Italian erotica novel

New Italian erotica novel that sounds interesting

A few nights ago, I sent my ex-boyfriend a text telling him I was reading an Italian erotica novel, I Watch You. He and I, now close friends, often joke that I’m a bit of a prude when it comes to talking about sex, so it seemed natural that I should let him know that while reading a scene in which the female protagonist pleasures herself while sitting on top of her lover, I began to gag. Masturbation isn’t gross — it’s natural and I’m a sex-positive woman — but I had never encountered such a graphic scene in a book before.

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Baseballers Downlow

Here’s a sample from Baseballers Downlow, a story in the Slow Pitch and a Hard Bat series of hardcore gay erotica about baseball jocks! It’s available in the first Slow Pitch and a Hard Bat bundle as well, for an amazing great value dealer!

 

 

Wayne regretted signing up for the Japanese All-Strong Baseball League from the moment he signed on the dotted line. It felt like a failure, even though he knew it shouldn’t — he was a professional athlete in a highly competitive league. He should be proud of himself.

 

He just wished it had been in America. He had always wanted to play major league American baseball, but it turned out that just wasn’t in the cards, at least for now. He was an excellent third basemen at a time when American baseball teams had more third basemen than they needed.

 

His new Japanese teammates greeted him politely, though he could sense their excitement. He was the only foreigner on this team based in a rural part of the island of Hokkaido, and he knew the players were brimming with desire to marvel at him. He suspected they wanted to touch his kinky black hair but were polite enough not to ask.

 

He wished he had arrived earlier. He had put off leaving until he absolutely had to, delaying on getting his visa and passport in order, “forgetting” to buy the plane ticket, almost missing his flight. So he didn’t even have time to go to the apartment the league had rented for him before going to the first practice.

 

He nervously assembled with the other players, the only non-Japanese man on the league (and possibly in the whole city, he had guessed so far). They spoke amongst themselves in Japanese, eyeing him suspiciously though they were all friendly enough to shake his hand and say hello in broken English.

 

The coach began his welcome speech, translated by a Japanese man with a thick accent. Wayne listened closely, but didn’t understand most of what he said. It sounded like the generic coachtalk he was used to: don’t embarrass the team, work hard, play together, win, but this time mixed with a patina of Japanese honor, respect and propriety.

 

That first day’s practice was very simple. A lot of running and waiting while each player showed his skills off to the coach. Wayne acquit himself reasonably well, he thought, despite feeling an intense pressure to do well. The rest of the team lined up to watch him practice catching even though they hadn’t watched anyone else, and he had to catch balls hit to him with an audience.

 

Finally practice was over, and Wayne filed in to the locker room past the other players. He was nervous, now away from his translator for the first time since meeting the team. He knew if it was an American team, there’d be a substantial amount of hazing if a foreigner who didn’t speak the language joined up. He wasn’t sure if that would be better or worse in Japan.

 

One spiky-haired player, the catcher, approached him as they entered the locker room. He was a lean, strong man with a visible tattoo on his neck. “You are good at baseball,” he said with a thick accent.

 

Wayne nodded. “I do my best,” he said.

 

“You are part of this team, yes?” Mitsu said as they stopped in front of their lockers. Wayne took his shirt off, exposing his barrel chest and powerful shoulders — he was a good third baseman, but his real talent was in hitting home runs. He liked showing off his muscles, which were bigger than any Japanese athlete’s. “You will do traditions that are special to this team?”

 

“Yes…” Wayne said, nervous as he wondered if he was agreeing to something he wouldn’t like.

 

“We have first practice tradition,” Mitsu said and bit his lip. He motioned towards the other players, who had stripped to their jockstraps and were assembling in the center of the locker room. “Come with me. I do not know if Americans do it.”

 

Wayne dropped his pants to show off his own bulging jockstrap as Mitsu did the same. He nodded and followed Mitsu after the others.

 

Wayne’s heart dropped as he saw what they were doing: a circlejerk. The Japanese men were wordlessly dropping their jocks as they stood in a circle, grabbing for each other’s crotches.

 

It wasn’t that Wayne had never done so, but he never thought he’d do it again, as an adult. Back in his neighborhood growing up, Wayne had participated in more than one circlejerk. He thought he’d grown out of that.

 

“It builds teamwork,” Mitsu was explaining as he got in position. “It will make us work together better.”

