MN Manmacker's mansploitation
Desmond cuts hair in his barbershop, and he often gives his studlier customers a “happy ending”… But when one encounter with a wannabe rapper leads to a hit song name-checking Desmond’s oral skills, this downlow arrangement becomes more out in the open than Desmond expected! That leads to a series of man-on-man encounters with some of the toughest and handsomest alpha male thugs, ex-cons, jocks and even strippers around!
Zion has no idea his family was targeted by a scammer who took everything they owned, and now it’s Zion’s turn to experience the ultimate in alpha male dominance! Can he submit to the superior man?
Read the whole thing here!
“Look here, Zion, boy, I’m gonna be real upfront wit’cha,” said Uncle Nelson. Zion had trouble concentrating on his words because Uncle Nelson was so intimidating. He was tall, broad shouldered and thick-bodied. He had a dense bristly mustache. He had come over without Zion’s grandmother — who had married Uncle Nelson just a few months ago. He had never come to Zion’s apartment above the family restaurant without her. “I came into ya grandmama’s life wit’ an ulterior motive.”
“Where is she-?”
Nelson slapped him. “Don’t you interrupt me. I put her in a home.”
“What?” Zion’s heart sank. “Where? What?”
He slapped Zion hard. “Make me say it again, nigga! Make me say it again! Shut yo’ mouth!”
Despite his huge size, Uncle Nelson had always been incredibly kind until today. Zion was much smaller and weaker, so he had been scared from the moment his grandmom brought Nelson home from church one day. He was new to the area then, and he had fallen in love with her right away. Nelson was broad and muscular, so strong it looked painful, like he must struggle to carry around all those muscles.
“Now yo’ grandmama signed this whole building over to me,” Nelson said. He paused to see if Zion would interrupt him again, but he didn’t. Zion trembled in front of him. Nelson lightly slapped his cheek again. “Listen Zion boy, you know what liquidate means? Course you don’t, you a dummy. It means when you take somethin’ that ain’t worth much and you take it apart and you use all the parts some other way. Like when a store goin’ outta business, they liquidate it. You feel me, Zion boy?”
“Yeah, man, but where’s my dad-?”
“Yo’ daddy’s in jail, but I’m comin’ to that.” He smiled. “I ain’t a nice nigga, Zion boy. I know I been actin’ nice, but I ain’t nice at all. Yo’ family was not wise to trust me.” He undid his belt and let his pants plop heavily to the floor, then he took his dick out. Zion yelped in surprise — and fear, because it was more than a foot long, veiny and dark, and it smelled vaguely of sweat and pussyjuice — and he tried to stand up, but Nelson pushed him back down. “Lemme just be real frank wit’cha. Yo grandmama married me and signed e’rything over to me. So I own yo’ family’s house and yo’ family’s store and I even own yo’ car, nigga, which by the way, you may not use.”
“You can’t do that-!”
“Already done, nigga. Yo’ daddy’s in jail cuz I tol’ him I put yo’ sister out on the street as a ho if he ain’t sign this murder confession — there was a killin’ I had weighin’ me down, nigga. Not no more,” he said. He carefully folded his pants and put them on the table next to him. Then he picked up his dick as though to display it for Zion’s benefit. He held it in one hand, and Zion was unable to look away from it. It jiggled when Nelson spoke. “Now yo’ sister was a little old to start hoin’, but I’m gonna make it work. She can make me a pretty penny.”
“Wait, what?!”
“I am liquidatin’ yo’ family, nigga. Y’all is a bunch of rank-ass pussies, and I am takin’ ya out,” he said. He thwacked his limp dick over Zion’s face. “You might wanna start lickin”, befo’ I get real mad, Zion boy.”
“My dad is in jail? He-“
But Nelson’s cock pushed into Zion’s mouth, and Nelson chuckled as Zion gagged. His dick was limp and rubbery at first, tasting of salty sweat. Tears welled up in Zion’s eyes. That fat cock rested on his tongue, and when he tried to push it off, Nelson slapped his hands away. He didn’t do anything with his dick, it just rested there, like Zion’s mouth was its new natural home.
Then Nelson swayed, making his limp dick jiggle and jump around, roping over Zion’s face. It was so thick, much thicker than Zion’s, and it smelled like a locker room in a low-cost gym. Zion’s stomach churned.
His mind kept replaying the things Nelson had said. None of that made sense, what did he mean? Zion’s sister was not a prostitute. His father was not a murderer, none of this made sense. Why was Nelson acting like this? But Zion couldn’t formulate any words because he was entranced by the rod of throbbing hot dickfat smearing Nelson’s body odor over every inch of Zion’s face.
“Ah, yeah, this is the part I love,” Nelson said. “No teeth. No hands. No regrets.” He moaned without breaking eye contact with Zion, who felt a flush of embarrassment and looked away. Nelson dug his nails into Zion’s cheeks and forced his eyes back to Nelson’s. “Lookit me when I’s plowin’ you, boy. You mine now, nigga. You should thinka yo’self as a slave, even if the law ain’t allow slaves no more.”
“But, Uncle Nelson, I-“
He laughed, forcing his cock back into Zion’s throat. It was so huge that it didn’t feel real to Zion, who had never seen a cock so big. A few drops of precum hit his tongue, and the electrifyingly salty flavor made Zion gag.
“You still callin’ me uncle, boy? I ain’t yo’ family.” He wrapped his hands around the back of Zion’s head, and began to slowly grind his dick lower and lower in Zion’s throat. “I let you be a busboy in the restaurant. I ain’t gonna pay you a damn dime, but I let ya eat scraps and shit. You may not find any of the waitresses sexy.”
Having been in shock since this began, Zion hadn’t really fought back. But as his throat heaved and his lungs cried out for oxygen, he realized he could fight. He clawed at Nelson’s muscle-bound body and squirmed. His whole body tensed up, but Zion was skinny and lanky, not solid like Nelson.
“Ah, there it is, there you go,” Nelson said. He held tightly onto Zion’s head. “You fightin’ now, huh? That’s normal, that’ll pass. I’m gonna break you, boy. See it used to be that the rule of law weren’t so strong, and weak-kneed motherfuckers like you and yo’ whole family just get took up by some strong motherfucker like me, someone who can make sure you reach yo’ maximum potential. For you…” Nelson laughed, smearing tendrils of spit over Zion’s face as he watched him choke on his massive cock. “Yo’ maximum potential is a busboy who occasionally gets to eat my asshole. Yo’ whole family was garbage, Zion boy. Yo’ granddaddy was worth a damn, but he dead now. You’d have just run this company into the ground. I’m takin’ it.”
Zion squealed and tried to crawl away, but Nelson = punched him again. Pain erupted in Zion’s side, and he collapsed onto the floor. Zion rolled onto his back. Nelson slowly lowered his hefty, broad ass right on Zion’s face. His crack was choked with dark kinky black hairs, which scratched Zion’s skin.
“Lick it up, Zion boy, get ya tongue in there.” When Zion didn’t comply right away, Nelson punched him in the belly. Zion groaned. “Get yo’ tongue inside my asshole now, bitch.”
Zion still wanted to fight, but he was so weak and skinny. His body submitted even as his mind wanted to fight back. His tongue slipped into Nelson’s asshole. The taste of man-funk flooded his senses.
It was so rank, so foul, the flavor overwhelming all of Zion’s other senses. Utter humiliation wracked his body. Only an absolute fool would let another man do this, he thought.
Nelson loudly moaned. His ass-sweat trickled into Zion’s mouth, and Zion gagged so violently his stomach hurt. Nelson sat on his face, all of his weight pressing down on Zion’s head. He was big man, and it felt like Zion’s head was going to cave in. He couldn’t focus on anything but squirming beneath Nelson’s giant body.
“Move ya tongue around some more. How’s my ass taste, boy?”
“Please… stop-” Zion had to shout to be heard through the meat of Nelson’s ass. That made Nelson laugh and pound on Zion’s belly some more.
“Nah, this is yo’ life now, Zion boy, it’s already done. Get used to it.” Nelson rubbed his asshole over Zion’s face, leaving a layer of funk. Zion’s nose dug into his asscrack from top to bottom. “From now on, e’ry time I come into my restaurant, or up here — anytime you see me, basically — I want you to lick my asshole, okay?”
“No!”
Nelson stood up and punched Zion in the belly. Zion screamed and gagged as the rush of fresh air made the assy taste on his tongue even more rancid. He writhed, but Nelson made him stay on his back. “What’d I say? You my slave, bitch. You can leave any time, but I own ya ass. I own this building and I own ya car and I own ya job and I own e’rything here in this apartment. I got ya daddy in jail and ya grandmom in care and ya sister out hoin’. I can decide to drop any one of ’em loose anytime,” he said.
Through his tears, Zion grunted. “I can… do…-“
“You can leave, wit’ nothin’. I will take the shoes off ya feet. I just might break all the bones in yo’ feet too, just to make sure you nevuh work again. You will work for me, Zion, for the rest of your life. Or I will make your whole family’s life hell. Ya feel me?”
“Y…. Yes.”
“Good. Now say ‘I will lick yo’ asshole, Nelson’.”
A sob escaped from Zion’s lips. “I… I will lick ya asshole, Nelson.” Zion’s tears were squashed by Nelson plopping down on his face again.
This time, Zion had no choice but to lap at that funky hole as tears streamed down his cheeks. The filthy, gritty feeling was almost, but not quite, enough to make him forget his sobbing. Nelson guided Zion’s hands around his body to his cock. Zion’s tongue ran up his guys and tasted his sweat, while his hands stroked from the root to the tip of Nelson’s fat throbbing dick.
“Stroke me off, boy. That’s how you do a rimjob. Tongue in deeper. Tongue deeper, boy!” He punched Zion in the belly again, and when Zion cried out, he grabbed his tongue. He pulled it out until Zion squealed. “See this? You got a good five inches of tongue here, boy. I wanna feel all five inches in my ass, or I swear to Christ I will shove my foot up your ass, and I am not playin’, I can show you the evidence I did it before.”
He nearly lifted Zion from his knees by his tongue but instead lowered his ass to meet his face, so he reached underneath himself to shove Zion’s tongue into his asshole. He did it so forcefully his own finger penetrated his own ass at the same time, while Zion sobbed into the filthy asscrack of the superior man above him.
Zion tried to look away, but each time Nelson slapped him and forced him to look him in the eye. He was so intimidating that Zion couldn’t think of any plan besides squirming and begging whenever he could catch a breath. Nelson’s burly mustache shook as he sneered.
“You are one pitiful li’l bitch. You a sissy?” He raised his eyebrows and looked down at them.
“No! No, come on!”
“You should be
The fact that Nelson was not a thug made him scarier to Zion. He looked like a church deacon — he was, in fact, a church deacon — and he spoke like a Hollywood hero (or villain). He had a slightly stawk-heavy East Coast accent, sounding like he was from maybe Philadelphia or someplace like that. New Jersey, maybe. His words rang out like a prophecy in Zion’s ears.
Zion felt filthy and worthless. Zion sobbed in Nelson’s plump ass, while Nelson rubbed his hole over Zion’s tongue like a dog with infected anal glands. Every time Zion’s tongue stopped moving for even a second, Nelson hit him or pinched him hard until Zion resumed lapping at his grimy prostate.
Nelson let out a long, low whistle. His cock throbbed in Zion’s hands. “Hell yeah, there ya go. Fuck yeah. You got it. This is how you do a rimjob, Zion. All of ya tongue in there, hands on my dick… You gonna make me nut, boy, I swear… I was gonna wreck ya asshole today, but maybe I wait.”
A fluid hit Zion’s tongue. It was rancid and sour, and it tasted like farts, but Zion was pretty sure it was spit, cuz Nelson was spitting on his face, it seemed. Through his sobs and retches, Zion heard him calmly hocking up loogey after loogey. Zion squirmed, sobbing in pain and disgust. Nelson punched him in the belly over and over again.
“Keep ya tongue up in there, boy, and move it around some,” Nelson said. He groaned. “Yeah, nigga… Hell yeah…” His muscles all flexed at once, and a hot spray of cum shot over his flat belly. He shot a huge flow that seemed to go on for minutes, real honest-to-god minutes of continuous flow, coating his muscular chest in a sheen of jizz, which immediately ran down to his balls and his taint and then at last onto Zion’s tongue in his ass.
Zion was only barely aware of his own hands on Nelson’s dick. He didn’t really move them, he just held on, while Nelson ground his ass over Zion’s face, the movement making Zion give him a handjob as he licked his asshole. It must have felt good, the handjob or maybe the tongue, because Nelson let out a long simmering murmur that rattled the walls of Zion’s apartment.
A loud gag escaped from Zion’s throat, the sound swallowed by Nelson’s hefty body. Zion cringed as sticky fluids ran down his throat, coating his tongue. He thought for sure he’d never make that taste go away.
“Yeah, nigga… Ah shit, I am gonna like keepin’ you ’round as a rimjob-bitch. Get used to this,” he said with another whistle. He rubbed his butt over Zion’s face, sending fresh new waves of disgusting flavor onto Zion’s tongue. “Keep ya tongue out, boy.”
He grabbed Zion’s tongue as he lifted himself up. Zion yelped because Nelson really squeezed on his tongue with his fingers. Then Nelson kneeled next to Zion, put his nose right in front of Zion’s tongue and inhaled deeply.
“You smell like pure submission, bitch.” He hocked up another big loogie and spat it onto Zion’s tongue. It was grimy and sour, and Zion squirmed all over again. Drool spilled out of his mouth as he gagged over and over. Nelson had a disgusted sneer on his face, holding Zion by the tongue. He spat again and again.
Then he pointed to the cum he had sprayed over his own chest and flat stomach. It looked like a huge load, great puddles of it that ran in rivulets down his chest. It was so thick, like sour cream, it made Zion’s own jizz seem watery and pitiful. He had spurted a huge load, and a few drops continued plopping out one by one into Nelson’s crotch hair. “Lick my cum off me. I’m gonna make ya tongue so nasty you wanna cut it off.” He licked his lips, as he pulled Zion’s face over the puddles of jizz that coated his pectoral muscles.
Keeping a grip on Zion’s tongue while he rubbed it over his chest was difficult and awkward for Nelson because he was so much bigger than Zion. He had to scrunch in to make it work. But he didn’t let Zion control his own tongue — despite telling him to lick, Nelson didn’t allow it, he instead used Zion’s tongue like a rag to clean the cum off his chest.
The salty bitterness of cum cut through Zion’s pain and humiliation, making him sob all over again. Licking his chest reminded Zion how much stronger Nelson was than him. He felt like a warm marble statue. Zion didn’t want to caress his shoulder muscles like a girl being seduced, but his hands flailed and that’s what they did, embarrassing him even further.
“Now sit there. Look me in the eye.” Nelson pointed to a spot on the floor. “Don’t get up, don’t wipe your face off. You may swallow the nastiness on your tongue. If you spit, I will beat you. I wanna watch you swallow that. I wanna see it go down yo’ throat, cuz that’ll be you agreein’ to be my rimjob-bitch-slave. That’s yo’ willing agreement.” He held onto Zion’s throat with one of his massive hands.
Zion didn’t want to swallow. Every part of him rebelled against the concept.
But he knew Nelson wasn’t kidding about beating him if he spit, so he tried to hold the soup of filth in his mouth. Its creamy thickness sloshed around, viscous, and he imagined he could feel Nelson’s sperms swimming around on his gums and his tongue. That was ridiculous, right? You can’t feel sperm.
But it sure seemed like he could. He sobbed, and he felt the tears running down his cheeks. He felt that for sure. Just like he felt the sperm swimming, looking for something to impregnate on his tongue.
A moist sniffle came outta his nose, and Nelson looked down him like a pititful pile of dogshit. Zion wanted to come up with a plan, to gin up the courage to attack Nelson, or at least to call the police when he left. None of those options sounded optionable though. Nelson was a gangster, that was clear now, and looking back on it, maybe Zion should have always known that was true. It did seem weird that a man like that would marry his grandmother.
But old people were weird, Zion couldn’t understand why they did what they did.
And now it was too late anyway. He couldn’t go to the police, Nelson would punish him. All he could do was submit. He couldn’t avoid his instinct to swallow though, and he gagged violently as it went down his throat. He imagined he could feel Nelson’s sperm swimming in his belly.
Nelson spat on him again. “Don’t move from that spot. Don’t wipe ya face off, not until I walk out the door.”
He began to very slowly get dressed. His slacks were wrinkleless, perfectly flat — ironed, obviously — because he had folded them when he took them off. His shoes were fine leather too. Halfway through, as he pulled up his pants, he stopped, turned around and farted right in front of Zion’s face. The stench of spit-flavored fart hit Zion’s nostrils and he gagged. He wept continuously.
