The Yakuza Muscle and His AB/DL Adventure

Here’s a sample from The Yakuza Muscle and His AB/DL Adventure, a hardcore gay story burst with diaper depravity!

 

Tengitsu stopped out front of Oshima Obama, the new clothing store in downtown Kyoto. He considered leaving. He had enough money saved up, he could just go anywhere in the country, hide out in some rural area for a year or two, then disappear to Canada, or Ireland maybe, Singapore.

But he knew that wouldn’t work. His tattoos were only the first and most obvious risk. Tengitsu was yakuza, and he had the tattoos to prove it. If anyone saw him hiding out in the country, or nervously fleeing the country, they’d report him to the yakuza in the hopes of getting a big reward.

This was a job that you didn’t quit. Everyone knew that. When he had joined, it seemed so certain that he would want to be yakuza forever. It was a noble, honorable way to go, and for someone like Tengitsu — a burakumin bursting with brawn and a love for violence, but with little in the way of intellect — it was the best option available. He was given everything he needed: money, a home, “friends” (of sorts), women, cars, cocaine.

But his life had never felt more empty and meaningless. Now here he was, collecting money from Oshima Obama, a stupid store for queers, or so it seemed.

He blinked his eyes a few times as he realized his casual conclusion was, in fact, correct. There were rainbow flags in the window, and monogrammed towels with interlocking phalluses. There was even a giant photo of Judy Garland, framed and hanging in one corner, visible through the window.

This is a strange development, he thought. That must be why the others were laughing as I left. They knew I was coming to collect from Queen Queer Ketsumodoki.

But it was the assignment. Despite his nervousness, he didn’t even consider backing down. If he were going to leave the yakuza, he wouldn’t do it in the middle of a task, abandoning his job like a loser. That would be entirely too shameful.

He walked in. There was a young man standing behind the counter, a fresh-faced Japanese man — perhaps mixed-race, half-Korean or Chinese, maybe, it was hard to tell — with an obviously gay lilt to his lean. It looked like he had seen Tengitsu standing outside and was curious why he hesitated. He was probably also surprised to see a muscle-bound, tattooed yakuza here in his shop.

“Hello, sir, how can I help you-?” That was when the queer must have realized what was going on. He blanched and shifted his weight on his mincing feet.

Tengitsu cleared his throat. He had done this on many occasions. He began his spiel. “As you know, there are many dangers in owning a shop in this neighborhood.” Someone had already come here to visit this shop, and spoken to Nadimi — having said nothing about the yakuza, simply priming him to understand that his shop was always in danger and needed protection. So Tengitsu had been given a script to memorize. He had done it so many times he barely needed to think about it.

“Stop, wait, I understand, Tengitsu,” he said, interrupting the spiel. He giggled nervously and held a hand up. Tengitsu was flummoxed and offended. He really didn’t like gays. “You’re collecting protection money for the yakuza, right? I was expecting you.”

Tengitsu did not like it when people interrupted him. He didn’t like queers. He didn’t like people who thought they knew what he was going to say before he said it. And he really, really didn’t like queers who interrupted him to predict what he was about to say. He really hated that.

He flared his nostrils and slammed his hands on the counter. “Listen here, you little ketsumodoki-“ Then he stopped and took a deep breath. Tengitsu didn’t want to do something that would get him in trouble — even when collecting protection money, his boss insisted on politeness.

But Nadimi’s eyes lit up with fear. He jumped back and trembled nervously. He looked like a petulant child, which just made Tengitsu want to hit him more.

“What did you call me?”

“This isn’t a social call, queer. You owe some money, and you had better-“

“Don’t you lecture me, you idiotic brute!”

“Listen here-“

“No, you listen here!” Nadimi slapped Tengitsu with an open hand. There was a loud crack as his palm collided with Tengitsu’s cheek. It hurt, but it was more shocking than painful. He paused. Nadimi frowned, apparently near tears. “I will not be giving you any money without an apology! It just so happens that I can pay. I was expecting to pay. I was waiting for it. I have cash hidden — not here — ready to pay. That was all going to happen,” Nadimi said. He blinked back a few tears, then went to the door to his shop and flicked the lock. Then he pulled down the shades. “But now that you’ve insulted me?! You had better just kick my ass now, then go tell your boss you were unable to get the money on account of rudeness. When your boss sends someone nicer instead of you, I’ll pay with a smile on my face.” Nadimi’s shrill voice resonated in the tiny shop.

Tengitsu’s blood ran cold. That was a problem. If somebody else had to collect money and found out Tengitsu was only unsuccessful because he had acted like a rude brute, he could be in a lot of trouble. Clan Kyuu did not allow anyone to act like that. Tengitsu didn’t think he had crossed any lines, but his clanmates all knew he hated queers, and this queer in particular was obviously such a drama queen that he’d exaggerate. Everyone would believe Nadimi over Tengitsu.

“Okay, just…” Tengitsu sighed. “Don’t be such a fucking pest. You admit you owe the money. You-“

Wiping away tears, Nadimi said, “Don’t be such a fucking bully. Just ask me for the money that I owe, like a nice person. Say you’re sorry. Apologize for calling me a queerbait and a ketsumodoki.”

“Fine, I’m sorry. Okay? I’m not really anti-gay, or at least not all that anti-gay. I shouldn’t have called you a ketsumodoki or anything else. Okay?”

“I don’t know if I believe you,” he said. He put his hands on his hips. “Prove it.”

“Prove what?”

“Prove that you’re not anti-gay.”

“How?”

“By fucking me.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Fuck me, the way I like it,” Nadimi said. He smiled and blinked back his tears. He stripped off his shirt to reveal a smooth, almost girlish figure, aside from the lack of breasts. “Warning: I have unusual tastes.” He had a nervous giggle as he wiped his tears off his face. “Is that okay? Are you a prude?”

Cuckolded by Gangbangers

Here’s a sample from Cuckolded by Gangbangers, which is a het-4-gay tale (that’s hetero sex, mainly, but meant for a gay-erotica-reading audience) full of interracial sex and gay teabagging.

 

The white picket fence swung open, and Robert whistled as he walked to his home. He was glad to be home early today — there had been an Internet outage at work, and since Robert’s job relied on the web, he was allowed to go home early. He and his wife used to go on impromptu road trips, and he wanted to do another one tonight; it had been years since they did anything spontaneous together. He even realized on the way home that it was his wife’s unbirthday, so he could make a big joke out of celebrating that. Their first date was exactly nine months after her birthday (or three months before, depending on how you want to look at it), which she had called her semiunbirthday.

He opened the front door, and dropped his briefcase. He reached for his cell phone to call the police — there was a bevy of naked men in his living room. His blood ran cold as he thought this was a home invasion. Then he realized they weren’t intruders at all, they were fucking his wife.

“Alison!”

All of the muscular black thugs turned to look at Robert, but none of them stopped what they were doing. They just glanced at him and went back to fucking Robert’s wife as though it didn’t matter. Robert screamed his wife’s name a few more times, but still they all ignored him.

Humiliation ran through his veins. Robert rushed forward — they weren’t going to fuck his wife and pretend it was nothing, that he shouldn’t care at all. He was determined to show them how manly he could be. He grappled for the closest man, who ignored him, his bulky muscles like solid steel beneath Robert’s fingers. He looked down at Robert like a male stripper annoyed at someone touching him. Robert blanched and stepped away.

“Ugh, fuck off, Robert,” came her voice from among the pile of writhing flesh. Her words cut deep into Robert’s soul.

“Honey, what’s happening? Are you… being raped?”

The guys all burst into laughter at once, deep chuckles that were so boisterous they had to hold onto their bellies and clutch each other’s broad shoulders for support. A few of them even slapped each other’s ass as though encouraging each other to start raping her.

“No, sweetie. I’m not being raped,” she said. She stroked a cockshaft in each of her hands. “Your concern is touching, however.”

“Well, stop it! What-?”

“Why you think she gettin’ raped, honky?” said one of the guys, a thick-afroed man with a small paunch and a hairy chest atop his powerful frame; he had a mean, penetrating stare. He stood up and faced Robert, his huge cock swinging just millimeters from Robert’s face, so close he could smell the man’s precum.

“You’re gangbanging her!”

“So? People sign up for that, y’know. Some chicks love it,” said the afroed man with a chuckle. “You just ain’t think she would ever wanna fuck with niggas. Ain’t that right?”

“No! I just… I’m her husband. She’s not supposed to be fucking anyone but me,” he said.

“Shut up, you fucking pussy, get outta here!” screamed one of the black guys — the others had referred to him as Kurtis — who looked angrily on at Robert. His eyebrows furrowed. Robert’s heart pounded.

These guys looked dangerous. Were they thugs? Were they gangbangers? Robbers? They rather looked like it, and they eyed Robert as though they were about to beat him senseless.

“No, wait, Robert, don’t go,” Alison said. The thugs all looked at her like she was crazy.

