Filling Congresswoman Barbara Nashton

This is a sample chapter from Filling Congresswoman Barbara Nashton!

The more voters Barbara Nashton met, the more she disliked them. Every event was the same, even the ones that were different — if she went to a debate and spoke to liberal voters who hated her, she had a terrible time; if she went to a Republican rally and spoke to conservative voters who loved her, she had a terrible time. It was all just interacting with The Public, a nameless, thoughtless beast that reacted wildly. Whether glad-handing them or brushing them off, she still ended up sweaty and tired, and another day older.

Her fourth reelection campaign began at a community center in Lexington, Virginia. She had voted for a bill that cut funding to community centers — but nevermind, she didn’t want to think about any of that. She just memorized the talking points her handlers gave her, and maintained her appearance; that took pretty much all of her time and attention, so she had little awareness of what she had voted for or why. She knew less about governance than she had before being elected to Congress.

Someone’s hand was warm and rough, like heated sandpaper. She shook it and was pulled from her dim robotic-politician mode. He was among The Public but he wasn’t like them; he wasn’t a blur. He was there, and when they shook hands, time stopped. Her eyes met his.

He was a tall, rugged black man with a work-toned body and day-old stubble on his neck and shoulders. He wore only a sleeveless t-shirt, and his biceps flexed as he shook Barbara’s hand. His face was unshaven, his eyes slitted (stoned? She thought maybe). She shuddered a little as images of his naked body flitted through her mind. She managed to cover it up so nobody noticed.

She dismissed it, and continued the line. Her hand felt cold when she dropped his hand, but she moved on to the rest of The Public just the same. As always, she shuffled her real feelings to the back and smiled. She hugged a baby. She made sure the photographer got a shot of her hugging an Asian woman.

Soon enough the photo op was over, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She had managed to get through another event without doing something embarrassing that would end up on YouTube. That was really the best she could hope for. That was the main criterion for political jobs nowadays: have you ever said something that would make for a damning YouTube video? If not, you have a career in politics waiting.

Before leaving, she told her staff to wait and hurried to the ladies’ bathroom. She specifically told her staff not to come so she could be alone for a moment — her female employees were liable to come with her otherwise, so they could continue talking about campaign tactics — she needed a little time to herself, even if it was only a few moments.

Moments after she entered, the door swung open again. She looked away from the mirror and saw him there, locking the door behind himself. For a moment sunlight filled the bathroom and Barbara was blinded, but she knew it was him by his presence and his tall shadow and the smell of cocoa butter emanating from him.

He grinned. His dark charcoal skin gleamed in the brilliantly lit bathroom. His powerful chest strained beneath the sleeveless t-shirt he wore, and his muscles all rippled at once as he approached her.

“Hello, Congresswoman,” he said. “Whatchoo up to? Saw the way you was lookin’ at me.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“I always like to make my constituents happy,” she said. She reached one hand into his jeans and fondled his thick cock. She had never felt a dick so big and so hot, throbbing between her fingers and getting harder by the moment. She needed two hands to stroke the whole thing. Sexual urges flooded her mind, and Barbara pictured herself being gangbanged by dozens of men crammed into this tiny bathroom.

It was throbbing and leaking precum from the moment her hands touched it. A part of her wanted to fuck the man right there, but she managed to quiet that section of her mind down. This was risky enough, she thought. His own fingers crept into her panties and her clit came alive with the touch of his callused, blue-collar finger.

“Oh baby, you got wonderful hands,” he said. He leaned in and kissed her, and she smelled his aftershave. He nuzzled her neck with his grizzled chin.

Her hands worked in sync, stroking every inch of his cock. His pants finally dropped to his ankles so she could see it now, its dark brown color and the veiny shaft spasming beneath her fingers.

She was so focused on the hot shaft in her hands that Barbara could almost forget about his hand on her clit. He knew exactly where to touch, it seemed, and she wondered if he was some sort of expert fingerer.

He sure seemed have the hang of it, she thought as she shuddered. It was like her whole body went weak while his finger turned her insides into jelly. She inhaled deeply of his rustic scent and the smell of his unwashed clothes.

He bucked his hips wildly and closed his eyes. His whole body tensed, then relaxed, and for a moment it was as though Barbara was supporting him entirely through his cock. He groaned so loud she wondered if her aides outside could hear — she hoped not because it would be awkward, but on the other hand, she hoped so because then they’d know she had got this hot guy. Barbara giggled with excitement as she felt semen coursing through his powerful shaft. It shot into his pants and all over her hands.

Hot and creamy jism covered her fingers, and Barbara leaned back against the wall of the ladies’ bathroom. She was startled from her dreaminess by someone trying to open the door and finding it locked. She realized how this would look if she were caught, and humiliation flooded her even as her orgasm was still roiling her body. She gasped then clasped her hands over her mouth and had to suppress a giggle.

He just stood there with his massive slab of limp meat dangling moistly between his legs, while Barbara hurried to wash her hands off.

“Thanks, ma’am,” he said. “We need more folks like you in Congress.”

The BBW College Girl Interracial Public Sex Rimming Raunchplosion

Here’s a sample chapter from The BBW College Girl Interracial Public Sex Rimming Raunchplosion!

 

Dana Wyatt knew there was precisely one reason she was allowed to join Omega Omicron Tau. It was the most popular sorority on campus, and would never have accepted a rotund girl like Dana unless they had to. When a fat-shaming email from some Omegas went viral online, the university had presumably ordered them to accept some fat girls.

So here she was, trying to pretend she fit in at the first mixer of the year. She tried to exude confidence and poise, but was pretty sure that she failed. The other girls largely ignored her, inviting her only to the necessary functions and then pretending she didn’t exist when she did show up.

She sipped from a cold glass bottle filled with wine coolers. There was beer too, and she liked beer much better, but she knew if anyone saw her drink that, they’d think that was why she was fat. It wasn’t even logical — wine coolers probably have about as many calories as beer on average, and she’d have drunk light beer if there was any. But the bottles of wine coolers had pictures of pretty girls on them, and bottles of beer had pictures of mountains and motorcycles on them. So it was clear which beverage was for men, and which was for women.

She looked on thirstily at the cooler of beers and was startled to see someone reach for one. It was a dark-skinned, well-muscled arm with dim blue tattoos extending down from his thick biceps.

“Hey,” he said, and she almost jumped out of her shoes. He was John White, quarterback for the Goldendale Hills football team. She recognized him because he had been in the papers lately as the first black quarterback of a team in their division.

