massaging – Mansploitation

Massaging the Lacrosse Jock

Mayshon is a college lacrosse star who didn’t realize his massage just might come with a happy ending! Can he handle the delights in store for him?

Read it now as an ebook!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Mayshon nervously waited in the lobby of the massage parlor. When Coach Thickman had told him to come get a massage, he had giggled along with his teammates. They were sitting then, sweaty, jockstrap-clad, in the locker room after a practice, a setting that Mayshon felt comfortable in at the time. Mayshon had struggled during practice due to the pain in his thigh.
Everyone laughed at Coach Thickman. They said that Mayshon was going to get a blowjob from a prostitute and that he was a pansy for letting the pain get to him. But his leg really did hurt, and the massage parlor’s website looked professional. It didn’t look like a brothel. Mayshon thought it really might help, even if his teammates kept teasing him about fucking nasty whores.
Mayshon always did what his coach told him to, and that was how he had ended up in the Thackenswitch Massage Center.
“Mayshon Hopkins?” came a lilting feminine voice.
Mayshon stood up and followed her. He was a six and a half foot tall midfield for the GHU Titans, with dark brown skin, neat cornrows and shimmering blue tattoos extending over his muscled shoulders. He smiled at the masseuse, a pretty Asian girl who seemed intimidated by him. Mayshon wasn’t offended by that. Most of these nice, attractive non-black women were scared of his size and his tats. Lacrosse was the key sport around here, and Mayshon was the most well-known player outside the major leagues. He flashed a cocky grin at the Asian girl. She probably thought he was hot. They all do. She probably recognized him. They mostly do.
Groupies mobbed the team from time to time. They loved Mayshon’s six-pack and his strong jaw line, and his pimp lean turned ’em on too. Not a true pimp lean, of course, Mayshon had no gunshot wound or anything, his leg was just sore. That was why he needed a massage in the first place.
Mayshon sucked on his teeth and let his pecs flex as he followed the Asian woman in the back. She prolly saw that. She was playing it cool, but she wanted him. He was just glad he had a female masseuse and that she was pretty. It was also heartening that she was intimidated because, if she were a prostitute, she wouldn’t be scared by him, or at least she wouldn’t let on that she was scared of him. That boded well, Mayshon thought. He did not want to fuck a prostitute.
He walked as softly as possible, so his heavy footfalls didn’t remind her how big he was. His muscles shifted left and right with each step of his lumbering feet. He squeezed through the narrow hallway, nose wrinkling at a burst of sandalwood incense now that he was out of the lobby. He passed by rooms with closed doors, New Age music emanating softly from each one. One room had an open door, in which a fat white man’s whole body jiggled like shameful jello as a woman rubbed his shoulders. That was disconcerting for Mayshon to see, and it made his stomach churn.
Fat white men are disgusting, Maython thought.
She stopped in front of a room, and she motioned for him to enter. Mayshon did, assuming she would follow behind him.
But she just walked away. “Have a good day, sir.” She spoke absent-mindedly, and it sounded like she had forgotten Mayshon’s name even though she read it off her clipboard just thirty seconds ago.
There was a man in the room already, waiting for him. Mayshon gulped at sight of him.
He would have rather had virtually anyone else as a masseur. A flamboyant, flouncy man would have been awkward but still reasonable, predictable, acceptable. An academic doctor-type would have been fine. Hell, a drunken leering loser redneck would have been a surprise but basically okay.
Instead, this masseur was a man, a tall, muscular man with a square jaw, broad shoulders and a set of piercing blue eyes. He had long blond hair extending past his shoulder. He was at least as tall as Mayshon, maybe taller, approaching seven feet. He wasn’t quite as naturally hefty as Mayshon was, but he had a more chiseled body, with a six-pack and biceps that were carved out of ivory. He looked like the hero from the cover of one of those romance novels Mayshon’s aunt read.
“My name is Johan, sir, yes, thank you,” the masseur said. He had a thick Swedish accent, lilting like a song, cascading syllables like a car going off a waterfall. His biceps flexed.
“Mayshon.” His voice was deep and gravelly. Mayshon wrinkled his nose. He was almost always the strongest person in the room, and he did not like being in a room with someone stronger than himself.
Not just being in a room with him, but being subordinate to him. A masseur was sort of an authority figure, a medical authority anyway.
Not that Johan was actually stronger than Mayshon. Mayshon licked his teeth and let his biceps flex a he came into the room. The masseur Johan was big, sure, especially for a masseur. He was like four of those little Asian women stacked on top of each other. Even that was probably an exaggeration, John could outwrestle four of those Asians. He wasn’t some limp-wristed flamboyant type.
Not that Mayshon was hoping for a limp-wristed sissy. He was hoping for an Asian woman! She don’t even gotta be hot!
“Take off your clothes, for please. Which muscle groups are causing you the trouble?” Johan said. “Your coach has called, on the telephone. He requested a person who is a masseur with a medical license. That is me. You have muscle soreness problems, is it right?”
Johan’s accent was very thick, and Mayshon struggled to understand him, especially since this situation was unnerving him. “Uh…” Mayshon hesitated before taking off his clothes — it felt silly to be anxious about this, he thought, since he was naked nearly every day among his teammates and coaches and more rarely among various hangers-on, journalists, even the cheerleaders who occasionally dared each other into hanging out in the locker room. Mayshon had even been in prison for three months, so he had spent time naked in much more hostile situations than this.
But still, his heart raced as he took his clothes off. Johan placed a towel over his jiggling asscheeks as Mayshon laid on the massage table.
“My thigh hurts, real bad. I got tightness right here,” Mayshon said. He pointed to the upper part of the back of his thigh, right where it met his ass. He wished it was his forearm that hurt, so he wouldn’t have to endure Johan’s hands exploring his ass.
“Ah, I see, it feels very tender,” Johan said with a grunt. He turned on some reggae and clapped his hands while coating them with a palmful of warming oil. He sighed and got to work.
His fingertips were not smooth like a nice girl’s. His muscular arms kneaded Mayshon’s flesh. His deep breathing was loud in Mayshon’s ears. The only consolation, Mayshon thought, was that Johan was clearly professional — he treated Mayshon like a piece of steak that needed to be tenderized. This was the least seductive massage in history, Mayshon thought, which made it more comfortable in one way but less comfortable in every other way.
Johan pounded and pulled, pushing, patting, pummeling Mayshon’s thigh with both hands. Then he moved onto the other thigh, which hurt almost as bad.
Mayshon squirmed and gasped, unwilling to complain because he was used to enduring pain without showing any signs — that was part of being a college lacrosse star. But he was so tense he didn’t think this could possibly be helping with his thigh pain. Johan’s hands worked him hard, like he was trying to rip the muscles off Mayshon’s body.
“Roll over, sir, if you do so please,” Johan said. His face was flat and expressionless.
Mayshon did as he was told, though he really just wished this would be over. He was surprised to find, however, as he moved, that his thigh felt a lot better. It was still tender and sore, but he could tell something had changed. He suspected it would feel fine in a few hours. The tightness was relieved, like a switch had been flicked.
Johan got to work on Mayshon’s thighs from the front. With a towel over his bare crotch, Mayshon felt uncomfortable still, but he at last began to settle in. Johan’s long hair and foreign accent were off-putting, but there was no reason, Mayshon thought, to be frightened.
And then the towel slid off his crotch as Mayshon’s cock popped to full erection. Mayshon gasped and bit his lip. His hands turned into claws that dug into the cushion beneath him.
“Uh…”
“It is okay, it is not a problem. Your coach did ask me to be thorough,” Johan said. He frowned. His hand reached down and wrapped around Mayshon’s cock. “Is okay?” He had big meaty fingers with a solid grip.
This all happened so fast Mayshon looked down at his dick in a man’s hand as though it was not his own penis. Mayshon nodded and groaned. A burst of pleasure ran up his cockshaft. He bit his lip again, but this time it was because his mind raced, trying to convince his body to stop — he had gotten hard already, for seemingly no reason, and now his cock was desperate for release no matter where it came from.
“Do relax. You have too much tension. It is not healthy for you,” Johan said. “You should use sauna sometime. It is Swedish tradition, and it works very well to make muscles relax and smooth. Steam is good. Do you have sauna?”
As he spoke, he kept stroking his cock, making Mayshon so nervous he couldn’t think. He was aware of saunas, of course, there was one in the locker room. But he rarely used it. It always seemed rather pointless to him.
“Uh… yeah. We got a sauna, in the uh… locker room.”
“Good. Steam and sweat will be making you for sure to be relaxeder,” Johan said. It didn’t sound like he realized relaxeder wasn’t a word, and Mayshon was too nervous to point it out. His cock throbbed in Johan’s hand.
Was his dick even hard? Mayshon didn’t want to look. Pinpricks of sensations erupted in his shaft, and he sucked in his breath. He was glad nobody was around to see this.
Well, nobody but this creepy Swede. Mayshon sucked in his breath. European men don’t count, he thought. He tried to think of a racial slur for a Swede. Was the man even Swedish? Mayshon got the Swedish Chef in his mind, but now he couldn’t remember if anybody had said anything about Sweden or not. Had the Asian woman said Johan spoke Swedish? Or did Mayshon assume that?
When he finally looked down, his dick was hard. It was rock-hard, and it throbbed in Johan’s hand. Mayshon felt a surge of pleasure that began only when he saw that he had an erection. Once he saw the veins throbbing in Johan’s grip, a jolt of pleasure ran up Mayshon’s body.
As a wavery moan of nervous desire wracked Mayshon, Johan kept his hand working up and down that fat shaft. John had a serious, no-nonsense look on his face. It was the same look he had during the actual massage, as if this was just another stage in the massage process.
Which maybe it was. Mayshon didn’t know.
He still felt like this was happening to someone else. Even his own anxiety was not really his, he felt it at a distance, as his own body actually focused on the wave of pleasure emanating from his cock.
When the first few drops of precum escaped from the tip of his dick, Mayshon thought that would be it. He’d be able to finish up and go home. He could honestly tell people that no sex had happened. He could tell them that pretty lady had given him the handjob, that would be good. It was hard to think about right now.
“You want it swallowing?” Johan asked, his deep Swedish accent ringing in Mayshon’s ears. Mayshon nodded and mumbled a yes despite the anxiety creeping through him, and then Johan licked his lips, threw his long hair back and planted his head right on Mayshon’s cock. He swallowed it in one smooth motion, his big body making it easy for him to deep-throat every inch of Mayshon’s shaft.
It was so warm and moist, it sent a shiver of bliss to ricochet around in Mayshon’s body. His muscles all flexed, his thigh tightening up all over again.
“Oh fuck…” Mayshon gulped. He couldn’t watch anymore, so he looked up at the ceiling. He wondered if Coach Thickman had known this would happen — it would be just like him to set something like this up just to see the look on Mayshon’s face when he lied about it tomorrow. “Aw, fuck… Aw, fuck. Awfuck. Awfuck. Awfuck. Ahfuck. Ahhhfuck. Awf… Awf…”
A shiver erupted in Mayshon’s lacrosse-toned muscles. He closed his eyes and licked his lips. He had an innate urge to feel up his own nipples, and, after a few seconds, his hands roamed of their own accord, all the way up to his pulsating pectorals. He tweaked first his right nipple, then his left, and the sensation intensified the pleasure in his cock.
Johan licked like he knew what he was doing. He was so tall and broad-shouldered that he struggled to lower his head far enough, and he was so wide-bodied that he loomed beneath Mayshon like a supine statue.
“I, uh… I didn’t know, uh… I ain’t know this was… coming…” Mayshon stuttered. “Is this… ? Do all your massages, uh… go like this?”
Johan shook his head without stopping. He slathered spit up and down Mayshon’s massive brown shaft, and he slurped up all that saliva back up with a loud suckling sound. Mayshon leaned his head back as his inhibitions gradually left him. His pecs rippled as more and more pleasure crashed through his body like an incoming tide.
The fact that Johan was a huge muscle-bound alpha male made this so much more awkward for Mayshon. He had had a girlfriend in prison, a sissy with a large cock, when he spent six months behind bars last year. Mayshon had even licked his asshole in place of lube. And last year, a gymnast had swallowed loads from him and the whole lacrosse team off on a dare.
But the gymnast and his cellmate were both lilting, thin, delicate, weak, submissive men. They acted like almost like girls, they were unthreatening, kind, seductive, and Mayshon could have easily beaten any of them up anytime. Getting a nut off in guys like that was really just like a girl.
Johan, however, was different, and Mayshon found himself moaning and squirming beneath Johan’s tongue and his tender touch. His hands were tight claws, digging into the cushion first and then moving onto Johan’s scalp.
Another bolt of pleasure shot up Mayshon’s spine, this one powerful enough and surprising enough that Mayshon gasped. His eyes rolled back. His fingers shifted from tentatively resting on Johan’s scalp to gripping him tightly, guiding his head up and down.
The long blond hair of Johan’s head shook as the big man moved. Mayshon licked his lips. His balls crawled up in his sac. He wished he was slamming Johan in the ass, he thought, because that long hair would make him look like a blonde chick.
But then Mayshon realized that wasn’t true — Johan was much too muscular. His back was curved and marked with lines, broad, shifting muscles and plenty of heft. There was even a tattoo of what Mayshon could only assume was the Swedish flag, right at the center of the back of Johan’s neck. Women, Mayshon thought, didn’t get tattoos there, especially not national flags, so it would be impossible to pretend Johan was a woman from behind.
As though Johan had overheard Mayshon’s thoughts, he pulled his mouth off his cock, then turned around and rubbed some lube into his asshole. He smiled, for the first time since this massage began, as he gave Mayshon’s dick a few more strokes.
“Is your thigh feeling better, sir, yes, thank you?”
“Yeah.” Mayshon’s voice was tight and pinched, like he was near tears, which he was but only because he was shocked by how easily he had gotten hard. If you had asked him yesterday if he could get an erection from the touch of a muscle-bound man, Mayshon would have laughed and said he fucked too many hot chicks for that.
“Good. You are still very tense, so I will finish you now,” Johan said. He turned around and plopped his plump asscheeks onto Mayshon’s crotch.
The worst part, Mayshon thought, and also the best part, was that Johan had a fantastic ass. He had broad, meaty cheeks, and his hair was blond so even though there were more hairs on his crack than any woman had — at least any woman that Mayshon might ever be with — the hair wasn’t very visible.
That was nice and it might have made this emotionally easier for Mayshon, but in his mind, this was going to happen in a more traditional position: Johan bent over, Mayshon pounding into him from behind, maybe pulling on that long blond hair.
Instead, Johan climbed onto the massage table, which strained under the weight of both muscle-jocks. He didn’t even face Mayshon’s feet so that only his back and his ass were visible, instead he faced Mayshon’s feet, his cock and balls flopping in front of Mayshon’s eyes. Johan gave his own cock a stroke as he lowered his ass onto Mayshon’s dick.
“You have old injury in your shoulder,” Johan said, his voice returning to his medicinal-authority demeanor. He rubbed Mayshon’s shoulders.
“Uh… yeah, I had surgery last year.” Mayshon closed his eyes.
“You needed more physical therapy, yes? I will tell your coach. He will pay,” Johan said. “Is okay. It will heal well. You will stroke me off?”
He guided Mayshon’s hand to his crotch, and Mayshon — still feeling like this was all happening to someone else — found his hand gripping it tight. He had never actually jacked off a man, nor even touched a cock that was not his own, not even when cornholing in prison.
Now he didn’t want to stop even as his mind told him that he should. This is too weird. This isn’t anonymous enough — Johan has no requirement to keep this confidential, and it seems he talks with Coach Thickman on a regular basis. Other players come here for massages occasionally. This is not private.
But Mayshon’s mind had come up with a very simple solution that Mayshon couldn’t think of any reason to reject: he could just lie. If word got out that Mayshon had stroked off a Swede while cornholing him, Mayshon could just deny it. He and his teammates accused each other of fucking ugly chicks, for example, that was very normal. It was possible some people wouldn’t believe him, but these sorts of rumors were commonplace.
Mayshon just didn’t want it to stop, that was why it didn’t seem like a real solution — he could lie to his entire team, yet he couldn’t lie to himself. He barely even noticed his hand jacking Johan off. He was much more focused on his near-orgasmic cock sliding into Johan’s ass.
Another wave of pleasure hit him, and Mayshon moaned, his deep voice resonating in the massage room. He stopped worrying about making too much noise. That was, he thought, perhaps why Johan had turned on that reggae music, which now drowned out the sound of Mayshon’s moans of desire.
He used both hands on Johan’s uncut cock, which throbbed beneath Mayshon’s grasp. Both men were in perfect sync now, Mayshon’s chest muscles flexing as Johan lowered himself onto Mayshon’s fat cock. Then Mayshon’s body relaxed as Johan turned into a tight ball of hardbodied flesh, lifting himself nearly all the way off Mayshon’s manhood. Each movement of his tight asshole ratcheted up Mayshon’s pre-orgasmic pleasure.
Salty, creamy precum flowed down Johan’s cockshaft and soaked into Mayshon’s fingers. The dim, rational part of Mayshon’s mind screamed at him to stop this, but Mayshon had never wanted to keep going as intensely as he wanted it right now.
They both finally reached orgasm at once, so a tsunami of exquisite pleasure assaulted Mayshon’s body at the same time that he felt a spurt of hot cum spray over his flat belly and bulging pecs. Johan’s dick pulsated in his fingers.
“Aw, god-damn, fuck!” Mayshon roared. He bit his lip hard enough to draw a few beads of blood, while his dick slammed all the way upward into Johan’s tight ass.
He sprayed the biggest load of his life, each drop that coated Johan’s insides increasing Mayshon’s bliss, making him so overwhelmed he could do nothing more than close his eyes and lean his head back. He grunted and sighed.
His climactic pleasure was a slow, melting sensation that suffused throughout his body like the one-drop beat of the reggae soundtrack behind Johan’s heavy breathing, each tone resonating and accentuating the feelings that made Mayshon shiver from his head to his toe. His feet curled. His hands were fists, cum-coated from Johan’s own orgasm.
He could feel the semen drying on his chest and his six-pack, but Mayshon was too focused on his pleasure to really process that. He had no idea how long that orgasmic glow actually lasted. It felt like a long time, but it probably wasn’t that long.
He sighed.
“That is good, but you will need multiple massages,” Johan said, his voice clipped and pinched, his Swedish accent more pronounced as he recovered from his orgasm. He sighed grandly. He lifted himself off Mayshon’s ass and gasped at the relief that flooded his body.
The movement sent a wave of uncomfortable pleasure through Mayshon’s exquisitely sensitive cock. Mayshon’s eyes bugged out and he let out a tortured yelp. A puddle of cum dripped out of Johan’s ass onto Mayshon’s tattooed thigh.
“Uh… Oh.” Mayshon couldn’t bring himself to say yes, to admit that he wanted to do this again. But he certainly didn’t want to say no either.
What he really wanted, he thought, was for Coach Thickman to order him to do it, that way he didn’t have to make the decision. That, Mayshon thought, would be simpler.
“Do not worry. Your coach will pay. He say you are tense and you are horny, and you need much relief to play well,” Johan said. He patted Mayshon on the ass.
Mayshon felt a surge of emotions now that he knew Coach Thickman wanted this to happen. He felt a little betrayed, but even more intensely, he was glad — he hadn’t succumbed to anything he wasn’t supposed to, and he was going to be able to do this over and over again without it being his fault.
He sighed and smiled. “Okay. You’re a good, uh… masseur, Johan. I feel better.”
“It is good. That is my job.” Johan beamed.
“Yeah. Great work,” Mayshon said with a smile as he put his own clothes on. As he walked out the door and headed towards the lobby, past that pretty girl — oh I wish she was my masseuse — he got a text message from Coach Thickman.
How did it go? Feel better? U said u like blondes right?
Just before driving out of the parking lot, Mayshon responded. My thigh is better. Thank u. That blonde was not my type. Still turned out okay. Will go back.

The Dairyman

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

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

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

Massaging the Mechanic

Duncan Walsh is an alpha male mechanic with a pain in his knee, for which he has to see a masseur… and he never thought he’d have some muscle-bound long-haired stud like Johan. Can Duncan submit to Johan’s specialized brand of manly healing?

