Tag: free chapters

Buck the Dumbass: Chapter 2

Buck the Dumbass

Chapter One: Ann Arbor, 1999

Chapter Two: Peremptory Manhood

Chapter Three: Statistics 101

Chapter Four: Systems of Oppression

Chapter Five: Lung Stuff

Bouncering was dull work. Buck ain’t mind it — the pay was good, and the waitresses was purdy as petunias. But damn do it bore him to his soul. He stood there at the door checking idees. Ain’t even gotta look at ’em. Buck held a scanner that said if’n t’was valid, and it do pop up with a high-res photo-pitcher of the feller so’s Buck could check if’n t’was him.
Now and then he gots to punch a man’s lights out. T’was a perk worth remembering, cuz he enjoyed fisticuffs.
But Buck got another job too. His parole officer made him get “gainful employment”. Whatever “gainful” meant, bouncering wasn’t it. Buck axed what “gainful” was, and his parole officer just called him a stone-cold retard. Ain’t ne’er answer.

His gainful job was working as a exterminator. Buck been doing that off and on since the late 80s, working fer Mistah Taggart at Central Pest Control when he weren’t in prison or working on a oil rig. Mistah Taggart learned Buck about all them beetles, cockroaches, ants, earwigs, all them. And rats.


“Slow ya roll, Sampson, nuh-uh,” Crabgut said. “Rat traps is a weapon, can’t give you that. You think I’m a retard like you?”So’s when Buck was in prison and they gots a rat problem, Buck done come up to that guard Officer Crabgut and said he could lay out traps to get ridda them. Crabgut was a jowly, moist-shirt sumbitch, and he looked at Buck like a beetle-meat nugget.
Buck scowled. “But you hirin’ a ext’minatuh to lay out them same traps, he j’st ain’t doin’ it right.” He pointed to a trap. “If’n I wanna use one as a weapon, they’s the’uh. I could grab it. They ain’t sharp though. Ain’t no rat gonna get — he put it right out in the open, suh. T’ain’t-“
“Shut the fuck up, Sampson,” Officer Crabgut said. “Officer Hargrave is the facilities manager, he’s in charge of hirin’ an exterminatuh. A professional put them traps out.”
“I’s a professional too! He put ’em out bad! And he usin’ too much peanut buttuh. And he should use smooth, not crunchy-“
“Rats don’t care, Sampson, you’re crazy. Rats don’t got a peanut butter preference. You just playin’, you tryin’ a-get time outta ya cell,” Crabgut said. “You getting coop-up syndrome. Seen it before.”
“Nah, nah, nah, listen, listen — is he puttin’ traps in the ceiling? Tell him to put traps in the ceiling-“
“Rats don’t live in the ceiling, they don’t live up!” Officer Crabgut pointed to the ceiling, then down to the floor. “They live down. In like sewers and shit.”
Buck narrowed his eyes. “T’ain’t corre’t, suh-“
“Sampson! Quit backtalkin’,” Crabgut said. He brusquely shoved Buck back. “Git! You frustrated, Sampson?”
“Yeah! I got rats in mah cell. Gonna get that… uh… lepto… sis…” Buck was positive he was gonna remember that word right up until his tongue tripped o’er itself. “Leprosis. Or, uh… lepposposis, or…”

“Sampson… You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Crabgut said. He again shoved Buck back towards the cells. Buck was tall enough that Crabgut pushed on his side, below his ribcage, steada his shoulder, cuz Buck towered o’er him. “Miguel is ya cellmate, right?”


Buck nodded as he walked back to his cell, Crabgut close behind. Buck’s feet was bare, flapping upon the cold steel floor of the state prison, which ain’t provide shoes big enough fer Buck’s feet. Usually he wore socks, but they was all dirty now, so’s his feetses was bare.
“He a punk, right? Cornhole ‘im. That’ll calm you down,” Crabgut said. He handed o’er two packets of ramen. “Here, I’ll pay fer it. Just don’t get ornery, Sampson. I don’t want trouble. I’s startin’ a three-day weekend tonight, and I don’t wanna deal wit’ ya’ dumb ass.”
“I won’t — I ain’t ornery!” Buck said with a sigh.
Officer Crabgut reached Buck’s cell, then firmly but not violently shoved him into it. “Relax, Sampson. Hargrave will take care of the rats.” He closed the cell door and walked away. Right now was open-cell time, so’s the door wasn’t locked, but Crabgut’d prolly curl his lip at Buck opening it, so’s Buck stood by the door dopeishly.
Laying there on the lower bunk was his cellmate, Miguel, who got a magazine in his hand and a curious look upon his mug. Buck held them ramen packets in one hand.
Buck lit a cigarette from the battered pack by his upper bunk and fumed. “I tol’ him that ext’minatuh don’t know what he’s doin’,” Buck said. “He looked young. He prolly foolish. Mosta ’em don’t wanna come to a prison, so’n they sent the newest rookie, reckon.” Buck took a long drag off his smoke.

Miguel shrugged. “Prison got rats, gringazo,” he said. Then he added a inscrutable hand gesture and sound effect that presumably signified the inevitableness of entropy, the creeping spread of chaos in a post-capitalist society and his stoic acceptance of dhukha, the imperfection and dissatisfaction inherent to existence in Buddhist theology. “Hszhurhppaa.”


Cigarette smoke fuming outta his ugly mug, Buck wrinkled his nose. “I cain smell the rats, Miguel, I smells ’em. Tha’ss rat piss. It’s di’rent than mouse piss.”
“Ay, don’t talk about rat piss, gringazo,” Miguel said, lifting his soccer magazine to cover his face. He was a Latin King, which you could tell by his tats. He done earnt his place among ’em by renting hisself out. Mexicans do that to each other, they do.
So far as Buck was concerned, the most important reason to join up with a gang was to avoid giving up booty. Mexican don’t see it that way. They got l’il peckers, that was why. They was short and fat and got li’l pinkies poking out they oversized bushes. T’weren’t barely a thang to get cornholed by one them.
Miguel was skinny, not fat, but he was short as a donkey was stubborn, and he got a wormy thang. He ain’t like taking it from Buck’s big-boy meat.
Casual as he could muster, Buck tacked up the sheet that covered they cell door and the window in the door. That gave a li’l privacy. When Buck was confident ain’t nobody gonna interrupt, he tossed the two packs of ramen to Miguel.
His bristly mustache jostled as Miguel shrugged, then put the ramen with t’others. Ramen was, ‘long with cigarettes, canned sardines and phone cards, the main currency in this prison. Guards usually toted ramen with ’em cuz they was cheap as hell outside and could be brung in no problem — no restrictions on guards carrying ramen.
Then Miguel got up. He was plum near two feet shorter’an Buck, so’s he dwarfed under him as he smeared a big fistful of prison-kitchen hogfat upon his asscrack. Meanwhile, Buck stroked hisself hard. He fished out a September 1992 issue of a “pickemup truck magazine”, which was fulla purdy ladies near trucks. T’was as risqué as could be easily gotten in prison.
“Go quick, esé. And silencioso,” Miguel said, wiry muscles stretching to get his hand into his buttcrack. He winced as one finger slipped into his hole, then a second. He bit his lower lip. “Shushy, gringazo.”
Buck nodded. “Make guhl sounds, Miguel, I’s picturin’ ya mamacita on mah dick,” he said with a laugh. Miguel sucked upon his teeth. Buck showed him the Latina in the magazine, who was purdy indeed. “She Mexican, and she hot-” He kept one giant hand on his cock, which firmed up in his grip.
“It say right there she Puerto Rican, gringazo,” Miguel said. He winced again as he got a third finger in his own ass, which he forced hisself to endure, as t’would feel better’an letting Buck ramrod him unprepared. His limbs strained and twitched, his tattoos rippling.
“Oh,” Buck’s chuckles turned sheepish. He ain’t see that bit, and Miguel done made his feelings on Puerto Ricans clear as sprite — Miguel soured on Puerto Ricans like tamarind soda. But Buck weren’t interested in the mamacita’s origins, and he got no notions on the nationalities of Hispanics. He liked her ass. He was eye-deep in that magazine when Miguel bent o’er.
T’weren’t a invitation fer Buck to get started. Miguel wanna put his makeshift dildo in his ass, that would loosen him up. Miguel bent o’er to get that dildo from his poke at the foot of his bunk.
But Buck was eyefucking the Puerto Rican lady — who drove a Hyundai! — and he took Miguel bending o’er to mean he was ready. One hand upon the magazine, t’other upon his dick, Buck bent his knees and jabbed his dick like a battery ram.
He missed the butthole entirely.
“Ay ay, wait,” Miguel said. He squirmed, his lubey hands pushing behind hisself upon Buck’s stallion-like body. “Wait!” Buck’s cock stabbed his asscheek hard, like Buck was trying-a poke a new butthole in it.
“Sawry, sawry, I’mma wait, whatchoo wanna do?” Buck said. He was so much taller’an Miguel that t’was hard to get his wang and Miguel’s caboose to line up. He kept thrusting though, having no idear he was ramming Miguel’s back and side hard enough to hurt.
“Ay, ay, wait, lemme get it open, gringazo,” Miguel said. “Ay ay ay.” He found the dildo and smeared hog fat on it. “Don’t press down this time, Buck. You are too big, too grande.” He whistled. Then one hand gingerly inserted the “dildo” — actually a piece of ceramic that broke off a toilet — and t’other flicked Buck’s thirteen-inch rod. T’was thicker’an Miguel’s forearm. He pointed to Buck’s chest. “Don’t press down on my back. You are heavy, and you are hairy, and you smell like a saddle.”
Buck looked at Miguel ’round the magazine. “Maxi said punks gotta-“
“I ain’t a punk!” Miguel said. He done explain this b’fore — Miguel was a Latin King. He hadta pay fer his membership by giving up the booty, but that was a valid membership. A “punk” was not a member of the gang; a punk was owned by the gang. Punks also gave up the booty, so’s the difference seemed negligent to Buck. T’was vital to Miguel.
T’was Buck’s turn to snort like a jaded pony and make a masturbatory hand gesture, which combined to signify his belief in the mutability of socially constructed roles qua the fulfillment of incumbent sociocultural systems and functions, strength and dominance as determiners per se of masculine hierarchies and the civilizational sine qua non of a peremptory conception of so-called manhood to staunch the onslaught of Leviathan.
But he ain’t argue. Once he got his pecker up Miguel’s guts, Buck’d be dictating the position fer sho’re.
“C’mon, I’s hard,” Buck said. He put the magazine down upon Miguel’s bed, hugged his hairy shoulders from behind and pulled him close. Miguel straightened his back.
“Wait, esé, I-” Miguel yelped. Buck’s meaty stomach pressed ‘gainst his head. Miguel squirmed. “It’s still-“
Buck dropped to his knees, which lined his cock up with Miguel’s ass, and he rammed his knob right at Miguel’s butthole, which was stretched wide.
T’was stretched cuz that piece of ceramic dildo was still in there. Buck forgot about that, and his knob jammed into it. Him and Miguel said ow and ay respectively.
“I’ll get it out,” Buck said, slapping Miguel’s hand away. “I’mma lose mah stiffy if’n I don’t stick it in ya soon. Ya asshole is narsty, Miguel.” His crack was lined with black hairs — the cheeks was mostly smooth, but his crack was so hairy Buck ain’t wanna look at it. Buck gingerly used two fingertips to pull the ceramic dildo out, his other hand spreading them asscheeks.
“Put lard on it!” Miguel said. He gave Buck the tub of hog fat, but Buck ain’t take it, as Buck got one hand upon his own cock and t’other spreading Miguel’s buttcheeks the best Buck could without touching any the butthair. “Lard!”
“I will, I will,” Buck said. With a quick thrust, he aimed it fer Miguel’s lubed-up hole, but the tip bounced off. He picked up the tub of hog fat. He tried again, and this time the tip went in. “Got in, keep it open, keep it-“
“Ay! Lard! Put on the lard, esé!” Miguel snapped. His asshole snapped too, and it pushed Buck’s cock right out. Buck still ain’t even open the tub of hog fat.
“I am, I am!” Buck said. His voice was so deep it echoed in the tiny cell, and Miguel hissed fer him to shush. Buck smeared hog fat upon his cock, which was losing its erection. “Sheeit, Miguel, put’cha mouth on it. Get it hard again.”
Miguel smacked his lips shut. “Nuh-uh.” He mumbled. “T’was in my culo, gringazo.”
“Just the tip was, fer like a second!” Buck said. “I swan-!”
“Shush! Keep it down!”
“Why? E’erybody knows you give it up behind,” Buck said.
“They don’t gotta know when!” Miguel said. “Get ya own self hard, Buck.”
Buck grumbled, but he picked up the magazine and stroked his dick again. T’was easier this time since he was lubed up, and his greasy hand slid up and down the shaft. Meanwhile Miguel be working at his own butthole with his fingers. He got four fingers in there.
In a flurry, Buck pulled Miguel’s fingers outta his own ass, then rammed his dick in as far as t’would go — he wanna go fast both so’s Miguel don’t come up with more delays and so’s his asshole don’t snap shut. Miguel wheezed and squirmed, and maybe four, five inches of dickmeat disappeared up there.
“Aaaah, sheeit, here we go-“
“Damn, gringazo, gimme a warnin’,” Miguel said.
“Sawry, sawry,” Buck said. Miguel stood, while Buck kneeled behind him, so’s Buck’s strong arms held him upright when Miguel’s knees got weak. He spread his legs the best he could. Miguel clenched his teeth and his ropy limbs all tensed up. “You’s tensin’ up, Miguel, relax, relax, relax-“
“Ay, ay-“
“You clenchin’, wait, wait-” Buck hugged him close, despite the bristly body hair all o’er Miguel’s chest. It turned Buck off. He couldn’t imagine tits if’n his hands was where’n tits should be and there weren’t no tits, and he used both hands to hold squirmy Miguel, so’s he couldn’t hold the magazine open. Miguel’s asshole was clenching and pushing Buck’s cock out, which Buck accepted was not deliberate — they done go thru this argument — but he got a right to force Miguel to slacken his booty. “You clenchin’, Miguel-“
“Sshhhiiiizzhzhhh!” Miguel roared. He lurched forward, banging his head ‘gainst the wall. Buck tried to support him, but Miguel couldn’t help but wriggle. His tattooed hands clawed behind hisself at Buck’s chest.
“Goddamn that feels good…” Buck murmured. Miguel done took mosta Buck’s shaft, and he was heaving on a rhythm like a woman in labor. Buck tried to keep Miguel in place as pleasure wracked his body, but Buck admired to use one hand to get that magazine back where’n he could see it.
Soon as he leggo Miguel though, Miguel squirmed hard again — that made his ass squeeze and massage Buck’s cock, which was leaking gobs of precum now. That helped further grease up Miguel’s broke-in booty.
Buck worked his dick back and forth, as Miguel’s panting slowed down. Each time he thrust, he tried to force it a l’il deeper, but he ain’t try to ram him too hard, cuz Miguel was a amigo fer real.
Finally Miguel seethed and said weakly, “Ay, wait, gimme a sec, Buck…”
“Nah, I’mma nut real quick, promise,” Buck said. He admired to look at the magazine, but e’ery time he got it in position, Miguel wriggled, and Buck gotta use both hands to steady him. He found hisself looking at Miguel’s back, which got a tattoo of a sexy grim reaper-lady, who filled Buck with contrary feelings. He preferred the magazine.
A rat moved, and Buck jerked away from Miguel. His lard-goop dick popped outta Miguel’s ass.
The rat paused like t’ain’t mean to show itself. Buck stepped to it and stomped with one bare foot, only fer the rat to dart away.
It went to the cell door, and Buck followed, his hardon dripping precum onto the cement floor. Buck hesitated cuz he ain’t wanna stomp a rat with his bare feet. He picked up one Miguel’s prison sandals.
“Ay, shit, la rata!” Miguel jumped up onto his bunk, then winced and cradled his sore asscheeks.
The rat squealed and wriggled ’round the shut cell door, which weren’t latched shut. When it creaked open enough, the rat squirmed out the cell and into the prison proper. Buck chased after it, his erect dick still dribbling onto the cold steel floor. He stopped when he realized he was naked with a hardon afronta the whole cell block.
“Eww, Buck’s bootysmashin’!” Buncha fellers started laughing. They pointed, and ain’t nobody even notice the rat, which disappeared into the walls somewhere.
“Bootysmasher!”
“Hillbillies do that, they do…”
“Ewww, his cellmate’s Miguel, right?”
Buck blushed and covered his crotch with both hands, his fat cock spilling out the sides of his grip. He hurried back to the cell
“Nah, nah, I’s gettin’ ready — I’s changin’ my clothes!” Buck called out, but ain’t nobody believe him. They done seed his dick in the shower, and don’t nobody believe a big-dick man like Buck was going thru his prison sentence without smashing booties. And e’erybody knewed Miguel do give up the booty if’n he get paid.
“You cabronazo!” Miguel hissed. “Everybody saw that-“
“I was goin’ aftuh the rat!”
Miguel still stood upon the edge of his bunk, gripping the upper bunk (Buck’s) to keep his bare feet off the cell floor. He sucked on his teeth. “Is that how you exterminate rats, Buck? You chase ’em each one?”
But Buck just grumbled, as some homeboys knocked upon the cell door and shared hushed laughs. They wasn’t allowed to open the door — T’was unlocked, but opening a cell door without permission was a stabbable offense. They kept banging on it and saying sump’in incomprehensive, maybe pretending they was guards ordering Buck to open the door. They peeked ’round the sheet curtain too.
That all only took less than a minute, and Buck’s hardon was still throbbing. He admired to defend his name, but even as he did, he lined his crotch up with Miguel’s ass — easy to do while Miguel stood upon his bunk. That lifted his hairy asscrack up enough fer Buck to get behind him and ram it right in.
“Shuddup out the’uh!” Buck called out. “I was changin’ mah clothes!”
A twitch came o’er Miguel as Buck’s cock entered his ass once more, and Miguel tensed up again. He clenched his teeth. “Shit, go slow, cabronazo.”
Buck nodded. He lowered his holler-heavy voice. “Spread ya legs, Miguel, c’mon…”
Miguel did so, wincing when Buck’s dick pushed in inch after inch. He shook like a hound-dog shitting a peach pit. His legs spread wide, and he gripped Buck’s bunk, the upper one, fer support.
“Ay ay ay…” Miguel muttered, as pain enveloped him again. Buck’s powerful arms wrapped ’round him so’s he couldn’t squirm too bad. Miguel panted, while Buck’s chest muscles writhed with the intense spasms of pleasure running thru his body.
The sound of the homeboys banging upon the cell door faded. Buck pounded now, relentless, and soon Miguel wasn’t really supporting hisself ‘t all — Buck hugged him and lifted him off the bunk, so’n Miguel was swallowed up by Buck’s barrel chest. Then Miguel could squirm all he wanted, he got no leverage, and Buck could use his ass more like a fleshlight than a pussy.
That hurt, but it sent Buck right o’er the edge.
A thick wave of nut filled Miguel’s ass. Buck let out a long, chamberous moan, and he felt his tensions draining away like melted butter. Crabgut was right, he did needta blow a nut.
“Ay…”
Grimacing his teeth, Miguel scrunched his eyes shut. The pressure in his ass was so intense it felt like he was being split in two, like Buck done broke sump’in in his backside. But Miguel knewed it always felt like this — Buck got big meat. Wave after wave of creamy cum flowed into Miguel, a bigger load than he thought possible. Mexicans ain’t shoot that much he thought, or maybe they was just more apt to pull out and shoot on his back, while Buck preferred to get e’ery drop all the way up in Miguel’s guts.
Buck at last pulled out and sighed, and he put Miguel down. He blanched at sight of buncha black fellers outside the cell, peering in ’round the edge of the sheet curtain blocking the window on the door. They was laughing at Buck wiping his dingdong clean. Buck moved the sheet they got set up so’s it blocked the window again — he ne’er done fix it correct-like after coming back in here. Buck felt like an idiot. Them homeboys was gonna be calling him a booty bandit fer months.
As though they ain’t done it too. Homeboys was all booty bandits, in Buck’s experience. They all either be ramrodding or getting it up the dookie by a bigger one. But they think it’s funny when a whiteboy do it.
“Goddamn that hurt, esé,” Miguel said, caressing his sore ass. A wave of cum poured down his inner thighs as he got off his bunk and stretched his legs. “And you’s estúpido fer goin’ out there. Everybody saw it! Fuckin’ dumbass cabron.”

