smoking a cigarette – Mansploitation

The Italian

Rob’s trip to Italy is interrupted by a handsome stud, Giuseppe, who’s got a bevy of married ladies on the side but also a need for someone to service his throbbing Italian manhood. Can Rob rise to the task?

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Read the whole thing here!

His name was Giuseppe Colombo. He leaned against his Vespa, his shaggy black hair, slicked back but still a tangled mess, running almost to his shoulder. He sipped from an espresso, then tossed it into a nearby trash can. Rob Winthrop watched from across the street, waiting for the perfect opportunity to talk to the hunky man with the Roman nose and the handsome mug. Rob appreciated the male form, and he was in Italy right now, looking for the perfect specimen of Italian manhood.
And he just might have found it. His name was Giuseppe Colombo, and Rob geared up to approach him.
But it was obvious that Giuseppe waited for someone, and that someone was almost certainly a female. Rob gathered that from the anticipative yet flirtatious look on his face. He would not be receptive to any advances now.
Sure enough, she showed up moments later. Her name was Sterpeta Buticularo. She was stunningly gorgeous, dark-skinned, dark-haired, tough-eyed and thick-lipped. She came striding down the street in heels and a slinky dress that was entirely too fancy for an ordinary day out. She looked like a mafioso’s wife, Rob thought, and she attracted the eye of the other men on the street. It looked like some would have hooted at her if not for Giuseppe, whose come-hither eyes simmered darkly.
And some did hoot at the way she shimmied her ass as she walked.
“Ehi, bellissima, vieni a parlare con me!”
“Tuo padre è un ladro, ha rubato le stelle e te le ha messe negli occh!”
Giuseppe nodded and puffed on a cigarette. The woman straightened her back as though to dare onlookers to catcall at her. But Giuseppe just nodded at her, and he glowered.
The silenzio between them was gravida and crescente.
Then she kissed him, and he swooned, bending her over in his arms. Sterpeta clutched at his powerful shoulders and pulled on his shirt, revealing some of his coarse black chest hair. Giuseppe showed her something in the satchel he had slung around his scooter — Rob saw a bottle of wine and a block of cheese: makings of a picnic.
They spoke then, passionately, words of love or ire or both, Rob suspected, words dripping with intensity — arguing their love or loving their discord, he could not tell. He did not hear their parola, however, because of the Italian folk band coming down the avenue. They were lean men in white shirts with the sleeves rolled up and navy blue trousers, dancing in sync to an upbeat tarantella they played on tambourines. Three older men, more distinguished, with flecks of gray in their dense heads of hair, accompanied them on mandolin, guitar and accordion.
The music was loud, and, to Rob, pleasing. He was distracted by Giuseppe and his woman, however, who scowled at first as they were interrupted by the musicians. Then Giuseppe took her hand in his. He placed his things on the back of the motorcycle, and she coquettishly took his hand.
Her shyness vanished as soon as the dance began. It was rhythmic and fluid and more than a bit sexy — Rob had eyes only for Giuseppe, but the girl attracted a crowd of her own. They kissed and stroked, reaching between each other’s legs, clutching each other’s asses and even, Rob was fairly certain, some light fingering when Giuseppe slipped a hand underneath her dress and she audibly moaned.
A couple of the buttons of Giuseppe’s shirt ripped off too, and that fur-dappled caramel chest made Rob moan along with Giuseppe’s girlfriend. Giuseppe sang then, in florid Italian, his booming voice echoing among the ancient, crumbling plaster of the Roman cityscape.
All of the cittadini who watched burst into laughter, clapping along with the band. They danced too, in singles and pairs, even trios. Men danced with women, women danced with women, men danced with men. Rob blushed because he stood out, the only one in the square not dancing.
The only words of Giuseppe’s song that Rob was able to discern was the repeated line: la ragazza con gli occhi come l’alba. He didn’t know what it meant (ragazza was girl, he knew that much), but he suspected it was a popular song, or adapted from it — the others sang along.
Then a man offered his hand to Rob, blushing, as some other men laughed and cheered him on. The man, Ettore, said, “Vuoi ballare con me, mio caro ragazzo?” It was apparent his friends had got him to ask Rob to dance as a dare or a bet.
But Rob batted his eyes and nodded as girlishly as he could. This particular uomo wasn’t alluring like Giuseppe — he wasn’t ugly, he was a chef, with bits of uncooked pasta stuck in his beard hairs, in a sleeveless apron with a sleeveless shirt underneath, his big meaty arms tufted in fur.
He twirled Rob, swooned him in his arms and then even kissed him on the lips as the other dancers stopped to watch. When he was done, both the pasta chef and Rob blushed as red as a pomodoro imbarazzato. Rob hugged his thick, firm back as the music died down.
The tarantella band continued on. Rob was still excited. He had thought this was going to continue. He hoped to dance with Giuseppe and run his fingers through his hair.
But no, it was finito, and Giuseppe had his girl over his Vespa, locking lips, like they wanted to drive away but couldn’t stop kissing. Finally he pulled off her lips.
They looked into her eyes, and he spoke, his smooth voice like cigar smoke. Rob was close enough to hear now. He said, “Ho bisogno di te” and her whole back undulated as though she was about to orgasm right there on the sidewalk.
She hopped onto the scooter behind him, holding onto his denim jacket. Rob didn’t think they made denim jackets like that anymore. The shirt he wore underneath it was incongruously fashionable, he thought, and looked expensive — made out of silk, it was a rich violet that seeped into the dark blue of his jacket. A gold chain glimmered around his neck, the crucifix on his chest ensconced in the kinky black hairs that escaped from under the shirt.
But he sighed too. As long as a female was on the scene, Rob had no chance of securing a taste of Giuseppe’s manhood. Rob had been watching because Giuseppe seemed to be sleeping around with multiple women, many of them married — including, Rob was fairly certain, this one — so he figured sooner or later, Giuseppe would get dumped by all of them when his lies caught up to him.
The scooter had barely moved an inch when it stopped short. A different, older Italian man stood in front of it.
“Sei con mia moglie, stronzo!”
All of a sudden, bedlam erupted. Rob eventually deduced that that second man — who was kind of a warm daddy-type, with a mustache and a bit of a belly — was Sterpeta’s husband. Giuseppe and the woman argued with each other as well as the man, and Rob wasn’t sure why. Perhaps the woman had said she had separated from the man, so Giuseppe felt this was not his fault?
Rob spoke a little Italian, but they talked all together and way too fast for Rob to understand very much of it. It was booming and loud, hands flying to make florid gestures. It didn’t seem they could possibly be understanding each other because they spoke over each other, bellowing, and even the woman’s voice somehow outshone the mens’s.
The men started shoving each other. The woman slapped her husband, then Giuseppe. The husband seemed about to smack her back, but Giuseppe stopped him. The men came to blows. They nearly knocked over an espresso machine attached to a nearby street vendor’s cart, but the vendor pulled his cart away at the last moment.
And then, somehow, it was all over. Giuseppe’s jacket was in the street, his hair a mess, a trickle of blood down his chin, a tear in his silk shirt revealing a toned, hairy chest. Giuseppe shouted something in Italian as the man left, screaming his own list of obscenities that Rob couldn’t hope to follow. The woman was in tow. She and Giuseppe exchanged florid words, which Rob gathered were just a string of insults on either end.
Giuseppe was left alone, his jacket in ruins and his shirt not much better. He scowled and took it off. His bronzed body made Rob’s dick stir.
It had all taken only a few moments, and the folks who had just minutes ago spontaneously danced the tarantella together now all ignored the exchange, as though non era successo niente. Rob was the only one who seemed shocked.
This, he thought, was the perfect opportunity. He walked right up to Giuseppe and spoke in English. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Rob.”
Giuseppe nodded and furrowed his brow. “What do you-uh want-uh?” His hands gestured in the direction he was about to go in. His English was not very good, but it was better than Rob’s rudimentary Italian.
“I wanted to offer you money. I’m sorry your woman left you-“
“It is, uh, none-uh of your business-uh,” he said. “She is a… A… how do you say?… Hor-ay? La prostituta?”
“Whore.”
“Whore-uh, si. She is a whore-uh.” Giuseppe spat on the ground and motioned away from himself. “It is good-uh to be away with her, yes? For her is now-uh gone?”
“Yeah, yeah, I guess so,” Rob said.
Giuseppe grabbed his dick through his jeans, which Rob guessed was — like the now-ruined shirt — worth a lot of money. A few beads of sweat shimmered on Giuseppe’s chest. “You-uh will offer-uh money-uh?”
Rob blushed. He had forgotten to actually ask because he was imagining the taste of Giuseppe’s chest hair.
“Do you want to cornhole me? I’ll give you five hundred euros and all you have to do is lie there, I’ll do-“
“You will have me-uh become-uh a prostituta like her? A whore-uh? I will not do this for any five-uh hundred-uh of euros, I want not your filthy whore-uh money-uh!” He shouted and waved his hands about above Rob’s head. Since he was shirtless, Rob was too entranced by his broad chest and thick black hair to be scared he would be violent. He licked his lips. He knew Giuseppe would do this for the right price, it was just a matter of finding it.
Rob giggled. “A thousand euros.”
Giuseppe was silent for a moment. “Si.” His anger was gone. He clasped Rob on the shoulder, then let go when he realized Rob was aroused, then put his arm back more gingerly. Rob smiled and kissed his bare shoulder. Giuseppe blushed. “Come on then-uh. I know a place, it is good for the making-uh of love, yes-uh. We can do also the dick-uh, si.”
Rob got on the back of his scooter, smiling because he got to ride up behind Giuseppe, gripping his chest and belly and even laying his face against the sweat-dappled muscle of his bare shoulder blades. Giuseppe drove off, weaving in and out of traffic as he headed out of Rome.
At first Rob was so engrossed in the firm meat of Giuseppe’s back and the hair on his chest where Rob’s hands snaked around that he didn’t notice how Giuseppe careened blindly through the streets of Rome. He went through parking lots and on sidewalks, weaving across lanes and even ignored a uniformed police officer who attempted to wave him down.
Relief flooded Rob when they finally left Rome, and the urban streets gave way to suburbs and then dense wooded glens and ponds among the septet of rolling hills around the city. He slowed down finally then, even though the roads were empty and he could have sped up.
When Rob pulled his face away from Giuseppe’s back, there was a layer of his sweat there, and it tasted bitterly of olive oil. He ran his fingers through Giuseppe’s hair too, until Giuseppe swatted his hand away.
The place he went was a vineyard a few miles outside of the city. He drove his scooter to a dirt road and down to an abandoned wooden shack. There was a big vat in it and a sour smell that was not exactly pleasant, but somehow smelled good to Rob.
“It is… how do you say… Aceto… it is wine, but it has spoiled?” Giuseppe said when he got off the Vespa.
“Vinegar?”
“Si, si, vinegar-uh, yes,” Giuseppe said. Rob had to smile — he would have never guessed what Giuseppe meant if he had said vinegar as he pronounced it: vweeneggerruh.
Rob placed the smell now. It was the scent of fine vinegar, wafting from that vat. The aroma was rich and heady, filling his nostrils with warmth. Through the slats in the side of the building, Rob could see rows upon rows of grape vines that stretched off over the sunny hills surrounding this barn.
