paid books – Page 2 – Mansploitation

The Finn

Rob’s world travel continues with a voyage to an incredible sauna in Finland, where he meets and messes with the ultimate Finn Heikki Karhonen! Can he handle the most masculine man Finland has to offer?!

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In Finland, getting drunk alone in your underwear is called kalsarikännit. This evening, Rob Winthrop was recovering from an excessive bout of feeling kalsarikännit the previous night. Aside from a visit to a frightfully efficient liquor store called Alko, he had spent the previous night in his hotel room, drinking obscure Finnish liquors and not enjoying them. But it was nice to be alone after a long, very social vacation. It was technically a solo vacation, yet he had had barely a moment to himself until it began.
So when he finally recovered enough from his hangover, he went to the public sauna in Rovaniemi, Finland, which was next to a placid lake beset by whooper swans and teeming with perch, shores lined with lily of the valley upon which crawled seven-spot ladybirds and one black woodpecker. He hoped to relax and sweat the toxins out. That did not last very long. Only one other person was in the sauna, and he was intimidating. That made it hard to relax. The silence was enormous, and Rob sensed the stranger staring at him like a reindeer.
After a long couple of weeks traveling around Europe, Rob had come to Finland in the summer, in as much as Finland has a summer, which it doesn’t, but anyway, Rob had come to Finland to relax away from the nightlife and the hustle and bustle of Europe.
And now he sat under the most intense microscope in Finland. The other man in the sauna stared at him, sweat dripping from his high cheekbones.
He was a tall Finn with deep-set eyes, a grizzled jaw and muscles that went on for days. He looked like a shaved brown bear, Rob thought, except for the fact that the hair on his head — long, flowing hair that went past his broad shoulders — was blond like the sun. Rob had always long admired the physiques of strong, toned men, and this guy also had muscle like a bodybuilder and a square, jutting jaw. He exuded warmth that was palpable even in the humid heat of the sauna.
Rob shivered. He hadn’t been scared of anyone since coming to Finland. It was a very quiet, peaceful place.
But this man had a dim stare and a sharp jaw, lupine face like a werewolf. He was both arousing and frightening to Rob, who quaked and quivered, heart pounding in his thin chest. Rob wanted to stay and worship his body carved in granite.
A part of him said to leave, begged him to rush out of there before this burly Finn attacked him. He could dress in a hurry, rush out the door and high-tail it to his car in the parking lot. He could call the police, but to say what: there’s a man looking at me? There’s a Finn in the sauna, help!?
Besides, Rob had been chased around by a bunch of bullies in his time. He didn’t intend to let that happen again, he wasn’t the weakest boy in school anymore. He had never met a mean Finn, but maybe, he thought, this burly fellow would be his first. If so, Rob intended to stand up for himself.
The long-haired Finn stood and took a step towards Rob, whose heart raced. He was a thin little twink who couldn’t defend himself at all. He looked at the door.
But he didn’t get up. Finland was one of the safest countries in the world, he reminded himself. No need to be scared. There is basically no crime in Finland.
“Hello,” said the man in thickly-accented English. His craggy face gleamed with sweat in the haze of the sauna’s löyly. He came close for a Finn — they tended to stay well away from each other, with an enlarged personal space — but this Finn was only a few feet from Rob, who quaked before him.
“Uh… Hi,” Rob said. When had the sauna emptied? There were others here when Rob came in, but now it was just he and the big Finn, and Rob was terrified.
“My name is Heikki Karhonen.”
“Nice to meet you, Heikki. I’m Rob,” he said. He held out a hand to shake, and when Heikki’s giant meaty paw collided with his, Rob shuddered in both fear and desire. Heikki was like a bodybuilder but without that vascular veininess that bodybuilders had. Heikki looked like he had built his muscles through real work, as a lumberjack or ice fisherman or who knew what. Rob had never felt so slender and weak.
Heikki grunted. “You are… American, yes?”
“Yes, that’s right…” Rob was too nervous to think of anything meaningful to say right now.
“That is good,” said Heikki. His deep voice rumbled. It was flat though, deadpan, giving no hint of his emotions, his voice as still and rough as uncut lumber. “You are having been look at me.”
“Yes, I… You were looking at me.” Rob gulped.
“You are small, little in the body. Little body.”
“Uh… Well, I… yeah.” Rob nodded. He was indeed short and slight in stature. Heikki had come even closer as he talked, and now he was within personal space even by American standards.
“You will do have some jack off. Yes?”
“Uh…” Rob couldn’t tell if that was an offer, a prediction, a threat or a question, or some combination thereof. “Yes! Okay!” He cried out, just to be sure Heikki didn’t think he was refusing.
Heikki walked away. Rob breathed a sigh of relief until he saw that Heikki wasn’t leaving. He walked to the door to the sauna and wedged it shut with a kantele — a traditional stringed instrument — against the doorknob. The kantele had been laying on a bench as though abandoned there.
Past the door was the “hot room”, where Finns got acclimated to heat before actually coming into the sauna itself. It didn’t sound like anyone was out there right now. The sauna was the only thing around too, so if nobody was here but Rob and Heikki, then they were truly isolated. He was in here all alone with his giant man built like a silver birch tree, who looked at him as if Rob were a hungry meal.
“Uh…” Rob’s eyes opened wide at the sight of Heikki flopping his massive uncut cock between his fingers. “You want me to, uh… like jack you off? Or whatever?” Rob said.
“Yes, I think we are in a state of agreement,” Heikki said. “Agreement is done. You may begin it now.” He wrinkled his nose at Rob like he was annoyed he had not already begun.
Rob shuddered when he reached up and tentatively grabbed Heikki’s cock. It was limp and moist from the humid sauna air, dripping with condensed löyly. Heikki’s muscles rippled like he was uncomfortable with Rob’s touch, but he sat down next to Rob on the wooden bench of the sauna.
Before Rob could get on his knees to taste Heikki’s cock, Heikki’s mitt-like hands gripped Rob’s delicate shoulders. Rob nearly fell backwards but Heikki held him in his massive biceps as Rob swooned. Then Heikki kissed him right on the lips.
It was an awkward kiss for a few reasons. First of all, Heikki seemed to have little experience with kissing — he seemed like the kind of rural lumberjack who rarely got laid despite his handsome face and bulging muscles, he was too crude and big for most girls, Rob suspected. Second of all, Heikki was clearly uncomfortable kissing a man. He hesitated at the last moment and his callused fingers explored Rob’s lithe chest as though Heikki expected to find breasts there. Thirdly, Heikki was simply huge.
He was at least a foot and a half taller than Rob, and probably outweighed him by two hundred pounds of solid muscle. Rob lost himself in those arms, and Heikki’s mouth was so big it felt like four Heikkis could have kissed him at the same time. Rob wondered if Heikki could swallow his entire head — it sure felt like it.
Heikki’s massive tongue pushed into Rob’s mouth. It was too awkward for Rob to lose himself in the heat of the moment, but his dick was rock-hard and he couldn’t think about anything other than the feel of Heikki’s pulsating muscles against Rob’s smooth skin.
When Heikki pulled away and grinned sheepishly, Rob reached into his crotch and gave his dick another stroke. Heikki was still totally limp. His dick was like a fleshy uncooked sausage dangling between his legs, behind a nest of curly dark-blond pubic hairs.
The löyly that condensed on Heikki’s body was salty and invigorating, hot like the sauna itself. It made Rob moan and crave more.
His tongue traced the outline of Heikki’s rock-hard muscles and the colorful tattoos — a squadron of beautiful blue butterflies flapping with wings the shape of kantele picks, an ornate Finnish maiden with blonde braids flowing like a Finnhorse’s mane around her blue and white pastoral dress — as he explored and worshiped Heikki’s muscles.
Rob stood and stretched his knees — about to sink to the ground to jack on Heikki’s meat — when Heikki dropped to his knees in front of Rob instead. He kissed Rob on the lips again, then moved to Rob’s neck, which he nuzzled with his slightly grizzled chin.
Their heights nearly matched up now, with Heikki on his knees on the ground and Rob standing in front of him. Heikki’s head was above Rob’s.
Much to Rob’s surprise, Heikki’s hand gingerly grabbed Rob’s dick. He gave it a few strokes, until precum leaked from the tip.
“Oh, wow, Heikki…” Rob blushed. He felt tiny. His cock was substantial, bigger than most men, but, compared to Heikki, every part of Rob felt small and weak. Heikki’s massive hand stroked Rob off. When Rob was overcome by shocked passion, he leaned on Heikki’s massive chest, reminding Rob how tiny he was in comparison. Heikki’s muscles rippled beneath Rob’s touch.
But Rob assumed that that was where this ended, as far as Heikki pleasuring Rob went. Now Heikki would stand and want to blow a nut off. He was an alpha male, of course he’d want to be on top. Actives and passives, or however you say that in Finnish. Alphas the world over were the same in that regard. This alpha Finn would probably plow Rob’s mouth violently like macho guys usually did — that was fine with Rob, who loved it when men like Heikki abused his throat.
“You are smooth like girl and tasty on my tongue,” Heikki said as he kissed Rob’s arm and shoulders. He licked a trail of sensitive skin all the way down Rob’s chest, as Rob wondered where he would stop. He ran his fingers through Heikki’s magnificent mane of blond hair.
Was this really going to happen? A part of Rob’s mind had realized for several minutes that Heikki acted as though he was going to bottom, but that had been difficult to believe. It simply didn’t happen that way. Rob barely knew how to top. He had never in his entire life been on top with a man who was so much bigger than he was.
Then before Rob could process this, Heikki opened his mouth and swallowed Rob’s cock. He gagged right away as though he regretted doing it, then he let out a loud mewling sound around Rob’s dickshaft. His lips stretched around it.
Rob was already hard, and his dick instantly sent pangs of pleasure up Rob’s spine. Rob drew in his breath and found he couldn’t bring himself to exhale, like he was worried anything he might do would remind Heikki that he is supposed to be a top.
Though not as huge as the Finn’s mighty member, Rob’s cock was nothing to be ashamed of, and Heikki struggled to swallow the whole thing. He was a big man though, and he soon had his nose nuzzling deep into Rob’s crotch. Rob’s whole shaft throbbed in his throat, sending sudden spasms of sensation through Rob’s body.
His hands moved instinctively, and Rob found himself again running his fingers through Heikki’s long blond hair. Rob had never felt anything so silken and beautiful, and the writhing mass of shoulder muscles beneath it made it even hotter.
“Ah, damn, Heikki, where did you learn to do this?” Rob murmured, gasping to himself.
Heikki pulled away and spoke in Finnish. “Haluan sinun naida persettäni!”
Rob had learned a few words here and there, but he had no idea what Heikki said. He smiled and nodded, though this experience had been so stressful and exhilarating that Rob’s smile was more of a grimace. His eyes quaked, and his shoulders quivered.
Heikki returned to using his mouth on Rob’s cock, spurting up saliva and sucking it down again, as both of his meaty lumberjack hands worked Rob’s dickshaft. The positioning was awkward for him, having to stoop down to get into Rob’s crotch. To make it easier, Rob stepped up onto the wooden bench he had been sitting on. At last that meant Rob towered over Heikki, who was on his knees on the floor. Heikki could more easily swallow his cock to the root, while Rob rested on his broad shoulders and massaged the tight layer of back muscles beneath him.
Then at last Heikki pulled off him again. He lightly tapped Rob’s asscheeks. He turned Rob around. Rob’s instinct was that this was it, Heikki wanted to top now, he was going to cornhole Rob — which Rob was fine with, even if he was disappointed that his topping adventure ended so soon.
But Heikki didn’t cornhole him in the ass. He dove his face between Rob’s cheeks and licked his asshole. His tongue ran in a long trail all the way up to the small of his back, and then it return to his buttcrack and slammed into the hole. That sent a jolt of bliss up Rob’s spine, as his prostate tingled. Heikki shuddered in a mixture of delight and disgust while his tongue lapped and lapped at Rob’s ass. Due to the heat and humidity of the sauna’s löyly, both men were covered in salty moisture, and Heikki guzzled down every drop that clung to Rob’s flesh.
That didn’t last long before Heikki pulled away again. His big, callused hands roamed all over Rob’s body. He pushed Rob to sit back down on the bench.
Heikki stood and stretched his legs. Now that he stood and Rob sat, Rob’s face was well below Heikki’s crotch. Rob had to look up at him like a colossus, half-hard cock throbbing in the air as Heikki added more water to the hot coals on top of the the kiuas. A fresh burst of steam filled the air. He munched on some reindeer jerky from a bag he had brought in and left by the door.
“It is good warm. Air is good for skin,” Heikki said. He may have blushed or his cheeks might have just gotten rosier from the heat, Rob couldn’t tell which.
Then Heikki took a deep breath, sighed and shook his head as he kneeled down on the ground. He sprawled his upper body over the bench Rob was sitting on. Rob was entranced by the looping curves of the man’s incredible shoulder muscles, and Rob’s delicate fingers traced the powerful, throbbing lines of his meaty shoulderblades.
Even though Heikki had made it clear he wanted to bottom, Rob’s tingled, shocked body still didn’t quite process what was happening, not right away. Heikki sprawled out on the bench next to Rob with his ass in the air — Heikki was so tall that even knelt over, his upraised ass was well above Rob’s navel.
It was obvious he wanted to get cornholed, what else would that position entail?
But Rob hesitated. What if he was misreading this situation? What if he accidentally offended Heikki by trying to plow into his ass?
But then Heikki reached one of his big-biceped arms around himself and rammed his pinkie into his ass to loosen it up. He grunted and his whole body tensed at first, then he relaxed. His asscheeks dimpled.
Taking a deep breath, Rob mounted him from behind. “You gotta lower your ass some,” he said as he patted Heikki’s jiggling asscheeks.
Heikki obediently lowered his hips until his ass was even with Rob’s crotch. That forced Heikki to awkwardly half-bend and half-stoop over the bench, but he didn’t seem to mind. Rob’s hands roamed over Heikki’s broad back, rock-hard with muscles that thrummed beneath his touch.
His mind reeled as he slipped his dick into Heikki’s ass. Heikki howled like a wolf, and Rob again wondered if he had done something wrong. But Heikki made no effort to move away, and Rob could tell that Heikki’s cock jerked from half-hard to stone-like and leaking precum. He must be into assplay, Rob thought.
Heikki bit his lip and his muscles tensed all at once. He grunted, half-in-pain and half gasping with pleasure. It was like cornholing a statue, Rob thought, all firm and unyielding. Rob couldn’t get a good grip, though he greatly enjoyed trying, clawing all over Heikki’s powerful frame.
But that was only the surface of Heikki’s body, which was indeed iron-like all over. He had muscles in places where Rob didn’t even think there were muscles. Inside Heikki’s ass, however, he was soft and pink and moist, inviting and warm, even compared to the heat of the sauna. Rob sped up his humping when it became clear that Heikki wasn’t in pain, and he moved from gingerly sticking it in and out to slamming his entire little twink body down on Heikki’s ass.
Like flicking a switch, it was obvious when Rob hit Heikki’s prostate and got past the big man’s discomfort. Heikki’s muscles all relaxed at once, and touching him was like a big warm, firm pillow. Rob lost himself in all that flesh, which throbbed and pulsated beneath Rob’s touch.
He had to stand on his toes, and when Heikki’s body rose, Rob found himself elevated off the ground. He gripped Heikki’s back with both hands and humped until Heikki lowered himself again.
He even pulled on that long blond hair. It felt like perfect irony, he thought, since he usually serviced alpha males who liked to pull on Rob’s hair as they cornholed him. Rob never understood why men were into that.
But now that he was plowing into a massive alpha with long hair, Rob totally understood. His delicate fingers grabbed a fistful of the löyly-moistened blond hair and pulled. He didn’t pull hard, just hard enough to make Heikki lift his head up.
Heikki crooned and let out a long, low moan that echoed in the small wooden sauna. It was hard to tell if it was a moan of pleasure or not, as it resonated with a uniquely Finnish chord that may have been sisu, the concept of tenacity and resilience in the face of difficult or unpleasant tasks. In any case, Heikki’s muscles rippled with, his asscheeks squeezing, with each thrust of Rob’s body.
An explosion of ecstasy rollicked through Rob’s tiny body, which struggled to match with the powerful strokes of Heikki’s muscles. Rob cried out, and Heikki did too. Rob shuddered as Heikki’s asshole clenched. Rob’s free hand tried to stroke Heikki off, but Heikki was so big that Rob struggled to reach his cock, and when he did, Heikki’s own paws were already furiously stroking his meat.
Then both men came at the same time. Rob was surprised by how suddenly his orgasm approached — he was not often a top, so he had little experience in this position — and overwhelmed him. His fingers tightened into talons that ripped at Heikki’s writhing muscles, while Heikki’s whole body tensed.
The smell of semen filled the air. Heikki groaned. He sprayed cum over Rob’s hands and onto the wooden bench beneath him, while Rob slammed his cock all the way in.
A thick burst of cum spurted out, coating Heikki’s insides. They both moaned together, in harmony like they were singing. The most intense orgasm of his life wracked Rob’s body. He shuddered and shivered despite the heat of the sauna.
He didn’t know how much he had shot. It felt like a huge orgasm. Rob could feel it sloshing around inside Heikki’s ass, sticking to Rob’s shaft and dripping down into the nest of hair around Heikki’s thighs. Every motion either one of them took sent shivers of exquisite afterclimax up Rob’s spine.
Then it was all over. The sauna seemed impossibly silent. Heikki’s labored breathing was audible, but distant, like the howl of a wolf outside. It was met by a barking yap — Heikki’s spitz was tied up in the warm spot outside by the ventilation shaft. Heikki bellowed something in Finnish to him.
Rob’s cock slowly limpened inside Heikki, whose muscles tightened as Rob dragged his fingertips overtop Heikki’s taut skin. Heikki gasped for air. Drops of cum dribbled from his cock, which Rob stroked while they both recovered from the intense orgasm.
Finally Rob was done. He gently extricated himself from Heikki, hopping off his back and letting his dick plop out. Heikki let out a sound that was half-sigh and half-roar, like an angry bear about to fall asleep.
He turned around, his broad chest gleamed with sweat and cum. Rob fell into his arms, sat on his lap and nuzzled the filthy flesh of his pectorals. Heikki cradled him close.
This felt more normal, Rob thought, a twink like him relaxing in his alpha bear’s biceps. That was something Rob had done a hundred times before, but never with a big blond-haired muscle-god like Heikki. He traced the bulging curve of Heikki’s biceps as they both relaxed there. Rob exulted in the warmth and the comfort of Heikki’s bear-like body.
“Thank you.”
Rob giggled. “You’re welcome, Heikki.”
“We have become dirty,” Heikki said. He stood, looking down at the cum dripping from his chest. He glanced behind himself, where more cum clung to the fine blond hairs of his ass. He smiled awkwardly. He gestured towards the showers — Finns always showered before a sauna, so there were a few showerheads in the other side of the building — and smiled. “We must clean ourselves, to ensure the hygiene.”
“Okay, yeah,” Rob said. “I guess we should.” He stood and stretched his legs as Heikki removed the chair that blocked the sauna door from opening. Then they both headed off to the showers.
“You have hotel?” Heikki asked. Rob nodded, and Heikki grinned. “You give to me hotel room number. I will come to visit. I will do visit later. You will put penis in other Finns?”
“Uh… what?”
Heikki pantomimed chopping wood with an axe. “The men who I am working with, at wood-chopping camp. It is few kilometers from here in the woods. And we like the man who puts out butt. It is okay. We are tired of putting penis in each other. We will come to hotel. We will do ramrod, we will, we each do have penises. Also, I have six brothers, and I know a group of the… how do you say it? Cobblers on the heath. They are big like me, have much horny to get rid of. Yes?”
Rob’s knees buckled and he nearly fell to the floor of the showering area. He He couldn’t believe his luck. “Uh, yes! Yeah! Of course. Yes. I’ll… cornhole any number of horny Finns, is that what you’re asking?”
Heikki nodded and smiled. “We will all do.” Heikki put on headphones, and death metal blared into his ears. He swaddled into the shower to rinse off. His great, powerful asscheeks rose up and down with each step.
Rob took a deep breath. He decided he wasn’t done yet with the sweating — luckily, he was in a sauna. So he sat there to relax and bathe in steam, looking forward to the remainder of his Finnish adventure.

