Jagged Right – Mansploitation

The Abilene Alpha

Lance is an accountant who just bought his first motorcycle, so he’s hanging out at a biker bar. That means when an alpha biker named Banner comes to him with an intriguing offer, Lance is ready to do what he wants.

So Lance is in for another exciting episode of Twink on Top!

Read it now as an ebook!

Or read the whole thing here!

Lance was unsure about Lipsweet before he walked in. It had a reputation as a rough joint. Someone was stabbed here a couple months ago, it was in all the papers. Walking into a biker bar — the toughest biker bar in Abilene, he had heard — sounded like a bad idea. When he was a young man, Lance would have done that in a heartbeat. Did do it, and a bunch of similar things. He waltzed into a legendary yakuza bar in Tokyo once. Walked right out when the pinkie-less man with the neck tats said gaijin weren’t allowed.
But middle age was looming nearer and nearer with every passing day for Lance. He was a married man. He still looked young enough, but he was seeing and feeling the signs of his age. There were strands of hair in his sink. He woke up at night to pee sometimes. Many times. All the time. He woke up to pee many times all the time. He started getting sleepy at like nine o’clock. He felt young right up until he realized he had been feeling like an old man for months.
That was why Lance was not interested in playing it safe anymore. The rough-and-tumble biker bar didn’t phase him. He bought a motorcycle on a whim and found that he loved it — once he actually figured out how to ride it. That was why he had come to Lipsweet, the most notorious biker bar in Abilene. The rumbling of the engine beneath his body made him feel young again; it reminded him of when he had first started going to raves, before he met Juliet — his wife — and this bar felt like the perfect place for him, like he had been constructed just for it.
At some point he stopped feeling that way dancing to electronic music, but he kept going. He wasn’t a drug user, which was part of what made him not really fit in at raves. He liked the music, and he liked the dancing, but he didn’t do ny of the increasingly diverse bouquet of drugs the others did. The people he came up with became burnouts and losers, scrounging up dollars for a hit of chemicals with street names like love and ecstasy and oneness. They’re named after the things they don’t provide.
So he bought a motorcycle, and he felt young all over again. It was hot and firm, rumbling, like an extension of his cock, an industrial, gasoline-gulping manhood that sprayed speed and smog in equal measures. He felt bigger and stronger as soon as he sat on that leather seat. Nobody knew he was a mere accountant.
Going to Lipsweet seemed natural when sitting on the bike. Everyone knew it was the biker bar — or one of the major biker bars in Abilene, which was a biker town. Lipsweet was controlled by the Jagged Right. Lance didn’t have any gang connections, but he bought the motorcycle at a Jagged Right-connected dealership. Or maybe that was just a marketing trick, but it worked, and anyway, the salesman had a Jagged Right tattoo.
He felt like a real biker as he actually walked in to Lipsweet, amid a sea of sweaty biceps and tattered black leather jackets, smell of engine oil and gun grease lingering in the air. As the rumble of the motorcycles doing circuits outside faded from his ears, Lance felt weak and insecure all over again, like an old man at a rave he wasn’t invited to.
It was a good thing he didn’t go to raves any more. He’d look like an out-of-place old fool. At least bikers aged without aging out.
“Chug it! Chug it!”
“Double whissshkey, straight up.”
After some initial awkwardness, Lance began to fit in. A few drinks helped, and he gulped them down quick enough to impress anyone watching and quick enough to get tipsy right away. He liked to drink, and that was all the bikers here seemed to care about. They ignored him at first, like they thought he was an undercover cop. But when he didn’t ask anyone for drugs, they gradually warmed up to him, and the alcohol helped loosen Lance up,
Soon enough he was a chatty Cathy with all the bikers, and he started to learn everyone’s name. They were really pretty nice and welcoming once you got to know them. He learned that that salesman he bought the motorcycle from was a real Jagged Right.
Lance was good at chugging, which helped him to fit in. He downed beers like he did it regularly, which he did, years ago. Juliet — Lance’s wife — would not allow him to chug beers now. She wouldn’t even want him drinking beers you could chug. She only bought fancy white wine and occasionally, for Lance, expensive German beer or “bitters” from England. You ever had bitters? It’s like beer but disgusting, truly revolting stuff. Juliet didn’t see any point in doing anything unless it was status-raising, that was the problem.
The blistering hard rock on the jukebox and the chatter filling the air meant a lot of them barely noticed him in the first place. He chugged beers alongside them, and they clapped him on the back. They fell over each other to offer help with his new bike.
But Lance was simply glad to be accepted. His bike was brand-new and didn’t really need anything right now, though he was certainly glad to have made about a dozen new mechanic-friends. Maintaining a motorcycle could get expensive.
“More beer for the new man!”
“Chug it! Chug it!”
He had no sooner finished chugging his latest beer when the bar was distracted by a fight. One leather-clad biker punched another, for reasons unclear to Lance — something to do with a girl, he suspected, which was always a good bet when bikers were fighting. Maybe disrespect, maybe something motorcycle-related. The others immediately chanted for more. Fight! Fight! Fight! Lance felt a twinge of desire at the sight of the two big guys fighting, hefty muscles shaking with each thrust of their fists.
He added his own chant to the melange of voices. “Fight! Fight! Fight!” But by the time his drunken self got into it, the fight was already over, and the two sloppy-drunk bikers were buying each other bourbons.
“Here, lemme buy you a shot,” said the one of the other bikers. His name was Banner — Lance had met him a few minutes ago — and he sported a powerful body and no belly at all, a fact that was obvious because he wore only a tattered wifebeater that had more holes than it had shirt. He was wearing a black leather jacket earlier, but he must have taken it off cuz this bar was like a furnace. Banner didn’t wait for Lance to accept the offer of a shot. The bartender was trying to break up the fight, so Banner reached behind the bar for a bottle of whiskey. He poured two shots (each of which were really doubles, and fat doubles at that). “Come on, let’s do a brüderschaft on this.”
Lance didn’t know what that meant — and the German unnerved him — but he followed along. Banner had Lance’s thin arm interlock with his softball-sized biceps, as though they were chorus line dancers facing in opposite directions. Lance felt another surge of sexual thrill at being so close to Banner’s tattooed biceps. The warmth of his body heat suffused into Lance’s flesh. Then Banner lifted his shot glass to Lance’s lips, and Lance did likewise. With their arms interlocked, they both swallowed each other’s shots, and Banner laughed as the harshness of the straight whiskey made Lance shudder and bug out. It tasted like gasoline.
When they were done, Lance took a deep breath. Tears welled in his eyes from the astringent whiskey, which was cheap — this bar didn’t stock anything fancy. He didn’t often take shots, especially doubles. Banner cleared his throat.
“So… you’re like… cool, right?” Banner had to speak loudly to be heard over the din of the crowd. The fight had died down, and the combatants were engaged in a drinking contest that attracted the attention of most of the bar’s patrons. Though Banner raised his voice, he aimed it directly for Lance, who felt the hot breath condensing on his cheek, and nobody but Lance could hear his words.
“Yeah…” Lance said. He was tantalizingly close to Banner’s heat-exuding muscles, and he couldn’t help but touch the rock-hard bulges of Banner’s biceps.
“Thought so,” he said, giving no notice to Lance’s hands feeling up his arms. “You, uh… wanna plow me?”
Lance just assumed that Banner meant ‘would you like me to plow you?’ So Lance said yes. He might have taken it as a joke, but Banner had a serious look on his tan, craggy face. It didn’t occur to Lance he might have heard the question correctly. The bar was loud, Lance’s mind was hazy with drunkenness, and a huge alpha biker like Banner would never let some accountant plow him up the ass.
Worried that Banner would back out, Lance tripped over himself to agree. He nodded like an overly enthusiastic otter.
Without another word, Banner smiled and put a finger to his lips, motioning for Lance to be discrete — he just motioned ‘down’, and somehow he and Lance were sympatic enough that Lance knew he meant keep it on the downlow.
As casually as he could muster, Lance followed Banner to the bathrooms in the back, pretending they were going to watch the drinking contest that remained the center of attention. Instead they slipped into the back of Lipsweet, and the roar of the drinking contest faded to a dull drone muffled by the wall.
Most of the bikers just pissed outside, so the bathroom was empty when they walked in. Bikers walked back and forth from the bar to the alley using this back corridor though, so they all saw Banner and Lance go into the men’s room. Banner locked the door behind them, stripped off his wifebeater and threw it on the filthy floor.
“Hey, Banner, whatchoo doin’ in there?”
“You know it!”
Banner wasn’t in the least embarrassed about this, it seemed. He opened the door again, stuck his head out and said, “Y’all said I’d never have the balls to do it, but I am gonna plow this sissy into next week! You gonna hear him begging for mercy back here, but don’t none of you try to stop me! You know what my dick’s like — once it gets moving, it’s an uncontrollable freight train!” Banner relocked the door amid the boisterous laughs of his friends.
“You really gonna plow that sissy? Wreck his ass!”
“Relax, man, he ain’t gonna take it in the ass. We know you was in prison too, don’t pretend you never plowed a bitch.”
“If you ain’t in prison, that’s nasty.”
“It ain’t nasty if you’s on top.”
“It ain’t nasty if yo’ balls don’t touch.”
“It ain’t nasty if you don’t make eye contact!”
Lance’s eyes bugged out, as his ears filled with the raspy-voiced boasting of the bikers. This was all happening so fast, it was dizzying.
“I ain’t hear ‘im beggin’ you to take it easy on him.”
“That’s cuz I’m goin’ slow, hoss, relax yo’ shit. You listenin’ at the door? You that turned on by a man gettin’ plowed you gotta jack off and listen?” Banner asked. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “You the perverted one then, man. I ain’t touchin’ this man’s dick, and I ain’t gonna listen to his cries… unlike you, apparently.”
