Tag: featuring ex-cons

The Whiteboy in the Barbershop: Chapter 2

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Cullen showed up early one morning. He was there before opening, and he used his key for the first time to get into the barbershop. It was nice to be there alone. He was beginning to feel at home here — it had been three weeks since he started — and it was good to be here with no one else. He could look around and see things without wondering who was watching him. There wasn’t a lot to look at, it was just nice to see it in this liminal, unfiltered way, like seeing a supermodel in her granny panties sans makeup.
He sighed and sat down on his barber’s chair. He was starting to get some customers. He had cut a couple of peoples’ hair — mostly children and elderly — and hadn’t made any mistakes, so he now had a reputation for being at least passable as a barber.
Realistically though, he was never going to be seen as an equal of the other barbers here. He was going to have to accept that.
There was a noise in the back. A mouse? That was what Cullen assumed. He went back there to see it. At his last barbershop, a mischief of mice had gotten into the barbicide, then died in the walls, resulting in a horrific smell that took months to resolve.
So he thought it would be good if he could find the mice first and tell Johnny Cee. He wanted to seem proactive and useful to the business. A lot of these small businessmen owned a bunch of projects, so maybe, Cullen thought, he could transfer somewhere a white worker was more commonplace. When he went into the backroom to check, however, there was no mouse.
There was a naked man named Dumphry, who gasped and furrowed his brow at Cullen. For a brief moment, Dumphry considered snapping Cullen’s neck. Cullen would never in his life learn how close he came to dying right then and there.
Dumphry didn’t do it because — aside from all the moral considerations — he couldn’t get rid of the body. There was no way to sneak an entire corpse out of this building without being seen by dozens of people.
So Dumphry just snarled and duked up. Dumphry was a thug fresh out of lockup. He was scared he’d get in trouble because he wasn’t allowed to be homeless — he only got parole because he supposedly had a job and a place to live, but Johnny Cee had only given him the job (which involved menacing and intimidating Johnny Cee’s business rivals and was paid entirely under-the-table).
He didn’t cover his cock with his hand. If he hadn’t been so utterly surprised by Cullen’s arrival, Dumphry would have, but by the time he realized Cullen was standing right there, his cock was already swinging in the scene. He wasn’t ashamed of it. Covering himself up with a hand at this point would make him look weak, he thought, so he stood there puffing out his chest and trying to look like he had meant to be caught naked in here.
“Oh. Who are you?” Cullen bit his lip. He blushed, heart racing. Was he not supposed to be here this early? No one had said not to, and they gave him a key so he could get in.
“I’m Dumphry. Who are you?”
“I’m Cullen. I work here,” Cullen said. He knew he should be firm with this man, to tell him to leave and make sure he does it. He assumed Dumphry was homeless and that he had snuck in here to sleep. But Cullen was also mesmerized by Dumphry’s prison-toned body and his massive dick dangling between his legs.
“Oh.”
“You, uh… You’re not allowed to be here,” Cullen said. He sounded so weak he blushed. He should just leave, he thought, go call Johnny Cee and let him handle this.
But he was still entranced by Dumphry’s body. Cullen couldn’t help but giggle demurely.
Dumphry grunted. He didn’t think he was supposed to let on that he lived here. Johnny Cee made him keep most of his things in the locked closet during the day, when Dumphry was gone — Johnny Cee kept him busy doing errands all day, and then he spent most of his evenings flanking Johnny Cee or beating people up at his command. His fists were bloody still from beating up one young man last night.
“Don’t tell no one I sleep here,” Dumphry said. “I just got outta the joint, man, I need a place to live.”
“So you’re squatting here?”
Dumphry nodded his head. When he was in prison, he kept telling himself he wouldn’t be trashy when he came out. He was off drugs now, and he didn’t even drink. He shouldn’t be squatting, living in a closet, working every day to afford enough food to eat.
“Oh. Well you can’t stay.”
Click grumbled. “I’ll ram ya, boy,” he said. “What?”
“If you don’t tell no one, I’ll ram ya butthole, boy,” Dumphry said.
Cullen’s heart raced. He couldn’t believe this. A part of him, the rational part of his mind, said to refuse it, but that wasn’t the part of him that was in control. His dick rocketed to attention even before Dumphry got to him and shoved him to his knees.
He rammed his cock into Cullen’s throat as though he needed to get it in before Cullen changed his mind. He had a big dick that stank of his sweat and a little of blood from the punishment he had doled out last night. It was warm and salty and soft, then it almost immediately twitched and perked up in Cullen’s mouth.
It all happened very fast. Cullen opened his mouth to savor that manly flavor, but Dumphry didn’t really give him any opportunity to do that. He just pistoned his hips, forcing his dick into Cullen’s throat. It pulsated, filling him up and making him gag over and over as he struggled to swallow it.
Dumphry hurried through the dome — his dick was too big to be really swallowable, so he never let that continue for too long; no one could get even half of it in their throat. So he just got his dick wet until it was hard, and then he grabbed Cullen by the hair.
“C’mon, man, bend over,” Dumphry growled. He forcibly put Cullen in position. Cullen was limp by then, a little scared and more than a bit aroused. He loved Dumphry’s powerful muscles dragging him into position. In the chill and the darkness of the backroom, it felt like a prison cell, Cullen thought, like he was making love with his cellmate.
Pain hit him when Dumphry began to ram his dick in Cullen’s ass. It was just the tip at first, but it tore Cullen open. Dumphry’s dick was thick and long and he stuck it in without mercy. One of his hand’s held Cullen’s ass in position, while his other kept Cullen’s head down.
“Spread yo’ cheeks, boi, that’s how we do it around here,” Dumphry said. He grabbed Cullen’s hands and made him do so. Cullen struggled to remain bent over while spreading his asscheeks.
The pain slowly melted away into an intense, mind-melting pleasure. Cullen moaned again and again, as the sensations roiling his body gradually increased to a wild crescendo. The free-standing stack of shelves next to Cullen’s head creaked as they repeatedly bumped into it, knocking boxes of doo rags onto the floor.
“Here ya go, whiteboi, you got this right,” Dumphry said, his guttural voice low and slow like he gargled with black coffee, as the last bit of his dick slid into Cullen. He aimed his voice directly at the back of Cullen’s head.
“Ah, god, yes, ram it in me!” Cullen said over and over as Dumphry slammed into him.
Cullen had no idea how long that lasted. By the time it was done, he heard people in the frontroom getting ready to open, but luckily it seemed none of them heard him. Cullen moaned and spasmed, falling flat on the ground.
Dumphry went to the floor with him, his whole body flexing. Sweat covered his muscles and coated Cullen’s back. He snorted into Cullen’s ear. Cum flowed into Cullen’s ass, so much of it that it leaked out and spilled down his thighs. It puddled onto the floor.
The sensation was intense, and it made Cullen moan loudly — finally people in the frontroom heard it, and assumed that Cullen had simply found a client early. Cullen heard them laughing and blushed, still mid-orgasm.
At last it was over, and Dumphry pulled out. He grunted and snorted as he cleaned his dick. Cullen sighed, squirming on the floor while his ass recovered from that mighty pounding. He was exhausted, covered in both his own sweat and Dumphry’s.
“So what’choo think?” Dumphry asked. “Can I stay here or what?”
Cullen nodded. “Hell yeah. You can consider your rent paid.” He just hoped Johnny Cee wouldn’t find out.

