experiencing humiliation – Mansploitation

The Frenchman

Rob is in for it now! He’s in France during a lumberjack’s strike, leading to him and a burly homme fort engaging in a ménage à deux that Rob will never forget!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Rob didn’t discover that the men were lumberjacks and that they were on strike until much later. When he happened upon them, they appeared to be a couple dozen of the most muscular men he had ever seen, lounging around a spartan coffeeshop, drinking cafés au lait and looking nonchalant yet gropey when pretty girls walked by. It was a very sedate strike.
The lumberjacks were alluring to Rob, who had come to France to tour the beauty of the countryside and to see the sights of Paris. Now he was stuck in Paris because of the lumberjacks and their stupid strike, which had disrupted public transit. The train system was shut down because lumberjacks were marching along the tracks and protesting the train stations, which were perceived in some indescribable way as supporting management over the workers. As the son of a billionaire, Rob was hardly sympathetic to labor unions, who had ruined more than one of his forays into the world of business. But nevertheless, Rob enjoyed the lumberjacks. Their muscles bulged against the black and white-striped shirts they wore, with low v-necks that showed off their strapping chest muscles.
One, in particular, attracted Rob’s gaze. He was tall, broad-shouldered, mustached and grizzle-chinned, with a tattoo of the bleu, blanc and rouge of the French flag visible on his chest and one of Marianne on his left bicep looking contemplative of the majesty and nature of liberty, equality and fraternity. Marianne’s face and body rippled when the lumberjack used his muscles, drawing Rob’s eyes to her and to the strength of the man’s powerhouse frame. His musculature was well-worked and natural, not gym-sculpted, not steroidal like so many Americans these days (and more than a handful of Frenchmen), and his body was fleshy and rugged, a dappling of hair across his chest.
“Bonjour,” Rob said. He knew his French was good, if Quebecois-accented, since his French teacher was de Montréal. “Je m’appelle Rob.”
The man grunted. He screwed up his nose when Rob sat next to him at the little cafe table. He looked like he was about to say something, but then a pretty middle-aged woman walked by, gabbing on her cell phone. The man watched her with intent interest, eyes drawn to her ass, and he licked his lips. His pecs rippled under that sleeveless shirt.
“I would like to pay you money,” Rob said. He blushed, momentarily at a loss for words as the man glared at him.
“I am, how do you say, ‘on ze strike’,” he said. “I am pour le travail, non.”
“No, no, I’m not going to pay you for your job, I have something special in mind,” Rob said. “I want you to come back to my hotel room. I’ll pay you five hundred euros.”
“Quoi?” He straightened his back and, for the first time, looked directly at Rob like he actually saw him and took him in. “Qu’est-ce que vous venez de dire?”
“Five hundred euros. You just come back to my hotel room, and… y’know, let me do some stuff.”
“Quoi? Quelles choses?”
“You know…”
“You show me,” he said as though he had a good guess and simply wanted confirmation. He frowned. “Under zhe table.”
Rob looked among the other lumberjacks in the café, who fumed cigarettes and lazed like they were taking the day off instead of striking, as if those muscles were purely decorative. One of them looked at the man as though he wanted to know what was happening, but he did not ask.
Shivering with fear and anticipation, Rob dove underneath the cafe table. Tourists walked by, sneaking glances at him, interspersed with rural men with mustaches, rough leather shirts and onions strung around their waist, which they sold along the rues and boulevards of Paris. The man wore blue pants made of some thick fabric like stiff denim from Nîmes. He didn’t savvy what was expected of him, but he stuck his head between the man’s legs and kissed his cock through the material of his trousers.
“Tu es sale.”
The man wore no underwear. His massive, limp dick was palpable beneath the fabric of his pants, and Rob could even sense the lumberjack was uncircumcised. He laughed a deep, baritone boom when Rob kissed his dick. When he laughed, his dick twitched and his muscles rippled.
The man stood up, and Rob crawled out from underneath the table. The man stood there. He lit another cigarette. When Rob stood near him, the man pointed to the ground. He ashed right on Rob’s head.
“Crawl,” he said. He didn’t wait for an answer. He just turned around and walked away, and Rob got down on all fours. He followed after him, keeping his head up and as close as he could get, so he could smell the man’s thick asscheeks.
The other lumberjacks stared at him crawling, making Rob wince and look down. Nobody seemed perturbed by it though, as though men crawled through the café every day.
The lumberjack Rob liked most didn’t leave the cafe. He walked to the counter, past Rob blushing rouge as groseilles and crawling after him. The pretty girl working at the café looked at him with a curious expression as she sold the man a baguette. It was long and crusty and came in a paper sheeth, which she passed him along with a flirtatious smile. Rob did not hear what she said, but he did catch the name Hugo.
So at last, he had a name for the lumberjack whose muscle-choked chest intrigued and allured him. Rob remained on all fours beside Rob, who paid him no mind as his dark eyes and thrummed and flashed brilliantly in her direction, and Rob could sense the stiffening of his manhood in those rough denim trousers. Obviously, Hugo liked her greatly.
Hugo Moreau smiled at the woman. “Tu es très jolie,” he said, and that was true, she was jolie as the day was young. He kissed her on the lips, and she swooned into his arms over the counter.
For a moment, Rob thought he was forgotten, that Hugo was going to take this girl into the backroom of the café and make love to her. But the girl pushed him away. She squealed and slapped him lightly, though she laughed and blushed as though she was happy to have kissed him despite the slap.
Hugo left her with a shrug, like he didn’t care that she had rejected him. He returned to his table, grabbed the beret he had left there, finished his coffee and walked off. He didn’t glance behind him at Rob, who scampered after him.
When it became impossible to keep up with his long-legged stride while crawling, Rob stood up and walked after him. “I thought we’d go to my hotel room. I’ll jack your dick and lick your asshole and you can cornhole me,” Rob said. “I’ll do anything you want. Five hundred euros.”
“Oui.”
“Okay. Thanks, Hugo,” Rob said. “My hotel is-“
“Non,” he said. He stopped walking. They were in the cafe’s backyard. It didn’t appear to be used very often, but it was maintained. It was a small grassy plot that faced a cobblestoned alley. There was a row of shrubs that prevented anyone from seeing fully in, but the yard itself was not concealed — the shrubs only extended a meter or so high, so no one could see anything above that point, which roughly matched Hugo’s waist. Of course, people in the cafe’s kitchen could see through a window, but it seemed Hugo didn’t much care about that. Hugo nodded down towards his feet, which Rob gathered to mean he should start. Rob sunk to his knees.
Hugo took off a hunk of the baguette with his teeth. He loudly munched on it, while Rob scooted closer on his knees in front of Hugo’s body. His face was just inches from Hugo’s crotch.
“Is it… do you want me to just…?”
“Lick it,” Hugo said, his mouth full of bread. Baguette crumbs landed on Rob’s face. “Sucer.”
Rob unzipped Hugo’s fly and pulled his pants down. He wasn’t wearing underwear, so his thick cockshaft popped right out. It hit Rob in the face, making Hugo laugh. Baguette crumbs toppled onto Rob’s head.
“You have a big dick.”
“Oui,” Hugo said. His face was flat and expressionless. He puffed on the cigarette in one hand, then took another bite of the baguette. His burgundy beret almost fell off his head.
Rob kissed his cocktip again. It twitched just like before, but now Rob could taste the musty smell of his sweat. His uncut cock tasted something like a vineyard, Rob thought, not the wine part, but the unused mash, the waste left over after making wine. It was musty and sweet and strong, and it made Rob’s dick hard.
“Colette,” Hugo said. His voice was as grim and flat as his face. Rob didn’t know what he meant at first, but then Hugo repeated it. “Colette.” He took a few steps closer to the window that faced the cafe’s kitchen. Rob had to scramble after him to stay in front of his still-limp cock. That placed Rob up against the ancient brick wall of the cafe, while Hugo’s big body filled the open window into the kitchen. “Colette…”
That pretty waitress from inside walked in there from the cafe. She scoffed at Hugo. “Eh, Hugo, va-t’en, je suis occupé,” she said in French.
From her position in the kitchen, she couldn’t see that Hugo’s dick was out, and she couldn’t see that Rob was letting that entire shaft drop into his mouth. He suckled on it, as passionately as he could without making much noise. The flavor of Hugo’s unwashed manhood flooded Rob’s senses, and it stiffened up as he moved his lips up and down on the shaft. Hugo’s muscles kept rippling as he did, as he caused pleasure to course up Hugo’s body, but Rob did not slow down and Hugo did not react, so Collete did not notice what was happening to Hugo.
“I have written a poem,” Hugo said. His dick firmed up now that Colette was paying attention to him, and it throbbed in Rob’s throat. Rob took his mouth off it so he could slather his tongue up and down the shaft.
She blushed and laughed again. She waved him off, but she also moved closer, washing dishes near enough to the window that she could hear him.
“Let me see your breasts,” he said. His cock throbbed in Rob’s mouth. “Or just one. They are so beautiful, they are like poems of the flesh. My words can never be as inspired as they are.”
She undid her blouse, and she let one of her tits fly free. She made it look rather casual, as though it was an accident, though she had clearly done so deliberately. Hugo lowered his head and tried to suck on her nipple, as his dick fully perked up to full erection in Rob’s mouth.
“Hush, Hugo, I am married,” she said. She took her breast away and covered it up. “Let me hear your poem.”
He straightened his back. His dick twitched in Rob’s mouth, and he lit another cigarette. He exhaled the smoke away from the cafe. He put the baguette down on a table that sat out back — it had a wobbly leg, so it tottered when he put the baguette on it. His heavy, hairy balls rested on Rob’s chin, dripping sweat onto him while the first few drops of salty precum hit his tongue.

You are pretty like Paris
When it lights up at night
You are an oasis of illumination
In a desert of night-time
You are where the camel drinks at last
Before it dies
Under the fierce Algerian sun
You are my canteen
The final drink
The last one I need
To die on sand, satisfied
And thirst, quenched

Vous êtes jolie comme Paris
Quand il allume la nuit
Vous êtes une oasis d’illumination
Dans un désert de nuit
Vous êtes là où le chameau boit enfin,
Avant qu’il ne meurt
Sous le soleil algérien féroce
Vous êtes ma cantine
La boisson finale
La dernière que je dois
Pour mourir sur le sable, satisfait
Et la soif, trempé

She blushed and smiled. “That is trés belle, Hugo,” she said. She patted him on the muscular belly beneath his lumberjack shirt. His skin puckered at her touch, and his dick twitched. She bared her tit again for him, making him growl with desire. She covered it back up with a giggle. “But you did tell the same poem to Maria last week. She has told me about it.”
Hugo’s mouth opened but no words came out. His deep voice rumbled. He had obviously not meant to get caught at this. She laughed at his reaction, then turned around and walked away.
“Damn it!” Hugo snorted when she was gone. “Merde!” The kitchen was empty.
He pistoned his hips before Rob could react. That pushed his entire cock down Rob’s throat. Rob choked and spasmed, and his own dick leaked precum into his fingers. His head banged painfully into the wall behind him.
He slathered spit all along the shaft, coughing up so much saliva it dripped in clumps. Hugo’s muscles bulged beneath his black-and-white striped marinière, which had a few dark spots now where he sweated through it.
Rob’s hands stretched up to Hugo’s chest, slipping under that shirt to massage his hairy muscles. He had a thick nest of fur there on his torso, which Rob loved. He wished he could get up and lick his chest clean, but he had a feeling Hugo would not allow that.
As Rob groped Hugo, Hugo groped as well — his hands slipped into the window, where he felt around until he found a cheese plate. He pulled it out. The smell of funky cheese filled the air, overpowering even the precum and sweat scent of Hugo’s cock.
As he pumped his hips, forcing his cock into Rob’s throat, Hugo ignored his choking and his frenzied jacking. He just grabbed the baguette he had half-eaten, and he made himself a cheese sandwich, just by ripping off hunks of bread and cheese. He ate it vociferously, crumbs landing all over Rob and even on Hugo’s dick so Rob could taste the bread and the sour cheese.
All of a sudden, Hugo pulled off Rob’s face. He jammed the baguette into Rob’s face as though trying to make him deepthroat that as well. He laughed cruelly when the baguette left crumbs all over Rob’s cheeks.
“Lick my ass. Lécher mon cul.”
Then he turned around. His asscheeks were big and plump and tanned brown. They were hairy, but not extremely so, they were just hairy enough for Rob. He dove his face between those cheeks, firm like cold pumpkins beneath Rob’s touch.
Hugo grunted like he was surprised. Rob loved licking ass though, so he enthusiastically lapped at the sweat that trickled between Hugo’s cheeks. His body was big and plump, so his ass was juicy. Rob’s entire face fit between those delicious cheeks. He slurped up every inch of Hugo’s funky hole.
His eyes and his nose were covered, but Rob could hear that something was happening. Hugo shifted his weight, like he faced a different direction now. Hugo said something and laughed — was that aimed at Rob? He couldn’t tell.
Eventually Rob had to come up for air. He was still pinned between the wall and Hugo’s big ass, but he could see just barely that there was a white-faced mime in the alley. He must have been walking by and seen Hugo getting his ass licked.
Now the mime was bent over, leaning against the fence with his ass in the air. He wiggled his ass like a dog trying to scratch an itch. That made Hugo laugh, and Rob joined in — the mime was making fun of them. He was in the same position as Hugo, moving his ass as though an invisible man licked it.
Rob licked all the way from the top of Hugo’s ass, right at the small of his back, down his asscrack, over his hole and through the funky hair of his taint. Rob’s head appeared on the other side of his body, where Rob swallowed his heavy ballsac.
Hugo grunted. He lifted his balls up, then plopped them back in Rob’s mouth a few times.
Sensing that Hugo was ready to move on, Rob stood up, very slowly, keeping his tongue out so he licked Hugo’s cockshaft then all the way up his chest and over that black-and-white striped shirt he still wore.
He nearly managed to lick all the way up to Hugo’s face so he could kiss him on the lips, but Hugo roughly pushed his face away.
Oh well, Rob thought, that was okay with him. He knew what he wanted to do next. He dropped his own pants to bare his ass, while Hugo watched. He reached into the kitchen again, this time pulling out a bottle of red wine and a glass. He poured himself a drink. He laughed at the mime who mimicked everything Hugo did.
The mime finished his invisible wine and smashed the invisible glass on the road. Then he grabbed an invisible ass and pretended to cornhole it, making Hugo laugh some more.
As Hugo actually bent Rob over for real, the mime beckoned for someone. Rob blushed as he realized he was about to have an audience.
He bit his lip and threw his head back as Hugo rammed his dick in without a word of warning. He didn’t use any lube at first, but he started to spit on his cockshaft once he felt resistance. The pain in Rob’s ass was extraordinary, and he moaned in both desire and agony.
It turned out the mime beckoned a musician, an accordionist who laughed when he saw Hugo cornholing Rob. The accordionist began playing musette, which made the entire experience seem almost romantic to Rob. The crooning accordion filled the air, covering up the sound of Rob’s gasping as he accepted more and more of Hugo’s meat.
“Ooh la la,” Rob said through his moans. His prostate came alive and sent tingles through his body. His pleasure grew in waves with every touch of Hugo’s cock inside him.
Hugo’s sausage-like fingers grabbed ahold of Rob’s back and held on. His dick was all the way in Rob’s ass now, his balls slapping against Rob’s thighs. Rob squirmed. Hugo grunted.
The tune coming from the accordion changed to a new song. Rob recognized it but he couldn’t place it at first. He was too overwhelmed by sensations from deep within him to think about it.
It was only when Hugo began singing that Rob recognized the words and placed it to the tune — it was “La Marseillaise”, the national anthem of France. It was a bloody, martial song and, despite the romance of the accordion, that atmosphere shone through because Hugo sang it with his deep, baritone voice, crackling, booming, pumping his biceps and his pecs on the accented words. He sounded like a soldier marching off to war, Rob thought, covering up his own moans so he didn’t overpower the sound of Hugo singing.
At last an orgasm ran through Rob’s body. He loved cumming with a man’s cock in his ass because it always made the top react — Hugo stopped singing for a moment. He grumbled, then groaned in surprise as Rob’s asshole clenched around his cock.
When Hugo began to gyrate his hips again, the pain was worse than ever on account of Rob’s orgasm-tightened ass. That didn’t last long, however, as the smell of cum filled the air, crowding out the bleu cheese and wine that still lingered, and the passion of Hugo’s thrusting made Rob relax
Now he shuddered, aftershocks of his orgasm wracking his body. He was fully limp though, barely able to remain on all fours in front of Hugo, with his ass in the air and his head on the ground.
Since Rob no longer jacked himself off, Hugo could — and did — treat him like a ragdoll. He held onto Rob’s asscheeks tightly, riding him, grinding his dick inside Rob’s body as though he needed to cornhole every inch of Rob’s innards. He grunted out a few indecipherable French syllables.
Once he finished his wine, he smashed the delicate glass on Rob’s back. A few shards of glass sprayed onto the ground at Rob’s feet, and the slight twinge of pain made Rob writhe. The smell of wine was strong now. Rob squirmed but Hugo kept a tight grip on his body.
“I will drown your ass now,” Hugo said with a broken moan. “Je vais noyer ton cul maintenant…”He slapped Rob’s cheeks and watched them ripple. His own muscles flexed and rippled as well, as an orgasm washed over his body.
His lit cigarette fell out of his mouth and landed on Rob’s back, scorching him briefly before it rolled off him and fell onto the ground. He yelped, as the pain reawakened the exquisite sensations in his asshole.
Hugo plowed in and out relentlessly, still breaking into the words of “La Marseillaise” every few seconds as the accordionist continued the song (or maybe started it over, Rob couldn’t tell). Hugo grunted and roared, and cum spurted out of his uncut cock.
It filled up Rob’s ass, dripping into every corner of his body. He shot so much that some of it slipped out his ass, coating his butt and his inner thighs in creamy goodness. It was hot and thick, and it made Rob moan when he felt wad after wad of semen land on his prostate.
He squirmed. He moved his ass back and forth, rubbing his insides with Hugo’s dick. Hugo stood perfectly still. He lit yet another cigarette as he still moaned with the power of his own orgasm.
“Ooh la la…” Hugo murmured with a dry, throaty chuckle.
Then his dick was perfectly limp. Rob pulled off him and sighed. The most incredible relief of his life flooded his body now that his ass was empty. He turned around and dove his face between Hugo’s lumberjack arm and his body. As Hugo breathed heavily, and the mime and accordionist walked away, Rob licked all the sweat that had collected there in Hugo’s damp armpit.
At last it was over. Hugo flopped his limp dick between his fingers, and he wiped his shaft off with the last little bit of baguette. He rammed the crusty, ass-and-cum-soaked bread into Rob’s mouth, laughing when it made Rob cough and choke.
He pulled his pants up, took a drag off his cigarette, then glanced towards the street. There was a pretty girl walking past, and Hugo’s eyes lit up.
“Money,” Hugo said. “Argent, maintenant.”
Rob had forgotten he hadn’t actually paid yet. He pulled out his wallet, carefully counted out five hundred euros and handed it over. Hugo took it, nodded, then took the rest of the cash out of Rob’s wallet. He pushed Rob away and walked out to the main street, calling after the pretty girl, seemingly having forgotten of the beautiful Colette.
“Antoinette! Antoinette! Attends-moi!” he called out.
Finally left alone, Rob sighed. He pulled his own pants up and leaned against the fence. Inside the cafe’s kitchen, Colette had returned with a plate of dirty dishes. She wrinkled her nose at Rob as though she either thought he was homeless or knew he was a tourist and didn’t like them.
But she didn’t tell him to leave the yard, so Rob just stayed there, smelling the wine, bleu cheese and cum, the combined scent of which would forever make him think of France and the greatest French stud he had ever met.

