Category Archives: Gay Stories

Masseurs Gone Wild: The College Locker Room

Here’s the beginning of Masseurs Gone Wild: The College Locker Room, a hot new story by Happiest Ending!

 

“Oh shit, lemme tell Jeremy my dick got hard- Hang on.” Donald got up and poked his head out the door. He yelled, “Hey, Jeremy, you were wrong! Hey! You are a fucking idiot, man, I told you I can get hard for anything.”
Jeremy shouted something back. Ethan couldn’t hear what it was, but it made Donald guffaw, his thick body shaking as he did. Donald was a little ruddy right now, his rock-hard dick jutting out between his legs. He smiled at Ethan.
“Sorry, sorry, that’s my friend Jeremy. He’s a prickhole.” Donald knew that Ethan already knew Jeremy, he was just explaining because he forgot that fact. It was Jeremy who had urged Donald to come get a massage because Jeremy frequently did so.
“Sure, that’s fine. Just lay down, Donald. You have to stay still,” Ethan said.
Donald sheepishly laid back down on his belly on the table. He had such a perfectly thick ass that Ethan had to resist the urge to suck all the sweat off him. Donald was a rugby player for GHU, and Ethan was a masseur for the athletic department. He kneaded the flesh of Donald’s muscles. Donald closed his eyes, but he didn’t look particularly relaxed — he looked bored, like he was only doing this because someone had told him he should.
“Hey, do you massage girls too?”
“Yes,” Ethan said.
“Do you ever massage Katie Marleywine?”
“I’m not allowed to talk about other clients. What team is she on?”
“Oh, she doesn’t play any sports.”
Ethan sighed. “I work for the athletic department, Donald. If she’s not on a team, I can’t massage her.”
“But she’s like, superhot. If you were at a party, you’d offer to massage her. She’s so hot. She’s got tits that are like… amazing.” He thought for a long time but struggled to come up with any words to describe how awesome her tits were.
Ethan was shocked that Donald didn’t know he was gay. Ethan was slim, flamboyant, feminine. He normally never bothered to come out of the closet because it was obvious to everyone that he was gay.
In actuality, Ethan should have been even more shocked — Donald knew very well that Ethan was gay, he had simply forgotten. Donald’s friend Jeremy had urged him to come get a massage because it would lead to a happy ending, and Jeremy thought it would be hilarious if Donald got a handjob from a man. His teammates frequently dared each other to come let Ethan give them rimjobs (they had no reason to think Ethan would do so, they just thought the idea was funny). Donald had discussed Ethan being gay on several occasions, so there was no way he didn’t know.
But at the moment, Donald was thinking about girls. He had Katie Marleywine on the mind, and so it didn’t occur to him that Ethan was gay. How could anyone, he thought, not think Katie Marleywine was the most beautiful girl ever?
That was why his cock get hard. The more he thought about her, the harder his dick got, until it was sticking straight up and throbbing. Donald blushed.
“Donald, it’s okay-“
Donald sat up and looked at his dick. He smiled — he had no embarrassment. “Sorry, I get hard sometimes.” He got up again. “I’m-a go slap Jeremy in the face with it. I’ll be right back.”
“Wait-“

Masseurs Most Macho: The Handsy Coach

Here’s the beginning of Masseurs Most Macho: The Handsy Coach, a new story by Happiest Ending!

“Oh shit, lemme tell Jeremy my dick got hard- Hang on.” Donald got up and poked his head out the door. He yelled, “Hey, Jeremy, you were wrong! Hey! You are a fucking idiot, man, I told you I can get hard for anything.”

Jeremy shouted something back. Ethan couldn’t hear what it was, but it made Donald guffaw, his thick body shaking as he did. Donald was a little ruddy right now, his rock-hard dick jutting out between his legs. He smiled at Ethan.

“Sorry, sorry, that’s my friend Jeremy. He’s a prickhole.” Donald knew that Ethan already knew Jeremy, he was just explaining because he forgot that fact. It was Jeremy who had urged Donald to come get a massage because Jeremy frequently did so.

“Sure, that’s fine. Just lay down, Donald. You have to stay still,” Ethan said.

Donald sheepishly laid back down on his belly on the table. He had such a perfectly thick ass that Ethan had to resist the urge to suck all the sweat off him. Donald was a rugby player for GHU, and Ethan was a masseur for the athletic department. He kneaded the flesh of Donald’s muscles. Donald closed his eyes, but he didn’t look particularly relaxed — he looked bored, like he was only doing this because someone had told him he should.

“Hey, do you massage girls too?”

“Yes,” Ethan said.

“Do you ever massage Katie Marleywine?”

“I’m not allowed to talk about other clients. What team is she on?”

“Oh, she doesn’t play any sports.”

Ethan sighed. “I work for the athletic department, Donald. If she’s not on a team, I can’t massage her.”

“But she’s like, superhot. If you were at a party, you’d offer to massage her. She’s so hot. She’s got tits that are like… amazing.” He thought for a long time but struggled to come up with any words to describe how awesome her tits were.

Ethan was shocked that Donald didn’t know he was gay. Ethan was slim, flamboyant, feminine. He normally never bothered to come out of the closet because it was obvious to everyone that he was gay.

In actuality, Ethan should have been even more shocked — Donald knew very well that Ethan was gay, he had simply forgotten. Donald’s friend Jeremy had urged him to come get a massage because it would lead to a happy ending, and Jeremy thought it would be hilarious if Donald got a handjob from a man. His teammates frequently dared each other to come let Ethan give them rimjobs (they had no reason to think Ethan would do so, they just thought the idea was funny). Donald had discussed Ethan being gay on several occasions, so there was no way he didn’t know.

But at the moment, Donald was thinking about girls. He had Katie Marleywine on the mind, and so it didn’t occur to him that Ethan was gay. How could anyone, he thought, not think Katie Marleywine was the most beautiful girl ever?

That was why his cock get hard. The more he thought about her, the harder his dick got, until it was sticking straight up and throbbing. Donald blushed.

“Donald, it’s okay-“

Donald sat up and looked at his dick. He smiled — he had no embarrassment. “Sorry, I get hard sometimes.” He got up again. “I’m-a go slap Jeremy in the face with it. I’ll be right back.”

“Wait-“

He went out into the locker room, cock jutting right out from his crotch. A torrent of shouts and baritone laughter filled the air. Someone screamed, and there was a loud bang like something heavy had fallen to the ground.

“Shit, get your dick off me, Donald!” Whoever it was, it wasn’t Jeremy. Ethan got the impression Donald had fallen on top of someone. He hadn’t slapped anyone in the face with his dick.

Donald came back, grinning. “He got away from me.”

