Jamaicans Downlow

Here’s a sample chapter from Jamaicans Downlow, a new story from the Str8 Studs Downlow series! It’s chock-full of hot island black men who are so alpha you’ll pop your top!
La Puerto was such a busy restaurant, Tim didn’t have much of an opportunity to meet his coworkers. He was too nervous to socialize anyway, since he was the youngest employee there — just barely eighteen — and he was the only white dishwasher. The rest were Mexican or Jamaican.

Luckily, Tim usually worked with the Jamaicans. That was good for him since he didn’t speak Spanish. But the Jamaican dishwashers, Edward and Rupie, had such thick accents that he could barely understand them either. Their patois almost might as well have been a different language.

“Hey, Timothy-“ Rupie said — he had a curious way of saying Timothy, a mellifluous and lilting accent, stressing the first syllable — “You got a girl for tonight?”

Tim shook his head. He was single right now, and had been for some time. It had become a lot harder to meet girls now that he was no longer in high school.

Rupie and Edward laughed. Their dreadlocks shook. Even their laughter was accented, Tim noticed; you could almost hear the Caribbean waves in their voices.

“Tonight is late night, yes?”

Tim nodded. He had almost forgotten about it. Every six months, the dishwashers had to work late and inventory stuff — all the plates and serving carts, that kind of thing, the non-food, non-cooking equipment. Tim didn’t mind the idea of it, as it was a few extra hours of pay, and he thought it should be pretty low-stress. There wouldn’t even be a manager around to get in the way.

“We have girls comin’, mon,” Rupie said.

“It is tradition.”

“Every time, we bring girls here,” Rupie said. “Did no one tell you?”

“Uh, no. But I don’t have a girlfriend anyway.”

“Then just call slut. It is very boring to inventory if you do not have a slut to suck your dick.”

“I, uh, don’t know any sluts.”

They both laughed and looked at him incredulously, as though the idea was preposterous. Tim just put his head down and returned to putting away the dishes that had just come out of the dishwasher. He wasn’t very good with girls, so he was used to being teased like this.

“You will be very bored,” Rupie said. He and Edward turned around then, as Tim blushed. The Jamaicans said something in patois that Tim couldn’t catch, and they both burst into guffaws again.

Tim tried to ignore them as they finished up the last few hours of service. They kept laughing at him, asking him over and over if he had found a slut, as though one might have been hiding in a dirty dish.

That all changed when Rupie’s phone rang, just a few minutes after closing. There were a few tables left in the dining room, the servers trying to hurry the diners up without it being apparent that’s what they were doing. Tim barely noticed Rupie on his cell phone at first, as he milled about waiting for the waiters to go home.

But Rupie grew vituperative. He hissed into the phone and said, “You can’t do that, baby. You promised you’d both be here. You know I got feelings for you-“

That was all Tim could catch, but it was soon apparent what was happening — the girls had decided to go out dancing. Apparently, the thought of spending a Friday evening sucking dick in a dirty storeroom wasn’t appealing to them. Tim couldn’t say he was surprised. It sounded like Rupie was not only annoyed they weren’t coming, he was angry that he had to sweet-talk them where Edward and Tim could hear — Rupie had made it very clear he expected women to do what he said, and that real men didn’t talk sweetly to them.

Tim went into the front then to put away some silverware, while Rupie got angrier and angrier with his woman. By the time he returned to the kitchen, the chefs had all left, and the servers were clocking out. Edward and Rupie were putting the last load of dishes through; they both looked desultory.

Tim took out the clipboard with the inventory list, but Edward and Rupie didn’t seem to be paying attention. Tim had never done this before, so while he understood the principles — just count all the stuff — he didn’t really know how to do it.

“That bitch gonna get it!” Rupie said, still fuming over his girls declining to come here tonight.

“Let’s get started-“ Tim tried to be the responsible one. He held up the clipboard with the inventory forms on it.

“Nah, nah, we can’t concentrate with swollen balls, mon,” said Edward. He smiled. “Let’s pull a circle.”

Rupie frowned but nodded. “Sure,” he said. Then he leered at Tim. “Do you think you can handle it? Your little white meat work or what?”

Tim said yes before he even thought about what they were saying. He didn’t know what “pull a circle” meant, but he had a feeling Edward had suggested a circlejerk. Tim nodded his head in agreement without giving it a second thought, and the other two apparently took that as a definite yes.

“We do not want to get caught. Mr. Pallton sometimes comes in at midnight to do the figures,” Rupie said. He pointed to the storeroom, and headed towards it. “We should do it in here.”

Tim followed behind. He was nervous. He had never done anything like this, and never thought he would — he hadn’t even thought it was a real thing that anyone did. Circlejerks seemed more like a locker room prank than a real hobby, especially for incredibly straight men like these two.

The storeroom was so small Tim considered backing out, but didn’t because he knew it would make him look like a pussy. They’d assume it was because his penis couldn’t measure up, and he didn’t want to let them make that assumption — he was proud of his rather substantial manhood.

His heart pounded as Edward and Rupie let their cocks flop out of the fly of their boxers and jeans. Tim was self-conscious as he did the same, and he saw both Jamaicans frown when they saw his cock, as though they had been saving up small-cock jokes and now were annoyed they wouldn’t have the chance to use them.

“Doesn’t this seem gay?” Tim asked. He had earlier defended gay rights to them both — Edward and Rupie had suggested they supported executing gays, but when Tim had asked, they said they “only” supported imprisoning them. So Tim was astonished that they would do something like this.

“It is not faggotry, don’t say that,” Rupie said.

“It is men, being men. You coarsen it by saying it is faggotry,” Edward added.

“I’m not, I’m not saying that, I’m just surprised you don’t see it that way-“

“Shut up, Timothy,” Rupie said softly, menacingly. For the first time since Tim had gotten to know them, he felt scared.

But the fear actually made his dick perk to attention. All three men stood in a circle in the tiny storeroom, so close together that Timothy was overwhelmed by the smell of their unwashed sweat. They smelled like coconut lotion, he thought, mixed with the stale scent of a locker room.

Rupie’s hand gripped Edward’s dick first, then Edward held Tim’s. Tim stiffened awkwardly — it wasn’t like when a woman held his cock; she was always delicate, unsure what she could do without causing pain. Edward didn’t seem to care if he hurt Tim. His callused fingers gripped his shaft tightly as though Tim was trying to run away and Edward held onto him by the cock.

Though his stomach began to church with nausea at the sight and smell of so many bare cocks, Tim forced himself to grab Rupie’s dick. He had to suppress a gag at the clammy smoothness of it — why did it feel so different than his own cock? He wondered if it was a racial thing, or if he simply was used to the feel of his own cock.

But then Rupie’s dick jerked into erection, just a little bit at first, pulsating as Tim awkwardly stroked it. He felt veins popping up on the surface as the excess skin of his massive meat stretched.

Both Edward and Rupie gyrated their hips, basically fucking the hand on their cocks. Their ropy muscles flexed as they moved. To Tim it looked awkward, but he tried to do the same just to fit in.

It was Edward who came first. His lithe, muscular body roiled with the power of his orgasm, and he leaned forward so close he nearly kissed Tim on the cheek. Tim shrank back, but there was nowhere to go in the tiny storeroom.

The smell of cum assaulted his nostrils. Tim gagged, then again even more animatedly when he saw some of that cum land on Rupie’s arm. Rupie groaned in disgust, but not in the extreme way Tim would have assumed — he just chuckled and wiped the cum off on his dirty apron as though it was a drop of dishwater.

“You are squeamish, Timothy,” Rupie said when he saw Tim’s horrified look. Edward backed away, so Tim and Rupie faced each other. Rupie grabbed Tim’s cock from Edward and stroked it, leering at Tim’s still-horrified look.

Their dicks were right next to each other now, so close Tim could feel the heat of Rupie’s cock in his own shaft. Rupie grinned as though this was a huge prank, then he gripped Tim’s wrist tightly.

“Hold it still,” he said, whispering directly in Tim’s face.

Tim’s heart pounded. He held his hand still, even when Rupie spat a big, nasty loogie on it as lube. Then Rupie began violently fucking Tim’s hand, using all the power of his muscular legs to slam his cock through Tim’s fingers.

Is this normal? Tim blushed. He couldn’t tell if this was how Jamaicans circlejerked, or if Rupie was playing a prank on him to see how much he’d go along with.

He kept a tight hold on Tim’s own cock, but Tim was too engrossed by what was happening to do anything himself; he couldn’t even back away. He was so nervous he remained fully erect though, even when Rupie shuddered and groaned as he came.

Semen shot out of Rupie’s cock, spraying all over Tim’s crotch and stomach. Rupie laughed, and Edward joined in. He didn’t make any effort to aim away, so Tim was covered in dripping cum. He gagged at the sight of it, and the feel of its sticky texture on his bare skin.

“You are my cumsponge now, boy,” Rupie said with a groan. “You should have moved. Always get out the way of a Jamaican man’s nut. You gonna learn that one day.”

Then he got behind Tim. For a moment it felt like he was going to anally rape Tim, and Tim even felt his limpening, moist cock press against Tim’s back. But Rupie just reached around Tim and wrapped both hands around his dick — he was finishing the circlejerk, even though it was just one person now, so hardly a circle at all.

Then he began violently stroking it, his callused fingers working at Tim’s shaft as though he was angry at it. Tim’s knees weakened. This was both the most painful handjob he had ever had, and the most intense.

His knees went weak just moments before he came. Rupie chuckled at Tim’s blushing, exuberant reaction, and he didn’t stop stroking even as Tim’s cock spurted cum all over Rupie’s hand. Once again he had no compunctions about being covered in semen, despite his hatred of everything gay.

Rupie frowned. He wrung his hands as though they were coated in soap rather than cum, and Edward laughed at his exaggerated reaction. They both stood there with cocks dangling between their legs.

The smell of cum was so strong and so acrid it made Tim’s eyes water. Rupie, who had the blatantly largest cock, began flopping it between his fingers, approaching Timothy as though he was going to beat him with his cock. He laughed when Timothy backed away.

“Timothy, you have good meat. Don’t be embarrass of it. You could almost be Jamaican with that,” Rupie said. He flopped his dick against Tim’s limp member and laughed when Timothy jumped. He couldn’t believe Rupie was jousting with him now, for no reason even.

“I… uh… Okay.”

Edward whistled. “Yeah, mon, I think you honorary Jamaican now.”

Brothers Downlow

Here’s a sample chapter from Brothers Downlow, a new story in the Str8 Studs Downlow series! (Also available on Amazon with a censor-friendly title) This is the hot story of redneck brothers visiting the family home for a weekend of fun, circlejerks, hazing and night-time shenanigans…

Hank sighed. He should have known coming home from college would result in exactly this. He was the youngest of five boys, and and all four of his older brothers were home visiting — they weren’t related by blood, as all five had been adopted, but they felt like biological brothers, at least in Hank’s mind. It had been years since all five were home at the same time, not since before Hank graduated from high school.

His oldest brother was James, followed by Rick, Martin and David. He had sighed because James proposed a game pretty much right after Hank walked in the door. He hadn’t even had a moment to take a piss yet. It shouldn’t have been surprising, as James always had an incredibly over-competitive streak, so it stood to reason that the first thing he would want to do was prove he could still beat his brothers in any game.

It wasn’t just any game, however. James had been in Afghanistan for two years, and said he had learned a new game from some Royal Army soldiers stationed there alongside him. “It’s called Soggy Biscuit,” he said.

Mom called out from the kitchen — she always seemed to hear, no matter where in the house she was. “Don’t start any games now, boys, dinner will be ready soon.”

“It’s a quick game, mom,” James said. “At least it is if you play it right. We need a cookie.” He walked into the kitchen to get one, while Hank and his other brothers shrugged. It felt like old times again, Hank thought, like they were still walking to school together every morning, still playing all afternoon and camping with Uncle Tim on weekends.

