Category Archives: Irontop Gym

Downlow Thugs at the Irontop Gym

Here’s the first chapter of Downlow Thugs at the Irontop Gym, a fantastic new tale about muscular black alphas and the lusty twink who services them!

Kyle loved his job at the Irontop Gym of Compton. He had initially thought he would feel out-of-place — he was a flamboyant twink, and the regulars here were burly macho thugs. The Irontop Gym appealed mainly to men, and in Compton, it was strictly Nine Tats gang territory. That was where all the top gangbangers in the city worked out. But it also had a reputation that helped make it an ideal workplace for Kyle.

That’s because everyone knew the Irontop Gym was a place straight men could swing downlow… very low on the downlow. He loved the muscular sweaty bodies all around, demanding service and release. What happened here, stayed here, so a lot of men got their nut off and then went home to their wives, bitches or hos, pretending nothing had happened. And the pay wasn’t bad either — Kyle was a licensed physical trainer, so he did alright.

Most of his clients were not very sexy though. The handsome studs and thugs who filled the gym, and who occasionally asked for a blowjob, were mostly too poor to pay for a trainer. Even if they did want to hire one, they’d feel self-conscious hiring a slim gay man. That wasn’t very gangsta.

But Kyle did okay on an hourly wage and the extra money he got from the older gentlemen who actually needed a physical trainer — he got paid from their insurance companies (or Medicaid, though Medicaid paid so little that Kyle barely even thought of it as a portion of his income). Whenever he didn’t have a client, he kept his eyes open for someone who might give him a taste of their cock.

When he saw Samson, Kyle knew he’d be tasting that meat sooner or later — he just moved like a straight nigga who let gay men suck him off. He had that horse-cocked swagger that made Kyle’s knees weak. Samson was middle-aged, at forty-one years old, though you’d never know it from looking at him. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a dense mustache and a square jaw. He wore low-hanging gray shorts and a white wifebeater that revealed the layer of salt-and-pepper hair covering his broad chest.

“Yo, you my trainer?” he asked. He had a deep, gravelly voice that made Kyle’s knees weak.

Kyle nodded. He took a deep breath and steeled his nerves. For a moment he thought he wouldn’t be able to do this, that he’d react like a lovestruck teenager and there was nothing he could do about it.

But at last his professionalism took over. “Yes, sir. My name is Kyle,” he said. “Let’s talk about your goals. I got the medical sheet from your insurance company, but what are your personal goals? What do you hope to gain from our meetings?”

Kyle took a deep breath. Samson had taken a bullet to the thigh a few months ago. He lifted up his shorts to show Kyle the scar. Kyle touched his trunk-like thighs, and his hands shook he was so aroused. He caught a peek of the dingy white pouch of Samson’s jockstrap peeking out from the leg of his gray shorts.

The din of the gym filled Kyle’s ears, drowning out Samson’s voice. All Kyle could think about was that delicious-looking bulge in Samson’s shorts. He inhaled deeply of the musty scent that wafted off Samson, who had a permanent scowl on his face.

“Yo… Kyle,” Samson said. It took him a moment to remember Kyle’s name. He rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. Was he angry? He came across as angry, Kyle thought, his heart pounding, but Kyle felt sure he always looked like that. Samson was an intimidating man. His pause hung in the air like a stormcloud waiting to burst. He glared at Kyle. “You gay, right?”

“Uh… yeah,” Kyle said.

“You distracted cuz you wanna suck my dick?”


“I ain’t mad atcha,” he said. “You got somewhere quiet? You can suck me, Kyle. Then we do our work togethuh. Got it?”

“Well, uh, I…-“

“Shut up. Say yes or no.”

“Uh, yes.”

“Good,” Samson said. He stood up and turned around, so that his big plump asscheeks were right in front of Kyle’s face. Kyle drooled. He had to force himself to stand. He gestured towards the back of the gym.

“Uh, there’s a storage closet back there.”

“Let’s go, nigga,” he said. “I’m glad you ain’t white. I don’t like letting white queers suck my dick. Feels like a surrender.”

“Uh-huh,” Kyle murmured. He was too distracted by his own erection and the rippling of Samson’s muscles beneath his shorts and his wifebeater.

The closet was mostly empty, just a few exercise machines that weren’t in use. There was a bench press in the center of the closet, and it was there that Samson sat. He continued scowling in Kyle’s direction.

“Don’t mess around, nigga,” Samson said. “I ain’t come here for a blowjob, I still got shit to do. We ain’t makin’ love or whatevuh. Be quick. Just drain my nut so we can move on. Got it?”

Kyle nodded and sunk to his knees.

“Nah,” Samson said. He caught Kyle’s chest and lifted him back up to his feet. “Use yo’ words, nigga. Tell me you understand me.”

Kyle blushed. “Uh… I’ll be quick. I’ll suck you off as quick as I can. I won’t mess around.”


Samson spread his legs so the edge of the bench was beneath his crotch. That gave Kyle perfect access to his dick. Kyle stroked it through his gray shorts, but then Samson snorted liked he thought Kyle was being slow. Kyle blushed and pulled those shorts down.

He had a massive cock, which made Kyle grin. He had rarely seen anything so huge. It was long and thick and dense and fleshy, and Kyle could feel it throbbing even though it was still limp. He flopped it against his face. He kissed the tip and let his tongue tickle the piss-slit. Normally Kyle liked to tease straight men like that, but it seemed Samson didn’t want to take the time. So Kyle put the entire tip in his mouth and started sucking.

“Yeah, good boy, keep suckin’ just like that,” Samson said. He groaned as his dick stiffened up, and all that flesh turned from soft and clammy to hard and moist, throbbing in Kyle’s throat.

Fuck you, nigga! Come here and say that to my face! There was an argument out in the main gym. It sounded like a crowd formed and cheered the combatants on. All Kyle could hear was cheering and hollering.

The cock in his mouth was so thick he could barely fit in at all, but the more he sucked, the more he could swallow. It tasted like pure, unadulterated manhood, and the flavor reminded Kyle of all the imagined sex he had here — whenever he was bored at work, all he had to do was glance around to see overstuffed basketball shorts, pubic hair peeking out above the waistband, gruff voices echoing and cocky swagger everywhere he looked. Normally when he finally found a nigga willing to get his nut off in Kyle’s mouth, Kyle ended up disappointed — the reality didn’t live up to his imagination. But Samson was exactly what he had hoped, and it reminded Kyle of all those other men whose cocks he had only sucked in his dreams.

Come at me then! That fight sounded like it was getting more serious.

He considered going up there to stop it, but he knew that was silly, not just because he didn’t want to stop sucking Samson’s cock. Kyle was a weak gay twink — he was in good shape, but he was skinny and small. There was no way he could break up a fight, and anyway the bodybuilder Alain worked today as well. He would be able to stop the fight. Before Kyle even thought of that, he thought he could hear Alain’s Senegalese accent resonating in from the hallway.

“Ignore them niggas,” Samson said, flaring his nostrils. “You wanna suck my dick, you focus on my dick. I ain’t lettin’ you suck it on a fuckin’ lark or whatevuh, nigga. We ain’t stoppin just cuz some niggas is throwin’ punches up front.”

Kyle nodded to show his understanding. He certainly didn’t want to stop, and it did sound like Alain had broken up the fight before it got too serious. Wanting to be sure Samson appreciated the blowjob, Kyle looked up at him — straight thugs loved it when cocksuckers made eye contact — and grabbed his big meaty hands. He guided them to the back of Kyle’s head.

“Oh? You want me to facefuck ya, huh?”

Kyle nodded.

“You into that nasty shit, nigga?” Samson said. He started grinding his hips, shoving his dick in as Kyle struggled to open his throat. Samson muttered to himself. “Get that shit in there, nigga. You wantin’ this, don’t try and fight back now.”

Kyle wasn’t trying to fight back, but Samson’s dick was simply too big to deep-throat. It was all he could do to get half of it in his mouth, which felt like it was going to make his neck explode. He enjoyed the sight of Samson’s massive body swaying, rubbing, humping his face. Samson periodically glared into Kyle’s eyes, his harsh thuggish glare sending a wave of submission, fear and arousal through Kyle’s body.

“Keep on lookin’ me in the eye. When you suck a superior nigga, you look ‘im in the eye. That shows respect,” Samson said. Whenever Kyle accidentally closed his eyes, Samson gently pried them open again. He sneered at Kyle as he spat in his hand and lubed up his cock with it. His arrogant look made Kyle shiver with terror.

But Kyle loved every moment of it. He always enjoyed massive dicks sticking in his throat, leaking precum into his belly, and the swinging of heavy balls against his chin. His favorite activity was submitting to big thugs like Samson, allowing them to use his throat to satisfy their own carnal desires.

A brief spurt of pain erupted in Kyle’s nose — Samson had found a clothespin, which he used to shut Kyle’s nostrils. That forced Kyle’s throat to open even wider a few seconds later, and the last of Samson’s cock squeezed down his throat.

“Yeah, bitch, you a fuckin’ legend, nigga, hell yeah…” Samson said. He sounded surprised that he was enjoying this at all. His gravelly voice resonated in the tiny closet. He lightly tapped Kyle on the back of the head whenever he tried to pull away to take a breath, and he used both hands to hold Kyle in place. “Don’t quit now, nigga. You got me started, and I ain’t gonna stop ‘less you force me to.”

Kyle had no idea how long that lasted. He was dizzy from lack of oxygen, and all he could think about was his strained throat sputtering and choking. His face was a deep burgundy shade as his lungs cried out for air.

“Yo nigga, you ready fo’ nut? Huh? You better be, cuz it’s comin’.”

