youth – Mansploitation

The Cowboy

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

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Read the whole thing here

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

The 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.”

The Gloryhole

Patrick is working as a roughneck at an oil drill site in North Dakota and enduring the hazing and horseplay that comes with the job… But that all changes when a gloryhole appears, and the workers and rednecks he labors alongside all have a filthy chance to get their motors revving.
Can Patrick perform in front of the others?

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Read the whole thing here!

It was Patrick’s first time working as a roughneck, but he hoped that wasn’t obvious. Some people knew, of course, but Patrick kept to himself. He didn’t want to stand out like a rookie because he knew places like this often hazing their newbies.
He wasn’t opposed to hazing, mind you, he’d do what he had to do to fit in. The best way to get the worst of it was to stand out from the crowd, so he intended to go with the flow.
Normally, Patrick always stood out in any crowd because he was six and a half feet tall, and he was built like a linebacker. He was, in fact, a semi-pro linebacker, three hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle. Not that he had a six-pack, he wasn’t that cut, but compared to most of the men on Site G9, he was built like a gym. The others were mostly older, scruffier and either much fatter or skinnier, and definitely hairier.
Patrick felt young. He had never been nervous about being naked in a group until he got to the oil drill site. He realized only as he stripped off his clothes in a ridiculously crowded rig locker room that he reason he had never been nervous as a football player was that the men he changed alongside were his teammates he knew well and that they were around his own age.
But some of these roughnecks had fought in wars. There were bikers, meth-dealers, convicted murderers released after decades in prison, disgraced cops, a gaggle of men were from some indigenous tribe in the Amazon. They were craggy and stronger than Patrick even when their muscles were smaller. They had bulletwound scars and missing toes and silver-tinged chest hair that extended over their shoulders and onto their back. Nobody on Patrick’s football team had back hair.
It was one of those, a biker named Cooter who first touched Patrick’s dick.
It felt silly to make a big deal out of it, so Patrick didn’t. In the showers, it didn’t count. That’s what everyone said working on the drill site. That was like a motto.
Cooter with the broad shoulders and mat of silver chest fur over a barrel-shaped body wrapped one hairy arm around Patrick’s smooth back. “You’re a big hoss, huh? Saw you out there hauling lineboxes like a madman, good on ya,” he said. He gripped Patrick’s dick for just a half-second. He didn’t stroke it, and he made a point of not touching his balls — he lifted up Patrick’s cock and hefted it as though to make sure it was real.
Patrick sucked in his breath. In his semi-pro football league, if you accidentally touched someone’s dick, you had to shout “no pansy!” They did it even if they just brushed near it, or you accidentally touched someone’s pubic hair. Patrick gulped. He would have asked Cooter not to touch his cock again, but it was over before it began, and Cooter moved on. Patrick felt someone else’s chest hair rub on his back, and he closed his eyes rather than try to figure out who it was.
Cooter was very hairy. Patrick had always thought of himself as hairy too — some of his college teammates called him an ape because of all his chest hair. But Cooter and some of the others here, relatively old men, middle-aged guys, a lot of them had really hairy chests and bellies, and sometimes even backs. Old guys with muscular bodies were scary, Patrick thought.
There was a tattoo of a disemboweled man on Cooter’s belly. Patrick couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. Was the disemboweled man a cop? Patrick closed his eyes. Something about the scene looked oddly specific, as though it illustrated a real event.
“Come on, man, let’s wash this shit off!” Cooter again wrapped a hand around Patrick’s body and led him into the shower. Cooter was drenched in engine grease because he worked on the internal combustion coils. Somebody else slapped Patrick’s ass too, a lanky black Jamaican who leered at him as they all filed into the shower.
Patrick gulped. This was the nerve-wracking part. The shower. It was well-lit and cleaner than Patrick had expected — he was picturing something mildewy and dank like a prison shower. This wasn’t that bad, aside from the astoundingly cramped quarters.
It was obvious why that “no pansy” rule that applied on the team didn’t apply here. The locker rooms for semi-pro football teams (usually college stadiums and the attached athletic departments) were roomy and spacious. But here, the shower fit twenty or so but would have been cramped with ten.
As soon as Patrick entered, he felt limps dicks rubbing over his thighs and his ass, along wiry pubic hair, copious chest hair and frizzy beard hairs, and the smell of unwashed male armpits and ballsacs filled his nostrils. The only thing more disconcerting was that his own cock caressed Cooter’s ass — and Cooter’s ass-hair — as they filed into the shower. Patrick was terrified that he would get hard.
Despite all that, they were more or less nice — Patrick was surprised. He kind of thought there’d be fights, and maybe more, in the shower. But there was a lot of horseplay, whipping towels at each other, pretending to jack off on each other, that kind of thing, but no real fighting in the shower.
It was during that night, however, when things got real.
Men jacked off openly here. They just lay back in their bunk, which were stacked five high, with barely room to roll around in, and stroked it. Not under the covers or anything, they straight-up stroked it.
The lights were off, but there was emergency lighting out in the hall. The barrack was a long thin room with rows of bunks. The emergency lighting filtered in through the doors and kept the entire room illuminated enough that Patrick could see men pounding their meat.
Patrick resolved to pretend he hadn’t noticed. There was no way he would ever get hard enough to jack off in full view of a bunch of strangers like that. He rolled over and went to sleep, ignoring the smell of sour cum blooming in the air.
That continued for a few days. No one ever remarked on it, not even when it smelled rank of cum when they all woke up. He saw one middle-aged black man with creamy white cum dried on his belly when they all got dressed. Patrick tried to just stay quiet and fit in. He wasn’t going to be here for long.
But he got so horny. Soon he was getting random erections, for seemingly no reason. He’d never gone this long without fucking a woman.
That was when the hole appeared. He heard vague chatter about it, and when his shift was over, he and the others all went to check it out.
It was a gloryhole.
They said it was a woman who loved cock. Yes, a woman, name unknown, who sucked any dick a roughneck shoved through the gloryhole. Patrick thought that sounded like a cover – no one had ever seen “her”.
But supposedly, she came to the rig every once in awhile, drilled a hole in the middle of the night and stayed in some hidden chamber, ready to jerk off any cock that came through the hole. She was a pretty blonde woman who loved cock but didn’t want anyone to know, she was a fine Egyptian lady with a tongue for jizz, she was a Japanese lass or an Irish redhead, an Aussie with an insatiable appetite for cock. The rumors were hot and fast, and Patrick wasn’t sure if anyone believed any of it. They claimed they believed it, but they claimed it with a wink and a nod, not like something they really believed in.
The man on the side of the hole was named Rob. He had never spread a rumor that he was a woman. He would have gladly spoken to any of the roughnecks who he jerked off and would have told them he was a man. But he’d learned long ago that the best way to get men like these to let him handle their meat was to just make a gloryhole, hang out and wait.
Sure enough, one fat cock had popped through almost right away. He had recognized that as Barry Bagley, who was the convicted murderer Patrick had heard worked on the rig. Barry was a middle-aged man with gray hair and a powerful body like a painting of Zeus. He had been a prison boxer until he had been paroled this year, and the rig was the only place that would hire him — he wasn’t allowed to leave the state, which greatly reduced the options that were open to him.
Luckily, he had gotten used to being serviced by men behind bars. Doing it through a gloryhole was nicer than in person, and the man on the other end — Barry was not one who liked to pretend it was a woman — had nice, softer lips and a moister mouth than any of the men who had jerked him off in prison. The gloryhole mouth went down deep too, noze nuzzling into his crotch, eagerly, smooching it, slurping on it, hocking up massive loogies and choking up saliva by the mouthful to let it run down his sensitive shaft.
It was toe-curlingly good dome.
There was something alluring about not being able to hold onto the man’s head too. It seemed worse. Barry wished, while it was going on and while he got hard, that he could grab Rob’s head and plow in, ramming as hard as he could. But he wasn’t able to do that with the solid steel wall of the supply closet in the way. He could only try to grip the smooth surface while bucking his hips to ram the hole the best he could.
“Goddamn, Rob, you got mouth like liquid silk, boy, goddamn…” Barry sighed. He belched loudly as he finally orgasmed, and the moist sound of his cumwad overflowing filled the air. He knew he was first to use this particular hole, so he liked to make a big frothy mess that spilled out and dried on the stainless steel — which wasn’t stainless when it came to cum.
He pulled out, peered through the hole and suppressed a gag at the sight of Rob’s open mouth, full of creamy, snotty cum. Barry walked away with his dick still dangling between his legs, workjeans unbuttoned and unzipped.
“Hole’s open, boys,” Barry said to each of the groups of men as he passed them.
They all snickered, exchanging knowing glances at the sight of Barry’s foot-long cock. The more time they spent on the rig without any leave, the more often all of them found excuses to walk around naked. What started out as a bunch of awkward men who mostly didn’t know each other became a group of not-quite friends who had seen, and probably rubbed against, every part of each other’s bodies. So it seemed silly to rush to put their cocks away or to pretend to hide masturbating.
Not that anyone wanted to jack off now that there was a hole available. Rob handled dick better than any of the women at Madame Rosa Sumillo’s house — she was the brothel owner whose girls mainly catered to the rig’s workers on leave, in the tiny town of Onagnok. They were beautiful and willing and they had parts that jiggled in all the right ways. Patrick’s ears burned hearing the other roughnecks’s wau-wau about the dirty things they did.
