fatness – Mansploitation

The Fat Bouncer

Bart’s visit to an underground poker game ends in exactly the way he was hoping — with him on his knees servicing the fat bouncer! His name is Fatty, he’s huge, he’s mean and he’s got meat to spare! Can Bart satisfy Fatty?!

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Read the whole thing here!

“I’m looking for a poker game. The dragon sips tea at dawn,” Bart said.
The liquor store was cheesy and rundown. The Chinese family running the shop glared at Bart. They nodded noncommittally when he said he was here for the poker game.
“No poker game here!” one of them said, gesturing around the shop, which had nothing but liquor, displays of cigarettes and signs advertising the lottery. Empty boxes were stacked in the back.
But they didn’t respond poorly to his question. Bart furrowed his brow. If he had walked into some random liquor store and asked for the underground poker game, he would have expected them to kick him out, to ask what he was talking about, to express confusion and dismay.
But these two men just said “no poker game here”, pointing to the floor right in front of the counter — as though Bart had asked if there was a poker game in that exact spot.
Bart was suspicious. “Is it… Is there a poker game… somewhere?”
The clerk scowled. “Presumably. Go there, wherever it is. Round in the rear of some place, I expect.” He sniffled and glanced over his shoulder.
“Aaaaaah… I see, okay,” Bart said. He bought a lotto ticket just so he wouldn’t look like a dickhead. He tucked it in his pocket as he went out into the parking lot. Nobody was around, so he grabbed an empty box by the door. He broke it down into a flat piece of cardboard, that way he wouldn’t look too suspicious to anyone driving by.
He went around to the back of the liquor store, where he saw a recycling dumpster, in which he put the cardboard. A few yards away sat a fat white man with a huge belly, a backwards baseball cap and a tattoo of Barack Obama’s smiling face extending up his neck. He nodded at Bart.
“Yo, hey, ‘sup.” He nodded. He sat near the back-door to the liquor store as though that was a normal spot to sit in. A minuscule stool was there, that’s what he sat on. It would be too tiny for a normal-sized man, but the fat man with the oversized jaw and the stoned squint upon his roundness was a thousand times too big for the stool he sat upon.
He sat near the door in the manner of a bouncer, Bart thought. He headed right for the door as though he knew what he was doing and where he was going. “Is this the door?”
“That’s a door.” The fat white thug stood. He spat on the ground, needing to lean forward to avoid spitting on his belly. He stood in front of the door. “Whatchoo need, li’l thang?”
Bart had to resist his urge to say what he really wanted — to get plowed into by this magnificent whale of a man — but he figured his best bet was to play it cool for now. “I heard there was a poker game in there. I’m Dan’s friend,” he said. “Dan Lickster”. Then, feeling like a child playing a spy-game, he leaned closer to the big man, clutched his belly and said, “The dragon sips tea at dawn.”
The fat thug nodded. “A’ight. Go’n in, sir,” he said. He opened the door for him. Bart skedaddled past, his hand lingering on the man’s massive belly.
Inside was a dimly lit basement, in the center of which was a round table with nine chairs surroundant. A bar sat in one corner of the room, and in the very middle, near the table, was a door that presumably led to the stairs going up, to the main floor where the liquor store and the surly clerk and the sale on discount gin all were.
A small handful of people milled around the table, while a single waitress brought them drinks from the bar. One person at table was a motionless, emotionless woman in a plain suit. She was the dealer, presumably. The others were players.
This was Bart’s first underground poker game. He had brought four thousand dollars, and he didn’t mind losing all of it. But he transferred two hundred bucks to a different pocket so he could keep it hidden — he might want that later.
He hoped to get in that fat thug’s pants, and he was willing to pay for it. That was the real reason he had finagled an invite to the poker game.
“Bart! Glad you could make it!” Bart’s friend Dan called for him when he came into the room. “Fatty ain’t grill you up and eat you with butter, did he?”
“I tried, but he said no,” Bart said, making the room laugh. He turned and blushed when he saw that fat thug — who apparently went by Fatty — had followed him in. He hadn’t meant to say that in front of him. Fatty blushed even redder than Bart.
Fatty had a deep booming voice. “Man… Shhh-” He cut himself off as he grabbed his dick through his jeans. It sounded like he was about to say shut your fucking face or something along those lines but stopped before he got in trouble. This was an upper-class event. He had been told not to “lower the tone”.
Fatty just waddled away, as the other players laughed at him. Bart felt a little bad for him, but then, he got the feeling Fatty was not exactly a nice guy, so he didn’t feel too bad. Besides, Bart fully intended to make it up to him later.
He was so distracted he didn’t do very well in the poker game. That was fine with Bart, it was fun just to be there. He didn’t need to do a really good job, and he didn’t mind losing the money. It was only his fifth time ever playing poker in his life, and he would have done a lot better but he forgot which hands outrank each other and bet wrong.
When the game was over, Bart hung around as the other guys said their goodbyes. He helped the dealer clean up, and then headed out into the back by the dumpsters. There was Fatty, sitting there, playing on his phone and smoking a Black’n’Mild by himself. He looked up and nodded, disinterested.
“How you doin’?” Bart asked.
Fatty frowned. “What?”
“My name is Bart.”
“Fatty.”
“Nice to meet you, Fatty,” Bart said. “So, I-“
“Look, I ain’t gonna reimburse ya losings, man,” he said. He sneered like he was being forced to be here and resented it.
“That’s fine. I was looking to give you some money,” Bart said. He affectionately patted Fatty on the shoulder. That made his arm flesh jiggle.
“What?”
“I’ve got two hundred dollars in my pocket,” Bart said. “I held it back so I wouldn’t lose it. I wanted to spend it on you.”
“What?” He stood up like he thought he was going to get in a fight. He eyed Bart suspiciously. His thick belly was right in front of Bart’s face. Bart poked it with one finger, searching for his bellybutton through the football jersey Fatty wore. Fatty frowned. “You wanna gimme money?”
“I want to pay you money for services to be rendered,” Bart said. He smiled.
Fatty furrowed his brow and said the only thing he could think of. “What?”
Bart giggled. “I want you to stick it in me, Fatty.”
“What?”
“Your dick. In here.” Bart pointed to his mouth. “Maybe elsewhere too, if you-“
“What?” His chin-fat jiggled.
“Can you stop saying that?”
“Look, man…” Fatty tottered back and forth on his squat legs. He looked around. No one was here. Everyone else had gone. Even the liquor store was closed now.
“Two hundred dollars. That’s a lotta money-“
“Ain’t nothin’ stopping me from just takin’ it,” Fatty said. He reached into Bart’s pockets. He frowned. There was no money there. Bart had hidden it in his sock.
“Yeah, but then you wouldn’t get to blow your nut-“
“I ain’t… you know… I was in prison, but I ain’t a booty bandit, dawg.”
“I know, dawg,” Bart said. “C’mon-“
“I don’t see no two hundred dollars. You foolin’. You straight-up foolin’.”
“If I take it out, you’ll steal it and you won’t stick me,” Bart said. “Come on… I’ll let you do it however you want. You can plow down on my face, you can ram into my ass as hard as you want.”
“Shit… If you don’t pay me, motherfucker… I hunt down bitches and get payment outta ‘em as a career, so don’t try it, man. I swear to Christ, I’ll steal ya mama’s heart pills if I got to. I get what I is owed,” Fatty said.
“I promise. I’ll pay.”
Fatty frowned. He leaned against the dumpster, looked away and nodded. “Go’n then.”
He apparently wasn’t going to be any more involved in this than he absolutely had to be, Bart thought, but that was okay with him. He undid the belt around Fatty’s jeans and let them flop to the ground. Then he pulled that ratty old jersey off his head. Fatty fought against it at first — he rarely took his shirt off even when plowing because he knew girls wouldn’t want to look at his manboobs — but then he let Bart do it. He was much too tall for Bart to actually lift the jersey himself, so he just got started and tried to climb Fatty’s belly. That too was plainly unrealistic, but he enjoyed the challenge and the feel of it, and he liked the way Fatty’s belly and indeed his whole body shook as Bart scaled him like a sturdy mountain.
And Fatty made a funny face, which Bart found amusing. He tolerated it at first, but then he grew annoyed and took the jersey off himself. The motion of it made his upper body flex and ripple, and it bared the furry bush of his armpits for a moment.
Then he stood there, belly protruding, as Bart licked it clean. He was hairy and heavyset by nature but fat by habit, his belly a stack of rolls and jiggles. He smelled intensely of foot sweat from head to toe, and Bart inhaled the scent while his hands and his nose explored all the crevices between his folds.
He tugged down his boxer sorts, at last baring his magnificent cock. Bart’s tongue works it way down to his belly fat, down to the underside of it, where the treasure trail of body hair grew thicker and coarser and the sweat grew funkier.
A gasp escaped from Fatty’s lips, followed by a suck on his teeth. Bart’s delicate hands reached under his belly to his cock and gave it a stroke. Fatty groaned again. He couldn’t decide if it felt good or not. He didn’t mind getting jerked off, but it was hard to focus with Bart’s tiny tongue snaking all over his folds of fat.
By chance Bart glanced up, and the intense look on Fatty’s face, a penetrating stare like he had spied something greatly displeased him, made Bart chortle. When that only magnified the look on Fatty’s mien, Bart’s chortle choked into a chuckle, and he turned that into a cough. He quaked before Fatty’s bigness.
“You makin’ fun of me?” Fatty asked. Bart shook his head. “You gettin’d dared by ya buddies? Is it like… a scavenger hunt?”
Bart shook his head again and again. He sucked on Fatty’s fleshy manboobs, playing with his nipples and stroking his dick to full erection. “I like big boys. I like men, and I appreciate the bigness of… well, big ones. That’s all. I think you’re a magnificent specimen.” He licked a trail down Fatty’s belly, which had more tattoos on it — gang tats, it appeared. He slurped the sweat that clung to each tattoo. There was Gothic lettering that read MONTANA over his belly, and an American flag over his heart. A gun was tattooed on the side of his belly, pointed down towards his cock.
“Man…” Fatty grunted. He still felt maybe he was being made fun of. Maybe there was a hidden-camera? Was this some sort of Making-Fun-of-Fat-Men reality show? Surely that would be illegal, he thought. He didn’t want to look self-conscious, so he didn’t stop Bart, but he kept looking around for hidden cameras.
Then he grunted and threw his head back so fast it slammed painfully against the dumpster behind him. His whole body jiggled. Bart clutched those big round asscheeks as he plowed down on Fatty’s cock. It was limp and not especially big at first, like a lot of fat guys, but it quickly firmed up and turned into a nearly foot-long monster, all knobbly and veiny. Bart gurgled on it merrily. He looked up and tried to make eye contact with Fatty, but he looked everywhere except down.
That felt better than expected. He didn’t get sucked off a lot these days. Most women wouldn’t give him the time of day, and he had sort of forgotten how hot and moist and inviting it was to feel a throat swallow his meat down to the root. It sent a shiver of bliss up his spine, and Fatty’s whole body shook, or really his spine shimmied and the shimmy was magnified by his layers of fat until his whole body wobbled like underset jello.
His dick was moist to begin with, soaked with sweat from his underbelly and from being cooped up on a humid night in his jeans. Bart sucked all the sweat down, slurping it, gurgling and giggling as he moaned — he loved how it made Fatty’s whole body shake and jiggle.
Fatty snorted and huffed like a surprised donkey. His eyes alternating between wide open and excited and the dull-eyed stoner squint he had throughout the poker game, though he’d been standing there throughout, he clearly hadn’t been smoking any weed, so Bart didn’t get how he could look stoned. Maybe that was just the way he looked, or maybe he smoked so much weed it stayed with him.
He tried to reach up to play with Fatty’s manboobs, but Fatty began plowing into his face, and it was difficult to control his hands. Bart flailed, going back to holding onto those enormous asscheeks for support. Fatty’s balls slapped against his chin, and Fatty had to hold his belly up to give Bart easy access to it.
“Hmmmm….” Bart murmured as he gagged on the hard dick jamming into his throat. He had to signal to Fatty a couple times before he pulled away, slapping his fat dick over Bart’s face. When Fatty let go of his belly, it flopped onto Bart’s head, nearly knocking him over. “You taste so good…”
“You serious?”
“I’m deadly serious. I wanna lick your ass. Can I lick your ass? I wanna taste it!” Bart giggled, blushing at the shocked look on Fatty’s face — who hadn’t looked at him since this started, not until now. He checked out Bart as though to see if he was joking.
But Fatty smirked and turned around. He’d never gotten a rimjob. He never even thought it was an option — who would want to lick his fat ass? Not a girl, he knew that.
He gripped the side of the dumpster like he was being searched by a cop. He spread his legs wide, frowning a little when he felt Bart’s delicate tongue plant on his left asscheek. It was cold, not particularly arousing and a little ticklish. Fatty just grunted. He spread his asscheeks, and they parted like a massive yellow cock being splattered in slow motion.
Bart licked up and down that enormous left cheek, which rippled flabbily as he massaged it with both hands. Bart could have fit his entire body in Fatty’s asscheeks, he thought with an aroused giggle. The smell was so potent it made Bart let out a moan of desire.
He had to use both hands to spread Fatty’s cheeks and bare his crack. The smell of sour sweat was intense here. There was plenty of funky hair lining the crack and around his tight hole. Bart didn’t need to ask if it was a virginal asshole — it was as tight as could be. He rubbed one finger over it, but then Fatty swore and said, “No fingers! Nah! You said lick! You can lick it!”
“Okay, sorry,” Bart said. It was impossible to finger it anyway — Bart needed to use both hands to keep Fatty’s cheeks separate. It was like trying to pull apart a mass of jello that hadn’t fully set yet. Bart sucked on each bit of flesh that seeped through his fingers as he dove in between those cheeks.
Finally he got his tongue in Fatty’s tight hole, and Fatty let out a howl that sounded overconfident — like he wanted Bart to think he’d done this before and wasn’t impressed. But Bart could tell from the way his asshole clenched around Bart’s tongue that he was turned on, and that he wanted more.
Bart plowed into him with his tongue. Soon he couldn’t hold back the sea on those asscheeks, and he let go, allowing all that flabby hefty to envelop him so Bart’s entire head was buried in his ass.
Fatty glanced behind himself and couldn’t help but guffaw in shock — and a little disgust — at the sight. Bart looked like he had been beheaded by Fatty’s ass, or like his head was actually climbing into his backside. Fatty couldn’t believe how good it felt either. It was a little uncomfortable, but Bart’s tongue invaded his ass and went right for his juicy prostate, slurping up all the sweat and assfluids that seeped out of him and onto his tongue.
The taste was sour and salty, like cum but solid and fleshy. Bart slurped noisily. He reached between Fatty’s legs to try to jack him off, but that proved impossible — Fatty was just too wide and too thick. Instead his hands roamed over the bigness, the endless folds of Fatty’s mountainous asscheeks.
Finally Bart pulled out and raced to bend over. He was dizzy from lack of oxygen. He got his face down on the asphalt, his ass as high as he could manage. Fatty’s corpulent body kept undulating as he rubbed his ass over the spot where Bart’s face had been moments ago.
Fatty turned around to see why the rimjob had stopped. He saw Bart bent over and grimaced. Bart’s ass was smooth and tight, round as could be, pretty much the exact opposite of Bart’s ass.
He’d never plowed into a girl with a nice tight ass like that. He’d plowed into some big females, some of them very sexy, and he’d gotten in a few asses. But none of them had a plump bubble-butt like Bart.
Fatty kept a sour grimace on his face because he didn’t want Bart to think he really enjoyed this — it would make it seem like Fatty couldn’t land a real woman. He spread Bart’s cheeks with his greasy fingers, and slid his cock in. He again had to lift his belly up to keep it out of the way.
His belly then flopped onto Bart’s ass, while Bart backed up onto Fatty’s cock. There was a burst of pressure and pain, which Bart accepted with a grimace. There was always this difficulty in getting plowed into by fat guys, whose bellies weighed Bart down and added power to their penetrations.
Fatty was oblivious though. He just gripped Bart’s cheeks, plowing into him on autopilot, his cock ramming into Bart’s ass as hard as he could. He’d never been able to fuck a girl like this, so lots of pent-up horniness came out at once. He moaned loud and slammed into Bart’s ass. He was surprised at how easy it was, his cock just slid right in and instantly his whole body quaked as a jolt of pleasure rocked his corpulent frame.
“Shit!” Bart shouted. “Goddamn, get it deep in me! Big boy, do me hard!” He was rocked back and forth by the power of Fatty’s gyrations, his heavy body grinding him into the asphalt.
Bart found it difficult to remain on all fours with Fatty plowing into him with all his mind. He lowered himself first to his elbows and knees, and then finally, gradually, he was crushed onto the cold asphalt. Fatty laid atop him, scrunching him up underneath that hairy belly.
A long, low orgasm erupted in Bart, extended by the fact that he was crushed on the ground, so he was unable to touch his own cock. He could barely even breathe. All he did was flail as the most intense orgasm of his life ran through him.
Hot breath condensed on the back of his neck as Fatty gasped and snorted like a horse. Fatty’s whole body rippled, and he groaned right into Bart’s ears. “Damn, bitch, shit, you fuckin’ slut, don’t move, don’t move, just take it, okay, bitch, damn…” He exhaled breathily on Bart’s head.
At last he was done. He lifted his head — letting Bart breathe a bit — as he poured his cumload into Bart’s ass. Fatty had never felt anything like this. He shot the biggest load of his life, wad after wad of creamy, sticky juices flowing into Bart’s asshole.
Bart accepted every drop and would have begged for more if he could recover his breath. He soon rolled over, and Fatty went with him, wrapping Bart up in his arms so he could keep plowing in. Bart squirmed and writhed in his grasp.
As soon as Bart touched his own cock, he finally shot his own wad as well, spraying it over the asphalt and even onto his own face. Bart cried out. “Goddamn, Fatty!”
Fatty chuckled, his own orgasm ending though he didn’t remove his cock yet. He just watched Bart squirm and climax as well, his lithe back tensing up. Fatty let Bart slide right off his slick belly. Every inch of his body riding on Fatty’s dick sent new spasms of ecstasy to course through Bart’s veins. Fatty too found sparks of sensation to arise from his sensitive shaft as Bart dismounted it, and both men let out cavernous moans of relief when Bart finally popped off Fatty’s knob.
Bart sighed, exhausted, red-faced and sweaty — covered in Fatty’s sweat as well as his own. He sprawled out on the asphalt. Jizz dribbled out and flowed down his thighs in tiny rivulets.
After a minute or two of heavy breathing, Bart rested his head on Fatty’s belly. His tongue snaked into his bellybutton. Fatty chuckled. Bart stroked his limp dick with one hand. It was hot and tender, soft as warm butter, and Bart’s squeezing of it made Fatty shudder with the aftershocks of his orgasm.
“Your dick is great,” Bart said. He reached into his sock and pulled out the money. “Here you go.”
Fatty nodded, his eyes glazed over. He yawned. “Shit, man…” He had forgotten he couldn’t find the money, so he didn’t pay attention to where Bart pulled the cash from.
“Is it okay if I lay here on your belly for awhile?”
Fatty nodded again. “Whatever floats your boat, man,” he said. He took the backwards baseball cap off because it got in the way of resting his head on the asphalt. “Shit… You wanna pay me again later? I’ll come see you some more next week.”
“Hmmm… Maybe. I’ll give you my phone number,” Bart said. “But I travel a lot.” He licked the valley between Fatty’s manboobs. Then he kissed Fatty on the neck. Fatty stiffened up — that felt too pervy for him, but he allowed it for a few seconds before gently pushing Bart way.
Then Fatty sat up. “Shit, okay, I’ll call you. Don’t tell no one though. If anyone asks… tell ‘em I sell you meth.” He paused. “Not the police, I mean.”
“Sure, okay,” Bart said with a satisfied sigh. “Whatever you want.”

The Fat Thug

Bart is desperate for giant alpha males, and he may have met his fill in a dirty old traphouse. There’s drug dealers galore in there, but Bart has eyes only for Thickie Large, a fat Blood with manmeat worth seeking out! Can Bart land this whale?

