BOYS DON'T QUEEF--Part One
by ZUIDERZEE


                         zuiderzee@yahoo.com   
                    m,ff,(?), 1st,cbt,interr,oral,reluc,size,va,viol


          Disclaimer:  This here tale's meant fer them growed-up folks
                       that don't mind none havin' a tale of sinful
                       goings-on told to 'em.  Amen.



                       Reforming a Tomboy (or two) 
 



          With a flash of piss-colored peepers, the grungy tomboy met my
     gaze .  My turgid cock cast a long shadow over her face like the style
     of a sundial.  She had to look past it as she settled on her leather-
     clad knees in the short grass.  Angrily ordering me to keep my "faggit"
     hands off her shoulders, the tomboy gave me a squeeze in the nut-sack 
     to show she meant no bullshit.  I wondered if she had some herself,
     because her hasty clutch did more to readjust my swelling nuts than to
     pain them.  Keeping her slightly-cleaner left hand on my thigh as a 
     reminder as well as a brace, she loosened up her scar-crossed right hand
     and began playing with the 13 inches of cock that had only felt the heat
     of her gaggy breath and the wetness of her rancid spit.
          Being blown by a tomboy coupled with the fear of being seen as a pair
     of men compounded with broad daylight and the possibility that a passing
     Red-Blooded American trucker would see us and veer from the road to grind
     some "pre-verts" to death under his rig had been an initial obstacle to
     getting up the blue-steeler erection I needed.

          I wasn't really into outdoor sex, and I never had been.  Even poolside
     feel-ups and midnight fornication with my favorite divorced housewife in 
     her heated pool with the lights out always brought with it the terror some
     jerk with a telescope or telephoto lens would catch us in the act.

          A little used roadside clearing without so much as shade or screening
     shrubs to mask us from the infrequent passing truck was what the tomboy had
     insisted on.
     

          With her scuffed leather biking garb and the body beneath it stinking
     of motor oil, beer, sweat and she-funk, she got in close.  Somewhere on the
     road, a truck sounded its horn in a double blast that echoed over the trees.
     None of this registered on the tomboy who shifted her grip on my pulsing
     shaft as though the out-thrust organ was just another of the cylindrical
     objects she throttled in her grimy fist in the course of a day--the grips
     of her motorcycle handlebars, a beercan, the hilt of her bootknife, her
     socket-wrench and its fittings, and the tightly-rolled road-atlas she'd
     clubbed me with an hour or so before.

          Regarding my huge prick with a mixture of envy, lust, bewilderment,
     animosity and probably another helping of envy just for good measure, she
     swiveled my cock experimentally, spreading the cum-slit wide open like a
     miniature vagina--a sight I figured she was familiar with.  She humphed
     in appraisal.  The glans was already glossy with her chewing-tobacco spit
     and she expectorated another glob to wet it down.

          I know when a chick is stalling for time, building up courage to put
     her mouth on me, and the tomboy was no exception.  I don't know if it was
     the size alone that bothered her.  Maybe it didn't look like her daddy's
     cherry-popper.  She worked her mouthparts like a snake unhinging its jaw.
     Opening her mouth wide to display stained choppers, the tomboy rolled out
     the pink welcome mat of her abusive tongue and finally let my purpling dome
     drop heavily into the grainy trough with a splat.  

          Eschewing cosmetics save for a poorly-chosen dye-job in her frizzy hair,
     the rough semi-femme had nothing store-bought to come between her flesh and
     mine.  Lips only slightly richer in color than her chin surged and puckered
     in almost-kisses on my glans.

          She drew back a little to purse her lips and gather a huge bead of pre-cum
     on her "embouchure" like setting a golf ball on a tee.  The amber drop built
     and rounded in that cusp and then disappeared into the hole in the center with
     a squeak of suction.  This tomboy was good as long as she could make sucking
     cock a telescoped version of eating pussy.  The cold dread that I was feeding
     my schlong to a male diminished a little.  

          Just a little.

          "D'zat feel nice, faggit?"  The tomboy asked in a wet, thick voice, 
     talking around the swollen dick on her lower lip.