“If you do what I say, Zion boy, everything’ll be fine.” He went into Zion’s kitchen. “You got enough food in here to last a couple weeks. You tell me when you run out, I’ll give you more.”
Zion cried, sitting there. Nelson didn’t let him move yet, so he had to sit there with a mask of cum, spit and assjuice on his face. Nelson took some stuff out of his kitchen and placed it by the door. It was all the nice things, the meat from the freezer, a fancy bottle of olive oil, that kind of thing, plus a stack of fine china. He carefully arranged it all in a pile he could carry in one hand.
“I’m takin’ some of ya shit. You ain’t worth none of this, boy. Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna let ya starve to death. You know how to cook beans, right?”
“Yeah.” Zion croaked. He gurgled and gagged all over again. Nelson chuckled.
“Good. Beans is cheap, I gonna give you mostly beans and rice.” Nelson walked past where Zion sat. He undid his belt, plopped his plump asscheeks in front of Zion again and farted on his face. He wrinkled his nose. “You is one worthless piece of shit, man, you know that?”
“Yes.” Zion’s voice had never felt so weak and wavery. He felt nothing but submission towards this man, who’d ruined his life and even despite that, Zion was going to do everything he said. He was like a God to Zion.
“Did you like eatin’ my ass?” He paused, then, just as Zion was about to answer, he snapped, “Say yes, bitch, or I’ll throw you out the window.”
Zion hesitated. “Yes.” When Nelson motioned for him to stretch that out, he winced and moaned. Nelson slapped him. Zion cringed. “I… I enjoyed eating your ass.”
Nelson’s phone rang. He looked at it, and his mustache wriggled. “It’s one of my bitches.” He answered it. “Hey, baby. Yeah. I be ovuh later. Uh-huh. Yeah cook me up somethin’. That sounds good. I’s just doin’ a little work.” He chuckled. He glanced at Zion. “Ain’t that kinda work. You ain’t gotta lick my doodoo-hole tonight though, baby, on ‘ccount of what I’s doin’ at work.” He laughed. “Nah, it ain’t a girl. This nigga displeased me. Nah, don’t worry, my princess, you ain’t gotta be jealous. Oh yeah? Oh shit… Alright, alright.” He looked at Zion. “Go sit in the bathtub, nigga.”
Zion retched as he got up, but Nelson kicked him in the belly.
“Crawl! When you in fronta me, bitch, you crawl!” Nelson chuckled into the phone. “Yeah, he my slave. Yeah, sure. He come clean ya house e’ry weekend.” He licked his lips. “Damn, baby, you got a evil side. I like that.” He knocked Zion over with his foot, then kicked him in the belly until Zion gasped and cried out. He heard a cruel female voice laughing through the phone. “Get in there, bitch!”
Nelson allowed him to crawl on his hands and knees into the bathroom. Zion was too exhausted and scared to fight back, or even to think about what was going on.
“Yeah, baby. You can do whatever you want to him. I’m-a do it now, I gotta put the video on.” He started recording. He took his dick out through the fly of his pants. “Open up ya mouth, boy, and start singing ‘I’m a Little Teapot’.”
The girl laughed hysterically as Zion tried to sing through his tears, and the sound of her guffaws carried tinnily from the phone in Nelson’s hand. The melody of the song was interrupted by hot, bitter piss flowing over his face, so it ended up just being the sound of him choking to the tune of the woman’s laughter. Zion sobbed and gagged, his stomach twisting in knots when urine streamed down his throat.
He pissed so much there was a little puddle around Zion’s bare ass on the floor of the bathtub. He cried and cried as Nelson put his dick away.
“Uncle Nelson… Please-“
“You still callin’ me uncle?” Nelson gathered up everything else in the apartment that he wanted — or that he judged to be too nice for a slave to have. He got it all up in a couple boxes, which he carted out to his Mercedes one by one. Before he left, Nelson stood over Zion and glared down at him. That mask of filth was still on his face, and Zion trembled, unable to think about anything but his desperate desire to be free of it.
Without another word, Nelson pursed his lips, hocked up a massive loogey and spat it out onto Zion’s face. It splatted and covered him in stinking saliva from his forehead to his nose, and it coated his eyes too, so it was in everything he saw.
Then, at last, Nelson turned around and walked out the door. Zion was relieved to be able to clean his face off and cry, alone.
When Rob meets factory foreman Ezra McCormick, he didn’t know he was in for a ride on his massive, muscular meat! Can Rob accept Ezra’s hot, throbbing authority?
Read it soon as an ebook!
Read the whole thing here!
Rob’s eyes opened wide when he saw Ezra McClintock. He wasn’t expecting someone like that. He knew it was silly when he walked into the factory — he had the assumption in his head that a factory that made specialty graphing calculators was probably full of bespectacled nerds with pens leaking over their pocket protectors, their whiny singsong voices drowned out by the whirr of the machinery.
But that wasn’t the case. Just because it was used by nerds didn’t mean it was manufactured by them.
Mr. McClintock was statuesque and powerfully built, that was why Rob was shocked — also he had arranged this meeting through email with a woman named “Kendra”, so he was predisposed to picture a bunch of nerds and women. But that wasn’t Ezra McClintock. Kendra was just an office manager. Mr. McClintock was a rough-edged black man in his mid to late forties, with big burly shoulders and a broad barrel chest. His hair was jet-black and trimmed neatly — it was so black that Rob suspected it was dyed, since Ezra seemed old enough he ought to have a few gray hairs.
His most attractive feature, however, was not the way he barely fit in his workshirt and dickeys, it was his mustache.
Nobody wore mustaches like that these days. It was a glorious mustache, 1970s-style, making Mr. McClintock a man out of time, Rob thought, phenomenally huge and bristly, like he had a push-broom on his upper lip. It trembled as he shook Rob’s hand.
“What can I do for you? We got some older types around, but I dunno how they can help ya,” Mr. McClintock said. He led Rob into his office but then he sat on the edge of his desk. “We don’t advertise in magazines.”
Rob was momentarily flummoxed. Mr. McClintock sat on the edge of the desk, with one foot resting on the chair at the other side of the desk — meaning there was nowhere for Rob to sit. If Rob weren’t distracted by the massive bulge in Mr. McClintock’s workpants, he would have realized that he chose this position to block the chair and get Rob to leave more quickly.
That bulge was huge. His cock was at least a foot long and it looked as thick as a beer can. Maybe that isn’t his dick, maybe he had something in his pocket, Rob thought.
“Oh, uh… I’m not selling advertising,” Rob said. He blushed, his voice wavering because he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the cock-bulge in Mr. McClintock’s workpants. They were thick, canvas-like pants, stained with bleach near the ankle and a big grass stain on the left ass and thigh, like he had been wearing them when he slid into home during a baseball game.
He kind of looks like a baseball player, Rob thought. He was too thickly built for basketball, and probably not swift enough for football, even back when he was younger. He had a heavy, plodding way of moving and talking; he was solid, all heft and mass, shifting his weight as though he found his own muscles tiresome. He chewed on his lower lip.
Rob cleared his throat. “Uh, sorry, I, uh… I didn’t say I was selling ad space. Our magazine is aimed at older readers, and uh…” He blinked his eyes a few times, his purpose here today vanishing from his mind. He blushed. “Uh… An article on factories! We’re doing an article on older people who work in factories, and we wanted to find some workers to interview.”
Mr. McClintock grunted. “How old is older?”
“Sixty-five.”
“We got one, he ain’t gonna be yo’ type though, mistuh,” Mr. McClintock said. When he spoke his mustache worked up and down like an excited bat, even as his face and his voice remained flat. “He a good worker, but… He don’t even work on the factory floor, he’s in the mailroom.”
“Oh, well, still…”
“He got Down’s Syndrome.”
“What?”
“He got Down’s Syndrome. He disabled as shit, man,” Mr. McClintock said. “He livin’ in a care home and e’rything. You wanna interview him? You go ahead. I dunno if he got anything to say that might be relevant to yo’ readers. He do talk though, he ain’t one them non-verbals, he talks, he do.”
“Oh… I mean…” Rob tried to be diplomatic. “I’m sure, uh… his experiences are… Uh… full of useful-“
“You don’t gotta be politically correct.”
Rob smiled awkwardly. “I don’t want to interview him. That won’t be… maybe sometime in the future, we are planning a disabilities issue.”
“Well, sorry, man, he the only over-65 we got workin’ here,” Mr. McClintock said. He sniffled like that was the end of the conversation, and he expected Rob to leave. He picked up a stack of papers off his desk. He rifled through them before looking up at Rob once more.
Rob’s mind whirred. That mustache was amazing, he thought, and he would give anything to see that fat cock sliding into his own mouth. He wanted him so bad he could already taste it.
But how to tantalize him? Rob often offered guys money for a chance to swing on their meat, but Mr. McClintock was already a foreman at a large factory — he probably wasn’t in need of cash, and he might be offended at the suggestion that he was.
“You need somethin’ else, man? I gotta get back to work. Can’t be hangin’ out wit’ some journalist all day,” he said with a throaty chuckle and a sigh.
“Oh, I’m not a journalist,” Rob said. “I own the magazine. We only have three employees so far, and I’m doing a lot of the research and-“
“You own the magazine?” He lowered his eyes. “You rich?”
“Well… I have a lot of money tied up in assets,” Rob said. He laughed a little nervously. “Most of those lose money though. Like the magazine is notionally worth a half-million, but if I tried to sell it today I’d be lucky to get fifty grand. It’s technically cash-flow positive, but, uh… It’s complicated. Anyway, I-“
“Uh-huh. So you lookin’ for new business opportunities?”
“Always,” Rob said. “But I have a business manager I have to justify things to. Don’t expect me to, you know-“
He waved Rob away. “I gots an opportunity for you. You gonna have to seize it real quick. You wanna sell some graphing calculators?”
“What? That’s not a market I’m in…”
“Well, man, I gots an idea. I was tellin’ my boss ’bout this, but he weren’t… he wasn’t open to new ideas at the time,” he said with a knowing frown. “When we get supplies, like the computer chips and the plastic cases and all that, we always get a couple extra in case some got damaged. We can make them into actual calculators. The only thing we don’t got is the batteries — we buys ’em from Duracell in bulk and put ’em in the package with the calculator, but Duracell don’t give extras. Mr. Bossman don’t wanna make a separate product line that’s the same thing ‘cept without the batteries pre-installed, ya dig?”
“Right…”
“But we already gots ’em, and the supplies don’t cost nothin’. We could churn out another five-hundred calculators a month at no extra cost beyond a few bucks in overtime pay,” he said. “You feel me? You gettin’ where I’m goin’?”
“Not exactly…”
“Well, man, we can make them calculators and sell ’em to you. No batteries, no logo. You buy ’em for us at twenty bucks each, you can sell ’em to college brats like my idiot stepson for two hundred bucks each.”
“Is that… legal?”
“Ain’t breakin’ no criminal law, nosir,” Mr. McClintock said. “This is our property, and we’s allowed to sell it. My contract with the company don’t really allow for that, but it ain’t a crime. Worse they can do is find a new factory, but we the only factory in North America that makes graphing calculators. They ain’t gonna wanna build a new one, cuz this is a dyin’ industry anyway. So they gonna look the other way, if they ever find out — they prolly won’t cuz no one gonna know. You could put ‘Made in Vietnam’ on the package, ain’t no one ever gonna think to check.” He paused. “That part is illegal, that’s on you, if you wanna mark the packagin’ incorrectly, I ain’t gonna make my boys do that.”
“Hmmm…” Rob tried to think. The math certainly worked out. This would be a good profit-making opportunity, if only he could get away with it. But there was also a chance he was being scammed, he thought. Maybe Mr. McClintock was trying to offload a couple hundred calculators that didn’t work.
“Maybe I could sweeten the pot,” Mr. McClintock said when Rob hesitated. He pointed to the chair, on which his foot still rested — Mr. McClintock sat on the edge of the desk, so when Rob sat there, he faced Mr. McClintock’s crotch.
Mr. McClintock rolled his eyes. He was annoyed with how much some men appreciated his physique. It was kind of funny, he thought, when he was young, he didn’t mind getting jerked off because he was horny and they were easy and he could do it without going out on dates or sweet-talking a female. But some men swished in his direction all the time — they liked older men. The older Mr. McClintock got, the more he noticed men checking him out, blatantly staring at him, fat slobby perverts blushing as they begged for his dick — he always said no — while the kind of pretty girl who used to go crazy for his muscles became more and more turned off by him. Nowadays most young women thought he was creepy, not sexy. Girls are prudes these days.
Though it was annoying, Mr. McClintock didn’t mind letting men jerk him off. He always made a big deal out of it because most of them would pay if they thought he was reluctant, and because if he seemed too eager, they’d want to do more than just handle his dick. Mr. McClintock had given handjobs before, and he didn’t like to think about that. If he wasn’t desperate for cash, he wan’t going to do it again.
But to offload these useless calculator parts? And to make a profit off it that he could keep for himself? He’d gladly let Rob jerk him off every month when he picked up the calculators, and hell, he thought, he’d kiss Rob for that.
“I’d like to make this happen, man,” Mr. McClintock said. He looked up and unzipped his workpants. He let his dick flop out. He sensed Rob’s eyes opening wide. He crossed his arms over his chest, which made a few hairs visible over the upper edge of his shirt — there, Rob noticed, were the gray hairs he suspected Mr. McClintock dyed off his head and his beard.
Rob’s heart fluttered. That dick was just as big as he had thought, the bulge wasn’t an optical illusion at all. It was like a massive brown cucumber, he thought, no, bigger than any cucumber, but firm like one even though it wasn’t hard. Rob touched it gingerly to see how Mr. McClintock reacted, but he just grunted and ignored Rob.
One of his fingers ran up and down the shaft, tracing a bluish vein barely visible against the deep brown of his skin. He had a lot of dickskin too, Rob thought with a suppressed laugh as he wrapped his hand around it, it was still limp and that skin moved along with his strokes. It put out a palpable wave of heat, and it pulsated in Rob’s grip. He leaned in and smelled it.
The scent was musky, zesty, spicy, glorious. Rob took a huge deep sniff of it, then blushed because Mr. McClintock looked at him like a loathsome slug. Rob kept both of his hands on the shaft though, and he kept stroking it slowly, not trying to get it hard, just sort of petting it.
This dick might be more than a foot long, Rob thought, it might well be the biggest dick I’ve ever touched. He blushed and said, “it’s so big…”
Mr. McClintock sniffled. “Won’t get hard if you just play wit’ it. You gotta swallow it.” He stood up straighter. “And you gotta get deep on it too, get it real nice and wet. Go deep on it.”
Rob nodded. He didn’t want to go too fast though. He slapped himself with Mr. McClintock’s dick, which was so thick and heavy it really almost hurt to be hit with it, like it was a warclub. He stuck his tongue out and chased it, getting a few tastes of his funky, cocoa butter-scented dick but not actually tasting it yet.
“Hmm-hmm, see you just playin’ wit it,” Mr. McClintock said. “I got no time for you to play around, man. Just do it it if you gonna do it.” His mustache twitched.
“It’s gigantic, I wanna play with it some, okay?” Rob said. He put the tip in his mouth, playing with the loose skin there, while Mr. McClintock rolled his eyes. “You’re all business, Mr. McClintock. Relax-“
“No.” He grunted. He leaned back and took his dick away from Rob. “I got work to do. If you ain’t serious-“
“Fine, fine, I’ll do it,” Rob said. He tried to grab Mr. McClintock’s dick from him, but he slapped Rob’s hand away.
“Fo’ real?” He shook his head and stroked his chin. “Goddamn, wussy-ass sissies always play fuckin’ games… can’t just do what they want, y’know.” He forced Rob’s jaw apart and slid the tip of his dick in there. “Unless you can really deep-throat the shit outta me, there ain’t much point. Lemme just jack off on ya tongue.”
“That’s not as hot-” Rob said, his voice muffled and cut off by Mr. McClintock’s dick slipping into his mouth. He struggled to take it because it was so thick. He had to stretch his mouth. He tried to say, “will you ram me in the ass?” But his mouth was full, so all that came out was a confused jumble of sounds.
“Hmmm-hmm… If you do this, I’ll let you get a nut outta me off e’ry time you come pick up the calculators, okay? It’s gotta be you, I don’t wanna deal wit’ delivery guys or whatevuh,” Mr. McClintock said. He kept one callused hand on Rob’s head, trying to ram Rob’s throat though his dick remained only partially hard. It coiled like a big black rope all over Rob’s face. “You can jerk me off then e’ry time, okay? No anal. I’ll let you play wit’ it a bit, and you can touch my muscles. But just for a few minutes, okay? I ain’t yo’ boyfriend.”