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Bart sat in his car working up the nerve to go in there. He was pretty sure his plan would work, it was just anxiety-provoking. He was a puny white guy about to go into a crackhouse, one that was probably full of guys who were only interested in buying or selling crack. Bart wasn’t there for that, so they were going to be annoyed.
Still, he had a plan he was confident in.
He took a deep breath and headed in. The Broad Avenue traphouse was legendary, everybody in town knew where it was and not to ever go in. It had been raided by the police a half-dozen times in the last year alone. They never caught anything or anybody of note. A couple crackheads, a few guys with open warrants for petty bullshit.
The yard out front was brown and overgrown, not having been mowed in years, most likely. It was sad to think this was a nice family’s house once upon a time, probably. Children’s toys were scattered around the lawn. That had to be recent, not a relic of the nice family that lived here years ago, the toys were too new, some crackhead had emptied them. Probably stole an Amazon package off a porch and threw the toys on the lawn because they can’t be pawned.
The home itself was wracked with graffiti and big brown stains of what Bart hoped was mud. The door was unlocked (and indeed, being off the hinges, was un-lockable). Inside it smelled like marijuana smoke, which surprised Bart, as he was expecting crack. He wasn’t aware that crack didn’t have a very strong scent and was easily overpowered by the high-grade marijuana that was recently smoked upstairs.
That’s where Bart went. He figured his man was probably up there. A few of the sallow-faced men and semi-conscious women on the ground floor glared at him, but none reacted. They seemed to be pretty out of it. Bart wasn’t sure they registered him at all.
On the second floor, he went straight to the room at the end of the hall, where he could hear deep-throated voices talking. This is where the floral, mephitic plumes of acrid blunt smoke were coming from. He went straight in. Four black men stood as though ready to attack as soon as he opened the door.
When they saw that it was a flamboyant white man who was both short and skinny, they hesitated. Bart grinned and giggled like a slutty girl, which made the four black men furrow their brows. Bart said, “Hey, guys, my name’s Bart.” He held his hand out as though he expected the guys to kiss the back of his hand. They didn’t.
“Yo, what’s up, boi?”
“What’re you doin’?”
“You crazy-ass fool, you ‘bout to get yaself shot-!”
The first three to talk were Ratty, Nailboy and Dumphry. They were all Bloods in good standing, as evidenced by the tats. Only Dumphry’s tattoos were visible though. He was heavyset but strong as hell, thick as cold oatmeal. Ratty and Nailboy were skinny. Ratty was outright ugly, like a smashed dog biscuit. Nailboy was handsome and eager and cute like an abandoned puppy, and he kept sucking on his teeth like he was too good for literally everything happening around him.
None of those were Bart’s preference. He adored men of a certain physique, and that physique was not the handsome prettyboy, six-packed studs, muscular bodybuilding types, and definitely not the malnourished crackhead look — Ratty looked like that — Bart liked men of largeness.
Men of extra largeness.
He was after the fourth Blood hanging out with the other three, the biggest of them all, a few inches taller and much heavier than them. “Thickie Large”. ‘Antoine Wall’ was his real name, but everyone called him Thickie, and he had even released one single under the name Notorious F.A.T. He was six and a half feet tall, and he was fat. Not just a little chubby, he was outright fat, with a belly that hung over his crotch and thick flabby arms.
He was also very strong, easily the strongest of the four, his muscles were just buried beneath that deliciously wide body. He had this dry, raspy voice that turned Bart on so much he didn’t catch what Thickie said. It was easy to not hear it, it was oddly hummy, he talked like a cartoon moth, and you could hear his heavyset frame in his voice, like his words ricocheted around in his chest on their way out.
“I heard a rumor that you guys could help me with something,” Bart said as he came into the room with a grand swoop to his walk. That got their attention. Most people who came in here tried to come across as tough and dangerous, not flighty and effiminate. That was part of his plan, throwing them for a loop so they’d be on edge and more likely to agree to his request, or at least refrain from robbing him long enough for him to make the request.
One of them scoffed. “Yeah, man, we got whores, but you can’t just come bustin’ in here like this.”
“We got what you want-“
“You still gonna get busted up-“
“Whiteboy crazy!”
The only one of them who didn’t say anything was Thickie Large, who brimmed and bristled under that shade-casting baseball hat he always wore. He shifted his weight between his feet as he puffed on his blunt, hotboxing the cherry like a madman. He opened his mouth full of smoke, then inhaled, then exhaled slowly through his open mouth. He didn’t listen to his niggas talk heavy smack at the whack-ass whiteboy who came through the traphouse like a foolish-ass whiteboy.
“Yo, what?”
“You lookin’ for a female?”
“I got a fat bitch at home, she’ll rock ya socks off, white man. She’ll suck yo’ dick so good you turn into a nigga,” Nailboy said.
“You want crack?”
“No, no,” Bart said. He’d been trying to get a word in. His plan to attract attention by being eccentric and thereby get them to shut up long enough for him to make an offer was not working. “Wait, guys-“
“I got pills. Whatchoo want?”
“I got a hundred bucks,” Bart blurted out. He blushed as they at last fell silent, which was mainly sparked by Ratty realizing the blunt rotation was halted because Thickie Large was hogging it. Ratty swore at him and took the blunt. That interrupted the convo long enough for Bart to explain at last. “I’m not looking for a woman. I want to jack one of you off.”
A long pause filled up the mouse-scented room. Outside sirens blared as a parade of cop cars went past, the sound of which seemed loud because one of the windows was shattered. The four thugs all exchanged looks, all except Thickie Large who stood there like he hadn’t heard that.
Then at last, Thickie Large spoke. “Yo, what?”
“Whiteman a freak.”
“He prolly was a prison bitch, got a taste fo’ nigga meat. It happens. That’s science,” said Ratty. “Shit, fo’ a hundred bucks, I let you take a swing on my meat too, boi.” He grabbed his crotch. He lowered his sagging jeans enough to bring out a big dick. It was kind of knobbly and unpleasant, like a Fijian warclub.
“Hmmm… You’re getting close,” Bart said. He placed one hand on Thickie’s arm. “But I’m only willing to pay for the thickest of meats.” He giggled as they all erupted in whoops and hollers. Thickie himself seemed to be more surprised than anyone else. His eyes opened wide, and his lips parted but only a dull croak came out.
“Ah, shit!”
“What? That don’t make no sense!”
“What’s wrong wit’choo?” Dumphry lifted up Thickie Large’s shirt, revealing his broad Santa-like belly. Dumphry slapped his bellyfat to make it jiggle. “You crazy!”
“This is fucked up,” Nailboy said. “Man, boi, hey, whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout?” He took his shirt off and made Bart look at his perfectly etched body and powerful muscles. His pecs rippled, and he flexed first one bicep, then the other, then both. “You want him? You want that flabby ass? Instead of this?”
“Hmm-hmm-“
“You crazy,” Ratty said. He took his dick out again. “You want thick meat, I got thick meat-“
“You got one thick cut of meat,” Bart said. He patted Thickie’s belly. “But he’s made out of thick meat. He’s thick all the way through.” He looked up at Thickie. “So what do you say? A hundred bucks?” Bart had actually brought two hundred, but Ratty had thrown a ‘hundred dollars’ out there as a reasonable amount, so Bart went with that. He fully expected them to rob him at the end of this anyway.
The room got quiet. Thickie was flush. He looked like he was unused to being flustered. He glared at his friends. “Y’all get out.”
“Man, Thickie-“
“I say get out,” Thickie said.
They all grumbled a bit but walked out into the hallway. Thickie looked down at Bart. “You came in here lookin’ for some fat dick? There’s fat guys downstairs. Or was you lookin’ just for me?”
“You mean the crackheads? I’m not just into random fat dudes,” Bart said. He dropped to his knees. “I want you. I saw you selling weed at that frat party last weekend. They said I could find you here.”
“Man, they shouldn’t be — I ain’t admittin’ I was sellin’ weed, nosir, don’t you think that.” Thickie was about to take his dick out, then he eyed Bart suspiciously and ripped his shirt and pants off to look for a wire. “Those motherfuckers shouldn’t be spreadin’ my personal information. I’ll have to have a talk with them.”
Bart smiled. “Okay. Yeah, sure. Cool. I’m not a cop. I’m not wearing a wire. Would a cop do this?” He crawled on his knees to Thickie’s backside, jammed his nose right in Thickie’s buttcrack, through his jeans. He inhaled loudly. “Cops don’t do that kinda shit, right?”
Thickie hesitated. “I dunno, man.” He paused. “This some nasty booty bandit shit.” Thickie lit a cigarette.
But that still wasn’t a no, so Bart just went ahead and played with the thick cock bulged in Thickie’s filthy jeans. Thickie ignored it and smoked his cigarette. Just like with his blunt, he let his mouth fill with smoke and opened it, then inhaled the smoke. This time he exhaled the smoke through his nostrils like an angry bull, while his cock throbbed beneath his jeans and under Bart’s soft touch. Hearing no objection, Bart undid Thickie’s belt.
His jeans dropped, and Bart pulled his boxers down. Thickie’s belly sagged thickly over his cock, which he hadn’t seen in years without a mirror. Bart first licked up some of the sweat off his big belly, then licked a trail down his cock, from root to tip.
“Damn, whiteboi,” Thickie said with a nervous tremor to his chuckle. He swayed his ass back and forth as Bart clasped it with both hands. Each cheek was as big as Bart’s entire upper body.
His dick got hard quickly in Bart’s mouth. It was veiny and strong, firm, throbbing. Bart loved the musky flavor. He stuck his tongue out and ran it up and down the shaft. He was quiet at first, still unsure if Thickie even wanted him to be doing this. Thickie showed little reaction the whole time.
But after a minute or two, Bart stopped trying to be quiet, and he choked up mouthloads of spit that ran down Thickie’s dick into his unkempt bush. Thickie at last straightened his back. He grunted. He murmured something incomprehensible on the underhush.
“Ah, shit, Thickie’s doin’ it! I hear that!”
“Oh, yeah, stick me in my mahjuicy ass!” Ratty was doing a Thickie-impression. “I wanna take that dick! I love white dick in mah ass!”
“Yeah, lemme suck on your belly-rolls!”
“Hmmm, double-D titties!”
They were laughing out in the hall, so loud as they banged on the door and stomped on the floor that it sounded like they were falling over themselves. Bart had to chuckle too, especially when Thickie wrinkled his nose. Thickie tried not to react.
He slipped his dick deeper into Bart’s mouth. Thickie was ginger at first, worried he would be unable to get hard, or that it would feel too much like a man. And, he thought, there was something clinical about it — it felt good in a strictly physical way, but Thickie remained intensely aware of the fact that it was a sin as he saw it.
Thickie shook his head. He didn’t want to think that. One of the old heads in his neighborhood last year had gone on a drunken rant about how punks in prison mouthed him off so good. He said there was nothing better than a prison wife going to town on your cock.
Precum streamed down Thickie’s shaft. He was surprised at how good this felt. It definitely was better than any woman’s blowjob. He grunted, not wanting it to be obvious how good it was to the guys outside the room.
“Yo, whiteboi, you cummin’ yet? Is Thickie swallowin’ ya load just like he likes?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Thickie roared, responding to them for the first time. He pounded on the door, which was already broken, so his fist went right through it. Splinters flew, and his friends jumped back. Then they crowded to poke their head into the hole and laugh at Thickie.
“Lookit his ass shake. Shit! Man, he got a godzilla-butt!”
“Hey, freak! Why do you like fat dudes?”
Bart pulled off Thickie’s dick and slapped himself over the face with it. Precum kept flowing. “Hmmm… They taste so good, boys… I already talked about this-“
“But that don’t make no sense! I am way better than him!”
“Hey! Shut the fuck up!” Thickie shouted. He backed up so his hefty body blocked the hole in the door.
Thickie pounded on the door behind him, but Bart had an idea. He crawled after Thickie and licked a trail up his massive thigh. He sucked on the flesh of his left buttcheek and spread his cheeks, aiming his big brown hole right at the opening in the door.
“Ah, shit! Thickie’s asshole!”
“Damn, he got fat ass! He got ass for weeks!”
Bart pushed his own head into the hole then, and in moments he had his tongue in the crack of Thickie’s ass, close enough to the opening in the door that Thickie’s friends could tell what he was doing. Thickie laughed, making his whole ass shake around Bart’s tongue.
No one had ever licked Thickie’s ass before. He could get girls often enough that he wasn’t ashamed of his sexual experiences — though he did pretend to get laid a lot more often than he did — but he had never even tried to get a girl to lick his ass. He figured big guys like him just couldn’t do that, what girl would ever do it? Someone like Nailboy who was all muscle and sinew and seemed to secrete his own cologne? He probably got rimjobs all the time, or at least he claimed to.
But Thickie had never had a rimjob. So he was surprised when he felt Bart’s tongue push into his hole, and he was even more surprised when it felt good. He had assumed it was like ball-licking — a nice idea, but not really very much fun for more than about two seconds.
Instead, however, a surge of primal pleasure ran over Thickie and made him grunt. He had to stay quiet because he was unsure what sounds he would make and thought his friends would make fun of him. He couldn’t keep himself from emitting a sort of a low thrumming sound that slowly turned into a howl.
“Shit, Thickie, you alright?”
Thickie grunted. He dropped to all fours, unable to control himself. He jutted that giant ass up high in the air. His friends guffawed at the sight of Bart’s tiny twink head being swallowed up into Thickie’s sweat-choked crack.
Bart’s tongue explored every crevice of his ass. It tasted deliciously funky, and Bart loved that there was plenty of meaty flesh. He kept licking and somehow he was always licking some unlicked swathe of man-meat, suckling on the sweaty hairs that clung to his ass-cheeks.
When Bart sensed Thickie getting near his orgasm, he stopped. Thickie’s whole body kept undulating for a minute as though he hadn’t noticed Bart slip out of his ass. Bart crawled forward, sliding underneath Thickie, who was still on all fours.
Bart raised his ass. “You ready to get in my ass? Please?”
“Hell yeah,” Thickie said.
“You can pound really hard,” Bart said with a giggle. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the guys out in the corridor. It sounded like they were on the phone now, telling everyone they knew what was happening.
Thickie grunted. “I know, boi. If I’m gonna ram, you best believe I’s doin’ it hard.” He lifted his upper body up. He had to hold onto his belly and heft it above Bart’s tiny body. He used one finger to loosen Bart’s hole, ramming it all the way in — he remembered only as he did so that he had decided he wouldn’t do that, that it would be too gross to ass-finger a man. He thought he was going to vocally tell Bart so, that way his friends would hear him be tough and macho.
But he had forgotten, so he just rammed one finger in and chuckled at Bart cringing. He was just going to have to pretend it was normal to stick a finger in a man’s ass. Bart oomphed and clawed at the ground. Thickie’s finger was thick and stubby, and it made Bart’s whole body cry out in both pain and desire.
His ass loosened. Thickie gripped it with both hands, to separate Bart’s cheeks and wedge his dick in. He was used to struggling with his belly, which sometimes got in the way when he plowed in. Normally he was self-conscious because he was never sure how much his females were okay with him being a big man. So it was nice to stick his dick in someone who genuinely liked it. He flopped his belly onto Bart’s back and forced him into a convenient position.
Then he drove his cock right in. “Damn, boy, damn… Keep it loose.” He grunted. When it became clear Bart wasn’t going to make him stop, Thickie came at him from an angle just to make Bart cry out and squeal some more. He wanted his friends to hear that.
Bart didn’t care about the pain. He loved the feel of a massive cock inside him while an even more massive man pounded away from above. The difference in size was even more apparent now that they were actually plowing, because Bart was dwarfed by the belly above his head.
Thickie had a long dick that jabbed deep into Bart’s guts, stimulating his prostate and sending him to the edge of orgasm. Thickie loved it. He would later tell his friends it was “only okay” to save face. But he liked that he didn’t need to worry about minimizing how much his girl felt his belly. He could just plant down on him, grind his dick in deep and fuck as hard as he could manage.
“Shit, fuck yeah! Get it in me!” Bart called out. He clawed at the floor beneath him, and Thickie plowed into so hard he slammed Bart into the floor loudly enough that the crackheads downstairs heard and wondered what was happening. None of them got up to check though.
Thickie used both of his arms to keep Bart in position. One fist pinned down his back, while his other kept his hips up.
This had turned out both better and easier than Thickie ever thought possible. He groaned as he slammed his dick all the way in — no girl had ever let him get this deep in her guts. He vibrated, grinding, ramming his dick in every direction to hit every corner of Bart’s insides.
The pain was extraordinary, overshadowed only by the intense bliss that coursed through Bart’s veins. This was the part of getting plowed into by chubby guys that Bart adored, the nasty final rutting orgasm.
He barely needed to touch his own dick to climax. Bart shot his wad onto the floor beneath himself, but Thickie didn’t even notice. He was busy reaching his own orgasm.
“Damn, freak, you takin’ it good! Swallow up e’ry drop, boi!”
Creamy hot cum sprayed within Bart’s ass. Bart howled so loud crackheads outside the house woke up. Bart craned his head around as he felt cum flow into him, so he could suck sweat off Thickie’s fleshy pecs. His muscle flexed beneath the thick layer of padding there, and his whole body jiggled against Bart’s back.
His orgasm went on for what felt like forever. His balls drained into Bart’s ass, wad after after filling him up and dripping onto the scummy crackhouse floor. It was creamy and copious, and the heat of it seeped into Bart’s flesh.
“Shit…” Bart grunted. A long, low moan came out of him, as Thickie’s cock throbbed deep in Bart’s body. Each throb of the shaft sent a new wave of pleasure to wrack Bart’s tender body, and Bart twitched each time.
“Damn, boi, you done real good,” Thickie said. He chuckled. “You wanna be a whore for me? I turn you out on the street, make some good money.”
“No, thanks. I got my own thing going on,” Bart said. He didn’t want to reveal that he spent a lot of money chasing down chubby guys like Thickie (he thought, accurately, that Thickie would make him take more money out at an ATM if he knew how wealthy Bart was). Bart sighed as Thickie finally pulled out, his cock audibly plopping.
Thickie chuckled and slipped his finger back in there. It was deliciously disgusting, he thought, and no girl would ever let him do it. Bart squirmed beneath Thickie’s stumpy middle-finger, which made a big mess of cum over Bart’s asscrack.
“Here, lick that clean,” Thickie said. He shoved his finger in Bart’s waiting mouth, and groaned in both disgust and delight as Bart gladly sucked it clean.
His assjuice and cum was funky and musky, a bit slimy but oh-so-good. Bart moaned again and bucked.
Then at last, it was over. Thickie let go and stood. He didn’t want to do anything that would look too pervy, so he wasn’t about to keep messing around with Bart. Bart wasn’t going to let this stop until Thickie made him stop.
So Bart again kissed Thickie’s thigh and caressed his asscheeks. He got in the way until Thickie tried to pull his pants up, then swiped at Bart’s head. Bart giggled and stood.
Before he could say anything, however, Thickie grabbed for Bart’s pants. He went through his pockets. He took the full two-hundred dollars out of Bart’s wallet. Then he took the emergency fifty Bart also kept in there. “Thanks, whiteboi. You can get out now.”
Bart hesitated and stroked Thickie’s barrel-shaped chest. Thickie scowled at him then, and feinted like he was going to punch. Bart ran for the door.
Thickie’s friends were serious-faced, like they expected to see his dead body in there. Bart just smiled. “Hey, guys, nice to see ya!” As he walked past, he grabbed Nailboy’s dick in his jeans — Nailboy licked his lips and offered it to Bart, as seductive as he could muster, when Bart walked past. Nailboy grunted and frowned but didn’t say anything. Bart giggled. “If you ever gain like a hundred pounds, gimme a call.”

Reacharound From a Fat Jock

Bart is glad to service the more heavyset athletes at GHU, especially the legendary linebacker Gravy! He’s big, he’s thick, he’s got massive meat, and he knows how to use it! Can Bart and Gravy satisfy each other’s needs?

