keeping a secret – Mansploitation

The Cookie Jar Collector

Rob is hoping for a studly white collar businessman, and he just might get what he craves! He knows a secret about Mr. Maltley, who’s willing to give Rob the ride of a lifetime in exchange for keeping that secret. Can Rob handle it?

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

“Hello, I’d like to see Jonathan Maltley,” said Rob Winthrop. He smiled at the receptionist, who was a slim-faced loam-eye with a thin, shrill voice that made him seem less handsome once you heard it. He looked like a turtle that lost its shell in a kiln, and you could tell he didn’t have enough testosterone to grow the mustache he thought he deserved.
“Do you have an appointment?” asked the annoying assistant with a wrinkle in his nose like Rob should have already known all this. He sat back in his chair as though he was overlooking his empire, which he was, but ‘his empire’ was this waiting room. Least regal emperor ever. Your average emperor penguin is more commanding. The assistant soured up in Rob’s direction. “Mr. Maltley is a very busy man. He is a tycoon of industry. He oversees companies — companies in the plural. He doesn’t just take meetings with anyone. He’s very busy.”
“Oh, I understand, I really do. I think he’ll want to take this meeting,” Rob said. He glanced at the door into Mr. Maltley’s office, but it was a heavy door latched shut, perhaps even locked. There was no way in without permission. Rob had rather hoped to just barge in, but that was clearly not going to happen.
The waiting area looked like a ski lodge, paneled with rich wood, photos of snow-covered mountains framed and dappling the walls giving the whole area a chill, like just being reminded of a chalet was enough to make Rob shiver. Or maybe it was the overly air-conditioned air. The only part of the office that looked like what it was — an ordinary office on the forty-sixth floor of a skyscraper in Manhattan — was the cheap off-blue carpet, which looked like it had been a luxurious azure at one point years ago.
“Hmm-hmm.” The assistant smiled politely, which just made his rat-like face more weaselish. If he knew how he looked when he smiled, he’d never do it. “What can I tell him this is concerning?”
“Cookie storage.”
“Cookie storage?” He picked up a telephone receiver, but he put it down when he heard Rob say ‘cookie storage’. He smiled again. “I see. So you, uh… represent… a warehouse? Or-“
“No, sorry, this is about the storage of a small number of cookies. Not, like, trucks worth,” Rob said. “It is not a commercial venture.”
“… Is that something Mr. Maltley is interested in?”
“You’d have to ask him,” Rob said. “He’s free to say no. I’ll gladly go if he doesn’t want to see me. Please just ask him.”
His eyebrows fluttered. The assistant, whose nameplate on his desk said he was Prateek Nayka, pursed his lips. Then his eyes lit up. “Ooooh! Cookies, like on the Internet? Internet cookies?”
“No, I mean the baked good,” Rob said. “I am here to discuss with him methods of storing cookies. Chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, etc. Biscuits if you’re British.”
“Hmm.” The assistant sat there like an obnoxious mushroom, phone in hand though he wasn’t yet dialed into Mr. Maltley’s office. He waited a long time, maybe hoping Rob would clarify voluntarily or maybe just too flummoxed to decide on the next course of action.
The assistant looked at the phone as though deciding whether to ask Mr. Maltley about this on the phone or to go in his office and ask in person. He put the phone down and went in. Rob wasn’t surprised. He’d learned a long time ago that it was better to ask for something preposterous in person in a situation like this. If he’d said he was here to discuss becoming the new supplier of steel cables or “bandwidth” (Rob didn’t know what bandwidth was) for Mr. Maltley’s businesses, the assistant would never have let him in or even considered it. If you said something seemingly preposterous, the assistant wouldn’t know if it was a real thing or not, if it was code or a reference to something above his pay grade. There were a lot of possibilities that simply didn’t exist if you claimed you represented something mundane like a steel supplier.
Rob wasn’t lying though. He really was here to speak to Mr. Maltley about cookie storage.
“Mr. Maltley will see you now,” the assistant said, glaring at Rob as he opened the door. He gestured into the office like an ungainly giraffe. Rob entered and shut the door behind himself.
Mr. Maltley sat at his desk, head cocked to the side, eyebrows furrowed with a disapproving glre. He made a face like Prateek should have kept Rob out of his office, even though he would have done so if Mr. Maltley said so. He let Rob because Mr. Maltley said he did want to see him.
He did want to discuss cookie storage, it seemed.
Rob was not surprised by that. He was momentarily flummoxed, however, because Mr. Maltley was handsome. That was also not a surprise — it was the entire reason Rob was here — but it did throw him for a loop when he finally saw him in person. He was broad-shouldered and thick, black-haired but with a few silver roots as though he dyed it and needed to redye it soon. Rob was fine with him like that, since he liked the older men who maintained powerhouse physiques, especially in fine Italian suits.
Billions of dollars to his name didn’t hurt either. That would raise anyone up a notch or two.
“You’re here to talk to me about cookie storage. I don’t know what makes you think that’s an area I’m interested in.” Mr. Maltley said. “I don’t own a bakery.”
“I don’t lecture on feces either, so let’s not talk shit,” Rob said. “You let me in. If you weren’t interested, you’d’ve told that ass-heap to kick me out.”
“That ass-heap has a name.” He shifted his weight in his chair, and his eyebrows wiggled. Mr. Maltley was an eyebrow captain, but a handsome one. In an earlier era, he’d have been a salty seadog with a well-weathered face. Instead he was smooth and rugged like a painting of a horse. “I don’t remember it. It’s something Indian.”
“Under the Waxing Moon Proudfeather.”
“Wrong kind of Indian.”
“I know. He just has that ‘Under the Waxing Moon’ energy,” Rob said. “I wanted to show you something and see what you thought-” Rob busied himself with opening his briefcase. It was only two latches, but he wanted to make Mr. Maltley wait, so he pretended to have trouble with it. “Ah, there we go.” He lifted up a beautiful ornate cookie jar and placed it in his lap. It was a panda bear, arms and legs wrapped around a bee whose body was the actual jar. Its insectoid eyes were the lid, giving it an sinister vibe that was counteracted by the jolly bear with its amygdaliformic eyes.
Up until this moment, Rob had thought of the jar as just a tool to get what he wanted out of Mr. Maltley. It didn’t even occur to him to wonder why a cookie jar might be important or valuable or that it might really have an artistic statement. Once he pulled it out of the briefcase, however, he briefly saw it in the same light that Mr. Maltley did, and it made him feel flush with fear, disgust, comfort, humor, hunger, warmth, cold, all at once. It hummed and buzzed and rolled and frolicked, and when he touched it, Rob was struck with sunny warmth and the comfort of a hug, and the smell — no, not the smell, the feel, the vibe — of fresh-baked cookies wafted through his senses. The cookie jar brought him back to a childhood he’d never had, and for a moment that his mind constructed into an eternity, Rob saw the passage of his life, but not his actual life, his life if he had been born to the kind of mother who baked cookies and put them in a jar like this. He saw flashes of himself as a child, helping her cook, sneaking cookies, baking them for her for Mother’s Day, binging on them in his teenage years, eschewing them as baby-stuff, receiving the jar as a gift and filling them with his own cookies to dole out to the children this imaginary Rob presumably had, just out of sight.
He was almost reluctant to give it up. But that was the only reason he bought it, the only reason he brought it here. Of course he was going to give it up.
Mr. Maltley’s eyes opened wide. He gripped his desk tightly, then frowned and gritted his teeth. “First, I’d like to know why you came to see me about this.”
“Because I know you want it. You probably recognized it right away, didn’t you? It’s a Caranzano. They call it L’Abbraccio Eterno-“
“L’Abbraccio Eterno.” Mr. Maltley murmured with a much better Italian accent than Rob. “You believe I have an interest in cookie jars?”
“Look, you don’t have to hide it from me,” Rob said. “I know you went to Cookie-Con in 1991, and I have records from an insurance company showing you have a collection in your home-“
“How did you get that?” His silky voice turned biting and authoritative, and his eyes narrowed to slits.
“None of your business,” Rob said.
“It is precisely my business. My insurance policies are literally an example of business that I do-“
“Relax, relax, I’m not going to blow your secret. It shouldn’t matter to the Board of Directors anyway,” Rob said. He leaned back in the chair opposite Mr. Maltley’s. It was not the kind of chair that should be leaned back, and Mr. Maltley frowned, but Rob pretended he was unaware of the chair’s high-fashion design and of Mr. Maltley’s sourpatch frown. Rob licked his teeth. “But we both know it does. They don’t want a cookie-jar-collecting weirdo as CEO.” He smiled like a sunbeam at Mr. Maltley.
“Hmmm… Are you reaching a point, Mister…?”
“Winthrop.”
“Winthrop. Like Eugene Winthrop? The PayUp guy?”
“That’s my father. Eugene, not the app.”
He licked his teeth then, and he looked Rob up and down. “Is this a negotiation tactic? You think I’m gonna to give way on the processing fees for a Caranzano?”
It was Rob’s turn to throw his eyebrows way back at that. “I didn’t know about that. I don’t talk to my dad. If you’re negotiating with him, that’s not related to this,” Rob said. “I came here to talk about your collection. About adding to it. About adding a Caranzano to it.” Rob lifted the cookie jar he had brought here, the panda hugging a bee. “You don’t have any way to buy something this high-profile without the Board finding out.”
Mr. Maltley’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What do you want?”
“I want to taste your dick,” Rob said. “That’s all. Let me jack you off. I’ll use my mouth, and yes, I do swallow. And… if you want, you can cornhole me. Then you can add this fine Caranzano handmade cookie jar to your collection. They only made a hundred of these-“
“They made a hundred and ten, counting the prototypes.” Mr. Maltley frowned again — he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He clammed up and looked down his nose at Rob.
“You don’t have anything to be ashamed about. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It’s well-made, gorgeous-“
“It doesn’t need to be gorgeous. You don’t understand. A cookie jar is not just a place to store cookies. It is a living, breathing piece of art, a piece of childhood set in a fixed form. It is more than you can dream of, little man,” Mr. Maltley said. He stood and came to the front of his desk. “Why should I let you jack me off? For a cookie jar?! You would sully a cookie jar with tawdry perversion?”
“I would. Yes.”
“Let me pay you for it. The last time one was sold the price was seven thousand dollars. My cock is not worth that much.”
“I know. I think it is definitely worth seven thousand dollars,” Rob said. “I don’t get to taste a lot of billionaire dick.”
“You really want to jack me off with your mouth — which is utterly foul — instead of making seven thousand dollars?” Mr. Maltley said. When Rob didn’t immediately answer, he added, “Ten thousand.”