“Don’t ruin your appetite,” she said. “And I thought you said the game was about a biscuit, not a cookie.”

“It’s a British biscuit, mom,” James said. “That’s a cookie.” He came back out with a cookie in hand, and nodded towards the garage.

“No roughhousing!” she called out.

“We’re not, Mom!” James said. He sounded annoyed, as though a Marine shouldn’t have to listen to his mother.

The garage was full of stuff. All of their rooms had been emptied when they moved out, so their boxes of old toys and clothes were stacked in one corner of the garage.

James took off his shirt and flexed his biceps for Hank, showing off as usual. He had always been the biggest and strongest, so it wasn’t surprising that he had gotten even bigger. He looked like a professional wrestler, Hank thought, and he blushed as he forced himself to feel James’ biceps appreciatively — Hank was plenty proud of his own muscles, and would normally have proclaimed himself stronger even if he knew it wasn’t true. But it was obvious that James was stronger, and he would have demanded a wrestling match if Hank refused to admit it.

Then James dropped his pants, and his heavy, thick cock dangled between his legs. “Alright,” he said, “Shuck those pants, guys. Soggy Biscuit is a game for men.”

Nobody moved right away. Hank looked at James and raised his eyebrows, then exchanged nervous glances with his other brothers.

“What? You wanna play-?”

“Oh come on, pussies,” James said. “We don’t have time to mess around. If you don’t think you can handle it…”

“I’m tougher than you,” Martin said. He glared at James.

“This game ain’t about toughness,” James said. He flopped his dick between his legs as the other brothers began taking their clothes off.

Hank sighed. He had thought that maybe since they were all adults now, able to get girlfriends, these kinds of games would fall by the wayside. He didn’t yet know what James was proposing, but they used to suck each other off when they got too horny, and he assumed it was something like that.

“This is a game the Royal Army play every day at boot camp. ‘Sposed to help them develop willpower or some shit,” James said. He scoffed. “Sounds like bullshit to me. But it’s a good way to get your rocks off. Everybody’s gotta jack off the man to your right. When you cum, you gotta aim your nut on the cookie — or the biscuit, if you wanna play it their way — and whoever cums last has gotta eat the cookie. Or biscuit, or whatever you wanna call it.”

Well this was new, Hank thought but didn’t say — the more he complained, the more James would insist on playing this game every day. So he just took his pants down and let his other brothers grumble about it.

“This is some faggy shit…”

“I knew Brits was all gay.”

“I thought we decided circlejerking was stupid. It’s just like masturbation, but worse, more awkward, messy, less satisfying-“

“Shut up, if y’all are too much of a bunch of pussies to do it, that’s fine,” James said with a sick smile.

All of the brothers knew very well that James called them pussies to get them to do it. He did that all the time, but no matter how aware they were of it, they could never convince themselves to just let him call them pussies. Anytime James — the eldest of all five brothers — suggested they were pussies for not joining in on something, Hank and the others were unable to resist.

He gripped James’ cock, while Martin took hold of Hank’s. Hank then began stroking slowly, letting James’ member swell to erection in his hand. James had an enormous cock — which was probably part of the reason he was always so gung ho about this sort of thing, he enjoyed showing off his massive meat — and it throbbed in Hank’s fingers.

“Remember that time we circlejerked on the camping trip?” Rick asked. He chuckled as the others burst into a mixture of disgusted groans and embarrassed laughter. On that trip, they had circlejerked until James drunkenly vomited all over his own crotch.

Now James blushed at the memory. Hank was glad to see him feeling a little vulnerable for once — he could be so cocky, Hank thought, it had been nice to get away from him at college.

David blushed and grunted. His lean body rippled as he orgasmed. It wasn’t surprising that he went first, as he usually did. Rick was stroking him off and groaned with disgust, but didn’t stop even as a few drops of cum stuck to his fingers. Most of the semen landed right on the cookie in the center of the circle.

“Boys, dinner!”

“We’re coming, Mom!” James shouted out the door. Then he chuckled. “Or at least, David is.”

David blushed. He was the shy one, so it wasn’t surprising that he didn’t want to be the center of attention. He was still stroking off Martin, and he frowned at the realization he now had to stand here and jack off his brother while his own dick hung between his legs, limp and moist.

Rick came next, and when he did, Hank started to get nervous. He hadn’t really thought about what would happen if he came last and had to eat the cookie; the idea had seemed too foul to even consider.

The smell of cum filled the air as Rick added to the mess on the cookie. Rick had a more muscular body than David, and his sinewy limbs flailed as he shot his load. He grunted as though it was a surprise.

Hank closed his eyes, hoping that would make it easier to cum more quickly. It was down to him, James and Martin, and Hank thought it looked like both of the others were closer to finishing than he was. That made him very nervous.

“Boys, dinner!” Mom was getting annoyed.

“We’ll be there in a minute, Mom!” James was very annoyed; he hated to be rushed.

Then came Martin, who loudly orgasmed and pumped his biceps. He gasped as David’s hand sped up, and cum flew all over the cookie. The smell was overwhelming now, overpowering, making it hard to think about anything else. Martin shot a gigantic load that soaked into the cookie, which was crumbling as it got soggy.

That left Hank and James, the youngest and the oldest. Hank was determined not to go last — all he could think about right now was how disgustingly cummy that cookie would taste — but through his closed eyes, he could hear James’ breathing speed up. He was getting close.

Sure enough, a few seconds later, James’ whole body bucked. His military-toned muscles flexed, and for a moment, his incredible power was apparent; Hank was intimidated, not that he would ever show it.

Then the snotty texture of cum spread over his fingers, as James pumped his hips to get a little more distance on his load. Most of the cum splattered all over the cookie, but more of it than Hank had predicted was stuck to his hand.

Hank was so nervous he didn’t think he’d be able to cum at all now, knowing that he’d have to eat a cum-soaked cookie in a few moments. His brothers were giggling, oohing and aahing as though they had been waiting to see this for years. Maybe it was the lack of urgency now, but Hank felt his orgasm coming on quickly, uncontrollably potent in how it made his body tremble under Rick’s grasp.

His own semen flew out and soaked onto the cookie’s surface. It looked like a pile of dough now, with no trace of a cooked surface. Hank’s stomach roiled even before he got ready.

Then he stepped closer. His brothers chanted at him to do it, and he blushed. He knew if he dragged it out, they’d just make it worse — plus the cum would get cold and more disgusting. Besides that, Mom was going to come up and see what was happening if she had to tell them to hurry up again.

He had no sooner realized that when the door opened. Mom stood there. She opened her mouth to make some smart remark about not coming downstairs for dinner, then saw her five boys standing in a circle with each other’s cocks in their hands, all except for Hank who had stepped forward, nearer the cookie.

“What are you boys doing?” she asked, with a mixture of genuine curiosity and disgust. “Nevermind. I don’t wanna know. It’s almost time for dinner.”

“Mom, it’s not what it looks like-“

“I don’t care, I said I don’t wanna know. And I have no idea what it ‘looks like’ anyway,” she said. She put her hands on her hips. “Is this what you learned in the Marines, James?”

“No, ma’am,” he said. He hung his head. Then he grinned and said under his breath, “Not the US Marines anyway.”

She turned around and said, “Well, whatever you boys are doing, hurry up, before your dinner gets cold.” She walked out of the room and shut the door. “And wash your hands!”

“Mom, Hank’s about to spoil his appetite!” James called out at her. The other brothers all laughed, but Hank just blushed. He heard his mom stop walking away outside the door.

“Hank, don’t eat nothing right now! We’re having chicken!” she said.

Hank blushed even harder. He cursed himself for having participated in this in the first place. Why did he do it? To prove himself to his brother? As though he needed to prove anything to them. He was an adult now, and he’d always be smaller and weaker than James, that’s just the way it was.

Hoping that being quick about it would make it easier, Hank picked up the cookie. When its soggy sides collapsed into a crummy mess, he gagged even before he had tasted a bite. He didn’t know if he could go through with it.

“Eat it! Eat it! Eat it!”

He shoved the first pieces of cookie into his mouth, and gagged uncontrollably. It was a dry cookie before it had been soggened, and now he found it disgusting in both ways, in the crumbly arid texture of its interior and the salty snottiness of the outer surface.

A lot of the crumbs fell to the floor, but the others were putting their clothes on, so they didn’t notice. They laughed at Hank’s awkward swallowing as James watched; he was the only brother who hadn’t started dressing yet.

“Lemme see your mouth, soldier,” James commanded like a drill sergeant. “Make sure you swallowed all of it.”

Hank blushed but did as he was told. James peered into his mouth and nodded his assent.

“Alright, cadet. Next time, you’ll have to learn to have better control over your body,” he said. “Now get your clothes on, and get downstairs for mess.”

Lesbian Love and Lust in the City Beauty Salon

Here’s a new sample chapter, from Lesbian Love and Lust in the City Beauty Salon, an outrageous new story from Kathleen S. Molligger.

It was her first full day of work in almost a year, and Cynda was overjoyed. After many months of struggling to get a few hours here and there, she now had a chair of her own at the City Beauty Salon downtown. That wasn’t the highest-class salon around, but it was enough — it would get her a foot in the door. With that foot, she could soon get a job with one of the fancier places, if she did alright here.

She hadn’t told anyone she was a lesbian. She wasn’t in the closet, but she hadn’t mentioned it to her new coworkers. They had asked if she had a boyfriend, which she denied — that was accurate, if misleading — but no one had mentioned any curiosity they had about her sexuality.

Cynda was not too surprised. No one ever expected her to be a lesbian because she wore sexy, stylish clothes and makeup; she smiled; she had an array of colorful and uncomfortable shoes. Even she had to admit that the stereotype of the frumpy lesbian had a basis in reality; that’s why she was so lucky to find Annabelle.

Speak of the devil, Cynda thought as she saw Annabelle approaching the salon. Her smile brightened at the prospect of seeing her long-term committed girlfriend. They had had some problems recently, but Cynda was confident they had worked through them; Annabelle had agreed to remain Cynda’s “roommate” for the time being, even though Annabelle hated being in the closet. Cynda didn’t love either, but she couldn’t risk her career. Despite the liberal nature of the salon industry, a lot of employers (and customers) didn’t think lesbians were capable of making a woman look attractive to men.

Her smiled dampened when Annabelle got closer and opened the door. She was angry. She was much more angry than a roommate — this was obviously lover’s rage, not an upset roomie. Everything moved in slow motion, but it was clear to Cynda that everyone here was about to realize she was a lesbian.

“Annabelle-!”

“You shut your dirty mouth! I put up with so much bullshit from you!” Annabelle screamed so loud she rattled the photos and framed cosmetology licenses on the walls. The entire salon fell totally silent, everyone’s eyes following Annabelle’s gaze to see who she was looking at: Cynda.

“Annabelle, I don’t know what-“

“You know exactly what!” Annabelle yelled. “Linda.” She paused, waiting for Cynda to respond. “Linda. Linda. Linda. Linda. Linda-“

“Don’t just say Linda, I don’t know what that means-“

“Bullshit! That is ten flavors of bullshit all wrapped up in one chocolate wrapper, Cynda, but guess what? I can still taste bullshit!” Annabelle screamed. “She showed me a photo. You two were making out at Christmas last year — after we moved in together — and you didn’t dump her because she was lazy, you dumped her because she refused to come out of the closet to her parents! You dumped her because she refused to come out! You dumped her for that!”

All Cynda could think to say was, “Oh.” She had almost forgotten about that drunken Christmas indiscretion, and she didn’t see coming out to one’s parents as the same as coming out to one’s coworkers, especially after three years of unemployment. But it was obvious that Annabelle had reached a firm conclusion about the importance of these issues, and Cynda knew there was no point in trying to reason with her now.

A few murmurs erupted among the staff and clientele. The rumors were already flying, Cynda thought. She heard someone say I knew she was a lesbian! and felt a twinge of disappointment that she hadn’t succeeded at presenting a heterosexual facade. That made this argument pointless, as Cynda would have been outed regardless.

