Category Archives: Ivory & Cream

Twink on Top: The Male Cheerleader

Here is the beginning of Twink on Top: The Male Cheerleader, a hot new tale in the Twink on Top series!

Charlie was insulted when he found out the girls just assumed he wanted to suck off every football player on the team. It was an accurate guess on their part, but they had no reason to think that except a general stereotype of slutty gay men. So Charlie really wanted to decline the plan they had come up with.
He didn’t decline it, but he wanted them to think he might.
The cheerleading squad consisted of fourteen girls and Charlie. They were best friends, and the girls were almost as slutty as Charlie. That was half the reason he had joined the cheerleading squad. He figured he’d be surrounded by sexy straight guys all the time.
That prediction was proven correct, but it was less satisfactory than it seemed. At first Charlie was overjoyed to watch the cheerleaders take turns sucking off Malik, the quarterback, but soon it became old hat. He watched them take turns “reverse-gangbanging” every guy on the team, or almost every guy. Not every cheerleader participated, but most of them did. They thought it was hilarious; they tried to make it like those interracial gangbang porn, with lots of trash-talking and awkward-looking positions, but with lots of girls and one man.
One of the few players they didn’t think was sexy was Gaspack. He was a linebacker, and like most linebackers, he was huge.
He wasn’t fat, but he hardly had a perfect body either. He was one of those men who was too muscular to have a six-pack. His belly jutted out with the sheer power of his oversized frame. He had an ass that just didn’t quit — too plump to be a “bubble-butt” but plenty round and thick and inviting. Charlie just wanted to spend hours covering it in whipped cream and licking it off.
They called him Gaspack because he supposedly used to light his farts on fire back in high school. Charlie thought that was gross and nonsensical and kinda cute. Gaspack was goofy, with a big round face, a perpetually uncombed shock of thick black hair, and an awkward sprinkling of tufts of hair over his strapping chest.
At a giggley late-night drinking session on Saturday, Charlie and the girls had rated the members of the football team. The discrepancy over Gaspack’s ranking was tremendous — Charlie rated him rather highly, while the girls uniformly put him on the bottom of the list.
That was what had sparked the girls to come up with this plan, which Charlie had agreed to because it was hot even if he also found it insulting.
“Hey, so we’re having a sauna, Gaspack, and you can come in if you want…” said Suzie, the head cheerleader.
Gaspack’s eyes opened wide. Everyone else in the locker room fell silent. They usually did when one of the girls came in. Gaspack had never been invited into the sauna with the cheerleaders before.
He grinned like a goofy bastard, and he even did a little dance there in front of Suzie. That made his jockstrap bounce, and his pecs shake. Suzie squealed a little, disgusted because of his big caveman-like face leering at her. She blushed.

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.

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.

Too Thick for Girls: The Linebacker Lean

Here’s the beginning of Too Thick for Girls: The Linebacker Lean, the debut story by Trent Chaplain!

Gravy Mitchell tried not to feel self-conscious. He hung around on the bus. No one seemed to notice that he was alone. His teammates filed off, meeting up with the girls out in the parking lot. Even the bus driver had disappeared somewhere.

The GHU Wildcats were on their way to Jacksonville for a big game. The cheerleading squad was on their way too, and their van had stopped in the same motel parking lot where Gravy and his fellow Wildcats were staying.

And then they paired up. That happened sometimes. The cheerleaders brought their female friends, and they all picked a football player as they got off the bus. The cheerleaders giggled and laughed as they found a man, and they went into the rooms the school had rented for the players.

Gravy sat there on the bus alone. He didn’t bother to go out there. He couldn’t be humiliated like that again.

At one point, he had gotten big deliberately. Girls liked muscles, right? They liked athletes. They were into that, he was sure that had been true at one point. But it seemed there was a point of no return, and that point was either six and a half feet tall or three hundred pounds, give or take a bit.

Gravy wasn’t fat by any means. He was in good shape. He didn’t have a six-pack, no matter what he tried, he couldn’t get those kind of perfectly etched curves like the quarterback Sammy. He had a big barrel shaped chest, and he was approaching seven feet tall and four hundred and fifty pounds. At least he was pretty sure he had stopped growing. He hoped so.

He was already too big for girls.

As the parking lot emptied and Gravy could go to his room without being seen, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror at the front of the bus and he blanched. He really did look like an ogre, he thought.

He worked out constantly. That was his plan, while his teammates were fucking beautiful cheerleaders, probably double-teaming them, filling their tight holes with creamy seed, Gravy would just go work out. He was hungry — he was always hungry, eating more than eight thousand calories a day, and burning them all off — and he needed to work out or he would get antsy.

Last month, the cheerleaders had come into the locker room for a “blowjob-party”, which they said was a tradition. They each picked a guy, or sometimes more than one, and sucked him off.

Ew, not Gravy! Sorry! I can’t even reach his dick on my knees!

He’s too hairy! He’s got backhair… Gross…

He smells like my dad’s armpits, ohmygod…

They had giggled and whispered to each other. No one actually told Gravy that he had been rejected, he had to overhear and surmise it from the fact that no one started sucking him off. He was the only one who didn’t get a blowjob, even the weirdo German-Turkish kicker Abu landed the tubby cheerleader.

