MN Manmacker's mansploitation
Bart works at the premier college football camp in North America, and he oversees Cabin M for Massive! That’s the kind of men in his cabinn, massive linebackers and linemen who need his tender twink touch. Can Bart satisfy their weighty needs?!
Zeke is home from a cattle ride, and he needs a new pair of boots. When a bootmaker makes a startling offer, Zeke finds himself letting a flamboyant stranger worship every inch of his rugged feet and nasty old boots!
Read it soon as an ebook!
Read it soon as an ebook!
Zeke Lightman strolled into Cheyenne hoping his limp wasn’t too obvious. This was a rough-and-tumble town, the kind of place where a man with a limp was liable to be robbed, where the tumbleweeds outnumbered the ladies of proper virtue — and not because there was lotsa tumbleweeds.
He looked like the town smelled. He was dry and dusty, sun-choked, burnt to a deep tan like hushpuppies overfried in underheated fat. He was tall and lanky and ropy-muscled, with more power in his compact frame than an observer might have thought. He wore a dusk-colored wide-brimmed hat to keep the keen Western sun off his eyes.
Wyoming Territory was a harsh place, unforgiving in weather, unforgiving in the temperament of the locals, unforgiving in the relentless onslaught of it all. Zeke wouldn’t have it any other way. A man oughta have a struggle, he thought. He just felt sorry for the women, of whom there were many and who was hit hard by the toughness of the territory. A woman shouldn’t have to endure.
His pants was brown, and brown again from caked-on mud that had done dry with a layer of desiccated dust on top, weighing his legs down. He clomped in heavy black boots that stretched up his ankles with a flaired tip, grayed with time and overuse. They was nice and expensive when they was new, but that was years ago, they was nothing more than oft-foxed stogies now. The colors done faded, the designs now invisible, the looping lines carefully etched by the shoemaker now smoothed while Zeke’s cheeks had grown weathered and wrinkled. His boots was as worn out as a fire fading into coals. The fabric was frayed and perpetually moist, fragrant like spilled wine baking in the sun.
Zeke had known before the cattle-ride he needed new boots, but he wanted to earn some money so that his new boots would be as nice as his old ones was when they was new.
But that hadn’t worked out. His boss, the rancher Jeremiah Goodman, had stiffed him, claiming Zeke owed money on account of some equipment that he broke accidentally a few months back. Zeke disputed that vociferous-like, but to no effect.
So here he was, with barely a penny to his name. He was going to have to buy boots on credit or borrow the money. A nail had poked through his left boot, and he had a blister. That was more painful than an ornery bull.
A sallow man with a dense beard nodded as Zeke passed. “Lookin’ for a lady to spend the night with? Huh? I got womens of e’ry kind, cowboy-“
“Hush, box herder, I’m no cad, I don’t bed slommacks, and I don’t slope out on a lady,” Zeke said, his voice a quavering twang that rose above the rustling crowd. He looked down his nose at the sallow man and his dense beard.
“I know that ain’t true, nosir,” the man said with a leer. “Ruby is available for yer delectation, suh! I know you like her-“
“I’m flat broke,” Zeke said. He looked down at his feet, unable to conceal his shame or the bulge in his trousers. Thinking of Ruby did get his manhood a-stirring like a sudden wind.
He had done come out west to earn a fortune, but somehow he never got enough to pay for anything more than the necessities. And yet now, he couldn’t even pay for that. He got no boots, no horse of his own, not even a change of shirt right now, he was down to the blanket, not a tailfeather left. Once he used up his ammunition, he’d be all out of that too.
Maybe if you didn’t spend so many nights in Ruby’s arms…
He walked past the saloon Lipsweet. The blacksmithing man had no interest in anyone without money, so as soon as Zeke said he was broke, he faced away and called out after the next man on the street. He curled his lip at Zeke.
Zeke looked down at his feet until he reminded himself that made him look weak. He kept his face up. How his feet ached! He wanted nothing more than to take these boots off and dip his sore feet in a cool stream, like the one that ran past the Goodman ranch. He adored the feel of clean water up to his ankles, sandy stones spreading beneath his toes until his gnarled feet was nearly buried.
The boots, those he wanted to burn.
They had been usable until very recently, but when they went bad, they want bad in a hurry, turning rancid as quick as uneaten eggs. Now they was anti-goglin all to pieces, all-fired falling apart. He had started off this past cattle-ride confident he had a good couple weeks of use left. Two days in, he had realized his situation was dire. There was no foxing the boots now.
He had a blister developing. He’d been favoring that leg so he kept pressure off it, and he wrapped it up just like his mama taught him. But it was only going to get worse the longer he used those boots. He tried to conceal the limp now, lest he seem a likely target for a hustler or a gorilla.
He went into the bootmaker’s shop — it was called a shoe shop, but the only shoes sold there was boots, so everyone just called it “the bootmaker’s”. There stood a youngish man with an odd, wavy haircut and sparkling clean clothes.
“Hi there, how can I help you?” He had a strange accent too, full of zing and verve. He was from out east, that was clear. He stood out like a sore tit here in Wyoming Territory.
Zeke was hesitant. He wanted to buy boots but had no money, and he had no wish to seem a tatterdemalion to this bootmaker. The growing blister on his foot ached like a thousand bitches, smarting up his side. He fingered a pair of nice leather boots. They looked comfortable as anything.
“So, uh, I reckon, sir, I need these right bad,” Zeke said, hat in hand. He chewed on his lower lip and ran his fingers through his dusty hair. He had shimmering blue eyes that shone from under the dimness of his burnished skin and slightly yellowish whites. “And, uh… I don’t know, uh… if you got some kinda loan system you offer, on account of, uh… I find myself a little short of greenbacks at this very moment. Just a temporary, uh, sit’ation I find myself in, reckon.”
“Oh, oh, I see, that’s terrible,” Miles said. He smiled. “I could loan you the money to pay for them. The shop would collect the money from you over the next year, at a reasonable interest rate.”
“That sounds right nice, mistuh-“
“But there’s another option. You don’t have to pay a single solitary penny for those boots. I’ll even throw in a second pair.” Miles came closer to Zeke, uncomfortably nigh, so close he could smell the traildust and sweat clinging to Zeke’s filthy clothes and close enough Zeke could smell the cleanful soapiness of Miles.
“What do you expect me to do for two pairs of free boots?” Zeke asked. He remained very suspicious because he thought Miles was going to ask him to do something terrible like kill someone or steal some horses. Two fine pairs of boots was worth an inordinate sum, especially in a town like this where everyone needed them and only one shop sold them.
“I’d like you take off your clothes — especially those old boots — and just go it strong all over you.” Miles knew he would get a better reaction from Zeke if he was more circumspect, but he was too horny — he caught a whiff of those boots and the intensely masculine musk wafting off them — to think of anything better.
“I…” Zeke’s eyes opened wide. “You wish me to treat you in… that manner? In the manner of a beggar? Are you a sappy saddle bum?” He laughed.
The flat reaction on Miles’s face told Zeke was wrong, or to be more precise, he was right that that was what Miles wanted and wrong that Miles would would realize he had misspoke when Zeke rephrased his offer in cruder terms.
But no. Miles blushed, and he gave a barely perceptible nod.
That frown sat heavy on Zeke’s face. Nobody wanted to service a filthy cowboy, right? Only a hobo would do such a thing, and Zeke was no hobo. But the strange bootseller wished to be the hobo, not the man, and Zeke found that alarming and disturbing.
What kind of man wished to be treated like a bed-fagot?
Not knowing how else to respond to Miles’s leer, Zeke grabbed his cock through his pants, just to ensure again that Miles knew what he was offering and what he would get. Miles came closer still, and he touched the bulge in Zeke’s denim. The cock underneath was soft now, but warm, throbbing, thick, and sensitive enough to twitch when Miles touched it.
There used to be a bed-fagot like Miles — a man, a desperate man with an effeminate way about him — who came with the cowboys of Goodman Ranch on cattle rides. Around the fire at night, he would go from man to man, swallowing down his manhood, handling his creamy seed. Only in the dark. Only on cattle rides. Anything else was for convicts and sailors.
But a man must do what must be done. It is for women to beg for mercies. Zeke could withstand the moral blight of unresisted lust, and it was Miles herein who truly sinned. He was the one motivated by lust. Zeke was motivated by need, and even a jackleg preacher would acknowledge the difference between them two.
So when Zeke could think of no other response but to agree, he cocked his head to the side. He locked the door to the boot shop. “I don’t much cotton to this kind of b’avior.”
“Your approval is not necessary. You don’t even have to be very involved in most of it,” Miles said. “Lemme at those boots.”
Zeke finally sat on the chair by the counter, and he scowled at Miles. “And for this you will buy me two pairs of shop-mades?”
Miles nodded with eagerness. “I am a skilled cordwainer, and I will make you the finest boots you have ever slipped your feet into. I know everything about the foot, good sir, and nothing will ever fit you better.”
“You talk big,” Zeke said with a chuckle. He still didn’t get why Miles was fixated on his ratty old boots. He was vaguely aware that some men liked women’s dainty, clean feet, but he had never heard of a man preferring the opposite.
He just snorted back some phlegm — relieved to know now he would get the new boots he needed. His first boot clomped heavily onto the floor, and Zeke sighed as he wrinkled his now-bare toes, which was gnarled, pale, sweaty and fragrant with muskiness. He frowned in confusion at the sight of Miles picking the boot up, ramming his face in it and inhaling loudly. Zeke’s eyes opened wide.
“Well… Tarnations! You really gettin’ deep in there, huh?” Zeke said.
The smell was potent and astringent and it brought tears to Miles’s eyes. It reeked of Zeke’s body and the years of sweat that had accumulated there. There was layers of smells to unpack. Miles sniffed like a bloodhound searching for a trail.
Miles reeled at the potency of the scent. He could have gladly bottled that taste and drunk it. His tongue snuck out, daintily flickering over the fabric and sucking down whatever drops of fluid he could get to. Was it water? Mud? Spilled beer? Or tobacco-flavored spit? Or maybe it was just plain cowboy sweat.
It stank of horses and soil, sunlight and mud, muck and sweat and sandy rope. It stank of rutting in the wild, campfires lingering at dawn and slow-baking beans around the fire. Zeke had worn these boots on a hundred cattle-rides from here to New Mexico and back, and every single one of them had added a new fragrant aroma to the well-worn leather of these boots.
“Damn, pardner, you got a real hankerin’ for mah foot…” Zeke blushed. “That’s jest madness, yessuh.” As he unlaced his second boot, he tipped his wide-brimmed hat to cover his eyes. Watching Miles smell his foot-funk was starting to make Zeke more and more aware of his own smell.
The more it happened though, the more he struggled not to look. Miles was too involved in making sweet oral love to each gag-inducing boot to respond to him.
Zeke’s second boot hit the ground. He would have taken his socks off now too — cowboys wore very tight socks that stretched well up his ankles — but his eyes had opened wide, and he was still having trouble processing what Miles was doing. But Zeke don’t want to look like some sheltered git. When he first came to this area, he asked if there was any nice girls here to court, and the men had laughed at him — they still talked about it, the tale exaggerating each time until it was a story about how Zeke snootily demanded the prostitutes be taken away so he could savor the fruits of a more delicate lady. Zeke ain’t realize that this was not a region where nice ladies lived.
So he don’t admireta do nothing that would contribute to that reputation.
Miles stuck his face in the boot. He had spit and drooled all over the inside, and still it stank of Zeke’s manhood. It was exhilarating, full of layers of flavor that could never seemingly go away. The leather was moist even before Miles started sucking on it.
Eventually, however, the boot tasted more of Miles’s spit than of Zeke’s funk, and the leather was slick with saliva. He dropped the boot and it thumped onto the ground. Zeke’s feet was bare now, and Miles ain’t take in them bare feets until now. He dived down hungrily, sticking his ass high in the air so he could kiss Zeke’s foot.
It was tan and reddish right now because it was overworked and overheated, crammed into that tight boot. Gnarly hairs ran up the top of it. You could tell it had been in an uncomfortable boot, Miles thought, and he could sense how good it felt for Zeke to get out of it. There was a burgeoning blister on the side of his left foot.
“Ah… Pardner, you are one odd duck,” Zeke said with a nervous chuckle. He watched Miles lower his pants and take his dick out.
Zeke wrinkled his nose, removed his own shirt and lowered his pants as well. Soon he was stark naked, watching with his limp dick pressed sweatily against his thigh as Miles went sniffing around in the pile of clothes on the floor. Miles loved feet most of all, but he inhaled whatever he could from the armpits of Zeke’s shirt and the crotch of his leather pants.
Then Miles plopped his ass on the floor to worship Zeke’s feet, which he picked up with both hands to slather all over with his tongue. Zeke still just sighed as though this was no big deal. He even lit a cigar that Miles had on the counter. Zeke wasn’t a huge smoker, but it felt good to have something to do, since this all seemed to have little to do with him.
He wore nothing but his cowboy hat and the plume of smoke rising from his face. So when his dick got hard, he seed it happen even if he was shocked — he ain’t feel aroused. There was no lady in the room, and this whole situation reminded him too much of manhood to be erotic.
“Ah, shit, my man, yessuh, you makin’ my prick stiffen up,” Zeke said, watching his dick as though he had never seed it before. It throbbed, despite nobody touching it the slightest bit.
A gurgling moan escaped from his lips as Miles’s tongue snaked between his toes. Miles slurped grime off the bottom of his feet, and somehow Zeke found his cock throbbing in his hands. He handled it up and down with first one then both of his callused mitts, but he don’t wanna shoot his wad too soon, so he leggo.
Miles soon took over, however, reaching out and stroking Zeke with both hands while sucking on his toes. Zeke sighed and closed his eyes.
This, he thought, was disgusting and strange, the sensation odd and not pleasant — not unpleasant, but vaguely ticklish and vicariously gross. But he needed only to submit as Miles slathered his feet with spit, then sucked it all down, until his foot tasted of little more than cloying saliva and precum.
Miles ran his tongue up Zeke’s muscled legs, and he popped his knob in his mouth. Zeke’s eyes opened wide as a gushing river, and Zeke’s chest rippled.
“You into that, pardner?”
“Hmmm…” Miles didn’t answer. He slurped up the sweat and traildust clinging to Zeke’s filthy dick, and he ran his tongue down the shaft. Miles’s own cock touched Zeke on the leg, just below his knee, and precum dabbed his calf hair.
When Zeke didn’t complain, Miles rubbed his dick on Zeke’s ankle, then moved lower, to his foot. The whole time Zeke was more focused on the pleasure arising from his own manhood, giving little thought to what Miles’s own cock was doing.
Finally Miles reached the point where his dick was on Zeke’s foot, and then Miles sat back. He lifted Zeke’s foot so he could hump the underside of it, his toes touching Miles’s cocktip. A few drops of precum slicked up Zeke’s callused toes, and more prejizz coated the sensitive red circle of that blister developing on his foot.
Miles soon got both of Zeke’s feet on his shaft, his hands holding them in place so he could rub them up and down in sync with each other. Miles looked up to see if Zeke was upset, but Zeke leaned his head back and covered his face with his cowboy hat, as if he was pretending this wasn’t happening. So Miles continued using Zeke’s two foul feet as a toy to play with.
Soon Miles was spewing precum on both of Zeke’s feet, and Zeke would surely have been disgusted if his eyes were open. He prolly woulda gagged. That meant Miles smirk as he humped his dick on both of Zeke’s bare feet. His own dick leaked a few drops of pre-wad onto the red spot — Zeke’s almost-blister — and Miles wondered if that would make it better or worse. The new boots would surely make it better, he thought, and in any case, Zeke was done with the cattle drive and had a few days to let his foot recover.
Before he shot his wad too early, Miles pulled his dick away from Zeke’s feet, no matter how much he wanna finish his own self off now. Miles put Zeke’s feet down, and he leaned forward to kiss Zeke right on the cocktip. It was firm yet fleshy, throbbing, slimy with fluids that poured out the piss-slit. Zeke screwed up his face, aimed down at Miles, like he ain’t understand what was happening or why he was hard.
But Miles ain’t stop at kissing his dick. Miles ran his tongue up and down the shaft, and his hands massaged the dust-dappled muscles of Zeke’s thigh. That sent a visible shudder of pleasure to move from Zeke’s crotch to his head. A baritone moan chambered outta Zeke’s throat, and he leaned back to give Miles easy access to his manhood.
“Hmm-hmm, pardner, you got a heckuva mouth on you,” Zeke said. He ain’t add that Miles’s mouth reminded him of a prostitute. It was true, but he thought it would offend Miles and in any case, Zeke don’t want a reputation as a man who visits whores. He don’t do that, after all. Just a couple times when he was drunk and young and his dick was so hard it hurt.
Kinda like right now.
Then, as Miles’s own body was wracked by spasms of pleasure — his cock was spurting precum like a fountain — he kissed a trail up Zeke’s body. His lips traveled from his crotch to his flat belly, to his powerful chest muscles and then continued even higher.
Zeke grunted. Soon enough, Miles was kissing him on the neck like a woman would, and his whole body pressed against Zeke’s. Miles’s dick smeared precum over Zeke’s thigh, while his hands explored the firmness of Zeke’s back and asscheeks.
His tongue rammed into Zeke’s mouth, and Zeke wrinkled his nose but allowed it. Miles had to stretch his upper body to kiss Zeke, who stayed still like a statue at first. Once his inhibitions vanished, Zeke treated him more like a woman, kissing him back with such passion that Miles swooned in his powerful arms.
That whole while, he kept both hands on Zeke’s cock, stroking it slowly, then swiftly, then slowly, until it precum coated the shaft like a flash flood. The fluid flowed into Zeke’s crotch hair.
When Miles, sensing how close Zeke, licked a trail from his face down his chest to his dick, Zeke moaned. Miles slathered his chest in saliva before moving more slowly down Zeke’s thigh to his ankles. He slurped his own precum off Zeke’s feet.
“Ah, tarnations! Open up, pardner, lemme fill you up!” Zeke raced to ram his cock down Miles’s throat, waiting not a moment for him to react. He just grabbed Miles by the hair, pulled his tongue off his foot and jammed his cock in with Miles’s tongue still curled as though around his little toe.
For just a moment, they stayed like that, with Zeke motionless, dick throbbing on Miles’s foot-coated tongue. Then Zeke forced his cock down Miles’s throat, as deep as it would go and then a bit farther, and a long moan came outta Zeke, so intense it sounded painful. A burst of salty, creamy cum sprayed into Miles’s mouth, followed by a second one, then a third.
“Ah, boy howdy!” Zeke let out a chest-rattling laugh and a roar as he filled Miles’s throat with his creamy seed. Wads of it overflowed and coated Miles’s face.
Great waves of pleasure wracked Miles’s body as he shot his own wad onto the filthy stack of boots and rag socks. He had rarely experienced something so intense, so potent, the flavor cooped up like a thousand cowboys were combined into this one. He was already dizzy when it began because of the intense smell of Zeke’s unwashed feet, and this explosion of flavor in his mouth only made it better.
Finally it was done, and Miles collapsed into a limp heap on the floor. He clutched Zeke’s boots, nuzzling them like they was his lover. His tight grip awakened new smells from hidden reservoirs of funk in the leather, scents of sweat and cattle-hide and urine from when the leather was tanned so many years ago.
Miles swooned and closed his eyes. He was only dimly aware of Zeke wiping his dick off on Miles’s face.
Then Zeke just shrugged and took his new boots. He ain’t even get dressed first. He wanted to get away from that weird man, now sleeping curled around his old rank boots. Zeke stepped out into the street, cock hanging free. That was odd, but not unthinkable in Cheyenne, so he ain’t attract that much attention.
He just smiled as he walked to the tavern, dick dangling, two fresh pairs of boots and a stack of dirty clothes in his arms. He hoped there would be a non-whore woman around. Any one would do. Soon as he smoked some tobacco and had a proper drink, he’d be ready to lay with her until the cows came home.
This trip to town, he thought, had turned out better than expected.
When Truck has to bodyguard a gangbanger during negotiations at a sauna, he thought he was gonna get a happy ending… and he’s right!
But can he handle who it comes from?
Read it soon as an ebook!
Read the whole thing here!
Truck puffed up his pride at the sight of the little men and women scurrying away from him and the other Bloods as they entered the sauna. He liked being the biggest man around, and he especially liked scaring off the weaklings.
