Strippers Downlow

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

Pauly hated dancing for gay men. He was good at hiding it, or so he thought, but he was disgusted by every moment of it. He had been raised in a good Catholic home, and though he wasn’t homophobic, he was disgusted by manly, callused fingers caressing his body. He always made sure gay partygoers understood that he didn’t allow men to touch him.

But his coworkers didn’t care about that rule, which was supposed to be company policy even if it was never followed. The worst offender was a fellow guido stripper named Vito, but who went by Brown Thunder on account of his very dark skin. Vito was straight but he didn’t mind a little man-on-man touching for extra money, and he didn’t mind molesting Pauly against his will when he was paid enough. Pauly was astonished by how little care Vito had for faggots pawing all over his body.

It was merely an annoyance until one night when Vito went way over the line, raising Pauly’s ire worse than ever. It was a small party of gay men, and somehow that was always worse than a large party, Pauly thought. At a large party, every man really just hoped to catch a grope of the stripper. At a small party, everyone expected personal attention and constant grinding all night.

“Hey, how much money you want to suck each other’s dick?” asked the gay man who hosted the party, a young blond queer named Terry. He had a lisp and a limp wrist that made Pauly sick, as did his leering eyes that stared at Pauly’s dancing cock.

“No way,” Pauly said without thinking about it. He didn’t want to give any hint that he might be talked into it.

“Three grand,” Vito said, also without thinking about it.

Everybody laughed as Pauly and Vito stared each other in the eye. Pauly thought Vito was totally straight, and would refuse to do something like that no matter what. Dancing with a man was one thing, but Vito was really willing to trade blowjobs for money? It almost looked for a moment like they would fight. Vito shrugged and looked away, blushing a little. Was he surprised Pauly wouldn’t do it for any amount of money? Pauly was astonished by his new friend’s reaction.

“You can close your eyes. It’ll feel like a woman,” Terry said.

“No it won’t,” Pauly said. “Besides, that ain’t the main problem. I’m a Catholic, and that’s a sin. I mean… I sin sometimes too, we all do, but I ain’t sinnin’ in a way I don’t even like.”

Terry nodded. “Okay, whatever. I don’t have three grand anyway,” he said. “I am one poor queer.”

“I’ll let you suck me off for one grand,” Vito said. He pushed in front of Pauly to make the offer to Terry.

Pauly was astonished he would offer that. A thousand dollars was not really even that much money, he thought, and Vito was willing to compromise his spirituality and his integrity for it? Maybe he was desperate for cash right now, Pauly thought. He was glad he had never been that desperate.

Terry looked at Pauly. “I can give you both eight hundred to let me suck your dicks,” he said.

“Nope,” Pauly said.

“It’s a package deal,” Terry said. “I’m not doing just one of you. I really wanna double-suck two Italian studs like you. I’ve done one at a time, I only wanna do it if it’s something new. That means both at once.”

“Come on, man,” Vito said. “I don’t know about you, but I need the money.”

“How about a handjob?” Terry said. “I’ll give you both a handjob at the same time, and you cum on my face. Five hundred bucks each.”

“Eight hundred,” Pauly said.

“I’m not gonna pay you just as much for a handjob as I was gonna pay for a blowjob,” Terry said.

“Fine, don’t pay,” Pauly said.

There was a long tense silence. “Seven hundred,” Terry said.

Pauly sensed that Vito desperately wanted him to accept, and Pauly needed the money too. A handjob wasn’t that bad, right? It was no worse a sin than jacking yourself off, he thought. He wondered if Father Neil would accept that excuse in the confessional. He sighed and nodded. He didn’t need to make an enemy at his job, though he had a feeling that Vito was already angry with him for turning down any chance at more money than that.

Terry grinned as he reached out to both men’s crotches. Pauly and Vito both had dark skin and hairy bodies normally, though they both kept themselves reasonably trimmed, so when Pauly came close enough to feel Vito, he felt thick, coppery body hair. Vito’s body heat was palpable, as was the must of his sweat after hours of dancing. Vito wrapped one arm around Pauly’s waist and squeezed him close.

He gasped as Terry put both cocks together, jacking them both off at once. Pauly wanted to stop him, but Vito was getting rock-hard and even seemed to be enjoying himself.

It’s just a little cock-touching, he told himself over and over, it’s not a big deal. This’ll be enough money to pay off the smaller of the two credit card debts. Just let him do it.

He managed to get hard despite Vito’s body next to his. Vito’s body heat was relentless, the scratchiness of his belly hair was painful, the smell of his sweat and precum overwhelming. How did gay men do it?

Vito moaned and flexed his muscles as he orgasmed. The feel, sight and sound of it made Pauly nauseous, his stomach churn — Vito was basically dry-humping Pauly’s dick with his own dick. Vito’s reactions obviously overacted, Pauly thought, as though this was the best sex he had ever had, but the gay men watching didn’t seem to mind. They hooted and hollered passionately.

Hot, creamy cum shot onto Terry’s mouth and on his hands, some of which smeared onto Pauly’s hand. That did make him gag, the feel of its slimy texture — it felt alive, as though he could actually feel sperm swimming on his skin.

Terry licked his hand off but kept on jacking off both men simultaneously, even though Vito’s shaft was now limp and spongy. He grinned as he licked every drop of cum off his own fingers.

Pauly had to concentrate to shoot his own load. He was glad it finally happened — he didn’t want to humiliate himself by being unable to perform. He couldn’t bring himself to put on a little show like Vito had, so it was a quiet, embarrassed orgasm.

He shot a giant wad that coated Terry’s face in dripping cum. Terry used his fingers to wipe every drop into his mouth. Pauly took a deep breath and blushed as he saw the entire party staring at him.

“Thanks, boys. Here’s your money,” Terry said, handing over a wad of cash to both Pauly and Vito.

Taking the money just made Pauly feel dirtier.

Gangstas Downlow

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

The robbery went off without a hitch. Devon carried the bag; Mike drove. Within moments they had ditched the car in a garage, taken off the wigs and gotten in a different car. They changed their shoes — having worn five inch lifts during the operation so that their height would look different on camera.

Finally they were in Mike’s apartment, bag in hand. They both took a deep breath as though they hadn’t inhaled since walking into the liquor store. They heard sirens getting farther away and they both smiled. The cops must have thought they were running, and that was good.

Mike felt he should have been more relieved than he was. It was obvious they were going to get away with it in the short term, and he saw no reason to think they’d get caught later either. The police wouldn’t care about some liquor store holdup.

But despite his tension, Mike was bored. Devon was too, as evidenced by his pacing across the living room floor. The TV was on, but neither of them were watching it. Every few minutes one or the other would change the channel, but there was nothing even remotely compelling enough to distract them from their anxiety.

“We shoulda brought something to do,” Mike said. “We can’t go nowhere for two days at least, but we ain’t bring nothing to do.”

“I wish we could leave to find some pussy. That’d take my mind off things,” Devon said.