The last time Gravy did get laid, it was some fat chick who had made him stop partway through. His dick was too big and he “ain’t usin’ it right”. She said she’d give him a handjob, but then she just mashed it for a bit and passed out.

That was it.

Everyone assumed football players got laid a lot. The nerd who tutored Gravy in math made comments suggesting it, and Gravy was too embarrassed to correct him. Gravy might have considered lying, pretending he had a girl when he didn’t; he could have tried to save face that way. But in the most humiliating aspect of this whole problem, he didn’t need to lie. His teammates were so used to being golden gods who got girls every night that they never even really asked. They occasionally noticed that he had no girl hanging off him, but they always assumed there were girls right around the corner. It never occurred to them that Gravy didn’t get laid. The one time they heard about a girl turning him down for being too massive and having a painfully huge cock, they thought it was awesome; they assumed Gravy got other girls on other occasions; they congratulated him as though being turned down for sex was a sign of getting a lot of sex.

He walked along the side of the building. He could see one of his teammates through a window, taking off his clothes before pouncing on the beautiful cheerleader sprawled naked over the bed. All of them kept their windows at least partially open, seemingly an accident though Gravy suspected they wanted to make the hotel staff knock on the door. They wanted to brag that they fucked so good the hotel made them take a break. They’d never stop bragging if Coach Bagworth had to come tell them to keep it down.

Lowering his head to make it in the doorway, Gravy walked into his own room. It was plain, but fine. He dropped his duffel bag and scarfed down the chocolate on the pillow.

He didn’t want to go eat, then workout, because that was what he always did. The hotel staff would know that he was the only one not getting laid. His dick stirred because he had been thinking about sex, and his jockstrap was uncomfortably tight.

But that is what he did. He didn’t have anything else to do, so he went to the breakfast buffet (which was open until noon). He piled his plate high with pancakes and bacon. Then he sat down. He tried to make a face like a man who had just gotten laid, hoping maybe folks would think he was just powering up for the next phase.

Crumbs and pancake syrup dripped into his lap. He didn’t really fit in the narrow chair, his plump asscheeks spilling over the side. This wasn’t even a nice hotel and Gravy still felt out of place, like a hobo who had stumbled into a mansion. His hand was sticky, and when he ran his fingers through his tangled black hair, his hair got even greasier and nastier. He didn’t mean to do that. He sighed. He didn’t understand how his teammates managed to look more or less respectable. Jack Miller (a tight end) didn’t style his hair at all and somehow he always looked like Prince Charming. Deondre Wilson had a shaved head and a squat face like a pig that ran into a wall, Gravy never understood why girls thought he was handsome; he spent no time on his appearance either. It was different, he thought, for black guys. And Deondre had a six-pack.

Gravy belched, then blanched. That sounded louder than he thought. He hadn’t intended to be some gross ogreish jock belching like a monster, scaring away the civilians who vacationed here like the villain’s lackey in a college comedy movie. But every sound that came out of his giant throat was loud and attention-grabbing. Gravy couldn’t whisper; his voice was bone-rattlingly deep.

“Hi, sweetheart,” came a feminine voice from behind him.

Gravy turned around. For a moment, he thought it was a cheerleader willing to give him sloppy seconds. He could have tolerated that.

But it was a man. He worked here at the hotel, and his nametag said Trent. He sounded feminine because he was flamboyantly gay. He was tiny, at barely more than five feet tall, though he looked athletic and sinuous. He giggled as he looked up at Gravy’s face — even though Gravy sat and Trent stood, Trent had to look upwards to see his face.

“Hi.” Gravy grunted.

“You look like you need something. Would you like some more bacon, sir?”

Gravy nodded. Trent went and got him a big plate full of bacon. Gravy stuffed it in his mouth, eyeing Trent suspiciously. This, he thought, was not the kind of hotel where staff would bring him food from a buffet. Avoiding that staff expense was rather the whole point of a buffet.

“You’re here with that football team, right?”

Gravy nodded.

He smiled. “Normally, when a team bus pulls up, they all come running to the buffet right away. Where’s the rest of your team?”

Gravy shrugged.

“Not a big talker, huh?”

“Not really,” Gravy said, keeping his voice as low as possible. Of course he wasn’t able to avoid attracting attention. Folks at other tables glanced up, as though Gravy’s baritone made their glasses vibrate. Gravy blanched. In addition to having a freakishly, painfully deep voice, Gravy thought he simply sounded stupid — he sounded like a dumbie; people always assumed he was stupid because of his size anyway, and the dull chasm of his voice seemed to confirm it. Even when he said true things in class, people laughed as though he had embarrassed himself.

“That’s okay, you don’t need to talk. A big sexy guy like you…”

Gravy grunted.

Trent smiled. “What?”

Gravy just shook his head. “I’m too big to be sexy. I’m too thick for girls.”

Trent sighed dramatically. “Girls are such idiots. There’s no such thing as too thick.” He threw his hands in the air. “C’mon, let me show you.”