 

Wayne found himself shucking his own jockstrap without thinking about it. He closed his eyes, telling himself that he was just fitting in in his new country. It’s not a big deal, it’s not a big deal, he repeated to himself over and over. Maybe it really will even built teamwork, and he will feel like less of an outsider once he does it, he hoped.

 

Mitsu’s hand wrapped around Wayne’s limp cockshaft. He smiled and said something in Japanese that the other players laughed at. Wayne had a feeling he was making a race-related joke, especially as Mitsu seemed to be making a point of touching Wayne’s kinky pubic hair.

 

Wayne tried to tell himself that it was just like the old circlejerks he had done in his friend Malik’s basement. But he had to admit, the racial factor made a difference — the tall, lean Japanese man to his right had straight and silky pubic hair, a surprisingly long dick and an apparent lack of shame for the situation. He grinned as Wayne touched him, and jabbered back at Mitsu in Japanese.

 

It was obvious they were talking about him, but Wayne didn’t want to rock the boat. It sounded like Mitsu was describing what it was like to touch a black man’s penis, A part of Wayne felt proud, representing his race like this; but another part felt offended and marginalized by it. He wasn’t sure which response was correct.

 

The tall, lean man to Wayne’s right was first to cum. That surprised Wayne, who thought he was slow and awkward. But maybe that was how sex was done in Japan, he thought as he tried to avoid watching ropy-muscled man orgasm. He writhed and moaned in a distinctly Japanese way — even his moan has an accent, Wayne thought with a laugh. He even managed to avoid paying too much attention to the cum that stuck to his fingers.

 

The smell of semen was intense as the puddle in the center of the room got bigger and bigger. Wayne was glad he was done jacking another man off, as it meant he could focus on his own handjob. He didn’t want to be last to cum, feeling like that would represent his race poorly.

 

But that was exactly what happened. One by one, the Japanese players came, and the more pressure he felt, the more difficult it was for Wayne to stay hard. It was just like catching those balls with the team watching during practice, he thought.

 

Finally it was down to just him, and the whole team stared. His big black cock throbbed in Mitsu’s fingers, still rock-hard but not quite nearing climax yet.

 

He closed his eyes and concentrated, ignoring the jabbering Japanese voices around him. His orgasm was slow and forced, but he did manage to finish before too late. He grunted and flexed his muscles as passion washed over his spine, and his knees buckled.

 

He shot an impressively big load that landed on the stinking pile in the center of the room, and the team clapped in congratulations. Wayne was embarrassed but tried to pretend this was a normal situation for him.

 

“Welcome to the team,” Mitsu said with a grin.

 

 

Nobody likes a whiney dick

Australian politics is a lot crueler than American…

An Australian MP from Queensland has been dumped by his party after a scandal involving his wife sending his mistress a picture of his dick in a glass of wine.

THE fate of Plonker MP Peter Dowling was sealed at 10.30pm on December 28, 2012 – when he dunked his penis in a glass of red wine, took a picture of it and sent it to his secret mistress, adding the words: “He wanted a red wine.”

 

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The Raunchification of a Blonde

Here’s a sample chapter from The Raunchification of a Blonde by Jacob Paddlebaum.

It took Vanessa a long time to realize she was hot. Even when she was fat, with bad skin and teeth, and a perpetual sneer and slouch, guys hit on her — guys equally as ugly as her. There was always someone willing to try and sleep with her. So when the average hotness of the guys hitting on her began to increase, it took awhile to notice.

 

But by the time she graduated college with a microbiology degree and a promising job track, she had grown into her body and face. She looked in the mirror one day and saw what she would look like with a little makeup and attention to her hair, and that was was when she formulated a plan.

 

Vanessa was a virgin. She had fooled around a little here and there, but had never had the confidence to go all the way. Now, looking at herself in the mirror, she wanted to change that, and do so in a memorable way. Losing her virginity had always seemed like a big deal, but now she just wanted to get it over with. She didn’t want to be one of those undersexed weird chicks that no one wanted to be with.

 

She got herself a makeover at the mall and set out to find the perfect man to fuck her senseless. But every time she saw someone hot, he turned out to be creepy or dirty or smelly when she got closer. She was close to giving up hope.