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Gravy had said before, in front of his team, that he didn’t have anal sex with women because it was unbiblical. He truly believed that — Gravy was a preacher’s son, so he wasn’t about to argue with the Bible. Anal sex was wrong, as was all premarital sex. That didn’t stop Gravy from wanting it. He told his teammates that he had religious objections to cover up the fact that he couldn’t get sex anyway, not even normal sex and definitely not anal sex.
But Jimmy and Raython and them, Tuck, George, even Easy, they all had girlfriends, they all banged them all the time, and they had “sluts on the side” too. Not Gravy. The others bragged about fucking their sluts in the ass, and Gravy nodded along as though he did the same thing.
The one time he got this ex-girlfriend of his to give up the ass, it ended in failure. Davy “Gravyboat” Mitchell had a giant dick. Thirteen inches, a hefty thirteen, as thick as a coke can and then some. She took one look at it and noped right out. She said she’d give him a handjob, but then she didn’t.
But Gravy had always found it best to lean into that kind of thing — if he couldn’t talk girls into doing anal, he might as well claim he didn’t wanna do it anyway. So he’d told his teammates he wouldn’t do anal sex for religious reasons, and they accepted that, or at least they didn’t care enough to press him on it.
“Alright, freshmen and Gravyboat, get outta here, you can shower in the visiting-team locker room,” Jimmy called out as they all chanted and clapped after the last pre-tournament game. He motioned towards the door that led to the other locker room, where the freshmen were already heading.
Today the GHU Titans had finally won, made it to the state championships. Soon they might well be the champion football team in the whole state. That’s why the whole team was celebrating.
Gravy swaggered to his feet. The cheerleaders were already streaming into the locker room, giggling and blushing. Gravy tried to look nonchalant, like he was a part of this, even though he knew he wasn’t, and everyone else in the locker room must have known the same thing, if they gave it any thought.
The cheerleaders had promised to give up the butt. That was why they were being secretive, they didn’t want everyone to know. They said they would let the seniors gangbang their ass, possibly in a big orgy thing, or maybe they’d pair off, Gravy didn’t know the details. The girls said they would only do the seniors (since the freshmen weren’t playing anyway) and they excluded a handful of weirdos, skinny kickers and, of course, Gravy, both because he was too big in general and because his cock was too big for anal sex (or so Gravy assumed was the reason, since no one told him about any of this, he had had to surmise it).
That was why he was told to shower with the freshmen.
“I got that older… lady. She’s probably waiting for me, at her house, which she has a mortgage on, she’s current on payments,” Gravy said as he walked out. He babbled, but he couldn’t stop even when he realized nobody was paying attention.
He had been seen talking to a professor, an attractive older lady. He tried to flirt with her, but she shot him down, said that she didn’t date students, that she wasn’t into him, and she didn’t say that he was a big-boy freak with too many glands and armpits that smell like horse stables, but that was implied. Nevertheless, Gravy’s teammates saw him, assumed he was messing around with her on the downlow because she was older, and Gravy hadn’t corrected them. Now he tried to remind them of that, hoping they would think he was leaving to go fuck his own woman, not because the cheerleaders had rejected him.
“She’s hot for an old woman. She really loves fucking me. You know how old ladies are. Or maybe you guys don’t.”
His body was still sweaty because he hadn’t showered — the cheerleaders wanted to shower with the players, so no one had showered yet — and he tried to sound confident. The players were kissing the cheerleaders, taking their clothes off, groping their perky young breasts. They were just going right into it, damn, Gravy wasn’t…
Gravy had never done anything that just got right into the swing of things, no nervous fumbling, no awkward pauses, they didn’t even say hi first. Gravy backed out the door, eyes to drawn to the cheerleaders and their tits and asses…
“She’s not that old. She’s divorced. She has a son slightly older than me,” Gravy said. “So it’s awkward. It’s…”
“Cool, thanks, Gravy! Leave the lights on!”
“Yeah, Gravy, leave the lights on when you leave with your cheerleader!”
No one listened. No one had even noticed that Gravy did not have a cheerleader. Nobody had listened to Gravy’s words. He could have said he was off to fuck Clara Barton in her dirty butthole, and they’d have just said ‘kay, see ya, Gravy. Those cheerleaders had such perky plump tits that it was impossible to get the football players to pay attention to anything else. Gravy’s dick was stiffening even as he felt depressed and dejected.
He had overthought that. Nobody noticed he wasn’t in the gangbang. They just assumed he was banging some other cheerleader, like there was a whole bunch more cheerleaders around the corner that they hadn’t met yet. Gravy didn’t need to impress them, because they weren’t paying enough attention to him to notice how unimpressive he was.
Their feminine giggles filled the air, and Gravy could sense the sex dwindling behind him as he walked farther and farther away. The atmosphere got sexier in there after he left. He tried not to be bitter about it. His dick was half-hard. He wanted to fuck; he wanted to demolish a chick’s tight asshole; he wanted to fill her guts with his seed.
Gravy showered and changed into the civilian clothes he carried with him from the other locker room. The freshmen were mostly done showering by the time he got there, so he was alone that whole time. He’d learned his lesson, so he didn’t bother explaining to the freshmen why he wasn’t with the others.
Maybe he’d learned the wrong lesson, because he did sense the freshmen snickering. They knew he wasn’t invited to gangbang with the other football players because the cheerleaders didn’t want the fat jock. Maybe he should have given them an excuse. Or maybe that would have just made him look defensive.
The freshmen pointed and laughed at his big dick too. Gravy ignored that. He headed out of there as soon as he got his clothes on.
He didn’t get very far, however, before running into Bart Dazzle, the physical therapist for the university’s athletic department. He was short, neat-mannered man, slim and flamboyant in his way, kind of offputting at first, cuz Gravy didn’t get the artistic, theater-kid kind of personality. But Bart had grown on him, and he gave great massages.
“Is something wrong?” Bart asked when he saw Gravy. They were just passing the door to the locker room, inside which all of Gravy’s friends were gangbanging the cheerleading squad, and the sounds of that were plainly audible. There was no doubting what it was.
Though Gravy hadn’t intended to tell anyone what happened, he did, just because the words poured out of him. Once he started, he couldn’t stop unil he had told the whole story. He sat on a bench, and Bart rubbed his shoulders the whole time. He had smell, gentle hands but a firm touch, and he rubbed the tension out of Gravy’s shoulders.
“You poor baby, are those cheerleaders being bitches? Don’t worry, at least one of ‘em has chlamydia, your teammates are all going to be on antibiotics next week. They’ll recover before the tournament, but they’ll have learned a valuable lesson,” Bart said and shrugged.
“Oh. How’d you know that?”
Bart shrugged. “I know those cheerleaders. They’re like that. I have access to their medical records.”
“Should we… stop them?”
“Chlamydia’s fully curable. It’s no big deal,” Bart said.
“Oh.”
“That woman you were talking to, the professor-“
“That old lady?”
“She’s thirty-one, Gravy. That’s not exactly old. But yeah, her. She’s totally into you, you know. She was serious about not dating students, that’s a rule she follows strictly. She could be fired. But you’re graduating soon. Call her. She likes big boys,” Bart said. He held up a piece of paper. “This is her phone number.” He smiled flirtatiously as he tucked it into Gravy’s jeans pocket. His hand plunged deeper into the pocket than was necessary, and he handled Gravy’s cock and balls through the fabric. He smiled.
“Why are you giving me that?”
“Because I like you, and I like her,” Bart said, still holding onto Gravy’s cock through his pocket. He led him down the corridor.
“Oh. Where are you taking me?” Gravy always turned into a robot when someone touched his cock like that. He got touched affectionately so rarely it was nice when it happened, and he didn’t want to say anything or move in a way that might make it stop. He was stiff, leaning back a little to let Bart have easy access to his crotch.
He followed Bart down a corridor in the athletic department. He cleared his throat and asked again, his deep voice echoing and making Bart shiver with desire. “Where are we going, man?”
“Sssh… Ass is ass, Gravy, especially in the dark. I’m taking you somewhere dark enough to… well, dark enough to do whatever you want.”
“I’m not… I’m not gonna cornhole you,” Gravy said. Bart’s massages usually had a handjob component. That was the best part of his massages, and he knew perfectly well Bart wanted to get cornholed by him. He wanted to ride that massive cock.
But Gravyboat didn’t do that kind of thing. That was dirty. He wasn’t a hobo or an oilman or a roughneck, he wasn’t a ramrod.
Bart stopped in front of a closet door. He opened it and dragged Gravy in. It was a large walk-in closet, usually full of soccer equipment thought it was empty now because all of the equipment was on the north field. The soccer team had just begun practice. The women’s soccer team at GHU was full of thick girls who might date him, he hoped, so he kept going to games.
It was a dumbass sport though, boring as math. You could tell it was an old game, they invented it before anything but kicking had been invented.
Though it was a big closet, Gravy had to stoop to get in past the tight doorway, and he was crammed in there. Bart’s body bumped up against him as they both struggled to fit in. When the door slammed shut behind him, it was pitch-black in here.
Gravy’s intense body odor filled the air. It wasn’t a bad scent, it was mostly cheap deodorant, which he used copious amounts of because he was sensitive to people (mostly women) constantly telling him he was sweaty. He didn’t even raise his arms in class because people acted like his armpits smelled really bad, even when he knew they didn’t — people just made that sort of assumption about big guys like him. If he defended himself, he would just sound defensive, like he might as well admit it was true that he smelled bad.
“Man… I won’t stick you in the ass.” Gravy’s deep voice gurgled like he knew he wasn’t going to follow through on that rule. “I don’t do that.”
“I know, and I think it’s wrong to lie, I don’t approve of that,” Bart said. His voice sounded even more feminine in the dark. He stroked Gravy’s dick, which began to twitch and firm up. “But I’m not mad. I know you had to lie to-“
“I wasn’t lying.”
“Oh, so this isn’t your dick about to ram into my asshole?” Bart asked with a wry giggle. “Is it some phantom’s cock?” His pants were down now, and he rubbed his smooth ass against Gravy’s bulging crotch. Gravy let out an involuntary moan. His cock was hard now, and it was painfully tight in that jockstrap. He wished they made bigger jockstraps.
“I mean… I ain’t, y’know…” Gravy blushed. “I don’t do that. I ain’t s’posed to even jack off at all. My dad’s a preacher. It’s in the Bible.”
Bart leaned closer to Gravy and whispered, “It’s not in the Bible.”
“Well, my daddy says it ain’t right,” Gravy said. He blushed. “But, uh, I already did done mess with some girls in the past. I got sin in my heart. God forgives. I just don’t know what to do.”
“Oh hush up, I’m not letting you walk around with a hardon like that,” Bart said.
“You can just stroke me off. Put’cha mouth on it,” Gravy said. He looked down at his feet, and a grunt escaped from his throat. He watched his dick throb through his clothes as it caressed Bart’s smooth ass, sending a shiver of desire up Gravy’s spine. He had never had a girl play with his dick like this, like she really wanted to make him feel good. Bart squeezed his shaft, teasing it, making him so hard he could burst. Gravy sucked in his breath, hoping he didn’t cum too quickly.
And just like that, Gravy had changed his mind: He was definitely going to go through with it. He was gonna cornhole Bart.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” Gravy said. “Lemme put it in your butt.”
“I will. In due time,” Bart said. He smirked and looked up. His fingers slipped under Gravy’s shirt and tweaked his nipples, making those mountainous pecs flex over and over.
“Huh.” Gravy grunted, and his massive belly rippled.
“You can always leave, Gravy, this door’s not locked; there’s not even a lock on it. You can masturbate. Your dormmates are gone for the night. You can go sit in front of your computer and pound your meat all night long, if that’s what you want to do. You can make sweet love to your own hand until dawn.”
Gravy murmured. He couldn’t think about anything else but that tight asshole rubbing over his crotch. Bart’s voice sounded so feminine that Gravy could nearly forget that there was no girl here; he didn’t understand why or how Bart would know what was going to happen in the future — his roommate was visiting his parents this week, so his return time was not predictable — but he was too aroused to think too much about it. He heard actual girls laugh out in the hall as they walked by. That made him choke and cough and his hands fumbled with his belt, as he was reminded of where his teammates were.
Without him.
His pants slid down to his ankles, and Gravy sighed as his dick slipped into Bart’s asscheeks. He had never felt anything like it.
At first his cock just flopped between Bart’s cheeks. Even that was enough to make him moan with desire. He humped his hips back and forth, delighting in the shockingly moist feel of Bart’s tight asshole, ready and waiting, beckoning for him to enter it.
“You ready, big boy?” Bart asked. His delicate hands slipped behind his own body, wrapping around Gravy’s shaft and aiming it for his ass.
“Yeah.” Gravy’s deep voice was hesitant, uncertain — not because he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go through with it, just because he was worried he would cum too soon. That would be embarrassing.
On the other hand, it occurred to him that Bart would let him do it again. Bart would probably spend all night with Gravy if he asked, letting Gravy demolish his ass until his roommate showed up tomorrow morning.
Gravy sighed as Bart finally led his dick in. Bart sucked in his breath when it hit his hole, and the hard-as-iron tip slipped into him.
“Goddamn…” Gravy’s eyes opened wide. It was like wearing a warm glove that had been built just for him, or just for the tip of his dick, at least for right now. He grunted. His spine tingled. He bit his lip and gasped.
“Oh…” Bart moaned like a girl. He could sound very much like a girl when he wanted to, especially in the dark and when he was only moaning, not actually speaking. He whimpered like a puppy.
The pain in his ass was intense. Bart expected that though. You couldn’t get an awkwardly massive man to shove his thirteen-inch-long, nine-inch-circumference cock into a tight ass without some pain. He had smeared himself with lube beforehand, knowing that Gravy was too inexperienced to realize he needed that. Bart usually kept some lube on hand anyway.
Gravy was completely oblivious to the fact that Bart was in pain. If he had thought about it, he would have known it, but he didn’t think about it — girls were normally very vocal about disliking every aspect of his lovemaking, from his big dick to his chest hair to his belly, furry shoulders, his hot breath and the way he made baritone choking sounds like an angry ape. So Gravy was used to assuming whoever he plowed into would let the criticism flow freely. When he didn’t hear Bart complain, he kept on plowing in, struggling to feed in inch after inch of his throbbing meat. He thought about nothing but the mind-numbing pleasure shooting up from his cock.
There was resistance. Bart had trouble taking his entire manhood. When Gravy had plowed into girls, that was a problem because they complained, made him slow down or stop. But Bart wasn’t like that at all. Bart liked the struggle. He savored the pain because it made the pleasure more potent as well.
“Shit, man…” Gravy’s deep voice rocked Bart back and forth.
So Gravy was shocked at how easily he got his dick in. Despite the pain and the tightness, he just kept pushing and Bart just kept accepting it. Finally Gravy was all the way in, his whole body bucking and shaking, his knees nearly giving out, until his pubic hair scratched at Bart’s ass.
In his mind, Gravy thought he wasn’t going to touch Bart any more than he absolutely needed to. He certainly wasn’t going to make love to him. He leaned against the closet wall, and let Bart ride him up and down. His hands flailed above Bart’s body, his muscles quaking as he experienced the ultimate pleasure and did little more than watch Bart impale himself on Gravy’s manhood.
But Bart was slow and sanguine about it. Gravy couldn’t accept that. The more his desire overwhelmed him, the more Gravy’s inhibitions about touching a man melted away. He moved his body back and forth in long strokes, and he moaned with each thrust of his hips. Bart undulated too, in sync with the motion of Gravy’s massive frame. Gravy’s chest and belly rubbed on the smoothness of Bart’s back.
Finally, without even thinking about it, he grabbed Bart by the shoulder and held him in place. He pistoned his hips now, finally plowing into Bart hard, ramming in and out of him with all of his might. He didn’t know anyone would ever take his dick like this. The whole thirteen inches rammed in and out again and again, and each time it battered Bart’s prostate, sending wave after ascending wave of ecstasy to wrack Bart’s frame.
“Goddamn, man, shit! Open up, fuuuuuuucck!” Gravy’s hot breath condensed on top of Bart’s head. If Bart were taller, Gravy thought, he probably would have kissed him out of sheer habit, so he was glad for the height difference — that would have been a step too far.
Before Gravy knew what was happening, they were on the floor in the tiny, darkened closet. Gravy was too tall to fit, his head banged on the wall while his feet bumped into the door. His heavy chest and belly pressed down on Bart’s back.
This was another part where Gravy was used to girls making him stop. When he messed with cheerleaders, they usually weighed about a quarter of his own weight, so they couldn’t take much pressure from above. Gravy had to treat them like delicate pieces of china, like the slightest bit of pressure would make them shatter into a million little pieces. They complained about sweat too, and about his hot breath, his scratchy hairs rubbing against their smooth skin.
But not Bart. He loved all those things. He loved Gravy’s slightly rancid breath, and the stale and fresh sweat that made his belly slippery where it rubbed over Bart’s back. Bart turned his head to the side so he could lick up as much sweat as he could off Gravy’s chesthair.
Gravy wrapped one hand around Bart’s body and stroked his dick. He couldn’t believe he was doing that. He didn’t need to, wasn’t told to do it, but all of a sudden, he wanted to be sure Bart felt just as good as Gravy did. Bart moaned into the meat of Gravy’s massive arms, which wrapped around Bart and held him tightly. The sound of Bart’s pleasures was swallowed up by Gravy’s thickness.
“Oh god…”
“Can I jack you off?” Gravy knew he didn’t need to ask, who would say no to that?
And indeed, Bart writhed and nodded and moaned, as his cock throbbed in Gravy’s grasp. Precum flowed down Gravy’s thick fingers and onto his wrist. It was thick and creamy, and it came out in pulsations that Gravy could feel in Bart’s shaft too.
Maybe it was the clumsiness of Gravy’s unpracticed hand that brought Bart to orgasm so quickly, but as his body contorted around and within Gravy’s thickness, a surge of pleasure flowed through his veins. Bart shot his wad on the ground, a great creamy flow of it, followed by another, and another.
Sandwiched between Gravy and the floor, Bart could feel every spasm in Gravy’s orgasm. His dick was massive inside Bart’s ass, like it was getting bigger as it spewed its creamy load inside him. Gravy’s grunting was cavernous and bestial with Bart’s ears right beneath his chest.
“Oh god, fuck, man, shit…”
Bart squirmed within Gravy’s arms, gasping for air under Gravy’s mountainous torso. His face turned red. The pressure grew so intense he gnawed on Gravy’s stone-like forearm. Gravy didn’t even notice, he just moaned so loud it could be heard in the girl’s locker room down the hall — the volleyball team in there thought it was a howling dog. Gravy’s body was slick with sweat.
He slipped right off Bart, sliding onto a deflated soccer ball next to Bart. Gravy’s mind was already panicking, worried that everyone would find out what had happened and that they’d never stop teasing him. But those worries were deep in the back of his mind.
He closed his eyes. He didn’t even care that girls didn’t like him. He didn’t need girls. He had Bart. He felt so confident in that that he wasn’t even paying attention when Bart put his clothes on. He was dimly aware of Bart using the meat of Gravy’s chest for support as he stood on unsteady legs.
Gravy only realized Bart was leaving when the closet door opened. Blinding light hit Gravy, who winced and looked away.
“You’re leaving?”
Bart nodded. “I’ve got other athletes to see, Gravy.”
“Does that mean you’re not gonna jack me off again?”
Bart smiled. “No. Come see me anytime you need it, Davy. I’ll be here to help.”

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 Fat Landscaper

When Bart finally manages to hire the legendary plus-size landscaper Raleigh Routh to mow his lawn, he wasn’t sure he’d have a chance to service his almighty manhood. But a freak rainstorm results in the opportunity of a lifetime! Can Bart seal the deal?

