When ex-con Thumper White is given a joint to live in upon his release from prison, he had no idea he’d be shacking up with a doe-eyed prettyboy… That handsome homie Rico fancies himself a thug and a ladysman. Maybe he is both those things, but Thumper will take what he likes, and he likes Rico’s backside a whole heck of a lot!
Thumper’s a booty bandit old head who doesn’t take no for an answer, which means Rico’s in for the ride of a lifetime! Can Rico take Thumper’s brand of prison-starved love?
Steel is off to work on an oil rig, which means he’s surrounded by men without any women to tame them! Him and Lem are the only two American black men on board, and they need to get their rocks off one way or another. That’s a recipe for hardcore man-on-man action, which Steel just might have to endure…
Simon lusts for his bodyguard, Rocky, and he just might get to explore Rocky’s Italian masculine treasures. Rocky spent time in prison, which means he’s comfortable letting Simon swing on his meat.
Buck is an idiot, a dumbass, a moron and stupid as a brick factory, and it’s time someone told him so! He’s in for it now, plus plenty of man-on-man action on the downlow and not so low at all.
He’s big, he’s bad, he’s broad and he’s ready to kick ass and do other things to that ass as well! You won’t believe the adventures he’s getting into.
Tyrell Brickley is an ex-con and a die-hard Blood.
Description
He got bigger in prison. He ain’t even really mean to, but there ain’t jack-shit to do there but lift weights and wag about ladies, so now Tyrell’s thickbody felt like a ugly shell surrounding the handsome young man who got arrested years ago… He been heavyset — he was a champion football player before his arrest — but in prison he got stacked like a iron rack, and he moved like his heft ain’t all fit on him, like his skeleton struggled to keep up with his muscles. His wide, powerful ass was wedged into the tight boxers he brought out from prison with him.
Tyrell was a popular local football star before his arrest, so the chicks kept coming. He could at least get a handjob, often a blowjob, in the visitation room, as long as he kept it low-key. But after about six months, the visitations decreased, and Tyrell discovered it was impossible to remain a popular local football star if you was neither local nor a football player no more. His girlfriends eventually stopped coming to see him entirely, and soon enough, they even stopped taking his (very expensive) phone calls. Tyrell was popular when he got to prison, with girls begging for a chance to see him, a lawyer promising fruitful appeals and a gang (the Bloods) welcoming him with open arms. But now that lawyer be saying only that the appeal ain’t fruitful and sent him a bill. The gang steady gave him tasks that was difficult, dangerous and not at all fun. And the girls stopped coming by entirely. So Tyrell was alone, surrounded by his Blood comrades yet lonesome like a lost sheep.
Tyrell Brickley was lifting weights at work. Lipsweet maintained a gym, locker room and shower for the bouncers to use. Mr. Gregarian wanted his bouncers to keep fit and strong, and he knew that, if the club had a reputation for bouncers hanging out there all the time, troublemakers would be more apt to stay away. That was important because Mr. Gregarian sometimes stored large amounts of drugs, guns, pornography, illegal immigrants, etc., there. The well-known presence of bouncers lifting weights in their off time hopefully kept away holdup boys, even during the days and mornings when the club was closed. The gym was small and cramped, but Tyrell preferred working out there to a real gym. There were women at a commercial gym, which meant he couldn’t workout shirtless, or even in shorts and a sleeveless shirt at some gyms, because it would scare off the nice women. They didn’t let you hit on women at normal gyms.
He didn’t mind Tyrell’s rock-hard biceps though. He was so firm he was like a sculpture, a warm, meaty sculpture that smelled of coconut lotion and shea butter, strongly enough to overwhelm the yeasty toilet-hooch scent that filled the backa the narrow cell… Tyrell was easily the biggest swinging dick in the cell. And he had the biggest swinging dick in the cell, probably the whole prison. It was like a cricket bat between his legs, and it was fat and juicy. Desmond used to sit and play with it for hours while Tyrell dozed or lifted weights or sold toilet hooch.
One of the ex-cons came outta the bathroom then, wearing just a towel — Tyrell, a big-ass Blood with a hard face, taciturn eyes and a thousand tales in the tats across his muscles
Tyrell bin getting bigger cuz he spent lotta time in that steel cage lifting pillowcases filled with canned peaches, and he done growed from a big-ass nigga to a pecan powerhouse of steel. He was well past six and a half feet tall and built like a steamship, with a big bulging chest as hard as iron and smokestack arms… Tyrell got a six-pack and everything — he struggled to get enough food in prison, since he ate so much. He spent a lot of his money on food in the last two weeks — he bin saving it so he wouldn’t run out, and when his release date came closer, he splurged. So he done gained fifteen pounds in those two weeks, and he could feel it straining his skin. He worked out every day during his incarceration and ain’t had enough protein to grow to his max capacity, until he bought all them canned sardines and his triceps, shoulders and thighs expanded.