“Do you really want to pay ten grand instead of blow a nut?”
“This isn’t really something I do. I never spent time in a Turkish prison.”
“Oh, you should!” Rob said with a grin. He smacked his lips and slipped out of his chair. Mr. Maltley stood so close to him Rob would have been unable to stand up if he wanted to.
But he wasn’t trying to stand. He got on his knees in front of Mr. Maltley. He had jacked off enough men to know that they would say no if the answer was no. If they started trying to convince him to want something else, the answer was yes, they just didn’t want to admit to themselves that they were willing to do it without proving they tried really hard to get around it.
“You have to tell me where you got it. I can’t add it to my collection without a documented provenance,” Mr. Maltley said. “Is it stolen?”
“No! I inherited it from my great aunt. I barely knew her, this was just in a storage locker I got. Don’t worry, I have the paperwork from the will. I’ll send it to you. She paid for it, she bought it in Italy in 1994. She went there on a tour of the gigolos of Genoa,” Rob said.
“Why did she give it to you?”
“Do you really care? I don’t know, if you must know,” Rob said. “Probably she knew the rest of my family would just sell it to the highest bidder.”
“What’s wrong with that? I’m the highest bidder.”
“In dollars, yes, but I’m not looking to get paid in dollars,” Rob said. “And I have no desire for a fancy cookie jar. Or even a normal one. I don’t eat carbs.”
“You don’t store cookies in a cookie jar, that would be insane.”
“What do you do with them?”
“Appreciate them. Allow them to mature, to flourish in a spiritual way.” He pronounced ‘mature’ with a hard t, which made Rob frown.
“I see.”
“And you don’t want the money?” Mr. Maltley asked. “You’re not asking for ten grand?”
“I have plenty of money. What I don’t have is a your cock in my mouth.” Rob crossed his arms over his chest.
Mr. Maltley pursed his lips and nodded. “Fine…”
Rob slowly tweaked Mr. Maltley’s cock through the soft fabric of his slacks. When Mr. Maltley just sighed without complaining, Rob stroked it more fully, and leaned forward as Mr. Maltley sat on the edge of his desk.
He leaned back farther, both to give Rob easy access to his crotch and to reach his phone. He pressed a button. “Please hold my calls and don’t disturb us in here.”
“Yes, sir,” Prateek said through the intercom. His desire to know what was going in here was audible even through the tinny speakers, and Rob smirked. He suspected Prateek would be out there listening at the door before Rob was finished. But the door was too thick for any sound to travel through it.
When he hung up the phone, Mr. Maltley came back around to this side of his desk. He sat his plump ass on the edge of it, with the body language of a man expecting someone else to take his dick out and service it.
That was exactly the look Rob came here hoping to see.
He unzipped Mr. Maltley’s slacks and hefted his cock out. It was thick and smooth, heavy-balled, veinless or nearly so, and it was nice and meaty like a slab of beef. Rob slapped himself over the face with it. Mr. Maltley yawned and rolled his eyes.
“Have you ever been gotten a nut off in a man before?”
Mr. Maltley crossed his arms over his chest. He closed his eyes when Rob licked his shaft, then cleared his throat. “I was poor in college. I… I may have made some money in… in ways I do not tell people about now.”
“Oh yeah? I bet you had lots of fans back then,” Rob said with a shrug. “Those blue eyes… they’re the color of this sapphire on my mother’s favorite necklace.”
“The shade is called ‘endless sky’,” Mr. Maltley said as though Rob should have known that.
“I’m sure you were handsome then, but I like you better a little older.” Before Mr. Maltley could respond to that, Rob started throating him deeply, opening his throat wide to swallow every inch of his foot-long meat. It tasted warm and sunny, and it throbbed even now, fully soft, where it rubbed against Rob’s tongue.
“Goddamn…” Mr. Maltley had obviously not expected this to actually feel good. His eyes opened wide and he looked down. His face simmered ruddily and sweat dappled his chin. His chest rippled underneath his fine suit, as he licked his teeth and sparks of pleasure rocked his body.
He watched as his cock firmed up in Rob’s mouth, until it was rock-hard, veiny now, throbbing, pulsating. Rob slipped all the way down it until his nose was buried in Mr. Maltley’s dense pubic bush, which was past the fly of his slacks, so Rob’s face nuzzled his crotch in his pants.
Rob looked up at him and made eye contact as Mr. Maltley threw his head back, shuddered and bit back a moan.. He gripped the surface of the desk he sat on as though he might fall over if he didn’t hold on.
His cock popped out of Rob’s mouth, and this time, Rob did not chase it. He let it bob around in front of his face, dribbling precum onto his nose and upper lip. “You want to ramrod me? In the ass?” Rob asked, his mouth moist with precum.
“A rude way to put it. I’m not a convict,” Mr. Maltley said with a snarl, which he tried to relax into a snooty smirk. His chest rumbled beneath his suit, cock throbbing and leaking precum so fast it coated Rob’s face. Mr. Maltley leaned forward so it wouldn’t get on his suit pants. “Or a Puerto Rican.” He sniffled. “But yes. Get up and turn around.”
Rob nodded. He stood, and he bent his body over the desk where Mr. Maltley had been leaning the other direction a moment ago. He jutted his ass up.
Mr. Maltley waited. “Well? Take your pants down.”
“You do it. I took your dick out,” Rob said.
“So? Oh… fine, you prancing little shit,” Mr. Maltley said. He wrinkled his nose as though this part was distasteful, as he reached around Rob’s body to handle his belt. He undid the buckle, and Rob’s pants fell down.
Mr. Maltley squeezed first one asscheek, then the other, through his underwear. He tugged down Rob’s underwear as though it was some foul thing he didn’t want to touch. Rob sensed he had rarely or never touched another man’s underwear.
He spread Rob’s asscheeks with one hand. A little sneer came on his face, and it turned into a frown when Rob’s cheeks were bare. He looked away. “I’m not some prissy nerd, you know.”
“Uh-huh.” Rob felt the hotness of Mr. Maltley’s cock throbbing between his asscheeks.
“I went to Princeton on a scholarship. A needy youths scholarship,” he said.
“Awesome, man, is this the right time to be talking about that?”
“You probably think I’m some cleancut WASP, who thinks ramrodding is something Tupac invented after he was shot. I’m not like that.”
Rob sighed and turned his head around so he could see Mr. Maltley, who stood behind him, still spreading Rob’s asscheeks with one hand. His other hand held his throbbing erection like a javelin waiting for a go-order. Rob said, “I’m more of a Biggie Smalls guy. Are you gonna do this or not?”
“I am, I am. Just don’t get the wrong idea about me,” he said. He straightened his tie. Then he pistoned his hips, forcing his cock in Rob’s tight hole.
He slipped the knob in his ass, and a burst of painful pleasure wracked Rob’s body. Rob wasn’t ready for that. He clenched his teeth and took a deep breath through his nose, forcing his ass to relax. That let Mr. Maltley’s cock slide in far enough to hit Rob’s prostate.
As a wave of pleasure hit Rob’s body, his whole body undulated, and he cried out. Mr. Maltley pushed harder, his dick entering deeper and deeper with each thrust of his hips. He was already on the verge of cumming when Rob stopped licking it, so the tightness of Rob’s ass soon sent him to the precipice of an orgasm.
“Oh god, they taught you well at Princeton,” Rob said, his breathing jagged and panty, sensations sparkling over his body.
“Watch it. Don’t insult the Tiger,” he said, and his own chest muscles rippled beneath his tailored Italian suit.
“I didn’t!” Rob’s voice wavered because a jolt of pleasure coursed through his body. “I said they taught you well!”
Plowing back and forth, Mr. Maltley’s balls slapped against Rob’s asscheeks. He grumbled and maybe had a response, but his cock felt too good in Rob’s ass for him to hear it. Finally Mr. Maltley’s whole cock was ramming in and out of Rob’s dick, long-dicking him like, apparently, only a Princeton man could.
A wave of ecstasy hit Rob’s senses. His prostate came alive more and more, thrumming and humming, the pleasure growing with each collision of Mr. Maltley’s cocktip with Rob’s prostate. Rob cried out loud enough that fuckfaced assistant in the other room heard it faintly through the locked door and tried to guess what was happening.
A gurgling moan escaped from Rob’s lips as he felt Mr. Maltley approach orgasm. His cock pulsated like a beast in Rob’s ass, and the motion made Rob cried out with desire. His heavy balls rose up in his sac.
And then he moved suddenly, reaching behind Rob. For just a moment, Rob thought he was robbing him — Rob did a lot of rough-trade, so that happened. Then he realized that was ridiculous — why would a billionaire pick some random man’s pocket?
He had grabbed the cookie-jar. Rob leaning forward had nearly knocked it off the edge of the desk, and it would have shattered on the floor of the office. Mr. Maltley frowned and swore.
“You clumsy oaf! You almost broke it! You ridiculous mincing fool-!” Mr. Maltley gasped, his face turning red as he held onto the cookie jar with all the concentration he could muster. He shuddered and his voice broke. “Aaaaah-!
Since he was doing something else as he came, Mr. Maltley’s orgasm was strained, almost painful. He grunted. He was going to keep scolding Rob for almost breaking the cookie jar, then he stopped because the pleasure wracking his body was too intense to speak through. His cock stayed in Rob’s ass the whole time, as though he couldn’t bare to take it out for even a moment.
“Ah, oh…” he sighed and groaned, his face turning red.
Finally creamy cum sprayed into Rob’s ass, great gobs of it that spurted into his guts. At first he didn’t taste it because Mr. Maltley’s horsey cock was so big and so long that it aimed deep into his ass, further than Rob had ever experienced.
Ssome of it slipped onto his thighs, and Mr. Maltley slowly withdrew his shaft, as Rob’s cock spewed its own load. A wave of intensity overcame Rob, who adored the sensation of Mr. Maltley’s cock sliding out of him as it limpened, bringing with it a wave of jizz that plopped ontop the floor of the office.
“Ah, man…” Rob sighed as he pulled off his cock. Cum dripped down his thighs, and a shudder wracked his body.
“You… You made a mess on the floor, your graceless oaf,” Mr. Maltley said with a gasp. He gently placed the cookie jar on his desk. He frowned again, both at the cookie jar — he didn’t have any easy way of taking it home without his assistant seeing it — and because he was flummoxed by the mind-blowing orgasm he had just experienced. He never thought a man could make him feel like that. Certainly no woman had ever taken his dick in the ass as deeply as that.
“You have a nice dick, it’s just big enough to fuck with,” Rob said as he cleaned his dick off. He stood. “Thanks.”
“No. Thank you,” Mr. Maltley said. Only now did he realize his own dick dangled out the fly of his slacks, and he tucked it away. “Perhaps if you encounter any new… pieces in the future, you will contact me. I would be glad to set up future trades of this sort.”
“I will definitely let you know,” Rob said.
“Next time, please come to my home, not my office,” Mr. Maltley said. He wrote down his address. “I will instruct the doorman to let you in. He’s not as bad as my assistant.”