No leave for three weeks though. It felt like forever in the future.
So when Patrick finally realized what they meant about a hole appearing, he was eager to do it. That eagerness vanished when he realized there was a line. The closet was barely big enough for two people, but there were five or six in there, and five or six more stroking their cocks outside the closet getting ready.
“You wanna take a spot in line?” Cooter asked, motioning for Patrick to stand beside him.
Patrick did so. He wanted to leave and come back later, when there was no line — and hopefully when Rob had wiped down the hole, because Patrick didn’t really want to touch another man’s cum. But he was too horny to stop, and he could already feel his dick getting hard. Despite the smell of male armpits and bodyhair and both fresh and stale cum, Patrick was getting hard just at the thought of getting his nut off.
He had no sooner stood there beside Cooter that Patrick heard a man’s deep-throated moan of orgasm. It sent a chill up Patrick’s spine. That was Lem Staggerman, who cackled like it was a big joke as cum sprayed into the hole. He felt his balls slap against the steel and was disgusted — he knew there was oozing cumloads right there, now no doubt sticking to his ballsac. Lem had a thick body and a thicker cock, thick enough that some of the whores at Madame Sumillo’s house of sin refused to see him. They said he stretched them out for other men.
That was the kind of thing Lem liked to hear. Rob had had to widen the gloryhole for him too. Lem was getting splinters on his dingadingdoo, but it fit just right now, and Rob went to town all over it. Lem’s whole body tensed up, his work-carved muscles undulating and flexing as he pounded at the gloryhole with all his might.
Rob opened his mouth to show the cumwad filling it up, but the men were in too much of a hurry to even check. Lem was followed by his another of the drill site’s black men, Kale, whose fat cock barely fit in the hole.
“Ah, nasty, I heard that shit splash in her mouth,” Kale said. “She’s so foul…” He chuckled, pounding on the steel, eyes opening wide as his cock rocketed to full erection. Kale was one of those who was well aware that Rob was a man. But he had been unsure the first time he did it. A part of him knew it felt like a man, but he had been told it was a woman and Kale had been just horny enough not to question that.
If he had known it was a man, he’d have refused to do it back then, and he’d have probably never worked up the nerve. His buddies in his old hood would never let him live it down if they found out. As long as he could pretend he had no idea it was a man, however, he could do it without compunctions, without worrying about Lem’s creamy load sticking to his pubic hair, without thinking about Albert Spackle’s cock, half-hard already, rubbing against Kale’s ass.
Cooter was in the closet by then, as Kale shot his wad, and the line kept moving. Then Albert went, and he had been dry-humping Kale’s ass — no one talked about any accidental contact in the closet, that was a major faux pas — so he shot his wad quickly. Albert always did that. He liked to be efficient.
A shiver of anticipation ran up Patrick’s spine. One of those indigenous Brazilian men was behind him now, erect cock so close Patrick could feel his body heat. When he stepped into the closet, the Brazilian behind him did too, cramming in so that his dick touched Patrick’s thigh. It was hot and throbbing, and it rubbed against Patrick’s well-muscled leg.
“Sorry, I’m too horny to wait…” the Brazilian murmured. Patrick rotated his body, panicking that he was about to be ramrodded — no one had suggested that was a possibility here, it just felt too much like a prison to dismiss it as a concern — so that his ass no longer faced the Brazilian.
But that meant their cocks touched. It looked deliberate. Patrick sucked in his breath. “Oh, sorry, man-“
“Ssssssh, it is okay, yes? We are in the darkness,” the Brazilian chuckled. “Ees okay, does not count, man…” But he thwacked his dick on Patrick’s hot shaft. Then he grabbed both dicks in one hand and stroked them both together — frotting, the other roughnecks called it —his chuckle turned into a laugh at the shocked, turned-off expression on Patrick’s face.
The Brazilian’s cock wasn’t especially big, even rock-hard, as he rubbed it aggressively. Patrick was certain the feel of it touching him made him lose his hardon. He was wrong, but he was certain of it, and he couldn’t see and wouldn’t touch it, so he had no way of knowing. Precum jetted out into Patrick’s pubes, and the Brazilian roughneck’s breathing grew labored.
‘Is he gonna cum on me?’ Patrick wasn’t sure if he would be expected to fight the indigenous Brazilian if that happened or not.
That continued until the next man shot his wad, then turned around and walked out. He walked right between Patrick and the Brazilian — whose name he had never learned — so their erect dicks touched his hairy redneck thighs. Patrick gulped. In the closet, it seemed, anything really did go.
Cooter was in the hole now. He growled and rumbled, pounding his fists on the steel. “Hey, Patrick, new man, you wanna lick my asshole? Huh? Go ahead, I’ll let ya-“
They all laughed hard, and Patrick blushed. “No!” he raced to say, even though he knew that made him look defensive.
“You sure?” Cooter wasn’t even looking at the hole now, his head craned around to look at Patrick.
The other guys in the closet saw how nervous the question made Patrick and kept asking. “You sure? Ain’t nothin’ wrong wit’ givin’ a little rimjob-“
“Yeah, or a big rimjob. Filthy, for sure. Cooter got greasy ass, you know that!”
“Go’n and give us a lick, man, we love you forevuh for it-“
“Ain’t nothin’ dirty ’bout it.”
“No! No way,” Patrick laughed, hoping he sounded nonchalant. It was hard to think with his erect dick still touching the Brazilian man’s dick. It was uncut, and it seemed to have way too much skin, Patrick thought. He gulped and closed his eyes.
He considered leaving. It would be embarrassing, but staying was embarrassing as well. If he left, they’d tease him the same they teased him now — the only difference would be that Patrick didn’t get dome. Patrick realized only now that his own hardon had not deflated the least bit, despite the Brazilian’s hardon rubbing on it. Or maybe because of it. It did feel kinda good, in a massage-y kinda way. It was hot and stiff and it pulsated lightly like a massage wand.
Patrick didn’t want to share that observation with anyone.
So when Cooter shot his wad into the hole, Patrick decided to fit in the best he could. He got up behind Cooter, dick rubbing against Cooter’s hairy ass, and murmured, “You done yet, redneck?”
“Get the fuck off me!” Cooter said, angry and laughing at the same time, his orgasm still finishing. As he leaned back, he grabbed Patrick’s cock — making Patrick suck in his breath — and guided it to the hole. Their dicks touched, and Patrick felt the gooey, sticky ooze of cum and spit and precum and who-knew-what-else.
It only lasted a moment. But Patrick felt like he was dripping with Cooter’s cum and his filthy redneck sweat. That Brazilian man was right up behind him, stroking himself furiously for a few seconds, his fist hitting Patrick’s ass with each stroke, then let go when he realized he was going to cum too quickly if he kept jacking off. He was just keeping hard while he waited for his turn.
There was another cock on his hand — was someone trying to get him to touch another man’s dick? Patrick closed his eyes and touched the wall, as his cock finally slipped in by itself. He realized then that this was why all of them thus far had stayed against the wall as they got serviced — it was the best way to stop touching the handful of men who crowded into the closet. They all pushed in close behind him, and Patrick felt their mnahoods and their body hair and their precum leaving a layer of sweaty filth on his smooth back.
“Oh god…” Patrick was shocked that it felt this good. He had been so nervous about doing it that he didn’t give much consideration to how it would feel. He just thought he’d blow his nut and finally stop thinking about sex all the damn time.
But this was amazing!
Rob swallowed him down to the root, all in one smooth motion, with no struggle at all. Patrick had never had anyone deep-throat him like that.
“Oooooh, oh — aaaaah, shit, goddamn — ah-” Patrick laughed, which again he realized happened for the same reason the others had laughed before him — it made this seem more like a joke than the rather dirty sex act it really was. Plus nobody wanted to sound like some naif busting a nut for the first time and not knowing what it was supposed to be like.
His dick throbbed in Rob’s throat. Rob had sensed that this was a new man. He was very good at distinguishing between cocks. He remembered Cooter’s dick, for example, from a different rig owned by a different company. He didn’t know Cooter’s name, but he knew his cock.
Patrick was fresh, unserviced, and Rob tried to give him an experience to remember. He gurgled and guzzled, his nose even extending into the gloryhole, ensconced in Patrick’s unkempt pubic bush. His tongue battered his erection, which throbbed in Rob’s mouth.
Someone was touching Patrick’s back now, and he didn’t mind it. He was as surprised as anyone could be. He kind of liked the broad hairy muscles of that unnamed Brazilian man behind him, his hot cock throbbing between Patrick’s legs.
Patrick got it now. He could have gotten himself hard rubbing his dick between Cooter’s hot asscheeks — they were hairy though weren’t they? Patrick laughed quietly at the thought that he was going to have to check that during the next shower. He’d have to find someone with a nice smooth ass whose cheeks were very humpable — maybe that indigenous Brazilian, who had no body hair at all — and Patrick would try to slip in behind him next time.
“Ah, shit…” Patrick let out a long, deep moan that echoed and made the other guys in the closet burst into uproarious applause. They had all gathered that Patrick had never done this before, so they liked to embarrass him, pinching his ass when he twitched and shook.
Creamy cum flowed down Rob’s throat, and he swallowed every drop. It was salty and warm, and a little grassy as though Patrick had absorbed the flavor of the turf he played football on. Rob didn’t let go even when Patrick was done shooting and Rob’s lungs cried out for oxygen.
He waited for Patrick to pull out, his muscles all flexing at once, letting out the roar of a champion, as he did when his team had just scored a touchdown. It was a similar, victorious thrill. He knew that wasn’t entirely logical — it wasn’t like he had done anything that required any tremendous skill.
But he had gotten it. He was no longer some young pup hoping no one figured out he was new around here. He had a confident lilt to his step, and when you knew you were tough, like he did, there was no reason to be squeamish about the Brazilian man’s precum and dickcheese sitting on his ass.
‘I’m about to go take a shower anyway’, he thought as he headed into the shower. He wasn’t nervous about crowding in there either. He had nothing to be ashamed of. He was just one real man among many. He laughed and groped his coworkers as a joke, even circlejerking with them before his next leave.
He was no longer a rookie, he was a roughneck.