He wasn’t just a bully and street dealer though, not anymore, Carson had seen to that. Truck was a somebody. He was a bodyguard and assistant for Carson Washerman, who led the Bloods of Baltimore. It was more like a real job than slinging dime bags had been. He got paid weekly, a flat amount, and he followed Carson everywhere, intimidated the nigga Carson didn’t like (and sometimes, the ones he did like too) and beat up the nigga Carson told him to beat up.
Not just niggas, honkies and whatever else too. Truck was good at his job.
Today, Carson brought Truck to a sauna, Thackenswitch, where a deal was going to be made. The Italians always did their deals somewhere like this. It was annoying, most of the time, but Truck looked forward to today — Carson had promised a prostitute for him when the deal was done. Thackenswitch got hos a-plenty, everyone in the hood knew that.
The Italians — the Cavollo family and their stooges — always did deals at places like this cuzza the lack of clothes. Nobody could wear a wire, and nobody could sneak a gun in.
“Right this way, please, sir,” said the smiling Japanese lady, Yuki on her nametag, whose kind face belied the tension and fear Truck could sense beneath the surface of her demeanor — she knew Truck and Carson were dangerous thugs.
The Italians presumably weren’t here yet, which Truck was glad for. He was responsible not just for being big and scary but also for general security. He was better at being big and punching people than he was at sweeping a room for recording devices, noticing subtle threats or finding hidden guns. So he had hoped to be here before the Italians, giving him time to do a search.
“Hurry up. You go in there first, nigga,” Carson said when the Japanese lady left them at the door to the sauna. The steam billowed out from inside the room when she opened the door. “Make sure there ain’t no guns hidden nowhere, no bombs, nothin’ like that.”
Truck nodded. He took off his clothes, stripping down to his boxers before he saw Carson furrow his brow at him. Truck didn’t mind getting naked, and it seemed Carson expected that. Truck hurried in, his big-ass booty jiggling up and down as he disappeared in the steam cloud.
Inside the sauna sat two Italian men, also stark naked, body hair matted to their skin. They looked at him as though they’d known he was about to walk in. They stared with grim eyes like vultures. One of them was big — the muscle — and the other was a normal-ass dago. Pauly Rosso was the enforcer, and Sonny Cavollo was the made man.
“Uh, they in here already, Carson,” Truck said through the doorway. Truck wished he had gotten here early. Carson had said to search for hidden guns in here, but that wasn’t possible now, and it was all Truck could think of. The Italians could have an armory hidden here.
Not many places to hide anything though. The Italians were naked, the benches had no underbench area, there was no furniture aside from the pillar of coals gushing steam and the bucket of water beside it, and that was right in the center of the sauna, so there was no space to hide anything behind it. Truck made a big show of looking everywhere anyway, just so the Italians knew the Bloods didn’t trust them.
By the time Truck completed his search, Carson was in the sauna, naked, his thickness jiggling. He didn’t seem self-conscious even though he was kind of pudgy. The muscly Italian, Pauly Rosso, was pudgy too but strong as hell, built like an Olympic discus thrower or maybe like an infected discus. Sonny Cavollo was lean like a stretched ferret, with the kind of face women think is handsome even though it isn’t. He looked like he mistreated his women, but they loved him anyway. Truck knew the type. Truck was the exact opposite of that.
Truck stood beside the door as Carson talked to the Italian. Truck made eye contact with his counterpart on the other side, Pauly, who sized his naked body up. Pauly was burly, hairy, offputtingly grizzled, sitting behind his boss with his legs spread wide, big fat cock resting sweatily against his hairy thigh. It was weird for them to sit like that, Pauly behind his boss, so if Signor Cavollo leaned back, he’d be using Pauly’s fat dick as a pillow.
Truck hated seeing naked men, they were so ugly, like they retroactively made women he had seen before less attractive. He only watched girl-girl porn. Any sight of a man’s bare dick turned him off.
On the other hand, Truck liked when men saw him naked, because he was a hulking giant with a cock like a baby’s arm. But this wop bodyguard — Pauly Rosso — was nearly as big and plenty intimidating in his own right. Truck wasn’t used to that.
And he was hairy. Truck very much disliked hairy honkies. White men oughta shave. A little chest hair is fine, but any more than a classy treasure trail was barbarism. White men oughta know better.
Italians do not know better, however. Not knowing better is what it means to be Italian. Truck did not like Italians.
The deal was over in a flash. Truck barely even noticed. Nothing actually changed hands here in the sauna, of course, but they made a handshake agreement, and Truck was glad it was all over so quick. No need to worry about hidden guns then.
“Let’s celebrate, man,” Carson said. He stood up and flashed a grin. “I arranged for us all to get massages… with a happy ending.” Carson opened the door from the sauna, so a burst of cool, refreshing air hit Truck’s face.
For a moment the cool air subdued the steam, which died down in the sauna.
In came that pretty Japanese woman with a delicate face and massive tits concealed by a colorful kimono — Yuki Yoshida. She showed no emotion, even when she smiled robotically at Carson’s naked body.
Truck grinned. He was gonna get to fuck. Carson usually treated him good like that.
“Where’s the others?” Carson asked with a knowing grin. He glanced at Truck, who wondered why Carson smiled like that — was this a prank? Was there something going on? Carson looked like he was sharing an inside joke with Truck, but there was no joke Truck was aware of.
The Japanese woman opened the door, and in walked two more attractive Japanese women, who were totally nonplussed about the foursome of naked men in front of them. Truck was not used to people ignoring his size, but here, he was not that much bigger than the Italian bodyguard. A huge blond man arrived as well, carrying a foursome of folding massage tables in his massive arms, which he set up right there in the sauna.
The blond man was foreign, you could tell by looking at him. He carried himself in an indescribably European way. Truck assumed he was just here to set up the massage tables, which was what he did — he had massive arms and a broad chest, that was why, he was capable of carrying all four tables at once. It was weird he did so wearing just a pair of shorts, but whatever… Truck had eyes only for the women.
Truck smiled. A part of his mind told him to do the math. Count the women, count the men. Compute the ratio. The math was simple, but Truck couldn’t look away from the Asian women and their curves. Truck licked his teeth when one of the women caught his eye.
Three women. Four of us. Plus the weird European man. Five men, three women?
The Italians grinned and laughed. “Hey, I like the way you think, Carson!” The Italian bodyguard Pauly stood and came up to Truck, wrapping one hairy, meaty arm around Truck’s shoulders, while the other Italian leaned in close to Carson to kiss him on the cheek. Truck knew that was normal for Italians, but that didn’t make it easier to tolerate when the Italian bodyguard kissed him on the cheek too, their bodies so close his uncut swarthy cock rested on Truck’s trunk-like thigh and his hairy chest collided with Truck’s gang-tatted muscles.
They all four climbed up onto one of the massage tables that European man set up. Truck really didn’t like laying there with his back exposed, but he supposed the masseuses were likely safe, and anyway, the negotiations were over. There’d be no point in springing an ambush now.
The masseuses were all Japanese, not part of the gang negotiations in the first place. They probably didn’t even speak English.
Truck didn’t get why that blond man remained in the sauna the whole time — security, maybe? Truck wasn’t sure. Maybe they were nervous the Italians would rape a masseuse. Italians would do that, they would. They were so damn gropey. Truck didn’t approve.
The European man was almost as big and muscular as the Italian bodyguard was, so it didn’t seem likely he was a masseur.
But it turned out, that’s exactly what he was.
Finally, the math computed in Truck’s mind.
There were four men here waiting for a massage, but there were only three masseuses.
And that one European guy. Security or whatever. With his hair in a ponytail. Shoulders like an ox.
“Have fun, Truck,” Carson said with a smirk.
The pretty women spread out to Carson and the Italians. That hulking blond prettyboy came to Truck and planted his hands on Truck’s broad shoulders.
“Man! Why do I got the dude?!” Truck grunted when he realized what had happened and what was about to happen. He tried to sound tough. He narrowed his eyes to slits aimed at the masseur, who ignored his hostile mug.
He’s not getting a happy ending. Truck grimaced. He’d rather skip the whole massage. What did he want with a massage from a man? Seemed pointless.
Carson and the Italians laughed. Carson responded like he had expected this — of course, Truck thought, that’s what Carson had been hinting at. Ever since last week, when Truck said he had not jacked off with any men in his seven months behind bars, Carson said that was bullshit for a Blood’s bodyguard. ‘I threaten people wit’ you bein’ they prison cellmate all the time, nigga. You gotta know how to do it.’ Truck just assumed it was all a joke. Besides that, he did know how to do it — there was no magic to it. If he really needed to cornhole a man, Truck thought, he could do it.
Nobody told him he’d look like a pussy if he didn’t do it. Apparently all of Carson’s other enforcers had a prison wife during their time behind bars. They thought only a pussy jacked himself off — literally, they said only “a pussy can make a nigga cum”. So if you jack yourself off with your hand, then you’re a pussy. Truck assumed that was a joke until Carson said criticized him for not doing it.
It wasn’t like Truck told Carson to threaten niggas with a ramrodding. Truck didn’t wanna do that. Why not just beat people up? So much simpler. Truck could beat a nigga up, then fuck a bitch. Why try and combine those two things?
“Enjoy your happy ending, Truck,” Carson said. He snorted back laughter, then groaned as his own massage began, and Carson’s thickboy body jiggled beneath his woman’s touch.
Truck flared his nostrils and bristled, but he didn’t say anything. Carson didn’t want his bodyguard talking back to him.
The main part he found disturbing so far was that the masseur was a thickly-muscled Swedish man named Johan. Truck would have hoped for a delicate, flamboyant man who was as feminine as possible in accent and mannerisms and body shape. Johan had long blond hair, but he was built like a Viking raider, with a square jaw and a deep, gravelly voice. Truck could tell he was not gonna be able to ram Johan so hard he begged him to stop, and as far as Truck was concerned, if you didn’t ramrod your bitch til it was too much for him, you weren’t doing it right. That was easy to say when Truck wasn’t gonna ramrod any bitch. Johan’s well-muscled ass looked like it could take a lot of punishment.
“Roll over,” said Johan in his thick Swedish accent.
Truck did so, hoping he didn’t look self-conscious. He kept his eyes closed. The first part of the massage, where Johan rubbed his back, had gone past so quick Truck barely noticed it. He was not relaxed.
Laying down on his back now, Truckcouldn’t see the others. There was an occasional grunt, and the moist sound of flesh on flesh, but Truck couldn’t tell from the sound alone whether the others were still getting massages or if they had moved on to their “happy ending”. He smelled something salty, either jizz or precum, or maybe he was imagining it.
He tried to pretend his masseur was one of the pretty Japanese females, but Johan’s hands were so massive and meaty they were like bear paws. It was impossible to picture a beautiful girl attached to those mitts. Truck closed his eyes.
One of those hands touched his cock, and Truck gasped. He bit his lip to cover up the sound, not wanting to sound like he didn’t know what he was doing. He kept his eyes closed.
It did feel good, but Truck tried not to show it. He kept his face stoic. Luckily the Italians and Carson were more involved in their women. Truck kept sneaking peeks at the Asian women, which helped his dick throb in Johan’s grip, as a few sparks of pleasure danced through his body.
Truck frowned. This shouldn’t feel too good, he thought. Only a booty bandit was really into this shit, and Truck Simpel was no booty bandit.
His dick firmed up in Johan’s hand. Johan’s other hand continued to rub Truck’s chest, tweaking his nipples and caressing his shoulders. Truck’s body told him it felt good, but his mind said he was too tense to enjoy it.
Then Johan’s head lowered slowly. He kissed Truck on the chest, and his tongue teased Truck’s nipples. That also made Truck’s eyes open wide because it felt better than he was expecting. Truck gasped and, this time, he couldn’t conceal how loud the sound was. It made Carson laugh and clap his hands.
At last Johan’s mouth encircled Truck’s big cock, and Truck again made a loud choking-like sound. He sucked in his breath and held it in, his eyes bugging out. Johan was just doing it, like it was nothing, swallowing his cock to the root. Few women ever gave him a blowjob like this.
“Is your big man new?” asked the Italian Sonny Cavollo, who chortled at Truck’s noises.
Carson laughed so hard he couldn’t answer, and the more he laughed at Truck, the more Truck couldn’t control his reaction. Johan’s confident, large mouth felt so good on his manhood that he couldn’t take it. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. He nearly fell off the massage table from squirming so hard.
But Truck forced himself to take a deep breath. Calm down, nigga, calm down. It’s just a mouth on your dick.
But it felt so damn good!
This was actually better than any blowjob Truck had ever had. It was deeper for sure. Truck had a massive cock, and no woman had ever deep-throated it like Johan did. With every passing moment, the pleasure was amplified, coursing through his veins like fire, as Johan’s mouth worked furiously up and down Truck’s veiny shaft.
“Hmmm!” Truck clenched his teeth to avoid moaning. He writhed on the massage table for a few seconds, then told himself again to calm down. The ecstasy wracking his body felt so good he wanted to cry out.
He hoped he didn’t communicate that through body language, because that wasn’t gangsta. The Italians would think he was a booty bandit if they thought he enjoyed this too much. Carson wanted Truck to have that reputation, but Truck did not. How would he ever get a woman again if they found out he was a booty bandit?
“Holy fuck…” the Italian bodyguard Pauly was laughing too, along with Carson and the other Italian, watching Truck shake on the massage table.
All three of them treated Truck’s reaction like a big joke, but there was an element of jealousy in their voices too. Their Japanese masseuses handled their cocks and soon started to suck on them delicately, but none throated it as enthusiastic as Johan, and none were even remotely capable of going as deep as he could — Johan was, after all, gigantic. The Japanese women might as well have been mice.
“If you wanna cornhole him, Truck…” Carson said with a groan as his dick finally perked up in his masseuse’s mouth. “He looks like he’d be fine with that.” Carson had a low throaty chuckle. He looked at Truck as though this suggestion was an order.
Truck didn’t need to be told twice. He remained embarrassed about his reaction, but he was no longer so nervous about doing it at all. He just wished he looked like a real gangsta doing it, instead of a spoiled teenager finally losing his virginity. He wondered if Johan’s ass was as tight as a female’s.
It turned out it was, or at least it was as tight as any of the women Truck had ever fucked in the ass. Not many. When your dick is more than a foot long, most women nope out at sight of it.
Truck stroked his own cock a few times as Johan lubed up his ass. Johan’s face remained firm and fixed. He hadn’t spoken since he walked in the room. Truck wasn’t sure he spoke English that well, but when Truck told him to get in position, Johan responded like he understood.
Again, his height made this strange — Truck had never been with anyone near his own size. He was used to needing to lower his hips and bend his knees to fuck a girl standing up.
But Johan just bent over that massage table, sticking his ass in the air. He had beautifully plump round orbs, which Truck would have adored licking and sucking on for hours if they were attached to a female body. He felt a little guilty for even thinking about what that firm flesh would taste like beneath his tongue. On a white girl, those faintly visible blond hairs would have been sexy; Truck would have craved their taste on his tongue, but on Johan, Truck wished they weren’t there.
“Stick him! Stick him! Stick him!” Carson chanted and guffawed. The Italians had grown quieter — that was, Truck suspected, part of the plan: Carson had said he wanted Truck to be able to cornhole a man because it was intimidating, so presumably he did it now hoping to intimidate the Italians.
Truck took a deep breath as his dick slid into Johan’s plump ass. He guided it in with one hand until his fingers touched fine, soft ass-hair, which made him gag and look away again. It was hot and warm, and those strapping back muscles all flexed and looped and arched and rippled as Johan’s meaty booty struggled to accept Truck’s cockshaft.
Carson laughed at Truck’s reaction. “You gonna have to touch him to stick him. C’mon, man, I know you know how to do it. Ain’t you have a cellmate?”
Of course Carson knew the answer was no, but he was asking more to intimidate the Italians than for any other reason. Truck was too focused on his own body to really think of a good response.
“Yeah,” was all he said. Then he barked at Johan. “Keep yo’ ass up!” He hoped that sounded tough. Johan ignored it — might not have even realized the words were directed at him — but that was fine because his ass was at the perfect level anyway. Johan showed little reaction to anything Truck said or did, which made Truck look weak.
Or maybe nobody was paying as much attention to him as he thought. The Italians were focosed on their women’s tits. Carson had his own woman, though he kept an eye on Truck and Johan too.
He was so focused on getting through this without looking like a sissy that Truck barely noticed how good Johan’s ass felt at first. He sighed and moaned, which he managed to turn into a more macho grunt as a bolt of pleasure shot up his spine.
This was a fine ass.
He bit his lip again. His hands wrapped around Johan’s hips, uncaring of the body hairs he felt there. He growled and slammed his dick in, making an audible slapping sound as his balls hit Johan’s thighs. Truck’s muscles all flexed as ecstasy rippled through him. This felt much better than he thought. From the way other niggas talked about ramrodding men in prison, Truck thought he would struggle to get through this, and maybe if he were in prison with some sobbing snitch or whatever, it would have been a struggle.
But Johan’s ass was tight and willing, and it seemed to crave Truck’s cock just as much as Truck craved ramming it full of spasming dick.
Johan grunted, the closest thing to a word he had said in awhile. The table under him shook like it was going to collapse, but it didn’t. His ass tightened and clenched beneath Truck’s pounding, which only made even more pleasure wrack Truck’s body.
That blond hair is perfect.
Truck couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized that until now. Johan had beautiful long blond hair that went past his shoulders. Truck loved pulling on hair while he fucked girls, and it was the kind of thing a prison-thug might do, so he should have been doing it from the start. He grabbed a fistful of that fine blond hair and held on tight.
He didn’t pull hard, just hard enough to get Johan’s attention and force him to raise his head. It made Johan’s ass clench and his cock spurt precum into his hand as he stroked himself off.
“Yeah, bitch, take it!” Truck said with a growl. He smacked Johan’s ass with his free hand.
The smell of cum filled the air. At first, Truck assumed it was his own semen and that he didn’t notice his orgasm right away. But then he thought it was Johan, jacking himself off. Finally, however, Truck realized that it was the Italians, followed moments later by Carson himself.
Their women brought them to orgasm, and they guzzled down every drop of their cum. Then they tidily cleaned up their respective men. But Carson and the Italians were more focused on watching the two giants on the other side of the room. Truck’s massive brown body trembled with every thrust of his hips into Johan’s tight ass.
“Damn, Carson, yo’ man cornhole like a goddamn train!”
Truck felt Johan’s orgasm because his insides all tensed at once. His asshole clenched tightly around Truck, who groaned and moaned as the most intense orgasm of his life hit him hard. His knees buckled and he nearly collapsed.
He pulled hard on Johan’s hair, while his other hand smacked the meaty part of Johan’s back. Johan shuddered as he sprayed a wad of cum onto the floor.
Then they both gasped in sync while Truck’s balls crawled up in his sac. A spurt of cum landed inside Johan, who shuddered again. Truck’s body exploded in sweat, releasing jet after jet of semen that sprayed into Johan’s tight ass.
“Woo-hoo, way to go, Truck! I wouldn’t wanna be yo’ cellmate,” Carson said, eyeing the Italians to be sure they saw. They eyed the situation and stared but didn’t say anything, like they didn’t want to give away any reaction.
Johan let out a sound that was half-grunt and half-howl. It made the hairs on the back of Truck’s neck stand up. Truck’s muscles all relaxed at once as the last few drops of his load filled up Johan’s ass.
Truck stepped back, glad to see his hoggish meat plop out of Johan’s tight hole. He had done it, and he hadn’t embarrassed himself. He thought he even managed to look like he knew what he was doing. He snorted like a bull.
He couldn’t resist fingering Johan’s ass a bit, until his finger was white with his own cum. It made him gag, the thought of fingering a man’s asshole, but he almost always did it when fucking a woman in the ass, and he thought it seemed like the kind of thing a prison-thug would do.
Johan crooned as he accepted Truck’s pinkie finger. He bit his lip and muttered something in Swedish, his whole body struggling to accept that tiny finger. Truck just got it nasty and dripping wet, then wiped it off on Johan’s plump cheek. He snickered.
“Go’n and clean me off, bitch,” Truck said. He put his hands on his hips. He wasn’t sure Johan understood the words, but he did get a few tissues and wipe Truck’s dick off. Whether that was because Truck told him to or because he always did it, Truck didn’t know. He acted as though Johan did it under orders, and when he was done, Truck looked at his cock like he inspected it to be sure Johan had done a good job. “Fine, bitch. Get outta here. The men are still talkin’.”
Johan either didn’t understand or didn’t care about that command. He gathered up the massage tables and the bottles of warming oil that the Japanese women had left behind. Truck crossed his arms over his chest as though he had told Johan to do that.