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Duncan Walsh went to the massage parlor kind of hoping that nothing gonna happen. He never wanted to come here. This did not look like his kind of place. It was ornately decorated, sumptuous with dense carpets, incense burning and colorful tapestries. There was a statue of Buddha, fat and jolly and wise, made of gleaming brass with stone inlays.
He shifted nervously on his feet. Duncan had never in his life gotten a massage, not even informally from a girlfriend or anything like that. He wondered if he was supposed to get naked. Was he too dirty? Was he supposed to take a shower first? No one told him that.
In this rundown corner of the state, most people looked more like Duncan than the fey Asian man at the desk inside. Duncan was tall, broad-shouldered, clad in heavy workboots, with a grizzled jaw that was painfully square and so tan it was indistinguishable from dirty. He wore a knee brace atop his black jeans, and he walked with a limp in his right leg.
That’s why he was here. His insurance company wanted him to get a massage before they paid for more expensive treatments. Duncan did not like the idea of some stranger pawing over his body.
He didn’t visit prostitutes, but he would rather have gotten an awkward handjob from some skeezy lady than get a real massage from one of these thin Asian men. A scowl plastered itself on Duncan’s face. Fortunately, this was not a prostitution kind of massage parlor, he knew that. He’d made that clear to the insurance company bitch on the phone. He told that man, in no uncertain terms, that if his insurance was gonna make him go get a happy ending, he’d be fighting that shit in court, you best believe it. Duncan would see that insurance bitch in hell before he sees him at a happy ending massage parlor.
Duncan Walsh was a Christian man.
The masseur he was seeing was named Johan, and he was a certified medical professional. That was why Duncan’s insurance company sent him here. He was the only qualified masseur in this town, where Duncan worked as a mechanic at a local garage.
What kind of an Asian name was Johan anyway? It didn’t really sound Chinese or Japanese, he thought. Korean? Vietnamese? There were pictures of snow-capped mountains in the massage room he waited in and pictures of a man skiing. There was a flag too. It wasn’t Japanese, but Duncan couldn’t place it (Japan was the only Asian country whose flag he could picture off the top of his head).
The door opened, and Johan walked in. Duncan’s heart sank.
Johan was not a slim Asian man at all. He was taller than Duncan, and at least as muscular. His shoulders were broad, his chest strapping. He was arguably in better shape than Duncan, which made Duncan furrow his brow. Duncan was strong but meaty, not a six-packed handsome stud like Johan. Johan had long blond hair like a man from the cover of a romance novel. He glanced at Duncan and smiled. He spoke with an odd, singsong accent — Swedish — and introduced himself. He discussed Duncan’s pain and had him take his clothes off. Duncan hesitated but did so. He left his underwear on.
He definitely felt dirty. There were smudges of grease on his legs. He had come straight from work. Johan was very clean, and he smelled like soap. That annoyed Duncan. Swedes were a clean people, right? Johan was probably thinking badly of Duncan, like he was some trashy American redneck, Johan was sophisticated and European, probably a nobleman or something. Duncan wrinkled his nose at that thought.
Obviously that was a silly thing to think. Johan may have a noble nose like an emperor and a strong jawline, but he was just a masseur. Hardly a, whatever, a grand duke or something.
He lifted Duncan’s leg, which caused agonizing pain, and Duncan sucked in his breath. But then Johan massaged the meat above and below Duncan’s leg. Duncan nearly stopped him because the pain grew so bad, and he writhed on the massage table.
“Oh, hey… Oh oh, shit, oooooh, shit, are you… is it…. Oooh shit…”
But Johan just ignored him and kept massaging. After a minute or two, the pain in Duncan’s knee let up substantially. His jagged grunts of pain turned to a sigh of relief, as Johan’s firm hands moved down to his calf. Duncan closed his eyes and tried to relax.
“You have much tension in you, yes,” Johan said. He sounded like the Swedish Chef, Duncan thought, but with one of those very deep voices that rattled your bones. A lot of people said Duncan had a voice like that, but his was softer, raspier, gentler — Johan was taller, so his voice was achingly baritone.
“Yeah.” Duncan didn’t think he could relax while he was being pawed by this great big Swede. He gasped and sighed — was this almost over? He didn’t think he could take it.
And then a great sense of please overtook him. He relaxed almost instantly, and his knee felt so much better he had to look down to see if something was wrong. But no, the massage had just worked extremely well, at least for the moment.
“Wow, that feels… a lot better,” Duncan said. He looked around as though to find a way out of the massage room. He kind of wished this didn’t help. He was annoyed by Johan’s handsomeness. He can’t be both handsome and competent. That wasn’t fair. Duncan looked at Johan with hostility in his eyes, which Johan either didn’t notice or didn’t care about.
“That is good for certain, yes,” Johan said with a baritone grunt. “I must use oil now.” He grabbed a bottle of sweet-smelling massage oil and squirted it onto his hands. He worked it into Duncan’s thighs. Duncan didn’t want to smell like flowers, but he didn’t complain.
Duncan realized he had an erection only moments before Johan grabbed onto it with his lubed-up hand. Every fiber of Duncan’s being told him to stop Johan, but it felt so good he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He just looked at it like a gory scene in a horror movie, one that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from.
“You will be better. You are tension too much,” Johan said with a grin. “It is okay. Do not have a worry.”
“Uh-huh.” Duncan’s teeth were gritted shut. He lifted his weight off his ass, jutting his hips upward.
His cock throbbed in Johan’s hand. Duncan couldn’t believe how good it felt. The massage oil sent a wave of warmth and arousal through his body, and that feeling made him moan like a seduced girl. He blushed.
Then Duncan’s dick disappeared into the burly Swede’s mouth. Duncan threw his head back and bit a lip. He was both humiliated and so turned-on he wanted to bust. His dick felt like it was going to explode.
This was the first time Duncan had ever jacked off with a man. Once he and his buddies had been in the city for a weekend, and they all got a blowjob from a slut in an alley. That was the first time Duncan had ever touched cocks with another man — one of his fellow mechanics insisted on jousting with him because Duncan had a legendarily huge cock (that they had all seen in the work showers) and he thought it would be funny to “touch tips on a bitch”.
And he was right, it was kind of funny.
Johan’s broad, muscular back rippled in front of Duncan’s face. Johan was built like a fieldhand. Duncan hadn’t wanted to get jacked off by anyone but himself, much less a man. If he had been forced into it, however, he would have preferred one of the fey Asian men. That would have been a lot like getting sucked off by a woman.
But this was nothing like a woman. It was, Duncan realized, the thought making him blush intently, far better.
Johan licked like a man, like he had a job to do and needed to do it the best he could. It wasn’t exactly erotic, though it did turn Duncan on and make his dick spew precum. Johan sucked on Duncan’s shaft deep, to the root, nose nestling in Duncan’s unkempt pubic hair. He throated like it was an attack, like he was violently annexing Duncan’s cock to his throat.
“Oh, god, Johan!” Duncan moaned. He writhed as though the pleasure emanating from his cock was actually pain. He touched Johan’s back, not deliberately, just as part of his flailing, and he shuddered at the sensation of his muscles writhing beneath Duncan’s fingers.
But he didn’t move his hand away. His mind screamed at him to stop, to let go of Johan’s back — there was sweat there too, clinging to Duncan’s skin where he touched it — yet he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. It was like clutching a barrel of rope. Duncan was strong, but he was not muscular like that, he had never had a six-pack. He had always had a thin layer of pudge over his powerful body. He had never had muscle-upon-muscle just beneath his taut skin, with seemingly not a drop of fat anywhere on him. Duncan was jealous (sort of — guys with bodies like that got made fun of, in Duncan’s experience, everyone loved teasing prettyboys and making them dirty).
He wasn’t used to being the small guy in the room. Duncan had hit six feet tall in the tenth grade, and he had only gotten taller since then. He was a baritone-voiced beast in most communities — only in this town was Duncan seen as normal or even small-sized in comparison to the average local.
A chill ran up Duncan’s spine. He realized his hand on Johan’s back had roamed lower. He didn’t mean to, but somehow his hand rested on Johan’s ass. This was all feeling too good. Duncan wished he had gone to another massage parlor.
He had never touched a male ass (aside from some male bonding and horseplay on his baseball team) until now. He gulped nervously. Still his mind wanted him to stop even as his body refused to comply. His hand gripped the firmness of Johan’s asscheeks.
Why am I doing this? Duncan felt like running away. His finger slipped into Johan’s asscrack. Was Johan manipulating him deliberately? Was it possible he had been hypnotized? Duncan knew that was ridiculous, but he couldn’t understand why his body failed to feel the same revulsion his mind did.
His finger slipped into Johan’s ass. Duncan had never even done that with a woman. Duncan had lied to his coworkers about that. They talked about giving girls “The Shocker” — a sex move where you put two fingers in a girl’s pussy and one in her asshole — during a late-night jaw session, and Duncan had felt left out, so he pretended he had done it. He wasn’t even sure it was a real thing, not just a joke. But everyone else reacted as though sticking a finger in a girl’s ass was normal, and Duncan had pretended the same thing.
In truth, Duncan was not very experienced with women. He was bold and confident when it came to his muscles, to work, to sports and to violence — he had been a high school wrestler and briefly, an amateur boxer — but he was completely lacking in confidence with girls. He’d only had sex with three women in his lifetime (he told his fellow roughnecks seven), and he’d only screwed one of them more than one time. He’d gotten his dick in that girl’s ass once, but she said it was too big and it hurt too much, so he had barely gotten started before she called it off.
It had felt amazing though. For those first few seconds when he had the first inch or so of his dick inside her tight, virginal asshole, he had nearly cum right there. Now he couldn’t even wait to do that again. Damn did he love that! Now that he was jacking off with the masseur, Duncan felt hornier than ever. The anxiety over the situation had morphed into a desire to bust a fat nut, which was exactly what he was about to do, he thought, pleasure coursing through his veins. Johan’s throat was hot and moist, and it squeezed his dick just right. Duncan gasped and bit his lip.
His finger slipped into Johan’s tight asshole. He was presumably not intact like that girl had been, but Duncan was still shocked at how tight his ass was. Did the masseur take dick in his ass? Maybe this was as strange for him as it was for Duncan. Duncan’s pinkie finger struggled in. Duncan gurgled and bucked at shock that he would do such a thing.
Johan grunted around the cock in his throat. He licked the shaft, slathering spit up and down it. Duncan couldn’t tear his eyes away from his finger plugged into Johan’s bubble-butt. Copious saliva dripped down his oil-slicked thigh.
“Oh god,” Duncan gasped as Johan finally pulled off his cock. Duncan sat up, but Johan just pushed him onto his back again on the massage table. “Uh… So, uh…”
“Shush,” Johan said. “Do not talk. It is not needed. I will give you relaxation and take away any of it, the tension that is inside of you, yes?”
“Oh, uh…”
“Yes, excellent, good, very good,” Johan said. “You will do.” He stroked Duncan’s dick, the waves of pleasure his hand sent up Duncan’s spine distracted him enough that all he could do was sputter and mumble.
“Hm, oh, I see. Okay then, well, I uh… Okay, I see… Ah-hah, ah… Okay, well, that is, oh…” Duncan threw his head back. He couldn’t watch. He knew what was coming and he didn’t want to stop it — but even if he didn’t much like it, he definitely didn’t want to see it.
Johan’s huge body didn’t prevent him from being quick and graceful as he climbed up onto the massage table. He gripped the sides of it with his feet like a chimpanzee, barely fitting his hulking body atop the massage table, which didn’t seem strong enough to support two huge men.
But the massage table did hold.
“Oh god…” Duncan turned his head to the side so he didn’t have to see.
Johan sank down on his cock. Duncan sighed and Johan twitched as Duncan’s cock slipped into his tight ass. Johan stopped moving with his plump butt atop Duncan’s manhood. He took a deep breath and held it, closing his eyes. He groaned and ground his hips from side to side, moving his ass over Duncan’s cock.
“You are good, yes, okay?” Johan said. He leaned forward and massaged the meat of Duncan’s pecs. Duncan wasn’t used to being manhandled by someone so strong; it felt almost violent and painful, the way Johan rubbed his skin, like he wanted to rub Duncan’s pecs all the way off and get access to his innards that way. Duncan bristled and lifted his head up.
Duncan kept his hands up. He fleetingly touched Johan’s back, but it felt too real to touch his spasming muscles now. His shoulders were so firm, his back toned. Duncan wanted to look away, but there was nowhere else to look in the tiny massage room. He wondered if he could feel his own cock through Johan’s body, when his hands briefly touched Johan’s ass. Definitely not, he decided, since Johan was such a huge thickbody. A thin, delicate woman, maybe? Or one of those fey Asian men.
Oh how Duncan wished one of those Asian men might have come on to him. He would have refused that. It was ironic because, if he had given in and cornholed one of the Asian men, he would have felt more comfortable with it. But his more comfortable feelings also would have meant he just said no. It would be easy to say no to some minicing Asian man who probably weighed like a hundred and ten pounds.
Johan, however, had surprised him. Now Duncan wanted to keep going more than anything and could do little more than keep his hands above his head, watching his dick slide haltingly into Johan’s broad ass. Johan struggled and bit his lip as he lowered himself. He used his thighs to control his descent, making it slow and even, inch by inch. Duncan watched his cock disappear like he was being led to his own execution, which felt good for some strange morbid reason.
He tried to close his eyes, thinking it would be easier if he didn’t have to watch himself cornhole a man, but that was not easier. At least watching, he could watch Johan’s back writhing, and he could see that his cock was safe.
“Oh god, oh, god, oh god, yeah, yeah!” Duncan grimaced. He was definitely not gonna tell anyone he knew that he had done this.
All of a sudden Duncan recalled that a lot of roughnecks came to this massage parlor. Some of them surely knew Johan. Some of them probably got jacked off by Johan in precisely this way, he realized. That was disconcerting. Maybe they all knew this was going to happen and were laughing about it.
Or maybe Johan didn’t normally do this. Maybe they’d all call Duncan a freak if they knew.
“Your knee is feeling much better in your leg, yes, no?” Johan asked when his ass was all the way down on Duncan’s cock. He acted like that hardly mattered, like he hadn’t struggled to take it all. He rocked back and forth on Duncan’s cock as he leaned forward and rubbed Duncan’s knee again. “Does it have healing?”
His accent was not too hard to understand, but it was hard enough that Duncan had to stop and concentrate. He nodded and bit his lip. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from his cock. “Uh-huh.”
“Good, that is for excellency. That is healing, I am certain,” he said. “Do you have access to sauna?”
“Uh-huh.” Duncan didn’t really listen to the question. There was, of course, no sauna back at the garage at Screw Tight Auto Repair, but there was a shared showering area and next to it a little showering nook — technically it was the women’s shower, but there were no women, so it was mainly unused — that was sometimes adapted into a sauna. The vents were closed or blocked, and the showerheads were turned on, with all but one on the hottest possible setting. The men sat in there, naked in the dark since the fluorescent lightbulbs had never been replaced and no longer worked. The five hot showerheads and one cold one combined to fill the room with steam. Duncan and his friends would sit there and drink beer (kept cold in a cooler just outside the shower). He enjoyed that, in large part because he got the comfort of nudity without having to see or be seen due to the darkness.
“You should have use for sauna. It is Swedish, and it is very good for Swedes. It will enact many benefits for your knee,” Johan said.
“Ah. Okay.” Duncan sharply inhaled. He could not even think about his knee right now. His heart was about to pound out of his chest, and he wanted more than anything for Johan to move. But the giant Swede just stayed still with his ass full of Duncan’s cock. It squeezed and sent spasms of pleasure to wrack Duncan’s body, and Duncan sucked in his breath.
“The steam is doing much good, it is certain, for sure,” Johan said. “You can also do steam bath. That is a thing, yes, it is, right?”
“Uh-huh. Yep,” Duncan said. He had no idea what a steam bath was. His voice wavered and broke, which it continued doing even as he stopped talking and it was just his breathing that wavered and broke like a little boy’s voice.
“Excellent, it will do much to promote your healing, yes,” Johan said. “You will cum in me now.”
He took a deep breath and lifted his ass, at last moving it atop Duncan’s cock. Duncan gasped. Johan seemed practiced and proficient at this position, though it seemed very awkward for Duncan. Johan gripped the edges of the massage table with his toes and used his feet for leverage. He lifted himself almost all the way up off Duncan’s cock, so Duncan saw his entire pulsating, veiny shaft, then Johan lowered himself all the way back down.
When he planted himself on Duncan’s dick, it sent a wave of pleasure up Duncan’s spine. It was uncontrollably intense, mind-melting, and it made Duncan moan like no woman had ever caused — he was normally so shy and reserved during sex he barely made a peep.
But this was already so incredible and stressful that he could do nothing more than submit to it. He certainly couldn’t filter his reactions or feel shyness. He just submitted to the almighty power of Johan’s tight ass.
The orgasm that erupted within him was so powerful he thought his shaking would break the table. Duncan fully expected to plummet to the floor with that giant Swede on top of him — would that shatter my pelvis? He tried not to rock the table too much, but the feelings flowing through him were too potent not to move and shake.
“Oh god, yes!” Duncan screamed, the first time he had ever done anything more than grunt when he came.
An orgasm ripped through his body, as Johan did the same, spraying his wad onto the floor of his massage room. Duncan spurted his cum into Johan’s tight ass, sending jet after jet of his juices up inside Johan. Some of it ran right back down Duncan’s shaft, coating his manhood in it and soaking his pubic hair.
Johan sighed. Duncan grunted and gasped, feeling a mixture of relief, fear and pleasure. His hands gripped Johan’s ass again, despite his misgivings, and his fingers tightened into claws that held onto him tightly. Duncan gulped and bit his tongue as the last aftershocks of his orgasm wracked his body.
At last he was done. Duncan’s limbs fell limp, arms dangling off the sides of the massage table. Johan slowly, awkwardly lifted himself off Duncan’s cock. When his ass finally plopped off, both men sighed grandly. Intense relief flooded Duncan. His dick was painfully sensitive at first, and the cold air made him gasp again.
“You are very good, you are nice man,” Johan said. He stretched his legs and his arms. He smiled broadly. He pulled his long blond hair back.
“Uh-huh.”
He grabbed some tissues from the box on his counter. He wiped off Duncan’s cock and his own ass. Then he helped Duncan up. “You are complete now. You can be going. I will massage you again in two weeks, yes?”
“Uh… Yeah,” Duncan said. Once more, his mind told him to never return here again. His body wasn’t sure it could wait two whole weeks.
“Your insurance will cover two massages every time every month, every two weeks is appropriate, yes?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Excellent, good. I will do your dick too. It is good for you. Come back to see me,” he said.
“Oh, okay,” Duncan said as he hurriedly put his clothes back on.
Johan placed one thick, meaty hand on Duncan’s shoulder while Duncan laced up his heavy workboots. Duncan bristled but didn’t make him move. He just grabbed his shirt — it felt too confrontational to put it on while Johan caressed his bare back — and stood.
“Uh, thanks,” Duncan said. He turned around and walked out, shirt in hand. He could feel Johan’s eyes watching his ass shake in his faded dirt-caked jeans.
It was only as he walked out into the bright light of a warm summer day that Duncan knew what his decision was: yes. He’d spend the next two weeks listing all the reasons he shouldn’t come back. He was so focused on that he didn’t even notice how good his knee felt.
But at the end of it all, at the end of that last, was the only factor that really mattered: Duncan really wanted to do it again. He couldn’t wait to come back. Just so long as he didn’t have to tell anyone about it.

The Third Baseman

When minor league baseball player Lloyd Walters comes by to flooze it up at the Night Along Motel, clerk Avery Flowers is all too eager to help him out with all his… manly needs. Can Avery earn those stars on his customer service eval form?

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Read the whole thing here!

