Islamic State Downlow

Here’s a sample chapter from the newest story in the Str8 Studs Downlow series. It’s called Islamic State Downlow, and it’s so hot you just might convert!

Asif hurried back to the tent with a pitcher of water. He was worried he’d be in trouble for being slow and, since he was in a bad mood already, he was worried he would accidentally start a confrontation with the warriors. That would make him feel bad, but he couldn’t help but be upset by how he had been treated.

He had risked everything to come to Syria to fight for what he believed in, and the Islamic State had him doing womanly tasks like getting water and making food. He had come here to get away from the feminization that the Western society imposed upon him back in his native Britain, only to find out that the Islamic State didn’t treat him any better. He had been promised a paycheck and health care and a job and a place to live, but all he got was a piss-stinking corner of a tent, prayer as the only health care and a paycheck that was “just delayed a bit” for over a month now.

He could have lived with all that if he felt like he was truly making a difference. He wanted to smash the old society that had failed him so bad, and rebuild in its place a glorious and Islamic holy land stretching over the entire world, or at least the Middle East. But he wasn’t making a difference at all — the Islamic State didn’t think he had enough experience to be a warrior. He thought maybe he could work as some sort of administrator for the organization, but they didn’t trust him because he was British and his Arabic wasn’t very good (and was Moroccan anyway, not a dialect they liked much).

Asif stopped at the edge of the tent. It was long and wide, and would have been spacious for a small family; with him and three dozen Islamic fighters, it was a cramped hellhole. His prison cell in Britain had given him more space and better amenities. He reminded himself of his duty to Islam and walked inside.

“Took you long enough,” said Faisal as he tied the tent flap shut behind Asif, who had to bite his lip to avoid cursing at Faisal — back in the United Kingdom, Asif had had a serious temper problem before finding Allah, and he felt like it was returning now that he was away from Western civilization. The jerks he was living with were making it hard to maintain his serenity. Faisal grabbed the pitcher of water and drank straight from it before passing it on to the other fighters. “We are warriors, you know. We put our lives on the line to create an Islamic State for people like you, the least you could do is get us water promptly. I know you can’t fight because of your upbringing — Allah does not hate the meek, but he does require you to serve those who can fight for Islam”

“I could fight! They won’t let me, they-“

“Because you are small and weak. You are English,” Faisal said, and the other men in the room laughed. “Get down on your knees, Englishman.” Faisal, who was well-muscled and burly, much bigger than Asif, slowly pushed down on his shoulders.

“I’m not, I’m Arab. I’m Moroccan!” Asif sunk to his knees as Faisal’s crazed eyes bore down on him. The other warriors surrounded Asif, who suddenly felt like the heathens must have felt before these same warriors cut them down. He reminded them that he was Muslim, but they were murmuring to each other in Arabic too quickly for Asif to catch any of it.

“I will dub you an honorary woman for the Islamic State, since we have very few. And a whore you shall be, like all English women,” Faisal said. He repeated himself in Arabic, and the other warriors burst into cheers. “Open your mouth.”

“I could fight,” Asif said glumly. He bit his lip.

“Then fight me.”

“What?”

“If you can fight, go ahead and do it. But if you can’t, you need to stop using that mouth for talking like an untrained woman, and use it for whoring like all British women,” Faisal said. “You are a whore.”

He smacked Asif in the head. The other fighters all began laughing, and then chanted “Be a man! Be a man!” in a mixture of Arabic and English.

Asif desperately wanted to prove his manhood, so he charged for Faisal. He hoped to tackle him, but the bigger, more experienced fighter just shoved him to one side. Asif fell to the floor in a humiliated heap of flesh, surrounded by Islamic holy warriors.

Someone kicked him. Asif let out a choked cry, and said, “Come on, I gave up my life in the West for this-“

Faisal kneeled down over his chest and grabbed Asif by the hair. “You have been assigned a role in this organization, you pussy,” he loudly hocked a loogie and spat on Asif’s face. “Allah demands you submit. If you will not fight, you must submit. Open up your pussy-mouth.”

Asif’s heart pounded as he opened his mouth; a part of him said to keep fighting, to prove that he could hold his own — he was sure Faisal wouldn’t make him suck dick if he would prove he wasn’t a fighter, but it was clear to Asif that wasn’t true. He decided to give in for now. Faisal pulled up his light robes, and a long, hairy uncircumcised cock was visible right in front of Asif’s face.

Faisal he lowered his robes over Asif’s head, so no one had to watch as Asif felt his first cock push into his mouth. Asif gagged and choked, and Faisal laughed above him. “See? You will learn to appreciate the role Allah has chosen for you,” Faisal said. “We all have duties to perform, in order to create this glorious Islamic State. We shall rule the world soon, whore, and you shall be servicing us all the while.”

With the man’s white robes covering his head, Asif could see nothing but the pubic hair in front of his face. The smell of Faisal’s unwashed crotch made Asif’s stomach churn, but he couldn’t look away — there were other men holding him in place from outside of Faisal’s robe.

He gripped Faisal’s thighs for support, and Asif clawed at his skin. But Faisal had been making war for more than a year, and he was impervious to pain. His thick leg hair was coarse and stank of his sweat, as did his balls which slapped against Asif’s chin.

Faisal stopped moving for a moment. He held his hand up for quiet, until there was no sound in the tent but Asif’s tortured gasps for air. Faisal pulled his dick out, holding Asif’s head in place, still underneath Faisal’s robes so no one had to see his whorish face or Faisal’s cock.

“Have you accepted your role, Englishman?” Faisal said. “Or will you fight?”

“I… accept,” Asif said.

He had no sooner finished speaking before the men around him burst into cheers once again, as Faisal translated for them. Faisal rammed his dick back down Asif’s throat and cackled as Asif choked on his throbbing shaft.

Finally the taste of cum flooded Asif’s mouth. He was gagging profusely by then, copious spit dripping down his chin and onto the floor. Faisal chuckled, his laughter turning into a sexual moan that made the other men laugh.

Asif choked loudly, and most of the salty cum landed on the ground. Faisal pulled away, baring Asif’s head. The other Islamic State warriors were looking down at him.

“Go get us some more water, Englishman,” Faisal said. “When you come back, there will be more dicks to suck.”

The Taming of a Millionaire

Here’s a sample chapter from “The Taming of a Millionaire“, a new story in The Taming of Man series.

Jacinda sat at the bar near Todd Merkel. Not next to him, but near enough to him that she was sure she would be seen, and under a slightly dim light because everyone looks better in dim lighting. She made sure he got a good look at her cleavage, making herself look as eager as she could without directly flirting with him.

It was no coincidence that she was there at that moment. Jacinda had known Todd Merkel — founder of TipSnit, a tip-sharing app that had been sold for eight hundred million dollars — would be there. She had never been a gold-digger before, but she intended to use her body to get what she needed just this one time. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision; she happened to look sexy for a night out with her girlfriends, but that had been cancelled, and then she learned where Todd Merkel would be. It was the perfect opportunity to do something she’d never thought she’d do. She hoped he’d turn out to be nice; he was surprisingly cute, which was nice — she was glad he wasn’t a fat slob.

It was obvious he was about to make his move. He pointedly avoided looking at her, but watched the wall such that he could see her in the corner of his vision. He had flashed his eyes at her, and she smiled politely back, then answered her phone. She dialed her voice-mail, pretending to be on a real call, angry but speaking in hushed tones so he couldn’t hear exactly what she said.

“Don’t you say what I think you’re going to say,” were the first words out of her mouth. Her tone was vituperative, and Todd aborted his flirtation. He looked at her openly for a moment, trying to read what was happening, then looked away when he realized she was arguing with someone on the phone.

