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WHAT AN ASS
LGBTQ+EroticaContemporary

WHAT AN ASS

by Silas Thorne
ExplicitAI Assisted
3,504 words
gaymmmature menolder manbeartruckerass eatingrimmingdirtymuskresidual scattruck stopfirst person

Big Hank has been sitting on his ass for twelve hours. Sweat-soaked underwear stuck in the crack, a bitter trace of the last shit still clinging to the hole, and he didn’t wipe properly on purpose. He parks the truck in the dark corner of the rest area, climbs into the sleeper, and spreads his cheeks. Vic climbs in. He doesn’t hesitate. He buries his nose between those hairy cheeks, breathes in the road filth, and then eats every last bit — licking, sucking, and swallowing the dried shit while he strokes his cock. This is not romance. This is a big, hairy trucker who saved his dirty ass for a man who wants to taste every hour he spent behind the wheel. No filters. Just the real flavor of a long day on the road.

CW:gaymmmature menolder manbeartruckerass eatingrimmingdirtymuskresidual scattruck stopfirst person
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Preview from chapter one

First Edition: 2026

WHAT AN ASS

BIG HANK “PAPA BEAR”

Papa Bear saved it for his mouth

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced without written permission from the author.

This story is for adults only (+18).

All characters are adults.

I’d had my ass stuck to the seat for twelve hours when I pulled the truck into the rest area, at the back, where the service-area light doesn’t reach. It was past midnight. I killed the engine and the silence dropped on me all at once. The cab smelled of me. Old sweat in the T-shirt. Diesel on my hands. Seat leather, hot from the whole day. And under that, closer, the smell of a man who hasn’t got up off his own ass since noon.

My back hurt. My eyes burned. But what was really throbbing was lower, between my cheeks, where my underwear had gone damp and stuck in the crack. Every time I changed gear, the cloth worked into the cleft. Every bump rubbed my hole. I hadn’t showered in two days. I’d shit in a gas-station bathroom, standing, in a hurry, and the paper was shit: I wiped twice and left it. I knew what I had back there. Sweat. Hair matted down. A bitter, earthy trace, already dry on the edge of the pucker. It didn’t disgust me. It got my cock hard in my pants.

I didn’t want a shower. I wanted Vic. He liked my big hairy ass, open for his face, and he’d told me more than once, mouth still wet: the more flavor it had, the better he ate it.

Today he was going to find it the way he liked it, sweaty, the whole day worked into the crack. And I liked that. Feeling his nose buried between my cheeks, his beard scraping me, his tongue searching, and hearing him grunt with pleasure while he ate it, like he didn’t want to take his face out of there.

I took out my phone.

“Just got to the usual spot. Twelve hours driving. I think you’re going to like it today.”

He answered right away.

“On my way. Leave the door open.”

I smiled in the dark. I took off my boots and my jeans. The underwear came off stuck to the crack, a brown stain on the cloth, where the hole had been all day. I brought it to my face and smelled it. Sweat, and under that the bitter trace I’d left on myself. I’d always liked that smell.

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