“No anal…? Come on…” Rob said with a winsome smile. “Can I tell you a secret? I’m a great deep-throater. I can swallow your entire dick and beg for more, and I’ll choke down every drop of your cum like no woman ever has-“
“Yeah, right.” He chuckled, ropy dick twitching where it rubbed over Rob’s face. “You can’t even swallow half of it. I shoot big loads, man.”
“If I get the whole thing in there, or enough anyway that my nose hits your pubic hair,” Rob said. “Will you kiss me when we’re done?”
“You want me to kiss you?”
Rob nodded and blushed. “I’ll swallow first, it won’t taste like cum.”
“Ya lips’ll still taste like cum,” Mr. McClintock said. He sighed and flared his nostrils. “Fine, whatever, you won’t be able to do it anyway. If you can’t, if you fail, you gotta lemme just jack off in your mouth real quick, cuz you ain’t gonna get me hard any other way.”
Rob nodded. “Deal.” He opened his mouth as wide as he could and let Mr. McClintock flex his hips, forcing his dick down Rob’s throat. Rob relaxed himself as much as he could, even as he felt suffocated and his lungs cried out for oxygen.
He really was a very good deep-throater. He had been playing around — Mr. McClintock was right about that — but when he loosened up his jaw, he was able to slide inch after inch of rapidly hardening black meat down his throat. Mr. McClintock looked at him directly for the first time since this began, watching his dick fill Rob’s throat.
“Goddamn, whiteboy,” he said. He let out a whistle. He was about to add more, but then a wave of pleasure hit him and his dick finally got hard. It was quick once it got started. Before Rob knew it, he had to lift his head because Mr. McClintock’s dick was as straight and immovable as a crowbar. His heart sped up, and Mr. McClintock groaned at the realization he had lost that bet. He wished if he was going to kiss Rob that it would be before the dome, not after.
He couldn’t deny it that he had done it before though — not with a man, but when he was growing up in Chicago, kissing a girl after she sucked you off was a sort of a rite of passage. It was disgusting but it was dirty and sexy and raunchy and a lot of guys bragged that they did it — they bragged both that they did it and that they thought it was gross, so it was a fine line to hew. You had to do it willingly while being unwilling to do it.
A grunt escaped from his clenched lips. He frowned and tried to pretend he wasn’t as impressed as he was — he didn’t want to give Rob the wrong impression. His dick throbbed in Rob’s throat, which clenched around it. Rob gripped Mr. McClintock’s asscheeks through those thick workpants, clutching them to hold on as his lungs cried out for air.
Mr. McClintock pulled his balls out through the fly of his workpants — which he realized now he had been wearing the last few times he let a man get a nut outta him as well. They must reek of his cum, he thought.
His balls slapped against Rob’s chin. Rob was dizzy from lack of oxygen, but he refused to pull off until he absolutely couldn’t take it. Then he gasped for air and held his mouth open so Mr. McClintock could see how good he did it, how open his throat was and how his mouth was coated in Mr. McClintock’s precum.
Then he went back to stroking, to deep-throating that massive shaft, while stroking his balls with one hand to bring him to orgasm. Rob throated that shaft until his nose pressed against Mr. McClintock’s fleshy crotch, nuzzling his pubic hair and rubbing his chin against his ballsac.
At last he felt those balls rising up in the sac, and Rob gagged uncontrollably. Mr. McClintock’s dick throbbed as though it was coming alive. Mr. McClintock had been rather absent for most of this dome, letting Rob do the whole thing, but now as an orgasm shuddered through him, he grabbed Rob’s head and held on tight.
“Oh fuck yeah, boy…”
Cum flew down Rob’s throat, right into his belly. Mr. McClintock’s shaft was so deep in him that Rob didn’t even taste it right away. He felt it flowing hotly into him, but it didn’t touch his tongue. He sensed it in the pulsations fo Mr. McClintock’s cock on his tongue and the rising up of his balls as he prepared to bust one of his fat wads.
It was hot and creamy, and it seeped into Rob’s flesh like nothing else could. He moaned and choked and begged for more all at the same time, and Rob’s hands clasped Mr. McClintock’s trunk-like thighs. A baritone grunt came from Mr. McClintock, who thrust his hips one more time, making his balls slap Rob in the chin.
“Goddamn, boy, swallow that shit…”
He shot a huge load, especially for an older, mature man, Rob thought, his mind reeling as his lungs cried out for oxygen and his throat spasmed painfully. He thought he might lose consciousness before Mr. McClintock withdrew his dick slowly.
He moved very slow. Mr. McClintock loved this part of dome, but women never let it happen like this — he pulled out slowly, using both hands to force Rob’s head to remain in place — and to cover his face so Mr. McClintock didn’t have to see it. Rob squirmed, his throat squeezing as he tried to take a breath, but Mr. McClintock’s dick didn’t allow it, and he removed it arduously slowly. Every inch to get squeezed on was a new source of pleasure that wracked Mr. McClintock’s body.
Finally Rob tasted it, salty cum coating his tongue when Mr. McClintock’s cocktip finally reached his mouth. Rob took a deep, hoarse breath and spat up a mouth full of cum that spilled out over his mouth and lips. He gurgled and smeared it over himself before sucking most of it off his fingers.
That thirteen-inch dick throbbed limply over Rob’s face. Rob nudged it with his nose, giggling at the exhausted look on Mr. McClintock’s face. Rob smacked his lips and opened his mouth again to demonstrate that he had swallowed.
Then he stood. “Kiss me…”
Mr. McClintock looked like he might back out. His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing, his lips grim and tight. Rob had swallowed his cum, but Rob’s face and lips still glimmered. He was definitely going to taste like it.
He had kissed men, and he had kissed women who tasted of his own cum, but he had never kissed a man who tasted of his own cum. He closed his eyes and lowered his head, thinking he should just get it over with. Then he let out a loud croaking gag when he got close and smelled Rob’s breath — he smelled like a brothel and a well-used jockstrap, Mr. McClintock thought — was that what his dick smelled like? No wonder his wife refused to suck him off anymore.
But he wasn’t going to shirk his duty. He had agreed to kiss Rob, so he did so, even as he let out another baritone gag. It was just disgust, after all, he frequently had to deal with nasty and even painful stuff here at work. He could deal with it.
Rob’s mouth tasted snotty and sticky, his lips sour and cottony. He could tell right away that he was going to taste this for a long time, he wouldn’t be able to wash it away. Their tongues interlocked in Mr. McClintock’s mouth. Rob’s tongue moved around, but Mr. McClintock didn’t move anymore than he thought he absolutely had to.
He only pulled away when Rob began sucking on his upper lip and the mustache there. Mr. McClintock gagged again, but then resumed his stiff, dour look, his soft dick still dangling out of the fly of his workpants.
“You okay?” Rob asked.
Mr. McClintock nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak because he thought he might gag again, and he didn’t want to look weak.
“Well, then, I guess we have an agreement,” Rob said. He kept playing with that huge dick until Mr. McClintock scowled and tucked it back in his pants. Then he stood, kissed Mr. McClintock on the neck, and walked out of his office. “I’ll see you on the first of the month to pick up the calculators.”
Rob was exhilarated as he left. There were a lot of hot older guys in this factory, he noticed. The average worker was about forty or forty-five here. Rob had a lot of opportunities, he thought with a squeal of glee.
Coming back here every month was going to be fun. He could mess with Mr. McClintock for calculators, then jerk off the rednecks and blue-collars for beer money. They’d probably even gangbang him for a big enough payday, he thought with a shiver of anticipation.
Teddy is tending bar when he meets an Italian vintner with a handsome face and a hunky body, plus a need for money that Teddy is all too happy to help with! All Giovanni has to do is give him a taste of his alpha male manhood…
Read it soon as an ebook!
Avery finds himself celebrating Thanksgiving with a family of construction workers, the Dalmans, who one by one let Avery service every inch of their blue-collar meats! Can Avery satisfy the Dalman clan?!
Read the whole thing here!
Avery came back to his apartment above the garage after his sister and her family left. He was glad to be alone.
Yesterday was Thanksgiving, and he had spent all day with his sister, her husband and their three daughters. It had been excruciatin. While he loved his nieces very much, he did not love spending more than a few hours with them. They were exhausting, annoying, loud and they smelled bad.
He had gotten through one whole day though, and he was done with that until Christmas. At least, he thought, he had managed to avoid going to his brother-in-law’s family’s Thanksgiving celebration. That was where the rest of the family was at today, the day after Thanksgiving. The whole family had gone to Redding to see the grandparents.
That gave Avery a free day. He lived above the garage, so he didn’t live in the house, but he could go there when he needed to. Today he hung out in his underwear, eating leftovers and watching the big-screen TV his brother-in-law had recently bought.
About three o’clock, however, there was a knock on the door.
“Hey, man, we’re having a Thanksgiving dinner next door,” said the man in the doorway. He was Junior Dalman, and he was so well-built he filled the doorway like a Greek god. Junior was middle-aged and burly, the co-owner of a construction company his father had founded. He had a few tinges of gray in his beard, and his hairy chest was visible through his shirt. He kept his hair cut very short, like a military crew-cut, though he was never in the military.
Avery explained that the family was gone. As it turned out, the Dalmans were doing something similar but in reverse: They had all spent Thanksgiving scattered among various girlfriends, in-laws and others, and now the Dalman men were having their own Thanksgiving the day after.
“But, uh, we was supposed to have my ex and her sister and daughters, but they ain’t show up,” Junior said. He scowled a little but didn’t explain why. “So we gonna have lots of extra food fo’ sure.”
The only reason Avery agreed is that Junior was handsome, as was Junior’s son, PJ, a college lacrosse star who also did construction work on the side. Avery didn’t really want to go anywhere or do anything today, but he did want to look at the Dalmans.
PJ had shaggy blond hair, which he obviously cut himself, all uneven and ratty, a bit greasy but only in a good way. Avery shook his hand, hoping he didn’t look like he had a crush (which he did). PJ’s arm muscles flexed as he shook up and down. Avery smiled and patted PJ on the bicep at the same time, holding back a gasp and moan of desire. His bicep was firm and rock-like.
“Hey, man, are you putting money on the game? My money’s on the Raiders,” he said.
“Oh, I don’t really watch football,” Avery said. He smiled. “But, uh, I guess if everyone else is, I could put a few bucks on the Raiders. That way I can root with you.” Avery blushed again — he thought that made him sound like a PJ fanboy, which he was.
Much to Avery’s surprise, there was only one other person there — Percy Dalman, PJ’s grandfather and Junior’s father. Much to Avery’s even greater surprise, Percy was handsome as hell. He had gray hair, but it was long and shaggy like his grandson, and he was built like a powerhouse despite his age. He was crackly and windswept, and he dressed in baggy shorts and a hip hop tee shirt that looked ridiculous on a man his age.
After eating some fruit — a fruit platter had been purchased for the womenfolk, none of whom showed up, so Avery was as feminine as was going to be there all day, and it was up to Avery to eat the fruit — Avery sat down next to PJ.
The football game was on, but Avery paid little attention. He cheered when PJ did. Avery paid most of his attention to PJ, who shifted and wiggled on the love-seat they shared. PJ was more than a hundred pounds heavier — solid muscle — than Avery and took up much more space. Avery didn’t mind, and he even found himself sitting there with his arm on the back of the couch, tantalizingly close to hugging PJ’s muscled back.
“He’s gonna keep throwing, I can tell,” Percy said with a sneer as the second quarter was about to begin. “Fuckin’ punk, needs to run. They got runners.”
“Nah, Pops, running is for pussies,” PJ said with a laugh. “Man, they should always throw-“
“Shut the fuck up, son,” Junior said.
“Passing sucks!”
“Them’s the Raiders, son! You best believe they know what they’re doing,” Pops said. “There’s history in that franchise-“
“Pops, shut up!” PJ moaned and covered his face.
“Hey PJ,” Avery said. “I’ll bet you fifty bucks they run the next play and get a first down.” His gently lilting voice drove the conversation to a halt.
PJ paused, then said, “Fine, bro.”
“He ain’t got fifty cents, man,” Junior said.
“I do so!” PJ said, his voice defensive enough that Avery realized PJ indeed had little money. He might have been telling the truth about having fifty cents, but he wouldn’t be able to pay the bet. That was okay with Avery, who thought he might get something out of today after all.
Finally the game resumed, and Avery watched with baited breath — he actually enjoyed lacrosse for once — as the play began.
The quarterback handed the ball to a runner. Avery cheered, as did Junior and Percy. Only PJ groaned as the player sprinted up the field, easily getting a first down. PJ leaned back and closed his eyes.
“What a fucking idiot, who runs?!”
“It’s an important part of the game, jackass. You know until the 50s, it was almost all running? Throwing the ball wasn’t allowed most of the time until the NFL changed the rules,” Percy said.
“Well, they knew what they were doing. They got the down.”
“You best pay up your fifty dollars,” Junior said with a sneer.
PJ blushed. “Well, yeah. I, uh… I might have to owe you on that one.”
Avery smiled. He patted PJ on the thigh. “Don’t worry about it-“
PJ shook his head. “I always pay my debts-“
“You mean you get me to pay your debts,” Junior said with an angry snarl.
“I always pay my debts, man, I don’t want any charity.”
“Except for student loans and your mom paying your tuition and your coach giving you free tutoring and your free health care courtesy of the Democrats-“
“Shut up, Dad,” PJ said. He glared at his father and grandfather, who continued to make faces at each other and laugh.
But Avery just patted PJ on the shoulder and said, “Well, I would gladly forgive the debt if you do something for me. I could use a pair of big strong arms for something. Come on next door, I’ll show you.”
He nodded. He seemed glad to be away from his dad and grandfather, who still snickered and listed all of the charity that PJ received. Avery wished he could walk behind PJ, so he could watch his gigantic lacrosse-toned ass sway. PJ filled out his jersey and workout shorts well. But PJ was following Avery, since Avery was the one who knew where they were going.
He led PJ over to the garage where he lived, and brought him up to his apartment. Then Avery closed the door and grinned at PJ.
“So whatcha need, man?”
“Well, I thought, instead of paying me fifty dollars,” Avery said. “You let me drop to my knees like this.” He did so. PJ’s eyes opened wide. Avery licked his lips. “And close your eyes. You can just do what comes naturally.”
“Oh.” PJ blushed until his cheeks were bright red. “I mean…”
“I won’t tell anyone, not even your dad. And I’ll swallow your cum,” Avery said. He inserted a finger into his mouth and sucked on it.
“Okay,” PJ said. He blurted it out like he needed to say it before he changed his mind. Then he grunted and mewled a bit, like he had then changed his mind but didn’t want to say it. He nodded again. “Damn, I need a nut, bro.”
Avery hurried to pop his cock out. PJ had worn his old workout shorts today because he wasn’t leaving the house, and thought he might play a little touch-football with his dad later. He rarely washed these shorts, so they were funky and sweaty and exactly how Avery liked them. He wore a brand-new jockstrap too, clean and cottony and smelling just enough of balls for Avery.
Avery planted his tongue right on PJ’s cocktip, making him gasp. His dick twitched. Avery swallowed it deeply, until his nose teased PJ’s pubic hair.
“Damn, bro… You can’t tell anyone about this, man, especially not my dad. Or my granddad!”
His dick stiffened up, and PJ gasped. He didn’t think this would happen so quickly. Now he got more and more worried his father would find out. Would it be obvious he had just gotten his nut off when he got back to the house?
It felt so good it was almost painful, and it was definitely awkward. PJ knew how to act around women, but he just flailed and grunted and shook as he raced straight to an orgasm in Avery’s mouth. Pleasure shuddered up his muscles, and his knees went weak.
“Ah, shit, man!” PJ gripped Avery’s head and held on, jutting his hips forward to ram his cock all the way down his throat.
Creamy hot cum filled Avery’s belly and coated his throat. It was salty and sweet and delicious, and Avery moaned, craving more. A long flow of it coated his gullet. Avery slurped down every drop, as his hands massaged the meaty thighs of PJ’s body.
PJ was young and virile, so he shot a huge load, giving Avery plenty of thick cum that seeped into his belly. Avery moaned and kept licking until PJ couldn’t take it anymore and took his dick away.
