Category Archives: A Slam Dunk Deep and Hard

Downlow Thugs at the Basketball Court

Here’s the first chapter of Downlow Thugs at the Basketball Court, a new story by Calvin Freeman! It’s an incredible tale of rough trade, urban lust and mandingo meat!

“Blowjob.” Jake spoke quietly, hanging out near the basketball hoop. He didn’t want to attract a lot of attention, not from the crowd — he did want to attract attention from the two guys playing.

Jake was gay, and he was hanging out at the Wilson Street basketball court, like he used to do when he had just come out of the closet. Since then he had gone to college, started a career, had a long-term relationship with a jerk named Adam, dumped Adam, got really into homemade sushi, nearly made the disastrous decision to open his own sushi house, briefly hooked back up with Adam before dumping him again, and now he was back here at the Wilson Street basketball court once more.

“Blowjob.” Jake felt a little silly, but he couldn’t help it. He hadn’t planned on doing this until he drove by and saw his old haunt.

There were two young black men playing one-on-one basketball. They were both shirtless, their bare brown chests gleaming with sweat. One of them was very tall and lanky; the other was shorter and more muscular.

“Blowjob.”

“What?” said one of them, the taller one. He was named Hardesty, and he stopped moving near the basket after having scored.

“I’ll suck you off, man,” Jake said. He smiled flirtatiously at Hardesty, stepped forward and placed one finger on his chest. Hardesty furrowed his brow and looked down at the finger. Jake scooped up sweat from his pectoral muscle, then sucked it off his finger.

Hardesty chuckled. “You crazy, man.”

Jake nodded. “Maybe. But I suck dick good.”

“Hey, whatchoo doin’, come on,” said the shorter player, jogging over to Hardesty. “We got a game goin’ on.”

“Sweetlips over here gonna suck off the winner,” Hardesty said. He and the shorter guy were both out of breath but trying to hide it so they didn’t look weak to each other.

“He gonna suck me off?” the shorter man said with a grin. “I ain’t agree to that, but… well, okay-“

“Nah, the winner,” Hardesty said. “He gonna suck off the winner. Me.”

“Winner? You gotta score some points, nigga. You light-years behind right now.”

“I’s only behind cuz you off on some travel, nigga, you been travelin’ all over this court-“

“Oh, come on, there ain’t no ref to work, boy, you just gotta play-“

They continued bickering as they resumed play. Jake was disappointed. He hadn’t gotten any firm answer. But they didn’t say no either.

The game was over soon after. Maybe Hardesty really wanted the blowjob and it made him play harder, because he scored three times in quick succession, giving him the lead. When the game was over, Hardesty pounded on his chest and flexed his biceps towards the folks hanging out on the sidelines. Most of them didn’t pay any attention. The only person who cheered was Jake.

Hardesty smiled awkwardly at him, as the shorter player laughed and patted Hardesty’s bare belly. Hardesty bit his lip and made eye contact with Jake.

“You got that, boy,” the shorter player said as he walked away, shirt in hand. He cackled. “You nasty, Hardesty. He ain’t even dressed like a girl.”

“Don’t be hatin’ just cuz I got meat that needs attention, nigga! Real thugs like me gotta get they shit handled!” Hardesty called out loud enough to attract attention from the others, who giggled at him. Hardesty grabbed his dick through his shorts and smiled at the girls. “Hey, how you doin’?”

They didn’t give him the time of day. Hardesty scoffed and walked away, basketball in hand. He nodded at Jake, who quietly and surreptitiously followed him into the public bathroom. It was almost never used, so it wasn’t dirty, but it was almost never cleaned, so it wasn’t clean either. It was just dusty and grimy. Jake knew it well.

He immediately sunk to his knees, even before the door had swung shut. Hardesty blocked the door with the heavy trash can so they’d have some privacy.

“Ain’t seen you… uh… Damn, boy, you in a rush?” Hardesty grimaced at Jake’s eagerness. Jake pulled his shorts and boxers down, then kissed his dick right on the tip.

“I don’t see any reason to slow down,” Jake said with a grin. He put the tip of Hardesty’s cock in his mouth and hocked up spit right onto it. Hardesty groaned and leaned against the wall of the bathroom.

“Goddamn,” Hardesty said. He closed his eyes. “Shit… Boy, you are one crazy gay.”

