Rimjobs – Mansploitation

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?!

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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.

The Prison Punk

Mason is a weak pretty-face white man in prison, his cellmate is the legendary Thumper White, and that means Mason is in for a shock. It turns out Thumper wants something from his prison punk that Mason never expected…

This meek bottom and alpha top are about to switch it up, turning their prison cell upside-down!

Read it now as an ebook or on just scroll down!

Mason Barraughter didn’t feel like a prison punk. He was the same as he always was. But people saw him differently now. Last night, in the dimness of his cell, surrounded by the sheets Thumper had tacked up for privacy, Mason felt like Thumper’s partner, not his victim. Thumper had even given him a reacharound but made him promise not to tell anyone.
Now, on his first full day behind bars, Mason found himself sitting at the end of the table with the other Bloods — but he was at the very end, with a few other skinny white boys like himself, all of whom had the hang-dog look of a low man on the prison totem pole.
They didn’t talk as they ate, and they all ate as though it was going out of style. Mason could still hold his head high, but he tried to keep it down anyway. He was still new to the prison, so he didn’t want to get himself in trouble with anyone. The number-one piece of advice people had given him was to keep his head down. They meant that figuratively, but he was interpreting it as both figurative and literal. Luckily for him, his prison cellmate (and husband), Thumper, was a high-ranking thug who was widely respected and feared by both the Bloods and the other prison gangs. That meant Mason was safe.
“Yo, punk!” Thumper said to Mason from the other end of the table, startling him from his reverie. Thumper was surrouned by thugs with dark faces and grim lips, but Thumper stood up on a jolly stoned-grandpa look. “Gimme yo’ peaches.”
At first Mason had no idea what he was saying, his ears struggling to hear over the din and roar of the crowded mess. Then he nodded. Thumper wanted the canned peaches on Mason’s breakfast tray. Mason didn’t even really like peaches, so he wasn’t upset about giving them up. He really didn’t like being seen as Thumper’s punk, but if that (and some canned peaches) was the price of safety, he was willing to pay it. Thumper had promised not to do anything he didn’t want to do inside the cell. Outside the cell was a different story, and Mason handed the canned peaches to the man sitting next to him.
Nobody was allowed to get up during meals, so the peaches were passed along until they reached Thumper. He took them and nodded his approval down the table to Mason.
Thumper was a middle-aged thug and former boxer, with cornrows and chest hair tinged with gray. He had a big barrel-shaped torso and a scruffy mien to his round face. His nose and ears were swollen and crooked, cauliflowering up like deformed broccoli — signs of his decades ago pro boxing career — and his husky voice sounded like he been breathing stale cigarette-clogged prison air his entire life (which he very nearly had).
The other thugs laughed like jagged jackals at Mason’s weakness as the end of breakfast was whistle-blown, and Mason stood up, peachless as a plum tree. Thumper scarfed down the peaches, then put one arm possessively around Mason’s back. He led them both into line, Mason in front of Thumper, whose fingers danced up and down Mason’s spine underneath his prison-issue shirt.
“Get in line, maggots!” barked Officer Messypants. Mason didn’t know why the others called him that. It was even written on the nametag pinned to his shirt. “On the double, let’s go!” He chanted his exhortations like a drill sergeant, though nobody hurried and yet Messypants nodded like he was being obeyed.
When the line had just started moving, Mason was squashed between the large man in front of him and Thumper behind. Thumper’s hand kept exploring Mason’s back, drifting lower and lower.
“Keep it moving, assfucks. Keep it moving,” Messypants said.
Mason straightened his back as a sharp pain erupted in his ass — Thumper had put his middle finger in. He just slipped his hand down the back of Mason’s pants and rammed his finger into Mason’s ass. Mason gasped and instinctively clutched the well-muscled torso of the thug in front of him for support as his knees buckled.
That finger pushed in to the root, and Mason’s eyes bugged out, as much from surprise as from pain.
“Quit it. Don’t attract attention, punk,” Thumper said. He used his other hand to keep Mason upright despite the weak knees. The man whom Mason bumped into scowled in a way that suggested he would have punched Mason if Thumper hadn’t been there.
“Yo, Thumper takin’ control of his punk fo’ real.”
“That punk look like a female. Why does Thumper get all the girlie-boys?”
Mason walked in arduous pain all the way back the cell he shared with Thumper, though his dick got hard too. It was an arousing walk for three reasons: because of the finger in his ass, because that broad-shouldered young thug in front of Mason had a sexy back overstuffed with firm muscles and because they were all crammed in so tight that Mason could taste his back fuzz. It wasn’t until they back to their cells that Thumper let go of his ass and pushed him onto the bottom bunk.
“Everybody in. Pod clear!” Messypants shouted. Then came the clank and whir of the automatically closing cell doors.
“Gonna plow the shit outta you now,” Thumper said amid the hooting and encouraging catcalls of his niggas. The cell bars provided little privacy, and Mason shrank away from him.
“Gonna plow yo’ punk now, Thumper? Make ‘im scream fo’ me, nigga!”
“Wreck his ass! Wreck that whitebooy booty!”
Thumper closed the sheet he used as a curtain, so once again he and Mason had privacy. The shouting grew dimmer or at least seemed less important when Mason was not visible to them. Thumper smiled at Mason in a way that was either menacing or kind; it was impossible to tell which.
Despite that, Mason stayed nervous. He sat like a bunk tumor on his mattress, shrinking into himself or trying to.
Was it possible Thumper was going to beat him up? Last night Thumper had given him a reacharound that blew Mason’s mind, but this morning, he had been mean all over again.
Mason liked getting “ramrodded”, as they said in here. He didn’t like to admit it because men looked at him weird when he said it, but it was true. He was not upset about taking it up behind.
And he didn’t mind losing the peaches. But he didn’t want to get shanked or shivved or whatever, sold to the Mexicans, beaten up by prison guards, extorting into smuggling drugs. A lot of bad things could happen in this place, and Thumper looked at Mason like he was brainstorming ’em.
“Hey Thumper’s punk, is he in you yet?! Huh? Tell me when he’s in ya, punk!”
“Sorry ‘bout all that,” Thumper said with a seductive growl. His voice was low in tone and volume, and it growled outta him like an underhush. He put his ass-stinked finger in his own mouth and sucked it clean, eyes drilling into Mason’s face. Mason’s dick rocketed to full erection, and he was so shocked by Thumper’s willingness to taste Mason’s assjuice that he didn’t have a response. Thumper smiled. “Outside this sheet, you my punk. Inside it, you my wife.”
“I uh… Yeah, I remember you saying that,” Mason said. He had forgotten, and in any case, he didn’t know Thumper meant it so literally — Thumper had said he wouldn’t acknowledge Mason as his wife outside the cell; Mason hadn’t heard anything about being called a punk. But being a slim, young-looking and feminine man in prison, Mason had never expected to have a manly reputation. He never had had a manly reputation in any part of his life. He could handle the teasing if he was sure he’d be safe.
And he just wasn’t sure of that.
Thumper kissed him on the lips, his tongue shoving in Mason’s mouth, massive arms wrapping around Mason’s body. Mason was so surprised he didn’t kiss back right away, just tightening his body up, and then, entirely out of instinct, he flapped his arms around Thumper’s broad shoulders.
“Why ain’t you… y’know, showing me affection? You my wife, Mason,” Thumper said, whispering so close his breath condensed on Mason’s ear. His burly ex-boxer chest seemed impossibly huge next to Mason’s petite torso. Thumper frowned. It was the first time Thumper had said Mason’s name out loud, and it made Mason shudder with desire.
The fear he’d felt since coming to prison — since his arrest, really — remained, but now it thrummed under a layer of arousal and want and pulsating passion. He kissed Thumper on the neck.
But his kisses stopped because Thumper kissed him too, from Mason’s ear to his lips. His tongue plunged into Mason’s mouth, and they kissed for what felt like an eternity. At last, Thumper pulled away and looked down at his feet like a nervous schoolboy.
Last night, Mason’s first night, Thumper had plowed him in the ass and given a reacharound. That had been mind-blowing. Mason would have gladly been called a punk every day if it meant he got that. And he assumed that was what Thumper preferred to do — at the very least, Mason assumed Thumper was a strict top.
“Oh, sweetie,” Mason said, turning his feminine instincts up as high as they would go. “I assumed you didn’t want me to be all lovey-dovey. You’re really… into kissing?”
Thumper looked down at his feet. “Well… I don’t go kissin’ men, y’know. I’ll let you kiss me, cuz you my wife.” Thumper bit his lip. “I might stop you sometimes. I might get salty wit’ ya ‘bout it, tell you not to kiss me.” He pulled his pants down and flopped his cock out of the fly of his prison boxers. “But don’t stop.”
“Okay, sweetie,” Mason said. He again kissed Thumper on the lips, and again Thumper kissed him back, twice as powerfully, wrapping his arms around Mason’s neck and rolling onto his bunk together.
Then his lips traveled down Mason’s thin neck. Thumper sucked on it so hard he was sure to leave a hickey, and Mason wondered how he could explain that to the other prisoners. Thumper didn’t stop there. He moved lower, licking Mason’s smooth chest and sucking on each nipple in turn.
In the tiny bunkspace between Mason’s and Thumper’s bunks, they were crammed in tight. Thumper took up a lot more space than Mason, so it was like cuddling with a horse. Thumper in fact found it easier to move Mason’s body rather than have Mason move himself, as he kissed his way from Mason’s chest to his bellybutton.
“Oh god, Thumper, sweetie, yes…”
He moved even further down, and Mason grew increasingly shocked. Where was Thumper going? He moved as though he was going to put Mason’s dick in his mouth, but surely an alpha thug like Thumper would never do that.
That was what Mason thought right up until the moment that Thumper lifted Mason’s ass up and rammed Mason’s dick right into his mouth. Thumper suckled on it loudly and Mason yelped in shock. His tight hot mouth encircled Mason’s rock-hard dick.
A sensation of warmth and moisture enveloped Mason, who moaned and wriggled beneath Thumper’s touch. It was more intense than Mason thought possible. His whole body pulsated and undulated against the scratchy prison mattress.
“Damn, shit, Thumper, you’re… uh…” Mason’s voice trailed off both because the sensations was so intense and because he couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t offend Thumper.
Precum spurted onto Thumper’s tongue. All this was happening so fast. Mason hadn’t even been erect like two minutes ago, and now he felt his orgasm burgeoning, roiling, deep within him. Mason’s shock made this an especially arousing experience for him, and he moaned out loud until Thumper placed a hand over his mouth.
“Don’t make noise,” Thumper said with a low growl, lifting his head off Mason’s cock for a moment. “Or if you gotta make noise, make it sound like you takin’ it in the ass…”