The Frenchman

Rob is in for it now! He’s in France during a lumberjack’s strike, leading to him and a burly homme fort engaging in a ménage à deux that Rob will never forget!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Rob didn’t discover that the men were lumberjacks and that they were on strike until much later. When he happened upon them, they appeared to be a couple dozen of the most muscular men he had ever seen, lounging around a spartan coffeeshop, drinking cafés au lait and looking nonchalant yet gropey when pretty girls walked by. It was a very sedate strike.
The lumberjacks were alluring to Rob, who had come to France to tour the beauty of the countryside and to see the sights of Paris. Now he was stuck in Paris because of the lumberjacks and their stupid strike, which had disrupted public transit. The train system was shut down because lumberjacks were marching along the tracks and protesting the train stations, which were perceived in some indescribable way as supporting management over the workers. As the son of a billionaire, Rob was hardly sympathetic to labor unions, who had ruined more than one of his forays into the world of business. But nevertheless, Rob enjoyed the lumberjacks. Their muscles bulged against the black and white-striped shirts they wore, with low v-necks that showed off their strapping chest muscles.
One, in particular, attracted Rob’s gaze. He was tall, broad-shouldered, mustached and grizzle-chinned, with a tattoo of the bleu, blanc and rouge of the French flag visible on his chest and one of Marianne on his left bicep looking contemplative of the majesty and nature of liberty, equality and fraternity. Marianne’s face and body rippled when the lumberjack used his muscles, drawing Rob’s eyes to her and to the strength of the man’s powerhouse frame. His musculature was well-worked and natural, not gym-sculpted, not steroidal like so many Americans these days (and more than a handful of Frenchmen), and his body was fleshy and rugged, a dappling of hair across his chest.
“Bonjour,” Rob said. He knew his French was good, if Quebecois-accented, since his French teacher was de Montréal. “Je m’appelle Rob.”
The man grunted. He screwed up his nose when Rob sat next to him at the little cafe table. He looked like he was about to say something, but then a pretty middle-aged woman walked by, gabbing on her cell phone. The man watched her with intent interest, eyes drawn to her ass, and he licked his lips. His pecs rippled under that sleeveless shirt.
“I would like to pay you money,” Rob said. He blushed, momentarily at a loss for words as the man glared at him.
“I am, how do you say, ‘on ze strike’,” he said. “I am pour le travail, non.”
“No, no, I’m not going to pay you for your job, I have something special in mind,” Rob said. “I want you to come back to my hotel room. I’ll pay you five hundred euros.”
“Quoi?” He straightened his back and, for the first time, looked directly at Rob like he actually saw him and took him in. “Qu’est-ce que vous venez de dire?”
“Five hundred euros. You just come back to my hotel room, and… y’know, let me do some stuff.”
“Quoi? Quelles choses?”
“You know…”
“You show me,” he said as though he had a good guess and simply wanted confirmation. He frowned. “Under zhe table.”
Rob looked among the other lumberjacks in the café, who fumed cigarettes and lazed like they were taking the day off instead of striking, as if those muscles were purely decorative. One of them looked at the man as though he wanted to know what was happening, but he did not ask.
Shivering with fear and anticipation, Rob dove underneath the cafe table. Tourists walked by, sneaking glances at him, interspersed with rural men with mustaches, rough leather shirts and onions strung around their waist, which they sold along the rues and boulevards of Paris. The man wore blue pants made of some thick fabric like stiff denim from Nîmes. He didn’t savvy what was expected of him, but he stuck his head between the man’s legs and kissed his cock through the material of his trousers.
“Tu es sale.”
The man wore no underwear. His massive, limp dick was palpable beneath the fabric of his pants, and Rob could even sense the lumberjack was uncircumcised. He laughed a deep, baritone boom when Rob kissed his dick. When he laughed, his dick twitched and his muscles rippled.
The man stood up, and Rob crawled out from underneath the table. The man stood there. He lit another cigarette. When Rob stood near him, the man pointed to the ground. He ashed right on Rob’s head.
“Crawl,” he said. He didn’t wait for an answer. He just turned around and walked away, and Rob got down on all fours. He followed after him, keeping his head up and as close as he could get, so he could smell the man’s thick asscheeks.
The other lumberjacks stared at him crawling, making Rob wince and look down. Nobody seemed perturbed by it though, as though men crawled through the café every day.
The lumberjack Rob liked most didn’t leave the cafe. He walked to the counter, past Rob blushing rouge as groseilles and crawling after him. The pretty girl working at the café looked at him with a curious expression as she sold the man a baguette. It was long and crusty and came in a paper sheeth, which she passed him along with a flirtatious smile. Rob did not hear what she said, but he did catch the name Hugo.
So at last, he had a name for the lumberjack whose muscle-choked chest intrigued and allured him. Rob remained on all fours beside Rob, who paid him no mind as his dark eyes and thrummed and flashed brilliantly in her direction, and Rob could sense the stiffening of his manhood in those rough denim trousers. Obviously, Hugo liked her greatly.
Hugo Moreau smiled at the woman. “Tu es très jolie,” he said, and that was true, she was jolie as the day was young. He kissed her on the lips, and she swooned into his arms over the counter.
For a moment, Rob thought he was forgotten, that Hugo was going to take this girl into the backroom of the café and make love to her. But the girl pushed him away. She squealed and slapped him lightly, though she laughed and blushed as though she was happy to have kissed him despite the slap.
Hugo left her with a shrug, like he didn’t care that she had rejected him. He returned to his table, grabbed the beret he had left there, finished his coffee and walked off. He didn’t glance behind him at Rob, who scampered after him.
When it became impossible to keep up with his long-legged stride while crawling, Rob stood up and walked after him. “I thought we’d go to my hotel room. I’ll jack your dick and lick your asshole and you can cornhole me,” Rob said. “I’ll do anything you want. Five hundred euros.”
“Oui.”
“Okay. Thanks, Hugo,” Rob said. “My hotel is-“
“Non,” he said. He stopped walking. They were in the cafe’s backyard. It didn’t appear to be used very often, but it was maintained. It was a small grassy plot that faced a cobblestoned alley. There was a row of shrubs that prevented anyone from seeing fully in, but the yard itself was not concealed — the shrubs only extended a meter or so high, so no one could see anything above that point, which roughly matched Hugo’s waist. Of course, people in the cafe’s kitchen could see through a window, but it seemed Hugo didn’t much care about that. Hugo nodded down towards his feet, which Rob gathered to mean he should start. Rob sunk to his knees.
Hugo took off a hunk of the baguette with his teeth. He loudly munched on it, while Rob scooted closer on his knees in front of Hugo’s body. His face was just inches from Hugo’s crotch.
“Is it… do you want me to just…?”
“Lick it,” Hugo said, his mouth full of bread. Baguette crumbs landed on Rob’s face. “Sucer.”
Rob unzipped Hugo’s fly and pulled his pants down. He wasn’t wearing underwear, so his thick cockshaft popped right out. It hit Rob in the face, making Hugo laugh. Baguette crumbs toppled onto Rob’s head.
“You have a big dick.”
“Oui,” Hugo said. His face was flat and expressionless. He puffed on the cigarette in one hand, then took another bite of the baguette. His burgundy beret almost fell off his head.
Rob kissed his cocktip again. It twitched just like before, but now Rob could taste the musty smell of his sweat. His uncut cock tasted something like a vineyard, Rob thought, not the wine part, but the unused mash, the waste left over after making wine. It was musty and sweet and strong, and it made Rob’s dick hard.
“Colette,” Hugo said. His voice was as grim and flat as his face. Rob didn’t know what he meant at first, but then Hugo repeated it. “Colette.” He took a few steps closer to the window that faced the cafe’s kitchen. Rob had to scramble after him to stay in front of his still-limp cock. That placed Rob up against the ancient brick wall of the cafe, while Hugo’s big body filled the open window into the kitchen. “Colette…”
That pretty waitress from inside walked in there from the cafe. She scoffed at Hugo. “Eh, Hugo, va-t’en, je suis occupé,” she said in French.
From her position in the kitchen, she couldn’t see that Hugo’s dick was out, and she couldn’t see that Rob was letting that entire shaft drop into his mouth. He suckled on it, as passionately as he could without making much noise. The flavor of Hugo’s unwashed manhood flooded Rob’s senses, and it stiffened up as he moved his lips up and down on the shaft. Hugo’s muscles kept rippling as he did, as he caused pleasure to course up Hugo’s body, but Rob did not slow down and Hugo did not react, so Collete did not notice what was happening to Hugo.
“I have written a poem,” Hugo said. His dick firmed up now that Colette was paying attention to him, and it throbbed in Rob’s throat. Rob took his mouth off it so he could slather his tongue up and down the shaft.
She blushed and laughed again. She waved him off, but she also moved closer, washing dishes near enough to the window that she could hear him.
“Let me see your breasts,” he said. His cock throbbed in Rob’s mouth. “Or just one. They are so beautiful, they are like poems of the flesh. My words can never be as inspired as they are.”
She undid her blouse, and she let one of her tits fly free. She made it look rather casual, as though it was an accident, though she had clearly done so deliberately. Hugo lowered his head and tried to suck on her nipple, as his dick fully perked up to full erection in Rob’s mouth.
“Hush, Hugo, I am married,” she said. She took her breast away and covered it up. “Let me hear your poem.”
He straightened his back. His dick twitched in Rob’s mouth, and he lit another cigarette. He exhaled the smoke away from the cafe. He put the baguette down on a table that sat out back — it had a wobbly leg, so it tottered when he put the baguette on it. His heavy, hairy balls rested on Rob’s chin, dripping sweat onto him while the first few drops of salty precum hit his tongue.

You are pretty like Paris
When it lights up at night
You are an oasis of illumination
In a desert of night-time
You are where the camel drinks at last
Before it dies
Under the fierce Algerian sun
You are my canteen
The final drink
The last one I need
To die on sand, satisfied
And thirst, quenched

Vous êtes jolie comme Paris
Quand il allume la nuit
Vous êtes une oasis d’illumination
Dans un désert de nuit
Vous êtes là où le chameau boit enfin,
Avant qu’il ne meurt
Sous le soleil algérien féroce
Vous êtes ma cantine
La boisson finale
La dernière que je dois
Pour mourir sur le sable, satisfait
Et la soif, trempé

She blushed and smiled. “That is trés belle, Hugo,” she said. She patted him on the muscular belly beneath his lumberjack shirt. His skin puckered at her touch, and his dick twitched. She bared her tit again for him, making him growl with desire. She covered it back up with a giggle. “But you did tell the same poem to Maria last week. She has told me about it.”
Hugo’s mouth opened but no words came out. His deep voice rumbled. He had obviously not meant to get caught at this. She laughed at his reaction, then turned around and walked away.
“Damn it!” Hugo snorted when she was gone. “Merde!” The kitchen was empty.
He pistoned his hips before Rob could react. That pushed his entire cock down Rob’s throat. Rob choked and spasmed, and his own dick leaked precum into his fingers. His head banged painfully into the wall behind him.
He slathered spit all along the shaft, coughing up so much saliva it dripped in clumps. Hugo’s muscles bulged beneath his black-and-white striped marinière, which had a few dark spots now where he sweated through it.
Rob’s hands stretched up to Hugo’s chest, slipping under that shirt to massage his hairy muscles. He had a thick nest of fur there on his torso, which Rob loved. He wished he could get up and lick his chest clean, but he had a feeling Hugo would not allow that.
As Rob groped Hugo, Hugo groped as well — his hands slipped into the window, where he felt around until he found a cheese plate. He pulled it out. The smell of funky cheese filled the air, overpowering even the precum and sweat scent of Hugo’s cock.
As he pumped his hips, forcing his cock into Rob’s throat, Hugo ignored his choking and his frenzied jacking. He just grabbed the baguette he had half-eaten, and he made himself a cheese sandwich, just by ripping off hunks of bread and cheese. He ate it vociferously, crumbs landing all over Rob and even on Hugo’s dick so Rob could taste the bread and the sour cheese.
All of a sudden, Hugo pulled off Rob’s face. He jammed the baguette into Rob’s face as though trying to make him deepthroat that as well. He laughed cruelly when the baguette left crumbs all over Rob’s cheeks.
“Lick my ass. Lécher mon cul.”
Then he turned around. His asscheeks were big and plump and tanned brown. They were hairy, but not extremely so, they were just hairy enough for Rob. He dove his face between those cheeks, firm like cold pumpkins beneath Rob’s touch.
Hugo grunted like he was surprised. Rob loved licking ass though, so he enthusiastically lapped at the sweat that trickled between Hugo’s cheeks. His body was big and plump, so his ass was juicy. Rob’s entire face fit between those delicious cheeks. He slurped up every inch of Hugo’s funky hole.
His eyes and his nose were covered, but Rob could hear that something was happening. Hugo shifted his weight, like he faced a different direction now. Hugo said something and laughed — was that aimed at Rob? He couldn’t tell.
Eventually Rob had to come up for air. He was still pinned between the wall and Hugo’s big ass, but he could see just barely that there was a white-faced mime in the alley. He must have been walking by and seen Hugo getting his ass licked.
Now the mime was bent over, leaning against the fence with his ass in the air. He wiggled his ass like a dog trying to scratch an itch. That made Hugo laugh, and Rob joined in — the mime was making fun of them. He was in the same position as Hugo, moving his ass as though an invisible man licked it.
Rob licked all the way from the top of Hugo’s ass, right at the small of his back, down his asscrack, over his hole and through the funky hair of his taint. Rob’s head appeared on the other side of his body, where Rob swallowed his heavy ballsac.
Hugo grunted. He lifted his balls up, then plopped them back in Rob’s mouth a few times.
Sensing that Hugo was ready to move on, Rob stood up, very slowly, keeping his tongue out so he licked Hugo’s cockshaft then all the way up his chest and over that black-and-white striped shirt he still wore.
He nearly managed to lick all the way up to Hugo’s face so he could kiss him on the lips, but Hugo roughly pushed his face away.
Oh well, Rob thought, that was okay with him. He knew what he wanted to do next. He dropped his own pants to bare his ass, while Hugo watched. He reached into the kitchen again, this time pulling out a bottle of red wine and a glass. He poured himself a drink. He laughed at the mime who mimicked everything Hugo did.
The mime finished his invisible wine and smashed the invisible glass on the road. Then he grabbed an invisible ass and pretended to cornhole it, making Hugo laugh some more.
As Hugo actually bent Rob over for real, the mime beckoned for someone. Rob blushed as he realized he was about to have an audience.
He bit his lip and threw his head back as Hugo rammed his dick in without a word of warning. He didn’t use any lube at first, but he started to spit on his cockshaft once he felt resistance. The pain in Rob’s ass was extraordinary, and he moaned in both desire and agony.
It turned out the mime beckoned a musician, an accordionist who laughed when he saw Hugo cornholing Rob. The accordionist began playing musette, which made the entire experience seem almost romantic to Rob. The crooning accordion filled the air, covering up the sound of Rob’s gasping as he accepted more and more of Hugo’s meat.
“Ooh la la,” Rob said through his moans. His prostate came alive and sent tingles through his body. His pleasure grew in waves with every touch of Hugo’s cock inside him.
Hugo’s sausage-like fingers grabbed ahold of Rob’s back and held on. His dick was all the way in Rob’s ass now, his balls slapping against Rob’s thighs. Rob squirmed. Hugo grunted.
The tune coming from the accordion changed to a new song. Rob recognized it but he couldn’t place it at first. He was too overwhelmed by sensations from deep within him to think about it.
It was only when Hugo began singing that Rob recognized the words and placed it to the tune — it was “La Marseillaise”, the national anthem of France. It was a bloody, martial song and, despite the romance of the accordion, that atmosphere shone through because Hugo sang it with his deep, baritone voice, crackling, booming, pumping his biceps and his pecs on the accented words. He sounded like a soldier marching off to war, Rob thought, covering up his own moans so he didn’t overpower the sound of Hugo singing.
At last an orgasm ran through Rob’s body. He loved cumming with a man’s cock in his ass because it always made the top react — Hugo stopped singing for a moment. He grumbled, then groaned in surprise as Rob’s asshole clenched around his cock.
When Hugo began to gyrate his hips again, the pain was worse than ever on account of Rob’s orgasm-tightened ass. That didn’t last long, however, as the smell of cum filled the air, crowding out the bleu cheese and wine that still lingered, and the passion of Hugo’s thrusting made Rob relax
Now he shuddered, aftershocks of his orgasm wracking his body. He was fully limp though, barely able to remain on all fours in front of Hugo, with his ass in the air and his head on the ground.
Since Rob no longer jacked himself off, Hugo could — and did — treat him like a ragdoll. He held onto Rob’s asscheeks tightly, riding him, grinding his dick inside Rob’s body as though he needed to cornhole every inch of Rob’s innards. He grunted out a few indecipherable French syllables.
Once he finished his wine, he smashed the delicate glass on Rob’s back. A few shards of glass sprayed onto the ground at Rob’s feet, and the slight twinge of pain made Rob writhe. The smell of wine was strong now. Rob squirmed but Hugo kept a tight grip on his body.
“I will drown your ass now,” Hugo said with a broken moan. “Je vais noyer ton cul maintenant…”He slapped Rob’s cheeks and watched them ripple. His own muscles flexed and rippled as well, as an orgasm washed over his body.
His lit cigarette fell out of his mouth and landed on Rob’s back, scorching him briefly before it rolled off him and fell onto the ground. He yelped, as the pain reawakened the exquisite sensations in his asshole.
Hugo plowed in and out relentlessly, still breaking into the words of “La Marseillaise” every few seconds as the accordionist continued the song (or maybe started it over, Rob couldn’t tell). Hugo grunted and roared, and cum spurted out of his uncut cock.
It filled up Rob’s ass, dripping into every corner of his body. He shot so much that some of it slipped out his ass, coating his butt and his inner thighs in creamy goodness. It was hot and thick, and it made Rob moan when he felt wad after wad of semen land on his prostate.
He squirmed. He moved his ass back and forth, rubbing his insides with Hugo’s dick. Hugo stood perfectly still. He lit yet another cigarette as he still moaned with the power of his own orgasm.
“Ooh la la…” Hugo murmured with a dry, throaty chuckle.
Then his dick was perfectly limp. Rob pulled off him and sighed. The most incredible relief of his life flooded his body now that his ass was empty. He turned around and dove his face between Hugo’s lumberjack arm and his body. As Hugo breathed heavily, and the mime and accordionist walked away, Rob licked all the sweat that had collected there in Hugo’s damp armpit.
At last it was over. Hugo flopped his limp dick between his fingers, and he wiped his shaft off with the last little bit of baguette. He rammed the crusty, ass-and-cum-soaked bread into Rob’s mouth, laughing when it made Rob cough and choke.
He pulled his pants up, took a drag off his cigarette, then glanced towards the street. There was a pretty girl walking past, and Hugo’s eyes lit up.
“Money,” Hugo said. “Argent, maintenant.”
Rob had forgotten he hadn’t actually paid yet. He pulled out his wallet, carefully counted out five hundred euros and handed it over. Hugo took it, nodded, then took the rest of the cash out of Rob’s wallet. He pushed Rob away and walked out to the main street, calling after the pretty girl, seemingly having forgotten of the beautiful Colette.
“Antoinette! Antoinette! Attends-moi!” he called out.
Finally left alone, Rob sighed. He pulled his own pants up and leaned against the fence. Inside the cafe’s kitchen, Colette had returned with a plate of dirty dishes. She wrinkled her nose at Rob as though she either thought he was homeless or knew he was a tourist and didn’t like them.
But she didn’t tell him to leave the yard, so Rob just stayed there, smelling the wine, bleu cheese and cum, the combined scent of which would forever make him think of France and the greatest French stud he had ever met.