Jake smiled. He slathered spit all over Hardesty’s rod, which made Hardesty gasp and bite his lip like he hadn’t expected it to feel this good. Hardesty shifted and wiggled.

As his cock stiffened up in Jake’s mouth, Hardesty lifted his shirt up. He didn’t take it off, but he raised it over his head and the back of his neck. He had ropy muscles, which Jake reached up to caress, his bulging biceps, flat belly — though he didn’t quite have a six-pack — and his mountainous pecs. His muscles all twitched as though he didn’t entirely want Jake to feel him up but thought it would be rude to say that.

Jake didn’t mind. When he used to suck basketball players off, a lot of them thought it seemed too gay to let Jake do anything besides suck cock. They sometimes got angry if he even massaged their asscheeks or played with their balls.

Luckily, Hardesty didn’t seem too bothered by it, even if he did dumbfoundedly watch Jake’s fingers explore his body. A few drops of sweat ran down his skin and onto Jake’s hand.

“Shit… This is some nasty thug shit. Why don’t girls ever suck like this, man?” Hardesty asked as he leaned back and sighed. His whole body wriggled and he bit his lip.

“Girls don’t have the right equipment,” Jake said. He flopped Hardesty’s dick over his face. “They don’t know how it feels. Besides, girls like relationships and stuff. They don’t just suck off hot guys. They’re so stupid. If I was a girl, I’d be the biggest slut in the world, oh my god. I’d suck off all the thugs.” Jake giggled as salty precum flowed over his tongue and his lips.

“I bet you would.” He paused. “Hey, you smoke weed?”

Jake nodded. “You got some? Light it up, baby-“

“Nah, nah, I’s sellin’. You wanna buy?”

“Oh… no thanks,” Jake said. “I’ve already got a guy.”

“Who? What’s his name? Tell me,” Hardesty said with a big grin. He moved his hips, swaying his cock back and forth over Jake’s face. Jake chased it with his tongue.

“Greg. You don’t know him.”

“He gay?”

Jake nodded.

“Why you buy weed from a gay? They ain’t thugs. They don’t know nothin’-“

“He’s really convenient, sorry,” Jake said. He grabbed Hardesty’s dick and licked it all up and down, hoping that would punctuate how final Jake’s decision was.

“You shouldn’t buy weed from whiteboys.”

“I didn’t say he was white. I said he was gay.”

“He a nigga?”

Jake nodded. “They can be both.”

Hardesty bristled a little and shifted his weight between his feet. “Guess that’s okay then. If he evuh run out or somethin’, you gimme a call, I can hook you up.” He paused. “You gonna swallow my nut, right?”

“Of course.” Jake resumed deep-throating while Hardesty beamed like he was getting away with something. Hardesty’s hands wrapped over Jake’s head and he held on tight.

Hardesty moved his hips as though he was going to facefuck Jake, but Jake didn’t cooperate — he kept on moving his head and sucking, sputtering up mountains of spit which he then suckled right off Hardesty’s dick. Hardesty groaned and moaned, twisting, squirming, wincing when he saw that his boxers were soaked with spit.

“Ah shit, whoah…” Hardesty yelped. He stood on his toes, then his knees buckled and he almost collapsed onto the floor. He leaned against the wall. “Alright, yeah… I can take it, boi, go ‘head, keep on suckin’.”

Jake smiled to himself. He had Hardesty right where he wanted him. He rammed his mouth all the way down and forced Hardesty’s dick deep into his gullet. The sweet, musky flavor of his manmeat assaulted Jake’s senses and made his eyes water.

A sound came from Hardesty’s mouth, a mixture between a bark and a grunt, with a long, low sputtering quality. A few drops of drool even slipped out past Hardesty’s lips as his cock sprayed cum right into Jake’s throat.

Jake was well-practiced at this part — he loved swallowing cum. He stayed on his knees, holding onto Hardesty’s body with his nose nestled in Hardesty’s sweat-musky crotch. His bristly pubic hair scratched Jake’s face.

“Ah! Oh! Oh shit! Ah! Ah, damn, ah damn, don’t move, boy, damn, ah, ah, ah, ah…”

Hot and creamy cum coated Jake’s throat, while Hardesty squirmed and gasped. The flavor of salty, sour juices flooded Jake’s senses, making him think of nothing but servicing Hardesty’s hot body. Even as Jake felt himself growing dizzy from lack of oxygen, he stayed right there, swallowing every drop of cum.