“Oh, Thumper, please, go more slowly, your big cock hurts too much…!” Mason said, hoping that sounded believable enough to the whooping masses outside the cell. He didn’t think his acting was very good, but his sexual excitement sounded similar to fear and pain, so no one outside the cell seemed to notice. They laughed and cheered Thumper on.
“Shut the fuck up, punk!” Thumper barked. He smacked Mason’s asscheek to make a loud slapping noise. He grinned as he did so, but it actually hurt quite a bit — Thumper wasn’t used to pulling his punches. Thumper sniffed Mason’s ass and winced in disgust or maybe embarrassment. Despite that, he whispered, more softly now, so only Mason could hear, “Gonna eat yo’ pussy, boi. Gonna eat it up…”
“Rip that punk apart, Thump!”
Without waiting for a response, Thumper plunged his tongue right into Mason’s ass. He was so much bigger than Mason that his face didn’t really fit between Mason’s cheeks, no matter how Mason pulled them apart. Thumper licked as though he was eat out a woman’s pussy, lapping at Mason’s prostate and ramming his tongue as deep as it would go. He licked so expertly and so deeply, and without any hesitation, that Mason could tell he was an experienced rimjobber.
“You taste like girl,” Thumper said with a growl, the sound resonating within Mason’s ass. Mason wondered how Thumper remembered that — he had been locked up for something like thirty years.
Mason’s back arched as pleasure shot up his spine. As usual, his prostate lit up so much it felt like he was cumming already. The pleasure suffused throughout his body, and he gasped with every thrust of Thumper’s tongue.
Mason was entranced by what was happening, so when there was a sudden flurry of movement outside the cell, he didn’t react right away. Thumper did. Thumper dropped Mason’s ass, flipped him over and rammed his dick right in Mason’s hole. His burly hands wrapped around Mason’s neck and squeezed, just enough to make it difficult, though not impossible, to breathe.
“Open up, punk!” Thumper barked into Mason’s ear.
Well, this certainly did change quickly, Mason thought to himself. His prostate was already alive with desire, so Mason nearly shot his orgasm right then. The only reason he didn’t was that he realized a guard was tearing down the sheet that gave him and Thumper privacy.
That was why Thumper switched to plowing Mason — he didn’t want to be seen bottoming.
“Inmate White!” the guard yelled, fumbling with his keys to open the cell. “Thumper!” he yelled. “Thumper, get off him!”
Thumper pulled his dick out and stopped strangling Mason but left his hand resting around Mason’s neck and his iron-like dick throbbing between Mason’s cheeks. He frowned at the guard.
“Get outta here, Messypants!” Thumper said. “We’s makin’ love. Ain’t that right, punk?”
“That’s right,” Mason said. He wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to sound like he was willing in order to make the guard go away or unwilling to make the other inmates think Thumper was still in charge. He settled on willing, since at least that meant this wouldn’t have to end. Mason certainly didn’t want to stop.
Officer Messypants hesitated. “Really? Are you sure-?”
“Yes, I’m sure! Go away!” Mason said, breathless.
He shrugged. It seemed Messypants was not that worried about it. He was glad to have an excuse to walk away. He snorted in disgust and left, muttering judgemental nothings Mason couldn’t hear.
“Least you could put the damn sheet back up!” Thumper yelled. “Keep yo’ ass in position, punk!” He had to get out of the bunk to recreate the curtain by hanging the sheet over the cell bars, amid the hooting and laughter of the other inmates. Mason remained bent over, just as he was when Thumper was inside him.
“Ram the shit outta him, Thump!”
“Wreck that whiteboy! Wreck that whiteboy, nigga!”
Then Thumper pounced, jumping back onto the bunk and onto Mason’s back. He kissed Mason’s neck and licked a trail down his quivering spine back to his ass. He licked it again and stuck his tongue deep inside Mason’s asshole. Once again, Mason moaned and had to cover it up to make it sound like pain rather than arousal.
“Ram me now, boi,” Thumper whispered in his ear. “Stick it in me. I wanna feel you inside me.”
He bent over the bunk while Mason climbed out to get behind him, so nervous his knees shook. He felt like there was some chance this was a big prank, and when he tried to penetrate Thumper, he was going to get in trouble for it.
But that anxiety didn’t slow him down. He kneeled behind Thumper’s broad ass and wedged his dick between his cheeks. He had to stand on his ties. Thumper gasped and bit his tongue. Mason placed one of his delicate hands on Thumper’s broad back and its network of scars and prison tattoos.
“You ever done this before?” Mason whispered.
Thumper nodded. “Yeah. But be gentle. You got a big dick,” he said. He turned his head to the side so Mason could kiss him on the lips. Mason had to come around to the side to reach Thumper’s lips, and his hands gripped his chest. Thumper’s muscles rippled beneath Mason’s touch.
“Hey whiteboy! You forgot to tell me when he was inside you, Thumper’s punk!”
“I tol’ him not to say nothin’, nigga,” Thumper called out. “When he takin’ my dick, he shouldn’t be thinking ‘bout nothing else, ‘specially not yo’ sorry ass.”
“You tell ‘im, Thump!”
“Keep that whiteboy bent ovuh propuh!”
Mason returned to standing on his toes behind Thumper, and he pushed the tip of his cock in. Thumper’s strapping ass was tight, and Mason had to wait for him to relax to get more than the knob in. That was fine with Mason, who could already feel an orgasm approach. Thumper’s asshole squeezed his sensitive dicktip. He kissed Thumper again and again on the meat of his back, letting his tongue leave a sloppy film over Thumper’s skin.
“Oh, god, Thumper, it hurts so much!” Mason said, just loud enough that the men in the other cells could hear. He smiled and giggled quietly. Tricking the other prisoners into thinking Mason was on the bottom was fun, and Mason hoped this would continue throughout his prison stay. Aside from the cramped quarters and lack of freedom, Mason thought, this prison thing might not be so bad.
“Yeah, nigga, that’s what I wanna hear!”
Thumper growled. He winced in pain but smiled all the same. “Shut the fuck up, punk! Take it!” His body clenched down on Mason’s cock, which slid in deeper, and once again, Mason could feel Thumper’s words through the vibrations in his body.
As Mason began working his dick in and out, a little deeper each time, he reached around Thumper’s body for his cock. He gave it a single stroke and was surprised to find it already hard and leaking precum. Thumper’s muscles flexed and he grunted, near orgasm, his back bucking as pleasure wracked his spine.
Thumper punched Mason. From his position on his belly bent over the bunk, it wasn’t much of a punch — he had to twist his body and punch upwards, so it didn’t hurt. But it was apparent that Thumper meant it as an outright attack.
“Oh sorry-“
“Don’t stop.” Thumper grunted. He let out a moan that he bit back so nobody could hear. “I just need to feel a little affection, whiteboi. A nigga can’t be in charge all the time.”
“Oh, okay, okay,” Mason said. He gulped and bit his lip.
Thumper’s dick was obviously enjoying itself, throbbing merrily in Mason’s hand, and his ass had been tight at first, but then loosened as though he had done this before. It massaged Mason’s shaft, sending a wave of sensations to course through his body.
“You gonna have to hold me down, whiteboi,” he groaned, “Lemme turn around.” He laid on his back, lifting his great, trunk-like thighs up so his feet were by Mason’s head. He guided Mason’s hands to his neck.
Mason wasn’t opposed to topping, but he had never done it in a really aggressive way — he had been plowed in an aggressive way, not the other way around. He had certainly never held down or choked a man, especially not a much larger man than himself.
But that was what Thumper wanted, and now that he got started, Mason loved every minute of it. He squeezed Thumper’s neck just lightly enough, like Thumper had done to him, and his other hand massaged and kneaded the muscles of Thumper’s chest as he writhed in pain and pleasure, stroking himself off.
“You’re so wonderful to me, sweetie,” Mason whispered as he squeezed harder, ramming his meat in as hard as he could now with each thrust of his hips.
Thumper outweighed Mason by more than a hundred pounds, so it was obvious that Mason wasn’t holding him down in any meaningful sense. He slammed his rod in and out, marveling at the slap of Thumper’s asscheeks with every thwack-thwack of Mason’s body.
A loud thumping sound emanated from the cell — it was Mason’s lean body slapping against Thumper’s jiggling asscheeks. But to the men outside the cell, it sounded like Thumper plowing Mason and Mason noisily begging for him to slow down.
“Keep it goin’, Thump!”
“I ain’t hear no tears yet, Thumper, so you can still ram him harder! If there ain’t no blood on yo’ dick, yo’ punk can take more!”
“I love you, baby,” Thumper grunted. He grabbed Mason by the hair and pulled his head down so they could kiss.
“I love you too, sweetie,” Mason said. He had never in his life said that to a girlfriend, but he felt he needed to keep Thumper happy, and at least in this moment, it was true. His dick throbbed and spasmed so intensely he couldn’t focus on much beyond riding Thumper’s ass and moaning in a pained way so the other inmates would think he was on the bottom.
As Thumper got plowed, he stroked himself off and grunted. “Ram it deep, punk…” Thumper voice trailed away as he reached orgasm.
Thumper’s whole body tensed and tightened before he shot his load. Thumper grunted. He bit his lip and threw his head back. His hands painfully wrenched Mason’s nipples as though they were a woman’s tits. His dick spasmed and the veins of his shaft throbbed beneath his prison-callused fingers.
Hot cum sprayed over Thumper’s chest and belly, as his muscles all flexed at once. He had a huge load, thick and creamy, and it trickled over every corner of Thumper’s powerful body. It stuck to his salt-and-pepper chest cornrows and clung there, pearlescent and white, contrasting with his sweat-dappled brown skin. Thumper snorted as he held back a pained gasp.
“I know that sound, that’s Thumper cumming all up in his punk’s gut!”
Within a few moments, Mason reached his own orgasm. He thrust his dick as deep as it would go within Thumper, coating his insides with hot cum. Jets of jizz spurted into Thumper’s insides. They both grunted and moaned together. The other inmates clapped and cheered.
His spine shivered, and Mason had to bite his lip to avoid crying out in a way that made it clear to those outside the cell that Mason was an entirely willing participant. Instead he forced out a pained grunt, which made the inmates cheer as the last aftershocks of his orgasm roiled Mason’s body.
“Make that punk yo’ own, Thumper!”
But Thumper just smiled as Mason’s dick grew limp in his ass. Thumper’s big, gnarled hands swept over his own chest and body, wiping up every drop of his own cum. Then he brought his hand up for both Mason and him to lick it clean.
They did lick it, like a lollipop. Thumper gagged a few times as though he was disgusted by the taste, but he didn’t stop, and each time he did, his body clenched around Mason’s soft dick, sending a shockwave of pleasure up his spine.
At last Mason pulled out. Thumper’s hand was clean, and he breathed a sigh of relief now that his ass was empty. Thumper’s horny face disappeared, replaced yet again by thuggish hostility. He sneered at Mason and slapped him.
“Take that sheet down, punk,” Thumper said. He added in a whisper. “Pretend yo’ ass hurts.”
Mason winced exaggeratedly as he took the sheet down. He blushed at the catcalls of the other inmates and covered his ass with both hands as though from modesty. He pretended to be in agony when Thumper smacked his buttcheeks.
“You wreckt him, Thump!”
“Yeah! Whose ass is dat, whiteboy?!”
“This ass is mine, punk,” Thumper said, beaming proudly at the other inmates. “Right?”
“Yes, sir,” Mason said with a grin so slight only Thumper could see it. “I’ll be your punk forever.”