“Pussy always talks,” Mike said with a sigh. That was a motto among their buddies in the Nine Tats — don’t ever get girls involved. It had always served Mike well. It was a pretty ironclad rule among their gangbangers (with some exceptions for particularly bad-ass female gangstas, they weren’t the point, the rule was aimed at girlfriends only). Going to ground after a successful operation was another strictly upheld rule. No matter how minor the plan, if you committed a felony, you had to stay in a safehouse for at least two days. Someone high up had studied it — if you don’t get seen and questioned in the first two days, you probably won’t get convicted. So hide, motherfuckers, every single time. It seemed like a silly rule, but now that it applied to him, Mike believed in it like a superstitious idol. He even talked low just in case there were neighbors around to hear.

“Well, I need to get my nut off,” Devon said. “You ever fuck around on the downlow?”

“Only in prison,” Mike said. That wasn’t strictly true, but it was close enough. He didn’t intend to let Devon know the truth.

“If we got a choice between going to prison because we go find some pussy who ids us to the cops, or sucking some dick on the downlow, I vote we go downlow,” Devon said.

“Damn nigga, we ain’t even desperate yet,” Mike said. “It’s been like an hour.”

“An hour since the robbery, I was so nervous I ain’t fuck my bitch last night, or the night before,” Devon said. “Been like three days, motherfucker.”

“Alright, might as well. We ain’t got shit else to do” Mike said. He stood up and sighed. He didn’t want to look defensive about this, or else Devon would probably think he was embarrassed about his cock size. He undid his belt and let his jeans drop — he wanted to take them off anyway, as he always hung out in shorts and a t-shirt when he was at home.

“You wasn’t hard to convince,” Devon said with a smirk.

Mike shrugged. “If we’re gonna do it, let’s do it,” he said. He dropped his shorts to reveal a thick, hanging cock between his legs. Devon looked away as though it might bite him, then he took off his clothes as well.

“Take turns or sixty-nine?” Devon asked. “Don’t matter to me.”

“Let’s sixty-nine,” Mike said. He trusted Devon about everything important, like not squealing to the police, but he wasn’t so sure about reciprocating a blowjob after Mike had done likewise.

Devon nodded and laid down on the bed, motioning for Mike to join him. Mike was glad to be on top. He straddled Devon’s chest, feeling his body warmth and his nervous trembling.

Devon’s cock was fat, dark and sticking out straight. It looked oddly appealing to Mike, who had never even thought about liking men. But somehow in those few moments before they began, Mike wanted nothing more than to suck that cock. He even forget about his anxiety over the robbery and the possibility that they’d be going to prison soon enough.

He opened his mouth to take Devon’s cock in, but was surprised at the last moment by his own dick feeling suddenly warm and moist. He gasped in shock at how good it felt, and his dick stirred to attention in Devon’s mouth.

Sensing that Devon was getting frustrated, Mike dived down onto his dick. The taste of sweaty manflesh flooded his senses, and Mike felt an involuntary choking as the black cock pressed into his throat. He already regretted agreeing to this; he wasn’t even that horny, and now things would be weird between them forever.

It was too late now, though, and Mike’s body was still gung ho about it. His hard cock leaked precum down Devon’s throat, and it felt good enough Mike could almost forget about the taste of precum coating his own tongue.

Mike wondered at the last second whether he was expected to pull out or not. He assumed yes, because no straight man would want to swallow cum. But he didn’t think of that until was too late, while he shot his first load of creamy cum down Devon’s throat.

A wave of pleasure washed over him, the anxiety over the robbery melting away. Mike sighed even around the dick in his throat, and his back shuddered at the power of the orgasm overwhelming his senses. He grunted loud enough not to notice Devon making similar sounds.

Mike was surprised that Devon hadn’t react to Mike’s nut in his mouth, but Mike realized why seconds later. Devon was distracted by his own orgasm, which sprayed cum into Mike’s gullet.

The sticky hot goo covered Mike’s insides, and coated his tongue so all he could taste was sour-sweet cum. He gagged and pulled away, his own orgasm diminishing quickly as he held onto his stomach. Devon had a similar reaction, spitting a big wad of cum, spit and pubic hair into the trash can by the bed.

“Alright,” Devon said, avoiding eye contact with Mike. “I guess we better settle in. We might be hiding out here awhile.”

Arrested by a C.O.

This is a sample chapter from Arrested by a C.O., a story in the Brutewood Maximum Security Penitentiary series.

Victor woke up with a blistering headache. He was on his back in an uncomfortable position in a room with a brilliant fluorescent light beating down on his head. He groaned. There was a toilet at one end of the room, and he made a beeline for it. His stomach heaved as it emptied its contents into the dingy bowl.

Where was he? He had a dim recollection of the night before. As he vomited, he couldn’t quite piece it all together, however. He was just glad to be getting the booze and what appeared to be fried chicken out of his belly.

The toilet was steel, and filthy. The realization of that made him vomit again, and he pushed himself away from the toilet. He crawled to his knees. His pants were around his ankles. Why was that?

The prison! He had gone to Brutewood Prison with a whore named Shasta. He had planned the visit for weeks because it was the first serious mission he was given as part of the Novelli Family — he had long wanted to be a made man, and he was doing a favor for several high-ranking Novellis behind bars.

It had gone well. Or had it? He had brought the woman in, and had been prepared for the lax security. He knew exactly how to bribe one guard and get in a case of beer, some weed and enough Viagra to turn the conjugal trailer into a rollicking party.

It had been a good time. He was sure of it. Had he left? He didn’t remember that. He could now see that he was in a jail cell, or rather what looked like a holding cell. It was a large open chamber with a few benches along the wall, and one toilet. There was a door at one end of the room.

The door opened, and in walked a burly black man in a CO uniform. It was dark blue, with a Brutewood Prison patch over his heart. His name-badge read Freeman.

“Good morning, Inmate 32772,” he said. “I’m Officer Freeman.”

“I’m not an inmate… I’m a visitor,” Victor said weakly.

“You’ve been asleep for twelve hours,” Officer Freeman said. He whistled a tune to himself and began unbuttoning his shirt. “A lot has changed.”


“Well, I’ll just give you the highlights, because we’ve got a lot to get through today,” Officer Freeman said.

“What?” Victor felt like the fog was finally clearing on his mind, at least enough he could understand what was going on.

“Your pitiful attempt at bribery was a complete debacle, Inmate 32772. We put roofies in your beer, so you and all your cronies partied hard for about twenty minutes, and then passed out like little babies,” Officer Freeman said. He had finished taking off his uniform shirt revealing a powerful chest beneath a white t-shirt. Tufts of kinky black hair extended up to his shoulder.

“You roofied me?”

“That I did, Inmate 32772. And you know what…? I totally didn’t plan this, but that whore you brought with you? Well, it turned out she had a heart problem. She passed away,” Officer Freeman said. He sat down on a bench and placed a foot in a heavy black leather boot in front of Victor’s face. He gently pushed the steel toe of the boot into Victor’s mouth. It tasted of acrid piss, and he gagged. “Yeah, the animals piss on my shoes all the time. Don’t worry, it doesn’t get through to my socks.”

“What are you doing?”