“Donald, I don’t have time for you to put the massage on hold,” Ethan said. “Lay down-“

“Are you gonna jack me off?” Donald asked. He sat on the table and looked at his dick. He gave it one stroke and smiled at Ethan. “You can. Jeremy said it isn’t gay. He said it doesn’t count during a massage.”

“Oh. Is Jeremy in charge of that?”

“Yeah,” Donald said. He sounded totally serious, like Ethan should have known that already.

“Well… Yeah, okay,” Ethan said. Normally he said no to any athlete that asked for a handjob — Ethan did it if he thought they deserved it, but he said no when asked.

Until now. He sighed and grabbed Donald’s dick, which was thick and veiny. Donald closed his eyes and sighed as soon as he did, and his cock throbbed in Ethan’s grip.

“Hey do gay guys jack off?” Donald asked.

Ethan was focused on stroking Donald’s dick, so his question didn’t quite sink in at first. Then he assumed he misunderstood. He kept stroking, and Donald’s dick throbbed as though he enjoyed it, though Donald kept talking as though he didn’t notice.

“I mean do they jack themselves off? You? Do you jack yourself off?”

“What? Donald… I’m not-…” Ethan sighed. “Yeah. I’ve been known to masturbate from time to time.”

Donald blushed. “Really? It seems like, you could just jack each other off. Like other gay guys.”

“Who?”

“Whoever, I mean-“

“So just go out and meet some gay guys so we can jack each other off?”

“Yeah.”

“That just sounds like dating, but with more jacking off.”

Donald thought for a long time, then he nodded. “Yeah. I guess so. I just think, y’know, if you like dick, why touch your own?”

“Yeah… That’s… Sure, okay, Donald.”

“Or maybe it would make more sense to never touch anyone else’s dick. After all, if you can fuck yourself, you’d never need to go out. If girls could fuck themselves, they’d never go out on dates.”

“Dildos.”

“What?”

“Girls have dildos,” Ethan said. He sighed because Donald looked like he didn’t understand. Ethan rolled his eyes. “Girls use dildos, Donald. They can fuck themselves with dildos. How am I the one educating you about vaginas?”

“Yeah, but dildos are cold.”

“What?”

“If I were a girl, I wouldn’t use dildos because they’re cold. That must feel bad, I wouldn’t want to put something cold in my pussy,” he said, giggling and blushing. He stretched his muscles like he was on the verge of falling asleep.

“I don’t think… They’re not…” Ethan had to admit that sounded reasonable. Women didn’t warm dildos up, did they? They’re usually stored under the bed, Ethan thought, that’s not cold. It sounded ridiculous but Ethan couldn’t think of a reason why. “Look, Donald, if you want me to jack you off, you have to stop talking about vaginas.”

“Oh. Sorry. What am I supposed to talk about?”

Ethan had to laugh. “Donald, I’m jacking you off — stop talking. You’re not supposed to talk.” He stopped masturbating Donald’s dick, thinking Donald wouldn’t even notice because he wasn’t paying attention. But then Donald did notice, and he frowned. Ethan said, “Do you really wanna make small-talk while I jack you off?”

Donald shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry.”

Ethan felt a little bad. Donald had such an expressive face that, when he looked wounded, Ethan felt like he had kicked a puppy.

Str8 Till Dark: Closetmates

Here’s the beginning of Str8 Till Dark: Closetmates, the long-awaited rebirth of the Str8 Till Dark series!

The storage closet was dim and dark. Raisin hurried in, then tried to switch the light on. The door shut as he flicked the switch. The light didn’t turn on. The closet remained pitch-black.
“Damn it,” he muttered to himself. He grabbed for the doorknob to reopen the door — just enough to get some light in so he could see.
But the door swung open before he could, and Officer Martin walked in, quickly, quietly shutting the door behind himself as though he didn’t want anyone to see him come in here. Raisin caught a whiff of his cologne and had to hold back a moan.
That’s because Officer Martin was sexy, and Raisin had had a crush on him ever since coming to the Peoria Jailhouse. The worst thing about prison, Raisin thought, was the sex.
That was the part he had been looking forward to. As a slim gay man with a feminine personality, Raisin had always fantasized about being bent over by some hulking alpha male cellmate or a stern uniformed guard. That part, he had hoped, should have been fun.
But as it turned out, jail was different from prison, and in jail — or at least in this one — the average inmate was sixty-four, sickly, fat and possessing a cock like a mosquito bite. Raisin was not into it. The one genuinely hot guy he got to share a cell with at all was a male stripper (a bit of a prettyboy, but Raisin wasn’t going to complain) who was straight but also literally piss-drunk. Raisin wasn’t into molesting unconscious prettyboys who stank of urine.
He hadn’t actually had sex since getting arrested. The closest he came was fantasizing about Officer Martin.
That’s because Martin was a thick-limbed amateur bodybuilder, with a craggy face, square jaw and an ungodly sexy accent like a Bronx cabbie. He was short, about Raisin’s height, and he had a harsh voice like he gargled with cigarette butts.
“Yo, hey man, hey,” Officer Martin said, whispering.
The jailhouse was quiet. Martin was the only officer on-duty right now, though the kitchen staff was in the other room cleaning up for the night. Raisin wasn’t in his cell because he was a prefect now; that meant he was allowed out to work during the day and evening. He worked in the jailhouse itself, mopping floors and doing whatever other tasks the cops asked.
It was Officer Martin who had asked him to come into this walk-in closet to get a box of breathalyzer tubes. As always, when that gravel-coated voice filled Raisin’s ears, Raisin giggled, blushed and gazed into Officer Martin’s dark eyes.
“Yo, hey,” Officer Martin said. He pursed his lips. His gravelly voice was nervous and wavering, and it filled the air, resonating in the walk-in closet.
“Hey. The light isn’t working. I think the breathalyzer tubes are over here. But the lightbulbs — if you just open the door a crack-“ Raisin blushed, not that anyone could see it. It was obvious Officer Martin wanted to talk to him, probably to ask if Raisin knew who was smuggling weed into the jail. Raisin did know, but he wasn’t about to say.
“I know. The light ain’t workin’ cuz I took the bulb out,” Martin said. “Shush, boi.” He wrapped his powerful arms around Raisin, whose heart fluttered, then picked him up to switch positions with him. That placed Raisin right next to the door.
“Oh. Martin…” Raisin was confused, a bit scared, and a whole lot aroused because he finally got to touch the only sexy man he had seen for the last three months.
“I put ya next to the door, on account of so you can leave,” Martin said. He whispered, but he had such a deep, potent voice that it wasn’t very quiet. No one was around anyway — it was after five, so all the cops save Martin were gone. There were only four inmates right now, so there was only a need for one officer at night.
“Oh…” Raisin’s dick rocketed to attention. He was already imagining getting fucked by Martin’s massive bodybuilder frame, but the intellectual part of his mind assumed that wasn’t it. He presumably had something else to ask. Raisin was just too horny to think of any other reason to go through all this.

