paid books – Page 5 – Mansploitation

Massaging the Lacrosse Jock

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

Read it now as an ebook!

Read it soon as an ebook!

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

The Foot Fetishist

Miles’s neighbor is a studly ladysman… and a foot fetishist! Maybe Miles’s feet will be dainty enough that Patrick can get off on them, resulting in a hardcore explosion of man-on-man action!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Patrick Tirian got in a lot of arguments with his many girlfriends. Miles heard all of it through the thin layer of plaster separating their apartments. It was like a soap opera that Miles couldn’t turn off. Part of his attraction to the story came from Patrick himself — he was ungodly arousing.
He was a tall man of Irish descent, with a trace of a Boston accent from his youth on the streets, though he had been living here in Providence for many years. He was square-jawed, broad-shouldered, thick-chested, trunk-thighed, covered in dense dark body hairs. He carried himself with a confident swagger.
It was obvious at a glance that he was unabashedly alpha, and he wasn’t monogamous, that was for sure. He had a retinue of slutty women who followed him around, not to mention several girlfriends that he juggled between. He was gone most nights, and he occasionally brought home girls who were good enough at sex to be worth cleaning up his bachelor pad for. But none of those serious relationships ever lasted very long.
That was the source of the constant fighting. Every few weeks some girl found out that Patrick was not monogamous, and never intended to be. Miles heard them all through the walls of the apartment building.
‘You think you’re some kinda playa, don’t you! You fuckin’ bastard!’
‘I ain’t nevuh tell you I was gonna be loyal, girl, I ain’t nevuh one time say that!’
‘You’re a real jerk! You’re a pervert too! You foot-loving asshole!’
Then he angrily shushed her. He called her a “stupid bitch”, but he said it as part of a low, rumbling hiss so those vitriolic words were the only parts Miles caught. Had he heard the term foot-loving correctly?
The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that the girl had said that Patrick was into feet. Miles had to smirk at the thought. He could picture Patrick’s big body licking some slut’s feet, and it made him laugh so hard he wondered if Patrick heard.
That was the end of that girl. She stormed out of there a few minutes later. She was stunningly gorgeous, in that ultra-slut way that made it clear she was going to be hideous by the time she was thirty. Miles watched her go, Patrick standing on the porch they shared wearing nothing but his boxer shorts.
When Patrick turned around to go back inside, he saw Miles looking at him. Patrick scowled and grabbed his crotch to conceal it, though he had the effect of outlining his cock, so he actually brought attention to it. He went back into his apartment, which was next door to Miles.
Over the next week, Patrick was not around that much. He spent time with his friends and fucked a black stripper named Rainbow, but he didn’t go on a date for the rest of the month. When he ran into Miles once and they talked, he implied that he wasn’t dating because he didn’t feel like it — he had a “lotta shit goin’ on right now”, he said.
But that wasn’t true. Miles could see it in his eyes. Patrick did not have a lot of shit going on. The only thing he had in his life was anonymous, tawdry sex, and he was in the midst of a dry spell.
On a Friday evening, Miles was startled by a knock at the door. Through the window, he saw Patrick there, looking chagrined, wearing the bright orange vest and dusty jeans of his job on a road crew.
“Hey,” Patrick said when Miles let him in.
“Hi, how you doin’?” Miles closed the door behind him, took a deep breath and tried not to look like a teenager with a crush.
Patrick grumbled like the answer was “bad” but he didn’t say anything. He just plopped down on the couch and sprawled out, legs spread so wide he took up the entire couch. A bulge was visible in his crotch through the cruddy jeans he had worn for days without washing, Miles was pretty sure, and the shirt he wore under his hi-vis vest was sweat-stained and unwashed as well. His face was reddish and dusty, dried sweat on his grizzled face. He hadn’t shaved in a few days and his eyes were deep-set, bloodshot and tired.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Miles had the feeling, for the first time, that he might be able to get a taste of Patrick’s meat. He clutched Patrick’s forearm and rubbed it supportively. His corded muscles tensed beneath Miles’s touch.
“I, uh… I ain’t been feelin’ good lately.” His deep voice rumbled. He avoided eye contact, and looked down at his workboot-clad feet
“Oh? You want some chicken soup? You poor baby…” Miles said. He moved his hand from Patrick’s forearm to his bicep, which he squeezed. It was so thick and hard it made Miles’s dick twitch in his pants. Patrick still avoided looking at him; he just stared at the ground, at his own feet. Miles’s feet were bare, but Patrick avoided looking at them as well.
“No,” he said. “I don’t want chicken soup.”
Miles shivered with desire as he felt Patrick’s forehead with the back of his hand. It felt cool, and he said as much. Patrick quaked and covered his face with his hands.
“Yo, uh…” He spoke through his fingers. “I ain’t got laid in a month.”
“Oh, that’s terrible. Your balls must be so swollen,” Miles said. He made a kissy face, hoping that Patrick would see it even through his covered eyes. Miles even pantomimed swallowing a fat dick, but he wasn’t sure if Patrick saw it.
He nodded. “That fuckin’ bitch!” He roared. His face was red, his jaw jutting forward. “She promised she wouldn’t tell no one, but she did. E’ryone in the state now knows I like feet.” He paused. He glared at Miles with a hostile glint in his eye. “You ain’t gonna laugh at me, right? I like feet. Fuck you, and I will fuck up any motherfucker who fuck wit’ me ‘bout it! I can beat any ass down and-” He stood up, his voice gradually getting more and more angry until he was red-faced and sputtering.
Miles shrank back in fear. He had heard Patrick get into screaming matches with his girlfriends, but he didn’t know that Patrick also had a more general temper problem. For a moment it seemed that Patrick was going to hit him, but then he didn’t.
“Relax, baby, I don’t judge people for what they’re into,” Miles said. “There’s nothing wrong with feet. That bitch shouldn’t have told people about it.”
“I know, right? Fuck that bitch. She wasn’t even that hot, and her pussy was weird-looking. Had labia like fuckin’ blackout curtains,” he said. He sniffled. It almost sounded like he was near tears and trying to hide it. His hands were fists, which he pounded on his meaty thighs. Since he hadn’t pushed back against Miles’s touch, Miles squeezed next to Patrick on the couch. There wasn’t much space, so Miles could stroke his bicep with one hand and his lower thigh with the other. Patrick either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
“Did she have pretty feet?”
“Yeah,” he said. His anger was gone, replaced by loneliness and regret. He sniffled again. His eyes wandered over to Miles’s feet.
“I know this fat Asian chick you can fuck in the ass,” Miles said. His friend Suzie was a huge slut, and Miles was sure she would let a big tough blue-collar stud like Patrick fuck her. Miles laughed at Patrick’s hopeful reaction. “This weekend. She’s visiting her mother this week.”
“How fat is she?”
“Not real fat. Just big enough,” Miles said.
He nodded. “Okay. Thanks.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I really need to blow a nut right now though.”
“Well, I only know one fat Asian slut,” Miles said. He hesitated. “Okay, technically I know two, but one of them only fucks with black guys.”
Patrick grumbled. “I, uh… I know you always checkin’ me out and shit.”
Miles blushed. He moved his hand from Patrick’s lower thigh to his upper. Miles felt the lower edge of his boxer shorts through his jeans. He rubbed the firm muscle of his thigh. “Well, you’re really hot, baby. I can’t avoid looking at that ass. It calls to me. It beckons me.”
Now it was Patrick’s turn to blush. He looked away and leaned back, aiming his face at the wall. He laughed awkwardly.
Is this working? Miles thought it maybe was. Patrick was behaving as though he thought Miles was going to jack him off. Miles grinned. Dry spells always get ’em.
“And uh… I mean… You like… You, like, like.. you jack men off? Right? With their dick, right?”
“I do. Have been known to..”
“Oh, well, uh…” Patrick’s voice trailed off.
“You want me to jack you off?”
“Kinda…” Patrick blushed. “You got feet like a girl.”
“I’m sorry, baby?”
“You got feet like a girl. Yo’ feet. They look like a girl’s,” Patrick said. “You know, like, small, and delicate and shit.”
“Oh. Oh! Oh…” Miles’s eyes opened wide. It was his turn to blush and laugh at himself awkwardly. “You want to, uh…?”
Patrick nodded.
Miles lifted himself onto Patrick’s lap, sitting on one of those massive thighs and leaning against the side of the couch. That put Miles’s feet on the couch next to Patrick.
“Oh god… I ain’t a pervert,” Patrick said. He smiled sickly as he pulled Miles’s socks off.
“I know, baby. You just like feet,” Miles said. One of his hands gently caressed Patrick’s cock through his clothes, while his other crept under the filthy orange safety vest he still wore. He fingered Patrick’s flat belly with a treasure trail of hair on it and slid his hand upward until he could massage Patrick’s powerful pecs.
Then Patrick grabbed Miles’s foot. He just held on with his giant sausage-like fingers, and Miles could feel Patrick’s dick jump to attention in his jeans.
“Aw, fuck, you got nice feet, boy,” Patrick said. He brought Miles’s left foot up closer to his head — and forced Miles to awkwardly curl up in a ball on Patrick’s lap with his feet in the air and his head wedged into the arm of the couch.
Then Patrick kissed the top of Miles’s foot. It was a long, slow kiss, and it was almost romantic, like he was about to propose to Miles’s foot. He had a very serious look on his face too. His big square jaw worked up and down his lips explored the width and breadth of Miles’s foot.
He kissed it again, more furiously this time. His tongue flickered out and touched the skin of Miles’s foot, making Patrick’s dick jump in his pants again. Patrick moaned, and Miles giggled ticklishly.
“Let me take this off, sweetheart,” Miles said as he took off that orange vest. He clucked his tongue. “You’re so dirty.”
“Yeah, it was a hot day. We’re buildin’ that new onramp on the highway, out by the Pickspring Mall, it’s gonna be good, got four lines, and the asphalt’s been laid, lookin’ nice, lookin’ nice. I been sweatin’ all day. You want me to take a shower?”
“No!” Miles blurted out. “I mean, no, sorry. No. That’s okay. You don’t have to. I mean… I think you’re great as-is.”
“You like me all sweaty?”
“I wouldn’t have you any other way,” Miles said.
Patrick beamed. “Most girls make me shower all the time. They say I’m too big and hairy to fuck unless I shower first, and they mostly make me shower after too. That last bitch made me shower like four times a day.”