Buck the Dumbass

Chapter One: Ann Arbor, 1999

Chapter Two: Peremptory Manhood

Chapter Three: Statistics 101

Chapter Four: Systems of Oppression

Chapter Five: Lung Stuff

Buck the Dumbass: Chapter 3

Buck the Dumbass

Chapter One: Ann Arbor, 1999

Chapter Two: Peremptory Manhood

Chapter Three: Statistics 101

Chapter Four: Systems of Oppression

Chapter Five: Lung Stuff

Buck laid a smackdown upon this twerpy white thang with a name too big fer his trouser-pants, which he sagged like a yo’ boy. He was MC Nutty or some dumbass college-boy wannabe Vanilla Ice shit like that, and he got loud all night, hooting at the waitresses. Buck hadta go tell him classy-like to keep his voice down. The man looked subduified by Buck’s bigness and firm words, but after couple more drinks, he got gropey as a octopus upon a waitress. Buck don’t like a man who treat a woman unproper, so’n he planked the fuzz outta him. He drug him sputtering, bloody-nosed and bruising up, into the back alley and deposited him beside the dumpster.
And then he went back to his eternal post at the door. Nuttin’ much happened after that. Nary the customers or waitresses axed about the man, MC Nutbag. In the alley, the man musta got up, cuz he was gone when Buck went to piss on him later. He been looking forward to that, so’s now he got nuttin’ to do the resta the night, unless’n one the remaindering broh boys got fresh. They simmered on low though, all night long, and Buck was dreary to droop by the time Teddy called last call.
Damn but bouncering was a boring-ass job lotta the time. T’was more boring than prison somehow. ‘Least in prison, a feller knows he gonna have nuttin’ to do fer the foreseeable. Ain’t nuttin’ gonna change that. Outsidea prison, here at Lipsweet, sump’in better was always right ’round the corner, a corner Buck couldn’t go round cuz he was stuck at the dingdarn door.
T’was enough to remind Buck of school. School gave him that same feeling, that he be jumping thru pointless hoops steada living a life with meaning.
Buck always did struggle in school, and he only barely graduated. The only parta school life that felt right was the wrestling team. His coaches ensured he ain’t waste time upon schoolwork, which was good, cuz Buck woulda dropped out if’n he gotta do his work. They even put him in a college-prep class, and then he was recruited by GHU fer they wrestling team. That was what brung him to Ann Arbor in the first place back in the 80s.
‘Course, even when he was a college student, he ain’t do nary his coursework. Officially, Buck done earn mosta his degree in physical education. Ne’er got a diploma though.
In Buck’s freshman year, he got a tutor name Donovan, this sniveling spectacled knowitall who be eye-gauging Buck up a retard. At first, Buck ain’t care ’bout them looks. He got bigger things on his mind — tourneyments, coeds, lunch.
The longer his freshman year went on, the more Donovan discomfitted Buck. They was both freshmen, though Buck was older cuz he got held back loads in school. Donovan scowled at that when he found out, like he thought Buck shouldn’t-a been allowed to come to GHU cuzza his school record. He always talked like he was struggling not to sneer in Buck’s direction.
Donovan was a stick of a nerd in Buck’s gaze though, weak as a thimble in the stormy sea. He was short and beaky-nosed and soft-spoke, and he was kinda feminine in a weird way. It made Buck wanna give him a wedgie.
But he resisted the urge.
He got back to the team house after practice one afternoon, and Donovan was there upon the front porch waiting fer him. He got a superior arch to his brow.
“I have your stat homework.”
“Mah what?”
“Stat homework,” Donovan said with a harsh snap.

Buck got no idear what that meant — he first heered I have ya’s at homework, which ain’t make sense, and he ain’t connect stat to his statistics class, which he ne’er done attend. He was only vaguely aware that statistics had to do with like percents and shit. Finally, after a awkward pause, Buck said, “Yeah,” as though that was obvious. He took the homework from Donovan. Why’d he make that so difficult? Both Buck and Donovan thought that as they separated. Donovan scurried back to his dorm.

Meanwhile, Buck went inside, where’n his wrestling-team buddies was sitting round drinking beer and talking ’bout girls. T’was a endlessly fruitful topic round here. Buck got into it with ’em, and they discussed the merits of tits versus legs versus ass all evening long, till some real ladies showed up from Omega house to parade ’round they tits, legs and asses.
In a’ry case, once him and t’other wrestlers filled they moist womanhoods up, Buck and t’other wrestlers got sleepy. The Omega girls went back to they house so’s they wouldn’t get in trouble, and Buck was slumbering fulla snores in his room. When Donovan came o’er with a page of stat homework he done forget to include b’fore, Buck remained sound asleep in his room.
“Buck. Hey, Buck, wake up,” Donovan said. He touched Buck’s broad chest, only slightly hairy then cuz he was a young man still. His pecs were firm and round, like a man in a movie — Donovan went to a small private school fulla skinny nerds with pocket protectors and thick-rimmed glasses; Donovan was virtually a jock there. Even the gym teacher had a degree in kinesiology. Donovan ain’t ne’er seen a man with real pecs b’fore.
Them pics rippled ‘neath Donovan’s fingers. He sucked in his breath. His hands explored Buck’s bare chest, dappled with the remains of fucksweat and Omega-babe juices.
Buck’s eyes blinked open, and he stirred. He was bleary, his breath reeking of skunk beer. He belched in Donovan’s face. Though Buck done awake, Donovan was still touching his chest. Them heavyweight muscles all flexed at once, but Donovan ain’t stop. He full-on groped Buck’s muscles like Coach Walker when he gave a massage (he gave very rough massages with painfully callused fingers).
“I forgot to give you one of the pages of your stat homework,” Donovan said.
Buck shrugged. “‘Kay.” He closed his eyes again. T’weren’t clear he was aware of what Donovan said or even who was speaking to him right now. His muscles kept rippling though, which entranced Donovan.
A feminine giggle escaped from Donovan’s lips. God damn Buck was an idiot, he thought. Donovan’s father let him get drunk once a few months ago, so’s he could do it once b’fore coming to college. He said only idiots get pass-out drunk. Buck and his jock buddies did it e’ery weekend and some weekdays.
And Buck was huge! Imagine how much he hadta drink to get that drunk.
When even Donovan’s giggles didn’t wake Buck up, he slowly, gently pulled Buck’s underwear down. Since he lay on his back upon his bed, Donovan couldn’t get the underwear all the way down — Buck was much too heavy. He did lower his tight-whites enough to bare his massive cock, which made Donovan’s eyes bug out.
That thang was more’an a foot long!
That was why he admired to tutor Buck in the first place, after all, cuz he heered rumors that he had a giant dick. The rumors came from both women Donovan overheard when him and his nerdy friends peeped on the women’s locker room as well as from one friend who showered and changed with Buck in the men’s locker room. He ain’t believed it.
But here it was, in his grip, so hefty t’was actually heavy. It throbbed and pulsated, veiny and knobby. Donovan’s dick was smooth as porcelain in comparison. Was cocks sposeda to be vein-shafted knobbly clubs like Buck’s? Donovan ain’t know.
Buck’s shaft flopped left and right in Donovan’s hand, while he sucked in his breath and checked if’n Buck would awake. He ain’t. He slumbered like a log, and his dick remained limp as could be.

Donovan ain’t mind that. He liked the heft of it. It felt right in his hands. T’was as thick as Donovan’s wrist. He bent o’er and put the tip of it in his mouth, and Buck still ain’t respond.



It tasted salty with old sweat — and from the Omega cheerleader who came by so’s Buck could fuck her, but Donovan ain’t know about her and ne’er tasted no cheerleader pussyjuice, so’s he got no frame of reference — and it made Donovan’s whole body tingle. He ain’t ne’er taste nuttin’ like this. T’was warm and soft at first, but as Donovan ran his tongue up and down the shaft, it slowly firmed up in his grasp.
A snort came outta Buck’s fat nose, but he ain’t wake up. His cock twitched in Donovan’s mouth. It stayed soft though.
T’ain’t stay soft fer long. Donovan ain’t know Buck done blow three loads in Omega-babe snatch couple hours back, but he was young enough then that his balls was already full-up again. His cock was a-mite slow to rouse. Once Donovan started working his hand up and down though, tongue exploring the piss-slit and slathering spit upon the tip, it firmed up bit by bit.
He kept stroking Buck’s dick until t’was hard. T’was even thicker now, and Buck stirred slightly but he ain’t wake up. Donovan slurped upon the tip until his spit ran down the shaft into Buck’s crotch hair.
Taking his own clothes off, Donovan felt a twinge of embarrassment at his skinny frame and small dick — neither of which was notable — Donovan weren’t ‘specially skinny and his cock was normal-sized, but he looked tiny next to Buck. Donovan was glad ain’t nobody wakeful to see though. His own dick done got hard, and it pulsated in his grip. He straddled Buck and rubbed his manhood upon Buck’s much bigger shaft. Donovan frotted both cocks together until his own was leaking precum. Buck’s dick spat much more prejizz, and his was extra strong-tasting, salty and sweaty.
Cum sprayed o’er Buck’s chest. Since Buck was asleep, Donovan was surprised by it, Buck’s stony face giving no cues t’was coming. A long and continuous flow roped o’er and o’er onto his pecs, and then Donovan rammed his mouth back upon Buck’s knob.
A sleepy moan came outta Buck’s throat, same time as another wad of jizz spurted out. Donovan caught mosta it in his mouth.
Great gobs of jizz exploded into his Donovan’s throat. He couldn’t swallow it, so’n it instantly overflowed and spilled onto Buck’s legs. Some got upon his thick thighs and ran onto the bedsheets below.
Just when Donovan thought Buck was done and pulled off, a jerk hit Buck’s body, and his hands fluttered, then falled limp again, and a final cumwad sprayed Donovan in his open, gasping mouth. It spilled o’er his face and onto the mattress below.
All that cum dripped off Donovan’s face. T’was warm and gooey, and he savored the feel of it drying there, as his sopping-wet hands rubbed Buck’s limpening meat. T’was so long it took both his hands, and if’n he’d had a third, he coulda used that too.
When Buck’s glistening cock was soft again, Donovan finally pulled off it. He frotted his dick upon Buck’s limpness. T’was hot and sopping wet. Cum dripped down Buck’s pecs and streaked his six-pack abs.
He was sound asleep now. “Sleepy-deeping” — Donovan done heered Buck say that last month. T’was one of his redneckisms, which lotta men thought was funny, maybe women too. Donovan discottoned to rednecks though.
“Good night, Buck,” Donovan said softly. His hands smeared cum all o’er Buck’s chest and even onto his face. Buck wrinkled his crooked nose, but he ain’t respond. Jizz clung milkily upon his cheeks and his square jaw.
Donovan stood up and laughed under his breath. Buck was like a rock now, passed out. He done seem deeply asleep couple minutes ago, but now, Donovan could tell he was out fer the night. That orgasm put him under.
So’n Donovan could do whatever he admired to Buck’s wrestler muscles. He held back another giggle, more outta habit than stealth — if’n Buck were wakeful, he’d prolly tease Donovan fer giggling like a girl. But nobody was around, so’s Donovan could giggle all he wanted as he massaged Buck’s massive biceps and broad shoulders.
His dick poked Buck in his stomach, which was just slightly too meaty to be a perfect six-pack — when he cut weight fer wrestling, he sometimes had a six-pack, but Buck was naturally beefy. Donovan’s dick jabbed Buck in the sternum, and Donovan humped his pecs, holding onto Buck’s massive head fer support.
Then he worked his way up Buck’s thick neck to his chin and face. Donovan’s cock dabbed precum onto Buck’s nose and upper lip. When Buck still slept on, Donovan rammed his cock into Buck’s open, ready-to-snore mouth. Buck choked, and Donovan panicked. He pulled his cock out.
But Buck stayed sleeping.
After a couple seconds, Donovan again let his throbbing-hard cock touch Buck’s chin and lower lip. No response. The scruff of Buck’s unshaven cheeks scratched at Donovan’s shaft. Like most college freshmen, Donovan didn’t need-a shave e’ery day and didn’t get scruff like that.
‘Course, Buck was old fer a freshman.
Donovan pushed his dick back in Buck’s waiting mouth, and Buck remained still as a eggplant. His tongue lay flat and moist, waiting fer Donovan to hump his gooey shaft ‘long the top of it. His cock slid into Buck’s throat. Donovan could easily push the whole shaft down there, as Buck was so big his mouth was huge. Donovan gasped.
Precum flowed into Buck’s mouth, and Donovan intended to pull out to prolong this, but b’fore’n he could think, an orgasm overcame him. A cumwad spurted into Buck’s mouth, then his second jizz coated Buck’s square jaw and face. A moist choke came outta Buck’s unconscious body, which spat Donovan’s dick out mid-orgasm.
“Oh god…” Donovan wondered if’n this was what sex was like. It felt so good, like milk chocolate flowed thru his veins. He had to hold onto Buck’s solid shoulders fer support. He wanna get his cock back into Buck’s mouth, but it felt so incredible Donovan couldn’t coordinate his movements well enough. He rammed Buck in his stony face and spurted wad after wad o’er goo o’er his crooked nose and square cheeks. He got the tip in Buck’s hot mouth again, only fer Buck’s throat to instinctively choke it back out. Donovan sucked in his breath and gritted his teeth as his final jizz coated Buck’s forehead and even reached the bottom of his mullet behind his nape.
Donovan kept stroking his limp dick until e’ery last drop had dribbled onto Buck’s chin or into the peach fuzz upon his chest. He was hairy fer a college student. Donovan rubbed his dick in Buck’s chest hair too. He’d ne’er felt anythang like that — Buck wasn’t as hairy as he was as an old man, but fer a college freshman, he might as well have been sasquatch.
When Donovan was soft, he got paranoid about being caught. He pulled up his pants in a hurry, suddenly certain Buck was gonna wake up soon. Donovan scurried out into the night.
And the best part was, Donovan thought, that Buck was too dumb to realize why he was so sticky in the morning.

Buck the Dumbass

Chapter One: Ann Arbor, 1999

Chapter Two: Peremptory Manhood

Chapter Three: Statistics 101

Chapter Four: Systems of Oppression

Chapter Five: Lung Stuff

Buck the Dumbass: Chapter 4

Buck the Dumbass

Chapter One: Ann Arbor, 1999

Chapter Two: Peremptory Manhood

Chapter Three: Statistics 101

Chapter Four: Systems of Oppression

Chapter Five: Lung Stuff

Buck left Lucy’s house just after dawn, that way nary the neighbors would see. Lucy was his long-time girlfriend. Unfortunately, she been shacked up with another man fer awhile. She was still seeing Buck on the side, so’s he gotta sneak out pre-dawn. He ain’t have enough time fer a morning quickie, which meant he gotta run the whole way with a hardon.
Another reason to leave early was that Buck gotta go in to work — not bouncering at Lipsweet, he also got that part-time job as a exterminator with Central Pest Control. Buck discottoned to the early-morning work, but he gotta have that “gainful” job to keep his parole officer calm.

He undressed in the locker room, last one there, so’s he gotta race to get his uniform on. He hoped Mistah Taggart seed that he weren’t late to arrive, cuz he was late by the time he got his job clipboard from the box by the office. Mistah Taggart was in there scowling.



“I was he’uh on time, suh,” Buck said. Technically, he walked in the door one minute late, and he was leaving the workshop late. He picked up the clipboard fer his pickemup. The clipboard got a long list of addresses, but more importantly it came with a printed-out map of the county. The addresses was labeled upon it. Buck knewed this county like a hound-dog knows its dish-bowl, so’s he could find the locations easy as ice cream.
“Fine, go,” Mistah Taggart said like he ain’t entirely believe Buck. But he shrugged him off anyways.
Buck stopped and showed Mistah Taggart the clipboard. “This one got two addresses, suh. Which one do I go to?”
Mistah Taggart raised his eyebrows. “Go to the first address to get the key. Second address is where you gonna spray.” He paused. “That’s a broke-down building, Sampson. Be careful. Kick the hobos out before you spray. That’s why I gave you that one, you’s a big feller, you can handle a rough situation. That building was abandoned two years ago, and some squatters moved in. If’n they give you too much trouble, call the police.”
“Yes, suh,” Buck said.
Buck nodded as he walked out. The clipboard listed the pesticide to use. Buck don’t know them sciencey words, but he could match ’em up with the labels, and he got a good memory fer the details of how to use each one.
Still waking off his nods, Buck headed to the nearby gas station fer a breakfast sandwich, a cuppa coffee and a full tank. Then he went out to his first couple stops, which all went swift as a breeze. He set down some rat traps and bait stations, put a one-way flap in a lady’s bat-filled attic and picked up a raccoon in a cage.
After letting the raccoon go free in a state park, he went to get the key to the abandoned building, and he drove to it. The building looked fine from a distance, but when he got close, he seed all the shattered windows and the untended grass.
He went in the old apartment building — ain’t need the key, it turned out, as the front door was ripped off its hinges. He smacked a stick upon a rustbucket icebox near the door, which made a loud ringing sound.
“Hey! All y’all! Anybody in this buildin’ best get out!” Buck shouted. His deep-chested baritone echoed. “I’mma fill it wit’ poison! Central Pest Control he’uh, ’bout to kill lit’ally e’erythang he’uh’! You gotto skedaddle!”
A shambly black man glanced at him, then hobble-footed out the door. He was followed by two more fellers, and then a woman with blue hair and safety-pin piercings lurched out. She was smacking two fingers upon her elbow like she was fitting to shoot up. Buck ain’t say nuttin’ to nary the squatters, as they was leaving peaceable-like, and he ain’t wanna interrupt that.

When he was satisfied there weren’t no hobos left on the first floor, he went up the creaky step-staircase on the lookout fer more. He kept repeating hisself and making buncha noise. He imitated a siren’s squeal too, hoping that might rouse some lazy hobos. “Gonna fill this place wit’ poison gas, y’all! Best skedaddle!”
Nobody on the second floor. Buck went up to the top floor, the third, and looked round there. Seemed quiet, but he kept calling out regardless-like.


Gonna cost a purdy penny to fix this place up, he thought. It musta been got abandoned to the squatters a long time ago. The grime was caked in. Plumbing and wiring gonna hafta be redone entirely. Roof too, likeishly.
“Hey!” Buck snapped when he seed some mohawky whiteboy, who be lingering like a rash. “You gotsta get out.” The whiteboy got a blanket and some clothes spread out in the least rubble-filled room upon the third floor. A boombox and a heroin kit was the only furniture. Sunlight streamed in from the shattered windows upon one wall, illuminating the cloud of dust and drug smoke that filled the room.
The mohawky whiteboy looked at Buck like one them two was a idiot, but he weren’t sho’re which. “I’m stayin’ here, I claimed this place in the name of freedom. You can’t institute your system of oppression here, you fascist!”
“Ain’t no fashist, you fashist,” Buck said. He got no inkling what a fascist was. “I’mma fill this place wit’ poison, mothahfuckah. Fashist! You fash e’erybody-“
“No! You can’t!”
“It’s fulla cockroaches, hoss. Rats too, fer sho’re. It’s bad, they’s fixin’ it up-“
“No!” The mohawky thang tottered left and right. He was on sump’in fer sho’re, or maybe he was off it at the moment and jonesing fer more. Buck seed his heroin kit but ain’t see no heroin. The mohawk on a needle frowned and eyebrowed hard upon Buck. “Nothin’ wrong, nothin’ wrong, nothin’ wrong with cockroaches, you’re a — they’re my friend. You’re a fascist! You’re a fascist, man. You’re imposing your… whatever, and… All life is sacred anyway.”
“A’ight, dawg, you gots to go,” Buck said. He took him by the arm, which was muscled but shrunk, with track marks abundant.
“Nah, nah, no, you gonna get outta here, gotta go, gotta go, I’ll kick ya hillbilly fascist ass redneck motherfucker-“
“Hey! Don’t test me! You is vexin’ mah ire now,” Buck said and wagged his finger at the mohawky whiteboy, who jerked away from him. He feinted hard at Buck, but Buck do stoneface.
The two squared up, Buck big and burly, the squatter dim-eyed, ripple-muscled and padding-less. Anarchy symbols and a portrait of Che Guevara covered his muscle-limbed body. His name was Jenner, and he snarled at Buck like he wanna fight, like he ain’t notice Buck was so much bigger’an him.
“Come at me then, fascist!” Jenner patted his own chest like a skinny Hulk Hogan — like Hulk Hogan had a baby with a rake. Then he punched Buck right in the belly, and Buck shrugged it off like a meow. He was too addled to punch effectively, and he got wiry arms, strong but withered. Buck shoved him away.
“Quit it, I ain’t playin’, hoss, you best step off,” Buck said.
“Shuddup, I’ll fuck you up, you think you’re hot shit!” the mohawked punk said. “C’mon! You work fer the police, huh? You a piggie?”
“No! I’s a ext’minatuh, son, slow ya toe! C’mon, I’s j’st killin’ the cockroaches. You cain take ya shit wit’cha,” he said. “You cain even come back in four hours, I don’t care. If’n you come back early, you gonna die.”
But the mohawky Jenner punched him again, his fist colliding with the meat of Buck’s belly. Flinchless, Buck gritted his teeth. He shoved the mohawked stack of string down like a disrespectful tombstone.
“Lay off!”

