One bedroom had a sheet strung up through the middle of it. And in the center of that sheet was a hole. Exactly what Bernardo had described. It stank of jizz in here, an odor that made Cody wrinkle his nose. He couldn’t deny it did make him horny though. It reminded him of a brothel, and Cody’d had more than his fair share of fun at those.
Bernardo walked right up to the sheet and put a ten dollar bill in the hole. Someone — or maybe a machine — took it, then Bernardo unzipped the fly of his jeans. He ain’t even pull his pants down, he just flopped his pecker in through the hole. His eyes lit up, and his knees went weak. “¡Ay ay!”
Author: MNManmacker
Nimbo (Maricio) Patiñez
Anthony liked Nimbo a lot. Everybody did — or at least women did. Nimbo was lightly tattooed for a cholo, and he had neat hair and dimples you could wash a car in. He was muscular but not huge or bulgey — he played on a soccer team, a real one. He had thighs like crazy, an ass as hard as granite, with a pair of giant cheeks that looked too big for his frame.
And he always wore cologne. He smelled great. Anthony blushed whenever Nimbo was around. He had an aura of desire, radiating charisma like the sun. He moved like he needed to use all of his muscles just to take a step. Anthony had trouble not staring at him, watching the curves of his body. Luckily Nimbo was drinking and distracted by the woman, so he didn’t notice Anthony’s relentless stare.
Hombrito culo
He knew culo was ass. He done pick up on that. What was a hombrito culo?
Much to his surprise, one of those Mexicans mounted Sazonito, who situated a pillow under his belly, near his crotch, like it was a plastic pussy and he was gonna fuck it. The pillow propped up his ass at an angle.
That angle also made his asscheeks separate enough that Cody caught another strong whiff of his masculine aroma, joined by the scent of the other Mexican who got behind him. He kneeled behind Sazonito, lining his cock up with Sazonito’s ass.
Cody sucked in his breath. Was this normal? Was he gonna stick his dick in Sazonito’s ass?
It was Nelson who mounted Sazonito. Nelson was the oldest in the apartment. He was wiry and short, wrinkled but powerfully built, like a dehydrated weightlifter. He mounted Sazonito’s massively muscled body from behind and slid his limp cock into Sazonito’s asscrack.
“Aaaah…” Cody’s eyes opened wide. What the sam hill was going on? What Mexican craziness was this? He wanna stand and jump up and down — if he was surrounded by his own kind, that’s what he would do.
But the Mexicans were all treating this as normal, and Cody didn’t want to look like a squeamish, giddy anglo.
As far as Cody knew, no man who went to prison would bare his ass, raised up like that! And Sazonito was just doing it! Letting Nelson get in position to stick it in him! Cody still weren’t even sure that cornholing was a real thing, and apparently it was just happening, easy as pancakes!
“!Ay ay!”
Sazonito’s asscrack was warm and slightly wet with sweat, and the butthairs gave a little friction, it seemed. Nelson humped Sazonito’s buttcrack while watching the teevee screen, and he used both hands to squeeze Sazonito’s meaty cheeks against each other, his wrinkled old knob in between ’em.
It took Cody a few seconds to realize that’s what a hombrito culo was — not cornholing, it was just humping the buttcrack. It must be a prison thing. Or a Mexican thing, since they all knew about it but weren’t all ex-cons. Or maybe it was a Latin Kings thing.
From Roommates in the Dark
Gotta pay the A-rab feller first
“Ooooooh, I see that!” Buck said when he was close enough to the garage to see the man in the front of the line. The portly sailor with dusky skin — Portuguese, Buck guessed — got his pants undone, and he be humping the garage door.
Actually, he be humping a hole in the garage door.
“What’ssssh going on?” Jeb asked. He sounded very drunk, which made Buck chuckle.
“This is called a gloryhole. I ain’t seen one in Anchorage before,” Buck said with a smirk. He and Jeb got in the back of the line. “It’s fun, you’ll like it. I guess you never got ya rocks off like that.”