The Cowboy Bottoms

Juniper enjoys the physiques of the cowboys and farmworkers of the Goodman Ranch in Wyoming Territory, but when he’s interrupted by the strongest cowboy around, he’s in for a wild ride… in which this tiny twink just might climb on top! Can the legendary cowboy Hawthorn Spooner endure the vigor and joy of a twink on top?!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Juniper Nightsky hurried out the back door of the farmhouse. The sun was shining but nearing the horizon, and it was hot, humid, the air as thick as a woolen blanket. Juniper made sure Mister Goodman ain’t seen him, but he been sneaking out like this nearly every evening for some time, so he was confident he could get out there surreptitiously. He had an hour while the cook finished the cowboys’s dinner.
The barn — the one everyone called the Green Barn even though the green had faded — was a dingy wooden structure. Many of the slats had separated from each other enough that Juniper could hunker down behind the barn. There, he could peer into the barn where the farmhands bathed.
He got there just in time to watch them strip their sweat-soaked clothes off, talking and laughing and shooting the shit. He couldn’t quite hear their words today, but he saw one grab his bare manhood and wag it at the others as though threatening to beat them with it.
There was a large copper of warm, soapy water, next to an old rickety hot water heater, fueled by coal. Juniper had filled the coal hopper a few hours ago, so the water was good and warm, steaming hot. The cowboys filled the copper tub with water, already naked, their tautly muscled bodies arcing and flexing as they roughhoused. Juniper stayed well back and avoided making any noise, so he could peep on their handsomeness. Juniper greatly appreciated the male physique, and he enjoyed watching the well-formed cowboys bathe.
His dick stiffened in his pants, even though Juniper now saw that his favorite cowboy, Hawthorn, wasn’t there. He was disappointed, but the half-dozen other men were handsome enough — Hawthorn often had extra duties to attend to, so he sometimes ain’t bathe with the others. Juniper felt a twinge of desire as he rubbed his dick with first one, then both, hands, peering closely at the naked men and their soap-drenched bodies.
“I knew it, boy,” Hawthorn said, his deep voice booming behind Juniper. “I knew you’d be back here, touching yerself…”
Juniper jumped out of his skin — they all knew that he watched, but knowing it was different than seeing it. Juniper blushed and looked down. His heart sank as he turned around, cock pulsating in his fingers. Hawthorn stood there shirtless, wearing just his denim and thick boots, carrying his ten-gallon hat. His broad shoulders dripped with sweat, and the dark hair on his chest was matted to his muscles. He was a great big bear of a man, with biceps as thick as Juniper’s head — that was why he often had special duties to attend to, because he was the strongest man on the farm (and probably the whole county).
He loomed ahead of and above Juniper like a mountain of a man, and he clucked his tongue. He shook his head. It was hard to tell, though, if he was really upset or not. He was very religious, so he might have considered it unchristian behavior. Juniper was a Christian though, he went to church weekly. Not all of the cowboys did.
“Tarnations! Hawthorn! I — I — I was j’est watchin’, tha’ss all,” Juniper said. “It ain’t, ah…-“
He put one of his heavy hands on Juniper’s shoulder and squeezed. Juniper fell silent. As always when he was touched by Hawthorn, Juniper felt a surge of desire. Hawthorn’s hand was firm and confident, and the smell of leather and sweat and trail dust clung to Hawthorn. Juniper licked his lips and moved slightly closer to Hawthorn, the better to feel the body heat emanating off him and sense the firmness of his musculature. He was leanly muscled, sharp-jawed and eagle-nosed, and the way his chest rippled stirred the fire in Juniper’s loins. Juniper shuddered, embarrassed at how Hawthorn looked at him like a disobedient child. His manhood stirred in his pants at sight of Hawthorn’s body and the feel of his touch on Juniper’s thin shoulder.
“I ain’t nevuh say nothin’ on account of Mistah Goodman hired you. I got great respect fo’ him and his authority on this ranch. I’d never tell him his worker was abscondin’ from work to come peep on the hands.” He clucked his tongue again. His voice had the sharp-eged twang of a cowboy, which sent a chill up Juniper’s spine.
Juniper blushed. “I don’t know about that-“
“You’s an adult, boy. You must know if’n you can hold off on ya urges ‘till ya find a female,” Hawthorn said. “A beast don’t resist it’s urges, son. Is you a beast? Or is you a godly man? Cuz if you a beast, then I j’est might treat you like one.”
“I ain’t a beast,” Juniper said. “I’m not. I wouldn’t peep on women, if that’s what you mean. I nevuh would, suh!”
“Hmm-hmm… I believes you on that front,” Hawthorn said.
“I wouldn’t! I j’est likes to watch, I does.” Juniper lowered his eyes from the intense gaze Hawthorn put out in his direction.
“I sometimes feel rightly in a similuh fashion, muh manhood be rumblin’,” Hawthorn said. He leaned in, so his deep voice was loud in Juniper’s ears. Hawthorn’s voice was moist. “Sometimes, e’en whores feel too far away. Sometimes a man just gotta get a load off. Sometimes a man gotta do what he gotta do fo’ a bigger man by gettin’ that bigger man off.” Hawthorn sunk to his knees, which put his head just below Juniper’s — Hawthorn was more than six and a half feet tall, so he towered over Juniper normally. Then, much to Juniper’s shock, Hawthorn leaned in and kissed him.
Right on the lips. Both men’s hands were down by their sides, and Juniper stood on his toes in exhilaration as the taste of Hawthorn’s masculine mouth flooded his own. Juniper reeled.
His tongue planted itself in Juniper’s mouth, crowding out his own tongue. Juniper gripped Hawthorn’s biceps for support, and again felt a surge of desire at how thick and rock-hard they were. His body was slick with sweat and trail dust, which Juniper tasted on his scruffy lips as well.
“The vaqueros get each othuh off,” Hawthorn said when he pulled off Juniper for a moment. “Was they the ones who showed you how to do it?”
“Mister Goodman doesn’t allow me to speak to the Mexicans,” Juniper said. He blushed. The Mexican vaqueros who came through the farm a few times a year were rough-and-tumble men who often brought with them their own prostitutes. Juniper also snuck down to watch them by the fire, sticking their dicks in the same cum-oozing snatch over and over. It was both disgusting and erotic for Juniper. Mister Goodman ain’t allow Juniper to talk to them because he thought they were a bad moral influence and Mister Goodman believed it was part of his job as a boss to prevent his workers from moral corruption.
They were Catholic anyway, or maybe pagan, some men did say. Some men didn’t see a difference between a Catholic and a pagan. Juniper didn’t distolerate a man for his religion. He was scared of the vaqueros though.
“They do that,” Hawthorn said. “I seen it on the trail plenty. Vaqueros do use a man’s bottom. You unduhstand? His rear.” He leaned closer to Juniper. “His ass.” He chuckled and undid the fly of his worktrousers and took out his thick, veiny cockshaft. He gave it a few strokes.
Juniper blushed. Before he could do anything else, Hawthorn kissed him again, and wrapped his ropy-muscled arms around Juniper’s body. The warmth of his body heat was alluring, and Hawthorn’s massive cock pressed against Juniper’s side. It was even hotter than the rest of Hawthorn, and it pulsated where it pressed against his flesh.
Despite to feel it without clothes in the way, Juniper wanted to undress. But more than that, he wanted to taste Hawthorn again. He had been surprised by the kiss a few moments ago, and he wanted to do it again without being surprised.
So, flush with desire, Juniper kissed back. He rammed his tongue into Hawthorn’s mouth this time, and Hawthorn was the one who was surprised. He paused, naked, as Juniper’s hands desperately roamed over his muscular body.
Juniper’s dick strained against its fabric prison until Hawthorn pulled his pants down. Juniper ain’t know what was coming as Hawthorn’s kisses lowered from his head to his neck, then licked down his smooth chest. He pulled away just long enough to glance over at the green barn, to see if anybody might have spied them. The other cowboys were in the large tub now, just sitting there and marinating in the bathwater.
It probably smelled rank in there. Rank in a good way. Juniper kind of liked that smell, though he would never admit it, the smell of both clean men and dirty men mixing together with soap and water and leather and filthy denim. Hawthorn kind of liked it too.
“You taste like a girl,” Hawthorn said with a light groan. He suckled on each of Juniper’s nipples in turn. They grew hard, and Juniper shuddered with anticipation. Hawthorn’s strong hands kneaded the flesh of Juniper’s body.
Juniper cried out for more, and he too explored Hawthorn’s body with his hands. Hawthorn’s cock was rock-hard and throbbing, and Juniper liked the way it felt in his hands. All of Hawthorn was a delight to touch though, and Juniper did not stick to Hawthorn’s cock. He groped his muscled back and his ass, and he kissed him again and again.
“Hmmm… Hawthorn…” Juniper couldn’t think of anything to say, but this all felt too good to remain quiet, so all he did was cry out Hawthorn’s name. “Hawthorn!”
“Hmm-hmmm…” Hawthorn was flush with desire as well, but he remained stone-facing, in control as always. He kissed Juniper on the neck and on the nape.
Through the slats in the barn wall, Juniper could see the other cowboys and ranchhands clearly. They were done bathing now, but they sat in a circle, naked, flopping their uncut cocks between their fingers. A few of them even playfully groped each other. Juniper felt hungry at the sight of them.
Juniper gasped when Hawthorn put his cock in his mouth — he hadn’t thought that was coming. Hawthorn was so much taller and bigger he had to move from kneeling to crouching, and even that got awkward soon, so he laid on his back on the ground. Juniper mounted his face and angled his dick down, allowing him to plant his head in the meat of Hawthorn’s belly.
“Yeah, lemme taste that,” Hawthorn said, licking his lips. “It do taste just like a pussy.” He devoured Juniper’s dick, and Juniper threw his head back as he stifled a moan. He bit his tongue to stop himself from making noise, not wanting to attract attention from the men inside the barn.
He had never felt anything like the mouth encircling his dick. Juniper’s whole body undulated as pleasure wracked his sweet, smooth frame. His back arched and covered with goosebumps as Hawthorn’s fingers clutched it, pulling his body down so he could better deep-throat Juniper’s dick. He swallowed it to the root, until his nose was nuzzling Juniper’s crotch.
It might have been nice, Juniper thought, to jack Hawthorn off at the same time. If they had been near the same height, it might have been possible. But as it was, Juniper could do little more than reach for Hawthorn’s dick. It was hot and fleshy, limp still, but pulsating with potential power. Juniper wondered what it would taste like.
They sixty-nined — almost, since Juniper could barely reach Hawthorn’s cock — there behind the barn, just a few yards from the other cowboys. Hawthorn’s practiced lips worked up and down on Juniper’s smooth shaft, sending wave after wave of bliss through his body. Juniper didn’t know it could feel like this.