The Santa Monica Alpha

Moshe’s violin concert ends on a surprising note, when a massive alpha cholo comes to him with an unusual request… Sazonito wants to explore the exciting world of twink on top!

Read it now as an ebook!

Moshe Katz always meditated after a concert. The actual performance was so nervewracking that he needed a release or he’d remain wired, unable to sleep, for hours afterwards. He’d be jittery untol the morning. His shows were not huge — he was as big of a star as existed in the classical piano scene, but that was not saying much. The audience was just big enough to be scary and anxiety-provoking, and it was made even worse tonight because the Israeli Minister of Cultural Development was in attendance here in Santa Monica.
There was a knock on his dressing room door. Moshe sighed. He had requested not to be bothered after a concert. He told everyone that. He was almost done with his half hour of meditation, but he still had two minutes left. He got such little time to himself, he was jealous to maintain it. He even considered ignoring the knock for two minutes, but whoever it was kept knocking.
Ignoring the knock would seem petty and rude, he decided. He was petty and rude, so he tried to hide it when he could. It might have been a fan anyway.
Yes, a classical pianist has fans. He has a Facebook group! Almost two thousand subscribers!
When he opened the door, he had to suppress a yelp. His eyes bugged up. Standing in front of him was a tall Latino man with the staggering body of a football player, crammed into an ill-fitting suit made of mismatched parts. Cholo tattoos crept up his neck, barely visible behind the suit. He had the macho air of a gangster, and Moshe’s heart leapt into his chest.
“Yo, hombre, Meester Katz, señor,” he said, narrowing his eyes as though to size Moshe up.
Moshe forced on a smile. “Please, call me, Moshe, sir.” He hoped that didn’t sound rude. This man was making him both scared and aroused — he looked like a thug, a vato, a murderer or extortionist, maybe, what Moshe would have called in Hebrew a בִּריוֹן. Moshe knew the type well from his native Israel — this was simply some Mexican-American variant of it. He was only vaguely aware of the word cholo, but he knew this man was one. He also knew security was just around the corner, and Moshe’s mind told him to yell for help. But the man was also a big burly-bear type who looked like he hadn’t worn a suit since high school prom, if he even was still in school then. His slacks were slung low, pristine sneakers poking out from the oversized trouser-legs.
As a long-time connoisseur of the male form, the stranger’s powerhouse body allured and intrigued Moshe.
“Moshe,” the man said, with some difficulty. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Yo, hombre… I… I gotta say, I ain’t come here tonight cuz I thought I wuz gonna like yu’ music, yo.”
“I see…” Moshe said, though he very much did not. The man’s face was tight, tense, and fearful, like he struggled to put into words what he wanted to say — or perhaps he just struggled to find the English words. Moshe didn’t know whether this guy was going to rob him, burst into tears or plow him, but Moshe felt sure it was going to be at least one of those things, maybe all three at once.
“I’s just here, hombre, cuz I need a alibi, right? I need everyone to know I weren’t at this other place somewhere else, cuz I know the polizontes is gonna think I was there,” he said. “But I’m here. My… boss, he said to come here. To see you. Mess wit’ my parole officer’s head. Gonna flip his lid when he find out I ain’t lying ‘bout where I was.” He laughed dryly. Then he blinked his eyes. “But yo’ music, esé… It was… special to me. I dunno how to say it. It moved me, hombre.”
“Oh, okay… That’s, uh… amazing. Flattering. Thank you, uh… I’m sorry, your name is-“
“You can call me Sazonito,” he said. He pushed into the room and let the door shut behind himself. “You are… a sissy, right?” He whispered as though it was a secret.
Moshe nodded, heart pounding. Was this burly vato about to let him jerk him off? That was the impression Moshe got from the aroused look in the man’s eye. What did Sazonito mean in Spanish? Moshe didn’t know. He had a feeling it was not a name though.
“I feel like… you and me, we had a close connection when you was playing. I been alone along time, Moshe,” he said, again struggling to say the name in his thick accent. “I wanna taste. I want you to fill me up wit’cho manhood. Please, esé. I wanna feel you inside me. You gots a beautiful soul, hombre.”
“Oh… You want me to plow you?” Moshe asked, certain that this was just a language barrier. Gigantic macho bulls like Sazonito didn’t let themselves get plowed by tiny Jewish twinks like Moshe.
But he couldn’t deny that Sazonito knelt down and kissed Moshe as passionately and intensely as any woman ever had or could. It was also clear that Sazonito was uncomfortable with it and had either never done it before or maybe never done it willingly. He hesitated as he kissed, like his body fought against himself to do it.
His lips were thick and plump, the surface a bit dry and chapped but not grossly so. His massive arms wrapped around Moshe’s body and held him close. He was so much taller and thicker than the notably tiny Moshe that Moshe felt like a little boy being hugged by his daddy. He reeked of cheap cologne covering up the intense musk emanating from his armpits and his sweat-soaked back.
“Uh… Sazonito…?” Moshe pulled away. This time it was his body’s turn to fight it — he wanted nothing more than to do whatever this massive hulking brute demanded, but Moshe’s instincts said to either run away, surrender or get on his knees and jerk Sazonito off rather than the other way around.
“What? Please plow me…” He sounded like he was near tears.
“Are you… sure?”
He hung his head and began unbuttoning his shirt. He shrugged his tuxedo jacket off, and it fell on the floor. “I was in prison for six years. They just let me out last week, esé. I… I wanted to try it in there, but I can’t lose face. I would be disrespected. I want to feel your cock inside me. I want to pretend I love you.”
Well, that was pretty clear, Moshe thought, Sazonito is certain he wants to do this. No more ambiguity about his intentions.
Yet Moshe still felt sure a catch was going to come up sooner or later. Was he an undercover cop? What would be the point of that — he wasn’t proposing anything illegal. Was this all a trick to do with that alibi he had wanted to establish? But simply coming to the concert in front of all those witnesses and cameras would be enough. Jerking someone off in secret wouldn’t make the alibi more convincing.
And he was here. Whatever was going on somewhere else, Sazonito wasn’t there. He was here. That was not a trick. Moshe stared in disbelief as Sazonito removed his clothes. He carefully folded up his suit — which he had obviously made by purchasing cast-offs from a thrift shop — and placed it on the chair in Moshe’s dressing room.
His tattiied chest was even bigger and sexier than Moshe had imagined, brimming with power that Moshe could feel radiating off it. He was more aroused at the sight of Sazonito’s naked body than he ever had been before. It might not have been his usual cup of tea, but Moshe intended to guzzle every drop of it.
“Déjame probar su polla…”