MM Thugs Downlow

There’s a freebie giveaway going on for a book called MM Thugs Downlow over at Instafreebie! This is the same story as Men of the City Barbershop of Detroit, so don’t download it if you’ve read that one (you almost certainly haven’t, I goofed that book’s rollout a long time ago, almost no one has ever read it).

Walter was nervous about starting his new job for two reasons. First of all, he was beginning work as a barber, having just earned his cosmetology license. The second reason was that he was a gay man working at the City Barbershop, a chain that had an unofficial reputation as a spot where straight men could get some no-questions action from a gay man. Traditionally speaking, what happened there didn’t count, and no one was allowed to talk about it outside of the shop.

Since Walter was gay, it would undoubtedly be assumed that he was going to service these straight men. He absolutely wasn’t opposed to it — he loved str8 cock, and he wasn’t ashamed of it. He was excited. But it was still a nerve-wracking experience. He didn’t know how the other barbers would react to him, how violent the neighborhood was, or even how many guys might expect his services in a given day (either haircutting or cocksucking services, he didn’t know).

His first couple clients, however, were children — his first day was the last day of summer break, so there were a lot of children getting gussied up for school. It wasn’t until near closing-time that the first even remotely plausible conquest showed up.

His name was Dwayne. It seemed everyone in the shop knew him. (Yo, wuz crackin’, Dwayne?) He was tall and lanky, though not exactly skinny — he had long limbs and ropy muscles, inked with tattoos. He had a wild and untamed fro when before his haircut.

“You new, huh?” he asked with a nod once Walter got started. Walter nodded. He lowered his voice. “You queer, right?” Walter nodded to that too. Dwayne frowned and looked down.

(Yuh, nigga…)

Did he just grab his dick? Walter wasn’t sure. It looked like he might have, beneath the barber’s chair apron. Walter didn’t want to make an unwelcome pass at someone, especially a mean-looking thug like Dwayne. He glowered at Walter as though mad the haircut wasn’t already complete.

“So what’s back there, huh?” He nodded towards the door to the backroom. “Bathrooms and shit?”

“Uh, yeah… Yeah, bathrooms… Or one bathroom, I mean.” Walter said. He smiled as he brought the mirror up so Dwayne could see the back of his head. His afro was now very short, but at least it was even. He nodded with satisfaction.

“That it?”

“Uh… I mean, there’s storage back there, I think.”

Dwayne chuckled. There was some scattered laughter from elsewhere in the shop. “Damn, nigga, you need to pick up on some goddamn hints,” Dwayne said, loud enough that everyone could hear. They all laughed. Dwayne stood up and took his apron off. Then he spoke as though making a grand announcement, “I would like you to suck my cock now, in the back room. Damn… I try to be discrete and shit, fuck!” He stalked off towards the backroom before even waiting for Walter to agree.

Laughter filled the shop. Walter blushed, but followed Dwayne, entranced by the swaggerous lean to his step. Dwayne shook his head — it seemed he would have preferred to not make a scene about this, but now everyone was watching him go back there.

As soon as he shut the door behind himself, Dwayne frowned at Walter. “You gonna eat my nut, right? I don’t like it when bitches spit it out. That’s disrespec’ful.”

“I would never spit it out,” Walter said. He opened his mouth and ran his tongue over his lips, which made Dwayne shudder in anticipation.

“Good. Git on your knees, bitch,” he said with a leer. “Get busy.”

Walter did so. He could hear laughter out in the main part of the shop — it sounded like they were teasing Dwayne, presumably thinking their words would carry. But all Walter heard was a jumble of laughter and murmuring.

As Walter had suspected would happen, Dwayne didn’t drop his pants. He just let his cock flop out the fly of his sagging jeans. A lot of gangstas didn’t take their clothes off for a man (and not even for most women) so that they could still run away if they needed to — or so they said, Walter had long suspected a lot of them were embarrassed of their chicken legs, since they only ever worked out their glamour muscles.

The tip of Dwayne’s cock pulsated in Walter’s mouth. Walter knew exactly how to get Dwayne to fuck the way Walter wanted to fuck, and he started by just sucking on the tip — frustrating him by not deep-throating would get Dwayne excited about fucking Walter’s throat. He gripped Dwayne’s thighs through his jeans.

Gradually, Dwayne began flexing his hips to hump Walter’s mouth. “Come on, nigga, suck on it, don’t just play wit’ it,” Dwayne said over and over. At last he got the hint that he would need to fuck Walter’s throat — exactly what Walter wanted all along.

That was what it took for his cock to stiffen up the rest of the way, until it was an iron rod jamming right down his throat. Walter choked up a mountain of spit that dripped down Dwayne’s shaft — he knew from personal experience that thugs like Dwayne enjoyed lots of spit and gagging. They liked to know that sucking their cock was difficult.

And it was difficult — it was also sexy and delicious and Walter loved every bit of it, but it did have a sour, sweaty flavor, and it made him gag every time Dwayne daggered himself into Walter’s throat.

His phone rang. Dwayne wrinkled his nose, annoyed, and he almost didn’t answer it. After a few rings, however, he did. “Yo, what?” He sounded angry at being interrupted.

Walter heard laughter again from the main part of the shop, braying guffaws of embarrassment being covered up with cockiness. Someone from the shop was calling Dwayne, he realized, though he couldn’t hear the voice.

“Yeah, nigga. You know what I’m doin’. Shut the fuck up. I know you done it too, nigga. Don’t you lie to me! Last Christmas, motherfucker, at yo’ momma’s party. That Latin gayboy took you in- Don’t gimme that shit, you ain’t just smoke a bowl wit’ him. You ain’t in the habit of smokin’ bowls with strange queers, nigga, and you told me right afterward he sucked yo’ balls dry.”

Everyone in the barbershop cheered. Walter was distracted by the powerful flavor of precum coating his tongue, but he got the impression the phone in the shop was on speaker, so everyone heard what Dwayne said. The person who dialed must have been embarrassed. Whoever it was — maybe Roc, Walter guessed from the voice — then said something else, something more serious.

“Don’t you be talkin’ ‘bout that shit on speakerphone, nigga,” Dwayne said. “If you want somethin’, you know what corner to holla at.” Then he hung up the phone without waiting for another reply. He scoffed and clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Fuckin’ foolish-ass niggas…”

He moaned then, and grabbed Walter’s head so he could hump it more effectively. His whole body spasmed as he reached orgasm, his balls pulsating where they rested against Walter’s chin.

Oh damn, I hear that shit, nigga be done now! You tastin’ that nut, huh?

A burst of creamy cum wrapped around Walter’s tongue, as he savored every drop of juice dripping down his gullet. Dwayne’s muscles flexed all at once, and he grunted loud enough that the men in the other room cheered.