Late night shifts at the Night Along Motel were slow and boring. Avery didn’t mind it, because he could watch TV and goof off on the Internet, which is realistically what he would have been doing at home. But still, the interminable quiet was dreadful, alleviated only by the occasional pandemonium of a drunken group of hotel guests coming back to their room. It was not usually an exciting job, but it had some perks.
“Hey hombre, you speak English?” asked a man’s deep voice. Avery was startled to see an almost-naked man there. He was a barrel-chested semi-pro baseball player — third baseman for the Riverbank Whoppers in the Mid-Atlantic Minor League — who had checked in a couple hours before, in advance of a game tomorrow. He stood there in plain white boxers from which a few tantalizing pubic hairs poked through, and he swayed on drunken legs. His mustache quivered, moistly. He had a delightfully not quite perfect physique, which Avery adored, and a daddyish thickness though he was lean, hungry-looking, like his muscles were uncomfortable for him.
Avery was used to being asked if he spoke English — a lot of the Night Along Motel’s staff were Spanish-only, after all. “Yes, sir. I checked you in when you got here, Mr. Walters.”
He leaned in close and peered at Avery as though checking to see if he was lying. The man, Lloyd Walters was his name, scratched his balls through his boxers. For a moment his thick cock was outlined by the dingy fabric of his shorts, and Avery’s heart raced as he pictured this brutish jock naked. Lloyd’s rancid breath was beer-soaked and hot. He produced a twenty dollar bill and gave it to Avery.
“Go get me a hamburger. Can you do that? Or is there one that delivers?”
“I can arrange for a delivery,” Avery said, glad that his connection at the scuzzy twenty-four hour hamburger joint across town finally came in handy.
“Good. Get me the biggest hamburger they got and everything they put on it,” Lloyd said carefully, as though describing brain surgery, “But not any kind of mushrooms. And make it rare.”
“Okay.”
“No, wait… Is this a nice place?”
“Well… It’s the only place that’s open this late.”
“Then medium-rare. I can’t be shitting all over the place at the game tomorrow.”
“Yes sir.”
His belly rumbling, Lloyd sauntered back into his room then, and after a few minutes, two cheap floozies crept out the door. Their just-fucked hair made it obvious what had happened; they giggled quietly, whispering, no doubt bragging about how they had just fucked a baseball pro (or semipro, close enough, Avery thought).
Avery’s friend arrived soon after that, with a bag containing the greasy hamburger. Avery gave him a tip and then brought the food to Lloyd’s room. He knocked, but there was no response. He knocked again, louder.
“Come in!”
Avery walked in to see a stark naked Lloyd, sitting on the bed. He was sweaty and relaxed, sprawled out on the bare mattress. His limp cock was still moist, plastered to his thigh and gleaming in the dim light. The sheets and blankets were in a ball on the floor.
The smell of the hamburger aroused Lloyd from his soporific, drunken daze, and he took the bag from Avery. He nodded to the sheets and blankets. “Can I get some clean sheets brought in?”
Avery nodded. “Sure.”
“You might wanna… get rid of those,” Lloyd said. “Both those girls was anal virgins, if you get my drift.”
Avery saw the moist sheets dotted with blood, and he nodded. “Certainly, Mr. Walters. I’ll send the cleaning staff right in.”
“They’s prolly women, right? I should put some drawers on.”
Avery hesitated. “They would probably prefer it, sir.”
“Ain’t you polite?” Lloyd grinned. “Cleaning staff hot?”
“Eh… They are all older Mexican women, sir. The youngest is still a grandmother. They have a… steely handsomeness, but I’m not sure they would appeal to you,” Avery said. His cheeks blushed. He hoped this baseball jock didn’t ask for a prostitute. Avery wasn’t supposed to do that. The city punishes hotel clerks hard if they act as pimps. A hotel that provides women is just a brothel, after all, and the city did not want a brothel.
“Damn… Well, if any of ’em look like a sexy grandnmother, send me that one,” Lloyd said with a wink and a cackle. His sweat-dappled chest muscles rippled.
Avery licked his lips. “Didn’t you just…?” he nodded towards the door.
“We finished like an hour ago, so I’m ‘bout ready for another go-‘round” Lloyd said. “And they barely sucked my dick at all. Silly little college brats can’t suck cock worth a damn.”
“I see. Well, I do not think the cleaning staff will be interested,” Avery said.
“You look like you got nice soft lips there,” Lloyd said. His voice was deep as a canyon, and it had a sultry charm to it. Avery was not surprised he did well with women. Even aside from the fame and the physique of a baseball star, Lloyd had a masculine allure that Avery could not ignore.
Avery was so shocked he didn’t have a response. He had been propositioned by bucks here at the Night Along Motel before, that part wasn’t new, but a semipro baseball jock like Lloyd? That was a first, especially since he had just fucked — normally men were only interested when they were so horny they didn’t care where they stuck their cock. But no matter how virile he was, Lloyd couldn’t be that horny again just an hour after sex. “Yep,” Avery said, finally forming a word then blushing at how stupid he sounded.
“You got something to do with those lips?”
Avery dropped to his knees and kneeled in front of the bed. Lloyd leaned back on some pillows he had propped up, and then grabbed for the hamburger bag. He took it out and the cloyingly greasy smell filled the room.
Lloyd opened his bathrobe, his heavy cock dangling between his legs. It smelled delicious — especially with the odor of beef on top, Avery thought, giving it a tantalizing meatiness. He opened his mouth and swallowed it down to the root, determined to give Lloyd an orgasm he’d remember for a long time. The flavor of his stale sweat and the remnants of his fucking overwhelmed Avery’s senses as he slathered his tongue up and down the shaft.
“Oh fuck yeah,” Lloyd said. He groaned deeply then turned the TV on to Cinemax, where softcore girl-on-girl porn was playing. He belched loudly, his cock throbbing and firming up quick in Avery’s gullet. “Damn, I should take you with me to away games. Call you my personal ball boy.”
The pleasure visibly dancing up Lloyd’s chest made it clear how he felt about this. Avery did jack a dick off better than any women — lots of men had told Avery that. Women didn’t know how to do it, and they didn’t like to swallow a huge cock. Avery did. Avery didn’t even mind gagging on it, but usually, he did not gag.
Avery’s tongue slathered up and down his shaft as he wished Lloyd was serious, but knew he wasn’t. Men said that kind of thing a lot when their cock was in Avery’s mouth, but they always changed their mind once their balls were drained. Lloyd took a big bite from his hamburger, as Avery moved down to his balls.
He knew girls always hated licking balls, but he loved it, especially when they were swollen like Lloyd’s, and dripping with the remains of his wild rutting earlier. Avery could taste layers of sweat and feminine lotion still trapped in the hairs of his scrotum.
Moving back to the shaft, Avery deep-throated his cock. Lloyd gripped Avery’s ears tight, putting his hamburger down so he could use both grease-slickened hands. He pushed his dick all the way down Avery’s throat and held it there as he groaned.
Cum came pouring out of his cock with such an uninterrupted stream it was as though he was pissing down Avery’s gullet. Lloyd’s whole body bucked as his chest and neck turned reddish. Avery managed to swallow almost every drop of the pearly sweet cum. Lloyd grunted, sounding like a bodybuilder working hard on his biceps, and his balls slapped against Avery’s chin.
“Oh fuck yeah, you got a comment card or some shit?” Lloyd said with a throaty laugh. “I’m gonna tell the manager you’re good at your job.”
“You’ll be given an evaluation form when you check out, sir,” Avery said breathlessly as he wiped cum from his lips. He didn’t want to waste any. “I’d appreciate all fives.”
“Is that one of those things where anything less than a perfect score might as well be a zero?”
“Yes,” Avery said. He didn’t like grubbing for positive comment cards, but that was how he earned a bonus. If he got a bunch of them, he could win a five hundred dollar bonus every single month, and Avery was eager to get that money.
Not that that was why he jacked Lloyd off. Avery would do that for the love of it all. He had a great and deep admiration for the male physique. It was so much more appealing than women, he thought. Women were bony and soft and smelled nice, while Avery liked meaty, solid flesh that smelled like a barrel of jockstraps.
“I’m glad I could make your stay at the Night Along Motel more pleasing. Do let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
“I certainly will,” Lloyd said with a chuckle. He sighed, stretched and sprawled out on the bed. He was asleep before Avery had even gotten his clothes back on and snuck out the door.
Avery didn’t see Lloyd again for a couple months, and by the time he did, he had written the experience off as a one-time bonanza that was unlikely to be repeated. A pro (or semipro, technically) athlete must have had his choice of women, Avery thought, and he wasn’t going to settle for a queery blowjob again. That was too much to hope for — God wasn’t that generous, not to people like Avery. So when Lloyd sauntered into the front desk area late one night, Avery’s heart started pounding in his chest. He didn’t have two slutty girls with him this time either.
Lloyd winced a little, as though he was hoping he wouldn’t run into Avery. He hesitated, seemingly pondering his options. He held a suitcase in one hand. He wore an ill-fitting suit, with an off-the-racks black shirt and jacket that clashed horribly with his tan shoes and gray belt. Obviously he doesn’t have a girlfriend, Avery thought, or if he does, she’s colorblind. His shirt had not been ironed, Avery noticed; he looked about as well put-together as a homeless high school senior on an away game.
“Mr. Walters, another game tonight, huh?” Avery said, proud of himself for remembering his last name. That was gonna mean another good comment card, he thought.
Lloyd shook his head. “There’s no games on Sunday,” he said. “We played last night.”
“Oh, good game?” Avery said even as he realized from Lloyd’s body language that it hadn’t been a good game at all. He didn’t see that until it was too late, and Lloyd winced again. Obviously this was a sore subject for him. Avery cursed and hoped he hadn’t ruined his chances of a repeat.
“No. We lost, and…” Lloyd sighed. “Everyone thinks it’s my fault. It is my fault. I mean, not really, it wasn’t a tight throw and — nevermind, you don’t want to hear my excuses. I fucked up. I could have done better, and I didn’t. Can’t win ’em all.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure you did your best, sir,” Avery said, feeling like a den mother. He patted Lloyd on the forearm, and his spine shuddered at the feel of the man’s powerful muscles. He felt bad about thinking of sex when Lloyd was so upset. He handed Lloyd the key to his room. “Would you like me to come help you forget? I have to wait for my manager to go home, but that will be very soon.” Avery’s heart pounded as he wondered whether Lloyd would agree to jack off with him again.
“No, I…” Lloyd stopped and thought about it. “Yes,” he said. “Come on in.”
Avery watched him walk back to his room, the swagger gone from his step. The next hour passed interminably slow, but finally Avery saw his boss head out to the parking lot. After waiting a few minutes to be sure he didn’t come back, Avery hurriedly knocked on Lloyd’s door.
“Yeah, come in,” he said and Avery scurried inside.
Lloyd was already drunk. He must have been chugging booze from the moment he got here, Avery realized. Lloyd was stripped to his basketball shorts and a t-shirt, his bulging chest straining against the fabric. He held onto a metal flask that looked to be almost empty.
“Would you like a massage, sir?” Avery asked. He stood behind Lloyd’s chair and gripped his broad shoulders without waiting for an answer.
“Oh god yes,” Lloyd said. He leaned forward to give Avery more room on his back, then stripped off his t-shirt.
Avery rubbed his strapping back muscles. He used all his own musclepower on Lloyd’s shoulders and thick lats, which were so toned and tight they felt like coiled rope. Lloyd let out a loud moan of relaxation.
“Oh god, I needed this,” Lloyd said. He sounded almost ready to fall sleep right then, and moments later he jumped up onto his bed. Laying on his stomach, his pert asscheeks round and perfect, cradled by his shorts, Lloyd looked so delicious Avery wanted to eat him up right then.
But he didn’t want to make Lloyd uncomfortable, so he moved gradually lower and lower. He rubbed Lloyd’s upper back, his sides, his lower back, his feet and ankles, then slowly moved up his hairy thighs. He waited to see if Lloyd would tell him to stop, but he didn’t.
Was he asleep? Avery wasn’t sure at first. He might have passed out drunk, but he saw a few flickers of life. He seemed to be half-asleep, but still responding to Avery’s touch.
A few drops of sweat hovered just above Lloyd’s asscrack, in the pool at the small of his back. Avery quietly bent down and licked those beads of sweat up, then waited for Lloyd to say anything. He let his tongue jump past the elastic of Lloyd’s shorts, just for a second to see if he told Avery to stop.
No response. Avery smiled.
He let his tongue trace a line from the small of Lloyd’s back over his asscrack, without taking off his shorts. He tasted the plasticy, sweaty flavor of Lloyd’s shorts and smelled his stinky ass. The odor of thousands of hours of practice wafted into Avery’s nostrils, almost making him cum in his own pants right there.
He pulled those shorts down, revealing perfect globes of hairy assflesh. He kissed first one, then the other, giving Lloyd plenty of opportunity to say no. It was obvious he wanted this, Avery thought, and he even lifted his hips a little so Avery could get in there. He was probably just too embarrassed to say what he wanted.
Avery pushed his tongue inside Lloyd’s hairy asshole, and the musky flavor hit his senses. Avery’s own cock spasmed as he reached his own orgasm almost immediately, spraying cum into his hand. He shuddered but kept going deeper into Lloyd’s ass.
With the other hand, he reached around to Lloyd’s crotch and began stroking his dick. Soon Lloyd lifted his hips even more to facilitate it, until he was on his knees and elbows in front of Avery. He flexed his back in sync with Avery’s tongue, and his asshole opened up even more as he relaxed.
His tongue dug deep into Lloyd’s ass, but Avery saved most of his attention for the spongy prostate. Every time he touched it, Lloyd shuddered and his dick jerked beneath Avery’s fingers.
Lloyd’s breathing was short and sharp; it sounded like he was surprised at how good this felt. Avery wondered if he had ever had a rimjob before — possibly not, he knew a lot of men weren’t even aware it was something women did (which was probably fair, since most women would never do it). Avery, however, loved it, especially when he got to taste the wide ass of a semipro baseball player.
Finally he came, grunting as a thick load sprayed across his belly and dripped onto the bed below. Lloyd pawed at the mattress beneath him, then collapsed back onto his belly. Avery lifted his sweat-smeared face and took one last deep breath of Lloyd’s ass.
“Thanks for the massage,” Lloyd said.
“Not a problem, sir. That’s the kind of personal service we focus on here at the Night Along Motel.”
Avery had to get up early the next day to come in for a staff meeting. He wasn’t working the rest of the day, just coming in for a mandatory semi-annual meeting. He forced himself up at six a.m., pretending he hadn’t spent the previous evening servicing a semipro baseball player. He dimly showered and almost fell asleep on the way into work — he rarely started before noon, so this was a difficult disruption to his normal schedule.
The meeting was as dull and uneventful as ever. Avery hated coming to these idiotic meetings, except that he was able to schedule himself to be off those days, so he’d get paid a half-day for attending a one-hour meeting. That was, at least, a nice bonus. It was even worth getting up early. He could go home and take a nap after all, not that he would — Avery couldn’t sleep during the day no matter how tired he was.
When the meeting was over, he headed down the hall, choosing to go out a side door, both to avoid time-consuming chit-chat with his coworkers and because there was a chance he’d run into Lloyd. He wanted to walk past his room on the way out.
Jackpot! He smiled as he turned a corner and saw Lloyd poking his head out of the room. His grizzled face looked like he had just woken up, and was hungover. Lloyd looked at Avery in confusion — Avery wasn’t wearing a uniform.
“You working?”
“It’s my day off,” Avery said. Technically true, but he was paid a half-day today. He probably should have worn the uniform. They had been told to wear it to these meetings, though hardly anyone did and the manager seemed to have forgotten it was a rule. He hoped nobody who cared noticed.
“Oh, I couldn’t get anyone at the front desk, no one answered,” he said. “Is something wrong?”
“We just had a staff meeting. It’s over now though. You should be able to get someone. Is there a problem?”
“I just wanted to ask for a massage. You guys do that, right? I mean, not just your kind of massage.”
Avery smiled again. “Well… I do. But everyone else at the front desk just send out for a masseuse from a cheap place down the street. If you want a massage like what you got last night, let me do it. I won’t even charge you a courtesy fee like the hotel would.”
He smiled back. “Okay.”
Avery walked into Lloyd’s room, the same room he had stayed in the previous time as well. This was beginning to be the room Avery used every time he got a hot stud at work — it happened more often than seemed reasonable. The Night Along Motel simply had that sort of reputation. It was a place where men could get laid, not always by hot chicks, but someone or another.
Once Lloyd closed the door, he grinned. “Glad I found you. That massage place down the street… Are they full-service?”
“Uh, no, sir,” Avery said. “There used to be one girl who worked there who did, she gave twenty dollar handjobs though, that’s it. But she got arrested anyway. They usually send a man nowadays. Not a man like me either, a big Swedish guy with a belly and an ugly mustache.” Avery stopped talking, feeling self-conscious; Lloyd didn’t care about this stuff, he thought. He just wants another rimjob or something.
“Oh, well… I was really hoping to blow my nut this morning,” Lloyd said.
Avery dropped to his knees and grabbed Lloyd’s dick through his shorts.
“Wait,” Lloyd said. “I mean… I really wanna plow. No one wants to give up the ass anymore. Oprah said something about anal sex being demeaning last month, and now no chicks wanna do it.”
“Really?”
“I dunno, that’s what this black guy on my team said.” Lloyd shrugged. “I don’t watch Oprah.”
“Wow, I hope that’s true,” Avery said. “Cuz I love it when men get desperate.”
“I bet you do,” he said. He dropped his pants and motioned for Avery to bend over. “That happens a lot here, huh?”
“Yeah, it sort of does,” Avery said. He dropped his pants as he bent over the bed and spread his legs.
“Alright… this is weird, where do I put my hands?” Lloyd said.
“Wherever you want.” Avery felt his hot dick push into his ass, and Lloyd’s hot breath on the back of his neck.
Lloyd murmured something but Avery didn’t catch it; he was too intent on the pain blooming in his ass. He moaned and clawed at the mattress. There was a burst of pleasure as well, a dim pre-orgasmic buzz that grew and grew with every thrust of Lloyd’s hips.
“That hurt?” Lloyd asked.
“Yes, but keep going,” Avery said.
Lloyd chuckled. “Shit, I wish girls was like this about butt stuff. They take all the fun out of it with the complaining,” Lloyd said, then before Avery could respond, he rammed his dick the rest of his way in. “Hang on, this might hurt.”
Avery bit his lip and began stroking his own hard cock with one hand. He arched his back to give Lloyd a better angle, though he knew that would make the pain a bit more intense. In truth, Avery liked it when taking dick hurt just a bit; it made the pleasure more pleasurable, more incredible and more awe-inspiringly, jaw-droppingly potent. He writhed atop the bedspread as he struggled to accept every inch of Lloyd’s meat.
Lloyd whooped like he was leaving the huddle in the middle of a big game, psyching himself up with whooping and hollers. He was gyrating his hips now, moving his manhood smoothly in and out of Avery’s tight butthole.
They were moving in sync now, and Lloyd’s awkwardness with his hands vanished. He grabbed ahold of Avery’s hips to better control the positioning of his ass, and as it became apparent that Avery was going to love any position Lloyd chose, Lloyd lifted his ass even higher while pushing Avery’s head into the mattress with his other hand. His big baseball-toned muscle jiggled with every thrust of his dick into Avery’s intestines.
“You want me to pull out?”
“Fuck no,” Avery said breathlessly, and Lloyd laughed.
“I like to hear that.”
Avery didn’t have a response to that. He was busy shooting his load onto the bedspread, and shuddering as an orgasm ripped through him. He felt his ass squeeze Lloyd tight, which was apparently all he needed to send him over the edge as well.
A wave of cum hit him internally, and Avery felt its warm creaminess spreading throughout his innards. He was still pointed face-down, ass-up, so it drained deeper and deeper within him.
Lloyd’s cock spasmed hotly as he dragged it out, and there was a slick popping sound when it came out. It flopped onto Avery’s ass and left a moist slick there.
“Fuck, man… This is the greatest damn hotel ever,” Lloyd said.
“I couldn’t agree more.”

The Bodybuilding Coach

Donovan tutors football jocks, but he didn’t know their hunky coach Bagworth was willing to give him a taste too! Can Donovan satisfy his new favorite college football coach?

Read the whole thing as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

“I’m tellin’ you, man, it just don’t make no sense to me. My brain don’t work like this,” said Gravyboat — David Mitchell, but everyone called him ‘Gravyboat’ — running his fingers through his hair. He was a heavyset linebacker, just a junior in college but already balding, thick as a barrel of meat, with a big face, all the parts of which were too big for each other . He scowled and sighed.
“You’re doing a lot better. Remember when we started you couldn’t do any of these problems. Now you did half without any help from me, and you got most of the rest with just a little assistance,” Donovan said. He was a sophomore now and a tutor for jocks like Gravyboat, which had seemed more exciting in the abstract though. In reality, he’d spent most of his tutoring time sitting in quiet libraries and study rooms. “You’ve come a long way. You’ve improved so much-“
“I hate word problems!”
“You said before you didn’t like math because it’s not useful, but word problems show you how you can use it.”
“I don’t need to know which train will arrive when! That ain’t somethin’ I gotta do! I can look at the schedule, man,” He shook his head. “I can’t learn this shit.”
“You already are, Gravyboat,” Donovan said. He sighed. He was frustrated, but he managed to hide it from Gravyboat, who was easily discouraged about his intellect. Donovan patted him on the shoulder. “Let’s call it for today. You really are doing good, Gravyboat. Just come back on Wednesday.”
“Coach Bagworth said I don’t gotta do it on Wednesday because I have practice.”
“You have practice every day,” Donovan said as he leaned back in his desk chair. The study room was small and cramped, and it had nothing in it but a whiteboard, a trash can and four small desks. It was attached to the gym, so Donovan could hear the basketball team practicing in the gymnasium next door.
“Yeah, but on Wednesday he said-“
“I ain’t say nothin’ of the sort!” Coach Bagworth appeared in the doorway. “Don’t you spread no lies, Gravyboat!” He wagged his finger and scowled at Gravyboat, who blushed and looked down at his feet. Donovan felt tiny sharing a room with these two — Gravyboat was a college linebacker who was hefty even for college linebackers, while Coach Bagworth was a former quarterback, tight end and bodybuilder. They were gigantic, and Donovan was dwarfed by them.
But it was Coach Bagworth who really attracted his eye. He was a big burly man who was so macho it hurt, and he had a handsome face, with his bodybuilderish body looking too big to fit his mug. Coach Bagworth didn’t have a perfect body, but Donovan preferred men with that sort of physique over the Hollywood-handsome six-packed types. Bagworth had a little heft, a little thickness, and a whole lot of swagger. He grabbed Gravyboat by the back of the neck.
“Coach, get off me!” Gravyboat twisted away from his coach.
“What’d you say? You tryin’-a get outta tutoring? Huh? If you fail ya damn math class, you gonna get cut from the damn team, you damn fool, and don’t think I’ll do a damn thing to save ya damn fat ass!” Bagworth barked at him. “You wastin’ time, Gravyboat!”
“Coach, come on!” Gravyboat pushed away from him. Bagworth shoved him against the wall.
Donovan backed up to the window to stay away from them. Was a real fight about to break out? It seemed like it. Both men were giants — Gravyboat was six-foot, eleven-inches tall, while Coach Bagworth was a bit shorter but better muscled. You could tell that Bagworth’s padding concealed a barrel-shaped vat of muscle, while Gravyboat was just heavy all around.
There was something alluring about Coach Bagworth. Donovan enjoyed the sight of his body bulging from the ill-fitting tee shirt and pants, which were somehow both too big and too small for him.
The argument ended without turning into a fight. Gravyboat sulked out of the room after agreeing to return for more tutoring on Wednesday. Donovan blushed and nodded his understanding, his eyes drawn to Gravyboat’s meaty ass shaking when he walked.
Coach Bagworth had a little salt in his pepper hair, which Donovan wanted to run his fingers through. His body was big and burly, thick all over, the kind of body Donovan could and gladly would worship for hours. But there had to be a rule against that. GHU had a rule against anything worth doing, Donovan thought.
When Gravyboat was gone, Coach Bagworth looked at Donovan, his deep eyes taking him in as though he never noticed him before. He smiled crooked, awkwardly. “Thanks a bunch for all ya help… Donovan.”
“Oh, you’re welcome…” Donovan blushed coyly, batting his eyes in Coach Bagworth’s direction. He wondered if he could get anywhere with him.
GHU might have rules against anything fun, but nobody followed them. Bagworth did not seem like a stickler for the rules.
“I lost four players last year to academic ineligibility,” Coach Bagworth said, his eyes narrowing into furrows, which accentuated the cragginess of his face. “I wanna give you somethin’ as a thank you, since we just about to start the playoffs and we only gots a good chance on account of you bein’ so helpful. Davie Raython passed his pre-cal test.”
“That’s awesome, I’m glad to hear it,” Donovan said. He was surprised. Raython Lake was an idiot. He must have cheated, Donovan thought but didn’t say.
“So, uh… I was thinkin’, as, uh… like a thanks, I could give you tickets to tonight’s game. Front row, fifty-yard line. You’ll be right in the action,” Coach Bagworth said. He grunted like he was unused to speaking nicely to people.
That was true. Not only did Coach Bagworth speak mostly to his athletes — whom he was never polite to — he was usually only nice to women and children, and Donovan was neither. Coach Bagworth had been a bully when he was young, felt bad about it now and always overcorrected by being nice. Besides that, he had an instinct to protect women and weak men.
“That’s very sweet,” Donovan said. “But honestly, I’m not sure I’d enjoy that. I’m not really a sports fan.”
“Oh. I thought you volunteered for this cuz you was into it.”
“Nope. I had my own motives,” Donovan said. “I enjoy sports players more than I enjoy sports.” He licked his lips and came closer to Coach Bagworth. “I was kinda hoping that maybe you could thank me… in person.”
“Okay. Thanks.” He cleared his throat and said, more solemnly, “Thank you.”
“No, uh… not like that,” Donovan said. He walked slowly, seductively around Coach Bagworth’s towering body. He touched the small of his back, and Coach Bagworth quaked. Donovan reached up to his shoulders. He gave a massage the best he could with Coach Bagworth standing there, unmoving, unbending, and much too tall for Donovan to easily reach.
Coach Bagworth grunted. His body tensed up. His muscles were rock-hard, and they stayed that way.
“I would like it if you just sat down right there and let me service you.” Donovan kissed the small of his back through his sweaty tee shirt. The funkiness of his body odor assaulted Donovan’s senses, and a shiver of desire ran up his spine.
“Service…?” Bagworth asked as though he didn’t know what Donovan was suggesting. The way his cock was twitching in his pants made it clear he did understand and that he was eager for it to happen.
But he didn’t say so.
“I’ll lick you all over, I’ll swallow your dick all the way down,” Donovan said. “To the root.”He lifted up that grimy tee shirt and kissed the meaty flesh of Coach Bagworth’s back. He had a strong, well-muscled back, albeit slightly padded. His muscles flexed beneath Donovan’s touch, and his pecs rippled.
“Uh… Oh…” Coach Bagworth plopped onto the desk. It was an ordinary student’s desk, small for a college and especially small for Coach Bagworth. His ass barely fit, and he had to sit sideways, legs spilling out into the little walkway between his desk and the one next to it. He leaned against the side-arm of the desk.
Though he tried to look relaxed, he was all tense. Coach Bagworth closed his eyes.
When he was a young man, he worked on a farm in the summers. Some of the farmhands there cornholed each other — or to be more precise, they made lots of jokes about cornholing each other — but never went through with it — while only ever actually cornholing one of the farm’s workers, Carlos. Carlos didn’t work the fields, he was an accountant, and he was flamboyant and he wore women’s clothes and he had beautiful long hair and he spoke like a woman.
Coach Bagworth wished he had gone through with it then. Carlos had wanted him bad, but Bagworth always said no. It seemed like such a big deal at the time.
Now he regretted it. He had been so horny and frustrated back then — at the time, women rarely put out, and Coach Bagworth had remained a virgin until he was nineteen. He could have felt better anytime, if only he had gotten off with Carlos. He could have spared himself a lot of frustration.
So a part of him really wanted to do it with Donovan now. But he didn’t want to say it.
Back in the day, Coach Bagworth had had a six-pack to die for. When he got out of the Army, he had a six-pack without even trying, and that was before there was even a word for it. While some women were open to his advances, Coach Bagworth had long ago resigned himself to be unappealing to most women — not ugly by any means, but too old to be young and virile, not clean-cut enough to be a handsome older gentleman, he was too thick and heavy for most women, but not tautly-muscled enough for those who liked muscles, his charisma seemed to diminish every day of his life, and he hadn’t sweet-talked a woman in years. He seemed to have forgotten how in his haste to focus on commanding the players under his aegis.
“You, uh… what’re you doin’? You ain’t gotta rub my shoulders.”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to,” Donovan said. He kissed the back of Coach Bagworth’s neck, where his flesh had curled up into little rows. Donovan loved muscular men whose necks did that. “You’re really handsome.”
“You just sayin’ that.”
“No, I’m not! I swear!”
“Shit… I sure wish females would see it that way.”
“I bet I can make you forget about women,” Donovan said. “Arms up, let’s go.” He lifted Coach Bagworth’s tee shirt and spoke with such firmness that Bagworth did it right away. His broad chest rippled in the chilled air of the tutoring room.
His nipples turned hard too, even before Donovan had reached out to tweak them. When he did, he smiled, and his cock throbbed in his pants. Donovan kept his crotch far enough away that Bagworth wouldn’t feel his erection but close enough that Donovan could feel the body heat emanating from Coach Bagworth’s firm torso. A grunt came out of his mouth. Coach Bagworth obviously liked nippleplay, and it made his whole body twitch. Donovan let his tongue trace a line up and down Coach Bagworth’s back.
Next door, the basketball team erupted in shouts and whistle-blows. There had been a fight, or an argument over a foul, something like that was going on. Donovan’s heart raced because he was fearful of being caught — if basketball practice ended up early, those guys would fill the halls and possibly see in here. He’d be fired from his tutoring gig for sure, and Coach Bagworth likely would be as well.
“I think you have a perfect body…” Donovan moved to the front of Coach Bagworth’s desk, and he sucked some of the stale sweat that clung to his chest. It was salty and warm, and it made Donovan’s dick tent his pants. He had to fight the urge to jack off right now.
“You don’t gotta say that.”
“What, it’s true!” Donovan said with a blush. “You probably think you need a six-pack, right? I confess that has its allure too… But for me, I like my men a little meaty and finely aged.” He kissed the furry part of Coach Bagworth’s bare belly.
Bagworth furrowed his brow. He still didn’t entirely believe this. He had hoped to say thanks for helping, but now he was about to get his nut off — that didn’t seem like a thank you. It seemed like something else he would have to be thankful for. Bagworth wasn’t used to anyone appreciating his body for more than its utility.
So he squirmed a little uncomfortably as Donovan pulled his pants down. Coach Bagworth had a fine, girthy cock that was veiny and warm. It twitched as soon as Donovan touched it — from anxiety, not arousal, yet. It was just slightly firm, soaked in sweat. His whole crotch was moistly humid, and the fragrant smell of his groin filled the air when Bagworth’s pants were down.
“Are you okay…?” Donovan asked because Coach Bagworth looked scared.
That was just because he was shocked at what he was allowing to happen. He’d never done anything like this. Back as a young farmhand, refusing to mess with that man had been what made him different from the others. They all messed around, he waited for the woman who would later become his now ex-wife. He was a god-fearing Christian man then and still technically was even if he had stopped living by that code in a lot of ways.
So now he couldn’t stop thinking about that, about the orgasms he had abstained from as a youth. He was letting Donovan go to town all over him, and he liked it. All those other farmbucks who had teased him back then would think it was hilarious that he did it now.
His dick popped into Donovan’s mouth. It was just the tip at first, as Donovan gauged how anxious he was about it. Coach Bagworth shifted his weight and grumbled, but he didn’t say anything. He just covered his face with one meaty forearm and leaned back in his desk-chair.
“Hmmmmm…” Donovan moaned around the cock in his throat. He could tell that sound was exciting Coach Bagworth because it made his whole body twitch and his pecs bounce, so he kept making it. He made as much noise as he could, spitting up on that shaft and then swallowing the mess he had made. The taste of his cock was musty and salty, and it made Donovan crave more.
“Ah, goddamn…” Coach Bagworth shifted around in his seat. It was uncomfortably small for his giant ass, and he struggled to remain still as his dick rocketed to erection. He was still nervous, but now those feelings were subsumed by an intense desire to get his rocks off. “Shit… It’s been a long time since I got off like this…”
Donovan knew that. Most men said something similar when Donovan got on their dicks. That’s because he was better at throating than any woman. Donovan’s throat was nice and long, and he was eager to use every inch of it. He knew exactly how to bring a man to orgasm right away — not that that was what he normally did.
He liked to draw this out as long as he could. He liked to tease his men, make them work for it.
Once Bagworth was hard and throbbing and leaking salty precum onto Donovan’s tongue, Donovan slowed down. He kept going, but he teased Bagworth with his tongue. He licked the shaft and slurped the sweat off his balls. He slathered Bagworth’s manhood in spit and went as low as he could, until he had Bagworth’s balls on his face so he could lick under there, teasing his sensitive taint.
That made Coach Bagworth shake and moan, his deep voice ringing out loud and making Donovan’s whole body crave him. Donovan was deep under his balls, slurping down all the sweat there. He loved this position because it meant Bagworth’s cock was right in front of his face and Donovan could worship it, while Bagworth’s balls throbbed in his nose and precum flowed onto Donovan’s fingers, Bagworth’s thighs quaking as he struggled to hold them aloft.
Then Donovan pulled away and dropped his pants, baring his pale ass, which Coach Bagworth kneaded with one of his thick-callused hands. His touch was rough enough to hurt but soft enough to feel good, and Donovan moaned out loud. Coach Bagworth moaned again, and his heavy legs stomped onto the floor. His dick jutted up angrily, precum flowing down the shaft. Donovan hurried to sit on his lap.
“Oh god, you’re not gonna hurt me too bad, are you?” Donovan asked winsomely, trying to make his voice sound as feminine as possible.
“Nah, I’d never hurt you, baby…” Bagworth blushed — he hadn’t mean that to say it in such a warm, caring way, like he was telling a girlfriend he’d never hurt her. He couldn’t believe he had called a man baby.
But he had only said it out of habit. As a big, macho man, Coach Bagworth had long ago learned he needed to be extra soft and nice to women if they were going to stick with him. So he made kind cooing noises and whispered sweet nothings as Donovan sat on his dick and aimed it into his ass.
It was just the tip at first. Donovan bit his lip. Coach Bagworth had a thick body and a thick dick to go with it. It wasn’t even all that long — though it was plenty long — it was just thicker than Donovan had seen in a long time, and its girth was more impressive than its length. He faced the front of the tutoring room and reached behind himself to guide Coach Bagworth’s cock. Donovan slid himself back.
“Damn.” He tensed up and struggled as a jolt of pain hit him.
“You okay, sweetie-?” Coach Bagworth cut himself off. Then he spoke more gruffly. “You alright, man?”
“I’m fine, just gimme a second…” Donovan groaned through gritted teeth. He loosened his ass and slid a little deeper.
Ah… There it was… A surge of pleasure ran up Donovan’s spine, and he shivered. The pain diminished into a dull, distant roar that he easily ignored. He slid down deeper, until he could feel Coach Bagworth’s unkempt pubic bush rubbing against his ass.
When Bagworth’s manhood hit Donovan’s prostate, he moaned and squirmed. For a moment, it looked like he was in pain. Coach Bagworth rushed into action, seeking to pull him off.
“No, wait, it’s-…” Donovan moaned so loud it made him blush. Coach Bagworth had stood up, and he held Donovan in place. Now that he didn’t know what to do and couldn’t tell if Donovan was in pain or not, Coach Bagworth just held him up.
Donovan was entirely off the floor, leaning against Coach Bagworth’s towering chest, rubbing his face against his muscles, while both of Bagworth’s hands held him aloft. He squirmed in his touch.
Coach Bagworth was so focused on his own uncertainty about what was happening that he didn’t even realize how good this felt for him. No woman had ever let him fuck her in the ass all the way down deep.
He pounded in and out with Donovan in his arms. He’d seen this position in porno, but didn’t think anyone would ever do it. He could control Donovan’s ascent and descent on his dick utterly, his angle, his timing, his depth of penetration. It felt better than it ever had with a woman, even — in a purely physical sense — his bitch of an ex-wife.
As his orgasm hit him, Coach Bagworth tried not to moan too loud. He was so big that he had a deep voice, which carried. He didn’t want to be heard by the basketball team next door.
“Shit… Aw, yeah…”
But it was hard to be quiet with the most potent orgasm he’d experienced in years coursing through his veins. Coach Bagworth grunted right into Donovan’s ear, and his hands dug into Donovan’s soft, smooth flesh.
Donovan shot his own load at the same time. He was cradled in Coach Bagworth’s arms, so he could use both hands to stroke himself off, spraying his wad onto the floor. He shot a big, creamy load that plopped into a puddle there on the floor of the tutoring room.
“Goddamn!” Coach Bagworth hadn’t expected it to feel this good. Worried he would drop Donovan, Coach Bagworth brought him to the ground and bent him over as he was cumming. He mounted Donovan from behind, his dick still all the way in there, throbbing and spewing his creamy load.
It seeped into Donovan’s flesh, gob after gob of hot juices flowing into him. Donovan felt it trickling into his body. The sensations wracked his body were so intense he couldn’t even cry out or moan anymore. All he could do was lay there stiffly, feeling Coach Bagworth’s hefty body writhe above him, his hot breath condensing on Donovan’s cheek.
At last, he was done. “Sorry, I crushed ya there,” Coach Bagworth said as he pulled out. His goopy dick rested between Donovan’s tender asscheeks. Bagworth kissed him on the back of the next, making Donovan sigh as endorphins ran through his bloodstream.
“Hmmmmm…. You don’t have to apologize, you’re beautiful,” Donovan said.
Coach Bagworth blushed. No one had ever called him beautiful before, not even when he was young and had a six-pack. He pulled away from Donovan. He took a deep breath and was about to say something else when a loud shout could be heard from the gymnasium next door. That was followed by a whistle blow.
Then there was a series of shouts, grunts and banging sounds. The whistle blew over and over, then got cut off in mid-blow. “Hey! Hey! Hey!”
“They’s fightin’ again,” Bagworth said. He shook his head. He couldn’t go over there naked, of course, so he raced to put his clothes on. When he heard more shouting, now sounding like people were concerned that someone was hurt, he ran for the door with nothing but his boxers on. His dick flopped, not even totally soft, in his drawers, which were soon moist with all the juices that clung to his crotch.
Donovan quickly put his own clothes on before sneaking to the double-doors leading into the gymnasium. A fight had definitely broken out among the basketball players. It had ended, however, because of Coach Bagworth, not because he had yelled for them to stop — though that was certainly part of it — but because they were shocked to see him nearly naked, and with a moist pair of boxers being the only clothes he wore. It looked like he had pissed himself, and that was what the players later told everyone had happened.
“You little halfwits had better shape up! Quit snickerin’, ain’t you evuh see a real man before?! If ya team was playin’ ya heart out, I could forgive a little grab-ass in the gym, but you motherfuckers ain’t been playin’ worth a half a damn! You got some kinda explanation, huh? Punks! Why do you got that stupid sneer on your dumb faces?! You been carryin’ on like hooligans again? Huh?!”
The gym was silent, and Donovan giggled as quietly as he could. Bagworth’s muscles tensed, all ruddy and sweaty — the players assumed that was because he was furious, but Donovan knew it was post-orgasmic excitement. He wished he could go in there and lick Coach Bagworth’s whole body as he scolded his players.
But he wouldn’t do that, even if he could get away with it. Donovan had another tutoring gig to go to.

