Muslims Downlow

This is a sample chapter from Muslims Downlow, a new story in the Str8 Studs Downlow series.

Malik’s heart raced as he saw his old friends on a stoop. They stared at him with an emotion that wasn’t exactly hostility, but wasn’t far from it either. He didn’t stop, but he said confidently and proudly, “Hey,” as he walked by.

They nodded at him. Their gold and platinum chains twinkled in the lamp-lit urban night. They drank from bottles wrapped in paper bags, bottles that Malik knew were sweet and thirst-quenching. He could imagine what they would taste like.

It was almost enough to make him regret his conversion. But not quite.

He knew that, while indulging in temptations had its own immediate rewards, he was going to win a better battle in the long run. He was going to stay out of prison and off the streets.

By the time he arrived at the mosque, his stress had vanished, replaced by certainty. That was what he loved about Islam — it gave him an answer to every dilemma. Before he had always worried about what he was doing, whether it was wrong, whether he had sufficient justification, or if God would punish him. Now he had a belief system that covered every possibility.

Unfortunately there was no imam at the mosque anymore, the last one having succumbed to cancer a few months before. They were a poor group of faithful, and could not afford to offer a living wage to anyone who would come. So for the time being, they worshiped the best they could amongst themselves, the tiny Muslim community of Asuncion, Texas.

The most educated Muslim there was Brother Omar, an Arab from Saudi Arabia who had wished to go to a madrasa and become an imam, but never had. He acted as a default imam as he was quite well-learned, and after the day’s service, Brother Omar invited Malik back to his home for tea, as he often did.

“It is difficult not having an imam,” Malik said. “In prison, I saw Imam Ibrahim every day, almost. I could ask him anything I wanted.”

“Is there something you wish to ask, Brother Malik? I can give you guidance in proper Islam to the best of my knowledge.”

“I… succumbed to temptation last weekend,” Malik said.

“What was it?”

“I went to a strip club. I didn’t mean to, I was just walking by. I told myself I’d go in, just to remind myself how dirty it was, how the girls weren’t really attractive…”

“Did that work?”

“No. One of them offered to suck my dick for eighty bucks, and I did it.”

“Did that make you feel better?”

“I guess…. No, it did not,” Malik said. He sighed. “I have prayed for forgiveness.”

“Have you performed wudu?”

“Yes,” Malik said.

“Do you truly regret your actions with the whore?”

“Yes.”

“It is normal for men to succumb to temptation. That’s why Allah wisely prohibits most of it. Of course, here in America, Islamic law does not hold sway,” he said, frowning. “You should write the whore a letter, apologizing for your actions and condemning hers. Do not send it, just write it.”

“Oh, okay,” Malik said. The more he thought about it, the more he thought that would help him feel better. “I’m still not sure it won’t happen again though. I wish I could move somewhere under Islamic law.”

“You are feeling very randy, yes?”

Malik didn’t understand what he meant at first, then remembered that Omar had been taught British English. He smiled. He had never heard anyone outside of Austin Powers, and imitators thereof, use the word randy. He nodded.

“I have often succumbed to similar temptations. That is one pitfall of living in America. It is easier in Saudi Arabia.”

“I would move there if I could.”

“Aye, as would I,” Brother Omar said. “I have these same urges as you. They are a part of the universal brotherhood of Islamic men. We can and should help each other to protect ourselves from impure influences.”

“How?”

“We can do it ourselves.”

“What?”

“If we trade each other’s blowjobs — what I believe you Americans call downlow — we can avoid fornication with whores and sluts. It is, of course, also a sin to lie with man, but it is a lesser sin, as there is no chance of illegitimate pregnancy. It is also certain that you will not do so unless you truly feel you can not avoid your urges any other way,” Brother Omar said. “It is okay if you do not want to.”

“No, you’re right. It’s better than the alternative.”

“If you are distracted by base urges, you will not be holy for hours. It is better to quickly discharge, perform wudu and continue with your holy living,” Brother Omar said. He stood up and took off his shirt and pants.

Malik was surprised. He had never thought such a thing would be allowed in Islam, but it did make sense. He had been on the downlow in prison, so the prospect of sucking a little dick didn’t phase him.

It wasn’t little though, he saw, trying to hide his amazement. Omar had a thick, long member dangling from a hairy bush. He was uncircumcised. He gave his own dick a few strokes, and Malik did likewise as he dropped his pants.

Malik was glad to see that Omar intended to go first. He got on his knees and pulled Malik’s cock out from the fly of his boxers, sucking it down in one fluid motion. He choked as the tip poked down his throat.

A feeling of intense pleasure washed up Malik’s spine. His toes curled and he felt his cock harden. A familiar calming fell over his body, and he remembered why he loved blowjobs so much.

Omar’s tongue caressed his shaft, licking up drops of precum. Malik moaned and guided Omar’s head up and down. His sense of shame vanished, replaced by a burgeoning pleasurable sensation, a familiar feeling of intense passion.

He shuddered, momentarily forgetting that he wasn’t a gangsta anymore. He slammed his dick deep down Omar’s throat like he would have done with a bitch, then felt bad and pulled out a little. He let Omar move up and down on his cockshaft.

Cum spurted out suddenly, and Malik grunted. He didn’t even think about pulling out — they never did in prison, after all. But as his orgasm made his knees weaken, Malik saw Omar gag. He shuddered and grunted with the climax washing over his muscles.

All of Malik’s load spat out over his shaft as Omar spat it up. He got up and looked down at Malik crossly.

“You’re not supposed to cum in your Islamic brother’s mouth.”

“Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to. That’s how it normally works in American downlow,” Malik said.

Omar nodded his understanding, though he still looked unhappy, and a bit queasy about it. He motioned for Malik to take his turn. He got down on his knees, opened his mouth and took it down. Back in prison, he would have hated this part, but now he rather liked working for forgiveness considering the sin he had just partook in. He knew Omar had been right — if he was with a woman, he would be overcome with passion for hours; this downlow action was enough to calm his nuts but not seriously challenge his devotion to Allah.

Arab cock tastes different from black cock, Malik thought, somehow saltier and more flavorful. He gagged a little just as Omar had, but he managed to avoid spitting up.

Omar got hard quickly, and the foul, sour taste of precum leaked into Malik’s tongue. It reminded him of prison, and all the terrible things he had witnessed there; that, in turn, reminded him of why had become Muslim. He submitted there, as stoic and placid as he could, repeating prayers in his mind since his mouth was full.

Omar said something in Arabic just before he came. His toes curled and he held Malik’s head in place, face-fucking him.

Semen leaked out past his lips. Malik knew he couldn’t complain about the facefucking even though he hated it, since he had done the same thing when it was his turn. The sour and salty flavor of cum coated his tongue and throat.

Malik spat a wad of spit and semen out onto his hand, and gagged a few more times as Omar pulled away. They both stood and silently got dressed again.

“Thank you, Brother Malik,” Omar said. “I will feel much better after wudu and a prayer.”

Greasers Downlow

This is a sample chapter from Greasers Downlow, a new story in the Str8 Studs Downlow series.

The sun was going down, so Vinnie followed Gio back to Gio’s mother’s apartment. She’d be at work for a couple more hours, which meant they wouldn’t have to put up with her just yet. Vinnie was careful not to mention to Gio how much his mother annoyed him. Vinnie carefully slicked his hair back with an oil-saturated comb he kept in his front pocket, just in case Gio’s sister was there.

