Spiritstrong Dojo Downlow

This is a sample chapter from Spiritstrong Dojo Downlow, the new story by Rick Mann!
Ray did not like the Spiritstrong Dojo’s pre-match tradition. He could have said no, like some did, but he wanted to fit in. He knew he’d be perceived as eccentric and unsociable if he refused. Maybe they were even right that it helped promote teamwork and brotherhood, though he doubted it. He didn’t even especially want to feel a sense of brotherhood — this wasn’t medieval Japan, he didn’t need to be blood brothers with the men he trained with. He planned on moving out of Baltimore in a year or two anyway. But still, he didn’t want to make waves, so he agreed to participate in the traditional pre-match circlejerk.

Before his match, he showed up early. The other older, experienced warriors were already there in the training room, stretching and doing some light warmup exercises. He quickly jumped in right alongside them, wanting to be perceived as their equal, so he worked out with them without a moment’s hesitation.

“You ready to warm up?” asked Dim-Lao, a handsome Chinese man whom Ray had always hated. He had a cocky grin and broad shoulders, with the toned torso of a private school lacrosse player, which was exactly what he had been. Dim-Lao was the one who insisted most strongly on the Spiritstrong pre-match tradition; he had seen its effects firsthand back in China, where he said he and his dojo-brothers had fought against the Communists before fleeing to America. Ray didn’t know if that was just bluster or not, but he had a feeling there was an inkling of truth to it. In any case, Dim-Lao definitely saw brotherhood as an integral goal of the Spiritstrong Dojo’s training program.

Ray sighed. “Yeah, fine. I really don’t see this helping though, Dim-Lao. It doesn’t sound like a real tradition either. It just sounds gay.”

“It’s not gay, shut up,” Dim-Lao said. “It promotes brotherhood and teamwork.”

“Does telling me to shut up promote teamwork too?”

“Obedience is an important part as well.,” Dim-Lao said as he walked into the locker room and Ray followed. “You should do as your elders and betters tell you, for we are… elder and better. You are young and foolish.”

There were twelve guys in the locker room, arranged in a circle. Dim-Lao and Ray joined the others, and Ray’s heart started pounding. He didn’t even think this was normal — he looked it up online and found no references to circlejerking in China — none! Not in any context — so why didn’t he refuse? At least part of the reason was that Ray had a big dick he liked to show off, and he knew if he refused, he’d be laughed at forever. They’d accuse him of refusing because his dick didn’t work. Dim-Lao wouldn’t, of course, but it would be obvious he was thinking it; the others, the Americans like Todd and Jim, would surely never let him live it down.

Ray was glad to be standing next to Dim-Lao, meaning that someone he knew well would be touching his cock. He opened up his robes and dropped his boxers just as everyone else did. They all nervously laughed at the sight of fourteen limp cocks. For two of them, this was possibly brand new; they were new to the Spiritstrong Dojo, and Ray assumed, circlejerks in general. But both of the new guys, Paul and Tom, seemed to be eager to join in.

The man to Ray’s right was Tim, a tall and muscle-bound Chinese immigrant (whose real name, Ray recalled, was Ming, but went by Tim in America). Everyone else had already started stroking, and Ray realized he was looking conspicuous for not having begun yet. He nervously wrapped his hand around Tim’s thick shaft.

Tim’s cock was fleshy and clammy, and it jerked to half-hard attention the moment Ray moved his hand up and down. He had been in a few circlejerks before — ever since he began coming to the Spiritstrong Dojo regularly — but it never got less uncomfortable or disgusting for him, no matter how often he did it.

This wasn’t sexy, and Ray really wished he could just jack himself off. But as he wondered why they were doing this while looking over the uncomfortable, awkward faces of his fellow martial artists, he realized that he did feel closer to them; they were all going through something difficult together, and even if he didn’t know all of their names, he felt like he knew each one intimately.

Ray was hard in Dim-Lao’s hand, and once he got in the swing of stroking, Ray began leaking precum. He was surprised that Dim-Lao didn’t seem to notice, and continued to expertly jack Ray’s rod. The room soon quieted down and filled with the scent of semen.