“Hi,” she said. She giggled a little, thinking that would look flirtatious. It seemed silly though. Dana had never been good at flirting.

“You hot as hell, baby” he said with a leering grin. He had a thick accent and deep dimples that made her swoon. He leaned down and kissed her.

Dana’s heart skipped a beat. She heard her sorority sisters gasping. Obviously they never thought a big girl might land the football jock. Their cries were choked, as though trying to hide how jealous they were, and that made Dana hold her head up higher than she had in many years.

He lightly pushed down on her shoulders, not really a push as much as a physical suggestion, and Dana sunk to her knees with a nervous grin. He unzipped the fly of his baggy jeans, and it was only then that Dana realized what he was hoping for. She wanted nothing more than to give it to him; the thought of doing it in front of so many strangers made her excited.

The rest of the football team had gathered around in a circle around him, and were watching as he took his dick out. She had the feeling John was hushing them, but she didn’t want to look up. He let his thick cock dangle from the fly of his jeans.

She kissed it on the tip, and the whole team cheered. Dana blushed. She had never been this popular for even a moment in high school, and now she had an entire football team encouraging her. She giggled.

John pushed his dick into her mouth, and she tasted the clean sweat flavor of his shaft. She had only ever sucked one boy’s dick before, so she didn’t have much to compare it to, but John’s dick was tastier than she thought any cock could be.

“Make some spit, girl, come on, don’t tell me you don’t know how to do it,” someone said, one of John’s teammates, she thought. She blushed a little thinking she was doing it wrong, and produced as much spit as she could. It seemed messy to smear saliva all up and down his shaft, soaking into the denim of his sagging jeans, but John moaned as though he liked it, so Dana kept doing it.

Was this a big dick? Dana thought so. It was certainly bigger than either of the cocks she had gotten a good look at before, but she didn’t know how representative that was. She could use both hands on its shaft, and she loved the way it throbbed with power beneath her fingers.

“Lemme see that, girl, show everyone,” John said as he pushed the head of his cock against her cheek for everyone to see it. His cocktip pushed against first her right cheek, then her left, and he angled her face so everyone at the party could see. They clapped and cheered, and Dana heard the click of photos being taken. John lifted up his thick, heavy balls, and said, “Oh baby, you know how to suck balls, right? I got some nice ones here for ya.”

Dana had actually never sucked balls. She always thought scrotums looked kind of gross, and she thought they were so sensitive she shouldn’t touch them. But she hurriedly put his balls in her mouth and loudly suckled on them.

He laughed and cheered. Someone else said, “That girl is nasty!”

“She’s nasty in all the right ways,” John said. “Ain’t that right, darling? I could tell ‘soon as I saw you, you was ready to show off what you got. I just might fuck you every day of the week, yeah? You want that? You wanna be nasty girl?”

“Yes, I-“

“Nah, say it with my balls in yo’ mouth. That’s how you say yes to me,” he said with a smile.

Dana blushed again and put his balls back in her mouth. He hushed the crowd so they could all hear as she spoke, as clearly as she could. “Yes, I wanna be your nasty girl,” is what she said, of course it just sounded like muffled garbage,

Everyone laughed and clapped. John pulled his shirt over his head, so he still wore it but his powerful, strapping chest was bare, brown skin gleaming in the brilliantly lit kitchen.

“Alright y’all, hush up,” John said. He stood with his hands on his hips, rock-hard cock pointing straight out. It was at least ten inches long, Dana thought, and as thick as a thin forearm. “Who wanna take care of my dick?”

Dana thought she was supposed to be doing it, so she reached up and began stroking him off. He batted her hand away.

“Nah, darling, not you. You gonna specialize in sucking nuts, ‘kay? That’s what you good for,” he said. “Matter of fact, lemme make some room so two bitches can take my dick.” He gently turned himself around without taking his balls out of Dana’s mouth, so she had to lean backwards between his legs, and her nose nestled in the hairy taint between his balls and his ass. Dana took a deep breath of his scent, stretched her mouth open a bit to take in all of his balls. She even let her tongue creep out and caress the root of his cock. “Oh, yeah, this big girl knows how to do it. This is why I love big girls. You and you, come on, you take the tip, you take the shaft.”

Dana could see nothing but John’s hairy taint and thighs, and she gripped his powerful asscheeks for support. She felt two more girls slide to sit near her, and take John’s dick in their mouths. He chanted with his buddied as he began fucking one girl’s mouth.

Dana had to straight to keep up as his whole body moved. She felt his balls crawl up in his sac, and he stopped moving. She could feel the cum pulsating through his crotch and out into the girl’s mouth.

He sighed and moaned loudly, then whispered something to his buddies. Was it something about her? Dana rather thought it was, and she was glad — no matter what it was, she wanted to be the center of attention, not those two skinny bitches who had gotten his nuts.

John lifted his balls out of her mouth and said, “Lemme see what you got, make a mess with that.”

She didn’t know what he meant at first, then realized he wanted to see all the spit and ballsweat that had collected in her mouth. She spat it up into a big ball that ran down her face.

“Oh, so nice,” he said. “We gonna get even nastier now, yeah? Just for a minute, as a sort of a cooldown, kay?”

She didn’t know what he meant, but he didn’t wait for a response. Her head was still between his legs, and he just gently pushed her to lay on her back on the ground. He lowered his asshole right on her mouth.

Dana squealed in disgust, then delight as she clutched his round ass cheeks. Her tongue instinctively crept into his musty, hairy asshole; she recoiled in shock at the strong sweat flavor, but was surprised at how not-gross it was. It tasted like John distilled, like every sexy inch of him had been boiled down to its constituent parts, and now she was licking every inch of the remains.

He laughed and said, “Fuck yeah, get that tongue deep in there, baby.”

She pushed back in. Her mind was telling her to stop, that this was disgusting and that everyone here would think she was nasty. But her heart was telling her that she was nasty, and that she wanted to taste every bit of his funky flavor.

Her tongue flickered inside him, and every motion she made caused an even bigger reaction in him. His muscles all tightened around her tongue, as though she was fucking his whole body at once. The watching partygoers were gasping and clapping depending on their perspective — the men were clapping, the women gasping.

She blindly grabbed around his body and stroked his dick, which was either hard again or still hard from the blowjob. He grunted in surprise as she began stroking him off, and his knees buckled from pleasure.

“Shit, I ain’t know a rimjob was this nice,” he said.

He bit his lip and stopped talking as a powerful orgasm ripped through him. His pecs jiggled and his wide asscheeks shook atop her face. Cum spewed from his dick and covered her hands and belly.

