Bears, Bikers and Bully Boys: 7 Stories of Hard Men and Hard Rampant Sex Play

By Tosh Turner

The xxx collection of Bears and Brutes; 7 stories of real men and real man-sex. This is one 'must-have' bundle pack of zip busters by best-selling author Tosh Turner, all previously released, now bundled together to give value for filth.

The ultimate collection of real, full blooded, man-sex, graphically written to arouse and satisfy; leather men and bikers, truckers and cops, bears and butt sluts.

Titles: The Good Buddy and the Patrol Officer…  - The Big Bear's First Time - Gang Banged by the Biker Boys - Older Guys Are Best… - Blue-Collar Bareback… - Leather Pigs  - Good Buddies on the Oil Rigs

Like it raw and randy? So do these guys - strong sexual content suitable for mature adults and over 18's only! Looking for something special? Something that won't disappoint? You just found it!  One handed reading guaranteed. Scroll down to order now.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tosh Turner
• Release date: Jun 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393400837

Book preview

The Good Buddy and the Patrol Officer...

Hank Collins, also known as Triple H or Heavy Hung Hank, had been a gear jammer for over 15 years. He loved the job. To him there was nothing better than the open road, the freedom of being out on your own and, of course, the solitude. He had a widowed sister with her own two kids back home, as well as his mother who lived them. He loved them all dearly, and would do anything for them, which in fact he did. But he also had to get away for some me time.

He liked being alone and enjoyed the quiet and the peace that he could only find on the road behind the wheel of his 1992 Peterbilt Supercab. He went home whenever he could, which wasn’t often, as he was the only means of support for five people – himself included, of course. His sister couldn’t work yet as her oldest, Jared, was only three, and the youngest, Sheila, was barely six months old. Though his mother often offered to play baby sitter, she wasn’t exactly in the best of health herself, and if anything, his sister Henrietta often found herself babysitting her own mother besides the two she already had to take care of.

His father had raised him well, as did his mother, and since he was the man of the house, he did the best he could. Truth be told, his sister, Melinda, had had a big hand in raising him, as well, and he loved her with all his heart, as well as his niece and nephew. In his eyes, they were as good as his own children. He missed Bill, Melinda’s husband, who had been a trucker himself till the accident which claimed his life three months ago. He was a good man, and deserved to know that his family were being taken care of, wherever he was now, which Hank was sure was a good place.

Most other truckers found excuses to get away from their families, but not Bill. Even when they had free time, they would often tell their wives that theu had to pick up an emergency load, or that they had gotten stuck with truck problems in some god-forsaken little town on the other side of the country. In reality, they spent most of their days off catching some sporting event, or lying in a hotel in some quiet part of the world getting their tools serviced by some lot lizard that they picked up and gave a double payment to for the weekend. But not Bill, and not him.

At the moment, Hank was tearing up the asphalt on the other shaky side of the Big O: Omaha, Nebraska. He had just dumped his box at the distro, or redistribution hub, where his cargo would get broken up and shipped on to some other area with another Billy big rig, and was heading back toward the cities to grab his next load. He had hoped that he would be picking something up in Omaha to carry back, but that had not been the case. Now he was pulling a deadhead, an empty trailer, behind him. He was also fighting the combination of the heavy rain that was cleaning up his windows for him, and the hunk drought that he had been on as of late.

He had been so busy that he had not had the chance to get atop over what was worth even trying his luck on. The last chance he had was in Benning, Ohio, and the only lizards that he could find roaming around the back row had been sorry pickings, indeed. He preferred big men like himself, but had settled on male prostitutes when his needs were great, and when he had a little extra frustration to let out. Sometimes, he would even do it with a woman, but not when his energy was a little too high for his own good, fearing that he would hurt a woman if he got a hold of one. But they were all just a BJ in the men's room, when women were all he could get. Women were not for getting up to the sleeper and getting naked and down to business. He had never gone down the Hershey highway with a peter eater, and he didn't intend to start now.

It's not like he had a problem finding a suitable partner to take care of his manly needs. They didn't call him Triple H, standing for ‘Heavy Hung Hank’ for nothing. His private gearshift, the one that was stretching the front of his jeans right now to the point that the zipper was about to snap open, was very long and beer-bottle thick. He had earned the name Heavy Hung Hank in the showers of the rest stops and company terminals, or junk yards as the drivers called them, along the truck routes that he traveled most often.