“Fascist!” Jenner bounced back onto his feet, and Buck shoved him to the wall. His pants dropped to his ankles, baring a ratty pair of boxers. Buck ain’t mean to do that, but it got the mohawk stumbling. He ain’t seem to grasp that his pants was ’round his ankles, and he steady tripped on ’em.


Buck grabbed Jenner by the mohawk and pulled his boxers down. “See what you makin’ me do?” Buck wrapped one arm ’round him to squeeze his neck. Buck’s free hand undid the fly of his workpants and fished out his cock, which he rubbed limply upon the mohawked man’s buttcheeks.
Still unaware, Jenner stumbled in place and shouted. He stopped only when Buck rammed his cock in the man’s ass, the knob slipping in, followed by just an inch or so of shaft b’fore’n he hit resistance.
But Buck weren’t in the mood to honor resistance. He squeezed the man’s neck till his body tensed, then he leggo and the mohawked man took a deep breath. The relaxation opened his butthole too, and Buck’s cock rammed in deep as a ditch.
“Oh god!”
“Sssshush, I done gave you a chance, motherfucker,” Buck said. He shuddered as pleasure coursed thru him. “Now this is happenin’.”
He spat upon his hand and smeared that on his shaft to give a li’l lube. But not much, cuz Buck ain’t intend this to go easy. His cock cornholed in and out till the mohawked man’s knees went weak, l’il deeper each time, and Buck followed him to the ground.
His asshole was well-worked and not intact in the least. Buck weren’t surprised. He prolly give it up fer heroin and whatever, you ne’er can tell with the ones with mohawks and anarchy shit. His ropy asscheeks squeezed ’round Buck’s manhood and sent more shivers of sensations thru Buck’s nerves.
“Ow, fu-uuuuuck…!” Jenner panted and wriggled. Buck slammed down on him with all his might, and Jenner’s bony ass got no resistance left. Buck moaned into his ear.
“You gonna get the fuck out?” Buck murmured. Jenner opened his mouth to say sump’in, but Buck bit his earlobe, and Jenner wriggled again. Buck grunted as his orgasm came nigh. Jenner shuddered. Buck said again, “You gonna leave, fashist?”
“Yeah!” Jenner said thru gritted teeth.
Buck’s heavy chest pinned Jenner to the ground, so’s he could scream into the ratty floor as much as he want, he ain’t make much noise. The hairy meat of Buck’s chest pressed ‘gainst Jenner’s bony back. Buck pistoned his hips, forcing the final couple inches into his guts as a climax wracked him. He spat upon the side of the man’s face.
A vast wave of cum seeped into Jenner, who closed his eyes and cringed. Buck moaned again and again, as he jerked his hips, pumping a fat flow of goo into Jenner’s guts.
Buck was right: Jenner done went thru this b’fore. Don’t make it no easier though. He heaved fer breath as his ass struggled to accommodate Buck’s cockshaft and his river of jizz. Jenner felt it flowing thru his body and puddling up under him.
His grunts condensed hotly upon Jenner’s cheek. One final cumwad spurted into him. Buck growled, and his muscles twitched ‘gainst Jenner’s back. Jenner twitched too.
When he done drain his dong, Buck slowly lifted his still-clothed body off the mohawked man’s bareness. Buck raised up till his cock plopped out. Jenner lay like he wanna crawl away, but when Buck got off him, Jenner plopped and sprawled out his lanky limbs in the puddle of Buck’s jizz. He lay there like a sleepy earwig.
“You best run, hoss,” Buck said. “Or I’mma redd up mah dick wit’cha tongue.”
“I’m outta here, you better not spray anything before I leave! You’re a fuckin’ fascist asshole piece of shit moron!” Jenner spat into the ground as he struggled to his feet. “You talk like a retard!”

Buck the Dumbass

Chapter One: Ann Arbor, 1999

Chapter Two: Peremptory Manhood

Chapter Three: Statistics 101

Chapter Four: Systems of Oppression

Chapter Five: Lung Stuff

Buck the Dumbass: Chapter 5

Buck the Dumbass

Chapter One: Ann Arbor, 1999

Chapter Two: Peremptory Manhood

Chapter Three: Statistics 101

Chapter Four: Systems of Oppression

Chapter Five: Lung Stuff

Buck got outta the Jag, which he done park in a lawny neighborhood with bunchesa young homeboys riding round on bicycles. He snorted and rubbed his nose, then opened the door fer Mistah Gregarian in the backseat. Mistah Gregarian took it that Buck delayed opening the door cuz he forgot, whereas in fact Buck remembered, he admired to keep eye upon them homeboys. Security was his job, after all.
But Mistah Gregarian sucked on his teeth when he got outta the Jag, and he said, “Can’t you remember anything, you ape?”
All Buck said was, “Sawry, suh.” Seemed easier to go ‘long with it. If’n Buck said anythang about homeboys or tried to pronounce s’cuh’ty, Mistah Gregarian’d have words to say.

He followed Mistah Gregarian o’er on up to the run-down house. Buck hadta step ’round a bucket of children’s toys and generic-brand cabbage-patch dolls that musta sat there fer a coon’s age, judging from the moss growing upon ’em. The paint on the house was fading.


The man hisself opened the door — James Macklevan was his name. He was sump’in called a “pullman-ologist”. It seemed to be a doctor, but Macklevan ain’t got no money. So’s maybe he was like a charity doctor or some shit, or maybe Macklevan weren’t very good at it.
“Mr. Gregarian! I was going to call you,” Macklevan said.
“Hmm-hmm.” Mistah Gregarian waited, then motioned fer Buck to go in as though Buck shoulda knewed that. Buck walked past him and barreled into the house.
“Please, wait-“
But Buck knocked him out with a fist to the side of the head-noggin. Macklevan crumpled to the ground like a snotty tissue.
“Goddamnit, Buck,” Mistah Gregarian said with a sigh. He checked Macklevan. “He’s unconscious!”
“Oh. Sawry, suh,” Buck said. “I thought I was sposedta heeit ‘im.”
“You were!” Mistah Gregarian said.
“Sawry.” Buck looked down at his feet. “H’ain’t mean to heeit him that hard.” Mistah Gregarian scowled. T’was unfair — Mistah Gregarian thought Buck oughta know what he wanted without saying so. That’s how it worked in the movies. The boss clucks his tongue or sump’in, and his lackeys know whether that means ‘kill this dude’ or ‘close the door’ or ‘punch him hard enough to hurt but not knock him out’ or whatever.
Outside the movies though, Buck got no way of knowing what Mistah Gregarian wanted unless’n Mistah Gregarian say so. T’ain’t classy to give direct orders.
How does the mafia do it? Buck don’t know — as a general rule, Buck don’t know thangs — and Mistah Gregarian was too small-potatoes to find out.
With a light slap upon his face, Macklevan roused. He stumbled to his feet. He was only unconscious fer a minute. Not really a big deal, Buck thought, not that Mistah Gregarian would treat it that way.
“You owe me money, Dr. Macklevan,” Mistah Gregarian said. He had to repeat it a couple times. Finally Macklevan nodded his understanding.
“I… I do,” Macklevan said. “I owe you money. I’ll pay, I really will. I’ve got a divorce lawyer, you see. It’s expensive. I-“
“So you’re paying your lawyer and not me? Is he more important than me?”
“Well, well, Mr. Gregarian, it’s complicated. If he can get my payments down, I’ll have more money to pay you,” Macklevan said. “Almost all my income goes to my wife right now.”
“You got anything you can sell?” Mistah Gregarian said. He motioned fer Buck to do sump’in — Buck woulda assumpted that meant ‘punch him again’, but he done got that wrong once, and he ain’t wanna do it again. Mistah Gregarian turned to him and scowled. “Go look for stuff to sell.”

“Yessuh,” Buck said. He went off to the kitchen first. Mistah Gregarian musta forgot Buck done scour this house fer pawnable items couple months back. Buck weren’t gonna point that out though, or Mistah Gregarian’d snap at him.
He ain’t find nuttin’. Last time they was here, he even took the icebox. Macklevan done found or maybe bought a mini-fridge, but Buck figgered t’weren’t worth much. He ate a cooked sausage outta it though, real quick so’s Mistah Gregarian wouldn’t see. He ain’t like Buck eating during missions, or even ‘tween missions.


When he came back to the front hall, Mistah Gregarian scowled in Buck’s direction. “Where have you been?”
“Lookin’ fer shit to sell,” Buck said. “He got nuttin’ in the kitchen.”
Mistah Gregarian shook his head like he was ashamed. He shoved Macklevan ‘gainst the wall. “Do it, Buck.”
Again, Buck hesitated. He ain’t know what it was. He got the notion Mistah Gregarian been threatening the doctor, but Buck ain’t know what the threat was. Mistah Gregarian done aim Macklevan at the wall, so’s t’ain’t seem like hitting him was the goal. Buck raised his eyebrows at Mistah Gregarian.
“Ramrod him, Buck,” Mistah Gregarian said with a vituperative slit to his eyelids.
That made Buck frown. He admired not to get a reputation as a booty bandit. As a man who done went to prison, which e’erybody knewed, and a man who done bandit buncha booties behind bars, which lotta fellers knewed, Buck was sensitive to a reputation. He done told Mistah Gregarian b’fore not to plan on him cornholing men to get ’em to pay back they debt.
Fer one thang, it don’t work. Don’t nobody keep money up they butthole.
At least there wasn’t no witnesses this time, and Buck done got on Mistah Gregarian’s bad side, so’n he ain’t complain. But he side-eyed Mistah Gregarian as he grabbed Macklevan by the pants, and the doctor’s cloudy eyes ain’t realize what was happening. Macklevan squirmed and squealed. He got no clear words to say though, he just looked at Buck like a lost puppy.
He pulled Macklevan’s sweatpants down and bared his ass. He squeezed Macklevan’s cheeks. They was plump, strong fer a middle-aged doctor — maybe pullman-ologists was like… the gym teachers of medical school, Buck thought. Or maybe he been living rough since he was on the feud with wifey.
In a’ry case, Buck lowered his own workpants just enough to get his dick out, and he thwacked it upon Macklevan’s buttcheeks. They rippled, and Buck chuckled. He stroked hisself hard. Macklevan weren’t even trying-a run away.
Do doctors know ’bout cornholing? Prison doctors do. But prisons don’t got pullmanologists. Macklevan grunted and stayed stoic like he thought the punishment was getting thwacked on the buttcheek by a hillbilly dingdong. That was just Buck getting hard. So maybe doctors don’t know about cornholing, or at least pullmanologists don’t.
Regardless-like, Buck rammed his hardon into Macklevan’s butthole. Macklevan cramped and cried out, cringing and whinging. “Hey, hey…! Hey, shit, what’re you doin’?!”
“Shuddup,” Buck murmured. He rammed a li’l harder. His cock slipped into Macklevan’s ass, and Macklevan’s eyes bugged out.
He was intact, so’n Buck hit resistance right away. Mistah Gregarian done left the room — he don’t wanna watch — and he ain’t see Buck struggling to get his dick in b’fore’n he lost his hardon. Macklevan’s booty was too tight, and Buck got no lube but his own spit, plus he was too tall, so’s he gotta bend his knees.
And Macklevan be making all these pained noises and panting and wordless begging, all of which Mistah Gregarian could prolly hear. Buck kinda wanna stop, as he weren’t ‘specially horny. Macklevan even done took all the photo-pitchers off the wall, so’s Buck got no females to look at it. The rectangles of faded paint showed where’n they usedta be.
“Ow, shit, c’mon, c’mon, Buck, c’mon…” Macklevan panted. Despite not wanting to go thru with it, Buck weren’t gonna stop. He got a hardon. A man gotta blow a nut, or the stuffed-up juices in his balls gonna get him in trouble.
And with a l’il spit, Buck got his shaft working back and forth in Macklevan’s grippy butthole.
T’ain’t feel good. It felt fine, Buck could get thru it, but this ain’t like t’was in prison. Ramrodding don’t feel the same out in the real world. He wouldn’t ne’er-a did it if’n Mistah Gregarian ain’t tell him he had to. Coulda drug it out fer hours too — Buck gotta close his eyes and concentrate to blow a nut. He was going back and forth fer a couple minutes b’fore’n he realized he gotta work at finishing up. By then, Macklevan was wincing, weak-kneed, panting and clawing at the wall of his own unkempt house.
Buck closed his eyes and remembered the last time he was with a beautiful woman, one the waitresses who spread her legs fer him couple nights ago. That got his manhood throbbing, and it got him pumping his hips powerful enough to make Macklevan cry out again and again. Buck’s neck and face ruddened, and his cheeks grew taut. The vein upon his forehead throbbed.
It took all his concentration to send him o’er the edge. Then, like a dam was burst, he let out a long moan and thrust his meat deep into Macklevan’s guts.
“Ow, fuuuuuuuuuuck-“
“Goddamn, doc…” Buck’s voice broke and his knees buckled, but he stayed upright and slamming. A massive flow of jizz spurted outta his cock and spread thru Macklevan’s guts. A long wave of it kept on coming. The fact that Buck hadta work at it meant he shot a big load, big even fer Buck, who’s muscles all tensed up like it took e’ery ounce of strength he got to shoot his jizz. “Daaaamn…”

He filled his ass with cum, a great creamy wave that flowed thru Macklevan’s body. He grunted, and Buck did too. Another spurt of jizz seeped into Macklevan’s ass. Finally, Macklevan sensed Buck was done, and he winced. He wriggled, only fer the motion to make the pain worse.


He stayed still, letting Buck grind his sensitive cock in the soup of Macklevan’s booty. Spasms of pain ran up Macklevan’s spine, while Buck shuddered with spasms of pleasure.
Now that he’d done it, Buck was glad Mistah Gregarian made him do it. He’d needed that. But he was still gonna hafta remind Mistah Gregarian that he wasn’t a booty bandit.
“Ewwh, uhcckk-” Macklevan grunted. He wriggled the best he could in Buck’s grip.
“You bettuh pay ya debt,” Buck said as his cock slipped out to dangle ‘tween the good doctor’s cheeks. “Or Mistah Gregarian gonna make me do that again.”
Macklevan darted away. Cum dribbled down his legs. He sneered at Buck. “That was gross,” He winced, wiping cum off his thighs. “And unsanitary. You’re a barbarian.”
Buck shrugged. “I is what I is, mothahfuckah, and you is a deadbeat.”

Buck the Dumbass

Chapter One: Ann Arbor, 1999

Chapter Two: Peremptory Manhood

Chapter Three: Statistics 101

Chapter Four: Systems of Oppression

Chapter Five: Lung Stuff

Rob’s World of Men: Chapter Ten

Read it now as an ebook from your favorite ebookstore!

Rob’s World of Men

Chapter One: The American

Chapter Two: The Frenchman

Chapter Three: The Swede

Chapter Four: The Russian

Chapter Five: The Australian

Chapter Six: The German

Chapter Seven: The Turk

Chapter Eight: The Englishman

Chapter Nine: The Finn

Chapter Ten: The Italian

His name was Giuseppe. He leaned against his Vespa, his shaggy black hair, slicked back but still a tangled mess, running almost to his shoulder. He sipped from an espresso, then tossed it into a nearby trash can. Rob watched from across the street, waiting for the perfect opportunity.
But it was obvious now that Giuseppe waited for someone. Rob knew he’d say no if he asked now, especially since that someone was almost certainly a female. So he watched.
Sure enough, she showed up moments later. She was stunningly gorgeous, dark-skinned, dark-haired, tough-eyed and thick-lipped. She came striding down the street in heels and a slinky dress that was entirely too fancy for an ordinary day out. She looked like a mafioso’s wife, Rob thought, and she attracted the eye of the other men on the street. It looked like some would have hooted at her if not for Giuseppe, whose come-hither eyes simmered darkly
Giuseppe nodded and puffed on a cigarette. The woman straightened her back as though to dare onlookers to catcall at her. But Giuseppe just nodded at her, and he glowered.
The silenzio between them was gravida and crescente.
Then she kissed him, and he swooned, bending her over in his arms. She clutched at his powerful shoulders and pulled on his shirt, revealing some of his coarse black chest hair. Giuseppe showed her something in the satchel he had slung around his scooter — Rob saw a bottle of wine and a block of cheese: makings of a picnic.
They spoke then, passionately, words of love or ire or both, Rob suspected, words dripping with intensity — arguing their love or loving their discord, he could not tell. He did not hear their parola, however, because of the Italian folk band coming down the avenue. They were lean men in white shirts with the sleeves rolled up and navy blue trousers, dancing in sync to an upbeat tarantella they played on tambourines. Three older men, more distinguished, with flecks of gray in their dense heads of hair, accompanied them on mandolin, guitar and accordion.
The music was loud, and, to Rob, pleasing. He was distracted by Giuseppe and his woman, however, who scowled at first as they were interrupted by the musicians. Then Giuseppe took her hand in his. He placed his things on the back of the motorcycle, and she coquettishly took his hand.
Her shyness vanished as soon as the dance began. It was rhythmic and fluid and more than a bit sexy — Rob had eyes only for Giuseppe, but the girl attracted a crowd of her own. They kissed and stroked, reaching between each other’s legs, clutching each other’s asses and even, Rob was fairly certain, some light fingering when Giuseppe slipped a hand underneath her dress and she audibly moaned.

A couple of the buttons of Giuseppe’s shirt ripped off too, and that fur-dappled caramel chest made Rob moan along with Giuseppe’s girlfriend. Giuseppe sang then, in florid Italian, his booming voice echoing among the ancient, crumbling plaster of the Roman cityscape.