The Cuckolder

Avery runs across a handsome young black man fleeing the husband of his latest conquest, and since Tyrell seems to be in desperate need of a ride, Avery makes him an offer…

Then before he knows it, Avery is in for an incredible new adventure in man-on-man rough trade!

Read it now as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Avery Flowers sat in his car, waiting for his stupid brother-in-law to send him a stupid text message. His sister had asked him to help out with something: giving her no-good husband a ride to his boss’s house to beg for his job back. Avery didn’t like his brother-in-law Dayton, but he did love his sister. So he agreed, and now he had to sit out here in his car and wait for the all-clear to leave.
He was about to drive off regardless. If his stupid brother-in-law wanted to get picked up again, he could damn well call and ask for another favor.
Finally a text message appeared on his phone: nvrmind, thx Avary, all good. That meant Avery’s brother-in-law presumably had his job back again. Avery was glad for him, even if he did strongly dislike the man. He didn’t get why anyone would give him a second chance. He was especially annoyed that, after years in the family, his brother-in-law still didn’t know how to spell Avery’s name. What a dick.
That was when Avery saw a naked man, climbing out of the top floor of a three-story building. The man was tall and muscular, tattooed, dark-skinned, with short hair and an intensely masculine face. A very handsome face, like a movie star or a well-bred stallion. He was broad as an ox and powerfully built, stacked with muscles that he used to climb down the fire escape in the alley across the street from where Avery was parked.
He also had a huge cock. Avery could tell from here. Looked like a cricket bat dangling between his legs.
“You fuckin’ piece of shit! I’ll kill you!” A lanky middle-aged white man stuck his head out a window on the top floor and screamed down to the alley. Then he disappeared back into the apartment.
The black man was Tyrell Brickley, and he had one hand over his flopping cock and low-hanging balls as he descended the fire escape into the alley below. He assumed that would be enough to get away from the white man — husband to Tyrell’s latest conquest, whose name was Karen or Carol or something like that, some white-lady name. Not that Tyrell got anything against white ladies. He do savor them indeed.
The husband, Mr. Karen or whatever, must have come out the front door of the building, and he caught up with Tyrell around the block.
“Shit!” Tyrell turned to flee the other way. “This honky fast!”
This husband was more limber than he seemed. He had long legs and wasn’t fat like most of the husbands whose wives Tyrell seduced. Tyrell had strong legs, but he was heavy, and he was hampered by his bare feet. He wished he had managed to at least grab his shoes. The pavement here was covered in sharp stones and bits of garbage.
Reaching the next cross-street, Tyrell looked left and right, not sure where to go. Where to get clothes? Tyrell had no solution to his current predicament. His phone, his wallet, everything was back in that lady’s apartment.
Which was also the apartment of the man chasing him, which meant the husband had or would soon have Tyrell’s wallet and phone. “Shit!” Tyrell said with every step.
The sunny part of the asphalt was scorching hot on his feet, and Tyrell ran to a cooler, shaded spot. A squad car drove past, but luckily the cop behind the wheel didn’t notice Tyrell standing there in an alley. Tyrell frowned.
No cell phone, no cash, no car, no plan.
“Shit!” Tyrell snapped. “Shiiiiit!”
“Hey, man, need a ride?” Avery’s voice called out from his car, which pulled to a stop near Tyrell. He waved to get Tyrell’s attention. “Hey, man, need a ride?”
“Ah, shit, thanks, I on the wing, yoh,” Tyrell said. He darted into Avery’s car just as the husband came around the corner, peeping his head left and right like an angry meerkat. His face was red and squinty-eyed. Tyrell slammed his door shut. “Go!” Avery peeled away in a hurry, and Tyrell breathed a sigh of relief.
That sense of relief didn’t last long, however, before Tyrell realized he had gotten into a complete stranger’s car. He was naked, so he wouldn’t be robbed — he had nothing to steal. But that hardly made this safe. He had been so worried about getting away from that husband that he hadn’t made sure his sudden escape route was safe.
He looked out the car window in time to see the husband shake his fist at the car driving away. Tyrell smirked. He glanced over at the slim man behind the wheel.
“My name is Avery,” the driver said, with a feminine lilt to his voice.
“Tyrell.” Tyrell sighed and rolled his eyes. “Thanks foh the ride, Avery.” He flashed a handsome grin in Avery’s direction. Tyrell carried himself like he knew he was handsome, which made him less handsome. A lot of people would think of him as arrogant, or seemingly arrogant at least. Avery wouldn’t dispute that. But he had a fantastic body. Plenty of reason to be arrogant. Avery didn’t mind. He appreciated the male form.
Avery’s hand clasped Tyrell’s leg, giving it a squeeze. Tyrell rolled his eyes and grunted in a disagreeable way. His upper lip quivered. He acquiesced as Avery’s hand roamed up his well-muscled thigh, then ascended his chest. His muscles were firm like rocks, and his pecs flexed when Avery touched them. But he said, “Nah, man…”
“Hmm-hmm.” Avery dropped his hand back to grope Tyrell’s thigh, which he squeezed hard. “Where do you want to go?”
“Ummm… the’uh’s this place out in Crandwell,” Tyrell said, his voice lightly stawky with a trace of a drawl. It was the only place he could think of to go. His muscles flexed wherever Avery touched him. He cleared his throat. “I between places right now. I ain’t homeless or nothin’. The’uh’s this chick out in Crandwell who let me keep sum shit the’uh. I got clothes I can wear — get ya hand offa muh dick, man.”
Avery frowned. Tyrell’s cock was moist and thick, sticking to his leg. Avery had just barely brushed one hand over it to gauge Tyrell’s reaction. “Sorry. Can I touch your dick?”
“No.”
“Can you flex a bicep? You have great arms.” Avery let go of his dick.
“No.”
Avery clucked his tongue and stroked Tyrell’s bicep, which was rock-hard and bulging even though he didn’t flex it. Avery’s hand moved lower and tweaked Tyrell’s nipple. “I helped you back there, I didn’t have to. You should let me touch you…” Avery whispered. “I love your physique. You must work out a lot.”
Touching his nipple made Tyrell’s dick twitch. Tyrell assumed that Avery saw it, though Avery was actually watching the road as he got on the highway. Tyrell sighed. “Don’t read nothin’ into that, muh dick ain’t gettin’ hard, I ain’t geekin’. I just like it when girls touch muh nipples, y’know.” He chuckled throatily.
“Hmm-hmm. You’re really handsome.” Avery was annoyed that he didn’t get to grope Tyrell’s dick. He had a nice body though, and that felt great beneath Avery’s hand — even that was disappointing because Avery had to watch the road and couldn’t really see Tyrell’s frame or his flexing muscles. He could feel their firmness though, and he could sense the simmering body heat, the furnace powering his broad body.
“Yeah, whatevuh, man.” Tyrell looked out the window, ignoring Avery’s hand over his chest. “Can I use yo’ phone? Shit, nah… I donno nobody’s numbers.”
“How about… if you let me jack you off right now, I’ll let you use my phone, you can message your friends if you want, and I’ll even buy you a new phone if you can’t get your old one back,” Avery said.
“What, no shit?” Tyrell scoffed and nodded. “Hell yeah, man!”
It was only a handjob, after all, Tyrell thought. He pretended it was fine. It was fine, he assured himself over and over. There was a dude in the barbershop near where he grew up in Baltimore who used to jerk off any eighteen-year-old who wanted to bust a nut. He had been legendary, and he throated Tyrell so good Tyrell thought he broke his cock. He went all the way down! All the way!
But Tyrell was young and horny then, plus drunk. He’d only ever been with two women at that point. He had been desperately horny, and all his friends did it too. They lined up outside the man’s door one night, coming in one by one until the neighbors complained. It would have been weird to not do it at the time. He was drunk enough that it barely mattered, he didn’t even think about it at that moment, and it had only taken about two minutes (to cum, plus like twenty minutes in line).
But he had plenty of sex these days. Literally like ten minutes ago. He don’t need none that DL shit. With some freaky-ass white man who got a girl’s name.
But Tyrell did need a phone and he don’t want Avery to kick him outta the car, so he just closed his eyes and leaned his head back. His dick was soft and spongy because he had fucked that woman a couple times last night and again this morning, and his manhood was still recovering. He grinned at the thought of that tight middle-aged pussy. He loved fucking a pussy some other man thought was his.
“You fuck with a lot of married women?” Avery asked.
Tyrell scoffed. “Yo don’t even know, you don’t own a pussy, y’know, ya gotta earn it, you gotta keep earnin’ it e’ry day. Man, white men gotta have money, ya know, but they don’t realize they females is still out fuckin’ wit’ nigga dick, ya feel me?”
“Hmm-hmm…” Avery murmured. Tyrell’s dick was slow to firm up in his hand, especially since it was awkward to jack him off in a moving car while Avery drove. He put it on cruise control though, now that they were on the highway.
“You ever let a guy jack you off before?”
Tyrell nodded. “Once. I was younguh then, don’t even try nuhhin’ now,” he said. “I don’t like messin’ wiff white dudes. That other nigga got me off real gud. But the’uh was this white dude who usedta look at me all the time, man. Yo be hangin’ out in the shower ‘nd’shit, rubbin’ muh back. I know he wanted muh dick. I don’t let some white man have that over me, y’know, runnin’ around tellin’ all his little white buddies ‘bout the time he got sum nigga-dick in his mouth. Nah. No way, nigga, that ain’t how I play.”
“It sounds like you have a problem with white men,” Avery said. Tyrell’s dick was rock-hard now, veinily throbbing in Avery’s hand. A few drops of precum slipped out, lubricating him, and Tyrell sighed. His dick was exquisitely sensitive.
“I ain’t lettin’ you mouf me off neithuh,” Tyrell said because he could see Avery’s eyes flittering back again and again to stare at his dick — he knew Avery was going to try to throat it sooner or later. “Nah, I ain’t into that. Nuhhin’ personal.”
“No offense taken.”
Tyrell grabbed Avery’s hand as it stroked his dick, and he guided it up and down more quickly. “Like that, good, like that, stroke that jawn fast, dawg.” He sighed. Tyrell’s hips pumped, so he humped Avery’s hand just as much as Avery’s hand stroked him.
He was surprised at how good the handjob really was. He’d never enjoyed a handjob this much. He grunted and bit his lip. His breathing sped up as he tried to hump Avery’s hand harder, lifting his hips off the seat.
“Damn, nigga-” He choked off his own words as pre-orgasmic pleasure surged through him. He gasped.
Avery teased him by stopping, squeezing his dick but not moving his hand again — Tyrell was on the edge of his orgasm, so that made him writhe in frustration and use both of his hands to again force Avery’s hand to move once more. Avery smiled and did so, as Tyrell’s dick erupted in a torrent of cum.
“Oh fuck-!”
It sprayed all over his bare chest, coating his smooth brown skin in creamy goodness. It just kept on coming, even though he’d fucked not too long ago, he just had big dangling balls that were chock-full of creamy cum.
His wad clung to his muscles and dripped from his pecs. “Ah, shit!” Tyrell said through gritted teeth. A few beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He couldn’t believe a simple handjob felt this good, and he hoped Avery didn’t get the wrong idea about him because of it. “Ah, nice, nigga, keep strokin’… Hmmm…” He licked his lips. “Don’t leggo-” He grunted. “Stroke it real slow now, real slow…” Tyrell’s whole body undulated and he moaned, jetting out one final flow of jizz.
