handsomeness – Mansploitation

The Raunchy Turkish Oil Wrestler

Rob is desperate for dirty, oily Turkish manmeat, and he’s about to get his fill! That’s because he’s in Turkey taking lessons… and a lot more — from the legendary wrestler Mustafa Mounsir, who’s gonna give Rob the ride of his life!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Rob nervously waited for his Turkish instructor to arrive. Rob was dressed like a tourist — which he technically was — and sat there nervously watching the lessons going on in front of him. He was at a grassy field in a small, rural town in Turkey, where the locals practiced for an upcoming oil wrestling tournament.
Turkish oil wrestling was a popular sport here. It was a form of wrestling in which the men — the biggest, hairiest, most macho men in all of Turkey — greased each other up with olive oil from head to toe while wearing these loose leather trousers called a kisbet. Then the goal was to gain control of your oil-slippened opponent by holding onto his kisbet. It inevitably required sticking one’s hands down into one’s opponent’s kisbet, feeling their crotch, ass and every other olive oil-stained muscle. As a keen lover of the male form, Rob considered it the ideal sport.
Rob had done a lot of work to find Mustafa, a professional Turkish oil wrestler who didn’t normally teach lessons. Rob didn’t want to take lessons from a normal class, because he greatly desired spending time with Mustafa Mounsir and his msucled chest. Rob’s ideal physique was a large, handsome and hairy man.
A few tourists and a couple locals were practicing their moves with a lean, handsome Turk in the center of the field. He spoke English well and was encouraging, coach-like. He obviously shaved his chest, for one thing, and probably didn’t have any hair on his back by nature. Rob had suspected as much when he learned there was a tourist-oriented oil-wrestling coaching service — he didn’t want a polished Turk shaved and dolled up for Westerners.
He wanted Mustafa Oğuz Mounsir.
His heart started pounding when he saw Mustafa, a big, hulking brute of a man. He was in the heaviest weight class in Turkish oil wrestling, and it showed in his heavy gait, giant barrel-shaped body, his strapping chest and belly, and his broad shoulders. Most importantly for Rob, however, Mustafa also had powerful muscles and endless curls of body hair stretching up from his chest and over his shoulders. Like all Turks, the hair was dense, kinky and broad, and his sweat clung to it. There was little division between his chest hair, armpit hair, leg and arm hairs, back hair, beard hair and head hair.
“Hello, my name is Rob,” he said, followed by a carefully rehearsed Turkish translation.
Mustafa nodded. “You are here for lesson, yes? I am Mustafa Mounsir.” Mustafa’s English was only a little better than Rob’s Turkish, but he managed to introduce himself and begin a lesson. His accent was thick, as spatchcocking as a dressed chicken, while Rob could think of little more than the closeness of his body hair and the heat emanating from his overworked muscles.
After a few minutes of stretching, Mustafa began showing him some moves. It was obvious that Mustafa was not a teacher; he was gruff; he failed to explain what he was doing; he got frustrated when Rob didn’t do everything exactly right. For his part, Rob did not do well — every time he was instructed to place his hands on Mustafa, a shudder of desire and lust coursed through him.
And all they were doing so far was practicing a few simple holds. About halfway through the first lesson, Mustafa said it was time for a scrimmage, and that meant the best part of Turkish oil wrestling was about to happen. Rob had to force his stiffening dick to quiet down as Mustafa brought him to the side of the field where a pitcher of olive oil waited.
“You will rub it on me. Rub it on ev-er-y part,” Mustafa said, over-enunciating his words. “I will do first.”
Rob nodded. He was pretending to have little idea what Turkish oil wrestling was, so he looked surprised when Mustafa’s callused hands spread oil over Rob’s body, extending down into his loose kisbet.
Praying that he wouldn’t get hard yet, Rob didn’t show how arousing he found Mustafa’s hands running up and down his body, even rubbing olive oil inside Rob’s kisbet, on his ass, his cock and balls, all of it, Mustafa didn’t seem bothered by it. That was a core part of Turkish oil wrestling. Mustafa’s rough-fingered hands had probably rubbed oil into a thousand men’s skin.
Then it was Rob’s turn. Mustafa sneered at him — it seemed he didn’t love the idea of giving lessons to a non-Turk. Rob’s hands dripped with olive oil as he touched Mustafa’s back, which was covered in the thick, kinky black hair that extended over most of his torso. He was like a Turkish sasquatch. Rob’s heart pounded as he forced his fingers through a tangled forest of hair on Mustafa’s lower back.
Then he moved around to the chest, where the hair was even thicker, unapologetically dense, and when Rob disturbed it with his fingers, the odor of stale oil and sweat wafted over him. He got the impression Mustafa expected Rob to be disgusted, and Rob decided to play along. He wrinkled his nose, and Mustafa laughed like he was proud of that.
His body wasn’t perfect, which Rob liked. Six-pack abs were nice to look at, but Rob preferred having some meat to grab onto. That described Mustafa perfectly, his powerful chest like a hard slab of iron with a thick layer of padding on top.
Rob’s hands moved back around to his ass, hands slipping under the kisbet. Much to Rob’s delight, Mustafa’s ass was just as hairy as his chest. The hair there was tangled, so Rob moved slowly, caressing olive oil into those big beefy orbs slowly enough that he worked out all the kinks. His fingers crept between the asscheeks, even though he had the feeling actual Turkish oil wrestlers skipped that, and he touched Mustafa’s quivering hot asshole.
Then he reached underneath Mustafa’s ass, hands stretching between his thighs to the hairy taint. He stood still in front of Mustafa, so he had to step even closer until his face was pushed up against Mustafa’s hairy pecs, and the flavor of sweat-scented olive oil hit his tongue.
By the time Rob got back to the front, shivering in delight when he touched Mustafa’s sweaty ballsac, Rob was already rock-hard. He moved both his hands to the front of Mustafa’s body, starting with his thighs, which were slick with sweat from being in the hot kisbet. He rubbed olive oil into first one trunk-like thigh, then the other.
He cradled Mustafa’s ballsack with his olive oil-laden fingers, and gave his dick one quick stroke. It was long and so thick Rob couldn’t wrap his fingers around it, uncircumcised with extra flesh that moved along with Rob’s fingers.
At last they were done, and Mustafa arranged them for their first lesson. “Feet like this,” he said gruffly, and Rob played along. “No, like this.” He pushed Rob into position.
Having no idea how to defend himself, Rob was on his ass as soon as Mustafa started wrestling. The bigger man had both of his hands down Rob’s kisbet, gripping the leather from inside. The top side of his palms touched Rob’s dick, but Mustafa gave no sign of noticing Rob’s growing erection.
Then they did the same again, and again. Rob managed to dodge Mustafa for a few seconds, but he couldn’t defend himself in any way. He hadn’t given the wrestling part of Turkish oil wrestling much thought. All Rob cared about was the “rubbing oil into men’s muscles” part.
Soon enough, the lesson was over. Rob didn’t think he had learned much — Mustafa was a lot of things, but a quality pedagogue was not one of them — but he was so horny he couldn’t think, so he was glad to be done anyway. His hardon throbbed in his kisbet.
“You give respect to superior man,” Mustafa said. He folded his arms over his chest. “Instructor, me. Respect, it is to dem-onstr-ate, yes?”
Rob hesitated. They were still in the middle of the field, so he thought Mustafa was asking for a tip, but Rob didn’t have any cash — or anything at all in his kisbet. He tried to explain that, but Mustafa just growled.
“Must give respect.” Mustafa took Rob hand and shoved it into Mustafa’s kisbet. His hand entered the dense thicket of sweat, oil-lubed pubic hair, and there, he felt Mustafa’s hot cock, which his fingers wrapped around.
Terrified at first as he wondered whether he was in trouble, Rob realized Mustafa wanted to get jacked off. Then Mustafa growled again and repeated himself once more. “Amer-icans must have respect!” He barked.
Rob gripped his shaft tight and gave it a stroke. It was hot and thick in his grip, and Rob watched closely to see how his stroke affected Mustafa — not at all, as it turned out. Mustafa gave no signs he noticed Rob rubbing his cock with first one, then both hands.
It was only after several minutes of standing there that Mustafa settled down with a self-satisfied smile, and Rob nervously began stroking his dick. Rob wondered if Mustafa made lots of men jack him off — he’d implied this was what all men should do to show respect to “superior” men. Maybe he made lots of both tourists and wrestlers do the same thing.
In no time Mustafa’s was rock-hard and pulsating between Rob’s fingers. He thought maybe it had gotten half-hard from the wrestling, which made Rob glad. Maybe Mustafa got hard easily. In any case, Mustafa closed his eyes as his cock throbbed in Rob’s grasp, both hands rubbing up and down that veiny dick, still entrapped in Mustafa’s oil-soaked kisbet.
Precum leaked down the shaft and added to the mix of fluids in Mustafa’s crotch. Rob wished he could kneel to get a better whiff, because he could tell he would adore that musty scent, but he thought Mustafa might object.
All at once, Mustafa reached an orgasm visible through his rippling muscles. His dick spasmed as his shoulders tensed, his toes curled, and the hair on his chest stood on end. Mustafa closed his eyes and groaned. He bit his lip.
“Yes, good respect, American cowboy,” he murmured.
All of Mustafa’s muscles tightened at once, and his balls crawled up in his sweat-slickened sac. Rob kept on stroking it even as the cum shot out and coated the inside of the kisbet, not to mention Rob’s hand and wrist.
Another vast wad of jizz spurted out. That first cumwad made it to the edge of his kisbet and the underside of Mustafa’s belly, while the rest of his load only got to the waistband. It coated every inch of Rob’s hand, and still more kept jetting out. Mustafa groaned and moaned, looking surprised like he thought this wouldn’t happen, and his knees went weak. He stood up straight again though.
When he thought he had drawn out all of that nut, Rob pulled his cum-streaked hand out and looked at it, wishing he could lick it clean. But he just stared at it as though he was disgusted and followed Mustafa into the dugout, hoping Mustafa still believed him to be an ordinary tourist.
“You come tomorrow,” Mustafa said without looking back. “I continue lesson. Keep paying.”
Rob nodded. Mustafa stopped at the entrance to the dugout. He frowned and furrowed his eyebrows, and Rob got the message. He walked away. The dugout, it seemed, was only for real Turkish oil wrestlers, not tourists.
Though he wished he could suck all the jizz off his hand, Rob was intensely attuned to the audience around, watching the other tourists take lessons from the handsome Turk. They would surely notice him licking jizz off his hands, so he simply hurried away without cleaning it off. He waited until he got back to his hotel room, and only then did Rob wash his hands.
After that, Rob was tired and thought he’d go to bed early. He had to get up in the morning tomorrow for his second lesson from Mustafa, but for now, he had nothing else to do. He wasn’t even hungry, but once he laid down in bed, he wasn’t tired anymore either. He thought having something to eat would help, so he went out of his room to find a quick bite.
“Rob! Rob!”
He heard his name being shouted from the hotel parking lot. Rob didn’t know what was happening, but he ran out the door, thinking he was in trouble.
ustafa was on the ground floor near Rob’s car and screaming Rob’s name. “Rob Win-throp! Rob Win-throp!”
“Mustafa?”
Mustafa saw him then and swayed drunkenly on his thick legs. He headed up the stairs towards Rob’s room, which was when Rob noticed the whorish woman following him. Mustafa grinned when he got to Rob’s door.
“I am very poor,” Mustafa said.
“Okay…”
The prostitute hurried in then. She looked bored as she laid down on the bed and spread her legs. Rob nervously watched.
“I do not have enough money for paying for girl sex,” Mustafa said. “But this girl will kiss.”
“Okay…” Rob still didn’t understand what Mustafa wanted.
“So you will do vagina?”
Rob blushed and looked at the whore. “Nothing personal, ma’am. You have a nice one, I’m guessing. It’s just not for me.”
“No, not you. I do not buy sex for you,” Mustafa said, scoffing at the suggestion. He took off his shirt then and shrugged. His big hairy shoulders flexed, which made Rob’s cock jump to attention in his pants.
The whore said something in Turkish. It sounded like a joke, but Mustafa barked something back at her. He was offended by it. Mustafa turned back to Rob and said, “She does not like hairy back. She says she will charge me less money if it is shaved. But I do not want to shave it. It makes itching.”
“Okay…” Rob said. “I think it’s your best quality.” He kissed Mustafa on one meaty shoulder, and the whore squealed in disgust as Rob sucked the sweat off his hairs. The acrid-sweet flavor of stale olive oil hit Rob’s tongue, reminding him of their oil-lubed practice; it seemed to have suffused into Mustafa’s skin.
“You are dis-gus-ting,” Mustafa said. But he didn’t make any effort to move away as Rob licked his back clean. Beneath the thick mat of fur, his back was strapping and firmly corded with muscle. Then Mustafa said, “Okay? We are agreement?”
Rob hesitated. He still didn’t understand what Mustafa wanted. “I’m not sure…”
Mustafa shook his head and pushed Rob to the ground at the foot of the bed. Then Mustafa spoke to the whore and kicked off his pants. He flopped his soft but thick uncut manhood between his fingers, and smiled as he approached the bed.
He fed his dick into Rob’s mouth. He tasted of old olive oil and overwhelmingly of stale sweat. He stank of body odor but it smelled like he had attempted to cover it up with a scent that was not exactly cologne-like, more as though he had bathed in incense.