Lance was shocked and terrified. Was Banner threatening to ram him? Lance wanted to go through with this, but what if he took it too far? When Lance was younger, he would have loved the idea of being held down and used by the sterling manhoods of any number of bikers. Now he was a little more hesitant.
What would Juliet say?! That thought made Lance bite back a laugh of derision. Juliet wouldn’t go anywhere near a biker bar.
“Don’t worry, I’s just playin’ for the crowd,” Banner said softly. He looked suddenly bashful, and the muscles on his bare chest and belly rippled. He stroked one of Lance’s cheeks, then pulled him closer. “I… ain’t gonna treat you wrong.” He kissed Lance on the lips, and he rammed his tongue into Lance’s mouth.
Lance was so shocked to be kissed that he nearly fell over. He swooned into Banner’s powerful arms. His biceps were hard, inked, ropy like a statue of a man, lined with scars and imperfections that made him feel so very real and much more arousing than all those smooth-bodied, perfect-faced twinks that Lance had been messing with when Juliet was out of town. Banner felt like a motorcycle, brimming with power and uncontrollable heat, rough-edged and hard to manage. But his mere presence and the smell of his unkempt body made Lance hard. Banner’s words from earlier ricocheted within Lance’s head — ‘You wanna plow me?’ — now that they were outside of the roaring crowded bar, Lance knew he hadn’t misheard and that Banner hadn’t misspoken. He wanted to get plowed.
This biker was ready to bottom, and he wanted Lance on top.
“I want you inside me,” Banner said, whispering in that raspy baritone, though there was no chance anyone outside the bathroom would hear unless he yelled as he had before — the bathroom door was thick and muffled all the sounds from outside, except for those men yelling at the wall. His whispers were desperate and plaintive. “Please? Plow me in the ass. I want ya dick, man…”
“Really? You wanna bottom?” Lance asked. He still thought maybe he had misheard, maybe Banner was just testing him, though for what purpose Lance couldn’t imagine. He certainly didn’t want to try to make Banner bend over and take it unless he was sure that’s what Banner wanted.
Banner nodded. “I gotta put on a show for them out there though, I’m gonna make it sound like I’m ramroddin’ you, and you can’t ever tell anyone I’m bottomin’ for you. If you do, I’ll fuck you up for real,” he said, forming a fist with one hand and punching it hard into the palm of the other. His smile vanished, and his menace was so authentic it dripped off his face. Lance shuddered and nodded. He had no problem keeping it a secret.
“Ram ‘im, Banner! Make ‘im squeal like a piggie!”
“Oink, oink!”
“You seen Banner’s cock, right? He gonna mess that accountant up!”
Banner had to get on all fours and drop his jeans because he was so much taller than Lance — if they both stood, Lance’s face was in his torso and his dick in Banner’s thighs. Banner didn’t seem to mind touching the disgusting bathroom floor, which was grimy and stank of feet and homeless men.
The smell was intriguing, even desirable to Lance, who did appreciate the physiques of men, especially men like Banner. Alphas. Masculine, dominant men with pecs and neck tats, bullet-wound scars on their bellies. Banner smelled so funky it got Lance’s dick hard before they even got started.
Lance knelt down, lining his crotch up with Banner’s ass, and pulled his dick out. It was already throbbing hard, ready to go, and the slightest touch sent a twinge of pleasure up his body. He pushed his dicktip between Banner’s thick, hairy asscheeks, which spread open for him like the Red Sea. He sighed, a part of him worried still that Banner would call it off and start bashing him. His heart raced.
“Take it, bitch!” Banner called out. “You gonna take every inch whether you like it or not! I don’t let my bitches take just inches one through eleven, slut! You gonna take all twelve inches, got it? You don’t get to pick and choose which parts of my dick get up in ya!”
Lance forced out a pained cry, and men outside the bathroom laughed. Lance laughed too. They hooted and hollered; it sounded like a bunch of them were clustered near the door. Then Banner cried out for real, biting his lip to avoid making too much noise, that was because Lance’s cocktip finally entered his ass. Lance didn’t mean to stick it in so suddenly, he was just hovering the tip at Banner’s butthole when he let out that performative cry, and the motion made his dicktip slide in.
So Lance leaned into it, and he forced the whole shaft in — Banner took every inch, strongly suggesting this was not his first time. His ass was tight and warm, and instantly Lance had to bite back a howl of ecstasy. He didn’t want the men outside to know who was on top and who was in pain. He turned his cry of pleasure into a grunt of pain, while Banner’s face turned red and taut beneath him.
When he realized that Banner was stroking himself off and having trouble maintaining a rhythm as he submitted to Lance’s plowing back and forth, Lance reached around him, grabbed his cock and began stroking. Banner jerked and spasmed in a combination of pleasure and pain. The sound of him sucking on his clenched teeth seemed plausibly to come from Lance, so the men outside accepted that it was Banner on top.
“Hey, you doin’ some nasty-ass shit in there, Banner!”
“Wreck him! Wreck him! That accountant won’t be able to walk in a straight line ever again!”
“You gonna ramrod him hard enough he’ll forget his numbers!”
Slamming his cock in and out with all his might, Lance felt his orgasm coming only moments before it hit him. He moaned and grunted as he filled Banner with his seed. He gulped, wondering if it was obvious to the men outside that Lance’s moan was a top’s orgasm, not a bottom’s prostate climax. But they cheered as though assuming it was Banner filling Lance with his juice.
He shot so much it dripped out of Banner’s ass, onto that bathroom floor that was already coated with fluids of various kinds. The smell of funk in here was ripe and thick, and Lance inhaled deeply of it as the climax rolled through his body. A huge flood of jizz seeped into Banner’s body, and Banner let out an intense howl. The men outside must have accepted that it was a howl of pleasure — which it was, in a sense.
A whole series of grunts escaped from Banner’s lips, despite his best efforts to muzzle it. His dick spasmed in Lance’s fingers, signifying that his orgasm was imminent as well.
“Take it all, bitch! You gonna swallow every drop! I know my dick is covered in yo’ ass, but you know you love it! You want that filthy nasty in ya mouth, bitch, I can see it in yo’ slutty bitch eyes!”
“Aw, gross!”
“He really doin’ ass-to-mouth, Banner?”
“Ain’t nevuh got a girl to do that, not countin’ whores.”
“Make ‘im gag on his own ass, man!”
Then Lance dropped to his knees in the filthy bathroom, just in time to taste Banner’s dick. He had to stretch his neck to reach Banner’s crotch, opening his mouth wide. Banner’s dick was thick, pulsating, dripping precum so copiously it flowed down Lance’s throat.
Banner pounded on his chest and did a Tarzan yell, causing everyone in the main room to cheer him on. Banner’s tatted chest undulated as he orgasmed in Lance’s mouth, shooting jet after jet of cream to coat Lance’s gullet. He bucked as though the orgasm was painful, and he shot such a big, sour-tasting load that Lance didn’t need to pretend to gag. It hit the back of his throat, making Lance’s stomach gurgle and roil despite his love for hot cum in his mouth.
“Yeah, I can tell, that’s the sound of ass-to-mouth.”
“Bet that pervert is regrettin’ goin’ in there!”
“Banner can make any bitch regret touchin’ him.”
“I can make you regret insultin’ me, man!” Banner called out. “You know I can treat you like a prison bitch. You seen me do it before!” He paused and gasped as he shot another wad right down Lance’s throat. “I don’t even care whose hole I stick it in next — if this sissy ain’t available, I just might take you.” It sounded like Banner wanted to keep shouting through the door, but a wave of orgasmic energy rocketed through him then. His knees buckled and his body writhed. His voice trailed off as he sighed, draining his nuts into Lance’s waiting throat. He chuckled, hollered and banged his fists against the door like he was trying to knock it down.
Hot cum overflowed and dripped down Lance’s lips. He swallowed what was in his mouth, then licked up the rest. It had a wonderfully salty-sweet flavor that made him drool, wishing he could swallow even more — Banner’s load somehow tasted like a motorcycle, Lance thought, reminding him of the smell of gasoline and chrome and leather seats; it vibrated in his mouth like an engine. He traced the veins that ran along the side of Banner’s shaft as he jerked up every drop of cum he could find.
Much to his surprise, Banner knelt down and kissed Lance on the lips. His tongue penetrated Lance’s mouth, then licked up and down the breadth of Lance’s face. Lance was so shocked he just sat there, submitting to it, not even kissing him back, just focusing on the scratchy sensation of Banner’s scruffy chin rubbing against Lance’s skin. Banner let out a long, slow sigh of relief. He smeared the remaining cum over Lance’s cheeks, and smiled.
“Alright…” he said, breathlessly, pulling his pants up. His kind, impassioned face disappeared, replaced by that menacing visage he had briefly flashed before. He know looked more like the biker-thug Lance had expected to meet rather than the easygoing stud he had met earlier. This was the Banner that made Lance’s blood run cold. Banner narrowed his eyebrows and sneered at Lance. “I’m gonna tell them I left you in here covered in cum and crying, wit’ a bloody asshole. I told you to sit there covered in my nut for five minutes, then you could clean yourself off. Alright?”
“Okay.”
“You should come see me at my garage sometime,” he said. “I got a garage on East Street. Tell Sally at the desk that you’s a friend of mine, and she’ll tell me you’re there. I’ll help you with your bike, and you can plow me senseless.”
“… Okay.”
“My other mechanics are gonna want dome, and they’re gonna call you a pervert. That okay with you?”
“Yeah,” Lance said, too tired to pretend he needed to be talked into it. He loved the idea of jerking off an entire garage of dirty blue-collar mechanics.
Leaving his raggedy wifebeater on the piss-covered floor, Banner walked out to the cheers of his friends, who clasped him on his sweaty back. He flexed his biceps and closed the door right behind him, so no one saw Lance, who stayed in a corner — he thought for sure if they saw his face they’d realize he hadn’t been plowed at all. A few men tried to poke their head in but Banner stopped them with a shut door. The last thing he said was, “Lock the door behind me. Five minutes. Pretend ya ass hurts.”
“Okay,” Lance said, glad to have a few minutes to collect his thoughts. Thinking of how to pretend his ass hurt made him realize that Banner clearly was not in pain — he must have been plowed before, probably quite often considering how easily he had take it. He sighed as he began counting down his five minutes to wait.
He was sure happy he had taken a risk, he thought, and he wished he had become a biker a long time ago. He couldn’t wait to check out Banner’s mechanic shop.