At last it was over. Samson stopped moving with his dick all the way down Kyle’s gullet, so Kyle could feel his balls crawl up in his sac where it rested against Kyle’s chin. Kyle’s hands gripped Samson’s plump brown asscheeks the best he could with Samson sitting down on the bench — he was leaned forward enough that Kyle could stroke the sweaty crack with both hands.

Samson grunted and groaned, lips moving like he was talking though no words came out. He closed his eyes as the first drops of cum spilled down Kyle’s throat. Kyle felt it pouring down his throat like he was chugging sour beer, and he loved the feel of Samson’s balls draining down his throat while they throbbed against his chin.

“Fuck yeah, nigga, swallow that shit… don’t spill none…”

Since Samson’s dick was so deep inside Kyle, his cum sprayed right into his gullet. Kyle didn’t taste it at first, he just felt the creamy heat seeping into his stomach and spreading to every corner of his body.

But when Samson finally pulled out, his dickshaft brought so much cum up with it that it coated Kyle’s tongue. He sighed as the flavor of semen finally overwhelmed his senses.

“Damn, nigga…” Samson chuckled. “You sure you wanna be a trainer? If you was my ho, I’d treat you right. Just consider it, nigga. You sign up wit’ me, and I’ll make sure you get fucked silly e’ry day.”

A blossom of desire exploded within Kyle, and if he weren’t out of breath, Kyle would have screamed “yes!” without a second thought. But by the time he recovered, it was clear that Samson was kidding, and even if he weren’t, Kyle didn’t want to be a ho. He was sure Samson’s idea of treating a ho “right” was not going to be as much fun as Kyle wanted.

Samson tucked his dick back in his jockstrap. He frowned at Kyle. “You feel better now, nigga? Can you concentrate on my leg instead of my cock?”

“Yes, sir,” Kyle said. He blushed, but Samson was entirely right to do this — now that he had tasted Samson’s cock, Kyle could focus. “Let’s get your leg stretched out. Stretching is very important to the healing process, that’s actually more important than the exercise.”

The Black Boxer, Ball-Sweat and One Sexy Sauna

Here’s a sample from The Black Boxer, Ball-Sweat and One Sexy Sauna, a new story of hardcore alpha male black service and raunchy gym sauna sweat worship! It’s now available through Kindle Unlimited, and if you don’t have that, it’s also in the great-value bundle The Sweetest Musk, Vol. 6!


When Tom transferred to the Irontop Gym of Queens, he assumed it would be like the gym he had long worked at. After being purchased by Irontop Gyms Enterprises, nothing much had changed aside from the signage. He took well to the Irontop corporate structure. Tom felt like moving to a big city, and he happened to see an opening in Queens. Irontop Gyms Enterprises had a policy of preferring internal advancement, so he thought he might as well apply. Moving to New York City sounded like fun, so he sent in his application on a lark.

At the time, he thought he might not even go if he got a job offer. It was just a spur of the moment decision to apply. But when he actually was offered the job, he took it. He didn’t even really know why, he just thought it was time to make a change.

Besides, he was tired of being one of very few openly gay men in his tiny corner of Wisconsin. He had already dated the eligible gays, and found them all wanting. He knew that Irontop Gyms weren’t normally meeting places for gays — they only had that reputation in Wisconsin. So he wasn’t surprised that the Irontop of Queens was different than the Irontop of Elkington.

But what did surprise him was that it wasn’t even a normal gym at all. It had all the normal equipment, and it was men-only just like all Irontop Gyms, but it was mainly a gym for boxers. There was a large boxing ring in the center, and the equipment was scattered around nearby. Punching bags and old-fashioned medicine balls abounded.

Another thing he found surprising was that it was almost entirely black. There was another Irontop Gym down the street, which Tom thought was strange until he realized the unofficial demarcation between the two — this one was for black men, and a smattering of Latinos; the other one was for white men.

As the only white guy on staff, Tom felt a bit out-of-place. He even considered transferring to the other one, but they didn’t have an opening and besides, it would seem blatantly rude, maybe even racist, to switch right away. So he stuck it out.

He tried to avoid staring. Tom knew he couldn’t pass for straight if he had wanted to, so he didn’t try that. He just didn’t want to look like a leering pervert, especially when he noticed one boxer, Jaequon Darling, who had a handsome face and a sexy heavyweight body. Tom’s dick stirred in his pants from the moment he saw Jaequon. He felt flush and giddy like a schoolboy having his first crush, and he blushed the one time he felt Jaequon’s eyes on him.

He managed to avoid making a scene though. His first day was easy enough, and he was glad to have avoided making a fool of himself. He was just about to walk out the front door when a middle-aged black man stopped him.

“Hey, fancy-boy,” said the man. “You off now right?” He looked like he used to be a boxer, with a powerful frame, flat ears and a crooked nose. His scruffy beard was tinged with gray, but he was still vibrant and sexy in his own way — Tom had always liked the daddy-types.

Tom nodded, not sure if he should be insulted by the term fancy-boy or not. And had he intended it as an insult or did he figure out that Tom was gay? He probably had figured it out, but Tom wasn’t sure.

“C’mon wit’ me,” he said, and walked towards the back without waiting to see if Tom agreed, or even understood. He had such an authoritarian vibe, however, that Tom followed without giving it a second thought. The man stopped outside the door to the sauna. He sneered at it as though he was disgusted by saunas. He looked at Tom. “My boy Jaequon is in there. He wanna see you.”

“He wanna see me? What for?”

“Don’t ask,” said the man. “Just do it.” He opened the door. Tom hesitated before stripping off his shirt and shoes, then walking in. It was a nice summer day, so he had worn his jogging shorts to go back to his apartment. The sauna was thick with fog, and at first, Tom didn’t see Jaequon at all. His shorts fabric clung to his skin with moisture.

“Yo, Pops, when can I come out?” Jaequon asked when the door was open.

The man slammed the door shut without answering, then yelled from outside. “Later, nigga. You got a pound and a half to sweat off. Or whatever, shoot off.” His words made Tom shudder with anticipation — was he really going to get to service Jaequon?

Servicing a Basketball Team

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Servicing a Basketball Team, a new story in the Servicing Black Groups series of extreme str8core-worshiping gay erotica!  It’s also available for less than a dollar a story in the Complete Servicing Black Groups Series bundle!


“Okay, guys, I know this isn’t fun,” Stan said. “But it is important. You won’t be able to play basketball your whole lives, so the money you make now needs to work for you for a long time to come.”

The team sat in front of him in the locker room. Stan would have rather done this in a more formal environment, but Coach Willamette had said that if you take the players somewhere else, like Stan’s office, after the game, a lot of them will sneak away. You gotta git ‘em when they still in the locker room, Coach Willamette had said.

“Alright, before we talk about your options, let’s go over some terminology,” Stan said. “First off, risk. I’m sure you all use the word risk, but in finance it’s a very important concept. All investment is about balancing risk, and-“ Once he got into the flow, he could tune out any distractions; he had perfect tunnel vision for this presentation. After having given this exact spiel plenty of times, he had it more or less memorized.

But he was mid-monologue when he realized most of the team wasn’t paying attention. They were either on their phones or chatting with each other; one was distractedly rolling a joint.

“Hey, gentlemen, shut the fuck up!” Coach Willamette barked, his voice weary as though he shouldn’t have to say this. He jumped in front of Stan and barked at the players. They did shut up, but they glared at Coach Willamette, whose chestnut brown skin gleamed as he stared his team down. “This is an important presentation, and y’all gots to hear e’ry word of it.

A long pause followed. Stan wasn’t sure if this was normal, or if the players were seriously challenging Coach Willamette’s authority. Coach responded as though he expected them all to follow his commands without hesitation, and was offended when they looked at him like a crazy person for telling them what to do. There was a few rebellious snickers, and someone muttered, shut that ol’ nigga up.

“Get in the sauna!” Willamette said. “Now!”

The players groaned but stood. They clucked their tongues against their teeth as they sauntered away. More than a few glared at Coach Willamette as though they considered punching him, but decided not to go through with it.

Stan blushed and bristled. Was that it? Had he given up on the presentation and decided to just skip it? Did Coach Willamette think Stan was so useless as to make the presentation irrelevant? Stan was surprised how little of a chance he got — he basically hadn’t been able to grab their attention in the first thirty seconds, and Coach Willamette had just given right up? That didn’t seem fair.

Then Coach Willamette’s hefty hand clasped Stan’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, hoss, they ain’t wanna pay attention to nobody. You can give your spiel in a sauna, right?”

“Uh… in a sauna?”

“They’ll be naked, you comfortable wit’ that? You ain’t gotta be naked too. I mean… you can’t really go in there in a suit, you gonna get heat stroke fo’ real. But you can go in their in yer drawers,” Willamette said, walking away.

Stan’s heart started pounding. He was an openly gay man — though he wasn’t sure Coach Willamette knew that — so he certainly didn’t mind hanging out in a sauna with a bunch of naked basketball players. But would they mind if he was in there? What if he got a hardon?

The boisterous chatting of the players made it easy for him to find the sauna, which was down the hall at the far end of the locker room. Stan patiently folded his clothes up and left them on the bench outside the sauna. He kept his boxer shorts and a t-shirt on, since he knew his body would look pitiful in comparison to the players’. He wasn’t in bad shape, but he was skinny and short.

Yo, Coach, where dat white man at? My balls is stickin’ to my thighs, nigga! I gots bitches begging me to cum over, man! Let’s hurry dis shit up!

Respecting Coach Browne

Here’s a sample from Respecting Coach Browne, a new tale from the All-Strong League! This is hot black dilf-coach on college-jock action!


“You better be sorry, boy,” Coach Browne said. “One!”

Jamal hesitated, then did a pushup. Once he got started, he kept on doing them, grunting with each ascension.

