Respecting Coach Browne

Here’s a sample from Respecting Coach Browne, a new tale from the All-Strong League! This is hot black dilf-coach on college-jock action!

 

“You better be sorry, boy,” Coach Browne said. “One!”

Jamal hesitated, then did a pushup. Once he got started, he kept on doing them, grunting with each ascension.

“Two. Three. Four.” Coach Browne counted and placed one hand on Jamal’s ass to guide his lower back and keep him from arching his spine. “Five. You know what grade you getting in Fundamentals of Team Sports?”

“You give grades for that?”

“Hell yeah. And if you come to class and you remember to bring your jockstrap most of the time, you get an A,” Coach Browne said. “Six. Seven.”

“That’s like twenty. You ain’t even countin’!”

“You shut that fool mouth, boy,” he said. The more he interacted with Jamal today, the less he wanted to give him a break. One of the linebackers — Harvey — was a good thrower and had been a quarterback in high school; if push came to shove, he’d be a fine quarterback.

But Coach Browne didn’t want Harvey to be the quarterback. He would never have admitted why: because Harvey was white, and not just white, but a blond Nordic-type. He looked like a quarterback. Coach Browne didn’t want to make the only blond man on the team the quarterback. He had written a letter to ESPN last year, and got it read on-air, complaining about teams that seemed to have a rule of only putting white people in the quarterback position. It would look terrible for him to now take one of the few white men on the team and make him a quarterback.

“Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen,” he said. He was deliberately only counting every other push-up or so. He didn’t want to let Jamal finish this without a struggle.

Jamal scowled at him. He must be having trouble now, Coach Browne thought, because his arms shook and sweat beaded on his shoulders.

It looked like Jamal was about to snap when suddenly his cell phone rang in the pants he had crumpled up on the floor nearby. Jamal got up, went over to the pants and took the phone out. He smiled when he saw who was calling — it must be that redhead, Coach Browne decided.

“If you answer that, you get an F for my class.”

Jamal stopped, phone in hand. He looked at Coach Browne as though there was a chance he was kidding. Coach crossed his arms over his chest.

“You serious?”

“You are gonna show some respect, Jamal,” Coach Browne said. “That means you gotta occasionally tell a girl no. Or in this case, not tell her nothin’. Just don’t answer it. You got somethin’ more important to do, Jamal. Or maybe you don’t. I guess that’s your choice. You can walk out that door anytime, or you can get on the floor and do thirty-six more push-ups.”

Jamal took a deep breath. He looked like he wanted to punch Coach Browne, but he didn’t. He glanced at the phone screen then put it back in his pocket. He got on the ground again and did a push-up; he moved angrily now, like he could punish Coach Browne by doing push-ups quickly.

“Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen,” Coach Browne said. “Keep yo’ back straight, Jamal, I ain’t countin’ these.” He put his hand back on Jamal’s lower back until he straightened his spine. “Good. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.”

He didn’t even think about what happened next. Coach Browne acted on instinct, as he saw Jamal arching his back again. He must be frustrated and having trouble focusing, no doubt thinking of that redhead pussy, so Coach Browne thought back to how his own coach got his attention when necessary.

He slipped one hand under Jamal’s boxers, slipped a finger between his sweaty asscheeks and plunged it right into his asshole. It was hot and moist and hairy, and it was both gross to Coach Browne as well as strangely arousing. Jamal’s asshole squeezed around Coach’s finger.

“Aw, fuck!” Jamal gasped. He stopped mid-push, and his shoulders trembled nervously. He bit his lip.

“Don’t stop, boy.”

He did another push-up, slowly and tremulously, as though if he moved too fast his asshole might shatter completely. When he lifted himself back up, it forced Coach Browne’s finger in even deeper, which made Jamal shudder with pain.

“Twenty-one,” he said.

“Coach…” He winced.

“You takin’ a long time to do fifty push-ups, boy,” Coach Browne said. He wiggled his finger in Jamal’s ass, making the young man yelp and drop to his elbows and knees. “Get back up, Jamal. Do I got yo’ attention now?”

“Yes, Coach.”

“You wanna walk out that door?”

Jamal bit his lip. “Kinda.”

“Well, go right ahead,” Coach Browne said. “But if you wanna be on this team, and if you wanna get a passing grade in Fundamentals of Team Sports, you stay right there and show me a little respect.”

Jamal struggled through another push-up.

Cuckolded by Yakuza

Here’s a sample from Cuckolded by Yakuza, a sexy black woman/asian men gangbang and alpha male cuckoldry tale! This story crosses all kinds of boundaries, and is only for the mature of heart.

Read it now!

I was used to not knowing what happened in my own home. On more occasions than I could count, I came home to see my husband, Donte, and his buddies nervously sitting there, obviously having just put whatever illegal activity they were organizing under the sheet they laid over the coffee table in the living room. They never made a real effort to make sure I didn’t know what they did — I told Donte to make sure I didn’t do anything illegal, or anything provable in court anyway, and I told him not to tell me what was going on in his life. I loved him — still do, in my own way — but I didn’t want to know how his life was going.

He made an exception a few months ago when he thought he was going to die. I don’t know exactly why, but he had angered the local yakuza, who were called Clan Kyuu. They had put a hit out on his life. He told me only when he narrowly escaped a gunman and thought he might really die.

“Here, Janine, baby. If I end up dead, give this to the cops. They’ll get the oriental bastards, but it won’t look like either of us was snitches,” Donte said. He handed me a manila envelope then, which I hid away. I didn’t want to look inside, frightened of what I might find within. I pictured that envelope every time I was alone and the phone rang, sure that this would be the moment when I needed to do as he said, to avenge his name.

A thousand thoughts ran through my head then — all the reasons I wanted Donte to live. He had been sweet once, when we were courting; he was sexy and strong and I loved everything about him, including the risk and the gangstaism and the endless crime. His desire to have no children was alluring then; now it was off-putting, boring, disappointing. What was the point of our relationship if we weren’t going to have kids?