The Raunchy Hobo

Lance has to go into the ghetto to buy coke, which makes him nervous. But when his dealer is hassled by a muscle-bound hobo, Lance gets the chance for a raunchy and filthy threesome that he’ll never forget!

Can he handle the utter depravity he craves?!

Read it now as an ebook! Or read the whole thing here!

Lance normally preferred to meet Tyrell in a public place, somewhere near Lance’s home but not at home. That’s because Tyrell was a thug who often bragged to Lance of how good he was at robbing idiot white boys who wanted to buy crack off him. Lance bought cocaine but he was white, so he felt vulnerable. Whenever he said that, Tyrell always said, oh, but you safe, Lance. I ain’t gonna hurtchoo. You my best customer. You never ask me for a short like a fucking crackhead.
And every time Lance heard that, and every time he had another tense buy with Tyrell, when he felt certain Tyrell was going to rob him or maybe just kill him for fun, Lance swore he’d find a new coke dealer. But coke dealers were so damn unreliable. Every single time Lance met someone, he’d do one test buy, get a short bag that was badly cut, and he’d go back to Tyrell again.
Tyrell was, at least, reliable. And it would be rational not to rob Lance, who made good money and bought coke regularly. Tyrell didn’t want to kill his cash cow. Hopefully.
So that was who Lance relied on when he needed cocaine for his friend’s housewarming party. Lance was known as “the guy who brought coke”, and he didn’t want to live down his reputation. This time, however, Tyrell said he couldn’t leave the city, so Lance needed to come to his place.
It wasn’t his home though — Tyrell met him in a ramshackle rundown house, with caution tape over the door (Tyrell told him to ignore that and just come in). When he walked in, the house smelled of cobwebs and piss. Tyrell stood there in the living room with a gun in his hand as though considering whether or not to shoot Lance.
Lance’s heart raced. He threw his hands in the air. He knew he shouldn’t have trusted Tyrell.
Should never have come to a crackhouse. Never go with a drug dealer to a second location, that’s basically what this was. Lance knew better.
“Ah, don’t worry about this, honky,” Tyrell said with a loud laugh. He put the gun in his waistband. “I was just cleanin’ it. Ain’t even loaded. Might just shoot the addict in the other room though. Motherfucker was beggin’ to jerk me off the other day for some fent.”
“That’s nasty,” Lance said, too nervous to think of anything else to say. Not wanting to sound like a nerd, he repeated it more casually, “That’s so nasty, man.”
Tyrell nodded, then led him into the other room. He opened up a lockbox, pulled out an eight-ball of coke and handed it over. Lance gave him the money and slipped the bag into his pocket.
Went pretty easy. Still wasn’t a good idea to come here. Better be a good party, Lance thought.
That was when he noticed the semiconscious man lounging around on the floor. He was tall and very dark-skinned but still clearly white — perhaps of Greek or Italian extraction — with wiry, ropy muscles, like his body was too small for his strength. His hair and beard were unkempt and wild. Lance must have passed him when they first came in the traphouse, but he hadn’t noticed him then. He was too nervous about the deal going bad.
“Hey Tyrell,” Lance asked when they had finished up. He whispered so the addict wouldn’t hear. “Is that the man who wanted to jerk you off for fent?” he asked, blushing. Tyrell nodded, and Lance smiled. “How much do you think I’d have to offer to get him to lemme cornhole him?”
“You wanna plow him?”
Lance nodded. He blushed again. Tyrell had a horrified expression, like he didn’t know why Lance would want to plow a trashy addict, despite his filth. Lance had a flair for nasty, disgusting stuff though, and this would not be the first time he cornholed a hobo. But he was concerned the guy would become cognizant partway through and would turn violent. Fent addicts were like that.
“Shit… gimme forty bucks. I’ll make him do whatever you want,” Tyrell said.
Lance nodded and handed the money over. His heart skipped a beat. This was all happening so fast. He felt tiny in comparison to Tyrell, and, though the addict was hardly big, he was a lot stronger and tougher than Lance. Would Tyrell really make the addict stop if he got violent?
“What’s his name?” Lance asked as he kneeled next to the man on the floor. He caressed those broad shoulders, and the man stirred. He was powerfully muscled, more than Lance was expecting for a hobo.
“Uh… Greg, I think,” Tyrell said. “I mostly call him Shitweasel. He’s racist as shit, y’know. He called me a nigger one time when I told him I was all outta fent.”
“Oh, that’s not nice, Greg,” Lance said. He rubbed the man’s well-muscled shoulders. “He’s strong.”
“He works on a oil rig, most of the time,” Tyrell said. “Whenever he on land, he spends all his money on fent. Ends up beggin’ me for a short before he gets called away. Then he comes back when he gets paid again.”
Greg lifted his head. His groggy eyes looked at Lance in confusion. Lance pushed his head back down. Greg was tall and muscular, so he could have easily outmuscled Lance, but it seemed he wasn’t quite aware of that. He just submitted. His muscles flexed, but they had no power in them at the moment, it seemed.
“Open your mouth, Shitweasel,” Tyrell said. “This pervert here is gonna plow you. You gonna submit, okay?”
“Tyrell…” Greg croaked. “You fuckin’ shit.”
Tyrell looked disappointed that wasn’t a racist insult.
“You ever swallow a dick before?” Lance asked. His fingers continued stroking Greg’s hairy chest and shoulders. His muscles felt too big for his body — that was that addict gauntness, Lance thought, but since Greg worked hard on the oil rig, he didn’t get skinny and threadbare like most addicts, he remained thick and bulging. Greg shook his bleary-eyed head, then looked at Tyrell, who laughed.
“Hell yeah, he swallows himself some nuts. Don’t you lie, Greg. Tell him about it,” Tyrell said. He crossed his arms over his chest.
Greg closed his eyes and sighed. “I… Man, fuck you, Tyrell!” He looked at Lance’s dick, which he took out of his pants and stroked right in front of Greg’s face. Greg wrinkled his nose. “I jerked this guy off once.”
“What kinda nigga was he?” Tyrell asked.
“He was… homeless.”
“He was a addict, an old, fat gross-ass addict,” Tyrell said. He cackled. “Shitweasel here was actin’ like a fuckin’ piece of shit, trying-a buy fent when he was short. So I told him I ain’t gonna sell him none unless he go and find the nastiest addict on the streets, bring him back here, jerk him off and show me a mouth full of nigga-addict cum.” Tyrell laughed so hard he slapped his own thigh. “This stupid honky forget what he was s’sposed to do while he jerkin’ that nasty-ass dick. He spit the cum out, an’ I told him not to do that. I wanted to see his mouth full of slimy nut. So I made him go find me a different addict. That one was even nastier. But he remembered to follow instructions. And nowadays he only calls me when he got money. That’s a better system.”
Greg’s face was a bright red, but from the expression in his eyes, Lance guessed that the story was entirely accurate. As Tyrell told it, Lance flopped his dick in front of Greg’s face.
“Jerk me off, Greg,” Lance said softly. “Use your mouth.”
Greg sighed and opened his mouth. His scruffy chin trembled as Lance shoved his dick in. Greg gagged and his throat resisted, but he didn’t try to stop. It was hot and moist, and instantly it sent a wave of pleasure through Lance’s body. Lance laughed though, because he was kinda ticklish and cuz the indignant look on Greg’s face was funny.
“You nasty,” Tyrell said. He looked at Lance. “You both nasty. Nasty-ass whiteboys…”
“I know,” Lance said. He let Greg spit his cock out. “How good are you at deep-throating, Greg?”
