Chapter 3 – Chapter 3

"Did yer know you have a piece aflappin'?"

"Excuse me? A piece flapping? On the car?"

"Yep, right there, down that side. Half on, half off. Yer outta either get that fixed or tore off. It might get caught on somethin', and it's sure to mark up your finish if you don't stop it from aflappin."

Trent walked around to the passenger side of his car. Sure enough the flexible chrome strip running down the length of the car under the car doors was half on and half off. Now that he thought about it, he'd been hearing a flapping noise. He'd tried to block that out of his mind, though, thinking that maybe it was something internal in the engine—and maybe was an expensive something.

He had stopped for gas just outside Oyster, and the cashier had come out of the station while he was pumping gas to tell him about the strip.

"Do you fix things like this here?" Trent asked.

"Nope, sorry. Just gas these days. Folks don't bring their cars to gas stations for fixin' like they used ter."

"Is there a Ford dealer nearby?"

"They's ones up in Exmore or down on the other side of the tunnel bridge in Seashore."

"Both sound pretty far away."

"Yup, they is. But then, I think you can get that fixed up at Buster's. He's just up aways there. Turn off the state road onto Seaoats and go north 'til you come pon an old house with what looks like a junk yard in front and a shed off to the side almost bigger'n the house. That would be Buster's. Some people herebouts wants him to clean up all that junk, but you wouldn't believe what he can pull out of there to fix things thats broke."

"Buster's, you say?"

"Yep, right up the road there. Off the state road onto Seaoats and go north 'til you come pon his place. He can probably fix it up in a jiff. He's a half cast, but he does a good job and mostwise keeps to his self, which is more than I can say about a lot around here."

His directions were good, and it was impossible to miss the house with the junk yard in front. It wasn't directly on the ocean, but it was close enough that Trent could hear the surf. He also could hear someone chopping wood around at the back of the big shed ten yards from the house. Trent got out of the car and walked around to where he heard the noise coming from.

He stopped in his tracks when he got around the end of the shed. The man with the Jeep Wrangler was standing not far from said Jeep and splitting logs. He was wearing jeans and the hiking boots and nothing on top. His muscles were rippling and his torso was glistening with sweat in the light of the sun. If Trent was writing stage directions for the first appearance of the "outdoorsman hunk," this would be what he'd write.

The man looked up. "You." He gave a little smile that looked like it knew more than Trent did.

"Are you Buster?" Trent asked. He felt his voice was thick but the words seemed to have come out in the right order.

"That would be me. You come here for some of it?"

"Excuse me . . . a man at the filling station outside Oyster suggested I come here. There's a chrome strip on my car that needs to be reattached or reglued or something. He said you might be able to fix it for me."

"You don't say. A chrome strip on your car." Even Trent could tell that was said in a "likely excuse" tone of voice. He wanted to back away. But then part of him didn't. And the car needed fixed.

"Yes."

"You sure you're not here to get some. You've been like following me around the last day or so. And you're a nice little piece. I wouldn't mind getting into that."

Trent didn't know what to say. The man was forward and bordering on crude—well, across the border, but the way he said the words made them arousing to Trent. He certainly didn't mince words. And they had run across each other's paths in compromising circumstances the previous day.

"Honest. Chrome strip. Car." He turned to the side, either as if proof there really was a car back there needing help or as a prelude to running to the car. He himself didn't know what the movement meant. But, fuck, the man was a bronze god. Trent could feel himself going hard.

The man—Buster—put his ax down and walked toward Trent. Trent shrank a bit from him as they grew level, and Buster turned his eyes on him—those knowing eyes. He stopped just briefly, but so much was conveyed in that one look. Then he smiled, as if he'd seen something answering, coming back from Trent, and then continued back out to the front yard. He went down on his haunches at the side of the car and examined the problem.

"Not a problem," he said. "It needs a couple of brackets tacked back in and then it will slide right in place." He had looked up at Trent when he said "slide right in place" and had bracketed the phrase with ever-so-brief pauses, and Trent just about swallowed his tongue.

"You the movie guy they say is here to write a movie?"

"Not exactly," Trent answered. "I write stage plays. I'm here just for the two weeks to doctor a play that will show in Washington. My name's Trent."