Then he pulled off, with a loud lip-smacking moan. He had sprayed his own wad onto the linoleum floor of the public bathroom.

Hardesty had his eyes closed. He was a little pale, and he looked like he might cry. His whole body shook. “Holy shit, goddamn…” He sunk to the ground.

“Was that your first time?”

Hardesty chuckled dryly. “Yeah, man. I was gonna lie, I was gonna pretend I did this before. But… I ain’t got the energy to lie, man. I ain’t nevuh get a blowjob like that before. You my first male and… damn, you suck like you got somethin’ to prove.”

“You have a nice dick.”

“I think you ruined it man,” he said with a sigh. He was on the ground, his pants and boxers around his ankles. “Damn, you got me on the ground in this place. It’s nasty.”

“You want help up?” Jake asked as he stood and stretched his sore knees.

“Nah, man. Lemme just… I gotta recover, man. You got a cigarette? I don’t smoke, but…” He took a cigarette from Jake, who even lit it first for him. He took a deep drag off it. Despite his words, it looked like he did smoke — he inhaled like he knew what he was doing, and he didn’t cough.

Jake moved the trash can that blocked the door. Then he wrote down his phone number and gave it to Hardesty. “Anytime you want me to rock your world again, gimme a call.”

He walked out before the bleary-eyed Hardesty could come up with an answer.

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!

The Black Basketball Team Goes Gay

Here’s another new story, The Black Basketball Team Goes Gay, which is a hot piece by Calvin Freeman.

Walter ended the game excited and overjoyed — his team had not only won, but Walter himself had scored the game-winning basket. He was only supposed to be the third-string forward on the minor league Newark Netters team. But one injury and a meth trafficking charge resulted in Walter playing an entire game.

And then he won the game for the team. He heard people congratulating him as he and his fellow teammates went into the locker room. More than a few people clasped him on the back or patted his ass.

Victory is always sweet, Walter thought, especially when no one thought you would ever taste it.

Coach Tanner was not as satisfied with the game — he didn’t think they should have even been down so much as to need that one three-point shot at the buzzer in order to win. He thought they were better than that.

But nobody could fault Walter for it. He wasn’t supposed to plays this game at all, and he had done well even before making the game-winning shot. So he tried to make a serious face as Coach Tanner addressed the rest of the team in the locker room.

As his adrenaline faded away, Walter felt more and more self-conscious, sitting there, cramped on the bench in the center of the locker room. Walter hadn’t dropped his shorts yet, but he was shirtless, and he could feel the sweaty elastic of Deon’s jockstrap — Deon stood next to Walter near the bench, so Deon’s ropy-muscled thighs and the sweat clinging to them pressed against Walter’s side.

“We do need-uh thank someone,” Coach Tanner said, winding down his y’all need to do better speech. He looked right at Walter, who was so focused on Deon’s jockstrap touching his arm that he didn’t notice Coach Tanner talking about him right away. “Somebody here done real good, someone we ain’t really even expect to play like that, on account of his young age and he weren’t even s’posed to play today.”

There was a little applause and some whooping from the rest of the team. Everyone slapped Walter on the back, and he sighed as though he didn’t like the attention, though he did. Most of the team was riled up, and as they chatted over Coach Tanner’s voice, someone pulled out a bottle of champagne.

Fizzy wine spilled out as the bottle was uncorked, and Walter stood up to get the first glass. He didn’t especially like champagne, but he appreciated the gesture. He always thought it tasted like sweetened, carbonated urine. But then he didn’t really like wine either.

Eventually Coach Tanner left, as did a couple of players, mainly the white guys, who never really wanted to stay and hang out. That was probably because a few of the black players often brought a girl into the locker room to celebrate with. The white men never wanted to gangbang because they were always too worried about their balls touching.

In truth, Walter typically left too. He was the only black man on the team who didn’t participate in the locker room gangbanging. He was Christian, and he didn’t think that kind of thing was morally acceptable. He was saving himself for marriage.

After finally taking off his shorts, bare cock dangling between his legs — it might just have been his pride after the big win, but he was pretty sure his cock was bigger now than it normally was — Walter headed towards the shower. He heard gruff voices laughing and figured the gangbang must have already begun, though he didn’t see any girls around.