But I still stuck it out, until this morning. I came back from work early — I have a real job, a legal one, that pays me in money and not blood-stained cartons of cigarettes — only to see Donte through the living room window, going to town on a pretty white girl. She was blond and half my age and skinnier than me.

“Give it to me, big daddy!” she screamed. That was loud enough the neighbors probably heard, I realized, they must have heard this in the past and knew he was cheating on me. That was clearly a white girl’s voice, nobody would have thought it was me.

I ran out. A part of me wanted to rush in there and confront him, but that wasn’t the part of me that controlled my feet. That part turned tail and fled.

It wasn’t until I got on the subway heading home that I had second thoughts. Why should I have run away? I didn’t do anything wrong. It was only Donte who did something wrong. And the yakuza, presumably.

A Japanese man sat down near me on the subway. He was handsome in his own way, but certainly not sexy. He wore an ill-fitting gray suit, and he spoke on the phone in Japanese.

“Watashi wa Kuran Kyuu ni chūjitsudesu.”

He said that several times, each time more certain, as though he was trying to convince somebody. I noticed it because he emphasized Kuran Kyuu as though it was important, and I recognized that word, Kyuu. That was the name of the Yakuza clan who had threatened Donte.

“Excuse me, sir,” I asked when he hung up the phone. He took a deep breath and sighed as though that conversation had been nerve-wracking. He was pale, hands trembling.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry… I just heard you say something about the word Kyuu. Can you tell me what that means in Japanese?”

He looked her in the eye, trying to divine the purpose of her question through peering deeply into her eyes. He spoke hastily and tripped over himself, almost as though he was lying. “Nine. It is simply the number nine.”

“Oh. I thought it was something more important than that.”

He cleared his throat and paused like he was considering whether or not to provide more information. Then he said, “The more correct word, technically speaking, is ku. But that sounds like the word for ‘suffering’, so we usually use kyuu. That is a word that has… other connotations as well.”

“I see… Like the Yakuza?”

He bit hit lip but didn’t say anything.

“Sir? Is that the name of the Yakuza?”

“I do not know. You should not ask questions about Kyuu.”

“It’s just a number. I like math,” I said.

“Then do your maths in English. You do not want to know more about the Kyuu,” he said. “They bring only suffering to anyone who deals with them. That is where their name comes from. They bring suffering to people, and make them pay for the privilege.”

“I see.”

“Obviously, I would never work with or for the Yakuza, especially Clan Kyuu.”

“If I wanted to find them, how would I do that?”

He shrugged and laughed. “I don’t know. Accept bets on Japanese professional baseball games. They’ll find you.” The subway train rolled to a stop, and the Japanese man stood up. He smiled at her. “I was kidding, by the way. Don’t do that.”

He hurried off the train, and I sat there thinking about what he said. That wasn’t a terrible idea — not accepting bets, but horning in on their territory to make them come to me. Did I really want to go through with this?

The conversation with the Japanese man had distracted me from what I saw, so once I remembered again, and pictured Donte with that trashy white broad, I knew exactly what I had to do. Not gambling, that was risky, and somebody might accept, and then what would I do? Actually take some illegal sports bets? Of course not.

Instead I hurried to Little Tokyo. I knew this was silly, that it probably wouldn’t even work, but I felt like I had to try. My heart pounded when I walked into a restaurant of some sort — I couldn’t recognize virtually any of the food items on display. The clerk, a pretty young girl, looked at me in confusion. Presumably they didn’t get a lot of black women in here.

“Hello,” I said. “My name is Janine Powers.”

“Nice to meet you, Janine,” she said. She had a perky, excited voice.

“Yes… Let me be perfectly frank, miss,” I said. My heart started pounding. “I’m going to extort you.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I have a feeling something bad will happen to your store if-“

“It’s my grandfather’s store.”

“Yes, and it will be your grandfather’s pile of ash if I don’t receive some reward for keeping it safe,” I said.

“Oh… Okay…”

“I know it’s not up to you, dear. Just tell whoever you need to tell. My name is Janine Powers, and I live in Brooklyn,” I said, giving her the exact address. I knew it was foolish to give out my real name and address, but I figured that was the best way to ensure they didn’t just kill me — they would certainly investigate first, and if I gave a fake name, they’d assume I was a cop and kill me without asking questions.

“Okay. You know we… uh… We are already… insured against loss,” she said.

“You already pay protection money?”

“No, of course not.”

“Just tell whoever you need to tell,” I said, then walked out the door. I had planned on visiting a bunch of shops, just to be sure word got back to Clan Kyuu quickly. But after my third restaurant, I was certain that would be enough — all three had alluded to already being under someone’s protection.

So I went home to wait. I wasn’t expecting anything to happen tonight, except for Donte to call and say that he was going to be home late. Of course, Donte, I thought, of course you will. White girls got stamina these days.

It was only the next morning, when Donte had already come home and gone in the very early dawn hours, that I heard an unobtrusive rapping on my door. I knew instantly who it was. Only a Japanese gangster would knock in a way that was both soft and intimidating at the same time.

I opened the door, heart pounding. There were three Japanese men in suits. The one in front was handsome, tan, possibly only half-Japanese, or maybe he had that eye-rounding surgery, I thought. The two behind him were clearly the muscle; one was short, the other tall; neither were classically handsome, but I found them plenty alluring. They bulged from the tailored suits they wore, and a few colorful tattoos peeked out the edges of their clothes.

“Hello, gentlemen,” I said.

“Mrs. Powers, so nice to meet you,” said the man in front. He sounded well-educated, and had no trace of an accent. “May we come in? We have much to discuss.”

“Of course. I insist,” I said. My hands trembled as I put a kettle on to make tea. I set out four cups on saucers, then showed them to the living room to wait for the water to boil.

