losing – Mansploitation

The Fat Bouncer

Bart’s visit to an underground poker game ends in exactly the way he was hoping — with him on his knees servicing the fat bouncer! His name is Fatty, he’s huge, he’s mean and he’s got meat to spare! Can Bart satisfy Fatty?!

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“I’m looking for a poker game. The dragon sips tea at dawn,” Bart said.
The liquor store was cheesy and rundown. The Chinese family running the shop glared at Bart. They nodded noncommittally when he said he was here for the poker game.
“No poker game here!” one of them said, gesturing around the shop, which had nothing but liquor, displays of cigarettes and signs advertising the lottery. Empty boxes were stacked in the back.
But they didn’t respond poorly to his question. Bart furrowed his brow. If he had walked into some random liquor store and asked for the underground poker game, he would have expected them to kick him out, to ask what he was talking about, to express confusion and dismay.
But these two men just said “no poker game here”, pointing to the floor right in front of the counter — as though Bart had asked if there was a poker game in that exact spot.
Bart was suspicious. “Is it… Is there a poker game… somewhere?”
The clerk scowled. “Presumably. Go there, wherever it is. Round in the rear of some place, I expect.” He sniffled and glanced over his shoulder.
“Aaaaaah… I see, okay,” Bart said. He bought a lotto ticket just so he wouldn’t look like a dickhead. He tucked it in his pocket as he went out into the parking lot. Nobody was around, so he grabbed an empty box by the door. He broke it down into a flat piece of cardboard, that way he wouldn’t look too suspicious to anyone driving by.
He went around to the back of the liquor store, where he saw a recycling dumpster, in which he put the cardboard. A few yards away sat a fat white man with a huge belly, a backwards baseball cap and a tattoo of Barack Obama’s smiling face extending up his neck. He nodded at Bart.
“Yo, hey, ‘sup.” He nodded. He sat near the back-door to the liquor store as though that was a normal spot to sit in. A minuscule stool was there, that’s what he sat on. It would be too tiny for a normal-sized man, but the fat man with the oversized jaw and the stoned squint upon his roundness was a thousand times too big for the stool he sat upon.
He sat near the door in the manner of a bouncer, Bart thought. He headed right for the door as though he knew what he was doing and where he was going. “Is this the door?”
“That’s a door.” The fat white thug stood. He spat on the ground, needing to lean forward to avoid spitting on his belly. He stood in front of the door. “Whatchoo need, li’l thang?”
Bart had to resist his urge to say what he really wanted — to get plowed into by this magnificent whale of a man — but he figured his best bet was to play it cool for now. “I heard there was a poker game in there. I’m Dan’s friend,” he said. “Dan Lickster”. Then, feeling like a child playing a spy-game, he leaned closer to the big man, clutched his belly and said, “The dragon sips tea at dawn.”
The fat thug nodded. “A’ight. Go’n in, sir,” he said. He opened the door for him. Bart skedaddled past, his hand lingering on the man’s massive belly.
Inside was a dimly lit basement, in the center of which was a round table with nine chairs surroundant. A bar sat in one corner of the room, and in the very middle, near the table, was a door that presumably led to the stairs going up, to the main floor where the liquor store and the surly clerk and the sale on discount gin all were.
A small handful of people milled around the table, while a single waitress brought them drinks from the bar. One person at table was a motionless, emotionless woman in a plain suit. She was the dealer, presumably. The others were players.
This was Bart’s first underground poker game. He had brought four thousand dollars, and he didn’t mind losing all of it. But he transferred two hundred bucks to a different pocket so he could keep it hidden — he might want that later.
He hoped to get in that fat thug’s pants, and he was willing to pay for it. That was the real reason he had finagled an invite to the poker game.
“Bart! Glad you could make it!” Bart’s friend Dan called for him when he came into the room. “Fatty ain’t grill you up and eat you with butter, did he?”
“I tried, but he said no,” Bart said, making the room laugh. He turned and blushed when he saw that fat thug — who apparently went by Fatty — had followed him in. He hadn’t meant to say that in front of him. Fatty blushed even redder than Bart.
Fatty had a deep booming voice. “Man… Shhh-” He cut himself off as he grabbed his dick through his jeans. It sounded like he was about to say shut your fucking face or something along those lines but stopped before he got in trouble. This was an upper-class event. He had been told not to “lower the tone”.
Fatty just waddled away, as the other players laughed at him. Bart felt a little bad for him, but then, he got the feeling Fatty was not exactly a nice guy, so he didn’t feel too bad. Besides, Bart fully intended to make it up to him later.
He was so distracted he didn’t do very well in the poker game. That was fine with Bart, it was fun just to be there. He didn’t need to do a really good job, and he didn’t mind losing the money. It was only his fifth time ever playing poker in his life, and he would have done a lot better but he forgot which hands outrank each other and bet wrong.
When the game was over, Bart hung around as the other guys said their goodbyes. He helped the dealer clean up, and then headed out into the back by the dumpsters. There was Fatty, sitting there, playing on his phone and smoking a Black’n’Mild by himself. He looked up and nodded, disinterested.
“How you doin’?” Bart asked.
Fatty frowned. “What?”
“My name is Bart.”
“Fatty.”
“Nice to meet you, Fatty,” Bart said. “So, I-“
“Look, I ain’t gonna reimburse ya losings, man,” he said. He sneered like he was being forced to be here and resented it.
“That’s fine. I was looking to give you some money,” Bart said. He affectionately patted Fatty on the shoulder. That made his arm flesh jiggle.
“What?”
“I’ve got two hundred dollars in my pocket,” Bart said. “I held it back so I wouldn’t lose it. I wanted to spend it on you.”
“What?” He stood up like he thought he was going to get in a fight. He eyed Bart suspiciously. His thick belly was right in front of Bart’s face. Bart poked it with one finger, searching for his bellybutton through the football jersey Fatty wore. Fatty frowned. “You wanna gimme money?”
“I want to pay you money for services to be rendered,” Bart said. He smiled.
Fatty furrowed his brow and said the only thing he could think of. “What?”
Bart giggled. “I want you to stick it in me, Fatty.”
“What?”
“Your dick. In here.” Bart pointed to his mouth. “Maybe elsewhere too, if you-“
“What?” His chin-fat jiggled.
“Can you stop saying that?”
“Look, man…” Fatty tottered back and forth on his squat legs. He looked around. No one was here. Everyone else had gone. Even the liquor store was closed now.
“Two hundred dollars. That’s a lotta money-“
“Ain’t nothin’ stopping me from just takin’ it,” Fatty said. He reached into Bart’s pockets. He frowned. There was no money there. Bart had hidden it in his sock.
“Yeah, but then you wouldn’t get to blow your nut-“
“I ain’t… you know… I was in prison, but I ain’t a booty bandit, dawg.”
“I know, dawg,” Bart said. “C’mon-“
“I don’t see no two hundred dollars. You foolin’. You straight-up foolin’.”
“If I take it out, you’ll steal it and you won’t stick me,” Bart said. “Come on… I’ll let you do it however you want. You can plow down on my face, you can ram into my ass as hard as you want.”
“Shit… If you don’t pay me, motherfucker… I hunt down bitches and get payment outta ‘em as a career, so don’t try it, man. I swear to Christ, I’ll steal ya mama’s heart pills if I got to. I get what I is owed,” Fatty said.
“I promise. I’ll pay.”
Fatty frowned. He leaned against the dumpster, looked away and nodded. “Go’n then.”
He apparently wasn’t going to be any more involved in this than he absolutely had to be, Bart thought, but that was okay with him. He undid the belt around Fatty’s jeans and let them flop to the ground. Then he pulled that ratty old jersey off his head. Fatty fought against it at first — he rarely took his shirt off even when plowing because he knew girls wouldn’t want to look at his manboobs — but then he let Bart do it. He was much too tall for Bart to actually lift the jersey himself, so he just got started and tried to climb Fatty’s belly. That too was plainly unrealistic, but he enjoyed the challenge and the feel of it, and he liked the way Fatty’s belly and indeed his whole body shook as Bart scaled him like a sturdy mountain.
And Fatty made a funny face, which Bart found amusing. He tolerated it at first, but then he grew annoyed and took the jersey off himself. The motion of it made his upper body flex and ripple, and it bared the furry bush of his armpits for a moment.
Then he stood there, belly protruding, as Bart licked it clean. He was hairy and heavyset by nature but fat by habit, his belly a stack of rolls and jiggles. He smelled intensely of foot sweat from head to toe, and Bart inhaled the scent while his hands and his nose explored all the crevices between his folds.
He tugged down his boxer sorts, at last baring his magnificent cock. Bart’s tongue works it way down to his belly fat, down to the underside of it, where the treasure trail of body hair grew thicker and coarser and the sweat grew funkier.
A gasp escaped from Fatty’s lips, followed by a suck on his teeth. Bart’s delicate hands reached under his belly to his cock and gave it a stroke. Fatty groaned again. He couldn’t decide if it felt good or not. He didn’t mind getting jerked off, but it was hard to focus with Bart’s tiny tongue snaking all over his folds of fat.
By chance Bart glanced up, and the intense look on Fatty’s face, a penetrating stare like he had spied something greatly displeased him, made Bart chortle. When that only magnified the look on Fatty’s mien, Bart’s chortle choked into a chuckle, and he turned that into a cough. He quaked before Fatty’s bigness.
“You makin’ fun of me?” Fatty asked. Bart shook his head. “You gettin’d dared by ya buddies? Is it like… a scavenger hunt?”
Bart shook his head again and again. He sucked on Fatty’s fleshy manboobs, playing with his nipples and stroking his dick to full erection. “I like big boys. I like men, and I appreciate the bigness of… well, big ones. That’s all. I think you’re a magnificent specimen.” He licked a trail down Fatty’s belly, which had more tattoos on it — gang tats, it appeared. He slurped the sweat that clung to each tattoo. There was Gothic lettering that read MONTANA over his belly, and an American flag over his heart. A gun was tattooed on the side of his belly, pointed down towards his cock.
“Man…” Fatty grunted. He still felt maybe he was being made fun of. Maybe there was a hidden-camera? Was this some sort of Making-Fun-of-Fat-Men reality show? Surely that would be illegal, he thought. He didn’t want to look self-conscious, so he didn’t stop Bart, but he kept looking around for hidden cameras.
Then he grunted and threw his head back so fast it slammed painfully against the dumpster behind him. His whole body jiggled. Bart clutched those big round asscheeks as he plowed down on Fatty’s cock. It was limp and not especially big at first, like a lot of fat guys, but it quickly firmed up and turned into a nearly foot-long monster, all knobbly and veiny. Bart gurgled on it merrily. He looked up and tried to make eye contact with Fatty, but he looked everywhere except down.
That felt better than expected. He didn’t get sucked off a lot these days. Most women wouldn’t give him the time of day, and he had sort of forgotten how hot and moist and inviting it was to feel a throat swallow his meat down to the root. It sent a shiver of bliss up his spine, and Fatty’s whole body shook, or really his spine shimmied and the shimmy was magnified by his layers of fat until his whole body wobbled like underset jello.
His dick was moist to begin with, soaked with sweat from his underbelly and from being cooped up on a humid night in his jeans. Bart sucked all the sweat down, slurping it, gurgling and giggling as he moaned — he loved how it made Fatty’s whole body shake and jiggle.
Fatty snorted and huffed like a surprised donkey. His eyes alternating between wide open and excited and the dull-eyed stoner squint he had throughout the poker game, though he’d been standing there throughout, he clearly hadn’t been smoking any weed, so Bart didn’t get how he could look stoned. Maybe that was just the way he looked, or maybe he smoked so much weed it stayed with him.
He tried to reach up to play with Fatty’s manboobs, but Fatty began plowing into his face, and it was difficult to control his hands. Bart flailed, going back to holding onto those enormous asscheeks for support. Fatty’s balls slapped against his chin, and Fatty had to hold his belly up to give Bart easy access to it.
“Hmmmm….” Bart murmured as he gagged on the hard dick jamming into his throat. He had to signal to Fatty a couple times before he pulled away, slapping his fat dick over Bart’s face. When Fatty let go of his belly, it flopped onto Bart’s head, nearly knocking him over. “You taste so good…”
“You serious?”
“I’m deadly serious. I wanna lick your ass. Can I lick your ass? I wanna taste it!” Bart giggled, blushing at the shocked look on Fatty’s face — who hadn’t looked at him since this started, not until now. He checked out Bart as though to see if he was joking.
But Fatty smirked and turned around. He’d never gotten a rimjob. He never even thought it was an option — who would want to lick his fat ass? Not a girl, he knew that.
He gripped the side of the dumpster like he was being searched by a cop. He spread his legs wide, frowning a little when he felt Bart’s delicate tongue plant on his left asscheek. It was cold, not particularly arousing and a little ticklish. Fatty just grunted. He spread his asscheeks, and they parted like a massive yellow cock being splattered in slow motion.
Bart licked up and down that enormous left cheek, which rippled flabbily as he massaged it with both hands. Bart could have fit his entire body in Fatty’s asscheeks, he thought with an aroused giggle. The smell was so potent it made Bart let out a moan of desire.
He had to use both hands to spread Fatty’s cheeks and bare his crack. The smell of sour sweat was intense here. There was plenty of funky hair lining the crack and around his tight hole. Bart didn’t need to ask if it was a virginal asshole — it was as tight as could be. He rubbed one finger over it, but then Fatty swore and said, “No fingers! Nah! You said lick! You can lick it!”
“Okay, sorry,” Bart said. It was impossible to finger it anyway — Bart needed to use both hands to keep Fatty’s cheeks separate. It was like trying to pull apart a mass of jello that hadn’t fully set yet. Bart sucked on each bit of flesh that seeped through his fingers as he dove in between those cheeks.
Finally he got his tongue in Fatty’s tight hole, and Fatty let out a howl that sounded overconfident — like he wanted Bart to think he’d done this before and wasn’t impressed. But Bart could tell from the way his asshole clenched around Bart’s tongue that he was turned on, and that he wanted more.
Bart plowed into him with his tongue. Soon he couldn’t hold back the sea on those asscheeks, and he let go, allowing all that flabby hefty to envelop him so Bart’s entire head was buried in his ass.
Fatty glanced behind himself and couldn’t help but guffaw in shock — and a little disgust — at the sight. Bart looked like he had been beheaded by Fatty’s ass, or like his head was actually climbing into his backside. Fatty couldn’t believe how good it felt either. It was a little uncomfortable, but Bart’s tongue invaded his ass and went right for his juicy prostate, slurping up all the sweat and assfluids that seeped out of him and onto his tongue.
The taste was sour and salty, like cum but solid and fleshy. Bart slurped noisily. He reached between Fatty’s legs to try to jack him off, but that proved impossible — Fatty was just too wide and too thick. Instead his hands roamed over the bigness, the endless folds of Fatty’s mountainous asscheeks.
Finally Bart pulled out and raced to bend over. He was dizzy from lack of oxygen. He got his face down on the asphalt, his ass as high as he could manage. Fatty’s corpulent body kept undulating as he rubbed his ass over the spot where Bart’s face had been moments ago.
Fatty turned around to see why the rimjob had stopped. He saw Bart bent over and grimaced. Bart’s ass was smooth and tight, round as could be, pretty much the exact opposite of Bart’s ass.
He’d never plowed into a girl with a nice tight ass like that. He’d plowed into some big females, some of them very sexy, and he’d gotten in a few asses. But none of them had a plump bubble-butt like Bart.
Fatty kept a sour grimace on his face because he didn’t want Bart to think he really enjoyed this — it would make it seem like Fatty couldn’t land a real woman. He spread Bart’s cheeks with his greasy fingers, and slid his cock in. He again had to lift his belly up to keep it out of the way.
His belly then flopped onto Bart’s ass, while Bart backed up onto Fatty’s cock. There was a burst of pressure and pain, which Bart accepted with a grimace. There was always this difficulty in getting plowed into by fat guys, whose bellies weighed Bart down and added power to their penetrations.
Fatty was oblivious though. He just gripped Bart’s cheeks, plowing into him on autopilot, his cock ramming into Bart’s ass as hard as he could. He’d never been able to fuck a girl like this, so lots of pent-up horniness came out at once. He moaned loud and slammed into Bart’s ass. He was surprised at how easy it was, his cock just slid right in and instantly his whole body quaked as a jolt of pleasure rocked his corpulent frame.
“Shit!” Bart shouted. “Goddamn, get it deep in me! Big boy, do me hard!” He was rocked back and forth by the power of Fatty’s gyrations, his heavy body grinding him into the asphalt.
Bart found it difficult to remain on all fours with Fatty plowing into him with all his mind. He lowered himself first to his elbows and knees, and then finally, gradually, he was crushed onto the cold asphalt. Fatty laid atop him, scrunching him up underneath that hairy belly.
A long, low orgasm erupted in Bart, extended by the fact that he was crushed on the ground, so he was unable to touch his own cock. He could barely even breathe. All he did was flail as the most intense orgasm of his life ran through him.
Hot breath condensed on the back of his neck as Fatty gasped and snorted like a horse. Fatty’s whole body rippled, and he groaned right into Bart’s ears. “Damn, bitch, shit, you fuckin’ slut, don’t move, don’t move, just take it, okay, bitch, damn…” He exhaled breathily on Bart’s head.
At last he was done. He lifted his head — letting Bart breathe a bit — as he poured his cumload into Bart’s ass. Fatty had never felt anything like this. He shot the biggest load of his life, wad after wad of creamy, sticky juices flowing into Bart’s asshole.
Bart accepted every drop and would have begged for more if he could recover his breath. He soon rolled over, and Fatty went with him, wrapping Bart up in his arms so he could keep plowing in. Bart squirmed and writhed in his grasp.
As soon as Bart touched his own cock, he finally shot his own wad as well, spraying it over the asphalt and even onto his own face. Bart cried out. “Goddamn, Fatty!”
Fatty chuckled, his own orgasm ending though he didn’t remove his cock yet. He just watched Bart squirm and climax as well, his lithe back tensing up. Fatty let Bart slide right off his slick belly. Every inch of his body riding on Fatty’s dick sent new spasms of ecstasy to course through Bart’s veins. Fatty too found sparks of sensation to arise from his sensitive shaft as Bart dismounted it, and both men let out cavernous moans of relief when Bart finally popped off Fatty’s knob.
Bart sighed, exhausted, red-faced and sweaty — covered in Fatty’s sweat as well as his own. He sprawled out on the asphalt. Jizz dribbled out and flowed down his thighs in tiny rivulets.
After a minute or two of heavy breathing, Bart rested his head on Fatty’s belly. His tongue snaked into his bellybutton. Fatty chuckled. Bart stroked his limp dick with one hand. It was hot and tender, soft as warm butter, and Bart’s squeezing of it made Fatty shudder with the aftershocks of his orgasm.
“Your dick is great,” Bart said. He reached into his sock and pulled out the money. “Here you go.”
Fatty nodded, his eyes glazed over. He yawned. “Shit, man…” He had forgotten he couldn’t find the money, so he didn’t pay attention to where Bart pulled the cash from.
“Is it okay if I lay here on your belly for awhile?”
Fatty nodded again. “Whatever floats your boat, man,” he said. He took the backwards baseball cap off because it got in the way of resting his head on the asphalt. “Shit… You wanna pay me again later? I’ll come see you some more next week.”
“Hmmm… Maybe. I’ll give you my phone number,” Bart said. “But I travel a lot.” He licked the valley between Fatty’s manboobs. Then he kissed Fatty on the neck. Fatty stiffened up — that felt too pervy for him, but he allowed it for a few seconds before gently pushing Bart way.
Then Fatty sat up. “Shit, okay, I’ll call you. Don’t tell no one though. If anyone asks… tell ‘em I sell you meth.” He paused. “Not the police, I mean.”
“Sure, okay,” Bart said with a satisfied sigh. “Whatever you want.”