At last Johan walked away, and Truck breathed a sigh of relief. No one else was getting dressed, so he didn’t either. He just stayed there, making sure his gleaming-wet cock was aimed in the direction of the Italians, who scrupulously avoided looking at it. His whole body shone with sweat, and his muscles were relaxed like pudding.
That was, in the end, a shockingly good massage.
Carson turned to the Italians. “Alright, well, we gots a deal, right? You gonna hold up yo’ end?”
“Course…” the Italian said, shaking Carson’s hand without taking his eyes off Truck. Truck’s cock throbbed and dripped a few final drops of jizz onto the floor, and Truck’s whole body shuddered. The Italian grimaced. “We would never do anything to… earn your ire. We will be prepared for the deal on Sunday.”
At the brothel Lipsweet, Vivienne rules as queen, and the many roughnecks who come through are her subjects… But when her position is threatened, Vivienne finds herself on the outs, while the men around her must see to their own needs. Whether at the local jail, in a dusty backroom or in a dirty motel, these macho alphas will have to take matters into their own hands!
Avery’s Australian vacation gives him an opportunity to taste the trashiest bogan in Oz! His name is Razza Malley, and he loves getting oral service, doing donuts and being awesome as! Can Avery get Razza off?
Read the whole thing here!
Avery Flowers was sitting on a bench near the CentreLink on Bulumbaga Road. It was a bright and sunny arvo, but the gray squat building in front of Avery gave the moment a dismal and bleak air. The architecture of it exuded an aura of dull-edged banality. Craggy bogans bustled in and out of CentreLink, interspersed with a few elderly schmucks and a disabled man accompanied by a nurse. There must have been a separate employee entrance and exit, Avery thought, because he didn’t see anyone who worked here.
He was just waiting for the bus anyway. He had ended up missing it by two minutes, so now he had most of an hour to wait for the next one. The bus station was as empty as the wide open Outback, and the seat Avery had chosen was uncomfortable on his ass. He moved to a different one, but that was somehow worse.
That’s when he heard a fight break out. It was down in the car park. First, he heard a bunch of gruff macho shouting, vowels extending broadly like sunbeams, consonants clipped — he couldn’t make out the words, but he could make out the accent.
They were bogans, fighting.
“You bloody tosser, get off me!”
“Razza, you prick-“
“Where’d you go last night, huh, mate?”
“Why’d you hit me-?”
He made out the names Shane and Razza before he snuck down there to take a peek, and he definitely got the strong impression from the way they argued that they were brothers. You could always tell when it was brothers.
Razza was the shirtless one, wearing a bushranger hat. He was shorter than his brother, Shane, but thicker-built and heavily tattooed all over like a bikie — he wasn’t a bikie, though he used to own a motorcycle, he just had bikie-like tattoos because his bikie dad was also his tattoo artist. He had a heavy-footed way of carrying himself, like everything he did was a challenge aimed at an invisible sparring partner. His brother Shane was lankier, long-limbed and scruffy, sorta built like a muscular kultarr, and he only had one tattoo, of Uluru, on his shoulderblade — he didn’t get along with dad — and he had terrible teeth and a greasy mullet.
But they were both bogan as, and they were tanned to the color of sandstone.
They shouted and heaved as their sweat-glistening bodies tore into each other. The fight seemed half-real and half-playful, with punches interspersed with more casual smacks and winking slaps. They both wore short black shorts that showed off their powerful thighs, and Avery lost himself trying to see up those shorts to see if the brothers wore grundies or not. He couldn’t decide if the shorts were underpants or outerwear. They looked like rugby shorts but so thin and flimsy they couldn’t be used in actual rugby, they’d get ripped to bits in seconds.
“Don’t pull my hair, mate, that makes you a bitch-“
“Get off me, you little ratbag, Razza! I’ll smash your teeth in!”
Razza’s superior thickness and powerful arms gave him an advantage though, and his shortness wasn’t much of a hindrance. He finally landed a powerful blow to Shane’s belly, knocking him to the ground. Shane groaned and clutched his belly. It did not look like he was surprised to get knocked over — Razza was taller and stronger for sure, and he looked older, so it had probably always been true that Razza could and did beat up Shane.
“Who’s the petrol-sniffing ratbag now?!” Razza took off one of his thongs and slapped his brother in the face. He laughed like this was all a big prank — he had looked serious moments ago, but now that he was the winner, he joked and smacked his brother with his thong.
Wrinkling his nose, Shane slapped the thong out of his face. “Get your fuckin’ thong off me, you abo bastard-“
“You better pay me for that fuckin’ petrol!” Razza said, having to pause for a moment to remember what this fight was even about.
He had loaned Shane his car, a vintage Holden he’d been restoring for years, to drive to his job last night. That should have been a five-kilometer trip in total. But an entire tank of petrol had gone missing, a fact that Razza only realized when he came here to CentreLink to see his case manager. His Holden had barely puttered into the car park.
Shane came later in the day to see his own case manager as well, and Razza was here waiting for him. Shane backed away, ripping his shirt off, ready to have a go at Razza, because it had been obvious from the beginning that Razza was looking for a fight.
That happened a lot. The Malley brothers were known throughout their suburb for fighting each other, and anyone else available. Razza pumped his fists after beating his brother down and didn’t even notice Avery there watching. Razza was glad to win because his brother had called him a racial slur — an Abo. Though Shane and Razza were brothers, Razza claimed to be Aboriginal (1/32 Gadigal clan) and Shane claimed to be descended from convict stock. Both found each other’s claims spurious and worth brawling over. Avery strongly suspected neither were correct. In their defense, Shane and Razza likely had different, unknown fathers, so it was hard to have any confidence in their heritage.
“Come hit me then, fight me like a man-“
“I just beat your ass!” Razza shouted, feinting forward, his broad chest greasy with old sweat. It made his tattoos glisten. “Remember? Like two seconds ago?”
“You hit me with your thong, that’s not a beating-“
“Bullshit, you little drongo, I’ll do it again-“
“You are such a moron!” Shane gestured towards the CentreLink building, where a crowd of people had stopped to watch. One person — Avery — came close enough to hear. Shane and Razza were both momentarily self-conscious, then smiled broadly and stamped their feet. Shane wiped the trickle of blood off his nose.
“You wasted a whole tank of petrol!”
“She wanted to root, man! I drove to her place in Gagamazoo!”
Razza threw another punch. “Why didn’t you pick me up? I’d bone that root-rat, mate! We were gonna do donuts today! We were talking about it — right before you went to work, we decided we were gonna kill a case of goddamn stubbies and do-“
“Hey, guys, you know they’re calling the police?” Avery said. He cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt.”
Shane and Razza exchanged glances and rolled their eyes. Razza looked to the white van Shane had come here in — a work van. Shane was a tradie — so was Razza, technically, but he had been suspended for punching his supervisor. Shane went right to the driver’s seat, and Razza to the passenger’s side as though he was going to get in.
“No, rack off, mate,” Shane said. “I’m not supposed to have anyone else in the van. It’s a rule-“
“Go fuck yourself, mate-” Razza said. He opened the passenger-side door, only for Shane to reach across and pull the door shut. He locked it.
“You galah! Open the door!”
“No way! Rack off, I said!” Shane shouted, the sound muffled by the shut door of the van. He started the engine. He flicked off his brother through the window.
“Oh, fuck you!” Razza shouted from the other side of the van. He had one of his thongs in hand, smacking the van on the side of it when Shane drove away. “You stupid asshole, Shane!” Razza stood there, glowering at Avery. He waved his thong in Avery’s direction. “What do you want?”
Avery shrugged. “I’ll jack you off.”
“What?”
“You need a ride out of here, right? Let me jack you off. I’ll use my mouth, I’m real good. I can swallow anything,” Avery said, and he sucked on one finger to demonstrate. “I’ll swallow your cum-“
“You’re American?”
Avery nodded.
“And you, what, walk around Australia jerking off men?”
“Kinda.” Avery shrugged. “I also visited the National Wool Museum.”
Razza scoffed.
“Once I jack you off, I’ll give you a ride, let you do some donuts in my car and buy you a slab of beer,” Avery said.
Razza heard sirens off in the distance. He laughed but covered up the anxiety in his laughter with a macho chuckle as though he got propositioned like this all the time. He shrugged. “Yeah. Where’s your car?”
He scoffed when he saw the tiny Kia. “I can barely fit my dick in this thing, mate,” he said as he got in. “Doin’ donuts’ll wreck this car’s suspension to fuck and back. Could blow out the tyres too.” He had to adjust the driver’s seat so he could fit, hurrying when the sirens got closer. Avery sat in the passenger seat.
“I don’t care, it’s a rental,” Avery said. He blushed. He knew he sounded like a wealthy jerk — he was going to have to pay to fix the transmission one way or another — but he couldn’t help it. He could afford it.
“Well, shit… Let’s do some circlework! I chucked a sicky to blodge off for the day, so me and my brother were gonna hoon all day. I know a great spot, a dirt road you’d never know it’s there unless you knew it was there. We can stop for stubbies on the way,” Razza said. He was hesitant to really go at it in his own Holden — he’d replaced the suspension several times because of hooning it. He could do it again, but it was an expensive and time-consuming hassle, so he tried to avoid it. If this weird American stranger was willing to wreck a rental, he could do that.
Even if it was a Kia.
He headed away from CentreLink at top speed before the police could arrive. He sped to the bottle-o a few kilometers away.
Avery went in and bought stubbies of Carlton Draught. He was already hot and horny because Razza’s shirtless body had filled the Kia up with his musk. It occurred to Avery only then that he shouldn’t have left Razza out there with the keys and the car. He could drive away anytime. Razza would lose the beer Avery was buying, but he’d gain a rental car he could do donuts in and then sell for parts. Avery’s heart quickened. He peered into the car park. Razza was still there, showing no signs of leaving. Avery paid for the beer.
When he got out there, Razza popped the boot, and Avery plopped the stubbies of beer in there.
“Later, mate!” That was when Razza stole the car.
After Avery put the beer in the boot.
He guffawed and slapped his hand on the roof of the Kia. Then Razza sped out of the bottle-o’s car park, and Avery watched the Kia disappear down the road. Razza whooped and hollered like a cowboy, loud enough for Avery to hear from back at the Dan Murphy’s.
So Razza did steal the beer after all. Avery had been right to be nervous, he was just off on his timing.
Not sure what else to do, Avery simply walked away. He could have called the police. He’d have to eventually, or the car-rental place would accuse him of stealing it. But he didn’t feel like dealing with an Australian cop right now — they were all knobs and dumber than dirt, as useless as a kangaroo’s crib. So he decided to tell them that his cell phone’s battery was dead, which it very nearly was, so that was why he didn’t call them right away. He opened up a game app that drained battery quickly.
He just walked down the road. He wasn’t even sure where he was going. He didn’t know how to get back to his hotel, or the CentreLink, from here.
He saw a dirt road that came right off the main road. It was unmarked. It was indeed, as Razza had said, tucked in amongst some trees such that, if you didn’t know it was there, you’d never see it. It was around the bend of a curve.
It sure looked like that was the road Razza had described, and just beyond the copse of trees on the hill where the dirt road met the paved road, there was a big dry dusty spot, like someone had clear-cut the area to build houses and then never built them. A chorus of birds sang in the trees that lined the edge of the property, beyond which was a dense forest.
That looked right. You could do donuts down there, Avery thought. Razza had said something about “circlework”, which meant doing donuts on dirt in order to create circles on the ground and kick up a circular cloud of dust in the air.
Sure enough, when Avery got beyond the trees, he could see down the hill. There was his Kia, doing donuts, dust kicking up in a grand tornado that filled the air, reaching almost all the way to where Avery stood.
He wrinkled his nose and walked down the hill.
He got almost all the way down when the car stopped. He heard Razza cursing inside the car, swerving all over because he was trying to squash a spider that had just bit him. When he either killed it or lost track of it, he focused more on the donuts, building up a huge whirlwind of ocher-laden dirt.
Avery shouted, “Hey! You mongrel! Get out of there! That’s my damn car! You stole my car!”
Razza opened the door and smiled broadly at him. A smile on his face really accentuated how dirty he was — plus he stood on the threshold to the car before the dust had settled, so a layer of it clung to his sweaty skin, giving him a tan coat. He had tied an Australian flag to his shoulder at some point since stealing the car, and it fluttered in the breeze his circlework had kicked up.
“You followed me? Good on ya, mate!”
“Okay, fuck you, Razza, for the following reasons,” Avery said. He wagged his finger at the dust-tan Australian, a burntwire for sure, though a powerfully built one. “First, fuck you just because. Second, fuck you for stealing my car. Third, fuck you for stealing my beer. Fourth, fuck you for not letting me jack you off. Fifth, fuck you for being a goddamn cunt-“
“What? You ratbag-?”
“Shut the hell up — the only part of our deal you welshed on was the part where your dick has to work. What’s up with that? What’s wrong with your pecker?”
“Awwwwww.…” Razza groaned. He knew perfectly well that this weird American was trying to goad him into it. With a sneer, he ate macadamia nuts from a baggie of scroggin. “Americans are a bunch of pansies, mate.”
“If you had asked if you could steal the car, I’d have said you could take it. I’d give you a couple hours before I called the police,” Avery said. “You were scared to get jacked off, weren’t you? You don’t know how to root-“
“I am not scared of shit, mate!” Razza was annoyed with himself for giving in. It was obvious that Avery just wanted his dick. But he couldn’t resist pulling it out to prove it worked. He lowered his trousers enough to heft out his massive cock in both hands, and he flopped it between his fingers. He was glad it was a warm day because his cock hadn’t shrunk at all.
Avery smiled inwardly but got back in the passenger-seat of the car in a huff. He glared at Razza, who sat back behind the wheel.
“I’ve always wanted to jack someone off while they did donuts,” Avery said. “That’s all. So I was pissed you tried to cheat me-“
“Aw, don’t be a shit, mate,” Razza said. “You’re still whinging about that?” He whacked his dick against his palm as he started the engine again. “You’re not gonna bite down if I go spinning or a tyre blows out, will you?”
Avery bent over and put the tip of Razza’s dick in his mouth. “No promises. Don’t blow out.” With a moan of desire that he bit back Avery swallowed his root to the root, slurping down the dust that had settled on his cock. It tasted filthy, but warm, inviting, sunny, and a little coppery. Avery could even taste the gritty bitterness of brick, which presumably came from Razza’s career as a brickie. Avery wondered if he still tasted like that because he hadn’t washed since then, or if the flavor had seeped into his flesh.
“Crikey!” Razza said with a whoop and a holler.
He put his foot on the accelerator and turned the wheel, struggling to turn it hard enough with Avery’s head in his crotch. It was disconcerting enough that he barely even noticed what his dick felt like at first. He was too focused on the driving and making sure he didn’t jostle Avery so much he bit down. Avery’s mouth was warm and moist, and it felt right but somehow not right, so Razza just let it sit there, getting battered by Avery’s tongue.
But then, at last, a shiver of pleasure ran up Razza’s spine, and his dick twitched. His hands clenched tightly on the steering wheel.
“Aaaaaah, shit!” Razza whooped. He wished his brother was here to see this, but it was too late now. He’d have to tell him about it later. He’d say it had been a female on his cock, of course. Shane wouldn’t believe that, but he wouldn’t be able to disprove it either, since Razza was going to be coming home with stubbies and a shitty old Kia. Shane wouldn’t be able to explain where he got that.
It was stiffening up fast now. Razza cried out as the car whipped around in circles, the wind picking up and flopping his hair in front of his eyes. Razza gripped the steering wheel hard. Surges of sensations flowed up his body, but it felt very distant, like he was watching somebody else get jerked off. When he did focus on it, he had to admit the creepy American was damn good at it — he went all the way down, deeper than any woman ever had.
His dick was rock-hard now. It was happening very fast. Razza moaned and groaned, slamming his fists on the dashboard. It ended up not being very good circlework because he was distracted, but still, it was exciting enough, and it left him dizzy in a giant cloud of dust all around him.
“Oh shit, mate…” Razza’s voice broke, making him laugh with embarrassment. He felt his orgasm coming on and was sure he would run into the ditch he had been avoiding — he was dizzy and distracted and no longer sure where the Kia was in relation to the ditch. It would be too easy for Avery to be startled and bite down if the car slid into the ditch.
So he stopped the car, realizing only as he did, placing one hand on Avery’s head to push him deeper, that it had happened — one of the tyres blew out. He was no longer going that fast, so the car just drifted in a wild, careening circle until at last, it came a stop.
A full quivering stop, with Razza’s foot slammed onto the brake-pedal. “Aw, mate, goddamn — shit-” He jacked in his breath, now aware that he had been close to orgasm for a few seconds, only delaying it because the situation had been so exciting.
He held onto Avery by the back of the head and pistoned his hips up, throating Avery’s face in a way not many girls let him do. It was awkward to do so crammed between the driver’s seat and the steering wheel, especially in this tiny Korean car. His heart still raced like the car was still careening, and Razza was too intensely focused on the ecstasy arising from his crotch to even process that the car was no longer in motion.
“Aah, shit, good on ya, hell! Ooooh, ah, shit, mate!” Razza cried out. He closed his eyes, both hands on Avery’s head so he could stop deep-throating every inch of Razza’s sensitive meat.
But Razza was too close to cumming to let himself be interrupted by stepping out of the car, or even rolling the window down or putting it in park so he could take his foot off the brake.
All of his concentration went to jamming his dick all the way down Avery’s choking throat. Avery loved being throat-abused more than anything, and he was good at it, so he swallowed every bit of Razza’s uncut shaft.
“Shit, mate, get deep on it, goddamn!” Razza moaned again, slamming his hand on the dashboard. A few drops of cum spurted into Avery’s mouth and ran down his gullet. “Aw, there I go mate-” He was tense, veins pulsating on the side of his ruddy head and his neck. His orgasm looked almost painful.
Finally it came, great gobs of creamy hot cum spurting into Avery’s throat and down to his belly. Razza kept on spewing more and more, and even he looked surprised by the amount. He kept a tight grip on Avery’s head, the scent of his bogan sweat filling the air once more now that the dust was beginning to dissipate.
“Aww…”
It was salty and warm, intensely flavorful, thick and creamy, coating his throat like a melted milk bar. A vast jet of it flooded Avery’s mouth, followed by another. Razza seemed to shoot huge loads, more than Avery was expecting,a nd it overflowed, soaking into Razza’s crotch. Avery couldn’t swallow it all because his mouth was filled with raunchy bogan foreskin, and the dust that had settled there made him cloggy and coughy anyway.
But he didn’t mind — Avery liked to make a mess. He swallowed what he could, but the rest spilled out and soaked into Razza’s pubic hair.
Razza groaned at the mess, but even he had to admit he liked it better that way. A sloppy blowjob was better than a clean one. And anyway, having a wet spot in his crotch was going to make this story seem more believable when he told his brother that it was a woman who gave him a car to suck his dick.
“Well, damn, mate, you made a big mess,” Razza said with a chuckle. He patted Avery on the head, and Avery lifted off. “You-“
The Kia jolted forward and slid into a ditch.
They were both so startled they yelped and nearly jumped out of the car. But all that had happened was Razza took his foot off the brake, forgetting that it was on a slight incline, leading into that ditch, and that he had never put it in park. So it rolled right in, nose first.
“Fuck!” Avery shouted as he bumped into the dashboard. He rolled out into the muddy ditch, covered in cum and dust and now, mud. He was still savoring the flavor of Razza’s jizz, and now remnants of it mixed with the dirt on his face.
Razza laughed as he climbed out. He was already dirty, so it was hard to even tell. He looked at the Kia — one tyre blown out, end in the ditch, who-knew-what-else wrong with it.
“You were right. I would have totally bit your dick if that happened when it was in my mouth,” Avery said. He blushed. “Car’s totaled.”
“Wanna walk with me back to that Dan Murphy? There’s a grocery store there too,” Razza said. “I’m hungry. Buy me some snags and lammingtons.”
“Yeah, okay,” Avery said. He shrugged. “I don’t know what those are, but fine.” He wondered if he’d be able to get Razza’s brother before leaving. “Hmmm… I’ll call the car-rental place in awhile.” Avery was not going to enjoy paying whatever they ended up charging him for this.
But, he thought, it had all been worth it. Razza’s delicious manhood almost made up for the boring-ass National Wool Museum.
Rob is in merry old England in search of yet another masculine alpha! This time he nabs a lord, John Thomas, in desperate need of both sexual release and cash. Rob is eager to help out on both fronts, innit, mate!