Massaging the Football Player

Tupou is a Tongan exchange student playing football in Dallas, so when he gets an inconvenient stiffy, it’s up to the masseur Avery to help him out. Can Tupou get his needs met?

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Tupou Moala had been going along to get along since he arrived in America. He smiled a lot, and he nodded whenever he thought it appropriate. He agreed with whatever anyone suggested.
That’s because he was from Tonga, and while he had grown up speaking English alongside Tongan, he had trouble understanding nearly everything that happened in America. It wasn’t just the language — his English was good — it was everything about the culture. People spoke of television shows he didn’t know, hashtags he had never tweeted about. It might as well have been a completely different world. He felt like an old man angry about technology, even though he was only nineteen.
He had come to GHU to play football. Before he got here, he was only vaguely aware he was supposed to take classes at the same time. They had said that, but they minimized it. They said not to worry about the university part of university football. The only part that mattered was the football.
Now he struggled to get through his coursework, and didn’t even understand how to get tutoring — much less getting nerds to take his tests for him, which he also could have done if he had known that was an option — nobody had told him that because they assumed all jocks knew it. A lot of things in America were not explicit. Churches were racially segregated, for example, which nobody would acknowledge. It was impossible to know which churches were for white people or for black people except by going there and looking at the people going inside. Everybody assumed Tupou knew that nerds would do his homework if he asked them to. No one back in Tonga did homework for the rugby and cricket jocks who dominated the sports scene there. Those were the sports Tupou came up playing, and when he wasn’t busy with practices, he continued playing rugby with a local amateur team. Nobody here played cricket.
A lot of the people here didn’t speak English as he had learned it. There were a group of players from Florida who had spoken what Tupou was certain was a foreign language before finally learning it was, in fact, a peculiar dialect of English. He didn’t understand the black people who talked like rappers. He didn’t understand Coach Marshall at all, and they said he spoke proper American English. He needed to see a doctor every month and the medical system here was incomprehensible to Tupou — every time he went there, they said he was doing it wrong, signing in incorrectly, handing over the wrong cards, sitting in the wrong place. Every time, he did it differently, handed over a different card with his name on it, stood out of the way rather than sit, and still, they always said he was doing it wrong. It was a minefield too, because he’d found that he kept getting surprise bills in the mail, for medical appointments that he’d been told would be free. He assumed it was because he was doing things wrong, yet no one could tell him the correct way to do it.
But despite all that, Tupou really enjoyed America. The people were friendly, and the parties were fun. It was scary: there were so many people here, and none of them knew each other, it was so big, you could get lost in the woods here for years. It was cold most of the time too, which Tupou actually liked — he was big enough that he was normally overheated, so the cold was enjoyable.
Yet it was very very much unlike Tonga. There was not even any ocean for hundreds of miles in any direction. Tupou did not know how to take that. It wasn’t something that occurred to him until he had been in Dallas for some time, and then the thought of it gave him a claustrophobic feeling. Even though he could see for miles in every direction — Texas was very flat — he still felt penned in, cooped up and isolated.
Tupou was more than seven feet tall, and he had a full head of thick, wavy black hair. Men here did not have long hair, and many Americans made a big to-do about his hair. They thought it was either funny or gorgeous or weird or just plain interesting. Many men in Tonga have long hair. Many people in America liked touching Tupou’s hair.
He enjoyed American football. It wasn’t as much fun as rugby, but it was fun enough, even though Americans took it too seriously. He couldn’t believe they paid for him to come here and go to school just so he could play football.
It was because there were so many people. It took Tupou an embarrassingly long time to realize that was why. In Tonga, every single person would have to pay to see many games and buy many jerseys just to produce as much money as the university football league Tupou played in, and that was not even the main league! The National Football League was many times more popular than that, and a dozen or so minor leagues were also scattered around the country. And of course there were unpaid amateur leagues as well.
The city of Dallas had thirteen times the population of the entire country of Tonga. That was why there were many professional athletes in America, and virtually none in Tonga. Even their national rugby team mostly had side careers, and that was the most popular team in the country. In America, even minor sports have semi-professional leagues.
But the university sports team Tupou played for was very professional, and Tupou was expected to attend many practices, strategy sessions, weightlifting and cardio events, as well as massages from Mister Avery. He was an assistant coach who mainly taught gymnastics, not football, but he did provide massages for all of the football players. He was a very smart man indeed. He had an office near the showers in the locker room.
But Tupou had never gotten a “full massage” from Mister Avery. The others on Tupou’s team did speak of a “full massage” from Mister Avery, without specifying what it was.
Again, Americans love to not say things out loud.
Mister Avery had massaged his shoulders a few times and his leg once when he was limping in practice, and he had bandaged Tupou when he sprained a wrist during a match. But Tupou had never spent time alone with Mister Avery before he summoned him to his office one day.
“Am I in trouble?” he asked when his teammates told him he was to go see Mister Avery for a “full massage”.
His teammates had moved on to sharing stories of girls, and they ignored him. Tupou didn’t understand why he was supposed to see Mister Avery, or why his teammates were looking at him like he had done something wrong.
“Nah, you ain’t in trouble,” said George Hill — wide receiver — with a chuckle when he saw that Tupou was confused.
“Oh. What is it? What do I need?” Tupou said, and the others snickered. Tupou smiled as if he was in on the joke, but he did not know why he must now go see Mister Avery.
Perhaps, he thought, it was related to the hardon that struck Tupou the other day in the locker room. He was talking about a woman who he was to see that weekend, and when he told his teammates about her, his dick got hard. He was not the only one to get “boners”, as the Americans did say.
And Tupou had gathered that yet another thing Americans did not say was that those athletes who got an inconvenient boner went to go see Mister Avery. So perhaps that was why he was summoned to Mister Avery’s office.
“He’s prolly gonna jack you off. Do you do that in Tonga?”
“He’s gonna taste ya coconuts, Tupou.” That was Tuck McCarraher, one of those rednecks whose accents Tupou did not understand. He had long hair like Tupou but somehow it was always greasy, even right after he shampooed it. Tupou saw him shampoo it in the shower, and yet he came out greasy and hairy like a tired pig.
Tupou laughed along with the others, though he didn’t quite get it. It sounded like they were saying that Mister Avery would give him a handjob. But that, he assumed, couldn’t be right.
Still, the more he stood there, the more sure he was. That was why they hooted and made masturbation gestures.
The other players all assumed Tupou would freak out. That was why they made a big deal out of it. They more or less assumed that anyone who wasn’t from a Western country was probably from a pretty homophobic place.
But Tonga was one exception. Everyone hooted and laughed and pantomimed ramming Tupou in the ass — since Tupou towered over everyone, they just pretended to hump his thighs.
“He will wank me off?” Tupou asked.
The others laughed and said yes. They all thought it was funny that Tupou didn’t know it already. They had been talking about it all year. Tupou just hadn’t been listening or understanding well enough to pick it up.
But it was true. Mister Avery was known for giving out handjobs to any athlete who wanted it. They all thought it was better to go to him than to try to train with a stiff dick and blue balls. That was an idea Tupou well understood. Tongan men did something similar. Tupou was the son of a chief, and he was given a man to jack him off as soon as he turned eighteen.
Why did Americans not simply say so? They treat their women as fragile wisps, that was why, he decided. They did not want women to find out what men did behind closed doors.
“Will he let me ram him?” Tupou asked, his eyes opened wide. “In the bottom?”
That made the rest of the team fall quiet. Mister Avery handed out handjobs and swallowed their loads if they wanted that, but no one did anal. That, they all thought, was a step too far. No one here wanted to do that, no one on the football team at least.
“Prolly will, you big lug…” someone said, and everyone laughed. “He’ll love you…”
“Tupou’s crazy…”
“Mister Avery is small. Tupou will split him in half!”
They all burst into hysterical laughter over that. They all pretended they were talking about Tupou being tall — which he was, at nearly seven-feet — and heavy — which he was, being so thick and beefy he didn’t even fit in any standard-size jersey — and not his cock size. No one was willing to admit they checked out each other’s cock sizes in the shower.
But that was, in fact, what they were all talking about. Tupou had a gigantic dick, and Mister Avery was not a large man.
Tupou hurried off to Mister Avery’s office. He was ready to do it. That girl he hung out with this weekend had refused to have sex with him. A lot of the girls around here were like that, he had noticed, they talked about how cute he was and they played with his muscles and they rode his back like a horse, but they didn’t like the idea of actually getting fucked by the seven-foot-tall Tongan with a body like a shaved bear and a foot-long cock. They liked flirting with him and that was about it.
“Come in, Tupou,” Mister Avery said when Tupou knocked on his door.
Tupou walked in. He wore nothing but his jockstrap, cradling his sweaty balls and cock that barely fit in the pouch. He smiled at Mister Avery, wondering if those confused glances had been because athletes weren’t supposed to walk around in their jockstraps. No one had told him that either. But he shrugged it off for now. “Yes, Mister Avery. I will-“
“Did you talk to the Student Foreign Aid people? About the State Department?”
“What?” Tupou grunted.
Mister Avery sighed. “Of course you didn’t. You have to do what he says, Tupou, he’s been emailing you. He said the State Department needs an interview with you. It’s for your visa.”
“Oh.” Tupou grunted. He frowned. Were those other players wrong? Maybe Mister Avery was not planning on giving him a handjob after all.
“Is something wrong? He said it’s not a big deal. They just need to talk to you.”
“Oh.” Tupou grabbed his dick through his jockstrap. He wondered if his teammates were playing a prank on him. “Will you… Can I ram you?”
Mister Avery always took everything in stride, but that was sudden enough to shock him. He assumed Tupou was worried he’d be deported.
A long pause came between them, as both men froze like they had done something wrong. Mister Avery cleared his throat. His eyes bugged out. “Uh… Tupou…”
“The other players, they say that you jack them off. They say that you-“
“Tupou, I invited you in here to tell you about your visa, so you wouldn’t get deported. I don’t-“
“You don’t jerk players off? I want that.” Tupou crossed his arms over his chest. “I will do the visa, fine. I want-“
“I don’t just jerk players off.” Mister Avery wrinkled his nose. “That’s inappropriate.” He paused, and a sly smile crept on his face. “Sometimes… Men have urges, Tupou. Sometimes those urges lead to actions. It doesn’t mean anything happened, not really. It just means men are sometimes overcome by urges. They do things by instinct. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” It didn’t look like he understood. In truth, Tupou didn’t really care. He was waiting for Mister Avery to say either yes or no.
Mister Avery stood up and walked behind Tupou. He placed both hands on his broad shoulders. “I’ll just give you a massage. We’ll see what happens from there. If you need a hand at some point… I’d be glad to help out.”
Tupou smiled. He nodded. He could tell what was going to happen, and he enjoyed the massage — Mister Avery was really very good at it. He sighed, the stresses of dealing with a foreign country flowing away from him as he sunk down in the chair at Mister Avery’s desk.
His stiffness diminished slowly at first, then quickly. Tupou sat stiff until he took a big long breath, and he realized for sure that he was not in trouble. He had not done something wrong. Mister Avery was going to jack him off after all, and for now, the massage eased away the aches in his shoulders, then his back and his arms.
Soon enough, his muscles were big and soft now, relaxed, like liquefied meat beneath Mister Avery’s soft fingers. Tupou had to fight off the urge to kiss Mister Avery on the lips.
Somehow, Tupou ended up on the couch on one side of Mister Avery’s office. He just lay there, lounging, while Mister Avery kneaded his thick flesh. His jockstrap was off now, his massive uncut cock dangling over the side. Tupou couldn’t remembered if he had taken it off, or if Mister Avery had.
At last, it was happening. Tupou let out a baritone moan that echoed in the tiny cement-walled office. His cock throbbed, instantly running to full erection in Mister Avery’s hand. Tupou was uncut, well more than a foot long, his dick flopping at first before it was as hard as iron.
Mister Avery stroked it slowly, teasing him, his other hand continuing to caress Tupou’s chest and shoulders. Tupou licked his lips. He wanted to demand that Mister Avery start jerking him off — the other players had implied it was allowed, after all — but he had a feeling it would be better to not say it out loud. It seemed a lot of Americans were more willing to do things like this as long as they never had to admit they had done them.
Indeed, his teammates only communicated about Mister Avery’s “full massages” through sarcasm, jokes, accusations, etc. Nobody admitted clearly that they themselves had done so. Americans never say what they mean.
“Hmmm… You were tense, Tupou. You must have been stressed out about moving to America,” Mister Avery said softly. He leaned over and sucked a few beads of sweat off in the valley between Tupou’s powerful pecs.
“Yes.” Tupou’s voice rumbled and resonated, the sound booming in Mister Avery’s ears because he was still bent over, licking his chest, so the sound was close to his head. He sucked on both nipples.
Avery’s head moved lower, his kisses and his soft lips making a trail down Tupou’s belly to his crotch. Tupou closed his eyes as his dick disappeared down Mister Avery’s throat. A wave of soft, blissful pleasure enveloped him, and Tupou stretched his arms and legs like he was just waking up.
“Eeeeehhhh…” Tupou groaned. His whole muscular body rippled from head to toe.
It had been a long time since Tupou had gotten jerked off by a man, the last time he did it was back in Tonga. He wasn’t even aware how horny he was until he finally felt a warm mouth encircle his dick once more. He moaned, his pitching island accent shining through in the sound as it resonated in the office.
For the first time, Mister Avery felt like he was being seduced by a player instead of the other way around. They often came to him wanting handjobs, but they never outright asked for it, and they certainly never asked for it. Instead, the other players usually just let themselves get hard while he massaged their shoulders or refused to take their jockstraps off because of an erection, and Mister Avery would “convince” them to let him help out. When they wanted to bust a nut, they just stood there hemming and hawing, refusing to either lay down or leave, until Mister Avery took the initiative to get on his knees.
But Tupou was different. He guided Mister Avery’s head in place, and he made sweet love to his throat like no football player ever had. Mister Avery tasted the sweet and fresh flavor of Tupou’s cock, which tasted of sunlight and ocean waves. He moaned and guzzled it down deep.
Salty precum flowed. Tupou was young and virile, already nearing orgasm though Mister Avery suspected he would last longer than most men his age. His dick was slick with fluids, which Mister Avery guzzled down.
The dome didn’t last long. Tupou was too large — both overall and in his cock specifically — and too enthusiastic. He gripped Mister Avery’s head and rolled around with him on the couch, like he might find an alternate throat in there big enough for Tupou’s entire cock. He plowed in and out with all his might, but somehow it didn’t come across like a violent throating. It was more of a plain and pleasant love-making session, and it made Mister Avery swoon with desire, hands roaming all over Tupou’s powerful thighs and thunderous asscheeks.
Eventually Mister Avery pulled off his dick, leaving thin tendrils of saliva collecting his lips to Tupou’s shaft. Tupou gasped with desire and wiped up all that spit and precum on his shaft, wiping it off on Mister Avery’s chin.
He was used to his men laying there, maybe pretending to be asleep or to think that his love-making was a form of massage. But Tupou took charge and made love to Mister Avery’s mouth.
And then, all in one smooth motion, he had Mister Avery bent over the couch. Tupou towered over him, flexing his chest muscles and gently but firmly forcing his cock into Mister Avery’s tight ass.
“Damn.” Mister Avery muttered through gritted teeth. He rarely got it up the ass — he enjoyed it, it was just a step too far for most of his players, so he didn’t do it very often. He grimaced as Tupou’s cock invaded his ass.
It was tight and pinching. Mister Avery sucked in his breath. Tupou wrapped Mister Avery’s tiny body up in his massive arms, plowing in inexorably though not cruelly. Just like when he had lovingly rammed his dick in and out of Mister Avery’s throat, Tupou had a way of plowing that was both aggressive and soft, sensitive yet hard and difficult and strugglesome in all the right ways. Mister Avery cried out for more.
The pain turned very quickly into pleasure, and when Tupou’s uncut dickhead hit his prostate, a jolt of pleasure wracked Mister Avery’s body, and a shiver of mind-numbing sensations ran up his spine. It felt so good he literally drooled and had to wipe the fluids off his lips, which still tasted of Tupou’s precum.
The couch strained to support them both as Tupou rammed his cock in and out. Tupou was gigantic and he plowed in an animated way, rocking the couch to its foundations and even making the floor creak. Somehow the rickety old office couch held despite its creaking and wheezing.
Mister Avery was shocked at how easy it was to take. For him, Tupou’s massive size was a challenge he wanted to rise to meet. Tupou was not used to that because the university girls he had been with since coming to America (and most of the Tongan girls back home) found his size a turn-off. Tupou was well-practiced in using his dick as gently as he could, so he managed to get it all in without too much difficulty, much to his surprise.
So they both moaned as they plowed hard. Mister Avery barely needed to jack himself off, which was good because Tupou plowed so hard he barely could. Mister Avery cried out, grunting and groaning loud enough that he was sure anyone outside the office could hear.
Hopefully, he thought, no one was there.
An orgasm ripped through Mister Avery’s body, and he shot his wad onto the couch. As he experienced the most incredible climax of his life, Tupou reached his own orgasm. He shot a huge load that filled Mister Avery’s tight ass.
It soaked into his flesh. They both sighed, and Tupou grunted something in Tongan. The indecipherable words rang out in Mister Avery’s ears as cum flowed through him, and the creamy, sticky texture of it coated Mister Avery’s body.
They both moaned together. “Oh god, yes, Tupou…” Mister Avery murmured. Every time he thought it was over, more cum filled into him, great gobs of it, more and more with every passing moment. Was that because he was so big? Mister Avery wondered, or maybe it was because he was a young and virile man? Or was it that he was a little — or a lot — socially inept and hadn’t had a girlfriend since coming to America? Maybe a little of all those things, Mister Avery thought, or maybe Tupou simply had overfull balls.
In any case, Mister Avery accepted every drop, letting it flow into him and seep into his flesh. There was so much cum in his body Mister Avery imagined he could taste its salty flavor.
Mister Avery laid limp on the couch, while Tupou groaned and humped his hips a few more times. When he was satisfied that every drop of cum had escaped his dick, he sighed and leaned back. Then he was motionless for a moment. At last he grunted again, and twisted his hips as though his post-orgasmic bliss felt so good it hurt. His cock popped out.
Mister Avery took a deep, relieved breath. He turned his head to smile at Tupou and gently rubbed his shoulders. “Good job, Tupou. I hope you feel better now.”
“I do, Mister Avery.” Tupou’s big goofy grin spread over his face. “If I need another massage, can I come see you again?”
“You can come see me anytime,” Mister Avery said with a smile.