The Turkish Oil Wrestler Bottoms

Abdul is a small Turkish oil wrestler assigned to wrestle the legendary heavyweight Mustafa Mounsir, but when he unexpectedly wins, Abdul is in for a treat! That’s cuz Mustafa is gonna have to bend over and take his punishment for losing, but can Abdul dish it out? Can Mustafa handle this foray into the world of Twink on Top?!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Abdul Karademir thought this was ridiculous. He didn’t know why he agreed to it. He was a wrestler — a pehlivan, a contestant in Turkish oil wrestling — but he weighed about a hundred and thirty pounds. The league he and his villagemates wrestled in didn’t have formal weight classes, but he and Mustafa Mounsir should never have been assigned to wrestle together.
It was clearly a mistake. But the other wrestlers thought it was hilarious, and they scattered around the field whooping and ululating. They cheered on Mustafa mainly, not Abdul. No cheering for the underdog here. Abdul felt tiny when he came out onto the field, while Mustafa strode out on his massive trunk-like thighs, each step seemingly as long as Abdul was tall.
“Fuck him up, Mustafa!”
“Bring that clean-shirt down!”
Abdul was not very popular, that was why they wanted to see him get his ass beaten by Mustafa. The other wrestlers were all rough machos who mostly worked for the oil rig right off the coast, near the village. They were gone for months at a time, and when they returned, they were horny, aggressive and macho. They worked with their hands, which were callused, and their broad shoulders were burnt and scarred, strapping, with tufts of unkempt hair stretching down from their necks. Abdul was the only wrestler who worked a white-collar job — he was a doctor at the clinic in the village — and he was the smallest. He was proud of his abilities as a wrestler and as a doctor, but he knew he couldn’t beat Mustafa.
Mustafa was a great big bear of a man. He was nearly six and a half feet tall. He was more than three hundred pounds of solid muscle, hair and flesh. His shoulders were so wide they looked uncomfortable, and his heavyset body had the gait of a war stallion. He could demolish three wrestlers like Abdul with his hands tied behind his back. Mustafa was the biggest wrestler for miles around, maybe in the entire province.
The whistle blew, and the match began. It happened so fast. Abdul only found out he was scheduled to wrestle Mustafa about ten minutes ago.
Abdul was nervous, though he thought he shouldn’t be, since no one expected him to win. If he could just avoid losing within the first two or three minutes, he could be proud of himself. that would be a good enough showing.
The other wrestlers hooted and hollered. They cheered Abdul on, but it was clear who they wanted to win — they wanted Abdul to wrestle hard so Mustafa would feel compelled to beat him senseless. They wanted to watch the “clean shirt” get his ass handed to him.
As they circled each other, Mustafa glared at Abdul and flashed a cruel, cocky smile. There was no chance he’d let Abdul win, no chance he’d even play around a bit so Abdul could try. Like the other wrestlers, Mustafa hated the white-collar Abdul, whose smooth skin was light-brown and unmarked by scars.
“Take him down, Mustafa!”
As Abdul gripped Mustafa’s oily chest, he remembered exactly why he had agreed to this match instead of forfeiting from the getgo. He knew he’d lose, and he’d be humiliated by it. He hadn’t agreed to wrestle because he thought he could win. He had simply dreamed of grappling with a greased-up bear like Mustafa, so he jumped at the chance.
That was because Abdul was a great admirer of the male physique. Mustafa’s physique was beyond what Abdul got to experience most of the time, and he couldn’t wait to get his hands all over Mustafa’s body. Abdul was a doctor, he’d even treated Mustafa at the clinic. But his mindset was totally different in doctor-mode than it was now, and he never got to take in the grandeur and majesty of Mustafa’s massiveness when he saw him as a doctor.
“I’m gonna destroy you, boy,” Mustafa growled as soon as the match began. “You pansy-ass weakling! Go back to your clinic, with the girls and women, you will fit in there.” He said it loud enough that everyone heard and laughed.
Abdul blushed, but there was little he could do about it, he wasn’t quick-witted enough to come up with any insults of his own, and he could barely reach Mustafa’s face much less punch him in it. In any case, he did work mainly with women — nurses — so he couldn’t dispute that part of it.
Mustafa’s hands rammed into Abdul’s kisbet. The kisbet is a pair of short pants, like lederhosen that end over the upper ankle. They were black leather, stiff but loose around the waist. The goal of Turkish oil wrestling was to gain control over your opponent, usually by reaching into the kisbet and grabbing ahold of it from the inside. Since both wrestlers and their kisbets were coated in olive oil, it was slippery and chaotic, and the only way to win was to put your hands all over your opponent. That was one of the things Abdul liked most about it.
“Yeah, bring him down, Mustafa! You can do it! Destroy that smooth-skinned nerd!”
“Mustafa! Mustafa! Mustafa!”
Mustafa reached into Abdul’s kisbet, hands brushing against his cock. He had rough fingers, huger than seemed possible, like cricket bats it seemed to Abdul. The larger wrestlers touching his manhood sent a shiver of desire up Abdul’s spine, but he straightened his back to focus on the match. The more the other wrestlers chanted for Mustafa, the more devoted Abdul was to making this match last long enough he could his head up at the end of it.
As his hands roughly grabbed, then let go of, Abdul’s dick, Mustafa growled at him. He clutched the leather of Abdul’s kisbet, which was coated in olive oil. Mustafa failed to get a good grip on it.
Abdul had a fighter’s spirit, so he managed to dart away despite his innate desire to stand right there let Mustafa paw all over him. He swung around, jumping onto Mustafa’s back, hoping to push him to the ground, but Mustafa stood up straight and shook his back, trying to get Abdul off.
“Climbing Mount Mustafa, huh!?”
“Oooh!”
“Mustafa! Mustafa! Mustafa!”
“Bring him down!”
The other wrestlers laughed. Only a handful of people had shown up to watch today’s match, a small crowd even by this tiny league’s standards. Most of the audience was the other wrestlers, either waiting for their match or recovering from it, who hooted as Abdul gripped Mustafa’s broad, strapping back. Mustafa’s muscles tightened and rippled beneath Abdul’s touch.
But his grip was not tight. Abdul didn’t have a good hold on Mustafa because both men were covered in oil. He clawed at Mustafa’s skin as he slipped, and his feet tried in vain to grip Mustafa’s body. His flesh was firm but greasy with olive oil, and Abdul kept treading with his feet to stay aloft on Mustafa’s slippery back.
As Abdul slid down the man’s rippling-muscled back, his toes grabbed ahold of the waist of Mustafa’s kisbet, pulling that down along with him. He didn’t mean to, but he bared Mustafa’s asscheeks.
In seconds, Abdul was on the ground, standing behind Mustafa, with his face plastered in the meaty, hair-covered ass of the much bigger Turkish man. The reek and funk of Mustafa’s ass assaulted Abdul’s senses, and he inhaled deeply of it. He found the scent exhilarating, dizzying, electrifying. It smelled and tasted so strongly of man, and it made Abdul reel, as his hands roamed over Mustafa’s beaty body.
The wrestlers screamed with laughter as Mustafa quaked, and his asscheeks jiggled around Abdul’s face. All that only took a few seconds, as Mustafa struggled to regain his balance and his momentum.
The onlookers no doubt assumed Abdul was humiliated, rather than aroused, at touching Mustafa’s ass with his face, and that Mustafa was embarrassed to be naked (which was probably true). Accidental nudity happened occasionally, so it wasn’t a huge surprise. That was why no women or children were allowed anywhere’s near the field on match days. Women didn’t even know how the sport worked.
The wrestlers jeered at Mustafa’s big swinging dick, which swayed between his legs as he tried to get Abdul in front of him. It was so thick — Abdul wondered if it was always that thick and how did he never noticed that when Mustafa came into the clinic for a physical exam — it swayed like a pendulum as Mustafa swaggeringly stood. It was a foot long and smooth, slightly lighter in color than Mustafa’s baked brown body.
Abdul didn’t want to move. He loved the taste of Mustafa’s olive oil-scented ass. It was sweet and salty and savory, he could have stayed there and licked the man’s burly ass for hours if he could have gotten away with it. But Mustafa was too macho to allow anything like so, so that face-in-ass position only lasted a few moments before Mustafa bent over to pull his kisbet up.
And that was when Abdul took his opportunity — he grabbed the kisbet as well. No strategy in mind, Abdul simply saw that he could hold Mustafa’s kisbet, and that was the goal of Turkish oil wrestling, so that was what Abdul did. He pulled the kisbet back as Mustafa pulled it up, and the result was Mustafa falling forward on his knees, then collapsing onto his belly when he lost his balance.
That was it. Within a few seconds, Abdul was declared the winner. He held onto that kisbet with both hands, and he was just barely strong enough to lift Mustafa’s feet a few inches off the ground. With Mustafa collapsing on his belly, bare ass resplendently brown in the brilliant Turkish sun, all he could do was squeal and flail about. He had no leverage to get Abdul away from him.
“Oh shit, the little man won!”
“Did you see that?!”
The match was over. Abdul had won. His face was scrunched up, still dripping with the oil that had been on Mustafa’s hairy asscheeks.
The audience cheered, momentarily on Abdul’s side even though he was white-collar. He was so shocked he barely registered what had happened as the wrestlers stormed the field and congratulated him. He was mobbed, and presumably Mustafa was too, but Abdul couldn’t see far through the crowd of wrestlers and fans.
Abdul accepted their congratulations with as much grace and magnamity as he could muster. The onlookers all seemed to have forgotten they were rooting for Mustafa throughout this, like he hoped to convince Abdul and each other that they had bet on the longshot all along.
As the celebration died down, abdul and the other wrestlers headed into the hammam attached to the field, while they relived and relived again the match that had just happened. Abdul was aching now that the adrenaline had worn off, and his bruised and battered body hurt. He didn’t let on though.
While hammams were very often ornate and fancy buildings, this was a squat concrete structure with a few saunas, baths and showers. The floor was dirty, with underwear and oil-soaked kisbets littering the ground. It reeked in here, of body hair and olive oil and other base, musky scents Abdul couldn’t place.
“Good job, Abdul!”
“Mustafa is not as unbeatable as he seemed. You beat him when even Kaan couldn’t.”
But Abdul was not very popular among the other wrestlers, who still regarded him as an outsider. Even as a winner now, he was not popular, and they all remembered that he was a white-collar clean-shirt, not a roughneck like them. Soon the excitement had worn off, and the men were all gone. Abdul delayed leaving, both because he was worked up over the victory and because he always liked to hang around watching his fellow wrestlers wash the oil off their muscles.
He hadn’t even noticed that Mustafa was still there. He had been upset, and he spoke with his coach — Coach Badem — after the match, which was why he hadn’t showered yet. Coach Badem no doubt scolded him for his loss to a much smaller man.
When Abdul finally got close again to Mustafa, he glared at him, and Abdul looked down. His confidence was gone.
“Hey, I’m sorry about that,” Abdul said. “I… didn’t mean to pull your kisbet down or anything. That’s just how it happened. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Do not be sorry. You won,” he said.
“Well… okay. But everybody knows you’re a better wrestler than me. You’re stronger, heavier, you’re better in every way at this. That’s why they were so excited to see me win. It was a fluke. Everyone knows that,” Abdul said. “It’s just fun to see an underdog win.”
“I know,” Mustafa said. His voice was grim and flat-lipped. “Coach Badem says I should punish myself for my failure.”
“That’s not really necessary-“
“You must ram me.”
“What?” Abdul thought for sure he had misheard that.
But Mustafa didn’t repeat himself. He sighed and grabbed for Abdul’s kisbet. He pulled it down, revealing Abdul’s bare cock, and he dropped to his knees. Before Abdul could process what was happening, Mustafa swallowed it to the root, all in one smooth motion.
Standing on his feet and sucking in his breath, Abdul gasped, unable to think of how to respond except standing there and letting it happen. Sparks of pleasure erupted instantly throughout Abdul’s body, and a long wavering moan escaped from his throat. Mustafa’s hairy body exuded heat palpable even in the hammam, as Abdul’s hands once again roamed over his muscles.
The other wrestlers always said that whoever lost was going to get plowed. They frequently threatened it, against each other and, especially, against the wrestlers from other villages when they competed in tournaments. They whispered warnings not to drop the soap in the shower.
But nobody ever followed through. That was something that happened like a hundred years ago, as far as Abdul knew. That was how they used to punish the loser. Abdul always suspected that this sport was invented by men who wanted to set up precisely that sort of scenario.
But no modern-day wrestlers did that when they lost, right? He assumed it didn’t happen anymore, if it ever did. It was just a joke, a threat, not something that would actually be done.
He couldn’t deny that Mustafa’s big body was stooped way over so he could handle Abdul’s dick, which sprang to attention in his big mouth. Even as Abdul insisted to himself it wouldn’t happen, Mustafa let Abdul’s dick slip past his lips.
He gagged profusely at first, coughing up a thick mess of spit that dripped down Abdul’s dick. Since both men were still covered in oil, their flesh gleamed, Abdul’s was smooth, nearly hairless aside from his head and thin beard. Mustafa, on the other hand, was marked with scars, evidence of his rough-and-tumble career on an oil rig and a lifetime of drunken fighting when he was in his less-devout phases.
Mustafa’s beard was thick and scratchy, rubbing against Abdul’s thighs as Mustafa moved his head up and down that shaft. He seemed surprised that he had trouble deep-throating Abdul — because, Abdul guessed, Mustafa assumed that a small man must have a small dick.
Intense pleasure shot through Abdul’s body. He had been so shocked by it happening in the first place that his dick took a minute or two to fully react, and then a bolt of pleasure shot through Abdul’s frame. He moaned and grunted, watching the muscles of Mustafa’s back as he struggled to deep-throat Abdul’s dick.
Abdul groaned and gripped the thick mess of dark hair on Mustafa’s head. His cock pulsated as precum leaked out. Mustafa wrinkled his nose but didn’t stop.
The difference in size made it difficult for Mustafa to get his mouth all the way down on Abdul’s cockshaft. He had to stoop way over, and Abdul was still on his toes so Mustafa could reach his crotch more easily. But the sight of the big Turkish brute being forced to struggle with his dick turned Abdul on.
Then Mustafa pulled off. He wrinkled his nose and glared at Abdul, as though Abdul was making him do this. Tendrils of spit and maybe precum still connected his mouth to Abdul’s crotch.
“What? I’m sorry, don’t be mad at me. I didn’t tell you to do this. Coach Badem said to do it, you could tell him no,” Abdul said. “You could tell him you did it but not actually do it. I’ll back you up-“
“I am not angry at you. I am angry at myself. Coach Badem says that I must teach my body that it will get punished for humiliating me like this. He says I should not have allowed you to get in that position,” he said. He hung his head. “I think… he is right. I can get a sponsor if I focus on my athleticism. I should not have lost to you, and my humiliation will teach me a lesson. I will not misjudge a man for being small again.”
Mustafa bent over the bench in the center of the hammam. His body was so wide it wasn’t easy to balance himself on it, but his thick ass was right in front of Abdul. Abdul had to stand on his toes to gain access to it. He had never plowed such a big man, whose cheeks were bigger than Mustafa’s head, and covered with thick black hairs that trapped the sweat and olive oil that remained stuck to his skin.
He held his breath as he pushed his cock in. Mustafa bit his lip and grunted in pain. Abdul gripped his broad back and pushed in deeper until he felt resistance.
“Are you okay?”
“Just stick it in me! You are supposed to hold me down and make it hurt. It is supposed to be punishment,” Mustafa said. He sounded frustrated, like he just wanted to get this over with. He closed his eyes.
“I can’t hold you down, Mustafa,” he said. “I’m like a third your size. There’s no way I can keep you down. And I don’t want to anyway. If it hurts, tell me to stop-“
“No, keep going.”
“I can use lube, I don’t have any, but we could take a break and find some, or we could just get more olive oil,” Abdul said. He grabbed a pitcher of olive oil from a shelf nearby. It made for a fairly effective lube, he found, and it helped him get a few more inches in past those hairy asscheeks.
Soon enough, Abdul was drilling his dick in easily. He mounted Mustafa to get a better angle at his ass, and he rode his back like a horse. Since he was so much shorter than Mustafa, Abdul’s head was wedged in the meaty center of his back.
Mustafa shifted until he was on his knees on the edge of the bench. His massive cock dangled. Abdul wondered idly if it was hard, then reached for it without giving it a second thought.
It wasn’t hard, but as soon as he touched it, two things happened. Mustafa jumped, startled, as Abdul wrapped his fingers around his cock, and then his manhood rocketed to attention as though it had just been waiting for someone to touch it. Mustafa groaned, the pained tenor in his voice now replaced by a slow melting pleasure.
“You are giving me a reacharound? I do not deserve it,” Mustafa said. He hung his head and winced as though speaking reawakened the pain in his ass — or maybe it was the surge of pleasure now that Abdul stroked his dick.
“You do so, don’t be so down on yourself,” Abdul said. “Losing wasn’t a big deal, it was an utter fluke.” Despite Mustafa’s protestations, he didn’t try to get his dick away from Abdul’s hand. He bucked his hips as he moved in sync with Abdul’s motions, clenching on Abdul’s dick while his own manhood pulsated beneath Abdul’s fingers.
The bitter and sweet taste of olive oil seared into Abdul’s mind as the sweat and oil mixture flowed into his mouth from Mustafa’s back. Abdul licked and groped all over Mustafa’s body. Despite his verbal reluctance, Mustafa seemed to enjoy every moment of it.
Mustafa even shot his load first. Maybe that was just because Abdul was a doctor who knew exactly how to hit the prostate, but he liked to think it was because he was so good at it. He could feel the intense pleasure coursing through Mustafa’s veins as those broad back and shoulders muscles writhed. Mustafa grunted so hard and so desperately that it sounded almost painful.
Cum flowed across Abdul’s hand. He held out his other hand to soak most of it up, wanting to eat it. His semen was thick, hot, creamily dripping between Abdul’s fingers. Mustafa’s body shook and writhed as his orgasm flowed through him.
Then Abdul licked all the cum off his hands. The sour and sweet flavor overwhelmed his senses, and sent his own pleasure to the next level. He rolled his eyes and arched his back. His dick slammed in and out of Mustafa’s broad ass, which was now loose enough that plowing was easy. It didn’t seem to hurt him any longer either, which was nice, Abdul didn’t want to cause him pain.
But he did writhe as pleasure overcame him. Mustafa’s orgasm continued even as his dick limpened up, and his ass squeezed around Abdul’s dick.
“Ah, oooooh, stick it me…” Mustafa murmured, then bit his lip like he regretted saying it. But his ass didn’t lie and couldn’t hide how intensely he loved the prostate stimulation.
That was enough to send Abdul over the edge. He gasped and grunted, gripping Mustafa tightly. Cum flowed out of his cock, filling Mustafa’s ass. Abdul sighed loudly. Mustafa bucked and arched his back, grimacing as he accepted every drop of cum.
Then Abdul backed out. He held onto Mustafa’s tight, flexed back muscles though, savoring their feel and taste until Mustafa shifted. Mustafa stood, a sheepish frown on his face like he was embarrassed at how easy that was.
“If Coach Badem asks,” Mustafa said softly. “Tell him I cried. Tell him it hurt very badly.”
Abdul nodded. He was too tired and spent to tell Mustafa he shouldn’t be so humiliated. He knew that wouldn’t work anyway, it would just sound patronizing, he thought. So he allowed it and watched as Mustafa strode off into the showers.
Abdul sat down, alone, still so shocked that he couldn’t even think about what to do next. He needed to shower too but he assumed that Mustafa wanted to be alone right now, and Abdul just wanted to sit. Besides, he was covered in Mustafa’s alpha scent at the moment, and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to wipe that off.
As he waited for his turn in the shower, Abdul wondered how he could lose to Mustafa in a way that would make Coach Badem order Abdul to be on the bottom next time. Abdul resolved to lose in a particularly embarrassing way the next time he could do so — that would help Mustafa feel like he had regained his masculinity, while also being enjoyable for Abdul.
He smiled and sighed as he imagined what that would be like. He was interrupted by Coach Badem himself, who poked his head in, wrinkling his nose tentatively as if worried about what he would walk in on. When he saw that Abdul was there alone, he frowned.
“Did Mustafa…?”
“Yeah, he did it. He did what you wanted.”
“Good. I hope he learned his lesson.”
“I sure think so, Coach Badem,” Abdul said with a smile. “I think he learned that lesson very good. I was glad to teach him.”

