Disclaimer: The story depicts scenes of reluctance and at times non-consensual sexual contact. All characters and places in this story are fictional. Any similarity herein to real persons or places is entirely coincidental.
Brad Ollingers never expected to kneel butt naked in a county plow and let a black man (or any man) tongue his ass, but funny things can happen on those country roads of Wisconsin.
It all started when a snowstorm hit Woodland County in early November. On call to plow snow, Brad scrunched a knit cap over his short brown hair and leaned in to kiss his wife.
Their lips lingered, tongues playing affectionately, and his square jaw, rough with stubble, went scritchy-scratch against her soft skin. She wrapped her arms around him and giggled as he gave her butt a playful spank.
"Love ya, babe" he breathed in her ear.
"Love ya back," she giggled, patting his tight ass. "You be safe out there." Jessica looked out the window at the hard, raging snow. "I need you home to warm me up."
With a smug grin, Brad gazed at her breasts, the breasts that he'd fondle and suck later tonight. He could see her now, riding his cock, hands over head, shaking her breasts for him, nipples perky and hard. "Mm," he grunted. "Sounds good."
The couple kissed a bit more before Brad finally pulled away.
"Should be home by 2 in the morning or so. If not, give the kids a hug for me when they wake up." With one more spank of her butt and a playful wiggle of his eyebrows, he zipped up his coveralls and went out the door.
The snowplow stood not far from the house, primed and ready. It belonged to the county, but everyone trusted Brad. He'd spent all 36 years of his life in Woodland County. As a kid he was a popular athlete at Badger Falls High School, and now he worked at his father's cement company, Ollingers & Sons. Two years ago, he'd even followed in his father's footsteps and won election to the county board, one of its youngest members--an honor which also gave him the present duty of plowing snow.
Mounting the cab, he felt as primed as the plow. He enjoyed stripping snow from county roads, just riding by himself, listening to some tunes. Turning his radio to country western, he sank his key in the ignition, coaxed the engine into a satisfied hum, and thrust it into gear. He pressed the blade onto the slender lane and watched it pierce the first, virgin layer of Lady Winter, spurting an arc of milky-white snow into the ditch.
Brad and Jessie had built a decent life. They'd married young after he'd gotten her pregnant--"You knew a boy like that would breed young," he once heard his grandmother say--and the first year or two were full of fights. But that was 18 years ago, and now they had three more kids, a small house on 40 wooded acres, a couple dogs, good jobs, and a healthy sex life.
Her pretty curves excited him, and she loved his muscle. At six feet tall, with a tight waist, shoulders made thick from summer baseball, and limbs hardened by working cement, Brad had plenty of muscles for loving. Not even his nightly beer (or two) had packed any unwanted pounds on his lean tummy. Lightly fuzzy by nature, he grew a beard easily, which he did once a year, every year, for deer hunting. He ran a hand over the start of it now, a light stubble. Unlike some wives, Jessie liked Brad with or without a beard--"Just like I'd take you with or without underwear," she'd tease.
Several hours passed, Brad's blade faithfully penetrating Lady Winter's crystal skin and shooting creamy white streaks into the air. He finally took a rest at the county garage to reload salt and chat with another driver. Alan Hinkle was a fit and clean-shaven man, about 60 years old, a friend of his father's who had known Brad since he was a boy.
"You be careful out there, kid," Alan said. "I skimmed along the state highway on Ridge Road and saw cars everywhere."
"Right on Ridge Road?"
"No, up on the highway. Moe's gonna make a mint." Moe was the owner of a local tow company, a grizzly, large man whose personality matched his appearance. Brad grinned.
"Good ol' Moe." He sucked down one last drip of coffee.
Could have used some cream,
he thought. "Those dumbass drivers on the highway are all city people trying to get to Minneapolis or Milwaukee. Don't know when to stay home."
Alan nodded. "The fuckers don't think. Watch for cars in the ditches."
Brad nodded, refilled his thermos with some warm coffee, and soon was perched back on the plow, letting the blade dig deep.
It was after midnight when Alan's prediction came true. Turning onto one of the county highways, Brad saw the red blinkers of an old Toyota Camry, its nose stuck in the opposite ditch. Per protocol, Brad grabbed his phone and texted a message to the county sheriff, but the message delayed and didn't send.
"Dammit." Brad jerked up his blade and stopped the plow. Leaving the cab's cozy warmth, he headed through blowing snow to the stranded vehicle.
From the swirling whiteness emerged a large figure, a man, tall with broad shoulders. He stood next to his car, shivering and cursing.
"Fuck this shithole!" he muttered, shoving a phone in his jeans. "No fucking coverage!"
Brad paused, surprised. The man was young and black. Brad and Jessie had neighbors who adopted black kids, and some families had black grandbabies after their daughters got knocked up in Milwaukee. But those kids usually left once they grew up. Who was this guy?
About 25 years old, he wore his hair in short, thick dreadlocks, fanning from atop his head like tropical palm leaves. A thick beard grew along his jaw, too, coarse and shaggy. Earrings glinted from both ears, and he wore a short jacket, his jeans sagging on his hips.
Why the hell is a guy like that up here?
Brad wondered.
"Hey," Brad called, "need a hand?"
A stubborn scowl furrowed the man's brow. He slowly looked Brad over.
"Yeah, man. I need a fucking tow."
Brad didn't like the man's tone but ignored it.
He's just a guy who needs help,
he told himself, and if white people from the cities couldn't handle winter travel, he figured a black dude would need even more help.
"Yeah, I'd yank ya out myself," Brand answered, "but I'm s'posed to call you in for a tow." He glanced at his phone. His text still hadn't sent. "I might hafta pull up a couple miles to get coverage."
"Shit, man, I don't wanna stay out here waiting." The scowling man glanced past Brad at his plow. "How 'bouts I go with you?"
"Um...." Brad hesitated. "Yeah, it's just--I'm not s'posed to give you a ride. County rules."
"Yeah? An' your fuckin' rules say I gotta freeze my ass off, man? C'mon, let me get with you."
Brad hesitated.