The first man finished, a young Taiwanese-American who nervously blushed at how quickly he came. He murmured something about how he hadn’t nutted in awhile just before shooting a thick load in the center of the room. That acrid cotton smell grew even stronger in Ray’s nostrils. The Taiwanese guy was followed by another, then another.

As always, Ray prayed that he wouldn’t be last. He didn’t want to look like a pussy. Dim-Lao came, stopping his stroking for a few seconds while he shot a wad of creamy load onto the floor in the center of the locker room. He closed his eyes and flexed his tight muscles as he ejaculated, and he looked so proud and noble there that Ray almost felt an urge to kiss him.

Before he knew it, they were down to just Ray and Tim, standing next to each other and jacking each other off. Ray felt his own orgasm coming soon, and he was glad that meant he wasn’t going to be last.

But then Tim shot a load without warning. He moaned out a few incomprehensible Chinese syllables, then spewed wad after wad of semen over Ray’s fingers. Sticky cum spread over his hand, and his dick went limp in disgust.

Tim’s ropy muscles heaved as he recovered from his orgasm. Since the circle now consisted of only one person, Ray, there was no one else to take Tim’s place, and he had to continue jacking Ray off. Again, Ray wished he could just jack himself off, but it was too late for that.

Everyone watched him intently. Ray thought for sure it wouldn’t happen, but somehow Tim’s hand managed to get him hard again. Despite his anxiety, he managed to grow to full erection soon enough.

Thinking of women in his mind, Ray felt an orgasm imminently. He bucked his hips, and heard snorting laughter from the other guys watching him. Relief flooded over him as did bliss, and he shuddered at the potency of his orgasm.

His cum landed on the soggy towel someone had placed in the center of the room, where it sat in a cummy puddle. For a moment, Ray thought they were going to make him lick the towel, as that seemed like something they might do if they thought of it, but luckily the most respected fighters in the circle had already walked away,

Everyone who remained applauded sarcastically as he finished his orgasm, and Ray blushed. He felt awkward, but he had to admit, he also felt a lot closer to the other guys.

Honkies Downlow

This is a sample chapter from Honkies Downlow, a great new story by Calvin Freeman!

Kwami had realized he might be the only black guy working at the lumber mill, but he was desperate for a job and he figured it couldn’t possibly be that bad. It was Maine, after all, not Kentucky, and the company who owned the mill was based out of Oslo, Norway. So he felt reasonably safe about it — it may be awkward and difficult, but what first day on the job wasn’t? It wouldn’t be the first time he was the only black man around.

When he got to the mill, just after noon, no one was there. He thought they might be out to lunch, so he wandered around, searching for the lunch room. The equipment sat in the center of the main room, big steel behemoths covered in sawdust and grease. Kwami had worked in other factories, but never a mill, so he didn’t recognize most of the equipment.

He could see how it worked, at least in broad strokes. They received giant logs of wood and cut them down into various sizes and shapes depending on what was needed at the time. It was a simple enough process, he thought, and if it was anything like the other factories he had worked in, he’d be slapping labels on boxes and pushing a broom around for his first couple months anyway.

“Hello?!” he called out. He grew nervous that he was breaking a rule already, that he’d get fired for being on the work floor without a supervisor. He couldn’t get fired on his first day, that would be a disaster. He passed a photo of the smiling employees all gathered around the sign outside — a dozen white men with gleaming smiles, Kwami saw.

There was noise beyond one door, Kwami heard voices and laughter. He hesitated — the door had a sign that read Locker Room. He pushed it open and walked in. They must be coming back from lunch, he thought, or about to leave for it, or maybe a shift change, that might be why they asked him to come in at noon.

There they were, looking up at him as though he had walked in on them murdering a rival. A dozen white men stared at him. Kwami could tell they were surprised to see a black man in front of them. They were all around Kwami’s age or maybe a bit younger, most of them grizzled and strongly redneck-looking, with tattoos and body hair peeking out from their loose clothes. They wore mostly jeans and tight-fitting t-shirts, many of them sleeveless and showing off thick biceps — no one was undressed, so Kwami guessed they were just passing the time until coming back from lunch. Kwami had always been strong, but he wasn’t sure he would seem too muscular next to these guys — he wondered if working alongside them in the mill would mean he’s going to look like that.