The Retired Boxer Bottoms

Avery is a masseur with an older man as a client. He’s a retired boxer, and he has some interesting ideas about how to get his needs met. Can Avery do what it takes to satisfy his studly new client?

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Avery awkwardly accepted payment from a client. He smiled and said some polite things, but that didn’t make the situation any less awkward. This client was a hefty young man, a beefy jock with a powerful body but also a big belly and a hairy, unpleasant ass. He had come to the massage parlor in search of sexy Asian masseuses who could give him a handjob for a few dollars. There were no sexy Asian masseuses here, there was only Avery, and he didn’t give handjobs to tubby stinkbombs.
It was a miscommunication that happened often in this massage parlor right off campus. It simply came with the territory. He didn’t mind — it was awkward, but on the other hand, he sometimes got a hunky jock who was just horny enough to go for it, and on those occasions, Avery both got paid and got to give a handjob.
He was finally almost done with college. He needed this one massage practical credit to complete his degree in physical education. Then, at last, his parents would get off his back about graduating.
He went back into his massage room and cleaned up in preparation for his next client, whose name was Carver Weatherbee. That was such an old-man name it made Avery chuckle to himself. He liked mature men with good physiques, but not old guys. Aa lot of decrepit old men came in here for massages in lieu of surgery they had declined over and over.
Carver Weatherbee was probably another man like that. Avery got a lot of that kind of business because this massage parlor accepted Medicare. They barely paid anything for the massages he gave, but Avery made them quick and simple. Some of those old people told their younger friends, family and nurses that he gave good massages. A lot of those who didn’t want a handjob — who genuinely wanted a massage — preferred to find out about massage parlors through word-of-mouth because all advertising for massage parlors ended up looking prostitute-y.
Carver Weatherbee… Avery snickered. If he was a screenwriter brainstorming names that screamed “old coot”, that’s what he would come up with.
He went out into the waiting area when he heard the bell tinkle, fully expecting to see a rickety white man with an oxygen tank and a Congolese nurse at his side.
Instead, however, he saw a mature black man with the physique of a warrior. Avery blushed and dropped his clipboard. He blanched and covered his face as he picked up it up.
Carver Weatherbee was about fifty, and, though his face didn’t look younger than that, he did have the body of a younger man. He was built like a boxer — which was because he, in fact, was a boxer. Or had been thirty years ago, and he’d been a boxing coach for more than a decade, helping him keep his barrel-shaped box-like stack of muscles intact.
His face was worn and weathered now, wrinkles along his cheeks and his square jaw. His hair was mostly black and streaked with gray, but his unkempt goatee was mostly gray and streaked with black. He chewed on his lower lip.
“Hiyuh,” Carver said with a sigh. He had rather hoped his masseur would be a woman, even though his daughter said that wouldn’t happen — she said “masseur” meant “male”. Carver didn’t believed her. As far as he was concerned, no self-respecting man would ever become a masseur. That was woman’s work.
He had forgotten about pansies, he thought as he followed Avery into the back. The pinkboy shook his ass in a most tantalizing way. Carver flared his nostrils, looking Avery up and down hungrily.
“So, uh, Mr. Weatherbee, is there a specific area of the body you need assistance with? I believe your daughter mentioned you had shoulder pain on the phone.”
“Umm-huh. Shoulder.”
“Okay, okay, well, I’m going to do whatever I can to make you feel better,” Avery said. He opened the door to the massage room.
Carver looked Avery up and down with a horny simmer in his eyes. Avery sensed that, and caught a glimpse of the tall man’s eyes aimed down at Avery’s ass. Was he checking out Avery’s behind? Or was he angry that he had to let a sissy touch him? Could be either one.
“Is it both shoulders that are hurting you?” Avery said. He patted the exam table, and Carver hopped up onto it. He wore a sleeveless work shirt, through which his long, fleshy arms protruded, the sleeveless hole having ripped to the point where Avery could see his side and his armpit. He wore tattered old basketball shorts too, the real long kind they don’t make anymore.
Avery shuddered with desire as Carver took off that shirt and explained. “So, uh, yeah, mistuh, uh, I gots pain in my left shoulder, evuh since this time last year, right, I was helpin’ this homeboy move into a new ‘partment on Windsor Ave, huh? You feel me?”
“Hmmm.” Avery had trouble focusing on his words because Carver’s chest and broad back beckoned. He took a deep breath and quickly checked out Carver’s joints — if there was something seriously wrong, Avery wasn’t allowed to do the massage; he would have to refer him to a doctor or orthopedic surgeon. But he saw no clear anatomical reason for pain.
“So, uh, this homeboy be askin’ me, like can I help and shit? Ya know? And I’s like, yeah, sure, cuz I’m his coach — I coach boxers and shit, y’know? And uh, I was like yeah I help ya motherfucker, but I ain’t know he wasn’t even gonna do nothin’. I ain’t expectin’ payment, ya feel me? I’s doin’ that as a friend. As a coach. As yo’ homeboy. You feel me?”
“Hmmm… Yeah, I, uh-” Avery wasn’t sure how this story seemed to have gotten away from the shoulder pain.
“But he ain’t even try and buy me no dinner or nothin’. He got a Puerto Rican girl too. They can cook, I reckon. They got them little tamale things — they don’t call ’em tamales, they slap the fuck outta you if you call ’em tamales. But they good as shit. I can eat the crap outta them, lemme tell you!” His big booming voice echoed.
“Your shoulder?”
“Right, yeah, so I’s like liftin’ and shit, puttin’ his junk in the truck, right?” He demonstrated himself lifting and even stood as though he needed to re-enact it. Avery didn’t mind watching because it meant he could see those broad shoulders flex and stretch. He even massaged them a little as he looked for anatomical irregularities. Carver continued the story. “See? And I lift his shit up into the truck — he got his girl’s brother to let ‘im borrow that. You best believe I don’t let no one borrow my truck, no suh, I tells ’em straight up I been burned on that one too many times. I don’t care if I’m yo’ coach, yo’ friend, yo’ homeboy, yo’ goddamn identical twin brother, I ain’t handin’ ovuh my truck, ya feel me?”
“Hmm-hmm. Your shoulder?”
“Yeah, so it started hurtin’. I tol’ that homeboy, you best show some goddamn gratitude, ya feel me? I done took you in when ya mama wasn’t takin’ no care of you, and I done raised you like a son, and you can’t even buy yo’ old man some pizza or some shit?”
Avery rolled his eyes. It took that incredibly long story and all he had to say was that he lifted something and his shoulder started hurting. Trying to get information from old people, he thought, was impossible.
“I see, okay,” Avery said. He patted Carver on that broad, firm back. “Go ahead and lay down on your belly. Take off your shorts please.”
Most men only took off their actual shorts, not their underwear. Even the ones who knew Avery would give them a handjob didn’t do that. But for some reason, Carver did, without a second thought.
He just dropped his shorts and his boxers, and flopped his limp dick between his fingers. “You ain’t gonna try and jack me off, is you?”
“No, sir,” Avery said. He was deflated. Obviously that clued him in that Carver was in the no-handjob camp. Avery almost added: unless you want me to but he thought that might not go over very well, so he bit his tongue.
“Shit, I don’t do that handjob nonsense. Man, that is some weakling bullshit,” he said. “I got real man dick, ya feel me? I got homeboy-dick.” He flopped his hefty shaft against his palm, then climbed up onto the massage table.
His back stretched out, his asscheeks bare and quivering as he settled into place. He had nice, huge plump cheeks, not perfect, just slightly fleshy and saggy, just the perfect amount, Avery thought, enough to grab onto and play with but not fat or flabby. He wanted to kiss each cheek.
“Man, I need this shit, damn. Wifey don’t touch me much these days, swear to God,” he said as Avery began kneading his back and his thick muscles. He rolled his spine, undulating as though trying to massage his own back on Avery’s hands.
He had that dense muscularity that barrel-chested men had, and which Avery adored. It felt like there were layer after layer of meaty muscle atop Carver’s body, and Avery caressed every inch of it.
“How’s that feel?”
“Good….” Carver said, letting out a deep roaring moan.
“Okay, you can roll over,” Avery said.
Carver hesitated. “Hey, so, uh… I don’t wanna, like… I mean, I ain’t mean nothin’ by it, but you know… I got a big dick and I get hard at anything, man, I swear, like a homeboy half my age. I ain’t meanin’ nothin’. I ain’t sayin’ I is gonna ramrod you or nothin’.”
“Oh? Do you have an erection? That’s okay, it’s very common,” Avery said.
Carver grimaced as he rolled over. His foot-long cock throbbed, as hard as his muscles beneath all his padding. That was not as common as Avery had implied — sure a little chubby here and there was normal, but a full-on throbbing boner? That was not typical.
As professionally as he could muster and without looking at Carver’s dick, Avery massaged his chest and his shoulders. Carver closed his eyes. He grunted like he was frustrated.
“Man, lemme show you a spot… Okay?” Carver’s callused paw gripped Avery’s hand.
Avery sucked in his breath. Carver brought Avery’s hand down to his cock. His fingers brushed against it. Carver opened his eyes wide.
“I thought you didn’t want me to… Do you…?” Avery blushed, his heart thumping.
“Ssssssh… I don’t wanna hear you askin’ no questions,” Carver said. “I said I don’t want no handjob, cuz I’m a real man. That don’t mean you can’t touch it a bit.” He gently touched Avery’s head. “You act a sissy, right?”
Avery nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He licked his lips. “Goddamn, I love it when whiteboys call me sir.” He watched as Avery’s hand wrapped around his cock and began stroking. Carver instantly threw his head back, sighed and pistoned his hips, forcing his dick up and into Avery’s hand.
He kept touching Avery’s head. It was obvious he wanted Avery’s mouth, but didn’t want to ask for it. Avery slowly lowered his head. He pretended to be hesitant, like he had never done it before. “Do you want me… to put my mouth on it?”
“Shush, no questions, boy. Just do what comes natural. You the massager, you know how to do it. Just massage me, okay? Massage me like you feel-” He groaned as Avery’s mouth touched his dick.
He guided Avery’s head as he licked the shaft, then suckled on the tip, making lots of spit drip down into Carver’s crotch. Avery deep-throated him the best he could.
Carver’s hand remained on his head, pushing and pulling him up and down. It soon became apparent he wanted Avery to focus on the underside of his shaft.
“Yeah, lick it down real low, man, lick it real low,” Carver said with a throaty moan.
Avery did so. He placed his head underneath Carver’s big black cock, which flopped all over his face. He licked and slathered spit on the throbbing vein there, near the base of his dick where it met his scrotum.
“Hmmm… You doin’ real good, boy, just keep slurpin’. Do what comes natural to ya. I know you like dick, right? You like balls too, most likely, I ‘xpect,” he said. He moistly sucked on his lower lip, making his salt-and-pepper goatee shake.
Does he want me to lick his balls? That seemed to be where he was pushing Avery’s head, so Avery obliged. They were big and full, ripe, moist with sweat and precum. He tasted salty and delicious. Avery guzzled it down and let his mouth with fill with that heavy sac, until his nose was pressed into the base of his shaft.
“Hmm, you got it, you got it good, boy, hell…”
Then in one smooth motion, without a word of warning, Carver lifted his legs. He was laying on his back, and he lifted his giant trunk-like thighs. That gave Avery easy access to Carver’s balls.
And his taint and his asshole. Does he want a rimjob now?
Avery did it. He licked a trail down Carver’s taint to his ass and plowed his tongue right in. Carver shuddered and moaned.
“I ain’t say you could lick my butthole, boy,” he said. He opened his eyes and lifted his head to look down. He grabbed Avery by the hair and made eye contact with him. “I’ll allow it this time, but I don’t let no one play wit’ my butthole. No fingers.”
Avery nodded. He was definitely trying to get me to lick his ass, he thought. What game is Carver playing? But for now, he just licked
Carver’s ass was warm and funky and just slightly hairy, just enough to remind Avery he was licking a man. Still though, he sensed Carver wasn’t quite done. Carver was waiting for something. When Avery tried to jack him off as he lapped at his asshole, Carver swatted his hand away.
Does he want to ramrod me? Avery was excited at the prospect.
Carver took Avery’s hand in his once more, taking it away from his cock and to his ass. He seemed to want Avery to spread his cheeks to get his tongue deeper in there.
“Don’t you dare finger me, sissy,” Carver said with a knowing smirk on his face.
Avery caught that smirk and stopped licking for a moment. Was Carver hinting the opposite of what he said? His face looked sarcastic. Did he want to get fingered? He dragged Avery’s finger closer to his ass.
“There ain’t nothin’ wrong wit’ gettin’ pleasure, boy,” Carver said. “I can get pleasure from all kinda females. Ya know? They do… different things.”
“Hmm-hmm.” Avery pulled off his asshole and slurped up all the moisture that leaked out of his tight hole. “Did you want me-?”
“No questions. Just do what comes natural, sissy. If I don’t like it, I will smack the tongue outta yo’ mouth,” he said, with a moist, gravelly mouth.
“I…” Avery wasn’t sure what to do or say. He resumed licking, but this time he planted his finger very near Carver’s hole. He played with the rim, just pressing down lightly.
Carver again pushed his hand, just a tiny bit, pushing his finger a half-inch lower.
That made Avery’s fingertip slip into Carver’s ass. Carver grunted and groaned, his whole body coming alive. He writhed in exquisite pleasure. Carver closed his eyes and covered his eyes with his arm, which bared his big furry armpit.
“Hmm, whiteboy, I like the way you think. Ain’t nothin’ wrong wit’ gettin’ a nut off in strange places, is there? Nosuh, nothin’ wrong wit’ that at all.” He sucked in his breath as Avery’s entire pinkie finger slid into his ass.
His ass is definitely not intact, Avery thought. He kept fingering Carver with one pinkie while jacking him off with his other hand. It made him giggle to think his tiny pinkie finger could bring such intense pleasure to such a large man.
He found Carver’s prostate and pressed, making Carver’s whole body quiver and flex. Carver sucked in his breath.
“You got a big dick, sissy?”
Avery blushed and looked up from Carver’s ass. His voice was shaky. “Uh… Not… huge, I guess. It’s… normal.”
Carver grunted as though he didn’t care. “I know you wanna bring it out. Don’t me stop you. Don’t you dare try and stick it in my ass. I ain’t on the DL.”
Now what was this? Given everything that had happened up to now, the only reasonable explanation was that Carver wanted to take dick in his ass.
But surely that wasn’t it.
Regardless, Avery did take his dick out and gave it a few strokes. He was ready to bust any time. He kept licking and fingering Carver’s ass, using both pinkies now, not even stroking him off. Carver had both hands behind his head.
“Shit, man, that little whiteboy dick ain’t barely bigger than yo’ pinkie,” Carver said. “Wouldn’t hurt at all to take that in.”
That had to be a sign. First of all, Carver hadn’t even looked. He didn’t know how big Avery’s dick was. Secondly, Avery’s dick was much bigger than any pinkie finger. He didn’t have a giant dick like Carver, but he was certainly way bigger than a pinkie finger.
He wants to get cornholed.
“Have you ever… y’know… been cornholed?” Avery asked. He blushed.
“I done ramrod some prison bitches and certain disreputable mothahfuckahs who needed to get taught a lesson,” Carver said. He chuckled, making his whole body writhe and clench around Avery’s fingers.
“So you don’t want to… get ramrodded now?”
“Man, yo’ questions is ruinin’ the mood. I said no questions,” Carver said. “I ain’t a bumbasher.”
Avery frowned. He still didn’t have a clear answer. Was a bumbasher a sissy? Or a ramrod? Either way, it wasn’t an answer to the question. “So if I started to put my dick near your ass, like this-” He stood up excruciatingly slowly and wedged his dick into Carver’s asscheeks. “You’d stop me if you were going to hit me for doing it?”
“I ain’t some kinda bashful homeboy. I will beat yo’ ass if you even think ’bout makin’ me into yo’ bitch,” Carver said, his eyes scrunched tightly shut. He closed his eyes, reached for his own ass and gripped Avery’s cock. He guided it to his hole. “You gonna stick it in, sissy?”
Avery thought the more he said, the less likely Carver was to keep going. So he just shrugged and slipped the tip of his dick in. Carver’s hairy tree-like thighs trembled. He had been holding them aloft for a long time, but he showed no signs of being exhausted.
With a stool to stand on, Avery was able to slowly drill his cock in. Carver squirmed and writhed as though he was already on the verge of pleasure — obviously, Avery thought, Carver loved the butt-stuff.
“Have you ever been ramrodded before-?”
“Hey!” Carver barked, wincing because that made his ass move painfully around Avery’s dick. “Hey! I ain’t nevuh get ramrodded, no way. I got… I got pleasures deep inside me, and yeah, I let mothahfuckahs go diggin’ for ’em…” He smiled like he was imagining it, and he even touched Avery’s chest as though there might be breasts there. “You pretty as pink, boy. I can forgive you not having titties. But remember, no way am I lettin’ you ram me — I got anal integrity, yessuh! I will let you… you know… when we in the throes of passion, boy, rules don’t apply. Don’t you dare go thinkin’-” He howled as Avery’s dick slipped the rest of the way in. “C’mon, boy, slam it in. Work it!”
Avery tried to plow him hard. But Carver was so much bigger than him that it was awkward, and Avery had to hold onto his legs for support. He pushed his meat in, using all of his might to keep Carver’s massive flesh in position.
He stroked Carver off at the same time, making it hard for Carver to stay still. He squirmed and gasped and bit his lip, undulating beneath Avery. Avery had never rammed anyone like this — not anyone that old, anyone that strong, anyone that macho.
He had never even thought this might be where his appointment with Carver Weatherbee would go.
It was obvious Carver was aroused because he shot his wad before Avery. Avery was still plowing into him over and over, making his big asscheeks shake. He felt Carver’s hole clench around him, and Carver let out a bellowing scream.
He gripped Avery by the neck and pulled him roughly down to his face. He kissed Avery on the mouth, tongue ramming violently in as Carver sprayed his cumwad all over his belly. Carver gagged too, from the taste of his own ass still clinging to Avery’s face, but that didn’t slow him down any. He kept on kissing as Avery plowed in and out of his ass.
At last, Avery orgasmed too, his tongue still intertwined in Carver’s. Carver’s goatee scratched at his face.
Great creamy gobs of cum filled Carver’s tight ass, more and more pouring out with each thrust of Avery’s hips. He slammed into Carver over and over — it was nice to plow such a big man, Avery thought, because he could really take a pounding.
“Ah, god-“
“Fuck yeah, whiteboy! Get it in there!” Carver slammed his fists on his chest and screamed in both pain and pleasure.
Avery shot the biggest load of his life. He’d never done anything like that. It made him scream and shout too, but his voice was much weaker than Carver’s.
Then, it was done. Avery blinked a few times, still in shock that this had even happened. His dick limpened slowly. He let it pour out of Carver’s ass, which gripped it as though not going to let go, even though Carver gritted his teeth and growled as though he wanted Avery to pull out faster.
“Ah, shit, whiteboy…”
Every inch sliding out of his ass was exquisite pleasure for both of them. Carver’s heart pounded, his whole body tensing and shaking until at last, Avery’s dick plopped out.
Carver was suddenly exhausted. He closed his eyes. His legs flopped down, nearly knocking Avery to the floor. Carver sprawled out on the massage table, arms dangling off the sides.
“Hmmm… You okay?” Avery asked.
“Hmm-hmm. You give a good massage,” Carver said. He didn’t open his eyes though. Avery got some tissues and wiped Carver’s dick clean, and then he rolled over so Avery could clean his ass.
“Thanks,” Avery said. He blushed. Carver looked like he wanted to take a nap. “Uh… did you…-?”
Carver sighed and stood. He looked down at his massive dick, dangling between his legs, and he winced at the pain in his ass. “Hey, boy, if I send you some homeboys. Boxers — they won’t all be homeboys, some’ll be Puerto Rican,” he said. “Would you take care of ’em?”
“Take care of them how?”
“You’ll see. Just do what comes natural, boy,” Carver said. He took his clothes in hand and walked out, not even getting dressed. His dick swung, still a bit hard, thwacking his meaty thighs. He sniffed his own armpit and wrinkled his nose. “Need a shower, damn…” he murmured to no one in particular.
Avery was too exhausted to tell him to put his clothes on before leaving the building. He didn’t care. Carver would figure it out, he thought, and after that tense encounter, Avery just wanted to nap.
Luckily he had no clients for a couple hours. Just as luckily, Avery was already excited about the prospect of a bevy of boxers coming through. What did Carver expect him to do with them? Avery could imagine he meant anything from giving a real massage to plowing them hard.
Oh well, he figured. I’ll enjoy anything in between there.