Sazonito was inked all over with tattoos and scars. Since tattoos were forbidden under Jewish law, Moshe had rarely seen any in person. He had never seen a naked man with numerous tattoos covering nearly every inch of his body. A lot of them appeared to be amateurish, perhaps done in prison. Scars, seemingly from knives or perhaps bullets or taser prongs, dotted his muscles, which bulged as though they were going to burst out of his skin.
Keeping eye contact with Moshe, Sazonito sunk to his knees as he dropped his prison-issued boxers to the ground. His long cock was uncut, dangling limp and meaty between his legs. That was another part of Sazonito’s physique that was new to Moshe — his uncircumized cock. Moshe had never seen a foreskin up close and personal.
Moshe instinctively wanted to get on his knees as well, because Sazonito’s cock was fat and juicy, and it was already stirring with the beginnings of an erection. Yet much to his surprise, Sazonito really did want to take that place, kneeling afronta Moshe.
Still certain the rug was about to be pulled out from under him, Moshe was so distracted he hadn’t even started to undress himself. Sazonito’s thick fingers fumbled with Moshe’s designer slacks, dropping them to his ankles, which was enough to wake Moshe from his fugue. He quickly took off his own shirt and tie while Moshe pulled his underwear down as well.
Was this really happening? Was it a dream? Moshe still wasn’t sure this wasn’t a trick. But if so, Sazonito was taking it all the way.
“Te ves tan sabrosa…”
He picked up Moshe’s dick and smelled it like he was checking to see if it was ripe, then he wrinkled his nose as though he wasn’t sure. That didn’t stop him though, he opened his mouth and swallowed it as deep as he could. Sazonito’s eyes widened, and he paused for a moment like he was holding back a choke.
Nothing happened though. Moshe was still so shocked he didn’t even feel anything at first, then the sensation of Sazonito’s warm mouth and moist tongue sent ripples of pleasure through Moshe’s body. His cock rapidly swelled to full tumescence, and it poked into Sazonito’s throat.
Moshe wasn’t small in the cock department, so Sazonito’s unpracticed mouth didn’t manage to deep-throat the whole thing. He let out a loud retching sound, which Moshe couldn’t quite interpret — was he suppressing a gag or pushing back a moan of desire? Maybe both?
This was all happening so fast. Moshe’s knees went weak as his dick went hard. His hands fumbled — he was too nervous to actually grab Sazonito, who seemed too frightening to touch. Moshe’s instinctive mind worried he wouldn’t let a little Jewish man touch him, so Moshe’s hands hovered above Sazonito’s head.
Sazonito was so much larger than Moshe that he had to stoop way over to swallow his cock. It felt like Sazonito took up the entire dressing room, and Moshe just inhabited a tiny corner of it. As his dick throbbed in Sazonito’s mouth, Moshe moaned exquisitely.
“I, uh… Oh… Wow, Sazonito…” Moshe mumbled, too embarrassed to think of anything to say. Moshe had too much propriety for dirty-talk. He could only mumble as he worked his precum-leaking cock down Sazonito’s throat.
But breaking the silence made this whole thing easier for Moshe; it relaxed him and made him realize that, if a reprisal was coming, he was safe for now. He came crashing back down to reality just in time for a wave of pleasure to roll over his body like a tsunami. His knees again went weak, and as he buckled, he would have fallen but he gripped Sazonito’s broad shoulders. The warmth of his rippling muscles was intense; was it normal for someone to be that hot to the touch? Moshe didn’t think so, but all he could do in response was moan again. He bucked his hips, slamming his dick all the way into Sazonito’s throat. Sazonito’s nose nestled itself in Moshe’s pubic hair.
He thought that might make Sazonito pause and back out, but he only got more into it. He nuzzled his nose deep in Moshe’s dick as he forced himself to deep-throat it. Moshe’s cock rammed all the way down his gullet, the precum flowing copiously now. Sazonito guzzled it greedily as though he had been swallowing cock his whole life.
Moshe’s instincts kicked in and he grabbed ahold of Sazonito’s head. He pushed his dick in and pulled it out, with so much force each time he didn’t think he had ever throated anyone so aggressively. For tiny twink Moshe, it was the most potent plow of his life — he had a feeling Sazonito still thought of him as weak and feckless.
Then Sazonito pulled off. Thick tendrils of saliva connected his face to Moshe’s dickshaft and down to his balls. He flat-lipped his face up at Moshe and said, “You are beautiful, esé. Can you play your violin while you plow me?”
“Yes,” Moshe said without thinking about it. He wasn’t sure that was really true though. The violin required all of his concentration, could he really do it while plowing Sazonito up the ass? It seemed dirty, almost disrespectful of the instrument.
But the sight of Sazonito’s broad bare ass as he bent over in the center of the dressing room made Moshe willing to try anything. He grabbed his violin and put it on his shoulder.
“Please, plow me hard, Moshe,” Sazonito said softly. He hung his head as though a bit ashamed, even as he reached one hand behind himself to spread his asscheeks. He had powerful thighs and thickly muscled cheeks, so thick he felt like two powerful men stuffed into one skinsuit.
Without hands, Moshe managed to wedge his dick into the hairy crack of Sazonito’s ass — Moshe had always thought a hairy ass was unattractive, right up until this moment. Now he wanted more than anything to fill Sazonito with his cock.
But he needed both hands to play the violin. That meant he couldn’t guide his dick in. In any case, Sazonito’s intact butthole was resistant, and even when he attempted at it the best he could, not even the tip went in.
Then, much to Moshe’s surprise, Sazonito’s hand spread his cheeks and then pushed the tip of Moshe’s dick in. The soft, luxuriant hair of his ass brushed against Moshe’s pulsating manhood.
“Ah, damn, hombre…”
Sazonito arched his back as Moshe played the first few notes of “Shalom Chaverim”, an Israeli folk song that he knew very well because he often used it to warm-up. It was the only simple song he could think of that he knew well and that wasn’t religious or nationalist (both of which seemed inappropriate, even sinful, to play in this situation). The notes rang out in the tiny dressing room.
Sazonito stuck his head up and moaned. Again it wasn’t clear if he moaned in pain and humiliation or in bliss, or maybe a bit of both. His ears wiggled as though he carefully scrutinized every ringing note from Moshe’s violin.
He was surprised how easy it was once he got started. Moshe could play on autopilot since the song was so simple, and once he got started, it was surprisingly easy to plow Sazonito without the use of his hands. Sazonito’s ass practically swallowed his cock up. It was not easy, however, to get his entire dick in there. Sazonito was clearly intact and had trouble taking the whole thing.
Not that he was resisting. Every thrust of Moshe’s cock sent a bolt of pleasure through his body and a wave of some sensation through Sazonito’s too. Sazonito grunted like he was in pain, and he moaned like he was in bliss, and he clawed at the ground as Moshe’s balls slapped against the meat of his asscheeks.
Judging from the look on Sazonito’s face, he was more entranced by the music than overwhelmed by the agonizing pleasure in his ass. After a few moments, Sazonito even started jacking himself off with one hand. He must have already gotten a hardon.