“Annabelle, we can work this out-“

“No, we can’t. I’ve already moved my stuff out, Cynda. I’m gone. This is it. It’s over.” Annabelle took a deep breath. She opened the door back out to the street, then turned around and addressed the other gaping-mouthed women who watched her. “By the way,” Annabelle said, “Cynda is a total dyke. You should…. I dunno, throw Bibles at her skanky ass.”

The door slammed shut behind her. Cynda was floored and unable to respond. Everything had been going so well, she had thought, they had worked through their issues, or almost all of them. It wasn’t fair to take something from a year ago, some little eggnog-inspired necking, and turn it into the biggest issue since gay marriage. Nothing serious had happened with Linda (who had the personality and sex appeal of a dead flounder — there had never been any chance of a relationship there).

Applause and some scattered laughter hit the salon, and everyone looked at Cynda as they clapped. There were broad smiles, and some knowing grins — most of them were trying to imply that they supported Cynda despite being a lesbian; a few were trying to make it look like they had suspected all along; only one, an elderly woman with a pruney face, appeared judgmental and disapproving. They all thought her embarrassment was hilarious though; that delight in the misfortune of another appeared to be universal.

But it was Kassandra, a new cosmetologist, young, with a pretty face and blue streaks in her hair, who took Cynda by the hand. She led her into the back room. Cynda felt rooted to the spot, but Kassandra pulled her away from salon-full of staring eyes.

“There, there, it’s okay. You can do better than her anyway,” Kassandra said. “I don’t even know her and I could tell that. Her hair was like a knot of writhing greased-up snakes, and she had all the fashion sense of a dead walrus, sweetheart.”

Cynda felt like laughing — Kassandra had compared her to a dead walrus just moments after Cynda compared Lynda to a dead flounder (in her mind); apparently it’s a day for dead sea-creature analogies, she thought. She and Kassandra actually had a great deal in common, and a similar sense of humor, which was surprising given their age difference. Cynda coughed, and she felt an instinctual urge to defend Annabelle. “She’s actually very fashionable. I think she just threw on whatever she could find because she was mad and she wanted to come yell at me, and she probably forgot I bought her that blouse last year when we were in Seattle and-“ Cynda had no idea she was going to burst into tears until she did. She just realized she was babbling and felt embarrassed, so she stopped talking, then the tears flowed like wine as though her words had been the cork.

“Oh, baby, it’s okay, it’s okay. You’ll find someone new, probably sooner than you think,” Kassandra said. She hugged Cynda, who felt silly — Kassandra was like nineteen; Cynda was almost forty. She shouldn’t be receiving emotional succor from a child. Kassandra kissed her on the cheek. “And I’m new here, but I don’t think anyone out there is going to freak out that you’re a lesbian. They’re surprised, y’know, since you wear makeup and you don’t buy your shoes on an oil rig.”

Cynda giggled a little at that. Annabelle had always made fun of her fancy shoes as well, though they weren’t even all that fancy — for a lesbian, they might as well have been Cinderella’s slippers, but lesbians have a subconscious habit of competing on how unsexy their shoes are, so any attempt to wear something pretty made her look like a Disney princess in comparison. Cynda felt a little better; it was nice that Kassandra tried to make her feel good, even if she wasn’t effective, it was gratifying to know that someone was willing to try.

Kassandra looked at her watch. “Come on. We’re both off soon, right? Lacy will let us go home early if you pretend to be crying and I am supportive. I’ll take you out for a drink. We’ll go to a hetero bar so you won’t run into any of your lesbian pals, and we’ll get to be stuck-up bitches to all the guys who hit on us.”

That sounded surprisingly appealing. Cynda had never enjoyed being hit on by guys, but she had a feeling being an absolute bitch with Kassandra would be fun. On the other hand, she didn’t want to lose out on tips today.

But Kassandra was hot too. Was she flirting? She smiled at Cynda in an almost-flirtatious way. Cynda hadn’t thought of that until she saw Kassandra bat her eyes a little. Am I not the only secret lesbian here? She was too nervous to ask, so she just nodded her head.

“Okay, wait here, I’ll tell Lacy you’re crying and want to go home but you’ll see too many reminders of her there, so I’m going to take you back to my place.”

“I can’t cry on command,” Cynda said.

“You don’t have to, darling,” Kassandra said with a smile. “Just sniffle a lot and pretend you’re holding back tears. That’s much easier than crying because it’s supposed to look fake.”

She hadn’t thought that she could forget Annabelle. They had been together for a year and a half — which was a decade in lesbian years — so Cynda had to struggle to remember what her life was like before Annabelle. What had she done for fun? Had she ever enjoyed going out to bars, especially straight bars?

This didn’t seem like the kind of thing she would enjoy if it weren’t for Kassandra. She was the center of attention from the moment she walked through the door, screaming to a trio of punk-rock white girls in the corner. They squealed and ran to her, and the foursome giggled incessantly as they hugged hello.

“This is my friend, Cynda,” Kassandra said. “She just got dumped by this skanky broad.” They all giggled and glanced slyly at Cynda as they realized she was a lesbian; each one seemed to consider for a moment pretending to be bisexual, but then decided not to. Cynda wondered if that was because she wasn’t hot enough. Kassandra saw Cynda’s uncomfortable reaction and thought she was upset about Kassandra calling her ex a skanky broad. Kassandra smiled a bitchy grin. “Sorry, sweetheart, I’m sure she has good qualities too. But I saw her. I saw her face, and that was the face of a skanky bitch if I ever seen one. You can do light-years better than her.”

“You’re gorgeous, I love your hair,” said one of the white girls.

Cynda smiled. She knew the white girls’ sympathetic cooing was patronizing — they wanted to have a black lesbian friend — but it still did make her feel better. She was a catch, after all, and Annabelle was no prize. Cynda had never felt she loved Annabelle as much as Annabelle loved her.

“Here come the shots! We need more though,” said another one of the white girls as a waitress brought them a tray of shot glasses. “We’ve increased both in number and lesbianness.” They all laughed together.

Cynda took all three shots at the white girls’ urging. They said she needed it more than they did, which was probably accurate. Cynda hadn’t taken a shot since before Annabelle — she always said that liquor was trashy; nice ladies only drank wine. Cynda hadn’t realized how much she missed it until she drank those shots.

But that didn’t matter anymore. Cynda didn’t want to think about Annabelle any longer. She wasn’t important. She was the past. She downed another shot and ordered french fries — Annabelle’s dislike for fried food be damned! — Cynda suddenly only wanted to have fun. She didn’t care about cost or healthiness or anything else; she just wanted one night of unAnnabelle-like fun.

And that was exactly what she got. She danced with all three of the white girls — dear lord, how is it that no white people can dance? We go to the same schools now! — and Kassandra, whose fruity juvenile perfume aroused Cynda now that it was overlaid by a layer of alcohol-induced sweat and margarita mix. She even danced with a guy before he went off to make out with the sluttier of the white girls.

The next morning, she didn’t remember exactly how she got home. A cab, most likely, she presumed. Kassandra came with her to make sure she got home alright, and then stumbled out towards the door when they got there.

“Oh shit,” Kassandra said, the color draining from her face as they meandered drunkenly to the front door. She had her own house keys in her hand. “I forgot… I ain’t live here.” She burst into uncontrollable laughter, which made Cynda do likewise. She had to sit on the front porch, unable to hold still or concentrate long enough to put her key in the door.

When Cynda heard a neighbor rustle, it sent a chill through her, which erased her drunkenness. She didn’t want the neighbors to complain. So she managed to get her key in the door, which she shoved open.

She had been putting off coming home because she didn’t want to see the house empty without Annabelle’s things. But now that she was drunk, she didn’t even think about it. She noticed the chair was gone from the living room — because it was Annabelle’s — and a few other knickknacks were missing.

“That bitch took my clock,” Cynda said. She growled. There was a spot on the wall where it was obvious a clock had recently been. It was a handmade steampunk clock, absolutely beautiful, and Cynda was pissed to have lost it. True, she had technically bought it for Annabelle, but it was obvious Annabelle had never really liked it. She only took it with it because she knew Cynda liked it, or maybe she just thought she could pawn it for a couple bucks. Either way, Cynda wanted to slap her.

“What?”

“She took my clock!”

Kassandra giggled. “I have no idea what you talking about. You crazy bitch.”

That set off a torrent of laughter from Cynda as well. They had been calling each other a crazy bitch all night. When they finally stopped laughing, Cynda said softly, “You’re the crazy bitch, you crazy bitch,” which set them both off all over again.

At last she stopped giggling. Kassandra was still going; she had such a young, immature laugh, it reminded Cynda of high school, when she had still been trying to convince herself she found men attractive. That was how she had laughed when she was trying to flirt with men.

Cynda was so intent on listening to Kassandra’s laugh, laying dizzily on the couch, that she was shocked when Kassandra kissed her. It felt strange, sexy and shocking all at once. Then her tongue slid into Cynda’s mouth, and it was like slipping into a newly-tailored dress.

She wrapped her hands around Kassandra’s back, feeling her solid bones and muscles writhe at her touch. Cynda kissed her back, and gripped her solid body.

“I want you so bad,” Kassandra said. “I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you. I assumed you were straight…”

“Likewise,” Cynda said softly. She shouldn’t be surprised, she thought — Kassandra was precisely the kind of young woman who would be openly bisexual, if not outright lesbian. Cynda might have been dubious that either orientation was real and not just a plea for attention, but in this moment, she didn’t care about that. She just wanted to feel every inch of Kassandra’s body. “You ever been with a woman?”

Kassandra blushed. “Just once,” she said.

Cynda kissed her, looking deep into her dark eyes. Then she moved her mouth down Kassandra’s petite chin to her delicate, smooth neck. Kassandra arched her back as Cynda sucked on her skin there.

She hadn’t even noticed them both taking their clothes off — how had that happened? How long had they been making out? Cynda giggled. She had no idea, but she was satisfied. She had never been this horny, she thought as she sucked on each of Kassandra’s nipples.

Then she moved on to her pussy. Cynda normally hated the word pussy, but when she had sex, it was the only word she could think of. She plunged her tongue into Kassandra’s smooth crevice, smiling as Kassandra suddenly arched her back. Cynda definitely believed she had never been serviced by an experienced lesbian before, judging from her shocked reaction.

With Annabelle, Cynda had never been satisfied just being fingered, but this time, she felt okay with that — she liked spending all of her attention on making Kassandra’s lesbian experience as wonderful as possible — Kassandra inexpertly reached down to her pussy. Her finger came into contact with Cynda’s clit, and she moaned as it sprang into excitement.

Despite the awkwardness of Kassandra’s fingering, or maybe even because of it, Cynda became fully aroused. The inconsistent rhythm and uncomfortable feeling of her finger reminded Cynda that Kassandra was not a real lesbian, and probably not even really bisexual.

Meanwhile Cynda’s own tongue plunged deep into her pussy, then came out and rubbed a little circle over the clit. Cynda moaned into Kassandra’s body as she felt Kassandra stiffen. An orgasm overwhelmed her, and Cynda’s own climax washed over her body.

They both writhed together, Kassandra squealing as her pussy clamped down on Cynda’s tongue and Kassandra’s own fingers furiously flicked at Cynda’s impassioned clit.

Then they both fell limp and sweaty onto the couch. Cynda was even dizzier, and it was all she could do to lean her head back. Her mind raced with things she could maybe say to Kassandra, but she didn’t actually want to say any of those things.

In any case, by the time she thought she actually had the energy and focus to say anything at all to her, it was too late. Kassandra was sound asleep, and Cynda could feel herself slowly passing out.

In no time, they were both firmly unconscious in each other’s arms.

Honky Hunting: The Redneck Cop

Here’s a sample chapter from Honky Hunting: The Redneck Cop, a new story by Bubba Marshall. Check out the rest of the Honky Hunting series on the wiki!

