responding to this new Mr. Big. It was almost with relief. Big Steve was one big, beautiful bruiser anyway, but he was a man from the world Ronny had become accustomed and adjusted to. If he gave the commands...

Big Steve had said Big Russell could take care of himself. That meant he had found and chosen another boy--maybe more than one by now--Ronny thought. "Good to hear," he said, "about Big Russell being settled. He say anything about me calling you Big Steve when we met?"

"Yeah, he did. He's the one who suggested it. We were good friends and he said he was sure you'd like me--that I'd take good care of you. So, what is it you'd like to call me? Do you like the look of me or not?"

Ronny hesitated, but then he said, "I guess Big Steve would be good then." There, it had been established--at least enough for a first fucking to determine it was something they'd both want more of. Ronny was in need, and this was a big, strapping hunk.

This was coming from a different world--the prisons. Hookups were made as quickly and casually as this, and sometimes they were consummated on the spot if and as there was a window on opportunity. Once you'd been made someone's boy, as Ronny had been by Big Russell, it wasn't so much if you'd give it on demand as it was how that fit into the pecking order with your Big. Big Russell had been one to like to watch a friend do Ronny before mounting him himself, so Ronny saw nothing peculiar in Big Steve being sent to mount him too. Big Russell had sent this guy to him, and he wasn't the jealous type, so that established what Ronny's Big approved.

"He talks about you. He's got another boy, of course, but he talks about you a lot. He says he'd never had a boy as good as you."

The pecking order established here, both men were comfortable with returning to the mundane.

"Yeah, well. We can get you fixed up," Ronny said. "My cabin's not far down this road. I've got an extra gas tank there and we can get your cellphone recharged. I don't got much in, and I'm not much of a cook, but it's suppertime. I'll find something as long as you're not picky. We can have something to eat and we can talk about Camp Beckley, do whatever you want, and then I can bring you back here and give you enough gas to make it back to Lewisburg. Hop in my truck."

"I can make a meal out of most anything," Spander said. "That's what I do now. Learned it in the pen. I cook at Sloan's Steakhouse in Lewisburg. Thanks for the invite. I'll do the cooking."

Sloan's Steakhouse was right across the street from the fast-food joint Ronny worked at. He wouldn't reveal that, though. This guy, Steve, who seemed to be OK, was still someone it was best to stay from if Ronny wanted to break away from his old habits. The man didn't seem judgmental, though. He quite evidently knew exactly what Big Russell and Ronny had been to each other--protector and eventually willing sex slave--and it didn't seem to bother him at all. If anything, judging by the looks he gave Ronny, it gave him good reason to be out here in an isolated forest. Big Steve knew Ronny would be easy, and this had proved to be the case.

Ronny took another look at the guy sitting next to him in the truck cab. He could be some small jailbird's protector too as far as Ronny could discern. He used the "Big" name, so, in prison terms, that's what he was--a top-of-the-walk cell leader. Had there been any question Ronny would let the man fuck him? Who was he kidding? He'd been programed to go along, lay down, and open his legs. And Ronny hadn't had a satisfying fuck since he'd been in the pen. He'd learned there to want the top to take it from him. He hadn't met anyone since prison who did that for him.

There wasn't much in Ronny's refrigerator or on his shelves to make a meal of, but he had to admit that Big Steve made a mean omelet out of what he could find. They talked for more than an hour at the table while they ate, eventually dancing around what Big Russell and Ronny's arrangement had been in prison and what Ronny had been in for. Big Russell, like Big Steve, had been in for running with gangs that did armed robberies, and Ronny had been in for holding the drugs his boyfriend had been pushing, with the boyfriend disappearing and leaving Ronny to answer for it all. They also openly talked about how Ronny had got along with someone to protect him.

Even without admitting it, Big Steve would know that Ronny survived in prison by lying on his back, opening his legs, and taking what was shoved into him.

Of course, Ronny didn't need the protection he'd needed in prison now, he said, but still, being a small, shy, good-looking guy, he got pushed around a bit in Lewisburg, which could be a rough town.

"So, are you getting it the way you want it here?" Big Steve asked.

"Not really," Ronny answered.

"You're a small guy. Big Russell's got a giant snake of a one. You had problems taking--?"

"No, not after a while. You saying you've got--?"

"Yep," the answer was accompanied by a grin. "He told me you could and that you could ride it like a rodeo star, but I thought I should ask."

The conversation started to go further into the sexual aspects of the young man's life in the here and now, but Ronny redirected the conversation. He, in fact, had been feeling the isolation of not having a man--a rough, dominated man--but his probation officer, without knowing there was a sexual angle to this, had convinced him that he needed to completely change his life.

It was too late for Ronny to go heterosexual, though. He'd been too indoctrinated into the gay submissive life.

Truth be known, he had learned to enjoy lying under Big Russell, and this guy with his feet under his table, this Big Steve Spander, was a lot like Big Russell and he aroused Ronny. Going with him would be going back to what Ronny had known in the pen, though, and he needed to fight his instincts. But, yes, this now was up to Big Steve Spander. When he made the moves, Ronny would let the man fuck him.