Rob swallowed it the best he could. Above his head, he heard kissing and finally realized what Mustafa was doing — he didn’t couldn’t pay the prostitute for vaginal sex, so he was paying her to simply make out with him while Rob mouthed his dick. Mustafa sucked on her tits and fingered her pussy, his dick quickly growing rock-hard in his pants.
She suddenly exclaimed something in Turkish. It sounded like she was offended, and Rob looked up to see her getting off the bed. Mustafa pleaded with her in Turkish but he stood there with his dick in Rob’s mouth the whole time. He turned his body and Rob moved with him.
“Bana geri dön.”
“Sizin geri brüt ve tüylü!”
She slammed the door behind herself, and Mustafa sat on the edge of the bed, his dick still throbbing in Rob’s mouth — Rob had to twist his body to remain in position as Marcus sat down. He looked almost ready to cry, Rob thought.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” Rob asked, holding onto the thick prick in both hands.
He sighed. “She does not like my back. She say it is gross.”
Rob stood up and kissed him on the shoulder. He played with a few of the hairs in his mouth. “She doesn’t know what she’s missing.” He let his lips drop lower on Mustafa’s back, and licked all the way from his shoulder to the small of his back.
Mustafa shuddered, whether from ticklishness or disgust or both, Rob didn’t know. But Mustafa didn’t stop him as Rob bathed his hairy back in spit. His hair was matted to his muscles then, and Rob moved onto his chest.
He sucked on each hairy nipple until it was erect in his mouth, and Mustafa moaned. But Rob got the impression that this was becoming too pervy for Mustafa, too close to making out, so he quickly dropped back down and swallowed his dick again.
It seemed the nippleplay had reawakened his hardon, which throbbed with desire in Rob’s throat. Rob soaked the shaft with his spit and let it spill out of his mouth into his hairy crotch.
He said something in Turkish too fast for Rob to catch, but he got the feeling it was something like get deeper on it, bitch, because Mustafa then began pounding his dick into Rob’s throat. He chuckled when Rob gagged but he didn’t slow down.
It was a violent throating down, though nothing Rob couldn’t handle. He loved it when machos treated his head like a sex toy. He wished he could widen his throat to accommodate the man’s entire hairy cock.
In no time, he felt the man’s balls crawl up in his sac, and the familiar sour flavor of cum hit his tongue. Rob moaned as he swallowed jet after jet of creamy juice, which had a curious aftertaste that Rob couldn’t quite place — it was almost humus-like, he thought, with a delicious spiciness.
Finally it was done, but Mustafa kept his dick in Rob’s mouth as he used one brutish hand to squeeze out the last few drops of cum.
“Ah, your mouth is woman,” Mustafa said with a sigh. “Good.” He then cleaned himself up enough to leave and exited the hotel room without another word aimed at Rob. That did not surprise Rob. Mustafa was the kind of alpha who saw no need to talk to his bitch. That was why Rob liked him and women did not.
The next morning was another lesson, and Rob found that Mustafa changed his attitude towards him. He was outright kind, and he actually treated Rob like a girlfriend — when no one was watching. At the gym, Rob watched him workout and brought him water, acting like a personal trainer or assistant, though he didn’t know how to do anything of the sort.
Whenever they were alone, however, Mustafa felt up Rob’s ass and even kissed him on the cheek a few times. He grabbed Rob’s hand and shoved it into his shorts with a grin, and he often played with Rob by moving closer and closer to him as they talked, until eventually Rob was pinned against a wall and squashed by Mustafa’s massive, hairy chest.
Then if they were interrupted by someone, Mustafa would either scurry away or even slap Rob lightly, then say something insulting in Turkish. In this country, it was considered acceptable for a boss or coach to be cruel and even mildly abusive, so nobody was surprised to see Mustafa bullying Rob.
When Rob told him that his trip was almost done and that Rob would be leaving Turkey soon, Mustafa was sad. He smiled at Rob and said, in broken English, “I will be missing your mouth. It is very nice for me.”
“I’ll be missing your… Well, your everything,” Rob said. He blushed.
Mustafa stood up. “You come to field tonight. Goodbye present.” Then he walked away.
Rob was glad to see he had made a friend of sorts, then went back to his hotel to pack. He never ended up using most of what he brought because he spent all his time worshiping Mustafa’s body.
When the time came, he made his way back to the Turkish oil wrestling field. He was surprised to see a half-dozen wrestlers already there, wearing their kisbets. They weren’t greased up yet, however.
Mustafa held out the oil pourer for him, and Rob took it as he approached. Mustafa grinned and handed him a kisbet. “This for you. Since you are new, you are having to put oil on men. It is rule for rookies. I know you will like.” He gestured towards the other wrestlers, all of whom were big and hairy like Mustafa. “Then we all wrestle. You lose, you lick ass. Yes?”
Rob was already rock-hard and he couldn’t quite concentrate enough to say yes, but Mustafa seemed to understand what he wanted to say. Rob hurriedly put the kisbet on and poured some oil into his hands.
He gripped Mustafa’s hairy body and began massaging the oil in. The other wrestlers milled about, talking and leering at Rob — normally Turkish oil wrestlers greased their opponent up, that was tradition, but it seemed they also made the new guy do it when they had a rookie. So the more experienced wrestlers spoke to Rob in Turkish but in a way that suggested they were being intimidating, no doubt telling Rob how badly he would lose.
Of course Rob was desperate to lose. He had no real chance of winning anyway, but he certainly didn’t want to. slurping all these Turkish studs’s asses? He couldn’t think of a better way to end his trip.
When Mustafa was done, Rob moved onto rubbing oil into the skin of the the next man, Kaan Gözübüyük. He was taller and leaner than Mustafa, but he was just as hairy. The thick black curly hairs extended up from his ass and down from his shoulder, stretching to almost, but not quite, meet in the middle. He had a fat face — he wasn’t fat, but he had a big face with a wide nose, wide mouth, wide chin, his face just went on forever.
The man after him was burly and paunchy, Cenk Dal, who was maybe the strongest there. He had biceps the size of Rob’s torso and a thick scar that ran over his back. The scar was the only part of his back that had no hair growing on it, and indeed, his whole body was just as hairy from head to toe. Rob had to fight back the urge to lick the scar from ass to shoulder.
Then came a young man, Ömer Pamuk, easily the youngest of the seven Turks there. He was handsome and charming, and he seemed distinctly uncomfortable at being touched by a man. He also appeared to shave his chest and back, but his lower neck was untrimmed, so the hair extended well into his back.
Then the wrestling began. This was an informal match, so they simply paired off and began. Mustafa acted as a coach, yelling encouragement (or so Rob assumed) in Turkish. The big men Cenk and Kaan fought; that left the young man, Ömer, who was about Rob’s size, so they were a good match.
Rob was knocked flat-footed when Ömer came at him, and he barely managed to stay upright. He couldn’t quite grip Ömer’s body, which was lean and toned, with not an ounce of fat anywhere. He had no grip due to the greasy olive oil.
Ömer’s hands were in Rob’s pants and holding onto the kisbet, but Rob managed to separate from him. He plunged his own hands down Ömer’s pants and grunted in shock when his hand gripped Ömer’s long, thick cock. Ömer didn’t seem to notice, as his hands clutched Rob’s asscheeks.
Then it was all over. As suddenly as it began, Ömer had Rob pinned. He couldn’t move a muscle, all he could do was submit until Mustafa declared the match over.
That was it. The three winners (Ömer, Kaan and Cenk) congratulated each other as they all hurried to the stone dugout on the edge of the field. They were chanting at Rob, no doubt telling him to perform his loserly duty.
Mustafa spoke in clipped English. “They think you bet ass-slurping. I tell them you thought American cowboy can win any sport.”
As soon as they got into the dugout, they dropped their kisbets to reveal bare asses and densely hairy holes. They catcalled back to Rob, who pretended to be embarrassed and disgusted. He heard a few words that sounded like “American”, so he thought these men liked the idea of humiliating an American. He even heard something that sounded like yank, though he had no idea if that was really what they said.
He had lost to Ömer, so Rob kneeled behind him first. Ömer had the smoothest ass as well, so it would make sense if he were straight to start there. He made a loud sound that he hoped came across as disgusted, but luckily they were all facing away — they seemed to think it was too disgusting to watch.
As soon as his tongue hit Ömer’s asshole, Ömer jerked and exclaimed something that made the others laugh. Rob jabbed his tongue in and felt around. The olive oil was fruity and sweet, mixed with the acrid and bitter flavor of Ömer’s ass-sweat.
His hands reached around to Ömer’s dick, which was already rock-hard. It throbbed between his fingers and instantly leaked precum. Ömer must have really been enjoying the rimjob, Rob thought.
The feeling of submission to alpha male domination flooded Rob — this was precisely what he had been hoping to find in Turkey. He felt like his tongue was plunging straight into a grimy whirlpool of manhood, and he could feel its juices dripping down his throat.
Ömer jumped around without warning and slammed his dick into Rob’s mouth. He only barely made it before shooting a puddle of cum down Rob’s gullet. He laughed as he did so, embarrassed at having cum so soon.
The brothers were next. They were moderately hairy and had nice bubble-butts, and Rob worshiped all four orbs with his tongue before plunging inside. He tasted first one grimy hole, then the other — they were lined up ass-to-ass so Rob could go quickly from one to the other, while he used each hand on one cock.
He was so intent on licking them both that he almost didn’t notice Mustafa getting behind him. He said something in Turkish that Rob suspected meant I’m gonna make you my prison-punk, or something along those lines, and it made the other men say something surprised. They all had a brief conversation about it, but Mustafa didn’t slow down at all.
His dick pushed into Rob’s ass, and he relentlessly kept going — the oil was as effective a lube as he was willing to use, it seemed, and Rob was glad to have a little pain. He always enjoyed that.
The brothers turned around at once and both pushed their dicks into Rob’s mouth. It didn’t seem anyone saw it as weird for them to be jousting like that.
They both came nearly at once, shooting a thick and creamy loud that Rob held in his mouth for a minute. He savored the flavor and the hotness, then let it slide down his throat.
Kaan and Cenk were next, the two biggest guys here, both covered in fur. Rob reached up and caressed their hairy backs as he made love to each asshole in turn with his tongue. They both grunted like pigs every time Rob’s tongue reached their spongy prostates. Meanwhile Mustafa plowed into Rob’s relentlessly, uncaring of how it made Rob feel. Rob exclaimed in pain but it just made Mustafa laugh and gyrate harder with each passing thrust.
That continued for what felt like hours, Rob ripped open from behind by Mustafa’s massive cock, his tongue darting between the sweathair-choked asses of Kaan and Cenk. The handsome young one Ömer backed off when it got serious like that, but he had already cum, so Rob did not miss him. He slathered the other two’s ass cracks in spit, and his hands snaked around their bodies to the body hair jungles of their crotches. He stroked their hardons the best he could with Mustafa ramming him up behind like an elephant.
“Oh god, stick it in me, Mustafa!” Rob cried out. Mustafa seemed too engrossed in his own pleasures to pay attention to Rob’s words., or maybe he had forgotten English, but in any case, he gave no sign of hearing Rob’s demand. He kept at it regardless, and each thrust of his dick caused a ripple of his muscles and a jolt of both pleasure and pain to strike up Rob’s sppine.
“I am to cum,” Kaan murmured, barely audible over Mustafa’s bestial panting. He took Rob’s head out of Cenk’s ass so he could turn around plow his cock down Rob’s throat. Rob gagged uncontrollably, but that only made the others cheer and smack his tender ass. Cenk stroked himself off and reached orgasm along with Kaan.
They both filled up Rob’s mouth with their creamy seed, and sneered down at him with disgust in their eyes. Rob swallowed every drop and showed them his empty mouth. Most of it spilled out over onto his face. He frotted both dicks together as they limpened and he slurped on the cocktips that whole time, his body rocking back and forth with the power of Mustafa’s rams.
At last Mustafa picked Rob up and dragged his body up and down on his shaft, so Mustafa stood still and Rob was forced up and down on his shaft like some cheap fleshlight. Mustafa’s shaft throbbed in his intestines until he finally reached orgasm.
Hot cum sprayed to every inch of Rob’s body, coating his intestines. Some of it dripped down Rob’s thigh, making a hot, stinking mess on the floor. Jet after jet of it filled him up, more than Mustafa had shot up til now. Rob felt it seeping into his flesh, and he moaned out loud, as he finally shot his own wad onto the floor as well.
A great surge of relief wracked his body when Mustafa removed his cock at last. Mustafa snorted. Rob moaned. Rob lay sprawled-out on the floor. When he moved his body, it reawakened his climax and sent a twinge of both pain and ecstasy through his body once more. His ass ached. He cried out, and he lay still there, exulting in the aftershocks of his orgasm.
The men quickly walked away, leaving Rob there on the floor in a puddle of fluids and bliss. Mustafa was last, and as he left, he said, “You hire again. More lessons. Much to learn.”