“You have a beautiful home, ma’am,” he said. “I should formally introduce myself. I am Katashi Takugatsi. These are my associates. You may call them Matsu and Timo.” They each nodded at me.

“So nice to meet you. I’m sorry for my rudeness in asking for money from those people — I never had any intention of taking their money.” The tea kettle was about to whistle, so I hurried into the kitchen. I smiled at the feeling of their confused looks at my backside. I shook my ass a little, hoping they got wind of what I was suggesting.

They were politely silent until I returned with their cups of tea. They each took a sip, and Katashi thanked her. “It is most delicious tea, ma’am. May I ask why you attempted so clumsily to extort money if you had no intention of collecting?”

“Well, the yakuza doesn’t have a webpage,” I said. “That was the quickest way I could think of to get in touch with you. I was worried you’d be an elderly man — like in The Godfather, I guess. I’m so glad you’re hot.”

Now he looked flustered. “Are you able to pay on your husband’s debt?”

So that’s why they want him dead, it’s just money?! “In a way,” she leaned back and spread her legs. “He’s probably going to be home in a little while. I am hoping he will walk in on me being triple-teamed by you three. I do think you should deduct an amount you think appropriate from his debt in payment, because I want him to walk in on me being paid by you for sex.”

Katashi cocked his head to one side and examined me. It looked like Matsu and Timo had the general idea of my suggestion — my body language was making it pretty clear — but didn’t know English well enough to quite pick up what I had said.

A very long silence ensued. One of the muscle-men (Matsu, I think) said something in Japanese, and Katashi barked an order back to him. He smiled at me.

“That is a most interesting proposition. So you extorted money only to attract attention? Were you not scared we would simply kill you?”

Homies Downlow

Here’s a sample from Homies Downlow, a new story from The Str8trix. This chapter is about a hardcore circlejerk that turns into man-on-man jousting action!

 

A long silence followed. Spotter — who went by Abdullah now, though Rayshawn couldn’t bring himself to think of him like that — sat straight, his posture perfect, face placid and serene. Lil Dee snorted, lit a cigarette and ignored him. Spotter obviously wanted to ask Lil Dee to put it out, but they were in Lil Dee’s apartment, so he didn’t.

“Remember how often this used to happen?” Lil Dee said. “It’d just be the three of us, ain’t got jack-shit to do. We just sit around and smoke blunts.”

“Not anymore,” Spotter said. He didn’t look like he especially enjoyed being in Lil Dee’s apartment, probably because he was on parole and could get in trouble just for being near drug-users, even if he personally abstained. Lil Dee’s place was just as messy as his bedroom had always been back when they used to smoke weed there; his clothes were scattered over the floor, along with empty beer bottles, blunt roaches and condom wrappers.

Rayshawn wouldn’t have minded smoking a blunt, but he didn’t want to antagonize Spotter. So he said he didn’t smoke much anymore either. Lil Dee sighed and put the lighter back in his pocket.

“So what’re we doin? What was the point of gettin’ together? I got bitches we could be fucking,” he said.

Spotter scoffed. “We should be maintaining our sexual purity by not spending our time with harlots and jezebels.”

“Sexual purity? Whatchoo know about sexual purity, Spotter?”

“I learned a great deal about it while I was incarcerated, Deon-“

“Don’t you call me that.”

“I do not use nicknames like Lil Dee,” Spotter said. “And yes, I know I did not always consider sexual purity to be so important. I regret my wanton ways, but luckily Allah’s mercy is infinite.”

“So sexual purity includes that downlow trip?”

Spotter nodded. “That’s right, I stopped doing that. I’m not on the downlow anymore. I’m… on the up-high.”

“After all that time in prison, you stopped fuckin’ around wit’ niggas? Most people start that downlow shit behind bars,” Lil Dee said as though he didn’t believe Spotter. “You couldn’t never go more than a few days with bustin’ a nut before.”

“That was when I was empty inside-“

“Shit, I’ll fill ya-“

“Deon, that is crude and insulting. My honor is not so easily impugned. I-“

“Spotter…” Lil Dee shook his head. “Why you gotta act like that? You talk like a white man.”

“If you want to have success in this white world we live in, Deon, you must act in a successful manner. You must speak as successful people do,” he said.

“Ah, so that’s it,” Lil Dee said. “I ain’t wanna have success in this white world we live in. I live in a black world. That’s where I want my success. Damn, Spotter, why ain’t you bring one of dem Muslim bitches? Huh? They give up the booty, we all know that!”

That made Rayshawn laugh. He had totally forgotten about Huma, a Arab girl they had all gone to school with and, eventually, gangbanged together. It was Rayshawn’s first, and to date, only, gangbang.

Even Spotter laughed at that. He looked like he had forgotten about Huma too, or had convinced himself he felt disgusted by it and only remembered now that he had had a great time.

“Remember? You ain’t used to be all about sexual purity,” Rayshawn said. He was a lot less confrontational about it, so Spotter was not as defensive as when Lil Dee talked. Rayshawn didn’t quite speak like the educated white man that Spotter did, but he had picked up a new way of talking at college, and it was apparent that Lil Dee was now the odd man out as far as articulation was concerned. Speaking more properly seemed to make Spotter more comfortable with his situation.

“That’s right,” Spotter said. “I learned how to control my urges better.”

Lil Dee scoffed. “I bet yo’ dick just stopped workin’.”

Spotter stood up and pounded his fists on the coffee table, making the other two jump they were so startled. Spotter had always had a temper, but it seemed to have vanished when he became a Muslim; now, Rayshawn thought, it was returning. “You a hater, Lil Dee, you always been a hater-“ He stopped and took a deep breath as Lil Dee snickered, proud of having agitated Spotter into abandoning his newfound Islamic grace. Spotter sneered. “Fine, let’s do this shit, Lil Dee. You wanna fuck around on the downlow? Let’s do it.” He took his shirt off, revealing a powerful chest.