It was hot and thick and creamy, and it spread over her body even before she used her fingers to cover herself with it. His body heat suffused into her from all over as he shot wad after wad of sticky juice into every nook and cranny of her body.

He stood off her and smiled as she wiped the sweat off her face. He grinned and said, “Damn, you are the perfect big, nasty, girl.” And all his buddies applauded at once as Dana sat up and blushed.

My Gigolo Is a Tongan Prince!

Here’s a sample chapter from My Gigolo Is a Tongan Prince!, a new story by Josephine Stentorian!

 

Sally’s twenty-fifth birthday was anticlimactic. She hadn’t been expecting anything, of course, she didn’t throw herself a party or even remind anyone her birthday was coming up. She didn’t have any surviving family except one shitty brother whom she never expected to do anything except maybe send her a gift certificate in the mail, which as it turned out, he didn’t do.

The only really important thing to happen that day was that Sally’s trust fund was unlocked. She had been allowed to access it only for certain approved needs before her twenty-fifth birthday — if she had gotten an MBA, she could have had it earlier, but Sally was stubborn and insisted on the art history degree she had always wanted.

And now all that money was hers. It was more than a hundred million dollars last time she calculated the cash equivalent (of course it was mostly tied up in long-term financial instruments, so there was no clear way to count an exact figure, since that depended on when and how the money was turned into cash — Sally had always been financially illiterate). She was determined not to let it change her. That was why she refused to change her major no matter how much her father pleaded. He had always said he didn’t want his money to change her life; that meant she should go for what would make her happy, not him. He never quite saw it that way.

Being a museum curator would make her happy. She had never found a job at a museum, of course — they mostly required many years of internship, which she hadn’t been able to stomach. It had occurred to her, of course, that she would never have been free enough and confident enough to pursue this course of study if it weren’t for the guaranteed windfall when she was twenty-five. If she didn’t have that money waiting for her, she’d have had to find a better-paying career option.

But that wasn’t an issue now, and she was glad for it. She had the money and didn’t even intend to use it for anything substantial. Her first big expense, just two days after the money was unlocked, was not even for her at all.

That seemed like a good way to start, she thought, spending the money on someone else. It wasn’t exactly a charity, but it was nice and it wouldn’t mainly benefit her: a stripper. Sally paid for the stripper for her friend Alyssa’s bachelorette party. Sally didn’t even care if there was a stripper, but she didn’t mind shelling out a few hundred dollars for her friend’s once-in-a-lifetime party.

She was upstairs smoking weed with her gay friend Rick when the doorbell rang. Her spine shuddered at the realization she was about to see a sexy man and would certainly get at least one lapdance from him. She might even touch his cock. This wasn’t news, of course, but all of her thinking on the matter had been about that money and how good it was that she wasn’t spending it on herself. She hadn’t really pictured herself seeing, and presumably touching, him until she heard the doorbell chime.

Only now, Sally thought, maybe she was spending it on herself after all. She couldn’t deny that a part of her had been looking forward to the stripper. She hurriedly told Rick she was stoned enough, and scurried downstairs. He agreed and followed — he was looking forward to the stripper as well.

Alyssa had always had a thing for Latin guys. She was denying it strenuously since she had gotten engaged to a white man, but Sally and Alyssa had been best friends for years, and Sally knew perfectly well what she found sexy.

And so she had hired a Latin male stripper. By the time she got downstairs, he was already dancing and had taken off a shirt, revealing a powerful brown chest.

Was he Latin? Sally had assumed as much because he looked Latino in the thumbnail on the website, and his stripper name was Big Brown. But his skin looked a bit browner than Hispanic skin, and his hair was curly in an almost Jewish or Arab manner; his face was broad, slightly slant-eyed. Was he Filipino? Mixed-race? He didn’t look un-Latino, she thought, but he didn’t exactly look Latino either.

Probably mixed race, she thought. In any case, it would be impolite to ask at this point, and it didn’t matter, Alyssa was enjoying the first lapdance of the evening.

The party droned on. Once the initial excitement wore off, Sally wasn’t having as good of a time as she had hoped, but Alyssa was, and that was what mattered. Unfortunately, for Alyssa, having a good time meant getting drunk; so she was passing out and falling over before nine o’clock in the evening. Sally didn’t know most of Alyssa’s other friends, and she sat alone most of the evening.

It seemed at first as though that might ruin the party. Once the bachelorette was put to bed, was there any point to a bachelorette party? Sally wasn’t sure, but it seemed Big Brown had some thoughts on the matter.

He kept on dancing, giving lap-dances and running out to his car to get a different costume he could strip off (an American Indian leather skirt and headdress, which just made his racial background more confusing).  The other girls were into it, and Sally pretended to be as well.

Finally it was her turn for a lapdance. Sally blushed and submitted, awkwardly at first. He was ungodly sexy, with a foppish head of untamed hair, a wide body brimming with muscles, and a kind smile that made Sally want to dance with him all night long.

It was against the rules to touch strippers; Sally knew that, but some of the other women had done it, and Big Brown hadn’t complained. She didn’t think about it, she just wrapped her hands around his big, firm asscheeks as they bounced up and down in front of her. Her heart thumped. The drone of the party faded away and blood pumped through her veins like she had just done a line of coke.

She squealed in delight as she realized she liked it — she had never been into male asses, no matter what they looked like. Sure some guys had notably ugly butts, but no one had a sexy ass, not really, she thought, until she laid her hands on Big Brown’s shaking ass.

One of her hands had crept around to his front. Did she really do that? Or did he guide her hands? She didn’t remember doing it herself, but she squealed again just the same as her hand wrapped around his erect cockshaft.

The other girls howled with laughter and mocking. They had been daring each other to stroke his dick all night, but most had barely touched it at all.

The song ended, and it wasn’t immediately replaced — Sally heard something dim, like the next song began with a very quiet intro that couldn’t be heard with the current volume settings. A grim silence fell over the room, as everyone watched Sally jacking Big Brown off.

“You ready to squeeze one out?” he asked.

Did she? Was she going to give some strange guy a handjob in front of a crowd of mostly strangers? That sure didn’t seem like her, Sally thought, but she wanted more than anything not to take her hand away.

His whole body writhed as though it took every muscle to respond to her hand on his dick. He shook and moaned, and in the silence of the music, his deep voice echoed.

He did have an accent, a lilting yet masculine tone — she could even hear it in his moan now that their was no music to cover it up. It wasn’t Latino, nor Middle-Eastern. Greek? Filipino was still possible, she thought. He had ornate tribal tattoos running up and down his trunk-like thicks, and she was mesmerized as his dick spasmed between her fingers. He grunted.