“Hello, you must be Kwami,” said one of them. He bit his lip nervously, and Kwami had the impression he was worried he’d say something racist.

“Yep,” Kwami said. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, come on in,” he said. “You got here at an odd moment. We have a sort of a daily tradition. You don’t have to join in if you don’t want to. It’s not required. We’ve just been doing it for decades.”

“Oh, okay,” Kwami said. “Tradition is very important, I think.”

“It’s a circlejerk,” said the man. “Come on over and pull it out. Let’s see if black men live up to their reputation.”

Kwami was about to say no; his blood ran cold at the thought of doing something so personal on his first day. He had no desire to join in on a circlejerk — he had left that kind of stuff behind in high school. But he had a big cock and wanted to show off, and besides, he wanted to be accepted by the white men, and he had already said he valued tradition. He had literally told them one thing about himself, he couldn’t just go back on it right away.

And so he found himself joining in, the one dark dick in a circle of twelve white wangs. He reached around the bushy crotch of one beefy redneck, Ben, who had a surprisingly girthful cock. Kwami felt vaguely nauseous as he wrapped one hand around it. Ben smelled bad, not real strong, but the scent of the day’s sweat was noticeable, or maybe, Kwami thought, it was just the smell of bare crotches in a stale locker room.

Nobody mentioned Kwami’s big cock, which made him feel good about it. Not addressing it was drawing even more attention to it, he thought — he had a feeling that they usually made fun of rookies for having small cocks, regardless of how small they were. Teasing Kwami would draw attention to the fact that he was, in fact, larger than they were.

Ben’s barrel chest shook as he got hard. He wasn’t built like a bodybuilder, but he was strong, with massive meat on his bones, beefy biceps and a chest that writhed like a barrel of snakes as he got hard beneath Kwami’s fingers.

Kwami’s anxiety dwindled as one man reached around his dick and began stroking it. This was Paul, the one swarthy, Mediterranean type there — Kwami later learned he was French-Canadian. He was the closest thing to a minority in this whole mill, Kwami thought, or at least among the men.

His dick got hard in Paul’s hand, and his practiced arm made it almost possible for Kwami to forget about the white cock in his other hand. He had never touched a honky dick before, it felt clammier, spongier, even colder, he thought. Or that could just be Ben.

A few workers started cumming, and the smell of semen bloomed in the air. Awkward giggling filled the room and resonated in the tall-ceilinged locker room. The odor of other men’s cum always made Kwami feel ill. He wanted to stop, but knew he couldn’t — even if it wouldn’t make him look like an ass, he couldn’t stand to blue-ball himself.

Ben shot his load enthusiastically, bucking his hips along with Kwami’s stroking. Semen lubed up Kwami’s hand as cum shot across the floor. It happened so fast Kwami wasn’t even aware until he felt creamy, hot semen slipping between his fingers, and he had to cover up a sputtering choke by coughing.

“Oh yeah, that was like three feet,” Ben said as he gathered his breath. These men apparently competed on how far they could shoot; a few others had bragged about distance as well. Kwami had no idea how far he shot, but he thought it was pretty far. He had never competed for distance anyway.

His orgasm came quickly after, and Kwami was glad not to be last. He flexed his hips at the last second to increase his trajectory. A shudder of tense sexual energy ran up his spine as Kwami moaned and grunted. Cum flew across the room, and men on the other side of the circle had to dodge it.

They all laughed as Kwami pumped his biceps and said “Six feet!” They clapped along with him. He felt a flood of relief that he hadn’t embarrassed himself.

“Welcome to the GOC 32A lumber mill,” Ben said, shaking his cum-lubed hand with Kwami’s. The feel of both men’s semen intermingling there made Kwami feel ill again, but he reassured himself that he’d be able to wash his hands soon. Ben leaned in to clap him on the back, and his heavy chest and moist cock pressed against Kwami’s torso. “You set a new mill record already!”