The more and more he rammed at Sazonito’s ass, the braver Moshe got, until his balls were thwacking against Sazonito’s meaty asscheeks. Moshe’s dick slid in and out, easier with every thrust of his hips, and each time Sazonito gasped while pre-orgasmic pleasure rippled over his tattooed back muscles.
With one powerful thrust, Moshe managed to shove the last of his cock into Sazonito’s body. Sazonito moaned and grunted. His ass clenched, which Moshe could tell was because he neared his orgasm. Neither man was quite there yet, and Moshe tried to drag this out — he didn’t want to rush through the sexual experience of a lifetime. It felt so good his knees went weak.
Then the phone rang.
Both Moshe and Sazonito stopped moving. Moshe’s heart skipped a beat thinking he had been caught, then realized that was silly — he wasn’t breaking any rules.
And in any case, he soon realized it wasn’t his phone. It was Sazonito’s
Sazonito grabbed his cell phone out of the pants of his tuxedo, which was folded up on the chair near his head. He put it on speaker because, it seemed, he was too overwhelmed to hold it to his ear.
“Yo. What?”
You still there, vato?
“Si.”
What’s going on?
“Todavía estoy allí.”
Yeah, I… Somethin’ wrong? Speak English, motherfucker. You know I don’t know español that good.
“I’m still here. I’m talking to the violinista entre bastidores. Él es judío, pero él está bien.”
What? Nevermind, man. Just hurry up. It’s all good.
“Okay.”
… You takin’ a shit, vato?
“No.”
You sound like-
“Shut up.”
Fine, look, vato… Just don’t go to Mario’s place like we planned. His mama there. But it all went down just like we wanted.
“¿Son los traidores muertos?” He groaned, the words escaping from gritted teeth. His voice had an agonizing slowness to it, like he was grinding the words from stones in his mouth.
Si, esé.
“Good. Estoy colgando el teléfono. No me llame de nuevo unless someone is dead who is not s’posed to be,” Sazonito said, then he angrily hung up the phone and threw it back at his crumpled-up tuxedo on the floor. “Fuckin’ puta…”
Then Sazonito’s back arched as though he only just remembered he was getting plowed. His mouth opened like he wanna shout or maybe moan, but no sound came out. He pushed his ass back on Moshe’s dick, sending a wave of pleasure rocking up Moshe’s spine. Moshe gasped, his fingers digging into the meaty thickness of Sazonito’s back. Sazonito writhed before him, lifting one of his massive trunk-like thighs up as he accepted every inch of Moshe’s dick.
Moshe had gradually lost his inhibitions, and by now, he was ramming back and forth as if Sazonito’s ass was his fleshlight. At this point he figured if it was a trick, he might as well lean into it. It was the most enjoyable trick of his life.
He started playing the violin again. This time he played “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds”, another song he knew well enough to play by heart. Once again Sazonito shuddered and moaned as though the violin itself made him orgasm.
“¡Su musicalidad es más hermoso que cualquier cosa que mis oídos han tenido!” Sazonito shouted to be heard over the violin. He groaned and bucked beneath Moshe’s hips, which slammed powerfully against his jiggling asscheeks. Moshe didn’t need to know Spanish to know that Sazonito was complimenting his plowing, or maybe demanding to be plowed harder.
Finally Moshe felt his orgasm coming on, just as he felt it running through Sazonito’s body as well. He thought he’d have to stop playing while he busted a nut, but his hands were on autopilot. He definitely lost the rhythm and played some notes incorrectly, but it was clear Sazonito didn’t notice — he didn’t even seem to recognize the song, though he reacted as though the sound itself caused his orgasm.
Cum sprayed into Sazonito’s ass, so thick and creamy that it clung to every corner of his insides. Moshe shuddered and shivered as he filled Sazonito up. The load was bigger than anything he had ever produced — Moshe rather wished he had pulled out so he could see how much it was. This was such an incredible experience that his body kept spurting more and more, like he was getting rid of reserves that his balls had been storing up.
As Moshe’s body twitched and he yelped, Sazonito barked; his massive muscles writhed. His pain was obvious, his humiliation apparent in his dim, dark eyes, but the overwhelming feeling that Moshe could read in every muscle in his body was arousal and fulfillment. He had genuinely wanted this.
Somehow in that moment, all language and cultural barriers between them dissolved. Moshe knew exactly why Sazonito was doing this, and it was precisely as he had explained. Moshe was just too set in his ways to realize it. Sazonito had ramrodded prison bitches, but just one was important to him, a girlish man who had been Sazonito’s lover when he was in jail; he had formed a serious relationship with that man. He had treated his bitch like a wife, and a part of him had always wondered how far their relationship could be taken. His prison bitch had probably treated him better than his girlfriends on the outside. They were friends and lovers and roommates, allies, confidantes and more, but the one thing they could never be was equals. Sazonito had wished he could have a real relationship as his sexual peak dwindled while he was locked up.
But in prison, big macho tops didn’t bottom for tiny twinks, not even behind closed doors and with makeshift curtains up to block the view. That was not a rule Sazonito could break. Not until he was out of prison and he had come to a place where no other vato would be, where nobody would know what taboos Sazonito was breaking.
The smell of cum filled the dressing room as Sazonito shot his own load, just as Moshe was finally finishing up. A few final jets of jizz spurted up Sazonito’s guts, creamy goop spreading to every corner of his insides and seeping into his inner being. From his vantage point Moshe couldn’t see, but he could experience every bit of Sazonito’s orgasm through the tight clenching of his ass and the low, rattling groan that escaped from Sazonito’s throat. Sazonito’s hands were claws that raked the ground.
Then at last it was all over.
Moshe pulled his cock out and smiled sheepishly as Sazonito sighed like he had been waiting for that exact moment — Moshe had taken enough big cocks to know what he was feeling. The stress relief of that moment was intense, and Sazonito’s moan of desire was an aching rumble that echoed in the tiny dressing room. Sazonito crumpled to the dirty floor of the dressing room, his big muscles limp, perhaps limper than they had been since he was with his beloved in a prison cell.
Moshe sat next to his prone body and gently rubbed his muscles. They twitched under Moshe’s grip. “Sazonito… do you want me to call you? When I am in town again?”
“Yes. Si.”
“Okay,” Moshe said. “I will. We can have whatever relationship you want, and I won’t tell anyone.”
Sazonito nodded. “And if anybody asks, you will tell them I was at your concert, esé? Tell them I was here early, that you saw me before the show and then you saw me during the show and after.” He paused, then narrowed his eyes to slits. “Do not tell them what we did after the show.”
Moshe nodded. “I will.”
“Good. Thank you. Nunca lo reemplazará.” Sazonito closed his eyes and gripped Moshe’s hand with his massive meaty fingers. Then Sazonito’s sweat-dappled back fell limp and soft, and he drifted off to sleep right there on Moshe’s dressing room floor.