Spotter had never been big. He was always skinny and tall, but he had bulked up behind bars. With his shirt off, he intimidated Rayshawn, who was used to being the biggest, toughest man around — he worked in IT now, so he had been surrounded by nerds for years; any man with a bicep might as well have been 50-Cent to them. But Rayshawn’s physique had dwindled since his teenage years. He looked on awkwardly as Spotter’s muscles bulged and flexed.

Not one to be challenged, Lil Dee stood up as well. He took off his shirt proudly, as though he could stand up to Spotter, though he had always had a little pudge. Without his shirt off and next to Spotter, Lil Dee looked ridiculous — he was in great shape compared to most men, but not Spotter’s prison-toned body.

Before Rayshawn could even process what was happening, both of his friends had dropped their pants. Their long, thick cocks dangled between their legs. They were both about the same size in the cock department, and Rayshawn could see them sneaking glances at each other, no doubt because they each wanted to tease the other for having a smaller cock but didn’t want to bring it up until they were sure they could win.

It was Lil Dee who put on a video. He said it was a porno movie he and his niggas had filmed last year. They were about to make another one, he said. Rayshawn didn’t entirely believe that — Lil Dee was a frequent bullshitter, and in any case, this video appeared to have been shot somewhere with palm trees, not St. Louis.

“Do we have to watch-?”

“Yes,” Lil Dee snapped. “I don’t care what religion you got now, nigga. I ain’t circlejerkin’ without some females to look at.”

Spotter arranged himself so his back was to the TV screen, while Rayshawn got up and took his own cock out. Since leaving St. Louis, he had become known for taking his dick out at any given opportunity — because he was, among his coworkers and friends, the only black man, the only athletic man and the only man with the cock size and confidence to whip it out. Now that he was back with his old friends, he felt unsure of himself all over again.

Hardcore Footy Hazing

Here’s a new sample from Hardcore Footy Hazing, an extreme teabagging and sport initiation tale! For those of you who are from the land up-over, “footy” is “Australian-rules football” — I’m not really a sports-guy, so I can’t tell you much about it athletics-wise… but the men are hot as hell!

 

The game was over, and Damian’s heart sank in his chest. They had lost. The Balamuba Wombats had lost their first game this year, after an eleven-game winning streak. They filed off the field, Damian trying hard to ignore the hateful stares of his teammates and the gloating boasts of the other team.

They were all focused on Damian because this loss was his fault, and everyone knew it. Damian couldn’t pretend it wasn’t. He had a wide open pass that he failed to complete, or even really throw — the ball had simply fallen from his hands like a greased-up watermelon.

It was too late to worry about now. Way to choke, mate! Damian wanted to hurry up and get out of here. He knew the way Coach Marlow operated — today, the team could tease Damian, could punish him through hazing, and Coach Marlow would back them up.

But at practice on Monday, nobody would be allowed to bring it up. Coach Marlow would punish anyone who held a grudge. He was a firm believer that punishment should be quick and severe, but it should be over when it was complete.

So Damian just needed to get showered, changed and out the door, then he wouldn’t have to think about this terrible error ever again. He wouldn’t have to feel like he had let down his entire family. It felt like he was a little boy again, in trouble for having “disappointed” his mother by acting up at school.

Coach Marlow was waiting there in the locker room when the team poured in, hot and sweaty and stripping off their kits as they entered. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Damian.

“Coach-!”

“Hush your mouth, mate,” Coach Marlow said. “I’m disappointed in you, Damian. You have shown such promise in practice, and then you go and choke out there on the field.”

Speaking of choke…

Coach Marlow held his hand up for silence. “Yes, yes, we’ll get to that. I can see you are all horny as, but lemme first go over that play again.”

The team groaned as Coach Marlow launched into a description of strategy. This was an obvious time-wasting way to get the team even angrier at Damian — his error hadn’t involved a lack of strategy or a failure to follow a plan. He had simply, both literally and figuratively, dropped the ball. Aside from making Damian’s fingers grippier, there was nothing Coach Marlow could do to prevent the same problem from recurring in the future.

The locker room was too small for this team. Damian felt more cramped than he ever had in there before, because he could feel his teammates glaring at him. He could feel one person in particular, Wayne, brimming with hatred.

Wayne was probably the best player here. He could go pro, probably, and he never made a mistake, so every time someone else did, Wayne freaked out as though it was unprecedented in human history. Now he studiously avoided looking at Damian, while his meaty jockstrap-clad thighs pressed against Damian’s body.

Soon enough Coach Marlow was done. He looked right at Damian and said, “I’m sure you all will express your displeasure appropriately. I’ll see you at practice on Monday, when I expect us all to have forgotten about this… little incident.” Then he turned around and went into his office.

Servicing a Robber: The Black Thug

Here’s a sample from Servicing a Robber: The Black Thug, a hot str8core servicing tale from Marcus Greene! It’s about what happens when a home invasion turns sexy, starring a new alpha worshiper named Calvin!

 

“Where’s your cash?”

“I don’t have any, there’s like nine bucks in my pocket, I think,” Calvin said. “I don’t have any cash.”

“Liar!”

“No, I swear! I just went on vacation, I spent all my cash. I’m broke right now,” Calvin said.

“They said you’s a writer,” he said with a sneer.

“Yeah!”

“So where’s the money, huh? You got Harry Potter money?”

“No! Only J.K. Rowling has Harry Potter money!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You think I’d live here if I had Harry Potter money? That’s not the kind of thing I write anyway. I write lesbian romance-“

“What?”

“I’m a lesbian romance author.”

“You ain’t a lesbian.”

“No, the books are lesbian. The readers are lesbian.”

“You ain’t a lesbian.”

“Technically you don’t have to be a lesbian to write about lesbians. Technically speaking,” Calvin said.

“You sure?”

“Trust me, I’m a writer,” Calvin said.

“So you don’t make money at that?”