The Pehlivan

Rob is in Turkey to sponsor a pehlivan — a Turkish oil wrestler — and maybe get a peek at his body. But it turns out Turks have some unusual ideas about what sponsors, can, should or may do to the men they sponsor, giving Rob an opportunity he’ll never forget!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

The whole plan was overly complicated, in retrospect. As Rob Winthrop dropped to his knees and started to jerk Kaan off, that had become abundantly clear. It had proven much easier to get Kaan’s thick uncut cock in his mouth than he thought it would be.
When Rob had decided to sponsor a Turkish oil pehlivan (called a pehlivan) so he could spend time alone with him, he thought he’d be lucky to get a look at his naked body. He came up with a long excuse for why he needed to see him before and after the match (he didn’t mention that he hoped that was when Kaan would be naked, greasing himself up). He assumed the Turks who managed Kaan’s career wouldn’t like that.
As soon as he met Kaan Gözübüyük, right before the first match began, Kaan stripped off all his clothes there in the staging area. It wasn’t even a locker room, it was wide open, dozens of pehlivans and trainers hanging around, plus a handful of regional Turkish press.
Kaan was a massive, hairy-chested Turkish man with a big uncut cock. He had no regard for modesty. He stood there proudly, hairy body and massive cock all hanging free, still ungreased for the moment. He must have realized Rob was talking to his coach about him, but he still showed no reaction.
Rob talked to the coach, learning about strategy for the match. Rob didn’t understand much of it, and he didn’t pay attention to the coach’s words. Rob had no interest in the sport of it and was unaware until this very moment that a sponsor was apparently expected to hear about strategy and training regiments, promises to win the championship this year. Now that Rob knew listening, and presumably participating in, these kinds of discussions was part of being a sponsor, he realized he didn’t need such a complicated plan to get in here.
“That sounds wonderful, sounds like he’s got a real shot this year,” Rob said. That seemed like the kind of thing a sponsor should say. Inside though, he just kept sneaking glances at Kaan’s motionless body.
Were some of the other sponsors massaging the men? It looked like it, in the periphery of Rob’s eyesight, but he didn’t move his head to see more clearly. That coach could really go on. Some of them didn’t have as much to say, but Kaan’s coach, Coach Badem Kubat, was a real motormouth. He kept switching back to Turkish for a few sentences, as though he thought Rob was fluent, but only in short bursts.
He wondered both how far Kaan was willing to go, how far Coach Badem was willing to allow Kaan to go, and how far modern Turkish society would allow them to go. Now that he saw Kaan in person, Rob had a strong feeling that Kaan was one of those rough machos who didn’t much care whom he rammed so long as he was on top. It’s not shameful if you’re sticking it in someone else’s hole, Rob thought (and hoped Kaan thought).
And then, finally, the coach stopped talking. The other pehlivans had started rubbing olive oil into their skin, and in a few cases, coaches or sponsors or men of uncertain relevance did the rubbing. Much to Rob’s delight, Kaan gave him a bucket of olive oil and invited him to get started — Kaan apparently only spoke Turkish, so he used hand motions to communicate that. He flexed his biceps and his chest, then stood there like a statue, like he expected to be inspected by Rob. So Rob tried to pretend he wasn’t excited to cover Kaan’s hairy muscles in olive oil, as he grimaced and studiously caressed Kaan’s frame.
He eyed him up and down like he was evaluating his musculature. Other sponsors were doing that as the pehlivans got greased up.
In Turkish oil wrestling (yağlı güreş), men oil each other up and wear these loose trousers called kisbet. The goal was to gain control of one’s opponent’s kisbet, such as by sticking your hands down his kisbet. Since both men were greased up with olive oil, they were both slick and slippery, and since they were Turkish, they were handsome, muscular, bulging with powerhouse bodies. It was Rob’s favorite sport.
He massaged oil into every inch of Kaan’s body. He caressed his chest and shoulders, and even wiped oil over Kaan’s asshole and his cock and balls. As he did, he patted each muscle as though he approved of it. He kept one hand on Kaan’s powerfully muscled asscheek, which was flexed tight.
“I will wrestle… sir… the best, uh… Sir…” He gruntingly spoke in English. It was clear he didn’t actually know English, but someone had taught him the words he needed to say. “I am, I have, a, uh, I have a, I am planning, on… plan to strategy. For winning.” He spoke thickly, like his mouth was full of pudding. Rob wrapped one hand around his cock, but he didn’t stroke it, he waited to see if Rob was scolded by either Kaan or the coach. Kaan showed no reaction at all.
“Please do not jerk him off now,” said Coach Badem, who spoke barely comprehensible British-inflected English. “It is bad before a match. It will inhibit his performance.”
Rob blushed and let go of Kaan’s cock. Was this normal? Did a lot of pehlivan sponsors jerk their men off? Now that he thought about it, that seemed likely to Rob — what other sport gives you nearly naked men rubbing oil into each other’s muscles and sticking their hands down each other’s pants? Of course they did it. “Sure, okay-“
“After the match, you may do as you wish. You may service him then, he will submit.”
They walked away then, leaving Rob with greasy hands and the scent of Turkish muscle-sweat in his nostrils. He watched Kaan’s meaty ass shake once he put on his loose kisbet. Kaan gave no indication he understood what Coach Badem said. Was that because Kaan already assumed it would happen? Or did Kaan not speak English well enough to understand?
Rob headed out to the stadium, where he found a seat away from anyone else, it was in a section reserved for sponsors, coaches and others, though they mostly stayed down on the field, giving Rob plenty of space to be alone. He watched the match with a hardon the entire time. His seat was near the action, so close he could taste droplets of sweat and oil on his tongue.
It took most of an hour, but eventually Kaan took his turn, wrestling a similarly massive buck from the other side of Turkey. By then, Rob had picked up enough to be interested in watching, to see if Kaan would win. Kaan seemed like a huge brute, but then, the other Turk did too. Rob would have gladly serviced either one of them.
Turks shouted and cheered. The audience called for one or the either pehlivan to win, and encouraged them both to wrestle their hardest. Rob followed along with his limited Turkish. Luckily none of the whooping and calls were grammatically complex, and Rob got the gist of them.
“Go Kaan!” Rob blushed again because he felt kind of silly, a white guy yelling in poorly articulated Turkish from a lonely corner of the stadium. But no one seemed to notice him. Kaan began the match with a quick grapple, but he was unable to gain control of his opponent’s kisbet. Both men’s muscles writhed, gleaming with olive oil in the brilliant midday Turkish sun.
Flesh slapped on flesh. He wished he could ram his head between their bodies, licking the sweat and olive oil off their bodies. All he could do was watch them fumble with each other’s cock and balls, stroking each other’s hairy asscheeks beneath their kisbets.
Finally, Kaan won. He pumped his biceps with a big goofy grin on his face. The crowd erupted in cheers.
That lasted for only a moment before the referee announced him the winner and Kaan put his stony macho face on — it was untoward for a pehlivan to gloat excessively. Still, Rob could see him bristling with pride.
After that, the tournament continued, but Rob was done watching. He snuck into the changing area just a few paces behind Kaan, whose body was streaked with sweat. He was still worked up, muscles quavering like he was just looking for someone to punch. He paced through the changing area.
“Wait,” Rob said when he got in the changing area and saw that Kaan’s coach was leading him into the shower. “Let me see Kaan first.” Rob didn’t want Kaan to shower before he got a chance to taste all that delicious sweat.
Still shadowboxing the air, Kaan complied, and he came to Rob near the door to the changing area. Just a few feet away the next bout was beginning. The air here was redolent with the scene of male sweat and body hair, and of course rank olive oil. They said they used only high quality olive oil, but Rob was knowledgeable enough to guess that that was a lie. It was cheap-ass stuff.
Not that Rob was bothered by it.
He came closer to Kaan, inhaled deeply of his scent and planted his tongue right on Kaan’s bicep. He licked up all the musk there. Kaan looked at him like he was crazy. Rob chuckled. “Is this alright? I want to lick you all over, Kaan.” He kept his tongue moving up and down his arm, which Kaan flexed.
With a frown on his face, Kaanlooked at Coach Badem, and they spoke in Turkish. The coach cleared his throat. “You may not put a finger in his ass. But yes, you may service him all over.”
Kaan grumbled to himself and danced back and forth on his feet, while Rob’s tongue sopped up all the foul sweat and bitter olive oil clinging to his muscles. Though he played himself off as too tough and crude to be into it, he loved plowing men — he could be meaner and rougher with them than he could with girls — he just didn’t want it to be obvious that he liked it.
And he truly did not like getting licked like a kitten like this. Many sponsors wished to do so, and Kaan would have refused, but then nobody would fund his career.
So he stood there with his arms stiff, cock dangling like he was too good for Rob. Kaan was used to his sponsor controlling everything about him, from what he ate to where he exercised to which girls he spent time with. Having one jerk him off was better than any of those possibilities.
Rob blushed and got started. He first sucked all the sweat off his chest and his back, then his arms, his armpits, his thighs, his hair-choked ass. Kaan was very hairy, which Rob loved. He wanted to taste each kinky black hair and savor the salty sweat that clung to each one. The flavor of sharply astringent sweat flooded Rob’s senses.
You may not stick a finger in his ass.
Was that his only rule? The coach’s words took a moment for Rob to grasp. As his tongue lapped at Kaan’s hairy chest, Rob wondered if Coach Badem was giving him permission to do even more than this. Was it normal? Kaan reacted like it was a necessary but distasteful part of his career.
The bitter savory taste of olive oil assaulted Rob’s senses. He loved how it accentuated the salty-sourness of his sweat. He could even taste a second layer of sweat — that was the other pehlivan’s, the one who lost his match to Kaan, which had a different, grassier, fresher flavor to it. Rob’s hands caressed Kaan’s muscles, which flexed and puckered beneath his grasp.
Kaan stood there, grunting, hands on his waist. His chest heaved and he closed his eyes. Rob dropped to his knees. He picked up Kaan’s cock and looked up — no reaction at all. He tried to make eye contact with Kaan, but his eyes were closed.
This was the part Kaan loved. He felt like a big man, like he was so powerful he could force another man to submit — he knew in this case he wasn’t forcing the man, but still, to him it felt like he could have forced it. He was potent enough and strong enough and tough enough to make a man submit to his will.
At last Rob put the tip in his mouth, just the tip, which again sparked no response from Kaan. Rob’s hands reached up massaged his chest while his mouth suckled on Kaan’s cocktip, which made a twinge of firmness erupt in his shaft. It still was nowhere near a full erection, but it was beginning, and Kaan’s muscles rippled from head to toe. Rob pulled off his knob and craned his head around Kaan’s powerful thighs to make eye contact with Coach Badem, “Sorry, is this alright? I don’t want to sponsor a man whose manhood doesn’t work. I must inspect him. I know he won his match, but I do not know how serious of a rival the other pehlivan was.”
Coach Badem nodded. “Yes. That is fine. Jerk him off all you wish.”
Kaan grunted and said something in Turkish. The coach responded like he disagreed, and they argued. Then the coach flared his nostrils.
“Kaan says you may put a finger in his ass,” he said. He hesitated as though going to give a reason, but then he just bit his lip. Finally he added, “it is only just… It is a valid… There are medical reasons you may wish to do that, to inspect his manhood and its functioning.”
Rob hadn’t noticed that Kaan’s eyes were open, sneaking a glance down at Rob. When they made eye contact, Kaan closed them again and pretended that they had never been open. His muscular body swayed from side to side as Rob sucked on his dicktip.
A giggle escaped from Rob’s lips as he realized that Kaan was asking to get fingered. No wonder, he thought, Coach Badem had hurried to forbid that. Rob’s hand snuck up between Kaan’s hairy legs to his ass, which was also choked with dense kinky hairs.
A sigh escaped from Kaan’s lips as he felt Rob’s finger teasing the rim of his asshole, and Kaan’s desirous reaction made Coach Badem let a groan escape from his own lips. Rob’s fingertip on Kaan’s tight asshole made him shudder and bite his lip to avoid a louder sound.
“Remember yourself, Kaan.”
He disliked Coach Badem telling him what to do all the time. Unlike his sponsor, Kaan’s coach didn’t pay him money (he did buy him food and clothes and girls and other things, but Kaan didn’t think about that too much), so Kaan didn’t want to hear orders from him. He didn’t have a choice but to do what Coach Badem said though.
As he kept stroking, Rob slipped his finger between Kaan’s cheeks. The flesh there was choked with fur, sweat and olive oil, which made Rob moan with desire. Kaan grunted too, though he tried to keep it from being too loud — he was still pretending for Coach Badem’s sake that he didn’t want to do this.
Then Rob’s finger slipped in further, massaging just inside the rim of his asshole. Kaan groaned, his dick rocketing to full erection even before Rob entered him. His hole puckered and opened, virtually sucking Rob’s finger into him.
“Ah….” Kaan couldn’t help but moan. That bone-rattlingly deep grunt escaped from Kaan’s mouth, and his cock twitched. Precum flowed freely down Rob’s throat. The salty flavor was the same as, but somehow also different from, the taste of the oil-and-sweat film that covered Kaan’s body hair.
Kaan spread his legs to give Rob better access to his ass. That way Rob could really get in there, ramming his finger in and out now that he could tell that neither Kaan nor Coach Badem were going to stop him. First, Rob used his pinkie finger, but Kaan was a big man and he didn’t complain, so Rob switched to his middle finger. When even that went in easily, Rob used both his middle and index finger.
At last that made Kaan grunt and bite his lip. His asshole clenched down tightly on Rob’s finger. Pain made him break out in sweat again, but then that melted away, replaced by intense pleasure and a rolling, undulating moan. Rob worked that dick harder, timing his fingers so that he had them all the way in Kaan’s ass at the same moment that Rob had his mouth off Kaan’s cock, then he switched them, going back and forth until Kaan was on the verge of orgasm.
“Finish up, Kaan. There is much for us to do.”
His balls twitched and his cock pulsated angrily — Kaan hated to be rushed, especially by Coach Badem. He remained motionless with his hands on his hips, but he let loose with a panoply of sounds from his bearded mouth, and his knees buckled when a pang of bliss shot up his spine.
He was near orgasm, but it stopped now. Kaan’s cock was rock-hard, bigger than it had ever been before, or so it seemed to Kaan. He blinked his eyes, needing to fight back the urge to grab Rob’s head and make him swallow it some more.
As Rob turned around, lifting his ass in the air, Kaan grumbled happily but Coach Badem frowned. He didn’t say anything, but he did lightly pat Kaan on his meaty shoulder as though reminding him of something. Kaan growled and pushed him away. He knew Coach Badem didn’t think this was appropriate — he didn’t even approve of having sex with women in the ass — but Kaan was glad to prove he wasn’t Coach Badem’s slave.
“Shut up, I will do it. My sponsor has ordered me to,” Kaan said in Turkish, glad to have an excuse. He closed his eyes and murmured to himself, ignoring Coach Badem’s judgmental stare.
So Rob backed his ass onto Kaan’s cock. Still, Kaan didn’t move. He kept his hands on his hips even as his muscles rippled and he sighed like Rob was scratching an itch that had been bothering Kaan for a very long time. He watched his dick sink into Rob’s tight hole.
At first, pain hit Rob, and Kaan grunted, his hands still at his side as if he didn’t want to be involved in this. That wasn’t going to slow Rob down. It was now clear sponsors were allowed, even expected, to do this kind of thing, and it was true, he did want to test Kaan’s manhood. If it were lacking, Rob would stop sponsoring him. All those things were true.
And all of them added up to Rob being allowed to penetrate himself with Kaan’s massive cock. It twitched and slipped out of his ass. Rob kept one hand on the floor to steady himself, while his other hand reached behind his body to hold Kaan’s erection in place. It throbbed in his grip. Kaan jutted his hips forward, but otherwise he simply didn’t particpate, only watching as Rob struggled to force himself lower and lower on Kaan’s shaft.
A slow-melting sense of pleasure exploded in Rob’s ass. Kaan’s lack of movement was unusual and made the positioning rather awkward for Rob, but that only made the plowing feel even better. Rob slid his ass backwards onto Kaan’s dick, which had enough spit and olive oil on it to act as lube.
“Oh god, yes…” Rob said with a moan. He realized that made the coach uncomfortable, so he added, “Yes, I have made a good investment in your man. You have trained him well. His manhood is very functional.”
The coach wrinkled his nose. He patted Kaan on the asscheek, which made Kaan grunt. Kaan bristled and again pushed Coach Badem away, but then a series of snarls and staccato Turkish syllables erupted between them. In the end, Kaan’s coach kept a possessive hand on his ass — and was he fingering him? Rob thought maybe, but he couldn’t see at all without craning his head behind himself.
Rob wondered if masturbating was going to be a problem. It might not have even been obvious he was doing it, he thought, since the coach seemed to be trying not to look even if he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t noticing the details, and Rob’s hand was covered up by his body. So as Kaan’s dick rammed at his prostate again and again, Rob began stroking his own self off. His prostate thrummed, sending a continuous wave of pleasure through his body, a wave that was knocked up a notch with each thrust of Rob’s cock down on Kaan’s ass.
He got the feeling that Kaan knew Rob was jacking his own self off though, even if he couldn’t see. Rob always felt an intimate connection like this with any man who was inside him — that was, he thought, part of being a god. He could sense the pleasure roiling deep within Kaan.
Once Rob got into the swing of things, Kaan did dimple his asscheeks as he daggered his dick in Rob’s ass. Rob didn’t need to do all the work. But Kaan only barely moved his body, like he was concealing his participation in this — maybe Coach Badem would be mad if Kaan did it too willingly? Rob didn’t understand what was happening, but he was glad that Kaan was ramming, ever so slightly, pushing his dickshaft over and into Rob’s sensitive prostate.
When Kaan reached his orgasm, Rob sensed it coming. He felt it in his soul, in the throbbing of his cock, in the way he breathed, in the forefront of Kaan’s mind, in his balls crawling up in his sac. Rob felt it roll over him like a wave. Ecstasy erupted in both men’s bodies at the same time. Kaan’s muscles rippled beneath Coach Badem’s grasp.
His own load flew out onto the floor of the changing area, while Rob moaned so loud it made the coach uncomfortable. Kaan grunted furiously, aggressively, though not loudly — he twisted and writhed, finally letting go of his own hips and grabbing Rob by the waist.
He slammed his cock all the way into Rob, then pressed down on him with all of his might. That forced his entire massive manhood into Rob’s ass, while his chest pressed against Rob’s smooth back.
As though he had been expecting this, the coach barked an order — which Rob could guess was quit it! — and smacked Kaan’s ass again and again to get his attention. Kaan snarled, ignored him, then pushed him away one more time.
Finally it was done. Rob’s ass was so full he couldn’t help but moan, squirming as Kaan slowly withdrew his cock. Each centimeter that slid out Rob’s rim sent another burst of sensations to wrack Rob’s tiny body. Kaan continued stonefacing even as the aftershocks of his own orgasm visibly rippled through his body.
At last, Kaan’s limp dick popped out, and Rob sighed when a mind-blowing sense of relief flooded his body. He had rarely been rammed so good. He moaned and collapsed onto the floor of the changing area, watching as Kaan scowled while Coach Badem scolded him.
“You should not have done that. It was disgusting, and it is not tolerated in this country..”
Kaan grumbled, hung his head, rolled his eyes and said, “Yes, sir.” He wished he could just wrestle, without coaches and journalists and fans, just him and his opponent and someone submissive he could drain his balls into when he was done. That, he thought, was the best part of yağlı güreş.
“Goodbye,” Rob said when they finally walked away. “Good match, Kaan. You’re an excellent pehlivan.”