“Quit talking about your exes, Patrick,” Miles said. He lifted Patrick’s tattered t-shirt over his head, and he inhaled deeply of the aroma.
“Okay, sorry,” Patrick said. He wrinkled his nose and sniffed at his own armpit. “You into that? Armpits? I ain’t know you was into that.”
“I didn’t know you were into feet either,” Miles said.
Patrick smiled and shrugged. “I guess we both learnin’ today,” he said. He flexed his pecs, which bounced beneath Miles’s fingertips. Miles rarely got to be with such a big, muscular man, so that made him moan and feel flush with desire.
Then Patrick lifted his ass up so Miles could pull down his pants, and his hard dick poked out of his boxer shorts. Miles got undressed as well. Patrick blanched a little at the sight of Miles’s cock and balls, but he focused on those delicate little feet.
Miles stepped onto the couch next to Patrick, who blushed and stared straight down at his feet, ignoring Miles’s erect dick. Miles raised his leg until his foot was right in front of Patrick’s face — Patrick was so much taller than Miles that it was an awkward position, even with Miles standing on the couch that Patrick sat on. Miles had to balance himself on one foot, while Patrick’s grizzled chin scratched at his smooth foot.
Then Patrick groaned and swallowed one of Miles’s toes. It disappeared into his mouth and past his lips, and Miles giggled again as ticklish feelings erupted in him and nearly made him fall down.
“If you lay down, baby,” Miles said. “I’ll jack you off if you suck on my toes.” That seemed like the most sensible position to Miles, but Patrick ignored his offer.
Patrick looked up at him without taking Miles’s toes out of his mouth. He sucked as though he was trying to suck the toenails right off him. Aiming his eyes at Miles, who was still awkwardly standing on one foot, Patrick couldn’t help but see Miles’s dick as well, and this time, he didn’t look away.
He did move off Miles’s toes though. He started to lick the surface of Miles’s foot, first the upper side and then the ultra-sensitive lower side, which made Miles giggle again.
Miles tried to hide his giggles at first, because he thought Patrick might think he was teasing him or being dismissive. But Miles couldn’t help how ticklish he was, and it soon became apparent that Patrick loved hearing Miles’s girlish laughter.
His kisses and his tongue explored up the back side of Miles’s foot to his ankle. Miles was glad he had shaved his legs recently, because if he hadn’t Patrick would have probably found that a major turnoff. Instead Patrick’s grizzled chin moved up Miles’s ankle as he licked.
Miles assumed that that would be it and that Patrick would lay down on his back. He seemed to be getting ready to stretch out like that, and then they could sixty-nine with Patrick sucking his toes instead of his cock. That would be ideal, as far as Miles was concerned.
But that wasn’t what Patrick did. He kept sucking and licking his way up Miles’s thigh.
“You smell like girl lotion,” Patrick murmured. He inhaled deeply, a loud, moist sniffing sound. He kissed Miles’s thighs.
Then without a word of warning, Patrick swallowed Miles’s dick to the root. He let it pop right into his mouth, while his massive fingers massaged Miles’s delicate feet. Patrick was a big man with a big mouth and a big throat, and he got all the way down in one msooth motion. Miles’s dick slapped on his chin.
Miles gasped. “Oh, god, Patrick…” He thought he should say something else, something about how he wouldn’t judge Patrick for jerking him off, wouldn’t call him a pervert or tell anyone about this. But the pleasure that rocketed through his body was too intense for that.
His dick throbbed and leaked precum. The salty, sour flavor coated Patrick’s tongue, and he gulped it down. It tasted just like pussyjuice, so it was easy for him to do.
In truth, all Patrick thought about — sexually speaking — was feet. He didn’t care what girls looked like; all he cared about were those delicate little girl feet. So when he massaged Miles’s feet, he didn’t even think about whether or not he was going to handle some cock. If he had been with a girl, he would have alternated between licking her pussy and licking her feet, and this didn’t really seem much different to him.
He nuzzled his nose deep in Miles’s crotch, that fleshy manhood filling up his throat and pulsating inside him. It tasted like girlflesh and a little of the musty flavor of feet. It almost felt like an especially massive toe in his mouth, and, when that sensation was combined with the feminine groans escaping from Miles’s mouth, Patrick could almost pretend he was with a woman.
“You taste so good…” Patrick said. His voice was weak and wavery as though he was on the verge of tears. He pulled away from Miles’s dick and lowered his head. He dropped to the floor and kissed Miles’s feet.
Miles stood there on the couch, dick dripping and spasming as Patrick licked every inch of his feet. Patrick’s plump, hairy ass beckoned
If Miles had given it any thought, he wouldn’t have done anything else — getting jacked off was one thing, but a macho man like Patrick wasn’t going to take it in the ass. That much was clear.
But Miles wasn’t thinking about that. He just got down on the couch, laying on his back. Patrick didn’t tear his face away from Miles’s feet the entire time. He slathered spit all over their smooth flesh, and it dripped down onto the couch cushion beneath him.
Patrick didn’t need to ask what to do next. It was obvious what Miles wanted, and all Patrick focused on was the earthy yet clean, petrichorian flavor of Miles’s feet. He returned to sucking on those toes as he climbed up onto the couch himself. He was so huge the couch springs wheezed.
But the couch managed to support them both. Miles took a deep breath while Patrick’s gigantic body lowered, all two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of him landing on Miles’s dick. Six and a half feet of hairy muscle quivered when the tip of Miles’s cock poked into his ass.
Patrick threw his head back and moaned so loud it made Miles shudder. Patrick sat in a reverse-cowgirl position, so he lowered his ass onto Miles’s dick while facing Miles’s feet. That gave him the perfect position to massage Miles’s toes, and once he could concentrate with a cock in his ass, he’d be able to lean forward and suck on them as well.
But he couldn’t do that yet. His tight ass ached. Miles managed to reach a tube of lube he kept in the nightstand near the couch, and he squeezed some out onto his cock. That helped a lot, and several inches of his rod slipped into Patrick’s ass.
“Aw, fuck…” Patrick’s deep voice boomed and resonated in Miles’s living room. Patrick almost sounded surprised, like he only realized as the last little bit of Miles’s dick entered him that he was being penetrated at all.
For a minute or so, neither of them moved. Miles didn’t move because he was essentially pinned — Patrick mainly supported himself, but enough of his weight was on Miles’s crotch that all Miles could do was lay there. He could barely sway his hips. Patrick didn’t move because the pain and bliss combined in his ass to make such a powerful sensation that he couldn’t bear it. He just closed his eyes and groaned, callused fingers massaging Miles’s smooth feet.
Another hair-raising, muscle-cringing moan escaped from Patrick’s lips, the sound so crooning and awe-inspiring that it seemed like it actually escaped from his mouth as though it had had to break free. It was a deep, rumbling sound that Miles could both hear and feel in the vibrations of Patrick’s guts, squeezing around Miles’s cock.
That triggered Patrick to move into action. He bent forward so he could curl his head down and suck on Miles’s feet. Patrick was so tall it was still a difficult position for him, he had to really curl up tightly, and even then he could do little more than tantalizingly tease himself with Miles’s toes.
It seemed to be enough for Patrick though, and he used one hand to jack himself off while the other massaged Miles’s foot. His new position meant he wasn’t pressing down with quite so much weight on Miles’s crotch, so Miles could start moving his hips and plowing him.
That lasted for what felt like forever at the time, but in retrospect seemed to only be a few seconds. Miles worked his dick in and out, slowly at first, then more passionately. When Patrick didn’t show any signs of pain, Miles slammed his crotch upwards, ramming it into Patrick’s tight ass while Miles massaged his meaty ass and his muscular back. Waves of pleasure wracked the bodies of both men.
Patrick’s orgasm was palpable through his asshole, which clenched around Miles’s dick. Patrick gasped, snorted and roared. Miles’s whole body twitched as Patrick’s muscles turned to stone beneath his grasp.
The smell of cum filled the air before Miles felt it land on his foot. Patrick lifted his head up and shot his wad all over Miles’s right foot, and he smiled as he watched it drip into the crevices between his toes. Patrick moaned loudly, his chest and face turning bright red from pain, pleasure, humiliation and pride all at once.
Miles reached orgasm as well. He lifted his head up, doing an awkward, difficult sit-up, and smashed his face into the sweaty meat of Patrick’s lower back. He licked at the salty flesh while his body erupted in uncontrolled bliss. He groaned as well, and cum poured forth into Patrick’s ass.
As Miles spasmed and orgasmed inside him, Patrick barely noticed. He was focused on the sight of Miles’s beautiful pinkish feet glistening with cum. He had never been brave enough to tell a girl he wanted to do cum on their feet and then lick it up, but he felt so comfortable right now he did it without a second thought..
He just did it, and the taste was everything he hoped it’d be. He lifted up Miles’s cummy foot and licked it clean. He sucked off every drop of his own salty, creamy cum, letting it coat his tongue and drip down his throat. The hot, slightly sour flavor flooded his tongue.
He sighed as Miles finished spraying his own load inside him. Patrick moaned and felt that warm glow suffuse to every corner of his body. His tension and his anxiety disappeared. For a moment that could have lasted forever, Patrick was perfectly content. He forgot about his need for a girl. He forgot about everything but the salty foot whose flavor filled his mouth and the intense sensations roiling deep within his ass.
All at once, it was done. Patrick slid right off and curled up on the couch. He was so big he took up the entire space. He quaked and trembled. Miles sat up and gave him as much room as he needed.
“There, there, baby,” Miles said. “I hope you feel better. Let me take care of you.” He grabbed some wetnaps from the nightstand and cleaned off Patrick’s ass, as well as both cocks and Miles’s feet.
“Thanks,” Patrick said.
“You’re welcome,” Miles said. “Anytime you have another dry spell, Patrick, you just come see me. I’ll take care of you. Me and these feet you love so much.”
Patrick sniffed them, wrapped his face into Miles’s thin ankles and closed his eyes. He fell asleep there, nose pressed into Miles’s foot, while Miles drifted off to sleep as well, leaning against Patrick’s mountainous body and savoring the feel of his muscle.
This evening, Miles thought, had turned out better than he ever hoped.