“I make enough to pay the bills,” Calvin said. “And once a year, I can afford to go to Hawaii. If you had robbed me like two weeks ago, I would have had some money. But I spent it all trying to seduce the bellhop at the hotel. God, Polynesian men are sexy, y’know-“

“No, I don’t know. What’s a fucking Polynesian?”

“Nevermind, man,” Calvin said. “Look, I don’t have any cash. You got my TV and my X-Box. What more do you want?”

“I want money, nigga.”

“Well, here’s my nine dollars,” Calvin said, pulling a few dollar bills out of his pocket. He handed it to the robber, who didn’t move to take it. Calvin slowly put the money in the man’s pocket.

With his hand momentarily close to the man’s crotch, Calvin suddenly wondered if there was a potential for sex here. He avoided eye contact as the man glared at him as though trying to decide if Calvin was lying. Calvin nervously caressed the man’s crotch through his pocket for just a second, then withdrew his hand.

He didn’t react, Calvin noticed, which made him feel optimistic. Calvin loved servicing straight men, especially thugs like him — if he could have made a living writing that, he would. But the market just wasn’t as big as lesbian romance, or maybe it was easier to write stuff he had no personal interest in because he was distracted less by his own desires.

“You little pissant!” the man grunted. He shook his head. “You a snitch?”

“No!”

“You look like a snitch,” the man said.

“I’m not, I swear,” Calvin said. “I’m gay. I don’t like cops any more than you do.”

He paused. “Gays don’t like cops?”

“No, of course not! It wasn’t that long ago they were arresting us for excessive flamboyance,” Calvin said. That wasn’t strictly true, but he thought he could bullshit this man into leaving without hurting him.

“What?”

“Just… let me pay you my own way,” Calvin said.

He raised his eyebrows. “What?”

Calvin reached out for the man’s crotch again. “You want a blowjob?”

He paused. “Oh, you real nasty, huh?”

Calvin nodded. “I guess so, yeah.” His heart pounded. He felt the man’s thick cock and bulging ballsack through his sagging jeans. He had hefty meat, Calvin thought, and he was getting hard just thinking about it.

“I ain’t givin’ you back yer shit,” the man said.

“Fine. I got insurance,” Calvin said. He didn’t mention that he had brought with him to Hawaii the only laptop computer he had that was worth anything — it was still out in his car with his suitcase and a few hundred dollars in cash, not to mention a beautiful pearl necklace that Calvin had bought for his mother. This robber seemed to have accepted Calvin’s claim that he had nothing valuable here.

He unzipped his fly. Calvin smiled and pulled his dick out through the fly with one hand. He whistled when he saw it.

The Perfect Specimen of Soldier Came Through the Honky Hotel

Here’s a sample chapter from an oldie, but a goodie, and one that only just now went live on Smashwords! It’ll be on Nook, Kobo and iBookstore any day now too. It’s called The Perfect Specimen of Soldier Came Through the Honky Hotel (Kindle Store or Smashwords) and it’s part of a series about the adventures of Adrian, a hotel clerk with a habit for servicing str8 macho alpha males! You can buy this story and three more from the series on the Kindle Store for a great value!

Every couple of weeks Adrian’s job sucked. Normally he enjoyed it — a hotel clerk is a low-stress position, and with sales incentives he normally met, Adrian could make pretty good money. But about once a month, the guys from the local military base, Fort Rumblemore, had a weekend of leave. They often came to Adrian’s hotel, and they were always drunk, rowdy and left a huge mess behind. Since they were price-sensitive, they almost never paid for anything from the minibar or anything on pay-per-view, so the hassle of dealing with them was not worth it to Adrian.

But this night was especially bad for him. Not only did he have to deal with the Rumblemore boys getting drunk in their rooms before hitting the bars, he was depressed to begin with because his long-time lover Shawn had dumped him earlier that day. He had been upset but thought going to work might help — if he had known it was going to be an armyboys night, he would have called out sick for sure.

Finally the armymen all made their way out to the bars. A few of them drifted back over the next few hours, but they had females and went straight to their rooms. Their kissing was a little more risqué than Adrian liked in his lobby, but he knew better than to ask them to stop. The best course of action was simply to let them go fuck their slut in their room, and wait for them to check out in the morning.

The sound of frenzied rutting could be heard when he walked down the hall, emanating from their rooms. More than once an almost entirely naked soldier bumped into him as he drunkenly stumbled off to the ice machine, towel loosely draped around his waist. They stank of cum, and it made Adrian so horny he wished he had a free moment to jack off in the bathroom.

Around midnight the last of them came back. He was Willie Redman, a Texan with the sunburnt shoulders of a real redneck, leaner than a lot of the soldiers but ropy with muscle and an elegant tattoo reading Texas-Made on his upper back. He walked slowly, as though he was drunk and trying to hide it. He stopped in front of the desk.

“Can I help you, sir?” Adrian asked.

“I… I don’t remembuh how to get to my room,” he said.

“I’ll show you. Follow me, sir,” Adrian said. He walked down the hall to his room, which was at the far end.

“Hey, hotel clerks know about…” He trailed off as though too embarrassed to go on. “Women? Like… Women that I can… fuck?”

Willie was not the first soldier to ask him this. “No,” he said. “I don’t know any prostitutes. And I’m gay, so I don’t know much about women at all. Sorry.” In truth, he did know of some prostitutes, but he knew better than to get involved — he could be charged as a pimp if the police found out, which was a felony sex crime, worse than either being or hiring a prostitute.

They were in front of Willie’s door. Willie blanched and said, “I struck out tonight. I was really hoping to get laid. I only got tonight. Tomorrow I ship out to Iraq.”

Adrian opened the hotel room door, and held it open for him. Willie’s muscles throbbed underneath his sleeveless t-shirt (no wonder he struck out, Adrian thought, women don’t normally go for the rough redneck on leave look).

Willie stepped through the threshold, then turned around. “Hey,” he said, “Do you… You can say no, it ain’t a big deal, but do you… Wanna suck my dick?”