Avery’s hand got coated in cum, and Tyrell’s dick soon was soft again. Tyrell’s whole body trembled as Avery kept on stroking until Tyrell couldn’t take it any more and pushed his hand away.
“Good timing,” Avery said. He sucked the cum off his finger, the sound of which made Tyrell gag — girls were never that enthusiastic about cum. He pulled off the highway into Crandwell. “We’re almost there.”
“Yeah, cool,” Tyrell said. He chuckled, trying to recover his breath without looking impressed. It was just a handjob, a mandingo-nigga like himself couldn’t get excited over a handjob without blowing his rep. He heaved for breath as casually as he could manage. “Cool. You bettuh buy me that phone, yoh.”
“I will. Where’s this house you can get clothes at?”
Tyrell gave him directions to a tony neighborhood a ways off the highway. There he pulled up to a house with a pool out back. “Don’t worry, I fuck wit’ this divorced lady, she don’t needta hide nuhhin’.” He got out, wrapping a jacket around his waist so he could walk to the front door without flashing the neighborhood.
He had no sooner stepped out, however, when a slightly haggard woman came out of the front door. “No way, Tyrell! Get outta here! My husband’s back!”
“Wudd?”
“My husband’s back! You gotta go-“
A burly middle-aged white man came out from behind the house. He saw Tyrell’s mostly naked body. “What’s going on? Who are you?”
Tyrell was crestfallen for a couple reasons. Most importantly, he was shocked that she had chosen her husband over him. She’d been bad-mouthing her husband for more than a year. She said over and over that Tyrell was younger, sexier, bigger-cocked, better-in-bed and just plain more charming. He was better in every way than her ex-husband.
So what, Tyrell thought, was wrong with him? Why had she chosen the husband over him?
“Huh? Whatchoo doin’, man? You best get outta here!” The man’s face turned ruddy, and he came closer. “You tryin’-a mess wit’ my wife?”
Tyrell was used to messing around with nerdy white guys’s wives, not big men like him. He didn’t like retreating, but he had few options. He took a step back then darted into Avery’s car. Avery saw all that occur, but he was unsure what it meant.
“Drive.”
“What’s happening?” Avery was confused by the large white man approaching the open driver’s side window of Avery’s car.
“What the fuck is going on?” said the white man, lowering his head to bark at Tyrell in the passenger seat. “You coming at my wife, boy?”
“Nah.”
“Who are you?”
“Just drive!”
Avery ripped the car into reverse and floored it out of the driveway. Luckily no one was coming on the street or Avery might have backed right into them. He peeled away back to the highway.
“Shit,” Tyrell said. He sighed. “Well, fuck.”
“You wanna go get that phone now then?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Tyrell said. He looked out the window.
“Do you… want to stay with me?” Avery asked. He got the feeling from Tyrell’s silence that he now needed a place to stay.
Tyrell shrugged. “Do, I, uh… gotta… pay rent?”
“Sort of,” Avery said with a chuckle. “I only have one bed.”
There was a long awkward silence in the car. Tyrell wrinkled his nose. “Fine. But you gotta buy me stuff. Not just the phone. Like I need sum clothes ‘nd’shit, and, uh… a toothbrush.”
“Sure.”
“And…” There was so much going on that Tyrell struggled to think of something nice he could demand. “Uh… nice clothes. Like real nice clothes.”
“Yeah, cool.”
Avery drove to the All-Mart. Since Tyrell couldn’t go in without any clothes, he stayed out in the car, while Avery went in to buy a cheap phone, some clothes, shoes and a few odds and ends. He was relieved to come out and find Tyrell hadn’t hotwired his car.
“These clothes’ll have to do for now,” Avery said. “I’ll buy you some nicer stuff online, okay?”
“Fine.”
Tyrell felt better when he had some clothes on, and he quickly got to work on his phone. So he was involved in that and didn’t talk much or even pay any attention to Avery’s groping of his biceps and limp cock, until they pulled into the driveway of Avery’s house. Avery led him inside.
In the house, Avery was disappointed to see Tyrell in clothes. They both kept to themselves for awhile. Tyrell needed to get his life back in order — canceling his old phone, getting in touch with one nigga who was at work at the Burger Barn and could give him numbers of some other niggas, sending desperate messages to that married woman (until she blocked him), bragging to his niggas about the white chick he had boned (which made him feel better).
Avery made spaghetti — he had plenty of pasta and jarred sauce, and he figured Tyrell would like to have a big meal that was not quite home-cooked, but still plenty damn good. It was the good jarred sauce anyway.
“So do I gotta… you know, perform foh muh dinner?” Tyrell asked.
Avery clucked his tongue. “No. I’m not gonna starve you, Tyrell. You can ram me later tonight, once you’ve eaten.”
Tyrell was relieved but also wrinkled his nose. He didn’t realize Avery wanted ass. Tyrell wasn’t a booty bandit.
He could do it, of course. This nigga got meat. This nigga pounds.
But it wasn’t something he looked forward to. Tyrell hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he saw the food. He slurped down the noodles and the leftover Italian sausage Avery had added. Tyrell felt much better once he had eaten. He went in and took a long hot shower, which felt good too.
Then he came out before bed, in time to see Avery putting on a silky bathrobe. Tyrell followed him into his bedroom, his heart pounding.
He’d never plowed a man in the ass before. Tyrell fucked mainly with middle-aged white women, and while he liked to brag that he got them to give up the booty, that wasn’t really true. He’d only ever had anal sex with four women, and three of them made him quit before he even got his whole dick in there.
Tyrell closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He could do this. It would be easier, he thought, if he just pretended he was with a woman. He leaned in slowly, like women liked, and wrapped his muscles around Avery. He wrinkled his nose when Avery planted his lips on Tyrell’s, but Tyrell submitted as Avery’s tongue invaded his mouth.
Avery erupted in moans, stroking Tyrell’s powerful chest, which was moist with shower water. Avery figured Tyrell would feel most comfortable if Avery acted like a woman in love with him, being seduced. Avery giggled girlishly as Tyrell kissed him on the lips and the neck, then Avery slowly lowered himself to his knees.
“Alright, then, man, go ahead and put yuh mouf ouwn it,” Tyrell said with a grunt.
Avery pulled off Tyrell’s towel, revealing that big floppy cock. If he was with a woman, he’d be hard already. Tyrell tried not to show his feelings about this on his face. He took a deep breath, and his cock popped into Avery’s mouth. Avery smiled around it — it was clean and meaty and he could tell it was well-used too, like a muscle exhausted after a long day of work.
Tyrell fucked so many women that he got hard quickly, once he got into it, even though he’d cum a couple times today already. It had been hours, after all, which was plenty of time for him. He put his hands on his hips, watching his dick slide down Avery’s throat. At first it was just awkward and moist but cold and unappealing, like thwacking his limp dick on a plate of raw fish.
But then all at once, a jolt of pleasure made it twitch, and Tyrell narrowed his eyes to slits. His pecs rippled. His cock throbbed, and again, Tyrell felt the warm moisture of Avery’s tongue battering his sensitive cockshaft. He murmured soft nothings, and he submitted to Avery’s hands reaching up to play with his rippling chest muscles.
Not enough women were impressed by muscles, Tyrell thought, not really. Not like Avery obviously was.
“Yeah, swallow it, boi, swallow it deep…” Tyrell could get into this, he thought. He wondered if Avery would keep him paying him for his dick. That could be a regular arrangement.
It was rock-hard and throbbing soon enough, and the salty taste of precum hit Avery’s lips. Avery smiled up at him, his hands roaming over Tyrell’s muscular chest.
When he was ready, Avery turned around, leaned over the bed and jutted his ass up. Tyrell tried to cover up his lack of confidence, but Avery could tell how nervous he was. Tyrell wondered how much like a woman’s ass this would feel.
It’s good to do this once, Tyrell tried to tell himself. Lotta niggas ram once or twice. It’s better to do it wit’ a clean guy outside of prison. Then if I ever go to prison, it won’t be my first time.
One of Tyrell’s big hands spread Avery’s asscheeks, and he teased his knob at Avery’s hole. Then he closed his eyes and gyrated his hips, forcing it in as deep as it could go with one thrust. Avery gritted his teeth as a jolt of pain hit him. Tyrell had a big dick, so even with lube, there was agony as that first inch or two of cockmeat pushed into him. Avery struggled, and Tyrell grunted.
“Damn, boi,” Tyrell said. He’d never really worked through this kind of anal resistance. He was ginger, reluctant at first. Tyrell slowly worked his cock in, centimeter by centimeter. His hands instinctively touched Avery’s ass, then he pulled away because he didn’t want to touch a man.
Then a surge of pleasure hit him, and Tyrell moaned despite his anxiety. His eyes fluttered, and he gripped Avery’s flesh tight. He found his fingers on Avery’s pert ass — which, he thought, looked and felt very much like a girl’s — spreading the cheeks. When Tyrell kinda sculpted Avery’s assflesh with his hands, he could give it a vaguely feminine outline.
“Damn, man…” Tyrell grunted. His cock slid the rest of the way in, and they both moaned in sync. “Oh god… Damn, nigga!”
Tyrell didn’t know a man’s booty could be like this. Avery was tight and strong and experienced, and he could take every inch of dickmeat like few women could. He wasn’t loose either, he didn’t feel like a slut. He felt amazing, and Tyrell couldn’t believe it.
This, he thought, was better than any of the female asses he’d ever been in, not that Tyrell was going to admit that.
He pounded away, soon losing all of his inhibitions. He didn’t even mind his chest touching Avery’s back as he rammed his dick in harder and harder.
“Take it, nigga, damn!”
Soon he had Avery pinned on the bed, squirming beneath Tyrell’s massive body. Tyrell slammed his dick in and out, having lost his gingerness as he now realized Avery could take any amount of ramming. He forced his dick all the way in and out, and it was so thick every thrust of his hips brought Avery to new heights of orgasmic climax.
“Shit yeah!” Tyrell gripped his cheeks and moaned out his orgasm, surprised to see that Avery shot his own load at the same time. His body was wracked with bliss so intense it nearly hurt. He cried out loud, and his hands clawed for something to grip onto.
The smell of cum filled the air, and Tyrell sprayed his giant wad within Avery’s ass. It just kept on flowing, overflowing, dripping down and coating Avery’s thighs with creamy goodness.
More and more kept flowing, each one accompanying a long-dicking thrust into Avery’s ass The pleasure continued that whole time, Avery’s orgasm never quite ending. Tyrell’s cock had found a magic button to prolong it, it seemed.
At last, it was over, and Tyrell pulled out amid a storm of shudders through both men’s bodies. He grinned, wiping sweat off his chest. “Damn, boi… Hmm, you got ass fo’ real…”
“Hmmm…” Avery wanted to say something flirtatious, but he was too overwhelmed by the aftershocks of the most intense orgasm he had felt in a long time. He curled up on the bed and motioned for Tyrell to lay next to him.
Tyrell did so. He was tired now, having barely slept the night before. He didn’t even mind letting Avery paw all over him as they settled into bed together.
When I tell people about this — if I ever do — I’ll definitely tell them I made Avery sleep on the couch.