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Bart was excited but disappointed too — he was now less sure this would work. Raleigh Routh turned otu to be just as stately, just as masculine and just as desirable as Bart had thought from his picture on the Clip-Crew website. Bart had scheduled a landscaping “session” through the website and kept choosing different times and dates until he found one with Raleigh Routh as the only landscaper available. It was eight o’clock in the morning on a Monday.
Raleigh Routh was a tall, broad man with a small belly and plenty of padding all over, built like an egg balanced upon a pair of tree trunks. His chest was hairy, his face rugged and squarish but round as well, with a hollowly deep voice befitting a man of his heft. People always said he was stupid because his voice had that hollow flatness that very tall, baritone men sometimes had. He blushed easily, and he was often flustered.
When he was flustered, his chunky ass shook, and he stroked his ratty goatee. He was an ex-Marine so he had plenty of power underneath his massive redneck frame — which featured a literal red neck, sunburned from his part-time career as a lawn mower.
So Bart hired him one Sunday hoping to get into his pants. Bart loved the physiques of men, especially large men, and he had a knack for finding ones who ached for a tight hole and a sweet release. He just needed a chance to get his man alone.
But when Raleigh had shown up, Bart became less confident. He usually had a pretty good idea when meeting a man whether he would be willing to be Bart’s latest bit of rough, and when he shook Raleigh’s sausage-fingered hands, he thought “no, this guy won’t do it.”
He just didn’t come across like he would. He was too easily embarrassed, and, when he saw Bart’s flamboyance and heard his slight lisp, Raleigh’s big cheeks turned red and he scratched again at that goatee.
It was a pity he wouldn’t do it. He was really a perfect specimen of man.
Bart hung back in his house as Raleigh got started. He used a push mower that looked like it was about fifty years old. It had maybe been red at one point, but now the paint had faded and chipped until there was nothing left of it but a few stray flecks like bloodspatter. It roared like a mechanical dragon as it whirred into life, and Raleigh began pushing it across the lawn.
After a few moments, Bart returned to his work. If this lawnmower-guy wasn’t going to work out, he thought, he needed to do something productive today. When he happened past the window again later, however, Raleigh was then shirtless, and Bart couldn’t help but watch once more.
He was ruddy all over from the sunlight. He was a naturally pale man, so he burned and turned red easily. He had big broad shoulders like an ox, his belly-fat jiggling as he struggled to push the lawnmower. It took all of his ox-like muscles to keep the lawnmower going as he ascended the hill on the side of the house.
Sweat trickled down his back, sliding onto his ass which protruded from his denim shorts. His underwear was plainly visible, white boxers, soaked until nearly translucent and revealing the upper part of his fleshy asscheeks. The fabric rode up on one buttcheek, revealing most of it.
Shit… I want him so bad, Bart thought, his heart fluttering and his dick twitching. I want to suck the sweat off his back-fat. It must taste so salty…
But just plain asking him might backfire and make him leave — with the lawn half-mowed. He could offer money, but some men were more likely to do it if they weren’t getting paid. Was Raleigh one of them? Would he be upset if he were treated “like a prostitute”?
A sudden thunderclap struck Bart from his reverie. He had noticed it looked overcast earlier, but he had been so distracted by Raleigh’s manliness that he didn’t see the storm clouds gathering and darkening overhead.
Now it was there, an anvil-shaped cumulonimbus, coming on strong, roiling blackly, wind whipping up. It had dropped several degrees in the last few minutes, and Raleigh lifted his head to look. He turned the lawnmower off, standing there, resplendent in his massitude, heavy belly plump with muscle flexing nervously under his skin.
He looked up at the sky, held one hand out and watched a few drops plop onto his palm. Then he raced to turn the lawnmower around.
Again, Bart watched him, his gently sloping curves shaking as he ran through the rapidly rising rain and into the garage. By the time he got there, his boxers were soaked through and Bart could see his ass clearly above the rim of his denim jeans, which were plastered to his thunder thighs.
Oh god, those thighs were thunderous indeed. Bart wanted to lick them clean.
He opened the back door for Raleigh to come racing in. By the time the lawnmower was put away, the rain poured down — it was what Bart’s grandfather would have called “ark-buildin’ weather”.
“Shit, dawg! Fuck!” Raleigh bellowed when he came in, one of his giant hands massaging his soaked chest. His shirt was on the ground outside, he hadn’t had the time to go grab it, and it was presumably covered in rain and mud now anyway. Bits of shorn grass stuck to his skin, plastered on now by the moisture, so there were little green flecks all over his chest and hairy belly.
“Are you okay? Here!” Bart gave him a bathtowel. “Sorry, I have no clothes that might fit you.” He blushed — that was an understatement, Bart was maybe a third of Raleigh’s size, so none of his clothes even came close being sufficient.
“Thanks, man,” Raleigh said. He used the towel to dry himself off, then hesitated. He wrapped the towel around his waist as though going to take off his shorts and just use the towel as clothing, but then he didn’t. Then he re-reconsidered, murmured “fuck it” to himself and pulled his jean-shorts down, and his boxers. He kept the towel around his waist, so Bart never saw his cock or balls, or ass — Bart politely faced away to avoid it.
“Can I put these in ya dryer?” Raleigh asked, his tuba-like baritone echoing, tense due to his embarrassment. He blushed even more than Bart — Raleigh didn’t like his big body or being the center of attention because of it. He didn’t like towering above everyone.
“Sure, right through there,” Bart said, pointing into the laundry room. He scooted ahead of Raleigh, affectionately patting him on the bicep, making his heavy arm-flesh jiggle, as he led him to the dryer.
“Thanks,” Raleigh said, his big dumb face shaking. He scratched his goatee, then tossed his clothes into the dryer and turned it on. He was embarrassed about being so naked in such a nice house because he thought Bart would tease him or think less of him; in his mind, Bart was critiquing his dull-colored clothes, his short hair and unkempt goatee, his graceless voice.
He thought for sure that, if he touched anything or sat anywhere, Bart would call him a “fat-ass lummox” and make him leave, even in the rain. One of his friends once had said he left a “greasy stain” on the couch when he sat down. Raleigh didn’t think that really happened, but everyone still made fun of him for it, and if that was how a friend reacted, Bart would likely be even bitchier about it. He’d probably send Raleigh the upholstery bill.
But Raleigh didn’t know what to do instead. He just stood there, gaping, slack-jawed like an idiot. He hated that everyone saw him as stupid and fat — he wasn’t even that fat, really, he thought. He had a belly, sure, but he was also very tall. People were just predisposed to see him as big because he was so tall, and they always saw him eating, which made him look fat too — his big cheeks and jowly chin jiggled when he ate.
“So, uh…what do you do, man?” Raleigh asked when he realized how dumb he looked standing there.
Bart, in contrast, had no inkling that Raleigh thought all that. He was entranced by Raleigh’s majestic body and the phantomic taste of the sweat, rain, grease and grass that clung to his frame. Bart could almost taste it. “Uh… Well, I own a modeling agency.”
“Shit, really? I bet you know a lotta hot chicks. Damn-“
“I can’t hook you up with any models. You might not like them anyway, we specialize in plus-size beauties, mainly for catalogues,” Bart said.
A grin plastered on his face, Raleigh grabbed his cock through the towel around his waist. “Shit, man, I’m plus-sized myself. I don’t mind a big beauty.”
“Hmmm… Good to know. Me neither, by the way. I mean… I’m not into ladies of any size, but you know… when it comes to men, the more the merrier,” Bart said. He daintily danced his fingertips over Raleigh’s belly. Raleigh’s eyes opened wide. Bart cleared his throat. “That’s not all I do. Honestly the agency barely makes a profit. I also write romance novels, mostly about big, beautiful women.”
“Shit…”
“I have this one series — have you ever heard of The Wolfen Wild? That’s me. By J.P. Loggerhead.”
Raleigh shook his head. “What kinda book is that?”
“It’s a shifter thing. Werewolves. Women dig werewolves.”
“What? Women are into werewolves?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why do they always bitch that I’m too hairy?!” Raleigh lifted his arms and grunted. That bared his armpits and the big bushy fur protruding there. He slapped his thighs — which had inspired his last girlfriend to call him ‘Thunder Thighs’, because whenever he slapped himself there, there was a loud slapping sound like the thunder still roaring outside the house.
“What? Well… Most of the women who buy my books are… I mean, they wouldn’t literally hook up with a werewolf if that existed,” Bart said. “It’s just a fantasy.”
“Man…” Raleigh scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Man…” He blushed and laughed — he was so big that his laughter sounded more like a cavernous echo of a laughter from deep within him — as he looked down.
“I think women are foolish to spurn you, for what it’s worth — you’re so handsome. They should like hairy guys, big guys. They don’t even know. I mean… big guys are so great. Everyone should realize that, but they don’t. Like you know that William Ambers guy? The actor?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s such a fucking prettyboy, like what an alien might come up with based on analyzing handsome dudes from human history-“
“Yes!”
“He’s in that stripper movie, my friend made me go cuz he’s so hot, but he’s like… ninety-percent abs, and his skin is so smooth you could slide right off him, like a goddamn seal,” Bart said, making Raleigh laugh uproariously. Bart continued, coming closer and touching Raleigh’s belly above his towel. “If Hollywood was smarter, they’d tell William Ambers to eat some carbs and give you a movie deal.”
“Ah, no shit, what?” Raleigh had never been told he was handsome before. He sucked in his breath, cheeks turning bright red.
“I’m serious, you’re so much better-looking than William Ambers. You, I’d swallow your dick all night long — no offense, sorry if that makes you uncomfortable, but I simply would, that’s a fact. William Ambers, I dunno, I guess I’d let him read me love poetry in front of a sunset. That might be nice. But then when I got tired of gazing into his pretty eyes, I’d come get you to slam my ass,” Bart said. “Hard.”
Raleigh’s eyes opened wide. He clutched his belly with one hand. “Shit… What?”
“Sorry, I just think you’re real handsome. It’s fine. It’s cool,” Bart said. “Don’t be nervous — here.” He handed over the money for the lawnmowing. “So you don’t feel, y’know… pressured, here’s the money for the lawn now. You can leave anytime. I guess you could wear my bathrobe or something.”
The rain had dwindled, Raleigh saw when he looked outside. It was still raining, and it was too wet to mow — the grass was wet and slippery, the ground too muddy to be practical. He could just go home. He had gotten paid.
“Oh.” But Raleigh wasn’t sure he wanted to go just yet. He kept one hand tightly gripping the towel around his waist. If he was with his buddies, they’d be making jokes about how they didn’t want that towel to fall. They’d say it was gross that his plump belly was out. If he accidentally bumped into them, they’d tease him even more; they’d say he slapped them with his belly.
“You can take the towel off if you want,” Bart said. “You won’t offend me.”
Raleigh’s last girlfriend didn’t even like to be near him naked. He bumped into her in the bathroom once and she had freaked out, said he needed to get control over his body. It felt good to drop the towel. His cock hung free, his ass clenching as cool air flowed over it.
“Hmmmm… Your girlfriend is a lucky lady-“
“I don’t got a girl.” Raleigh’s deep voice bloomed.
“Oh, you poor baby… Why don’t you sit down, and let me get you something nice?”
Raleigh felt like he was in a trance. Was he about to get jacked off by a man? That was too weird. He was opposed to that. He worked part-time on a road crew with a bunch of black men who all said that there was a nasty guy who got them off because he thought it would make his dick bigger. They didn’t see it as a big deal. As long as you’re on top, they said, it doesn’t count. Raleigh had never believed that; he thought it was gross — these guys weren’t even handsome rappers or anything either, they were mostly semi-homeless, stinky, dirty, not as fat as Raleigh in most cases but hardly with Hollywood bodies like William Ambers.
But then, Raleigh had never thought it was an option. That was a thing black guys did “on the DL”, as they told him over and over (it wasn’t really downlow if they kept talking about it, but that’s what they said). It would feel so good to be appreciated for his body. His previous girlfriend deigned to fuck him from time to time, but it had been obvious she never really craved it; she never wanted to feel his belly pressing down on her, she never wanted to try to mount his giant body. She didn’t like how she couldn’t reach his face to kiss him when she plowed into him — she always brought that up as though it was his fault, like he refused to kiss her during sex, when he made every effort to lower his head and do it.
He assumed that the “something nice” Bart was going to get him was some food. Instead, however, Bart returned with a porn magazine.
“I thought… if you wanted to,” Bart said, blushing and smiling nervously as though he had never done this before, “I thought maybe you could look at this. Some guy left this here once.”
“Ah…” Raleigh was embarrassed, but he grabbed the porno. A part of him thought it’s weird to take a stranger’s porno magazine when you’re naked in his house but Raleigh dismissed that. His instincts told him to look at the chicks. So he did. He plopped down on the couch and leafed through the pictures. He probably thinks he’s being a good host, like guys need porno just like chicks need white wine. He sprawled out and spread those thunder thighs, baring his cock and balls.
Still when Bart got on his knees and slid between Raleigh’s legs, Raleigh was more engrossed in the porn. Bart seemed distant and unimportant, though he was very near and all Raleigh could think about. He just wants to look, probably. He prolly likes looking at dicks- Then he touched it.
Raleigh grunted. He couldn’t decide if he was nervous or not. His cock twitched. It felt good. He couldn’t deny that. It felt right, he could just let Bart get him hard, that would be fine.
I’ll just let him get me hard, and I’ll jack myself off.
His dick twitched in Bart’s grasp. Raleigh sucked in his breath, lifting the porno magazine up so he could look at it more closely, as though he could convince himself he hadn’t noticed what Bart was doing.
That hand stroked his girthy cock, slowly at first, barely palpable though it sent sparks of desire through Raleigh’s body. Then his shaft pulsated and twitched, and Raleigh’s whole body shook as his muscles flexed. He sucked on his teeth, cheeks turning red, and he let out a throaty breathless yelp.
“Is it okay if I taste it?”
“I dunno… I ain’t, you know… Maybe you could play with it some,” Raleigh said, slurping in his breath every few seconds and playing with his goatee. His eyes roamed down and saw his dick in Bart’s grasp. He had known it was happening, but it was shocking anyway. Bart reached into his fat, moist crotch and stroked it up and down, as though he really wanted it. Raleigh still thought Bart had been kidding about thinking he was hotter than William Ambers — who was like the Hollywood definition of “handsome”, he thought, at least for right now.
“Okay, thanks. If you want me to put it in my mouth, just let me know,” Bart said. He got down real low, stroking Raleigh’s shaft with both hands. He was so close he could feel the hairs on Raleigh’s ballsac, and he could smell the rain-soaked musk of his crotch.
“Uh.” Raleigh’s red face alternated between nervous chuckling and wide-eyed amazement. He’d never gotten jacked off by a man before. This was double-handed too, and that was another thing he’d never done. No girl was willing to do anything like this because no girl had ever been outright turned on by him. They were willing to put up with his size — sometimes — but they weren’t turned on by it.”You really like big guys?”
“I love them,” Bart said. He sighed. “But if you don’t want to get your dick wet…”
As he had expected, Bart didn’t have to wait long. All of a sudden, Raleigh gripped him by the hair and brought his head near his cock. Raleigh did that without thinking about it. He let go of Bart’s head before it touched his cock though.
“How about if I just get it wet?”
“Yeah, do that,” Raleigh said, his bass voice wavery and plaintive. His dick was rock-hard now, sticking out from under his belly. Raleigh closed his eyes and let out a little mewling sound as his dicktip disappeared into Bart’s mouth.
It feels so good… Raleigh didn’t know how to take it. Those guys he worked with were right — men did do it better than women. Bart slathered spit on the tip before deep-throating, making Raleigh moan and shake, those thunder thighs sliding over the couch cushions beneath him.
Soon Bart had his entire dick in his mouth, swallowing it the best he could as he gagged and choked up spit. His nose nuzzled Raleigh’s meaty crotch, while his hands reached up to explore the treasure trail on his belly and play with his nipples. It was obvious no one had really pleasured Raleigh like this before, and he didn’t know how to take it.
“You wanna cornhole me?” Bart said, slurping up the spit and precum that now clung to Raleigh’s dick. He kept leaking more precum too, which slid down his knobbly shaft. Bart swallowed whatever he could get to.
“Hell yeah,” Raleigh said without thinking about it.
Bart slid onto his back on the coffee table, feet high in the air. That was a perfect position for Raleigh, who kneeled before him and held onto his legs. Since Bart was so small, Raleigh could easily grip both legs at once.
None of his girlfriends had just done it. They all wanted foreplay, the right environment; they wanted him to be freshly showered and shaved and they’d only ever do it in the bedroom, under the covers, at night with the lights off.
But now Raleigh could do it as hard as he wanted. He didn’t need to worry about upsetting his bottom — Bart wanted it all. Bart winced in pain but still begged for more, until his ass was filled with all ten inches of Raleigh’s meatshaft.
It plowed into him, teasing his sensitive prostate and sending wave after wave of pleasure through Bart’s body. His belly flopped back and forth as he plowed into, slapping into Bart and leaving a layer of sweaty, rain-and-grass soaked grease on him. Bart reached for his chest, but in this position could barely reach it until Raleigh lowered himself even further.
As both men reached orgasm together, Raleigh let out a chest-rattling roar. His baritone voice echoed in the house, and made Bart croon out loud, begging for more. Raleigh’s entire cock rammed in and out of his tight ass, causing intense pressure but even more pleasure to hit him like a runaway lawnmower.
It felt so good Bart couldn’t breathe, and he shot his own wad on his chest and belly from the moment he touched his own cock. Raleigh would have been nervous and a bit disgusted by the sight of another man cumming, but he was overwhelmed by his own incipient orgasm, and anyway, his belly covered up Bart’s crotch, so he didn’t see it directly.
Great gobs of creamy cum flowed into Bart’s ass, making him moan and shake like an excited worm. He was dwarfed by the massive body jiggling overhead, sweat pouring down over Raleigh’s chest and belly. Raleigh roared and pounded on his own muscles like a victorious warrior — which was exactly what he felt like.
He hadn’t shot a load like this in years, he thought, pangs of bliss shooting through him. It kept going, wad after wad, filling up Bart’s body and slipping out onto his thighs. Raleigh’s balls slapped loudly with each thrust of his hips.
Then finally, Raleigh gulped. It was over, but still too intense to remove his cock. Every motion he made caused such exquisite agony he couldn’t handle it. “Shush, don’t move,” he breathlessly said, glad that Bart disobeyed him and wiggled because it felt so good Raleigh thought he might collapse.
His dick flopped out, and Raleigh flopped back onto the couch. He let out a horse-like whinny. He stroked his goatee and closed his eyes.
Shit… Did I just do that? Shit!
Now that he was done, Raleigh felt rising anxiety. Had he done something wrong? Before he could think of what to do next, however, Bart had appeared with some tissues, which he used to wipe Raleigh’s cock clean.
Then Bart remained there by the couch, licking Raleigh’s belly and the fur that was matted to his skin by various fluids. Raleigh watched until he realized Bart wasn’t going to be done — this wasn’t a brief little afterthought, it was how Bart wanted to spend the afternoon. Raleigh’s instinct was to say no. He didn’t want to lay here all afternoon while Bart licked his belly clean like a cat.
Or maybe, he thought, he did. The mere thought of it made him moan. “Ah, yeah… okay. You can like… lick me and shit,” Raleigh said, blushing as he watched Bart do just that. “You gonna do me again later?”
“Of course,” Bart said with a giggle. “You want me to make you something to eat? I’ll lick the crumbs off you when you’re done.”
“Hell yeah!” Raleigh bit his lip and stoked his goatee. This lawn gig, he thought, had turned out to be more exciting than he would have ever predicted.

The Fat Cop

Bart is out and about when a violent encounter leads to him meeting the hunkiest of pudgy cops — Officer Lawrence Lumpowski! Can Bart handle the voluminousness of Lumpowski’s alpha male meat?

Read it now as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Bart was tiny, and he felt like an idiot standing outside with a broom in his hand. What was he going to do with a broom? Sweep the man to death?
A few yards away, Josh Winters, a skinny white thug with a tattooed neck and a ropy-muscled body, stood in a wifebeater and jeans, shouting into a brick wall. He wasn’t even comprehensible anymore, just red-faced, blaring, spittle flecking the wall, fingers tightened into a fist that smacked against the bricks. He had so many endorphins running through his veins he didn’t even respond like he was in pain, even though he must be, his hands were bleeding.
A lesser man, Bart thought, or any woman would think Josh was the most handsome.
But Bart wasn’t into skinny guys, or even muscular guys. He appreciated the physiques of fat, stout, big or chunky men. Josh was the exact opposite of Bart’s preferred body type.
He stood in the doorway with his broom, ready to jab it into Josh’s face if he tried to come in again. Luckily it didn’t seem to have occurred to Josh to try a window, or one of the other doors into the photography studio — which, now that it was relevant to him, seemed disastrously hard to secure to Bart. There were a dozen windows on the ground-floor, and three doors.
If this was a zombie movie, he thought, there’d be no way I could keep this place secure.
There was just the one man though, not a horde of zombies. He had shown up to “speak to” his girlfriend, a plus-sized model named September. She was stunningly gorgeous, and she worked for Bart at his plus-size modeling agency. She was here to model lingerie intended for “rubenesque ladies with curves for miles”, according to the description the label had sent him. That was September. She was rubenesque for sure, or maybe a few pounds under rubenesque, which was even better for fashion purposes. She was achievable-hot for actual rubenesque women.
Anyway, Bart had been keeping Josh Winters at bay with the broom for ten minutes, waiting for the cops to show up.
“Girl, you had better get ya stanky ass out here or I swear I will smack the tits off ya body! Huh? You playin’ wit’ me? Huh? You think I wouldn’t find out about ya sluttin’ it around! You is fuckin’ every man in the state, bitch! You disrespectin’ me! I swear to Christ, girl, I will take that broom off ya bitch-ass boss and ram it so far up his ass I gonna sweep his tongue clean!”
Bart’s heart raced as he jabbed the broom at him. He had started off using the handle-end, but he soon learned that the straw end was actually very painful, and it covered a wider area. He jabbed it into Josh’s face, leaving a multitude of red marks and making him groan and scratch at his eyes. Bart tried to punch Josh while he screamed obscenities, but he only bumped into the door itself.
“Ah!” Bart squealed. He was a tiny man who had never been in a fight in his life. He didn’t know what to do about this. He swatted Josh in the face again and tried to push him away.
“Fuck you! Little bitch! I’m comin’ in there! Bitch, you had better get out here right now-!” His face was blustery as the broom handle again pushed him from the doorway.
Finally, a siren could be heard. It felt like he had called the police an hour ago. It had actually been some twenty minutes, which was a superlative response time for the Baltimore City Police Department. Bart waved the broom towards Josh, who staggered around, blinded — some of the straw from the broom had scratched his eyes.
“Fuckin’ shit! Did you call the cops on me, you bitch?! I never hit you! I ain’t never hit you! Don’t tell ’em I was ever violent, bitch! You fuckin’ bitch! I never hit you! You fell, you fall, you fell, you fell, bitch! You know that!”
Soon it was all over. Two bored-looking cops got out of their car and grabbed Josh. They seemed to know him personally, and they seemed to take offense at having to arrest him yet again. They tossed him into the wall until he stopped shouting, and they got handcuffs on him. His nose bleeding, eyes red like a stoner, bleary and cursing under his breath, he was forced into the back of the cop car.
One of the cops went in to talk to September and take her statement, while the other cop stayed with Bart. Bart had been so excited and worked up that he didn’t notice until then that this second cop had one of those physiques he craved.
He was pudgy, which was what Bart liked most about him. He was white and bald — it looked like he was balding by nature, but he shaved his head to a gleaming cue ball — with a powerful body and a layer of fat atop it. His flesh bulged against his uniform shirt.
“Uh-huh, sweet, okay, so you jabbed him wit’ the broom?”
“Only when he was trying to get in and threatening my model,” Bart said. He wondered if he should be making a statement at all — would they charge him with a crime? What if Josh was blinded by that broom?
“Don’t worry, we ain’t lookin’ to charge no one. You shoulda broke that broom off inside his bitch-ass,” the cop said. He had deep dimples like he would have been handsome if he weren’t so pudgy. He had a stentorian Baltimore accent with a souciant of East Coast stawk. His name, according to the badge on his chest, was Officer Lawrence Lumpowski.
The name was appropriate, as he was shaped like a muscle-bound lump of manmeat.
Bart wondered if he could get a taste of Officer Lumpowski. He wanted to so bad he could already imagine what it would taste like — bitter and salty and warm, fleshy, soft and firm at once. He wanted him real bad.
But how could he make that happen?
As Bart finished giving his statement, another car pulled up, followed by a second one. These weren’t police cars. A pair of young men got out, running their fingers through their fantastic hair. They wore sunglasses and sleeveless shirts that showed off their bodies. They had six-packs and perfect teeth.
They were models as well, and a few minutes later they were joined by a photographer, a makeup lady and a talent agent — they were who had rented this photography studio after Bart. Bart had forgotten that he only had the space until four o’clock. The fashion shoot was supposed to be quick in the studio, then him and September were to go to the florist shop on Elm to shoot some more pictures. The arrival of Josh Winters had delayed everything.
As the male models filed in, and September came out with her girlfriends comforting her — she had called them — Bart stood back with Officer Lumpowski. Lumpowski’s eyes opened wide at the sight of September — a big-ass beauty if there ever was one — and watched her get in her friend’s car. He didn’t stop staring until she was out of sight, and there was nothing to look at but two male models comparing abs.
“Shit… Was I starin’ at her? I shouldn’t stare at battered girls, but damn, she was hot,” Lumpowski said. “What was she doin’ with a loser like Josh?”
“Ugh, don’t even get me started. You shoulda seen her last boyfriend. He tried to get her to sign one of those consensual slave contracts, and he lived with his mom in a trailer,” Bart said. He rolled his eyes. “Women have awful judgement.”
“Yeah.”
“You like your girls thick, huh?” Bart said.
“If they look like that, hell yeah,” Lumpowski said with a low whistle aimed at no one in particular. He glanced at the male models with their oil-glistening six-packs. Lumpowski laughed and clutched his belly. “I ain’t never one day in my life have a six-pack like that. Shit, I ain’t never have a one-pack. I once had a dream ‘bout doin’ half a situp and woke up sore as a dog.”
“I prefer the physiques of a larger man,” Bart said. He cleared his throat. “In fact… I love to jack off big men.” He patted Lumpowski on the arm. “Including large cops.”
Lumpowski laughed, then cut himself off, bit his lip and blushed. His big chunky cheeks turned bright red. He realized Bart was serious. “Oh… Wait, what?”
“You actually have the perfect male physique, Lumpowski,” Bart said. “I wouldn’t change a thing. I’d gladly get you off anytime. You could treat me like a fake pussy, like your own personal fleshlight. Shit, if you weren’t a cop, I’d have already offered you fifty bucks just to let me stroke it a bit.” He threw his hands up. “But I realize you’re not into that. Sorry.” He paused and giggled. “I was just kiddin’ about offering money, Officer. That’s probably a crime, I would expect, some sort of hygiene thing, right? At least against department policy, I’m sure. And I would never ask you to violate a department policy.”
“Uh-huh. You serious? You into them…?” He grunted and covered his leering eyes, suppressing a laugh. “You’re into… like… fat… men?”
He looked so embarrassed that it made Bart laugh along with him. Luckily September was gone so it didn’t seem disrespectful. Bart clutched Officer Lumpowski’s jiggling body for support as he guffawed, and Lumpowski turned redder and redder. He watched Bart’s hands clutch his chest and belly.
“Oh yeah, yeah, I sure do-” Bart said, clutching Lumpowski’s bicep through his uniform shirt. though covered with a layer of flab, Bart could feel the giant firm muscle beneath.
“Lumpowski! Let’s go!” His partner, Heartley, called out. He was getting in the patrol car, but he stopped when he saw Lumpowski. He motioned towards the driver’s side door as though Lumpowski should already be behind the wheel. Then Officer Heartley said, “Whatchoo makin’ that face at?”
“Oh, just this dude…” Lumpowski said. “It’s a… Nothing. Nevuhmind.” He glanced at Bart. “Nevuhmind, you. That ain’t… Don’t do nothin’ Jesus wouldn’t do.” He was still red-faced and chuckling as he got in the patrol car and drove away. Bart was disappointed. He had thought that that encounter was going somewhere.
So he just went home. That photo shoot had been a bust. Lumpowski had been a bust. He never even took a single pic for the lingerie company. He was going to have to set up another photoshoot with September. He sent her a text asking how she was doing and asking her to let him know if she would be willing to do the photoshoot again, once she was ready.
He’d already paid her too. Shit…
Then he went out for his nightly walk. He liked to walk as the sun went down and it wasn’t so hot anymore, and the traffic on the road wasn’t so bad — there was no sidewalk in the area he did most of his walking. It was much easier once the day’s traffic died down, and he preferred walking in the neighborhood to using a treadmill.
He hadn’t gotten very far, however, before there was a car by his side — a police car. It pulled to a stop and the driver’s side window rolled down.
“Hey, man! Hey… you want a ride home?” It was Officer Lumpowski, his big bald face gleaming as he smiled. Heartley was gone, it seemed.
“Oh, uh, well… I was just walking, y’know… for walking.” Bart slid into the passenger seat. “But thanks.”
Lumpowski started driving again. “So, uh… I was kinda hopin’ I’d run into you,” he said. He cleared his throat.
“Uh-huh.” Bart pretended to have no idea what Lumpowski was talking about, though he had a pretty good idea where this was going.
“And, like… how you… you’re into… jacking off big guys. You know? Like… was you serious?”
“Very,” Bart said. “Did you get my address from the statement I made? Is that legal?”
“It ain’t illegal unless I access the data in the database for an impropuh purpose,” Lumpowski said. “Ain’t illegal to remembuh what you told me and write it down somewhere othuuh than the private database.”
“I see. That’s a cute technicality. Remember to take it for a walk and feed it every day.”
“So, like… If you serious, y’know… When I was growin’ up, my Uncle Ralph, he was a biker and shit-“
“Sounds nice.”
“And he was always, y’know… He said one time — or a couple times, but y’know… like he said… you know… it ain’t wrong, like it ain’t a sin — you know, like you can still — I don’t mess wit’ girl crime victims. Okay? Don’t make me do that sensitivity trainin’ again, I can’t handle that-“
“I won’t complain. You can park there,” Bart said, pointing to his driveway. Lumpowski pulled in and stopped the car.
“So, like…” Lumpowski’s big face was as red as a cranberry, shadowy with the dim light of dusk. “So, uh… I was… My uncle… and like, my dad, and some other guys, uh… back then… They was like… It ain’t, you know, makin’ ‘em sinfulnessly… if they’s… like on top. You know? Like… tops and bottoms, you know about that?”
“Yes, I know about that.”
“So, uh… like… Do you… think that… is right?”
“Well, it didn’t make any sense, you were babbling. But your uncle sounds like a very smart man, Officer Lumpowski,” Bart said. “I think he was right.”
“Shit, so like… I want… I mean… I got a wife, you know, but uh… She don’t like me… We is on the feud… I mean… She’s at her sister’s. She say I’m… Well, she ain’t too fond of me right now,” he said. “So, y’know-” He gasped and sucked in his breath as Bart’s hand snaked over to his lap. Bart’s delicate fingers snuck under his belly and into his crotch, where he ran his fingertip over the shaft of Lumpowski’s cock, stretching against the fabric of his uniform slacks.
“How far back does that seat go?” Bart asked softly.
“Pretty far, see?” He raced to activate the lever and scoot his seat back. That gave Bart plenty of room to get his face on Lumpowski’s dick between his belly and the steering wheel.
“I think cops should blow their nut all the time. It aids in focus,” Bart said. “But of course I’d never make girls do it, that would be wrong. So I’d just have to step up to the plate and jerk all those dicks.”
“Ah, shit, man, I ain’t stick my dick in a wet mouth in like six months. My wife won’t do it anymore. She said she read on a website how it’s like… impressive.”
Bart looked up at him. “What?” He undid the belt and unzipped Officer Lumpowski’s slacks.
“I swear, that’s what she said. She can’t do it anymore because it’s impressive.”
“Oh… Are you sure she didn’t say oppressive?”
“Ah! Oh, fuck! Yeah, that makes more sense!” He lifted his ass up enough to rearrange the tight white briefs he wore, giving him enough space to pull his fat bullish prick out through the fly. It flopped onto Bart’s face. “Oh sorry, I ain’t mean to mollywop you.”
“That’s okay,” Bart said. “I appreciate a good mollywopping.” He took Lumpowski’s dick in his hand and let it slide into his mouth.
Lumpowski sighed. “Shit, man…” One of his heavy hands touched Bart’s head, spreading his mouth open. “Sorry, shit, Jesus, man, that feels good. I needed that.” He leaned his head back and sighed. His dick stiffened up quickly — he must have been very horny, Bart thought.
Soon it jabbed into the back of Bart’s throat, and Bart deep-throated him into his meaty crotch, his nose nuzzling Lumpowski’s unkempt pubic bush. He inhaled deeply of his unwashed scent, the day’s musk having built up. Bart bet Lumpowski didn’t wash these slacks every day either, they smelled stale, like they were soaked in Lumpowski’s intense scent.
“Damn… My wife never sucked me off like that, yo,” he said. “I used to know this girl who did, but she dumped me a long time ago. My wife, shit… she never deep-throated me. Or even tried to. I thought that was messed up, she was always givin’ me tips on how to lick her pussy better, and printing out these weird-ass articles about how I should watch her put makeup on cuz that’ll make me lick pussy better. She said it helped but then like a week later…” His voice trailed off into a moan, and he humped his hips up, forcing his dick deeper into Bart’s throat. “Shit, man…”
Car 91. Car 91. Are you still on the road?
“Shit!” Lumpowski grabbed the radio off the dashboard. He took a deep breath, hoping he didn’t sound like he was getting off. “Yeah. I’m still out. What’s up?”
Chief says you gotta come back, you never signed that report about the domestic violence call.
“Goddamn it…” Lumpowski said. “Hey, man, was there anything you forgot to tell me earlier?”
“What?” Bart pulled off his cock, thick tendrils of spit still connecting him to the shaft.
“I gotta go back to sign it today, which is a pain in the ass, unless I gots a valid reason for not finishing it. It’s a law,” he said. “If you forgot to tell me somethin’…”
“That guy, Josh, he called me a pussy. Did I mention that before?”
“Nah, you ain’t say that. Good. That’s good, that’ll do,” he said. He spoke into the radio. “I had to re-interview the witness, about a possible miso… misojinny hate-crime charge. I’m doing it right now,” he said. “I’ll have to sign it tomorrow.”
Ten-four.
Lumpowski laughed. “Shit, thanks, man.”
“No problem… You could say thanks another way, you know…”
“What?” Lumpowski was already trying to feed his dick back into Bart’s mouth. He grunted, his cheeks ruddy again as he was nearing his orgasm. Precum ran down his shaft, and Bart licked it up.
“Hmmm… You taste real good, but you’d feel even better in my ass,” Bart said.
“Holy shit, you’re serious? You don’t think I’m too pudgy?”
“Too pudgy? Is that a thing?” Bart said. “I’m pretty sure it isn’t. I’m an expert, and I’ve never heard of it.” He leaned his own seat back as far as it would go. Then he climbed up into the basket-seat, facing backward. The cop car was barely spacious enough for Lumpowski to fit behind him, but Bart enjoyed the feel of him squeezing in there.
“Man, can’t we go inside?”
“No way,” Bart said. “I wanna get plowed in a cop car. Don’t worry, none of my neighbors can see.” Trees and an unkillable grove of bamboo blocked the view from the road, and the only house nearby was for sale and not currently being lived in.
“It’s a tight fit,” he said, then he chuckled as he slid past Bart. He grunted and squeezed to get behind him, his rock-hard dick rubbing against Bart’s ass. “Ha, ‘tight fit’.”
Bart giggled too. “Tight fits are the best.” He didn’t make it too easy for Lumpowski to get behind him. He liked making Lumpowski work and rub all over Bart’s body as he squeezed into the passenger seat. Bart was crouched down, spreading his cheeks to give Lumpowski easy access.
“Does your wife ever let you fuck her in the ass?” Bart asked.
He snorted. “No way. She wouldn’t even let me look at her ass,” he said. “She said I got a dick like a billyclub. She weren’t never gonna let me try anal.”
“Why did you hook up with her? She sounds like a bitch.”
“Yeah… But she’s hot, and y’know… Women don’t like pudgy guys, so I don’t got a lotta choices.” he said. “And she was nice… y’know, before. Before we got married.” He wedged his dick between Bart’s cheeks. “Ah, shit, I can’t believe I’m gonna stick a dude’s butt. I seen guys do that in jail, but shit, man…”
Bart opened his mouth to respond but all that came out was a wrenching oomph as he felt intense pressure in his ass. He could understand why Lumpowski’s girlfriend was not so enamored of the way he plowed into — he was aggressive and awkward, plowing in at different angles, huffing and puffing like a tired bull, his heavy body pressing down on Bart.
But while his girlfriend might not have liked it, Bart loved being treated like a piece of meat. Lumpowski could use and abuse his ass for as long as he wanted and, ideally, a little longer than that. He groaned and moaned, turning his face so Lumpowski’s hot breath condensed on his cheeks instead of the back of his head. His hands turned into claws that dug into the upholstery beneath him.
“Shit, man, damn, lemme in, shit, don’t move, don’t move, don’t move—” Lumpowski said. He sucked in his breath and a few drops of spit escaped onto Bart’s face. Intense pressure erupted in Bart’s ass, as Lumpowski’s cock rammed inexorably deeper and deeper. You could tell he’d never fucked a woman in the ass, because he was awkward and fumbling, with the cramped quarters contributing to his struggles. Bart writhed in his powerful body, as pleasure flowed like wine through his veins.
Bart slurped it all down, and when he got Lumpowski’s thick arm in front of him — Lumpowski’s writhing atop him ended with Bart in a loose chokehold — he slurped the sweat that clung to him, and he licked Lumpowski’s dense arm hairs. The smell of Lumpowski’s armpits wafted into his nostrils. A cavernous moan of bliss escaped from Lumpowski’s throat, and he squeezed Buck tight.
His uniform scratched at Bart’s back as Lumpowski pressed down on him, cock all the way in, moving in little circles, grinding atop Bart’s prostate. Bart cried out, the sound muffled by Lumpowski’s uniform and arm. Bart jacked his own self off, reaching his orgasm as his prostate exploded in ecstasy.
Cum sprayed onto the seat, followed moments later by a burst of semen into Bart’s ass. Bart sighed and moaned, slurping on Lumpowski’s forearm hard enough to leave a hickey. The pain in his ass right now was intense, but the pleasure was even intenser, and it made Bart dizzy, giddy with desire. He could have gladly flailed beneath Lumpowski’s body forever.
But eventually he was done, and Lumpowski’s cock fell limp inside him. Great gobs of cum spilled out, but Lumpowski remained right there. He murmured “don’t move” every few seconds, though Bart couldn’t move anyway, the pleasure within him was so potent he couldn’t think of it, and there wasn’t space to move in the tiny squad car.
Then Lumpowski backed out with a chortling gasp. He struggled to back away enough to get his dick out, since he was trapped in the little space between the seat and the dashboard.
Finally, Lumpowski was out, and Bart scampered over the passenger seat into the back, where he sprawled out, exhausted and spent. “Shit…” Bart said.
Lumpowski sat back, his dick out, copious sweat beading on his forehead. “Goddamn… Hey, can I come see you again, man?”
Bart smiled. “Sure. Anytime. I’m not always around though. Text me first,” he said. “If I’m in the city, I’ll come running.”
Lumpowski nodded. He lay there in the passenger seat, dazed, while Bart cleaned himself up. Then Bart cleaned off Lumpowski’s cock, kissed him on the neck and climbed out of the car.
He hoped Lumpowski did call him, though Bart expected he might not be around. He traveled often, both to find new plus-sized ladies for his modeling agency and to go in search of his ultimate love: fat men.