The scent disappeared suddenly, replaced by acrid cigarette smoke. Giuseppe took a deep drag. He offered one to Rob, who declined at first, then thought when in Rome… and took it. He smoked for years but had quit eleven years ago. So when he lit it, he coughed a few times, earning a harsh scornful stare from Giuseppe, and then was momentarily struck dizzy by the rush of nicotine.
Ah, he loved smoking. Il fumo di sigaretta è il più alto risultato di aria!
For a moment, Rob basked in the warmth of the cigarette smoke. Giuseppe uncorked the wine he had brought for the picnic. He took a long drink from it and passed it wordlessly to Rob, who drank as well. It was fine wine, thick and unctuous on his tongue. It was red, very dark, mysterious and full-bodied, possessing il sapore di mille fasci di oscurità.
“Come-uh here,” Giuseppe said. His voice firm but kind. He led Rob to a grassy spot, where they sat together. The smell of grape-blossoms filled the air, mixing with the heady profumo del vino. Giuseppe smiled nervously. “Do you think I am handsome-uh?” His voice was smooth like a buttery pasta sauce, and it hung low in the air, resonating in Rob’s ear.
Rob blushed. He took a deep drag from the cigarette. He nodded. “You’re real handsome.”
Giuseppe leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Then in one smooth motion, he wrapped Rob up in one arm and laid him on the ground. The wooden floor of the barn scratched at his back.
Rob wasn’t used to being seduced like this. It happened so fast there was a certain instinctual need to protect himself, and he squealed, clutching at Giuseppe’s powerful arms.
Once he was on the ground and didn’t feel like he was falling anymore, Rob kissed Giuseppe on the lips. Giuseppe was slightly hesitant. Rob only really got cornholed by alpha males, who did not normally kiss him, certainly not as part of a passionate make-out session.
But Giuseppe had never been with a woman he didn’t “seduce”. Even when it was obvious early on that she was going to let him have sex with her, Giuseppe always went through the motions of rubbing her shoulders or feet or taking her out on a picnic or doing whatever it took to seduce her. It just felt right to him. Making love to a woman he barely knew, or making love to a woman he did know but doing it in a quick and dirty way just made Giuseppe feel like a filthy manwhore.
He didn’t want to feel like that, and he didn’t want his women to feel like that either. Giuseppe had no experience making love in any other way.
So he let Rob kiss him on the lips. Then he let Rob kiss a trail down his chest. That was weird for Giuseppe — he usually took the lead with his women, and he was the one who showered the other with kisses. It was strange and even a bit ticklish, he thought, to let a man do it.
But soon Giuseppe was laying on the ground, feeling the barn floor beneath his back, as Rob took his handsome uncut cock out and put the tip in his mouth. He looked up at Giuseppe, who made eye contact with him and moaned. Rob cooed in desire at those deep, dark soulful eyes il colore dell’ombra del carbone.
“Succhi il cazzo, per favore, ho bisogno della tua bocca su di me!” Giuseppe let out a moan. Rob couldn’t decide if Giuseppe was still being seductive or not. He had a feeling Giuseppe told girls he loved them all the time when he seduced them, and he was fighting back the urge to say that now out of pure habit.
And he popped the rest of his dick into his mouth, deep-throating him the best he could. Giuseppe was uncut, which Rob thought was hot. He rammed his head all the way down, ingoiare ogni parte della sua virilità virile, figuring that Giuseppe had never been deep-throated like that.
That was true, Giuseppe spent most of his love-making sessions licking his partners’ womanhoods — assaporando il sapore della femminilità and using his tongue to bring them the beatitudine assoluta. That was how a woman could be truly seduced, not just physically, but emotionally e spiritualmente too. He could make her his if he sucked on her pussy in just the right way.
Giuseppe found himself experiencing an orgasm more intense than he thought possible. Without even realizing he was doing it, he had grabbed Rob’s head and held on. He slammed his dick into Rob’s mouth, all the way in, deep into his spasming throat.
“Si, you are-uh… You have-uh…” Giuseppe rolled his eyes as a spasm of pleasure ran up his spine. “You have a mouth-uh, it is made of silk-uh, yes, si? I am, uh, how do you say… in love with your mouth.” He smiled down at Rob and wiped away the moisture that ran down Rob’s cheeks.
The taste of his cock got Rob as hard as a conchiglia too. Giuseppe’s cock tasted, like his sweat, of olive oil and sunlight. It was the tastiest cock Rob had ever mouthed. He relaxed his throat and trusted Giuseppe to make sweet love to his throat until that hairy ballsac slapped against Rob’s chin.
Eventually even Rob needed to take a break, and he pulled away from Giuseppe’s cock. It twitched and leaked precum down the shaft, while Giuseppe’s hairy chest muscles all flexed at once.
“Baciami. Voglio assaporare il mio amore sulle tue labbra,” Giuseppe said. He gently but firmly grabbed Rob and brought his face up to meet Giuseppe’s. Again, Rob never thought Giuseppe would kiss him so much, but he didn’t even seem to mind sucking his own precum off Rob’s face. He planted his lips right on Rob’s, and Rob swooned.
“Will you stick it in me now? Please? I need your cock!” Rob yelled out, begging as he bent over on all fours.
Giuseppe’s dick throbbed above his face, while Rob still hoarsely tried to recover his breath. He kissed every inch of Giuseppe’s thighs and sucked on his body hair, and even his balls while Giuseppe recovered from his orgasm, ignoring his question.
“Yes, I am ready0uh now,” Giuseppe said, when he had regained his composure. Those deep brown eyes were so big Rob lost himself in them, wordlessly craving another kiss, which Giuseppe provided. “I will make-uh sweet and sugared-uh love upon you, my darling-uh.”
Giuseppe enjoyed the lovestruck look on Rob’s face — it felt just as victorious and triumphant as when he made a woman look like that. He had conquered Rob just as he had conquered so many females e li sedusse completamente. Giuseppe stared at his own spit-dripping cock, waiting for himself to calm down enough that he could stick it in without blowing his load right away. He gave it one stroke with his own hand and groaned. He had never felt so horny. He just wanted to get his cock back in a tight, moist hole, and he didn’t care whose.
“I will make-uh you feel like-uh… how do you say?… A hundred-uh dollars-uh!” Giuseppe tried to say that with a cowboy accent, like John Wayne, but it wasn’t very good and Rob didn’t even notice that he was affecting an accent.
Giuseppe decided he was ready as Rob displayed his bare ass and spread his cheeks — which Giuseppe assumed Rob did only because he was so turned on by Giuseppe’s John Wayne impression.
Keeping a firm, flat smile on his face, Giuseppe gulped but pretended not to be nervous. As far as he was concerned, it wasn’t pervy if he was on top — if Giuseppe weren’t so successful with married women, he’d have probably done this multiple times by now, so really, he thought, his lack of practice signified that he was more manly than those mafiosi and thugs who did it on a regular basis. Giuseppe tried to convince himself of that, unsuccessfully, as he blushed and awkwardly wedged his cock between Rob’s cheeks.
He took a deep breath. Before he could start plowing, Rob turned his head and kissed Giuseppe on the lips once more.
“Stick it in me!” Rob said, desperate for it to begin.
“I will-uh enter-uh you now. You will feel-uh much of the pleasure-uh…”
By now, Giuseppe was so aroused to begin with that he kissed back without a second thought — on the mouth this time, with tongue, and with his hands caressing Rob’s body where his tits would be if he had any. He plunged his tongue between Rob’s lips. His arms caressed Rob’s body and spread his asscheeks.
A jolt of pain shot up Rob’s spine, but it lasted only a moment, just long enough to bring the pleasure it came with to the forefront of Rob’s spine. It had been a long time since any man made him feel like this. He wanted to both cry and beg for more allo stesso tempo. He clutched Giuseppe’s well-muscled forearm for support.
Rob quivered just like a girl did when she wanted to get fucked so bad she could taste it. Giuseppe grinned. He loved bringing girls to this state, and, it seemed, he was so sexy he could do it to a man too. Giuseppe thought he should be famous on account of being so prestante.
“Vedi, io sono l’ultimo amante del mondo.”
He slid his dick in. When Rob let out a long, loud moan, Giuseppe again assumed his dick was exceptional and that that was why it felt so good to Rob. He smiled with pride as Rob’s whole body writhed beneath him, and Giuseppe could see the pressure and agony turn to bliss as his dick teased Rob’s prostate.
“Ah, si… Open your bottom-uh…” Giuseppe crooned into Rob’s ear, making Rob cringe and moan. “I will fill you up with love-uh…”
Rob was on all fours, so he couldn’t jack himself off because he used both hands for support. But he could lift his head and lean back, so he could kiss Giuseppe as he got rear-ended. Giuseppe supported his chest with one arm, giving Giuseppe perfect access while making Rob unable to do more than writhe in sync with his penetration.
Actually there was one other thing Rob could do, as his desire to cum built up to explosive levels: He grabbed Giuseppe’s hand and brought it to his cock.
Giuseppe didn’t hesitate. He didn’t know if a reacharound was a normal macho thing to do or not. Probably not, he thought as his hands wrapped around Rob’s shaft. Almost certainly not.
But in the heat of the moment, it seemed decente. Giuseppe was bragging to himself about how much pleasure he was bringing Rob, so it made sense. He had heard men in prison talk of pleasing their “prison wives” with a reacharound, and in the Italian military, officers were allowed to ram at recruits so long as they gave a reacharound (or so the rumors suggested). Giuseppe thought it might be normal in America too. It might even, he decided, be something John Wayne would do.
So he did it. He gripped Rob’s cockshaft and stroked it, somewhat awkwardly because he had never done that, never even touched a limp dick besides his own, much less a stranger’s.
He might have lost his nerve to keep stroking if they hadn’t reached a climax moments later. As soon as he touched Rob’s dick, Rob’s prostate exploded within him, sending pangs of pleasure up Rob’s spine. Rob cried out and went back to all fours, but this time Giuseppe went with him, pounding away and stroking him off.
Rob shot his wad into the dirt, ending up on his side as Giuseppe plowed in with all his potenza. “Oh god!” Rob cried out. He dug his fingers into the soil, bringing up clods of dirt as the most intense orgasm of his life wracked his body.
Cum flowed within Rob, who sighed. He loved that feeling, a man’s heavy balls filling him up, the sensation of creamy cum seeping into his flesh. He became Giuseppe in that moment, as he felt his dick turn all moist and cummy, still rock-hard where it throbbed within Rob.
And then it was all over. Rob gasped for air. His own dick was done, and he felt his climax draining away. Giuseppe’s dick still shot the last few drops of cum before it too limpened inside him. Giuseppe didn’t pull out until then.
“Damn…” Rob said. He leaned back, spread-eagled, on the dirt.
Giuseppe kissed him on the lips once more, then stood. “That was good-uh, si? You will pay?”
Rob nodded. “Yeah. Hand me my pants.” Giuseppe did so, and Rob counted out the money: un migliaio di euro.
Giuseppe took the cash. “You are… You will be in Rome-uh for some time-uh?”
“No,” Rob said. He yawned and stood, stretching his legs before putting his clothes back on. “I’m leaving soon. I’m going back home, to America” He ignored Giuseppe’s annoyed expression — Giuseppe was not used to people breaking up with him. Giuseppe might lose interest, or a husband might come into the picture, or a woman might be forbidden by her father to see him, but Giuseppe was not dumped. That had literally never happened, and Giuseppe’s mind raced to comprehend it.
But Rob was ready to move on. He’d had his fill of Italy, and he was ready to return home.