“Two. Three. Four.” Coach Browne counted and placed one hand on Jamal’s ass to guide his lower back and keep him from arching his spine. “Five. You know what grade you getting in Fundamentals of Team Sports?”

“You give grades for that?”

“Hell yeah. And if you come to class and you remember to bring your jockstrap most of the time, you get an A,” Coach Browne said. “Six. Seven.”

“That’s like twenty. You ain’t even countin’!”

“You shut that fool mouth, boy,” he said. The more he interacted with Jamal today, the less he wanted to give him a break. One of the linebackers — Harvey — was a good thrower and had been a quarterback in high school; if push came to shove, he’d be a fine quarterback.

But Coach Browne didn’t want Harvey to be the quarterback. He would never have admitted why: because Harvey was white, and not just white, but a blond Nordic-type. He looked like a quarterback. Coach Browne didn’t want to make the only blond man on the team the quarterback. He had written a letter to ESPN last year, and got it read on-air, complaining about teams that seemed to have a rule of only putting white people in the quarterback position. It would look terrible for him to now take one of the few white men on the team and make him a quarterback.

“Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen,” he said. He was deliberately only counting every other push-up or so. He didn’t want to let Jamal finish this without a struggle.

Jamal scowled at him. He must be having trouble now, Coach Browne thought, because his arms shook and sweat beaded on his shoulders.

It looked like Jamal was about to snap when suddenly his cell phone rang in the pants he had crumpled up on the floor nearby. Jamal got up, went over to the pants and took the phone out. He smiled when he saw who was calling — it must be that redhead, Coach Browne decided.

“If you answer that, you get an F for my class.”

Jamal stopped, phone in hand. He looked at Coach Browne as though there was a chance he was kidding. Coach crossed his arms over his chest.

“You serious?”

“You are gonna show some respect, Jamal,” Coach Browne said. “That means you gotta occasionally tell a girl no. Or in this case, not tell her nothin’. Just don’t answer it. You got somethin’ more important to do, Jamal. Or maybe you don’t. I guess that’s your choice. You can walk out that door anytime, or you can get on the floor and do thirty-six more push-ups.”

Jamal took a deep breath. He looked like he wanted to punch Coach Browne, but he didn’t. He glanced at the phone screen then put it back in his pocket. He got on the ground again and did a push-up; he moved angrily now, like he could punish Coach Browne by doing push-ups quickly.

“Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen,” Coach Browne said. “Keep yo’ back straight, Jamal, I ain’t countin’ these.” He put his hand back on Jamal’s lower back until he straightened his spine. “Good. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.”

He didn’t even think about what happened next. Coach Browne acted on instinct, as he saw Jamal arching his back again. He must be frustrated and having trouble focusing, no doubt thinking of that redhead pussy, so Coach Browne thought back to how his own coach got his attention when necessary.

He slipped one hand under Jamal’s boxers, slipped a finger between his sweaty asscheeks and plunged it right into his asshole. It was hot and moist and hairy, and it was both gross to Coach Browne as well as strangely arousing. Jamal’s asshole squeezed around Coach’s finger.

“Aw, fuck!” Jamal gasped. He stopped mid-push, and his shoulders trembled nervously. He bit his lip.

“Don’t stop, boy.”

He did another push-up, slowly and tremulously, as though if he moved too fast his asshole might shatter completely. When he lifted himself back up, it forced Coach Browne’s finger in even deeper, which made Jamal shudder with pain.

“Twenty-one,” he said.

“Coach…” He winced.

“You takin’ a long time to do fifty push-ups, boy,” Coach Browne said. He wiggled his finger in Jamal’s ass, making the young man yelp and drop to his elbows and knees. “Get back up, Jamal. Do I got yo’ attention now?”

“Yes, Coach.”

“You wanna walk out that door?”

Jamal bit his lip. “Kinda.”

“Well, go right ahead,” Coach Browne said. “But if you wanna be on this team, and if you wanna get a passing grade in Fundamentals of Team Sports, you stay right there and show me a little respect.”

Jamal struggled through another push-up.

Prison Guards Downlow

Here’s a sample from Prison Guards Downlow, a new story from Brutewood Medium Security! It’s the sexy tale of a prison trustee servicing two guards.


Eddie Haggerslaw had never been more relieved than when Officer Barnett told him he got the position as a trustee. Eddie had been trying to remain in the closet while he was in prison, but word had finally gotten out. He was finding it more and more difficult to avoid being claimed as someone’s girlfriend, and he knew being a trustee was the best way to stay safe — not only would he work closely with the guards, but he would not be present for most of the day with other inmates. He’d be able to avoid other prisoners almost entirely, with the exception of his cellmate, an old man — meaning that as long as Eddie avoided the rec yard and communal showers, there would be little opportunity for anyone to hurt him.

He didn’t even care that he had to clean toilets, which he had long hated — that was always the worst chore he had to do, he had thought, but now it seemed ideal compared to the other options. He scrubbed the toilets the best he could his first day, wanting to make a good first impression. If the guards initially saw their locker being spotless, they would forever remember Eddie as the perfectionist trustee; they’d be sure not to let him get assigned anywhere else. That was the way to survive in here, Eddie decided, get the guards on your side.

Officer Armstrong came in while Eddie was about to start on the urinals. Armstrong was one of the senior guards, though he wasn’t in charge — he was also the one most commonly accused of abuse by other inmates. He had an arrogant scowl on his face as he approached Eddie, who tried to look nonplussed.

When it seemed clear that Armstrong was coming to the urinals, Eddie stopped. He took a step away but Armstrong scowled. “Keep on cleaning,” he said. He began unzipping his slacks.

Eddie hesitated but did what he was told. He wiped down the outside edge of the urinal as Armstrong pulled his cock out and started pissing. Armstrong snorted.

Is Armstrong about to do something? Eddie wasn’t sure, but he was worried — he suspected Armstrong hoped to provoke Eddie into overreacting, so Armstrong could punish him. He felt a few drops of piss on his arm. He knew Armstrong was the mean guard, the one who didn’t mind taking advantage of inmates. Eddie distractedly continued wiping down the side of the urinal, forcing his mind to ignore the sensation of urine evaporating off his soft skin.

“You like what you see?” Armstrong asked. He flopped his cock between his fingers.

Eddie didn’t answer.

“I know you do.” Armstrong sneered at him. “You’re gay, right? You wanna suck my dick?”

Armstrong had a burly body with broad shoulders, and a square jaw beneath a military buzz-cut. He was sexy, to say the least, and in most circumstances, Eddie would have jumped at the chance to suck his dick. But since the situation was so threatening, he hesitated. If he said yes now, would Armstrong allow him to say no on some other occasion? Eddie wasn’t sure, and he had the sinking suspicion he would not — Armstrong seemed to think gay dudes always wanted his dick, and wasn’t going to accept any other conclusion.

“Huh? You wanna suck my dick? You got purty lips.”

The door to the locker room opened, and Officer Barnett came in. He was the chief guard, and he was a nice guy or at least he had come across as fair and even-handed; judging from the way the other inmates referred to him, Officer Barnett was universally respected. Eddie was relieved. He was confident that Barnett would not let Armstrong hurt him.

“What are you doing, Armstrong?” Barnett asked when he saw them in the back area. He was a little older than Armstrong, with a leaner body and sterner face. He looked at his coworker suspiciously, and he sized up Eddie with his eyes.

“Nothin’, sirruh. Inmate Haggerslaw here was just explaining how much he loves cock,” Officer Armstrong said. “I think he wants to get spitroasted.”

“Is that what you said, inmate?” Barnett asked.

Eddie shrugged. “Not exactly.”

“You do want to, though?”


“You don’t have to,” Barnett said. “We like to put a gay inmate in the locker room because we can get our rocks off. We can all get our rocks off. It just makes this job easier, and for a lot of gay men, it makes their prison sentence easier”

“I see.”

“But you don’t have to. Officer Armstrong here likes to make you think you have to, but you don’t,” Barnett said. “He’s just a dickhead.”

“Okay. If I… agree now, will I be allowed to say no another time?”

Barnett nodded. “Good question.” He turned to Armstrong and said firmly. “Yes. Officer Armstrong will ask you every time if it’s okay. He won’t assume you agree if you don’t fight back.”

Armstrong scoffed but nodded. Eddie got the impression that Barnett was addressing something that had actually happened. Armstrong looked chagrined, and he played with the bulge in his slacks.

“He won’t hurt you. He knows I don’t let anyone hurt my trustees,” Barnett said. “But if you want some cock, get ready. Otherwise, get back to work.”

Eddie dropped this knees and opened his mouth. His heart started pounding as he realized this trustee job was going to be even better than he had thought. Armstrong was ungodly sexy, and Eddie was already getting hard at the thought of tasting his cock.

Armstrong frowned. “I ain’t want you to think you gotta suck my dick,” he said. “But if you’s gonna do it, we gonna do it right. You gonna be my bitch, my oral bitch. You ready for that?”

Eddie nodded. His heart thumped.

“Well, I ain’t gonna use my hands,” Armstrong said. He leaned back against the wall next to the urinal. “Go on, get my dick out.”

His pants were already unzipped, but he had put his cock back in his pants. Eddie quickly fished his dick out and sucked it down in one smooth motion.

Officer Armstrong’s cock had an unusual flavor that Eddie couldn’t quite place at first. It tasted of sweat and musk and a little bit acrid from dried piss, and all that was normal. But Eddie could taste something more unusual in the background, and he struggled to name it: steel. He tasted like a prison, Eddie thought, like he was Brutewood incarnate; his cock tasted like an iron dildo coated with flesh, he thought.

“Yo, oral bitch, look at this mark,” Officer Armstrong pulled a thick marker from his pocket and made a little spot on his cock about halfway down the shaft. “See? This is as far as you’s deep-throating. I know you can do better than that.”