“No-No-“ Jacinda pretended she couldn’t get a word in edgewise. “You told me you were on the way here. That is not on the way here. I’m not hanging out, waiting for you.”

Having deduced she had a boyfriend, Todd withdrew. He nursed his drink, pretending not to listen to her pretend conversation, while Jacinda pretended not to pay attention to his pretending.

Suddenly abandoning the hushed tone as though having lost her temper, Jacinda shouted, “Well if that’s how you feel, I guess it’s not worth it for you to ever call me again.” She followed that up with some obscure Spanish insults she was certain he would not recognize. She hung up the phone and managed to force herself to blush. The bar’s other patrons glanced at her awkwardly.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t hear anything, I swear, but I can tell that was s difficult conversation for you.”

She sniffled as though holding back a tear. She shrugged with a strong, nonchalant attitude. “I knew it was going to happen. I basically told him if he ever stood me up again or lied to me again, I’d dump him. He did both all at once. So that’s it. It’s finally over. I’m glad to be rid of him, to be honest.”

“You certainly can be honest, and you should be,” Todd said. He shook her hand. “I’d like to be honest too. I think you’re beautiful, and I want to spend this evening with you. What do you think?”

“I’d like that, Mister….”

“Merkel,” he said, flashing his big beautiful teeth. “But please, call me Todd.”

She sat down then, and ordered some food. She knew men liked it when women had a healthy appetite, so long as they weren’t fat or slovenly; so she ordered two appetizers and an entree salad. If she did her mental calculations correctly, that should add up to barely eight hundred calories, which would seem like a lot of food without making her feel bloated or fat.

“So what do you do, Jacinda?” he said.

She told him about her career, which was moribund — Jacinda was a licensed teacher but a vindictive principal at her last school had given her a bad recommendation, which made it impossible to get a job in any district.

By the time their food arrived, Jacinda had finished two drinks and felt loose and wild. She was really hitting it off with Todd — she had planned on flirting with him, even practiced batting her eyes and asking him about himself as she drove out here tonight, but she found that she didn’t need to do anything manipulative. He was charming and friendly, and she laughed along with him even without forcing herself to do so.

“So, my company was worth a fair amount,” he said.

“I don’t understand, you sold it? But you still work there?”

“That’s right.”

“Sorry, I’m not knowledgeable at this stuff. How does that work? What’s the point of someone else buying the company if nothing changes?” she asked. In truth, she had done her research. She knew perfectly well that a company had bought his business and paid him a salary to stay on, in addition to paying for the company outright; she also knew that TipSnit had no revenue. Her googling had suggested a plan, maybe, to allow service staff to sign up to receive tips electronically and take a small percentage — hardly a game-changer, she thought, especially since she read online comments that pointed out that electronic tips will end up being reported to the IRS, unlike cash tips that are almost never taxed. So would TipSnit ever make a profit? She had doubts, but Jacinda didn’t know anything about startups; regardless, he had already gotten his eight hundred million dollars. That was enough.

“Do you want to go back to my place?” he said. He raised his eyebrows.

“I’m not an easy girl, Todd,” she said.

He grinned. “I know. You don’t have to do anything. I just wanted to show you my newest car. It’s a ’55 Custom Royal Lancer, mint condition and lime green-“

“It sounds nice,” Jacinda said. “But I don’t know, I don’t go anywhere with men the first time I meet them. I still need to go home and make sure my boyfriend knows our breakup was for real. He’ll probably call me tomorrow and pretend it didn’t happen, he does that a lot.”

“Why don’t I take sex off the table?” he said. “I won’t have sex with you tonight no matter how much you beg, not even if there’s some madman with an atomic bomb in London or some shit, and having sex with you is the only way he’ll turn it off. I’ll still refuse.”

She giggled. “That’s sweet,” she said. “It’s morbid and cruel to millions of Londoners, but it’s sweet.”

“Bah, England banned my app anyway,” he said. “Fuck ‘em.”

And so they walked out of the bar together. Jacinda made a token gesture towards splitting the bill, but Todd said he wouldn’t dream of it. “I’m an app entrepreneur, I wouldn’t make an unemployed teacher pay for a meal. Even if you looked like a typical teacher, I’d pay. Looking like you, sweetheart, I’ll buy you freakin’ groceries!”

He laughed, and Jacinda joined him. She clutched his arm as she followed him out to his car. It was a modern hybrid — expensive, but not a fancy sports car.

“This is a nice car too,” she said.

“Oh it’s nothing,” he said as he pulled out of the parking lot. “It’s nice, it’s a hybrid, no emissions. I bought it mainly to look good for the Democrats. I barely drive at all, so even a normal car would hardly release much emissions. I collect cars for fun, not to drive them.”

“You really collect cars?”

“I only have four. Not really a collection yet,” he said. “I don’t want to pull a Leno and just buy whatever car I see. I’m buying beautiful, well-engineered works of art to keep and admire and savor for the rest of my life. And this stupid hybrid, I paid for this just so I’d have something to drive.”

“It’s beautiful, even though it’s not a sports car, it’s sleek and sexy,” she said.

“You’re sleek and sexy,” he said, then blushed. “Sorry, that was cheesy.”

She giggled back. “It’s okay. I like hearing stuff like that.”

Soon enough they were pulling into his gated driveway. It was an enormous mansion, located on a rural road that Jacinda had never even thought was a real public thoroughfare. It led straight into his circular driveway and beautifully manicured lawn.

“This is amazing,” she said. Her heart was pounding. This was really happening, she thought, this millionaire is falling for me! He kept sneaking nervous glances at her, as though checking to see how excited she was. “Good thing you took sex off the table,” she said. “I don’t know if I could resist after seeing your house.”

He pulled to a stop, then hurried around to open her door for her. Jacinda stepped out, making sure one of her bare legs was visible in the outdoor light of his front door.

“Damn, I was kind of hoping you’d forgotten about that,” he said. “I really need you, Jacinda. I haven’t had sex in… more time than you might think. I work more than eighty hours a week.”

“You poor baby,” she said. “But I still don’t have sex with men I just met.”

“I understand.” He hung his head as he showed her inside.

“But there are other things we could do,” she said, “If you can prove you really want it.”

“What?”

“Do you really, really want me?”

“I do!”

“Well, sex is still off the table,” she said. “But I could be persuaded to do something else.” She grabbed his crotch through his pants. He smiled, and she felt his thick dick get hard right away. She stroked his meat through his pants.

“Oh god, yes, you’re… I never would have gotten women like you back in the day,” he said. “I used to be a pimpled skinny nerd. I… am different now.”

“I see that,” she said. She reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys to the hybrid right outside the front door. “Can I take this?”

“Take it where?”

“I mean… take it. Where’s the title?”

“You want my car?”

“Just the crappy car you don’t even really want,” she said. “You only wanted to impress Democrats with it, right? So give it to me. Whenever you’re gonna meet some Democrats, invite me along. You can impress them with your hybrid car and your Latina schoolteacher girlfriend. The Democrats will love it.”

“And you’ll give me…”

“Absolutely nothing,” Jacinda said. “Except the possibility that I will see you again.” She stuck her hand in his pants and grabbed his dick. She stroked it. “I’m giving you a handjob because you’re cute and nice. If you want me to come over again in the future, I’m gonna need a nice, low-emissions car to get here. Then we can talk about what our relationship will be like.”

He didn’t respond right away. Jacinda kept on stroking, until she felt warm precum coating her hand. Normally she would have thought this was gross, but for some reason, Todd was different. His dick throbbed and thrummed thickly beneath her fingers.

“Where’s the title, Todd? Sign it over to me,” she said. She kissed him on the neck.

“My accountant has the title,” he murmured. “Just write down your address, I’ll have him send it over.”