Along the way, however, Vinnie spotted some wise guys they didn’t like, guys who came from the other side of Staten Island. He didn’t want to see guys like that in his neighborhood. Just like Vinnie and Gio, they were greasers, with hair slicked back and black leather jackets despite the weather. Curly black hairs poked out the V-neck t-shirts they both wore beneath the jackets.

Gio saw them too, and they both reacted the same way — they didn’t want to start trouble, but they weren’t about to just walk away. They leaned against the brick wall of the YMCA building, casually watching the two guys from across the street.

Passersby watched, avoiding eye contact with Vinnie though he could tell that they saw the hostility between the two pairs of men. Gio bristled. Vinnie ransacked his memory trying to remember who these guys were. He knew them from around, but couldn’t quite recall when they had met.

Should they fight? Vinnie knew the answer was no, but he had a feeling they might rumble anyway. If they came through this neighborhood without showing proper respect to Vinnie, Gio or their buddies, then Vinnie would feel obligated to use force to maintain control over this part of Staten Island. Was it dangerous to fight them? Neither were part of any mafia family that Vinnie knew of, but he was sure that was a possibility he couldn’t rule out.

They had come out of a barbershop — Mister Torelli’s — and carried a nondescript box, one under each arm. They looked heavy, but both young men were bulging with muscles and Catholic tattoos. One had a Virgin Mary visible on his wrist poking out from beneath the jacket sleeve. On their head sat ratty looking hats, which Vinnie thought was typical of greasers from the other side of Staten Island. They had no class and didn’t even bother to look like they were ashamed of how they dressed.

“They look like trashy street rats. We don’t need greasers like them in this neighborhood,” Gio said.

They were coming towards the pair, grinning as though they had meant to meet them. “Hey, hey,” said the taller of the two. “We know you, right?”

Vinnie nodded. He didn’t want to seem like he was accepting them in his neighborhood, and he still wasn’t sure how he knew them. “That liquor?” he asked, nodding to the unlabeled bags they carried. “Liquor with no stamp?”

He didn’t need to wait for an answer. He knew. That was Mister Torelli’s main business. The haircuts were just a front.

“Look, we wasn’t hornin’ in on yer territory, or nothin’,” said the tall one. He growled a little as he spoke, not too aggressively, just enough to make it clear he didn’t think he needed to be polite. “Our discount liquor guy got busted last week. We heard Mister Torelli ran a nice shop over here.”

The shorter one spoke up. He was more nervous and less confident than the tall one. “Let’s share a little. We’ve got enough we can drink a bit, and we ain’t expected back to the north side for a couple hours. You got a place around here?”

Vinnie nodded as Gio showed them to his mother’s place, which was right down the street. Vinnie was glad now that Gio’s sister wasn’t there, because she would have complained about Gio’s greaser buddies. She might have gotten her mother to kick them out — she didn’t like greasers and barely tolerated even Gio and Vinnie.

As soon as they walked in the front door, the shorter one, Ricky, sighed and drank from a bottle of whiskey. He screwed his face up as though he didn’t like it, but he drank for several seconds before passing the bottle around. He was in such a hurry to get drunk, Vinnie thought, just like everyone from his nieghborhood — drunkards and trashy bums, all of them.

“Hey, you two ever circlejerk?”

“What’s that?”

The taller one, Monte, grinned. “We’re about to go find some girls to spend the night with… You know, we got plenty on tap. But we like to make sure we don’t finish up too early. That means a dry run earlier in the day.”

Vinnie made a masturbation motion with his hand, and Monte nodded. He had thought that was probably what it was. Vinnie didn’t much like the idea. His father had told him they did it in the Army, but Vinnie had promised he’d never do anything like that.

“A circlejerk is the same thing, but better. We all stand in a circle and jerk each other off. If you close your eyes, you can forget it’s not a chick on your cock.”

Monte and the shorter guy, Ricky, arranged themselves in a circle with Vinnie and Gio. They were both very casual about it, as though they did this all the time. Vinnie was uncertain of himself but didn’t want to make that obvious — his buddy Gio wasn’t hesitating at all, so Vinnie did likewise. He was glad he had a noticeably huge cock, so he was at least in no risk of being embarrassed by that.

Gio touched Vinnie’s dick, and when he did, a powerful electric feeling shot up Vinnie’s spine. He was nervous. What if he couldn’t get it up? What if he got it up too easily? What if he got another’s man’s cum on him? His father had never given him any details on how this worked.

He hesitated before touching Monte. He had always called people faggots as an insult, and now here he was touching another man’s dick. He couldn’t believe it. He could smell the cheap hair pomade that Monte must have used — Vinnie preferred to spend money on a high-class grease that kept his head shiny and sexy without drying out.

Monte’s cockshaft was thick and fleshy and clammy, and it jumped to attention as soon as Vinnie gave it a stroke. He was so intent on jacking Monte off that he didn’t even notice his own dick getting hard in Gio’s hands.

When the first pulse of pleasure shot up his arm like an electric jolt, Vinnie had to suppress a moan so he didn’t look like a faggot who genuinely enjoyed this. He felt precum leaking out of his cock, and more coming from Monte’s rod. It should have been disgusting, he thought, another man’s spermy juice lubing up his hand. But his mind was focused enough on his own dick that he didn’t feel too ashamed by his actions.

The fourth man, Ricky, shot his load first. Vinnie wasn’t paying attention so it was a surprise when he smelled that powerful cummy scent overwhelming him. A thick wad of cum sat, hot and stinking, on the towel Gio had placed in the center of the room.

Gio was next, leaving Vinnie and Monte as the only two remaining. Gio’s ropy muscles flexed and writhed as he came, and he moaned in an almost pained way; it was awkward for Vinnie to see his friend like this, and he was glad it only lasted a few moments.

With his mind distracted, Vinnie suddenly recalled where he had met Monte — at a party in central Staten Island, where Monte had accidentally spilled a drink on Ernest Markham, a fellow greaser from Vinnie’s neighborhood. Ernest and Monte had fought on the front lawn then, too drunk for the fight to be meaningful (they each missed most of the punches they threw), and eventually they both collapsed on the grass in a state of drunken exhaustion.

That made Vinnie feel better. He didn’t like not knowing where he had met Monte or, by extension, what Monte knew about him. But now he was confident that Monte remembered little or nothing from that fight. Vinnie jacked Monte off fast and furiously, hoping to slow Monte down. Vinnie didn’t want to be the center of attention if he was last.

Monte’s muscular body bucked, and his body hair shook, dislodging a few droplets of sweat that Vinnie could taste on his tongue. He gagged at the realization that Monte was cumming, and that the fluid sensation on his fingers was Monte’s semen. He even imagined feeling little sperm swimming into the space between his fingers and nails.

Now it was only Vinnie, and he had to close his eyes to focus. He was glad that Gio was on his dick because it wasn’t a stranger, and he didn’t think he’d be able to do it if he didn’t know the man touching him.

He had been worried about cumming too soon, but now Vinnie was even more self-conscious about being slow. Cumming first might have made him look like a faggot, and now cumming last made him look like a weakling.

But finally his orgasm came, and Vinnie shut his eyes. He shot a thick load across the floor and towel, and ignored Gio’s nervous giggling as he got cum on his fingers. He sighed and moaned. He was so desperate to cum he barely even noticed the rush of orgasmic pleasure ricocheting up his spine.