The Dallas Alpha

When Rob meets a mysterious biker, he never thought he’d wind up exploring every inch of the man’s studly body. But at the legendary bar Lipsweet, anything is possible, and the redneck ex-con Cooter is willing to give Rob a swing on his most studly of meats!

Read it as an ebook!

Read the whole thing right here

The bar was less crowded than it usually was, although Rob didn’t normally go on a Thursday night, so he couldn’t say for sure. He noticed a few regulars — Francis playing pool with Deshawn and Tiny, Suzette in her tied-up flannel shirt and cut-off denim shorts, Tall Bear with a few beers already lined up in front of him on the bar. Rob nodded a greeting to a few folks he knew as he passed by, making his way to the bar and sitting a few stools down from Tall Bear, whom he gave a half-hearted wave to.
Tall Bear wore a Cowboys jersey, as Lipsweet was a football bar, and in Dallas, that meant the Cowboys. TVs mounted on the walls blared a highlights show running through clips from previous games. Rob ignored it. He wasn’t a football guy. Most of the other patrons too, but for the opposite reason — they ignored the clips show because they’d watched the games. They already knew the highlights.
But there was no actual game to watch at three o’clock in the afternoon on a Tuesday.
Rob nodded again to some acquaintances and ordered a beer from Teddy. He made small talk with Tall Bear and a few other imbibers he knew, sipping on his beer, until the loud sound of a gravelly motor growing louder quieted the din of conversation.
Around here, a motorcycle meant bikers, which meant the Jagged Right, which meant trouble.
The bar practically held its breath. Rob turned around in time to see the door open, revealing a tall, solid man in a black tee-shirt, leather jacket, and tight, fitted denim pants. His boots thumped solid and heavy against the concrete floor as he walked up to the bar and sat down right next to Rob. He was middle-aged but powerfully built, with a spring in his step like a much younger man. His wild beard like a gold prospector made him look like a vicious Amish or maybe a redneck Muslim.
A new murmur of conversation sprang up, people craning their necks to get a better view of the interloper. Rob watched the man out of the corner of his eye. He was tanned and had a strong jaw, dark brown hair, darker brown eyes. He sat with a confidence that was inherently alluring, and Rob shifted uncomfortably in his seat, turning his attention back to his beer. The man’s biceps flexed within the confines of his t-shirt, almost bursting the seams, and Rob couldn’t think of anything else but what those muscles would feel like wrapped around his body.
Conversation resumed when it became apparent this was not a robbery, a fistfight, a naked woman or the arrival of a football player, which were the only things that could interrupt drinking at Lipsweet. Rob resumed drinking his beer.
After a few minutes, though, Rob sensed someone’s eyes on him and turned to see that interloper looking at him, a knowing smirk on his face. “How ya doin’?” he asked. His accent was thick with redneckery, but with a Western twang to it, the sound of a native longhorn. Rob was from out east, but here in Texas, most folks jawed like that stranger storming in like a silent tornado.
Rob fought the impulse to check behind him for another person, knowing that the man could only be addressing him. “Doin’ alright. Yourself?”
“Pretty good,” the man answered. He let his eyes trail slowly over Rob, blatantly checking him out, and smiled. “Name’s Cooter.” He held out a large, callussed hand, and Rob shook it. His heart was pounding, as the man’s alpha male demeanor and his well-muscled solidity gave Rob a frisson of excitement. Rob did appreciate the male form.
“Rob. You new around here?” In this tiny town, everybody knew everybody, so Rob was the only one who didn’t know that Cooter was from elsewhere. He was not one of Dallas’s Jagged Right.
That was a motorcycle gang in these parts and most other parts as well. The Jagged Right was strongly regional though. If Cooter wasn’t from the local club, he couldn’t try anything in Dallas, or the local club would come after him. In any case, Cooter looked more likely to drive an unlicensed dirtbike on a public road than to do any serious crime.
“Nah, not really. Just tryin’ a change of pace for a night. Hey, let’s have another drink,” Cooter said. He let his hand trail down Rob’s arm after he signaled for the bartender.
Rob gulped, determined not to show how eager he was. “Yeah, sounds great.” Cooter’s muscles thrummed and flexed beneath his black leather jacket.
The bartender — Teddy — brought over two beers, passing one to Rob and the other to Cooter, watching them with suspicion and interest until Cooter glared hard enough for Teddy to turn around. Rob took a sip of his beer, trying to ignore the way Cooter watched his mouth wrap around the lip of the bottle.
He tried to ignore it, but he failed, and he sensed that Cooter wanted the same thing Rob wanted. Cooter was a biker, on the road, needing a little release, and Rob was willing to release whatever Cooter had pent up.
Goddamn do I love a biker! Rob thought to himself.
“So, you come here often?” Rob asked, wanting to hit himself as soon as it was out of his mouth. It sounded like some cheesy pick-up line from a bad movie, and he was sorry to have said it without thinking about it.
Cooter laughed, ignoring Rob’s question. His shoulders clenched and flexed as he let out a dry, dusty chuckle. He licked his teeth and looked Rob up and down. He glanced around the bar too, maybe checking out if there was a woman he could go away with. But he was an out-of-towner and not a football player or even a football enthusiast, it seemed, so none of the women here seemed likely to give him the time of day. Actual football players did come here — the Titans, a local semi-pro team haunted Lipsweet — so the jock-chasing women of Lipsweet were likely going to wait for them.
Nobody told Cooter that, but nobody needed to. Cooter is nobody’s fool.
“I got a bike outside,” Cooter said with a casual sneer. He looked down his nose at Rob, not in a haughty way, just in a way that recognized that Cooter was an alpha and Rob was a passive sissy. Well, maybe not quite a sissy, but a passivo nonetheless. “Wanna see it?”
“Yeah, sure,” Rob agreed.
Cooter reached into his back pocket and pulled out his leather wallet, throwing a few bills onto the bar, more than enough for both his and Rob’s drinks. Cooter downed the remainder of his beer in one gulp, then did the same to Rob’s beer. With one smooth motion, Cooter refilled his beer from the tap behind the bar — Teddy was engrossed in a conversation with Tall Bear — and shot Rob a confiding glance. Then he headed for the door.
Without even an explicit invitation, Rob sensed that he was to follow, so he followed. The thrum of expectant conversation continued behind him. Cooter opened the door to the parking lot, which Rob thought was held open for him — what a gallant gentleman! — but then Cooter pushed in front of him and went out first. Rob wondered if that was deliberate, if Cooter wanted to signal that Rob was no woman and would not be treated like one.
That was true, of course, Rob was no woman, but he did like to be treated like one by big alphas like Cooter.
Rob followed Cooter out into the lot, receiving curious and disapproving stares from the other people in the bar as he went.
