Welcome to the world of mansploitation fiction by M.N. Manmacker! It’s a series of linked stories involving man-on-man action in a world full of homoerotic situations, alpha males and raunchy, filthy rutting!
Welcome to the world of mansploitation fiction by M.N. Manmacker! It’s a series of linked stories involving man-on-man action in a world full of homoerotic situations, alpha males and raunchy, filthy rutting!
Content on this website includes pictures and videos that contain adult content. Written material (excerpts, etc.) may contain adult content, including offensive material, nonconsensual sex and other topics you may find objectionable. You must be at least eighteen years of age to visit this website.
Comments, questions and requests can be sent to MNManmacker@proton.me or sign up for the mailing list to keep abreast of new releases.
What does “mansploitation” mean?
À la 70s femsploitation and blaxsploitation movies, mansploitation stories emphasize masculine gender roles in ways that are sexy beyond belief!
Mansploitation stories use a floating, mobile timeline, like a classic cartoon or sitcom.
1: That means time moves forward but the characters mostly don’t — in other words, a college student character will always be a college student, even as the year changes. References and technologies will advance as well. This is a floating timeline.
2: Stories are set in various locations, characterized principally by the bar Lipsweet. For example, when Lipsweet is in Martinsburg, West Virginia, it is a rough-and-tumble strip club dominated by rednecks and hicks in the modern day. When Lipsweet is in Santa Monica, California, it is a modern-day cholo bar. When it is in Baton Rouge, it is a 1930s speakeasy , and when it is in Los Angeles, it is a beachfront bar in the 1980s. The characters will be translated to each setting but will remain mostly the same. Some storylines will unfold along different times and places. This is a mobile timeline.
3: Don’t worry too much about continuity. Some developments, mainly new characters, continue into future stories. But mostly, characters and situations reset in each new story. I try to keep character details consistent, but I have lots of oopsies (e.g., characters changing surnames, etc.). It’s a multiverse thing, deal with it.
Mansploitation stories have subtitles.
The subtitles are formatted like this: “A Lifelong Bachelors Mansploitation Novel” or “A Forceful Alphas Mansploitation Novella”.
Ultra-Raunchy: real dirty stuff, hobos, piss, rimjobs, etc
Mansploitation stories have pictures!
Most stories feature pictures, which are generated by AI. AI produces far superior images for my purposes compared to stock photo.
While images are intended to bring to mind a specific character, they don’t exactly correspond to descriptions in the book. That’s partially because AI isn’t real precise with things like ages, hairstyles and tattoos, but also it simply provides a little variety, so readers don’t feel locked in to a look that may not be their ideal. In any case, just like with stock photos, think of it as less the “actual look” of a character and more a head shot of an actor who could play that character — i.e., hair and makeup will change, they might be a little off in various ways, but they have the right attitude, atmosphere and ambiance to represent the character.
“That ain’t a rule, Sampson, stop sayin’ that,” said Officer Flatears. He did have flat ears, as if he got punched so hard his ears turned into swollen pancakes. He had an awkward but handsome face too, with a big jutting jaw and crooked teeth.
“No!” said Officer Messypants. He was a muscular but ugly guard, with a face like a bucktoothed ferret. He kept his hair in a high and tight crewcut like a Marine, but opinions were divided on whether he had ever really been a Marine.
His cellmate, who slept above him, was a tall, wiry hillbilly named Stumbler, who talked like Foghorn Leghorn. He was a boom-happy hick who you could just tell came from a trailer park, his voice hollery to hell and back. Zach knew the type, and he would never have hung out with someone like Stumbler on the outside. He was strong but lean, looking hungry, like he had more muscles than he had protein in his meals and his body was bursting at the seams. He looked so muscular it was painful to be him even though he wasn’t really that muscular. tumbler smelled zesty and musky, like an old, dry sailboat, and his muscles felt firm like steel rope in a taut canvas sac.
Zach has been forced to join an Aryan prison gang, but now an older Aryan is gonna join his bed too… Can Zach handle sharing a bunk with the legendary prison alpha Stumbler?!
Read it soon as an ebook!
Read the whole thing here!
Zach had fallen asleep quickly for the first night since he got to the New Jersey State Prison — or really, for the first time since he was arrested. That was because he had finally completed his initiation into the Aryan Way, he was in Cell 8856 instead of in gen-pop, where he couldn’t sleep virtually at all, due to the marauding crackheads, extortionists, needles and vomit puddles littering the floor. That had been hell on earth, and he did what he needed to in order to get out of there. His head was freshly shaved, his skin prickling sensitively in the chilly air of the prison cell. He wasn’t really racist and he didn’t feel good about the things he had said to fit in, but he had always known he would have to join a gang to survive here. Given that he was a slim white man with no ties to the Italians or any other gang, he had no choice but to join up with the Aryan Way. His cellmate, who slept above him, was a tall, wiry hillbilly named Stumbler, who talked like Foghorn Leghorn. Zach got the impression he didn’t really buy into the Aryan ideology of the Aryan Way either, but he was a loyal lieutenant. He was, in a sense, Zach’s boss, and also his chief protector, he had assured Zach that he’d be safe as long as he was loyal to the Aryan Way. So when Zach awoke to the sound of Stumbler climbing down from his bunk, he assumed the man was going to the toilet. Instead, he lifted the blanket off Zach’s body and climbed into the bunk next to him, carrying the sheet and blanket from his own bed with him. “Hey, I’m cold, my brother,” Stumbler said. He sounded sleepy and somehow even bashful. Stumbler was never bashful. He was a boom-happy hick who you could just tell came from a trailer park, his voice hollery to hell and back. Zach knew the type, and he would never have hung out with someone like Stumbler on the outside. He was strong but lean, looking hungry, like he had more muscles than he had protein in his meals and his body was bursting at the seams. He looked so muscular it was painful to be him even though he wasn’t really that muscular. “Lemme in here.” Zach’s heart pounded, and he rocketed to full wakefulness. He twitched as though he was gonna tumble outta the bunk, but he was pinned between Stumbler and the cold stone wall. He gulped. Stumbler’s body was firm and weirdly cold, like stone, almost as cold as the wall, which Zach scooted up against until the chill got through his clothes and the sheet and it felt like rubbing up against an ice block. It was very cold tonight. Zach lay on his side to avoid getting caught up in Stumbler’s arms as he arranged his own sheet and blanket on top of Zach’s. Laying on his side was not intended to be permanent, but when the blanket was replaced, Stumbler lay on his back, and there wasn’t enough room for Zach to do the same thing. All the movement let a lot of cold air in, so Zach shivered. “Uh… hey, Stumbler,” he said, only cuz he couldn’t think of anything more intelligent to say. “You wanna share my bed?” “Relax, everyone does this here, it’s cold. We gotta share heat, not a big deal,” Stumbler said. “We got twice as many blankets if we double up, hoss.” It was cold, Zach thought, he was shivering as well. He could tell now that many of the Aryans in Cell 8856 — a big gymnasium-type cell with a hundred and thirteen men in it — were doubling up. It wasn’t that cold outside, but it was cold enough the heat should be on. The heat was not on, that was why the prison was freezing cold. They only turned on the heat when court precedent deemed it cruel and unusual punishment not to provide heat, and that meant damn near the freezing point. He nodded, blushing but glad that Stumbler couldn’t see it. Zach was not a tough guy at all. He was in reasonably good shape, he was on his college golf team. He hadn’t told anyone that because it would hardly make him sound tough. But still, they worked out every day, and he was still in good shape. Not as muscular Stumbler though. Zach’s face was just inches from Stumbler’s scruffy tanned cheeks. He could smell the man’s deodorant and feel his smooth chest rubbing against Zach’s flesh. “You see that new nurse today? The blonde?” Stumbler asked once he settled in, blankets covering both men, their body heat mingling in the stony cell. Stumbler’s flesh no longer felt cold. Now he was like a warmed stone, and Zach wanted to cuddle up close to him. He didn’t, but he wanted to. The stone wall behind his ass was frozen. “Damn, I wanted to fuck that bitch, hoss. I would fuck her hard! Any hole she want.” “Yeah, she was pretty hot,” Zach said, too nervous to really think about what Stumbler was saying. He didn’t remember seeing any blonde nurse. There were only a couple women working at the New Jersey State Prison, and none of them were blonde that Zach had seen. “You happy about joinin’ the Aryan Way?” “Yeah, of course.” Stumbler smiled. It was too dark for Zach to see his face, but he could sense Stumbler’s grizzled face move. They were so close that Zach could feel the man’s smile in the pattern his breath made when it condensed on his cheek. Stumbler said, “I know that ain’t true. You ain’t really a believer in the cause, is you, hoss?” “Well… I meant what I said. I swore loyalty to the organization.” “You did what you needed to do,” Stumbler said. He reached up and rubbed Zach’s freshly-shaved head. He chuckled when Zach winced and moved his head away. “You look good with a shaved head. I bet you’s cold though. You wanna put yer head under the covers?” He did, very much so, but Zach shook his head. He could live with a cold head. He wasn’t sure what Stumbler would do to him under the covers. “No, thanks, I want the fresh air.” But Stumbler kept one hand on Zach’s scalp, pushing down on his head. He didn’t push as hard as he could — Stumbler was very strong, and Zach would know if he was really forcing it. But he did push, and Zach had to actively fight against his hand. “Now come on, relax. I ain’t gonna ramrod ya, okay. The Aryan Way don’t allow that. You’s a skinmate, a brother-in-skin,” he said. He kissed Zach on the cheek. Zach wrinkled his nose and held his breath. “Yeah. I’m glad.” “If you decide to mess around, Zachary, y’know, that’s different-“ “No way, nuh-uh,” Zach said and gulped. Everybody told him he’d prolly get it up behind in prison. That was one of the reasons he joined the Aryan Way. They don’t allow it. But Stumbler sponsored Zach, which meant he could withdraw his sponsorship anytime. Then Zach would be out on his ass, sleeping on the floor in gen-pop again. “Relax, Zachary,” he said, then chuckled throatily as he placed one hand on Zach’s asscheek and squeezed. He had to reach over Zach’s body to do it, since Zach still lay on his side with Stumbler at his front. Zach yelped instinctively moved away from his hand, which meant he scooted closer to Stumbler’s body. Zach’s dick, in his sweatpants, touched Stumbler’s body, in his pants. Zach’s chest bumped up against Stumbler’s, and he felt twinges of inadequacy. Stumbler had a powerful chest firm with muscle. Zach was lean and athletic, but he had never been big, and nobody would call him especially strong. “Relax, hoss, relax,” Stumbler said. “Keep it quiet… Don’t attract attention from the guards. I ain’t gonna ramrod ya, I’m just playin’.” But he kept his hand on Zach’s ass, and even caressed it as he whispered in Zach’s ear. “We ain’t gonna tell no one what happens in the cell when the lights go out. Nobody need to know we share a bunk.” “Are you really racist?” Zach asked, hoping to change the subject to something that wouldn’t accidentally give Zach a hard-on. Stumbler had a Confederate flag tattoo on his bicep, but no swastikas or anything like that. He was not as scary as the other skinheads, he seemed more like a lovable muscle-bound redneck. He said he drank a lot on the outside, but Zach thought he was probably one of those overly gregarious drunks, and there was no alcohol in the cell. “Nah, I don’t believe in any kinda white power nonsense,” Stumbler said. He whispered directly in Zach’s ear. “If you tell anyone that, I’ll kill you.” “I won’t.” “We both had to join up for protection, hoss,” Stumbler said. “In this place, you gotta do whatever you gotta do to survive, to protect yer body, and yer mind. You understand that, son?” “Yeah. I get that. You gotta do what you gotta do,” Zach said. “That’s right,” Stumbler said, his voice low and slow. Then he added, “Hoss.” Zach realized as a silence overtook the cell that Stumbler was stroking his own dick. Zach gulped and tried to move away, but he was at the very edge of the bunk. Stumbler’s hand, resting on Zach’s ass, pulled him closer. Stumbler’s dick was out of his sweatpants now, and it jabbed into Zach’s crotch. “Sssh,” Stumbler said. “I need to get my nut off, or I’ll