Read the whole thing here!
Read the whole thing here!
The fog was oppressive in London when Rob Winthrop’s plane refused to land there due to the decreased visibility. It was only the first of many disappointments, but Rob kept a stiff upper lip. The plane eventually landed because the fog gave way to a gentle, enveloping rain.
It was not that cold, but there was a chill in the air, so Rob took a jumper out of his suitcase once he got it from the baggage-claim area. Then he made his way through the teeming throngs of people at Heathrow Airport.
He didn’t really like the “travel” part of travelling. He liked seeing exotic destinations or even just ordinary destinations in extraordinary places. But he didn’t like planes or airports or trains or long car rides or trams or barges or anything of that sort. Of course, they were the only way to get to his destinations, so he made do.
When he got out of the airport, the first thing he saw was a pair of men fighting in the upper level of the multi-storey. One of them shouted “Oi! Oi!” so loud, over and over, that Rob couldn’t hear anything else and never found out what the argy-bargy was about (but he had a feeling, based on the football kit they both wore, that it related to sport).
Rob had every intention of satisfying his secondary goal as well: servicing the most arousing alpha males he could find, whatever the cost.
Usually, he would just wing it. He had a knack for finding the right kind of guy anyway, and looking for them gave him plenty of time to see the countryside.
But a friend had given him a lead on an Englishman of incomparable studliness. His name was John Thomas, or, to be more precise, John Thomas Smith Walker Mayne, Duke of Malperham-upon-Avon and Baron Alewar of the Wildest Moors.
He didn’t tell very many people he was anything more than John Thomas. But most everyone in his life knew he was a duke anyway, English people had a way of knowing that even when nobody told them. Whilst that was interesting enough — Rob was still trying to find out what a “Baron Alewar” was — it wasn’t what Rob wanted in him anyway.
He was so handsome it hurt. John was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark blond hair that was always slicked back. He was an Oxford Uni student and played cricket well enough that he got tons of Google hits (Rob found cricket impenetrable and was unable to understand anything about what position John played, what it meant or how good he was, but there were articles in major papers about him, so John assumed he must have been good). John was well-muscled but not bulky, and he had a handsome squarish jaw like a knight of the round table, with dimples Rob wanted to bathe in.
He had to have him, and luckily, Rob thought he had an in. Despite being a duke and a baron, John was middle-class at best (in terms of money), despite reading The Times everyday and pretending to follow it. He was in need of money.
But Rob wasn’t sure how to approach him. Englishmen, especially well-heeled Englishmen like John, didn’t talk about sensitive topics like money. So he started off by simply wandering around Oxford Uni. He looked in on a few classes, but the students all looked serious, grim-eyed and focused on sitting for exams. The few people Rob talked to scurried away like he had frightened them.
“Well, shit,” Rob said to no one in particular. He had thought John would be easy to find. On North American college campuses, handsome jocks were always the center of attention and could usually be found on the quad during the day. Oxford Uni had very small, enclosed quads, and the ground was soggy because of the damp that hung in the air, so no one spent time in the quad here. Rob was disappointed.
John was nowhere to be seen. That’s because he was having his elevenses with his manservant Jeeves. He happened to see Rob from a window as he finished his meal and bade Jeeves meet him back in his flat, but John thought nothing of him.
That was why, when he came out onto the quad and saw Rob again, John nodded to him as though they were acquainted. Rob took it as a sign that this was the Englishman for him. He was even handsomer in person than Rob had expected.
“Excuse me, sir, er… Duke… Your Grace…?” Rob blushed.
John cocked his head to the side. “Not many people use my title, old chum, who are you that you know me and I do not know you? And you are American to boot? I have never met an American who uses my title, the idea is quite droll indeed.” A snooty laugh escaped from his thin lips, and the muscles of his broad shoulders flexed.
“My name is Rob.”
“Oh, what a fine fellow! I do greatly enjoy North America. My family owns a hunting lodge in Ontario, and I daresay, aside from les Québécois, it’s marvelous!” He laughed and clapped his hands — his French accent was self-consciously bad: lezz kebekwazz — then looked side to side like he thought he had been too loud. “What can I do for you, my fine yankee friend?”
“I, uh, I’m doing interviews for a North American cricket magazine,” Rob said. “It’s new, it’ll be in the first issue. I wanted to ask you some questions about the sport.”
“Ah, yes, well I am very busy indeed, I am not sure I could fit that in my diary,” he said. He beamed like he didn’t often get recognized for his skill. “I do so love the world of periodicals though, and I wish you the best of luck-“
“I can pay. Two hundred pounds.”
He paused, checking all around the quad for anyone he knew. “Yes, well, the money, of course, is not important. But I do wish to spread the world’s most civilized sport. I have always believed cricket teaches its players the best in comportment and decorum. It is truly a sport for gentlemen,” he said with a grin. Then he blurted out, “-and ladies! I did not forget ladies. Oxford has a marvelous women’s cricket team. Positively smashing.”
“Oh… Uh, well,” Rob stumbled over his words. John’s imposing size and charming grin made it hard to focus. “So will you do the interview? For two hundred pounds?”
“I’ll do it for the sport, not for the money. I’ll do it to exalt the glory of cricket itself,” John said, beaming to show off his dimples. “And I shall take the money, yes, of course, I do not wish to cause a scene.”
“You don’t have to accept the money,” Rob said with a grin.
“Of course, of course, but I do not wish to rock the boat. If you are paying two hundred pounds, you should pay two hundred pounds. It’s not a problem,” he said with a casual chuckle. He paused. “I do have a prior commitment in a few minutes. Can we schedule it for later today? I have to get ready for my morris side’s rehearsal, I must change my clothes.”
“Oh, can I come with you?”
“Eh… I suppose,” he said. He led Rob back to his flat just a few blocks from uni. His manservant Jeeves was waiting for him there — having cleaned up after John’s elevenses, Jeeves hurried back to the flat to be ready to prepare John for the morris dancing rehearsals. “You can away, Jeeves, I shall dress myself.”
“Very good, sir,” Jeeves said, with a heavy tone and a deliberate look like he didn’t entirely believe that John was capable of dressing himself.
Rob pretended to care about cricket then and asked a few questions. He even jotted down John’s answers. John stood in the center of his flat at first. He didn’t expect Rob to wait here whilst John changed.
But John was unsure of expectations. Jeeves, of course, would be here when John removed his garments, but did Rob expect the same? He made no effort to walk away. Americans, John thought, always changed clothing in locker rooms (judging from the cinema, since John had never been to America in person). So John assumed that meant Rob intended to stay here and ask questions whilst John changed.
It was not a big deal, John told himself. It was how the lower classes operated. They often dressed in groups — without a single butler or valet even — such as before working in a mine. John wondered if Rob was a mineworker. John removed his shoes.
“There is a new North American cricket league,” Rob explained. “It’s not that popular. I’m hoping this magazine will increase its audience.”
“Oh how wonderful!” John kept a smile on his face as he removed his shirt and trousers.
“That’s why I wanted an interview with you, you’re charming and handsome, and you’ll bring in women, I hope, but I guess you’re used to that,” Rob said with a flirtatious smile aimed directly into John’s eyes. John blushed in response. He wasn’t used to people giving him compliments like that, so directly and bluntly, especially regarding women.
Rob was entranced by his broad chest, which was smooth and unblemished, a pale porcelain like fine ivory. John smelled of fine soap, not ordinary soap, but something soap-like, smelling of flowers and fruit — it didn’t smell like a flower-scented soap, it smelled like actual flowers, like John had bathed in rosewater dappled with blossoms.
“So you do morris dancing?”
“It is an important part of my family’s heritage,” John said. He sighed and rolled his eyes as he said it. “And I would be disappointing them to abstain from participating in it, so you see, there was never any doubt that I would do it. My entire family has done so for generations, so I never even considered skipping it.” He looked at the notes Rob was taking. “Is that going to be in the magazine? I am not certain it would be necessary. Do North American cricket fans care about such esoteric matters of English culture? I should think not.”
Rob just shrugged. “I gotta take notes on everything. My editor will decide what’s important enough to include in the article.”
“Indeed.”
The morris-dancing costume was simple, and, Rob was annoyed to see, not especially arousing. It covered everything. John pulled up a pair of white trousers, which were loose-fitting and billowy, and pulled on a white shirt. He looked almost like he was unfamiliar with the costume, which mystified Rob — he had no idea that John had never dressed himself in his morris-dancing clothing, so he was unused to doing so without Jeeves’s assistance.
“That is…” Rob had to suppress a giggle, “an interesting getup.” He watched John check that he had his handkerchiefs — that was part of the traditional morris dance. John’s family, the Dukes of Malperham-upon-Avon, had been running the morris side here at Oxford Uni for centuries, even when there was no one from the family attending school there, the Smiths sent a distant cousin or servant to run the side.
“I understand it is old-fashioned, of course,” John said. “But it is our heritage and our tradition. It supplies the Englishman with his soul, even if it seems strange.”
Rob shrugged. “Yeah, sure, no problem. We all have our strange national traditions. It’s no weirder than a sock hop,” he said. He blushed. “I was kinda hoping that you wouldn’t put those clothes on though…”
“I’m sorry, my fine yankee chum?”
Rob cleared his throat. “Well, I promised you two hundred pounds for an interview, and that would be fine. We could do that, and you could walk out of here with two hundred pounds-“
“Which I would be fine with, indeed, but I do not require it, as we have established. I do not wish to do anything for so gauche a reason as money,” John said. “I will do it for cricket.” He stood proudly as though he was being photographed.
“Quite right, tut-tut,” Rob said with another giggle. John looked dourly upon him — Englishmen, he thought, did not giggle. Rob found his intense glare difficult to endure. “But if you wanted… you could earn something more like five hundred pounds. I realize you don’t need it, of course-“
“All this talk of money makes me ill. It is impolite,” John said. He put his hands on his hips and played with the uncomfortable fabric of his morris-dancing costume. “Belgians speak of money. I am no Belgian.”
“Right, well, for five hundred pounds, all you’d have to do is stand there.”
“You intend to pay me five hundred pounds sterling to stand here?” John paused.
“Well, to stand there and not complain as I do something,” Rob said. He inserted one finger in his mouth and sucked on it. John’s eyes opened wide. Rob deep-throated his finger even more explicitly because it wasn’t clear John was willing to accept the implication. Rob blushed as John chortled and stumbled over his own words.
“I say! I-I-I-I-I-I… I dare say you are a disreputable lout! You would pay… pay the King’s good money for something craven and perverse!” John said. “Correct? Did I misunderstand you? You mean… you wish to fornicate? And you will pay me… a monkey?”
Rob raised his eyebrow. “A monkey…? Nooooo. You can buy a monkey, I guess. I mean, it’s illegal, I’m pretty sure. Probably costs more than five hundred pounds too.”
“A monkey is working-class slang for five hundred pounds,” John said, barely controlling his pride at being able to explain working-class slang to someone. John harrumphed and crossed his arms over his broad chest, cradled by that billowy white morris-dancing shirt.
“So you’ll do it?”
John winced. “Please, sir, have some decorum. Do they not have manners in America? Of course I am not opposed to… activities of a masculine nature. But it is most improper to do so so wantonly, so flippantly!”
“Oh?”
“The polite way to invite a man to explore manhoods together is to say that you would like to promenade amongst the lavender blossoms,” he whispered.
“But I don’t. I have allergies. I just wanted to taste your dick.”
“Don’t be difficult, sir,” John said. “And please, do not assault my ears with such common talk.”
“I didn’t realize you had such sensitive ears,” Rob said. One of his hands slipped under John’s loose-fitting morris-dancing shirt. John twitched but didn’t tell him to stop. Rob thought that accusing him of having “sensitive ears” would make John quit it with the euphemisms, but John just nodded.
“I am a well-bred gentleman, of course I do not wish to hear of such things or speak of money,” John said. “The only acceptable topics of conversation are cricket, the value of a good butler, the weather and gardening. The latter two are only acceptable provided they have been proceeding handsomely.”
“I see,” Rob said. “Why don’t you take your shirt off?”
“I am not in need of money,” John said as he took the morris-dancing shirt off anyway. He kept a stony look fixed on his face as though he was going to say no, even though he had already agreed to Rob’s offer. He would just never say it out loud.
“Do you want me to jack you off?” Rob asked, eyes twinkling because John exploded in harrumphs.
“Absurd! How dare you speak to me like that!”
“You can tell me to leave,” Rob said. “But my plan is to jack you off-“
“Your diction is shamefully crass!”
“-and then stick your dick in my ass until you fill it with cum, and then give you give five hundred pounds. If you see any flaws in that plan — any flaws that don’t relate to euphemisms,” Rob said, “tTen let me know now.”
“Your tongue speaks the crudest of words.” He jutted his hips forward to give Rob easy access to his crotch, even as he looked away and sighed as though scandalized.
John paused and watched Rob’s hand pull down his white trousers, revealing those clean — seemingly brand-new — pair of y-fronts, hugging his arse and his plump cheeks. Rob smiled. He tugged the y-fronts down, and John’s dick flopped out.
“Where do you get your underwear? They’re really hot and they look comfortable,” Rob said.
John frowned. “You can not buy any yourself. My pants are bespoke, made especial for my household by the Cordwainer family of Bristol. They are part of an ancient and storied tradition.” He gave his massive dick a single stroke, and it was half-hard already. “My family does not buy pants that just any American could buy.”
Rob rolled his eyes. He had a feeling he could buy those very same pants if he really wanted to — he was a lot wealthier than he let on — but he didn’t want an argument. He bared John’s massive slab of meat. “You have a giant cock,” Rob said with a giggle.
John scoffed. “You are crass,” he said. He bristled. “You may say that I have a ‘sizable endowment’.” He paused. “That part you may tell people, nothing else.”
“Won’t they wonder how I know?”
John looked at him like he was an idiot. “Of course. But they won’t ask.”
“And the money? You don’t want the money?”
John gulped and blurted out, “I want the money! I mean… I don’t want it, of course, but I should take it.” He paused, watching his manhood firm up in Rob’s hand, as Rob chased it with his tongue. “I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, after all.”
“I would not be uncomfortable keeping the money.” Rob’s voice was muffled by the rod he kept rubbing over his lips and licking with his tongue.
“Indeed, well, I should not wish to cause a problem,” John said. He flopped his dick between his fingers but looked away as Rob kissed it right on the tip. “So you should do as you intended, of course.” He paused. “By which I mean, yes, you should pay me. Not for the sake of payment, just for the sake of… you know… doing it.”
“Right, right,” Rob said. He hefted up John’s cock in his fingers and slowly jacked it down his throat. John’s eyes opened wide.
John had been jacked off before, but he never knew it could feel like this. He closed his eyes and bit back a moan — he thought it would be improper to enjoy this too much, and he didn’t want to give Rob any ideas.
His dick firmed up right away in Rob’s mouth, and throbbed against his tongue. John leaned forward, forcing his dick in deeper until he realized that might be seen as rude — he was no throat-forcing hooligan, after all — and he took a step back.
Soon his cock was veiny, pulsating, leaking precum that coated Rob’s throat and ran down his chin. It was salty and warm and inviting, and it made Rob want more.
“Are you ready?” Rob asked, smacking his lips as he pulled John’s dick out. “Huh?”
“Ready for what, my good man?” John’s face was ruddy, and a few beads of sweat had appeared on his normally perfect forehead.
“Well… I suppose you won’t want me to say out loud what this next thing is,” Rob said. John’s eyes opened wide in both fear and desire, and Rob giggled. “Oh good, I don’t need to say it. You look like the King after a fart.” He dropped his own trousers and turned around to bend over.
“Perhaps you should leave.” John’s voice was grim and flat.
Rob assumed he had misheard. He turned back around. “I’m sorry?”
“I will not… fornicate with the likes of you! You have disrespected the King, and I shall not stand for that!” His dick was still hard, but for John, the King was more important than any amount of blue-balls. He formed a fist, and for the first time, those massive cricket-jock muscles looked intimidating to Rob, who cowered back. John was big enough his punch was going to pack a wallop.
“Sorry, sorry, I was just making a joke-“
“That is not a joke! It is a declaration of war upon the people of England! It is a wounding of an entire nation! Nay, several nations, for the Welsh and the Scottish and the Manxmen-“
“Okay, relax, John, I’m sorry, I apologize.”
“Well, in this country, we treat our King with the utmost respect,” John said. He stretched his shoulders and legs, and have his dick one quick stroke. “I shall forgive you this indiscretion. Whilst you are in Britain, however, I suggest you carry yourself with an appropriate amount of respect.” He paused. “It is not because of the money. No amount of money would make up for such disrespect. I am simply a forgiving type.”
“Oh, okay.” Rob breathed a sigh of relief and turned around. He spread his cheeks. “Have you ever done it in the butt?”
John sighed dramatically. “Please do not speak like that.” He slid his dick between Rob’s asscheeks. “I have… I have not traversed the rocky road, no, not the one lined with lavender fields, nor the one with petunias on the other side.”
Rob furrowed his brow and cocked his head to the side. “So are the petunias vaginas? Or am I a petunia?”
“I shall ignore that. The v-word is so impolite, it is grossly inappropriate.” John gingerly slipped the tip of his dick into Rob’s ass. He bit his lip when a jolt of pleasure shot up his spine, and he kept feeding his manhood deeper into him.
His hands caressed Rob’s ass until he remembered he was touching a man, and he took his hands away. His heart thumped. If his grandma-ma found out about this, he’d be disowned from the family — for a variety of reasons: because the yank was not old money, because he was doing work for pay, because he was spending time with a commoner, because he was disgracing Oxford, where being caught would be shameful for the whole family, because John was alone with a flamboyant American.
But John wasn’t really worried about being caught. It actually made the whole experience more intense for him. He felt victorious getting away with it, like when he and the lads in boarding school had raided the kitchen at night. They’d eat jelly and pudding until dawn and his heart would nearly thump out of his chest as he fled back to his room.
“Oh god, cornhole me, your highness!” Rob said with another giggle that turned into a full-throated guffaw at the look on John’s face.
“I am not royalty,”John said, his eyes opened wide as sweat trickled down his chin. He was on the verge of orgasm, but even then he felt the need to lecture Rob about proper terms of address. “That is not the proper form of address in this context-“
But John stopped talking because Rob was laughing too hard to hear anyway, and it was hard to concentrate with his dick throbbing mightily in Rob’s ass. John blushed.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t really mean that literally…” Rob said. He wrenched his head back and moaned, with John’s cock resting on his prostate. He couldn’t bear it anymore and writhed. He howled so loud Jeeves could hear it (he was out in the corridor, and though he wondered intensely what was happening, he would never inquire about it).
“Yes, well, it is not necessary to speak like that.
“Please do penetrate me further, milord,” Rob said with a gasp and a laugh.
“You do not need to tease me,” John said. He wrinkled his nose but kept plowing his entire cock in with every thrust of his hips. He had no idea he was perfectly lined up to stimulate Rob’s prostate every time he rammed into him.
John was easily upset by teasing, but he kept a stiff upper lip — a skill he had perfected in boarding school. He used all of those cricket-toned muscles to piston his cock deep into Rob’s ass.
Rob shot his wad into his hand, filling up his palm with more creamy fluid than he thought possible. He hadn’t shot such a big load in a long time. But John not only had a big cock and a big body, but he also seemed to think he needed to plow extra hard to prove himself — not like most of the men Rob paid, who usually treated him like a piece of meat. That certainly had its appeal, but for now, Rob enjoyed the feel of John caringly grinding his dick into Rob’s ass.
“I am finishing now,” John said with a moan. He finally showed a little passion on his face and in the timbre of his voice, and his cheeks turned apple-red.
His load filled Rob up with warmth that seeped into his flesh. He shot a big load too, even bigger than Rob’s, great gobs of cream and juice spraying into every corner of Rob’s ass.
Rob cried out wordlessly, his fingers tightening into claws and his toes curling. His whole body tensed up as the most potent orgasm of his life exploded within him.
“Oh goddamn!” Rob shouted, only for John to frown at him as though he shouldn’t express his orgasm verbally. Rob just writhed and nuzzled his face against John’s muscular body.
Then, Rob fell limp, and John too, atop him. They both humped there together for a moment, John’s soft cock still moving and twitching in his ass. That turned John’s cumwad into a big frothy mess that bubbled out and into his crotch, sliding between Rob’s legs.
John leaned back and let his dick flop out. He sighed, his eyes opened wide at the sight of the puddle of cum that coated his crotch. He frowned. “Ah… you are quite the flamboyant little American.” He stood there, looking at his cum-splattered dick as though he had no idea how it got that way.