The Sumo Wrestler Bottoms

Bart is in Japan when he gets the chance to punish an alpha male sumo wrestler. Yoshimuzi will do whatever it takes to regain his honor, even if that means bending over and taking what Bart’s got to give!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Bart worked for the Bank of Ibaraki nowadays, a small regional bank that sponsored a sumo wrestler named Yoshizumi. The Bank of Ibaraki had been trying to open a Hawaiian branch for years. Bart was helping them out with IT services related to that, but it required him to come to Japan to get to know their services and systems.
So when a major sumo tournament needed a last-minute IT person to come troubleshoot the web streaming, the Bank of Ibaraki had loaned Bart for a day. It seemed like just a free day away from his annoying coworkers and cruel boss.
But when he got there, it wasn’t a day off by any means. There was a lot of work to be done and nobody who could do anything about it but Bart. There were some major problems with the code that protected the web stream, and it wasn’t easy to fix. It took him eighteen hours of constant work and reinstallation of several complex modules, but he got the webstreaming up at the last possible moment. An executive was about to call the television studio to tell them to prepare something else, when Bart finally got the feed going. Bart had been worried he’d shame himself, possibly even get fired — the Bank of Ibaraki did not tolerate failure lightly — so when he realized it was working again, he breathed a sigh of relief.
“You have done good, Bart-san.”
“You have acquitted yourself with honor.”
Not only was he treated as a hero, he was allowed to watch the tournament with executives from the Bank of Ibaraki. They congratulated him and bowed so low to the ground it made him nervous. He knew a lot of sumo tournaments had yakuza connections, which made him wonder how he would have been punished if he failed. The yakuza did not tolerate failure lightly.
Was the Bank of Ibaraki a legitimate bank? Bart was unsure. They weren’t illegitimate — they had real customers, real deposits, real loans, and they received real payments. But Bart couldn’t know how much, if any, of their system was based on crime. It was possible most of the bank’s funds were the proceeds of crime.
“You must be proud of your success. You have saved the tournament for us all,” said the bank executive who showed him to the ritzy box where he could watch the action up close. Bart had no real desire to watch a sumo match, but he wasn’t about to turn it down.
He’d never seen a sumo match before, but he had long had a preference for big and fat men, and sumo wrestlers were among the most arousing. Perhaps their best quality, Bart thought, was not just their thick, heavy, expansive bodies but the powerful muscle they had underneath all that flab.
Really, Bart thought, sumo wrestlers were ideal specimens of man.
Bart nodded to the bank executive and acknowledged his success. He was careful not to appear arrogant about it, and he spoke of the simplicity of the problem. It was time-consuming to fix, he said, but not difficult. He did not explain that it was only a problem because the people who had originally coded the database did a poor job of it — if these people were yakuza-connected, Bart didn’t want to get his predecessors in trouble. Besides, he couldn’t explain what was wrong with the database without getting into a lot of technical details, and he could tell at a glance that this executive would zone out and fail to comprehend basically any of it.
Business executives were pretty much morons.
In the end, Yoshizumi Gagatsu lost, which was anticlimactic — after the Bank of Ibaraki saved the day technology-wise, Bart greatly hoped their sponsored wrestler would win. It seemed thematically inappropriate for Yoshizumi to lose, like Bart deserved to have an all-win day because he had won. He knew that was irrational, he wasn’t owed a positive day.
It just made his own success seem less impressive. Anyway though, he didn’t sulk.
He lingered after the tournament because he didn’t want to wade through the crowds or the traffic. The bank executives had hurried away as soon as they could. According to a conversation he half-overheard, they were going to the locker room He suspected they were planning on scolding Yoshizumi, maybe even punishing him. They had stern looks on their faces. Bart was glad he hadn’t disappointed them — those rumored yakuza connections were credible and frightening. They didn’t suffer failure gladly.
Then a tall man with a broad-barrel craggy body appeared. He bowed and said, “You are the man they call ‘Bart Dazzle’, yes?”
“Yes…”
“Please come with me. Yoshizumi would like to see you.” He turned without waiting for a response.
Bart followed nervously. He now recognized the craggy man as Kazuya Ito, Yoshizumi’s coach (which was called an oyakata, who, like they usually were, was himself a retired sumo wrestler). The oyakata led Bart to the locker room, which was behind the wrestling arena. He held the door open and motioned for Bart to enter, but he did not follow him in. Bart’s heart pounded as he entered.
What am I in for? Oh god they’re going to execute me, I know too much!
The locker room was cold and sterile, and it reeked of cleaning fluid. Bart actually preferred a messier locker room that smelled of manhood, but he wasn’t about to complain. He just went in.
Yoshizumi was there, his round body trembling as he scrubbed the floors. The flab covering his bulging muscles shook, the loincloth-like mawashi belt barely concealing the sweat and pubic hair beneath. Bart felt an onrush of intense and nearly uncontrollable desire. He had always adored champion sumo wrestlers (sekitori) like Yoshizumi. Right now, however, Yoshizumi lacked in confidence and swagger because he lost and had no doubt been scolded by his bosses. Now he had been reduced to scrubbing the sweat of his fellow wrestlers off the floor, wrinkling his nose at the salty, astringent odor that filled the air. His heavyset body jiggled, muscles flexing under all his mass, as he scrubbed at the floor. Yoshizumi frowned when he saw Bart.
“You are Bart?” Yoshizumi looked at Bart as though not comprehending the tiny gaijin’s presence. This was not the kind of tournament that saw a lot of outside visitors.
“Yes.”
“You are the computer man? You fixed the tournament, yes? You made the Internet work again.”
“That’s right,” he said.
“You are good at your job. I have failed today. I have brought shame upon myself,” he said. He stood and hung his head. His pecs flexed beneath his layer of fat — Bart could see his huge muscles beating under all his sumo-trained flesh. Bart would have gladly dropped to his knees and jerked him off right here and now.
But that seemed unlikely to be something Yoshizumi would agree to.
“Uh… Well, I’m sure you did your best,” Bart said. His eyes were drawn to that mawashi belt and the dark crevices behind the waist, where he could almost see the man’s bare cockroot. Bart blushed as he tried to avoid being too obvious about it.
“It was not good enough,” he said. “I must excise my shame. I will regain my honor. I am sorry to have let down my benefactors.” He hung his head. Bart got the impression he was repeating words that had been told to him, that he was told to have this conversation with Bart.
“Oh, okay-” Bart wanted to explain to Yoshizumi that he didn’t need to feel that bad. It was just a wrestling match. There would be more. Of course, if Yoshizumi disappointed the yakuza of Clan Rairaku, he was in for a world of punishment, so maybe he was right to feel bad. Or maybe he had thrown the match and felt guilty about it.
That seemed unlikely. Bart knew the Japanese had a strong ethic about sportsmanship, and Yoshizumi sure looked like he gave it his all out there. Bart sensed the disappointment greatly within him, like Yoshizumi thought he could have won if he had tried harder.
But Bart was too horny to think how to reassure him, and Yoshizumi seemed to think regaining his honor would be what made him feel better.
“You are wanting to do it, yes?” Yoshizumi asked, his heavy brow furrowed. He glared at Bart.
“Do it? Do what?,” Bart said.
“I will have jack off. You want jack off? I will do whatever you want, so as to regain the gathering of my honor.” Yoshizumi’s tone was a mix of hope and dread, as though a part of him wanted Bart to say no and another part was terrified he would refuse.
“What?” Bart thought for sure he had misunderstood. But then Yoshizumi repeated his request. Bart’s heart skipped a beat.
“It will remove shame from my heart,” he said. He blushed and dropped the mawashi he still wore. His cock dangled low and heavy, nice and long, beckoning for Bart to come closer. Yoshizumi’s big body trembled. “Come now. I must do as you order me to. What will you have me do?”
“Well… You really want to jack off with me?”
“Yes. It is necessary to restore honor,” he said. “I must allow myself to service one who is a winner, one who can teach me victory. I am a loser, Bart.” He leaned forward and kissed Bart on the lips, his tongue pushing into Bart’s mouth. “I do not know how to do butt jacking off. You must be having to tell me.” His English had grown more halting now, as he became more nervous.
Bart smiled as a thrill of desire ran through him. He hadn’t thought this quick-and-dirty IT job would turn into some outrageous sumo rough-trade. He blushed and touched Yoshizumi’s bare belly, caressing the soft, worn flesh of his torso.
Though there was, of course, plenty of padding there, Bart was shocked at the amount of muscle as well. The fat barely covered it up. Yoshizumi would have been a musclegod if he lost all that fat — which Bart was glad he hadn’t done. Bart sucked a few beads of sweat off his bellybutton, making Yoshizumi chortle wordlessly, nervously, his body jiggling above Bart’s head.
His flesh was warm and bready, and Bart let himself squeeze into it as he shoved his tongue into Yoshizumi’s mouth. Then he moved down his body, and he slurped the sweat off Yoshizumi’s massive torso. His bellyfat jiggled. Yoshizumi either grunted or groaned or maybe even moaned, or maybe he was ticklish and he laughed when Bart touched him, but any way, when Bart looked up, Yoshizumi was stonefacing as though nothing had happened. His dick twitched though, visible through the trembling of the loincloth-like mawashi that he still wore.
Bart rammed his hand into Yoshizumi’s mawashi, which made the big man blanche. He winced and his muscles all flexed as though he had an instinctual urge to fight Bart. Instead he sighed as his dick flopped loosely between Bart’s fingers.
It was a big, thick dick, uncut and warm, moist with sweat and throbbing in Bart’s grasp. He loved a magnificent manhood, and this was one Bart couldn’t wait to taste. But he wanted to get it hard first, and he wanted to see how far he could take this. What exactly had Yoshizumi been told to do? As Bart began stroking it, Yoshizumi’s dick swelled and pulsated beneath his grasp. Yoshizumi had suggested he would do whatever Bart told him to do. Bart wasn’t sure if he meant that literally or not, but he fully intended to push Yoshizumi to the limit.
“Will you put my dick in your mouth?” Bart asked. His voice sounded weak and frail in this locker room, which had an aura of power and machismo.
Bart wondered how many sumo wrestlers had jacked off together here before. He wished he had been around after every tournament. Though the locker room was clean and smelled of soap, he sensed beneath that the smell of sweat and bamboo, cloying and thick in the air. Manhood reeked through the lockers and soaked into the floors. The clean surfaces were only superficial, whereas Bart savored the filth.
Yoshizumi frowned but nodded his head. He sunk to his knees, but Bart directed him to lay on his back. The folds of his substantial belly jiggled as he got into position. He lay on a clean mat in an open area — apparently meant for pre-match stretching — in the back of the locker room. Outside, Bart could hear the hustle and bustle of the audience as they filed out into the parking lot; it was exciting, to hear the public just a few feet away, even if there was a wall of solid concrete keeping him protected from sight.
“I will get you off too,” Bart said. He glanced at Yoshizumi for a response, but Yoshizumi said nothing.
His horniness was so intense that Bart could do little more than repeat himself, hoping Yoshizumi wouldn’t say no or leave. But Yoshizumi looked like he had no choice and was resigned to this encounter.
Bart thought sixty-nining would be a good way to get him a little excited about it. Bart realized only at the last moment that Yoshizumi’s huge size was going to make it difficult to get into position. He certainly couldn’t mount Yoshizumi’s entire body. Even if Yoshizumi were a normal size, he was much too thick for Bart’s tiny frame.
“Yes that is good okay for certainly,” Yoshizumi said, gasping, spit dripping from his lips. He sounded like he was much too distracted to remember English grammar. “We will do it in sixty-nine style.” He laid on his back.
Bart had to bend his slim frame over that bulging gut, which he gripped like a liferaft as he reached for Yoshizumi’s cock. That was a somewhat awkward position for Bart, but it was also exactly what he wanted — it felt like he was making love to that powerful sumo belly itself. He draped himself over it and let the fresh, clean sweat there mingle with his own.
Once they were both in position, Yoshizumi swallowed Bart’s dick, his big throat stretching to accommodate it. He gagged when it hit his tongue but that didn’t slow him down any, and the sound of his choked sputtering even sounded somewhat desirous, as though he had learned to appreciate the salty manliness of Bart’s cock. Warmth suffused Bart’s body, and he moaned even before they had begun.
“Oh, yes, Yoshizumi…”
Bart licked Yoshizumi’s dick from root to tip, his own body trembling as he got hard right away. The fat and muscle beneath him quivered with a mixture of desire and anxiety, which made Yoshizumi’s cock also rocket right to full erection. Eventually he moaned around Bart’s dick and seemed to forget that he had been unwilling to keep going.
Soon they were both rock-hard and leaking precum, while Yoshizumi loudly suckled, sputtering and letting occasional aggressive gag. Bart’s balls slammed against Yoshizumi’s face.
When he felt his orgasm approach, Bart knew he needed to stop. He didn’t want this to be over so soon, and it was obvious that Yoshizumi did not wish to swallow his cum. Bart desperately wanted to do so, but he had a better idea. He thought he could get Yoshizumi to take this even farther.
Then Bart stood, pulling his dick out of Yoshizumi’s cock. His orgasm receded just in time, and pained frustration flowed up Bart’s body. He forced himself to be still, and he smiled at Yoshizumi, who winced and nodded his agreement — he knew what was coming next.
Bart’s long dick pulsated as he got excited thinking about how this was going to feel; it was exactly a fantasy he had had since he was a little boy watching sumo matches on TV. Yoshizumi was even more handsome than any of the sumo wrestlers he had seen back then, or maybe Yoshizumi wasn’t more handsome, he just seemed more real because he was right in front of Bart’s face.
Yoshizumi’s ass was twice as wide as Bart’s body, so Bart felt like even more of a slim young twink than ever. He had to stand on his toes to get into Yoshizumi’s ass from the right angle. It took both hands to separate his asscheeks, baring his tight hole.
When he did succeed, however, he moaned exquisitely. Pleasure flowed up his body with just the first inch of his dick in that tight ass — beneath the thick layer of pudge, Yoshizumi’s ass was strong and hard. Bart struggled to separate those mountainous asscheeks far enough, and his fingers clutched the man’s hairy crack-flesh. It was almost enough to send him over the edge, especially when Yoshizumi’s cheeks involuntarily flexed. He was so powerful beneath the flab that it was like his ass had gripped Bart’s manhood and fingers.
“You have to loosen up, Yoshizumi. Just relax. I will not hurt you, and you are so much bigger than me it will not hurt much. You can tell me to stop if it is too much,” Bart said.
Yoshizumi nodded his understanding but didn’t say anything. He gritted his teeth and averted his eyes from Bart’s gaze. H was on his belly now, so he just looked down to the floor of the locker room he had just cleaned and buried his face in his forearm.
He grunted as he accepted Bart’s dick. He bit his lip, trying to avoid showing his pain, and then a flush of red hit his face. That suggested to Bart that he felt a surge of pleasure as well, but was probably too insecure right now to admit it. Bart could feel the man’s spongy prostate tingling as he stimulated it, and he could practically see the pleasure through the rippling of Yoshizumi’s flesh.
While Bart began fucking harder and harder, he reached around Yoshizumi’s body the best he could. He wasn’t surprised to find that he couldn’t give a reacharound as he intended. His arms weren’t even remotely close to long enough. Yoshizumi’s powerful belly was in the way. Bart enjoyed trying though, straining to reach all the way around that massive frame of quivering muscular flesh.
“If you lay on your back, I’ll jack you off,” Bart said. “I can’t reach from here.”
He shook his head. “I do not deserve to feel pleasure.”
“Nonsense, of course you do. You made a little mistake, Yoshizumi, relax. Besides, you said you would do what you needed to, in order to please me, right? Well I wanna jack you off while I stick it in you. That’s what’ll please me.”
Yoshizumi nodded then. Bart pulled out as Yoshizumi’s giant body flipped over. He lifted his legs up. Ordinarily, Bart would hold a man’s legs up while fucking him in this position, but each of Yoshizumi’s legs probably weighed more than Bart. He was obviously not going to be able to hold them in place.
But luckily since Yoshizumi was such an athlete, he had plenty of muscle. He could keep his legs elevated for a very long time, his outrageous thigh muscles thick like corded rope beneath his layer of fat. He winced again as Bart re-penetrated him but his moan turned from pain to pleasure when Bart grabbed his dick.
He was already hard, and he resumed leaking precum the moment Bart began to stroke him. With every thrust of Bart’s dick, Yoshizumi’s flab trembled, his giant muscles flexed, his ass clenched and his dick spasmed beneath Bart’s fingers.
“Oh god yes, thank you, I feel better already,” Yoshizumi said, his voice still tight and pinched. It was clear that he was in pain, but from his tone and the way his cock pulsated in Bart’s fingers, it was clear he felt a deep, abiding pleasure as well.
Mister Gogatsu?! boomed a deep voice from the other end of the locker room. It was a man, who sounded stern, authoritarian, and a bit uneasy.
“Yes!” Yoshizumi said, calling out as loud as he could muster while he was in pain. Bart froze mid-penetration, his blood running cold as he wondered if Yoshizumi would get kicked out of the league if they were caught.
Are you done? You are requested again in the executive suite.
“No, I’m doing it now. I promise. Come see and you will know-“
No. I do not wish to see. I will report to the bosses that you will be upstairs shortly. Do not disappoint.
“Yes, Gakimosimi-san,” Yoshizumi said. He frowned until the locker room door slammed shut. Then he breathed a sigh of relief. “That was an enforcer for Clan Rairaku. They… own my contract,” he said.
Vicarious fear ran through Bart’s spine. If he had been thinking clearly, he would have realized that that man was yakuza, come to check that Yoshizumi was satisfying his debt of shame. The yakuza were terrifying, and Bart was glad he hadn’t known that’s what was going on at the time or he would have fled.
But now they were alone again, and Bart began plowing harder and harder at Yoshizumi’s powerful behind. Since Yoshizumi’s ass was so big, Bart had no problem slamming his rod in all the way in and out. It didn’t cause Yoshizumi too much pain, and though he was tight, he was too big for his tightness to be a problem.
Intense pleasure rocketed through Bart’s body. His back arched as he plunged his dick in and out. There was so much to Yoshizumi’s body that Bart felt like he was ensconced in the man’s rolling drapes of flesh. He even had a perfect amount of chest hair, a lot for a Japanese man..
Fat rolls rippled above Yoshizumi’s muscular frame, and the big man moaned with pleasure. He began feeling up his own nipples with one hand. Bart used both of his hands on Yoshizumi’s thick dick, which was veiny and bulgy, cum coursing through it as they both writhed together.
“I’m going to cum! Oh god!”
They both shot their loads at the same time, Bart just a minute or two before Yoshizumi. Intense, indescribable pleasure wafted through his body as he sprayed his load within Yoshizumi’s plump ass. Yoshizumi moaned, a cringing sound that suggested both agony and bliss.
Then cum sprayed over Bart’s hand and Yoshizumi’s jiggling belly. It coated Bart’s fingers as Yoshizumi’s entire body shook and vibrated. He gasped, cursing in surprise at how powerful his orgasm was. Wave after wave of pleasure rampaged through his body, as Yoshizumi experienced a potent climax.
Few women had ever brought him to such pleasure, making Yoshizumi’s whole body jiggle and shake. Yoshizumi gasped. He tried to remain staid and nonplussed, but Yoshizumi couldn’t handle the intense feelings rollicking him. No woman could make him feel like that, he thought with a chest-rattling sigh.
His cumwad was thick and creamy, and it seemed to go on forever.
Bart smiled as he pulled out and licked all the cum off his fingers. It tasted clean and vibrant, like a mossy forest, and he moaned with the aftershocks of his orgasm. Yoshizumi’s massive body loomed before him like a colossus, and Bart let his tongue wrap around Yoshizumi’s folds. He sucked on his big meaty nipples.
“I thank you, Bart,” Yoshizumi said. His face was red, a smile creeping over his face as he grasped Bart on the shoulder. The sensations roiling through his body were too potent to ignore, so his voice rattled and broke. “You have allowed me to regain my honor.”
“Anytime,” Bart said. “I love sumo.” He smiled and pulled away. He sighed before putting his clothes on. He was suddenly glad he had come to Japan and especially glad he had fixed that webstream.
This was a wonderful country.

The KGB Officer

When Antonov gets arrested by the dreaded KGB, he didn’t know what he was in for. If he’s going to get out of this alive, he’ll have to do whatever Agent Gromov demands of him. Can Antonov make it?!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

A part of Antonov was glad that he was arrested. Of course another part was scared, but he had always known it was a possibility. It wasn’t a bad thing. It might bring a lot of attention to the cause, and it definitely signaled to the media that this was a real movement.
But Antonov wished that everyone got arrested, not just him.
At the time, it seemed great that Antonov was the only one who got arrested. It made him seem like the most serious activist, the one who would get the credit when or if this eventually worked. The police of Moscow were notoriously cruel, but he could handle a few weeks in prison. He was glad to do it to prove his devotion to the cause of spreading democracy in Russia.
Before his arrest, the protest went about as well as Antonov could have hoped. A lot of people showed up, and Antonov caused a big scene that got him arrested in front of all the television cameras. That made him seem like a big player in the movement now. He wouldn’t be surprised if he was offered an organizing job by one of the international organizations that had helped to set up the protest.
The adrenaline in his veins only died down when Antonov was led away from the police station proper and into a small, unmarked building next door to it. There, he was handcuffed to a chair in a large open office area. It was windowless, crowded with plainclothes men smoking cigarettes, and it stank of sweat and fear. Rowdy conversation dominated at the desks and in the conference rooms attached to the precinct floor.
On one side of the room, burly, hairy men in handcuffs were led into the jail that was near Antonov. From his vantage point, he could see down the hall and into the rows of cells when the door to the jail opened. In there, men sobbed out loud, and the sound of someone vomiting echoed out into the police station. There was the occasional sound of flesh on flesh — a fight, most likely, which none of the officers here seemed eager to stop. He shuddered in fear.
I shouldn’t have been so confident. The Moscow police aren’t just cruel and strict. They’re corrupt. They hurt people just to send a message to others.
Antonov gulped. That was one of the reasons he shouldn’t have been happy to be the only protester arrested — if lots of them had been arrested, the chances that any one would be beaten up to set an example for the others was minimal. If it was just Antonov, then they were going to treat him the way they wanted the protesters to fear they would be treated if arrested.
That’s when Antonov saw the sign on the door next to the one leading to the jail. He had to crane his head around to read it: ‘agents of the KGP only’ was printed in neat Cyrilic on the frosted door window. It surely didn’t mean anything that they handcuffed him to a chair near the KGP office.
His dread grew as he became more and more suspicious that he was indeed placed near the KGB door because that was where he was going, whenever they were ready. He watched the other officers bring men in, process them and take them into the jail in just a few minutes, and doing so did not involve handcuffing them to a chair.
So why was Antonov placed here?
His dread turned into quakes of fear when a man in a fine suit came out from the KGB door. He undid the handcuffs attaching Antonov to the chair, and he motioned, with a dour, flat face, for Antonov to come with him.
Stonefacing the best he could, Antonov followed instructions. He followed the officer — Gromov — into the KGP officer, where a dozen or so other men stood around as though they were waiting for Antonov. Antonov avoided eye contact with all of them.
The officer Gromov asked Antonov a litany of basic questions: name, birthdate, birthplace, how did you come to Moscow today? Antonov did not asnwer any of them aside from his name and birthdate. That was all they needed to know.
“Do you have any money?” asked Officer Gromov. “You have been assessed a fine for disorderly conduct and for acting in an inappropriate way in public. You have brought shame upon this country. So we are charging you a fine.” He and the others snickered, suggesting this fine was really a bribe. Officer Gromov would keep it all for himself. “You must pay it to me. Now.”
Antonov shook his head. “No way. I am a prisoner of conscience-“
“I do not care about that. You have a fine to pay. If you are too much of a deadbeat to pay now, you must have to work it off,” Officer Gromov said. His face remained stony, his broadly muscled body looming above and in front of Antonov. He unzipped the slacks of his suit, and he withdrew from the fly a fat uncircumcised cock. “Go on, put your mouth upon it,” Officer Gromov said.
“Protest that, weakling!”
Antonov shook his head. He didn’t think he could bring himself to taste a dick no matter what. He pursed his lips closed. Tears welled up in his eyes, but Antonov tried not to cry. He hoped the officers didn’t notice.
“Make him into your bitch, Gromov!” Someone threw a pair of dirty shoes at Antonov, old ragged shoes like they had been confiscated off a hobo . Antonov blushed and tried not to look at the other officers. He told himself he just needed to get out of this with Gromov. Ignore the others.
It was hard to ignore the pit of humiliation burning within though.
Officer Gromov smiled at him, and he laughed with the other KGB officers. That made Gromov’s cock jiggle and sway afront Antonov’s face.
The other officers scattered around the room leaned back in their seats and smoked their cigarettes, which filled the air with a haze and the bitter smell of imported tobacco. Antonov realized with a jolt of fear that they were expecting a show — they wanted Gromov to entertain them by making Antonov put his mouth on Gromov’s ugly, barbaric, veiny cock, which was bigger than any dick Antonov had ever seen. It was long and fleshy, and Gromov waved it around in front of Antonov’s face. It smelled like funk and sweat and semen and piss, and Antonov gagged at the thought of putting it in his mouth.
“You will not swallow it?”
“No way!” Antonov shouted. “I have the right to protest. You aren’t allowed to do this to me! I’m not your pussy!” He felt sure this would get him some respect — maybe they were just doing this as a test. Maybe he could earn Gromov’s respect by refusing to give in.
But the other officers sneered at him as though they had expected him to open up, and they peppered him with jeers and old sandwich wrappers from the garbage cans by their desks.
“You will be a pussy! You will be my pussy!” shouted Officer Gromov. He nodded for two younger KGB officers to come forward, and they took Antonov by the handcuffed arms and threw him against a wall. Antonov’s head collided with the wall, sending an onrush of pain down his body. He was dizzy, and he staggered back.
“Please, stop!” Antonov couldn’t believe this. He was supposed to be a martyr for the cause — he had expected to spend time in prison, not… this. Nobody would respect him for being arrested if it led to him being less of a man, being treated as Gromov’s whore.
Officer Gromov smiled as he played with his dick between his fingers. It was so big and meaty enough it almost hurt when he flopped it against Antonov’s face. Antonov realized that that must have been why these KGB officers had Officer Gromov do this — he had a huge cock. They had chosen the horse-cocked cop to teach a lesson to Antonov, who shook as he fought against his attackers.
“Make him your bitch!”
One of the KGB officers got behind Antonov and pinned his limbs, while the other gripped his nostrils until he couldn’t help but open his mouth. Then at least two KGB officers gripped his chin and cheeks, forcing his jaws apart. Tears streamed from Antonov’s eyes as Officer Gromov flopped his big uncut dick in front of Antonov’s face.
“Will you bite me? If you bite me, I will gut you like a dog,” Officer Gromov said. His beard jiggled as he spoke, and he licked his lips.
“Woof! Woof!” The other cops were acting like dogs now, on all fours and barking, growling, pawing at him like a feral canine.
“Yes! I’ll bite you, I don’t care what you do!” Antonov shouted out of pure instinct. Since his mouth was propped open, however, none of his words were clearly intelligible. Officer Gromov and the others seemed to get the gist of it though.
“I guess we’ll need to get the device,” Officer Gromov said with a laugh.
“The device! The face-rammer! The bitch-maker!”
Officer Gromov grinned at Antonov’s sweaty, reddened face, on which he wiped his greasy cockshaft. He didn’t seem to mind touching Antonov’s scruffy beard, as he wiped his dick over Antonov’s lips and cheeks. He didn’t stick it in, however, until another officer returned with a primitive looking dental device. They shoved it in his mouth, and sharp pincers prevented him from closing his mouth all the way. It was arduously painful, and it made Antonov choke.
As his jaw opened, the device didn’t let it close, so the more Antonov struggled, the more it hurt. Eventually he could do nothing but fall limp. It felt like his jaw was on the verge of shattering, and Antonov didn’t want to fight back for fear of actually breaking it.
“Open it!”
“Pay that fine, bitch!”
“If you can not pay me, you will be my oral bitch, my mouth slut,” Officer Gromov said with a sneer. He flexed his biceps beneath his tight-fitting suit. He spat into Antonov’s open mouth, dark eyes drilling into Antonov’s — he tried to close his eyes, but they pinched his nipples until he opened them. “Look me in the eye when I pluck your manhood.”
His dick pushed right past Antonov’s lips, and when Antonov tasted the sweaty, coppery taste, he gagged profusely. He sputtered, unable to even spit because of all the KGB officers holding him down and the device keeping his mouth open.
That meant that the fluids generated by Officer Gromov’s throating splashed and frothed, spilling over the sides of Antonov’s lips and coating his face. Antonov retched loudly with each stab of Officer Gromov’s massive meat down his gullet.
“Make him your bitch! Make him your cockpig!”
The taste was even worse than Antonov had thought it would be. It was like an old gym sock that had both stale and fresh sweat soaked into it. The flavor of precum was even worse, salty and sour. It made Antonov’s throat cringe.
“See what this is? This is a deadbeat. This is how we treat deadbeats.”
Antonov couldn’t see who said that, but he could hear a wave of rough, lower-class men bursting into a mix of laughter, rage and terror. The officers must have brought other criminals into this room. His eyes were blinded by the spit the officers kept plopping onto his face, but he could tell they were using him as a lesson for other criminals. He was being used this way to scare others into paying their fines — or their bribes, or both, as it often seemed there was no difference between a fine and a bribe in Soviet Russia.
Officer Gromov pumped his hips, slamming his cock into the back of Antonov’s throat. He cackled as Antonov choked.
“You’re no man anymore,” Officer Gromov said, and the other KGB officers laughed along with him.
“Choke on it, weakling!”
Then he gripped Antonov by the hair and violently throated him, with no pause — he slammed his hips in, grinding his dick deep into Antonov’s throat like he wanted to make Antonov retch as violently as possible. A painful wretch escaped from Antonov’s mouth. He choked and sputtered. His balls slammed against Antonov’s beard, leaving a layer of filthy sweat and sac-hairs clinging to Antonov’s furry chin.
“Fine, I’ll pay! I’ll pay! I’ll pay both fines!”
The other criminals were falling all over themselves to pay up now. Antonov could hear the KGB officers laughing at it as they collected money. Antonov realized then that he wasn’t even blocked from view from the outside. Anyone who walked by the building and looked through the window would be able to see that something was happening. They wouldn’t be able to see Antonov’s face easily, but they might have figured out who it was.
In any case, with a dozen KGB agents and probably just as many criminals and local cops, somebody was no doubt going to identify Antonov. Everybody was going to know about this, and Antonov would never be able to live it down. He thought he would never feel clean again.
His nose pressed into Officer Gromov’s hairy crotch. It stank and Antonov’s lungs cried out for air. He writhed, trying to escape the grip of the KGB officers holding him down — he was surprised to see that they didn’t care about getting Officer Gromov’s precum onto them. Great wads of spit and precum plopped out of Antonov’s mouth over and over, landing on the other KGB officers’s hands, arms, chest and even face — none of them seemed to notice. All they cared about was making sure Antonov swallowed every inch of rampaging dickmeat.
When Officer Gromov finally pulled his cock out and even took that device off so Antonov could breathe, all Antonov could do was cough up a slimy ball of spit that landed on the ground. Then his whole body undulated as he gagged up again and again, until his throat was sore. The onlookers — police officers, KGB agents and arrested criminals alike — all laughed and shouted jeers, but Antonov didn’t hear their words. His attention was focused on his cringing humiliation and the suffocating agony in his chest.
“Beg him, boy! Beg him to go easy on you!”
Through his tear-clouded eyes, Antonov saw that there was a criminal snickering as he walked past Antonov. A bunch more waited to be processed, or they might have even been recent releasees who were invited to watch Antonov’s ruination. They all looked at him like they both pitied and despised him, like a stray dog they were about to beat to death.
“You deadbeat, you can not pay your fines,” Officer Gromov said, for the benefit of the criminals — so they’d know how to avoid this same fate. He clucked his tongue against his teeth and flopped his rock-hard cock onto Antonov’s face. “Kiss it.”
Antonov blushed but did as he was told. He kissed the cockshaft on his face, which made him gag in both disgust and humiliation. He felt it pulsating with his tongue on the veiny shaft.
Then at Officer Gromov’s direction, Antonov said through his gasps and tears, “Your cock… is superior… to mine. I worship your meat, Officer Gromov… I will never disobey your cock!”
“Filthy bitch! Disgusting pitiful little maggot!”
Then, with Antonov still heaving for air, Officer Gromov pried his mouth apart again. The other KGB officers held Antonov’s squirming body down until he could not resist parting his lips once again. Every fiber of Antonov’s being told him to fight.
But he could do little more than writhe. He wanted to bite down, but he wasn’t sure he could even do that with men holding his mouth open — in any case, he knew the punishment would be severe and would almost certainly end in his death. The dental device was on the floor now, but Antonov knew he wouldn’t bite. After losing any respect he might have had, there was no point in fighting back now. They’d beat him, and Antonov would still be known as a man’s bitch.
So he just submitted. He opened his mouth as wide as it could go, and he sobbed as that salty rod of meat pushed down his throat again. He loudly gagged, which made the KGB officers all cheer. One of them even scooped up all the spit and precum that dripped off Antonov’s chin and smeared it over Antonov’s face.
“Open your eyes,” Officer Gromov barked. He didn’t give Antonov a chance to do it, he simply pulled Antonov’s eyelids apart. “I want to see your manhood drain away as I fill it up with my cum.” He laughed and spat on Antonov, again and again, plopping huge stinky loogeys all over Antonov’s sobbing face.
Antonov’s head swam after Officer Gromov punched him in the gut. He was too dizzy to resist as he was led to a table in the center of the KGB office. A bunch of intake papers were shoved off the table and onto the floor, while Antonov’s pants were torn down.
That left his ass bare.
“You will be pussy, bitch!”
“Make him your whore!”
“No!” Antonov screamed and panted, desperate for oxygen now that his mouth was empty. But he couldn’t bare to have his asshole rammed, he thought. He’d rather kill himself. “Please, don’t! I have a wife, and sons!”
“Your sons will have no father,” Officer Gromov said. He lifted Antonov’s feet in the air, baring his cheeks and forcing them apart. “Just a bitch for a second mother.”
“They will weep to be sired by such a bitch! We will make sure they know! We will make sure your neighbors know!”
Then a flood of pain hit Antonov’s ass as Officer Gromov’s cock pushed into him. Antonov screamed so loud it could be heard throughout the building, and the inmates there, those who weren’t brought to watch, variously either shivered in fear or stood with great interest to see if they could catch a glimpse of the ramrodding in-progress. They all knew the kinds of things the KGB did to protesters.
His dick tore and ripped into Antonov’s ass, and Antonov squirmed beneath the muscular, uniformed arms of the other officers. More and more KGB officers had come to watch, and now the hallway was choked with men in suits and police uniforms, leering and screaming, some of them even masturbating as they watched.
“Ram him! Ram him, Gromov! Make him your bitch!”
“You like that cock? You want to protest that? Protest away, bitch!”
All of a sudden another wad of cum appeared on Antonov’s face, then another. He couldn’t believe they were masturbating — how could they get off on watching this? Not even participating, but just watching?
But he couldn’t form any words even if his mouth wasn’t choked with cumwads. It was thick and creamy like boogers, and Antonov thought there might be mucus from someone’s nose in the mix. He couldn’t see anyway, and all he could hear was his own sobs. The KGB officers around him formed a circle, dicks in hand, those who hadn’t cum yet.
None of them had dicks as long or as thick as Officer Gromov, but they were mostly pretty big. One by one they popped off, filling his open mouth with their humiliated wads of cream. Each load they sprayed over Antonov’s mouth and cheeks tasted even worse than the last.
“Destroy him! Cover him with so much cum his mother won’t recognize him!”
“Your wife will never have respect for you now!”
Finally Officer Gromov held up his hand for silence. The other KGB officers gradually fell silent, and they smiled as Officer Gromov groaned.
“I am ready to pluck his manhood,” Officer Gromov said with a groan. “He is my pussy now.”
Even the watching inmates were quiet, watching with hushed expressions and grim faces. The only sound was Officer Gromov’s moist humping, the gurgling sound made by his massive prick sliding into Antonov’s tight hole. A wave of pain and intense pressure rocked him, and Antonov squirmed in shame all over again. He could feel the humiliation on his body like the layer of saliva (both his own and the KGB officers’s) that covered his skin. That thin mask of fluids crawled like foul bugs, the nastiness seeping into his skin.
Then a spurt of hot cum hit Antonov, who was flush and covered in tears. A fresh sob erupted deep within him, and Antonov tried to bury his cum-streaked face. But the KGB officers didn’t let him — they made him keep his face bare so everyone who watched this on video would know who it was.
“We will put this on the Internet, so everyone who was at that protest will know what happens when we see them again. We will arrest everyone and treat them like you. We do not tolerate lawbreaking, and we do not tolerate deadbeats.”
“Take my nut, bitch!” Officer Gromov barked, making Antonov squeal, squirm and clench down hard on his asshole. Gromov moaned, his massive muscles flexing and relaxing, back and forth with such intensity it seemed he might break the stitching on his too-tight uniform. His cock rammed in and out of Antonov’s with long, powerful strokes.
The cum filled Antonov up inside. It was hot and sticky, and Antonov thought he would forever feel it within him. Officer Gromov waited until his cock had spewed every drop of cum and started growing limp then let it flop out. A big frothy ball of cum slipped out at the same time.
“You’re going to taste your own whorishness. Bitch.”
Officer Gromov grabbed that ass-slime and cum mixture with his fingers. He groaned at how disgusting it was, but wiped it off on Antonov’s face as the other KGB officers cheered. By then Antonov’s mouth was inured to the foul flavor, or maybe it tasted so similar to the body fluids already on his face that Antonov didn’t taste it too much. He slathered his tongue up and down Gromov’s sensitive cockshaft, slurping up the jizz and assjuice that clung to it.
Then they all just walked away. They left Antonov there on the table, his body sore, blushing as the inmates chanted insults at him. He stood on wobbly legs.
Had they just abandoned him? Maybe they considered the ramming to be punishment enough, he thought. He hadn’t paid the fine, so they rammed him and now he could go. Maybe, he thought, I should leave the country. I could go to Britain. No one will judge me for this there.
But when he recovered enough to look up, Officer Gromov was there with his arms crossed over his chest. He pointed to the door to the jail.
“What are you doing? You go in there, bitch.”
“What?”
“You owe a fine. You will live in the jail and get rammed by anyone who wants to. They will pay you money if they feel you deserve it. Once you make enough to pay off your fine, we will let you go,” he said. “But you will also have to pay for food and water. So you had better start making money.”
Antonov wept. “Please… won’t you pay…?”
“Me? No,” he said. “I do not pay, not unless you were very good at being my pussy. And you were not. You will must practice.”
Antonov cried as he returned to the jail. He wanted to get back to his family — assuming they would not reject him — and to get to the United Kingdom, so that meant he was going to need to start making some money.
First things first, he thought, I need to figure out which of the inmates in here might have some money. Then I can get paid. He trembled as he tried to clean his face off. His throat was sore, but no matter. It was only good for one thing now.