Basketball Team Downlow

This is a sample chapter from The Many Manipulations of Calvert Howard: For Gay and Bisexual Men, a story from Eroticature.org.

Calvert managed to talk us up on a number of occasions, turning minor stripping parties into major, expensive events. He is nothing if not a born salesman. He had a way of escalating without you even realizing he was doing it. You start off agreeing to pay him $X for something, and then during the foreplay he announces some bizarre rule, like that you can’t kiss his bicep unless you pay a couple hundred bucks, and when he says it you suddenly want nothing more than to kiss his bicep, so you pay up, and then it turns out he wants you to pay for each bicep separately, and you know it’s ridiculous, he’s letting you suck his dick, so how could he be that grossed out by some bicep-kissing? But there’s something so sexy and hyponotic about the way he says it: “I ain’t want no fag sucking on my muscles like that. It feels too queer, y’know, like just letting some honky on my dick is a business transaction, letting ‘em sucking on my arms is virtually romantic.” Before you know it, you spent double $X and you haven’t even gotten to what you were planning on paying for in the first place.

But this time, it started out that way. “What would you do to us, Calvert? If we were willing to pay anything you wanted. I’m not saying we will, I’m just curious.” I asked him one day — he had texted us, asking for a blowjob at six in the morning, for free. He said he had been rolling face all night and was without anyone to fuck. He was jittery and loose, moaning and clutching the sheets of the bed around him, for once abandoning the pretext of pretending to be grossed out by men on his cock.

He said he wasn’t sure, but he had an idea and wanted to run it past some people when the Ecstasy wore off. When he called me later, he was reluctant and slow to talk, his normal Ebony Pain demeanor back. “You wanna do it all, fag? For six grand from each of you, I’ll do pretty much anything but touch your dick. I will fuck you as much as you want for a weekend. You can lick my ass like I know you want to. And if you willing to pay a little more, I can probably put together a team of niggas to gangbang your asses. They ain’t gonna be nice like me though.”

And so we nervously prepared for our big day. The number of men who were going to be there was in flux until a week before, when they had to get their disease-free paperwork in order.

A sexy, square-jawed black man in a cop car showed up and put us in handcuffs — the trick kind that don’t really lock, roughly shoving us against the wall of our own home. Calvert walked in then, in his Sheriff Brown costume, an overly tight uniform shirt and slacks that outlined his junk. “The safe word tonight is ‘nigger,’” he said as he patted me down. His hands were slow and rough, groping me. He breathed heavily into my ear.

“You two fags is under arrest,” Calvert said, “On charges of derelictin’ yo’ duty.”

“What duty?”

“There is a minor league basketball team from out of town in they locker room, not allowed to leave on account of fucking too many bitches when they do go out. You supposed to be there, at the community college locker room,” he said. “We can bring you there right now.”

There was a real cop car waiting for us outside, and Calvert climbed into the backseat with us, while the other cop, seemingly real, if presumably off-duty, flicked his sirens on and sped off into the night.

He took us to the community college and dropped us off outside the gym. Calvert opened our doors and we got, standing there while the cop drove away.

“How did you get that cop to help out?” I asked. “I love men in uniform.”

Calvert winked at me. “Talking people into shit is the only skill I got.” He flexed his pecs beneath his shirt and my heart fluttered. “When you can only do one thing, you gotta learn how to do anything with it — cops, criminals, faggots, females, anyone with a working ear and a moderate amount of English gonna fall before me.”

It was a tall, high-ceilinged gymnasium, filled with the sound of sneakers squeaking against the floor and balls bouncing. Ten black men stopped the game of basketball already in progress to look at us. Calvert pushed past us and said, “Alright, niggas. I found these fags for you. This don’t violate coach’s rules, and you ain’t gotta pay them a dime.”

They approached, grabbing their dicks beneath their basketball shorts. Calvert had produced a small camera, which he flipped on. He nodded to the other men, who stripped off their shirts. They looked at each other nervously, as though unsure about who was going to go first.

Dwight and I got on our knees. My heart pounded in my chest as the first man approached me. He was tall, with a lean basketball jock build, inked with tattoos. He crossed his arms over his chest and sneered down at me. “Go on, you little slut.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said, blushing. I pulled his satin shorts down and saw a dingy gray jockstrap, thick, tight pubic hair sticking out like overgrown brush. I inhaled deeply under his balls, and he groaned and laughed at the same time. I licked the sweaty strap that ran through his taint, loving its savory, salty taste.