“Ah, damn,” Dwayne muttered. He pulled his pants up, speaking loud to be heard over the cheers. “You suck like a fuckin’ champion, nigga.” Then he eyed Walter suspiciously. “Sorry, I gonna tell them you ain’t that good. I gonna say you pretty good for a faggot.” He looked genuinely apologetic for a moment.

“That’s okay,” Walter said as Dwayne walked towards the door. He wiped cum off his chin, his eyes drawn to Dwayne’s plump ass in his sagging jeans and revealed boxers. Walter made a kissy-face at Dwayne before he walked out the door. “I plan on proving myself to every single nigga in that room.”

The Honky in the City Barbershop

Here’s the latest urban MM fiction from Calvin Freeman! It’s called The Honky in the City Barbershop and it completes the all-interracial urban hot trilogy The City Barbershop of Providence, Rhode Island!

 

Ryan knew working at a City Barbershop would be difficult. He didn’t fit in here. The City Barbershop was for black men to get their hair cut. It was an unspoken rule as rigid as any law. There was a different barbershop right down the street, a well-lit place where the barbers were Italian. That was where white people went.

But they weren’t hiring, and Ryan needed a job now. He had applied thinking it wouldn’t go anywhere, but now here he was, starting his first day at a City Barbershop.

He thought this particular location would be a pretty good one for a white guy to work at. That’s because there were, until recently, two non-white barbers here — one of them was Asian, the other Native American. They were both gone now.

So Ryan was the only non-black person there. He was also the only gay man in the barbershop. That wasn’t normal either. City Barbershops had a reputation as a place where black men could go to swing downlow. Whatever happened here, stayed here. Ryan found that part of his new job pretty exciting.

But not a single person wanted a blowjob on his first day. He was almost totally ignored, except for the suspicious glances. He only cut two people’s hair that first day. He barely made a dime in tips.

It wasn’t until his second day, near the end of the day, before he had a real conversation with anyone there. Ryan sat in his chair playing on his cell phone. He had resigned himself to not getting any more clients today, since it was only a few minutes before closing time. He had deliberately made his workstation messy because he thought it would be embarrassing if he was ready to go literally the moment the clock ticked over.

Four minutes before close, a thug named Deon sauntered in. He was a grizzled, deep-dimpled drug dealer who came in with a dour expression on his face. Ryan stood up and smiled at him.

“Hello, I can take you in my chair if you-?”

Deon scoffed. “What?”

“Uh-“

“You a barber here?”

Ryan nodded.

Deon scoffed again. “What? They hire white guys now?” He laughed a little to himself. “Nah, whiteman. I do not want a haircut. I don’t let white folk touch my hair. I ain’t here for a haircut anyway.” He made eye contact with one of the other barbers, Wilson, who nodded at him. They went into the backroom,

At first Ryan wondered if he was being upstaged — were they having sex? It was normal for gay men to take straight clients like Deon into the back to suck them off. But Wilson wasn’t gay, was he? He certainly hadn’t come across as gay.

They came back upfront after only two minutes, which was quicker than Ryan thought plausible. It was only when Wilson walked past Ryan’s chair and he got a fruity whiff of marijuana that Ryan realized what this was — it wasn’t sex, it was a drug deal.

“Thanks, nigga,” Wilson said.

Deon snorted. “I-“ He stopped because the front door opened and the owner, Mr. Wiltshire, strode in. Deon stopped short. Mr. Wiltshire glared at him.

“Deon.” Mr. Wiltshire grunted. He was stern, strict, no-nonsense. It was clear he disliked Deon and seemed to be aware of why he had come here. Deon had cornrows, so he couldn’t pretend he had come in for a haircut. Mr. Wiltshire stared him down. “I know you didn’t come in here to sling drugs, Deon.”

“No, I ain’t.”

Mr. Wiltshire looked from barber to barber. They all avoided eye contact with him. Wilson cleaned up his station, looking away from Mr. Wiltshire.

“So why did you come in here?”

Deon smiled and touched his hair on his scalp. “Oh, you know…” He sniffled. “I was just…”

“He wanted to try out the new boy’s mouth,” Wilson said with a mischievous grin, aimed at Deon. Deon shot him an annoyed look.

“Oh? Is that true, Deon?”

Deon nodded. “Yep. I just…” He rolled his eyes like he didn’t want to say anything else, but then he added, “y’know… I like fuckin’, y’know… I like gettin’ head from gays.”

Mr. Wiltshire looked dubious. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Well…?”

“Fine.” Deon snarled. He grabbed Ryan by the wrist and virtually dragged him into the backroom. Ryan stumbled after him. This had all happened so fast, and Ryan didn’t know the people very well, that he only realized what was going on when he got to the back room. Once the door slammed shut behind him, Deon feinted as though he was going to knock the door down and attack Mr. Wiltshire on the other side. “He’s such a cock, man. You wanna suck my dick for real?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Ryan said. He was confused, but he couldn’t lie about his desire to give him a blowjob — Deon was plenty sexy and dripping with swagger. Ryan wanted him very badly. He sunk to his knees.

First-Time Jocks in the Dorm

Here’s the beginning of First-Time Jocks in the Dorm, a new story by Happiest Ending! It’s full of outrageous interracial action!

Meathead made no effort to hide the fact that he was jacking off. Almost as soon as the lights went off, Meathead took his dick in hand. He had porn magazines — actual magazines, as though this was the nineties — stashed under his mattress. Greg was too embarrassed to even say that he was awake.

Greg rather liked it better when Eduardo — or “Meathead” — was always gone. Greg had been terrified when Meathead showed up to the dorm in September. He had been a huge, hulking brute, like the bullies who had teased Greg back in high school but somehow even bigger and hairier though he was barely older than those bullies had been. He didn’t look like a college freshman.

Greg was no weakling anymore either, but Meathead made him feel like that ninth-grade loser all over again. Greg was on the golf team, so he was a jock too — he even had an athletic scholarship. But no one really thought about golfers like that.

Meathead played football. He was a tight end, and he was tall and dark-skinned because he was half-Latino, and he had a face like a retarded bulldog, or at least that was how Greg saw it. He was widely regarded as stupid, which was how he had gotten the nickname (and why he had gotten a flotilla of Asian math nerds tutoring him and taking tests for him).

But Meathead had had a serious girlfriend at the beginning of the year. Her name was Suzie; she was beautiful, and she was a total bitch. Greg was not surprised that she had dumped Meathead. He wished she hadn’t only because Meathead went from spending all his time with her to spending all his time naked, flopping his massive dick in front of Greg’s face.

And now he was jacking off, not even trying to hide it. Greg rolled over. He coughed lightly, hoping to make sure Meathead knew he was awake.