Juniper was engrossed in the feeling of warm pre-orgasmic pleasure emanating from his cock, and he couldn’t quite concentrate on reaching far enough to swallow Hawthorn’s dick at the same time.. Hawthorn was so much bigger than Juniper that he had a huge throat that opened up plenty wide enough for Juniper’s dick. It throbbed as it pulsated in and out of Hawthorn’s mouth, slathered with spit from his thick tongue.
“Oh god, Hawthorn, this feels so good!” Juniper asked. He reached for Hawthorn’s dick, which pulsated in his fingers, its veiny shaft feeling so thick and perfect like it had been made to fit in Juniper’s hand. He stretched forward enough to get the knob in his mouth, and the intense musk of Hawthorn’s manhood flooded Juniper’s senses.
“This is just the beginning. If’n you like this…” He ain’t need to finish his thought, and he was interrupted by an involuntary moan anyway, as a translucent fluid leaked from his cock.
“I told that slut to clean her cootchie off ‘fore I stuck it in, and she try to charge me extra fo’ it! Said I gotta pay fo’ her time and shit…”
“Did you pay?”
“… I try not to, but she got a big Indian fellah collecting money, and he ain’t nice about it. He’s as big as Hawthorn, and if’n you ain’t got the money to pay, he put your ass out on the street, peddling ya bottom until you make up the difference.”
The sound of the cowboys laughing as they talked about women made Juniper moan with desire again. They sounded so arousing, and he liked that story they told about the Indian man Johnny Redcob — Juniper knew who they spoke of, the silent Indian who worked at Lipsweet in town. That was a bar of floozies and cheap whiskey, rotgut stuff the both of them. Juniper didn’t go there.
But what he learned about how they collected payment interested Juniper very much. Maybe Lipsweet was more enjoyable than he had thought. From the way the cowboys talked about it, he assumed women were the only attraction there.
The cowboys kept hiding their conversation, lest Mister Goodman overhear and scold them. They repeatedly checked to make sure no one was near the barn. They only kept an eye on the main entrance though, because that was the direction Mister Goodman would have come from. He would have been furious if he heard his men talking about such disreputable notions as prostitution. He didn’t allow them to do anything that would bring this ranch into disrepute.
Since they looked only towards the main house, they had no idea that Hawthorn and Juniper were close enough to hear every word.
Juniper brought his fingers to his mouth, where he smelled the musty, cottony scent of sour precum. He sucked one finger, and shuddered at first at the potent, acrid flavor. But he decided he loved it, and he wanted more, so he licked the rest off his skin.
“You taste so good,” Juniper said. Hawthorn’s cockjuice tasted like what Juniper always thought it would smell like in the barn while the cowboys bathed. He suspected it would actually smell like hay and rotting wood, but in his mind, he smelled skin and soap and sweat, and the air tasted like those rock-hard biceps of Hawthorn’s that Juniper had licked. Unable to reach Hawthorn’s dick, Juniper continued licking the man’s meaty belly, his barrel-shaped chest and his powerful muscles.
Hawthorn took one of Juniper’s hands and guided it between his legs, through the tangle of hair beneath his low-hanging balls. Then Hawthorn lifted up his legs to give Juniper access to his ass.
A murmured choking sound came from Hawthorn’s throat — he was saying something. Juniper was in such intense throes of bliss he ain’t know what, but when Hawthorn repeated himself around the cock throbbing in his throat, Juniper got the gist of it. He was saying he wanted Juniper’s bottom. With his legs in the air, Juniper’s ass was bare to the world. That position also had the effect of pushing his dick up a bit, now so close to Juniper’s face that he could smell the precum, and when he stuck his tongue out, he garnered a taste of Hawthorn’s manhood, a single tantalizing taste of it.
When Juniper pushed one finger inside that dark, moist ring, Hawthorn’s whole body stiffened. Juniper ain’t know if that was out of pain or shame or eroticism or all three, but his muscles writhed beneath Juniper’s body.
His asshole was warm and tight. Juniper could barely get his index finger all the way in. He felt it clench around his finger as he began pushing it in and pulling it out. There was a sulphury smell, Juniper noticed, but behind that was the scent of manhood, musk and masculinity. He inhaled deeply of it the best he could while keeping his crotch on Hawthorn’s face.
Hawthorn had such a wide ass with plump, trembling cheeks that Juniper was entranced by them, even from his angle where he couldn’t quite see what he was doing. His hand disappeared between those broad cheeks, and every motion of his finger in Hawthorn’s ass made the cheeks jiggle again.
Scooting forward the best he could without removing his dick from Hawthorn’s mouth, Juniper managed to get the tip of Hawthorn’s dick in his own lips. He sucked on and played with the piss-slit with his tongue, while his free hand hefted Hawthorn’s heavy balls. Hawthorn gasped and spat thick precum onto Juniper’s tongue.
He had been so focused on Hawthorn’s buttcheeks that he ain’t notice right away when Hawthorn smacked Juniper’s ass, to tell him to take his dick out of his mouth. When he did, Hawthorn gasped for air. His face had turned red, and spittle left a trail between his lips and Juniper’s dick, which spasmed as though begging for more.
“I’m sorry, was that too much-?”
“Nah, you taste like woman, boi,” Hawthorn said. “Don’t apologize. Go’n and stick it in me. I wanna feel you in me.”
Juniper raced into action, excited to have this opportunity. He had never thought he would get to smash this cowboy’s tight, meaty ass. Kneeling behind him, Juniper stroked his dick as he wedged it into Hawthorn’s ass. Hawthorn’s great trunk-like thighs were right in front of his face — he still laid there on his back with his legs in the air — so Juniper gripped them for support as he pushed his dick between Hawthorn’s cheeks.
The sweat and the spit lubricated his manhood, and he easily slipped the whole thing in Hawthorn’s cavernous ass, each cheek of which was bigger than Juniper’s head. Despite his great size, his asshole was still tight and it clenched down on Juniper’s cock. Hawthorn grunted in pain and breathed heavily as he focused on opening up.
“Now move it back and forth. Keep it slow,” Hawthorn said through gritted teeth. Juniper had never seen him in pain, not even the one time he had been kicked by a mule in front of Juniper, and responded as though nothing had happened. Juniper hesitated, not wanting to hurt the man, who had been so nice to him, even before all this. Hawthorn grimaced. “No, you’re doing it right. It’s s’posed to hurt a bit. That’s god’s way of reminding us that jackin’ off is a sin, that we gotta seek forgiveness afterwards.”
Overwhelming pleasure coursed through Juniper’s body even before he began gyrating his hips. Soon, however, he got the hang of it, and he pounded that meaty ass as hard as he could. His cheeks jiggled with every thrust of Juniper’s cock deeper and deeper into him.
With Hawthorn’s spit as lube, Juniper had no trouble getting his dick in and out. He had had difficulty with just one finger, but it seemed Hawthorn had become so aroused he was opened up. Juniper felt a surge of desire; he rather wanted to try being on the bottom for Hawthorn’s massive meat too, but Hawthorn had such a huge cock, he was sure it would hurt badly. Still, it just might be worth it, he thought.
“I wonder where Hawthorn’s at.”
“Probly jackin’ off wit’ them vaqueros.”
The cowboys in the barn laughed knowingly, as though this was a common inside joke. Juniper was so distracted by his orgasm that the men’s words ain’t sink in right away — then he realized that they were saying. Hawthorn had a habit of having jacking off with the Mexican men as well. He had a hard time picturing any of the hardscrabble Mexicans submitting to a gringo cowboy like Hawthorn.
But Juniper was too engrossed in Hawthorn’s ass to think about that too much. He rammed his dick in and out now, no longer worried about hurting Hawthorn, who moaned and gasped loudly, as though he had no concern for being caught. Juniper stroked his dick as he smashed his ass, and played with his hairy balls with his other hand.
“Smash me, Juniper, oh tarnations, yes!”
An orgasm built up slowly but inexorably, and Juniper fought it off as long as he could. But it inevitably took over, and he gasped. He had to bite his lip to avoid being heard by the cowboys inside the barn. He shuddered and sprayed cum inside Hawthorn’s ass, while Hawthorn shot his own load all over his chest.
His climax was like nothing he had ever felt before. Juniper had touched his own dick on a number of occasions, alone, in his room, exploring his body, and he had smashed plenty of men through the years. But he had never experienced pleasure like this. It rocketed up his spine and made him moan a tight, pinched sound that felt like it should have been much louder than it was — not that Juniper was trying to make noise, he still wanted to keep this a secret from the naked cowboys in the barn.
He shot a huge load, or at least it felt like he did. It jetted from his cock for a full minute, coating every inch of Hawthorn’s hefty insides. Hawthorn smiled as his belly was covered in cum inside and out, his own massive wad spreading and flowing over his hairy skin.
“Aw, damn, boi,” Hawthorn said. He shook and shuddered with a mixture of pain and post-orgasmic bliss. “Don’t tell Mister Goodman about this. He’d fire us both fer shure.”
Cum dripped from Hawthorn’s ass, while Hawthorn’s own load matted his chest hair to his body. Juniper continued moving his hips back and forth now, but very slowly, marveling at how Hawthorn writhed and contorted every few seconds when the motion reawakened his orgasm.
“I won’t tell him anything,” Juniper said, his voice weak and strained. His orgasm had exhausted him more than any amount of work he had ever done. It made him want to eat a second dinner right now, then crawl into Hawthorn’s arms and sleep, right here behind the barn if he had to.
Juniper pulled out, breathing a sigh of relief. Hawthorn’s great wad of pearly cum sat on his warm chest, in the nooks and crannies created by his muscles. Juniper leaned in and licked it up, savoring the salty taste and creamy texture.
He licked it up all the way to Hawthorn’s face, where he kissed. Hawthorn gagged a little at the cummy flavor of his own wad on Juniper’s tongue, but he kissed back, wrapping his arms around Juniper’s back. The salty flavor of cum passed back and forth between their mouths as they both fell limp in each other’s arms — Hawthorn’s great big hulking limbs wrapped around Juniper, whose stick-like body in comparison couldn’t quite reach, so he just grasped at Hawthorn’s broad, sweat-dappled and sun-ruddened shoulders.
“Thank you, Hawthorn.”
“Don’t mention it, Juniper. For real, definitely do not mention it,” he said. “I was serious ‘bout keepin’ this a secret. Don’t mention it to no one, especially Mister Goodman.”
“I won’t. It’ll be our secret. Can I come see you again?”
“Anytime,” he said. He chewed on his lower lip. “You know which barn I sleep in, right?”