“Damn, bro, you really got enthusiasm for dick,” PJ said, blushing, wide-eyed. None of his girlfriends had ever really liked sucking cock — he wouldn’t have thought that was true a few minutes ago, but now that he got it from Avery, he knew his girlfriends were never enthusiastic like Avery was right now. He thwacked his limp dick over Avery’s face (which no girl ever let him do).
Then it was all done. PJ was glad. He took a deep breath. His face was ruddy and sweaty. His dick dangled, shorts still around his ankles. He was too exhausted to do much, so Avery pulled his jockstrap and shorts up for him. PJ gasped and giggled a little, nervously, when Avery touched his sensitive cock and balls.
“Tell them you helped me put together a bookshelf,” Avery said, pointing to the bookshelf he had just put together yesterday (he had needed to get his brother-in-law to hold some stuff in place while he screwed it together). “It was heavy enough you’re a little red-faced and out-of-breath.”
“Are you gonna tell them…? They’ll call me a pussy if they find out.”
“No. It’s our secret,” Avery said. “I promise.”
PJ nodded, still too embarrassed to really say much. Finally on the way back to the house, PJ said, “I can’t believe you just jacked me off like that, bro. That was so weird.”
Avery laughed. “Yeah.”
When they got back in the house, PJ’s heart thumped, certain his father or grandfather would guess what had happened.
The game had resumed, however, and they barely even acknowledged that PJ was gone. They never asked what he had done. PJ breathed a sigh of relief as he sat down and resumed cheering on the Raiders.
This time, PJ sat on the chair, instead of the loveseat. Avery sat by himself, wondering if he could sit in the center of the couch instead — he’d be crammed in between Junior and Percy, probably close enough to them he could feel their armhair and smell their chests. It was enough to make his mouth water.
When his cell phone rang, Junior stood up. He had a serious frown on his face. “Damn it, it’s Charlie, if he calls out tomorrow, I will rip his goddamn head off.”
He walked away, into the kitchen. Just a few moments later, the sound of Junior angrily hissing into the phone could be heard. The other two ignored it, but Avery found it increasingly awkward, especially when Junior’s voice got loud enough that his words were audible.
“No, fuck you, you drunk bastard! ‘I wanna get real drunk tonight’ is not a good reason to call out sick-” Junior fumed. “Then don’t get that drunk, Charlie! It’s not responsible to plan on getting so drunk you can’t drive the next morning — oh, then tell the state police, they’ll give you a plaque! Maybe they’ll give you a job too, a job where ‘a strong desire to get drunk’ is an acceptable excuse to call out from work! Then don’t bother sobering up for Monday!” He threw his cell phone against the wall, then cursed himself and put the battery back in the compartment.
Avery got up. The game was in an exciting moment (or so Avery assumed since PJ and Percy were deeply engrossed; every moment of football was equally boring to Avery) and the others didn’t really notice him go into the kitchen. Junior paced there, square jaw working as he chewed on his lower lip. He rubbed his stubbled face and nodded at Avery.
“Sorry, man, I got this worker…”
“You seem frustrated,” Avery said.
He sighed. “Yeah. It ain’t even… I really wish my ex had shown up. We’ve been gettin’ along. I thought maybe…”
“You thought maybe she’d treat you right?”
“Nothing’s going right right now,” he said. “If I don’t get the concrete poured for that school tomorrow, it won’t be ready in time for next week.”
“You poor baby… You should relax though,” Avery said. “Stressing out won’t solve anything.” Junior grunted. He still mostly ignored Avery, standing there flipping through his phone as though additional workers might have inserted themselves in there. Avery grabbed Junior’s cock through his dingy work khakis.
Junior looked up and his eyes opened wide. “What’re you…?”
Avery frowned. “I hate seeing people stressed on holidays,” he said. “And I bet you were hoping that ex-wife of yours would give up the booty.” Avery turned around and raised his ass, aiming it towards Junior’s crotch. “But maybe I can take her place?”
“Shit…”
Junior glanced back at the living room. He grabbed Avery’s hips and dragged him to the other side of the kitchen, where they were blocked by the center island. No one could see Avery without being right there next to Junior.
Avery dropped his jeans and rammed his ass back towards Junior’s crotch. His dick was still soft, but it twitched through the fabric of his khakis when Avery’s ass touched it.
“Shit…” Junior said again. He sighed like he didn’t want to do this, like it was a big imposition. He even glanced towards the living room and considered saying no. But his cock was hard, and he wasn’t about to turn down some booty. Nobody, he thought, would know. He unzipped his khakis and let a thick, veiny cock flop out. It was big like PJ’s but less smooth and more tan. Avery didn’t mind that at all.
He rubbed his ass over the shaft of Junior’s limp cock, while Junior looked away, seemingly pretending this wasn’t happening. He closed his eyes as his cock firmed up.
“Hmm, stick it in me,” Avery said. He lined his ass up with Junior’s cock and pushed back.
As soon as he got started, Junior found his hands moving on instinct. He grabbed Avery’s ass and held on. It twitched and trembled until it turned rock-hard, throbbing against the surface of Avery’s asshole with every pulse of Junior’s heart.
“Open up, boy,” Junior said with a grunt. He drilled his dick in.
He had a nice big cock, enough that Avery had to struggle to bring it all in. He pushed when he felt resistance, and Avery had to focus on not crying out. He whimpered as Junior slammed into him.
Finally he was all the way in. His cock throbbed as Avery adjusted. It took all of Avery’s focus to just take a breath.
“Here I go, boy, take that dick,” Junior murmured. “Say yes, sir, I’ll do what you say.”
Avery struggled to speak softly. “Yes, sir, I’ll do what you say.”
Junior grunted right into Avery’s ear as he orgasmed. His knees buckled, and he went to the ground with Avery, wrapping his powerful arms around Avery’s body and holding him right. The pressure and pain in his ass were intense, but Avery loved every moment of it.
Cum filled him up, great creamy gobs of it that spread to every corner of Avery’s insides. It flowed over his prostate and dripped out onto the floor of Junior’s kitchen. Avery moaned, which would have made a loud sound but his pleasure was so intense it ended up being a breathless, voiceless moan.
“Shit,” Junior said, his cock limpening now. He stayed on top of Avery though, squirming and grinding his dick in deeper. That caused his cumload to turn into a big frothy mess that made a puddle on the floor. It felt so good Avery couldn’t breathe.
Finally Junior pulled out. He stood. He wrinkled his nose. “How was that, boy?”
“Hmmm…” Avery moaned. His whole body shook as the aftershocks of his orgasm wracked his body.
“Clean up that mess you made,” Junior said. He tossed a roll of paper towels to Avery, whose knees were weak and wobbly as he bent over to do as he was told. Junior watched him until he was done, then made him take the cummy paper towels out to the trash can in the driveway. “Don’t you dare tell no one. My pops would blow a lid, and my son would tease me forever.”
“Sure. It’s my secret,” Avery said before following him back out into the living room.
He hadn’t been in there very long before it erupted in cheers. The Raiders had scored. PJ and Percy whooped and hollered so loud it rattled the picture-frames on the wall. PJ took his shirt off and pounded on his chest. Avery just grinned and watched the sweat roll between his pecs and his shoulder blades.
A few minutes later was precisely five o’clock. Percy’s phone beeped. He took it out and peered at the screen, taking several minutes to determine how to turn the beeping off. “Damn piece of shit,” he said when it was finally off. “I gotta do some FaceCall. You got FaceCall on your computer?”
Junior looked at his dad like he was crazy. “Yeah. FaceCall? Dad, that’s a computer thing.”
“I know, moron, why do you think I asked about your computer?”
PJ said, “You hate computers, Grampa. You-“
“I know what I hate, boy!” Percy said. His wrinkled face frowned. “I need to do a FaceCall!”
“I can do that, Percy,” Avery said. “My computer’s all set up for it.”
“Yeah, do his FaceCall,” Junior said. The game was back on, and he turned back to watch it.
“Okay, fine. Yeah. I’ll do a FaceCall on yours.”
“You don’t ‘do a FaceCall’, Pops, you just FaceCall with someone,” PJ said with a snicker.
But Percy ignored him and followed Avery back out to his home. This time they didn’t go to the apartment above the garage. Avery let him into the main house where there was a big high-res computer screen to use. He showed Percy how to connect to the person he was meeting up with.
Percy was gruff and mean, that was just his personality. Avery didn’t expect friendliness or charm, nor did he even want it. Percy had a handsome look, and Avery loved muscular men with gray hair like that. Percy looked like an old-fashioned painting of Zeus, with a redneck flair.
It was a woman. On the FaceCall. She was pretty in her own late-fifties way, with long hair that Avery was certain was a wig. She was demure and quiet, in stark contrast to Percy’s gruffness.
“How you doin’, baby? How was the family? Ya grandson still an ungrateful prick? Uh-huh.”
Avery backed away to give them privacy. He had to suppress a giggle because Percy was like a mean dog who turned submissive around a child. He smiled and laughed and told the woman compliments. He offered to beat up her ungrateful grandson. He ended by telling her he loved her — he used hushed tones and made sure Avery wasn’t looking that way before he said it.
Finally the FaceCall was done. Percy cursed at it for a minute before Avery came over to turn it off for him. Then Percy stood and glared at him.
“I’s expectin’ you’ll want a little lovin’ now, huh, boy?”
Avery blushed. “Well…”
“C’mon. In the bathroom.” He went to the tiny half-bath attached to the kitchen.
“We got the whole house,” Avery said. “No one’s here. We don’t have to go into the bathroom-“
“You think I do this shit anywhere else? You makin’ me do somethin’ nasty, we gonna do it in a nasty place,” he said. He grabbed Avery by the arm. Avery bumped into him and discovered he had a firm hardon.
“I’m not making you do it-“
“Shut the fuck up, I gotta pay you for doing that FaceCall, right?”
“Well, it wasn’t my computer, it’s my brother-in-law’s, but he doesn’t pay per FaceCall or anything. It doesn’t cost him any money-“
“Shut the fuck up, I know you want it. You’re begging me for it,” he said with a snarl. He shoved Avery into the bathroom. “I only do it in males one way, just so you know. I’ll slam you jail-style. You’ll like it, they always do.”
Avery giggled. It was obvious Percy wanted this real bad but didn’t want to say that. So Avery played hard to get. “I don’t know…” he said with a feminine lilt to his voice.
“Shut up, I know you just playin’. Swishy sweets like you wanna get they ass plowed. It’s what they do,” Percy said. “And I seen you checking out my grandson. Don’t go attemptin’ after him.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“He wouldn’t anyway, young’uns is prudish these days. Now I won’t do nothin’ tricksy, so don’t even try that,” Percy said. “I am strictly on top, boy. Don’t you even think ‘bout making me touch your dick.”
“Of course not,” Avery said. He was about to drop to his knees when Percy grabbed his chin and lifted his head an inch or so. Then he planted his lips on Avery’s.
Avery was so shocked he didn’t react at first. He thought he must have misunderstood something. Then he kissed Percy back, but when their tongues interlocked, Percy pushed him away.
In seconds, Avery was on his knees on all fours, his pants around his ankles. Percy let out a bestial growl as he took his own cock out. He was uncut and meaty, bigger than the other two, rougher and cruder too, like a caveman’s cock, full of veins and even a scar running along the top.
Percy kissed him again from behind, his lips running up and down Avery’s face and neck. Avery moaned. His asshole twitched as Percy’s cock rubbed against it.
Then Percy drilled his dick in, just the tip at first. Percy noticed a fluid in there, which he would have realized was his son’s cum if he had stopped to think about it, but he just assumed it was lube and it didn’t occur to him that Avery hadn’t used any lube. He grunted and Avery bit his lip. “C’mon, boy, lemme in. Beg me for it. Say you want it. Say you need it.”
“I need you inside me, stick it in me, Percy. Fill my ass!” Avery cried out.
He was shocked again, moments later, when Percy reached around Avery’s body and grabbed his cock. To Percy, this was the proper way to do a man’s ass — Avery had assumed “jail-style” meant rough and violent, which it did, to a certain degree. But when Percy was in jail, he had gradually lost most of his inhibitions; he and his fellow rednecks formed a gang with a few men to use as toys, but they had only agreed to it if Percy and the others treated them like girlfriends. So Percy had come to love giving a reacharound so he could feel his bottom orgasming. He didn’t care about stroking a man off, that didn’t even feel weird to him. He was on top, after all, so that didn’t feel good, it just made his bottom orgasm and Percy loved that,
“Gonna get deep inside ya, boy, don’t fight it, just open up and let it happen…”
Avery could do little more than writhe and beg for more. Percy pounded his ass, kissed his cheek, held his neck with one muscled arm and weighed down his back, so Avery was pinned. His arms gripped the wall of the bathroom as he struggled to take every inch of Percy’s manhood.
“Shit, boy, take it!” Percy spat vituperously into Avery’s ear.
Avery opened his ass as much as he could, letting Percy pound away. His cock was better than the others in the family. Avery wondered if it had always been that way, or if Percy had grown better over time. Maybe the other two would be just as good once they got to Percy’s age.
When Avery orgasmed, he shot his wad all over Percy’s hand, and his asshole clenched. That was what Percy was waiting for. He had always interpreted that as love when his jail-cell wife did it. He loved the feel of bringing a bottom to orgasm through ramming into his ass with all his might. It made Percy feel so powerful his muscles all flexed and he could forget about all the kissing and jacking off he’d been doing.
“Goddamn… you got nice ass…” Percy said, throwing his head back and crying out. Cum sprayed into Avery’s ass.
Percy kissed him again on the lips, continuing to stroke his limpening dick as he shot the most massive wad of the day into Avery’s body. He kept going, making a huge mess just like his son had, turning his wad into a cummy froth that coated Percy’s low-hanging balls.
Finally he was done, and he pulled out. Unlike his son, Percy didn’t make Avery clean up. Under prison rules, clean-up was the top’s responsibility. “Stay there, boy,” he said. He found some napkins and wiped up Avery’s ass, and the mess on the floor. “Good. Did you like that, boy?”
“Yes! Oh god, yes,” Avery said. He stood up on weakened knees. “Can I have another kiss?”
Percy frowned and furrowed his brow. “No. It’s nasty to kiss a man. I kissed ya before on account of my dick was in ya guts, boy. Ain’t nothin’ nasty ‘bout demolishin’ some butt.” He chuckled. “Don’t you try and kiss me, I’ll kick your ass.”
Avery blushed. “Okay, fine.” He giggled. “I think it’s about time for dinner.”
“Reckon so,” Percy said. He took a deep breath. “You best not tell no one. My boy and grandson, they don’t know ‘bout this shit. They’re squeamish as hell.”
Avery smiled. “Yeah, sure.” They headed towards the house next-door. “I’m glad I got to celebrate Thanksgiving over here,” Avery said. “I have a lot to be thankful for.”
Mark has lost it all at the race-track, and he’s desperate to get it back! Will Tyrell give him a second chance?
Read it all here!
On his knees just inches from the dumpster, Mark cried. He looked up at Tyrell hoping for mercy, but there was none. The smell of rotting garbage from the racetrack was intense and revolting. Mark’s nose had gotten used to it though. It was sour and bitter, bracing like a cold wind early in a crisp morning.
“I’ll do anything.” He blushed. Mark had been raised in privilege, so he had rarely had to beg anyone for anything. But he had bet it all on a pony — literally, he had bet everything he had in a last-ditch effort to make a fortune — and lost it. Now Mark needed to do whatever it took to undo that mistake.
It should have worked. He was on a bad streak, and it should have been over with. He calculated the odds. He was due for a big win. The universe owed him a big win.
“I’ll consider letting you take your bet back,” Tyrell said, his grizzled jaw shaking as he chewed on his lower lip, “But you gotta show me you deserve it. Take my dick outta my pants.” He outlined his cock in the black slacks all the racetrack security wore. The fabric was not thick, and the massiveness of his shaft was apparent through the cloth.
“What?”
“If you take my dick outta my pants and you can look at it without sobbing like a prison bitch, I’ll consider letting you take your bet back,” Tyrell said. He had a big beaming face like a bully. He was that kind of guy, you could tell he’d always been handsome, always perfect, women always went chasing after him, adults approved of him. He had aggressively appealing dimples. A man shouldn’t have dimples like that. It’s demeaning for other men. Tyrell rolled his eyes above his awkward smile. “If you can look at my dick without sobbing at what a deadbeat you are, I’ll consider letting you take back the debt. No promises though, just consideration.” He crossed his arms over his chest, which made his powerful chest muscles pop through his tailored suit.
A part of Mark’s mind thought he should just say no and cut his losses, but he needed to get his money back. If he did, he could place a bet when the track reopened tomorrow. All this unpleasantness would go away with a well-placed bet.