The Raunchy Roughneck

Rob can have his pick of roughnecks, but he knows which one he wants — the filthiest, raunchiest one around! His name is Tex, he’s hairy, sweaty and stinks like man! Can Rob drink his fill of this raunchy roughneck?!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

When Rob arranged for the encounter at Oil Rig Delta-69, an oil rig in a remote part of North Dakota, he was deliberately vague about what he wanted. Roughnecks were one of the easiest kind of guys to mess with — the only hard part was getting to them at their workplaces. When they were off-duty, they plowed into women, no matter how ugly or skanky. But when they were stuck on oil rigs far from civilization, Rob could have his pick — which was a fine way to spend his summer vacation. There was a tradition on oil rigs — you gotta get a nut off wherever you can when the nearest woman is a hundred miles away was how it was put to Rob. That was a tradition he could get behind (or more often, in front of).
The locker room stank to high heaven, which meant Rob was rock-hard from the moment he walked in. He loved the smell of sweat and toil, filth, grease and raunchy bodyjuice. The men were loud and boisterous. He had insisted he get his pick before anyone showered, so the scent was freshly rank.
Space was at a premium, and the locker room was crowded. About fifty hairy, unkempt men were crammed in, asses to elbows. When they saw Rob, everyone fell silent. He squeezed through the crowd as someone began to hoot.
“Who you gonna pick?”
“Pick Albert, he got a big ol’ schlong-“
“Fuck you, man, shut yer mouth.”
But Rob knew whom he wanted. He just wanted to take his time. He brushed past all of the men, most of whom were naked, or at least stripped to their boxers. He snaked his tongue into the nooks and crannies of their bodies, teasing bits of armpit sweat, biceps, and even a lick of one plump young hairy buttcheek.
“Albert’s over there-“
“He’s the one you want, I’m sure-“
“Shut the fuck up!”
Albert was indeed very handsome. Rob went over to him — it was clear which one he was because he was blushing and insisting Rob not choose him. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a jutting jaw, the kind of guy who seems handsome until you really look at him, a bit too tall and scruffy for most women (though Rob suspected that, when he cleaned himself up and went out on the town, he was very successful with chicks). He had a deep voice, a hairy chest and a grizzled chin. Rob licked his sweat-soaked pecs, prompting a torrent of laughter.
The other guys all suggested Albert because he was the most classically handsome, the one that girls had hit on the most in the past. Rob wouldn’t have turned him down.
But Rob had promised to pay for all of these men to have a wild weekend off, as long as he got his taste of whichever one he chose. He did not want Albert. Rob liked a particular kind of man. Albert was entirely too handsome.
He had known who his target was before he ever got to North Dakota. He wanted Joseph, the one they called Tex. He sucked on Albert’s nipple, his pec nervously throbbing and flexing in Rob’s mouth, while everyone else sighed with relief, thinking they had not been chosen. Albert groaned — he had probably suspected he’d be the one picked. He endured Rob’s tongue on his chest and belly like a man letting his doctor palpate him, just getting through it and rolling his eyes until it was done.
But then Rob pointed to Tex, who was shocked at the sudden reversal. Everyone laughed like it was a joke.
Tex was not classically handsome at all — he was chubby, craggy, rough, grizzled, with a big nasty scar running across his neck like he had been nearly decapitated once. He was also very hairy, especially on his back, a thick nest of sweat-matted kinky black hairs extending down to his ass. That was what Rob wanted.
Tex’s hefty body and hairy back were exactly what he had been searching for. Tex blushed — he was very tan, so it wasn’t real obvious at first, but when the other roughnecks realized that Rob wanted Tex instead of Albert, they clapped and hooted and slapped Tex’s ass until he barked at them to stop. Soon Tex was beet-red even through his tan skin.
“Hey, why you wanna service him? He’s a hairy motherfucker!”
“Yeah, I thought he’d be last on ya list.”
“You must like it dirty.”
Rob smiled. He kissed Tex right on that scar on his neck. He bristled a bit but allowed it. His whole body was stiff like a robot. Rob rammed his hand down Tex’s paper-thin white boxers — were they prison-issue boxers? They looked like it, Rob thought — and grabbed his dick. It was throbbingly huge, and it perked up like he was very horny, or maybe he just liked attention.
“I like hairy backs,” Rob said. He turned Tex around and licked all the way up from the small of his back to his shoulders — as far as Rob could reach on his short legs. He snuffled down every drop of sweat he found. There was so much hair that Rob’s tongue got stuck there, and had to push through the fur. Tex bent his knees a bit, sticking his ass out and lowering his back enough that Rob could run his tongue all the way up to his neck. The hair continued up his spine that whole way.
The roughnecks cheered as Tex snorted and chuckled. He sort of dance a little on his feet, like an athlete warming up before practice. Rob kept a tight hold on his limp dick the whole time.
They all thought this was hilarious because Rob was not alone in servicing their alpha male manhoods. A handful of slim, effeminate man came by from time to time doing the same thing. Sometimes they offered money, sometimes they wanted to film it, sometimes they brought women along as a teaser — the roughnecks liked that last option the best — but they never went straight to Tex. A few were willing to service any man, no matter how hairy and stinky, but most had restrictions. Tex failed those restrictions. He was too hairy and not habitual enough about showering. Those prettyboys with mouths like silk only wanted the handsome men with six-packs and smooth skin, or smooth for a roughneck anyway: men like Albert.
Not Tex. Nobody ever came to service Tex. Nobody ever wanted to take Tex’s pictures for a “physique magazine that would only be sold in Prague”.
“Get down on all fours so I can lick your butthole,” Rob said, blushing. He had to whisper it to Tex, who cheered along with the others even though he looked mortified. He got down on all fours and covered his head, so his face was near the shower drain, just in front of the bank of lockers against one wall.
Rob planted his face right down there in the crack of Tex’s ass. It was so hairy that Rob’s tongue couldn’t even get to the hole. He encountered a thick tangle of greasy hair, and Rob began by teasing it clear with his tongue.
“Ah, fuck…” Tex moaned. He covered his face and howled into the floor like a sad wolf. The sound boomed and echoed in the metal-walled showering area.
“He’s lickin’ ya ass like a inside-out lollipop…”
“Damn, Tex, I ain’t nevuh realize how hairy you is. You like a sasquatch.”
“No wonder girls ain’t into ya, man, you gotta shave!”
“Fuck you!” Tex roared. He lifted his head up to reveal a bright red face. His scraggly beard hairs quivered. “Y’all wanna shave my back and my ass?”
“No way!”
“Fuck that shit, I ain’t goin’ near it!”
Tex frowned. “See? I can’t shave it myself,” he said. He groaned and looked behind himself at Rob’s face disappearing between his cheeks. He gagged at the sight. “Aw, fuck I feel it! I feel it, man! His tongue is in my ass, man, I feel it!”
He didn’t actually feel it — Rob didn’t say anything, but Tex was mistaken: Rob had made contact with his asshole, but hadn’t actually gotten his tongue in there yet. He just teased the rim and sucked up all the sweat and grime from his crack.
“He got his tongue in there, man!” Tex said. He laughed nervously, a deep belly laugh that made his asshole flare and open wide.
Rob used the opportunity to plunge his tongue all the way in through the forest of asshair. He got a burst of stale, stinky musk on his tongue. It made him croon and moan. He had rarely gotten such a delicious asshole, and he was glad — this was already worth the thousand mile trip to this remote section of North Dakota.
“Aw, fuck! Aw, fuck!” Tex looked like he was about ready to cry. He gasped and moaned while his friends hooted and teased him. He stuck his face up in the air. His muscles were all tense, perfectly still except for his ass, which undulated uncontrollably. He rubbed his ass all over Rob’s tongue.
“Holy shit, Tex, you really into that. If you like stickin’ stuff up ya asshole, I got somethin’ you could try.”
“Texans are always into it. Texans love butt-stuff. That’s a fact.”
“Fuck you guys.” Tex’s voice was weak and distracted.
“Damn you nasty, Tex! You smell like mah armpits when I spend too much time around white men!” someone said, prompting a chorus of laughter from the others. The roughneck who said that got down real low and squeezed Tex’s cheeks like a doting grandmother. Tex swatted his hands away.
“Get off me, man.” Tex let out a long, slow growl. He probably intended for it to be menacing, but he was so aroused it just sounded like a seductive moan.
Now that Rob had been lapping at it for a few minutes, Tex’s ass was wide open. Tex cringed and squirmed as Rob’s tongue filled him up. Rob could feel Tex’s spongy prostate, and he teased it, giggling into the man’s hairy asshole when it made Tex shake and gasp.
When Rob reached underneath Tex’s body, between his legs, to grab his dick, Tex chuckled. “Ah, damn, he’s doin’ it, man, he doin’ it… Ah shit, ah shit…”
“You lookin’ pretty nice bent over on all fours, Tex. He got ya asshole all loosened up with that tongue… You wanna stick me in the butt?”
“I will destroy you if you try anythin’, man,” Tex said with a grunt. He lifted his upper body off the ground, groaning as though it hurt to do so with Rob’s tongue in his ass. Tex reached for his friend to punch him, but he twitched and fell back onto his hands and knees as Rob’s tongue rammed into his prostate.
The other roughnecks burst into laughter. They teased the red-faced Tex mercilessly as Tex shuddered and shook. His cock leaked precum into Rob’s fingers, and his hairy ass clenched around Rob’s face. His powerfully muscled body shook as the others whooped and slapped him on the fur-coated booty.
“Gonna ride you like a cowboy, hoss!” said one redneck, a lean and lanky one with a colorful tattoo of a bald eagle on his lower back. He had a big, long dick swaying between his legs. He mounted Tex’s back, just in front of Rob’s face in his ass. He plopped himself on Tex, bare cock and balls landing on Tex’s writhing back muscles, as though he was gonna hump Tex’s spine — which he might very well do, as the men of Oil Rig Delta-69 did get off on each other’s backs and armpits when there were no women or effeminate men around. Nobody did it on Tex’s back cuz of all the hair. Anyway, the bald eagle-tatted redneck on Tex’s back did rub his dick on Tex’s spine as though to hump him, but he didn’t try to get hard.
“Get off me!” Tex yelled. He squirmed and would have thrown the would-be cowboy off his back, but the man just stood. He hesitated there, waiting with his balls resting on Tex’s spine. He cackled until Rob moved his tongue from Tex to the other man’s ass, so quick nobody noticed until it was too late.
He just rammed his tongue in for a second, and the other man blushed a bright red. He danced away so fast he slipped on the wet floor and landed in a pile of roughnecks. Rob giggled, crawled over and threw himself on the same pile.
“Fuck you!”
“Get ya cock off me, bitch!”
This tiny showering area was seemingly made for maybe twenty men — there were fewer than two dozen showerheads. But there were fifty men in here, and they all had tried to stay as far away from the rimjob as possible. So all fifty men were crammed in a space so tight they rubbed up against each other. They didn’t seem to mind too much — that kind of situation happened a lot on oil rigs. But it did mean that, when the one guy darted away and into the crowd of men, he knocked just one or two people over. The whole space was so crowded that it caused a chain reaction, and soon most of the men were in a hairy, muscle-bound pile of flesh.
And that was where Rob went. He knew it wouldn’t last long, and it wouldn’t be as much fun in reality as it seemed in his mind — these kinds of things never really were. The men disentangled themselves pretty quickly, and Rob just stuck his tongue out to lick whatever he could get. That meant he got a lot of dusty elbows and glancing licks, a few brief touches of limp cockmeat, that was about it.
But Rob hardly minded. The best thing about it was not so much that he got to touch lots of men, it was that they pulled away from him so forcefully that, when they stood, they were in an even smaller area. They were virtually dry-humping each other now. Rob saw fat redneck cocks disappearing into hairy asscracks, muscles rubbing on muscles, hands tightened into fists that dangled stiffly at their sides.
That’s how it went on the rig. Rob wished sometimes he could work at one of these places without jerking the men off. That’d be tough to resist — and Rob didn’t have any way of getting hired at an oil rig anyway — but if he did, he’d get to mess around like this, participate in the horseplay. Even as Rob watched, one older man was shooting his nut on a younger roughnecks back, and nobody treated that as a big deal. As long as they were in the shower and could just wipe it off, it was consider a faux pas to even complain.
“I’ll kick ya ass, man, I swear to God. You had best get ya dick off my ass.”
“Jerry’s hard!”
“No, I ain’t man, I just got a big dick.”
“Ah shit that hurt, you accidentally kicked me in the nuts when you knocked into me, man.”
“How do ya know it was an accident, fucker?”
They continued to trash-talk each other. They continued to demand that the others spread out some more, since there was a pretty big area in front of Tex, but no one wanted to get close to the action. The ones who were nearest complained about “splashback”, while the others complained about the smell of roughneck sweat filling up the shower. Tex still blushed a deep beet-red. He had plopped himself down on his ass on the floor. He looked at Rob with a big nervous grin on his face.
“So, uh, you wanna jack me off now?”
“Hell yeah, but only if you promise to let me deep-throat you,” Rob said, prompting a nervous giggle from Tex — even his giggles were so loud and baritone they echoed — and laughing jeers from the others. Rob got down on the ground, laying on his belly.
He plopped Tex’s fat cock in his mouth. It was salty and hot, iron-hard already. It filled up Rob’s throat, prompting a torrent of choked gags as Rob took in as much as he could.
He was a very good deep-throater. Rob was a perfectionist though, so he was disappointed when Tex’s fat cock proved to be too thick to swallow all the way. Rob got just close enough he could feel Tex’s wiry pubic hair on his nose.
“Damn, Tex, he got you deep!”
Tex threw his head back and moaned so violently it sounded like a cry for help. He covered his eyes with one hand. His powerful torso trembled. His muscles all flexed at once.
An explosion of salty precum hit Rob’s tongue. He moaned and swallowed down every drop, gurgling moistly to make enough noise he could be heard over the catcalls and laughter. It was clear no one had ever deep-throated Tex, at least not anywhere’s near as deep as Rob got.
“He get you off better than Mariah!”
“He got better tits than Mariah too! She got them saggy old titties!”
From their continued joking, Rob gathered that Mariah was a prostitute who charged them only five dollars for a behind-the-dumpster blowjob. Every time they had leave in town, they swore they’d get a different girl — a non-whore — and seduce her, and every time, the vast majority of them ended up getting a blowjob from Mariah as she smoked crack behind a dumpster.
A loud, powerful howl emanated from Tex’s throat. It made him wince and blush as his coworkers all fell silent, watching his muscles writhe and squirm beneath Rob’s mouth. His cock was on the verge of orgasm: Rob could feel that in the throbbing of his shaft and the juicy heaviness of his balls, just beginning to rise up in his sac.
Rob pulled off. Tex barked incomprehensibly, his whole body jerking in frustration. Rob licked a trail up his chest, slurping off every drop of sweat. Tex had been sweaty from the day’s work, and he hadn’t showered yet, so there was a layer of dusty, sun-drenched musk, clinging to his hairy flesh. Rob teased every kinky black hair with his tongue, cleaning all the sweat off his pecs, his flat but not six-packed abs, his bulging biceps and firm calves. He even sucked on Tex’s hairy toes.
But beneath the day’s sweat lay a more fresh musk, a rutting smell, like pure, bottled sex itself. That was the sweat generated right now, by Tex’s plowing. It had both a sourness and a sweetness that made Rob crave more. This, he thought, should be bottled and sold. It was intensely salty, with a metallic afternote that reminded Rob of licking the filthy steel floor and walls of the oil rig’s showering area.
Rob plopped his ass down on Tex’s cock. Tex’s eyes were closed, both forearms covering his face. Rob lowered himself on Tex’s cock, grunting when there was a burst of pain. Tex’s dick was thick enough to hurt even for Rob’s well-practiced ass.
“Stick him, Tex! Fuck him! Hell yeah!”
“We ain’t gonna have to settle for Mariah this weekend! We gonna get that big-tittied chick!”
It sounded like they all agreed to fuck the big-breasted prostitute, like they had been planning on saving up to fuck her anyway. They clapped and hooted, cheering Tex on.
Rob timed his orgasm perfectly — he was an expert at doing that. He faced Tex and rode him in the cowgirl position, so when Tex reached his own climax and Rob allowed himself to do so at the same time, Rob sprayed his wad all over Tex’s hairy chest.
Tex gasped and boomed, his callused fingers gripping Rob’s ass and holding him down deep on his cock. Hot cum spurted into Rob, each drop teasing his prostate into releasing more orgasm in Rob’s veins. It flowed through him. He moaned loud enough to be heard over the cheering and jeering of the other rednecks.
“Aaaaaaaaah!” Tex moaned as pleasure wafted through his body. His muscles tensed. A symphony of emotions played out on his face — pleasure from the orgasm, of course, but also disgust at the sight of another man’s cum plastering his chest hair to his skin, humiliation at the realization that his friends were going to tease him for getting cum on his body, pride that his big cock was going to get a nice weekend off for all of his buddies, and a bit of fear like he thought it might hurt to have cum on his chest.
Finally it was all over. Tex gasped and his whole body jerked. His cock twitched within Rob, who threw his head back and howled as his own orgasm continued. The dick in his ass sent wave after wave of white-hot pleasure up his spine. His toes curled, and his fingers tightened into claws that dug at Tex’s meaty chest.
“Alright, weirdo, you got what you paid for,” Tex said, his voice weak and breathless. “You can get off me now.”
“Okay, okay,” Rob said. He sighed. Both he and Tex were sweaty enough to be slippery. When Rob leaned on Tex’s sweat-and-cum-coated chest to support himself, his hands slipped right off. Rob landed with a grunt on Tex’s chest, his cock still in Rob’s ass. Rob moaned as a post-orgasmic burst of bliss hit him, while Tex grunted and shook like a wet dog — it wasn’t clear if he enjoyed his limp dick in Rob’s ass or if his sense of disgust outweighed it, especially now that Rob leaned forward, balls dragging on Tex’s belly, smearing his cumwad all over his hairy torso.
Finally Rob rolled off. They both breathed an intense sigh of relief. The ruddiness drained away from Tex’s face, and he watched with a bemused, faintly disgusted look on his face as Rob licked all the sweat off Tex’s hairy chest.
“Alright, you got it all, man,” Tex said after humoring him for a few minutes. “You’s actin’ like a dog tryin’-a get all the peanut butter off the floor, man. It got all stuck in my chest hair and shit. You ain’t gonna get every drop.”
“Okay,” Rob said, but he didn’t stop licking until Tex physically removed his face from his strapping muscles.
Tex stood up and shook. He smiled wanly at his friends. “Damn… I gotta get a shower, man, all y’all best get out the way. I’m gettin’ a showerhead to myself too, you best believe that.”
“Man… I think we should get blowjobs from Mariah early, man. Barely costs a thing. We’ll be ready to go later on when we get laid-“
“You ain’t nevuh gonna seduce no girl, man.”
“Fuck you, I get plenty of girls. Remember that chunky female wit’ the lips-?”
As though they had forgotten what just happened moments ago, they all ignored Rob. They went straight to their shower. Rob stood there and watched. He stretched his sore legs as he signed the checks written out to each of them — that took a long time even though he had filled out the checks beforehand. He just needed to sign them.
But Rob dragged it out to take as long as possible so he could watch them crowd into the showers. Tex quietly showered by himself, but the others were at two or three to a showerhead — these were not ordinary showerheads, they sprayed in a wide arc, so it was just barely enough space for several men. Rob lazily stroked his limp dick as he watched them bump into each other, show off their muscles and argue about who was going to fuck which prostitute in what order this weekend.
Eventually he was ready to begin the long drive back to Onagnok, the nearest town. But first, he was ready to ride the roughneck train once more…