All of the cittadini who watched burst into laughter, clapping along with the band. They danced too, in singles and pairs, even trios. Men danced with women; women danced with women; men danced with men. Rob blushed when he realized he stood out, the only one in the square not dancing.
The only words of Giuseppe’s song that Rob was able to discern was the repeated line: la ragazza con gli occhi come l’alba. He didn’t know what it meant (ragazza was girl, he knew that much), but he suspected it was a popular song, or adapted from it — the others sang along.
Then a man offered his hand to Rob, blushing, as some other men laughed and cheered him on. The man said, “Vuoi ballare con me, mio caro ragazzo?” It was apparent his friends had got him to ask Rob to dance as a dare or a bet.
But Rob batted his eyes and nodded as girlishly as he could. He loved making arousing men. This particular one wasn’t that sexy — he wasn’t ugly, he was a chef, with bits of uncooked pasta stuck in his beard hairs, in a sleeveless apron with a sleeveless shirt underneath, his big meaty arms tufted in fur.
He twirled Rob, swooned him in his arms and then even kissed him on the lips as the other dancers stopped to watch. When he was done, both the pasta chef and Rob blushed as red as a pomodoro imbarazzato. Rob hugged his thick, firm back as the music died down.
The tarantella band continued on. Rob was still excited. He had thought this was going to continue. He hoped to dance with Giuseppe and run his fingers through his hair.
But no, it was finito, and Giuseppe had his girl over his Vespa, locking lips, like they wanted to drive away but couldn’t stop kissing. Finally he pulled off her lips.
They looked into her eyes, and he spoke, his smooth voice like cigar smoke. Rob was close enough to hear now. He said, “Ho bisogno di te” and her whole back undulated as though she was about to orgasm right there on the sidewalk.
She hopped onto the scooter behind him, holding onto his denim jacket. Rob didn’t think they made denim jackets like that anymore. It made him giggle. The shirt he wore underneath it was incongruously fashionable, he thought, and looked expensive — made out of silk, it was a rich violet that seeped into the dark blue of his jacket. A gold chain glimmered around his neck, the crucifix on his chest ensconced in the kinky black hairs that escaped from under the shirt.
But he sighed too. He was here to jack off Giuseppe — Rob was prepared to pay for a taste of his dick. He might even get it up the backside, he thought, he was pretty sure Italians were usually okay with that.
He was positive, however, that he wouldn’t get Giuseppe as long as a female was on the scene. Rob had been watching because Giuseppe seemed to be sleeping around with multiple women, many of them married — including, Rob was fairly certain, this one — so he figured sooner or later, Giuseppe would get dumped by all of them when his lies caught up to him.
The scooter had barely moved an inch when it stopped short. A different, older Italian man stood in front of it.
“Sei con mia moglie, stronzo!”
All of a sudden, bedlam erupted. Rob eventually deduced that that second man — who was kind of a warm daddy-type, with a mustache and a bit of a belly — was the woman’s husband. Giuseppe and the woman argued with each other as well as the man, and Rob wasn’t sure why. Perhaps the woman had said she had separated from the man, so Giuseppe felt this was not his fault?
Rob spoke a little Italian, but they talked all together and way too fast for Rob to understand very much of it. It was booming and loud, hands flying to make florid gestures. It didn’t seem they could possibly be understanding each other because they spoke over each other, bellowing, and even the woman’s voice somehow outshone the mens’.
The men started shoving each other. The woman slapped her husband, then Giuseppe. The husband seemed about to smack her back, but Giuseppe stopped him. The men came to blows. They nearly knocked over an espresso machine attached to a nearby street vendor’s cart, but the vendor pulled his cart away at the last moment.
And then, somehow, it was all over. Giuseppe’s jacket was in the street, his hair a mess, a trickle of blood down his chin, a tear in his silk shirt revealing a toned, hairy chest. Giuseppe shouted something in Italian as the man left, screaming his own list of obscenities that Rob couldn’t hope to follow. The woman was in tow. She and Giuseppe exchanged florid words, which Rob gathered were just a string of insults on either end.
Giuseppe was left alone, his jacket in ruins and his shirt not much better. He scowled and took it off. His bronzed body made Rob’s dick stir.
It had all taken only a few moments, and the folks who had just minutes ago spontaneously danced the tarantella together now all ignored the exchange, as though non era successo niente. Rob was the only one who seemed shocked.
This, he thought, was the perfect opportunity. He walked right up to Giuseppe and spoke in English. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Rob.”
Giuseppe nodded and furrowed his brow. “What do you-uh want-uh?” His hands gestured in the direction he was about to go in. His English was not very good, but it was better than Rob’s rudimentary Italian.
“I wanted to offer you money. I’m sorry your woman left you-“
“It is, uh, none-uh of your business-uh,” he said. “She is a… A… how do you say?… Hor-ay? La prostituta?”
“Whore.”
“Whore-uh, si. She is a whore-uh.” Giuseppe spat on the ground and motioned away from himself. “It is good-uh to be away with her, yes? For her is now-uh gone?”
“Yeah, yeah, I guess so,” Rob said.
Giuseppe grabbed his dick through his jeans, which Rob guessed was — like the now-ruined shirt — worth a lot of money. A few beads of sweat shimmered on Giuseppe’s chest. “You-uh will offer-uh money-uh?”
Rob blushed. He had forgotten to actually ask because he was imagining the taste of Giuseppe’s chest hair.
“Do you want to cornhole me? I’ll give you five hundred euros and all you have to do is lie there, I’ll do-“
“You will have me-uh become-uh a prostituta like her? A whore-uh? I will not do this for any five-uh hundred-uh of euros, I want not your filthy whore-uh money-uh!” He shouted and waved his hands about above Rob’s head. Since he was shirtless, Rob was too entranced by his broad chest and thick black hair to be scared he would be violent. He licked his lips. He knew Giuseppe would do this for the right price, it was just a matter of finding it.
Rob giggled. “A thousand euros.”
Giuseppe was silent for a moment. “Si.” His anger was gone. He clasped Rob on the shoulder, then let go when he realized Rob was aroused, then put his arm back more gingerly. Rob smiled and kissed his bare shoulder. Giuseppe blushed. “Come on then-uh. I know a place, it is good for the making-uh of love, yes-uh. We can do also the dick-uh, si.”
Rob got on the back of his scooter, smiling because he got to ride up behind Giuseppe, gripping his chest and belly and even laying his face against the sweat-dappled muscle of his bare shoulder blades. Giuseppe drove off, weaving in and out of traffic as he headed out of Rome.
At first Rob was so engrossed in the firm meat of Giuseppe’s back and the hair on his chest where Rob’s hands snaked around that he didn’t notice how Giuseppe careened blindly through the streets of Rome. He went through parking lots and on sidewalks, weaving across lanes and even ignored a uniformed police officer who attempted to wave him down.
Relief flooded Rob when they finally left Rome, and the urban streets gave way to suburbs and then dense wooded glens and ponds among the septet of rolling hills around the city. He slowed down a little finally then, even though the roads were empty and he could have sped up.
When Rob pulled his face away from Giuseppe’s back, there was a layer of his sweat there, and it tasted bitterly of olive oil. He ran his fingers through Giuseppe’s hair too, until Giuseppe swatted his hand away.
The place he went was a vineyard a few miles outside of the city. He drove his scooter to a dirt road and down to an abandoned wooden shack. There was a big vat in it and a sour smell that was not exactly pleasant, but somehow smelled good to Rob.
“It is… how do you say… Aceto… it is wine, but it has spoiled?” Giuseppe said when he got off the Vespa.
“Vinegar?”
“Si, si, vinegar-uh, yes,” Giuseppe said. Rob had to smile — he would have never guessed what Giuseppe meant if he had said vinegar as he pronounced it: vweeneggerruh.
Rob placed the smell now. It was the scent of fine vinegar, wafting from that vat. The aroma was rich and heady, filling his nostrils with warmth. Through the slats in the side of the building, Rob could see rows upon rows of grape vines that stretched off over the sunny hills surrounding this barn.
The scent disappeared suddenly, replaced by acrid cigarette smoke. Giuseppe took a deep drag. He offered one to Rob, who declined at first, then thought when in Rome… and took it. He smoked for years but had quit eleven years ago. So when he lit it, he coughed a few times, earning a harsh scornful stare from Giuseppe, and then was momentarily struck dizzy by the rush of nicotine.
Ah, he loved smoking. Il fumo di sigaretta è il più alto risultato di aria!
For a moment, Rob basked in the warmth of the cigarette smoke. Giuseppe uncorked the wine he had brought for the picnic. He took a long drink from it and passed it wordlessly to Rob, who drank as well. It was fine wine, thick and unctuous on his tongue. It was red, very dark, mysterious and full-bodied, possessing il sapore di mille fasci di oscurità.
“Come-uh here,” Giuseppe said. His voice firm but kind. He led Rob to a grassy spot, where they sat together. The smell of grape-blossoms filled the air, mixing with the heady profumo del vino. Giuseppe smiled a little nervously. “Do you think I am handsome-uh?” His voice was smooth like a buttery pasta sauce, and it hung low in the air, resonating in Rob’s ear.
Rob blushed. He took a deep drag from the cigarette. He nodded. “You’re real handsome.”
Giuseppe leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Then in one smooth motion, he wrapped Rob up in one arm and laid him on the ground. The wooden floor of the barn scratched at his back.
Rob wasn’t used to being seduced like this. It happened so fast there was a certain instinctual need to protect himself, and he squealed, clutching at Giuseppe’s powerful arms.
Once he was on the ground and didn’t feel like he was falling anymore, Rob kissed Giuseppe on the lips. Giuseppe was slightly hesitant. Rob only really got cornholed by alpha males, who did not normally kiss him, certainly not as part of a passionate make-out session.
But Giuseppe had never been with a woman he didn’t “seduce”. Even when it was obvious early on that she was going to let him have sex with her, Giuseppe always went through the motions of rubbing her shoulders or feet or taking her out on a picnic or doing whatever it took to seduce her. It just felt right to him. Making love to a woman he barely knew, or making love to a woman he did know but doing it in a quick and dirty way just made Giuseppe feel like a filthy manwhore.
He didn’t want to feel like that, and he didn’t want his women to feel like that either. Giuseppe had no experience making love in any other way.
So he let Rob kiss him on the lips. Then he let Rob kiss a trail down his chest. That was weird for Giuseppe — he usually took the lead with his women, and he was the one who showered the other with kisses. It was strange and even a bit ticklish, he thought, to let a man do it.
But soon Giuseppe was laying on the ground, feeling the barn floor beneath his back, as Rob took his handsome uncut cock out and put the tip in his mouth. He looked up at Giuseppe, who made eye contact with him and moaned. Rob cooed in desire at those deep, dark soulful eyes il colore dell’ombra del carbone.
“Succhi il cazzo, per favore, ho bisogno della tua bocca su di me!” Giuseppe let out a moan. Rob couldn’t decide if Giuseppe was still being seductive or not. He had a feeling Giuseppe told girls he loved them all the time when he seduced them, and he was fighting back the urge to say that now out of pure habit.
And he popped the rest of his dick into his mouth, deep-throating him the best he could. Giuseppe was uncut, which Rob thought was hot. He rammed his head all the way down, ingoiare ogni parte della sua virilità virile, figuring that Giuseppe had never been deep-throated like that.
That was true, Giuseppe spent most of his love-making sessions licking his partners’ womanhoods — assaporando il sapore della femminilità and using his tongue to bring them the beatitudine assoluta. That was how a woman could be truly seduced, not just physically, but emotionally e spiritualmente too. He could make her his if he sucked on her pussy in just the right way.
Giuseppe found himself experiencing an orgasm more intense than he thought possible. Without even realizing he was doing it, he had grabbed Rob’s head and held on. He slammed his dick into Rob’s mouth, all the way in, deep into his spasming throat.
“Si, you are-uh… You have-uh…” Giuseppe rolled his eyes as a spasm of pleasure ran up his spine. “You have a mouth-uh, it is made of silk-uh, yes, si? I am, uh, how do you say… in love with your mouth.” He smiled down at Rob and wiped away the moisture that ran down Rob’s cheeks.
jacking him off got Rob as hard as a conchiglia too. Giuseppe’s cock tasted, like his sweat, of olive oil and sunlight. It was the tastiest cock Rob had ever jacked. He relaxed his throat and trusted Giuseppe to make sweet love to his throat until that hairy ballsac slapped against Rob’s chin.
Eventually even Rob needed to take a break, and he pulled away from Giuseppe’s cock. It twitched and leaked precum down the shaft, while Giuseppe’s hairy chest muscles all flexed at once.
“Baciami. Voglio assaporare il mio amore sulle tue labbra,” Giuseppe said. He gently but firmly grabbed Rob and brought his face up to meet Giuseppe’s. Again, Rob never thought Giuseppe would kiss him so much, but he didn’t even seem to mind sucking his own precum off Rob’s face. He planted his lips right on Rob’s, and Rob swooned.
“Will you plow me now? Please? I need your cock!” Rob yelled out, begging as he bent over on all fours.
Giuseppe’s dick throbbed above his face, while Rob still hoarsely tried to recover his breath. He kissed every inch of Giuseppe’s thighs and sucked on his body hair, and even his balls while Giuseppe recovered from his orgasm, ignoring his question.
“Yes, I am ready now,” Giuseppe said, when he had regained his composure. Those deep brown eyes were so big Rob lost himself in them, wordlessly craving another kiss, which Giuseppe provided. “I will make-uh sweet and sugared-uh love upon you, my darling-uh.”
Giuseppe enjoyed the lovestruck look on Rob’s face — it felt just as victorious and triumphant as when he made a woman look like that. He had conquered Rob just as he had conquered so many females e li sedusse completamente. Giuseppe stared at his own spit-dripping cock, waiting for himself to calm down enough that he could stick it in without blowing his load right away. He gave it one stroke with his own hand and groaned. He had never felt so horny. He just wanted to get his cock back in a tight, moist hole, and he didn’t care whose.
“I will make-uh you feel like-uh… how do you say?… A hundred-uh dollars-uh!” Giuseppe tried to say that with a cowboy accent, like John Wayne, but it wasn’t very good and Rob didn’t even notice that he was affecting an accent.
Giuseppe decided he was ready as Rob displayed his bare ass and spread his cheeks — which Giuseppe assumed Rob did only because he was so turned on by Giuseppe’s John Wayne impression.
Keeping a firm, flat smile on his face, Giuseppe gulped but pretended not to be nervous. As far as he was concerned, it wasn’t pervy if he was on top — if Giuseppe weren’t so successful with married women, he’d have probably done this multiple times by now, so really, he thought, his lack of practice signified that he was more manly than those mafioso and thugs who did it on a regular basis. Giuseppe tried to convince himself of that, unsuccessfully, as he blushed and awkwardly wedged his cock between Rob’s cheeks.
He took a deep breath. Before he could start plowing, Rob turned his head and kissed Giuseppe on the lips once more.
“Stick it in me!” Rob said, desperate for it to begin.
“I will-uh enter-uh you now. You will feel-uh much of the pleasure-uh…”
By now, Giuseppe was so aroused to begin with that he kissed back without a second thought — on the mouth this time, with tongue, and with his hands caressing Rob’s body where his tits would be if he had any. He plunged his tongue between Rob’s lips. His arms caressed Rob’s body and spread his asscheeks.
A jolt of pain shot up Rob’s spine, but it lasted only a moment, just long enough to bring the pleasure it came with to the forefront of Rob’s spine. It had been a long time since any man made him feel like this. He wanted to both cry and beg for more allo stesso tempo. He clutched Giuseppe’s well-muscled forearm for support.
Rob quivered just like a girl did when she wanted to get fucked so bad she could taste it. Giuseppe grinned. He loved bringing girls to this state, and, it seemed, he was so sexy he could do it to a man too. Giuseppe thought he should be famous on account of being so prestante.
“Vedi, io sono l’ultimo amante del mondo.”
He slid his dick in. When Rob let out a long, loud moan, Giuseppe again assumed his dick was exceptional and that that was why it felt so good to Rob. He smiled with pride as Rob’s whole body writhed beneath him, and Giuseppe could see the pressure and agony turn to bliss as his dick teased Rob’s prostate.
“Ah, si… Open your bottom-uh…” Giuseppe crooned into Rob’s ear, making Rob cringe and moan. “I will fill you up with love-uh…”
Rob was on all fours, so he couldn’t jack himself off because he used both hands for support. But he could lift his head and lean back, so he could kiss Giuseppe as he got rear-ended. Giuseppe supported his chest with one arm, giving Giuseppe perfect access while making Rob unable to do more than writhe in sync with his penetration.
Actually there was one other thing Rob could do, as his desire to cum built up to explosive levels: He grabbed Giuseppe’s hand and brought it to his cock.
Giuseppe didn’t hesitate. He didn’t know if a reacharound was a normal macho thing to do or not. Probably not, he thought as his hands wrapped around Rob’s shaft. Almost certainly not.
But in the heat of the moment, it seemed decente. Giuseppe was bragging to himself about how much pleasure he was bringing Rob, so it made sense. He had heard men in prison talk of pleasing their “prison wives” with a reacharound, and in the Italian military, officers were allowed to cornhole recruits so long as they gave a reacharound (or so the rumors suggested). Giuseppe thought it might be normal in America too. It might even, he decided, be something John Wayne would do.
So he did it. He gripped Rob’s cockshaft and stroked it, somewhat awkwardly because he had never done that, never even touched a limp dick besides his own, much less a stranger’s.
He might have lost his nerve to keep stroking if they hadn’t reached a climax moments later. As soon as he touched Rob’s dick, Rob’s prostate exploded within him, sending pangs of pleasure up Rob’s spine. Rob cried out and went back to all fours, but this time Giuseppe went with him, pounding away and stroking him off.
Rob shot his wad into the dirt, ending up on his side as Giuseppe plowed in with all his potenza. “Oh god!” Rob cried out. He dug his fingers into the soil, bringing up clods of dirt as the most intense orgasm of his life wracked his body.
Cum flowed within Rob, who sighed. He loved that feeling, a man’s heavy balls filling him up, the sensation of creamy cum seeping into his flesh. He became Giuseppe in that moment, as he felt his dick turn all moist and cummy, still rock-hard where it throbbed within Rob.
And then it was all over. Rob gasped for air. His own dick was done, and he felt his climax draining away. Giuseppe’s dick still shot the last few drops of cum before it too limpened inside him. Giuseppe didn’t pull out until then.
“Damn…” Rob said. He leaned back, spread-eagled, on the dirt.
Giuseppe kissed him on the lips once more, then stood. “That was good-uh, si? You will pay?”
Rob nodded. “Yeah. Hand me my pants.” Giuseppe did so, and Rob counted out the money: un migliaio di euro.
Giuseppe took the cash. “You are… You will be in Rome-uh for some time-uh?”
“No,” Rob said. He yawned and stood, stretching his legs before putting his clothes back on. “I’m leaving soon. I’m going back home, to America” He ignored Giuseppe’s annoyed expression — Giuseppe was not used to people breaking up with him. Giuseppe might lose interest, or a husband might come into the picture, or a woman might be forbidden by her father to see him, but Giuseppe was not dumped. That had literally never happened, and Giuseppe’s mind raced to comprehend it.
But Rob was ready to move on. He’d had his fill of Italy, and he was ready to return home.

Read it now as an ebook from your favorite ebookstore!

Rob’s World of Men

Chapter One: The American

Chapter Two: The Frenchman

Chapter Three: The Swede

Chapter Four: The Russian

Chapter Five: The Australian

Chapter Six: The German

Chapter Seven: The Turk

Chapter Eight: The Englishman

Chapter Nine: The Finn

Chapter Ten: The Italian

Rob’s World of Men: Chapter Nine

Read it now as an ebook from your favorite ebookstore!

Rob’s World of Men

Chapter One: The American

Chapter Two: The Frenchman

Chapter Three: The Swede

Chapter Four: The Russian

Chapter Five: The Australian

Chapter Six: The German

Chapter Seven: The Turk

Chapter Eight: The Englishman

Chapter Nine: The Finn

Chapter Ten: The Italian

Rob finally settled in at the public sauna in Rovaniemi, Finland, one afternoon to relax. Only one other person was in the sauna, and he was intimidating.
The other man in the sauna stared at him, sweat dripping from his high cheekbones. He was a tall Finn with deep-set eyes, a grizzled jaw and muscles that went on for days. He looked like a shaved brown bear, Rob thought, except for the fact that the hair on his head — long, flowing hair that went past his broad shoulders — was blond like the sun. Rob had always thought men with long hair were sexy, and this guy also had muscle like a bodybuilder and a square, jutting jaw.
Rob shivered. He hadn’t been scared of anyone since coming to Finland. It was a very quiet, peaceful place.
But this man had a dim stare and muscle for days. He was both arousing and frightening. Rob wanted to stay and worship his body carved in granite.
A part of him said to leave, begged him to rush out of there before this burly Finn attacked him. He could dress in a hurry, rush out the door and high-tail it to his car in the parking lot. He could call the police, but to say what: there’s a man looking at me? There’s a Finn in the sauna, help!?
Besides, Rob had been chased around by a bunch of bullies in his time. He didn’t intend to let that happen again; he wasn’t the weakest boy in school anymore. He had never met a mean Finn, but maybe, he thought, this burly fellow would be his first. If so, Rob intended to stand up for himself.
The long-haired Finn stood and took a step towards Rob, whose heart raced. He was a thin little twink who couldn’t defend himself at all.
“Hello,” said the man in thickly-accented English. His craggy face gleamed with sweat in the haze of the sauna’s löyly.
“Uh… Hi,” Rob said. When had the sauna emptied? There were others here when Rob came in, but now it was just he and the big Finn, and Rob was terrified.
“My name is Heikki.”

“Nice to meet you, Heikki. I’m Rob,” he said. He held out a hand to shake, and when Heikki’s giant meaty paw collided with his, Rob shuddered in both fear and desire. Heikki was like a bodybuilder but without that vascular veininess that bodybuilders had. Heikki looked like he had built his muscles through real work, as a lumberjack or ice fisherman or who knew what. Rob had never felt so slender and weak.