The Ranchhand

Pat is a new ranchhand working with the older, more experienced Hawthorn, who shows him a trick or two in the green barn! That’s where Pat learns how to service a man like Hawthorn!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

When Pat and Hawthorn promised they would finish the fence today, they hadn’t realized how long it would take. Pat assumed that Hawthorn was experienced at fence construction, and Hawthorn assumed likewise. Neither wanted to sound like they couldn’t get it done.
So the fence wasn’t complete until the sun had very nearly gone down. Pat breathed a sigh of relief. It was still his first year as a ranchhand at Goodman Ranch in Colorado, and he needed to prove his worth to Mister Goodman.
Hawthorn, on the other hand, had been here for six years. He was tall, broad-shouldered, tan-bodied. He that cocky swagger that all the experienced ranchhands around here had. He was much stronger and bigger than Pat in every way, and he carried himself like everyone knew he was the toughest hand in Colorado. His face was windswept like a much older man, or perhaps his face was preternaturally youthful for his age, since Pat didn’t know how old he truly was. He was grizzled and stubbled, seemingly always shaving. Pat was a great appreciator of the male form, and Hawthorn’s was remarkable.
The other problem Pat ain’t foreseen was that finishing the fence was hard work. It was simple, but it was hard, and his muscles ached by the time they was done. By then, it was getting cold as the sun went down.
They done finished the fence around the outer north pasture. They was almost three miles from the ranchhouse, and they ain’t have a horse. That was boku walking for two men who felt every step was arduous. Pat ain’t never been more tired. He wished he ain’t promise to finish the fence today (it ain’t even really need to be done until next week, so there ain’t no reason to get all rush-like).
By the time they got back to the homestead, it was fully dark. The moon hid behind the clouds in the sky. Pat was drenched in sweat. Hawthorn done took off his shirt, his broad golden-brown chest a silhouette gleaming with sweat. Pat wanted to take his shirt off too, but his deeply ingrained sense of propriety stopped him — Missus Goodman was around somewhere and could see him — and, though he ain’t want to admit it, he knew his skinny body would look weak in comparison to the bronzed blond god Hawthorn. He looked like some Renaissance artist’s impression of Apollo.
The only consolation was that Hawthorn was almost as exhausted as Pat was. He limped as they made it back to the ranchhouse. They could have gone straight to the little barn-cottage shared by Hawthorn, Pat and the other hands, but the bathing barn was closer. They both wanted a bath before a-goin’ to bed, and neither wanted to walk to the barn-cottage then walk back to the bathing-barn, then back to the barn-cottage again for bed. Pat thought his feet gonna fall off if’n he tried that.
By the time they got there, to the green bathing barn, they was both wordless, legs like jelly. Pat first sat down by the well beside the barn, and he took a long sip of cold water — luckily some kind soul done left the bucket upraised and ready. Pat drank til he could drink no more, and it made him feel better. Hawthorn was stingy with it as though he was rationing it, and then he traipsed, heavy-footed but not as exhausted as Pat, into the barn.
After another minute or two of resting his tired bones, Pat stood up and came in too. Water had spilled all down the front of him.
Hawthorn was already naked as could be, and he was using all of those ranchwork-toned muscles to unlock the pipe that connected the hot water heater to the bathtub. He done fill the heater with coal, looked like, which Pat was glad for and impressed by. He’d have been sore tuckered for sure if he had come in here and had to shovel coal before he got any hot water.
But as Hawthorn did all the labor to set it up, his great big shoulders working hard, Pat plopped down and unlaced his boots. He sighed out loud.
“Thank you, Hawthorn,” Pat said. “For… starting the heater.” Hawthorn gave a barely perceptible nod. He stood and watched the water begin flowing, boiling hot but then cooling rapidly, into the copper tub. His bare cock dangled betwene his legs. Pat watched it go, tracing with his eyes a vein that ran up the side of it. His cock was the only part of Hawthorn’s body tanned to the color of a rusty acorn, as the rest of him was more of an unroasted peanut shell color.
It felt so good to take his boots off that Pat weren’t sure he’d ever put them back on. He wiggled his toes in the breeze that blew through the barn. Then, undressed, he headed towards the bathing area. The water that ran over Pat’s body was hot, which felt good in the cold night air.
He had to share the tub with Hawthorn. The ranchhands usually took turns, since the tub was very small, but neither wanted to take the time tonight. That was embarrassing for Pat, who was aroused by the might of Hawthorn’s muscles. He greatly appreciated the majesty and power of the male form, which he painted as a hobby, when he could afford the paints and the canvas.
“I ain’t waitin’ fer ya, and I don’t ‘spect you’ll wanna wait fer me,” Hawthorn said as his naked, sweat-gleaming body stepped into the steamy water-filled tub. “So come on in, pardner. We can be bathmates.” He whooped. He had a big dimple-bedecked grin on his trail-wearied face, and he motioned for Pat to join him.
Pat ain’t have the energy to whoop along with him, nor to be self-conscious of his pale and weak body in comparison to Hawthorn’s powerful frame, so he quickly doffed the rest of his clothes and slid into the tub after Hawthorn.
It felt good to wash off the layer of sweat and grime that had built up on his body. He felt like a new man already, and all he had done was enter the water. Two bars of soap lay on a little tray beside the tub, but neither Pat nor Hawthorn made any move to grab them.
“My pa always say not to be scared of a naked man,” Hawthorn said. It sounded like he was trying to reassure hisself as much as Pat. “If’n you ain’t ashamed of yerself, you shouldn’t be worried about seeing a man without clothes on.”
Despite his words, Pat remained uncomfortable with the situation. He was used to bathing by himself. He wasn’t a prisoner, after all, why should he share a bath?
But the main reason he ain’t like it had nothing to do with Hawthorn, or even with nudity really. Pat had worked hard to get a job on Goodman Ranch, which was a nice enough place that the ranchhands got a real place to live. There were ranches in the area who hired anyone, but the hands there lived like hogs, in tents or worse, exposed to the elements, fighting off coyotes and the predations of Mexicans or Indian tribes. Might as well go back to the Old South and be a sharecropper. Pat was better than that, had worked hard to get a job somewhere nicer, and he deserved to have a bath to himself.
Not that he was complaining tonight. He wanted to get clean and flop into bed more than anything.
The sight of Hawthorn’s massive cock made Pat awkward again though — his dickskin was darker than the rest of his flesh, making Pat wonder if’n Hawthorn had been telling the truth about having Mexican blood. It was still dark in the barn, so Pat had to strain his eyes to see Hawthorn’s cock when moonlight flashed upon it. He kept his own crotch outside of the light, hoping Hawthorn wouldn’t look at it.
“So… You scared of naked men?”
“No,” Pat said. He gulped nervously as he caught a shadowy glimpse of Hawthorn stroking his dick. What was he doing?
“That’s good. You think tradition is important, Pat?”
“Yeah. Of course, tradition. Yessir,” Pat said. His heart raced. Was this it? Was he about to finally get to taste Hawthorn’s manhood?
“This ranch has got a tradition,” Hawthorn said. He came closer to Pat, so close his thick cock brushed up against Pat’s thigh. He casually wrapped one of his massive arms over Pat’s shoulders.
“Oh…” Pat held his breath. He felt so small next to Hawthorn’s bulky body, and he wondered if’n he would get that big if he continued to work as a ranchhand for his whole life. It seemed impossible now; Pat had always been skinny, but his time at Goodman Ranch had filled out his body considerably.
“You ain’t gotta join in, but you look like the kinda man who wanna do what’s right. You look like a man who behaves properly towards his elders and his betters. You gots respect, Pat, unlike a lot of them hands Mister Goodman hired this year. You ain’t a welcher.”
“No, sir.” Pat trembled.
“Why don’t you get on your knees and open your mouth, boy?” Hawthorn said. “Don’t worry. What happens between bathmates, stays between bathmates. That’s another tradition we got in these parts.”
“You sure? I don’t want them to know about it,” Pat said, gesturing towards the ranchhand house where their coworkers were no doubt drinking and carousing right now. That was what happened as soon as the sun went down every night, since Mister Goodman strictly left them alone when they were done with their work for the day. What Pat ain’t say was that he also ain’t want Hawthorn to realize that Pat wasn’t reluctant to do this at all — he just had to put on a little show of reluctance so he would seem normal.
“They ain’t nevuh gonna know, boy,” Hawthorn said. He had a cocky grin on his face, chewing on his lower lip and rubbing the scruff on his square jaw.
Pat sunk to his knees and opened his mouth. He winced, heart pounding with anxiety. Hawthorn pushed his dick past Pat’s lips. The taste of cockmeat enveloped Pat’s tongue. He closed his eyes though he ain’t couldn’t really see anything anyway in the dark barn — the only light that filtered through the clouds and the cracks in the barn ceiling illuminated Hawthorn’s cock.
He gagged at first, but it tasted delicious from the moment he first put his lips on it. It tasted like trail dust and saddle-leather Mrs. Goodman’s hog-fat soap. It tasted like sweat, salt and skin, and it made Pat both drool for more and wish he could do this again and again. His hands reached up to Hawthorn’s powerful body, making his muscles ripple beneath Pat’s fingertips.
But the flavor soon turned exciting and savory. Pat felt little pops of sensation as he explored every inch of Hawthorn’s shaft. A part of him wondered if he should do it worse, or at least pretend not to know how — what would Hawthorn think of Pat if he was an expert? But he couldn’t bring himself to do anything other than taste Hawthorn’s manhood from root to tip.
“Yeah, rookie, you handle a dick pretty good,” Hawthorn said, and Pat was relieved that that sounded more complimentary than derogatory. His massive muscles rippled as he felt up his own nipples with one hand. His other hand grabbed ahold of Pat’s head, holding onto the thick shock of dirty blond hair on Pat’s scalp. He used that for leverage, holding Pat in place as he worked his dick deeper and deeper.
Precum overwhelmed Pat’s senses. It added a more intense salty flavor, and it made Pat gag all over again. He gripped Hawthorn’s plump asscheeks for support.
Soon Pat’s nose pressed into the meaty part of Hawthorn’s crotch, and the coarse pubic hairs of his groin scratched at Pat’s skin. Though Pat knew he was supposed to be ashamed of this, and there was a measure of shame — he had internalized it from everyone round him — but even more than that, he was overcome with desire and lust for Hawthorn’s body. He ain’t want to look like he enjoyed it, but a part of him did treasure the sensation of Hawthorn’s thick meat sliding down his gullet. He enjoyed the thrill of being used by such a big, superior man.
A loud, spine-rattling moan escaped from Hawthorn’s lips. It sounded like he ain’t expect this to feel as good as it did, and he was trying to hide it just like Pat was. Hawthorn grunted with each thrust of his manhood down Pat’s throat.
“Damn, ya throat is-” Hawthorn’s voice tensely cracked, and he let out a moan. He laughed, making his hips flex and forcing his cock even deeper in Pat’s strained throat. “Ya throat ain’t nothin’ — ah…” He moaned again. “Nothin’ special. Any number of females at Mistah Gregarian’s cathouse can do it even better, boy-” He moaned and his knees buckled, pleasure visibly roiling his body and shooting up his spine. The more incredible it felt, the more Hawthorn tried to pretend he was underwhelmed, that he was only doing this because it was tradition, the same reason Pat was doing it.
Now that he had gotten into it, Pat deep-throated Hawthorn the best he could. He let those heavy balls slap against his face. He guzzled down every drop of salty precum that flowed into his throat. It was creamy and potent, coating his insides and seeping into his flesh.
The flavor was intense and visceral, not bad, but certainly not tasty either. That ain’t stop him from savoring the taste on his tongue though. He kept jacking until he thought Hawthorn was going to cum soon. Not wanting to end this right away, Pat moved onto lick Hawthorn’s broad, well-muscled chest.
Hawthorn allowed it at first — it seemed a little pervy to him, but he ain’t want to cum yet either. He closed his eyes and tried to relax as Pat’s slim body rubbed against his muscles, Pat’s soft hand stroking his manhood, tongue teasing his nipples.
Unable to resist his urges, Hawthorn pushed Pat back to his knees and plopped his cock right back in his throat. He sighed, able to think again — he was never able to really think when he had a hardon and wasn’t doing anything about it.
He wanted to get in that ass.
“Now bend over and grab the floor, boy. Get yer ass up,” Hawthorn said with a growl. He pulled his moist cock out and humped Pat’s face like a dog. He groaned and shuddered, his massive cock pulsating and leaking precum all over Pat’s nose and lips.
Pat winced, and his heart raced as he got in position. He grabbed the rough wooden floor, sticking his ass high in the air. He closed his eyes again, and held his breath in anticipation of what was about to happen. He left his ass as high in the air as he could.
That was a little too high. Hawthorn slapped his cheeks until Pat lowered himself to a correct height. His knees already ached from the tension of crouching in this position.
“Get down a little, boy, I ain’t that tall,” Hawthorn said with a grunt.
Then an eruption of pain in his ass distracted Pat from any soreness in his knees. The feeling exploded within him like a punch to the gut, but behind it all, he could feel a tingling pleasure emanating from his prostate. It grew in waves, from a distant chord to an overwhelming crescendo, mounting with each thrust of Hawthorn’s cock into his body. He grunted and howled, but bit his lip to cover up the sound — the barn where the ranchhands lived wasn’t that far away, so Pat ain’t want to make any noise. If he yelled loud enough here at the bathing-barn, the other ranchhands would be able to hear him.
“Sssh, it’s okay,” Hawthorn said over and over. He grabbed Pat’s upper body and lifted his tense head up, whispering directly in his ear as he worked his dick in deeper and deeper.
The smashing was intense and overwhelming, pleasure spasming up his spine. Pat could do little more than try to submit and to remind himself that when this was over, he would be accepted as a full-fledged ranchhand, not a rookie. Getting Hawthorn on his side would guarantee that Pat got all the best jobs — Hawthorn was Mister Goodman’s favorite.
It felt so good Pat cried out. Luckily his cries of bliss sounded an awful lot like a cry of pain, so Hawthorn ain’t seem to realize that Pat was enjoying this more than any man ought to. Pat had to bite his tongue to avoid begging for more.
His ass was loose enough now that Hawthorn could smash him hard, slamming his dick in and out. Pat roared in pain and bliss, and he grabbed wildly around him, getting a handful of his own trail leathers and Hawthorn’s musty brown boots.
It suddenly occurred to Pat that, if’n Hawthorn was telling the truth about this being ranch tradition, then that meant that Hawthorn must have done it as well, when he was new. That made Pat feel better. He could picture Hawthorn in this position, bent over and moaning as he got his butt smashed in by some bigger ranchhand. Hawthorn had probably been skinny and lanky then, like Pat was now.
While Pat had started off experiencing incredible pain and a dimly-felt sense of pleasure roaring underneath that, now the situation had reversed. He was in the same position, but now the pleasure roiling deep within his ass was so intense he couldn’t think about anything else, while the tortuous agony in his virgin hole seemed like a distant memory that had happened years ago to someone else.
“Alright, boy, you almost done…” Hawthorn said, his gritty Texan twang resonating in the barn. “Here I go. Close your eyes, try to think ‘bout somethin’ else. Relax yerself.”
Pat pretended to do that, but really he was so overcome by pleasure and curiosity about what was happening to him that he ain’t want to ignore it. He ain’t want to think about something else. He wanted to think about this, the incredible, awe-inspiring thing that was happening to him, a thing he had been craving since the moment he met Hawthorn. It wasn’t even done yet, and Pat already knew this was going to change his life, or at least his time here at Goodman Ranch.
Luckily it was dark, so Hawthorn couldn’t see that Pat’s hand crept into his own crotch. Pat ain’t know how controversial it would be around here that he want to pleasure himself while Hawthorn smashed him, but he wanted that more than anything.
As soon as he touched his own cock, Pat felt an orgasm hit him like a runaway bronco. He twitched and clenched down hard on Hawthorn’s dick, as though he was trying to rip Hawthorn’s meat off with his asshole. He roared and bucked, which looked to Hawthorn like he was resisting the pain of Hawthorn’s climax, but in actuality, Pat experienced the most incredible orgasm of his life. His spurted a puddle of cum onto the floor, where it immediately mixed with water and disappeared through the slats onto the ground below.
Then it was done — Hawthorn groaned and grunted, slamming his dick all the way into Pat’s ass. Pat let out a roar of pain, followed by a low, rolling grunt of pleasure.
“Here I go, boy… Good boy, takin’ my dick just like you should…”
Cum sprayed into him, a hot and thick load that Pat felt seeping into his flesh. He sighed, hoping Hawthorn ain’t notice the pleased rattling sound to his voice. It felt like a comforting internal blanket, warming up his insides and tingling like a kiss.
It seemed to take an impossible amount of time. Cum just kept pouring out of his cock, filling him up until it dripped down his thighs. Even then, Hawthorn remained still, his bulging muscles all tense and hard like iron, his craggy face still and stony. He waited until every drop of his seed had drained into Pat’s ass.
He pumped his hips one more time, and a final jet of jizz filled him up. Hawthorn’s powerful arms remained wrapped around Pat’s body, and his cock throbbed in his ass. A few drops dribbled in, then slipped out and ran down the insides of Pat’s thighs.
At last it was over. Pat ain’t know how long they stayed like that. He hadn’t even been aware of his own hand jacking himself off. He only realized what he had done because he saw his limp cock and his hand dripping with cum.
When Hawthorn pulled out, Pat let out a long, low sigh of relief. More jizz slipped and dribbled down his legs. He had enjoyed it, but still, he was glad that it was all over. Now that his ass was empty, it was exquisitely sensitive, and Pat was so overwhelmed he couldn’t do anything but collapse onto the moist wooden floor of the barn. He laid there in the tub for an eternity.
“There you go, boy,” Hawthorn said. He spat on the ground. “You can tell yer pa you did good. You showed the propuh respect, boy. That’s important ‘round here. You showed respect fer tradition.” He smiled and stretched his limp cock.
“Yeah. Thanks,” Pat said. He blushed. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious that that had been the most enjoyable experience of his life. He looked down at the ground.
“Now that you done taken yer turn on the bottom,” he said. “You can always take a turn on top too, wit’ one of them new men. He gotta be newer and younger than you. That’s a rule.”
“Really?”
“That real young one, the new feller, just barely eighteen. He got ass for days. I r’commend him. You’ll have a wild time on that stallion, guarantee it,” Hawthorn said with a hollow-throated chuckle. “If’n you don’t get up in him, I will, sure as shit shines on a shingle.” He laughed so hard he slapped his thigh.
“I just might do that,” Pat said. He knew he’d be too shy though. He couldn’t come after a cowpoke in the same way Hawthorn had come after him, even if Pat technically had authority over a young pup like that new ranchhand. He was gonna have to ease into it.
Hawthorn nodded. “You gotta keep it a secret too. Mister Goodman knows, but he don’t wanna know, you pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down? That’s a strict rule we got. Don’t tell no one. Even if someone walks in on you, you gotta pretend tomorrow it ain’t happen. Tomorrow that’s what I’s gonna do. Tomorrow, I ain’t nevuh smash you, not even one time, and I’ll strike any man who say I did. You got it?”
Pat nodded. “Sure. Yeah. It’s our secret. I’ll do that-! I mean…” He hadn’t mean to sound so eager. “I’ll… Maybe I’ll do that. Some of those new guys have pretty nice asses.”
“Yes, they do. The new, young ones always do,” Hawthorn said with a grin. “That’s why it’s so fun to wreck ’em. Best part of being a cowboy, reckon.” He smacked Pat’s ass, which jiggled. Hawthorn whistled as though it was impressive to see, though the barn was still dark as night, so he couldn’t have actually seen the cheeks jiggle. “Maybe we can bathe again together sometime, boy. We can be permanent bathmates. We could do all kinda thangs togethuh.”

The Hairy Roughnecks Bottom

When Avery finds himself stranded in a North Dakota town short on hotel rooms, he has gotta sleep in the hotel gym. That means he’s ripe for meeting a trio of off-duty roughnecks with massively hairy bodies and bulging muscles. When they prove willing to sixty-nine, Avery is in for the Twink on Top experience of a lifetime!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