The Fat Hillbilly

When Bart is invited to a rural spot in the woods, he didn’t realize he’d be servicing the hairiest, fattest and filthiest fillbilly in the state! His name is Piggie, and he loves to get/be/stay as filthy as possible. That’s just fine with Bart, who’s in for another incredible adventure in satisfying plus-size alpha males!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Bart couldn’t believe where this day was taking him. He had only wanted to buy weed, and now here he was, worshiping the physique of one of the filthiest men he had ever met. His delicate little fingers dug into the hair-choked back muscles of Piggie Clyde, whose long greasy hair flopped onto Bart’s face.
“Oh, boy, yeah, squeeze down on it, boy, yee-haw!” Piggie inhaled deeply of Bart’s breath. He stuck out his tongue as though going to put it in Bart’s mouth, but then he just slowly licked a trail up from Bart’s jaw to his eye. Piggie’s scruffy beard scratched at Bart’s face.
This had all begun when Bart went to his weed dealer, Chapman, a thuggish heavily-tattooed trailer park denizen with a rude demeanor and a gun in his waistband. He had been scary the first few times Bart bought weed off him, but it soon became apparent he was all bark, no bite.
But today, Bart had come over to Smashwood Trailer Park and seen an excited leer in Chapman’s eyes when he came into his trailer to buy weed.
“Hey, yo’, hey, hi, oh shit, hey, you’re like… weird, right?” He spoke quickly, like he couldn’t quite form words fast enough.
“Uh… Yeah.” Bart handed over the hundred dollars and Chapman gave him two baggies, an eighth of an ounce each.
“Hell yeah, hell yeah, hell yeah,” Chapman said, drumming on his thighs like he heard music. He licked his lips nervously. “So, uh… are you like… a… I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, I just need to know… Are you like… down?”
“What?”
“I mean are you picky?”
“Uh, well…” Bart shrugged. Chapman was rather lean and hairless for Bart’s taste. Bart liked his men meaty, big and furry. “Chapman, just say what you want. You’re beating around the bush like a woman,” Bart said with his hands on his hips. “You’re handsome and all..”
“Not me! Will you let my friend cornhole you?”
“Oh,” Bart straightened up. “Who’s your friend?”
“His name is Piggie,” Chapman said. He smirked. “I mean, that ain’t his name. We just calls him that on ‘ccount of he’s real ugly.”
“You’re not tantalizing me, Chapman.”
“I mean, he ain’t ugly, ‘xactly. But he ain’t handsome. He kinda tubby. We brought him a couple whores for him and his boys, and man, she run screamin’ from ‘im. Say he got too much hair. On his back and all!” Chapman said with an exasperated cringe, as though a hairy back was unheard of. He threw his hands in the air. “He big, he work out all the time, boy, swear to God. I ain’t got no photos. He just hairy like a nasty motherfucker, got a face like a retarded hog.”
“A hairy back?”
“Yeah,” Chapman said with a sigh. “He refuses to shave it, man. He’s nasty. Sweats all the fucking time. Don’t worry, I ain’t expect you was gonna want his dick, he just wanted me to ask-“
“I didn’t say no,” Bart said. He licked his lips. Bart thought Chapman’s heftier, hairier and sweatier friend would be really arousing, and he blushed. But he also gave Chapman a look that said the real answer was yes.
“Hot damn!” Chapman said. He quickly made a phone call, bundled Bart up into his car and drove off.
Bart had to wear a blindfold. Not only was Piggie a hairy, muscle-bound, sweat-dripping hillbilly, he was a bad boy — he grew weed. He was Chapman’s supplier.
By the time they got there — wherever there was — Bart was getting carsick, so he was glad to feel the car roll to a stop. He took his blindfold off. They had been driving on dirt roads for the last mile or two. It looked like there wasn’t even a dirt road leading here; the road behind the truck was just a trail wide enough, more or less, for a truck to get through.
There was a small wooden shack with a chimney belching smoke, next to a rundown old trailer. There was a greenhouse behind that, tucked away among the trees. Bart stretched his legs and followed Chapman to the front door.
When the door opened, Bart had trouble following the conversation — Piggie was more alluring and arousing than he could have ever imagined. Chapman had described him as “ugly”, and that wasn’t exactly wrong: Piggie was not handsome by any means. He had a squat, round face with a big goofy grin, long stringy hair and a tangled beard. No women would ever describe him as handsome, but if he cut his hair (all of it) showered and cleaned up, Bart thought, a lot of women would fall for him. His face was a little crooked, like a boxer’s, with a flattened nose and cauliflower ear. He was missing one front tooth.
“Hot diggity, you brought a toy!” Piggie bellowed when Chapman explained. His sweat-dripping chest was bare, big clumps of hair plastered to his skin, and broad, strapping, chunky torso rippling with every motion he made. He wiped his fingers off on his belly, which had a substantial paunch. He had been eating something greasy, so the fat twinkled and glimmered on his skin. Piggie looked at Bart like a hungry man looks at dinner, and Bart shivered. Piggie wrinkled his nose, licked his lips and growled. “Oh shit, he move like he ready.”
“Piggie-“
“Shut up, Chapman,” Piggie said through gritted teeth.
“What’s goin’ on out there? Who is that? If it’s Mitchum, tell him to go fuck hisself.” A voice called out from the shack.
“Ain’t Mitchum,” Piggie called out, keeping his eyes trained at Bart.
“Hi, uh… Piggie,” Bart said. His voice had never sounded so weak and frail.
“Oh he got a girlish voice too. Say somethin’ else, boy.”
“I’m Bart,” Bart said, blushing. He was so nervous he thought he might faint. “It’s nice to meet you.” He held out his hand for Piggie to shake it.
Piggie lowered himself to his one knee like he was going to propose. He took Bart’s hand in his and kissed the back of it. Then he took Bart’s middle finger and swallowed it all the way down.
Chapman howled. “Ah, shit, man, he’s gettin’ romantic! He seducin’ ‘im! Damn!” He walked towards the main area of the shack, where the other men’s voices came from. His words brought those other men to the front to see what was happening however, and when they saw Piggie licking Bart’s finger, they hollered as well.
“Piggie, whatchoo doin’?”
“You ain’t say you was gonna do that!”
Bart blushed a beet-red. Piggie just kept his eyes trained on Bart, ignoring the others screaming and laughing nervously.
“Look here, boy, I don’t get a lotta girls, but lucky for me,” Piggie said, raising his deep, raspy voice to be heard over the others, “I ain’t picky. You so purtty and delicate like a girl, I can pretend you a female. I wanna make you dirty and nasty.”
“Yes. Please do, yes,” Bart said.
“Good. We gonna get real nasty.” Piggie scooped Bart up in his arms. He kissed Bart on the lips while the deep-throated hollers of the other hillbillies in the shack filled the air. “Let’s go to the greenhouse, get some privacy.”
The others didn’t follow, which Bart was glad for. He didn’t need a heckling squad while he got plowed into. When they were outside and away from the others, Piggie sighed and sniffed deeply of the woodsy air.
“Boy, it’s a nice day, I’mma stick ya out here,” Piggie said. He brought Bart to a thick log on the forest floor. He let go of Bart, who immediately planted his lips on Piggie’s chest.
The sweat flavor was intense and acrid. It brought tears to Bart’s eyes and made his dick stiffen up in his pants. Piggie must not bathe often — there was no shower here, but the other men weren’t that dirty, so Bart assumed there must have been a hose or some way to clean themselves. Or maybe, he thought, there was nothing of the sort and Piggie was dirty because he alone never left, so he never bathed.
Bart didn’t much care why though. He simply liked the filth. He licked every drop of sweat off Piggie’s chest. His tongue teased Piggie’s matted kinky hairs and slobbered over his muscles.
“How nasty is you, boy?” Piggie spat into the palm of his hand. It was a big wet load, thick and sticky. He held it in front of Bart’s face. Bart obediently sucked it right up, gargled with it and showed his full mouth to Piggie. He blushed when Piggie howled his approval. “Hot doggie, nice, boy, I swear to God, I hope you and me go to prison together sometime. We would come up wit’ all kinda ways to pass the time. We could get through a hundred life sentences in an afternoon.” Piggie whistled like a cowboy.
Bart knew he was expected to swallow his mouthful of spit, but he wanted to show Piggie that he was just as raunchy as Piggie was. So Bart dove his face between Piggie’s right arm and his chest. He plunged his mouth and his nose into Piggie’s armpit.
Piggie was confused for a moment — he was, it seemed, new to pit worship — but he then raised his arm. The fresh and fragrantly sour smell of his armpit hit Bart’s senses. It was so strong it cut through the fog and excitement of the situation, and it made Bart moan.
He lapped at the funky bundle of hair in Piggie’s armpit. There was no clear divider between his hair there and the hair on his chest. Then Bart moved to the other armpit, where he got a new fresh faceful of sweat.
“You taste clean,” Piggie said appreciatively — he rubbed his fingers over Bart’s smooth back, then sucked whatever flavor he could get off his hand. He moaned and dropped his pants to reveal a thick, uncut cock with a cheesy foreskin. The smell of his unwashed balls made Bart’s eyes water all over again. Piggie moaned. “Gonna make you taste so dirty yo’ mama don’t wanna touch you evuh again, boy.”
“Okay,” Bart said with a giggle. His tongue moved from Piggie’s left armpit around to his hairy back, and the sight of that made Bart’s dick twitch. He knew there weren’t a lot of hairback lovers out there, but he was dedicated and passionate about it. He sucked on each hair as though trying to suck it right off Piggie’s body. He left hickeys over Piggie’s meaty back muscles and he sucked the pool of sweat that had collected on the small of his back.
Piggie’s back was not just a little hairy, it was covered in hair, very nearly as much as his chest. That was just fine with Bart. The more he sucked it clean, the more aroused he was, and the more Piggie shuffled and howled. Piggie lowered himself so Bart could reach.
Eventually Piggie had lowered himself to all fours, his funky hair-choked ass sticking up high in the air. Bart knew he was going to give Piggie the nastiest rimjob ever, but he didn’t want to rush through things, so he leaned over Piggie’s hairy ass to lick the rest of his back.
That placed Bart’s bare cock over Piggie’s bare ass. Bart first angled himself to avoid actual contact because Bart didn’t want to make him so uncomfortable he stopped this rutting. But Piggie didn’t complain, not even when Bart’s dick brushed up against his hairy ass.
“Oink! Oink!” Piggie roared like a hog when he heard tittering laughter from the other hillbillies. They weren’t watching, but it looked like they kept pushing each other out the back door, trying to make each other come watch. They laughed at Piggie, who oinked and writhed like a real pig.
Soon Bart had mounted Piggie’s body to lick him all over. Piggie didn’t complain, and even moaned when he felt Bart’s cock rub over his asshole. He didn’t even make Bart get off him when the others seemed to notice that Bart’s naked body had mounted Piggie from behind, even though it must have looked like Bart was about to sodomize Piggie instead of the other way around. They laughed, then went back inside.
“I bet you know where to lick next,” Piggie said as he lifted his head, making Bart slide down his chunky back.
Bart giggled and stuck his tongue out. He planted it right on Piggie’s back, over his spine, and kept it there as he lowered himself down Piggie’s back. He landed on his knees right in front of Piggie’s ass and rammed his head in there, between those awe-inspiring cheeks.
They were big and plump and juicy and round and covered with dense, kinky hairs. The taste was foul, the sweat cloying, the skin moist and filthy, and Bart loved every bit of it. He groaned and moaned as he slathered spit all over each cheek, then rammed his face into Piggie’s crack.
“Oh fuck yeah, get ya tongue in there, boy, deep in there…” Piggie groaned.
Bart lapped at his asshole. He loved giving rimjobs to hairy men, and Piggie was one of the hairiest. Bart had to push through a dense forest of hair to get to his tight hole, and the taste was so musky it made Bart gag — not in a bad way, he loved it. He savored the salty, sour, biting flavor and let it fill his mouth.
“Get ya face up here, boi, lemme paint it,” Piggie said. He didn’t wait for Bart to do so, he turned himself around and spat again on Bart’s face, a big stinky wad of saliva. Then he sat on Bart’s face, rubbing his hairy ass all over. “Get covered in it, boy, hell yeah, you turn me on so much it hurts…”
The fresh spit awakened the flavor of Piggie’s ass, which spread to cover Bart’s face. Bart plunged his tongue right into Piggie’s tight hole, which tasted funky and potent. He sputtered. He flickered his tongue within Piggie’s body, making Piggie’s entire meaty frame shake. Every motion he made caused his asshole to tighten around Bart’s tongue.
Soon Piggie lifted himself up and lowered himself again, plowing into himself with Bart’s tongue. Bart had always been good at rimjobs because he had a preternaturally long tongue, which he used to good effect inside Piggie’s body. He teased Piggie’s prostate, making his face turn red and his muscles all tense at once.
“Ah, yeah, you gonna make me oink, boy!” Piggie said with a roar. He did oink, though Bart would have never realized he intended for it to sound like an oink if Piggie hadn’t said so. It was more of a eurwh sound, as Piggie’s muscles writhed and his asshole clenched around Bart’s tongue.
The tastes and scents of Piggie’s ass were so overwhelming that Bart was dizzy. He was groggy and only barely aware when Piggie finally pulled away, and bright light hit Bart’s eyes.
“Oh yeah, you look good and nasty,” Piggie said. Mud dripped from his elbows where he had been leaning in the dirt. He leaned down and licked Bart’s cheek, slurping up all the assjuice and spit that dripped down his skin. Piggie shuddered and gagged, but smacked his lips like he loved the taste. He licked Bart again and again, lapping at his face.
Then, all in one smooth motion, he jabbed his dick into Bart’s mouth. Bart’s throat spread open as Piggie ignored his resistance and slammed his manhood all the way down. Piggie pounded on his chest and again let out that moist oink-like sound.
“Gonna get all up in ya belly, boy… Gonna go at ya till you can’t take it…”
All Bart could do was choke and submit. He grasped Piggie’s plump asscheeks, then fingered Piggie’s ass — Piggie didn’t complain even when Bart rammed two fingers in there. Piggie grunted and twisted like it hurt, but he also gasped, moaning, groaning and writhing with the pleasure roiling his muscles. He gripped Bart’s head with both hands, plowing into Bart’s throat and making him cough up saliva and precum in big clumps.
Lack of oxygen made Bart remain dizzy as he endured Piggie’s passionate throat-humping. Every few seconds, Piggie pulled out of Bart’s mouth, kissed him on the lips and licked all the mess up off his face before resuming.
“Ah, boy, you make a nice cumsponge, I reckon you was built fo’ that,” Piggie said. “I know it ain’t in the Bible, but that’s my theory.” He groaned and held onto Bart’s head, his dick all the way in Bart’s throat. Bart squirmed and gagged, choking up big gobs of spit which he caught in the palm of one hand.
Piggie saw the spit and precum that collected in Bart’s hand. He removed his dick long enough to let Bart take one hoarse, loud breath while Piggie bent down to suck all the messy soup off Bart’s hand. He showed off that mouthful of fluids and let it run down his grimy chin.
“I love nastiness,” Piggie said as he chewed on the mouthful of fluids. It made him gag and spill out over his chin, where his skin was dirty enough that the juices left a trail of seemingly-clean flesh. “And, boy, you got all the right kinda nasty.” His voice was moist and hard to understand, but Bart picked up every word.
Bart bent down to kiss Piggie’s feet. They were covered in mud and clumps of dirt, and his feet were hairy like a hobbit’s. Bart giggled as he sucked on each toe. Piggie loomed over him like a Greek god — a filthy, muddy, rut-scented hillbilly Greek god — and lifted up his feet to let Bart get them clean all up and down.
Both men were on the verge of orgasm by the time Bart bent back over that rotting log, which had partially collapsed due to the weight of both Piggie and Bart weighing it down. He lowered his head to near the dirt, and lifted his ass high in the air.
“Boy, you look good in that position. Now you make a sound like this as I stick ya,” Piggie said. He made that loud soo-eee farmer’s call and laughed when Bart’s lilting feminine voice made the same sound. Piggie slapped Bart’s asscheek. “Gonna make you so nasty, boy, shit…”
“Ram it in me… Soo-Eee!” Bart grunted as Piggie jammed his dick in his ass. Just like in his throat, Piggie was crude and merciless — exactly how Bart liked it. Pain bloomed in his tight ass, but only for a few seconds.
Then Bart’s prostate came alive and tingled, sending waves of pleasure up Bart’s spine. Bart tensed up, which made Piggie laugh and lower his chest onto Bart’s back. He pinned Bart against the rotting log beneath him.
“You feel me in you, boy? Huh? Lemme hear ya voice,” Piggie said. His chest rumbled against Bart’s spine, his chest hairs scratching at Bart’s smooth skin. His deep voice echoed, aimed directly into Bart’s ear, making him writhe, which in turn caused Piggie to laugh. “I see you movin’. That’s cuz I make ya feel good, right? Say it. Say it, boy, lemme hear you say it.”
“You make me feel good…” Bart said, but his voice was very weak because his mind was focused on the intense array of sensations emanating up from his asshole. Piggie didn’t stop to listen to anything Bart said anyway, he just kept plowing and talking directly into Bart’s ear.
“You gon’ be real nasty, you gonna be like a pig in slop when I’s through wit’cha. You ain’t nevuh gonna be clean again. Is it worth it?”
“Yes…” A few tears rolled down Bart’s cheek. He wasn’t crying from any emotion, just from the potency of the feelings that wracked his body.
“Girls don’t evuh lemme treat ‘em like this,” Piggie said. “They wanna be princesses. I want to start ‘em out like princesses, and then grind ‘em into the dirt. Then they be a princess of raunch. You like that? You wanna be my raunch princess?”
“Yes!”
“Good, you nasty, you real nasty. You wanna taste how nasty you is?”
“Yes!”
Piggie didn’t stop plowing, but he did lower one of his hands to rub his own cockshaft. As it slid in and out, he got his hand full of Bart’s assjuice and Piggie’s own nearly-orgasmic precum. Grimy, gritty fluids dripped from his callused hand, which he placed in front of Bart’s face.
It tasted so foul Bart wanted to gag — he couldn’t do anything more than sputter because Piggie’s sweat-soaked body pressed down on his back — but Bart tried to lick every corner of Piggie’s hand. Piggie licked it too, and their tongues combined over the gooey filth that dripped over Bart’s face. Piggie licked that off too.
“Shit, boy, I wish I could fill a tank wit’ my nastiness and we could go swimmin’ in it… I could just dip you in there e’ry day.”
As they both neared orgasm, Piggie wrapped both of his arms around Bart’s delicate frame. He rolled over like they were wrestling, and he laid on his back. The movement and the bouncing when Bart landed on Piggie sent sharp stabbing pains through Bart’s asshole.
But that lasted only a moment. With Bart on top now, he was in control of the plowing, and he rammed his own body up and down. He was so focused on that that he barely noticed Piggie gripping Bart’s dick and stroking it off as they both plowed into there.
“Fillin’ you up now, boi, fillin’ you up wit’ my babies… Gonna get yo’ ass pregnant…” He laughed as his orgasm ripped through him.
Cum sprayed into Bart’s asshole, a bit and creamy hot load that filled Bart’s body. Bart sighed. He leaned his head back and sucked moisture off Piggie’s hairy chest, while he endured what felt like an endless orgasm within him.
His prostate sang and exploded, as Piggie’s dick teased him, spurting out wad after wad of thick cum, which slipped out and down Bart’s cheeks. Bart came too, Piggie’s hands stroking him off until he had covered his chest and belly with juice.
“Ah shit, yeah, hell fuck!” Piggie screamed. He desperately held onto Bart as though any motion might ruin the orgasm. He breathed through gritted teeth. Bart was utterly motionless, the pleasure wafting through him gradually shifting to pain as his body adjusted. Piggie growled. “I bet you know what to do. Get yaself nasty, boy.”
Bart giggled. He slid off Piggie’s cock and sighed as a wave of tremendous relief hit him. His asshole was tender and sore, but it still sent twinges of bliss through his body. Bart didn’t gag when he tasted his own ass on Piggie’s cock. He slapped himself over the face with that limp slab of meat, and he covered himself in remnants of Piggie’s cum.
“I like how you look wit’ juice all over ya face…”
He didn’t stop there. Bart licked all the way up Piggie’s crotch to his belly, and he licked up every drop of sweat and juices there. He used his hand to wipe his own load off his chest, and smeared it over his face.
“Wait, lemme see that,” Piggie said when Bart was done. He smiled sickly as he looked at Bart’s face, which was covered in layers of sweat, spit, cum and assjuice.
A loud retching sound and some hushed laughter filled the air. Chapman and the others had crept forward to watch. They had been blushing and daring each other to come closer for some time, but Bart had been so overwhelmed he didn’t notice. They all gagged and cheered at the same time when Piggie stuck his tongue out and licked all those juices off Bart’s face.
“Damn, Piggie, you nasty!”
“No wonder that whore wouldn’t fuck you, Jesus Christ, you are gross!”
But Piggie just laughed and leaned back in the mud. He hugged Bart close to his burly barrel chest, which Bart rested his head on. This had been such an incredible and exciting experience that he was exhausted as soon as it was over, even with those men laughing loudly.
Soon Bart was sound asleep, curled up on the broad hairy chest of Piggie, who frowned but didn’t remove Bart. He just got Chapman to bring him a joint to smoke, and he laid there while Bart slept. The funk of Piggie’s body made Bart’s eyes water while he slumbered, but he didn’t mind at all.
The smell just made him horny, so when he woke up, he was ready to go again. By then Chapman had left. So had the other hillbillies, and Piggie had carried Bart into the shack so gently Bart didn’t wake up.
“It’s just you and me, boy,” Piggie said. He stuffed pork cracklings into his mouth. He smiled. “We gonna have a little honeymoon. Not honey, that ain’t right. We gonna have a dirtmoon. You like that?”
“Yeah.” Bart said. “I can’t wait.”

The Shotputter

At a championship in Riyadh, the massive Norwegian shotputter Arnold Thikkerson has trouble meeting women. He’s too big, too rough and just perfect for the photographer Bart, who is eager to service all of his hard to please parts!

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Read the whole thing here!