Rob quickly dressed. “Are you… okay?” Rob asked. John still hadn’t moved.
“Yes. I just need a minute.”
“Okay, well, I’m going,” Rob said. He gave John the money he had promised him, and then headed for the door. John grabbed the five hundred pounds as though he didn’t care about it, but he carefully placed it in the pocket of the trousers he had previously taken off and which now rested on the floor. John stood there, grim-faced and bleary-eyed, dick dangling moistly between his legs, as Rob opened the door.
John cleared his throat. “Can you ask Jeeves to come in? Tell him his lordship needs to be cleaned up.”
Rob’s trip to Italy is interrupted by a handsome stud, Giuseppe, who’s got a bevy of married ladies on the side but also a need for someone to service his throbbing Italian manhood. Can Rob rise to the task?
Read it soon as an ebook!
Read the whole thing here!
His name was Giuseppe Colombo. He leaned against his Vespa, his shaggy black hair, slicked back but still a tangled mess, running almost to his shoulder. He sipped from an espresso, then tossed it into a nearby trash can. Rob Winthrop watched from across the street, waiting for the perfect opportunity to talk to the hunky man with the Roman nose and the handsome mug. Rob appreciated the male form, and he was in Italy right now, looking for the perfect specimen of Italian manhood.
And he just might have found it. His name was Giuseppe Colombo, and Rob geared up to approach him.
But it was obvious that Giuseppe waited for someone, and that someone was almost certainly a female. Rob gathered that from the anticipative yet flirtatious look on his face. He would not be receptive to any advances now.
Sure enough, she showed up moments later. Her name was Sterpeta Buticularo. She was stunningly gorgeous, dark-skinned, dark-haired, tough-eyed and thick-lipped. She came striding down the street in heels and a slinky dress that was entirely too fancy for an ordinary day out. She looked like a mafioso’s wife, Rob thought, and she attracted the eye of the other men on the street. It looked like some would have hooted at her if not for Giuseppe, whose come-hither eyes simmered darkly.
And some did hoot at the way she shimmied her ass as she walked.
“Ehi, bellissima, vieni a parlare con me!”
“Tuo padre è un ladro, ha rubato le stelle e te le ha messe negli occh!”
Giuseppe nodded and puffed on a cigarette. The woman straightened her back as though to dare onlookers to catcall at her. But Giuseppe just nodded at her, and he glowered.
The silenzio between them was gravida and crescente.
Then she kissed him, and he swooned, bending her over in his arms. Sterpeta clutched at his powerful shoulders and pulled on his shirt, revealing some of his coarse black chest hair. Giuseppe showed her something in the satchel he had slung around his scooter — Rob saw a bottle of wine and a block of cheese: makings of a picnic.
They spoke then, passionately, words of love or ire or both, Rob suspected, words dripping with intensity — arguing their love or loving their discord, he could not tell. He did not hear their parola, however, because of the Italian folk band coming down the avenue. They were lean men in white shirts with the sleeves rolled up and navy blue trousers, dancing in sync to an upbeat tarantella they played on tambourines. Three older men, more distinguished, with flecks of gray in their dense heads of hair, accompanied them on mandolin, guitar and accordion.
The music was loud, and, to Rob, pleasing. He was distracted by Giuseppe and his woman, however, who scowled at first as they were interrupted by the musicians. Then Giuseppe took her hand in his. He placed his things on the back of the motorcycle, and she coquettishly took his hand.
Her shyness vanished as soon as the dance began. It was rhythmic and fluid and more than a bit sexy — Rob had eyes only for Giuseppe, but the girl attracted a crowd of her own. They kissed and stroked, reaching between each other’s legs, clutching each other’s asses and even, Rob was fairly certain, some light fingering when Giuseppe slipped a hand underneath her dress and she audibly moaned.
A couple of the buttons of Giuseppe’s shirt ripped off too, and that fur-dappled caramel chest made Rob moan along with Giuseppe’s girlfriend. Giuseppe sang then, in florid Italian, his booming voice echoing among the ancient, crumbling plaster of the Roman cityscape.
All of the cittadini who watched burst into laughter, clapping along with the band. They danced too, in singles and pairs, even trios. Men danced with women, women danced with women, men danced with men. Rob blushed because he stood out, the only one in the square not dancing.
The only words of Giuseppe’s song that Rob was able to discern was the repeated line: la ragazza con gli occhi come l’alba. He didn’t know what it meant (ragazza was girl, he knew that much), but he suspected it was a popular song, or adapted from it — the others sang along.
Then a man offered his hand to Rob, blushing, as some other men laughed and cheered him on. The man, Ettore, said, “Vuoi ballare con me, mio caro ragazzo?” It was apparent his friends had got him to ask Rob to dance as a dare or a bet.
But Rob batted his eyes and nodded as girlishly as he could. This particular uomo wasn’t alluring like Giuseppe — he wasn’t ugly, he was a chef, with bits of uncooked pasta stuck in his beard hairs, in a sleeveless apron with a sleeveless shirt underneath, his big meaty arms tufted in fur.
He twirled Rob, swooned him in his arms and then even kissed him on the lips as the other dancers stopped to watch. When he was done, both the pasta chef and Rob blushed as red as a pomodoro imbarazzato. Rob hugged his thick, firm back as the music died down.
The tarantella band continued on. Rob was still excited. He had thought this was going to continue. He hoped to dance with Giuseppe and run his fingers through his hair.
But no, it was finito, and Giuseppe had his girl over his Vespa, locking lips, like they wanted to drive away but couldn’t stop kissing. Finally he pulled off her lips.
They looked into her eyes, and he spoke, his smooth voice like cigar smoke. Rob was close enough to hear now. He said, “Ho bisogno di te” and her whole back undulated as though she was about to orgasm right there on the sidewalk.
She hopped onto the scooter behind him, holding onto his denim jacket. Rob didn’t think they made denim jackets like that anymore. The shirt he wore underneath it was incongruously fashionable, he thought, and looked expensive — made out of silk, it was a rich violet that seeped into the dark blue of his jacket. A gold chain glimmered around his neck, the crucifix on his chest ensconced in the kinky black hairs that escaped from under the shirt.
But he sighed too. As long as a female was on the scene, Rob had no chance of securing a taste of Giuseppe’s manhood. Rob had been watching because Giuseppe seemed to be sleeping around with multiple women, many of them married — including, Rob was fairly certain, this one — so he figured sooner or later, Giuseppe would get dumped by all of them when his lies caught up to him.
The scooter had barely moved an inch when it stopped short. A different, older Italian man stood in front of it.
“Sei con mia moglie, stronzo!”
All of a sudden, bedlam erupted. Rob eventually deduced that that second man — who was kind of a warm daddy-type, with a mustache and a bit of a belly — was Sterpeta’s husband. Giuseppe and the woman argued with each other as well as the man, and Rob wasn’t sure why. Perhaps the woman had said she had separated from the man, so Giuseppe felt this was not his fault?
Rob spoke a little Italian, but they talked all together and way too fast for Rob to understand very much of it. It was booming and loud, hands flying to make florid gestures. It didn’t seem they could possibly be understanding each other because they spoke over each other, bellowing, and even the woman’s voice somehow outshone the mens’s.
The men started shoving each other. The woman slapped her husband, then Giuseppe. The husband seemed about to smack her back, but Giuseppe stopped him. The men came to blows. They nearly knocked over an espresso machine attached to a nearby street vendor’s cart, but the vendor pulled his cart away at the last moment.
And then, somehow, it was all over. Giuseppe’s jacket was in the street, his hair a mess, a trickle of blood down his chin, a tear in his silk shirt revealing a toned, hairy chest. Giuseppe shouted something in Italian as the man left, screaming his own list of obscenities that Rob couldn’t hope to follow. The woman was in tow. She and Giuseppe exchanged florid words, which Rob gathered were just a string of insults on either end.
Giuseppe was left alone, his jacket in ruins and his shirt not much better. He scowled and took it off. His bronzed body made Rob’s dick stir.
It had all taken only a few moments, and the folks who had just minutes ago spontaneously danced the tarantella together now all ignored the exchange, as though non era successo niente. Rob was the only one who seemed shocked.
This, he thought, was the perfect opportunity. He walked right up to Giuseppe and spoke in English. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Rob.”
Giuseppe nodded and furrowed his brow. “What do you-uh want-uh?” His hands gestured in the direction he was about to go in. His English was not very good, but it was better than Rob’s rudimentary Italian.
“I wanted to offer you money. I’m sorry your woman left you-“
“It is, uh, none-uh of your business-uh,” he said. “She is a… A… how do you say?… Hor-ay? La prostituta?”
“Whore.”
“Whore-uh, si. She is a whore-uh.” Giuseppe spat on the ground and motioned away from himself. “It is good-uh to be away with her, yes? For her is now-uh gone?”
“Yeah, yeah, I guess so,” Rob said.
Giuseppe grabbed his dick through his jeans, which Rob guessed was — like the now-ruined shirt — worth a lot of money. A few beads of sweat shimmered on Giuseppe’s chest. “You-uh will offer-uh money-uh?”
Rob blushed. He had forgotten to actually ask because he was imagining the taste of Giuseppe’s chest hair.
“Do you want to cornhole me? I’ll give you five hundred euros and all you have to do is lie there, I’ll do-“
“You will have me-uh become-uh a prostituta like her? A whore-uh? I will not do this for any five-uh hundred-uh of euros, I want not your filthy whore-uh money-uh!” He shouted and waved his hands about above Rob’s head. Since he was shirtless, Rob was too entranced by his broad chest and thick black hair to be scared he would be violent. He licked his lips. He knew Giuseppe would do this for the right price, it was just a matter of finding it.
Rob giggled. “A thousand euros.”
Giuseppe was silent for a moment. “Si.” His anger was gone. He clasped Rob on the shoulder, then let go when he realized Rob was aroused, then put his arm back more gingerly. Rob smiled and kissed his bare shoulder. Giuseppe blushed. “Come on then-uh. I know a place, it is good for the making-uh of love, yes-uh. We can do also the dick-uh, si.”
Rob got on the back of his scooter, smiling because he got to ride up behind Giuseppe, gripping his chest and belly and even laying his face against the sweat-dappled muscle of his bare shoulder blades. Giuseppe drove off, weaving in and out of traffic as he headed out of Rome.
At first Rob was so engrossed in the firm meat of Giuseppe’s back and the hair on his chest where Rob’s hands snaked around that he didn’t notice how Giuseppe careened blindly through the streets of Rome. He went through parking lots and on sidewalks, weaving across lanes and even ignored a uniformed police officer who attempted to wave him down.
Relief flooded Rob when they finally left Rome, and the urban streets gave way to suburbs and then dense wooded glens and ponds among the septet of rolling hills around the city. He slowed down finally then, even though the roads were empty and he could have sped up.
When Rob pulled his face away from Giuseppe’s back, there was a layer of his sweat there, and it tasted bitterly of olive oil. He ran his fingers through Giuseppe’s hair too, until Giuseppe swatted his hand away.
The place he went was a vineyard a few miles outside of the city. He drove his scooter to a dirt road and down to an abandoned wooden shack. There was a big vat in it and a sour smell that was not exactly pleasant, but somehow smelled good to Rob.
“It is… how do you say… Aceto… it is wine, but it has spoiled?” Giuseppe said when he got off the Vespa.
“Vinegar?”
“Si, si, vinegar-uh, yes,” Giuseppe said. Rob had to smile — he would have never guessed what Giuseppe meant if he had said vinegar as he pronounced it: vweeneggerruh.
Rob placed the smell now. It was the scent of fine vinegar, wafting from that vat. The aroma was rich and heady, filling his nostrils with warmth. Through the slats in the side of the building, Rob could see rows upon rows of grape vines that stretched off over the sunny hills surrounding this barn.
The scent disappeared suddenly, replaced by acrid cigarette smoke. Giuseppe took a deep drag. He offered one to Rob, who declined at first, then thought when in Rome… and took it. He smoked for years but had quit eleven years ago. So when he lit it, he coughed a few times, earning a harsh scornful stare from Giuseppe, and then was momentarily struck dizzy by the rush of nicotine.
Ah, he loved smoking. Il fumo di sigaretta è il più alto risultato di aria!
For a moment, Rob basked in the warmth of the cigarette smoke. Giuseppe uncorked the wine he had brought for the picnic. He took a long drink from it and passed it wordlessly to Rob, who drank as well. It was fine wine, thick and unctuous on his tongue. It was red, very dark, mysterious and full-bodied, possessing il sapore di mille fasci di oscurità.
“Come-uh here,” Giuseppe said. His voice firm but kind. He led Rob to a grassy spot, where they sat together. The smell of grape-blossoms filled the air, mixing with the heady profumo del vino. Giuseppe smiled nervously. “Do you think I am handsome-uh?” His voice was smooth like a buttery pasta sauce, and it hung low in the air, resonating in Rob’s ear.
Rob blushed. He took a deep drag from the cigarette. He nodded. “You’re real handsome.”
Giuseppe leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Then in one smooth motion, he wrapped Rob up in one arm and laid him on the ground. The wooden floor of the barn scratched at his back.
Rob wasn’t used to being seduced like this. It happened so fast there was a certain instinctual need to protect himself, and he squealed, clutching at Giuseppe’s powerful arms.
Once he was on the ground and didn’t feel like he was falling anymore, Rob kissed Giuseppe on the lips. Giuseppe was slightly hesitant. Rob only really got cornholed by alpha males, who did not normally kiss him, certainly not as part of a passionate make-out session.
But Giuseppe had never been with a woman he didn’t “seduce”. Even when it was obvious early on that she was going to let him have sex with her, Giuseppe always went through the motions of rubbing her shoulders or feet or taking her out on a picnic or doing whatever it took to seduce her. It just felt right to him. Making love to a woman he barely knew, or making love to a woman he did know but doing it in a quick and dirty way just made Giuseppe feel like a filthy manwhore.
He didn’t want to feel like that, and he didn’t want his women to feel like that either. Giuseppe had no experience making love in any other way.
So he let Rob kiss him on the lips. Then he let Rob kiss a trail down his chest. That was weird for Giuseppe — he usually took the lead with his women, and he was the one who showered the other with kisses. It was strange and even a bit ticklish, he thought, to let a man do it.
But soon Giuseppe was laying on the ground, feeling the barn floor beneath his back, as Rob took his handsome uncut cock out and put the tip in his mouth. He looked up at Giuseppe, who made eye contact with him and moaned. Rob cooed in desire at those deep, dark soulful eyes il colore dell’ombra del carbone.
“Succhi il cazzo, per favore, ho bisogno della tua bocca su di me!” Giuseppe let out a moan. Rob couldn’t decide if Giuseppe was still being seductive or not. He had a feeling Giuseppe told girls he loved them all the time when he seduced them, and he was fighting back the urge to say that now out of pure habit.
And he popped the rest of his dick into his mouth, deep-throating him the best he could. Giuseppe was uncut, which Rob thought was hot. He rammed his head all the way down, ingoiare ogni parte della sua virilità virile, figuring that Giuseppe had never been deep-throated like that.
That was true, Giuseppe spent most of his love-making sessions licking his partners’ womanhoods — assaporando il sapore della femminilità and using his tongue to bring them the beatitudine assoluta. That was how a woman could be truly seduced, not just physically, but emotionally e spiritualmente too. He could make her his if he sucked on her pussy in just the right way.
Giuseppe found himself experiencing an orgasm more intense than he thought possible. Without even realizing he was doing it, he had grabbed Rob’s head and held on. He slammed his dick into Rob’s mouth, all the way in, deep into his spasming throat.
“Si, you are-uh… You have-uh…” Giuseppe rolled his eyes as a spasm of pleasure ran up his spine. “You have a mouth-uh, it is made of silk-uh, yes, si? I am, uh, how do you say… in love with your mouth.” He smiled down at Rob and wiped away the moisture that ran down Rob’s cheeks.
The taste of his cock got Rob as hard as a conchiglia too. Giuseppe’s cock tasted, like his sweat, of olive oil and sunlight. It was the tastiest cock Rob had ever mouthed. He relaxed his throat and trusted Giuseppe to make sweet love to his throat until that hairy ballsac slapped against Rob’s chin.
Eventually even Rob needed to take a break, and he pulled away from Giuseppe’s cock. It twitched and leaked precum down the shaft, while Giuseppe’s hairy chest muscles all flexed at once.
“Baciami. Voglio assaporare il mio amore sulle tue labbra,” Giuseppe said. He gently but firmly grabbed Rob and brought his face up to meet Giuseppe’s. Again, Rob never thought Giuseppe would kiss him so much, but he didn’t even seem to mind sucking his own precum off Rob’s face. He planted his lips right on Rob’s, and Rob swooned.
“Will you stick it in me now? Please? I need your cock!” Rob yelled out, begging as he bent over on all fours.
Giuseppe’s dick throbbed above his face, while Rob still hoarsely tried to recover his breath. He kissed every inch of Giuseppe’s thighs and sucked on his body hair, and even his balls while Giuseppe recovered from his orgasm, ignoring his question.
“Yes, I am ready0uh now,” Giuseppe said, when he had regained his composure. Those deep brown eyes were so big Rob lost himself in them, wordlessly craving another kiss, which Giuseppe provided. “I will make-uh sweet and sugared-uh love upon you, my darling-uh.”
Giuseppe enjoyed the lovestruck look on Rob’s face — it felt just as victorious and triumphant as when he made a woman look like that. He had conquered Rob just as he had conquered so many females e li sedusse completamente. Giuseppe stared at his own spit-dripping cock, waiting for himself to calm down enough that he could stick it in without blowing his load right away. He gave it one stroke with his own hand and groaned. He had never felt so horny. He just wanted to get his cock back in a tight, moist hole, and he didn’t care whose.
“I will make-uh you feel like-uh… how do you say?… A hundred-uh dollars-uh!” Giuseppe tried to say that with a cowboy accent, like John Wayne, but it wasn’t very good and Rob didn’t even notice that he was affecting an accent.
Giuseppe decided he was ready as Rob displayed his bare ass and spread his cheeks — which Giuseppe assumed Rob did only because he was so turned on by Giuseppe’s John Wayne impression.
Keeping a firm, flat smile on his face, Giuseppe gulped but pretended not to be nervous. As far as he was concerned, it wasn’t pervy if he was on top — if Giuseppe weren’t so successful with married women, he’d have probably done this multiple times by now, so really, he thought, his lack of practice signified that he was more manly than those mafiosi and thugs who did it on a regular basis. Giuseppe tried to convince himself of that, unsuccessfully, as he blushed and awkwardly wedged his cock between Rob’s cheeks.
He took a deep breath. Before he could start plowing, Rob turned his head and kissed Giuseppe on the lips once more.
“Stick it in me!” Rob said, desperate for it to begin.
“I will-uh enter-uh you now. You will feel-uh much of the pleasure-uh…”
By now, Giuseppe was so aroused to begin with that he kissed back without a second thought — on the mouth this time, with tongue, and with his hands caressing Rob’s body where his tits would be if he had any. He plunged his tongue between Rob’s lips. His arms caressed Rob’s body and spread his asscheeks.
A jolt of pain shot up Rob’s spine, but it lasted only a moment, just long enough to bring the pleasure it came with to the forefront of Rob’s spine. It had been a long time since any man made him feel like this. He wanted to both cry and beg for more allo stesso tempo. He clutched Giuseppe’s well-muscled forearm for support.
Rob quivered just like a girl did when she wanted to get fucked so bad she could taste it. Giuseppe grinned. He loved bringing girls to this state, and, it seemed, he was so sexy he could do it to a man too. Giuseppe thought he should be famous on account of being so prestante.
“Vedi, io sono l’ultimo amante del mondo.”
He slid his dick in. When Rob let out a long, loud moan, Giuseppe again assumed his dick was exceptional and that that was why it felt so good to Rob. He smiled with pride as Rob’s whole body writhed beneath him, and Giuseppe could see the pressure and agony turn to bliss as his dick teased Rob’s prostate.
“Ah, si… Open your bottom-uh…” Giuseppe crooned into Rob’s ear, making Rob cringe and moan. “I will fill you up with love-uh…”
Rob was on all fours, so he couldn’t jack himself off because he used both hands for support. But he could lift his head and lean back, so he could kiss Giuseppe as he got rear-ended. Giuseppe supported his chest with one arm, giving Giuseppe perfect access while making Rob unable to do more than writhe in sync with his penetration.
Actually there was one other thing Rob could do, as his desire to cum built up to explosive levels: He grabbed Giuseppe’s hand and brought it to his cock.