 

Until she saw Gino. He had been a football star back when she was in high school, and he had seemed out-of-reach then. He was the hottest guy in school, the stud every teenage girl around wanted to sleep with. When she thought of him since graduating college, Vanessa had assumed he got fat and ugly — he had chugged beer like it was water, after all, and those calories had to go somewhere when he was no longer burning a couple thousand calories a day at football practice.

 

But Gino hadn’t gone downhill in the slightest. His pert young jock’s body had become toned, possibly with less perfect tone, she suspected, but he had a powerful barrel chest and a grizzled face. At first, she thought she recognized him because he was a professional wrestler, then realized he simply looked like one but was the very same Gino she had gone to school with.

 

He didn’t recognize her at first, but when she introduced herself and jogged his memory, he grinned and asked her out. His eyes roved up and down her body, and for once Vanessa loved the feeling of being objectified. He had looked her over in high school and laughed at her doughy, acne-ridden corpus, but now, he had to rearrange his manhood in his slacks.

 

But then she met him for dinner, and he was less charming over an hour than he had seemed on their brief streetside encounter. He chose the restaurant, a cheap and cheesy dive, just barely fancy enough to be acceptable for a date. He ordered a huge bowl of pasta and ate it like a slob.

 

“I’m semi-pro now,” he explained. “I make enough to get by, along with some endorsements and commercials I do. And I’m a personal trainer.” He beamed, his muscles flexing beneath his tight polo shirt. He was obviously proud of his career, though all she could do was wonder why he hadn’t gone pro.

 

“That’s so interesting,” she said, even though it wasn’t. She was beginning to dislike his personality.

 

But luckily, he ate quickly, so by the time she realized she didn’t like him, the meal was over. Shat to do next? Gino clearly thought he was going to get some pussy tonight, and that had been Vanessa’s plan too.

 

He was such a douchebag though, she thought, how could she sleep with him? That went against every fiber of her being. She wasn’t supposed to sleep with douchebags. Nice girls slept with nice guys.

 

He grinned as he led her back out to the parking lot. She watched his wide, plump ass sway in his cheap slacks. He looked perfect even in the ill-fitting clothes he wore, his broad chest and shoulders puffing against the fabric of his shirt.

 

Wasn’t that the point? She had gone out with him to lose her virginity, to finally fuck that which she had wanted to fuck so bad a long time ago. This wasn’t supposed to be a real relationship, so why did she care if he was a douchebag? They didn’t have to do much talking. She could just tell him that she’d fuck him as long as he stopped talking. But she still felt too shy to do anything that forward.

 

“I had a great time,” she said as they approached his car in the parking garage. He moved to the back of the car, like he was going to open the trunk, then grinned at her and nodded towards the ground.

 

“You wanna… you know… Give me head?” he said, as though he already expected to know the answer.

 

Her mind screamed no. What woman ever wanted to suck dick? It wasn’t something she would have ever thought she might volunteer to do. After the first time she did it in college, she swore off ever doing it again without a very good reason. A blowjob was something you did as a favor to a man, as something nice to do for someone you liked. Nice girls did not give blowjobs for no reason, certainly not to a douchebag like Gino.

 

Was there a good reason here and now? Not really. Gino was hot but she didn’t like the taste of cock.

 

Then she realized he was offering to do it right here in the parking garage. It was deserted, but still a public place. Anybody could come through at any time. That thought sent a shiver of sexual anticipation up her spine. She still intended to tell him no.

 

Her heart had other plans, however, and she sank to her knees without thinking about it. Despite bad memories of blowjobs past, she had an intense desire to taste Gino. She recalled a time when she had walked past the boy’s locker room and seen the door swinging open, Gino walking in the buff past the door. He had been hairy then, for a teenager, with dark tufts sprouting on his muscled chest; his swarthy skin gleamed with moisture from his shower. She could virtually taste him then, and remembering it, she could taste him again.

 

He undid his pants and let his dick out. It was long and thick, but not too big at all. It looked like it would fit perfectly inside her, just large enough to be a little challenge. She could already imagine what it would feel like for him to ram inside her pussy.

 

She opened her mouth and took it in, feeling a rush of excited shame as she realized what she was doing. She felt like a dirty little slut, and she liked it. The sounds of people drunkenly laughing on one of the lower floors of the parking garage filtered up to her, reminding her that she was in the open. He had placed himself around the back of the car, so they were well protected from view, but still, she felt a surge of sexual thrill every time she heard human voices nearby.