He normally ran his rig from Cinderella land, or Cincinnati, Ohio, to The Cities, or Minneapolis to St. Paul, Minnesota, and back. But he did occasionally head south to make the spur run that took him down from The Cities to Omaha. That's what he was doing now. He didn't like doing it, but he didn't mind. It was double mile pay, and he liked that since he and his family needed all the money they could set aside. Even before Melinda moved in with her brood, he had his mother move in with him since she could barely take care of herself, and the idea of dumping her in some old age home made him sick. The thought of all four of them together gave him a warm feeling inside. What he did wasn’t duty. It was something he just had to do, and fortunately enjoyed.

His big meat slab was just the icing on the cake, though. What got others running after him was his big burly body and his rugged good looks. He was an impressive piece of manpower, that's for sure. He would sometimes grab a look at himself naked in the mirror after he showered, and he had to admit that even he was turned on by what he saw. He was 6'4", 275 pounds, and was built like a brick wall. His frame was wide and his body was thick. He was well muscled from working his own loads on and off the truck and from swinging weights at any gym he could get to along the routes he worked. He loved to work out; he loved the feel of his own body getting challenged, getting stronger, and getting bigger.

His legs were long and thick and ended in heavy size 14 1/2 extra-wide feet. His arms were large and hung heavy at his sides. Sometimes even he was impressed with the weight of them drooping from his shoulders. Everything about Hank was big, especially the large balls that he was so proud of. They were the source of his masculinity, the origin of his power, and the embodiment of his reason to exist. Hank was a man, and his balls defined him as such. They were large, as big as goose eggs each, and the cream they made was as thick as mayonnaise. When he shot it out of himself, it was powerful and squirted out a quarter cup per load in long, stringy ropes that splattered three or four feet away from him. He was the kind of guy that could hit his own face with his shot with little to no trouble, and did quite often.

He wasn't soft in any way, but he did like the feel of his own batter hitting him in the face and splattering on his beefy hairy chest. His chest was not the only thing that was hairy about Hank. He was covered in a thick layer of curly black hair all over his massive body. There was hardly an inch of him where there was skin that did not have some hair cover. He was often told that he looked like he was wearing a pair of fur-covered long johns when he was naked. He liked the fact that he was hairy. It was just one more sign of his obvious genetic superiority over other men and his incredible sexual enticement for both men and women. The whole package was topped off by his shaved head and rugged, chiseled face. He wore a salt-and-pepper goatee and mustache around his mouth, which usually, including now, had a long fat cigar sticking out of it... but only when he wasn’t home with his family.

The pressure in his pants was getting stronger as he thought about how much he really was turned on by his own big, beefy, hairy body. He had worked hard for his build and was thankful to his dad, who had been every bit the man that he was, for giving him great genetics to get started with.

He looked at the GPS on the dash: he still had another 75 miles before he hit a rest stop, and that was one that he knew well. There would be no action going on there, unfortunately. There was little at that one to begin with, and this late at night, and with the rain, the men would not exactly be crawling all over the place. Hell, even their truck-chasing female counterparts would not be out in this horrible weather. The best he could hope for would be the chance to pull over for the night, bed down, get stripped to his drawers in the sleeper, and beat one out to a DVD on his laptop.

Of course, there was nothing to say that he could not get started with that plan right this very second, he thought. So he reached down, and with one hand steadying the wheel, he unbuckled his belt and got the fly of his jeans splayed open. The relief of the pressure was welcome as his large hammer sprung free of its denim prison and stretched the fabric pouch of his well-worn Duke jockstrap to a tent that tested the limits of the garment's ability to hold it all together. He rubbed his hand across the fabric and felt the power of his manhood pulsing beneath; he loved that feeling. He pulled the pouch aside and let his magnificent probe stand up free and unconstructed.

In the soft lighting of the dashboard, he could see it when he looked down – the monster prick that had that many had worshiped and continue to. He continued to drive with one hand on the wheel while he wrapped his other big, beefy hand around his long, meaty shaft. He started to slowly and lightly slide his hand up and down, letting his enjoyment get the better of him, continuing this action for several minutes, savoring the sweet sensation of every stroke of his proud flesh. He was starting to really get into the relaxed stroke that he had going on when all of the sudden, out of nowhere, this asshole he had been following at 60 feet for the last 20 miles started to swerve and weave in front of him.