The Fat Mechanic

Bart loves living above an auto repair garage because that means he gets to see the giant stud/studly giant Robby McCardle, a blue-collar hick with a whole lot of meat both upstairs and downstairs! Can Bart tighten his torque to a satisfactory degree?!

Read it now as an ebook!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Bart Dazzle pulled into the spot across from his building. He wished he didn’t have to park here, but there weren’t many actual parking spots, so usually he had to pull in across the street. That was annoying because of the bird shit — the trees on the other side of the road were apparently full of birds with digestive problems. Whenever Bart parked there, he came out to a car covered in bird shit in the morning.
He didn’t want to complain, because his apartment was great, and very cheap, plus he got a discount on car repairs. Not many people wanted to live in a rickety, drafty apartment above a used car dealership and auto repair shop. It was loud and cold and a mouse magically appeared in his kitchen every time he left some crumbs out even for an hour. That was presumably because of the huge open garage area right underneath his apartment, which must have been crawling with mice. The only saving grace was that he had seen at least two snakes recently. Bart liked snakes, so he didn’t mind and hoped they would eat some of the mice.
The other reason he liked his apartment was Robby McCardle. He was a mechanic at the shop. When Bart got out of his car, Robby was coming out of the garage with a set of keys in his hand.
He was short and squat, powerfully built underneath a massive layer of blubber. He was hairy all over, even onto his back — that was obvious because he wore a sleeveless shirt, and the furry black hairs covering his shoulder poked out from the strap of fabric there. A nest of coarser black hair spilled out of both armpits.
There was a tattoo of a Confederate flag over his chest, plainly visible in the sleeveless camo shirt he wore. More tattoos, including American flags, a recreation of the Iwo Jima landing, the words ‘NECK LIFE, a silhouette of an old woman, several silhouettes of sexy women and a fat but sex Statue of Liberty, all dotted his chest and expansive belly. His fatness jiggled when he moved, and Bart could see the powerful musculature beneath the heft shift along with it.
“I tol’ you I’s gettin’ desperate, sure as shit stinks on Sunday!” Robby said, guffawing at the other mechanics. “When you grow up on a farm, you gotta get in whatever hole-” He stopped because they laughed too hard at him to hear. Robby pumped his hips as though plowing into the air.
“Baah! Baah! Baah!” One of the other mechanics baahed like a sheep.
“Is yo’ mama a sheep?”
“Not no sheep! Nobody fuck a sheep, man, they all covered in wool! I’s talkin’ ‘bout goats, homeboy!” Robby yelled to be heard over the other mechanics. Robby blushed but smiled like he wasn’t bothered. He grabbed his dick through his filthy jeans and wagged it towards the garage. Then he turned around.
He saw Bart and stopped short. He furrowed his bull-like brow.
Bart nodded at him. “Hey. How you doin’?”
Robby bit his lip, making his cheeks jiggle. “Howdy, suh.” He headed over to a Toyota, got in the driver’s seat and backed it into the garage. The mechanics made sounds that were supposed to be a goat getting plowed into by a fat hick, but they didn’t seem to really know what that would sound like. Not that Bart knew what it sounded like either, but he didn’t suppose it was that sort of pornographic grunt-moan that they did loud enough to be audible through the floor when Bart went upstairs to his apartment.
Now Bart was thinking about dicks. In his bathroom, he could hear everything going on below. Normally that was just the radio, switching between country and urban pop stations. But today he heard laughing and more baahing — they seemed to have gone back to sheep-sounds since it was easier to make.
“Damn, that ya female, Fiddle? She is fine-“
“She don’t like white meat, ‘specially not fatback pork!”
“She got ass for days-“
“She ain’t got time for yo’ thickest-hick ass, Robby! She don’t need that tiny cock-“
“Ah shit, you awakened the beast-“
Bart couldn’t make out any more words, but he could tell from the way Fiddle’s voice trailed off that he hadn’t meant to make that tiny-cock joke, and then there were scandalized shouts. Then Fiddle said something about not flashing his girlfriend — obviously they had had this discussion before, and Fiddle had learned Robby’s dick was not tiny at all. He had forgotten, hence the joke.
That made Bart’s heart skipped a beat. Had Robby whipped his dick out to prove it was big?
“He got meat, nigga! That ain’t-“
“It ain’t nothin’, man, quit lookin’ at it-“
“Put ya goddamn dick away, motherfucker! No one wanna see that.”
“That artsy fellah upstairs do…”
“Swear to god, man, you confused a big dick wit’ a big belly. This is a big dick!”
There was another outpouring of scandalized shouts. Bart was beginning to get hard just picturing it. All of those mechanics were at least kind of hot. That was Fiddle who just took his dick out — he was too skinny for Bart’s preference, but he was handsome in his way, and Bart wouldn’t have turned down a roll in the hay with him. It would have been a bony, angular roll, he thought, like making out with a coatrack, but a roll nonetheless.
“…. Circlejerk! … …”
“Ha! Do it!”
“That’s some nasty-ass shit-“
“Bend him over, Fiddle!”
“Don’t touch my motherfuckin’ dick!”
It sounded like possibly more than two had taken their dicks out now, and were they jousting? Or chasing after each other as though they might start jousting, just as a prank? That was what Bart suspected based on the sounds he heard, but he enjoyed imagining them circlejerking.
It all ended unfortunately quickly though. Fiddle’s girlfriend came into the office attached to the garage, and they all politely shut up. There was some scattered laughter, but no one wanted a girl to know they’d been wagging dicks at each other. That’s how rumors get started. Someone must have whispered something funny, because Bart heard snorting and muffled giggling.
After that the radio turned on, and they started doing work again. Bart was annoyed. That had been almost enough to get him hard, then he was blue-balled.
Bart had long wanted to jack off with Robby. He had a great love for doing it with gigantic men like him. But he had never propositioned Robby because he didn’t want to cause an awkward situation with his landlord. If Robby complained, they might evict Bart — Robby could even threaten a lawsuit claiming Bart caused an unsafe working environment.
But now that he had heard Robby complain of being horny — apparently horny enough to (presumably jokingly) imply he would fuck a goat — Bart wondered if he had a better chance than he had thought. If he would jokingly fuck a goat, maybe he would get off wth Bart in the real world.
So Bart went downstairs and told the nice lady behind the counter that his car was making a funny noise. That was accurate. It was a sort of a thwackity-thwackity sound. Bart just didn’t much care, this car was on its last legs anyway.
But the reason he said that was so she would send Robby out to go on a drive with Bart. The shop was almost closed, but Robby said he wanted to find out what the car needed so he could start right away in the morning.
Bart drove off, heading down the country road instead of the highway. He wanted to drive slowly. He pointed out the thwackity-thwackity sound and turned down the radio so it was audible.
“Hmm… I dunno what that might be. Prolly just a loose hose. You gettin’ overheated ever?”
“All the time, man, I get — oh wait, you mean the car? No, the car never gets overheated,” Bart said with a flirtatious laugh. He glanced over at Robby to make sure he wasn’t reacting badly. You never know who’s Christian these days.
Robby had a deep, throaty chuckle, and it made his hefty body shake in the seat he didn’t quite fit in. His arms were well past his own seat and the fleshy thickness of his upper arm rubbed on Bart’s shoulder.
“Well, then it prolly ain’t the coolant system,” Robby said. He lifted up his shirt and scratched his belly, which bared its bigness and the brownish hair that ran in a trail down the center of it.
“Hmmmm…. Are you still seeing that girl?” Bart asked. He hadn’t really seen Robby with any girl, but Robby didn’t know that.
“Who? Elise? Nah? She dumped me. She’s fuckin’ crazy, man.”
“Oh, that sucks,” Bart said. He sighed. “You must be lonely now.”
Robby scoffed. “Whatevuh. I put my dangle out there.”
“Well, you must at least get horny from time to time. Horny enough to fuck a goat.”
Robby blushed and laughed so hard it echoed deafeningly. “Ha! You heard that shit? Can you hear us up in ya place?”
“Mostly I just hear the radio,” Bart said. “You guys love Lynyrd Skynyrd.”
“Yeah we can all agree on them, whenever we argue about the radio we put on Lynyrd Skynyrd and everyone’s happy,” Robby said. “Shit, man, I ain’t really fuck a goat on the farm, okay? There was lots of rumors, y’know, ‘bout this one farmhand we had, and there was this Mexican on the other side of the county, e’ryone said he got caught fuckin’ a piglet.”
“A piglet? That’s like child-rape and bestiality-“
“I know, right?! I don’t think that’s true though. It’s just a rumor. Ain’t no pig farms out there anyways,” Robby said. “I ain’t nevuh fuck a goat, I swear, not one time. I don’t get that drunk.”
“Well, you can get your rocks off more easily than that anyway,” Bart said. He paused as Robby’s mind whirred. Then Bart said, “There’s, y’know… options even without women.”
“Oh, jacking off? Yeah-“
“Yeah, but, uh… with a friend.”
Robby paused. “Oooooooohhh…. Yeah. That… on the farm, y’know… I don’t mess with that shit, but y’know, some of them farmhands… My momma once caught ‘em in a barn doin’ something she wouldn’t tell me about.”
Bart giggled. “It’s fun to imagine…”
“It sound nasty.” His scraggly beard hairs shook as he gruffly grunted and looked away.
Bart cleared his throat. “So… I’d be glad to help you out, y’know.”
“What?”
“If you ever get horny enough, come on upstairs. I’m in the last apartment on the right if you come up the front stairs,” Bart said. “I’ll jack you off with my mouth if you want. You can stick me in the ass, whatever you want.”
“Man, no way. You is into that?” Robby pursed his lips and glared at Bart. “That is… That’s fuckin’ nasty.” He paused. “Man… I ain’t into that nasty shit, nothing personal.”
“Sure, sure, no problem,” Bart said. “Feel free to say no.”
“No.”
“I’ll give you two hundred dollars.”
Robby didn’t answer. He looked out the window. “Man… That’s nasty. I…”
“I’ll swallow your dick so good. I swallow cum too.” Bart paused to lick his lips and run his eyes up and Robby’s expansive frame. “Okay, I can tell you’re wondering — I love your fat. I’m into fat guys. I would love to lick your belly, and I wanna feel it flopping on my head while I get you off-“
“Three hundred bucks.”
“Deal,” Bart said. He pulled back into the shop, where there was a spot now available, so he didn’t have to park across the street. Robby was surprised — he had been so focused on Bart’s offer that he didn’t notice they were heading back. Bart cleared his throat. “You wanna come up to my place?”
“You crazy? Wait till after five. Once them asshats is gone, I’ll sneak up the back stairs,” Robby said. His fat ass heaved out of the car and into the garage without waiting for an answer.
Bart didn’t mind waiting. He got his apartment a little cleaner and queued up some porn on the computer — he made it hardcore interracial gangbang stuff with lots of big black dicks rubbing against each other, because he knew Robby wouldn’t like that.
Sure enough, he scoffed at the sight of it when he finally strode in an hour later. “Man, you ain’t put that shit on for me, didya?”
“Sorry, I don’t know what you like,” Bart said.
Robby pushed past him to type in chicks hardcore and found a video he liked. He bristled when he felt Bart’s hands on his meaty, hairy shoulders. Robby cleared his throat. “I prolly stink like a ferret, man. You want me to shower first?”
“No!” Bart blurted out. “Sorry, I mean… no. Don’t shower. I like ‘em dirty.”
“That’s nasty.”
“That’s nasty?” He pointed to one of the vaginas onscreen. “That’s where babies come from. You stick your dick in there. That’s nasty. You like plowing into a baby factory.”
“A pussy ain’t like a baby factory!” Robby said with a laugh. “You know there’s no baby in there, right?”
“Yeah, I know there’s no baby, literally, I’m just saying… If your kink was fucking women in a toy store surrounded by dolls and pacifiers and shit, people would say that was nasty-“
“It ain’t the same thing!”
Bart giggled. He had gotten Robby so worked up he had barely noticed Bart stroking his dick through his jeans. Now his cock twitched, and he couldn’t help but notice. His eyes opened wide, and his cock throbbed in Bart’s grasp. Bart dropped to his knees, and Robby aimed the computer chair away from the desk so Bart could get his head between those massive thighs.
He stank like the garage downstairs, like cold steel and warm engines rumbling, with the acridity of the oil and fluids that had stained his jeans many times over. The smell brought tears to Bart’s eyes even before he had unzipped them and let Robby’s fat cock flop out.
A lot of fat men have small cocks because most of their shafts’s lengths gets subsumed by the fatty tissue’s growth in their crotch. But Robby didn’t have that body type, or maybe his cock was simply so huge that it still looked big even with much of it swallowed up by his heft. Regardless, a ten-inch slab of thick, veiny, greasy dickmeat flopped out over Bart’s face.
Robby jumped as though it hurt him. His eyes were intently trained on the computer screen, but kept peeking down at his crotch. It was weird, cold, ticklish when Bart’s tongue snaked out.
“Hmmmmm….” Bart let out a moan, then swallowed Robby’s cocktip. He suckled on it loudly, and Robby shook. Bart deep-throated him. Robby leaned back, his face turning red. His hands flailed and his heavy belly shook.
“Goddamn, man… Ah, shit…” Robby hyperventilated like he couldn’t take this. His dick wasn’t even hard yet — though it was rapidly firming up — and he already found himself enjoying this. He had thought he wouldn’t be able to, that he’d be so turned off by the knowledge it was a man’s mouth on his dick that he’d struggle to get hard.
That hadn’t happened at all. His cock throbbed, pulsating in Bart’s throat. Moisture coated his shaft. Bart’s nose nuzzled his fat crotch, that entire girthy dick stretching his throat.
“Shit, man, shit!” Robby opened his eyes wide. He squirmed. He licked his lips. He remembered Bart saying he liked the idea of Robby’s belly flopping over his face, so Robby did so. His girlfriends always made him shower and wash his balls before they’d even think about touching him. It was fun to watch his belly slap Robby’s forehead, leaving a layer of greasy sweat there.
Just as Robby had lost enough of his inhibitions to touch Bart’s forehead and plow down his throat, Bart pulled off and licked his belly. Robby looked at him grossly, but he lifted his shirt up to make it easy. He watched Bart slather his belly with spit, then suck on his manboobs and nipples.
“Ew…” Robby grimaced. He wasn’t ashamed of his body. He was happy and comfortable in his own skin. However, it was a little weird and gross to see a man licking his hairy fatpad, and even slurping the sweat out of his stale armpit hair.
“I wanna taste your fat balls…” Bart whispered right into Robby’s ear, which startled him. He yelped, and his dick twitched in Bart’s hand.
His cock and balls were moist, dripping with saliva and precum. The whole area smelled rank, like a jizz-sock, Bart thought. He loved that. He slurped up as many fluids as he could find, then lowered his head until he could take in Robby’s heavy sac. He swallowed it down, gurgling on the sweaty balls.
The taste was exquisitely raunchy. It tasted like pure dirt, and it was gritty with salt and who-knew-what-else. Robby’s ballsac was so moist with sweat it was like swallowing a mouthful of sweat, like downing a shot of it and gargling on it so it overwhelmed Bart’s senses. He moaned moistly, the sound of which made Robby gag because he could almost taste his own balls.
“Ugh… Man…” Robby grunted. He squirmed on his seat. The hot-chicks porno had stopped, and the browser automatically switched back to the interracial gangbang video again. Robby noticed, but his hands were busy flailing around — he wanted to touch Bart’s head to guide him back to his cock, but that felt too weird; the texture of Bart’s hair made it obvious he was a man, and Robby couldn’t pretend it was a female on his cock.
Finally Bart pulled away from Robby’s balls. He giggled at the shocked look on his face, and he pulled a pubic hair off his lip. “You ready to stick it in me?”
Robby bristled. His machismo wouldn’t let him say no, of course, but he would have rather continued getting jacked off.
That changed when Bart actually turned around and bent over. Robby’s first thought was what were you nervous for? His ass looks like a perfect female- He cut his own thought off because that was horrid to him — Robby was raised to be very religious and to think any masturbation was a sin. His mother would be scandalized if she knew he jacked off even alone, much less with another man (his father wouldn’t, Robby suspected, but only if he knew Robby had been paid — his father resolutely believed men should do whatever it took to avoid going “on the dole”, so he forgave any man for being motivated by poverty to do something immoral — his father would also approve better if Robby lied that he robbed Bart rather than accept the money that had been agreed upon — not that Robby was going to tell either parent about this).
Bart’s ass was smooth and perky like a porno-star. Robby had daydreamed about plowing into asses just like this one. His hole winked like it was begging Robby to do it. In real life, Robby couldn’t get trim girls to look at him, much less offer up their tight little asshole. Robby occasionally got girls as thick as him, and he once had gotten a female to give up the ass — he lied about how often that happened, but it had actually only ever been once, and she had been a nasty fat-ass who stank like a fetid pond.
This was nice, Robby thought but would never admit. He didn’t have to worry about his fat-ass turning the girl off, or about accidentally getting so sweaty she made him stop and shower a second time (which had happened before). He stood up and bent his knees, ramming his dick into Bart’s ass without hesitation — he thought it would be easier if he just did it quickly, like ripping a band-aid off.
At first it was awkward and unpleasant. Robby grunted. Then a surge of pleasure ran up from his cock as it was swallowed up — was Bart pulling it into his ass? Was that possible? Or was Robby’s body working on instinct to get deep in there? — and Bart howled.
He sucked in his breath. “Damn, you got one tight ass…”
“Hmmm… You can ramrod me hard, and let your belly crush me, okay? I wanna feel you on top of me…” Bart whimpered as Robby slowly weighed down on him.
It kept feeling like he was going to really crush Bart, that he’d be turned into a pancake. He was so tiny, and his back was so clean and smooth. Robby felt like he was corrupting something pure as he slipped his cock in, and his hairy belly left a layer of grease and spit on his back.
Robby chuckled. He was going to say something about Bart liking it nasty, but his dick had slid the rest of the way in, his balls slapping against Bart’s asscrack. It felt so good Robby couldn’t quite concentrate enough to say anything.
So he just let out a long low moan. He slapped Bart’s asscheeks because that made him squirm and clench. Robby licked his lips, leaning down with both arms to pin Bart in place as he used all of his weight to slam in and out of Bart’s ass. Pangs of intense pleasure ran up his body.
But the pleasure was even greater for Robby, who writhed in exquisite agony. Wave after wave of prostate orgasm hit him like a truck. He cried out loud, and he was glad there was no one left downstairs because they would have definitely heard.
Bart’s hands turned into claws that dug into the carpet beneath him. The pressure was intense, and still Robby’s cock slammed in and out, shooting load after creamy load of hot cum that coated his insides. Still there was more coming, as though Robby had built up cum he needed to get rid of, and he sprayed it all deep into Bart’s ass.
A little of Robby’s fatty flesh spilled over the side of Bart’s face, so he could turn his head and slurp all the sweat and spit there. It was deliciously flabby, hairy, greasy.
Bart shot his own wad on the carpet. He was laid out flat, squashed by Robby’s hefty body, which still plopped over and over on him even as Robby’s cock fell limp inside him.
“Ah, man, come on….” Robby bit his lip, grabbed Bart by the back of the head and rolled over, so Robby was on his back, his limp dick still in Bart’s ass. Bart struggled stay in position, riding him and massaging his fat belly.
At last, Bart couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled away, but kept slurping Robby’s fat until Robby’s moist dick finally flopped out. That plump load plopped out too as Bart squatted over Robby’s crotch. Robby gagged at the sight of a huge wad of santorum and cum coat his limp dick.
“Shit, man… That’s nasty, you made a big mess…”
Bart giggled and blushed. “I’m sorry. I think you made the mess though.”
Robby belched. “I think I should take a shower.”
“Okay, go ahead,” Bart said. “But I get to watch.”
Robby grumbled but agreed and went in the bathroom. Bart settled down there on the edge of the tub, chasing Robby’s hairy asscheek with his tongue. Robby tried his best to ignore him as he showered, then eventually thwacked his limp dick over Bart’s face a few times.
Bart smiled. He had gotten what he wanted, and he had a feeling he might get it again before too long. Robby was a lot less reluctant now than he had been when they started.
Bart couldn’t wait.