Arnold Thikkersen looked around the Olympic Village. It looked so utterly normal, he thought — the buildings weren’t exactly like the stacks of squat bricks that covered his Massachusetts home, but they were similar — they were pale pastel, with balconies and yellow plaster. They looked more like the apartment buildings in New Mexico, where Arnold’s ex-wife now lived. He supposed that made sense. New Mexico was a desert just like Saudi Arabia, so they have similar buildings.
He took a deep breath and looked beyond the gated boundary that he hadn’t seen the other side of since arriving here. Could he leave the Olympic Village? He was allowed to. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
What if he broke a law out there? He’d rot in a Saudi prison while the American press ran articles about how foolish he was for it. What would he even do out there? There were no bars, no drinking, no dancing, no marijuana, no popular music, no interacting with women, no churches, no strip clubs, no beaches — there was nothing that Arnold wanted.
He just felt like a loser hanging around in the Olympic Village. He thought he shouldn’t feel like that. He wasn’t a loser — literally — he had just won a gold medal in the shot-put. He could throw a heavy ball farther than anyone else on Earth.
For whatever the fuck that was worth.
He passed underneath a balcony whence came a torrent of charismatic laughter. He didn’t have to look up there to see who it was. He recognized one of the voices as Charlie McDarnell, a champion volleyball player and six-packed stud who had lost for his team. It was Charlie’s error that meant the Americans were shut out of the volleyball medals this year. Charlie should have been humiliated. If it were Arnold, he’d be kicking himself, cursing his own name, refusing to leave his hotel room. But Charlie McDarnell just ran his fingers through that goddamn mane of blond hair like a Barbie — Arnold, who had started balding when he was nineteen, hated Charlie very much — and laughed with his buddies, all of whom were volleyball jocks with perfect hair and an unblemished record of never eating a carb. The media loved them. After they lost, they all got to go on NBC and meet Ann Currie and they even got to make a statement on the Goughman issue — that was a country singer, Albert Goughman, who had made intolerant statements about Samoan people. It had no relevance to the Olympics, to volleyball, to shot-put, to Saudi Arabia or to athletics in general, but the volleyball players, as a reward for losing, got to go on TV and talk about how terrible Goughman was.
Arnold had won, and no one wanted him on TV. No one cared about shot-put. The volleyball players even had some girls up there — Japanese girls, by the sound of their twinkling laughter. No Japanese girls had come to see Arnold. At the World Track and Field Championship in Osaka last year, Arnold had been mobbed by Japanese girls and thought he was finally becoming a real celebrity, only to discover that they had no idea he was a champion shot-putter — they had probably never heard of the shot-put. They had only mobbed him because he looked like an ogre. They thought it was funny and wanted to take pictures with the massive white man with the physique of an ogre.
Arnold had never been so humiliated. And that was after winning the shot-put there too. He was almost undefeated in shot-put. Literally not a single journalist had come to him since he won the gold medal. No one cared about shot-put.
He knew it was because of the way he looked. Not just him, but all the shot-put “stars”, in as much as there was such a thing. They were all big, squat bulls like him.
Arnold was bald, scalp shaved smooth, and frumpy, unfashionable no matter what he did. He once hired an agent who put him in “hot” clothes, only to laugh at how ridiculous he looked when he was dressed. He was tall and stout, barrel-chested, muscular like a moose — not fat by any means, he was a bodybuilder, he just didn’t have a six-pack. Shot-put didn’t require a six-pack. It didn’t require him to shave his shoulders either, nor to cover up the blemishes on his skin with concealer — that was what Henri Delameur (the French volleyball star and sex symbol) did, Arnold saw him do it. He didn’t understand what made volleyball players handsome but shot-putters grim ogres. He thought he was reasonably attractive. He was balding, sure, but he shaved his head so that wasn’t obvious. He was muscular and thick all over. He worked on his body, he was in good health. But still, girls ignored him and the media treated him like crap.
Arnold stood by the gate out from the Olympic Village. There was a press conference going on outside. Some handsome Canadian runner was giving a speech or something, Arnold didn’t know. He didn’t want to see the man’s dimples or his trim, neat body.
Arnold wished he had become a runner. He didn’t have the physique for it, of course, but maybe if he had been training for that since middle-school, he would have the physique for it by now.
“Okay, sweetie, you gotta relax. Smile. Smile like you enjoy smiling-“
“I am smiling.”
“Smile better. You’re smiling like a witch who’s seen a child has fallen into her trap,” said a lilting male voice.
Arnold turned around to see a woman having her picture taken. She was a wrestler, wearing a red, white and blue singlet that accentuated her curvy body. Actually, Arnold thought as he watched her awkwardly smile, she was well-beyond curvy. She was thick like he was.
She wasn’t exactly sexy. She was certainly no Hollywood starlet. But she was pretty in her way; she was thick, buxom, rubenesque and heavy. She was brimming with a peculiar sort of beauty, a very solid, firm beauty. Her beauty had gravity — that’s not a fat joke, it’s like a serious voice has ‘gravity’ — her beauty had the gravity of a warrior, and any sane man would give it all to worship at her massive body.
Arnold sure would. But he couldn’t approach her in a place like this. Or any place. He scuffed his feet and looked down at the ground. He felt too big, like a moose among mice.
She scoffed. “I can’t do this, Bart-“
“You can! You’re so beautiful!” Bart, the flamboyant photographer — who was tiny but had a large presence — kept snapping photos as he called out instructions to her. “Pretend you’ve just seen someone you know, someone you haven’t seen in a long time. Wave to them. They’re far away. They’re farther away than that. Is that how you wave?”
“I don’t know! The more you talk about waving, the less I’m able to wave! I’m not doing this, Bart! You got your stupid fucking picture,” said the woman — Paundy Sappelslim, American silver medalist. She adjusted the straps of her singlet and scowled. She scurried away with barely a glance in Arnold’s direction.
Arnold watched her go. She was hot enough for him. He didn’t mind a thick girl — which was good because he was thick too, and small girls wouldn’t give him the time of day. He wondered if he should go after her.
Bart glanced up at Arnold. “Don’t bother.”
“What?”
“You’re trying to decide whether to go hit on her, right? Don’t bother. She won’t be into you. She just got married.” Bart sniffed. “He’s tiny. Korean. Banker. It’s weird.”
“Oh.” He frowned. “Oh. Well, shit.”
“She doesn’t wear a wedding ring to competitions.”
“Ah. I see.” Arnold looked down at his feet.
“Sorry.” Bart put his camera away. He carefully packed it in its own case, then put that in his satchel. To it he added his laptop, the external hard drive for it, the four thumb drives he used to find the one thumb drive he wanted, his other phone, his charger and the ipad he always thought of as “the downstairs ipad”, even though he hadn’t kept it downstairs in years.
All the while, he sensed the heavyset powerhouse shot putter Arnold Thikkerson looking at him. Bart made sure to aim his ass in Arnold’s direction. Bart had a love for men’s physiques, and Arnold’s was an especially remarkable example of one. His heft was magnificent, powerful as a stallion and tall as a gorilla. But he had an adorable sheepishness that Bart liked as well.
“So you’re like a media guy?”
“I’m a photographer,” Bart said. “Her media consultant hired me to take pics during the Olympics.”
“Oh, so you can’t help, uh… someone else?”
“I can’t give you media advice, no. I could take your picture,” Bart said. He smiled.
Arnold blushed. He thought he should just walk away right now, but an idea occurred to him, and he wanted to try it even if it was awkward. What was the worst that could happen? Bart could say no. “Do you…? Like, I know, uh… a lotta dudes, like… know a lotta girls. Like… here. So, like, I was hoping… uh… do you know… any girls in the Olympic Village… who might like me?” Arnold’s big square face was bright red. His cheeks jiggled. “Uh… I mean… Like, for… me, I, uh…” He didn’t want to stammer, but it always happened when he was nervous.
If people knew, they’d be shocked — everyone had told him he’d get laid all the time in the Olympic Village. They thought the Olympics being in Riyadh would mean everyone stayed in, so all those Olympic athletes would be hanging around waiting to bang. They thought any athlete, especially a gold-medal winner, would be swimming in women.
Whereas Arnold had barely even talked to a female in the entire time he’d been in Saudi Arabia.
“You want me to hook you up with a girl? Paundy there is the only woman I know here, sorry,” Bart said. “I can’t, uh…” He noticed Arnold grabbing his dick through his baggy gym shorts. Arnold’s eyes were low and dim, and Bart felt bad for him. “I might be able to help in a different way though.”
Arnold was ideal, as far as Bart was concerned, skin blemishes and all. Bart blushed as he looked him up and down. Arnold wore a sleeveless muscle shirt — was that what he wore to pick up chicks? No wonder he couldn’t get laid. Girls didn’t want to see his bulging, fleshy arms and hairy pits. He smelled like a locker room and athlete’s foot powder, and he exuded heat like a furnace.
Bart, however, was glad to be with him. He smiled at Arnold. “You wanna come with me? I’ll do you!”
Arnold’s eyes opened wide. “Really?!”
Bart was surprised that he was so eager. A lot of men were willing to get their dick wet without a woman, but Arnold was jumping to agree. Bart would have offered him money if he was reluctant. It was nice to save a few dollars. “Yeah. Really.”
“Oh shit, that’s awesome, man. Do you think I could get a cover on Men’s Fitness? They have it at my gym and I want the guys I lift weights with to see it. I really wanna be in a action movie too, and I know I got the physique for it-“
“I’m sorry, Arnold, I think I misspoke. I didn’t mean ‘I’d do you’ like I’ll be your media consultant. I won’t do that. Sorry. You have a bull face. You’re not television material,” Bart said. He felt bad saying that, but it was true, and it didn’t do Arnold any good to pretend there was some chance he’d wake up tomorrow a heartthrob. “You’re not going to be the hero of any action movie. Maybe a villain’s henchman. Maybe.”
Arnold was crestfallen. “Oh.”
“I’m sorry, I know that’s harsh, but… That’s the way it is,” Bart said. He touched Arnold’s bicep and shivered with desire. “What I was saying was that I’d be glad to make you feel better.”
Arnold scuffed his feet and wrinkled his nose. He only half-paid attention to Bart at all, and didn’t pick up on his hints. “Oh. Cool.”
“I can act like a girl in the ways that matter…” Bart’s voice trailed off because it was obvious Arnold wasn’t listening.
“Sweet.” Arnold furrowed his brow. “Do you think, if I’d been running since I was eleven, would I have a six-pack?”
“That’s such a weird question.” Bart shrugged. “I don’t know, Arnold.” He hugged Arnold around the chest — since Bart was so short, his arms wrapped over Arnold’s ribs. Bart’s face pressed into his meaty belly, and he reached up to clasp Arnold’s biceps.
“Uh.” Arnold grunted. He felt like he should be annoyed, but he wasn’t — he sort of liked it. Not many people liked him like that. Most physically small people (and children) were scared of him. A drunk, petite man had literally run screaming away from him when they bumped into each other in a darkened alley in Chicago a couple years ago.
Arnold furrowed his brow as he stood there, wondering if anyone could see Bart’s hands caressing his muscles. Why didn’t girls ever want to touch him like this?
“Do you want to get your nut off, big boy?” Bart asked. He smirked as Arnold gasped and sputtered, muscles flexing beneath Bart’s tender grasp.
“Uh, oh, uh, uh… Oh! Shit, I mean… Damn… Oh, I ain’t, uh… I ain’t no perv or nothin’,” Arnold said.
“Well, good, but you didn’t answer the question though. Is that a yes? Come on, baby.” He took Arnold’s big meaty paw in his hand and walked him into a nearby building, an apartment inhabited by soccer players. They were all at the medal ceremony now (Spain won, with Belgium getting the silver and Cameroon the bronze), so the building was empty.
Bart led Arnold’s stiff, nervous body into the common area, where there was a mostly empty utility closet. He closed the door behind them, and Arnold grunted. His mind whirred. He hadn’t agreed to this, but on the other hand, thinking about an orgasm had made his cock stir in his jockstrap prison. He wanted to get a nut off so bad.
It wouldn’t really count, would it? Arnold didn’t think so. It was just jacking off with another guy.
Before he knew it, Bart’s hand was on his crotch, stroking his dick through his gym shorts. Arnold sucked in his breath. Pervy or not, he was doing this. He needed it.
He closed his eyes and bit his lip. Bart tried to remove Arnold’s shirt, but he was too short, and after a minute or two of awkward fumbling, Arnold just took it off himself. Bart kept stroking his dick through his shorts though, and he licked Arnold’s massive pectorals.
As a champion shot-putter, Arnold had long focused on his upper arms, shoulders and pecs. Those were the muscles that propelled the shot through the air. His pecs flexed beneath Bart’s lips, while Bart’s hand slid underneath those gym shorts and into the pouch of his jockstrap.
“You’re not gonna make me kiss you with tongue, are you?” Arnold said. He blushed, then worried he might have offended Bart said, “I mean… no tongue, and not after you taste my dick. No french-kissing, okay?”
Bart giggled. It was like making out with an overgrown high schooler. “Okay. No tongue.” Bart didn’t normally try to get men to kiss, but he wasn’t going to turn it down. He hopped up and hugged Arnold’s body with his arms and legs, mounting his big barrel chest and planting his lips right on Arnold’s.
Arnold’s last serious girlfriend had been furious when he tried to have sex with her without kissing — not because he was opposed to kissing, he just didn’t think about it. It didn’t seem important. She had said it was important, that was why he assumed Bart would want a kiss — as long there was no tongue and he didn’t taste like dick, Arnold figured it wasn’t even a big deal.
He felt Bart’s lips on his. It wasn’t bad. He could feel an erect firm bulge pressing against his belly, that was a little weird and offputting. But at least Bart’s dick was still in his pants.
Arnold stood there, letting Bart kiss his mouth — which was pursed shut tightly — and caress his broad shoulders. Arnold finally had enough and let him down gently. Bart kissed until he couldn’t reach anymore, and then he kissed a trail down Arnold’s neck and his broad chest until he got to his crotch.
“Hmmmm… You’re really handsome, Arnold. Girls should give you more of a chance,” Bart said. He pulled down Arnold’s shorts and jockstrap, and that massive foot-long dick flopped right out. Bart slapped his own face with it — it was just slightly soft, which was the perfect texture to just play with it a bit, Bart thought. He giggled at the shocked look on Arnold’s face. “What…? Hasn’t anyone ever slapped themselves with your cock before?”
“No.”
“Well, you should make guys get you off more,” Bart said with a shrug. He put the tip in his mouth and suckled, loudly and moistly, letting little drops of saliva drip onto the floor of the utility closet. He didn’t try to deep-throat him at first, waiting for that veiny shaft to get fully hard first.
“Ah, goddamn, shit…” Arnold hadn’t been serviced like this in a long time, maybe ever, he thought as he watched Bart slide all the way down on his dick. Not many women even tried to deep-throat him.
They certainly didn’t do it like this! Arnold sucked in his breath and threw his head back. He held onto Bart’s head, not plowing into his throat, just gripping it and rubbing his scalp. Without even his own conscious awareness, Arnold began humping Bart’s throat gently, making Bart gurgle and moan.
“Hmmm…” Bart pulled off and smacked his lips. His tongue ran down Arnold’s shaft and he suckled on those massive long-hanging balls. The sweat was intense and salty there, and it tasted like the precum that dripped down his shaft.
Bart kept teasing him with his tongue, making Arnold’s whole body shake. Arnold’s muscles tensed as he resisted his urge to hold Bart in place and ram down his throat. His belly smacked Bart in the forehead.
“You wanna stick me?”
Arnold’s eyes opened wide again. “In the ass?”
Bart giggled. He dropped his own pants and stroked his erect dick. “I still don’t have a vagina, so yeah, it’ll have to be the ass.”
“Oh…” Arnold had never fucked a woman in the ass. He was embarrassed of that gap in his sexual history, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He didn’t realize that Bart had already guessed it.
Bart leaned over the supply closet shelf and jutted his ass back. He usually had a tube of lube in his pocket, from which he smeared some on his ass with one hand, while his other hand kept a tight hold on Arnold’s dick. Bart thought it was cute — like a lot of big, horny guys, he wouldn’t do anything with his dick in someone’s hand. As long as Bart gently stroked his erect cock, Arnold did little more than grunt and gasp and stamp his feet, waiting for his dick to enter Bart’s tight hole.
“Okay, big boy, I’m ready-” Bart was surprised by how quickly Arnold moved.
He felt like his cock was about ready to burst. Arnold gurgled nervously, but his body moved of its own accord. In moments, his dick rubbed between Bart’s tight asscheeks. That hole looked too tight to be even remotely capable of taking his dick, Arnold thought.
But Bart was an expert. Of course he would know if he could take it. Arnold grimaced, closed his eyes and slid in. He couldn’t believe he was plowing into a man — and even more than that, he couldn’t believe how good it felt.
There was nary a moment of resistance. Pleasure wracked Arnold’s body from the second he entered him, and Bart’s ass clenched around his dick.
A burst of pain hit Bart first, but that quickly melted away as his body adjusted. Arnold’s heavy upper body rubbed against Bart’s sensitive, smooth back — he loved the imperfections of Arnold’s chest, the shaved-yet-scruffy hair that collected in the hard-to-trim places (Arnold was very curvy, so there were a lot of hard-to-shave spots), the few scars and little scratchy bumpy areas. Arnold didn’t use a moisturizer.
But those imperfections were one of the things Bart liked most about thick and chunky men. He jutted his ass back harder and harder, impaling himself on Arnold’s dick, until he was entirely inside him, and Bart lost himself in Arnold’s massive arms.
“Goddamn!” Arnold grunted and groaned. His ex-girlfriend had always hated how he made so much noise during sex — not arousing moans either, but little mewling grunts like a caveman, she had said. It was nice to be with someone who wasn’t so sensitive to that.
Arnold soon realized he could ramrod as hard as he wanted — that was another thing Bart did better than any female. Arnold could ram his dick in and out with all his might, and it just made Bart moan louder and louder, begging for more.
“Stick me, big boy!” Bart shouted.
“Aaah…” Arnold felt his orgasm welling up deep within him, and he had to suppress an urge to shout — he didn’t want anyone to hear him; the building was empty, but there were still security and maintenance people around.
Bart’s prostate was alive with pleasure, sending overwhelming waves of bliss through him. His hands tightened into claws that tore at the shelves beneath him, and he accidentally knocked a roll of paper towels onto the floor. His face was covered in sweat, though Arnold’s hefty body was even sweatier. Bart could feel his thickbody sweat flowing down his chest and coating Bart’s back.
Cum flew into him, great creamy gobs of it that coated his insides and flowed throughout his body. Arnold shot a load as big as he was, his cum having been cooped up in those low-hanging balls for a long time. His cock and his sac twitched as he sprayed his wad deep into Bart’s ass.
He had never felt anything like it. Arnold wordlessly shouted, no longer needing to focus on being quiet because he was unable to make a noise if he wanted to, beyond his horse-like whinnying and nostril-flaring. He kept Bart in a tight chokehold — not actually choking him, just preventing him from moving while Arnold drained his balls deep into Bart’s ass.
“Shit…” Arnold said with a throaty chuckle. “Shit…..”
“Thanks for that,” Bart said. He slipped off Arnold and sighed as relief flooded his body. That had felt so good he was dizzy now, positively delirious with the post-orgasmic spams still wracking his body. Arnold’s muscles rippled where they pressed against Bart’s back.
“Yeah, uh… Cool. You too.”
“Congrats on the gold medal,” Bart said. He wiped up Arnold’s body with those paper towels he had knocked onto the ground. Then they both awkwardly got dressed in the tiny closet.
“So you can’t make me a star?”
“Not unless you grow a better head of hair, a six-pack and some dimples,” Bart said. “Later.” He slipped out, leaving Arnold there to sigh with a mixture of disappointment and satisfaction.
This trip to Saudi Arabia was turning out better than he had hoped, Bart thought, even if his photoshoot hadn’t gone well. He still needed to get a casual shot of her. Just one picture in which she looked comfortable and happy in her own skin.
But he was already distracted, wondering when the next shot-put championship would be. Bart planned on being there to get another taste of his favorite athlete so far.