Heikki grunted. “You are… American, yes?”
“Yes, that’s right…” Rob was too nervous to think of anything meaningful to say right now.
“That is good,” said Heikki. His deep voice rumbled. It was flat though, deadpan, giving no hint of his emotions, his voice as still and rough as uncut lumber. “You will do have some jack off. Yes?”
“Uh…” Rob couldn’t tell if that was an offer, a prediction, a threat or a question, or some combination thereof.
Heikki walked away. Rob breathed a sigh of relief until he saw that Heikki wasn’t leaving. He walked to the door to the sauna and wedged it shut with a kantele — a traditional stringed instrument — against the doorknob. The kantele had been laying on a bench as though abandoned there.
Past the door was the “hot room”, where Finns got acclimated to heat before actually coming into the sauna itself. It didn’t sound like anyone was out there right now, making Rob nervous. He was in here all alone with his giant man built like a silver birch tree, who looked at him as if Rob were a hungry meal.
“Uh…” Rob’s eyes opened wide at the sight of Heikki flopping his massive uncut cock between his fingers. “You want me to, uh… like jack your dick? Or whatever?” Rob said.
“Yes, I think we are agreementing,” Heikki said.
“You’re horny enough to…?” Rob’s voice trailed off because he realized he didn’t care why Heikki wanted to do this.
Rob shuddered when he reached up and tentatively grabbed Heikki’s cock. It was limp and moist from the humid sauna air, dripping with condensed löyly. Heikki’s muscles rippled like he was uncomfortable with Rob’s touch, but he sat down next to Rob on the wooden bench of the sauna.
Before Rob could get on his knees to jack Heikki’s cock, Heikki’s mitt-like hands gripped Rob’s delicate shoulders. Rob nearly fell backwards but Heikki held him in his massive biceps as Rob swooned. Then Heikki kissed him right on the lips.
It was an awkward kiss for a few reasons. First of all, Heikki seemed to have little experience with this — he seemed like the kind of rural lumberjack who rarely got laid despite his handsome face and bulging muscles; he was too crude and big for most girls, Rob suspected. Second of all, Heikki was clearly uncomfortable kissing a man. He hesitated at the last moment and his callused fingers explored Rob’s lithe chest as though Heikki expected to find breasts there. Thirdly, Heikki was simply huge.
He was at least a foot and a half taller than Rob, and probably outweighed him by two hundred pounds of solid muscle. Rob lost himself in those arms, and Heikki’s mouth was so big it felt like four Heikkis could have kissed him at the same time. Rob wondered if Heikki could swallow his entire head — it sure felt like it.
Heikki’s massive tongue pushed into Rob’s mouth. It was too awkward for Rob to lose himself in the heat of the moment, but his dick was rock-hard and he couldn’t think about anything other than the feel of Heikki’s pulsating muscles against Rob’s smooth skin.
When Heikki pulled away and grinned sheepishly, Rob reached into his crotch and gave his dick another stroke. Heikki was still totally limp. His dick was like a fleshy uncooked sausage dangling between his legs, behind a nest of curly dark-blond pubic hairs.
The löyly that condensed on Heikki’s body was salty and invigorating, hot like the sauna itself. It made Rob moan and crave more.
His tongue traced the outline of Heikki’s rock-hard muscles and the colorful tattoos — a squadron of beautiful blue butterflies flapping with wings the shape of kantele picks, an ornate Finnish maiden with blonde braids flowing like a Finnhorse’s mane around her blue and white pastoral dress — as he explored and worshiped Heikki’s muscles.
Rob stood and stretched his knees — about to sink to the ground to jack on Heikki’s meat — when Heikki dropped to his knees in front of Rob instead. He kissed Rob on the lips again, then moved to Rob’s neck, which he nuzzled with his slightly grizzled chin.
Their heights nearly matched up now, with Heikki on his knees on the ground and Rob standing in front of him. Heikki’s head was only a little above Rob’s.
Much to Rob’s surprise, Heikki’s hand gingerly grabbed Rob’s dick. He gave it a few strokes, until precum leaked from the tip.
“Oh, wow, Heikki…” Rob blushed. He felt tiny. His cock was substantial, bigger than most men, but, compared to Heikki, every part of Rob felt small and weak. Heikki’s massive hand stroked Rob off. When Rob was overcome by shocked passion, he leaned on Heikki’s massive chest, reminding Rob how tiny he was in comparison. Heikki’s muscles rippled beneath Rob’s touch.
But Rob assumed that that was where this ended, as far as Heikki pleasuring Rob went. Now Heikki would stand and want to blow a nut off. He’d probably plow Rob’s mouth violently like macho guys usually did — that was fine with Rob, who loved it when men like Heikki abused his throat.
“You are smooth like girl and tasty on my tongue,” Heikki said as he kissed Rob’s arm and shoulders. He licked a trail of sensitive skin all the way down Rob’s chest, as Rob wondered where he would stop.
Was this really going to happen? A part of Rob’s mind had realized for several minutes that Heikki acted as though he was going to bottom, but that had been difficult to believe. It simply didn’t happen that way. Rob barely knew how to top. He had never in his entire life been on top with a man who was so much bigger than he was.
Then before Rob could process this, Heikki opened his mouth and swallowed Rob’s cock. He gagged right away as though he regretted doing it, then he let out a loud mewling sound around Rob’s dickshaft.
Rob was already hard, and his dick instantly sent pangs of pleasure up Rob’s spine. Rob drew in his breath and found he couldn’t bring himself to exhale, like he was worried anything he might do would remind Heikki that he is supposed to be a top.
His hands moved instinctively, and Rob found himself running his fingers through Heikki’s long blond hair. Rob had never felt anything so silken and beautiful, and the writhing mass of shoulder muscles beneath it made it even hotter.
“Ah, damn, Heikki, where did you learn to do this?” Rob murmured, gasping to himself.
Heikki pulled away and spoke in Finnish. “Haluan sinun naida persettäni!”
Rob had learned a few words here and there, but he had no idea what Heikki said. He smiled and nodded, though this experience had been so stressful and exhilarating that Rob’s smile was more of a grimace.
Heikki returned to jacking. It was awkward for him, having to stoop down to get into Rob’s crotch. To make it easier, Rob stepped up onto the wooden bench he had been sitting on. At last that meant Rob towered over Heikki, who was on his knees on the floor. Heikki could more easily jack cock, while Rob rested on his broad shoulders and massaged the tight layer of back muscles beneath him.
Then at last Heikki pulled off him again. He lightly tapped Rob’s asscheeks. He turned Rob around. Rob’s instinct was that this was it, Heikki wanted to top now, he was going to cornhole Rob — which Rob was fine with, even if he was a little disappointed that his topping adventure ended so soon.
But Heikki didn’t cornhole him in the ass. He dove his face between Rob’s cheeks and licked his asshole. Heikki shuddered in a mixture of delight and disgust as his tongue lapped at Rob’s ass. Due to the heat and humidity of the sauna’s löyly, both men were covered in salty moisture, and Heikki guzzled down every drop that clung to Rob’s flesh.
That didn’t last long before Heikki pulled away again. His big, callused hands roamed all over Rob’s body. He pushed Rob to sit back down on the bench.
Heikki stood and stretched his legs. Now that he stood and Rob sat, Rob’s face was well below Heikki’s crotch. Rob had to look up at him like a colossus, half-hard cock throbbing in the air as Heikki added more water to the hot coals on top of the the kiuas. A fresh burst of steam filled the air. He munched on some reindeer jerky from a bag he had brought in and left by the door.
“It is good warm. Air is good for skin,” Heikki said. He may have blushed or his cheeks might have just gotten rosier from the heat, Rob couldn’t tell which.
Then Heikki took a deep breath, sighed and shook his head as he kneeled down on the ground. He sprawled his upper body over the bench Rob was sitting on. Rob was entranced by the looping curves of the man’s incredible shoulder muscles, and Rob’s delicate fingers traced the powerful, throbbing lines of his meaty shoulderblades.
Even though Heikki had made it clear he wanted to bottom, Rob’s tingled, shocked body still didn’t quite process what was happening, not right away. Heikki sprawled out on the bench next to Rob with his ass in the air — Heikki was so tall that even knelt over, his upraised ass was well above Rob’s navel.
It was obvious he wanted to get cornholed, but Rob hesitated. What if he was misreading this situation? What if he accidentally offended Heikki by trying to plow into his ass?
But then Heikki reached one of his big-biceped arms around himself and rammed his pinkie into his ass to loosen it up. He grunted and his whole body tensed at first, then he relaxed.
Taking a deep breath, Rob mounted him from behind. “You gotta lower your ass some,” he said as he patted Heikki’s jiggling asscheeks. Heikki obediently lowered his hips until his ass was even with Rob’s crotch. That forced Heikki to awkwardly half-bend and half-stoop over the bench, but he didn’t seem to mind.
His mind reeled as he slipped his dick into Heikki’s ass. Heikki howled like a wolf, and Rob again wondered if he had done something wrong. But Heikki made no effort to move away, and Rob could tell that Heikki’s cock jerked from half-hard to stone-like and leaking precum. He must be into assplay, Rob thought.
Heikki bit his lip and his muscles tensed all at once. He grunted, half-in-pain and half gasping with pleasure. It was like cornholing a statue, Rob thought, all firm and unyielding. Rob couldn’t get a good grip, though he greatly enjoyed trying, clawing all over Heikki’s powerful frame.
But that was only the surface of Heikki’s body, which was indeed iron-like all over. He had muscles in places where Rob didn’t even think there were muscles. Inside Heikki’s ass, however, he was soft and pink and moist, inviting and warm, even compared to the heat of the sauna. Rob sped up his humping when it became clear that Heikki wasn’t in pain, and he moved from gingerly sticking it in and out to slamming his entire little twink body down on Heikki’s ass.
Like flicking a switch, it was obvious when Rob hit Heikki’s prostate and got past the big man’s discomfort. Heikki’s muscles all relaxed at once, and touching him was like a big warm, firm pillow. Rob lost himself in all that flesh, which throbbed and pulsated beneath Rob’s touch.
He had to stand on his toes, and when Heikki’s body rose, Rob found himself elevated off the ground. He gripped Heikki’s back with both hands and humped until Heikki lowered himself again.
He even pulled on that long blond hair. It felt like perfect irony, he thought, since he usually serviced alpha males who liked to pull on Rob’s hair as they cornholed him. Rob never understood why men were into that.
But now that he was plowing into a straight man with long hair, Rob totally understood. His delicate fingers grabbed a fistful of the löyly-moistened blond hair and pulled. He didn’t pull hard, just hard enough to make Heikki lift his head up.
Heikki crooned and let out a long, low moan that echoed in the small wooden sauna. Rob shuddered as Heikki’s asshole clenched. Rob’s free hand tried to stroke Heikki off, but Heikki was so big that Rob struggled to reach his cock, and when he did, Heikki’s own paws were already furiously stroking his meat.
Then both men came at the same time. Rob was surprised by how suddenly his orgasm approached — he was not often a top, so he had little experience in this position — and overwhelmed him. His fingers tightened into talons that ripped at Heikki’s writhing muscles, while Heikki’s whole body tensed.
The smell of semen filled the air. Heikki groaned. He sprayed cum over Rob’s hands and onto the wooden bench beneath him, while Rob slammed his cock all the way in.
A thick burst of cum spurted out, coating Heikki’s insides. They both moaned together, in harmony like they were singing. The most intense orgasm of his life wracked Rob’s body. He shuddered and shivered despite the heat of the sauna.
He didn’t know how much he had shot. It felt like a huge orgasm. Rob could feel it sloshing around inside Heikki’s ass, sticking to Rob’s shaft and dripping down into the nest of hair around Heikki’s thighs. Every motion either one of them took sent shivers of exquisite afterclimax up Rob’s spine.
Then it was all over. The sauna seemed impossibly silent. Heikki’s labored breathing was audible, but distant, like the howl of a wolf outside. It was met by a barking yap — Heikki’s spitz was tied up in the warm spot outside by the ventilation shaft. Heikki bellowed something in Finnish to him.
Rob’s cock slowly limpened inside Heikki, whose muscles tightened as Rob dragged his fingertips overtop Heikki’s taut skin. Heikki gasped for air. Drops of cum dribbled from his cock, which Rob stroked while they both recovered from the intense orgasm.
Finally Rob was done. He gently extricated himself from Heikki, hopping off his back and letting his dick plop out. Heikki let out a sound that was half-sigh and half-roar, like an angry bear about to fall asleep.
He turned around, his broad chest gleamed with sweat and cum. Rob fell into his arms, sat on his lap and nuzzled the filthy flesh of his pectorals. Heikki cradled him close.
This felt more normal, Rob thought, a little twink like him relaxing in his alpha bear’s biceps. That was something Rob had done a hundred times before, but never with a big blond-haired muscle-god like Heikki. He traced the bulging curve of Heikki’s biceps as they both relaxed there.
“Thank you.”
Rob giggled. “You’re welcome, Heikki.”
“We have become dirty,” Heikki said. He stood, looking down at the cum dripping from his chest. He glanced behind himself, where more cum clung to the fine blond hairs of his ass. He smiled awkwardly. He gestured towards the showers — Finns always showered before a sauna, so there were a few showerheads in the other side of the building — and smiled. “We must clean off.”
“Okay, yeah,” Rob said. “I guess we should.” He stood and stretched his legs as Heikki removed the chair that blocked the sauna door from opening. Then they both headed off to the showers.
“You have hotel?” Heikki asked. Rob nodded, and Heikki grinned. “You give to me hotel room number. I will come to visit. You will put penis in other Finns?”
“Uh… what?”
Heikki pantomimed chopping wood with an axe. “The men who I am working with, at wood-chopping camp. And we like the man who puts out butt. It is okay. We are tired of putting penis in each other. We will come to hotel. Yes?”
Rob’s knees buckled and he nearly fell to the floor of the showering area. Was this for real? He couldn’t believe his luck. “Uh, yes! Yeah! Of course. Yes. I’ll… cornhole any number of Finnish lumberjacks, is that what you’re asking?”
Heikki nodded and smiled. “We will all do it.” Heikki put on headphones, and death metal blared into his ears. He swaddled into the shower to rinse off.
Rob took a deep breath. He decided he wasn’t done yet with the sweating — luckily, he was in a sauna. So he sat there to relax and bathe in steam, looking forward to the remainder of his Finnish adventure.

Read it now as an ebook from your favorite ebookstore!

Rob’s World of Men

Chapter One: The American

Chapter Two: The Frenchman

Chapter Three: The Swede

Chapter Four: The Russian

Chapter Five: The Australian

Chapter Six: The German

Chapter Seven: The Turk

Chapter Eight: The Englishman

Chapter Nine: The Finn

Chapter Ten: The Italian

Rob’s World of Men: Chapter Eight

Read it now as an ebook from your favorite ebookstore!

Rob’s World of Men

Chapter One: The American

Chapter Two: The Frenchman

Chapter Three: The Swede

Chapter Four: The Russian

Chapter Five: The Australian

Chapter Six: The German

Chapter Seven: The Turk

Chapter Eight: The Englishman

Chapter Nine: The Finn

Chapter Ten: The Italian

The fog was oppressive in London when Rob’s plane refused to land there due to the decreased visibility. It was only the first of many disappointments, but Rob kept a stiff upper lip. The plane eventually landed because the fog gave way to a gentle, enveloping rain.
It was not that cold, but there was a chill in the air, so Rob took a jumper out of his suitcase once he got it from the baggage-claim area. Then he made his way through the teeming throngs of people at Heathrow Airport.
He didn’t really like the “travel” part of traveling. He liked seeing exotic destinations or even just ordinary destinations in extraordinary places. But he didn’t like planes or airports or trains or long car rides or trams or barges or anything of that sort. Of course, they were the only way to get to his destinations, so he made do.
When he got out of the airport, the first thing he saw was a pair of men fighting in the upper level of the multi-storey. One of them shouted “Oi! Oi!” so loud, over and over, that Rob couldn’t hear anything else and never found out what the argy-bargy was about (but he had a feeling, based on the football kit they both wore, that it related to sport).
Rob had every intention of satisfying his secondary goal as well: servicing the most arousing alpha males he could find, whatever the cost.
Usually, he would just wing it. He had a knack for finding the right kind of guy anyway, and looking for them gave him plenty of time to see the countryside.
But a friend had given him a lead on an Englishman of incomparable studliness. His name was John Thomas, or, to be more precise, John Thomas Smith Walker Mayne, Duke of Malperham-upon-Avon and Baron Alewar of the Wildest Moors.
He didn’t tell very many people he was anything more than John Thomas. But most everyone in his life knew he was a duke anyway; English people had a way of knowing that even when nobody told them. Whilst that was interesting enough — Rob was still trying to find out what a “Baron Alewar” was — it wasn’t what Rob wanted in him anyway.

He was so handsome it hurt. John was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark blond hair that was always slicked back. He was an Oxford Uni student and played cricket well enough that he got tons of Google hits (Rob found cricket impenetrable and he was unable to understand anything about what position John played, what it meant or how good he was, but there were articles in major papers about him, so John assumed he must have been good). John was well-muscled but not bulky, and he had a handsome squarish jaw like a knight of the round table, with dimples Rob wanted to bathe in.