The Gangbanger

Rico is temporarily homeless, but luckily his gang gives him a place to stay… but he’s got a roommate. His name is Thumper, and he’s an old head, an ex-con and a booty bandit to boot! Can Rico satisfy his new roommate’s unbridled desires?!

Read it soon as an ebook!

Read the whole thing here!

Rico walked into the Cityside Barbershop. Heart thumping, he carried with him virtually all of his belongings in a trash bag. He hoped nobody who saw him knew that. He tried to look cocky. The people in the barbershop — barbers and customers — looked at him like they knew what was up, like they could tell at a glance what he was: homeless.
He tried not to think of himself as homeless, even though he knew that’s precisely what he was.
He had money. Not quite enough to rent a nice place, but he might have been able to get a cheap room somewhere. The downside to that was that he wouldn’t be able to afford to save up enough to afford somewhere nicer. His stepdad kicking him out without warning had really put a damper on things.
The last couple months had been rough for Rico. After losing two ounces of heroin, he was in trouble with his boss in the Bloods, Thumper. Then his girlfriend dumped him, and now his stepfather had kicked him out as punishment for selling drugs. Everything was going wrong in Rico’s life. Six months ago he was the most respected gangbanger in the Bloods. Today, he was a hobo, considering whether he could squat above a barbershop for free. What time does a barbershop open in the morning? Probably early.
Avoiding eye contact, Rico went into the backroom. He had a feeling the customers and barbers at the Barbershop knew why he was carrying a trash bag into the back. He also knew that Thumper didn’t tell them, but they looked at him with a mixture of pity and scorn. They knew he was homeless.
Of course no one said anything. Everyone pretended to think Thumper was merely taking in a roommate half his age, rent-free. Which he was. There was just more to the story, and all them all knew it.
Behind the Cityside Barbershop was a staircase that led to an apartment on the second floor of the building. That was Thumper’s apartment. To be more precise, it was a Bloods apartment, and the Bloods let Thumper live in it because Thumper did thirty-four years for the Bloods. They owed him, and part of that was giving him a free apartment.
The catch was that Thumper had to share it with a young nigga now and then, which did not bother Thumper. It did bother Rico.
He heavyfooted into the apartment, a feeling dread spreading deep in his loins. Rico had the sinking feeling that this was adulthood, and he was soon going to wish he was a teenager again. High school was so simple, but so long ago. Thumper was in his forties, maybe older, which was ancient as far as Rico was concerned.
When Rico arrived, Thumper was in his living room, meeting with a few other gangbangers. As they all finished up Bloods business, Rico “moved in”, a process completed when he dropped his trash bag.
There was no spare bedroom, so Rico was sleeping on the couch. He was fine with that because he hoped it would spur him into finding a new place. He didn’t want to live here forever, like Thumper’s little butt-boy.
“Yo, Rico, come here and rap at us,” Thumper said, the meeting dwindling as the others left one by one. His voice was deep and tough, commanding respect. “We talkin’ ‘bout what to do regardin’ the Sweet Hill boys. Whatchoo think?”
“Well, I think we gotta beat them niggas down,” Rico said, more because he wanted to seem tough than because he had any particular knowledge of the situation. He was only vaguely aware that the Sweet Hill gang had begun selling crack on territory the Bloods considered to be their own.
“Alright, that’s a plan,” Thumper said. He smiled at Rico. “You get yo’ niggas together and do it this week, okay?”
Rico hadn’t thought he’d be put in charge of it, but he could hardly say no when Thumper was letting him stay here rent-free. He nodded as though it wasn’t going to be difficult. Some of the other thugs looked at Rico pitiably, and Rico tried not to notice.
Now the big problem Rico had was that he needed to find some niggas who were willing to put their lives at risk for a plan Rico hadn’t come up with yet to attack some unknown number of strangers somewhere in the city. Rico was going to struggle to put that crew together, and he wondered if Thumper had assigned him that role to see if he was up to snuff, if could actually put plans together. As a true blue gangbanger — or a true red gangbanger, as Rico liked to think of it — Rico very much thought of himself as capable of doing that.
But none of his friends would even let him sleep on their couch, so Rico had doubts he could get them to go in at the Sweet Hill boys guns blazing.
Thumper clapped his hands together as though the Sweet Hill problem was as good as solved, and the last few Bloods headed out the door. Rico’s mind raced as he tried to think of a way out of this. He shouldn’t have agreed to the Sweet Hill mission so readily. He didn’t even know where Sweet Hill was — Sweet Hill was the name of the shopping center with the CVS and the T-Mobile store. Was Rico supposed to gather a crew to go shoot up the T-Mobile store? He couldn’t very well ask Thumper now, could he? He’d already agreed to do it, he’d look like an idiot admitting only now that he didn’t know where the Sweet Hill boys were, who they were, how to hit them, how many they were, etc.
And no guns! Rico didn’t have any guns! He had a week to put together a crew, find out what and where the Sweet Hill boys are, find guns, go in shooting, succeed in intimidating them and dispose of the guns and perhaps dead bodies. Since he’d agreed to do it so confidently, if he succeeded — which he obviously wouldn’t — but if he succeeded, he’d barely get any credit for it. Thumper would just say ‘good job, you did what you said you’d do’.
He should have made a bigger deal out of how difficult it would be. Maybe he could have gotten Thumper to at least provide the guns.
Once the door shut, Rico was alone with Thumper for the first time ever — it hadn’t occurred to Rico until this moment that he had never been alone with Thumper. Thumper was one of the head honchos in the Bloods, but Rico had only ever spent time with him in a group.
Now he very much wished one of his niggas had let him sleep on the couch.
The apartment stayed silent once the others were gone. Rico gulped. Sweat beaded on his forehead because he sensed Thumper staring at him, evaluating him, maybe just seeing how long he’d take being stared at before he snapped. Thumper was like that. He be testing niggas.
“You ever mess around on the downlow, Rico?” Thumper asked after a long, awkward silence fell between them.
“Uh, yeah. Once,” Rico said. He instantly regretted saying that. It was true, but he had heard Thumper was often on the downlow with his close niggas — only for Thumper, “downlow” meant you serviced him, not any kind of reciprocal behavior. That wasn’t what Rico meant by it.
Rico looked down at his feet, avoiding eye contact from Thumper.
After a long pause, Thumper raised his eyebrows. “Just once, huh? You do it with a nigga you respec’?”
“I guess so.” Rico didn’t know how to answer that. He did it with Kayshawn Henderson, who he didn’t really respect or get along with — they were just drunk — but he didn’t want to explain that to Thumper. Kayshawn wasn’t even a Blood. Plus it was downlow, which means secret. Thumper might be angry if Rico shared a secret, because Thumper trusted Rico not to spill the beans on Bloods business.
“Huh,” Thumper said with a knowing nod. He raised his eyebrows. Rico sighed. He winced. He got a very strong impression that Thumper wanted Rico to jerk him off.
Thumper was like that. After thirty-four years in prison, Thumper did not jack himself off. He saw it as demeaning. He often demanded niggas jack him off — with mouth! Swallowing! The whole nine yards! Rico could understand the impulse. He didn’t like jacking himself off either. It made him feel like an immature brat.
But he couldn’t bring himself to mouth Thumper off. Thumper was an old man by Rico’s standards. It would be humiliating. Thumper could get any random crackhead in this neighborhood to mouth him off.
Thumper crossed his arms over his chest, accentuating the softball-sized pecs beneath his tight t-shirt. He ran his tongue over his teeth and clucked. “Huh,” he said again.
“Thumper, I… Uh, thanks a lot fo’ lettin’ me stay here,” Rico said. His heart raced again. Just like when he was nervous those niggas in the barbershop would realize he was homeless, he was nervous now that all the niggas in the Bloods would hear about him jerking Thumper off.
Thumper nodded.
Rico sighed again. This wouldn’t be that bad, he thought, he’d done it before. A lot of Bloods had jerked Thumper off too — Thumper loved finding reasons to make a loyal Blood do it, like if they fucked something up. So nobody would be shocked to find out Rico did it. In fact, they’d probably assume he did, cuz Thumper seemed like the type to make his roommate jerk him off. He was precisely that kind of nigga, and Rico was too young and powerless in the organization to resist.
When Thumper had stood before him for what seemed like a long time, Rico sunk to his knees, afront the couch he was to sleep on tonight. Thumper seemed huge from down below him. Rico gulped.
At last that position made Thumper grunt out his satisfaction. He stood still, looming over Rico, who winced and wished there was another position to do it in — he could hardly make demands though — it would be less humiliating if Thumper sat on the couch and Rico could lay down on it or something like that. Any position in which Rico didn’t have to kneel like a beggar would be an improvement.
Rico waited for a moment, thinking Thumper would take his own dick out, but he didn’t. He just towered over Rico and watched. Rico winced at the realization that Thumper wanted Rico to take it out. That was prison bitch stuff, he thought.
Reaching up for Thumper’s dick, Rico shuddered. Then, much to his surprise, Thumper batted his hand away.
“You should ask a nigga fo’ permission befo’ you start stroking his dick,” Thumper said. “If that’s what you wanna do.”
Rico spoke quietly, blushing so hard his cheeks burned. “Thumper… do you want, uh…? I mean… is it okay, uh, if I jerk you off?”
“That’s a real nice offer, nigga. That’s a good gesture,” he said, as though it was the first time he had said that word and was unsure how to pronounce it. Before Rico could undo his belt, Thumper clucked his disapproval. “Play wit’ it through my pants first, nigga. Go slow, make it feel good.”
Rico blanched and winced. He gently stroked the bulge in Thumper’s dick, and for some reason just feeling that spongy flesh through his jeans made Rico gag. Thumper’s manhood stirred beneath the denim. He groaned in a way that made Rico shiver with disgust. He groaned like he was on the verge of orgasm, even though all Rico had done was touch his dickshaft through his jeans. Thumper wasn’t even hard.
He took Thumper’s belt in hand to undo it, but Thumper stopped him. He dragged Rico’s hand back to the bulge in his jeans. “No, don’t take my pants off,” Thumper said. “Just undo the fly and take it out. Look me in the eye when you jerk me off. That’s a mark of respec’, nigga.”