 

His cock pulsated in her mouth, and he groaned, his athletic body writhing as he got hard. He was acting like this was the most pleasurable experience he had ever had — maybe that was the chief difference between this blowjob and the other, less enjoyable ones she had performed in the past; in this case, Gino was animated in his enthusiasm and acted as though he was receiving a huge favor. That made Vanessa excited to keep going and keep his interest strong. He moaned and stifled the sound to avoid attracting attention.

 

She felt like she was playing a musical instrument, every motion she made on his dick translating into some sound coming from his mouth above her head. He groaned and grunted, exclaimed, exhaled and generally made his pleasure known.

 

His cum didn’t even taste bad like it had in the past. He began shooting just as his orgasm began, and she was surprised to find she enjoyed the flavor. Did he taste different or had she matured since the last blowjob? She didn’t know, but she found that she couldn’t get enough of the salty, thick flavor. He had an endless load that sat heavy in her belly.

 

Finally he was done, after having shot her full of cum. He sat down on his rear bumper, breathing heavily with his pants around his ankles.

 

“Thanks a lot,” he said. “I needed that.”

 

 

Jailhouse Downlow

The moment the handcuffs clicked onto my wrists, I got a boner. The cop who arrested me was the square-jawed ex-military type, with a bored expression and a detached tone. C-Bone Bliss— or Calvert Howard, as he was apparently named — slid into the back of the cop car first, with me to his right. I was terrified of what I was doing, even though I knew this silly vandalism charge was not going to mean anything in the long run. The small fine was a fraction of what I was paying, and was well worth it.

“Yo, pig, I can’t believe you lockin’ me up on this shit,” C-Bone said, muttering over and over. “I ain’t some punk kid, homes.”

“Zero tolerance for vandalizing public property, guys, there’s been an epidemic of that. You the fourth and the fifth motherfuckers brought in today for it. I gotta bring you in and charge you. You’ll be out in the morning,” the cop said.

The sun was just setting, and we had a long night ahead of us. C-Bone had set this up for me, in exchange for more money than I feel comfortable disclosing. He said three of his boys had been transferred to a local lock-up for the last few months of their incarceration. They were, he said, ready for some consensual sex to get themselves re-oriented to the outside world.

“You ever been arrested?” he asked when we arranged it the month before. I told him no, and he said, “Well, this won’t be a big deal. It’s just a fine. But don’t give them any lip, or they could arrest you for something worse. Let me push the boundaries. I can make it work.”

“Have you been in prison before?” I asked, “Like for real?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“What…? Y’know, what was it like?”

“You mean was there a lot of hot sex?”

“Well, yeah,” I said, blushing.

“Yeah, there was,” he said, “But it’s not what you think. It’s not sexy like you’re imagining it. Everything good about a person dies in prison, everything beautiful or sexy or smart. Not always right away, but it goes sooner or later.. You don’t need to worry about that tonight, though. I’m setting this up, and it’s going to be good.”

Processing was sexy, especially with C-Bone there, muscles bulging out of his dingy wifebeater, scowling, unshaven, and scruffy for once. He hadn’t showered today, he said, just as I asked, and neither would his boys. I could smell the caked on sweat emanating from him as we sat in the local jailhouse. The rows of cells lined up before us, and I could hear men calling out, gruff rednecks and black men, their voices tinnily echoing. Their timbre turned me on, and I was so intent on making out their catcalls that I kept failing to follow instructions from the cop who had arrested us and was trying to process us. C-Bone continued to complain the entire time, and even fought back a little, needing to be forcibly restrained when the cop removed his bling and shoes. “Be careful with them sneakers, man,” C-Bone said menacingly. “Don’t scuff them up.”

C-Bone had promised he’d arrange things with the night staff, and he followed through exactly. I don’t know how he did it, but we were shoved roughly into a cell with his three friends, or his “niggas,” as he called them.

Raheem was the biggest and the roughest, covered head to toe in tattoos and bulging with prison-toned muscles, his abs perfectly lined, dick bulging out of the thin white prison boxers he and the other two all wore. He had scars crisscrossing his face and neck, and a mean sneer. Next to him was Jamil, a portly man, not fat, but strong and possessing a visible belly, like a real working man’s frame, with a fat dumb face and a protruding jaw. He scratched his balls and spat on the floor when we arrived in the brightly lit cell. The third, Eric, was very tall and lean, with a handsome face and long dreadlocks. He looked straight at me with a sick grin, stepping towards C-Bone without taking his eyes off me.