go crazy. You wanna play with it?” “I dunno…” Zach wrapped one hand around Stumbler’s cock. It was true, he was unsure if he should play with it or not. He’d rather not, of course, but it would be better to do that than take his massive cock up the ass. He didn’t know if no was a real option. If he had to get Stumbler off one way or another, he’d rather use his hand. But he was too scared to say all of that. So he just murmured softly as he let Stumbler guide his hand to his cock. Zach gulped and held it like a handle. He didn’t stroke it, he just held it, throbbing and hot in one hand. “Sssh… Before you answer, lemme remind you of a couple things. First, you gonna get so horny here yer balls are gonna burst, if you don’t start stroking yerself off. Second, you gonna go crazy if you only jack off and never get to show any affection with anyone. Third, I ain’t gonna ramrod ya, son,” he said. He slipped one of his big callused mitts down Zach’s pants and grabbed his dick. He whistled in an obviously patronizing way. “You got some meat there, boi.” “Uh, Stumbler, uh…” Stumbler’s hand stroked Zach’s meat until it was hard. Zach held his breath, too nervous to think, the Stumbler’s sweat assaulting his senses when he did force himself to inhale. Stumbler smelled zesty and musky, like an old, dry sailboat, and his muscles felt firm like steel rope in a taut canvas sac. Stumbler kissed him on the lips and rammed his tongue into Zach’s mouth. The squeal that came outta Zach’s throat would have been loud if it wasn’t swallowed up by Stumbler’s mouth, as he kissed him, aggressively, almost pugilistically, since his callused hands kneaded Zach’s flesh as though searching for tits. Zach’s whole body tightened up. Stumbler grabbed Zach’s hand, gently but firmly. He pulled it to Stumbler’s warm crotch and wrapped his fingers around his cock once more. “Sssh, relax, it’s okay… Hmmm… Zachary…” Stumbler’s cock was thick and greasy and hoggish, and Zach slowly realized that grease was precum. Stumbler moaned into his mouth. Pleasure pulsated up his body from Stumbler’s hand on his dick, Zach didn’t want that feeling to stop, so he kept stroking Stumbler’s meat at the same time. Stumbler groaned. The low, mind-melting sound made Zach’s remaining hairs stand on end. It sounded like Stumbler was making love, he thought, and it became even grosser moments later when Stumbler began humping. His hips flexed and his dick spasmed in Zach’s hand. His muscles were firm like a barricade, ramming into Zach’s body. “Feels good, don’t it?” Zach blushed and mumbled his agreement. A few drops of sticky spit prickled on his face, as Stumbler slathered his mug in kisses. Stumbler moaned into his ear. “Everyone thinks getting a handjob from a man is pointless. You might as well stroke yourself off, right? But that ain’t right, at least, not in this place. You need some affection, Zachary,” he said. “Or you go loco.” His scratchy beard rubbed against Zach’s cheeks. At last Stumbler pulled his lips away away. His hand sped up his stroking. He smiled and looked deeply into Zach’s eyes, as though trying to seduce him, but in the dark, Zach could barely see his face. Zach held his breath, waiting for Stumbler to say something else. But it seemed he was waiting for Zach to complain, and when he didn’t, Stumbler kissed him again. It was another long, slow, passionate kiss, and his tongue pushed into Zach’s mouth. His hand dropped Zach’s dick as Stumbler swooned and pushed Zach onto his back. Stumbler mounted his body as though going to have sex with a woman, so both crotches lined up. “Put yer hands on my ass,” he said breathlessly. Zach couldn’t think of anything but the precummy mess in his crotch. Both dicks rubbed against each other, leaking their fluids onto his skin. Stumbler’s seemed impossibly hard and thick, like a weapon clubbing Zach’s dick into submission. Unable to think of a way to say no, and unwilling to do so anyway, Zach put both hands on Stumbler’s plump, hairless cheeks. Stumbler crooned right in Zach’s ear, which made Zach shudder. He found his hands moving of their own accord, caressing Stumbler’s ass. Stumbler kissed him again and again, and that was all Zach could think about. Stumbler reached behind himself and moved Zach’s hand from his cheek to his crack. “You can put your pinkie in if you want,” Stumbler said. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, but before Zach even decided not to, his finger did. His pinkie plunged into Stumbler’s ass, and Stumbler bucked. His dick spasmed and leaked even more copious precum into Zach’s crotch. “You ain’t gonna tell no one ’bout fingerin’ me, right?” “No way. What happens in the cell, stays in the cell,” Zach said, his voice soft as a lamb. “Good,” Stumbler said. His kisses moved to Zach’s smooth neck, and he licked a trail down to Zach’s nipples. Stumbler’s muscles rippled where they rubbed against Zach’s slim frame. Then Stumbler’s ass squeezed around Zach’s fingers as though not going to let him go. That distracted Zach from what was happening — Stumbler simply picked him up in those big redneck arms and flipped him over. His finger was out of Stumbler’s ass, his own ass bare and right under Stumbler’s throbbing cock. Before Zach could say anything, Stumbler had angled his dick in and pushed just the first millimeter or so inside Zach’s ass. Then he paused. Zach yelped and squealed, squirming beneath Stumbler’s hairless body. “Sssh, sssh, Zachary,” Stumbler said like a father reassuring his son during a thunderstorm. “I ain’t gonna ramrod ya, okay? I promise. I said that. I’m gonna make love to yer womanhood… Can you say it too?” “What?” Zach’s voice sounded weak. The pain in his ass was negligible at this point, it was only the tip of Stumbler’s cock inside him. But he felt burning humiliation, and he was so terrified of what might happen next that he didn’t know what to say. “I know this isn’t-“ “Tell me what you want me to do.” “I want you to make love to my womanhood…” Zach said, his voice a breaking moan of desire. “Sssh, ssh, let’s talk,” Stumbler said. “I’ll give you a reacharound anytime, as long as you keep it a secret.” “Stumbler-“ “Sssh. And you can always say no,” he said. “But we need this, Zachary. You’re so pretty and smooth, and in the dark you kinda feel like a girl. So when the lights turn out, you be my wife, okay? Please?” “Stumbler…” Stumbler reached for something up on his bunk, or on the shelf next to it. Then his fingers slathered something cold and goopy on Zach’s ass. Zach writhed again in discomfort, but it did open his ass up, or at least it lubed it up, and Stumbler pushed more of his dick in. Zach didn’t know what a prostate was, but he felt Stumbler’s manhood touch him inside in a way that sent a burst of ecstasy through him. He moaned into the grimy bunk and turned his head, which placed his nose and mouth in Stumbler’s chest, right where his pectoral muscle met his armpit. The smell of masculinity was strong there, deliriously so, and Zach reeled as Stumbler began moving his dick back and forth within him. “Oh god…” “Sssh, this’ll relax you good, and then it’ll feel like heaven. It’s hog fat, from the kitchen. It melts from body temperature, Zachary, and we’re both so hot here, snug as bedbugs together, ain’t we?” “Stumbler…” “Sssh. It ain’t gonna hurt bad, son,” Stumbler said, his mouth hovering just above Zach’s ear, his warm breath condensing there. “I’m just gonna make love to ya, like a woman, and you is gonna enjoy it or pretend to, I don’t care. At night, you my woman, Zachary. We ain’t nevuh gonna talk about this during the daytime, okay? Our love is too strong to be spoken of during the day.” “Hmmm…” Then Zach bit his lip as another surge of pain hit him. He cried out, the sound wrapped up by Stumbler’s firm forearm, which he shoved in front of Zach’s face. The hog fat did help, but Stumbler began pumping his dick in deeper and deeper. While it wasn’t pure agony, the pressure was intense and Zach found himself biting the muscle of Stumbler’s tattooed forearm. “You know what downlow means?” “What?” “The colored gangs say it. When two guys mess on the downlow, it means it don’t count. The bottom ain’t a bitch,” Stumbler said, his voice breaking and wavering in Zach’s ear. He sucked on Zach’s earlobe. “They just need to get their nuts off. That’s what we’re doin’. We’s making love on the downlow, Zachary. You’re so pretty and delicate. I’d never hurt you. You believe me?” “Yeah, I guess so,” Zach said. He grunted, trying to clear his mind so he could decide what to do. His whole body spasmed then as Stumbler grabbed his dick and gave it a stroke. A bolt of pleasure shivered up Zach’s spine, even as pain radiated from his ass. “See, a reacharound? We’s gonna be moister than a bayou, son, this is nice, ain’t it?” “It kinda hurts…” “It always hurts the first time. You’ll get looser. I’s an expert at makin’ a man into a wife. A night-wife, they call it. We call it.” Zach opened his mouth to respond, but the pressure and the pleasure grew more intense, and all he could do was bite again into the meat of Stumbler’s arm. Stumbler showed no sign of feeling it, so Zach gnawed away. He grunted and gasped, embarrassed that his own cock was still leaking precum even as he was rammed. Stumbler’s other arm stroked Zach gently, bringing him closer and closer to a powerful climax. “Don’t make alotta noise,” Stumbler said. “We can’t let no one know what’s happenin’ here. I won’t tell no one if you won’t. We each got somethin’ to lose, right? You put a finger in me too, remembuh?” That didn’t quite seem like equal dirt, but Zach didn’t have the wherewithal to speak. He writhed beneath Stumbler’s rapidly strengthening plowing. The feel of the bigger man’s rippling muscles and smooth chest made Zach’s stomach churn, especially combined with the smell of the man’s sweat as he smeared it over Zach’s body. He grunted and heaved his breath onto Zach’s face with every thrust. From where Zach was, it was impossibly loud, and Stumbler sounded like a rutting pig. He licked Zach’s face too, as he drilled his dick deep within Zach’s guts. He moaned exquisite but indecipherable syllables in Zach’s ear and licked his face until spit dripped in rivulets onto Zach’s pillow. “Here it comes, sweetheart, kiss me,” Stumbler said, then kissed Zach on the lips. There was something about the way he said sweetheart that made Zach want to declare his love for Stumbler. His tongue explored the depths of Zach’s throat. Stumbler stopped moving just as the orgasm roiled through him, and he let out a low, loose sigh right into Zach’s ear. Seconds later, cum erupted deep within him. Zach had never experienced anything like that. It felt like some alien device was malfunctioning in his body, spewing grease everywhere. Its warm creaminess spread to every corner of Zach’s body, he could have sworn he felt it flowing to his arms, his feet, and everywhere else. But the most arousing part of it, Zach thought, was the way he felt the orgasm in Stumbler’s body. He felt Stumbler’s pecs tighten, his breathing stop momentarily. His toes curled around Zach’s feet, and his hands dropped Zach’s body to clench the mattress beneath him. Then it was over, but Stumbler didn’t stop humping, even as his dick got limp inside Zach. Instead, he focused on stroking Zach off even more enthusiastically. He used both hands, one on Zach’s root and one stroking the shaft. “Now it’s yer turn, Zachary…” Despite the bliss and his intense need to keep it a secret, Zach felt his orgasm coming on quickly. He felt pleasure deep in his ass, not that he would ever admit it, and when the climax finally came, it was more potent than he ever thought it would be. It was also more painful than he ever thought it would be. Zach grunted as his body moved, causing fresh spasms of pain to shoot up his spine from his tender asshole. Hot cum sprayed up his chest and into Stumbler’s hand. Stumbler kept going like a professional, even as Zach’s orgasmic bliss turned to overly sensitive writhing. Then at last Stumbler pulled out. His limp, greasy cock wedged between Zach’s cheeks. He held his cum-coated hand in front of Zach’s mouth as though going to make him eat it, but then he didn’t. “Zachary, I’m gonna do something to show you how serious I am ’bout what happened here tonight,” Stumbler said, his voice low and grim. Then as Zach watched, he stuck each of his cummy fingers in his mouth, one after the other. A few drops dribbled onto his chin. He gagged profusely, from the moment he tasted Zach’s cum. He also growled in a seductive way, but his whole body twisted as his stomach churned. Zach thought he might even vomit, but Stumbler held it together. At last his hand was clean, and he wrapped his arms around Zach’s shoulders. That forced Zach to use the man’s biceps as a pillow, and he could taste Stumbler’s sweat-coated chest dripping into his mouth. Zach hugged him close and nuzzled his neck. “You got any questions, Zachary?” “You really won’t tell no one?” “On my mama’s grave, son,” Stumbler said. “We’s all done. We ain’t gonna talk about this again. Tomorrow night, when I ram you, I’m gonna ask if you’s intact. You say yes, okay?” “Oh. Uh, okay. Yes, I will.” “Good. You always say yes, Zachary. Always say yes to me, and we gonna get along good.”
Francesco is a mafia goon in prison, but he never thought his feet would be used in a bukkake-footplay marathon that’ll churn his stomach… and yours!
Read it soon as an ebook!
Read the whole thing here!