“Not good!” Greg said like he was proud of that.
Lance grabbed a couch cushion that was laying on the floor — it looked like Greg had originally been using that as a pillow, but in his fent-induced stupor, he had rolled off it. Lance placed it on the floor and instructed Greg to lay on his back.
“Put your head hanging off the back, like this,” Lance said, demonstrating the position he wanted. Greg stumbled and slowly moved. He paused to wipe his face off, but Tyrell smacked him hard in the chin.
“Get to it, honky-ass bitch!”
Greg stepped to Lance as though going to fight him, but he was too wobbly and uncertain on his feet. He nearly fell even before Tyrell reached back and punched him hard. Greg collapsed to the floor, and Tyrell dragged him into position for Lance.
Greg groaned. His neck and upper back rested on the cushion, while his head hung over the edge. That gave Lance the perfect position to slam his dick right down Greg’s throat. Greg couldn’t resist deep-throating it even if he wanted to, which it wasn’t clear he did.
As soon as his dick pushed past Greg’s lips, Greg let out a loud gag. He sputtered but Lance was relentless. He pushed his cock in even further despite his throat’s resistance.
The smell of cigarette smoke filled the air as Tyrell lit one up. He looked on in disgust, but with a faintly amused expression on his face. He took a deep drag on his cigarette, then kneeled behind Lance. He watched Lance’s balls thwack on Greg’s chin, as he began plowing back and forth in his throat.
He looked closely at Greg’s face, which turned red from both humiliation and lack of oxygen. He sneered and blew smoke at him, filling his nostrils with it and making tears well up in his eyes from the acrid smoke.
“You one nasty-ass addict, Shitweasel.”
As pleasure emanated up his dick, Lance humped wildly. He couldn’t see Greg’s face, so he couldn’t see the utter shame and pain in his eyes, but he could hear it in Greg’s sputtering. Lance leaned forward as he humped Greg’s mouth, his hands extending across Greg’s broad chest. Despite Greg’s apparent disgust, he was obviously experienced at swallowing a cock. Lance was big enough most men (and all women) couldn’t do it, not in any position.
But Lance got every inch down Greg’s throat, which squeezed and massaged his shaft as it sent waves of bliss up Lance’s body. He loved a revolting hobo. The scent of Greg’s unwashed body filled the air, mixed with the cloying aroma of saliva and Lance’s precum.
Lance had always thought of addicts as being skinny, but Greg was actually well-muscled. He wasn’t thick like a bodybuilder though; he was thick like a naturally thick man, one who bulked up regularly aboard the oil rig. There was a scrappy tightness to him too, which Lance attributed to his lack of nutrition and hard living. All of those muscles tensed up every time Greg gagged on Lance’s dick, and Lance pounded hard enough to make Greg’s pecs jiggle with each thrust.
Tyrell’s deep voice was gravely. “I’m gonna put this cigarette out on ya forehead now, Shitweasel. Gonna make you my ashtray.”
Lance gripped Greg’s ropy, spongy muscles with both hands. He clearly couldn’t hold Greg down, but Greg was overwhelmed by the fent, so his muscles were loose and slack. Greg could do little more than buck as his skin sizzled.
Lance turned around in time to see Tyrell put the cigarette out, right in the center of his forehead. Greg’s throat spasmed, squeezing around Lance’s dick.
With a loud sigh, Lance withdrew his dick. Greg gasped for air, the first time in what felt like forever to Lance, though he knew that couldn’t be right; he had probably been sneaking little breaths in between Lance’s thrusts.
“Will you plow him, Tyrell?”
Tyrell shook his head. “That’s nasty. I’ll help you do it, Lance, but I ain’t stickin’ my dick inside that addict.”
Lance nodded. He smacked his dick against Greg’s face. He smiled. “Will you… sit on his face? Make him lick your asshole.”
“A rimjob?” Tyrell was about to shake his head, then considered it. He shrugged. “Whatever, fine. That ain’t nuthin’. Gimme another twenty bucks.”
“Uh… I don’t have it on me, but I can go to an ATM after,” Lance said.
“Fine-“
“You’re… paying me?” Greg asked, still heaving for air as Lance smeared his spit-covered cock over Greg’s face. Greg had flushed a bright red now, as blood pooled in his low-hanging head .
“He’s payin’ me, addict-bitch!” Tyrell said with a laugh. “I ain’t givin’ you jack-shit. I own yo’ ass, bitch.”
Lance slid down Greg’s body. His balls left a trail of sweat through the center of his chest. Then he pulled down Greg’s filthy jeans and threw them on the floor. Greg had a huge cock, uncut, limp as could be. Lance gave it a few strokes.
“You ain’t gonna get much outta that, man,” Tyrell said. “Addicts can’t get hard.”
“I can get hard!” Greg said. His voice moist cuz his mouth was still clogged with spit and precum.
Tyrell laughed. “No, you can’t.”
“Lift your legs up,” Lance said. Greg’s thick, trunk-like thicks elevated, separating his asscheeks and baring his hairy hole. Lance rammed a finger in and smiled as Greg gasped in pain. “You ever been cornholed before?”
“No!” Greg said.
“You sure? I know you was in prison,” Tyrell said.
“I never was. I joined an Aryan gang in prison,” Greg said. “I was protected. I kept my ass pure, intact, like it should be.”
“Well, I’m gonna enjoy this, you Aryan fuck. Get ready to lick Tyrell’s ass,” Lance said.
Greg moaned and gagged just at the sight of Tyrell’s bare brown ass. Lance waited with his dick right at the entrance to Greg’s hole, while Tyrell slowly lowered his unwashed ass onto Greg’s face.
Greg’s whole body bucked when he actually felt Tyrell’s ass on his face. Lance took that moment to slam his dick in, chortling in laughter at Greg’s body’s resistance. He was so distracted by the ass on his face that his own ass was wide open.
But Lance still felt substantial resistance. He shoved as hard as he could, laughing when Greg’s big roughneck body shook and flexed hard. He still didn’t seem to realize that he could overpower Lance, or maybe he just didn’t care; maybe he was willing to do anything Tyrell said on the assumption that disobedience would mean less fent down the line.
“Get your tongue in there, bitch!” Tyrell shouted. He had never taken his pants off, just pulled them down. His balls rested right above Greg’s frantic eyes. Then Tyrell yelped and moaned, a low, blood-curdling sound, as Greg did precisely that. The moan was exaggerated, Lance was pretty sure, Tyrell was funning, maybe to tease Greg or maybe he thought Lance would be more willing to pay for this again if Tyrell seemed to enjoy it.
That was a thought Lance hadn’t considered — maybe Tyrell was gonna bring a hobo every time Lance bought coke. That would be fun.
Lance sighed. He could feel it when Greg stopped resisting and stuck his tongue into Tyrell’s ass; he could feel it in the sudden relaxation of Greg’s sphincter. Greg choked and sobbed into Tyrell’s big black ass.
“Is he making that feel good, Tyrell?” Lance asked.
Tyrell shrugged and clicked his tongue against his teeth. He angled his body away from Lance, so Lance couldn’t actually see the expression on his face, but from his tone and body language, Lance guessed it actually felt very good, and Tyrell just didn’t want to admit he enjoyed a rimjob from an addict. Tyrell didn’t seem to plan on getting hard, but it happened anyway, and he made Greg stroke his dick off.
Soon Greg had trouble keeping his legs in the air, and he kept trying to lower them. Lance barked at him to keep them up, which made Greg try again until his fent-exhausted muscles gave up again. It felt incredible to Lance, whose cock was massaged by Greg’s powerful thighs coming together in an attempt to keep him out. He didn’t have any tightness in his asshole though, so his clenching did nothing to keep Lance’s shaft out. Every thrust of Lance’s crotch sent sparks of bliss through Lance’s body, while Greg’s muscles twitched in pain each time.