The Ranchhand

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

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Read the whole thing here!

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

The Fat Janitor

Bart’s dreary remedial driving-safety class bores him to tears, until a disruption by the massive-bodied janitor Lincoln. During a class break, Bart is ready to service Lincoln’s alpha male needs! Can he finish in time to complete his course?

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Bart didn’t want to look too bored. He wasn’t sure how “passing” was defined in a class like this, and he thought if he looked bored, the teacher — Mr. Watson — would say he wasn’t paying attention and make him do it again. This had been boring enough, Bart wasn’t willing to do it again.
So he tried very hard to pay attention. Mr. Watson was explaining how to parallel park. That seemed like an absurd thing to explain in words, Bart thought, it required a picture or diagram.
Or it could just be skipped. This was a class for traffic violators who needed to get their license back. Almost all of them had said they were in trouble due to speeding, drunk driving or having marijuana in the car when they were arrested. Nobody had been in trouble for a parallel-parking violation. Bart was here for speeding.
The whole thing was bullshit. Bart would have rather paid the fine. Ah, but the insurance costs… That was where they get ya, really. Insurance.
But anyway, parallel parking was what Mr. Watson wanted to talk about. His thin, reedy body twisted as he tried to explain, breathlessly. “So, you see, when your mirror — that’s the right-hand one, on the passenger side — see when you see into that one, to the rear of you-
Bart was a good parallel parker, and even he had lost the thread of this particular lesson. He smiled and nodded though. He resolved to remember this later so when Mr. Watson asked — as Bart was positive he would — to “reflect on” what he’d learned today, Bart would have something to say. He’d claim he’d never been comfortable parallel parking until Mr. Watson explained it so thoroughly.
Bart was sucking up just in case that helped him get through this without any points on his license.
The door to the classroom opened, and Bart straightened his back. His boredom vanished as a man walked into the classroom. He was a janitor, presumably, judging from the gray jumpsuit he wore. He rolled in with him a large trash can, which made a loud rumbling sound.
He was very handsome, that was why Bart noticed him so intently. The nametag sewn onto the front of his jumpsuit said his name was Lincoln. He was burly and bristly, snarling at no one in particular when he came in. He looked like a generally disagreeable person, not like he was upset at this moment.
He was pudgy, thick all over, and Bart instantly got a rough and rugged vibe off Lincoln, who had that “it ain’t pervy as long as you’s on top” look. That was exactly the look Bart was hoping for. Maybe it was because Lincoln appeared to be of Italian or Greek descent, or something around that region, Bart thought, and those Mediterranean guys were usually down if they didn’t have a girl at the moment. This chunky mean-looking man almost certainly was single, so Bart had high hopes for him.
“Hi, Lincoln, hello,” said the teacher, Mr. Watson, his voice annoyed at first, then patronizingly respectful. “Welcome to our learning.”
“What?” Lincoln snapped. He stopped short in the doorway. There was no reason to rattle that big trash can on wheels through the doorway. He could have left it out there. That was what the janitor last week had done. She had come in, gotten the trash can unobtrusively, then emptied it out in the hall before returning the trash can.
Was Lincoln being deliberately disruptive?
“I said, uh… welcome to our learning,” Mr. Watson said. “I think of education as a location, a state of mind and a journey all at once. So what we’re doing right here, this is learning, and I’d like to welcome you to it. Perhaps some of our learning will spill over to you.” Then Mr. Watson hastened to add, “And perhaps some of your learning will spill over to us, for I’m sure you have many wonderful knowledge… knowledges. Paths of knowledge. Ways of knowing. Folkways of… paths. Of known… learning. You no doubt… have much to teach us.”
There was a long awkward pause, and Mr. Watson blushed a bit. Lincoln the janitor furrowed his brow. “What? I ain’t here to teach nothin’. If you wanna learn from me, you best pay me.”
“Oh, well… It was more of a… psychological… milieu… uh… thing.”
Lincoln glanced over the classroom of students for the first time since coming in. He nodded at the one young black man in the first row and — for seemingly no reason — licked his teeth, aiming a harsh look at his direction. He maintained the mean stare as he grabbed the trash can by the desk. It looked to have nothing in it aside from one wadded-up piece of paper.
“Uh… Certainly… Indeed,” Mr. Watson said with a nod. He turned back to the class and resumed his “discussion” — that was the word he used instead of “class”, though so far, not much actual discussion had occurred. It was mostly Mr. Watson monologuing.
Bart had a pen near his lips when he caught Lincoln’s eye. Lincoln snorted and huffed as he emptied the trash can, then he stood there with a hostile glare on his face still aimed at the young black man in the front row. Bart slipped the pen into his mouth, subtly at first. Lincoln loudly snorted as he made an arduously over-long and over-loud production of emptying the mostly empty trash bin into the larger trash can. Mr. Watson again stopped leading his “discussion circle” to wait for the clamor to end, which seemed to be taking forever.
Then was when Lincoln made eye contact with Bart, who sucked on his pen like a lollipop. It made Lincoln stare his asians right at him, squinting like he didn’t believe what he saw. Bart pursed his lips around the pen and swallowed it like a very thin cock, demonstrating how deep he could go.
He even pantomimed playing with a pretend-ballsac beneath the pen. Lincoln scowled and loudly tossed the trash can back onto the floor. It rattled and clanged. Lincoln kept his eyes aimed at Bart as he noisily backed out of the classroom with the large trash can on wheels.
The door slammed shut. Mr. Watson frowned and rolled his eyes. “Okay, let’s get back to it. I wanted to have a free and open discussion about the importance of diversity in traffic safety.”
Bart’s dick was stiff. He was sure Lincoln wanted it. He even saw Lincoln’s head in the little window in the door, staring right at Bart, his sour face frowning, his hands in front of his body — was he touching his cock? It was impossible to see through the door, but Bart was pretty sure he had grabbed his dick through his jumpsuit. He wagged it aggressively at the door, presumably either to signal to Bart he wanted to bust a nut or to pantomime forcing Mr. Watson to do it — Bart couldn’t tell which. Maybe it was a bit of both.
Lincoln hated Mr. Watson because he was an intellectual pussy who had said he thought truckers drove poorly. Lincoln had been ruminating on that ever since he overheard Mr. Watson say it to a different classroom. Lincoln used to be a trucker, but had been fired due to complaints from other drivers, whom he imagined were much like Mr. Watson.
So Lincoln really hated him, and enjoyed disrupting his class.
It was especially fun because Mr. Watson was the kind of liberal do-gooder who would never have criticized Lincoln or asked him to be more quiet. Mr. Watson was on the side of the working class, even when the working class was not on Mr. Watson’s side. So Lincoln could be as disruptive and obnoxious as he wanted, and Mr. Watson would not stop him.
But today, he was more interested in that smooth boy. Lincoln had gotten used to plowing into males when he was a trucker, and he didn’t want to pay for the lot-lizard prostitutes who hung out at truck stops.
That wasn’t a huge problem for Lincoln, who preferred to sodomize without thinking about his bottom anyway. Man, woman, it didn’t matter, so long as they were willing and wet or could be made wet. He wanted to plow in and use and abuse whatever tight hole he could get his dick in. Very few women were willing to let him do that, even if he did pay them.
Lincoln went outside and smoked a cigarette. He waited until he heard noise in Mr. Watson’s classroom — the school was closed for today, so no one was here except for the traffic school. An explosion of chatter signaled it was time for the class’s lunch-break.
He waited outside, smoking his cigarette down to the filter, as students filed out. Most of them left. Even the ones who had brought their own lunch didn’t want to eat in there, which Lincoln assumed (mostly correctly) was because they didn’t want to risk having to talk to that pissant Mr. Watson while they ate.
He hoped to see that pen-sucking freak, but he didn’t come out. Had he misread the situation? Lincoln had assumed that slurping on his pen was a signal. Lincoln went in. The little man wasn’t in the classroom, where that shitheel Mr. Watson was eating something that looked terrible — it was some sort of couscous salad, and it made Lincoln’s mouth taste bad just looking at it. He shoveled it in like his fork hated him.
Where did he go?
Lincoln shrugged and went towards the back door. He thought maybe he had gone out the back. Before he got to the door, however, he saw that slim white man going through a hall as though looking for someone. Maybe he had gone in search of me, Lincoln thought.
He headed into a supply closet.
Bart minced down the hall, in search of that janitor. He was annoyed that this had become more difficult than seemed reasonable. They only had twenty minutes for lunch. Bart was already skipping eating in hopes of getting a taste of that studly janitor, but now the time was slipping away quickly.
He had a ham and muenster sandwich to eat. He was really looking forward to it when he made it this morning.
A door opened right in front of Bart, and Lincoln’s hands reached out and gripped him on the shoulders. He pulled Bart into the supply closet and slammed the door shut before Bart could react.
Lincoln was powerful — he fancied himself an amateur bodybuilder though he was far from perfectly muscled. He had a little beer belly and plenty of heft on his thickheavy thighs. He had a deep growly voice and a scruffy beard. “Hey,” he said. “Whatchoo in here for?”
“You dragged me in here,” Bart said with a flirtatious giggle. “I don’t know what you wanted.” He straightened the zipper on Lincoln’s jumpsuit and tweaked one of his nipples through the fabric. “Maybe you needed some help figuring out how to use this broom.” He grabbed a broom and pretended to sweep awkwardly, brushing the broom over Lincoln’s feet. “My teacher made it pretty clear you don’t know anything about anything-“
“Yeah, he a dick.”
“Oh my god, he’s so douchey! I want to slap the pussy off his face every time he speaks,” Bart said. “He said he wouldn’t let us watch that video with all the gory car accidents because he was worried it would traumatize us — but that’s the one part of the day I thought might be good! The rest of it is just him babbling about the importance of showing respect to Hindu people when parallel parking!”
Lincoln laughed so hard his face turned red. His big hairy belly rippled and jiggled, bumping into Bart and knocking him against the door. “Sorry,” Lincoln’s deep voice rang out. He was quiet, but his voice was so deep it echoed against the walls of the supply closet.
“You want me to jack you off?”
“Hell yeah, boy. Go for it,” Lincoln said. “You a freak.” It wasn’t clear from his tone of voice whether that was an insult or not.
Bart gripped the zipper on Lincoln’s jumpsuit with his teeth, and he pulled it down. It was awkward to unzip the jumpsuit that way, but it turned him on. Bart lost the zipper every few inches and had to chase after it. He clutched Lincoln’s stout body for support, while Lincoln rolled his eyes.
“You playin’ games now, boy, hurry up,” Lincoln said with a snarl. His belly was bared, and his powerful chest muscles rippled. He had plenty of flab under his jumpsuit, a big meaty torso, and under that the musculature that Bart had sensed. He put out power and radiated heat, and it sent a frisson of desire up Bart’s spine.
Bart liked to tease him, so he didn’t hurry, even though Bart was the one pressed for time. He even stopped partway down and licked a trail from Lincoln’s belly to his neck, slurping up all the sweat that clung to his body. He would have kept going but Lincoln slapped his head away before his lick turning into a kiss.
Dropping to his knees, Bart pulled the zipper down the rest of the way. Lincoln wore tattered white boxers, which Bart also tried to pull down with his teeth. Lincoln’s plump ass got in the way, however, so Bart struggled, nuzzling the pubic hair that stretched out from the waistband of his boxers.
When Lincoln got tired of Bart playing around, he dropped his boxers unceremoniously and flopped his dick on Bart’s face. He had a big fat slab of meat, and he mollywopped it over Bart’s cheeks. Bart reached up to towards his chest, which he couldn’t reach, so he just clutched Lincoln’s belly with both hands as he slurped up the stale sweat that clung to his cockshaft. Lincoln snarled. “Quit playin’ wit’ it, boy.” He frowned crossly at him. “If you wanna jack me off, do it.”
“Okay, daddy.”
“Don’t call me daddy, that’s nasty,” Lincoln said. He had a fat cock just like his belly, and he slapped it over Bart’s cheeks. Pervs always played games, he thought, he had learned that in all those truck stops. If you let them, they would just lick you all over all day long, jacking themselves off. You had to hurry them along, Lincoln thought, so he spread Bart’s lips and plowed in.
Bart loved teasing alphas and making them ramrod his face like that, so he kept playing until Lincoln finally forced his dick down his throat. Then Bart opened his mouth as wide as he could so Lincoln could ram into him however he wanted. He was an expert at slurping big dicks and could deep-throat nearly anything.
He was glad to let Lincoln initiate this, Bart thought, because it meant Bart didn’t have to offer any money. It was nice to do it for free. Bart had a knack for tracking down hefty plus-sized alphas with meat to spare and a need for his wet mouth, soft hands and tight ass, but he usually had to pay them to ride the thickness-carousel. Lincoln was desperate enough to do it for free.
He couldn’t see Lincoln’s face because of the fat belly above his head, but Bart didn’t mind. He could hear Lincoln snorting like an angry hippo, huffling, chuffing as he sucked on his teeth and his dick stiffened up moistly in Bart’s mouth.
“Ah, goddamn…” Lincoln sighed. This felt good. His frustration at having to deal with that punk-ass shit Mr. Watson vanished. That all seemed so unimportant. Lincoln’s anger-management counselor, his parole officer and his other parole officer all agreed he needed to learn how to let things go, but it seemed so hard sometimes. About the only thing that did it was going to town on some bitch’s throat. That had been difficult to accomplish ever since leaving the trucking industry and the lot lizards of truck stops.
His dick was rock-hard and throbbing now, pouring precum in great rivulets down Bart’s throat. The taste was salty and sour, like pure sweat, unadulterated with deodorant, flowing into his belly. It was hot and sticky, just like Bart liked it. He would have gladly slurped on Lincoln’s cock all day long.
But he didn’t actually want to do that — he wanted to get plowed into. He didn’t want Lincoln to cum so quickly, not with Bart’s ass unplumbed today thus far.
He had to slap Lincoln on his fat asscheeks a few times before Lincoln got the message and pulled away. His belly had been pressing on Bart’s forehead, so there was a layer of greasy sweat left there when he was done. He pulled his cock out and gasped, staring crossly at Bart. Bart gasped for air, and he grasped Lincoln’s trunk-like legs for support. Thick tendrils of spit still connected his mouth to Lincoln’s veiny cockshaft.
“What’s wrong?”
“You wanna get in my ass?” Bart was recovering his breath now, and he chased Lincoln’s dick with his tongue. Lincoln ignored that and got up.
Lincoln blushed and snickered. Most dudes in truck stops didn’t do that. They would stroke you off again and again all day long, after all, but that was it. Anal was only for prisoners and sailors. And lumberjacks, soldiers, exterminators supposedly, a lot of labor unions. Rugby players. Puerto Ricans. So a lot of guys.
But not civilized people.
That’s not to say that Lincoln had never plowed into a man. But he’d never done it sober, with a consenting man he didn’t know, in a well-lit non-prison area.
Being sober really made it seem more daunting, he thought. Everything seems easier when you’re drunk. He wished he was drunk. But in any case, now that the freak from the traffic safety class had offered, Lincoln really wanted to plunder that ass. No woman had given up the ass to him since he gained all that weight.
But with his dick hard and the tight ass right in front of him, Lincoln was not about to say no. He wanted to blow his wad, and he wanted to do it right now. If the only option open to him for now was this dude’s tight ass, he was going to do it without a second thought.
He kept plowing in even when Bart had pulled off his cock. His hips just worked of their own accord, flexing, his angry cock jutting out and stabbing the air around Bart. His dicktip slammed into Bart’s thigh again and again, as Bart tried to turn around in the little space between Lincoln and the door, which rattled on its frame.
Finally Bart had his backside aimed at Lincoln, who again didn’t stop humping. His dick rubbed on Bart’s ass until Bart took the initiative to reach behind himself and aim his cock at Bart’s ass.
It was clumsy to reach back there because Lincoln didn’t stop moving, and his belly got in the way. But Bart managed to aim his cock for his tight hole, then backed his ass up.
Once the tip slid in, Lincoln grunted and groaned. He stopped grinding his dick and stayed still. He closed his eyes, suddenly stricken with nervousness about this — he’d never experienced anything quite like this. Bart backed his ass up, grimacing until he had every inch of Lincoln’s corpulent cock inside him. A spurt of pleasure hit Bart, as Lincoln’s cock rammed into his prostate. Bart shuddered and cried out.
“Damn…” Lincoln grunted. He slapped Bart’s asscheek, making it ripple and tighten and send a wave of pleasure up Lincoln’s body. His muscles all flexed at once — he tended to do that whenever he got nervous, to cover up his anxiety. He bit his lip and pulled Bart’s ass, enabling him to plow in.
Soon he had Bart bent over, struggling to hold onto the door in the frame as he got plowed into. Bart’s head bumped into the door too, but the pleasure emanating from his prostate was enough to make that seem irrelevant and distant.
He strained to take it all, but Bart managed to do it. Lincoln pounded in and out of him, using all of his weight and his power to ram him hard. Bart moaned out loud, stifling himself only when he heard some of his fellow traffic-school students out in the hall — they sounded like they were looking for a place to smoke a cigarette without Mr. Watson seeing them (Mr. Watson had made it clear he disliked smokers and didn’t think they should be allowed to drive).
Bart hoped they didn’t hear. He didn’t want to get kicked out and have to take this class all over again — taking it with Mr. Watson wouldn’t be so bad cuz he could get cornholed again, but probably he’d end up somewhere else that didn’t have a studly janitor like Lincoln.
Bart was sure the twenty-minute break was over, but he didn’t want to hurry Lincoln, who was swaying, grinding his dick within Bart’s ass, plowing into him from every angle he could. It seemed to last forever, Bart’s prostate singing as he took in the greatest cock he’d ever had.
Finally he couldn’t bear it anymore, and Lincoln sprayed his dense wad deep into Bart’s ass. It flowed in like water from a hose, more and more of it, until it overflowed in a big foamy mess of creamy nut that dripped down Bart’s legs. Some of it soaked into Lincoln’s jumpsuit fabric, which was piled down around his ankles.
“Goddamn, boy, take it!” Lincoln held onto Bart by the hair, keeping his squirming body in place as he finished up inside him.
Then, at last, Lincoln pulled out, and a surge of warmth hit Bart, who sighed. Bart was weak with desire, so Lincoln had to hold him aloft, allowing Bart to wiggle in his arms and suck sweat off his chest. Lincoln stroked his own gray-tinged beard hairs as his dick limpened, rubbing against Bart’s asscheek.
More jizz sprayed into Bart, a long flow that filled him up and seeped into his flesh. It was hot and creamy, and already some was seeping out and running down the insides of his thighs. It felt so dirty and so good, and Lincoln gave his cock a few final strokes inside Bart, daggering it slowly back and forth and turning his asscrack into a foamy mess. His hands lay at rest on Bart’s back then, as, very slowly, inch by inch, Bart expelled that massive cock.
Finally it came out with an audible plop, followed by a torrent of jizz that plopped onto the floor. Bart sighed, and Lincoln moaned.
He let go, and Bart collapsed to the ground with a gasp. Lincoln backed away and wiped his dick off. “Alright, boy, you better get back to ya class. Mr. Watson got shit to say. God knows he never gonna run outta words.”
“Hmmmm… Are you still gonna be around in a couple hours?” Bart asked.
“Nah. I gots a date. Well, not exactly a date, but there’s this female at that strip club on the highway…” Lincoln licked his lips. “She said she like big boys. She wanna see me and dance for me. But maybe if things with her don’t work out… I could give you a call?”
Bart nodded. He knew enough about girls to know what was really happening at that strip club, but he didn’t want to get involved. He put his clothes on and slipped out, arriving just a minute or two after Mr. Watson re-began his class. Bart sat down and daydreamed as he basked in the fat-stud smell that clung to his body.
He couldn’t wait to get home and wait for that call.

The Fat Bouncer

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

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

The Fat Thug

Bart is desperate for giant alpha males, and he may have met his fill in a dirty old traphouse. There’s drug dealers galore in there, but Bart has eyes only for Thickie Large, a fat Blood with manmeat worth seeking out! Can Bart land this whale?