The Turkish Oil Wrestler Bottoms

Abdul is a small Turkish oil wrestler assigned to wrestle the legendary heavyweight Mustafa Mounsir, but when he unexpectedly wins, Abdul is in for a treat! That’s cuz Mustafa is gonna have to bend over and take his punishment for losing, but can Abdul dish it out? Can Mustafa handle this foray into the world of Twink on Top?!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Abdul Karademir thought this was ridiculous. He didn’t know why he agreed to it. He was a wrestler — a pehlivan, a contestant in Turkish oil wrestling — but he weighed about a hundred and thirty pounds. The league he and his villagemates wrestled in didn’t have formal weight classes, but he and Mustafa Mounsir should never have been assigned to wrestle together.
It was clearly a mistake. But the other wrestlers thought it was hilarious, and they scattered around the field whooping and ululating. They cheered on Mustafa mainly, not Abdul. No cheering for the underdog here. Abdul felt tiny when he came out onto the field, while Mustafa strode out on his massive trunk-like thighs, each step seemingly as long as Abdul was tall.
“Fuck him up, Mustafa!”
“Bring that clean-shirt down!”
Abdul was not very popular, that was why they wanted to see him get his ass beaten by Mustafa. The other wrestlers were all rough machos who mostly worked for the oil rig right off the coast, near the village. They were gone for months at a time, and when they returned, they were horny, aggressive and macho. They worked with their hands, which were callused, and their broad shoulders were burnt and scarred, strapping, with tufts of unkempt hair stretching down from their necks. Abdul was the only wrestler who worked a white-collar job — he was a doctor at the clinic in the village — and he was the smallest. He was proud of his abilities as a wrestler and as a doctor, but he knew he couldn’t beat Mustafa.
Mustafa was a great big bear of a man. He was nearly six and a half feet tall. He was more than three hundred pounds of solid muscle, hair and flesh. His shoulders were so wide they looked uncomfortable, and his heavyset body had the gait of a war stallion. He could demolish three wrestlers like Abdul with his hands tied behind his back. Mustafa was the biggest wrestler for miles around, maybe in the entire province.
The whistle blew, and the match began. It happened so fast. Abdul only found out he was scheduled to wrestle Mustafa about ten minutes ago.
Abdul was nervous, though he thought he shouldn’t be, since no one expected him to win. If he could just avoid losing within the first two or three minutes, he could be proud of himself. that would be a good enough showing.
The other wrestlers hooted and hollered. They cheered Abdul on, but it was clear who they wanted to win — they wanted Abdul to wrestle hard so Mustafa would feel compelled to beat him senseless. They wanted to watch the “clean shirt” get his ass handed to him.
As they circled each other, Mustafa glared at Abdul and flashed a cruel, cocky smile. There was no chance he’d let Abdul win, no chance he’d even play around a bit so Abdul could try. Like the other wrestlers, Mustafa hated the white-collar Abdul, whose smooth skin was light-brown and unmarked by scars.
“Take him down, Mustafa!”
As Abdul gripped Mustafa’s oily chest, he remembered exactly why he had agreed to this match instead of forfeiting from the getgo. He knew he’d lose, and he’d be humiliated by it. He hadn’t agreed to wrestle because he thought he could win. He had simply dreamed of grappling with a greased-up bear like Mustafa, so he jumped at the chance.
That was because Abdul was a great admirer of the male physique. Mustafa’s physique was beyond what Abdul got to experience most of the time, and he couldn’t wait to get his hands all over Mustafa’s body. Abdul was a doctor, he’d even treated Mustafa at the clinic. But his mindset was totally different in doctor-mode than it was now, and he never got to take in the grandeur and majesty of Mustafa’s massiveness when he saw him as a doctor.
“I’m gonna destroy you, boy,” Mustafa growled as soon as the match began. “You pansy-ass weakling! Go back to your clinic, with the girls and women, you will fit in there.” He said it loud enough that everyone heard and laughed.
Abdul blushed, but there was little he could do about it, he wasn’t quick-witted enough to come up with any insults of his own, and he could barely reach Mustafa’s face much less punch him in it. In any case, he did work mainly with women — nurses — so he couldn’t dispute that part of it.
Mustafa’s hands rammed into Abdul’s kisbet. The kisbet is a pair of short pants, like lederhosen that end over the upper ankle. They were black leather, stiff but loose around the waist. The goal of Turkish oil wrestling was to gain control over your opponent, usually by reaching into the kisbet and grabbing ahold of it from the inside. Since both wrestlers and their kisbets were coated in olive oil, it was slippery and chaotic, and the only way to win was to put your hands all over your opponent. That was one of the things Abdul liked most about it.
“Yeah, bring him down, Mustafa! You can do it! Destroy that smooth-skinned nerd!”
“Mustafa! Mustafa! Mustafa!”
Mustafa reached into Abdul’s kisbet, hands brushing against his cock. He had rough fingers, huger than seemed possible, like cricket bats it seemed to Abdul. The larger wrestlers touching his manhood sent a shiver of desire up Abdul’s spine, but he straightened his back to focus on the match. The more the other wrestlers chanted for Mustafa, the more devoted Abdul was to making this match last long enough he could his head up at the end of it.
As his hands roughly grabbed, then let go of, Abdul’s dick, Mustafa growled at him. He clutched the leather of Abdul’s kisbet, which was coated in olive oil. Mustafa failed to get a good grip on it.
Abdul had a fighter’s spirit, so he managed to dart away despite his innate desire to stand right there let Mustafa paw all over him. He swung around, jumping onto Mustafa’s back, hoping to push him to the ground, but Mustafa stood up straight and shook his back, trying to get Abdul off.
“Climbing Mount Mustafa, huh!?”
“Oooh!”
“Mustafa! Mustafa! Mustafa!”
“Bring him down!”
The other wrestlers laughed. Only a handful of people had shown up to watch today’s match, a small crowd even by this tiny league’s standards. Most of the audience was the other wrestlers, either waiting for their match or recovering from it, who hooted as Abdul gripped Mustafa’s broad, strapping back. Mustafa’s muscles tightened and rippled beneath Abdul’s touch.
But his grip was not tight. Abdul didn’t have a good hold on Mustafa because both men were covered in oil. He clawed at Mustafa’s skin as he slipped, and his feet tried in vain to grip Mustafa’s body. His flesh was firm but greasy with olive oil, and Abdul kept treading with his feet to stay aloft on Mustafa’s slippery back.
As Abdul slid down the man’s rippling-muscled back, his toes grabbed ahold of the waist of Mustafa’s kisbet, pulling that down along with him. He didn’t mean to, but he bared Mustafa’s asscheeks.
In seconds, Abdul was on the ground, standing behind Mustafa, with his face plastered in the meaty, hair-covered ass of the much bigger Turkish man. The reek and funk of Mustafa’s ass assaulted Abdul’s senses, and he inhaled deeply of it. He found the scent exhilarating, dizzying, electrifying. It smelled and tasted so strongly of man, and it made Abdul reel, as his hands roamed over Mustafa’s beaty body.
The wrestlers screamed with laughter as Mustafa quaked, and his asscheeks jiggled around Abdul’s face. All that only took a few seconds, as Mustafa struggled to regain his balance and his momentum.
The onlookers no doubt assumed Abdul was humiliated, rather than aroused, at touching Mustafa’s ass with his face, and that Mustafa was embarrassed to be naked (which was probably true). Accidental nudity happened occasionally, so it wasn’t a huge surprise. That was why no women or children were allowed anywhere’s near the field on match days. Women didn’t even know how the sport worked.
The wrestlers jeered at Mustafa’s big swinging dick, which swayed between his legs as he tried to get Abdul in front of him. It was so thick — Abdul wondered if it was always that thick and how did he never noticed that when Mustafa came into the clinic for a physical exam — it swayed like a pendulum as Mustafa swaggeringly stood. It was a foot long and smooth, slightly lighter in color than Mustafa’s baked brown body.
Abdul didn’t want to move. He loved the taste of Mustafa’s olive oil-scented ass. It was sweet and salty and savory, he could have stayed there and licked the man’s burly ass for hours if he could have gotten away with it. But Mustafa was too macho to allow anything like so, so that face-in-ass position only lasted a few moments before Mustafa bent over to pull his kisbet up.
And that was when Abdul took his opportunity — he grabbed the kisbet as well. No strategy in mind, Abdul simply saw that he could hold Mustafa’s kisbet, and that was the goal of Turkish oil wrestling, so that was what Abdul did. He pulled the kisbet back as Mustafa pulled it up, and the result was Mustafa falling forward on his knees, then collapsing onto his belly when he lost his balance.
That was it. Within a few seconds, Abdul was declared the winner. He held onto that kisbet with both hands, and he was just barely strong enough to lift Mustafa’s feet a few inches off the ground. With Mustafa collapsing on his belly, bare ass resplendently brown in the brilliant Turkish sun, all he could do was squeal and flail about. He had no leverage to get Abdul away from him.
“Oh shit, the little man won!”
“Did you see that?!”
The match was over. Abdul had won. His face was scrunched up, still dripping with the oil that had been on Mustafa’s hairy asscheeks.
The audience cheered, momentarily on Abdul’s side even though he was white-collar. He was so shocked he barely registered what had happened as the wrestlers stormed the field and congratulated him. He was mobbed, and presumably Mustafa was too, but Abdul couldn’t see far through the crowd of wrestlers and fans.
Abdul accepted their congratulations with as much grace and magnamity as he could muster. The onlookers all seemed to have forgotten they were rooting for Mustafa throughout this, like he hoped to convince Abdul and each other that they had bet on the longshot all along.
As the celebration died down, abdul and the other wrestlers headed into the hammam attached to the field, while they relived and relived again the match that had just happened. Abdul was aching now that the adrenaline had worn off, and his bruised and battered body hurt. He didn’t let on though.
While hammams were very often ornate and fancy buildings, this was a squat concrete structure with a few saunas, baths and showers. The floor was dirty, with underwear and oil-soaked kisbets littering the ground. It reeked in here, of body hair and olive oil and other base, musky scents Abdul couldn’t place.
“Good job, Abdul!”
“Mustafa is not as unbeatable as he seemed. You beat him when even Kaan couldn’t.”
But Abdul was not very popular among the other wrestlers, who still regarded him as an outsider. Even as a winner now, he was not popular, and they all remembered that he was a white-collar clean-shirt, not a roughneck like them. Soon the excitement had worn off, and the men were all gone. Abdul delayed leaving, both because he was worked up over the victory and because he always liked to hang around watching his fellow wrestlers wash the oil off their muscles.
He hadn’t even noticed that Mustafa was still there. He had been upset, and he spoke with his coach — Coach Badem — after the match, which was why he hadn’t showered yet. Coach Badem no doubt scolded him for his loss to a much smaller man.
When Abdul finally got close again to Mustafa, he glared at him, and Abdul looked down. His confidence was gone.
“Hey, I’m sorry about that,” Abdul said. “I… didn’t mean to pull your kisbet down or anything. That’s just how it happened. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Do not be sorry. You won,” he said.
“Well… okay. But everybody knows you’re a better wrestler than me. You’re stronger, heavier, you’re better in every way at this. That’s why they were so excited to see me win. It was a fluke. Everyone knows that,” Abdul said. “It’s just fun to see an underdog win.”
“I know,” Mustafa said. His voice was grim and flat-lipped. “Coach Badem says I should punish myself for my failure.”
“That’s not really necessary-“
“You must ram me.”
“What?” Abdul thought for sure he had misheard that.
But Mustafa didn’t repeat himself. He sighed and grabbed for Abdul’s kisbet. He pulled it down, revealing Abdul’s bare cock, and he dropped to his knees. Before Abdul could process what was happening, Mustafa swallowed it to the root, all in one smooth motion.
Standing on his feet and sucking in his breath, Abdul gasped, unable to think of how to respond except standing there and letting it happen. Sparks of pleasure erupted instantly throughout Abdul’s body, and a long wavering moan escaped from his throat. Mustafa’s hairy body exuded heat palpable even in the hammam, as Abdul’s hands once again roamed over his muscles.
The other wrestlers always said that whoever lost was going to get plowed. They frequently threatened it, against each other and, especially, against the wrestlers from other villages when they competed in tournaments. They whispered warnings not to drop the soap in the shower.
But nobody ever followed through. That was something that happened like a hundred years ago, as far as Abdul knew. That was how they used to punish the loser. Abdul always suspected that this sport was invented by men who wanted to set up precisely that sort of scenario.
But no modern-day wrestlers did that when they lost, right? He assumed it didn’t happen anymore, if it ever did. It was just a joke, a threat, not something that would actually be done.
He couldn’t deny that Mustafa’s big body was stooped way over so he could handle Abdul’s dick, which sprang to attention in his big mouth. Even as Abdul insisted to himself it wouldn’t happen, Mustafa let Abdul’s dick slip past his lips.
He gagged profusely at first, coughing up a thick mess of spit that dripped down Abdul’s dick. Since both men were still covered in oil, their flesh gleamed, Abdul’s was smooth, nearly hairless aside from his head and thin beard. Mustafa, on the other hand, was marked with scars, evidence of his rough-and-tumble career on an oil rig and a lifetime of drunken fighting when he was in his less-devout phases.
Mustafa’s beard was thick and scratchy, rubbing against Abdul’s thighs as Mustafa moved his head up and down that shaft. He seemed surprised that he had trouble deep-throating Abdul — because, Abdul guessed, Mustafa assumed that a small man must have a small dick.
Intense pleasure shot through Abdul’s body. He had been so shocked by it happening in the first place that his dick took a minute or two to fully react, and then a bolt of pleasure shot through Abdul’s frame. He moaned and grunted, watching the muscles of Mustafa’s back as he struggled to deep-throat Abdul’s dick.
Abdul groaned and gripped the thick mess of dark hair on Mustafa’s head. His cock pulsated as precum leaked out. Mustafa wrinkled his nose but didn’t stop.
The difference in size made it difficult for Mustafa to get his mouth all the way down on Abdul’s cockshaft. He had to stoop way over, and Abdul was still on his toes so Mustafa could reach his crotch more easily. But the sight of the big Turkish brute being forced to struggle with his dick turned Abdul on.
Then Mustafa pulled off. He wrinkled his nose and glared at Abdul, as though Abdul was making him do this. Tendrils of spit and maybe precum still connected his mouth to Abdul’s crotch.
“What? I’m sorry, don’t be mad at me. I didn’t tell you to do this. Coach Badem said to do it, you could tell him no,” Abdul said. “You could tell him you did it but not actually do it. I’ll back you up-“
“I am not angry at you. I am angry at myself. Coach Badem says that I must teach my body that it will get punished for humiliating me like this. He says I should not have allowed you to get in that position,” he said. He hung his head. “I think… he is right. I can get a sponsor if I focus on my athleticism. I should not have lost to you, and my humiliation will teach me a lesson. I will not misjudge a man for being small again.”
Mustafa bent over the bench in the center of the hammam. His body was so wide it wasn’t easy to balance himself on it, but his thick ass was right in front of Abdul. Abdul had to stand on his toes to gain access to it. He had never plowed such a big man, whose cheeks were bigger than Mustafa’s head, and covered with thick black hairs that trapped the sweat and olive oil that remained stuck to his skin.
He held his breath as he pushed his cock in. Mustafa bit his lip and grunted in pain. Abdul gripped his broad back and pushed in deeper until he felt resistance.
“Are you okay?”
“Just stick it in me! You are supposed to hold me down and make it hurt. It is supposed to be punishment,” Mustafa said. He sounded frustrated, like he just wanted to get this over with. He closed his eyes.
“I can’t hold you down, Mustafa,” he said. “I’m like a third your size. There’s no way I can keep you down. And I don’t want to anyway. If it hurts, tell me to stop-“
“No, keep going.”
“I can use lube, I don’t have any, but we could take a break and find some, or we could just get more olive oil,” Abdul said. He grabbed a pitcher of olive oil from a shelf nearby. It made for a fairly effective lube, he found, and it helped him get a few more inches in past those hairy asscheeks.
Soon enough, Abdul was drilling his dick in easily. He mounted Mustafa to get a better angle at his ass, and he rode his back like a horse. Since he was so much shorter than Mustafa, Abdul’s head was wedged in the meaty center of his back.
Mustafa shifted until he was on his knees on the edge of the bench. His massive cock dangled. Abdul wondered idly if it was hard, then reached for it without giving it a second thought.
It wasn’t hard, but as soon as he touched it, two things happened. Mustafa jumped, startled, as Abdul wrapped his fingers around his cock, and then his manhood rocketed to attention as though it had just been waiting for someone to touch it. Mustafa groaned, the pained tenor in his voice now replaced by a slow melting pleasure.
“You are giving me a reacharound? I do not deserve it,” Mustafa said. He hung his head and winced as though speaking reawakened the pain in his ass — or maybe it was the surge of pleasure now that Abdul stroked his dick.
“You do so, don’t be so down on yourself,” Abdul said. “Losing wasn’t a big deal, it was an utter fluke.” Despite Mustafa’s protestations, he didn’t try to get his dick away from Abdul’s hand. He bucked his hips as he moved in sync with Abdul’s motions, clenching on Abdul’s dick while his own manhood pulsated beneath Abdul’s fingers.
The bitter and sweet taste of olive oil seared into Abdul’s mind as the sweat and oil mixture flowed into his mouth from Mustafa’s back. Abdul licked and groped all over Mustafa’s body. Despite his verbal reluctance, Mustafa seemed to enjoy every moment of it.
Mustafa even shot his load first. Maybe that was just because Abdul was a doctor who knew exactly how to hit the prostate, but he liked to think it was because he was so good at it. He could feel the intense pleasure coursing through Mustafa’s veins as those broad back and shoulders muscles writhed. Mustafa grunted so hard and so desperately that it sounded almost painful.
Cum flowed across Abdul’s hand. He held out his other hand to soak most of it up, wanting to eat it. His semen was thick, hot, creamily dripping between Abdul’s fingers. Mustafa’s body shook and writhed as his orgasm flowed through him.
Then Abdul licked all the cum off his hands. The sour and sweet flavor overwhelmed his senses, and sent his own pleasure to the next level. He rolled his eyes and arched his back. His dick slammed in and out of Mustafa’s broad ass, which was now loose enough that plowing was easy. It didn’t seem to hurt him any longer either, which was nice, Abdul didn’t want to cause him pain.
But he did writhe as pleasure overcame him. Mustafa’s orgasm continued even as his dick limpened up, and his ass squeezed around Abdul’s dick.
“Ah, oooooh, stick it me…” Mustafa murmured, then bit his lip like he regretted saying it. But his ass didn’t lie and couldn’t hide how intensely he loved the prostate stimulation.
That was enough to send Abdul over the edge. He gasped and grunted, gripping Mustafa tightly. Cum flowed out of his cock, filling Mustafa’s ass. Abdul sighed loudly. Mustafa bucked and arched his back, grimacing as he accepted every drop of cum.
Then Abdul backed out. He held onto Mustafa’s tight, flexed back muscles though, savoring their feel and taste until Mustafa shifted. Mustafa stood, a sheepish frown on his face like he was embarrassed at how easy that was.
“If Coach Badem asks,” Mustafa said softly. “Tell him I cried. Tell him it hurt very badly.”
Abdul nodded. He was too tired and spent to tell Mustafa he shouldn’t be so humiliated. He knew that wouldn’t work anyway, it would just sound patronizing, he thought. So he allowed it and watched as Mustafa strode off into the showers.
Abdul sat down, alone, still so shocked that he couldn’t even think about what to do next. He needed to shower too but he assumed that Mustafa wanted to be alone right now, and Abdul just wanted to sit. Besides, he was covered in Mustafa’s alpha scent at the moment, and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to wipe that off.
As he waited for his turn in the shower, Abdul wondered how he could lose to Mustafa in a way that would make Coach Badem order Abdul to be on the bottom next time. Abdul resolved to lose in a particularly embarrassing way the next time he could do so — that would help Mustafa feel like he had regained his masculinity, while also being enjoyable for Abdul.
He smiled and sighed as he imagined what that would be like. He was interrupted by Coach Badem himself, who poked his head in, wrinkling his nose tentatively as if worried about what he would walk in on. When he saw that Abdul was there alone, he frowned.
“Did Mustafa…?”
“Yeah, he did it. He did what you wanted.”
“Good. I hope he learned his lesson.”
“I sure think so, Coach Badem,” Abdul said with a smile. “I think he learned that lesson very good. I was glad to teach him.”