Eddie flushed with fear, humiliation and arousal. Officer Armstrong bent over to look him in the eye as he spoke, and Eddie shuddered with anticipation. He loved deep-throating, and though he was scared, with Officer Barnett there just a few yards away, he felt confident in his safety, at least for the time being.

So he dove down deep on Officer Armstrong’s rod. He swallowed it as deep as he could, surpassing his previous mark and tasting a bit of the ink from the marker Armstrong had used. Armstrong clapped and hooted.

There was a tap on his shoulder. It was Officer Barnett, frowning as he looked down at him. For a moment, Eddie thought maybe this had all been a prank, that Barnett would laugh and say of course I would never protect an inmate. But Barnett just frowned sheepishly, aiming his displeasure at himself.

“You got room in there to take another cock?” Barnett asked. He grabbed the bulge in his brown uniform slacks.

Eddie nodded, but before he could take the cock out of his mouth to say anything, Officer Armstrong interrupted him.

“Yo, come on, Tom…”

“Shut the hell up, Armstrong. You’re lucky you ain’t behind bars yourself,” Barnett said. He lined up next to Armstrong and unzipped his slacks. He had a long cock than Armstrong’s, but a bit thinner. Armstrong groaned.

Eddie enthusiastically took both dicks in one hand each, and pushed both cocktips together. Since Armstrong had tried to intimidate and take advantage of him, it was nice to see Armstrong pushed by an authority figure into doing something sexual he didn’t really want. Eddie used both his hands to stroke the pair of cocks to full erection.

“Why do you like joustin’, man? So fuckin’ gay…”

Officer Barnett took Eddie’s head and pulled it off both cocks. He smiled down at Eddie’s face. “Inmate Haggerslaw, you’re openly gay, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do gay guys do a lot of ‘jousting’?”

“Uh… Not really.”

Barnett looked at Armstrong. “See? Ain’t gay. It’s just dick, Armstrong. It’s not really any different than touching my arm, or whatever. Just skin.”

Armstrong sighed. He looked like he wanted to argue, but he also looked like he had had this argument before. Eddie was glad to have settled it on Barnett’s side — though he had to admit, if Barnett had asked him “do straight guys joust?”, Eddie would have said no to that too.

He resumed sucking both cocks, glad to have so much male meat to savor. Officer Barnett’s cock tasted cleaner than Armstrong’s, presumably because Barnett worked mostly in an air-conditioned office, while Armstrong walked a beat in his sweaty underwear.

“Hey, you do anal?” Barnett asked.

Eddie nodded. He shivered with anticipation at the thought of getting fucked. He was normally a very oral-focused gay man, but Armstrong and Barnett were both hot.

Officer Barnett began unbuttoning his shirt. He was somewhat short and even a bit skinny, but he was toned, wiry-bodied and ropy-muscled. He had a tight little redneck torso with a literal red neck. He moaned and tweaked one of his nipples, which were already hard.

“Lemme wreck that ass, Tom,” Armstrong said. Officer Barnett glared at him, and Armstrong blushed. He cleared his throat and said, “Officer Barnett, I mean.”

Eddie had always been aroused by authoritarian and disciplinarian settings, so he loved watching Officer Barnett browbeat Armstrong into submission. The fact that Armstrong was both taller and bulkier than Barnett made it even sexier.

“I will not be the one to stop you.” Barnett said simply, his voice flat and even. As he said it, however, he wrapped one arm around Armstrong’s torso, holding him close as though the blowjob couldn’t continue unless Eddie had both dicks in his mouth. Officer Barnett didn’t take his eyes away from Eddie’s mouth on his cock.

“I can fuck him?” Armstrong asked, excited.

Barnett looked him in the eye and raised his eyebrows, expecting Armstrong to know the correct answer.

Armstrong blushed again. He looked down at Eddie, and said, “Uh… Inmate Haggerslaw, is it… okay if I fuck you in the ass?”

Eddie nodded. “Just be gentle,” he said. He actually loved hard, violent fucking, but he knew if he asked for that now, Armstrong would make it as difficult as possible next time, when Barnett was likely to not be around. Eddie decided to exaggerate the pain he felt.

As much as he loved sucking two sexy uniform cocks, Eddie was glad when Armstrong pulled away and he could focus entirely on Barnett’s delicious manhood. The sour-salty flavor of precum coated his tongue, and he guzzled Barnett down to the root.

Officer Armstrong got on his knees to line himself up behind Eddie’s ass. His cock was thick and hot, pulsating between his fingers as he wedged it between Eddie’s cheeks. He sighed. “You ready to take it? Won’t be easy, man.”

Officer Barnett placed one of his hands gently on Armstrong’s forehead. For a moment it looked like Barnett was going to make Armstrong suck his dick alongside Eddie, the thought of which made Eddie nearly bust his load right then. But instead Barnett made eye contact with Armstrong and performed some gesture that Eddie didn’t quite see in time to make out.

Evidently whatever that hand motion was, it was disappointing to Officer Armstrong. He groaned, and said no several times, though he said it in a way that suggested he was agreeing anyway. He just wanted Barnett to know he didn’t like this, whatever it was.

Armstrong spat into one hand and rubbed the saliva into Eddie’s asshole. He had thick, prickish fingers, coarse and callused, sending little waves of pain over Eddie’s body.

Meanwhile Armstrong’s other hand hesitated as it reached around Eddie’s body. At first Eddie thought Armstrong was instinctively grabbing for breasts, that his subconscious had forgotten he wasn’t fucking a woman.

Much to Eddie’s surprise, however, Armstrong’s hand didn’t go for his nipples. Instead, Armstrong reached down to Eddie’s crotch and wrapped his hand around Eddie’s cock.

It only lasted a second before he let go and groaned with disgust. “Ugh, man… Tom… Officer Barnett, I… he’s already hard.”

Barnett laughed. “Yeah, Armstrong. Of course he is. He’s gay. Remember? I think it’s been so long since you fucked someone who wanted it, you forgot how it works.”

“Do I have to?”

Barnett nodded. “I have to protect my inmates, Armstrong. This is the best way to make sure you don’t accidentally rape anyone.” Judging from the way he stressed accidentally, Barnett didn’t think it would be an accident, and did think it had happened already at least once. “If the man you’re fucking can’t get hard, you ain’t doin’ it right and you gotta stop.”

“But he won’t have respect for me and-“

“Shut the fuck up, Armstrong,” Barnett said with a cruel grin. Eddie had never heard him cuss, and was sure this was an unusual shift, so he smiled around Barnett’s cock in his mouth. Barnett smiled back. “He’s gay. He doesn’t lose respect for men who give him a reacharound. That’s not how gay people work.”

Armstrong winced but did as he was told. He stroked Eddie’s dick, making Eddie moan with exaggerated pleasure — he liked how Armstrong contorted with disgust, muscles squirming beneath the uniform shirt he had never taken off.

As though attempting to prove how little he cared for Eddie’s pleasure, Armstrong plunged his dick in deeply. A surge of pain shot up Eddie’s spine. He closed his eyes, but Barnett must have done something to suggest Armstrong ease up, because he stopped moving with his dick half-in, half-out of Eddie’s ass.

Then he began grinding his cock in and out more slowly, biting his lip as though he needed to force himself to slow down. A pit of pleasure began deep within Eddie, and he moaned around the cock that still pulsated in his mouth.

He thought he might shoot his load any minute now, and he wondered if Armstrong would finish him off or not — Barnett hadn’t said he could let go, but Armstrong was so straight, he wouldn’t want to get another man’s cum on his fingers, would he? Especially not an inmate.

The door to the locker room opened, and a few masculine voices filled the area. The sound echoed off the dirty linoleum walls, making the men sound louder than they were.

It was four more guards, and when they saw the spitroasting going on, they burst into laughter. Eddie couldn’t tell if they were responding to the scene at all or if they were only surprised to see Armstrong giving a reacharound as he fucked.

Once they saw it, they definitely focused on the reacharound. “Yo, Armstrong, yo’ boyfriend looks about ready to bust, man.”

“You two look cute together…”

“When’s the wedding?”

Eddie blushed and leaned into it, wiggling his ass despite the pain it awakened, which made the men burst into applause. Armstrong scowled. He stopped stroking Eddie for a moment, but then resumed when Barnett frowned at him.

He wanted to drag this out as long as possible to humiliate Armstrong further in front of his coworkers, but Eddie felt his orgasm rising and was unable to resist it. Armstrong’s hands worked his cock like a farmer milking a cow. Eddie grunted around the cock in his ass as cum jetted from his dick.

Armstrong grunted in disgust, but to his credit, he didn’t stop stroking, even as his work-callused fingers became soaked in cum. He stopped jacking Eddie off only when Eddie’s dick stopped pulsating and began to fall limp.

“Inmate Haggerslaw,” Officer Barnett said softly but sternly several times until Eddie looked up. His face was red as the aftershocks of his orgasm ran through his body, which jostled with every thrust of Armstrong’s dick inside him. Officer Barnett waited until he had Eddie’s attention. “Inmate Haggerslaw, where would you like me to shoot my load?”

Eddie’s voice sounded weak and strained — which made the watching guards laugh — but he managed to respond in words. “In my mouth. I want to taste you, sir.”

“Good. I like it when trustees call me sir,” Officer Barnett said. He threw his head back and sighed.

Cum sprayed from his cock and coated the back of Eddie’s throat. It was sweet and salty, and Eddie couldn’t get enough. He licked the few drops that had dripped out past his lips.

He was so intent on tasting the cum that he was jolted into awareness by Officer Armstrong, who grabbed him by the hair and muttered in a frustrated tone. “What about me? Inmate Haggerslaw, where would you like me to nut?” It was obvious Barnett was making him ask.