He extended his hand down, and Buster presented a big paw with long, fat fingers. His grip was strong and he curled a finger around Trent's middle finger and also rubbed his palm with a fat thumb, both of which sent a chill up Trent's spine. He also held the shake a tad longer than necessary.

Trent shuddered, and he knew the man had seen him do it.

"I could fix you as easily as the car. You sure you're not here to get a good fucking? Rumor has it you're running away from something—a boyfriend or something."

Damn Carson, Trent thought. Had his cousin spread his problem throughout the neighborhood.

"Yes, I'm sure. The car needed fixed. And I came here . . . to the Eastern Shore . . . for some quiet and privacy to fix a play script."

"Well you do lay under men, don't you? I could see that the first time we walked by each other. And I'm sorry, I don't beat around the bush. Men who come out here acting like they need to be fucked, get fucked, if I like the looks of them. And you're a good-looking piece of tail."

"The car. I came to get the car fixed. I didn't know it would be you." Trent knew we was sounding flustered. He also knew that if he let his gut honestly answer the man's questions, he would be helpless before him.

"Well, if it's a boyfriend thing, a good fucking probably is just what you need. And I would be your man for that. I saw you looking at us yesterday and then I saw you beating off on the beach. You want it, I can tell. Men fuck you, don't they? I'm not wrong about that."

"Not in a long time," Trent said. But then he was mortified that he'd been so flip—and also so honest. He'd said entirely too much in that remark. And this guy wasn't a dummy. He'd pick up on it.

"So that's what you do need. A good fucking. Come on in the shed."

Trent gave him a panicked look.

"We need brackets and a soft hammer. For the car. They'll be in the shed." He turned and started walking toward the building. Not knowing what else to do, Trent stumbled along behind him.

It was cool in the shed. It also felt close. There was junk everywhere—or what looked like junk—but if Buster found the right size brackets and a leather mallet in here, the gas station guy would be right; it wasn't junk.

It didn't take Buster long to find just that. As he walked back toward the front of the shed and was passing Trent, he lowered a hand and brushed it over Trent's crotch. Trent jerked and gave a little gasp.

"I was right. You're hard. You need a fucking." He laughed and left the building, leaving Trent there to walk around and pretend to look at what was in there, while, humming, Buster worked on the chrome strip on the Ford. He certainly couldn't go out and watch Buster work. That would melt him.

Trent was trying to will himself to go soft, but he couldn't do it. Of course he needed a fucking. He'd needed a good fuck since Kevin passed. But Kevin was his one and only. So fucking passed with Kevin. As he looked around his eyes stopped on a long row of hinges. Hinges of all sizes.

"All fixed," Buster said when he came back into the shed. "Now let's get you fixed."

Trent ignored that. "I see you have hinges here."

"Yes, and I have screws too. And that's what you need from me—a good screw."

"Please. That is not what I need. Seeing the hinges reminds me that I have a fishing tackle box that's fallen apart that needs a hinge replaced. Do you think you could do that? You probably saw me down at the pond by my cottage with it yesterday."

He wanted to swallow those words as soon as he'd said them. It had been later in the day when he tried to go fishing. Buster had seen him earlier in the day.

"I don't remember seeing a fishing tackle box. What I saw was a nice young piece jacking himself off—when what he really needs is a good fucking."

"A tackle box. Do you think you can fix it?"

"There's really a tackle box? Yeah, if there's one, I can fix it. But maybe there isn't one. Maybe you are just standing around trying to build up the courage to do what you know you want to do."

Trent stood there, not knowing what to say.

"If you were so upset with what I'm saying you need, you'd be half way back to Oyster now with that chrome strip still flapping on the car. You know you need to get fucked. And you know I can fuck you good. You saw me fucking Paul at that abandoned house yesterday. If you want to leave and don't want me fucking you, go on out to your car now. And forget the shit about a tackle box needing fixed."

"It was my grandfather's tackle box and then my father's," Trent said weakly. "It's a family thing."

Buster gave him a horselaugh and turned his body, leaving some space for Trent to get by him in the aisle and exit the shed. Trent hesitated. He took two steps and hesitated again. And then he went into motion. But when he got abreast Buster, Buster laughed again and turned into his pathway. With one swift movement of both hands he pulled Trent's polo shirt over his head, doing it fast enough that he had Trent back into an embrace, with one strong, heavily muscled arm around his waist, and was bending Trent back and possessing his mouth in a brutal kiss.