Buck on Bottom

Buck is outta prison once more, and this time he’s about to get turned upside down… because this book is full of Buck on bottom! That’s right, a whole novel of legendary top Buck Sampson doing nothing but bottoming in myriad and sundry ways. You won’t believe where this one goes!

From the prison cell to the oil rig to the trailer park, Buck is in for it in a big way!

Read it now!

Winston Steel & the White Man: A Forceful Alphas Mansploitation Novelotta

Steel’s an alcoholic, an ex-con and an alpha male with mixed feelings about white men. His years in prison, dealing drugs and working on an oil rig have given him plenty of opportunities to form opinions on ’em. And he’s ready to share ’em all!

But that’s not the only thing he’s gonna share. Steel’s had legions of man-on-man experiences at the top and on bottom. He’s done it all, and you’re about to get every one of the macho, manly, hardcore and raunchy details!

Read it now!

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 9

The White Trash Veteran

By the end of 1987, Goose found his hillbilly ass on a oil rig in the North Atlantic, nigh to a place called the Pharaoh Islands. Goose never heared of ’em. It wasn’t Egyptian, though it sounded like it, it was much farther north than that. It was cold as frozen turds up there!
The oil rig itself was toasty warm though. Got plentya heat throughout, and the pay was good, so they could live it up when back on land on leave.
Till then, there weren’t much to do besides work. Goose was tuckered as a tire for sure. He did get mail from Buck and Missus Bridge though. She kept Goose in the loop on Buck’s school troubles. He was getting remedials, which she thinked was gonna help.
He be wilding, got hisself suspended. That schoolteacher said he gotsta “decorate his binder how he likes it”, but he don’t like it decorated, so he up and ran around, raising hell, you know how a hillbilly do! He ain’t yet understand that when a woman says to do something as you like it, what she means is to do it as she likes it.
Buck took it on the chin. He was like that, he take it all in stride. All he gots is women in his life though. He lives with Missus Bridge, he got a lady schoolteacher, his daddy be gone all the time. Maybe that was why he was struggling in school, Goose thought. He sees it as a womanly thing.
Even Buck’s gym teacher was a woman! A sturdy lass for sure, but she don’t let ‘em do no wrestling or tackle football or nothing. Buck do get in trouble when he’s bored.
Buck sent him drawings of school and the tree fort he built with his buddy Cody, and Goose be sending him back drawings of the oil rig’s drilling room. Buck love that shit. Goose even got this feller with a camera to take some pictures of the machinery, and Goose sent ‘em on to Buck.
“Shit, man, aftuh I drop off them pitchers in the mail, I’mma kick off in town tomorruh,” Goose said when him and the other Americans all got back on down to they barrack after suppuh one night. They all lived together by nationality. It helped avoid conflicts, or so the old-timers said.
“Shit yeah, booooy!” said Jamal. He was the black feller — the black American feller, as there was other black fellers from like Africa and such. Jamal ain’t get along with them one bit though. He wanted nothing to do with the Africans or the Dominicans. Neither did Goose. Leave he to his own, that’s in the Bible. He do make a exception for the wisdom of the Orient that Sam introduced him to, prior to Goose eating his brains that one time.
Goose wondered if Sam’s teachings on rivers and meditation done stuck to Goose’s mind cuz Sam’s brain got in Goose’s mouth. Prolly not. Prolly no science in behind that. But he do dwell on it.
“I’mma get that lamb, with the sauce! Heckfire!” said Jenderson, a tall reedy motherfucker from Minnesota.
They all agreed on that one. The restaurant on the Pharoah Islands where they got dinner on leave had a rack of lamb that was pricey as fuck but tasted so good it made Goose drool just thinking about it.
“The beer with the bear on the label too-“
“Oooh yeah!”
“Remembuh that blonde waitress?”
“My god, she was hot as hell!”
“Hmmphh!” said this youngish feller Jethro Wilde with a mustache and a scruffy beard beneath it. He grabbed his crotch through his workjeans. He pumped his hips like he was fucking a invisible woman. Then he loosened his belt and dropped his jeans.
They all stripped to drawers after work. The living quarters was warm, often uncomfortably hot, so they gots to get as undressed as possible. With them all grabbing they peckers and miming what they wanna do to the blonde waitress, stiffies was popping up.
And the black feller Jamal was the one with the most obvious stiffy. “Hey, I’mma see if anyone put on that miniskirt,” Jamal said with a guilty laugh. He been dancing along with rap music, which was new then, Goose ain’t never heared it — t’was like calypso but worse, he found. He played calypso instead, but Jamal be plussing. Goose settled. Jamal got a ear for that rap. He grappled with his crotch as the others all laughed alongside him. “Needta find a lady, don’t care how ugly!”
Them’all guffawed and slapped they knees. Jamal was short as a petunia, but he steady popped stiffies. He was little enough that his medium-sized pecker looked big as hell on him. He weared only tight-white drawers, as he went off into the corridors of the oil rig in search of the “barrel room”.
That was a small bedroom with a box in it. Inside the box was a miniskirt. The old-timers did say over and over that anybody who want to can put on the miniskirt. Then the other fellers was “allowed” to ram him up the booty — course ain’t nobody gonna scotch ya even without the miniskirt. On rig, a feller can either hold his own or he can’t. Don’t need a miniskirt to let a man in ya backdoor.
But anyway, if he put on a miniskirt, another man is allowed to put it up behind, gotsta pay out in likker, that was all. The old-timers would enforce that one, if a feller refused to pay up.
Or supposably they would. Ain’t not a soul do it yet, and Goose and them all done spread the notion that nobody ever did. T’was just a prank, a way to scare newbies by pretending you was gonna put the miniskirt on ’em.
But Jamal been checking every night, it seemed. You know how black boys is, they love ass. If Jamal was a foot taller, he’d prolly try and put the miniskirt on a small feller. Black boys is like that. Most likeishly, the Africans on rig would do the same, and maybe they did among they own. Nobody talked about that though. Jamal returned to the barrack every night with a stiffy, which he jacked off right there in front of everybody.
That ain’t a fun parta brotherhood, seeing a black boy shooting nut on his belly. Still felt good to Goose though. Lotta the Americans on rig was veterans, not all of ’em went to ‘Nam though. It hurt to hear it the first time, when some feller said he was in the Army in peace. It made Goose feel old, used-up, abandoned like a waste house, irrelevant, forgotted, like everything that happened was never gonna matter. The Army done move on. Vietnam done move on.
But that feller got his own troubles, his own dams blocking up his self-same river. It’s good for a man to get away. Among women and children, a man had gotta keep his head up, keep his shoulders straight. A man falls apart like a jigsaw puzzle; a woman falls apart like shattered glass. Without women, men holds each other together like log cabins. Without men, women holds each other down like a bucket of frogs.
Since leave was upcoming soon, Goose held off on his own wingwang. He was gonna get to that brothel, and he was gonna fuck like a stallion. There was beautiful Nordic ladies — blonde-haired beauties like Viking princesses waited for ’em in the Pharaoh Islands.