“Good,” she said. Moments later he shot his load, a thick wad of cum spurting out into her hand. His tailored slacks turned black with the soaked in fluid, and his knees went weak. He buckled and almost fell to the ground; the feeling of power over him was almost enough on its own to give Jacinda an orgasm as well.

“Oh my god, you’re amazing,” he said.

“I know. Don’t forget it.”

The Taming of a Maori

Here’s a sample chapter from “The Taming of a Maori, a new story in The Taming of Man series.

 

New Zealand was just as beautiful as Dana had imagined it would be. Of course it wasn’t all the pristine beaches she had seen on brochures, but there were plenty of them, and even the ghettos of East Auckland were well-maintained and largely trash-free. She didn’t realize an entire country could be this clean.

Her hotel was nice as well. It didn’t have all the amenities that a hotel in America would have, even a hotel half as nice — there was no wireless Internet, for example, and she had to plug in her laptop to check her email. But it was a beautiful hotel with an amazing beach, and the staff had been wonderfully helpful.

“Hello, Miss Wyatt,” said a lilting voice behind her. She recognized the accent immediately as a Maori, one of the native Polynesian people of New Zealand. They had a distinctive dialect with a bouncing, hopeful tone. She turned her head to speak but when she saw his face, she couldn’t think of any words.

He was an ungodly sexy Maori, with a short unkempt afro, twinkling brown eyes, a strong chin and a lean body covered with elegant line tattoos and ropy muscles. He was shirtless and carrying a shower caddy full of cheap lotions; he looked like some employee’s little brother who had been hanging out when he was given the task of bringing her lotions. She managed to stutter out a hello.

“I understand you asked about shea butter,” he said.

She had indeed called down to the front desk to ask about that. The drug store (or chemist, as they called it here) down the street hadn’t carried any, and she wasn’t sure it was found in New Zealand. The fact that no one at the front desk seemed to have heard of shea butter had already suggested to her that none was going to be found; still, it was a small, provincial area (and there were no women on duty at the moment), so she held out hope there might be shea butter in better-stocked drug stores. She got the feeling the staff here had an average age of about seventeen, so she couldn’t really expect them to be too knowledgeable.

She looked through the lotions he had brought, but there were none that listed shea butter in the ingredients. That was okay, she thought, she was getting tan anyway, that would help her skin tone even without shea butter. Besides, she didn’t want to disappoint the young man who had brought the lotions to her; he had such a hopeful look on his face, as though he was expecting a great reward for bringing the basket. He was cute, she thought, in a young, foppish beach bum way (and was he a stoner?! He had a bit of a weedy squint…).

But on the other hand, she kind of did want to disappoint him. It looked like he was in desperate need of her approval, and he was bothered by his inability to find shea butter. She liked the idea of pushing him to his limits to please her.

He bit his lip as though he wanted to ask her a question, but didn’t. He just apologized for not having any of the lotion she wanted, then hesitated before he left.

“Am I supposed to tip you?” Dana kind of wanted to tip him — even if he hadn’t brought her anything she wanted, he was trying to be helpful, and it wasn’t his fault the hotel didn’t stock shea butter. His skin looked flawless, so it wasn’t surprising he personally didn’t know what it was.

“No, ma’am,” he said. He mumbled, “I just wanted to ask if you were an actress.”

“An actress?”

“You’re so beautiful, I thought you must be a movie star.

“Oh, you’re too kind. No, I’m no actress. I’m a public school principal,” she said.

“Principal?”

Her mind raced as she recalled the New Zealand TV she had seen. She smiled and added, “It’s like a headmaster. Or headmistress, I guess.”

“Oh. Do you know any celebrities?” he looked so bright and hopeful that Dana couldn’t bear to say no.

“I met George Clooney on a plane once,” she said. That wasn’t strictly true, but she had been on a plane where it was rumored that Clooney was in first-class. She hadn’t been brave enough to go up front to check, however.

“Really?!”

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Mahato.”

“That’s pretty,” she said. She hadn’t even thought of seducing him until this moment, but it was clear he would do anything she said. How could se resist? He looked at her with hungry eyes. “You’re a handsome boy, Mahato.”

“Thank you, miss.”

“Lemme see that tongue.”

He stuck his tongue out. It was long and thick, and she knew exactly what she wanted him to do with it. He looked embarrassed as he wiggled his tongue around, and he looked up and down the hall to check if anyone saw him. She motioned for him to come into her room, then shut the door behind him.

“How old are you, Mahato?”

“Eighteen, miss.”

“Oh, you don’t have to call me- No, wait, I like it when you call me miss.”

“Yes, miss.”

He had such a pretty lilting Polynesian accent, she wanted to hear him keep talking. He had a clipped manner of speaking, as though he rushed between vowels, and his breath smelled of coconut. “Tell me what you want to do to me, Mahato.”

He was taken aback, and he stumbled over his words. He blushed but his skin was dark enough that she only noticed because she was inches from his face. He smiled anxiously. “I, uh, I want to… serve your needs, miss.” His lower lip trembled as she gently pushed him to his knees. She ran her fingers through his thick shock of hair. “I’ll… do anything you want, miss.”

“Will your boss miss you if you stay in here too long?”

“No, miss,” he said. He bit his lip and looked down. “He has told me to please our guests any way I can. He… sometimes arranges for it… He knows I may take some time.”

Dana smiled. “You take care of a lot of female guests?”

He smiled back. “Usually only old ladies, miss.”

“Well, I expect a good performance from you then. Lemme see that tongue again, Mahato.”

He stuck his tongue out again, then lapped at the air like a cat drinking from an invisible saucer. His shirtless body writhed, lithe muscles flexing as he got more and more enthusiastic about it. His bright eyes flitted to and fro, checking out her body while he became visibly aroused.

Dana wore only a miniskirt, her panties already in a wad on the floor. Since Mahato was on the ground on his knees, he was at a perfect height for Dana to plant herself on his face.

But first she hovered just above his mouth, his tongue straining to reach her. Her pussy throbbed with desire, and every muscle in her body told her to fill herself up with his tongue. But she liked the anticipation.

“Do you want this, Mahato?”

He nodded his agreement, and said yes the best he could with his tongue still sticking out. He wiggled it back and forth. His eyes were wild and frantic — he obviously wanted this very much.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Dana lowered herself onto him. She threw her head back as his tongue squeezed inside her pussy. It was so hot she squealed in a most unladylike way; she hoped Mahato didn’t notice, as she was trying to project a certain classy, cosmopolitan American accent, and squealing like a piglet didn’t really help that effort.

An orgasm began to hit Dana suddenly, and she felt her knees go weak. She buckled as she moaned. She would have collapsed to the floor except that Mahato’s head was well under her by then, so she found herself supported entirely by his face pressed into her pussy.

Her fingers crept down his body. His skin was smooth and soft brown, with a few kinky black hairs on his chest. She dug deep furrows into his chest as her feelings grew uncontrollably intense, and her climax wracked her body.

Moisture seeped out and into his mouth. Mahato’s tongue lapped inexorably at her, and it seemed even bigger now, so large it barely fit inside her. Did his tongue swell like a dick? Or did her pussy contract to squeeze around him?

Dana moaned as her entire body went weak. Her orgasm continued in waves, growing slower and slower with every contortion of her frame; each climactic shudder was a little less overwhelming, and she slowly became aware of Mahato’s body still stimulating every inch of her. Dana couldn’t help but grunt, then blushed herself in embarrassment.

She slowly slid off Mahato’s face. He grinned, his features slick with sticky fluids. He still had his tongue out as though he hadn’t noticed she slipped off him; he licked an invisible vagina for a few seconds before actually stopping.

“You all done, miss?” he asked.