Miles shivered, both because he was excited and because he was cold. The state prison was a chilly-steel squat and spartan building, all hard lines and dead-ends. Drafts were everywhere, it seemed, even though all the windows and doors were tightly shut, locked and sealed. Hallways ended at blank walls. Ceilings were absurdly high in some rooms, and so low Miles had to stoop in other areas. Having never been to prison before, Miles had been nervous from the moment he got here. Nothing dangerous had happened. No risks had presented themselves. He was protected by the guards, so he was as safe as anyone could ever be. But this prison felt dangerous. It exuded risk like an aura, wafts of precariousness filling the air like the aroma of unwashed man that clogged Miles’s nostrils as he waited. He paced until the door at the other end of the corridor opened up. Then his heart skipped a few beats. He saw two uniformed guards — Officers Flatears and Messypants — come in, dragging along a man in chains. The man didn’t actively fight them, but he didn’t walk willingly either. They had to rumble him forward, pulling on his chains, shooting him dirty looks and harsh names when he grew excessively slow for their tastes. The chained man was the one Miles was interested in. He was Francesco Lancinelli, a convicted goon for the Mafia. He looked the part too, with a muscle-bound body, a squarish shape and a hideous face — not ugly, but mean and glowering and a little crooked from being punched so much. He had a scar on his forehead, a divot in his left eyebrow and a chipped front tooth. His facial tics, while voluminous, were asymmetrical from nerve damage on his right cheek. He had a sandpapery voice too, like he swallowed fire. Miles could hear it: low, murmurant and endlessly menacing, echoing against the steel walls of the prison. Even before he could make out the words, Miles heard Francesco’s voice and his dick stiffened up. Francesco wore a pair of pajama-like prison pants — he was too tall for any of the other options, so he was forced to wear the navy-blue pajamas, which he thought looked ridiculous, like he had beaten up a child and taken their pajamas. They ended on his ankles. He had a lighter blue workshirt on because he had just come from his job in the prison factory. Francesco sucked on his teeth every few seconds. He sauntered, refusing to walk quickly but not kicking up enough of a fuss for the guards to discipline him seriously. He saw Miles — a slim, flamboyant man — standing near the base of the steel stairs. “Yo, what the fuuck’s goin’ on, ya jabronis? Why’dja take me outta chapel? I was gonna confess ‘nd shit,” Francesco said, straining against his chains because he had an urge to pound on his chest and gesture with his hands. His New Yawk stawk was a slumberous baritone that made the hairs on the back of Miles’s neck twitch. Francesco laughed. “I gots a right to religious ‘xpression, mothahfuckahs. That’s in the Constitution.” The guards ignored him. They brought him to Miles, whom Francesco eyed with suspicion. He spat on the prison floor, neverminding the “no spitting” sign on the wall across the room. “Who’re you, bitch?” “Shut up, Lancinelli-“ “Be nice, he the one payin’ money today.” Francesco threw his eyebrows back at that. “What?” He looked down at Miles, who was petite and shrank back from the harsh look outta Francesco. Francesco bit his lip. “Am I sposedta hit him?” “No!” said Officer Messypants. He was a muscular but ugly guard, with a face like a bucktoothed ferret. He kept his hair in a high and tight crewcut like a Marine, but opinions were divided on whether he had ever really been a Marine. “Don’t hit me,” Miles said with a smile. “My name is Miles. Miles Rompenhauer. I’m here-“ Francesco wrinkled his nose. “Rompen-hour?” Miles nodded. “Pretty close. I’m here to suck your feet.” A long silence melted between them. Francesco furrowed his brow and blanket out. He shifted his weight between his feet, and for the first time since he came in here, he stopped fighting against the manacles connected his feet and his arms. The chains fell limp. “That’s not a euphemism,” Miles said. “I paid for the right to do it. It won’t hurt.” That was true, but it wasn’t the whole story. Miles didn’t want to make it more difficult for Francesco to agree. His agreement was not necessary, but Miles would rather have it. Francesco’s big caveman-like face stayed confused. He was aware that the guards here — and these two in particular, Flatears and Messypants, who stood a few yards away ignoring Francesco and Miles — sometimes let inmates mess with local men for cash. But he still didn’t get what Miles had said. “Sucking feet” was not part of the process — at least not that Francesco had ever heard of — and Francesco was only vaguely familiar with foot-fetishism in general. So he just shrugged. Messypants and Flatears usually just brought fat businessmen with tiny dicks around to ram black guys with big dicks, which everybody involved claimed not to believe would change anyone’s dick size, but for some reason they kept doing it anyway. Francesco’s mind whirred as he tried to figure out what “suck your feet” meant — he could only relate it to the unit of measurement and thought Miles was gonna suck something multiple feet long. Or maybe multiple things one foot long. “What?” Francesco said when he could ponder this no longer. Him and the small strange man were in a stairwell near the mess hall, not in any of the cell blocks. It was well past lunch though and dinner was only in prep, there was no reason for him to be brought here. “Yo, what’choo talkin’ ’bout?” “I’m gonna suck your feet,” Miles said. “I’ll pay you.” That was true, but it was again not the whole story. Messypants and Flatears made him promise to keep the amount he was paying a secret, but they swore they’d pass the money on. Obviously they were gonna take a cut, and that cut was gonna be most of it. Miles did believe they would follow through and Francesco would get something though. Since it was clear Francesco was a retard who didn’t get it, Miles simply dropped to his knees. He kissed Francesco’s left foot, right on the toes — he wore loose-fitting prison slippers, his knobbly hairy toes protruding because the slippers were too small for him, just like his pants. He had crude feet like an ogre, just like his face, which Miles adored. There was visible dirt on his his ankles and on the slippers, and his toenails were disgusting — again, that was something Miles adored. “Oh… Okay.” Francesco chuckled. Even once Miles started sucking on his feet, he still didn’t get it. He assumed there was some other aspect to this he wasn’t getting. Those slippers tasted like steel and soil, with a little foot funkiness underneath all that. Miles pulled them both off, and Francesco stretched the toes of his massive feet. Francesco plopped down on the staircase so he don’t gotta balance on one foot when Miles tried to lick the underside of it. He stretched his long legs out to give Miles easy access, while he lowered his back to the stairs below. That meant his face aimed upward, so he could see the spiraling stairs going up and up, all the way to the eighth story and the roof beyond. “Why we on the stairs?” It seemed like an odd spot to do this in, Francesco thought; it was neither private nor exhibitionistly public. It was awkward to sit on the stairs for this. Miles shrugged and put Francesco’s big toe in his mouth. He slurped on that, while Francesco tried to look nonchalant — even as his eyes opened wide — and sucked on his teeth. He spat on the ground. Then Miles told him to spit on his foot. He rolled his eyes but did so, and Miles sucked the spit up. That made Francesco gag because he imagined the taste of foot-funk combined with his own spit. The more he thought about it, the more he gagged. “That is so nasty,” Francesco said with a scoff, mid-gag, as he looked away. Then he spat again without Miles needing to ask him to do so. “You make me sick, freak.” Miles sat on his ass, still sucking on Francesco’s big toe, while extending his own bare foot up to Francesco’s crotch. With an angry but resigned sigh, Francesco pulled his prison-issue pants down and let his thick uncut cock flop out. “I ain’t gonna be able to cum — uh — from a footjob, freak,” Francesco said, but his voice broke partway through as though he was surprised by how good it felt already. Miles wasn’t surprised. He knew he was an expert footjobber. Francesco leaned back against the stairs with a cocky grin on his face. His dick remained only part-hard. Miles spread his big and index toes wide, rubbing them up and down Francesco’s dick. Francesco tried not to get fully hard. Something just seemed perverted about it, and Francesco didn’t want to cooperate too much — that would be like doing a favor for the guards, and it might make them encourage more men to hire him for foot-stuff. Francesco’s ears pricked up when he heard the door open down the corridor and a few men talking on the other side. “Does that feel good?” Miles asked. He liked the feel of Francesco’s firm but not erect cock throbbing between his toes. It seemed to have lots of extra-skin, which moved up and down with his foot. Francesco’s big dumb goon face remained perpetually confused, though he grunted when Miles made it feel good. “It’s nasty, you gettin’ ya foot all ovuh my dick, you jabroni,” Francesco said, his voice jagged as pleasure coursed through him. He gritted his teeth. His dick was fully hard now, and the veiny shaft was warm and pulsating beneath Miles’s foot. That was when Miles really began stroking, giving it all his might with just that one foot. Precum leaked down the shaft, coating Miles’s foot in sticky juices. Francesco grunted and groaned. His eyes opened wide. “You’re likin’ it,” Miles said. Francesco’s muscles rippled as his eyes bugged out. When Miles got into a footstroking rhythm, he was damn good at it, and he wanted to make Francesco nut as soon as possible. That’s cuz the sound of men heading towards this stairwell meant they didn’t have a lot of time. “Feels good, don’t it?” Francesco had to admit it did, but he didn’t say so out loud. It was visible from the way his square jaw turned red as the precum flowed like wine from his manhood. “Shit, man-” Francesco bit his lip, his face turning red as cum sprayed out of his cock. A vast flow of it spurted from his piss-slit, and it splattered onto Miles’s foot. Miles aimed it right at Francesco’s own foot, so whatever didn’t hit Miles’s feet hit Francesco’s right foot. A huge puddle of jizz came out, and most of it spread over the top of Miles’s feet and in between his toes. A little got on Francesco’s foot and on his thighs and in his crotch ahir. “Aww, damn…” Francesco chuckle-gasped, and he leaned back as his dick limpened in the grasp of Miles’s foot. He ain’t realize this was something men even did, but he assumed that this was it, this was why Miles had hired him. His fat cock roped around like a blind snake in the grasp of Miles’s foot, which ran up down his shaft, causing little sparks of sensation. Francesco kept his eyes opened wide until his balls were drained and his cock was fully limp. Miles’s foot was glistening, sticky with the white jizz that clung to it. The group of men on the other side of the door formed a line. Messypants and Flatears were there at the door, which they opened. Three black men were in front of the line of inmates, and all three had erect cocks on the verge of blowing a wad. Francesco was surprised by that. Miles was not. “What’s goin’ on? Why’d you bring the homies in?” Francesco asked. They walked in while Miles was playing with Francesco’s cock with his foot, and Francesco didn’t like being seen like this, with his own jizz splattered over himself. “Why they got stiffies?” But the three black man talked among themselves like they ain’t see Francesco, and they stroked their cocks with one hand. Miles saw that all three shafts were moist — Francesco didn’t notice — and already on the verge of nutting. That’s cuz there was a punk on the other side of the door, and the inmates in line were getting hard in the mouth of that punk, who was called the “fluffer”. He got each of the men in line hard, then they came in and finished themselves off on Francesco’s foot. Once again, Francesco’s idiot brain still ain’t get why these three black men, soon joined by a fourth, came into this stairwell masturbating. His focus was on his dick, which was covered in his own jizz, because Miles popped his limp cock in his mouth and slurped all that jizz off. “Aww, man, you is — he’s lickin’ it clean!” Francesco guffawed, despite his discomfort with the four black men around him masturbating. The smell of precum hung strongly in the air. “Yo, man… No disrespect, but you pretty fuckin’ nasty.” Miles blushed as he slathered spit all over Francesco’s foot, and he sucked off the remnants of Francesco’s load from his cummy toes. Francesco kept laughing, whooping and clapping one hand on the meat of his thigh. That made his foot jiggle in Miles’s mouth. Francesco stopped short when he saw the first guy — Jermaine Mallagher — approach, spasming cock in hand. Jermaine laughed at Francesco’s big dumb face and his sweaty muscles all flexing. Francesco stopped his own laughing cuz he realized Jermaine was gonna shoot his nut on Francesco’s foot while that freak Miles sucked the cum right off. That was disgusting, and it seemed pointlessly disgusting to Francesco. Miles could just swallow Jermaine’s cock right from the beginning. Francesco’s foot didn’t need to be involved, and Francesco didn’t know his foot was the part that mattered most to Miles. Cum jetted over Francesco’s foot, drenching it with long creamy ropes. The jizz slid down, right into Miles’s open mouth. It was white and thick and salty, and Miles let it flow between Francesco’s toes before swallowing it, so Miles could chase down every drop with his tongue. It tasted both stale and fresh, and both sunny and dark. “Oh, shit, man!” Francesco didn’t know how to take this. If a man had jacked off onto his face or tried to stick his dick in Francesco’s ass, Francesco would have responded with violence. He’d punch and fight and kick and scream obscenities and threats, regardless of him being chained up. He’d gladly spend a few weeks in solitary if it meant protecting his masculinity and his self-respect — not to mention the respect of his fellow inmates. But cumming on his feet was no big deal. It was dirty, but everything in prison was dirty. There came another, a second load, bursting over his foot, and then a third person who mostly missed, hitting Francesco’s ankle and the stairs beneath him. Miles’s tongue snaked out to suck it down right off the grimy floor. No one ever cleaned the floor here, so it must have been disgusting, Francesco thought. The bottom of the stairwell was filling up now. Francesco only now realized all these men were gonna do the same thing, and he now saw that their cocks were wet to begin with, cuz of the punk working as a fluffer outside the room. Francesco finally, at long last, understood what was going on. “Ah, man, c’mon…” Francesco opened his eyes again, just in time to see an Aryan named Whiteness about to cum right on Francesco’s face. That pale dick loomed right in front of Francesco’s face, as Whiteness’s tattooed muscles flexed over and over. “On his foot, Whiteness! You not gettin’ ya five bucks if it ain’t on his foot!” Officer Messypants said. With an annoyed grunt, Whiteness the Aryan aimed his dick back at Francesco’s foot just in time to shoot his load through Francesco’s toes and into Miles’s waiting mouth. Miles let his mouth fill up until it overflowed. He took a half-dozen loads in quick succession, including most of the remaining Aryans and their pearly white cocks, so his mouth was full and he could suck on Francesco’s hairy big toe with it. A mouthload of cum spilled out into Francesco’s toes, then Miles sucked it all back up. Francesco gagged loudly and closed his eyes. Cum dripped over his toes and his feet. “Oh god, man, my toe’s in his mouth! Oh god it feels like… snot, or oh god that is nasty! Pervert! Ah, shit!” Francesco stopped because Flatears barked at him to shut up. Francesco watched his toe swim in the pool of anonymous cum congealing in Miles’s open mouth. “That is fuckin’ disgustin’, man, oh shit! Classic! Oh damn, I nevuh seen nothin’ that gross! That is some perverted bullshit-“ Miles giggled and blushed. Cum spilled out past his lips. The next inmate in line was Tyrell Brickley, a big-ass Blood with a big dick to match. He got an ugly sneer on his face, cuz Tyrell Brickly was, under that sneer, handsome as