“My plan was to fuck that whore when she woke up — I’d pay her, of course, I’m not a jerk. And then just charge you with one measly felony. But that bitch died, which is annoying because there’s a lot of paperwork to do… And I have to blame it on somebody. I can’t just say oops, there’s a dead whore here, somebody come pick her up,” Officer Freeman said. “So I’m arresting you for felony murder. You committed a felony, smuggling items into a prison, and that felony lead to a death. That way I get a new inmate to play with for life.”

“What?!” Victor’s heart skipped a beat.

“I don’t like shitheads like you making my prison look poorly-run. That makes me look bad,” Officer Freeman said. “Do you want me to reconsider?”

“Yes, man, I-“

“Please address me as Officer Freeman. That’s a rule here. Of course you’re not technically an inmate yet, you’re just in holding before being arraigned and tried, so that rule doesn’t apply to you. But I suggest following it anyway. It’s good practice.”

“Officer Freeman, if there’s any way you can let me go, I’d do anything you want,” Victor said. He had trouble groveling before an officer, and he knew he should make a pitiful face, but it was all he could do to speak the words. He had always sworn he would never beg a pig for a second chance, but it seemed that was exactly what he was doing.

“See, this pisses me off,” he said. “If you was a nigga like me, you’d have no chance, you wouldn’t even think it was possible to get a second chance from a cop. But your white privilege means you think you deserve an exemption from the rules.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll do anything.”

“Open your mouth,” he said. “This is how my grandfather got out of a lynching a couple decades ago, and I’d like to return the favor. Come on, let me see those tonsils.”

Victor opened his mouth as wide as he could. His heart raced and his mind whirred as he tried to think of why Officer Freeman wanted him to open his mouth, aside from the obvious. He hoped very much it wasn’t that.

But then Freeman unzipped his slacks and let his long, chocolate-colored cock flop out. He smiled as he whacked Victor across the face with it, leaving a trail of slimy stale sweat. The cockshaft was sweaty and clammy, and it made Victor want to throw up again.

Victor gagged. He closed his eyes as Freeman fed the tip of his cock into Victor’s mouth. A burst of salty flavor hit his tongue.

“Open your eyes. Look up at me. That’s what my granddaddy had to do. That’s how you show respect to your superiors,” he said.

Victor burned with hatred. He had sworn over and over he was a real thug and a playa, he wasn’t supposed to cooperate with pigs no matter what. But he couldn’t spend life in prison, especially not now — he wasn’t officially a Novelli since that first mission had gone poorly. That meant he would be unprotected behind bars, or worse since the Novellis might well blame him for the simple mission having gone wrong.

“Good, yeah. Keep on like that,” Officer Freeman said several times. He put his hands behind his head. “Ya gotta deepthroat it, boy. Don’t just play around with respect, you gotta swallow it all the way down. That’s respect. If you ain’t gaggin’ on it, it ain’t respect.”

As if on cue, Victor gagged. He tried to bury his face in it, but Officer Freeman’s huge cock simply didn’t fit in his throat. He let Freeman guide one of his hands into that moist sweaty crotch of his uniform slacks, and Victor gripped his balls. He gagged again just at the hairy, moist feeling of Freeman’s scrotum.

“Who’s the master race, boy? Whitebois or niggas?” He put his hand on the back of Victor’s head as he asked, holding him in place. Victor’s eyes frantically darted back and forth as he struggled for breath. Freeman leered down into his eyes and said, “Well? Go on, say it.”

Victor said niggas as well as he could with his mouth full of cockmeat. He considered saying whitebois, just because it was obvious Freeman wouldn’t have understood anyway, but he didn’t want to tempt fate.

“Did you just use the n-word?” Freeman said with a laugh. “Just kiddin’, I don’t give a shit, honky. Now I’m about to cum, and you better swallow every drop. For every drop that you spill, I will keep you here for one year. Got it?”

Victor nodded his head. Freeman resumed fucking his face then, slamming his dick in and out with as much force as he could. Victor felt like he was being split in half with the massive shaft, and then finally Freeman stopped moving.

Wads of cum spurted forth, so much it filled up Victor’s mouth and he swallowed as furiously as he can. He hoped to swallow before he could really taste it, but the foul sour flavor did hit him first.

The hot semen sat in his belly like a disgusting gutshot, Victor thought, and he cradled his stomach to avoid spitting any up. Officer Freeman knelt down and rubbed his fingers over Victor’s face. Victor swallowed and opened his mouth for inspection.

“Good,” Officer Freeman said. “I will go consider whether or not to keep you around. Be ready to serve me a little more.”

“Yes, sir.” Victor said. He had to virtually spit the words out to make it happen — his tongue was just as rebellious and anti-authority as it always had been so he had to force it to do his bidding.

“Excellent showing of respect,” Officer Freeman said. “But maybe I’ll keep you around to demonstrate to other inmates how to show respect properly. You could be useful for that…” He shut the cell door behind himself.

Arrested by an FBI Agent

This is a sample chapter from Arrested by an FBI Agent, a story in the Arrested by Man series.

Victor had been dreading this for weeks. Agreeing to turn state’s evidence was humiliating enough, but now he was going to wear a wire and try to entrap the men he was previously working for. The Novelli Family did not take kindly to snitches, so if anything went wrong, Victor knew his life would be over, one way or another — spending the rest of his life in prison would be the best possible result if this didn’t go right.

“Do you know what the initiation is like?” Agent Spencer asked. They were sitting in a van near a nightclub the Novellis frequented. Victor hated Agent Spencer, and his arrogant face, his handsome blond hair and his football player’s build. He looked like he had been the most popular kid in school, now working for the FBI to put losers and nerds behind bars.

“No. They make you prove yo’ respect, that’s all I know,” Victor said. He sucked his teeth and glared at Spencer.

“That’s right. You know how? They make you suck dick.”

Victor’s heart dropped. He had heard jokes about that, but assumed it was just kidding. He didn’t think they’d actually do it.


Agent Spencer laughed. He smoothed the lapel of his suit jacket. Victor thought he looked ridiculous and had told him so when they first got in the van today — Spencer was supposed to be undercover, but he looked like a cop, out of place in a suit driving a dingy old van in the nightclub district. If anybody glanced in and was able to see who was inside, they wouldn’t be fooled for an instant.

“Why don’t you practice on me?”


“If you don’t do good enough — if you don’t show enough respect — they won’t let you in,” he said. “I have a feeling you’ve never shown respect in your life.”

“Bullshit, motherfucker-“

“You think I’m playin’? The last time we got someone infiltratin’ the Novellis, he refused to suck dick and they slit his throat They didn’t even know he was FBI, they just thought he was some punk like you.”

“Fine, Agent Spencer, I believe you-“

“So come on, suck me off as practice. Show me you can have a little respect for your elders and betters,” he said with a smirk.

“You ain’t my better.”

“I managed to not ever get arrested,” he said. He undid the zipper on his slacks and spread his legs the best he could in the van’s driver’s seat. “So I’m at least a bit better, doncha think?”

“Whatever,” Victor said.

“Come on, suck my dick,” he said.

Now that his mind had calmed down slightly, and he was feeling a bit more comfortable sitting there in the van, Victor recalled the rumors he had heard about sucking dick to become a made man. He had heard it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak — Luca Novelli had told him that. Luca had laughed and said Victor would be sucking his dick if he finished that first mission (which he had not finished, resulting in his encounter with the FBI and now this new mission).