Robert could still barely see her, surrounded as she was by black flesh. He came as close as he could get. She was on the couch, sitting on one man’s lap with his cock in her ass while someone ass pounded into her pussy. Their ballsacks slapped together with every thrust of the upper man’s hips.

“Sweetie, what are you doing?” Robert said. The guys all snickered but quieted down so they could hear her answer.

“I just decided I need a real man, Robert. I don’t want your tiny limp dick anymore,” she said. She took the cock out of her mouth to show off how big and thick it was.

“But baby…”

“Bring yours out, darling,” she said. “Let’s see it.”

“Baby…”

“You can either leave, Robert, or you can join in,” she said.

Robert blushed but he couldn’t bring himself to abandon her, not as long as there was any chance she’d come back to him when this was over. He undid the zipper on his pants, then let them and his boxers fall to the ground.

They all laughed as though it was the funniest thing they had ever seen. Robert had never felt smaller. He didn’t really have a tiny dick, but it was smaller today than usual, and it certainly wasn’t especially big. Compared to the foot-long mandingo meat-slabs surrounding him, Robert might as well have had a micropenis.

Kurtis, the tall dreadlocked man with cruel eyes and big muscles, sauntered over to Robert, whacking his enormous dick between his hands. He might be the biggest-dicked one here, Robert thought, though they were all huge.

Kurtis took Robert’s dick with two fingers — gingerly, as though it was painfully hot — and placed it on top of Kurtis’, so everyone could see the comparison. Kurtis’ cock was at least twice the length and three or four times as thick.

Yo, white man, I think you dropped yo’ dick somewhere out there.

Baby, you sure yo’ man is a… man? I can see he ain’t got tits, but… well, he ain’t got a dick neither, leastways not one I can see.

Robert sobbed as he watched those black dicks pounding into his wife’s body. He had never seen her with another man, so this was a shock for him; he wouldn’t have thought her pussy could handle a big, throbbing black cock like the man who was taking his turn inside her right now.

“Baby…” she said softly. She took that cock out of her pussy and moaned as she squeezed the shaft. The man it was attached to looked down at Robert, as though blaming him for this pause in his fucking. His broad muscles were dappled with sweat. He ran his tongue over his lips. Alison smiled at Robert and clutched his thigh, the only part of his body she could reach. “Baby, I’d like to see you joining in,” she said. “Why don’t you kiss Devon’s cock here? He’s got my pussyjuice all over it, and I think it needs a good cleaning.”

All was silent for a moment. Everyone looked at Devon, who gulped. He smiled nervously at Robert.

Gay Interracial Taboo Plantation Sex

Here’s a sample from new story called Gay Interracial Taboo Plantation Sex, a tale by Delmar Wilson!

 

Isaac stumbled back from the Melrose plantation. He had hoped when he left he’d simply be able to get back to his bed, but he seemed to have gotten drunker as he walked even though he stopped drinking almost an hour ago. He walked straight into several trees and even stumbled into a ditch before he made it back to his own home.

If he woke up his father, or even worse, his mother, Isaac would be in terrible trouble. He was well into his twenties but was not allowed to be drunk in the house — his father was a teetotaler, and his mother advocated for the prohibition of alcohol entirely. They would make him sleep in the barn with the slaves if they caught him drunk in the house.

“If’n tha’s what they want, tha’s what I’ll do,” Isaac said aloud, as though speaking to the cultivated rhododendron on the side of the house. He chuckled to himself at his own silliness. “Are they awake?” He rather wished the slaves would be awake, as he didn’t want to be alone at this moment, so he looked hard for the flicker of a lantern in the barn.

But there was no light. That made sense — Isaac’s father would have tanned their hide if they’d still been carousing this late at night, and on a Saturday to boot — it was on on the verge of cutting into the Lord’s time, or possibly even past it.

He could almost imagine his father saying the same thing to him, if he’d been caught tonight. You s’posed to put aside Sunday for the Lord, son, not for recoverin’ from yon licentiousness the night befo’. Isaac dreaded that. He hated his father’s lectures. He’d have to stay out in the barn tomorrow until he felt well enough to conceal the effects of drink. Miss Georgia, one of the female slaves, would surely take care of him good and proper in the morrow.

There were seven male field slaves in the barn, with the women slaves in the south shed with the children. When he walked in, it looked like a lot more than seven men in there. His drunken mind had trouble comprehending what he saw, then at last realized it was goats.

Of course, I knew that. Pa said he bought a dozen goats at a discount rate. Damnable goats smell like the dickens! They’d be slaughtered in the next few weeks, but for now, they slept in the barn. That meant the slaves were crammed into one corner for the time being, sleeping there on the hay piled up away from the goats.

“Who dat?”

Isaac tried to walk as quietly as possible, but he was too drunk for stealth. He shushed Samuel, the slave who had awoken. Samuel sat up on the pile of hay where he and the others had clustered. He was closest to the goats, that was why he had woken up first.

“Massa Isaac?”

“Hush, S… Shammuel… Shammy,” he said, struggling to speak with liquor in his veins. He chuckled. Samuel was a strange word when he thought about it. What is it? Hebrew? Probably… He sat down in the hay next to Samuel.

“You’s drunken ‘gain, suh,” Samuel said. He groaned as he sat up.

“I wuzzz at the Mel-“ He hiccuped. “The Mel…Melrose plantayshun, with Barney… Mish’er Melrose, the younger, and his brothers. And their friend… Arnold, who ssssshowed ush a trick… I can’t shay whut, uh, whut uh, whut uh, whut uh, whut… it is.”

Samuel hesitated. He smiled. He looked a little annoyed at being woken up, but now he wanted to know. “Suh?”

“He can flatulate the alphabet.”

There was a pause. As if on cue, one of the sleeping slaves farted. Samuel laughed and Isaac joined in, and soon both clutched each other, trying not to laugh so loud as to wake the others.

“His sister walked in on the W and said it was the most disgusting thing she had ever seen. Or heard. Or smelled.” Isaac said. That provoked even stronger laughter from Samuel, who buried his head in Isaac’s chest. Isaac hugged Samuel back, and kissed him on the top of his head. Isaac himself only stopped laughing because his memory reminded him of Paula Melrose, his dear friend’s sister, whom he had loved for some time. He was embarrassed that she had seen him with a man as crass as Arnold.

“You still pinin’ fo’ her, huh suh?” Samuel asked.

Isaac nodded. “Indeed. She is ssho bootif… beauiful, Samuel,” Isaac said, forcing himself to articulate his words, though the laughter seemed to have helped sober him up a bit. “You’ve ssheen her, right. Don’cha ‘gree?”

Samuel hesitated. “Aye, she is beautiful, suh. But I do not have an eye for wimminfolk of any race.”

“Oh, yes, righ’…” Isaac had forgotten about that. He tried not to think about it, because if he let on in front of his father, Samuel would be flogged to kingdom come and back. Samuel had made it clear he enjoyed the touch of men, not women.

Isaac felt his body lean forward as though somebody else was in control of it. Isaac had eyes only for women — and specifically one woman, Paula Melrose — but his manhood was hard and straining in his pants, and Isaac couldn’t resist his urges.

The Quarterback Sees a Masseur

Here’s a sample from the beginning of The Quarterback Sees a Masseur, about a college jock getting a “happy ending” from a masseuse who turns out to be a taciturn indigenous masseur instead! It’s part of The Native American Masseur series!

 

Nathan excitedly walked into the spa, laughing with his buddies to hide how nervous he was. He felt out-of-place because of his clothes — he had only packed workout clothes, his jersey and the suit Coach made them wear on the bus from Nome. So he wore the suit, minus the jacket and tie, just a button-down shirt and slacks. It wasn’t what anyone else wore to the only spa in Anchorage.

The game was tomorrow. The state football championship match promised to be a close one, and it was all anyone on the local radio talked about. Nathan was nervous about it. As the quarterback on his college team, Nathan was held responsible for the entire team’s performance. It wasn’t fair — he wasn’t even the team’s official captain, that was Roger.

Nathan and the other players all stopped short when they walked into the spa. Nathan was nervous. Why be nervous? He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he felt tremendously out-of-place. This was a sumptuously decorated spa for new age types; there were crystal skulls, something labeled an “aromatherapy alcove” and pretty women in kimonos walking around.

This was not like any part of Anchorage Nathan had ever seen. He grew up in Texas, and had gotten a scholarship to the University of Northern Alaska. Everyone in his hometown thought it was a joke; it was precisely the kind of joke Nathan might have made. But it wasn’t a joke. Nathan was good, just not good enough to get a scholarship to a major school.

But he still loved the sport of football, and he was proud of himself for taking the team to the state championships. Now they had spent a whole day on a rickety bus coming to Anchorage, and everyone was sore, exhausted and too drained to even think about getting pumped up for tomorrow.

So that was why Coach Alupi sent them to the spa to get a massage, to get them in tiptop shape for the game. He even paid for it out of his own pocket.