Pitching and Catching

Here comes the newest story of jock erotica by Randall Eisenhorn, alongside Jake Sexton in Pitching and Catching!

 

The catcher and pitcher have an important relationship in baseball, and the relationship between Jack the star pitcher and the big, muscled catcher Seth is going to take an interesting and sexy turn! Jack is a team player, but he must go above and beyond when Seth wants to cash in on an unusual promise. Is Jack willing to do what it takes to please his catcher, including doing some “catching” of a different sort?

This gay erotica short story features baseball, hot man on man action and straight jocks going gay and loving it.

Mafia Muscle, the Masseur and the Happy Ending

Here’s the beginning of Mafia Muscle, the Masseur and the Happy Ending, a new story of yaoi MM erotica by Lee Lane Lamplight!

John giggled as he wrapped one hand around Alfie’s cock. He tried to keep a straight face, or at least avoid making too much noise, because he thought it would make Alfie uncomfortable. Alfie had a thick slab of uncut meat. John didn’t often get to mess around with uncircumcised men, so he enjoyed playing with Alfie’s foreskin.

Soon his cock had firmed up, and it throbbed beneath John’s hand. Alfie’s broad chest muscles rippled as a wave of pleasure rolled over him. Alfie bit his lip and grunted. His swarthy face turned ruddy from both arousal and embarrassment.

“Ah, shit yeah, man, I love how ya hand feel on my meat, but don’t tell no one…”

John had thought Alfie was hot from the moment he first laid eyes on him. He had been coming in and out of the building with his head down since he opened his massage parlor there. He felt it was necessary to keep a low profile because he had come to learn the restaurant on the ground floor — right beneath the massage parlor he had saved years to open — was Mafia-connected.

It seemed like a joke when a friend first told him about the rumors. He had initially dismissed it as silly gossip. It was an Italian restaurant, he thought, they probably tried give the place a Mafia reputation to spur sales.

He had to admit that, when he walked through the foyer to get to the stairs leading up to the second floor, it sure looked like a Mafia restaurant. There were never very many customers there, even on a weekend night. There were a lot more men than women, and nearly everyone looked Italian — he once saw a scared-looking Chinese couple in there, eating quickly and looking like they had already come to regret their choice of dining establishments.

The first time he saw Alfie, John had come through the foyer just as a small group was leaving. Alfie stood behind a table of older Italian gentlemen. He was a bodyguard, or so it looked. He was much younger than the others, with a big shock of curly black hair that ran down to his broad shoulders. He looked at John as though he might stop him from going to the stairs. The old men at the table didn’t seem to notice John.

That had been the kicker — that was when John realized the rumors were true. He had never in his life see anyone at a restaurant with a bodyguard. That could only be a Mafia event, he thought.

What should he do about it? He didn’t have any ideas. He certainly wasn’t going to call the police. He resolved to never ask anyone from the restaurant for a favor, for fear of being asked to repay it.

That had been the end until Alfie came upstairs, nervously, head down, chest muscles quivering beneath his button-down shirt. John had heard laughter down in the restaurant when he opened the door. He didn’t know this massage was going to lead right into the sexiest happy ending John had ever given out.

“Oh god, man… Oh god…” Alfie sat up and opened his eyes. He looked down his broad, expansive chest at his cock in John’s hand. Alfie picked up the crucifix that dangled between his pecs and kissed it. He wanted to make the sign of the cross, but he worried it would be sacrilegious to do it while he got a handjob from a man.

He covered his eyes with his forearm. He prayed that he was doing the right thing by agreeing to this. It didn’t exactly feel like the right thing.

Alfie — or Alfredo, but no one called him that — was raised mainly by his mother. He was aware of his father, in prison, but he only met him a few times. His uncle had long talked, in his dense New Jersey dialect, about men who were bardassas: bottoms. As far the men of Alfie’s family were concerned, a real man penetrated, sticking his cock in whichever tight hole he could fit it in, consequences be damned. It was only the bottom who was properly ashamed of being treated in that way. A bardassa was a bottom, whether willing or not.

But the Mafia in America didn’t act that way anymore. They had women available. Alfie’s employer was Clan Novelli, who owned numerous brothels throughout New York. Alfie was able to go see the girls anytime he wanted — he was too nervous to actually do so, because his mother raised him to stay away from prostitutes, but he had made it seem to his fellow mafioso that he had done it. He wanted them to think he was a macho man’s man.

They had found out he was lying. They asked at the brothel he had claimed to visit most recently, and they said he was never there. Alfie had been humiliated. They had asked if he was a virgin. He wasn’t, but they didn’t believe it.

“Go upstairs, Alfie, to the massage parlor. Ask for a happy ending, and you will be a man at last,” said Don Novelli, a portly older man who had patted Alfie’s muscled back beneath his ill-fitting suit. Alfie nodded. He wasn’t allowed to question the Don.

“Yes, Don,” he said. “I… I ain’t no virgin. I can… I can fuck that masseuse broad, no problem.” He added a cocky chuckle.

“Alfie! You forget yourself,” Don Novelli said. Alfie knew he’d be scolded for speaking so rudely in front of the Don. It was worth it to look like a real man.