could be. On the outside he got a line of white girls throwing theyselves at him. In here his handsome mug don’t mean jack shit, so he was just another Blood. Miles watched him loom overheard, stroking his meat off and dribbling precum onto Miles’s face. Miles kept his tongue upon Lancinelli’s toe. “You Italian shit,” Tyrell said with a laugh. “Shut the fuck up, Tyrell!” Lancinelli said. He screwed up his face like he was gonna get up and fight Tyrell, who screwed up his face too, cuz he was nutting, adding a few jets of jizz to the mess on Miles’s face and Lancinelli’s foot. Mosta his cum missed cuz he was making faces at Lancinelli, and Miles chased the cum puddle on the ground with his tongue so he could slurp it up and spit it out onto Lancinelli’s foot. An explosion of pain hit Miles, who howled in pain. An outburst of chatter filled the air, so nobody heard his pain — somebody done ram him up the ass! That wasn’t something Miles paid for or asked for, but this tall hillbilly with a mullet and a barrelhouse chest was behind him, forcing his dick in like an ungrateful nail. He pounded at Miles’s ass, sending blistering pain throughout his body. “Sampson, Sampson!” One of the watching guards barked at him to stop, and with a big grin on his face, the hillbilly with the mullet did so. Buck Sampson was his name, and he stopped moving with his dick all the way in Miles’s unlubed asshole. Miles was seething and crying out in pain. Buck looked confused but also like that was his permanent expression. “What?” “You ain’t sposedta ramrod the gentleman,” said the guard, Flatears. “Really? Why not?” Buck Sampson looked at Miles for the first time. His dick felt so big in Miles’s ass, stretching the hole and sending spasms of pain through his body. It also touched his prostate though, and that caused pinpricks of pleasure to jolt up his spine. Buck said, “Ain’t we punishin’ him?” “No,” said the guard, Flatears, who rolled his eyes. “Just cum on Lancinelli’s foot. Ain’t they tell you?” Buck’s cock stayed still and throbbing in Miles’s ass. “No. I mean, yeah, but they ain’t say it’s a rule. Lemme finish in his ass.” “No. Cum on Lancinelli’s foot,” said the guard Flatears. “If you want your five bucks, you gotta do as told.” “Fuck you!” Buck grinned, and he began plowing his dick in and outta Miles’s asshole. The pain was blistering, but it also sent jolts of pleasure through his body. Buck jabbed a finger at the guard. “I got mah dick in the’uh, I’s allowed to finish-“ “That ain’t a rule, Sampson, stop sayin’ that,” said Officer Flatears. He did have flat ears, as if he got punched so hard his ears turned into swollen pancakes. He had an awkward but handsome face too, with a big jutting jaw and crooked teeth. “It is a rule! It’s a propuh rule!” Buck said. “It’s a rule we got!” “If you nut in the man’s booty, Sampson, I’m puttin’ you in solitary!” Buck shrugged. “Fine.” Some other big-bodied black man was nutting on Lancinelli’s foot at the moment, and Miles wasn’t there to taste it or smell it or even watch it, cuz Buck had him bent over like a fleshlight. That other big-bodied black man was just finishing up his nut, smearing it around on Lancinelli’s foot, when Buck finally pulled out of Miles’s ass. He aimed his cock for Lancinelli’s foot and stroked it off with one hand at the base. When he had recovered from the agony enough, Miles raced to slurp his own assjuice off Buck’s cock. The foul flavor made him retch, and Buck guffawed and cackled like that had been his goal all along. Miles dropped his foot back to the floor to be in place when one of the last of the white men, a fat sumbitch with a hairy back and low-hanging balls, shot his wad on Lancinelli’s foot too. Miles had lost count of how many footloads he had taken. It was all of the first cell block — mainly the black guys and Aryans, who for some reason shared space. The second cell block was another thirty guys, almost all of them Latin Kings. They spoke in florid Spanish and nutted very quickly. Miles stayed on the floor, slurping up and spitting out all that jizz from every part of Lancinelli’s foot. That had been fourteen men that Miles counted, plus probably almost as many who Miles hadn’t seen. So there were twenty-some loads on Francesco’s foot, and the more Miles worshiped the mess there, the more spit joined the jizz, making a huge puddly mess. “Ew, man, you doin’ that? For fun?” Francesco said, this whole encounter still not quite adding up to him. “Or is somebody punishin’ you?” Miles smiled. “Fun.” Now that Lancinelli said it though, Miles kind of wished he had pretended he was being punished. That was what he pondered as the Latin Kings filed in, one by one, their dicks just as hard as the first group. The first one to nut was a tall cholo, Chuy, with broad shoulders and a vituperative tone to his huince. Miles knew a little Spanish, but he didn’t catch anything more than some insults before Chuy came rushing into the stairwell, and he punched Francesco Lancinelli in the face. He already had his dick out, and he pumped his biceps over Lancinelli with a hardon dangling over his face. “Yeah, nigga-“ “Wait, Chuy, no-” the guard said. “You chomo bastard!” Chuy spat on Francesco’s face, then he turned around and plopped his ass right on Lancinelli’s mug. Looked like Lancinelli’s nose went in Chuy’s asshole. “He’s not a child molester, man,” said Officer Flatears with a resigned sigh. He didn’t try to stop Chuy from putting a cigarette out on Francesco’s chin. Francesco squealed and squirmed under his ass, making his foot shake and jizz dribble down his ankle and onto the floor. Miles sucked up what he could get to, while Lancinelli squirmed in pain. Chuy and the guard talked it over and Chuy gradually realized Lancinelli was not being punished for being a child molester. Lancinelli had been in prison for like a decade at this point, so it wasn’t clear how he could have molested a child. Chuy only pulled his ass off Lancinelli’s face when he was thoroughly convinced of his innocence (as to child molestation at least). “Fuck you, man! Get off me, Chuy!” With a groan and a growl, Chuy mounted Francesco’s chest and attempted at his mouth again and again. Francesco clenched his mouth shut. “Open up, esé! Open it!” “Delunez!” said Flatears. “Delunez! Quit it! That ain’t what we doin’.” Chuy again stopped with his dick resting on Lancinelli’s face, right over his clenched-shut mouth. Chuy screwed up his face. “I don’t get what we doin’, esé-“ “You don’t need to get it,” Flatears said. He rolled his eyes. “Just nut on his foot.” As Chuy attempted to comprehend that Lancinelli wasn’t being punished, the other Latin Kings shot their load one by one onto his foot. Lancinelli didn’t even see any of that because his view was blocked by Chuy’s body and hardon. He kept clasping Chuy on the asscheeks to signal him to back off. All that took long enough the rest of the Latin Kings finished up spewing their loads onto Francesco Lancinelli’s foot, and Miles let it congeal there, despite his own desperate desire to drink it all down. Chuy was the first Latin King to enter the stairwell, but he was the last to cum. “Hmmm…” A moan came outta Miles, as he was licking the bottom of Lancinelli’s foot, smearing around giant wads of cum that dripped down his chin and onto the floor. He didn’t even complain when Chuy — maybe still not getting it — came on Miles’s face, not on Lancinelli’s foot. But since Lancinelli’s foot was resting on Miles’s face, that amounted to the same thing, and Miles got another faceful of creamy hot cum. Lancinelli groaned but sounded relieved. Finally it was all done. Francesco’s tan foot was covered in creamy white, and his foot-funk was now cottony and salty, astringent, bringing tears to Miles’s eyes as he sucked it. When Chuy left the stairwell, Miles dropped Francesco’s foot. He stuck his own cock between Francesco’s big toe and his index toe, so Francesco could give him a footjob. “Aw, eww,” Francesco said with a groany laugh. “You wanna get a nut off? You can get hard wit’ all that cum on ya muggins?” Francesco covered his face with one meaty arm, baring his armpit. “Hmm-hmm,” Miles said with a shamefaced giggle. Francesco didn’t seem to mind Miles using his cummy foot as a fleshlight. He avoided looking at it. When he felt Miles orgasm, however, Francesco couldn’t help but watch. His eyes opened wide as cum flew over his foot once more, massive load of creamy nut. Miles threw his head back, his tiny, delicate body tensing up. Much of Francesco’s cum sprayed up his hairy thigh too. Now that he saw it, he could feel Miles’s cock between his toes more intimately, and it made him choke back spasms of disgust. Miles added his cumwad to the soupy mess on his foot and ankle. He held his breath, closing his eyes but reopening them every few seconds, eyeing Miles’s spasming body with hostility. His arms flexed, as Miles began licking his foot clean. “Shit, c’mon, man, that was so nasty,” Francesco said. “You is gettin’ punished, right? You got arrested? The police makin’ you do it.” Miles nodded with a grin on his face. He slathered spit all over Francesco’s foot, which now tasted solely of spit and cum. Miles slurped up every drop he could get to, while the sensation made Francesco’s whole body shake and his muscles ripple. Francesco glared and simmered while Miles finished up with all the cum on his foot, then followed the trail of cum up his meaty thighs. He sucked on his hairy balls too, but then returned to the floor, sucking up every drop that had escaped his tongue. Francesco stood there trying not to vomit — that floor was utterly disgusting. “A’ight, you done, Francesco. You earned ya money,” Messypants said. “It’s in ya commissary.” When Miles was done, he curled up around Francesco’s foot, nuzzling it — not the foot that had been cummed on, his fresh one, the left, still musky and sour with raw foot-scent. Miles inhaled deeply of it. “How much did I get?” Francesco said. The guards scoffed though. They looked at Miles, wrapping himself around Francesco’s legs, and shrugged. “Take as long as you want,” Messypants said. “You got twenty bucks, Lancinelli. Thirty if he enjoys this… cuddle.” He chuckled as Miles nuzzled Francesco’s clean foot — or at least the foot clean of jizz. It had plenty of old sweat and floor grime on it. “Shit, thirty bucks!” Lancinelli said. He settled back on the stairs, and he wiggled his big toe in Miles’s mouth. “Good money!”
Tedi lusts for the macho butcher Giacobbe Vanzetti, and he just might taste that meat in the end! That’s cuz Signor Vanzetti needs a soft, warm touch, which Tedi is eager to provide. Can Tedi handle that much meat?
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The Vanzetti butcher shop was on Costenoga Boulevard in downtown Seaside Heights, near the ocean but far enough away the crashing waves were only barely audible at night. It was a tiny shop with a big window out front and a display case piled high with sausages, steaks, cutlets and premade beef wellingtons. A heaping jar of Vanzetti family ragu sat in the case as well. Everyone in the neighborhood swore it was the best. Tedi agreed. But he wasn’t here for ragu. He came to the Vanzetti butcher shop for sausage, both literal and figurative. And for Signor Vanzetti, who was an intense sort of man, all hand gestures and beefiness, with a pushy, booming voice. He wore his butcher’s apron unbuttoned, so his curly black chest hair popped out the edges. His broad chest stretched the apron, which was stained with pale red meat juices, and his well-worked biceps were revealing by the sleeveless shirt he wore under the apron. Some people in the neighborhood — young people, squeamish types, hipsters — complained about the armpit hair in the meat. Not Tedi. He kind of liked it. There was something viscerally appealing to it, Tedi thought. Plus, he challenged the world to identify one solitary disease that could be spread by armpit hair. And oh god, those were good armpits. Tedi could go to town on those. Thinking about that made Tedi hold back a giggle. He was standing outside the shop then, looking in and watching Signor Vanzetti’s muscular body work its magic. He was chopping up pork chops from a primal cut. When Tedi came in a few minutes later, Signor Vanzetti stood at the entrance to the cold room in the back. “You lazy bum-uh!” he shouted back there. “I tell-uh-ed you what-ta do! Cut off-uh zhe rounds-eh and leave-uh zhe rest-eh!” It was obvious from his tone that he spoke to family, then he muttered, “No good-uh lazy do-fuh-nuzhin’ boy…” He sucked on his teeth. He turned around and saw both Tedi and the steely handsome woman in front of him, whose wiry black hair protruded from her shawl. He nodded at Tedi, then said to the woman, “Signora, what can I do for you?” “A quarter pound of chicken thighs, please,” she said. Her voice was wobbly and thready, but she had a certain steely confidence in it too. She looked up at Signor Vanzetti and quaked at his bigness. “For you, signora, bellissima, I haff-uh saved-uh the best ones,” he said, with a grand hand gesture and a florid smile. He handed her the chicken thighs, all wrapped up in parchment paper. He winked at her. Because Tedi stood behind the woman, he didn’t see her reaction to his wink. But it made Signor Vanzetti smile. A deep melange of vowels came from his chest. “Eh, Signora? Come see me sometime.” He flashed a cocky middle-aged smile at her. Signor Vanzetti was a widower, but was the woman a widow as well? Tedi was unsure. Her shawl was black as though she was in mourning, but a lot of older Italian women wore black to mourn someone other than their husband. When she turned around to leave with her chicken thighs, she saw Tedi behind her and blushed like she would have behaved differently if she knew there was an audience. But she said nothing. She just scurried out, shawl dragging behind her in the breeze out on the street. The open door sent a burst of salty ocean air into the shop, contrasting with the earthy meatiness of the display case. Then the door swung snugly shut. The butcher shop was quiet and serene. The smell of her perfume vanished, replaced by the intense odor of male sweat and clean cold meat. More faintly, whiffs of salt and spices danced in the back of Tedi’s nostrils. The whirrs of the air conditioner and the freezer in back were the only sound. “I’ll have a pound of the sausage links,” Tedi said. He stepped closer to the case. “Sweet or hot?” He had a great booming voice, no trace of charm now that there was no woman in the butcher shop to seduce. He grunted at Tedi as he opened up a case of sausages. Tedi didn’t mind his brusqueness. As a keen admirer of the male form, Tedi did not crave kindness or gentility from men. He liked them gruff, rough and tough. “Sweet,” Tedi said with a smile. “You know, if you ever want to meet a woman, you should come by Lipsweet. The bar, two blocks east. There’s a woman there named Gloria who would love you. I work there as a bartender sometimes. She’s wonderful, and you’re exactly her type, signor.” “Really? Oh… No, no, I was only kidding-uh,” he said with another inscrutable hand gesture. “I kidduh, I kidduh. My wife-uh died only less than one yea’ ago. I must be true to her memory.” His square jaw aimed down as he chewed on his lower lip. “I will love-uh again. I have my boy to occupy my time.” He nodded towards the back. “The ungrateful bum-uh.” Tedi nodded. “You deserve to have a little affection, Signor Vanzetti,” he said. He blushed. He took the package of sausages from Signor Vanzetti, and Tedi’s delicate fingers clutched the firm muscles of Signor Vanzetti’s forearm. He rubbed a trail up to his powerful biceps. “Don’t let it build up.” His flesh was firm and warm, and Signor Vanzetti hesitated. Tedi waited to see if he would invite Tedi somewhere more private. He looked like he wanted to, like his dick was throbbing and demanding attention. But he only shook his head. He thanked Tedi for his business, then went into the back again to scold his deadbeat good-for-nothing son, who was approaching thirty but still had nothing going on and no woman in his life. He didn’t explain all that to Tedi at the time, of course. It came up later. Tedi left, and he went home. After cooking up a sausage for himself for dinner, he went out to Lipsweet to get a drink. Not alcohol, because he didn’t drink any more — he was avoiding the calories — but he liked to have seltzer and hang out. Lipsweet was a crowded bar full of mostly men, divided into tables in corners that were unofficially designated for the different families and Italian regional identities that filled Seaside Heights. There were frequent conflicts. There