“Hello, boys, you must be the UNA Bears?” asked one of the Japanese women.

“Yes, ma’am,” Nathan said. He blushed a little at his Texan accent, which had never really seemed all that thick until he moved to Fairbanks, Alaska, where he sounded like a movie caricature of a hillbilly, at least in his own mind.

All of the women who worked here were young, pretty Japanese women. Nathan wondered if Roger had been right — Roger was a linebacker, team captain and the one who had been joking for the entire ride to the spa about how he was going to fuck his masseuse. “Coach wouldn’t have sent us here for a massage. Coach Walton gives massages. I bet this place gives happy endings. If the masseuses are Asian, that’s it, that’s proof. They’ll give you a handjob for free after the massage. They don’t even think of it as sex in Asia, it’s just massaging your dick. Coach Alupi probly-“

“Shut up, Roger, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Coach Walton couldn’t give us each a massage. It would take like all night and all day tomorrow,” Nathan had said. Coach Walton was one of the assistant coaches, and it was he who usually massaged any player who needed it before a game.

But Roger insisted, and the rest of the team had remained noncommittal. At the time, Nathan thought Roger was just talking trash; he always claimed to have girls begging for his cock, but Nathan knew it was all nonsense.

Now, though, he wasn’t so sure. These Japanese women were beautiful. There weren’t even hardly any Asians in Alaska, he thought, these must be a large portion of the city’s Asian population. He nervously smiled at them.

“Your coach called us boys, he said you each need a full massage from a licensed masseuse,” she said. Her accent was mild, but noticeable. She pursed her lips and smiled. “That means you’ll have to take turns, we only have a dozen licensed masseuses. Could I interest any of you in a chemical peel while you wait? It helps your skin-“

You could interest me in somethin’, but not that…

How will this massage be ending, miss? Happily?

The team laughed. No one really listened to the woman, who blushed and scurried away after finishing her upselling spiel. Nathan felt bad about his teammates’ rudeness, but there was little he could do — since he was new, and he wasn’t Alaskan, the team by and large didn’t care what he thought about anything.

I’m so horny I might blow my load even if she don’t give a happy ending.

Then the masseuses started. They came one by one from a doorway leading to the spa area in the back, and they each took a player by the hand. First it was Roger, the team captain, a burly roughneck’s son with colorful tattoos covering his broad shoulders. He smiled a dimpled grin at the Japanese woman who led him away, then made a masturbation gesture with one hand, making the rest of the team laugh along with him. The Japanese woman blushed as though not sure if the team laughed at her or not, and disappeared with him in the next room.

The next masseuse was another beautiful Japanese woman, this one a little older, but with delicate features and a soft touch. She caressed Tulimaq’s arm, smiling at his nervous shudder, as she led him away. Then came a trio of masseuses, who each led a player away.

That meant Nathan would be next, since they were simply grabbing the player nearest the door, and Nathan was now closest. He now had a sinking suspicion that Roger had been right — this looked rather brothel-y, now that he thought about it, and these women had a flirtatious look as they came into the room to gather up their player.

Then the door opened. The person who came out was a man, a tall, broad-shouldered man with long, straight black hair. He had the gruff, angular face of an Indian, and he was short but squat, strong, looking like an oil rig worker who had gotten lost.

A few people tittered, and Nathan felt the entire team watch him. Someone mumbled something low about Nathan turning gay, and Nathan blushed.

For a moment, Nathan’s heart sank. Did he have such terrible luck that he got the one masseuse here who was not a sexy young Japanese woman? No, he decided, this man must be a customer on his way out.

But then the Indian man stopped in front of Nathan and raised his eyebrows. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Patuk, I’m going to be your masseur today.”

Nathan’s heart thumped. The team oohed as though he was getting in trouble. Nathan stood and blushed. Would it be weird to decline? Would it come across as racist? Would it look like he was a pervert who had just come here to ogle the pert young Japanese flesh? Was this a prank the rest of the team had put together?

But Patuk had such an authoritarian vibe that when he turned to leave, Nathan instinctually followed. Patuk’s broad shoulder muscles rippled beneath his plain white t-shirt.

Beyond the door — the hoots and laughter of his team fading into the background — Nathan followed Patuk down a long hallway. He saw his teammates getting massages in small rooms as they passed. This place no longer looked brothely, he thought. There were posters outlining the major muscle groups. Another poster advertised free mammograms. There was a portly white man giving a massage in one room.

Nathan was both gladdened and disappointed to learn there would be no “happy ending”. He would have been nervous if he thought it was genuinely going to happen, but he was still disappointed that it wasn’t; of course, he was overjoyed this rough Indian masseur wouldn’t be doing it.

They stopped at a massage room, and Nathan walked in. It was warm and smelled of incense. This was definitely Patuk’s assigned room, Nathan decided, as it was clearly Indian — there was Inuit symbolism all over the place, a distinctive quilt folded up on a chair on one corner, a crudely carved statue of a polar bear, and a beautiful painting of a stone inuksuk towering over a coastal scene.

“Take off your clothes and lay on your belly on the table,” Patuk said. His voice lacked all the grace and delicacy of the Japanese woman out front. He wasn’t even looking at Nathan; he just shut the door (which Nathan wished he hadn’t done, none of the other rooms were shut) and lit a pile of braided branches. Then he put out the flame so the embers continued to fume, filling the room with the scent of sweetgrass.

Now Nathan was getting very nervous. Coach wanted them to do this to be relaxed before the game, but it was having the opposite effect. The stiffness in his neck now seemed like a very minor problem.

“Take off your clothes,” barked Patuk, who glared at Nathan. Then he added, “Sir.”

Nathan had always been an obedient boy. That was just how he was raised back in Texas, and as an athlete, he was used to being naked in front of strangers in the locker room. So he quickly took off the button-down shirt and pants, then got on the table. He still wore his underwear, hoping that Patuk didn’t expect him to be fully naked.

Overseers Downlow

Here’s a new sample from Overseers Downlow, a hardcore antebellum American plantation sex story about the extreme redneck overseers of Brutewood Plantation.

“We dun’t ‘llow any kinda perversion with the slave-women,” Mister Armstrong said as he showed Nathaniel around the plantation. “Dat’s cuz we tightly control breeding. Takes nine months to pop out a new nigguh, and we ain’t gonna let ‘em spend time on anyone but the best fatherin’ nigguhs we got. Not you.”

Nathaniel was so relieved that he had been hired he barely listened. He just smiled and nodded. He had been raised to believe it was a grave sin to fornicate with a Negro, so Mister Armstrong’s rules didn’t bother him.

Brutewood Plantation was beautiful. Nathaniel had been so nervous about coming here that he didn’t notice until he followed Mister Armstrong over a hill, and when they stopped on its crest, he saw the rolling countryside of the plantation’s carefully tended fields, the bounteous forest beyond that and the babbling network of streams that fed the farm. There was even a little pond with fish in it, though Mister Armstrong said that that was reserved for the slaves alone. Nathaniel hoped he might be able to sneak in a little fishing at some point.

“Oh…” Mister Armstrong said, shaking his head in disappointment. For a moment, Nathaniel’s heart stopped as he thought he had failed to secure the position after all; maybe Mister Armstrong wanted him to passionately argue in favor of impregnating Negros. That seemed unlikely, but some redneck overseers like Armstrong had odd views on that kind of thing.

Then he saw that Mister Armstrong wasn’t looking at him. He was disappointed in something else. Nathaniel followed his sun-tarnished eyes’ gaze to a stand of peach trees at the base of the hill, where the soil was too rocky to support much else. There was a young Negro lad sitting in one of the lower branches, biting into a peach.

“Tha’s Walter,” Mister Armstrong said. “He a good worker, but he’s a wastrel. He gunna try ’nd git one ovuh on you.”

“Oh, okay, well I know how to handle slaves like him,” Nathaniel said. That wasn’t entirely true, but he had learned a lot about discipline from his father and mother, so he felt sure he could apply those principles in his new job. Disciplining a slave was not so different than disciplining his little brothers.

A long silence fell between them, and then Mister Armstrong raised his eyebrows. He nodded towards Walter, who still sat in the tree, unaware or uncaring of the overseers standing not that far away.

“Well? Go’n, sun,” Mister Armstrong said. “I’m-a let you figger out what to do wit’ ‘im. Now’s the time to start showin’ who’s boss.”

Heart pounding, Nathaniel strode over to the peach orchard. He knew that confidence was the most important part of disciplining a worker; if he wavered, Walter would never respect him. A man lived and died by his respect, as Nathaniel had learned. He frowned and put on a stern face as he approached.

“Ah, shit!” Walter exclaimed. He dropped the peach and nearly fell out of the tree when he saw Mister Armstrong and Nathaniel. He landed on his feet and eyed Nathaniel even as he spoke to Mister Armstrong. “Ay, Mistuh Armstrong! I’s jest here checkin’ out the trees for dat peach blight. Yup. I wuz-“

“Hush boy,” Nathaniel said.