The clerk at the hotel said it was a gymnasium, but that was putting a rosy spin on it. It was literally a large empty room with a space heater, a bench press and a treadmill. About eighty percent of the space was devoid of anything but a yoga mat on the floor.
He was annoyed, but he couldn’t really justify anger. The airline had put him up at the only hotel in town, and they were being as accommodating as possible. It wasn’t like they caused the freak snowstorm that left him stranded here, and there was no better accommodation available. The town was busy this weekend because many of the roughnecks from the oil derricks around the area had leave, and they took up all of the hotel’s rooms.
Avery’s plane was forced to land by a sudden blizzard. Unfortunately, the only nearby airstrip was in a remote oil rig town in North Dakota. It wasn’t even a proper airport, not that Avery was complaining.
At the time, Avery had thought the plane was going to crash. It rattled and shook like a soul singer as it descended, and the pilot had been so distracted by the weather that he hadn’t announced the emergency landing. So it came out of nowhere. The flight went from turbulent to imminently crashing, and Avery made peace with his maker (every maker he could think of).
That meant by the time he landed and made it to his hotel, it was hard to be extremely upset about the “gym” that the hotel had put him into. He changed into workout clothes in the corner of the gym that had been designated a locker room. It was set off from the main area by a standing curtain.
He did some stretching. But his brain was focused on the plane crash that very nearly happened, so his exercise was listless. Still, it was good to move around. He couldn’t focus on anything but reliving the near-crash that happened moments ago. He kept imagining what else could have happened, like what if the plane crashed and him and the pilot had to eat the copilot as they were stranded in the prairie all winter, or what if Avery had to take control of the plane, what if it was a 9/11 kind of situation and terrorists were going to crash the plane into Mount Rushmore.
Three men walked in. Avery nodded at them. They nodded back, but then they snickered among themselves. Avery must look awful, or maybe they thought he was small and skinny and short and weak. True, more or less. But still, Avery was in too foul a mood to be bullied.
Avery was small, but he was lightning fast and stronger than he looked. He had taken some self-defense classes, so he was able to hold his own. His apparent weakness gave him the benefit of surprise. He had kicked the ass of guys twice his size before.
But these three men were big, more than twice his size, and burly, thickly-muscled — roughnecks most likely. Williston, North Dakota, was a roughneck town. The only reason to exist was the legion of oil derricks that dotted the landscape, seemingly replacing the trees that didn’t grow in this neck of the non-literal woods.
“Wussup, yuh,” said one of the roughnecks. He was a dark-haired, swarthy-skinned Mediterranean-type, Italian, Avery suspected, but he talked like he was from New Jersey or maybe Rhode Island. Now he was stripped down to a wifebeater and shorts, revealing a hairy chest and trunk-like thighs, body fur running up over his shoulders and down his back. He went straight to the bench press machine.
Avery said hello back and resumed his workout. He kept sneaking glances at the trio, especially the outgoing Italian with a handsome face, whose friends called him Gallo. He grunted and groaned and exclaimed loudly, though Avery couldn’t make out the words from this far away.
As a great admirer of the male physique, Avery found the three roughnecks alluring, and the Mediterranean man especially so. He had a handsome visage, a well-formed body, good proportions, and plenty of body hair. Avery enjoyed body hair on men.
Gallo’s friends spotted him on the bench-press, and when Gallo finished his set, the other two took turns lifting. They pretended to ignore Avery as he pranced over the mat — it was obvious they were sneaking glances at him. They didn’t like a stranger in the gym, probably, and Avery wasn’t a roughneck. This hotel was all roughnecks.
There was a loud redneck named Harley, whose voice filled the gymnasium as he counted off Gallo’s reps. The third was tough, mean-looking and, Avery suspected, Arab, or maybe Persian, given that massive nose; he was quieter, and Avery didn’t catch his name right away.
“Shit, man-!”
“Get’cha pump on, buddy!”
“C’mon, Gallo, give it everythin’ you got, you hairy bastard! Sasquatch motherfucker!”
Avery loved big-ass hairbacks — men with hair on their backs. His favorite kind of man was hairy, and not just Hollywood-hairy either. He liked his men as furry as possible, ideally with hair extending all the way onto their backs. There was something incredibly intense and primal about it, something animalistic.
And besides that, Avery thought, he had learned long ago through personal experience that men with hairy backs were better than smoothbacks. They moved harder, played harder, plowed harder, did everything harder.
Today though, Avery was in such a bad mood he wasn’t sure he wanted to mess around, not even with these three hairbacked roughnecks. They were plenty handsome and blessed in the body hair department, but Avery didn’t feel up for it — he still felt cramped, dying in a plane-crash, screaming in terror, furious at the airline and the hotel and whichever government department was in charge of snow. He didn’t want to bend over to take it up behind from some hairbacks tonight.
Oh maybe, he thought… He looked at their powerful bodies lifting weights on the bench press, slapping each other’s muscles as they encouraged each other’s straining, groaning, exerting, flexing. Weights worked up and down, shoulders arced and looped, and the gymnasium filled with the scent of man-sweat and body hair. Avery sniffed the scent and took it in with a great dizzying rush.
He especially liked the way Harley the hillbilly looked laying there on the bench-press bench. His long legs jutted up because he was too tall for the bench. The bulge in his crotch was highly visible. If he lifted those legs up, Avery would have perfect access to plow him right in his meaty asshole.
Avery shook his head and sighed. He didn’t know why he was thinking like that. He wasn’t a top by nature.
“Hey, you look good enough to eat there, boy,” catcalled Harley after finishing a set of bench presses. Gallo tried to shush him — no doubt worried Avery would complain to the hotel management. But Harley ignored his friend clutching his biceps and hairy shoulders. He smiled at Avery, who blushed. “You the closest thing to a girl we got around here, boy. Ain’t many females in this neck of the woods.”
“Harley, don’t be a prick…”
“You’re gonna get us in trouble…”
Avery put his hands on his hips. “I’m not a pussy,” he said.
“I realize that, suh,” Harley said. “But I’d love to stick you like one just the same.” His tone was so serious it made Gallo burst into embarrassed laughter, echoed by the more sedate man — whose name, Avery had now gathered, was something like Shapur. Harley blushed. “I ain’t kiddin’. These two is some squeamish fucks, they wouldn’t never touch a boy on account of them bein’ prettyboys. There ain’t no girls here-“
“‘Cept Cynthia,” Gallo said with some whispered laughter.
“Ain’t no eligible wimmin here,” Harley said. “We got the world’s skankiest bitch, but I wouldn’t touch her with Shapur’s dick.” He pointed to his friend, who laughed — based on accent, skin and the straight hair forming a mat over his back, Avery now guessed he was Persian. Harley approached Avery. “Whatchoo say? You wanna get nasty? I’ll give you every inch of it.” He grabbed his dick through his dingy brown sweatpants. It was big and meaty, and it was already throbbing, half-hard.
But Avery was still in a bad mood, as arousing as Harley was. He’d be in a major city tomorrow, assuming this blizzard let up. There’d be big, hairy men there.
Avery shrugged. “I don’t think you could handle me,” he said as he turned around. He did a slow, languorous roll that accentuated his ass. Harley let out a redneck growl like he was turning into a bear.
“Damn, boy,” Harley said. “You got an ass that beckons to me, shit…”
“Fuckin’ hell, Harley, you nasty!” Gallo said. He was laughing so hard he was red-faced. “You into that booty bandit shit, hell! Hell yeah, see that!”
Harley turned around and smacked Gallo in the face. Their good-natured joshing turned instantly into vitriol and chest-bumping, which went back and forth as they squared up, duked up and reared back, while Shapur just sat there rolling his eyes as if this happened a million times a day.
As the fight developed, Avery shrank back to. Only Shapur’s nonreaction convinced him not to go get the hotel manager, since it seemed Shapur expected this to not go too hard. Avery had to admit he enjoyed watching two muscular men grappling, throwing punches, using every single one of those sculpted muscles. Sweat flew, a trickle of blood ran down Harley’s nostril, and Gallo knocked him down with a swift punch. Harley kicked and jumped to his feet.
“Fuck you, Gallo!” Harley bellowed. “You a shit! You-“
Gallo interrupted him with a punch right back, and then they were on the mat, writhing and punching. They yelled insults back and forth, but Avery couldn’t understand the words. Shapur watched from the bench-press, shaking his head. His hairy, sweat-dappled shoulders flexed as he waited for someone to spot him lifting.
At last the fight was over. It looked like Harley won, but only because Gallo backed away in disgust. “Aw, damn, Harley, you got a hardon!” He sneered at his friend. “I touched it, man… you fuckin’ redneck!”
“I need some action!” Harley said. He looked to Avery. “You sure, boy? I’ll treat you right…”
Avery sighed. “I’m not the kind of perv who just jacks off anyone,” Avery said. “If you wanna get your nut off, you gotta take it as good as you can give it.”
Gallo chuckled, and Shapur shook his head as though neither considered Harley saying yes, like they both thought that put an end to it. But the shaking of Harley’s ruddy chest and neck, and the awkward way he fumbled at his aroused crotch, suggested he was considering it. Then he shrugged.
“Fine,” he said, his voice low and resonant in the high-ceilinged gymnasium.
Whatever Harley said then, it was drowned out by Gallo’s howls of shock that he was saying yes. “He said yes! He gonna get plowed!” Gallo clutched Shapur’s hairy chest, his fingers ensconced in the straight black fur of his friend’s body. Shapur just raised his upper lip as though he couldn’t believe this was happening. Shapur obviously didn’t like Gallo’s handsy touching, but it was also obvious that Gallo didn’t care about personal space. He practically hugged Shapur.
“Rednecks is nasty, man!! Can’t believe that shit!”
Harley cleared his throat. He gestured towards the curtained off locker area. “I been in lockup befo’, boy, and I ain’t gonna lie about it, I had a boyfriend in there.”
Gallo and Shapur shared awkward laughter as Harley walked to the locker area. Avery followed in utter amazement — he had just assumed Harley would say no. He had demanded that on the assumption it would end this little encounter.
But apparently, he was going to get to top at least one incredible hairback-alpha.
Once on the other side of the dividing curtain, Harley stripped off his work boots and workout pants. He had a lean body with just enough meat, Avery thought. He took his own clothes off, eyeing Harley suspiciously — he still didn’t think an alpha male man like Harley would be willing to bottom.
“You wanna sixty-nine?” He asked as he took out his massive swarthy cock, which was veiny and throbbing hard from the wrestling he had done with Gallo. He smiled at Avery and laid on his back. “You can be on top.” Then he whistled. “Damn, boy, you look good enough to eat.” He ignored his friends’ snickering.
Avery didn’t need to be told twice. He mounted Harley’s face, making sure to put his cock in before taking Harley’s — though now that he saw it, Avery thought he would have willingly bottomed if Harley had insisted on it — it was just a beautiful, plump cock that Avery couldn’t refuse.
“You really doin’ this, Harley? You fuckin’ sick bastard…”
Harley gagged as Avery’s already-hardening cock invaded his throat. He tensed up, his body instinctively rejecting it at first. But he seemed to forget his anxiety moments later when Avery’s mouth encircled Harley’s dick, which jerked in his mouth.
It was a somewhat awkward position because Avery was so much smaller than Harley. His smooth chest felt tiny resting atop Harley’s hair-matted, sun-darkened torso. Avery had to strain his neck to reach all the way to Harley’s cock.
Harley growled and smacked Avery’s asscheeks. Avery worried that he was asking for a break, so he lifted his hips. But Harley just blushed and whispered, “Aw fuck, you wanna move here, boy? You better than most girls, and you’d be the closest thing to a woman in town — you’d have your pick of roughnecks.” Then he resumed slurping, forcing Avery’s dick back into his mouth.
The other two men in the gym area snickered. They were obviously listening, Avery thought, and they probably peeked around the curtain too.
“Damn, he swallowin’ you right?” Gallo called out amid the hushed laughter. “Sounds like he doin’ a good job.”
Harley grunted around the cock in his throat in a way that suggested the answer was yes, though he didn’t form any words. Much to Avery’s surprise, Harley shot his load right then — he must have been horny, because it didn’t take very long.
His veiny dick spasmed and pulsated, then it burst forth a torrent of white-hot cum. It was so profuse and so thick and creamy that it ran down Avery’s chin even as he swallowed all that he could gulp down. It tasted of salt and sweat and sawdust, exactly what Avery was hoping for.
“Damn, boy, you came right quick,” Gallo said.
Harley moaned loudly, making no effort to hide it. Avery pulled his dick out as he swallowed the last of Harley’s load. He wasn’t sure if Harley would be willing to continue on Avery’s cock now that he was done.
“Was he that good?” Gallo asked, coming around into the locker area. There was a blatant hardon in his pants, visibly throbbing against the fabric. He looked disgusted at Harley, who laid there with Avery’s dick — still hard — resting on his forehead.
“Hell yeah he was,” Harley said, his voice weak and breathless. “He’s totally worth it, Gallo. You know you need to get a nut off. You been in a bad mood since we hired that whore in Fargo.”
“Aw, shit…” Shapur’s eyes opened wide. “Are you gonna do it, Gallo?”
Gallo hesitated, then stripped naked. He tried poking his hairy crotch at Avery, but Avery only smiled — now that he knew he could get these hairback roughnecks to bottom, he wasn’t going to stop. He didn’t get that many opportunity to do it, and he had gotta take advantage of it while he could.
“You wanna sixty-nine, we’ll sixty-nine,” Avery said. He tried to sound bored. “If not, leave me alone.” His heart raced — these were not the kind of men he interacted with often, and he couldn’t believe his good fortune in getting laid by even one of them, much less two. He tried to pretend he wasn’t nervous about standing up to Gallo.
“If you’s try an’ tell anyone,” Gallo said, loud enough that Shapur could hear, “I’ll deny it and I’ll fuck ya up for real.” His Brooklyn accent shone through, and it made Avery desperate to feel his body. He pounded his chest. “I ain’t playin’.” He eyed Avery. “He do look like a girl.” He smiled. “But you won’t make me shave my back before you touch me, huh?”
“No, I won’t,” Avery said. “I insist on you not shaving your back.”
Gallo sighed as he took Harley’s place on the bottom. Avery just scooted right over to Gallo’s bulky, hairy frame, his muscles broad and rippled beneath Avery’s body. This time he could do deep-throat even more effectively because Gallo was a lot shorter than Harley. He was hairier too, and his kinky black hairs were coarser beneath Avery’s fingers.
Despite the apparent reluctance Gallo expressed, he seemed comfortable with this. His cock slid into Avery’s mouth, making him let out a long low moan. Gallo opened his own mouth, but he paid little attention to it, so he wasn’t bothered by Avery’s dick entering his own mouth. Both men were wracked with spasms of pleasure, but only Avery was feeling it from both ends. Gallo ignored his own mouth so as to focus on moving his cock in and out of Avery’s warm, moist mouth.
He became aware of Shapur masturbating as he watched, but Avery didn’t slow down. He liked putting on a show, and he twinkled his asshole — that must have been what Shapur was looking at, he thought. He was imagining his cock gliding into Avery’s well-lubed asshole. Typical Persian.
This time, as he felt his orgasm approach, Avery began slamming his crotch all the way down, making Gallo deep-throat it and gag on every inch. Gallo didn’t complain and didn’t even seem perturbed by his own gagging on Avery’s meat, and he moaned loudly every time Avery’s nose nestled in his pubic hair.
Their bodies writhed there, interlocked, for what felt like a long time. Avery ran his fingers through the ass and back hair he could get to, slowing his dick down to prolong his orgasm as he massaged Gallo’s meaty muscles.
Then Gallo spewed a thick load of creamy cum, which sprayed over Avery’s hand and Gallo’s body hair. It tangled and matted there, and Avery licked it clean while his dick neared orgasm in Gallo’s mouth.
“Damn, boy, he was right, you swallow good enough I can forget about the cock in my throat,” Gallo said, rolling away and gagging on the precum that stuck to his lips. “Cock taste just like pussy really, anyway.” Then he blushed. “Don’t none of you tell no one I said that.”
By now it was obvious that Shapur was going to go for it as well, and Avery readied himself. Shapur was the hairiest of the three, so it felt like he was mounting sasquatch. His hair was thick and kinky, like steel wool, Avery thought. Shapur muttered in Persian as he got on the ground, and Avery gathered it was a prayer for forgiveness.
Avery felt his own orgasm growing with every passing moment, even though nobody was touching his cock right now.
Shapur took to it right away, so quickly that Avery wondered if he had done this before — he didn’t come across as eager, but he didn’t come across as reluctant either. Shapur gagged just like the others when he tasted Avery’s cock, but it didn’t slow him down. He deep-throated the shaft easily. He definitely seemed practiced, Avery thought.
But then Avery swallowed him, his tight, wet mouth sending a wave of pleasure up Shapur’s spine. Avery’s arms wrapped around Shapur’s powerful body, and Shapur moaned so loud it made Harley and Gallo chuckle from the main part of the gymnasium.
Shapur’s dick was uncircumcised, which was a nice change of pace, Avery thought as he slurped the precum clean. He had always liked uncut men. He played with the foreskin as Shapur’s cock rocketed to erection, throbbing mightily on Avery’s tongue. Then Avery savored the meaty flavor of that skin-soaked shaft. Shapur also had the thickest and longest of the three cocks, and his had a silky sheen that Avery found alluring.
“Aw, fuck yeah, girl…” Shapur said a few times, interspersed with what Avery assumed was the Persian translation of the same words. Avery suspected he thought it would feel more like sex with a girl if he kept referring to Avery as a girl.
Whatever works…
Shapur shot a big load, and its sour saltiness overwhelmed Avery’s senses. Shapur was the most muscular of the three as well, and his frame turned rock-hard like a statue as he orgasmed. His balls crawled up in his sac. He gasped, and a wave of pleasure visibly rippled through his muscles.
He shot a huge load, watery and salty and seeping into every corner of Avery’s body. Avery moaned as he swallowed, his fingers caressing the hair of Shapur’s balls and taint. He kept slurping even as Shapur gradually limpened in his mouth, still spurting wad after wad of jizz. Avery swallowed every drop.
He was glad to have saved himself till the end. He began plowing into Shapur’s face, only to find the other two lean down and join in. Harley took both of Avery’s balls in his mouth, while Gallo kissed and licked the root, where Shapur couldn’t get to.
“We just wanna thank you, boy,” Gallo said. Then he whistled. “You do got a girl’s ass though, fuck, that’s nice.” He smiled as his tongue flickered over the root of Avery’s dick, and a massive spurt of jizz came out and spread over Shapur’s and Gallo’s faces.
At last his orgasm ran through him, and Avery moaned. He gripped Shapur’s hairy, flat belly for support and filled his mouth with his cum. Much to his surprise, Shapur barely gagged at all, and he accepted that relentless and ongoing flood of jizz. Avery’s much-delayed orgasm spurted down his throat. It felt like the biggest load of Avery’s life.
The pleasure was so intense Avery nearly collapsed. All he could sense were the tongues lapping at every corner of his crotch. Harley was most enthusiastic, juggling Avery’s balls in his mouth with his tongue and slurping on them as though hoping to get a prize. He kept suckling even as Avery’s cum dripped down and into his mouth.
And then at last, all three were done, and Avery’s dick fell limp. Shapur wiped his face off. The gymnasium was hot and humid, or maybe it was just the heat emanating from the three roughnecks’s overworked bodies.
Avery sighed and pulled away from Shapur’s cum-coated mouth. An awkward silence filled the room. Avery breathed deeply, blushing as he stood off Shapur’s body. The gymnasium stank of cum and sweat.
“Damn,” Harley said. “We need to start going to gymnastics tournaments.” He laughed, and the others agreed.
Avery slipped away as the three hairy friends exchanged nervous glances. They weren’t sure if their friendship would ever be the same again. Avery cleared his throat. “You know… in a snowstorm,” he said, pointing to the outside — which looked cold, somehow, even though only the inky blackness of the night sky was visible — “in a snowstorm, people do things they wouldn’t normally do.” Avery smiled at them. “When the weather clears up, you can decide that what happened in here, during the storm… It didn’t happen. Just promise right now that what happens tonight didn’t happen at all,” he said. “That way it won’t get in the way of your friendship.”
They talked about it, but Avery didn’t listen. He gazed out the window at the snow and relaxed in the glowing aftershocks of his orgasm. He was beginning to think getting snowed in was leading to one of the most exciting weekends of his life!

