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.
Truck very much disliked hairy honkies. White men oughta shave. A little chest hair is fine, but any more than a classy treasure trail was barbarism. White men oughta know better. Italians do not know better, however. Not knowing better is what it means to be Italian. Truck did not like Italians.
The muscly Italian, Pauly Rosso, was pudgy too but strong as hell, built like an Olympic discus thrower or maybe like an infected discus. Pauly was burly, hairy, offputtingly grizzled, sitting behind his boss with his legs spread wide, big fat cock resting sweatily against his hairy thigh.
Sonny Cavollo was lean like a stretched ferret, with the kind of face women think is handsome even though it isn’t. He looked like he mistreated his women, but they loved him anyway. Truck knew the type. Truck was the exact opposite of that.
“I wanted to show you something and see what you thought-” Rob busied himself with opening his briefcase. It was only two latches, but he wanted to make Mr. Maltley wait, so he pretended to have trouble with it. “Ah, there we go.” He lifted up a beautiful ornate cookie jar and placed it in his lap. It was a panda bear, arms and legs wrapped around a bee whose body was the actual jar. Its insectoid eyes were the lid, giving it an sinister vibe that was counteracted by the jolly bear with its amygdaliformic eyes. Up until this moment, Rob had thought of the jar as just a tool to get what he wanted out of Mr. Maltley. It didn’t even occur to him to wonder why a cookie jar might be important or valuable or that it might really have an artistic statement. Once he pulled it out of the briefcase, however, he briefly saw it in the same light that Mr. Maltley did, and it made him feel flush with fear, disgust, comfort, humor, hunger, warmth, cold, all at once. It hummed and buzzed and rolled and frolicked, and when he touched it, Rob was struck with sunny warmth and the comfort of a hug, and the smell — no, not the smell, the feel, the vibe — of fresh-baked cookies wafted through his senses. The cookie jar brought him back to a childhood he’d never had, and for a moment that his mind constructed into an eternity, Rob saw the passage of his life, but not his actual life, his life if he had been born to the kind of mother who baked cookies and put them in a jar like this. He saw flashes of himself as a child, helping her cook, sneaking cookies, baking them for her for Mother’s Day, binging on them in his teenage years, eschewing them as baby-stuff, receiving the jar as a gift and filling them with his own cookies to dole out to the children this imaginary Rob presumably had, just out of sight. He was almost reluctant to give it up. But that was the only reason he bought it, the only reason he brought it here. Of course he was going to give it up. “It doesn’t need to be gorgeous. You don’t understand. A cookie jar is not just a place to store cookies. It is a living, breathing piece of art, a piece of childhood set in a fixed form. It is more than you can dream of, little man,” Mr. Maltley said.
“Hello, I’d like to see Jonathan Maltley,” said Rob Winthrop. He smiled at the receptionist, who was a slim-faced loam-eye with a thin, shrill voice that made him seem less handsome once you heard it. He looked like a turtle that lost its shell in a kiln, and you could tell he didn’t have enough testosterone to grow the mustache he thought he deserved. “Do you have an appointment?” asked the annoying assistant with a wrinkle in his nose like Rob should have already known all this. He sat back in his chair as though he was overlooking his empire, which he was, but ‘his empire’ was this waiting room. Least regal emperor ever. Your average emperor penguin is more commanding. The assistant soured up in Rob’s direction. “Hmm-hmm.” The assistant smiled politely, which just made his rat-like face more weaselish. If he knew how he looked when he smiled, he’d never do it. “What can I tell him this is concerning?”
He was broad-shouldered and thick, black-haired but with a few silver roots as though he dyed it and needed to redye it soon. Rob was fine with him like that, since he liked the older men who maintained powerhouse physiques, especially in fine Italian suits. Mr. Maltley was an eyebrow captain, but a handsome one. In an earlier era, he’d have been a salty seadog with a well-weathered face. Instead he was smooth and rugged like a painting of a horse.
Rob is hoping for a studly white collar businessman, and he just might get what he craves! He knows a secret about Mr. Maltley, who’s willing to give Rob the ride of a lifetime in exchange for keeping that secret. Can Rob handle it?
Read it soon as an ebook!
Read the whole thing here!
“Hello, I’d like to see Jonathan Maltley,” said Rob Winthrop. He smiled at the receptionist, who was a slim-faced loam-eye with a thin, shrill voice that made him seem less handsome once you heard it. He looked like a turtle that lost its shell in a kiln, and you could tell he didn’t have enough testosterone to grow the mustache he thought he deserved. “Do you have an appointment?” asked the annoying assistant with a wrinkle in his nose like Rob should have already known all this. He sat back in his chair as though he was overlooking his empire, which he was, but ‘his empire’ was this waiting room. Least regal emperor ever. Your average emperor penguin is more commanding. The assistant soured up in Rob’s direction. “Mr. Maltley is a very busy man. He is a tycoon of industry. He oversees companies — companies in the plural. He doesn’t just take meetings with anyone. He’s very busy.” “Oh, I understand, I really do. I think he’ll want to take this meeting,” Rob said. He glanced at the door into Mr. Maltley’s office, but it was a heavy door latched shut, perhaps even locked. There was no way in without permission. Rob had rather hoped to just barge in, but that was clearly not going to happen. The waiting area looked like a ski lodge, paneled with rich wood, photos of snow-covered mountains framed and dappling the walls giving the whole area a chill, like just being reminded of a chalet was enough to make Rob shiver. Or maybe it was the overly air-conditioned air. The only part of the office that looked like what it was — an ordinary office on the forty-sixth floor of a skyscraper in Manhattan — was the cheap off-blue carpet, which looked like it had been a luxurious azure at one point years ago. “Hmm-hmm.” The assistant smiled politely, which just made his rat-like face more weaselish. If he knew how he looked when he smiled, he’d never do it. “What can I tell him this is concerning?” “Cookie storage.” “Cookie storage?” He picked up a telephone receiver, but he put it down when he heard Rob say ‘cookie storage’. He smiled again. “I see. So you, uh… represent… a warehouse? Or-“ “No, sorry, this is about the storage of a small number of cookies. Not, like, trucks worth,” Rob said. “It is not a commercial venture.” “… Is that something Mr. Maltley is interested in?” “You’d have to ask him,” Rob said. “He’s free to say no. I’ll gladly go if he doesn’t want to see me. Please just ask him.” His eyebrows fluttered. The assistant, whose nameplate on his desk said he was Prateek Nayka, pursed his lips. Then his eyes lit up. “Ooooh! Cookies, like on the Internet? Internet cookies?” “No, I mean the baked good,” Rob said. “I am here to discuss with him methods of storing cookies. Chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, etc. Biscuits if you’re British.” “Hmm.” The assistant sat there like an obnoxious mushroom, phone in hand though he wasn’t yet dialed into Mr. Maltley’s office. He waited a long time, maybe hoping Rob would clarify voluntarily or maybe just too flummoxed to decide on the next course of action. The assistant looked at the phone as though deciding whether to ask Mr. Maltley about this on the phone or to go in his office and ask in person. He put the phone down and went in. Rob wasn’t surprised. He’d learned a long time ago that it was better to ask for something preposterous in person in a situation like this. If he’d said he was here to discuss becoming the new supplier of steel cables or “bandwidth” (Rob didn’t know what bandwidth was) for Mr. Maltley’s businesses, the assistant would never have let him in or even considered it. If you said something seemingly preposterous, the assistant wouldn’t know if it was a real thing or not, if it was code or a reference to something above his pay grade. There were a lot of possibilities that simply didn’t exist if you claimed you represented something mundane like a steel supplier. Rob wasn’t lying though. He really was here to speak to Mr. Maltley about cookie storage. “Mr. Maltley will see you now,” the assistant said, glaring at Rob as he opened the door. He gestured into the office like an ungainly giraffe. Rob entered and shut the door behind himself. Mr. Maltley sat at his desk, head cocked to the side, eyebrows furrowed with a disapproving glre. He made a face like Prateek should have kept Rob out of his office, even though he would have done so if Mr. Maltley said so. He let Rob because Mr. Maltley said he did want to see him. He did want to discuss cookie storage, it seemed. Rob was not surprised