Thinking about them Viking ladies got Goose an inconvenient hardon the night before leave. It was too early for lights out, and Goose don’t like to jack hisself off in the lightness, with a dozen fellers watching or worse, whacking it alongside him. That’s nasty, and that’s what Jamal do. If Goose ain’t better than a colored feller, then what’s the point of being white?
T’wasn’t until just before lights-out that Goose reckonized Jamal’s absence. He never did come back from the trip to the barrel room. Did that mean someone did have on the miniskirt after all? Maybe Jamal was deep in some feller’s asshole right now.
So Goose excused hisself to go take a shit, but then he went through to the barrel room, carrying with himself the bottle of rum he been sipping from. Sure nuff, he heared Jamal’s voice in the barrel room, and when he went in, Jamal was plowing into the behind of a much larger man.
It was one the dark-haired ones who lived altogether in a corner barrack, white but swarthy — someone said they was Greek, someone else said Gypsies. Maybe both. This one was Bosko, and he was a broad-shouldered powerhouse, the miniskirt barely fitting round his waist.
“Ah shit, honky, you caught me! This girl is tight!” Jamal said with a big bright smile. Bosko was strong as a ox and a foot taller than Jamal’s bitsy booty, so Jamal looked ridiculous ramming at his backdoor, like it took all of Jamal’s strength just to bump into him. Jamal then closed his eyes as he jetted his nut into Bosko’s tight ass. “Hmm, baby, you okay?” He tenderly rubbed Bosko’s asscheek.
Parta the rule was that whoever weared the miniskirt was “technically” a female. You had to treat “her” like a woman, and you hadta pretend it was a different person. Jamal wasn’t sposedta ever acknowledge that it was Bosko in the miniskirt. Jamal’s whole body twitched as he shot Bosko fulla jizz. Goose got up close to watch, but there weren’t much to see, cuz Jamal done ram his whole manhood up there.
All Goose sawed was Bosko’s ass quivering as he clenched and expelled Jamal’s limpening dickshaft. It plopped out with a moist shlurping sound that made Goose both chuckle and groan.
“No ass.” Bosko had a thin accent to his English. He glared at Goose, as Jamal chuckled and wiped his black boy pecker off, then pulled his drawers up.
Before Jamal left, he grabbed Goose by the balls through his drawers and squeezed hard enough to make Goose squirm. Then Jamal guffawed and stepped outta the barrel room. Jamal thought a white man with a big dingdong was hilarious.
“Good luck, Bosko!” Jamal said. Then he hushed hisself, “I mean… lady… ma’am, whoever you is.”
The door swung shut behind him, and Goose was left alone with Bosko.
Goose looked sheepishly at Bosko. He showed him the third of a bottle of rum he had, which Bosko peered at, then sniffed then put in a corner with a few other bottles of liquor, beer and wine.
“Mouth only.” Bosko said, his miniskirt riding up to bare his hairy Greek thighs. He got on his knees in front of Goose. He got a wide layer of scruff round his lips and a hairy chest. Shit, he was hairy enough to make the whole room smell like body hair.
Goose wrinkled his nose. He ain’t never decide to do this, he just had liquor in hand and Bosko thinked that was supposed to be payment. Goose did wanna bust a load out, but damn, couldn’t they shave Bosko’s Greek ass? Or Gypsy or anywhat? Whatever race Bosko was, they was some hairballs, that was for sure.
Slipping his limp dick into Bosko’s mouth, Goose furrowed his brow. Bosko made no effort to throat him. Goose had trouble getting hard like that. Bosko’s beard hairs was coarse and reminded Goose there was no woman around, and Bosko ain’t even do nothing, he just sat there gawping like a dead fish.
His mouth was open, and Goose could play round in there all he wanted. Bosko ain’t even gag a bit. But he also ain’t lick it or slurp on it or make any spit or even just move his lips back and forth. Goose did the best he could.
His tongue did feel good, kinda, rubbing on Goose’s meat. It felt better than Goose’s own hand anyway. It ain’t feel much like a blowjob though, more like a discount fleshlight.
“Hey, I’m allowed to ram you up the asshole,” Goose said with a frown. He put his hands on his hips, then swayed his waist to make his dick limply rub over Bosko’s msuatchioed face. “I can’t even see the miniskirt like that, man.”
Bosko grumbled in whatever dumbass language he spoke, but he got up onto the bed in one corner of the room. He laid on his back so his head dangled just off the back edge.
“A’ight, a’ight,” Goose said with a smile. He bent his knees to get his dick into Bosko’s mouth, which stretched open to accommodate it. Goose tried to picture a woman in the miniskirt, ignoring Bosko’s hairy legs and the treasure trail going down his belly and into the miniskirt.
This was more like it.
With Bosko laying over the edge of the bed, Goose had a perfect angle to go deep in his throat. Bosko musta been well broke-in — damn well broke-in — cuz he ain’t resist a bit. Goose’s limpness hit the backa his throat and slipped in past his gag reflex, and that was it! A surge of melted pleasure hit Goose’s body, and he moaned as his cock flexed to full erection in moments.
Goose’s pecker was too big for any woman to deep-throat, so he never got real deep like that. He did throat down some fellers pretty hard in his day, but ain’t none of ’em was as broke-open as Bosko was and ain’t mosta ’em bend over backwards like this neither.
That Gypsy throat opened up deep enough that Goose’s whole erection could ram down there, his balls slapping Bosko on the nose. “Oh fuck yeah, baby…” Goose pictured one the Viking women he was gonna fuck on leave. He ain’t even needta look at the miniskirt.
Later on, Goose found out Bosko was indeed a Gypsy, and they gots a rule that when they run outta liquor on rig, they draw straws and make one of they own take dick till they earn enough liquor to last till leave. Over the next couple days, Bosko musta took gallons of nut. Gypsies is like that, reckon.
Bosko gagged over and over, but he got deeper on Goose’s dick than any man ever had. Goose got so into it that he even pulled down Bosko’s miniskirt as though he might see a pussy. All that was there was Bosko’s uncut cock, bouncing around. Goose chuckled at the sight, then covered it up again.
He shot a fat load down Bosko’s throat. A bigger load than Goose thunk possible, wad after creamy wad filled up Bosko’s belly and overflowed from his throat. Bosko squirmed, but Goose held him tightly in place.
“Fuck yeah…” Goose’s voice wavered and broke. Another flood of jizz spurted right down Bosko’s gullet. Goose’s cock was so deep in his tight throat that Bosko couldn’t spit it up if he hoped to, which he did, and his whole body be twitching as Goose spewed load after load straight into his belly.
His cock plopped out, followed by a frenzy of gags and squirming retches from Bosko. Stomachfuls of jizz spilled outta Bosko’s mouth and soaked his chest, dripping down to his miniskirt. Goose was dribbling yet a few drops of nut and saliva onto Bosko’s head, even as Bosko stood and bent over to spit up into a bucket by the bed.
“Goddamn, that felt good,” Goose said, backing away from Bosko. He twirled his limp dick in hand before wiping his wetness off and tucking it back in his drawers. “Lemme know when you put that thang on again, shit, lady. I’ll get a blowjob outta ya throat anytime.”
Satisfied as a kitten, Goose returned to his barrack, where Jamal and them was fitting to fall asleep like wise lotuses. Goose stayed up for awhile. It felt good to be among men, but it couldn’t last. He needta see his son, rejoin civilization and prove that he could build a lake behind hisself, flowing on to the ocean yanway. Forward, he thought, forward at last.