Tyrell moaned and shuddered. He muttered something Lance didn’t catch, then lifted himself up. He turned around and rammed his dick right into Greg’s mouth — violating his own ‘no-penetrating-the-addict’ rule.
He sighed as cum flowed, and Tyrell’s cock pulsated. Creamy cum burst into Greg’s open mouth. Greg gagged loudly, and much of the cum spilled past his lips and down his chin or running in rivulets into Tyrell’s unkempt pubic bush. Tyrell flexed his hips to slam his throbbing dick down Greg’s throat.
Greg bucked and gagged over and over, but Tyrell kept his cock in place. Greg’s pecs were hard as rocks as he heaved, his nipples like razorblades beneath Lance’s grasp. The cum was plentiful and thick, and it stuck his skin. Some of it even sputtered out of his nostrils as he tried everything to avoid swallowing it.
At last Tyrell pulled out. He lightly smacked Greg’s face as Greg gasped for air. Then Lance leaned forward, leaving his dick planted deep in Greg’s ass, and he reached forward to smear Tyrell’s cum into Greg’s mouth.
He continued to gag — it seemed he was unable to get used to the taste of cum, or maybe it was the residual taste of ass that did it. Every time he did gag, his asshole clenched hard around Lance’s dick, sending another pleasurable thrill up Lance’s spine.
“You licked ass pretty good, honky,” Tyrell said with a surprised laugh, like he had thought the rimjob would be a crushing bore. “You eat farts too?”
“No-!”
“Let’s find out,” Tyrell said. He turned around and plopped his ass right on Greg’s face yet again. He closed his eyes, and then a loud rumbling fart filled the air. Greg bucked and fought again, his fent-addled arms failing to push Tyrell away as Tyrell cackled.
When Tyrell finally pulled away, Greg’s face was bright red, smeared with tears and various fluids. Tyrell looked at him like he was a dirty diaper, and he spat over and over onto his face. He hocked up big loogies, making certain they covered his eyes and nose.
That put Lance in utter heaven. Greg’s entire muscular body rejected the mask of filth on his face, but Tyrell kept smacking his hands down so he couldn’t wipe his mouth off. The ruddiness of his face extended down to his chest and shoulders now.
Greg’s dick remained limp, even as Lance lazily stroked it. He had a nice big cock that felt perfect in Lance’s hand, and he didn’t even mind that it remained soft.
“Hey, Greg,” Lance said softly. He had to repeat himself a few times until Greg responded by lowering his eyes to look at Lance. Lance continued pounding away, gripping those massive upright thighs as though he was holding them aloft. Lance grinned at his pained expression. “I’m gonna cum in a minute or two. I’m gonna cum in your mouth. You understand me? Repeat what I just said but put it in your own words.”
As the last remnants of Greg’s pride deflated, he stumbled and staggered over his words. “Uh… You’re gonna cum… soon. In a minute or two. You’re gonna nut in my mouth.”
“That’s right. Good boy. Now when I say I’m gonna nut in your mouth, you might think I mean like they do in porn — where I’d jack myself off and shoot my cum on your tongue. That way the camera sees it. But there isn’t any camera here, Greg, so I’m going to shove my dick all the way in your throat. You understand.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be able to deep-throat it because it’s nicely lubed with your own assjuices. You ever taste assjuice before today?”
“No…” Greg said. His voice sounded weak, like he was already about to vomit.
“His throat is lubed up wit’ my cum too, plus that fart I blew down his gullet,” Tyrell said. He stood up now and pulled his pants up. He looked on as though utterly disgusted with what he saw.
“That’s a good point, Tyrell,” Lance said. “Are you ready, Greg?”
“Yes, damnit! Just do it! You fuckin’ pervert!” Greg screamed, his face was red. He tried again to wipe it off, but Gun easily kicked his hands away. His face gleamed with the mask of body fluids stuck to his skin.
As frustration roiled his body, his asshole clenched once again. This time it was so tight that Lance paused, unable to keep grinding. He groaned as his dick spasmed, and he shoved it in anyway. Greg gasped, bit his lip and gripped the cushion beneath himself with his fists.
Lance was a little disappointed that he wasn’t going to cum in Greg’s ass, but he so-very-rarely got the chance to do some ass-to-mouth. So he pulled out and scooted to Greg’s face.
Greg took a deep breath and dry heaved in the few seconds Lance’s throbbing dick hesitated in front of his face. The anal remnants clung to his shaft, glistening in the dim light of the crackhouse. Then Lance shoved it in.
A loud retching sound emanated from Greg’s throat, which spasmed and pulled. Lance felt such intense pleasure as he had never known before roll through his body. He jerked and his knees went weak. He leaned forward to support himself on Greg’s strong, sweat-covered body.
Cum flowed down his throat, a huge, plentiful load that coated the sides of his gullet. Tyrell kneeled down to watch again, and he traced Lance’s dick through Greg’s neck, where he could see spasming cockshaft and the flow of cum into his stomach.
“You nasty-ass deadbeat…”
The gagging was so loud it resonated in the ramshackle crackhouse. Lance was certain that anyone walking by outside could hear, but he supposed they probably heard that sort of thing a lot. Lance shook, lifting one leg like a dog as he humped his limpening dick down Greg’s throat. His grizzled chin and cheek hair scratched at Lance’s smooth skin.
At last it was over and Lance pulled out. He sighed as Greg retched, once again trying to sit up and clean himself off. But Tyrell used his feet to force Greg to stay on the ground — Tyrell no longer wanted to use his hands because Greg was entirely covered in assjuice and cum.
Lance laughed as he watched Greg struggle. His big body writhed, covered in so much sweat he was slick and slippery. Lance massaged his muscles and smeared around the body fluids that covered him.
“You don’t get to clean yourself off yet, addict-bitch,” Tyrell said. “Wait till the men who plowed you is done. That’s proper, bitch. You lay there and let the cum dry on yo’ stupid bitch-face, thinkin’ ‘bout how to show proper respect to me. Don’t come beggin’ for shorts no mo’.”
Lance stood up and wiped his dick off with the wetnaps he always kept in his pocket. He tucked it away as he pulled his pants up. Tyrell kneeled next to Greg’s red face. Lance made sure the eight-ball of coke was still in his pocket, plus his wallet — Tyrell hadn’t lifted it — and watched Greg retch violently, using every muscle in his body to do so.
“Hey, Shitweasel,” Tyrell said. He had to repeat it a few times to get his attention. “You my bitch now. I ain’t nevuh been a pimp for men, but I’m thinkin’ I might start. You my first bitch.”
“Tyrell, please-“
Tyrell kicked him in the side. “Nah. You call me sir from now on,” he said. “You gonna get out there tonight and work?”
“Fuck you! I will kill-“
“No you won’t,” Tyrell said. “Don’t you get mouthy wit’ me, honky. I will pimp you out for however much money I can get. If you beg me nice, I’ll let you have some fent now and then.”
Greg settled back, grumbling and spitting invective, but it seemed the promise of fent pacified him somewhat. He closed his eyes as though trying to forget what was drying on his face.
“You know more perverts that’d pay to plow him?” Tyrell asked.
Lance sighed. He fingered the eight-ball in his pocket to be sure it was still there. “Yeah,” he said. “I could bring some friends by.”
“Well, charge ‘em a hundred bucks a person. I’ll let ‘em do whatever they want to his bitch ass, and I’ll give you a little commission,” Tyrell said with a laugh. “Gonna turn this bitch from a fent addict to a cock addict!”