“Yo, nigga,” Eric said, slapping hands with C-Bone. They proceeded to greet C-Bone, all three of them hugging him closely, lingering as though they hadn’t seen each other in years, which, indeed, they hadn’t, if C-Bone could be believed.

There were two bunk beds and a small cot next to the toilet and sink. The three men had already claimed bunks, with photos taped to the walls and clothes (street clothes, I noticed, presumably in preparation for their release) stacked on the shelves by each bed. Calvert moved to sit on the one empty bed, stretching out and taking his shirt off. He was almost too tall for the tiny space. I sat on the cot, only to have all four of them immediately stare at me as though I had insulted their mothers.

“Yo, white boys sit on the floor,” Jamil said, patting his gut and pointing to the floor.

“That’s our sittin’ cot,” said Raheem, and they all laughed.

I moved to the floor where Jamil pointed, right at his feet, so close I could smell his stank ass through the jogging pants he wore.

“Yo’ Calvert, what kinda whiteboi you bring in, anyway?”

“He’s my bitch,” C-Bone said. “I didn’t wanna be in here without a whiteboi to fuck, so I always bring one along when I break the law. I know what it’s like to be locked up without a bitch. Don’t wanna go through that again.”

“That mean we can fuck him?” Raheem said, eyeing me. I was touching myself through my pants, incredibly turned on as they chatted about me as though I wasn’t there.

“Nah,” Calvert said. “That ass is mine.” That was part of our deal — I was worried about diseases from strange, imprisoned men, and besides, I knew Calvert had a big black dick and could fuck me good with it. I didn’t see any need to to risk the Big H when Calvert got himself tested regularly and used condoms. “His mouth, however, is open for business.”

“Nigga, we ain’t got no cash to pay for it,” Eric said. “We been locked up, remember?”

“You can pay me when you get out,” C-Bone said. He looked right at me. “You hear that, bitch? You suck on whatever they tell you to suck on.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. I wasted no time in pulling down Jamil’s sweatpants, his fat cock springing out, limp but long and dimpled with sweat. The smell of his balls overwhelmed me.

“Oh, this bitch is eager,” Jamil said.

His dick tasted musty and strong, and it swelled to fill my mouth right away, precum leaking out and filling my throat. I squeezed at the base, my hands roaming around to his heavy, thick asscheeks. Oh, this bitch is nasty. He likes nigga dick, don’t he? I spat up around his shaft, letting my frothy saliva drip down to his balls. He is doing that shit right. He got a fag-whore mouth, huh?

I took his dick out of my mouth and grabbed the sweatpants between his leg, lifting up the seat to my mouth and inhaling deeply of his stale farts and ground-in stains. Jamil laughed and groaned in disgust, shushing himself as Calvert waved his hands around to tell him to be quiet. This is some faggot shit, man, I don’t even know about that. I been in prison for three years, ain’t never seen nothing that gay. I licked the worn seat of his pants, little bits of fuzz sticking to my teeth along with the musk. I blushed in embarrassment at the men’s disgusted laughter.

Jamil’s balls looked enticingly sweaty, covered in coarse nigga hair. I took one in my mouth, savoring its thick meaty fullness, those hairs tickling my lips and tongue. I moved back up his shaft while behind me, Raheem and Eric approached, flopping their dicks against my back. We gonna destroy that bitch’s throat next, nigga. He ain’t gonna swallow solid food for a week.

Calvert arranged the bunk beds with sheets hanging from the sides, in order to protect us from the prying eyes of the jailers. Tell me you like nigga dick. I reached out to Raheem’s ass, which was so well-muscled it felt like solid granite. I caressed his thighs until he cruelly muttered that I was a faggot and pushed my hand onto his dick instead.

I love nigga dick. I moved on to Eric’s long cock. I slurped it down, savoring the sweaty taste to it. I kept one of my hands on Jamil’s rod, so I was now servicing all three of them. Calvert too was slipping into place behind me, his penis already lubed up and sliding against my ass.

Calvert slid his dick into my ass. Say it again. His cockhead sat there, pushing against my tight prostate, the pressure building up slowly inside me. My intestines loosened and relaxed, while his meaty hands roamed around to my back and chest, pushing me down so he could fuck me better. He spat on my asshole to lube it up, the rough friction against my sphincter overwhelming with alternating waves of pleasure and pain. I love nigga dick!