“Yes, Don. I apologize. I am often, uh, overwhelmed by my urges.” He grabbed at his cock through his slacks and sniffled. He hoped he looked suitably macho.

“Yes. Yes, I am sure,” Don Novelli said with a wry smile.

And so Alfie had gone upstairs. He heard snickering from Don Novelli and the other made men down there as he went up the stairs, but he thought they were just laughing at how big Alfie was. They often called him names like ox or horse because he was well over six and a half feet tall and built like a professional wrestler. He hoped the girl was not going to be tiny — he had come to accept that he was too big for any thin, pretty girl; he needed hefty, thick girls who could handle Alfie’s size and his rough-hewn body.

And that was when he knocked on the door the Happy Endings Massage Parlor. As the door opened, Alfie realized he had never seen any girls here, just that one seemingly gay man who came in and out frequently.

He groaned. It all came together. There was no girl. That was why Don Novelli and the others laughed. They knew Alfie was going to have to fuck a man.

He would have done it too. Alfie’s uncle had assured him it would make him a man. He said that real men knew how to take some sniveling weakling and turn him into a bardassa.

First-Time Athletes at the Massage Parlor

Here’s the beginning of First-Time Athletes at the Massage Parlor, a brand-new story by the bestseller Happiest Ending!

Chase could tell from Robby’s expression that he wanted a “happy ending”. Chase couldn’t wait to get to the end. He kneaded Robby’s taut young flesh, making him moan but stifle it with his forearm. Robby wasn’t really here for a massage, but Chase didn’t intend to quit it early.

“You can roll over,” Chase said.

Robby hesitated. Chase knew exactly why — because he had an erection. Robby’s babyface tensed up. He gasped and bit his lip. This was why he had come here, after all. Robby didn’t really want the massage, it just felt less nasty to do it like this.

“O-Okay.” Robby’s voice broke. He hated how young he looked. He was almost twenty, but he looked like he was about twelve from the neck up. He had a lean and lanky body, not real muscular — no matter how much Robby ate, he couldn’t gain weight — but plenty strong. He played basketball for the GHU team and endured constant teasing about how skinny he was. He didn’t think it was fair, since a lot of his teammates were just about as skinny.

“Do you have any areas of special concern on your front side?” Chase asked. He made sure to speak as flamboyantly as he could, to make sure Robby remembered that he was gay.

“Uh… No.” Robby rolled over. The towel covering his crotch fell off too quickly for Robby to stop it, and he gasped. He closed his eyes. He had never had a stranger look at his cock, outside of his doctor, his coach, his teammates, and various other exceptions that kept filling his mind — this certainly felt new, even if it wasn’t. Chase wasn’t even the first gay man who had seen his naked cock. But Robby felt vulnerable.

“Okay. Well. Okay. Sorry.” Robby saw his dick, half-hard, flopping against his leg. Chase avoided looking at it, but that didn’t make Robby feel more comfortable.

“You don’t need to apologize. You’re fine,” Chase said. He giggled at Robby’s awkward expression. Chase massaged Robby’s stomach and “accidentally” let his elbow touch Chase’s cock, making Robby’s whole body shake. “I think I see the problem. You’re stressed. Do you have a girlfriend? I bet you don’t.”

“I don’t.” Robby’s voice was weak and wavering. “So, like… you’re gay, right?”

“Sure am.”

“Do you know about…? Well… I know you know about, y’know… penises.” Robby still sounded like he was about to cry. Chase had to hold back laughter. Robby cleared his throat. “Like… about how, y’know… they work.”

Chase frowned. “I’m not a doctor, you know that, right? You need a urologist if there’s-“

“No, I mean… Like, if I’m not… using it right? You know about that?”

Chase raised his eyebrows. Robby peeked at him, then slammed his eyes shut again. Chase smiled. “It’s not a medical issue, right?”

“No. Well, wait, maybe it is!” Robby gasped. “Look… I… How long is normal?”

“Oh, don’t worry about size, you’re plenty big enough, you-“

“No, not that. Not size. I mean how long… of time? Like how long does sex really last? Cuz in porn it lasts a while, but they take breaks, I think-“

“Don’t worry about porn, Robby,” Chase said. “Most straight men only last a few minutes. If you can make it five minutes, you’ll be doing better than most.”

“Oh.” Robby looked crestfallen.

Chase giggled. “You last less than five minutes?”

Robby blushed. “I mean… I only, y’know… I’ve only had sex three times, okay? It isn’t, like… Are you required to keep that confidential? Like a doctor?”

“Well, no, confidentiality doesn’t apply to masseurs. But don’t worry, I won’t spread it around,” he said. “I don’t think three times is a strange amount, Robby. You’re too stressed, that’s probably why you cum too quickly.”

“Oh. Will you, uh… gimme a…? Robby’s voice trailed off. He glanced at his cock.

“You want a happy ending?”

“I mean… I just, I got this girl later, I don’t wanna… She said I was a teenager, she said I acted like a teenager-“

“You do have a bit of a babyface.”

“I know! I hate it!” Robby’s eyes opened wide and he threw his hands in the air.