The Raunchy Bouncer

Rob could have his pick of the bouncers at this trashy strip club, but he doesn’t want any of the handsome prettyboys… he wants the brutish scarface they call Knuckle! Can he submit to Knuckle’s powerful ways?!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Rob Winthrop was beginning to wonder if Knuckle had changed his mind. He sat in the champagne room alone, getting hard. The stripper — Destiny was her name — had giggled when Rob said he wanted to taste the dick of one of the bouncers, and when he said his target was Knuckle, she howled with peals of laughter interspersed with squeals of shock. She asked several times if he was sure, and did he mean the white one or the black one.
He meant the white one. He knew them both. The black one was Davon, and he was cute, like he should be an older brother in a Disney movie. He’d seem tough but he’d bust out homespun big-bro wisdom. That was not Rob’s type.
He liked his men rough and nasty, and Knuckle fit the bill. He was white, squat, no-necked, with a big burn scar on the side of his neck and shoulder. He was vaguely bikerish, vaguely skinheadish and — when Davon was around, at least — somewhat thuggesque too. He was intense. Everybody knew about him, even people who never came to Lipsweet knew about the “freakazoid bouncer at the strip club”. Knuckle looked like a serial killer, and he talked like Slingblade.
“Are you sure? He smells. Like he doesn’t use deodorant. He says he does, but I don’t think he does.”
“We complained about his smell, Mr. Gregarian told him to shower more or something. It helped… some.”
“Yeah, you want Davon, he is so cute. He’s got dimples for days. And he will totally let you jack him off for like fifty bucks, if I tell him I think it’s hot. Which I will, for fifty bucks also.”
“No. I want the weird one.”
Rob didn’t explain. Women, he thought, were so stupid. They liked clean men, but Rob knew that the best men were the raunchiest ones. The tastiest fruit was the most rancid, that was what he always said. Or at least what he always thought. He didn’t say that kind of thing out loud very often because people would think him weird.
Now Rob sat in the champagne room, certain that something had gone wrong, that he had changed his mind. Rob asked Knuckle point-blank, right in front of Davon — the strip club, Lipsweet, was ten minutes to closing time then — and offered him five hundred dollars.
But Knuckle just scowled. One of the girls dragged Rob away as though he had made a faux pas. He thought maybe Knuckle was more violent than he had predicted.
But she said he would do it, he just needed to get drunk first. And so that was why Rob sat in the champagne room.
It’d be better if he doesn’t see you until he’s ready.
Rob was so excited. Mom had been riding him about getting a girlfriend. She texted him all night, increasingly incomprehensibly as she guzzled her gin and Rob waited in the strip club for the time to be right. Knuckle kept drinking. Rob needed him good and drunk.
Oh god, he thought, Mom’d be furious and humiliated if she knew Rob had gone to a strip club. She thought places like that should be illegal. Hell, she thought Hooters should be illegal. She’d be fine with police inspecting women’s hemlines like in the olden days.
Finally the door opened. Knuckle tottered in, on unsteady feet. He was obviously very drunk. He reeked of liquor. He had taken off his shirt, so he wore only a wifebeater, which revealed that that burn scar on the side of his neck extended in thin tendrils down his chest and his belly. It looked like something hot and sticky had been dumped on him. His muscular chest was too big for him, his size bursting out of his tight wifebeater, his pecs rippling like he needed to use them for every action he took.
“Yo,” he said. “Let’s do this.” He had a deep, gravelly voice as flat as a pancake. For the first time, Rob wondered if something was very wrong with Knuckle. He looked at Rob as though he was going to murder him, eyes narrowed to slits. Rob understood then why the strippers were afraid of him.
“Okay.” Rob quaked, but he also took a deep breath of the sweaty funk that came off Knuckle’s powerful body. He had ejected a drunk asshole from the bar a few minutes ago, that was why he was worked up now, heart racing, sweat evaporating off his shoulders. His nostrils kept flaring, like he was working up enough fury to start swinging. He actually seemed more angry now than he did when kicking that man out, like he was still getting worked up over it. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his face, because his eyebrow had been busted open when the man got a kick in. He was on the ground then, kicking up.
Knuckle either didn’t notice or didn’t care that he was bleeding. He had a black eye too, an old one, more of a yellow eye now. His nose was crooked and squat and you could tell it would be easy to manipulate, it was one of those oft-broken noses you could play with like silly-putty. His ears were cauliflowered too. Was he a boxer? Probably. MMA fighter, something like that. Men like him always were MMA fighters.
He belched. The smell of cheap alcohol flooded Rob’s nostrils. He sunk to his knees and grabbed Knuckle’s cock through his ratty jeans.
Knuckle didn’t react to Rob’s touch, like he was too drunk to notice. He swayed. His dick twitched but it didn’t get hard yet. His pecs flexed beneath his stained wifebeater.
“I am gonna hurt ya, boy,” Knuckle murmured. Or maybe it wasn’t a murmur, maybe his voice was always like that, simmering like an angry pot. “You ain’t gonna like this. I ain’t some downlow homeboy like Davon. You wanna get him off?” The way he said ‘homeboy’ made it sound like he was subbing it in for a racial slur.
“Kinda. But I want you more.”
He chuckled. “If you quit partway through, you still gotta pay me.”
“Okay. I won’t quit.”
“I’m gonna hit you. I’m gonna make you real nasty.”
“That’s what I was countin’ on.” Rob shivered with both fear and arousal. He tried to touch Knuckle’s cock through his filthy jeans, which were stained with blood and mud and who-knew-what-else, but Knuckle slapped his hand away. It wasn’t a nice slap either. It hurt, and Rob took his hand away and frowned, and then another twinge of pain came from his hand as though Knuckle had hit him a second time. He didn’t, but his glare felt like a punch.
“I plowed men who displeased me in prison, and I only do it one way, so don’t go tellin’ me how to do it. I do it my way.” Knuckle grunted. His eyes narrowed to slits. He punched with one fist into the palm of the other hand, and he did it so suddenly and with such a loud thump it made Rob jump.
“Okay.” Rob gulped. He touched Knuckle’s dick through his jeans again, because Knuckle shifted his gaze in a way that suggested he wanted it. When Knuckle didn’t immediately complain, Rob touched the bulge in those filthy jeans with his fingertips, as gentle and gingerly as he could manage it.
Knuckle wrinkled his nose. It sounded like he had hoped to turn Rob off so he could get paid without having to do anything, or maybe that was too much guile to attribute to someone like Knuckle. Knuckle let out a growl like an angry housecat. “Get ya hand off my dick, bitch. I ain’t tell you to touch it yet.”
Rob dropped his hands to the ground. “Please, sir? I want to taste it.” He blushed.
“You will.” He pulled his cock out through the fly of his jeans. He let it flop there, limp, just inches in front of Rob’s face. For a moment, nothing happened, and Rob wondered if Knuckle was backing out. Maybe this was where he was gonna get violent. Rob winced, already certain he was going to get pistol-whipped or something. Maybe one of the strippers was colluding with Knuckle to rob Rob, not that he had any money.
But instead, Knuckle closed his eyes, sighed and let loose with a stream of piss. That was so sudden Rob yelped. Knuckle didn’t have the universal body language that most men did when they pissed. Usually that wasn’t the kind of thing that could be a surprise. You can always tell when a man’s about to piss. Knuckle, on the other hand, had the same face he had on when kicking that drunk out of the bar.
The urine was hot and acrid, and it made Rob’s eyes water. He doused his face in it and let it fill his mouth. It overflowed and still more came, soaking his clothes, and it puddled up on the disgusting floor of the strip club men’s room.
Rob loved piss. It made his own cock get hard in his pants. He didn’t touch it yet because he wanted to wait, and he wanted to savor the bitter taste of Knuckle’s urine. Rob felt filthy, skin crawling, clothes plastered to his flesh. He shivered.
“Don’t swallow yet, pansy,” he said. He bent down and pursed his lips like he was going to kiss Rob. Instead he hocked up a big loogie and spat it right into Rob’s mouth. “Still no swallowing, bitch.” He spat a few more times, leering with disgust as his phlegm plopped into Rob’s throat. The taste was sour and rancid, and it made Rob’s dick hard. Knuckle stood up, turned around and dropped his jeans. He stuck his ass in front of Rob’s face, spread his cheeks and farted.
He had a nice hairy ass, which smelled of stale sweat and farts even before Knuckle let loose. Then it was even stinkier. Rob retched and gagged, but still he neither swallowed nor spat out the raunch-soup in his mouth.
Knuckle poked his head out the door. “Damn, nigga, he takin’ it, you right, you right-“
“Man… What’d I tell you ‘bout calling me yo’ nigga?” Davon sounded like he was waiting on the other side of the door, listening in, maybe snickering with one of the strippers.
“I ain’t say my nigga. I said you was a nigga-“
“Don’t.”
“Come, look at my bitch, he is filthy,” Knuckle said. His voice stayed flat. He opened the door wide enough for Davon to see, and Rob thought Davon would laugh. Instead, he shouted back to Knuckle, who stayed stoic as though nothing was happening.
Davon duked up, and still Knuckle stood there like a statue. Meanwhile Rob listened and gargled on the mess in his mouth. Davon shadowboxed the air.
“C’mon, bitch, you fuckin’ piece of shit, c’mon!” Davon kept punching the air in front of Knuckle, who stonefaced. Every time he punched Davon grunted like a cocky bastard, like he was making Knuckle flinch. Knuckle wasn’t flinching and seemed totally unperturbed by Davon’s threats.
Which made sense to Rob. Davon was big and muscular and could no doubt throw a punch, but he was clean-cut and smooth. He was a prettyboy. He was the exact opposite of Knuckle in every way, and Rob found him a total turnoff. Girls loved him. He was also famous locally, as a bouncer, cuz the girls all said he was cute. At least the girls Rob hang out with did.
Okay, Rob wouldn’t kick him out of bed either. But he’d make him get sweaty first. At least that’d be something. Davon looked like he was literally never sweaty.
One of the girls hissed at them to stop fighting, and they seemed to mostly make up, though Rob could still hear hostility in their voices.
“Come on in, Davon, I know you said you was into plowin’ any hole-“
“I ain’t say that, motherfucker. I said I wouldn’t gotta think twice about doin’ it for five hundred bucks,” Davon said. “But that was before you pissed and farted on him. No way now. Nasty-ass shit. After he takes a shower, then I let him swing on it for five hundred bucks. You hear that, freak?”
Rob gurgled loudly, and some of the mess in his mouth overflowed. Davon erupted in gags and nervous laughter.
“Aw, I smelled that, I smelled that!” He screamed and walked away, then came back closer. “Aw, shit, you are nasty!” He poked his head into the door and gagged again. He ran off, talking to the strippers in the club. “Don’t go in there, ladies, it is nasty. It is too nasty. No way.”
Pain erupted in Rob’s cheek as Knuckle slapped him hard across the face. He slammed the door shut too, cutting off the sound of Davon and the strippers guffawing while the strip club shut down for the night. The sun was about to come up.
Rob moved for Knuckle’s cock, but Knuckle pushed him to the ground. He landed with a splash in the piss-puddle
“I ain’t tell you to touch it yet.”
“I’m sorry, Knuckle-“
“Don’t you call me that. You call me sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lick the floor, bitch,” he said. He crossed his arms over his chest and sneered. He spat on the floor.
Rob bent down and licked. He lapped at the stinking spot on the filthy linoleum floor, which tasted like foot and cum. It was salty, gritty and deliciously nasty.
“Ew, you know dudes just nut all over this floor, right? Like, hundreds of guys?”
“I know, sir.”
“You are fucking disgusting. You should be ashamed of yourself. You talk to ya mama wit’ that mouth?”
He nodded. “Yes, sir. I am ashamed of myself.”
“You deepthroat?”
“Yes, sir,” Rob said. He poked a finger down his well-trained throat and gagged. Knuckle nodded his satisfaction.
“Alright. I’m gonna plow ya throat now,” he spat the words out angrily. He smacked Rob again. “You gonna fight me?”
“No-“
“Huh? Say it louder, bitch! Ya gonna fight me?!”
“No, sir-“
He smacked him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I’m pitiful!” Rob screamed. Tears of humiliation, fear and arousal erupted, and Knuckle shook his head. He smacked him over and over again. He took his cock out and flopped it over Rob’s face. He jabbed it, half-hard, like he was trying to stab Rob’s eyes out with it.
“Fuck you! Fuck you!” He pulled Rob’s jaws apart and slapped his dick right down into Rob’s mouth. His cock was still half-limp and rank from his sweaty boxers. He used all his weight to ram his dick in, pushing Rob’s head onto the floor.
He pivoted his hips, making Rob gag more violently than he ever had before. He couldn’t breathe, he could only retch at the rancid smell of Knuckle’s unclean cock. He got hard as soon as he got his dick wet, and it throbbed in Rob’s throat.
“Ah, damn, I wasn’t gonna admit this no matter what, pansy, but you swallow dick pretty good. If you was my girl, I’d tie you up in my basement, bitch.” He paused. “That’s a compliment, by the way.”
He pulled his dick out at last, and Rob took a deep, hoarse breath. He was dizzy, his lungs begging for oxygen. “Thank you, sir. I’d love to be tied up in your basement.”
“Hey, you okay in there?!” A female voice called out from outside — it sounded like Destiny, the stripper who was a friend of Knuckle’s. It was she who had assured him that the strip club wouldn’t intervene if Rob did get Knuckle to agree to some rough trade.
Knuckle looked down at Rob and raised one eyebrow. “I ain’t lettin’ you out till I’m done, so you best tell her you okay.”
Rob’s voice was hoarse and scratchy. “Yeah, I’m fine!”
“Okay… Have fun, Rob…” Destiny giggled and whispered something. A few girls giggled as they walked away.
The champagne room was very hot and humid, and Knuckle was drenched in sweat. Rob started licking his balls without being prompted. Knuckle grunted like he was going to punish Rob for doing something without permission, but then it felt so good he didn’t want to stop. He moaned.
“Get ya tongue out while you suck my balls, and really suck on ‘em,” Knuckle said. “Make some noise. Slurp ‘em. Slurp ‘em like a prison bitch.”
The salty, acidic taste of ballsweat made Rob’s eyes water all over again. He snaked his tongue out over the underside of his balls. Sweat poured into his mouth as Knuckle shook his body from side to side. He picked his balls up and plopped them back in Rob’s mouth. Rob slurped like he was sucking soda out of a nearly empty cup.
Then he switched back and forth between balls and cock. He dropped his balls in Rob’s mouth and groaned as he wiggled them around, then took his balls out and rammed his dick all the way in until Rob choked. Then he wiggled his hips around again to make Rob gag.
He pulled out and grabbed Rob by the throat, cutting him off from gasping. He dragged Rob across the room by the throat, peering him in the eyes. “I’m gonna stick ya in the ass now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s gonna hurt. I don’t use lube. I’m gonna make you bloody, if you ain’t too loose already,” he said. He was breathing heavy as though barely in control of his actions; it almost looked like he was imitating someone specific. His wild eyes were in a frenzy. Rob could definitely see why the strippers were afraid of him.
“Yes, sir-” Rob yelped in pain. Knuckle’s finger jammed into his asshole, all the way in. Rob’s hole puckered. He moaned as his pain was replaced by pleasure, and his dick rocketed to attention. Knuckle saw it, spat and punched Rob, which made him moan harder. Blood poured from his nose.
“You like it when you get punched wit’ a finger in ya ass?”
“Yes, sir,” Rob said through his tears. His dick spasmed, precum leaking out. Every time Knuckle punched him, the pain grew worse and his prostate came alive a little more.
“That is nasty. You know when I was in prison, this is how I punished my bitch. He used to cry and beg me to stop. But I ain’t never stop. I like hearin’ that sound. Makes me hard. And you like it?” He spat on Rob’s face. “You sicken me.”
“Yes, sir.” Rob sighed in relief as Knuckle withdrew his finger. But that lasted only a moment. He rammed his entire dick in with one smooth motion of his hips. Rob was loose from both arousal and the lube he had applied earlier — he knew from experience that Knuckle was not likely to bother. Alphas like him rarely did.
Knuckle grabbed Rob by his hair and ground his face into the floor. He spat over and over onto Rob’s cheeks, and on his tongue that lolled out of his open mouth. He punched Rob every few seconds in his side, not as hard as he could, but hard enough to hurt, and to make Rob’s ass clench around his cock.
“You like this, ya nasty? Huh? You disgustin’ piece of trash…”
“I love it, sir, I love it.”
He stopped moving. He hissed. “I’m gonna tell you a secret, pansy,” he said. “Ya know that story I just told ‘bout punishin’ my bitch by punchin’ him when he sittin’ on my cock?”
“Yes…” Rob had trouble concentrating due to the pain and pleasure simultaneously assaulting his senses.
“I tell every deadbeat I beat up that story to scare ‘em off ever comin’ back to this club. If they do come back, I make ‘em lick my asshole the next time. If they come back a third time, then I make ‘em my prison bitch for the night in the alley around back.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But that story is a lie,” he said. “If you ever tell anyone this, pansy, I will kill you. I swear to god, I will kill you in the most horrendous way I can think of. I will track down your mama and strike her dead too. Get me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I was the prison bitch in that scenario. I was owned by a black. I was little then, I wasn’t as big as I am now.” He paused, then he spat on Rob’s face again. “So that’s why I hate blacks. And cops, and bitches, and Mexicans and just ‘bout everyone else too. And ‘specially you, bitch.” He wrapped his hand around Rob’s throat and squeezed. “I could choke you to death right now, and you’d prolly like it. I would too. I don’t wanna go to back to prison, but I would. You’d prolly get off on that, huh?”
“Yes, sir.”
He moved his dick from side to side, twitching it inside Rob’s ass. That caused mind-blowing agony and ecstasy to course through Rob’s veins. He squealed and squirmed.
“If you ever tell anyone that, motherfucker, I will bury you alive! I will rip ya goddamn head off! Ya hear me?!”
“Yes, sir! I swear!”
He choked Rob more. He smacked his face, then put both hands on his cheeks and pressed down with all his might as he slammed his dick in and out. Rob screamed and came onto the floor. The most potent orgasm of his life ran through his body. He shot a big wad of cum that sprayed over the grimy linoleum beneath him.
Then he felt Knuckle’s orgasm as well. It was a thick and creamy load, hot, sticky, spreading throughout Rob’s body. It was tremendously satisfying, and they both sighed. For just a moment, Knuckle seemed almost caring as he rubbed Rob’s head and shoulders.
“Fuckin’ nasty, I oughta rip the asshole right off ya body.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then he pushed Rob down again. He pulled his dick out and flopped its limp, rubbery shaft all over Rob’s face. Raunchy assjuice spread down his chin, and Rob licked it clean. He loved sucking ass off limp dicks, so he guzzled down every drop even as it made him gag over and over again.
Like he was in a rush to leave, Knuckle stood up as soon as he was done. He kicked Rob to the ground and walked out the door, stark naked. He turned around before he shut the door.
“Where’s that money, pervert?”
Rob stretched and sighed. He grabbed his wallet out of his pants. He passed the money to Knuckle, while a few girls giggled at the sight of Knuckle’s bare ass and muscled back, which dripped with sweat.
“Put some damn clothes on, Knuckle!”
Knuckle ignored them and counted the money. He scowled and turned around. “I’ve got spare clothes in the back,” he said. “For just this kind of occasion.” He closed the door behind himself. The last thing Rob heard him say was, “Don’t nobody go in there. You don’t wanna see that.”
That was fine with Rob. This fantasy had worked out even better than he had hoped. He licked his own mess off the floor, then masturbated a few more times before drifting off to sleep. He sighed as he heard the strippers leave for the night. He curled up with Knuckle’s nasty clothes — which had been dirty even before they were covered in piss and sweat and cum on the floor of the champagne room. Rob sucked on Knuckle’s musky boxers like a security blanket.
He was going to take those boxers home with him. They ought to last him, he thought, until his next bout of alpha male action.