was a Roman corner and a Neapolitan corner and a Genoese corner and a Puglian corner and a Calabrian corner and a Sicilian corner and a Sardinian corner, which was a lot of corners for a small square building. Plus there was a Ranzello family table tonight, a group of carpenters from Delorenzo and Sons, and a hodgepodge of darkly-clad men that Tedi suspected were mafioso, not to mention the inevitable Armenians, a handful of Greeks, Gypsies and Turks. They spread through the tables, segregating themselves and sneaking harsh looks at each other. All of their behavior confirmed all the stereotypes of the other tables, and they all strictly defended the honor of the waitresses from the gropey fingers of the others while ignoring the gropey fingers of their own tables. Tedi liked to hang out here and watch the men flirt, and some of the women were enjoyable as well. Tonight though, Lipsweet was quiet, and some Italian family and hangers-on had multiplied until they took up like half the bar and other groups mostly found somewhere else to drink tonight. The Cavollo family was celebrating the college graduation of one of their own, so they drank and caroused all night, as loudly and vociferously as possible. He wasn’t lying to Signor Vanzetti — Tedi really did have a female friend, Gloria Gavalieri, who hung out here a lot. Not a lot of women came to Lipsweet except for waitresses and prostitutes, and there was a lot of overlap between those two groups. Gloria was neither. She just liked men, especially Italian men. She was over at a table in a corner right now with another woman whose name escaped Tedi’s recall. They giggled like hags as they looked over the men of the bar and judged the merit of the Cavollos. That’s when he saw Giacobbe Vanzetti enter. He cleaned up well, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back. He wore an old-fashioned suit that was too small for him — he likely had only ever worn one suit, and that was it — and his tie was crooked. He looked awkward, like he thought someone was going to tell him he had to leave because he hadn’t mourned his dead wife long enough, and as soon as the door behind him swung shut, he made a face like he regretted coming here. Before Tedi could get to him, Haykh Gregarian approached him. He was a tall slim man in a fine suit, a straightlane with a crooked nose and one swollen ear, walking across the bar floor with a herky-jerky step like he resented the universe for inventing the concept of distance. The ever-present bluetooth headset in his ear was connected to his “boys” — cousins, supposedly, dubiously — the Armenians who ran Lipsweet and, most importantly, ran the women of Lipsweet. Haykh’s father owned this bar, and many of the prostitutes here worked for Haykh. Or all of them, probably. No doubt a prostitute was exactly what Haykh offered to Signor Vanzetti, but Tedi was glad to see Signor Vanzetti shake his head with a firm frown. Haykh let out a laugh, and he said something Tedi couldn’t hear but it had the cadence of an insult. Sure enough, Signor Vanzetti erupted in florid Italian, which was mostly hand gestures, and before Tedi knew it, they were trading fists. The bar whooped, and the crowd separated like the Red Sea to give the men space to fight. Signor Vanzetti seemed glad to throw down, to have an achievable goal that didn’t require a clean shirt — though his shirt was clean for now — and he cackled up Haykh’s ugly-falcon face. Haykh looked perma-serious, and the more the crowd cheered and clapped for more, the more serious Haykh looked. Tedi went out there. He didn’t like violence, and he called for calm, but nobody heard his voice over the roar and boom of the watching men. A few ne’erdowells pumped their fists and chanted for more. People were such brutes. Signor Vanzetti sent Haykh sprawling with a fat fist. A few drops of spit from Haykh’s mouth splattered on the side of Tedi’s face. Haykh carried himself like a tough guy, but he was no tough. Tedi knew the type. Vanzetti stood over him as though surveying conquered land. “You bastard!” Haykh cried out, and he kicked Signor Vanzetti on the leg. That sent the stout butcher stumbling to his knees, and the crowd booed either him or Haykh, Tedi couldn’t tell. Haykh was on his feet now, lording over Signor Vanzetti, and he could have continued the fight. But he wisely and/or cowardly decided to slink away, out the front door of his own father’s bar. Probably because the crowd in the bar were mostly Italians, and Haykh knew they’d never be on his side. Regional rivalries would fall aside in their rush to side with the Italian, and even the Armenians had no love for Haykh. With a snarl and a slur, Signor Vanzetti got back up on his feet. “Basta!” Arms crossed over his powerful chest, Signor Vanzetti watched Haykh leave out the front door. The crowd dispersed and chilled and sat themselves down in their seats, with an underhushing of both relief that the fight had not gone too far and disappointment for the same reason. Signor Vanzetti went to the bar and sat down. Tedi approached him. “You came,” he said with a dry smile. He patted Signor Vanzetti on the back. He looked around. “Me and my wife-uh… I still missuh her. I thought…” He paused and kissed his crucifix. He made the sign of the cross. “Of course you do, Signor Vanzetti.” “I do not know whattah-I was thinkin-eh,” he said. “I am too old-uh for this-uh.” He turned around and walked out of Lipsweet, having never drunk a thing or even looked at the bartender. Costenoga Street was busy with traffic and young people laughing their way between restaurants and bars. It wasn’t yet the busy season — the heights of summer — but the weather had turned warm enough to begin to attract crowds. Guidos in backwards baseball caps roamed the neighborhood still, not yet outnumbered by the hipsters and city sluts. A lone cop on the beat scowled at all of them, pretending not see any of the hooligans and goombahs littering the streets, nor the handful of weathery hobos begging at the corner. Tedi followed him out, abandoning his undrunk seltzer at the bar. “Are you okay?” he asked when they got far enough away from the nightlife and hobos to have a private conversation. “Giacobbe?” Giacobbe Vanzetti said, “I loved my wife-uh. She could be trying-uh at times, I just wanted to strangle-uh her…” He let out a miserable chuckle. “But now I miss-uh her so much-eh.” He sighed and wiped a tear out from under his eyes. Tedi said, “You don’t need to feel bad. I’m sure your wife would want you to love again.” Signor Vanzetti shrugged. “I do not want to love again-uh. You’s following me. What do you want-uh?” “You just seemed upset. I wanted to talk to you, to make sure you’re okay,” he said. “You don’t need to fall in love to feel good. Do you want me to jack you off?” Signor Vanzetti nodded again. He had walked back to his butcher shop out of instinct, so he took his keys out of his pocket. They jangled loudly. Tedi came into the butcher shop behind him. Signor Vanzetti went behind the meat counter, and Tedi followed. Signor Vanzetti stood there like he expected Tedi to tell him what to do next, but Tedi just smiled and dropped to his knees. “You ready, Signor?” With yet another hand gesture that Tedi had never seen before, Signor Vanzetti nodded. Tedi got the gist of it anyway: do what you want. So his hands gently massaged their way up Signor Vanzetti’s flat belly to his chest, over his plain white shirt at first, then under it, as Signor Vanzetti moaned with desire. His muscles all flexed and tensed at once. He had a broad hairy chest and a cock that pulsated through the fabric of his suit trousers. Tedi kissed that pulsating bulge a couple times, smiling at each peck of his lips making Signor Vanzetti’s whole body twitch — he obviously craved an affectionate touch very badly indeed. He could feel the hot shaft of his cock through his pants. Then Tedi planted his lips on Signor Vanzetti’s bulge, and he kept it there, producing enough spit to make his pants wet. Signor Vanzetti moaned again, his hands reaching up to his own powerful pecs to play with his nipples, as Tedi did the same thing with his own small, delicate fingers. “Oooooh, I need-uh this…” Signor Vanzetti said. He closed his eyes and leaned against the meat display case. He sighed like Tedi was scratching an itch Vanzetti was only now learning he had. At last, Tedi pulled Signor Vanzetti’s cock out through the fly of his pants. It was hot and thick and soft as could be, but it twitched and hummed with a need to get hard. Tedi let its heavy thickness flop around on his face, while he smiled up at the dour face of Signor Vanzetti. “I haffn’t-uh chacked offuh since-uh she die,” he said softly, his great deep voice filling the tiny butcher shop. Tedi clucked his tongue, one hand stroking Signor Vanzetti’s limp shaft. “You poor baby…” He put his mouth on it, and the taste of clean meat and stale sweat flooded his mouth. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Tedi wondered if Signor Vanzetti was impotent from grief. But then, all at once, it twitched and pulsated, then nearly exploded into full erection, like it had forgotten it could have done this before. In moments, it was as firm as overcooked beef, and it jammed deep into Tedi’s mouth. Tedi’s hands reached up to Signor Vanzetti’s chest once again, first over his shirt then under it, so he could play with his powerful muscles and dense chest hair. His exquisitely sensitive flesh flexed beneath Tedi’s grasp. He was hard as rocks beneath a layer of hairy flesh, and Tedi massaged every inch of his powerful body. His asscheeks shook as his cock firmed up and throbbed in Tedi’s mouth. “Oh si, I need-uh this real bad…” Signor Vanzetti murmured soft as goose fat. Tedi nodded without taking the dick out of his mouth. “-e ‘oo,” he said, then blushed and giggled at how slutty it sounded to speak with his mouth full of cock. But Tedi was only just getting Signor Vanzetti started. He moved his head up and down, teasing and squeezing every inch of Signor Vanzetti’s shaft, while he covered it in enough to spit to make it run down in rivulets and wet his corse black pubic hairs into a sticky mat. Signor Vanzetti stayed still at first, then began undulating his body very slowly, making love to Tedi’s throat. The salty taste of precum filled his mouth. Tedi swallowed every drop. He looked up at Signor Vanzetti to make eye contact, but Signor Vanzetti had thrown his head back and scrunched his eyes shut tight. He moaned out loud, dipping his knees as he began to piston his hips back and forth. That meant he humped Tedi’s throat. His dick worked deeper with each thrust, and Tedi slurped his tongue over every inch of that throbbing shaft. His cock was warm and veiny, its thickness filling Tedi’s throat and making him croon for more. In no time at all, a year’s worth of widower jizz spurted into his mouth. Signor Vanzetti let out a chest-rattling grunt. He gripped Tedi’s head and pumped his dick in and out, his inhibitions seemingly melting away. “Hmmmm-uuuuhh…” Cum filled Tedi’s mouth. More and more kept pouring in, most of it leaking out Tedi’s lips and down his chin. A little puddle of it grew on the floor at Tedi’s knees, but Tedi didn’t let the mess slow him down in the slightest. His cockshaft throbbed where it rubbed against Tedi’s tongue. His balls must have been full to overflowing, Tedi thought, he was sure telling the truth about not jacking off for a whole year! Still more came out, with each thrust of Signor Vanzetti’s cock down his throat. It pulsated and spasmed, and Tedi felt each vein in the shaft throbbing in his throat. Jizz came out in a long continuous flow that went on for several seconds. The taste was bright and sunny, intensely salty but not unpleasantly so. It was thick and creamy too, indulgent, and it coated Tedi’s throat in a delicious sensation that he craved as soon as it was gone. They both stopped moving then, as Tedi shot his own wad on the floor of Signor Vanzetti’s butcher shop. His cum added to the puddle already there, and he didn’t stop licking the sensitive cock in front of his face until he had fully drained his balls as well. Signor Vanzetti never even noticed Tedi was jacking off, so he just assumed the mess on the floor was his own jizz, which it mostly was. “Thank-eh you,” Signor Vanzetti said when he was finally done. His pulsating slab of meat popped out of Tedi’s mouth and dangled in front of his suit pants. Long strands of spit connected it to Tedi’s lips. “Hmmm… I was glad to help you, Signor Vanzetti,” Tedi said, his voice still gaspy from lack of oxygen. “Do not-uh go anywhere-uh,” he said. “Let me make you dinner-uh, and then I will ramrodduh you.” That was an enticing offer indeed, and Tedi wouldn’t dream of refusing. He was hungry, both literally and figuratively, and he told Signor Vanzetti so. He cooked lamb. Tedi didn’t mind sitting and watching him, starting with a primal cut that he slashed with a primal swipe of his blade, and he hunked off a piece of meat. The meat was fresh as dew, and he sliced it thin so he could grill it behind the butcher shop. It was enjoyable to watch an expert ply his trade, and Signor Vanzetti was expert indeed. As he cooked and then served the lamb, Signor Vanzetti told stories of his boyhood in Italy. With flatbread and tzatziki, Tedi ate the lamb til his belly was full, and then he ate more because it was delicious and because Signor Vanzetti urged him to. When Tedi had had his fill and then some — and Signor Vanzetti did too — Tedi took the dishes into the back to the big utility sink. Before he could start washing them, Signor Vanzetti bade him come closer, which Tedi did with a growing sense of anticipation. He’d been wanting to get Signor Vanzetti’s manhood in him for a long time, and he was excited that the dream was finally coming true. “I will-uh makkeh you feel-uh so goo-ood-eh,” he said in a low thrumming murmur. “Puttuh ya hands-uh on the wall-uh.” Tedi let a shimmy of desire work its way through his system and he shook his add in Signor Vanzetti’s direction. He lifted his dainty arms, jutting his ass out to give Signor Vanzetti easy access to it. But Signor Vanzetti was engaged — he found himself a tub of beef fat. It was from the rump, which he said was the best lubricant. He smeared a big fistful of it on his giant cock, then he put some in Tedi’s asscrack too. It was solid in the tub, but Tedi’s body heat turned it to liquid goop soon. He rammed his dick in Tedi’s ass. A burst of pressure hit him, followed by sense of warmth, as Signor Vanzetti pressed his chest against Tedi’s back. His hairy pecs and belly rubbed on Tedi’s shoulders and the small of his back, and his gentle but firm arms wrapped around Tedi’s head — like a chokehold, but not like a wrestler, he did it with ease and docility, and it made Tedi felt secure in the warmth of his body. The awkwardness was intense at first, and Tedi felt that familiar ache in his behind. His whole body tightened, but Signor Vanzetti kissed him tenderly on the cheek, on the neck, on the earlobes and more, and that made Tedi relax enough he could take every inch of Signor Vanzetti’s magnificent manhood. Mind-blowing ecstasy flowed through his veins, Signor Vanzetti’s cock ramming against his prostate and upping the sensations to the next level again and again. Each thrust of his hips brought Tedi closer to his climax, and he cried out, the sound swallowed by the wall he clutched with both hands. When he could not hold back any longer, Tedi shot his wad onto the wall. The most intense orgasm of his life wracked his body, and he begged for more in two languages. He shot a voluminous load of cum that dripped down the wall and to the floor, and before he was even done, he felt Signor Vanzetti’s orgasm too. He sensed it through the throbbing of his cock in his ass and the rippling of his muscles where they rubbed against Tedi’s back. “Hmmm, aaaah!” Signor Vanzetti cried out, adding a few Italian words Tedi didn’t know. Signor Vanzetti filled his ass with a load of his creamy seed. He shot almost as much as his earlier orgasm. The heat of his climax seeped to every corner of Tedi’s flesh. Vanzetti gasped and moaned, the baritone sound of which reverberated in Tedi’s back where it pressed against his chest. When it was done, he let his cock plop out of Tedi’s ass. It was followed by a flood of jizz, which ran down Tedi’s legs to his feet and the floor below. Both men stood there, dazed by the ongoing hum of their orgasm. Tedi took a deep breath and moaned, while Signor Vanzetti smeared sweat in his chest hair. “Thank you,” Tedi said with a breathy moan. “I think I’d like to set up a regular meat delivery.”