The Fat Jock

Davy is the biggest linebacker on the football team, and he’s too big for most women… That means he’s just perfect for Bart! Bart loves big bellies, big guys and big meat! Can Davy satisfy his expansive needs?

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

“C’mon, man…” Zack pleaded. His dimples were maddening though. Davy Mitchell hated Zack’s dimples and his handsome face. Every moment he was near Zack, he got angrier. He wanted to punch Zack into the dirt.
Of course he couldn’t do that. But he had other plans that would feel almost as good, he thought.
Zack Beauchamp was a freshman and a backup lineman. He would be taking Davy’s place when Davy graduated this year. Zack was younger than Davy. He was smaller, more handsome, cleaner, smarter, more articulate and more charismatic. He had a normal voice. He was majoring in a real subject, math, and he did all of his own work.
In contrast, Davy had an Asian nerd do his homework, even the ultra-simple coursework from his communications-major classes — he could do that. Communications assignments tended to be things like “find a YouTube video of a person communicating and write four sentences about it” — dummy work. Davy could do that. He was not a retard.
But football practice took so much time. How did Zack find the time to go to practice and learn math? Davy felt like he didn’t have enough time to write four sentences about a YouTube video. Hell, Davy felt like there weren’t enough hours in the day to shower and shave and eat eight thousand calories.
And Zack did math?!?!?!
Davy did need help for some of his academic work, because he wasn’t a good student. Math was hard. English was easy, but writing essays took forever. History was too much memorization. Science was hard, plus you had to go to labs and that took a lot of time. Davy was glad no one took attendance for him, and his Asian tutor was prompt and reliable.
But he had noticed and been hurt by the fact that his coaches never once asked if Davy could do the work on his own — they simply assumed he needed a tutor to cheat for him. They didn’t even think he could do communications on his own, and that was just basic speaking and writing. A smart parrot could earn a communications degree.
Ultra-handsome Zack could probably earn a communications degree in a weekend.
Zack was good at math; he actually liked math. Davy thought that was preposterous. He had thought it was a joke when Zack said it. He didn’t even really realize it was allowed for a football player to take real classes and do the work.
How the fuck do you enjoy math? It’s just numbers!
Davy hated Zack, who always had a girlfriend even though he was Christian and didn’t have sex. He was blond and he had blue eyes, and girls loved him. He didn’t even have a very big dick — it wasn’t small enough that Davy could really make fun of him for it, but it was hardly large, not like Davy’s horse-like slab of meat, which would have reached his knees if Davy were an average height. Zack was just a perfect specimen of man, seemingly constructed to please women — the opposite of Davy, who was also a perfect specimen of man in his own way, a way that turned women off and sent them running… into Zack’s well-toned — but not bulky — arms.
“No way, get down on your knees,” Davy said. He crossed his arms over his chest, accentuating his plump pectoral muscles.
Zack blushed as the other seniors laughed. They played along because Davy was a senior like them, but they all liked Zack. They felt sorry for him. Davy didn’t. Zack sunk to his knees in front of Davy, who wore only a jockstrap — everyone in the room wore only their jockstrap, because they were hazing the freshmen.
Davy’s ball-hairs barely fit in the jockstrap, and they jutted out, making him look like a sasquatch who had been stuffed into some ill-fitting human underwear. He didn’t wear the fashionable, colored jockstrap that some of his teammates wore — including Zack, who had a pink jockstrap on — pink — that’s right, pink — and apparently the girls liked it for some reason; pink had become fashionable and no one told Davy, who had teased Zack for his jockstrap a month ago only for his teammates to tell him that rappers wore pink underwear now. “It’s a thing these days,” they said.
Davy had scowled. He’d been looking for a chance to humiliate Zack since then. He wished he was from an earlier era, he thought, when masculinity was more simple.
Zack wanted to come to the Kappa Kappa Pi party tonight, but it was only for upperclassmen. Zack said he was in love with a girl who would be there. Davy hated him so much. Team tradition dictated that any player, including Davy, could veto a freshman’s party invitation. Even if Zack were cool, Davy might have refused an invite for Zack, as that way the party would have a better ratio of females to males. It made sense to reduce the cock-count.
But Davy knew he wasn’t going to get laid regardless. The girls would squeal at his size and laugh at his jokes and say he was so cool, but then they’d all go upstairs with the handsome players. Davy was fun to tease, but not to fuck.
“I… I promise I won’t flirt with any girl, Davy. I swear. I have a girlfriend.” He sniffled. “Please, c’mon, man.”
Davy shook his head. “No way, bitch. You wanna come to the party? Get ready for tea!”
His teammates laughed and clapped to cover up their anxiety when Davy dropped his jockstrap. His foot-long dick flopped out, and those massive balls dangled. Davy jogged in place a little, making his cock and balls jiggle right in front of Zack’s face.
“Lean your head back and open up-“
“Ew, c’mon… at least take a shower first,” Zack said, his cheeks turning bright red.
Davy blushed too, because his teammates laughed at his naked body. They showered together all the time, of course, it wasn’t abnormal to see each other’s dick. It was unusual, however, for only one of them to be naked at a time though, and anywhere other than the locker room. That didn’t happen a lot.
But Davy decided to lean into it. That was what he had always done when people teased him. He pretended it didn’t bother him, that he was deliberately cultivating it. He hadn’t showered today. He stretched like he was going to work out, jogging in place with a big goofy grin. “Gotta get myself nice and sweaty,” he said as he jogged.
As he moved around and stretched, Davy turned around and bent over, pretending to be stretching his legs and his back. It had the effect of making his big hairy asscheeks spread right in front of Zack’s face.
“Ah, nasty!”
“Stick ya tongue in there, Zack!”
The teammates roared their laughter, applauding and shoving Zack’s face towards Davy’s ass. His thick kinky black hairs were plastered to his flesh. He was so tall that he had to lower his ass quite a bit, kneeling awkwardly, to get his cheeks right in front of Zack’s face.
Zack blushed and looked away. He looked like he was considering leaving — he didn’t need to do this, after all. But his girlfriend wanted to come to this party, and he had promised her an invite.
Blushing intensely, Zack nodded. He closed his eyes. He thought this wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t looking. He also didn’t want to admit how big Davy’s cock was. He winced as he felt Davy’s massive body approaching. Zack snuck a peak just in time to see those low-hanging balls drop right into his open mouth.
“Ew, nasty!”
“Teabag him!”
“Drink that ball-sweat, freshman!”
The other seniors laughed and slapped Davy’s asscheeks because that made more sweat trickle down into Zack’s throat. They all winced when they touched him because they were intimidated by his size, and a little grossed out by the sweat dripping from his hairy ass. Zack cringed and wiggled like he was trying to escape. There seemed to be an infinite amount of scrotum flesh filling up his mouth. It coated his tongue with hairy, salty sweat, and it made him gag loudly. He retched. His stomach twisted. Above his face, Davy’s strapping muscles all tensed at once as he wiggled his dick, making it drag over Zack’s nose.
“Ah, shit…” Davy was still soft, of course, but he moaned as though he was about ready to cum. He even gave his dick one long strong to make sure everyone on the team knew how big it was. It was the one aspect of his big body that he could really show off — not to girls, of course, but at least he could ensure his teammates knew he had a bigger dick than any of them.
His cock and balls flopped over Zack’s retching face. Davy took a deep breath. “Lick my balls, punk!” He guffawed, his big barrel voice echoing against the walls.
Then, at last, Davy pulled away. He cackled and danced around the room, his heaviness making the floor creak and the shelves vibrate until an empty beer bottle toppled over. His cock jiggled up and down along with his belly, which shifted like a sac of potatoes dangling in front of his chest.
For some reason, Davy pulling his balls out of Zack’s mouth made the taste worse. A gritty salty texture coated Zack’s tongue. He thought he might never taste anything else again. He gagged furiously, his face bright red.
“Zack’s a bitch now-“
“How’s them balls taste, boy? You wanna taste some more?”
“Zack’s the new team ball-boy!”
Zack blushed. He had always been the sexiest guy in high school, the one all the girls had a crush on. He was more popular than the quarterback. He hadn’t taken well to being a mere freshman and a second-stringer, especially while a big dumb loser like Davy was a star. He wasn’t used to being teased or hazed — he was always on the other side of that equation. Zack’s blood boiled.
“Hey, fuck you, dumbass! You’re a fucking retard, Davy. There’s no reason for you to go to the party cuz no girls will ever mess with you and your hairy ass!” Zack said, his face turning red.
The laughter and jeers stopped. The fun hazing atmosphere of the room died. Davy glared at Zack.
“What’d you say to me, you little punk?!” Davy shouted. His voice was so deep it rattled the windows and made everyone in the house, even the freshmen downstairs, fall quiet. Davy grabbed his horse-dick and waved it in Zack’s direction.
Before either of them could say anything else, however, the quarterback Jimmy (and team captain) stepped in between them. “Zack!” he barked. “Get downstairs! You have to respect the seniors, freshman. That’s a rule. Davy might be an ugly sonofabitch, but he’s still a senior.” He paused. “And you’re not allowed to call anyone retarded, except actual retards — I mean, not anyone, not even them. That’s a rule. You can get kicked out of the whole university-“
“Fine, fuck you! I don’t need your stupid party!” Zack screamed. He stormed out of the room and out of the house, cursing himself — why had he gone through with it if he was just going to stay away from the party anyway? He had only licked Davy’s balls because that was the price of going to the party.
The room was quiet for a moment. Everyone looked at Davy, who blushed. He didn’t want to be naked right now, but he didn’t want to look vulnerable by putting his jockstrap back on. The fact that he was the only one in the room with a lot of chest hair — which had gone well over into his back now, since he stopped shaving his chest and there was no one in his life who would help him shave his back — and the only one who didn’t have a six-pack seemed glaringly obvious right now.
“I do get laid,” Davy said. He didn’t intend to sound defensive, but he winced as the other seniors snickered. They must have been more aware than Davy thought that he didn’t have sex very often. Davy frowned. “Look… Girls do dig me. He don’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Yeah, sure, Davy, we know,” Jimmy said with that charming grin of his. “Zack’s not allowed to be disrespectful like that anyway. He’s a little puke.”
“Yeah, you’re a tough guy, Davy, we know girls aren’t so into that-“
“We should get Davy laid! Hey, remember that fat chick at the Wendy’s? Who’s got her number? She had a nice ass, and she was like six and a half feet tall-“
The door opened, and Bart walked into the Kappa Kappa Pi house. The seniors in their jockstraps all furrowed their brow. None of them had ever seen Bart before. Davy smiled at him.
The others were all shocked that Davy was naked and seemingly unembarrassed about it. Bart smirked and waved his limp-wristed hand at Davy.
“Who’re you?”
“Hey, man, uh, sir, this is… How’d you get in the house? Who are you?” Jimmy was the team captain, and the “responsible” one, so he addressed Bart.
“I teleported in,” Bart said with a giggle. He gently pushed Jimmy out of the way with his limp wrist. He approached Davy. “I’m here to service this amazing slab of manhood. Evidently the girls around here don’t know what to do with him. You’d think college girls would be smarter than that, but I guess they don’t teach classes in manhandling meat. I blame the liberals.” Bart glanced at Jimmy’s crotch as he walked by. “You’ve got a nice dick, Jimmy. But it’s a little small for me.” The other players chuckled as Jimmy blushed. Bart grabbed Davy’s thick meat and stroked it. “This is more like it.”
Davy put his arms on his waist and sniffled. “Yeah, man, y’all don’t even know. Real men get their dick wet, y’know, and-“
The other players erupted in laughter. Someone slapped Davy’s ass. He blushed intensely and closed his eyes. He couldn’t believe he was going to get off with another man, especially in front of his teammates. But Bart had appeared at the perfect moment — no one would remember the freshman being a moron and calling Davy out on being poor with women; they would only remember how the guy said Bart’s dick was too small for him and said that only Davy was horse-cocked enough.
And he wasn’t even going to have to deal with Zack at the party either.
“Holy shit, is he doing it?”
“Davy! Davy! Do the Gravy-Boat, man!”
The Gravy-Boat was a dance that Davy did in the endzone sometimes — he didn’t score often, so it didn’t happen too much. He blushed as Bart dropped to his knees in front of him and nodded. Bart had seen the Gravy-Boat before, but he enjoyed the idea of watching it from up close and personal.
Davy blushed. He had never intended for the “Gravy-Boat” to be a thing. He was just trying to impress a girl when he came up with it, though she had only laughed at him — why was it, he thought, that when a dimpled man dances in the endzone, girls think it’s sexy? When Davy did it, girls thought it was hilarious, not sexy, while those very same hot dudes made jokes about Davy causing an earthquake.
It was barely even a dance. He just leaned forward and wiggled his ass, then leaned back and wiggled his ass, then back and forth a few more times. Since he was naked and Bart was right in front of him, Davy waggled his sweaty cock and balls in front of Bart’s face, then turned around and shook his hairy ass in front of his face. Bart watched studiously as though it was an informative documentary.
“Gravy-Boat! Gravy-Boat!”
The other players laughed more loudly than was really appropriate — they were nervous about the stranger seemingly ready to jack Davy off. A few of them even left the room, not wanting to watch; the remainder told themselves and each other they didn’t want to watch, but didn’t want to seem so squeamish as to leave.
Davy stopped dancing, too embarrassed to continue. His face was like a hairy, stupid-looking cranberry, which made Bart laugh. The room fell silent and awkward, and Bart was about to swallow Davy’s dick in front of all these jocks.
But then George Hill pushed through — he was a wide receiver, and he also had a huge cock like Davy’s. He had his jockstrap down just enough to bare his dick, which was uncut and fleshy. He flopped it between his fingers, running past Bart.
“Dicktap!” he screamed.
He thwacked his dick against Davy’s shaft and his balls, hard enough to make Davy oomph and pull away. Davy cried out, “shit, man, ow!” He said more but the team erupted in laughter and applause, drowning out Davy’s breathless howls of pain. They clapped George on the shoulder as he stepped back.
This was a game that had become popular at GHU over the last couple years, among the athletes, especially on the football team. It was called Dicktap. The “game” was to simply hit someone else’s cock and balls (mainly the balls, since it hurt) with your own cock. It wasn’t really much of a game, but Bart enjoyed watching it as the other players all started trying to get a dicktap on George, who danced away and out of the room. It was traditional to only dicktap the person who had previously dicktapped you (so Bart didn’t know how the tradition had begun in the first place).
“C’m’ere, George, I’ll knock your dick clean off!”
“George’s dick really hurts, that’s not fair!”
Bart took advantage of the confusion to get started. Davy loomed overhead, momentarily distracted by the fading pain in his balls and by the commotion from the other players. Bart took his dick in hand and stroked it. Again Davy didn’t seem to notice, not right away. A lot was going on all at once, and his teammates kept bumping into him as they chased George out of the room.
Then Bart swallowed his dick, and Davy couldn’t help but notice that. He grunted. He didn’t mean to be loud, but that voice like an idling eighteen-wheeler made it so loud that everyone fell silent.
The remaining players (a dozen or so) all turned to face Davy, whose face remained a bright red though he tried to look confident and not nervous. His dick was limp still, but throbbing. Bart could sense the erection bubbling up inside him.
“Shit, he’s really doing it…”
“Davy’s crazy!”
“That’s so nasty!”
Davy grumbled. His mouth creaked open amid an assortment of sarcastic snickers and patronizing chuckles. His cock twitched and jerked in Bart’s mouth. Bart wanted to impress the others, so now that they were paying close attention, he slammed his head all the way down. He deep-throated Davy in one smooth motion.
A spine-tingling moan filled the air. Davy leaned against the wall and gripped it tightly, his fingers turning white. He closed his eyes once more, then thought that made him look weak. He shouldn’t look embarrassed, he decided, he should look like this was no big deal and he did this all the time, like it was the others who were weird for not having ever done it.
“Fuck, that’s nasty! He’s deep-throating Davy!”
“He’s doing it!”
His cock was rock-hard now, and its size couldn’t be ignored. None of the players mentioned how big it was though, because none of them wanted to acknowledge that it was bigger than their own dicks. Even when they played Dicktap, no one ever acknowledged differences in cock-size. It was an unwritten rule of jock life: pretend you’ve never looked at anyone’s cock before.
Precum flowed down Davy’s shaft and coated Bart’s face and tongue. He kept deep-throating, even as his lungs cried out for oxygen and his stomach churned. His nose nestled in Davy’s unkempt pubic bush, while Bart’s soft hands stroked his hairy balls and taint.
“Is he doing the Gravy-Boat again?” The other players giggled. Davy wasn’t trying to do his dance, but he was shaking because his dick felt so good, and he was trying to avoid making a lot of noise — he thought that would lead to more teasing — so it rather looked like he was trying to do the Gravy-Boat without removing his dick from Bart’s mouth. His assflesh trembled and his muscles all flexed at once.
“Goddamn, Davy…”
But Davy’s desire to avoid making too much noise backfired. He snorted and sniffled, which made him sound like a tired horse as his muscles sweated and he began to plow down Bart’s throat. Then he grabbed the back of Bart’s head and rammed his dick in, swaying his hips from side to side as though trying to plow into every inch of Bart’s face.
Bart’s hands flailed. He grabbed Davy’s asscheek with one hand, while his other hand tried to reach Davy’s nipples — Davy was too tall, so Bart just teased the lower edge of his sweaty pecs.
“You ever done this before, Davy? You look like you’s an expert. You gonna stick him in the ass next?”
Davy shook his head. He said no, but all that came out of his mouth was a creaky grunt. He had to focus to say anything articulately. “No, no way, man,” he said, sounding like he was already on the verge of orgasm. “Jackin’ off so much ain’t right, it’s unbiblical.” Davy wasn’t really Christian, or at least not seriously Christian, but it was the only objectively reasonable excuse he could think of. A part of him did want to plow into Bart’s butt, but that seemed too gross and off-putting; he certainly wouldn’t do it in front of his teammates anyway.
His sac slapped against Bart’s chin so violently ballsweat dripped down his body. Bart was good at keeping his mouth open and loose, so Davy could just ram his dick in and out.
“Ew, Davy’s gonna nut!”
“That’s Davy’s O-face, man, looks like a caveman holding in a fart.” The other players snickered and pinched Davy’s hairy ass to tease him.
“Holy shit, he does-“
“I bet he does fart when he cums-“
They all began imitating Davy’s supposed orgasm-sounds. They hooted like a cumming gibbon and slapped their own thighs to make a loud, fleshy rippling noise. They guffawed while Davy blushed, both in arousal and embarrassment.
He howled and panted like a wolf when he finally came. Davy used both of his paw-like hands to hold Bart’s face in place, as Davy ignored his friends teasing and poking him. Cum poured down Bart’s throat.
It was salty and sweet, and it was a huge load, even more than Bart had gotten out of him the last time. The flavor was intense, sunny and grassy; it tasted like a football field, he thought, he could even taste the plastic padding of a uniform and sweat-stained cotton fabric of Davy’s too-small jockstrap.
“Ew, he’s swallowing it!”
“Davy’s cumming!”
“Dicktap!” Someone tried to get a Dicktap on Davy as he came, which prompted laughter even though it didn’t work — Davy’s entire dick was in Bart’s mouth, and his balls were inaccessible. So he just flopped his dick over Bart’s face and the root of Davy’s dick.
Bart was dizzy, about to pass out from lack of oxygen. Davy firmly kept him place until every last drop of cum had escaped from his balls, filling Bart up with so much fluid he felt full. He couldn’t believe Davy had shot so much — it was those massive baseball-sized balls, he thought, pumping him until the cum piled up in his throat and slipped out, coating his chin and plopping onto the floor. He was groggy as Davy finally pulled away and sighed.
“Davy! Davy!”
“Do the Gravy-Boat!”
As the last pangs of his orgasm coursed through him, Davy managed to do a Gravy-Boat. He shook his limpening dick over Bart’s face, then spread his asscheeks and wiped his sweaty crack over Bart’s nose. Davy cackled as his friends slapped his hairy cheeks, then jokingly wiped their hands off on each other.
“Ew, ass-sweat-“
“You gonna smell like a gravy boat, man…”
Bart laid back and sighed, satisfied as a smug kitten. Davy started drinking, still stark-naked — the girls weren’t supposed to come over for a few more hours, so there was no reason to put clothes on yet. That meant Bart still had plenty of time to worship every inch of his raunchy linebacker body.