The Shotputter

At a championship in Riyadh, the massive Norwegian shotputter Arnold Thikkerson has trouble meeting women. He’s too big, too rough and just perfect for the photographer Bart, who is eager to service all of his hard to please parts!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Arnold Thikkersen looked around the Olympic Village. It looked so utterly normal, he thought — the buildings weren’t exactly like the stacks of squat bricks that covered his Massachusetts home, but they were similar — they were pale pastel, with balconies and yellow plaster. They looked more like the apartment buildings in New Mexico, where Arnold’s ex-wife now lived. He supposed that made sense. New Mexico was a desert just like Saudi Arabia, so they have similar buildings.
He took a deep breath and looked beyond the gated boundary that he hadn’t seen the other side of since arriving here. Could he leave the Olympic Village? He was allowed to. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
What if he broke a law out there? He’d rot in a Saudi prison while the American press ran articles about how foolish he was for it. What would he even do out there? There were no bars, no drinking, no dancing, no marijuana, no popular music, no interacting with women, no churches, no strip clubs, no beaches — there was nothing that Arnold wanted.
He just felt like a loser hanging around in the Olympic Village. He thought he shouldn’t feel like that. He wasn’t a loser — literally — he had just won a gold medal in the shot-put. He could throw a heavy ball farther than anyone else on Earth.
For whatever the fuck that was worth.
He passed underneath a balcony whence came a torrent of charismatic laughter. He didn’t have to look up there to see who it was. He recognized one of the voices as Charlie McDarnell, a champion volleyball player and six-packed stud who had lost for his team. It was Charlie’s error that meant the Americans were shut out of the volleyball medals this year. Charlie should have been humiliated. If it were Arnold, he’d be kicking himself, cursing his own name, refusing to leave his hotel room. But Charlie McDarnell just ran his fingers through that goddamn mane of blond hair like a Barbie — Arnold, who had started balding when he was nineteen, hated Charlie very much — and laughed with his buddies, all of whom were volleyball jocks with perfect hair and an unblemished record of never eating a carb. The media loved them. After they lost, they all got to go on NBC and meet Ann Currie and they even got to make a statement on the Goughman issue — that was a country singer, Albert Goughman, who had made intolerant statements about Samoan people. It had no relevance to the Olympics, to volleyball, to shot-put, to Saudi Arabia or to athletics in general, but the volleyball players, as a reward for losing, got to go on TV and talk about how terrible Goughman was.
Arnold had won, and no one wanted him on TV. No one cared about shot-put. The volleyball players even had some girls up there — Japanese girls, by the sound of their twinkling laughter. No Japanese girls had come to see Arnold. At the World Track and Field Championship in Osaka last year, Arnold had been mobbed by Japanese girls and thought he was finally becoming a real celebrity, only to discover that they had no idea he was a champion shot-putter — they had probably never heard of the shot-put. They had only mobbed him because he looked like an ogre. They thought it was funny and wanted to take pictures with the massive white man with the physique of an ogre.
Arnold had never been so humiliated. And that was after winning the shot-put there too. He was almost undefeated in shot-put. Literally not a single journalist had come to him since he won the gold medal. No one cared about shot-put.
He knew it was because of the way he looked. Not just him, but all the shot-put “stars”, in as much as there was such a thing. They were all big, squat bulls like him.
Arnold was bald, scalp shaved smooth, and frumpy, unfashionable no matter what he did. He once hired an agent who put him in “hot” clothes, only to laugh at how ridiculous he looked when he was dressed. He was tall and stout, barrel-chested, muscular like a moose — not fat by any means, he was a bodybuilder, he just didn’t have a six-pack. Shot-put didn’t require a six-pack. It didn’t require him to shave his shoulders either, nor to cover up the blemishes on his skin with concealer — that was what Henri Delameur (the French volleyball star and sex symbol) did, Arnold saw him do it. He didn’t understand what made volleyball players handsome but shot-putters grim ogres. He thought he was reasonably attractive. He was balding, sure, but he shaved his head so that wasn’t obvious. He was muscular and thick all over. He worked on his body, he was in good health. But still, girls ignored him and the media treated him like crap.
Arnold stood by the gate out from the Olympic Village. There was a press conference going on outside. Some handsome Canadian runner was giving a speech or something, Arnold didn’t know. He didn’t want to see the man’s dimples or his trim, neat body.
Arnold wished he had become a runner. He didn’t have the physique for it, of course, but maybe if he had been training for that since middle-school, he would have the physique for it by now.
“Okay, sweetie, you gotta relax. Smile. Smile like you enjoy smiling-“
“I am smiling.”
“Smile better. You’re smiling like a witch who’s seen a child has fallen into her trap,” said a lilting male voice.
Arnold turned around to see a woman having her picture taken. She was a wrestler, wearing a red, white and blue singlet that accentuated her curvy body. Actually, Arnold thought as he watched her awkwardly smile, she was well-beyond curvy. She was thick like he was.
She wasn’t exactly sexy. She was certainly no Hollywood starlet. But she was pretty in her way; she was thick, buxom, rubenesque and heavy. She was brimming with a peculiar sort of beauty, a very solid, firm beauty. Her beauty had gravity — that’s not a fat joke, it’s like a serious voice has ‘gravity’ — her beauty had the gravity of a warrior, and any sane man would give it all to worship at her massive body.
Arnold sure would. But he couldn’t approach her in a place like this. Or any place. He scuffed his feet and looked down at the ground. He felt too big, like a moose among mice.
She scoffed. “I can’t do this, Bart-“
“You can! You’re so beautiful!” Bart, the flamboyant photographer — who was tiny but had a large presence — kept snapping photos as he called out instructions to her. “Pretend you’ve just seen someone you know, someone you haven’t seen in a long time. Wave to them. They’re far away. They’re farther away than that. Is that how you wave?”
“I don’t know! The more you talk about waving, the less I’m able to wave! I’m not doing this, Bart! You got your stupid fucking picture,” said the woman — Paundy Sappelslim, American silver medalist. She adjusted the straps of her singlet and scowled. She scurried away with barely a glance in Arnold’s direction.
Arnold watched her go. She was hot enough for him. He didn’t mind a thick girl — which was good because he was thick too, and small girls wouldn’t give him the time of day. He wondered if he should go after her.
Bart glanced up at Arnold. “Don’t bother.”
“What?”
“You’re trying to decide whether to go hit on her, right? Don’t bother. She won’t be into you. She just got married.” Bart sniffed. “He’s tiny. Korean. Banker. It’s weird.”
“Oh.” He frowned. “Oh. Well, shit.”
“She doesn’t wear a wedding ring to competitions.”
“Ah. I see.” Arnold looked down at his feet.
“Sorry.” Bart put his camera away. He carefully packed it in its own case, then put that in his satchel. To it he added his laptop, the external hard drive for it, the four thumb drives he used to find the one thumb drive he wanted, his other phone, his charger and the ipad he always thought of as “the downstairs ipad”, even though he hadn’t kept it downstairs in years.
All the while, he sensed the heavyset powerhouse shot putter Arnold Thikkerson looking at him. Bart made sure to aim his ass in Arnold’s direction. Bart had a love for men’s physiques, and Arnold’s was an especially remarkable example of one. His heft was magnificent, powerful as a stallion and tall as a gorilla. But he had an adorable sheepishness that Bart liked as well.
“So you’re like a media guy?”
“I’m a photographer,” Bart said. “Her media consultant hired me to take pics during the Olympics.”
“Oh, so you can’t help, uh… someone else?”
“I can’t give you media advice, no. I could take your picture,” Bart said. He smiled.
Arnold blushed. He thought he should just walk away right now, but an idea occurred to him, and he wanted to try it even if it was awkward. What was the worst that could happen? Bart could say no. “Do you…? Like, I know, uh… a lotta dudes, like… know a lotta girls. Like… here. So, like, I was hoping… uh… do you know… any girls in the Olympic Village… who might like me?” Arnold’s big square face was bright red. His cheeks jiggled. “Uh… I mean… Like, for… me, I, uh…” He didn’t want to stammer, but it always happened when he was nervous.
If people knew, they’d be shocked — everyone had told him he’d get laid all the time in the Olympic Village. They thought the Olympics being in Riyadh would mean everyone stayed in, so all those Olympic athletes would be hanging around waiting to bang. They thought any athlete, especially a gold-medal winner, would be swimming in women.
Whereas Arnold had barely even talked to a female in the entire time he’d been in Saudi Arabia.
“You want me to hook you up with a girl? Paundy there is the only woman I know here, sorry,” Bart said. “I can’t, uh…” He noticed Arnold grabbing his dick through his baggy gym shorts. Arnold’s eyes were low and dim, and Bart felt bad for him. “I might be able to help in a different way though.”
Arnold was ideal, as far as Bart was concerned, skin blemishes and all. Bart blushed as he looked him up and down. Arnold wore a sleeveless muscle shirt — was that what he wore to pick up chicks? No wonder he couldn’t get laid. Girls didn’t want to see his bulging, fleshy arms and hairy pits. He smelled like a locker room and athlete’s foot powder, and he exuded heat like a furnace.
Bart, however, was glad to be with him. He smiled at Arnold. “You wanna come with me? I’ll do you!”
Arnold’s eyes opened wide. “Really?!”
Bart was surprised that he was so eager. A lot of men were willing to get their dick wet without a woman, but Arnold was jumping to agree. Bart would have offered him money if he was reluctant. It was nice to save a few dollars. “Yeah. Really.”
“Oh shit, that’s awesome, man. Do you think I could get a cover on Men’s Fitness? They have it at my gym and I want the guys I lift weights with to see it. I really wanna be in a action movie too, and I know I got the physique for it-“
“I’m sorry, Arnold, I think I misspoke. I didn’t mean ‘I’d do you’ like I’ll be your media consultant. I won’t do that. Sorry. You have a bull face. You’re not television material,” Bart said. He felt bad saying that, but it was true, and it didn’t do Arnold any good to pretend there was some chance he’d wake up tomorrow a heartthrob. “You’re not going to be the hero of any action movie. Maybe a villain’s henchman. Maybe.”
Arnold was crestfallen. “Oh.”
“I’m sorry, I know that’s harsh, but… That’s the way it is,” Bart said. He touched Arnold’s bicep and shivered with desire. “What I was saying was that I’d be glad to make you feel better.”
Arnold scuffed his feet and wrinkled his nose. He only half-paid attention to Bart at all, and didn’t pick up on his hints. “Oh. Cool.”
“I can act like a girl in the ways that matter…” Bart’s voice trailed off because it was obvious Arnold wasn’t listening.
“Sweet.” Arnold furrowed his brow. “Do you think, if I’d been running since I was eleven, would I have a six-pack?”
“That’s such a weird question.” Bart shrugged. “I don’t know, Arnold.” He hugged Arnold around the chest — since Bart was so short, his arms wrapped over Arnold’s ribs. Bart’s face pressed into his meaty belly, and he reached up to clasp Arnold’s biceps.
“Uh.” Arnold grunted. He felt like he should be annoyed, but he wasn’t — he sort of liked it. Not many people liked him like that. Most physically small people (and children) were scared of him. A drunk, petite man had literally run screaming away from him when they bumped into each other in a darkened alley in Chicago a couple years ago.
Arnold furrowed his brow as he stood there, wondering if anyone could see Bart’s hands caressing his muscles. Why didn’t girls ever want to touch him like this?
“Do you want to get your nut off, big boy?” Bart asked. He smirked as Arnold gasped and sputtered, muscles flexing beneath Bart’s tender grasp.
“Uh, oh, uh, uh… Oh! Shit, I mean… Damn… Oh, I ain’t, uh… I ain’t no perv or nothin’,” Arnold said.
“Well, good, but you didn’t answer the question though. Is that a yes? Come on, baby.” He took Arnold’s big meaty paw in his hand and walked him into a nearby building, an apartment inhabited by soccer players. They were all at the medal ceremony now (Spain won, with Belgium getting the silver and Cameroon the bronze), so the building was empty.
Bart led Arnold’s stiff, nervous body into the common area, where there was a mostly empty utility closet. He closed the door behind them, and Arnold grunted. His mind whirred. He hadn’t agreed to this, but on the other hand, thinking about an orgasm had made his cock stir in his jockstrap prison. He wanted to get a nut off so bad.
It wouldn’t really count, would it? Arnold didn’t think so. It was just jacking off with another guy.
Before he knew it, Bart’s hand was on his crotch, stroking his dick through his gym shorts. Arnold sucked in his breath. Pervy or not, he was doing this. He needed it.
He closed his eyes and bit his lip. Bart tried to remove Arnold’s shirt, but he was too short, and after a minute or two of awkward fumbling, Arnold just took it off himself. Bart kept stroking his dick through his shorts though, and he licked Arnold’s massive pectorals.
As a champion shot-putter, Arnold had long focused on his upper arms, shoulders and pecs. Those were the muscles that propelled the shot through the air. His pecs flexed beneath Bart’s lips, while Bart’s hand slid underneath those gym shorts and into the pouch of his jockstrap.
“You’re not gonna make me kiss you with tongue, are you?” Arnold said. He blushed, then worried he might have offended Bart said, “I mean… no tongue, and not after you taste my dick. No french-kissing, okay?”
Bart giggled. It was like making out with an overgrown high schooler. “Okay. No tongue.” Bart didn’t normally try to get men to kiss, but he wasn’t going to turn it down. He hopped up and hugged Arnold’s body with his arms and legs, mounting his big barrel chest and planting his lips right on Arnold’s.
Arnold’s last serious girlfriend had been furious when he tried to have sex with her without kissing — not because he was opposed to kissing, he just didn’t think about it. It didn’t seem important. She had said it was important, that was why he assumed Bart would want a kiss — as long there was no tongue and he didn’t taste like dick, Arnold figured it wasn’t even a big deal.
He felt Bart’s lips on his. It wasn’t bad. He could feel an erect firm bulge pressing against his belly, that was a little weird and offputting. But at least Bart’s dick was still in his pants.
Arnold stood there, letting Bart kiss his mouth — which was pursed shut tightly — and caress his broad shoulders. Arnold finally had enough and let him down gently. Bart kissed until he couldn’t reach anymore, and then he kissed a trail down Arnold’s neck and his broad chest until he got to his crotch.
“Hmmmm… You’re really handsome, Arnold. Girls should give you more of a chance,” Bart said. He pulled down Arnold’s shorts and jockstrap, and that massive foot-long dick flopped right out. Bart slapped his own face with it — it was just slightly soft, which was the perfect texture to just play with it a bit, Bart thought. He giggled at the shocked look on Arnold’s face. “What…? Hasn’t anyone ever slapped themselves with your cock before?”
“No.”
“Well, you should make guys get you off more,” Bart said with a shrug. He put the tip in his mouth and suckled, loudly and moistly, letting little drops of saliva drip onto the floor of the utility closet. He didn’t try to deep-throat him at first, waiting for that veiny shaft to get fully hard first.
“Ah, goddamn, shit…” Arnold hadn’t been serviced like this in a long time, maybe ever, he thought as he watched Bart slide all the way down on his dick. Not many women even tried to deep-throat him.
They certainly didn’t do it like this! Arnold sucked in his breath and threw his head back. He held onto Bart’s head, not plowing into his throat, just gripping it and rubbing his scalp. Without even his own conscious awareness, Arnold began humping Bart’s throat gently, making Bart gurgle and moan.
“Hmmm…” Bart pulled off and smacked his lips. His tongue ran down Arnold’s shaft and he suckled on those massive long-hanging balls. The sweat was intense and salty there, and it tasted like the precum that dripped down his shaft.
Bart kept teasing him with his tongue, making Arnold’s whole body shake. Arnold’s muscles tensed as he resisted his urge to hold Bart in place and ram down his throat. His belly smacked Bart in the forehead.
“You wanna stick me?”
Arnold’s eyes opened wide again. “In the ass?”
Bart giggled. He dropped his own pants and stroked his erect dick. “I still don’t have a vagina, so yeah, it’ll have to be the ass.”
“Oh…” Arnold had never fucked a woman in the ass. He was embarrassed of that gap in his sexual history, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He didn’t realize that Bart had already guessed it.
Bart leaned over the supply closet shelf and jutted his ass back. He usually had a tube of lube in his pocket, from which he smeared some on his ass with one hand, while his other hand kept a tight hold on Arnold’s dick. Bart thought it was cute — like a lot of big, horny guys, he wouldn’t do anything with his dick in someone’s hand. As long as Bart gently stroked his erect cock, Arnold did little more than grunt and gasp and stamp his feet, waiting for his dick to enter Bart’s tight hole.
“Okay, big boy, I’m ready-” Bart was surprised by how quickly Arnold moved.
He felt like his cock was about ready to burst. Arnold gurgled nervously, but his body moved of its own accord. In moments, his dick rubbed between Bart’s tight asscheeks. That hole looked too tight to be even remotely capable of taking his dick, Arnold thought.
But Bart was an expert. Of course he would know if he could take it. Arnold grimaced, closed his eyes and slid in. He couldn’t believe he was plowing into a man — and even more than that, he couldn’t believe how good it felt.
There was nary a moment of resistance. Pleasure wracked Arnold’s body from the second he entered him, and Bart’s ass clenched around his dick.
A burst of pain hit Bart first, but that quickly melted away as his body adjusted. Arnold’s heavy upper body rubbed against Bart’s sensitive, smooth back — he loved the imperfections of Arnold’s chest, the shaved-yet-scruffy hair that collected in the hard-to-trim places (Arnold was very curvy, so there were a lot of hard-to-shave spots), the few scars and little scratchy bumpy areas. Arnold didn’t use a moisturizer.
But those imperfections were one of the things Bart liked most about thick and chunky men. He jutted his ass back harder and harder, impaling himself on Arnold’s dick, until he was entirely inside him, and Bart lost himself in Arnold’s massive arms.
“Goddamn!” Arnold grunted and groaned. His ex-girlfriend had always hated how he made so much noise during sex — not arousing moans either, but little mewling grunts like a caveman, she had said. It was nice to be with someone who wasn’t so sensitive to that.
Arnold soon realized he could ramrod as hard as he wanted — that was another thing Bart did better than any female. Arnold could ram his dick in and out with all his might, and it just made Bart moan louder and louder, begging for more.
“Stick me, big boy!” Bart shouted.
“Aaah…” Arnold felt his orgasm welling up deep within him, and he had to suppress an urge to shout — he didn’t want anyone to hear him; the building was empty, but there were still security and maintenance people around.
Bart’s prostate was alive with pleasure, sending overwhelming waves of bliss through him. His hands tightened into claws that tore at the shelves beneath him, and he accidentally knocked a roll of paper towels onto the floor. His face was covered in sweat, though Arnold’s hefty body was even sweatier. Bart could feel his thickbody sweat flowing down his chest and coating Bart’s back.
Cum flew into him, great creamy gobs of it that coated his insides and flowed throughout his body. Arnold shot a load as big as he was, his cum having been cooped up in those low-hanging balls for a long time. His cock and his sac twitched as he sprayed his wad deep into Bart’s ass.
He had never felt anything like it. Arnold wordlessly shouted, no longer needing to focus on being quiet because he was unable to make a noise if he wanted to, beyond his horse-like whinnying and nostril-flaring. He kept Bart in a tight chokehold — not actually choking him, just preventing him from moving while Arnold drained his balls deep into Bart’s ass.
“Shit…” Arnold said with a throaty chuckle. “Shit…..”
“Thanks for that,” Bart said. He slipped off Arnold and sighed as relief flooded his body. That had felt so good he was dizzy now, positively delirious with the post-orgasmic spams still wracking his body. Arnold’s muscles rippled where they pressed against Bart’s back.
“Yeah, uh… Cool. You too.”
“Congrats on the gold medal,” Bart said. He wiped up Arnold’s body with those paper towels he had knocked onto the ground. Then they both awkwardly got dressed in the tiny closet.
“So you can’t make me a star?”
“Not unless you grow a better head of hair, a six-pack and some dimples,” Bart said. “Later.” He slipped out, leaving Arnold there to sigh with a mixture of disappointment and satisfaction.
This trip to Saudi Arabia was turning out better than he had hoped, Bart thought, even if his photoshoot hadn’t gone well. He still needed to get a casual shot of her. Just one picture in which she looked comfortable and happy in her own skin.
But he was already distracted, wondering when the next shot-put championship would be. Bart planned on being there to get another taste of his favorite athlete so far.

The Raunchy Trucker

Elton is in for a raunchy experience, when he accidentally goes into an anything-goes cruising showerhouse at a truck stop, so a bevy of the filthiest, nastiest truckers around make Elton as disgusting as possible. Can Elton make it out of there?

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Read the whole thing here!