He slowly lowered himself onto the floor, laughing as he wiped his underball scent all over my face. I slapped his ass a few times. My hard cock strained against my pants.

“You like ball sweat?” asked the man. He had a short, frizzy, unkempt afro with a brush sticking out of it.

I was so intent on licking his jockstrap and trying to reach his asshole with my tongue, I couldn’t answer. He took the jockstrap off and his heavy ballsac landed right on my face. It was soft with sweat and stank like an entire locker room had been distilled and dripped over his scrotum.

“Gross fucking fag,” he said, dropping his balls, first one, then the other, into my mouth. “Gargle on them. Show me you respect me, bitch.”

I suckled his balls, jiggling them with my tongue and throat, gently flicking them with my tongue like a dolphin playing with a beach ball. Three of his friends gathered around to watch and take turns whacking my head with their cocks. I tried to make as much noise sucking on his balls as I could. My mouth filled up with my spit and his sweat.

The man groaned and closed his eyes, rubbing his dick with both hands. “Shit, Calvert,” he murmured, “When you said one of ‘em likes balls, I thought that’d be boring cuz chicks never wanna lick balls. But I gotta get my females to do this.” He slapped hands, laughing with his friends. My mouth was overflowing with spit I wasn’t swallowing.

The knappy-afroed man stood, and I spat a mouthful of spit out onto my own face, the men clapping and smearing it with their cocks. I inhaled deeply as a new man lowered his balls into my mouth. He was stocky and hairy to the extreme, with big droopy balls I could barely fit between my lips.

Again I sucked as loud as I could, taking every drop of sour sweat in my mouth. His bulk was blocking me, but I heard him beating on his chest, his whole body shaking around me as I caressed the thick flab that covered his bulging muscles.

He lifted his balls out as I noticed someone was undoing my jeans, taking my own dick in their warm, lubed hands. It was a black man I had never seen, a cute young athletic twink who smiled at me as he gobbled my dick down. He smiled and said, “I’m just here to make sure your hands are free to do whatever they want.”

One handsome, bearded musclegod with chocolate brown skin approached, arm around a leaner, tattooed nigga with gangsta eyes and a crude sneer. They both knelt in front of me, and I realized with growing excitement that they were going to double-teabag me. They pressed their dicks against each other, groaning and wincing in disgust. The lankier, gangsta one said “No homo, nigga, no homo.”

Their nasty hairy sacs spilled out over my face as I slowly worked all four balls into my mouth. They were dripping with sour sweat, and I suckled on them to get every last drop. I felt like my throat was overflowing with machismo, their sweat and their swagger leaking onto my face. I wrapped both my hands around their dicks, jacking them off as their thick shafts rubbed against each other. Their dicks were so big, my hands couldn’t quite fit around them. One or both of them began leaking precum, groaning lustily above me.

“Nigga,” muttered the gangsta one quietly, “We can’t never tell no one how good this feels.”

The pudgier black man from earlier squatted over my face as well and said, “I gotta get in on that.”

“No way,” the other two said, “He can’t even fit our balls in there. He gonna end up biting ‘em if we keep pushing more in.”

But the pudgier thug just plopped his balls right on my nose, so all I could see was his hairy taint. He added his thick uncircumcized cock to the handjob, and I interlocked my fingers to massage all three at once. I heard the other men cheering them on, laughing at the sight of the double ball-suck and triple-handjob going on. Before it even occurred to me that it was possible, I felt smooth basketball shorts on my chest as someone else straddled me, turning the three-jerk into a foursome.

My mouth was overflowing with spit and sweat I refused to swallow, wanting to savor it as long as possible. The four men above me dragged their balls over every inch of my face.

“Man, don’t cum like this,” someone said, “I ain’t want yo’ skeet all over me.”

The gruff jaded voice of the pudgier thug said, “Shut up, nigga. That’s what we gettin’ paid for, right? You been locked up, just pretend you back there.”

“Ain’t never did this in lock-up, nigga.”

“But don’t tell me you never did a gangfuck behind bars. I know there ain’t no room there, and you get covered in nigga jizz no matter what you do,” he said.