The Dairyman

Bart Dazzle is at it again, this time touring Vermont for big-bodied alphas! His target today is a buttery dairy farmer with a physique so massive you could, and he might, worship it for days! Angus Butterman has got manhood, manmeat and dairy cows in equal abundance, and he has a need that only Bart Dazzle can satisfy!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Them city-folk stay useless, Angus Butterman thought to himself. He got no surprise in him to see the strange out-of-towner approach the farm only when it was too late to matter. All the smarts in the world won’t help if you’re too late to do anything.
Angus was a towering bull of a man, at well over six feet tall and as hefty as a heifer and a half. He was burly and bristly like a barrel full of push-brooms, and his big round face was windswept and dour, like a cow that outgrew its pasture. He wore only his overalls now — he took off his shirt because the sleeves were soaked with cow blood, but he had worn an apron that protected the overalls, so they were dirty only with dust and mud and dried-on whatever, not fresh cow blood. His big muscle-bulging arms flapped as he washed his hands. That was the last of the blood.
He stood by the well near the green barn as the out-of-towner approached, looking frightened of the farm, Angus thought. Scared of work, of getting his hands dirty. He probably had never seen an animal get slaughtered for food, had no idea how much work went into putting a meal on this spindly girlish man’s plate.
All that was more or less true. The out-of-towner was named Bart, and he was indeed from well out of town. Bart was here in Vermont because the governor, Hartfield Merriment, was a delicious ball of flab and machismo that Bart had wanted to worship.
Governor Merriment had turned out to be just as much fun as Bart had hoped. He was jolly and jiggly and roly-poly and he tasted like apple cider vinegar. Bart loved it. But he had gained access to the Governor’s Mansion by purporting to have great knowledge in agricultural policy. He bullshitted his way in, only to find that little lie snowballed, and Bart had to spend weeks reading up on the matter or he was gonna look like an ass and would not get to taste Governor Merriment’s man-meat. He ended up proposing a policy that had to do with calf births. It was so obscure and stupid he figured they’d just ignore it, and indeed, they did. It was a real policy, it’s how they do it in England. It was plausible anyway. Not that Bart actually wanted it implemented, it was just a way in.
That led to Bart sticking around in Montpelier to taste the roly-poly meat of the fire chief, the police chief and this short-order cook with a body like a melted brickwork, and all the while he was trading himself off as an expert in calfbirthing.
In fact, everyone in the Vermont state government in Montpelier called Bart “The Professor” because he had said he studied at Oxford in England. That was why the Mayor came to get Bart when he heard the beloved cow Daisy Sue, in a small farming town nearby, was having a bloody and dangerous labor — she gave birth first to a deformed and dead calf, then continued with a live one.
From Bart’s perspective, that was a disaster. He did not know anything about calfbirthing, and he was going to look like an idiot if he pretended.
He was dreading it the whole way, but he felt an obligation to at least try, and he hoped he looked confident as he came into the Butterman Dairy. Angus Butterman met him by the green barn, where they had planned to meet up. The birthing cow was in there.
He hoped he didn’t mess this up too badly. The worst he could do was not help, right? Just look confident and don’t do anything important. Ask for hot water. Say reassuring nothings. Clean and sanitize. Ideally without touching anything, because Bart saw a human birth once and it was disgusting. So many body fluids of every color going in every direction, and cows were way bigger than a woman. Dear god, that was going to be awful. Shoulda worn a hazmat suit.
It was probably all over and done with anyway. How long could a calfbirth take?
Cows know how to give birth in the wild. Surely they can just figure it out. It can’t be that hard for a cow to give birth to a calf. That’s like all a cow does in its life.
But as Bart approached the farm, he saw Angus Butterman standing there like an imposing statue, and Bart’s heart skipped a beat. Angus was handsome. He stood heavy and plodding, his belly substantial but not fat — he was strong enough to heft a year-old calf like it was a sac of potatoes, and he could lift a sac of potatoes like it was just a single spud. His whole body was thick all over, and Bart could already taste his hairy flesh on his tongue.
“Hmmmm…”
“Hayuh, stranger,” said Angus Butterman. He shook Bart’s hand. It was a weak, lily-livered handshake. Angus rolled his eyes.
“Hi, I’m Bart, I was sent here by the Mayor, I heard… — I heard you were having problems with a calf-“
“No. I fixed it. It’s fine. Daisy Sue is fine.” His voice was flat and rumbly like a dormant volcano. He had his thumbs hooked into the straps of his overalls, which pulled the fabric forward and made his pale, powerful chest partially visible. He was just as hairy as Bart had hoped.
“Oh. Well, thank god, cuz I don’t really know jack about calves!” Bart said. Then he blushed — Angus frowned like he didn’t appreciate Bart’s blasphemy. Bart cleared his throat. “I know more about humans, I’m not actually a veterinarian.”
“Hmm.” Angus paused. “Perhaps you could make yourself helpful and bathe me.” He snortled. He thought that would show this uppity doctor from the city — he assumed Bart would never agree to bathe someone, especially not a rural farmer with a broad body and chunky ass. It would be too humiliating.
But Bart’s eyes opened wide. “Sure! Okay. I mean… yeah. Yes. Sure. I’ll help you bathe,” he said. He smiled bashfully. “I mean… that might be a good idea. I could check you for, uh… wounds, and…” He paused for a long time, nearly drooling at the prospect of manhandling this mountain of a man. “Uh… other… issues. Anatomical… irregularities.”
Angus frowned. Bart spoke in a way he found most unfamiliar, his accent being neither New England nor New York nor Canadian — the only accents Angus was familiar with. It was vaguely British but not convincingly so. He didn’t think he was from the South either. Angus’s accent, on the other hand, delighted Bart. His baritone voice had a trace of holler and a hefty dose of yip, but it was long and low like an elegant moo. It sent a frisson of desire up Angus’s spine.
Angus cleared his throat. “Come,” he said.
He was surprised that Bart would agree to bathe, but Angus wasn’t going to turn him down. He was a big enough man that he found it difficult to bathe himself. That was more laziness than anything else, but he usually had his wife at least scrub his back.
“You have a beautiful farm,” Bart said as Angus led him into a barn. Bart’s smile faltered when he saw the “bathing” facility — there was no showerhead at all, just a hunk of steel that was an old-fashioned tank heater, attached to a hose that led to a copper tub. It looked like a torture device from a steampunk movie, Bart thought. Where on earth would Angus get such a thing?
The copper tub filled with hot water as Angus, ignoring Bart completely, drained the tank. The water steamed and sizzled, but it rapidly cooled when out of the heater. Then Angus stood and removed his overalls. The water was very hot — nearly boiling, Bart suspected, when it first came out of the tank.
Those overalls slipped to the ground, and Angus’s wide ass flapped free. It was broad and fleshy and firm and jiggly when he stepped into the tub. Bart couldn’t help but smile at the sight. He was glad to see Angus had a giant dick too. It hung between his legs as thick as a calf’s thigh. It was uncircumcized and veiny, and it made Bart lick his lips in anticipation.
Angus tottered when he lifted his leg to get in the tub. He grunted and heaved, asscheeks squeezing, cock flopping and Bart blushed with hot desire.
“Hmmm… So, Mr. Butterman, is there something I can do for you? Needs you could use satisfaction on?”
“Get the soap and the brush.” He pointed to a table by the wall.
“Sure, sure, but that’s not what I meant.” Bart got the soap and the long-handled brush. The soap was foul-smelling and astringent, and the brush was wiry like a toilet brush. Bart wasn’t sure what the normal procedure was, but he just got his hands wet and worked up a bunch of suds with the soap. “I mean other than this.” He clasped his hands on Angus’s legs and began massaging vigorously.
“You… are not using the brush?”
“If I encounter a part of you that is too dirty to clean with my hands, I will use the brush,” Bart said. “But I don’t mind doing the work by hand. I do like to get my hands dirty, you know. Not all out of towners are ineffectual weaklings.”
“Hmmph.” Angus narrowed his eyes to slits, but he did not argue the point. he sighed as he leaned back in the water, and he allowed Bart’s slim hands to knead the tight, sore flesh of his back. Angus’s back muscles rippled beneath his touch. Angus let out a long low moan.
Not even Angus’s wife rubbed his back so vigorously. Angus licked his teeth to avoid accidentally smiling. Even with Bart not facing him, Angus didn’t want to smile. It simply wasn’t proper. He nodded and harrumphed, spreading his legs so Bart could more easily get all around his thighs. Bart’s delicate hands brushed up against his balls and his shaft, while Bart’s head was right behind one fleshy asscheek.
The stranger’s hands were soft and warm. They’d be good milking hands. A cow could tolerate those easy. Angus had big rough hands from a lifetime of work. He could milk a cow when he had to, but that was largely automated these days. In fact, his milking machine was on its last legs. Angus spent his time supervising the farm and the production of milk, cream, sour cream, cottage cheese and Honduran-style crema. The Butterman Dairy filled orders for companies throughout New England and in Ontario and Quebec.
Angus snorted. Bart’s massaging hands went from Angus’s thighs to his chest — he avoided the private areas for the moment. His hands caressed that barrel-shaped body, and he even planted his lips on the side. He slurped up the bathwater that clung to his now-clean skin. Angus furrowed his brow like he didn’t understand.
“So, you didn’t answer me,” Bart said. “What can I do for you? Not something medical.”
“What?”
“There must be something you want.”
Angus chuckled, his big chest shifting up and down when he did. His deep voice echoed in the high-raftered barn. “There’s a new milkin’ machine on the market. Costs a pretty penny though-“
“I’ll buy it for you.”
Angus looked down at him. “Pardon?”
“I’ll buy it for you if you do something for me,” Bart said. He blushed at Angus’s intense, sour-faced stare. His giant body loomed overhead like an idol. Bart looked down, then hugged his torso. “Will you… lay with me? Treat me like a woman. Stick your dick in me.”
Nearly toppling over, Angus jumped with a start. He was not accepting that. Jacking off was taboo in Angus’s household. He was a god-fearing man.
But in his view, obscenity was worse than some minor, harmless masturbatory indiscretions. As long as he didn’t touch another man in such a manner, Angus didn’t see it as a grave sin. He could allow the mincing stranger to service him. It was not motivated by lust, after all, nor even greed.
But Angus just nodded — he thought he would lose his farm if he didn’t get that milking-machine sooner or later — the other dairies in the area already had it, and they were able to produce twice as much milk from the same number of cows, and with fewer workers. He still stood there, ignoring Bart as though he didn’t understand what Bart had offered.
“So, that’s a yes?”
“You had better actually buy me the machine,” Angus said flatly. His hand formed a fist. “I will have you lynched, mister.”
Bart shivered in fear. Angus had said that so nonchalantly that Bart assumed it could only be a real threat. “Don’t worry, I’ll follow through,” Bart said.
The idea of jacking off with a man wasn’t entirely alien to Angus Butterman. He’d done it before. There was a worker on his dairy farm who had the silhouette of a woman in the right light, and he enjoyed servicing the meats of men with stubborn stiffies. Angus had gone to see him on many a night when his wife wanted nothing to do with him. She said Angus was too big, like trying to lay beneath a buffalo, and so their marital bed was only visited a few times a year. Angus found alternative means to satisfy his urges, in an entirely Christian way.
Bart kissed his cocktip, which made it tremble and shake. Angus smelled strongly of sweat in his crotch because Bart hadn’t scrubbed him yet, just rinsed and massaged him, and he didn’t intend to. He loved a stinky man. Angus could scrub later.
He stroked his dick while slurping on just the tip. He had a feeling it would get magnificently big and he was right — it grew from merely impressive to a full twelve-inch long monster that made Bart shiver again with both terror and anticipation. That was going to hurt in all the best ways, he thought.
“Put your mouth on it, deeper,” Angus said, reaching down to shove Bart into the position he wanted. He seemed to think Bart didn’t know how to do it. Bart didn’t correct him because he enjoyed a pushy alpha — Angus thought he was the worldly expert!
He wrapped Bart’s lips around his cock and began to pivot his hips, forcing more and more of his giant dick into Bart’s throat. The taste was salty and warm and a little bitter from the soap that had dripped into his crotch. Bart had to lean over the lip of the tub to get deep in there, which he did with his hands clasped on Angus’s trunk-like thighs.
“Ah, my…” Angus bit his lip to avoid taking the Lord’s name in vain. He hadn’t felt like this in a long time. His dick was so wet it dripped — and not with bathing water either. Bart drooled over it, desiring to have every inch of it throbbing in his throat.
Angus was as hard as pig-iron now, his dick pulsating in Bart’s mouth. His massive dairyman body rippled with each wave of pleasure to wrack his frame. His biceps and thunderous thighs all flexed and relaxed in sync with the cavernous moans that came from his chest. He gripped Bart’s head and held on tight, so he could deeply hump his manhood in Bart’s mouth. His entire foot-long manhood stabbed into Bart’s throat and stayed there before he began to rock back and forth.
“Ah, yes, yes…” Angus’s baritone voice gurgled moistly. His sweaty balls slapped against Bart’s chin.
It was one of the best cockshafts Bart had ever tasted. He thought maybe rural people had better dicks. There was something tastier about their manhoods, more pleasing in the way they plowed into his throat. They acted more on instinct maybe, less self-conscious, more primal and bestial. Whatever it was, Bart adored it, and he savored the sour flavor of Angus’s manhood.
Despite his lungs crying out for oxygen, Bart opened his throat wide and let Angus take charge of it. Plowing back and forth, Angus used and abused his throat, as more moans escaped his chest, and precum coated Bart’s tongue.
Then Angus let go just long enough to step out of the tub, while Bart took a hoarse gasping breath. Angus rammed his dick back in before Bart could even get his breath back. Bart kneeled before his awe-striking body.
“C’mon, boy, take the whole thing, good, good… You’re no doctor… Are you a con artist? That Governor Merriment is a fool…” Angus said as though that was a well-known fact.
When Angus finally let him take another breath, Bart rolled away and gasped. He grinned as he wiped spit and salty precum off his lips. “You wanna cornhole me? In the ass?”
By the standards of a rural farm community like this little town outside of Montpelier, that was a very obscene way to put it. Angus flared his nostrils. Bart had no idea how offensive Angus found his words, but Angus had that New England taciturnity, and he did not say anything about it. He just grumbled inwardly about rude city-folk. He really needed that milking machine.
If that’s how people in New York talk, I’ll be glad to never see another one, Angus thought. Nobody had told him Bart was from New York, it was just where Angus assumed all out of towners were from. Maybe Canadian actually, Angus thought now, that might explain the accent.
In any case, Angus wasn’t going to turn down a chance to blow a nut, plus get a milking machine out of it. In fact, he was glad to spoil such a foul-mouthed man’s bottom, he thought. He would never have done it to someone he thought of as clean and good-hearted.
“Bend ovaah,” he said with an angry snort.
When Bart didn’t move quick enough, Angus bent him over the copper tub. He bade Bart to stick his ass high. It was an awkward position for Bart, who had to keep his face above the water, which now steamed lightly as Angus’s bodily dirt and grease floated on the surface.
“Hmmm… Spread ‘em, stranguh,” Angus said with a thick-voiced chuckle. He had to stand on his toes and lean forward in order to line his cock up with Bart’s ass. He used his other hand to separate the cheeks and then wedged his dick in.
“Oh god, damn…” Bart said, having no idea that blasphemy spurred Angus on to treat him even crueler.
Angus kneaded the soft flesh of Bart’s delicate asscheeks. He slipped his dick in and Bart cried out as a burst of pain hit his backside hard. His eyes opened wide and his face dipped into the water that stank of Angus’s sweaty body. The pain quickly melted away, leaving behind a slowly simmering sense of bliss.
The moan that escaped from Bart’s lips was an intense chest-rattle that made Angus think he was in blinding pain. That seemed right anyway. Angus had no idea that Bart genuinely thought he was handsome — people simply didn’t talk about men in that manner in rural Vermont. So Angus assumed Bart was mentally defective in some way, like a hobo or a mental patient, and that he enjoyed the pain. It was no skin off Angus’s nose.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Bart favored the physiques of big men, and he loved big cocks, and he was good enough at taking on massive manhoods that the pain lasted only a few seconds. Even the pressure was not unbearable. It was made more intense by the heavy body resting upon Bart’s thin back.
“You are… a most low man,” Angus said dourly, chewing on his lip as he struggled to ram his dick all the way in.
Finally Bart took a deep breath and took in every inch of Angus’s dick, until he couldn’t take it anymore. He again doused his face in the now-lukewarm tub of water, which exhilarated him. “Yes, Angus, get deep in me!”
Angus frowned but did so. It was also rude, he thought, to call a stranger by his given name. But if he got one of those modern milking machines, it would all be worth it.
And besides that, Angus decided, this felt good enough to do it even without the milking machine — it was just plain good. His wife never let him plow into her like this. She didn’t want to do it unless they were planning on having another child. Angus accepted that even if he disliked it.
But Bart, it seemed, would take anything — Angus had no idea Bart had a minimum weight — so Angus could plow in as hard as he was capable of. He made Bart grip the far edges of the copper tub, which rocked as Bart was rollicked back and forth by the intense feel of Angus’s heavy cock.
“Oh god, shit… I— oh fuck-!” An orgasm ripped through Bart’s body.
Angus gripped Bart by the hair hard. “Do not curse, little man, and do not take the Lord’s name in vain-” He too cut himself off, his voice breaking as he orgasmed at the same time.
Bart blushed, his mind whirring as he realized he had been blaspheming for several minutes. He was nearly bent all the way over the tub now, his head on the far side of it, so his own cock sprayed its wad into the water.
“Oh — oh-!” Bart couldn’t think of any non-curse word — was ‘crap’ offensive? He had no idea. All he did was howl and scream as his prostate sent wave after wave of pleasure through his body, which was painfully pinned in place by Angus’s powerful body pressing down on him.
Then, all in one fumbling motion, Angus went to the floor and dragged Bart with him. They were both on their sides, writhing and undulating, Angus’s strong limbs flapping around. Bart was swallowed up by his bigness and covered in the water that still clung to his barrel-shaped torso.
“Aaaaaaaah…” Angus moaned and snorted, sniffling, getting himself a nose-full of Bart’s sweat from the back of his head. But it was Bart who got more sweat in his face, with Angus’s body all around him. Everywhere Bart looked was frenzied male flesh rolling and flexing. He slurped every bit of it clean, unable to resist even as his ass cried out for mercy.
Then, it was over. Angus backed off, and his dick slid out.
“Shit…” Bart said again, then clasped his hands over his mouth. “Sorry. That’s a bad habit.”
“I should think so,” Angus said with a judgmental snort. He slapped his own belly, making his muscles ripple. Bart leaved over and kissed his hairy chest.
“I’m really sorry,” Bart said. “Maybe I could hang around your farm for a couple days and keep you satisfied.” Bart suspected there were farmworkers around too, which might give him plenty enough variety to be entertained.
“That would be acceptable. It will take you some time to arrange for that milking-machine as well.”
“Oh, right, sure,” Bart said. “Is it okay if I stay here? In this barn?”
“Here? This is where all the men come to bathe- Oh.” Angus realized that was precisely why Bart liked it. Angus smirked and stood. He waved his dick around above Bart’s face, making a few drops of either sweat or cum or both — Bart couldn’t tell — plop onto his lips. Bart swallowed them up. They were sweet and salty and delicious. “Fine,” Angus said.
He waddled away, putting on his overalls only just before he stepped outside. That left Bart in the barn alone, to work out a plan to seduce as many farmworkers as he could find!