“Whaaaat?” Jeb frowned.
“Inside that garage is a girl. Blonde most likely,” Buck said with a knowing grin — he savvied perfectly well that there ain’t no female in there of any kind. “She on her knees suckin’ the dick of any man who stick it in the hole. Gotta pay the A-rab feller first. I dunno how much.”
From Jeb the Farmboy
Dino Papadias
Dino was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with swarthy skin betraying his Greek origin, though his accent was almost undetectable. He had a dense mop of curly black hair that extended in an unruly mess all the way to his shoulders. He wore a tight wifebeater, and a thick layer of curly black hair extruded from beneath it.
Blacksmith’s feet
He planted his tongue on the bare top of Goldforge’s left foot, and Miles let out a moan as the taste of footy funk assaulted his senses. Even before his tongue touched the foot, he could taste it and smell it, the freshly sweated scent ramming into him, bringing tears to his eyes.
The sweat had poured over his foot when he wore those boots, and now it was slick all over. Miles slathered every inch with his tongue. He spat up on to the top of the foot and then sucked his spit down, gasping at how deliciously nasty the taste was — it tasted like stale spit and a locker room and a bit of cum.
Miles’s nose pressed into the layer of hair on top of Goldforge’s foot — he had moved onto the fresh right foot, and this time, he didn’t lick the whole thing. He savored it, dragging it out. He just licked the hairy top surface of the foot, getting up all the sweat that was there before he moved onto the toes.
He loved toes. The cracks between the toes was delightful, it was where sweat collected and never went away. So Miles could taste everything Goldforge had done since the last time he bathed — which was weeks ago. He could taste the hours he spent in the forge and the metal he had worked over and over; he tasted scorching sparks and moist, mildewy fur boots, and spilled lager and whiskey.
As he moved on to the bottom of Goldforge’s foot, licking up all the dirt that clung to his skin, Miles’s eyes roamed upward. He had to laugh at the shocked look on Goldforge’s face.
“Zanzibar’s axe!” Goldforge said with an annoyed grunt. He hadn’t expected this to feel good. “You are… You are licking my feet?”
From The Filthiest Alphas in Boots, Sneakers and Sandals
Goldforge
He wore a black apron made of thick leather. He didn’t wear a shirt underneath it, so his hefty body spilled out through the straps that ran over his back and shoulders to keep the apron in place. His back was hairy like his chest, the dense, coarse fur covering him and turning outrageously thick in the small of his back. He wore britches that ended at the knee, and covered his ass and thighs, but Miles could tell his ass was just as hairy.
He would be considered fat by human standards, but Miles didn’t see it that way. Goldforge had a bodybuilder’s body, it was just covered up by the natural dwarven padding — supposedly evolved by generations of mining and needing the cushion for falling down mineshafts. Miles could see the muscle under all the heft, and he didn’t mind the belly or the big ass — which was perfectly plump, and, Miles suspected and hoped, greasy with the day’s sweat.
Prison slippers
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 toes, and his nails were disgusting — again, that was something Miles adored.
“Oh… Okay.” Francesco chuckled nervously. “You into my feet?”
Miles nodded. Those slippers tasted like steel and soil, with a little foot funkiness underneath all that. Miles pulled them both off. Francesco plopped down on the staircase. He stretched his long legs to give Miles easy access.
Francesco Lancinelli
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 had 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.
Ramblin’ Joe
Miles pulled his socks off, and the funk of his feet grew even more intense. They were pale by nature, but slightly yellowed — from urine, dirt, disease, or whatever, Miles didn’t know. They were creased and worn from the tight socks, which Ramblin’ Joe probably hadn’t removed in days, if not weeks.
His voice faded to the back of Miles’s mind, as he licked and sucked on every inch of Joe’s feet. He took his own cock out as he did, stroking himself off. His tongue explored the crevices of Joe’s foot, glancing up to see him telling a story and ignoring Miles’s tongue.