At the Ramwide Truck Stop near Tuscaloosa, Alabama, Elton didn’t notice a small placard on the door. He had pulled over to use the bathroom — he drove a four-door sedan, not a truck, but he had to piss real bad and he was a frequent visitor to other truck stops. He hoped to both drain his bladder and maybe get a nut off in the showerhouse. Ramwide Truck Stops were notorious cruising spots, full of nasty men who didn’t mind jerking off another fellow.
That was good for Elton, who was single now and sometimes needed a little release. Plus, he needed to piss.
The placard he ignored said ‘This building is for adults-only, and it is a free-for-all. If you go in here, you are signaling your consent to anything that occurs in this building. There is another showerhouse nearby without this sign.’ Elton would have gone to the other showerhouse if he’d known it was an option or if he’d seen the placard.
But he didn’t see it. He didn’t even realize it was a showerhouse until he went in, he assumed it was simply a bathroom. His Ramwide Truck Stop — the one near his house — didn’t have two showerhouse options. There was just one, and there was usually some mincing pervert in there jacking off men. The parking lot of this truck stop was filled with semis. Maybe that was the difference between the two truck stops, the one by Elton’s house didn’t see many actual truckers, it was just a pit stop for ordinary drivers. This one only really saw truckers come through. The non-truck area of the parking lot was tiny, and Elton’s car was the only one there.
Elton did not realize any of that. He didn’t even see the placard, much less read it and heed it. He entered the anything-goes showerhouse.
There was a large, wide open showering area with those old-fashioned pillar showers, the entire inside looked old-fashioned, Elton thought, like something out of an early twentieth century dormitory shower. A dozen naked truckers stood among the showerhead-pillars, silently staring at Elton. They were hairy and burly, decked with muscle like bulls, nostrils flaring as they looked him up and down.
He nodded and blushed. He considered leaving because the men made him uncomfortable, but he thought it would look weak. He’d be humiliated even if no one but he and these truckers knew about it. He went to the trough urinal. He always hated those — he was sensitive about his cock size — but luckily no one else was here.
But the truckers were staring at him. He could tell. They were completely silent, but he knew they weren’t silent before he walked in. That meant they had stopped talking to watch him. If he had known about the sign, he would have surely fled.
It was one of those truckers who joined him at the trough, before Elton could even start concentrating on peeing. A man had followed him in, a burly trucker with a rough-and-tumble mustache, a very small gut and bulging shoulder muscles that were bared by his sleeveless shirt. He went by the name Manky, and on his face a lifetime of brawling left remnants in the form of his crooked, squat nose and off-kilter chin.
He whipped out the most massive dong Elton had ever seen. It was thicker than Elton’s forearm and longer than his feet. Manky wasn’t shy about it, and he stood right next to Elton even though he had plenty of room at the trough. He flopped his dick left and right.
“Whatchoo think?”
Elton blushed intensely. He had always been embarrassed about his dick size. It was just barely three inches long fully erect, and it was much shorter right now because it was a chilly day (though warm in the showerhouse) and he was scared. It shriveled up even as he looked down at it, wishing he could pee.
Manky aimed his dick at Elton’s dick and let his piss stream. He laughed when Elton jumped away, and he aimed his piss at Elton instead.
“You got a small dick, boy. Somethin’ wrong wit’choo?”
“No…”
“Well then you made a real mistake comin’ in here,” Manky said. “Get in the trough.”
“What?”
“Lay down in there. Now,” Manky said. He grabbed Elton and tossed him against the wall.
Elton yelped, and he looked around frantically for a way out. The truckers surrounded him, and he’d have to pass through a dozen of them to make it to the door. That was the only door too. There weren’t even any windows in this showerhouse except a couple narrow slits up near the ceiling. Elton would need a ladder to get up to them, and even then he probably wouldn’t fit through them.
That trucker Manky laughed, along with the others, at the terrified look on Elton’s face. Manky grabbed him again, and he threw him into the urinal trough. The stainless steel was sticky, and it was rank with the smell of piss. Elton instantly gagged. The acrid smell hit his nostrils and made his eyes water.
“Please, wait, stop!”
He punched Elton hard in the belly, hard enough to hurt, though the angle was off for Manky to punch as hard as he could. It was enough to knock the wind out of Elton. All the watching truckers guffawed. Elton writhed, gasping for air, as Manky let his hog loose and aimed it at Elton in the trough.
For a moment, nothing happened. Elton wondered if this was it, maybe it was a prank and Manky just wanted to teach him a lesson, to show that he could put him in the urinal trough and piss on him. Maybe now he’d let Elton go.
But no, Manky was serious. He sighed and let out a crooked smile when he began urinating. Piss flowed over Elton’s shirt and soaked into his skin. The bitter taste of it hit Elton’s senses, even though he shut his lips. The truckers howled from all around the showerhouse, and one of them came running.
He was a lanky mustachioed trucker with tattoos covering his hairy chest and a big swinging dick. He started pissing even before he got to the trough. “Hot damn, a ppissy piggie!” He sprayed his piss right in Elton’s gagging face, and he started making oinking hog-like noises. Manky hadn’t even finished pissing yet, so now Elton had two streams of hot urine landing on him.
“Oink! Oink!”
Elton sputtered and screamed, the truckers in the shower at the other end all coming over to watch. Then, before the first one had even begun, they all began pissing as well. The acrid urine washed over Elton’s face and soaked into his clothes. His mouth filled and overflowed with it.
“Oink, oink, pervert! Ya fuckin’ suit, comin’ in here like the pussy you is! You deserve this, piss-face!”
The oinks filled the air and resonated in the linoleum-tiled shower. It was deafening to Elton, who yelled and sobbed. He had no idea how long it lasted. It felt like he was drowning, like that piss filled his lungs. He kept trying to crawl out of the trough, but Manky shoved him back in over and over.
But finally it was done, or seemed to be — those two truckers were finished urinating. A few men showered on the other side of the showerhouse, chatting about football, as though they didn’t notice or care what was happening to Elton. Elton weakly climbed out of the trough only for Manky to shove him back in.
“C’mon, please-“
“Nah. You my piss-piggy. Our piss-piggy,” Manky said. He chuckled. “You don’t get out til I say you can get out.” He licked his teeth and looked Elton up and down. “Alright, you can get out.”
Elton thought maybe that was it, but Manky grabbed him by the hair and dragged him out of the urinal trough. His skin was soaked with piss. Manky didn’t seem to care about the urine getting everywhere. Elton screamed, but the sound of the men talking, oinking, showering, carrying on, all that overpowered Elton’s screams. Even someone walking directly past the showerhouse, like three feet from where Elton was right now, wouldn’t be able to tell that someone was screaming in here.
“C’mon piss piggie, you really did it now. I hope you love being a raunchy little bottom,” he said. “Actually scratch that. I hope you ain’t love it. I like making piss piggies squirm.”
He shoved Elton to the ground on his belly, then squatted behind him and rammed his cock — still only half-hard — into Elton’s ass. Elton screamed, and the truckers resumed their oinking.
“Oink, oink, little piggie! You came in the wrong shower fo’ sho’!”
The pain in his ass was indescribably intense, and it had only just begun. Elton wanted to writhe in agony, but Manky kept one hand on his scalp and one on the back of his neck, forcing him to remain in the same position, flat on his belly. Manky pounded his cock into him.
He grunted and hissed in Elton’s ear. His skin was tan and dirty, he smelled like car exhaust, or like diesel fumes. He had a hairy chest, and the fur scratched at Elton’s back as Manky’s muscles weighed him down.
Someone turned the showers on, so lukewarm water sprayed over Elton’s face. As least that, he thought cleaned off some of the piss. That hadn’t slowed down Manky, whose grimy face suggested he had never cared about cleanliness — as he rutted like an animal, he licked Elton’s cheek, nibbled on his ear and felt up every inch of his piss-covered body. Oink! Oink! Elton cried into the linoleum as Manky humped his dick into full erection.
“Don’t worry, lil piggie, I can make you open up…”
Whenever he encountered resistance, he punched Elton in the ribs, resulting in so much pain that Elton loosened his ass. At last Manky’s massive cock was rock hard, ramming into him. He had Elton in a tight hold, both of his hairy arms wrapped around Elton’s chest.
Elton couldn’t help but squirm, even though he could tell that was exactly what Manky wanted. Elton sobbed into his greasy forearms. He even bit down, but Manky seemed to be impervious to pain.
“That piggie got a dick like a pinkie! A pinkie-piggie!”
They rolled over the floor of the showerhouse. One moment Manky was on top, slamming his hips down into Elton’s as though he wanted to shatter it like glass. The next moment, Elton was on top, looking up at the ceiling and trying to get some leverage to pull away.
“Little dick, little pig!” the truckers chanted over and over. They started off jacking themselves off as they watched Manky cornhole Elton, but that soon changed into a circlejerk. They laughed and giggled like children — hairy, tattooed children — as they stroked each other’s fat cocks.
“Please… stop… why?”
“Hey, hey, shut up for a second,” Manky said, yelling for silence. He still had to shout to be heard over the showerheads that continued to spray lukewarm water, but the naked truckers stopped chanting. Manky grabbed Elton’s hair to bring his face up, so everyone could see it. His other tattooed forearm was pinned against Elton’s neck, his foot long cock throbbing in Elton’s guts. Manky kissed him on the ear. “This oinker wants to know why this is happenin’. Who wanna explain?”
One of the truckers stepped forward. He was a hefty man, hairy from head to toe, with long black hair. He looked like he might have some trace of Mexican heritage.
“Alright, little piss-piggie, here’s the deal,” he said. “My name is Skullhole. That ain’t my proper name, in case you was wonderin’. It’s uh… it’s what my prison bitch used to call me.” As he talked, he fed his dick into Elton’s throat. It was already hard because he had been circlejerking with the other truckers, and he leaked precum directly down Elton’s throat.
“Listen up, piss-piggie, pay attention. It’s important,” Manky said, pulling tighter on Elton’s hair to get his attention. Pain blistered up and down Elton’s body.
Skullhole continued. “You’s in the left-hand showerhouse at an Ramwide Truck Stop. They’s sometimes got two men’s showerhouses. One of ’em’s got a sign that say it’s, uh… Sort of a free-for-all. You give up yo’ right to say no by stepping foot inside this showerhouse. It’s a place for real men, men who wanna blow a load but don’t wanna worry ’bout liberal bullshit like consent.”
In one quick motion, Skullhole pulled away from Elton and punched one of the other, younger truckers in the belly. The younger man fell to the ground and groaned. Skullhole grabbed his hair and his neck and bent him over as though he was going to cornhole him just like Manky was doing to Elton.
“Hey, get off me, asshole!” the younger man said, squirming. Skullhole’s hard cock throbbed between his cheeks, but he made no effort to penetrate him.
“See? I could cornhole this young’un right here. I would too, cuz he got a pretty ass, but his daddy is a good man. I owes him a favor,” said Skullhole. He paused. “I will stick my finger in a little, just to make sure he don’t forget I could cornhole him anytime I want.” He rammed one of his fingers in the young man’s ass.
“Get ‘im, Skullhole!”
The young trucker let out an agonized howl, and he squirmed away from Skullhole, who let him go. Then he came back to Elton and rubbed his finger off on Elton’s tongue. The taste of foul asshole and grease hit his senses, making Elton’s eyes bug out. Elton gagged vociferously, even moreso when Skullhole slipped his cock back in.
True to his nom du guerre, Skullhole grabbed ahold of Elton’s head. He rammed his cock down Elton’s throat, ignoring resistance, banging and using all of his weight to get his dick in.
It felt like something in his throat was going to break, but somehow Elton’s gullet stretched to accommodate. Skullhole’s massive dick visible pressed against Elton’s neck from the inside.
“We gonna drown that bitch in cum!”
Skullhole shot a massive load, spraying it so deep in Elton’s throat he didn’t even really taste it. It wasn’t until Skullhole pulled his dick out that Elton tasted a burst of salty cum on his tongue. That massive cock flopped out of his mouth and roped around on his face, leaving a sheen of jizz and spit and who-knew-what fluids.
“Damn, his dick really is little-bitty. That’s basically a clitoris, bitch.”
“Don’t say that, man, I wouldn’t never do none of this to no female. He better be a man.”
He heaved hoarsely for breath. He was dizzy, both from the pain and from lack of oxygen. He was too tired even to cry anymore. He sat submitted limply to Manky’s plowing while he watched the truckers circlejerk above his head.
When the first trucker came, a hefty white man with long black hair and swarthy skin, he stepped forward just as he started moaning. He blushed as his trucker buddies laughed, and his tattooed muscles flexed in rolling waves.
He sprayed his cumwad right on Elton’s open mouth. Elton wanted to look away, but the pain in his ass was so intense he couldn’t bear to. He cried as cum sprayed over his face.
“Here they go, piss-piggie with the li’l prickie,” Manky said with a moan as he pulled his dick all the way out, then slowly reinserted it only when Elton’s asshole lost its numbness. That revitalized the pain in Elton’s ass. His entire body felt like it was tearing apart from the inside out.
More cum sprayed onto his face. He couldn’t even see what was happening anymore, he just felt cum covering him. It was hot and creamy, and it dripped all over him. The truckers didn’t seem to mind getting it on them — which confused Elton, because they talked like he should be humiliated for getting cummed on, but all of them got cummed on too! A lot of the younger truckers disliked circlejerking like this. They had to stroke each other’s greasy hogs. Even just after the shower, most of them remained slick and unclean-feeling, at least to those who weren’t used to it.
To Elton, it all seemed gross. He couldn’t imagine why they were calling him a pervert over and over when he was the only one not willingly participating. They were the perverts, he thought, but even if he could say that out loud right now, nobody was paying attention to his desperate pleas or his cries for help. They jacked each other’s meat as though it was going out of style, and they rubbed their dicks in each other’s cumwads on his face. Manky even got some cum on his hands and face, but he shrugged it off.
The truckers popped off like flies, coating Elton’s face in cum. Manky kept Elton’s head out of the shower water for the most part — he rammed so wildly he slid Elton all over the showerhouse — so the cum collected on his face, along with grime from the floor and spit which Manky continually spat onto Elton’s lips and nose.
Finally the truckers were all done. Huge gobs of cum dripped off his face. He could feel it seeping into his flesh. He knew he’d smell like a cumrag for days no matter how much he cleaned himself. One hairy trucker rubbed his balls over Elton’s face, collecting all of his buddies’s cum so it clung to his unkempt nest of ball-hair.
“Lick it clean, piggie!” He barked over and over.
Elton thought cum had tasted bad, but it tasted even worse when it was mixed with sweaty trucker balls and remnants of soap. The cum coated his tongue and made the salty sweat cling to the inside of his mouth. He struggled not to bite down — he knew that would give him a moment of satisfaction, but he’d probably be killed.
Finally that last brawny trucker walked away, dragging his saliva-dripping balls over Elton’s face. Pitiful weakling. They cackled and clasped each other on the back, repeatedly slapping each other’s asscheeks too. Skullhole even rammed his finger back in the younger trucker’s ass as they walked away from Elton. He wiggled his finger but didn’t stop the younger trucker from scampering away.
“Get the fuck off me, Skullhole, damn…”
“Shut up, li’l one. I still got enough nut in my balls to turn you into my next pussy.”
“Hey piss-piggie, if you stick around we’ll be back in a little while. We’ll ram you in the ass if you want.”
“Or if you don’t.”
“Yeah. If you don’t, we’ll ram you even harder.”
Elton sobbed, his lower half numb now as Manky finished. Elton could feel the orgasm rippling over Manky’s hairy muscles, which weighed down Elton’s back. Manky punched Elton even though he wasn’t resisting. He punched just to make Elton yelp and squirm some more.
“Lemme hear it…” Manky said with a loud moan that made the truckers applaud. He pointed to different spots above Elton’s crotch and around his hips. “Where you think my orgasm is? Huh? Lemme hear it when I point to where you feel it. Huh? Boy? What’s goin’ on?”
The agony was too intense for Elton to speak. He screamed into the linoleum the best he could, but Manky’s belly and chest pressed him down. That made it impossible for him to take a deep breath.
“My orgasm is e’rywhere, boy,” he said with a long, low growl aimed right in Elton’s ear. That made Elton shudder, which in turn sent a shiver of sensitive pain from his sphincter, which clenched.
Cum sprayed into Elton’s ass. It was hot and thick and it seeped into his flesh. He wept into the filthy shower floor. It was so much, it kept coming, wad after wad as though Manky was pumping it in from a reservoir. It stank already, and Elton gagged at the sensation.
“You fillin’ ‘im up now?! Lemme watch!”
A few of the truckers came over and peered just inches from Elton’s asshole. They wrinkled their noses as though they were disgusted, but they still watched intently, like scientists who had no idea how this worked.
“You one nasty-ass truck stop piggie now, bitch.”
But eventually they lost interested. Manky remained atop Elton, his dick so deep it felt like it touched every part of Elton’s innards. Every time Elton moved so much as a breath, it made his asshole ache more. Manky breathed heavy. Elton couldn’t tell if he was still cumming — which seemed impossible — or if it just felt that way because he wiggled has limpening cock, moving cum around and turning it into a frothy mess that spilled out of his ass. It coated Elton’s thighs and soaked into the linoleum floor. Since there was water on the floor, some of that santorum mess floated to Elton’s face and coated him. He tasted his own ass along with the ball-sweat, cum, saliva and more that already covered him.
The truckers filed out, still only half-dressed. They were spent, so they no longer cared. Moments later the sound of their engines roaring filled the air. Elton tried to get up, but Manky was on top of him.
“Damn, piss piggie, that was good,” Manky said with a sigh. The shower was very quiet now that the truckers were gone. Manky’s deep voice was right next to Elton’s ear, so it boomed and echoed.
“Please, get off me…” Elton sobbed.
“If you make it back out that door, you’ll be under the protection of the law,” Manky said, “So I really hope you don’t. I hope you stick around until I’m ready to ram you again.”
He burped into Elton’s face. He lifted his chest up off Elton’s back and ground his dick into Elton’s ass, moving it in a tortuous circle. Elton screamed and gagged intensely now that he could breathe. Manky punched him right in the meaty part of the back, over and over as he finished the after shocks of his orgasm.
Only then did Manky slowly back up so that his fat cock plopped out. “But I’m not gonna stop you from walkin’ out that door, unless you take a long time to get out there. I wanna give you a fair chance. Don’t nevuh say I was all bad, piss-piggie. And goddamn, if that’s the only dick you got, you shouldn’t nevuh whip it out among real men. A man with a cock like that is just beggin’ to get cornholed.”
Elton had to crawl away. When he tried to stand his ass hurt too bad. It took what felt like eons but then he made it to the door as Manky still talked. It was so heavy he strained to open it.
He stumbled outside, stark-naked, and ran into another massive trucker, like Manky but taller. Behind him were a handful more, all with sick smiles on their hairy faces.
“Fuck,” one of them said. “He made it out.”
“We’re too late.”
“Damn it!”
“I’m rammin’ one of you, I swear to god. I am not letting myself get blue-balled again.”
Elton’s naked body gleamed with cum and water, and he pushed through the dirty bodies of the men. They smelled awful too, just like the truckers, but Elton was covered in so much filth he didn’t notice. He just sobbed and staggered forward. They glared at him and muttered insults about his cock size, but Elton didn’t care. He collapsed onto the ground. He might look like a pussy right now. He admitted that. He no doubt looked like a weakling, and his ass hurt so bad he wasn’t sure he’d ever walk normally again.. But he just didn’t care about any of that.
He had made it. He was free.

Humiliated by a Scammer

Zion has no idea his family was targeted by a scammer who took everything they owned, and now it’s Zion’s turn to experience the ultimate in alpha male dominance! Can he submit to the superior man?

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“Look here, Zion, boy, I’m gonna be real upfront wit’cha,” said Uncle Nelson. Zion had trouble concentrating on his words because Uncle Nelson was so intimidating. He was tall, broad shouldered and thick-bodied. He had a dense bristly mustache. He had come over without Zion’s grandmother — who had married Uncle Nelson just a few months ago. He had never come to Zion’s apartment above the family restaurant without her. “I came into ya grandmama’s life wit’ an ulterior motive.”
“Where is she-?”
Nelson slapped him. “Don’t you interrupt me. I put her in a home.”
“What?” Zion’s heart sank. “Where? What?”
He slapped Zion hard. “Make me say it again, nigga! Make me say it again! Shut yo’ mouth!”
Despite his huge size, Uncle Nelson had always been incredibly kind until today. Zion was much smaller and weaker, so he had been scared from the moment his grandmom brought Nelson home from church one day. He was new to the area then, and he had fallen in love with her right away. Nelson was broad and muscular, so strong it looked painful, like he must struggle to carry around all those muscles.
“Now yo’ grandmama signed this whole building over to me,” Nelson said. He paused to see if Zion would interrupt him again, but he didn’t. Zion trembled in front of him. Nelson lightly slapped his cheek again. “Listen Zion boy, you know what liquidate means? Course you don’t, you a dummy. It means when you take somethin’ that ain’t worth much and you take it apart and you use all the parts some other way. Like when a store goin’ outta business, they liquidate it. You feel me, Zion boy?”
“Yeah, man, but where’s my dad-?”
“Yo’ daddy’s in jail, but I’m comin’ to that.” He smiled. “I ain’t a nice nigga, Zion boy. I know I been actin’ nice, but I ain’t nice at all. Yo’ family was not wise to trust me.” He undid his belt and let his pants plop heavily to the floor, then he took his dick out. Zion yelped in surprise — and fear, because it was more than a foot long, veiny and dark, and it smelled vaguely of sweat and pussyjuice — and he tried to stand up, but Nelson pushed him back down. “Lemme just be real frank wit’cha. Yo grandmama married me and signed e’rything over to me. So I own yo’ family’s house and yo’ family’s store and I even own yo’ car, nigga, which by the way, you may not use.”
“You can’t do that-!”
“Already done, nigga. Yo’ daddy’s in jail cuz I tol’ him I put yo’ sister out on the street as a ho if he ain’t sign this murder confession — there was a killin’ I had weighin’ me down, nigga. Not no more,” he said. He carefully folded his pants and put them on the table next to him. Then he picked up his dick as though to display it for Zion’s benefit. He held it in one hand, and Zion was unable to look away from it. It jiggled when Nelson spoke. “Now yo’ sister was a little old to start hoin’, but I’m gonna make it work. She can make me a pretty penny.”
“Wait, what?!”
“I am liquidatin’ yo’ family, nigga. Y’all is a bunch of rank-ass pussies, and I am takin’ ya out,” he said. He thwacked his limp dick over Zion’s face. “You might wanna start lickin”, befo’ I get real mad, Zion boy.”
“My dad is in jail? He-“
But Nelson’s cock pushed into Zion’s mouth, and Nelson chuckled as Zion gagged. His dick was limp and rubbery at first, tasting of salty sweat. Tears welled up in Zion’s eyes. That fat cock rested on his tongue, and when he tried to push it off, Nelson slapped his hands away. He didn’t do anything with his dick, it just rested there, like Zion’s mouth was its new natural home.
Then Nelson swayed, making his limp dick jiggle and jump around, roping over Zion’s face. It was so thick, much thicker than Zion’s, and it smelled like a locker room in a low-cost gym. Zion’s stomach churned.
His mind kept replaying the things Nelson had said. None of that made sense, what did he mean? Zion’s sister was not a prostitute. His father was not a murderer, none of this made sense. Why was Nelson acting like this? But Zion couldn’t formulate any words because he was entranced by the rod of throbbing hot dickfat smearing Nelson’s body odor over every inch of Zion’s face.
“Ah, yeah, this is the part I love,” Nelson said. “No teeth. No hands. No regrets.” He moaned without breaking eye contact with Zion, who felt a flush of embarrassment and looked away. Nelson dug his nails into Zion’s cheeks and forced his eyes back to Nelson’s. “Lookit me when I’s plowin’ you, boy. You mine now, nigga. You should thinka yo’self as a slave, even if the law ain’t allow slaves no more.”
“But, Uncle Nelson, I-“
He laughed, forcing his cock back into Zion’s throat. It was so huge that it didn’t feel real to Zion, who had never seen a cock so big. A few drops of precum hit his tongue, and the electrifyingly salty flavor made Zion gag.
“You still callin’ me uncle, boy? I ain’t yo’ family.” He wrapped his hands around the back of Zion’s head, and began to slowly grind his dick lower and lower in Zion’s throat. “I let you be a busboy in the restaurant. I ain’t gonna pay you a damn dime, but I let ya eat scraps and shit. You may not find any of the waitresses sexy.”
Having been in shock since this began, Zion hadn’t really fought back. But as his throat heaved and his lungs cried out for oxygen, he realized he could fight. He clawed at Nelson’s muscle-bound body and squirmed. His whole body tensed up, but Zion was skinny and lanky, not solid like Nelson.
“Ah, there it is, there you go,” Nelson said. He held tightly onto Zion’s head. “You fightin’ now, huh? That’s normal, that’ll pass. I’m gonna break you, boy. See it used to be that the rule of law weren’t so strong, and weak-kneed motherfuckers like you and yo’ whole family just get took up by some strong motherfucker like me, someone who can make sure you reach yo’ maximum potential. For you…” Nelson laughed, smearing tendrils of spit over Zion’s face as he watched him choke on his massive cock. “Yo’ maximum potential is a busboy who occasionally gets to eat my asshole. Yo’ whole family was garbage, Zion boy. Yo’ granddaddy was worth a damn, but he dead now. You’d have just run this company into the ground. I’m takin’ it.”
Zion squealed and tried to crawl away, but Nelson = punched him again. Pain erupted in Zion’s side, and he collapsed onto the floor. Zion rolled onto his back. Nelson slowly lowered his hefty, broad ass right on Zion’s face. His crack was choked with dark kinky black hairs, which scratched Zion’s skin.
“Lick it up, Zion boy, get ya tongue in there.” When Zion didn’t comply right away, Nelson punched him in the belly. Zion groaned. “Get yo’ tongue inside my asshole now, bitch.”
Zion still wanted to fight, but he was so weak and skinny. His body submitted even as his mind wanted to fight back. His tongue slipped into Nelson’s asshole. The taste of man-funk flooded his senses.
It was so rank, so foul, the flavor overwhelming all of Zion’s other senses. Utter humiliation wracked his body. Only an absolute fool would let another man do this, he thought.
Nelson loudly moaned. His ass-sweat trickled into Zion’s mouth, and Zion gagged so violently his stomach hurt. Nelson sat on his face, all of his weight pressing down on Zion’s head. He was big man, and it felt like Zion’s head was going to cave in. He couldn’t focus on anything but squirming beneath Nelson’s giant body.
“Move ya tongue around some more. How’s my ass taste, boy?”
“Please… stop-” Zion had to shout to be heard through the meat of Nelson’s ass. That made Nelson laugh and pound on Zion’s belly some more.
“Nah, this is yo’ life now, Zion boy, it’s already done. Get used to it.” Nelson rubbed his asshole over Zion’s face, leaving a layer of funk. Zion’s nose dug into his asscrack from top to bottom. “From now on, e’ry time I come into my restaurant, or up here — anytime you see me, basically — I want you to lick my asshole, okay?”
“No!”
Nelson stood up and punched Zion in the belly. Zion screamed and gagged as the rush of fresh air made the assy taste on his tongue even more rancid. He writhed, but Nelson made him stay on his back. “What’d I say? You my slave, bitch. You can leave any time, but I own ya ass. I own this building and I own ya car and I own ya job and I own e’rything here in this apartment. I got ya daddy in jail and ya grandmom in care and ya sister out hoin’. I can decide to drop any one of ’em loose anytime,” he said.
Through his tears, Zion grunted. “I can… do…-“
“You can leave, wit’ nothin’. I will take the shoes off ya feet. I just might break all the bones in yo’ feet too, just to make sure you nevuh work again. You will work for me, Zion, for the rest of your life. Or I will make your whole family’s life hell. Ya feel me?”
“Y…. Yes.”
“Good. Now say ‘I will lick yo’ asshole, Nelson’.”
A sob escaped from Zion’s lips. “I… I will lick ya asshole, Nelson.” Zion’s tears were squashed by Nelson plopping down on his face again.
This time, Zion had no choice but to lap at that funky hole as tears streamed down his cheeks. The filthy, gritty feeling was almost, but not quite, enough to make him forget his sobbing. Nelson guided Zion’s hands around his body to his cock. Zion’s tongue ran up his guys and tasted his sweat, while his hands stroked from the root to the tip of Nelson’s fat throbbing dick.
“Stroke me off, boy. That’s how you do a rimjob. Tongue in deeper. Tongue deeper, boy!” He punched Zion in the belly again, and when Zion cried out, he grabbed his tongue. He pulled it out until Zion squealed. “See this? You got a good five inches of tongue here, boy. I wanna feel all five inches in my ass, or I swear to Christ I will shove my foot up your ass, and I am not playin’, I can show you the evidence I did it before.”
He nearly lifted Zion from his knees by his tongue but instead lowered his ass to meet his face, so he reached underneath himself to shove Zion’s tongue into his asshole. He did it so forcefully his own finger penetrated his own ass at the same time, while Zion sobbed into the filthy asscrack of the superior man above him.
Zion tried to look away, but each time Nelson slapped him and forced him to look him in the eye. He was so intimidating that Zion couldn’t think of any plan besides squirming and begging whenever he could catch a breath. Nelson’s burly mustache shook as he sneered.
“You are one pitiful li’l bitch. You a sissy?” He raised his eyebrows and looked down at them.
“No! No, come on!”
“You should be
The fact that Nelson was not a thug made him scarier to Zion. He looked like a church deacon — he was, in fact, a church deacon — and he spoke like a Hollywood hero (or villain). He had a slightly stawk-heavy East Coast accent, sounding like he was from maybe Philadelphia or someplace like that. New Jersey, maybe. His words rang out like a prophecy in Zion’s ears.
Zion felt filthy and worthless. Zion sobbed in Nelson’s plump ass, while Nelson rubbed his hole over Zion’s tongue like a dog with infected anal glands. Every time Zion’s tongue stopped moving for even a second, Nelson hit him or pinched him hard until Zion resumed lapping at his grimy prostate.
Nelson let out a long, low whistle. His cock throbbed in Zion’s hands. “Hell yeah, there ya go. Fuck yeah. You got it. This is how you do a rimjob, Zion. All of ya tongue in there, hands on my dick… You gonna make me nut, boy, I swear… I was gonna wreck ya asshole today, but maybe I wait.”
A fluid hit Zion’s tongue. It was rancid and sour, and it tasted like farts, but Zion was pretty sure it was spit, cuz Nelson was spitting on his face, it seemed. Through his sobs and retches, Zion heard him calmly hocking up loogey after loogey. Zion squirmed, sobbing in pain and disgust. Nelson punched him in the belly over and over again.
“Keep ya tongue up in there, boy, and move it around some,” Nelson said. He groaned. “Yeah, nigga… Hell yeah…” His muscles all flexed at once, and a hot spray of cum shot over his flat belly. He shot a huge flow that seemed to go on for minutes, real honest-to-god minutes of continuous flow, coating his muscular chest in a sheen of jizz, which immediately ran down to his balls and his taint and then at last onto Zion’s tongue in his ass.
Zion was only barely aware of his own hands on Nelson’s dick. He didn’t really move them, he just held on, while Nelson ground his ass over Zion’s face, the movement making Zion give him a handjob as he licked his asshole. It must have felt good, the handjob or maybe the tongue, because Nelson let out a long simmering murmur that rattled the walls of Zion’s apartment.
A loud gag escaped from Zion’s throat, the sound swallowed by Nelson’s hefty body. Zion cringed as sticky fluids ran down his throat, coating his tongue. He thought for sure he’d never make that taste go away.
“Yeah, nigga… Ah shit, I am gonna like keepin’ you ’round as a rimjob-bitch. Get used to this,” he said with another whistle. He rubbed his butt over Zion’s face, sending fresh new waves of disgusting flavor onto Zion’s tongue. “Keep ya tongue out, boy.”
He grabbed Zion’s tongue as he lifted himself up. Zion yelped because Nelson really squeezed on his tongue with his fingers. Then Nelson kneeled next to Zion, put his nose right in front of Zion’s tongue and inhaled deeply.
“You smell like pure submission, bitch.” He hocked up another big loogie and spat it onto Zion’s tongue. It was grimy and sour, and Zion squirmed all over again. Drool spilled out of his mouth as he gagged over and over. Nelson had a disgusted sneer on his face, holding Zion by the tongue. He spat again and again.
Then he pointed to the cum he had sprayed over his own chest and flat stomach. It looked like a huge load, great puddles of it that ran in rivulets down his chest. It was so thick, like sour cream, it made Zion’s own jizz seem watery and pitiful. He had spurted a huge load, and a few drops continued plopping out one by one into Nelson’s crotch hair. “Lick my cum off me. I’m gonna make ya tongue so nasty you wanna cut it off.” He licked his lips, as he pulled Zion’s face over the puddles of jizz that coated his pectoral muscles.
Keeping a grip on Zion’s tongue while he rubbed it over his chest was difficult and awkward for Nelson because he was so much bigger than Zion. He had to scrunch in to make it work. But he didn’t let Zion control his own tongue — despite telling him to lick, Nelson didn’t allow it, he instead used Zion’s tongue like a rag to clean the cum off his chest.
The salty bitterness of cum cut through Zion’s pain and humiliation, making him sob all over again. Licking his chest reminded Zion how much stronger Nelson was than him. He felt like a warm marble statue. Zion didn’t want to caress his shoulder muscles like a girl being seduced, but his hands flailed and that’s what they did, embarrassing him even further.
“Now sit there. Look me in the eye.” Nelson pointed to a spot on the floor. “Don’t get up, don’t wipe your face off. You may swallow the nastiness on your tongue. If you spit, I will beat you. I wanna watch you swallow that. I wanna see it go down yo’ throat, cuz that’ll be you agreein’ to be my rimjob-bitch-slave. That’s yo’ willing agreement.” He held onto Zion’s throat with one of his massive hands.
Zion didn’t want to swallow. Every part of him rebelled against the concept.
But he knew Nelson wasn’t kidding about beating him if he spit, so he tried to hold the soup of filth in his mouth. Its creamy thickness sloshed around, viscous, and he imagined he could feel Nelson’s sperms swimming around on his gums and his tongue. That was ridiculous, right? You can’t feel sperm.
But it sure seemed like he could. He sobbed, and he felt the tears running down his cheeks. He felt that for sure. Just like he felt the sperm swimming, looking for something to impregnate on his tongue.
A moist sniffle came outta his nose, and Nelson looked down him like a pititful pile of dogshit. Zion wanted to come up with a plan, to gin up the courage to attack Nelson, or at least to call the police when he left. None of those options sounded optionable though. Nelson was a gangster, that was clear now, and looking back on it, maybe Zion should have always known that was true. It did seem weird that a man like that would marry his grandmother.
But old people were weird, Zion couldn’t understand why they did what they did.
And now it was too late anyway. He couldn’t go to the police, Nelson would punish him. All he could do was submit. He couldn’t avoid his instinct to swallow though, and he gagged violently as it went down his throat. He imagined he could feel Nelson’s sperm swimming in his belly.
Nelson spat on him again. “Don’t move from that spot. Don’t wipe ya face off, not until I walk out the door.”
He began to very slowly get dressed. His slacks were wrinkleless, perfectly flat — ironed, obviously — because he had folded them when he took them off. His shoes were fine leather too. Halfway through, as he pulled up his pants, he stopped, turned around and farted right in front of Zion’s face. The stench of spit-flavored fart hit Zion’s nostrils and he gagged. He wept continuously.
“If you do what I say, Zion boy, everything’ll be fine.” He went into Zion’s kitchen. “You got enough food in here to last a couple weeks. You tell me when you run out, I’ll give you more.”
Zion cried, sitting there. Nelson didn’t let him move yet, so he had to sit there with a mask of cum, spit and assjuice on his face. Nelson took some stuff out of his kitchen and placed it by the door. It was all the nice things, the meat from the freezer, a fancy bottle of olive oil, that kind of thing, plus a stack of fine china. He carefully arranged it all in a pile he could carry in one hand.
“I’m takin’ some of ya shit. You ain’t worth none of this, boy. Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna let ya starve to death. You know how to cook beans, right?”
“Yeah.” Zion croaked. He gurgled and gagged all over again. Nelson chuckled.
“Good. Beans is cheap, I gonna give you mostly beans and rice.” Nelson walked past where Zion sat. He undid his belt, plopped his plump asscheeks in front of Zion again and farted on his face. He wrinkled his nose. “You is one worthless piece of shit, man, you know that?”
“Yes.” Zion’s voice had never felt so weak and wavery. He felt nothing but submission towards this man, who’d ruined his life and even despite that, Zion was going to do everything he said. He was like a God to Zion.
“Did you like eatin’ my ass?” He paused, then, just as Zion was about to answer, he snapped, “Say yes, bitch, or I’ll throw you out the window.”
Zion hesitated. “Yes.” When Nelson motioned for him to stretch that out, he winced and moaned. Nelson slapped him. Zion cringed. “I… I enjoyed eating your ass.”
Nelson’s phone rang. He looked at it, and his mustache wriggled. “It’s one of my bitches.” He answered it. “Hey, baby. Yeah. I be ovuh later. Uh-huh. Yeah cook me up somethin’. That sounds good. I’s just doin’ a little work.” He chuckled. He glanced at Zion. “Ain’t that kinda work. You ain’t gotta lick my doodoo-hole tonight though, baby, on ‘ccount of what I’s doin’ at work.” He laughed. “Nah, it ain’t a girl. This nigga displeased me. Nah, don’t worry, my princess, you ain’t gotta be jealous. Oh yeah? Oh shit… Alright, alright.” He looked at Zion. “Go sit in the bathtub, nigga.”
Zion retched as he got up, but Nelson kicked him in the belly.
“Crawl! When you in fronta me, bitch, you crawl!” Nelson chuckled into the phone. “Yeah, he my slave. Yeah, sure. He come clean ya house e’ry weekend.” He licked his lips. “Damn, baby, you got a evil side. I like that.” He knocked Zion over with his foot, then kicked him in the belly until Zion gasped and cried out. He heard a cruel female voice laughing through the phone. “Get in there, bitch!”
Nelson allowed him to crawl on his hands and knees into the bathroom. Zion was too exhausted and scared to fight back, or even to think about what was going on.
“Yeah, baby. You can do whatever you want to him. I’m-a do it now, I gotta put the video on.” He started recording. He took his dick out through the fly of his pants. “Open up ya mouth, boy, and start singing ‘I’m a Little Teapot’.”
The girl laughed hysterically as Zion tried to sing through his tears, and the sound of her guffaws carried tinnily from the phone in Nelson’s hand. The melody of the song was interrupted by hot, bitter piss flowing over his face, so it ended up just being the sound of him choking to the tune of the woman’s laughter. Zion sobbed and gagged, his stomach twisting in knots when urine streamed down his throat.
He pissed so much there was a little puddle around Zion’s bare ass on the floor of the bathtub. He cried and cried as Nelson put his dick away.
“Uncle Nelson… Please-“
“You still callin’ me uncle?” Nelson gathered up everything else in the apartment that he wanted — or that he judged to be too nice for a slave to have. He got it all up in a couple boxes, which he carted out to his Mercedes one by one. Before he left, Nelson stood over Zion and glared down at him. That mask of filth was still on his face, and Zion trembled, unable to think about anything but his desperate desire to be free of it.
Without another word, Nelson pursed his lips, hocked up a massive loogey and spat it out onto Zion’s face. It splatted and covered him in stinking saliva from his forehead to his nose, and it coated his eyes too, so it was in everything he saw.
Then, at last, Nelson turned around and walked out the door. Zion was relieved to be able to clean his face off and cry, alone.