Giuseppe didn’t hesitate. He didn’t know if a reacharound was a normal macho thing to do or not. Probably not, he thought as his hands wrapped around Rob’s shaft. Almost certainly not.
But in the heat of the moment, it seemed decente. Giuseppe was bragging to himself about how much pleasure he was bringing Rob, so it made sense. He had heard men in prison talk of pleasing their “prison wives” with a reacharound, and in the Italian military, officers were allowed to ram at recruits so long as they gave a reacharound (or so the rumors suggested). Giuseppe thought it might be normal in America too. It might even, he decided, be something John Wayne would do.
So he did it. He gripped Rob’s cockshaft and stroked it, somewhat awkwardly because he had never done that, never even touched a limp dick besides his own, much less a stranger’s.
He might have lost his nerve to keep stroking if they hadn’t reached a climax moments later. As soon as he touched Rob’s dick, Rob’s prostate exploded within him, sending pangs of pleasure up Rob’s spine. Rob cried out and went back to all fours, but this time Giuseppe went with him, pounding away and stroking him off.
Rob shot his wad into the dirt, ending up on his side as Giuseppe plowed in with all his potenza. “Oh god!” Rob cried out. He dug his fingers into the soil, bringing up clods of dirt as the most intense orgasm of his life wracked his body.
Cum flowed within Rob, who sighed. He loved that feeling, a man’s heavy balls filling him up, the sensation of creamy cum seeping into his flesh. He became Giuseppe in that moment, as he felt his dick turn all moist and cummy, still rock-hard where it throbbed within Rob.
And then it was all over. Rob gasped for air. His own dick was done, and he felt his climax draining away. Giuseppe’s dick still shot the last few drops of cum before it too limpened inside him. Giuseppe didn’t pull out until then.
“Damn…” Rob said. He leaned back, spread-eagled, on the dirt.
Giuseppe kissed him on the lips once more, then stood. “That was good-uh, si? You will pay?”
Rob nodded. “Yeah. Hand me my pants.” Giuseppe did so, and Rob counted out the money: un migliaio di euro.
Giuseppe took the cash. “You are… You will be in Rome-uh for some time-uh?”
“No,” Rob said. He yawned and stood, stretching his legs before putting his clothes back on. “I’m leaving soon. I’m going back home, to America” He ignored Giuseppe’s annoyed expression — Giuseppe was not used to people breaking up with him. Giuseppe might lose interest, or a husband might come into the picture, or a woman might be forbidden by her father to see him, but Giuseppe was not dumped. That had literally never happened, and Giuseppe’s mind raced to comprehend it.
But Rob was ready to move on. He’d had his fill of Italy, and he was ready to return home.
Rob’s visit to a beer hall results in an encounter with a hunky German in lederhosen and not much else, and before Rob knows it, he’s on his knees again! Can he satisfy this new German alpha?
Read it soon as an ebook!
Read the whole thing here!
Rob was stuffed full of sausage and mustard, and now he was eager to find a different kind of sausage. Over the last couple weeks, Rob had been touring the regions of Germany, and he was now in Berlin, enjoying the sights and sounds of Die graue Stadt. But he’d had enough currywursts and deconstructed plays on sauerkraut. He wanted to experience the real German gestalt.
The city was warm and windy tonight, unseasonably so in the early autumn. The streets were safe, which was unusual for Rob. He was used to calibrating his nighttime exploits by the safety of the different neighborhoods he was in. He’d have never worn these expensive Calaio shoes alone at night in most downtowns of American cities.
Rob wanted to stay outside and enjoy the night, but he didn’t want to waste his time. This vacation wouldn’t last forever, and he shouldn’t waste it doing nothing. It didn’t seem there was anything going on on the streets of Berlin. Not wanting to return to his hotel, he sought out some nightlife.
So he went into the first nightclub he saw. It turned out to be a rather old, not very hip club, playing dansmusik, which was just dorky enough to be charming. There was an accordion, a fat woman singing songs that may have been in Bavarian, it certainly wasn’t standard High German, which Rob spoke well.
The customers swilling down beer and eating yet more of the ever-present German sausages were a wide range of groups, both pairs and larger throngs of friends or families or coworkers, it was hard to tell. They were both men and women, mingling together — flirting? Or were they families? It was hard to tell. The men were not really his type. Rob was a fine connoisseur of the male form, but the men here did not have the kind of physiques worth admiring. They were mostly thin, tall, stately — he liked men who were rough, crude and dangerous. The men here were sparse and unpleasant. The poor women having to sleep with them, it must be like cuddling with a typewriter.
He made his way across the dancefloor. There were a lot of women here, that was the first thing he had noticed. A lot of hot women. The women were hotter than the men were handsome. That did not bode well for his chances of finding a man. A lot of women meant no desperate Manns.
He decided to try his luck elsewhere. There had to be a better nightclub.
So without a pause, he headed out and towards the seedy side of town. He hadn’t gotten very far when he saw a Bier Palas that was still open. It was very touristy, so he wasn’t sure if it was for him. Rob wasn’t in Germany for the tourist stuff — he wanted men. He wanted to touch and taste them, he wanted to savor every drop of German manhood.
But he went to the door just to pop his head inside. It was mostly women, he saw, once again, just like the nightclub (why are there so many German women?! Damn it!). Fat tourists guzzled cheap, watered-down beer. The girls were dressed as frumpy fraus in dirndls, with big tits mostly visible, like if a Hooters restaurant were tossed back in time to the late 19th century.
“Guten Abend.” A man’s dour voice filled the air.
Rob turned around and gulped nervously. Was he in trouble?
The man in front of him was an intimidating sight, broadly muscled, exuding heat and authority. He was nearly seven feet tall and built like a professional wrestler, with arms bigger than Rob’s head and a broad strapping chest like he was part-Volkswagen. He was blond and squarish, with a very Teutonic face and a crooked nose like der Kämpfer. His hair was short and neatly combed. He crossed those massive arms over his chest.
“Oh, hallo,” Rob said. Now that he had taken in the man’s towering physique, Rob was turned on. He also noticed now that this man — Hans according to his nametag — worked for the Bier Palas. He was a bouncer or security guard of some sort. He had that face. A man with a face like that could only ever work security. He was too square-jawed and solid to do any other work.
That meant he was dressed like an employee, in traditional German garb. He wore liederhosen and a green and white shirt. This Bier Palas did not have a uniform that fit him well, so the liederhosen were too short, stopping well above the knee, and his muscles bulged out of the clothes.
The German man grunted. “Are you the thief?”
“What?”
He paused, eyeing Rob up and down. He frowned, and Rob’s heart raced. Hans casually opened Rob’s shirt pocket and peered inside. He wrinkled his nose when he did not find whatever it was he searched for.
“Someone has been picking the pockets of our customers as they leave.” He paused. “Wenn du der Dieb bist, werde ich dich fangen.” He waited for Rob to show he understood the German — which Rob did, but poorly enough he could pretend he didn’t.
Rob nodded. “Oh, yeah, I swear, that wasn’t me. I don’t do that. I actually have plenty of money,” he said. “I wanted to ask you something. My name is Rob,” he said. He blushed and stammered because Hans was such an imposing figure wie eine Statue eines heidnischen Gottes. “I wanted to offer you a job, of sorts. It’s not the kind of job you are used to, I assume-“
“Please be quick.” He inhaled deeply and glowered at Rob. “I have a firm schedule. It must not be deviated from. I am to return to work, as I have job duties that are mine to perform shortly.”
“Oh, yes, well, I can offer you money,” Rob said. “If you’re not comfortable with it, that’s fine, I don’t want to hold you up-“
“Then hurry and say.”
“I will pay you five hundred euros to cornhole me.” He paused, but Hans had no reaction. “Are you okay? What do you think?” He tweaked Hans’s bicep, which was harder than Rob expected, Hans must have been an amateur bodybuilder, he thought, with skin like Alabasterstein. He laughed and stroked it again, but Hans pushed his hand away. For a moment though, Rob’s hand stayed there, atop Hans’s rippling muscles.
“You are offering me money to handle my penis. You will masturbate it, and you will use your mouth, yes?”
“Well… Yes, that’s right,” Rob said. “Very efficiently stated. No romance at all, perfect.”
“What?”
“Nothing, I was just teasing you, Hans.”
“Do not. It is waste of time, yes? I have schedule. You have schedule. Let us reach conclusion.”
“I don’t actually have a schedule.”
“You are just wandering? Loosey the goosey?” He waved his arms around in a way that maybe was, to Germans, reminiscent of a loose goose. Rob didn’t get it.
“Sorry, I was just… I don’t like to schedule every second of my time,” Rob said. He sighed. “Do you want to do it or not?”
He flared his nostrils. “Yes. I will do. But I will not interrupt my workplace. That would be inefficient. I have a job to do.” He pointed to a door in the alley, behind the door into the Bier Palas. “Go in there and wait.”
He didn’t stick around to see if Rob would do it. Rob hesitated but did so. It was a small vestibule with a locked door on the other side, beyond which were a few offices. Rob guessed these were the administrative offices for the Bier Palas.
After an hour or so, Hans returned. He still had his lederhosen on, his powerful thighs filling them out nicely. It looked like they didn’t have liederhosen in a size big enough to fit him, so he practically bulged out of the trousers. He came into the small vestible, locked the door behind himself and frowned at Rob.
“Do it.”
Rob’s eyes opened wide. “Uh… Hans? You mean-?”
Hans’s lips were pursed. “I said do it. You want me to give penis, you must do it.”
“Oh, yeah, okay. I just thought, uh…”
Hans stood there stiff as a board, arms crossed over his massive chest. He was so tall Rob could barely reach his shoulders at all. Rob touched Hans’s flat stomach through his shirt, then started to lift it over his chest. The blond hairs on his belly were fine und Weich, and his skin was perfectly smooth, soft as butter in a churn. His six-pack rippled beneath Rob’s touch.
Hans stopped him. “You said you wished to have dick of mine. Like oral and anal penis? Yes?”
“Uh, well… yeah.”
“You do not need to take my shirt off. It could become wrinkled. It would be inefficient,” Hans said.
“Oh. I, uh… I mean, I think if I am paying for it… It would be nice… Okay, fine…” Rob’s voice trailed off. Hans narrowed his eyes to slits, and Rob realized it was best to just move on. He didn’t mind jacking off Manns in clothes.
Hans wore lederhosen, which were like britches and overalls combined, so they were held up with straps that ran over his chest. His pectoral muscles bulged against the straps. Rob was going to undo the straps, but Hans raced to do it like he was in a hurry. He gently but firmly pushed Rob to his knees.
“You are wasting time,” Hans said. “I have the schedule, yes? It is to follow. Hurry to complete your tasks, please.” His ill-fitting lederhosen were tight around the knees, so they didn’t fall all the way down. They just lowered enough to give Rob access zu seinem Schritt, clad in plain, unadorned but perfectly clean briefs. Rob thought that was cute: virtually no men between eighteen and eighty wore briefs back in America.
Hans took his briefs down, again doing it before Rob could. Rob couldn’t tell if Hans was in a hurry now because he wanted to get this over with (perhaps worried he’d get caught) or if he was embarrassed about it or if Hans simply never dawdled. He had a feeling it was the latter.
His dick bobbed and weaved. Rob hesitated, smirking until Hans took charge and dropped his cocktip into Rob’s mouth. Rob started jacking then, teasing the tip and sliding his tongue over the shaft and into Hans’s pisshole.
An emotionless grunt escaped from Hans’s mouth. His Schwanz twitched, then began to stiffen up in Rob’s mouth. Rob’s hands roamed up to his chest, underneath his shirt, and he managed to just barely reach the bottom of Hans’s pecs. Hans snarled and looked displeased, but he didn’t make Rob stop feeling him up.
“Stop.” Hans’s voice filled the vestibule.
Rob looked up at him. He pulled off Hans’s cock but left it there resting above his head. He licked the underside of the shaft. Hans showed no pleasure on his face, which made Rob giggle.
“If you wish to do it in anal manner, you must do it now.” Hans motioned for him to turn around. “It is best to do it with you an all four of your hands and feet. Stick your buttocks high in the air.”
Rob scoffed. “I know how to do it-“
“Then do it! Why do Americans dilly-dally so much?”
“Okay, first of all,” Rob said as he bent over. “I was technically born in Toronto. Second of all, how did you learn the word dilly-dally? No one says that-“
“Shut up. All Americans say they are Canadian.”
Rob was bent over now in front of him, and he had to drop to his knees to get himself lined up with Hans’s manhood. He still hadn’t taken off his lederhosen, which were around his ankles, or his traditional shirt, which he just unbuttoned near the bottom to give himself unfettered access to Rob’s ass.
He drilled into Rob’s ass without any fanfare. He didn’t give Rob much of a chance to adjust to it either. He just slammed his Schwanz in and kept pushing, even as Rob writhed and cried out. Intense pressure erupted in Rob’s behind, along with a burst of pleasure, moving in a long low wave up his spine. Rob yelped and clenched his mouth shut, and he writhed beneath Hans’s powerful body.
“You must open your buttocks hole,” Hans grunted. He smacked Rob’s asscheeks. “Relax it. Make it be open. It is not open adequately enough. I struggle to insert my penis.”
“Yeah, I know how, thanks,” Rob said through gritted teeth. “I get it. You’re very clear, Hans.” The pain was substantial. He wasn’t sure if Hans had never done this, or if he’d only done it with very slutty women with loose asses, or maybe only with kinky women who enjoyed their anal sex painful. Or maybe this was just how it went in Germany, Rob thought, and it was expected to be difficult.
Soon, Rob’s ass did adjust, despite Hans pounding away at it. Rob gripped the floor and howled in both pain and pleasure. The pain, however, slowly diminished with each thrust of Hans’s cock inside him. The pleasure grew and grew, until Rob was covered in sweat and moaning, his voice staggering and breaking eahc time Hans’s cock rammed at his prostate.
His prostate sent wave after wave of bliss through his veins. Once he got used to it, Rob enjoyed Hans’s rough, awkward way of cornholing. It was very efficient — he got his dick in right away, and every time he thrust, he brought his cock virtually all the way out, so just the tip remained in Rob’s ass, then he plowed all the way in until his balls slapped against Rob’s body.
Whenever Rob shifted his weight, Hans wordlessly brought him back to the position he was in to begin with. Hans kept Rob perfectly straight in front of his body, centered, so that when Hans penetrated him, he could go in perfectly straight and symmetrically, right down the middle.
“Goddamn…” Rob cried out. He stroked himself off as he got cornholed deep in his ass, and he lowered his head until Hans forced him back into position once more.
“Wait.” Hans stopped with his dick all the way in Rob. He reached for the lederhosen around his waist. His cock was so big that Rob mewled and whimpered, and he squirmed, but Hans stopped him. “I said wait. There is no need to make any noise.”
“I’m sorry, it feels so good. I can’t help it.”
“It is inefficient. Someone may hear you, and you may disturb their sleep,” Hans said.
“It’s just difficult, sorry, sorry-” Rob panted. He couldn’t stay quiet, and the more he tried, the more his panting turned into loud groans and moans, wordless begging for more. Rob couldn’t see Hans’s face, but he sensed the look of disapproval that flitted over it. Rob said, “Sorry, I’m tryin’ — I’m not used to havin’ to be sneaky. When it feels good, I make sounds-“
“Hush. That is not necessary.” Hans pulled a small paper bag out of his pocket. Inside was a styrofoam container — leftovers from lunch. He kept his dick in Rob’s ass as he opened it up. The smell of yet more sausage and the tangy scent of sauerkraut flooded Rob’s senses. Pleasure coursed through his veins, made stronger by the fact that Hans’s cock remained motionless on Rob’s prostate, relentlessly and endlessly triggering the potent sensations that wracked Rob’s body.
“Are you-?”
“Hush. Ich muss jetzt essen,” Hans said. “I will finish when I am ready.”
“Oh, I-“
“Hush.” Inside the container was about a third of a sausage resting on a bed of sauerkraut. He used a clean fork to spear the sausage, then cut a bite off it with a sharp knife he took from a pittle pouch attached to the side of the food container. He took a bite of the sausage. “I saved this from my lunch to eat on my home after work. That would be now, if I weren’t here with you. In order to keep to my schedule, I will eat now.”
“Oh.” That still seemed weird to Rob, but it was hard to think about anything except that massive Teutonic cock in his ass, throbbing and pulsating, occupying all of Rob’s senses. Rob sucked in his breath. Hans took another bite of the sausage.
The smell of sausage and potently funky sauerkraut filled the air. It was enough to cut through the intense sensations rsouroiling Rob’s body. His voice broke and he lowered his body, jutting his ass back um es tiefer auf den Schwanz zu pochen, der in seinem Arsch pocht. Hans grunted but didn’t complain, he just used a plastic fork to eat sauerkraut from the to-go container.
Then he spent an inordinate amount of time cleaning up, all still without moving a muscle, that massive cock still throbbing against Rob’s prostate. Hans put the plastic fork, the container and the napkins he had used back into the to-go bag he had come with. He carefully folded the top of the paper bag, then placed it by the door to grab on the way out.
“Okay, can we finish?” Rob asked. He was getting annoyed. He had paid for this, after all, and Hans had forbidden him from touching his chest or removing his shirt, had strictly decided on the position he would take, right down to the orientation of his head, which didn’t even affect Hans, and now he made Rob wait while he ate leftovers. It hardly seemed fair to pay for that. Wasn’t the customer always right?
But when Rob turned his head to say something, he saw Hans’s broad chest muscles flexing beneath his shirt, ruddiness running up his neck to the pale skin of his cheeks as he resumed cornholing Rob. He put headphones on too, so Rob realized there was no point in complaining, Hans wouldn’t hear. Hans forced Rob’s head to face forward again.
Then he began plowing hard, his orgasm slowly building. He finally moved as he went, lowering himself, first to pin Rob down and in place, then as Hans reached orgasm, he got lower and lower.
Soon that seven-foot tall body landed on Rob, pinning him to the floor. Rob struggled to breathe, but he didn’t complain — he loved it. He finally sensed some passion and real desire in Hans’s body. Hans breathed heavily and grunted.
“Okay, I am going to finish now, cowboy. I am going to shoot my semen into your ass, and you will take every drop. That is the plan, do you understand it?” His voice was still flat and firm, but there was a note of urgency now, like he raced to say this before he finally shot his wad.
“Yes, okay!” Rob cried out the best he could beneath Hans’s chest. Since Hans was so tall, Rob was crushed beneath his chest and flat stomach, so Hans could feel his pecs on the back of his head. Rob’s own face was above the floor, Rob’s entire body squirming beneath Hans’s muscles, which were like a blanket that weighed him down.
He still had those headphones on, and his eyes were closed. Pulsating Technomusik was audible from the headphones, and it pounded like a soundtrack as Hans rutted. Hans grunted, a few drops of spit slipping past his lips and onto Rob’s cheeks.
Then, finally, he was done, and cum filled Rob up. He shot a massive load, thick and milky, which seeped into Rob’s flesh. Its heat overwhelmed him, along with the body heat of Hans’s broad muscles, until Rob could feel it all over himself, like he had been literally covered inside and out.
“Aaaaah.…” Hans moaned directly into Rob’s ear. Then he wrapped one of those powerful corded-muscle arms around Rob’s thin, reedy chest. He lifted Rob up.
The other orgasm running through Rob was so intense he had little awareness of what was happening. He didn’t get why Hans lifted him up, not until Hans’s hand reached around to Rob’s own cock and touched it.
Rob couldn’t speak right now, so he didn’t ask why Hans gave him a reacharound — and he wouldn’t have asked even if he could, because he worried asking would make Hans realize he didn’t need to and therefore stop.
Hans actually just thought this was part of it. He found it distasteful, but it was just a handjob. He kept his limpening dick in Rob’s ass — he just assumed that was what most men did, because it seemed logical and efficient — as he stroked him off.
Since he had just gotten plowed and Hans’s cock still teased his prostate, Rob began orgasming basically the moment Hans started stroking him off. He writhed, impaled on Hans’s dick, wrapped up in his pale stone-like arms.
Finally cum sprayed over Hans’s fingers and onto the floor. Rob cried out, his whole body vibrating in a ferocious frenzy that was only more intense because Rob knew how much he stood out — Hans barely moved at all, no more than necessary, so Rob’s wild motions seemed odd and unsuitable to Hans.
Not that he would ever say that. Hans was intensely aware of the sticky cum dripping from his fingers, but he didn’t let himself get bothered by it. He waited until Rob was done shooting his wad.