Massaging the Baseball Player

When Byron the baseball player needs some good luck, he heads to the massage parlor to see if Avery will rub, lick and worship the luck into Byron’s throbbing alpha male meat!

Read it now as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

“Is you into voodoo?”
At first Avery assumed he had misheard that. Why would he be into voodoo? Avery was a white man from right here in New Hampshire. He only recently found out voodoo was a real thing, not just a movie trope.
“Uh… Not really.”
“Oh.” Byron was a quiet young man with a juttingly handsome face accentuated by his ever-present blush. He was a redneck with a Louisiana drawl so thick you could make gumbo out of it. He was short for a baseball player, with broad shoulders that were sunburnt red, the color extending up his neck. He had a military buzz-cut, though he was not in the military, he went to GHU, where he was on the baseball team.
Unfortunately, Avery doubted he would get to touch Byron’s meat, not even here in a massage parlor. He was the kind of shy boy that would never allow that. He was probably a devout Christian (though Avery was surprised to see that he neither wore a crucifix or had any religious tattoos, which Avery would have bet money he had).
His fingers kneaded the tense flesh of Byron’s shoulders, making him groan and squirm as he relaxed. His muscles kept tensing up, then relaxing again.
“So you don’t know nothin’ ‘bout voodoo?”
“No. Sorry. I’m just a masseur.”
“Yeah. I’m from Louisiana.”
“Then it sounds like you should know about voodoo,” Avery said.
Byron chuckled. “Yeah. Guess so.” He rolled over then at Avery’s command, laying on his back. There was a towel over his bare crotch, but Avery could see the bulge of his half-hard cock. Byron had been too shy to get naked in front of Avery. It wasn’t a big towel though. Avery couldn’t tear his eyes away from that bulge.
“Are you… worried about voodoo?”
“No. Well, yes. Sorta,” he said. “I gots a game this weekend. A real ‘portant one, reckon. It’s a tournament game, and there’s gunna be MLB scouts. The Orioles, man. Orioles.”
“Oh yeah, cool. Good luck.”
“Yeah, thanks. I need luck, I do.”
It sounded like he was going to add something. Avery was quiet for a moment to give him a chance, but then Byron fell silent. Avery worked on his taut pecs, which rippled beneath his touch. Byron must have been working up to something, Avery thought, because he was holding his breath. Avery waited until it was clear Byron wasn’t gonna come out with whatever he wanted to say. Then Avery said, “I don’t have any luck to give you-“
“I know, I know. Look, I’s just — I went home last week, to Looeesyana. Just fo’ couple days. My sister got this court date cuzza her husband, he own a alligatuh farm — nevermind, it’s complicated, I went home,” he said. “And there’s… I ain’t a supuhstitius type, ya see? My family is.”
“Uh-huh.”
“My family do that, they… They got alotta supuhstitiuns and junk. I don’t believe ‘em. I don’t. But they do seem to work, ya feel me? They get it done. They work like a meatpacker on a Monday, man.”
“Okay…” Avery cocked his head to the side as his hands moved down Byron’s smooth chest to his six-packed abs, which were perfectly outlined even now, when he wasn’t flexing. Every minute or two though, Byron’s anxiety grew great enough that his muscles did flex, and his six-pack was gloriously visible.
“I don’t believe in ‘em, I swan. I been tellin’ my mama and papa that for years. So, uh, I ain’t tell ‘em, y’know…. Nothin’. I just… I wanted to get some luck, and I ain’t hanker for them to know. I went to these, y’know…” He whispered, “African Americans.”
“I see.”
“And they was, y’know, they got all kinda supuhstitiuns. I thought they was messin’ wit’ me at first, but I looked ‘em in the eye. They said it with a straight face, and they don’t mess wit’ that. You don’t even know, the blacks in Looeesyana are all about the juju — I mean African Americans. They don’t play games. They made me eat a crow.”
“They made you eat crow?”
“No, they made me eat a crow. It just tasted like chicken. But it was gross. They laughed but me, I ate it, and they said it would gimme luck.”
“Are you sure they weren’t messing with you? I don’t think crow tastes like chicken, they probably gave you chicken-“
“That’s what I thought, but they don’t do that, man, I swan. They take that ser-iuss. It sounded right. They wasn’t laughin’ at me,” Byron said.
Avery was very dubious about that. That sounded a lot more like a prank than a real superstition, but he didn’t see any reason to argue about it any further. It was clear Byron believed in it wholeheartedly.
“And, uh, there was anodduh, uh… supuhstitiun.” Byron’s face turned bright red. “It was — you know there’s like, spirits? Not demons! I’s Christian. I a Bible-believin’ boy. I don’t truck wit’ demons, nosir. But, uh, spirits is okay, they di’rent. And uh, some of ‘em is, like, Baron Samedi, you know about him, right? He famous. But a lot of ‘em are, y’know, more obscure. So if I can’t find a Wikipedia article ’bout one of them, that don’t mean he ain’t real. Spirits is real. They ain’t on Wikipedia.” He bit his lip. His dick was definitely rock-hard now, throbbing beneath the towel covering his crotch. Avery’s hands were down to his cabled-muscle thighs now, working the tension out of his tight muscles. “So, anyway, those-” he whispered again “-African Americans, they said there was a spirit who, uh… said I gotsta nut off without a woman this weekend, and I’ll pitch a no-hitter.”
“What?”
“If I do it, the spirit will make me pitch a no-hitter this weekend.”
“What? Those black guys told you that?”
“Yeah. I know you don’t believe me, you think ya yankee smarts makes you better than me-“
“No, Byron, not at all. I would never dream of talking you out of this,” Avery said, suppressing a smile.
“You think they’re messing with me.”
“Uh… Well… That doesn’t sound like voodoo, Byron. And even if it were, voodoo doesn’t work.” Avery paused. “But it’s none of my business. So come on, you didn’t need to take ten minutes to explain that. You didn’t really need to explain it at all. You definitely don’t need to convince me.”
“Oh.” He looked like he really wished Avery had said no. “Okay. Well… I’ll do anything to get in the major leagues, man. What if I can’t get hard?”
“You’re already hard, and I haven’t even touched it yet,” Avery said. He pulled the towel off. Byron gasped and covered his crotch. He blushed. Avery giggled. “Relax, relax, I won’t bite. You want me to turn the lights off?”
“No! No, no way,” Byron said. “I don’t want, y’know… I wanna see what’s happenin’.” He leaned back and covered his face with one arm. “Go ahead and do it. Go on. Oh, man, don’t make alotta sounds, okay?”
Avery smiled. He touched Byron’s dick, just a brief touch, then let go. Byron was still wriggling like the massage was going on, and he didn’t even seem to notice Avery had touched his dick. Byron lifted his head up, supporting his upper body on his elbows, which accentuated the size and power of his pecs. They bounced when Avery touched his nipples, and Byron’s eyes opened wide. He still gave little indication he noticed Avery touching him.
“I don’t no’mally take mah dick in front of strangers,” Byron said. “Just my teammates.”
“Hmmm… You guys always change together in the locker room?”
“Uh-huh.” Byron’s eyes moved down to his dick, just as Avery wrapped one hand around it. He gave it a stroke. It had been fully hard before, when he was covered by a towel, but he was more self-conscious now, and his fat cock had softened some. It was still part-hard, flopping left and right in Avery’s hand like a melted periscope.
It throbbed in his grip. Avery didn’t stroke it just yet, he simply held on like a handle. As long as he had one hand on Byron’s cock, it seemed Byron paid no attention to Avery’s other hand or his mouth. Avery kissed Byron on the pecs, just a chaste and dry kiss at first, then Avery sucked up the nervous sweat clinging to his skin, then Avery moved to his nipples. Even as Byron’s pecs bounced like a stripper’s over and over again, Byron stared at his cock resting in Avery’s hand.
Avery gave it a squeeze, and Byron jumped.
“Shit! Sorry, suh, suh, sorry fo’ the cussin’, I ain’t — I’s a Christian boy,” Byron said again.
“Okay. Christians are allowed to masturbate, right?”
Byron nodded a little too eagerly. He nodded with his whole body. “Oh yeah, yeah. Fo’ sh’ore. Kinda. Not sposedta do it all the time. Sposedta have a godly, you know, in the marital way, a bed, in the marital bed… wit’cha wife,” he said. “I ain’t married. It’s okay to, you know, you know, you know… mastuhbate.” It kinda sounded like he had never said ‘masturbate’ out loud before. He sucked in his breath.
Avery finally stroked his dick, just one time, rubbing his hand from the root to the tip, then back to the root, which he held onto with a firm hand. When he did, Byron jerked and twitched like he was being electrocuted. He gasped and grunted, and even those sounds had a Southern drawl and a Cajun lilt that made Avery smile.
Since Byron still had eyes only for his dick in Avery’s hand, Avery let his kisses move over Byron’s upper body. He kissed him on the neck even, almost hard enough to leave a hickey. He suspected Byron would be upset if he did though, so Avery stopped before leaving any marks on his neck. The thought of anxious-ass Byron trying to explain where the hickey came from made Avery chuckle to himself.
“No kissin’ on the lips,” Byron said, softly but firmly.
Avery nodded. He’d assumed that was a rule anyway, but it was nice to know Byron was okay with — and aware of — Avery’s lips all over his upper body. He even flexed his biceps now, giving Avery a pair of hard muscles to slather spit upon. He had a bicep bulge that was almost cartoon-like, Avery thought, wondering if that was genetic or what. Not since Popeye had anyone had such a bicep bulge.
Finally, Avery put both hands on Byron’s dick, and he slowly stroked with one. His other hand stayed tight on Byron’s cockroot, squeezing it enough to send little tremors of pleasure through Byron’s muscular frame. Avery’s left hand worked up and down the shaft.
His cock finally rocketed back to attention, despite Byron’s anxiety over getting hard, and Byron once again sucked in his breath. He lifted his ass off the massage table, then he forced himself to react again.
Byron looked horrified at his own dick as if he wished he had struggled to get hard. His veiny dickshaft pulsated in Avery’s grip, and his breathing kept speeding up until it sounded like he was on the verge of hyperventilating. His eyes bulged out. His muscles were all flexed rock-hard now, and they stayed that way.
As he stroked with one hand and held on with the other, Avery continued lapping at Byron’s now firm-tense torso and arms. He had never stopped flexing his biceps — he seemed to have not noticed Avery wasn’t sucking the sweat off his arms anymore — which gave Avery a chance to get into his armpits. The sweat there was especially musky and vibrant, wildly salty, and it gave Avery a heady rush. He sucked on both armpits. Byron must have noticed that finally, cuz he stopped flexing his biceps, then realized Avery wanted to suck on his armpits, so he raised his arms above his head, moving with clinical efficiency, like Avery was a doctor who told him to do so.
He had a boner, so it must have felt good, but Byron hadn’t yet given any obvious sign of that. He looked terrified of admitting it felt good. Then all of a sudden, Byron’s whole body bucked, and he again lifted his ass off the massage table.
“Ah, goddamn, boy, you got fingers like…” Byron’s voice broke and he blushed. “I dunno, I can’t think of anything with soft fingers. A baby, I guess, but that’d be creepy.” His cheeks were almost as red as his sunburnt neck.
Avery let go of his cock. Byron’s whole body twitched, and Avery smiled. Byron sucked in his breath. He was supporting his upper body on his elbows, but when he twitched, he lifted up and nearly fell off the table.
“Hmmm… I’m gonna use my mouth now, is that-?”
“Yes!” Byron nodded. “I mean, yeah. Fo’ sh’ore. Those African Americans said it would get me into the Major Leagues.”
“It won’t.”
“So I gotta, I gotta, damn, I got such a hardon. Sorry I just cussed. Sorry. I don’t — aaaah…”
“You didn’t cuss. ‘Damn’ doesn’t count. You did cuss earlier.”
“Those black guys said it, those black guys, those black guys, not all of them were guys, sorry, I was wrong, there was some girls. Women. Ladies. Females,” Byron said. He thrummed and licked his lips in anticipation, and his cock throbbed visibly, though Avery wasn’t touching it yet.
But now that it was clear Byron wanted it, Avery smiled and lowered his head. He bent over to make sure Byron watched as he planted his lips on the tip. It was just the tip at first, sucking on the piss-slit and slathering spit all over it.
It was hard as iron now, he was in no danger of losing his erection. Avery could tell Byron was concerned about that though. Young men usually were. You’d think they’d only be concerned about when they got old enough it might happen, but that wasn’t the case. Young men were always terrified of getting or not getting hardons.
Byron shook and trembled, his hands flailing above Avery’s head. Every time he accidentally touched Avery’s hair, he remembered he was with a man and moved his hand away. He closed his eyes every few seconds, then got overwhelmed and opened them again.
His cock was moving of its own accord now. Byron watched but didn’t reckon his hips pumping, gently, just barely moving, but moving enough to hump his cocktip on Avery’s tongue. It was soft and warm and moist, and Byron couldn’t believe the sparks of sensation erupting all over his body.
Those black guys were right, he thought but didn’t say, a man does do it better than any woman. Not that Byron had gotten that many blowjobs, he wasn’t like that. These black guys told him once to get a man to do it — not the Creoles who told him to do this as a voodoo thing, this was a different group of black guys he ran into when his team went to California for a game. They were yankee black guys, and they talked like black guys from a movie, and they said if your dick works, “you can always find a man to pay you money for a nut”.
Byron would never ask for money for it. But asking for favors from the spirits, that was allowed. In a Christian way, of course.
“Is you gonna sit on it?” Byron asked. He knew guys did that, put a dick up their ass, but it seemed weird, like an urban legend that would turn out to be untrue. Plausible but not real.
Avery nodded. “If you want.”
“Yeah! It’s prolly — the black guys said…” Byron sucked in his breath. Precum exploded in Avery’s mouth, and he sucked down every drop. “It’s prolly the way, the voodoo — those black guys said… the Major League…”
“Oh, yeah, the Major League will love it if you ram me up the ass,” Avery said with a giggle, as he slapped Byron’s hardon on his outstretched tongue.
Avery loved precum. He let it fill his mouth, and he savored the bright, salty flavor. He stopped deep-throating Byron’s dick now, lest he accidentally trigger an orgasm before getting it up the ass. Young men could accidentally bust a nut in a moment, it would be easy to do. Avery had done it before.
But he couldn’t bring himself to stop tasting the intensely masculine flavor of Byron’s precum. There wa something intensely Southern about it, like you could taste the pawpaw and magnolia trees in it. Avery wondered idly what alligator meat tasted like. Byron’s brother-in-law owned an alligator farm, so he must have eaten it a lot.
But he didn’t want to distract Byron by asking. Avery pulled his mouth off Byron’s cock at last with a smack of his lips. Byron sucked in his breath.
“I’m gonna do it. Sit my ass on it, I mean. You’re sure you’re okay with that? I can just finish you off with my mouth,” Avery said.
“Yes!” Byron said. His cheeks were red as cranberries now, and he nodded his head overly enthusiastically. “Yeah!”
“You ever fuck a woman in the ass?”
“No way! I ain’t a pervert!” Byron said. “My priest — Father Alcide — he said that’s a sin. He said only a pervert does it.”
“Hmm…” Avery shrugged. “I don’t agree, but whatever, you have to make your own decisions, Byron.” He kept one hand on the root of Byron’s cock as he rubbed lube onto the shaft. “You let those black guys tell you what to do, you let some liberals tell you to call them African-Americans, you let your coaches, those scouts for the Orioles, your priest, you let everyone tell you what to do. You’re a grown man,” Avery said. “Take responsibility for your choices.”
“Uh-huh.” Byron didn’t seem capable of taking in life lessons right now. He was thinking with his erection, which was pulsating like it might expode any second.
The massage table was wide enough for Avery to climb up there without Byron moving to make room for him. That necessitated Avery to let go of his dick, which got Byron jibbering like a hillbilly again.
“Aaaaah, shiii… ship! Ship!” He closed his eyes. “I wanna nut so bad, shiiiiiiiiip!” His plaintive voice turned into a howl of desire, as Avery mounted him.
Riding a man’s cock in the reverse-cowgirl position was difficult, but Avery knew that was what big alpha males liked best. If they literally couldn’t see anything but Avery’s smooth, girlish back, it wasn’t as obvious they were with a man.
That didn’t stop Byron from laughing nervously as Avery got ready though. His baseball-toned muscles were tense, all of the looseness that Avery’s massage gave him having melted away because he was focused on ramrodding a man and fulfilling his superstition. Avery smeared lube on his ass to match the lube he put on Byron’s shaft, which was so thick Avery was sure he’d need a lot of lube.
Amid the sounds of the New Age music that still played, both men fell silent. Avery held onto Byron’s shaft with both hands, keeping it in place as he lowered his ass onto it. Byron kept his hands behind his head, his eyes opened wide and staring. He grimaced when his cock slid in, then moaned as a wave of pleasure hit him.
“Ship, man, that feels like a girl’s ass…” Byron said. “Ssssh…” He blushed at the realization he was shushing himself. He twitched and licked his lips. “Oh god, oh god, oh god…”
All at once, as his cock eased inch by inch into Avery’s ass, Byron realized that this superstition was silly. That was what he had thought even when those African Americans told him about it. But somehow as the game got closer, Byron’s faith in rationality — and his faith in Catholicism — diminished. He was willing to do everything to improve his pitching just a tiny bit. He made minor adjustments to training, diet, stretching, his daily schedule, everything was subordinate to baseball.
So it made sense, he thought, to do what he could superstitionally too. It’s not like it was even a big deal, he told himself, ramrodding a man was fine. Father Alcide said it was only a sin if it was uncontrollable, or even if you eschewed women for it, or if you were violent or mean or motivated by lust.
And Byron wasn’t motivated by lust. He was feeling lust, but he was motivated by a desire to play for the Orioles. Or whoever, the Astros, ideally, but they weren’t looking for a pitcher.
The pleasure flowing from his cock through his body felt just like it did when he made love to a girl, a fact that wasn’t as mollifying as Byron thought it should be. It just reminded him that “doing the premaritals” was sinful.
He oughta just get jacked off by men til he was married. It seemed so simple now.
“How does that feel?” Avery asked as he slid down lower on Byron’s cock. Intense pressure erupted in his ass, but he used enough lube that it slowly dissipated over time. It was followed by a low, melting surge of pleasure that grew and grew with every motion of Avery’s body up and down on Byron’s cockshaft.
“So good…” His voice broke, and he chuckled at himself. He stopped wiggling as his dick slid the rest of the way in, and Avery felt Byron’s kinky pubic hairs rubbing against his asscheeks. Byron’s hands flailed, then covered his face. “Ah shit, man…”
He must have been really horny — or embarrassment and anxiety turned him on — because Avery could feel his orgasm coming on almost right away. Luckily Avery himself was right behind, his prostate sending a wave of pleasure up his spine as Byron’s cock stimulated it.
Avery orgasmed quickly. He didn’t mean to, but he controlled everything about Byron’s body right now, and he could feel every inch of his jockish muscles flexing beneath Avery’s body. That made Avery moan and groan, stroking himself off until he shot a massive load that covered the linoleum floor beneath Byron’s feet.
It was Avery’s asshole clenching on Byron’s dick that sent him over the edge as well. Byron’s loud grunting and heaving grew frenzied, impassioned, and his hands gripped Avery’s back tightly. He held on as he lifted his hips up and really plowed Avery’s ass for the first time, letting Avery just stay there and enjoy it.
“Oh heck, yeah, this better work…” Byron moaned as he came. He hugged Avery from behind and held on tight.
Hot cum flew into Avery’s body, its creamy heat seeping through his flesh. He bit his lip and cried out, the sound dwarfed by Avery’s deeper rumbling grunts. They both sighed together as the sticky juices in Avery’s ass trickled throughout his body, coating him in Byron’s masculine scent inside and out.
Avery giggled. “You got a nice cock,” he said. “Are all Louisiana boys that good at this?”
His face was already red even before he came, and his orgasm made it even redder. So Byron didn’t show any reaction to Avery’s question even though it embarrassed him. “I dunno,” he said breathlessly, watching his cock plop out of Avery’s ass. “I never got cornholed by any Louisiana boys. Ship…”
“Well,” Avery said. He stepped off the massage table. “Lucky me.” He wiped off Byron’s sensitive cock and his own ass. He smiled at Byron. “Good luck at your game. If you win and want me to congratulate you, come back and see me. If you lose and want me to console you, come back and see me. Either way-” Avery touched his dick, which was so sensitive it made his whole body jerk, “-come back and see me.”
“I will.”

The Roughneck

Avery is a masseuer who occasionally lands a taste of a roughneck from an oil rig, but when Dog Barren comes in, he didn’t think Dog was interested. Dog even says he’d never let a man get with him on the downlow…

But then all rules are off when Dog turns out to really need the sweet, sweet release of Avery’s twink body!

Read it now as an ebook!

Or read the whole thing here!