He undid the zipper of Tyrell’s jeans and pulled his dick out. He had never touched another man’s cock or even looked at one closely. He gagged at the sweaty scent, and the limp, greasy feel of it. Did all dicks look and smell like that? He had never looked at his own so closely.
“You don’t like the smell of cocksweat, huh?” Tyrell said with a dry, throaty chuckle. His voice was gravelly and rough, like he gargled with rusty nails.
“No,” Mark said. His lip quivered but he held back his tears. He didn’t want to embarrass himself any more than he already had.
“You wanna kiss my dick?” Tyrell asked with a comforting lilt to his voice, as though he thought it likely Mark did want to kiss his dick.
“Do I have to?”
“No, but it might help.”
Mark blushed and kissed it. He gagged again at that greasy texture. It tasted like cum already, like Tyrell had fucked some girl without a condom and then never showered. He probably did precisely that, Tyrell was that way. You could see it in how he carried himself. Women probably tossed their fucking pussies at him. Some men have it so easy, Mark thought.
“That was nice. You wanna taste it?”
“No…”
“You might decide you like it,” he said.
“I won’t,” Mark said with a wince, avoiding Tyrell’s penetrating gaze.
“If you open your mouth, I’ll consider letting you take your bet back.”
“That’s what you said before.”
“I know. I did consider it. The result of my consideration was that I told you to open your mouth if you want me to continue the process of reconsidering. You can always say no and just walk away, take a loss, admit you got got, you been defeated. You know, if this was the olden days, you and ya family would all be sold into slavery. All I’s asking you to do is open your mouth anyway. I ain’t say I’d wreck yo’ throat like the deadbeat-bitch you are.” Tyrell smiled. “I didn’t say I won’t wreck your throat like a deadbeat-bitch either. I ain’t makin’ a comment on that. Who can predict the future? I thought McCain was gonna win.”
Mark winced and blushed. After going through all this, he thought, fate was surely gonna give him a win when he placed that bet tomorrow — Lady Luck rewarded those who took big risks. He opened his mouth. He could handle it.
He gagged as Tyrell’s manhood pushed in. It was long and thick, limp and clammy at first. But it very quickly firmed up, then dripped precum down Mark’s throat.
“Oh. I guess I am gonna turn your throat into my personal pussy,” Tyrell said with a shrug. “I’m as shocked as you are.”
The taste was terrible. It was like fart and sweat and a little like nasty pussy. The more Mark tasted, the more certain he was that Tyrell had been fucking a whore earlier. Tyrell had a fat female neighbor whom he used as a booty call. He had fucked her right after his shower when he bumped into her in the hall. He drained his nuts in her pussy, then left her there fingering herself to orgasm, both because he didn’t care about pleasing her and because he didn’t want to be late for work or Mr. Gregarian would yell at him.
Could people out in the parking lot see as they drove by? Mark couldn’t tell if they were able to see. He prayed not. The alley was wide open and connected to the street, but trash cans and dumpsters probably blocked the view. If they did see him slurping on this stranger’s cock, Mark thought, he’d never be able to live down the rumors.
The more Mark did, the more he thought fate would reward him with a win when this was all over. He could feel it in his bones, and when he saw those lights flashing, it’d all be worth it. He’d be able to retire if he won really big. And Tyrell here would look at him with such burning jealousy.
Mark could already feel it. It hadn’t happened yet but it felt so real it might as well have. Mark imagined what he would say to Tyrell when that happened, how superior he would feel, how pitiful Tyrell would look. Tyrell would have to offer Mark free wine, free hotel rooms, free meals. He’d have to bow and serve Mark because he was a high roller.
But first he needed to make it through this. He had never tasted a cock before, and he had no idea how difficult it would be. He had rather assumed it would taste more or less like pussy, especially in this case since pussyjuice was caked onto Tyrell’s shaft, but it actually tasted much worse than that. There was a definite piss-like flavor, Mark thought as he sputtered on the cock invading his gullet, and it made him want to vomit.
The part that Mark hated was the choking. He gagged on the taste and on the fleshy missile poking its way down his throat. Tyrell was relentless, and he even seemed to enjoy seeing Mark gag. His throat rebelled at it. Tyrell held onto Mark’s head by the ears, ramming with all his might, like he was trying to shatter something in there. Tyrell had massive balls too, and he smelled the bitter sweat clinging to his sacskin when it was launched by his thrusts to splatter on Mark’s chin and lower lip. It was salty and foul, and it made his gags worse, as did the wiry pubes, scratchy and coarse, where Mark’s forehead slammed into the meat of his powerful body. Tyrell used his throat like a fleshlight, and Mark couldn’t help but squeeze his choking throat around it.
“Yeah, it’s okay to gag a little. That’s because you’s tastin’ real man right now,” Tyrell said. He grumbled and licked his teeth. “Yo’ body is used to bein’ a bitch, cuz that’s what you is, ya fuckin’ deadbeat.”
He pulled his massive cock out and slapped Mark over the face with it. It was harder than seemed possible, like getting slapped by an iron rod. He laughed when Mark gasped for air and heaved. He held Mark’s head in place by holding onto a lock of his hair.
“Lemme… take… a break…”
“Nah,” he said. He pried Mark’s jaws apart and fed his cock back down his throat. It tasted a little like bile now, in addition to everything else. Mark gagged and choked on it all over again.
Another man in a fine suit appeared in the alley. “Hey Tyrell, did Cue call out sick today?” This man was smaller than Tyrell, and the suit was nicer — he was not security. He was the owner. Was this the guy who could let Mark take his bet back? He glanced down at Mark but didn’t say anything to him.
“Yes, Mr. Gregarian,” Tyrell said. He slammed his dick all the way down Mark’s throat. A shudder of pleasure ran up his spine, making his tie shake above his broad chest muscles.
“Tell Cue that if he does it again, I’ll fire his ass,” Mr. Gregarian said with a scowl. He took a few steps away, then stopped. “Is that deadbeat slurpin’ on your dick properly?”
Tyrell snorted. “Not really.”
“Hey, deadbeat,” Mr. Gregarian said like he was talking to a deaf, retarded person. “Hey, you prolly got a gamblin’ problem, you think?”
Tyrell pulled away so Mark could answer. But tears streamed from Mark’s eyes and he couldn’t catch his breath. A few scattered syllables escaped from his throat as he tried to explain what had happened.
His family had really started this. They had brought him to a restaurant for a family get-together — to celebrate his brother’s engagement to some girl Mark had never met. As it turned out, he had never met her because she didn’t exist.
There was no restaurant. There was no engagement. There was no fiancée. There was only an “intervention”, which was what some therapist called it when your family attacks you and reminds you of all your failures as though you might have forgot.
We’re worried about you. You spend all your time at the track. You’ve lost so much money.
They didn’t understand. Mark tried to explain, but they weren’t listening. They were fixated on the idea that he was a gambling addict. Mark thought that might be true, but what they didn’t understand was that horse-racing wasn’t even really gambling — there was real science behind it. Mark was developing a way to predict which horses would do best.
He would have played along, however, and spent some time keeping a low profile. But one of his email contacts had said that a particular horse’s odds had been misprinted. The horse was On Her Mark, which Mark took to be a sign.
So he had bet it all on a pony. And now here he was in the track’s garbage-strewn alley, sobbing as he tried to explain it all to the owner of the racetrack and the attached bar. Mr. Gregarian listened as though he really cared about the story. He clucked his tongue against his teeth like a kindergarten teacher listening to a child explain why he was crying.
“Oh, I see,” he said, though there was no way he had understood more than a few words of that, because Mark had never even caught his breath, he was still panting and heaving throughout the story. Mr. Gregarian nodded. “You know what? I’m allowed to make a limited number of exceptions. That’s part of my power as a manager here at the track.”
“Really?!”
“Fo’ real, homie,” he said with a snicker. “I will consider giving you your money back if you prove how much you regret your actions.”
“I’ll do anything!”
“Lick Tyrell’s asshole,” Mr. Gregarian said, stifling a laugh. Tyrell laughed too. “Ram your dumb deadbeat tongue into his filthy fucking ass. He’s got a nasty asshole.”
Tyrell undid his slacks and dropped them to his knees before Mark had even said yes. His cock was hard, sticking through the fly, so he had to awkwardly angle it down in order to lower his pants. His dick was so big, his pants got caught on it. Tyrell laughed and said, “Hey, don’t make it seem like my ass is especially nasty, Mistuh Gregarian, I don’t got — nothing’s wrong with my asshole. It’s dirty like all assholes are dirty-“
“Shut up, Tyrell-“
“You’re making me sound like a degenerate,” Tyrell said. He had a huge pair of asscheeks, powerfully muscled too, you could sense the strength of his thighs through the tender firmness of his ass.
Mr. Gregarian rolled his eyes, while Mark stared at the bare ass before him like an erupting volcano. Mr. Gregarian clucked his tongue and shook his head. “You can always quit gamblin’. You don’t gotta keep going, deadbeat.”
But Mark was more sure than ever that this was going to work. The more disgusting things he did to make it happen, the more certain he was that he’d win when he bet it all on another pony. Maybe, he thought, this will take all night. That would make sense, fate-wise, he’d finish and get his cash back just as the track was reopening tomorrow. He’d be able to walk right back to that ticket counter, place a new bet and smirk at Tyrell and Mr. Gregarian as he collected his winnings.
So he dived between those cheeks while Mr. Gregarian cackled and Tyrell grunted as though he hadn’t thought Mark would go through with it. Tyrell was a meaty man with thick, plump asscheeks, the crack of which was choked with kinky brown hairs. He yelped a little in surprise when Mark’s head entered his asscheeks.
Mark just left his face there at first. Then Mark took a breath, and the taste of ass flooded his mouth. He hadn’t even licked anything yet, but the flavor was overwhelming. Sweat-soaked hairs scratched at his chin and nose.
“Stick your tongue out, deadbeat. Lick his asshole,” Mr. Gregarian said. “You gotta get your tongue in the hole to get me to reconsider your bet. That’s how I know you’ve really learned your lesson.”
He tentatively stuck his tongue out and gagged when he felt spongy rectum. But he was insistent on getting this done — there was no sense in backing out now, after all — so he forced himself to stick it in.
Mr. Gregarian spread Tyrell’s cheeks, gingerly touching the firm meat. He wanted to watch Mark’s tongue sliding in and out. He gagged at the sight of it, then spat right on Mark’s face. His loogie was bitter and gritty, and it stuck to Tyrell’s ass.
Then Mark lost himself in that asshole. It was all he could see, hear, taste and smell — he was dimly aware of Tyrell complaining about Mr. Gregarian spitting on his ass, but Mark didn’t and couldn’t listen to any of that. Rancid ass and greasy hair filled his mouth. If he had eaten anything all day, he would have thrown it up, but he just painfully retched. He gagged continuously but told himself that it would all be worth it. He didn’t even notice Mr. Gregarian walk away, laughing at the raunchiness he had instigated.
“Alright, I bet you know what’s coming next. Drop your pants, deadbeat,” Tyrell said. “I’m gonna get in that ass. You ever been ramrodded?”
“No way!” Mark gasped as he pulled away from that hairy, cloying ass.
“Do I really gotta say it? You, deadbeat, you can get your money back — I’ll consider giving it back — if you let me wreck yo’ dumb whiteboy ass,” he said with a smirk.
“You had better do it!”
“Do you think I will?” Tyrell asked with a sigh. His massive dick throbbed as he stuck it between Mark’s cheeks. “Come on, answer the question, deadbeat. Do you think you’ll get your money back? Or do you think I’ll just turn you into my bitch and then leave you here in the trash? Huh? You really, truly think I’ll give you your money back?”
Mark couldn’t bring himself to say yes, because most of his mind knew the answer was no. It had always been no. But the part of his mind that was addicted to gambling was the part that was in control, so he just stayed there and wept while Tyrell laughed. If there was any chance that this would work, Mark was going to take it.
He was, after all, a gamblin’ man.
Then splitting pain erupted in his ass. Mark screamed but Tyrell held his hand over Mark’s mouth to muffle the sound. He had never felt anything like it, as though his entire body was being ripped asunder.
“Open that ass, bitch,” Tyrell murmured. He grabbed ahold of Mark’s thick hair and held his head in place.
He drilled his dick in deeply, his throbbing cock pushing in even as Mark’s ass tore and sent waves of pain up his body. He flailed uselessly, reaching behind himself to claw at Tyrell’s muscular body beneath his suit-shirt and jacket.
“Oh shit, another deadbeat, huh?” came another male voice. Mark looked behind himself to see a track employee, one of the bet-takers behind the window. He was a handsome young blond man, probably a college student, carrying a bag of garbage from the concession stand.
The pain in Mark’s ass was too intense to say anything, or even to feel embarrassment at being seen by yet another track employee. It hardly mattered now, did it — there was a security camera back here anyway. He bet Tyrell was going to upload this video to the Internet regardless. That thought made him sob, his back arching as more and more cockmeat rammed into him.
“This one’s really nasty,” Tyrell said with a loud grunt. The last of his dick slid into Mark’s straining guts. “He already licked my asshole.”
“Ah, that is fuckin’ disgusting!” He cackled up Mark’s face. “Let’s see how bad we can make it.” The worker dropped the bag of trash on the ground and ripped it open. It stank of rotting hot dogs and old relish, and the foul smell even got through the ass-stank that still stuck to Mark’s face.
“Make him lay on this, man,” the worker said with a snicker.
Tyrell laughed and did so. For a moment, Mark felt relief because his ass was empty, but Tyrell didn’t give him more than a second to enjoy it. He slammed Mark on his back on the open back of trash. Mark sank into the rotting food head-first, his ass in the air so Tyrell could slip his cock back into it.
The pain reawakened in his ass, now made worse by the smell of garbage all around him. Mark sobbed. He was now less confident that this was all worth it — what if, even if he got his money back, he didn’t win. He would be destitute tomorrow. He’d have to go to his family and say that he had lost everything, that they were right and he was wrong, he really was a gambling addict.
He sobbed so hard he didn’t notice the track employee taking his dick out and letting loose with a stream of piss. It flowed over Mark’s sputtering face, the acrid flavor making him gag all over again.
The blond employee snickered and walked away, muttering that he hated this job because of all the deadbeats. Mark blushed. He wanted to tell Tyrell that he was done, that he backed out, that it wasn’t worth it anymore.
But his agony and his shame were too great. All Mark could do was quiver and cry as that massive cock drilled into him over and over. His entire lower half was in the air, supported by Tyrell’s powerful arms so that his ass was available. Meanwhile Mark’s weight was on his head and neck, as though Tyrell was mid-piledriver, with his face deep in the racetrack garbage.
“Just you and me now, deadbeat. Just you and me for the grand finale,” Tyrell said. He closed his eyes and shuddered, his orgasm visible in the undulations of his muscles beneath his dark suit.
He realized it was done when he felt Tyrell’s balls crawl up in his sac. Tyrell groaned, and Mark cringed inwardly. This was it, Mark thought, he had officially allowed his gambling addiction to turn him into a mewling little bitch.
Cum flowed into him. It was a thick, hot load that seeped into his flesh. Mark felt it soaking into every inch of his body, trickling in the folds of his skin to coat him in filth and nastiness. He’d never feel clean again.
It didn’t seem like a normal amount, Mark thought, especially for someone who had just fucked earlier today. It felt like a hug wad, which he felt spreading within him and also dripping out and down his thighs and back, coating his entire underside.
“You ain’t done yet,” Tyrell said when he pulled out and intense relief flooded Mark. He sighed.
But Tyrell pulled him to his knees, and shoved his limp, ass-and-cum-covered cock into Mark’s mouth. The taste of santorum overwhelmed him, and he dry-heaved mouthloads of saliva all over Tyrell’s nasty cockshaft.
It was gritty and grimy. It tasted like the trash that covered this alley, and like farts and stale sweat and old jockstraps. It made Mark want to die at the thought that he was tasting his own ass-goo.
Finally that was it. Tyrell pulled his pants back up, tucking his limp dick away. He pushed Mark into the garbage on the ground.
“I’ve reconsidered,” Tyrell said. “And my answer, yet again, is no. Fuck you, deadbeat. Don’t come back here again until you make some money.” He straightened his tie and tucked his dick away.
Then he sauntered off, leaving Mark there in the garbage, crawling, struggling to get on his knees. He couldn’t stop gagging because of the assy flavor on his tongue, and the smell of trash in the air.