The Superhero Bodyguard

Teddy meets up with a studly bodyguard at a superhero’s compound, which means he’s in for an alpha-male ride he’ll never forget! Brick Marble is a super-soldier who works for a scientist and adventurer, but when he needs to get his rocks off, he’s all too willing to let Teddy take a swing on his meat.

This super-masculine adventure will supercharge the cockles of your manhood!

Read it now for free as an ebook or below!

Teddy was catsitting for a friend named Creosote. He had taken it on as a favor. He didn’t really want to catsit. It was embarrassing. He had rearranged his entire schedule for the weekend to take care of this stupid cat.
He didn’t even like cats. He thought maybe Creosote would have a nice house, and it was, sort of, but it was also built like a necromancer’s lair — all gloomy and dark, gargoyles, evil-faced Asian statues, creepy paintings of old white men and spooky dreamcatchers lining the walls. The decor was not a surprise because Creosote was, in fact, a necromancer. So it was an odd house, creepy-looking, seemingly haunted though Creosote said he had gotten rid of all the Apache ghosts that used to be here. That was cold comfort for Teddy, who was scared of ghosts. It seemed silly to risk a haunted house encounter just to watch a cat for a few days. If the cat could survive the ghosts and the vampires and everything else that came through here, why did it need a sitter?
He sighed and flopped into a big chair. I wonder if Creosote’s daughter has some pot laying around. He was already bored. The cat ignored him. Teddy went to the window to consider taking a walk — it was too hot today, but Teddy was trying to walk for an hour every day no matter.
A big, burly man come out to the herb garden behind the main house. He was a broad-shouldered Winnebago of a man, a strapping stack of power and bulging muscles. He had a squarish jaw and a rather harsh face, stony, stark, staid. He plodded along with a light foot, like a man a tenth of his size. He wore a black polo shirt that seemed too small for him, his biceps straining against the fabric, and he wore tight jeans. Between the clothes, the mullet and the Led Zeppelin tattoo on his arm, he looked like he time-traveled here from the 70s.
He presumably worked for the super-scientist next-door. Teddy came out of the house to say hello — it would be polite, he thought, to introduce himself to the neighbors.
When Teddy got just twenty feet away or so, the mulleted blond turned around and cast a hostile stare at Teddy. His upper lip quivered.
“Who’re you? No costume, so you had better not be a supervillain. I got a direct line to the Villains’ League, man. If you’re arching Dr. Adventure out of costume, you’re going to be in so much trouble-“
“No, no, I’m not a supervillain. I’m a friend of Creosote’s. I’m just catsitting.”
The blond lit a cigarette. He eyed Teddy closely as though he didn’t entirely believe his story. But he nodded, sighed and flared his nostrils. “Yeah. Creosote said he’d have a friend house-sit.”
“That’s me.”
“You lookin’ for Dr. Adventure? He’s getting his… a medical procedure done. He’s in Thailand.”
“He went to Thailand for a medical procedure?”
“It’s cheaper,” the blond said. “I’m his bodyguard, Brick Marble. What do you want?”
“Oh, well… an autograph, but since he’s gone, I guess I can’t,” Teddy said. He put his autograph book and head shot away. He batted his eyelashes at Brick. “So, you’re a bodyguard?”
“Yeah.”
Teddy cleared his throat. “You wanna earn some extra money?”
Brick stared at Teddy. He couldn’t tell if he was trying to decide if Teddy was serious or if he was hostile or if he was just thinking about it. Then Brick crossed his arms over his chest. He took a deep breath. He glowered at Teddy as though he already knew what Teddy was going to offer.
“Is that… ? Are you… gonna punch me?” Teddy’s voice sounded weak and tinny in comparison to Brick’s baritone bravado.
Brick frowned. “No! No, man, that’s… Yes. I know what you’re gonna ask, and I’ve never agreed, but I need some money and at least you’re not Shore Love — that’s this freak I know, he’s been after me for years,” Brick said. “If I let him do it, he’ll never stop. So, fine… six hundred dollars.” He sighed. “You can jerk me off. I’ll ram you in the ass if you want. No reacharound, no kissing. Got it?”
“Uh, okay.”
“Good. No looking me in the eye either,” Brick said. “C’mon. Get outta my herb garden. We’ll do it in the garage. I like plowing on the hood of my car.”
Brick walked briskly into the garage. He walked stiffly and awkwardly, like he either already had a hardon or was just plain awkward in a civilian setting. He didn’t look military, exactly, but he did carry himself like a long-time soldier who struggled with normal life.
Teddy followed him. Brick closed the garage door, then led him to an old classic car, cherry-red. Brick hefted his heavy body onto the hood, leaned back and shimmied his jeans down. He had a nice, plump body, covered in scars — relics of a life as a bodyguard and spy, presumably — and a six-pack more perfect than any Teddy had seen in a long time.
Teddy nervously approached Brick, who sat on the hood of his car and smoked his cigarette. Brick leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. It seemed he didn’t intend to be involved in this beyond allowing it to happen.
His muscles writhed beneath Teddy’s touch. He wore classic white briefs, the old-fashioned kind that Teddy hadn’t seen anyone under sixty wear in years. That made him laugh as he pulled them down. They were immaculate white, and they perfectly outlined the shaft of his cock.
“Shut up,” Brick said like he knew why Teddy was laughing. “They’re standard-issue for field operatives.”
“Sure, sure, they’re hot,” Teddy said. He didn’t mean to come across as sarcastic, but that’s how Brick took it. He really did think they were hot — in a kind of a silly way.
Brick sighed and shook his head as he rolled his eyes. He stood there as though waiting for a doctor to pull his dick out. He had his hands on his hips, tapping his feet. Teddy liked to go slow, both because it was more intense and because he liked to tease big macho alphas like Brick. Buck let Teddy pull his briefs off, and a fat cut cock popped out. His meat was limp still, dangling like an uncooked sausage between his legs. His briefs were sweat-soaked and clung to his thick thighs, making it difficult to pull them all the way down. Eventually Brick got frustrated and ripped them off himself, tearing the waistband. He tossed the useless underwear away. “Damn it!”
“Hmmmm…” Teddy blushed and planted his tongue on the tip of Brick’s cock. That made Brick’s entire body ripple, his muscles flexing and relaxing in turn as he bit his lip and looked away nonchalantly. Again, he seemed to want to be as little involved in this as possible. He lay there on the hood of his car as Teddy kissed and teased his dicktip. Brick crossed his arms over his chest, making his pecs bulge. He scowled.
Teddy had no sooner gotten a taste when Brick jumped to attention, knocking Teddy off the car. He slid off the hood.
He darted towards the door, grabbing the gun concealed in his pile of clothes on the floor. “Someone’s coming. Stay here.”
Brick ran to the side-door of the garage. Teddy’s heart raced as he followed. Brick waved him back, but Teddy didn’t want to stop. He wanted to know what was happening. Maybe it was an exciting super-bodyguard adventure; it could have been a monster, a ghost, a demon, a supervillain and his army — Teddy wasn’t going to miss this.
If Brick realized that he was naked, he gave no indications of it. Maybe he was used to running security operations with his balls flapping in the breeze. He ran out into the front yard of the compound, gun drawn, cock flopping half-hard against his thighs. “Ah, Phantom Fist, what are you doing here?” Brick said.
“Where is your employer, sir?” came a deep, haughty-sounding, educated voice. Teddy couldn’t see where the voice came from. “I must dispute his latest bill. For this was not my-“
“He ain’t here, Phantom. You know those charges are set by the Villains’ League. You can’t just come in here blowing up antiques and expect to get away with it-“
“Antiques my ass! First of all, Mr. Marble, those antiques are entirely fictional-“
“They were not. They were Dr. Adventure’s father’s and they were worth a lot of money. They were insured.”
“Insurance fraud and you know it!”
“You weren’t cleared for Level Seven doom, Phantom. You’re not even his official arch right now-“