She got the impression he was hoping for actual sex, but Dana liked to make him wait. He was disappointed, and she saw that he was desperate to prove he was worth real sex. She stretched her legs and stepped away from him.

“Good job, Mahato. You can tell your boss you performed admirably,” she said. “But you failed to find shea butter as well.” She handed him a twenty US-dollar bill. “I don’t have much New Zealand cash, can I give you this?”

“Yes, miss,” he said as he took the money. “Thank you for allowing me to serve you, miss.”

Seamen Downlow

This is a sample chapter from Seamen Downlow, a story in the Str8 Studs Downlow series by Forrest Manacre.

Brad was getting to know his workmate Charlie Slaughter. The first couple days, Charlie had barely spoken at all. He was being punished for some infraction Brad wasn’t aware of, that was why Charlie worked in the coal chamber. Brad was still brand-new, so he was simply assigned to coalwork, not being punished.

The merchant ship Bissonette ran on coal, and it was Brad and Charlie who loaded up carts with the heavy black rocks to be sent down to the furnace. It was hard, back-breaking work. That was why they assigned it to new seamen like Brad or men being punished like Charlie.

Brad knew his first couple months would be difficult, and so far he thought he’d get through it. He’d been a champion lineman in high school football, so he was plenty strong, and he thought he’d get a promotion soon. He had known it would be a physically demanding career.

Each time they sent a cart of coal off, they had a few minutes alone, waiting for the next cart to be picked up. Charlie brooded at first, still upset about his assignment; he seemed to blame Brad for being assigned to the coal chamber. But then he began to relax, and spoke often of the girlfriends he had in every port.

“Twelve minutes,” Charlie said halfway through the second week, breaking a long silence. His shirtless chest was streaked with black coal dust, which had turned into muddy batter where it mixed with his sweat.

Brad looked at him in confusion. Their initial awkwardness had finally given way to comfortable silence, and he liked that. He was always annoyed by coworkers who never stopped talking.

“That’s how long we’ve got between carts,” he said. “It’s very exact. I’ve been timing it. There’s never more than about a thirty second variance.”

“Oh, cool,” Brad said. The two transport guys — two Africans who didn’t speak much English — came in the room then with the next empty cart. Brad and Charlie stopped talking to resume their shoveling. Brad’s muscles ached and felt like they might pop right off his body if he kept working like this.

He had been told he’d do alright because he was muscular by nature, but Brad was becoming less and less sure he’d be able to handle it. They were only two weeks in and he could barely use his arms at the end of each day. He hadn’t known he’d be doing precisely one thing all day, every day, using one muscle in one way to do one thing — the rest of his body was getting weak, with all his power transferring to his shoulders.

“Do you wanna play a game?” Charlie asked as they finished the cart. The two Africans spoke in their own language while they wheeled the coal away, and when the door closed behind them, Charlie made eye contact with Brad.

Brad stopped for a moment, trying not to look like he was out of breath. He couldn’t understand how Charlie was doing it so easily — Charlie was physically smaller than Brad, even if he had a dense, strong, barrel-chested physique. But his experienced arms just seemed to glide right through the pile of coal. Brad was feeling inadequate next to him. “What game?”

“We got twelve minutes from when the cart leaves the room to when those African bastards come back,” he said with a grin. “Let’s jack each other off, like a circlejerk. Not much of a circle cuz it’s just two of us, but still, a circlejerk. If you don’t get yer not off before the Africans come back, then you gotta… well look like a faggot in front of two Africans.”

“That sounds kinda faggy.”

“It ain’t, man. If you think circlejerks is faggy, you ain’t gonna fit in real well on this ship,” Charlie said. He scoffed. “Ain’t no women around, and there ain’t much else to do either.”

“So everybody does this?”

“That’s right, we had a eighty-seven person circlejerk once,” he said. “Prolly some kinda world record or some shit.”

“That… sounds gross,” Brad said. “But impressive.”

“We ain’t got much time,” Charlie said. He undid his belt and dropped his thick work pants in one smooth motion. He had a wide cock that stuck out from his dense pubic bush. He grabbed for Brad’s cock without waiting for him to agree; Brad had no desire to touch Charlie’s cock, or be touched by him, but he didn’t mind the idea of circlejerking too much, and he was glad to make a friend.

Brad was hesitant, but he didn’t pull away. In truth, he was very horny, and was glad for an opportunity to get his nut off, even if it was in this unfortunate and awkward situation. He soon found himself rock-hard, with his cock throbbing between Charlie’s fingers.

Remembering the details of the game — he had to get Charlie to ejaculate before the Africans returned in a few minutes, or else he would look like a queer in front of the Africans — Brad reached out for Charlie’s cock. He had never touched another man’s dick before, so when he did, he felt a disgusting clammy texture. It was unlike his own, he thought, and when it got hard beneath his fingers, he felt nauseous.

Charlie’s handjob felt much better than Brad had ever thought it might to have another man jack him off — in no time, Brad was moaning and gyrating his hips, getting ready to blow his nut off. He was embarrassed at how quickly it came; he hoped he didn’t look like a queer who enjoyed this sort of thing.

Then it came, a powerful orgasm that ripped through Brad’s body and made him moan so hard he blushed. Charlie grinned and didn’t stop jacking him off as creamy hot cum shot all over the floor. Brad’s football-toned muscles shook as his face turned beet-red, and Charlie snickered at his reaction.

Brad took a few deep breaths and squeezed on Charlie’s cock. He resumed stroking it, thinking he would do better now that he wasn’t distracted by his own dick being jacked off.

But then moments later the Africans arrived. They were two burly men who spoke thickly-accented French — Brad could catch a few words here and there, but not hold a conversation with them. It was apparent they were surprised and disgusted, however, when they saw Brad standing there with his hand around Charlie’s cock. It must have looked like Brad was gay, and he blushed even harder but didn’t stop stroking off Charlie.

Brad tried to explain but the two Africans weren’t listening. They had dropped their own pants and were jacking each other off, looking on at Brad as though they thought he was sexy. One of them even stuck his tongue out and licked the air in front of his face.

Charlie laughed. “They think we’re playing Soggy Biscuit, and they want in.” He spoke to the Africans then, loud and enunciating clearly, “No Biscuit,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“You don’t wanna know. It’s a different circlejerking game,” Charlie said.

The Africans seemed disappointed, but they kept stroking each other off. They both had long cocks that were so dark they were almost blue. Brad had trouble avoiding looking at them, so he closed his eyes and focused on jacking off Charlie. He tried not to think about the pulsating cockshaft between his fingers.

Some moisture hit him from the ceiling. Brad frowned, thinking that it was raining again — sometimes the water spread into every corner of the ship. But then he opened his eyes and saw that one of the Africans had shot his nut all over Brad’s bare cock and balls. They were holding back their laughter, to avoid making Brad open his eyes, as the second African prepared to shoot his load as well.

“Hey!” Brad screamed, but he was interrupted by the second African moaning in his own tribal language. A thick spurt of cum shot from his dick and landed on Brad’s bare, limp cock. His dick had never felt smaller as the two horse-shafted Africans laughed at him.

He barely even noticed as Charlie shot his load before Brad could do anything more than curse the naked Africans. The smell of sour semen filled the air again, as Charlie’s wad spread over Brad’s hand. Brad gagged and dangled his hand in front of his like it was a dead creature and he needed to get rid of it.

“Well,” Charlie said. “It’s a good thing we weren’t playing Soggy Biscuit, cuz that biscuit would be extra-soggy. And you’d have lost, Brad.”

Salesmen Downlow

This is a sample chapter from Salesmen Downlow, a story in the Str8 Studs Downlow  series by Ethan Scarsdale.