The Raunchy Bouncer

Rob could have his pick of the bouncers at this trashy strip club, but he doesn’t want any of the handsome prettyboys… he wants the brutish scarface they call Knuckle! Can he submit to Knuckle’s powerful ways?!

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Rob Winthrop was beginning to wonder if Knuckle had changed his mind. He sat in the champagne room alone, getting hard. The stripper — Destiny was her name — had giggled when Rob said he wanted to taste the dick of one of the bouncers, and when he said his target was Knuckle, she howled with peals of laughter interspersed with squeals of shock. She asked several times if he was sure, and did he mean the white one or the black one.
He meant the white one. He knew them both. The black one was Davon, and he was cute, like he should be an older brother in a Disney movie. He’d seem tough but he’d bust out homespun big-bro wisdom. That was not Rob’s type.
He liked his men rough and nasty, and Knuckle fit the bill. He was white, squat, no-necked, with a big burn scar on the side of his neck and shoulder. He was vaguely bikerish, vaguely skinheadish and — when Davon was around, at least — somewhat thuggesque too. He was intense. Everybody knew about him, even people who never came to Lipsweet knew about the “freakazoid bouncer at the strip club”. Knuckle looked like a serial killer, and he talked like Slingblade.
“Are you sure? He smells. Like he doesn’t use deodorant. He says he does, but I don’t think he does.”
“We complained about his smell, Mr. Gregarian told him to shower more or something. It helped… some.”
“Yeah, you want Davon, he is so cute. He’s got dimples for days. And he will totally let you jack him off for like fifty bucks, if I tell him I think it’s hot. Which I will, for fifty bucks also.”
“No. I want the weird one.”
Rob didn’t explain. Women, he thought, were so stupid. They liked clean men, but Rob knew that the best men were the raunchiest ones. The tastiest fruit was the most rancid, that was what he always said. Or at least what he always thought. He didn’t say that kind of thing out loud very often because people would think him weird.
Now Rob sat in the champagne room, certain that something had gone wrong, that he had changed his mind. Rob asked Knuckle point-blank, right in front of Davon — the strip club, Lipsweet, was ten minutes to closing time then — and offered him five hundred dollars.
But Knuckle just scowled. One of the girls dragged Rob away as though he had made a faux pas. He thought maybe Knuckle was more violent than he had predicted.
But she said he would do it, he just needed to get drunk first. And so that was why Rob sat in the champagne room.
It’d be better if he doesn’t see you until he’s ready.
Rob was so excited. Mom had been riding him about getting a girlfriend. She texted him all night, increasingly incomprehensibly as she guzzled her gin and Rob waited in the strip club for the time to be right. Knuckle kept drinking. Rob needed him good and drunk.
Oh god, he thought, Mom’d be furious and humiliated if she knew Rob had gone to a strip club. She thought places like that should be illegal. Hell, she thought Hooters should be illegal. She’d be fine with police inspecting women’s hemlines like in the olden days.
Finally the door opened. Knuckle tottered in, on unsteady feet. He was obviously very drunk. He reeked of liquor. He had taken off his shirt, so he wore only a wifebeater, which revealed that that burn scar on the side of his neck extended in thin tendrils down his chest and his belly. It looked like something hot and sticky had been dumped on him. His muscular chest was too big for him, his size bursting out of his tight wifebeater, his pecs rippling like he needed to use them for every action he took.
“Yo,” he said. “Let’s do this.” He had a deep, gravelly voice as flat as a pancake. For the first time, Rob wondered if something was very wrong with Knuckle. He looked at Rob as though he was going to murder him, eyes narrowed to slits. Rob understood then why the strippers were afraid of him.
“Okay.” Rob quaked, but he also took a deep breath of the sweaty funk that came off Knuckle’s powerful body. He had ejected a drunk asshole from the bar a few minutes ago, that was why he was worked up now, heart racing, sweat evaporating off his shoulders. His nostrils kept flaring, like he was working up enough fury to start swinging. He actually seemed more angry now than he did when kicking that man out, like he was still getting worked up over it. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his face, because his eyebrow had been busted open when the man got a kick in. He was on the ground then, kicking up.
Knuckle either didn’t notice or didn’t care that he was bleeding. He had a black eye too, an old one, more of a yellow eye now. His nose was crooked and squat and you could tell it would be easy to manipulate, it was one of those oft-broken noses you could play with like silly-putty. His ears were cauliflowered too. Was he a boxer? Probably. MMA fighter, something like that. Men like him always were MMA fighters.
He belched. The smell of cheap alcohol flooded Rob’s nostrils. He sunk to his knees and grabbed Knuckle’s cock through his ratty jeans.
Knuckle didn’t react to Rob’s touch, like he was too drunk to notice. He swayed. His dick twitched but it didn’t get hard yet. His pecs flexed beneath his stained wifebeater.
“I am gonna hurt ya, boy,” Knuckle murmured. Or maybe it wasn’t a murmur, maybe his voice was always like that, simmering like an angry pot. “You ain’t gonna like this. I ain’t some downlow homeboy like Davon. You wanna get him off?” The way he said ‘homeboy’ made it sound like he was subbing it in for a racial slur.
“Kinda. But I want you more.”
He chuckled. “If you quit partway through, you still gotta pay me.”
“Okay. I won’t quit.”
“I’m gonna hit you. I’m gonna make you real nasty.”
“That’s what I was countin’ on.” Rob shivered with both fear and arousal. He tried to touch Knuckle’s cock through his filthy jeans, which were stained with blood and mud and who-knew-what-else, but Knuckle slapped his hand away. It wasn’t a nice slap either. It hurt, and Rob took his hand away and frowned, and then another twinge of pain came from his hand as though Knuckle had hit him a second time. He didn’t, but his glare felt like a punch.
“I plowed men who displeased me in prison, and I only do it one way, so don’t go tellin’ me how to do it. I do it my way.” Knuckle grunted. His eyes narrowed to slits. He punched with one fist into the palm of the other hand, and he did it so suddenly and with such a loud thump it made Rob jump.
“Okay.” Rob gulped. He touched Knuckle’s dick through his jeans again, because Knuckle shifted his gaze in a way that suggested he wanted it. When Knuckle didn’t immediately complain, Rob touched the bulge in those filthy jeans with his fingertips, as gentle and gingerly as he could manage it.
Knuckle wrinkled his nose. It sounded like he had hoped to turn Rob off so he could get paid without having to do anything, or maybe that was too much guile to attribute to someone like Knuckle. Knuckle let out a growl like an angry housecat. “Get ya hand off my dick, bitch. I ain’t tell you to touch it yet.”
Rob dropped his hands to the ground. “Please, sir? I want to taste it.” He blushed.
“You will.” He pulled his cock out through the fly of his jeans. He let it flop there, limp, just inches in front of Rob’s face. For a moment, nothing happened, and Rob wondered if Knuckle was backing out. Maybe this was where he was gonna get violent. Rob winced, already certain he was going to get pistol-whipped or something. Maybe one of the strippers was colluding with Knuckle to rob Rob, not that he had any money.
But instead, Knuckle closed his eyes, sighed and let loose with a stream of piss. That was so sudden Rob yelped. Knuckle didn’t have the universal body language that most men did when they pissed. Usually that wasn’t the kind of thing that could be a surprise. You can always tell when a man’s about to piss. Knuckle, on the other hand, had the same face he had on when kicking that drunk out of the bar.
The urine was hot and acrid, and it made Rob’s eyes water. He doused his face in it and let it fill his mouth. It overflowed and still more came, soaking his clothes, and it puddled up on the disgusting floor of the strip club men’s room.
Rob loved piss. It made his own cock get hard in his pants. He didn’t touch it yet because he wanted to wait, and he wanted to savor the bitter taste of Knuckle’s urine. Rob felt filthy, skin crawling, clothes plastered to his flesh. He shivered.
“Don’t swallow yet, pansy,” he said. He bent down and pursed his lips like he was going to kiss Rob. Instead he hocked up a big loogie and spat it right into Rob’s mouth. “Still no swallowing, bitch.” He spat a few more times, leering with disgust as his phlegm plopped into Rob’s throat. The taste was sour and rancid, and it made Rob’s dick hard. Knuckle stood up, turned around and dropped his jeans. He stuck his ass in front of Rob’s face, spread his cheeks and farted.
He had a nice hairy ass, which smelled of stale sweat and farts even before Knuckle let loose. Then it was even stinkier. Rob retched and gagged, but still he neither swallowed nor spat out the raunch-soup in his mouth.
Knuckle poked his head out the door. “Damn, nigga, he takin’ it, you right, you right-“
“Man… What’d I tell you ‘bout calling me yo’ nigga?” Davon sounded like he was waiting on the other side of the door, listening in, maybe snickering with one of the strippers.
“I ain’t say my nigga. I said you was a nigga-“
“Don’t.”
“Come, look at my bitch, he is filthy,” Knuckle said. His voice stayed flat. He opened the door wide enough for Davon to see, and Rob thought Davon would laugh. Instead, he shouted back to Knuckle, who stayed stoic as though nothing was happening.
Davon duked up, and still Knuckle stood there like a statue. Meanwhile Rob listened and gargled on the mess in his mouth. Davon shadowboxed the air.
“C’mon, bitch, you fuckin’ piece of shit, c’mon!” Davon kept punching the air in front of Knuckle, who stonefaced. Every time he punched Davon grunted like a cocky bastard, like he was making Knuckle flinch. Knuckle wasn’t flinching and seemed totally unperturbed by Davon’s threats.
Which made sense to Rob. Davon was big and muscular and could no doubt throw a punch, but he was clean-cut and smooth. He was a prettyboy. He was the exact opposite of Knuckle in every way, and Rob found him a total turnoff. Girls loved him. He was also famous locally, as a bouncer, cuz the girls all said he was cute. At least the girls Rob hang out with did.
Okay, Rob wouldn’t kick him out of bed either. But he’d make him get sweaty first. At least that’d be something. Davon looked like he was literally never sweaty.
One of the girls hissed at them to stop fighting, and they seemed to mostly make up, though Rob could still hear hostility in their voices.
“Come on in, Davon, I know you said you was into plowin’ any hole-“
“I ain’t say that, motherfucker. I said I wouldn’t gotta think twice about doin’ it for five hundred bucks,” Davon said. “But that was before you pissed and farted on him. No way now. Nasty-ass shit. After he takes a shower, then I let him swing on it for five hundred bucks. You hear that, freak?”
Rob gurgled loudly, and some of the mess in his mouth overflowed. Davon erupted in gags and nervous laughter.
“Aw, I smelled that, I smelled that!” He screamed and walked away, then came back closer. “Aw, shit, you are nasty!” He poked his head into the door and gagged again. He ran off, talking to the strippers in the club. “Don’t go in there, ladies, it is nasty. It is too nasty. No way.”
Pain erupted in Rob’s cheek as Knuckle slapped him hard across the face. He slammed the door shut too, cutting off the sound of Davon and the strippers guffawing while the strip club shut down for the night. The sun was about to come up.
Rob moved for Knuckle’s cock, but Knuckle pushed him to the ground. He landed with a splash in the piss-puddle
“I ain’t tell you to touch it yet.”
“I’m sorry, Knuckle-“
“Don’t you call me that. You call me sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lick the floor, bitch,” he said. He crossed his arms over his chest and sneered. He spat on the floor.
Rob bent down and licked. He lapped at the stinking spot on the filthy linoleum floor, which tasted like foot and cum. It was salty, gritty and deliciously nasty.
“Ew, you know dudes just nut all over this floor, right? Like, hundreds of guys?”
“I know, sir.”
“You are fucking disgusting. You should be ashamed of yourself. You talk to ya mama wit’ that mouth?”
He nodded. “Yes, sir. I am ashamed of myself.”
“You deepthroat?”
“Yes, sir,” Rob said. He poked a finger down his well-trained throat and gagged. Knuckle nodded his satisfaction.
“Alright. I’m gonna plow ya throat now,” he spat the words out angrily. He smacked Rob again. “You gonna fight me?”
“No-“
“Huh? Say it louder, bitch! Ya gonna fight me?!”
“No, sir-“
He smacked him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I’m pitiful!” Rob screamed. Tears of humiliation, fear and arousal erupted, and Knuckle shook his head. He smacked him over and over again. He took his cock out and flopped it over Rob’s face. He jabbed it, half-hard, like he was trying to stab Rob’s eyes out with it.
“Fuck you! Fuck you!” He pulled Rob’s jaws apart and slapped his dick right down into Rob’s mouth. His cock was still half-limp and rank from his sweaty boxers. He used all his weight to ram his dick in, pushing Rob’s head onto the floor.
He pivoted his hips, making Rob gag more violently than he ever had before. He couldn’t breathe, he could only retch at the rancid smell of Knuckle’s unclean cock. He got hard as soon as he got his dick wet, and it throbbed in Rob’s throat.
“Ah, damn, I wasn’t gonna admit this no matter what, pansy, but you swallow dick pretty good. If you was my girl, I’d tie you up in my basement, bitch.” He paused. “That’s a compliment, by the way.”
He pulled his dick out at last, and Rob took a deep, hoarse breath. He was dizzy, his lungs begging for oxygen. “Thank you, sir. I’d love to be tied up in your basement.”
“Hey, you okay in there?!” A female voice called out from outside — it sounded like Destiny, the stripper who was a friend of Knuckle’s. It was she who had assured him that the strip club wouldn’t intervene if Rob did get Knuckle to agree to some rough trade.
Knuckle looked down at Rob and raised one eyebrow. “I ain’t lettin’ you out till I’m done, so you best tell her you okay.”
Rob’s voice was hoarse and scratchy. “Yeah, I’m fine!”
“Okay… Have fun, Rob…” Destiny giggled and whispered something. A few girls giggled as they walked away.
The champagne room was very hot and humid, and Knuckle was drenched in sweat. Rob started licking his balls without being prompted. Knuckle grunted like he was going to punish Rob for doing something without permission, but then it felt so good he didn’t want to stop. He moaned.
“Get ya tongue out while you suck my balls, and really suck on ‘em,” Knuckle said. “Make some noise. Slurp ‘em. Slurp ‘em like a prison bitch.”
The salty, acidic taste of ballsweat made Rob’s eyes water all over again. He snaked his tongue out over the underside of his balls. Sweat poured into his mouth as Knuckle shook his body from side to side. He picked his balls up and plopped them back in Rob’s mouth. Rob slurped like he was sucking soda out of a nearly empty cup.
Then he switched back and forth between balls and cock. He dropped his balls in Rob’s mouth and groaned as he wiggled them around, then took his balls out and rammed his dick all the way in until Rob choked. Then he wiggled his hips around again to make Rob gag.
He pulled out and grabbed Rob by the throat, cutting him off from gasping. He dragged Rob across the room by the throat, peering him in the eyes. “I’m gonna stick ya in the ass now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s gonna hurt. I don’t use lube. I’m gonna make you bloody, if you ain’t too loose already,” he said. He was breathing heavy as though barely in control of his actions; it almost looked like he was imitating someone specific. His wild eyes were in a frenzy. Rob could definitely see why the strippers were afraid of him.
“Yes, sir-” Rob yelped in pain. Knuckle’s finger jammed into his asshole, all the way in. Rob’s hole puckered. He moaned as his pain was replaced by pleasure, and his dick rocketed to attention. Knuckle saw it, spat and punched Rob, which made him moan harder. Blood poured from his nose.
“You like it when you get punched wit’ a finger in ya ass?”
“Yes, sir,” Rob said through his tears. His dick spasmed, precum leaking out. Every time Knuckle punched him, the pain grew worse and his prostate came alive a little more.
“That is nasty. You know when I was in prison, this is how I punished my bitch. He used to cry and beg me to stop. But I ain’t never stop. I like hearin’ that sound. Makes me hard. And you like it?” He spat on Rob’s face. “You sicken me.”
“Yes, sir.” Rob sighed in relief as Knuckle withdrew his finger. But that lasted only a moment. He rammed his entire dick in with one smooth motion of his hips. Rob was loose from both arousal and the lube he had applied earlier — he knew from experience that Knuckle was not likely to bother. Alphas like him rarely did.
Knuckle grabbed Rob by his hair and ground his face into the floor. He spat over and over onto Rob’s cheeks, and on his tongue that lolled out of his open mouth. He punched Rob every few seconds in his side, not as hard as he could, but hard enough to hurt, and to make Rob’s ass clench around his cock.
“You like this, ya nasty? Huh? You disgustin’ piece of trash…”
“I love it, sir, I love it.”
He stopped moving. He hissed. “I’m gonna tell you a secret, pansy,” he said. “Ya know that story I just told ‘bout punishin’ my bitch by punchin’ him when he sittin’ on my cock?”
“Yes…” Rob had trouble concentrating due to the pain and pleasure simultaneously assaulting his senses.
“I tell every deadbeat I beat up that story to scare ‘em off ever comin’ back to this club. If they do come back, I make ‘em lick my asshole the next time. If they come back a third time, then I make ‘em my prison bitch for the night in the alley around back.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But that story is a lie,” he said. “If you ever tell anyone this, pansy, I will kill you. I swear to god, I will kill you in the most horrendous way I can think of. I will track down your mama and strike her dead too. Get me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I was the prison bitch in that scenario. I was owned by a black. I was little then, I wasn’t as big as I am now.” He paused, then he spat on Rob’s face again. “So that’s why I hate blacks. And cops, and bitches, and Mexicans and just ‘bout everyone else too. And ‘specially you, bitch.” He wrapped his hand around Rob’s throat and squeezed. “I could choke you to death right now, and you’d prolly like it. I would too. I don’t wanna go to back to prison, but I would. You’d prolly get off on that, huh?”
“Yes, sir.”
He moved his dick from side to side, twitching it inside Rob’s ass. That caused mind-blowing agony and ecstasy to course through Rob’s veins. He squealed and squirmed.
“If you ever tell anyone that, motherfucker, I will bury you alive! I will rip ya goddamn head off! Ya hear me?!”
“Yes, sir! I swear!”
He choked Rob more. He smacked his face, then put both hands on his cheeks and pressed down with all his might as he slammed his dick in and out. Rob screamed and came onto the floor. The most potent orgasm of his life ran through his body. He shot a big wad of cum that sprayed over the grimy linoleum beneath him.
Then he felt Knuckle’s orgasm as well. It was a thick and creamy load, hot, sticky, spreading throughout Rob’s body. It was tremendously satisfying, and they both sighed. For just a moment, Knuckle seemed almost caring as he rubbed Rob’s head and shoulders.
“Fuckin’ nasty, I oughta rip the asshole right off ya body.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then he pushed Rob down again. He pulled his dick out and flopped its limp, rubbery shaft all over Rob’s face. Raunchy assjuice spread down his chin, and Rob licked it clean. He loved sucking ass off limp dicks, so he guzzled down every drop even as it made him gag over and over again.
Like he was in a rush to leave, Knuckle stood up as soon as he was done. He kicked Rob to the ground and walked out the door, stark naked. He turned around before he shut the door.
“Where’s that money, pervert?”
Rob stretched and sighed. He grabbed his wallet out of his pants. He passed the money to Knuckle, while a few girls giggled at the sight of Knuckle’s bare ass and muscled back, which dripped with sweat.
“Put some damn clothes on, Knuckle!”
Knuckle ignored them and counted the money. He scowled and turned around. “I’ve got spare clothes in the back,” he said. “For just this kind of occasion.” He closed the door behind himself. The last thing Rob heard him say was, “Don’t nobody go in there. You don’t wanna see that.”
That was fine with Rob. This fantasy had worked out even better than he had hoped. He licked his own mess off the floor, then masturbated a few more times before drifting off to sleep. He sighed as he heard the strippers leave for the night. He curled up with Knuckle’s nasty clothes — which had been dirty even before they were covered in piss and sweat and cum on the floor of the champagne room. Rob sucked on Knuckle’s musky boxers like a security blanket.
He was going to take those boxers home with him. They ought to last him, he thought, until his next bout of alpha male action.