by that. He was momentarily flummoxed, however, because Mr. Maltley was handsome. That was also not a surprise — it was the entire reason Rob was here — but it did throw him for a loop when he finally saw him in person. He was broad-shouldered and thick, black-haired but with a few silver roots as though he dyed it and needed to redye it soon. Rob was fine with him like that, since he liked the older men who maintained powerhouse physiques, especially in fine Italian suits. Billions of dollars to his name didn’t hurt either. That would raise anyone up a notch or two. “You’re here to talk to me about cookie storage. I don’t know what makes you think that’s an area I’m interested in.” Mr. Maltley said. “I don’t own a bakery.” “I don’t lecture on feces either, so let’s not talk shit,” Rob said. “You let me in. If you weren’t interested, you’d’ve told that ass-heap to kick me out.” “That ass-heap has a name.” He shifted his weight in his chair, and his eyebrows wiggled. Mr. Maltley was an eyebrow captain, but a handsome one. In an earlier era, he’d have been a salty seadog with a well-weathered face. Instead he was smooth and rugged like a painting of a horse. “I don’t remember it. It’s something Indian.” “Under the Waxing Moon Proudfeather.” “Wrong kind of Indian.” “I know. He just has that ‘Under the Waxing Moon’ energy,” Rob said. “I wanted to show you something and see what you thought-” Rob busied himself with opening his briefcase. It was only two latches, but he wanted to make Mr. Maltley wait, so he pretended to have trouble with it. “Ah, there we go.” He lifted up a beautiful ornate cookie jar and placed it in his lap. It was a panda bear, arms and legs wrapped around a bee whose body was the actual jar. Its insectoid eyes were the lid, giving it an sinister vibe that was counteracted by the jolly bear with its amygdaliformic eyes. Up until this moment, Rob had thought of the jar as just a tool to get what he wanted out of Mr. Maltley. It didn’t even occur to him to wonder why a cookie jar might be important or valuable or that it might really have an artistic statement. Once he pulled it out of the briefcase, however, he briefly saw it in the same light that Mr. Maltley did, and it made him feel flush with fear, disgust, comfort, humor, hunger, warmth, cold, all at once. It hummed and buzzed and rolled and frolicked, and when he touched it, Rob was struck with sunny warmth and the comfort of a hug, and the smell — no, not the smell, the feel, the vibe — of fresh-baked cookies wafted through his senses. The cookie jar brought him back to a childhood he’d never had, and for a moment that his mind constructed into an eternity, Rob saw the passage of his life, but not his actual life, his life if he had been born to the kind of mother who baked cookies and put them in a jar like this. He saw flashes of himself as a child, helping her cook, sneaking cookies, baking them for her for Mother’s Day, binging on them in his teenage years, eschewing them as baby-stuff, receiving the jar as a gift and filling them with his own cookies to dole out to the children this imaginary Rob presumably had, just out of sight. He was almost reluctant to give it up. But that was the only reason he bought it, the only reason he brought it here. Of course he was going to give it up. Mr. Maltley’s eyes opened wide. He gripped his desk tightly, then frowned and gritted his teeth. “First, I’d like to know why you came to see me about this.” “Because I know you want it. You probably recognized it right away, didn’t you? It’s a Caranzano. They call it L’Abbraccio Eterno-“ “L’Abbraccio Eterno.” Mr. Maltley murmured with a much better Italian accent than Rob. “You believe I have an interest in cookie jars?” “Look, you don’t have to hide it from me,” Rob said. “I know you went to Cookie-Con in 1991, and I have records from an insurance company showing you have a collection in your home-“ “How did you get that?” His silky voice turned biting and authoritative, and his eyes narrowed to slits. “None of your business,” Rob said. “It is precisely my business. My insurance policies are literally an example of business that I do-“ “Relax, relax, I’m not going to blow your secret. It shouldn’t matter to the Board of Directors anyway,” Rob said. He leaned back in the chair opposite Mr. Maltley’s. It was not the kind of chair that should be leaned back, and Mr. Maltley frowned, but Rob pretended he was unaware of the chair’s high-fashion design and of Mr. Maltley’s sourpatch frown. Rob licked his teeth. “But we both know it does. They don’t want a cookie-jar-collecting weirdo as CEO.” He smiled like a sunbeam at Mr. Maltley. “Hmmm… Are you reaching a point, Mister…?” “Winthrop.” “Winthrop. Like Eugene Winthrop? The PayUp guy?” “That’s my father. Eugene, not the app.” He licked his teeth then, and he looked Rob up and down. “Is this a negotiation tactic? You think I’m gonna to give way on the processing fees for a Caranzano?” It was Rob’s turn to throw his eyebrows way back at that. “I didn’t know about that. I don’t talk to my dad. If you’re negotiating with him, that’s not related to this,” Rob said. “I came here to talk about your collection. About adding to it. About adding a Caranzano to it.” Rob lifted the cookie jar he had brought here, the panda hugging a bee. “You don’t have any way to buy something this high-profile without the Board finding out.” Mr. Maltley’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What do you want?” “I want to taste your dick,” Rob said. “That’s all. Let me jack you off. I’ll use my mouth, and yes, I do swallow. And… if you want, you can cornhole me. Then you can add this fine Caranzano handmade cookie jar to your collection. They only made a hundred of these-“ “They made a hundred and ten, counting the prototypes.” Mr. Maltley frowned again — he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He clammed up and looked down his nose at Rob. “You don’t have anything to be ashamed about. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It’s well-made, gorgeous-“ “It doesn’t need to be gorgeous. You don’t understand. A cookie jar is not just a place to store cookies. It is a living, breathing piece of art, a piece of childhood set in a fixed form. It is more than you can dream of, little man,” Mr. Maltley said. He stood and came to the front of his desk. “Why should I let you jack me off? For a cookie jar?! You would sully a cookie jar with tawdry perversion?” “I would. Yes.” “Let me pay you for it. The last time one was sold the price was seven thousand dollars. My cock is not worth that much.” “I know. I think it is definitely worth seven thousand dollars,” Rob said. “I don’t get to taste a lot of billionaire dick.” “You really want to jack me off with your mouth — which is utterly foul — instead of making seven thousand dollars?” Mr. Maltley said. When Rob didn’t immediately answer, he added, “Ten thousand.” “Do you really want to pay ten grand instead of blow a nut?” “This isn’t really something I do. I never spent time in a Turkish prison.” “Oh, you should!” Rob said with a grin. He smacked his lips and slipped out of his chair. Mr. Maltley stood so close to him Rob would have been unable to stand up if he wanted to. But he wasn’t trying to stand. He got on his knees in front of Mr. Maltley. He had jacked off enough men to know that they would say no if the answer was no. If they started trying to convince him to want something else, the answer was yes, they just didn’t want to admit to themselves that they were willing to do it without proving they tried really hard to get around it. “You have to tell me where you got it. I can’t add it to my collection without a documented provenance,” Mr. Maltley said. “Is it stolen?” “No! I inherited it from my great aunt. I barely knew her, this was just in a storage locker I got. Don’t worry, I have the paperwork from the will. I’ll send it to you. She paid for it, she bought it in Italy in 1994. She went there on a tour of the gigolos of Genoa,” Rob said. “Why did she give it to you?” “Do you really care? I don’t know, if you must know,” Rob said. “Probably she knew the rest of my family would just sell it to the highest bidder.” “What’s wrong with that? I’m the highest bidder.” “In dollars, yes, but I’m not looking to get paid in dollars,” Rob said. “And I have no desire for a fancy cookie jar. Or even a normal one. I don’t eat carbs.” “You don’t store cookies in a cookie jar, that would be insane.” “What do you do with them?” “Appreciate them. Allow them to mature, to flourish in a spiritual way.” He pronounced ‘mature’ with a hard t, which made Rob frown. “I see.” “And you don’t want the money?” Mr. Maltley asked. “You’re not asking for ten grand?” “I have plenty of money. What I don’t have is a your cock in my mouth.” Rob crossed his arms over his chest. Mr. Maltley pursed his lips and nodded. “Fine…” Rob slowly tweaked Mr. Maltley’s cock through the soft fabric of his slacks. When Mr. Maltley just sighed without complaining, Rob stroked it more fully, and leaned forward as Mr. Maltley sat on the edge of his desk. He leaned back farther, both to give Rob easy access to his crotch and to reach his phone. He pressed a button. “Please hold my calls and don’t disturb us in