Jim’s mood darkened as he realized this was not turning out to be a good sales day. He didn’t know why it was so bad today. He had been cheerful at first, though he was getting gloomy now, and he was in a well-off all-white neighborhood in Hartford. That should mean good sales.

He had been selling encyclopedias for the last few months. It wasn’t the kind of job he wanted, but it was all he could get. It seemed the soaring economy they talked about in the news didn’t extend to James Dortman. He remained as hopeful as he could muster up the will to be.

He returned to the big white van on a streetcorner, where he and his two new coworkers, Tom and Rick, had gotten started. They had even given him the best part of the neighborhood, and he had barely sold a thing.

They were waiting for him. Both Tom and Rick had been in the war together. Not for very long, they had been assigned to the Philippines just before the bombs were dropped on Japan, but they always played up the war hero angle. They had already admitted to Jim that they only saw combat once, but Jim knew he’d look like an ass if he made a big deal out of that.

“Finally, you’re back. We’ve got a game,” Tom said. He had a cocky sneer on his face. He was a thick-bodied man, with neck rolls visible on his hair, which was still in a military crew-cut. He had a rough-hewn face that accentuated his crude appearance and demeanor. “We ain’t played it since we got out of military life.”

Rick, on the other hand, was lean and handsome, a lady’s man with deep dimples. He had grown his hair out a bit since leaving the Army, though it was always perfectly combed and slicked back with grease. He was half-Italian — the good half, he always said with a laugh — and had a faintly swarthy complexion. “It’s called Soggy Biscuit,” Rick said as Jim shut the van door behind him.

It was probably some new kind of arm-wrestling or something along those lines, Jim thought. They were always coming up with new athletic contests that Jim invariably lost. But what was Soggy Biscuit?

“How many housewives did you fuck?” Rick asked.

Jim blushed and shook his head. He wasn’t used to this kind of salty language; he wasn’t raised to consider it acceptable. He would never have messed around with a woman to whom he was not married, especially a woman he had just met and who was married to someone else. Jim was a Christian man, and he didn’t believe Rick’s constant boasting about this subject — Rick claimed to regularly seduce the housewives he met selling encyclopedias door-to-door.

“Man, I had this girl sucking me off today until her husband came home-“

“Rick, come on…” Jim said.

Rick grinned. He wasn’t really serious, Jim thought, he probably never had a housewife. “I was just wondering how many housewives you fucked today,” Rick said. “I’m gonna be at a disadvantage cuz of this broad’s hot mouth on me.”

“What?”

“This is a game we played in the Army. It’s just a circlejerk, but whoever can’t cum quickly has to eat all the cum up. Since I already came once before today, I’ll have a bad handicap,” Rick said. He placed a fluffy biscuit on a place in the center of the van. “Shoot your nut on this.”

“That’s fucking disgusting!”

“Oh, well, if you’d rather finger your clitoris…” Rick said.

“Fuck you-“

“It’s an Army thing, man, civilians wouldn’t get it. This is how real men act,” Tom said. “Real men gotta drain their balls.”

“I’m a real man, you don’t have to be in the Army to be a real man.”

“Then prove it,” Rick said.

Jim sighed. It was a cheap trick, to insult his masculinity to get him to do what they wanted, but he had to admit he was working. He stepped into their circle — he had been feeling horny all day, so he was certain he could cum quickly. And while he surprised to have it happen in a van with his coworkers, this wouldn’t be the first circlejerk he had ever participated in.

He dropped his pants. From the way Rick’s smirk melted away, it was apparent that he was surprised and annoyed that Jim’s cock was at least as big as Rick’s substantial manhood — Rick must have intended to make fun of Jim for having a small, civilian penis, but now didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that Jim was the biggest of the three.

Jim reached out for Rick’s cock, which was already half-hard. It was clammy and moist. Jim hated touching other men’s cocka, and he again regretted ever agreeing to this.

He stroked Rick’s cock, feeling self-conscious as Tom’s hand wrapped around his own member. Jim tried to concentrate on memories of his past sexual experiences, recalling the feel of his only serious girlfriend so far as she caressed his dick to full tumescence. They hadn’t gone all the way yet, though Jim had implied to Rick and Tom that he was not a virgin.

Tom shot his load first, so quickly that Jim was astonished. It only took him about three minutes to get hard and cum — obviously Rick was an excellent handjobber, he thought. He became more and more nervous that he would end up being last and losing the game.

He even tried to slow down jacking off Rick, so he could focus on the rising pleasure in his own dick. But Rick was thrusting his hips — since he no longer had to jack Tom off, he could focus on getting his nut out quickly.

Jim’s heart sank as Rick grunted and creamy cum shot all over Jim’s hand. He gagged at the creamy sensation of the moisture spreading across his fingers and palm, and at the realization that he had lost. He was going to have to eat that foul, cum-bespoiled biscuit.

The biscuit sat in the center of the van, crumbling as it was soggy with cum. His stomach churned at the thought of eating it.

But first he had to nut. Tom was using both hands on his dick, and now that Jim had no more anxiety about whether he would lose, he felt his orgasm coming on quickly.

He shot a desultory load, maybe too depressed to really cum, or maybe some part of his balls was aware that whatever semen he ejected he would just be eating in a few moments.

“Eat it! Eat it!” Tom and Rick chanted so loud Jim was sure people outside the van could hear.

He blushed as he picked up the biscuit and gagged again. He stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. At first it just tasted like a normal biscuit and he thought it wouldn’t be that bad. Then the salty-sour flavor of cum hit him, and he retched intensely.

He choked down the last of the biscuit, and held onto his stomach as it churned, as though it was trying to escape from his body.

“Ha, you shoulda joined the Army,” Rick said. “You woulda fit in well.”

Christians Downlow

This is a sample chapter from Christians Downlow, a story in the Str8 Studs Downlow series by Bubba Marshall.

Brad boarded the bus, trying to hide his nervousness. His big, lacrosse-trained muscles shook with anxiety. This trip had seemed exciting and fun when it was just an idea, one that he thought his parents would refuse. But they had been convinced by the local priest, Father Duncan, who told them that Brad’s charisma would mean he was a sure success as a missionary. What Christian parent could refuse that?

But now that he was entering El Salvador, and was no longer accompanied by dozens of churchgoing friends, he was beginning to get nervous. It was just him and his friend and teammate Marshall, on a bus. Neither of them were even fully fluent in Spanish. Why did they agree to come to El Salvador?

There were four other men on the bus, not counting the bus driver. All four were young and lithe, with crude tattoos and mean faces. They looked like gangbangers, and they glared cruelly at Brad and Marshall, who hadn’t spoken above a whisper in hours. Brad was already wondering if there was any face-saving way he could quit now; he could probably afford a plane ticket if he emptied his savings.

Brad’s body shook as he saw the four Salvadorans moving around, talking to each other; they were planning something, it seemed. They didn’t look hostile, which Brad was glad for, it looked more like they wanted to play a game. One of them approached Brad and Marshall, and spoke in broken English.

“We are playing Salvadoran game,” he said, and he named it in Spanish but the word didn’t mean anything to Brad. “You join? Or ignore us. Your choice.”

Not wanting to seem unsociable, Brad said yes. They were supposed to be talking to the locals, after all, and it was just a game. It might even be fun, he thought. Marshall smiled as well, agreeing with Brad.

Much to Brad’s surprise, the Salvadorans dropped their pants. They were all naked in seconds, their lean brown bodies gleaming in the sun that brightly shone through the bus’ open windows. All four of them were short and skinny, with ropy muscles seemingly ready to burst from their skin as though their bodies were too big for their flesh. As they undressed, Brad exchanged a shocked glance with Marshall; the only consolation, he had thought, was that they would probably be less scary naked — as it turned out, the prison tats and scarred bodies meant they were at least as scary naked as they were clothed.