“Relax, relax,” Chase said. “I’ll give you a happy ending, no problem. Honestly I’m not sure if it will fix your hetero issues, but I’m not exactly hetero-competent, so I can’t help you too much with that. Just calm down and don’t worry so much. When you’re fucking her, focus on something little — you have to move your dick, but focus on something else, something more minor, like licking her neck or her ear. Whatever she thinks is hot.”

“Ear?”

“Yeah, chicks dig that.”

“Really? Ear?” He touched his ear.

Chase giggled. He grabbed Robby’s dick, making Robby’s whole body shake and squirm. “Really. Ears.” He paused. “Maybe I’m more hetero-competent than I thought!”

“Okay. Thanks!” Robby said, his cheeks bright red. Then he gasped as his dick throbbed in Chase’s hand.

“Now hush. Let the professional do his work,” Chase said. He began rubbing his hand up and down Robby’s shaft.

The Las Vegas Impersonator

Here’s the beginning of The Las Vegas Impersonator, a new yaoi MM novelette by Lee Lane Lamplight!

 

Kyle shivered a little when the elevator door opened. Elvis stood there in front of him. He was young, glorious Elvis, radiantly macho as he stood there with a big grin on his smooth face. His hefty body barely fit in his white shirt beneath a black jacket. That little tendril of hair that hung over his forehead was like a beckoning finger, demanding Kyle enter the elevator and suck his body clean.

It wasn’t really Elvis, of course. Elvis would be elderly if he were still alive. This was a man named Rank Teravalo. He worked here at the Count Castle Casino in northern Las Vegas. Kyle worked here too, though he was nothing more than a blackjack dealer. Rank was an Elvis impersonator, and he performed a retro-rockabilly show five nights a week.

“Howdy,” Rank said. He still had that Southern accent. It clung to him and it required active thought to switch himself back to his ordinary dialect (he was an Italian-American from Queens).

“You sound tired,” Kyle said. He didn’t want to embarrass Rank, so he just got in the elevator and stood there awkwardly. He was sure he hadn’t hidden how much Rank turned him on. Rank was sexy, handsome and deep-dimpled. He was a bodybuilder too; some of the casino patrons referred to him as Muscle-Elvis because he was substantially more muscular than the real Elvis had ever been. Kyle had had a huge crush on him from the moment he first saw Rank with his chest bursting from the up-collared shirt he wore over jeans that hugged his plump ass. Kyle had stood there drooling at him from the audience.

“Yeah, you seen them old broads?” Rank asked. His accent was cute, Kyle thought, because, when he dropped character, he still spoke like a Kentucky country singer but with the diction of his New York City home. “There’s a big party of ‘em ‘round he’e, uh-huh. They all over the place. They’s a fuckin’ bachelorette party, swear to God. What kinda old lady got a bachelorette party in Vegas? The bride’s like sixty.”

“Aw, that’s sweet,” Kyle said. “Old ladies need loving too, Rank. You shouldn’t hide your sexiness from them.”

Rank smiled. “I don’t need some lady older than my mom pinchin’ my ass. One of ‘em I think was tryin’-a get her finger in my asshole, man. I swear, she was tryin’ to finger me, like she thought I might have a treasure hidden in there.”

Kyle giggled. “Oh you’re just playing, I know you love it when women fawn all over-“

The elevator rocked and trembled. A loud beeping sound filled the air, then it slowly trailed off like some piece of electronics somewhere in the machinery was dying. Kyle and Rank exchanged nervous glances as the elevator came to a screeching halt.

“Oh shit.”

“Is this broken?” Kyle went straight to the elevator door. He managed to force it open with Rank’s help, but behind the door was just stone wall.

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…” Rank went to the emergency phone, but it rang before he could even touch it. A security guy was on the other end of the line. “Uh, hello? Error signal? Yeah, the elevator’s stuck. We’re in here. Two people, just me and Kyle. Rank Teravalo and Kyle…”

“Martin.”

“Kyle Martin.” He laughed. “Shut up, Jamaal, I ain’t like that. When’re we gettin’ out of here? Well call him up, asshole! I don’t care!” He chuckled. “Yeah, there’s a patron in here too. She’s an old lady who got a lawyer on retainer. She say she gonna sue yo’ ass, boy.” His Kentucky accent gradually dwindled now that he was stressed and out of that Elvis-mindset. He angrily slammed the phone down. “Fuckin’ Jamaal, he’s an asshat. Fuck that guy.”

“What’d he say?”

“He’s calling maintenance, he said it was lesser priority cuz there weren’t no patrons in here. And he thinks…” Rank glanced at Kyle and bit his lip. For a moment he really looked like Elvis, and Kyle blushed.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

“Did he say something about me?”

Rank blushed and winced. “No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It wasn’t… Man, just… I said it, it wasn’t no thing, man. I was just kiddin’-“

“What? What did you say?”

Rank sighed. “Man… It ain’t a big deal, alright? But a couple days ago, I told Jamaal you was, y’know… I know you want me, alright? I seen you lookin’ at me, and shit… And Jamaal was sayin’ I should let you take a swing on my meat.” He grabbed his cock through his tight bell-bottom pants. “He said since we stuck in here anyway…”

“Oh.” Kyle blushed. He hadn’t realized how obvious he was checking Rank out. In his defense, it was almost impossible not to — he was simply stacked all over, and he was dressed like an attention-grabbing idol, so he was hard to ignore.