Tyrell bin getting bigger cuz he spent lotta time in that steel cage lifting pillowcases filled with canned peaches, and he done growed from a big-ass nigga to a pecan powerhouse of steel. He was well past six and a half feet tall and built like a steamship, with a big bulging chest as hard as iron and smokestack arms.
Tyrell was muscular as anyone Desmond had ever seen in person. He had a perfect body, and he didn’t mind Desmond touching him — the others did too, niggas were all over Tyrell most days. Tyrell was handsome like a rapper… He was so firm he was like a sculpture, a warm, meaty sculpture that smelled of coconut lotion and shea butter.
He was a younger man then though, and he ain’t look as tough as he did now. Back then he got a smooth face and a voice like molten butter, and he was big enough that the girlies got they booties bothered but not so big that he made them scurry away like snitty cockroaches. Now he was too big. Now, he did make them scurry away. Being poor and low on the dole was exhilarating and hot for a young buck. But Tyrell ain’t a young buck no more. He could still smile like a fool, but he was too old, too big and too rough to chat up nice girls on the street. His face got harder — he was still round-faced and decked in dimples, but he got this hard-edged piggish look now. His muscles was perky and smooth and young before, heavy but grippable. Now he was rigid and harsh like a stack of lead weights that don’t fit in they rack. He told himself that wasn’t permanent. It was only cuz he just got released yesterday. He still had a prison-starved aura, he thought. Nice girl-folk could sense that. He still smiled up nice. He still had all the qualities that ladies liked before. He just needed to blow a nut in a female, he decided. Once he was relaxed, he’d be able to toss game just like high school.
The most important thing was to find a female, to know that prison ain’t ruint him like a old head with institution on the brain, always on the lookout for someone to give him permission to piss. He wasn’t like that, like Thumper, this old nigga he met in prison, he was a prison-thickened nigga, and Tyrell been telling hisself since he met him that he would never be like Thumper.
The man was tall and muscular, tattooed, dark-skinned, with short hair and a handsome face… Tyrell was younger, sexier, bigger-cocked, better-in-bed and just plain more charming. He was better in every way than her ex-husband.
Tyrell was not cute like a teenager like Davon was. Tyrell looked a little meaner, a lot tougher, a bit older. But he was nice like Buck, maybe even nicer — he wasn’t friendly like Davon, but Tyrell was nice enough to talk to. And he had giant arms like Buck, and creamy brown skin with a bunch of faded prison tats. So Simon waited until Tyrell had a spare moment, after two o’clock in the morning on a busy Friday night. Tyrell was by the door, checking IDs, broad chest filling out his shirt. He had big fleshy arms, the biceps stretching the fabric of his button-down shirt. He grunted at each patron, not talking to them like Davon did.
The black one was Tyrell, and he was cute, like he should be an older brother in a Disney movie. He’d seem tough but he’d bust out homespun big-bro wisdom.
The cuckolding mandingo was tall, dark-skinned and heavily tattooed. He had a scruffy chin, and he wore a Baltimore Ravens baseball hat cocked sideways on his head. His loose jeans were around his ankles. His heavy body jiggled in rolling, undulating waves as he fucked Deborah, each muscle moving in sync with the others as though it took every muscle in his body to plow her.
Tyrell the Mandingo: Tyrell is outta prison again, and he’s back to Baltimore. He hopes to nab some women, but he just might end up getting down and dirty with men instead. He’s desperate to ensure nobody sees him as a booty bandit, even if that’s exactly what prison life turned him into, so he’ll get his rocks off one way or another! Can he keep his booty-bandit secret and still get his jollies off?!
Tyrell the Ex-Con: Tyrell is outta prison again, and he’s gonna do what it takes to survive these mean streets… even if that means giving a pounding! He’s been locked up a long time, so he’s learned a thing or two that just might shock any fool who’s never been inside. But can he make the transition to free life?
Anthony enjoys alpha male thugs, cholos and machos of all kinds, and luckily, he has a knack for getting them! His older brother is a high-ranking gangbanger, giving Anthony a way to sample the men he adores. Can he learn to get his rocks off on his own?
Hansen Chapman is a bad-ass thug and muscle-bound bad boy. So when his gang assigns him to work with an old ex-con named Cooter, Hansen can’t believe he’s gotta hang out with this grizzled redneck with body hair to spare and a foot-long slab of meat he’s not shy about sharing. Can Hansen stay on Cooter’s good side?
Rocky is a mafiosi, a guido, a wop, a dago, a boxer, an ex-con and more!
Descriptions
Rocky was a swarthy slab of cinnamon-colored muscle and unkempt black hair, furry chest broad and strapping. He had a big wide jaw and a slightly off-square face due to old injuries — he was a boxer, and his nose was crooked and squat, his ears like splattered cauliflower.
He was swarthy and had a chaotic mane of greasy black hair, and he was well-muscled like Tyrell. But while Tyrell was cut, Rocky was thick. You could tell he was always going to be muscular, even if he never worked out. He had that kind of body.