Agent Spencer waited while Victor thought, then said, “Look, this is part of the undercover gig you agreed to. Even if I wasn’t here, they’d make you suck dick.”

“Yeah, fine, I believe you,” Victor said.

“So if you don’t, I’ll have to tell my supervisor you refused to properly prepare,” Agent Spencer said. “That will reflect poorly on your cooperation.”

“You can’t do that,” Victor said, though he knew he was wrong, and Agent Spencer could do anything he wanted.

Agent Spencer shrugged. He took out a little pad of paper and began writing. “Mr. Manello is not willing to prepare for the mission. It is possible that he is not as cooperative as we initially hoped. He is, perhaps, hoping that this mission will fail.”

“Fuck you.”

“He has also been using profanity,” Agent Spencer said. “Come on, Manello. Just suck it. Don’t lose your oral virginity to those guido bastards.”

“Fine!” Victor shouted. He had actually decided Spencer was right a few minutes ago, but couldn’t quite bring himself to say yes. He was glad Spencer was forcing him to do it, so Victor didn’t have to really agree.

He kneeled over so he wouldn’t have to see Agent Spencer’s arrogant eyes looking down on him. He looked away. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. Just a few months ago, he had said he’d murder any man who talked to the police about anything at all, and now here he was working for the FBI and sucking off a pig. It even smelled kind of like ham, he thought, as the scent of Spencer’s crotch assaulted his nostrils

Victor reached into the dark, musty shadows of his groin. He gagged when he felt wiry pubic hair and clammy flesh, stale sweat clinging to it like foul cologne.

He fished out Agent Spencer’s cock and looked at it as though it was a rancid raw sausage sitting there in his lap. Victor opened his mouth, but the position was awkward — there was little space between the steering wheel and Spencer’s crotch.

“Gonna have to touch it too,” Agent Spencer said with a grin. “Go on and pick it up. It won’t bite. Might spit a bit, but it won’t bite.”

Victor winced as he picked it up. It felt heavier than he thought it would, thicker than it looked, and it was already getting hard in his fingers.

He put the tip in his mouth and gagged as sweaty male flavor hit his tongue. Agent Spencer snickered at Victor’s reaction, and guided his head further down on the shaft.

It began to get harder, and a few drops of precum leaked out. It was only a couple drops but they somehow spread out and coated Victor’s tongue with a sheen of sour, acrid cummy flavor. He gagged again, spitting up a ball of saliva that flowed down Agent Spencer’s shaft.

Agent Spencer grinned. He loosened the tie under his tailored suit, and his hands crept to his nipples, tweaking them until they were hard as needles. He moaned at the shocks of pleasure wracking his spine and limbs.

Moving his head up and down, Victor finally began getting into the rhythm of it. It was almost like fucking, he thought, then gagged at the realization that, if this was like fucking, he was the pussy. It was the same motion, the same feel, just with him on the other end. Was this how it felt when sluts sucked his dick? It must be different for women, he thought, or they would refuse to ever do it.

Cum shot into his mouth without warning. Agent Spencer chuckled as Victor choked on it, trying to pull away but Agent Spencer held his head in place. He shot jet after jet of cum into Victor’s gullet, and the sour taste was so strong, Victor gagged every drop of it back up.

Agent Spencer’s crotch was soaking wet. Victor hadn’t actually kept any of the cum down, and he was glad for that. He could hold his head high and proclaim he hadn’t swallowed any FBI semen.

“Ha, okay, now you’re ready,” Agent Spencer said. He took a deep breath and buttoned his slacks back up. “Made a big mess, that’s good, I like that. So will the Novellis.” He lightly slapped Victor on the cheek, smearing some cum underneath his eye. “Go on in there.”

Irontop Gym of Rio de Janeiro

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seduced by a Demon

This is a sample chapter from Seduced by a Demon, a new story by Rick Mann.


Lucy walked into the library, hoping the sight of all those books would make her feel better. It didn’t work. She had always loved the library, so she was disappointed that her depression remained.

Trying not to think about everything that had gone wrong, Lucy wandered among the stacks. This library was less joyous, she thought, compared to the tiny Garrett County, Maryland library she had grown up in. This had thousands upon thousands of books, way more than there were in the entire Garrett County Library System. It was a nice university library, but it felt less real than her old library had been. The librarians were studious and strict, rather than the kind-hearted and friendly librarians she grew up with. There wasn’t much fiction. There was a ton of dry old academic crap that nobody ever wanted to read. There was nothing to distract her from the misery that was her life recently.

This was her last day in college. After being dumped by her long-time boyfriend, she hadn’t gone to class for a week, and had therefore failed her classes. Since she was already on academic probation, that meant she was disinvited for the spring semester, and just the day after receiving the letter informing her of that, her dog had died.

So that was it for Lucy. She had no desire to “reapply to this institution”, as the letter had suggested she do. She just wanted to use the college library one more time. She wondered what would happen if she checked a book out now. Would they track her down to demand she return it? Probably, she decided. She didn’t want to have anything else terrible happen, so she should just leave without checking out any book. She didn’t really want anything either.

One book caught her eye, because it was big and black and didn’t have any dust on it, like all the others. It was in the history, nonfiction section and, she noticed, it did not have a label on the spine.

The Necronomicon it said in big letters on the front cover. It was bound in black leather with streaks of barely visible red in it, such a dark crimson it blended in with the black. The leather was rough, like sandpaper.

Wondering how old the book was, she opened it to where the copyright page would normally be. All it said on that first sheet of paper was This is not a library book. You may take it with you. No questions will be asked.

Why should she trust some silly warning in an ancient book? She shouldn’t. But she wanted to take a little risk — what was the worse they could do? Take the book back and ban her from the library. Big deal. Tomorrow she was going to be banned from the college as a whole anyway.

She put the book under her arms and headed for the door. She walked with purpose, so if she was stopped she could just say she had forgotten the book was in her arms.

Librarians were at the front counter, along with several students. A professor was nearby and glanced at Lucy as she walked by. There was even a security guard near the door, who just nodded at Lucy. None of them seemed to notice the book.

Her heart pounded as she walked through the door. The cold light of day hit her, and she shivered in the breeze. She hurried to her car and drove home, suddenly so paranoid about taking the book (it looked so old, it was probably antique, stealing it would be grand theft, you could go to prison forever!) she scrupulously obeyed the speed limit and used her turn signals, even adding hand signals just in case her bulbs had burned out.

Once she was at home with a cup of tea in her hand, Lucy felt a little better. Since finding the book, she hadn’t even thought about the disaster that was her life, so she decided to focus on the book, the one interesting thing she could focus on now.

It seemed to be an old book about witchcraft, detailing ways to summon demons and the like. It wasn’t all that interesting, especially since Lucy knew enough about history to know it was all likely made up. People used to claim all kinds of demon cults existed, but there was no evidence any of them were even slightly real. The book was probably a hoax, she thought

But the pictures were fascinating. They were muscular demons with throbbing cocks, raping the souls of the damned; many-tentacled beasts with pitchforks for arms; decrepit angels oozing down fallen pyramids; more completely alien creatures unlike any she had ever seen or imagined.