The Cowboys

Pat is a greenhorn, and he’s not fitting in too well. That’s cuz he’s too small, too weak, and not macho enough… But he’s perfect for servicing the cowboys and ranchhands all around him, giving him plenty of opportunities to handle some dusty, throbbing manmeat!

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Read the whole thing here!

Though small, Pat Gaumfrey intended to be a cowboy. That plan had not gone well. He hadn’t given up yet.
His first day as a cowboy-in-training was so arduous he wasn’t sure he could make it. His legs felt like jelly, and his feet burned like fire. He couldn’t believe he felt like this and the other cowboys hadn’t even let him do a normal full day’s work.
He stumbled through the prairie with two full buckets of water. They had set up camp near a watering hole, but the cows took up all the space closest to it. The cowboys were camping a few yards away, so they had made Pat go fetch water.
“You put some makeup on or what?” asked one of the cowboys, Curly. He was the biggest, the oldest and the meanest man there, and he scowled at Pat as though he hated him. His dark skin — he was half-Mexican on his mother’s side — flashed in the campfire light. “Cuz you lookin’ good, sweetheart.”
They had been making fun of his petite size. Pat blushed. He wished he wasn’t so skinny and feminine in shape. He couldn’t hold a candle to the cowboys of the Goodman Ranch. They were tall, broadly muscled and powerful as a steam engine.
As he came into the firelight, Pat saw that the cowboys were all standing in a circle. It almost looked like they were about to piss into the fire, but they hadn’t taken their pants off yet.
“What’re you doing?” Pat asked.
“We’s playin’ a game,” Curly said, “A game that’s got a role just for you, if you want it.” The other cowboys all snickered. He undid his trousers and let his cock flop out. The other cowboys did likewise, all so suddenly that Pat ain’t even realize what was happening until it was all over. Curly stroked his dick a few times. “You look like a girl. That-“
“No, I don’t! I look young, like a young man!”
“You look like a pretty but tomboy girl,” Curly said. “We’s gonna have a circlejerk, Pat. You can either join in and prove you’s a real man, or you can put on that lacy underthing over there and dance around to make us horny.”
“Those are… my only two choices?”
“Well, no….,” Curly said. “You can go sleep with the cows, if you’d rather be less than a real man. If you is gonna hang out with us, you have to do what we do.”
“Fine…” Pat said. He hung his head in shame as he stood up. He trembled with anxiety as he dropped his pants.
He was nervous about his size. Not his cock size, which was ample, but his overall body shape. He was lean and long-limbed, as opposed to the burly cowboys who dripped with muscles that were too large for their body. Curly was also especially tall, with that squarish jaw and boorish face that women always fell in love with, and the dark, grizzled look of his Mexican heritage. He had a baritone voice that was so deep it was hard to understand, like the rumble of a far-off thunderstorm.
To his left in the circle was Hawthorn Spooner, Curly’s friend and a Texan of uncertain heritage — he had an Anglo name and looked like a gringo, but claimed to be Mexican, which Pat suspected meant Hawthorn was a fugitive of some sort and was using a fake name.
Hawthorn’s fingers touched Pat’s bare cock, and Hawthorn cackled when Pat responded with shock. He was exquisitely sensitive and couldn’t think about anything else but Hawthorn’s rope-coarsened fingers stroking his manhood.
His own fingers trembled as he wrapped them around Curly’s cock, which was enormous and thick with veins. It throbbed in Pat’s grip, hot and powerful and meaty. It felt very unlike Pat’s own cock. Not just in size, but in solidity and masculinity. Curly twitched and moaned as soon as Pat touched his cock. Pat felt a rising surge of disgust, as well as arousal. He had never experienced anything like this.
“You got sweet little hands, li’l un,” Curly said. He sounded threatening yet like he hoped the answer was yes, and his tone sent a chill up Pat’s spine.
“He’s the closest thing to a female we got around here,” Hawthorn said, his Texan drawl so thick it had to be either an affectation or deeply ingrained, Pat couldn’t decide which. Hawthorn’s grizzled face sneered at Pat. “Reckon he’s as close as we gonna get, and my balls is fixin’ to explode. I gots to get my nut off. Can we treat ‘im like a lady, boss?”
A long silence filled the campsite. Pat’s heart dropped as he wondered if this circlejerk was meant to go much farther than that. He didn’t know if he wanted to do anything with these men. His father had raised him better than that.
“Nah,” Curly said. He snorted, and his dick got hard beneath Pat’s fingers. “We ain’t doin’ that. He’ll get smashed when he’s ready. Today we circlejerk. Tomorrow… we’ll see how the li’l guy feels.”
“He gonna enjoy that…!”
Hawthorn chuckled. “Your dick got hard awful easy,” he said. He was right, Pat’s cock pulsated in his fingers. Pat hadn’t even noticed himself getting hard because he was still so focused on Hawthorn’s hand on his dick.
One of the other cowboys, on the other side of the fire, suddenly moaned. He let out a blood-curdling sound and leaned back so the man stroking his dick could get a good angle on it. He blushed as he spewed his load right into the sizzling campfire.
“Boo-yah, Zeke!” Curly said.
“Direct hit….” A couple snickers and whoops came from the other cowboys, as the one who was cumming let out a groan that turned into an embarrassed laugh. His last load of creamy jizz spurted over his dust-coated chest, which was still matted with sweat from the day’s ride. The cum and the sweat mixed and formed a sheen that matted his body hair to his skin.
Another great jet of cum spurted out. This one longer and more continuous than Pat had thought possible. It was like Zeke was pissing a continuous stream of creamy jism right into the campfire. The smell of it filled the air.
The man who had cum, Zeke, blushed. He protested over the hooting and hollering of all the others. Pat couldn’t hear what they were saying since everyone spoke at once, until Curly put his hand up.
“Zeke knows the rules. He can welch if he wants to be known as a welcher,” Curly said. “Or he can follow through.”
Pat let out a quiet groan when he saw what was happening. Apparently these cowboys had a tradition — whoever came first in a circlejerk had to kiss every cock in the circle. It seemed gross, and unsanitary even, but Pat wasn’t about to complain. He was just glad he hadn’t lost.
On his knees next to the fire, Zeke shuffled his big, hairy body to the man who had stroked him off. Zeke had a round face, scruffy and unshaved, which turned red. He quickly pecked his lips on the shaft, and gagged as the others laughed.
Then he kissed the next man’s cock, then Curly’s, then he briefly paused to pick pubic hairs out of his mouth. At last he came to Pat, whose dick pulsated — Hawthorn let go of it for a few seconds — as Zeke glared at Pat, as though this was his fault. Then he kissed it right on the shaft.
It ain’t feel especially good. It was barely noticeable, Pat thought, the others must be exaggerated — they each moaned and humped as though Zeke’s quick, chaste kiss genuinely felt good, like it was a replacement for a female’s attention.
Then he was done, and the circlejerk returned. After that, the men came quickly. It seemed they had been forcing themselves to slow down in order to avoid being in Zeke’s position.
The smell of cum filled the campsite, even though most of the semen went straight into the fire. The few drops that landed on the ground outside of the flames sizzled slowly, sending up an odd, acrid and slightly cottony scent that stuck to Pat’s nostrils.
Then it was down to just him, Curly and Hawthorn. Pat was self-conscious of the attention paid to him as the new guy. Everyone wanted him to be unable to get himself off, it seemed, and they started chanting at him. Pat was more worried that he would look too aroused.
“Weakling can’t do it! Weakling can’t do it!”
That made Pat blush, but it also made him determined to shoot his load. He ain’t want to go last either.
But then when Pat was on the verge of cumming, Hawthorn came instead. He shot his load over the fire, and momentarily stopped stroking Pat off, which was enough to set Pat back a few minutes.
Now that it was down to just Pat and Curly, they faced each other. Curly was much taller and wider than Pat, with a more strapping body, shoulders that went on for miles, and rippling, hair-crusted muscles. They faced each other now, and stroked each other’s meat, meaning Curly’s much-taller torso was right in front of Pat’s face. He could taste the sweat clinging to Curly’s chest hair.
Curly flexed his pecs, which bounced in front of Pat’s face. Pat blushed and looked away, then moaned as he felt the first wad of cum hit his stomach. It dripped into his pubic hair and coated his cock.
“Direct hit!” Curly shouted. The other cowboys laughed along with him.
Pat winced and stood there, feeling so dirty he wanted to throw up as the cum dripped through his crotch. He was humiliated, and the most humiliating part was that he was aroused.
But then before he could say anything, Curly got behind him. He had to bend his knees a little so he could grab Pat’s dick from behind, so Curly’s own cock pressed limply, stickily, oozingly, into the crack of Pat’s ass. His body hair pressed against the back of Pat’s head.
And he used both hands on Pat’s cock. Despite the intense scent of masculine sweat and the flexing of Curly’s strapping muscles, his full attention on Pat’s member made the handjob feel especially good. Curly’s cum stuck to Pat’s back.
“You are nasty! You’re about to nut with me all hugging up on you, like a girl,” Curly said. He smiled cruelly as Pat reached orgasm against his will. Cum flew into the fire, and Curly kissed Pat on the cheek.
That made Pat writhe as pleasure coursed through his veins. The awkwardity and humiliation of it all made the experience even more intense, and Pat’s limbs all tensed at once. The orgasm was painful despite the intensity of the feelings and the palpable sense of relief that washed over him when it was finally done.
Then he took a deep breath. Curly let him go so suddenly that Pat nearly collapsed into the fire, but then Curly’s strong arms gripped him tight.
“Well, despite looking like a girl who foolishly traded her tits for a small cock,” Curly said with a laugh, “you are apparently a real man. Congratulations. You can come into town with me tomorrow.”
Pat was annoyed that he came into town with Curly. Each man was given a chance to spend a night in town when they were near enough to one for it to work, but since most of the cowboys needed to stay near the cows, they rotated through the roster.
Unfortunately for Pat, he was given a night out with Curly. He ain’t like Curly, ain’t have anything in common with him, and it was apparent that Curly ain’t like him.
Pat knew what the problem was too. Curly ain’t like Pat because he wasn’t a “man’s man”. He ain’t spit or smoke or drink whiskey. He ain’t talk about whores and sluts all the time. He ain’t have an enormous cock, and he was embarrassed to show it off. He wasn’t anybody’s idea of a tough guy, and Curly evaluated every man he met on toughness. Pat was found wanting.
But still, Pat ain’t even think about declining a night out. He had been working too hard to skip it.
He followed Curly to the tiny town where Curly had said the “women begged you for it”. Pat ain’t need to ask what it was, and he couldn’t admit that he ain’t want to give anything at all to any women.
When they came to the tavern called Lipsweet, however, it looked dead inside. Curly frowned and pushed open the door, revealing a small bar with a dozen or so chairs. There were two men sitting there, looking at an empty stage in front of them.
“What happened? Where’s Charlotte?” Curly asked.
The bartender, a young man who looked forlornly on the empty tavern, said, “Dead. Consumption. Last month.” He wrinkled his nose. “Buncha them dead.”
Curly sighed as he ordered a whiskey. Pat wanted wine, but he ain’t want to stand out that much, so he asked for a whiskey just like Curly did. Neither of them drank it yet. Curly hoped he could share it with a woman — though he ain’t see any — and Pat ain’t drink it because Curly hadn’t.
The two cowboys who were already there — at the bar Lipsweet — but they were drinking water because their jefe had forbidden them from getting drunk tonight, on account of a cattle-ride to begin early in the morning — watched Curly suspiciously; they were both Mexican, it looked like, and they were even dirtier and meaner looking than Curly. Pat was glad he hadn’t ended up on a Mexican cowboy team, as he had heard the vaqueros were even worse than Anglo cowboys.
“Got a new dancer?” Curly asked.
The bartender Teddy shook his head. “Ain’t a single woman in town, not no kind, any age, nothin’. Ain’t even any eligible women in Casper right now.” He chuckled. “Hope you enjoy the company of men, cuz you gonna be lonely if not.”
The Mexican cowboys murmured something to each other, then burst into laughter. They both looked Pat in the eye, and he was sure they were talking about him. They seemed to have realized how feminine he was without even hearing him speak. One of them was a burly man named Gofredo; the other was leaner and ropy-muscled, Octavio. Neither one looked nice.
It was Octavio who stood up and approached Pat. He handed over a few dollar bills and gave Pat a silky red dress. “You are like girl, yes? You dance, señor. Dance like señorita.”
Pat blushed and looked down. He ain’t want to embarrass himself like this, but a part of him did want to put the dress on. He liked the idea of these macho cowboys thinking he was girlish. Pat could do it and leave town if his reputation got ruined. When the vaquero put down a wrinkly old greenback, Pat began to get excited — he had rarely had the opportunity to earn an entire dollar so easily.
Pat caught Curly’s eye. Curly nodded and motioned for him to do what the Mexican cowboys told him to. Pat sighed. He stood and began taking off his clothes, ignoring the scoff of the bartender and the humiliating hooting of the vaqueros. Curly just watched with those deep-set, dark eyes drilling into Pat’s consciousness.
“No narsty shit, guys. This ain’t that kind of bar.” The bartender was nervous and self-conscious, and no one paid any attention to him.
“So smooth,” said the bigger vaquero, Gofredo, who then repeated himself in Spanish, and added something that made Octavio chuckle. He had a dry, throaty laugh that made Pat shiver with anticipation and desire.
As he slipped the dress on, Pat moaned and jutted his ass out. He caressed Gofredo’s powerful chest. He wanted more than anything to feel manhood pulsating beneath his fingers again, or even something more extreme than that.
He first shook his ass for Curly, who whistled and added “¡Caliente!” in thickly-accented Spanish. The vaqueros laughed. He smacked Pat’s asscheek beneath the crimson fabric, which clung to his skin. The dress was very short, revealing almost all of Pat’s legs.
His thighs were not smooth. The Mexicans kept remarking on it, asking how he shaved it so perfectly, but they were just teasing him — he was not very hairy, and his body hair was light blond, so it was not noticeable. But the vaqueros caressed his skin, and surely noticed that there was real hair there.
When Pat turned around — flinging his head as though he had enough hair for that to be an arousing gesture — he saw Octavio’s cock out. He had lowered his pants just enough for a thick, barbaric uncut cock to stick out of his hairy bush.
“Come along, get me off, little girl,” said Octavio.
Pat blushed. He saw that Gofredo was removing his pants, and Curly too. Pat realized he was past the point of no return — there was nothing to do now but enjoy every moment of this encounter. That was fine with him.
He loved how they argued over who would go first. He got on his knees in the center of the circle and opened his mouth, though his heart trembled as he realized the Mexicans were arguing over who got to smash him in the ass first. His asshole puckered at the thought — they had big, uncut cocks like barbarians.
“No, man, it’s my turn to do it, last time we had a virgin ass, you smashed it first,” said Octavio.
“I’m bigger,” Gofredo said as though that justified everything. He pushed Octavio out of the way and got behind Pat. He wedged his cock between Pat’s cheeks. His powerful body loomed above Pat. “You’re gonna be my puta, yanqui.”
Pat squealed out of either fear or delight, not even he could tell which. His heart climbed into his chest at the thought of taking cock in both directions. But Curly pushed Gofredo out of the way.
“No,” Curly said. “Lemme in him first. I’ve got a bigger dick, I deserve to do it first.”
“Her,” Gofredo said, correcting him, grumbling. He stepped towards Curly, both men standing there with hardons so close their precum intermingled. “She will like it.”
Curly frowned. “Pat, I’d like to get inside you. I’ll be gentle… and I’ll give a reacharound.”
“Yes!” Pat said. Then he blushed as Curly laughed at his eagerness. Pat had enjoyed being stroked off before, and he thought being smashed by Curly would be a lot easier to handle than Gofredo. Gofredo grumbled but let Curly take his place behind Pat’s ass.
He knew it would hurt, but he was surprised by how quickly the utter agony began to build. As soon as Curly’s meat pushed into his ass, Pat threw his hand back and grunted. The vaqueros laughed as they approached his face. Intense sensations overwhelmed him, great jets and sparks of pain assaulting his senses.
But there was pleasure too. The potent waves of bliss that flew up his nerves made his toes curl and his hands form claws that dug first at the sandy ground and then at the powerful trail-dusted muscles of Curly’s broad body. The watching Mexicans laughed and pointed like they had never seen anything as funny as Garret’s body awrithe with pleasure.
Despite the humiliation overwhelming him — which grew worse now that it had begun, and the barkeep looked on in disgust — Pat opened his mouth. He couldn’t wait to taste those Mexican cocks.
Much to his surprise, Gofredo and Octavio pushed their dicks in his mouth together. They ain’t seem to mind touching cocktips in his face. Pat ain’t mind mouthing them both at once, tasting their spicy Latin flavors melding together on his tongue. They even kissed each other, eyes closed — you could see them both attempting to ignore the dense beards on each other’s chins.
His focus on their cocks in his mouth helped him avoid thinking about the pain growing in his ass. But his focus shifted a few minutes later, as Curly’s cock squeezed the rest of its way inside him, and Pat felt a burst of pleasure from deep in his ass.
The Mexicans laughed and called him a girl, but they sounded less and less mean about it. They seemed to have a growing sense of begrudging respect for Pat, since he was swallowing their cock better than any girl. That was because girls had to be talked into it, paid even, or at least promised to marry, but Pat craved more and more dicks and wanted to taste them down to the root. No convincement needed.
When Curly’s hand finally reached around to Pat’s cock, he thought he might bust right then and there. But he managed to hold himself back as Curly’s trail-callused hand worked Pat’s member into an excited froth of precum and Curly’s spit, which he used as lube.
It was actually Gofredo who shot his load first. He exclaimed and shouted, and pumped his powerful muscles in a show of force. Creamy cum sprayed over Pat’s face and tongue.
The flavor was salty and sweet, but with an acrid bitterness that brought tears to Pat’s face. Even though it wasn’t exactly pleasant, Pat found it enormously satisfying, and he savored the creamy thickness of it.
His desire was enhanced moments later, when Octavio shot his load. The taste of Gofredo’s cum hadn’t even faded yet when Octavio’s spicier load flooded Pat’s mouth.
Their semen mixed in his mouth. Pat’s mind raced with disgust even as his body, and especially his tongue, savored the satisfying flavor. He had always assumed it would be gross, but it wasn’t at all, and for a few seconds at least, Pat wished he could taste nothing else for the rest of his life.
The Mexicans kept their limp cocks there, talking to each other in rapid-fire Spanish as though they ain’t notice that their dicks were streaked with each other’s cum. Pat licked their shafts clean until he couldn’t stand it anymore. The sour and salty flavor was intense and potent and the most delicious thing Pat had ever eaten.
His own dick burst into an awe-inspiring orgasm, and he shot his load all over the floor. At the same time, Curly shouted yee-haw! as he sprayed his own load deep into Pat’s ass.
The cum sprayed to every corner of his body. Pat shuddered from his own orgasm at the same time, which made him wince with a mixture of pain, humiliation and incredible bliss. The vaqueros watched, and the bartender looked away, while Pat endured the most potent orgasm of his life.
Then it was all over. Pat tried to take a deep breath, but now that it was over, the cock in his ass was eye-wateringly painful. He wanted to beg Curly to take it out, but he was in too much agony, and in any case, it would be embarrassing to beg for anything, especially that.
When Curly finally pulled his limp dick out of Pat’s ass, the world came back into focus; Pat was able to hear again, and he could pay attention to the grumbling macho voices of the vaqueros, who demanded more tequila as they stuffed their cocks back in their pants.
Pat stretched his legs and stood up. He blushed when he saw the bartender look at him with dismay. Curly clasped Pat close, and their sweaty bodies touched. Pat’s hands explored Curly’s muscles, which Curly ignored.
“Barkeep, get this man anything he wants,” Curly said. “He’s a very special kind of cowboy, and if there ain’t gonna be no women here, he’s a valuable man to have around.”