The Fat Landscaper

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

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

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

The Foot Fetishist

Miles’s neighbor is a studly ladysman… and a foot fetishist! Maybe Miles’s feet will be dainty enough that Patrick can get off on them, resulting in a hardcore explosion of man-on-man action!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Patrick Tirian got in a lot of arguments with his many girlfriends. Miles heard all of it through the thin layer of plaster separating their apartments. It was like a soap opera that Miles couldn’t turn off. Part of his attraction to the story came from Patrick himself — he was ungodly arousing.
He was a tall man of Irish descent, with a trace of a Boston accent from his youth on the streets, though he had been living here in Providence for many years. He was square-jawed, broad-shouldered, thick-chested, trunk-thighed, covered in dense dark body hairs. He carried himself with a confident swagger.
It was obvious at a glance that he was unabashedly alpha, and he wasn’t monogamous, that was for sure. He had a retinue of slutty women who followed him around, not to mention several girlfriends that he juggled between. He was gone most nights, and he occasionally brought home girls who were good enough at sex to be worth cleaning up his bachelor pad for. But none of those serious relationships ever lasted very long.
That was the source of the constant fighting. Every few weeks some girl found out that Patrick was not monogamous, and never intended to be. Miles heard them all through the walls of the apartment building.
‘You think you’re some kinda playa, don’t you! You fuckin’ bastard!’
‘I ain’t nevuh tell you I was gonna be loyal, girl, I ain’t nevuh one time say that!’
‘You’re a real jerk! You’re a pervert too! You foot-loving asshole!’
Then he angrily shushed her. He called her a “stupid bitch”, but he said it as part of a low, rumbling hiss so those vitriolic words were the only parts Miles caught. Had he heard the term foot-loving correctly?
The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that the girl had said that Patrick was into feet. Miles had to smirk at the thought. He could picture Patrick’s big body licking some slut’s feet, and it made him laugh so hard he wondered if Patrick heard.
That was the end of that girl. She stormed out of there a few minutes later. She was stunningly gorgeous, in that ultra-slut way that made it clear she was going to be hideous by the time she was thirty. Miles watched her go, Patrick standing on the porch they shared wearing nothing but his boxer shorts.
When Patrick turned around to go back inside, he saw Miles looking at him. Patrick scowled and grabbed his crotch to conceal it, though he had the effect of outlining his cock, so he actually brought attention to it. He went back into his apartment, which was next door to Miles.
Over the next week, Patrick was not around that much. He spent time with his friends and fucked a black stripper named Rainbow, but he didn’t go on a date for the rest of the month. When he ran into Miles once and they talked, he implied that he wasn’t dating because he didn’t feel like it — he had a “lotta shit goin’ on right now”, he said.
But that wasn’t true. Miles could see it in his eyes. Patrick did not have a lot of shit going on. The only thing he had in his life was anonymous, tawdry sex, and he was in the midst of a dry spell.
On a Friday evening, Miles was startled by a knock at the door. Through the window, he saw Patrick there, looking chagrined, wearing the bright orange vest and dusty jeans of his job on a road crew.
“Hey,” Patrick said when Miles let him in.
“Hi, how you doin’?” Miles closed the door behind him, took a deep breath and tried not to look like a teenager with a crush.
Patrick grumbled like the answer was “bad” but he didn’t say anything. He just plopped down on the couch and sprawled out, legs spread so wide he took up the entire couch. A bulge was visible in his crotch through the cruddy jeans he had worn for days without washing, Miles was pretty sure, and the shirt he wore under his hi-vis vest was sweat-stained and unwashed as well. His face was reddish and dusty, dried sweat on his grizzled face. He hadn’t shaved in a few days and his eyes were deep-set, bloodshot and tired.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Miles had the feeling, for the first time, that he might be able to get a taste of Patrick’s meat. He clutched Patrick’s forearm and rubbed it supportively. His corded muscles tensed beneath Miles’s touch.
“I, uh… I ain’t been feelin’ good lately.” His deep voice rumbled. He avoided eye contact, and looked down at his workboot-clad feet
“Oh? You want some chicken soup? You poor baby…” Miles said. He moved his hand from Patrick’s forearm to his bicep, which he squeezed. It was so thick and hard it made Miles’s dick twitch in his pants. Patrick still avoided looking at him; he just stared at the ground, at his own feet. Miles’s feet were bare, but Patrick avoided looking at them as well.
“No,” he said. “I don’t want chicken soup.”
Miles shivered with desire as he felt Patrick’s forehead with the back of his hand. It felt cool, and he said as much. Patrick quaked and covered his face with his hands.
“Yo, uh…” He spoke through his fingers. “I ain’t got laid in a month.”
“Oh, that’s terrible. Your balls must be so swollen,” Miles said. He made a kissy face, hoping that Patrick would see it even through his covered eyes. Miles even pantomimed swallowing a fat dick, but he wasn’t sure if Patrick saw it.
He nodded. “That fuckin’ bitch!” He roared. His face was red, his jaw jutting forward. “She promised she wouldn’t tell no one, but she did. E’ryone in the state now knows I like feet.” He paused. He glared at Miles with a hostile glint in his eye. “You ain’t gonna laugh at me, right? I like feet. Fuck you, and I will fuck up any motherfucker who fuck wit’ me ‘bout it! I can beat any ass down and-” He stood up, his voice gradually getting more and more angry until he was red-faced and sputtering.
Miles shrank back in fear. He had heard Patrick get into screaming matches with his girlfriends, but he didn’t know that Patrick also had a more general temper problem. For a moment it seemed that Patrick was going to hit him, but then he didn’t.
“Relax, baby, I don’t judge people for what they’re into,” Miles said. “There’s nothing wrong with feet. That bitch shouldn’t have told people about it.”
“I know, right? Fuck that bitch. She wasn’t even that hot, and her pussy was weird-looking. Had labia like fuckin’ blackout curtains,” he said. He sniffled. It almost sounded like he was near tears and trying to hide it. His hands were fists, which he pounded on his meaty thighs. Since he hadn’t pushed back against Miles’s touch, Miles squeezed next to Patrick on the couch. There wasn’t much space, so Miles could stroke his bicep with one hand and his lower thigh with the other. Patrick either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
“Did she have pretty feet?”
“Yeah,” he said. His anger was gone, replaced by loneliness and regret. He sniffled again. His eyes wandered over to Miles’s feet.
“I know this fat Asian chick you can fuck in the ass,” Miles said. His friend Suzie was a huge slut, and Miles was sure she would let a big tough blue-collar stud like Patrick fuck her. Miles laughed at Patrick’s hopeful reaction. “This weekend. She’s visiting her mother this week.”
“How fat is she?”
“Not real fat. Just big enough,” Miles said.
He nodded. “Okay. Thanks.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I really need to blow a nut right now though.”
“Well, I only know one fat Asian slut,” Miles said. He hesitated. “Okay, technically I know two, but one of them only fucks with black guys.”
Patrick grumbled. “I, uh… I know you always checkin’ me out and shit.”
Miles blushed. He moved his hand from Patrick’s lower thigh to his upper. Miles felt the lower edge of his boxer shorts through his jeans. He rubbed the firm muscle of his thigh. “Well, you’re really hot, baby. I can’t avoid looking at that ass. It calls to me. It beckons me.”
Now it was Patrick’s turn to blush. He looked away and leaned back, aiming his face at the wall. He laughed awkwardly.
Is this working? Miles thought it maybe was. Patrick was behaving as though he thought Miles was going to jack him off. Miles grinned. Dry spells always get ’em.
“And uh… I mean… You like… You, like, like.. you jack men off? Right? With their dick, right?”
“I do. Have been known to..”
“Oh, well, uh…” Patrick’s voice trailed off.
“You want me to jack you off?”
“Kinda…” Patrick blushed. “You got feet like a girl.”
“I’m sorry, baby?”
“You got feet like a girl. Yo’ feet. They look like a girl’s,” Patrick said. “You know, like, small, and delicate and shit.”
“Oh. Oh! Oh…” Miles’s eyes opened wide. It was his turn to blush and laugh at himself awkwardly. “You want to, uh…?”
Patrick nodded.
Miles lifted himself onto Patrick’s lap, sitting on one of those massive thighs and leaning against the side of the couch. That put Miles’s feet on the couch next to Patrick.
“Oh god… I ain’t a pervert,” Patrick said. He smiled sickly as he pulled Miles’s socks off.
“I know, baby. You just like feet,” Miles said. One of his hands gently caressed Patrick’s cock through his clothes, while his other crept under the filthy orange safety vest he still wore. He fingered Patrick’s flat belly with a treasure trail of hair on it and slid his hand upward until he could massage Patrick’s powerful pecs.
Then Patrick grabbed Miles’s foot. He just held on with his giant sausage-like fingers, and Miles could feel Patrick’s dick jump to attention in his jeans.
“Aw, fuck, you got nice feet, boy,” Patrick said. He brought Miles’s left foot up closer to his head — and forced Miles to awkwardly curl up in a ball on Patrick’s lap with his feet in the air and his head wedged into the arm of the couch.
Then Patrick kissed the top of Miles’s foot. It was a long, slow kiss, and it was almost romantic, like he was about to propose to Miles’s foot. He had a very serious look on his face too. His big square jaw worked up and down his lips explored the width and breadth of Miles’s foot.
He kissed it again, more furiously this time. His tongue flickered out and touched the skin of Miles’s foot, making Patrick’s dick jump in his pants again. Patrick moaned, and Miles giggled ticklishly.
“Let me take this off, sweetheart,” Miles said as he took off that orange vest. He clucked his tongue. “You’re so dirty.”
“Yeah, it was a hot day. We’re buildin’ that new onramp on the highway, out by the Pickspring Mall, it’s gonna be good, got four lines, and the asphalt’s been laid, lookin’ nice, lookin’ nice. I been sweatin’ all day. You want me to take a shower?”
“No!” Miles blurted out. “I mean, no, sorry. No. That’s okay. You don’t have to. I mean… I think you’re great as-is.”
“You like me all sweaty?”
“I wouldn’t have you any other way,” Miles said.
Patrick beamed. “Most girls make me shower all the time. They say I’m too big and hairy to fuck unless I shower first, and they mostly make me shower after too. That last bitch made me shower like four times a day.”
“Quit talking about your exes, Patrick,” Miles said. He lifted Patrick’s tattered t-shirt over his head, and he inhaled deeply of the aroma.
“Okay, sorry,” Patrick said. He wrinkled his nose and sniffed at his own armpit. “You into that? Armpits? I ain’t know you was into that.”
“I didn’t know you were into feet either,” Miles said.
Patrick smiled and shrugged. “I guess we both learnin’ today,” he said. He flexed his pecs, which bounced beneath Miles’s fingertips. Miles rarely got to be with such a big, muscular man, so that made him moan and feel flush with desire.
Then Patrick lifted his ass up so Miles could pull down his pants, and his hard dick poked out of his boxer shorts. Miles got undressed as well. Patrick blanched a little at the sight of Miles’s cock and balls, but he focused on those delicate little feet.
Miles stepped onto the couch next to Patrick, who blushed and stared straight down at his feet, ignoring Miles’s erect dick. Miles raised his leg until his foot was right in front of Patrick’s face — Patrick was so much taller than Miles that it was an awkward position, even with Miles standing on the couch that Patrick sat on. Miles had to balance himself on one foot, while Patrick’s grizzled chin scratched at his smooth foot.
Then Patrick groaned and swallowed one of Miles’s toes. It disappeared into his mouth and past his lips, and Miles giggled again as ticklish feelings erupted in him and nearly made him fall down.
“If you lay down, baby,” Miles said. “I’ll jack you off if you suck on my toes.” That seemed like the most sensible position to Miles, but Patrick ignored his offer.
Patrick looked up at him without taking Miles’s toes out of his mouth. He sucked as though he was trying to suck the toenails right off him. Aiming his eyes at Miles, who was still awkwardly standing on one foot, Patrick couldn’t help but see Miles’s dick as well, and this time, he didn’t look away.
He did move off Miles’s toes though. He started to lick the surface of Miles’s foot, first the upper side and then the ultra-sensitive lower side, which made Miles giggle again.
Miles tried to hide his giggles at first, because he thought Patrick might think he was teasing him or being dismissive. But Miles couldn’t help how ticklish he was, and it soon became apparent that Patrick loved hearing Miles’s girlish laughter.
His kisses and his tongue explored up the back side of Miles’s foot to his ankle. Miles was glad he had shaved his legs recently, because if he hadn’t Patrick would have probably found that a major turnoff. Instead Patrick’s grizzled chin moved up Miles’s ankle as he licked.
Miles assumed that that would be it and that Patrick would lay down on his back. He seemed to be getting ready to stretch out like that, and then they could sixty-nine with Patrick sucking his toes instead of his cock. That would be ideal, as far as Miles was concerned.
But that wasn’t what Patrick did. He kept sucking and licking his way up Miles’s thigh.
“You smell like girl lotion,” Patrick murmured. He inhaled deeply, a loud, moist sniffing sound. He kissed Miles’s thighs.
Then without a word of warning, Patrick swallowed Miles’s dick to the root. He let it pop right into his mouth, while his massive fingers massaged Miles’s delicate feet. Patrick was a big man with a big mouth and a big throat, and he got all the way down in one msooth motion. Miles’s dick slapped on his chin.
Miles gasped. “Oh, god, Patrick…” He thought he should say something else, something about how he wouldn’t judge Patrick for jerking him off, wouldn’t call him a pervert or tell anyone about this. But the pleasure that rocketed through his body was too intense for that.
His dick throbbed and leaked precum. The salty, sour flavor coated Patrick’s tongue, and he gulped it down. It tasted just like pussyjuice, so it was easy for him to do.
In truth, all Patrick thought about — sexually speaking — was feet. He didn’t care what girls looked like; all he cared about were those delicate little girl feet. So when he massaged Miles’s feet, he didn’t even think about whether or not he was going to handle some cock. If he had been with a girl, he would have alternated between licking her pussy and licking her feet, and this didn’t really seem much different to him.
He nuzzled his nose deep in Miles’s crotch, that fleshy manhood filling up his throat and pulsating inside him. It tasted like girlflesh and a little of the musty flavor of feet. It almost felt like an especially massive toe in his mouth, and, when that sensation was combined with the feminine groans escaping from Miles’s mouth, Patrick could almost pretend he was with a woman.
“You taste so good…” Patrick said. His voice was weak and wavery as though he was on the verge of tears. He pulled away from Miles’s dick and lowered his head. He dropped to the floor and kissed Miles’s feet.
Miles stood there on the couch, dick dripping and spasming as Patrick licked every inch of his feet. Patrick’s plump, hairy ass beckoned
If Miles had given it any thought, he wouldn’t have done anything else — getting jacked off was one thing, but a macho man like Patrick wasn’t going to take it in the ass. That much was clear.
But Miles wasn’t thinking about that. He just got down on the couch, laying on his back. Patrick didn’t tear his face away from Miles’s feet the entire time. He slathered spit all over their smooth flesh, and it dripped down onto the couch cushion beneath him.
Patrick didn’t need to ask what to do next. It was obvious what Miles wanted, and all Patrick focused on was the earthy yet clean, petrichorian flavor of Miles’s feet. He returned to sucking on those toes as he climbed up onto the couch himself. He was so huge the couch springs wheezed.
But the couch managed to support them both. Miles took a deep breath while Patrick’s gigantic body lowered, all two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of him landing on Miles’s dick. Six and a half feet of hairy muscle quivered when the tip of Miles’s cock poked into his ass.
Patrick threw his head back and moaned so loud it made Miles shudder. Patrick sat in a reverse-cowgirl position, so he lowered his ass onto Miles’s dick while facing Miles’s feet. That gave him the perfect position to massage Miles’s toes, and once he could concentrate with a cock in his ass, he’d be able to lean forward and suck on them as well.
But he couldn’t do that yet. His tight ass ached. Miles managed to reach a tube of lube he kept in the nightstand near the couch, and he squeezed some out onto his cock. That helped a lot, and several inches of his rod slipped into Patrick’s ass.
“Aw, fuck…” Patrick’s deep voice boomed and resonated in Miles’s living room. Patrick almost sounded surprised, like he only realized as the last little bit of Miles’s dick entered him that he was being penetrated at all.
For a minute or so, neither of them moved. Miles didn’t move because he was essentially pinned — Patrick mainly supported himself, but enough of his weight was on Miles’s crotch that all Miles could do was lay there. He could barely sway his hips. Patrick didn’t move because the pain and bliss combined in his ass to make such a powerful sensation that he couldn’t bear it. He just closed his eyes and groaned, callused fingers massaging Miles’s smooth feet.
Another hair-raising, muscle-cringing moan escaped from Patrick’s lips, the sound so crooning and awe-inspiring that it seemed like it actually escaped from his mouth as though it had had to break free. It was a deep, rumbling sound that Miles could both hear and feel in the vibrations of Patrick’s guts, squeezing around Miles’s cock.
That triggered Patrick to move into action. He bent forward so he could curl his head down and suck on Miles’s feet. Patrick was so tall it was still a difficult position for him, he had to really curl up tightly, and even then he could do little more than tantalizingly tease himself with Miles’s toes.
It seemed to be enough for Patrick though, and he used one hand to jack himself off while the other massaged Miles’s foot. His new position meant he wasn’t pressing down with quite so much weight on Miles’s crotch, so Miles could start moving his hips and plowing him.
That lasted for what felt like forever at the time, but in retrospect seemed to only be a few seconds. Miles worked his dick in and out, slowly at first, then more passionately. When Patrick didn’t show any signs of pain, Miles slammed his crotch upwards, ramming it into Patrick’s tight ass while Miles massaged his meaty ass and his muscular back. Waves of pleasure wracked the bodies of both men.
Patrick’s orgasm was palpable through his asshole, which clenched around Miles’s dick. Patrick gasped, snorted and roared. Miles’s whole body twitched as Patrick’s muscles turned to stone beneath his grasp.
The smell of cum filled the air before Miles felt it land on his foot. Patrick lifted his head up and shot his wad all over Miles’s right foot, and he smiled as he watched it drip into the crevices between his toes. Patrick moaned loudly, his chest and face turning bright red from pain, pleasure, humiliation and pride all at once.
Miles reached orgasm as well. He lifted his head up, doing an awkward, difficult sit-up, and smashed his face into the sweaty meat of Patrick’s lower back. He licked at the salty flesh while his body erupted in uncontrolled bliss. He groaned as well, and cum poured forth into Patrick’s ass.
As Miles spasmed and orgasmed inside him, Patrick barely noticed. He was focused on the sight of Miles’s beautiful pinkish feet glistening with cum. He had never been brave enough to tell a girl he wanted to do cum on their feet and then lick it up, but he felt so comfortable right now he did it without a second thought..
He just did it, and the taste was everything he hoped it’d be. He lifted up Miles’s cummy foot and licked it clean. He sucked off every drop of his own salty, creamy cum, letting it coat his tongue and drip down his throat. The hot, slightly sour flavor flooded his tongue.
He sighed as Miles finished spraying his own load inside him. Patrick moaned and felt that warm glow suffuse to every corner of his body. His tension and his anxiety disappeared. For a moment that could have lasted forever, Patrick was perfectly content. He forgot about his need for a girl. He forgot about everything but the salty foot whose flavor filled his mouth and the intense sensations roiling deep within his ass.
All at once, it was done. Patrick slid right off and curled up on the couch. He was so big he took up the entire space. He quaked and trembled. Miles sat up and gave him as much room as he needed.
“There, there, baby,” Miles said. “I hope you feel better. Let me take care of you.” He grabbed some wetnaps from the nightstand and cleaned off Patrick’s ass, as well as both cocks and Miles’s feet.
“Thanks,” Patrick said.
“You’re welcome,” Miles said. “Anytime you have another dry spell, Patrick, you just come see me. I’ll take care of you. Me and these feet you love so much.”
Patrick sniffed them, wrapped his face into Miles’s thin ankles and closed his eyes. He fell asleep there, nose pressed into Miles’s foot, while Miles drifted off to sleep as well, leaning against Patrick’s mountainous body and savoring the feel of his muscle.
This evening, Miles thought, had turned out better than he ever hoped.