Dixie Arms Trailer Park was at the end of a long, dusty road that was lined with ramshackle homes. It didn’t look like any of them were habitable, but the clothes strung outside and the cars rusting on the street made it look like people found a way to live there. Jermaine even saw a little girl playing with a doll on one front porch, sitting still and slack-jawed as she watched him drive by.

He stopped his car in the dusty area that passed for a lot outside the trailer park. He took a deep breath as he got out of the car. He couldn’t see any people from his current location, but he could feel dozens of pairs of white eyes watching him.

He had a feeling that very few black people ever came here. He had only come here because he heard credible rumors that he could find what he was looking for: straight redneck cock, the filthier the better.

Jermaine belonged to a sort of informal club, of black men who lusted for hicks and hillbillies of all kind — the redder the neck, the better the head. Any kind of macho straight rednecks were fair game as far as Jermaine was concerned, and he had the feeling he was about to walk into a den of them.

Once he walked past the wooden fence into the Dixie Arms Trailer Park, he saw some people. He smiled. They were plenty filthy, he thought. He just hoped Yoder would be the same.

There were only a few women, all of them rotund and trashy looking. The men were mostly skinny, tall, with tattooed necks and dusty skin. They spat on the ground when Jermaine walked by. He wasn’t sure if they did that habitually or if it was a sign of disrespect on account of his race. Either way, it turned Jermaine on. This was exactly what he had hoped to find, and the lack of any attractive women could only help.

The last trailer in the back row was particularly rough and dirty-looking. A large mud stain was on the side, as though someone had ridden a four-wheeler through here after a rain, and this trailer had never been washed off.

He knocked on the door. The other trailer park hicks all turned away then — they must have been curious why a black man would be here, but now that they saw him knocking on Yoder’s door, that answered their question. He was here to buy meth (not really, but that was Jermaine’s story, and it was surely what the hicks assumed).

Yoder opened the door. He was medium-height but very taut, and since he was crammed into a small trailer, he looked taller than he really was. Gothic lettering tattoos poked out from under his shirt on his neck, and extended down onto his rough, cracked hands. His eyes danced in their socket as he processed Jermaine standing in front of his trailer.

“You a cop?” he asked.

Jermaine shook his head. He tried to look as straight as possible. “Nah,” he said. “You got meth, right?”

Yoder hesitated. He looked Jermaine up and down, then sneered in disgust. He reached out to Jermaine’s body, and for a moment it looked like he would stick his hand down Jermaine’s pants. But then he just went under the shirt, looking for a wire. His fingers were rough and dirty, nails jagged from being chewed on.

His hand explored all the way up Jermaine’s chest, then around to his back. Then much to his surprise, Yoder did tap his asscheeks and feel between them, and even felt up his crotch and inner thigh. He nodded his acceptance.

Then Yoder moved his body to the side so Jermaine could come in. His heart pounded and his spine shuddered in anticipation, as his shoulders brushed against Yoder’s tight frame. He could feel the man’s muscles roiling beneath his skin.

“How much you want?” Yoder said.

Jermaine turned his gayness up as far as it could go, now that the door was shut. He shook his ass and smiled sweetly. “I don’t actually want any meth.”

“Whatchoo here fo’ then?”

“You,” Jermaine sunk to his knees. “I heard you accept blowjobs for payment.”

“Yeah, from girls,” Yoder said. He sounded indignant, but there was a definite pause as well, as though he had to think about it.

Jermaine shrugged. “ That’s not what I heard. But I guess I can leave,” he said. He looked up at Yoder, whose eyes were excited — it didn’t look like he was telling Jermaine to leave — and inhaled the dirt-like scent of his filthy jeans. They smelled like they hadn’t been washed in months. “Or I could make you feel nice… I guarantee I suck cock better than any meth head.”

“I ain’t queer.”

“I know you let guys suck you off,” Jermaine said. “At least when you’re fucked up.”

Yoder screwed up his eyes. “Who tol’ you that?”

“I can deep-throat,” Jermaine said. He grabbed Yoder’s cock through his jeans. Yoder groaned but made no effort to move away. He looked down in disgust as though it wasn’t his crotch. “I can swallow anything.”

“You gonna do more than that,” he said with a snort. “You lick ass, boy?”

Rather than say yes, Jermaine dived between Yoder’s legs. He came up behind his ass and sniffed deeply of the seat of his pants. Yoder’s fashion was half-redneck and half-thug, so his pants were slung low and sagging. Jermaine pulled them down easily.

Executives Downlow

Here’s a sample chapter from Executives Downlow, a new story in the Str8 Studs Downlow series!

The reality of how his life had changed sunk in on the first day Doug was in his new house fully furnished. It wasn’t a big empty mansion anymore; it was his mansion, paid for with the money he had earned, and decorated with the things he had bought.

But now what? He didn’t know what to do with himself outside of work. His social and personal life had always revolved around the need to scrimp and save in order to build his business.

And now that was done. He could do whatever he wanted. His life was wide open.

He didn’t know what he wanted to do. He felt like some stereotype of the nouveau riche, even driving around one day looking for a store where he could buy something expensive. He couldn’t even think of anything expensive he wanted, he just had a big empty house that needed filling, and nobody to fill it with him.

The one friend he had sort-of made since getting rich, the one person who wasn’t an employee, co-founder or rival, or someone who wanted his money, was his neighbor, Brad Mullinix.

Brad was definitely old money. Doug didn’t know where it came from originally, but Brad oozed wealth. He wore powerful suits and his hair was always the exact same length; his fingernails were even and trimmed; his home, right next-door to Doug, was immaculate. He was also charming and handsome, annoyingly fit and kind to the help.

He spent most of the day showing Doug how to play golf. Doug had gone to a driving range a few times back in high school, but he didn’t know the actual sport. Brad was not a very patient teacher, but Doug was a quick learner.

Of course he lost by quite a bit, more than twenty strokes. Brad crowed as though he had conquered a serious rival, while Doug tried to appear like he didn’t care (which he didn’t, he was just glad he hadn’t embarrassed himself so badly they asked him to leave the country club). Brad led him away from the golf course with a cocky strut.

“Hey,” Brad said. “You might want to go home now.”

“What? What do you mean? It’s like… a work thing?” Doug thought for a moment he was being rejected, but that wasn’t what it looked like judging from the expression on Brad’s face. “I didn’t do something wrong, did I?”

They were walking back to the country club, where they intended to meet Brad’s buddies. They all worked on Wall Street together — well, not on Wall Street, obviously, or so Brad had said and laughed when they first met. Doug didn’t know why it was funny, but he laughed along with Brad.

“No, nothing like that. If you want in, you can join in. You just might not want to. It’s a thing we do, sort of a tradition.”

“I’m game, what is it?” Doug asked. He wanted to get a better handle on how to be rich, so he planned on going along with whatever Brad said was normal.

“It’s a circlejerk,” Brad said. “It’s not a gay thing. It’s just part of working in the financial industry. Women can be a pain, especially when they find out you have money. It’s nice to be able to get your nuts off with just the guys, y’know?”

Doug stared at him and stumbled over his steps. Was Brad making a joke? He sure looked serious. Did rich people really do things like that? He would have guessed not. But Brad grinned and shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s not a big deal,” he said.

“No, fine, I’ll do it, it’s no problem,” Doug said. Then that felt like he was being too dismissive, so he added a lie, “I used to circlejerk in college with my hockey team.”

Brad nodded and held the door open for him. He led Doug through the gym area and into the sauna, where two other guys were already waiting. He quickly introduced them as fellow old money investors, Tim and Rob.

“Doug here says he used to circlejerk back in college,” Doug said, “So I thought he might enjoy joining in.”

They stood up, and Tim said, “We thought you’d never get here. We were about to start without you.”

Brad dropped his pants and Doug’s heart started pounding as he realized he was about to hold another man’s cock in his hand and stroke it to orgasm. He didn’t want to look too uncomfortable, since he had claimed it wasn’t his first time. But this was all happening so fast, he didn’t have time to process it.

He dropped his clean, laundered pants and let his cock hang free. A part of him thought they would begin teasing him when they saw his cock, but they barely even looked at it. Tim just locked the door, and they all arranged themselves in a circle.

Brad wrapped his hand around Doug’s cock without another word of warning; he just took it and began stroking him off. Doug was so nervous he thought he might not get hard, especially as he saw Tim’s cock waiting for him to his right. But with just a few strokes, he felt himself becoming erect.

His fingers clenched Tim’s dick. It was thick and throbbing, moist with sweat and condensed moisture from the sauna air. Doug gave it a couple tugs, and Tim moaned slightly as he got hard.

“Ah, damn, you got hands like a geisha, that’s nice.”

Doug focused on his own hand. He didn’t want to offend anyone by doing a bad job, so he stroked as hard as he could. He felt like he might get ill when Tim’s precum began leaking down his wrist, but Doug managed to hold it in.

He felt sure someone was going to walk in, even though Doug had seen Tim lock the door. He still felt open and exposed, vulnerable. He  couldn’t believe he was giving a handjob to a complete stranger. Another man’s cock throbbed in his hand; he could feel the veins running up Tim’s cockshaft.

Rob came first. He had a quiet orgasm, and Doug only noticed when the smell of cum filled up the room. Rob’s lithe body roiled, gleaming with sweat from the humid sauna air. He shot a thick load that landed in the center of the wooden platform on top of the sauna floor.

Not wanting to be last, Doug closed his eyes and concentrated. His dick was hard, and his orgasm was bubbling below the surface, but he was too nervous to come closer. He heard Brad shoot his load, moaning as he went. The smell of cum grew even stronger, and Doug grew more anxious — what if he just couldn’t do it?

At last, Doug thought he was about to cum, but was startled when Tim did it first. He felt nauseous again as cum ran down between his fingers. His eyes were closed, but he could tell from the cockspasms he felt that Tim was writhing as a powerful orgasm wracked his body.

“Shit, yeah, I’ve gotten crappier handjobs from showgirls in Vegas.”

Doug blushed. He had to force himself not to be self-conscious about being last. He closed his eyes and focused on Brad’s hand going up and down on his dickshaft.

Finally he felt it coming, and he bucked his whole body. A thick load shot from his cockhead. An electric surge ran up his spine, though he was too nervous to truly enjoy his orgasm. It felt like it was happening to someone else, and he merely watched. He did groan though, in a weird way that made the others chuckle.

“You sound like a dying peacock when you cum.”

Cum spurted out of his dick, and sprayed over the floor of the sauna. He took a deep breath. He was glad that it hadn’t taken him that long. But he was also annoyed — Brad continued stroking off his limp cock, seemingly not noticing that Doug had cum, and his semen stuck to Brad’s fingers.

To Doug every moment he let a man touch his cock was a moment of exquisitely sensitive vulnerability. He couldn’t imagine just letting it happen when it wasn’t necessary, but Brad didn’t seem to care. Doug felt too awkward to just walk away.

Brad stroked Doug’s limp shaft, and he chuckled at Doug’s awkward angling of his body away from Brad’s arm. Doug blushed. He didn’t want to seem like a prude.

“Aren’t we gonna clean up?” Doug asked as the others filed out of the sauna, still stark naked — they all appeared to enjoy flashing their cocks in the locker room, even though they carried towels in hand. Doug looked on sickly at the sticky puddle of cum in the sauna.

“Nah, let the nobodies clean it,” Tim said. “That’s what they get paid for.”

Doug felt bad, but he was not in a position to argue about it. He just muttered quietly to himself, “I don’t think it is.”

Ganged by Yakuza

Here’s a new story from Ganged by Yakuza, an outrageous black women/asian men bukkake gangbang cuckold short story!

 

Jaysean seemed troubled lately. Rhonda didn’t bring it up because he never talked about the things that worried him. He preferred to keep a stiff upper lip. It was one of the things that attracted her to him when they first met, his noble, tough and aloof exterior. He seemed mysterious and dangerous, exuding sexiness in every swaggering step.