He was there on all fours for what felt like forever. At last he managed to make it to his feet and pull his pants up. He’d have to go back to his parents. That was the only thing that made sense. Mom would make it all better. Every step caused arduous pain in his ass, so wasn’t even sure he could make it all the way home.
But there was a piece of paper on the ground. It had been in the trash. It was not like the other kitchen trash that the blond guy had dropped back here. It was a printout of an email.
He read the email and smiled. There was a horse racing tomorrow whose jockey had been replaced at the last minute, from a no-name loser jockey to one of the most well-known athletes in the field today. With this more experienced jockey riding him, Mark thought, the horse was sure to win, and since no other bettors knew that, Mark would be trading based on better information than them. That gave him a marked advantage.
He still had doubts about placing the bet until he saw the horse’s name. It was called Loser’s Revenge.
That cinched it for Mark. Fate was telling him something, and he wasn’t going to ignore it. It was time, he decided, to bet it all on a pony.
He just needed to find a way to drum up some cash before the races started again tomorrow.
When Avery lobbies a presidential candidate on some pet issues, he didn’t realize what he was in for! The studly Governor Harold Tamperton is ready to give Avery the reacharound of a lifetime in exchange for political support, an exchange that’s worth every penny to Avery!
Or read the whole thing here!
Avery sighed. Was Mr. Tamperton going to stand him up? He would have thought not — Avery was representing an important lobby group, and Mr. Tamperton’s campaign was who set this up. They reached out to Avery, not the other way around. Now Mr. Tamperton was an hour late. Avery had come to assume politicians would always be late — that was in their DNA. A part of him had believed Charlie Tamperton’s claim that he would be different. A part of him hoped Tamperton would be different.
But mostly, Avery suspected that Charlie Tamperton would not be different at all.
The hotel lobby was fashionably minimalist, with carpet softer than most mattresses and of the most exquisitely vibrant shade of white Avery had ever seen, it was sort of an electric white, like the white equivalent of neon pink, and it was spotless. Shockingly spotless, like fresh off the factory, not a single smudge or mote of dullness. That and an odd statue were the only things of note in the vault-like minimalist “splendor” of the Granger Ben Hotel.
Minimalist doesn’t mean spending less on decor, it means spending more on less decor. The elite will always spend to make sure the peons know they can. In the olden days, they did so by hiring a hundred artisans to work for a lifetime decorating every inch of a cathedral. Now they hire the equivalent in man-hours to create, install and clean a fantastically expensive alabaster carpet that gets steam-cleaned every ten minutes and one statue that was hard to identify but might have been a goat in a bathtub and which may have had a feminist bent. Avery couldn’t quite put his finger on what was feminist about it. It had a plaque, but he was not going to read a goddamn plaque about a feminist, like in a museum, but anyway, both the goaty shape and the bathtubby shape had a feminist air about them. So instead of hiring stonecarvers and woodworkers to build a cathedral for seventy years, they pay a couple million up front for some absurdly dumb feminist goat in a feminist bathtub and a million or two in wages over many years to various cleaners, installers, repairers, etc. They spend just as much, but they call it minimalist.
Avery would rather employ stonecarvers and woodworkers than feminists and cleaning crews. Plus, there’d be more to look at when he sat here twiddling his thumbs like a fucking idiot, waiting an hour and a half for that billionaire shitheel Charlie Tamperton. Avery was definitely deleting his dumbass apps. Except the one with the ostrich that finds coupons.
“There you are, Mr. Flowers,” said a suited man who appeared next to Avery, startling him. How he snuck up to Avery in a minimalist hotel lobby, with nothing to hide behind except six uncomfortable chairs, ten dead-eyed staff and a goat-in-a-bathtub’s worth of feminism, Avery will never figure out. Somehow the Asian man with the dead eyes and swampy cologne managed to surprise him. He gave Avery a polite nod. “I’m Delaney Chu, Mr. Tamperton’s campaign manager. He’s ready to see you now.”
Avery nodded and shook his hand, wondering where Tamperton had come from — Avery was sitting in the front lobby of the hotel, and he hadn’t seen Tamperton enter. He must have slipped in through a service entrance, presumably to avoid the mob of journalists outside. The Democratic primary was heating up, and Tamperton was no doubt being followed by both the press and his opponents’s trackers.
“Mr. Tamperton is very excited for this opportunity,” Delaney said. “He’s wanted to reach out to the legitimate-massage community for a long time. Honestly it’s my fault he hasn’t, blame me for that. He’s been telling me for months that we’ve got to make some allies there. And he’s totally right.”
“I see,” Avery said. He didn’t really believe Delaney — not that he thought Delaney was lying, exactly, but it made sense for Mr. Tamperton to focus on consolidating the main wings of the Democratic Party. He had risen to prominence with a series of sharply worded statements in accordance with Avery’s views, including a harsh eye aimed at the prostitution industry, especially the semi-legal massage parlors that make it hard for legitimate companies to operate. Avery’s business couldn’t compete in advertising with literally all of the city’s pimps and hookers, but many city governments across the country had decided it was better to the semi-tolerate semi-legal semi-businesses of pimps and madams, and they had no interest in supporting the operations of legitimate massage companies. Avery had formed and then found himself in charge of a lobby group devoted to legitimate-massage businesses, and as the presidential race heated up, Avery found his little pressure group rising to the top of the Democratic Party. That wasn’t because it was a huge pressure group, precisely the opposite. All the huge pressure groups had committed to a candidate months or years ago. Avery’s was one of the few groups that hadn’t yet committed to a candidate.
The immigrant-rights community nationwide had rallied around Avery and rocketed him to the top of the Democratic Party’s primary polling in the early months. That was not his intent — a lot of immigrants were masseurs, that was why. So the conventional wisdom was that candidates could nail down Avery’s endorsement and garner votes from the anti-prostitution folks and the immigrants.
Now that the first primaries and caucuses loomed closer, some of the more minor candidates were getting traction. Mr. Tamperton’s endless barrage of media-grabbing statements dominated the news, while Vermont Governor Paul Thandrasepkatar got some key endorsements, especially from a handful of celebs. Tamperton had come out on the wrong side of the police brutality debate, which made it hard for the ultra-leftists to support him. Governor Thandrasepkatar had come out in support of some popular things, which Mr. Tamperton couldn’t support without being seen as a flip-flopper. So despite Tamperton’s initial success, Governor Thandrasepkatar was vacuuming up support.
Avery represented one of the few immigrant civil rights organizations that hadn’t yet endorsed Thandrasepkatar, and he knew Tamperton was going to be desperate for a way back in to the good graces of the immigrant community. He wondered what Tamperton would say today to dominate the news cycle tomorrow, and he hoped it wasn’t at his expense.
Of course none of that had anything to do with legitimate massage. But more than two-thirds of the dues-paying businesses in Avery’s lobby group were owned by immigrants, and there were a lot more immigrants than legitimate massuers in this country.
Avery was so lost in thought he didn’t notice that Delaney was taking him downstairs, to the basement. He wasn’t going to a hotel room at all.
In the basement of the hotel — the basement had no decoration either, just more spotless white in the form of painted walls, which again had no smuges or fingerprints or faded spots —Delaney brought Avery past the pool. They stopped in front of a door marked SAUNA. He smiled and held the door open, motioning for Avery to squeeze in past the pair of burly bodyguards who stood sentry.
“Mr. Tamperton is getting a steam,” Delaney said. “But he’ll see you now. Feel free to take off your clothes.”
There was a little changing area in the front of the sauna. Avery entered and nervously took off his clothes. He had always loved saunas — that was his favorite part of his recent trip to Finland. It was only as Avery wrapped a towel around his waist and walked into the sauna that he realized he had posted about the trip, and his effusive love for saunas, on Facebook.
That was why Tamperton arranged for a meeting here. He looked through Avery’s Facebook timeline until he found out what he liked: saunas. It felt like pandering, it was patronizing. It was hard to take notes in the steamy sauna too, which made Avery wonder if Tamperton’s plan was to prevent Avery from keeping a record of what he said.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Flowers,” Mr. Tamperton said. His face was shrouded by steam. “Please, call me Tamperton. Don’t you love this sauna? It’s the greatest, I’m a yuge fan of saunas. The steam is wonderful for the skin.”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Avery said. “Well… Tamperton, I’m sure you realize why I agreed to meet with you. The organization I represent-“
“Wait, wait, Avery, let’s not jump right into business,” Mr. Tamperton said. “Let’s just chat a bit. I’d like to get to know you.”
Avery shrugged as he sat down. The sauna was so misty and dim that he hadn’t seen Tamperton until he got to the bench he sat on. That’s when he clocked that Tamperton was stark naked, not even wearing a towel around his waist.
His body was more powerful than it seemed when he wore a suit on television, Avery thought. Tamperton had a barrel chest, not at all saggy from age, and though the hair on his head was ruddy and balding, the hair on his chest was fresh, dark and just thick enough to grab nd hold onto. He was stronger than Avery had thought he would be, and perhaps most surprisingly, he had a massive cock resting between his sweaty thighs.
This was definitely not how Avery had expected this interview to progress. He wondered how he could bring this up at the next meeting without looking like a Tamperton fanboy excited to see his crush’s cock. That wasn’t at all how Avery felt He had never thought of Tamperton as having an excellent physique until just now, when his naked, sweat-dappled body was right in front of Avery’s eyes.
And now Avery found his eyes drawn to that magnificant cock.
“How are you enjoying the campaign?” Avery asked, nervous at sitting next to someone so intensely masculine, not to mention a powerful billionaire. The humid sauna-sweat glistened on his broad chest and shoulders, and when he touched his own chin, he left a trail of moisture that ran down his the curves of his pecs in rivulets.
“I’m enjoying it plenty, I love this kind of scrappy repartée, the exchange of ideas, the Sturm und Drang of it all,” he said. “The one problem is that I never see my wife.”
“That’s tough. Being president is even tougher though,” Avery said. A part of him had always been worried that Tamperton wasn’t serious — being president wasn’t like being CEO of a professional rugby team (that was one of Tamperton’s high-profile business ventures). He was going to have to be on duty all the time.
“Sure, sure, I can’t wait. I’ll enjoy that, honestly. My wife will be there in the White House with me. She can’t travel on the campaign trail with me, but she would gladly move into the White House. She’s already picking out curtains,” he said. Then he cleared his throat nervously. “Look… I’m gonna have trouble concentrating on this interview if we don’t do something about…” He gestured towards his crotch. “Without my wife at my side at nights, I need another way to let off a little steam.” He laughed as he gestured to the steam that filled the sauna.
“I’m sorry, Tamperton?”
“Do you want to jerk me off?”
“… I’m sorry, Tamperton?”
“Of course you can’t put it in your article. I’ll deny it. Not even my bodyguards out there know what we’re doing in here,” he said. He shrugged. “You don’t have to. I just thought you were the kind of man who knows your way around a cock.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “Don’t pretend you haven’t been checking me out.”
Avery nodded and blushed.
Before he could do anything else, Tamperton leaned in and kissed him. Avery was so shocked he just sat there like a dead fish at first, then shoved his tongue in Tamperton’s mouth. They collapsed onto the sauna bench, with Tamperton on top of Avery, his burly body weighing him down and his heavy cock pressing into Avery’s thigh.
“Oh… Mr. Tamperton-“
“Call me Tamperton.”
“Tamperton…!”
Tamperton kissed a trail down Avery’s neck and chest. He suckled on each nipple until it was hard, and he smiled at Avery. “You see, I do respect immigrants. I love the immigrants. Not to mention massage. Massage has helped so many of my rugby players with physical ailments.” His breath condensed on Avery’s nape. “I’ll do whatever I can to help the industry.”
“I see…”
His back arched as pleasure shot through him. Tamperton gave his dick a few strokes. It pulsated between Tamperton’s thick fingers, as Avery dragged his own fingers through Tamperton’s thinning reddish hair. The body heat emanating off Tamperton merged with the humid warmth of the sauna, and Avery found his hands moving over the well-worked muscle of Charlie Tamperton’s chest and back.
Then Tamperton lowered his head, as he kissed Avery again on the lips, then the chin, the neck, and a moan of passion came out of both men. Avery sucked in his breath.
This was not how he thought this little foray into lobbying would pan out.
His hands fluttering and running all up and down Tamperton’s well-muscled back, Avery leaned back, thinking Tamperton would soon stop kissing. But no, his kisses moved lower and lower.
Then, before Avery knew it, Tamperton’s mouth encircled Avery’s dick. Avery was astonished to feel his lips on Avery’s cock, but he was too aroused to even process what was happening. He continued lowering his head, still holding his breath as his heart raced, until Avery was laying on the sauna bench on his back. He reached for Tamperton’s crotch, and he hefted that fat erection in one, then both, hands.
With Tamperton atop him, Avery and he arranged their bodies to sixty-nine, with Tamperton on top, his plump, piggish prick aimed right for Avery’s mouth. He was so huge and heavy that Avery could barely wrap his arms around Tamperton’s body.
Avery opened up, feeling that familiar sensation of hot meat invading his throat. His fingers clenched Tamperton’s thick back and ass, as precum invaded his mouth. Avery sucked vigorously, deep-throating and swallowing every inch of his meat. They writhed together, in unison, and for a little while, Avery forgot that Tamperton was part of the political and business elite.
Tamperton’s muscles tightened and flexed above Avery. Tamperton was in much better shape than he had seemed, and Avery could feel the power bristling just below the surface of his body. He had the muscle of the rugby players he employed, Avery thought, wondering if he worked out with his athletes. He was a tech guy, originally and mainly, Tamperton built his business off apps. But he was never a slim computer geek, and his patronage of the American Rugby League was well-known.
The rugby players probably sauna together, Avery realized as he slurped on the savory cock invading his throat. Tamperton might sauna with them.
He loved the man’s body hair too, just thick enough to be unkempt and furry, but not so thick as to be dirty or offputting. He smelled clean and strong, even his dick and despite the sauna-induced sweat that covered his body. His balls were thick and heavy, without the old man-droopiness that Avery had rather assumed he would have.
Precum flooded Avery’s mouth. He enjoyed the sour and salty flavor of precum, not to mention the creamy texture, and he savored it in his mouth now as well. He let it coat his tongue, which ran up and down Tamperton’s veiny shaft. Avery was leaking precum too, and Tamperton swallowed it like he was well-practiced. Avery wondered how often Tamperton had done this before.
He did not do it like a man exploring something new. He did it like this was old hat.
“Wait,” Tamperton said, pulling out just as Avery neared his orgasm. His hefty body hovered above Avery, who gasped in desperate need for more. His cocktip dangled tantalizingly near, just centimeters above Avery’s head. Tamperton smiled. “I’m gonna ram you now, okay? In the ass. I need a tight booty, and I can tell you are gonna be taut as a drum.” He caressed Avery’s smooth belly and added, “I’m gonna tap your ass good, Avery. You won’t be walking straight for a week. You like it like that?”
Avery nodded. “Hell yeah.”
“Do I have your endorsement?”
“I…” Avery gulped. “I need your support on-“
“Of course, of course. The proposed legislation, right? The Massage Rescue Plan? I can absolutely support that, and I promise, if elected president, I will do everything possible to ensure it gets through Congress,” he said. He stood, letting his erection bob around afront Avery’s face. Avery chased it with his tongue until he sensed Tamperton’s bemused gaze.
Then Avery serioused up. Despite his own erection and his strong desire to handle Tamperton’s, Avery only shrugged. “Well then, I guess we can support you — it’s not entirely up to me, you know?”
“I understand. Just tell them what I said — what I said about the Massage Rescue Plan — and that you believe me,” Tamperton said. He teased his knobtip on Avery’s lips. “You do believe me, don’t you?”
“Fuck yes!” Avery exclaimed. He felt bad about selling out his endorsement so easily, but he reasoned that it wasn’t really up to him anyway. He’d tell his committee the political promises Tamperton made, and if that was enough, they’d take their endorsement public. Supporting that in private was the most Avery could do. He wasn’t sure Tamperton understood that, but Avery was not in a position to explain the nuances of his lobby group’s mechanisms.
In one smooth motion, Charlie Tamperton stood, holding Avery in his powerful arms. He flipped Avery over, then bent him over the bench and spread his asscheeks. Avery’s knees went weak even before penetration began. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him, and he wondered if anyone would believe him if he told. Probably not, he decided as Tamperton’s broadly muscled chest rippled behind him, rubbing on Avery’s smooth back.
Tamperton must have had a bottle of lube hidden somewhere nearby, because Avery felt that slippery coldness, which was a pleasant sensation contrasting with the humid warmth of the sauna. The lube slid into his ass and spread to every corner, making him feel all slippery inside. Already Avery felt Tamperton’s hot cock throbbing against the small of his back, and Avery had to hold back a chest-rattling howl of desire.