I felt one dark ballsac tighten up moments before the lean, inked thug came. I felt the cum spurt all over my hands and the other men, who all groaned in disgust. A few drops landed on my face, but most of it was entangled in the muscles, hair and dicks of the men above me.

The gangsta let his limp cock remain in the foursome, though he took his balls out of my mouth so the pudgy man could get another teabagging in. He was very vocal, moaning, demanding I take his balls deeper.

“This is really fucking disgusting,” said the dark-skinned muscular man, “I can’t believe I’m hard.”

“I know,” said the fourth one through a smile, “I’m ‘bout to bust and I don’t know why.”

Moments later he did bust, more cum spurting up, even higher this time, smearing all over the four men, who were so close they were virtually hugging. They laughed awkwardly at the sticky mess between them, but it didn’t stop the pudgy thug or the muscular man, both of whom came within seconds of each other.

“Come on up here, faggot,” said the gangsta, “We all messy and I know I ain’t cleanin’ it up.”

I got up on my knees and slipped my head into their little cummy circle of thug muscle. Their dicks were flopping against each other, cum sticking to each other in thick tendrils. I opened my mouth and sucked it up, my eyes rolling as the twink began licking my asshole and the thick taste of cum filled my mouth.

All four men had sexy bodies, so I savored every second of their tongue bath, hitting every nook of their muscles. When they were all clean, they were back at half-mast, probably not totally ready for another go, but their dicks looked so tasty I grabbed all four and arranged them together as before. This time I kept all four dicks in a little bundle and tried to suck on their heads. Of course I couldn’t get all four in my mouth at once, or even three, but I loved the feel of so much semi-flaccid meat in my face.

“Let me get in there, niggas,” someone said, and the four men scattered, replaced by an impossibly tall, handsome thug, still dressed in basketball shorts and a jersey. He was dripping with sweat and holding a basketball, which he dribbled slowly. “You gonna suck this, fag?”

I pulled his shorts and boxers down, baring his tight thighs and long dick. I inhaled deeply of his crotch then licked his cockshaft. He kept dribbling his basketball right next to me even when I sucked half his shaft into my already-loosened throat.

He groaned but kept up his rhythm, the ball bouncing and echoing off the floor to my right. His dick was rock-hard in my mouth. His muscles tightened beneath my fingers with every dribble of the ball.

He started doing basketball tricks, dribbling the ball over my body and twirling it on one finger above my head. The other men laughed and cheered him on. A few of them had started playing a game while waiting for their turn, and had been joined by the four I had jacked off.

The man whose dick throbbed in my mouth took his ball and made a shot from where he was, just past the three-point line. The pudgy thug laughed and bounce-passed him another ball, and he tried a shot again but missed this time.

I sucked his dick faster as precum leaked out, and he continued to play the game as best he could without moving his feet. He caught every pass and made more than half his shots, beating his hands on his chest with every basket.

His cum filled my mouth suddenly, his cock jerking as I gagged, spitting up his load into his dense pubic hair and onto his basketball shorts.

I’ve always loved rimjobs, and when I saw the incredible tight ass of a bodybuilder thug who approached me, flexing his pecs, I had to eat it up. He was hairless and clean, his funky hole ready for me as I licked up his taint to his sweaty asshole. He howled in laughter, muttering to his friends, “Damn, nigga, I can feel his beard scratching me up and shit.”

He sat on my face, his muscles contorting around my head while my tongue pushed deep into his ass. I jacked off his fat cock with one hand, and in no time, he had spurted a thick load right in the center of my forehead, then used his own finger to wipe it off. I sucked my own cum off his fingers while he laughed at me and spat on my face.

“Alright,” Calvert said, “It’s time for the dunking contest. Winner of each round gets to be the next to fuck one of these fags. Whoever comes in last gonna fuck a loose, worn-out bitch-hole.” The men hooted and laughed.

Dwight and I were both naked, and we clutched each other as the dunk contest began. The players were all naked too, some of them still hard or half-hard, dicks and balls flopping as they ran down the court to take their turn.

The first winner was the lean gangsta one, who roared in pride as he walked to Dwight and I, Calvert pointing to me to go first.

He pushed me onto all fours and rammed his cock in. It was so thick he could barely get the tip inside, but started working in some lube while the next round of the dunk contest got underway.