The Frenchman

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

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

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

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

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

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

The Fat Janitor

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

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

The KGB Officer

When Antonov gets arrested by the dreaded KGB, he didn’t know what he was in for. If he’s going to get out of this alive, he’ll have to do whatever Agent Gromov demands of him. Can Antonov make it?!

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Read the whole thing here!

A part of Antonov was glad that he was arrested. Of course another part was scared, but he had always known it was a possibility. It wasn’t a bad thing. It might bring a lot of attention to the cause, and it definitely signaled to the media that this was a real movement.
But Antonov wished that everyone got arrested, not just him.
At the time, it seemed great that Antonov was the only one who got arrested. It made him seem like the most serious activist, the one who would get the credit when or if this eventually worked. The police of Moscow were notoriously cruel, but he could handle a few weeks in prison. He was glad to do it to prove his devotion to the cause of spreading democracy in Russia.
Before his arrest, the protest went about as well as Antonov could have hoped. A lot of people showed up, and Antonov caused a big scene that got him arrested in front of all the television cameras. That made him seem like a big player in the movement now. He wouldn’t be surprised if he was offered an organizing job by one of the international organizations that had helped to set up the protest.
The adrenaline in his veins only died down when Antonov was led away from the police station proper and into a small, unmarked building next door to it. There, he was handcuffed to a chair in a large open office area. It was windowless, crowded with plainclothes men smoking cigarettes, and it stank of sweat and fear. Rowdy conversation dominated at the desks and in the conference rooms attached to the precinct floor.
On one side of the room, burly, hairy men in handcuffs were led into the jail that was near Antonov. From his vantage point, he could see down the hall and into the rows of cells when the door to the jail opened. In there, men sobbed out loud, and the sound of someone vomiting echoed out into the police station. There was the occasional sound of flesh on flesh — a fight, most likely, which none of the officers here seemed eager to stop. He shuddered in fear.
I shouldn’t have been so confident. The Moscow police aren’t just cruel and strict. They’re corrupt. They hurt people just to send a message to others.
Antonov gulped. That was one of the reasons he shouldn’t have been happy to be the only protester arrested — if lots of them had been arrested, the chances that any one would be beaten up to set an example for the others was minimal. If it was just Antonov, then they were going to treat him the way they wanted the protesters to fear they would be treated if arrested.
That’s when Antonov saw the sign on the door next to the one leading to the jail. He had to crane his head around to read it: ‘agents of the KGP only’ was printed in neat Cyrilic on the frosted door window. It surely didn’t mean anything that they handcuffed him to a chair near the KGP office.
His dread grew as he became more and more suspicious that he was indeed placed near the KGB door because that was where he was going, whenever they were ready. He watched the other officers bring men in, process them and take them into the jail in just a few minutes, and doing so did not involve handcuffing them to a chair.
So why was Antonov placed here?
His dread turned into quakes of fear when a man in a fine suit came out from the KGB door. He undid the handcuffs attaching Antonov to the chair, and he motioned, with a dour, flat face, for Antonov to come with him.
Stonefacing the best he could, Antonov followed instructions. He followed the officer — Gromov — into the KGP officer, where a dozen or so other men stood around as though they were waiting for Antonov. Antonov avoided eye contact with all of them.
The officer Gromov asked Antonov a litany of basic questions: name, birthdate, birthplace, how did you come to Moscow today? Antonov did not asnwer any of them aside from his name and birthdate. That was all they needed to know.
“Do you have any money?” asked Officer Gromov. “You have been assessed a fine for disorderly conduct and for acting in an inappropriate way in public. You have brought shame upon this country. So we are charging you a fine.” He and the others snickered, suggesting this fine was really a bribe. Officer Gromov would keep it all for himself. “You must pay it to me. Now.”
Antonov shook his head. “No way. I am a prisoner of conscience-“
“I do not care about that. You have a fine to pay. If you are too much of a deadbeat to pay now, you must have to work it off,” Officer Gromov said. His face remained stony, his broadly muscled body looming above and in front of Antonov. He unzipped the slacks of his suit, and he withdrew from the fly a fat uncircumcised cock. “Go on, put your mouth upon it,” Officer Gromov said.
“Protest that, weakling!”
Antonov shook his head. He didn’t think he could bring himself to taste a dick no matter what. He pursed his lips closed. Tears welled up in his eyes, but Antonov tried not to cry. He hoped the officers didn’t notice.
“Make him into your bitch, Gromov!” Someone threw a pair of dirty shoes at Antonov, old ragged shoes like they had been confiscated off a hobo . Antonov blushed and tried not to look at the other officers. He told himself he just needed to get out of this with Gromov. Ignore the others.
It was hard to ignore the pit of humiliation burning within though.
Officer Gromov smiled at him, and he laughed with the other KGB officers. That made Gromov’s cock jiggle and sway afront Antonov’s face.
The other officers scattered around the room leaned back in their seats and smoked their cigarettes, which filled the air with a haze and the bitter smell of imported tobacco. Antonov realized with a jolt of fear that they were expecting a show — they wanted Gromov to entertain them by making Antonov put his mouth on Gromov’s ugly, barbaric, veiny cock, which was bigger than any dick Antonov had ever seen. It was long and fleshy, and Gromov waved it around in front of Antonov’s face. It smelled like funk and sweat and semen and piss, and Antonov gagged at the thought of putting it in his mouth.
“You will not swallow it?”
“No way!” Antonov shouted. “I have the right to protest. You aren’t allowed to do this to me! I’m not your pussy!” He felt sure this would get him some respect — maybe they were just doing this as a test. Maybe he could earn Gromov’s respect by refusing to give in.
But the other officers sneered at him as though they had expected him to open up, and they peppered him with jeers and old sandwich wrappers from the garbage cans by their desks.
“You will be a pussy! You will be my pussy!” shouted Officer Gromov. He nodded for two younger KGB officers to come forward, and they took Antonov by the handcuffed arms and threw him against a wall. Antonov’s head collided with the wall, sending an onrush of pain down his body. He was dizzy, and he staggered back.
“Please, stop!” Antonov couldn’t believe this. He was supposed to be a martyr for the cause — he had expected to spend time in prison, not… this. Nobody would respect him for being arrested if it led to him being less of a man, being treated as Gromov’s whore.
Officer Gromov smiled as he played with his dick between his fingers. It was so big and meaty enough it almost hurt when he flopped it against Antonov’s face. Antonov realized that that must have been why these KGB officers had Officer Gromov do this — he had a huge cock. They had chosen the horse-cocked cop to teach a lesson to Antonov, who shook as he fought against his attackers.
“Make him your bitch!”
One of the KGB officers got behind Antonov and pinned his limbs, while the other gripped his nostrils until he couldn’t help but open his mouth. Then at least two KGB officers gripped his chin and cheeks, forcing his jaws apart. Tears streamed from Antonov’s eyes as Officer Gromov flopped his big uncut dick in front of Antonov’s face.
“Will you bite me? If you bite me, I will gut you like a dog,” Officer Gromov said. His beard jiggled as he spoke, and he licked his lips.
“Woof! Woof!” The other cops were acting like dogs now, on all fours and barking, growling, pawing at him like a feral canine.
“Yes! I’ll bite you, I don’t care what you do!” Antonov shouted out of pure instinct. Since his mouth was propped open, however, none of his words were clearly intelligible. Officer Gromov and the others seemed to get the gist of it though.
“I guess we’ll need to get the device,” Officer Gromov said with a laugh.
“The device! The face-rammer! The bitch-maker!”
Officer Gromov grinned at Antonov’s sweaty, reddened face, on which he wiped his greasy cockshaft. He didn’t seem to mind touching Antonov’s scruffy beard, as he wiped his dick over Antonov’s lips and cheeks. He didn’t stick it in, however, until another officer returned with a primitive looking dental device. They shoved it in his mouth, and sharp pincers prevented him from closing his mouth all the way. It was arduously painful, and it made Antonov choke.
As his jaw opened, the device didn’t let it close, so the more Antonov struggled, the more it hurt. Eventually he could do nothing but fall limp. It felt like his jaw was on the verge of shattering, and Antonov didn’t want to fight back for fear of actually breaking it.
“Open it!”
“Pay that fine, bitch!”
“If you can not pay me, you will be my oral bitch, my mouth slut,” Officer Gromov said with a sneer. He flexed his biceps beneath his tight-fitting suit. He spat into Antonov’s open mouth, dark eyes drilling into Antonov’s — he tried to close his eyes, but they pinched his nipples until he opened them. “Look me in the eye when I pluck your manhood.”
His dick pushed right past Antonov’s lips, and when Antonov tasted the sweaty, coppery taste, he gagged profusely. He sputtered, unable to even spit because of all the KGB officers holding him down and the device keeping his mouth open.
That meant that the fluids generated by Officer Gromov’s throating splashed and frothed, spilling over the sides of Antonov’s lips and coating his face. Antonov retched loudly with each stab of Officer Gromov’s massive meat down his gullet.
“Make him your bitch! Make him your cockpig!”
The taste was even worse than Antonov had thought it would be. It was like an old gym sock that had both stale and fresh sweat soaked into it. The flavor of precum was even worse, salty and sour. It made Antonov’s throat cringe.
“See what this is? This is a deadbeat. This is how we treat deadbeats.”
Antonov couldn’t see who said that, but he could hear a wave of rough, lower-class men bursting into a mix of laughter, rage and terror. The officers must have brought other criminals into this room. His eyes were blinded by the spit the officers kept plopping onto his face, but he could tell they were using him as a lesson for other criminals. He was being used this way to scare others into paying their fines — or their bribes, or both, as it often seemed there was no difference between a fine and a bribe in Soviet Russia.
Officer Gromov pumped his hips, slamming his cock into the back of Antonov’s throat. He cackled as Antonov choked.
“You’re no man anymore,” Officer Gromov said, and the other KGB officers laughed along with him.
“Choke on it, weakling!”
Then he gripped Antonov by the hair and violently throated him, with no pause — he slammed his hips in, grinding his dick deep into Antonov’s throat like he wanted to make Antonov retch as violently as possible. A painful wretch escaped from Antonov’s mouth. He choked and sputtered. His balls slammed against Antonov’s beard, leaving a layer of filthy sweat and sac-hairs clinging to Antonov’s furry chin.
“Fine, I’ll pay! I’ll pay! I’ll pay both fines!”
The other criminals were falling all over themselves to pay up now. Antonov could hear the KGB officers laughing at it as they collected money. Antonov realized then that he wasn’t even blocked from view from the outside. Anyone who walked by the building and looked through the window would be able to see that something was happening. They wouldn’t be able to see Antonov’s face easily, but they might have figured out who it was.
In any case, with a dozen KGB agents and probably just as many criminals and local cops, somebody was no doubt going to identify Antonov. Everybody was going to know about this, and Antonov would never be able to live it down. He thought he would never feel clean again.
His nose pressed into Officer Gromov’s hairy crotch. It stank and Antonov’s lungs cried out for air. He writhed, trying to escape the grip of the KGB officers holding him down — he was surprised to see that they didn’t care about getting Officer Gromov’s precum onto them. Great wads of spit and precum plopped out of Antonov’s mouth over and over, landing on the other KGB officers’s hands, arms, chest and even face — none of them seemed to notice. All they cared about was making sure Antonov swallowed every inch of rampaging dickmeat.
When Officer Gromov finally pulled his cock out and even took that device off so Antonov could breathe, all Antonov could do was cough up a slimy ball of spit that landed on the ground. Then his whole body undulated as he gagged up again and again, until his throat was sore. The onlookers — police officers, KGB agents and arrested criminals alike — all laughed and shouted jeers, but Antonov didn’t hear their words. His attention was focused on his cringing humiliation and the suffocating agony in his chest.
“Beg him, boy! Beg him to go easy on you!”
Through his tear-clouded eyes, Antonov saw that there was a criminal snickering as he walked past Antonov. A bunch more waited to be processed, or they might have even been recent releasees who were invited to watch Antonov’s ruination. They all looked at him like they both pitied and despised him, like a stray dog they were about to beat to death.
“You deadbeat, you can not pay your fines,” Officer Gromov said, for the benefit of the criminals — so they’d know how to avoid this same fate. He clucked his tongue against his teeth and flopped his rock-hard cock onto Antonov’s face. “Kiss it.”
Antonov blushed but did as he was told. He kissed the cockshaft on his face, which made him gag in both disgust and humiliation. He felt it pulsating with his tongue on the veiny shaft.
Then at Officer Gromov’s direction, Antonov said through his gasps and tears, “Your cock… is superior… to mine. I worship your meat, Officer Gromov… I will never disobey your cock!”
“Filthy bitch! Disgusting pitiful little maggot!”
Then, with Antonov still heaving for air, Officer Gromov pried his mouth apart again. The other KGB officers held Antonov’s squirming body down until he could not resist parting his lips once again. Every fiber of Antonov’s being told him to fight.
But he could do little more than writhe. He wanted to bite down, but he wasn’t sure he could even do that with men holding his mouth open — in any case, he knew the punishment would be severe and would almost certainly end in his death. The dental device was on the floor now, but Antonov knew he wouldn’t bite. After losing any respect he might have had, there was no point in fighting back now. They’d beat him, and Antonov would still be known as a man’s bitch.
So he just submitted. He opened his mouth as wide as it could go, and he sobbed as that salty rod of meat pushed down his throat again. He loudly gagged, which made the KGB officers all cheer. One of them even scooped up all the spit and precum that dripped off Antonov’s chin and smeared it over Antonov’s face.
“Open your eyes,” Officer Gromov barked. He didn’t give Antonov a chance to do it, he simply pulled Antonov’s eyelids apart. “I want to see your manhood drain away as I fill it up with my cum.” He laughed and spat on Antonov, again and again, plopping huge stinky loogeys all over Antonov’s sobbing face.
Antonov’s head swam after Officer Gromov punched him in the gut. He was too dizzy to resist as he was led to a table in the center of the KGB office. A bunch of intake papers were shoved off the table and onto the floor, while Antonov’s pants were torn down.
That left his ass bare.
“You will be pussy, bitch!”
“Make him your whore!”
“No!” Antonov screamed and panted, desperate for oxygen now that his mouth was empty. But he couldn’t bare to have his asshole rammed, he thought. He’d rather kill himself. “Please, don’t! I have a wife, and sons!”
“Your sons will have no father,” Officer Gromov said. He lifted Antonov’s feet in the air, baring his cheeks and forcing them apart. “Just a bitch for a second mother.”
“They will weep to be sired by such a bitch! We will make sure they know! We will make sure your neighbors know!”
Then a flood of pain hit Antonov’s ass as Officer Gromov’s cock pushed into him. Antonov screamed so loud it could be heard throughout the building, and the inmates there, those who weren’t brought to watch, variously either shivered in fear or stood with great interest to see if they could catch a glimpse of the ramrodding in-progress. They all knew the kinds of things the KGB did to protesters.
His dick tore and ripped into Antonov’s ass, and Antonov squirmed beneath the muscular, uniformed arms of the other officers. More and more KGB officers had come to watch, and now the hallway was choked with men in suits and police uniforms, leering and screaming, some of them even masturbating as they watched.
“Ram him! Ram him, Gromov! Make him your bitch!”
“You like that cock? You want to protest that? Protest away, bitch!”
All of a sudden another wad of cum appeared on Antonov’s face, then another. He couldn’t believe they were masturbating — how could they get off on watching this? Not even participating, but just watching?
But he couldn’t form any words even if his mouth wasn’t choked with cumwads. It was thick and creamy like boogers, and Antonov thought there might be mucus from someone’s nose in the mix. He couldn’t see anyway, and all he could hear was his own sobs. The KGB officers around him formed a circle, dicks in hand, those who hadn’t cum yet.
None of them had dicks as long or as thick as Officer Gromov, but they were mostly pretty big. One by one they popped off, filling his open mouth with their humiliated wads of cream. Each load they sprayed over Antonov’s mouth and cheeks tasted even worse than the last.
“Destroy him! Cover him with so much cum his mother won’t recognize him!”
“Your wife will never have respect for you now!”
Finally Officer Gromov held up his hand for silence. The other KGB officers gradually fell silent, and they smiled as Officer Gromov groaned.
“I am ready to pluck his manhood,” Officer Gromov said with a groan. “He is my pussy now.”
Even the watching inmates were quiet, watching with hushed expressions and grim faces. The only sound was Officer Gromov’s moist humping, the gurgling sound made by his massive prick sliding into Antonov’s tight hole. A wave of pain and intense pressure rocked him, and Antonov squirmed in shame all over again. He could feel the humiliation on his body like the layer of saliva (both his own and the KGB officers’s) that covered his skin. That thin mask of fluids crawled like foul bugs, the nastiness seeping into his skin.
Then a spurt of hot cum hit Antonov, who was flush and covered in tears. A fresh sob erupted deep within him, and Antonov tried to bury his cum-streaked face. But the KGB officers didn’t let him — they made him keep his face bare so everyone who watched this on video would know who it was.
“We will put this on the Internet, so everyone who was at that protest will know what happens when we see them again. We will arrest everyone and treat them like you. We do not tolerate lawbreaking, and we do not tolerate deadbeats.”
“Take my nut, bitch!” Officer Gromov barked, making Antonov squeal, squirm and clench down hard on his asshole. Gromov moaned, his massive muscles flexing and relaxing, back and forth with such intensity it seemed he might break the stitching on his too-tight uniform. His cock rammed in and out of Antonov’s with long, powerful strokes.
The cum filled Antonov up inside. It was hot and sticky, and Antonov thought he would forever feel it within him. Officer Gromov waited until his cock had spewed every drop of cum and started growing limp then let it flop out. A big frothy ball of cum slipped out at the same time.
“You’re going to taste your own whorishness. Bitch.”
Officer Gromov grabbed that ass-slime and cum mixture with his fingers. He groaned at how disgusting it was, but wiped it off on Antonov’s face as the other KGB officers cheered. By then Antonov’s mouth was inured to the foul flavor, or maybe it tasted so similar to the body fluids already on his face that Antonov didn’t taste it too much. He slathered his tongue up and down Gromov’s sensitive cockshaft, slurping up the jizz and assjuice that clung to it.
Then they all just walked away. They left Antonov there on the table, his body sore, blushing as the inmates chanted insults at him. He stood on wobbly legs.
Had they just abandoned him? Maybe they considered the ramming to be punishment enough, he thought. He hadn’t paid the fine, so they rammed him and now he could go. Maybe, he thought, I should leave the country. I could go to Britain. No one will judge me for this there.
But when he recovered enough to look up, Officer Gromov was there with his arms crossed over his chest. He pointed to the door to the jail.
“What are you doing? You go in there, bitch.”
“What?”
“You owe a fine. You will live in the jail and get rammed by anyone who wants to. They will pay you money if they feel you deserve it. Once you make enough to pay off your fine, we will let you go,” he said. “But you will also have to pay for food and water. So you had better start making money.”
Antonov wept. “Please… won’t you pay…?”
“Me? No,” he said. “I do not pay, not unless you were very good at being my pussy. And you were not. You will must practice.”
Antonov cried as he returned to the jail. He wanted to get back to his family — assuming they would not reject him — and to get to the United Kingdom, so that meant he was going to need to start making some money.
First things first, he thought, I need to figure out which of the inmates in here might have some money. Then I can get paid. He trembled as he tried to clean his face off. His throat was sore, but no matter. It was only good for one thing now.

The Dishwasher

Mario Zappia is a cocky casanova and dishwasher at the Pizza King, but when he needs money, he’s willing to give Avery Flowers a taste of his guido meat. Can Avery handle it?