He continued to face Armstrong. “Mistuh Armstrong, I’s sayin’-“

“Listen to Mastuh Greene. He gonna be in charge of this orch’rd anyhow,” Mister Armstrong said.

“Walter, where are you s’posed to be right now?” Nathaniel asked. When Walter didn’t immediately respond, Nathaniel added, “I’m new here. I dunno where you s’posed to be, but I got a wild hair sayin’ it ain’t here.” After another pause, Nathaniel raised his eyebrows. “Ain’t nevuh a time some nigger should be eatin’ peaches during harvest time, that’s fo’ sure.”

“Yessuh. I’s s’posed to be bringin’ dem rakes back from de barn,” he said. There was a pile of rakes on the ground near the tree he had climbed. “I’s just-“

“Hush, go bring the rakes back,” Nathaniel said. “Do as you was told. But you may pick a bushel of peaches to bring with you.”

Walter’s face brightened.

“They are for anyone who been workin’,” Nathaniel said. “Not wastrels who sit in trees like a lazy chipmunk. I know that there’s twelve slaves over there waitin’, so you bring twelve peaches and those rakes. If any of them twelve don’t get a peach, I will be tannin’ yer hide.” To accentuate his point, Nathaniel picked up the peach Walter had been eating in the tree. He had only gotten a few bites into it. Nathaniel brushed the dirt off and ate the rest, right in front of Walter’s disappointed face. Then Walter used his shirt to make a sac of sorts, to carry the peaches, and struggled to get the rakes in hand. He dragged them off towards the fields.

Nathaniel frowned. “Sorry,” he said. “Was that alright? I shouldn’t’ve jest given up a bunch of peaches-“

“Nah, don’t worry ‘bout it. Ain’t no money in peaches anyway,” Mister Armstrong said. “They’s just here for pie, and to give ‘em as rewards to the slaves who work hard. So you did fine. You did good. Walter ain’t easy to deal wit’.”

Nathaniel nodded. He was glad to have succeeded, and he felt more secure in his new position. At least he knew he wasn’t a laughably incompetent overseer.

The peach trees would be Nathaniel’s responsibility, or one of many. Peach blight had been a recurring problem, and while the peaches weren’t technically vital to the running of the plantation, Mister Armstrong said that the nearly peach-free winter last year had been arduous. The slaves had come to expect peach pie and preserves all winter long, as did Mister Armstrong himself. Once Nathaniel got the hang of the orchard, he’d be assigned the cotton fields that constituted the bulk of the plantation’s economy.

By the time he finished the tour of the plantation — and checked on Walter to be sure he had followed orders (he had) — Mister Armstrong said it was time for supper.

“Overseers gotta eat in the cabin,” he said as he showed Nathaniel to it. The overseer’s quarters was a small cabin with three beds (there used to be a third overseer) and a hearth. There wasn’t much to it, but one of the slave women brought them two big bowls of stew not longer after they arrived. Then a pair of boys brought a big wash basin after dinner.

Nathaniel was starving, so he devoured every bite. He wondered if this was the same food the slaves ate — his father had raised him not to submit to anything like that. A white man should always eat better food than a nigger. But he was hungry enough he didn’t care, and it was definitely not the exact same food: Mister Armstrong had a passel of dried squirrel meat he added a handful of to the stew. Squirrel wasn’t exactly meat fit for a proper white man, but Nathaniel decided it would have to do.

“What did your father do?” Mister Armstrong asked during the meal. It sounded like he had been waiting a long time to ask.

Nathaniel sighed. He had known this question was coming — Armstrong had hinted in this direction before hiring him; he clearly saw parentage as important in judging a man’s character; Nathaniel had told him only that his father was dead, which was true — and though Nathaniel was proud of his family and his father, he didn’t much enjoy answering this. He paused to take a bite of the stew, then said, “He was an overseer like you.”

“Ah. Around here?”

He must have already known the answer to that. Mister Armstrong knew all the overseers in this corner of Virginia, and if Nathaniel’s father had good employment nearby, Nathaniel would have surely been working there, not here.

“No,” Nathaniel said. “Near Newport News.”

Mister Armstrong nodded. “He taught you ‘bout farmin?”

“Some, yes,” Nathaniel said. He sighed. There was no point in delaying things. Mister Armstrong would know sooner or later. “He is dead, sir. He died in prison. He was convicted of takin’ liberties with a female.”

“I see. A female slave?”

“No, sir, Mister Armstrong.”

“That’s good. The master’s only daughter is awful bony and dowdy, and she live in Baltimore now anyways,” he said. “So there ain’t often white wimmen around here.”

“Yes.”

Mister Armstrong tipped his bowl of stew to his mouth, swallowing the last few drops of thickened broth. He frowned at Nathaniel. “Reckon ain’t mah place to judge. You learned better than that, sounds like, and anyway there won’t be no white women here to take liberties with. You sure you ain’t got no hankerin’ for colored females?”

“I’m sure.”

“Good,” Mister Armstrong said. He walked to the tub of lukewarm water right next to the table. “Now let’s wash up.”

“Yes, sir.” Nathaniel breathed a sigh of relief. A part of him had been sure that Mister Armstrong would fire him once he found out about his father’s fate, so he was overjoyed to have come clean about it without consequences.

“You know how to show respect to yer boss, don’t you, Nat’aniel?” Mister Armstrong asked. He dropped his trousers. His hairy crotch hung free. Nathaniel’s heart started pounding.

“Uh…”

“You should get on your knees.” Mister Armstrong took off his shirt. He had a big hairy, greasy chest. It was plastered with hair, matted against his broad, whip-toned torso.

“Yessuh,” Nathaniel said.

“Respec’ is the most impo’tant thing for a man, doncha think?” he asked. He came closer to Nathaniel, who stepped away from the washbasin. Nathaniel’s own clothes were plastered to his skin with sweat from the day’s work, and now a fresh layer of sweat from nervousness. He had never seen a man naked besides his brothers, but it looked like Mister Armstrong thought it was normal.

“Yessuh.”

“If’n ye ain’t gettin’ respec’ from the nigguhs, you ain’t worth nothin’. You can command respec’, right?”

“Yessuh,” Nathaniel said, as commandingly as he could. He was always brash and headstrong, the broadest-shouldered of he and his brothers, the oldest, the one with a history of bullying. But in this moment, he didn’t feel like he could command respect from anyone, not even a Negro slave.

“I thought you could. I think you’s gonna make a fine overseer, lad,” he said. “Not as firm a hand as me, but still. I liked the way you handled that sit’ation out there, with Waltuh.”

“Yessuh.”

“But a second ago I said to get on yer knees, and you still standin’,” Mister Armstrong said. He scratched his scruffy chin and flexed a bicep in front of Nathaniel’s face. “So why ain’t you followin’ my command?”

Nathaniel did lower himself to his knees then. His pa had always told him not to get on his knees — that was what slaves did, not free men. But Nathaniel needed the money, and he besides, he had lost bets and had his mouth violated by his brothers before. This wouldn’t be too bad, he thought.

“If’n you’s gonna command respect, you gotta also show it,” Mister Armstrong said.

“Yessuh, Mistuh Armstrong.”

“So open that mouth.”

Nathaniel did. He gagged right away, as Mister Armstrong’s hairy crotch was right in front of his mouth. He tasted it on his lips and wanted to throw up. He wasn’t a nancy-boy, that was for sure.

“Good job, boy.”

Then that hairy cock slid down his throat. It was sweatier than his brothers’ — they had only ever done it after washing up, but Mister Armstrong was doing it before cleaning himself. Nathaniel really wished he didn’t. The soap and clear water waited just inches away from Mister Armstrong’s sweat-stained body.

Almost right away that thick cock got hard in his mouth. It made Nathaniel gag all over again; his body bucked and spat up a wad of saliva that landed on the floor.

“Stroke it off wit’ one of yer hands,” he said. When Nathaniel didn’t respond right away, he guided one hand up and into position. Nathaniel gingerly stroked the shaft, which was smooth and fleshy and warm. Was his own cock like that? All of a sudden Nathaniel couldn’t remember what his own manhood felt like.

Bitter-salty precum invaded Nathaniel’s mouth. It made his eyes water, and he wanted to run away. But he had come this far, and he didn’t want to keep traveling between plantations — once he got settled in one place, it’d be easier to establish some references and move onto somewhere better.

Oh damm, Massa Armstron’ be fukkin’ dat new man in da mouf!

Nathaniel blushed. It was Walter, that young male slave, peering in through a crack in the plain wooden wall. Walter’s eyes danced with vicarious pride at seeing Nathaniel in submission.

“Get the hell outta here, Waltuh, ‘fore I beat yer ass till it’s blue!” Mister Armstrong shouted. He pounded on the wall as Walter loped away back towards the slave quarters. Mister Armstrong frowned at Nathaniel. “Ignore him. He makes up stories all the time. The other slaves won’t believe him.”