When they started to move their dishes to the kitchen sink, Steve declared he'd do the cleanup and Ronny said he'd go out by the river and take a smoke.

"That isn't pot, is it?" Steve asked as he came upon Ronny sitting with his back against the tree and looking down, across the railroad tracks to the bank of the Greenbrier River.

"Yeah, it is? You want one?"

"No, not me. That's breaking probation. I'm too recently released to take any chances. You sure you want to do that? I don't want to go back in myself."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Ronny said, stubbing the joint out and tossing it over onto the graveled railroad tracks.

"There was something Big Russell said you'd probably want and surely needed, though, and I wouldn't have bothered to find my way out here if his talking about you riding it didn't make me want to do you too," Big Steve said, getting to it at last. "Was he wrong? Do you need a real man? I mean a real man that you only can get in prison--a big-cocked man using it hard." He was crouching in front of Ronny. He reached out with his big mitts, grasped Ronny knees, and spread the young man's legs, which were bent, with his feet flat on the ground by the tree. Getting a guy's legs parted was always a sure move in prison, and the vulnerability of that here didn't escape Ronny.

"We danced around it at dinner. I think Russell is right--you need a real man's dick inside you--a really big one. He told me it would be fine with him. Am I wrong? He wants me to take care of you like he would if he were here." His hands ran up Ronny's inner legs and gripped the young man's thighs above the knees. This was a common movement on the inside to signal the man was going to move in between the legs and take control. Ronny was panting a bit, but he didn't resist the movement.

Ronny's low moan and his lack of resistance was all the "yes" Big Steve needed to receive.

So, Big Russell, who had been Ronny's protector and master for nearly two years wanted this man to take care of him like Russell himself had. Ronny couldn't resist this. The need, there just under the surface ever since he'd left Big Russell in Beckley Camp, had been coming out over dinner. "No, you're not wrong," he answered in a low voice. "But Big Russell told me to wait for him--that he'd get out of the pen and come looking for me."

"Big Russell ain't getting out of the pen," Steve said. "He shivved a guy in Beckly and he's in for the duration now. He ain't getting out. He sent me. He sent me to tell you that and to do you for him."

Slowly, methodically, maintaining eye contact with the young man, Big Steve moved his hands up Ronny's inner thighs, unbuckled and unzipped him, pulled the young man's shorts off his legs, unbuckled, unzipped, and freed himself; and leaned in for a kiss on the mouth.

The man's cock, in erection, was massive. Ronny had known it would be.

This was it, just like in the pen. One Mr. Big was being exchanged for another. Ronny's expected response was to take it, and that's what he did. In short order, Big Steve had turned Ronny, putting him on all fours, facing the river, mounted him from behind and on top, slowly penetrated, set up a rhythm as Ronny panted and moaned under him, and fucked him in a doggy.

Steve had growled, "Like a dog," grabbed a handful of Ronny's hair, and turned him face down on the riverbank, swinging a leg over the small of the young man's back. It was a familiar prison master-to-slave movement that both of them were accustomed to, and Ronny responded in the expected submissive role. It was almost with relief that Ronny went into the expected stance so easily--lifting his tail, moving his hands back to squeeze his butt cheeks as wide as possible to take the killing thrust. That was the prison custom--the initial thrust fast and deep to assure the connection had been made even if they were discovered and parted quickly. The thrust, as in prison, was accompanied by the Big's hand on his boy's mouth and nose to muffle the cry. And as he would have done in prison, Ronny sobbed into the hand at the first hard, thick, deep thrust--and then again at the second one and the third.

The young man writhed, panted, and cried out as the thick cock worked its way up into him, but when the big man was fully saddled, Ronny settled down, conjuring up images of Big Russell covering and possessing him like this on dark, otherwise boring and endless nights in their cell, mounting him and transporting him to other realms beyond the prison bars.

Ronny knelt in a three-point stance, the fourth, his hand, stroking his own cock, as the muscular mountain of a man hovered over him and worked his magic inside him, lifting him from the riverbank into the sublime heavens. Ronny was meant to be fucked by a commanding man. God, how he had missed this from Big Russell.

Big Steve fucked him good--as good as Big Russell or any of the other "Bigs" in prison had done.

They held, neither saying anything, for the longest time, after they both had come. Then Steve rose, picked the much smaller man up off the ground under the tree, slung him over his shoulder, and took him into the cabin and to the bed. He put the now-naked Ronny down on the bed on his back, grasped and raised and parted the young man's calves. Possessing Ronny's eyes with his, he slowly spread the legs, watching for and pleased, when Ronny's eyes showed need and surrender.

"Raise your tail," he commanded, and, whimpering, Ronny dug his heels into the mattress and lifted his pelvis. Big Steve slid his knees in between the young man's thighs. Setting his left fist into the mattress beside Ronny's left chest, Big Steve hovered over his boy, maintaining eye control, and, as Ronny moaned and moved on the one, two, and three fingers of the man's right hand.