          When I didn't answer, except for my toes curling in my boots, she looked
     up at me from where  she knelt with eyes sorely in need of everything from
     contact-lenses, mascara, and false-lashes to stye-remover.  The network of
     scarlet veins splayed across those orbs spoke of beer-binging, insomnia, smoke-
     exposure of every sort and plain ol' backwoods orneriness.

          "Zis how they faggits like'n you sucks one-nudder off in they Hollawood?"
     The tomboy peeled back her lips to show those long, beige teeth again. Her
     Canuck patois, that old "stewpot French" did not lend her any trace of Gallic
     amorousness.  The best she could manage was genuine Pigalle piggishness.  "Leese-
     ways, no one give'n you the baptisms with the tin-spips!"

          She was referring to my foreskin.   There was still plenty of essence on
     and under my hood from her girlfriend back at the homestead.  It had been 10 inches
     deep in her not-quite virgin pussy and still hot from her tit-fuck and tonsil-
     hockey tournament.  With stout nails blackened like a true grease-monkey's, she
     shucked my foreskin back and away from the tender cock-head like a sock from a
     badly-swollen ankle.  Like a bass scooping its mouth for a slow lure, the tomboy
     engulfed the pink dome and the ooze of precum in a gliding lunge.  I felt her
     crooked, plaque-coated teeth on my cock as it continued on through, the head
     forced down by the roof of her mouth and upward by her tongue.  I thought I was
     only imagining it, but there came a wet tickle which I took for her uvula slip
     over my glans.

          I let out a shudder and gasp and despite her filled mouth, she laughed; a 
     snotty, gloating laugh that crept over my cock as her voice rose to surround it.
     Tobacco-smelling froth blew out in flecks from the hair-line gap between her 
     encircling lips and the place where my prepuce was anchored.  The sight and sound
     proved such a filthy turn-on I hardened more-so than ever and sealed the space,
     making the tomboy draw in air desperately through her flaring nostrils.  My jewels
     rose up.  Her bracing left hand eased off my muscular thigh and made a move
     toward them, stopping before her nearest knuckle touched the sweaty sack.          


         Taken with the notion that anybody from outside Old Lower Appalachia Minor
     was a "faggit", the tomboy thrilled to the idea of her insidership and she 
     could take care of her girlfriend as well as this "Hollawood" outsider who
     tooled around without a clue in the back country.  When I broke down and cried
     like one who'd been raped by this beer-butch and ran back to the city, everything
     would be mended right and proper.        



          The tomboy's custom-built (stolen) motorcycle and my fresh-from-the-
     showroom Japanese serial-numbered fiberglass special sat in the noontide
     sun in a scimshaw of tiretracks.  I thought I'd known what a tomboy was when
     I heaped my charms and generous anatomical features on another rural mountain-
     gal the day previous.  But when this new two-cylinder, muscle-bound, chrome-
     chewing churl had revved onto the scene, I got a new picture in my mind of
     what a tomboy really was.


          Yes-sireee-bob, they does grow some ornery wimmin-folk up in Old Lower
     Appalachia Minor and without a good map and not even knowing which state I was
     in other than the state of studly arousal, I would be stuck here.  The tomboy
     knew where the gas station was, but after her insane chase, I had only a sip
     and a cough of fuel in my tank and the roads were impossible to figure out to one
     used to eight-lane freeways and bus-sized roadsigns.  She was fit to be tied 
     when she found the other tomboy getting her first helping of man-flesh.  

          She had the decency to let my extended dong shrink and slip down in tranquility
     so that I could get my pants on.  Then the chase began and after I dodged her and 
     nearly knocked her off her bike, she shut down her engine and promised me the suck-off
     I'm getting now--with the understanding that certain things--



          But, I'm getting ahead of myself--as usual.  So folks, if you all is in a lisnin'
     mood, you jes' set a spell and I'll spin the yarn o'how I wound up in them thar hills
     with a pair of the runnin'est, jumpin'est, cunt-lickin'est, man-hatin'est tomboys this
     side of the Mississippi and how it were I reformed 'em into the decent, law-abidin'
     cock-sluts they is--they are--today. 


                                         TO BE CONTINUED