The Fat Jock

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

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

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

The Cowboy

Zeke is one exhausted cowboy, but luckily, there’s a young man on the ranch ready, willing and able to service every inch of his filthy manmeat!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here

After arriving back at Prairie Stone Ranch from the cattle drive, Zeke Auberly was sore and exhausted. He hated to admit it but he was too plum-tired to carouse tonight.
Well into his thirties, Zeke was beginning to realize that he weren’t no young buck no more. He certainly wasn’t old, but for a working cowboy, he was growing pretty long in the tooth. Most of them cowboys who worked alongside him — or for him, as he liked to think of it, though he weren’t in charge official-like — were ten years younger.
But he got experience, he was smart, he knew the route and the Injuns and the sheriffs along the way. He felt like an old man, like he got an old man’s mind with a lifetime’s worth of accumulated experiences, trapped in a somewhat youngish man’s body.
He wished he could just go right to the barn as soon as he had returned from the cattle drive. He was exhausted, sweat a-drippin’, his entire body one bruise. His flesh was turned to liquid, his knees held together by overslackened straps, and every step was arduous. He was always at his most tired as soon as he arrived back at the ranch, once he got off his horse Betsy Lou, and rest was in sight.
First, he had had to go to Mister Goodman and report on the cattle drive. Zeke sat there, sweat dripping from his brow, stomach churning because he was desperate for food and water and sleep and cleanliness.
Even if he ain’t have to talk to Mister Goodman right away, Zeke couldn’t bathe immediately like he wished to. Nothing technically stopped him from doing so, it simply wasn’t advisable — all the cowboys went right to the barn, behind which was a smoldering campfire. Mister Goodman always started the fire when they were due back from the cattle-drive. There was a large metal tub that could be filled with water and heated with the campfire.
With the sun going down by the time the water was warm and the cowboys were ready to bathe, the air was chilly, the sky falling dark and low upon the horizon, and the bath was as inviting as a peek at a petticoat. Zeke knew from personal experience that it felt amazing. There was nothing like sliding into that bathtub, even having to share it with another cowboy.
Zeke ain’t want to share it now. He was older and he was in charge of the others, so he waited for them to be done. He was worried it diminished his authority to bathe with the others — he wasn’t technically the boss, but he was the most experienced cowboy, so he was the most knowledgeable, and Mister Goodman expected him to keep the greenhorns in line. That was easier to do if they saw him as larger than life, and that wasn’t possible if they batheed with him like a servant.
It was ironic, he thought, because, back when he was a young greenhorn, he wished he ain’t have to share. He thought it would be cleaner if he could wait and bathe alone after the others. That was what the older cowboys had done when Zeke had been new.
Now that Zeke was an older cowboy, however, all he wanted was to sit in the bathtub with another man. He wouldn’t mind his legs interlocking with someone else’s, feet rubbing against his balls and his ass. He wouldn’t even mind jackin’ off with a cowpoke, somethin’ he ain’t never enjoy as a young man.
Back then his very own hand was enough, plus the local fillies did give him the time of day. Zeke was young and handsome as a plate of beans, he was! Women came a-humming and a-thrumming, so when the older cowboys on a cattle drive deep into the wild yonder under starry skies that went on forever did want to fumble and grope through the night, Zeke said no. He would save himself for the splendor of womanhood, and he went to sleep with hardons a-plaguing him, he did.
Now he was that older cowboy wanna to rub rods with a younger man, and the young men do say the same thing, that they got a girl in every town waiting for ’em, with come-hither legs and come-hither eyes. Nobody ever told Zeke he was gonna be one of those silly old cowboys one day. Somebody shoulda warned him.
‘Course, Zeke ain’t tell the young pups they was gonna get old one day. They oughta know. Damn fools, tarnations to ’em!
Anyway, Zeke did finish the report on the drive with Mister Goodman and he did hand over the dollars from the market. Mister Goodman counted and recounted, and Zeke stood there as though he didn’t ache with the fire of a thousand camps. He wished to bathe and sleep and do nothing for a spell, not in that order. He stone-faced for Mister Goodman though.
Mister Goodman always counted coins twice, and he insisted Zeke stay there so as to account for any errors. But because of that, Zeke always counted twice as well, back at the market when he sold the cows, so he was confident the count would come back correct, and it did. Mister Goodman deemed that good enough, and he shook Zeke’s hand.
That was that. The drive was complete, and it was good. At last, Zeke went to the barn. His muscles ached mightily, and even his eyes was tired. He wanna sit somewhere dark and drab and cool, and he wanted to sit there clean.
The other cowboys had dumped the bathtub. Zeke was relieved on the one hand because it meant he was alone and would have a tub full of clean water, but on the other hand, he was annoyed because it meant he would have to wait for the water to heat up again.
His muscles felt like hot tallow. Zeke saw the well off in the distance and he knew he needed to go there to get the water, but he couldn’t even think about moving in that direction and lugging the bucket of water — they used a very large bucket for this, so it was extraordinarily heavy when full of water. It took two trips to fill the tub completely.
Could Zeke do it? For the first time, he considered just passing out. Was he really getting old? When he was a young man, no matter how exhausted he was, he would always bathe and go out to the saloon where he’d seduce some fine woman (or more often, pay Mister Gregarian for a night with a woman at the saloon Lipsweet).
But now he was just too tired. Aside from feeling like a slick of grease stuck to the bottom of his boot, he would have gladly just crawled into the barn over there and slept among the goats. He wanted to do nothing more involved than rest.
“Hello?”
Someone was coming. Zeke’s heart sped up, and he jumped to his sore, blistered feet. There was someone coming closer, carrying something heavy.
It was a man, a slim, somewhat feminine man with big doe eyes. He struggled to carry the bucket, full to the brim with water. Some of the water sloshed out as he went to the fire, which was flaring as the wood Zeke had added enflamed. The man placed the bucket on the grates above the fire.
“Howdy, pardner,” said the man. “You must be Mister Auberly.”
“Zeke.”
“Zeke, howdy, I’m Pat. I was hired by Mister Goodman as an assistant-“
He kept talking, but Zeke stopped listening. Pat’s feminine voice rang out in Zeke’s ear. He sounded a lot like a woman, and he kind of carried himself like a woman, all curves and stately elegance, with a thick pair of plump asscheeks that were plainly visible hugged by his tight pants. He seemed awfully womanly. In the dark, Zeke might have mistaken him for a woman.
Zeke’s mind vaguely registered who he was. Mister Goodman had mentioned hiring an assistant to help with running the ranch. He had said the assistant was not a cowboy, so Zeke hadn’t really cared too much. He’d be doing the numbers, presumably. An accountant or something similar. Mister Goodman always counted twice.
But now, it seemed the assistant would be out here, assisting him, looking so much like a girl that Zeke wanted to lay with him in front of a campfire.
But he didn’t say that. He gulped that down. He didn’t do things like that. On the trail, things were different, the rules were different. On the trail, a girlish cowboy like that would never be cold or lonely at night.
A slim, girlish cowboy like that on the trail wouldn’t make it in the first place, which was why slim girlish cowboys weren’t who Zeke was used to sharing his bedroll with. The vaqueros — Mexican cowboys — they brought along ‘ranch-bunnies’ on cattle drives to ram.
“I just bathed the others but I thought you would want fresh water,” Pat said. He patted Zeke on the back. “Oh you poor baby, you feel so tired, I can sense it in your muscles. You have a nice strong back, huh?” He sounded just like a girl. His hands casually rubbed Zeke as he stood there silently, trying to decide whether to make Pat leave or not. Zeke couldn’t bear to make him go. He craved affection and companionship, and he really wanted Pat to smell like one of Mister Gregarian’s girls.
It was dark enough now, he thought, he could just pretend Pat was female.
“Lemme help,” Zeke said when Pat tried to dump the hot water into the tub. Together they emptied the water, and it let out a billowing cloud of steam when it filled the metal tub.
“You can go ‘head in the water now,” Pat said. “I’ll just go’n fill the bucket again and fill the tub up the rest of the way.”
But Zeke felt a chivalrous need not to allow that. It was just like a woman, he thought, Pat was basically a woman. He acted like a woman and he smelled like a woman and he even mostly looked like a woman — just a woman with short hair, wearing men’s clothing. Zeke couldn’t sit idly by while a man like Pat struggled to carry a bucket of water.
His muscles were revitalized enough to make it easy, or easy enough anyway. With two people carrying the bucket, it was not a problem to fill it at the well and bring it back to the campfire. The water that was already in the tub was still too hot to really be comfortable yet.
“How was ya cattle-drive? Did you lose any cows?”
“Of course not,” Zeke said with a snort. “I never lose any head.”
“I bet. Everyone said you’re so strict. The other cowboys I mean. They said you’re not nice,” Pat said. He shrugged. “But I think you’re nice. You helped me carry the water. The others laughed at me struggling, and they threw rocks at me-“
“Who threw rocks at you?”
“Well… The tall one? With the dark hair and green eyes.”
“I-” Zeke bit his lip. “I recognize him from the dark hair and green eyes. Curly. He is… I will deal with him.” He blushed. “I do not…” His voice trailed off. “I will deal with him properly.”
Pat hugged him. The second pot of water was boiling now, and he rubbed his face against the sweat-plastered shirt sticking to Zeke’s back. It was salty and stiff, the leather soaked with layers of moisture from sweat and rain and river-water. “Thanks. You’re not mean.”
Zeke grunted. He pulled away from Pat and ain’t let him help him carry it to the tub to dump it in, Zeke did it himself, one last burst of muscular energy before he finally rested.
At last, he thought with a sigh, he could bathe. He raced to strip off his clothes, uncaring of Pat there watching. He hopped in. His foot-long cock flopped, sticking sweatily to his thigh.
The water was painfully hot at first, but it wasn’t scalding, and it soon cooled down just enough to be a bit uncomfortable. That was where Zeke liked it. The tub was good at holding heat, so it would stay at this temperature for awhile.
“I have my own soap,” Pat said. “Is it okay if I wash you?”
Zeke hesitated. That wasn’t so strange. He and the other cowboys usually washed each other’s backsides. But he knew them well; it was a little weird to let a stranger do it. The reason they let each other do it was because they knew each other well, they trusted each other — they couldn’t make it together on a cattle drive without innate and implicit trust in each other.
Zeke nodded anyway. Since he was not going to go see Mister Gregarian tonight, he thought, he might as well get some affection where he could get it. Pat’s hands flirtily caressed Zeke’s body.
He started to realize that Pat was going to do more than wash him, and Zeke couldn’t bring himself to decide not to do it. He felt strongly that he needed it — his dick throbbed with desire, yet he was too tired to go into town or talk to ladies, even whores; Pat was right here, and he was so womanly.
He was virtually a female.
Zeke had even promised to punish Curly Harrow for throwing rocks at him — that was something he would do for a man who threw rocks at a woman, not a smaller, weaker man. Zeke had always believed weaker men should submit to stronger men.
But he also believed, more and more intensely with every passing day, that stronger men should not take advantage of weaker men, or throw rocks at them.
And Pat was virtually a woman anyway.
His hands touched Zeke’s back. Those hands were so smooth and warm, and inviting, soft, cottony, like a freshly laundered shirt (something Zeke hadn’t touched in years). He licked his lips and closed his eyes. He leaned forward in the tub as Pat’s hands roamed lower. His muscles rippled beneath Pat’s touch.
The filth and sweat flowed off Zeke’s body. He instantly felt cleaner, and with every passing moment, his exhaustion vanished. He was always surprised by how much energy he got when he had finally bathed. He felt like a new man.
“Lean back, sweetheart,” Pat said softly. His voice was loud though because his mouth was right next to Zeke’s ear, and it rang out in his mind.
Zeke did lean back so Pat could wash and rub and sweetly caress his chest. He sighed.
He kept his mind focused on the warmth seeping into his bones and the tender touch of Pat’s fingers on his chest. So he was only dimly aware of Pat’s lips sucking the trail-dust off his ear.
But his body was aware. His hefty cock twitched in the soapy water. Pat could sense it, even if he ain’t see it in the dark of night — the tub was illuminated only by the moonlight and the fading firelight.
Pat reached into the tub and touched his cock. Zeke ain’t react. Pat gave it one long, slow stroke, and it was instantly at full erection in his hand. Zeke closed his eyes even tighter.
Pat had done this before, so he knew well how to take off his clothes surreptitiously. Zeke never realized he was doing so; he just kept his eyes closed and moaned every minutes when Pat stroked his cock in just the right way.
His hand was better than any female, Zeke thought, even Caitlin at the brothel, and Caitlin was supposed to have specialized in using her hand. Zeke always thought that was pointless.
But Pat’s hand felt perfect, like it had been made just for Zeke’s cock. He wanted to lay like this forever, sprawled out the best he could in the cramped tub, letting Pat’s hands massage him. Pat’s left hand tweaked his nipples while his right stroked his manhood, making Zeke moan and shake.
Pat climbed into the tub with him. Zeke was surprised to see he had gotten naked. His body had a very feminine shape, but Zeke just closed his eyes. Pat felt feminine too, all smooth, hairless skin and soft flesh.
Disappearing under the water, Pat had to curl up atop Zeke’s body in order to fit. He placed the tip of Zeke’s manhood in his mouth and he let his tongue run up and down the length of Zeke’s shaft.
The flavor was strong and tough, despite the water all around, like the trail and the sweat had suffused into Zeke’s flesh. Pat suckled on it until he needed to take a breath, then he lifted his head above water just long enough to breathe before returning to savor Zeke’s manhood.
“Ah…. Damn…” Zeke sighed. He placed one hand on the back of Pat’s head.
Of course Pat couldn’t stay underwater for long because he couldn’t breathe. But it felt like forever. His mouth was sticky and tight, his tongue massaging every inch of Zeke’s thick meat.
Before long, Pat had to come above water to breathe. He stroked Zeke with both hands while gasping for air, and he clutched Zeke’s hairy chest. He kissed his neck passionately.
For the first time, Zeke was intimately aware of Pat’s manhood — his dick touched Zeke’s leg. Pat’s lips touched Zeke’, and their tongues interlocked in Pat’s mouth. Zeke hadn’t thought he would kiss Pat. He ain’t even always kiss his females because he knew prostitutes kissed many men, and it seemed a little perverse. Zeke always thought he could taste other men on their lips.
But not Pat. He tasted like apple cider and sunshine, Zeke thought. Once his tongue touched Pat’s, he moved closer, wrapping his arms around Pat’s body and hugging him close. He pressed his muscles against Pat, nearly shoving him under the water in his haste to be on top of him.
Their cocks rubbed together under the soapy water, and Zeke passionately, loudly kissed a trail down from Pat’s mouth to his delicate neck, while his hands caressed Pat’s smooth chest — he had no bosom, of course, but Zeke found that he felt so feminine in texture and shape that he ain’t mind the lack of actual breasts.
“Oh god, you’re so big and strong,” Pat said, gasping as Zeke smothered him with kisses. “Will you be gentle with me?”
“Yes.” Zeke let out a throaty growl. He rolled Pat over, aiming his face down to the ground outside the tub. Pat bent over and stuck his ass high in the air, almost out of the water entirely.
That gave Zeke the perfect angle to drill his dick in. He sighed when it shoved into Pat’s tight hole. He had rarely been with a woman this tight — there were a lot more males than females in north Texas these days, so the women around here was either married or prostitutes whose holes were well-trafficked.
But Pat was tender and tight and moist and welcoming, and he bit his lip, mewling a bit, when Zeke entered him, but he ain’t complain. Zeke petted the back of his head and made soothing noises.
“Ssssssshush, it’s alright, pardner,” Zeke said. He kissed the back of Pat’s neck. “It’s alright. You gonna feel jest fine, yessuh.” He stroked Pat’s hair and rubbed his asscheeks, holding his cock still, just barely inside Pat’s ass.
When he felt Pat’s resistance diminish, Zeke pistoned his hips and pushed in deeper. Pat grunted, his ladylike demeanor vanishing for just a moment. That made Zeke chuckle, especially when Pat let out a pleasured moan.
“There you go, it’s alright, it’s gonna be jest fine, yessuh,” Zeke said. He whispered, but his voice seemed impossibly loud, echoing against the nearby barn and the night sky.
“Oh god, stick it in me, please, stick it in so deep… I need you inside me…” Pat said over and over, his voice a plaintive wail. The sensations roiling him were too intense to speak more confidently.
Zeke had rarely been able to go at a woman this hard, even a prostitute. They often complained that he had a large manhood and made him slow down. But the faster and harder he smashed, the more Pat seemed to enjoy it.
Every thrust of his cock into Pat’s ass awakened his prostate a little more, and sent a wave of pleasure through his body. Pat cried out loud, and it would have been audible even beyond the barn — where some of the other cowboys drank, having already gambled away most of their wages — if he weren’t in such throes of passion as to make a muffled, quiet sound. Zeke’s grunts were louder, but less distinct, and they blended in with the bleating of the sheep and goats that filled the barn.
“Goddamn, boy…” Zeke sighed, nibbling on Pat’s earlobe. He had never felt anything like this. He wasn’t exhausted at all anymore; he felt like a young man again, making love to his first female, feeling such unimaginable pleasure that he knew now that nothing would ever be the same again.
“Hey, boy,” Zeke whispered into his ear, hands caressing Pat’s chest and belly. He moaned loudly, moistly, grunting all over Pat’s face. “Hey, boy… Don’t mess wit’ no other men, okay? While you work here, just… be wit’ me.”
“Yes, Zeke,” Pat said. “I don’t want to be with anyone but you.” He turned his head to the side and kissed Zeke on the cheek. “I won’t be here forever though. This is only a temporary position for me.”
Zeke was disappointed, but in the throes of his orgasm, the bad news ain’t really sink in. He just grunted his understanding and flexed his hips again, forcing his cock in and out. He slathered Pat in kisses, his grizzled chin scratching Pat’s smooth skin.
“Aaaaaaah…” Zeke sucked on Pat’s cheek — he intended to kiss him, but the most intense climax of his life erupted within him then, and it took all his concentration just to rub his face against Pat’s.
Creamy cum flowed into Pat’s ass, making him cringe and undulate beneath Zeke’s muscle-bound body. Pat was crushed against the edge of the tub, and he moaned so loud the cowboys on the other side of the barn heard — they assumed it was a distressed goat, but they fell quiet for a moment to listen for more, to be sure it wasn’t someone trying to steal livestock.
Wave after wave of pleasure washed over Pat, whose hands tightened into claws that dug into the rim of the iron tub. He tensed and clenched as Zeke smashed his dick back and forth a few more times, then fell limp.
“Shit, boy….” His dick was still hard for a moment, stimulating Pat’s over-sensitive prostate until he couldn’t take it anymore.
Then Zeke slid back and his cock popped out, instantly washed clean by the still-warm tub of water. Pat let out a long, cringing moan as his ass recovered. He curled up next to Zeke’s chest and nuzzled his neck.
“Damn… I gots a room in town,” Zeke said. “Above the apothecary. You know where that is?”
“Yes…” Pat said, his voice a soft tenor that hung in the air and resonated in Zeke’s ears.
“When you done wit’ ya work for the day, you come see me,” Zeke said.
“Every day?”
“E’ry day till forever, hell yeah. But I can’t have no one seein’ it, that’s why you gotta meet me there, not here,” Zeke said with a chuckle. He kissed Pat on the forehead. “You is one special boy, and I’s gonna make you feel special. You ready for that?”
Pat kissed his lips. “Of course.”

The Dairyman

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

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

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

The Dishwasher

Mario Zappia is a cocky casanova and dishwasher at the Pizza King, but when he needs money, he’s willing to give Avery Flowers a taste of his guido meat. Can Avery handle it?