He dropped his cock out of his hand and popped his Jake brake to slow the engine. He shifted gears as fast and as hard as he could to bring himself a further distance from the pickup truck ahead of him. He obviously had a willie-weaver, a person falling asleep behind the wheel, either from exhaustion or due to some alcoholic assistance he had consumed, in front of him, and he wanted to stay as far back as possible. He had seen what a willie-weaver could end up looking like down the road, and to be honest with you, he would rather pass it by and rubberneck the scene than actually watch it go screech-boom in front of him.

The sudden deceleration of the truck on the wet road, however, caused the empty trailer he was yanking behind him to go wiggle-wiggle, or sway slightly and wobble on top of the road. To the best of Hank's damnable luck, it happened right in front of a Boy Scout. This was the term truckers use for highway patrol officers due to the fact that most of their uniforms very closely resembled the ones worn by that male youth organization. Hank was sick to his stomach when he saw the Smokey's car pull up behind him in his rearview, but he had hoped that he was going to pass him by and head for the jack-off in the pickup and make the asshole go get some damn coffee and a nap before he killed someone, probably himself. That hope faded fast, however, when Hank saw the highway car's disco lights come on and heard the all-too-familiar blare of his whoop-whoop go off behind him.

Son of a bitch, Hank cursed, smacking his hand into the steering wheel so hard he actually cracked the plastic slightly at the yoke. This cannot be happening to me, he added as he quickly stuffed his oversized man meat back into its jockstrap pouch and closed up his pants. His cock had immediately gone soft when the truck in front of him started to swerve, and now he had to deal with this little road piggy that had decided to roust his ass for no good reason. One thing that he did know was that he had to do some fast-ass talking, or he was up shit creek.

He had been busted for one thing or another more than a few times, and now he had gotten the attention of the DOT. He had been told that if he got one more blue skip, or operational violations citation, a.k.a. a ticket, he would be sitting at home in his tighty-whities for six months when they pulled his license and sidelined him for 180 calendar days. The luck of it was that he only had another nine days to go before the probation period ran out and he was free and clear. Instead, he was gonna get his ass strung up by a Dudley-Do-Right, and he didn't do nothing for it. He was looking at eight years with this company in a couple of more months, and that was about to get flushed. No way would they hold his slot for him while he sat around the house for six months.

He would have to find another gig and that was a pain in the ass. He liked this one a lot; they didn't ask questions, and he was under the radar with the suits. That's the way he liked life to be. He just had to make a good case for Officer Bacon here and he might be able to stay clean. It's not like he did anything wrong. What was his big alternative? He could have just ass-rammed the other truck when it swerved and slowed. Sure, that was the better course of action, alright. He had to remember that next time. Someone else is driving drunk and stupid, just run them over. After all, squashing Citizen Townie like a bug on the highway, that's better than quick action and getting a little wiggle-wiggle.

He looked behind him using his driver's mirror. The donut eater hadn't gotten out of his roller yet. He hated that; he hated when they made him wait for them to come get him. Then just as his patience was starting to wear thin, the trooper got out of his car and started to slowly walk along the side of Hank's rig. He took his slow, sweet time at it, as he walked he looked the whole side of the rig over very carefully. He approached the side of the drive unit and looked at the license numbers and stickers that were there, comparing them to the printout that he had gotten from his in-car computer. When he was sure that everything was as it was supposed to be, he used his flashlight to rap on the driver's door. Hank took a deep breath and let it out. Come on Hank, it's just your career, he said to himself as he opened the door and climbed down from the truck into the drizzling rain. His massive boots hit the wet pavement and he turned to look at the trooper.

What seems to be the problem, Officer? he said, shielding his eyes from the rain with his hand.

Please keep your hands at your sides, sir, the officer said, looking him over from head to toe. The problem is that little wobble that you had back there that came from you braking down so fast on that last turn. With the wet conditions, that was a very dangerous maneuver. I was just wondering what the hell made you think it was a good idea. You could have jackknifed and killed yourself or someone else in the process with that cowboy bullshit.

Officer, I swear, I had no other choice. I was cruising and this guy in front of me, in a white pickup truck, he started to swerve and hit his brakes hard. I had to do a fast slowdown to keep from running him over. The guy was either drunk, sleepy, or crazy, Hank said, trying his best to sound convincing, even though it was the truth. One thing that Hank had learned over the years was that the truth was relative when