His muscles writhed as he moaned and reached orgasm; she didn’t stop, even as his creamy cum dripped over her fingers and down her wrist. Again his entire body shook, and his knees went weak. His toes curled. The crowd of women burst into cheers.

“Oh, god, that was so hot,” she said, blushing intensely. Her fingers massaged up his toned six-pack and bulging chest, smearing his semen over him. Without thinking about it, Sally added, “You’re such a sexy little papi.”

A new song started up. It was a catchy dance tune, and in no time the drunk girls had forgotten about the handjob, and were dancing with each other.

He smiled. “How did such a bunch of sexy ladies become friends? That never happens, where’s the ugly girls you always hang around with?” He flashed a big toothy grin. . He kissed her on the cheek and said, “Damn, mamacita, you gotta let me clean up. I still got a couple hours left to work.”

“Mamacita…” she repeated as she stood up, and he wiped himself off with a towel. He hadn’t said that as though it was a word he really knew. “Are you actually Latino?”

He shook his head. “I just play one. I am Tongan.”

Sally thought that sounded familiar, but couldn’t place what it meant. Was it an African country? He was dark-skinned, but he certainly didn’t look African. Her ignorance must have been obvious on her face.

“Tonga, it is a small kingdom in the Pacific,” he said. He smiled. “I am Polynesian.”

Runners Downlow

This is a sample chapter from Runners Downlow, a new story in the Str8 Studs Downlow series!

Aaron arrived at Goldendale Hills University confident and proud in his third year. He was a junior, and a star on one of the best track teams in its division. He was single again, but he was happy for it — he had decided that getting tied down with girlfriends was a waste of time. He was also glad to be moving out of the dorms and into a Kappa Gamma Pi house, one that was inhabited entirely by athletes on the track and field team.

He did have to share a room, though it was much bigger than any dorm. He was nervous about that because his previous dormmates had all turned out to be jerks with whom he argued constantly; he hoped that wouldn’t happen again. Maybe having something in common like the track team would help them all get along better.

His roommate this year was a transfer student from Senegal; his name was Dinyele. He was a lean and lanky star of the hurdle. He was ropy-muscled, as though his skin was too small for his body, and he had a harsh glint to his face.

Dinyele placed a pack of cigarettes on his desk, put a lighter next to it, then resumed unpacking his clothes. Was he really a smoker? A track star who smoked cigarettes? What should Aaron say in response?

“Uh, you know you can’t smoke in this house,” Aaron said. He was pretty sure all on-campus housing was smoke-free by default. Definitely the track team didn’t allow smoking in the house.

Dinyele grinned at him as though it was a big joke. “Sure,” he said. He didn’t sound convinced, however. Dinyele leaned back in his chair. He wore only a pair of black shorts, which extended barely halfway down his thigh — Aaron would soon realize that was the only thing he usually wore, preferring to go shirtless and barefoot unless he wasn’t allowed to. He had a cocky way of lounging around and flexing his muscles, as though wanting to make sure everyone saw them, which made Aaron already begin to dislike him.

“Hey guys, come on down for the first house meeting!” called a voice from downstairs — that was the team captain, Brian. Aaron scurried down quickly, glad to get away from Dinyele for awhile. Hopefully the no-smoking rule would be officially announced at the meeting.

But he was surprised to see that the seniors who were already downstairs were stark naked. They stood in a small circle in the living room, cocks dangling between their legs. There was nothing else there except a few tattered chairs and a couch, with a large trash can in one corner. The seniors laughed at the new freshmen and a few sophomores who had been allowed to live here; they proudly displayed their dicks and flopped them between their fingers.

Dinyele was shocked too when he arrived a few moments behind Aaron, and the newcomers to the house clustered in one corner of the living room. They looked on at the naked seniors as though about to vomit, which Aaron though he might do if this was the game he thought it was — he had been told it happened at the Kappa Gamma Pi house, but he had assumed it was a rumor.

“Alright, we have some rules, etc. Whoever cums on the biscuit last is Chore Bitch for the first week,” said the team captain, Brian, who proudly displayed his horse cock. He had the longest and thickest dick Aaron had ever seen, and he made sure it was plainly visible to everyone.

Aaron’s heart started pounding. I thought they’d go over the rules so maybe we wouldn’t spend the whole year arguing with our housemates, he thought, but apparently, we’re playing Soggy Biscuit first. He sighed. He had been raised to believe perversion was wrong. His father was a minister. Aaron was raised on the Bible.

But at the same time, he didn’t even consider refusing. College was too important to risk the team (and the scholarship associated with it) for Aaron to even think about refusing to play along. He didn’t have anything to be embarrassed about anyway. As long as he wasn’t joined in because of his own inability to control his lust, it wasn’t a sin.

But still, he was nervous, especially when he realized he was standing to Dinyele’s left. That meant he’d be jacking off Dinyele’s cock, which was, much to Aaron’s dismay, uncircumcised. His stomach churned as he wrapped his fingers around it.

Dinyele didn’t seem to understand what was happening. He curled his upper lip as though about to punch Aaron for touching his cock. Aaron shrank back from him.

It was Brian who intervened, pushing between Dinyele and Aaron. Brian was the team captain, but it was clear he was unsure how to act in front of the foreigner Dinyele. Brian’s half-hard cock whacked against Dinyele’s thigh, and his eyes looked murderous until Brian took a half-step away.

“Hey, it’s okay, just a circlejerk,” Brian said.

Dinyele narrowed his eyes to slits. He spoke low and slow. “I will not touch a white man’s cock. Get your dick off of my leg.”

Brian blushed but did as he was told. He motioned for Aaron and said, “Okay, okay, you two switch places. Not a big deal.”

Aaron felt relieved at first. That meant that he’d be jacking off Brian himself rather than Dinyele, but then he realized it also meant that Dinyele would be jacking him off. As Dinyele’s rough, callused fingers wrapped around Aaron’s shaft, Aaron realized he wasn’t going to be able to get hard this way.

Dinyele stroked him like he was an angry farmer trying to get his bull excited. He was rough and fast and not at all erotic. Aaron just closed his eyes and tried to picture a beautiful woman’s mouth on his dick instead.

But the smell of semen filled the air, which made it hard for Aaron to concentrate. All he could think about was how gay and how sinful this was, how he was violating his personal religious beliefs by fornicating himself and Brian — he tried reminding himself that motivations matter, and that sexual activity was sinful if it was inspired by lust, not a desire to fit in. But that was cold comfort for his soul.