The Sumo Wrestler Bottoms

Bart is in Japan when he gets the chance to punish an alpha male sumo wrestler. Yoshimuzi will do whatever it takes to regain his honor, even if that means bending over and taking what Bart’s got to give!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Bart worked for the Bank of Ibaraki nowadays, a small regional bank that sponsored a sumo wrestler named Yoshizumi. The Bank of Ibaraki had been trying to open a Hawaiian branch for years. Bart was helping them out with IT services related to that, but it required him to come to Japan to get to know their services and systems.
So when a major sumo tournament needed a last-minute IT person to come troubleshoot the web streaming, the Bank of Ibaraki had loaned Bart for a day. It seemed like just a free day away from his annoying coworkers and cruel boss.
But when he got there, it wasn’t a day off by any means. There was a lot of work to be done and nobody who could do anything about it but Bart. There were some major problems with the code that protected the web stream, and it wasn’t easy to fix. It took him eighteen hours of constant work and reinstallation of several complex modules, but he got the webstreaming up at the last possible moment. An executive was about to call the television studio to tell them to prepare something else, when Bart finally got the feed going. Bart had been worried he’d shame himself, possibly even get fired — the Bank of Ibaraki did not tolerate failure lightly — so when he realized it was working again, he breathed a sigh of relief.
“You have done good, Bart-san.”
“You have acquitted yourself with honor.”
Not only was he treated as a hero, he was allowed to watch the tournament with executives from the Bank of Ibaraki. They congratulated him and bowed so low to the ground it made him nervous. He knew a lot of sumo tournaments had yakuza connections, which made him wonder how he would have been punished if he failed. The yakuza did not tolerate failure lightly.
Was the Bank of Ibaraki a legitimate bank? Bart was unsure. They weren’t illegitimate — they had real customers, real deposits, real loans, and they received real payments. But Bart couldn’t know how much, if any, of their system was based on crime. It was possible most of the bank’s funds were the proceeds of crime.
“You must be proud of your success. You have saved the tournament for us all,” said the bank executive who showed him to the ritzy box where he could watch the action up close. Bart had no real desire to watch a sumo match, but he wasn’t about to turn it down.
He’d never seen a sumo match before, but he had long had a preference for big and fat men, and sumo wrestlers were among the most arousing. Perhaps their best quality, Bart thought, was not just their thick, heavy, expansive bodies but the powerful muscle they had underneath all that flab.
Really, Bart thought, sumo wrestlers were ideal specimens of man.
Bart nodded to the bank executive and acknowledged his success. He was careful not to appear arrogant about it, and he spoke of the simplicity of the problem. It was time-consuming to fix, he said, but not difficult. He did not explain that it was only a problem because the people who had originally coded the database did a poor job of it — if these people were yakuza-connected, Bart didn’t want to get his predecessors in trouble. Besides, he couldn’t explain what was wrong with the database without getting into a lot of technical details, and he could tell at a glance that this executive would zone out and fail to comprehend basically any of it.
Business executives were pretty much morons.
In the end, Yoshizumi Gagatsu lost, which was anticlimactic — after the Bank of Ibaraki saved the day technology-wise, Bart greatly hoped their sponsored wrestler would win. It seemed thematically inappropriate for Yoshizumi to lose, like Bart deserved to have an all-win day because he had won. He knew that was irrational, he wasn’t owed a positive day.
It just made his own success seem less impressive. Anyway though, he didn’t sulk.
He lingered after the tournament because he didn’t want to wade through the crowds or the traffic. The bank executives had hurried away as soon as they could. According to a conversation he half-overheard, they were going to the locker room He suspected they were planning on scolding Yoshizumi, maybe even punishing him. They had stern looks on their faces. Bart was glad he hadn’t disappointed them — those rumored yakuza connections were credible and frightening. They didn’t suffer failure gladly.
Then a tall man with a broad-barrel craggy body appeared. He bowed and said, “You are the man they call ‘Bart Dazzle’, yes?”
“Yes…”
“Please come with me. Yoshizumi would like to see you.” He turned without waiting for a response.
Bart followed nervously. He now recognized the craggy man as Kazuya Ito, Yoshizumi’s coach (which was called an oyakata, who, like they usually were, was himself a retired sumo wrestler). The oyakata led Bart to the locker room, which was behind the wrestling arena. He held the door open and motioned for Bart to enter, but he did not follow him in. Bart’s heart pounded as he entered.
What am I in for? Oh god they’re going to execute me, I know too much!
The locker room was cold and sterile, and it reeked of cleaning fluid. Bart actually preferred a messier locker room that smelled of manhood, but he wasn’t about to complain. He just went in.
Yoshizumi was there, his round body trembling as he scrubbed the floors. The flab covering his bulging muscles shook, the loincloth-like mawashi belt barely concealing the sweat and pubic hair beneath. Bart felt an onrush of intense and nearly uncontrollable desire. He had always adored champion sumo wrestlers (sekitori) like Yoshizumi. Right now, however, Yoshizumi lacked in confidence and swagger because he lost and had no doubt been scolded by his bosses. Now he had been reduced to scrubbing the sweat of his fellow wrestlers off the floor, wrinkling his nose at the salty, astringent odor that filled the air. His heavyset body jiggled, muscles flexing under all his mass, as he scrubbed at the floor. Yoshizumi frowned when he saw Bart.
“You are Bart?” Yoshizumi looked at Bart as though not comprehending the tiny gaijin’s presence. This was not the kind of tournament that saw a lot of outside visitors.
“Yes.”
“You are the computer man? You fixed the tournament, yes? You made the Internet work again.”
“That’s right,” he said.
“You are good at your job. I have failed today. I have brought shame upon myself,” he said. He stood and hung his head. His pecs flexed beneath his layer of fat — Bart could see his huge muscles beating under all his sumo-trained flesh. Bart would have gladly dropped to his knees and jerked him off right here and now.
But that seemed unlikely to be something Yoshizumi would agree to.
“Uh… Well, I’m sure you did your best,” Bart said. His eyes were drawn to that mawashi belt and the dark crevices behind the waist, where he could almost see the man’s bare cockroot. Bart blushed as he tried to avoid being too obvious about it.
“It was not good enough,” he said. “I must excise my shame. I will regain my honor. I am sorry to have let down my benefactors.” He hung his head. Bart got the impression he was repeating words that had been told to him, that he was told to have this conversation with Bart.
“Oh, okay-” Bart wanted to explain to Yoshizumi that he didn’t need to feel that bad. It was just a wrestling match. There would be more. Of course, if Yoshizumi disappointed the yakuza of Clan Rairaku, he was in for a world of punishment, so maybe he was right to feel bad. Or maybe he had thrown the match and felt guilty about it.
That seemed unlikely. Bart knew the Japanese had a strong ethic about sportsmanship, and Yoshizumi sure looked like he gave it his all out there. Bart sensed the disappointment greatly within him, like Yoshizumi thought he could have won if he had tried harder.
But Bart was too horny to think how to reassure him, and Yoshizumi seemed to think regaining his honor would be what made him feel better.
“You are wanting to do it, yes?” Yoshizumi asked, his heavy brow furrowed. He glared at Bart.
“Do it? Do what?,” Bart said.
“I will have jack off. You want jack off? I will do whatever you want, so as to regain the gathering of my honor.” Yoshizumi’s tone was a mix of hope and dread, as though a part of him wanted Bart to say no and another part was terrified he would refuse.
“What?” Bart thought for sure he had misunderstood. But then Yoshizumi repeated his request. Bart’s heart skipped a beat.
“It will remove shame from my heart,” he said. He blushed and dropped the mawashi he still wore. His cock dangled low and heavy, nice and long, beckoning for Bart to come closer. Yoshizumi’s big body trembled. “Come now. I must do as you order me to. What will you have me do?”
“Well… You really want to jack off with me?”
“Yes. It is necessary to restore honor,” he said. “I must allow myself to service one who is a winner, one who can teach me victory. I am a loser, Bart.” He leaned forward and kissed Bart on the lips, his tongue pushing into Bart’s mouth. “I do not know how to do butt jacking off. You must be having to tell me.” His English had grown more halting now, as he became more nervous.
Bart smiled as a thrill of desire ran through him. He hadn’t thought this quick-and-dirty IT job would turn into some outrageous sumo rough-trade. He blushed and touched Yoshizumi’s bare belly, caressing the soft, worn flesh of his torso.
Though there was, of course, plenty of padding there, Bart was shocked at the amount of muscle as well. The fat barely covered it up. Yoshizumi would have been a musclegod if he lost all that fat — which Bart was glad he hadn’t done. Bart sucked a few beads of sweat off his bellybutton, making Yoshizumi chortle wordlessly, nervously, his body jiggling above Bart’s head.
His flesh was warm and bready, and Bart let himself squeeze into it as he shoved his tongue into Yoshizumi’s mouth. Then he moved down his body, and he slurped the sweat off Yoshizumi’s massive torso. His bellyfat jiggled. Yoshizumi either grunted or groaned or maybe even moaned, or maybe he was ticklish and he laughed when Bart touched him, but any way, when Bart looked up, Yoshizumi was stonefacing as though nothing had happened. His dick twitched though, visible through the trembling of the loincloth-like mawashi that he still wore.
Bart rammed his hand into Yoshizumi’s mawashi, which made the big man blanche. He winced and his muscles all flexed as though he had an instinctual urge to fight Bart. Instead he sighed as his dick flopped loosely between Bart’s fingers.
It was a big, thick dick, uncut and warm, moist with sweat and throbbing in Bart’s grasp. He loved a magnificent manhood, and this was one Bart couldn’t wait to taste. But he wanted to get it hard first, and he wanted to see how far he could take this. What exactly had Yoshizumi been told to do? As Bart began stroking it, Yoshizumi’s dick swelled and pulsated beneath his grasp. Yoshizumi had suggested he would do whatever Bart told him to do. Bart wasn’t sure if he meant that literally or not, but he fully intended to push Yoshizumi to the limit.
“Will you put my dick in your mouth?” Bart asked. His voice sounded weak and frail in this locker room, which had an aura of power and machismo.
Bart wondered how many sumo wrestlers had jacked off together here before. He wished he had been around after every tournament. Though the locker room was clean and smelled of soap, he sensed beneath that the smell of sweat and bamboo, cloying and thick in the air. Manhood reeked through the lockers and soaked into the floors. The clean surfaces were only superficial, whereas Bart savored the filth.
Yoshizumi frowned but nodded his head. He sunk to his knees, but Bart directed him to lay on his back. The folds of his substantial belly jiggled as he got into position. He lay on a clean mat in an open area — apparently meant for pre-match stretching — in the back of the locker room. Outside, Bart could hear the hustle and bustle of the audience as they filed out into the parking lot; it was exciting, to hear the public just a few feet away, even if there was a wall of solid concrete keeping him protected from sight.
“I will get you off too,” Bart said. He glanced at Yoshizumi for a response, but Yoshizumi said nothing.
His horniness was so intense that Bart could do little more than repeat himself, hoping Yoshizumi wouldn’t say no or leave. But Yoshizumi looked like he had no choice and was resigned to this encounter.
Bart thought sixty-nining would be a good way to get him a little excited about it. Bart realized only at the last moment that Yoshizumi’s huge size was going to make it difficult to get into position. He certainly couldn’t mount Yoshizumi’s entire body. Even if Yoshizumi were a normal size, he was much too thick for Bart’s tiny frame.
“Yes that is good okay for certainly,” Yoshizumi said, gasping, spit dripping from his lips. He sounded like he was much too distracted to remember English grammar. “We will do it in sixty-nine style.” He laid on his back.
Bart had to bend his slim frame over that bulging gut, which he gripped like a liferaft as he reached for Yoshizumi’s cock. That was a somewhat awkward position for Bart, but it was also exactly what he wanted — it felt like he was making love to that powerful sumo belly itself. He draped himself over it and let the fresh, clean sweat there mingle with his own.
Once they were both in position, Yoshizumi swallowed Bart’s dick, his big throat stretching to accommodate it. He gagged when it hit his tongue but that didn’t slow him down any, and the sound of his choked sputtering even sounded somewhat desirous, as though he had learned to appreciate the salty manliness of Bart’s cock. Warmth suffused Bart’s body, and he moaned even before they had begun.
“Oh, yes, Yoshizumi…”
Bart licked Yoshizumi’s dick from root to tip, his own body trembling as he got hard right away. The fat and muscle beneath him quivered with a mixture of desire and anxiety, which made Yoshizumi’s cock also rocket right to full erection. Eventually he moaned around Bart’s dick and seemed to forget that he had been unwilling to keep going.
Soon they were both rock-hard and leaking precum, while Yoshizumi loudly suckled, sputtering and letting occasional aggressive gag. Bart’s balls slammed against Yoshizumi’s face.
When he felt his orgasm approach, Bart knew he needed to stop. He didn’t want this to be over so soon, and it was obvious that Yoshizumi did not wish to swallow his cum. Bart desperately wanted to do so, but he had a better idea. He thought he could get Yoshizumi to take this even farther.
Then Bart stood, pulling his dick out of Yoshizumi’s cock. His orgasm receded just in time, and pained frustration flowed up Bart’s body. He forced himself to be still, and he smiled at Yoshizumi, who winced and nodded his agreement — he knew what was coming next.
Bart’s long dick pulsated as he got excited thinking about how this was going to feel; it was exactly a fantasy he had had since he was a little boy watching sumo matches on TV. Yoshizumi was even more handsome than any of the sumo wrestlers he had seen back then, or maybe Yoshizumi wasn’t more handsome, he just seemed more real because he was right in front of Bart’s face.
Yoshizumi’s ass was twice as wide as Bart’s body, so Bart felt like even more of a slim young twink than ever. He had to stand on his toes to get into Yoshizumi’s ass from the right angle. It took both hands to separate his asscheeks, baring his tight hole.
When he did succeed, however, he moaned exquisitely. Pleasure flowed up his body with just the first inch of his dick in that tight ass — beneath the thick layer of pudge, Yoshizumi’s ass was strong and hard. Bart struggled to separate those mountainous asscheeks far enough, and his fingers clutched the man’s hairy crack-flesh. It was almost enough to send him over the edge, especially when Yoshizumi’s cheeks involuntarily flexed. He was so powerful beneath the flab that it was like his ass had gripped Bart’s manhood and fingers.
“You have to loosen up, Yoshizumi. Just relax. I will not hurt you, and you are so much bigger than me it will not hurt much. You can tell me to stop if it is too much,” Bart said.
Yoshizumi nodded his understanding but didn’t say anything. He gritted his teeth and averted his eyes from Bart’s gaze. H was on his belly now, so he just looked down to the floor of the locker room he had just cleaned and buried his face in his forearm.
He grunted as he accepted Bart’s dick. He bit his lip, trying to avoid showing his pain, and then a flush of red hit his face. That suggested to Bart that he felt a surge of pleasure as well, but was probably too insecure right now to admit it. Bart could feel the man’s spongy prostate tingling as he stimulated it, and he could practically see the pleasure through the rippling of Yoshizumi’s flesh.
While Bart began fucking harder and harder, he reached around Yoshizumi’s body the best he could. He wasn’t surprised to find that he couldn’t give a reacharound as he intended. His arms weren’t even remotely close to long enough. Yoshizumi’s powerful belly was in the way. Bart enjoyed trying though, straining to reach all the way around that massive frame of quivering muscular flesh.
“If you lay on your back, I’ll jack you off,” Bart said. “I can’t reach from here.”
He shook his head. “I do not deserve to feel pleasure.”
“Nonsense, of course you do. You made a little mistake, Yoshizumi, relax. Besides, you said you would do what you needed to, in order to please me, right? Well I wanna jack you off while I stick it in you. That’s what’ll please me.”
Yoshizumi nodded then. Bart pulled out as Yoshizumi’s giant body flipped over. He lifted his legs up. Ordinarily, Bart would hold a man’s legs up while fucking him in this position, but each of Yoshizumi’s legs probably weighed more than Bart. He was obviously not going to be able to hold them in place.
But luckily since Yoshizumi was such an athlete, he had plenty of muscle. He could keep his legs elevated for a very long time, his outrageous thigh muscles thick like corded rope beneath his layer of fat. He winced again as Bart re-penetrated him but his moan turned from pain to pleasure when Bart grabbed his dick.
He was already hard, and he resumed leaking precum the moment Bart began to stroke him. With every thrust of Bart’s dick, Yoshizumi’s flab trembled, his giant muscles flexed, his ass clenched and his dick spasmed beneath Bart’s fingers.
“Oh god yes, thank you, I feel better already,” Yoshizumi said, his voice still tight and pinched. It was clear that he was in pain, but from his tone and the way his cock pulsated in Bart’s fingers, it was clear he felt a deep, abiding pleasure as well.
Mister Gogatsu?! boomed a deep voice from the other end of the locker room. It was a man, who sounded stern, authoritarian, and a bit uneasy.
“Yes!” Yoshizumi said, calling out as loud as he could muster while he was in pain. Bart froze mid-penetration, his blood running cold as he wondered if Yoshizumi would get kicked out of the league if they were caught.
Are you done? You are requested again in the executive suite.
“No, I’m doing it now. I promise. Come see and you will know-“
No. I do not wish to see. I will report to the bosses that you will be upstairs shortly. Do not disappoint.
“Yes, Gakimosimi-san,” Yoshizumi said. He frowned until the locker room door slammed shut. Then he breathed a sigh of relief. “That was an enforcer for Clan Rairaku. They… own my contract,” he said.
Vicarious fear ran through Bart’s spine. If he had been thinking clearly, he would have realized that that man was yakuza, come to check that Yoshizumi was satisfying his debt of shame. The yakuza were terrifying, and Bart was glad he hadn’t known that’s what was going on at the time or he would have fled.
But now they were alone again, and Bart began plowing harder and harder at Yoshizumi’s powerful behind. Since Yoshizumi’s ass was so big, Bart had no problem slamming his rod in all the way in and out. It didn’t cause Yoshizumi too much pain, and though he was tight, he was too big for his tightness to be a problem.
Intense pleasure rocketed through Bart’s body. His back arched as he plunged his dick in and out. There was so much to Yoshizumi’s body that Bart felt like he was ensconced in the man’s rolling drapes of flesh. He even had a perfect amount of chest hair, a lot for a Japanese man..
Fat rolls rippled above Yoshizumi’s muscular frame, and the big man moaned with pleasure. He began feeling up his own nipples with one hand. Bart used both of his hands on Yoshizumi’s thick dick, which was veiny and bulgy, cum coursing through it as they both writhed together.
“I’m going to cum! Oh god!”
They both shot their loads at the same time, Bart just a minute or two before Yoshizumi. Intense, indescribable pleasure wafted through his body as he sprayed his load within Yoshizumi’s plump ass. Yoshizumi moaned, a cringing sound that suggested both agony and bliss.
Then cum sprayed over Bart’s hand and Yoshizumi’s jiggling belly. It coated Bart’s fingers as Yoshizumi’s entire body shook and vibrated. He gasped, cursing in surprise at how powerful his orgasm was. Wave after wave of pleasure rampaged through his body, as Yoshizumi experienced a potent climax.
Few women had ever brought him to such pleasure, making Yoshizumi’s whole body jiggle and shake. Yoshizumi gasped. He tried to remain staid and nonplussed, but Yoshizumi couldn’t handle the intense feelings rollicking him. No woman could make him feel like that, he thought with a chest-rattling sigh.
His cumwad was thick and creamy, and it seemed to go on forever.
Bart smiled as he pulled out and licked all the cum off his fingers. It tasted clean and vibrant, like a mossy forest, and he moaned with the aftershocks of his orgasm. Yoshizumi’s massive body loomed before him like a colossus, and Bart let his tongue wrap around Yoshizumi’s folds. He sucked on his big meaty nipples.
“I thank you, Bart,” Yoshizumi said. His face was red, a smile creeping over his face as he grasped Bart on the shoulder. The sensations roiling through his body were too potent to ignore, so his voice rattled and broke. “You have allowed me to regain my honor.”
“Anytime,” Bart said. “I love sumo.” He smiled and pulled away. He sighed before putting his clothes on. He was suddenly glad he had come to Japan and especially glad he had fixed that webstream.
This was a wonderful country.

The Shotputter

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

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

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

The Biker

When Lance wins a motorcycle race against a handsome biker, he’s in for a wild ride on some alpha male meat! He gets to swing on every part of the legendary biker Banner Wilde!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