It had become less alluring once they got married. Rhonda wondered why they even bothered these days. There was no romance left in the marriage. It had initially been romantic that he was a gangbanger who loved her too much to put her in danger by telling her the details of what he did.

But the longer they were together, the less romantic that seemed. He still put her in danger because, while he left her out of “the business”, his rivals would never promise to do the same.

Plus he had lost his figure. She didn’t want to be shallow, but it did matter. Rhonda had never had a Hollywood physique — she was big, and more than a little curvy — but she had always been more or less the same weight. He liked her thick. She liked him thick in a muscular way, not a tubby way. But his muscles had sagged into rolls a long time ago.

He sat on the couch one Saturday rolling a blunt. Normally he would never do this alone, Rhonda thought, he would have invited one of his niggas over. She would have complained that they were loud and rude. He would have told them to shut up, but it wouldn’t have lasted very long. She would have complained that they got ash and the smell of weed everywhere, and he’d promise to open a window.

And now he was rolling a blunt alone. He was in no hurry to get it done. There wasn’t even a lighter or ashtray visible, so it wasn’t clear that he had any plans to actually smoke it. He was just rolling a blunt because that was what he did. Rhonda rather wished he was making a mess with his loud buddies instead.

Then there came a knock at the door. He looked up, suspicious, but Rhonda didn’t feel the same way — she wasn’t paranoid like he was. She looked through the window and said, “Don’t worry, sweetheart, it’s some Chinese man. Not the cops…”

“Chinese? You order takeout?”

“No,” she said. As she opened the door, she thought oh, he couldn’t be a delivery driver, he’s wearing an expensive suit. Then she saw that it was actually well more than one Chinese man — and were they Japanese? She suspected maybe, now that she got a better look at them — there were at least a dozen, streaming from two vans in the driveway.

“Close the door! They’re Japanese!” Jaysean shouted. He ran towards the door, a look of utter panic on his face. But before he could reach it, one of the Japanese men had pushed his way into the threshold. He was a tall, impossibly big Japanese, muscles bulging out of his Western-style suit.

Then the other Japanese men filled the house. They were silent, walking with determination and purpose, grim lips flat and stiff. Rhonda’s heart fluttered.

“What’s going on?” Her eyelids trembled. “Baby, what’s happening?”

“Uh… These men are yakuza,” he said.

Rhonda was so stressed she didn’t understand what he meant at first. Yakuza sounded like a made-up word. Did it come from some rap song she hadn’t heard? It sounded like it could be a rude euphemism for a vagina.

No, no, she recalled now what the yakuza were. Japanese gangsters, like the Mafia, but Oriental. They wore fine suits and fanned out into the house, looking for any other people. A torrent of emotions erupted within her — immediately repressed — as she realized whatever was happening right now, it was Jaysean’s fault.

Rhonda simultaneously drew closer to Jaysean because she felt scared and pushed him away because she blamed his idiotic drug dealer for this. As she processed what was happening, the latter feeling grew paramount. She shoved Jaysean away. “What did you do?!”

“It was just a misunderstanding,” he said. “I didn’t take the money. I swear. I think it was this other guy, you don’t know him, but…”

“Jaysean…” Rhonda blinked back tears. She wanted to tell him that she would never forgive him if the yakuza killed her because of him, but of course that wouldn’t make sense. She couldn’t think of anything else to say instead, so she just let her voice trail off.

One of the Japanese men approached. He spoke softly, with a kind tint to his voice, which somehow made it more threatening. “Greetings, Mr. and Mrs. Glover. My name is Ponitsu,” he said. “I-“

“Hey, Ponitsu… Pony,” Jaysean said. He smiled his most charismatic grin. He’s going for charming, Rhonda thought, that is not going to work. But it very often did work for Jaysean, so maybe it was worth a try. “Pony, my main nigga, lemme tell you what happen-“

One of the other men strode in front of Jaysean and punched him in the face. The other man was clearly Ponitsu’s muscle, his bodyguard probably, judging from the body language. Colorful tattoos poked out from under the suit jacket he wore.

Jaysean fell to his knees as blood burst from his nose. He cried out, and Rhonda instinctively clutched him even though she felt simmering hatred towards him. He was still her husband, after all. He stumbled back to his feet.

“Do not call me Pony. You may call me Ponitsu,” he said. He bowed to Rhonda. “Ma’am, your husband has insulted my family’s honor-“

“Nah, I-“ Jaysean said, stopping only when the bodyguard punched him again.

“Do not interrupt me, Mr. Glover,” Ponitsu said. He smiled at Rhonda. “I’m afraid this will not be pleasant for you to hear, ma’am. Your husband has stolen money from me. And more importantly than that, he has stolen my honor. He has stolen my family’s virtue. He has slept with my daughter.”

An impossibly long silence filled the house. Rhonda was so frightened his words didn’t process right away. Then her fingers formed fists and she glared at Jaysean.

“Oh did he? He fucked some…. body-“ Rhonda bit her tongue — she was about to say he fucked some Oriental slut but Ponitsu did not seem like he would tolerate hearing that about his daughter. “He is… a dirty dog,” she said. She couldn’t think of anything harsher that didn’t also involve insulting Ponitsu’s daughter. “How old was she?”

“She is twenty-two. But she was a virgin. She-“

“She was not a virgin,” Jaysean said, scoffing at Ponitsu. This time, Ponitsu hit him himself.

“She was a virgin,” Ponitsu said. “And she will be a virgin again.”

Rhonda began inching herself towards the cell phone that was plugged into the wall. She noticed only after she got most of the way there that one of the numerous yakuza who had filled the house had picked it up. They took all of the cellphones in the house, unplugged the landline and computers and shut all the blinds.

“A virgin again?”

“The most important aspect of her plundering is the honor,” Ponitsu said. “If I can regain my family’s honor, she will be as a virgin again. If she has only been penetrated by someone who is less than a man, then her virtue will remain.”

Rhonda looked down at Jaysean, who was still kneeling and recovering from the punches to his face. Blood covered his lips and fingers as he tried to stop the bleeding from his nose.

“He is less than a man. A lot less. If that’s what you came for, you can declare victory,” Rhonda said.

“I’m afraid I require something more definite than that,” Ponitsu said. He began taking the belt off his slacks. He frowned at Rhonda. “I am so sorry to do this to you.”

The thought of watching a bunch of yakuza gangbang her husband turned Rhonda on — she had never wanted to watch something like that, but she was already terrified, so the sexual thoughts made her arousal overwhelming. She could already picture it.

But then Rhonda realized that the men were all looking at her hungrily. Were they going to bang her?

“You have surely heard of bukkake, yes?” Ponitsu said.

Rhonda had. Bukkake was a type of porn, a Japanese genre in which women take so many loads of cum on their face that you couldn’t see them at all. That must be why there were so many men here, she realized, and her blood ran cold as she further realized that she wanted to do it. Jaysean had already let out a choked sob of humiliation.

Besides, she thought, these guys were uniformly sexy. She had always thought Asian men were sexy in their own way, especially the tough macho types, like from a kung fu movie. These were classy gangsters, she thought, the same kind of criminal she had fallen in love with, just with a different color skin.

Now that criminal she had fallen in love with was at her feet, begging her like a pussy. The old Jaysean would never have done that, she thought. He wouldn’t have let a bunch of Japanese men get the jump on him.

She smiled. “Okay,” she said. “But it’s not all oral, right? I want someone to fuck me.”

That seemed to throw Ponitsu for a loop. He hesitated, and said something in Japanese. The others all looked at her as though she had two heads.

“We are here to rape you, Mrs. Glover,” he said. His voice was flat, curious, perhaps thinking there was a translation error.

“Well, I’m not required to cooperate with rape,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I think that’s part of the definition of rape.” She took off her blouse and shoes, then continued undressing in front of the shocked yakuza.

“Uh…” Ponitsu looked at her like a new species of bug.

“Have you ever fucked a black woman, Ponitsu?”

“I have not,” he said.

“I’ve never done a Japanese guy,” she said. She dropped her pants, so she was down to her bra and panties. The yakuza looked at her hungrily, and no matter how much her mind urged her to, she avoided looking at Jaysean. He mewled on the ground by her feet, begging her to stop.

Ponitsu cleared his throat and smiled as he lightly caressed her ass. “I have never been with… a curvy woman like yourself either. But I think I shall enjoy you, Mrs. Glover. I am not sure voluntary sex will bring an adequate amount of shame on your husband-“

Rhonda sighed overdramatically. “Well then you can fuck him when you’re done. Or whatever, just fart on his face or something. I don’t care. If you’re going to fuck me, Ponitsu, let’s do it. I’m beginning to wonder if you’re reluctant because Japanese men can’t please a black woman.” She put her hands on her hips.

Ponitsu cleared his throat. “I can see through your ruse, Mrs. Glover. I will not be pushed into this in order to prove my race’s manhood.”

Str8core Sheikh Submission

Here’s a sample chapter from Str8core Sheikh Submission, a new story crammed full of dubcon Middle-Eastern gay action!

 

Everything happened so fast, Hanif barely even realized what was going on until it was all over. He felt like crying then, but it was too late. He blamed it on the alcohol. There was a reason it was forbidden in Islam, and he had broken that rule. He was punished as he should be.

Ghadir was a beautiful girl, or had seemed that way at first, with comely eyes and legs that ran all the way to the ground. She had shaken her ass at Hanif, who was just drunk enough to fall for her, hard.

Now that he was sober, she was not as attractive as he had thought. She was curvy in all the worst ways, and had a chicken face that Hanif didn’t enjoy looking at. It felt good to be married, however, and he felt like he had finally become an adult, a real man instead of a boy.

He sat nervously in her father’s study. He hadn’t known that she was the daughter of Sheikh Fakim Al-Mansur, not until a family bodyguard walked in on them mid-coitus. Hanif had been so drunk the bodyguard had to literally drag him off Ghadir, his spasming cock shooting cum all over himself and the bodyguard’s arm.

So now he was married to Ghadir — that had been his only option to avoid legal consequences. It had all happened in a few hours; he was still drunk.

But maybe it wasn’t a disaster, he thought, trying to convince himself. She was annoying and less attractive than he had hoped, but she wasn’t hideous, and her father was rich. That made this a lot more appealing to him.

Sheikh Al-Mansur sat down at his desk across from Hanif. He cleared his throat and looked at him sternly. Hanif was nervous; Sheikh Al-Mansur was a powerful man, and he was ruthless. He would have preferred to avoid Sheikh Al-Mansur altogether, but being his son-in-law must have its perks. He just needed to get on his good side.

“So, you have married my daughter. I would have wished that you consulted me beforehand, but it is too late to be upset about that now. If I am to be your father-in-law, you will respect me in all future endeavors.”

“Yes, Sheikh. I-“

“Hush. I am a busy man. I will tell you when I wish to hear your voice. We must discuss your dowry,” Sheikh Al-Mansur said. “I will refrain from reporting you for fornication, as long as you pay an appropriate dowry for marrying my daughter.”

Hanif was shocked. Dowries weren’t common in Saudi Arabia anymore, and he hadn’t even thought about that when he agreed to claim he had married her before sex. “I don’t have any money,” he said.

“I know. You will work it off. If you wish to remain married to my daughter, you will work off the dowry. You may work in my factory, but I expect that will take many years to pay off the dowry. Is that you want?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I will give you another option.” Sheikh Al-Mansur began to take his shoes off, then took off his robes. He acted as though this was normal, and his bodyguards didn’t bat an eye. It made Hanif nervous, however, as his mind raced with terrible ideas about what Sheikh Al-Mansur might want him to do to pay off this debt.

“Work it off? How much? I-“

“Tell me yes or no. You may say no without consequences,” Sheikh Al-Mansur said. “Except that I will not approve of your marriage. But if you say yes, you must be obedient. I require obedience from my workers.”