His hands trembled. Rico wasn’t sure if he could do that — stroking another man’s cock was humiliating enough, but looking Thumper in the eye while he did it would make it even worse. The zipper seemed impossibly loud, and when it was open, Rico got a burst of stale crotch sweat in his nostrils. He gagged again, and Thumper clucked with disapproval once more.
“You may take it out now, Rico,” Thumper said. Something in the way he said his name made Rico shudder all over again.
Rico had to reach in to pull out Thumper’s dick, which was still soft and veiny, dark brown like dirt, slick with sweat. He wanted to wipe it off, but Rico was sure Thumper would say that was disrespectful. The smell of unwashed ballsweat made Rico’s stomach churn.
That cock was huge. Rico knew Thumper had a big one, lots of niggas said so, but he had never seen it in person. It was a foot long even fully soft, and it was hot and slimy with sweat, so thick Rico could barely get his whole hand around it. It dangled afront Thumper’s crotch, and it swayed like a pendulum when Thumper moved.
Rico opened his mouth and closed his eyes, and he waited.
After a few seconds of nothing happening, Rico opened his eyes again. Thumper’s dick was still there, still limp, and seeing it made the smell of crotchsweat more potent, so Rico bit back a gag. That was when he looked up and saw Thumper’s furrowed brow aimed down at him. Rico gulped.
“Well? Put’cha mouth on it, nigga,” Thumper said. “Get’cha hands on it. Is you showin’ respec’ or not?”
“I am-“
“Then do somethin’ with it,” Thumper said. He put his hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows.
Rico touched it again, gently with one hand, which he then wrapped around the shaft. He grimaced. This was a lot easier with Kayshawn, he thought. Then they were drunk, having snuck booze into a church lock-in, and they were sharing a bed, the lights stayed off, they barely talked, it was more of an accidental fumbling thing than a real downlow “seduction” of any kind. By the time Rico pondered it, it was over with.
This felt entirely different. Thumper’s cock had that old-man smell too, with seemingly too much dickskin. Rico didn’t like how it roped around in his grasp as he stroked it gingerly, slowly, as badly as possible at first because he didn’t want a reputation for doing it good, then he realized the better his hands were, the less Thumper might demand he use his mouth, so Rico stroked it as good as he could. Thumper kept letting out little moans and pumping his hips as though so horny he couldn’t resist attempting at Rico’s mouth. Thumper’s dick stayed soft though, and he was obviously not that horny, he was just pretending.
“Hmm, you got a real pretty mouth, nigga,” Thumper murmured. “Put it on my dick.”
Rico winced, but he opened his mouth. He held onto Thumper’s cock by the root with one hand, and he moved his open mouth in that direction with his eyes scrunched shut. Thumper used both hands to guide Rico’s head until his mouth and nose collided with Thumper’s sweaty cockshaft.
A furious gag came outta Rico’s mouth as Thumper’s spongy limp dick touched his lips and then his tongue. There was already a slight cummy taste, either precum from Rico’s masturbating it through Thumper’s pants or maybe left over from something else. Maybe it was leftover from when he was “on the downlow” with some other nigga, Rico didn’t know how often a downlow gangbanger like Thumper would do that. Maybe lots. They said he was a booty bandit in prison.
Thumper kept his arms over his chest, so Rico had to chase his cock with his mouth. Every time the tip got in his mouth, he tasted sweaty old-nigga nastiness again, gagged and spat it out. Thumper wasn’t getting an erection like that.
But rico couldn’t quite bring himself to go any deeper than the tip. Even that felt impossibly thick, and Rico wasn’t sure he could go any farther. Thumper’s dick was thicker than his mouth.
“When you handle the dick of a nigga you respec’, Rico, you should deep-throat it,” Thumper said. “You know what that means? You evuh get head from a girl?”
“Yes!” Rico said, annoyed at Thumper’s patronizing tone.
“Don’t you talk to me like that, nigga,” Thumper said, his voice growly and threatening. Rico shuddered. Thumper forced his eyes open — Rico hadn’t even noticed he closed them — and sneered down at Rico. “Real niggas got backup plans, Rico, you know that? They ready to get kicked outta they place. They got cash.”
Rico wanted to defend himself, but when he tried to pull off Thumper’s dick, Thumper’s hands gripped his head and held it in place. Thumper growled again, and he pushed Rico’s head deeper onto his shaft. Rico gagged all over again as that cock pushed into his throat.
“Take my balls out wit’ one hand, and play wit’ em. Gentle-like,” Thumper said. He groaned as Rico did so, gingerly playing with his sweaty sac. The feel of that slick flesh made Rico’s stomach churn. His cock throbbed and grew warmer and warmer as it firmed up in Rico’s mouth. “Yeah, that’s nice, nigga. That’s respec’.”
The sour flavor of precum assaulted Rico’s senses, and brought tears to his eyes. He was glad it was dark enough in this room that Thumper couldn’t see — it wasn’t really crying anyway, he thought, it was tears from suffocation and stress, not being a pansy. He didn’t think Thumper would acknowledge a difference though.
The tasty of sweaty cockmeat grew more and more tolerable, though Rico thought that was mainly because he sucked up all the sweat and grime, replacing it with plain spit. The veiny shaft invaded his throat with each powerful thrust of Thumper’s cock.
The moist grunting of Thumper’s voice was offputting to Rico. He sounded like a rutting animal, and it reminded Rico that his mouth was just being used now. Thumper was going to continue to use his mouth and body — though hopefully not his ass — until Rico moved out. That was possibly the entire reason Thumper offered to let him stay here.
“Whatchoo plan wit’ my nut?” Thumper asked as he groaned.
Rico didn’t understand the question. He just looked up at Thumper, and tried to ignore that massive shaft drilling into his throat. All of a sudden, a burst of salty precum hit his tongue, and Rico gagged violently.
But Thumper kept a grip on his head. Rico tried to look down as he retched, only he couldn’t with Thumper’s hands on his head. All he could do was gag up around the erect cock bobbing around on his face, leaving a layer of precum that only made him gag again and again.
“Huh? I’m gonna blow my load,” Thumper said. “Whatchoo gonna do wit’ it? You want me to shoot it on yo’ face or what? In yo’ hand? You need a plan.”
Rico was glad to hear that he had a choice. He pulled off Thumper’s dick, intending to say in my hand, which was the least objectionable option. But then he saw Thumper’s scrunched-up face, and Rico knew this was a test. He wasn’t sure exactly what the answer was, but in my hand wasn’t it.
“Think long and hard, Rico. You got a lotta factors to consider. Yo’ respec’ fo’ me, if you got any,” Thumper said. He sniffled.
“I’ll… uh, swallow it,” Rico said, wincing as Thumper mollwopped his erection onto Rico’s face, smearing spit and precum all over it. He held his breath to avoid gagging.
“Yeah,” Thumper said. “You will. But befo’ that, I wanna see it. I like seeing it. Play’ wit’ it a bit.”
“Oh.”
“So whatchoo think?”
“I, uh… I guess I’ll do that.”
“So where you want me to nut? In yo’ mouth?”
It was obvious he wanted Rico to say yes, so he did so. Then Thumper pushed his cock back in Rico’s mouth. He grunted as he wrapped his hands behind Rico’s head.
He thrust his hips so powerfully his cockshaft pushed down Rico’s throat until his nose was nestled in Thumper’s pubic hair. Rico couldn’t even gag because his throat was so choked with throbbing dickmeat. All he could do was sit there on his knees and let it happen.
“That’s a good idea, Rico. I’ll shoot my load in yo’ mouth, just like you askin’ me to. That’s very respec’ful, nigga. Don’t swallow nothin’ till I tell you to, okay? We gonna play a bit first.”
Rico nodded, but even as he did, Thumper was blowing his wad. He shot it right in the back of Rico’s throat. Some of it dripped into his gullet, but Rico instinctively avoided swallowing it. He would have accidentally spilled it all but Thumper kept a tight grip on his head. Thumper grunted, rutting like a pig as his fat cock spasmed inside Rico.
At last it was over, and a burst of jizz spurted onto Rico’s tongue. Salty cum filled his mouth. It seemed like a huge amount, but Rico wasn’t sure how much was normal or how much it really was. His stomach churned with disgust, begging him to spit it out. The sour and salty flavor made his eyes water all over again, and he had to hold back a violent retch.
“Open up,” Thumper said, his voice wavering as another jet of cum hit Rico’s mouth. He kneeled down and looked in. “Come on,” he said. “It’s dark in here. I wanna see yo’ pretty-boy mouth.”
Gagging and holding onto his stomach, Rico managed to spread his lips without spilling any of the cum filling his mouth, as Thumper’s dicktip hovered over his face and spewed a few final drops onto his nose and upper lip. Thumper looked into his mouth as though trying to find something. He smiled with satisfaction, then spat right into it. The bitterness of his saliva made Rico choke. He nearly spilled but Thumper held him by the neck.
“That’s a big one,” Thumper said. He stuck one finger in, all the way back until Rico gagged. Then Thumper held the palm of his hand out until Rico spat the entire wad into it. Rico was glad to be rid of it, though he could still feel that snotty texture on his tongue. There was a pubic hair stuck in the back of his throat too, but he couldn’t spit it out right now.
Thumper raised his eyebrows as Rico got ahold of his stomach and his gagging. He kept that cum-filled palm right in front of Rico’s face, where the scent assaulted his nostrils, making it hard for Rico to regain his composure. Thumper cleared his throat. “I’ll ignore your gagging, Rico. That’s rude, but I understand…” It was obvious he wanted Rico to suck the cum back up, and he raised his eyebrows as though to say You better do it now, it’ll get worse when it’s cold. Rico opened his mouth, but Thumper cleared his throat and shook his head.
Rico blushed. “Uh… Thumper, can I eat your nut?”
“Yes, you may. Thank you for askin’, nigga.”
Rico gagged and nearly vomited as he sucked it off Thumper’s callused palm. He choked it down and waited there, blushing intensely as Thumper looked him in the eye. Then Thumper’s fingers forced his mouth open, and he checked that Rico had swallowed the whole thing. Rico felt that hot lump in his belly, the creamy texture and the sheer warmth of it suffusing into his flesh.
“Good,” he said. “Now go to sleep. Set yo’ alarm for seven o’clock, nigga. By seven-thirty, I want you wakin’ me up wit’ yo’ prettyboy mouth on my dick again. Have breakfast ready when you swallow my first nut of the day. You understand?”
“Yes, Thumper,” Rico said. He gulped. Remnants of jizz shone all over his mug. “I’ll do it.”
“I know. I ain’t ax fo’ yo’ agreement, Rico. I axt fo’ yo’ comprehension. Yo’ agreement is assumed,” Thumper said. He slapped his limp dick over Rico’s face again. “Don’t wipe that nut off yo’ face. I wanna see it dried on there in the morning.”