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here

Mario sucked on his teeth and rearranged his half-hard cock as he returned from out back. His dick was painfully sensitive because he had just gotten sucked off behind a dumpster. He could barely keep the smirking grin off his face. He loved the post-blowjob strut. He was sure everybody in the kitchen at the Pizza King could tell what he’d done. He licked his teeth like he was owed that blowjob.
Which he was, in a way. He treated that bitch right.
She was such a slut, he thought, and she wasn’t even good at sucking dick. He wondered if her father and brothers knew she gave out blowjobs like candy. They’d be humiliated if they knew. He ran his fingers through his slick black hair and put the hairnet on with a scowl. His muscles flexed, gleaming. The kitchen was so hot he was covered in sweat.
Vinnie the pizza-making fucker and Robert the prettyboy fucking waiter was sneaking peeks at Mario like they knew. Of course they knew he got a blowjob. Mario gets all the blowjobs cuz he got fly hair, a six-pack and he keeps it tight. He sucked on his teeth in their direction.
‘I should’ve gotten that slut to swallow my nut. She’d have done it too, I bet. I could’ve made her show me a mouth full of cum like a porno bitch.’
The image of that was stomach-churningly disgusting to Mario, but he really wanted to talk a girl into doing it. Like a black guy in a porno. The woman out back was such a slut he barely needed to mack on her for a minute before she dropped to her knees. Mario was tough; he was handsome; he was an alpha; he could get a girl to suck him off like that, yo! — the girls around here were such prudes though.
The dishes had piled up. Of course, Vinnie ain’t did any dishes. He was supposed to keep the dishes moving while Mario was out on break, but he hadn’t, and Mario knew he was going to get blamed for it.
The kitchen was a mess. A stack of pizza boxes done fallen over. A pile of banana peppers lay sprawled out across the floor. A mop bucket sat forlorn and filthy near the walk-in. A big bowl of spaghetii grew more and more crusty by the moment, resting on the shelf by the cooking station. A pan lay coated in extra-burnt charcoal near the stove — somebody had burnt something real bad.
With a harsh frown, Mario grabbed a pizza and brought it up front to a table. He wanted to get the kitchen back up to snuff, but he couldn’t do that with orders waiting around. As always, it was up to Mario to keep this place running.
And his dick wasn’t even dry in his pants yet. He had a smirk on his face when he went into the dining room of the Pizza King.
He scoffed and snorted and wrinkled his nose as he sullenly dropped off the pizza. He didn’t say anything to the customers at the table, because he was running through in his mind what to say to Vinnie about how awful the kitchen looked. Sure, maybe Mario realized, or a part of him did, that it was his fault too. Maybe mostly. Mario was supposed to keep the kitchen clean. Vinnie took over when he was outside, but Vinnie wasn’t supposed to be monitoring the entire kitchen.
Mario should have done that the entire time before he took his break, but he hadn’t noticed how the kitchen looked until he went outside and smoked a cigarette and returned. Now seeing it set his blood to boil.
“Man, fuck you, Vinnie, you mincing little shit!” Mario shouted at him as he came back to get a shaker of parmesan cheese for the pizza he had just brought out to a customer. He sneered at the stack of unwashed dishes, growing minute by minute, as though the sink had done him wrong. “You’s s’posed to do the motherfuckin’ dishes, Vinnie!”
Vinnie said something back, but Mario didn’t catch it. Mario sucked on his teeth again and gestured for Vinnie to go fuck himself — first he gave him the middle-finger, then he raised a fist at Vinnie and patted his own bicep — a gesto dell’ombrello. Vinnie glared at him, and his mean-mugging combined with Mario’s already hot collar.
Vinnie sucked on his teeth and waved Mario off.
“Come at me, then!” Mario said. He stepped forward and pounded on his chest. Some of the customers had noticed, but Mario didn’t care. His blood boiled. He wanted to strangle Vinnie. That was how it always went, whenever Mario felt a personal slight, he kept getting angrier and angrier.
The only thing that snapped him out of it this time was when one the other cooks, Tommy Lasso, stepped in front of him. He was a big beefy middle-aged Italian man, who scowled. “Mario, get ya ass in the awffice now!” He had a thick New Joisey accent. He shoved Mario away.
Mario wanted to go back and fight Vinnie. But he couldn’t cause a scene right now, he was trying to get an advance on his paycheck and any commotion was liable to make that impossible. So he backed away, mean-mugging that fat-ass punk-ass bitch-ass fake-Italian Vinnie Delatucci the whole way. He ain’t shit.
He didn’t turn around until he couldn’t see Vinnie or anyone else up front. Then he went into the back-office, Lasso still pushing him in that direction. He was surprised to see a different man there, a slim, flamboyant white man named Avery. Mario didn’t know Avery and eyed him suspiciously.
Avery blushed and nodded, and Mario gave him a hostile nod of hello.
“Mario, I heard you’s lookin’ for money, son,” Lasso said. He had a gravelly voice and that gruffly mellifluous New Joisey stawk. He had an Italian flag tattooed on his neck. It rippled when he moved. He had a craggy face and an ugly nose. Damn was he ugly, Mario don’t get how he ever found a wife. Shit, bitches got low standards in New Jersey.
“Oh, y’know, I ain’t lookin’ for a handout, no sir-” Mario said. “I got — I got bills, you know, but I can work, I do good work, shit-” He was still worked up from the encounter with Vinnie and now he was guarded because of the stranger eyeing him like candy. Avery looked Mario up and down with hungry eyes.
“Shut up. Mistah Caprinelli ain’t nevuh gonna give you one thin dime. He told me to slap ya for askin’,” Lasso said. He laughed. He reared his hand back as though he was going to do it, and in an instant, Mario was ready to hit him back. Mario formed a fist and mean-mugged Lasso, who continued smiling like he hadn’t noticed. “But I won’t. Instead, I got work for you, so you can earn it like a man instead of groveling like a bitch.”
“I ain’t grovelin’, yo’, don’t say that shit, Lasso, don’t spread yo’ scurry-“
“Shut the fuck up, jabroni, Jesus-fuckin’-Christ, you talk a buncha shit, ya fuckin’ prick,” Lasso said. He looked at Avery and nodded.
Avery’s thin lilting voice filled the cramped office. “I’ll give you two hundred dollars to let me jack you off,” Avery said. After a pause, he added, “With my mouth.” When again Mario didn’t immediately respond, Avery added again, “I’ll do it better than any blowjob. I heard you get them a lot.”
That was followed by a long silence, cuz Avery couldn’t think of anything to add to that, and Mario just looked dumbfounded. He probably made the same face when confronted with math, Avery thought. He was quite handsome, like a swarthy raccoon, with furrowing eyes and a petite little head, nose like a biscuit, He had the serious, smoldering brownness of an ethnically ambiguous underwear model, and he looked at Lasso like Lasso’s acne-scar marring on his face was a personal affront, but in a few years Mario wasn’t gonna look like a fresh-faced punk anymore and he was gonna wish he had the gravity of Lasso. He was already twenty-four, Avery thought. Dishwasher is no longer a cute profession for a man his age, and nobody told Mario he needed to improve himself. People don’t tell men with dimples things like that.
But for now, Avery just wanted to jerk him off. Basically all the women of Springfield, Illinois, seemed to want to do the same thing. Avery had heard of Mario’s blowjob prowess through his female friends, and he heard of Mario’s financial needs through his boss Lasso.
That’s who laughed the hardest as the shocked look that took over Mario’s face.
Mario was rarely flustered, but now he just scoffed and coughed over and over, unable to decide if it would look worse for his machismo to say yes or no. His cheeks bloomed red. His dick was ultra-sensitive cuz he just got a blowjob like five minutes ago.
“I just did get a blowjob in the fuckin’ alley, yo! From a chick!” Mario said.
“What? You delivered a pizza to a table-“
“Hmmm… was she fat?” Avery asked.
“Yo, shut up, she wasn’t fat,” Mario said.
“Did you wash your hands?”
Mario smirked. “Fuckin’-A, man, I ain’t touch the pizza. Well, maybe the crust a little.” He extended his middle finger towards the dining room. “Man, fuck ’em, shit, shit, man…” He looked at Lasso like he was trying to remember a reason to want to fight him, then he feinted with a half-hearted fist like he was thinking of doing it for no reason at all.
Then he looked back at Avery, who smiled. “Think you can go again.”
“Yo, no doubt, no doubt, no doubt, shit, man,” Mario said. “No doubt, I can always get hard, yo. Dick for days.” He repeated that like it was a slogan. “Dick for days, yo, dick for days.”
“Gonna see if that cock really works on ya, son,” Lasso said. He pushed Mario forward, towards Avery. Mario gulped, and he again paced — a very tiny route, just like two feet forward then two feet back.
“Yeah, shit, fine.” Mario nodded. “Yeah, sure, fine, man, whatever.” He sniffled and snarled like he did this every day. “Course my dick works. Hell yeah. Jerk it off, man, jerk it good. You deep-throat, bitch?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Avery grinned and dropped to his knees. “Of course.”
During a brief pause, the only sound was the distant roar of the ventilation and the low thrum of conversation in the restaurant. Mario sucked on his teeth, and Avery blushed. They both waited for Lasso to leave his office and shut the door. Mario stayed in that tiny office with Avery dropping to his knees. Lasso wished Avery wouldn’t do this in his office, but it was the only private room in the joint, so it was the only option. Avery had compensated Lasso for setting this up.
Mario gulped. He wasn’t nervous, he insisted that even to himself. There ain’t not a thing wrong with a man blowing a nut, he thought. It was real-uomo old-school, tough-guy prison shit.
Not that Mario had ever been to prison.
“You been to prison, right?”
Avery shook his head. “I was in the drunk tank for a day and a half once.” Avery unzipped his jeans and let his cock flop out. Avery loved men who were a little dirty and raunchy, and Mario fit the bill — he smelled like pizza and dishwater. These were the same jeans he usually wore to work, and he didn’t wash them often; even when he did wash them, that “pizza seasoning” smell didn’t come out. The grease and olive oil and oregano and parmesan all clung to the thick denim fabric, combining with the melange of Mario’s infrequently-washed sweat-coated muscles.
That big Italian hog dangled free, filling the office with the scent of manhood. Avery took it in his hand.
“I thought only booty bandits was ever into this kinda shit,” Mario said. “You nasty.”
Avery shrugged. “You’re wrong. You do have a nice dick.” He hefted it in his hand. “Not too big, not too hard. Smells a little like cheese.”
Mario screwed up his face. “Not too big, what’s’at mean, yo? It’s fuckin’ huge, you know it!” He smirked and laughed like he was looking for a hidden camera. “You know it!”
Avery kissed Mario on the tip of his cock, and he smirked up at him.
“It’s pretty big…”
Mario clucked his tongue. “Yeah, boy, get ya mouth on it that shit, don’t play wit’ it. Jabroni.” Despite his words, he took hold of his cock and slapped it over Avery’s face. “Ain’t it the biggest you ever seen, boy? Huh? Ain’t it?”
“Well-“
“Yeah, thought so,” Mario said. He seemed to have genuinely thought Avery said yes, and Avery didn’t disabuse him of that. Mario liked slapping Avery with his cock because he had done that to a girl once, as a joke, just one time, and she got furious and left. She had said it was disrespectful. Mario didn’t see it that way. He thought she should worship his cock. That seemed proper. His father (who was now in prison) said that women were meant to worship their man’s cock. Mario scoffed. “Bet you love my dick, huh?”
“I do!” Avery moaned. He chased Mario’s cock with his mouth, then finally got it past his lips. Mario stopped moving. Avery swallowed as much as he could in one go.
It was only part firm but getting harder by the second, and it turned into a jabbing iron rod in Avery’s mouth. Avery crooned and moaned around it the intensely savory flavor exploding in his mouth. Avery tasted a hint of something bitter and fruity — a woman’s lotion or maybe perfume — but he dismissed it as soap or remnants of laundry detergent. He didn’t know that it was the remnants of the woman who had sucked Mario off in the alley during his break.
Not that it would have turned Avery off if he knew. He soon hoovered up every drop of her odor anyway, eagerly making Mario forget about her shallow and amateurish blowjob.
Mario gasped and bit his lip, a little worried until now that he would have trouble getting an erection because he had just been sucked off moments ago. He tried to look nonchalant as his cock hardened in Avery’s mouth. Mario didn’t want to look surprised, but he had to admit he was shocked at how good this felt. He would have said that it could never be as good as a girl’s soft lips on his manhood.
But Avery was actually much better than any female. That became apparent right away. Mario’s overful balls thrummed as his dick stiffened up, Avery deep-throating him from the get-go — no girl was ever this enthusiastic about deep-throating. Mario had to talk girls into doing it, and they never had throats as wide or as deep as Avery’s.
Avery knew perfectly well what effect his mouth had on Mario. He had jerked off a lot of guys in the service industry, and an awful lot of them made faces like that. He was an expert deep-throater. Men could do it better than women, Avery thought, because they had the same equipment. They knew how to treat it right.
And women were namby-pamby about servicing big-cocked-studs like Mario.
“Hey, boy, I’m-a treat you right, ya feel me?” Mario said. He looked down at Avery, ignoring his instinctual panic at the sight of a male on his cock. He sucked on his tongue. He could already hear Lasso and others outside the office, laughing, no doubt impressed at how tough Mario was. He gripped Avery’s scalp. “I’m gonna plow ya throat now, I’m gonna treat it real rough. You gonna like that?”
Avery nodded without taking his dick out. His tongue teased the veiny underside of Mario’s shaft.
“Good. I don’t need no pansy goin’ full daffodil on me,” Mario grunted and chuckled. He had to hold back a grin. No girl had ever let him throat them, not like he had seen in porno. That was what he thought a blowjob should be like.
He held on and drilled his dick in. A spasm of pleasure ran up Mario’s spine as he felt Avery choke on his dick, but Avery didn’t make him stop, so Mario kept going. He rammed his cock all the way in until every last bit of dickflesh swelled to fill Avery’s throat.
“Ya, boy, you got balls-on-chin, man, that’s nasty, yo,” Mario said with a chuckle, making his voice loud enough that the guys outside could hear. “You must love my dick somethin’ fierce. Lemme hear you say it.” He pulled his dick out and Avery gasped.
“Uh-” Avery cried out for air.
Mario lightly slapped his cheek. “Lemme hear you say it. You love my dick or not?”
“I love… your dick…” Avery opened his mouth and went back to slurping on it even before Mario had heard him say it. Mario cackled and resumed throating, drilling his dick down deep.
This time, Mario realized he could be as harsh and violent as he wanted, Avery didn’t seem to care. He humped Avery’s mouth hard, laughing every time he heard his sweaty balls thwack against Avery’s chin — he had long ago heard jokes about ballsweat on a girl’s chin and had long thought that was how blowjobs were supposed to go, but he had such a big dick that no woman could swallow him deeply enough to achieve “balls on chin”.
But Avery managed it without even breaking a sweat.
“Ah, shit, boy, goddamn, you swallow dick good,” Mario said. He cleared his throat. “I mean… almost as good as this one female, uh — ” He paused. “I mean, a couple females. You know…” He hoped that sounded believable. Really most girls didn’t like sucking dick and made no effort to do it well. Mario would never admit that this was better than a female though.
In fact, if he hadn’t had a blowjob just a few minutes ago, he would have busted a nut already. He was kinda glad that he had to work for it now, then, cuz it wouldn’t look gangsta to bust a nut that quick. He made sure the guys watching could see his six-pack.
His ears wrinkled when he realized Lasso and the others were huddled together and laughing from the kitchen area. They all must have known what was going on now. Mario wasn’t shook up, and he wasn’t embarrassed — they just didn’t get Mario’s old-school Italian ways, he thought. He sucked on his teeth. “Buncha mamby-pamby pussies,” he thought, as precum leaked profusely from his dick and coated Avery’s mouth.
“You gonna get it up the dook-chute next, Mario?” Lasso called out from outside the office, and the others out there snickered too. It sounded like they were daring each other to come in here.
“Fuck you, Lasso!” Mario said. He wanted to add more, to call Lasso old and to claim he must have a withered useless cock.
But Mario was overwhelmed then by his orgasm, which hit him suddenly, surprised by how intense it was, maybe because his dick had started off so sensitive from the prior blowjob. He held on tight to Avery’s scalp, but Avery had taken control of this. Avery nuzzled his nose all the way into Mario’s pubic hair, letting his veiny uncut shaft throb in Avery’s throat.
“Goddamn… You gonna swallow, boy? Lemme see my nut in ya mouth first,” Mario said, a smile emerging onto his face. He threw his head back, and his voice broke then as an orgasm exploded within him. He couldn’t believe how good it felt. He was sure he looked like some young punk who’d never gotten sucked off before, he was just glad no one but Avery could see.
His lithe light-tan body squirmed, his compact little muscles all flexing at once. Creamy cum flowed plentifully down Avery’s throat. He had a spicy flavor to it, like the pizza shop he worked in and the bracing red pepper flakes that Avery could taste remnants of on his cock. It was warm, salty and savory too, like raw pizza dough, and his body was firm as ice when Avery reached his hands up to tweak his nipples and make his pecs ripple.
“Shit, goddamn…” Mario’s face was red as Avery finally let go. Mario cleared his throat to sound tough, like this was no big deal. Another jet of jizz filled Avery’s mouth and overflowed down his chest, and Mario’s knees went weak. He gasped, and all them all watching laughed. Mario laughed with them, even as his voice broke and he said, “Lemme see ya — ya nasty mouff fulla my nut.”
Avery opened his mouth, which was full of Mario’s cum. That creamy, salty flavor was all his senses could focus on, and Avery craved swallowing it. He needed it.
But first, Mario thought, he wanted all those guys out there to know how big his dick was and how good he was at using it. He opened the door with his massive dick, still half-hard, resting on Avery’s face. Avery’s mouth was open to display Mario’s wad resting on his tongue. Mario pumped his biceps.
“Oh shit-!”
“Nasty!”
“Goddamn, Mario!”
Mario cackled. Lasso and the other guys looked first and cheered, then they all blushed and covered their eyes. No one wanted to see Mario’s dick or his cumwad congealing on Avery’s tongue, but none could really look away either. Mario flexed his pecs too, concealed by his too-tight shirt, but it was tight enough that everybody could see how strong his chest was.
They were impressed, Mario was sure of that.
“Nah, watch this, watch this, I can make him swallow it whenever,” Mario said. He flopped his limp dick between his fingers, making sure his friends could see it, but he acted like it was an accident that he hadn’t put it away yet. He didn’t want it to be obvious he was showing off.
He held his hand in front of Avery’s face. “Spit it out, man.”
Avery spat Mario’s cum into Mario’s palm in front of his face. Avery blushed. “I love your cock, Mario, please, let me lick it more, let me swallow your nut-“
The others laughed so hard no one could hear the rest of Avery’s begging. Mario didn’t care, he just smirked and nodded. The guys all hooted, peering through their fingers as Avery slurped that cumload back off Mario’s mouth. He swallowed it, smacked his lips and let Mario see his now-empty mouth.
“Hell, yeah, boy! He slurped that shit!” Mario thwacked Avery with his limp cock. He couldn’t believe women kept refusing to do that — it was no big deal, he thought, if some dude could do it. Mario sucked on his teeth and pumped his biceps. “And he’s gonna pay me for the privilege, shit!”
Avery handed over the money, which Mario counted standing right there, his dick still out and dangling between his legs. Mario smiled broadly. He hadn’t felt so good in a long time.
When Lasso and the others finally went back upfront to return to work, Mario put his dick away. He sneered at Avery. “That was nice, man. Thanks for the money. Not that I needed it, y’know.”
“Sure.”
“Maybe you can come back in sometimes? Like… y’know, whenever. I work most evenings, except Thursdays and Fridays,” Mario said. He shrugged. “Or whatever, you ain’t got to. I got females, y’know… begging for my meat.”
Avery giggled. “Well, maybe I’ll drop in when I can, and when you’re not too busy with your girls. I sure did enjoy the taste of your Italian sausage.”