All three inmates jammed their dicks together, fleshy heads leaking precum against each other. Oh, you are lucky we just got out of the pen, and we used to this kinda fag shit. I woulda slit yo’ fuckin’ throat if you made me touch some other nigga’s dick before I got locked up. Their precum leaked down all three shafts, and I licked each one in turn.

I love nigga dick!

Jamil’s stout belly jiggled as his eyes rolled back in his head, his fat cock spurting a thick wave of jizz that covered my face, some of it even leaking into my nostrils. Fuck yeah! Fuck yeah! He sucks better than most females. Raheem and Eric didn’t let up at all, jamming both their dicks into my mouth. Jamil wiped every last drop of cum on my forehead, its thick snotty tendrils getting all over his hands and his niggas’ dicks. They groaned in disgust but continued, slimy shafts rubbing against each other.

Calvert roared and heaved behind me, my prostate splitting in half, it seemed, as his dick pressed deeper into me. Pain blinded me while pleasure shook my spine. I shuddered and pushed back, helping squeeze a few more inches of his manhood inside me.

Now that he had cum, Jamil simply kneeled behind me, flopping his sticky dick against my shoulder. Okay, watch this. Here’s how I learned to punk a bitch out behind bars. If you just fuck his back, between his shoulders, it kinda feels like a shitty blowjob. But it ain’t rape and the guards won’t stop you, so it’s got its advantages.

Raheem tapped out Eric and positioned his hips square in front of my face. He smiled down at me and let out a thick wad of spit, which landed right on my forehead. He grabbed my ears. I won’t lie. This ain’t gonna be easy. Raheem gripped my ears tight and rammed his dick down my throat. I choked instantly, gagging all over him.

He was relentless, ignoring my coughing and cries. I was sure I bit down a little, his cock flesh filling every corner of my mouth and squeezing against my teeth, but he didn’t notice or didn’t care. He jackhammered his whole body into me, while Calvert did the same from the other end.

Holding my head in place with his muscular thighs, Raheem stopped moving, keeping my head still. Calvert rammed his cock the rest of the way into my ass. Cum spilled out of Raheem’s cock, filling my mouth and spurting out my nostrils. He held me in place until his orgasm was completely done, then let his cock flop out. A huge bubble of spit and semen exploded out of my mouth.

I gasped for air, motioning for Eric to come quickly. I loved the intense high of being suffocated by cock, so I eagerly sucked Eric’s fat rod right down. His was even longer than Raheem’s, but less thick, so I was able to get most of it down my throat. I gagged on it and spit up all over Eric’s crotch, but kept his pulsating dick in there.

Oh shit, you can see his dick in the bitch’s throat! Jamil laughed, massaging my throat as though jacking Eric off through my skin.

My ass was so torn up it was numb, except for the shooting pangs of sexual bliss that hit me with every thrust of Calvert’s cock. I felt a spreading warmth and knew he had cum, his gruff voice whispering in my ear, muscles pressed against my back.

Eric came at the same time, filling my throat up for the third time since I arrived in the cell. I let his load sit on my tongue, then gargled with it, showing him and his other niggas the wad of semen I savored.

“Hey!” came the cop’s voice, the one who had arrested Calvert and I to begin with, “You bitches shut the fuck up behind that sheet. I don’t wanna see whatever fag shit you doing, so don’t make me come back there. Just quiet the fuck down.”

Love and Tobacco

Kerald had always known he was different from the other slaves. They accepted their fate and played their designated roles, picking tobacco on Brutewood Plantation; they feared Overseer Hendrick; they worked their fingers to the bone; they fought and escaped and fought again, just like they were supposed to.

But Kerald didn’t feel the same way for one simple reason: he loved almost everything about his life. Now he wasn’t totally happy: he yearned for freedom, and he disliked the work of picking tobacco. But life at Brutewood Plantation gave him opportunities he mightn’t have had elsewhere, for Overseer Hendrick believed in carefully breeding his slaves. That meant they were sexually active with women only a few times in their lives. Slaves like Kerald enjoyed the opportunities to orally service his fellow workers, which would have been seen as an unpardonable sin were he not a slave.

So from his perspective, life as a slave was a double-edged sword. Being a free man would undoubtedly curtail his sexual exploits. Not that he wasn’t willing to consider escaping — since he saw no opportunity to do so, he didn’t feel he needed to make a decision about whether he would take it.