The Volleyball Player

Rob isn’t interested in volleyball, until he overhears that one hunky player is in need of a few dollars. That’s something Rob can provide, in exchange for a swing on his alpha male meat!

Can Rob satisfy this volleyball jock’s carnal desires?!

Read it now as an ebook!

Or read the whole thing here!

Rob happily munched on a taco, sitting on a bench near the beach. He watched the sorority girls splash each other. The sun shone brightly, and it lay a blanket of heat upon the beach. He hoped it wouldn’t dissuade the men from coming out, and indeed, the women soon proved an irresistible siren. This splendorous slice of California beach always attracted more women than men. That’s because there were three university campuses nearby, and all three were mostly women.
By eleven o’clock, sun-tanned young men were gathering in dribs and drags, and they made eyes at the girls, who made eyes back at them, and then mostly nothing happened, but it was cute to watch. Rob was a little old for this stuff. They probably saw him as “the old guy over there”. Luckily, there were a few older guys — like really old — so Rob didn’t come across that old.
One of them shot Rob a look like he was a creep. He was a bit young and slim for Rob’s taste, with a face like an overgrown infant, but Rob might have made an offer to him anyway. But Rob soon became entranced by a developing drama. That babyfaced fratboy seemed to have a crush on one girl who wanted nothing to do with him, while a different, somewhat thicker girl was all over him.
There was also a handsome dark-skinned man with long messy hair. Was he Brazilian? Rob overheard an accent, but he couldn’t quite place it. The man had a perfect six-pack, which Rob adored. He was a great admirer of the male form.
But the Brazilian man — if that was indeed what he was — did not look like a good prospect. He flashed a wad of cash when talking to a girl. A handsome man with cash and a girl already swooning over him was not likely to be willing to let Rob swing on his meat for a few dollars. That’s what he was hoping to find today on San Guapo Beach.
Rob was patient. He didn’t mind waiting. He loved beaches. He would gladly spend all day, or even multiple days, hanging out and waiting for a desperate man who might let him take a swing on their meat.
As the day wore on, San Guapo filled with college kids on spring break, including plenty of hefty, tanned and muscled young men who needed beer money and a ride home. Girls were too drunk to fuck most of the time, so the boys were frustrated and horny. It was prime hunting grounds for Rob.
He decided to go back to his hotel a little before noon. This part of the beach was filling up with family-types — women in one-piece bathing suits, carrying babies, and balding gray-haired men with paunchy bellies — so Rob left. Once the evening came he figured he’d be able to go back out, the beach would be crawling with young studs once again.
For now though, he was at a loss for what to do.
There was a crowd of people near the hotel’s part of the beach. Rob was interested and went closer — he didn’t normally hang out at the hotel’s bit of beach because his experience suggested those were the most scrubbed-clean, unexciting and banal beaches of all. It was impossible to do anything fun with corporate security goons on the lookout everywhere.
The Top Inn Hotel staff was here, Rob could see them scattered about, looking terrified of the crowd they had created. But the onlookers weren’t focused on anything but the match:
Volleyball.
It was a volleyball game. It was important enough for ESPN2 to be there filming. Now that Rob saw that, he recalled having seen a sign in the hotel to that effect. Was this a pro volleyball match? Was pro volleyball even a thing? He had no idea. Maybe Olympics qualifying or something.
Rob pushed into the crowd to watch. There were two teams of six playing. One was clearly the “away-team” — they were either Australian or New Zealander, judging from the flags on their shorts. The other were presumably locals, or at least American.
With some graceful shoving and sliding through the crowd, Rob got to the front, close enough that he could see the action and hear the grunts of the players when they struck the ball.
But he got to the front of the crowd only moments before the match was over. He had little interest in volleyball itself, so he didn’t much care about missing the game.
What he was sorry he missed was the guys — especially one guy in particular.
He was on the US team. He was tall and broad-shouldered, built like a jolly truck, with a hefty frame and a perfect six-pack. He was long-legged and long-armed, and he wore only short black shorts that extended just a few inches onto his thighs. Rob could tell his shorts were so short he had shaved the top of his pubic hair or it would have poked out above the elastic.
That volleyball player had a physique that Rob ached to admire. He wanted to taste his sweat-dappled shoulders so bad it hurt. He needed him. He wanted to suck the scruff off him. The blonde volleyballer ran his fingers through his confused blond mop of hair and said something frustrated, his words lost in the thrum and clamor of the dissipating crowd — his team had lost, and it seemed he and his teammates were upset with each other. They good-naturedly smiled for the ESPN2 cameras and shook their opponents’s hands, but they didn’t like it. Rob could sense it in them.
Rob milled about. He wanted that volleyball player. The man was obviously handsome enough to get a girl if he wanted it, but he seemed depressed. The women flocked to the winning team from down under — not only had they won, they had adorable accents. And Rob had to admit, they also had physiques he could get down with.
But they were not for Rob, he had eyes only for his beloved blond buck. He just needed to find a way to get him. Rob bought a bottle of water and drank it as though it was an important activity he couldn’t leave and do, so nobody noticed he was milling around for no reason. He waited for the herd to thin, and the cameras went into a van parked at the hotel. The excitement, such as it was, disappeared.
The argument between the blond and his teammates erupted out in the parking lot. Rob had casually walked out that way when they did. He didn’t catch the beginning of the argument, but he saw it end.
“I told you that wouldn’t work! Why won’t you listen to me?!”
“Now we’re out ten grand-“
“Oh please, he was twenty minutes late, we nearly forfeited-“
“Maybe you ought to show up to practice once in a while!”
“Hey fuck you, none of this was my fault!”
“I’m the team captain, and I said we should-“
“Then it’s your fault!”
As they argued, they climbed into a jeep. At first Rob thought they were all going to squeeze into one soft-top jeep (with the soft-top removed, so there was plenty of room, more or less). It looked that way. But then just four of them slipped into that jeep, leaving two behind to continue arguing as though they didn’t notice the foursome in the keep was leaving without them.
“I told you that I had the better strategy-“
“But you never showed up to practice to tell us about it!”
“Oh come on, I skipped like two practices!”
“Yeah, but they were last week. You were out of practice today. You cost us that match, Hark!”
“Don’t you make accusations, you little pisshole, you served the ball like a goddamn cripple that one time-!”
“I made one error the whole game!” That blond — Hark was his name, it seemed — threw his hands in the air. He was the handsome blond with a bashful tangle of hair and a perfect body. Rob was entranced by the beads of sweat clinging to the pit in the small of his back — there were presumably fine little hairs there collecting the sweat — Rob knew most men had that, but he couldn’t see them because Hark was blond and his skin there was light — and he wanted to suck up every salty droplet. Hark’s shorts had slipped a bit as he walked to the parking lot, so the top of his asscrack was visible. He had big plump cheeks that Rob wanted to put his face between and blow. His asscheeks were pale as porcelain, but his shoulders and his face were browned by the sun.
“Well it cost us ten grand!” the other guy said. He threw his hands in the air. “I’m walking back!” he snapped, as though he had any other choice. The jeep had gone.
Hark stood there watching him go. He put his hands on his hips and ran his fingers through his hair. He scowled, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He forced an awkward smile on his face. Then he turned around and nearly ran into a complete stranger: Rob.
“Ah! Hey. Hi,” Hark said with a grunt. He was normally charming and outgoing, but it was hard to restart himself after that fight with his friends. It took him a moment to switch gears. He had a naturally jolly face when it wasn’t tense with frustration.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah… Yeah, I’m cool,” Hark said. He shrugged. “I just… Things didn’t turn out how they were supposed to.” He added, “Obviously”, because he assumed Rob was a fan and was as disappointed as he was that his team lost.
“You poor baby… you wanna tell me about it?”
Hark looked at him suspiciously. “Who’re you?”
“I’m Rob Winthrop,” he said. “Why don’t you come back to my hotel? I’ve got some weed. I’m not very good at rolling joints, but if you can roll one up for me-“
“Okay,” he said flatly. Then he blushed. “I mean… yeah, cool. I can roll joints. And I haven’t smoked in awhile cuz I was preparing for this match. Some good that did me.”
“I saw your match. You were really good,” Rob said. He didn’t mention that he watched about thirty seconds of it. “What was that fight all about?”
Rob of course didn’t really care. He was just making conversation. Hark explained to him all about the team’s conflicts as they walked back to the hotel, and Rob listened the best he could manage given the dullness of the subject. He had literally nothing to offer to a conversation on volleyball strategy and training regiments. Once Hark — Keith Harkness was his name, Hark to his friends — once Hark got into talking about it, his natural charm took over, and he forgot that this was a kind of weird experience — running into a random man and going back to his hotel room to smoke weed.
The smoking weed part was pretty normal for Hark. The rest of it was odd.
This wasn’t the first time Hark had met some fans he didn’t know and gone somewhere with them. It was weird that Rob was just one person and that he brought Hark back to his hotel room. Hark thought that was odd. But not bad, after all, and he really did want to smoke a joint. That would relax him after that disappointing match and the fight with his teammates. Later, after it was all over, he was stoned enough to get paranoid and wonder what would have happened if Rob was an axe murderer. But that did not occur to him until long after it didn’t happen.
“Man, volleyball used to be fun,” Hark said as they got to the room and Rob unlocked the door. Hark sighed. “I started playing volleyball when baseball got too serious in high school. People would get in fights about it and shit, Coach Shithead yelling at me. I just wanted to lay back and toss the ball around with my buddies, broh.”
“Uh-huh,” Rob said. He shut the door once Hark was inside.
“But now volleyball is all about making it to practice every day no matter what, and my girlfriend dumped me because I went to this match instead of her niece’s christening… it was complicated, but she’s got like, eight sisters, y’know, I can’t go to all their stupid shit. That’s like… all the time, y’know? They have so many kids — christenings like every week! I don’t have time for that! I went to her cousin’s friend’s baby shower! I didn’t get any credit for it because she got in a fight with her friend.”
“Uh-huh,” Rob said, rolling his eyes. “The weed’s in this box.”
“Hell yeah.” Hark’s emotions dwindled once he saw the weed and had a task to complete. He didn’t even just roll one joint. He was stuck on auto-pilot, so once he started, he rolled the entire eighth of an ounce into small joints. He was an expert joint-roller, despite his big sausage-like fingers.
Rob could actually roll great joints. He had only asked Hark to do it to get him in the hotel room. In fact, two joints Rob had rolled last night were sitting in the box. Hark didn’t notice them or realize it suggested Rob was lying about being unable to roll joints.
As Hark worked on the joints, Rob cleared his throat. “So… were you counting on the money from that match?”
Hark nodded. “I kinda need it. I bought this jet-ski last month, and uh… the salesman misled me about the monthly bill.” He blushed. “I mean… It was complicated. There’s fees and like… percents.”
“Oh, you poor baby,” Rob said. He patted Hark on the bare meat of his shoulder. It was firm and warm from the sunlight and moist from his sweat. “I could help.”
“What?”
“If you ram me in the ass and you make me feel good like I know you can,” Rob said, “I’ll give you two grand. I know that’s not as much as you were gonna make-“
“That’s more than I was gonna get it from it. We had six guys and ten grand, I was getting less than two grand out of it,” Hark blurted out. He bit his lip and shifted his weight uncomfortably, like he wished he hadn’t said that so eagerly. “Plus there’s taxes, I mean… you’ll be giving me cash, right?”
“Right. No taxes at all. So this is a lot more than you’d be getting if you had won.”
Hark laughed again, a nervous quaver in his voice. “That’s weird, broh.”
“I know,” Rob said. “I’ll jerk you off so good. I bet I do it better than any woman you’ve been with. I have a nice tight ass too.”
“Really?” Hark laughed. “I mean…” He blushed. “I guess… Yeah… That’s cool.”
Rob didn’t want to dawdle. He immediately pulled Hark’s shorts down — Hark had to lift his ass to give Rob easy access to his crotch — and bared his dick. He didn’t wear any underwear under those shorts. Rob had guessed as much seeing his cock and balls flop around when he had jumped and run across the volleyball court.
But it was nice to see it in person. He had a big meaty dick just like his body, all thick and girthy and strong, pale like his skin. His pubic hair was deep black though.
Hark sucked in his breath and held it in. His cheeks blushed a deep ruddy tone that made Rob laugh quietly. Hark held an unlit joint in his hand as he sat on the edge of the hotel bed, shorts down, looking like he expected to get smacked in the balls any moment now. He was ready to wince.
“Relax, Hark…” Rob said. He made his voice as feminine as possible to put Hark at ease. Then he lowered his head and kissed the tip of his dick.
It tasted like the beach, like flesh after sitting in the sun for hours. It radiated warmth, and the flavor of salty sand hit Rob’s tongue, as did the years of muscle-memory and strategy from Hark’s volleyball career. His hands roamed up Hark’s broad chest, while his mouth opened to swallow the tip of his manhood.
“Ah, oh…” Hark grunted like he had thought this would be painful and was surprised it wasn’t. He opened his eyes just in time to see Rob deep-throat him to the root.
A gasp escaped from Hark’s lips. He lifted his ass up off the bedspread, supporting himself on the palms of his hands. He was exhilarated suddenly, his anxiety vanishing in the face of the intense pleasure that rocketed through him.
He had been hornier than he thought. He was so upset about the match and nervous about being on TV, angry at his teammates and anxious at the situation with Rob that he hadn’t really given much thought to how this would feel. He had thought it was something he would just get over because he needed the money. It would be like mopping a floor — not pleasant by any means, but not the worst way to make a few dollars, and once you got started, you could just put on some Jimmy Buffett and think about something else.
That was what he did now. He put Jimmy Buffett on his cell phone, the tinny speakers filling the air and overpowering the sound of the dome. Hark had trouble concentrating after a few seconds because it felt so good. His hands shook with his cell phone hovering above his body before he could gain enough focus to get the music started.
The lit joint fell loose on the bed, both Hark and Rob having forgotten about it.
His dick rocketed to full erection in Rob’s mouth as Rob slammed his own head down deeply. His nose nuzzled the silky pubic hair of Hark’s crotch, while his hands reached up to tweak both nipples at once. Hark had big hefty pecs — Rob had been mesmerized watching them bounce when he jumped during the game, and now they bounced because they flexed under his fingertips.
“Goddamn!” Hark threw his head back and breathed through his gritted teeth. He laughed. “I never had dome like this.” He peered down at Rob, who greedily, moistly suckled on his dick as though trying to remove it. He slurped on it so hard it almost hurt, and Hark laughed harder to cover up his nervousness.
The sour and salty taste of precum hit Rob’s tongue. He guzzled it all down, making eye contact with Hark’s surprised face. The moist sounds of Rob gurgling on precum were loud enough to overpower the sound of Jimmy Buffett singing about the last mango in Paris.
“Are you ready to stick it in me? I wanna feel you inside me,” Rob said. He grinned and stood. Precum flowed freely down the shaft of Hark’s dick even though Rob wasn’t touching it now.
Hark clapped his hands, eyes giddy and heart beating. He’d never actually had anal sex — his dick was too big for any of his girlfriends to do that. He’d always wanted to try it though.
Rob rubbed lube into his own ass and bent over. He was going to sit on Hark’s lap, but Hark stood — he thought it seemed more manly to bend Rob over the bed so Hark could be on top.
“Ah, man…” Hark laughed again, as he always did when he was nervous. His cock throbbed. Precum dripped down his shaft. He ran his fingers through his tangled blond mop again, then watched Rob spread his cheeks. His tight dark hole winked, beckoning. Hark gulped. Was he really going to do this? Would he tell people about it? If not, he’d have to pretend he was still in need of money to pay for the jet ski.
Hark took a deep breath and slipped his dick in, just the tip at first. He felt resistance and stopped. He bit his lip. A bit more slid into Rob’s ass, which was well-lubed enough it felt like a trap, like quicksand and once Hark’s dick touched it, it was slowly sucked in more and more.
It was awkward, weird, his asscheeks strangely cold. It didn’t feel good at all at first — it wasn’t painful, it just didn’t feel like anything. Hark wondered if he was going to have to stop this.
And then a wave of pleasure hit him. He had been so nervous it didn’t happen right away. Once it did, however, it felt better than he thought possible. It was way better than being with a woman, he realized, because there was less pressure — he was so sure that Rob wanted him badly that it didn’t matter if Hark didn’t do it that good, or did it for too long or too short a time, or if his dick was too big, small, skinny or thick. He could just go with all his might without worrying about any of that.
He gripped Rob’s asscheeks and forced his dick in until his balls slapped against Rob’s flesh. A surge of sensations hit Hark, whose smile turned to an intense grimace. He let out a long low howl that was audible outside the hotel room.
Rob used one hand to jack himself off, while his other tightened into a claw that dug into the bedspread beneath himself. He panted, the potent feelings that coursed through his veins growing with each thrust of Hark’s dick into him.
“Oh god, shit, yeah, broh,” Hark cried out. He realized he was being loud — he had a deep voice so it carried well, it was difficult for him to say anything very quietly — but he couldn’t help it. It felt so good it was like losing his virginity all over again.
He sprayed a massive wad into Rob’s ass, great creamy wads of it coating Rob’s insides and seeping into him. Hark’s heavy balls crawled up in his sac, and still more sticky cum flowed into Rob.
Rob shot his own wad too, into his palm and on the mattress beneath him. But he stayed there, letting his ass get it hard over and over. Hark didn’t stop even when he was done. He kept moved his dick around as it limpened, turning all the creamy cum in Rob’s ass into a big wad of foamy juices that soaked onto the sheets.
“Damn…” Rob howled as loud as he could — which wasn’t very loud. When Hark’s dick finally plopped out, Rob sighed and shuddered. His exquisitely sensitive ass was so potent it hurt and he couldn’t breathe; it was all he could do to experience the climax rocketing around inside him.
Then, Rob collapsed in a sweaty heap on the bed. He looked up at Hark’s ruddy body. “You wanna lay with me for awhile? The cash is in my pants pocket.”
Hark didn’t respond for a long time. He was too engrossed in his own thoughts, trying to decide what to do — should he leave or stay to cuddle? Should he do it again? If so, should he demand more money? He found the cash in Rob’s pocket, but still wasn’t sure.
Then he saw that tender ass, plump and bare and ready for him to go again. “Aw, hell,” Hark said. He climbed into bed and lay next to him. “I guess I could give you your money’s worth.” He placed his arms behind his head, accentuating his chest muscles and baring his armpits. He looked surprised to see Rob smile and suck on his nipples. Rob licked his chest and his neck. Hark sighed. “Thanks, man.” He found the joint he had dropped earlier, which singed the pillow, and he puffed on it.
“No, thank you,” Rob said. For now, he thought, he was right where he wanted to be. He had found the kind of man he was hoping to find when he came to California.