Avery swept up his massage room — or his “office”, as he and the other masseurs called it — with an old splintery broom. It had been a slow day, a bunch of old men who wanted handjobs, which Avery was not willing to give, and one lady who needed a genuine massage for medical reasons.
That was Avery’s job. As a certified massage therapist, he dealt with both people hoping he was a prostitute as well as people who needed massages to help with muscle soreness, stiffness or joint pain. It wasn’t a great career, but Avery loved it. He enjoyed the people, the independence — he made his own hours — and perhaps most of all, he loved the men. Not the old men who wanted handjobs, the more rare but rewarded stately, elegant and handsome types. They sometimes asked for handjobs and even more, and as a great admirer of the male form, Avery tried to oblige. No oldies, fatties, losers or stinkwads.
“Hey,” came a deep, solid voice like a taut length of sissel rope.
Avery turned around and was flustered to see a white man with dark skin, tattoos creeping up his neck, his weathered face craggy and worn. He had ropy muscles and long limbs. He was alluring, in a dangerous-drifter kind of way. He had the presence of a silent thundercloud, and he smelled like leather oil.
But he didn’t — this man seemed to be a roughneck. He probably worked at one of the oil rigs outside of town. Those men were rough-and-tumble, crude, rude, mean, often violent. They sometimes came in for massages because they were required to try that first before worker’s compensation would pay them anything for pain relief after an on-the-job accident. But they rarely came in for a second massage. Mostly they were just trying to get worker’s comp or were working a pain doctor for opiate prescriptions and needed to prove they gave massage a try.
“Oh hello, my name is Avery, welcome to Thackenswitch Massage Parlor. What kind of services are you looking for today?”
“Uh… What? I ain’t nevuh done this before.” The dowdy roughneck blushed, which was barely visible because he was so tan.
Avery nodded and waited for the roughneck to say something else. When nothing else proved forthcoming, Avery added, “Are you here for a worker’s comp claim?”
“Nah.”
“Okay,” Avery said. This roughneck seemed like the kind who normally brimmed with confidence and bravado but now came across as nervous. He had that walking-callus thickness that roughnecks get — from the vibrations — everything on oil rigs vibrate — like you could just tell his hands were gonna be leathery. Avery could tell without looking he’d have thick sausagey fingers. “What, uh…? Well, do you have pain? Is that why you came here? You want me to help you with some back pain or something like that?”
“No. I just… I been tense, man. That’s all.”
Avery smiled. “I see. Alright.” He sensed there was more to the roughneck’s motivations, but Avery didn’t know what question to ask. “Why don’t you take off your clothes? Just hop up on the table, and we’ll get started.”
He lifted his t-shirt off over his head. His chest was not exactly muscular, it was toned, worked, wiry, plenty of strength but not a lot of bulk, like he would have been a lot bigger and more chiseled, but he didn’t eat enough protein, so the muscles he had strained to fit within his sun-burnished skin. He chewed on his lower lip.
“What’s your name, sir?” Avery asked as the roughneck took off his heavy boots, which were caked with dust and mud.
“Dog.”
“Dog?”
He nodded like that was totally normal. He hesitated before undoing the belt on his jeans, which were filthy and stained. “Dog Barren.” He undid the belt, but he didn’t lower his jeans.
“It’s okay. If you want me to help you, I need to be able to massage your thighs, even your butt,” Avery said. He gulped. This man looked potentially violent. Maybe he should have just started with a backrub.
It looked like Dog didn’t really trust Avery either. He stood there, belt undone so he held his overly baggy jeans up with one mitteny hand.
“Nah. I ain’t worried ‘bout that,” he said. “I work at the oil rig. I shower wit’ men e’ry day. Ain’t concerned ‘bout no man seein’ me in my all-togethuh. Just… I ain’t sure, y’know…” He took a deep breath and dropped his jeans. He pulled down his boxer shorts and hopped up onto the table. His hoggish fat prick swung between his legs.
Avery suspected Dog would relax once the massage began. Men like him weren’t used to being touched in a gentle, non-sexual way. He wasn’t the kind of man you want to hug. So Avery got some oil on his hands and got to work. Dog’s shoulders were meaty and dully tattooed — his tattoos were hard to see because his skin was so tan — his shoulder-meat broad, rippling beneath Avery’s fingertips. He laid on his belly, moving with the grace of an oafier man, like he was not used to being noticed.
“So, Dog, how long have you been working at the oil rig?”
“Thirteen years. Reckon.”
“Wow, you like it?”
“Nah. Just a job, y’know. I ain’t cut out for other kind of jobs.”
Avery’s hands moved down to Dog’s wiry thighs, which had barely any fat on them at all. He could see Dog’s hairy ballsac and his heavy balls between his legs, but Avery’s eyes were drawn to his asscheeks instead. Dog had nice plump cheeks, just a bit hairy and the face of an angry woman tattooed on one side.
“Is this tattoo…?”
“She my ex-wide. She’s a total cunt. I hate that bitch,” Dog said, his voice still flat and flinty, like his throat was made of charcoal.
“I see.”
“She tol’ the police I hit her, but I ain’t hit her ‘cept this one time, that weren’t the time she called the cops. So that was a lie, yeah? Judge say I gotta pay that bitch alley-money, I ain’t pay her nothing, I don’t even care,” he said with a snort that made his asscheeks jiggle..
Avery worked his hands down Dog’s wiry-muscled legs. “Don’t you get in trouble for not paying it?”
Dog shrugged. “Just gotta go to jail for a little bit. Ain’t so bad.”
“Roll over,” Avery said.
Dog hesitated before doing so. He sucked in his breath and rolled over. Avery saw why he was reluctant to do so — Dog had a hard-on. It wasn’t fully erect, but his fat cock was firm and it stuck up. It looked like he had extra dickskin, Avery thought and had to suppress a giggle, like when you rubbed his cock, even fully hard, it would feel like a lot of dickskin under his hand. Avery liked that. He really wanted to touch it.
“Sorry ’bout the stiffy, man, I ain’t no kinda pervert or nothin’, sometimes I don’t got control over it,” Dog said. “I ain’t had no female for a minute. That’s all.”
“No worries,” Avery said. He bit his lip and cleared his throat. “You seem stressed and anxious.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I can help with that,” Avery said. He wrapped one hand around Dog’s dick, which twitched and throbbed its way to full erection in his hand. Avery smiled. Dog gasped. He lifted his head up. but kept the rest of his body laying flat on the massage table.
Dog looked down at his own cock like he didn’t recognize it. His eyes narrowed to slits. He bit his lip. He closed his eyes, then opened them, then covered them with one dusky forearm, which had the word J-E-S-U-S-C-H-R-I-S-T tattooed in Gothic letters down the underside of it.
With just a few seconds of stroking, Dog’s dick was rock-hard. Its veiny shaft pulsated beneath Avery’s grasp. Avery slid his hand up and down it slowly at first as he checked whether Dog was willing to do this.
He did indeed have a lot of dickskin. Avery again had to suppress a giggle at that.
“I ain’t into no kinda pervert or nothin’,” Dog said again. He kept his head up, but as he watched, he also lifted up his shoulders and upper body, which he supported on his elbows. He growled at Avery and ran his fingers through his dense wad of hair.
His face remained stoic, like he was still apologetic about the stiffy but was stonefacing about Avery giving him a handjob. He licked his teeth.
“Okay.” Avery didn’t stop jacking him off, and Dog didn’t complain.
“You look like a girl.” His voice was gravelly and rough, abrasive like sandpaper in Avery’s ear. It was deeper than seemed reasonable too, considering that Dog was not a big person. He snorted and closed his eyes again, but just like before, it lasted only a few seconds, like he was too nervous to be without sight for long.
“That’s, uh… Yeah.”
He still looked down at his cock in Avery’s hand as though he had nothing to do with it and didn’t know what was happening to it. “Gimme ya hand.” He took Avery’s hand off his cock, then hocked up a big mouthful of spit and spat it into the palm of Avery’s hand. Then he brought it back to his dick. The newly moist texture of Avery’s skin was apparently enough for Dog, who groaned and leaned his head back.
“Can I put my mouth on it?” Avery asked, not sure if Dog would tolerate that.
“Nah. That’s that nasty shit. I said I wasn’t into that. I ain’t in prison,” Dog said, his eyes narrowing to slits. His face turned from shock and shame to menace and danger. His dick pulsated in Avery’s grasp. A few drops of precum leaked out the piss-slit, and Avery eyed them hungrily.
Was he really going to stick to just a handjob? Some roughnecks were like that. There was a whole gaggle of Muslims last year who insisted on handjobs and only handjobs. Their imam brought them every week. But Avery had never met a white American like that.
Wonder what happened in prison to make him not want to do it…
“Okay, no problem.” Avery was disappointed. He didn’t love the idea of just giving a handjob, and that precum looked salty and fresh and delicious as his hand stroked it into a creamy smear coating the upper third of his dickshaft.
But it seemed that was all Dog was willing to allow. So he just kept stroking, both hands now. Dog’s warm spit sliding between his fingers and coating his hand. Avery spat on his own hand. Maybe it was coincidence, but the moment after he spat, Dog’s cock throbbed in his hand, and Dog’s pecs rippled. It was the body language of a gasp, but Avery didn’t hear a gasp.
“You can kiss it.” Dog threw his head back and maybe gasped at last, or maybe he just grunted or licked his teeth, Avery couldn’t tell because he threw his head back.
Avery smiled. He thought he knew where this was going. He kissed Dog’s cock on the tip, right on the piss-slit, and he made sure to generate a mouthful of saliva that ran down the shaft. The musk and zest of Dog’s precum and his dickmeat and both his and Avery’s spit flooded Avery’s senses, and he noisily slurped up all the fluids that remained. Then he gently spat them back out to coat his fat cock.
The contact, or maybe the noise, made Dog squirm. The veins in his dick nearly jumped right out of his body and into Avery’s hand, which still moved slowly up and down. Dog began moving his hips, humping Avery’s hand with his cock, though his face remained stony like he was unaware he was doing it.
“Thanks for letting me kiss it,” Avery said. “I’ll just finish the handjob-“
“That weren’t no kiss. A cock-kiss got tongue, man. Use a little tongue. Do not jerk me off wit’cha mouth, I ain’t that kinda ex-con..”
Avery nodded. He lowered his head again, planted his lips right on the tip of Dog’s cock and kissed it. This time he did it loudly, flickering his tongue out and smearing more spit all over it. That taste assaulted his tongue again, and Avery kissed a trail down the shaft to Dog’s cockroot. He hefted Dog’s hairy ballsac in one, looking up at him to see if he’d object. He did not.
Dog shuddered and grunted, the sound turning from aroused to angry as he jabbed his fists into the air. He roared. He nearly hyperventilated, as another burst of precum flowed from his knob. Avery slurped it up — his lips still pursed like a kiss, so he was, as far as Avery was concerned, still abiding by Dog’s limits.
“Dog? I want to swallow your cum,” Avery said. He figured it was time to end the charade and just say what he meant. He smiled sweetly up at Dog, who bristled, his upper lip twitching like Elvis — he liked to be flattered, Avery suspected. “You have a perfect cock. It’s so big, and you’re so strong. I want you so bad. Please let me swallow your cum.”
“Fine, but only cuz you beggin’ so bad, man,” he said. He scoffed. “You pitiful.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “No way I’m puttin’ it in your ass though. Don’t even ask ‘bout that.”
There was something in the way he said that that made Avery think he meant the opposite. He sounded like he could and perhaps wanted to be talked into ramming Avery in the ass, almost as easily as he had been talked into letting Avery swallow his cum.
“Will you ram my face, please? You can pretend my throat is a pussy,” Avery asked. He blushed and deep-throated Dog’s dick without waiting for a response. “I’m good at that.” He smacked his lips. “Real good, I can swallow-“
Dog grunted and wrapped his hands around Avery’s head and started to grind, shoving his cock deep into Avery’s throat. He moved like he didn’t notice he was interrupting Avery. That musty taste, like his cock had been cooped up in those workjeans for weeks, made Avery croon around the meat in his throat. It tasted so good his hands reached all the way up Dog’s body and to tweak the nipples atop his rippling taut pecs. Dog groaned as though this was scratching an itch he had been unable to reach for a long time.
All of his muscles flexed as he throated down Avery, who was indeed an expert at swallowing huge cocks — he was fine with it, loving the struggle as his throat cried out for oxygen. He loved it even more when Dog’s legs rested atop Avery’s shoulders, as though putting him in some kind of cock-handling chokehold. He used those wiry legs to pin Avery’s head in place, while Dog’s hands pushed his head down to the root of his fat cock.
A burst of precum or maybe an initial foray of jizz flowed down Avery’s throat. The taste was salty and creamy, and it tasted so good Avery gurgled even as it made him choke and gag some more. A big ball of spit and fluids slipped out past his lips and soaked Dog’s pubic hair.
“Ah, shit, yeah,” Dog murmured. His hands stroked Avery’s scalp through his hair. His muscles tensed and flexed. Avery’s hands moved up to Dog’s chest, caressing his pectorals and rubbing his shoulders. Dog grumbled. “I ain’t gonna ram you, man.”
Avery just smiled and nodded without taking Dog’s cock out of his throat. He let it squeeze down his neck, and he sputtered as it sprayed its seed down his gullet. Avery still couldn’t decide if it was precum or real jizz. Dog’s moaning voice broke like it was cum, but then he took his dick out and it was still hard. More precum flowed from the piss-slit in pulses though, Dog groaning each time like he was holding back an orgasm.
“Get up,” Dog said, his deep voice echoing in the massage room. “Lay on your back.”
It was clear he was about to ram Avery in the ass, no matter what he said just a few seconds ago. Avery smiled and wiped spit off his face. “Okay. Will you be gentle? You’re such a big man, you could hurt me. Please don’t hurt me too bad?”
Dog glowered. “I ain’t say I was gonna ram you. I don’t do that.” He took a deep breath. “I won’t hurtcha too bad. You ain’t as bad a bitch as my ex-wife and I ain’t nevuh hurt her, so you be okay, man. Just get on yer back.”
Avery loved getting it up the ass as roughly as possible. So he wasn’t worried about that situation. He actually liked the idea of making Dog work for it, especially now with his dick raging, demanding attention.
“Have you ever done a man up the ass?”
“Nah,” Dog said. “I rammed this fellah in the ass in the shower once, but don’t ask me ‘bout that. It was an accident. It don’t proper count. I ain’t never booty bandit no bitch though. Don’t say I did, I ain’t like that. Couple times I did. Only when I had to. It don’t count, you can’t count it.”
“Okay,” Avery said with a grin. He laid on his back on the massage table, lifting his feet in the air. Dog placed Avery’s feet on his shoulder muscles, so Avery could grip his flesh with his toes — and, Avery thought, so he couldn’t run away.
A frown appeared on Dog’s face as he lowered his knees a little to line his cock up with Avery’s ass. He looked away but guided his dick in with one hand.
A burst of intense pressure hit Avery’s senses. He moaned. The pain was overwhelming at first, but it lasted only a moment before he felt a wave of pleasure, dim and dismal at first. It grew, however, with each thrust of Dog’s dick inside him. Dog grunted as though each thrust hurt, but then he grunted again on the outswing of his thrust as though it felt so good he was melting.
Dog kept his head to the side, looking at the wall. He held his breath when he encountered resistance in Avery. Avery’s fingers tightened into claws that dug into the cushion of the massage table, while Dog inexorably pushed his dick in deeper, inch by inch.
“You got nice, pretty toes like a little girl.” Dog said with a long, low groan. Avery’s feet were still propped up on Dog’s shoulders, Avery’s toes curling up and gripping his flesh. Dog picked up one of Avery’s feet and sucked on the big toe, the taste of which made him shudder. His muscles flexed and his dick throbbed within Avery’s ass.
As Avery’s hand finally reached his own cock to start jacking off, he felt a surge of pleasure emanating up his spine from his sensitive prostate. It tingled, growing more alive and awake with every touch from Dog’s dicktip exploring his insides.
Dog moved his hips in a slow circle like he needed to tickle Avery in some hard-to-reach cranny of his body. Dog groaned, licking Avery’s foot and sucking on his toes, which made Avery giggle like a schoolgirl.
Avery’s free hand roamed up to Dog’s chest, where he teased those powerful pecs — they weren’t big, but Avery could tell how strong Dog’s work-toned body really was. Dog reacted like it hurt when Avery touched his nipples, and he howled like his namesake.
Avery’s orgasm came on slowly, bit by bit, but he could feel it growing as Dog continued to hump. He could feel it coming from Dog too, in his breathing speeding up, his face turning slightly reddish and then, at last, his balls crawling up in his sac.
In the end Avery shot his load just a few seconds before Dog, the intense pleasure that rocketed through his body being enough for Avery to clench down on Dog’s dick. That caused Dog to shake and grunt so loud it made the framed pictures on the wall rattle.
“Gonna shoot my babies up in you now, girl… You best not get pregnant…” Dog closed his eyes and wrinkled his nose.
A burst of hot, creamy cum sprayed within Avery, whose entire body tensed around Dog’s dick. The most mind-numbing pleasure of his life assaulted Avery, making him squirm and wiggle on the dick his ass was impaled on. He squealed like a piglet and roared like a jaguar, all while slithering down on Dog’s dick like a snake.
Dog didn’t slow down. He wrapped both of Avery’s legs in his arms, holding them tight so Avery couldn’t do anything more than submit. He kept slamming his dick in slowly but deeply, wiggling it around as he took a deep breath and watched Avery writhe.
He kept on going, moving slower and slower but still jamming his dick in, even as it finally grew limp. Dog rattled and shook. His cock made a big frothy mess of bubbly cum inside Avery, spilling out down his thighs.
“Yer ass is nasty,” Dog said with a leering smile, like he was proud of having made it so “nasty”.
Avery crooned and groaned. He bucked as a wave of sensitive prostate-stimulation hit him. He squirmed, his ass now exquisite and tingling, sensations too potent for him to cope with as Dog moved around inside him.
“I won’t nevuh kiss a man,” Dog said, his entire body suddenly still. “Nuh-uh. No way.”
“Okay…” Avery’s voice was tight and clipped. Dog’s dick was still in his ass, his feet were still bundled up and squeezed between Dog’s arms. He could have squirmed away if he’d really wanted to, but the intensity of Dog’s manhood in his ass made Avery want to stay, and besides that, every movement he took caused uncontrollable waves of painful ecstasy to erupt in his ass.
“You gonna seduce me?” Dog asked.
“Uh…” Avery’s mind was too overwhelmed to think of a real response. All he could do was gasp and croon as though on the edge of tears.
Then without a second though, Dog dived his head down and kissed Avery passionately, sloppily, moistly, right on the lips. Their tongues collided in Avery’s mouth.
With his dick finally flopping out of Avery’s ass, tremendous relief flooded him. It was like a second little post-orgasm orgasm, which a burst of pleasure hitting him all over again. He groaned into Dog’s mouth. He flopped limply, submitting to Dog’s kiss and his rough, callused fingers caressing Avery’s body.
Then at last, and all at once, Dog backed off. He frowned at Avery. He flopped his dick between his fingers and wiped it off with a tissue.
“You seduced me,” he said, his eyes narrowing to slits.
“Uh… Not really. I-“
“Shush,” Dog said. “I don’t nevuh ram men, you best believe that. You believe that?!” He paused. “Huh?!”
“Well… Yeah. I believe it,” Avery said.
Avery sat up, dizzy now that that was over. He hadn’t been rammed that good in a long time. He was still scared, not sure where Dog was taking this.
Dog paused. He bristled and slowly put his clothes on. He ignored Avery the entire time. Only after he had put his shirt back on and tied his heavy boots did he glance in Avery’s direction. “You gonna be around in a couple days?”
“Uh… Well, I work here most days-“
“No. I mean, like, midnight or so. Well, two in the morning, more like, after the bars close.”
“We’re closed then.”
“What’s your address?”
Avery’s rational mind said not to tell him, but Avery’s body and his cock and his prostate all demanded he do it. So even as he told himself not to, he gave Dog his address and phone number.
“If I come by to see you at night when I’m drunk,” Dog said as he headed towards the door. “You best let me in and lemme sleep on yer couch, boy. I won’t steal nothin’, I’s a God-fearin’ man. You better not molest me neither. I ain’t gonna let you jerk me off, and I definitely won’t be sticking you up the ass neither.” He paused in the doorway and took a deep breath. “I ain’t mean to act unchristian towards ya. I’ll come pass out on yer couch, just don’t you dare take advantage of me.”
“Okay, I won’t,” Avery said with a deep sigh. He was glad to see Dog walk away, but Avery already looked forward to seeing him again.

The Masseur

Avery visits the New Age healing spot of a hunky Native American masseur known for seducing married women. Luckily Avery’s got enough dough to get a little more than a massage.

Can Avery talk Johnny Redcob into giving up a taste of his alpha male meat?!

Read it now as an ebook!