The Cowboy

Zeke is one exhausted cowboy, but luckily, there’s a young man on the ranch ready, willing and able to service every inch of his filthy manmeat!

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Read the whole thing here

After arriving back at Prairie Stone Ranch from the cattle drive, Zeke Auberly was sore and exhausted. He hated to admit it but he was too plum-tired to carouse tonight.
Well into his thirties, Zeke was beginning to realize that he weren’t no young buck no more. He certainly wasn’t old, but for a working cowboy, he was growing pretty long in the tooth. Most of them cowboys who worked alongside him — or for him, as he liked to think of it, though he weren’t in charge official-like — were ten years younger.
But he got experience, he was smart, he knew the route and the Injuns and the sheriffs along the way. He felt like an old man, like he got an old man’s mind with a lifetime’s worth of accumulated experiences, trapped in a somewhat youngish man’s body.
He wished he could just go right to the barn as soon as he had returned from the cattle drive. He was exhausted, sweat a-drippin’, his entire body one bruise. His flesh was turned to liquid, his knees held together by overslackened straps, and every step was arduous. He was always at his most tired as soon as he arrived back at the ranch, once he got off his horse Betsy Lou, and rest was in sight.
First, he had had to go to Mister Goodman and report on the cattle drive. Zeke sat there, sweat dripping from his brow, stomach churning because he was desperate for food and water and sleep and cleanliness.
Even if he ain’t have to talk to Mister Goodman right away, Zeke couldn’t bathe immediately like he wished to. Nothing technically stopped him from doing so, it simply wasn’t advisable — all the cowboys went right to the barn, behind which was a smoldering campfire. Mister Goodman always started the fire when they were due back from the cattle-drive. There was a large metal tub that could be filled with water and heated with the campfire.
With the sun going down by the time the water was warm and the cowboys were ready to bathe, the air was chilly, the sky falling dark and low upon the horizon, and the bath was as inviting as a peek at a petticoat. Zeke knew from personal experience that it felt amazing. There was nothing like sliding into that bathtub, even having to share it with another cowboy.
Zeke ain’t want to share it now. He was older and he was in charge of the others, so he waited for them to be done. He was worried it diminished his authority to bathe with the others — he wasn’t technically the boss, but he was the most experienced cowboy, so he was the most knowledgeable, and Mister Goodman expected him to keep the greenhorns in line. That was easier to do if they saw him as larger than life, and that wasn’t possible if they batheed with him like a servant.
It was ironic, he thought, because, back when he was a young greenhorn, he wished he ain’t have to share. He thought it would be cleaner if he could wait and bathe alone after the others. That was what the older cowboys had done when Zeke had been new.
Now that Zeke was an older cowboy, however, all he wanted was to sit in the bathtub with another man. He wouldn’t mind his legs interlocking with someone else’s, feet rubbing against his balls and his ass. He wouldn’t even mind jackin’ off with a cowpoke, somethin’ he ain’t never enjoy as a young man.
Back then his very own hand was enough, plus the local fillies did give him the time of day. Zeke was young and handsome as a plate of beans, he was! Women came a-humming and a-thrumming, so when the older cowboys on a cattle drive deep into the wild yonder under starry skies that went on forever did want to fumble and grope through the night, Zeke said no. He would save himself for the splendor of womanhood, and he went to sleep with hardons a-plaguing him, he did.
Now he was that older cowboy wanna to rub rods with a younger man, and the young men do say the same thing, that they got a girl in every town waiting for ’em, with come-hither legs and come-hither eyes. Nobody ever told Zeke he was gonna be one of those silly old cowboys one day. Somebody shoulda warned him.
‘Course, Zeke ain’t tell the young pups they was gonna get old one day. They oughta know. Damn fools, tarnations to ’em!
Anyway, Zeke did finish the report on the drive with Mister Goodman and he did hand over the dollars from the market. Mister Goodman counted and recounted, and Zeke stood there as though he didn’t ache with the fire of a thousand camps. He wished to bathe and sleep and do nothing for a spell, not in that order. He stone-faced for Mister Goodman though.
Mister Goodman always counted coins twice, and he insisted Zeke stay there so as to account for any errors. But because of that, Zeke always counted twice as well, back at the market when he sold the cows, so he was confident the count would come back correct, and it did. Mister Goodman deemed that good enough, and he shook Zeke’s hand.
That was that. The drive was complete, and it was good. At last, Zeke went to the barn. His muscles ached mightily, and even his eyes was tired. He wanna sit somewhere dark and drab and cool, and he wanted to sit there clean.
The other cowboys had dumped the bathtub. Zeke was relieved on the one hand because it meant he was alone and would have a tub full of clean water, but on the other hand, he was annoyed because it meant he would have to wait for the water to heat up again.
His muscles felt like hot tallow. Zeke saw the well off in the distance and he knew he needed to go there to get the water, but he couldn’t even think about moving in that direction and lugging the bucket of water — they used a very large bucket for this, so it was extraordinarily heavy when full of water. It took two trips to fill the tub completely.
Could Zeke do it? For the first time, he considered just passing out. Was he really getting old? When he was a young man, no matter how exhausted he was, he would always bathe and go out to the saloon where he’d seduce some fine woman (or more often, pay Mister Gregarian for a night with a woman at the saloon Lipsweet).
But now he was just too tired. Aside from feeling like a slick of grease stuck to the bottom of his boot, he would have gladly just crawled into the barn over there and slept among the goats. He wanted to do nothing more involved than rest.
“Hello?”
Someone was coming. Zeke’s heart sped up, and he jumped to his sore, blistered feet. There was someone coming closer, carrying something heavy.
It was a man, a slim, somewhat feminine man with big doe eyes. He struggled to carry the bucket, full to the brim with water. Some of the water sloshed out as he went to the fire, which was flaring as the wood Zeke had added enflamed. The man placed the bucket on the grates above the fire.
“Howdy, pardner,” said the man. “You must be Mister Auberly.”
“Zeke.”
“Zeke, howdy, I’m Pat. I was hired by Mister Goodman as an assistant-“
He kept talking, but Zeke stopped listening. Pat’s feminine voice rang out in Zeke’s ear. He sounded a lot like a woman, and he kind of carried himself like a woman, all curves and stately elegance, with a thick pair of plump asscheeks that were plainly visible hugged by his tight pants. He seemed awfully womanly. In the dark, Zeke might have mistaken him for a woman.
Zeke’s mind vaguely registered who he was. Mister Goodman had mentioned hiring an assistant to help with running the ranch. He had said the assistant was not a cowboy, so Zeke hadn’t really cared too much. He’d be doing the numbers, presumably. An accountant or something similar. Mister Goodman always counted twice.
But now, it seemed the assistant would be out here, assisting him, looking so much like a girl that Zeke wanted to lay with him in front of a campfire.
But he didn’t say that. He gulped that down. He didn’t do things like that. On the trail, things were different, the rules were different. On the trail, a girlish cowboy like that would never be cold or lonely at night.
A slim, girlish cowboy like that on the trail wouldn’t make it in the first place, which was why slim girlish cowboys weren’t who Zeke was used to sharing his bedroll with. The vaqueros — Mexican cowboys — they brought along ‘ranch-bunnies’ on cattle drives to ram.
“I just bathed the others but I thought you would want fresh water,” Pat said. He patted Zeke on the back. “Oh you poor baby, you feel so tired, I can sense it in your muscles. You have a nice strong back, huh?” He sounded just like a girl. His hands casually rubbed Zeke as he stood there silently, trying to decide whether to make Pat leave or not. Zeke couldn’t bear to make him go. He craved affection and companionship, and he really wanted Pat to smell like one of Mister Gregarian’s girls.
It was dark enough now, he thought, he could just pretend Pat was female.
“Lemme help,” Zeke said when Pat tried to dump the hot water into the tub. Together they emptied the water, and it let out a billowing cloud of steam when it filled the metal tub.
“You can go ‘head in the water now,” Pat said. “I’ll just go’n fill the bucket again and fill the tub up the rest of the way.”
But Zeke felt a chivalrous need not to allow that. It was just like a woman, he thought, Pat was basically a woman. He acted like a woman and he smelled like a woman and he even mostly looked like a woman — just a woman with short hair, wearing men’s clothing. Zeke couldn’t sit idly by while a man like Pat struggled to carry a bucket of water.
His muscles were revitalized enough to make it easy, or easy enough anyway. With two people carrying the bucket, it was not a problem to fill it at the well and bring it back to the campfire. The water that was already in the tub was still too hot to really be comfortable yet.
“How was ya cattle-drive? Did you lose any cows?”
“Of course not,” Zeke said with a snort. “I never lose any head.”
“I bet. Everyone said you’re so strict. The other cowboys I mean. They said you’re not nice,” Pat said. He shrugged. “But I think you’re nice. You helped me carry the water. The others laughed at me struggling, and they threw rocks at me-“
“Who threw rocks at you?”
“Well… The tall one? With the dark hair and green eyes.”
“I-” Zeke bit his lip. “I recognize him from the dark hair and green eyes. Curly. He is… I will deal with him.” He blushed. “I do not…” His voice trailed off. “I will deal with him properly.”
Pat hugged him. The second pot of water was boiling now, and he rubbed his face against the sweat-plastered shirt sticking to Zeke’s back. It was salty and stiff, the leather soaked with layers of moisture from sweat and rain and river-water. “Thanks. You’re not mean.”
Zeke grunted. He pulled away from Pat and ain’t let him help him carry it to the tub to dump it in, Zeke did it himself, one last burst of muscular energy before he finally rested.
At last, he thought with a sigh, he could bathe. He raced to strip off his clothes, uncaring of Pat there watching. He hopped in. His foot-long cock flopped, sticking sweatily to his thigh.
The water was painfully hot at first, but it wasn’t scalding, and it soon cooled down just enough to be a bit uncomfortable. That was where Zeke liked it. The tub was good at holding heat, so it would stay at this temperature for awhile.
“I have my own soap,” Pat said. “Is it okay if I wash you?”
Zeke hesitated. That wasn’t so strange. He and the other cowboys usually washed each other’s backsides. But he knew them well; it was a little weird to let a stranger do it. The reason they let each other do it was because they knew each other well, they trusted each other — they couldn’t make it together on a cattle drive without innate and implicit trust in each other.
Zeke nodded anyway. Since he was not going to go see Mister Gregarian tonight, he thought, he might as well get some affection where he could get it. Pat’s hands flirtily caressed Zeke’s body.
He started to realize that Pat was going to do more than wash him, and Zeke couldn’t bring himself to decide not to do it. He felt strongly that he needed it — his dick throbbed with desire, yet he was too tired to go into town or talk to ladies, even whores; Pat was right here, and he was so womanly.
He was virtually a female.
Zeke had even promised to punish Curly Harrow for throwing rocks at him — that was something he would do for a man who threw rocks at a woman, not a smaller, weaker man. Zeke had always believed weaker men should submit to stronger men.
But he also believed, more and more intensely with every passing day, that stronger men should not take advantage of weaker men, or throw rocks at them.
And Pat was virtually a woman anyway.
His hands touched Zeke’s back. Those hands were so smooth and warm, and inviting, soft, cottony, like a freshly laundered shirt (something Zeke hadn’t touched in years). He licked his lips and closed his eyes. He leaned forward in the tub as Pat’s hands roamed lower. His muscles rippled beneath Pat’s touch.
The filth and sweat flowed off Zeke’s body. He instantly felt cleaner, and with every passing moment, his exhaustion vanished. He was always surprised by how much energy he got when he had finally bathed. He felt like a new man.
“Lean back, sweetheart,” Pat said softly. His voice was loud though because his mouth was right next to Zeke’s ear, and it rang out in his mind.
Zeke did lean back so Pat could wash and rub and sweetly caress his chest. He sighed.
He kept his mind focused on the warmth seeping into his bones and the tender touch of Pat’s fingers on his chest. So he was only dimly aware of Pat’s lips sucking the trail-dust off his ear.
But his body was aware. His hefty cock twitched in the soapy water. Pat could sense it, even if he ain’t see it in the dark of night — the tub was illuminated only by the moonlight and the fading firelight.
Pat reached into the tub and touched his cock. Zeke ain’t react. Pat gave it one long, slow stroke, and it was instantly at full erection in his hand. Zeke closed his eyes even tighter.
Pat had done this before, so he knew well how to take off his clothes surreptitiously. Zeke never realized he was doing so; he just kept his eyes closed and moaned every minutes when Pat stroked his cock in just the right way.
His hand was better than any female, Zeke thought, even Caitlin at the brothel, and Caitlin was supposed to have specialized in using her hand. Zeke always thought that was pointless.
But Pat’s hand felt perfect, like it had been made just for Zeke’s cock. He wanted to lay like this forever, sprawled out the best he could in the cramped tub, letting Pat’s hands massage him. Pat’s left hand tweaked his nipples while his right stroked his manhood, making Zeke moan and shake.
Pat climbed into the tub with him. Zeke was surprised to see he had gotten naked. His body had a very feminine shape, but Zeke just closed his eyes. Pat felt feminine too, all smooth, hairless skin and soft flesh.
Disappearing under the water, Pat had to curl up atop Zeke’s body in order to fit. He placed the tip of Zeke’s manhood in his mouth and he let his tongue run up and down the length of Zeke’s shaft.
The flavor was strong and tough, despite the water all around, like the trail and the sweat had suffused into Zeke’s flesh. Pat suckled on it until he needed to take a breath, then he lifted his head above water just long enough to breathe before returning to savor Zeke’s manhood.
“Ah…. Damn…” Zeke sighed. He placed one hand on the back of Pat’s head.
Of course Pat couldn’t stay underwater for long because he couldn’t breathe. But it felt like forever. His mouth was sticky and tight, his tongue massaging every inch of Zeke’s thick meat.
Before long, Pat had to come above water to breathe. He stroked Zeke with both hands while gasping for air, and he clutched Zeke’s hairy chest. He kissed his neck passionately.
For the first time, Zeke was intimately aware of Pat’s manhood — his dick touched Zeke’s leg. Pat’s lips touched Zeke’, and their tongues interlocked in Pat’s mouth. Zeke hadn’t thought he would kiss Pat. He ain’t even always kiss his females because he knew prostitutes kissed many men, and it seemed a little perverse. Zeke always thought he could taste other men on their lips.
But not Pat. He tasted like apple cider and sunshine, Zeke thought. Once his tongue touched Pat’s, he moved closer, wrapping his arms around Pat’s body and hugging him close. He pressed his muscles against Pat, nearly shoving him under the water in his haste to be on top of him.
Their cocks rubbed together under the soapy water, and Zeke passionately, loudly kissed a trail down from Pat’s mouth to his delicate neck, while his hands caressed Pat’s smooth chest — he had no bosom, of course, but Zeke found that he felt so feminine in texture and shape that he ain’t mind the lack of actual breasts.
“Oh god, you’re so big and strong,” Pat said, gasping as Zeke smothered him with kisses. “Will you be gentle with me?”
“Yes.” Zeke let out a throaty growl. He rolled Pat over, aiming his face down to the ground outside the tub. Pat bent over and stuck his ass high in the air, almost out of the water entirely.
That gave Zeke the perfect angle to drill his dick in. He sighed when it shoved into Pat’s tight hole. He had rarely been with a woman this tight — there were a lot more males than females in north Texas these days, so the women around here was either married or prostitutes whose holes were well-trafficked.
But Pat was tender and tight and moist and welcoming, and he bit his lip, mewling a bit, when Zeke entered him, but he ain’t complain. Zeke petted the back of his head and made soothing noises.
“Ssssssshush, it’s alright, pardner,” Zeke said. He kissed the back of Pat’s neck. “It’s alright. You gonna feel jest fine, yessuh.” He stroked Pat’s hair and rubbed his asscheeks, holding his cock still, just barely inside Pat’s ass.
When he felt Pat’s resistance diminish, Zeke pistoned his hips and pushed in deeper. Pat grunted, his ladylike demeanor vanishing for just a moment. That made Zeke chuckle, especially when Pat let out a pleasured moan.
“There you go, it’s alright, it’s gonna be jest fine, yessuh,” Zeke said. He whispered, but his voice seemed impossibly loud, echoing against the nearby barn and the night sky.
“Oh god, stick it in me, please, stick it in so deep… I need you inside me…” Pat said over and over, his voice a plaintive wail. The sensations roiling him were too intense to speak more confidently.
Zeke had rarely been able to go at a woman this hard, even a prostitute. They often complained that he had a large manhood and made him slow down. But the faster and harder he smashed, the more Pat seemed to enjoy it.
Every thrust of his cock into Pat’s ass awakened his prostate a little more, and sent a wave of pleasure through his body. Pat cried out loud, and it would have been audible even beyond the barn — where some of the other cowboys drank, having already gambled away most of their wages — if he weren’t in such throes of passion as to make a muffled, quiet sound. Zeke’s grunts were louder, but less distinct, and they blended in with the bleating of the sheep and goats that filled the barn.
“Goddamn, boy…” Zeke sighed, nibbling on Pat’s earlobe. He had never felt anything like this. He wasn’t exhausted at all anymore; he felt like a young man again, making love to his first female, feeling such unimaginable pleasure that he knew now that nothing would ever be the same again.
“Hey, boy,” Zeke whispered into his ear, hands caressing Pat’s chest and belly. He moaned loudly, moistly, grunting all over Pat’s face. “Hey, boy… Don’t mess wit’ no other men, okay? While you work here, just… be wit’ me.”
“Yes, Zeke,” Pat said. “I don’t want to be with anyone but you.” He turned his head to the side and kissed Zeke on the cheek. “I won’t be here forever though. This is only a temporary position for me.”
Zeke was disappointed, but in the throes of his orgasm, the bad news ain’t really sink in. He just grunted his understanding and flexed his hips again, forcing his cock in and out. He slathered Pat in kisses, his grizzled chin scratching Pat’s smooth skin.
“Aaaaaaah…” Zeke sucked on Pat’s cheek — he intended to kiss him, but the most intense climax of his life erupted within him then, and it took all his concentration just to rub his face against Pat’s.
Creamy cum flowed into Pat’s ass, making him cringe and undulate beneath Zeke’s muscle-bound body. Pat was crushed against the edge of the tub, and he moaned so loud the cowboys on the other side of the barn heard — they assumed it was a distressed goat, but they fell quiet for a moment to listen for more, to be sure it wasn’t someone trying to steal livestock.
Wave after wave of pleasure washed over Pat, whose hands tightened into claws that dug into the rim of the iron tub. He tensed and clenched as Zeke smashed his dick back and forth a few more times, then fell limp.
“Shit, boy….” His dick was still hard for a moment, stimulating Pat’s over-sensitive prostate until he couldn’t take it anymore.
Then Zeke slid back and his cock popped out, instantly washed clean by the still-warm tub of water. Pat let out a long, cringing moan as his ass recovered. He curled up next to Zeke’s chest and nuzzled his neck.
“Damn… I gots a room in town,” Zeke said. “Above the apothecary. You know where that is?”
“Yes…” Pat said, his voice a soft tenor that hung in the air and resonated in Zeke’s ears.
“When you done wit’ ya work for the day, you come see me,” Zeke said.
“Every day?”
“E’ry day till forever, hell yeah. But I can’t have no one seein’ it, that’s why you gotta meet me there, not here,” Zeke said with a chuckle. He kissed Pat on the forehead. “You is one special boy, and I’s gonna make you feel special. You ready for that?”
Pat kissed his lips. “Of course.”