But Meathead just ignored him, pounding away. He used both hands. The porn magazine rested on his strapping chest now, he wasn’t looking at it anymore. The smell of precum filled the tiny dorm room, made even more powerful by the added astringency of his sweat — Meathead seemed to sweat constantly.

Meathead stood. Was he still jacking off? Greg thought so. Was he looking at him? He stood over the bunk beds where Greg lay. Greg had his eyes closed and he didn’t want to open them.

“Hey, Greg, you awake?” Meathead asked. His voice was impossibly deep — was he really a freshman? It seemed unlikely — and it made Greg’s whole body cringe.

Greg had the lower bunk, so if he sat up, his head would be right at Meathead’s crotch height. He knew that well because he was often sitting there reading when Meathead came back to the dorm and worked out, or sometimes just stood there naked on the phone with his girl.

“Meathead, man-“

“Hey, you wanna jack off? C’mon, let’s circlejerk,” Meathead said with an excited leer. He sat down on Greg’s bunk at the foot of the bed. Greg rolled over and sat up.

Downlow Rappers at the City Barbershop

Here’s the beginning of Downlow Rappers at the City Barbershop, a new story by Calvin Freeman!

 

The impromptu concert was a success. It got more than ten million views on YouTube, and Omar felt like a hero even if very few people knew the role he played in it. The best part of it for Omar, however, was that he got to play with Grizz all day.

Grizz was not entirely into it. He had volunteered for this job, so he wasn’t unwilling, but he was straight and he did not mess around on the downlow. He showed up at the Barbershop very early in the morning, looking dourly on at Omar in a gauzy feminine robe.

“So Craig say we gotta get this place set up,” Grizz said. He chewed on his lip.

Omar nodded and yawned. He didn’t intend to actually do any work beyond waking up and opening the Barbershop. He hadn’t expected Craig to send a sexy big man like Grizz though. That, he decided, changed his plans for the day.

Grizz was tall and broad-shouldered and his muscles barely fit in the dark suit he wore. He was dark-skinned, with a rather squat face — no one would ever call him handsome, but Omar thought he was ungodly sexy. He walked with swagger like his dick was too big for his body. Omar wondered if he would be able to swing on that no-doubt massive dick.

He settled in at his desk while Grizz set up. There needed to be changing areas for the backup dancers (both male and female changing areas were required due to union regulations). The lights needed to be unpacked and set up. The alley out back needed the dumpster moved so as to allow for the stage to be built — the carpenters were standing by.

All this for Craig. Omar had shut down his shop for the day. He was a manager for the City Barbershop of Dallas, a local institutions in the black community here. He had built the shop into something special, with a reputation as a place where a straight man could go to get a little action on the downlow (and a haircut). Omar loved being able to service those straight men.

Craig was one of his conquests. Actually Omar had known Craig since they were children, but he didn’t get to swing on Craig’s dick until they were well into their twenties. Sometime after that, the genial, perpetually-befuddled stoner Craig had become the world’s most unlikely pop star.

And so now he was putting on a special, unannounced concert here in his old neighborhood. Omar had closed his shop for the day so he could set up. Grizz was Craig’s bodyguard, sent ahead of time to make things ready.

As Grizz unloaded heavy boxes of amplifiers and mysterious audio equipment Omar couldn’t identity, Omar tried to avoid gawking at him. He was pretty sure he could get to swing on Craig’s dick later — though Craig had girls hanging off him now, he usually let Omar have a taste for old time’s sake.

But Grizz was ungodly sexy. Omar wondered if he was aware of the City Barbershop’s reputation. Probably, he thought, since Craig had rapped about it (rather famously) and Grizz worked for him. But Grizz eyed Omar as though he had only just now guessed Omar was gay and was not a fan of it.

Finally around eleven o’clock, Grizz declared it done. “All we gotta do now is wait for the tech guys to show up,” he said. Then he cleared his throat and nudged his feet together. “Okay, so, uh, look… Craig say… Craig say I gotta let you swing on my dick. You ain’t allowed-“

“Really? Okay!” Omar blushed at how over-excited he was.

“You ain’t allowed to touch my butt, and we ain’t kissin’,” Grizz said with a snarl. He looked up at the ceiling and crossed his arms over his chest.

Omar dropped to his knees in front of him. Craig had said he would give him a gift as partial payment for use of the shop, but Omar had assumed it was a taste of Craig’s dick. This, he thought, was just as good, maybe even better since it was new. Omar always enjoyed breaking in a fresh new cock.

First-Time Jocks in the Barracks

Here’s a sample from the beginning of First-Time Jocks in the Barracks, a new story by Happiest Ending!

Drill Sergeant Mitchell Armstrong stood behind the barracks, peering into the window. He stood on the air conditioner so he could see in the high window to the showering area in the back of the barracks. He smiled as he watched Cadet Brandon Scaramuzza sit on Danny Lafleur’s face.

Two dozen of the heftiest, most athletic cadets in the Army were in those barracks, and Armstrong watched them shower. He could have gone in there, but then they would have stopped and he couldn’t watch any more.

It wasn’t a rimjob, of course. Presumably Lafleur had lost some sort of bet, so he allowed Scaramuzza to sit on his face. It was only for a moment. Had he farted on his face? Maybe, but Armstrong didn’t think so. He could hear them laughing as LaFleur blushed and clawed at his own cheeks.

Then they all started dancing and Armstrong was confused — a sudden dance party? Was this a Japanese game show?

But then he heard a pounding techno beat. That seemed to be A Thing, which he didn’t understand because he was too old — every once in a while, this generation of cadets put on electronic music and apparently they were all required to dance like club kids. It wouldn’t have been strange if they actually enjoyed that kind of music, but not a single one of them actually chose to listen to it in any other context.

Armstrong didn’t understand the younger generations.

They danced together for about a minute, stopping only when someone started slapping Cadet Lee Amasuzi’s ass. It soon degenerated into a torrent of laughter and horseplay — they treated each other like strippers, slapping each other’s ass and jiggling their buttcheeks in front of each other’s faces.

Drill Sergeant Armstrong began masturbating. He was just inches from those plump asses, and he could even taste the soapy shower water as it covered their taut skin.

These were not any random collection of Army recruits. They had been chosen to be on the US Army wrestling team. They were given a shared barrack and Armstrong was put in charge of their training, all because the Army was tired of losing to the Navy in wrestling.

It was Armstrong’s job to turn them into champion wrestlers, and hopefully soldiers as well.

Inside the barracks, the horseplay had turned into a game called Boner Loses. They didn’t invent it, it had been passed down from an earlier group of cadets. Drill Sergeant Armstrong had even played a very similar game back when he was a new recruit, which felt like it was eons ago. Armstrong was glad that Cadet Scaramuzza was going to play this game now, because he really hoped to watch Scaramuzza lose.