As soon as Lance set off, he knew he had won. He timed it just right, to roar off as soon as the pretty girl in the short dress dropped her flag. Lance’s motorcycle darted into the darkness of the spring night.
Banner Wilde was the other biker, the one who was now behind Lance, his face increasingly ashen as the crowd stampeded and caterwauled behind him. He was lanky for a biker, well-built but ropy and wiry, not bulky. That was probably a benefit for him, since he was lightweight on the motorcycle. Lance wasn’t much bigger. But Banner had a solid, squarish face like a brick, while Lance was more leanly muscled.
The wind roared through Lance’s hair, and little pinpricks of pain erupted where pebbles pecked his face. He lifted his head up like a kid standing on a bike’s pedals. He was a few feet ahead of Banner, breezing ahead of the crowd of young people cheering, jeering and whooping.
He was already planning how to celebrate his victory — aside from the obvious — before he even zoomed past the finish line.
He virtually jumped off the motorcycle, pumping his fists. “Hell yeah! Fuck yeah!” He blushed a little. It wouldn’t do to look like a sore winner, especially since he didn’t have any friends here. For now, at least, he didn’t care. He just wanted Banner’s cock.
Lance took a few steps back, exulting in the whoops and glories coming from the crowd. They clasped him on the back and complimented the motorcycle, all that kinda stuff, and Lance aite it up with a spoon. Lance was not a biker, he was a mere accountant. Banner was the biker.
And he had lost.
Banner get off his bike too, looking downcast, suddenly his face seemed much tanner than it had before the race. His flashy brown eyes flitted over the crowd, all of whom ignored him. Everyone likes a winner. Banner looked at Lance and nodded faintly as though to say ‘good job’. Then he was mobbed by the other bikers from the Jagged Right bar where Banner and Lance had met.
That was Banner’s motorcycle club. Lance’s too, sort of. Lance wasn’t a biker, but he had a motorcycle and money and the Jagged Right were willing to humor him. Banner’s loss was not an example of humoring him though, Banner had been cocky that he would win, and he was ashen-faced now as his fellow Jagged Right bikers mobbed him. Banner tried very hard to win.
But Lance’s motorcycle had come out on top. He liked to think that was skill, and of course there was skill involved. But Lance had the money to buy, upgrade and maintain a top of the line motorcycle. That was really all it was. Motorycle racing was all about the engines and the tires and that sort of thing, not the human rider’s athleticism.
That wasn’t how people treated it though.
Lance didn’t interrupt Banner, who endured his friends laughed and jeered at him. There was no need for Lance to say ‘told you so’ when Banner’s own friends did it for him. Banner flared his nostrils and ignored them.
“You had better not back out-“
“Oh, he won’t, he’s no welcher, I knew his pa!”
Banner wrinkled his nose. He didn’t like it when people compared him to his father. He didn’t like that at all. But if he complained now, he’d look like a sensitive little snowflake.
He wasn’t going to welch. Banner was going to do it. It was vital, however, that he pretend it was no big deal, like there was not really any reason he’d never done it before, like the only reason he wasn’t ramrodding dudes all the time was that he was too busy swimming in pussy.
That wasn’t even wrong. He didn’t think it was a big deal. Losing was a big deal, but he chalked that up to his weakened gasket. He had misjudged the sissy biker and his Korean-made motorcycle. That, he thought, was the part that annoyed him the most — how did a Harley Davidson lose to a Korean motorcycle?
Fucking Koreans!
“Awright, man, you beat me, you got a helluva bike,” Banner said. He clasped Lance on the shoulder. He had to raise his voice to be heard over his jeering friends.
“Fuck him-“
“You’ll never look at pussy the same way again, Banner!”
“Banner gonna take it in the aaaaaaaa-ss!
Soon, however, they made it to Lance’s RV. Banner was glad to be away from the rest of the bikers. Some of his friends were making fun of him now despite not having been around during the initial incident — they didn’t even know what was going on.
This all started just last week…
But Lance had been acting the fool in the bar, attracting attention and generally making himself look like an idiot. The hairy machos who filled up the bar were always looking for something to tease him about. Lance had taken it all in stride. Until Banner said that Lance’s little pea-snapper bike couldn’t hold a candle to Banner’s Harley. Lance had taken him up on that implied offer of a race, with a twist:
Lance wanted Banner to ram him. If Lance won, Banner agreed to ram him inside the RV. If Banner won, Lance would have painted the words this bike got beat by an American motorcycle on his bike’s body and on the back of the leather jacket he normally wore when riding. That wouldn’t have been embarrassing to Lance. He bought the Korean bike because it had the best stats for the best price. If it lost, it would only mean Banner’s Harley was better. Lance was not a patriotic Korean and had no desire to boost the Korean reputation for motorcycle manufacture.
But he agreed because he thought he’d win the bet and get to ramrod Banner, which turned out to be exactly what happened. Lance was confident that he would win because he had just tuned his bike up and it was a state-of-the-art, precision-engineered beast of mechanicry, whereas Banner’s Harley was a mud-splattered repairberg that drifted down the highway like a rattling, meth-addled beggar. Lance could tell that Banner’s Harley was weak, just from the dismal sputtering tone to its engine noises. He could hear the weakened gasket in it.
Once they got in the RV, Lance sighed and smiled. The other bikers began to scatter. Banner was glad to be in private. He didn’t much want to do this with all his buddies outside asking if he was having trouble getting hard yet. The sound of the assembled Jagged Right bikers was muffled by the trailer, and now that Banner was out of sight, a lot of them lost interest in teasing him.
“So I’m glad it turned out okay, even if this wasn’t the bar I had been told it was,” Lance said, finishing a story that Banner hadn’t been paying attention to — Lance was explaining how he went to the wrong bar at first.
Banner didn’t care why Lance had come to the Jagged Right bar in particular, so he ignored the story. Lance poured himself a glass of water — his mouth had gotten dusty and dry in the race — and then passed one to Banner, who looked suddenly very thirsty. Banner wished he had started drinking in the bar prior to all this happening. He probably would have won the race if he’d been drunk, he thought.
“Yeah, the butch all-women biker bar is The Velvet Log,” Banner said, chewing on one ragged fingernail. “Don’t go in there, those bitches’ll rip your heads off if you look at ’em wrong.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s… Well, you gotta look at butch women in better ways, Banner. Improve your looking,” Lance said with a smile.
He was raven, with a thick mane of jet hair, scraggly and poorly trimmed, like he had had a beautiful amber head of hair like a Viking god but then fell to Earth and doused his head in brambles and mud, giving him a torn and tattered half-curled mop of dinge highlighted with brown and tan and a few strands of gray. His forehead was lightning-bolted with an ugly rill of scar tissue, his left eye droopy underneath it like it had been damaged in whatever incident left his eyebrow slashed. His front tooth was chipped too, and he ran his tongue over the jagged tip of it as he looked down Lance’s body.
Banner was powerfully built and strong without being heavy or bulky. He had that pseudo-nice face, like if he had lived a clean and wholesome life he’d be a leading man with a charismatic pair of dimples, but since he was craggy and worn all over, those dimples gave him an almost menacing aura, like he was trying to trick you by looking so handsome despite being as “ugly as a pile of dirt”, as his ex-wife had said.
“Do you want me to get drunk first?” Banner asked. He kind of hoped the answer would be yes. That was both because he had fewer inhibitions when he was drunk and because he simply wanted to be drunk. Banner usually wished he was drunker than he was.
“No. Unless you want to,” Lance said.
Once he was drunk, he’d gladly let Lance jerk him off seven ways to Sunday. That wouldn’t be a problem at all. Lance could probably do it without even asking and Banner would have been too wasted to complain. He would have said that was the only way he’d do it and make Lance wait for him to get drunk, but Lance might cornhole him when he was passed out. He’d rather do it sober so he could call it off if he wanted.
But also, he didn’t want to take the time to get drunk before doing this — his friends would notice it taking so much time, and they’d accuse him of being unable to get hard. It was better to just get it over with.
“Nevermind, I don’t needta be drunk,” he said with a shrug. “Let’s get this over with.” He stood with a loud, moist snort. He saw little reason to act seductive, so he let out a loud belch. Maybe, he thought, that would make Lance back out, and Banner would look so manly he was too much even for the sissies.
But Lance didn’t mind that at all. He looked up at Banner with big doe eyes and smirked. “Well, come on, take those pants off.”
Banner rolled his eyes and came closer. He didn’t like being treated like a piece of meat — which was ironic because he loved it when women treated him like that. But he wasn’t going to look hesitant, or even reluctant, so Banner snarled, “Man, shit, boy, goddamn…” and unzipped his jeans. They were encrusted with old mud and a splatter of stains — blood, engine oil, food, unidentifiable fluids combining like an abstract painting — and they reeked of sour, spoiled fruit, like bad wine.
Lance enjoyed every note of that scent. He liked ’em dirty, and the more Banner snortled and chortled like an annoyed pig, the more aroused Lance became. He was a keen appreciator of the male form.
“C’mon, get to slurpin’ hoss, let’s see that shit get wet!” Banner bellowed loud enough that his fellow Jagged Right bikers outside could hear. They cheered in response. He unzipped his pants, and Lance fished his meat out.
He had a nice hefty dick that slipped through the fly of his jeans. Lance loved jerking men off like that, through the fly. It gave them a sort of mystery, he thought, like you didn’t know what might be on the other side of that fabric. He blushed as he got to work on Banner’s shaft.
He stroked it with one hand, thwacking it over his face. It was thick and fatty like a low-quality sausage, and it jiggled as it roped around on Lance’s face. Banner sneered down at him. Back in prison, Banner thought, nobody would willingly let a man’s limp dick jab around on his face like that, it would be humiliating. But out here, a wussy-ass lawyer could do that and not lose face.
Well, not lose too much face. Many bikers definitely had less respect for Lance knowing he jacked off men. To Lance, this reputation was not a problem.
Banner crossed his arms over his chest, his leather sleeveless vest moving with it to accentuate his bare arms. The tattoos on his muscles were bluish, but faded, giving him that dirty look that fully-tattooed light-skinned people ended up with when their tattoos faded to nothing but a smear of geometric smudge. His muscular arms rippled, and his pecs bounced. His dick was slightly hard now, more from the excitement of the situation than from stimulation, since Lance hadn’t really done anything yet. He was just playing with it.
But then, when it was at least firm enough to swallow it, Lance did precisely that. Banner’s eyes opened wide as his cock slid down Lance’s mouth. A wave of pleasure wracked his body, as Banner’s cock slammed all the way to a full erection in seconds. Banner sucked in his breath and stood on his toes.
“Aaaah, damn…”
He loved the feeling of his cock getting squeezed by his bitch’s moist, warm hole, and he didn’t even have to look down. He didn’t have to see any of this. It was nicer than a blowjob from a woman in a way, Banner thought. No need to be polite, no need to woo, no need to impress the bitch. All he had to do was take his dick out and let it happen.
And lose a race. But Banner was trying not to think about that.
With waves of sensation wafting up from his cock, Banner looked out the window — the curtains were closed, but he peered out the side. He was glad to see that the other bikers were off getting drunk, seemingly having forgotten about the race and the bet and what was going on in here. Out of sight, out of mind.
He was distracted and surprised when a powerful bolt of pleasure ran up his spine. Am I hard? He hadn’t realized he was getting hard. It really was totally physical, he thought, not nerve-wracking or off-putting at all once he got started. His uncle had once said that — that getting throated by a man didn’t mean anything, that it felt objectively the same as getting sucked off by a woman. Banner hadn’t believed him.
But now he knew that his uncle was right, or maybe had even underestimated the sensation — this felt better than any blowjob he’d had. Lance went deeper and held it longer than any woman. He didn’t seem to need oxygen. His hands clasped Banner’s well-muscled thighs, and he signaled when he needed a break by tapping Banner on his meaty asscheeks.
Banner’s knees buckled and he bent back, a moan of desire escaping from his lips. His eyes opened wider than ever. He wasn’t expecting it to feel this good. He bit his lip and moaned again, hoping he didn’t sound weak.
His cock was rock-hard now, throbbing, pulsating. He gripped Lance’s head and held on tight, giving him easy access to Lance’s throat, which he plowed down like it was a field and Banner’s cock a tractor. He pushed his dick lower and lower, marveling at how Lance didn’t make him stop, not even when his throat let out a gag and a choke.
“Oh god…” Banner didn’t want to seem like a teenager getting a nut off for the first time, so he grunted, swallowing up his moans with a manly snort. He tried to sound nonplussed by it all, like he was doing Lance a favor.
Which he was, in a way. Lance was the one who wanted this.
It felt so good though, that he didn’t even notice right away when Lance pulled off him — pleasure still coursed through his veins and wracked his body. Then Lance’s hands slipped under Banner’s tattered sleeveless shirt and badge-covered vest.
He didn’t have a perfect body. Lance liked that, he appreciated men’s physiques and not just six-packed Hollywood-bikers with clean, combed hair. He liked his men meaty and rough-hewn. Banner was exactly that, all thick where it counted and firm everywhere, covered in stinky coarse hairs that tasted of motorcycle engines and group showers. His hair was a dense mop, perpetually uncombed, indeed it seemed likely Banner had never combed it, certainly not since his mother stopped forcing him to.
He lifted the shirt and vest off. Banner groaned. He hadn’t really wanted to take his shirt off, but it seemed rude to insist on it. He wasn’t ashamed, it just felt almost romantic. He stood there unmoving as Lance licked and sucked every inch of his chest, more enthusiastically than any woman had ever done, even back when Banner had a six-pack and a smooth chest. He didn’t react because he still had that immature nagging worry that anything he did might be interpreted as a secret signal for Lance to ramrod him. He just stood there, not even breathing while Lance sucked his pecs and his shoulders, one hand stroking Banner’s cock idly as he did. It throbbed in Lance’s grip.
The precum flowed down Lance’s wrist before he grabbed a tube of lubricant and smeared some on his ass, using the precum for a little additional lubiness. Then he turned around and jutted his ass back, ramming it into Banner’s unkempt pubic bush.
That was one thing he liked about bikers — they never trimmed their pubes. A lot of men did that these days, and Lance did not approve. Banner had a big bush that concealed his cockroot, but his dick was big enough that that didn’t matter. That was why so many men did trim their pubes these days, Lance thought, they thought it made their dicks look bigger. Banner both wasn’t concerned about that and had a big enough dick it didn’t matter. It was close to a foot long, maybe even past it, and it was so thick Lance could barely get his hand wrapped all the way around it. When he did, that veiny shaft pulsated like a beast, and Lance traced a vein running from the glans to the root with his tongue.
“You want me to stick it in?” Banner grunted.
“Hell yeah,” Lance murmured. He had to reach behind himself to guide Banner’s cock into his ass. Banner still wore those nasty old jeans, which hung heavily beneath Lance’s hand, Banner’s prick jutting forth from the fly. Lance couldn’t bring himself to let go until it was ready to go up his ass.
“I’s goin’ for it, hoss, get ready. Hope it don’t hurt too bad,” Banner said. That wasn’t true though. It would help his reputation if Lance told everyone his dick was too big to take up the ass.
“Aaaaah…” Lance sucked in his breath as when tip slipped in. He was tense, his lips pursed, face turning pale. There was an intense pressure that was mind-numbing and almost, but not quite, painful.
He took a deep breath and shook his head, focusing, getting rid of the second thoughts dancing in his mind. He gritted his teeth and pushed back even farther.
At last, his ass opened, and Banner let out a shocked, chest-rattling roar. His cock slid in deeper and deeper, inch after inch, as though Lance’s ass was sucking it in and slurping the shaft down. Lance felt it filling him up, inch after inch rubbing over his prostate and sending waves of bliss through him.
“Goddamn-” Banner’s deep voice carried, rattling the RV and drawing attention outside. Banner was too deeply engrossed to notice the snickering and laughter begin again from outside the trailer. The other bikers must have heard Biker’s moans.
Lance murmured incomprehensibly and sucked in his breath at the sound of men outside.
“Ah, fuck… Are they back out there?” Banner paused fucking for a moment with his dick deep in Lance, who gritted his teeth and moaned, his whole body spasming as pleasure rocked his frame. Banner peered out the window — from that angle, he couldn’t see the largest mass of guys, just a few milling about near the parked motorcycles. Someone made some comments about titties, and soon the parking lot filled again with half-drunk men from the bar.
“Hey, that’s Banner in there, with that lawyer dude-“
“Oh, hell! That’s hilarious!”
They laughed and rocked the RV, making mock orgasm-sounds and even pretending to hump each other. One was so drunk nobody could tell what he shouted, and a few others pretended to piss on Banner’s motorcycle.
“Goddamn it…” Banner wrinkled his nose as he realized some people were trying to peer in the windows. He made sure the curtains were all shut.
He lost his inhibitions, hoping to at least put on a good show if they did look in around the corners of the curtains. He gripped Lance’s ass — which was very smooth and clean, more feminine than many of the women Banner had been with — and he rammed in.
He had been so nervous about doing this he was surprised to feel a soft, silken ass squeezing his dick. This felt better than it had any right to. He tried to keep it down at first, then thought that might work against him.
Instead he hooted and hollered. “Yeah, baby, bitch, take that shit! Fuck yeah!” He smacked Lance’s asscheek, watching it rattle and shake as it clenched around his cock. “Damn, he’s bendin’ over just fine, boys!”
“Fuck! Awwwww…” Lance didn’t want to be left behind in putting on a good show, so he shouted too, though his voice wasn’t as deep so it didn’t carry as well. The guys outside just heard his wordless whinnying like an impassioned pony, and they imitated the sound as they laughed and pretend-humped each other.
Finally, an orgasm rocked both men’s bodies. Lance’s began first by a bit, his own cock exploding in his hand and spraying ropy jets of cum all over the floor of the RV. It was followed by a deep, abiding prostate orgasm that rocked his body and made him shake. Lance’s face turned ruddy and tense, sweat dappling his body and matting his chest hair to his filthy chest.
The smell of sex and dirty ass santorum filled the air. Lance took a deep, bracing breath as the pressure in his ass grew greater and greater. Still Banner fucked, unwilling to stop until he was fully done. He jammed his dick in and out, competing to make the RV rock so much the Jagged Right bikers outside laughed.
“Shit…” Eventually, Banner couldn’t take it anymore. His dick was sensitive, not to mention filthy since he had kept on plowing until his cumwad was a big frothy mess. He fully intended to let everyone see that. He hoped they all looked and gagged and laughed at him.
When it came to this sort of thing, it was best to lean into it, he thought.
He grabbed a beer out of the fridge even before his dickshaft had fully flopped out. It was grimy and greasy, laying there on the small of Lance’s back like an uncooked sausage. Banner grunted and belched once more. Jizz dribbled into Lance’s asscrack.
Then he came to the RV door with his sloppy dick dangling out of his pants, cum still sticking to his pubic hair and dripping down his thighs.
“Aw, nasty!”
“Shit, man, lookit that!”
“Holy fuck!”
Banner blushed, but he was tan enough that that wasn’t real obvious. He was glad to walk around with his cock out because it was a warm night, and he had just fucked, so his dick was as big and impressive-looking as it would ever be.
“You really did it, man??
Banner scoffed. “Of course I did it. I made a bet, didn’t I? A Jagged Right man don’t never welch on a bet. I ruined his ass though, he was begging me to give him a break.”