Reacharound From a Stepfather

Fletcher doesn’t like his new stepdad, who’s a biker. But when Fletcher comes home from college for spring break, he has to spend time… and a bed with him, which means Fletcher’s about to see his stepdad Sagan in a whole new light. Can he handle what Sagan has in store for him?

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Fletcher didn’t like his new stepfather, and the more time they spent together, the less he liked him. He knew it made him seem like a whiny kid instead of the young adult college student he actually was, but he couldn’t help it.
Until last year, his mother had always been a liberal, educated woman with a professional career as a paralegal. Then she met Sagan. He was a biker, a redneck and a mechanic, a rough, hairy and tattooed thug, walking with a pimp lean even though he’s white, muscles like a baseball player… They fell in love, and Sagan convinced her it was wrong for a woman to work outside the home.
And so that was that, she quit her job. She began speaking in a Southern accent and reminded people all the time that she was “Alabama-born” — that was technically true, but she had been born in Alabama while her parents passed through on the way to their home in Dover. She was really a Delawarean.
Luckily Fletcher was in college by then. He didn’t have to see Sagan very often, but when he did, he became annoyed by his redneck antics every time. Tonight he was home for spring break, he’d be leaving tomorrow to go on a trip with his friends, so he only had to get through one night with Sagan in the house.
He went to bed early, while Sagan and his friends were still outside smoking cigarettes in the dark and talking about motorcycles. Sagan knew everything about bikes and made sure everyone was aware of it. Fletcher really hated him and his stupid redneck voice. That holler in his accent made this whole house feel like a trailer park.
This family used to be nice. Back when his biological father was here, it wasn’t like this. Mom was sophisticated, smart, professional. The house was clean, and there were never motorcycles revving outside over and over. Why did they have to be so loud?
Fletcher pulled his pillow over his face, and he groaned into it. Outside, the rednecks drawled on and on like youtube videos.
“Them Jap bikes ain’t that bad. I wouldn’t nevuh buy one, but they ain’t as shitty as they used to be.”
“Don’t ever ask me when I’m sober cuz I’ll deny it, but I’d love to buy a Mitsuhama.”
“Chicks dig them bikes, they think they’s sexy. And quiet, girls don’t like loud bikes.”
“If my bitch ever said she ain’t like a bike cuz it’s too loud, I’d bend her over the revving engine and fuck some sense into her. She’ll either go deaf or get smart with a quickness.”
That last voice was Sagan, or so Fletcher suspected. They all sounded the same to him, that same drawling redneck accent. He had told his mother before about the terrible, misogynistic things he said, but she didn’t care. “That’s just his way, sweetie,” was what she said. “He don’t mean it. He just talk rough. He spent time in prison, y’know.”
Fletcher didn’t care why Sagan talked like that. He didn’t like anyone talking about his mother like she was some common slut. But there was nothing he could do, so he just huddled under his covers, trying to pretend the noise wasn’t keeping him awake.
Did they all realize how loud they were being? It wasn’t normal in any neighborhood, was it? To be this loud at night? Who revs engines in the middle of the night?!
“Lemme head in there, guys. I’ll be back. I got some… one to do.”
“You gonna fuck the missus? We’ll help you out if’n you want.”
Sagan must have made some kind of face, because Fletcher didn’t hear him say anything, but the other men laughed. He hoped he wasn’t going to have to hear Sagan and Mom having sex. That would be awful. Fletcher would have to move out.
The front door opened. Sagan snorted and spat on the ground before entering. That was another habit Fletcher found revolting — Sagan spat often, like a baseball player.
After the front door slammed shut, Fletcher heard his stepfather come into the hall. There, he stopped for what seemed like a long time. Fletcher stayed as motionless and silent as possible, buried under his blankets.
Sagan’s heavy footsteps resumed, walking down the hall, but they stopped in front of Fletcher’s room.
“Stick it in her, Sagan! Stick it in her good!”
“Ooh, Sagan, I love you!”
“I love you too, babuh. Hmm-hmm.” They all laughed at that impression of Sagan. Did they think he sounded like Elvis? It sounded like an Elvis impression.
Fletcher rolled over. He pretended to be asleep when Sagan opened the door to his room. The smell of cigarette smoke, engine oil and sweat filled the air, and Sagan’s broad chest heaved with his breathing, like he was out of breath even though he wasn’t.
“Hey, Fletcher,” Sagan said quietly, a leer deep in his voice. “You awake?”
Pretending to be groggy, Fletcher rolled back over and faced him. “Kinda.”
Sagan sat on the edge of the bed, which weighed down the mattress and forced Fletcher to move closer to him. His body pressed against Sagan’s muscular ass right where he sat. Fletcher scooted further away, but the angle of the mattress forced him closer.
In truth, he kind of liked it next to Sagan’s powerful body. Fletcher didn’t like him, but he did appreciate Sagan’s muscular frame. Fletcher found the male form pleasing, at least when it was muscular and well-formed like Sagan. In the light, Sagan’s body was pockmarked with scars and faded prison tats, but in the darkness, he was just a masculine silhouette whose shape made Fletcher’s eyes open wide.
His smell was strong too in the darkness. That aroma, combining manliness and motorcycle and cigarette smoke, was intoxicating and heady, and it made Fletcher dizzy. He inhaled deeply of it.
“I know you don’t like me,” Sagan said.
Fletcher shrugged. “I don’t hate you.”
“That’s nice,” Sagan said. He placed one hand on Fletcher’s shoulder. “I love yer mama. You might not believe it, but I really do. I got s’r’uss feelin’s for her. You believe me?”
Fletcher didn’t respond. It hadn’t occurred to him to even have an opinion on that. He didn’t like his stepfather, he didn’t want the relationship to continue, he didn’t want Sagan to love his mother.
But Fletcher hadn’t considered whether it was true or not. His mother had her own history and goals and secret longings, and Sagan did too. For a moment, it felt like running into a teacher out in the community, it was surprising to learn, or rather to feel viscerally, that they were real people with their own lives, inner feelings, hopes and fears. His mother too, she wanted love, she believed Sagan loved her, and until this very moment, Fletcher had never considered this relationship in any way other than how it affected him.
Did he believe Sagan loved his mother? Well… It couldn’t be a scam, right? Mom didn’t have any money. Why else would Sagan marry her?
But that didn’t mean it was real love. Just because they both believed they were in love didn’t mean they were true loves, in the Disney, Hallmark, romcom kind of way. Or did it? What made some loves true and others not? Permanence? Is there no way to know if love is real except to wait a couple decades and see if it remains? No other emotion is defined that way.
But Fletcher didn’t say any of those things out loud.
Sagan sighed and stripped off his leather jacket. He carefully draped it over the chair by the bed. Then he took off his stained t-shirt and the torn wifebeater he wore under that. His powerful chest, brimming with tattoos, was barely visible in the dim light of night.
“I ain’t hear no moanin’ yet, Sagan!”
“Oooh, ooh, Sagan, I love your tiny dick-!”
“I wantchoo to fill me with every single millimeter! That’s right, both millimeters, all the way in!”
“You havin’ trouble gettin’ hard, Sagan?”
“You can ignore them,” Sagan said. “Sorry they so loud. They’s a bunch of assholes.”
“Yeah, they are.”
A long pause followed as Sagan’s grease-stained, callused fingers caressed Fletcher’s shoulder. It made Fletcher shudder and scoot closer to Sagan. “You don’t got a girlfriend, huh? You never did, right?” he said.
Fletcher shook his head and blushed, glad that Sagan couldn’t see how red his face was. In the darkness of his unlit room, he found himself inexorably drawn to Sagan’s visible asscrack as he pondered how to respond. Sagan had probably never been eighteen years old and single. He was probably fucking mad chicks back then. And now. Or at least until he got married. And maybe he still was fucking around outside of his marriage.
“Yer mama is still gonna love you,” Sagan said. “She loves you more than me, y’know. You might not think it, but she do. She told me that last week. I been telling her how to think and how to dress and how to vote and she just accept it. Then I tell her you’re a bit of a whiner, and she slapped me. She said she love you more than me and if I ever say somethin’ not nice about you again, she’ll leave me. She said she ain’t gonna put out for a month to punish me.”
“Really?”
“Fer real, man,” Sagan said. “I ain’t even mean to insult you or nuttin’. I was just annoyed you got all whiny about me treading in mud and engine grease on the floor.” He snorted again and spat in the trash can. Fletcher was grossed out but also intensely aroused. He found that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Sagan’s muscular back, which writhed when he hocked a loogie and spat.
“Okay.”
Sagan bent over and began undoing his heavy black boots. Since he was leaning forward, his bare back stretched and his asscrack was visible above the waist of his scuffed jeans. “You can play wit’ it, if you want.”
“What?”
“My ass. I can feel you lookin’ at it,” Sagan said, still facing down to his feet as he untied his boots. “Go ahead. I was in prison, remember? I ain’t gonna freak out at a man touchin’ me.”
“Oh.”
“Go on ‘n touch me.”
Fletcher got past his anxiety and stuck a finger down Sagan’s pants, right in his hairy, sweaty crack. A shudder ran down Fletcher’s spine. His eyes opened wide, and he moved close enough that his nose touched the firmness of Sagan’s back.
That asscrack was hot and hairy and sweaty, and it made Fletcher’s dick stand up under the covers. His finger crept lower and lower until his entire hand was wedged between Sagan’s ass and his dirty jeans.
Fletcher’s finger stopped when it reached the tangle of hair over Sagan’s asshole. Then he pushed through and touched that tight warm ring. He didn’t go in, sensing that Sagan wouldn’t permit that, he just hugged the rim while Sagan pulled off his boots and socks.
“Yee-haw! Make her scream, Sagan!”
Someone outside loudly revved the engine to their motorcycle, and the others laughed.
“She likin’ this sound yet or what?” He revved it again, cackling as he asked over and over whether she liked the sound.
Then Sagan stood without warning. At first Fletcher thought he was mad, that this would be it and Sagan was going to beat him up. But instead he simply dropped his pants and his dingy white boxers. His thick cock dangled, half-hard already. He stood there as though waiting for something.
“You can touch it, if you want,” Sagan said softly.