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Bart sat in his car working up the nerve to go in there. He was pretty sure his plan would work, it was just anxiety-provoking. He was a puny white guy about to go into a crackhouse, one that was probably full of guys who were only interested in buying or selling crack. Bart wasn’t there for that, so they were going to be annoyed.
Still, he had a plan he was confident in.
He took a deep breath and headed in. The Broad Avenue traphouse was legendary, everybody in town knew where it was and not to ever go in. It had been raided by the police a half-dozen times in the last year alone. They never caught anything or anybody of note. A couple crackheads, a few guys with open warrants for petty bullshit.
The yard out front was brown and overgrown, not having been mowed in years, most likely. It was sad to think this was a nice family’s house once upon a time, probably. Children’s toys were scattered around the lawn. That had to be recent, not a relic of the nice family that lived here years ago, the toys were too new, some crackhead had emptied them. Probably stole an Amazon package off a porch and threw the toys on the lawn because they can’t be pawned.
The home itself was wracked with graffiti and big brown stains of what Bart hoped was mud. The door was unlocked (and indeed, being off the hinges, was un-lockable). Inside it smelled like marijuana smoke, which surprised Bart, as he was expecting crack. He wasn’t aware that crack didn’t have a very strong scent and was easily overpowered by the high-grade marijuana that was recently smoked upstairs.
That’s where Bart went. He figured his man was probably up there. A few of the sallow-faced men and semi-conscious women on the ground floor glared at him, but none reacted. They seemed to be pretty out of it. Bart wasn’t sure they registered him at all.
On the second floor, he went straight to the room at the end of the hall, where he could hear deep-throated voices talking. This is where the floral, mephitic plumes of acrid blunt smoke were coming from. He went straight in. Four black men stood as though ready to attack as soon as he opened the door.
When they saw that it was a flamboyant white man who was both short and skinny, they hesitated. Bart grinned and giggled like a slutty girl, which made the four black men furrow their brows. Bart said, “Hey, guys, my name’s Bart.” He held his hand out as though he expected the guys to kiss the back of his hand. They didn’t.
“Yo, what’s up, boi?”
“What’re you doin’?”
“You crazy-ass fool, you ‘bout to get yaself shot-!”
The first three to talk were Ratty, Nailboy and Dumphry. They were all Bloods in good standing, as evidenced by the tats. Only Dumphry’s tattoos were visible though. He was heavyset but strong as hell, thick as cold oatmeal. Ratty and Nailboy were skinny. Ratty was outright ugly, like a smashed dog biscuit. Nailboy was handsome and eager and cute like an abandoned puppy, and he kept sucking on his teeth like he was too good for literally everything happening around him.
None of those were Bart’s preference. He adored men of a certain physique, and that physique was not the handsome prettyboy, six-packed studs, muscular bodybuilding types, and definitely not the malnourished crackhead look — Ratty looked like that — Bart liked men of largeness.
Men of extra largeness.
He was after the fourth Blood hanging out with the other three, the biggest of them all, a few inches taller and much heavier than them. “Thickie Large”. ‘Antoine Wall’ was his real name, but everyone called him Thickie, and he had even released one single under the name Notorious F.A.T. He was six and a half feet tall, and he was fat. Not just a little chubby, he was outright fat, with a belly that hung over his crotch and thick flabby arms.
He was also very strong, easily the strongest of the four, his muscles were just buried beneath that deliciously wide body. He had this dry, raspy voice that turned Bart on so much he didn’t catch what Thickie said. It was easy to not hear it, it was oddly hummy, he talked like a cartoon moth, and you could hear his heavyset frame in his voice, like his words ricocheted around in his chest on their way out.
“I heard a rumor that you guys could help me with something,” Bart said as he came into the room with a grand swoop to his walk. That got their attention. Most people who came in here tried to come across as tough and dangerous, not flighty and effiminate. That was part of his plan, throwing them for a loop so they’d be on edge and more likely to agree to his request, or at least refrain from robbing him long enough for him to make the request.
One of them scoffed. “Yeah, man, we got whores, but you can’t just come bustin’ in here like this.”
“We got what you want-“
“You still gonna get busted up-“
“Whiteboy crazy!”
The only one of them who didn’t say anything was Thickie Large, who brimmed and bristled under that shade-casting baseball hat he always wore. He shifted his weight between his feet as he puffed on his blunt, hotboxing the cherry like a madman. He opened his mouth full of smoke, then inhaled, then exhaled slowly through his open mouth. He didn’t listen to his niggas talk heavy smack at the whack-ass whiteboy who came through the traphouse like a foolish-ass whiteboy.
“Yo, what?”
“You lookin’ for a female?”
“I got a fat bitch at home, she’ll rock ya socks off, white man. She’ll suck yo’ dick so good you turn into a nigga,” Nailboy said.
“You want crack?”
“No, no,” Bart said. He’d been trying to get a word in. His plan to attract attention by being eccentric and thereby get them to shut up long enough for him to make an offer was not working. “Wait, guys-“
“I got pills. Whatchoo want?”
“I got a hundred bucks,” Bart blurted out. He blushed as they at last fell silent, which was mainly sparked by Ratty realizing the blunt rotation was halted because Thickie Large was hogging it. Ratty swore at him and took the blunt. That interrupted the convo long enough for Bart to explain at last. “I’m not looking for a woman. I want to jack one of you off.”
A long pause filled up the mouse-scented room. Outside sirens blared as a parade of cop cars went past, the sound of which seemed loud because one of the windows was shattered. The four thugs all exchanged looks, all except Thickie Large who stood there like he hadn’t heard that.
Then at last, Thickie Large spoke. “Yo, what?”
“Whiteman a freak.”
“He prolly was a prison bitch, got a taste fo’ nigga meat. It happens. That’s science,” said Ratty. “Shit, fo’ a hundred bucks, I let you take a swing on my meat too, boi.” He grabbed his crotch. He lowered his sagging jeans enough to bring out a big dick. It was kind of knobbly and unpleasant, like a Fijian warclub.
“Hmmm… You’re getting close,” Bart said. He placed one hand on Thickie’s arm. “But I’m only willing to pay for the thickest of meats.” He giggled as they all erupted in whoops and hollers. Thickie himself seemed to be more surprised than anyone else. His eyes opened wide, and his lips parted but only a dull croak came out.
“Ah, shit!”
“What? That don’t make no sense!”
“What’s wrong wit’choo?” Dumphry lifted up Thickie Large’s shirt, revealing his broad Santa-like belly. Dumphry slapped his bellyfat to make it jiggle. “You crazy!”
“This is fucked up,” Nailboy said. “Man, boi, hey, whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout?” He took his shirt off and made Bart look at his perfectly etched body and powerful muscles. His pecs rippled, and he flexed first one bicep, then the other, then both. “You want him? You want that flabby ass? Instead of this?”
“Hmm-hmm-“
“You crazy,” Ratty said. He took his dick out again. “You want thick meat, I got thick meat-“
“You got one thick cut of meat,” Bart said. He patted Thickie’s belly. “But he’s made out of thick meat. He’s thick all the way through.” He looked up at Thickie. “So what do you say? A hundred bucks?” Bart had actually brought two hundred, but Ratty had thrown a ‘hundred dollars’ out there as a reasonable amount, so Bart went with that. He fully expected them to rob him at the end of this anyway.
The room got quiet. Thickie was flush. He looked like he was unused to being flustered. He glared at his friends. “Y’all get out.”
“Man, Thickie-“
“I say get out,” Thickie said.
They all grumbled a bit but walked out into the hallway. Thickie looked down at Bart. “You came in here lookin’ for some fat dick? There’s fat guys downstairs. Or was you lookin’ just for me?”
“You mean the crackheads? I’m not just into random fat dudes,” Bart said. He dropped to his knees. “I want you. I saw you selling weed at that frat party last weekend. They said I could find you here.”
“Man, they shouldn’t be — I ain’t admittin’ I was sellin’ weed, nosir, don’t you think that.” Thickie was about to take his dick out, then he eyed Bart suspiciously and ripped his shirt and pants off to look for a wire. “Those motherfuckers shouldn’t be spreadin’ my personal information. I’ll have to have a talk with them.”
Bart smiled. “Okay. Yeah, sure. Cool. I’m not a cop. I’m not wearing a wire. Would a cop do this?” He crawled on his knees to Thickie’s backside, jammed his nose right in Thickie’s buttcrack, through his jeans. He inhaled loudly. “Cops don’t do that kinda shit, right?”
Thickie hesitated. “I dunno, man.” He paused. “This some nasty booty bandit shit.” Thickie lit a cigarette.
But that still wasn’t a no, so Bart just went ahead and played with the thick cock bulged in Thickie’s filthy jeans. Thickie ignored it and smoked his cigarette. Just like with his blunt, he let his mouth fill with smoke and opened it, then inhaled the smoke. This time he exhaled the smoke through his nostrils like an angry bull, while his cock throbbed beneath his jeans and under Bart’s soft touch. Hearing no objection, Bart undid Thickie’s belt.
His jeans dropped, and Bart pulled his boxers down. Thickie’s belly sagged thickly over his cock, which he hadn’t seen in years without a mirror. Bart first licked up some of the sweat off his big belly, then licked a trail down his cock, from root to tip.
“Damn, whiteboi,” Thickie said with a nervous tremor to his chuckle. He swayed his ass back and forth as Bart clasped it with both hands. Each cheek was as big as Bart’s entire upper body.
His dick got hard quickly in Bart’s mouth. It was veiny and strong, firm, throbbing. Bart loved the musky flavor. He stuck his tongue out and ran it up and down the shaft. He was quiet at first, still unsure if Thickie even wanted him to be doing this. Thickie showed little reaction the whole time.
But after a minute or two, Bart stopped trying to be quiet, and he choked up mouthloads of spit that ran down Thickie’s dick into his unkempt bush. Thickie at last straightened his back. He grunted. He murmured something incomprehensible on the underhush.
“Ah, shit, Thickie’s doin’ it! I hear that!”
“Oh, yeah, stick me in my mahjuicy ass!” Ratty was doing a Thickie-impression. “I wanna take that dick! I love white dick in mah ass!”
“Yeah, lemme suck on your belly-rolls!”
“Hmmm, double-D titties!”
They were laughing out in the hall, so loud as they banged on the door and stomped on the floor that it sounded like they were falling over themselves. Bart had to chuckle too, especially when Thickie wrinkled his nose. Thickie tried not to react.
He slipped his dick deeper into Bart’s mouth. Thickie was ginger at first, worried he would be unable to get hard, or that it would feel too much like a man. And, he thought, there was something clinical about it — it felt good in a strictly physical way, but Thickie remained intensely aware of the fact that it was a sin as he saw it.
Thickie shook his head. He didn’t want to think that. One of the old heads in his neighborhood last year had gone on a drunken rant about how punks in prison mouthed him off so good. He said there was nothing better than a prison wife going to town on your cock.
Precum streamed down Thickie’s shaft. He was surprised at how good this felt. It definitely was better than any woman’s blowjob. He grunted, not wanting it to be obvious how good it was to the guys outside the room.
“Yo, whiteboi, you cummin’ yet? Is Thickie swallowin’ ya load just like he likes?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Thickie roared, responding to them for the first time. He pounded on the door, which was already broken, so his fist went right through it. Splinters flew, and his friends jumped back. Then they crowded to poke their head into the hole and laugh at Thickie.
“Lookit his ass shake. Shit! Man, he got a godzilla-butt!”
“Hey, freak! Why do you like fat dudes?”
Bart pulled off Thickie’s dick and slapped himself over the face with it. Precum kept flowing. “Hmmm… They taste so good, boys… I already talked about this-“
“But that don’t make no sense! I am way better than him!”
“Hey! Shut the fuck up!” Thickie shouted. He backed up so his hefty body blocked the hole in the door.
Thickie pounded on the door behind him, but Bart had an idea. He crawled after Thickie and licked a trail up his massive thigh. He sucked on the flesh of his left buttcheek and spread his cheeks, aiming his big brown hole right at the opening in the door.
“Ah, shit! Thickie’s asshole!”
“Damn, he got fat ass! He got ass for weeks!”
Bart pushed his own head into the hole then, and in moments he had his tongue in the crack of Thickie’s ass, close enough to the opening in the door that Thickie’s friends could tell what he was doing. Thickie laughed, making his whole ass shake around Bart’s tongue.
No one had ever licked Thickie’s ass before. He could get girls often enough that he wasn’t ashamed of his sexual experiences — though he did pretend to get laid a lot more often than he did — but he had never even tried to get a girl to lick his ass. He figured big guys like him just couldn’t do that, what girl would ever do it? Someone like Nailboy who was all muscle and sinew and seemed to secrete his own cologne? He probably got rimjobs all the time, or at least he claimed to.
But Thickie had never had a rimjob. So he was surprised when he felt Bart’s tongue push into his hole, and he was even more surprised when it felt good. He had assumed it was like ball-licking — a nice idea, but not really very much fun for more than about two seconds.
Instead, however, a surge of primal pleasure ran over Thickie and made him grunt. He had to stay quiet because he was unsure what sounds he would make and thought his friends would make fun of him. He couldn’t keep himself from emitting a sort of a low thrumming sound that slowly turned into a howl.
“Shit, Thickie, you alright?”
Thickie grunted. He dropped to all fours, unable to control himself. He jutted that giant ass up high in the air. His friends guffawed at the sight of Bart’s tiny twink head being swallowed up into Thickie’s sweat-choked crack.
Bart’s tongue explored every crevice of his ass. It tasted deliciously funky, and Bart loved that there was plenty of meaty flesh. He kept licking and somehow he was always licking some unlicked swathe of man-meat, suckling on the sweaty hairs that clung to his ass-cheeks.
When Bart sensed Thickie getting near his orgasm, he stopped. Thickie’s whole body kept undulating for a minute as though he hadn’t noticed Bart slip out of his ass. Bart crawled forward, sliding underneath Thickie, who was still on all fours.
Bart raised his ass. “You ready to get in my ass? Please?”
“Hell yeah,” Thickie said.
“You can pound really hard,” Bart said with a giggle. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the guys out in the corridor. It sounded like they were on the phone now, telling everyone they knew what was happening.
Thickie grunted. “I know, boi. If I’m gonna ram, you best believe I’s doin’ it hard.” He lifted his upper body up. He had to hold onto his belly and heft it above Bart’s tiny body. He used one finger to loosen Bart’s hole, ramming it all the way in — he remembered only as he did so that he had decided he wouldn’t do that, that it would be too gross to ass-finger a man. He thought he was going to vocally tell Bart so, that way his friends would hear him be tough and macho.
But he had forgotten, so he just rammed one finger in and chuckled at Bart cringing. He was just going to have to pretend it was normal to stick a finger in a man’s ass. Bart oomphed and clawed at the ground. Thickie’s finger was thick and stubby, and it made Bart’s whole body cry out in both pain and desire.
His ass loosened. Thickie gripped it with both hands, to separate Bart’s cheeks and wedge his dick in. He was used to struggling with his belly, which sometimes got in the way when he plowed in. Normally he was self-conscious because he was never sure how much his females were okay with him being a big man. So it was nice to stick his dick in someone who genuinely liked it. He flopped his belly onto Bart’s back and forced him into a convenient position.
Then he drove his cock right in. “Damn, boy, damn… Keep it loose.” He grunted. When it became clear Bart wasn’t going to make him stop, Thickie came at him from an angle just to make Bart cry out and squeal some more. He wanted his friends to hear that.
Bart didn’t care about the pain. He loved the feel of a massive cock inside him while an even more massive man pounded away from above. The difference in size was even more apparent now that they were actually plowing, because Bart was dwarfed by the belly above his head.
Thickie had a long dick that jabbed deep into Bart’s guts, stimulating his prostate and sending him to the edge of orgasm. Thickie loved it. He would later tell his friends it was “only okay” to save face. But he liked that he didn’t need to worry about minimizing how much his girl felt his belly. He could just plant down on him, grind his dick in deep and fuck as hard as he could manage.
“Shit, fuck yeah! Get it in me!” Bart called out. He clawed at the floor beneath him, and Thickie plowed into so hard he slammed Bart into the floor loudly enough that the crackheads downstairs heard and wondered what was happening. None of them got up to check though.
Thickie used both of his arms to keep Bart in position. One fist pinned down his back, while his other kept his hips up.
This had turned out both better and easier than Thickie ever thought possible. He groaned as he slammed his dick all the way in — no girl had ever let him get this deep in her guts. He vibrated, grinding, ramming his dick in every direction to hit every corner of Bart’s insides.
The pain was extraordinary, overshadowed only by the intense bliss that coursed through Bart’s veins. This was the part of getting plowed into by chubby guys that Bart adored, the nasty final rutting orgasm.
He barely needed to touch his own dick to climax. Bart shot his wad onto the floor beneath himself, but Thickie didn’t even notice. He was busy reaching his own orgasm.
“Damn, freak, you takin’ it good! Swallow up e’ry drop, boi!”
Creamy hot cum sprayed within Bart’s ass. Bart howled so loud crackheads outside the house woke up. Bart craned his head around as he felt cum flow into him, so he could suck sweat off Thickie’s fleshy pecs. His muscle flexed beneath the thick layer of padding there, and his whole body jiggled against Bart’s back.
His orgasm went on for what felt like forever. His balls drained into Bart’s ass, wad after after filling him up and dripping onto the scummy crackhouse floor. It was creamy and copious, and the heat of it seeped into Bart’s flesh.
“Shit…” Bart grunted. A long, low moan came out of him, as Thickie’s cock throbbed deep in Bart’s body. Each throb of the shaft sent a new wave of pleasure to wrack Bart’s tender body, and Bart twitched each time.
“Damn, boi, you done real good,” Thickie said. He chuckled. “You wanna be a whore for me? I turn you out on the street, make some good money.”
“No, thanks. I got my own thing going on,” Bart said. He didn’t want to reveal that he spent a lot of money chasing down chubby guys like Thickie (he thought, accurately, that Thickie would make him take more money out at an ATM if he knew how wealthy Bart was). Bart sighed as Thickie finally pulled out, his cock audibly plopping.
Thickie chuckled and slipped his finger back in there. It was deliciously disgusting, he thought, and no girl would ever let him do it. Bart squirmed beneath Thickie’s stumpy middle-finger, which made a big mess of cum over Bart’s asscrack.
“Here, lick that clean,” Thickie said. He shoved his finger in Bart’s waiting mouth, and groaned in both disgust and delight as Bart gladly sucked it clean.
His assjuice and cum was funky and musky, a bit slimy but oh-so-good. Bart moaned again and bucked.
Then at last, it was over. Thickie let go and stood. He didn’t want to do anything that would look too pervy, so he wasn’t about to keep messing around with Bart. Bart wasn’t going to let this stop until Thickie made him stop.
So Bart again kissed Thickie’s thigh and caressed his asscheeks. He got in the way until Thickie tried to pull his pants up, then swiped at Bart’s head. Bart giggled and stood.
Before he could say anything, however, Thickie grabbed for Bart’s pants. He went through his pockets. He took the full two-hundred dollars out of Bart’s wallet. Then he took the emergency fifty Bart also kept in there. “Thanks, whiteboi. You can get out now.”
Bart hesitated and stroked Thickie’s barrel-shaped chest. Thickie scowled at him then, and feinted like he was going to punch. Bart ran for the door.
Thickie’s friends were serious-faced, like they expected to see his dead body in there. Bart just smiled. “Hey, guys, nice to see ya!” As he walked past, he grabbed Nailboy’s dick in his jeans — Nailboy licked his lips and offered it to Bart, as seductive as he could muster, when Bart walked past. Nailboy grunted and frowned but didn’t say anything. Bart giggled. “If you ever gain like a hundred pounds, gimme a call.”

The Cellmate Bottoms

Ramon is a slim, effeminate prisoner whose cellmate controls his life, putting Ramon on the bottom… Until one day that alpha cellmate — the legendary Thumper White — wants to do him a favor by bending over and allowing another exciting adventure in Twink on Top!