The Casino Security Guy

Ben can’t believe he lost everything at the casino, and he’ll do whatever it takes for another chance to win… even if that means submitting to an ultra-humiliating bout of man-on-man action with the terrifying bouncer Cue! Can Ben beg his way into a second chance? Or is he all out of luck?!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Ben Wastermeek still couldn’t believe it had happened. He had never gambled before in his life, and now it was all gone. How did that even happen? He could remember every moment of it, but he remembered it like it had happened to someone else, like it was an awful movie he saw.
There were a lot of reasons, but mainly there was just one: Ben wanted to feel like a winner. And he had been a winner. He had been sixty thousand dollars richer at one point in the night. He had been a king for about three hours. Those three hours were everything.
And now he had cashed out everything.
The tuition money from his college loan, his retirement money and all of his savings. He had even maxed out the cash advances on his credit card and gotten an advance on his next paycheck at the nearest payday loan place. He was ruined.
So, as he pled with the bouncer, Ben couldn’t quite conceive of this not working. It had to work. Everything was riding on it. He had won sixty thousand dollars. That had to count for something.
“Look, mistuh, I’m sorry you lost e’rything,” said the bouncer at the club Lipsweet in central Las Vegas. He was Cue, according to the name-tag on his suit. He was tall and built like the proverbial brick shithouse. He was powerfully strapped and barrel-chested, gristly neck, crooked nose. He was square-jawed, white as bone, looked like he dressed like a biker outside of work. Ben also wouldn’t have been surprised at all to see an iron cross or even a swastika tattooed on his chest or back.
But Ben couldn’t give up. He had to get his money back, or at least enough to pay back the cash advances he had gotten. That would ruin his credit for years. Casinos have serious corporate management, he thought, they must have a way to do that. “Please, just let me talk to the manager. I know it’s not your decision to make-“
“It is, though. The decision is no. That’s the rules of the game, sir,” Cue said. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Please step aside. I need to be watching the entrance to the casino.” He sighed deeply. “Look, man, I get it that you’re upset. You have every right to be-“
“You don’t understand, I just need to explain what happened. I’m sure the manager-“
“The manager ain’t even here, man. The manager is Mickey Garelli, and he ain’t gonna be impressed by no beggin’. Please… I don’t wanna have to kick you out,” he said. “I don’t wanna wrinkle my suit. Or get your blood on it. You know if I get a deadbeat’s blood on me, I gotta get tested for AIDS four times a year for like five years? Insurance rules.”
“Yeah, look, I-“
“Come on, man. Don’t be a fuckin’ deadbeat,” Cue said. “You gonna stand here like a shitball and beg me? Have some fuckin’ dignity.” He flared his nostrils. His muscles flexed under his too-small suit like he was ready to throw a punch, but Ben didn’t think he was in any danger. Casinos were underground mob boss things anymore. They were nice. Normal. They wouldn’t hire a thug. Cue was just a security guy. A rent-a-cop basically.
“You have to let me talk to whoever’s in charge-“
A new bouncer appeared from behind Ben. He was a big black man with cornrows, much taller than Cue. He wore a suit as well, but his fit better. “Yo, Cue, you havin’ trouble?”
“I’m just showin’ this asshole some mercy, Tyrell, but he ain’t takin’ it.”
“You know deadbeats don’t respond to that,” the black man Tyrell said.
He shrugged. “I know. I guess I should-a just ripped his nuts off, but I don’t know… He looks like a sad puppy dog.”
Ben blushed. He realized how pitiful he must look, but he straightened his back. He needed to get his money back. If he made a big enough fuss, they’d have to give him something, he thought.
“So he’s a gambling man, huh?” said the black bouncer, Tyrell. “I’ll bet you he’d ‘clean the back-office’ for a chance to win his money back.”
“Yes! I would!” Ben blurted out before he even heard what the man said. It was obvious from his tone that ‘clean the back-office’ was code for something, but Ben didn’t care. If there was even a chance he could get his money back, he wanted to take it. He pictured himself cleaning. That’d be fine.
Besides, he was a gambling man. He had been down for a long time. Surely he was about to get back on top. Even if they only gave him one chip, that would be worth it because he’d have a chance, a real chance, to win back his money and even more. The lights would go off, people would cheer, waitresses would come by and kiss him on the cheek and give him free drinks. He’d be a winner again.
Cue and the other bouncer Tyrell laughed. Cue seemed annoyed, like he would never have offered ‘cleaning the back office’ as an option if the other bouncer hadn’t brought it up. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll show you the office.”
He followed Cue through the casino. Ben saw the blinking lights and the excited squealing of the people who won, and he almost forgot that he was penniless. He could have stayed here for hours just watching other people win, but he hung close to Cue. He wanted a chance to play.
Cue looked scary enough that people moved out of his way. He moved like he was used to that, shoving past people. The punks and tourists and gambling freaks parted like the red sea.
He led Ben down an empty corridor to a small bathroom, barely big enough for the two of them. Ben breathed a sigh of relief. They probably just wanted him to clean the toilets, and they’d give him bus fare, or something like that. It’d be like washing the dishes to pay for a meal in a restaurant.
But the bathroom appeared spotless. Pristine, even. There was a small shelf attached to one wall, and on it was a tube of anal lube, a clothespin, a large dildo, a few condoms and a few other odds and ends.
This bathroom didn’t need cleaning.
“We don’t use this bathroom,” Cue said with a craggy frown and a baritone rumble in his chest. He closed the door and produced one blue chip from his pocket. “Or, well, we don’t use it for poopin’.”
“Oh. Uh, okay. What do you-?”
“This is the cornhole-closet,” Cue said. He laughed at Ben, who turned white as a cloud and his knees buckled. Cue shook his head. He held up the blue chip in his hand. “You can leave anytime, bitch. But if you stay, I’m gonna treat you real bad. My girl’s been holdin’ out on me, and she a real bitch anyway. I oughta dump her ass but she used to give good head and, uh… Well, I’m gonna take out my frustrations on ya. It’s gonna hurt. I got a big dick. I’m-a tear yo’ guts up. And all you gettin’ is this one twenty dollar chip. You can cash it out, or you can gamble it. That’s up to you.”
“Oh, uh…”
“I ain’t even into this, just so you know. I ain’t even think of it. That big black feller out there, he love it. He try to cornhole at least one deadbeat every shift he work. Black fellers love ass, I do reckon,” Cue said. “He been sayin’ I’m too weak to do it.”
“I dunno…”
“Us bouncers compete to see who can cornhole a intact ass as hard as possible. Not me, really, usually. The black ones do. They gonna wanna hear all about it, and there’s even a camera in here, so they is gonna watch. There’s prolly some security man watching right now.” He waved at the camera in the corner, and he forced Ben to wave too.
A tear leaked down Ben’s cheek. He tried to soberly consider his options, but that blue chip danced above Cue’s knuckles. Ben wanted to kiss it and make love to it. He would have done anything to get just one more chance to win.
He nodded wordlessly.
“Damn… I really thought you was gonna back out. That makes me sad, man. It really does. I’m glad I can be part of makin’ you hit rock-bottom though. Remembuh you can always quit. And you know, Jesus and shit. Go to church,” Cue said. “Take off your clothes.”
Ben gulped and did as he was told. He felt skinny next to Cue, who was as thick as a bodybuilder, though he didn’t look quite that cut. He looked like an offseason bodybuilder. His muscles bulged from the ill-fitting suit he wore. Ben left his boxers on at first, then Cue motioned for him to take them off too.
He gingerly picked up Ben’s underwear with his fingertips and threw it in the toilet bowl. He added Ben’s socks as well. Then he picked up Ben’s shirt, pants and shoes and took them out of the bathroom.
“Stay here. I can sell these to a homeless man for a few bucks. That’s virtually a charity,” Cue said, beaming like he expected Ben to congratulate him on doing something nice. He must have put the clothes in a locker or something like that nearby because he returned moments later. He sighed. “Now you gotta get me hard. I mean… you don’t gotta. You can take your toilet-dripping underwear and get out.”
“Please, I don’t have anything…”
“I know. You got one tiny shred of dignity left. You can take it and leave if you want, or you can decide how you wanna get me hard. You wanna swallow my cum or slurp on my asshole?”
Ben sobbed. Was this really what he was reduced to? He couldn’t believe it had come to this.
But if he got paid with that casino chip, he was going to gamble it. There was still that to look forward to. He had a chance. He could be a big winner. What game should he play it on? Blackjack? Roulette? Did they have a twenty-dollar roulette wheel here? Probably not. Should be blackjack, he thought, that has a skill component.
“I’ll… swallow your cum,” Ben said. He sunk to his knees and sniffed back tears.
“Well, go ahead.” Cue smiled. He put his hands on his hips. He lifted his suit jacket to given Ben easy access, but he didn’t take his pants off.
Ben shuddered. He unzipped the fly of Cue’s slacks. Then he reached in and shuddered again at the feel of Cue’s greasy cockshaft. It was dark brown and sticky with dried-on sweat.
“Sorry, I been workin’ all day,” Cue said. “My balls prolly smell.”
Ben nodded. He gagged. Cue’s huge cock popped out of the fly, and a pair of hairy, low-hanging balls. It smelled so badly of sweat and old cum that Ben thought he would throw up. His cockmeat was moist with a sheet of moisture and emanated heat so intensely Ben could feel it from a foot away.
Cue just sighed again and pried Ben’s mouth open. He gripped Ben’s cheeks and fed his dick in. Ben gagged as soon as he tasted it, and he coughed up a big ball of spit that plopped onto the bathroom floor.
“Don’t spit that on the floor.” Cue slapped Ben on the cheek, just hard enough to hurt. “And if you get my pants dirty, I won’t give you the chip when you’re done.”
“Come on… Man, I’m tryin’…” Ben said.
But Cue was relentless. He grabbed ahold of Ben’s chin and squeezed until his mouth opened. He pushed the tip of his dick past Ben’s lower lip. Salty sweat again assaulted Ben’s senses. “Now, I’m gonna use ya mouth as my pussy, deadbeat. Try to make sounds like a female, I gotta imagine you a female, I ain’t a black feller who’s a fuckin’ booty bandit! Tyrell!” He yelled in the direction of the doorway, though it didn’t seem likely Tyrell was out there.
Ben opened his mouth wide but Cue’s fat cock was so long Ben couldn’t get anything more than the glans in his mouth. He choked again, and his eyes watered from both shame and the revolting taste of unwashed cock. Cue’s muscles rippled beneath his suit.
