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Bob Wheeler

The Crisco King


By Ron Williamson




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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All characters in this story are over the age of 18 years old.





Bob Wheeler - The Crisco King

Copyright © 2017 by Ron Williamson




ISBN: 9781370280025M





Smashwords Edition, License Notes


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In The Back Yard


The car was parked in the back yard. We had already tinted the windows, painted a black stripe down both sides of the car, changed the oil and spark plugs, and were now finishing up installing speakers in the rear dash. I was inside the trunk, tightening the nuts on the back of the speaker mounting brackets. I only had a few more nuts to tighten, and we would be finished.

Bob took a drink from his beer, then began playing with my dick, through my shorts.

“My little mechanic stud,” he laughed, “and his big fuck stick.”

“Stop fucking with me,” I snapped, “I’m having a hard enough time reaching this fucking nut.”

Even though I was not in the mood to fool around, my dick began growing out of the bottom of my short pants. Even though I was in the trunk of the car struggling to tighten these last few nuts, how could I not get hard. Bob was teasing my dick.

“Can I have a drink of your beer?” I asked, reaching for his bottle.

“Not until you finish,” he laughed, pulling his beer out of my reach.

“Ha ha,” I snorted, reaching further for it.

“Alright,” he gave in, handing it to me.

I tipped it up and started chugging. I drank the whole thing and handed the bottle back to him.

“Thank you,” I grinned, “Now if you’ll leave my dick alone, I can finish up here. Then you can have all the dick you want.”

He didn’t stop. He continued to play with my dick while I worked. Although I acted like I wasn’t enjoying it, he and I both knew that I was. Hell, at 18 years old, I was a walking, talking, hard on. All I had to do was look at Bob, or be touched by him, and my dick would get hard. He was beautiful. Thirty-five years old. Five feet, 8 inches tall. 250 pounds. Balding head. Dark brown, short beard and mustache. Thick manly chest. Big fat, firm, round belly. Thick arms and legs. Adorable face. Like I said, he was beautiful. And…he loved to get fucked.

With my dick hanging out of my shorts, I finished tightening all of the nuts except one. One that I knew he would be able to reach from outside of the trunk. I handed him the crescent wrench and climbed out of the trunk.

“What’s the deal?” I teased, “Where’s my cold beer?”

He started picking up the tools, and placing them into the toolbox.

“Oh shit,” I said, pointing to the loose nut, “I missed one. See if you can get that, and I’ll run inside and grab another beer.”


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