“On my back,” Eddie said. He normally loved internal cumshots, but he knew this would frustrate Armstrong. Besides, it would give him a bargaining chip to use later — he’d be able to get something out of Armstrong in return for agreeing to be creampied the next time.

Armstrong shot his load soon after that. His balls crawled up in his sac, and a heavy wad of cum jetted inside Eddie’s ass. He felt hot sperm spreading to every corner of his ass.

Eddie writhed, and Officer Armstrong did likewise, though he tried to subdue his reaction, no doubt not wanting to look like he enjoyed fucking a man too much. But there was no mistaking his heavy breathing, or his erect nipples, or the luxurious way he sighed as he sprayed semen over every inch of Eddie’s insides.

“Good job, inmate,” Officer Barnett said. He was already pulling his slacks up as Officer Armstrong pulled away. He nodded towards the clock on the wall. “I’m glad we had fun, but keep track of the time, Inmate Haggerslaw. You need to be finished with your duties in the next twenty minutes.”

Eddie collapsed to the floor in a sweaty mess, creamy cum dripping out of his ass and into a puddle on the floor. That must be why this locker room looked like it had never been cleaned, Eddie thought, whichever trustee was supposed to clean it was always distracted by sex. He looked down at the santorum puddle he had made — the locker room was actually dirtier now than it had been when Eddie came in to start cleaning.

But he nodded his agreement anyway, promising to get the entire locker room clean in the next twenty minutes. It was apparent Officer Barnett expected him to say yes, so Eddie did. He already couldn’t wait for the work day to begin tomorrow — who knew how many other Brutewood guards would want a screw. Eddie was excited, and wished he could just stay here in the locker room all night.

“Be ready to report for work first thing after breakfast in the morning,” Armstrong said as he pulled up his own pants. “I’ll meet you here. Don’t be wearin’ clothes, bitch. I’d just tear ‘em to shreds.”

Irontop Gym of Moscow, Russia

Here’s a sample chapter from Irontop Gym of Moscow, Russia, a new story from the Irontop Worldwide series of hardcore gay gym rat erotica. This story contains outrageous verbal homophobic alpha male bullying, so it’s only for those with a strong stomach.

Moscow was a beautiful city, and Wilson was excited to be there. It wasn’t the safest city, but Wilson enjoyed a little danger — if not, he would never have taken a job opening new gyms around the world. Once his gym got fully funded and staffed, it would be the largest Irontop Gym in Europe. He was proud of having gotten this far all by himself.

The “soft opening” had gone well. A little foot traffic, and two signups — not bad for the first day for the first gym in the chain’s Russian expansion. They didn’t have the facilities fully built yet anyway, so Wilson was hardly expecting a stampede.

The one worry Wilson had was crime. Both of the two first day signups were young men who looked like hoodlums. They had broad, crude faces, like tamed cavemen, with pale skin and rough-looking tattoos covering their limbs. They had paid in full, so Wilson accepted their money, but he remained unsure. They were joined the next day by two of their friends, who used their respective guest passes.

The four Russian toughs stripped off their shirts and began loudly working out. Wilson avoided watching them too closely, not wanting to attract attention — he was openly gay but had gone back in the closet for his time in Russia.

The men encouraged each other in Russian and, Wilson guessed from their tone and bravado, they insulted each other as well. It almost turned to a fight a few times.

The one time Wilson stood, heart pounding, to break up a conflict, it stopped right away when they saw him coming. The two men who were bumping bare chests and yelling at each other glared as they resumed their workouts.

Finally they were done, and they disappeared into the showers. Wilson was glad to know they’d be leaving soon. He became suspicious, however, when he didn’t see them come out of the locker room.

He hurried back to check, and heard them talking in fluid Russian. They were laughing, in the showers, which were running. He snuck close enough to see, but he remained in the relative darkness while they were in the well-lit shower, so they couldn’t see him.

They were circlejerking. Each one had the cock of the man to his right and was stroking it furiously. Wilson got the impression it was a competition of sorts, but he wasn’t sure what the rules were. They were each concentrating, like they were rushing to finish first.

Wilson considered jacking off — he knew he didn’t want to be outed as gay in Russia, so he couldn’t afford to get caught. But he couldn’t bring himself to look away, and he wasn’t sure he could watch without masturbating. The men had big muscles, with a fleshy, worn look of people who worked hard rather than sculpting themselves in a gym like this one. Their bodies shook and flexed as they stroked each other’s uncut cocks.

“Hey, you!” one of the men called out in thickly accented English.

Wilson’s blood ran cold as he stepped forward. He had been caught. Luckily it was before he was touching himself, so it looked only like he had walked in on them. Were they embarassed or angry? Wilson couldn’t quite tell.

They burst into Russian chatter, interspersed with a few words of hard-to-understand English. It seemed none of them were truly fluent in English, but it didn’t stop them from trying. They barked orders at each other and at Wilson, and they stopped stroking each other’s cocks but didn’t let go. They just stood there in a circle manhandling the throbbing cock of the man to their right.

They beckoned for Wilson, who hesitated before joining them. They smiled as though they were about to beat him up, but instead they just pointed to their cocks. Wilson still couldn’t quite be sure whether they were going to hurt him or not, but he couldn’t bring himself to walk away from their rough naked bodies.

All Wilson could think was that they wanted blowjobs. But they weren’t gay, and Russians weren’t likely to be on the downlow, were they? Wilson hesitated even though ever fiber of his being told him to get on his knees and start sucking.

There was a piece of bread on the floor. Before Wilson could figure out its significance, one of the Russians grabbed his arm and wrapped Wilson’s hand around his cock, pantomiming stroking him off.

“Soggy biscuit!” Wilson thought as he finally figured out what the bread meant. He didn’t realize that Russians played Soggy Biscuit, but it seemed these Russians did. Of course, he thought, they didn’t see this as gay because it was a contest of manhood; it was hazing maybe, or an initiation.

Nobody even seemed to notice that Wilson was rock-hard before anyone touched his dick. In no time his pants were around his ankles, and one tattooed ruffian was stroking him off while Wilson jacked off the man to his right.

The hand on Wilson’s cock was rough and callused. In almost any context, it would have been a big turnoff, but here, it turned Wilson on even more, reminding him that this straight thug was a low-class straight macho, probably a blue-collar worker (if not a criminal, which seemed likely). Wilson’s dick pulsated precum all over the thug’s fingers, but he kept stroking as though he didn’t notice.

Was this a common game for them? They were playing rather as though it was, like this was an everyday prank and they didn’t even consider that it might be new to Wilson. Wilson, for his part, tried to pretend this was normal — if they did this regularly, he’d have to find a way to get an invite each time.

The smell of manjuice and ballsweat filled the air even before anyone finished. It was so strong it felt like Wilson had planted his nose right into someone’s balls as they shot their load.

The first two Russians sprayed their juice almost at the same time. One pearlescent wad after another landed on the piece of bread, and the smell of semen filled the locker room. The other Russians laughed when it happened, and they made disgusted faces — Wilson got the impression they complained about touching cum and the odor of semen clogging up their nostrils.

Wilson wanted to lose, knowing he would get to eat all that cummy bread. But he’d also look suspicious if he did it too willingly, and he wasn’t sure what a straight man would even do — should he fight about it?

The big, rough man stroking off Wilson was next to cum, and his big muscles jiggled as he covered the entire piece of bread in a huge torrent of cum. That left only Wilson and the man to his right, the youngest and smallest of the Russians.

The semeny odor that filled the room grew even stronger now that the bread was soaked in it, and the only two remaining cocks were spurting precum enthusiastically. The bread looked so tasty with manfluid that Wilson could already taste it in his mouth.

Wilson was still planning to cum last when he nutted unexpectedly. It looked like the young Russian was nervous and awkward being jacked off by a man, so he hadn’t finished yet. Wilson felt tremendous relief flooding his veins as his balls drained onto the piece of bread.

The men, except for the youngest, all burst into laughter, clapping and encouraging the young man to finish up. He blushed and closed his eyes, taking over his own dick as he hurried to ejaculate. One of the bigger Russians even pranked him by humping his asscheek for a few seconds, stopping only when the younger Russian glared at him.

At last his lean, wiry body shook as he orgasmed. Wilson stood close, as he saw the others do, apparently unaware or uncaring of the drops of cum that splattered on their thighs.

He shot a desultory load, no doubt too nervous to really be excited. When he was done, he picked up the piece of bread — which fell apart as chunks of semen dripped onto the Russian’s hand. His buddies chanted something in Russian, and even Wilson found himself joining in though he didn’t know the words.

The young Russian gagged as the bread fell apart in his mouth. A lot of it fell to the floor, but it seemed no one noticed, and he had moist bread and cum sticking to his lips and cheeks as he finally finished.

“Good gym,” said the oldest one gruffly. He shook Wilson’s hand. “Not too many rules.”

Linebackers Downlow

Here’s a new sample chapter, from a hot story called Linebackers Downlow, the tale of a college football team whose linebackers don’t quite have the physique to get laid like most of the other players. Be forewarned: this book is about curvy, powerful, macho guys who aren’t sculpted Hollywood hunks; they have hairy chests, arms and backs. Caveat emptor, motherfuckers. This story is part of the Str8 Studs Downlow series.

Once again, the party dwindled and Jason was left behind. He was a senior, a starting football player and a popular jock… with the guys. His fellow teammates all thought he was hilarious. The cheerleaders thought he was funny and liked getting piggy-back rides from him because he was so big.

But when push came to shove, those cheerleaders went off to screw the brains off the quarterback and running backs with six-pack abs. Jason and his fellow linebackers were left behind, the least popular players on the Jacksonville University squad.