Breathing heavily, Vinnie tried to look nonchalant. He murmured that he’d gotten better handjobs from girls before, but it didn’t look like anyone was even listening. They were comparing who shot their loads further, and passing around the bottle of whiskey.

Vinnie took the bottle with a grin as he pulled his pants back up. “Thanks,” he said. “I needed that.”

The Taming of a Werewolf

This is a sample chapter from the Taming of a Werewolf, a femdom/alpha male/shifter story in the Taming of Man series.

Betty pulled into the Tipper family home. She wasn’t sure if both Sam and Forrest lived there, or if it was just Sam, but she hoped to see them both. She had looked up Sam online and found that he offered his services as an independent contractor, with a home address listed right around the corner from her new house. Forrest appeared to live entirely off the radar, however.

The driveway was just a smattering of gravel. The front lawn was patchy with grass and bits of old cars rusting in the sun. The home was a large, dilapidated trailer that looked like it used to be state-of-the-art, perhaps back in the 70s.

Sitting in the front lawn and watching her get out of her car was Sam, his young body lined with sweat and dust. He was shirtless again — she deduced he was almost always shirtless — and his ropy chest gleamed in the sunlight. He sat up on a bench press, his muscles heaving with exhaustion.

“Hello, Mr. Tipper,” she said. She didn’t want to admit she had come looking for sex, so she began her practiced excuse. She explained that she wanted to rebuild the crumbling shed near her home, but that required a planning permit and, for that, she needed to allow her neighbors an opportunity to object.

“Reckon t’ain’t none of my business what you build. It’s yer land,” Sam said.

“I’ll send you the paperwork to sign, and I’ll make it worth your while,” Betty said.

“Oh?”

She grinned and approached him. He leaned back on the bench, his thick trunk-like legs splayed out past the bench edge. Drops of sweat sat on his broad shoulders, and Betty had to force herself not to lick them off right then and there.

“Is it just you and your uncle here?” Betty asked.

“My momma lives here too,” Sam said. “But she ain’t here right now. You wanna go in?”

“I have rather a lot to do today,” she said with a smile.

Sam smiled back at her. “I’m having second thoughts about that shed. Worried it might disrupt the groundhog habitat around here. Maybe you should show me the arguments you’ve put together.”

She mounted his legs, moaning as her hands danced along his powerful, ropy chest. She tweaked both of his nipples in turn. “I think no groundhogs could get hurt,” she said, “As long as we find a way to fill up all those holes.” She felt silly saying this kind of sexual innuendo — it would have made her laugh if it was in a movie — but Sam apparently saw it as valid dirty-talk. Again, she thought, men were so easy.

He smiled again and sat up, picking her up in his arms. She yelped in surprise, then melted into his powerful frame as he carried her inside. She licked the dusty sweat off his biceps.

In moments, they were both naked, their clothes on the floor around them. Betty shuddered with anticipation as he motioned for her to mount his face. She meant to say something else sexy, but when his tongue plunged into her pussy, she forgot all the words she had ever known.

She arched her back. Her nails dug into his flesh, making him howl in pain and her smile in response. She loved watched his corded muscles tense with every touch of her fingers on his skin. He pawed at the ground as though overcome by passion and reverting to a more bestial form. She moaned alongside his deep-throated howl.

Her hands grasped wildly around the bed, clasping the bedposts and nightstand, which she knocked over. Boxes of flea shampoo for dogs spilled out onto the floor, where it joined his piles of hunting gear and torn t-shirts.

His tongue lapped at her body as he moved up from her pussy to her tits and then face. His skin was pocked with bloody rills from her fingers, little crimson dots and smears lining the back of his head, shoulders and neck. He panted into her ear while his pulsating manhood poked into her flesh.

Her orgasm began the moment his cock brushed past her clit on its way inside. She grunted in an embarrassingly unladylike way, and bit into his shoulder the feeling was so intense.

She tasted hair, and for a moment her orgasm dissipated. Did he have a hairy back? She hadn’t noticed that, and now that she looked, there was only a few stubbly blond hairs on the front part of his shoulder, nothing on his smooth back. But for a moment, she had sworn she tasted thick, kinky body fur.

It must have been her imagination, she thought as he pushed deeper inside her. Her orgasm began anew, an electric buzzing deep in her body pushing out and spreading to encompass her entire awareness. It was even more potent than it had been before, as his manhood filled her up inside.

He yelped as he thrust a few final times, his sweaty chest flexing atop her. They writhed in overwhelming bliss as he shot her full of his juice. She didn’t usually forgo condoms, but she had never even thought about it this time; she loved the feeling of his seed leaking out of her and down between the hairs of his thigh.

They lay, spent, on the floor of his bedroom. It was a typical young bachelor’s room, stinking of dirty clothes, porn-lite magazines scattered around, a few food encrusted dishes, bottles of protein powder and cheap cologne samples here and there.

“Thank you, Samuel,” she said, gathering her breath, trying to sound nonchalant. That had been one of the most passionate lovemaking experiences of her life. She didn’t want to let him know that.

“No, thank you, ma’am, that was amazing,” he said, then blushed. “Guess we know each other too well for ma’am.”

“No, I like it. Keep calling me ma’am,” she said. “Young men should always be that respectful to elder women.” She normally would have hated referring to herself as elder, but she thought it worked for her here. Sam obviously didn’t mind being fifteen some-odd years younger than her.

He nodded. She stood up and began putting her clothes on.

“You leaving already?”

“Yes. We’re not having a relationship, Samuel,” she said. She didn’t want to look at him, for fear of seeing the face of a brokenhearted man. She had never intended to hurt him, just use his dick for a couple minutes and move on.

“Oh. I mean… I know that, I just…”

“I will tell you when I am ready to go again,” she said. “I will call you. Answer.”

“So it’s just up to you? I don’t get a say in it?”

“Of course you get a say. When I call you, you can say yes or no. Since you’re a man, I know you’ll say yes,” she said.

He thought for a moment. “Yes.”

Arrested by a Sheriff

This is a sample chapter from Arrested by a Sheriff by Bubba Marshall.

Scott was almost glad he had been arrested for the cause. He was sure he’d get a lot of national attention for it; he’d be sure to get an award from the ACLU, he thought. He chatted amicably with the cop who arrested him, Officer Ramsburg, on the way to the jail. It was a very friendly arrest.

He had registered more than two hundred voters in Bumcraw, Alabama, before Ramsburg arrested him for voter fraud. As far as he was concerned, it was a success despite the arrest, which he didn’t even understand — nobody was voting, just signing up to register to vote.

Scott’s elation dwindled as he was processed at jail, and the friendly Officer Ramsburg was replaced by a succession of dim-eyed cops in dingy uniforms.

Then he was finally shoved into a jail cell. Six black men were there, glaring in his direction though none of them made eye contact with him. They flexed their muscles beneath their civilian clothes.

Scott nodded politely and sat down on an empty bench in one corner of the large cell. He would have to walk next to the men to get to the toilet, he realized, and he hoped he would be released before he had to go.

One of the black men sidled next to him, and grinned in a menacing, grim way. “Wuzzup, whiteboi?”

“Hello,” Scott said. His heart pounded in his chest.

“You ever been a prison bitch?”

“No….” Scott said. He wanted to sound confident but knew he didn’t.