The bike was parked sideways across what could have been two spots in the gravel parking lot, and looked thrillingly, strikingly out-of-place among the pickups and rusted jeeps surrounding it. Rob had never seen a motorcycle up close like that before, he didn’t know any bikers or even any casual riders. His own family — the Winthrops — were the kind of classy Southern upper-class twats who looked down on bikers. Not Rob though. As long as they were alphas with muscles and grizzle and scruff and big fat cocks, he appreciated them, and he sensed Cooter made the grade in every way.
Gravel crunched under his feet. Rob took a couple steps closer, admiring the spotless black frame and, upon further inspection, the tribal sun painted on the black in red and gold, the symbol for the Jagged Right biker gang. It was painted into the motorcycle. That symbol sent a rush of excitement through him, adrenaline pounding through his veins — Cooter was a real biker. The Jagged Right don’t play, they were the ones who robbed that bank last week. Rob saw that on the news.
He felt Cooter step behind him, pressed close to his back. Cooter leaned down to speak in Rob’s ear. The heat from his bearish chest burned, and Rob squirmed with desire. He felt the firmity of Cooter’s muscles just centimeters from his back, and then, tantalizingly enough, Cooter came even closer. His breath condensed on Rob’s nape, and his chest pressed against Rob’s back.
“Wanna go for a ride?” Cooter asked, in that deep drawl- and twang-dripping voice.
It sent a shudder up Rob’s spine. “Yeah,” Rob nodded, trying to keep his voice steady. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
Cooter smiled a cruel and predatory grin, then offered Rob a spare helmet. Rob put it on. his heart thumped. Dad would hate it if he knew Rob was going to ride on a motorcycle, with some stranger, a stranger in a gang!
In front of Rob, Cooter straddled the bike like it was made for him, the denim of his pants straining across his ass and thighs. Rob hesitantly copied the position, his chest pressed flush against Cooter’s back and his thighs pressed against Cooter’s. Cooter revved the engine once as a warning before he kicked off, flying down the dirt road with Rob twining his arms around Cooter’s torso. Rob couldn’t believe his luck in being allowed — nay, forced, by circumstances — to fondle the great barrel chest and greasemonkey muscles of this mysterious man’s body.
Once he was no longer entranced by Cooter’s words and his presence, Rob did feel a surge of worry — his father would say this was a grave risk. Cooter could be robbing him. This could be a kidnapping.
Maybe Cooter was gonna ransom him. That thought was somehow alluring too. Rob giggled, and Cooter bristled like he sensed that despite the roar and rush of the Texas landscape whooshing by.
The wind stung Rob’s cheeks, and a few times he had to clutch desperately onto Cooter so he didn’t fall off as they went over a bump too quickly . The ride was exhilarating: the vibrations, the warmth of Cooter’s body, the mystery inherent in the dusky night air, the looks they got from people on their porches as they whipped past in a cloud of diesel and dust — all of it churned together into a current of lust with eddies of warm, burning need, and by the time Cooter pulled up to a trailer home and cut the engine, Rob was embarrassingly hard in his jeans. From the look Cooter gave him, he must have known it, too. He probably felt Rob’s cock pressing through both pairs of jeans into Cooter’s sweaty asscrack.
But he didn’t complain, even when Rob had to rearrange his manhood in his pants as he dismounted from the motorcycle. Rob still felt the thrum of the engine rocking through his body.
They were in Smashwood Trailer Park, which was on the outskirts of Amarillo. Rob had passed it by many times. It had a reputation in Amarillo as a trashy spot, with shanties and abandoned trailers in the back where hobos lived. Rob had been told to never go there to buy drugs, as he would be surely robbed. This wasn’t a drug deal, and Rob didn’t want any drugs, but still, the warning rang out in his memory.
“Do ya wanna come in?” Cooter asked. He stepped away from the bike and put his helmet on the seat. The warm firmness of his muscular arm brushed against Rob’s own thinner arm, but he felt it and barely managed to bite back a groan.
Rob greatly appreciates a man with muscles, and Cooter was powerfully built, strong as a bear. Rob had to fight back the urge to worship his muscles here and now.
Having asked Rob to come in, Cooter headed straight for the door to the trailer as though Rob’s answer was assumed. “Yeah, yes, that’d be great,” he rushed to answer, his voice pitchy and breathless. He was too horny to care about playing it cool. Rob hurried behind Cooter, and they both passed a bench press in the grass, weights scattered around it and reeking of mansweat so strong Rob could smell it without going near.
Cooter led him up the flimsy steps at the door of his trailer and pressed open the door, and this time he gestured for Rob to go first. He did, taking in the unmade bed; the couch piled with papers and wrappers; television set; the table with a gun, polish, and a cleaning kit; a counter with a six-pack of beer on it. A Confederate flag was mounted on the wall.
“Sorry, ain’t have a chance to clean up earlier, and I don’t got much furniture,” Cooter said, “But you can sit on the bed if you want.” Indeed, there were no chairs in the trailer.
Rob just smiled and moved to the bed, shucking his canvas jacket onto the couch as he went. He tried to avoid staring at the pile of dirty, sweat-stained t-shirts and boxers shorts on the floor by his feet. When he turned and sat on the bed, Cooter was right there in front of him.
“You beautiful, you know that? Pretty like a girl…” Cooter said as he ran his hands through Rob’s hair, down his body, making Rob tense and shiver. His fingers were callused and firm, gripping like a vise. “I wanna know how those lips would feel on my meat, I been thinking about that from the minute I saw you back at the bar. I sensed them lips would feel soft as silk on a man’s pecker. Wanna know how my lips feel? I sure as sugah you gonna like ’em. I sawn how you was lookin’ at me, and I felt yo’ dick gettin’ hard on my bike.”
Rob nodded, eagerly licking his lips, which made Cooter smile while he unbuckled his belt. Rob’s eyes lit up, his heart racing — that started the moment he saw Cooter back in the bar, in Lipsweet, back when Rob thought tonight would be boring and fruitless. Now he was ready to have a night of his dreams with a man of his fantasies.
A groan was already escaping from Cooter’s mouth, as Rob reached forward and unzipped Cooter’s jeans. He tugged them down until they were around his ankles, leaving behind a pair of black boxers that showed the clear outline of Cooter’s hard dick. They were plain white boxers, starchy like linen — possibly prison drawers, Rob thought. He didn’t have the presence of mind to ask though, as Rob was overwhelmed by the rush of passion.
The scent of Cooter’s unwashed crotch sent Rob reeling, his mouth watering. Cooter put his hand on the back of Rob’s head, encouraging him to get on with it, but Rob took his time — he liks to tease.