“Am I fat?” Jason asked himself for what felt like the millionth time this week. He knew that objectively the answer was no — he didn’t have a ton of fat. But he was more than six and a half feet tall, and he was covered in just enough paunch that it was obvious which position on the team he played.

So now this party had dwindled to just him and the other four linebackers on the team. It was a perfect summary of the way Jason’s football career went — he worked hard with the team; he struggled with them; he played along with them; he coped with their cockiness; he sat behind and watched while they fucked all the hot chicks.

“Guess we’re alone again,” said Rick, another one of the linebackers. “I really thought that blonde was gonna suck my dick.”

Nobody responded. Jason wanted to tell Rick that there was never any chance she was going to suck his dick — that had been obvious to Jason, who saw her flirting politely with Rick before moving on to one of the handsome basketball players. Rick grabbed at his crotch with one big, meaty hand.

Rick was probably the fattest of the linebackers, but even he wasn’t fat. He was powerful; he was also probably the strongest of the linebackers. He just had a generous layer of padding on top.

Aside from Rick and Jason, there was the burly dreadlocked black man, Dante; the fresh-faced redneck Garraty and the hairy-as-hell Vinnie, all of whom looked nervously between each other. It was Garraty who sighed and ran into the other room, returning moments later with a stack of magazines.

“Well, hosses,” he said. “Guess we gotta do what we gotta do.” The magazines had naked women all over them, petite blondes and brunettes cavorting with each other and with a bevy of smooth, six-packed studs. Jason was annoyed.

Garraty took off his shirt and then put his cowboy hat back on his head — he never went without it, except during a game. He smiled his youthful freshman grin, as though he still had hope he’d get girls when he was a senior. Jason was annoyed by his optimism.

“Let’s do this, boys,” he said with an enthusiastic shout. He clapped his hands together, then grabbed at Dante’s dick.

Dante jumped and backed away, “Yo, man, hey, no homo!”

Garraty laughed. “What? You wanna circlejerk or not?”


Jason felt himself blush at the thought of a circlejerk. He had assumed they were just going to jack off to the magazines, probably go separate corners of the locker room. Did people really circlejerk? He thought that was just a punchline and a way to scare freshmen.

Vinnie and Rick both seemed to think it was normal. They teased Dante, calling him a prude. “Probably can’t get it up,” Rick said with a knowing smile.

Dante sighed and looked away, and he caught Jason’s eye. Everyone then turned to Jason, who blushed even harder. He always felt exposed in the locker room — he wasn’t as comfortable with nudity as most of his teammates. But then, most of his teammates had six-pack abs. Jason wasn’t ashamed of his dick size, which was ample, though he and the other linebackers had talked about it once and come to the conclusion that their height made their dicks seem shorter, since all five got teased for it from time to time despite having larger than average cocks. The shorter you are, the longer your dick appears to be in relation to your thigh.

But Jason didn’t want to be the one to start a real conflict over it — Rick was overbearing and would want them all to circlejerk, and it would turn into an argument. “Ain’t really my cup of tea,” Jason said, “But if’n y’all want it, let’s do this shit.”

He was annoyed to realize he should have moved — Vinnie was to his right, so that’s whose cock Jason touched. He stroked it and let out a groan of disgust. “Man, yer cock feels like a fucking uncooked greasy Italian sausage.”

Vinnie burst into laughter and pumped his hips so his cock flopped around. It was already half-hard, the foreskin now fully retracted and the head getting thicker by the moment.

The main thing he didn’t like about jacking Vinnie off — aside from the general idea of touching another man’s penis — was that Vinnie was the hairiest one here. They were all pretty hairy, chests, back, thighs and arms covered in fur; Rick was blond; Dante had naturally kinky black hair, while Garraty and Jason were thick and brown.

Vinnie was like a sasquatch, which is exactly what some on the team called him. He was covered head-to-toe in dense tangles of Mediterranean hair, which he seemed alternately proud of despite the teasing and ashamed of from time to time, mainly when it kept him from getting laid.

It felt like he was pushing his hand into jungle undergrowth, he thought, and the hairs, slick with moisture from (Jason hoped) a shower, stuck to Jason’s body where they collided.

The five linebackers had pulled into a tight circle so they could look at the magazines, which Garraty had opened to a few random pages laid out on the floor and bench in the center of the locker aisle. Garraty was to Jason’s left, so that’s who began stroking Jason off as the circlejerk got into full swing.

“Yo, if any of y’all get yo’ nut on me, I will beat yo’ ass,” Dante said. He was gingerly stroking off Garraty, who looked at him with an exaggerated frown, then kissed him on the grizzled cheek.

Dante glared at him sternly. He probably wanted to fight about it, as Dante was always quick to throw a punch over anything that insulted his manhood. But coach had made it clear anyone who fought — anywhere, but especially in the locker room — would be kicked off the team, and that appeared to be enough motivation for Dante to let it slide.

Oh shit, the linebackers is circlejerkin’!

They all groaned — no one wanted to be caught at this, even if they knew the rest of the team would keep it quiet. That was just the way they operated. Jason focused on himself despite the tension, as he realized he wasn’t fully hard. He didn’t want to be the only one who couldn’t do it.

He stared at the sexiest photo he could see, a pair of stunning redhead girls sixty-nining. They had perfect pussies, he thought and finally felt his dick stiffen to its fullest extent. He felt a few drops of precum lubricate Garraty’s fingers.

Damn Rick, you got big fuckin’ fingers, ya damn hillbilly! Why couldn’t you have dainty fingers like that chick in the photo?

It was Dante who came first, grunting and shooting a load so unexpectedly it made the others laugh. He had been so reluctant, Jason thought, it was strange he came first. His dark body jiggled and he closed his eyes as he sprayed his nut all over the magazines. He had a gut that shook, his thuggish tattoos barely visible through the sweat and dark skin.

As the circle closed and Vinnie grabbed Garraty’s cock, Jason felt Vinnie get close — his balls crawled up in his sac, and his dick throbbed. Cum flowed into his cockshaft, palpably pulsating beneath Jason’s fingers. Jason was shocked at the realization he was going to get cum on his fingers, and he almost stopped then made himself keep going. If Vinnie came, at least he wouldn’t have to touch the man’s hairy body anymore.

Vinnie grunted and said something in Italian, spraying one fat wad of jizz in a giant blob on the bench in the center of the circle. “Direct hit!” Vinnie shouted — he had covered the sexy photo of lesbian redheads.

“Thank god, you hairy wop,” Jason said with a laugh. He grabbed at Garraty’s dick then, glad to touch someone only moderately hairy. “Ya ain’t have to nut on the redheads, jackass.”

“Oh yeah, redneck, there’s no rule about interference in circlejerk, ya knows,” he said.


Jason felt like gagging as Vinnie came up behind him and hugged him close. Vinnie’s powerful arm encircled Jason’s chest, and he mockingly played with both of Jason’s tits. Jason blushed — he wasn’t fat, as he had told himself over and over, but he hardly had bodybuilder’s pecs either. That just wasn’t how linebackers were built. The other players had made fun of his “tits” more than a few times.

Dense pubic and chest hair scratched at Jason’s bak and ass, and he even felt a slimy, cum-slickened cock against his ass. Jason protested, but everyone else laughed as though it was the biggest joke in the world, even Dante, and Jason didn’t want to be the only one who “didn’t get it”. If he just gave in, he thought, and hoped, Vinnie might give up soon.

Rick shot his load while Jason was adjusting to the brillo-like feel of Vinnie’s body behind him, and the smell of cum was now so strong in the air that Jason wanted to just give up. But they’d tease him forever, so he was determined to finish, and ideally, not last.

It was down to him and Garraty, the relatively small cowboy and freshman linebacker. He had barely played in any games yet. He used Jason’s dick to pull him closer, until their dicks were both touching.

“This is what we call a Double Hog-Ride back in Montana,” he said. He spat into his hands as he used them both to stroke both cocks at once. Jason was horrified to see his dickshaft mash into Garraty’s, but he had to admit it did feel better than an ordinary handjob. Plus he wasn’t touching anything, his hands were free since Garraty used both his.

They both nutted at once too. It felt so good that it came on suddenly, and both dicks were coated in semen. Jason’s muscles roiled beneath the layer of padding that caused him so much embarassment, and their semen mixed as it spread over both shafts. It dripped down their thighs and ballsacks, and onto the few dry spots of the magazines below.

“Well, fuck, we ruined my magazines,” Garraty said, “And you can bet I ain’t pickin’ em up. They’s gross.”

“Just leave ‘em there. The janitor’ll get them,” Vinnie said. He was already getting dressed. Jason felt bad about agreeing, but he certainly wasn’t going to pick up the cum-soaked rags. He was embarrassed enough about what happened he didn’t care about the details, he just wanted to get dressed and get out of there. Hopefully before anyone else from the team saw what they were doing.

A Muscle-Bound Terrorist Came Through the Irontop Gym

Here’s a sample chapter from A Muscle-Bound Terrorist Came Through the Irontop Gym, a new story in the Irontop Gym series!


Gary was assigned Mohammed Al-Mansour because he was taking Arabic at the college, and Mr. Al-Mansour did not speak perfect English. But he was good enough at English for ordinary conversation, and Gary’s Arabic was rudimentary at best. Mr. Mansour seemed like the stern kind of man who would not tolerate bad Arabic, so Gary didn’t tell him; he just spoke in English, and Mr. Mansour did likewise.

He tried to act straight too. Mr. Mansour had not given any indication he was a gaybasher, but he was a devout Muslim who had said he only joined the Irontop Gym because he heard it was men-only, and he didn’t want to ever work out with any women present. So Gary assumed he was probably a fervently homophobic Muslim and butched it up as best as he could.