The Dairyman

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

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

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

The Hairy Roughneck Bottoms

Madhu is a doctor servicing roughnecks from an oil rig, but when one of them comes to him with a major problem, Madhu is eager to help out… That’s because he’s gonna get to climb atop this hairy roughneck, giving him an adventure in Twink on Top!

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Read the whole thing here!

Madhu Sharma came home, exhausted. He had only just moved in, so his apartment didn’t feel like home yet, it still felt like a poorly maintained hotel room. But today’s shift at the medical center was twelve hours long, so he was too tired to care. This was the first time he had come home to this apartment and not felt like he was stepping into someone else’s house. He needed to take a shower and make himself some dinner, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t even have the energy to take his shoes off. Madhu plopped onto his couch, too tired even to turn the TV on, only to be interrupted seconds later by a knock on the door.
“Goddamnit…” He wheezed like an old man as he got up.
It was Harley Willard from down below, he realized after pulling himself up to look through the peephole. Harley was an oil rig worker who lived in the lower part of this duplex. He had a hairy chest, hairy arms and legs, a scruffy beard and a hairy back. The only part of his body hair that he trimmed was his beard, which Madhu thought was ironic. He didn’t try to explain the irony to Harley.
In the tiny town of Onagnok, North Dakota, virtually everyone was a male oil rig worker with tattoos, hairy bodies and rough demeanors. Madhu was one of very few people in town who were not roughnecks. Madhu was a medical resident, working at the town’s only clinic.
He opened the door, realizing as he did that Harley was nervous, like he was waiting for bad news. Harley tapped one foot on the patio as Madhu took him in. “Hi, Harley,” Madhu said.
“Hey, uh… Can I ask you for a favor?”
“Um… I guess so. What? I’m really tired. I just got off work,” Madhu said. He didn’t want to sound mean, he wanted to be on good relations with his neighbor. But he was off-duty. He didn’t want to talk about medicine right now.
“I know, I been waiting. I got an ‘ppointment for next week, but, I, uh… I found a lump,” he said. His eyes trembled like he was near tears.
“What?”
“A lump,” he said quietly, his brown, rugged face turning bright red. “On my, uh… testicle.” It sounded like he had never said the word testicle out loud before.
“Oh, well… Uh, you really need an actual appointment, I can’t do a full exam here,” Madhu said. He sighed — he wanted to be close to Harley, so he had a feeling he was going to talk himself into it. A testicle lump was serious, after all. If Harley needed to see a urologist, it would be better to find out now and get him a referral as soon as possible, rather than waiting for next week. It didn’t take any special equipment to palpate a testicle, just a pair of gloves (and even that wasn’t really necessary).
“I know, I gots an appointment, next week. I just… My dad died of cancer. Not, y’know ball cancer, but still… Can you just tell me if I should be worried? Or if I should go right to an oncologist?”
Madhu sighed. “Fine. Come on in,” he said. “Drop your pants.”
Harley must have been really nervous, Madhu thought, because he was already taking his belt off as he came in. He put both hands on the side of the couch and gripped it tightly. His pants were around his ankles, and those thick thighs were covered only by dingy white briefs. The vast layer of thickly choked leg hair pressed against the fabric of his underwear. His muscles were all tense.
He smelled strongly of sawdust and engine oil, a scent that sent a frisson up Madhu’s spine. He inhaled deeply of the invigorating aroma, every whiff of which woke him up a notch.
Craving caffeine, Madhu tried to wake himself up more. He had an ethical duty to do his best, even for something like this — it wasn’t a big deal from Madhu’s perspective. It was a big deal from Harley’s perspective, that was true. After all, it could be something serious. But it probably wasn’t, and all Madhu could do was feel a lump and refer Harley to a specialist. Madhu didn’t need to actually diagnose it and in fact couldn’t do more than say “yep, that’s a lump”.
Madhu had an emergency kit by the door, so Madhu grabbed a pair of gloves and slid his hand between Harley’s legs. Once he got the gloves on and had an array of medical equipment in front of him, he felt more alert and more professional, like the gear had triggered feelings from his medical school.
A sigh rattled out of his throat.
He palpated each testicle thoroughly. He turned on the doctor part of his brain and the part of his brain that loves hairy roughnecks went to mute.
There was no lump. He felt again, but there was nothing. Had he made a mistake? Madhu had done a urology residency already, he was confident in his ability to feel a lump (which was really very simple — a lump was a lump, you couldn’t miss it). There was an ingrown hair on the rear part of his scrotum, near the perineum, but that was it.
“Uh, Harley, where’s the lump? I don’t feel it.”
“It’s right there, in the back.” He reached between his legs and pointed to that ingrown hair.
“That’s not a lump. First of all, that’s not even your testicle, Harley, that’s your scrotum.”
“Yeah, but that’s the same region, right?”
“Well, yeah, same region, but there’s a big difference. That’s just an ingrown hair. Are you a chimney sweep?”
“A what?”
“A chimney sweep, like in Victorian England? In the past?”
“Am I from Victorian England? No,” he said. “Green Bay, Wisconsin. The present.”
“Scrotal cancer is very rare, basically unheard of except if you’re a chimney sweep, they used to get scrotum tumors,” he said. “The scrotum is just skin, so you can get skin cancer there, but you rarely get skin cancer without exposure to the sun, like a lot of it. So scrotums are pretty safe.” Madhu pulled out a pair of tweezers and pulled the ingrown hair out. Harley winced in pain. “That should be fine. Come in for your appointment anyway, sometimes these things get infected. Keep your crotch dry and clean. But you don’t need to worry, you don’t have testicular cancer.”
“Oh, thank god!”
“I’m glad you’re doing self-exams though,” Madhu said.
“How can I repay you?”
“Uh…” Madhu wanted to say that the obvious answer was to pay him with money, which he desperately needed right now, having just paid a lot to move into his new place. But that would seem greedy, he thought, and in any case, if Harley could afford to pay money, he wouldn’t have asked how to repay him.
“I mean… I can’t afford to pay anything in money,” Harley said. He turned around, showing his bare cock and hairy crotch. “But you jack off, right?” He flopped his dick between his thick fingers. “You’re into that, right?”
Madhu nodded.
“Well… There ain’t many women in town.”
“I noticed.”
“So, if you wanted to taste my dick, I’d be fine with that,” he said. Despite the hesitance in his voice, Madhu suspected he’d be more than ‘fine’ with it — he was horny. He wanted to blow a nut and didn’t mind where it came from.
But Madhu was annoyed at having to do work for free, when he was supposed to be off, especially silly work that would have been unnecessary if Harley knew the difference between a scrotum and a testicle. So he shook his head. “I’m not that kind of guy,” he said. “I’ll jack off with you if you wanna get a nut off, but I’m on top. You gotta get me off and take it in the ass.” He shrugged, assuming that Harley would never agree to anything like that.
“Fine,” Harley said, barely giving it a moment’s thought. He looked around Madhu’s apartment as though checking for witnesses. No one was here. In this remote part of North Dakota, there was virtually always no one around, wherever you looked — that was the main feature of this region.
But while there were few people generally, there were even fewer women specifically. That meant men like Harley were plagued with stiffies.
There was a long pause as Madhu tried to figure out if he was joking. “What?”
“I mean… I just wanna get my nut off, and I can tell you’s into it,” he said. “Back on the rig, me and the fat sonuvabitch Gerry got drunk and messed around cuz we was both so horny, and you know… there wasn’t nothin’ else to do. But that was gross. I ain’t like that one bit.” He blushed. “Jerry’s big and hairy, and he smells like feet. I discottoned to that. Since you a tiny little twink and you look like a girl anyway — no offense, darlin’ — I thought you’d be easier to take.”
“Uh, well… Okay,” Madhu said, so shocked that he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“You will get me off, right? We can sixty-nine? I have gotta bust a nut. I’ll just pretend I’s on the rig.”
“You guys really do that on the rig a lot?” Madhu said. He took his gloves off and tossed them in the trash
“Nah,” Harley said with a chuckle. “Well, some guys do. Kinda. It don’t count on the rig. That’s sorta… you ain’t sposedta be squeamish about it, you know, if some guy wanna get off on you, you should let him.” He put both hands up. “I don’t truck with that. I like pussy. I fuck the everloving shit outta some pussy.”
“Hmm-hmm,” Madhu said. He felt small next to Harley’s broad-muscled body, which was bare now, muscle flexing with each breath he took. He was remarkably nonchalant about it, you could tell he got naked among strangers several times a day. He had the body language of it. He stood there, swaggering and sorta grabbing at himself as though to check all his body parts were still there, and he stretched his rough-hewn face too, like he was loosening up for a performance. Harley’s chest was tattoed, but they were old and faded and overgrown with body hair like a shut-in’s garden.
“What? Why you lookin’ at me?” Harley said. “Don’t laugh ’bout that shit on the rig — that’s how it goes — and don’t tell nobody, what happens on the rig stays on the rig, homeboy! That’s a rule!” He wagged his finger at Madhu. “I got that doctor-patient confidential, I got confidentials all over that one.”
Madhu nodded. “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Everybody gets stiffies.” He paused. “Well, not women.”
Then he grabbed Harley’s dick, which immediately jumped to attention in his hand. It was a long cock, a fact that Madhu didn’t really notice until he had it in his hand and had switched from doctor-mode to jack-off-mode. His exhaustion after a hard day’s work disappeared in a haze of anticipation.
Harley’s wiry muscles and dingy, amateur tattoos trembled as he closed his eyes and Madhu dropped his own pants. Madhu’s dick was not as big as Harley’s, but it was nothing to sneeze at, and Harley looked at like he wished it was smaller. Madhu hefted his dick in one hand and thwacked it against Harley’s, which made him wince.