Holding back his flirtatious giggle, Rob touched the bulge in Cooter’s boxes. The merest of touches made Cooter moan again with desire. Rob palmed Cooter through the soft fabric of his underwear until Cooter leaned his head back, his mouth open and chest panting, pressing his crotch forward. Then, at last, Rob leaned forward and released Cooter’s dick from the fabric of his underwear, pushing it down to join the jeans bunched up at his ankles.
“Yeah, come on, don’t be a tease,” Cooter groaned. “That’s what I don’t like about females. That, and child support.” His cock jabbed in the air like a javelin waiting to be thrown, and it throbbed like it was already on the verge of cumming. He must have gotten hard on the rumbling motorcycle just like Rob did, Rob thought but didn’t say.
Pumping his hips like to fuck an invisible pussy in front of Rob’s face, Cooter’s cock rammed around his head. It touched his cheek, his nose, his ear, and Rob chased it with his mouth as though unable to catch it. He stuck his tongue out, and Cooter finally got a direct hit, square on his mouth and his waiting tongue.
“Awwww, damn…” Cooter’s whole body shook, as the flavor of unwashed musk and potent manhood flooded Rob’s senses.
Rob took Cooter’s dick in his hand and stroked up and down the length of it a few times, making Cooter hiss through his teeth at the contact. The smell of sweat zest and black leather astringency assaulted Rob’s nostrils, making his rod iron-hard in the prison of his own pants. Cooter’s hands tightened in Rob’s hair, gripping his scalp, and Rob let himself be guided forward, until his lips were against the head of Cooter’s cock and he was spreading them open, taking Cooter into his mouth. He licked up the underside of Cooter’s dick slowly, teasing, letting his teeth graze just slightly.
“Shit, Rob, oh my fuck….” Cooter moaned. “Shit, if you was my cellmate, I’d make you my prison…”
That was exactly what Rob was just thinking — he’d serviced plenty of alpha males, and he suspected Cooter was an ex-con. Maybe only recently released. You could tell in how he demanded, no, craved a physical touch and seemed averse to actual womanhood. He needed a man to service him because he had lost his capacity for tenderness, and for Rob, that was ideal.
There was nothing better than getting pounded by a man who could treat you no other way.
Rob pulled off again, licking his way down the shaft and to Cooter’s balls, where he licked, nipped and jerked, until Cooter was groaning and pulling Rob’s face back to his dick, using one hand to hold Rob still and the other hand to guide his manhood back into Rob’s mouth.
Spit now ran up and down the shaft, which gleamed and throbbed like a beast in Rob’s grip. It was huge, more than a foot long, long enough for Rob to get both hands on it. He gripped the root tightly with one hand, stroked the shaft with the other and sucked mightily on the knob like a stubborn straw.
His tongue teased the piss-slit, which now let out a stream of salty precum. Rob sucked down every drop he could get, and he savored the intensely salty flavor of it. It was creamy and warm, and it tasted musty, like you could sense the cooped-up manhood of Cooter’s prison stay in his prejizz.
Rob kept his mouth open and loose, letting Cooter hold Rob’s head between his hands and force his dick into Rob’s throat. When Cooter tightened his grip, Rob hollowed out his cheeks, taking in as much of Cooter’s length as possible until Cooter was shooting hot and thick ropes of down Rob’s throat.
More and more flowed into him. Rob had rarely swallowed such a massive load, but Cooter had his cock deep down that throat, and Rob could easily gulp down every drop. Cooter’s balls lay against Rob’s chin, and they drew up as they spewed their seed down Rob’s gullet.
“Hmmm-hmmmm, you got a helluva throat, hoss,” Cooter said, his voice shaking and breaking like a hormonal teenager. His knees even went weak. He very gently fucked Rob’s throat through the last of his orgasm, which made his final cumwad fill Rob’s mouth.
It overflowed past his lips, and Cooter’s muscles rippled as he coated Rob’s mug in his cream and spit. A moan escaped from Rob’s mouth, followed by a flood of jizz that Cooter’s continued humping turned into a frothy mess. It coated Rob’s face from his scalp to his neck, and the cottony smell of Cooter’s orgasm filled Rob’s nostrils.
“So good, that was so good,” Cooter said, still breathless and shaky. His cock dangled between his legs.
He pulled up his underwear and jeans, tucking himself away again without even wiping his dick off. Then he pushed Rob onto the mattress, laying on his back, and Rob was still so overcome by the sunny taste of Cooter’s jizz that he din’t react.
Cooter did nothing with Rob’s flannel shirt, but he roughly pulled down Rob’s jeans and boxers, exposing his red, swollen cock and pale, toned thighs. Cooter let out a long low rumble of desire, as his rough hands kneaded the soft flesh of Rob’s torso.
“I don’t jerk men off,” Cooter said in a thrummy growl. “But I know it’s wrong not to finish a man off after he gets a nut out. I learned that in prison, yessirree. You gotsta recip-ro-cate.” His hand touched Rob’s cock, which was ready to bust its own nut at any moment.
It sounded like he didn’t quite know what reciprocate meant, but Rob was in no mood to educate him.
Without preamble, Cooter took Rob into his hand and started jerking him off, steady and relentless. Most likely Rob would have cum in literally moments, as he was on the verge already, but Cooter’s hands were rough and callused and kind of painful, but in a good way, and it made Rob writhe and bash his head against the pillow under him.
His cock throbbing like a heart, Rob wanted to cry out for more. He fisted his hands in the sheets beneath him, biting his lip to keep from screaming out. He should have done so, of course, as this trailer was separated from the others in the trailer park, but Rob was used to hiding his passions.
When it felt too good to resist, Rob tried to shift himself around, fucking his dick up into Cooter’s hand, but Cooter held Rob’s hips down with his free hand, leaving Rob totally reliant on the rough, twisting motions of Cooter’s grip. It wasn’t long before Rob was spilling over Cooter’s hands, a scream tearing from his throat despite himself. A hot wad of sticky cum spewed out of his massive cockhead.
His own hands kneading the muscles of Cooter’s chest, Rob shot a massive wad onto his belly and over Cooter’s fingertips. Cooter kept stroking the whole time, not missing a single beat, as Rob endured the most intense orgasm of his lifetime.
“A screamer?” Cooter said, standing up to wipe his hands off on a towel. “I like that.” He walked over to the couch where Rob had dropped his jacket and tossed it to Rob, who was barely cognizant enough to catch it. Rob was still shaking through the aftershocks of his orgasm. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride back.”
Rob, after a shaky minute, managed to get himself back into his pants and put on his jacket. The denim felt too rough and the canvas was itchy against his now-sensitive skin. Cooter was already outside by his bike when Rob came down the steps. The ride back wasn’t as awkward as Rob had been expecting, and he grew sleepy in his post-orgasmic stupor. When they stopped at the bar, Rob hopped off the back of the bike and handed Cooter the helmet.
“Do you come to this bar often, Rob?” Cooter asked as Rob started to walk to the door to Lipsweet..
“Yeah,” Rob answered, smiling, his heart ready to pound out of his chest. “I sure do.”

