A gay sex stories: 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.”
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