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here

Mario sucked on his teeth and rearranged his half-hard cock as he returned from out back. His dick was painfully sensitive because he had just gotten sucked off behind a dumpster. He could barely keep the smirking grin off his face. He loved the post-blowjob strut. He was sure everybody in the kitchen at the Pizza King could tell what he’d done. He licked his teeth like he was owed that blowjob.
Which he was, in a way. He treated that bitch right.
She was such a slut, he thought, and she wasn’t even good at sucking dick. He wondered if her father and brothers knew she gave out blowjobs like candy. They’d be humiliated if they knew. He ran his fingers through his slick black hair and put the hairnet on with a scowl. His muscles flexed, gleaming. The kitchen was so hot he was covered in sweat.
Vinnie the pizza-making fucker and Robert the prettyboy fucking waiter was sneaking peeks at Mario like they knew. Of course they knew he got a blowjob. Mario gets all the blowjobs cuz he got fly hair, a six-pack and he keeps it tight. He sucked on his teeth in their direction.
‘I should’ve gotten that slut to swallow my nut. She’d have done it too, I bet. I could’ve made her show me a mouth full of cum like a porno bitch.’
The image of that was stomach-churningly disgusting to Mario, but he really wanted to talk a girl into doing it. Like a black guy in a porno. The woman out back was such a slut he barely needed to mack on her for a minute before she dropped to her knees. Mario was tough; he was handsome; he was an alpha; he could get a girl to suck him off like that, yo! — the girls around here were such prudes though.
The dishes had piled up. Of course, Vinnie ain’t did any dishes. He was supposed to keep the dishes moving while Mario was out on break, but he hadn’t, and Mario knew he was going to get blamed for it.
The kitchen was a mess. A stack of pizza boxes done fallen over. A pile of banana peppers lay sprawled out across the floor. A mop bucket sat forlorn and filthy near the walk-in. A big bowl of spaghetii grew more and more crusty by the moment, resting on the shelf by the cooking station. A pan lay coated in extra-burnt charcoal near the stove — somebody had burnt something real bad.
With a harsh frown, Mario grabbed a pizza and brought it up front to a table. He wanted to get the kitchen back up to snuff, but he couldn’t do that with orders waiting around. As always, it was up to Mario to keep this place running.
And his dick wasn’t even dry in his pants yet. He had a smirk on his face when he went into the dining room of the Pizza King.
He scoffed and snorted and wrinkled his nose as he sullenly dropped off the pizza. He didn’t say anything to the customers at the table, because he was running through in his mind what to say to Vinnie about how awful the kitchen looked. Sure, maybe Mario realized, or a part of him did, that it was his fault too. Maybe mostly. Mario was supposed to keep the kitchen clean. Vinnie took over when he was outside, but Vinnie wasn’t supposed to be monitoring the entire kitchen.
Mario should have done that the entire time before he took his break, but he hadn’t noticed how the kitchen looked until he went outside and smoked a cigarette and returned. Now seeing it set his blood to boil.
“Man, fuck you, Vinnie, you mincing little shit!” Mario shouted at him as he came back to get a shaker of parmesan cheese for the pizza he had just brought out to a customer. He sneered at the stack of unwashed dishes, growing minute by minute, as though the sink had done him wrong. “You’s s’posed to do the motherfuckin’ dishes, Vinnie!”
Vinnie said something back, but Mario didn’t catch it. Mario sucked on his teeth again and gestured for Vinnie to go fuck himself — first he gave him the middle-finger, then he raised a fist at Vinnie and patted his own bicep — a gesto dell’ombrello. Vinnie glared at him, and his mean-mugging combined with Mario’s already hot collar.
Vinnie sucked on his teeth and waved Mario off.
“Come at me, then!” Mario said. He stepped forward and pounded on his chest. Some of the customers had noticed, but Mario didn’t care. His blood boiled. He wanted to strangle Vinnie. That was how it always went, whenever Mario felt a personal slight, he kept getting angrier and angrier.
The only thing that snapped him out of it this time was when one the other cooks, Tommy Lasso, stepped in front of him. He was a big beefy middle-aged Italian man, who scowled. “Mario, get ya ass in the awffice now!” He had a thick New Joisey accent. He shoved Mario away.
Mario wanted to go back and fight Vinnie. But he couldn’t cause a scene right now, he was trying to get an advance on his paycheck and any commotion was liable to make that impossible. So he backed away, mean-mugging that fat-ass punk-ass bitch-ass fake-Italian Vinnie Delatucci the whole way. He ain’t shit.
He didn’t turn around until he couldn’t see Vinnie or anyone else up front. Then he went into the back-office, Lasso still pushing him in that direction. He was surprised to see a different man there, a slim, flamboyant white man named Avery. Mario didn’t know Avery and eyed him suspiciously.
Avery blushed and nodded, and Mario gave him a hostile nod of hello.
“Mario, I heard you’s lookin’ for money, son,” Lasso said. He had a gravelly voice and that gruffly mellifluous New Joisey stawk. He had an Italian flag tattooed on his neck. It rippled when he moved. He had a craggy face and an ugly nose. Damn was he ugly, Mario don’t get how he ever found a wife. Shit, bitches got low standards in New Jersey.
“Oh, y’know, I ain’t lookin’ for a handout, no sir-” Mario said. “I got — I got bills, you know, but I can work, I do good work, shit-” He was still worked up from the encounter with Vinnie and now he was guarded because of the stranger eyeing him like candy. Avery looked Mario up and down with hungry eyes.
“Shut up. Mistah Caprinelli ain’t nevuh gonna give you one thin dime. He told me to slap ya for askin’,” Lasso said. He laughed. He reared his hand back as though he was going to do it, and in an instant, Mario was ready to hit him back. Mario formed a fist and mean-mugged Lasso, who continued smiling like he hadn’t noticed. “But I won’t. Instead, I got work for you, so you can earn it like a man instead of groveling like a bitch.”
“I ain’t grovelin’, yo’, don’t say that shit, Lasso, don’t spread yo’ scurry-“
“Shut the fuck up, jabroni, Jesus-fuckin’-Christ, you talk a buncha shit, ya fuckin’ prick,” Lasso said. He looked at Avery and nodded.
Avery’s thin lilting voice filled the cramped office. “I’ll give you two hundred dollars to let me jack you off,” Avery said. After a pause, he added, “With my mouth.” When again Mario didn’t immediately respond, Avery added again, “I’ll do it better than any blowjob. I heard you get them a lot.”
That was followed by a long silence, cuz Avery couldn’t think of anything to add to that, and Mario just looked dumbfounded. He probably made the same face when confronted with math, Avery thought. He was quite handsome, like a swarthy raccoon, with furrowing eyes and a petite little head, nose like a biscuit, He had the serious, smoldering brownness of an ethnically ambiguous underwear model, and he looked at Lasso like Lasso’s acne-scar marring on his face was a personal affront, but in a few years Mario wasn’t gonna look like a fresh-faced punk anymore and he was gonna wish he had the gravity of Lasso. He was already twenty-four, Avery thought. Dishwasher is no longer a cute profession for a man his age, and nobody told Mario he needed to improve himself. People don’t tell men with dimples things like that.
But for now, Avery just wanted to jerk him off. Basically all the women of Springfield, Illinois, seemed to want to do the same thing. Avery had heard of Mario’s blowjob prowess through his female friends, and he heard of Mario’s financial needs through his boss Lasso.
That’s who laughed the hardest as the shocked look that took over Mario’s face.
Mario was rarely flustered, but now he just scoffed and coughed over and over, unable to decide if it would look worse for his machismo to say yes or no. His cheeks bloomed red. His dick was ultra-sensitive cuz he just got a blowjob like five minutes ago.
“I just did get a blowjob in the fuckin’ alley, yo! From a chick!” Mario said.
“What? You delivered a pizza to a table-“
“Hmmm… was she fat?” Avery asked.
“Yo, shut up, she wasn’t fat,” Mario said.
“Did you wash your hands?”
Mario smirked. “Fuckin’-A, man, I ain’t touch the pizza. Well, maybe the crust a little.” He extended his middle finger towards the dining room. “Man, fuck ’em, shit, shit, man…” He looked at Lasso like he was trying to remember a reason to want to fight him, then he feinted with a half-hearted fist like he was thinking of doing it for no reason at all.
Then he looked back at Avery, who smiled. “Think you can go again.”
“Yo, no doubt, no doubt, no doubt, shit, man,” Mario said. “No doubt, I can always get hard, yo. Dick for days.” He repeated that like it was a slogan. “Dick for days, yo, dick for days.”
“Gonna see if that cock really works on ya, son,” Lasso said. He pushed Mario forward, towards Avery. Mario gulped, and he again paced — a very tiny route, just like two feet forward then two feet back.
“Yeah, shit, fine.” Mario nodded. “Yeah, sure, fine, man, whatever.” He sniffled and snarled like he did this every day. “Course my dick works. Hell yeah. Jerk it off, man, jerk it good. You deep-throat, bitch?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Avery grinned and dropped to his knees. “Of course.”
During a brief pause, the only sound was the distant roar of the ventilation and the low thrum of conversation in the restaurant. Mario sucked on his teeth, and Avery blushed. They both waited for Lasso to leave his office and shut the door. Mario stayed in that tiny office with Avery dropping to his knees. Lasso wished Avery wouldn’t do this in his office, but it was the only private room in the joint, so it was the only option. Avery had compensated Lasso for setting this up.
Mario gulped. He wasn’t nervous, he insisted that even to himself. There ain’t not a thing wrong with a man blowing a nut, he thought. It was real-uomo old-school, tough-guy prison shit.
Not that Mario had ever been to prison.
“You been to prison, right?”
Avery shook his head. “I was in the drunk tank for a day and a half once.” Avery unzipped his jeans and let his cock flop out. Avery loved men who were a little dirty and raunchy, and Mario fit the bill — he smelled like pizza and dishwater. These were the same jeans he usually wore to work, and he didn’t wash them often; even when he did wash them, that “pizza seasoning” smell didn’t come out. The grease and olive oil and oregano and parmesan all clung to the thick denim fabric, combining with the melange of Mario’s infrequently-washed sweat-coated muscles.
That big Italian hog dangled free, filling the office with the scent of manhood. Avery took it in his hand.
“I thought only booty bandits was ever into this kinda shit,” Mario said. “You nasty.”
Avery shrugged. “You’re wrong. You do have a nice dick.” He hefted it in his hand. “Not too big, not too hard. Smells a little like cheese.”
Mario screwed up his face. “Not too big, what’s’at mean, yo? It’s fuckin’ huge, you know it!” He smirked and laughed like he was looking for a hidden camera. “You know it!”
Avery kissed Mario on the tip of his cock, and he smirked up at him.
“It’s pretty big…”
Mario clucked his tongue. “Yeah, boy, get ya mouth on it that shit, don’t play wit’ it. Jabroni.” Despite his words, he took hold of his cock and slapped it over Avery’s face. “Ain’t it the biggest you ever seen, boy? Huh? Ain’t it?”
“Well-“
“Yeah, thought so,” Mario said. He seemed to have genuinely thought Avery said yes, and Avery didn’t disabuse him of that. Mario liked slapping Avery with his cock because he had done that to a girl once, as a joke, just one time, and she got furious and left. She had said it was disrespectful. Mario didn’t see it that way. He thought she should worship his cock. That seemed proper. His father (who was now in prison) said that women were meant to worship their man’s cock. Mario scoffed. “Bet you love my dick, huh?”
“I do!” Avery moaned. He chased Mario’s cock with his mouth, then finally got it past his lips. Mario stopped moving. Avery swallowed as much as he could in one go.
It was only part firm but getting harder by the second, and it turned into a jabbing iron rod in Avery’s mouth. Avery crooned and moaned around it the intensely savory flavor exploding in his mouth. Avery tasted a hint of something bitter and fruity — a woman’s lotion or maybe perfume — but he dismissed it as soap or remnants of laundry detergent. He didn’t know that it was the remnants of the woman who had sucked Mario off in the alley during his break.
Not that it would have turned Avery off if he knew. He soon hoovered up every drop of her odor anyway, eagerly making Mario forget about her shallow and amateurish blowjob.
Mario gasped and bit his lip, a little worried until now that he would have trouble getting an erection because he had just been sucked off moments ago. He tried to look nonchalant as his cock hardened in Avery’s mouth. Mario didn’t want to look surprised, but he had to admit he was shocked at how good this felt. He would have said that it could never be as good as a girl’s soft lips on his manhood.
But Avery was actually much better than any female. That became apparent right away. Mario’s overful balls thrummed as his dick stiffened up, Avery deep-throating him from the get-go — no girl was ever this enthusiastic about deep-throating. Mario had to talk girls into doing it, and they never had throats as wide or as deep as Avery’s.
Avery knew perfectly well what effect his mouth had on Mario. He had jerked off a lot of guys in the service industry, and an awful lot of them made faces like that. He was an expert deep-throater. Men could do it better than women, Avery thought, because they had the same equipment. They knew how to treat it right.
And women were namby-pamby about servicing big-cocked-studs like Mario.
“Hey, boy, I’m-a treat you right, ya feel me?” Mario said. He looked down at Avery, ignoring his instinctual panic at the sight of a male on his cock. He sucked on his tongue. He could already hear Lasso and others outside the office, laughing, no doubt impressed at how tough Mario was. He gripped Avery’s scalp. “I’m gonna plow ya throat now, I’m gonna treat it real rough. You gonna like that?”
Avery nodded without taking his dick out. His tongue teased the veiny underside of Mario’s shaft.
“Good. I don’t need no pansy goin’ full daffodil on me,” Mario grunted and chuckled. He had to hold back a grin. No girl had ever let him throat them, not like he had seen in porno. That was what he thought a blowjob should be like.
He held on and drilled his dick in. A spasm of pleasure ran up Mario’s spine as he felt Avery choke on his dick, but Avery didn’t make him stop, so Mario kept going. He rammed his cock all the way in until every last bit of dickflesh swelled to fill Avery’s throat.
“Ya, boy, you got balls-on-chin, man, that’s nasty, yo,” Mario said with a chuckle, making his voice loud enough that the guys outside could hear. “You must love my dick somethin’ fierce. Lemme hear you say it.” He pulled his dick out and Avery gasped.
“Uh-” Avery cried out for air.
Mario lightly slapped his cheek. “Lemme hear you say it. You love my dick or not?”
“I love… your dick…” Avery opened his mouth and went back to slurping on it even before Mario had heard him say it. Mario cackled and resumed throating, drilling his dick down deep.
This time, Mario realized he could be as harsh and violent as he wanted, Avery didn’t seem to care. He humped Avery’s mouth hard, laughing every time he heard his sweaty balls thwack against Avery’s chin — he had long ago heard jokes about ballsweat on a girl’s chin and had long thought that was how blowjobs were supposed to go, but he had such a big dick that no woman could swallow him deeply enough to achieve “balls on chin”.
But Avery managed it without even breaking a sweat.
“Ah, shit, boy, goddamn, you swallow dick good,” Mario said. He cleared his throat. “I mean… almost as good as this one female, uh — ” He paused. “I mean, a couple females. You know…” He hoped that sounded believable. Really most girls didn’t like sucking dick and made no effort to do it well. Mario would never admit that this was better than a female though.
In fact, if he hadn’t had a blowjob just a few minutes ago, he would have busted a nut already. He was kinda glad that he had to work for it now, then, cuz it wouldn’t look gangsta to bust a nut that quick. He made sure the guys watching could see his six-pack.
His ears wrinkled when he realized Lasso and the others were huddled together and laughing from the kitchen area. They all must have known what was going on now. Mario wasn’t shook up, and he wasn’t embarrassed — they just didn’t get Mario’s old-school Italian ways, he thought. He sucked on his teeth. “Buncha mamby-pamby pussies,” he thought, as precum leaked profusely from his dick and coated Avery’s mouth.
“You gonna get it up the dook-chute next, Mario?” Lasso called out from outside the office, and the others out there snickered too. It sounded like they were daring each other to come in here.
“Fuck you, Lasso!” Mario said. He wanted to add more, to call Lasso old and to claim he must have a withered useless cock.
But Mario was overwhelmed then by his orgasm, which hit him suddenly, surprised by how intense it was, maybe because his dick had started off so sensitive from the prior blowjob. He held on tight to Avery’s scalp, but Avery had taken control of this. Avery nuzzled his nose all the way into Mario’s pubic hair, letting his veiny uncut shaft throb in Avery’s throat.
“Goddamn… You gonna swallow, boy? Lemme see my nut in ya mouth first,” Mario said, a smile emerging onto his face. He threw his head back, and his voice broke then as an orgasm exploded within him. He couldn’t believe how good it felt. He was sure he looked like some young punk who’d never gotten sucked off before, he was just glad no one but Avery could see.
His lithe light-tan body squirmed, his compact little muscles all flexing at once. Creamy cum flowed plentifully down Avery’s throat. He had a spicy flavor to it, like the pizza shop he worked in and the bracing red pepper flakes that Avery could taste remnants of on his cock. It was warm, salty and savory too, like raw pizza dough, and his body was firm as ice when Avery reached his hands up to tweak his nipples and make his pecs ripple.
“Shit, goddamn…” Mario’s face was red as Avery finally let go. Mario cleared his throat to sound tough, like this was no big deal. Another jet of jizz filled Avery’s mouth and overflowed down his chest, and Mario’s knees went weak. He gasped, and all them all watching laughed. Mario laughed with them, even as his voice broke and he said, “Lemme see ya — ya nasty mouff fulla my nut.”
Avery opened his mouth, which was full of Mario’s cum. That creamy, salty flavor was all his senses could focus on, and Avery craved swallowing it. He needed it.
But first, Mario thought, he wanted all those guys out there to know how big his dick was and how good he was at using it. He opened the door with his massive dick, still half-hard, resting on Avery’s face. Avery’s mouth was open to display Mario’s wad resting on his tongue. Mario pumped his biceps.
“Oh shit-!”
“Nasty!”
“Goddamn, Mario!”
Mario cackled. Lasso and the other guys looked first and cheered, then they all blushed and covered their eyes. No one wanted to see Mario’s dick or his cumwad congealing on Avery’s tongue, but none could really look away either. Mario flexed his pecs too, concealed by his too-tight shirt, but it was tight enough that everybody could see how strong his chest was.
They were impressed, Mario was sure of that.
“Nah, watch this, watch this, I can make him swallow it whenever,” Mario said. He flopped his limp dick between his fingers, making sure his friends could see it, but he acted like it was an accident that he hadn’t put it away yet. He didn’t want it to be obvious he was showing off.
He held his hand in front of Avery’s face. “Spit it out, man.”
Avery spat Mario’s cum into Mario’s palm in front of his face. Avery blushed. “I love your cock, Mario, please, let me lick it more, let me swallow your nut-“
The others laughed so hard no one could hear the rest of Avery’s begging. Mario didn’t care, he just smirked and nodded. The guys all hooted, peering through their fingers as Avery slurped that cumload back off Mario’s mouth. He swallowed it, smacked his lips and let Mario see his now-empty mouth.
“Hell, yeah, boy! He slurped that shit!” Mario thwacked Avery with his limp cock. He couldn’t believe women kept refusing to do that — it was no big deal, he thought, if some dude could do it. Mario sucked on his teeth and pumped his biceps. “And he’s gonna pay me for the privilege, shit!”
Avery handed over the money, which Mario counted standing right there, his dick still out and dangling between his legs. Mario smiled broadly. He hadn’t felt so good in a long time.
When Lasso and the others finally went back upfront to return to work, Mario put his dick away. He sneered at Avery. “That was nice, man. Thanks for the money. Not that I needed it, y’know.”
“Sure.”
“Maybe you can come back in sometimes? Like… y’know, whenever. I work most evenings, except Thursdays and Fridays,” Mario said. He shrugged. “Or whatever, you ain’t got to. I got females, y’know… begging for my meat.”
Avery giggled. “Well, maybe I’ll drop in when I can, and when you’re not too busy with your girls. I sure did enjoy the taste of your Italian sausage.”