The black man placed one hand on Scott’s shoulder. It was heavy, weighing him down, and the black man scooted closer, so they were virtually hugging.

“You wanna take it in the ass or the mouth,” he said.

Scott stammered. “N-n-n-n-either….”

The black man stood up, seemingly about to attack Scott, when the cell door opened up. All of the black men fell silent, and glared at Scott, openly this time.

“Come on,” said Officer Ramsburg, “Come with me.”

Scott gladly followed orders and walked out of the cell. He could feel twelve black eyes watching him. He thought he was going to be arraigned, but was surprised to find that Ramsburg brought him to a plainly decorated office.

“So you thought you could come to my town and register a bunch of Democrats?” Ramsburg asked as he sat behind his desk.

Scott realized with mounting fear that he was trapped with Ramsburg and no witnesses. His hands were cuffed. He couldn’t do anything but submit.

“It’s their right to vote, it’s-“

“Don’t you talk to me about rights! Half of them were felons anyway, son,” he said.

“Then the state will reject their application,” Scott said.

“You saw what those animals were like in that cell.”

“They didn’t do anything to me.”

“We both know they was about to,” Ramsburg. “I thought I’d let you out before that happens, give you a second chance.”

“A second chance to do what?”

“To show me the respect I deserve as an officer of the law.”

Scott sat there quietly, trying to decide what Officer Ramsburg was suggesting. What should he do that was more respectful than he had been? He hadn’t insulted Ramsburg at all. “How?… How should I show respect, sir?”

Ramsburg leaned back in the chair behind his desk. His legs were spread wide, a thick bulge in his tight slacks plainly apparent in front of Scott’s face. He almost looked like he was suggesting he wanted a blowjob, Scott thought, but he was probably just trying to be intimidating. Probably.

“I’m sure you’ll think of a way. Voter fraud is a serious crime, Scott. It’s a felony. If coupled with a violent crime, it requires a minimum two year jail bid.”

“I didn’t do anything violent.”

“Are you sure?” Officer Ramsburg picked up a piece of paper and pretended to scrutinize it. “I think my report here suggests you resisted arrest and assaulted an officer.”

“What? No, I didn’t.”

“That’s what the report says.”

“It’s wrong!”

“Are you calling me a liar? That’s not very respectful, Scott,” Officer Ramsburg said. “You’re off to a bad start.” He paused and began unbuttoning his shirt, revealing the powerful barrel chest beneath the uniform. He was wearing a white sleeveless t-shirt underneath. “You’re going to have to show a lot of respect.”

He was now getting a very strong impression that Ramsburg wanted a blowjob. Did he think he was gay? He wasn’t gay, but he was a fashionable and sophisticated urban man, and a small town Southern sheriff like Ramsburg might think he was gay. Scott was terrified and couldn’t have asked to suck his dick even if he had wanted to.

“I don’t like outside agitators coming in and stirring things up, Scott. I don’t like that at all. You urban homosexual elite always want to-“

“I’m not gay!”

“Don’t interrupt me, Scott. I’ll interpret any interruption as a physical assault, and I’ll document it as such. So not another word, got it?”

Scott nodded.

“Good. You’re a rabble-rouser, Scott,” he said. He stood up and stripped off his white t-shirt. His chest was powerfully strapped with muscles and hair, a few military tattoos visible on his pecs and upper biceps. He picked up a civilian shirt as though he was going to change, then stopped and held it in his hand. His crotch was only a few inches from Scott’s head. “Have you figured out how to show me some respect?”

Scott shook his head.

“You ain’t makin’ this easy, son,” he said. He put a hand on Scott’s shoulder and squeezed it gently. “I bet if you think long and hard, you’ll come up with a plan.”

“Are… Are you trying to get me to suck your dick?” Scott’s voice sounded impossibly small and weak.

“I’m trying to find a reason to let you go home,” he said. “I don’t wanna keep you in that jail cell with those animals for the next couple years. You’re the one who ain’t got nothin’ to offer but a nice warm mouth.”

Scott quivered with fear but he knew what he had to do. His mouth slowly opened as though of its own accord, while he couldn’t think about anything but Officer Ramsburg’s eyes staring deep into Scott’s.

“What do you want me to do with that mouth?”

“What…? Sir?”

“I wanna hear you say it.”

“I’ll… suck your dick if you let me go,” Scott said.

“I know,” Officer Ramsburg said. He unbuttoned his slacks and let his musty, sweat-stinking cock flop out between his fingers. “But you’ll suck my dick even if I don’t let you go.” He then plunged his cock all the way into Scott’s mouth, plunging deep inside.

He was hard almost right away. Scott felt his fleshy shaft thickening inside his throat, and the flavor of his musky manhood overwhelmed Scott’s nostrils. It all began so fast Scott didn’t resist at all, he just swallowed Ramsburg’s cock and then choked on it in his neck.

The sound of Ramsburg’s radio flickering into life startled Scott, who heard a bored female voice repeating numbers into the ether. Scott’s nose buried in Ramsburg’s wiry pubic hair, which smelled of copper and baby powder. Ramsburg’s cock pulsated stiffly inside him, leaking precum right down his gullet. The salty flavor suffused into his tongue, and he could even smell Ramsburg’s cockshaft in his nostrils.

“Look up at me while you suck my dick,” Ramsburg said. Scott obliged though he blushed as he made eye contact with Officer Ramsburg’s cruel green-irised orbs.

Scott’s eyes frantically darted away, but he forced himself back to staring upwards so as to avoid angering Officer Ramsburg. His body bucked as though rejecting the cock in his throat, and he felt like he was trying to vomit but couldn’t because his neck was plugged up.

“Don’t fight me, Scott,” he said. “I ain’t gonna fuck yo’ face. That would be disrespectful of me. This is a choice you are gonna have to make.”

Scott’s face turned red, and he looked at the crotch in front of his face until Ramsburg barked at him not to break eye contact. He felt like he couldn’t deep-throat Ramsburg’s cock any further; there was about an inch left but he was unable to move his head any farther down. Spit leaked from his nostrils already, and his eyes watered from lack of oxygen.

“If I don’t feel your nose on my skin,” he said, “Then you ain’t doin’ it right. You showin’ respect or what? Those niggas in there would be treating you twice as bad, by the way, they’d be doing this to both holes, and they wouldn’t be letting you run it neither.” Ramsburg snorted in frustration, wrapped both his hands around the back of Scott’s head and bent his knees slightly. “Do you want me to show you how far down my dick will go?” He didn’t wait for a response, he just pushed his hips forward and used his hands to keep Scott from moving away.

Scott felt a tremendous pressure inside his throat, and he thought he might pass out from lack of oxygen. Ramsburg wasn’t even humping anymore, just holding his dick in Scott’s throat and sighing as the last few millimeters disappeared past Scott’s lips.

Finally his nose was pressed against Ramsburg’s crotch, his whole face buried by pubic hair. Ramsburg’s cock was so far down his throat that Scott couldn’t even taste it as Ramsburg began cumming.

Ramsburg snorted as he orgasmed, his whole body bucking beneath the uniform shirt and slacks. Cum flowed from his dick straight into Scott’s gullet. He felt it sitting there, hot and heavy in his belly.

Scott pulled away and gasped for breath tears twinkling in his eyes from lack of oxygen. The flavor of cum then hit his tongue as Ramsburg shot a few more drops of semen, their salty-cotton taste coating Scott’s mouth. He burped up a bubble of fluid, mostly cum but also spit and bile, which spilled out his mouth and down his chin. It stank horribly, Scott thought, and he gagged again.