Near the end was a spell, entitled To Summon Our Dark Lord, Xathulu. She giggled at the sight of Xathulu’s tentacled demon face, drawn there in the margins in a burnished crimson ink, but her giggles stopped when she looked into its eyes.

She lost herself in the little circular orbs, bulbous and faceted like a bug’s. Anxieties about school and finances vanished from her mind, and all she saw was that simple sketch. The ink was blood; she was sure of that now. It smelled faintly of copper.

The drawing of Xathulu was aimed as though the great beast was looking at the spell there, beckoning her to cast it. The opposing page had been blank, she thought, but now she saw near the bottom was scrawled in tiny letters, My dear Lucinda, how I love thee Lucinda.

The words were in Latin, or what looked like Latin. She actually knew how to pronounced them because she had taken two years of Latin back in high school.

Conjuro te Xathulu

Opprobrium dominus meus et Dominus sordem

Ad hoc veni et sequere me

Ita obediemus et tibi, sicut et ego

Qui utique, sicut crusta putridum

Fracta in pulverem

Per potentiam tuam: et gloriam nostram

Amen, amen dico vobis, et plus in aeternum

That was it. Nothing had happened. It all felt like a big letdown. When she was reading it, it seemed momentous. But now nothing had happened.

Of course not, what were you expecting, an actual demon? Come on, did you learn nothing from playing Bloody Mary?

There was a bottle of wine she had been meaning to drink, and the uncorked it. She felt like celebrating. (Celebrate that you didn’t summon a demon?) It wasn’t even good wine, but she convinced herself it was.

Soon enough she fell asleep in front of the TV. She was perfectly aware that she was asleep, as her soul awakened and stood in the center of the room.

Sitting on top of the book was Xathulu himself. He was grayish-green in skin tone, with a handsome jaw line and tentacles protruding from the center of his face. His broad, strapping chest was gleaming with sweat, but his belly was cut open, revealing glistening viscera.

“Hello, Lucinda,” he said. He stood up and displayed a long, uncircumcised cock. “Would you like to forget all about your boyfriend?”

“I already do,” she said with a grin. She floated over to him and quivered as she touched his shoulder and clutched him close. His cock throbbed between her legs. Her pussy was moist and begging for him.

“Wait,” he said softly, just into her ear. His dick was right at her vulva, waiting to fully penetrate her. “I will only fuck you, my dear Lucinda, if you will be my queen forever.”

“I do,” she said, barely giving it a moment’s thought. Real life has been a disaster for me, she decided, might as well try something else.

With that she plunged down on his member, riding him up and down. She clutched his powerful shoulders. A familiar orgasmic feeling rushed up her spine, but this had such a dirty, evil atmosphere that Lucy shuddered in disgust.

His body smelled of cologne, she noticed, but the cheap kind, and there was behind it a musty rottenness that was somehow appealing. She inhaled deeply of him, savoring the sulfury afterscent of his sweat.

His cock plunged so deep within her she thought it must be pounding on her cervix, but she felt no pain. He was all the way inside her, penetrating every inch of her body. They were like one now, she thought, one person, one demon, one soul. It felt more perfect than anything she could have imagined.

Her clit sang with the potency of the climax that overwhelmed her. She groaned and screamed so loud she was glad this was a dream, because the neighbors would have heard her and called the police. Her pussy quivered with sensitive, exquisite agony with every thrust of his ccockshaft deeper and deeper inside her.

Her hands moved to his nipples as they writhed together there on the kitchen table, and his hands did likewise. Then she looked into his open stomach and queasily touched it. The open bloody viscera was sticky and warm.

As though that touch was what it took for him to cum, he shot his load then, filling her up with thick spooge. More cum shot from the tentacles in his face and covered her and his body with his moistness. She licked every drop off him, then fell asleep without even letting his limp dick out of her pussy.

Posse Downlow

This is a new sample chapter from Posse Downlow, a story in the Str8 Studs Downlow series of hardcore gay alpha male erotica.


If Whip had approached him just a month before, Malik would never have joined the Army. He had graduated high school without direction and enlisted due to a lack of anything better to do with his life. That was the only reason he had signed on that fateful dotted line.

But joining Whip’s posse would have given him something to do as well, something just as exciting and potentially more lucrative. Malik had never been a drug dealer, but he was big and tough and didn’t mind putting his life on the line. He intended to make something of himself, one way or another.

It seemed that a number of Whip’s posse had been locked up or killed recently, so he was looking through some of the people who had expressed an interest in the past. Malik had been one such prospect turned down because he was too young and too inexperienced.

But Malik had hit a late teen growth spurt. He was now tall and strong, with the body of a football player — everyone just assumed he played when they saw him these days. But he had gotten big too late to join the football team back in high school.

In his mind, joining Whip’s entourage would be nonstop excitement: shaking niggas down, protecting the boss from cops, that kind of thing. But really it was a lot of waiting, a lot of counting and recounting money or drugs, running simple errands like buying toilet paper, all the little things that freed up Whip’s time to focus on big picture stuff.

When they finally had a real mission on Malik’s first day, all they did was pick up money from someone. It went perfectly, without a hitch. Malik and the mysterious white man exchanged cash, then smoked a blunt and talked about rock music for an hour. It was anticlimactic for Malik, who assumed it would end in an epic shootout.

They made it back to Whip’s apartment, and the rest of the retinue quickly found reasons to leave. Whip asked Malik to stay the night, to “discuss our strategy” for the operation, he said.

“I need someone to do some shots with,” Whip said. “Real gangstas don’t drink alone. If you do, you an alcoholic, and that ain’t gangsta. So stay here and keep me company, nigga.”

Malik shrugged. He was nervous about his imminent departure for boot camp anyway, and didn’t really want to be alone. He pointed to the bottles of malt liquor in the fridge. “You wanna drink that?”

“Hell no,” he said. “Too many carbs. Don’t drink that shit. I just keep it around for when we having parties. Gotta keep up appearances. Malt liquor makes you fat nigga. Drink liquor.”

Malik didn’t especially like liquor, but he went along with it. Now that he was going to boot camp, he was going to need to get used to watching his calories — you could get in trouble for being overweight there, and Malik had a good body but he knew it would be easy to get fat. He poured some drinks over ice cubes and handed a glass to Whip.

“Why’d you join the Army anyway?” Whip asked.

“It just seemed like the best idea for my future,” he said.

“Well I’m glad you gonna be part of my posse, for a little while anyway,” Whip said. He bit his lip. “There’s another part of this job though.”


“You fuck around on the downlow?”


“Yeah, you do, come on. That’s part of being in my posse,” Whip said. He undid the belt on his jeans, revealing his baggy boxers underneath.

Malik was surprised at how quick this was going. He hesitated. He didn’t have any experience on the downlow and didn’t want to do it. But he didn’t want to disappoint the most powerful gangbanger around either. Whip, his voice reeking of liquor, repeated himself.