The Workers

At this work camp, the men get their needs met one way or another…

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Read the whole thing here!

Neil thought the difficult part of this job would be living out in the middle of nowhere — literally. He worked for a mining company’s construction crew, building employee housing and other structures on a remote mountainside in southeastern Alaska. He and his fellow workers had been hired from all over the world and brought here to live in the woods. It would take most of a year to build, but at the end, almost an entire town would exist here where currently there was nothing.
But the isolation and boredom were not that big of a deal. After a few weeks, Neil got used to that. The guys he worked with were loud and outgoing, and more friendly than Neil would have thought. The middle of nowhere was okay when you had a couple dozen guys to live with.
It turned out, however, that the most difficult part of the job was taking a shower. There was no plumbing out here, of course, that was one of the things being built in this work camp. So they had to use a “hygiene tent” for showering.
The hygiene tent was simply a large, ordinary tent outside of camp, just like the tents Neil and the other workers lived in. The only thing that made the hygiene tent special was that it was rigged up with hoses as showerheads and had a constant campfire with coals out front to heat up the water before showers. It was living rough, but it was pretty nice as far as living rough went. Neil liked to camp, so it seemed fine to him, in the abstract.
It was difficult in practice, however, because Neil had to shower with others.
The idea hadn’t bothered him — he was on the baseball team in college, so he was used to changing in a group. But it was different here. In college, everyone had been embarrassed. They got naked as little as possible and they tried to avoid looking at each other. They showered as far away from each other as possible, without talking, and as quickly as they could. Nobody looked at each other’s cocks. Even hinting that you might have seen a buddy’s penis was considered an unpardonable offense.
Here, the men were older, rougher, many of them having spent time in prison. Others had been homeless for a time, some were recovering drug addicts, and one had spent years doing missionary work in Honduras. They were not self-conscious at all. Some of them got naked as soon as work was done for the day, and they just sat around drinking beer and scratching their balls.
That was not something Neil had ever experienced before. They thought nothing of it, just dropping trou and letting it all hang out. One man even had a big scar on his dick — Neil didn’t notice at first, of course, because he didn’t look, but then the others kept making jokes about how that man’s cock had been torn off by some “crazy chick”. Neil couldn’t help but look, it was just a joke, his cock was there, but scarred.
“Man, if a girl showed up here, swear to God… I don’t even care how crazy she is, I’d fuck the shit outta any female who gives up the pussy. She could be as fat as all hell, more cushion for the pushin’!”
“My pops used to do this kind of work, he said they used to send prostitutes to live here too. They were just part of the crew. Ain’t allowed to do that no mo’.”
Neil wasn’t used to people talking like that. He was from a nice middle-class household. Nobody spoke of prostitutes openly (or even in secret), and they certainly didn’t sit around stark naked. He tried to pretend to fit in though. The one time he got made fun of was when he saw two Confederate-flag-tatted rednecks take their limp cocks out and sword-fight with each other.
A gasp escaped from Neil’s lips at the sight of their rough old-man cocks rubbing against each other. Neil blushed — he probably seemed like some Victorian-era elite, ready to flop onto a fainting couch. Neil hated that he came across that way, but he couldn’t help it. This was gross and unsanitary, and he didn’t care who knew he felt that way. “You’re touching dicks!”
“You never touched a man’s cock before?”
“Check out the lily-livered pussy! Hey, you scared of a real man’s dick!”
“No!” Neil said, blushing. “I just don’t cotton to touching other men’s cocks.”
“Well, shit, you just wait for Rob to show up. He’ll set ya straight.”
“Rob’ll swallow you til you come out the other end, boy! He’ll rock ya world!”
Neil didn’t want to ask who Rob was. He was picturing some giant hillbilly who would make him ‘do things’ at night. He was already picturing himself squealing like a piggie.
But instead, Rob turned out to be a slim, delicate man with a flirtatious lilt to his voice and a feminine hourglass-shape to his body. He came to every work camp in the area, it seemed, and he helped the men get a nut off and relieve their stiffies. It sounded disgusting to Neil, but he took it in stride.
The tradition was called the Power Shower — that was why Rob came to this camp. Every man in the camp was “required” to let a man jack him off in the hygiene tent. Depending on who you asked, it was either a rule every day, every week, every month or just once in a lifetime. They all said men worked better once they had drained their nuts, and management didn’t want them swaggering into town on leave with swollen balls and Roman hands.
The weirdo, Rob, who presumably was hired to service the roughnecks, was supposed to do it at night, when everyone else was asleep. That meant there was no way to verify it, but they all treated it like a requirement.
He planned on lying about it. He waited for a night when nobody was up late, figuring he could claim it had happened that night and nobody would believe him. A few others had made it pretty clear they didn’t do it even though it was “required”, so it was obviously not a real requirement. Neil fully intended to just make it up. Nobody could prove or disprove it happened. A lot of the other workers did accuse each other of faking it, of being impotent, of being cowards, and they all denied it. Each roughneck would have to do or do not, or lie or lie not, as he saw fit. Rob had made it clear he wouldn’t confirm or deny that anyone had done it. Rob did say it was a requirement, that he was promised every roughneck cock in the camp, but he did not claim that everyone actually did it.
So that was Neil’s plan. He’d wait until he fit in better, and then he’d say he did, but he’d say it had happened a few weeks before, like it was no big deal at all at the time. A lot of them treated it like that, as though they got jerked off by men all the time (which, Neil supposed, was possibly true).
But that wasn’t how it turned out at all. Neil never got a chance to pretend it had happened. Before he even knew what was happening, he had done it.
Neil woke up one morning early — he was the only man in camp who occasionally woke up before dawn — and stumbled out to take a piss. He realized Rob was there, cooking breakfast over an open fire. Neil nodded a bleary-eyed hello at him.
And then he realized he was so horny his balls could burst. He’d been stressed out since getting here, but only now felt comfortable enough to realize how horny he was. He wanted to fuck more than anything. He’d had a sexy dream that he only half-remembered, but the part he remembered was that he nearly got to fuck a woman. He woke up right before the sex began, and now he was more horny than he’d been in a long time.
Damn, he wanted to fuck.
Respectfully. With a respectful manner towards the woman. As part of a dutiful relationship. Neil gulped.
His ex was in that dream. Claire was her name, she was blonde as the sun, with tits like… and a personality Neil appreciated. She was smart. A college graduate. She was so hot the thought of her made his dick throb. He wished he’d had a wet dream. When he was a younger man, if he had a dream like that, he absolutely would have. He’d have woken up mid-orgasm, cum spurting over his chest and belly.
But nowadays, he needed some real stimulation.
Rob looked at him and winked. “Hey,” he said. He stood at an angle, like a woman waiting to be asked to dance. He was fey and limp-wristed, and Neil didn’t much want to get to know him. He wondered how much Rob got paid for doing this shit. He didn’t ask though. It must be a lot.
Neil grunted. He decided to go take a shower in the hygiene tent to calm down. A cold shower would help.
I bet Rob swallows dick all the way down. Girls don’t really deep-throat, but that weirdo probably does.
He tried not to think about that. He went into the shower tent and turned on the hot water. He liked showering early because there was plenty of hot water. The coals had been burning all night, and the water bubbled away outside the hygiene tent
He turned around, and saw Rob standing in front of him. Rob grinned. “Hey,” he said again. “Are you ready for your Power Shower?”
“Uh…” Neil wanted to say no, but he couldn’t think of a reason to refuse. He wanted a nut so bad it hurt. Just thinking about it made his dick twitch. No one would know. Rob probably wouldn’t say, and even if he did, he often made grandiose claims as a joke. Rob claimed that guy Cooter had a sixteen-inch cock, and they all saw in the shower that it wasn’t that. Nobody would just believe Rob automatically.
A jolt of realization flooded Neil — a lot of guys left it unclear whether they had done it or merely joked about doing it, or whether they did it willingly or only because there was a “rule”. That vagueness, he thought, must be because they were all as uncertain about it as Neil. Nobody could ever be criticized for it if it was never clear who had done it or not.
So there was no reason not to do it. No one would know. Neil could do it here in the dark, and it’d be like it never happened.
By the time he had talked himself into it, Neil felt his dick disappearing into Rob’s mouth. The dim light of the hygiene tent made it seem a lot easier because Neil could easily pretend it was a girl on his cock. A woman. A respectful, respectable woman, whom Neil respected. Unlike these other roughnecks, Neil went to college, and he wanted to act like it.
A soft warmth suffused his body, and the stresses drifted out with each one of his rapidly hastening breath. Pleasure erupted through his veins. Neil’s knees almost buckled, and he held onto the fabric wall of the hygiene tent until that made the whole thing shake. He let go.
“Oh shit…” Neil tried to stay quiet, but his breathing grew jagged and harsh as his dick rocketed to full erection. Little spams of sensations wracked his muscular frame, and his hands tightened into claws that dug at the air around him. He clenched his teeth. “Daaaaamn…”
He’d never had felt like this. He hadn’t realized it until now, but he suspected that no girl had ever really wanted to give him a blowjob — they did it to be nice, or as foreplay, but not because they loved sucking dick.
Rob, it was obvious, actually loved the taste of dick. He deep-throated Neil’s cock until his nose nuzzled Neil’s pubic hair. Flashes of intense ecstasy shot up Neil’s spine, and he sucked in his breath. Neil shifted his weight around, as it felt so good it was kind of cunfomortable.
He was on the verge of orgasm right away. If he weren’t nervous and focused on trying to be quiet, he would have blown his wad immediately. He was glad to take a little longer because it would have been embarrassing otherwise. Real men don’t blow their nut too quickly.
Neil found himself gripping Rob’s head and feeding his dick down his throat. He had never done anything like that. He threw his head back and nearly howled like a wolf — he managed to swallow the sound, so he just screwed up his mouth and face as he opened his mouth.
Then, at last, an orgasm ripped through him. Cum sprayed down Rob’s throat and into his belly. The most intense pleasure of Neil’s life flowed like a flood in his veins, and his knees buckled.
“Goddamn…” A second fat load of jizz spurted into Rob, as Neil’s cock slowly slid out. Neil’s whole body undulated when he choked, which massaged another final long spurt of cum. A long chest-rattled moan came from Neil, and a murky gurgling groan of desire came Rob, as he slurped down every drop of cum he could get at.
Rob pulled off his dick. He wiped his lips off. “Lemme guess… lacrosse?”
“What?” Neil was breathless and exhausted.
“Which sport did you play in college? Was it lacrosse? I’m trying to develop a talent for guessing sports based on cum flavor,” Rob said. He laughed. “You taste like a lacrosse jock.”
Neil blushed. “Oh, well… I played baseball more, but yeah, I went to a Maryland prep school, we were required to play lacrosse too. I’m more of a baseball guy, I played baseball in college.”
“I’ll count that one as a win,” Rob said. He stood and stretched his knees. He wiped cum off his face, then he slurped up what he could get off the back of his hand. “You can thank me now.”
“Thanks.”
“And now you get to watch my ass as I walk away,” Rob said. He swayed his hips as he walked out of the shower tent. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you did it.”
Rob walked away with a spring in his step. He hadn’t expected Neil to be that horny so soon, but he was glad to have taken advantage of it. Most guys took a few months to succumb. But Neil was younger than most, Rob thought, so he probably had virile balls, loaded with cum. Rob had a sixth sense about which workers were likely to give up the dick soon, and for tonight, he had his eyes set on a rough-faced worker named Dog Barren.
Dog lead a daily prayer before dinner. The others rolled their eyes at it, but it seemed no one wanted to be the one who didn’t pray before dinner. This was a Christian work crew. So Dog had everyone hold hands in a circle, while he led them all in a prayer. He remained shirtless, his broad, smooth body covered in the day’s sweat. One of the things that made him intimidating — aside from his muscles and his size — was the swastika and nazi tattoos all over him. During the prayer, that was all Rob could think about.
“I ain’t no nazi,” he had said when he first took his shirt off. His voice was a flat growl, like his throat was lined with razorblades, and he always sounded like he had more to say but wasn’t allowed to say it. “I was in prison. I’s gettin’ ’em removed.” Most of the swastikas were now just faded scars or outlines that hadn’t yet been fully lasered off. One dragon on his bicep was clearly the number 88 that had been turned into a pair of talons, with the dragon drawn to attach to them. “I’s on the Christian road now.”
But alas, he thought, it would never happen. Dog had said no way. He wouldn’t do anything motivated by lust. He saved his seed for a Christian wife. He didn’t say that like he believed it, but he did say it, and he was one of the few roughnecks who had not yet come to Rob in the night.
He was almost ready to give up here and move onto a different camp. A bunch of lumberjacks had set up near Bend, and he could head over there — a lot of them were Latinos who loved ramrodding pasivos. The only reason he didn’t leave was that it was raining, and had been for days, so the ground was muddy. That would make it difficult to get out to the remote lumberjack camp and even more difficult to set up a tent out there.
So Rob stayed. He slept near the hygiene tent. He was a light sleeper, so when someone went in there and turned on the water, he always woke up. That was a signal that someone wanted his mouth.
Today, however, when he went in there just before dawn, he was surprised to see Dog Barren standing alone in the shower water. A long tanned dick dangled between his legs. It was fat and juicy, and it drew Rob’s attention right away.
“Hey. Oh. Hi, sorry,” Rob said. His heart beat. He still didn’t entirely trust that Dog was no longer a nazi. “I just… I didn’t know it was you. Normally people only come out here before dawn if they want a Power Shower. I-“
“Shut up.” Dog chewed on his lower lip. He came closer to Rob.
“Okay. That’s fine.” Rob’s heart quickened, and he took a step back.
“Hmm-hmm. I know it’s fine.” He paused for a long time. He looked Rob up and down. He seemed to angle his body to make sure Rob saw his cock and balls in the battery-operated light of the hygiene tent, but Rob couldn’t tell if that was deliberate or not.
“Oh.”
“Come here,” he said. Rob came closer, and Dog put one heavy hand on his shoulder. He pushed down gently. “What happens at night, once the lights go off… That don’t count. God forgives anything that happens in the dark.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“So why don’t you get on your knees and see what happens.”
“Oh… Okay.” Rob dropped to his knees. Am I really about to jerk off a Nazi? Or a possible-Nazi at least?
But before Rob could second-guess himself, his mouth was pried open, and Dog’s fat cock slipped into his mouth. It was cool from the night air, and limp at first.
It firmed up in seconds though. Dog groaned and murmured. He held onto Rob’s head and fed his cock in until he was all the way down Rob’s throat, and Rob’s tongue snaked out to teasingly touch his balls.
“You see, it ain’t a sin if ya know all the rules,” Dog said. “Like… in the dark, it’s alright to relieve ya sins, and I’m-a do somethin’ else to make it okay.” He pulled his cock out of Rob’s mouth. “But first, boy, I wanna make sure you got discretion. Huh?”
“Yeah-“
Dog grabbed him by the neck with one hand. “That ain’t sound serious. You just said yeah like some slack slut who ain’t think this was important. But I is askin’ you as a Christian to put ya name on a promise before God. Ya feel me?” He smiled and placed one of Rob’s hands on his chest. His pecs flexed beneath Rob’s fingers. “So don’t just mumble yeah wit’out thinkin’. You gonna keep this a secret?”
“Yes, sir,” Rob said, his voice thready and nervous.
“Good. Now bend over on all fours. No talking unless I ask you a question or tell you to do somethin’. Got that?”
“Yes, sir-“
“Don’t call me sir, I ain’t a prison guard,” he said. “Now shut your mouth.”
A jolt of pain shot up Rob’s spine as Dog’s cock rammed into his ass. Dog was tight and struggled to take it all, but he soon felt a surge of pleasure in his bones. He grunted lightly and Dog lightly grabbed the back of his head.
“Shush, no talkin’.”
That made it difficult for Rob. He couldn’t even grunt or moan, even as Dog made loud slurping sounds and chewed on his lip, while his cock gurgled in and out of Rob’s ass. His precum made for a moist sound that filled the air of the shower tent.
Then, before Rob even knew what had happened, Dog had reached around him and grabbed his cock.
“It ain’t no sin if you give a reacharound. Cuz it ain’t motivated purely by lust, ya feel me? Ya doin’ it for a good reason, to make some boy feel good. You pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down?”
“Yes.” Rob could barely think. The pressure in his ass was potent, and his cock throbbed in Dog’s grasp. Agonizing pleasure shot up Rob’s spine. He nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, uh, yes, I get it. Oh god! Oh god-“
“No talkin’,” Dog said. “I won’t kiss you on the lips, boy. Don’t even ask.” His voice trailed off as he lowered his body onto Rob’s back. Then, despite his words, he forced Rob’s head to the side and kissed him on the lips as his muscles all flexed against Rob’s back.
“Ah…”
“Shush, boy, I ain’t ask you no question,” Dog said. He pinned Rob flat on the wooden floor of the shower tent, pounding and grinding away at his ass while stroking his dick with one hand. Rob had never experienced anything like this. “You love my dick inside you, huh? Say you love my dick inside you, boy.”
“I love your dick inside me,” Rob said. His voice broke as though he was almost in tears, but it was his orgasm breaking inside him. He struggled not to cry out passionately, and when he was unable to control himself, the sound was swallowed up by another kiss from Dog’s mouth.
Dog pulled off as he shot his own wad into Rob’s ass. He opened his mouth, hot breath condensing onto Rob’s cheek. “I won’t ever kiss you, boy, don’t even try.” He slathered Rob in kisses, his cum filling Rob’s with creamy, sticky goodness.
Finally they were both done. Dog stayed in place, his cock limpening inside Rob for a few minutes. At last, every drop of cum had leaked out. He pulled his dick out and spread Rob’s cheeks. He peered at the gaping cream-filled hole the best he could in the dim light of the shower tent.
“I think I love you, boy,” Dog said. “But only for right now. You’s a sinner, and in the light of the Lord’s dear sun, you will soon bask in rays of truth.”
“Uh-huh.”
Dog grunted. “Don’t move, boy. I don’t wanna see you spill a drop. Let my nut fill you up all inside, that way you don’t forget the message I been givin’ you.” He paused. “Yeah, this was a message, boy, a message about religion. You best find yaself the Holy Spirit in ya heart and get forgiveness. Me? I already been forgived, ya feel me?”
“Yeah,” Rob said, too tired to really think about what he was saying.
After a long pause, Dog grabbed the clothes he had come in with. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Then he said, “You stay here ten minutes to think about what you done. Not just tonight, all the things you done. I’m goin’ to bed.” He paused. “Bring lube tomorrow night.” Then he walked away without waiting for a response.
“I will.” Rob was dazed and exhausted, yet so satisfied he thought he might never leave. These, he thought, were the workers for him.

