FFMM Dogged Town
Next day, the sun sits high and merciless by the time we reach the community pool, baking the cracked concrete until it radiates heat in shimmering waves.
My boots crunch against loose pebbles that have blown in from the red dirt beyond the fence, and I can feel the sweat already gathering at the nape of my neck, dampening the loose tendrils of hair that escaped my top knot.
"You sure about this?" I ask, "We had some great memories. Girl, what's the point in looking at a drained concrete hole?"
Janna doesn't answer immediately. She's ahead of me, her hips swaying with that deliberate confidence that makes men stupid, her black tank top already darkening with sweat between her shoulder blades.
The pool's been empty for months—
"One last time," she finally says, not turning around.
"Before it's filled in."
I follow her through the gap in the fence, my fingers trailing along the rusted metal. The pool deck stretches before us, bleached white by the sun, the deep end a hollow concrete bowl that once held laughing bodies and splashing chaos.
Now it's a grave of good times, littered with wind-blown debris and the twisted metal of abandoned pool furniture. The deep end still holds a few stagnant inches, green with algae.
The smell hits me then—stagnant water and hot concrete and something else, something alive.
Musk, sharp and recent.
"Janna."
She stops. Her head tilts, listening, and I watch the moment she hears it too—the click of work boots on concrete. Two figures emerge from behind the old lifeguard station, shaded by the one remaining awning that hasn't collapsed yet.
Jack and Joey Williams.
I haven't seen them much. Jackaroos from the nearest cattle station. Regulars at the whore house in the mines boom days.
Both big boys who fill the doorways. Rough and ready.
Jack's shirtless, wearing only faded work jeans slung low on his hips. His chest is a landscape of muscle and old scars, a new tattoo curling around his left shoulder—some kind of snake thing I don't recognise.
He's holding a catch pole, the loop dangling loose, and there's a dog behind him, some rangy cattle dog mix, matted and suspicious.
Joey steps out beside him, and I have to force my eyes to stay on his face. He's in a singlet that's seen better decades, the fabric thin enough to show the dark circles of his nipples, his arms thick with veins that stand out against skin gone leather-brown from outdoor work.
He's got a carrier cage in one hand, empty, and his eyes find us immediately, travelling with the boldness of men who've learned they have something worth showing.
"Well, fuck me," Jack says, and his voice has dropped an octave since I last heard it, gravel and honey. "Josie Lawson and Janna Black. Heard you two were still holding down the fort."
"Jack Hardwick." Janna's voice carries that particular purr she uses when she's appraising merchandise. "You grew up pretty."
Joey laughs, a sound like rocks tumbling in a dry creek bed. "That's what we're calling it now? Pretty?"
He sets down the carrier, and the movement pulls his singlet tight across his chest, the worn cotton straining.
"We're catching strays. Mining company contract. Round 'em up before they go feral, start breeding, become a problem."
"Environmental nuisance," Jack adds, and he leans on his catch pole in a way that makes his forearms flex, the muscle bellies round and hard.
"Got six dogs so far, four cats. Taking 'em to the shelter in Newman tomorrow."
"Big job for two boys," I say, and I hate how my voice sounds, how I'm already cataloguing the way Joey's jeans hang, the obvious weight behind his zipper that he makes no effort to hide.
"Big men," Janna corrects, and she takes a step forward, into their space, into the shade.
Her hand finds my elbow, pulling me with her, and I let her because I'm already moving, drawn by gravity I don't want to name.
The shade under the awning is a relief, ten degrees cooler, and it smells of them—sweat and diesel and the particular musk of men who've been working hard outdoors.
The cattle dog growls low, but Jack nudges it with his boot, gentle, and it subsides. They cage it.
"How long you been around the area?" I ask, because someone has to say something normal, something that isn't about the way Joey's looking at my mouth.
"Three days," Joey says.
His eyes travel down my body, slow and deliberate, from my messy top knot to my scuffed boots and back up.
"Heard you two threw Daisy a proper send-off."
Janna's fingers tighten on my elbow. "Mrs Williams has a big mouth."
"Mrs Williams has a grateful heart," Jack says, and there's something in his tone that makes me look at him properly for the first time.
He's watching us with an intensity that doesn't match his lazy posture, his dark eyes fixed on the place where Janna's hand meets my arm.
