PECKER BADCOCK
by John Candu

Nearly every swinging dick within 50 miles was there.  At least one
hundred fifty clapping, singing, sweating members of the Piney Woods
Holiness Church of the Seven Gifts were jammed into splintery home-made
pews as the Smith Boys Gospel Quartet led a rousing, high-energy
sing-a-long of "When the Saints Come Marching Home."  Another fifty or
so of the faithful lined the walls around the church.  With the
temperature hovering in the 90s well after sundown, every window was
raised and black clouds of bugs darted around lights and thunked against
ceiling tiles as if dancing to the music.  

Backing up the quartet was The Piney Woods Gospel Band, consisting of
four profoundly untalented home boys: Matthew Mark-Luke Johns on
trumpet, Pete Moss on harmonica, "June Bug" Jones on sax, and "Pecker"
Badcock on drums.  The fact that June Bug could read music made him
leader by default.

Pecker was clearly "caught up in the spirit," pounding his skins in a
rhythm apparently unrelated to the music.  No one seemed to notice.  
Pecker and I had been smiling and winking at one another for quite
awhile and I was looking forward to meeting him during a break. 
Meanwhile I was working up an erection and thought Pecker would have to
be blind not to know.

Pecker kept his eyes on me as he performed.  I was leaning against the
pulpit which had been removed from the stage and pushed into a corner up
front.  After a particularly unamazing rendition of "Amazing Grace" that
was a bit heavy on drum and cymbal, deacon Harley Davidson Jones, the
master of ceremonies, announced a short intermission to give the next
group time to set up.

Wiping sweat and picking up a church fan with an image of Jesus and a
lamb on one side, Pecker ambled toward me.

"Hope you're enjoying the music," he said with a broad grin.

Pecker was probably 18 or 19, a compact 5' 8" and somewhat stocky with a
slight beer gut.  He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and tight topic-weight
short pants that sported a bulge.

"Man, that's great drumming!  Where'd you pick it up?"

"It's a natural gift," he said, beating the hot air with the fan. "We
all got gifts, y' know; we just have to look hard enough to find 'em." 
He paused a moment, then: "You look hard, you'll see things."

I explained to Pecker that I was there to write a newspaper feature.  I
asked if he'd mind answering a few questions.

"Sure. The next group's gonna sang aw-capeller, so I got some time." He
scratched at a row of fresh mosquito bites on his arm.

We went outdoors where it was only slightly cooler, and Pecker invited
me to walk with him to his truck where he'd left a pack of Camel.  He
offered me one and I shook my head.  He lit up, then reached into a
cooler in the back of the truck and fished out a couple of Coors.  I
rubbed the cold can against my forehead before popping the top.  Pecker
walked to the tailgate and dragged on the cigarette.  I took a seat on
the hood of a car.  Pecker unzipped and brought out a fist full of meat
and began pissing in a long stream. It sounded like a bull peeing on a
flat rock.

"Ah!  That feels better.  The church's got only two bathrooms, so most
of the men come outside to take a whiz," he said.

I took a long swig of brew and watched as the strong flow continued for
quite awhile.  Pecker was uncut, about seven inches soft, and maybe two
inches thick. He noticed that I was admiring.

"You like what y' see?"

My eyes lifted from his cock and met his eyes.  "I sure do, Pecker. 
You're hung like a horse."

Pecker laughed and shook the last drops from his cock, then turned
toward me as he worked his fist back and forth over the shaft.  "Then
why don't you get down there  and clean me up?"

I feel to my knees on the soft grass and took his growing cock into my
mouth and swirled my tongue around the head as it came to life.  I
grasped the shaft with both hands as it grew.  I lavished attention
beneath his hood and the area just under the pee slit, then let my
tongue explore the groove and flared head.

"Uh! Yeh! Uh! Suck it!! Yeh!"

It was too big to swallow, so I tongued the length of his shaft and took
his balls into my mouth.  I slathered it with saliva and turned them
over and around with my tongue as I jacked him.  My mouth went to his
root and I took a mouthful of public hair and gently tugged and nuzzled
before letting my tongue trail across the top of the shaft back to the
head.  He must have been about a foot long by then.  I took his head
back in my mouth and bobbed back and forth, and soon I tasted his
pre-spunk.  

"Aww-yehhh!  DO-it!!

While I sucked, I played with his balls, which were now riding high.  He
began thrusting, and my other hand countered each forward thrust with a
backward jacking thrust on his shaft as my tongue fluttered like a
butterfly on the sensitive nerves below the head.

"Awww!  Gawd!"

The next group's "aw-capeller" rendition of "When the Roll's Called Up
Yonder" began.  It was much better without the band, I noticed.

Pecker was snorting like a hog in heat.

"SUCK that thang!!  GIT IT!  Yeh!"

He blew.  Enormous blasts of cum shot into my throat.  I pumped my mouth
on the prong and swallowed fast as I could.

The whole thing was over in about two minutes.  I got up, took a swig of
beer as a chaser and began fondling him, praying for a "revival".