Miles hangs out in a biker bar until one studly man catches his eye, and before Miles knows it, he’s on his knees once more, worshipping a filthy pair of feet and the nasty boots they came in!
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Lipsweet was a down-on-its-luck biker bar near Abilene, Texas. It looked as shitty on the inside as it did on the outside, which Miles liked — it looked like a stinking turd of a building, like an archiectural marvel had crapped out a tavern on its way to its ritzy site. It was dark and graffiitied and cleaned and graffitied again, and it looked like night there even though it was late afternoon. Bars that looked like this were usually full of sterling men — and hot, raunchy shoes. Or more often boots. That was what Miles enjoyed. He was a keen appreciator of the male form, from head to toe but especially near-ish the toe. There was nothing more alluring for Miles than the filthy, unwashed feet of alpha males. That’s what he hoped to find when he walked into Lipsweet. But it was only the afternoon, so not many people were there right now right now. The dimly lit corners of the bar were mostly empty, while a few tired-eyed waitresses put clean(ish) glasses away on a shelf behind the bar. No bartender was apparent at first, but after Miles went and stood at the bar for a couple minutes, the bartender did come in and ask if he wanted a drink. The bartender was a girl, so she had nothing for Miles, foot-wise. The bouncer was a jock-ish prettyboy — think Arthur Swayze from Roadhouse but loud and charmless and not that handsome — rather disappointing from Miles’s perspective, especially in a pair of clean hiking boots, brand-new, it seemed. The muscles were nice, the wrinkle-free face was not, and the peachfuzz was not giving him a jawline. Arthur was his name, Miles heard the bartender call him that. Miles sat at the bar. He was a beer distributor, and he sipped on a cheap beer from the tap. Miles said he wanted to supply them with a new range of beers being sold throughout this corner of Texas. The bartender was dour and unimpressed. “This ain’t the kinda place where they drink a lotta them real nice beers or nothin’. Prolly ninety-percent of our orders here is ‘a round of whatever’s cheapest’,” she said. “So I dunno that we need any new brands. Mostly folks here don’t care about brands.” “Sure, sure, I understand that. We have a low-priced basket of beers that would be perfect for your bar’s needs,” he said. “In fact…” His voice trailed off because the door opened, and a man walked in. He was scruffy and hard and rough-looking, like he had been chewed on and spat out by the maw of life. His shoulder-length mane of greasy black hair was tangled and wavy, framing his unkempt beard and wild dark eyes. He had a squarish frame and shoulders the size of a dumptruck, swaggering through the doorway as though his muscles didn’t fit on his bones. He tottered slightly: still just a bit hungover, though he was sober now. His name was Glasser, and he was mad before he even walked in. Glasser walked a mile here in these ratty old boots, and he had little choice but to find his key. His motorcycle lay unusable at some fat bitch’s house a mile away because the key was gone. She swanned Glasser left it here last night, that that prettyboy-punk of a bouncer, Arthur, had refused to give him the key on account of his drunkenness. Glasser didn’t think that was reasonable at all. If he hadn’t been so drunk, he would have earned his nickname — people called him Glasser because he was known to smash beer bottles in people’s faces when they displeased him — and smacked the pretty off that bouncer’s face. But he was too drunk to do much more than pass out in his girlfriend’s bathroom — he hadn’t even fucked her because he was too drunk. That was why he was horny now. Sober and horny and ready to punch this prettyboy Arthur in his prettyboy face. “I’m here for mah keys,” he said with a grunt. He narrowed his eyes to slits, and he aimed those slits in the direction of Arthur the sculpted-jaw goody two-shoes in clean boots, got his hair washed and combed, no acne scars, no wrinkles, no lines, nothing but bland curves and a stonefacing mug. Arthur sighed and rolled his eyes. He straightened his back, holding onto the broom in his hands as though he might use it as a weapon at any moment. He licked his teeth. “Don’t got it, Glasser.” He wasn’t from Texas, or even the South. He was a yankee. Glasser always forgot that and remembered it when he heard Arthur speak. “Bullshit! Mothahfuckah, you think you gonna steal my bike? Huh? I don’t think so! I ain’t some punk-ass-“ “I don’t have ya key, Glasser! I told you not to drive home, and you said-“ “Fuck you! You lyin’! You lie like a lawn, boy-“ “You said fine, you said you only wanted to fuck that ugly bitch behind the dumpster, and you’d just pass out there-“ “First of all, I ain’t say she was ugly, I said she was fat-“ “She’s ugly too.” “Second of all, you is lying right now, that ain’t happen. I said I wanna fuck her behind the dumpster, and then I wanna drive to her place so I can fuck her again-“ “Don’t got ya key, Glasser.” “But you took my key, asshole!” Glasser said. “Hey, uh, Glasser.” Glasser saw the petite man with a lilting grin on his face and dismissed him. Men like that, he thought, were never important, and he was ready to hit this bouncer. I should have hit him last night, he thought. Glasser jabbed a finger in Arthur’s direction. “I’ll rip ya prettyboy face off and piss in your eye sockets, you little bitch, you best gimme back my keys-“ “Glasser? My name’s Miles.” Glasser nodded and screwed up his eyebrows. “What? Shut the fuck up, man.” “I just have something to say,” Miles said. He blushed. The late afternoon crowd at Lipsweet watch with quiet breath and calm eyes, waiting to see if the fight between Glasser and Arthur was nascent or moribund. Now they all looked at Miles as though annoyed he was breaking up the fight. “I said leave me alone!” Glasser said. He shoved Miles to his ass on the floor. He scowled and growled. “Fuck off, pansydick! I used to cornhole pussyface bitches like you in prison.” A chattering cascade of giggles escaped from Miles, dissipating the tension in the room. Everyone watched him sashay to Glasser and throw himself in his arms. Glasser caught him by instinct, holding him up like the hero on the cover of a romance novel. “I accept!” Miles said. “What?” “Sorry, I thought you were offering to cornhole me?” “No, man, get the fuck off me.” Glasser dropped Miles, who toppled to the ground at Glasser’s feet. Miles inhaled deeply of the scent of his leather boots. He wrapped around his legs. “I can give you money. If you let me smell your feet.” “Money? Yeah, fine, whatever.” Glasser was still trying to focus on the bouncer Arthur, who furrowed his handsome-caveman brow as Glasser kicked at the man at his feet. “I can give you enough money to get a new key made,” Miles said. He kissed Glasser’s foot, smelling his toes through the worn leather of his boot. He reeked of spilled gasoline, strong enough to make Miles’s throat hurt, and the boot smelled of cheap women with fat asses in cheap panties, mulch, chrome, furniture polish and other mysterious scents Miles couldn’t identify. Glasser grunted. “Look… How much you offerin’?” “A thousand dollars,” Miles said. “Take me out back and ravage me like I’m your cellmate.” After a long pause, Glasser said, “I wouldn’t cornhole my cellmate. That’s foolish. It’d make him mad, and it’s too easy to get stabbed when you sleepin’.” Miles shrugged. “Okay, well… That’s not really the central point. Cornhole me like the cellmate of some other guy.” “Yeah, I get it, fine. Yeah. You one them fruit pies, huh? You like a dick up the bootyhole?” Glasser sniffled and snorted, trying to look confident. If he looked like this was his first time — which it was, outside of prison and maybe a drunken night he didn’t remember very well — Arthur would tell everyone and his biker club buddies would all make fun of him for years to come. Miles nodded. “I especially like feet.” “Feet?” “Feet.” Miles lifted one leg to show off the foot, since Glasser had a face on like he never had seen one before. “I’m into feet.” Another long pause dissipated between them. Then Glasser said, “What? Feet? How can you be into feet? Are you a doctor?” “No.” Glasser frowned. “You want my feet… sexually?” Miles threw his hands up. “No, I want their recipe for banana nut muffins,” Miles said. “Do you wanna make a thousand dollars or not? I want to lick and suck on your feet and boots and maybe socks a little. Toes and ankles inclusive.” “Fine,” Glasser said with an aggressive shrug. “But not in here. I got a rep.” He walked stiffly, cautiously and as casually as he could handle, out of the back of the bar, into the gravel lot behind the building. It stank of cigarettes and garbage here. Miles loved it. Glasser hoped he looked like a man who was as liable to bottle Miles in the face as ramrod him. “You is one nasty pervert.” Miles nodded. “I know. Your foot’s pretty nasty too.” His boots looked utterly filthy, yet clean in comparison to the trash-festooned alley floor. Glasser snorted as if he thought feet should be gross. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag off it. The smoke plumed out of his hairy nostrils as he stood there like a statue, allowing Miles to unlace his boots. Dropping to his knees, Miles sucked on each bootlace. They were filthy, and they tasted like the garbage that filled up the air here in the back of the bar. It smelled of rubber here too — from the stack of old tires by the gravel. They’d been there for years, and mice lived in them, grass growing high all around. Snakes too, most likely. Glasser stepped out of his boots and swatted gnats from his face. He wasn’t going to do anything much on his own, he’d just let Miles do it all. But he thought he looked stupid standing there in his socks, so he pulled them off too. They were tattered, off-white socks, which reeked of Glasser’s manhood. There were some threadbare spots because Glasser never really bought new socks if he could avoid it; he didn’t even know where these came from — had he stolen them from someone in prison? Possibly. Or in the parole house later on. He tossed them on Miles’s face as Miles bent over to inhale the scent of his boots. Miles didn’t remove the socks. He just focused on smelling the boots. They reeked of manhood, engine oil and chrome. They smelled like the motorcycles that filled up the parking lot out front most of the time — a few bikers were just now appearing as the first drinkers of the day showed up. No one knew what was happening in the back, aside from the bartender and Arthur the bouncer — this was the kind of place where you simply didn’t talk about such things — no squealers here, no snitches, no punks, no loose lips, no sinking ships — so nobody had any idea. Glasser was glad. He didn’t mind doing this, but he didn’t really want anyone to know. In a few months, he thought, he’d tell people — but he’d tell them he was drunk at the time. Miles seemed to be trying to crawl into the boot. It smelled so bad it made him gag, but that didn’t slow him down. He sucked on the acrid leather even as it made his stomach churn and his nostrils wrinkle. His face disappeared into the foot of the boot. Glasser watched with a dim-eyed expression. He really wished this pervert would hurry up. Then, at last, Miles dropped the second boot and lowered his head. Glasser’s wide feet had plomped onto the gravel, which was sharp enough it looked like it should hurt to step on with bare feet. But Gravel went around barefoot a lot, and so he was used to it, the bottom of his feet all callused and thick now. It was like hide, Miles thought as he lifted Glasser’s foot up and sucked on it, like sucking on an animal hide. Bits of rock stuck to it, piercing the outer layers of his footskin. It stank of funk and manhood, and Miles slurped down every bit of filth he could get to. Glasser remained standing, so he had to lean against the wall of the bar. His dick stirred as Miles sucked on his feet. Glasser was shocked, he had no idea anyone would get turned on by this. He spat on Miles’s face as he slurped on his foot. “You’re so fuckin’ nasty, perv,” he said with a throaty chuckle. He pressed his hairy big toe into Miles’s mouth until he gagged on it, and he didn’t let him wipe it off first, so there was still bits of gravel and twigs stuck to his skin. Miles didn’t mind the dirt one bit. He gladly took it all, and he even moved his head to get the bitter ash that floated down dreamily from Glasser’s cigarette. The sound of bikers filling up the parking lot grew louder, over on the other side of the building. Their roaring engines were loud enough to drown out their words, but their husky-voiced, cigarette-steeped voices were audible. They must have been comparing engines, Miles thought, because he heard them rev the same motorcycles over and over. Glasser undid his belt without looking down. He wanted to get this over with, now that he heard his friends in there drinking. His pants dropped. Glasser liked the idea of not watching. For one thing, it would be easier to pretend it was a woman’s mouth on his cock if he didn’t have to see Miles do it. He grabbed Miles by the hair to get his attention, lifted his head up off his foot, and then used his other hand to pull apart Miles’s jaw. “Open that mouth wide, bitch,” Glasser murmured. His mouth wide open, Glasser rammed his dick in — since he wasn’t looking, his head still back, so he could just use Miles’s mouth as a hole, he missed. His dick just jammed against Miles’s cheek. “Lemme in there, pansy, c’mon, open up…” Miles was heaving for air because he had refused to take a break while sucking Glasser’s feet, so he had trouble chasing after his cock, especially with Glasser holding his head in place by the hair. It hurt enough to bring tears to Miles’s eyes. Miles struggled and squirmed in his grip. All Miles really wanted was Glasser’s foot. He liked playing with his cock too, and he didn’t mind letting Glasser abuse his throat, but that wasn’t the plan, wasn’t what he was paying a thousand dollars for and he’d like to at least be able to touch Glasser’s foot while it was happening. It seemed it never quite registered for Glasser that Miles was into feet, or maybe Glasser really just didn’t care. In any case, as Miles sputtered and spewed, Glasser’s cock finally hit Miles’s tongue and rammed into the back of his throat. Miles’s hands clutched Glasser’s hairy thighs, then roamed down to his ankles and feet as Miles relaxed his throat. “Swallow that shit, you little bitch…” He let Glasser treat it like a pussy, and indeed soon enough, Glasser could forget he wasn’t plowing into some woman with a tight snatch. He didn’t even care what hole it was — since he wasn’t looking, it hardly mattered. He liked the feel of his sensitive cockshaft squeezing into a tight hole, and it was good that this wasn’t a woman because he could never treat a woman so