Brandon Scaramuzza was “forced” to play — he wasn’t exactly forced, per se, but he had implied he would win if he did play, and he was urged to back that up. He frantically tried to come up with way to get out of it, but he came up with nothing. Everyone expected him to do it, and Brandon wasn’t willing to violate their expectations like that — they were his expectations too. That’s because Brandon saw himself as more sexually experienced than anyone else here. He had had sex with nine girls, more than anyone else in his barracks. He had had sex with two women at once. He had had sex with an older woman.

So he thought he was well-suited to win Boner Loses. That was a game wherein the player (Brandon) had to stand there while another player (usually someone who had lost a bet, in this case Lee Amasuzi) had to put his dick in his mouth.

First-Time Jocks in the Campground

Here’s the beginning of First-Time Jocks in the Campground, a new story by Happiest Ending!

Wayne stomped away from the campsite feeling like a spoiled child. He was twenty-one, but he was acting like a brat. He knew that. He just couldn’t stop himself.

Sheila had gone, and everyone else was fucking. Balls slapped against pussies and asses, and men grunted while women moaned. Almost the entire GHU football team was here, and they had all brought a girl. Now Wayne was the only single one in the whole site. He couldn’t bear to stick around, that was why he left.

It would be too humiliating to simply walk around the campground alone. He couldn’t do that. He had hated going anywhere alone ever since coming to college — back in high school, he was the most popular kid around, the star football jock and all-American handsome stud, and he always teased the kids who ate lunch alone.

But nearly everyone on his college football team had been the most popular kid in their high school. Wayne wasn’t special anymore. He wasn’t even the star quarterback, just a backup. Everyone thought the kicker Ronaldo Tironi was the sexiest player on the team, and he wasn’t even American — he looked more like an underwear model than an athlete anyway, Wayne thought.

Ah, yeah, suck it, bitch…

Sheila had gone because Wayne called her a bitch. He didn’t say it in an insulting way. A lot of other guys said that when they fucked. It was just dirty-talk, he thought. Wayne had, admittedly, said it a bit early — she was just starting to suck his dick when he said it — and he hadn’t said it in a sufficiently light-hearted manner like the others.

So now his entire team was off fucking their girls, probably trading females without him. His dick could do nothing more than painfully wither to full limpitude. It was so unfair.

He had grabbed his shower stuff simply because he wanted his teammates to think he was walking away for a purpose, not because he was a loser whose girl had dumped him. Maybe, he thought, they’d think she was going to fuck around with him in the shower. He headed towards the showerhouse simply because he had nowhere else to go.

Since no one was in there, and Wayne had everything he needed, he thought he might as well take a shower. He was going to do it eventually, and he’d rather do it now, when no one was around, instead of later, when all the drunk rednecks and fat-ass bikers who camped here would be showering. Wayne showered with his teammates a lot, but he didn’t cotton to the idea of showering with a bunch of fat old strangers.

The showerhouse was empty, which was nice. Wayne was glad to see that there was even hot water. The showering area was open to the stars, like an inner courtyard surrounded on all four sides by a square shelter with toilets, sinks and a baby-changing station.

The shower didn’t relax him. Even with no one around, the bikers whooping drunkenly and the prospect of strangers coming in any time were nerve-wracking for Wayne. He showered quickly.

Then someone did enter. Wayne’s heart skipped a beat, picturing some massive biker with a big swinging dick advancing towards him like the climax of a prison movie.

But it was a small man, skinny, weak, not a biker at all. He had an idle grin on his face as he entered. He glanced at Wayne but didn’t say anything to him.

Wayne didn’t want to look weird, so he turned around. It looked like the small man was going to brush his teeth, and Wayne intended to look the other way until he was gone.

“Hi,” said the man, startling Wayne. He turned around to face him. The other man looked up at him. “I’m Holly.”

“Oh. I’m Wayne,” Wayne said. He had never met someone new when they were both naked. It was awkward. He couldn’t look down without seeing Holly’s cock and balls. He couldn’t bring himself to look in any direction — what was the etiquette in a campground showerhouse anyway? — so his head rigidly stared forward, above Holly’s head, at the wall behind him.

“You look horny, Wayne,” Holly said with a giggle. Wayne realized only then that he was gay — he had a lilting flamboyance that strongly suggested it — and became nervous. He thought he should cover his crotch but that seemed silly, since Holly had been looking at it for some time now.

“Oh.” Wayne bit his lip.

“I can help,” Holly said softly. He really did sound like a woman, Wayne thought. He had a light voice with a singsong note to it, and he carried himself like a girl. Holly reached for Wayne’s dick. Wayne watched his hand move as though in slow motion. He told himself to leave, or just to tell Holly to fuck off.

Servicing Black Thugs: The Inmate

Here’s the entirety of Servicing Black Thugs: The Inmate, a story in the Servicing Black Thugs series!

Roger had gotten a part-time job delivering vegetables for AZO Distribution for only one reason — one of the other drivers, Charlie, was a studly black man, exactly the type of swaggering thug he lusted after.

Not only did Roger have a fetish for macho black thugs, he had a seemingly foolproof ability to zero in on precisely those black thugs who were willing to swing that way. He was sure that Charlie would do it, but it was hard to engineer a time to meet him alone. The dispatch center was always crowded.

He was focused on creating a plan as he drove on Friday, finishing up his round of deliveries. He was so lost in thought that he was surprised to see he his own delivery van pulling into the local jail. That was the kind of thing he would normally notice as soon as he saw it on the schedule. But it was just called Brutewood C.J. on the invoice, and Roger hadn’t given it much consideration; now he knew what it stood for — county jail. Brutewood was a private prison company who operated the local correctional system.

He was a bit annoyed his boss hadn’t specifically warned him. What if he had worn expensive jewelry? Or packed a switchblade? He’d be in danger, and possibly violating a contraband law as soon as he drove in. It was only a local jail, but still, Roger didn’t want to get in trouble.

He followed the signs for deliveries and pulled into the rear of the jail. He met with a uniformed officer, who signed for the invoice, and introduced him to Dwight, an inmate who would help unload the van.

As soon as Roger saw Dwight, he forgot all about Charlie. Dwight was a tall smooth-bodied chestnut-skinned man with a thick mustache. His orange jailhouse pants were slung low, and he had a thuggish swagger, though it was immediately apparent from his bearing — and the reverence with which he displayed a small crucifix over his neck — that he was a devout Christian.

Roger knew that would be no barrier. Dwight was hot to trot, and he was sure Dwight knew it too from the moment they laid eyes on each other. Dwight immediately began undressing Roger with his eyes.

He had a rough, southern accent. “Lemme get that fo’ ya, suh,” he said, taking both of the heavy boxes of potatoes. Roger grabbed the much lighter sack of salad mixes, following him into the kitchen area. There were no other inmates that he could see, and the uniformed cop wandered off.