He need a niggaectomy

They can join the list of body parts that don’t work. His heart, his “bladder neck”, his left shoulder, his sinuses, some kinda flap in his throat, his knees and elbows, ankles, fingers, ears.

Goddamn the sun was bright. Did it always usedta be that bright? It ain’t seem like it when Thumper was young and got knees and elbows that worked. Maybe his eyes got old too. They can join the list of body parts that don’t work. His heart, his “bladder neck”, his left shoulder, his sinuses, some kinda flap in his throat, his knees and elbows, ankles, fingers, ears. He need a niggaectomy.

From The Ex-Con, the Prettyboy Thug and Gang Loyalty

Alyssa made him feel like he had a life ahead of him.

Back then, before all that went down, he was convinced Alyssa was who he should have been with all along.

Alyssa Grant. She was Wayne’s long-time mistress when he was married to Melinda. When it all blew up, Alyssa dumped him and Melinda divorced him.
Back then, before all that went down, he was convinced Alyssa was who he should have been with all along — figuratively, as Alyssa would have been fourteen when he married Melinda — Alyssa was twentyish when he met her — he loved Alyssa more than anything. It was how he felt with Melinda those first couple years, before marriage and dulldom and the girls came along. Alyssa made him feel like he had a life ahead of him.

From Wayne the Ex-Cop

Youthful men froth forth

Young ladies immanently shrink from the freedom of the future, while youthful men froth forth with the vigors of the eternal now, yet elder women tendrilously transcend their present and old men are bound by their pasts.

Once a woman reaches a respectable age, she craves the witness of one more betrothal, one more marriage, one more childbirth, just one more. She stops at nothing to make it happen, always desperate for one more, then just one additional one, then another, and one more. Her grasping claws seek to fill her own ailing mind with extrapolative imaginings of une belle famille nouvelle. Juste une plus.
Or if, he were to be more charitable, which is a difficult attitude to embody towards one’s own mother, but if he were, he would posit that a woman aging appreciates anew the knots of family life knitting people into populus and proving the value of her oeuvre. Family is the agencement that catches communities and saves souls, and it is that fact that feels raw and acute in women of a certain age.
Young ladies immanently shrink from the freedom of the future, while youthful men froth forth with the vigors of the eternal now, yet elder women tendrilously transcend their present and old men are bound by their pasts.
Sasha’s prospects for near-future matrimony were weakly barren, and perhaps Sasha appreciated, even enjoyed, that. Like a desert craves not a marsh, he had no desire for a wife. They were bugles of demands and desires, like mosquitoes with envy. Interested only in trifles and bêtises, lace-fried fluff and delicate whispers of sotto voce gossip. Must everything be castrated down to parasitic orchids, soft edges and understated wallpaper?

From Sasha & the Filthy Alphas of Texas