A very tense air filled the elevator. Kyle forgot his annoyance and fear at being stuck in the elevator. All he could think about was Rank’s body and that handsome face. He giggled to relieve the tension in his mind.

First-Time Jocks at the Massage Parlor – Alpha Males Get a Happy Ending

Here’s the debut novelette by a new MM erotica author, Happiest Ending! It’s called First-Time Jocks at the Massage Parlor: Alpha Males Get a Happy Ending and its title pretty much gives it all away!

When the jock’s cock twitched beneath the towel, Chase knew what was going to happen. He didn’t react right away though. That, he thought, wouldn’t be very professional. He continued the massage.

The jock was a tall, broad-shouldered young man with a wavy shock of blond hair and brilliantly flashing eyes, when they weren’t scrunched up closed tightly. His muscles rippled beneath Chase’s fingers, which kneaded the meaty flesh of the young man’s thighs. His toes stretched and he grunted.

The jock was named Irwin. He was a rugby player from the university right around the block. He had come in to the Happy Ending Massage Parlor at the insistence of his coach, who had said his sore calf needed a real massage. Coach Gathers knew Chase well, and knew that he was a licensed masseur who could fix the calf muscle — which did indeed have a knot in it. Chase could get that out easily enough.

But that erection… Chase wondered if Irwin was even aware of it. He had been so nervous he giggled like a schoolboy when he undressed in the massage room. His hefty muscle-bound body trembled. It was obvious he thought he was going to get a female masseuse, not Chase, but Chase pretended he didn’t notice that.

“How does your leg feel?”

“O- Okay.” He bit his lip. It didn’t sound like he was thinking much about the leg. He let out a breathy sigh like he was either aroused or scared or embarrassed, or maybe all three at once.

“Good. I can feel a lot of stress in your body,” Chase said. “What’s been bothering you?”

“Uh, well, nothing really,” he said. Chase knew something else was coming, so he just waited. His hands moved up Irwin’s body from his thigh to his chest — Chase could feel him desiring a handjob, but Irwin didn’t say that and Chase wanted to tease him still — and his muscles tensed beneath Chase’s hands. Then they slowly relaxed, bit by bit, as Chase massaged his flesh. Irwin grunted. “My ex banged this Samoan dude on my team, it really pissed me off.” He blushed like he hadn’t meant to say that.

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Chase said. He clucked his tongue against his teeth.

“She did it just to piss me off. Him too, I think. He did it in the locker room so I would see it,” Irwin said. He snorted. “Whatever, fuck him. She wasn’t even that hot.” He seemed to realize then that he had a boner. He looked down at his cock and smiled nervously. “Oh, uh…”

“It’s okay, relax.” Chase moved up to massage his chest with one hand. He arranged himself so Irwin couldn’t see his own crotch because Chase was in the way. Chase’s other hand roamed down to Irwin’s cock and gripped it.

The Blacksmith’s Apprentice

Here’s the first chapter of The Blacksmith’s Apprentice, a new  yaoi novelette by Lee Lane Lamplight!

The streets of Tamworth were alive, and Stuckey feared he would soon be dead. There were several threats on his life right now. He was tired and cold and hungry, just to name three examples. But the most important immediate threat was the man with a knife, demanding his shoes.

Stuckey did not want to give up his shoes. He would catch his death of cold for sure. He didn’t have any money or anything else he could give the mugger instead.

“C’mon, mate, hand ‘em over,” said the mugger.

Stuckey felt tears roll down his cheek. This was not how he thought it would end. When his parents died a few years ago, he thought he was free — his father had been a tyrant, and a heavy drinker, for a long time — and he felt like the world was his oyster. Stuckey could go anywhere or do anything.

He soon learned, however, that that wasn’t true. No one’s options were more limited than the man who had nothing. Stuckey was only fourteen when his parents died, and he was eighteen now, a man by Mercian standards. Finding a place to sleep and enough food and water to survive took all day, and sometimes all night. Stuckey had no time for adventures, or to improve himself by finding an apprenticeship, nor even to woo a woman (not that Stuckey had any interest in women; he had simply never developed that way, for reasons he didn’t understand).

“I… I can’t give you my shoes, sir, I am already so cold-“

“I don’t care, hand them over, mate, or I’m gonna stab your heart out,” the mugger said through slitted teeth. He advanced on Stuckey, knife drawn.

Stuckey screamed. People often said he screamed like a girl, but there was nothing he could do about that, especially now. He was too scared to act macho. He squealed and stepped away.

“Please! I don’t have anything! My shoes are threadbare!”

“Hand them over, and I will inspect them. Or maybe I shan’t stab you, maybe I shall cut your feet off. I can laugh as you stumble on bloody stumps,” the mugger said with a guffaw. He smiled sickly at Stuckey.