Then Hans let go. His dick flopped out, and Rob toppled to the ground, letting out a loud post-orgasmic sigh. Hans stood. He shook his dick between his fingers, then grabbed the remaining napkins from his to-go bag.
He quickly and efficiently wiped up his own hands and cock, then he even wiped up the cum off the floor and off Rob’s ass. He threw the napkins back into the bag that waited by the door to be thrown away. He pulled his lederhosen back up, cursing at the sight of a few drops of cum that had hit the fabric.
“I will have to wash these now. You must pay extra,” Hans said. “Hand over the money now. Five hundred and twenty euros.”
Rob didn’t really think it was reasonable to pay to clean the lederhosen. If it was up to him, after all, he’d have had Hans take his clothes off, and they wouldn’t have gotten cum-stained.
But Hans didn’t look like he would entertain any haggling. That was something Rob had noticed in Germany so far — no haggling, no special deals or sales, just plain posted prices. It was nice, he thought, even if annoying at times.
He handed over the five hundred and twenty euros, then smiled at Hans. “Thanks for that.”
He nodded. “I hope you have a good time in Germany, sir.” Then he added. “It is simply inspiring.” He smiled, which was awkward on his big squarish face. “Simply Inspiring” was the tourism slogan of Germany and was printed back in that Bier Palas in several languages on one of the walls.
But Rob didn’t know that. He just thought Hans was awkwardly describing Germany as “simply inspiring”. He nodded and smiled. “Oh. Yeah. Cool. Germany’s, uh… been nice.”
“Good. Tell the tourism board I am nice to tourists and I do not frighten you even though I am very big, tell them that,” he said. He nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
He turned around and left, grabbing the paper bag to throw away before he was gone. He put his headphones back on too, and before Rob could even say goodbye, Hans was gone, tapping his feet to the sound of techno before he got on a bus going home.
Rob smiled when he finally left the vestibule. He had done what he set out to do in Germany, he thought, and he was ready to move on.
Rob’s stranded on the side of the road in Sweden, where he ends up in the barn of the depressive macho farmer Olle Andersson… can he ease Olle’s woe and his need for man-on-man action?!
Read the whole thing here!
This skier, Rob thought, had better be worth it. He wished he had stayed in Stockholm until the weather changed, so he could fly. But after a week in that dismal, gray little city, he was ready to move on.
Sweden, thus far, had been a bust. Boring. Cold. Gray. Not even cold or gray enough to be interesting though. It was precisely as boring, cold and gray as a frozen block of wet newspaper, and it was about as interesting.
The men were skinny prettyboys who weren’t pretty, a milquetoast collection of duds, sour-faced and scrawny like petrified herring. Oh, there were hot Swedettes a plenty: blondes with blue eyes and alluring grins, Saami babes with thickness in all the right spots, even a bubbling squadron of ladies who had filled up the Pressbyrån convenience store that Rob was trying to get gas in at the time — they carried hockey sticks and other gear which Rob later discovered was technically for a sport called bandy, which was hockey using a ball instead of a puck.
Rob set off to look for an allegedly handsome skier Johan Ström. He wasn’t Swedish — Johan was actually Norwegian, but he lived in Sweden, supposedly.
Even that trek to the other side of the country had turned boring and banal. Rob just wanted to go back to his hotel. This whole mission was getting boring. Sweden was a drab green, cloudy, full of emotionless skinny men who made Rob’s dick shrivel up at the sight of them. They all appeared to be sucking on a lemon, Rob thought, but that couldn’t be true because there were no lemons here — that would have been too much flavor for Swedish cuisine. This was a country of heavy, dull carbs with the taste cooked out of them. Here, porridge had been the most delightful thing Rob had yet eaten. It tasted of nothing, which was a step up from other Swedish food.
He was driving through Västergötland in the southwest when his car stalled. It happened suddenly, as he was coasting to a stop near a farm. There was a stop-sign for no obvious reason. No intersection to stop at, just a stop sign like a cry for help from the land itself, begging for a break in the relentless march to the post-capitalist industrial hellscape of the inevitable future.
The car emitted a dull wheeze like a dying reindeer, then shuddered to a soul-shattering stop. Rob tried the key a few times, but it was dead. As if to punctuate the point, there was a cluddy thunking sound and then all of the lights on the dashboard turned on. After a moment, they all turned off. The car had never been more silent.
“Fucking damn it! Sweden is the worst!” Rob got out of the car and muttered obscenities to himself. There was mud and mire everywhere, the ground a soggy, grass-dappled wasteland.
He could either call for an Uber or a tow or call the car-rental company or walk to the farmhouse he saw just over yonder. He figured this area was so rural, he’d probably be waiting awhile regardless, so he headed towards the farmhouse. He called the car-rental agency, and they said they’d send him a replacement car.
What were they growing here?
Rob couldn’t tell. This was some sort of root vegetable, he suspected — though not potatoes. The leaves looked like marigolds, he thought, but were much too long and bunchy, and there were no flowers that he could see. Maybe kale? It looked vaguely kale-esque. Were kale roots edible?
The door to the farmhouse opened well before Rob got there. Out walked an incredible man.
Rob stopped short, both because his eyes opened wide and his heart skipped a beat, and because he wondered if he was in trouble. Would he be perceived as a trespasser? Was this man the studliest Swede?
He very well might have been.
The man stood solidly in front of the farmhouse. He wore a ruddy brown and orange shirt under a navy blue coat and black trousers that ended at the knee, his ankles covered by long white socks. Though his clothing was ill-matched and rough, he had an intensely arousing physique, a splendid work-hewn frame. He was one of the biggest and strongest men Rob had seen in weeks. He was tall and broad, muscular like only a farmworker could be, with layers of heft upon muscle upon brawn. His hair was long and scraggly like a Viking, and it extended well past his shoulders.
“Hallå,” he said gruffly when Rob was close enough to hear him. His voice had a low throaty growl to it.
“Hej,” Rob said, in his rudimentary Swedish. He blushed. “My name is Rob.”
The farmer grunted, eyeing him suspiciously. His gray-blue eyes reflected the limpid white clouds behind Rob.
“Uh, well, sorry for just barging in on your farm. I’m having car trouble out on the road over there — see, you can see my car from here-“
“I know.”
Rob’s face bloomed red, and he scratched his chin. “Ah… You… You already knew I had car trouble?”
“I witnessed it.” His deep voice boomed in Rob’s ears. He sighed as though surrendering to unseen forces. “You may come in. Do you wish to use the telefon?”
“Uh, no, my cell phone is fine, I just called the car rental company,” Rob said. “Thanks though.” He came in and instantly winced as the foulest odor he’d ever had the misfortune of smelling hit his nose. It was like a fish farted out a different, deader fish in an ocean made of skunk-spray. It smelled so bad, so strongly, that it had a physical presence — Rob had to walk through it like it was a rank cotton ball in the air, it seeped into his pores, and he doubled over. “Oh god-“
“Yes, it is bad. I am sorry, I did forget du är amerikan. That smell is surströmming.” He pointed to a can open on the table. Inside was some goo Rob couldn’t bear to look at more closely — it was fish. Was the farmer really eating that stuff? Had Rob interrupted the world’s most disgusting lunch? It did not smell edible.
The farmer waited for a moment, and when it became apparent that Rob was not going to acclimate to this smell, he rolled his eyes and motioned for Rob to come with him. “It is a smell you must get used to.”
“Not with this nose!” Rob said, still gagging even when he finally got out into the fresh air. “Oh god, that was nasty. You eat that stuff?”
He nodded. “It is a Swedish custom.”
“That is a terrible custom,” Rob said, “Absolutely terrible. Get better customs.” He straightened his back. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude-“
“No, not at all, I do not eat it around outsiders because they react as you do. Even most Swedes do not eat it these days,” he said. He sounded mournful, and he looked down at the ground as he led Rob towards a barn. “The old traditions are dying, gentle Rob. They die not like the turnip, which sweetens and grows in quality as it lays dormant in the winter, but rather like the gray clouds themselves, which dissipate into gentle rain and then… nothingness.” He scoffed. “Bah. It rains again.” Sure enough, a fine mist was starting to fall, and a chill was in the air. “Always it is rain. Regnet är ett lager av död på mig. The sky is as sour as life itself. I do not weep it.”
“Oh.” Rob was overwhelmed by the dour man’s aura of angst. Was he suicidal?
Another chill ran up Rob’s spine at the sight of a small gravestone near the barn. It read min älskade Elsa — my beloved Elsa — but had nothing else, no date of birth nor of death, nor any symbols or markings. It was a smallish gravestone, making Rob wonder if it was a child’s. But the look the farmer gave it as they passed was more one of intimate love. Rob could see sweetly summer nights reflected in his eyes, and he knew then that it was no child: it was a wife.
“Yes, that is min älskade Elsa. It is her loss that makes the summertimes so gray. Light itself mourns her,” the farmer said. He looked to Rob and sighed again as though even sighing was an imposition. “I am sorry in my apologizery, I forget my manners. My name is Olle Andersson.”
“Hej Olle. It is nice to meet you.” Rob was lying though. Olle was depressing, and Rob felt tired, like something heavy and oppressive was weighing upon his very soul. Every step grew arduous.
“You can wait for a new car in here, on your precious app that you cling to like a raft in the tumultuous sea of progress,” he said.. “This barn is very nice, there is water and a toilet.” He pointed to a long trough-like sink, presumably for washing the turnips that were heaped up along the wall like forgotten orphans. A door in one corner presumably led to the bathroom.
Aside from smelling earthy and turnipy, it was indeed nice in here. The smell was pleasant in comparison to the surströmming that lingered in Rob’s nostrils. He let the cool farm breeze waft the stink free from his nostrils.
“I’ve never been in a barn this nice. I like it, it’s homey and cozy, it gives me a feeling I can’t quite name…” Rob said. The emotion he was unable to name was mys, and it was as uncommon as pineapple on Olle’s farm. The barn was the only vestige of mys left in this land.
“It will be gone soon.”
“Oh.” Rob was beginning to get depressed too. Olle’s mood was catching.
“The bank is foreclosing on my farm. They will replace it with an electrical substation. I am but the tracks upon which the train of time progresses,” Olle said, his voice flat and squalid. He grabbed a hacka and hung his head, leaning on it. His grim mood had almost made Rob forget how arousing he was, but when he lifted the hacka off its spot mounted on the wall, he had to raise those beefy farm-working arms. Rob saw them bulge against the stiff fabric of his shirt. “Bah! Bättre brödlös än rådlös.”
“How much do you owe the bank?” Rob asked. “Because I have ten thousand krona in my pocket, and I’m looking for someone who can do something for me.”
For the first time, Olle looked genuinely interested in Rob. His eyebrows raised. “Giving me money would be a waste. I have no skills but the growing of turnips.” He picked one up. “Like my beloved Elsa, this turnip is hard and rough to the touch but beautiful and nourishing to the soul.” He bit into it, through the dirt that clung to the skin, his massive teeth tearing into it — were turnips even edible raw? Rob hadn’t thought so, but Olle didn’t seem to mind — and chewed on the bit of turnip in his mouth, clumps cascading out and clapping moistly onto the ground. “But I am, unlike the lowly turnip, worth nothing. I am best replaced by an electrical substation.”
“Oh, no, Olle… You are, uh… Not… Don’t be, uh… sad,” Rob said. He wasn’t very good at cheering people up, and the more time he spent with Olle, the more depressed they both became.
“Bah. I shall stoically surrender to the maw of progress. Let time devour me like so many salted herring,” Olle said with a dismissive wave of his giant hand. He sat and leaned against a mound of turnips. “I will not do your work. Ten thousand krona is not enough to save the farm. It can only buy me a few months, perhaps, at best. Life is an exercise in grayest futility, a sisyphean chore with neither end nor beginning, only an enduring middle. Do not bother to help me. I am strong but dumb like a getabock.” He tapped himself on the skull. “I don’t have all my horses in the stable.”
“That’s fine. I don’t need brains,” Rob said. “Will you cornhole me?”
Olle looked up after a few moments of pondering his words, like it took him that time for Rob’s meaning to sink through the fog of his mind. He grunted. “What?”
“I want to jack you off, and I want to feel you inside me. Is that okay? Can you do that? I’ll give you ten thousand krona. Actually, I’ll give you all the cash I’ve got in my pocket. That’s ten thousand krona, and some Canadian dollars and like two hundred euros. I don’t even know what it all adds up to.”
“And you will… stroke on my penis? Why?”
“Cuz I’m horny.” Rob shrugged. He actually intended to say more — he wanted to taste Olle’s dick because he needed an affectionate touch, because Olle seemed so down, because it was the only spark that could lighten such grayness as hung over Sweden’s much today.
But Olle’s sadness had caught, and Rob had not the energy nor the vitality to explain himself more fully.
Olle furrowed his thick brow again like this didn’t compute. “Are you aroused by turnips?” He picked one up. “Riken är en sexig grönsak. Det påminner mig om Elsa. Turnips smell of her delicate womanhood, and I do miss it so.”
“No, Olle, I’m aroused by you. You’re really intense. You-“
“False.” Olle stood up and sighed. “Fine. Yes. You may do it. It is, at least, more pleasant than washing turnips and praying for the sweet release of death.”
“Yeah… Yeah, that’s… true. It is better than that,” Rob said. He felt like a giddy idiot because Olle was so sullen and aloof. Olle stood still in front of him. Rob was much shorter than he was, so he started by having him shrug off that coat, and then he lifted off the shirt.
Olle stood there, his big broad chest gleaming a porcelain vitblek — obviously he rarely went shirtless in the sun. A layer of blond hair covered his massive pecs, and his fleshy belly was flat, another layer of hair leading over it to his crotch.
“Damn, Olle… No one ever told you you’re handsome. Not Elsa?”
“Bah! Yes, of course, she did say it, but she suffered from the cruel illness that the Danes call true love,” he said. “It blinded her to the truth. Oh what a fool she was. A lovely fool, perfection incarnate, now swallowed by gray nothingness.”
“Okay, Olle, relax,” Rob said. He clutched his chest, kneading the meaty part of his belly — he very nearly had a six-pack, but had just a bit of thickness there, probably, Rob thought, because he ate a ton of carb-heavy turnips. His pecs were nice and heavy too, radiating power even as Olle frowned and ignored Rob’s touch. They weren’t like hard and unyielding stones either, they were booming and manlig and hairy and Rob could feel Olle’s powerful heart beating beneath them.
He sucked on Olle’s nipple, while one hand snuck under the waistband of his trousers. Olle twitched like this had only just now become real, like he had barely noticed until now, as Rob’s hands slipped into his crotch. Rob gripped his cock and squeezed.
It was just as big as he was, Rob though, as wide as a turnip but still soft. He’s not too depressed to get hard, is he? Rob hoped not — antidepressants could cause erectile dysfunction, he remembered reading that somewhere. Olle certainly ought to be on antidepressants.
But before Rob even got those trousers down, Olle’s cock twitched once more, pulsating under his grasp. Olle let out a moan that somehow sounded both pleasurable and sad, som början till en sorglig sång. Rob wanted to sing along with it, but the tune, he suspected, would make Olle cry if he heard another voice sing it.
“You touch me like Elsa…” Olle wiped a single tear away.
“Uh-huh.” Rob decided his best course of action was to just plow forward. Olle obviously was going to continue to pine for Elsa and bemoan his various fates as long as Rob listened. So he just stroked Olle’s manhood as he kissed his way down Olle’s torso.
It popped out, fresh from the dark and damp of his pants but smelling of stale sweat and old turnips, with a bit of that rotten fish-smell to provide a bit of funk. It wasn’t exactly a good smell, of course, but Rob inhaled it deeply as he lowered his head and got to work.
“Her soul lingers here,” Olle said as his dick stiffened up. He turned to face the turnips instead of Rob. “I tell myself that she would have me live on, to endure despite the unbearable grimness of being. But I do not believe it. I am a liar. I can feel her judgments upon me. Oh, my American friend, how I wish I could be carefree as you are.” He plopped back down on his ass on the floor, sprawled out on a bed of turnips, which rolled over the barn.
“I’m not that carefree,” Rob said him, before he went right back to Olle’s cock, which flopped free and slapped against his belly when he laid down. Rob licked him from root to tip, and a shudder of visible pleasure ran up Olle’s spine. At last it was as firm as the uncooked turnips that filled the barn.
But he only moaned as though sad still, even as his dick leaked precum onto Rob’s tongue. Rob deep-throated Olle to the root, his nose nuzzling the warmth and the light brown hair of his crotch, som smakade av ren mark och natt. There, at the base of his dick, was where the earthy soil smell was greatest, and it finally wiped away the last of the surströmming from Rob’s nose.
“This pleasure is a curse. Må min förmögenhet slå mig död, for I can not take this any longer.” Olle’s baritone voice resonated in the high-ceilinged barn.
Rob lifted his head. “Sorry… are you…? Did you want me to stop?”
Olle frowned at him. “No. Do not stop-“
“Oh. You said it was a curse, I just thought-“
“It is utter torture that I should feel pleasure without my Elsa. I am not worthy of it. Min älskade Elsa, how I crave you instead of this wanton lust! I should burn this money and let the bank take my farm, they can sell my battered corpse to the electric company,” he said with an air of resignation on his squarish face He looked back down at Rob and thwacked him across the face with his dick. “Why did you stop?”
“I, uh… You said…” Rob shrugged. He kissed the tip of Olle’s cock. “Are you ready to cornhole me?”
“Yes. You must ride me. Standing is such sweet sorrow. I do not wish for min älskade Elsa to witness me standing for such perversity — I-” He paused and looked at Rob, who used Olle’s thick body for support as he mounted him. Olle cleared his throat. “It is perverse to bring pleasure into a world so saddened by the relentless onslaught of time-“
“Uh-huh.” Rob had to spread his legs wide to fit atop Olle, who continued, ignoring Rob and gesticulating wildly upward, as though he blamed his barn’s roof for all of his misfortune.
Rob didn’t mind having to ride him. Olle’s dick was thick and knobbly like a turnip, and it could easily hurt if he didn’t take it gently. Rob always carried lube in his pocket, so he got his ass good and slick before sitting on Olle’s shaft.
“-Att skiljas är att dö en smula!-” Olle shouted. But Rob had stopped listening as he strained to accept that massive cock. Olle didn’t seem to notice that no one listened but the turnips.
Only when Rob had it in and had sunk down a few inches did Olle stop wailing. Olle’s muscles lay limp, like he was too tired already to even raise his head and look at his dick sliding upwards into Rob’s ass. Rob had to lean on his chest, kneading his muscles as he sank lower and lower.
“Goddamn…” Rob grunted and took a deep breath. At last he felt coarse pubic hairs scratching at his ass, and a moan of unadulterated pleasure escaped from Olle’s lips.
Rob kept his hands on those bulging pecs, which flexed as Olle twisted back and forth without lifting his head up. His arms flailed among the turnips piled around him. Rob played with the sweat-dappled blond chest hairs too, giggling at the sight of Olle groaning and showing a little emotion, just a fleeting bit of bliss visible on his face.
Then, at last, Olle actually gripped Rob’s waist and helped him ride his cock up and down. Rob sighed and moaned along with Olle — adding a sweeter, more mellifluous sound than Olle’s dirge-like wail — as he squeezed his ass on Olle’s cock.
It was as good as Rob could ever have expected. He didn’t know a depressive man like Olle could even cornhole half as good as this. His dick raged inside Rob, finding his prostate and stimulating it until Rob couldn’t take it anymore. His dick was everywhere inside him, and Rob felt his precum flow freely.
Rob stroked himself off, but then found that Olle took his dick in hand. Rob was shocked — he hadn’t asked for that, but Olle, it seemed didn’t mind. He stroked Rob with his big meaty hand, caked with dirt from the turnips. He stroked it furiously, in sync with Rob’s rising up and down on his dick.
It felt like they continued forever, but Rob knew it couldn’t have been very long because his phone didn’t ring to tell him the car rental agency had sent his replacement. It simply felt like a long time because it was the most potent orgasm Rob had experienced since beginning his trip.
“Oh god, Olle!”
Rob’s orgasm began at both ends, with cum spraying into his ass and coating his prostate, just as he reached his own climax in Olle’s hands. Rob cried out and buckled when sheer pleasure washed through him and wracked his body. He gulped, biting his lip so hard he drew blood.
Olle’s squarish jaw clenched shut, and he didn’t even seem to notice Rob shooting his load all over Olle’s bear-like paws and onto his hairy chest. Still more came, wad after wad of creamy juice that coated Olle’s broad body in Rob’s sticky warmth.