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Prison was not that bad at all for Ramon Mercado. He missed his freedom and easy access to alcohol. He missed his family. He missed being outside at night, seeing the stars and the moon. But as far as prison stays went, his two years so far had gone pretty well. He decided that as he walked back to his cell on the second anniversary of his arrival at the state prison.
Things had gone well for him despite — or maybe because of — the fact that Ramon was a girlish twink with a fantastic ass and long, silken hair the color of unfiltered sunlight. His hips were curved like a pretty woman’s, and he had a sultry voice like a loose woman, not to mention a flirtatious way about him that turned heads in a place like the Florida State Prison, filled with tough alphas who hadn’t seen a real woman in decades in some cases.
Before arriving, he had dreaded coming to prison, unsure what he was in for. The local jail guards gave him sympathetic looks. Everyone thought he’d be targeted for extortion or just plain violence, that the thugs and vatos of the Florida prison system would eat him alive.
But on his first day, Ramon was proposed to by Thumper White, a leading thug from the Bloods gang. Thumper was six and a half feet tall, bursting with muscle all over, his body covered in jailhouse tattoos. He had a small afro when Ramon met him, but had gotten cornrows last year. Ramon was slowly, clumsily, learning how to make and manage cornrows, because Thumper demanded it of his “prison wife”
So he had acquiesced to being Thumper’s prison wife. It didn’t take much convincing.
“I’ll treat you like a princess, baby, as long as you treat me like a king.”
That was a quid pro quo Ramon could get behind. He found hugely muscled alphas like Thumper arousing and alluring, and Ramon had long been an aficionado for the male form. Thumper’s male form was exceptional, and Ramon didn’t even mind that Thumper was getting up there in years and that his body hair was speckled with gray. The hair on his head remained black as night though, and his high yellow skin was smooth and taut like a much younger man.
It hadn’t always been perfect. They argued like any married couple (or like any pair of roommates). Thumper sometimes slapped Ramon, open-handed, across the face. He had never punched him, but he did slap him when Ramon did things wrong, got too sassy, or sometimes for things that were entirely unrelated to Ramon. When Thumper got to be in a bad mood, he lashed out. He always apologized later and kissed Ramon on the lips, which he otherwise refused to do. That made those few sweet kisses feel special to Ramon. His heart swooned every time, and he clutched those broad shoulders as they made out in the dark of their prison cell.
“I’m sorry, baby, I gots a temper in me. I ain’t put it in there, I just gotta put up wit’ it. I gotta work on that, I know. The prison counselor say I need-a show you how I feel. Right now, I feel like kissin’ ya.”
He was also tender at night, when they were alone together in their shared cell. During the day, he was meaner, but at night his nice side came out. Amid the hooting and the ever-present shouted threats of the other inmates, he kissed Ramon’s neck and tweaked his nipples as he relentlessly ramrodded him. He allowed Ramon to choose the positions, and he allowed Ramon to cuddle up with him when the lights were off, but he brooked no dissent as to it happening — not that Ramon ever wanted to say no. He allowed Ramon all the freedom in the world to decide how to do it or what Thumper should do to “pay” for it — Ramon got him to bring him food, clothes, perfume, jewelry, drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, whatever he wanted, as long as Ramon gave up the ass whenever Thumper wanted it.
He protected Ramon during the day, even if he also treated him with disdain much of the time. When his fellow gangbangers were around, Thumper called him a bitch (or to be more precise, he called Ramon ‘my bitch’). He made Ramon get his food in the dining hall. Ramon gave massages and begged for Thumper’s cock in front of his friends to puff up his ego. Thumper loved the idea of Ramon loving his dick so much he couldn’t help but try to jerk him off in public — Thumper never let him do it, but he liked it when Ramon tried.
When he walked into his cell that night, the night of Ramon’s two-year anniversary in the Florida State Prison — which was also Ramon’s two-year anniversary of being Thumper’s cellmate and prison wife — Ramon dropped the bag of laundry (both Ramon’s and Thumper’s) he carried. He was shocked to see the cell dotted with lit candles.
“Uh, Thumper?” Ramon scrunched up his eyes. Candles weren’t allowed in the cells, so Thumper must have spent quite a bit to get all these. The lights were off, so the candles provided the only illumination, and their flickering light cast a romantic glow over the tiny prison cell. They gave off copious heat too, not that that was necessary in the already overheated prison.
He was on his bunk, leaning back, stark naked and flopping his big dick between his fingers. He slapped it on his thighs left and right, demonstrating its hugeness. It was thirteen inches long and thicker than Ramon had ever thought possible before he met Thumper. Ramon licked his teeth as he realized Thumper wanted to mess around.
That wasn’t a surprise. Thumper did that pretty much every night. But he didn’t do it with candles and all that.
“Hey, baby,” Thumper said with an awkward smile. “After lights out, I got some treats fo’ us.” Then he growled. “Shut the curtain, boo.”
Ramon did so, his heart pounding. Lights-out was going to happen momentarily. Ramon had finished the laundry for him and Thumper only a few minutes before mandatory cell time. Already outside the cell guards were hurrying inmates off.
“Where’d you get candles?” Ramon asked. He pulled the sheet over the cell bars so no one could see in. It helped muffle the sound too. The guards here didn’t much care what happened — they would ignore the sounds, the smell of weed and the drunken laughter, as long as they didn’t have to see it. Hence, the curtain was always shut when they were both in the cell.
“The chaplain. Told him I was Buddhist and shit,” he said, cackling. “So if he ask, I’m Buddhist now. Tell him I converted last month.” He laughed, a deep-throat belly laugh, like it took every muscle in his jacked body to do it. His pecs roiled as the laughter pumped through his body, and his dick shook, tantalizing Ramon’s tastebuds. He hopped down from the top bunk. “Look in the drawer, baby. I wanna show you tonight how I really feel ’bout ya.”
There was a small plastic set of drawers in one corner of the cell, the only piece of furniture they were allowed. There were four drawers, one for Ramon, two for Thumper and one they both used — anything in that drawer was considered common property (that was a compromise, of sorts, that they had developed after a particularly nasty argument over a bag of crackers). Ramon looked in the drawer they shared and saw a bottle of brandy, a tube of lube, a handful of pixie sticks and two blunts of fine weed sealed up in plastic. Ramon giggled. This will be a pretty good night, he thought.
“There’s more,” Thumper said, leaping down to be right behind Ramon. He kissed him on the back of the neck, his dense beard, nearly two inches long now, scratching at Ramon’s smooth, pale skin. “I got a present fo’ ya, baby. But it’s a present you gotta keep secret.”
“Okay, sugar.”
Lights out in five minutes, shitheads!
The affection went away from his voice, and he gripped Ramon’s torso tightly. He hissed in Ramon’s ear. “I’m serious, man. If you evuh tell anyone, I will rip yo’ goddamn throat out. You will kill the love in my soul fo’ you, and there is only one way I can respond to that, okay?”
Ramon swallowed nervously, shivering as Thumper’s coarse beard caressed his neck. Thumper only called him man when he was very angry with him. Normally he called Ramon baby. Ramon leaned his head back to give Thumper better access to his neck, while Thumper’s roughly callused hands explored Ramon’s smooth body. Ramon said, “Okay, Thumper, I promise. I’ll never tell a soul. What is it? Someone must know you have it if they smuggled it in-“
“Ain’t a thing you can pick up and move around, baby. It weren’t somethin’ smuggled in, and I ain’t nevuh gonna let no one know about it, no how, no way. It’s just between you and me,” he said. He licked Ramon’s ear. “You get to be on top tonight, baby.”
At first Ramon didn’t know what he meant. Aside from some occasional drunken stroking (which he always vehemently denied the next day), Thumper never touched Ramon’s dick. He would have slapped Ramon senseless for even asking Thumper to bottom. He got mad once because he suspected Ramon was imagining Thumper swallowing his cum.
“Oh, really, sugar?! Are you serious?”
“I’m serious as strawberry pie, baby,” he said. He spun Ramon around and kissed him on the lips. In the cramped confines of the prison cell, Ramon accidentally touched the lit flame of one of the tea candles, and he squealed in pain.
“Lights going off in one minute, shitheads!”
They sunk down into the lower bunk, Ramon’s bunk, and Ramon tore off his own clothes, still sure Thumper didn’t mean what he seemed to mean. Ramon leaned back onto his mattress as Thumper kissed a trail down his slim, tender body, his massive head looming afronta Ramon, whose hands wandered over Thumper’s cornrows and his broad muscles. His kinky beard hairs dragged over Ramon’s belly as he moved lower and lower.
The lights in the hall flickered, then turned off, and the candles were the only light in the cell. Thumper growled with a mixture of both anticipation and disgust.
“I already smell santorum, damn, who started before the lights turned out? Huh? Mulch, is that you, nigga? How many inches you take already?”
“Fresh pussy! Fresh pussy!”
“Yeah I smell that shit too, someone is horny as hell tonight! Ram that ass hard, whoever that is!”
“Hey, all y’all shut up! Lights is out! Next person I hear callin’ out is sleepin’ in the guard shitter tonight!”
That brought silence at last, aside from some tittering laughter. There was probably no smell of santorum anywhere — Ramon couldn’t smell anything but the candles and the slightly stale, soap-scented sweat of Thumper’s shoulder, but the other inmates made similar claims every night. They just liked being loud and disruptive.
Alternatively, the Florida State Prison always smelled like santorum. Ramon was used to it. Certainly his and Thumper’s cell had a certain reek to it, mainly Thumper’s sweat from his relentless, continual workouts.
Thumper kissed Ramon’s dick, hesitated and took a deep breath, then swallowed it. A shiver of pleasure ran up Ramon’s spine, and Ramon sat up straight. Thumper gagged after the first few inches got in his mouth but kept going. His tongue tentatively slathered spit along the shaft.
Ramon’s dick rocketed to full erection in a few seconds, as he hadn’t topped since reporting to prison. He loved the feel of Thumper’s beard on his crotch. Ramon had always enjoyed it, but since Thumper didn’t usually kiss him on the lips and rarely even anywhere else, he didn’t often get to feel it touching him. Now he did, and its scratchy texture brought the sensitive skin of his inner thighs and his ballsack to life. Ramon quivered and shook beneath Thumper’s ministrations.
“Fuck you, nigga!”
“Hey! Get off me!”
“C’mon, nigga-“
“I’ll give you three packs-“
“I applied fo’ early release-“
“No way is that gonna happen.”
“Worth at least four packs.”
It felt like he was getting away with something. All these Bloods in the nearby cells, some of whom were literally a few feet from right here, none of them knew what Thumper and Ramon were doing. They’d be shocked and scandalized if they knew. It would ruin Thumper’s rep. Or maybe not, Bloods were weird about that stuff, but it would affect him greatly, and Ramon didn’t know how that would go. Thumper was risking a lot to show him this affection.
When the taste of precum hit him, Thumper wrinkled his nose but he didn’t stop. He was a big man with a big throat, so he easily deep-throated Ramon after a little practice. Ramon shaved his pubes, allowing Thumper’s wide, bullish nose to press into his nearly smooth crotch. The shaved skin smelled like a woman’s shaved crotch, Thumper thought, though he’d been in prison for thirty years at this point and had only a dim memory of what women tasted like.
In the dim flickering light of the candles, Ramon could only barely see Thumper, but for some reason that made the sight of his body even more arousing. His muscles writhed in the shadows, moving along with his head and throat. Ramon couldn’t tell if he was moving like that because he hated touching a dick so much he had to force his body to comply with his mind’s commands, or if he liked it so surprisingly that his entire body roiled with confusion.
“No curtains, gentlemen…”
That was aimed at Ramon and Thumper, but the guard who said it — the one they called Officer Uglymug — just continued by, not taking the curtain down. That was typical. They had never explained why, but Ramon suspected it was a way to cover their ass. They made a rule against curtains, occasionally reminded the inmates of it, and brought that up whenever they were sued for something that happened behind a curtain. They could pretend they had been getting rid of curtains as long as they occasionally brought it up. They wrote in their shift notes that they reminded the inmates of the no-curtains rule, which was all it took to stay out of trouble. So Ramon wasn’t worried, though Thumper lifted his head for a moment, waiting to see if this was the night they would begin enforcing the rule against curtains.
The guard simply moved on, however, and Thumper did likewise.
Then Thumper moved his head down, licking Ramon’s balls while pulling his legs up to get a better angle at it. He gurgled noisily with both balls in his mouth, sucking the sweat and the grime right off. He wrinkled his nose as he did, and as Ramon’s iron dick flopped against it, but he didn’t stop no matter how unappealing he plainly found this.
Ramon was crammed into a rather small bunk, and only the back half or so of it. He wasn’t a tall man. He had a small, slim, twinkish body, so he fit well enough, and he had gotten used to squeezing into cramped spaces while in prison. He was adequately flexible to get his legs all the way back, his feet near his own head, which bared his asshole as his cheeks were forced apart. His tongue plunged right into Ramon’s asshole. Ramon was astonished that Thumper would give him a rimjob, and he moaned. Thumper had been unsure about receiving a rimjob from Ramon, so the idea that he would allow the tables to be turned was mind-boggling.
“Hey Officer Uglymug, lemme see that picture o’ yo’ wife again, nigga! Can I get a copy of that?”
“Shut your mouth, or I’ll shut it for you! Some people is tryin-‘a sleep!”
Ramon’s fingers clutched the tight cornrows on Thumper’s head, watching his prison husband’s strapping body squeeze into the space between the bunk and the cell wall. There wasn’t much room there, but Thumper was used to fitting his broad shoulders and wide hips in this tiny cell. Ramon liked seeing him twisting and contorting, especially naked, with that limp cock dangling like a sausage. Thumper was much taller than Ramon, so he really had to struggle to get his head into Ramon’s ass, while Ramon was crammed into a tiny corner of the cell.
A few of the candles had blown out by now, and Ramon didn’t dare light them — they were moving around a lot, and they moved their bedsheets, the curtain and their clothes as they went, so the potential for a fire was great. The guards didn’t much care what happened behind the curtain, but a fire was one thing they very much would care about. Ramon turned on the little reading light he had, so he could still see Thumper’s muscles writhe as he licked Ramon’s ass.
His tongue was so hesitant and slow that it was, objectively speaking, not a very good rimjob. The positioning was awkward, and the tongue was unpracticed. But Ramon appreciated the sentiment, and when Thumper’s tongue did touch his prostate, the anticipation made the shiver of pleasure shooting up his spine even more intense, as did the scratchy feel of Thumper’s beard on Ramon’s ass.
“Gonna beat yo’ ass, nigga! Gonna beat it down to pulp!”
“Shut the fuck up, whiteboy!”
“Yo, hey! Lemme get a blunt!”
Thumper stood and grimaced. He forced a smile on his face, which was sweet — at least he was trying, Ramon thought. Then Thumper bent over on all fours. He grabbed the bottle of brandy and took a long swig from it. He sighed, and drank again.
“That’s sweet that you bought brandy,” Ramon said. “You remembered what I said…”
Thumper shrugged. He was defensive, like he was already embarrassed about getting plowed. “Whatevuh,” he said. “I like brandy too. I ain’t just buy it fo’ you.”
But Ramon knew that wasn’t entirely true. Thumper had only ever paid for smuggled vodka when Ramon moved in. To him, that seemed logical because it was the most alcoholic liquor — it made sense, he thought, to buy what contained the most drunkenness in the smallest container. But Ramon convinced him that was less reasonable than it seemed — brandy got you just as drunk, and it had a real flavor to it. Thumper had been in this place since he was nineteen, so he had very little experience with alcohol, a fact that he strenuously denied and that Ramon had only gradually realized was true. He might have never been seriously drunk before coming to Brutewood.
“It’s okay, sugar,” Ramon said. He kissed Thumper’s shoulderblades, one after the other. “I love your body, Thumper. You’re so big and strong, and you have the best dick in this prison. Maybe in the world.” He giggled. Thumper sighed and wiggled. Ramon’s tone was more patronizing than he meant — it was obvious that Ramon was saying that to puff up Thumper’s ego in advance of being penetrated. But Thumper didn’t mind that one bit, he often demanded Ramon do things just to puff up his ego. That was the main reason most men in prison kept a bitch, after all. they may express a ton of bluster about real men needing a hole in which to drain their balls, but Ramon knew that wasn’t the main purpose of it: it was to feel needed, wanted, even feared. He kissed Thumper’s asscheeks. “I’ll worship your ass later,” Ramon said. “So don’t worry if this hurts, sugar. Tomorrow, your ass is gonna feel so good you’ll forget this ever happened.”
“¡Siempre serás mi perra!” The catcalling and whooping from the other cells was beginning to die down, as a few people went to sleep and others got distracted reading, shooting heroin or perhaps ramrodding much like Ramon and Thumper were doing at this very moment.
Ramon lubed up his dick and wedged it between Thumper’s ass. He slowly pushed it in, pausing only briefly when he hit resistance. Thumper yelped and bit his lip. He kept his head down. Ramon pushed the tip of his cock in, and he held it in place.
“Is this okay?”
“It’s fine,” Thumper said, his voice breathless and trembling. Despite his words, it didn’t really sound entirely fine. He strained to take Ramon’s dick in his intact hole.
“Tell me if you want me to stop, sugar,” Ramon said. He kissed Thumper’s back again. “This is so sweet of you. You’re such a darling. This is the most perfect anniversary present ever.”
His whole body shook as Ramon squeezed a few more inches in. Thumper grunted. He arched his back and pawed at the ground, tattooed muscles rippling. He was nearly hyperventilating now, but he tried to keep it quiet as though if he didn’t acknowledge it, he wouldn’t feel shame.
“Damn, that hurts…” Thumper said, but there was some faint tenor in his voice that made Ramon think it wasn’t all pain. there was a thin, vibrating note of pleasure there. Ramon made sure to hit the man’s prostate to accentuate the orgasmic feelings deep within Thumper’s thuggish muscles.
“If you don’t shut that goddamn facehole right now, I am gonna sew it shut, bitch!”
“I’m sorry, sugar, it’ll start feeling better,” Ramon said, hoping that was true. He didn’t want Thumper to back out. He continued driving his dick in and out, smiling as he saw Thumper’s back move from pained writhing to pleasurable contortions. Thumper’s gasps of pain turned to petite moans of pleasure.
Luckily his ass started to open up a bit, which made Ramon’s dick slide more easily in and out. He had a nice broad, plump ass that Ramon wanted to smack, but he thought that might make it hurt worse, so he didn’t. He gently and affectionately caressed Thumper’s back and his meaty asscheeks, while Thumper’s moans turned louder and deeper.
His orgasm built slowly, but as he pumped and he felt it coming on, he sped up rapidly like a speeding train. Ecstasy erupted in Ramon, mounting with each thrust of his hips at Thumper’s body. He could barely reach Thumper’s shoulders because he was so much shorter, so he gripped both big corded shoulder blades.
“Here it comes, sweetheart,” Ramon said as softly as he could. He kissed Thumper’s back again. “I hope this don’t hurt too much, sugar…”
“No, not too much. I wanna feel your cum inside me,” Thumper said, then he winced as though he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
They both grunted together as Ramon shot his load. He had a feminine squeal to the sound, as pleasure washed up his spine, and his dick spasmed within Thumper’s back. Ramon moaned so loud the nearby cells erupted in laughter and catcalls. A fat wad of jizz spurted into Thumper, a long creamy wave of it that seeped into his guts.
“Wreck that bitch, Thumper! Wreck him!”
“He’s yo’ wife, you ain’t gotta make him feel good! If he still moanin’ like that, it means you ain’t been rammin’ him hard enough.”
That seemed to last forever. Bliss coursed through both men’s veins, and both of them came — Thumper needed only briefly handle his cock to reach his own climax, just as Ramon was shooting the last of his jizz in Thumper’s ass. Thumper sprayed his wad onto the floor, a fat flow of it that came out in spurts and jets.
When at last both men were good and limp, Ramon pulled out and sat back. He sighed. Thumper curled up next to him, and they spooned, Ramon being the outer spoon for the first time in more than two years. Thumper’s body was stiff at first, but he soon relaxed now that he knew he wasn’t going to be caught. He ignored the hooting from the cells next door, and he kissed Ramon on the lips. Ramon exulted in the taste of his own cock and ass on Thumper’s mouth.
“Thanks, sugar, that was special,” Ramon said softly, nibbling on Thumper’s ear. “And don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

The Hairy Roughnecks Bottom

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

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

The Tough Guy Bottoms

Avery’s visit to a reconstructed First Nations village goes topsy-turvy when he arrives on a day it’s closed to tourists. He does run into one hunky reenaactor with some curious ideas and a raging desire to explore the world of Twink on Top!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