“Don’t even try ’bout puttin’ nuttin’ in mah ass, homeboy,” Harley said. His country accent was thicker now, as though he had either been speaking more properly when asking for a favor and getting medical advice or his arousal was making his Southern accent return to the forefront of his voice. He leaned back, as though ready to fall over if it weren’t for Madhu holding onto his dick, which remained flaccid so far.
Stroking both cocks at once, Madhu licked Harley’s nipples. Harley began flexing his hips, fucking Madhu’s hand like it was a pussy. Meanwhile his dick jerked, beginning to get hard as Madhu’s own cock leaked precum down his shaft. “You guys don’t do butt stuff on the rig?” Madhu asked. He let both dicks angle around together, while his hands explored the rippling muscles of Harvey’s chest. Harvey ignored his touches, and he just sat there like Madhu was here to bestow an erection upon him and he needn’t be involved beyond providing the dick.
Harley nodded. “Some fellahs do, it’s gross,” he said. “No offense. I mean… I ain’t in prison, I don’t wanna do no booty bandit shit. I was in prison too, a couple years ago, I know how that goes. I done watch this big-ass black fellah get turned inside out, shit, man, he was either howling for less or begging for more, I never found out, shit was crazy. I don’t fuck with that.” He paused. “No offense. It wasn’t a racial thing. Black guys was who was on top of him. It was all-black.” He looked down as though he only now noticed his dick was hard. “Thanks. You look like a girl anyway. Barely counts. There ain’t no females for miles around. That’s another rule. Once there’s no women around for a hundred miles, you have to give up the ass. It’s a roughneck rule.”
“There are women around-“
“Prostitutes don’t count.”
“There’s still a couple women around. Williston is less than a hundred miles away,” Madhu said.
“Well, that’s why I don’t do butt stuff!” Harley said. He took both dicks in his own roughly callused grip, and he stroked them together. Madhu’s hands continued exploring Harley’s well-muscled frame. As Harley masturbated both shafts together, his muscles flexed as though he had to use all of them to stroke both cocks together.
Madhu licked his lips, leaning in close to partake of Harley’s masculine musk. He smiled and sucked on each of Harley’s nipples, licking those thick work-toned pecs as he worked his way down to Harley’s half-hard cock. He kissed the tip, smiling as it jiggled and spasmed in excitement.
Gently pushing Harley to the couch, Madhu laid him down on his back. Then Madhu climbed atop, his thin twink body barely fitting on Harley’s massive frame. He had to delicately balance himself in the scrap of couch that was not covered by Harley, and Madhu nearly fell as he lowered himself onto Harley.
He pointed his cock into Harley’s mouth, surprised that Harley wasn’t resistant at all, and didn’t even seem too disgusted by it. He did wrinkle his nose as he tasted Madhu’s dick, but he didn’t resist, and his wide throat easily swallowed every inch. He gagged as it hit the back of his throat.
Madhu kissed Harley’s cock, slurping on the tip and licking up the precum that dripped down the shaft. Harley’s dick spasmed and shook. The veins of his manhood throbbed within Harley’s mouth, and the taste of his unfiltered manhood — a mixture of sweat, precum, and stale grease — wafted into Madhu’s aroused nostrils. He inhaled deeply of the intoxicating aroma.
They sixty-nined there for what felt like a very brief period to Madhu, but seemed like forever to Harley. He was so wide and broad-shouldered that he barely fit on the couch when laying down, and it was awkward to have Madhu on top of him. Madhu loved the feel of the man’s crude muscles writhing beneath his smooth twink body, and he especially loved his balls resting on Harley’s crooked, oft-broken nose, a remnant of his wilder bar-fighting days (or so he had told Madhu when they first met).
When he felt his own orgasm coming, Madhu got up. Harley growled like he was horny as Madhu’s cock pulled away from his mouth, as though he wanted to taste more of it. He seemed to forget he was straight for a moment. Thick tendrils of spit connected Harley’s mouth to Madhu’s dick.
“You’s a pretty boy… If’n I evuh get locked up again, I’m gonna hope my cellmate looks like you,” Harley said, his voice equal parts aroused and menacing. He bent over the couch and stuck his tanned ass in the air. He spread his legs wide and hung his head in a mixture of shame and anticipation. “Be gentle, boy.”
“I will. You can tell me to stop,” Madhu said. He smiled at the sight of Harley’s asshole, which was thick with dark blond hair. It winked as fresh cold air washed over it, and Harley’s whole body shuddered. He even moaned like he was in pain even though nothing had happened yet.
Madhu spat on his hand to use as lube, then when he felt how tight it was with his finger, he knew he needed actual lubricant. Luckily, his medical bag was already next to the couch, and he had a tube of lube ready there — it was actually more effective than the consumer-grade lube, so Madhu thought it would be ideal for a near-virgin like Harley.
“This’ll be cold,” he said, then dribbled lube onto the top of Harley’s asscrack. He squealed and shuddered, those perfect tan asscheeks shaking. Madhu gently rubbed the lube down Harley’s crack and to his tight hole. His finger hesitated there at the entrance, waiting for his sphincter to open up.
Then it did and Madhu let his finger push in. Harley winced and lifted one leg up like a dog about to piss. Madhu smiled to himself as Harley’s body slowly adjusted. He switched briefly back to doctor-mode, just long enough to feel Harley’s prostate — which was perfectly spongy, just the right size, a healthy young man’s prostate. Then he began moving his finger inside and out.
After a few minutes of that, Harley’s moan moved from pained to aroused, and Madhu knew that was it. This was his cue. He withdrew his finger and lined his dick up with that twinkling hot hole — he had to get up on his toes to reach.
Madhu pushed his dick in and sighed. Harley’s hole was tight, and he had to keep adding lube to get himself in. He hit resistance at the first inch, then the third, and it was a struggle to keep going.
Harley bit his lip and howled. Though it was clearly a pained sound, Madhu detected a faint note of pleasure as well. It wasn’t all bad for him, Madhu suspected. Harley’s voice broke as he submitted to inch after inch of Madhu’s dick. He kept raising his left foot higher and higher until Madhu had to push it back down — Madhu was so much smaller than Harley that the elevated leg made it difficult to keep going.
“Oh god, thanks, Harley, I really needed this,” Madhu said, clutching the big man’s broad back muscles. He had a few tats that looked amateurly done, either when Harley was in his youthful rebellion phase or in prison; either way, they were faded pictures of a naked woman, a Confederate flag and a rampaging bear, all of them wrinkled and writhing as pleasure and agony alike suffused Harley’s body.
The phone rang. Madhu thought it was his phone at first, but when he pulled it out of his crumpled-up pants, he saw that his screen was dead. Harley grabbed for his phone in his pants on the ground. He winced when he saw who it was.
“I gotta take this, it’s my boss,” he said, his voice resigned and annoyed. “Hello? Yeah. No, man! I ain’t taking a shit, I just… I sound weird cuz I don’t feel good right now, and I just stubbed my toe. That’s it,.” He winced and gritted his teeth as he talked. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah, sure, whatever. Of course I did. Tell him he’s just gotta tighten it. I am not. He knows how to do it. Get a vertical wrench, he can do it. I ain’t comin’ in. Don’t even say that. Nope. Just tighten all four corners. It’ll work. That’s all I’d do, that’s all I know how to do. I don’t know how to fix it, I’ve told you that a hundred times, all I know how to do is tighten all four corners! Then shove the wrench up your ass, maybe that’ll help, I ain’t comin’ in!” He hung up the phone and tossed it on the floor. He buried his nose in the couch cushion and moaned, his tone showing both anger and desire.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just stick it in me!” Harley exclaimed, his voice muffled by the couch. Madhu couldn’t tell if he exclaimed because he was enraged, horny, impassioned or agonized, or maybe a mixture of all four. He bit his lip and hung his shaggy head low. Madhu caressed his thick mop of hair, which was greasy with the day’s sweat.
He began working his dick in and out, sighing as pleasure again suffused him. Madhu’s tension about a long day at work, and his discomfort in his new home, faded away. He felt his orgasm coming on, and he had a feeling Harley wasn’t that far away either.
“Gimme a reacharound,” Harley said.
“Are you sure. I thought you wanted to cornhole me when I was done?”
“Just do it, I don’t care,” Harley said, hanging his head. “I just need to get my rocks off now.”
Madhu grabbed his dick and stroked. Madhu was so much smaller than Madhu that he had to struggle to reach all the way around; his arm barely reached. But when he did get a grip on it, Harley’s whole body shivered and jerked. His dick pulsated, and Madhu could feel the imminent orgasm coursing through the prominent veins of his cockshaft.
Harley reached orgasm just seconds later, as though Madhu had flicked a switch. Cum sprayed over Madhu’s brand-new couch, and into Madhu’s fingers. Harley’s muscles all tensed at once, vibrating like a rickety car at top speed. He held his breath, grunting over and over with every pump of Madhu’s dick inside his guts.
“Oh damn, boy, that was nice…” Harley said, then blushed and bit his lip as though he hadn’t meant to admit he enjoyed it.
Before Madhu could respond, he shot his own load, and hot cum filled up Harley’s ass. Madhu’s thin twink body writhed just like Harley’s had, the movement making Harley twist as Madhu’s dick touched every corner of his insides.
Madhu pulled out and sighed. “Damn, Harley…”
“Fuck, I needed that,” he said. He blushed as he pulled away and wiped his ass off with a tissue. He breathed a sigh of relief when Madhu’s cock plopped out of him. “Fuck… I thought for sure I wasn’t gonna be able to cum wit’ yer dick inside me.” He blushed even harder as he verbalized what had happened. He avoided eye contact with Madhu.
“It’s okay, everyone enjoys prostate stimulation,” Madhu said. “That’s a medical fact.”
“Yeah, well… thanks. Don’t tell no one,” he said. “You can tell ‘em I let you jack me off. That’s fine, ain’t nobody care about that. But don’t let ‘em know I… y’know, did anything.”
“Don’t worry, I’m your doctor, Harley. This is all confidential,” Madhu said. He patted Harley on the ass. “You can put some aloe on your ass and Neosporin on that ingrown hair. They’ll both feel better soon.” He smiled as he watched Harley dress and head out the door.
“See ya,” Harley said quietly. He didn’t wait for a response, he was already gone.
That was fine with Madhu. He didn’t really want to hang out anyway. He just wanted to wait for Harley to come back for a second visit, or maybe one of the other roughnecks around here, Madhu thought, would be willing to come by and give him another exciting adventure.

