By Joshua Ryan
Chapter 20: Stallion A, Meet Stallion B
The slap in front of me was what I’d call an old guy. Forty years old, maybe–but he looked older and younger at the same time. His face was sort of weathered and there were scars on it, like his tools had hit him a few times—not too bad though. Actually good, if you know what I mean. But what I mean about young . . . . He wasn’t one of those slaps that always manages to get issued issued a suit of browns that are a little too small for its Giant Bulging Muscles. His browns were sorta loose and baggy, but you could tell from the way they fell off his pecs and his arms and his thighs that he definitely had things under control in the physical department. So that was interesting! But what was really young about him was just the way he was standing in the stall, leaning one arm on the upper rack, like he was saying, OK, whatever, I’m here, so what?
So what can I say? He was fuckin made for that stall, and that fuckin stall was made for him. Question was, how well was I gonna fit in?
“OK,” he said, “I’ll show you how it goes in here.”