The Professional Wrestler

Avery Flowers is desperate for professional wrestler meat, so when he gets behind the scenes long enough to meet up with the legendary Shane “Mudstomper” Fulton, he’s in for the ride of his life!

Read it now as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Mudstomper was built like a pro linebacker, but he dressed like a bluegrass hillbilly complete with bare feet like dinner plates, overalls with the legs rolled up and a stick of hay between his teeth. His shoulders were corded-muscle, veiny, his skin taut, his jaw square.
His real name was Shane or something, Avery couldn’t remember. He hadn’t known which wrestler he was going to like until he got here. He loved wrestlers.
And as soon as he saw the picture of Mudstomper, Avery knew what he was going to do.
He pretty much ignored the warmup match between Colonel Bling and Wyatt Wyoming. They were both reasonably sexy, but not enough to wet Avery’s whistle (he was going to try to get their autographs later, as they might be worth money if either one blew up in a couple years). Wyatt Wyoming was a cowboy and a good guy, while Colonel Bling was a heel, like an evil black version of the KFC Colonel. The best moment was when Bling pantomimed humping Wyatt’s face, and Colonel Bling’s sweat-glistening muscles set Avery’s heart aflutter.
As a fervent admirer of the male physique, Avery greatly appreciated the wrestlers and their splendid bodies. Wyatt Wyoming was especially perfect. He could be a competitive bodybuilder, for sure.
He was close enough he could see the line between Bling’s dark brown thigh and his slightly paler, fleshier asscheek. His spandex speedo was crawling up so his ass-flesh was partially visible. He could see the cheeks ripple as he picked up Wyatt Wyoming and slammed him on the ring. Avery could see Bling’s hand rubbing against Wyatt’s cock at one point — accidentally, and only for a second, but still, it made Avery laugh.
Or maybe it wasn’t an accident. Avery liked to think it was real.
Before Avery knew it, it was over. He was so focused on the men he didn’t even notice who won the match. Probably Wyatt Wyoming. If the heel won, the crowd would have booed and gone ape. All Avery heard was ordinary cheering.
And there was Mudstomper. He was the good guy in the match, up against a heel named Killer Green, a tall man with a bizarre green-and-translucent catsuit on. Avery didn’t get that choice at all. It might have been a reference to something Avery wasn’t familiar with. Probably something Japanese and on YouTube.
Mudstomper was the clear crowd favorite. He delivered a monologue of some sort — Avery didn’t listen to a word — just yards from where Avery sat, in the front row, so close Avery smelled Mudstomper’s ball-sweat beneath those overalls. He spoke with a rolling, exaggerated drawl.
“And thaaa’sss why, Killuh Green-uh, that uhhz why… I will destroy ya! I’ll ride you to the state prison like a hohse, I sweah on muh sistah’s grave!” Mudstomper roared and pounded on his giant chest, screaming over the frenzied audience. He gestured with the pitchfork he always carried but for some reason never used on the men he was trying to “destroy” (he had a back story involving a dead sister). Avery was entranced by a pearl of sweat sliding down Mudstomper’s bicep and the greasy blond tangle of hair that Avery wanted to dive into.
The actual match went in a blur of arching muscles, heaving biceps and powerful thighs shaking, tight underwear getting ridden up, visible jockstrap lines and asscheeks that thundered like Zeus. Avery’s belly rumbled, and not because he was hungry.
He wasn’t hungry at all. Say what you will about the professional wrestling crowd, but nobody could accuse them of smelling good. Avery appreciated a man with some funk to his meat, but not the fatties and nerds who predominated in the crowd. A man like Mudstomper, his sweat and his unwashed balls and armpits and all that… That, Avery could appreciate.
Anyway, eventually, Mudstomper won, and those meaty biceps shook, sweat dripping off them, as the ref held his hand up. The crowd went wild. Mudstomper cheered with them. So did Avery.
And then it was over.
The lights came up, and the cheering got even louder, and then it turned oddly aggressive.
The arena was bedlam. Fans shouted and threw empty cans of beer at the ring. People poured out and tried to get onstage, but bouncers pushed them back. Avery was jostled this way and that
Avery, however, made it through because he had a backstage pass. He had connections throughout the entertainment industry, so he could get backstage passes to nearly any event. He found the dressing room labelled “Mudstomper” and knocked on it.
“Howdy, come on in!”
Avery entered. That was surprisingly easy.
Shane “Mudstomper” Fulton was in there with a medic, who had just finished stitching up a small cut on his shoulder. His opponent’s tooth had broken his skin during one stunt gone slightly awry. A trickle of blood ran down his bicep. Mudstomper was still dressed in his overalls and nothing else, save the length of straw still between his teeth.
“You ain’t the delivery guy,” Mudstomper said. His drawl rang out like a howl, and his dimples beckoned Avery, who came as close as he could, close enough to smell Mudstomper’s sweat — so much better than the smell of those fans out in the crowd — and feel the body heat of his overworked muscles emanating from him.
“No, I’m Avery. Avery Flowers,” Avery said. “I’m a fan.” He held up his backstage pass. “I think we know someone in common though. Your agent is Tommy Ramogen, right? He also represents my friend Suzanne, she’s in Hollywood right now,” Avery said. “She’s a model. Supermodel, technically.” He smiled — he could see Mudstomper’s eyes open wide — Avery had his hook.
“Well, that’s finuh than a pig in its pen, I reckon,” Mudstomper said, his hillbilly accent now in full force — he wanted to impress Avery with his acting and his devotion, presumably.
“Yeah, she’s doing great,” Avery said. He batted his eyes at Mudstomper as the medic patted him on his momentous bicep.
“Is you an actor too, suh?” Mudstomper asked. He chewed on the length of straw in his mouth. On the table beside him sat a jar filled with unchewed lengths of straw. Avery wondered where he got them.
“Oh, no, no, I just collect celebrity autographs,” Avery said. “Do you mind?” He handed over a piece of paper and a pen.
Mudstomper’s autograph was just an X in a rough block-letter shape, as though he was illiterate and struggled even to write one X. He beamed. “Well, if’n ya friend evuh get any kinda parts in Hollywood, you give her mah email address,” he said. He wrote that on a different piece of paper — his handwriting was blockish and very neat — and slid that to Avery. He flexed his bicep as the medic finished up on his wounded shoulder. The medic headed out of the dressing room. When he saw Avery looking at it, he shrugged and said, “You wanna touch it?”
“Hell yeah!” Avery planted his lips right on it, and Mudstomper laughed a deep, nervous baritone barrel laugh. He undid one of the straps of his overalls, so they sagged and revealed one massive pectoral muscle the size of Avery’s head.
“Lemme j’st send a text so Robert don’t bust in here, interruptin’ us wit’ dat pulled pork. You know about Cajun Charlie’s? That place any good?” Mudstomper picked up his cell phone with his free hand, then awkwardly typed out a text with it while Avery passionately licked, sucked and caressed every inch of his other arm.
“No. Cajun Charlie’s sucks, it tastes like an old shoe. Go to Hoppumslaw on the east side,” Avery said. “They have the best pulled pork.”
“Awright, thankee mightily, suh,” Mudstomper muttered. He texted furiously, then put his phone down. He looked over at Avery who had licked his bulging bicep until it shimmered in the fluorescent light of the dressing room. He reached over and locked the door. “I let ya touch mah arms up, suh, if you send that lady-friend of ya’s some good word about me,” he said. He flexed his other arm, and Avery moved to that one. “Tell ‘er to come see me sometimes.”
Avery said. “Do guys pay you to do that a lot?”
Mudstomper blushed. “Boy-howdy, you don’t even know, suh, you don’t even know!” He laughed and slapped his thighs. “You like biceps?”
“I’m just trying to get bigger,” Avery said. “I thought touching someone big might help.”
“You wanna jack my dick? That might help too.”
“Hell yeah,” Avery said. He undid the other strap to his overalls, and they fell to the ground. Mudstomper wore a fine athletic very-modern jockstrap, which was almost funny to see in contrast to the overalls. Avery sucked on Mudstomper’s pecs, which made him roll his eyes and pick his cell phone back up.
After a few moments of Avery licking his chest, Mudstomper remembered to flex his pecs like a stripper. He just grunted as Avery moaned. Then one of Avery’s hands roamed to that overfull jockstrap and pulled his cock out. Mudstomper twitched and grunted.
Avery said with a giggle, “I love your arms.”
“Mah gu’hlfriend don’t like ’em cuz they hairy,” he said. “They’s as hairy as a hedgehog in a hampuh!” He guffawed. “You likin’ it? You onea dem muscle-men, huh?”
“It’s really big!” Avery said and blushed. He had both hands on Mudstomper’s cock, stroking it back and forth. It throbbed in his grasp.
Mudstomper looked away from his phone. He eyed Avery. “Why’d you say that like you was surprised?”
“I wasn’t surprised, just excited,” Avery said. “I’m not like a total size queen or anything, but I like it.”
“If your lady-friend is into big dicks, tell her I got one,” Mudstomper said.
“Okay,” Avery said. “But you better show me.” He dropped to his knees and put the tip of Mudstomper’s cock in his mouth. The smell of those sweat-soaked overalls, which still lay by Mudstomper’s feet, filled Avery’s nostrils. Yeah, he thought, he could see how those bushy sweat-soaked armpits would be popular.
But Mudstomper’s fat pale cock was even better. It tasted of pure funky manhood, like his muscles had tasted back when Avery first licked them — not tasting of saliva, but of just plain manhood. His cock tasted like that forever, even after it was soaked in spit, it still tasted like the undiluted manhood of Mudstomper’s muscles.
His cell phone chirped, startling Mudstomper, who was just beginning to really enjoy this as his cock perked up in Avery’s mouth. He looked back at his phone and cursed.
“Shithead. He says there’s a line at Hoppumslaw. No fucking shit, jackass. It’s got a line cuz it’s good. If you always pick the place with no line, you’re always picking the least popular, shittiest place. No wonder I always get crappy pulled pork on the road,” he said as he furiously typed out a response, very quickly this time because he could use both hands. “Idiot. He says the line looks dangerous — is Hoppumslaw full of black people?”
“Probably,” Avery said as he slurped his own spit off Mudstomper’s throbbing shaft.
“Then he’s being racist. Just go in, they won’t rob him. Will they?”
Avery shrugged. “Don’t wear expensive sneakers there,” he said. He kept stroking Mudstomper’s shaft and thwacked it over his face.
“Robert don’t got nothing worth a damn ‘cept that I’m his friend, and they can’t steal that,” Mudstomper said. He leaned back to give Avery better access to his cock. “Hey, where do single chicks go in this town?”
“Hmmm… I don’t know where to find girls. The Big Time Bar maybe, I always see hot chicks vomiting in the alley behind there.”
“Big Time Bar? Got it,” he said. He kept typing to his friend, his phone buzzing every few seconds. Mudstomper completely ignored Avery now, like he had forgotten where his dick was. As he moved, his cocktip shifted around in Avery’s mouth. Avery tried to swallow it deeply, but Mudstomper moved around too much.
Gasping for air, Avery smiled and thwacked his dick over his face. “There’s also Lipsweet. That’s a wrestlers bar. Mostly men, but a buncha singlet-chasing females hang out there too.”
He nodded. His dick was fully erect, throbbing and veiny. Avery licked the length of it, then gargled on Mudstomper’s balls. Precum ran down the shaft. His sac was hairy and hot, and his balls hung low and heavy. He clutched those thighs the size of car tires as he slipped between his legs to kiss Mudstomper’s ass.
There was a knock on the door. Mudstomper scowled and went to it, motioning for Avery to continue. He opened it just a crack.
It was a muscular black man whom Avery didn’t recognize, at least not from the tiny portion of his face he could see. When he heard the man’s voice, however, Avery realized it could only be Colonel Bling, having dropped character. He no longer had the stentorian call of a military dictator — that’s what Colonel Bling was, an American army officer cum military coup leader on a fictional Caribbean island — also, he wore a lot of bling.
The real Colonel Bling did too, or maybe he just hadn’t changed out of his costume yet. The bling jingled and clanked on his chest as he poked his head into the dressing room.
“Whatchoo doin’ in there? We goin’ out. I heard there’s usually females at a bar called Lipsweet, but you gotta dress bettuh than that. But you ain’t gonna fit in lookin’ like Huck Finn, and this nigga don’t spend time with a whiteboy dressed like that. Whiteboy gotta dress proper to be seen wit’ me. I gots a rep to protect.” His eyes roamed down Mudstomper’s naked body, only a sliver of which was visible through the door that was open only a crack. Mudstomper’s asscheeks quivered as Avery’s hands roamed between his legs to stroke his dick off. “You naked in there? You got a female already?”
The black wrestler — Colonel Bling — tried to open the door, but Mudstomper was prepared and had the door blocked by his body. The knob smacked him in the six-packed belly. Avery scooted to as close to the wall as he could, to be sure Colonel Bling didn’t see any part of his body or his shadow. Avery kept his head moving up and down that magnificent dick though, and it kept throbbing in his mouth. Mudstomper even pumped his hips slowly back and forth, making love to Avery’s throat, ever so slighttly so Colonel Bling didn’t see what he was doing.
“No. I’m just changing, Jackson. I know about Lipsweet, I know — there’s a singlet-chaser who told me she’d meet me there later,” he said. He had to bite back a moan of pleasure as his cock throbbed in Avery’s grasp. Avery licked his mountainous asscheeks.
“Oh. Hey, lemme in, man, you hear about the new safety thing from corporate? We can’t do the flying shoulder smash anymore. Not without a harness. It’s-“
“No, go away, Jackson,” Mudstomper said, scowling. “Just fuck off, I’ll see you at the bar-“
“You don’t gotta be an asshole, man-“
“I’m goddamn naked, and I’m changing my clothes! I don’t want to talk about the new goddamn safety regulations!” Mudstomper said. Then he saw some fans walking by in the hall. Mudstomper added, “I gots to take the purse I won to fix the family tractuh or the bank gonna take our fahm fo’ sho’!” He smiled at the women walking by. “Hey, howdy, how you doin’?”
The women giggled and all talked at once. For a moment Avery thought he was going to lose his man to a bunch of chicks. But it soon became apparent that they were more interested in Colonel Bling, who walked away with a girl on each arm. Their giggles intensified.
“Damn it,” Mudstomper said wistfully. He let the door shut and locked it again. He turned back around. “He gets all the best chicks. Hey, lemme in that ass, okay? You take it up the ass, right?”
“Hell yeah,” Avery said once again. He blushed. He turned around and pulled his own underwear down, revealing a perfectly pale ass.
“I hate that dude, fuckin’ Colonel Bling. He thinks he’s special cuz the girls love him, he’s like the most popular heel for female fans,” Mudstomper said. He had to get on his knees and scoot forward, cock in hand, to meet Avery’s ass. “But that’s hardly even a big deal, girls always love bad boys. That’s what that publicist said. For a good guy, I do really well among women.”
Before Avery could say anything in response, there was a tight pinch and intense pressure in his ass. He opened his mouth and gasped, biting at the air. He sucked in his breath.
“Sorry, do that hurt, hoss?”
“No — No, it’s fine-” Avery’s voice was tense and wavery. He took a deep breath and relaxed his ass.
“You wanna bite on muh arm? It won’t hurt, it’ll slide in gentle as a calf bein’ borned,” he said, drifting into his stage accent briefly. His own Southern accent was mild, and it was much twangy as drawly — he was from northern Nevada. He placed one of his forearms in front of Avery’s face, while using his other meaty paw to keep Avery’s hips up — Mudstomper was so tall he struggled to keep Avery in alignment with his crotch.
His cock slid in easily once he got past that initial resistance, and Avery gnawed on his ropy-muscled forearm. Mudstomper took a deep breath. He had been extremely reluctant to cornhole a man back when he was younger.
It had been so weird back then that he stopped partway through. His friends had to talk him into doing it again — they didn’t understand guys with big cocks took a lot of effort to get hard; it was easy with a girl, but when you had to concentrate to feel aroused at all, getting all thirteen inches of his meat fully erect was difficult.
But not anymore. He’d done it for money, talent-agent connections and even once, he did it for a free first-class upgrade on a flight to Tampa Bay — he thought it should be a law that companies had to upgrade big men like him first, since there was no way he could fit in a coach seat without virtually sitting on his neighbor’s lap. Over the years he’d lost his inhibitions. Now he could easily pretend he was deep in a woman.
It was funny, he thought as he watched Avery squirm beneath him, how much pleasure he could bring someone without really doing anything much himself. He could tell he had found Avery’s prostate. Avery was out of breath, wriggling, undulating, gasping, incomprehensibly begging.
Then Avery threw his head back and kissed Mudstomper on the neck, which Mudstomper gamely allowed until he became worried Avery would leave a hickey that would be obvious when he picked up chicks at the bar later. He gently redirected Avery to kissing and even nibbling on his forearm, while his lower half plowed in and out of Avery’s tight ass.
“Alright, I’m gonna cum in a minute, how you wanna do it?” Mudstomper said. He stopped moving with his dick all the way inside Avery. “What position you want?”
“Can… Uh… Can you… Lay… on your… back? With me… Sitting… facing you…”
“Reverse cowgirl? No way, your cum will get on my chest. Don’t say you’ll aim it, I know that won’t work,” Mudstomper said. Then he muttered, “Okay, for five hundred dollars, you can cum on my chest. If you stiff me, I swear I’ll beat your ass — no, I’ll have Robert beat your ass, he’s skinny and got a face like a warthog’s pussy, you won’t be turned on at all.”
“Okay, I’ll pay-” Avery said between moans of desire. He was on the verge of orgasm already as Mudstomper dropped backwards, almost like a wrestling move, pulling Avery on top of him so he could get on his back with Avery riding him, all without moving his cock out of Avery’s ass. Avery grimaced as a shock of pre-orgasmic pain hit him, and he rotated around to face Mudstomper’s chest.
Mudstomper covered his own face with his arm so he didn’t have to watch Avery cum on him. He’d seen it before. He tried to think about something else while he listened to Avery moan and felt his delicate little fingers caressing Mudstomper’s chest.
He was glad to feel his own orgasm first. If he felt Avery cum first, he might lose his erection. He groaned and his muscles rippled beneath Avery’s grasp as he pistoned his hips upward — he had to admit, the one nice thing about plowing men was that they really knew how to take it without complaint — no girl ever took his entire foot-long dick in there and let him cum inside her.
His nut sprayed into Avery, who cried out, the sound muffled by Mudstomper’s hand which he clasped over his lips. “Shush!” he snapped, glancing towards the door. He heard male voices passing by the dressing room.
Avery could sense the orgasm washing over Mudstomper’s body in the pulsating of his muscles beneath Avery’s grasp. Then, as the last jet of cum hit Avery’s insides and seeped into him, he leaned forward.
He rubbed his dick over Mudstomper’s flat belly and shaved crotch, which brought him to orgasm with Mudstomper’s dick still pressing on his prostate. Cum sprayed across Mudstomper’s broad chest and belly.
“Aaaaah…” Mudstomper grunted and covered his eyes with both hands. The young-me, he thought, would have been terrified at the thought of letting some random dude cum on his chest. Now he just thought of it as a distasteful but important part of the job. “Okay, clean it off, I ain’t openin’ my eyes till you clean it off…”
Avery was sprawled out over his chest, his limp dick rubbing over Mudstomper’s cum-soaked belly. Most of Mudstomper’s load slipped out of Avery’s ass, soaking his cock and his balls, so Mudstomper’s body was covered from the shoulder to the thigh in cum.
Avery giggled again and sighed. He found a box of tissues and thoroughly got all the cum off Mudstomper’s chest. It had run down in rivulets to his side, which Avery sopped up. Then he kissed each of Mudstomper’s nipples. “Okay, you’re clean.”
Mudstomper sat up. He scowled at Avery. “You better pay up. No check,” he said.
“I’ll have to go to the ATM. Do you wanna come with me?” Avery said. “I’ll make it six hundred if you let me play with it in the car. You drive, so I can use both hands.”
“Deal. I’m not getting hard again though, you can just play with it limp,” Mudstomper said. He stood and put his clothes on. “I’ll tell Robert to meet me with the pulled pork. What a fucking moron. He’s probably still waiting in line.”
Avery wiped his own lips off. “Probably. If he’s white and he looks like a jackass, they’ll keep getting in front of him in line,” he said. He patted Mudstomper on the side before he put a plain white shirt on. “Hey, do you like fat chicks?”
“What?”
As they walked out the door, Avery said, “Cuz I know a fat chick who would gladly let you demolish her, she loves muscular guys. I get to watch though.” He paused. “You can wait to see if you get a hotter chick tonight, you don’t have to say yes right now.”
“Okay,” Mudstomper said. He whistled — that meant he’d be guaranteed to at least get laid tonight. That was good, he always felt better about cornholing a man if he got some pussy out of it too.
Avery led him out the door with a smile on his face as well.