And then he collapsed onto the ground in a limp heap. His neck was broken. Standing behind him was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a sleeveless tunic — not a real sleeveless tunic, but a normal tunic whose sleeves had been ripped off over time. His tunic barely covered his strapping chest either, because it was torn and scorched. He glanced at Stuckey, grunted and took one step away, then came back and looked at him again.

“Hi,” Stuckey said. This man made him nervous because he was so big. At more than six feet tall and maybe seventeen stone, if not more, he was a massive hulking giant of a man. He had a few burn scars over his neck and shoulders, and even on the side of his face.

He nodded at Stuckey. He seemed to be torn, like he wanted to walk away, but at the same time, didn’t want to leave.

“Thanks,” Stuckey said. “He was… He was going to kill me, I think. Even if I gave him my shoes…” He blinked back tears. “I would have died anyway. It is cold tonight. I can not be without shoes.”

“You have your shoes.”

“Yes, yes, thank you. I have them because of you,” Stuckey said. He wished he wasn’t crying. He looked like such a weakling most of the time. He wasn’t really that weak, he just cried a lot when he was upset or scared or even angry. People often assumed he was feminine in nature. They weren’t wrong, but he still didn’t like the assumption.

“You are… How old are you?” the man asked. His voice was achingly deep, so low it made Stuckey’s bones rattle.

“I am eighteen. My name is Stuckey.”

He grunted. “John. Big John.” He frowned. “You… You are too old to be an apprentice.”

“Yes, I know-“

“Be quiet.” He furrowed his brow. “But I will allow you to be my apprentice. I like the way you look. You look like a girl, but you have arms like a man. That is good.”

“Oh. John, okay, I see… I, uh… What do you do?”

“I’m a blacksmith,” he said. “Come. Or do not.” He turned around and left without waiting for another response.

Stuckey hesitated. He had long hoped he could get some sort of apprenticeship, but everyone considered him too old — apprenticeships were supposed to begin at around thirteen years of age, not eighteen. By now, Stuckey was already expected to have begun his adult life and family. He should be striking out on his own, not only just now finding an apprenticeship.

And he had no aptitude for blacksmithing. Stuckey knew nothing about it. He didn’t think his arms were as impressive as Big John did, though he did recognize that his arms were more muscular than the rest of his body. That was because Stuckey’s late father had always demanded he exercise his body, and the exercises he focused on the most were always based on improving his arm strength, so he could swing a sword. Every time Stuckey felt cold and lonely, he exercised and remembered how glad he was to be rid of his father.

Of course there was no question. When Stuckey saw Big John walking away, he saw all of his options disappearing — or rather, his only option, walking away, leaving him behind to freeze to death.

So he followed. “Thanks, uh, Big John. I really… I’ve been living in the woods, and in the streets, uh… for a long time.” Stuckey’s voice trailed off because it wasn’t clear whether or not Big John was listening.

So Stuckey walked the rest of the way in silence. He was entranced by the sight of Big John’s hefty muscles shifting as he walked, as though he was too tired to carry his own body. He finally reached his smithy, a small hut on the outskirts of Tamworth, well away from other structures so it wouldn’t cause a conflagration if it caught flame.

It was a one-room hut, with one door, one forge, one hearth, one straw bed that looked barely big enough for Big John by himself. So, it seemed, Stuckey was going to be sleeping on the floor.

Oh well, I’ve slept in the rough before.

He quietly sat down, while Big John checked on his forge. He explained that he kept it warm all the time. Even when it wasn’t in use, it was easier to keep embers going then to restart the forge from scratch every time he needed to. Making it hot enough to forge iron required substantial time and energy. Starting from cold was very difficult.

“But we will do no work tonight. It is almost nightfall,” Big John said after explaining Stuckey’s responsibilities. It was already too dark to do anything significant. Stuckey wanted to seem useful, so he swept up the floor and picked up the strewing herbs that had been strewn  eons ago. They were now good for nothing but some extra fuel for the fire.

Soon Big John was stripped to his breeches, which were threadbare and filthy. They barely covered up his bulging manhood. Stuckey had trouble taking his eyes from it. He wanted a taste so bad he drooled a little.

But he didn’t think Big John would allow anything like that. Big macho men like him rarely tolerated men like Stuckey. Stuckey remained convinced that this was only a temporary arrangement — Big John would not allow a “lavender” man to work for him. Once he found out what Stuckey was, Stuckey would be back out on the streets.

“Can I… rub your shoulders, Big John?” Stuckey said. He didn’t wait for a response, knowing that large men like him would be reluctant to ask for succor. So Stuckey just planted his hands on Big John’s shoulders and rubbed them.

His muscles were bigger than anyone Stuckey had ever seen. Touching him was even more impressive than looking at him, because his shoulders were scorching hot like the forge, tingling, firm like iron after it was forged. His muscles bulged and pulsated beneath Stuckey’s fingertips.

“There are… other duties,” Big John said. He bit his lip and groaned, the first real expression of emotion he had made since Stuckey met him. Big John sighed. “There are other duties that are expected of an apprentice. Some masters force their apprentices to… do certain things. I do not require you to behave in that manner.”