The Boston Alpha

Desmond is a petite, effeminate prisoner in a big tough prison, so he never thought he’d find himself in a Twink on Top situation. But that all changes when a tough guy Boston thug named Chowder really wants a party, even if that means this muscular alpha will have to bend over and take whatever Desmond wants to give!

Can Desmond handle this particular slice of Twink on Top?!

Read it now as an ebook!

Or read it right here

It was the most enjoyable party Desmond Talley ever been to. He knew perfectly well that it was only this fun because he had been in prison for a year and a half before it happened. It was the first enjoyable event in his entire time behind bars. So it felt like an evening in heaven.
It helped that there were no women. That meant the biggest alphas and thugs danced with girlish sissies like Desmond as though he was a girl. He even got to kiss this redneck named Bubba, whom Desmond had been drooling over for months. On the outside, Desmond was invisible at a party — to women, he was a short, negligible pansy, and to men, he was not a woman.
But in prison, he was a king. Or maybe queen.
The guards watched like it pained them to see inmates having a good time. All the gangs were told that they’d be punished if anyone got in a fight during the party. That was why it went off without a hitch.
There was no alcohol, but the guards did allow a little weed in for the night. That was probably a wise decision, Desmond thought. Alcohol would make men fight, but the weed just made them giggle and become overly entranced by nature documentaries.
But all good things come to an end, and this penal party was no exception. Desmond was disappointed to hear the music stop, and the remaining joint roaches were combined into one, then quickly smoked. The guards bellowed at the inmates to head back to their cells. Everyone lined up, dragging their feet, grumbling and claiming they weren’t gonna stop partying even as they did stop. But Desmond was at least happy that the party had gone off without a hitch — there was no fight, no smuggled-in booze, no one got hurt. That meant there was a chance the guards would allow another party in the near-future.
“Talley, hey, Talley… Desmond!” boomed a male voice. It was one of the guards — the one the inmates call Officer Crabgut — who grinned and grabbed Desmond off the line. Desmond was surprised that he said his first name. The guards never call inmates by their first name. “Come on,” Crabgut said.
“What? What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Crabgut said. His belly chortled, his off-gray beard hairs gleaming with sweat or maybe liquor, Desmond was pretty sure the guards were drinking in the monitor-room. Crabgut looked like a drunk. “You’re gonna have a second little party.”
“Do I have a choice?” Desmond wasn’t sure what this was and he was nervous. He didn’t trust Officer Crabgut, whose voice was always menacing. It sounded like a threat even when all he said was it’s going to rain today. Crabgut was notoriously corrupt. That’s not always a bad thing — he was the one who brought weed in — but it did make him untrustworthy. Not that Desmond ever really trusted prison guards.
“Well… yeah, I guess, you can choose,” Crabgut said. “But come see what it is first. You won’t say no. If you refused this, I would be… more shocked than I have ever been in my life.”
It was hard to argue with that, and Desmond was intrigued, so he followed Crabgut into an old disused showering area. Inside the dingy shower were a handful more guards, all brimming with nervous smiles, and seated on the ground in the center of the shower, was Chowder.
Chowder was a leader in a gang called the Jagged Right. He was heavily tattooed, nearly inch of his body covered in Gothic letter, naked ladies, wild animals and an outline of Massachusetts over his left pec. He had a handsome jawline with deep dimples. His broad chest was hairy, and he had developed a six-pack since coming to prison. He was also the tallest inmate in the facility; at nearly seven feet tall, he struggled to fit through doorways and down corridors.
He winced but smiled at Desmond. His dimplesome grin wasn’t unusual — he was outgoing and charming, but he didn’t let that get in the way of business. He was one of the few big alpha males in prison whom Desmond had never jerked off. That was because he had a bitch named Sammi, whom Desmond hated. Chowder plowed Sammi publicly, hard and often. Desmond was jealous because he loved to get plowed hard by alpha thugs like Chowder.
“So, uh… Desmond,” Chowder said. When he spoke, his Boston accent either aroused Desmond or made him laugh, it was hard to tell. “I was, uh… I put togethah that pahty. I was… y’know… Uh, I had to arrange it all, dawg.” He paused like he was expecting a big reaction. “I got the weed, I got the gangs to come together, even the Mexicans-“
“Chowder… come on, we ain’t got all day,” Officer Crabgut said. “Don’t drag this out.” An underhushing from the other guards suggested they thought similarly.
“They said we could have the pahty if I did somethin’ aftah it, to prove I’s really serious about makin’ sure the party was good. I had to show I was gonna make sure it went off without no fightin’ or nothin’,” Chowder said, sucking on his teeth every other word. His thick Boston stawk made it sound like his mouth was full of cranberries. He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Desmond… will you… please stick me up the ass.” The guards all whooped and hollered. Desmond blushed even harder than Chowder, who bit his lip. He took Desmond’s hand in his like he was gonna propose. “Will you let me jerk yo’ dick and take it in the ass and lick yo’ ass but only fo’ five seconds? And no kissing, and no tellin’ nobody aftahwahds.” That sounded like something that had been carefully negotiated with Crabgut.
“Oh wow,” Desmond was so excited his knees were weak. He looked to Officer Crabgut, who had a gleeful smile on his face — Chowder was often in trouble for fighting with the guards, so they were understandably glad to watch him get it up the ass. All the guards were beaming.
Everyone looked at Desmond, who didn’t know what he was expected to do. He looked down at his feet, too scared to say anything.
“You gotta say yes,” Crabgut said with a chuckle. “If you wanna do it.”
“Yes!”
They all laughed at Desmond’s excitement and Chowder sighed again, like he mighta hoped Desmond would say no. He took off the plain blue baseball cap he wore — the only non-religious hat anyone at this prison was allowed to wear — and ran his fingers through his clipper-short hair. He sucked on his teeth and spat on the ground. He looked at Desmond sternly. “No tellin’ nobody. ‘Specially not Sammi. I can’t let her find out I cheated on her.”
“Sure! Okay. I promise, nobody will find out,” Desmond said. “I hate Sammi. I never talk to him. I-“
“Call Sammi a her.” Chowder said. He narrowed his eyes to slits, making it clear that was a threat.
Desmond gulped. He knew Chowder, like most prison alphas, referred to their bitches as a woman. Desmond had simply forgotten because he was so excited. “Okay. Yeah, I won’t tell her. Or anyone else. I swear.”
Chowder stood there, his confidence draining as he very slowly dropped his orange prison jumpsuit. The guards laughed and clapped, hooting like he was a stripper. They demanded he dance and shake his ass as he undressed. “That weren’t paht of the deal,” Chowder said, lips clenched grim as a reaper. The guards seemed to accept that, but they got more and more into cheering him on, pretending he was stripping like a dancer even if he wasn’t.
“Whoo-hoo, Chowder!”
“Let’s see ya pussy!
The sight of his bare chest and his rippling muscles made Desmond’s heart skip a beat. Back on the outside, Chowder was a violent thug, or so said the grapevine from Boston, but one of those rather fat swaggalicious men whom Desmond thought were hot even if they had a belly. Chowder always carried himself like a macho, no matter his physique. In his time in prison, however, all of that fat done melted away, leaving behind a mass of muscle and a well-worked barrel chest that bulged from his skin as though begging him to get fat again. Desmond had seen him naked in the shower, of course, so this was hardly the first time, but this was closer and more exciting. His fat cock swayed between his massive thighs. Drool escaped from Desmond’s lips as he caught whiff of Chowder’s post-party musk.