"Said you took care of Maisy. Made her feel... seen. Before she left."
"A sweet girl," I manage, though the words feel inadequate, ridiculous, spoken in this charged air between four adults who all know exactly why we're still standing here.
"Sweet," Joey repeats, and he takes a step closer, close enough that I can smell the salt of his sweat, the particular tang of his skin.
"That's what you like, Josie? Sweet?"
I should step back. I should make a joke, deflect, do any of the thousand things I've learned to keep men like him at arm's length.
Instead, I feel my chin lift, my shoulders square, the old stubbornness rising like a shield.
"I like what I like."
"And what's that?" Jack asks.
He's moved too, positioning himself on Janna's other side, boxing us in against the lifeguard station wall. The cattle dog whines, sensing tension, but Jack doesn't look away from my face.
"Since we're asking."
Janna answers for me, her voice dropping to that register that makes my stomach clench.
"She likes it rough. Likes it when there's something to push against."
She turns her head, catching Jack's eye.
"Don't you, Jack? Like something that fights back a little?"
Jack's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble.
"You always this forward, Janna?"
"Only when it's worth my time."
Joey laughs again, but it's different now, breathier, and I watch his hand lift, hesitate, then settle on the fence post beside my head.
His knuckles are scarred, the nails short and clean despite the dirty work.
"Pool's empty," he says, almost to himself. "No water to waste. No one comes here anymore."
"No one to hear," Jack adds, and his hand mirrors his brother on Janna's other side, caging her between him and the wall.
"No one to see."
I should feel trapped. I should feel afraid, or at least cautious, with two men I haven't seen in a fair while.
Instead, I feel the familiar heat building low in my belly, the pulse between my thighs that I've learned not to ignore in this dying town.
"You're here for the same reason we are. One last time in the old places. Before it's all just... red dirt and memory."
His thumb finds the worn spot on my shorts, the place where the denim has gone soft from my hand constantly resting there while I work. He presses, and I feel it like he's touching bare skin, feel the pressure of his touch against the bone of my hip.
"Eight inches," Janna says suddenly, "That's what I heard. About you two. Premium stock."
Jack's laugh is startled, genuine, breaking some of the tension.
"Christ, Janna. You always this subtle?"
"Never," she says, and she reaches out, her hand flat against Jack's chest, spreading her fingers across the muscle there.
"So, you going to show us what we're working with? Or we standing here until the mosquitoes carry us off?"
Joey's hand tightens on my hip, pulling me closer, and I feel him then, the hard length of him pressed against my stomach through his jeans, through my thin cotton tee.
He's not eight inches yet, but he's thick, heavy, promising, and I feel my breath catch, my hands finding his waist automatically, holding on.
"You're filthy," I tell him, but my fingers are already working his belt, already finding the zip of his jeans.
"And your rep, barmaid."
He catches my wrist, stopping me, and his eyes search my face with an intensity that makes me want to look away.
"This what you want? Here? Like this?"
"I want," I say, and I don't finish the sentence, just push his hand away and drop his jeans.
The sound of Jack's belt hitting the concrete makes me turn, and I see Janna already on her knees, her black tank top pushed up to expose her breasts, her mouth stretched wide around something that makes her eyes water. Jack's head is thrown back, his catch pole forgotten against the wall, both hands buried in Janna's dark hair.
Damn, the bitch is ahead of me.
Spitting. Tugging. Sliding her lips around a meat pole. Sliding cock to the back of her throat.
Joey's in my hand, hot and heavy and exactly as promised, the weight of him making my wrist ache with the effort of holding him.
He's uncut, the skin sliding as I work him, and I feel him throb against my palm, feel the vein running along the underside pulse with his heartbeat.
"Fuck," he breathes, and his hands find my top knot, pulling pins loose until my hair falls around my shoulders, tangled and sweat-damp.
"Look at you. Look at you, Josie."
I don't want to be looked at. I want to be used, want to be filled with something that burns away the thinking, the feeling, the endless grief of this place.
I swallow his pecker. That reduces him to a pile of groans.
Janna and I take our pill regularly.
We're ready for pricks like these two. They never carry condoms.
Jack has Janna bent over the broken diving board, her shorts around her ankles, her hands gripping the splintered wood while he works himself into her from behind.
"Aahh! Aahh!"