here.” “Yes, sir,” Prateek said through the intercom. His desire to know what was going in here was audible even through the tinny speakers, and Rob smirked. He suspected Prateek would be out there listening at the door before Rob was finished. But the door was too thick for any sound to travel through it. When he hung up the phone, Mr. Maltley came back around to this side of his desk. He sat his plump ass on the edge of it, with the body language of a man expecting someone else to take his dick out and service it. That was exactly the look Rob came here hoping to see. He unzipped Mr. Maltley’s slacks and hefted his cock out. It was thick and smooth, heavy-balled, veinless or nearly so, and it was nice and meaty like a slab of beef. Rob slapped himself over the face with it. Mr. Maltley yawned and rolled his eyes. “Have you ever been gotten a nut off in a man before?” Mr. Maltley crossed his arms over his chest. He closed his eyes when Rob licked his shaft, then cleared his throat. “I was poor in college. I… I may have made some money in… in ways I do not tell people about now.” “Oh yeah? I bet you had lots of fans back then,” Rob said with a shrug. “Those blue eyes… they’re the color of this sapphire on my mother’s favorite necklace.” “The shade is called ‘endless sky’,” Mr. Maltley said as though Rob should have known that. “I’m sure you were handsome then, but I like you better a little older.” Before Mr. Maltley could respond to that, Rob started throating him deeply, opening his throat wide to swallow every inch of his foot-long meat. It tasted warm and sunny, and it throbbed even now, fully soft, where it rubbed against Rob’s tongue. “Goddamn…” Mr. Maltley had obviously not expected this to actually feel good. His eyes opened wide and he looked down. His face simmered ruddily and sweat dappled his chin. His chest rippled underneath his fine suit, as he licked his teeth and sparks of pleasure rocked his body. He watched as his cock firmed up in Rob’s mouth, until it was rock-hard, veiny now, throbbing, pulsating. Rob slipped all the way down it until his nose was buried in Mr. Maltley’s dense pubic bush, which was past the fly of his slacks, so Rob’s face nuzzled his crotch in his pants. Rob looked up at him and made eye contact as Mr. Maltley threw his head back, shuddered and bit back a moan.. He gripped the surface of the desk he sat on as though he might fall over if he didn’t hold on. His cock popped out of Rob’s mouth, and this time, Rob did not chase it. He let it bob around in front of his face, dribbling precum onto his nose and upper lip. “You want to ramrod me? In the ass?” Rob asked, his mouth moist with precum. “A rude way to put it. I’m not a convict,” Mr. Maltley said with a snarl, which he tried to relax into a snooty smirk. His chest rumbled beneath his suit, cock throbbing and leaking precum so fast it coated Rob’s face. Mr. Maltley leaned forward so it wouldn’t get on his suit pants. “Or a Puerto Rican.” He sniffled. “But yes. Get up and turn around.” Rob nodded. He stood, and he bent his body over the desk where Mr. Maltley had been leaning the other direction a moment ago. He jutted his ass up. Mr. Maltley waited. “Well? Take your pants down.” “You do it. I took your dick out,” Rob said. “So? Oh… fine, you prancing little shit,” Mr. Maltley said. He wrinkled his nose as though this part was distasteful, as he reached around Rob’s body to handle his belt. He undid the buckle, and Rob’s pants fell down. Mr. Maltley squeezed first one asscheek, then the other, through his underwear. He tugged down Rob’s underwear as though it was some foul thing he didn’t want to touch. Rob sensed he had rarely or never touched another man’s underwear. He spread Rob’s asscheeks with one hand. A little sneer came on his face, and it turned into a frown when Rob’s cheeks were bare. He looked away. “I’m not some prissy nerd, you know.” “Uh-huh.” Rob felt the hotness of Mr. Maltley’s cock throbbing between his asscheeks. “I went to Princeton on a scholarship. A needy youths scholarship,” he said. “Awesome, man, is this the right time to be talking about that?” “You probably think I’m some cleancut WASP, who thinks ramrodding is something Tupac invented after he was shot. I’m not like that.” Rob sighed and turned his head around so he could see Mr. Maltley, who stood behind him, still spreading Rob’s asscheeks with one hand. His other hand held his throbbing erection like a javelin waiting for a go-order. Rob said, “I’m more of a Biggie Smalls guy. Are you gonna do this or not?” “I am, I am. Just don’t get the wrong idea about me,” he said. He straightened his tie. Then he pistoned his hips, forcing his cock in Rob’s tight hole. He slipped the knob in his ass, and a burst of painful pleasure wracked Rob’s body. Rob wasn’t ready for that. He clenched his teeth and took a deep breath through his nose, forcing his ass to relax. That let Mr. Maltley’s cock slide in far enough to hit Rob’s prostate. As a wave of pleasure hit Rob’s body, his whole body undulated, and he cried out. Mr. Maltley pushed harder, his dick entering deeper and deeper with each thrust of his hips. He was already on the verge of cumming when Rob stopped licking it, so the tightness of Rob’s ass soon sent him to the precipice of an orgasm. “Oh god, they taught you well at Princeton,” Rob said, his breathing jagged and panty, sensations sparkling over his body. “Watch it. Don’t insult the Tiger,” he said, and his own chest muscles rippled beneath his tailored Italian suit. “I didn’t!” Rob’s voice wavered because a jolt of pleasure coursed through his body. “I said they taught you well!” Plowing back and forth, Mr. Maltley’s balls slapped against Rob’s asscheeks. He grumbled and maybe had a response, but his cock felt too good in Rob’s ass for him to hear it. Finally Mr. Maltley’s whole cock was ramming in and out of Rob’s dick, long-dicking him like, apparently, only a Princeton man could. A wave of ecstasy hit Rob’s senses. His prostate came alive more and more, thrumming and humming, the pleasure growing with each collision of Mr. Maltley’s cocktip with Rob’s prostate. Rob cried out loud enough that fuckfaced assistant in the other room heard it faintly through the locked door and tried to guess what was happening. A gurgling moan escaped from Rob’s lips as he felt Mr. Maltley approach orgasm. His cock pulsated like a beast in Rob’s ass, and the motion made Rob cried out with desire. His heavy balls rose up in his sac. And then he moved suddenly, reaching behind Rob. For just a moment, Rob thought he was robbing him — Rob did a lot of rough-trade, so that happened. Then he realized that was ridiculous — why would a billionaire pick some random man’s pocket? He had grabbed the cookie-jar. Rob leaning forward had nearly knocked it off the edge of the desk, and it would have shattered on the floor of the office. Mr. Maltley frowned and swore. “You clumsy oaf! You almost broke it! You ridiculous mincing fool-!” Mr. Maltley gasped, his face turning red as he held onto the cookie jar with all the concentration he could muster. He shuddered and his voice broke. “Aaaaah-! Since he was doing something else as he came, Mr. Maltley’s orgasm was strained, almost painful. He grunted. He was going to keep scolding Rob for almost breaking the cookie jar, then he stopped because the pleasure wracking his body was too intense to speak through. His cock stayed in Rob’s ass the whole time, as though he couldn’t bare to take it out for even a moment. “Ah, oh…” he sighed and groaned, his face turning red. Finally creamy cum sprayed into Rob’s ass, great gobs of it that spurted into his guts. At first he didn’t taste it because Mr. Maltley’s horsey cock was so big and so long that it aimed deep into his ass, further than Rob had ever experienced. Ssome of it slipped onto his thighs, and Mr. Maltley slowly withdrew his shaft, as Rob’s cock spewed its own load. A wave of intensity overcame Rob, who adored the sensation of Mr. Maltley’s cock sliding out of him as it limpened, bringing with it a wave of jizz that plopped ontop the floor of the office. “Ah, man…” Rob sighed as he pulled off his cock. Cum dripped down his thighs, and a shudder wracked his body. “You… You made a mess on the floor, your graceless oaf,” Mr. Maltley said with a gasp. He gently placed the cookie jar on his desk. He frowned again, both at the cookie jar — he didn’t have any easy way of taking it home without his assistant seeing it — and because he was flummoxed by the mind-blowing orgasm he had just experienced. He never thought a man could make him feel like that. Certainly no woman had ever taken his dick in the ass as deeply as that. “You have a nice dick, it’s just big enough to fuck with,” Rob said as he cleaned his dick off. He stood. “Thanks.” “No. Thank you,” Mr. Maltley said. Only now did he realize his own dick dangled out the fly of his slacks, and he tucked it away. “Perhaps if you encounter any new… pieces in the future, you will contact me. I would be glad to set up future trades of this sort.” “I will definitely let you know,” Rob said. “Next time, please come to my home, not my office,” Mr. Maltley said. He wrote down his address. “I will instruct the doorman to let you in. He’s not as bad as my assistant.”