Before Brad even realized what was happening, the Salvadorans had formed a circle. Brad and Marshall were part of that circle, and stood there awkwardly as Salvadoran men grabbed for each other’s crotches. They had no compunctions about wrapping their hands around each other’s light brown shafts, and immediately begin stroking.

The bus driver at the front of the bus cleared his throat and coughed nervously. He scrupulously avoided looking in the mirror after that, instead focusing on keeping his eyes on the road in front of him.

This was obviously a circlejerk, Brad thought. He and some church friends had done this once on a dare, when he was younger, but he had no idea it was practiced here in El Salvador. It seemed like such a young, immature teenager kind-of-thing to do, Brad hadn’t even thought about in years. These guys were supposed to be extremely anti-gay, he thought, so he was surprised that they were into it.

But Marshall wasn’t walking away, so Brad stayed as well. He was surprised to find that one Salvadoran, a mean-eyed, dark-skinned man named Hector, had grabbed Marshall’s cock as though he was really excited about jacking him off. He pulled Marshall’s cock out from the fly of his pants.

Marshall looked down at his own dick as though it was a foreign object, as Hector began stroking Marshall’s off. Brad’s stomach churned with anxiety, and his mind raced to find a way out of this. But the rickety bus just kept going, and wouldn’t stop until they reached the tiny village that was their destination. Marshall took a deep breath and grabbed for Brad’s cock; his touch sent awkward spasms of tension up Brad’s spine.

Brad was nervous. He was the last person to begin, and he felt self-conscious; he was big and strong, and had nothing to be embarrassed about in the dick department, but he was still awkward to be in a circlejerk with a bunch of strangers. To his right was Roberto, a tall and relatively burly man (though he was only burly by Salvadoran standards; if he were American, he would be skinny). Roberto was covered in crude tattoos and had a long, thick cock.

This is part of my service to Christ, Brad thought. He could do this, he could reach out to these gangbangers and show them the light of the lord. But first he needed to reach out to Roberto and stroke him off. It was important to get to know the people you wanted to reach, to know what they wanted so you could better serve them in Christ’s name.

The man’s cock was hot and sweaty beneath Brad’s fingers. He felt sick but didn’t stop, especially when Roberto glared at him as though angry that Brad hadn’t already started stroking. That made Brad jump into action and hurriedly jack the man’s limp cock.

Soon enough Roberto was hard beneath Brad’s fingers. He was so intent on jacking Roberto off that Brad barely noticed the first gangbanger shoot his load. The young man’s whole body undulated as he came, and he moaned in Spanish, saying something that made the young man jacking him off laugh.

Then a second Salvadoran shot his load, and the smell of cum grew so thick it made Brad’s eyes water. The sour-acrid scent overwhelmed him. It felt like he could taste the cum in the air, and Brad tried not to breathe semeny atmosphere in the cramped bus.

Roberto said something in Spanish as he shot a load. Brad was surprised by the man’s sudden orgasm, and he almost stopped jacking Roberto off, but Roberto kept on gyrating his hips, so even with Brad’s hand remaining still, Roberto just fucked his hand.

Creamy cum burst from Roberto’s cock and coated Brad’s fingers. The smell was overpowering when it was so close to him, even stronger than when he smelled his own semen. It stuck between his fingers like warm melted glue. Brad’s stomach churned with disgust.

Brad let go of Roberto’s dick, but Roberto shot him a mean glare, and Brad kept on stroking. It looked like that was a rule here; all of the men were lazily stroking the limp cock of the man to their right.

Brad blushed as he realized that he and Marshall, the two big, relatively small-cocked Americans, were the last to cum. Marshall grunted and shot his load before Brad could even remark on it, and Brad was now feeling very weak and pitiful. It was obvious these men considered cumming quickly to be a mark of manhood; that felt strange to Brad, who thought cumming quickly when surrounded by men would be a bad sign. If these men were real Christians, it would be — he made a mental note to ensure they understood why homosexuality and extra-marital sex was sinful.

The men were speaking in fluid Spanish, too quickly for Brad to understand. It was clear they were making fun of him for being slow and he tried not to listen. He knew if he paid attention that, he’d get even more nervous and further from cumming.

Brad closed his eyes and focused on his imminent orgasm. Concentration was difficult in the jostling bus baking in the brilliant Central American sun. But Brad finally came, and he grunted as he shot his load all over Marshall’s fingers. It was not a big load, but it was enough, and the whole bus erupted in applause. Tense orgasmic pleasure washed over him.

His face red, Brad sighed with relief. He was finally done, and he and Marshall seemed to have sort-of made friends with these guys. They shook cum-streaked hands and clasped Brad and Marshall on the shoulder, inviting them to some sort of event that Brad couldn’t quite catch.

“Well, it seems we got through this,” Marshall finally said when they were alone again. He was overjoyed that they were done. “We’ve made some friends with the locals.”

Alien Probe Sex

This is a sample chapter from Alien Probe Sex.

“You fat lesbo bitch!” shouted a man into her open store door. He darted away before she could respond. Luckily, no customers were in the store at the time.

Dana sighed. She had known a Wiccan store in Amarillo, Texas would be controversial, but she hadn’t thought it would be this bad. There were plenty of Wiccans and neopagans around, so business hadn’t been terrible. But a lot of the locals hated anything unchristian, and they seemed to think all Wiccans were lesbians.

Her head stayed upright however, her chin solid and her heart dead-set on making this store work. She tried not to let the harassment bother her, and when a customer came in a few minutes later, she smiled and assisted him the best she could. He was not a Wiccan, and was hoping, he said, for a book about aliens.

“I was kidnapped by aliens a few months ago,” he said, looking down as though not expecting her to believe him. “I just want to know more about what happened. I need to process it.”

Dana didn’t believe in aliens, who had nothing to do with Wicca, after all. But she knew a lot of her customers did believe in them, and she had stocked a few relevant books. She showed them to the man, who nervously flipped through each of them.

“It’s just hard to get through the feelings, as though I deserved it,” he said. “Maybe they picked me because there’s something wrong with me.” Dana was barely listening, so she just nodded her agreement with him. What an odd concern to have about alien abduction, she thought, almost as though he had been raped instead.

But he paid for the book and left. Dana was glad — books were a high margin item, so that helped the day’s total quite a bit. A lot of her volume was in things like tea candles, which people bought in large numbers but only at such low prices she barely broken even on them. Yesterday she had sold almost all of the tea candles she had, nearly a thousand of them, and made almost five dollars in profit on them.

It was just past closing time, so she hurriedly finished the day’s work. Finally it was done, and she locked the door. The sun had already set, but it was early yet and the streets of Amarillo were beginning to crawl with youthful bar-goers.

She got in her car and drove to the little old farmhouse she had rented on the outskirts of town. It was a fixer-upper, but she had been so focused on the store that she hadn’t even started to fix it up yet.

Headlights flashed her, and Dana pulled to a stop with a sigh. This was probably another mandatory drunk driving checkpoint, she thought. Whatever happened to Texas’ anti-authoritarian streak, she wondered. Before she moved to this state, Texans had always made a big deal out of how much more independent they were than out-of-staters, but the Texas police had way more power than in any other state she had ever lived in. They routinely searched cars without permission or a warrant. She smiled and tried to put on her best cheerful civilian face. At least she knew she was totally sober.

But wait, those weren’t headlights, she realized. She pulled to a stop as the lights got brighter and brighter, and she couldn’t see where she was going.

Was the car still moving? Her foot was on the brake, but it sure seemed like the car was slowly moving forward. It was like that curiously dizzy sensation when you were parked in an automatic car wash and it looked like the car was rolling ahead because the brushes and rollers were moving while the car was still. But this was even harder to see what was really happening, since it was pitch-black outside aside from the brilliant, blinding light.