The Raunchy Hillbilly’s Feet

When Miles hears tell of the filthiest hillbilly in West Virginia in jail, he heads right over to bail him out. It’s the raunchy Cooter Wilde, who’s willing to let Miles worship every inch of his dirty feet… with a little monetary persuasion!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

The blank page beckoned. Miles was trying to write a book, and it wasn’t going well. He only ever had ideas when he was driving. As soon as he sit himself down to write, he couldn’t think of anything. Literally all he had written so far was “hero… tall”
That wasn’t much to start from.
He was distracted by the cops who had just walked in. Miles was told by a writer friend that he should go to a coffee shop. “You’ll focus better that way,” that idiot writer friend had said, dumbly. Miles wasn’t focusing better at all. He had gotten more done that one time he tried to write drunk at home. What he wrote turned out to be incomprehensible garbage in the morning, but at least Miles felt like a writer for awhile.
“I don’t wanna buy any sandwich today,” one of the cops said to the second cop, “cuz I arrested Cooter Wilde last night. I still feel dirty, I don’t wanna eat nothin’ I gotta touch.” They both laughed.
“That boy is the filthiest hillbilly in West Virginia. What’d he do? Sell meth again — I’m sorry, sell meth barefoot on the street corner — that oughta be even more illegal than selling meth in shoes. Fuckin’ nastier than a dead dog in heat.”
“Nah, all he did yesterday was show up drunk to Lipsweet and refuse to leave. He told me he don’t make meth no more cuz of something to do with the Chinese. I didn’t quite get it. He don’t like Chinese folk, or at least not Chinese meth-dealers,” the first cop said, snorting back laughter. “He was barefoot too, once again. That motherfucker…”
“They let him in the bar without shoes on?”
“I don’t think Teddy noticed his bare feet, he was too distracted by Cooter puking all over the jukebox. He tried to kick him out, but you know how strong Cooter is, especially when he’s drunk.”
Miles couldn’t resist that. He was already googling the local jailhouse and the procedures to bail someone out. If there was a filthy, perpetually barefoot hillbilly in jail, Miles was going to go worship his nasty, disgusting feet or do everything he could to make it happen.
So he drove straight to the jail. Miles loved foot worship. He loved everything about (male) feet: the funk, the nastiness, the smell, the taste, the texture, he loved them clean, he loved them (especially) dirty, he loved taking clean ones and making them dirty, he loved taking dirty ones and making them clean.
It was all he could think about when he tried to start writing this children’s book — which he was sure would be more popular than Harry Potter if he could just focus on it.
But who could focus on wizards and gremlins and a tall hero if there was a nasty hillbilly whose feet needed worshiping?
Miles drove straight to the jailhouse. He wanted to go right there to avoid any awkward questions if those cops from the coffeeshop happened to see him bailing Cooter Wilde out — that wasn’t illegal necessarily, but they might think the only reason Miles would do something like that was because he and Cooter were in business together (presumably the meth business).
So he went right there, while those cops were still sipping coffee and eating donuts. He had never bailed anyone out of jail. He went to the desk sergeant, who looked at him like he was an idiot. Cooter didn’t need to be “bailed out”, he had merely been cited for drunk in public, drunk and disorderly, open container violations and fourth-degree menacing. That meant thousands in fines but no jail time, so there was no bail. He was only in jail still because he was sleeping off the booze.
When Miles was led into the jail, his heart pounded. There were a couple hot guys in there. One young black man with massive feet attracted Miles’s eye.
But he managed to focus — finally — and went to Cooter Wilde’s cell, which he shared with a few other drunks sleeping it off.
Miles liked feet, so he wasn’t so worried about his men being imperfect in other ways. They could be a little fat, a little skinny, a little old, whatever, it didn’t much matter to Miles. But Cooter Wilde was absolutely perfect — Miles thought every part of him was hot.
He was short and thickly built but not fat; he looked like he wanted to be fat but didn’t eat enough, his oversized heft overflowing from overtaut skin. His thighs were muscular like a horse’s haunches. He had a big torso and no belly to speak of, though he was far from having a six-pack. Perhaps his greatest non-foot feature, however, was his beard, which was big and bushy like an Old West gold prospector. It was coppery — the hair on his head, a tangled, greasy mullet, was dirty blond, but his beard hairs were gray-tinged copper like a nest made of wire covering his cheeks and chin.
His feet were bare, and they were magnificent specimens indeed. Miles was an experienced connoisseur of men’s feet. He had massive feet, even bigger than seemed appropriate for his body, and there was a tuft of hair on the top of each foot and a few more hairs on each toe. His feet were dirty, literally filthy, covered in dust and and caked with dried mud, which it looked like he had scraped off over the night. Miles could still see it sticking to his skin though, a thin layer of dirt. He had been given jailhouse sandals, which sat, unused, by the door.
You could just tell at a glance that Cooter was the kind of man who did not wear shoes often. He had the feet of an outdoorsman. Miles saw the signs. Bet they’d taste so good… And you could lick them for hours, with calluses like that, Cooter wouldn’t even notice.
“Ya ain’t allowed to be barefoot in jail, Cooter,” the desk sergeant said with a resigned air — obviously they’d had this dispute before. His name was Officer Heartley, and he also had magnificent feet. Miles had partaken of their glory on a few occasions, when Heartley was feuding with his wife and needed a place to stay.
But his feet were never one tenth as filthy as Cooter’s. How did they even get filthy like this in a reasonably clean jail? Miles wondered but did not ask.
“I is layin’ down,” Cooter said without getting up. His chest rippled, greasy sweat glistening. “They say I can takes ‘em off when I lay my ass down.”
The cop didn’t dispute that, but he scowled. “You gettin’ picked up.”
Cooter hadn’t looked over to the door yet, so he hadn’t seen Miles. He thought that the cop was asking him a question. He snorted. “Ain’t no one gonna pick me up. Just lemme walk outta here.”
“You do got someone pickin’ you up,” the cop said. He held up his breathalyzer. “You think you can pass?”
Cooter sat up and furrowed his brow. He looked at Miles. “Who’uh you?”
“My name’s Miles,” he said. “I’m here to offer you a job. They said I’d have to pick you up at jail-“
The cop snorted, and Cooter laughed with him. “I ain’t the havin’-a-job kinda guy, Miles. Who told you to hire me?”
“It’s complicated,” Miles said. “But I’ll take you home whether you take the job or not.”
Cooter shrugged and agreed. The cop breathalyzed him — he wasn’t allowed to leave jail until he had a blood-alcohol-level low enough to drive, even though he wasn’t driving away from jail. He blew a .01, which was well below the cut-off. Cooter cheered like being sober was an accomplishment he had not often achieved.
Once they got out into the parking lot, Cooter winced at the bright light. Then he said, “Math can go fuck himself.”
“Oh.” Miles raised his eyebrows. “Math can go fuck itself?” He unlocked his car, and they both got in.
“I don’t owe him jack-shit, he ain’t need to send you,” Cooter said. He belched loudly in the passenger seat of the car. Then he winced because some of the stench of his burp stuck to his beard.
It was only then that Miles realized Math was a person. That made more sense. “I don’t know any Math,” Miles said. “But I am partial to some multiplication.”
“What?”
“Just a joke. I’m not part of… the same thing, the Math person that you know, he didn’t send me.”
“Then why’d you pick me up?”
“I heard you were the filthiest hillbilly in West Virginia. Is that right?”
Cooter grinned. “I am as dirty as a hog in a brothel, yessuh, tha’s fo’ sho’,” he said. “But I ain’t make the acquaintance of e’ery hillbilly in West Virginny.” He slapped his belly and pulled his shirt off. He belched loudly. “So you pickt me up outta jail cuz you like filthy hillbillies?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Uh, I like the filth, and uh… I appreciate certain kinds of manhood. Well, most any kind of manhood really, as long as it’s, you know… a good one,” he said. “I just like the feet of men. I’m a connoisseur.”
“That ain’t a word I done got to know in an intimate fashion,” Cooter said. He had a deep-holler-heavy baritone that boomed and rattled. “But I is pickin’ up what you puttin’ down.” Cooter looked at him distastefully and belched again, this time aiming it right at Miles’s face. Miles winced at the rancid taste, but he actually found it a turn-on. His dick throbbed in his pants. “Don’t play, man, I can tell what you is like. Whatchoo want wit’ me?”
“I wanna lick your feet.”
There was a long pause. “I ain’t think that’s what you was gonna say. I ain’t predict that ‘t all. I thought you was gonna say you wanna buy meth.”
“Oh, uh… Yeah, I’m not into that,” Miles said. He blushed. “I like feet, and yours are so nasty and disgusting. Will you step on my face? Lemme suck on your toes.”
Cooter shook his head. “I ain’t down. I don’t much cotton to unbiblical affairs. I mean… not countin’ fuckin’ girls in the pussy, or in the butt or mouth, I mean. And… you know, beatin’ up punks and shit.”
“Oh, you’re a churchgoer? Well that’s cool, I don’t wanna make you-“
“No I don’t go to church. I… Okay, full disclosure, mothahfuckah, I ain’t all ‘bout the Bible, okay? No spillin’ your seed.”
“The only part of the Bible you believe in is the part about spillin’ your seed?”
“I… I don’t murder neither.”
“So two parts?”
“I gots a right to my beliefs,” Cooter said with a chuckle. He patted his jiggling belly. “You got smokes?”
“No. I’ll buy you some if you take your dick out.”
Cooter agreed readily and Miles pulled into a gas station. He bought the cigarettes, handed them over to Cooter and then had to go back in to buy a lighter — the cops had confiscated Cooter’s and never gave it back. When Miles pulled out of the parking lot, Cooter unzipped his jeans and pulled them down far enough to bare his massive dick.
“Shit… Why ain’t you come by the jail last night?”
“What?”
“You wouldn’t gotta pay me nothin’, I’d have been passed out,” Cooter said. He looked out the window, not looking at his cock or at Miles, who snuck glances at his massive, greasy hog while driving on the highway.
“I’m not into sucking unconscious feet,” Miles said. He slowly reached over to Cooter’s cock to give him a chance to say no. Cooter sighed but allowed it. Miles gave it a stroke and a shiver of excitement ran through him. “Can we go somewhere and I’ll suck your feet? I’ll suck your dick too, but it’ll be mainly the feet-“
“I ain’t… into feet.” Cooter said, facing still aimed intently out the window. Miles stroked his limp dick.
“That’s fine. I’ll pay you two hundred dollars.”
Cooter snorted like that was nowhere’s near enough.