By the time the lean, inked-all-over thug had his entire cock in my tight hole, another man, a crag-faced dreadlocked man with a light Jamaican accent, was beginning to work his way into Dwight’s fatter ass.

My prostate felt like it was about to explode from the pressure and pleasure of the black man’s cock throbbing inside me. I was so intent on my own feelings of bliss as he spat on me, shouting insults, that I didn’t notice his cock spurting inside me.

My ass felt briefly empty and cold, but was immediately replaced by the stocky thug, who pressed his whole body on top of me. I could feel the cum splashing up onto his pubic hair as his dick slammed my intestines.

I came into the mouth of the twink still sucking my cock, who didn’t even let up, keeping his tongue around my shaft until I got hard again. The stocky thug put me in a loose chokehold and lifted me up with him, his heavy muscles flexing tightly against my back. My anal orgasm continued, growing more and more intense, my dick now raw and awkward as the man beneath me sucked on it.

Finally the stocky man came. His load was thick inside me, dripping down the inside of my thighs. He was replaced by another man, a trim thug with a neat goattee, who pushed me down to the ground, groaning that he “don’t wanna touch no fag no more” than he had to.

He had a thick cock that sent another blinding pulse of pain through my body. My ass was mostly numb now, but my prostate still tickled with pleasure, and my hard cock throbbed in the twink’s mouth.

I didn’t even feel him cum, just noticed that he had been replaced by a longer, skinnier dick and a lighter-complected man, who kept reminding me to arch my back, pushing my body into position.

He was followed by a short, squat man with cornrows and a mean face. He lined his dick up with my ass and bear-hugged me before whispering, “You might be the first person to like having my dick in they ass. Most bitches just cry the whole time.”

I felt why as his soda can-thick cock pressed into my tired asshole. It hurt, and I did cry as he laughed at me, but I also came again, filling that twink’s mouth up for the second time.

The cruel thug came, pushing me into the ground and screaming in my ear as his orgasm wracked his body. He spat on my face before getting up and making way for the last man.

He was a handsome-faced stud with a square jaw and dark eyes. He moaned as he worked his dick in. “This ass is moist, nigga. It is tore up. It ain’t fit to fuck,” he said. I could hear his dick sloshing around in the cum soup of my ass. After a few minutes, he said he couldn’t cum like that and moved around to my front. His black cock was white with semen, and it tasted so good in my mouth I came for the third time before he was done.

Finally finished, Dwight and I collapsed into each other’s sweaty arms, watching as the ten black tops, plus Calvert and the two bottoms, lazily shot baskets, passing the time while we recovered. When we stood, ready to go, they all gathered in front of us, Calvert still filming. He said, “Who’s ready for a shower?”

Dwight and I followed the niggas to the shower, where we watched them roughhouse and clean themselves off.

“I love you,” I said to Dwight, “This was a perfect anniversary present.”

There’s No Love in Basketball

This is a sample chapter from There’s No Love in Basketball, a story from the A Slam Dunk, Deep and Hard series from Eroticature.org. It is also available in Volume 3 of the series compilations for less than a dollar per story.

Keyon Miller was distracted during the game, by thoughts of love and romance, and dreams of Valentine’s Days he hoped to share in the future with somebody special. He danced up and down the court, dribbling, passing, shooting, making layups and bounce passes and dunking. He even shouted at the ref, all on autopilot as his mind stayed fixated on his true love. He heard Coach Jackson yelling at him to get his head in the game, but he didn’t listen. It wasn’t really an important game anyway, and he was doing well enough.

Gargoyle sat in a seat near the bench. In those precious moments when Keyon was on the sidelines, Gargoyle snuck him water and words of encouragement whispered in his ear, friendly, celibate pats on the back like an old pal. Coach Jackson made Gargoyle and the rest of the players’ posses sit a few rows back, but Gargoyle managed to get closer when Keyon was there on the bench.

Keyon hated that he couldn’t come out of the closet. He knew the All-Strong Basketball League wasn’t ready for an openly gay player, and his family certainly wasn’t either. So until at the very least his grandmother died, Keyon felt duty-bound to pretend to be straight.