Rocky was swarthy and had a chaotic mane of greasy black hair, and he was well-muscled like Tyrell. But while Tyrell was cut, Rocky was thick. You could tell he was always going to be muscular, even if he never worked out. He had that kind of body… His pumpkin-thick arms worked hard, muscles bulging. Mr. Gregarian snorted like he thought Rocky should be more graceful. Desmond didn’t. He liked a brutish man. Poor Rocky had a swollen nose and ear, a bandage on his forehead, bruised knuckles.
Rocky was a stone-faced goon, all squares and oversized features, his jaw as broad as a beam, with big mitts for hands. He respired like a leaky pony due to, he said, his oft-broken nose, which was indeed cattywompus. His whole visage was like that, like a Cubist painting of a face. He was Italian, with thick dark hair, a Semitic cast and swarthy skin, and he exuded the kind of masculinity that Simon found alluring. Rocky wore short shorts and a cadet gray tee shirt, threadbare and ragged around the ripped-off sleeves and too small for Rocky’s expansive frame. Those thick muscles worked like steel girders as he lifted weights.
Eventually Rocky took off the sweat-soaked shirt, and Simon stopped hiding. He stood in the threshold and watched Rocky’s pecs jiggle and flex and arch and rumble. His body hair was plastered to his torso and shoulders. Simon liked the way his chest hair worked its way up and over his shoulders. Rocky grunted and heaved. He sounded angry, but when Simon finally went in there and Rocky saw him, he stood still and emotionless, sweat steaming off his bronze shoulders. The weight room was so small that Simon felt the heat exuding off him and smelled the bitter bouquet that he enjoyed and his father despised. Rocky paused before he knocked on the door. He glanced at Simon and raised his eyebrows. He had a hard face. His facciones were Brobdingnagian, every part of his face too big for the other parts. He looked like someone who could collect a debt from a pulmonologist. He made Simon feel small and impuissant, but in a good way. Simon nodded back, and Rocky knocked.
Rocky filled out his suit too tightly. His cock bulged against the fabric of his slacks, and the shoulders stretched when he swung his arms. With his big barrelhouse chest, Rocky required a hefty pair of trousers and a bicep-tight shirt. Mister Gregarian’s willingness to pay for tailoring was limited. Rocky’s tie ended high above his bellybutton, and he frequently busted the shoulder seams of his shirts.
“Rocky, lookin’ good, man,” Carl said when he saw somebody he knew. Rocky was a swarthy slab of cinnamon-colored muscle and unkempt black hair, furry chest broad and strapping. He had a big wide jaw and a slightly off-square face due to old injuries — he was a boxer, and his nose was crooked and squat, his ears like splattered cauliflower. “Hey, hey, Caaahl, good buddy, how’s the missus, huh?” he said, his voice thick and garbled like his throat was full of sweaty marbles. “Sharon’s fine, the kids are doin’ great,” Carl said. He kept talking, aware that Rocky was just making small talk, but Carl wanted to keep going. He was close enough now to smell the stench of Rocky’s armpits, the fur of which peaked out from beneath those massive fleshy arms. One of Carl’s hands casually touched Rocky’s side, which was greasy with sweat, black hairs matted to his skin.
Rocky bit down on the urge to rubble his nose. He was a boxer before his prison stay, and he broke his nose dozens of times. The prison doc said he got a “deviant sceptre” or some shit like that, plus he got too many or not enough sinuses, he couldn’t remember which, or maybe the sinuses he got was too big. Or too small. But it meant his nose got clogged buncha times, and he gotta rubble it with one hand.
Rocky turned out to live in a rinky-dink little apartment building. His place was spartanly furnished — it didn’t even have a couch. It did have a bench-press and a set of free weights, as well as stacks of protein powder containers in the kitchen. It smelled strongly of sweat and unwashed clothes, which dappled the whole apartment.
Rocky the Bouncer: Simon lusts for his bodyguard, Rocky, and he just might get to explore Rocky’s Italian masculine treasures. Rocky spent time in prison, which means he’s comfortable letting Simon swing on his meat.
Rocky the Ex-Con: Rocky works as a muscle-bound goon and enforcer, putting him in plenty of situations to get his manmeat hot and wet. Rocky’s prison life comes back to haunt him though, and it just might happen that this macho alpha did time “bottom-bunking”!Can he finagle a respectable role within the Cavollo family?
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
When Desmond is recruited to be a pretend-boyfriend, he didn’t realize what he was in for! He spent years in prison, giving him a knack for making men get on their knees and submit to his every need. He even gets some of the toughest alphas around to give him a rubdown, a tight hole and a mind-blowing orgasm.
But can Desmond make it through his prison sentence and fulfill his mission?
Thumper is fresh outta prison, and he’s got a booty bandit reputation to live up to… or down to! But more importantly for him, he’s gotta stay on the good side of his social worker. That means he’s gotta be kind, calm, employed and maybe stop ramrodding men on the downlow. He might even hafta attend a symposium on culturally responsive social work. Can he handle that?
He’s in for a wild ride, and so is any man he’s alone with!