The load in his ass was huge too, flowing into him like a river, more and more, gobs of it until Rob could feel it throughout his body and dripping out onto the dirt floor of the barn.
That single glorious moment seemed to last forever. Rob wanted to beg for more, but at the same time, this was too intense to endure. At last, he could take it no longer, and he lifted his ass off Olle’s cock, bit by bit, inch by inch.
Olle showed no emotion, even as Rob panted with anticipation, until Rob’s ass finally slipped off. Then Olle grunted and his whole body writhed. A second little mini-orgasm hit Rob like a steamship as his sensitive asshole adjusted to being empty, and Rob knelt in front of Olle’s still-prone body.
He licked up all the cum that clung to Olle’s big bear-like chest, savoring the sticky-sweetness of his own load. Then he curled up next to Olle, pushing aside turnips to make room. He nuzzled Olle’s bicep.
“Thanks, Olle. I’m glad you’re, you know… slogging through, despite all that… woe you’re experiencing.”
But Olle just nodded. “You will have to go soon. Darkness will fall, and then, I must be alone to experience… myself. Do not return, for I shall be replaced by a power line.”
Rob sighed. “Okay. I won’t be back,” he said.
Rob is in the Solomon Islands, where he meets a well-muscled stud, Hadisi Mae. Before Rob knows it, he’s on his knees servicing this magnificent Melanesian alpha! Can he please Hadisi?
Read it soon as an ebook!
Read the whole thing here!
Rob watched the musicians play. The air was humid and even in the limited clothes he wore, he was already hot and sweaty. He thought he should change into the traditional garb of a Solomon Islander man, but he already thought the locals were making fun of his appearance and he didn’t want to worsen that problem — a dozen children had gathered to laugh at him and shout at him in their language (probably Kwara’ae, but Rob couldn’t be sure). It wasn’t meant to be mean on their part, but Rob still didn’t like looking like an outsider. Among other reasons, it meant he was less likely to get the kind of open, frank conversations he needed with the locals.
The village was beautiful, and was worth the trip. Rob had never seen anything like it, not even in all his voyages around the Pacific and abroad. He stood underneath a house — all of the homes here were on elevated stilts — as the music began.
It was very nice music, in its own way. Rob wasn’t about to throw away his Violent Femmes albums and listen to nothing else, but it was appealing in its way. It was called “bamboo music” in English: it was created by slapping bamboo tubes with an object, or slamming the bamboo tubes down on an object, usually a rock but sometimes a sandal or whatever else was at hand. It produced an oddly compelling percussive tune that Rob enjoyed. There was a pleasant fluteiness to the music’s breathy tenor, like a panpipe with a rhythmic drum-like sound or perhaps more like another percussive idiophone, a mbira or a Jew’s harp.
But the music wasn’t really why Rob was here. It was the purpose of the trip, but it wasn’t why Rob had made the trip — he worked for a world music company, looking for new styles to record. He could have declined this voyage, however. There was a new woman working for the company who was Papuan — not the same as a Solomon Islander, but still, it gave her a racial and cultural link that Rob simply didn’t have. He could have begged off the trip and given it to her. He was busy with the liner notes for a Hawaiian album, and Hawaiian music was where the money was. Releasing records of Solomon Islander music was only commercially viable because they weren’t going to spend much on it and it made the company look better to have a wide variety of styles available. As far as Pacific Islander music went, people only really bought Hawaiian ukulele-pop versions of well-known songs. Slap a handsome Hawaiian dancer on the cover, and you got yourself a top one hundred world music hit. They had a Hawaiian model right now who had dimples that could make any album fly off the shelves of suburban Starbucks the world over.
There he was. Hadisi was his name.
He was a popular local singer and bamboo player. Hadisi was tall, a bit lanky but well-muscled, with a smattering of kinky yellow-white hairs on his chest. He had wild hair and a beard too, both jutting out in every direction as though bits of his head were trying to escape. He was, like many Solomon Islanders, blond despite having dark skin and very curly black hairs. The gene that causes blond hair among Melanesians is completely unrelated to the gene that causes blond hair among those of European descent, so Hadisi’s hair was yellow-blond but different than blond white people’s hair, and even different than African black people with blond hair — it was yellower, like the color of a sun-drenched hay field. It was common for children here to be blond, but most of them outgrew it and developed black hair by the time they were adults. Hadisi was an exception.
He was also ungodly handsome, which was why Rob’s company wanted to sign him and his village band. If anyone were going to make this album a success, it’d be Hadisi and his jawline, his toned muscles and his deep-dimpled smile. No one was going to buy it because they loved bamboo music, so the only audience would come from dilettantes, collectors and middle-aged ladies at Starbucks who thought the exotic guy on the cover was hot.
When the concert was over — or at least, when most of the musicians had gotten tired, and the children lost interest, leaving only a small cadre of performers and listeners behind — Rob went to talk to Hadisi. He lived in a small house with his parents, his brothers, his siblings and a few hangers-on of unclear relationship to Hadisi.
“Do you know Bob Marley?” Hadisi asked when Rob finished explaining his sales pitch. The company was going to pay Hadisi’s village ten grand in US dollars for the rights to the recording. The wantok system of mutual support meant the benefits of the money would be spread out among Hadisi’s family and neighbors. Rob had made sure to specify that he needed some photographs for the album cover, and that Hadisi needed to be in them. But Hadisi didn’t seem to notice that part, and his family didn’t see past the top-line number. Hadisi gave no indication he heard any of it, he was just waiting for an opportunity to ask about Bob Marley.
“Uh, no… Bob Marley died forty years ago,” Rob said with a smile.
Hadisi looked disappointed. He argued in his own language with his family — from the body language, it sounded like people had been telling Hadisi his idol was dead for a long time. Hadisi sniffled but shrugged it off. He went into a backroom and picked up an old beat-up improvised guitar. It was a crudely carved wooden box with strings stretched over it. The neck was irregular and inconsistent, and it sounded out of tune (or more likely, was not capable of being tuned).
“I can play Bob Marley, we play that on bamboo all the time,” Hadisi said. His lilting, singsong accent was smooth like melted butter. He was well-educated in English, more than most of his fellow villagers, whom Rob found impossible to understand. Most Solomon Islanders spoke a pidgin language they called Pijin, which was recognizable enough to hear a few English words, but not enough to communicate in. The villagers here mostly didn’t even know Pijin — they only spoke the local language — much less standard English. Hadisi, however, had left the Solomon Islands to work in New Zealand for a time, so he had learned English well enough to communicate.
Hadisi plugged out a recognizable version of “No Woman, No Cry”, which Rob enjoyed even if he was also annoyed — the one constant as a scout for a world music record label is that even in the most remote, uncontacted areas, everyone wanted to record a cover of a Bob Marley song. At least, Rob thought, it’s not “Redemption Song”.
He clapped politely when Hadisi was done. He hadn’t known the lyrics aside from the chorus, but still, Rob had heard worse versions of “No Woman, No Cry”. He was mesmerized by Hadisi’s body anyway, his muscles gleaming and flexing in the dim light of his house. A man who looked like that could sing all the Bob Marley songs he wanted, even “Redemption Song”.
“That was so good, Hadisi, I would love to put it on the album,” he said with a smile. “But I’m not sure we can. We’d have to get permission from the Marley family. That will cost a lot of money.” He paused. “Do you know ‘Sugar, Sugar’? That’s a Bob Marley song, we might be able to do a cover of that. It’s not written by Bob Marley, so it’s cheaper.”
“I do not know ‘Sugar, Sugar’,” Hadisi said. It didn’t sound like he had ever heard it. It was definitely one of the more obscure Marley tracks, so Rob wasn’t surprised. That was why he had brought it up.
“Ah, well, that’s too bad. Honestly my boss is going to want more traditional bamboo music than that. If it is a success, we’ll consider doing it again with covers of popular songs,” Rob said. “Come along, Hadisi, can you show me some places we could take pictures at?”
Hadisi nodded and led him out of the stilted house. Rob was glad to get away from crowded house and the children who poked and prodded at Rob’s straight hair. Hadisi was visibly calmer once he was away from them as well. He ran his fingers through his dense, wild afro of yellow-blond hair.
“My father is stupid,” Hadisi said. He held Rob’s hand as he led him through the village and out into the rainforest. “He does not think you will pay. I know about American music business though. I know the man who works in the music store here in the Solomons. He knows everything about it. He tells me that you will pay. You are a real record company, like Island Records.”
“Yes, I promise we will pay,” Rob said. He felt like a giddy child getting excited about holding hands with Hadisi. In the Solomon Islands, public displays of affection between men and women were not appreciated, not even holding hands. But same-gender friends frequently held hands. Rob loved the feel of Hadisi’s work-coarsened hands, and he enjoyed being close to the man’s powerful body. Rob cleared his throat. “That’s what we do. I’ve recorded albums all over the world. We always pay, I promise.”
“You are a good man, I am thinking that.”
“Oh. Good. Cool-“
“You can be send money to my father?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Yes, the ten thousand American dollars. They can be sent to my father, yes?”
“Uh… Well, our protocol is to send it to the chieftain or mayor. That was the older gentleman, right? We-“
“No. It can be sent to my father,” Hadisi said. He didn’t make eye contact with Rob. He bit his lip. “He is stupid and foolish and he does not know about reggae music. He has not been gone to New Zealand.”
“I won’t hold that against him.”
“But he is smart about money. He is good with money.”
“Okay… Hadisi, I can’t do that. It’s not up to me where the money goes. My company has a policy. I think it’s agreed upon with your government. We don’t have any way of proving who performed on the recording and even if we did, we have no way of paying them separately,” Rob said. “The money has to be sent to your leader. He’ll divide it up, according to whatever process you folks have for that. Do you need money?”
Hadisi nodded. He stopped walking at a copse of trees. He gestured for Rob to continue. There was a sharp embankment, and then a wetland valley beneath it on the other side, where a dizzying array of flowers stretched as far as Rob could see. There must have been a hundred thousand varieties, no two plants even looking like the same species. Rob gasped.
“Wow, what is this place?”
“It is flowers. It is where we go for… Uh… I do not remember the polite English word. Kissing girls. It is where we kiss girls, and sometimes marry them,” Hadisi said with a grin. He had deep dimples. Rob blushed as he felt a surge of desire again, like a boy watching his idol. Hadisi was ungodly handsome, he thought, he probably brought every girl in the village here to “kiss”, or whatever verb Hadisi had been trying to think of. “It is good place to take photograph, yes?”
“Oh, yeah, good idea, Hadisi, this’d be perfect,” Rob said. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
Hadisi nodded. “That is why I am needing money. You can send it to my father. He will make sure I am able to marry her. I must pay for the wedding. We are already bush-married, but my father says it must be made official in a church. That means I must pay for my bride-“
“Oh! It’s like a dowry?”
Hadisi nodded again, but he was hesitant like he didn’t really know the word dowry. “It is must to be paid for, or I can not marry her. It is bride price.”
“Oh, sorry, Hadisi, you must love her?”
“Yes, I love her very much. I want to bring her here and do kissing with her,” he said. Once again, it was clear kissing was not what he was actually thinking of.
“Hmm, interesting,” Rob said. He cleared his throat. “Would you ever… let a man touch your dick?”
Hadisi shook his head virulently no. “What? I am bush-married, I have woman for that.”
“I see-“
“When I did not have a girl, there is a weak man who would come to visit, but I did not need him often,” he said. He stood up and bristled a bit, like he felt challenged. He jogged on his feet and flexed his chest. Rob felt a shudder of arousal, and his dick twitched in his pants. Hadisi’s nervous smile showed off his dimples, which made Rob desire him even more.
Hadisi went on to tell a long and involved story, the bulk of which was about an unscrupulous trader (the “weak man”) who purchased fish from the village. He often underpaid or tried to trick them into accepting less money than they were due, and Hadisi had many, probably untrue, stories where he used his wit to protect his people. “He distracts the men with his mouth!” Hadisi said over and over. Rob had trouble getting a word in edge-wise — Hadisi was very upset, though he said he had never personally been fooled. “I am very wise, and my father knows about matters of money,” Hadisi said. “I do not lose money to him. Or my manhood.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Interesting… So he does…? You said he sometimes does things with you? With his mouth?”
“Not me, I have a girl. I do not need that.”
“Excellent, good, I know you love her,” Rob said. “Would you let me do those things to you? I’ll pay you. You can pay for your marriage with it-“
“You want to do those things? You mean the mouth, right? Not cheating my family out of fish?”
“That’s right, not the scamming,” Rob said.
“You will pay me for it?”
“Yes,” Rob said. “I’ve got the money right here. You never even have to tell your father how you got it. You can tell him we gambled or something.”
Hadisi’s eyes lit up. “Like Texas Holden poker card game?”
Rob chuckled. “Yeah. Like that. Do you people play poker here?”
“Not in this village. They do it in the village along the river that way. They have a man who lived in California,” he gestured vaguely to the north. “You would like it there. The men all do… that. They are all weak, and stupid. Their women are loose. That is why they kiss with each other instead.” He dropped his pants and waved his dick in Rob’s direction. “They are not good at bamboo music though, do not pay them for music.” He stroked his dick as he peered into Rob’s eyes. “You swallow on it, yes? And in the buttocks?”
“Yes, definitely, both,” Rob said. He kneeled in the moist soil of the flowered valley, surrounded by multicolored blossoms. He reached into his wallet to pull out a wad of cash, which he handed over.
Hadisi counted the money. He didn’t even seem to notice when Rob got a taste of his cock. Rob’s tongue snaked out and planted right on the tip. Rob peered up to test Hadisi’s reaction, but he was intensely focused on counting the money.
So Rob swallowed his fat cock, which was nice and thick but not so big it was difficult to suck. It perked up almost right away in Rob’s mouth, and he used both hands to keep it stimulated. He slathered spit up and down the shaft.
“Ah, you are good at this,” Hadisi said. He leaned against a tree and closed his eyes.
One of Rob’s hands snaked up to his chest. Sometimes men didn’t like it when he touched their bodies like this, but Hadisi didn’t seem to mind. When Rob’s fingers closed around his nipple, Hadisi even shuddered and let out a moan like he liked it.
He deep-throated Hadisi down to the root, his nose nestling in the man’s kinky pubic hairs. A few drops of precum escaped down his gullet. Rob guzzled down all of it, savoring the flavor and the creamy texture.
The taste was different than he was used to — that wasn’t a surprise. Rob had been traveling long enough to know that cum tasted differently in different parts of the world. He assumed it was due to diet. Indeed, Hadisi tasted a bit like the tropical fruit he ate, but with a savory note to it, he tasted like the local fruits after they had been cooked into a savory stew, he tasted like the fresh, crisp air of this blossomed valley and a bit of the salty, astringent tasted of unadulterated male musk.
His mouth was moist and loud, because Rob knew that’s how men liked it. He choked up so much spit it soaked Hadisi’s crotch, and it made Hadisi grunt and groan. Hadisi bit his lip.
“I hope my wife is like you,” Hadisi said. It sounded like he was not hopeful that would be the case.
Rob licked a trail up Hadisi’s crotch to his chest. He wanted to keep going and maybe even get to kiss Hadisi. Rob licked until it was clear Hadisi was in the former category, he was visibly uncomfortable with it when Rob’s tongue got to his neck, so Rob stuck with the man’s ropy-muscled chest.
The layer of thick blond hairs on his torso tasted a bit coppery like any man’s body hair, but there was an underlying note of sweetness that Rob enjoyed. He ran his tongue through the thick fur, lapping up every drop of sweat. Hadisi ignored it at first, seemingly just happy that Rob wasn’t trying to kiss him on the neck or lips, but then he laughed like he was ticklish. Rob’s hands caressed Hadisi’s plump asscheeks and trunk-like thighs.
Rob spat into his palm and used it to lube up his ass, since there obviously was no lube here. He had taken enough cock in exotic locations that he didn’t think it would hurt too much, even if Hadisi did have an exceptionally large member. Rob knew how to take it.
“Are you okay, Hadisi?”
“Yes!” He was nervous, but, it seemed, enthusiastic. He blushed and looked down. “I am ready to do buttocks.” He smacked Rob’s left asscheek and watched it ripple.
That made Rob smile — it was funny how some alpha male behaviors were universal. He backed his ass up to Hadisi’s crotch until he felt that hot slab of meat pulsating in his crack. It stayed there, wedged between his cheeks. Hadisi humped it up and down at first, teasing Rob, the throbbing of his shaft sending tendrils of pleasure up Rob’s spine from his ass.
Then Hadisi gripped Rob by the back of the neck. He squeezed tightly to hold him in place. Hadisi sucked in breath and gritted his teeth. Rob nearly slipped in the moist ground, and he dropped to all fours. Hadisi went with him, both of them ensconced in the flowers that blanketed the forest floor here.
A jolt of pain hit Rob, who bit his lip. Hadisi’s cock slipped in, and the pain melted away into a wave of pre-orgasmic bliss. The pressure was intense since Hadisi had a thick manhood, but Rob took a deep breath and relaxed himself.
Hadisi worked it in inch by inch, with workmanlike precision. He didn’t even appear to be enjoying it at this point, looking at his dick disappear inside Rob like a carpenter watching his project come together. But once he was done, and his cock fit entirely within Rob, Hadisi let his passion flow through him. He kept one hand on Rob’s neck, while his other caressed Rob’s smooth back.
He began to flex his hips, gently at first. He worked his dick in, then almost all the way out, then back in again. Once he got into the swing of it, Hadisi closed his eyes once more.
“Ah, yes…” Hadisi continued to speak in low, crooning tones, but he spoke in his own language. Rob didn’t need a translation to know he was speaking like he would with a girl, saying things that, in English, might be called sweet nothings. Since Rob didn’t speak the language, they were even nothinger to him right now, and he moaned with desire. Hadisi ramrodded Rob like he was Hadisi’s beloved. He made love to Rob’s ass, grinding and rubbing himself over every inch of Rob’s body.
An orgasm erupted within Rob, who jacked himself off onto the flower-strewn forest floor. He moaned and squirmed, writhing atop the massive cock he was impaled on. He clenched and grunted.
“Oh god, Hadisi, ram it in me…”
Rob lifted his head up and leaned his body back against Hadisi, who leaned against a tree. The motion and the tightening of Rob’s ass sent Hadisi over the edge, just in time for Rob to feel the orgasm flowing through his muscles. His blond chest hairs and black skin trembled behind Rob’s body.
A burst of hot cum sprayed within him, followed by more, copious jets of creamy goodness filling him up inside. It kept coming, Hadisi’s body heat and his sticky juices seeping to every corner of Rob’s body. Rob shuddered as the cum coated his prostate, keeping his own orgasm going while Hadisi grunted in his ear.
His hot, tropical breath condensed on Rob’s cheek. Hadisi wrapped both of his ropy-muscled arms around Rob’s body and kissed him on the back of the neck. His tongue teased Rob’s earlobe.
“Ah, yes… You can come back, you know,” Hadisi said breathlessly, even before his orgasm was complete. His voice broke and his muscles flexed against Rob’s back. “Just do not tell my girl why. Once we are married…”
“Hmm…” Rob knew he wouldn’t be back. “If I can, yeah…” Unless by some freak coincidence this bamboo-music album became a platinum best-seller, there was no way his company would release another album of it anytime soon.
“That is good,” Hadisi said. “Thank you.” He pulled his dick out and chuckled when it finally plopped out limply. He wiped it off with a leaf. “If you come back, will you bring me a new Bob Marley cassette? Mine is old and it will not be working for much longer.”
“Yeah,” Rob said. “Sure.” He planned on mailing the cassette, assuming he could find one. If the locals saw him delivering Bob Marley recordings, they’d never play traditional music for him again. He breathed deeply as his ass recovered, sweet relief flooding him. Hadisi stood over him, cock dangling between his legs while he recounted the money.
“Stay here,” Hadisi said. “I will get the village together so you can take the photo here. Do you want me naked?”
“Oh… Well… Yeah,” Rob said. They’d have to put a black bar over his cock, but they could arrange it so it still showed off his six-pack abs, muscled chest and handsome face. That would be a great way to attract the horny housewives in Starbucks. “If that’s cool… Yeah, naked would be great.” But Hadisi was already gone.
Rob pulled out his camera to get ready. He needed to decide where to take the picture. This trip to the Solomon Islands was going better than he had hoped. He wasn’t sure how well the album would actually sell, but at least he had it made and he had even gotten his first-ever taste of Melanesian meat.