The others were laughing at the first few guys who came. They apparently made a funny face when they climaxed, but Aaron refused to open his eyes and look. He was especially revolted by his hand on Brian’s cock, which was barely moving anymore — Brian was pumping his hips into Aaron’s hand, fucking his fist more than Aaron was jacking him off.

Dinyele moaned and said something in Wolof before cumming. He leaned back and let the nervous-looking dreadlocked sophomore to his left do all the work, and his semen flew all over the circle. His ropy muscles flexed all at once, then relaxed; it looked like Dinyele had had a powerful orgasm but wanted to hide it, to pretend he had had to force it out against his will.

“Ah, you got some on me!”

Dinyele chuckled like that was his plan all along. He shifted his weight on his feet as though the man’s hand on his cock was the only thing keeping him standing.

Then Brian shot his load. Aaron’s eyes were closed, so he was shocked when it happened — he was frankly surprised any man could nut with another man touching his cock. He gagged when he felt hot creamy cum running between his fingers.

It was over. Aaron had lost. He had almost forgotten this was a contest, and he hadn’t even gotten hard because Dinyele’s hand was so rough and callused; it was like being jacked off with warm sandpaper. His limp cock was between Dinyele’s fingers, and everyone laughed at him.

At least that meant he didn’t have to endure this handjob anymore. He took over from Dinyele, trying to ignore his sense of embarrassment as his dick finally got hard. He tried not to think about what was going to happen next.

He finally shot a desultory, depressed load. It felt good, but it didn’t overcome his anxiety, and he barely noticed the actual climax pounding through his veins. The soggy cookie sat on the moist plate in the center of the room. Cum had pooled around it.

Rumors had always persisted about frat houses like this playing games like these, but Aaron had always thought they were just rumors. Rumors of all kind dominated the campus; he put no stock in them. Even if he had thought the game of Soggy Biscuit was real, however, he would never have thought he’d lose.

Aaron picked it up and gagged at the sensation of moist, doughy bits falling off in his fingers. He thought he could outright feel the sperm swimming along on his hand, looking for an egg to impregnate. He put most of it in his mouth all at once, and gagged repeatedly.

He choked most of it up, but it didn’t seem that anyone cared. They thought his face was hilarious, and they laughed at his humiliation. But no one worried about the bulk of the cookie in crumbs on the floor.

Well, he thought, I sure hope that floor gets cleaned up. Oh wait… I’m Chore Bitch, that was the point of this game. So I guess I have to clean it up myself.

Filthy Alpha Male Worship: The Turkish Muslim Boxer

This is a sample chapter from Filthy Alpha Male Worship: The Turkish Muslim Boxer!

When Mark applied for the job, he had no idea what it entailed. As far as he knew, it would just be another massage gig, probably some low-rent day spa for women with delusions of class.

But then the interview was in a nondescript office, and the hiring officer simply said he wasn’t at liberty to discuss the details until a candidate was chosen. It all seemed needlessly mysterious for a masseur gig. When the interview was over, Mark was positive he didn’t get the job.

He was told to go to the Irontop Gym in Brighton Beach, and that made him a little nervous. He had never been there, but it was in a rough neighborhood dominated by Russians and Muslim Asians. As an openly gay man, he knew better than to hang around anti-gay communities like them.

But he needed the job, and he figured he could act straight enough for now, to see what it would really be like. He might not have to go that gym every day, maybe it was sort of a roving masseur kind-of thing. So he took the subway to Coney Island and followed the directions to the Irontop Gym.

The gym was indeed dominated by Russians, with a few black men, whites and Turks scattered about, in small groups mostly clustered with their own race. The smell of sweat and testosterone made it hard for Mark to hide his flamboyance, and he saw a few hostile stares that made him uneasy. Most of the men were either shirtless or wore sleeveless tank tops that showed off their muscles and the body hair peaking through the clothes. Despite his anxiety, Mark was intensely aroused. He hoped he’d have some time recompose himself before he had to give anyone a massage.

He was told to see the officer manager, who gruffly said hello and introduced himself as Turkmen Hakam. He spoke English well, with a faint British accent. “I am manager for a boxer you may have heard of,” he said. He smiling at Mark approvingly. “His name is Kemal Kudret. He is Turkish.”

“I don’t really follow boxing,” Mark said, then realizing it could only help him keep the job, added, “But I know I’ve heard of him. He’s pretty famous, right?”

“Indeed. He is pretty famous,” Mr. Hakam said. “He works very hard, every day, and he is not as young as he used to be. He is often in need of massage. He has… sore limbs.”

“I’d be glad to help out.”

“I will want you to attend primarily to him, but I must hire you from this Gym; he can not afford to hire you personally. I will be hiring you for the Gym. You will work here full-time, and if Kemal does not need you, you may ‘service’ any member here.”

The way he said that made Mark wonder exactly what he meant — Mr. Hakam had stressed the word service as though he was expecting something more than a massage. He liked the pay, and he liked massaging some hot men for a change, rather than middle-aged divorcées. He hoped that Kemal wouldn’t be homophobic.

After that, he got a quick tour of the facilities and was shown to the massage room, where he would be working. Mr. Hakam told him that Kemal would be finished training soon, and would need a massage then.

Mark sat down and took a deep breath. He had been so desperate for a job he barely gave it any consideration before accepting — not that he had known anything about it before it was offered. Now he was pleasantly optimistic that he would enjoy the job, even if he would not doubt not make any real friends here. He had the feeling all of the boxers out there training knew he was gay.

Kemal came in to the room silently, almost cat-like in his quiet. He looked deep into Mark’s eyes as though trying to peer into his soul, then hopped up on the massage table.

“Hi, my name is Mark-“

He scoffed. His thick bear-like chest was covered in sweat, the smell of his body odor filling the room. Kemal’s scent was musty and earthy, and it was made Mark even more horny.

He massaged deeply into Kemal’s shoulders, calling to mind his training as he looked for trouble spots. He tried to remain professional, or close to it — Kemal was a real client in need of genuine, medical massage.

Kemal pulled his shorts down, revealing a jockstrap bursting with pubic hair and cockflesh. Mark licked his lips. The man was extraordinarily hairy, which ordinarily Mark would consider a turn-off — he liked mild to moderate body hair, but that was it. Kemal’s burly body, however, managed to pull it off.

“I have been in prison,” Kemal said in a thick Turkish accent. It sounded like he needed to think very long and hard about every English word before he said it.