Zeke is home from a cattle ride, and he needs a new pair of boots. When a bootmaker makes a startling offer, Zeke finds himself letting a flamboyant stranger worship every inch of his rugged feet and nasty old boots!
Read it soon as an ebook!
Read it soon as an ebook!
Zeke Lightman strolled into Cheyenne hoping his limp wasn’t too obvious. This was a rough-and-tumble town, the kind of place where a man with a limp was liable to be robbed, where the tumbleweeds outnumbered the ladies of proper virtue — and not because there was lotsa tumbleweeds. He looked like the town smelled. He was dry and dusty, sun-choked, burnt to a deep tan like hushpuppies overfried in underheated fat. He was tall and lanky and ropy-muscled, with more power in his compact frame than an observer might have thought. He wore a dusk-colored wide-brimmed hat to keep the keen Western sun off his eyes. Wyoming Territory was a harsh place, unforgiving in weather, unforgiving in the temperament of the locals, unforgiving in the relentless onslaught of it all. Zeke wouldn’t have it any other way. A man oughta have a struggle, he thought. He just felt sorry for the women, of whom there were many and who was hit hard by the toughness of the territory. A woman shouldn’t have to endure. His pants was brown, and brown again from caked-on mud that had done dry with a layer of desiccated dust on top, weighing his legs down. He clomped in heavy black boots that stretched up his ankles with a flaired tip, grayed with time and overuse. They was nice and expensive when they was new, but that was years ago, they was nothing more than oft-foxed stogies now. The colors done faded, the designs now invisible, the looping lines carefully etched by the shoemaker now smoothed while Zeke’s cheeks had grown weathered and wrinkled. His boots was as worn out as a fire fading into coals. The fabric was frayed and perpetually moist, fragrant like spilled wine baking in the sun. Zeke had known before the cattle-ride he needed new boots, but he wanted to earn some money so that his new boots would be as nice as his old ones was when they was new. But that hadn’t worked out. His boss, the rancher Jeremiah Goodman, had stiffed him, claiming Zeke owed money on account of some equipment that he broke accidentally a few months back. Zeke disputed that vociferous-like, but to no effect. So here he was, with barely a penny to his name. He was going to have to buy boots on credit or borrow the money. A nail had poked through his left boot, and he had a blister. That was more painful than an ornery bull. A sallow man with a dense beard nodded as Zeke passed. “Lookin’ for a lady to spend the night with? Huh? I got womens of e’ry kind, cowboy-“ “Hush, box herder, I’m no cad, I don’t bed slommacks, and I don’t slope out on a lady,” Zeke said, his voice a quavering twang that rose above the rustling crowd. He looked down his nose at the sallow man and his dense beard. “I know that ain’t true, nosir,” the man said with a leer. “Ruby is available for yer delectation, suh! I know you like her-“ “I’m flat broke,” Zeke said. He looked down at his feet, unable to conceal his shame or the bulge in his trousers. Thinking of Ruby did get his manhood a-stirring like a sudden wind. He had done come out west to earn a fortune, but somehow he never got enough to pay for anything more than the necessities. And yet now, he couldn’t even pay for that. He got no boots, no horse of his own, not even a change of shirt right now, he was down to the blanket, not a tailfeather left. Once he used up his ammunition, he’d be all out of that too. Maybe if you didn’t spend so many nights in Ruby’s arms… He walked past the saloon Lipsweet. The blacksmithing man had no interest in anyone without money, so as soon as Zeke said he was broke, he faced away and called out after the next man on the street. He curled his lip at Zeke. Zeke looked down at his feet until he reminded himself that made him look weak. He kept his face up. How his feet ached! He wanted nothing more than to take these boots off and dip his sore feet in a cool stream, like the one that ran past the Goodman ranch. He adored the feel of clean water up to his ankles, sandy stones spreading beneath his toes until his gnarled feet was nearly buried. The boots, those he wanted to burn. They had been usable until very recently, but when they went bad, they want bad in a hurry, turning rancid as quick as uneaten eggs. Now they was anti-goglin all to pieces, all-fired falling apart. He had started off this past cattle-ride confident he had a good couple weeks of use left. Two days in, he had realized his situation was dire. There was no foxing the boots now. He had a blister developing. He’d been favoring that leg so he kept pressure off it, and he wrapped it up just like his mama taught him. But it was only going to get worse the longer he used those boots. He tried to conceal the limp now, lest he seem a likely target for a hustler or a gorilla. He went into the bootmaker’s shop — it was called a shoe shop, but the only shoes sold there was boots, so everyone just called it “the bootmaker’s”. There stood a youngish man with an odd, wavy haircut and sparkling clean clothes. “Hi there, how can I help you?” He had a strange accent too, full of zing and verve. He was from out east, that was clear. He stood out like a sore tit here in Wyoming Territory. Zeke was hesitant. He wanted to buy boots but had no money, and he had no wish to seem a tatterdemalion to this bootmaker. The growing blister on his foot ached like a thousand bitches, smarting up his side. He fingered a pair of nice leather boots. They looked comfortable as anything. “So, uh, I reckon, sir, I need these right bad,” Zeke said, hat in hand. He chewed on his lower lip and ran his fingers through his dusty hair. He had shimmering blue eyes that shone from under the dimness of his burnished skin and slightly yellowish whites. “And, uh… I don’t know, uh… if you got some kinda loan system you offer, on account of, uh… I find myself a little short of greenbacks at this very moment. Just a temporary, uh, sit’ation I find myself in, reckon.” “Oh, oh, I see, that’s terrible,” Miles said. He smiled. “I could loan you the money to pay for them. The shop would collect the money from you over the next year, at a reasonable interest rate.” “That sounds right nice, mistuh-“ “But there’s another option. You don’t have to pay a single solitary penny for those boots. I’ll even throw in a second pair.” Miles came closer to Zeke, uncomfortably nigh, so close he could smell the traildust and sweat clinging to Zeke’s filthy clothes and close enough Zeke could smell the cleanful soapiness of Miles. “What do you expect me to do for two pairs of free boots?” Zeke asked. He remained very suspicious because he thought Miles was going to ask him to do something terrible like kill someone or steal some horses. Two fine pairs of boots was worth an inordinate sum, especially in a town like this where everyone needed them and only one shop sold them. “I’d like you take off your clothes — especially those old boots — and just go it strong all over you.” Miles knew he would get a better reaction from Zeke if he was more circumspect, but he was too horny — he caught a whiff of those boots and the intensely masculine musk wafting off them — to think of anything better. “I…” Zeke’s eyes opened wide. “You wish me to treat you in… that manner? In the manner of a beggar? Are you a sappy saddle bum?” He laughed. The flat reaction on Miles’s face told Zeke was wrong, or to be more precise, he was right that that was what Miles wanted and wrong that Miles would would realize he had misspoke when Zeke rephrased his offer in cruder terms. But no. Miles blushed, and he gave a barely perceptible nod. That frown sat heavy on Zeke’s face. Nobody wanted to service a filthy cowboy, right? Only a hobo would do such a thing, and Zeke was no hobo. But the strange bootseller wished to be the hobo, not the man, and Zeke found that alarming and disturbing. What kind of man wished to be treated like a bed-fagot? Not knowing how else to respond to Miles’s leer, Zeke grabbed his cock through his pants, just to ensure again that Miles knew what he was offering and what he would get. Miles came closer still, and he touched the bulge in Zeke’s denim. The cock underneath was soft now, but warm, throbbing, thick, and sensitive enough to twitch when Miles touched it. There used to be a bed-fagot like Miles — a man, a desperate man with an effeminate way about him — who came with the cowboys of Goodman Ranch on cattle rides. Around the fire at night, he would go from man to man, swallowing down his manhood, handling his creamy seed. Only in the dark. Only on cattle rides. Anything else was for convicts and sailors. But a man must do what must be done. It is for women to beg for mercies. Zeke could withstand the moral blight of unresisted lust, and it was Miles herein who truly sinned. He was the one motivated by lust. Zeke was motivated by need, and even a jackleg preacher would acknowledge the difference between them two. So when Zeke could think of no other response but to agree, he cocked his head to the side. He locked the door to the boot shop. “I don’t much cotton to this kind of b’avior.” “Your approval is not necessary. You don’t even have to be very involved in most of it,” Miles said. “Lemme at those boots.” Zeke finally sat on the chair by the counter, and he scowled at Miles. “And for this