Adrian was so surprised he didn’t have a response, but in truth he thought Willie’s redneck soldier look was so sexy he could barely control himself. He wanted nothing more than to suck his dick.

“Yes,” Adrian said. He followed him into the room.

“I never done this before,” Willie said as he sat on the edge of his bed. His head lolled on his shoulders as though he was already half-passed out.

Adrian knelt in front of him and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.”

He undid Willie’s camo pants, revealing those olive-green PT shorts that Adrian had always thought looked sexy on a man. They were a little small, so Willie’s bulging cock and balls were readily apparent, straining against the fabric.

Willie let out an awkward moan and looked away. The smell of liquor on his breath was strong, and stale, drunken sweat wafted into Adrian’s nostrils as he got started.

He licked Willie’s crotch through his underwear, tasting the salty cotton flavor. Willie laughed a little as though surprised. He leaned back on the bed, keeping his hands up by his head like he was frightened he might accidentally touch Adrian.

Adrian fished his cock out through the fly of his boxers, and licked it from tip to root. It had a ruddy quality, and a well-worn thickness that reminded Adrian of Willie’s sexy redneck swagger.

His dick got hard right away despite the awkwardness of the situation and Willie’s rather advanced drunkenness. His thick shaft pulsated hotly and leaked precum down Adrian’s throat.

It had all happened so fast that Adrian was only just then realizing how much trouble he could get in. He was supposed to be working and consorting with customers in their rooms was strictly forbidden.

But Willie was oblivious to any risk. He grunted as he neared orgasm and his balls lifted up in his sac. Adrian worked on Willie’s nipples with one hand, using the other to stimulate his shaft.

“You gonna swallow?” Willie mumbled. Asking was a polite gesture, Adrian thought, but Willie asked too late for it to matter. Before he even finished asking, cum was spurting down Adrian’s throat.

He shot a huge load with a nice thickness that coated Adrian’s gullet. He moaned at the savory, salty taste flooding his senses.

Adrian kept on Willie’s sensitive shaft until he was drunkenly pulled off. Willie was already half-asleep, it seemed, and Adrian wiped his dick off with a tissue before leaving. He couldn’t resist spending a moment to fondle Willie’s tight pectoral muscles and perfectly round ass, savoring their well-sculpted feel.

The Workcamp Hairback Jerk in a Circle

Here’s a sample from the beginning of The Workcamp Hairback Jerk in a Circle, a hot new story that you can read in KU or buy for a great value price in the three-story bundle, The Reddest Necks, Vol. 15!

When his first day on the job came to a close, Gareth was glad it was finally done. He was absolutely exhausted, and it felt like his shoulders were going to fall off. He didn’t know how the other workers managed to keep going all day — he felt like this even with a couple extra minutes off here and there while he waited for someone to tell him what to do. Once he got into the swing of things, he wasn’t going to have more than a few seconds to himself during the day.

The worksite was a small collection of tents in a large clearing. Gareth and a bevy of men were here to build a more permanent work-camp, with buildings and plumbing and electricity. A mining company was about to begin digging in this area and needed accomodations for workers. Since they were about four hours drive from the nearest town (Bumcraw, Alabama), Gareth and the other workers were going to have to camp for the entire time.

The pay was pretty good, so Gareth couldn’t complain. He wasn’t that experienced, and it was only through pure luck that he even got this job — since they didn’t want to hire more people than necessary, they largely only hired workers who were proficient in at least one technical area like plumbing or electrical work while still being knowledgeable enough to help out in other areas. Gareth had a little experience with all of the relevant areas of building, but he wasn’t an expert in anything. That meant he was destined to remain the lowest man on every single totem pole here.

His muscles burned as he followed the guys to the sleeping tent. It was the largest Gareth had ever seen, with plenty of room for all the workers — it could have accomodated twice as many people — but it was still just a tent. There were six bunks lining one wall, and Gareth sat down, sighing as his weary muscles relaxed for the first time all day.

The other workers began to take their clothes off. There was a shower tent nearby, Gareth didn’t yet know what sort of facilities would be in there, but he had a feeling they would be primitive. He also assumed it was some sort of group shower situation. He didn’t much like that, but he had had plenty of jobs that required a group shower afterward. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

As his workmates undressed, Gareth noticed how hairy they were. Maybe that meant he’d fit in. His most recent jobs came with coworkers who were mostly either black or Native American, making Gareth by far the hairiest one of the group. He had been called sasquatch for so long he forgot it wasn’t really a nickname, just an insult.

It was his back that was especially hard to handle, because Gareth couldn’t really shave it himself, especially not out here in the woods. He had often been teased for having a hairy back, but here, he was actually a lot less hairbacked than some of the others.

“Hey, Gareth, we got a daily tradition,” said Mitchell, one of the more outgoing of the other workers. He wasn’t technically in charge, but he sometimes acted like it. “Before we shower, we do a quick circlejerk. It’s a tradition. You don’t have to join in… you know, if you’re a pussy.” He snickered. He was already naked, ready for his shower, and he was among the hairiest here. He was of Greek extraction, Gareth suspected, with swarthy skin and thick, coarse black hair coating his chest and upper back.

“A circlejerk?”

“Yeah. You know what that is?”

Gareth nodded. He didn’t think anyone outside of fraternities actually did that, and possibly not even them. He wasn’t about to be left behind though. “Before we shower?”

Mitchell laughed. “Yeah. Makes it a challenge. Besides, if we smell too good, you might turn into a queer. We don’t want that.”

 

Prison Guard Lust

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Prison Guard Lust, a new story from Brutewood Minimum Security! Yes, there’s a Brutewood Minimum Security!

 

Every Sunday morning, Winthrop worked early — he was the only guard there in the mornings on Sunday — and every single time, he said either things sure are quiet today or the cell block’s restless today, as though those were only two small-talk starters he was allowed. Gerald smiled each time as though he had never heard it before.