“Well-“

“You may say yes or no.”

“Uh… Yes.” Hanif needed a job, and he was glad to get one even if he did have to work for his new father-in-law. Maybe this marriage wouldn’t be terrible, he thought, even though it began with drunkenness and fornication. He was marrying into a powerful and respectable family, which had to have its perks.

“Hush, you work for me now, Hanif. You speak only with your boss’ permission,” he said. “Do you have any skills?”

Hanif nodded. “I am good at building furniture. My father taught me, and I’d be glad to work-“

“That is not good. I do not need any furniture.”

“Well, I can make some to sell.” Hanif’s voice trailed off as Sheikh Al-Mansur was down to his underwear, just tight white briefs hugging his cock and balls closely. He smelled of incense and fresh laundry.

Sheikh Al-Mansur sat on the edge of his desk, facing Hanif, with his legs spread so that his hairy crotch, covered only by a thin layer of cotton, was right in front of Hanif. “You can not compete with Western imports.”

“I can-“

“Hush, Hanif. You have no skills to speak of,” he said. “That is why I am upset that my daughter married you.” He cleared his throat, then called for his two bodyguards to come closer. “You are worthless as a man, Hanif. It is my daughter’s decision to bring you into my family, but it is my decision what role you will play.”

“What role is that, sir?”

The two bodyguards were beefy and young, wearing Western-style suits that their hefty bodies barely fit in. They looked like bodybuilders, Hanif thought as he nervously fidgeted in his seat.

“Open your mouth, Hanif. If you are going to earn some money today, it will be the old-fashioned way. Like the whore you attempted to turn my daughter into. Unless you wish to change your mind and begin a shift on the factory floor.”

Hanif opened his mouth for a moment, then closed it. Was this really happening? Surely he was imagining it. “Sir? You want me to-“

“I want you to stop asking me questions and keep your mouth open.” Mr. Al Mansur dropped his briefs, revealing a long and thick cock.

“But…? It is sinful to-?”

“It is sinful to marry a girl without her father’s permission, without even enough money to pay your dowry,” Mr. Al Mansur said. His two bodyguards chuckled along. He whacked his dick against Hanif’s cheek. As soon as he felt that cock touch his skin, Hanif blushed with embarrassment; he thought he could even feel his masculinity draining out of his body. Sheikh Al-Mansur shook his head woefully. “There are graver sins than this. You can always beg for forgiveness. Owing money you do not pay is a worse sin.”

Hanif realized he was right. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth. Sheikh Al-Mansur’s cock hesitated right at the edge of his lips.

“No, open your eyes,” Sheikh Al-Mansur said. “I want to see your eyes at the moment you become less than a real man.”

Hanif opened his eyes and blushed a brilliant crimson as he saw all three men’s cocks around his face. Sheikh Al-Mansur’s dick was resting on his lips, and the musty flavor of his skin hit Hanif’s tongue. He gagged.

The flavor grew even stronger as Sheikh Al-Mansur shoved his dick in. He laughed at Hanif’s frenzied struggle, and he shoved it all the way down until Hanif gagged on it. It tasted of copious sweat, a stale and spicy pungency that made his eyes water.

“Yes, it is good to choke, son-in-law,” he said. “Choke it down. This is your dowry. Make it good.” Every time he pulled out, Hanif coughed up a huge ball of spit that landed on the floor at his feet. He choked like a cat on a hairball with every thrust of Sheikh Al-Mansur’s cock down his throat.

“Now is the time to beg Allah for forgiveness,” Sheikh Al-Mansur said as his nipples grew erect, his balls ascended in his sac and he moaned deeply.

Hanif was already doing so, and he was worried that he didn’t feel forgiven. He was unable to concentrate, however, as a salty burst of cum hit his tongue.

His eyes closed instinctively, though one of the bodyguards pulled his eyelids apart. Hanif gagged furiously, the cottony, creamy texture spreading to every inch of his face. It spilled out past his lips and coated his skin.

“Swallow that respect down, swallow every drop of it,” Sheikh Al-Mansur said, rubbing Hanif’s face with his fingers.

Before he could even finish swallowing, one of the bodyguards took over. He was even rougher than Sheikh Al-Mansur, and he grabbed Hanif by the ears to get better leverage. He didn’t seem to mind his fingers touching his boss’ cum.

He even lifted one of his legs so he could hump like a dirty dog. He held Hanif’s head in place and gritted his teeth while his thick cock spasmed inside Hanif’s gullet. He shot a rancid load that coated Hanif’s throat in slimy warmth. He spat up what he could.

Laughing as though he had never seen anything so funny, the bodyguard again shook the leg he had lifted up. He barked like a dog. Hanif had an instinctual urge to fight back — dogs were unclean, after all, so he had to picture the money he was making to force himself to submit.

But the bodyguard gripped his shoulder tightly, and when Hanif tried to pull away, he grabbed him by the neck to hold himself as the last few drops of cum slipped into Hanif’s throat.

“Are you fighting back, son?” Sheikh Al-Mansur said. “Because there is no need for that. You may say no at any time. Empty his mouth so he can say no.”

The bodyguard let his cock plop out. Hanif took a deep, hoarse, wrenching breath. He coughed and choked as he wondered if the man had seriously injured his throat. Every breath he took was painful.

“Are you saying no? I can make room for you in the factory,” Sheikh Al-Mansur said. “But make a decision now.”

The other bodyguard was stroking his cock, waiting just millimeters from Hanif’s face. Hanif wanted to say no and even opened his mouth to start saying it. Then he saw Sheikh Al-Mansur’s judgmental face, and Hanif recalled his father’s words about debt: always pay off your debts right away. A good Muslim never owes anything, because if you owe money, your spirituality will be forever compromised.

His spirituality already felt compromised, but he knew the best way to get past that was to get this over with. He wanted to clear the debt, so he nodded and opened his mouth. The second bodyguard smiled, and Sheikh Al-Mansur sneered in disgust. He used his fingers to force Hanif’s mouth open.

The second bodyguard was already leaking copious precum when he shoved his dick down Hanif’s spasming throat. Hanif gagged hard but managed to let the whole thing slide down his well-lubricated neck, until his nose was nestled in the man’s thick bush of pubic hair.

“You are one nasty slut…” the bodyguard closed his eyes as he humped into Hanif’s face.

Hanif told himself to simply keep his mouth open. There was no need to really suck, but he found himself instinctually deep-throating the cock. No matter how much he fought against it, his mouth caressed that pulsating shaft. The sour flavor of it made his stomach churn.

The third load of the day finally filled his stomach, and this time the man’s cock was so deep in his throat that Hanif could barely taste it. He gagged nonetheless, and tasted it finally when it came up and he spat it all over his moist shirt.

He gasped hoarsely as his throat emptied. The feeling of semen seeping into his skin didn’t go away, however, and Hanif wasn’t sure it ever would.

“Go get yourself cleaned up,” Sheikh Al-Mansur said. “And come back tomorrow for more… work.”

The Twink, the Thug and One Steamy Prison Shower

Here’s the beginning of The Twink, the Thug and One Steamy Prison Shower, a new story from Brutewood Correctional!

Ting pretended to enjoy the catcalling. He knew Officer Armstrong led him through the prison stark naked so Ting would be called at by all the prisoners. He wanted to humiliate Ting, who actually loved humiliation — if he could have signed up to walk naked through prison, he would have, as long as he could have gone home at the end.

Now, of course, that wasn’t an option. He knew that he couldn’t pass for straight, and an Asian gay man in prison wasn’t likely to last for long defending himself. So Ting had already resolved to find some man he could service in exchange for protection — the sexual aspect of that relationship would be the best part of prison, as far as he was concerned.

“You a faggot for real?” Armstrong asked.

Ting nodded as he sashayed his ass for the benefit of a group of dour-looking Jamaican men, who nodded and grunted. One whistled until the others snapped at him in such a thick patois that Ting didn’t catch what it meant.

Armstrong sighed. “Shit, wish I knew that. I’d have put you in the Aryan cell block,” he said. “Watch those fuckers tear you to pieces. Instead you got Thumper. You prolly gonna have a grand ol’ time.” He stopped in front of one cell and opened the door.

“Thumper?”

Standing on the other side of the cell threshold was a stocky middle-aged black man. He had a dour look on his face, like he had been eating something unpleasant before Armstrong opened the door. His strapping chest was furry, tinged with gray, and beaded with sweat. It looked like he had been in the middle of working out.

“Thumper, I’d like you to meet your new cellmate, Ting Timson,” Officer Armstrong said with a frustrated smirk. “I bet you two will get along famously. Just keep it down, and don’t use up all the lube.” Then he shoved Ting into the cell. Ting stumbled and almost fell flat on his face, but Thumper caught him.

Suspended in Thumper’s arms, Ting tasted the sweat on his bicep and felt his strong, callused fingers gripping him tight. The cell door slammed shut behind Ting, who heard Officer Armstrong cackling on the other side.

Ting had hoped to project a power-queen demeanor. He had practiced in the mirror. There were plenty of kick-ass gays, after all, and he had taken self-defense classes. He thought he knew how to look intimidating, or at least puff himself up to look like he could hold his own.

But now that he was actually in a position to do so, Ting could do little but quaver on weak knees. Thumper was silent, grim, looking down on Ting’s short frame as though he was a cute but annoying puppy. Thumper’s muscles twitched.

Thumper narrowed his eyes. Ting stood there in front of Thumper, swallowing nervously. He couldn’t get to the bunks because Thumper was in front of him, and he couldn’t back out the door because Armstrong had shut it.

“Uh… excuse me,” he said. He hated how meek and week he sounded.

“You pretty.” That was all Thumper said in response. He didn’t move, so Ting was still stuck by the cell door.

Ting’s blood drained from his body as fear washed over him. He felt sure that Thumper was going to hurt him. He looked hateful, as though he despised pretty people. Or maybe Asians, Ting thought, maybe Thumper was racist.

He had only a moment to decide how to respond. He even considered attacking — using the element of surprise to try to hobble Thumper. But Thumper was staring right at him, so Ting didn’t think he could get a jump on him, and besides, Ting was so much smaller he wasn’t sure he could do damage even under ideal circumstances. He would later discover Thumper was a pro boxer before he was locked up, so it was good that he never tried to take him in a fight.

“I’m sorry, am I in yo’ way?” Thumper said. He angled his body away so Ting could squeeze by. His smile was suddenly bright and cheery.

Ting had thought Thumper was menacing before he smiled, but now with a big grin on his face, he was downright terrifying. Ting wasn’t sure his legs would even cooperate until he took a few steps.

But Thumper didn’t move completely out of the way. He stayed right there in the center of the cell so Ting had to push past him to get to the bunks. Ting did so, shuddering with a mixture of sexual delight and terror as he brushed past Thumper’s sweaty chest.

His body was covered in kinky black hairs, which scratched at Ting’s bare arms as he pushed past. He felt Thumper’s skin pucker and tighten when they touched, as though he had been waiting with baited breath for that moment.

Ting put his box of things down on the lower bunk. He could feel Thumper’s eyes drilling into the back of his neck. Ting took a deep breath — it was time to make a decision, he thought, and there was really only one decision to make.

He turned around, flipping his flamboyance up to eleven. His heart sped up as he saw Thumper was checking out his ass — Ting’s cock was already stirring to attention. He had always been into BDSM, so the thought of submitting to Thumper made him horny in addition to frightened. But he resolved not to let his fear keep him from doing what he needed to do.

“Hey, so I… Uh, I’m gay. I… uh. I was…,” Ting said. He blushed as Thumper took a step closer to him.

Thumper leaned in, peering into Ting’s face like a scientist studying a confusing result. He looked closely into Ting’s eyes until he was so close he could have licked Ting’s eyeballs.

Then without warning Thumper stuck out his tongue. He licked Ting’s face from the forehead to the chin, so his tongue ran down Ting’s slim nose and trembling lips.