Dwight looked Roger up and down as he showed him to the pantry. “You ken put them salad bags down right tharr,” Dwight said. He hefted the potatoes onto a shelf. “God bless ya, man. You ain’t the usual guy. What happened to Wilson?”

That was why Roger was given the prison assignment, he realized, suddenly grateful that he was the rookie, and had therefore been given Wilson’s deliveries — Wilson was a coworker whose sister had just died in a car accident. Roger explained that to Dwight, who clicked his tongue against his teeth and prayed.

“That poor man, I’ll pray for him, he is a good man, yup, a good church-going man,” Dwight said. “You help yusself to a glass of water, sirruh, yessum, I’ll go get the dolly.” He hurried off, big body shaking as he strode towards the truck. He came back a few minutes later with the hand-cart full of the remaining boxes of produce.

Roger didn’t want any water, so he just waited in the pantry. It was a small kitchen, with only one door, and from the pantry, Roger had a good view of the whole area. This was pretty close to ideal, he thought.

Dwight came to the pantry with the last box of produce. “Them carrots is lookin’ good. We ain’t normally get baby carrots. They’s nice.”

Roger nodded. “They’re on sale right now. I still like big, thick carrots though.”

“I bet you do,” Dwight said. “You look good enough to eat, boi. Bet you taste better than a carrot.” Something about the gasping, aroused way he said boi turned Roger on; it was equal parts insulting, seductive and menacing all at once.

“Do we have privacy here?” Roger asked. He gingerly reached out and touched Dwight’s chest. His pecs bulged through the too-small prison uniform shirt he wore, which was so short it left the lower part of his belly bare. He didn’t have a six-pack, that much was obvious even through his clothes; he had a thick, strapping body, bulky muscles behind a thick layer of flesh.

“Yup,” he said. “You suck good, huh?” He reached out and touched Roger’s lips, squeezing them together to form a kissy face.

“I do alright,” Roger said. He opened his mouth as wide as he could to demonstrate.

“I ain’t queer or nothin’,” Dwight said. He cleared his throat, the seductive tone momentarily leaving his voice. “You should know… No offense or nothin’… You know it’s a sin, right?”

“I do,” Roger said as he sunk to his knees.

“I mean… You should seek repentance. Me too, of course, but I know I will repent. I’ll beg forgiveness after this, and God will forgive me. I am bathed in the blood of the lamb, boi. You gonna ask forgiveness?”

Roger shook his head.

“Well, that’s yo’ right,” Dwight said in a way that suggested he didn’t think Roger should have that right. He wrinkled his nose. “Now go on and suck me. Wait.” He leaned down and kissed Roger right on the lips. At first it was just a chaste peck; their lips barely came into contact. Dwight moaned a little as though he had scarcely had any human contact recently. “Don’t tell no one I kissed you.” Then he kissed Roger again, and this time plunged his tongue deep inside.

Roger was shocked. He wrapped his arms around Dwight’s broad shoulders, which were bare as he took off his shirt and dropped his prison pants. His cock was rock-hard, sticking out the fly of his boxers.

Their tongues interlocked. Dwight’s was strong and forceful, pushing its way into Roger’s mouth. Roger tried to do likewise, but Dwight’s tongue took up the whole space between their mouths.

When he finally pulled his face away from Roger’s, Dwight had his eyes closed. Roger made a high-pitched mewling sound, hoping it came across as feminine. It seemed to work, as Dwight moaned exquisitely when he heard it.

“Yeah, baby, you wanna taste my meat? You gonna suck it all the way down, yeah, you gonna taste every inch of that shit. You gonna beg me for it.”

“Please let me taste your meat,” Roger said. He stuck out his tongue and demonstrated how wide he could open his mouth.

He plunged down on Dwight’s rod, and Dwight moaned again. He leaned back against the wall for support, and threw his head back, keeping his eyes closed. His knees went weak for a moment.

“Shit… we ain’t got fags who suck dick like this… I mean… homosexuals who suck dick like this in this place. We got one f-… one homosexual. He don’t suck dick good,” Dwight said. Then he bit his lip and moaned.

Wanting to prove how good he was — Roger knew he was a good cocksucker, and he was proud to show it off — Roger deep-throated Dwight’s cock. Dwight was clearly astonished that someone managed to swallow his whole cock, and he was, for once, speechless. His mouth kept moving but he was too aroused to form actual words.

With one hand, Roger reached into his own pants and began stroking himself off, while using the other to play with Dwight’s pendulous balls. His sac was so sweaty the hair was plastered to his wrinkled scrotum-skin.

Dwight murmured under his breath as his dick pulsated precum into Roger’s mouth. It sounded like he was either talking trash to Roger or praying for forgiveness, or maybe a little of both, but Roger couldn’t hear his words.

“Hey, boi,” Dwight said, whispering even though there was no one around. He looked ashamed as he checked for witnesses out in the kitchen area. He turned back to Roger, whispering in a low, growly voice. “You shave yo’ ass? You that kind of queer?”

Roger nodded. He didn’t take Dwight’s cock out of his mouth, just looked into his deep eyes and nodded his head. He could lose himself in those incredible brown eyes — despite his kind personality, Dwight had the eyes of a hardcore, cruel thug, and Roger loved peering into them.

“Then drop those pants, boi,” Dwight said, cackling with glee. Then he stopped himself. “I mean… It’s a sin, boi. You shouldn’t be doin’ that. You should be acceptin’ Jesus Christ into yo’ heart. But if you gonna do it, shake that ass right now. I wanna see ya jiggle.”

Roger didn’t even think about declining. He turned around and undid his pants, glad he had shaved just a few nights ago. He bared his ass, and Dwight immediately began kneading the flesh as he groaned and grunted. It sounded like he was incredibly turned on by the sight of Roger’s bare ass. His rough fingers caressed Roger’s ass.

“Gonna open you up, boi, gonna get this pussy nice and loose, yeah,” Dwight said. “Make some sounds like I’m lickin’ yo cat, boi.” He rammed one finger in, and Roger yelped in pain. Dwight was being rough and crude, uncaring of Roger’s pleasure. That much wasn’t a surprise. The surprising part came a few seconds later when Dwight’s tongue plunged in.

Roger was so shocked to get a rimjob from a big straight stud like Dwight that he initially didn’t react at all. But then he realized that was why Dwight asked him to make sounds like a woman getting eaten out — he wanted to feel like he was licking pussy.

Roger yelped and moaned. He cooed in a womanly way, and opened his asshole up like he was sure women did. He murmured “Come on, baby, lick me,” in a feminine voice. Dwight growled, a deep rumbling sound that resonated in Roger’s ass. His mustache scratched at Roger’s crack.

His tongue enthusiastically lapped at Roger, his initial hesitation fading as he seemed able to convince himself it was just like eating pussy. He produced copious spit, making Roger’s smooth ass gleam with moisture.