Fletcher did so, trembling as he wrapped one hand around Sagan’s thick cock. There was a tattoo of a skull-and-crossbones on it, Fletcher could just barely see it in the dark. That was weird. Who tattooed their cockshaft? Fletcher pictured Sagan taking his dick out in a tattoo parlor and the tattooist touching it, holding it still as he worked on it. Must have hurt, Fletcher thought.
His heart pounding, Fletcher hefted up that slab of meat and inhaled deeply of its musty scent. Sagan chuckled. His limp cock throbbed in Fletcher’s grip.
Without giving it another thought, Fletcher swallowed it down, as deep as he could get on it. He drooled as an explosion of masculine flavor hit his tongue, and Sagan moaned. There was a faintly surprised tenor in his voice, as though he didn’t think Fletcher’s unpracticed throat would be smooth and welcoming
“C’mon, Sagan, you put it in her ass yet?”
“I gonna drink all yer beer if you don’t get out here!”
“If you ain’t get hard yet, it ain’t gonna happen!”
Soon Sagan was rock-hard, grunting as he bucked his hips, pushing his dick deeper and deeper down Fletcher’s throat. He held onto the back of Fletcher’s head as though going to throat him down, but didn’t. He just gently worked his dick as far as it would go.
“Yeah…” Sagan voice melted away as his dick spasmed in Fletcher’s mouth.
The taste of precum hit him, and Fletcher gurgled merrily. It was salty and sweet, savory and sour, it tasted like exactly what he had been looking for. He forced himself to deep-throat even more of it.
He continued until his nose was buried in Sagan’s unkempt pubic hair, which stood out from his crotch like a shrub. His dick was even bigger than it had first seemed because the first few inches were concealed by hair, which smelled of metal and stale semen.
Fletcher’s fingers crept up Sagan’s body to his muscular chest. He didn’t have a six-pack, but his barrel-shaped torso was bulging with muscles and the power of his frame emanated from him in his body heat, which enveloped Fletcher. Fletcher withdrew his fingers when he realized that probably seemed too weird to Sagan.
But Sagan shook his head, grabbed his hands and brought them back up to his nipples. “Go on and feel whatever you wanna feel, boy,” Sagan said. He flexed his pecs beneath Fletcher’s grasp. “You wanna stick a finger in my ass? Go on, I’s a prison-man, ‘member? You ain’t gonna shock me.”
Fletcher, however, was shocked. He kept one of his hands on those rock-hard pecs and erect nipples, while his other hand crept to Sagan’s plump ass. He pushed his finger back through the tangled nest of asshair and plunged hesitantly into Sagan’s butthole.
It was warm and tight, and every time he moved his finger even the slightest, it made Sagan grunt and shake. Fletcher smiled as he watched his stepfather writhe beneath his touch. His spongy prostate felt good beneath Fletcher’s fingertip.
“I’m-a ram you in the ass now, boy,” Sagan murmured. He hurried under the blankets as though this was a race, wrapped his muscular body around Fletcher and rammed the tip of his dick right in. Fletcher bucked and tensed as pain shot through him. Sagan stopped moving. “Hey, sorry, I ain’t nevuh ram a man outside of prison. I ain’t used to doin’ it nice,” he said. He sounded genuinely apologetic as he stroked Fletcher’s spasming back. “But I’ll do somethin’ fer you I only ever done on my prison bitch’s birthday and Christmas.” He reached one hand around Fletcher’s body and grabbed his cock, which was already hard.
Then he began working his dick in and out slowly. The motion sent sparks of sensation through Fletcher’s body, and he gasped and moaned and writhed, as the pressure in his ass grew and grew even as it morphed into spams of pleasure that wracked Fletcher’s body. Every minute or two, Sagan seemed to forget that he was trying to be gentle, and he’d hump his hips hard until Fletcher squealed and squirmed. Then he apologized and slowed down again.
“Sorry, boy, you squirm real nice-like…” He kissed Fletcher on the nape. His hands squeezed Fletcher’s cock, one hand holding firmly onto the cockroot while the other spit-lubed hand stroked the shaft.
He kept chewing on his lips and snorting, emitting almost a snore-like sound. He even paused every few minutes and spat a loogie into the trash can by the bed. Each time he did, his belly and his powerful chest writhed above Fletcher’s body.
The thick, bristly hair of his chest and arms scratched at Fletcher’s back. He arched his spine as the sensations grew more and more intense, to the point where he wasn’t sure he could stand it. Fletcher couldn’t even tell if it was so intensely painful or pleasurable, it was just too much of everything, and it made him squirm in his stepafather’s powerful arms.
“If it hurts, you can bite my arm, son,” Sagan said softly, his voice sending a shudder up Fletcher’s spine. He put the meaty part of his forearm in front of Fletcher’s face, like a chokehold almost, but not tight.
Fletcher was glad to have the opportunity for a little relief, as the sensations roiling within were so intense it felt like he was going to explode. He bit down hard on the firm muscles of Sagan’s forearm, which made Sagan moan as though he loved being bitten. His forearm was brimming with muscle so big it seemed to barely fit beneath his skin, and his coarse body hairs rubbed against Fletcher’s teeth and lips. There were tattoos there on his skin, but Fletcher couldn’t see them in the dark and his mind was too distracted by the cock in his ass to remember what they were.
“You makin’ babies tonight, Sagan?!”
“Don’t pull out, man!”
“Whoop, whoop!”
He chuckled into Fletcher’s ear. “I ain’t gonna pull out. I’m gonna cum inside you, boy. You like that? You wanna feel me shoot a nut in you?”
“Yeah…”
“Good. I don’t like pullin’ out. Does it still hurt?”
“A little.”
“Good. It should hurt a bit,” Sagan said. “Is it alright if’n I come see you at night every once in a while?”
“Yeah.”
After another long pause, Sagan said, “Every night?”
“Yeah,” Fletcher said. “You’ll do this again, right?”
“Hell yeah. Try and stop me,” Sagan said. He kissed Fletcher on the cheek.
“Hmmm…” Fletcher’s voice broke as a fresh wave of pleasure hit his prostate and rumbled its way up his body. His open mouth gnawed at Sagan’s meaty forearm, but he couldn’t summon the wherewithal to actually bite down anymore. All he could do was writhe amid the tangle of Sagan’s sweat-matted hair and contorting muscles.
The motorcycles outside revved loudly. Sagan grunted, annoyed, waited for the engines to quiet down again, then screamed loud enough that everyone outside could hear. “You quit makin’ that racket, Cooter! I’ll come cornhole you instead, motherfucker, bend you right over that bike and ram you up the backside! You know I will too!”
They all laughed — presumably all except Cooter — and teased each other about who would like it the best if Sagan did ramrod them. Fletcher moaned at the thought of it, his mind picturing Cooter (or at least, the biker he suspected was Cooter, since Fletcher didn’t know who was who out there) bent over as he was sodomized by Sagan’s big tattooed meat.
Fletcher wondered if Sagan actually did that kind of thing. Did he cornhole the other bikers?
“You like that, huh? I did ramrod that Cooter once. He bet he could beat me in a race. I beat his ass down,” Sagan said. “Next time I do that, I let you watch, boy. Maybe you can join in, if you want to. You like that idea?”
“Yes, dad…” Fletcher moaned in ecstasy, as Sagan’s cock rammed all the way in and all the way out with each powerful thrust of Chooper’s body. It made Fletcher’s bed shake under them.
“Good. Now here comes my nut. You ready fer it? Lemme hear you say it.”
“I’m ready for your nut,” Fletcher said, struggling to get the words out.
“Alright, this’ll hurt a bit,” he said, then rammed his dick all the way in. It did send a shiver of pain up Fletcher’s spine, but more prominently it sent Fletcher to new heights of ecstasy as well. His prostate burned with stimulation as his mind reeled.
When Sagan’s orgasm actually came, Fletcher felt it through the quiver of his muscles and the loud rumbling in his throat. Fletcher gasped as his own climax began building at that moment, when he felt Sagan’s manhood spasming deep within him.
“He’e it is, boy, take it, take every drop…” His voice was low and slow. “Lemme hear you say it. Say when you feel it and when you don’t no mo’.”
Cum sprayed into Fletcher’s body, as Sagan’s muscles all tensed. He yelped and squealed directly into Fletcher’s ear and even licked his earlobe as pleasure shot through them both.
“I feel it, daddy,” Fletcher said, his voice weak and small as pleasure overran him. “I feel your cum inside me.” Once the semen flowed into him, it stuck to his innards and Fletcher felt nothing but creamy warmth. It was only after a few full minutes that Fletcher realized he was definitely done, as he kept feeling trickling jizz inside him until then. “That’s it, I think. I don’t feel it anymore,” he said through gritted teeth.
Then Sagan pulled out, laid Fletcher on his back and used both hands to stroke Fletcher off. Fletcher writhed, the intense pleasure overwhelming him. He clutched Sagan’s powerful chest and broad shoulders. Sagan smiled as though he enjoyed the sight of Fletcher’s delicate fingers clutching his muscles and his kinky chest hair.
“I ain’t nevuh done this, boy,” Sagan said before bending his head over and taking Fletcher’s dick in his mouth. He moved all in one smooth motion, as though if he stopped to think about it, he’d back out.
By that time, Fletcher was already beginning to nut. His orgasm overwhelmed him as soon as he felt that warm moisture on his dick. Sagan’s tongue had no sooner touched Fletcher’s manhood when cum sprayed into Sagan’s mouth. He gagged but didn’t stop.
A plentiful load flowed into Sagan’s throat, and though he screwed up his face in disgust, he swallowed every drop. Fletcher had never felt pleasure so intense — he had masturbated, of course, but it had never felt like this. He shot what felt like a massive load, which drained down Sagan’s tattooed neck.
When Fletcher was done, Sagan lifted his head up, wiped his lips off with a tissue and gagged again. He patted Fletcher on the cheek, kissed him chastely there and got out of bed.
“Damn, Sagan, you tryin’-a give her an orgasm tonight? Tryin’ somethin’ new?”
“Lemme tell you a secret, boy,” Sagan said, standing next to the bed. He rubbed Fletcher’s back and asscheeks with one hand. “I been in prison a couple times. I, uh… I mean… I did have a prison bitch. A couple of ’em. But, uh… I also been the prison bitch a few times, and I uh… I had a prison wife for awhile. I ain’t mind swallowin’ that man’s dick. I don’t mind swallowin’ your’n neither. Don’t tell yer mama.”
“Okay,” Fletcher said, too exhausted to process that information.
“Now you just playin’ wit’ it, Sagan!”
Sagan slowly put his clothes on. He smiled at Fletcher and patted him on the head. “Go on, go to sleep, boy, and have a good trip tomorrow. I’ll make those fuckheads shut up.”
“Okay. Thanks, Sagan.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. He paused at the doorway. “I don’t expect you to say this back to me, Fletcher… But I love you, son.”
Fletcher waited until he was gone to say it back, but he had a feeling Sagan knew he had said it. Just seconds later, Sagan barked at his friends outside.
“Shut yer goddamn mouths and turn your engines off, fuckheads! The family I love is tryin’-a sleep!”