“Okay,” Mark said, not sure if that was intended as a threat or something else.

“I am okay with faggots,” Kemal said.

“Okay.”

Kemal pulled his cock out of his jockstrap and gave it a few strokes. “You massage me?”

Mark moved down to his cock without a moment’s hesitation. He wrapped one hand around it. Did he want a blowjob? He had asked for a massage, and Mark didn’t want to do something to make him uncomfortable. He might both get fired and not be allowed to ever touch this cock again, and Mark didn’t want to risk that.

He wrapped his hand around Kemal’s cock and stroked it. Kemal moaned as though he had never been touched before. His whole body jerked.

“My coach does not let me cum before a match,” Kemal said. “I have not cum in a week.”

“Poor baby,” Mark said. His dick got hard between Mark’s fingers. Mark lowered his head and licked Kemal’s nipple, sweat dripping down his threat. Kemal winced at the touch of Mark’s tongue, but he didn’t respond or move away; his pecs flexed once, then relaxed. Mark shuddered, using one hand to stroke himself off as well.

Did Kemal want a blowjob? He looked like he was only asking for a handjob, but Mark wanted to push the envelope. Still, Kemal was a dangerous, Muslim, straight ex-con. Mark decided to pursue a safe course of action by not going any farther than Kemal initiated.

Kemal’s nipples got hard in his mouth, and he lifted his arms, revealing a thick waft of body odor. Mark moaned at the smell and moved his face down into Kemal’s armpits. The sweat dripped in rivulets down Mark’s throat, making him gurgle.

He unexpectedly shot his own load into his shorts — Mark had been so focused on the handjob he was giving Kemal that he barely noticed his own hand on his own shaft. Kemal was entirely self-centered and didn’t seem to notice; he put his hairy Turkish hands behind his head, so the scent from both of his armpits wafted into Mark’s nostrils.

Kemal bucked, his whole body tensing and relaxing all at once. Mark thought he was going to cum right then, but Kemal seemed to be trying to delay it. Mark didn’t mind, he loved the feel of Kemal’s cockskin sliding up and down the shaft with his hand.

A load flew from Kemal’s cock, spraying semen across his own belly. Mark got some of it on his face and licked every drop he could, then licked the rest off Kemal’s hairy torso. His barrel chest heaved as he regathered his breath.

“Thank you, faggot,” Kemal said. He gently but firmly pushed Mark away, then stood and stretched both his legs. He turned back around to Mark and said, “You should not be a faggot. It is great sin.” Then he shrugged and walked away.

Twinks Downlow

This is a sample chapter from Twinks Downlow, a new story in the Str8 Studs Downlow series!

Quincy hadn’t been camping for a long time, so he was excited to get back into it. He had purchased the tent and other equipment almost two years ago, then never used it until now. He had his car all packed up, with barely any free space left in it. There was only one thing left to do before he left.

And that was the entire reason for this trip. He intended to dump Thumper, his “boyfriend” of sorts — Thumper was an ex-con who had come to Quincy on the downlow, asking for a gayboy willing to service him as often as he wanted. That was a dream job for Quincy, who thought Thumper was an outrageously sexy thug. His burly chest and hairy body turned on Quincy, who was proud of his own lean build and youthful face even if he found the bigger, rougher types more sexy.

But Thumper was also homeless, technically speaking, and he had moved himself into Quincy’s apartment without asking. He had been eating Quincy’s food, taking his stuff and even borrowing his car without permission. Quincy was no longer willing at accept all that, especially since Thumper still saw himself as straight and single — Quincy could hardly find a real boyfriend with Thumper crashing in his apartment.

“I… think you should find somewhere else to live,” Quincy finally said when he got Thumper sitting on a couch in the living room. Thumper had asked him why he was packing his car, so Quincy could no longer put this off. “I want to break up, Thumper.”

Thumper looked taken aback. “Break up? We ain’t boyfriends, Quincy. You just some queer I fuck.”

“Okay, well, I want to end that relationship between us,” Quincy said. “I’ve got Monday off. So you’ve got a three-day weekend to figure out where to live.”

“Quincy…”

“What?”

“Lemme come with you,” he said.

“What?”

“You ain’t gonna spend this whole weekend without getting fucked,” he said. “So lemme come with you. I can camp. I can fuck you.”

“You need to find a place to live,” Quincy said.

Thumper shrugged. “It ain’t a big deal. I got options.” He didn’t look worried. Quincy knew that was true, Thumper did have options — he was a well-respected local gangbanger; he could crash on virtually anyone’s couch in the neighborhood, and they’d be too scared to ask him to leave. Thumper smiled. “There’s a million queers in the city, Quincy. I’ll just go live with one of them.”

“Okay, well, good,” Quincy said. He stood up. This had, thus far, gone easier than he had predicted.

“So I can come with you? I’ll fuck you senseless this weekend, Quincy. I will destroy that ass as a going-away present.” He growled softly and smacked Quincy’s pert young ass.

“You gotta pack quick,” Quincy said with a sigh. He had promised himself he wouldn’t back down from breaking up with Thumper, but it had gone better than he thought it would; it didn’t seem Thumper was going to argue about it at all. Quincy could hardly decline another couple of fuckings.

In no time, Thumper was ready to go. He was always scruffy and dirty, that was part of what made him so hot, Quincy had decided, his utterly macho disregard for his own appearance made him sexier than any finely coiffed man, as far as Quincy was concerned. Quincy liked to keep his own appearance spotless, his own skin smooth and unblemished, his hair perfectly trimmed, chin shaved bare every morning; but Quincy liked the exact opposite in his men.

Thumper shoved some clothes into a bag, then added his toothbrush at the last second — Quincy got the impression he only bothered with the toothbrush because he knew Quincy was watching.

Slinging the duffel bag over his shoulder, Thumper came to the front door. He stopped in front of Quincy, leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. It was slow and hot and not exactly passionate or lustful, but it did communicate to Quincy what Thumper wanted — sex. Thumper didn’t kiss him often, so Quincy found it exhilaratingly arousing when he did.

“I’ll drive,” Thumper said.

“You don’t have a license.”

“You can’t suck my dick if you’re drivin’,” Thumper said as though that should have been obvious. He reached into Quincy’s pocket and grabbed his keys, then caressed his cockshaft a few times through the pocket fabric. Thumper whispered directly into Quincy’s mouth as though their tongues were sharing a secret. “It’s okay for you to break up wit’ me. I ain’t mad, nigga.”