By the time he pulled away, Roger’s ass was as loose as it could ever be. That was good because Dwight had an enormous cock, and he wedged it in, causing a shiver of pain to run up Roger’s spine. He let out a low moan that sounded obviously masculine, until he remembered to switch to a more feminine tone partway through.

“This is gonna hurt, boi,” Dwight said. “You into that, right? You like big dicks?”

“God yes, please! Fuck me,” Roger said.

“I was hoping you was gonna say that, I used to be a real thug, a gangbanger, nigga, I used to love making it hurt. Now I love makin’ love,” Dwight said. He took a deep breath as he squeezed more of his dick in. “Say you sorry, boi.”

“I’m sorry, Dwight.”

“Not me! Don’t ‘pologize to me, boi. I don’t care what you put in yo’ ass. Apologize to God.”

“I’m sorry, God,” Roger said.

“Good,” he said grinding his dick in even deeper. He wrapped both of his arms around Roger, holding him close to his powerful, hairy chest. Roger choked in pain and bucked, but submitted to Dwight’s position. Dwight whispered in his ears. “I’m real fuckin’ horny, boi. God told me that’s okay, that a man’s gotta do what he gotta do to get through tough times. You understand that? This is definitely a tough time,” He didn’t stop fucking as he talked, so Roger found himself unable to speak, the sensation of being fucked by Dwight’s foot-long cock too intense to overcome.

His own cock was rock-hard, demanding attention, but his hands were busy holding onto the pantry shelves for support. Dwight continued working his manhood in and out of Roger’s ass. The whole time, Dwight caressed Roger’s smooth chest, staying away from his nipples as though touching where he hoped to feel tits would be disappointing because Roger had none; it seemed Dwight wanted to pretend to himself he was fucking a woman.

“God want me to prove I’s doin’ this cuz I can’t resist the urges, boi. Not cuz I’m queer myself. So I’m gonna do something to show that I’m ‘ware of my sin.”

Roger had no idea what Dwight was trying to say. He was yelping and grunting as he took every inch of Dwight’s cock, which was too big for Roger to focus. He only realized Dwight’s point when the man’s thick, callused fingers reached around to Roger’s cock.

Oh fuck, Roger thought, I never dreamed someone like Dwight would give a reacharound!

An orgasm began building from the moment Dwight’s hands wrapped around Roger’s dickshaft. Dwight was hesitant, apparently undesirous of touching another man’s meat, and his rhythm was awkward. But somehow that made the handjob even sexier.

“Yo, boy!” boomed a male voice Roger didn’t recognize.

Someone was coming into the kitchen. Roger panicked, but Dwight shushed him and held him still. He then pushed Roger closer to the shelves, so somebody would have to be very close to see him. There were crates of supplies outside the pantry that concealed the fact that Dwight’s pants were around his ankles.

“G’afternoon, Officer Armstrong,” Dwight said.

“Go fuck yourself. Did that delivery come in?”

“Yessuh.”

“Good. You know who stole the cocaine out of evidence?”

“Nossuh, don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout that,” Dwight said, as smooth as though he had rehearsed that exact line. It didn’t sound like Dwight was concealing something from Armstrong, more like he was confirming that he would keep it a secret that Armstrong was the one who stole cocaine out of evidence.

“You weren’t supposed to be there anyway, boy.”

As soon as Armstrong said boy, Dwight bristled. His cock jumped and pulsated in Roger’s ass. Roger squealed, biting his lip to avoid making noise. Luckily the walk-in refrigerator was nearby, and it produced a loud ambient noise, which covered up Roger’s panting.

“Yessuh, I real’ze that,” Dwight said. “I’m a Christian man, Officer Armstrong. I mind my own business. I don’t want any trouble.”

“I’m glad to hear that, boy. Don’t make trouble, and I won’t give you any.” Officer Armstrong was not far away. He must be just on the other side of those crates, Roger thought. If the crates weren’t there, he’d have seen Dwight fucking Roger’s ass plain as day.

“Yessuh. You’s in charge, suh, I assume you gots a reason for everything you do. And it’s prolly a good one,” Dwight said.

“That’s right. Don’t you forget that. I always have a reason, boy,” Officer Armstrong said. Then his feet clicked on the ground as he walked away.

At last he was gone. Dwight slammed his dick deeper into Roger’s ass, and growled. He obviously had some aggression to get out, Roger thought, and he was glad to take it.

His Christian demeanor vanished. Roger got the impression he was now seeing “the old Dwight”, a swaggering thug who muttered take it, bitch as he rammed his rod in and out of Dwight’s ass.

“I hate that fucking honky, man,” Dwight said. “If I thought I could, I would… be extremely unChristian toward that man.”

Roger tried to make sympathetic sounds, but all that came out was a strangled cry. He gasped and clutched at the wooden shelves. It seemed Dwight had forgotten about giving a reacharound

“I seen that fucking shithead doing some sleazy-ass shit, lemme tell you. I think he raped this Mexican boy who was in here-“ Dwight took a deep breath. He stopped moving for a moment. “Nevermind. I’m sorry. I am not behaving right. Am I hurtin’ you?”

“No, god, no, please, keep going,” Roger said breathlessly.

Dwight placed a box of kids cereal in front of Roger. “Nut in that,” he said. “That’s his. He eats that every morning.”

Then Dwight spat in the palm of his hand and resumed stroking off Roger. He was again clumsy and badly-timed, but Roger appreciated the effort and the feeling of his prison-toned biceps rubbing against Roger’s body. Dwight was so much bigger than he was that he felt like a monster behind him.

Roger was so close to cumming that he shot just moments after Dwight finally began getting into the rhythm of stroking him off. Roger’s whole body bucked, and squeezed around Dwight’s dick as he shot his load right into the cardboard cereal box. He gasped and rubbed his head against Dwight’s powerful pecs and erect nipples.

That was apparently enough to set Dwight off. He grunted as he wiped the cum off his fingers onto the side of the cereal box, and then he grabbed Roger by the hair. Pushing his head down to the ground, Dwight, uncaring of the cum still stick to his hands, began pounding his cock deep into Roger.

Pain split Roger’s sides, but his own orgasm was still continuing, the aftershocks making his whole body shake. Dwight’s cum filled his ass with hot, creamy goodness, and it dripped down his thighs onto the pantry floor.

“Thank you, fuck…” Roger said. “That was incredible. You always fuck like that.”

“I got a champion dick,” he said. He still hadn’t removed it. Its meaty thickness throbbed in Roger’s ass.

“You certainly do.”

“Shit…” Dwight said as he pulled his cock out. He wiped it off with a napkin. “You pretty good at deliveries too, boi. Can you take this route from Wilson permanently?”

“I can try,” Roger said. “I’ll be back. I promise.”