“If I evah catch you lookin’ at me in the showah like you looukin’ at me now, I will rip yo’ goddamn ahm off and smack yo’ face off with it,” Chowder said.
“Uh, Chowder-” Officer Crabgut cleared his throat. “That’s not okay. You can’t control how people look at you.”
“What I can’t control is my reaction when some sissy look at me like he wanna eat me up,” Chowder said through gritted teeth. “You may not plow me in yo’ imagination, okay, not aftah today.”
“Chowder!”
“Fine. I’m sorry, sissy. Or Desmond or whatevuuh. I ain’t tryin’-a police yo’ mind.” He rolled his eyes at Crabgut’s stern face.
“It’s okay. I won’t, Chowder, I promise,” Desmond said.
Chowder dropped his dingy prison-issued boxer, faded bloodstains ominously covering the crotch area. Desmond wondered where that blood had come from. Was it Chowder’s? Probably not, he thought, or he’d a-got his cock cut off.
“Well, you the sissy, right? How do we proceed?” Chowder scowled.
“Uh… I guess… You should swallow my dick,” Desmond said. His voice had never sounded so weak, at least in his mind.
“Hope this party was worth it,” Officer Crabgut said. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Get on your knees, Chowder. I mean… Chowdah.” He chuckled and glanced at the other guards as though expecting them to think his joke was hilarious.
Chowder glared at him but sunk to his knees. He was nearly seven feet tall, so even on his knees, his face was even with Desmond’s shoulders and neck. He was nowhere’s near close enough to get Desmond’s cock in his mouth.
As Desmond dropped his own pants, Chowder slunk lower and lower. In the end he laid on his back, propping himself up with his arms, a position that made his pecs bulge. Desmond felt weak and cold, but he was glad no one was looking at his own body, which was skinny and trembling with anxiety. He strained to spread his legs wide enough to straddle Chowder’s chest. He wanted to touch him, but Desmond was still nervous about this — if there was one ironclad rule of prison life that nobody ever broke, it was that slim weaklings like Desmond did not top massive alpha thugs like Chowder.
“Yeah, swallow it, Chowdah!”
“Throat him down, Talley!”
“Just foh’ the recahd, I’m doin’ this cuz I want to,” Chowder said. He spat on Desmond’s dick without touching it. “I could say no. These mothahfuckahs ain’t got proof I agreed to nothin’. And I done it before. Not in prison of couhse, but back in the day, me and my boys shared some dome on the downlow. Ain’t no shame in that-“
“Less gabbin’, more swallin’ nuts!”
“Mollywop him, Talley!”
Chowder glared at the guards, but he sighed, and seemed to decide that just going for it was the best way to get started. The longer he drew it out, the more they were going to tease him. He held Desmond’s shaft with his fingertips, like a disgusting snake. Then at last he opened his mouth, took a deep breath and closed his lips around the tip of Desmond’s dick.
He gagged even before his tongue touched it. He closed his eyes, and his entire muscular chest roiled with disgust, but he didn’t slow down even a bit. He let the rest of Desmond’s dick slide deeper even as his eyes frantically darted around as though looking for a way to escape. Desmond’s pubes enveloped his nose.
Almost immediately Desmond felt a surge of pride and confidence. He felt better than he had since coming to prison, and even before that. He pushed his dick in even deeper down Chowder’s tight throat, ignoring the angry look in Chowder’s baby blues. A tight, squeezing warmth spread through his senses.
“Come on, make more spit,” Desmond said, making the guards laugh. “You’ve gotten dome before. You know how to do it. Make it wet.” He wanted to call Chowder his bitch, but he thought that might be a step too far for the mountainous Bostonian.
Chowder did as he was told, even as his nostrils flared and his eyes filled with hostility. He choked up a mountain of saliva — since he was such a huge man, he produced a truly copious torrent of spit — that dripped down his chin and into his bare crotch. His chest muscles became soaked and goopy.
A shudder of desire ran through Desmond’s body as he gripped Chowder’s broad shoulders. His inhibitions melted away. Chowder was crisscrossed with scars and tattoos, including a scattering of bullet wounds on his back. Desmond reached down to caress his body, savoring the feel of his rippling muscles and their firmness beneath his touch.
That made precum leak from the tip of his dick, which reawakened a torrent of sputtered gagging from Chowder. It sent a frisson up Desmond’s spine. The guards laughed and clapped, again hooting and hollering like they were watching a strip show.
“Suck that dick/suck it like I ain’t rich/suck it like a bitch/suck it till you sick/Like you ain’t nevuh turn a trick/Yeah, suck that dick”
One of the guards was rapping; Desmond wasn’t hip enough to know for sure whether he was freestyling or repeating a popular song. It sounded rehearsed though. Maybe a Macky P song.
Chowder pretended it didn’t bother him, but Desmond could feel him bristling at the teasing. It was funny how Desmond could sense Chowder’s reactions through his muscles’ twitching and the way his throat clenched around Desmond’s spasming cock, like Desmond could read Chowder’s mind through his body. Chowder arched his back as he nestled his nose deep in Desmond’s crotch, easily deep-throating every inch of Desmond’s cock. His new position meant his ass rose in the air.
Desmond lusted after it. He couldn’t believe he was going to get to plow Chowder in that ass, and he wondered if Chowder had ever done it before. He said he shared dome with his baystater buddies on the downlow, but could they have done anal too? He tried to reach but Chowder was too tall for Desmond to reach his ass with his dick in Chowder’s mouth.
“Okay, you said you’ll lick my ass, right?” Desmond asked, remembering that suddenly. His voice was huffy and gaspy because he could feel the early burgeonings of his orgasm surging through his body. He wanted to drag this out though.
Chowder pulled off his dick. Thin tendrils of spit connected his greenish face to Desmond’s cockshaft. Chowder grumbled. “Fo’ five seconds, that’s all I agreed to.”
Officer Crabgut laughed. “That’s just a minimum, Chowder. You can lick his ass as long as you want. We got all night.”
“No!” Chowder snapped down over the chortles of the other guards, who all cackled up the serious look on Chowder’s face.
Desmond turned around and bent over as though he was going to get plowed, as that was the only position that raised his ass high enough for Chowder to lick it. Chowder looked away, breathed deeply through his mouth and closed his eyes.
He dove between those cheeks and slammed his tongue in. He was so forceful — and his tongue was so big — that it almost hurt. Chowder rimmed him more aggressively than anyone had ever rimmed him before, and Desmond got the impression that Chowder had never done it before, not even on a girl. Chowder definitely enjoyed receiving rimjobs from his bitch and he always demanded more tongue-in-ass action, but since Chowder was so much bigger than Sammi, he needed as much tongue-penetration as possible, as deep and as hard as possible. Now Chowder’s cock-sized tongue shoved into Desmond’s ass and explored there, hesitatingly as Desmond’s ass-juices smeared over Chowder’s square-jawed face.
“Five! Four! “
But Desmond then felt a ripple of pleasure emanating up his back as Chowder’s tongue battered his prostate. Chowder moaned into his ass and gagged without slowing down. Desmond’s eyes rolled back in his head as pleasure walloped his petite frame. Chowder’s tongue sucked every drop of grime out of his ass, even as Chowder himself sputtered and choked on it.
“Three! Two! …”