Malik sunk to his knees and opened his mouth. He couldn’t believe he was doing this, sucking cock like some faggot. He knew a lot of guys in his neighborhood were on the downlow, but he never thought he’d do something like that.

“You know you gonna do this at boot camp too, right?”


“Everybody does that in the Army. At least niggas do, that’s what my uncle told me,” Whip said. He took out his long, dark cock, lined with veins, and nodded for Malik to start sucking.

He opened his mouth, gagging a little at the spongy texture and the taste of his sweat as Whip’s cock pushed into his throat. It was soft at first, and it felt slick with musk. Malik closed his eyes and tried to think of something else, but all he could think about was what his father would say if he knew Malik was sucking dick.

Whip groaned as his dick got hard, precum leaking from his slit. The sour-salty flavor hit Malik’s senses and made him want to leave, but he had gone too far to back out now.

Malik wanted to protest as Whip got more and more aggressive about it. He wrapped his fingers around Malik’s head, holding him in place to fuck his throat. Malik choked and sputtered; he tried to speak but succeeded only in spraying a few drops of spit of Whip’s cock and balls.

“I’m gonna nut, nigga,” Whip said over and over before he finally did. He said it as though it was a big favor he was doing and Malik should feel grateful for it.

He shot a thick load that filled up Malik’s throat. His body bucked as he gagged and tried to pull away, but Whip just kept shooting wad after wad of semen that slid down his throat like a loogie slowly dripping down a wall. Then at last it was over, and the pile of cum sat in his stomach like a hot hockey puck.

Malik pulled away, gasping for breath. He stood, glad to be getting his own turn to be on top. He wiped away some cum from his chin, and a few drops snuck onto his tongue. He gagged again at the salty flavor. He flopped his cock between his fingers, ready for Whip to take his turn.

But it looked like Whip didn’t think so. He laid down and closed his eyes on the couch, nodding for Malik to let himself out.

Obviously to Whip, downlow didn’t mean reciprocating. That was always what it meant to Malik, who was sure that Whip had known that was what Malik thought it meant. Whip had tricked him into sucking cock, he realized with a sense of burning rage.

Malik wanted to tell him that wasn’t cool, but even more than that, he didn’t want to spark a conflict. So he just got up and walked, assuring himself that he could doing this on a regular basis, and it wouldn’t matter since he was leaving for boot camp soon.

His enrollment date couldn’t come fast enough.

In Russia, Gymnastics Is a Macho Sport: Russians Downlow

This is a sample chapter from In Russia, Gymnastics Is a Macho Sport: Russians Downlow, a new story in the Str8 Studs Downlow series

Jay was so conditioned to assume that his new roommate — a gymnastics scholarship student — would be gay that he didn’t understand when Boris introduced himself. He himself was gay and had known more than a few gay gymnasts in high school, and the minority of supposedly straight men were all seemingly bi-curious as well. It was a stereotype that had always worn true in his experience; he was glad for it, as it meant his hobby was an extra-curricular activity, a college scholarship and a way to meet fit guys he had a lot in common with.

All he was told was that his roommate was a European student with a gymnastics scholarship. To Jay, that screamed “gay”, and he was glad to hear it. He didn’t need the awkward hassle of living with a straight man. Europeans were hot, he thought, picturing a slim, tight Frenchman or swarthy Spaniard. Jay had always thought Greek men were sexy.

He should have known he’d be Russian. Jay just barely thought of Russia as European and indeed Boris came from a small village well into the forests of Northern Asia. He was the size of a bear, and seemed to have manners barely any better than one.

Boris was tall, smooth-bodied — obviously only because he shaved his entire body — and had the rough, square jaw of a breeder. He scowled at Jay as he threw his duffel bag on the floor, farted and sat on his bed. Jay had met him in the athletic center and brought him back to the dorm. At Coach Carhew’s assistance, he was going to be showing Boris around and helping him get acclimated to Goldendale Hills University. Obviously, Jay thought, that was going to be a very different assignment than he had expected.

“Where is shower?” Boris asked after roughly tossing his clothes in his dresser drawers. He had a deep, gravely voice that made him sound like he was twice his real age, which was just nineteen supposedly. He seemed awfully big and hairy for a nineteen year-old, and Jay idly wondered if the Soviets had experimented with breeding supermen.

Jay pointed down the hall to the community shower. Boris nodded, stood and dropped his shorts. His heavy, hairy cock and balls dangled in front of Jay. He picked up a towel and a bar of soap, then walked out stark naked.

Someone laughed out in the hall, no doubt surprised to see Boris swaggering into the shower. Jay took a deep breath and tried to relax. This semester was not going to go how he had envisioned it.

But after that, he had class, and Boris met with the Russian Students Union, so Jay didn’t have to worry about him for a couple hours. Jay returned from class and finished his homework, then worked out — he felt intimidated near Boris and hoped to bulk up even if it hurt his weight for gymnastics. He didn’t want to be the skinny string-bean next to Boris’ brutish body.

Boris was there, in the athletic center with the other Russians, practicing loosely. He was just showing off, Jay thought, doing backflips and other moves for his new friends, and he bounced around on the trampolines (which Jay suspected they didn’t have in Russian gymnastics). Boris was the biggest of the Eastern European transfer students, and it appeared he was the only one on the gymnastics team. The others had either soccer or tennis scholarships.

Jay returned to the dorm before Boris, and decided to go right to bed. He didn’t feel like dealing with Boris again when he came back to the dorm, and he hoped if he was asleep, or pretending to be asleep, he could ignore his new dormmate.

He was just about to fall into a deep slumber when Boris drunkenly stumbled into the room. The smell of vodka and urine was thick in the dorm, and Jay was suddenly wide awake, though he pretended to still be asleep.

“Hey, you faggot boy,” said Boris. He sat down on the bed next to Jay, who realized he had taken his pants off. His smooth, shaved legs and ass felt hot and inviting next to Jay. He placed one hand on Jay’s leg, over the blanket, and repeated himself, “Faggot boy.”

“Hi, Boris, you shouldn’t call me a faggot. That’s a very rude word in America. It’s homophobic and-“

“Sssh,” Boris said. He put one finger on Jay’s mouth, the salty taste of his manhood slipping past his lips. One of Boris’ hands moved down to Jay’s wrist and moved his hand into Boris’ crotch. Boris had a hairy bush, and his dick was as thick as Jay’s forearm.

Jay’s heart was pumping at the realization that Boris was open to fooling around. It seemed all gymnasts were gay after all, even the homophobic machos. Jay picked up Boris’ cock and gave it a few strokes.

His manhood hard and pulsating in Jay’s hand, Boris leaned back and groaned. One of his big paws rested on Jay’s face, gently but forcibly pushing him down towards Boris’ crotch.

Jay didn’t even think about trying to suck on Boris’ cock, he just went for it. He assumed that was what Boris wanted to do next. He pulled away from Boris’ hand and swallowed the tip of his cock.

Only to see stars as Boris smacked him and pulled his head away. “Am not faggot, sissy-boy,” he said. “Do not lick. Just hand.”

A part of Jay wanted to tell him off, to tell him it wasn’t okay to hit him and treat him like this. But another part of Jay, a much bigger part, wanted to keep going no matter what. That was the part that won.