The town of Tomwell, Ontario was beautiful, and Avery was glad he went, but he was annoyed with himself for taking an extra day there. He had driven this far from Thunder Bay — where he was staying for a business trip — only to visit the authentic Nakawē (Saulteaux) Indian village called Wazhashkwaazh a few miles even further west. He’d long been fascinated by First Nations cultures, and he’d looked up the reconstructed village on a list of tourist attractions. He felt like a giddy child on the way to an amusement park as he rolled into the village near the Eagle Lake 27 reserve.
But there was no one around. The gate at the village entrance was unmanned. The parking area had four cars in it, but they looked like they’d been there a long time. He saw no signs of any people. On the website, the village was crowded with reenactors, they had bow-making demonstrations and pottery and body art and storytelling sessions.
He knew the village wasn’t free, he had been planning this trip for months. It cost a hundred Canadian dollars for a tour and a show through this reconstructed Nakawē village. Avery had watched their video on YouTube several times.
It was the middle of the day on a Saturday. What tourist attraction wouldn’t be open then?
He looked in the little window at the gate. There was a stool and a cash register and credit card machine. The drawer from the cash register was on the floor, which was sprinkled with coins, like the till had been spilled. A few footprints in the dirt near the gate were the only signs of actual humans. There was only one set of footprints, though whoever it was had walked in and out of the gate and then gone into the less footprinty part of the village — only the dirt near the gate was loose enough to keep a footprint.
No one was here to take his money. An eerie feeling overtook him, and for a moment, Avery was certain he’d been transported back in time, that he was now living in pre-contact Indian times. Any second now he thought he’d see a grizzled hunting party wandering into town, lugging a slaughtered bison.
But no, the dirt road that ran through town was still there. There was a tourist stand nearby. A plastic bag danced in the breeze near a sign announcing tour hours that was posted near the gate. His car was parked on the side of the road. It was still modern times.
He walked to the nearest tipi, which was also the biggest — that would be the chief’s, presumably. He figured, if any tipi had people in it, it’d be that one. Aside from being the biggest, Avery spied an extension cord snaking out of it and running over to an outdoor fusebox tucked away near the gate. The extension cord was both camouflaged with foliage to hide it and marked with bright orange tape to avoid a tripping hazard.
“Hey, Thin-Chin, who are you?” barked out a voice from one of the smaller tipis nearby. “You’re not allowed here. Wazhashkwaazh is closed today.”
Avery went over there and saw a Nakawē man, tall and broad-shouldered, with muscles rippling over his chest. He stood in the shadowy entrance to the tipi, glaring at Avery. He was built like Superman, Avery thought, blushing like a silly girl. He was so handsome he virtually glowed. Between his aquiline nose and the beautiful straight black hair that ringed his head, Avery was about ready to shower him with kisses. But the man was tough, scarred, harsh-eyed, square-jawed. He looked more like a biker than a traditionalist Indian, and he certainly wasn’t a reenactor trying to convince anyone he was a pre-contact Indian. Avery had a feeling he didn’t work for the village, but why else would he bere? A series of Grateful Dead dancing bears was tattooed on his bicep, so he was hardly attempting to pass. He could have covered up his arm with a sleeved shirt or some sort of leather armband, but he hadn’t.
“Uh, hello, man,” Avery said. “I’m Avery. I was coming to see the village, is that not-?”
“Thanksgiving. Today is the day we celebrate escaping the thumb of your people’s control-“
“I’m not Canadian, I’m American.”
He narrowed his eyebrows to slit as though he hated Americans. “What?”
“I’m American. You thought I was Canadian, my people were never in control here,” Avery said. His heart sped up. Was he in danger? This Indian seemed hostile, and his bulging muscles were imposing. Maybe he did work for the village, Avery thought now that he was close enough to see the man — he wore a leather sleeveless shirt that showed off his biceps (including those Grateful Dead bears), but he had on tight bluejeans as well. A feather stuck out from the headband he wore, keeping his wild black hair in place.
“I meant ‘white people’, not ‘white Canadians’.”
“Oh. Well… Okay.” Avery was right in front of the Indian now, which was a terrifying place to be. His deep-set eyes glared down at Avery. Avery gulped and looked down at his feet. “Are you… uh… Do you work for the village?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Okay. So you’re closed for Canadian Thanksgiving? I, uh… I’m sorry to hear that,” Avery said. “Happy Thanksgiving, I guess-” He was so scared, aroused, surprised and excited that it was hard to really think about what he should do next. He had driven so long to visit here, was he really going to have to leave without seeing anything more interesting than a muscle-bound Indian?
“My people do not celebrate Thanksgiving.” He looked around as though his people’s absence proved that. He shook his head at Avery.
“Well, happy ordinary day then. I just… I was going to pay to visit the village. I feel bad that I’ll see it without paying,” Avery said. He batted his eyes at the Indian flirtatiously. “I was hoping to see a show.”
“My name is Sassaba. If we put on a show today, I would be the bad guy,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Oh.”
“Partway through the dance lesson, I attack, with a dozen men. We use real weapons,” he said. He flared his nostrils. “Real axes.”
“Oh, that’s, uh… cool.” Avery could understand that casting decision — if there were any First Nations men who looked like a real villain, it’d be Sassaba. He was so intense Avery had trouble looking him right in the eyes. “Isn’t that… dangerous? You throw real axes at people?”
“Shut up,” Sassaba said. He seemed about to say something else, so Avery didn’t respond. Sassaba did not say whatever was dancing on the tip of his tongue though. He stood there like a hostile statue.
“Okay, well… I guess if there’s no show today, I ought to leave. If you had a gift shop or something-“
“Shut up, I said.”
“Oh so you don’t want my money? This village has no need for revenue?” Avery wrinkled his nostrils. He was not a confrontational man, but Sassaba was beginning irk him, and after a long drive to get here, Avery was in no mood to be treated this way.
“Come in here with me,” Sassaba said. He phrased it like a command that he assumed would be followed because his commands were always obeyed. His deep voice echoed in the tipi he had been crammed into before Avery arrived, his big body making the large chief’s tipi seem small.
Though Avery was scared, he didn’t even think about leaving. He may have been small, thin and weak, but no one ever accused Avery of being a coward. He had been on the receiving end of plenty of alpha males with desperate hardons, and he had a strong suspicion that that was exactly what was about to happen. He couldn’t wait.
“I don’t like tourists, Avery,” Sassaba said like he despised the name.
“I’m sorry-” Avery followed him into the tipi. It was cozy in there, inviting, dimly lit with just a small electric lamp. The smell of leather filled the air. The tipi itself was artificial leather, Avery was pretty sure, but there were real leather artifacts on display. It was too dark with the flaps closed — Sassaba closed them as soon as Avery came in — to read the informative plaques attached to each artifact. The display cases ringed the outside rim of the tipi interior and took up most of the room.
“Shut up. I don’t like white people either.”
“Seems like a strange place for you to work then. Isn’t this place usually crawling with white tourists?”
“I said shut up.” He paused for a moment to see if Avery continued speaking, but he did not. Sassaba got down on his knees so he could squeeze into the tipi very close to Avery, his eyes on Avery’s level, staring into him like he’d find a treasure in there. Avery found it hard to think about what he still thought was about to happen because, just a meter or so from Sassaba’s feet sat an old, rusty tomahawk. It may have been in bad condition, but it looked plenty sharp enough to hurt. “Do you think I’m scary?”
Avery gulped. He shook his head, hoping he really did believe that Sassaba was kind at heart and it wasn’t just wishful thinking. “Uh… I know Native Americans are peaceful-“
“Do not lecture me about my own people. If I wanted to read Wikipedia, I’d read Wikipedia. And don’t call me Native American. I’m Canadian. Call me First Nations.”
“Yes, sir,” Avery said, then blushed. He hadn’t meant to call this man sir. He was just such an intimidating tough guy it was hard not to.
He frowned. “A lot of the actors that work in this village try to jack me off. They are flouncing sissies, ‘sensitive’ types.” He said that as though he disliked sensitivity. “They are not real men.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Avery said, though it didn’t sound like a problem to him.
“They think that, because I’m big, I’d never want to bottom, that I must always be dominant,,” Sassaba said. He sneered at Avery. “I really hate tourists. Stand up, thin-chin.”
Avery slowly stood on stiff knees. He was short enough that he actually fit in this tipi, and he could have even raised his arms above his head. Sassaba could not. Avery felt tiny in comparison with Sassaba’s massive frame.
But before Avery even knew what happened, Sassaba was at his crotch — he had Avery stand so he could kneel. He ripped at Avery’s jeans, tearing the zipper as he pulled Avery’s pants down. Then he grabbed on Avery’s underwear, pulled them down too and swallowed Avery’s limp dick so fast that Avery nearly fell over.
Pleasure shot up Avery’s spine. His knees buckled. His dick remained soft in Sassaba’s mouth at first, as though he was too surprised for his own body to react. A part of him was still frightened that this was all a prelude to an attack, a tourist-bashing, a hate crime or a just plain garden-variety mugging. Sassaba’s mouth was hot and warm, and he was a tall man who easily deep-throated Avery, down to the root.
“Oh, god, oh… Okay…” Avery murmured. He was so used to bottoming for big bears like Sassaba that he didn’t know how to react to this. He sucked in his breath and stood on hies toes. His hands fluttered around Sassaba’s head, which he wanted to grip so he could hump Sassaba’s mouth — that’s how alphas usually did it when Avery was on his knees in front of them — but he thought Sassaba might object, and Avery didn’t want to do anything that risked this not continuing any farther.
Despite his anxiety, Avery was more aroused than he had ever been. His cock rocketed to attention once he got acclimated to what was happening, and pangs of pre-orgasmic pleasure shot up his body. His petite muscles all tensed at once and stayed flexed.
“Oh god, Sassaba!”
Sassaba was clearly unpracticed. He hadn’t been lying about usually being on top, that much was clear. His toothy mouth encircled Avery’s dick hesitantly, and he gagged at the taste. But he didn’t show any reluctance. His massive hands held onto Avery by the thigh as though to hold him in place.
Bent over in front of Avery, Sassaba’s massive body took up most of the tipi. Avery was pinned between him and the leather wall of the tipi, where he could smell the pigments painted on the outside, seeping through the fabric into the interior. Sassaba’s shoulders rippled when Avery’s fingertips touched the firm muscle there.
Avery’s hands reached down of their own accord, jumping like he didn’t expect it when he finally touched Sassaba’s powerful back. His body was like a barrel of rope, Avery thought, the strands writhing as Sassaba moved his head up and down, as though it took every muscle in his body to swallow Avery’s cock.
Then he pulled away without warning. He stopped just centimetres from Avery’s dick, thick strands of precummy spit connecting his face to Avery’s meat. He kissed the tip and frowned like he hated it, as though Avery were making him do this.
“I hate tourists,” he said gruffly. He spat on the floor of the tipi.
“You mentioned that,” Avery said. He took a deep breath. “They annoy me too. I live near a Civil War battlefield back in West Virginia-“
“Shut up,” Sassaba said. He stood — stooped over in the tiny tipi — and glared at Avery like he was a rotten piece of meat. He hissed at Avery, who again felt sure this was it, he was about to be robbed.
But no robbery was forthcoming. Instead Sassaba turned around. He bared his big brown ass as he got on his knees and elbows. Bent over he seemed even bigger, his broad body barely fitting in the tipi at all. He spread his asscheeks with one hand, while he supported his upper body on the other.
Avery couldn’t believe his luck. He was actually getting to penetrate this Indian tough guy — he had to be the most arousing man Avery had ever seen, and Avery got to slam his ass. It was such a shock that Avery had trouble getting in position.
He was a bottom by nature. Avery had only ever topped a few men before, and this was an entirely different situation. Bent over with his ass in the air, Sassaba’s butt was too high — Avery could nearly lick it, and he certainly couldn’t get his dick in. He’d need a stool or something similar.
“Uh, you gotta get lower,” Avery said. Sassaba glared at him but did so. He had to crouch to get his ass low enough.
But at last Avery was able to wedge his dick between those cheeks. He had never felt such a muscular ass, with barely any detectable fat, just big plump cheeks — his massive trunk-like thighs spread to give Avery easy access to Sassaba’s tight hole. Avery’s hands roamed over his taut ribs and powerful thighs, then went back to his ass to spread his cheeks. Then Avery guided his cock to Sassaba’s booty.
When Avery pushed the tip of his dick in, Sassaba yelped and howled. He clawed at the dirt floor of the tipi. He shook his head.
“Are you okay, broh?”
“Keep goin’, thin-chin!” Sassaba barked angrily. He backed his ass up but stopped after shoving just a few more centimeters in. He winced and bit his lip. Sensations visibly undulated through his body.
“Here, this’ll help relax you,” Avery said. “I’ll give you a reacharound.” He tried to stretch his arms around Sassaba’s torso, but he found that he was so small in comparison to Sassaba that it simply didn’t work. Avery could barely reach Sassaba’s cock at all, much less grip it tightly enough to jack him off. Sassaba’s torso was too thick, broad and strapping for Avery’s tiny lithe twink body to give him a reacharound.
“What’s wrong with your tiny white arms?” Sassaba asked.
“Sorry, you’re too big,” Avery said. He laughed, the motion of which made his dick slide deeper into Sassaba’s tight ass. That sent a jolt of pleasure up Avery’s spine, and he covered it up with a snort. “Well, not too big. But big.”
Sassaba grunted, the closest thing to a laugh or an even remotely happy sound that he had made since Avery met him. Sassaba’s face was intense — Avery couldn’t tell if Sassaba was enjoying having his ass plundered or not. He assumed he must be happy enough with it, since he had initiated it and could have backed out. But Sassaba’s face was tight, scrunched-up and tense, barely lit by the weak electric lamp in this tipi.
“So the other Native —I mean, the other First Nations reenactors won’t stick you in the ass?”
“It’s not that,” Sassaba said, his voice hoarse and breathless, warbly like an overexcited songbird. He hung his head low as he accepted Avery’s precum-leaking cock, clenching his teeth and wincing every few seconds, then relaxing and letting out a moan of either desire or pain or both. “They would, if I asked them to. But they would never let me live it down. If I let them do it once, they’ll never stop pestering me to do it again.”
“I guess that makes sense.” Avery was trying to slow down his orgasm now, because he felt it coming soon and he wanted to prolong this experience.
“Unlike you. When you’re done, you’ll just go back to Texas and I’ll never have to deal with you again.”
“I’m not from Texas. I’m from West Virginia-“
“Don’t care, thin-chin,” Sassaba said. “Anywhere south of Detroit is Texas.”
They both grunted as the last centimetre of Avery’s cock squeezed into Sassaba’s ass, which had stretched and widened enough that he could take it. Avery gyrated gently but inexorably, driving his dick all the way in and out with each thrust of his hips.
Being on top gave Avery a burst of confidence and bravado. He so rarely felt like this, he thought, and he wanted to do something with these feelings. He lightly tapped Sassaba’s asscheeks. “Hey, if you get to be offended by me calling you Native American, then I get to be offended by you calling me Texan. We’re a different people. Our accents are totally different-“
“Quit whining,” Sassaba said. He grunted and heaved as he accepted Avery’s cock ramming into him.
Since Sassaba hadn’t complained — and he actually seemed to be enjoying himself, he was even jacking his own cock off now, because Avery couldn’t reach his dick — Avery took that to mean he could accept even harder sodomy. He slammed his hips back and forth, gyrating to be sure he hit every part of Sassaba’s prostate.
That must have worked because Sassaba writhed as though he was in the most exquisite pain. He struggled and heaved and snorted, and a part of Avery was glad because the way he moved was so graceless and clumsy — he had this stereotypical view of Indians as elegant athletes who could accomplish anything with their relentless physicality. It was good to know that even a big muscly Indian like Sassaba could be overwhelmed and flustered, even clumsy.
Avery didn’t even realize that Sassaba was near orgasm until it happened. His muscles all flexed at once, and he shook, his whole body vibrating, asscheeks jiggling. The smell of cum filled the tipi as he sprayed cream into his own hand.
That caused his ass to clench down on Avery’s dick, which in turn sent waves of orgasmic pleasure up Avery’s spine. He grunted in sync with Sassaba, and their rutting sounds filled the tipi. Avery bit his lip so hard he drew blood as his orgasm assaulted his body.
Cum spurted forth, coating every inch of Sassaba’s insides. Sassaba shuddered and moaned, and Avery grunted — shocked at how masculine his own sound was, rather than the whimpery groaning he usually emitted. The most jaw-dropping orgasm of his life wracked his body with such potency that Avery collapsed.
“Ah, fuck yeah, thin-chin…” He let out a long, crooning groan.
He landed on Sassaba’s broad back, and Avery licked the sweat off whilst he writhed atop Sassaba’s muscles. Sassaba barely seemed to notice, as he contorted at the same time, those massive muscles flexing all at once beneath Avery’s grasp.
Finally it was all over. Avery had no idea how long he laid there, but he only rolled off Sassaba’s body when every last drop of cum had been drained out of him. Sassaba took a deep breath and Avery sighed. He cuddled up next to Sassaba, nuzzling his nose in the man’s throbbing biceps.
“Wait here,” Sassaba said. He kissed his hand, then planted a kiss on Avery’s cheek. He stood, bare ass gleaming in the dim light that filtered into the tipi. Again he had to stoop over some because he was too tall to fit in here. “Close your eyes,” Sassaba said. “The spirits wish me to show you something.”
Avery giggled and did as he was told. Sassaba hurried outside the tipi, keys jiggling, seemingly unworried about his naked body. He had left his clothes inside, Avery noticed — he could feel Sassaba’s leather shirt and jeans beneath Avery’s body. He’d gone out into the village naked.
A car started. It was only then that Avery started to connect the dots — why would Sassaba have left with keys if he didn’t have his own clothes? Whose keys did he carry?
Of course, there was only one possible answer. Avery opened his eyes. His clothes were gone.
He scurried out of the tipi just in time to see his own car driving away. There were three Indian men walking into the village at the same time, carrying Lawtons shopping bags. They waved at Sassaba in the car, flat-faced and grim, like they assumed Sassaba was a tourist. They obviously hadn’t recognized him.
They glared at Avery, whose naked white body shone in the mid-day sun. He was going to start burning very soon in this sunlight, Avery thought. He shivered and blushed intensely as his mind raced — he had no clothes, no money and no car.
What had happened? It all ended so quick he didn’t get it. He was still putting two and two together as the three Indians came closer.
“Howdy,” said one of the Indians. “Was that your buddy? Where’s your clothes?”
“We’re closed today. It’s Thanksgiving.”
Avery sighed. “Do you… Uh… Is there an Indian named Sassaba who works here?”
“No.”
“Does a rival tribe attack you during your show? With axes?”
“What, no? We’re trying to combat negative stereotypes, sir. Depicting Indians as violent, murderous savages would run counter to that,” said the Indian.
“And the Nakawē did not use axes in combat,” said another.
“Can you put some clothes on, sir?”
Avery sighed. He went back into the small tipi to get Sassaba’s clothes. They were too big for him by far, but it would be better than being naked.
The tipi still smelled like funk and armpit sweat, and the clothes carried Sassaba’s unwashed Indian scent. His attar had notes of pine trees and leather, and the scent made Avery so horny he wanted to bust all over again. He clutched Sassaba’s shirt, which was what smelled most strongly of his manly odor.
He stayed in there, savoring the smell of Sassaba’s body, for so long the Indians outside asked if he was alright. But Avery was better than alright. He may not have had any money, any ID, a car or even any clothes that fit him, but he wasn’t hurt and he’d be able to get his employer to send him a cab. It’d take a long time to get back to to the hotel, but he’d get there eventually. He’d just have to wait here in the Indian village.
That was just fine with Avery. He didn’t care what else happened: he had a leather shirt that would forever remind him of Sassaba.