He had to have him, and luckily, Rob thought he had an in. Despite being a duke and a baron, John was middle-class at best (in terms of money), despite reading The Times everyday and pretending to follow it. He was in need of money.
But Rob wasn’t sure how to approach him. Englishmen, especially well-heeled Englishmen like John, didn’t talk about sensitive topics like money. So he started off by simply wandering around Oxford Uni. He looked in on a few classes, but the students all looked serious, grim-eyed and focused on sitting for exams. The few people Rob talked to scurried away like he had frightened them.
“Well, shit,” Rob said to no one in particular. He had thought John would be easy to find. On North American college campuses, handsome jocks were always the center of attention and could usually be found on the quad during the day. Oxford Uni had very small, enclosed quads, and the ground was soggy because of the damp that hung in the air, so no one spent time in the quad here. Rob was disappointed.
John was nowhere to be seen. That’s because he was having his elevenses with his manservant Jeeves. He happened to see Rob from a window as he finished his meal and bade Jeeves meet him back in his flat, but John thought nothing of him.
That was why, when he came out onto the quad and saw Rob again, John nodded to him as though they were acquainted. Rob took it as a sign that this was the Englishman for him. He was even handsomer in person than Rob had expected.
“Excuse me, sir, er… Duke… Your grace…?” Rob blushed.
John cocked his head to the side. “Not many people use my title, old chum, who are you that you know me and I do not know you? And you are American to boot? I have never met an American who uses my title, the idea is quite droll indeed.” A snooty laugh escaped from his thin lips, and the muscles of his broad shoulders flexed.
“My name is Rob.”
“Oh, what a fine fellow! I do greatly enjoy North America. My family owns a hunting lodge in Ontario, and I daresay, aside from les Québécois, it’s marvelous!” He laughed and clapped his hands — his French accent was self-consciously bad: lezz kebekwazz — then looked side to side like he thought he had been too loud. “What can I do for you, my fine yankee friend?”
“I, uh, I’m doing interviews for a North American cricket magazine,” Rob said. “It’s new, it’ll be in the first issue. I wanted to ask you some questions about the sport.”
“Ah, yes, well I am very busy indeed, I am not sure I could fit that in my diary,” he said. He beamed like he didn’t often get recognized for his skill. “I do so love the world of periodicals though, and I wish you the best of luck-“
“I can pay. Two hundred pounds.”
He paused, checking all around the quad for anyone he knew. “Yes, well, the money, of course, is not important. But I do wish to spread the world’s most civilized sport. I have always believed cricket teaches its players the best in comportment and decorum. It is truly a sport for gentlemen,” he said with a grin. Then he blurted out, “-and ladies! I did not forget ladies. Oxford has a marvelous women’s cricket team. Positively smashing.”
“Oh… Uh, well,” Rob stumbled over his words. John’s imposing size and charming grin made it hard to focus. “So will you do the interview? For two hundred pounds?”
“I’ll do it for the sport, not for the money. I’ll do it to exalt the glory of cricket itself,” John said, beaming to show off his dimples. “And I shall take the money, yes, of course, I do not wish to cause a scene.”
“You don’t have to accept the money,” Rob said with a grin.
“Of course, of course, but I don’t wish to rock the boat. If you are paying two hundred pounds, you should pay two hundred pounds. It’s not a problem,” he said with a casual chuckle. He paused. “I do have a prior commitment in a few minutes. Can we schedule it for later today? I have to get ready for my morris side’s rehearsal, I must change my clothes.”
“Oh, can I come with you?”
“Eh… I suppose,” he said. He led Rob back to his flat just a few blocks from uni. His manservant Jeeves was waiting for him there — having cleaned up after John’s elevenses, Jeeves hurried back to the flat to be ready to prepare John for the morris dancing rehearsals. “You can away, Jeeves, I shall dress myself.”
“Very good, sir,” Jeeves said, with a heavy tone and a deliberate look like he didn’t entirely believe that John was capable of dressing himself.
Rob pretended to care about cricket then and asked a few questions. He even jotted down John’s answers. John stood in the center of his flat at first. He didn’t expect Rob to wait here whilst John changed.
But John was unsure of expectations. Jeeves, of course, would be here when John removed his garments, but did Rob expect the same? He made no effort to walk away. Americans, John thought, always changed clothing in locker rooms (judging from the cinema, since John had never been to America in person). So John assumed that meant Rob intended to stay here and ask questions whilst John changed.
It was not a big deal, John told himself. It was how the lower classes operated. They often dressed in groups — without a single butler or valet even — such as before working in a mine. John wondered if Rob was a mineworker. John removed his shoes.
“There is a new North American cricket league,” Rob explained. “It’s not that popular. I’m hoping this magazine will increase its audience.”
“Oh how wonderful!” John kept a smile on his face as he removed his shirt and trousers.
“That’s why I wanted an interview with you, you’re charming and handsome, and you’ll bring in women, I hope, but I guess you’re used to that,” Rob said with a flirtatious smile aimed directly into John’s eyes. John blushed in response. He wasn’t used to people giving him compliments like that, so directly and bluntly, especially regarding women.
Rob was entranced by his broad chest, which was smooth and unblemished, a pale porcelain like fine ivory. John smelled of fine soap, not ordinary soap, but something soap-like, smelling a little of flowers and fruit — it didn’t smell like a flower-scented soap; it smelled like actual flowers, like John had bathed in rosewater dappled with blossoms.
“So you do morris dancing?”
“It is an important part of my family’s heritage,” John said. He sighed and rolled his eyes as he said it. “And I would be disappointing them to abstain from participating in it, so you see, there was never any doubt that I would do it. My entire family has done so for generations, so I never even considered skipping it.” He looked at the notes Rob was taking. “Is that going to be in the magazine? I am not certain it would be necessary. Do North American cricket fans care about such esoteric matters of English culture? I should think not.”
Rob had no intention of writing any article, but John didn’t know that. Rob just shrugged. “I gotta take notes on everything. My editor will decide what’s important enough to include in the article.”
“Indeed.”
The morris-dancing costume was simple, and, Rob was annoyed to see, not especially arousing. It covered everything. John pulled up a pair of white trousers, which were loose-fitting and billowy, and pulled on a white shirt. He looked almost like he was unfamiliar with the costume, which mystified Rob — he had no idea that John had never dressed himself in his morris-dancing clothing, so he was unused to doing so without Jeeves’s assistance.
“That is…” Rob had to suppress a giggle, “an interesting getup.” He watched John check that he had his handkerchiefs — that was part of the traditional morris dance. John’s family, the Dukes of Malperham-upon-Avon, had been running the morris side here at Oxford Uni for centuries; even when there was no one from the family attending school there, the Smiths sent a distant cousin or servant to run the side.
“I understand it is old-fashioned, of course,” John said. “But it is our heritage and our tradition. It supplies the Englishman with his soul, even if it seems strange.”
Rob shrugged. “Yeah, sure, no problem. We all have our strange national traditions. It’s no weirder than a sock hop,” he said. He blushed. “I was kinda hoping that you wouldn’t put those clothes on though…”
“I’m sorry, my fine yankee chum?”
Rob cleared his throat. “Well, I promised you two hundred pounds for an interview, and that would be fine. We could do that, and you could walk out of here with two hundred pounds-“
“Which I would be fine with, indeed, but I do not require it, as we have established. I do not wish to do anything for so gauche a reason as money,” John said. “I will do it for cricket.” He stood proudly as though he was being photographed.
“Quite right, tut-tut,” Rob said with another giggle. John looked dourly upon him — Englishmen, he thought, did not giggle. Rob found his intense glare difficult to endure. “But if you wanted… you could earn something more like five hundred pounds. I realize you don’t need it, of course-“
“All this talk of money makes me ill. It is impolite,” John said. He put his hands on his hips and played with the uncomfortable fabric of his morris-dancing costume. “Belgians speak of money. I am no Belgian.”
“Right, well, for five hundred pounds, all you’d have to do is stand there.”
“You intend to pay me five hundred pounds sterling to stand here?” John paused.
“Well, to stand there and not complain as I do something,” Rob said. He inserted one finger in his mouth and sucked on it. John’s eyes opened wide. Rob deep-throated his finger even more explicitly because it wasn’t clear John was willing to accept the implication. Rob blushed as John chortled and stumbled over his own words.
“I say! I-I-I-I-I-I… I dare say you are a disreputable lout! You would pay… pay the Queen’s good money for something craven and perverse!” John said. “Correct? Did I misunderstand you? You mean… you wish to fornicate? And you will pay me… a monkey?”
Rob raised his eyebrow. “A monkey…? Nooooo. You can buy a monkey, I guess. I mean, it’s illegal, I’m pretty sure. Probably costs more than five hundred pounds too.”
“A monkey is working-class slang for five hundred pounds,” John said, barely controlling his pride at being able to explain working-class slang to someone. John harrumphed and crossed his arms over his broad chest, cradled by that billowy white morris-dancing shirt.
“So you’ll do it?”
John winced. “Please, sir, have some decorum. Do they not have manners in America? Of course I am not opposed to… activities of a masculine nature. But it is most improper to do so so wantonly, so flippantly!”
“Oh?”
“The polite way to invite a man to explore manhoods together is to say that you would like to promenade amongst the lavender blossoms,” he whispered.
“But I don’t. I have allergies. I just wanted to taste your dick.”
“Don’t be difficult, sir,” John said. “And please, do not assault my ears with such common talk.”
“I didn’t realize you had such sensitive ears,” Rob said. One of his hands slipped under John’s loose-fitting morris-dancing shirt. John twitched but didn’t tell him to stop. Rob thought that accusing him of having “sensitive ears” would make John quit it with the euphemisms, but John just nodded.
“I am a well-bred gentleman, of course I do not wish to hear of such things or speak of money,” John said. “The only acceptable topics of conversation are cricket, the value of a good butler, the weather and gardening. The latter two are only acceptable provided they have been proceeding handsomely.”
“I see,” Rob said. “Why don’t you take your shirt off?”
“I am not in need of money,” John said as he took the morris-dancing shirt off anyway. He kept a stony look fixed on his face as though he was going to say no, even though he had already agreed to Rob’s offer. He would just never say it out loud.
“Do you want me to jack you off?” Rob asked, eyes twinkling because John exploded in harrumphs.
“Absurd! How dare you speak to me like that!”
“You can tell me to leave,” Rob said. “But my plan is to jack you off-“
“Your diction is shamefully crass!”
“-and then stick your dick in my ass until you fill it with cum, and then give you give five hundred pounds. If you see any flaws in that plan — any flaws that don’t relate to euphemisms,” Rob said, “then let me know now.”
“Your tongue speaks the crudest of words.” He jutted his hips forward to give Rob easy access to his crotch, even as he looked away and sighed as though scandalized.
John paused and watched Rob’s hand pull down his white trousers, revealing those clean — seemingly brand-new — pair of y-fronts, hugging his arse and his plump cheeks. Rob smiled. He tugged the y-fronts down, and John’s dick flopped out.
“Where do you get your underwear? They’re really hot and they look comfortable,” Rob said.
John frowned. “You can not buy any yourself. My pants are bespoke, made especial for my household by the Cordwainer family of Bristol. They are part of an ancient and storied tradition.” He gave his massive dick a single stroke, and it was half-hard already. “My family does not buy pants that just any American could buy.”
Rob rolled his eyes. He had a feeling he could buy those very same pants if he really wanted to — he was a lot wealthier than he let on — but he didn’t want an argument. He bared John’s massive slab of meat. “You have a giant cock,” Rob said with a giggle.
John scoffed. “You are crass,” he said. He bristled. “You may say that I have a ‘sizable endowment’.” He paused. “That part you may tell people, nothing else.”
“Won’t they wonder how I know?”
John looked at him like he was an idiot. “Of course. But they won’t ask.”
“And the money? You don’t want the money?”
John gulped and blurted out, “I want the money! I mean… I don’t want it, of course, but I should take it.” He paused, watching his manhood firm up in Rob’s hand, as Rob chased it with his tongue. “I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, after all.”
“I would not be uncomfortable keeping the money.” Rob’s voice was muffled by the rod he kept rubbing over his lips and licking with his tongue.
“Indeed, well, I should not wish to cause a problem,” John said. He flopped his dick between his fingers but looked away as Rob kissed it right on the tip. “So you should do as you intended, of course.” He paused. “By which I mean, yes, you should pay me. Not for the sake of payment, just for the sake of… you know… doing it.”
“Right, right,” Rob said. He hefted up John’s cock in his fingers and slowly jacked it down his throat. John’s eyes opened wide.
John had been jacked off before, but he never knew it could feel like this. He closed his eyes and bit back a moan — he thought it would be improper to enjoy this too much, and he didn’t want to give Rob any ideas.
His dick firmed up right away in Rob’s mouth, and throbbed against his tongue. John leaned forward, forcing his dick in deeper until he realized that might be seen as rude — he was no throat-forcing hooligan, after all — and he took a step back.
Soon his cock was veiny, pulsating, leaking precum that coated Rob’s throat and ran down his chin. It was salty and warm and inviting, and it made Rob want more.
“Are you ready?” Rob asked, smacking his lips as he pulled John’s dick out. “Huh?”
“Ready for what, my good man?” John’s face was ruddy, and a few beads of sweat had appeared on his normally perfect forehead.
“Well… I suppose you won’t want me to say out loud what this next thing is,” Rob said. John’s eyes opened wide in both fear and desire, and Rob giggled. “Oh good, I don’t need to say it. You look like the King after a fart.” He dropped his own trousers and turned around to bend over.
“Perhaps you should leave.” John’s voice was grim and flat.
Rob assumed he had misheard. He turned back around. “I’m sorry?”
“I will not… fornicate with the likes of you! You have disrespected the King, and I shall not stand for that!” His dick was still hard, but for John, the King was more important than any amount of blue-balls. He formed a fist, and for the first time, those massive cricket-jock muscles looked intimidating to Rob, who cowered back. John was big enough his punch was going to pack a wallop.
“Sorry, sorry, I was just making a joke-“
“That is not a joke! It is a declaration of war upon the people of England! It is a wounding of an entire nation! Nay, several nations, for the Welsh and the Scottish and the Manxmen-“
“Okay, relax, John, I’m sorry, I apologize.”
“Well, in this country, we treat our King with the utmost respect,” John said. He stretched his shoulders and legs, and have his dick one quick stroke. “I shall forgive you this indiscretion. Whilst you are in Britain, however, I suggest you carry yourself with an appropriate amount of respect.” He paused. “It is not because of the money. No amount of money would make up for such disrespect. I am simply a forgiving type.”
“Oh, okay.” Rob breathed a sigh of relief and turned around. He spread his cheeks. “Have you ever done it in the butt?”
John sighed dramatically. “Please do not speak like that.” He slid his dick between Rob’s asscheeks. “I have… I have not traversed the rocky road, no, not the one lined with lavender fields, nor the one with petunias on the other side.”
Rob furrowed his brow and cocked his head to the side. “So are the petunias vaginas?”
“I shall ignore that. The v-word is so impolite; it is grossly inappropriate.” John gingerly slipped the tip of his dick into Rob’s ass. He bit his lip when a jolt of pleasure shot up his spine, and he kept feeding his manhood deeper into him.
His hands caressed Rob’s ass until he remembered he was touching a man, and he took his hands away. His heart thumped. If his grandma-ma found out about this, he’d be disowned from the family — for a variety of reasons: because the yank was “lavender”; because he was doing work for pay; because he was spending time with a commoner; because he was disgracing Oxford, where being caught would be shameful for the whole family; because John was alone with a flamboyant American.
But John wasn’t really worried about being caught. It actually made the whole experience more intense for him. He felt victorious getting away with it, like when he and the lads in boarding school had raided the kitchen at night. They’d eat jelly and pudding until dawn and his heart would nearly thump out of his chest as he fled back to his room.
“Oh god, cornhole me, your highness!” Rob said with another giggle that turned into a full-throated guffaw at the look on John’s face.
“I am not royalty,”John said, his eyes opened wide as sweat trickled down his chin. He was on the verge of orgasm, but even then he felt the need to lecture Rob about proper terms of address. “That is not the proper form of address in this context-“
But John stopped talking because Rob was laughing too hard to hear anyway, and it was hard to concentrate with his dick throbbing mightily in Rob’s ass. John blushed.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t really mean that literally…” Rob said. He wrenched his head back and moaned, with John’s cock resting on his prostate. He couldn’t bear it anymore and writhed. He howled so loud Jeeves could hear it (he was out in the corridor, and though he wondered intensely what was happening, he would never inquire about it).
“Yes, well, it is not necessary to speak like that.
“Please do penetrate me further, milord,” Rob said with a gasp and a laugh.
“You do not need to tease me,” John said. He wrinkled his nose but kept plowing his entire cock in with every thrust of his hips. He had no idea he was perfectly lined up to stimulate Rob’s prostate every time he rammed into him.
John was easily upset by teasing, but he kept a stiff upper lip — a skill he had perfected in boarding school. He used all of those cricket-toned muscles to piston his cock deep into Rob’s ass.
Rob shot his wad into his hand, filling up his palm with more creamy fluid than he thought possible. He hadn’t shot such a big load in a long time. But John not only had a big cock and a big body, but he also seemed to think he needed to plow extra hard to prove himself — not like most of the men Rob paid, who usually treated him like a piece of meat. That certainly had its appeal, but for now, Rob enjoyed the feel of John caringly grinding his dick into Rob’s ass.
“I am finishing now,” John said with a moan. He finally showed a little passion on his face and in the timbre of his voice, and his cheeks turned apple-red.
His load filled Rob up with warmth that seeped into his flesh. He shot a big load too, even bigger than Rob’s, great gobs of cream and juice spraying into every corner of Rob’s ass.
Rob cried out wordlessly, his fingers tightening into claws and his toes curling. His whole body tensed up as the most potent orgasm of his life exploded within him.
“Oh goddamn!” Rob shouted, only for John to frown at him as though he shouldn’t express his orgasm verbally. Rob just writhed and nuzzled his face against John’s muscular body.
Then, Rob fell limp, and John too, atop him. They both humped there together for a moment, John’s soft cock still moving and twitching in his ass. That turned John’s cumwad into a big frothy mess that bubbled out and into his crotch, sliding between Rob’s legs.
John leaned back and let his dick flop out. He sighed, his eyes opened wide at the sight of the puddle of cum that coated his crotch. He frowned. “Ah… you are quite the flamboyant little American.” He stood there, looking at his cum-splattered dick as though he had no idea how it got that way.
Rob quickly dressed. “Are you… okay?” Rob asked. John still hadn’t moved.
“Yes. I just need a minute.”
“Okay, well, I’m going,” Rob said. He gave John the money he had promised him, and then headed for the door. John grabbed the five hundred pounds as though he didn’t care about it, but he carefully placed it in the pocket of the trousers he had previously taken off and which now rested on the floor. John stood there, grim-faced and bleary-eyed, dick dangling moistly between his legs, as Rob opened the door.
John cleared his throat. “Can you ask Jeeves to come in? Tell him his lordship needs to be cleaned up.”

Read it now as an ebook from your favorite ebookstore!

Rob’s World of Men

Chapter One: The American

Chapter Two: The Frenchman

Chapter Three: The Swede

Chapter Four: The Russian

Chapter Five: The Australian

Chapter Six: The German

Chapter Seven: The Turk

Chapter Eight: The Englishman

Chapter Nine: The Finn

Chapter Ten: The Italian

Rob’s World of Men: Chapter Seven

Read it now as an ebook from your favorite ebookstore!

Rob’s World of Men

Chapter One: The American

Chapter Two: The Frenchman

Chapter Three: The Swede

Chapter Four: The Russian

Chapter Five: The Australian

Chapter Six: The German

Chapter Seven: The Turk

Chapter Eight: The Englishman

Chapter Nine: The Finn

Chapter Ten: The Italian

Rob liked to make an entrance, so he waited behind the hamam. It was a small stone structure on the outskirts of Izumir, Türkiye. No one around here knew that Rob owned it. He had bought it recently to be sure he would be allowed in, despite not being Turkish.
After an hour or so of waiting, he saw Yusuf approach cautiously, his hefty frame shaking beneath his salvar, jubba and fez. He stopped to pet a fat cat lounging on a bench by the door, then swaggered into the hamam as though on his way to a fight.
Yusuf’s eyes scanned the hamam as he entered it, but he didn’t see any Americans. Rob had sent him an anonymous letter claiming to be an American tourist who wanted to jack his dick for a thousand American dollars. That was a lot of money anywhere, but to Yusuf it was enough to make him do almost anything.
And for Yusuf, cornholing men in the hamam was not that strange of a request. As long as he was on top, he had done nothing wrong, as far as he was concerned — though he considered all of his bottoms to be in a state of grave sin.
But Yusuf didn’t know who Rob was. So he awkwardly walked into the hamam’s camekân and removed his clothes, leaving the fez for last. When he took it off, a big mess of black curls was revealed upon his scalp. He wore a loincloth only when he moved deeper into the hamam. A few dozen Turks milled around, hairy chests gleaming with shower water. They wore the same loincloth, as did Rob, who stood out as a gleaming white, hairless pale man in a sea of swarthy Turks.
Yusuf didn’t see him right away. He moved into the hamam’s colder soğukluk and then its warmer ılıklık and finally the steaming hot hararet, which induced intense perspiration. The loincloth soon came off, and Yusuf, like the others, sat in the steam stark-naked. Rob did too, though he was worried he would get a hardon, so he tried to remain demure.
Yusuf wondered if that letter had been a prank. He was glad he hadn’t told anyone where he was coming or why. He had read the letter in a cafe, drinking strong Turkish coffee — the best coffee in the world — and had kept his face stoic so nobody would know what kind of offer he was entertaining.
It was normal, in a hamam, for a strong man like Yusuf to come up behind a weaker, smaller man and cornhole them. The weaker man would take his dick and swallow his load, and Yusuf could stop thinking about women for a few moments at least. That’s why it wasn’t sinful for him, Yusuf thought. His imam had explained it. It replaced a grave sin — coveting a woman — with a very minor indiscretion.
Still, it was only proper to do it in the dark where no one saw it and to deny it when asked even if everyone knew you did it — what happened in the hamam, stayed in the hamam.

Yusuf approached a Turk who was slim and middle-aged. He seemed possibly American even if he was obviously Turkish by descent.
The smaller Turk trembled when Yusuf grabbed his cock and shook it in the smaller Turk’s direction. Yusuf’s great wrestling-toned muscles flexed. Shower water dripped through his chest hair.