The Workers

At this work camp, the men get their needs met one way or another…

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Neil thought the difficult part of this job would be living out in the middle of nowhere — literally. He worked for a mining company’s construction crew, building employee housing and other structures on a remote mountainside in southeastern Alaska. He and his fellow workers had been hired from all over the world and brought here to live in the woods. It would take most of a year to build, but at the end, almost an entire town would exist here where currently there was nothing.
But the isolation and boredom were not that big of a deal. After a few weeks, Neil got used to that. The guys he worked with were loud and outgoing, and more friendly than Neil would have thought. The middle of nowhere was okay when you had a couple dozen guys to live with.
It turned out, however, that the most difficult part of the job was taking a shower. There was no plumbing out here, of course, that was one of the things being built in this work camp. So they had to use a “hygiene tent” for showering.
The hygiene tent was simply a large, ordinary tent outside of camp, just like the tents Neil and the other workers lived in. The only thing that made the hygiene tent special was that it was rigged up with hoses as showerheads and had a constant campfire with coals out front to heat up the water before showers. It was living rough, but it was pretty nice as far as living rough went. Neil liked to camp, so it seemed fine to him, in the abstract.
It was difficult in practice, however, because Neil had to shower with others.
The idea hadn’t bothered him — he was on the baseball team in college, so he was used to changing in a group. But it was different here. In college, everyone had been embarrassed. They got naked as little as possible and they tried to avoid looking at each other. They showered as far away from each other as possible, without talking, and as quickly as they could. Nobody looked at each other’s cocks. Even hinting that you might have seen a buddy’s penis was considered an unpardonable offense.
Here, the men were older, rougher, many of them having spent time in prison. Others had been homeless for a time, some were recovering drug addicts, and one had spent years doing missionary work in Honduras. They were not self-conscious at all. Some of them got naked as soon as work was done for the day, and they just sat around drinking beer and scratching their balls.
That was not something Neil had ever experienced before. They thought nothing of it, just dropping trou and letting it all hang out. One man even had a big scar on his dick — Neil didn’t notice at first, of course, because he didn’t look, but then the others kept making jokes about how that man’s cock had been torn off by some “crazy chick”. Neil couldn’t help but look, it was just a joke, his cock was there, but scarred.
“Man, if a girl showed up here, swear to God… I don’t even care how crazy she is, I’d fuck the shit outta any female who gives up the pussy. She could be as fat as all hell, more cushion for the pushin’!”
“My pops used to do this kind of work, he said they used to send prostitutes to live here too. They were just part of the crew. Ain’t allowed to do that no mo’.”
Neil wasn’t used to people talking like that. He was from a nice middle-class household. Nobody spoke of prostitutes openly (or even in secret), and they certainly didn’t sit around stark naked. He tried to pretend to fit in though. The one time he got made fun of was when he saw two Confederate-flag-tatted rednecks take their limp cocks out and sword-fight with each other.
A gasp escaped from Neil’s lips at the sight of their rough old-man cocks rubbing against each other. Neil blushed — he probably seemed like some Victorian-era elite, ready to flop onto a fainting couch. Neil hated that he came across that way, but he couldn’t help it. This was gross and unsanitary, and he didn’t care who knew he felt that way. “You’re touching dicks!”
“You never touched a man’s cock before?”
“Check out the lily-livered pussy! Hey, you scared of a real man’s dick!”
“No!” Neil said, blushing. “I just don’t cotton to touching other men’s cocks.”
“Well, shit, you just wait for Rob to show up. He’ll set ya straight.”
“Rob’ll swallow you til you come out the other end, boy! He’ll rock ya world!”
Neil didn’t want to ask who Rob was. He was picturing some giant hillbilly who would make him ‘do things’ at night. He was already picturing himself squealing like a piggie.
But instead, Rob turned out to be a slim, delicate man with a flirtatious lilt to his voice and a feminine hourglass-shape to his body. He came to every work camp in the area, it seemed, and he helped the men get a nut off and relieve their stiffies. It sounded disgusting to Neil, but he took it in stride.
The tradition was called the Power Shower — that was why Rob came to this camp. Every man in the camp was “required” to let a man jack him off in the hygiene tent. Depending on who you asked, it was either a rule every day, every week, every month or just once in a lifetime. They all said men worked better once they had drained their nuts, and management didn’t want them swaggering into town on leave with swollen balls and Roman hands.
The weirdo, Rob, who presumably was hired to service the roughnecks, was supposed to do it at night, when everyone else was asleep. That meant there was no way to verify it, but they all treated it like a requirement.
He planned on lying about it. He waited for a night when nobody was up late, figuring he could claim it had happened that night and nobody would believe him. A few others had made it pretty clear they didn’t do it even though it was “required”, so it was obviously not a real requirement. Neil fully intended to just make it up. Nobody could prove or disprove it happened. A lot of the other workers did accuse each other of faking it, of being impotent, of being cowards, and they all denied it. Each roughneck would have to do or do not, or lie or lie not, as he saw fit. Rob had made it clear he wouldn’t confirm or deny that anyone had done it. Rob did say it was a requirement, that he was promised every roughneck cock in the camp, but he did not claim that everyone actually did it.
So that was Neil’s plan. He’d wait until he fit in better, and then he’d say he did, but he’d say it had happened a few weeks before, like it was no big deal at all at the time. A lot of them treated it like that, as though they got jerked off by men all the time (which, Neil supposed, was possibly true).
But that wasn’t how it turned out at all. Neil never got a chance to pretend it had happened. Before he even knew what was happening, he had done it.
Neil woke up one morning early — he was the only man in camp who occasionally woke up before dawn — and stumbled out to take a piss. He realized Rob was there, cooking breakfast over an open fire. Neil nodded a bleary-eyed hello at him.
And then he realized he was so horny his balls could burst. He’d been stressed out since getting here, but only now felt comfortable enough to realize how horny he was. He wanted to fuck more than anything. He’d had a sexy dream that he only half-remembered, but the part he remembered was that he nearly got to fuck a woman. He woke up right before the sex began, and now he was more horny than he’d been in a long time.
Damn, he wanted to fuck.
Respectfully. With a respectful manner towards the woman. As part of a dutiful relationship. Neil gulped.
His ex was in that dream. Claire was her name, she was blonde as the sun, with tits like… and a personality Neil appreciated. She was smart. A college graduate. She was so hot the thought of her made his dick throb. He wished he’d had a wet dream. When he was a younger man, if he had a dream like that, he absolutely would have. He’d have woken up mid-orgasm, cum spurting over his chest and belly.
But nowadays, he needed some real stimulation.
Rob looked at him and winked. “Hey,” he said. He stood at an angle, like a woman waiting to be asked to dance. He was fey and limp-wristed, and Neil didn’t much want to get to know him. He wondered how much Rob got paid for doing this shit. He didn’t ask though. It must be a lot.
Neil grunted. He decided to go take a shower in the hygiene tent to calm down. A cold shower would help.
I bet Rob swallows dick all the way down. Girls don’t really deep-throat, but that weirdo probably does.
He tried not to think about that. He went into the shower tent and turned on the hot water. He liked showering early because there was plenty of hot water. The coals had been burning all night, and the water bubbled away outside the hygiene tent
He turned around, and saw Rob standing in front of him. Rob grinned. “Hey,” he said again. “Are you ready for your Power Shower?”
“Uh…” Neil wanted to say no, but he couldn’t think of a reason to refuse. He wanted a nut so bad it hurt. Just thinking about it made his dick twitch. No one would know. Rob probably wouldn’t say, and even if he did, he often made grandiose claims as a joke. Rob claimed that guy Cooter had a sixteen-inch cock, and they all saw in the shower that it wasn’t that. Nobody would just believe Rob automatically.
A jolt of realization flooded Neil — a lot of guys left it unclear whether they had done it or merely joked about doing it, or whether they did it willingly or only because there was a “rule”. That vagueness, he thought, must be because they were all as uncertain about it as Neil. Nobody could ever be criticized for it if it was never clear who had done it or not.
So there was no reason not to do it. No one would know. Neil could do it here in the dark, and it’d be like it never happened.
By the time he had talked himself into it, Neil felt his dick disappearing into Rob’s mouth. The dim light of the hygiene tent made it seem a lot easier because Neil could easily pretend it was a girl on his cock. A woman. A respectful, respectable woman, whom Neil respected. Unlike these other roughnecks, Neil went to college, and he wanted to act like it.
A soft warmth suffused his body, and the stresses drifted out with each one of his rapidly hastening breath. Pleasure erupted through his veins. Neil’s knees almost buckled, and he held onto the fabric wall of the hygiene tent until that made the whole thing shake. He let go.
“Oh shit…” Neil tried to stay quiet, but his breathing grew jagged and harsh as his dick rocketed to full erection. Little spams of sensations wracked his muscular frame, and his hands tightened into claws that dug at the air around him. He clenched his teeth. “Daaaaamn…”
He’d never had felt like this. He hadn’t realized it until now, but he suspected that no girl had ever really wanted to give him a blowjob — they did it to be nice, or as foreplay, but not because they loved sucking dick.
Rob, it was obvious, actually loved the taste of dick. He deep-throated Neil’s cock until his nose nuzzled Neil’s pubic hair. Flashes of intense ecstasy shot up Neil’s spine, and he sucked in his breath. Neil shifted his weight around, as it felt so good it was kind of cunfomortable.
He was on the verge of orgasm right away. If he weren’t nervous and focused on trying to be quiet, he would have blown his wad immediately. He was glad to take a little longer because it would have been embarrassing otherwise. Real men don’t blow their nut too quickly.
Neil found himself gripping Rob’s head and feeding his dick down his throat. He had never done anything like that. He threw his head back and nearly howled like a wolf — he managed to swallow the sound, so he just screwed up his mouth and face as he opened his mouth.
Then, at last, an orgasm ripped through him. Cum sprayed down Rob’s throat and into his belly. The most intense pleasure of Neil’s life flowed like a flood in his veins, and his knees buckled.
“Goddamn…” A second fat load of jizz spurted into Rob, as Neil’s cock slowly slid out. Neil’s whole body undulated when he choked, which massaged another final long spurt of cum. A long chest-rattled moan came from Neil, and a murky gurgling groan of desire came Rob, as he slurped down every drop of cum he could get at.
Rob pulled off his dick. He wiped his lips off. “Lemme guess… lacrosse?”
“What?” Neil was breathless and exhausted.
“Which sport did you play in college? Was it lacrosse? I’m trying to develop a talent for guessing sports based on cum flavor,” Rob said. He laughed. “You taste like a lacrosse jock.”
Neil blushed. “Oh, well… I played baseball more, but yeah, I went to a Maryland prep school, we were required to play lacrosse too. I’m more of a baseball guy, I played baseball in college.”
“I’ll count that one as a win,” Rob said. He stood and stretched his knees. He wiped cum off his face, then he slurped up what he could get off the back of his hand. “You can thank me now.”
“Thanks.”
“And now you get to watch my ass as I walk away,” Rob said. He swayed his hips as he walked out of the shower tent. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you did it.”
Rob walked away with a spring in his step. He hadn’t expected Neil to be that horny so soon, but he was glad to have taken advantage of it. Most guys took a few months to succumb. But Neil was younger than most, Rob thought, so he probably had virile balls, loaded with cum. Rob had a sixth sense about which workers were likely to give up the dick soon, and for tonight, he had his eyes set on a rough-faced worker named Dog Barren.
Dog lead a daily prayer before dinner. The others rolled their eyes at it, but it seemed no one wanted to be the one who didn’t pray before dinner. This was a Christian work crew. So Dog had everyone hold hands in a circle, while he led them all in a prayer. He remained shirtless, his broad, smooth body covered in the day’s sweat. One of the things that made him intimidating — aside from his muscles and his size — was the swastika and nazi tattoos all over him. During the prayer, that was all Rob could think about.
“I ain’t no nazi,” he had said when he first took his shirt off. His voice was a flat growl, like his throat was lined with razorblades, and he always sounded like he had more to say but wasn’t allowed to say it. “I was in prison. I’s gettin’ ’em removed.” Most of the swastikas were now just faded scars or outlines that hadn’t yet been fully lasered off. One dragon on his bicep was clearly the number 88 that had been turned into a pair of talons, with the dragon drawn to attach to them. “I’s on the Christian road now.”
But alas, he thought, it would never happen. Dog had said no way. He wouldn’t do anything motivated by lust. He saved his seed for a Christian wife. He didn’t say that like he believed it, but he did say it, and he was one of the few roughnecks who had not yet come to Rob in the night.
He was almost ready to give up here and move onto a different camp. A bunch of lumberjacks had set up near Bend, and he could head over there — a lot of them were Latinos who loved ramrodding pasivos. The only reason he didn’t leave was that it was raining, and had been for days, so the ground was muddy. That would make it difficult to get out to the remote lumberjack camp and even more difficult to set up a tent out there.
So Rob stayed. He slept near the hygiene tent. He was a light sleeper, so when someone went in there and turned on the water, he always woke up. That was a signal that someone wanted his mouth.
Today, however, when he went in there just before dawn, he was surprised to see Dog Barren standing alone in the shower water. A long tanned dick dangled between his legs. It was fat and juicy, and it drew Rob’s attention right away.
“Hey. Oh. Hi, sorry,” Rob said. His heart beat. He still didn’t entirely trust that Dog was no longer a nazi. “I just… I didn’t know it was you. Normally people only come out here before dawn if they want a Power Shower. I-“
“Shut up.” Dog chewed on his lower lip. He came closer to Rob.
“Okay. That’s fine.” Rob’s heart quickened, and he took a step back.
“Hmm-hmm. I know it’s fine.” He paused for a long time. He looked Rob up and down. He seemed to angle his body to make sure Rob saw his cock and balls in the battery-operated light of the hygiene tent, but Rob couldn’t tell if that was deliberate or not.
“Oh.”
“Come here,” he said. Rob came closer, and Dog put one heavy hand on his shoulder. He pushed down gently. “What happens at night, once the lights go off… That don’t count. God forgives anything that happens in the dark.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“So why don’t you get on your knees and see what happens.”
“Oh… Okay.” Rob dropped to his knees. Am I really about to jerk off a Nazi? Or a possible-Nazi at least?
But before Rob could second-guess himself, his mouth was pried open, and Dog’s fat cock slipped into his mouth. It was cool from the night air, and limp at first.
It firmed up in seconds though. Dog groaned and murmured. He held onto Rob’s head and fed his cock in until he was all the way down Rob’s throat, and Rob’s tongue snaked out to teasingly touch his balls.
“You see, it ain’t a sin if ya know all the rules,” Dog said. “Like… in the dark, it’s alright to relieve ya sins, and I’m-a do somethin’ else to make it okay.” He pulled his cock out of Rob’s mouth. “But first, boy, I wanna make sure you got discretion. Huh?”
“Yeah-“
Dog grabbed him by the neck with one hand. “That ain’t sound serious. You just said yeah like some slack slut who ain’t think this was important. But I is askin’ you as a Christian to put ya name on a promise before God. Ya feel me?” He smiled and placed one of Rob’s hands on his chest. His pecs flexed beneath Rob’s fingers. “So don’t just mumble yeah wit’out thinkin’. You gonna keep this a secret?”
“Yes, sir,” Rob said, his voice thready and nervous.
“Good. Now bend over on all fours. No talking unless I ask you a question or tell you to do somethin’. Got that?”
“Yes, sir-“
“Don’t call me sir, I ain’t a prison guard,” he said. “Now shut your mouth.”
A jolt of pain shot up Rob’s spine as Dog’s cock rammed into his ass. Dog was tight and struggled to take it all, but he soon felt a surge of pleasure in his bones. He grunted lightly and Dog lightly grabbed the back of his head.
“Shush, no talkin’.”
That made it difficult for Rob. He couldn’t even grunt or moan, even as Dog made loud slurping sounds and chewed on his lip, while his cock gurgled in and out of Rob’s ass. His precum made for a moist sound that filled the air of the shower tent.
Then, before Rob even knew what had happened, Dog had reached around him and grabbed his cock.
“It ain’t no sin if you give a reacharound. Cuz it ain’t motivated purely by lust, ya feel me? Ya doin’ it for a good reason, to make some boy feel good. You pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down?”
“Yes.” Rob could barely think. The pressure in his ass was potent, and his cock throbbed in Dog’s grasp. Agonizing pleasure shot up Rob’s spine. He nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, uh, yes, I get it. Oh god! Oh god-“
“No talkin’,” Dog said. “I won’t kiss you on the lips, boy. Don’t even ask.” His voice trailed off as he lowered his body onto Rob’s back. Then, despite his words, he forced Rob’s head to the side and kissed him on the lips as his muscles all flexed against Rob’s back.
“Ah…”
“Shush, boy, I ain’t ask you no question,” Dog said. He pinned Rob flat on the wooden floor of the shower tent, pounding and grinding away at his ass while stroking his dick with one hand. Rob had never experienced anything like this. “You love my dick inside you, huh? Say you love my dick inside you, boy.”
“I love your dick inside me,” Rob said. His voice broke as though he was almost in tears, but it was his orgasm breaking inside him. He struggled not to cry out passionately, and when he was unable to control himself, the sound was swallowed up by another kiss from Dog’s mouth.
Dog pulled off as he shot his own wad into Rob’s ass. He opened his mouth, hot breath condensing onto Rob’s cheek. “I won’t ever kiss you, boy, don’t even try.” He slathered Rob in kisses, his cum filling Rob’s with creamy, sticky goodness.
Finally they were both done. Dog stayed in place, his cock limpening inside Rob for a few minutes. At last, every drop of cum had leaked out. He pulled his dick out and spread Rob’s cheeks. He peered at the gaping cream-filled hole the best he could in the dim light of the shower tent.
“I think I love you, boy,” Dog said. “But only for right now. You’s a sinner, and in the light of the Lord’s dear sun, you will soon bask in rays of truth.”
“Uh-huh.”
Dog grunted. “Don’t move, boy. I don’t wanna see you spill a drop. Let my nut fill you up all inside, that way you don’t forget the message I been givin’ you.” He paused. “Yeah, this was a message, boy, a message about religion. You best find yaself the Holy Spirit in ya heart and get forgiveness. Me? I already been forgived, ya feel me?”
“Yeah,” Rob said, too tired to really think about what he was saying.
After a long pause, Dog grabbed the clothes he had come in with. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Then he said, “You stay here ten minutes to think about what you done. Not just tonight, all the things you done. I’m goin’ to bed.” He paused. “Bring lube tomorrow night.” Then he walked away without waiting for a response.
“I will.” Rob was dazed and exhausted, yet so satisfied he thought he might never leave. These, he thought, were the workers for him.

The Electrician

Rob has an electrical problem, for which he hires an unexpectedly studly American Indian electrician. A freak accident shakes Rob and ends this little slice of rough trade before it begins… or does it? Lindsey just might be more willing than he let on!