But Cue’s cock remained limp and floppy, like a meaty dead animal. It was at least twelve inches long and lined with blue and red veins. It gleamed with moisture, and its texture made Ben gag.
“You ain’t gettin’ me hard, boy,” Cue said. “Spit on it some.”
Ben spat. He found it difficult to produce much saliva though. Cue sighed as though this was a great imposition for him. He slapped Ben over the face with his cock, which was thick and heavy enough to hurt a little bit.
Holding back tears and blushing, Ben tried to catch Cue’s cock with his mouth. He thought maybe if he tried his best, Cue would go easy on him. He really didn’t want to take that entire cock in his ass.
“Alright, I gave you a chance to mouth me off, and that ain’t working. Nothin’ personal, nobody really mouths my dick right. It’s too big,” Cue said. “Now you get to eat my asshole instead. Anyone with a working tongue can do that.”
“What, no!”
“Then get out,” Cue said. “Don’t get ya chip.” He turned around, dropped his slacks and his boxers, revealing a thick plump ass. The crack was dark and hairy, and it gleamed with sweat. It was humid like a jungle. Ben imagined he could see its funk emanating like an aura from Cue’s muscular cheeks.
Ben wanted to leave, but he didn’t. He wanted to gamble one last time.
When he was done — if he didn’t win, though he didn’t like to think about that — then he would quit gambling, maybe go to rehab. But before he could even say yes, Cue backed his ass right into Ben’s face. His asscheeks were cold and rock-hard, and he had a big fat scar on one of them.
“Get your tongue out, dumbass. Don’t try licking my asscheek or something either. I want a proper rimjob. Get your tongue inside my ass. If you ain’t tastin’ rectum, you ain’t doin’ it right,” Cue said with a laugh as though that was his motto.
Ben hadn’t really thought about the mechanics of this. Was that really what a rimjob was supposed to be? He slowly opened his mouth, a physically painful gag rolling through his body. He heaved and probably would have thrown up if there was anything in his stomach.
But opening his mouth to heave heightened the nauseating aroma — the smell of Cue’s ass tasted even worse on his tongue than it was in his nose. Ben could feel the funk, like a humid mist on the inside of his mouth even before he actually came into contact with Cue’s ass.
And then the funk flowed into his mouth, the sweat of Cue’s body trickling onto Ben’s tongue. He gagged continuously, retching loudly even as his tongue poked through the tangled nest of ass-hair. His head may have been bald and his asscheeks were smooth, but Cue’s buttcrack was choked with black hairs.
He wasn’t sure he’d know when his tongue hit Cue’s asshole, but then when he did hit it, he absolutely knew. His tongue sank in. Cue grunted, and Ben could tell that his dick started to harden even though Cue faced away from him so he couldn’t see.
Cue was a muscular man, so his ass was tight and hard. As he got aroused, his cheeks and even his asshole squeezed as though he was trying to hold Ben in place with his ass.
“Don’t take your tongue out, man, stick it all the way in,” Cue said. He began grinding his muscular hips, rubbing his asshair on Ben’s face. “Now blow a raspberry, like this.” He blew a loud raspberry that echoed in the linoleum bathroom.
Ben did the same, the sound muted and muffled by Cue’s body. It made a sound like a fart though, which was tremendously loud in Ben’s ears because it happened right on his face. He could even feel air escaping from Cue’s ass, going right down Ben’s throat, and Cue’s whole body vibrated. He groaned.
“Damn, you rim pretty good for a first-timer,” Cue said. “But I don’t wanna blow my wad like this. You got me hard, now let’s get on to the main show. You got any final words before I cornhole you?”
“No,” Ben said. He was glad to pull away from Ben’s ass, but he trembled in fear at the thought of taking that inch-long cock into his ass. “I mean yes. Please, uh… Lemme just, I dunno, give you a handjob or somethin’.”
“You serious? Do I look like a punk-ass bitch?”
“No, just… I don’t think I can take it.”
“Course you can. I’ll just have to bust you wide. You might not walk straight for a couple days, or maybe forevuh, I dunno,” Cue said. “You can still walk outta here, but I know you won’t. You’re gonna play that chip, ain’t ya? You’re gonna lose. You know that, right? Even if you win, you’re gonna lose. Because you’re a loser.”
Ben sobbed. He knew that was right. He bent over on all fours in front of the toilet. Only a loser would be in this position. Ben would never be anything else.
Unless, of course, he used that chip to win.
“You’re lucky my shift is over, and I wanna get home. Otherwise I wouldn’t use lube, just so I have an excuse to spend hours in here stretching you out,” Cue said with a chuckle. “Mickey would say that was a good use of my time.” He squeezed lube into Ben’s ass. It was cold and goopy, and he shuddered.
Then he bit his lip as pain hit his ass. It was just the tip of Cue’s cock, but the agony was already arduous. Ben had an urge to lower his head, but that would put his face in the toilet, so he didn’t.
Cue gripped Ben’s hair as he squeezed the first couple inches in. He grunted and sighed, and he slapped Ben’s cheeks. He laughed at their jiggling. His fingers massaged Ben’s rim trying to stretch it, but that made the pain so much worse than Ben cried out.
“Alright, you got about a third of it befo’ I hit resistance,” Cue said. “I got techniques to get you to open up, but it’s better if you do it consciously. Can you open up any more?”
Gritting his teeth, Ben managed to loosen himself up some. That caused a flood of pain that made him arch his back, and the movement made the pain even worse. Ben spasmed and squealed.
But Cue had a firm grip on his chest and his waist, holding him in place. Cue clucked his tongue and squeezed Ben until he stopped moving.
“Alright. Good. You at almost half. That’s real good, deadbeat,” Cue said. “Now, here comes the first little trick I got. It’s gonna hurt. Most men use it for dome, but my dick’s too big for that to really help.” He put a clothespin on Ben’s nose, so he had to breathe through his mouth. After a few seconds, Ben’s throat opened, followed by his ass. Cue sighed as some more cock slid into Ben’s ass. Ben screamed right into the toilet water just in front of his face. “I ain’t ramroddin’ you, by the way. I’m holdin’ you in place to make it easier, but you can leave anytime. This ain’t a ramroddin’. It ain’t even really extortion.”
Ben was in too much pain to think about Cue’s words. His ass was splitting, ripping, and he couldn’t help but scream at the top of his lungs. The oldies rock playing through the speakers outside muffled the sound though, so no one could hear it.
“I love that sound. That’s the sound of a deadbeat learnin’ what a useless shit he really is,” Cue said. “Now you got maybe three quarters of my dick inside you. How’s that feel?”
All Ben could do was grunt and gag at the smell of porcelain and toilet water.
“No. Use your words, deadbeat. You got words? Or did you gamble them away.”
Ben spoke through gritted teeth. “It hurts. I can’t talk. Hurts.”
“Good. Now I got one last trick. It’s gonna feel like you’re drowning, but don’t worry. I won’t let you die,” Cue said.
Before Ben could respond, Cue pushed his head into the water. As Ben’s body panicked and his lungs filled with nasty water, his asshole loosened all the way. Ben screamed in agony and shame, while Cue grunted and howled.
His dick slid all the way in. Cue’s balls swung between Ben’s legs. Cue pumped his biceps — he still wore his shirt and suit jacket, his tie now loosened and his shirt-tails lifted up so he could watch his cock slide in.
“Ain’t nothin’ like rammin’ the bitch outuva chokin” deadbeat…” Cue moaned and laughed, flexing his muscles for the men he assumed still watched on the security cameras.
He pistoned his hips back and forth. Ben screamed with every thrust, squirming when Cue hit the deepest extent within Ben’s ass. It felt so good. Cue sighed. He didn’t even mind the toilet water splashing on him.
Cue pulled his hair to give Ben a chance to breathe. His whole body shuddered, and his ass clenched around Cue’s cock. He pushed Ben’s face back into the water, cutting him off mid-gasp.
Ben’s socks and underwear had sunk to the bottom of the toilet bowl, so they clung to Ben’s face when he touched them. Cue’s cock throbbed and spasmed within him, its every tremor sending shockwaves of agony through Ben’s body.
“Here I go, deadbeat, gonna fill you up!”
At last Cue orgasmed. He smashed Ben’s face into the bottom of the toilet so hard Ben was dizzy, his lungs crying out for oxygen. He thought he might black out from the pain and the water.
Cum flowed into him like it was being piped in. He could feel it trickling through his body, its heat and its snotty texture making it palpable within him. It dripped out of his overstuffed hole and stuck to his legs. The smell of santorum filled the air. Cue pumped what seemed like too much jizz up Ben’s backside.
It was hot and creamy, and it seeped into him. Cue pumped his hips each time he spewed another wad into him. Ben couldn’t hear it because his head was underwater, but Cue grunted too with each gyration of his powerful body.
Finally, just when he was beginning to lose consciousness, Cue pulled him out of the water and threw him on the ground. Cue stood up. He sneered at Ben, whom he lightly kicked in the belly.
Ben vomited up toilet water onto the floor. It seemed like way more than he had expected, he thought, wondering how he had swallowed so much. He gasped for air on the floor.
“I’m gonna start pissin’ in a second,” Cue said.His fat dick dangled between his legs and above Ben. “I always piss after I plow. If you’re still there on the floor, I’m gonna piss on you. Crawl away, deadbeat.”
But Ben both couldn’t and didn’t want to crawl away. He deserved this, he thought. He was a deadbeat.
The piss was hot and acrid, and it smelled terrible. It smelled like both piss and cum, and a little bit like shit, Ben thought. It coated his skin and made him gag uncontrollably. He couldn’t even dry-heave though, so his body just spasmed.
Cue tucked his cock away. He flipped the blue chip onto the puddle of fluids on the ground. “Here. You should exchange that for cash and at least go get a shower at the YMCA. You won’t. But you should. Goodbye, deadbeat.” As he walked to the door, he started whistling. “Don’t come back to this casino.”
“I won’t,” Ben said. He took a deep breath. He knew that wasn’t really true, he would probably be back at some point, and he was certainly going to gamble this blue chip here. After going through all this, he thought the universe was sure to reward him with a winning streak.
He struggled to his feet, his asshole and his face aching. He felt filthy, and he had nothing but underwear to wear. But he had one blue chip.
He just needed to find a table he could gamble it at. He was, after all, a gamblin’ man.

The Volleyball Player

Rob isn’t interested in volleyball, until he overhears that one hunky player is in need of a few dollars. That’s something Rob can provide, in exchange for a swing on his alpha male meat!

Can Rob satisfy this volleyball jock’s carnal desires?!

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Or read the whole thing here!