Dana blacked out then.

She woke up with a terrible headache, strapped to a cold steel table. There was a bright light in her eyes once again, but this was not like a pair of headlights, it was like a flashlight aimed directly in her eyes.

How long have I been unconscious? She couldn’t remember. She felt like she was waking up from a long and confusing dream, but no memory of it remained in her mind.

Dana’s heart fluttered as she struggled against the straps holding her. Her mind was foggy like in a dream-state, though she was certain she was awake. She screamed.

A sound. She stopped screaming so she could hear it. It was a vaguely organic, almost insectoid, clicking with an interrogative tone to it as though it was the sound of crickets asking questions with their chirps It resonated in her ears like the tolling of a bell.

“Hello?” she said. “Who’s there? My name is Dana Lambert, and I’m from Amarillo, Texas. I… I’m an American citizen, and-”

The light that was blinding her turned off. For a moment, all was darkness. Dana waited, holding her breath, while her eyes adjusted. She didn’t know why she was claiming her citizenship, as it was obviously not going to help her here, wherever that was.

She gasped. Standing in front of her was a short grayish-green creature, an alien, not so far removed from pictures she had seen and illustrations in movies and comic books. It had tall, slender eyes and two arms with pointy fingers at the end. A network of wrinkles lined its otherwise almost-featureless face and neck.

It held a small steel probe in its hand. It gleamed cleanly, and inscrutable symbols flashed on its side, though there was no obvious screen-like area. Dana heard another human moan somewhere far away, but that moan sounded faintly sexual, not painful.

The thought of sex, along with her sheer terror, made Dana feel aroused, and her nipples hard like stone. She hadn’t even noticed she was totally naked except for her socks until she heard that sexual groaning grunt and her own womanhood came alive.

The probe touched her thigh. The alien watched her closely as though monitoring her reactions, though he didn’t seem to be writing anything down or recording anything. The cables attached to her body by sticky tape led to some machine behind her that she could not see.

She moaned involuntarily, and blushed in embarrassment. She wondered if the alien recognized her sexual excitement, which she didn’t even understand herself. She had never been the kind of person who enjoyed kink or BDSM, and she had certainly never had any fantasies about aliens.

The probe touched her clitoris as it slid inside. Dana shuddered. She dug her nails into the cold steel examining table beneath her. The alien made a curious clicking sound over her body, its big narrow eyes inspected every inch of her as though looking for defects.

She squirmed uncontrollably. The straps bit into her skin, and the pain made her pussy come alive. She moaned again, louder, losing her inhibitions as the probe slid in a little further. It was warm and throbbed like a real cock.

“Yes, god, please do it!” she screamed. She would have clamped her hands over her mouth if she had thought before speaking, but her mouth was open to scream and out came the words.

Did the alien understand? She couldn’t tell. It definitely chittered in its own language when it heard the outburst. Was the chittering directed at her or did the alien have a way of communicating with someone offscreen? She couldn’t tell.

The probe flashed red as it slid all the way in, past the squeezing pussy lips. Her thighs flexed and she felt the cool, damp skin of the alien’s hand between her thighs. It was like a shaved animal, she thought, or what she imagined a seal-skin might feel like.

“Fuck me, yes, fuck me now,” she said. “Put it in and take it out, keep putting it in and taking it out.”

The creature did as she said. The proben began thrusting, a little harder with every pump. Dana moaned as an orgasm overtook her. The alien seemed to realize what she was doing, and it responded with more of the same. It was playing along, she realized, it was trying to make this orgasm feel good.

It worked. Sparks flew in her mind as her bound body writhed and struggled against the straps holding her down. She squeezed her womanhood around the probe as though trying to steal it, and held her breath while the orgasm ripped through. Moisture flowed out and coated the probe with her juices.

The alien looked at its moist hand, then pulled out the wet probe and examined that as well. It peered closely at every inch of the probe’s glistening metal.

She lay back on the operating table, spent. Her rotund body was sweaty and tired, and she now just wanted to go to sleep, ideally in her own bed.

“I’m done now, you can take me home,” she said.

Amy Ling & the Pussy of Power

This is a sample chapter from Amy Ling & the Pussy of Power!

Her pussy was tingling, which seemed like a sign that she should fuck him. Amy Ling sat across from a college boy with a backwards baseball cap and cute dimples, listening, or pretending to listen, to him talk about the fraternity politics that prevented his frat brothers from being as successful as they should.

“So we’re really just hurting ourselves — this organization could be the top Greek club on campus,” he said. “It’s messed up.”

She nodded. She didn’t really care, but she knew boys like him wanted a woman who listened. They needed a chick who listened to every idiotic word dripping from their lips. He kept talking about stupid Kappa Gamma Pi, and she kept pretending to listen.

Amy Ling had just turned eighteen, her late birthday meaning she had already started her freshman year at college. Now she was with this frat boy, Kevin, at the campus dining center, nibbling on a salad while he ate a big plate of chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese.

Her pussy really tingled as she considered the possibility of sleeping with him. It was an odd sensation, electrifying and erotic, as though she was having sex and about to have an orgasm. She just didn’t get why — Kevin wasn’t that hot, and she hadn’t decided to sleep with him until right then, when her frothing pussy made her feel like she couldn’t refuse.

He offered to bring her back to the frathouse, and Ling agreed. She normally didn’t do something like this on the first date, but that tingling pussy made her so horny she wasn’t thinking straight. If she fucked one Kappa on the first date, all of the Kappas would expect the same treatment.

There were guys on the main floor, and they hooted as Kevin led her upstairs. She blushed — normally she’d have been humiliated at being thought of as a slut by so many strangers, but for some reason she didn’t mind right now. She followed Kevin into a bedroom, where he stripped off his shirt to reveal a sculpted chest.

He kissed her, and she was wrapped up in his arms on the bed. They tumbled onto his unkempt sheets and he hurriedly unbuttoned her blouse before taking off his own pants. He was rushing through it, and she wanted to tell him to slow down, but a part of her was turned on by his enthusiasm as well — he could barely control himself because of her pussy, she thought. He couldn’t imagine waiting any longer because her pussy was beautiful, delicious and wonderful.

“You smell so good,” Kevin said as though surprised by it, and he pulled her shorts and panties off. He devoured her pussy in one smooth motion, and his tongue dived deep into her.

A jolt of pleasure shot up Ling’s spine; she shuddered, her clit coming alive beneath his mouth. His lips encircled her pussy, which throbbed and pulsed hotly. She arched her back and screamed, holding back at first in a sense of propriety, remembering the other frat boys downstairs, but then her orgasm came and she could hold back no longer. She yelled so loud the guys downstairs applauded, and she and Kevin both blushed.

She had never had a man eat her out so well, and she was surprised it was even possible to feel this good. His tongue was plump and filling her up inside, activating every nerve she had with a fiery climax that made her moan deeply. She clutched his official Kappa Gamma Pi blanket on the bedspread beneath her.

He sat up, his face gleaming with moisture and his eyes closed. He had a raging erection that plunged deep inside her before she even stopped orgasming from his tongue. Her whole body tensed and shook with uncontrollable bliss.

His dick hit her clit, rubbing past it as he swelled within her. He felt hot inside her, rolling, pulsating, spasming, while his broad shoulders flexed above her face. She clutched at his back and drew bloody rills in his skin as they both fell limp at once.

She didn’t know how long they fucked — it felt like forever, but she suspected it was only a few minutes. She was heaving for breath, beads of sweat pooling on her breasts. She arranged her hair and pulled away from Kevin.

She stood and stretched her legs. Kevin was laying on the bed, gasping for air. He looked as though he had just had his mind blown.