As a physical trainer, Gary had many opportunities to touch Mr. Al-Mansour without drawing too much attention to himself. The less he tried to think about it, the more he could think about nothing else. Mr. Mansour had been a soccer player in his native Lebanon, but was now almost forty; he had retained most of his athleticism even if he had covered it in a thin layer of padding. To Gary, that was even sexier — there was nothing wrong with a six-pack, and he loved looking at men who had them, but he liked men with a little bit of flesh to grab on to as well. Mr. Al-Mansour had just the right amount of extra flesh, and in just the right spots.

When his workout was done, Mr. Al-Mansour strode towards the locker room. It was obvious from his tone and body language that he expected Gary to follow. He did so, both because he hoped to have the opportunity to see Mr. Al-Mansour naked and because he had a feeling he tipped well.

“The showering area is over there,” Gary said as they walked into the otherwise empty locker room. He was mesmerized by Mr. Al-Mansour’s thick ass swaying in his ultra-short shorts. Gary had to clear his throat to gather his thoughts. “And there are clean towels right here.”

“I bring my own towels,” he said.

“Ah, I see. Okay,” Gary said. He was feeling very awkward now, especially since there was no one else around. Was it possible Mr. Al-Mansour was a gaybasher? Could he have lured Gary here to hit him? It was very possible, he thought, and there were no witnesses around to stop him. He backed away slowly.

Mr. Al-Mansour stripped off his sweat-stained shirt and shorts, then tossed them at Gary. The smell of his unlaundered sweat-stained clothes hit Gary’s nostrils, and he couldn’t help but inhale deeply; he tasted the saltiness and a faint earthy smell that was reminiscent of Middle-Eastern cuisine. Gary could only enjoy the scent for a moment because Mr. Al-Mansour was watching him and speaking in a grim and flat tone. “Wash these. I’ll be back on Thursday.”

“Uh, I’m sorry?”

“Wash those clothes,” Mr. Al-Mansour snapped. “Is your brain mush? Do you need me to write it down for you?”

“That’s not really something we do,” Gary said nervously.

Mr. Al-Mansour pulled down his jockstrap. His dick was thick and long, and Gary tried not to look at it. The hair on the man’s chest extended down to his thick crotch bush. Mr. Al-Mansour frowned. “That is something trainers do in Lebanon, and in Britain.”

“Well, we do not have laundry facilities here.”

“Where do you wash these towels?”

“We send them out.”

“It sounds like your problem is solved then,” he said. He sighed and put his hands on his hips. His dick dangled between his legs. “I pay you a fair salary, I expect you to service me as I demand.”

“Yes, sir.” Gary just said it out of distracted obedience to the man’s monstrously thick cock. His heart started pounding as he realized it was obvious that he was gay.

“You are queer, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

He sneered. “Get on your knees.” He hesitated only a moment before shouting, “Now!”

Gary dropped to his knees before even considering whether he should. The smell of Mr. Al-Mansour’s sweat and his musty balls assaulted Gary’s nostrils, and he stumbled over words even though he wasn’t trying to say anything. His own dick jumped to rock-hard in his pants.

Mr. Al-Mansour took one of his own towels out of his locker — it was a dark gray, thin towel with a fringe on either end — and wrapped one end around both hands. He grimaced as he stretched the towel like a bully about to snap it at Gary’s ass. But he just put it around Gary’s head. “Open up if you want my cock in your throat.”

Gary hurried to do as he was told. One of his hands crept into his shorts to jack himself off, and he hoped Mr. Al-Mansour didn’t notice. He gagged on the tip of the cockshaft the moment Mr. Al-Mansour shoved it down his throat, both because of its size and because it was dripping with fresh sweat.

He got hard almost right away, which made Gary think Mr. Al-Mansour was horny. He grunted a bit too, as though surprised by how good the blowjob felt. Gary wanted to do his fellow gays proud by deep-throating the man’s cock as well as anyone could, but Mr. Al-Mansour’s thick, piggish member struggled to squeeze down Gary’s throat.

He laughed when Gary choked, and spit on Gary’s face. “You want to be female whore, faggot, I will treat you like female whore. You like that?”

“Fuck yes,” Gary said between gasps for air.

“Disgusting.” He began pistoning his hips back and forth, fucking Gary’s face hard. Spit came out of Gary’s lips and stuck to Mr. Al-Mansour’s heavy ballsac as it swung and hit Gary’s chin.

Humiliation pumped through Gary’s veins, and he felt like he was being bullied back in school again; the only difference was that this time he liked it. He had come to love being humiliated by the hot straight studs who came through the Irontop Gym, of which there were loads, but Mr. Al-Mansour was even rougher than Gary was used to.

His throat ached as Gary coughed up a big ball of spit from the back of his throat. He knew how straight guys loved it when their bottoms had so much trouble deep-throating it that they coughed up copious fluids, so Gary didn’t try to stop himself. In no time, Mr. Al-Mansour’s crotch and legs were soaking wet with spit and precum.

He said something in Arabic that Gary didn’t understand, then all his muscles flexed at once. Mr. Al-Mansour grunted as though he was trying to hide how much he like it. Gary moaned. Cum shot out and coated the back of Gary’s throat.

It was salty and creamy and nutty, and its flavor made Gary moan again as he shot his own load in his shorts. He was glad that Mr. Al-Mansour hadn’t noticed him jacking himself off.

“I hate faggots. Practice deep-throating for next week.”

A Muscle-Bound Cop Came Through the Irontop Gym

Here’s a new sample chapter from A Muscle-Bound Cop Came Through the Irontop Gym, the first story in a new series of hardcore gay gym and muscle-themed stories!
Gary was the only credentialed, licensed physical trainer at the Irontop Gym of Cleveland. That meant he was the only one who could work with clients who were there for genuine medical reasons — insurance would only cover physical training if it was conducted by a licensed trainer. As a result, Gary spent a lot of his time working with disabled people, the severely obese, the elderly and others who needed a lot of assistance when working out.

He enjoyed his job. He liked helping his clients get fit, even if they were not hip or attractive people. But sometimes it was boring. His buddies and coworkers were assigned hot young toughs whom Gary drooled over from afar, the kind of healthy young men who didn’t need a physical trainer anyway. He had always pictured himself working with those kinds of muscle-studs, but he had come to accept the reality of his career.

It had been more than a year since he had a client worth remembering. But when he met Randall Rosenstein, his heart started pounding. He had been picturing a portly accountant — wasn’t Rosenstein a Jewish name? — but Randall was actually a cop. He had been shot in the thigh and was only now recovering fully. He hadn’t walked for seven months.

The first part of his physical training was done; he could support himself with both legs, and his quadriceps were working fine. The Irontop Gym didn’t have all of the equipment necessary for someone truly weak, but now that Officer Rosenstein was able to walk and work on his own, he was coming to the Gym, which meant Gary was now working with him several times a week.

He was a burly cop with a flat smile, a military-style buzzcut and a burly body. His dark blond body hair poked out from the plain white t-shirt he wore to work out. He explained that he had always had a six-pack and was annoyed that he didn’t anymore — seven months of no walking would do that to anyone.

“Well, sure we can try to get that back, Officer Rosenstein,” he said. “A six-pack is difficult at your age, but not impossible. It’ll take a lot of work.”

“I’m fine with hard work. Sit-ups, huh? I’ve been doing like fifty sit-ups a day.”

“That’s not necessary. Sit-ups are not a very good way to exercise your abs,” Gary said, then got down on the mat in front of Officer Rosenstein to demonstrate. He supported himself on his elbows and toes, keeping his back flat. “See? Holding this for thirty seconds a time burns more calories than a sit-up, plus it works all of your abs: top, bottom, obliques, the whole thing. It puts less strain on your back than a sit-up too.”

He stood and Officer Rosenstein got on the ground to try. He wore only a pair of shorts and a t-shirt that was too small for him. Gary almost had to catch him as Rosenstein used the injured leg to support himself, but he was able to keep his balance as he got on the ground.

Gary touched his back to help him keep his back straight. He shuddered with sexual desire when he felt those corded back muscles; luckily, Officer Rosenstein was fully focused on keeping his balance and working on those abs, so he didn’t notice Gary’s lustful look at his back.

After that they went through a standard routine. Gary alternated between normal arm and shoulder exercises, exercising his legs only lightly while he got the hang of Rosenstein’s abilities and his needs. He was doing very well, and aside from some stiffness, had a full range of motion, which boded well for his recovery.

Finally they were done, and Gary went into the locker room with Officer Rosenstein to show him where the towels were. In truth, there were signs everywhere, he didn’t need to show him the towels. But Gary always liked having a reason to go into the locker room, and he rather hoped to come up with an excuse to shower with Officer Rosenstein.

Officer Rosenstein looked around the locker room to see if anyone else was there — there wasn’t. It was deserted, and their footsteps echoed on the linoleum floor. Rosenstein looked at Gary and raised his eyebrows as though asking a question.

“Looks like we’re alone…” Officer Rosenstein said.

Gary nodded. He got the impression Rosenstein was saying he wouldn’t mind a blowjob, but Gary wasn’t sure that was it. A lot of guys knew that they could get their nuts drained at the Irontop Gym — it had that kind of reputation, and nearly every franchise had one gay man like Gary to service the straights. But Gary still felt nervous, and didn’t want to make the first move.

Rosenstein sighed. “You gonna ask me anything?”

“Uh… Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

He smiled. “You’re gay, right?”

Gary nodded.

“That’s cool… Most of the time when a gay dude gets me alone, uh… Well, usually… I mean… A lot of gay dudes are into cops,” he said.