Then he walked out the front door, and Quincy followed. Thumper had been in prison for a long time, so Quincy knew that, for Thumper, it was a big decision to “allow” someone to decline sex. Thumper generally assumed that Quincy wanted to fuck whenever Thumper found it convenient; he didn’t ask for permission, though he had more than once apologized later. Quincy had never actually told Thumper no, but on more than one occasion, he had the feeling Thumper wouldn’t have cared if he did.

The car had barely made it out of the driveway before Thumper let his cock flop out of his jeans. He had an incredibly thick manhood, which he loved showing off. The sight of it, and the musty smell, filling up the car made Quincy excited, and he was glad he had given Thumper another weekend.

He bent over and swallowed Thumper down. His cock fit in Quincy’s throat like they had been made for each other, and it got rock-hard in his throat right away.

“Oh yeah, I love queers who look like girls,” Thumper said. “Got the best cock-sucking lips outside of a pig in prison. Make some noise, boy.”

Quincy did as he was told, and he made audible choking noises — Thumper loved that sound, and Quincy loved the way he threw his head back as though overcome by emotion when he heard it. He suckled loudly as though trying to get every drop out.

Thumper’s shaft was thick and pulsating, dripping with precum as he got ready to nut. Quincy let his tongue wrap around Thumper’s cockshaft, rubbing up and down from root to tip. He moaned into Thumper’s unkempt crotch, his bush smelling of copper and sweat and baby powder, a combination that made Quincy nearly nut in his pants right there in the passenger seat of his own car.

“Shake that smooth little ass while you suck it,” Thumper said softly, his raspy voice seemingly loud enough to echo in Quincy’s ears even though he spoke so quietly. Quincy shook his ass as ordered, and Thumper massaged it, even sticking one finger in Quincy’s hole.

Quincy writhed around the finger in his ass. His prostate came alive, and he filled his shorts with his own cream as Thumper’s callused finger plunged in and out.

“I’m gonna miss this tight little pussy,” Thumper said.

Somebody honked, and Thumper cursed at him. Quincy wondered if the other car had witnessed what was going on; a part of him hoped not, thinking they could get in trouble, but a part of him thought the idea was sexy. He loved the notion of somebody looking in on Thumper’s big barrel-shaped body writhing as he drove with Quincy’s smooth flesh in his lap.

“Here it comes, nigga, here it comes,” Thumper said. He pushed Quincy’s head all the way down, until his nose was nestled in Thumper’s unkempt pubic hair. Quincy choked but didn’t fight back. “Don’t swallow it, okay, don’t swallow.”

Quincy smiled. He knew what that meant and he couldn’t wait. Moments later, he felt Thumper’s balls crawl up in his sac. Thumper repeated oh fuck yeah nigga so many times it turned into an incomprehensible sprawl of syllables as the first spurt of semen hit the back of Quincy’s throat.

That was followed by a second, then a third. Thumper always shot so much. Quincy tried to keep it in his mouth like Thumper had asked. He held it in there and pushed a few drops back in when they slipped past his lips.

Then he sat up and showed Thumper the mouthful of semen. Thumper peered into it as he came to a stop at a red light. He sneered in disgust, then kissed Quincy on the lips. His tongue pushed into Quincy’s mouth, and they shared the semen that was collected there.

Thumper pulled away. “Okay, you can swallow now, faggot.”

Love dominant women? There’s a country for you

Apparently in the Czech Republic, there is a nation of sorts of dominant women and the men who love submitting to them. It’s a micronation, not “real”, but still it’s interesting.

Take a listen! (or link: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2015/04/23/other-world-kingdom-podcast_n_7123200.html)

 

Sorry for the link to the Huffington Post, don’t click on it if you haven’t had your shots. #safetyfirst

Redneck Screw Society Downlow

This is a sample chapter from Redneck Screw Society Downlow, a new story in the Redneck Screw Society and Str8 Studs Downlow series!

 

Willie tried to pretend he wasn’t nervous as he and Yoder arrived at the Dixie Arms Trailer Park. Neither one had ever been to an orgy before, but they both pretended it was no big deal, as though they were experienced swingers. In truth, Willie had less sexual experience than he let on, so he was hoping he didn’t embarrass himself today.

It looked just like an ordinary party though. For now at least, there were no signs of an orgy. The grassy field behind the Dixie Arms was crawling with young men, shirtless and red-necked with dingy hair and dirty skin, crude tattoos. Willie felt more comfortable right away.

It was Yoder’s idea to join the Redneck Screw Society. Willie never even thought it was real; it was his long-time best friend Yoder who had finagled an invitation. Willie had agreed to come without giving it much thought; he had only realized how stressful it would be a few days ago.

As he relaxed and grabbed a beer, Willie said hello to a few guys he knew. He was soon struck with the realization that there were no girls here, not a single one that he could see. That would not make for a very good orgy, he thought.

“There’s never really enough girls,” Yoder said when Willie pointed it out. He shrugged. “That’s what I was told. They’re all sluts though. They only bring girls who’re gonna put out.”

“So we gonna have to… share?” Willie said. He did not like the idea of sharing a few girls with a lot of guys. “I don’t see any girls. Not a single one.”

“They’re probably in the trailers fucking,” Yoder said. “Come on, let’s see if we can get on a three-wheeler.” Yoder had always loved any kind of off-roading vehicle, so that was just as much of a draw for Yoder as the girls.

After that, Willie could almost forget he was technically at an orgy; he often got together with friends to ride three-wheelers. It turned out that there were a few women there, three to be precise. They were all fat, greasy and unattractive, and Willie was glad that they had each come with a boyfriend and did not venture far from him. They did let a couple of their boyfriends’ pals in on the action, but Willie and Yoder were not included.

They did get a ride each on someone else’s three-wheeler. Willie hadn’t driven something like that since high school, so he was excited to feel the wind on his nearly-bare scalp once again. That made this party worth it even if he didn’t get laid; frankly, he’d be happier without the stress of worrying about sex.

By the time sun went down, somebody had started a bonfire, which quickly grew when everyone took a break from three-wheeling to go gather firewood. The beer flowed plentifully, and Willie was nicely sloshed even before the first joint was passed around.

“Hey let’s christen the fire,” somebody said. Willie didn’t know what that meant, but it sparked a torrent of conversation. Some people were against it; some were for it. Willie just didn’t get involved, even when the ayes carried the day and everyone lined up in a circle around the campfire.

They took their pants off. Willie blushed when he realized that, by entering the circle, he had agreed to participate in a circlejerk. A couple guys had walked away, so that was an option, but now that he had begun, it would look weird to quit. It would look like he couldn’t get it up. The others were already making fun of the few guys who had declined to join.