Make Him Beg

Mark has lost it all at the race-track, and he’s desperate to get it back! Will Tyrell give him a second chance?

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On his knees just inches from the dumpster, Mark cried. He looked up at Tyrell hoping for mercy, but there was none. The smell of rotting garbage from the racetrack was intense and revolting. Mark’s nose had gotten used to it though. It was sour and bitter, bracing like a cold wind early in a crisp morning.
“I’ll do anything.” He blushed. Mark had been raised in privilege, so he had rarely had to beg anyone for anything. But he had bet it all on a pony — literally, he had bet everything he had in a last-ditch effort to make a fortune — and lost it. Now Mark needed to do whatever it took to undo that mistake.
It should have worked. He was on a bad streak, and it should have been over with. He calculated the odds. He was due for a big win. The universe owed him a big win.
“I’ll consider letting you take your bet back,” Tyrell said, his grizzled jaw shaking as he chewed on his lower lip, “But you gotta show me you deserve it. Take my dick outta my pants.” He outlined his cock in the black slacks all the racetrack security wore. The fabric was not thick, and the massiveness of his shaft was apparent through the cloth.
“What?”
“If you take my dick outta my pants and you can look at it without sobbing like a prison bitch, I’ll consider letting you take your bet back,” Tyrell said. He had a big beaming face like a bully. He was that kind of guy, you could tell he’d always been handsome, always perfect, women always went chasing after him, adults approved of him. He had aggressively appealing dimples. A man shouldn’t have dimples like that. It’s demeaning for other men. Tyrell rolled his eyes above his awkward smile. “If you can look at my dick without sobbing at what a deadbeat you are, I’ll consider letting you take back the debt. No promises though, just consideration.” He crossed his arms over his chest, which made his powerful chest muscles pop through his tailored suit.
A part of Mark’s mind thought he should just say no and cut his losses, but he needed to get his money back. If he did, he could place a bet when the track reopened tomorrow. All this unpleasantness would go away with a well-placed bet.
He undid the zipper of Tyrell’s jeans and pulled his dick out. He had never touched another man’s cock or even looked at one closely. He gagged at the sweaty scent, and the limp, greasy feel of it. Did all dicks look and smell like that? He had never looked at his own so closely.
“You don’t like the smell of cocksweat, huh?” Tyrell said with a dry, throaty chuckle. His voice was gravelly and rough, like he gargled with rusty nails.
“No,” Mark said. His lip quivered but he held back his tears. He didn’t want to embarrass himself any more than he already had.
“You wanna kiss my dick?” Tyrell asked with a comforting lilt to his voice, as though he thought it likely Mark did want to kiss his dick.
“Do I have to?”
“No, but it might help.”
Mark blushed and kissed it. He gagged again at that greasy texture. It tasted like cum already, like Tyrell had fucked some girl without a condom and then never showered. He probably did precisely that, Tyrell was that way. You could see it in how he carried himself. Women probably tossed their fucking pussies at him. Some men have it so easy, Mark thought.
“That was nice. You wanna taste it?”
“No…”
“You might decide you like it,” he said.
“I won’t,” Mark said with a wince, avoiding Tyrell’s penetrating gaze.
“If you open your mouth, I’ll consider letting you take your bet back.”
“That’s what you said before.”
“I know. I did consider it. The result of my consideration was that I told you to open your mouth if you want me to continue the process of reconsidering. You can always say no and just walk away, take a loss, admit you got got, you been defeated. You know, if this was the olden days, you and ya family would all be sold into slavery. All I’s asking you to do is open your mouth anyway. I ain’t say I’d wreck yo’ throat like the deadbeat-bitch you are.” Tyrell smiled. “I didn’t say I won’t wreck your throat like a deadbeat-bitch either. I ain’t makin’ a comment on that. Who can predict the future? I thought McCain was gonna win.”
Mark winced and blushed. After going through all this, he thought, fate was surely gonna give him a win when he placed that bet tomorrow — Lady Luck rewarded those who took big risks. He opened his mouth. He could handle it.
He gagged as Tyrell’s manhood pushed in. It was long and thick, limp and clammy at first. But it very quickly firmed up, then dripped precum down Mark’s throat.
“Oh. I guess I am gonna turn your throat into my personal pussy,” Tyrell said with a shrug. “I’m as shocked as you are.”
The taste was terrible. It was like fart and sweat and a little like nasty pussy. The more Mark tasted, the more certain he was that Tyrell had been fucking a whore earlier. Tyrell had a fat female neighbor whom he used as a booty call. He had fucked her right after his shower when he bumped into her in the hall. He drained his nuts in her pussy, then left her there fingering herself to orgasm, both because he didn’t care about pleasing her and because he didn’t want to be late for work or Mr. Gregarian would yell at him.
Could people out in the parking lot see as they drove by? Mark couldn’t tell if they were able to see. He prayed not. The alley was wide open and connected to the street, but trash cans and dumpsters probably blocked the view. If they did see him slurping on this stranger’s cock, Mark thought, he’d never be able to live down the rumors.
The more Mark did, the more he thought fate would reward him with a win when this was all over. He could feel it in his bones, and when he saw those lights flashing, it’d all be worth it. He’d be able to retire if he won really big. And Tyrell here would look at him with such burning jealousy.
Mark could already feel it. It hadn’t happened yet but it felt so real it might as well have. Mark imagined what he would say to Tyrell when that happened, how superior he would feel, how pitiful Tyrell would look. Tyrell would have to offer Mark free wine, free hotel rooms, free meals. He’d have to bow and serve Mark because he was a high roller.
But first he needed to make it through this. He had never tasted a cock before, and he had no idea how difficult it would be. He had rather assumed it would taste more or less like pussy, especially in this case since pussyjuice was caked onto Tyrell’s shaft, but it actually tasted much worse than that. There was a definite piss-like flavor, Mark thought as he sputtered on the cock invading his gullet, and it made him want to vomit.
The part that Mark hated was the choking. He gagged on the taste and on the fleshy missile poking its way down his throat. Tyrell was relentless, and he even seemed to enjoy seeing Mark gag. His throat rebelled at it. Tyrell held onto Mark’s head by the ears, ramming with all his might, like he was trying to shatter something in there. Tyrell had massive balls too, and he smelled the bitter sweat clinging to his sacskin when it was launched by his thrusts to splatter on Mark’s chin and lower lip. It was salty and foul, and it made his gags worse, as did the wiry pubes, scratchy and coarse, where Mark’s forehead slammed into the meat of his powerful body. Tyrell used his throat like a fleshlight, and Mark couldn’t help but squeeze his choking throat around it.
“Yeah, it’s okay to gag a little. That’s because you’s tastin’ real man right now,” Tyrell said. He grumbled and licked his teeth. “Yo’ body is used to bein’ a bitch, cuz that’s what you is, ya fuckin’ deadbeat.”
He pulled his massive cock out and slapped Mark over the face with it. It was harder than seemed possible, like getting slapped by an iron rod. He laughed when Mark gasped for air and heaved. He held Mark’s head in place by holding onto a lock of his hair.
“Lemme… take… a break…”
“Nah,” he said. He pried Mark’s jaws apart and fed his cock back down his throat. It tasted a little like bile now, in addition to everything else. Mark gagged and choked on it all over again.
Another man in a fine suit appeared in the alley. “Hey Tyrell, did Cue call out sick today?” This man was smaller than Tyrell, and the suit was nicer — he was not security. He was the owner. Was this the guy who could let Mark take his bet back? He glanced down at Mark but didn’t say anything to him.
“Yes, Mr. Gregarian,” Tyrell said. He slammed his dick all the way down Mark’s throat. A shudder of pleasure ran up his spine, making his tie shake above his broad chest muscles.
“Tell Cue that if he does it again, I’ll fire his ass,” Mr. Gregarian said with a scowl. He took a few steps away, then stopped. “Is that deadbeat slurpin’ on your dick properly?”
Tyrell snorted. “Not really.”
“Hey, deadbeat,” Mr. Gregarian said like he was talking to a deaf, retarded person. “Hey, you prolly got a gamblin’ problem, you think?”
Tyrell pulled away so Mark could answer. But tears streamed from Mark’s eyes and he couldn’t catch his breath. A few scattered syllables escaped from his throat as he tried to explain what had happened.
His family had really started this. They had brought him to a restaurant for a family get-together — to celebrate his brother’s engagement to some girl Mark had never met. As it turned out, he had never met her because she didn’t exist.
There was no restaurant. There was no engagement. There was no fiancée. There was only an “intervention”, which was what some therapist called it when your family attacks you and reminds you of all your failures as though you might have forgot.
We’re worried about you. You spend all your time at the track. You’ve lost so much money.
They didn’t understand. Mark tried to explain, but they weren’t listening. They were fixated on the idea that he was a gambling addict. Mark thought that might be true, but what they didn’t understand was that horse-racing wasn’t even really gambling — there was real science behind it. Mark was developing a way to predict which horses would do best.
He would have played along, however, and spent some time keeping a low profile. But one of his email contacts had said that a particular horse’s odds had been misprinted. The horse was On Her Mark, which Mark took to be a sign.
So he had bet it all on a pony. And now here he was in the track’s garbage-strewn alley, sobbing as he tried to explain it all to the owner of the racetrack and the attached bar. Mr. Gregarian listened as though he really cared about the story. He clucked his tongue against his teeth like a kindergarten teacher listening to a child explain why he was crying.
“Oh, I see,” he said, though there was no way he had understood more than a few words of that, because Mark had never even caught his breath, he was still panting and heaving throughout the story. Mr. Gregarian nodded. “You know what? I’m allowed to make a limited number of exceptions. That’s part of my power as a manager here at the track.”
“Really?!”
“Fo’ real, homie,” he said with a snicker. “I will consider giving you your money back if you prove how much you regret your actions.”
“I’ll do anything!”
“Lick Tyrell’s asshole,” Mr. Gregarian said, stifling a laugh. Tyrell laughed too. “Ram your dumb deadbeat tongue into his filthy fucking ass. He’s got a nasty asshole.”
Tyrell undid his slacks and dropped them to his knees before Mark had even said yes. His cock was hard, sticking through the fly, so he had to awkwardly angle it down in order to lower his pants. His dick was so big, his pants got caught on it. Tyrell laughed and said, “Hey, don’t make it seem like my ass is especially nasty, Mistuh Gregarian, I don’t got — nothing’s wrong with my asshole. It’s dirty like all assholes are dirty-“
“Shut up, Tyrell-“
“You’re making me sound like a degenerate,” Tyrell said. He had a huge pair of asscheeks, powerfully muscled too, you could sense the strength of his thighs through the tender firmness of his ass.
Mr. Gregarian rolled his eyes, while Mark stared at the bare ass before him like an erupting volcano. Mr. Gregarian clucked his tongue and shook his head. “You can always quit gamblin’. You don’t gotta keep going, deadbeat.”
But Mark was more sure than ever that this was going to work. The more disgusting things he did to make it happen, the more certain he was that he’d win when he bet it all on another pony. Maybe, he thought, this will take all night. That would make sense, fate-wise, he’d finish and get his cash back just as the track was reopening tomorrow. He’d be able to walk right back to that ticket counter, place a new bet and smirk at Tyrell and Mr. Gregarian as he collected his winnings.
So he dived between those cheeks while Mr. Gregarian cackled and Tyrell grunted as though he hadn’t thought Mark would go through with it. Tyrell was a meaty man with thick, plump asscheeks, the crack of which was choked with kinky brown hairs. He yelped a little in surprise when Mark’s head entered his asscheeks.
Mark just left his face there at first. Then Mark took a breath, and the taste of ass flooded his mouth. He hadn’t even licked anything yet, but the flavor was overwhelming. Sweat-soaked hairs scratched at his chin and nose.
“Stick your tongue out, deadbeat. Lick his asshole,” Mr. Gregarian said. “You gotta get your tongue in the hole to get me to reconsider your bet. That’s how I know you’ve really learned your lesson.”
He tentatively stuck his tongue out and gagged when he felt spongy rectum. But he was insistent on getting this done — there was no sense in backing out now, after all — so he forced himself to stick it in.
Mr. Gregarian spread Tyrell’s cheeks, gingerly touching the firm meat. He wanted to watch Mark’s tongue sliding in and out. He gagged at the sight of it, then spat right on Mark’s face. His loogie was bitter and gritty, and it stuck to Tyrell’s ass.
Then Mark lost himself in that asshole. It was all he could see, hear, taste and smell — he was dimly aware of Tyrell complaining about Mr. Gregarian spitting on his ass, but Mark didn’t and couldn’t listen to any of that. Rancid ass and greasy hair filled his mouth. If he had eaten anything all day, he would have thrown it up, but he just painfully retched. He gagged continuously but told himself that it would all be worth it. He didn’t even notice Mr. Gregarian walk away, laughing at the raunchiness he had instigated.
“Alright, I bet you know what’s coming next. Drop your pants, deadbeat,” Tyrell said. “I’m gonna get in that ass. You ever been ramrodded?”
“No way!” Mark gasped as he pulled away from that hairy, cloying ass.
“Do I really gotta say it? You, deadbeat, you can get your money back — I’ll consider giving it back — if you let me wreck yo’ dumb whiteboy ass,” he said with a smirk.
“You had better do it!”
“Do you think I will?” Tyrell asked with a sigh. His massive dick throbbed as he stuck it between Mark’s cheeks. “Come on, answer the question, deadbeat. Do you think you’ll get your money back? Or do you think I’ll just turn you into my bitch and then leave you here in the trash? Huh? You really, truly think I’ll give you your money back?”
Mark couldn’t bring himself to say yes, because most of his mind knew the answer was no. It had always been no. But the part of his mind that was addicted to gambling was the part that was in control, so he just stayed there and wept while Tyrell laughed. If there was any chance that this would work, Mark was going to take it.
He was, after all, a gamblin’ man.
Then splitting pain erupted in his ass. Mark screamed but Tyrell held his hand over Mark’s mouth to muffle the sound. He had never felt anything like it, as though his entire body was being ripped asunder.
“Open that ass, bitch,” Tyrell murmured. He grabbed ahold of Mark’s thick hair and held his head in place.
He drilled his dick in deeply, his throbbing cock pushing in even as Mark’s ass tore and sent waves of pain up his body. He flailed uselessly, reaching behind himself to claw at Tyrell’s muscular body beneath his suit-shirt and jacket.
“Oh shit, another deadbeat, huh?” came another male voice. Mark looked behind himself to see a track employee, one of the bet-takers behind the window. He was a handsome young blond man, probably a college student, carrying a bag of garbage from the concession stand.
The pain in Mark’s ass was too intense to say anything, or even to feel embarrassment at being seen by yet another track employee. It hardly mattered now, did it — there was a security camera back here anyway. He bet Tyrell was going to upload this video to the Internet regardless. That thought made him sob, his back arching as more and more cockmeat rammed into him.
“This one’s really nasty,” Tyrell said with a loud grunt. The last of his dick slid into Mark’s straining guts. “He already licked my asshole.”
“Ah, that is fuckin’ disgusting!” He cackled up Mark’s face. “Let’s see how bad we can make it.” The worker dropped the bag of trash on the ground and ripped it open. It stank of rotting hot dogs and old relish, and the foul smell even got through the ass-stank that still stuck to Mark’s face.
“Make him lay on this, man,” the worker said with a snicker.
Tyrell laughed and did so. For a moment, Mark felt relief because his ass was empty, but Tyrell didn’t give him more than a second to enjoy it. He slammed Mark on his back on the open back of trash. Mark sank into the rotting food head-first, his ass in the air so Tyrell could slip his cock back into it.
The pain reawakened in his ass, now made worse by the smell of garbage all around him. Mark sobbed. He was now less confident that this was all worth it — what if, even if he got his money back, he didn’t win. He would be destitute tomorrow. He’d have to go to his family and say that he had lost everything, that they were right and he was wrong, he really was a gambling addict.
He sobbed so hard he didn’t notice the track employee taking his dick out and letting loose with a stream of piss. It flowed over Mark’s sputtering face, the acrid flavor making him gag all over again.
The blond employee snickered and walked away, muttering that he hated this job because of all the deadbeats. Mark blushed. He wanted to tell Tyrell that he was done, that he backed out, that it wasn’t worth it anymore.
But his agony and his shame were too great. All Mark could do was quiver and cry as that massive cock drilled into him over and over. His entire lower half was in the air, supported by Tyrell’s powerful arms so that his ass was available. Meanwhile Mark’s weight was on his head and neck, as though Tyrell was mid-piledriver, with his face deep in the racetrack garbage.
“Just you and me now, deadbeat. Just you and me for the grand finale,” Tyrell said. He closed his eyes and shuddered, his orgasm visible in the undulations of his muscles beneath his dark suit.
He realized it was done when he felt Tyrell’s balls crawl up in his sac. Tyrell groaned, and Mark cringed inwardly. This was it, Mark thought, he had officially allowed his gambling addiction to turn him into a mewling little bitch.
Cum flowed into him. It was a thick, hot load that seeped into his flesh. Mark felt it soaking into every inch of his body, trickling in the folds of his skin to coat him in filth and nastiness. He’d never feel clean again.
It didn’t seem like a normal amount, Mark thought, especially for someone who had just fucked earlier today. It felt like a hug wad, which he felt spreading within him and also dripping out and down his thighs and back, coating his entire underside.
“You ain’t done yet,” Tyrell said when he pulled out and intense relief flooded Mark. He sighed.
But Tyrell pulled him to his knees, and shoved his limp, ass-and-cum-covered cock into Mark’s mouth. The taste of santorum overwhelmed him, and he dry-heaved mouthloads of saliva all over Tyrell’s nasty cockshaft.
It was gritty and grimy. It tasted like the trash that covered this alley, and like farts and stale sweat and old jockstraps. It made Mark want to die at the thought that he was tasting his own ass-goo.
Finally that was it. Tyrell pulled his pants back up, tucking his limp dick away. He pushed Mark into the garbage on the ground.
“I’ve reconsidered,” Tyrell said. “And my answer, yet again, is no. Fuck you, deadbeat. Don’t come back here again until you make some money.” He straightened his tie and tucked his dick away.
Then he sauntered off, leaving Mark there in the garbage, crawling, struggling to get on his knees. He couldn’t stop gagging because of the assy flavor on his tongue, and the smell of trash in the air.
He was there on all fours for what felt like forever. At last he managed to make it to his feet and pull his pants up. He’d have to go back to his parents. That was the only thing that made sense. Mom would make it all better. Every step caused arduous pain in his ass, so wasn’t even sure he could make it all the way home.
But there was a piece of paper on the ground. It had been in the trash. It was not like the other kitchen trash that the blond guy had dropped back here. It was a printout of an email.
He read the email and smiled. There was a horse racing tomorrow whose jockey had been replaced at the last minute, from a no-name loser jockey to one of the most well-known athletes in the field today. With this more experienced jockey riding him, Mark thought, the horse was sure to win, and since no other bettors knew that, Mark would be trading based on better information than them. That gave him a marked advantage.
He still had doubts about placing the bet until he saw the horse’s name. It was called Loser’s Revenge.
That cinched it for Mark. Fate was telling him something, and he wasn’t going to ignore it. It was time, he decided, to bet it all on a pony.
He just needed to find a way to drum up some cash before the races started again tomorrow.