“Alright, maggot. Let’s get you ready to learn your next lesson,” Officer Ramsburg said.

Sapphic Embrace: The Biker

Here’s a sample chapter from Sapphic Embrace: The Biker by Kathleen S. Molligger.

 

Men are supposed to hit a mid-life crisis in their forties, and buy an impractical, unsafe vehicle. Lisa was not a man, but on her fortieth birthday, she woke up with the terrible realization that she was lonely. It almost seemed reasonable to buy a sports car. She had never wanted kids, and the thought of raising a child still made her uneasy, so why was her fortieth birthday filling her with dread? She felt like she had wasted her life, but aside from a regrettable marriage that was now over, that wasn’t really true. She had achieved more or less everything she had ever wanted to.

 

So she spent all morning trying to convince herself it was a day like any other. There is nothing special about today, she told herself as she ate breakfast. She had taken the day off work, but now wished she hadn’t. It would be better if she could just go in and get her mind off her inevitable demise.

 

If she was a pre-modern woman, she would have probably died of dysentery or something by now. She would be an old spinster, or maybe would have been burned for being a witch like other childless women.

 

She decided to go for a drive. It was her birthday, she could treat herself to breaking her diet, frivolous spending, whatever she wanted, anything that would get her mind off her age. She felt bad about unnecessary driving due to its effect on the environment, but reasoned that a man would probably have bought a car, which would be much worse, so this was, on the whole, an acceptable way to spend her fortieth birthday.

 

When she told herself she could spend frivolously, she was thinking shoes, maybe a dress, household furnishings, a new laptop. But somehow, a little after noon, she found herself stopping at a motorcycle dealership.

 

She told herself it was just for fun, to see what it was like. She took one for a spin around the track there at the shop, and discovered she loved the thrill of power rumbling between her legs. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before, more exciting even than bungee jumping, she thought, and that had seemed life-altering at the time.

 

Much to her surprise, she drove away with that motorcycle thrumming away beneath her. Years of diligent credit score management had paid off. She arranged for her car to be delivered back to her house, then went out to continue the ride on her brand-new motorcycle.

 

Even on a dangerous thrill-ride like this, Lisa remained practical. She knew she was new to motorcycling, so she drove well below the speed limit, stopped early and often, and pulled over whenever a car started driving behind her.

 

Where to drive a motorcycle on its maiden voyage? She couldn’t decide on a place to go. The more she thought about it, the more Lisa realized it was a bad purchase. So she made up her mind to go somewhere she never went, somewhere she could stop thinking about this awful, financially foolish decision.

 

She couldn’t believe she had talked herself into going to that biker bar in Norfolk. For one thing, she didn’t like bars. For another thing, she wasn’t a biker. For a third thing, the only reason she even knew where it was was because it had been in the news lately as the scene of a double-stabbing.

 

Outside were a group of tough men in black leather, adorned with stylized blue roses and crude patches. The news had said the murders were linked to the Blue Rose motorcycle gang, so the sight of those crudely sewn azure roses on their jackets made her spine shiver.

 

When she walked in, she felt conspicuous. They weren’t all staring at her but she had a feeling they were watching her closely. She considered leaving, but she didn’t want this trip to be a failure. She could at least get through one drink, she thought as she sit at a small corner table.

 

The waitress was a flouncy, trashy type, and Lisa surreptitiously wiped off the glass of beer with a disinfectant wipe before drinking from it. But the cheap beer felt real and made her feel alive. She felt like she could do anything.

 

She finished her beer and considered whether she should stay for another. It still seemed like the men of the bar — almost all of the patrons were men, wearing leather jackets with crude patches, amateur tattoos covering their bodies and, sometimes, faces — were all watching her. It must have been obvious she didn’t belong here. It would have been flattering if it weren’t frightening and a little insulting, as though they thought she wasn’t going to be able to handle herself in a place like this.

 

“You lookin’ to get gangbanged by these goatfuckers tonight?” asked a gruff woman’s voice. Lisa was startled to see a curvy, athletic-looking woman sit down near her.

 

“Uh… No, definitely not.”

 

“Then you might wanna pretend you’re on a date with me,” she said. “My name’s Kendra, and they all know I’m a lesbian.”

 

“Oh… Okay,” Lisa said. “I’m not a lesbian. Not that there’s anything wrong that.”

 

“That’s okay, I’m not looking to get laid either. That’s the nice thing about women: we’re not always looking for sex,” Kendra said.

 

“Am I… safe here?”

 

Kendra shrugged. “No. You ain’t safe anywhere in this world, sweetheart.”

 

“I guess not.”

 

“Lemme buy you a drink. What was that, beer?” Kendra peered in Lisa’s empty glass. “You need to grow a clit, lady. Two whiskeys!” She called out to the bartender. “Make ‘em Canadian, make ‘em rye.” Kendra smiled at Lisa. “I’m technically Canadian.”

 

“Oh, wow a Canadian lesbian? That must be tough,” Lisa said with a giggle.

 

Kendra laughed too, then made a mean face at a biker who was approaching their table. “Get away, Gearbox.”

 

“Oh, is she a dyke?” asked the man.

 

“Her orientation is none of your business,” Kendra said, “But I’ll tell you what she’s not: interested in anything covered in grease and prison tats.”

 

Gearbox grumbled away, upset but embarrassed by his friends, who laughed at Kendra’s words. Lisa smiled at her, wishing she could come up with witty retorts like that.

 

“Thanks,” Lisa said.

 

“You wanna get out of here?” Kendra asked. She had to raise her voice to be heard. “It’s only gonna get louder and more crowded with guys tryin’ to hit on you.”

 

Lisa nodded. She was glad to be getting out of the bar, away from those eyes she could still feel roving up her backside as she followed Kendra out.

 

“You got a car?” Kendra asked, nodding to the small line of parked cars. There were many times more motorcycles filling up the gravel lot.

 

Lisa shook her head. “No. I mean, yes, but I didn’t drive it here. I drove that.” She pointed to the motorcycle. “I just bought it today.” She felt like an idiot, like she had revealed herself as a poseur and not a real biker.

 

“Today? No shit. That’s your first bike?”

 

Lisa nodded.

 

Kendra whistled as she looked over the bike. “She’s pretty. I could dive down that muffler,” she said, looking up at Lisa as though making a joke. It must have been an automotive joke, Lisa thought, because she didn’t get it. She laughed politely.

 

“Come on, I got a couple of beginner’s guides to motorcycles, basic mechanics and stuff, I don’t need ‘em anymore. You wanna come back to my place and get ‘em?” Kendra said. “You drive, I’ll ride. Maybe I can give you some tips as we go.”

 

Lisa agreed, though she was sure she’d humiliate herself on the ride. Kendra was obviously an expert, and she began talking before Lisa even drove away. She spoke about the parts of the motorcycle, the sounds it made, how the brakes worked, what might go wrong with it and how to fix it, the history of the Makasuki Automobile Corporation, everything. Between the sound and the wind and her concentration on driving the bike, Lisa couldn’t hear most of what Kendra said, and most of what she did hear was so jargon-laden, she didn’t get it. But she nodded as though she did, and Kendra didn’t seem to notice her ignorance.