The Gangbanger

Rico is temporarily homeless, but luckily his gang gives him a place to stay… but he’s got a roommate. His name is Thumper, and he’s an old head, an ex-con and a booty bandit to boot! Can Rico satisfy his new roommate’s unbridled desires?!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Rico walked into the Cityside Barbershop. Heart thumping, he carried with him virtually all of his belongings in a trash bag. He hoped nobody who saw him knew that. He tried to look cocky. The people in the barbershop — barbers and customers — looked at him like they knew what was up, like they could tell at a glance what he was: homeless.
He tried not to think of himself as homeless, even though he knew that’s precisely what he was.
He had money. Not quite enough to rent a nice place, but he might have been able to get a cheap room somewhere. The downside to that was that he wouldn’t be able to afford to save up enough to afford somewhere nicer. His stepdad kicking him out without warning had really put a damper on things.
The last couple months had been rough for Rico. After losing two ounces of heroin, he was in trouble with his boss in the Bloods, Thumper. Then his girlfriend dumped him, and now his stepfather had kicked him out as punishment for selling drugs. Everything was going wrong in Rico’s life. Six months ago he was the most respected gangbanger in the Bloods. Today, he was a hobo, considering whether he could squat above a barbershop for free. What time does a barbershop open in the morning? Probably early.
Avoiding eye contact, Rico went into the backroom. He had a feeling the customers and barbers at the Barbershop knew why he was carrying a trash bag into the back. He also knew that Thumper didn’t tell them, but they looked at him with a mixture of pity and scorn. They knew he was homeless.
Of course no one said anything. Everyone pretended to think Thumper was merely taking in a roommate half his age, rent-free. Which he was. There was just more to the story, and all them all knew it.
Behind the Cityside Barbershop was a staircase that led to an apartment on the second floor of the building. That was Thumper’s apartment. To be more precise, it was a Bloods apartment, and the Bloods let Thumper live in it because Thumper did thirty-four years for the Bloods. They owed him, and part of that was giving him a free apartment.
The catch was that Thumper had to share it with a young nigga now and then, which did not bother Thumper. It did bother Rico.
He heavyfooted into the apartment, a feeling dread spreading deep in his loins. Rico had the sinking feeling that this was adulthood, and he was soon going to wish he was a teenager again. High school was so simple, but so long ago. Thumper was in his forties, maybe older, which was ancient as far as Rico was concerned.
When Rico arrived, Thumper was in his living room, meeting with a few other gangbangers. As they all finished up Bloods business, Rico “moved in”, a process completed when he dropped his trash bag.
There was no spare bedroom, so Rico was sleeping on the couch. He was fine with that because he hoped it would spur him into finding a new place. He didn’t want to live here forever, like Thumper’s little butt-boy.
“Yo, Rico, come here and rap at us,” Thumper said, the meeting dwindling as the others left one by one. His voice was deep and tough, commanding respect. “We talkin’ ‘bout what to do regardin’ the Sweet Hill boys. Whatchoo think?”
“Well, I think we gotta beat them niggas down,” Rico said, more because he wanted to seem tough than because he had any particular knowledge of the situation. He was only vaguely aware that the Sweet Hill gang had begun selling crack on territory the Bloods considered to be their own.
“Alright, that’s a plan,” Thumper said. He smiled at Rico. “You get yo’ niggas together and do it this week, okay?”
Rico hadn’t thought he’d be put in charge of it, but he could hardly say no when Thumper was letting him stay here rent-free. He nodded as though it wasn’t going to be difficult. Some of the other thugs looked at Rico pitiably, and Rico tried not to notice.
Now the big problem Rico had was that he needed to find some niggas who were willing to put their lives at risk for a plan Rico hadn’t come up with yet to attack some unknown number of strangers somewhere in the city. Rico was going to struggle to put that crew together, and he wondered if Thumper had assigned him that role to see if he was up to snuff, if could actually put plans together. As a true blue gangbanger — or a true red gangbanger, as Rico liked to think of it — Rico very much thought of himself as capable of doing that.
But none of his friends would even let him sleep on their couch, so Rico had doubts he could get them to go in at the Sweet Hill boys guns blazing.
Thumper clapped his hands together as though the Sweet Hill problem was as good as solved, and the last few Bloods headed out the door. Rico’s mind raced as he tried to think of a way out of this. He shouldn’t have agreed to the Sweet Hill mission so readily. He didn’t even know where Sweet Hill was — Sweet Hill was the name of the shopping center with the CVS and the T-Mobile store. Was Rico supposed to gather a crew to go shoot up the T-Mobile store? He couldn’t very well ask Thumper now, could he? He’d already agreed to do it, he’d look like an idiot admitting only now that he didn’t know where the Sweet Hill boys were, who they were, how to hit them, how many they were, etc.
And no guns! Rico didn’t have any guns! He had a week to put together a crew, find out what and where the Sweet Hill boys are, find guns, go in shooting, succeed in intimidating them and dispose of the guns and perhaps dead bodies. Since he’d agreed to do it so confidently, if he succeeded — which he obviously wouldn’t — but if he succeeded, he’d barely get any credit for it. Thumper would just say ‘good job, you did what you said you’d do’.
He should have made a bigger deal out of how difficult it would be. Maybe he could have gotten Thumper to at least provide the guns.
Once the door shut, Rico was alone with Thumper for the first time ever — it hadn’t occurred to Rico until this moment that he had never been alone with Thumper. Thumper was one of the head honchos in the Bloods, but Rico had only ever spent time with him in a group.
Now he very much wished one of his niggas had let him sleep on the couch.
The apartment stayed silent once the others were gone. Rico gulped. Sweat beaded on his forehead because he sensed Thumper staring at him, evaluating him, maybe just seeing how long he’d take being stared at before he snapped. Thumper was like that. He be testing niggas.
“You ever mess around on the downlow, Rico?” Thumper asked after a long, awkward silence fell between them.
“Uh, yeah. Once,” Rico said. He instantly regretted saying that. It was true, but he had heard Thumper was often on the downlow with his close niggas — only for Thumper, “downlow” meant you serviced him, not any kind of reciprocal behavior. That wasn’t what Rico meant by it.
Rico looked down at his feet, avoiding eye contact from Thumper.
After a long pause, Thumper raised his eyebrows. “Just once, huh? You do it with a nigga you respec’?”
“I guess so.” Rico didn’t know how to answer that. He did it with Kayshawn Henderson, who he didn’t really respect or get along with — they were just drunk — but he didn’t want to explain that to Thumper. Kayshawn wasn’t even a Blood. Plus it was downlow, which means secret. Thumper might be angry if Rico shared a secret, because Thumper trusted Rico not to spill the beans on Bloods business.
“Huh,” Thumper said with a knowing nod. He raised his eyebrows. Rico sighed. He winced. He got a very strong impression that Thumper wanted Rico to jerk him off.
Thumper was like that. After thirty-four years in prison, Thumper did not jack himself off. He saw it as demeaning. He often demanded niggas jack him off — with mouth! Swallowing! The whole nine yards! Rico could understand the impulse. He didn’t like jacking himself off either. It made him feel like an immature brat.
But he couldn’t bring himself to mouth Thumper off. Thumper was an old man by Rico’s standards. It would be humiliating. Thumper could get any random crackhead in this neighborhood to mouth him off.
Thumper crossed his arms over his chest, accentuating the softball-sized pecs beneath his tight t-shirt. He ran his tongue over his teeth and clucked. “Huh,” he said again.
“Thumper, I… Uh, thanks a lot fo’ lettin’ me stay here,” Rico said. His heart raced again. Just like when he was nervous those niggas in the barbershop would realize he was homeless, he was nervous now that all the niggas in the Bloods would hear about him jerking Thumper off.
Thumper nodded.
Rico sighed again. This wouldn’t be that bad, he thought, he’d done it before. A lot of Bloods had jerked Thumper off too — Thumper loved finding reasons to make a loyal Blood do it, like if they fucked something up. So nobody would be shocked to find out Rico did it. In fact, they’d probably assume he did, cuz Thumper seemed like the type to make his roommate jerk him off. He was precisely that kind of nigga, and Rico was too young and powerless in the organization to resist.
When Thumper had stood before him for what seemed like a long time, Rico sunk to his knees, afront the couch he was to sleep on tonight. Thumper seemed huge from down below him. Rico gulped.
At last that position made Thumper grunt out his satisfaction. He stood still, looming over Rico, who winced and wished there was another position to do it in — he could hardly make demands though — it would be less humiliating if Thumper sat on the couch and Rico could lay down on it or something like that. Any position in which Rico didn’t have to kneel like a beggar would be an improvement.
Rico waited for a moment, thinking Thumper would take his own dick out, but he didn’t. He just towered over Rico and watched. Rico winced at the realization that Thumper wanted Rico to take it out. That was prison bitch stuff, he thought.
Reaching up for Thumper’s dick, Rico shuddered. Then, much to his surprise, Thumper batted his hand away.
“You should ask a nigga fo’ permission befo’ you start stroking his dick,” Thumper said. “If that’s what you wanna do.”
Rico spoke quietly, blushing so hard his cheeks burned. “Thumper… do you want, uh…? I mean… is it okay, uh, if I jerk you off?”
“That’s a real nice offer, nigga. That’s a good gesture,” he said, as though it was the first time he had said that word and was unsure how to pronounce it. Before Rico could undo his belt, Thumper clucked his disapproval. “Play wit’ it through my pants first, nigga. Go slow, make it feel good.”
Rico blanched and winced. He gently stroked the bulge in Thumper’s dick, and for some reason just feeling that spongy flesh through his jeans made Rico gag. Thumper’s manhood stirred beneath the denim. He groaned in a way that made Rico shiver with disgust. He groaned like he was on the verge of orgasm, even though all Rico had done was touch his dickshaft through his jeans. Thumper wasn’t even hard.
He took Thumper’s belt in hand to undo it, but Thumper stopped him. He dragged Rico’s hand back to the bulge in his jeans. “No, don’t take my pants off,” Thumper said. “Just undo the fly and take it out. Look me in the eye when you jerk me off. That’s a mark of respec’, nigga.”