The Debtor

Alfonso is late on his payments, but he can’t let the tow-truck driver take his car away… That means he’ll have to do whatever it takes to keep his car!

Is he gonna hafta bend over and take it from the generous booty bandit who makes an offer?

Read it now as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Alfonso scratched his balls as he went into the bathroom to shower. He had to step over stacks of dirty clothes. He yawned. His breath was hot and harsh, so he brushed his teeth right away. He didn’t like eating breakfast with bad breath.
There was a truck idling outside. That wasn’t so strange, since Alfonso lived above a bodega. They probably had a delivery. He had barely finished brushing his teeth when he realized it was a tow truck.
A tow truck picking up a car. A little blue Mazda.
Alfonso drove a little blue Mazda.
The tow truck was taking Alfonso’s car!
He darted outside, unaware that his dick dangled out the fly of his boxers. “Yo! Esé!” He ran to the parking lot, shivering in the chilly early-morning air.
He tore down the stairs of his building, screaming for the tow truck to stop. All the things he needed the car for ran through his mind — he needed to get to work, to drive to his girlfriend’s apartment, to drive his girlfriend places, to find other girls to fuck on the sly, to go to Tyrell’s to buy pills and just generally to not look like a poor slob who couldn’t afford a car.
So he couldn’t let them take it. By the time he made it out to the parking lot, he had become dimly aware of the fact that he was in his boxers. He tucked his cock back into the fly.
“Hey! What’re you doin’, esé?”
“Hello, Mr. Cornejo? We’re from Deltoro Towing and we’re here to-“
“Lay off my car, man! C’mon, what’choo doin’?”
The tough fat-bodied biker with thinning hair in a ponytail and a pig-like face glared at him. He was flanked by two more big men who crossed their arms over their chest. Behind them, the tow truck pulled the car up its ramp and onto the back of the truck.
“Ya gotta pay ya bill, hoss,” said the fat tow-truck driver, who grinned like an ape. “Car’s gettin’ repossessed!”
“Don’t be a fuckin’ deadbeat.”
“Ain’t ya car no more!”
“Nah! No way, esé! Put that car back! Hey!” Alfonso ran around them, heart pounding, unsure what he was going to do but desperate to do something. He thought maybe he could run up onto the back of the truck, get in the car and drive it away before anybody could react.
But he tottered a little as he got up onto the truck, which gave the repo men enough time to get close to him, and Alfonso realized he didn’t have his keys — all he wore was his boxers, which wasn’t even concealing his dick right now. He didn’t have his keys or his driver’s license or a shirt.
“Get down from there, man, don’t make us call the cops,” said the fat biker, who grunted and held one hand on his belly.
“Man, fuck you! I need that car! C’mon!” Alfonso tried to undo the straps keeping the car in place.
The guy operating the truck’s lift stopped it while Alfonso was climbing around up there, so the car was almost entirely on but the rear of it still angled down to the ground on the ramp. Alfonso felt strong hands on his feet as he reached for the straps. The men tried to pull him back to the ground.
“C’mon, holmes, get off the car! We ain’t playin’ wit’cha!”
They dragged him off the tow truck, Alfonso screaming a litany of threats and insults in both English and Spanish. He shoved the fat man away from him, and someone else rammed him into the tow truck. Alfonso grunted and was struck with dizziness. He stayed right there just long enough for the car to be brought the rest of the way onto the tow truck.
“C’mon, esé, c’mon, ya gotta give me some more time,” Alfonso said. His heart raced. He didn’t like begging, especially not in front of a bunch of gringo rednecks, but he didn’t have a choice. “You don’t understand, I gotta have that car-“
One of the bikers, a dusky-skinned fellow with a neck tattoo of Gothic lettering, stepped forward and grinned. He casually slapped Alfonso on the cheek a couple times, not in a violent way, more like a chummy friend. He chuckled. “Then, esé, you should’a paid ya bills,”
“Man, come on…”
Alfonso kneeled and buried his face in his hands. Obviously this wasn’t going to work. He knew it looked like he was crying — which he wasn’t — but he needed to concentrate to come up with a plan. He heard the tow-truck guys snickering amongst each other, and Alfonso had to fight against the urge to go punch them.
His muscles flexed because he wanted to start a fight, like his body was already working itself up for combat even as his mind told himself no. This was how he lost his temper. Back in school, that happened all the time, and he kept getting in trouble. Being an independent adult living on his own had mostly cured him of his temper problems. It was just on certain occasions like these he found it difficult once again to control his anger.
There were people looking at him. Alfonso hated being humiliated like this. His blood ran hot and cold, his toes curling. He felt like his head would explode. He wanted to shout at all these people to get back in their houses, that this was none of their business, that they should fuck off or he would kick their asses.
But it was important to be focused on what mattered — Alfonso was going to need rides into work. He needed to save enough money to catch up on his payments. He was going to need to do some extra work somehow to make more cash.
Would he have to do something illegal? Alfonso hoped not. Tyrell would definitely hire him to sling pills, but that was not a viable way to make money, not really. He’d be lucky to make ten bucks a day doing that.
Of course there were other drugs he could sell. The only dealer he knew was Tyrell, and the only drug Tyrell dealt was lorazepam. But Alfonso had connections. His friend Enrique knew a coke dealer. Some of the guys at his job did steroids.
Could he really sell hard drugs? Alfonso didn’t want to do anything illegal. But he couldn’t think of any legal way to make a lot of money in a hurry. He was going to need a couple thousand dollars to get his car back, and if he didn’t do it in thirty days, the car would be auctioned off. If that happened — and this was the part that made him furious — Alfonso would still owe all that money. He’d be out of the car, but he’d still have to make payments on it until it was paid off, and he’d owe money to the tow company as well.
There was one person watching whom Alfonso could sense was still there, even as the others left. His eyes drilled into Alfonso’s skull, making him intensely aware of the man’s existence. Alfonso lifted his head out of his hands. Sure enough, he was still there.
He had caught Alfonso’s eye before, during the argument with the tow-truck guys, because he was probably not from this neighborhood — he wasn’t Latino, and this area was almost all Peruvians. The stranger stood out on the street, near the bus stop — though he faced the wrong way to meet the bus.
He watched Alfonso. The stranger was mid-thirties, black, tall, wearing a plain brown shirt and pants. He looked like a businessman on casual Friday (though it was Thursday), Alfonso thought, complete with a thick mustache and a no-nonsense glare to his deep, brown eyes. The black man had a solid, glaciery way of carrying himself, like nothing mattered but what he was doing, which was nothing, and therefore, nothing mattered.
Alfonso stood, looking in his direction nonchalantly so he didn’t attract attention. The strange black man approached him then.
“Hey. Alfonso? Alfonso Cornejo?”
Alfonso nodded and narrowed his eyes to slits. He was still hostile and upset, so without thinking about it, he glared menacingly at the stranger. He flexed his ropy-muscled, tattooed chest. He wished his cock had flopped back out the fly of his boxers again because it was big.
“I need some help with a job,” the black man said. “If you come with me and work for the day, I’ll make your car payments. I’ll get you all caught up. You’ll be able to get your car out of the impound lot. Today, son.”
“Really?”
The man nodded. Alfonso hesitated. He assumed this job, whatever it was, was unpleasant. He wouldn’t be offering that much money to someone desperate if it wasn’t bad. But Alfonso had done some terrible jobs before, scrubbing toilets, getting up at five o’clock every morning, working outside in the freezing cold all winter.
“What is it?”
“Can’t tell you now. Come get in my truck,” He gestured to a large black truck parked out on the street. It looked like a work truck but it didn’t have any markings on it. “My name’s Nelson.”
“Uh-huh.” Alfonso decided to say yes, but he had difficulty bringing himself to actually say that. Aside from being fearful at what the job was, Alfonso was embarrassed to agree like this. No one but some desperate loser and punk would ever agree to a job he knew nothing about from a stranger he didn’t know. Was he really going to get in a truck with some strange man?
If he was a gringo, Alfonso might have said no. But he thought he could handle a middle-aged black weirdo. Nelson checked him out, looking him up and down. Alfonso preferred to assume that Nelson was simply checking out how strong he was, to be sure he could do the job. Alfonso made a bicep and Nelson squeezed it. Alfonso hoped this job was something difficult and arduous but simple, like building a deck (but nobody would hire just one person for that). Nelson grunted like that was satisfactory but didn’t move.
“Well? Come on, if you’re coming on. I got work clothes for you,” Nelson said. He didn’t wait for Alfonso, he just turned around and went towards the street.
Alfonso followed him to the truck. He sighed. It’s just a job, he reminded himself. “What is it? Where you gonna take me? What kinda work clothes you got? Do I need my ID? I ain’t got my wallet.”
Nelson got behind the wheel. Alfonso wanted to refuse to go anywhere until he got some answers. But the prospect of making enough to get his car back today was enticing. He desperately wanted that. He could spend today doing whatever this was and then not have to worry about it anymore. That was preferable to spending the next month hustling up enough money to rescue his car from the impound lot. No matter what the job is, he thought, he could do it for a day.
He got in the passenger seat. Nelson drove off, with the radio off too, which was disconcerting to Alfonso, who never drove in a quiet vehicle. He could hear every rumble of the truck’s engine. He heard Nelson’s heavy breathing, which sounded almost sexual. Alfonso shuddered but hid his discomfort.
This was all happening so fast, he thought. He’d only been out of bed for a half-hour or so. “What kinda work you got for me?” he asked when the silence had become unbearable.
“Hmmm…” Nelson turned to grin at him as he pulled to a stop at a red light. It was still early in the morning so there were few cars on the road. “It ain’t exactly work. I thought we could play a bit.” He paused, then placed one of his big meaty hands on Alfonso’s flat belly.
Alfonso’s six-pack rippled as Alfonso groaned and leaned his head back. He shut his eyes.
“You don’t wanna do it?” Nelson asked.
Alfonso didn’t say anything. He shut his eyes more tightly. “I ain’t, y’know, I ain’t some punk or nothin’. But, y’know…-“
“Nobody said nothin’ ‘ccusatory. I just wanna get my nut off, and I don’t wanna muck about with some female. You just know she gonna talk my ear off, right? Prolly make me take her out to dinner at some fancy restaurant. Who got time for that, huh?” His hand roamed up and down Alfonso’s body.
“Man…”
“You wanna go back home? I take you back now if’n you want,” Nelson said. “And I’ll even give you five bucks to pay you for these couple minutes wit’ me so far.” He handed over a five-dollar bill.
Alfonso took it. “I mean… I ain’t touchin’ yo’ dick, you know that, right? I ain’t into… I mean, as long as it’s me gettin’ my dick wet, you know. It ain’t wrong to get jacked off by some pasivo. Ya feel me?”
“I do. I feel you very well,” Nelson said. He chortled as his hand slipped down to Alfonso’s crotch. He pulled his long, uncut cock out through the fly of his boxers.
Alfonso sucked in his breath, and he wrinkled his nose at Nelson’s callused hand stroking his dick. He wished Nelson was a young man. Instead, it felt like getting pawed over by a grandpa.
“You okay?”
Alfonso scoffed like that was a stupid question. “I can handle some… man strokin’ my dick,” he said. He had to cut himself off to avoid calling Nelson something rude. He closed his eyes again.
“You ever done this before?” Nelson asked. He was driving again, on the highway now. He kept one hand on the steering wheel while his other hand lazily stroked Alfonso’s half-hard dick.
“Yeah. I’m from Peru, we always get our dick wet, esé. So yeah, I get li’l punks to jack me off all the time.” Alfonso didn’t further explain that he’d only ever let them do it when he was very drunk. He was much less comfortable in this situation, in the truck of a large, older stranger who wasn’t part of Alfonso’s culture or neighborhood.
“Uh-huh.” Then he got off the highway. Nelson had to use both hands for that, and when he was on a side street, he drove quickly into the used-car dealership where Alfonso had purchased the car. There were two lots nearby, one wide open (full of cars available for sale), and the other was behind a fence (full of cars that had been repossessed or were in need of repairs before being placed out for sale). The dealership’s office wouldn’t be open for nearly two hours, but this was where Nelson would have to pay Alfonso’s delinquent bill.
He parked in a rear part of the lot, where it wasn’t obvious if he was parked for the impound lot or for the restaurant supply store next door. They shared a parking lot, but both stores appeared to be closed this early.
“Alright, vato, you lookin’ kinda horny. You horny?”
Nelson put one hand on Alfonso’s stomach, and his other on his dick. He had to awkwardly crane his body to the side to face him. Alfonso still leaned back in his seat, eyes closed. He brought one of his arms to his face to further cover his face.
“Huh? You horny?” Nelson gave Alfonso’s dick a good long stroke, slow as anything.
“Not exactly…” Alfonso grunted. “I can bust a nut anytime though. My chicas always say that. They say my dick get hard too easy, ya feel me?”
“Uh-huh.” Nelson leaned over and popped the tip of Alfonso’s dick into his mouth. Alfonso groaned. His cock was only a bit hard at this point. Alfonso wasn’t even aware of that because he was hyperfocused on his own nervousness. That was good, because if he was aware that he hadn’t gotten hard, he might have become even more anxious and unable to perform.
A long low moan with a baritone rumble to it escaped from Nelson’s mouth. Nelson laughed around the cock in his mouth, which rubbed through the dense bristly hairs of Nelson’s mustache.
Nelson thought it was cute to watch guys struggle to get hard, eyes alternating between scrunching tightly shut and opening wide as they watched it finally happen. That was what happened now. Alfonso peered underneath his arm just in time to see his dick fully stiffen up as Nelson deep-throated him. Alfonso could feel pleasure in his dick, but for now, it seemed distant and dim, like it was happening to someone else and Alfonso had some strange connection to it he couldn’t explain.
But Alfonso found it hard to look away because it felt better with every passing moment, as he became less and less nervous with it. A jolt of pleasure shot up his spine, and he bit his lip.
“Shit, esé…” Alfonso hoped that sounded more confident than it felt in his mind.MenWhen the bracing taste of precum hit Nelson’s tongue, he knew it was time to move on. Alphas getting jacked off by a man had a way of cumming suddenly and without warning — sometimes it took a surprisingly long time, some times it was a surprisingly short time. Nelson theorized that that was because they paid more attention to their own feelings than the physical sensations, and they weren’t used to a purely physical orgasm, so it hit them by surprise.
“You ready to stick me, nigga?” Nelson asked. He kissed Alfonso on the neck and Alfonso gulped.
“I mean… Yeah,” Alfonso said. His voice had a nervous quaver to it, but he tried to hide it — a real man, he thought, should be comfortable with his dick, even if it was downlow.
The cab of the truck was too small to do it easily, but Nelson thought that was one of the charms of messing around in here. He always thought it was more fun to have some limitations of that sort. If he was in a plain old bedroom, for example, he’d have simply bent over and invited Alfonso to plow in.
But that wasn’t an option. Alfonso had to help, to get out of the way so Nelson could take his pants down — which meant his bare black ass jutted up and into Alfonso’s face. Alfonso backed away in horror as though he might accidentally give Nelson a rimjob if he got too close to it.
Nelson chuckled and waved his ass in front of Alfonso’s face, then he lowered his hips so that he was crouched overtop of Alfonso’s crotch. He would have to sit, crammed into Alfonso’s lap.
“Ah, oh… shit, esé, uh… can’t we, like… Yo, can we get in the back?”
“We’ll be seen,” Nelson said. He smirked. “These windows are tinted, nobody can see us up here. Besides, it’s cold out there, and I’ve got the heat on in here.”
“Oh…” Alfonso didn’t really like letting Nelson be on top. It would have been fine if Nelson was slim and feminine. Alfonso could have forcibly put him in a good position (which Alfonso defined as any position in which he didn’t have to see Nelson’s cock, balls, body hair, head hair, mustache or the distinctly masculine shape to his hips). Alfonso would have had plenty of room, and Nelson would have done anything he said.
Instead he could do little more than sit there, arms hovering above his head because he couldn’t put them anywhere else without accidentally touching Nelson’s firm body. Alfonso closed his eyes again as he felt his cock slip into Nelson’s tight asshole.
This time, he couldn’t deny that it felt good. It actually felt almost exactly like a woman’s ass. He would never admit that, but it was true — all that stuff he thought would make it impossible to get hard with Nelson turned out not to matter: he barely noticed the kinky black hairs of Nelson’s ass once he got in there, and with his eyes closed, he didn’t pay any attention to the shape of Nelson’s well-muscled back.
It really did feel good, he thought, but he wanted to hide it. Alfonso grunted like he struggled to stay hard.
But his grunt turned into a gasp. Nelson sunk all the way down on his cock, grinding his hips, rubbing to each side. He leaned over and kissed Alfonso right on the lips. A long low moan came from Nelson’s scratchy throat.
That part Alfonso didn’t mind so much — it was normal in Peruvian culture to kiss one’s bottom.
It still felt weird, however, because Nelson was on top of him, because he moaned into his mouth with a densely masculine, gravel-coated voice and because his scratchy mustache rubbed over Alfonso’s upper lip. It was hard to pretend he was with a woman with Nelson’s tongue in his mouth.
His hands gripped Nelson’s hips. Alfonso now opened his eyes wide. He could feel an orgasm hitting him, and he shouted, the sound resonant in the tiny cab of the truck. He was shocked at his own self for gripping Nelson’s meaty, hairy hips. He would have thought he’d be grossed out by it.
But he found no real reluctance in himself to hold Nelson’s body as he pistoned his hips up. He slammed into Nelson’s ass so hard Nelson grunted and bumped his head on the roof.
“Shit!” Alfonso moaned, hands clawing at Nelson’s back.
“Goddamn, vato!” Nelson shouted with a tense chuckle. He leaned himself back, all the way onto Alfonso’s cock, as he sprayed his own wad onto the dash of his truck. The smell of jizz bloomed in the stuffy cab.
“Hell yeah, man!” Alfonso held Nelson deep on his dick. An orgasm finally exploded within him. He had felt it coming, but then it hit him as a surprise, his mind still focused on his shock at touching Nelson’s body without being nervous or grossed out by it. He was glad that none of his friends were around — they would be impressed if he had ramrodded a male this hard, but they’d tease him forever for plowing a bigger, older man in exchange for money.
But he was also glad he did it. Aside from the financial benefit, it just felt good, Alfonso thought as bliss flowed through his veins and he let out a long, crooning sigh. His hands gripped Nelson’s skin tightly, then loosely, then they both fell to the seat beneath him.
“Shit, esé…”
“Hmm… fill me up, son,” Nelson said with a moan.
Cum flowed into him, great creamy gobs of it that flowed through his body and trickled into every corner of his flesh. It was warm and creamy and inviting, and Nelson wished it could have lasted forever.
But alas, it didn’t. Nelson sighed, remaining deeply ensconced on Alfonso’s ass until every last drop had snuck out. He craned his head back to kiss Alfonso again, first on the lips, then on his cheeks, his mustache rubbing against Alfonso’s early morning scruff.
“Goddamn, son,” Nelson said. He chuckled and gave Alfonso a peck on the lips. “That was good enough you could-a talked me into buyin’ you a new car.”
“Really? I-“
“Nah, nah, nah, no, man, no,” Nelson said. He shook his head, mustache quivering. “Nah, I was just kiddin’, I wouldn’t do that. If I did, it’d just be a new used car that ain’t no better than the one you got. Nah, nah, don’t even try that.”
“Oh.” Alfonso wanted to argue, but it was hard to concentrate with his limp dick still in Nelson’s ass. His orgasm was over, but aftershocks still hit him, making him writhe and grunt beneath Nelson’s heavy body.
When Nelson finally slipped off him, every inch of his dick emptying from him sent a new wave of post-orgasmic pleasure running through his body. He sighed and slapped Nelson’s ass with a cocky chuckle. He thought that would make him feel tough again, but that only lasted a moment before he looked down in time to see his dick plop out, followed by a giant puddle of cum that slopped onto his shaft.
Alfonso gagged at the sight. He hurried to grab the pile of napkins on the dashboard, and he wiped his dick off. “You best pay up, esé.”
“I will,” Nelson said. He sighed and slipped into the driver’s seat. Somebody else was just parking nearby and heading over to the impound lot’s front office. Nelson watched them go. “Looks like we’re just in time. I’ll go pay your bill right now. You wanna stick around? You can drive yourself home…” He chuckled dryly. “Nevermind, I’ll take you home first so you can get ya clothes and ya keys and shit. Then I’ll pay the bill and you can drive your car home.”
“Yeah, cool, esé,” Alfonso said. He cleared his throat as Nelson drove off.
This had gone well enough that Alfonso was beginning to wonder if he could set this up again. Maybe he could make some extra money on the side for a long time to come. Maybe, he thought, this guy could make his car payment every month.
“You okay?”
Alfonso nodded. “You, uh… do this a lot, esé?”
Nelson shrugged. “Now and then.”
“Cuz, uh… I’ll be around next month, and I’ll have another car payment to make…”
Nelson smiled. He patted Alfonso on the back when he got back into the parking lot. “Sorry, vato, I’m movin’ on after this,” he said. “Go’n get ya clothes. Maybe we could play a bit more today. I got some cash burnin’ a hole in my pocket. But when I move on, I’ll be gone.”