Trent gasped and groaned, trapped by the arm and the kiss. He beat on the man's back with his fists, but even that betrayed him as his hands preferred caressing the man's shoulder blades. He felt his belt buckle being undone and his zipper lowered. His pants were pushed down his legs, and he heard them hit the floor. He felt his briefs being pushed down his hips to his knees as well and the beefy hand encase his cock. Buster let loose of his mouth and, bending him way back, worked his teeth down to Trent's nipples.

Trent whimpered at the onslaught. "Please," he muttered.

"Don't worry, fucker, I'll take care of you. Fuck 'em fast and hard the first time and they'll come crawling back to you for more. Jacking off. That's the thing. Once my cock jacks you off, you'll be mine."

Trent was confused. That wasn't what he meant at all. Or was it?

Buster pushed Trent's briefs down past his knees and they fell to the floor. "Step out of them," he commanded. "Now," he said when Trent didn't react fast enough.

Trent whimpered again but stepped out of the pants and briefs puddle on the floor. Buster kicked them aside. He lifted one of Trent's legs to be hooked on his hip. Trent realized when his leg went up that Buster had somehow lost his own shorts. And had found a condom.

Trent moaned at the inevitability.

"The other leg," he growled, and, with a little sob, Trent raised that one to the other hip. "I'm going to fuck you now," Buster said. It wasn't a question. "Fifteen minutes from now all your tension and worries will be gone. I'm the doctor."

"Yes," Trent murmured. It wasn't the answer he'd willed himself to give.

"Raise up and put your arms around my neck," Buster commanded. As Trent did so, he both felt the power of a huge, hard cock at his belly and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Buster dip a hand into an open container of some sort of tan-colored grease on a shelf nearby.

"Oh shit, oh fuck," Trent whined.

"This is what you need," Buster said. Trent felt Buster greasing up his pole between their bellies and then lifting Trent's buttocks and spreading them and pushing grease into his hole. He felt the cock head at his hole and then forcing itself inside and holding, throbbing, and then a long, stretching slide down.

"Oh shit! Oh Fuck! Oh God!" he cried out and then he was moaning and grunting and groaning as buster lifted his buttocks up to the sound of slurping and then slammed it down on his pole to the sounds of yowls and gasps from Trent. And repeated. Again and again.

"Now you," Buster commanded, and Trent embarrassed himself by taking up the action of the rise and fall on the cock while Buster just stood there and remained hard.

"See, you wanted it," Buster declared.

Five minutes later Trent shot his load between their bellies.

"You really did need it, didn't you? Quick shot," Buster muttered. "But you aren't going to get off that easy. Buster has to get his rocks off too."

"What . . . what . . .?" Trent murmured in exhaustion and shock.

He found out what. Moments later he was bent over a sawhorse, with a padded platform on top, on his belly, and Buster was handcuffing his wrists to his ankles underneath on either side. Then he positioned himself behind Trent and slammed his cock back up inside him and began to piston hard and fast until he too had ejaculated. So overwhelmed was Trent with all of this that he came a second time himself.

As Buster was uncuffing him, Trent was muttering nonsensically about having to leave, needing to get home. Buster pulled his head up by the hair from where it was hanging over the sawhorse and looked him in the eye and said, "Tell me that wasn't what you needed. Tell me you haven't been big fucked now and that it wasn't what you've been needing."

Trent babbled something, but even he didn't know what it was.

"Was I good? Do you want me to fuck you again?"

"Yes," Trent admitted in a strangled voice.

"And again?"

"Yes."

"And again?"

"Oh, god, yes," Trent cried out.

He went back to freeing Trent from the sawhorse.

"What . . . now . . . where?"

"I'm taking you into the house. For some more therapy. I'm sure you can use more, but you're such a sweet fuck that I want more of it myself." Then Buster laughed as Trent moaned, threw the young man over his shoulder, and started marching toward the house. All that either one of them was wearing were Buster's hiking boots. But he was twirling the two pairs of handcuffs in his free hand. And he was humming . . . the theme from Jaws.