you will buy me two pairs of shop-mades?” Miles nodded with eagerness. “I am a skilled cordwainer, and I will make you the finest boots you have ever slipped your feet into. I know everything about the foot, good sir, and nothing will ever fit you better.” “You talk big,” Zeke said with a chuckle. He still didn’t get why Miles was fixated on his ratty old boots. He was vaguely aware that some men liked women’s dainty, clean feet, but he had never heard of a man preferring the opposite. He just snorted back some phlegm — relieved to know now he would get the new boots he needed. His first boot clomped heavily onto the floor, and Zeke sighed as he wrinkled his now-bare toes, which was gnarled, pale, sweaty and fragrant with muskiness. He frowned in confusion at the sight of Miles picking the boot up, ramming his face in it and inhaling loudly. Zeke’s eyes opened wide. “Well… Tarnations! You really gettin’ deep in there, huh?” Zeke said. The smell was potent and astringent and it brought tears to Miles’s eyes. It reeked of Zeke’s body and the years of sweat that had accumulated there. There was layers of smells to unpack. Miles sniffed like a bloodhound searching for a trail. Miles reeled at the potency of the scent. He could have gladly bottled that taste and drunk it. His tongue snuck out, daintily flickering over the fabric and sucking down whatever drops of fluid he could get to. Was it water? Mud? Spilled beer? Or tobacco-flavored spit? Or maybe it was just plain cowboy sweat. It stank of horses and soil, sunlight and mud, muck and sweat and sandy rope. It stank of rutting in the wild, campfires lingering at dawn and slow-baking beans around the fire. Zeke had worn these boots on a hundred cattle-rides from here to New Mexico and back, and every single one of them had added a new fragrant aroma to the well-worn leather of these boots. “Damn, pardner, you got a real hankerin’ for mah foot…” Zeke blushed. “That’s jest madness, yessuh.” As he unlaced his second boot, he tipped his wide-brimmed hat to cover his eyes. Watching Miles smell his foot-funk was starting to make Zeke more and more aware of his own smell. The more it happened though, the more he struggled not to look. Miles was too involved in making sweet oral love to each gag-inducing boot to respond to him. Zeke’s second boot hit the ground. He would have taken his socks off now too — cowboys wore very tight socks that stretched well up his ankles — but his eyes had opened wide, and he was still having trouble processing what Miles was doing. But Zeke don’t want to look like some sheltered git. When he first came to this area, he asked if there was any nice girls here to court, and the men had laughed at him — they still talked about it, the tale exaggerating each time until it was a story about how Zeke snootily demanded the prostitutes be taken away so he could savor the fruits of a more delicate lady. Zeke ain’t realize that this was not a region where nice ladies lived. So he don’t admireta do nothing that would contribute to that reputation. Miles stuck his face in the boot. He had spit and drooled all over the inside, and still it stank of Zeke’s manhood. It was exhilarating, full of layers of flavor that could never seemingly go away. The leather was moist even before Miles started sucking on it. Eventually, however, the boot tasted more of Miles’s spit than of Zeke’s funk, and the leather was slick with saliva. He dropped the boot and it thumped onto the ground. Zeke’s feet was bare now, and Miles ain’t take in them bare feets until now. He dived down hungrily, sticking his ass high in the air so he could kiss Zeke’s foot. It was tan and reddish right now because it was overworked and overheated, crammed into that tight boot. Gnarly hairs ran up the top of it. You could tell it had been in an uncomfortable boot, Miles thought, and he could sense how good it felt for Zeke to get out of it. There was a burgeoning blister on the side of his left foot. “Ah… Pardner, you are one odd duck,” Zeke said with a nervous chuckle. He watched Miles lower his pants and take his dick out. Zeke wrinkled his nose, removed his own shirt and lowered his pants as well. Soon he was stark naked, watching with his limp dick pressed sweatily against his thigh as Miles went sniffing around in the pile of clothes on the floor. Miles loved feet most of all, but he inhaled whatever he could from the armpits of Zeke’s shirt and the crotch of his leather pants. Then Miles plopped his ass on the floor to worship Zeke’s feet, which he picked up with both hands to slather all over with his tongue. Zeke still just sighed as though this was no big deal. He even lit a cigar that Miles had on the counter. Zeke wasn’t a huge smoker, but it felt good to have something to do, since this all seemed to have little to do with him. He wore nothing but his cowboy hat and the plume of smoke rising from his face. So when his dick got hard, he seed it happen even if he was shocked — he ain’t feel aroused. There was no lady in the room, and this whole situation reminded him too much of manhood to be erotic. “Ah, shit, my man, yessuh, you makin’ my prick stiffen up,” Zeke said, watching his dick as though he had never seed it before. It throbbed, despite nobody touching it the slightest bit. A gurgling moan escaped from his lips as Miles’s tongue snaked between his toes. Miles slurped grime off the bottom of his feet, and somehow Zeke found his cock throbbing in his hands. He handled it up and down with first one then both of his callused mitts, but he don’t wanna shoot his wad too soon, so he leggo. Miles soon took over, however, reaching out and stroking Zeke with both hands while sucking on his toes. Zeke sighed and closed his eyes. This, he thought, was disgusting and strange, the sensation odd and not pleasant — not unpleasant, but vaguely ticklish and vicariously gross. But he needed only to submit as Miles slathered his feet with spit, then sucked it all down, until his foot tasted of little more than cloying saliva and precum. Miles ran his tongue up Zeke’s muscled legs, and he popped his knob in his mouth. Zeke’s eyes opened wide as a gushing river, and Zeke’s chest rippled. “You into that, pardner?” “Hmmm…” Miles didn’t answer. He slurped up the sweat and traildust clinging to Zeke’s filthy dick, and he ran his tongue down the shaft. Miles’s own cock touched Zeke on the leg, just below his knee, and precum dabbed his calf hair. When Zeke didn’t complain, Miles rubbed his dick on Zeke’s ankle, then moved lower, to his foot. The whole time Zeke was more focused on the pleasure arising from his own manhood, giving little thought to what Miles’s own cock was doing. Finally Miles reached the point where his dick was on Zeke’s foot, and then Miles sat back. He lifted Zeke’s foot so he could hump the underside of it, his toes touching Miles’s cocktip. A few drops of precum slicked up Zeke’s callused toes, and more prejizz coated the sensitive red circle of that blister developing on his foot. Miles soon got both of Zeke’s feet on his shaft, his hands holding them in place so he could rub them up and down in sync with each other. Miles looked up to see if Zeke was upset, but Zeke leaned his head back and covered his face with his cowboy hat, as if he was pretending this wasn’t happening. So Miles continued using Zeke’s two foul feet as a toy to play with. Soon Miles was spewing precum on both of Zeke’s feet, and Zeke would surely have been disgusted if his eyes were open. He prolly woulda gagged. That meant Miles smirk as he humped his dick on both of Zeke’s bare feet. His own dick leaked a few drops of pre-wad onto the red spot — Zeke’s almost-blister — and Miles wondered if that would make it better or worse. The new boots would surely make it better, he thought, and in any case, Zeke was done with the cattle drive and had a few days to let his foot recover. Before he shot his wad too early, Miles pulled his dick away from Zeke’s feet, no matter how much he wanna finish his own self off now. Miles put Zeke’s feet down, and he leaned forward to kiss Zeke right on the cocktip. It was firm yet fleshy, throbbing, slimy with fluids that poured out the piss-slit. Zeke screwed up his face, aimed down at Miles, like he ain’t understand what was happening or why he was hard. But Miles ain’t stop at kissing his dick. Miles ran his tongue up and down the shaft, and his hands massaged the dust-dappled muscles of Zeke’s thigh. That sent a visible shudder of pleasure to move from Zeke’s crotch to his head. A baritone moan chambered outta Zeke’s throat, and he leaned back to give Miles easy access to his manhood. “Hmm-hmm, pardner, you got a heckuva mouth on you,” Zeke said. He ain’t add that Miles’s mouth reminded him of a prostitute. It was true, but he thought it would offend Miles and in any case, Zeke don’t want a reputation as a man who visits whores. He don’t do that, after all. Just a couple times when he was drunk and young and his dick was so hard it hurt. Kinda like right now. Then, as Miles’s own body was wracked by spasms of pleasure — his cock was spurting precum like a fountain — he kissed a trail up Zeke’s body. His lips traveled from his crotch to his flat belly, to his powerful chest muscles and then continued even higher. Zeke grunted. Soon enough, Miles was kissing him on the neck like a woman would, and his whole body pressed against Zeke’s. Miles’s dick smeared precum over Zeke’s thigh, while his hands explored the firmness of