The sound of her voice carries, filthy and encouraging, and I feel my own cunt clench in response, empty and aching.
"Turn around," Joey says, and his hands are on my shoulders, turning me, pushing me toward the edge of the pool block.
"Hands on the concrete."
The concrete is rough against my palms, still hot from the sun even in the shade. I feel him behind me, his hands on my hips, pulling my shorts down until they catch on my boots, leaving me exposed from the waist down, my ass in the air, my cunt wet and open to the warm desert air.
"You've got a cunt made for fucking," he says, and the words should make me angry, should make me spin around and slap him, but instead I feel myself clench harder, feel the drip of arousal on my inner thigh.
"Look at you. Dripping for it. For me."
"Just fuck me," I spit, because I won't beg, won't give him that, but my voice cracks on the last word, and he laughs, low and knowing.
His fingers find me first, two of them sliding in easy, curling to press against the spot that makes my knees buckle.
Fuck, I'm wet. I can't deny it. Juices leak around his fingers.
I gasp, my forehead dropping to the concrete, and he works me like that, rough and deliberate, until I'm pushing back against his hand, until I'm making sounds I don't recognise as my own.
"Orrgh! Yeah! Ooohh! Fuck! Mmm, mmm."
"That's it," he murmurs, and I feel the head of him against my entrance, thick and insistent.
"That's it, Josie. Take it."
He pushes in slow, too slow, letting me feel every inch of the stretch, the shape of him filling me until I think I can't take more, until he bottoms out and his hips press against my ass and I feel him everywhere, throbbing deep inside.
"Fuck," I breathe, and my hands scramble for purchase on the concrete, nails catching in cracks, finding nothing.
"Yeah," he agrees, and he pulls back, almost out, then drives in hard enough to push me forward, my boots scraping on the deck.
"That's it. Fuck back. Show me how much you hate me."
I do hate him. I hate his confidence, his ease.
Most of all, his enjoyment as his balls slap my arse cheeks.
The prick is in control. He's dogging me.
"That's my girl," he pants, and he sets a rhythm, rough and punishing.
"That's my filthy barmaid."
I want to argue, want to tell him he's wrong, but Janna chooses that moment to scream, a raw sound of release that echoes off the empty pool walls, and I feel Joey's rhythm falter, feel him glance over at his brother before he redoubles his efforts, fucking me harder, deeper, as if he can outdo whatever Jack just did.
"She's coming," he tells me, like I can't hear, like I can't see Janna collapsed over the diving board, Jack still moving in her, slower now, drawing it out. "You going to come for me, Josie? Going to squeeze my cock like a good little slut?"
The words shouldn't work. They're crude, reductive, the kind of thing I'd slap a man for in the bar.
But here, bent over an empty pool in the light of afternoon, with my best friend moaning ten feet away and a huge cock pounding into me, they land like sparks on dry grass.
I feel the heat building, the coil tightening, feel my own wetness dripping down my thighs with every stroke.
Yeah, I'll remember this pool. Old times. Final time.
"Touch yourself," he commands, and one of his hands leaves my hip to find my aroused bud.
The bastard directs my fingers under his. It stirs my heat. We combine in exciting my clitty to its peak.
"Come on my cock. Show me what you look like when you let go."
His fingers are insistent, his cock filling me so completely that I can feel the pulse of him, can feel every ridge and vein as he grinds himself against me in a way that hits everything at once.
"Fuck," I gasp, and my whole body seizes, my cunt clamping down on him so hard that he curses, his rhythm breaking, his hips stuttering against mine.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
I come like drowning, like falling into the empty pool and never hitting bottom, my vision whiting out, my hands scrabbling uselessly at the concrete.
He keeps fucking me through it, rough and uneven, chasing his own release, and I feel it when he finds it, feel the pulse of him swelling even larger before he shouts and stills, buried deep, his forehead dropping to my sweat-slick back.
Heated dual release under a relentless sun.
We stay like that, breathing hard, joined and stupid, until the sound of Jack's voice makes me open my eyes.
"We gotta get to the animal shelter. You girls take care of yourselves."
And jeans zipped, and belts buckled, and the pricks leave.
One with the cage. On with the pole.
Janna and I sit on the edge of the empty pool.
Brush back each other's hair behind our ears.
Then we lock hands. Swing our legs.
We'll talk about this in twenty years; over a tequila.