Gary nodded again. “Yeah. Uniforms are sexy. That’s true.” Gary got horny listening to Officer Rosenstein stutter over his words some more; a part of Gary wanted to let him keep going — there was nothing sexier than a hot straight guy embarrassed around a gay man — but most of Gary wanted to make an offer. “Officer Rosenstein, are you asking for a blowjob?”

Rosenstein blushed. It didn’t look like he blushed often, so Gary was proud of himself. He didn’t wait for an answer, it was obvious what Rosenstein wanted to say.

Gary got on his knees and grabbed right for Officer Rosenstein’s crotch. He still wore those short work-out shorts that Gary thought were so sexy he didn’t want to take them off. Rosenstein’s cock throbbed through the fabric; it stirred, beginning to get hard as Gary slowly stroked the shaft.

“Your dick looks pretty excellent, officer,” Gary said.

“Open that shit up,” Officer Rosenstein said, working Gary’s jaws apart as he dropped his shorts. He wore a cheap old jockstrap, bulging with crotch hair sticking out the sides. Rosenstein blinked as though surprised he had said that, “Sorry,” he said. “Usually when there’s a gay dude sucking me off, it’s some cheap man-whore trying to get off without a prostitution charge.”

“You do that a lot?” Gary said before diving down Rosenstein’s thick rod. He swallowed it down to the root in one go, his nose nestling in Rosenstein’s crotch hair.

“Ahh… Well, I can’t arrest ‘em all. It’d take forever to process ‘em,” he said. “And ‘sides, I’d probably get some gay rights group on my ass.”

“Sounds hot.”

“Not in my ass, on my ass.”

“You ever punish a perp with cock?” Gary said. He tried to speak with Rosenstein’s moist, precum-leaking cocktip in his mouth, so the words were slurred, but Rosenstein seemed to understand what he meant.

Rosenstein chuckled. “There’s a lot of frat boys out there who think the law don’t apply to them,” he said. “I’d never victimize ‘em, of course. But I do have a lesson plan ready for whenever I meet some smart-mouthed kid who thinks he knows everything.”

Gary couldn’t say anything else because his mouth was full, and Officer Rosenstein was holding his head in place. His fingers spread through Gary’s hair as he began thrusting his hips. It looked like Rosenstein was about to continue his story about the frat boys, but stopped to focus on the blowjob.

The salty pre-orgasmic taste of his cockshaft overwhelmed Gary’s senses. His fingers were stretching up and under Rosenstein’s plain white shirt, but Gary barely paid any attention to the man’s stony pecs or the tufts of thick pubic hair that covered his torso. Officer Rosenstein moaned like a man who wasn’t used to getting such a good blowjob.

He lost his abandon as his dick throbbed and his balls crawled up in his sac. Gary made a moist, mewling sound, suckling every drop of precum he could get.

Salty-sweet cum hit Gary’s tongue, and he made another savoring sound. He moaned around the torrent of semen that filled his throat then, as jet after jet of milky-white cum coated his throat.

Officer Rosenstein slowly pulled out and took a deep breath. “Damn…” he said, “You should give those manwhores lessons, man. You could teach them a thing or two.”

Irontop Gym of Rio de Janeiro

This is a sample chapter from Irontop Gym of Rio de Janeiro, a story in the Irontop Gym project.
Wilson decided that he liked living in Rio de Janeiro. He traveled around the world opening up new branches of the Irontop Gym, a chain for men who were serious about muscles. Rio was beautiful, and since he lived right next door to his workplace, he was reasonably safe, he thought. He had been told to fear crime in Rio, but so far it hadn’t been a problem.

He had managed to hustle up four guys into joining on the day the gym opened, which was pretty good. They only paid fifty percent of the full price, but he was glad to get a little momentum. The first hundred clients were the most difficult, he always said, so it paid to get them out of the way quickly.

And these were four fit guys, handsome and well-built, no doubt charismatic and well-connected too. They had already Liked the Irontop Gym on Facebook, and they hadn’t even finished their first workout. They were young and, Wilson hoped, taste-setters among the market he wanted to attract.

He pretended to do some paperwork after signing up the four friends — there wasn’t really any paperwork to do since the gym had only been open one day and only had four clients. He wanted to look busy, so they would think he had a mountain of other clients signing up.

After a few minutes, Wilson noticed they weren’t talking anymore, and he went to check on them; he worried they had broken some of the new equipment, which they had probably never seen before. They weren’t in the training area, so he went to the sauna in the back of the building, past the small locker room.

They stood there, naked, in a circle. Wilson saw four pert brown asses jiggling and held his breath. What were they doing? He peered around the corner, through the foggy sauna and watched their toned back and thigh muscles flexed rhythmically. He realized they were circlejerking and his heart started pounding. Would they get violent if they knew he had caught them?

He had been told that Brazilians were sexually adventurous and tolerant, but that the criminals, thieves and other ne’erdowells, especially the urban young male type like these four, were prone to gaybashing. He hadn’t told anyone in Brazil he was gay, but he hadn’t gone to great lengths to hide it either.

“Hey, yankee, come on and join in,” said the biggest one, whose name was Caetano. He spoke English better than the others, with only a faint lilting accent that made Wilson’s dick stir in his pants. Caetano had a tough grizzled face and amateurish tattoos of bones on his chest. “Or do yankees not do circlejerks?”

Wilson smiled. He was glad to join in, but he still didn’t want them to know he was gay. These guys seemed reasonably gay-tolerant, but not that gay-tolerant. “We do,” Wilson said. “But we do something even more than that. We have a game called Soggy Biscuit. Do Brazilians play that?”

They all shook their head, and Wilson hurried to the front to grab a cracker, then returned. He placed it on a plate in the center of the sauna, where it was was already softening it from the humid heat. “We circlejerk and we all cum on this,” he said, then added in case Caetano wasn’t understanding his English, “We shoot our semen on the cracker, right there. And whoever cums last has to eat it.”

Caetano translated into Portuguese, and the guys all laughed. Wilson shucked his pants and joined them, barely able to believe he was going to circlejerk with these Brazilian studs. He had thought his friends were exaggerating when they said Brazil was the place to go for straight machos who don’t mind being serviced by queers.

He managed to arrange himself between the sexiest guy there — a burly man with a dark, hairy chest, Alfonso — and Caetano on the other side. He had to suppress a shudder as his hand wrapped around Alfonso’s throbbing brown cock. It was thick and pulsating with power, as though the imminent erection was caged within it and trying to escape.

As the other gym rats discussed the game, they began laughing and excitedly getting into it. They were all looking at Caetano and laughing at him, giving Wilson the impression that Caetano was usually the last to cum during these circlejerks. Caetano blushed.

Wilson got hard right away, and he was glad no one seemed to notice, not even Caetano, who was jacking him off. Caetano closed his eyes to focus on the pleasure in his own dick, which was fine with Wilson — he wouldn’t mind losing the game, and wanted as much opportunity as he could to touch these Brazilian studs, and be touched by them.

Someone shot a nut moments after they started, and Wilson was surprised. It must be because they’re so young, he thought, or maybe the oversexed-Brazilian-macho stereotype held true (his first day on the job certainly seemed to confirm it so far). The biscuit was soggy with cum.

The three remaining Brazilians joked in Portuguese. It sounded like they were taunting each other, especially Caetano, who blushed and concentrated on his dick. His hand lazily stroked Wilson’s dick.

Then came the fourth man, whose name Wilson hadn’t caught. The smell of cum was overwhelming now, and he could tell Alfonso was complaining about it in Portuguese. He had a gruff, guttural voice — Portuguese almost sounded like Russian in Alfonso’s voice, Wilson thought. Then it was down to just those three, Wilson, Caetano and Alfonso.

Wilson wanted himself to be last, both because he actually wanted to eat the cracker, and because he wanted to show he was good sport to the new guys. Besides, he thought, if any of them felt ashamed and humiliated by what happened at the Irontop Gym, they might choose to stop coming here. They might not want to remind themselves of this humiliation.

So, he reasoned, it was better for business for him to go last. But he wasn’t sure he’d be able to. He was surrounded by Caetano’s muscular body and Alfonso’s swarthy, hairy bulk; his balls pulsated with cum he couldn’t wait to spew.

He had been so intent on his own dick, he didn’t realize Alfonso was nutting until he did. His big hairy balls drew up in his sac, and a spurt of cum sprayed over Wilson’s hand. Alfonso’s dark muscles flexed as he moaned and cursed in Portuguese.

The biscuit glistened with a fresh coat of cum. It looked so tasty Wilson almost grabbed it and shoved it in his mouth right then. But he managed to avoid the impulse.

He and Caetano pulled in close to each other, facing each other and standing over the biscuit. Caetano looked nervous, no doubt wondering whether he would lose and have to eat the biscuit. He was intent on his own dick but still jacked Wilson off furiously.

Wilson forced himself to think of unsexy things: ugly old women, his parents, rotting dog corpses in the streets of Rio (which he had seen as soon as he left the airport). But right in front of him was Caetano’s powerful chest.

Finally there it was, Caetano closed his eyes and his dick spasmed in Wilson’s fingers. He breathed a sigh of relief and shot a thick load on the biscuit, some of it landing on the plate near it.

The men all burst into laughter, one who had already finished taking a break from lifting weights to come look. They all watched with baited breath as Wilson finished himself off quickly.

“You lost at your own game,” Caetano said.

Wilson shrugged. “Beginner’s luck,” he said, “Besides, it’s just fun to play.” He knew he needed to look like this was difficult, so he hesitated before picking up the cracker. It was soggy with sticky cum. The other men held their breath as though not sure if he would go through with it.

He shoved it in his mouth, forcing the whole cracker in there and he even licked the drops of cum off the plate as well. The men held their stomachs the whole time, then clapped when he put the plate down.

“That is a weird yankee game,” Caetano said. He clasped Wilson on the back. “Thank you for showing it to us.”