“Yeah, it’s been quiet all night,” Gerald said. Winthrop was about to walk away, and Gerald’s mind raced as he tried to think of a way to get Winthrop to stay. He didn’t want to sit in his cell with nothing to do all day. “Uh… how was Anna’s reading?”

Officer Winthrop stopped and sighed. His wife was a poetess, and she had had a reading of one of her poems at the community college last night. Winthrop had shared that with Gerald a few days before. To Gerald, that fact was like a lifeline — he hadn’t really connected with anyone since coming to prison, so gaining a friendly relationship with someone gave him a sense of vitality and purpose.

“I don’t know,” he said. He sounded disappointed.

“Oh? You didn’t go? Did you have to work? Boy, Warden Armstrong is a prick. I’ve got a theory about white men, you know-“

“He is a prick, but I can’t blame this one on him,” Winthrop said. “She dumped me.” He spoke directly into the little window into Gerald’s cell, and as he said that, his voice broke. He looked away.

“Oh. Wow, I’m sorry, my nigga,” he said. Gerald ordinarily never called anyone nigga, but he had gotten into the habit of it now that he was surrounded mainly by black people. He thought it came across as forced, but Officer Winthrop didn’t seem to think so. Gerald wanted Winthrop to know how much Gerald liked him, and saw him as a friend.

Winthrop shrugged. “Whatever. I never thought we would be serious.”

“She was your wife…”

“I know, I mean… When we first got together, I thought we didn’t have a chance. It wouldn’t work out. She was a white girl, a poet — a frickin’ published poet, who the hell actually makes a living as a poet? She was half my age. Less than that. She was only nineteen when I met her.”

Doing a little math in his head, Gerald whistled. “You’re in your forties? I had no idea. You look great-“

“But somehow it all worked out, or it seemed to,” he said. Winthrop hadn’t noticed Gerald’s compliment. He wasn’t really listening. “We got along just fine. We used to laugh so hard they’d ask us to leave the restaurant. And now I’m alone. We ain’t laughed together in a year, at least. I met her like a week after my girlfriend broke up with me We been together for like eight years at that point, so I ain’t really been single since I was like twenty-six years old.”

“Damn…”

“I’m just so fucking horny,” he said. “I mean, I’m lonely too, but I forgot what it was like to be single, to have to pound yo’self off at night. A man shouldn’t live like that.”

Gerald’s heart started pounding as he realized this was his opportunity. He wanted to get Officer Winthrop on his side — and he wanted to get laid — so what better circumstance could he wait for? It was still early enough on Sunday that not many people were up, and Winthrop could spend a little extra time in Gerald’s cell, if he wanted to. Gerald’s eyes fluttered and he pursed his lips.

“You’re right, y’know. A man shouldn’t live like that. You want some help with that? I can help.”

“What? You know a girl you can hook me up with? I dunno about that, I was thinking about staying away from women for awhile,” he said. “I’m old enough I ain’t gotta be chasing after pussy all the damn time. I might just-”

“No, no, that’s not what I mean. I’m gay, I don’t know many girls, and most of the ones I do know are lesbians,” he said. “But you don’t have to meet any girls to get your rocks off.”

“Wha-?” Officer Winthrop cut himself off when he looked Gerald in the eyes and realized what he was offering. “Oh. That’s against the rules, Gerry.”

Gerald hated being called Gerry, he always had. But Officer Winthrop had been calling him that since day one, and for some reason when Winthrop’s gruff voice said it, Gerald enjoyed it. It sounded sexy, instead of old-fashioned. Despite Winthrop’s words saying no, he didn’t walk away, and he didn’t sound like he was really refusing, so much as explaining why he couldn’t say yes so easily.

The Black + Asian Equation

Here’s the sample from the latest book by Ruby Redman, The Black + Asian Equation. It’s about an Asian senator and his black personal secretary, and the outrageous night of passion they share!

 

And in the first surprise upset of the night, Governor Jenkins of New Jersey looks likely to lose his race! No one ever thought this might happen!

Now now, that’s not quite true, Jason. Governor Jenkins is from an out-of-touch party of freedom-hating-

“I told Jenkins not to go with that demon-sheep ad,” Jae said. He pulled out his cell phone and began typing out a text message, growing increasingly annoyed because his phone kept interrupting him to tell him that others were messaging him. “I hate this fucking cell phone. I wish I was a politician back in the 80s. That was the time to be in DC. You could pretend to be out of the office whenever you wanted. There wasn’t a camera, attached to a sweaty blogger, pointed at you at all times.”

“Uh, Senator, I believe the correct term is blog-focused American in a court-ordered anger management program.”

“Right, of course,” he said with a grin. “I apologize to any blog-focused Americans who may have been offended by my remarks. If they can put down the doritos long enough to be offended, that is.”

That made Shanine giggle too. She rarely drank anymore, since she didn’t have time to drink nor to nurse a hangover the next day.

First results are in from the hotly contested Senate race in Missouri, and it looks like incumbent Jeannie Ratliff is not doing so well. Only four percent of precincts have reported, but they include her strongest region-

He clapped and hooted in appreciation at the news. He did not like Senator Ratliff. Shanine didn’t either, so she was glad to hear it as well — in truth, Shanine didn’t really know Senator Ratliff, but her personal secretary (her Shanine, in other words) was a total bitch. So Shanine couldn’t wait for that office to go under.

“I guess her all-Twitter, all-the-time strategy didn’t work,” Shanine said. That had become a running joke amongst the office — whoever was in charge of Senator Ratliff’s social media tweeted an excessive amount, often regarding movies, music and other pointless minutiae that gets people annoyed at you when you disagree with them but just comes across as fake when you agree. So Jae’s social media folks simply didn’t tweet about that stuff.

“Big shocker. It turns out people aren’t more likely to vote for you when you call the best movie of the year a ‘boring snoozefest’,” Jae said. “That’s why I don’t tell people I’d rather listen to a giraffe decompose than Jay-Z… Sorry, I already used a dead giraffe joke tonight.”