Even more importantly for Kerald, Overseer Hendrick was free with the whip and other, more creative punishments that tortured Kerald in a most pleasing way. Ever since he was a boy, Kerald had loved to feel the sting of the whip on his backside, the way it burned and how its pain snuck its way up and down his body. He loved the tender way Overseer Hendrick would tie a man to the stocks and whip him until he bled.

Kerald had to pretend he didn’t like it, of course, or he might have been in trouble with Master Armstrong for perversion. That was who owned the plantation, Kerald himself and the other slaves, and who employed Overseer Hendrick. Kerald didn’t know Master Armstrong well, as he was not a house slave, but he knew he was a conservative man who did not believe in sexual indiscretion.

The penalty for perversion would have been much less pleasurable than the sweet agony he was normally subjected to, he was sure. Refusing to fear punishment was, he thought, the only real way to rebel without legal freedom. What could they do to him if he simply delighted in his punishment?

He managed to keep his secret passion for pain a secret until one fateful day in early June. It was the height of the tobacco season in Virginia, so they were all under a great deal of pressure to work hard. Tobacco harvesting was difficult labor, performed exclusively by men whose shoulders grew to the size of watermelons as they aged. Kerald loved the tobacco smell clinging to their sweat when they allowed him to service them in the evening.

Kerald was not as big as some of the men, and though he could work hard when he wanted to, he decided to have a little fun today. Nothing exciting had happened in months, so he was eager to get his blood boiling. He lingered and walked slowly, slumping his back as he worked. He didn’t want to make it too obvious that he was trying to get caught.

“Get yer ass in gear!” Overseer Hendrick shouted. He cracked the whip near Kerald’s body, not striking him, but reminding him with a sharp pop that punishment was nigh.

“Aye, sir,” Kerald said. He glared at Hendrick sullenly, looking into his deep, tan eyes as though they were equals. Hendrick was white but had a certain swarthiness that suggested he had some muddied ancestry, which he vehemently denied. He was mean-faced and hard-bodied, spending most of his free time working his arms and chest. He greatly feared a slave revolt and so was always armed, ready to go against any Negro who challenged him.

“You eyeballing me, nigger?” Hendrick asked.

Kerald sneered as hotness flushed through him. Hendrick was menacing, brandishing the whip and getting ready to use it. He glowered down at Kerald, who was aware of the other slaves stopping work, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away from Hendrick’s cruel gaze. The hot Virginia sun baked Negro flesh and sweat all around him, the scent seeping into his nostrils along with the acrid vegetative odor of picked tobacco.

The whip hit Kerald on the side of the belly, and a bit of flesh flew apart alongside a burst of blood. Kerald moaned, remembering to make it sound more painful than sensual only halfway through moaning, his timbre shifting suddenly to agony. Lightning hot desire shot through his veins, and his mind flooded with images of his animalistic rutting by the other slaves at night. He hoped the rough rags he wore concealed his growing erection.

“How does that feel, nigger?”

“Awful,” Kerald lied.

“You gonna work harder?”

Kerald knew he should have just accepted what he got, not sought out more, but he couldn’t resist. It might have been that Hendrick was shirtless today, his powerful chest dappled with his own sweat — he only did that when all of the white women at the house were away, which was rare. A few drops of Hendrick’s sweat had landed on Kerald’s face when he cracked the whip, and the taste almost made Kerald ejaculate without even touching himself. The salty flavor of manhood made his knees grow weak.

“No, sir!” Kerald said. The other slaves laughed, thinking he was standing up to Hendrick. But a few of them saw that Kerald had a throbbing erection visible through his torn trousers.

The whip bit again, hitting Kerald on the thigh. More blood ran down his legs, and he grunted, barely able to conceal his sexualized excitement. The slaves near him murmured to each other as they noticed his erection one by one.

“I love you!” Kerald blurted. He instantly regretted it, but he went on anyway. “Thank you, Overseer Hendrick, for everything you do. I hope you can continue to punish me forever.”

Hendrick looked at him in shock, as did the other slaves. He sternly pointed to the stockade on the other end of the farm. “You can stay there until nightfall,” he said and spat on the ground, then turned to address the other slaves. “And don’t none of you sodomize him while he’s in there either. Wouldn’t want to take the risk he might enjoy it.”

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