The White Trash Veteran: Chapter 4

The White Trash Veteran

Goose’s hair flowed free as a wave. He was plopping pretty atop his motorcycle, with li’l Buck clinging on behind him. The sun exploded into a horizon of oranges and yellows, as the motorcycle ate up asphalt and spat out sky. The engine was too loud to talk, but Goose heared Buck’s smile in his fingers clutching Goose’s torso. For now leastways, the both them done fling they worriment behind them — like that song says, let a worse-off man pick up that fig skin, for it is true, there always do be someone suffering more than you. They rode like cowboys, and both was content in that ever-lasting moment.
They made it on through to the campground just as the sun was setting, and they raced to get the tent up before it was dark. They ain’t quite make it, so they gotsta use flashlights to get they sleeping bags into the tent. Then they had just enough time to roast some weiners over an open fire. Buck be grinning like a puppy the whole time.
Goose got pockets fulla cash, greenbacks a-plenty, enough to buy that motorcyle. He been feeling centered enough to come back down to Martinsburg for a visit. Not to live. He could have a crash anytime, could get the bogey-logies, couldn’t let Buck see him how he was.
It was him and Buck’s first trip together. Buck was living with a foster family who owned a turnip farm. He said they worked him hard. He was strong as bourbon cuz the farmwork stretched him tall for his age. Goose beamed proud. Struggle do strengthen a boy, and Buck gots long expectations to fulfill.
The smell of roasting weiners lingered in Goose’s nose as him and Buck finished they supper. When the scent of meat done diminute enough, it was replaced by the bitter and intense aroma of burning wood.
But not just any burning wood. The scent was green wood. Some other family at some other campsite done light a fire with it. Prolly cuz they don’t know no better. Some people is damn fools.
In Vietnam, all wood is wet. Everything is wet in Vietnam. Ain’t nothing there burn without a cloud of steam. Whole damn country is steamy as kisses from a fat lady. But Vietnam don’t got no fat ladies, so how’d that happen?!
The burning green wood launched a catalogue of smells at Goose.
First, the acrid scent of gunpowder filled his nose. That was followed by a burst of coppery blood with the spicy aroma of a Vietnamey feller’s body odor. The gunpowder smell mixed with the burning green wood of the campfire Goose’s squad done cook they supper on. Harley did the cooking of that night.
Harley’s sweat smelled stinkhoggen and pounding in Goose’s nostrils, strong with the rhythm of his fluttery heart. The scent of Harley’s gun was potent too, bitter steel, clammy and reeking of unwashed flesh, which stuck to it cuz he only held it when afreared enough to sweat. For some reason, the gunpowder aroma of Goose’s own gun ain’t hit his nose hard — like his own armpits, he couldn’t smell the stink of it. He could damn well smell Harley’s though. Harley musta sweated through his shirt again, and Goose could smell the rankness of the Vietnameys surrounding him too. Burning plastic and skanky rodent fur filled out Goose’s nostrils.
Goose’s nose stayed stuck in Vietnam, but his eyes trained like snipers on Buck in the darkened here and the shadowy now.
Goose wanna take a shower. Maybe, he thought, that’d reset his nose. But Buck was too tired for a shower, and anyway the shower situation was a problem — there was a showerhouse for adult men and one for women and families. Goose couldn’t take Buck into that showerhouse, nor the other one. The campground people never figgered there might could be a shirt-tail boy with an adult man and no females.
No matter, they was only gonna be here till Sunday morning. Ain’t nothing wrong with a boy skipping a shower.
The Vietnameys used old dirty rope that smelled like a stack of cardboard boxes rotting in the rain. That was how they tied up they prisoners of war. They stinking bodies and breath assaulted Goose’s nose. They ate spices, the Vietnameys did, bunchesa spices, and Goose smelled it on them. The Vietcong uniform had a characteristic smell too, an unclean-laundry gookiness, and it either growed stronger as the war dillydallied onward or Goose’s nose got accustomed to seeking it out more the longer he was kept captive.
The muddy bootprints the Vietnameys left afronta Goose and Harley got the odor of rotting drawers. The smell of American tears was salty-strong, or maybe that was Vietnameys’s tears, cuz somea they own kept getting they bits blown up in a copper-scented mist. Goose preferred to only smell the American tears though.
Goose had gotta shower tonight. He was gonna be funky as a black boy if he ain’t redd up. He ain’t smell it, either cuz he couldn’t smell his own funk or cuz his nose was back in Vietnam, but he knewed he needed a shower.
When Buck was sleepy-deeping, his belly fulla sausages and cookies, Goose left him in the tent. He strolled over into the showerhouse wearing his boxers and carrying with him his ditty bag. He ain’t wanna dawdle, so he hurried to rip them boxers off.
He took a sniff of his bar of soap, which smelled clean and medicinal, and that at last brung his nose outta Vietnam. That was good. He got no desire to smell the prisoner of war camp. They ain’t got toilets, just a bucket to share.
When Goose went into the shower proper he seed a pinkthumb numbnut, less than middle-aged but he got a old soul, you could tell. Goose knewed the type. He stood there like a dotless question mark when Goose walked in, then he blistered like he got a vendetta against Goose.
A discourteous nod passed between ’em. The man still was curling his lip at Goose though, and Goose stood past him. He was foul cuz he was, till moments ago, deep in the first worst day of his life.
The rumpety milkweed man rinsed shampoo outta his hair. When his face was clear, Goose catched sight of his face and reckonized him as this feller who done give him a dirty look before, when Goose came riding in. Goose wondered if he knewed somehow Goose was a ex-con.
Was he a prison guard? He don’t look familiar.
“You got a pro’lem?” Goose stood there in the shower-spray, letting it run down his body. He set his ditty bag on the floor outsidea the water, but he ain’t get his soap or shampoo or nothing outta there. He done learnt in prison to never bend over in the shower when there’s bad blood in the air. Clear the air first.
Or better yet, just don’t bend over.
“This is a nice campground,” said the man, looking quakey like he admiredta walk off. “We don’t want bikers here. It’s for families.”
Now Goose weren’t really a proper biker, not like a Hell’s Angel or nothing like that. He was just a motorcyclist at that time. But the pinkthumb was pissing him off, and Goose don’t wanna explain the particulars of biker gangs and motorcycle clubs. Goose scowled. “I ain’t a biker, I j’st rides me a motorcycle, yes I do. T’ain’t none’ya business. In ar’y case, I’s he’uh wit’ mah son. We a family. You a slim slice of tuhkey, sissy.”
The man frowned. “What? You talk like a hillbilly.”
“You is in West Virginney, yankee.”
“I’m from Iowa!” He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t want a fight-” He ignored Goose scoffing. “I just wanted to make sure you’re not, you know, like… a bootlegger.”
“A bootlegger?!” Goose guffawed. “You in West Virginney, hoss, not the past.”
“Well, I don’t know, any of the… crime, or the drugs, or the gun-running, I don’t know what bikers do,” the man said.
“I ain’t a biker!” Goose shouted.
“That wasn’t a station wagon you rode in on!” The man shouted with such vitupery he dropped his soap. Then he turned around to pick it up off the ground from the river of shower water that ran on down to the drain.
With a cackling laugh, Goose darted from one showerhead to the other and rammed at his ass. His dick was soft, so all he did was wipe it up through the man’s buttcrack, which was moist and hot and sudsy.
The man yelped and stood up. He looked put upon and also shocked by the size of Goose’s cock. Apparently he ain’t look down till this very moment.
Goose got no plan on doing more than that, but the sensation of the man’s asscrack rubbing on his dick reminded him of dirty nights in prison. Goose be plussing. The dowdy pinkthumb in the showerhouse was putting out forlorn, like he ain’t never heared of cornholing. Most likely the case. He don’t look like a ex-con, he ain’t a Navy man for sure and he don’t seem like he spend time with black fellers.
“Get off me, what… what was that? You’re disgusting. Did you just try to…” He dropped to a whisper. “… pee in my butt?”
That made Goose guffaw like a goose. “What the fuck? T’ain’t a thang, hoss. Don’t nobody pee in no butt.” Goose got his pecker in his hand, stroking it hard and wondering if it was possible to pee inside somebody’s butt. Never occurred to him. You’d hafta be hard when you stick it in, then after you cum, leave it in.
Would it spill? Seemed chancy to keep it from spilling.
Goose don’t wanna try it, but he’d like to see a colored boy do it. They can do all kinda things with they peckers. They could prolly figger it out.
Anyway, as Goose pondered that notion, he got his wingwang hard, and the man either ain’t notice or ain’t pick up what Goose was putting down. He was done with his shower even, but he don’t leave. Foolish hawkeye! Naive as a ear of corn!
“Do you go to church?” the man asked.
“Sh’ore do,” Goose said. But before the man could ask any more of his rumpety questions, Goose grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him face first into the grimy wall of the showerhouse.
“Ow!” That knocked his bar of soap outta his hand once more.
The man ain’t acknowledge Goose’s hardon. He prolly come from a world of class, where men don’t have hardons in showers and where it’s okay to bend over afronta man with a pecker. Sounds like a nice world. Guess he was still on the pee-in-the-butt thing and assumpted Goose’s hardon would stop him from doing it again.
When the man was bent over, his ass high in the air, Goose went for it — he rammed hard into the pinkthumb’s pink behind, gripping them asscheeks to keep him in position.
“Oooooowwww!” the man yelped. Only the tippa Goose’s dick went in, but that was enough to make the hawkeye bug out and wriggle. Goose slapped his ass like a rodeo cowboy.
“Yee-haw, mothahfuckah!” Goose called out. The man’s knees buckled in pain, and Goose rode him to the nasty shower floor, sinking his heft atop the poor sucker.
Goose forced it in deeper, a thrill of pleasure rocking up his body. He do love breaking down a intact man’s intactness. He gotsta struggle to force every inch in, but the struggle made it feel good.
He rammed back and forth as the man howled in pain. Goose used all his body weight to slam down on the man’s backside, forcing his dick in and intense pleasure out. He moaned into the man’s ear and made him lick the shower drain, just cuz it got him gagging, which made his booty tighten up in agony all over again.
A burst of cum shot up the man’s guts. Goose spurted out a huge long flow of it, and Goose got the impression the dumbass man only now realized what that huge hot thang was in his asshole. He sobbed onto the shower floor.
A grunt came outta Goose with each thrust of his body and was accompanied by a jerk of pain from the pinkthumb. Goose shot a huge wad that coated his guts, then he slowly let the sissy-shithead clench his ass and force Goose’s cock out, inch by veiny inch.
“Don’chu talk to me again, pansy. Walk off, and walk off good,” Goose said with a chuckle as he rinsed his pecker off in the shower water. He spat on the man’s bawling face and walked out of the showerhouse, towel in hand. He didn’t even dry off until he was out in the moonlit night.
That felt good, and Goose was gladsome to have got a nut off this weekend. This would be his only chance, since he was gonna be with Buck the whole time. He don’t get a lotta time with his son, so he wanna make the mosta it, and he don’t need no hardon slowing him down.
And maybe, he thought, it would keep the pesky past at bay.