 

They pulled to a stop on a barren street-corner in a rough corner of town. Kendra pointed to a townhouse right next to them. “That’s my place,” she said. “Let’s go in. You can put your bike in the backyard.”

 

Her home was spartan and gave few clues to her life. Lisa still felt horny from the powerful motorcycle beneath her feet. Her body was trembling with remnant vibrations, phantomic energy pounding through her body. She was glad her ex-husband wasn’t around, because she would feel tempted to abandon her anger and jump all over him if he were in front of her. She wanted to have sex more at this moment than at any point in her life, even her wedding night (which had been a disappointment, to be honest).

 

Kendra brought her a bottle of beer, dark, rich and bitter, just as Lisa had always expected and hated beer to taste. But this time she agreed to drink it, didn’t complain and even somehow managed to like it a little bit. It was a difficult flavor, but it played well on her tongue, which danced a lively jig in her mouth.

 

“So what did you think? Of your first day riding?” Kendra asked as she sat down next to Lisa.

 

“Oh, it was wonderful! It was like I, uh, I had n…never really, y’know, never been free, or any more free than that, than I was on the bike,” Lisa said, stumbling over her words as she tried to explain what was so great about it. She felt awkward about her stuttering, and then even more awkward when she thought Kendra might be hitting on her. She was so unused to lesbians it hadn’t even occurred to her that Kendra might see this outing as a date. She had agreed to come back to the home of a stranger! A lesbian! How could she have done that? She was so worried about the men taking advantage of her that she hadn’t noticed this lesbian seducing her. Lisa giggled despite her anxiety. “I loved the feeling of the motorcycle beneath my legs, like it’s an extension of my body.” She wanted to say something about it feeling like an orgasming cock between her legs, but she didn’t want to say that in front of Kendra.

 

“That’s right.” Kendra grinned. “Not that your body needs extending.” Kendra’s eyes roamed up and down Lisa’s frame. Lisa would have felt uncomfortable if it was a man, but Kendra was so kind and so thoughtful, Lisa was instead proud. Should she be more awkward? After all, lesbians could be manipulative and dangerous too. (Couldn’t they? She didn’t really know, but presumably, yes!)

 

When Kendra reached for Lisa’s shoulder, Lisa again felt she should stop this. Kendra was obviously seeing this as a date, she decided, so it has to end. Lisa was not a lesbian. She tried to remind herself of that fact, but couldn’t even remember what the other option was as Kendra leaned in closer.

 

Kendra’s soft, wide lips planted on Lisa’s, and she forgot all about her heterosexuality. The kiss was more passionate and more intense than any man’s kiss she had ever experienced, and it made her heart flutter like she was about to have a heart attack.

 

Lisa’s hands moved up to Kendra’s body without Lisa even thinking about it, as though they were moving of their own accord. In seconds, Kendra’s shirt was off, revealing her strong, athletic frame and a plain white bra. Kendra’s plump breasts burst from their wire frame as Lisa took off her own shirt.

 

She had never had lesbian sex. She didn’t even know what lesbians did during sex. She could only guess in her mind as to what lesbian sex constituted. But as she got into the swing of moving with Kendra, her body seemed to know what to do anyway.

 

They were both naked. Kendra’s fingers crept down to Lisa’s pussy, and her thumb planted itself squarely on Lisa’s clit. Lisa moaned, a deep, low and slow sound that seemed to echo in the tiny room.

 

Her own hand did likewise, and she felt Kendra’s moist and hot body surrounding her. All Lisa paid attention to was the feel of Kendra’s mouth on hers; it was as though they were becoming one person, just a pair of mouths with bodies attached, hungrily devouring each other’s flesh.

 

Lisa contorted around Kendra’s fingers as she reached her climax. She arched her back and even dug her nails into Kendra’s back, drawing a few drops of blood before she backed off.

 

They collapsed into a sweaty heap on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. Lisa’s mind reeled with confusion at what she had just gone through. It blew her mind that sex with a woman could be so passionate and incredible. The idea always seemed rather dull to her — the penetration was the best part of sex, who wanted to do just tongue and hand stuff?! — But this was more incredible and mind-blowing than any penis-based interaction had ever been.

 

“Well, thanks,” Kendra said, “I really needed that. I ain’t been laid in some time.”

 

Lisa’s heart fell. She knew this wasn’t a real relationship, but it hadn’t occurred to her that a committed lesbian like Kendra probably saw this as a silly one-night stand, barely even a sexual encounter at all. Had what they did been enough to even technically qualify as sex? Or just advanced foreplay. Lisa didn’t know, and she didn’t want Kendra to know what she was thinking.

 

“Yeah,” Lisa said. “That was nice.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Men are supposed to hit a mid-life crisis in their forties, and buy an impractical, unsafe vehicle. Lisa was not a man, but on her fortieth birthday, she woke up with the terrible realization that she was lonely. It almost seemed reasonable to buy a sports car. She had never wanted kids, and the thought of raising a child still made her uneasy, so why was her fortieth birthday filling her with dread? She felt like she had wasted her life, but aside from a regrettable marriage that was now over, that wasn’t really true. She had achieved more or less everything she had ever wanted to.

 

So she spent all morning trying to convince herself it was a day like any other. There is nothing special about today, she told herself as she ate breakfast. She had taken the day off work, but now wished she hadn’t. It would be better if she could just go in and get her mind off her inevitable demise.

 

If she was a pre-modern woman, she would have probably died of dysentery or something by now. She would be an old spinster, or maybe would have been burned for being a witch like other childless women.

 

She decided to go for a drive. It was her birthday, she could treat herself to breaking her diet, frivolous spending, whatever she wanted, anything that would get her mind off her age. She felt bad about unnecessary driving due to its effect on the environment, but reasoned that a man would probably have bought a car, which would be much worse, so this was, on the whole, an acceptable way to spend her fortieth birthday.

 

When she told herself she could spend frivolously, she was thinking shoes, maybe a dress, household furnishings, a new laptop. But somehow, a little after noon, she found herself stopping at a motorcycle dealership.

 

She told herself it was just for fun, to see what it was like. She took one for a spin around the track there at the shop, and discovered she loved the thrill of power rumbling between her legs. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before, more exciting even than bungee jumping, she thought, and that had seemed life-altering at the time.

 

Much to her surprise, she drove away with that motorcycle thrumming away beneath her. Years of diligent credit score management had paid off. She arranged for her car to be delivered back to her house, then went out to continue the ride on her brand-new motorcycle.

 

Even on a dangerous thrill-ride like this, Lisa remained practical. She knew she was new to motorcycling, so she drove well below the speed limit, stopped early and often, and pulled over whenever a car started driving behind her.

 

Where to drive a motorcycle on its maiden voyage? She couldn’t decide on a place to go. The more she thought about it, the more Lisa realized it was a bad purchase. So she made up her mind to go somewhere she never went, somewhere she could stop thinking about this awful, financially foolish decision.

 

She couldn’t believe she had talked herself into going to that biker bar in Norfolk. For one thing, she didn’t like bars. For another thing, she wasn’t a biker. For a third thing, the only reason she even knew where it was was because it had been in the news lately as the scene of a double-stabbing.

 

Outside were a group of tough men in black leather, adorned with stylized blue roses and crude patches. The news had said the murders were linked to the Blue Rose motorcycle gang, so the sight of those crudely sewn azure roses on their jackets made her spine shiver.