That was small comfort for Nathaniel, whose eyes watered from both humiliation and the intensely salty taste of Mister Armstrong’s precum. Even as he spoke to Nathaniel, Mister Armstrong didn’t stop fucking his throat; he just kept that shaft gliding in and out of Nathaniel’s mouth.

Then Mister Armstrong gripped Nathaniel’s head tightly. He grunted and groaned as he bucked his hips. “Alright, this is the tough part, boy. You doin’ alright though. Get ready a-taste it.”

He slammed his hips against Nathaniel’s face, pushing his dick down his throat. Nathaniel grunted and choked. Semen flowed into his gullet.

The taste was cottony and thick, creamy, and overwhelming in its snotty texture. Nathaniel spat it up so quickly it spurted from his nostrils all over Mister Armstrong’s cockshaft as it exited from his mouth.

The spit and cum dripped from his rapidly limpening dick. Mister Armstrong smiled and sighed. “Hell yeah,” he said, “That was some good respect, boy.” When Nathaniel didn’t respond, Mister Armstrong frowned. “Say yessir, boy.”

“Yessir.”

“I ain’t gonna ask you fo’ this every day,” Mister Armstrong said. “But I’s glad you can do it when I needs you to.”

The Interracial Waxplay Adventure

Here’s a sample from The Interracial Waxplay Adventure, a new story by Debbie Sizemore. This is the entire first chapter, and if you like hot Polynesian interracial sex and magical waxplay, you’ll love this! It’s not mentioned in the official product blurb on Amazon, but at the end there’s a free bonus story which is the prequel to this one. It’s available in Kindle Unlimited as well!

It had been almost a year since Haley became a goddess. She didn’t know that that’s what she was, exactly — she didn’t think she was immortal, for example, though she had no way of knowing — but she thought of herself as a goddess. A bondage-filled sexual encounter had led to her developing sorcerous powers, and she felt like her magic was divine in origin.

She had telekinesis, but a very special, limited kind. She could only control rope. Now that she had practiced, she could make it do almost anything, float, hover, loop in spirals like a lariat, wrap around a person and tie him up. She could do it all.

So she thought of herself as a goddess of rope — a limited purview, to be sure, but since she had come to love bondage, it worked out well for her. She kept this power a secret, of course, because she wasn’t sure what would happen if the world at large found out. She was pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to wander the globe, using her powers to fulfill her own sexual needs; somebody would demand she use her magic for their ends. So she never told a soul.

After spending a year learning stage magic, Haley felt ready to take advantage of her power. Stage magic would be helpful, she hoped, because nobody would believe she also had real magic; if anyone saw her telekinating rope, they’d assume it was some sort of trick.

So she took a trip. She didn’t decide where to go until she got to the airport. A part of her had always wanted to see Australia, so when she saw a flight to Brisbane leaving shortly, she ran to the counter to buy a ticket.

“Thank you for choosing WickAir,” said the lady behind the counter as she passed over the ticket. “Enjoy your flight and your time in Australia.”

Haley had never been the kind of woman who did things spontaneously, so when she actually bought the ticket and made it to the plane in time, she was shocked. A glimmer of pride hit her. Haley had always been shy, ever since she was a little girl; becoming a goddess infused her with pride, but she still found it difficult to express sometimes. It was like she was habitually shy, and needed to remind herself not to act that way.

She wondered if she was going to become truly confident. It would be exciting, she thought, to be like a movie character, always knowing what to say, struggling to achieve great things. Haley had never thought she might achieve great things. Until developing magical powers, she was satisfied just to survive, to get along in the hustle and bustle of the modern world.

As she boarded the plane, she still wasn’t sure how to achieve anything great. There was a man in front of her who distracted her, however, and thoughts of doing great things vanished from her mind.

He was hot. He was tall, broad-shouldered and wide-backed, like a football player; he was big enough he had to stoop to get in the plane, and then painfully crane his head to get into first-class. He had a sort of an afro, but with loosely-curled hair that was a very dark brown with an almost ruddy shade to it, rather than black.

“Hello, ma’am, this way please…” A steward took her ticket. Haley followed him to first-class, her heart pounding as she sat in her seat.

The sexy man was in the seat right next to her. His broad features smiled politely at her. He had the aisle; she had the window. She watched his muscles writhe as he put his bag in the overhead compartment.

“Miss?” he said to her. Her heart stopped. Her mind froze. Haley couldn’t think of what to do or say. He had a lilting accent, a singsong way of saying Miss that aroused Haley’s interest. His deep dimples appeared, and he repeated himself. “Miss? Can I put your bag ‘way, miss?”

She blushed and handed over her bag. He put it in the overhead compartment, then motioned for her to take her seat. Haley was a bit disappointed — she had hoped he’d sit down first, because he was big enough that she’d have to virtually crawl over his body to get to her seat by the window.

“Ma name is Malohi,” he said after she sat down and he settled into his own seat next to her.

“I’m Haley,” she said. “Malohi? That’s such a pretty name.”

“Thanks. It’s Tongan,” he said.

Haley didn’t know what Tongan was, but she nodded as though she did. He smiled and told her about his trip to America — he had come to try out for the NFL apparently, but he didn’t make it. He was a professional rugby player back in Tonga, which, Haley gathered, was an island nation somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. He suggested they would be flying over it at some point on the way to Brisbane.

He fell silent when the captain started announcing the take-off. Malohi smiled nervously and whispered, “I hate flying,” he said.

Haley took out her deck of cards. “Lemme distract you,” she said. “I don’t like flying either. Pick a card.”

Malohi smiled. Haley had practiced this trick enough that she didn’t really need to think about it. She shuffled the deck, and felt confidence in her voice for the first time since she had seen Malohi. It helped that he was a great audience; he played along, and he was dutifully impressed when she pulled his card out from the middle of the deck.

“You’re good at that!” he said.

Haley blushed and shrugged. “I’ve been teaching myself magic,” she said. “You don’t believe in magic, do you?”

Malohi looked away from her. His skin was too dark to blush, but Haley got the impression he was blushing just the same. “I… My people believe in, well, not magic ‘xactly… Uh… No. I don’t believe in magic.”

She giggled. “You don’t have to be nervous, Malohi,” she said. “I’m not going to burn you at the stake for witchcraft.”

He let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Phew… I was worried.”

“They don’t let you light fires on airplanes, after all,” she said with a wry grin. “But when we land, that’s it. It’s burn-time.”

He laughed. “Okay. Well, it’s a long flight, so I’ve got time,” he said. “Maybe you could convince me not to believe in magic anymo’ before we land.” He spoke low, sending a chill up Haley’s spine. He was definitely flirting, she thought. She let her pinkie finger touch his hand on their shared armrest. His forearm was so thick and heavy it was like touching a warm statue as she slowly put her hand on his. The difference in size was incredible — it made her hand look like a little child’s.

“I’m a magician, Malohi, I wouldn’t want to talk you out of believing in magic,” she said.

Uh, hello, folks, this is your captain speaking. We’re now poking right along at a cruising altitude. We’re on schedule to land in Brisbane at eight forty-nine this evening, only two minutes late from our planned arrival time. You are now free to move about the cabin. A steward will be along shortly to take a drink order.

Malohi stood. He stretched his legs, which had to be cramped into his seat, even here in first-class where there was plenty of room. He sighed. “I really hate flying.” His hands were clenched onto the seat as plane ascended.

Haley nodded. “Me too.” This was only her second time on an airplane, and it was her first time in first-class, but she didn’t want to let him know that.

Her heart raced as the plane finally settled. There was a few seconds of turbulence, but then all was smooth sailing. Malohi relaxed only slightly.

By then, Haley had decided she was going to fuck Malohi. What was the point of being a goddess if she didn’t use her powers to get what she wanted? The more she saw his muscles stretch the fabric of his tight t-shirt, his strapping torso cramped in the airplane seat, the more she wanted him right now.

“Malohi…” she said, not quite able to bring herself to say what she wanted. He raised his eyebrows at her and smiled charmingly. He was friendly, so she tried to convince herself that she should be comfortable around him, but that was a struggle against her inner nature. “Malohi… would you like to, uh… go to the bathroom with me?”

He was taken aback. He raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his seat. “Uh…”

Haley blushed. “I mean… not anything gross,” she said. “Not ‘go to the bathroom with me, but do you want to go into the bathroom with me? It’s just a place we won’t be seen. We can do… whatever…”

“Ah, well, that’s much better,” he said. His eyes roved over her body. Haley shuddered with anticipation. Malohi nodded. “It’s gonna be a tight fit.” He flexed all his muscles at once to emphasize his point.

“That’s okay,” she said. “I enjoy a… tight fit.” He smiled back at her, and Haley stood. She had wanted to push overtop him to get through the seats, and now she had the opportunity. She gripped his broad shoulders and humped his body, moving along his lap and caressing his powerful pecs as she went. She smiled at his nervous energy. “Wait five minutes,” she said. “Then meet me in there.”