Am I good at sex? In high school, Ling had only done it three times with two different guys. She assumed she was still pretty bad at it, and she hadn’t even really had an orgasm before tonight. The expression on his face suggested she was good, and a surge of pride ran through her as he stared at her with dull, fuck-addled eyes.

She wasn’t looking forward to the walk home. The walk of shame, she thought, everyone will know she got fucked. Her hair was messed up, her makeup, her clothes — she didn’t have her big purse tonight, so she didn’t bring any extra cosmetics or a hat or anything else that might have helped her walk home with a lower profile.

“Can I have some money for a cab?” she asked. He flashed his eyes in a way that suggested he wanted to say yes but couldn’t afford it. He was a poor college student like she was. But she looked at the dazed and confused look on his face, and thought, I let him fuck me. The least he can do is pay for me to get home. She put her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrows.

“I don’t, uh, really have much…”

His wallet was there on the nightstand. She picked it up and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “Just gimme this,” she said.

He nodded. “Okay.”

“Call me,” she said.

He looked confused, and reached for the pants on the floor. He pulled out his cell phone. She thought he was checking to make sure he had put her number in his phone, but then much to her surprise, he dialed it. Her phone rang.

She turned it off. “What are you doing?”

“You said to call me.”

“I mean… like tomorrow or something,” she said as though talking to a small child. “There’s no point in calling me right now. Fucking idiot. You got vagina-brain, Kevin, your mind isn’t working right.”

He blanched. “Sorry, I think you just fucked me stupid. You’re amazing,” he said.

“I know.”

Men of the Alabama State Prison

This is a sample chapter from Men of the Alabama State Prison, a Brutewood Correctional story by Curtis Kingsmith and Bubba Marshall.

Steve knew enough about prison to be worried when he got there. He was not a weak man, but he wasn’t as tough as some guys. When he was led into Cell Block Love, his mind raced with the possibilities of what might be about to happen.

The smirking guard pushed him into a group of shirtless black men, who stared at him with hostility. Steve tried to smile in a confident manner, but he thought he looked like a weakling. “Your cell is at the top of the stairs, on the right,” the guard said. “If you have any questions, just shut the fuck up and do as you’re told.”

Steve carried with him his bedding, a roll of toilet paper and a bag of personal belongings he had been allowed to keep. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had with him.

“Hey,” said one of the black guys. “You got any cash on you?” He had a dim, threatening tone, his eyes half-slitted.

“No…” Steve said.

There was some muffled laughter. Then, the man who had spoken before, said, “When can you get some?” He was shirtless, his chest dappled with sweat because he had been lifting weights before Steve’s arrival interrupted him. His body odor was overwhelming and cloying in Steve’s nose.

Before Steve could say anything else, someone pushed between him and the black men. It was a big, strapping man with dusky white skin, his tattoos and a big mat of scruffy hairy giving him an untamed hillbilly look.

“Back off,” said the man. “He’s my cellmate.”

He nodded for Steve to follow him, and Steve did, figuring he couldn’t be any more dangerous than the black guys who currently surrounded him. He stayed quiet as he followed the man to a cell on the top floor of the cell block.

The cell was even tinier than he thought it would be. They couldn’t both stand in the center at the same time, one had to be over by the toilet or pressed against the cell bars. It looked old and smelled rank.

“You got the bottom bunk,” the man said. “The name’s Carruthers.”

Steve forced a smile. “Steve Weatherman,” he said. He held out his hand to shake.

Carruthers looked down at his hand, then grasped it with one meaty paw. He looked Steve up and down, checking him out. “You a faggot?”

“No.” Steve had already decided to lie about that — he had been in the closet for years, he could go back in, he thought.

Carruthers spat on the ground. “Don’t believe you. But it’s good that you got enough shame to deny it.” His eyes continued roving up and down Steve’s body. He felt like he was being undressed but couldn’t bring himself even to put his things down, much less confront Carruthers’ deep, steely-eyed stare.

Carruthers took the belongings and the bedding and toilet paper off Steve’s hands, poked through it all, then tossed it on the bed. When his eyes were momentarily turned, Steve felt a sense of relief.

He could finally bring himself to act again. He shifted his weight and said, “Hey, I-“

Carruthers reacted as though Steve had drawn a knife on him. He turned around, pushed Steve against the cell bars and pinched him there by the throat. Steve panicked as he couldn’t breathe, and he flailed, digging his nails into Carruthers’ barrel-shaped chest.

With a sneer, Carruthers dropped him. Steve landed on his feet, but Carruthers didn’t step back at all, so Steve was still pinned between his massive frame and the cell bars behind him. Carruthers was wearing only a dingy, torn sleeveless t-shirt, and the scent of his sweaty armpits was overwhelming.

Steve tried to regain his breath, but he couldn’t move and he found himself burying his face in Carruthers’ chest. He inhaled deeply of the man’s sweat and backed away, looking out between the bars for fresh air.

The black man who had confronted Steve earlier made a finger-fucking gesture and then pulled his cock out, flopping it between his fingers in Steve’s direction. He turned around and walked away.

Without warning and in one smooth motion, Carruthers lifted Steve’s shirt off. Steve let out a choked sob as he thought that could only be a prelude to a rape, a suspicion that was confirmed when Carruthers pulled down his prison-issue black-and-white striped pants.

“Stop crying,” Carruthers said. “I hate crying. I ain’t gonna rape you. I don’t rape. I know that’s what you think. I ain’t gonna rape you. I’m just lookin’ for gang tats.” Carruthers pulled down Steve’s boxers, handling him even more roughly than the guards did when he was strip-searched. Carruthers crudely caressed his cock and balls, and separated his asscheeks. He then snorted his approval and ignored Steve the rest of the day.

That night, when lights went out, Steve was reading his book. He sighed and put it down, wished he could have at least finished the chapter.

“Hey, faggot, you wanna suck my dick?” Carruthers asked, his voice low and guttural in the dark cell. He was standing in front of Steve’s bunk, stark naked.

Steve opened his mouth to say no, and tasted cock flesh as Carruthers smacked him in the face with it. “No!” Steve said.

Carruthers stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, as though considering whether to honor his promise not to rape Steve. Then he nodded and climbed into his top bunk.

Steve laid there nervously for a few minutes, worried that Carruthers was just getting ready before he came back. Eventually Steve drifted off to sleep despite his anxiety, though his rest was fitless and exhausting.

He awoke to the warm embrace of a man, whom he realized quickly was Carruthers. Carruthers’ arm was wrapped around his mouth, his other arm pinning Steve against the wall. His hard cock rammed between Steve’s thighs, and Carruthers slowly dry humped him there.

“Come on, just gimme a chance.” Carruthers whispered into Steve’s ear.

“You said you wouldn’t rape me,” Steve said. He tried to hold back tears, not wanting to look like a wuss in front of Carruthers.

“I ain’t,” Carruthers said. “If I was rapin’ you, you’d know it.” His hips moved back and forth, his cock leaking precum between Steve’s thighs. His manhood was warm, moist and sticky as it rubbed between Steve’s hairy legs.

“Then can you get the fuck off me?”

“Just gimme a chance to seduce you,” Carruthers said. He kissed Steve’s cheek, his rough, unshaved cheek scratching Steve’s skin. His fingers tweaked Steve’s nipples.

“No!”

“I’m sure I can make you wanna be my prison wife,” Carruthers said. His muscles spasmed, he held his breath. Cum spurted out from between Steve’s thighs, coating the wall and Steve’s sheets.

Steve groaned in disgust — he was gay, but he had always thought semen was kind of gross. He certainly didn’t want his sheets to be stained with it.

“Thanks,” Carruthers said. “I ain’t had a prison wife in awhile.”

“I am not your prison wife.”

“We’ll see.”