roughly. Besides that, a woman might want to talk. “Ah, shit, man, fuuuuuuck, that’s how a bitch should take it, damn…” Glasser’s deep voice rumbled like distant thunder. He made no effort to be quiet — that would seem weak, he thought; he didn’t really want to get caught, but he wasn’t going to hide like a goddamn child. Pleasure spasms visibly up his body, making his chest muscles ripple and his cock throb in Miles’s mouth. Despite Glasser’s threat, he ain’t intend to cornhole the stranger, simply cuz he ain’t get paid for it and thought Miles maybe would offer more for it. But Miles ain’t make such an offer, and as Glasser felt his orgasm approach, he realized no such offer was forthcoming. But he really wanted to ram the shit outta Miles. “Lemme in that ass, bitch.” Hopefully Miles would beg him to stop. “Wait-!” Miles cried out, but Glasser slammed his face on the floor. “I didn’t ask for-” Miles didn’t fight back when Glasser lifted his ass up, using his foot to keep Miles’s face pinned onto the floor. “Shut up. I want some ass, you got ass, I’m takin’ it.” Then Glasser slipped his dick in with no warning or lube besides the spit and precum already clinging to it. A shiver of pain ran up Miles. “Wait, lemme at your foot! Lemme at — ow!” Fear flooded him when he realized Glasser was not respecting his demands, but Miles loved the feeling of losing control of the situation. His heart raced like a lawnmower. The pain in his ass was accompanied by a low, melting pleasure that grew and grew as Glasser’s cock ramme dinto him. “Shut up…” Glasser murmured. But since the freak was paying, Glasser did move his foot closer to Miles’s face. That way Miles could slurp on his toes at least as Glasser wrecked his ass. Plowing into him hard, Glasser was relentless. His cock slammed at Miles’s asshole, and his balls slapped against his flesh. Miles’s cheeks jiggled with each thrust. A wave of pleasure and shame and desire and passion all flowed through Miles’s veins, and he opened his mouth to suck the grime off Glasser’s feet. “Did you really cornhole guys in prison?” Miles asked when his ass had adjusted enough he could take a deep breath. “Hell yeah,” Glasser said. He still avoided looking down. “Like… a prison wife?” Glasser shook his head. “I don’t do that shit, that’s some negro homeboy shit,” he said. “I rent bitches, tha’ss all, easiuh than taking a man as a bitch.” “Hmmm… Tell me about it.” Miles cried out and moaned. His tiny body was wracked by pleasure, which grew with each thrust of Glasser’s cock at his ass. “Well, like there was this fellah, Wilmer.” Glasser fishhooked one finger into Miles’s mouth, so he could see the tip in Miles’s cheek. “You want me to treat you like him. I declared him the fleshlight for the whole gang, just cuz somebody got to and I wanna see his ass get ruined again and again and again-” He rammed with all his might with each ‘again’. “Oh god! Yes!” “Shut up. Don’t say yes. You don’t got a say in this,” Glasser said with a chuckle. He plopped onto the floor, no longer able to reach Glasser’s feet, except that every few seconds Glasser lifted his upper body off Miles’s back long enough for Miles to scamper away. Each time he did, Glasser growled and grabbed him and slammed him back in place. “I’ll give you another five hundred dollars to give me a reacharound.” Miles’s voice was breathless and desperate. “Deal,” Glasser said. He wrapped one callused hand around Miles’s cock. That immediately sent a shiver of pleasure through his body. Miles cried out for more, and again Glasser scolded him for presuming to have a say in how this happened. Despite that scolding, he did allow Miles to have another taste of his feet. But mostly Glasser used and abused his ass, and he kept his hand working up and down on Miles’s cock. That triggered an orgasm right away, but the pain in his ass and the roughness of Glasser’s fingers slowed it down. Glasser had given a reacharound before, and he kind of liked the feel of a man’s body orgasming around his cock like a woman. “You ready bitch, I ain’t cummin’ first, I’s makin’ you cum wit’ my cock in ya ass, so you know you is my pussy, now and forever more.” Miles groaned and moaned and arched his back, as he did finally did shoot his wad into Glasser’s hand and onto the floor below. He cried out so hard it made him cry tears of joy, as pain and pleasure wracked his body in equal amounts. “Get back on ya knees, bitch, we’s doin’ ass-to-mouth,” Glasser said. He sneered and cackled when he finally looked down and saw the blissed-out look on Miles’s face. A moan of intense pleasure came outta both men’s mouths. He took his dick out, and Miles collapsed in a sweaty heap. He was too weak to lift his head, but Glasser neither noticed nor cared what Miles was doing. Glasser plopped his ass on the floor next to Miles, picked up his head and rammed it onto his dick like a fleshlight. That triggered an orgasm from the moment his cock touched Miles’s tongue. Glasser let out a howl of ecstasy, and he forced his dick down Miles’s gullet. A burst of hot creamy cum flowed into Miles’s throat. Women so rarely let him cum in their mouth, he wanted to see it now that he could. He watched with a sick sneer on his face as Miles stroked his cock off right into his own mouth. A vast flood of jizz overflowed from his mouth It was so gross-looking, he thought, like watching someone guzzle snot, that it made him barely notice his orgasm or the waves of pleasure that wracked his body. “Nasty-ass…” Glasser moaned, sticking his dick in as he finished cumming, playing with the puddle of cum there and making Miles gag on the last few drops spraying into the back of his throat. Then Miles, when he was let go, spilled all that cum back out over Glasser’s boot. He hadn’t really meant to — it wasn’t an accident, he just didn’t realize how offensive it would be to Glasser. Miles choked again and again as his throat instinctively emptied itself. “You stupid punk! Did you just spit cum on my boot?!” “Sorry-” Miles’s voice was weak and wimpering, his own orgasm flowing through him as he sprayed his wad on the gravel. He got punched in the face though before he was even done, and then again and again. Miles didn’t much mind. He let Glasser put him in a headlock, and Miles strained, wiggling in pain as he was buried in Glasser’s muscles, swallowing mouthfuls of armpit hair. Glasser’s pants were still around his ankles, so he was unable to keep his balance, and soon both men were on the ground. Glasser realized Miles was enjoying this and rolled off him. He kicked gravel over Miles. “Fuckin’ pervert,” he said. He had a litany of threats ready, but Miles might enjoy most of them, so he didn’t say them. He pulled his pants up, spat on Miles’s face, took the fifteen hundred dollars Miles had in his hand in crisp hundreds, plus the remaining cash in his pocket, and then walked into the bar. He kicked more gravel onto Miles as he did. The back door into Lipsweet slammed shut. There was a long empty silence in the gravely spot by the dumpsters in the alley. Miles savored every moment of it, the remnants of his prostate orgasm still flowing through his veins. He lay like that until finally he felt capable once more of standing. Miles took a deep breath and wiped both blood and cum, not to mention dirt and gravel, off his face. After standing in that alley for a long time, he decided to, once again, head into Lipsweet for another go.
Rob is in for it now! He’s agreed to service a filthy, nasty boxer who refuses to shower. He’s the brutish Russian Ivan Morozov, and he’s too raunchy for women… Luckily that makes him perfect for Rob!
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It was not surprising that girls found Ivan Morozov unappealing. He was a macho boxer with a square face, a harsh glare and a hairy chest, and he didn’t shower regularly — even after working out, he sometimes left without showering. He seemed to take pride in filth, and that was something Rob Winthrop appreciated very much. He watched Ivan leave the locker room, shower-free, with a guilty look on his face like he was getting away with something. Ivan’s powerful body shifted up and down with each step he took. His shirt was plastered to his skin from the sweat that he had never washed off, and the smell of manhood and feet and body hair accompanied him like an aura. It was an aura Rob found alluring and arousing. The reason Rob watched him was that he was hired to service Ivan, specifically, to jack him off. Rob loved big sweaty alpha men. As a keen admirer of the male form, Rob had strong opinions and male physiques and musks and armpits, all that kind of thing, and Ivan was delectable in every way. His manhood was brutish and harsh, mean, unforgiving. That was what Rob sought in a man. Women did not see Ivan the same way, nor did they smell him the same way. Women do not know how to choose a man. Despite their foolishness, Ivan had eyes only for women, and Rob had a nose only for men like Ivan. It didn’t take long for Rob to observe that, when Mr. Palaslov (his gopnik trainer) was not around, Ivan never showered, he just let Rob lick him from head to toe and jack him off in the banya attached to the Cornerside Gym of Coney Island. Ivan always responded as though he was shocked and disgusted that anyone would want to lick his sweat, but it didn’t slow Rob down anyway, and Ivan remained surprised no matter how often it happened. It seemed Mr. Palaslov had to tell Ivan to shower, so when the trainer wasn’t around, Ivan stayed sweaty. He seemed to like to be that way, and he didn’t even care that it was a turnoff to women, not that there were many women at this gym. That was where Rob worked, the Coney Island franchise of the Cornerside Gym. They were a nationwide chain, known mainly for not marketing to women — women were allowed to join but rarely did. It was a place for men’s men. It was a home gym for boxers, MMA fighters, ex-cons and semi-pro athletes, and it did not have a single scheduled spin class. Or at least the Cornerside Gym of Coney Island didn’t. Maybe some did, Rob didn’t know. There was no rule against it. In fact, Rob not only worked at the Cornerside Gym of Coney Island, he owned it. Not many people knew that though. If he wanted to attract more women, he could have, or at least he could have tried. Rob didn’t want more women. He wanted men, and he wanted them horny. He came in one morning, about two minutes late for opening, and Ivan stood outside the door with a frown like he had been personally wronged. Outside a matronly babushka begged, draped in a faded Pavlovsky shawl. Ivan ignored her on the way in, but Rob gave her a few dollars. “You are late, yes?” “Yeah, sorry, sorry, Ivan,” Rob said. “Your boss will havv anger at you.” Rob nodded. Ivan didn’t know Rob was his own boss. He unlocked the door to the gym. “You will do better,” Ivan said with a grunt. He went straight to one of the weightlifting machines, as though it was a slot machine and he was a compulsive gambler with a hot tip about it. Rob wasn’t supposed to let anyone start working out until he had completed the morning procedure. He was supposed to check every single one of the machines. He did not do that. He did not turn on the wifi — which he turned off at night to keep the hobos away — and he did not turn on the teevee in the corner, he hadn’t yet opened any of the supply closets or moved supplies like the medicine balls into place, he hadn’t replaced the cleaning wipes. It was against corporate policy to be open without doing all those things. But Ivan didn’t care, and neither did Rob. Ivan did not use any the wifi, medicine balls or cleaning wipes. As Rob went through that checklist, he kept sneaking glances at the shirtless Ivan. When it looked like Ivan was finishing up an hour or two later, Rob met him in the locker room. His chest gleamed, the hair on his head greasy and wild. It looked like he hadn’t showered for a few days, and the ripe scent of his armpits and feet made Rob’s eyes water. “You are pervert addicted to chacking off, yes?” Ivan made a masturbation hand-gesture as he came into the gym-cum-banya, where Rob waited for him. Ivan sneered at Rob when he saw him waiting in the banya. That was another thing Rob had not gotten ready on time, and he’d only a few minutes ago got the steam started. The banya was still warm but dry, and the seats were ice cold. They’d be warming up soon though, as the steam rose from the barrel of heated stones and water. The harsh accent in Ivan’s words sent a chill up Rob’s spine. Everything Ivan said sounded like a threat. “You are pervert, yes?” he asked again. Ivan was always insulting Rob. He thought it was hilarious to wipe his ball-sweat off on the face of some smiling man — Rob had seen him do that, to complete strangers — and Ivan never smiled. Neither did Mr. Palaslov, or as far as Rob could tell, any Russian man. Or Russian woman. Hell, Russian vodka was dour, and caviar has never told a joke. “Back hurts, is very sore,” Ivan said gruffly. He drank a big thermos of probably vodka and sat, his tatted muscles gleaming with sweat, on the bench in the aisle between rows of lockers. He guzzled it quickly, droplets of liquor running down his square chin, then laid down without waiting for a response from Rob. “Rub it. Massage. You can chack me soon. Fix back.” “I’m not a masseur-“ “Rub me. Do it correctly, or I shall crush you like the beet.” “Fine, fine, relax,” Rob said. He placed his hands on Ivan’s hot hairy back. Ivan had been hitting a punching bag for most of the last hour, so his shoulders were hot and palpably aching, slick with sweat that glistened in the brilliant light of the banya. As his hands worked through the tangled web of hair, Rob pressed down on the big slab of muscle there. He was glad to have a chance to be near Ivan without Mr. Palaslov around, as Mr. Palaslov kept Ivan under his tight control. Usually, the tracksuited Mr. Palaslov crouched and ate sunflower seeds as he watched Ivan work out. His skin glistened under the brilliant fluorescent lighting of the gym, and the layers of dried-on and recent-fresh sweat added a bouquet of intense scents to the banya’s. Ivan let out a long, low rib-rattling sigh as his muscles relaxed. His strapping mass of meat expanded beneath Rob’s fingers as his tension melted away. “That is feeling good,” Ivan said. “Come here.” He beckoned Rob, who wasn’t sure what he wanted at first — Rob was as physically close as could be. Then it became apparent that Ivan wanted to whisper something to him, and Rob put his face in front of Ivan’s, so he could smell the cheap-toothpaste scent of his breath condensing on Rob’s cheek. Much to Rob’s surprise, however, Ivan didn’t whisper anything to him. Instead, he kissed Rob, right on the lips. It was not exactly a chaste kiss — Rob got the distinct impression that Ivan was desperately horny, and he felt the rock-hard erection in his shorts — but there was no tongue and only a bit of real passion. Then Ivan pushed him away. He sneered, “You are nasty. Lick asshole.” Rob shuddered with