Rob happily munched on a taco, sitting on a bench near the beach. He watched the sorority girls splash each other. The sun shone brightly, and it lay a blanket of heat upon the beach. He hoped it wouldn’t dissuade the men from coming out, and indeed, the women soon proved an irresistible siren. This splendorous slice of California beach always attracted more women than men. That’s because there were three university campuses nearby, and all three were mostly women.
By eleven o’clock, sun-tanned young men were gathering in dribs and drags, and they made eyes at the girls, who made eyes back at them, and then mostly nothing happened, but it was cute to watch. Rob was a little old for this stuff. They probably saw him as “the old guy over there”. Luckily, there were a few older guys — like really old — so Rob didn’t come across that old.
One of them shot Rob a look like he was a creep. He was a bit young and slim for Rob’s taste, with a face like an overgrown infant, but Rob might have made an offer to him anyway. But Rob soon became entranced by a developing drama. That babyfaced fratboy seemed to have a crush on one girl who wanted nothing to do with him, while a different, somewhat thicker girl was all over him.
There was also a handsome dark-skinned man with long messy hair. Was he Brazilian? Rob overheard an accent, but he couldn’t quite place it. The man had a perfect six-pack, which Rob adored. He was a great admirer of the male form.
But the Brazilian man — if that was indeed what he was — did not look like a good prospect. He flashed a wad of cash when talking to a girl. A handsome man with cash and a girl already swooning over him was not likely to be willing to let Rob swing on his meat for a few dollars. That’s what he was hoping to find today on San Guapo Beach.
Rob was patient. He didn’t mind waiting. He loved beaches. He would gladly spend all day, or even multiple days, hanging out and waiting for a desperate man who might let him take a swing on their meat.
As the day wore on, San Guapo filled with college kids on spring break, including plenty of hefty, tanned and muscled young men who needed beer money and a ride home. Girls were too drunk to fuck most of the time, so the boys were frustrated and horny. It was prime hunting grounds for Rob.
He decided to go back to his hotel a little before noon. This part of the beach was filling up with family-types — women in one-piece bathing suits, carrying babies, and balding gray-haired men with paunchy bellies — so Rob left. Once the evening came he figured he’d be able to go back out, the beach would be crawling with young studs once again.
For now though, he was at a loss for what to do.
There was a crowd of people near the hotel’s part of the beach. Rob was interested and went closer — he didn’t normally hang out at the hotel’s bit of beach because his experience suggested those were the most scrubbed-clean, unexciting and banal beaches of all. It was impossible to do anything fun with corporate security goons on the lookout everywhere.
The Top Inn Hotel staff was here, Rob could see them scattered about, looking terrified of the crowd they had created. But the onlookers weren’t focused on anything but the match:
Volleyball.
It was a volleyball game. It was important enough for ESPN2 to be there filming. Now that Rob saw that, he recalled having seen a sign in the hotel to that effect. Was this a pro volleyball match? Was pro volleyball even a thing? He had no idea. Maybe Olympics qualifying or something.
Rob pushed into the crowd to watch. There were two teams of six playing. One was clearly the “away-team” — they were either Australian or New Zealander, judging from the flags on their shorts. The other were presumably locals, or at least American.
With some graceful shoving and sliding through the crowd, Rob got to the front, close enough that he could see the action and hear the grunts of the players when they struck the ball.
But he got to the front of the crowd only moments before the match was over. He had little interest in volleyball itself, so he didn’t much care about missing the game.
What he was sorry he missed was the guys — especially one guy in particular.
He was on the US team. He was tall and broad-shouldered, built like a jolly truck, with a hefty frame and a perfect six-pack. He was long-legged and long-armed, and he wore only short black shorts that extended just a few inches onto his thighs. Rob could tell his shorts were so short he had shaved the top of his pubic hair or it would have poked out above the elastic.
That volleyball player had a physique that Rob ached to admire. He wanted to taste his sweat-dappled shoulders so bad it hurt. He needed him. He wanted to suck the scruff off him. The blonde volleyballer ran his fingers through his confused blond mop of hair and said something frustrated, his words lost in the thrum and clamor of the dissipating crowd — his team had lost, and it seemed he and his teammates were upset with each other. They good-naturedly smiled for the ESPN2 cameras and shook their opponents’s hands, but they didn’t like it. Rob could sense it in them.
Rob milled about. He wanted that volleyball player. The man was obviously handsome enough to get a girl if he wanted it, but he seemed depressed. The women flocked to the winning team from down under — not only had they won, they had adorable accents. And Rob had to admit, they also had physiques he could get down with.
But they were not for Rob, he had eyes only for his beloved blond buck. He just needed to find a way to get him. Rob bought a bottle of water and drank it as though it was an important activity he couldn’t leave and do, so nobody noticed he was milling around for no reason. He waited for the herd to thin, and the cameras went into a van parked at the hotel. The excitement, such as it was, disappeared.
The argument between the blond and his teammates erupted out in the parking lot. Rob had casually walked out that way when they did. He didn’t catch the beginning of the argument, but he saw it end.
“I told you that wouldn’t work! Why won’t you listen to me?!”
“Now we’re out ten grand-“
“Oh please, he was twenty minutes late, we nearly forfeited-“
“Maybe you ought to show up to practice once in a while!”
“Hey fuck you, none of this was my fault!”
“I’m the team captain, and I said we should-“
“Then it’s your fault!”
As they argued, they climbed into a jeep. At first Rob thought they were all going to squeeze into one soft-top jeep (with the soft-top removed, so there was plenty of room, more or less). It looked that way. But then just four of them slipped into that jeep, leaving two behind to continue arguing as though they didn’t notice the foursome in the keep was leaving without them.
“I told you that I had the better strategy-“
“But you never showed up to practice to tell us about it!”
“Oh come on, I skipped like two practices!”
“Yeah, but they were last week. You were out of practice today. You cost us that match, Hark!”
“Don’t you make accusations, you little pisshole, you served the ball like a goddamn cripple that one time-!”
“I made one error the whole game!” That blond — Hark was his name, it seemed — threw his hands in the air. He was the handsome blond with a bashful tangle of hair and a perfect body. Rob was entranced by the beads of sweat clinging to the pit in the small of his back — there were presumably fine little hairs there collecting the sweat — Rob knew most men had that, but he couldn’t see them because Hark was blond and his skin there was light — and he wanted to suck up every salty droplet. Hark’s shorts had slipped a bit as he walked to the parking lot, so the top of his asscrack was visible. He had big plump cheeks that Rob wanted to put his face between and blow. His asscheeks were pale as porcelain, but his shoulders and his face were browned by the sun.
“Well it cost us ten grand!” the other guy said. He threw his hands in the air. “I’m walking back!” he snapped, as though he had any other choice. The jeep had gone.
Hark stood there watching him go. He put his hands on his hips and ran his fingers through his hair. He scowled, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He forced an awkward smile on his face. Then he turned around and nearly ran into a complete stranger: Rob.
“Ah! Hey. Hi,” Hark said with a grunt. He was normally charming and outgoing, but it was hard to restart himself after that fight with his friends. It took him a moment to switch gears. He had a naturally jolly face when it wasn’t tense with frustration.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah… Yeah, I’m cool,” Hark said. He shrugged. “I just… Things didn’t turn out how they were supposed to.” He added, “Obviously”, because he assumed Rob was a fan and was as disappointed as he was that his team lost.
“You poor baby… you wanna tell me about it?”
Hark looked at him suspiciously. “Who’re you?”
“I’m Rob Winthrop,” he said. “Why don’t you come back to my hotel? I’ve got some weed. I’m not very good at rolling joints, but if you can roll one up for me-“
“Okay,” he said flatly. Then he blushed. “I mean… yeah, cool. I can roll joints. And I haven’t smoked in awhile cuz I was preparing for this match. Some good that did me.”
“I saw your match. You were really good,” Rob said. He didn’t mention that he watched about thirty seconds of it. “What was that fight all about?”
Rob of course didn’t really care. He was just making conversation. Hark explained to him all about the team’s conflicts as they walked back to the hotel, and Rob listened the best he could manage given the dullness of the subject. He had literally nothing to offer to a conversation on volleyball strategy and training regiments. Once Hark — Keith Harkness was his name, Hark to his friends — once Hark got into talking about it, his natural charm took over, and he forgot that this was a kind of weird experience — running into a random man and going back to his hotel room to smoke weed.
The smoking weed part was pretty normal for Hark. The rest of it was odd.
This wasn’t the first time Hark had met some fans he didn’t know and gone somewhere with them. It was weird that Rob was just one person and that he brought Hark back to his hotel room. Hark thought that was odd. But not bad, after all, and he really did want to smoke a joint. That would relax him after that disappointing match and the fight with his teammates. Later, after it was all over, he was stoned enough to get paranoid and wonder what would have happened if Rob was an axe murderer. But that did not occur to him until long after it didn’t happen.
“Man, volleyball used to be fun,” Hark said as they got to the room and Rob unlocked the door. Hark sighed. “I started playing volleyball when baseball got too serious in high school. People would get in fights about it and shit, Coach Shithead yelling at me. I just wanted to lay back and toss the ball around with my buddies, broh.”
“Uh-huh,” Rob said. He shut the door once Hark was inside.
“But now volleyball is all about making it to practice every day no matter what, and my girlfriend dumped me because I went to this match instead of her niece’s christening… it was complicated, but she’s got like, eight sisters, y’know, I can’t go to all their stupid shit. That’s like… all the time, y’know? They have so many kids — christenings like every week! I don’t have time for that! I went to her cousin’s friend’s baby shower! I didn’t get any credit for it because she got in a fight with her friend.”
“Uh-huh,” Rob said, rolling his eyes. “The weed’s in this box.”
“Hell yeah.” Hark’s emotions dwindled once he saw the weed and had a task to complete. He didn’t even just roll one joint. He was stuck on auto-pilot, so once he started, he rolled the entire eighth of an ounce into small joints. He was an expert joint-roller, despite his big sausage-like fingers.
Rob could actually roll great joints. He had only asked Hark to do it to get him in the hotel room. In fact, two joints Rob had rolled last night were sitting in the box. Hark didn’t notice them or realize it suggested Rob was lying about being unable to roll joints.
As Hark worked on the joints, Rob cleared his throat. “So… were you counting on the money from that match?”
Hark nodded. “I kinda need it. I bought this jet-ski last month, and uh… the salesman misled me about the monthly bill.” He blushed. “I mean… It was complicated. There’s fees and like… percents.”
“Oh, you poor baby,” Rob said. He patted Hark on the bare meat of his shoulder. It was firm and warm from the sunlight and moist from his sweat. “I could help.”
“What?”
“If you ram me in the ass and you make me feel good like I know you can,” Rob said, “I’ll give you two grand. I know that’s not as much as you were gonna make-“
“That’s more than I was gonna get it from it. We had six guys and ten grand, I was getting less than two grand out of it,” Hark blurted out. He bit his lip and shifted his weight uncomfortably, like he wished he hadn’t said that so eagerly. “Plus there’s taxes, I mean… you’ll be giving me cash, right?”
“Right. No taxes at all. So this is a lot more than you’d be getting if you had won.”
Hark laughed again, a nervous quaver in his voice. “That’s weird, broh.”
“I know,” Rob said. “I’ll jerk you off so good. I bet I do it better than any woman you’ve been with. I have a nice tight ass too.”
“Really?” Hark laughed. “I mean…” He blushed. “I guess… Yeah… That’s cool.”
Rob didn’t want to dawdle. He immediately pulled Hark’s shorts down — Hark had to lift his ass to give Rob easy access to his crotch — and bared his dick. He didn’t wear any underwear under those shorts. Rob had guessed as much seeing his cock and balls flop around when he had jumped and run across the volleyball court.
But it was nice to see it in person. He had a big meaty dick just like his body, all thick and girthy and strong, pale like his skin. His pubic hair was deep black though.
Hark sucked in his breath and held it in. His cheeks blushed a deep ruddy tone that made Rob laugh quietly. Hark held an unlit joint in his hand as he sat on the edge of the hotel bed, shorts down, looking like he expected to get smacked in the balls any moment now. He was ready to wince.
“Relax, Hark…” Rob said. He made his voice as feminine as possible to put Hark at ease. Then he lowered his head and kissed the tip of his dick.
It tasted like the beach, like flesh after sitting in the sun for hours. It radiated warmth, and the flavor of salty sand hit Rob’s tongue, as did the years of muscle-memory and strategy from Hark’s volleyball career. His hands roamed up Hark’s broad chest, while his mouth opened to swallow the tip of his manhood.
“Ah, oh…” Hark grunted like he had thought this would be painful and was surprised it wasn’t. He opened his eyes just in time to see Rob deep-throat him to the root.
A gasp escaped from Hark’s lips. He lifted his ass up off the bedspread, supporting himself on the palms of his hands. He was exhilarated suddenly, his anxiety vanishing in the face of the intense pleasure that rocketed through him.
He had been hornier than he thought. He was so upset about the match and nervous about being on TV, angry at his teammates and anxious at the situation with Rob that he hadn’t really given much thought to how this would feel. He had thought it was something he would just get over because he needed the money. It would be like mopping a floor — not pleasant by any means, but not the worst way to make a few dollars, and once you got started, you could just put on some Jimmy Buffett and think about something else.
That was what he did now. He put Jimmy Buffett on his cell phone, the tinny speakers filling the air and overpowering the sound of the dome. Hark had trouble concentrating after a few seconds because it felt so good. His hands shook with his cell phone hovering above his body before he could gain enough focus to get the music started.
The lit joint fell loose on the bed, both Hark and Rob having forgotten about it.
His dick rocketed to full erection in Rob’s mouth as Rob slammed his own head down deeply. His nose nuzzled the silky pubic hair of Hark’s crotch, while his hands reached up to tweak both nipples at once. Hark had big hefty pecs — Rob had been mesmerized watching them bounce when he jumped during the game, and now they bounced because they flexed under his fingertips.
“Goddamn!” Hark threw his head back and breathed through his gritted teeth. He laughed. “I never had dome like this.” He peered down at Rob, who greedily, moistly suckled on his dick as though trying to remove it. He slurped on it so hard it almost hurt, and Hark laughed harder to cover up his nervousness.
The sour and salty taste of precum hit Rob’s tongue. He guzzled it all down, making eye contact with Hark’s surprised face. The moist sounds of Rob gurgling on precum were loud enough to overpower the sound of Jimmy Buffett singing about the last mango in Paris.
“Are you ready to stick it in me? I wanna feel you inside me,” Rob said. He grinned and stood. Precum flowed freely down the shaft of Hark’s dick even though Rob wasn’t touching it now.
Hark clapped his hands, eyes giddy and heart beating. He’d never actually had anal sex — his dick was too big for any of his girlfriends to do that. He’d always wanted to try it though.
Rob rubbed lube into his own ass and bent over. He was going to sit on Hark’s lap, but Hark stood — he thought it seemed more manly to bend Rob over the bed so Hark could be on top.
“Ah, man…” Hark laughed again, as he always did when he was nervous. His cock throbbed. Precum dripped down his shaft. He ran his fingers through his tangled blond mop again, then watched Rob spread his cheeks. His tight dark hole winked, beckoning. Hark gulped. Was he really going to do this? Would he tell people about it? If not, he’d have to pretend he was still in need of money to pay for the jet ski.
Hark took a deep breath and slipped his dick in, just the tip at first. He felt resistance and stopped. He bit his lip. A bit more slid into Rob’s ass, which was well-lubed enough it felt like a trap, like quicksand and once Hark’s dick touched it, it was slowly sucked in more and more.
It was awkward, weird, his asscheeks strangely cold. It didn’t feel good at all at first — it wasn’t painful, it just didn’t feel like anything. Hark wondered if he was going to have to stop this.
And then a wave of pleasure hit him. He had been so nervous it didn’t happen right away. Once it did, however, it felt better than he thought possible. It was way better than being with a woman, he realized, because there was less pressure — he was so sure that Rob wanted him badly that it didn’t matter if Hark didn’t do it that good, or did it for too long or too short a time, or if his dick was too big, small, skinny or thick. He could just go with all his might without worrying about any of that.
He gripped Rob’s asscheeks and forced his dick in until his balls slapped against Rob’s flesh. A surge of sensations hit Hark, whose smile turned to an intense grimace. He let out a long low howl that was audible outside the hotel room.
Rob used one hand to jack himself off, while his other tightened into a claw that dug into the bedspread beneath himself. He panted, the potent feelings that coursed through his veins growing with each thrust of Hark’s dick into him.
“Oh god, shit, yeah, broh,” Hark cried out. He realized he was being loud — he had a deep voice so it carried well, it was difficult for him to say anything very quietly — but he couldn’t help it. It felt so good it was like losing his virginity all over again.
He sprayed a massive wad into Rob’s ass, great creamy wads of it coating Rob’s insides and seeping into him. Hark’s heavy balls crawled up in his sac, and still more sticky cum flowed into Rob.
Rob shot his own wad too, into his palm and on the mattress beneath him. But he stayed there, letting his ass get it hard over and over. Hark didn’t stop even when he was done. He kept moved his dick around as it limpened, turning all the creamy cum in Rob’s ass into a big wad of foamy juices that soaked onto the sheets.
“Damn…” Rob howled as loud as he could — which wasn’t very loud. When Hark’s dick finally plopped out, Rob sighed and shuddered. His exquisitely sensitive ass was so potent it hurt and he couldn’t breathe; it was all he could do to experience the climax rocketing around inside him.
Then, Rob collapsed in a sweaty heap on the bed. He looked up at Hark’s ruddy body. “You wanna lay with me for awhile? The cash is in my pants pocket.”
Hark didn’t respond for a long time. He was too engrossed in his own thoughts, trying to decide what to do — should he leave or stay to cuddle? Should he do it again? If so, should he demand more money? He found the cash in Rob’s pocket, but still wasn’t sure.
Then he saw that tender ass, plump and bare and ready for him to go again. “Aw, hell,” Hark said. He climbed into bed and lay next to him. “I guess I could give you your money’s worth.” He placed his arms behind his head, accentuating his chest muscles and baring his armpits. He looked surprised to see Rob smile and suck on his nipples. Rob licked his chest and his neck. Hark sighed. “Thanks, man.” He found the joint he had dropped earlier, which singed the pillow, and he puffed on it.
“No, thank you,” Rob said. For now, he thought, he was right where he wanted to be. He had found the kind of man he was hoping to find when he came to California.