 

When she walked in, she felt conspicuous. They weren’t all staring at her but she had a feeling they were watching her closely. She considered leaving, but she didn’t want this trip to be a failure. She could at least get through one drink, she thought as she sit at a small corner table.

 

The waitress was a flouncy, trashy type, and Lisa surreptitiously wiped off the glass of beer with a disinfectant wipe before drinking from it. But the cheap beer felt real and made her feel alive. She felt like she could do anything.

 

She finished her beer and considered whether she should stay for another. It still seemed like the men of the bar — almost all of the patrons were men, wearing leather jackets with crude patches, amateur tattoos covering their bodies and, sometimes, faces — were all watching her. It must have been obvious she didn’t belong here. It would have been flattering if it weren’t frightening and a little insulting, as though they thought she wasn’t going to be able to handle herself in a place like this.

 

“You lookin’ to get gangbanged by these goatfuckers tonight?” asked a gruff woman’s voice. Lisa was startled to see a curvy, athletic-looking woman sit down near her.

 

“Uh… No, definitely not.”

 

“Then you might wanna pretend you’re on a date with me,” she said. “My name’s Kendra, and they all know I’m a lesbian.”

 

“Oh… Okay,” Lisa said. “I’m not a lesbian. Not that there’s anything wrong that.”

 

“That’s okay, I’m not looking to get laid either. That’s the nice thing about women: we’re not always looking for sex,” Kendra said.

 

“Am I… safe here?”

 

Kendra shrugged. “No. You ain’t safe anywhere in this world, sweetheart.”

 

“I guess not.”

 

“Lemme buy you a drink. What was that, beer?” Kendra peered in Lisa’s empty glass. “You need to grow a clit, lady. Two whiskeys!” She called out to the bartender. “Make ‘em Canadian, make ‘em rye.” Kendra smiled at Lisa. “I’m technically Canadian.”

 

“Oh, wow a Canadian lesbian? That must be tough,” Lisa said with a giggle.

 

Kendra laughed too, then made a mean face at a biker who was approaching their table. “Get away, Gearbox.”

 

“Oh, is she a dyke?” asked the man.

 

“Her orientation is none of your business,” Kendra said, “But I’ll tell you what she’s not: interested in anything covered in grease and prison tats.”

 

Gearbox grumbled away, upset but embarrassed by his friends, who laughed at Kendra’s words. Lisa smiled at her, wishing she could come up with witty retorts like that.

 

“Thanks,” Lisa said.

 

“You wanna get out of here?” Kendra asked. She had to raise her voice to be heard. “It’s only gonna get louder and more crowded with guys tryin’ to hit on you.”

 

Lisa nodded. She was glad to be getting out of the bar, away from those eyes she could still feel roving up her backside as she followed Kendra out.

 

“You got a car?” Kendra asked, nodding to the small line of parked cars. There were many times more motorcycles filling up the gravel lot.

 

Lisa shook her head. “No. I mean, yes, but I didn’t drive it here. I drove that.” She pointed to the motorcycle. “I just bought it today.” She felt like an idiot, like she had revealed herself as a poseur and not a real biker.

 

“Today? No shit. That’s your first bike?”

 

Lisa nodded.

 

Kendra whistled as she looked over the bike. “She’s pretty. I could dive down that muffler,” she said, looking up at Lisa as though making a joke. It must have been an automotive joke, Lisa thought, because she didn’t get it. She laughed politely.

 

“Come on, I got a couple of beginner’s guides to motorcycles, basic mechanics and stuff, I don’t need ‘em anymore. You wanna come back to my place and get ‘em?” Kendra said. “You drive, I’ll ride. Maybe I can give you some tips as we go.”

 

Lisa agreed, though she was sure she’d humiliate herself on the ride. Kendra was obviously an expert, and she began talking before Lisa even drove away. She spoke about the parts of the motorcycle, the sounds it made, how the brakes worked, what might go wrong with it and how to fix it, the history of the Makasuki Automobile Corporation, everything. Between the sound and the wind and her concentration on driving the bike, Lisa couldn’t hear most of what Kendra said, and most of what she did hear was so jargon-laden, she didn’t get it. But she nodded as though she did, and Kendra didn’t seem to notice her ignorance.

 

They pulled to a stop on a barren street-corner in a rough corner of town. Kendra pointed to a townhouse right next to them. “That’s my place,” she said. “Let’s go in. You can put your bike in the backyard.”

 

Her home was spartan and gave few clues to her life. Lisa still felt horny from the powerful motorcycle beneath her feet. Her body was trembling with remnant vibrations, phantomic energy pounding through her body. She was glad her ex-husband wasn’t around, because she would feel tempted to abandon her anger and jump all over him if he were in front of her. She wanted to have sex more at this moment than at any point in her life, even her wedding night (which had been a disappointment, to be honest).

 

Kendra brought her a bottle of beer, dark, rich and bitter, just as Lisa had always expected and hated beer to taste. But this time she agreed to drink it, didn’t complain and even somehow managed to like it a little bit. It was a difficult flavor, but it played well on her tongue, which danced a lively jig in her mouth.

 

“So what did you think? Of your first day riding?” Kendra asked as she sat down next to Lisa.

 

“Oh, it was wonderful! It was like I, uh, I had n…never really, y’know, never been free, or any more free than that, than I was on the bike,” Lisa said, stumbling over her words as she tried to explain what was so great about it. She felt awkward about her stuttering, and then even more awkward when she thought Kendra might be hitting on her. She was so unused to lesbians it hadn’t even occurred to her that Kendra might see this outing as a date. She had agreed to come back to the home of a stranger! A lesbian! How could she have done that? She was so worried about the men taking advantage of her that she hadn’t noticed this lesbian seducing her. Lisa giggled despite her anxiety. “I loved the feeling of the motorcycle beneath my legs, like it’s an extension of my body.” She wanted to say something about it feeling like an orgasming cock between her legs, but she didn’t want to say that in front of Kendra.

 

“That’s right.” Kendra grinned. “Not that your body needs extending.” Kendra’s eyes roamed up and down Lisa’s frame. Lisa would have felt uncomfortable if it was a man, but Kendra was so kind and so thoughtful, Lisa was instead proud. Should she be more awkward? After all, lesbians could be manipulative and dangerous too. (Couldn’t they? She didn’t really know, but presumably, yes!)

 

When Kendra reached for Lisa’s shoulder, Lisa again felt she should stop this. Kendra was obviously seeing this as a date, she decided, so it has to end. Lisa was not a lesbian. She tried to remind herself of that fact, but couldn’t even remember what the other option was as Kendra leaned in closer.

 

Kendra’s soft, wide lips planted on Lisa’s, and she forgot all about her heterosexuality. The kiss was more passionate and more intense than any man’s kiss she had ever experienced, and it made her heart flutter like she was about to have a heart attack.

 

Lisa’s hands moved up to Kendra’s body without Lisa even thinking about it, as though they were moving of their own accord. In seconds, Kendra’s shirt was off, revealing her strong, athletic frame and a plain white bra. Kendra’s plump breasts burst from their wire frame as Lisa took off her own shirt.

 

She had never had lesbian sex. She didn’t even know what lesbians did during sex. She could only guess in her mind as to what lesbian sex constituted. But as she got into the swing of moving with Kendra, her body seemed to know what to do anyway.