“You a genuine faggot?”

Ting nodded. His heart fell out of his chest as he wondered if coming out of the closet had been a bad idea. He had thought he couldn’t possibly pass for straight for very long (if at all), but maybe it would have been better to pretend to try. Maybe Thumper saw himself as “ex-gay”, Ting thought.

“I ain’t a faggot, and I don’t like faggots,” Thumper said. He took Ting by the chin, held his head in place and kissed him on the lips. Ting was so shocked he just stood there like a limp fish, but then even when he started thinking about it, he had no idea how to respond — should he kiss back? Or would that too be too faggy? Should he fight back? Or would that seem too bellicose?

Thumper gasped as he pulled away. He smiled, and pecked Ting on one terrified cheek.

Ting had to hold back tears. He was terrified and he didn’t know what to do. “Please, I…” then his voice broke. He was unable to stop himself from bursting into tears. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”

Thumper whispered right in his ear. “You just keep looking pretty, boi. I like that.”

“Oh… okay.”

“I’m so glad you’s a faggot,” Thumper said. “I’m gonna make you my wife. That okay with you?”

“Yes-“

“Hush. Lemme explain,” Thumper said. “When we in this cell, you my wife. I’m gonna make sweet love to you, my little Oriental princess. You do everything I say. Everything. I think the man should be in charge of any relationship, faggot. Don’t believe in sexual equality. So you gonna serve me, got it?”

“Yes-“

“You call me sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But when we ain’t in this cell, you not my wife,” Thumper said. “You my bitch. You my submissive bottom. As far as every nigga out there knows, I torture you in here. If you ever tell anyone I kissed you, I will rip your goddamn tongue out and strangle you with it. Got it?”

“Uh… yes, sir.”

“I been locked up in here a long time, Ting, and there ain’t much of a chance I’s ever gettin’ out,” Thumper said. “So I gotta find some lovin’ wherever I can. That don’t make me queer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Try to kiss me again,” Thumper said. He crossed his arms over his chest.

Ting had to get on his toes to reach Thumper’s face. Despite — or maybe because of — his fear, Ting had a raging erection, which he was sure Thumper could feel pressed against his own crotch bulge as Thumper leaned in to get to his face.

But then Thumper slapped him, after barely half a second of lip-to-lip contact. The slap wasn’t as hard as he could, that much was clear, but it was plenty hard. Ting cried out in pain.

“Fucking faggot,” Thumper said. “You should try to kiss me a lot, in this cell. I’ll usually slap you cuz I ain’t a faggot.”

“You want me to kiss you?”

Thumper slapped him again. “I want you to try to kiss me, bitch.”

“Okay,” Ting said. He hesitated, then leaned in again. Once again, Thumper stayed still so Ting could barely reach him, had to virtually mount his chest to reach his face. Then after only just registering the kiss, Thumper slapped him on the face.

“Good,” Thumper said. “You like nasty sex?”

“Uh, nasty how?”

Thumper grinned. “I’m glad. You wouldn’t-a asked that if you wasn’t into nasty sex. You just wanna make sure I don’t make it too nasty,” he said.

Ting nodded. “I, uh… I’m not into like… nasty sex.”

Thumper chuckled. He wrapped his arms around Ting in a protective hug. His cock was rock-hard, pressing against the fabric of his orange prison pants. Then he said softly, “I’ll turn you into a believer, Ting. You think I’m hot, right?”

“Yes.” Ting rushed to say that — it was both true and he thought it would help him stay safe.

“You say that a lot. Don’t make me ask you,” Thumper said. “Wives should worship they man.”

“Uh… you’re very hot,” Ting said.

Thumper chuckled. He tweaked one of Ting’s nipples through his shirt. “That didn’t sound very believable.”

“Well, you put me on the spot,” Ting said. There were still a few tears of fear and frustration on his cheek. He sniffled.

Thumper kissed him on the neck, then moved up to his face and licked the tears off him. He smiled. “You’re scared of me.”

“Yes.”

“Good. You should be,” Thumper said. “I’m very dangerous.”

Ropeplay: An Interracial Maledom Adventure

Here’s  a sample from Ropeplay: An Interracial Maledom Adventure, an outrageous new kink/BDSM tale! It’s full of interracial bondage sex (black man=dom/white woman=sub). It’s now available as part of a complete trilogy, Haley’s Hetero Kinky BDSM Fetish Fun, for a great-value price!

Haley moaned as soon as she saw him. The nearby people on the street looked at her like a crazy person. She didn’t know who he was then, but she later learned his name was Reginald Chance. He walked by her on the sidewalk, and Haley felt urges she couldn’t refuse.

He was a tall black man in plain slacks and a white, button-down shirt. He had a wide, strapping frame, strong but it was clear he didn’t have a six-pack. He had a mustache and a grizzled neck.

A part of Haley had always known she was waiting for him. He strode through the street like he was angry with his destination. She had long thought she might have some dormant magical power, and there was some trigger out there that would turn it on. His ass was wide and plump and perfectly round; her eyes wouldn’t tear themselves away from him. She felt sure that Reggie Chance was her trigger.

Did he know she was following him? She saw him bristle and glance over his shoulder, but she couldn’t be sure. He didn’t make eye contact with her, as though he was too superior to look at her.

He walked downtown, and Haley followed. It was hot in Philadelphia today; it felt like a brick oven, she thought, and she wondered how he stayed cool. His white shirt was only slightly marked with drops of his sweat, but now that she was closer, she saw the salt-line of past sweat stains around his shoulders and over his lower back. He was a great big bear of a man, so when he lifted his phone to his ear, his muscles roiled beneath the tight fabric.

He used an old-fashioned dumbphone. “Yo,” he said. He stopped at a corner to talk into the phone, and Haley waited nearby for the light to change so she could hear him. He sounded frustrated. “Put Alex on. Lemme talk to him. I won’t. Just put him on.” Then there was a pause. Reggie rolled his eyes, and for the first time, he made eye contact with Haley. He just smiled at her, then put his hand over the phone to speak to her. “Miss… I’m gonna say some rude things in just a moment. Please don’t be offended.”

“Okay-.”

She wanted to add more, to proposition him right there on the side of the street, but he interrupted her to speak on the phone. “Alex? Yes, I heard you came in today. This is Mr. Chance, Alex. Your former boss. Yes, former boss. I fired you yesterday, Alex. You probably don’t remember because you were shit-faced, and I suspect you been shit-faced ever since. Because you, and yo’ face, are shit.”

He paused. His voice was an incredible turn-on for Haley, who let out a little moan as he talked. He talked somewhere in between a gravelly urban thug and an educated college professor, with plenty of growling menace to his voice, but with a clear, articulate tone that sent a shiver of sexual desire down Haley’s spine.

“No, I ain’t threatenin’ to call the police, Alex. I’m threatenin’ to do somethin’ much worse. I will hold you down and shove my cock up your squirming little ass, you piece of shit,” he said. “I went out on a limb for you, Alex! I ain’t have to give you a job, did I? I employed you because I like givin’ niggas like you a second chance. You know what yo’ third chance is? Yo’ third chance is my cock sliding in and out of your ass. You come back around the site, you best believe it’s gonna happen. I’m on my way over there now, Alex. If you still there when I get there, you better spend the time waiting to rub some lube on yo’ asshole. Don’t use the lube for the vertical drill, use the pink tube I keep in my drawer.” Then he clicked the phone off. He turned to Haley and smiled. “So sorry, ma’am. Some niggas just don’t listen.”

Haley’s heart pounded. She wasn’t sure she could say anything, so all she managed to do was blurt out, “That’s true.”

He looked at her like a weirdo and Haley blushed. He smiled. The light changed color, and he headed across the street. She followed.

Now it would be obvious she was following him, she could hardly pretend it was just a coincidence. She wondered how far away “the site” was.

“Uh, excuse me…” she said. Her heart felt like it might burst out of her chest, but despite her anxiety, she had never felt more right about a decision she made.

He stopped walking and looked down at her. “Whatchoo need, darlin’?”

The way he said darlin’ turned Haley on and she squirmed. It must have been obvious that she was horny because he raised his eyebrows and grinned at her.

“I… I want you to… do things to me.” She blushed and looked down at her feet.

“What?”

“I want you to… have sex… with me,” she said. She kicked one foot against the other.

“Look up at me, girl.” He frowned at her, his dark eyes making his glare too intense for her to keep looking directly at him. She tried to face away, but his stare drew her attention even as it made her uncomfortable. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” she said. Her voice sounded impossibly small.

His fingers nimbly slipped into her purse. He pulled out her wallet without looking away from her, then looked inside at her driver’s license. He grunted his approval. He replaced the license in her wallet, then dropped it back in her purse.

“You want me to sex you?” He asked. He looked her up and down, his eyes roving over every inch of her body.

“Yes, please… I… I think I’ve been waiting for you my whole life,” she said. “I think we’re fated to do it.”

He wrinkled his upper lip. “Really?…”

She nodded. “It’s destiny.”

“I dunno about that,” he said. “I’m on my way to my office. You need to come with me. I have to do work today. I promise we can have sex. But I am a site manager; I can’t shirk my duties,” He said. He started walking, leaving her there. She scurried behind him. His voice boomed out, uncaring of the others on the sidewalk who could hear him. “I only make love a certain way. Is that acceptable to you?”

“Yes.”

He turned and stared at her. “I haven’t told you what it is yet.”

She shrugged. “We’re destined to… make love, so however you do it is alright with me,” she said. “That must be our destiny.”

“White girls is crazy,” he said. “You ain’t allergic to rope, is ya?”

She shook her head. He continued walking, and she followed him. His wide ass shook in his khakhis, which had a few grass-stains around the edges of the pants legs.

“I use rope,” he said.

“Rope…”

“I’m gonna tie you down. That way you can’t move too much,” he said. He was walking a few feet in front of her, so when he wanted to touch her, he had to stop and reach behind himself. His hand made contact with her forehead, and Haley gasped with sexual desire. “Is that okay?” He asked as she hurried to walk next to him.

“Yes, sir.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Don’t call me sir. That’s what the niggas who work for me call me. You call me papi.”

“Yes, papi.”

“Do you know a lot about Hispanic culture, girl?”

“No.”

“Well, they believe that women should be subordinate to men. I agree. I think women thrive when they have a man to tell them what to do, a man whom they obey all the time,” he said. His voice was gruff and clipped, with an almost bored tone, as though he explained this to white girls he met on the street every day. “I would never hurt you,” he said. “I would never tell you to do something bad for you. But I am going to tie you up, if that’s alright with you, and I’m gonna fuck you hard.”

“Yes, papi.”

“Good.” He stopped walking and growled menacingly. Off in the distance a young black man walked away. Reggie glared at him. “That’s Alex. I just fired him yesterday. He said he would sabotage our equipment.” He sighed. “I’ll have to check everything this afternoon.”

“Yes, papi.”

“You might have to wait for me in my office,” he said.

“Yes, papi.”

She hadn’t even noticed they were next to a construction site. A tall fence closed it off from the main road, and beyond the fence was a mass of shining steel equipment and overturned earth. There was a door in the fence with a padlock on it, but it was not locked right now.

“Alex shouldn’t have a key anymore. He must have made a copy,” Reggie said with a frown. “I’ll have to go to a locksmith today and get a new padlock. Damn it, I don’t have time for this shit.”

Haley followed him into the construction site. Right near the fence was a small trailer, which is where Reggie went. About fifty yards away was a group of black men in reflective yellow vests milling around.

“Hey, you lazy-ass niggas get to work!” Reggie screamed. They darted into action as though they hadn’t noticed him come in. Reggie opened the door to the trailer. “Those fuckin’ idiots. Sorry, girl, I shouldn’t cuss in front of you. Ladies shouldn’t have to hear that.”