After the game — which his team won handily — Keyon celebrated in the locker room with his teammates. Surrounded by black and brown flesh, swinging cocks bouncing with every jubilant jump, Keyon struggled to remain calm. He had had to cover up more than a few inconvenient erections, and had even hinted to his teammates that he took Viagra to keep it up with chicks, so that he could refer to that as an explanation for a boner that won’t go away if it ever became necessary. It hadn’t been an issue since transferring to the Detroit Wolverines two years ago though, and he had developed quite a bit of control over his cock.

The team laughed and boasted of their sexual prowess. Keyon always loved these moments in the locker room, when they were changing and showering and putting on civilian clothes. The others did too — no one came in then, not posse, not girlfriends, not coaches or press. It was just the team. Sometimes conversation continued even after everyone was ready to go, nobody willing to be the first to leave. It was like the door was a seal, protecting them from the outside world, and once it was broken, it was all over, and basketball would be a business again.

This time, though, Keyon was the first to leave. He was tired, not particularly into it, and he was desperate to see Gargoyle’s face again. He met his posse outside, a few young men he kept around, none of whom he was particularly close to. Everyone on the Wolverines had male friends come pick them up — it was expected, and Keyon didn’t want to be an exception. If Gargoyle had come alone, everyone would have suspected what their true relationship was. So Keyon kept up these casual relationships with young men for a few months, then dumped them before they got too close to Keyon and Gargoyle.

It wasn’t until Keyon got home, and Gargoyle met him a few minutes later, that they could embrace each other and evince their relationship openly. It felt good, to forget about lying and hiding, and just focus on nestling his face in Gargoyle’s strong neck.

Gargoyle was, objectively speaking, much uglier than the handsome jock Keyon Miller. Everyone could see that, but Keyon loved him, not just for his wit and his heart, but for his huge, throbbing muscles. While Keyon had the toned and lean frame of a basketball player, Gargoyle was six and a half feet tall and built like the proverbial brick shithouse’s older brother. His face, however, was scarred, tattooed and slightly lopsided due to nerve damage from an old barfight. So while a lot of men, like Keyon, would find him sexy, nobody would ever call him handsome.

But what Gargoyle lacked in a beautiful face, he more than made up for in a huge, beautifully veiny cock. It was long and pulsating even when it was soft, when he was asleep and Keyon would spend holding it. He loved to feel something so masculine beside him, and smell his coarse body hair collecting his day’s sweat.

Keyon took Gargoyle’s dick down, swallowing as much of it as he could. He was so used to sucking on it, he knew well exactly how far he could go down. He saw the familiar fork in the veins of Gargoyle’s shaft, just at the limits of where he could see below his nose. Gargoyle’s cock tasted so good in his mouth it gave Keyon himself an instant hardon.

He jacked his dick through his jeans, then dropped them and used one hand on himself, the other reaching between Gargoyle’s legs to his ass. He was covered in thick hair on his cheeks and in his crevice, leading through his sweaty taint.

Gargoyle moaned, a deep guttural sound. That meant it was good, Keyon thought, since he was normally quiet. Cum sprayed from Gargoyle’s cock across Keyon’s tongue and palate, it’s sweet and salty flavor assaulting his senses. He loved the taste of Gargoyle’s manjuice, and he held it in his mouth while slowly caressing Gargoyle’s limpening cock.

He let the cum leak out of his mouth and all over his face, using his finger to push it back in. He couldn’t get enough of Gargoyle’s flavor, which was intensified by Gargoyle’s face moments later, when he knelt down to kiss Keyon’s mouth. They swapped spit and other fluids, while Gargoyle’s rough hands explored down the front of Keyon’s torso.

Gargoyle caressed his muscles as Keyon stood, and Gargoyle knealed. He was an enthusiastic cocksucker too, and he managed to suck down almost all of Keyon’s rod. He used his tongue to flick the shaft and play with his uncircumcized tip.

Keyon had to lean against the wall for support, the orgasm he felt approaching was so intense he knew it would make his knees buckle. He roared out in appreciation and slammed a fist against the wall.

Cum spurted out of his cock and filled his lover’s warm, waiting mouth. He knew Gargoyle didn’t love the taste of cum like he did, so Keyon immediately bent down to kiss him and take it all back up in his mouth. Keyon didn’t want to miss a drop.

“I love you,” Keyon said.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Gargoyle said, “So it doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. And it’s not my fault I can’t tell anyone. There’s no room for love in basketball.”