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Avery nervously approached the trailer on the side of the road. The “Redcob Healing Lodge” was a trailer that had been adapted into a New Age center for massage, healing and enlightenment. It wasn’t in a trailer park, it was just a trailer in a dusty spot off the road. The land was Johnny Redcob’s — he had gotten a chunk of the land from the government when it was given to his tribe, the Towunkim. It did not look like a New Age center. It looked like a hobo encampment that could only attract one hobo. There were tee shirts and jeans hung up to dry, a beat-up acoustic guitar slowly rotting in the rain and a dismal arrangement of mismatched lawn furniture.
New Age culture was not Avery’s cup of tea, so the lack of an authentic New Age vibe was not a problem for him. More than one of his friends had gone the New Age route. He never saw the appeal. It seemed like bullshit to him, or considering that he was in New Mexico, maybe he should say it seemed like muleshit to him. His friends swore that positive visualization and crystal energy would get him into a more exciting, successful life.
But in the end, Avery had found success with a massage parlor back in West Virginia, and he used the real world, the “old” age, to do it. His friends were still meditating on crystal balls and promising themselves a glorious future. Meanwhile Avery was opening a new location and looking into a flower shop as well.
When Avery knocked on the rickety door to the trailer, he heard shuffling from inside. Something clattered to the floor.
“Hang on, Nancy! I’ll be right there!”
The door opened. Johnny Redcob was shirtless, exactly as he had been described to Avery: a tan-horse stallion, broad-shouldered, bronzed like a sun-aged statue, flat belly rippling with muscle, long flowing hair extending well past his smooth neck. He smelled of sunshine and sagegrass, and his caramel brown eyes sent a thrill up Avery’s spine.
“Oh. You’re not Nancy.” His voice was low and rumbling like gathering stormclouds of sultry silk. When his mouth opened, a breeze picked up and sent a few stray strands of his hair aloft. The wind smelled of meadows and leaf litter, a heady mixture of sunshiney brightness and earthy rot. Johnny Redcob frowned at Avery and ran his fingers through his hair.
“No, sorry, I’m Avery Flowers,” he said. “I heard you give a mean massage. I can pay. What’s your normal rate? Two hundred dollars? Here.” He handed over the money before Johnny Redcob could answer.
Johnny Redcob frowned again, but Avery smiled like he didn’t notice. Avery knew very well what was going on here. Johnny Redcob purported to be a New Age healer and masseur, but that was almost entirely a cover for his real passion: seducing married, mainly white, women. Nancy must have been his latest conquest, Avery thought.
When Johnny Redcob did accept real money in exchange for an actual massage — as opposed to just using that as an excuse to get a woman away from her husband — he did not charge anywhere’s near two hundred dollars. That was a deliberate choice on Avery’s part, to make sure that Johnny Redcob would let him in. Avery could afford it.
“Yes. That is correct,” Johnny Redcob said, his voice flat and grim. “Two hundred dollars. That is my normal rate.” He paused, then angled his body away. “Come in.”
There were a few beads of sweat clinging to his chest. He inhaled deeply of the man’s musky scent as he walked in. It was nose-wrinkling, fresh yet dirty, stale and clean and sweet all at once. It made Avery want to lick his broad chest clean. Inside the trailer, it smelled like incense, with potent clouds of patchouli and sweetgrass filling the air.
“So, Johnny, do you do good business here?”
He scoffed. “It is okay.” He washed his hands at the sink, then relit an incense stick that had gone out. He set up a fold-out massage table and motioned for Avery to climb up it. “Take off your shirt,” he said. “And your pants if you wish for me to massage your thighs as well.” He frowned like he hoped Avery would decline a thigh massage.
“I do,” Avery said. “Thanks so much for this, by the way. I’m traveling through New Mexico and my normal massage guy is back in West Virginia.” A long silence drifted through the trailer like a tumbleweed as Avery took his clothes off. He felt skinny and weak in comparison to Johnny, whose muscles shifted with every step he took, as though it required every scrap of muscle he had to take a single step. Johnny Redcob seemed oversized in the cramped trailer, like he had been built for one much bigger than this.
Johnny Redcob turned on a CD player, but what came out of the speakers was loud hard rock. It was a driving, dirty rhythm that Johnny Redcob turned off. “Sorry,” he said as he changed the CD. “I forgot who was here last.” He turned it back on, and bird sounds came from the speakers. That was followed by some slowly rising New Age music, building in waves and eddies, gradually growing to a crescendo over the next few minutes.
Avery climbed onto the massage table. It smelled very feminine. He could tell that few or no men had used it. He settled down with his face in the hole in the headrest. He wore only his boxers, making him feel vulnerable beneath the grasp of Johnny Redcob’s bear-like paws.
The massage was not the point of this visit, but still, it did feel good. Johnny Redcob was hesitant at first — probably because he wasn’t used to massaging either men or strangers. But once his hands started moving, he relaxed somewhat. He had been a trained, licensed masseur at one point; he’d simply let his license expire years ago.
“So, do you share this place with a girlfriend, Johnny?”
He bristled. “I do not have a girlfriend.”
“Oh? A big handsome lug like you… You must have girls? They probably follow you around like ducklings.”
“Not exactly,” Johnny Redcob said. He flared his nostrils and worked his hands lower on Avery’s back, massaging his hips and his spine. “I… I do know some women.”
“I figured as much.”
“Are you married, Mr. Flowers? Girlfriend?” It sounded like he didn’t really want to ask but felt compelled to make small-talk. He also would rather talk about Avery than himself. He was close enough that Avery could feel his hot breath on his back.
“Please, call me Avery, and no, I’m not married,” Avery said.
“I see.”
“So you’re not in any kind of a committed relationship?” Avery asked.
“No. I am alone. I practice a life of solitude and reflection,” Johnny Redcob said, his words framed by the chirping words and swelling strings of the New Age music pouring out of the speakers. His hair seemed always to be blowing in a breeze, though Avery did not see or feel a fan in the trailer. He seemed to want to say more, and Avery waited for what felt like a long time. Johnny Redcob’s hands continued their movement on Avery’s smooth back, while Avery imagined all the things Johnny Redcob wasn’t saying. Then, at last, he dragged a few words out of the canyon of his throat. “I am not a prairie, I am a mountain,” he said, but he didn’t sound like he believed it.
“You sound like you need… a soft touch,” Avery said. He turned his face to the side and opened his mouth. “I can help with that.” He licked his lips seductively and wiggled his ass. “I am a great admirer of the male physique, and yours is one of the best I’ve seen. I’d love to appreciate it closer.” He licked the air in front of his face, just in case Johnny Redcob was too dense to pick up what Avery had put down.
Johnny Redcob stopped massaging for a moment, his hands resting on Avery’s thighs. “That is not necessary.”
“Why don’t you see how much money is in my wallet?” Avery said. He pointed to his pants, crumpled up on the floor. “You can have all the cash that’s in there. I’ll jerk you off. I do it real good.”
Johnny Redcob hesitated. His hands hovered over Avery’s upper thigh, very close to his cock and balls which rested between his legs. Avery couldn’t see because his head was still aimed through the opening in the headrest.
A surge of anxiety went through Johnny, who was in desperate need of money and was struck by ambivalence about the strange man’s offer. He had been furiously brainstorming ideas to make money when this man had appeared. So he was not about to refuse now.
He went to the wallet and opened it up. His eyes bugged out for a moment. He had already received two hundred dollars, but now he pulled out another three hundred. He sighed and folded the money up into his jeans pocket. That was too much to refuse.
Johnny Redcob wrinkled his nose. This would not be the first time Johnny Redcob made money with his cock.
“You are just passing through this town? You are not staying?” Johnny Redcob wouldn’t want anyone to find out he had done this — not for free and certainly not for money.
Avery sat up. “There is not much in New Mexico that could force me to stay here for longer than a day or two,” he said. “You don’t need to worry about that. I don’t know anyone here, and I probably won’t meet anyone either. It’ll be our little secret.” He batted his eyelashes.
“I see,” he said gruffly. His eyes were downcast. His muscles had tensed up.
“Do you want a massage?”
“What?”
“Who massages the masseur? If you want, I’ll rub your back,” Avery said.
Johnny Redcob scowled. His strong jaw quivered like he was going to say no, but then he sighed and agreed. He replaced Avery on the massage table, which he was too tall for. His feet dangled off the end, and his shoulders were too broad as well, so he had to grip the side of the cushioned table with both hands so his arms didn’t dangle. He looked like an overstuffed meal. His muscles shone brilliantly, all ruddy and tan, nervous sweat dripping down him.
The lines of Johnny’s meaty back curved and flexed as he got into position. There were still a few beads of moisture there, which Avery made sure not to disturb at first. Once his hands had begun massaging the muscle of Johnny’s back, Avery leaned down and sucked up every drop of sweat he could get to.
It was salty and sweet, a little sour, a lot salty. The taste brought tears to Avery’s eyes. There was something intensely distinct about it, something floral and musky, like he had burned so much of the potpourri-scented incense that it had seeped into his flesh. Avery’s tongue snaked down to the small of Johnny’s back, just above his firm asscheeks.
Johnny Redcob didn’t respond. His back was flexed and hard like stone, and he groaned like the massage felt good, but he didn’t relax even for a moment. That wasn’t a problem for Avery, who loved muscles anyway. He enjoyed caressing his rock-hard body, feeling the warmth of his recently-worked limbs and back.
His ass was hugged by tight jeans. There was no way to lower them with Johnny Redcob laying on his belly, so Avery had him roll over. He hesitated at first as though he was going to refuse.
But then he did, and his strapping chest muscles were just as hard as his back, just as meaty and inviting. Since he hadn’t complained before, Avery lowered his head and again sucked off his sweat where it collected in between his mountainous pectoral muscles. He traced a trail down the center of Johnny’s flat, hairless belly with his tongue.
His flesh quivered and trembled as though he was either ticklish or nervous about being licked by a man. It had to be the latter, Avery thought, whoever heard of a ticklish Native American?! He threw his head back and closed his eyes, while Avery’s hands undid his belt and then slowly worked his jeans down. Beneath that he wore plain white boxers, perfectly clean, made of silk and with the Arrizzini brand stitched onto the waist.
“Arrizzini silk boxers?” Avery asked. He was surprised to see a low-rent healer and masseur in such fancy underwear — they probably cost a thousand dollars or more. “Those are nice.”
“They were a gift from… Well, they were a gift,” Johnny Redcob said. He covered his eyes with his muscled forearm while Avery pulled the boxers off. Johnny’s massive cock flopped out, still limp but inviting and tasty-looking. Avery carefully folded those boxers and placed them on the nearby couch.
“From a lover?” Avery asked. He imagineed Johnny Redcob with some wealthy older woman who showered him with gifts.
Johnny Redcob flared his nostrils. He didn’t answer. He bit his lip a few seconds later, when Avery wrapped his hand around Johnny’s thick prick. A loud groan escaped from his lips.
Despite his apparent discomfort, as soon as his dick began to perk up in Avery’s hand, Johnny Redcob clearly enjoyed himself. He closed his eyes and moaned. His dick was floppy and thick, meaty like an uncooked sausage at first. But within a few seconds, it was as hard and throbbingly veiny as the rest of Johnny Redcob’s shining bark-brown body.
It stood straight up from Johnny’s crotch, the jet-black pubic hair neatly trimmed, his cock pulsating in Avery’s hands. Johnny Redcob winced as though it hurt at first, but soon he removed the forearm blocking his eyes. He kept his eyes closed at first like a little boy scared to watch a horror movie.
“This feels very good, Mr. Flowers,” Johnny Redcob said, his eyes still scrunched shut tightly. He sounded polite, like he thought he was obligated to compliment Avery’s skills.
“Johnny… Call me Avery,” he said, speeding up his stroking of Avery’s dick.
“I would… I would rather not,” Johnny Redcob said. “You are my client. I feel we should remain professional.” His eyes fluttered open. He strained to sit up, his six-pack abs flexing as he did so. He rested on his elbows on the massage table, looking down as his dick which disappeared beneath both of Avery’s hands. He was broad enough he struggled to fit on the massage table at all, and he had to wrench his elbows underneath his back to rest his weight on them.
Avery giggled. “Okay, whatever. I’m going to jerk you off now, okay? I bet your girlfriends don’t deepthroat you very often, do they? Girls suck at sucking cock.”
Before Johnny Redcob could answer — he opened his mouth to say something but was cut off — Avery dived down onto his dick. It tasted like a desert sunset, warm and inviting, with a taste like salty sand until the first drops of sweet and sour precum leaked out. It was bright and clean and it made Avery moan with desire. This, he thought, was exactly what he hoped Johnny Redcob would taste like.
A loud howl of desire escaped from Johnny’s lips, but once again, he cut the sound off. Instead he forced himself to grunt, to pretend he found this satisfactory but not really pleasurable. It was obvious from the cascading constellation of expressions on his face, however, that this was the best dome he’d received in some time.
Hoping to impress Johnny, Avery forced his head all the way down, until his nose collided withJohnny’s dense nest of trimmed pubic hairs. He slathered spit up and down that throbbing shaft, letting it drip down and soak his inner thighs.
“Ah, yes…” Johnny Redcob threw his head back again, still resting on his elbows. He licked his lips. His long black hair reached all the way to the massage table beneath him.
A cell phone chirped. At first neither of them reacted. Avery focused on deep-throating the best he could, ignoring his own choking as he shoved that massive prick down his throat. He loved the struggle to swallow alpha cockmeat, and he loved watching big men like Johnny Redcob react.
Johnny Redcob reached for his pants on the floor, but the feelings roiling his body made it hard to concentrate. Johnny Redcob rumbled and grunted. His dick twitched within Avery’s mouth.
“Lemme get that…” Johnny’s voice trailed off and he lost interest. After another few chirps of the phone, however, he reached down and picked it up. He sighed. He answered it, his voice breaking as he let out a shudder of intense pleasure. The precum flowed freely into Avery’s mouth. “Nancy?” He bit his lip and rumbled, Avery’s tongue caressing the underside of Johnny’s cockshaft. “Hello. Yes. I am okay. I just… I dropped something on my foot.” His voice sound tense and clipped.
Avery loved teasing men. Now that Johnny Redcob was on the phone with one of his girlfriends — probably a married chick — Avery suckled on his cock noisily. He hocked up a big ball of spit, let it run down the shaft and then sucked it back up, making a loud, moist sound like someone trying to use a straw to get at the last bit of coke in the bottom of a cup.
“I do not know. He is your husband, Nancy, I can not solve this for you. Tell him to advertise his business. That is what I do,” he paused and blanched, groaning again. “It is a real business. I have a client here right now. His name is Mr. Flowers. Yes. That is what I dropped on my foot, his briefcase.”
His tongue traveled down Johnny’s shaft to his moist cocktip, where the taste of salty precum was fresh and springlike. Avery moved back down the top of the shaft, encircling it with his tongue and licking the entire slab of meat.
Then he moved even lower. He licked Johnny’s hairy ballsack, and allowed each ball to fall in his mouth. He suckled on them each separately and then together, gurgling and looking up at Johnny Redcob in the eye. That made him blanch and look away again.
“I am sorry, Nancy. I can not talk now. I have a client,” Johnny Redcob said. “If you are busy, you do not need to come over today. I have… I have many clients today.” He paused and sighed. “No, Nancy, they are not all women I have sex with. Mr. Flowers is not a woman I have sex with! He is real! Do you want to hear his voice?”
He held the phone up, and Avery pulled off his balls. He had to pause for a moment to gather up his focus — he wanted to sound like a professional businessman, which he was. He cleared his throat. “I am paying for your time, Mr. Redcob. Please do not waste my money with a phone call to your girlfriend. I am a very busy man.” He added, “I am a businessman-” thinking it would make him sound like a professional, but it just made him sound like a child playing at being a grownup. He blushed. That part, he thought, was accurate — Avery was a businessman.
“Yes, see, Nancy? I have to go.” He was about to hang up the phone, then stopped himself. He whispered as though this next part was a secret. “Yes. I will go to the school, I will see his play. I will be proud of… the boy. I will see you there. Tell your husband I am the school’s cultural sensitivity advisor. Goodbye, Vanilla Tits.” Johnny Redcob glanced at Avery like he was uncomfortable with whatever pet name his girlfriend called him — Avery couldn’t hear, but from context he guessed it was something equivalent to vanilla-tits, like caramel-cock. Johnny’s skin was a creamy, caramel-like nut-brown, so it made sense. He hung up the phone and tossed it onto his pile of clothes on the floor.
“Was that your girlfriend?” Avery asked. He kept on stroking, using both hands. He wiped his lips off. He fully intended to get Johnny’s cock in his ass, but he hadn’t actually agreed to that, so he needed to finesse it just right to make it happen.
“She is not my girlfriend,” Johnny Redcob said. He did not proffer a preferred term to describe her.
“I see. You do have sex with her?”
“You are my client, not my therapist,” Johnny Redcob said. “If you are going to get me off, put your mouth on it.”
“I bet your dick would feel good in my ass,” Avery said with a grin. “I don’t have any more cash, but I can write you a check for five hundred dollars. Do you trust me that it will clear, Mr. Redcob?”
Johnny Redcob hesitated. His dick twitched beneath Avery’s grasp. Johnny Redcob frowned. “I do not trust you,” he said. “You must write me a check for five hundred and fifty dollars. I will take it to a check-cashing place. They will take it. The fifty dollars will cover the fee.”
That seemed like a hefty fee, but Avery had been wealthy enough for a long time that he didn’t know what a more normal fee was. Was that typical for a check-cashing joint? Sounds like a good business to be in, Avery thought. He nodded. “Fine,” he said. Without letting go of Johnny’s cock, he pulled his checkbook out of his pants pocket and handed it to Johnny. “You fill it out. I’ll sign it.”
As Johnny Redcob wrote his name on the check, Avery bent over in front of him. Johnny Redcob got off the massage table, his rock-hard dick sticking straight out. He ignored Avery, who stuck his ass in the air and backed up into Johnny’s crotch. That hot dick rubbed between Avery’s cheeks.
Since Johnny Redcob didn’t respond right away — finishing up writing the check — Avery had to reach behind himself to aim Johnny’s dick in the right direction.
A shiver of pleasure shot up Avery’s spine. His ass stretched to accommodate Johnny’s cock, which was an iron rod of manhood slipping into his tight hole. Avery moaned.
“Aw… I need my Nancy…” Johnny Redcob reached back down and picked up his phone.
At first Avery was disappointed, thinking Johnny Redcob wanted to talk to his girl. But instead he just flicked through the photos saved on it, until he found a few pictures of a pretty blonde woman with big hair and bigger tits, bare, giggling as she posed on the same massage table Johnny Redcob now stood next to. Johnny Redcob looked intently through the boudoir photos on his phone, ignoring his dick sliding into Avery’s ass.
That was fine with Avery. He liked controlling the rhythm anyway. So he backed his ass up, groaning as he struggled to accept every inch of Johnny’s cock. He bit his lip.
“Goddamn, Johnny!” Avery’s face tensed up.
Johnny’s dick was just big enough to be a bit of a struggle. Avery liked that. He loved the slow-melting feeling of pain turning bit by bit to pleasure. With every thrust of his hips backward onto Johnny’s manhood, Avery felt a little more bliss flowing through his veins and a little less agony.
He was so focused on the arduous sensation of cramming a large cock in his ass that when he finally got it all in, and his asscheeks slammed into the solid crotch of Johnny Redcob, Avery was surprised. He grimaced and began rocking back and forth.
“She will never leave her husband for me,” Johnny Redcob said. “He is a loser.” He used only one hand to hold the phone now, staring at it wistfully while his other hand gripped Avery’s asscheek. He gingerly held on. He flexed his hips for the first time since his cock had entered Avery’s ass.
Soon Johnny’s reluctance diminished. He kept staring at his phone, but he used one hand to guide his dick into Avery’s asshole. He moaned. He ground his hips, moving his cock in a wide circle within Avery’s body, making sure he touched every inch of Avery’s insides. His muscles rippled.
Then finally he dropped the phone. He rubbed Avery’s back with both hands, and at last gripped Avery’s thin shoulders.
“You make me feel good,” Johnny Redcob said as though he had thought this would be painful for him. His awkwardity was gone now, and he began to hump away at Avery’s ass like he did this all the time.
All at once, silence exploded within the trailer. The New Age CD had ended. Now the only sounds were the heavy breathing of two pairs of lungs, as well as the faint tinkling of crystals that dangled around the trailer. The more powerfully Johnny Redcob thrust, the more the trailer shook and the more the crystals chimed when they bumped into each other.
There was a loud knock on the trailer door. “Hey! Johnny Redcob! Get out here!”
Johnny Redcob sighed and leaned his chest over Avery’s back so he could look out the window. He furrowed his brow and opened it. “Henry?”
From his vantage point, Avery couldn’t see anything but the upper half of Johnny’s body — that was fine with Avery, who didn’t really want to see anything else. He reached up with his head so he could lick Johnny’s erect nipples, which made Johnny Redcob shudder and frown. Johnny Redcob poked his head out the open window, trying to speak as though his dick was not balls-deep in Avery’s ass right now.
“Henry?!”
“Is my wife here, Johnny Redcob?” He sounded belligerent, like a middle-aged man who didn’t often get in fights but was willing to do so right now. “Is she there?”
“No, Henry.”
“Someone’s here! Don’t you lie to me, Johnny Redcob!” Henry’s voice trailed off then. “Whose car is this?”
“I am with a client, Henry. He is a man. He is not your wife.”
“She’s been coming to see you! She-“
“She has headaches, Henry!”
“I know! That’s the problem! I know how you cure headaches!”
“She has real headaches! Actual headaches! I am not sleeping with your wife, Henry!” He wasn’t moving anymore, so his cock was perfectly still in Avery’s ass. That was fine with Avery, who twitched and moaned as quietly as he could beneath Johnny’s broad body. Johnny’s dick pulsated against Avery’s sensitive prostate, sending shivers up his spine as he endured intense pleasure.
“Why should I believe you?”
“You should not believe me! You should believe your wife. You trust her. She trusts you. She trusts you so implicitly it has not even occurred to her that I could attempt to seduce her — I wouldn’t. But she doesn’t know that. She only wants an actual massage, Henry,” Johnny Redcob said. He groaned and shuddered a bit, but managed to keep it low-key so Henry couldn’t see. He held Avery in position beneath him.
There was a long silence. Johnny Redcob made eye contact with Henry, who glowered at him. Avery struggled to avoid crying out. He had to bite on his lip hard enough to really hurt.
“Your wife is not like Nancy,” Johnny Redcob said. “Go now. I have a client.”
Henry sighed. “I never thought you gave actual massages for money,” he said.
“I… I have not always done so,” Johnny Redcob said.
There was another long awkward silence. “I’m sorry,” Henry said. “Just… Tell my wife she does not need any more massages. We can’t afford it anyway.”
“Yes, fine, I will tell her. Go away, Henry,” he said. He shut the window and groaned. He shook his head, making his long hair move in the faint fan-created breeze of his trailer.
Avery bit his lip and moaned. Henry’s truck started up, and the engine rumbled as it backed out onto the road again.
This time, as soon as Johnny Redcob started moving, they both could feel their orgasms growing slowly within them. Staying nearly still while Henry was outside had sent them both to the edge of their climax.
So from the moment Johnny Redcob moved, they both moaned in sync with each other. A fresh spasm of pleasure rocketed through Avery’s body, making him tense up and clench. His own climax began, his cock throbbing in his hands as he sprayed out a thick wad of cum.
Johnny Redcob rammed back and forth for a few seconds more before he hit his own orgasm. His broad muscles all flexed at once, and he pushed his manhood deep within Avery. He wrapped those powerful arms around Avery’s more delicate body, and he even leaned his chest down, his twitching pecs rubbed against Avery’s back.
He groaned deeply. His whole body vibrated and grew warmer, his breath condensing moistly on Avery’s neck.
Finally a spurt of cum hit his insides. Avery moaned loudly, his whole body twisting beneath Johnny’s chest. His prostate came alive again, and sent a torrent of energy through Avery, who twisted and squirmed under Johnny’s muscular grasp.
“God, yes! Nancy!” Johnny Redcob bellowed, his deep voice echoing in the tiny trailer. He gasped. Beads of sweat appeared all over his chest, his shoulders and his forehead.
He shot a nice, huge load. His cum had an especially creamy texture, a sticky feeling that seeped into Avery’s body. He could feel Johnny’s wad spreading within him, its heat and its savory thickness soaking into his flesh from inside out. Avery sighed and twitched.
Johnny Redcob was motionless for a moment. He threw his head back like he was going to howl, but only grunted. Then he rotated his hips a few times, sending intense waves of both pain and pleasure through Avery’s body. The motion made a big mess too, turning Johnny’s load into a frothy slop that bubbled out of his ass.
At last Johnny Redcob pulled out, and when he did, his initial reluctance returned. He glared at Avery’s ass as though he hadn’t intended to stick him in it. Then he gingerly dabbed at his dickshaft with a wadded-up tissue.
Avery stood and stretched his legs, wiping his own ass off as well. He threw the tissues away. He reached his head down and kissed Johnny Redcob on his corded-muscle bicep, licking up all the sweat that had collected there.
“Thanks, Johnny Redcob,” Avery said with a smile. “Hope you didn’t mind messing with someone besides a married white woman.”
He sniffled. “That is not all that I do.”
“Oh? One of your girls is not married?”
“One of them is Laotian,” Johnny Redcob said. “It does not matter. I will be very angry if your check bounces.”
“It won’t, don’t worry,” Avery said. He slowly put his clothes back on, while Johnny Redcob kept wiping his dick off.
When Johnny Redcob saw that Avery moved slowly because he liked watching Johnny’s naked body as he cleaned himself, Johnny Redcob frowned and furrowed his eyebrows. He quickly put his boxers back on — not the fine silk Arrizzinis, but a different pair of tattered brown boxers. He put a black t-shirt on and a leather vest over that.
Avery was disappointed. He wouldn’t have minded staying here for weeks if Johnny Redcob would keep treating him like that. But Johnny Redcob had married women to seduce, and Avery Flowers had studly men to seek out, so it was time, Avery thought, to strike out once more. It was time to find a new man.