He kept on stroking, and soon enough, he felt Boris’ muscles undulate and his balls crawl up in his sac. A great burst of cum flew from the tip, and Boris angled his body at the last moment so his load landed right on Jay’s face and neck.

“Eat that, faggot,” Boris said, “And forget about this.” He crawled up to his bunk and fell asleep there without even taking his pants all the way off.

The Yakuza Muscle and the Futanari

Here’s a sample chapter from The Yakuza Muscle and the Futanari, a new story by Rick Mann!

Mitsu sighed as he got in his car. He was being punished, and everyone in Clan Kyuu knew it. They were avoiding eye contact with him, refusing to say goodbye. He wasn’t surprised. He had been in their position before, and knew very well how awkward it was. They couldn’t do anything that would make it seem like they were on his side.

Not that there was any side to take. He had humiliated himself over something so stupid, he berated himself over it as he drove away from the compound.

It was a hangover. That was it, just a little hangover. Not really a huge deal, except that big dumb Mitsu thought he was better than anyone else. He thought he could come in to work despite the hangover. He thought he could keep it under control, but then he had snapped at Mr. Monanari, insulted his honor and, to turn a problem into a disaster, had managed to mollify Mr. Monanari long enough to drive him out into town… where he was promptly pulled over for speeding, given a breathalyzer and been sent to jail for still having alcohol in his blood.

To say that was a major faux pas — leaving the oldest and most respected yakuza in the prefecture on the side of the road while his driver got arrested — was the understatement of the century. Mitsu knew there was a genuine possibility he’d lose a finger, hand, foot or even his head. Clan Kyuu did not suffer failure lightly.

But in the end, he was merely upbraided, told he would not be paid for the next six months in order to cover the liens placed on the vehicle as a result of the arrest, and he would need to use his limited savings to pay off his personal fines. He was also given a shamefully low task: protecting a girl.

She wasn’t even the boss’ daughter or anything like that. She was Hangetsu, the daughter of a watermelon farmer out in the country, a farmer who had been paying protection money to the Clan for years. He was concerned for her safety because her brother had angered a group of local toughs. They weren’t yakuza, just low-rent thugs who had said they would come rape his sister.

So that was it, Mitsu had to spend a few weeks keeping her safe while the Clan found the thugs and taught them a lesson. If he had been respected, that was what he’d have been ordered to do — be part of the team that destroyed them. That was one of his specialties; he didn’t like killing but he was big and muscular and intimidating, and he would have been an asset on that team.

This was probably useless. Those thugs were likely full of shit, and never intended to do anything to the girl, who was like twelve, or so Mitsu thought. Few Japanese thugs, even the non-yakuza kind, were so brazen as to rape a little girl under the protection of Clan Kyuu.

But she was not a little girl, as Mitsu had originally thought. He had been confused because his boss described her using a Japanese word that normally connoted either a soft-spoken man or a girl. But that might have been a mistake, he thought, his boss might not have known if the girl was really a girl or how old she was. (Wouldn’t he have asked? Why would you send a bodyguard without even asking who the target is?)

She was sitting there on the couch in the rural farmhouse alone. Her father was out in the fields with the farmworkers, and she was sitting there bored when Mitsu arrived. Her father had told him to go on in and to stay out of her way so she could finish her schoolwork.

“You the dumb muscle?” she asked. She had a petite smile that Mitsu found alluring.

Mitsu shrugged. “What do you mean?”

She was a pretty young girl, just barely eighteen, with nicely curved hips and big bosoms pressing against the undersized t-shirt she wore. Mitsu felt sexual tension wash over him. She looked like a pop singer, and he could think of nothing else but taking her to bed with him.

“Your boss came over here a few days ago. He said he’d send some big dumb muscle to protect me,” she said. “That must be you, yes? He said you’d be my servant.”

“Not exactly a servant, more of a bodyguard,” he grumbled. He took a walk around the tiny farmhouse, making note of the windows and doors. He ensured they were all locked.

She scoffed at his actions as though there was no real danger. “He definitely said servant. He said you’d do anything I wanted.”

“I am here to protect you,” he said. “That is all.”

She thought for a moment. “Take off your shirt,” she said.

Mitsu hesitated.

“I need to see if you are wearing a wire,” she said.

He nodded and lifted his shirt up, showing his bare, powerful chest and yakuza tattoos. He flexed his pecs and watched her eyes twinkle. Was she flirting with him? It seemed unlikely, such a rural, unsophisticated girl. She wouldn’t come onto a man so strongly right away, he thought, she probably just doesn’t realize how flirtatious she’s being right now.

“All the way off,” she said, “You could be hiding it in the shirt fabric, I don’t know. Besides, I need to see your tattoos to know that you are for real.”

He had to admit there was logic to that. His entire career in the yakuza was spelled out in his tattoos. He stripped his shirt off and flexed his muscles for her — his tattoos looked better on flexed muscles, he thought, and he liked the way she looked at him.

She stood up and inspected his chest. She let her fingers trace one tattoo that extended beneath his pants, and her fingers danced along his hips.

“Take your pants off,” she said. “I want to see the rest of your tattoos.”

He did as he was told. “You don’t need-“

“Hush, I will decide what I need. You want me to tell my father that he did not receive any help after paying your Clan for years?”

“Of course not,” he said. He dropped his pants, wondering what her father would say if he saw this; Mitsu would probably lose even more face within the clan. He stood there in his plain white boxers, feeling very naked, while she inspected the tattoo that ran the length of his thighs.

“If you had done something shameful, they might have tattooed an owl on your thigh,” she said.

He had to admit that was right. It was an old-fashioned fashioned tradition practiced solely by Clan Kyuu, and not even that often anymore.

She pulled his boxers down without another word of warning. She giggled at his oversized, uncircumcised cock, dangling between his legs. Mitsu felt very naked and exposed, and he nervously waited for her father to come in. He stood straight and proud with his hands behind his back, thinking at least that would look least like he was seducing her if someone did see it.

“You have a big dick,” she said. She reached out and stroked it, and Mitsu straightened his back.

“I’m not supposed to-“

“Hush,” she said. “You’re supposed to do what I tell you.” She stripped off her t-shirt, revealing perfectly plump tits. “Lick these.”

Mitsu told himself to refuse but his body didn’t hesitate for an instant. He was going to be killed for disappointing the Clan if he got caught, he was sure of it, but she could lie and ruin him if he said no. The best thing to do was to go along with it and get it done quickly, so they were less likely to get caught.

She had much larger tits than he was used to, and Mitsu forgot about his anxieties as he licked every inch of her supple flesh. Her nipples got hard in his fingers; her breaths grew sharped and ragged, and her fingers crept inside her skirt.

He kissed her. She had soft, tender lips and a little tongue. He lost himself in her dark eyes and pale skin. His dick grew hard between her fingers.

She dropped her skirt, revealing perfect panties. He got on his knees, hoping to get a taste of that perfect pussy. He kissed her hips and let his tongue slowly creep down.

He pulled her panties down, and a long cock popped out. Mitsu was so shocked he didn’t have a response, he just looked at it like a test result he didn’t understand.