(Guess we know who’s embarrassed ‘bout how big they’s cock is…)

He made sure to stay next to his friend Yoder, the only person here he knew. He soon began to regret that decision, however, as he realized that he was going to have to stroke off Yoder. Maybe it’d be better to be surrounded by strangers.

They all spit almost at once, as though choreographed. They spat into their hands as lube. Willie was one of the few who didn’t do it along with the others, and he blushed as he did so a few seconds later.

(Saddle up, boy, you jackin’ off a donkey dick today)

(Ahh, why does yer dick feel like stale spongecake, man?)

Even more awkward than him wrapping his hand around his best friend’s dick was some burly tattooed hick in a wifebeater to Willie’s left grabbed his own cock. Willie yelped and his muscles all tightened at once, but the hick in a wifebeater didn’t seem to notice.

(Somebody’s balls stinks like a skunk’s asshole.)

Yoder’s dick throbbed and got hard right away. Willie wasn’t surprised about that. Yoder had always complained of getting a boner at inappropriate times, so he got erect easily. Willie nervously looked down at his own slack member as though it had betrayed him.

A chorus of greetings erupted from the circle. Willie looked up to see a beautiful woman walking out of one of the trailers. He was not surprised to see that she was accompanied by a man, a handsome and well-dressed man who was definitely still a redneck but didn’t fit in to this trailer park.

(Hey, baby, come on over here!)

(You like nut?)

They called out to her, but she only waved and walked back to the parking lot, where her companion showed her to his car. Willie saw another girl leave as well, just a few minutes later — he sighed; he should have expected that this orgy was really just an excuse for the attractive and well-off people to have sex with each other. Normal schmucks like him and Yoder were, as usual, left behind.

The dirty slobs in the circlejerk watched the women leave. The silence only ended when the first man shot his load, a thick, creamy nut that coated the ground. He blushed as a few guys stopped jacking each other off to laugh at him.

(Yee-haw, first one outta the gate!)

Willie had barely even noticed himself getting hard. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, he had seen two beautiful women, and that helped a lot. But now that he was more aware of the tattooed hick to his left, he felt his confidence drain away again.

Then he realized Yoder was about to cum, and Willie panicked. He stopped moving his hand at all. He knew he was about to feel semen and no doubt smell it intensely so close to his own body; his hand would probably smell like cum for weeks.

“Damn it, Willie!” Yoder shouted. Everyone looked at him. Yoder narrowed his eyes to slits and instinctively grabbed his own dick. “Don’t fuckin’ blue balls me, man. I was about to nut and you just stopped…”

“Oh, sorry,” Willie said. He blushed and kept stroking, while the others watched them closely.

“Careful…” said another burly tattooed redneck from the other side of the circle, “Used to be that if’n you stopped jacking like that, you have to suck the load down instead.”

Everyone oohed and aahed, looking at Willie, who just blushed. He had no intention of sucking cock no matter what. Before he could say anything else, Yoder moaned and spurted cum. His ropy muscles relaxed all at once, and he blushed when the redneck circle hooted and hollered at him.

It coated Willie’s fingers. His nauseated stomach churned at the sticky sensation, but there was nothing he could do. He knew he’d get in trouble for real if he stopped stroking now, despite the hot and creamy semen seeping between his fingers.

(Yer jizz smells like a raccoon’s pussy, man. That normal for a Texan?)

(Look out, here it comes.)

People were shooting loads off like firecrackers. The cottony smell of semen filled the air, making Willie’s stomach revolt at the odor. He tried to ignore the hick in a wifebeater to his left bleating and beating on his chest as he shot a wad all the way across the circle — he laughed as a couple guys had to dodge away to avoid getting hit.

(Ah, you got some on me, man, fuck you!)

(I said ‘look out’.)

Willie nervously focused on his dick. He didn’t want to be last, and now that Yoder was done, there was nothing for Willie to do but cum. He wished he could just jack himself off.

“Need some help, princess?” asked the hick in a wifebeater. He had a filthy face — he had been riding three-wheelers before this, so he was covered in mud — and a deep, mean smile. He got behind Willie, laughing at Willie’s obvious lack of comfort with this position. Willie shuddered at the feel of the man’s sweat-stained wifebeater on his back.

The hick then used both hands on Willie’s dick, which he had to admit felt better than it had with just one hand. The circle was down to such few people that they were attracting attention, and everyone thought it was hilarious how the hick in a filthy wifebeater was whispering sweet nothings in Willie’s ear.

The most nerve-wracking part for Willie was the man’s cock wedged between his ass. The man was limp, but covered in his own cum, and he was still hot and moist. His breath condensed on Willie’s ear and shoulder.

Willie was so intent on paying attention to his ass that his own orgasm came as a surprise. He moaned as he shot a load onto the ground, and his knees went weak; the man behind him actually supported him as he used both hands to tease out every drop of cum from Willie’s balls.

Laughter and applause filled the air as Willie realized he was indeed last. Only by a few seconds, but still, he was last, and they were all, even Yoder, laughing at him.

(Damn near makin’ love like a bunch of prison faggots…)

Willie blushed. “I just ain’t used to getting jacked off by a hairy-ass dude,” he said, pointing to the hick who had stroked him off. He was so hairy it poked out from behind his wifebeater, and there was no clear demarcation between his chest and pubic hair. But he just grinned and pumped a hairy bicep, then flopped his own thick, hoggish cock for the crowd, who had begun to disperse. No one even really listened to Willie’s excuses, so he just blushed harder and walked away with Yoder.

“Don’t worry, next time, there’ll be girls.”

Tech erotica

Here’s a niche I haven’t started in yet, and to be honest, won’t, because I doubt it’s worth aiming at with my process.

An interview with the writer behind “tech erotica”, wherein technological objects (such as the iWatch) are the object of sexual desire.

He actually mentions sex with inanimate concepts like “free will” as a future niche, which is an interesting idea I might take. I’ve been batting around writing a book about colors for years (I mean a novel in which the heroes are the embodiment of various colors).

Man Down

I’m watching the British TV series Man Down right now. It’s got the headmaster from The Inbetweeners in it (I cannot recommend Inbetweeners enough) and I can’t help but see the character in Man Down as a continuation (or maybe prequel) for the character in The Inbetweeners. It makes the latter show almost tragicomic, as he has clearly given up on everything he struggled for so much in “Man Down”. If you interpret “The Inbetweeners” as being first, then he is rejuvenating himself now that he works with younger kids.

 

Whoah.