 

They were both naked. Kendra’s fingers crept down to Lisa’s pussy, and her thumb planted itself squarely on Lisa’s clit. Lisa moaned, a deep, low and slow sound that seemed to echo in the tiny room.

 

Her own hand did likewise, and she felt Kendra’s moist and hot body surrounding her. All Lisa paid attention to was the feel of Kendra’s mouth on hers; it was as though they were becoming one person, just a pair of mouths with bodies attached, hungrily devouring each other’s flesh.

 

Lisa contorted around Kendra’s fingers as she reached her climax. She arched her back and even dug her nails into Kendra’s back, drawing a few drops of blood before she backed off.

 

They collapsed into a sweaty heap on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. Lisa’s mind reeled with confusion at what she had just gone through. It blew her mind that sex with a woman could be so passionate and incredible. The idea always seemed rather dull to her — the penetration was the best part of sex, who wanted to do just tongue and hand stuff?! — But this was more incredible and mind-blowing than any penis-based interaction had ever been.

 

“Well, thanks,” Kendra said, “I really needed that. I ain’t been laid in some time.”

 

Lisa’s heart fell. She knew this wasn’t a real relationship, but it hadn’t occurred to her that a committed lesbian like Kendra probably saw this as a silly one-night stand, barely even a sexual encounter at all. Had what they did been enough to even technically qualify as sex? Or just advanced foreplay. Lisa didn’t know, and she didn’t want Kendra to know what she was thinking.

 

“Yeah,” Lisa said. “That was nice.”

 

 

 

 

Jockstrap Haunt 3

This is a sample chapter from Jockstrap Haunt 3 by Randall Eisenhorn. It’s a hardcore tale of gay jock rough trade, and it’s available along with eight other complete stories — plus more bonus content — in the megabundle Infinite Innings!

As soon as Spencer showed up for his first practice on the Goldendale Hills University wrestling team, I knew I had to stick with him for awhile. He was a baby-faced freshman with the body of a long-time Marine, I thought, tall and strapped, with toned muscles that I suspected came from farmwork, based on his twang and homespun swagger.

 

I was a ghost, you see, cursed to inhabit the underwear of men at Goldendale Hills. Spencer was my latest target, and I was delighted to see he had an outsized cock that almost burst from his jockstrap. I cradled his balls as he awkwardly pulled on his singlet, silently watching the other freshmen.

 

He lined up with the unsteady gait of a man who was used to being in charge — he had probably been the biggest bully at his high school, I thought, and now felt unsure about how to act as a freshman somewhere new. His balls were sweaty with nervous sweat, which I licked as he listened to Coach Wilson’s speech.

 

As always happened when I inhabited a man’s underwear for long, Spencer began to get hard. The hornier I got from possessing every supple inch of his body, the hornier he got no matter what was around him.

 

They sparred, and I was so enthralled I could barely pay attention. Spencer was not acquitting himself well, probably because he was distracted by my ghostly touches. I was not real enough to be seen or truly felt, but he sensed me on occasion.

 

As he got in position to spar again, standing overtop his partner, I stuck my nose in his ass. The tight singlet clung to his skin and smelled of his clean, pure sweat. My phantomic tongue swept up his buttcrack from taint to the small of his back, where faint blond hairs tickled my lips. He shuddered. The whistle blew.

 

Spencer was on the ground, pinned, before he could blink. I nuzzled his neck and his powerful pecs with hard nipples as he walked to the sidelines. He nodded as Coach Wilson gave him a talking-to.

 

“You had better get your ass in gear,” Coach Wilson said. “I know you can do better than that.”

 

Spencer clicked his tongue against his teeth and rolled his eyes with the look of a man who had lost his temper. He snarled at Coach Wilson. “I’m off my game, alright? It’s the first fucking day, man, lay off!”

 

Wilson looked at him with stunned disbelief. Spencer’s balls crawled up a little in his sac like he knew he had done something wrong. “You’re gonna talk to me like that? Boy, I will bounce you off this team before your girlfriend can make you cum, and I bet that happens in about three seconds flat. So are you gonna ‘pologize and show me a little respect?”

 

Spencer rolled his eyes again. He opened his mouth to speak, but Coach Wilson interrupted him.

 

“You fucking hesitate with me, boy? You’re here on a scholarship, one I can take away anytime I like. Why don’t you go run ten laps, then see if you can find some respect? You’re three pounds past your weight class anyway, fattie.”

 

I think Spencer was glad to be running, where he could cool off his temper. He made a show of not liking it though. I knew how uncomfortable it was to run with a hardon, so I tried to avoid molesting him.

 

But by the time he was finishing his last lap, I couldn’t resist. His back was dripping with sweat into the elastic of his jockstrap. I sucked every salty drop off.

 

Practice was just about finishing, and the wrestlers were all gathered in front of Coach Wilson. Spencer awkwardly approached, having finished his laps. He was panting for breath.

 

Wilson grabbed him by the balls. Spencer gasped and tried to move away but Wilson held him in place. The other wrestlers all winced but stayed silent. “Where’m I holdin’ you, boy?”

 

“What? My balls… My balls, Coach,” Spencer said. His voice trembled with pain and anxiety, though Coach Wilson didn’t squeeze, he just held on.

 

“That’s right. I got you by the balls-“ Coach Wilson stopped and squeezed Spencer’s shaft, which was hard. “You got a boner, boy?”

 

“No!”

 

“Yes, you do. You some kinda queer? That’s okay if you are. We got a queer on the basketball team too,” Wilson said. He raised one eyebrow.

 

“No!”

 

Coach Wilson’s rough fingers caressed the worn fabric of Spencer’s jockstrap, which was my home so I felt as though Coach was massaging my entire body. He squeezed just a little on Spencer’s balls, and the young buck whelped in pain, then fell into shameful silence as the team laughed at him.

 

Coach Wilson roughly pulled down the jockstrap, and I fell to the floor, on Spencer’s big, sweaty feet. Wilson pointed to Spencer’s hard cock, which was still ragingly erect because the fabric of my jockstrap was still touching him.

 

“You tryin’ to tell me you ain’t a faggot? Standing here in front of me with a hardon?”

 

“Coach, I don’t know why, it just happens sometimes-“

 

“Oh, well, so you got a hardon but you ain’t really horny?”

 

“Yeah.” He was uncertain — it was obvious Coach Wilson was leading him into a trap.

 

“So prove it,” he said, “Prove you ain’t really a faggot. Cuz I think you really is a faggot,” he reached out and grabbed Spencer’s cock, giving it a few quick strokes. “If you ain’t, you won’t cum from a tug job from a man, right?”

 

The team laughed and hooted as Coach Wilson began stroking. It was obvious that Spencer was on the verge of cumming already, so they knew where this was going. Wilson kept at it with precision and care, like a farmer handling his livestock.

 

I knew it was my fault he was in this position, so I felt bad and thought about moving on, but I wasn’t close enough to any other players. Besides which, I was nutting alongside Spencer as his balls curled up in his jockstrap.

 

“You nuttin’ already, boy? You must be a faggot fersure.”

 

He moaned involuntarily and rolled his eyes as his orgasm overtook him. A few drops of salty sweet cum landed right on me, and I could taste their masculine flavor just as though I was sucking him off.

 

Coach Wilson held up his hand for silence from the team. He grinned down at Spencer’s embarrassed face, and said, “See? I knew you was a faggot. There ain’t nothing wrong with that, it’s just a fact. Now go on home, queerbait.”