She blushed. The light flickered on in the trailer, revealing a small, messy office. There was a desk cluttered with papers, and a couch near a TV at the other end, along with a large whiteboard resting flat against one wall.

“This is my office,” he said. “Stand there. Face the wall.”

“You’re going to fuck me, right?”

“Pretty girls shouldn’t cuss. I’m going to make love to your sweet body, yes,” he said. He leaned in as though he was going to kiss her, then didn’t. He directed her again to stand near his desk. He began busily putting papers away as though clearing off the surface of his desk. “You see, girl, I like to give back to my community. That’s why I mostly hire ex-cons.”

“That’s nice.”

“It is nice, isn’t it? I sometimes act nice, because I’m makin’ up for the fact that I ain’t nice. Ya dig? I ain’t nice at all. I’m a mean nigga,” he said. “You should be glad I ain’t a pimp, cuz I’d be workin’ you hard right now.”

“Yes, papi.”

He had cleared away enough of his desk to reveal two metal circles that had been attached to the edge of the desktop. They were like manacles, she realized, spine tingling with anticipation.

“Grip these,” he said. She did so. The metal was cold and rusty. He took out a screwdriver and began tightening the screws holding the metal to the desktop. He pulled on them to make sure they were held securely. “So I’m glad to hire a bunch of felons and give them a second chance. Sometimes they ain’t never deserved to behind bars. Life just ain’t fair for some niggas. I’m glad to give that kinda nigga a second chance.”

“Yes, papi.”

“But there’s another kinda nigga. Like that Alex cabron,” he said. “Those kind of niggas I don’t like at all. They lie. They steal. They come to work drunk. They cause me safety violations, and I don’t like that, girl.”

“Yes, papi.”

“I don’t like that kind of nigga at all,” he said. He stood at a cabinet near her, Haley’s bent-over face close enough she could smell the laundry detergent in his stained khakhis. “But I’ll still work with him. I’ll show him how to properly behave.” He pulled out a strand of rope, then another, and a third — he compared them, carefully choosing the correct kind for his current need. There were at least a half-dozen different coils of rope in the cabinet, and he looked over every one.

“Yes, papi.”

“But some niggas don’t listen good,” he said. He came over to her with a long coil of brown rope. He showed it to her. “Is this alright? It’s manila rope. That’s good material. It ain’t real soft, but it won’t hurt if you strain against it. It won’t cut off your circulation.”

“Okay. Yes, papi.”

“Good,” he said. “The safeword is nigger. You ever say that word, girl?”

“No.”

“Say it now,” he said. “I don’t want you hesitating to say it if you need to later.”

“N-“ She stopped herself, feeling like she shouldn’t say it. Then he touched her chin, kissed her on the forehead and nodded his approval. She cleared her throat. “Nigger.”

“Good.” He began tying her wrists to the metal loops on the side of the desk. “I modified this desk to be a tool, girl. I added these little loops myself,” he said. “That makes the whole desk a tool I use to drill some sense into niggas who don’t listen. Sometimes they need a little lesson in acting right, in behaving like a nigga who ain’t in prison and don’t need to go back. Sometimes they don’t know how to show respect.” He tied up the other wrist, but left them both loose for the moment. “Ain’t that sad, girl? Ain’t no one ever showed them how to act properly.”

“Yes, papi.”

“But I’m good at demonstratin’,” he said. He chuckled at her shaking body. “You shiverin’ just like they do.”

“Yes, papi.”

“They learn,” he said. “I’m a good teacher. It’ll be nice to teach a student who wants to learn. I ain’t gotta teach you a lesson in respect, do I?”

“No, papi.”

“Good.” He undid the belt of his pants, then sighed as the sound of chortling laughter could be heard outside the trailer. “Some of those niggas are trying to look in. They saw you come in here. You okay with them looking at you?”

Haley had never wanted to have sex in public, but now the thought of those rough street thugs watching her have sex with their boss made her even more aroused. She shook her hips and nodded her head as Reggie pulled his khakhis down.

“I’s gonna pretend I don’t know they’re there,” Reggie said. “That’s what I do when they watch me fuck some sense into one of them.”

“Yes, papi.”

“I think a boss should always know more than he lets on. I always let my subordinates think they got the better of me on somethin’. That way I can always let ‘em overhear my lies — nobody ever doubt a lie they eavesdropped on.” He let his massive cock flop between his fingers. Haley stuck out her tongue, desperately trying to reach it now. “Nah. You too pretty to suck dick, girl. I only make disrespectful niggas suck dick.”

“Yes, papi.”

“I am gonna fill you up though, girl. I’m gonna fuck you in the pussy, and I’m gonna shoot a big ol’ nut in there,” he said. He leaned down so he was speaking directly into her face. She got the impression he said those exact (or almost exact) words to the men he was about to fuck, and it probably made them cry. He kneeled in front of her face again and smiled. “You want me to fill up your pussy, right?”

“God yes!”

“Can you say no? I’m used to hearin’ niggas say no,” he said.

“No!” As she said it, he tightened first her left wrist, then her right, so she was at last immobilized, or at least her arms were. His hot body writhed atop hers as she pulled on the rope restraints.

“Good girl,” he said. He stood and held his hips in place with his cock just a millimeter too far away for her to lick. He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a plain white t-shirt underneath. He took that off too, and her heart skipped a beat at the sight of his powerful chest. “I used a bowline knot on your wrists. That’s a type of slipknot. I like it because you can undo it very easily.” He demonstrated by pulling on the rope, and the knot dissolved. He quickly retied it over her wrist, and tightened it again.

He got behind her and slipped his dick in her crevice. It was just the tip, just enough to awaken her senses. She gurgled out a moan as she heard giggling voices outside the trailer, and saw a flicker of movement in the corner of one dusty window.

Cartel Induction Downlow

Another new sample chapter, this time with macho cholo str8core sex — it’s Cartel Induction Downlow! This one’s right at the edge of what Amazon will allow, so get it before the rules change again!

“Is this really a part of joining up?” Hernan asked. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being lied to.

Raoul stood in front of him, glowering. He was in his bedroom, which consisted only of a bare mattress, a pile of clothes and a weight set. He was standing there in ratty old sweatshorts and sneakers, workout sweat glistening on his chest. He lived in a largely unfurnished apartment, with only one camp chair and a kitchen table outside the bedroom. It was a grim place, and it smelled of stale laundry.

“You wanna join Cartel Noveno? Then you gotta show how much you want it. Hay que querer que mal. You gotta show you gonna do what you told. You gotta show you do whatever it takes to make this organization survive. Muéstrame el respeto, big respect,” Raoul said. He crossed his arms over his chest.

Hernan looked out the window at the trash-strewn streets of Tijuana. He didn’t want to try his luck out there, where sucking cock would be preferable to many alternatives. He had been trying to live on his own here for a few years, and it had not been a fun time for him. When he heard Raoul move around behind him, Hernan gasped and turned around — it sounded like he was pulling a gun out. His heart pounding, Hernan saw that saw Raoul had dropped his shorts and was flopping his cock between his fingers.

“You will get a salary,” Raoul said. “It is okay, suck on it. Undercover federales never suck cholo dick, so it is a good way to filter out cops, and people who aren’t in it for the long haul. This is not a short-time position, Hernan. You know that, right? Esto es para toda la vida.”

Hernan nodded. He didn’t really like the idea of joining Cartel Noveno, but it seemed like the best opportunity open to him. He hoped he wouldn’t have to kill anyone, and while sucking cock was hardly appealing, he was glad he didn’t have to kill — a lot of people supposedly did have to murder someone to be allowed in.

He sunk to his knees and opened his mouth, his mind whirring as he looked for a way out; he had been over this a thousand times though, there was nothing else to do but beg on the street. If he had some land, he thought, he could have sold it and smuggled himself into America, but all he had was his body. That was going to have to be enough.

His eyes closed, Hernan waited with baited breath. Then it finally came, and the taste of sweaty, clammy flesh overwhelmed his senses. Raoul’s cock pressed down deep in his throat. The musky flavor hit his senses like an old freight train.

He gagged and spat up a big ball of spit, which coated Raoul’s cockshaft. It lubricated his rod as it began pushing in and out. Hernan moaned in disgust.

“Do not close your eyes. Look at me. Look me in the eye,” Raoul said, his voice a low grumble. “I can see the piggie in your eyes if you are a cop.”

Hernan blinked his eyes open. The feeling of shame was more intense now that he could see Raoul staring at him. Raoul’s crude tats loomed overhead; some of them looked to have been done in prison, others by the Cartel’s rough tattooists, and a paucity appeared to be professional.

“You like this, no? ¿Sabe bien?” Raoul asked. He sounded hopeful and raised his eyebrows.

“No! Not at all, I hate it!” Hernan said, spitting out a wad of sweat and spit.

“You look like you kind of like it. It is okay. Maricons are allowed in Cartel Noveno. Same pay as anyone else,” he said. “You will just work on your hands and knees.”

“No! I’m not a faggot,” Hernan said. This was not the first time he’d been accused of being gay, but he wasn’t, he just slim and handsome. As if to prove it, he gagged suddenly as the first burst of precum hit his tongue.

“Ha, you like that taste, don’t you? You’s gagging like you can’t get enough.”

“No, I’m not.” Hernan gagged again. It was obvious that Raoul wanted him to say he enjoyed this, but Hernan still had some pride left, and he didn’t want to accept being el pasivo. “You told me I had to do it, that this is part of the induction-“

“That’s right.”

“Why? I don’t get it!” Hernan was near tears. He had gone through so much to join this organization, and now he felt sure he was being teased rather than really being inducted.

“I said it, didn’t I? You think a cop would submit to this? Of course not. Only someone who really wanted to join would,” Raoul said. He sounded confident, and Hernan wondered if he had been wrong — maybe this was what it took to join. “Besides, we are a traditional organization. The older you are, the more respect you get — and we measure age from when you join the Cartel, not your birth-age — and more respect means more power.”

Hernan was humiliated as Raoul pushed his dick against the inside of Hernan’s cheek, and laughed at the bulge of his meat swelling Hernan’s brown face. Raoul smiled.

“You see, we always have a bitch around, but females run away, and they bleed once a month, and they get pregnant and sometimes they fall in love with cholos,” he said. “So we don’t use females for bitches. Mujeres te hacen débil. Out here in the city, I mean, we have females, we gotta pimp ‘em out and shit. But I mean operations out in the country, where I work, and where you gonna work too. There ain’t no females, just bitches. They’s usually faggots. ¿estás seguro de que no es uno de esos? It’s a safe job. You ain’t gotta put yourself at risk.”

He pulled his cock out of Hernan’s mouth so he could reply, but Hernan just shook his head as he gasped for air. He was desperate to be sure Raoul knew Hernan was declining his offer. Raoul pushed his dick back in, relentlessly forcing it until Hernan’s nose nestled in his pubic bush.

“You ready for my nut? Say that you ready. Say my name too, pasivo,” he said. He pulled his dick most of the way out, so just the tip rested on Hernan’s lips.

Hernan blushed. “I’m ready-“

“Suck on it, bitch,” he said. “Kiss it while you say it.” He was stroking his dick furiously and he closed his eyes.

Hernan saw Raoul’s balls crawl up in his sac, and his stomach churned as he realized what was about to happen. He tried to kiss and talk, but couldn’t form words with Raoul’s dick on his lips. It didn’t look like Raoul was paying attention anyway; he flexed all his muscles and roared out an orgasm.

Cum flowed into his mouth, and Hernan heaved. He thought he might vomit, as jet after jet of creamy white cum sprayed the inside of his mouth. It covered every inch of his insides and slid down his spasming throat.

His body rejected the cum, and tried to pull away, but Raoul held his head firmly in position. He drained his balls down Hernan’s throat.

“Okay, ingirió bien,” he said, chuckling a dry, roasted laugh as he watched Hernan gag. He rested his limp cock on the back of Hernan’s head. “You are ready to join the Cartel Noveno.”