“Don’t talk to me about League business, Brick Marble. I know the rules,” Phantom Fist said. He wore a fine purple suit that concealed his muscular body. He wore no sleeves, which he didn’t need because his arms were invisible. He paused and bit his lip. “Why are you naked, Marble? I am not one to pooh-pooh the many benefits to remaining skyclad, but-“
“None of your business, Phantom,” Brick said. He looked down at his cock as though he had only just now realized he was outside naked, with a half-hard dick. “Get outta here. Doc’s not home.”
As they continued to argue, Teddy crept out of the garage to get a better look. He wasn’t in any danger — the Villains’ League set down strict rules to be sure that the battle between heroes and villains never got too bloody. Teddy was a civilian, which meant Phantom Fist couldn’t hurt him, and Phantom Fist was a high-ranking operative, so he wouldn’t break the rules.
“You are a thick-skulled scoundrel, Mr. Marble. Your muscles have clogged your brain like cerebral cholesterol-“
“You’re a pretentious twit, Clayton.”
“Mr. Marble! My name is Phantom Fist! You know very well that calling me by my real name during an arching is a violation, and one about which I am fully prepared to file a complaint! I know-“
“This isn’t a valid arching! Dr. Adventure’s not here! Go to Thailand if you wanna arch him — oh, wait, no don’t, you can’t arch him when he’s receiving medical treatment.”
“Liposuction?”
“None of your business.”
“Hair plugs? Both? It’s both, isn’t it?” Phantom Fist sucked in his breath. “No, wait, don’t tell me — is it a penile enlargement?”
“It’s a necessary medical procedure!” Marble shouted.
The more angry he got, the more Brick Marble’s plump asscheeks quivered. He seemed to have not a shred of fat on those cheeks, Teddy thought, they were hard like over-inflated soccer balls. They dimpled and flexed as Brick gesticulated and shouted at Phantom Fist. Teddy was just outside the garage, concealed by a shrubbery. He watched and stroked himself. Brick’s curving back muscles bulged, making Teddy shudder with desire. He couldn’t wait to get back to business.
The argument was only resolved when a tall, spindly-bodied robot appeared. It was powder-blue, and it was named Assistant. It came out onto the lawn, buzzing past Teddy, and beeped at Brick Marble.
“Thank you, Assistant! You’re correct. Phantom Fist, you’re not technically Dr. Adventure’s arch right now. That means you’re trespassing and I can call the cops.”
“Oh, the great Brick Marble, reduced to calling the cops to get rid of the kids on his lawn.”
“You’re no kid, Clayton. You’re older than me.”
“Fine. I’ll leave. I’ll leave you to… make love to your toolbox, or whatever men like you do,” Phantom Fist said. He walked a few feet away, then bent down. His right arm was invisible — hence the name — so it wasn’t obvious what he was doing until the tarragon plants on the edge of Brick’s herb garden were ripped out of the ground. His invisible hand pulled them out.
“Hey!”
Phantom Fist threw the tarragon, roots and all, at Brick. “You let your tarragon grow too leggy, Mr. Marble. It gets bitter.” He spat that last word vituperatively. Out of everything he had said so far, this was the only thing that he sounded genuinely upset about. He stalked away from the compound.
Brick watched him go. Then he muttered to Assistant, “Gardening people are always talking about things getting leggy. I’ve never figured out what it means. When a girl is leggy, that’s a good thing.”
Assistant beeped at him.
“Is that what it means? How do I control that? I thought tarragon was supposed to be bitter.”
More beeping from Assistant.
“I should never have downloaded that French cookbook into your databanks,” Brick said. He turned to face Assistant, his erect penis nearly touching the robot’s body.
Assistant scooted away and beeped at him once more.
“It’s just a cock, Assistant. What do you care? You’re a robot.” Brick walked away, returning to the garage. He stopped when he saw Teddy hiding there behind a bush. “I told you to stay in there, not trample on my rhododendron.” He grabbed Teddy and dragged him into the garage — Teddy didn’t fight back, of course, but Brick dragged him by the arm just the same.
When they got inside, Teddy giggled.”Will you give me a ride?” He leapt onto Brick’s back and kissed his shoulder. Brick winced and shuddered. He rode him like that, piggy-back, all the way to his car.
“Damn, give me a warning next time,” he said. He paused and tensed his back muscles. “Get your dick off my back, man. I’m not doing that. You can jerk me off and I’ll ram you, but no way you’re dry-humping me.”
“Oh… It won’t be dry-“
“Even worse, get off,” he said. His back muscles rippled beneath Teddy as he dropped off the rear of Brick’s naked body. He let himself slide as slowly as he could, so his face drifted through Brick’s fleshy asscheeks.
When Brick didn’t complain or stop him, Teddy stayed where he was. He bent Brick over his own car, and dove his face between Brick’s asscheeks.
“Tongue only. No fingers,” Brick said. Then he paused and shuddered. “Okay, one finger. You can put one finger in. A pinkie.”
“Really?”
“Don’t tell anyone. I like the butt stuff,” Brick said. He was facing away from Teddy, his blond mullet shaking, but Teddy could tell that Brick blushed a bright red.
Teddy had had no expectation that Brick would allow anything like that. Teddy didn’t even normally ask about fingering the men he seduced. But a lot of guys were into pegging nowadays. On the other hand, Teddy knew there was a big difference between getting a girl to stick a dildo in your ass and getting paid to let a man stick a finger in your ass.
Brick was so huge that his massive asscheeks were warm and had plenty of real estate to explore. Teddy loved it. He teased his tongue up and down the sweat-choked crack of his ass, while Teddy’s pinkie finger teased the rim of his hole. Those cheeks tightened around Teddy so hard they were like vise grips that wouldn’t let go. Teddy gently kissed and licked both cheeks and played with the fine blond hairs there.
A loud, car-rattling roar escaped from Brick’s lips. He shuddered, his broad back undulating beneath Teddy’s free hand. Brick’s fingers tightened into claws as his face turned red.
Teddy slipped his pinkie finger in, and Brick’s whole body perked up. Brick tensed. “Oh god, shit, yeah!” Brick’s face turned tense and red. He dropped his chest onto the hood of his car, giving Teddy even better access to his ass. Brick squirmed as Teddy’s tongue fleetingly explored his hole as well.
Then Teddy’s other hand roamed around to Brick’s cock, which was trapped beneath his body and the car. Brick lifted his hips up so Teddy could jack him off while fingering and licking his ass.
“God damn, man, you got a nice tongue back there,” Brick said. He bit his lip. “Damn… How many fingers is that?”
Teddy giggled. “Just one. Just my pinkie.”
Brick groaned and roared like he didn’t quite believe it but didn’t want to challenge it. Teddy loved the feeling of power he had. His pinkie finger — not even the whole thing, but about a third of his pinkie finger — was enough to control Brick’s entire massive body, which was easily four times Teddy’s size. Every time Teddy so much as shifted his finger a tiny bit, Brick’s muscles all flexed at once and he let out a lusty groan.
“Ah, shit… Ah, shit…” Brick grunted. “You had better not tell Creosote about this.”
Teddy giggled. “Creosote won’t judge you, you know.”
“I know. He’ll tell me how supportive he is,” Brick said. “That’s even worse. I’d rather have him call me a pervert so I can kick his ass.” He paused and blushed again. “You can add a second finger.”
But before Teddy did, Brick turned around again. He grimaced and howled in pain as he rotated his body around Teddy’s pinkie finger. But he sighed and his dick twitched too, spewing precum even though Teddy wasn’t even touching it now.
Brick laid down on his back on the hood of his car. He lifted up his trunk-like thighs, giving Teddy easy access to his entire crotch and his ass. Teddy slipped his ring finger into Brick’s ass, just the first half-an-inch or so.
“Damn it!” Brick screamed. He pounded on his pectoral muscles, which pulsated beneath his fists. “Oh god, stick it in! Ram me!”
Teddy kept one hand lazily stroking Brick’s cock, while his tongue and his other hand explored his ass. Brick responded like he had never felt anything so powerful. He squirmed atop his car hood, especially when Teddy licked a trail from his ass to his throbbing cock.
His manhood disappeared down Teddy’s throat. It was more than a foot long, but Teddy had been practicing jerking off big men for a long time. He could swallow almost anything. He managed to get his nose all the down into Brick’s pubic bush.