Zeke’s back and asscheeks. His tongue rammed into Zeke’s mouth, and Zeke wrinkled his nose but allowed it. Miles had to stretch his upper body to kiss Zeke, who stayed still like a statue at first. Once his inhibitions vanished, Zeke treated him more like a woman, kissing him back with such passion that Miles swooned in his powerful arms. That whole while, he kept both hands on Zeke’s cock, stroking it slowly, then swiftly, then slowly, until it precum coated the shaft like a flash flood. The fluid flowed into Zeke’s crotch hair. When Miles, sensing how close Zeke, licked a trail from his face down his chest to his dick, Zeke moaned. Miles slathered his chest in saliva before moving more slowly down Zeke’s thigh to his ankles. He slurped his own precum off Zeke’s feet. “Ah, tarnations! Open up, pardner, lemme fill you up!” Zeke raced to ram his cock down Miles’s throat, waiting not a moment for him to react. He just grabbed Miles by the hair, pulled his tongue off his foot and jammed his cock in with Miles’s tongue still curled as though around his little toe. For just a moment, they stayed like that, with Zeke motionless, dick throbbing on Miles’s foot-coated tongue. Then Zeke forced his cock down Miles’s throat, as deep as it would go and then a bit farther, and a long moan came outta Zeke, so intense it sounded painful. A burst of salty, creamy cum sprayed into Miles’s mouth, followed by a second one, then a third. “Ah, boy howdy!” Zeke let out a chest-rattling laugh and a roar as he filled Miles’s throat with his creamy seed. Wads of it overflowed and coated Miles’s face. Great waves of pleasure wracked Miles’s body as he shot his own wad onto the filthy stack of boots and rag socks. He had rarely experienced something so intense, so potent, the flavor cooped up like a thousand cowboys were combined into this one. He was already dizzy when it began because of the intense smell of Zeke’s unwashed feet, and this explosion of flavor in his mouth only made it better. Finally it was done, and Miles collapsed into a limp heap on the floor. He clutched Zeke’s boots, nuzzling them like they was his lover. His tight grip awakened new smells from hidden reservoirs of funk in the leather, scents of sweat and cattle-hide and urine from when the leather was tanned so many years ago. Miles swooned and closed his eyes. He was only dimly aware of Zeke wiping his dick off on Miles’s face. Then Zeke just shrugged and took his new boots. He ain’t even get dressed first. He wanted to get away from that weird man, now sleeping curled around his old rank boots. Zeke stepped out into the street, cock hanging free. That was odd, but not unthinkable in Cheyenne, so he ain’t attract that much attention. He just smiled as he walked to the tavern, dick dangling, two fresh pairs of boots and a stack of dirty clothes in his arms. He hoped there would be a non-whore woman around. Any one would do. Soon as he smoked some tobacco and had a proper drink, he’d be ready to lay with her until the cows came home. This trip to town, he thought, had turned out better than expected.
When Truck has to bodyguard a gangbanger during negotiations at a sauna, he thought he was gonna get a happy ending… and he’s right!
But can he handle who it comes from?
Read it soon as an ebook!
Read the whole thing here!
Truck puffed up his pride at the sight of the little men and women scurrying away from him and the other Bloods as they entered the sauna. He liked being the biggest man around, and he especially liked scaring off the weaklings. He wasn’t just a bully and street dealer though, not anymore, Carson had seen to that. Truck was a somebody. He was a bodyguard and assistant for Carson Washerman, who led the Bloods of Baltimore. It was more like a real job than slinging dime bags had been. He got paid weekly, a flat amount, and he followed Carson everywhere, intimidated the nigga Carson didn’t like (and sometimes, the ones he did like too) and beat up the nigga Carson told him to beat up. Not just niggas, honkies and whatever else too. Truck was good at his job. Today, Carson brought Truck to a sauna, Thackenswitch, where a deal was going to be made. The Italians always did their deals somewhere like this. It was annoying, most of the time, but Truck looked forward to today — Carson had promised a prostitute for him when the deal was done. Thackenswitch got hos a-plenty, everyone in the hood knew that. The Italians — the Cavollo family and their stooges — always did deals at places like this cuzza the lack of clothes. Nobody could wear a wire, and nobody could sneak a gun in. “Right this way, please, sir,” said the smiling Japanese lady, Yuki on her nametag, whose kind face belied the tension and fear Truck could sense beneath the surface of her demeanor — she knew Truck and Carson were dangerous thugs. The Italians presumably weren’t here yet, which Truck was glad for. He was responsible not just for being big and scary but also for general security. He was better at being big and punching people than he was at sweeping a room for recording devices, noticing subtle threats or finding hidden guns. So he had hoped to be here before the Italians, giving him time to do a search. “Hurry up. You go in there first, nigga,” Carson said when the Japanese lady left them at the door to the sauna. The steam billowed out from inside the room when she opened the door. “Make sure there ain’t no guns hidden nowhere, no bombs, nothin’ like that.” Truck nodded. He took off his clothes, stripping down to his boxers before he saw Carson furrow his brow at him. Truck didn’t mind getting naked, and it seemed Carson expected that. Truck hurried in, his big-ass booty jiggling up and down as he disappeared in the steam cloud. Inside the sauna sat two Italian men, also stark naked, body hair matted to their skin. They looked at him as though they’d known he was about to walk in. They stared with grim eyes like vultures. One of them was big — the muscle — and the other was a normal-ass dago. Pauly Rosso was the enforcer, and Sonny Cavollo was the made man. “Uh, they in here already, Carson,” Truck said through the doorway. Truck wished he had gotten here early. Carson had said to search for hidden guns in here, but that wasn’t possible now, and it was all Truck could think of. The Italians could have an armory hidden here. Not many places to hide anything though. The Italians were naked, the benches had no underbench area, there was no furniture aside from the pillar of coals gushing steam and the bucket of water beside it, and that was right in the center of the sauna, so there was no space to hide anything behind it. Truck made a big show of looking everywhere anyway, just so the Italians knew the Bloods didn’t trust them. By the time Truck completed his search, Carson was in the sauna, naked, his thickness jiggling. He didn’t seem self-conscious even though he was kind of pudgy. The muscly Italian, Pauly Rosso, was pudgy too but strong as hell, built like an Olympic discus thrower or maybe like an infected discus. Sonny Cavollo was lean like a stretched ferret, with the kind of face women think is handsome even though it isn’t. He looked like he mistreated his women, but they loved him anyway. Truck knew the type. Truck was the exact opposite of that. Truck stood beside the door as Carson talked to the Italian. Truck made eye contact with his counterpart on the other side, Pauly, who sized his naked body up. Pauly was burly, hairy, offputtingly grizzled, sitting behind his boss with his legs spread wide, big fat cock resting sweatily against his hairy thigh. It was weird for them to sit like that, Pauly behind his boss, so if Signor Cavollo leaned back, he’d be using Pauly’s fat dick as a pillow. Truck hated seeing naked men, they were so ugly, like they retroactively made women he had seen before less attractive. He only watched girl-girl porn. Any sight of a man’s bare dick turned him off. On the other hand, Truck liked when men saw him naked, because he was a hulking giant with a cock like a baby’s arm. But this wop bodyguard — Pauly Rosso — was nearly as big and plenty intimidating in his own right. Truck wasn’t used to that. And he was hairy. Truck very much disliked hairy honkies. White men oughta shave. A little chest hair is fine, but any more than a classy treasure trail was barbarism. White men oughta know better. Italians do not know better, however. Not knowing better is what it means to be Italian. Truck did not like Italians. The deal was over in a flash. Truck barely even noticed. Nothing actually changed hands here in the sauna, of course, but they made a handshake agreement, and Truck was glad it was all over so quick. No need to worry about hidden guns then. “Let’s celebrate, man,” Carson said. He stood up and flashed a grin. “I arranged for us all to get massages… with a happy ending.” Carson opened the door from the sauna, so a burst of cool, refreshing air hit Truck’s face. For a moment the cool air subdued the steam, which died down in the sauna. In came that pretty Japanese woman with a delicate face and massive tits concealed by a colorful kimono — Yuki Yoshida. She showed no emotion, even when she smiled robotically at Carson’s naked body. Truck grinned. He was gonna get to fuck. Carson usually treated him good like that. “Where’s the others?” Carson asked with a knowing grin. He glanced at Truck, who wondered why Carson smiled like that — was this a prank? Was there something going on? Carson looked