“What do you want?” asked the smaller Turk in fluent Turkish, as he blanched and looked away.
Yusuf frowned. Obviously this was not the American who sent the letter. Yusuf stalked away.
He made sure all the guys in here could see his cock. He liked being the biggest man in the room, especially in a hamam where smaller men were treated poorly. Yusuf knew that well because he was often the one who treated them poorly.
“What are you looking at?” Yusuf asked one of the men near him. He didn’t intend to pick a fight, but as soon as he said it, he knew that would happen, and he wasn’t about to turn the other cheek.
The other fighter was Mustafa, and he was just a little smaller than Yusuf. He puffed his chest out, until their nipples touched and their chest-hair rubbed against each other, their sweat intermingling as it ran down their bellies.
A few more words were exchanged before the first fists flew. A part of Yusuf knew the only reason he had picked this fight was that he felt weak and vulnerable right now, so he felt a need to demonstrate that he was neither. He hoped this “wealthy American” was watching.
He was. Rob stood there in a shadowy corner of the hamam, close enough he could feel the perk asscheeks of the lithe Turk in front of him. Those plump brown orbs rubbed against Rob’s cock. That was ordinary enough around here that the young Turk didn’t realize it was happening, not even when Rob’s dick twitched.
Yusuf knocked Mustafa down and mounted his chest to punch him in the face. His heavy balls left a layer of sweat on Mustafa’s chest. He didn’t get to punch him much in this position because someone grabbed him and dragged him off before too long.
Mustafa staggered to his feet as the hamam settled down, and Yusuf watched Mustafa leave. He crossed his arms over his chest and flexed his muscles. He sneered. “You had better run, weakling.”
He realized that that wealthy American must not be coming. He turned around to leave, cock flopping out and slapping Rob in the face — Rob had kneeled behind Yusuf. The sweat streaked down Rob’s face. He looked up at Yusuf and, above his head, the domed ceiling of the hamam.
“Hi, I’m American. My name is Rob.” Rob looked up at Yusuf, who stopped short.
He was obviously white, and when he spoke, blatantly American; Yusuf had learned English from an Australian, so the stranger’s American accent sounded wrong to him. Yusuf furrowed his brow. It was obvious what was about to happen, but he was dismayed that it was to happen here, in the center of the hamam, where a dozen men could see.
A thousand dollars was a lot of money. Yusuf could buy plenty of rosewater-flavored sweets with that, and Yusuf’s masculinity couldn’t be questioned, since he just beat someone up. He kept his arms folded over his chest and didn’t say a word.
A few men snickered as Rob waddled forward on his knees, reaching for Yusuf’s cock. Some of them whispered too.
“He must owe a debt…”
“Yusuf is tough like that, he does not allow insults to his manhood.”
Yusuf wrinkled his nose. Somehow the rumor had already spread within the hamam that Rob was jacking Yusuf off because he owed him money, probably for gambling. That was unislamic of him, and of course Rob was obviously not Muslim, so no one thought it inappropriate to make him jack dick. Nobody seemed to notice that Rob jacked cock enthusiastically, voluntarily and without a moment’s hesitation.
Yusuf was fine with that, of course. He looked stronger and tougher this way.
As his dick disappeared into Rob’s throat, he decided to play along. He gripped Rob’s ears and drilled his cock in deeply. In Turkey, if someone owed you money and you were getting paid back this way, you were supposed to cornhole hard. Yusuf’s father had told him to “take ownership” of the man’s mouth and to make him feel all the humiliation his position required. There was nothing more shameful than a man on his knees in front of another man, so it was Yusuf’s duty to ensure he felt that shame.
He spat on Rob’s face. The others in the hamam laughed and jeered, and some of them thwacked Rob’s head with their own limp cocks. Yusuf spat again and again, until Rob’s face was coated with his sticky spittle.
“You make his face as shameful as his spirit…”
“Destroy his throat, Yusuf!”
Yusuf began to get nervous. He had begun plowing into Rob’s throat assuming Rob would make him stop or at least go easy on him. He wanted Rob to beg for mercy. But as he made eye contact with Rob, he realized that wouldn’t happen — he could see in Rob’s eyes that he wanted every bit of this, that Yusuf couldn’t use his face too hard for Rob’s liking.
It felt better than any throat from a female too. Yusuf felt guilty about that. Was it a sin to actually enjoy this? Did that make it worse? He wasn’t sure.
What was most important, he thought, was secular — he was going to look like the toughest guy in the hamam after this. He let go of Rob’s head, deciding to go the other route — rather than force his cock down Rob’s throat, he demanded Rob deep-throat him and slapped him when he failed.
“Get all the way down on it,” Yusuf said. He smacked Rob when he gagged without his nose nestling all the way in Yusuf’s unkempt pubic bush. Rob didn’t mind, and he even slurped weakly to provoke the slaps — he loved that. He also loved that Yusuf didn’t trim his pubic hair. So many men did these days that Rob enjoyed it when he got the full bush experience. Yusuf’s pubic hair smelled like a copper penny and scratched at Rob’s face.
His hands roamed up to Yusuf’s powerful chest, which was just as hairy, with a thick layer of coarse, kinky black hairs. When Rob touched his nipples, Yusuf’s pecs flexed and Yusuf slapped his hands away. “This isn’t for you, pervert. You are here to serve me.”
Rob stuck his bare ass in the air. He knew that, if he asked to get cornholed, that would look especially pervy and unislamic to the other men. So he just shook his ass, aimed at the others but sticking it high enough in the air to attract Yusuf’s attention to.
His precum flowed down Rob’s throat, but Yusuf was thinking about Rob’s ass. Could he do that? Of course he could. He had done it with a prostitute once. It felt amazing. Would it be the same on a man? Would the others consider it wrong?
“I think he likes it…”
“Yusuf must not be kidding about that little one being a pervert…”
Yusuf groaned. He needed to blow his load, and now that he saw Rob’s bare, smooth ass with its tight hole beckoning, Yusuf knew exactly where he was going to blow it.
He pulled out and pushed Rob onto the floor in one smooth motion. Rob was still dizzy and gasping for air from the deep-throating as he felt his asscheeks get spread open wide.
“Get in him, Yusuf!”
“Destroy his asshole! Make him feel it!”
They whooped and hollered. They had all gathered that Rob was totally into it, but they preferred to act like Rob was simply repaying a debt. They could purport to be so tough they went to hamams where ruffians cornholed weaker men, and they managed to go there without losing their own masculinity. That would improve their image and their family’s pride. Admitting they went to the kind of hamam where men perved out with each other would have the opposite impact.
So it was convenient for everyone to pretend that this was a debt-repayment. Even Rob jacking himself off and moving his ass back onto Yusuf’s cock of his own accord didn’t lead them to acknowledge that this was Rob’s choice. They could never have stayed to watch — or even allowed it to continue — if they knew that Rob wanted this so bad he had paid for it.
But Yusuf had no interest in letting them realize that. He pounded away at Rob’s ass, softly at first because that just seemed right. Rob, however, didn’t complain. He gasped and squirmed and moaned, a sound that Yusuf loved to hear, and Rob begged for more.
So Yusuf cornholed harder and harder. He hoped to make Rob tell him to slow down. If he tore him up enough, surely even a pervert would need to take a break, Yusuf thought.
But there seemed to be no signs of that happening. Yusuf let out a frustrated grunt that turned into a howl of desire as an orgasm erupted within him. He had a tense, furrowed-brow look as he cornholed, making his climax seem more like an angry explosion of rage than an orgasm. That was just the way he liked it.
He roared and cursed in Turkish, pounding on his chest like Tarzan. He smacked Rob’s asscheeks hard too, hard enough to make Rob cry out, moan and buckle. Rob furiously jacked himself off as pain and pleasure erupted in his ass in equal measure.
The sound of the other men cheering him on vanished. At first Rob thought it was just because of the intensity of his orgasm that overwhelmed the sound of everyone else in the hamam. But then he realized they had all genuinely fallen silent. Perhaps it felt too pervy to literally watch and cheer. So they all looked down at their own feet and the humid water condensing on their limp dicks instead. They avoided seeing Rob and Yusuf loudly orgasm.
“Take it! Take every drop of it!” Yusuf said with a roar. He laid his strapping chest on Rob’s back, pinning him in place as they both orgasmed. His kinky black hairs scratched Rob’s smooth skin.
Cum sprayed into Rob’s ass, a giant load that kept on going and going. Yusuf stopped moving for a moment, his hot breath condensing on Rob’s face even in the warm hamam. Cum flowed like piss, great gobs of it that coated Rob’s insides in creamy warmth.
Yusuf grunted and flexed his hips as he shot another wad, making a moist squelching sound that caused the others to laugh and grimace. A few drops of cum spilled out onto the floor.
At last Rob’s orgasm was done, but Yusuf’s was not. He kept on grinding his dick into Rob’s ass, making him squirm some more. It was painful, but Rob didn’t mind. He liked feeling Yusuf’s muscles tense and relax on his back, and Yusuf’s breath on his ear, and he liked being squashed beneath his weight, which forced his belly to wallow in his own wad of cum he had shot onto the floor. He looked up to see a dozen naked Turks watching with wide-eyed amazement, their dicks soft, balls crawling up in their sacs because they were nervous.
Yusuf snarled. He pushed Rob’s head down and gyrated his hips one last time. That made Rob cry out and writhe in agony, and it nearly made Rob get hard all over again. If Yusuf had done it twice, Rob would have been ready to go once more.
But Yusuf let go of Rob, pushing him onto the puddle of cum and stagnant shower water on the floor.
Yusuf crossed his arms over his chest again and flexed his biceps as the other Muslims cheered, somewhat nervously. His cock looked bigger than over, gleaming with moisture and analjuice. A few drops of cum dripped from the tip.
A proudful sneer crossed Yusuf’s face. He spread Rob’s asscheeks so everyone could see that gaping hole. “Look at that nasty, what a whore,” Yusuf said.
“Ew!”
“He is bringing his decadent Western ways to Turkey!”
Rob just smiled and stood. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m leaving Turkey right now.”
“You’re not trying to turn our men into perverts?”
Rob shook his head. “Of course not,” he said. He pushed into the crowd of guys. Most of them attempted to step away from him, because no one wanted to touch his body covered in cum and Yusuf’s sweat. Even a few of Yusuf’s dark coarse hairs clung to Rob’s skin, matted there with a mixture of both men’s sweat. Rob didn’t want to clean off, not yet.
“Disgusting! We shall call the police!”
“We mustn’t allow the Western pervert to stay in here and corrupt us all!”
No one followed Rob, which was exactly how he liked it. He went to a shadowy corner of the hamam, while he listened to the men excitedly talk about calling the police — it seemed no one wanted to actually do it, for fear it would look like they were perverts too.
Rob didn’t care. He wasn’t going to stick around. “Thanks, Yusuf,” he said. He passed the cash to Yusuf, who had just realized he forgot to get paid. He had been so relieved to cum he hadn’t asked for it.
Everyone saw him take cash from the American. Yusuf cleared his throat and said, “this is a fine payment on your debt, weakling.”

Read it now as an ebook from your favorite ebookstore!

Rob’s World of Men

Chapter One: The American

Chapter Two: The Frenchman

Chapter Three: The Swede

Chapter Four: The Russian

Chapter Five: The Australian

Chapter Six: The German

Chapter Seven: The Turk

Chapter Eight: The Englishman

Chapter Nine: The Finn

Chapter Ten: The Italian

Rob’s World of Men: Chapter Six

Read it now as an ebook from your favorite ebookstore!

Rob’s World of Men

Chapter One: The American

Chapter Two: The Frenchman

Chapter Three: The Swede

Chapter Four: The Russian

Chapter Five: The Australian

Chapter Six: The German

Chapter Seven: The Turk

Chapter Eight: The Englishman

Chapter Nine: The Finn

Chapter Ten: The Italian

Rob was stuffed full of sausage and mustard, and now he was eager to find a different kind of sausage. Rob had been touring Europe for weeks now, and he was enjoying the sights and sounds of Berlin.
The city was warm and windy tonight. Rob wanted to stay outside, but he didn’t want to waste his time. It didn’t seem there was anything going on on the streets of Berlin.
So he went into the first nightclub he saw. It turned out to be a rather old, not very hip club, playing dansmusik, which was just dorky enough to be charming. There were a wide range of both men and women. The men were not really his type, however. They were mostly thin, tall, stately — he liked men who were rough, crude and at least a little bit dangerous.
He made his way across the dancefloor. There were a lot of women here, that was the first thing he had noticed. A lot of hot women. That did not bode well for his chances of finding a man. A lot of women meant no desperate guys.
He decided to try his luck elsewhere. He headed out and towards the seedy side of town. He hadn’t gotten very far when he saw a Bier Palas that was still open. It was very touristy, so he wasn’t sure if it was for him. Rob wasn’t in Germany for the tourist stuff — he wanted men. He wanted to touch and taste them; he wanted to savor every drop of German manhood.
He went to the door just to pop his head inside. It was mostly women, he saw, once again, just like the nightclub (why are there so many German women?! Damn it!). Fat tourists guzzled cheap, watered-down beer. The girls were dressed as frumpy fraus in dirndls, with big tits mostly visible, like if a Hooters restaurant were tossed back in time to the late 19th century.
“Guten Abend.” A man’s dour voice filled the air.
Rob turned around and gulped nervously. The man in front of him was an intimidating sight. He was nearly seven feet tall and built like a professional wrestler, with arms bigger than Rob’s head and a broad strapping chest like he was part-Volkswagen. He was blond and squarish, with a very Teutonic face and a crooked nose like der Kämpfer. His hair was short and neatly combed. He crossed those massive arms over his chest.
“Oh, hallo,” Rob said. Now that he had taken in the man’s towering physique, Rob was turned on. He also noticed now that this man — Otto according to his nametag — worked for the Bier Palas. He was a bouncer or security guard of some sort.

That meant he was dressed like an employee, in traditional German garb. He wore liederhosen and a green and white shirt. This Bier Palas did not have a uniform that fit him well, so the liederhosen were too short, stopping at the knee, and his muscles bulged out of the clothes.


The German man grunted. “Are you the thief?”
“What?”
He paused, eyeing Rob up and down. He frowned, and Rob’s heart raced. Otto casually opened Rob’s shirt pocket and peered inside. “Someone has been picking the pockets of our customers as they leave.” He paused. “Wenn du der Dieb bist, werde ich dich fangen.” He waited for Rob to show he understood the German — which Rob did, but poorly enough he could pretend he didn’t.
Rob nodded. “Oh, yeah, I swear, that wasn’t me. I don’t do that. I actually have plenty of money,” he said. “I wanted to ask you something. My name is Rob,” he said. He blushed and stammered because Otto was such an imposing figure wie eine Statue eines heidnischen Gottes. “I wanted to offer you a job, of sorts. It’s not the kind of job you are used to, I assume-“
“Please be quick.” He inhaled deeply and glowered at Rob. “I have a tight schedule. I must be home shortly.”
“Oh, yes, well, I can offer you money,” Rob said. “I will pay you five hundred euros to cornhole me.” He paused, but Otto had no reaction. “Are you okay? What do you think?” He tweaked Otto’s bicep, which was harder than Rob expected; Otto must have been an amateur bodybuilder, he thought, with skin like Alabasterstein. He giggled and stroked it again, but Otto pushed his hand away.
“You are offering me money for sex. That is prostitution. Die Hure.”
“Well… Yes, that’s right,” Rob said. “Glad we’re on the same page.”
He flared his nostrils. “Fine. But I will not interrupt my workplace. That would be inefficient. I have a job to do.” He pointed to a door in the alley, behind the door into the Bier Palas. “Go in there and wait.”
He didn’t stick around to see if Rob would do it. Rob hesitated but did so. It was a small vestibule with a locked door on the other side, beyond which were a few offices. Rob guessed these were the administrative offices for the Bier Palas.
After an hour or so, Otto returned. He still had his lederhosen on. He came into the small vestible, locked the door behind himself and frowned at Rob.
“Do it.”
Rob’s eyes opened wide. “Uh… Otto? You mean-?”
Otto’s lips were pursed. “I said do it. You want me to give penis, you must do it.”
“Oh, yeah, okay. I just thought, uh…”
Otto stood there stiff as a board, arms crossed over his massive chest. He was so tall Rob could barely reach his shoulders at all. Rob touched Otto’s flat stomach through his shirt, then started to lift it over his chest. The blond hairs on his belly were fine und Weich, and his skin was perfectly smooth. His six-pack rippled beneath Rob’s touch.
Otto stopped him. “You said you wished to have dick of mine. Like oral and anal penis? Yes?”
“Uh, well… yeah.”
“You do not need to take my shirt off. It could become wrinkled. It would be inefficient,” Otto said.
“Oh. I, uh… I mean, I think if I am paying for it… It would be nice… Okay, fine…” Rob’s voice trailed off. Otto narrowed his eyes to slits, and Rob realized it was best to just move on. He didn’t mind jacking off guys in clothes.
Otto wore lederhosen, which were like britches and overalls combined, so they were held up with straps that ran over his chest. Rob was going to undo the straps, but Otto raced to do it like he was in a hurry. He gently but firmly pushed Rob to his knees.
“You are wasting time,” Otto said. His ill-fitting lederhosen were tight around the knees, so they didn’t fall all the way down. They just lowered enough to give Rob access zu seinem Schritt, clad in plain, unadorned but perfectly clean briefs. Rob thought that was cute: virtually no men between eighteen and eighty wore briefs back in America.
Otto took his briefs down, again doing it before Rob could. Rob couldn’t tell if Otto was in a hurry now because he wanted to get this over with (perhaps worried he’d get caught) or if he was embarrassed about it or if Otto simply never dawdled.
His dick bobbed and weaved. Rob hesitated, giggling until Otto took charge and dropped his cocktip into Rob’s mouth. Rob started jacking then, teasing the tip and sliding his tongue over the shaft and into Otto’s pisshole.
An emotionless grunt escaped from Otto’s mouth. His Schwanz twitched, then began to stiffen up in Rob’s mouth. Rob’s hands roamed up to his chest, underneath his shirt, and he managed to just barely reach the bottom of Otto’s pecs. Otto snarled and looked displeased, but he didn’t make Rob stop feeling him up.
“Stop.” Otto’s voice filled the vestibule.
Rob looked up at him. He pulled off Otto’s cock but left it there resting above his head. He licked the underside of the shaft. Otto showed no pleasure on his face, which made Rob giggle.
“If you wish to do it in anal sex, you must do it now.” Otto motioned for him to turn around. “It is best to do it with you an all four of your hands and feet. Stick your buttocks high in the air.”
Rob scoffed. “I know how to do it-“
“Then do it! Why do Americans dilly-dally so much?”
“Okay, first of all,” Rob said as he bent over. “I was technically born in Toronto. Second of all, how did you learn the word dilly-dally? No one says that-“
“Shut up. All Americans say they are Canadian.”
Rob was bent over now in front of him, and he had to drop to his knees to get himself lined up with Otto’s manhood. He still hadn’t taken off his lederhosen, which were around his ankles, or his traditional shirt, which he just unbuttoned a bit near the bottom to give himself unfettered access to Rob’s ass.
He drilled into Rob’s ass without any fanfare. He didn’t give Rob much of a chance to adjust to it either. He just slammed his Schwanz in and kept pushing, even as Rob writhed and cried out.
“You must open your buttocks hole.” Otto grunted. He smacked Rob’s asscheeks. “Relax it-“
“Yeah, I know how, thanks,” Rob said through gritted teeth. The pain was substantial. He wasn’t sure if Otto had never done this, or if he’d only done it with very slutty women with loose asses, or maybe only with kinky women who enjoyed it painful. Or maybe this was just how it went in Germany, Rob thought, and it was expected to be difficult.
Soon, Rob’s ass did adjust, despite Otto pounding away at it. Rob gripped the floor and howled in both pain and pleasure. The pain, however, slowly diminished with each thrust of Otto’s cock inside him. The pleasure grew and grew, until Rob was covered in sweat and moaning.
His prostate sent wave after wave of bliss through his veins. Once he got used to it, Rob enjoyed Otto’s rough, awkward way of cornholing. It was very efficient — he got his dick in right away, and every time he thrust, he brought his cock virtually all the way out, so just the tip remained in Rob’s ass, then he plowed all the way in until his balls slapped against Rob’s body.
Whenever Rob shifted his weight even a little, Otto wordlessly brought him back to the position he was in to begin with. Otto kept Rob perfectly straight in front of his body, centered, so that when Otto penetrated him, he could go in perfectly straight and symmetrically.
“Goddamn…” Rob cried out. He stroked himself off as he got cornholeed, and he lowered his head until Otto forced him back into position once more.
“Wait.” Otto stopped with his dick all the way in Rob. He reached for the lederhosen around his waist. His cock was so big that Rob mewled and whimpered, and he squirmed, but Otto stopped him. “I said wait. There is no need to make any noise.”
“I’m sorry, it feels so good-“
“Hush, that is not necessary.” Otto pulled a small paper bag out of his pocket. Inside was a styrofoam container — leftovers from lunch. He kept his dick in Rob’s ass as he opened it up.
“Are you-?”
“Hush. Ich muss jetzt essen,” Otto said. “I will finish when I am ready.”
“Oh, I-“
“Hush.” Inside the container was about a third of a sausage resting on a bed of sauerkraut. He took a bite of the sausage. “I saved this from my lunch to eat on my home after work. That would be now, if I weren’t here with you.”
“Oh.” That still seemed weird to Rob, but it was hard to think about anything except that massive Teutonic cock in his ass. Rob sucked in his breath. Otto took another bite of the sausage.
The smell of sausage and potently funky sauerkraut filled the air. It was enough to cut through the intense sensations rsouroiling Rob’s body. His voice broke and he lowered his body, jutting his ass back um es tiefer auf den Schwanz zu pochen, der in seinem Arsch pocht. Otto grunted but didn’t complain, he just used a plastic fork to eat sauerkraut from the to-go container.
Then he spent an inordinate amount of time cleaning up, all still without moving a muscle, that massive cock still throbbing against Rob’s prostate. Otto put the plastic fork, the container and the napkins he had used back into the to-go bag he had come with. He carefully folded the top of the paper bag, then placed it by the door to grab on the way out.
“Okay, can we finish?” Rob asked. He was getting annoyed. He had paid for this, after all, and Otto had forbidden him from touching his chest or removing his shirt, had strictly decided on the position he would take, right down to the orientation of his head, which didn’t even affect Otto, and now he made Rob wait while he ate leftovers. It hardly seemed fair to pay for that. Wasn’t the customer always right?
But when Rob turned his head to say something, he saw Otto’s broad chest muscles flexing beneath his shirt, ruddiness running up his neck to the pale skin of his cheeks as he resumed cornholing Rob. He put headphones on too, so Rob realized there was no point in complaining, Otto wouldn’t hear. Otto forced Rob’s head to face forward again.
Then he began plowing hard, his orgasm slowly building. He finally moved a little too as he went, lowering himself, first to pin Rob down and in place, then as Otto reached orgasm, he got lower and lower.
Soon that seven-foot tall body landed on Rob, pinning him to the floor. Rob struggled to breathe, but he didn’t complain — he loved it. He finally sensed some passion and real desire in Otto’s body. Otto breathed heavily and grunted.
“Okay, I am going to finish now, cowboy. I am going to shoot my semen into your ass, and you will take every drop. That is the plan, do you understand it?” His voice was still flat and firm, but there was a note of urgency now, like he raced to say this before he finally shot his wad.
“Yes, okay!” Rob cried out the best he could beneath Otto’s chest. Since Otto was so tall, Rob was crushed beneath his chest and flat stomach, so Otto could feel his pecs on the back of his head. Rob’s own face was above the floor, Rob’s entire body squirming beneath Otto’s muscles, which were like a blanket that weighed him down.
He still had those headphones on, and his eyes were closed. Pulsating Technomusik was audible from the headphones, and it pounded like a soundtrack as Otto rutted. Otto grunted, a few drops of spit slipping past his lips and onto Rob’s cheeks.
Then, finally, he was done, and cum filled Rob up. He shot a massive load, thick and milky, which seeped into Rob’s flesh. Its heat overwhelmed him, along with the body heat of Otto’s broad muscles, until Rob could feel it all over himself, like he had been literally covered inside and out.
“Aaaaah….” Otto moaned directly into Rob’s ear. Then he wrapped one of those powerful corded-muscle arms around Rob’s thin, reedy chest. He lifted Rob up.
The other orgasm running through Rob was so intense he had little awareness of what was happening. He didn’t get why Otto lifted him up, not until Otto’s hand reached around to Rob’s own cock and touched it.
Rob couldn’t speak right now, so he didn’t ask why Otto gave him a reacharound — and he wouldn’t have asked even if he could, because he worried asking would make Otto realize he didn’t need to and therefore stop.
Otto actually just thought this was part of it. He found it distasteful, but it was just a handjob. He kept his limpening dick in Rob’s ass — he just assumed that was what most men did, because it seemed logical and efficient — as he stroked him off.
Since he had just gotten plowed and Otto’s cock still teased his prostate, Rob began orgasming basically the moment Otto started stroking him off. He writhed, impaled on Otto’s dick, wrapped up in his pale stone-like arms.
Finally cum sprayed over Otto’s fingers and onto the floor. Rob cried out, his whole body vibrating in a ferocious frenzy that was only more intense because Rob knew how much he stood out — Otto barely moved at all, no more than necessary, so Rob’s wild motions seemed odd and unsuitable to Otto.
Not that he would ever say that. Otto was intensely aware of the sticky cum dripping from his fingers, but he didn’t let himself get bothered by it. He waited until Rob was done shooting his wad.
Then Otto let go. His dick flopped out, and Rob toppled to the ground, letting out a loud post-orgasmic sigh. Otto stood. He shook his dick between his fingers, then grabbed the remaining napkins from his to-go bag.
He quickly and efficiently wiped up his own hands and cock, then he even wiped up the cum off the floor and off Rob’s ass. He threw the napkins back into the bag that waited by the door to be thrown away. He pulled his lederhosen back up, cursing at the sight of a few drops of cum that had hit the fabric.
“I will have to wash these now. You must pay extra,” Otto said. “Hand over the money now. Five hundred and twenty euros.”
Rob didn’t really think it was reasonable to pay to clean the lederhosen. If it was up to him, after all, he’d have had Otto take his clothes off, and they wouldn’t have gotten cum-stained.
But Otto didn’t look like he would entertain any haggling. That was something Rob had noticed in Germany so far — no haggling, no special deals or sales, just plain posted prices. It was nice, he thought, even if annoying at times.
He handed over the five hundred and twenty euros, then smiled at Otto. “Thanks for that.”
He nodded. “I hope you have a good time in Germany, sir.” Then he added. “It is simply inspiring.” He smiled, which was awkward on his big squarish face. “Simply Inspiring” was the tourism slogan of Germany and was printed back in that Bier Palas in several languages on one of the walls.
But Rob didn’t know that. He just thought Otto was awkwardly describing Germany as “simply inspiring”. He nodded and smiled. “Oh. Yeah. Cool. Germany’s, uh… been nice.”
“Good. Tell the tourism board I am nice to tourists and I do not frighten you even though I am very big, tell them that,” he said. He nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
He turned around and left, grabbing the paper bag to throw away before he was gone. He put his headphones back on too, and before Rob could even say goodbye, Otto was gone, tapping his feet to the sound of techno before he got on a bus going home.
Rob smiled when he finally left the vestibule. He had done what he set out to do in Germany, he thought, and he was ready to move on.