She walked away. She could feel his eyes on her as she went, and Haley made sure to shake her ass a bit before disappearing into the bathroom.

It smelled clean, not sexy, but at least it didn’t smell like farts, which was what she worried about just seconds before opening the door. It was a tiny closet, barely big enough to fit Malohi by himself, much less with her.

When she heard that great lumbering Polynesian come towards the door, Haley became excited. Her heart raced. She made sure the coil of string in her pocket was still there, so she could tie him up if she needed to (or if she simply wanted to).

Then the door opened and he slipped in. Despite his size, he was graceful and swift. She was cramped in next to his overwhelming bulk, and the heat from his body hit her immediately.

He wrinkled his nose, and pulled two small candles from his pocket. He lit them and put them on the toilet, behind the bowl. He shut the lid and sat on it. He smiled when a coconutty sea scent filled the bathroom.

“I don’t like bad smells, I have a sensitive nose,” he said apologetically. “My family makes these.”

She paused. “The candles?”

He nodded.

“You’re a candlemaker?”

He shrugged. “I’m a professional rugby player. My family makes candles… Rugby doesn’t pay that well, so I work for my family too. But I’m not really a candlemaker, even if… you know, occasionally make a candle.” He showed her the label on the candle. The Royal Halo’ihu Chandlery of Tonga. He smiled. “We’re the royal candlemakers, back in Tonga.”

“That sounds prestigious.”

“It’s not,” he said. He shrugged again. “But whatever, it doesn’t matter. I just wanted to make this place smell nice.” He wrinkled his nose, which was big and broad. Since he was sitting on top of the toilet, his face was within reach. Haley wrapped her arms around him and kissed him.

Her hands stroked his chest through his plain white t-shirt, feeling that athletic energy roiling within him as his heartrate sped up. Then in one smooth motion he took his shirt off.

That candle kept attracting her attention. Haley kept her eyes fixed on the flame flickering behind his back, just barely visible to her face because she was in front of him. She saw the light produced by the flame better than she saw the flame itself, but despite that, she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

How had her clothes come off? In this tiny space, she thought she shouldn’t have been able to get naked without even noticing, but that was what happened. She only remembered taking her clothes off when she thought about it now that she was naked. He kissed first one tit, then the other, until her nipples were erect in his mouth.

He said something in Tongan then, the singsong, vowel-happy syllables bouncing around in her skull. It was such a sexy language, she thought, both light and airy as well as guttural and machoistic. Before she could ask what he said, he kissed her, and she lost herself in his warmth and the strength of his grip.

His cock stuck straight up, begging for her to sit on it. It was big, but not so huge as to be frightening. It was dark and smooth, and when Haley reached under herself to touch it, it jerked beneath her fingers.

Lowering herself onto him, Haley wrapped her arms around Malohi’s body. When he closed his eyes and moaned, Haley activated her telekinesis.

She brought the rope to her from her pocket on the floor, and quickly tied up her own hands — it was a loose knot she could undo any time even without the use of her powers, but it was enough to feel like she was bounded.

“Whoah, when… how’d you do that?” Malohi asked when he opened his eyes and saw her bound wrist.

“Magic,” she said.

He grinned back. “Wow, you’re bloody good,” he said. “How did you tie a knot that binds both of your hands? What did you use to tie it?”

“I can’t give away my secrets,” she said. “It’s taboo for magicians.”

That made him laugh. “Well, I can’t argue with taboo,” he said. Then he stood, straining in the tiny room. He kept her on his cock, so he supported her entirely with his powerful trunk and arms. He held her in position and she slid even deeper onto his dick.

Haley moaned and squirmed around him, virtually hanging off him with her bound wrists around his neck. Her arms were not that long, so with her crotch lined up with his and her hands around the back of her neck, she was stretched to the limits. Her shoulders ached, and she squeezed her legs tight around his hips.

“You like it kinky, huh?” he said. “If we had more space, I’d tie up your feet too.”

She blushed and nodded, burying her face in his chest. She nibbled on the tattoos marked there, which were primitive, clearly done in some sort of traditional way, not with modern tattoo equipment. They were zigzagging geometric lines that accentuated his bulging muscles, along with a few more modern styled designs, including a bright red flag on his thigh.

“You wanna use the candle?” he asked, his accent light and hopeful. He held up the candle and let a single drop of wax land on his chest. It sizzled there. Haley nodded, and Malohi smiled. He held the candle up, over her body as he ground his cock deeper within her.

An overwhelming burning pain hit her shoulder. She moaned exquisitely and bit her lip as she felt hot wax drip down her body. Her entire body squeezed around his.

The smell of coconut and sea salt hit her, as the wax solidified where it cooled on her skin. A sense of tingling potency began roiling deep within her. Haley had scarcely experienced an orgasm as powerful as this was promising to be, growing stronger and stronger with every thrust of his rugby-toned body.

“Did I burn you too bad? Does it hurt too much?” he asked. He sounded a little worried.

“It hurts just the right amount!” she moaned. “Fuck me harder!” She blushed at the realization that she was being much too loud. If there were any people near the door, they’d have heard her.

He smiled and bucked his hips as another drip of wax hit her skin. It scalded and scorched. Haley threw her head back. She bit her lip to stifle a screaming moan as an orgasm overtook her.

She writhed and contorted around his body, the rope bindings still keeping her from relaxing. Her arms were outstretched and pressed against his stony chest, which was flush with energy as he reached his own orgasm.

Cum flowed within her. It was hot, melting like candlewax, suffusing to every inch of her, especially that tingling spot on her shoulder where the wax had cooled. As she moaned, Malohi trembled with the power of his own orgasm, sending a new wave of wax sloshing over the side of the candle and dripping over her body.

Burning again, Haley orgiastically shook and gripped him tight. Something in her mind snapped then, and she let the rope around her wrist fall to the ground. All she saw was blinding white.

Did I just gain a new power? She thought as she lowered herself to the ground on weak knees, her vision slowly returning. Every motion sent uncontrollable shockwaves through her body, so she couldn’t quite concentrate yet, but she felt sure that she had gained power over wax.

He blew out the flame. For a moment everything seemed to move in slow motion. The hot wax was right in front of her, liquid and melty and warm, sending coconut-auraed energy to her. She felt sure she could control it, she just needed to concentrate.

“Hello? Is everything okay in there?” Somebody knocked on the door. A nervous stewardess’ voice filtered in to the bathroom.

“Uh, yes, miss…” Malohi called out. He smiled, keeping himself subdued as he hurriedly put his clothes on.

Suddenly worried about being caught, Haley forgot about her new power, or her probable new power. Ohmigod, what if I lost the old power? That made her feel sheer terror, as she had become used to her abilities, but she quickly tested it out, wiggling one end of the string in her hands. She smiled, glad that it had worked, put her own clothes on, covering up the wax that had dried to her skin.

Then Malohi opened the door. He smiled charmingly at the stewardess, who blushed when she saw there were two people in the bathroom.

“Sorry, miss,” he said. “I have a medical need that requires my nurse here attend to me in the water closet.” He sounded very confident, and he pushed past the stewardess as though this was entirely expected.

“A… medical need?”

“Yes,” he said, loud enough that other passengers could hear. He pretended to be offended that she would question him. “I have a urethral disorder. In order to empty my bladder of waste-“ Some of the other passengers glanced at him, fleeting disgusted faces disappearing before they could get caught staring.

“Okay, okay,” the stewardess said, blushing. “Just… uh… Okay.”

He smiled, and Haley blushed as she followed him back to the seat. He was a good liar, she thought. Once they were sitting back down, Haley felt safe again.

She concentrated. She couldn’t see the wax that had cooled on her shoulder and back, but it was still palpably warm in the center, and she knew it was there. She closed her eyes.

It moved. The wax peeled away from her skin, leaving that fresh, brand-new skin feeling. She floated the wax out of the sleeve of her shirt and into the palm of her hand.

“That was nice,” he said. “I should fly more often.” He put the remains of the candle back in his carryon bag, then smiled at her. “I’m glad we’re sitting together.”

“Me too,” she said. She put the ball of melted wax in the palm of his hand. “Could you throw that away for me?” The stewardess was coming through the aisle with the drink cart, so Malohi was able to put it in the trash bag attached to the back of the cart.

Malohi hesitated. He looked at the wax, then at Haley. “What? How did you do that? That wax was on your shoulder. Under your shirt,” he whispered. Then he grabbed her shoulder to check for wax. There was none. “How did you do that?”

“Magic.”

The Russian Sweatgod Hairback Alpha Worship Experience

Here’s the entire first chapter of The Russian Sweatgod Hairback Alpha Worship Experience — Warning: This story (and the excerpt below) contains casual homophobia and racism, plus sweat, pit worship, one sexy hairy back and, of course, gay sex.

“You’re Punjabi or something?” asked the coach, Mr. Palaslov. He was a burly middle-aged man with a dour look on his face.