Deep on the Downlow

When the legendary boxer Thumper White is released from prison, he never thought he’d be rooming up with a doe-eyed prettyboy named Rico! Neither of them will ever be the same. That’s cuz Thumper gets horny sometimes, and he don’t take no for an answer when it comes from a darkskin slice of handsome pie with a pile of alluring frowns on top!

Can Rico handle Thumper’s brand of downlow love?!

Read it now!

All five of those years clung to him still like a fragrant armpit

To Rocky, it still felt like he got outta prison last night, like everything since then was a dream. He was unsure he’d ever acclimate to the outside world. He’d spent five years in there, and all five of those years clung to him still like a fragrant armpit

To Rocky, it still felt like he got outta prison last night, like everything since then was a dream. He was unsure he’d ever acclimate to the outside world. He’d spent five years in there, and all five of those years clung to him still like a fragrant armpit.

From Rocky the Ex-Con

All the neighborhoods they drove through was different

East Middle was fulla young white folk with unpleasant hairstyles.

The neighborhood was different than Thumper recollected it. All the neighborhoods they drove through was different — Ramspoint was ritzy and white, Bay North ain’t even a thing no more, Castle Street was desolate, East Middle was fulla young white folk with unpleasant hairstyles, and Factory Ridge got some kinda burnt-bamboo Chinese that Carson said was Lay-Oceans. But Lipsweet was still a grime-down shithole. The grime made it feel like home, and he liked that it was the same as ever.

From Thumper the Booty Bandit