“Three hundred.”
“Three grand,” he said. He looked at Miles finally, and waved the paperwork the desk sergeant had given him. “I owe seventeen hundred in fees, man. So you pay that and gimme three hundred on top of it, and you can do anything you want to to my feet.” He blushed and held his hands up. “Not anything. You can lick ‘em and shit.” He blushed even brighter and his eyes opened wide. “Not shit! You can’t shit on my feet!”
“That’s fine, that isn’t what I wanted to do,” Miles said with a giggle. “Just suck ‘em clean, and for that much money, me and you both have to cum on your feet and I’ll suck the cum off-“
Cooter looked like he might throw up. “I’ll cum on my feet, yeah, that’s fine. Gross, but fine. But you wanna cum on my feet too? I dunno, hoss, that sounds weird.”
“Well… I can’t dispute that,” Miles said. “It is weird. But for three grand…?”
Cooter shook his head and covered his face. “Fine. Yes. But you can’t tell no one.”
“I won’t. I doubt I know anyone in the same social circle as you anyway,” Miles said. “You got a place we could go?”
“Yeah, fine,” Cooter said. “Get off the highway up here.” He quickly directed Miles off the highway and onto a dirt road. It led to a cabin in the woods. It was a ramshackle old thing with no electricity — though there was a generator — nor even plumbing; it had an outhouse out back. There were no signs of habitation, but it did look like people came here regularly. Miles suspected there was a meth lab, marijuana field or something similar nearby; he didn’t share that suspicion with Cooter.
Cooter wore camo pants and a wifebeater, which he took off and plopped on the floor. He sighed and patted his belly. Then he blushed and looked at Miles. “So, uh… how do you… do this?”
Miles just dropped right to his knees and put his lips on Cooter’s left foot. Cooter grunted. Miles’s tongue lapped at the hairy spot there, leaving a layer of saliva, then his tongue moved down lower and lower, to his toes.
Cooter still stood there awkwardly. He hadn’t expected it to just happen. He wouldn’t have started standing in the center of the cabin like this. He wanted to sit, or lay down, but it looked like Miles was intent on licking his foot.
It had seemed gross right up until it began. Out in the car, Cooter thought it was disgusting, and couldn’t believe he had agreed to it. But now he realized it was just like a cat licking him — a little ticklish and not at all sexy, but it wasn’t nasty. He could just ignore it, stand here for awhile, blow his wad and make three grand.
Miles’s tongue slipped between his toes. Cooter lifted his foot to give him easy access to it, leaning against the wall for support. Miles sucked on each toe — making Cooter chuckle ticklishly a bit — as he got all the grime out from between the toes.
The bottom of Cooter’s foot was the filthiest piece of flesh Miles had ever licked. Cooter hated wearing shoes or socks. He kept them in his car because a lot of stores wouldn’t let him in barefoot. Because of that, he often wore the same socks on those occasions when he had to wear socks — he just kept them in his car and didn’t wash them.
So the bottom of his feet smelled like socks that were so dirty they never dried out, remaining perpetually moist with foot-scent. He was covered in dirt and bits of asphalt sticking to the padded calluses underneath his foot. He had thick calluses there, Miles could feel them like armor, especially under his heel.
Miles noisily moistly sucked every inch of Cooter’s left foot, while Cooter looked on dourly. Cooter’s heart raced but his dick remained limp.
Much to Cooter’s surprise, he did get hard slowly. He wasn’t even aware of it until Miles pulled those camo pants down and directed him to sit on the couch. Cooter’s big round face was bright red, and he panted a little.
When did I get turned on? Cooter realized only as he sat that he was eager to get a nut off. Up until now, he had been weirded out and grossed out and desperate to start drinking again — Cooter was rarely sober for long. But now his dick was erect and throbbing, and the touch of Miles’s tongue on his foot made him croon with desire.
“Shit…” Cooter said with a blushing chuckle. “You ready to jack me off?”
Miles nodded. He hadn’t even touched Cooter’s right foot yet, but he decided to leave that for the moment. He went straight to Cooter’s cock, planted his lips on it and blew a loud, moist raspberry. That made Cooter laugh uproariously before Miles began mouthing it off in earnest. It sent a thrill up Cooter’s spine.
His chest muscles jiggled, that unkempt beard shaking as Cooter bit his lip. He howled. He still felt a little queasy from his hangover — though that had mostly subsided — but this blowjob was already making him feel better. It made him hungry, which was always a sign that he had sobered up too much.
“Goddamn.” Cooter gritted his teeth. He touched Miles’s head, guiding it up and down on his fat cock. Miles’s nose buried itself in Cooter’s fleshy crotch, and then Miles pulled off to suck on his sweaty balls. Miles moaned so loud it made Cooter laugh again. “Shit!” Cooter said, shaking like this felt so good it hurt. “Get deep on it, man-“
“Are you ready to cum?” Miles asked. He asked it first with his mouth full of hairy ballsac, but that didn’t produce any intelligible words, so he let both balls spill out of his mouth, while Miles’s hand caressed Cooter’s left foot.
“Nah, man, it’s only been-” Cooter’s voice broke because Miles went back to slurping on the tip. He gasped. “It’s only been a minute, I don’t cum that quick.” He tried to laugh, but he was on the verge of orgasm so all that came out was a nervous tremor. “Shit, boy, damn!” He growled and plowed into Miles’s face just once before letting go again. Precum streamed down his shaft.
“It’s been like ten minutes,” Miles said, giggling. “Time passes when you have fun.” He placed his tongue out, right on the tip of Cooter’s fat prick. He tasted sour and salty precum, intensely funky, like semen that had been stored in a dirty sock drawer.
He used both hands to stroke Cooter’s cock as quickly as he could. Miles was an expert at getting reluctant men off even when they didn’t know how to do it, so he was able to bring Cooter to orgasm that way, aiming his dick right for Miles’s open mouth and his tongue.
But that isn’t where he shot it. Once Cooter grunted, closed his eyes and bucked his hips, one wad of cum hit Miles on the tongue. Then he pulled Cooter’s dick away and aimed it for Cooter’s right foot, the one Miles hadn’t touched yet. It was still sweat-covered, filth-encrusted and stinking of hillbilly raunch, with bits of who-knew-what from the jailhouse floor. There was paper and fuzz, a twig, clumps of something black clinging to his hairy feet.
Now there was a layer of cum too, ropy wad after ropy wad landing on his stinking foot. It slid over the top and between the toes, running in rivulets down the side to coat the bottom and the heel.
“Shit, boy, shit! You oughta give lessons!” Cooter wailed, a big barrel-shaped belly-laugh exploding from deep within him, voice breaking, orgasm making his hefty hillbilly body jiggle. He slapped his belly over Miles’s face before finishing his load, then he sighed and fell limp on the couch.
His whole body was spent, but his foot was perfectly cum-coated and nasty. The smell of the semen mixed with his natural foot odor, making them both more intense and more potent. Miles inhaled deeply before he got to work sucking Cooter’s foot clean.
It was so foul it brought tears to his eyes. Miles winced and gagged but kept going. He wanted to taste it all.
There was bitterness from those flecks of something black — plastic? Miles wasn’t sure, it had a certain human quality, like it was bits of pure body odor, but he suspected it was plastic from some kind of strap that had been over a person’s ass — it stank of ass. There was bits of cottony fuzz, soaked in foot-sweat — those were from the jailhouse slippers they made inmates wear if they came in barefoot.
The sweat and cum made a veritable puddle of fluids on every surface of Cooter’s foot. Miles slurped it down like the last bit of soda in a bottle. Again it made him gag, the snottiness of Cooter’s cum making the raunchy taste of his foot stick to Miles’s mouth. He thought it might never go away.
Miles kneeled in front of Cooter with his foot on his face. Cooter pressed down with his toes on Miles’s mouth because he thought it was funny. He had even forgotten that Miles hadn’t cum yet and that he had agreed to let Miles cum on his foot. He just chuckled as he played with the inside of Miles’s mouth, making him gag over and over.
And then Miles buckled, choking on the massive toe on his mouth. He stood, holding Cooter’s foot, aiming his dick at it.
Cooter groaned and covered his eyes. “Ah, shit, nasty, you is doin’ it…” His big cheeks were bright red from his orgasm, but now they went flush, the color mainly covered up by his redneck beard.
Even with his eyes closed, Cooter could feel sticky cum all over his foot. He had never touched another man’s cum, he thought, and it was just as sticky and creamy and stomach-churning as he had suspected it would be.
It poured over his foot, sticking to his skin and coating his toes. He felt it sliding into the intertoe area and groaned, assuming it would be there until he showered — which didn’t happen often, and this cabin had no plumbing, so it wouldn’t happen again until much later, probably when he next visited his mama — but then Miles sucked it all back up.
He didn’t miss a drop. Cooter had been looking away, but now he was intrigued and entranced, and no matter how much it churned his stomach to see a man slurping cum off Cooter’s foot, Cooter couldn’t tear his eyes away. It was so gross it felt good, and the sensitive flesh of Cooter’s foot reawakened his now-finished orgasm.
At last, Miles was done. He dropped Cooter’s foot, but curled up around him on the floor, hugging his ankles and nuzzling his left food. It just smelled like spit now, but Miles still liked it.
“Shit, man,” Cooter said. “That was a fine way to earn three grand.”
Miles giggled and nodded. He hugged Cooter’s feet closer and kissed each one. “Yeah. If you wanna come with me to the bank, I can get the money now.” He laughed. “Well… lemme take a nap first. You tired me out, Cooter.”
Cooter shrugged and agreed, cuz he seemed tired too. Miles fell asleep there, ensconced in the feet of the filthiest hillbilly in West Virginia. Despite the success in nabbing Cooter and his disgusting feet, a flurry of disappointment remained in Miles’s belly — he had not written a word in his book today, and it seemed clear he wasn’t going to.
A hero, tall.

Massaging the Mechanic

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

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

The Third Baseman

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

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Read the whole thing here!

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

The Cocky Pimp

Avery is working the front desk at the legendary Night Along motel when the hardcore pimp Darkie comes by, willing to give Avery a taste of his magnificent manhood. Can Avery service his needs well enough to earn the hard-fought approval of the utter alpha pimp Darkie?!

Read it now as an ebook!