“Here it comes, Avery, be ready for it,” Tamperton said, using his toned arms to hold Avery in place. The fact that he said Avery’s name turned him on — it felt good to know he was on a first-name basis with someone like this. People often treated him as though he should have personal connections in the government and business elite because of his position in this lobby group, but he didn’t, until now. Tamperton was the only major politician he’d ever met.
“I’m ready…”
A burst of pleasure erupted in his ass as Tamperton’s thick meat pushed inside. Avery gasped and writhed in his arms, struggling to take in its thickness. He reached behind himself with one hand to guide it in, so he could only support himself with the other hand.
Tamperton wrapped both arms around Avery’s body and held him tight, lifting him up so he didn’t have to support himself on his hands at all. Avery’s feet were barely on the floor at all. He ground his ass into Tamperton’s crotch, while feeling his hairy chest grind against Avery’s back.
“Oh god… I secretly love your budget proposal,” Avery blurted out. He hadn’t meant to say that, hadn’t even really thought it firmly to himself. But he felt so good that his internal filter disappeared, and so he moaned on a few more words about tax rates and progressivity before losing track of his thoughts.
“Really? I’m glad you like it, Avery…” His voice was low and guttural, aimed directly in Avery’s ears. Again, when he said Avery’s name, it sent a shiver of sexual energy up Avery’s spine, which caused him a spasm of pain and pleasure as it made his ass twinkle. Avery wondered if Tamperton knew how arousing it was to hear him call out Avery’s name.
One of Tamperton’s hands crept around to Avery’s dick and began stroking it. Avery was already so close to orgasm that his whole body twitched and pulsated as though his touch was painful. Avery moaned so loud he wondered if the bodyguards outside could hear, but if they did, they didn’t say anything or even poke their head in.
Despite Avery’s animated response to his touch, Tamperton didn’t slow down. He forced his dick in and out, hard enough that Avery felt overwhelming agony that was drowned out by the bliss emanating from his ass. He moaned around the thick arm that caressed his neck and face.
He finally shot his load just as Tamperton reached his own climax. Hot cum sprayed from his dick and covered the bench beneath him. Avery moaned and squirmed beneath Tamperton’s grasp. His back rippled as his muscles all tightened at once, and Tamperton held him tight. It felt like they were melting together, becoming one person, and Avery even had a momentary fantasy of him moving into the White House with Tamperton.
Wad after wad of creamy seed burst forth within Avery’s spasming body. It coated his insides and dripped down his legs as Avery’s spine undulated. Pleasure coursed through his veins. He gasped and fell limp, supported only by Tamperton’s strong arms.
Then it was over. Avery had no idea how long it had lasted. His orgasm felt like it might have gone on for hours, though he knew that was impossible — Tamperton’s retinue would have come in to get him by now. He must not have been as loud as it felt like he was too. Bodyguards would definitely have come in if they heard Avery scream the way it sounded in Avery’s own ears.
Tamperton pulled out, sending a shiver of relief up Avery’s back. His jizz continued seeping through his body and dripping down his thighs. Tamperton whistled his appreciation. “That was nice, Avery,” he said. “Reminds me why I’m not loyal to women. They don’t do it like that, and if they did, they’d still want to cuddle and talk about feelings afterwards. You don’t want to do that, do you, Avery?”
“No,” Avery said. The last thing he wanted to do now was talk about feelings. Cuddling did sound appealing, but once the orgasmic afterglow wore off in a few minutes, he’d be tired of it and their bodies would be hot and sticky.
“Good,” Tamperton said. He held Avery close in his powerful arms, where Avery felt safe and protected. He could see why people supported Tamperton politically — even if he was obviously full of hot air, he was confident and swaggerous, and it made Avery feel less vulnerable to be there scooped up in his arms.
“That was amazing, Mr. Tamperton… Tamperton, I mean,” Avery said. “Are you really a big supporter of the legitimate-massage industry?”
“I really am. It’s vital to the athletes who work for me, and I have always insisted that my companies offer massage as part of the healthcare and benefits package,” he said with a deep breath. “I’m so glad to have your support. I look forward to your organization campaigning with me.”
“that’s really up to the board,” Avery said. He blushed as he straightened out his sore legs — he thought Tamperton was right about him not being able to walk straight for a little while, at least not without concentrating intensely. “But I’ll recommend we come out to support you.”
“Thank you, and Avery?”
“Yes,” Avery said as Tamperton stood up and headed towards the door.
“When I win, I want you to visit me in the White House. You can arrange that, right?”
“That won’t be a problem,” Avery said.
“Good. We can have a wau-wau and… do other things, things that are definitely going to be off the record,” Tamperton said with a knowing grin. “The Lincoln Bedroom will never be the same.”
Desmond becomes an unlikely hero when he saves the day at the barbershop he works in, and he gets a reward he never dreamed of — he gets his choice of men! He chooses his boss, a big burly man who would never bend over and take it… or would he?!
Or read the whole thing here!
When the tall Jamaican thug walked into the Cityside Barbershop, Desmond wasn’t interested at first. He seemed like nothing more than another customer. A part of Desmond’s mind realized that the man had long, thick and unkempt dreadlocks — he obviously wasn’t here for a haircut.
But Desmond was deep in to an anecdote, talking to a handsome young man named Lamar as he finished giving Lamar a haircut. Desmond thought that if he played his cards right, he might be able to jerk Lamar off after the haircut.
And then it all changed — the Jamaican man pulled out his gun. He pointed it at Isaiah, the barber who was standing at the register at that moment. Isaiah yelped but did as he was told, taking all the money from the drawer and putting it in a bag. Desmond wanted to scream; he was so close that he could see the sweat beading on the Jamaican’s neck, and he could have reached out to pull on those dreadlocks.
The Jamaican got the money. It all only took a few seconds. He turned to flee out the door, put the gun in the waistband of his pants and ran. Desmond reacted without a second thought. He stuck his foot out.
He tripped the Jamaican man as he fled across the threshold. There was a loud splat as the Jamaican landed face-first on the concrete, dreadlocks akimbo. His jaw shattered, and he spent the next nine months in the hospital. He was still there when he was convicted of armed robbery. Rupert Alan was his name. It was all instinct. Desmond gave it literally no thought. He saw the possibility of tripping the man and did it without considering whether it would work or backfire — a lot could have gone wrong. Rupert could have avoided the trip and shot Desmond in anger, he could have dropped the gun and it went off, he could have gone on a shooting spree. If Desmond had thought about it, he wouldn’t have done it.
But he didn’t think about it, and he did do it, and that was how Desmond became an unlikely hero for the Cityside Barbershop, when all he wanted in the crucial moment was to swing on Lamar’s big fat dick (which he didn’t end up getting to do because the cops showed up and put a damper on the excitement). The whole thing happened so fast.
The other barbers treated him like a champion, especially Isaiah, but the one who was most appreciative was Johnny Cee. Johnny Cee owned this location of the Cityside Barbershop, so he was the one who had the most to lose if Rupert Alan made away with the day’s take.
“You really saved my hide, Desmond, damn,” Johnny Cee said over and over when he showed up an hour later. “Damn… My fuckin’ business insurance lapsed this month. Havin’ cash flow problems. If I’d got robbed, I’d have lost the shop for sure. No way I would have been able to keep goin’. How can I repay you, my man?”
But Desmond didn’t know how he could be repaid (aside from the obvious, money, which Johnny Cee said he simply couldn’t afford), nor did he even especially want it. He was happy to be treated like a celebrity all night. The others bought him drinks and clapped him on the back until they all stumbled home in the darkness of night.
When Desmond showed up for his shift the next morning, however, he was surprised to find the entire chain there, even Isaiah, who was supposed to be off today. They clapped and hooted when Desmond walked in.
He blushed and lowered his eyes. He liked being the center of attention, but this was becoming ridiculous. Then Johnny Cee stepped forward and cleared his throat. He stammered as he waited for the others to quiet down.
“Uh, hey… Desmond, I uh… I was talkin’ to the guys, and y’know, I can’t pay you a bonus, not even a dime. I’m sorry about that,” he said. “But I was wonderin’… I’d like to give you something. So, uh, as yo’ reward, I was gonna say… if you want… you can pick a nigga, and he gonna… you know… do whatever, even… you know, take some dick… or… y’know, on the bottom.” He looked relieved to have finally gotten that out.
All barbers looked at him like they were awaiting news on which of them had cancer. Desmond giggled and blushed. “So, I get to pick one of you, and you’ll jerk me off, take it in the ass, everything?”
They all nodded, and Desmond’s giggle turned into a cackle. They were treating this like such a serious offer, like they were choosing who had to take the fall and go to prison for a crime they had all committed.
“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Desmond said grandly, raising his arms in a long, low sweeping motion. “Johnny Cee, I thank you for your kind offer. And I choose you.” He didn’t even have to think about it. He loved older daddies like Johnny Cee, whose beard was tinged with exactly two strands of gray. He had a deliciously thick body, with just the right amount of meat in just the right places. Johnny Cee was also the only one here who had never gotten dome from Desmond on the downlow.
Johnny Cee made this offer assuming Desmond would pick one of the young handsome muscle-boys with dimples. But Desmond had tasted their meats already. What he wanted was Johnny Cee himself.
Everyone else whooped and hollered. Johnny Cee chortled. “Damn… I thought you’d pick someone younger, nigga.” He lowered his eyes, avoiding meeting anyone’s gaze.
Desmond laughed and took Johnny Cee by the hand, then gestured for him to lead the way into the backroom. He did so, and as Desmond followed he squealed with a leering grin aimed at the other barbers.
The sound of clapping only died out when the door swung shut behind Desmond. He followed Johnny Cee through the darkened supply area to a small spot with a chair and a bit of carpet. This was where Desmond plied his trade. There used to be porn magazines around, but Johnny Cee had made Desmond throw them away. They made it look unprofessional, he had said, though now he looked rather like he had regretted that decision.
Johnny Cee dropped to his knees as Desmond sat down. Johnny Cee sighed and smiled. “Damn, boy, you smell like a girl. Thanks fo’ that, it does help. You smell like a stripper.”
Desmond grinned. He wore women’s perfume to work for precisely that effect. Johnny Cee had to awkwardly stoop, he was simply too tall to bend right over Desmond’s lap and be able to take his dick in his mouth. Desmond felt a surge of guilt as he saw Johnny Cee’s face — he looked like he had just eaten an extra-sour pickle, and he hadn’t even tasted dick yet, he just undid Desmond’s pants and pulled them down. Desmond awkward lifted his hips to give him space to work on his pants. Johnny Cee averted his eyes when Desmond’s big brown dick flopped out. It looked like he had hoped that Desmond’s little twink body came with a little bitty dick, which was far from the truth.
“You know… you ain’t really gotta do this,” Desmond said. “Just lemme jerk you off. That’s all the thanks I need. I been wantin’ to taste your meat since I started here, nigga.”
“I know. I seen the way you look at me,” he said with a growl — he didn’t like it when Desmond used the n-word. Desmond blushed. “But I don’t mind. I gotta show my appreciation. You really saved my bacon.”
“Aw, your bacon is sexy, Johnny Cee. I’ll always save it.”
“This ain’t the first time I done this. Don’t tell the others.” He nodded to the front room, where nervous laughter could be heard — they were no doubt whispering about what Johnny Cee was doing in here. Johnny Cee took a deep breath. “I… Before I got married, me and my buddy Mando used to trade dome on the downlow.”
“Really? Mando Ray?” Desmond had trouble picturing that.
“This was befo’ Mando got real fat.”
“It’d pretty much have to be,” Desmond said.
Johnny Cee nodded, opened his mouth, scrunched up his nose and swallowed Desmond’s dick in one smooth motion. The smoothness only lasted a moment though, because he was overwhelmed by gagging when Desmond’s shaft penetrated the back of Johnny Cee’s throat.
“Swallow it, Johnny Cee!”
“Make him your bitch, Desmond! Fist him!”
It sounded like they were laughing so hard they were crying. There was more catcalling going on, but most of it was drowned out by a torrent of laughter and jeers. Johnny Cee often badmouthed them — reminding them of their religious obligations, mainly — when they were back here receiving dome, so it sounded like they all wanted to return the favor now.
“I’m tellin’ Reverend Chandler! He gonna punish the fuck outta you, Johnny Cee!”
“Maybe Reverend Chandler will go up your behind next! He could ram the repentance into ya!”
Johnny Cee tried to pretend it wasn’t bothering him, like he barely noticed it at all. His eyes were downcast and dark as he pushed his head up and down on Desmond’s shaft. His mouth was warm and wet, and it sent a shiver of desire through Desmond’s body. The whole situation was such a surprise that Desmond didn’t get hard right away, as though his body had forgotten how to react in all the confusion.
But as Johnny Cee’s tongue began stroking up and down Desmond’s shaft, he fell into the old groove again — he had been a bottom for a long time, and Desmond hadn’t received dome in nearly six months. He had never received dome from a big burly daddy-bear like Johnny Cee.
His hands roamed onto the back of Johnny Cee’s head. He had thick, kinky black hairs that were cut short, which was unfortunate, Desmond thought, as he would have liked to hold on as Johnny Cee got more and more into it. He gradually stopped gagging, though he never lost that sour-lemon look on his face. Then Desmond’s hands explored lower, sneaking under Johnny Cee’s shirt and caressing his rippling back-flesh.
“Can you take off your shirt?” Desmond asked, feeling uncertain that Johnny Cee would do it. Maybe that would seem too weird? Almost romantic? He wasn’t sure. Alphas had such weird rules about this sort of thing. But, Desmond thought with a sigh, that was part of what he loved about them.
“You feel spermies tryin’-a impregnate yo’ rectum, Johnny Cee? Hope you’s on the pill!”
Johnny Cee lifted his head and frowned as he unbuttoned his shirt, removed it and lifted his wifebeater over his head. He had a strong, thick-muscled body with a hairy barrel-shaped chest, his thick arms jiggling as he paused with his shirts in his hand. He had just one tattoo, the Lord’s Prayer in flowing script on his right bicep. He said a brief prayer, then leaned forward and kissed Desmond on the lips.
Desmond was so shocked he didn’t kiss back at first. That was one of the rules that most niggas at the Cityside Barbershop never broke — no kissing. They might even lick Desmond’s ass to lube it up, jack him off as a favor, taste his cum by accident, touch dicks with a nigga during a gangbang, maybe even let someone finger his ass while he was knee-deep in some pussy.
But none of them would kiss a man, except, it seemed, for Johnny Cee. His burly body pressed heavily down on Desmond’s thin chest as they made out, Desmond wrapping his arms around Johnny Cee’s body and clinging on.
They stopped only when Johnny Cee’s cell phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and growled in frustration, and the men in the frontroom burst into laughter again — obviously, they had sent him a teasing message.
“Whatchoo think, Johnny Cee? I know a pimp who’d treat you right!”
Desmond wanted to ask what it said, but before he could, Johnny Cee kissed him again. His grizzled chin was rough and scratchy, his tongue awkwardly flailing about. It was a weird kiss, Desmond thought, especially since he was so much smaller than Johnny Cee — it felt like he was a child again, being kissed by a giant, like Johnny Cee could open his mouth wider at any moment and swallow Desmond whole.
Then Johnny Cee undid his pants, let them fall and dropped his shorts as well. His heavy dick was thick, juicy, and not totally limp, which made Desmond giggle: Johnny Cee was more aroused by this than he let on.
Desmond stroked Johnny Cee to full erection as they kissed, and then Desmond licked his way down to Johnny Cee’s pecs. He looked like he had probably had a six-pack and a mountainous chest when he was younger, but now there was a perfectly thick layer of flesh atop his body, which hadn’t lost a lick of power since then. That was just the way Desmond liked it. He liked the massive meat of Johnny Cee’s middle-aged frame, and he enjoyed the way it nervously quivered as Johnny Cee got more and more into it.
Every fiber of Desmond’s body said he should start jerking Johnny Cee off, but Desmond didn’t want to, even though his dick was hard as steel and already oozing precum into Desmond’s fingers. This was an opportunity that wouldn’t likely happen again, and Desmond wasn’t going to squander it.
“Alright, be gentle,” Johnny Cee said. He sighed and turned around, his pants still around his ankles so he had to shuffle awkwardly. He bent over like a prisoner submitting to his cellmate: he put his hands on the floor and stuck his ass in the air.
Desmond giggled. “You greatly overestimate my height, Johnny Cee,” he said. Johnny Cee’s ass towered above Desmond’s head where he sat in the chair.