“Oh…” Stuckey had a feeling he knew what “other duties” were, and they had nothing to do with blacksmithing. Stuckey wanted to do it more than anything, but now that the possibility was before him, Stuckey wanted to not do it just as bad.

He wanted to touch and lick and feel every inch of Big John’s muscles. But if he did it now, he would be seen as a man of loose morals. He would be the kind of man who does those things in exchange for a place to sleep. He would be little better than a prostitute. Even just waiting one day would prove that he didn’t need to do it, and Stuckey wanted very badly to not need it.

“Well then I will just rub your shoulders,” Stuckey said, “until you are ready for bed. I shall sleep on the floor.”

A long awkward silence filled the air, while Stuckey massaged the meat of Big John’s shoulder. Finally Big John snorted and grunted. “Fine. Yes. You will just rub my shoulders. I do not require anything else of my apprentice.” He stood and went to his bed. Since he didn’t wait for Stuckey to finish the massage, he knocked Stuckey over when he stood.

“Oh. I guess that’s it. Alright. Well, good night. Thanks again, for taking me in.”

“I do not require anything of you at night.” He paused. “I am not that kind of master. It is your choice.” It looked like wanted desperately for Stuckey to make a particular choice.

“Yes.” Stuckey smiled. “I am glad that it is my choice. I shall sleep on the floor.”

He bristled. “Fine.” He got down on his bunk and sprawled out the best he could in the tiny space he had available. His eyes closed.

Stuckey sat there watching him for a long time. Big John seemed to fall asleep almost right away. Stuckey was too scared to offend him to check if he was really asleep or not.

Eventually Stuckey drifted off into a fitless sleep by himself there on the floor. He didn’t have any blankets and he didn’t ask for any from Big John. He was close enough to the forge that it wasn’t very cold, though the floor of the smithy’s hut was quite chilly. It was still warmer than sleeping outside.

Stuckey woke up around dawn. There was a blanket over him, Big John must have placed it there in the night. Stuckey sat up. He always woke up at dawn. When you lived on the streets of Tamworth, it was always wise to be awake when the sun was up. Of course, it was wise to be awake when the sun was down too.

Big John’s giant chest rattled as he breathed deeply in his sleep. He had no blanket, but he was a big man, well-insulated, and he was up higher on his bed, so he was not as cold. He did look chilly though. He had draped his tunic over his body. His muscles quivered.

Stuckey sat on the edge of his bunk. He hadn’t decided to do anything yet, not until this moment. When his fingers touched Big John’s thick warm bicep, Stuckey knew what he wanted to do. He draped the warm woolen blanket over John’s body, then Stuckey climbed under it as well.

Big John stirred. The bunk was much too small for two people to be separate on it, but Stuckey didn’t want them to be separate. Big John’s flesh was chilled, and the air outside the blanket was cold. But beneath the blanket, the air was warm, and heating up fast.

Stuckey gently rubbed Big John’s chest with one hand, while his other hand roamed down to his belly.

His cock twitched as soon as Stuckey touched it. It throbbed in his hand, and Stuckey let out a little moan. He didn’t know what Big John wanted from him, so he kept it slow and gentle. He stroked Big John’s massive body, criss-crossed with scars, as though it was delicate and easily broken. He used light fingers and a soft touch, teasing and caressing his manhood.

Finally it was clear that Big John was awake, but his eyes were still closed like he wanted to pretend he was asleep. Stuckey moaned a little, quietly, his free hand massaging Big John’s chest muscles. They were tense like a statue at first, but they relaxed and smoothed as Stuckey massaged him.

Both men’s breathing grew ragged and irregular. Stuckey tasted a few beads of fresh sweat that collected on Big John’s arm. He was glad he had waited until this morning — it was better now, since both he and Big John knew it was happening because they both wanted it, not because Stuckey was told to do it. All of Big John’s muscles tensed into rigid, firm blocks of unyielding flesh.

At last a long, low rumbling moan escaped from Big John’s lips. Big John’s massive arm snaked up and grabbed Stuckey by the head. He didn’t force anything, but he did pull Stuckey up so they could kiss. Still, Big John’s eyes were closed. Their lips collided, tongues teasing each other in Big John’s cavernous mouth.

Hot juices flew from his cock and sprayed over his chest and belly. Stuckey’s mouth traveled down Big John’s face and chin, until he got to his chest. He licked every drop of Big John’s salty manhood off his quivering muscles, while Big John moaned and grunted beneath his touch.

When he was done, Big John again pretended to be sound asleep. Stuckey didn’t mind. He enjoyed nuzzling Big John’s muscles as he settled into the tiny bed. He clutched Big John’s body for support since he was right on the edge of the bed. He felt safe. For the first time since his parents died, Stuckey felt safe and secure.

And he slept. Again it was a first since his parent’s death, his first real calming sleep. He didn’t just doze, he slept and he rested and he recovered, and he awoke refreshed, basking in the clean sweat and warm glow of Big John’s body.

By then Big John was awake, but he hadn’t moved, not wanting to awaken Stuckey. So Stuckey had fallen asleep cuddling with Big John who pretended to be asleep, and he awoke to Big John laying quietly as though he was asleep.

“Good. You are awake. It is time for work to begin.”