Read it now as an ebook from your favorite ebookstore!

Rob’s World of Men

Chapter One: The American

Chapter Two: The Frenchman

Chapter Three: The Swede

Chapter Four: The Russian

Chapter Five: The Australian

Chapter Six: The German

Chapter Seven: The Turk

Chapter Eight: The Englishman

Chapter Nine: The Finn

Chapter Ten: The Italian

Rob’s World of Men: Chapter Five

Read it now as an ebook from your favorite ebookstore!

Rob’s World of Men

Chapter One: The American

Chapter Two: The Frenchman

Chapter Three: The Swede

Chapter Four: The Russian

Chapter Five: The Australian

Chapter Six: The German

Chapter Seven: The Turk

Chapter Eight: The Englishman

Chapter Nine: The Finn

Chapter Ten: The Italian

Rob was smoking a ciggie near the CentreLink on Bulumbaga Road. It was a bright and sunny day, but the gray squat building in front of Rob made the whole area dismal and bleak; it exuded an aura of dull-edged banality. Craggy bogans bustled in and out of CentreLink, interspersed with a few elderly schmucks and a disabled man accompanied by a nurse. There must have been a separate employee entrance and exit, Rob thought, because he didn’t see anyone who worked here.
He was just waiting for the bus anyway. He had ended up missing it by two minutes, so now he had most of an hour to wait for the next one.
That’s when he heard a fight break out. It was down in the car park. First, he heard a bunch of gruff macho shouting, vowels extending broadly like sunbeams, consonants clipped — he couldn’t make out the words, but he could make out the accent.
They were bogans, fighting.
“You bloody tosser, get off me!”
“Razza, you prick-“
“Where’d you go last night, huh, mate?”
“Why’d you hit me-?”
He made out the names Keith and Razza before he snuck down there to take a peek.
Razza was the shirtless one, wearing a bushranger hat. He was shorter than his brother, Keith, but thicker-built, and heavily tattooed all over like a bikie — he wasn’t a bikie, though he used to own a motorcycle, he just had bikie-like tattoos because his bikie dad was also his tattoo artist. Keith only had one tattoo, of Uluru, on his shoulderblade — he didn’t get along with dad — and he had terrible teeth and a greasy mullet.
They shouted and heaved as their sweat-glistening bodies tore into each other. The fight seemed half-real and half-playful, with punches interspersed with more casual smacks and winking slaps. They both wore short black shorts that showed off their powerful thighs, and Rob lost himself trying to see up those shorts to see if the boys wore grundies or not.
“Don’t pull my hair, mate, that makes you a bitch-“
“Get off me, you little ratbag, Razza! I’ll smash your teeth in!”
Razza’s superior thickness and powerful arms gave him an advantage though, and his shortness wasn’t much of a hindrance. He finally landed a powerful blow to Keith’s belly, knocking him to the ground.
“Who’s the petrol-sniffing ratbag now?!” Razza took off one of his thongs and slapped his brother in the face. He laughed like this was all a big prank — he had looked serious moments ago, but now that he was the winner, he joked and smacked his brother with his thong.
Keith slapped the thong out of his face. “Get your fuckin’ thong off me, you abo bastard-“
“You better pay me for that fuckin’ petrol!” Razza said, having to pause for a moment to remember what this fight was even about.
He had loaned Keith his car, a vintage Holden he’d been restoring for years, to drive to his job last night. That should have been a five-kilometer trip in total. But an entire tank of petrol had gone missing, a fact that Razza only realized when he had come here to CentreLink to see his case manager. His Holden had barely puttered into the car park.
Keith had come later in the day to see his own case manager as well, and Razza was here waiting for him. Keith backed away, ripping his shirt off, ready to have a go at Razza, because it had been obvious from the beginning that Razza was looking for a fight.
That happened a lot. The Histexile brothers were known throughout their suburb for fighting each other, and anyone else available. Razza pumped his fists after beating his brother down and didn’t even notice Rob there watching. Razza was glad to win because his brother had called him a racial slur — an Abo. Though Keith and Razza were brothers, Razza claimed to be Aboriginal (1/32 Gadigal clan) and Keith claimed to be descended from convict stock. Both found each other’s claims spurious and worth brawling over.
“Come hit me then, fight me like a man-“
“I just whooped your ass!” Razza shouted, feinting forward, his broad chest greasy with old sweat. “Remember? Like two seconds ago?”
“You hit me with your thong, that’s not whooping-“
“Bullshit, you little fucker, I’ll do it again-“

“You are such a moron!” Keith gestured towards the CentreLink building, where people had stopped to watch. One person — Rob — came close enough to hear. Keith and Razza were both momentarily self-conscious, then smiled broadly and stamped their feet. Keith wiped the trickle of blood off his nose.


“You wasted a whole tank of petrol!”
“Katie wanted to root, man! I drove to her place in Gagamazoo!”
Razza threw another punch. “Why didn’t you pick me up? I’d bone that root-rat, mate! We were gonna do donuts today! We were talking about it — right before you went to work, we decided we were gonna kill a case of goddamn stubbies and do-“
“Hey, guys, you know they’re calling the police?” Rob said. He cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt.”
Keith and Razza exchanged glances and rolled their eyes. Razza looked to the white van Keith had come here in — a work van. Keith was a tradie — so was Razza, technically, but he had been suspended for punching his supervisor. Keith went right to the driver’s seat, and Razza to the passenger’s side as though he was going to get in.
“No, rack off, mate,” Keith said. “I’m not supposed to have anyone else in the van. It’s a rule-“
“Oh, fuck you!” Razza shouted from the other side of the van. He had one of his thongs in hand, smacking the van on the side of it when Keith drove away. “You stupid asshole, Keith!” Razza stood there, glowering at Rob. “What do you want?”
Rob shrugged. “I’ll jack your dick.”
“What?”
“You need a ride out of here, right? Let me jack your dick. I’ll give you a ride, let you do some donuts in my car and buy you a slab of beer,” Rob said.
Razza heard sirens off in the distance. He laughed nervously, covering it up with a macho chuckle as though he got propositioned like this all the time. He shrugged. “Yeah. Where’s your car?”
He scoffed when he saw the tiny Kia. “I can barely fit my dick in this thing, mate,” he said as he got in. “Doin’ donuts’ll wreck this car’s suspension to fuck and back. Could blow out the tyres too.” He had to adjust the driver’s seat so he could fit, hurrying when the sirens got closer. Rob sat in the passenger seat.
“I don’t care, it’s a rental,” Rob said. He blushed. He knew he sounded like a wealthy jerk — he was going to have to pay to fix the transmission one way or another — but he couldn’t help it. He could afford it.
“Well, shit… Let’s do some circlework! I chucked a sicky to blodge off for the day, so me and my brother were gonna hoon all day. I know a great spot, a dirt road you’d never know it’s there unless you knew it was there. We can stop for stubbies on the way,” Razza said. He was hesitant to really go at it in his own Holden — he’d replaced the suspension several times because of doing donuts in it; he could do it again, but it was expensive and time-consuming, so he tried to avoid it. If this weird pervy stranger was willing to wreck a rental, he could do that.
Even if it was a Kia.
He headed away from CentreLink at top speed before the police could arrive. He sped to the bottle-o a few kilometers away.
Rob went in and bought stubbies of Carlton Draught. He was already hot and horny because Razza’s shirtless body had filled the Kia up with his musk. It occurred to Rob only then that he shouldn’t have left Razza out there with the keys and the car. He could drive away anytime. Razza would lose the beer Rob was buying, but he’d gain a rental car he could do donuts in and then sell for parts. Rob’s heart quickened. He peered into the car park. Razza was still there, showing no signs of leaving. Rob paid for the beer.
When he got out there, Razza popped the boot, and Rob plopped the stubbies of beer in there.
“Later, mate!” That was when Razza stole the car.
After Rob put the beer in the boot.
He guffawed and slapped his hand on the roof of the Kia. Then Razza sped out of there bottle-o’s car park, and Rob watched the Kia disappear down the road. Razza whooped and hollered like a cowboy, loud enough for Rob to hear from back at the Dan Murphy’s.
So Razza did steal the beer after all. Rob had been right to be nervous, he was just off on his timing.
Not sure what else to do, Rob just walked away. He could have called the police. He’d have to eventually, or the car-rental place would accuse him of stealing it. But he didn’t feel like dealing with an Australian cop right now — they were all knobs, and dumber than dirt, as useless as a kangaroo’s crib. So he decided to tell them that his cell phone’s battery was dead, which it very nearly was, so that was why he didn’t call them right away.
He just walked down the road. He wasn’t even sure where he was going. He didn’t know how to get back to his hotel, or the CentreLink, from here.
He saw a dirt road that came right off the main road. It was unmarked. It was indeed, as Razza had said, tucked in amongst some trees such that, if you didn’t know it was there, you’d never see it. It was around the bend of a curve.
It sure looked like that was the road Razza had described, and just beyond the copse of trees on the hill where the dirt road met the paved road, there was a big dry dusty spot, like someone had clear-cut the area to build houses and then never built them.
That looked right. You could do donuts down there, Rob thought. Razza had said something about “circlework”, which meant doing donuts on dirt in order to create circles on the ground and kick up a circular cloud of dust in the air.
Sure enough, when Rob got beyond the trees, he could see down the hill. There was his Kia, doing donuts, dust kicking up in a grand tornado that filled the air, reaching almost all the way to where Rob stood.
He wrinkled his nose and walked down the hill.
He got almost all the way down when the car stopped. He heard Razza cursing inside the car, swerving all over because he was trying to squash a poisonous spider that had just bit him. When he either killed it or lost track of it, he focused more on the donuts, building up a huge whirlwind of ocher-laden dirt.
Rob shouted, “Hey! You mongrel! Get out of there!”
Razza opened the door and smiled broadly at him. A smile on his face really accentuated how dirty he was — plus he stood on the threshold to the car before the dust had settled, so a layer of it clung to his sweaty skin, giving him a tan coat. He had tied an Australian flag to his shoulder at some point since stealing the car, and it fluttered in the breeze his circlework had kicked up.
“You followed me? Good on ya, mate!”
“Okay, fuck you, Razza, for the following reasons,” Rob said. “First, fuck you just because. Second, fuck you for stealing my car. Third, fuck you for stealing my beer. Fourth, fuck you for not letting me jack you off. Fifth, fuck you for being a goddamn cunt-“
“What? You ratbag-?”
“Shut the hell up — the only part of our deal you welshed on was the part where your dick has to work. What’s up with that? What’s wrong with your pecker?”
“Awwwwww….” Razza groaned. He knew perfectly well that this pervy foreigner was trying to goad him into it. With a sneer, he ate macadamia nuts from a baggie of scroggin. “Americans are a bunch of pansies, mate.”
“If you had asked if you could steal the car, I’d have said you could take it. I’d give you a couple hours before I called the police,” Rob said. “You were scared to get jacked off, weren’t you? You don’t know how to root-“
“I am not scared of shit, mate!” Razza was annoyed with himself for giving in. It was obvious that Rob just wanted his dick. But he couldn’t resist pulling it out to prove it worked. He flopped it between his fingers. He was glad it was a warm day because his cock hadn’t shrunk at all.
Rob giggled inwardly but got back in the passenger car in a huff. He glared at Razza, who sat back behind the wheel.
“I’ve always wanted to jack someone off while they did donuts,” Rob said. “That’s all. So I was pissed you tried to cheat me-“
“Aw, don’t be a shit, mate,” Razza said. “You’re still whinging about that?” He whacked his dick against his palm as he started the engine again. “You’re not gonna bite down if I go spinning or a tyre blows out, will you?”
Rob bent over and put the tip of Razza’s dick in his mouth. “No promises. Don’t blow out.” He giggled and jacked it down, slurping down the dust that had settled on his cock. It tasted filthy, but warm, inviting, sunny, and a little coppery. Rob could even taste the gritty bitterness of brick, which presumably came from Razza’s career as a brickie. Rob wondered if he still tasted like that because he hadn’t washed since then, or if the flavor had seeped into his flesh.
“Crikey!” Razza said with a whoop and a holler.
He put his foot on the accelerator and turned the wheel, struggling to turn it hard enough with Rob’s head in his crotch. It was disconcerting enough that he barely even noticed what his dick felt like at first. He was too focused on the driving and making sure he didn’t jostle Rob so much he bit down.
But then, at last, a shiver of pleasure ran up Razza’s spine, and his dick twitched. His hands clenched tightly on the steering wheel.
“Aaaaaah, shit!” Razza whooped. He wished his brother was here to see this, but it was too late now. He’d have to tell him about it later. He’d say it had been a female on his cock, of course. Keith wouldn’t believe that, but he wouldn’t be able to disprove it either, since Razza was going to be coming home with stubbies and a shitty old Kia. Keith wouldn’t be able to explain where he got that.
His dick was rock-hard now. It was happening very fast. Razza moaned and groaned, slamming his fists on the dashboard. It ended up not being very good circlework because he was distracted, but still, it was exciting enough, and it left him dizzy in a giant cloud of dust all around him.
“Oh shit, mate…” Razza’s voice broke, making him laugh with embarrassment. He felt his orgasm coming on and was sure he would run into the ditch he had been avoiding — he was dizzy and distracted and no longer sure where the Kia was in relation to the ditch. It would be too easy for Rob to be startled and bite down if the car slid into the ditch.
So he stopped the car, realizing only as he did, placing one hand on Rob’s head to push him deeper, that it had happened — one of the tyres blew out. He was no longer going that fast, so the car just drifted in a wild, careening circle until at last, it came a stop.
A full quivering stop, with Razza’s foot slammed onto the brake-pedal. “Aw, mate, goddamn — shit-” He jacked in his breath, now aware that he had been close to orgasm for a few seconds, only delaying it because the situation had been so exciting.
He held onto Rob by the back of the head and pistoned his hips up, throating Rob’s face in a way not many girls let him do. It was awkward to do so crammed between the driver’s seat and the steering wheel, especially in this tiny Korean car.
But Razza was too close to cumming to let himself be interrupted by stepping out of the car, or even rolling the window down or putting it in park so he could take his foot off the brake.
All of his concentration went to jamming his dick all the way down Rob’s choking throat. Rob loved being throat-abused more than anything, and he was good at it, so he swallowed every bit of Razza’s uncut shaft.
“Shit, mate, jack it, goddamn!” Razza moaned again, slamming his hand on the dashboard. A few drops of cum spurted into Rob’s mouth and ran down his gullet. “Aw, there I go mate-” He was tense, veins pulsating on the side of his ruddy head and his neck. His orgasm looked almost painful.
Finally it came, great gobs of creamy hot cum spurting into Rob’s throat and down to his belly. Razza kept on spewing more and more, and even he looked surprised by the amount. He kept a tight grip on Rob’s head, the scent of his bogan sweat filling the air once more now that the dust was beginning to dissipate.
“Aww…”
It was salty and warm, intensely flavorful, thick and creamy, coating his throat like a melted milk bar. Rob couldn’t swallow it all because his mouth was filled with raunchy bogan foreskin, and the dust that had settled there made him cloggy and coughy anyway.
But he didn’t mind — Rob liked to make a mess. He swallowed what he could, but the rest spilled out and soaked into Razza’s pubic hair.
Razza groaned at the mess, but even he had to admit he liked it better that way. A sloppy blowjob was better than a clean one. And anyway, having a wet spot in his crotch was going to make this story seem more believable when he told his brother that it was a woman who gave him a car to suck his dick.
“Well, damn, mate, you made a big mess,” Razza said with a chuckle. He patted Rob on the head, and Rob lifted off. “You-“
The Kia jolted forward and slid into a ditch.
They were both so startled they yelped and nearly jumped out of the car. But all that had happened was Razza took his foot off the brake, forgetting that it was on a slight incline, leading into that ditch, and that he had never put it in park. So it rolled right in, nose first.
“Fuck!” Rob shouted as he bumped into the dashboard. He rolled out into the muddy ditch, covered in cum and dust and now, mud.
Razza laughed as he climbed out. He was already dirty, so it was hard to even tell. He looked at the Kia — one tyre blown out, end in the ditch, who-knew-what-else wrong with it.
“You were right. I would have totally bit your dick if that happened when it was in my mouth,” Rob said. He blushed. “Car’s totaled.”
“Wanna walk with me back to that Dan Murphy? There’s a grocery store there too,” Razza said. “I’m hungry. Buy me some snags and lammingtons.”
“Yeah, okay,” Rob said. He shrugged. “I don’t know what those are, but fine.” He wondered if he’d be able to get Razza’s brother before leaving. “Hmmm… I’ll call the car-rental place in awhile.” Rob was not going to enjoy paying whatever they ended up charging him for this.
But, he thought, it had all been worth it.

Read it now as an ebook from your favorite ebookstore!

Rob’s World of Men

Chapter One: The American

Chapter Two: The Frenchman

Chapter Three: The Swede

Chapter Four: The Russian

Chapter Five: The Australian

Chapter Six: The German

Chapter Seven: The Turk

Chapter Eight: The Englishman

Chapter Nine: The Finn

Chapter Ten: The Italian