“Oh yeah,” he said with a grunt. “Mando was taller than me.” He lowered his ass slowly, yelping in surprise when Desmond’s fingers gripped those big hairy orbs. He grinned at Johnny Cee’s reaction. Johnny Cee winced and turned his head to face Desmond. “Yo’ fingers are cold, man.”
Desmond clucked like a mother hen. “Sorry, baby, lemme warm ‘em up.” He breathed on his fingers, then caressed Johnny Cee’s asscrack. Johnny Cee shuddered and stopped moving, his back flat and ass right at the level of the chair in which Desmond said.
“Make his ass bleed, Desmond! If you ram him hard enough, he’ll learn to love it!:
His skin was marked with hair and rough spots, which Desmond loved. He kissed both asscheeks and spat into the dark, funky hole. Then he dove his head in to get it loosened up.
The taste was musty and masculine, dripping with salty sweat and the flavor of coconut oil-scented soap. It was a decidedly feminine kind of soap, Desmond thought, no doubt chosen by Johnny Cee’s wife. His tongue plunged in to that tight, dark hole and explored it as Johnny Cee stiffened his entire body in response.
A loud, foundation-shaking moan escaped from Johnny Cee’s lips. He cut it off when he realized the niggas in the frontroom could hear and were guffawing as though they had never heard anything like that (which was very possibly true — Desmond had never heard that kind of moan either). Johnny Cee’s asshole bloomed, loosened and opened up all at once, while his dick spasmed and leaked precum even with no one touching it.
Then Desmond stood, ready to begin the actual ramrodding. Johnny Cee breathed fast, tense, and hung his head low. Desmond couldn’t believe this was happening, and he kept thinking that Johnny Cee was going to back out. He stood on the chair, looking over Johnny Cee’s broad, rippling back.
“Uh… damn…” Desmond said. “I, uh, I don’t know how to do this.”
“Well you’re the expert. Don’t ask me for help,” Johnny Cee snapped.
“I know, I know. It’s just you so big. Normally I’d give you a reacharound but I don’t even know if I can reach,” Desmond said.
“Don’t worry about that. Once you get into me, I ain’t gonna have a boner no more,” Johnny Cee said. His voice sounded clipped and annoyed.
Desmond didn’t think that was true, but he wasn’t about to argue. He decided to just go for it. He kneeled on the edge of the chair and wedged his dick between Johnny Cee’s asscheeks, which he pulled apart with both hands.
As soon as his dick entered him, Johnny Cee grunted, bit his lip and threw his head back. Desmond lightly caressed his meaty back muscles, or at least the lower third of his back, which was all Desmond could reach.
He tried to gyrate his hips, but with himself sitting on the chair and Johnny Cee lowering his ass onto him, that wasn’t too easy to do. His dick couldn’t move much in this position. That didn’t detract from the intense pleasure he felt as Johnny Cee’s tight asshole clenched around his dick. A wave of exquisite sensations rollicked through Desmond’s petite frame.
“Did you and Mando ever share any ass?” Desmond asked, his voice tight because he had a behemoth riding his cock.
Johnny Cee shook his head but didn’t answer. He groaned and sighed. Desmond suspected that meant the answer was: not in any way that counts, meaning we did it when we was drunk, stoned, in prison or homeless, or some combination thereof. Johnny Cee’s ass pinched and flexed as he struggled to take all of Desmond’s dick.
When it became clear that it wasn’t going to work like this, Desmond used the chair for leverage. He thought he’d ride Johnny Cee to the ground and just hump him there on the floor, but that wasn’t what happened — Johnny Cee easily supported Desmond’s weight.
So Desmond clutched his thick back and held on as he began working his dick in and out. He was completely off the chair, riding Johnny Cee like a piggy-back ride, just lower down on Johnny Cee’s back. He stayed bent over, on his hands and feet with his ass still high in the air.
Johnny Cee was so tall that he seemed to take up an impossible amount of room, filling the tiny space Desmond had set aside for jerking off horny men. He had never thought he’d use this space to top anyone.
As Desmond humped, Johnny Cee bit his lip to avoid crying out. The men in the front room were quiet now except for a few scattered giggles. Desmond had been back here often enough to know what that meant — they were listening at the door but not talking about what they heard, probably because there was a child in the shop. It was just past nine, after all, so the Cityside Barbershop was open now.
Johnny Cee staggered and bumped into a shelf, nearly knocking it over. A box full of unsold doo rags fell onto Desmond and scattered over the floor. Johnny Cee was breathing heavy, having trouble supporting himself not because Desmond was so heavy but because Johnny Cee was jacking himself off as he took it up the ass, which meant he only used one hand to support his body now.
That suggested that he was hard. Desmond wanted to point out that Johnny Cee’s prediction was proven incorrect, as he had known it would be, but his own pleasure was too intense to stop. The more he humped, the more frenzied was Johnny Cee’s reaction.
“Damn, get it in me, man…” Johnny Cee said softly. He grunted and heaved, stumbling throughout the room and bumping into the walls head-first. The emotions galloping across his tense face were equal parts agony, pride, humiliation and jaw-dropping bliss. Johnny Cee’s entire body reacted to each thrust of Desmond’s dick inside him, tension rolling up and down his flesh from head to toe and back again. His face, when he looked behind himself so Desmond could see it, was ruddy and covered with sweat, eyes bugging out of their sockets.
When Johnny Cee clenched hard on Desmond’s dick, Desmond didn’t know why. He just knew it sent a crescendo of pleasure up his spine, and Desmond grunted so loud the sound overpowered Johnny Cee’s reactions for a moment. But then it was clear why Johnny Cee had clenched down — he was cumming.
That much was a surprise. Desmond knew that most men would get hard when being rammed, simply due to prostate stimulation, that was why Desmond had disbelieved Johnny Cee’s prediction that he’d remain soft. But he was shocked that Johnny Cee had managed to cum while Desmond still pounded his ass.
“Aw, fuck yeah, nigga…”
But there was no mistaking the cummy smell that filled the area, and the intense moan that came from Johnny Cee’s throat. Someone applauded outside the room, leading to another burst of laughter. Johnny Cee tried to cover up his pleasurable groaning with a cough, but his coughing spasm sent a shiver of pain up his spine as it made Desmond’s dick grind even deeper into his ass.
That was it for Desmond, who couldn’t hold back anymore. He dug his nails into the flesh of Johnny Cee’s back while an intense orgasm rocketed through his body. It grew in waves, each successive outpouring of pleasure more incredible than the last. With his face buried in the meaty middle of Johnny Cee’s back, Desmond felt like he was ensconced in masculine flesh in a way he hadn’t felt even when being rammed all over by big men in the past. For a moment, he and Johnny Cee might as well have been one person.
Desmond yelped and squirmed atop Johnny Cee’s body, and he even bit at the flesh of his back when the intensity of his climax was too overwhelming for Desmond to accept. Johnny Cee didn’t even seem to notice the bite.
At long last it was over. Johnny Cee was perfectly still now, stooped over so his back was flat. He breathed heavily, waiting for Desmond to finish. Desmond was still too exhausted to react, so he remained there as his dick softened inside Johnny Cee’s ass. He tightly gripped Johnny Cee’s body, which he still clung to like a small adult riding a giant stallion. Johnny Cee cleared his throat, but Desmond still remained right there.
Then Desmond let go of his back, which made Johnny Cee let out a sigh of relief. That sigh accelerated as Desmond slid down and his cock finally plopped out of Johnny Cee’s ass. Desmond’s face rubbed up against the burly man’s lower back and his cum-dripping asscheeks until he finally landed on the ground on his feet. He nearly fell as his orgasm had weakened his knees, but Desmond managed to remain upright.
Johnny Cee turned around and winced. He kissed Desmond on the lips, and their tongues awkwardly interlocked once again — Johnny Cee’s massive tongue overfilling Desmond’s mouth, in which it barely fit. Then Johnny Cee pulled off and smiled bashfully.
“Sorry,” he said.
“You don’t have anything to apologize for. You’ve got a nice ass, Johnny Cee.”
“Yeah, well… Thanks, for that, and for, uh… y’know, saving the shop,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” Desmond said with a gasp and a shudder. They both got dressed. When they were done, Johnny Cee took a deep breath.
“So, y’know, I’m gonna tell them niggas that you go hard but it ain’t hurt too much. I ain’t gonna tell ‘em… y’know… that I jacked off too.”
“Okay,” Desmond said, sighing and smiling at Johnny Cee’s nervous stammering. “No one ever has to know you enjoyed bottoming. Your secret is safe with me.”
Cullen’s the only whiteboy in the Cityside Barbershop of Lawndale, which means he’s in for a wild ride. That’s cuz every brothah from the hood swings on the downlow at the barbershop, giving Cullen his choice in alpha male manmeat!
Can he assimilate to his new workplace?
Or read it here
Cullen knew working at a Cityside Barbershop would be difficult. He didn’t fit in here. The Cityside Barbershop was for black men to get their hair cut. It was an unspoken rule as rigid as any law. There was a different barbershop right down the street, a well-lit place where the barbers were Italian. That was where white people went.
But they weren’t hiring, and Cullen needed a job now. He had applied thinking it wouldn’t go anywhere, but now here he was, starting his first day at a Cityside Barbershop. He didn’t even think they hired white people. Now that he thought about it, that didn’t make sense and probably wouldn’t have been legal. He was going to be the token white guy, he figured, he could handle that.
Then, on his first day, Cullen was almost totally ignored, except for the suspicious glances. He only cut two people’s hair that first day. He barely made a dime in tips.
It wasn’t until his second day, near the end of the afternoon, before he had a real conversation with anyone there. Cullen sat in his chair playing on his phone. He had resigned himself to not getting any more clients today, since it was only a few minutes before closing time. He deliberately made his workstation messy because he thought it would be embarrassing if he was ready to go literally the moment the clock ticked over.
Four minutes before close, a man named Lamont Caddie sauntered in. Everybody knew him, everyone except Cullen. Lamont was a grizzled, deep-dimpled homeboy who carried a dour expression on his face and short braids on his head. Cullen stood up and smiled at him.
“Hey, I can take you in my chair.” Cullen blushed, he hadn’t meant for that to sound like a seduction. “If you need your braids-?”
Lamont scoffed. “What?”
“Uh-“
“You a barber here?”
Cullen nodded.
Lamont scoffed again. “What? They hire white guys now?” He laughed to himself. He touched his short braids — no need for any attention right now. Lamont looked around the barbershop. “Nah, whiteman. I do not want a haircut. I don’t let white folk touch my hair. I ain’t here for a haircut anyway.” He made eye contact with one of the other barbers, Skelton, who nodded at him. They went into the backroom,
Was Skelton jacking him off? The Cityside Barbershop had a reputation as a place for men to swing on the downlow. But Skelton was an alpha male and an ex-con. It seemed unlikely he was on the downlow with the thickbody Lamont. That was something Cullen enjoyed, so he was annoyed if Skelton did it — the one bright part of working at a Cityside Barbershop was getting to service all the alpha males who come through. Cullen was prettier and more feminine than Skelton, he thought with a jealous bite, so why would Lamont want Skelton over him? He frowned at the door to the backroom.
They came back upfront after only two minutes, which was quicker than Cullen thought plausible. It was only when Skelton walked past Cullen’s chair and he caught a fruity whiff of unsmoked marijuana that Cullen realized what this was —that was a drug deal.
That made him feel better about being excluded.
“Thanks, nigga,” Skelton said.
Lamont snorted. “I-” He stopped because the front door opened and the owner, Johnny Cee, strode in. Lamont stopped short. Johnny Cee glared at him. He was broad-shouldered and powerful, with a mustache that made Cullen drool.
But he was both straight and married, and he didn’t seem like the type to fool around.
“Lamont.” Johnny Cee grunted. He was stern, strict, no-nonsense. It was clear he disliked Lamont and seemed to be aware of why he had come here, or at least he suspected it. Lamont had short braids, so he couldn’t pretend he had come in for a haircut. Johnny Cee stared him down. “I know you didn’t come in here to sling drugs, Lamont.”
“No, I ain’t.”
Johnny Cee looked from barber to barber. They all avoided eye contact with him. Skelton cleaned up his station. He was nonchalant, as though this had nothing to do with him. He slipped a baggie of weed into the drawer of his workstation, his legerdemain ensuring only Cullen noticed because only Cullen was watching Skelton. He glanced up to be sure Johnny Cee hadn’t noticed. But the big man with the bull mustache stared into Lamont’s eyes, while Lamont pretended nothing was happening.
“So why did you come in here?”
Lamont smiled and touched his hair on his scalp, he scratched it absent-mindedly, though it was obvious he was lightbulbing up an excuse to be here. “Oh, you know…” He sniffled. “I was just…”
“He wanted to try out the new boy’s mouth,” Skelton blurted out with a mischievous grin, aimed at Lamont. Lamont shot him an annoyed look. Skelton snickered.
“Oh? Is that true, Lamont?”
Lamont nodded. “Yep. I just…” He rolled his eyes like he didn’t want to say anything else, but then he added, “y’know… I like’, y’know… I like gettin’ dome. I do that shit all the time, man. ‘Specially whiteboys. I love that.”
Johnny Cee looked dubious. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Well…?”
“Fine.” Lamont snarled. He grabbed Cullen by the wrist and dragged him into the backroom. Cullen stumbled after him. This had all happened so fast, and Cullen didn’t know the people very well, that he only realized what was going on when he got to the back room. Once the door slammed shut behind him, Lamont feinted as though he was going to knock the door down and attack Johnny Cee on the other side. “He’s such a cock, man. You wanna jerk me off fo’ real?”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” Cullen said. He sunk to his knees, fingers sliding up Lamont’s sagging jeans to his crotch. He had a big bulge, very nearly visible because his pants were so low that the bulge of his cockroot was visible through his drawers, not his jeans.
Lamont grunted to cover up his sudden flood of anxiety. He had never done it quite like this — he’d gotten dome from men when he was drunk and as part of a group sex thing also involving at least one girl. He had never soberly stood there and let a man go to town on him, so he wasn’t entirely sure what to do or where to put his hands. If it was a girl, he would say sweet and romantic things in this sort of situation.
So he didn’t say anything.
He just gripped the wall to his side and held on for support, while Cullen pulled his dick out and swallowed it down. At first it was just warm and wet and not very appealing. Lamont wondered if he was going to have to tell Cullen he didn’t want to go through with it. That would be embarrassing, he thought.
But then his cock firmed up in Cullen’s mouth, and that warm wetness turned into a deep and abiding sense of pleasure. Soon his dick was rock-hard and throbbing on Cullen’s tongue, and Lamont had to bite back a moan.
“Ah, shit man, I’m glad Johnny Cee showed up after all,” Lamont said with a chuckle. He leaned against the wall, looking down for the first time since this had started. He watched his cock disappear down Cullen’s throat. He deep-throated better than any girl Lamont had ever been with, a fact that Lamont found alarming and that he would never share with anyone.
He grunted and gripped Cullen’s head. Since he had been holding his shirt up, once he let go to hold onto Cullen by the scalp, his shirt-tail landed on Cullen’s head. Cullen buried his face in Lamont’s hairy crotch, while Lamont held onto his scalp and plowed his throat good.
See, now, this is nice, Lamont thought, girls never wanted to get throated.
He relentlessly pounded away, forcing his cock all the way in with each thrust of his hips. When his orgasm finally erupted within him, Lamont moaned loud enough to spark a torrent of laughter from the frontroom.
“Ooh-ooh!”
“They’s bakin’ a black-and-white cookie back there!”
“Ooh, Cullen I love how your huge white cock feels in my ass!”
They were all teasing him now. Obviously, Cullen thought as he savored the zesty musk of Lamont’s cock, Lamont didn’t normally do this. They thought it was hilarious he was doing it now.
Cum sprayed down Cullen’s throat. He loved the taste of jizz, and Lamont’s was especially nice. It was salty and sweet and fruity, and Cullen guzzled down every drop. Fat bursts of it coated Cullen’s mouth.
It kept on going, long after Cullen thought a normal man would have shot his wad. He spewed so much it filled Cullen’s belly, coating his insides, Lamont’s body-warmth seeping throughout him. He shot so much it dripped down his thigh into a puddle on the floor of the barbershop backroom.
“Hell yeah…” Lamont groaned. He gripped the wall behind himself as he finished. His cock slowly limpened in Cullen’s mouth. He looked on at Cullen with wide-eyed amazement. “I ain’t never got no dome like that.”
“Thanks for the dick,” Cullen said with a giggle as he wiped his mouth off. “I’d like to buy some weed too.”