anticipation, and he raced to drop to his knees. He wanted more than anything to lick Ivan’s ass. When Rob kneeled before him, Ivan turned around and bent over. He bent his head low, and he grabbed his ankles with both hands. That helped spread his cheeks and gave Rob perfect access to his ass. He kissed first one, then the other, of those big meaty orbs, which were plump and round and dim-colored as though stained with sweat and cheap underwear. His ass was gently furry, warm and inviting, and Rob couldn’t wait to taste his manhood. When he spread those asscheeks, a thick whiff of ass-scent hit his nostrils. Rob inhaled deeply, and blushed from embarrassment even though nobody was around who could see him. The locker room was not far away, and he could hear gruff voices echoing in the linoleum-lined shower. The gym was starting to fill up. As manager — and the only employee on duty — he should have been out there. There was no way Rob would miss this though. The jockstrap that cradled Ivan’s ass was soaked with sweat, and Rob started off by sucking the salt off the elastic. He licked the small of Ivan’s back, then slowly dragged his tongue through that hair-choked asscrack. A craggy moan arise from Ivan’s mouth. Few people touched him affectionately, and he reacted to Rob’s soft touch as though he had been craving it for years. As soon as Rob’s tongue hit the grimy crack, Ivan’s muscles tensed. He lifted his ass up and pushed it back against Rob’s face, then he roared in frustration, grabbed Rob by the hair and held his head in place as he ground his ass against Rob’s mouth. He had to twist his upper half so he could Rob by the head while keep his ass in Rob’s mouth. Rob stretched his jaws open as wide as he could, letting that filthy mat of asshair flow into his mouth. The taste was acrid and eye-wateringly potent. Rob lapped at the grimy asscrack as he reached the ultimate goal: that hole. He had never thought he would enjoy giving a rimjob this much, especially an unclean one, but then Rob had never had access to such a beast of a man before. His tongue plunged right in Ivan’s waiting hole. Ivan groaned and bucked as though he had been waiting for this exact moment, and his hips gyrated as though he was penetrating a woman with his cock. With his body just above the surface of the massage table, Ivan’s dick was reachable by Rob’s hands. He stretched around Ivan’s burly body, gripped his cock and gave it a stroke. As soon as he touched it, Ivan bucked again, and his asshole puckered around Rob’s tongue. His sphincter gripped Rob’s tongue tight and held on, as Rob flickered against Ivan’s prostate, every moment of contact sending uncontrollable waves of pleasure up Ivan’s spine. The muscles of his hairy back rippled. “Fuck yesss…” The taste of Ivan’s body hit Rob hard, and he guzzled down every drop. He tasted vaguely of dill, of ferns, of the endless taiga and reindeer antlers, and his scent accentuated the overwhelming flavor. The sound of the banya faded, until the roar of rushing water and the hot-water heater mixed equally with the more distant sound of recorded music played by a balalaika orchestra and men dancing the prisyadka to the pounding beat. Without a warning, Ivan turned around, and his cock battered Rob in the face. Ivan growled. He tried to force it into Rob’s mouth, but he didn’t try to aim it, so he just rammed his dick over and over into Rob’s face. Rob opened his mouth, and Ivan’s cock slipped past his lips. It was fat and hard, veiny, throbbing and meaty. Rob swallowed as much as he could, and then Ivan forced a little more down his throat. A clench enveloped Rob, who hadn’t had time to take a deep breath before Ivan forced his dick in. Then he couldn’t breathe, his body clenched, and his hands clutched Ivan’s well-muscled asscheeks. The taste was potent and salty, ripe with layers of sweat. It had been some time since Ivan had had a proper shower, Rob suspected. He stank of manhood, of feet, of the funk that reminded Rob of a martial arts dojo. “Hmmm… Little man,” Ivan said with a low baritone moan that made his chest moan and his veiny shaft throb on Rob’s tongue. A jet of precum hit the back of Rob’s throat, so voluminous that Rob first thought it was a premature ejaculation. But it was just a mouthful of cream, thick and rich and coating his mouth, leaking down his chin and onto the floor. Ivan seemed unwilling to touch Rob now, his hands hovering behind him. He kept bending his waist though, as though fucking an invisible woman’s pussy. He growled above Rob’s head. His grimy cock limpened as it flopped over Rob’s face and left a lawyer of fluids there. “I will ruin ass-hole,” Ivan said in a rough, crackly voice. He pulled his dick out, and another spurt of prejizz ejaculated out onto Rob’s face. That must have felt good, Rob thought, but Ivan didn’t react as though any of this felt good. He kept a sneer on his face, as though he was in pain but too proud to show it. He got behind Rob, and his powerful muscles flexed all at once as he forced Rob into position. He pushed his head to the ground, lifting his ass up as high as it could go. “It is now,” he said simply, then rammed his dick into Rob’s ass. A long almost painful-sounding moan came outta Rob, as spasms of both pain and pleasure hit his body hard. Ivan used no lube, only sweat, and his massive cock stretched Rob’s hole. If Ivan had gone slowly enough to let Rob adjust, the pain would have been minimal, but Ivan had no desire for or awareness of that fact, and he forced his dick despite Rob’s contortions and his pained painting. One hand held Rob in place by the nape, his other staying above the small of Rob’s back, ready to stop him from squirming away but unwilling to touch him otherwise. The pain in his ass was replaced bit by bit with spasms of bliss that wracked Rob’s body. Rob stroked his own cock off with one hand. With the pain and pleasure of Ivan’s cock invading his ass, Rob was close to orgasm even when they began. Ivan’s whole body trembled, muscles rippling where they pressed against Rob’s back. When Ivan groaned with pangs of an imminent orgasm, he pressed his chest down on Rob’s back. That meant his sweat-choked chest hair left a layer of grime on Rob’s spine and shoulderblades. Rob gradually lowered himself until he lay flat on his belly on the floor. Ivan pounded away above him. Now that Rob was pinned onto the floor, Ivan could and did ram as hard as possible, like he was trying to push Rob into the floor itself. The pain was gone now, replaced only by a potent and mind-blowing ecstasy. Each thrust of Ivan’s hips sent his cock once again onto Rob’s prostate, and each time that multipled the sensations flowing through Rob’s veins. Then, before Rob knew it, he was rolled over and sat on Ivan’s massive cock. That happened so fast he was dizzy, and he cried out while still begging for more. Ivan’s manjood impaled his ass, sending waves of ecstasy up from his prostate. That was it, Rob could resist his orgasm no longer. Cum flew from Rob’s cock and covered the surface of the banya’s bench. It sprayed over Ivan’s belly and chest, matting his hairs to his broad trunk. Ivan’s dick filled his ass and throbbed, the pain now entirely gone and replaced by pleasure. Rob cried out and whimpered, begging for more. The smell of semen filled the room and Rob’s nostrils as he lifted off that beautiful cock, now dripping with spit and assjuice. Rob put his mouth on Ivan’s knob, and the taste of his own ass flooded him. It was grimy and filthy, making him shudder in shame. Ivan looked down his nose at him. He said something in Russian, but Rob didn’t need to speak the language to get what he said. He was being derisive, insulting, he was shaming Rob, asking if his father knew how shameful he was. The answer to that question was yes, but Rob didn’t say so. His mouth was full of his own assjuice, which clung to Ivan’s shaft. Rob slobbered on it, letting the foul flavor trigger gag after gag, making him spit up into Ivan’s bushy crotch. His cock kept forcing its way down Rob’s throat, as Ivan attempted to use his gullet like a fleshlight. Finally Ivan grunted like he was in pain. He gripped Rob’s head to pound his meat down his throat. Ivan spurted so much jizz in Rob’s mouth he choked on it and pulled his head away, but Ivan forced his head to stay in position. Though Rob gagged uncontrollably around Ivan’s spasming cocktip in his throat, he managed to hold onto Ivan’s dick. He kept stroking his shaft with both hands. That made jizz com spurting out in great long flows. Most of it filled Rob’s mouth, but the need for oxygen was too great, and Rob pulled off while Ivan was still cumming. He kept stroking his shaft with both hands though, and when he had recovered his breath, he went back to slurping on Ivan’s dick. Ivan groaned. He sat up and turned around. Cum coated his chest, and he smiled at Rob in an almost seductive way. He didn’t need to ask Rob to lick it up, but Rob knew that was what he wanted. For once, Ivan wanted something clean. He started at Ivan’s bellybutton and licked upwards, savoring every drop of that creamy cum. He almost stopped when he got to the upper chest and licked each bulbous pectoral muscle, that was the furthest limit of the cumspray’s reach. But he had a feeling Ivan was willing to go farther. With cum dripping from his lips, Rob kissed Ivan on the grizzled neck and then lips. Ivan kissed back, and this time, their tongues interlocked. Ivan didn’t care that he tasted his own cum on Rob’s tongue, they sunk to the semeny massage table and laid there in each other’s arms. “Hmmmm…” Rob murmured. His post-orgasmic exhaustion kept his body humming, but he couldn’t stop his fingers from exploring Ivan’s prison tats. He was a vor — a member of the Bratva, or Russian Mafia — though do not ever refer to it as the Russian Mafia, unless you want a lengthy and possibly violent explanation of how inaccurate that is — and his tattoos explained his position, role and history within the organization. “You will want it in ass, yes?” Rob looked up at him. “Say again?” “I will do it in ass again. I can do it hard again, I have much cum and heavy balls,” he said. His craggy face was stony and yielded nothing. He lit a hand-rolled cigarette and puffed on it. “But you must pay.” “You want me to pay you? To do me in the ass again?” “Not in money. You must pay me in blue jeans,” Ivan said. “Five hundred blue jeans.” Rob paused and furrowed his brow. “You want me to pay you in blue jeans?” Ivan nodded. “Yes. Like Levi 500, John Wayne, Batman, pow-pow.” He mimed out shooting a gun into the air. “Two-pock Shacker.” Rob stood up and put his hands on his hips. “I, uh… Does Batman wear jeans…? Nevermind. I don’t… I don’t have five hundred pairs of blue jeans, Ivan,” he said. “Can I give you cash-?” “No. I do want it without my coach. He will take cash. It is easier for me to do importing of blue jeans into Russia. I will do must bribe,” he said. “Yes, indeed?” “Fine…” Rob had no idea how to go about buying a five hundred blue jeans. Maybe some kind of uniform supplier? Who even wore jeans anymore? Russians, apparently. How much was Rob paying for this anyway? But he desperately wanted to feel Ivan’s cock inside him, and the burly boxer was already stroking himself hard again. He had a huge uncut cock. It was moist with cum from his previous orgasm, and he flopped it in his callused grip. Then Rob kissed it right on the cocktip. Ivan grumbled and let go of his pecker, laying flat on the massage table. All around Rob, the banya steamed up, as men in other rooms continued roasting themselves. Ivan’s dick had that rubbery, straining-to-get-hard feel when Rob’s tongue ran up and down the shaft. The astringent taste of Ivan’s sweat overwhelmed his tongue. His foreskin retracted as his cock reached full erection in Rob’s grasp and in his mouth, Ivan let out a burly moan. With a smile, Rob mounted him, as Ivan still lay on the massage table. Rob lowered himself onto Ivan’s greased-up cock. A twinge of pain ran up his spine. Ivan’s rod slipped into him, but Rob let no resistance slow him down. He bit his lip due to pain erupting in his backside. Yet he didn’t slow down at all. He lowered himself onto Ivan’s cock. “Oh god, yes…” Rob moaned. His huge rod stretched Rob’s asshole wide, sending pangs of both pain and pleasure to rollick through his body. It was so intense and distracting that he didn’t notice at first that Ivan’s callused hand wrapped around his dick. As Rob rode him up and down, Ivan stroked Rob off. That was a wild shock to Rob. Ivan seemed like such a tough-guy ex-con that he never even thought to ask for a handjob, and even though Ivan’s hand was rough and leathery, it sent wave after wave of pleasure to rock Rob’s spine. He moaned and groaned. Both men orgasmed at the same time, with Rob unable to slow himself down any longer. The pleasure melting from his sensitive dick combined with the intense pounding in his butthole to send him over the edge, and a mind-blowing climax hit him so hard it almost hurt. He blew a fat load over Ivan’s prison-tatted chest. Ivan shot a big wad of jizz deep into Rob’s ass, great creamy wads of it flowing into him. Despite having already cum once today, in this very banya, Ivan ejaculated another huge load, more and more erupting in Rob’s guts with every passing moment Since Rob was seated on Ivan, Ivan’s cumload dripped out immediately, flowing into his unkempt pubic bush. Rob dismounted him and sheepishly grinned. “Thanks for that,” he said, as more and more cum dripped out of his ass. Rob smeared around his own jizz where it lay congealing on Ivan’s chest, which made Ivan’s muscles ripple and his pecs bounce. Ivan said nothing until he stood, then found a bottle of vodka in his duffel bag. Still naked and gleaming with sweat, he took a long drink. “Do not thank me,” he said. “I will do arrangements for those bluejeans.” The door opened. Mr. Palaslov stood there, munching on sunflower seeds from a baggie he held in one hand. He frowned at Rob. “You did not do anything in the butt, did you?” Rob was too embarrassed to answer right away, so Mr. Palaslov asked Ivan, who grunted something in Russian. They argued vituperatively, and, though Rob didn’t know the words, the meaning was clear — they argued over Rob. Mr. Palaslov glared at him. Finally, after Rob had dressed, Mr. Palaslov said, “Get out of here, yankee. He is done with you.”
Ralphie Whitehall stood there like a bronzed Greek god. He was a quarterback from Cleveland, Ohio, and he had a foppish mop of blond hair that he was always running his fingers through. He had a perfectly tapered waist with a six-pack that looked like it was created in a lab. He had the air of a model who played a quarterback in a cheesy movie. Ralphie touched his nose. It was kind of big, not really in a standout way, not enough to make him ugly, but it was the closest thing to a distinctive and unattractive feature Bart could see on him in the spur of the moment. Other than that, he was just Generic Blond Hunk #44 at Camp Ramwide.