Raj wasn’t sure how to answer that. He was a bit insulted by the question — he was of Indian descent, and by coincidence, he was part-Punjabi on his father’s side. He didn’t think Mr. Palaslov was asking that because he legitimately recognized Raj’s heritage though, he was just using it as a general-purpose slur for Indians.

“Uh, yeah, something like that,” Raj said. Then he thought that sounded weirdly nonspecific, so he added, “My parents are from Kolkata, that’s in India, in the eastern area — not near Punjab, but-“

“You already explain more information than I am interest in. You are Punjabi. That is enough.”

“Okay,” Raj said. He felt bad about not sticking up for his race, but he didn’t want the confrontation — he very much did want the job, however. He looked away from Mr. Palaslov’s harsh glare.

Mr. Palaslov suddenly appeared uncomfortable and shifted in his seat. He cleared his throat. “You are homosexual, yes?”

“Uh…”

“Is okay. I look for you on Facebook,” he said.

Damn you, Facebook!

“I am doing for search for gay queerboys who are pretty like girls,” he said. “You are very pretty and small like girl.”

Raj felt embarrassed, and he blushed, glad that his skin was dark enough it wasn’t very obvious. He didn’t say yes, but Mr. Palaslov apparently assumed it.

“You will service Kazimir,” Mr. Palaslov said. “He is too busy with practice for girls, and he is too hairy. Girls do not like. Pretty queerboys do.”

“Oh, uh…”

“Queers like hair. He can not shave his body. His skin is sensitive, like girl,” Coach Palaslov said with a scoff. “Come now.”

Raj was again insulted — Palaslov didn’t even wait for Raj to accept the job, he just stood and walked away, expecting Raj to follow — but he once again didn’t want to say anything. Not only did he desperately need the money, but he was also more than willing to service some hot hairy stud.

Kazimir was lifting dumbbels in the weight room, another burly Russian coach next to him and spotting him. He nodded at Raj as he entered, but didn’t stop. Mr. Palaslov spoke in fluid Russian, and Kazimir snapped something back. They both glared at Raj, who was uncomfortable with the situation. Was Kazimir angry Raj had been hired? That was the impression Raj got from his reaction.

The other coach, not Palaslov, but the one who had been spotting Kazimir when Raj arrived, said something in Russian that sounded like an anti-gay slur. He stalked away. Kazimir reached forward and grabbed Raj’s cheek as though inspecting it for facial hair.

Coach Palaslov looked at Raj and shrugged. “He is unsure. He thinks it is sin. He thinks it will be obvious you are not girl. Do not grow beard so he does not feel it.”

“Okay. I can’t really grow much of a beard,” Raj said.

“You will lick my body?” Kazimir asked. His English was just about as bad as Mr. Palaslov’s was, and his deep gravely voice made Raj shudder with anticipation.

Raj nodded.

“You are not gross out?”

“No. Not at all,” Raj said. He smiled at Kazimir’s disbelieving reaction. Raj was a bit nervous. Kazimir didn’t look mean, exactly, but he had the rough, angular face of a man who had been punched a lot. He reeked of violence and brutality, and he had amateurish tattoos dotting his torso.

Kazimir turned around to show off his back. Thick black hair covered his shoulders and extended from his sides around to his back. “Lick me, queer.”

Raj had a lot of abstract reasons to say no, and to walk away. It was demeaning, but he had always been turned on by shame, and he really needed a job anyway. The clincher was that it was obvious Kazimir and Palaslov would keep this arrangement a secret, since it was apparent neither really thought it morally acceptable. There was no point in declining if no one knew he was taking a morally upright stance.

So he just did it. He planted his tongue right at the muscly bulge in the middle of his back, where the shoulder muscle became the abdominal muscle. That was the lowest extent of the very thick, curly black hairs plastered to his skin by sweat, and so Raj started there.

The taste of salty sweat coated his tongue as he licked upward to the armpit. Kazimir’s arm was down so Raj had to squeeze his face between his tricep and torso to sneak a taste of the coarse hair there.

“Nasty little slut,” Kazimir said with a chuckle. He said something to his coach in Russian, and Palaslov barked an angry order. Kazimir looked chagrined.

“Do not let him fuck you in the ass. Is illegal in Russia,” Palaslov said. “We are proud Russian citizen.”

Raj nodded his assent, not that he intended to stop Kazimir from fucking him if the situation arose. He licked his tongue across Kazimir’s broad, tattooed shoulders, licking up all the sweat he could find.

Kazimir groaned in relief, and spoke in Russian. Raj got the impression from the tone that he was speaking to Raj like a girl. He blushed a little as his lips puckered from the sweat coating his tongue.

“You want nasty, huh?” Kazimir said. He lifted up one arm, and slammed Raj’s face into his hairy armpit. It was so moist with sweat that there was an audible splashing sound. Raj let that entire thick bush into his mouth, and he tasted such a potent burst of salty moisture that it brought tears to his eyes.

Before he was done. Kazimir took Raj’s head and moved it to the other armpit. “You are very nasty faggot,” Kazimir said. Sweat trickled down Raj’s chin as his tongue flickered out and explored the crevices of Kazimir’s armpit.

Mr. Palaslov scoffed. “And he does not understand why girls do not be liking him.” Then he eyed Raj again, through the film of sweat covering his face. “No anal.”

“Kiss feet, faggot,” Kazimir said.

Raj flushed with humiliation, but he was excited to comply. He had never really been a foot-worshiper, though he was glad to get a taste of Kazimir. He had big club-like feet with hair all over the upper surface. That was what Raj kissed, then licked as he moved down to suck on Kazimir’s toes.

The flavor was musty and old, like a closet that hadn’t been opened in many months. Raj licked all the funk off the top of each foot and each toe, then Kazimir picked his foot up so Raj could lick the underside.

Mr. Palaslov barked something at Kazimir, who blushed — Raj got the strong impression that Palaslov was berating him for being unable to get a real girl. Raj licked Kazimir’s meaty ankles, looking up at those utilitarian workout shorts, bright red and damp with moisture. He could see the shadowy shifting of Kazimir’s jockstrap through the legs of the shorts.

“Hurry up and make him to cum,” Mr. Palaslov said. “He must return to training.”

Raj didn’t need to be told twice. He dived into Kazimir’s shorts — he didn’t pull them down, he just squeezed his head into the pants leg alongside Kazimir’s thigh. Since Kazimir was massive and Raj was tiny, he got his head in far enough he could just smell the funk of Kazimir’s hairy crotch.

Most American men these days shaved their pubes, which annoyed Raj. He liked a musky untrimmed man, and he strained to lick the sweat from Kazimir’s hairy thigh.

Mr. Palaslov was frustrated with Raj’s slowness, so he pulled down Kazimir’s shorts. He clasped Kazimir on the asscheek to push his hips in the direction of Raj’s face.

Since his eyes had been momentarily blocked by Kazimir’s shorts, Raj took a moment to adjust to the light. So when Mr. Palaslov forced Kazimir’s now-bare crotch onto Raj’s face, Raj’s mouth was shut. Kazimir’s half-hard cock fleshily landed on Raj’s mouth, and his sweaty ballsack slapped against Raj’s chin.

“Hurry up! He must return to training now,” Mr. Palaslov said. He repeated himself in Russian, and added some of what Raj assumed were probably insults. He even smacked Kazimir in the cheek, not in a friendly coach-like way, but in a loud, flesh-slapping way. It sounded like it hurt, but Kazimir didn’t respond.

Raj opened his mouth and let that moist tube of manhood push into his mouth. He couldn’t believe his luck at getting hired for something like this: his friends would never believe it. Raj would never have believed it if one of his friends told him about it. This was just not something that happened except in gay porn.

The hairy back, however, was something that didn’t happen in gay porn. Raj wanted desperately to get back to licking that broad, hair-covered back, but it was apparent that Mr. Palaslov was not going to accept any further delays.

“Swallow it, quick!” Mr. Palaslov barked. He gripped Raj by the hair and tried to force his head onto Kazimir’s cock.

But the taste of acrid sweat made Raj gag even as he savored its salty savoriness. He couldn’t get enough of it. Kazimir groaned and put his hands in his hips. He sighed and his muscles relaxed all at once.

His dick was rock-hard now, gliding down Raj’s throat and back up again. Kazimir was uncaring of Raj’s near-constant gagging, and the thick stream of sweat Kazimir produced lubed up his dick enough to make it fit.

“You regret faggotry now?” Kazimir asked. He pulled his dick out and asked again as the saliva dripped from the shaft. He smiled cockily down at Raj.

Inhaling deeply, Raj caught a mouthful of sweat-dampened pubic hair. He tried to say no, but all he could do was cough and pick curly hairs out of his crotch.