His hands trembled. Rico wasn’t sure if he could do that — stroking another man’s cock was humiliating enough, but looking Thumper in the eye while he did it would make it even worse. The zipper seemed impossibly loud, and when it was open, Rico got a burst of stale crotch sweat in his nostrils. He gagged again, and Thumper clucked with disapproval once more.
“You may take it out now, Rico,” Thumper said. Something in the way he said his name made Rico shudder all over again.
Rico had to reach in to pull out Thumper’s dick, which was still soft and veiny, dark brown like dirt, slick with sweat. He wanted to wipe it off, but Rico was sure Thumper would say that was disrespectful. The smell of unwashed ballsweat made Rico’s stomach churn.
That cock was huge. Rico knew Thumper had a big one, lots of niggas said so, but he had never seen it in person. It was a foot long even fully soft, and it was hot and slimy with sweat, so thick Rico could barely get his whole hand around it. It dangled afront Thumper’s crotch, and it swayed like a pendulum when Thumper moved.
Rico opened his mouth and closed his eyes, and he waited.
After a few seconds of nothing happening, Rico opened his eyes again. Thumper’s dick was still there, still limp, and seeing it made the smell of crotchsweat more potent, so Rico bit back a gag. That was when he looked up and saw Thumper’s furrowed brow aimed down at him. Rico gulped.
“Well? Put’cha mouth on it, nigga,” Thumper said. “Get’cha hands on it. Is you showin’ respec’ or not?”
“I am-“
“Then do somethin’ with it,” Thumper said. He put his hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows.
Rico touched it again, gently with one hand, which he then wrapped around the shaft. He grimaced. This was a lot easier with Kayshawn, he thought. Then they were drunk, having snuck booze into a church lock-in, and they were sharing a bed, the lights stayed off, they barely talked, it was more of an accidental fumbling thing than a real downlow “seduction” of any kind. By the time Rico pondered it, it was over with.
This felt entirely different. Thumper’s cock had that old-man smell too, with seemingly too much dickskin. Rico didn’t like how it roped around in his grasp as he stroked it gingerly, slowly, as badly as possible at first because he didn’t want a reputation for doing it good, then he realized the better his hands were, the less Thumper might demand he use his mouth, so Rico stroked it as good as he could. Thumper kept letting out little moans and pumping his hips as though so horny he couldn’t resist attempting at Rico’s mouth. Thumper’s dick stayed soft though, and he was obviously not that horny, he was just pretending.
“Hmm, you got a real pretty mouth, nigga,” Thumper murmured. “Put it on my dick.”
Rico winced, but he opened his mouth. He held onto Thumper’s cock by the root with one hand, and he moved his open mouth in that direction with his eyes scrunched shut. Thumper used both hands to guide Rico’s head until his mouth and nose collided with Thumper’s sweaty cockshaft.
A furious gag came outta Rico’s mouth as Thumper’s spongy limp dick touched his lips and then his tongue. There was already a slight cummy taste, either precum from Rico’s masturbating it through Thumper’s pants or maybe left over from something else. Maybe it was leftover from when he was “on the downlow” with some other nigga, Rico didn’t know how often a downlow gangbanger like Thumper would do that. Maybe lots. They said he was a booty bandit in prison.
Thumper kept his arms over his chest, so Rico had to chase his cock with his mouth. Every time the tip got in his mouth, he tasted sweaty old-nigga nastiness again, gagged and spat it out. Thumper wasn’t getting an erection like that.
But rico couldn’t quite bring himself to go any deeper than the tip. Even that felt impossibly thick, and Rico wasn’t sure he could go any farther. Thumper’s dick was thicker than his mouth.
“When you handle the dick of a nigga you respec’, Rico, you should deep-throat it,” Thumper said. “You know what that means? You evuh get head from a girl?”
“Yes!” Rico said, annoyed at Thumper’s patronizing tone.
“Don’t you talk to me like that, nigga,” Thumper said, his voice growly and threatening. Rico shuddered. Thumper forced his eyes open — Rico hadn’t even noticed he closed them — and sneered down at Rico. “Real niggas got backup plans, Rico, you know that? They ready to get kicked outta they place. They got cash.”
Rico wanted to defend himself, but when he tried to pull off Thumper’s dick, Thumper’s hands gripped his head and held it in place. Thumper growled again, and he pushed Rico’s head deeper onto his shaft. Rico gagged all over again as that cock pushed into his throat.
“Take my balls out wit’ one hand, and play wit’ em. Gentle-like,” Thumper said. He groaned as Rico did so, gingerly playing with his sweaty sac. The feel of that slick flesh made Rico’s stomach churn. His cock throbbed and grew warmer and warmer as it firmed up in Rico’s mouth. “Yeah, that’s nice, nigga. That’s respec’.”
The sour flavor of precum assaulted Rico’s senses, and brought tears to his eyes. He was glad it was dark enough in this room that Thumper couldn’t see — it wasn’t really crying anyway, he thought, it was tears from suffocation and stress, not being a pansy. He didn’t think Thumper would acknowledge a difference though.
The tasty of sweaty cockmeat grew more and more tolerable, though Rico thought that was mainly because he sucked up all the sweat and grime, replacing it with plain spit. The veiny shaft invaded his throat with each powerful thrust of Thumper’s cock.
The moist grunting of Thumper’s voice was offputting to Rico. He sounded like a rutting animal, and it reminded Rico that his mouth was just being used now. Thumper was going to continue to use his mouth and body — though hopefully not his ass — until Rico moved out. That was possibly the entire reason Thumper offered to let him stay here.
“Whatchoo plan wit’ my nut?” Thumper asked as he groaned.
Rico didn’t understand the question. He just looked up at Thumper, and tried to ignore that massive shaft drilling into his throat. All of a sudden, a burst of salty precum hit his tongue, and Rico gagged violently.
But Thumper kept a grip on his head. Rico tried to look down as he retched, only he couldn’t with Thumper’s hands on his head. All he could do was gag up around the erect cock bobbing around on his face, leaving a layer of precum that only made him gag again and again.
“Huh? I’m gonna blow my load,” Thumper said. “Whatchoo gonna do wit’ it? You want me to shoot it on yo’ face or what? In yo’ hand? You need a plan.”
Rico was glad to hear that he had a choice. He pulled off Thumper’s dick, intending to say in my hand, which was the least objectionable option. But then he saw Thumper’s scrunched-up face, and Rico knew this was a test. He wasn’t sure exactly what the answer was, but in my hand wasn’t it.
“Think long and hard, Rico. You got a lotta factors to consider. Yo’ respec’ fo’ me, if you got any,” Thumper said. He sniffled.
“I’ll… uh, swallow it,” Rico said, wincing as Thumper mollwopped his erection onto Rico’s face, smearing spit and precum all over it. He held his breath to avoid gagging.
“Yeah,” Thumper said. “You will. But befo’ that, I wanna see it. I like seeing it. Play’ wit’ it a bit.”
“Oh.”
“So whatchoo think?”
“I, uh… I guess I’ll do that.”
“So where you want me to nut? In yo’ mouth?”
It was obvious he wanted Rico to say yes, so he did so. Then Thumper pushed his cock back in Rico’s mouth. He grunted as he wrapped his hands behind Rico’s head.
He thrust his hips so powerfully his cockshaft pushed down Rico’s throat until his nose was nestled in Thumper’s pubic hair. Rico couldn’t even gag because his throat was so choked with throbbing dickmeat. All he could do was sit there on his knees and let it happen.
“That’s a good idea, Rico. I’ll shoot my load in yo’ mouth, just like you askin’ me to. That’s very respec’ful, nigga. Don’t swallow nothin’ till I tell you to, okay? We gonna play a bit first.”
Rico nodded, but even as he did, Thumper was blowing his wad. He shot it right in the back of Rico’s throat. Some of it dripped into his gullet, but Rico instinctively avoided swallowing it. He would have accidentally spilled it all but Thumper kept a tight grip on his head. Thumper grunted, rutting like a pig as his fat cock spasmed inside Rico.
At last it was over, and a burst of jizz spurted onto Rico’s tongue. Salty cum filled his mouth. It seemed like a huge amount, but Rico wasn’t sure how much was normal or how much it really was. His stomach churned with disgust, begging him to spit it out. The sour and salty flavor made his eyes water all over again, and he had to hold back a violent retch.
“Open up,” Thumper said, his voice wavering as another jet of cum hit Rico’s mouth. He kneeled down and looked in. “Come on,” he said. “It’s dark in here. I wanna see yo’ pretty-boy mouth.”
Gagging and holding onto his stomach, Rico managed to spread his lips without spilling any of the cum filling his mouth, as Thumper’s dicktip hovered over his face and spewed a few final drops onto his nose and upper lip. Thumper looked into his mouth as though trying to find something. He smiled with satisfaction, then spat right into it. The bitterness of his saliva made Rico choke. He nearly spilled but Thumper held him by the neck.
“That’s a big one,” Thumper said. He stuck one finger in, all the way back until Rico gagged. Then Thumper held the palm of his hand out until Rico spat the entire wad into it. Rico was glad to be rid of it, though he could still feel that snotty texture on his tongue. There was a pubic hair stuck in the back of his throat too, but he couldn’t spit it out right now.
Thumper raised his eyebrows as Rico got ahold of his stomach and his gagging. He kept that cum-filled palm right in front of Rico’s face, where the scent assaulted his nostrils, making it hard for Rico to regain his composure. Thumper cleared his throat. “I’ll ignore your gagging, Rico. That’s rude, but I understand…” It was obvious he wanted Rico to suck the cum back up, and he raised his eyebrows as though to say You better do it now, it’ll get worse when it’s cold. Rico opened his mouth, but Thumper cleared his throat and shook his head.
Rico blushed. “Uh… Thumper, can I eat your nut?”
“Yes, you may. Thank you for askin’, nigga.”
Rico gagged and nearly vomited as he sucked it off Thumper’s callused palm. He choked it down and waited there, blushing intensely as Thumper looked him in the eye. Then Thumper’s fingers forced his mouth open, and he checked that Rico had swallowed the whole thing. Rico felt that hot lump in his belly, the creamy texture and the sheer warmth of it suffusing into his flesh.
“Good,” he said. “Now go to sleep. Set yo’ alarm for seven o’clock, nigga. By seven-thirty, I want you wakin’ me up wit’ yo’ prettyboy mouth on my dick again. Have breakfast ready when you swallow my first nut of the day. You understand?”
“Yes, Thumper,” Rico said. He gulped. Remnants of jizz shone all over his mug. “I’ll do it.”
“I know. I ain’t ax fo’ yo’ agreement, Rico. I axt fo’ yo’ comprehension. Yo’ agreement is assumed,” Thumper said. He slapped his limp dick over Rico’s face again. “Don’t wipe that nut off yo’ face. I wanna see it dried on there in the morning.”