Read it now as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Rob was expecting Lindsey Hornbellow to be a woman. He thought he was being all progressive and shit by calling the lady-electrician — something about Lindsey Hornbellow’s website made that seem like a good idea — Hornbellow Electric Work had good reviews on Yelp but not suspiciously good, and the website said they did work on weekends. Rob was pretty sure he had never seen a female electrician in person, nor in TV or movies, so it felt like a blow for female empowerment to hire Hornbellow Electric.
He had been without electricity for a camping trip for a weekend, and then came home to a house without electricity and a refrigerator full of rotten food. The whole place stank of fish because of the freezer going out — it actually didn’t smell bad until Rob opened up the fridge and freezer doors, and now nothing would make the smell go away.
So he had called Lindsey Hornbellow, expecting some rough-edged blue-collar woman. Rob cleaned his kitchen the best he could despite the smell and got ready to mop the floor before he was interrupted by the service van pulling into his driveway — Rob was staying at a vacation property with no servants, so he had to do all the work himself. Rob went to his window expecting to see the Yelp-recommended female electrician.
But Yelp had not pointed out that Lindsey was a man, and it certainly didn’t inform Rob he was handsome, with the muscles of a Greek god. So Rob’s knees went weak when he saw him climb out of the service van. Rob had been assuming Lindsey was a woman for so long he continued to think this man was some sort of assistant. Even after the handsome man came to the door and Rob saw the name-tag sewn on his jumpsuit, Rob thought that they had switched jumpsuits as a joke.
And then, all at once, while Lindsey examined the fuse-box and the circuit breaker, Rob remembered that Lindsey was a gender-neutral name. He groaned at his mistake but also grinned: If he had known how handsome Lindsey Hornbellow was, he’d have hired him for sure.
“The problem is that you got a bad barnhouse fuse, that’s what you call this right here. These old houses in the woods usually have them.” Lindsey kept going, explaining what he had found, but Rob zoned out. He was entranced by Lindsey’s strong jaw and luxurious black hair, which extended well past his shoulders.
He was Native American, Rob was fairly certain. Lindsey had dusky skin that was immaculately smooth, with deep-set eyes and broad shoulders. He moved with a pantherine grace, and Rob could watch him do work for hours. Lindsey’s jaw was strong and high, totally hairless, as was the part of his chest that Rob could see under the tight tee shirt he wore beneath his jumpsuit.
“Uh-huh.”
“So I’ll have to replace that. The barnhouse fuse’ll be four hundred dollars. The labor to replace it, that’ll be maybe another…” Lindsey paused and took a quick, sneaky look around the house. “Another four hundred, so like eight hundred total-“
“I have homeowner’s insurance,” Rob said. “They’ll cover it.” He grinned. It was obvious Lindsey had looked at Rob’s furnishings and decided to charge him a lot. Rob wasn’t surprised — he was, in fact, very wealthy. But that was why his dad had homeowner’s insurance. When you were rich, every plumber, electrician and handyman upped his rates to compensate. Rob didn’t have the time or wherewithal to negotiate with them, so his dad paid a homeowner’s insurance company to do it instead.
Lindsey furrowed his brow. “Fine. I will call them,” he said. Rob gave him his insurance card, and Lindsey stepped away to make a call. He returned quickly to say that they would call him back with an approval.
Rob cleared his throat. “Maybe we could pass the time somehow,” Rob said with a seductive smile. That bulge in Lindsey’s jumpsuit attracted his eye and made him leer at it. “I was thinking… I could pay you an extra five hundred dollars for something-“
Lindsey’s face was dour, looking down on Rob as though he thought Rob should know how to do this stuff. “Your homeowner’s insurance will probably cover it, you don’t need to pay. They might not pay for the nice replacement barnhouse fuse, so it’ll probably blow out again in a year or so. You could pay the difference. You really get what you pay for, either a really cheap Mexican-made one that’ll last you a year or a nicer one made in Germany that’ll last a lifetime. You won’t need to pay five hundred dollars though, the difference between them is like a hundred bucks-“
“There’s no… American-made option?” Rob asked. He thought his seductive tone should be obvious, but Lindsey just shrugged like he didn’t notice. Rob’s eyes roamed up and down his body, checking out the bulge of his crotch in that electrician’s jumpsuit. He had a nice plump ass too, and his hands were just a bit gnarled and callused, with some scars perhaps from being shocked — Rob loved a nice pair of blue-collar hands, especially in this case because they were a stark contrast to the pristine look of Lindsey’s face and his unblemished skin everywhere other than his hands. Rob batted his eyes at Lindsey. “I was hoping for something American and solid and-“
Lindsey shrugged and went to the fusebox to point it out. “No, there’s no American manufacturer. The people who built this house used the Mexican kind, see? It says ‘Made in Mexico’-“
“No, I was offering you five hundred dollars to do-“
Lindsey pointed into the fusebox, his finger glancingly touching a bit of exposed wire with the end of his fingernail.
An explosion of sparks filled the air. Rob was just inches from Lindsey’s body, smelling the cheap deodorant covering up his masculine scent, and his heart nearly leapt into his throat. For just a moment, he thought Lindsey was so handsome he had exploded.
But it was the fuse-box. Lindsey collapsed to the ground and grunted, while sparks rained upon the carpet of Rob’s basement.
“Oh… Oh shit!” Rob ran to Lindsey, stopping himself at the last second so he didn’t touch him — he wasn’t sure if he was conducting electricity; Rob didn’t want to electrocute himself. Then Rob saw the sparks on the carpet triggering smoldering and flames. This house is about to burn down. “Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh… Shit… Fuck! Fire! Fire!” Rob yelled as though there were firemen within earshot. Stop panicking and do something!
This was all happening so fast, he thought, he couldn’t decide what to do. Help Lindsey and risk getting shocked? Put the fire out somehow? How could he put the fire out? Lindsey groaned and moved, so Rob knew he was still alive.
Rob darted into the bathroom, and, unable to find any other container, he grabbed the mop-bucket he had gotten ready with heavy-duty cleaning solvents in order to get that smell out of the kitchen. He wheeled it out into the den. He dumped the water over the floor, and it sizzled, putting out the fire before it got out of control.
Lindsey staggered to his feet. He looked dizzy, and his hair was frizzy, no longer laying perfectly straight behind him. The carpet now stank of mopwater. The water had been clean and soapy, in preparation for mopping upstairs, but the bucket itself stank of stale mopwater. So the entire basement reeked of soil and whatever muck clung to the mop-bucket.
“Oh god…”
“Are you okay?” Rob asked. It occurred to him only now that there was a fire-extinguisher on the patio, right outside, by the barbecue — that would have been quicker than the mop-bucket. He felt like an idiot. He went to all the trouble of buying a fire-extinguisher and then forgot about it when he needed it.
Lindsey nodded. He held up his hand to show that the fingers he had touched the fusebox with were scorched black. His arms and legs jittered. “I think… there is something else wrong besides the barnhouse fuse.” His cell phone chirped and he turned off the ringer. “That was your homeowner’s insurance, but the quote I asked them for no longer applies. I’m going to need to turn the electricity off here at the circuit breaker.”
“Yeah, sure, yeah,” Rob said. “Yeah. Cool.” He was still too exhilarated from the electrocution and near-fire to think about anything else, even Lindsey’s body.
“You were offering to hire me for something else before I touched the fusebox?” Lindsey said. He wrinkled his nose, the mop-bucket smell growing more intense by the moment.
“Yeah, stick me,” Rob said with a sigh. He looked at the carpet. “I’m going to have to get new carpet down here. This is nasty, it smells like a burnt dog-“
“Stick you?”
Rob nodded. “I could shampoo it, but that won’t get the scorch marks out. It was a nasty carpet to begin with.”
“You want to hire me to stick you?”
Rob looked up. He hadn’t meant to be so abrupt about it. He was so focused on what had just happened that it had all slipped out without thinking about it. “Yeah, uh… Sorry, I was… I just wanted to offer you five hundred dollars to cornhole me. Sorry. I usually am, uh… Sorry, I’m unfocused right now.”
Lindsey was silent for a long time. His face was expressionless except for the furrowing of his eyebrows. “You want to… cornhole me?”
“No! No, other way round, I want you to cornhole me.”
“Oh.” Lindsey shook his head. “No way. I…” He sighed. “No.”
“Okay, cool, no problem, no biggie,” Rob said. He was disappointed, but rejection came with the territory. Lindsey didn’t even look like he might haggle, so Rob didn’t offer more money. This day had turned out to be too stressful to worry much about that anyway, and Rob could always go to the biker bar if he got horny. There was always someone there with a slab of meat Rob could swing on.
Lindsey just turned off the electricity for a few hours, and Rob played on his cell phone upstairs since he couldn’t really do much else without power. He had re-stocked the refrigerator and freezer, and now, he thought, it was all going to go bad again.
Around five o’clock, the electricity turned back on, Lindsey came upstairs and said he had fixed it — he hadn’t gotten to the barnhouse fuse, but he had fixed the main circuit breaker, and that meant the house could have working electricity for now. It would probably break within a week again, but by then, he’d have fixed the fuse so the circuit breaker didn’t get overloaded again.
Lindsey left, leaving Rob in the living room to watch his ass shake as he got in his van and drove off. Rob was disappointed, but that near-disaster earlier today had left him so shook up he didn’t think about it too much. Today could have gone much worse than simply not getting laid. Rob even thought about going out to one of his regular haunts — he could go to the biker bar, for example, where there was always some alpha up for a bit of fun.
He just didn’t feel like it though. That was another reason he hadn’t offered Lindsey more money. He had been reminded of his own mortality, and Rob couldn’t stop thinking of what it would be like to die from fire, electrocution or smoke. So he just stayed in for the night.
It was nearly midnight when he heard a knock on the door. Rob saw through the window that it was Lindsey, his tall, stately body tottering on unsteady legs. He was obviously drunk. He looked bleary-eyed and half-asleep.
“Hey, hi, Lindsey, what’s up? Are you okay?”
“I…” Lindsey burped and swayed as though the burp had knocked him off-balance. “I… I wh-whi-lllllll do it.”
“What?”
“I’ll… I’ll lll lll lll ll lll…” He laughed at his own torrent of L-sounds. “Lllllllllllluh…”
“Lindsey, I-?”
“I’ll do it!” He blurted out. “The whole… uh…thing. Doin’ it. That… thing.” He pointed to his own crotch. “That.”
“Yeah, okay, I get it, but uh… you’re very drunk.”
He nodded. Then he launched into a long, incomprehensible drunken monologue. “Thass all I was… wassssh all at the… … sssssshump all ovuh…. … … There I ahhhhm! What issssssh it? I will do… what I, I am in the nnnnnnnnnnight, at that… Where I am.” He belched again and took a deep breath. He scrunched his eyes up. Then he over-enunciated with all the effort he could muster. “I. Am. Drunk. Enoughffffffff. Right. Now. To. Do. It. Diiiiick. Diiiiick.” He laughed at the word. “Diiiiiiiiiick.”
“Uh… no,” Rob said. “You’re way too drunk. You’d probably puke on me.”
“What? You — You — You — You — You offffffffffered, man, you sssshaid it, you-“
“Lindsey, I never said I’d do it any time no matter what. You’re much too drunk. Did you drive here?” He looked at the van, which had been parked slightly off the driveway, one wheel crushing Rob’s begonias. “Damn it, you are way too drunk to drive. You killed my begonias.”
“No I ammm… ammmmm… I am not druuuuunk!” he shouted triumphantly but then tripped over his own foot and leaned against the house for support.
“You’re too drunk to stand, you obviously can’t drive. Or anything else,” Rob said. Then he realized there was little point in trying to be polite and convince him of anything — he was too drunk to think and wouldn’t remember this tomorrow anyway. “Do you want to come in?”
“You willlllll… get me off?”
“No,” Rob said, but he motioned for Lindsey to come in.
Lindsey frowned and arduously stepped up into the house. He grunted and roared in frustration. “You ssssshaid you would!”
“No, I — Nevermind, just go lay down on the couch. I’ll jack you off in a minute,” Rob said. Lindsey flopped onto the couch, sighed, tried to undo his jeans but just fumbled for a few seconds before quitting. He murmured something about Rob taking his pants off, and then he was asleep. He snored loudly.
Rob sighed and took Lindsey’s shoes off, but nothing else — he didn’t want Lindsey to think Rob had touched him during the night. Rob then laid out a glass of water, some aspirin and a bowl to vomit in, before he went to bed by himself.
The house was quiet all night, Lindsey passed out cold and Rob sleeping soundly.
Rob awoke late, to the sound of water running in the kitchen. He crept out to see if Lindsey was alright.
He must have undressed in the night, Rob thought, because he wore nothing but a pair of boxer shorts now. His muscular torso gleamed. He was rinsing out that vomit bowl, and his hair was wet like he had taken a shower. A few drops of moisture remained on his golden-bronze back, which was broad, gleaming, curving as he flexed his shoulders muscles wiping out the bowl. Despite the shower, Rob sniffed out the musk of his manhood, and it made him draw near. He came quietly so he could smell the man’s magnificent physique.
“You should not have let me in,” Lindsey said without turning around.
Rob blushed. Had it been obvious he was looking at Lindsey’s ass from behind?
“I would have been fine sleeping on the ground outside,” Lindsey said.
“Oh, well… Yeah, I guess that’d be fine,” Rob said. He shrugged. “Are you feeling okay?”
Lindsey nodded. “I do not get hungover.”
“Cool, cool,” Rob said with a nervous laugh. “Are you…?”
“Still going to cornhole you for money? Yes,” Lindsey said. He turned around and sighed. He dropped his boxer shorts, revealing a big uncut cock that he thwacked against his palm. “Five hundred dollars.”
Rob nodded and blushed. “Are you still going to fix the fusebox today too?”
“Yes. Hurry up, and I will get to it today,” Lindsey said with a big frown. He crossed his arms over his muscular chest, and Rob sunk to his knees in front of him. Lindsey grabbed a pack of cigarettes off the counter and lit one, pointedly glaring at Rob as though daring him to object. Rob didn’t mind that bad — the house already reeked of rotten food, mopwater and scorched carpet, so he could hardly complain about some cigarette smoke.
Though Lindsey himself smelled clean, his cock was deliciously filthy. It reeked of cigarettes and beer — Rob suspected he had spilled beer on himself last night, or someone else did, and Lindsey’s shower today had been hungover, quick and focused more on his head and hair than on getting his whole body genuinely clean.
It was musty too, and it stayed semi-limp in Rob’s mouth for a couple minutes, presumably because Lindsey had been so drunk last night. He had beer-dick at first. Rob didn’t mind, he deep-throated it and slathered it with spit, making Lindsey’s whole body jerk and tense up. Then he shifted his weight on his feet. His cock finally popped into full erection and throbbed in Rob’s throat.
Lindsey acted as though he wasn’t allowed to touch Rob’s head. His hands flailed and moving around at his side, while he pistoned his hips back and forth. Rob didn’t use his hands either, so he focused entirely on loosening up his throat, so he could swallow every inch of that magnificent cock. That way Lindsey could fuck his dick in and out, treating Rob’s throat as a tight pussy, without any need for hands.
“Ah, yes…” Lindsey closed his eyes. His broad chest muscles rippled, then flexed all at once when Rob reached up to touch them — Lindsey was surprised. The girls he was with rarely did anything like that. This throating, he thought, was much better than he had predicted.
It wasn’t awkward at all, once he got past his initial inhibitions. Pleasure shot up his spine, and he forgot about the lingering pain in his hand from when he had been shocked. He put his arms behind his back, enjoying the challenge of cramming his cock down Rob’s throat completely hands-free.
“Are you ready to cornhole me?” Rob asked when he finally pulled off. He tasted precum on his tongue, salty and sunny, and a little beery too. It was strongly flavored but copious and watered, again presumably because of all the heavy-drinking last night.
“Yes,” Lindsey said. He tried to look nonchalant. He ran his fingers through his long hair, which shimmered — it was cleaner than it had been for awhile because he washed it very well in the shower this morning.
He was glad Rob had refused him last night. Lindsey would have felt like a jerk if he had woken up today having passed out all over Rob’s bed. Plus, last night he would have been sloppy and probably wouldn’t even remember it today.
This felt good enough he didn’t want to forget. His eyes lit up at the sight of Rob’s bare ass. He had psyched himself up last night as he drank by thinking he could get through cornholing a man despite his ass being big and hairy and gross — but that had always been a worst-case scenario. Lindsey had known even before he started drinking that Rob was kind of girlish, almost as hairless as Lindsey, and not at all gross. He had simply prepared himself so much for the worst-case scenario that he had forgotten that was not the scenario he was in.
Rob’s ass was tight, his cheeks plump, pure white and unblemished like porcelain. Lindsey kneaded his flesh with one hand as he rubbed his dick in Rob’s asscrack. He just humped his hole at first, waiting for Rob to buckle and moan with desire.
“Oh god, stick it in me!” Rob panted, his ass tingling and begging. He needed it inside him. He couldn’t think about anything else. He lowered his head, lifted his ass and pushed it right back onto Lindsey’s crotch, with one hand craned behind himself to guide it in.
Lindsey smirked. It felt good to not have to use his hands once again. He could just stand there and wait for his orgasm to come — it barely even counted, he thought, he was just standing here with an erection, and he was only here, he could always claim later, to fix the fusebox.
But as his orgasm approached, Lindsey found he didn’t want to stand there anymore, letting Rob do all the work. He wanted to get this nut off.
He let out a simmering growl, bent his knees a bit and grabbed ahold of Rob’s side roughly. Rob winced and moaned with desire. Lindsey gripped him on both sides and pushed his ass back hard.
“Shit!” Rob cried out as pain and bliss flowed through him in equal measure. His ass rubbed against Lindsey’s crotch, and Lindsey started plowing into him repeatedly, using all his might to get deep in his ass.
Lindsey swayed his hips back and forth. He threw his head back, long wet hair dangling behind him. His chest muscles rippled and the veins in his neck popped against the surface. “Ah, goddamn…”
For a moment, Lindsey thought, it was like Rob disappeared, leaving behind just a tight hole that Lindsey could do with as he pleasure. He could demolish his ass, which was so moist and drippy that it was like sticking his dick in an ocean. Lindsey didn’t even realize he was already cumming — it felt so good he wasn’t aware of his own orgasm until it hit him like a punch to the head.
He howled and slapped Rob’s cheeks, the rippling of his flesh sending Lindsey to new heights of pleasure. He wasn’t even aware of Rob jacking himself off, onto the kitchen floor, at the same time. It was like nothing mattered but the intense pleasure coursing through Lindsey’s veins, little sparks of orgasmic energy flying across his field of vision. He had never experienced anything like it.
“Goddamn,” was all he said as he fell limp, flopping onto the ground on his ass. I wish women let me fuck like that. He snorted and wiped sweat off his forehead. He had just showered, and now, he thought, he felt dirty again.
Rob was sprawled out on the floor. He had rarely been ramrodded so hard. Rob stood on sore legs as the phone on the counter buzzed. He glanced at it and handed it to Lindsey. Lindsey listened to a voice-mail, frowning, still sprawled out on the floor, his chest dappled with sweat.
“Bah,” Lindsey said, “Your homeowner’s insurance won’t cover anything to do with the barnhouse fuse. They want their own electrician to make sure you’ve been maintaining it. Which you haven’t been, so your insurance won’t cover it.”
“What maintenance?” Rob asked. He knew he was annoyed, he felt that annoyance in the back of his mind — what had been the point of buying homeowner’s insurance?!?!?! — but it all seemed distant and unimportant. Rob would just put it on the family credit card. This was technically a family-owned vacation home, even if Rob was the only one who ever used it.
“You’re supposed to flip the circuit breaker on and off once a year. I could tell you never did it. No one ever does. These old houses with-“
“That’s bullshit…” Rob sighed. It was hard to get worked up about stuff when basking in post-orgasmic glow. He shrugged. “Fine. I’ll just pay for it. Will it take you all day?”
Lindsey smirked and nodded. “I might have to come back tomorrow,” he said. “And do even more work for you.”
Rob blushed before agreeing. “Well,” he said with a chuckle. “Go ahead and get started.”