“Damn… Not even Mol can jerk this good,” Brick said through gritted teeth. If it weren’t obvious he was aroused and horny, it would look like Brick was angry: eyes slitted, grinding his teeth, muscles tensed and remaining so, his whole body shaking as he endured Teddy’s dome and fingering.
“Is that your girlfriend?” Teddy asked. He put his lips on Brick’s cock and moved up and down with his tongue out, slathering copious spit on his shaft, but he didn’t actually jerk it just yet. Brick squealed and shuddered. Teddy knew men loved being teased like that, and Brick was no exception: he writhed and grunted, moaning in agony when he shifted his weight on the fingers in his asshole.
“No. She’s just… this assassin I know,” he said. His eyes were closed. “I love her.” That made him blush. Teddy got the impression he had never meant to say that out loud. “I mean… I don’t love her. I love fucking her.”
“Uh-huh,” Teddy said. “I’m going to sit on your cock now.”
“I mean, she’s a total bitch. She’s tried to kill me, I dunno, fourteen times, I think. She killed John Bonham just to piss me off,” Brick said. “She’s a cold-hearted murderer.”
Teddy removed his fingers from Brick’s ass, making the big man sigh grandly. His muscles all relaxed at once. Tremendous relief flowed through his veins like lemonade, and Brick had never been this calm.
That meant that, when Teddy mounted him to sit on his cock, it was like climbing a warm clay statue, both firm and soft at once. Brick did not assist him at all, and his skin was sweaty enough that Teddy kept slipping. Teddy didn’t really mind because it gave him plenty of opportunities to squeal and squirm all over Brick’s broad chest muscles. Brick completely ignored him and just kept talking about that girl.
“I mean, she’ll work for anyone. She worked for Hunter about a week after surviving him hiring a different assassin to kill her,” Brick said. “And she’s got a villain of her own — he’s this lawyer who… Nevermind, I’m not allowed to say. She’s got a bad guy she’s in love with. She’ll never leave him for me.”
“You poor baby,” Teddy said. “It sounds like you really love her.”
Brick grunted in a disapproving way, but he didn’t argue it directly. “Nobody could love her. She’s not capable of receiving love, man.”
“Uh-huh.” Teddy licked the sweat off Brick’s chest as he lowered his ass onto Brick’s cock. When it slipped into his tight hole, they both gasped. Brick bit his lip and suppressed a moan, which turned into a loud, almost angry grunt.
“You ever know people like that?” Brick asked. He wrapped both of his powerful arms around Teddy’s body, pulling him down on his cock slowly but inexorably, ignoring Teddy’s frantic wriggling. “You know? Someone who might be the most beautiful person in the world but she just insists on making herself act as ugly as possible, like she’s scared to be loved.”
“Yep…”
“You alright? I’m not goin’ easy on ya,” Brick said, “Cuz I wanna get this over with. You want me to be more gentle?”
“God no,” Teddy said, his voice breathless and pinched. His ass slowly adjusted to the fat cock inside him. “Ram me as hard as you can, please? Ram me, Brick Marble! Destroy my ass!”
He chuckled, the motion of which forced Teddy the rest of the way down on his cock. It was deep in his ass, throbbing, sending waves of pleasure through Teddy’s limbs.
“Alright, nancyboy,” he said. “You can tell me to stop. But you might have to bite me to get my attention.” He pinned Teddy’s back against his chest, with one iron-hard forearm in front of Teddy’s face so he could bite if he wanted to. He curled his legs around Teddy’s ankles, pinning him in position there, impaled on Brick’s cock.
Then he took a deep breath and used every muscle in his body to lift Teddy up while flexing his hips backwards, then slamming Teddy back down on his cock. Agony exploded in Teddy’s ass, and he had to suppress a scream. It lasted only a moment, however, before Brick picked him back up and potent relief flooded Teddy’s body.
That, of course, lasted just as brief a moment before he was unceremoniously shoved back down on Brick’s cock. Teddy fell totally limp — except for his own cock — and submitted. This was the part of rough trade service that he absolutely loved, he thought, being dominated and utterly controlled by an alpha stud like Brick Marble.
“Aw, fuck…” Brick grunted directly into Teddy’s ear.
Teddy had no idea how long this lasted. He was supported entirely by Brick’s body, so Teddy sensed nothing but the sweat-dappled scars of Brick’s chest beneath his back and the massive cock slamming into his ass. Brick kept Teddy pinned atop his body, groaning with each slap of his cock into Teddy’s ass.
When Teddy finally had the presence of mind to jack himself off, it was difficult to control his hands, which wanted to flail uselessly above Brick’s head. He managed to stroke his dick, while he leaned his face to the side and nuzzled Brick’s blond beard hairs and the long mullet whose hairs were just barely reachable by Teddy’s tongue.
Almost as soon as Teddy touched his dick, he triggered his own orgasm. That, in turn, made his asshole clench as he rode Brick’s dick, and that sent Brick over the edge as well. They both screamed, Teddy’s flamboyant alto drowned out by Brick’s resonant, booming bass. His sweaty chest muscles rattled beneath Teddy’s back.
Cum flew over Teddy’s belly and into his ass. Teddy moaned, writhing within Brick’s powerful biceps, which held him in place so every drop of Brick’s load sprayed directly into his body. Brick sighed, but the cum just kept spurting inside him.
His hot, creamy load filled Teddy up, but still it continued. Teddy felt luxurious warmth seeping through his body, a continuous flow of hot manly juices trickling into every corner of his flesh. Teddy melted into Brick’s muscles, his orgasm making Teddy so weak he could do nothing more than fall back on Brick’s body.
At last it was over. When Teddy tried to move — to alleviate the awesome pressure on his prostate — it caused a reawakening of his own orgasm as well as Brick’s. Brick hugged him tighter again, and even kissed him on the ear, sucking on his earlobe with those big, plump lips.
He shifted his hips, grinding his limp dick within Teddy’s ass, making a moist plopping sound as cum dripped out and onto the hood of Brick’s car.
“Okay, you’re done, you had your fill,” Brick said with a practiced, forced groan. “I did it. Pay up. You talked me into it. Don’t tell anybody or I’ll never get left alone.” He snarled and bucked, pushing Teddy off him. He glowered. “C’mon, man, don’t try and cheat me.”
Teddy nodded. He was still breathless, gasping for air as his ass recovered. He pulled out his checkbook and began to write it out. He watched Brick wipe himself down with some paper towels, gingerly cleaning off his cock. He looked like he had wiped his body with paper towels before.
With the check half-written, Teddy kneeled behind Brick and giggled. He placed the check on the shelf-like upper buttocks of Brick’s ass, which made Brick groan and flare his nostrils. Despite his annoyance, Brick allowed it. Teddy used his ass as a shelf while he signed the check.
Then Brick grabbed the check off him. “Okay. You’re done, man. Go on. Go back to Creosote’s house. Take care of that fucking cat.”
“Yes, sir, Brick.” Teddy said. He didn’t wipe himself off because he wanted to have that sense memory and the scent of Brick’s body to remind himself of what had just happened.
He watched Brick try to fix the herb garden — he was still shirtless, body turning golden-brown in the brilliant sunlight. Eventually, Teddy fell into an exhausted and satisfied sleep.
His last thought before slumber was to wonder where Phantom Fist was and what he was doing. Teddy had been in the mood for a handsome villain before this ridiculous cat-sitting obligation appeared on his calendar.
He could track down Phantom Fist and have fun. A lot of fun indeed.

Buck’s tongue

He sneered in disgust at the sight of Teddy’s asshole, but Buck wiped it down with the sponge. It was a little painful, the friction of the sponge rubbing against his sensitive rim. But Teddy didn’t mind. The pain sent another thrill up his spine, and Teddy found himself pushing his ass back as though trying to put his cheeks on Buck’s face.
Then, that was exactly what happened — without a word of warning, Buck dove tongue-first into Teddy’s asshole.
“Oooooh, god!” Teddy was shocked by the sensation and, then, when he had turned his head to see what was happening, by the sight of Buck’s mullet shaking as he lapped up Teddy’s asscrack from the taint to the gluteal crest. His tongue was firm and moist, strong like his body, raspy and textured. Teddy’s whole body shook.
From Aroused by Ex-Cons