The guards conspicuously stopped counting, but Chowder pulled away from Desmond’s ass anyway. He spat on the linoleum shower floor. He wiped his face off with one hand, and his chin waggled but he kept it together. He sniffed, pointedly ignoring the guards as they cheered. He glanced over and saw one of the guards had bared his hairy ass — extremely hairy, nearly gorilla-like — and winked his asshole in Chowder’s direction.
“If you enjoyed that, give Officer Torelli a try! He got all the ass-hair you could eat, boi! He be a ass-buffet for ya!”
Chowder grimaced and looked away. He sighed as he stroked Desmond’s dick with one meaty callused hand. It was the worst handjob of Desmond’s life, but it was also somehow the greatest, its lack of rhythm and rough texture sending shockwaves of bliss through Desmond’s body while slowing down his arousal enough that he was no longer ready to blow his load.
“Time for the ass, Chowder!”
“Give up the booty!”
Chowder snarled at the guards. He turned around and bent over. His initial position was laughably impossible — he simply put his hands on the floor, sticking his ass in the air so high Desmond’s short little body couldn’t even reach it. Desmond had to stand on his toes to touch Chowder’s asscheeks and tap them, signaling him to lower himself.
“Best get down lower, or we gonna need a winch and a pulley to do this right.”
Chowder dropped to all fours. He had a nice plump ass, just enough padding for Desmond’s taste — a remnant of when Chowder was fat-bodied in his pre-prison life. There was a tattoo on his left asscheek, an arrow pointing to his asshole and the words ‘Cop Kissing Zone’.
Desmond separated those thick blubbering cheeks; at first it was difficult because Chowder instinctively flexed his cheeks, keeping them tight, but he forced himself to relax. His crack was lined with sweat-matted hair. Each of Chowder’s asscheeks was bigger than Desmond’s head, making Desmond feel truly tiny by comparison. He took a deep breath and pushed his dick in.
Chowder bit his lip so hard it drew blood. He breathed through his nose and snorted like a rampaging bull. His face turned bright red from both pain and humiliation. The muscles of his back tensed, lines flexing and curving, distorting the tattoos as he stretched.
“Lookit him take it! Like a bitch!”
“Damn I wish we could fuckin’ tape this. Put it on the Internet, make a goddamn fortune.”
“You bettah not!” Chowder said, but for once his voice was not bristling with confidence and machismo. It sounded like a whine, not a threat. He hung his head.
Desmond hadn’t topped anyone since before he came to prison, so this was a refreshing experience for him. He pushed his dick in deeper and deeper, using copious lube (which was provided by Officer Crabgut — that seemed sweet, Desmond thought, he didn’t need to do that; prisoners usually used hog fat from the prison kitchen, so Crabgut was being nice by providing actual lube). Chowder’s ass was clearly intact, so tight that Desmond struggled to shove every inch in his hole.
Chowder was on all fours, so the more powerfully Desmond slammed into his ass, the more Chowder was forced to lower himself. He winced and dropped his hips, making it easier for Desmond to plow him harder. To his credit, Chowder managed to take every inch even though it was obviously difficult for him.
That hairy Italian guard Torelli took his dick out, wagging it in front of Chowder’s face. Desmond couldn’t hear his words because he was overwhelmed by his incipient climax and the boisterous laughter of the other guards drowned out the hairy guard, but it was clear he offered Chowder a taste of his dick. Chowder frowned and kept his eyes pointed away, even as the guard followed his face with his massive, uncut Italian cock.
Eventually Desmond was ramming with all his might on top of Chowder, his feet no longer on the floor at all. Chowder’s broad muscles rippled beneath Desmond’s face, and he licked the salty sweat that beaded on his skin. Chowder writhed beneath him.
His balls slapped on Chowder’s chunky asscheeks, making them jiggle and ripple. Desmond felt like a weird circus novelty, like a midget plowing a strongman to a shocked crowd. Chowder panted like a dog beneath him.
“God-damn, man,” Chowder said, his fingers and toes curling as though trying to dig into the linoleum floor of the prison shower.
“Yeah! Get ‘im good, Desmond!”
“Lookit his little body on top of Chowder. Looks like a kid whose big bro is lettin’ him beat him up.”
Desmond blushed at the guards’ closeness. They were peering into Chowder’s ass as though they had never seen a butt before and weren’t sure what was actually happening. Having an audience was nerve-wracking for Desmond.
His orgasm came on too soon. Desmond was disappointed, but not surprised, as Chowder’s ass was too tight and too perfect to resist it for long. As he felt it arising deep within him, Desmond wasn’t even sure how long it had been — it felt like just a few minutes, but at the same time, it felt like hours. Surely Chowder would have complained if it had taken that long though, he thought. The guards would have gotten bored.
The most powerful orgasm of his life ran through him. Desmond’s entire body shook and trembled, and he moaned so loud he blushed as the guards erupted in a mixture of embarrassed grunts and excited shouts. Some peered closer, while others looked away.
Cum sprayed within Chowder’s ass, a thick and copious loud that filled up every inch of his insides. Chowder moaned too, matching Desmond’s voice, and he buried his face in his forearm. Then he grabbed the blue baseball cap he had thrown on the ground, and he buried his face in that instead.
One of the guards pulled the cap away and looked Chowder in the eye. Chowder’s red face was tense and a few tears of pain and embarrassment drifted down his cheek. Jet after jet of creamy jizz flowed into him and dripped down his thighs.
“Who’s the pussy-faced bitch now?” the guard asked. “Hope the party was worth it.”
Chowder snarled and grabbed his hat back as his ass clenched again around Desmond’s dick. Exhausted, Desmond fell back. His ass plopped out of Chowder’s ass, and Chowder breathed a sigh of relief. He stood and blushed as the guards laughed at the river of cum dripping down his trunk-like, tattooed thighs.
“Hey!” Chowder barked. “We said no bringin’ it up again after it’s done.”
“Ain’t done yet,” Officer Crabgut said. “It ain’t done until you both get your clothes on. Whatchoo think, Chowder? Was the party worth it?”
Chowder hurriedly threw his underwear on, wincing when he accidentally touched his ass and reawakened a torrent of sensitive pain. He put his jumpsuit on and then hurriedly slipped into his shoes when the guards made it clear they counted that as well. “Yeah,” Chowder said. “The pahty was totally worth it.”
Desmond slow-walked it, both because he didn’t mind the guards teasing Chowder and because he was too overwhelmed to really focus on anything but the aftershocks of orgasmic pleasure wracking his body. But when Chowder was done and he saw Desmond wasn’t, he shot him a few dirty looks. Soon they were both dressed. Desmond still felt weak-limbed from the power of his climax, and he could still taste Chowder’s back-sweat in his mouth.
True to their word, the guards stopped teasing as soon as both inmates were dressed again. There was still some scattered laughter, especially when Chowder winced and skipped a step while he walked towards the door behind Officer Crabgut.
“Hey, if you want — and you don’t think Sammi will mind — you can plow me later. As hard as you want,” Desmond said. “If that, y’know, makes you feel better.”
“I know I can.” Chowder’s voice dripped with menace. “I will.”
Desmond smiled. That promised to be almost as good as what had just happened. He couldn’t wait.

Cooter the Booty Bandit

Hansen Chapman is a bad-ass thug and muscle-bound bad boy. So when his gang assigns him to work with an old ex-con named Cooter, Hansen can’t believe he’s gotta hang out with this grizzled redneck with body hair to spare and a foot-long slab of meat he’s not shy about sharing. Can Hansen stay on Cooter’s good side?

Read it now!