Shanine giggled, almost choking on her scotch because she hadn’t expected to laugh. “That’s okay, I don’t like Jay-Z either.”

The election returns were coming in more quickly now, but he had spaced out. He was looking deep into Shanine’s eyes, making her nervous and excited. Was something about to happen? She had never thought she might hook up with a Senator, or an Asian man, for that matter.

But then it happened. He kissed her. It looked like he had been thinking about it for a long time, and for the first few seconds, it was a bit awkward. She felt like she couldn’t possibly kiss him back — he was a Senator, for chrissakes, he was a millionaire several times over.

However once her instincts took over, she stopped thinking about it. She pushed back into him and slammed her lips onto his. His tongue pushed into her mouth.

A Texas College Football Jock Will Do Anything for Luck Before a Game

Here’s a sample from the beginning of A Texas College Football Jock Will Do Anything for Luck Before a Game, a hot transgender str8core alpha male servicing story from the All-Strong League!

 

“Do you wanna go upstairs with me?” asked the football player. He was young, a freshman, probably, with a baby’s face and a very adult man’s body. He was blond and broad-shouldered like some Norse god. He looked optimistic that she would say yes.

“Before I answer your question, sweetheart,” Tamsin said, leaning in to very nearly kiss him. She could smell his nervous sweat beneath the mountain of cheap cologne he wore. She whispered so only he could hear. “I’m not biologically female. I have a penis, and these tits are plastic.”

He frowned, first in confusion, then dismay — he looked briefly hopeful when his buddies, the rest of his college football team, burst into laughter — he thought maybe they laughed because she was joking. He laughed with them as though he was in on the joke.

But when he raised his eyebrows at her, Tamsin took his hand and guided it to his crotch. As soon as his fingers touched her dick, tucked between her legs, he blanched and pulled away.

“Oh, hey, y’all, she got a dick, man!” he shouted. He repeated himself, more emphatically as though this was entirely unprecedented, and he jogged back over to his teammates. He sounded like a native Texan, she thought. Tamsin wished she didn’t love Texan men so much; she felt like she’d be much happier in general — though less sexually fulfilled — if she moved somewhere people like her were more tolerated. But she couldn’t bring herself to move away from Texan redneck alpha males like those football players, who were now chugging beer and organizing an arm-wrestling competition.

Tamsin sighed and sat back down with her plastic cup of beer. She was at a house party near the college campus, which was where spent a lot of her Saturday nights these days. She loved sexy young macho jocks and frat boys, and usually she could find a couple who didn’t mind that she wasn’t biologically female.

As usual, the football players had dared someone to hit on her. They thought it was hilarious, clapping that freshman on the back as he blushed. He still seemed to think it was a mistake, that the seniors hadn’t known Tamsin had a penis.

His name was Danny, she gathered from their boisterous chatter, and he was a second-string quarterback. He was burly and broad-shouldered, blond, with a deep southern accent that showed off his Texan roots. She loved that accent so much she could masturbate just listening to him talk.

Do it, Danny, do it! Do it, Danny, do it!

They were all chanting now, stomping their feet in rhythm with the words. The entire house party was chanting even though only a dozen or so football players clustered in one corner were involved. The rest were quite a bit drunker and were just joining in for the fun.

Blushing so hard his round face looked like a cranberry, and rearranging the tattered green tractor cap he wore, he reapproached Tamsin. He stammered, “Uh, miss… Or sir, or whatever… I mean…”

“Go on, Danny. It’s okay. You should call me Miss Tamsin,” she said. She smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. He wore his football jersey, so she could feel his broad muscles through the gauzy fabric. He was number 72, and his last name Carroll, according to the jersey. He shuddered nervously.

“It’s, uh… I was hopin’, uh…” He continued like that for some time. As he talked, Tamsin let her hands roam around his upper body, which was taut with anxiety and tension. She didn’t need to hear his words because she already knew what he was saying. A lot of athletes had told her this story — not that she needed them to, since she had been there for it.

Two years ago, Tamsin had nabbed the star quarterback, then a senior named Thad. He fucked her good at a house party just like this one. He had been horny because his girlfriend dumped him just a few hours ago, and he was just desperate enough to get his nut off that Tamsin had managed slide in there.

But Thad had gone on to play a near-perfect game the next day, and he decided that “fucking a boy-girl” was good luck. Tamsin had no desire to disabuse Thad of that notion. Much to her delight, the rumor stuck, and it hadn’t even remained specific to football. It was now a well-know fact on  the GHU campus that having sex with a chick with a dick was good luck for male athletes.

“So, I ain’t know that,” Danny said. “They jest tol’ me that somebody should be… you know, wit’ you before every game. I said… y’know, I could do it, but I ain’t know-“ He yelped as Tamsin’s finger pushed under his pants and caressed his ass. She made it feel like she was going to stick her finger in his asshole, but then didn’t, she just touched all over the surface. Her dick was rock-hard, painfully squeezing between her legs.

“Do you want to take me into one of the bedrooms?” Tamsin asked. She kissed his bicep, which twitched as he grew more anxious. His friends hooted like the studio audience in some cheesy talk show. “I’ll let you show me what you can do.”

He hesitated.

“Do you have a girlfriend, darling?”

He shrugged. “Sort of. It’s complicated.”

“You wanna impress her, right? With your sexual prowess,” she leaned in closer and inhaled of his scent again, this time so close she could taste the fuzz on his neck.

“Well, yeah… We ain’t do it yet. I mean… we been doin’ some stuff, but not-“ He blushed even harder and looked away from Tamsin.

“It’s okay, sweetie. How many women have you been with?” She looked at his team, who were clustered together and watching as though this was the most exciting thing they had ever seen. “You can whisper it in my ear if you don’t want anyone to hear.”

He hesitated, then whispered, “Just one. We only did it once.”