She giggled at his confused reaction, then whacked him across the face with her cock. “Silly muscle, you didn’t know I had one of these? It’s almost as big as yours.”


“I’m a futanari, yes,” she said, “Full package.” She showed him her heavy swinging balls. “Suck it.”

He said no, as though the idea was preposterous, but he was so horny he dived right in. He had been so tense since the hangover incident that he hadn’t even really thought about sex, and now that it had started, he was going to see it through to the end.

He opened his mouth and swallowed the salty tip of her cock, letting her push it deeper into his throat. It tasted pretty much the same as pussy, he realized, and he wondered if all cock tasted like that, or just futanari dick.

She was just as hard as he was, and she reached down to stroke his dick. She laughed at how raging hard it was. “You want me to suck on you too?”

“Yes, god, yes!”

She giggled and held her hand over her mouth. “No,” she said. “You’re supposed to be serving me. Jack yourself off.” She pushed Mitsu to the floor and then lowered her dick into his mouth so she could watch him play with himself.

Mitsu was surprised by how easily he had gotten hard, and how quickly he was reaching orgasm. He was almost embarrassed by it, thinking that he shouldn’t be able to cum so quickly with a dick in his mouth. But it did taste just like pussy, and she had fantastic tits that felt perfect in his fingers.

He moaned and gagged a little around the thick cock crowding out his throat, as he shot a load across his own muscular, tattooed chest. His spine shuddered. His arms tightened and his pecs flexed beneath her grasp. Wave after wave of cum covered his chest.

She shot her own load at the same time, pushing her dick the rest of the way down into his gullet as she filled him up with creamy cum. It was salty and sweet, and though it didn’t exactly taste good, Mitsu was desperate for more as soon as he tasted it.

He didn’t have to wait long. Before he he could even catch his breath, she took her dick out of his mouth, then wiped up all of Mitsu’s cum off his belly. She smeared it over his face and into his mouth, laughing at his surprised and disgusted reaction.

“Good,” she said. “I’ll  tell my father you were very helpful today, very honorable.”

The Raunchification of a Housewife

This is a sample chapter from The Raunchification of a Housewife, a new story in  The Raunchification of Woman series.

Betsy Saxon had literally never contemplated adultery. She was aware of its existence, of course, and she had once considered the possibility her husband, Tom, was cheating on her. But the idea that she might have a fling with another man? The idea that she could had never occurred to her.

She didn’t even really like having sex with her husband, and not because he was bad at it. She had simply never enjoyed sex; she saw it as a social duty she had to perform no matter how tedious, like going to her husband’s office Christmas party or pretending she cared about her neighbor’s children.

So when Tom told her she had hired a new poolboy, having an affair was the last thing on her mind. She hadn’t even remembered Tom telling her that when she first looked out her window and saw him, wondering what had happened to the young girl who used to clean their pool.

His name was Pablo. He had just turned eighteen, and had a lithe, muscular body — he played basketball in school, he said, puffing up his chest with pride when she made small talk with him. He wore sandals, athletic shorts and a tank-top, through which she could see his caramel chest.

All of a sudden she could think of nothing but adultery. She wanted to have him right then and there. She wanted him to be the third and last man she ever had inside her. She wanted to ride him until he graduated college.

How? She had never really seduced a man. She’d had sex, of course, and she’d told her husband when she wanted to have sex. But she had never been the one to initiate an encounter with a stranger, much less someone half her age.

But Betsy had seen enough movies to know how it was done, or so she hoped. She changed into sexy lingerie, then covered it up with a wrap — something she had bought thinking it would make her look classy, then couldn’t bring herself to wear it to any occasion. Pablo was too young to notice that she was nowhere’s near as classy as her clothes. She went downstairs and poured herself a glass of wine.

Pablo walked in, whistling merrily. His skin was dappled with sweat from the humid day, and he stopped when he saw Betsy.

“Ma’am, uh, Mrs. Saxon,” he said, “I finished.”

“Oh yes, thank you Pablo, it looks excellent. You do a very thorough job. My husband left money for you there on the table,” she said.

He put it in his pocket. He looked at her and blushed, and she saw a wiggle in his shorts. Obviously his youthful horniness recognized her seduction techniques, she thought as she separated her shoulders to make her tits look bigger and perkier. His eyes roved up and down her body

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said.

“Aren’t you a polite young man? You don’t have to leave just yet,” she said. “Would you like a glass of wine? Oh no, of course not, silly me, you’re only eighteen. You probably don’t drink, do you?”

“I’ve had beer,” he said, then he blushed again. “I’ve never had wine though.”

“Really? Well, don’t tell your parents,” she said as she poured him a small glass.

He took a sip and winced as though he didn’t like it, then drank it again. “It’s okay,” he said.

“This isn’t great wine,” she nodded towards the open bottle. “If I’d known I was going to be introducing you to the world of wine, I’d have splurged for something nicer.”

He took a bigger sip. “It’s not bad. I really hated beer when I first tried it, but I ended up liking it. This is better than beer was when I first drank that.”

Betsy nodded. “Don’t drink beer, Pablo. It’s loaded with calories, so it’ll ruin your handsome figure, and nice men don’t drink beer. Drink wine or liquor,” she said.

He nodded.

“Speaking of handsome figure,” she said, reaching out with one hand to his sleeveless arm. She caressed his powerful bicep, and she was glad she was seated because her knees went weak when she felt his powerful, youthful heat. “Do you have a girlfriend, Pablo?”

“No,” he said with a grin.

“Good,” she said. She put one of her hands on his crotch, and felt his rockhard cock in her fingers.

She pulled down his shorts. He leaned back in his chair as though terrified of what was happening and unwilling to get involved, then seemed to remember that he was supposed to look like a cocky teen. He grinned at her as though he had expected this to happen.

Kneeling between his legs, she lowered her mouth on his cock. This was only the second dick she had ever sucked, and the first one she had ever sucked because she wanted to. She didn’t know why, but something about his youthful vigor made her want to taste his manmeat.

He was hard right away, his hips moving slowly with every thrust of his dick into her throat. He tasted just as good as she had hoped, with a faintly sweaty flavor that was fresh and spring-like, salty and strong and seductively sweet. She slurped his shaft down her throat and let out a giggle as he yelped in surprise. He obviously hadn’t expected it to feel this good, and Betty liked the idea of being the sexually experienced one for once.

Betsy gargled and deepthroated on his shaft, working copious precum out with her spit. The flavor was thick and salty, and it tasted so good she slurped on his cocktip.

“I’m gonna cum, mamacita, you gonna swallow? Huh? You gonna swallow?”

She didn’t answer. She thought her response was apparent because she kept sucking, even as he began his orgasm. She smiled — Betsy had never swallowed her husband’s cum.

Her mouth filled up with semen, so much that some dripped out of her and down her cheeks. It was good, creamy and savory; she wished he had shot more, even though his wad was bigger than she thought possible. He coated her throat with his warm seed, and she licked the bit that had dripped down his shaft.

“Thanks,” he said bashfully.

“You did good. You’re a good worker, Pablo,” she said. “I can’t wait to have you back again next week.”