like he was sharing an inside joke with Truck, but there was no joke Truck was aware of. The Japanese woman opened the door, and in walked two more attractive Japanese women, who were totally nonplussed about the foursome of naked men in front of them. Truck was not used to people ignoring his size, but here, he was not that much bigger than the Italian bodyguard. A huge blond man arrived as well, carrying a foursome of folding massage tables in his massive arms, which he set up right there in the sauna. The blond man was foreign, you could tell by looking at him. He carried himself in an indescribably European way. Truck assumed he was just here to set up the massage tables, which was what he did — he had massive arms and a broad chest, that was why, he was capable of carrying all four tables at once. It was weird he did so wearing just a pair of shorts, but whatever… Truck had eyes only for the women. Truck smiled. A part of his mind told him to do the math. Count the women, count the men. Compute the ratio. The math was simple, but Truck couldn’t look away from the Asian women and their curves. Truck licked his teeth when one of the women caught his eye. Three women. Four of us. Plus the weird European man. Five men, three women? The Italians grinned and laughed. “Hey, I like the way you think, Carson!” The Italian bodyguard Pauly stood and came up to Truck, wrapping one hairy, meaty arm around Truck’s shoulders, while the other Italian leaned in close to Carson to kiss him on the cheek. Truck knew that was normal for Italians, but that didn’t make it easier to tolerate when the Italian bodyguard kissed him on the cheek too, their bodies so close his uncut swarthy cock rested on Truck’s trunk-like thigh and his hairy chest collided with Truck’s gang-tatted muscles. They all four climbed up onto one of the massage tables that European man set up. Truck really didn’t like laying there with his back exposed, but he supposed the masseuses were likely safe, and anyway, the negotiations were over. There’d be no point in springing an ambush now. The masseuses were all Japanese, not part of the gang negotiations in the first place. They probably didn’t even speak English. Truck didn’t get why that blond man remained in the sauna the whole time — security, maybe? Truck wasn’t sure. Maybe they were nervous the Italians would rape a masseuse. Italians would do that, they would. They were so damn gropey. Truck didn’t approve. The European man was almost as big and muscular as the Italian bodyguard was, so it didn’t seem likely he was a masseur. But it turned out, that’s exactly what he was. Finally, the math computed in Truck’s mind. There were four men here waiting for a massage, but there were only three masseuses. And that one European guy. Security or whatever. With his hair in a ponytail. Shoulders like an ox. “Have fun, Truck,” Carson said with a smirk. The pretty women spread out to Carson and the Italians. That hulking blond prettyboy came to Truck and planted his hands on Truck’s broad shoulders. “Man! Why do I got the dude?!” Truck grunted when he realized what had happened and what was about to happen. He tried to sound tough. He narrowed his eyes to slits aimed at the masseur, who ignored his hostile mug. He’s not getting a happy ending. Truck grimaced. He’d rather skip the whole massage. What did he want with a massage from a man? Seemed pointless. Carson and the Italians laughed. Carson responded like he had expected this — of course, Truck thought, that’s what Carson had been hinting at. Ever since last week, when Truck said he had not jacked off with any men in his seven months behind bars, Carson said that was bullshit for a Blood’s bodyguard. ‘I threaten people wit’ you bein’ they prison cellmate all the time, nigga. You gotta know how to do it.’ Truck just assumed it was all a joke. Besides that, he did know how to do it — there was no magic to it. If he really needed to cornhole a man, Truck thought, he could do it. Nobody told him he’d look like a pussy if he didn’t do it. Apparently all of Carson’s other enforcers had a prison wife during their time behind bars. They thought only a pussy jacked himself off — literally, they said only “a pussy can make a nigga cum”. So if you jack yourself off with your hand, then you’re a pussy. Truck assumed that was a joke until Carson said criticized him for not doing it. It wasn’t like Truck told Carson to threaten niggas with a ramrodding. Truck didn’t wanna do that. Why not just beat people up? So much simpler. Truck could beat a nigga up, then fuck a bitch. Why try and combine those two things? “Enjoy your happy ending, Truck,” Carson said. He snorted back laughter, then groaned as his own massage began, and Carson’s thickboy body jiggled beneath his woman’s touch. Truck flared his nostrils and bristled, but he didn’t say anything. Carson didn’t want his bodyguard talking back to him. The main part he found disturbing so far was that the masseur was a thickly-muscled Swedish man named Johan. Truck would have hoped for a delicate, flamboyant man who was as feminine as possible in accent and mannerisms and body shape. Johan had long blond hair, but he was built like a Viking raider, with a square jaw and a deep, gravelly voice. Truck could tell he was not gonna be able to ram Johan so hard he begged him to stop, and as far as Truck was concerned, if you didn’t ramrod your bitch til it was too much for him, you weren’t doing it right. That was easy to say when Truck wasn’t gonna ramrod any bitch. Johan’s well-muscled ass looked like it could take a lot of punishment. “Roll over,” said Johan in his thick Swedish accent. Truck did so, hoping he didn’t look self-conscious. He kept his eyes closed. The first part of the massage, where Johan rubbed his back, had gone past so quick Truck barely noticed it. He was not relaxed. Laying down on his back now, Truckcouldn’t see the others. There was an occasional grunt, and the moist sound of flesh on flesh, but Truck couldn’t tell from the sound alone whether the others were still getting massages or if they had moved on to their “happy ending”. He smelled something salty, either jizz or precum, or maybe he was imagining it. He tried to pretend his masseur was one of the pretty Japanese females, but Johan’s hands were so massive and meaty they were like bear paws. It was impossible to picture a beautiful girl attached to those mitts. Truck closed his eyes. One of those hands touched his cock, and Truck gasped. He bit his lip to cover up the sound, not wanting to sound like he didn’t know what he was doing. He kept his eyes closed. It did feel good, but Truck tried not to show it. He kept his face stoic. Luckily the Italians and Carson were more involved in their women. Truck kept sneaking peeks at the Asian women, which helped his dick throb in Johan’s grip, as a few sparks of pleasure danced through his body. Truck frowned. This shouldn’t feel too good, he thought. Only a booty bandit was really into this shit, and Truck Simpel was no booty bandit. His dick firmed up in Johan’s hand. Johan’s other hand continued to rub Truck’s chest, tweaking his nipples and caressing his shoulders. Truck’s body told him it felt good, but his mind said he was too tense to enjoy it. Then Johan’s head lowered slowly. He kissed Truck on the chest, and his tongue teased Truck’s nipples. That also made Truck’s eyes open wide because it felt better than he was expecting. Truck gasped and, this time, he couldn’t conceal how loud the sound was. It made Carson laugh and clap his hands. At last Johan’s mouth encircled Truck’s big cock, and Truck again made a loud choking-like sound. He sucked in his breath and held it in, his eyes bugging out. Johan was just doing it, like it was nothing, swallowing his cock to the root. Few women ever gave him a blowjob like this. “Is your big man new?” asked the Italian Sonny Cavollo, who chortled at Truck’s noises. Carson laughed so hard he couldn’t answer, and the more he laughed at Truck, the more Truck couldn’t control his reaction. Johan’s confident, large mouth felt so good on his manhood that he couldn’t take it. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. He nearly fell off the massage table from squirming so hard. But Truck forced himself to take a deep breath. Calm down, nigga, calm down. It’s just a mouth on your dick. But it felt so damn good! This was actually better than any blowjob Truck had ever had. It was deeper for sure. Truck had a massive cock, and no woman had ever deep-throated it like Johan did. With every passing moment, the pleasure was amplified, coursing through his veins like fire, as Johan’s mouth worked furiously up and down Truck’s veiny shaft. “Hmmm!” Truck clenched his teeth to avoid moaning. He writhed on the massage table for a few seconds, then told himself again to calm down. The ecstasy wracking his body felt so good he wanted to cry out. He hoped he didn’t communicate that through body language, because that wasn’t gangsta. The Italians would think he was a booty bandit if they thought he enjoyed this too much. Carson wanted Truck to have that reputation, but Truck did not. How would he ever get a woman again if they found out he was a booty bandit? “Holy fuck…” the Italian bodyguard Pauly was laughing too, along with Carson and the other Italian, watching Truck shake on the massage table. All three of them treated Truck’s reaction like a big joke, but there was an element of jealousy in their voices too. Their Japanese masseuses handled their cocks and soon started to suck on them delicately, but none throated it as enthusiastic as Johan, and none were even remotely capable of going as deep as he could — Johan was, after all, gigantic. The Japanese women might as well have been mice. “If you wanna cornhole him, Truck…” Carson said with a groan as his dick finally perked up in his masseuse’s mouth. “He looks like he’d be fine with that.” Carson had a low throaty chuckle. He looked at Truck as though this suggestion was an order. Truck didn’t need to be told twice. He remained embarrassed about his reaction, but he was no longer so nervous about doing it at all. He just wished he looked like a real gangsta doing it, instead of a spoiled teenager finally losing his virginity. He wondered if Johan’s ass was as tight as a female’s. It turned out it was, or at least it was as tight as any of the women Truck had ever fucked in the ass. Not many. When your dick is more than a foot long, most women nope out at sight of it. Truck stroked his own cock a few times as Johan lubed up his ass. Johan’s face remained firm and fixed. He hadn’t spoken since he walked in the room. Truck wasn’t sure he spoke English that well, but when Truck told him to get in position, Johan responded like he understood. Again, his height made this strange — Truck had never been with anyone near his own size. He was used to needing to lower his hips and bend his knees to fuck a girl standing up. But Johan just bent over that massage table, sticking his ass in the air. He had beautifully plump round orbs, which Truck would have adored licking and sucking on for hours if they were attached to a female body. He felt a little guilty for even thinking about what that firm flesh would taste like beneath his tongue. On a white girl, those faintly visible blond hairs would have been sexy; Truck would have craved their taste on his tongue, but on Johan, Truck wished they weren’t there. “Stick him! Stick him! Stick him!” Carson chanted and guffawed. The Italians had grown quieter — that was, Truck suspected, part of the plan: Carson had said he wanted Truck to be able to cornhole a man because it was intimidating, so presumably he did it now hoping to intimidate the Italians. Truck took a deep breath as his dick slid into Johan’s plump ass. He guided it in with one hand until his fingers touched fine, soft ass-hair, which made him gag and look away again. It was hot and warm, and those strapping back muscles all flexed and looped and arched and rippled as Johan’s meaty booty struggled to accept Truck’s cockshaft. Carson laughed at Truck’s reaction. “You gonna have to touch him to stick him. C’mon, man, I know you know how to do it. Ain’t you have a cellmate?” Of course Carson knew the answer was no, but he was asking more to intimidate the Italians than for any other reason. Truck was too focused on his own body to really think of a good response. “Yeah,” was all he said. Then he barked at Johan. “Keep yo’ ass up!” He hoped that sounded tough. Johan ignored it — might not have even realized the words were directed at him — but that was fine because his ass was at the perfect level anyway. Johan showed little reaction to anything Truck said or did, which made Truck look weak. Or maybe nobody was paying as much attention to him as he thought. The Italians were focosed on their women’s tits. Carson had his own woman, though he kept an eye on Truck and Johan too. He was so focused on getting through this without looking like a sissy that Truck barely noticed how good Johan’s ass felt at first. He sighed and moaned, which he managed to turn into a more macho grunt as a bolt of pleasure shot up his spine. This was a fine ass. He bit his lip again. His hands wrapped around Johan’s hips, uncaring of the body hairs he felt there. He growled and slammed his dick in, making an audible slapping sound as his balls hit Johan’s thighs. Truck’s muscles all flexed as ecstasy rippled through him. This felt much better than he thought. From the way other niggas talked about ramrodding men in prison, Truck thought he would struggle to get through this, and maybe if he were in prison with some sobbing snitch or whatever, it would have been a struggle. But Johan’s ass was tight and willing, and it seemed to crave Truck’s cock just as much as Truck craved ramming it full of spasming dick. Johan grunted, the closest thing to a word he had said in awhile. The table under him shook like it was going to collapse, but it didn’t. His ass tightened and clenched beneath Truck’s pounding, which only made even more pleasure wrack Truck’s body. That blond hair is perfect. Truck couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized that until now. Johan had beautiful long blond hair that went past his shoulders. Truck loved pulling on hair while he fucked girls, and it was the kind of thing a prison-thug might do, so he should have been doing it from the start. He grabbed a fistful of that fine blond hair and held on tight. He didn’t pull hard, just hard enough to get Johan’s attention and force him to raise his head. It made Johan’s ass clench and his cock spurt precum into his hand as he stroked himself off. “Yeah, bitch, take it!” Truck said with a growl. He smacked Johan’s ass with his free hand. The smell of cum filled the air. At first, Truck assumed it was his own semen and that he didn’t notice his orgasm right away. But then he thought it was Johan, jacking himself off. Finally, however, Truck realized that it was the Italians, followed moments later by Carson himself. Their women brought them to orgasm, and they guzzled down every drop of their cum. Then they tidily cleaned up their respective men. But Carson and the Italians were more focused on watching the two giants on the other side of the room. Truck’s massive brown body trembled with every thrust of his hips into Johan’s tight ass. “Damn, Carson, yo’ man cornhole like a goddamn train!” Truck felt Johan’s orgasm because his insides all tensed at once. His asshole clenched tightly around Truck, who groaned and moaned as the most intense orgasm of his life hit him hard. His knees buckled and he nearly collapsed. He pulled hard on Johan’s hair, while his other hand smacked the meaty part of Johan’s back. Johan shuddered as he sprayed a wad of cum onto the floor. Then they both gasped in sync while Truck’s balls crawled up in his sac. A spurt of cum landed inside Johan, who shuddered again. Truck’s body exploded in sweat, releasing jet after jet of semen that sprayed into Johan’s tight ass. “Woo-hoo, way to go, Truck! I wouldn’t wanna be yo’ cellmate,” Carson said, eyeing the Italians to be sure they saw. They eyed the situation and stared but didn’t say anything, like they didn’t want to give away any reaction. Johan let out a sound that was half-grunt and half-howl. It made the hairs on the back of Truck’s neck stand up. Truck’s muscles all relaxed at once as the last few drops of his load filled up Johan’s ass. Truck stepped back, glad to see his hoggish meat plop out of Johan’s tight hole. He had done it, and he hadn’t embarrassed himself. He thought he even managed to look like he knew what he was doing. He snorted like a bull. He couldn’t resist fingering Johan’s ass a bit, until his finger was white with his own cum. It made him gag, the thought of fingering a man’s asshole, but he almost always did it when fucking a woman in the ass, and he thought it seemed like the kind of thing a prison-thug would do. Johan crooned as he accepted Truck’s pinkie finger. He bit his lip and muttered something in Swedish, his whole body struggling to accept that tiny finger. Truck just got it nasty and dripping wet, then wiped it off on Johan’s plump cheek. He snickered. “Go’n and clean me off, bitch,” Truck said. He put his hands on his hips. He wasn’t sure Johan understood the words, but he did get a few tissues and wipe Truck’s dick off. Whether that was because Truck told him to or because he always did it, Truck didn’t know. He acted as though Johan did it under orders, and when he was done, Truck looked at his cock like he inspected it to be sure Johan had done a good job. “Fine, bitch. Get outta here. The men are still talkin’.” Johan either didn’t understand or didn’t care about that command. He gathered up the massage tables and the bottles of warming oil that the Japanese women had left behind. Truck crossed his arms over his chest as though he had told Johan to do that. At last Johan walked away, and Truck breathed a sigh of relief. No one else was getting dressed, so he didn’t either. He just stayed there, making sure his gleaming-wet cock was aimed in the direction of the Italians, who scrupulously avoided looking at it. His whole body shone with sweat, and his muscles were relaxed like pudding. That was, in the end, a shockingly good massage. Carson turned to the Italians. “Alright, well, we gots a deal, right? You gonna hold up yo’ end?” “Course…” the Italian said, shaking Carson’s hand without taking his eyes off Truck. Truck’s cock throbbed and dripped a few final drops of jizz onto the floor, and Truck’s whole body shuddered. The Italian grimaced. “We would never do anything to… earn your ire. We will be prepared for the deal on Sunday.”
His brother Shane was lankier, long-limbed and scruffy, sorta built like a muscular kultarr, and he only had one tattoo, of Uluru, on his shoulderblade — he didn’t get along with dad — and he had terrible teeth and a greasy mullet.