“Huh?” Kazimir asked again. “You regret faggotry. This is how man treat you? You must-“

“Hush,” Mr. Palaslov said. He sighed and shook his head as though talking to a retarded person. He gripped Kazimir by the cheek and, standing on his toes, murmured something right into Kazimir’s mouth as though whispering a secret to his throat. He stayed in that position as Kazimir grabbed Raj’s head and returned it to his cock.

His attention grabbed by the sudden influx of dick-flavor, Raj gurgled merrily on the moist manhood that was suddenly back in his throat. Above his head, Mr. Palaslov remained right in Kazimir’s face, scolding him in Russian and gripping his cheeks.

Then all was silent as Kazimir’s body shook. His muscles flexed and sweat dripped from his arms, landing on Raj’s head. Cum spurted from his cock and coated Raj’s tongue.

The taste was bitter and astringent, with a creamy texture and intense saltiness, like purified sweat. Raj guzzled down every drop as it filled up his throat.

Kazimir moaned and grunted, but he stopped mid-grunt because Mr. Palaslov squeezed his cheek tighter. Kazimir closed his eyes then opened them when Mr. Palaslov demanded he do so.

“You look at me, Kazimir,” Mr. Palaslov said. “I will not hear more about girls from you. You have your release.” Then he leaned in and, very chastely, kissed Kazimir on the lips. “Get back to work,” he said.

White Chicks: The College Girl

Here’s a new story from White Chicks: The College Girl, an outrageous tale by Gerald Paddlebaum!

 

Charlene sighed as she stepped outside. The dining hall was crowded, and she needed a cigarette, as well as some time alone — her friends had been so annoying lately. They were trying to get her to go on a date with this guy, whom she hated. Her friends only wanted her to go out with him because he was in the same frat as all their boyfriends. They thought it’d be cute if their boyfriends were all in the same fraternity. Charlene didn’t think that was so cute.

Ohmigod, Karen! I am so not wearing that! I’ll look like such a skank!

You look so good in it!

There they were. Her friends were coming this way. They hadn’t seen her yet, so she had to make the decision: stay and hang out? Or leave before they saw her? Once she saw that they were bringing that blond jock from Kappa Gamma Pi — she had met him at a party and thought he was a douchebag — she decided to leave; she was sure they brought him in hopes that he’d “seal the deal” with Charlene.

She took her cigarette around to the back of the Dining Hall. She’d been thinking of quitting lately, but now she was glad to use her smoking to get away from her friends. She did not want to explain, yet again, why she didn’t find that piss-haired frat boy appealing.

Usually it was just the kitchen staff smoking back there, but today it was empty. Probably because the dinner rush was still in full swing, she thought, there was no chance for anyone to take a break.

The sound of arguing emanated from the kitchen area. Charlene blushed as she realized she was overhearing an employee and his boss fight. She couldn’t quite make out the words, but she soon gathered that the employee — one of the gruff black men who made up most of the personnel — had asked permission to take a smoke break, and the boss had said no.

“I gots a right, man! Every two hours. That’s in the fucking law,” said the black guy as he stepped outside. He saw Charlene there, grunted his hello, then lit a cigarette. He poked his head back in the door and yelled, “If you ever talk to me like a retard again, I will rip your goddamn spine out, you mealy-mouthed shit!”

Charlene heard someone call out to him from inside, but the words were muffled. It didn’t sound like the black guy, whose name tag read Jamaal, was listening either. He scowled.

“Hey,” he said, his voice vituperative and bitter. “Sorry ‘bout that. My boss bein’ a dick,” Jamaal said. “Won’t lemme take a break.”

“Sorry to hear that,” she said. She blushed at the realization that he was hot, turning her on and making her unable to avoid giggling like a flirtatious slut. That realization made her blush harder.

He took a deep drag on his cigarette. He raised his eyebrows at her. “You wanna suck my dick?”

Servicing a Basketball Team

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Servicing a Basketball Team, a new story in the Servicing Black Groups series of extreme str8core-worshiping gay erotica!  It’s also available for less than a dollar a story in the Complete Servicing Black Groups Series bundle!

 

“Okay, guys, I know this isn’t fun,” Stan said. “But it is important. You won’t be able to play basketball your whole lives, so the money you make now needs to work for you for a long time to come.”

The team sat in front of him in the locker room. Stan would have rather done this in a more formal environment, but Coach Willamette had said that if you take the players somewhere else, like Stan’s office, after the game, a lot of them will sneak away. You gotta git ‘em when they still in the locker room, Coach Willamette had said.

“Alright, before we talk about your options, let’s go over some terminology,” Stan said. “First off, risk. I’m sure you all use the word risk, but in finance it’s a very important concept. All investment is about balancing risk, and-“ Once he got into the flow, he could tune out any distractions; he had perfect tunnel vision for this presentation. After having given this exact spiel plenty of times, he had it more or less memorized.

But he was mid-monologue when he realized most of the team wasn’t paying attention. They were either on their phones or chatting with each other; one was distractedly rolling a joint.

“Hey, gentlemen, shut the fuck up!” Coach Willamette barked, his voice weary as though he shouldn’t have to say this. He jumped in front of Stan and barked at the players. They did shut up, but they glared at Coach Willamette, whose chestnut brown skin gleamed as he stared his team down. “This is an important presentation, and y’all gots to hear e’ry word of it.

A long pause followed. Stan wasn’t sure if this was normal, or if the players were seriously challenging Coach Willamette’s authority. Coach responded as though he expected them all to follow his commands without hesitation, and was offended when they looked at him like a crazy person for telling them what to do. There was a few rebellious snickers, and someone muttered, shut that ol’ nigga up.

“Get in the sauna!” Willamette said. “Now!”

The players groaned but stood. They clucked their tongues against their teeth as they sauntered away. More than a few glared at Coach Willamette as though they considered punching him, but decided not to go through with it.

Stan blushed and bristled. Was that it? Had he given up on the presentation and decided to just skip it? Did Coach Willamette think Stan was so useless as to make the presentation irrelevant? Stan was surprised how little of a chance he got — he basically hadn’t been able to grab their attention in the first thirty seconds, and Coach Willamette had just given right up? That didn’t seem fair.

Then Coach Willamette’s hefty hand clasped Stan’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, hoss, they ain’t wanna pay attention to nobody. You can give your spiel in a sauna, right?”

“Uh… in a sauna?”

“They’ll be naked, you comfortable wit’ that? You ain’t gotta be naked too. I mean… you can’t really go in there in a suit, you gonna get heat stroke fo’ real. But you can go in their in yer drawers,” Willamette said, walking away.

Stan’s heart started pounding. He was an openly gay man — though he wasn’t sure Coach Willamette knew that — so he certainly didn’t mind hanging out in a sauna with a bunch of naked basketball players. But would they mind if he was in there? What if he got a hardon?

The boisterous chatting of the players made it easy for him to find the sauna, which was down the hall at the far end of the locker room. Stan patiently folded his clothes up and left them on the bench outside the sauna. He kept his boxer shorts and a t-shirt on, since he knew his body would look pitiful in comparison to the players’. He wasn’t in bad shape, but he was skinny and short.

Yo, Coach, where dat white man at? My balls is stickin’ to my thighs, nigga! I gots bitches begging me to cum over, man! Let’s hurry dis shit up!

Servicing a Prison Gang

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Servicing a Prison Gang, a new story in the Servicing Black Groups series of extreme str8core-worshiping gay erotica!  It’s also available for less than a dollar a story in the Complete Servicing Black Groups Series bundle!

 

Every client deserves a vigorous defense, Lee thought. He was glad to have a job even if it wasn’t what he saw himself doing when he was in law school. He had always pictured himself defending the indigent, getting innocent people out of prison.

But that wasn’t what he did. He worked to keep guilty people out of prison. He had no illusions about that.

His newest client was named Wendell White, and Lee actually thought he might be innocent. He had a good case anyway — he had been charged with raping his cellmate in prison, but there was no real evidence aside from the cellmate’s testimony, and the cellmate had wavered on whether or not it was consensual. That sounded like reasonable doubt to Lee.

On the first day of the trial, however, the prosecutor died in a car accident on the way to the courthouse. Lee was shocked — he had actually been good friends with the prosecutor, Jacob Hartney, so he was upset by his loss; he was excited, however, for his client.

Wendell “Thumper” White hadn’t been charged right away after the alleged rape, and various paperwork and scheduling problems had kept the trial from starting promptly. So as bad as Lee felt about thinking about Jacob’s death in this way, he had to admit it was good for Thumper — if it took a few months for the new prosecutor to be ready for the case, he might be able to get the charges dismissed on “speedy trial” grounds.

“Oh fuck yeah, do that!” Thumper said when Lee told him. “You got it, Chinaboy, I like that! Const’utional violatio’, yeah!” He clasped Lee on the shoulder.

Lee normally would have been insulted to be called Chinaboy. He didn’t enjoy racist humor. But it was hard to be offended by anything Thumper said — despite his gruff thuggism, and his history of extreme violence, he came across as a befuddled grandfather-type, who just happened to have the body of the professional boxer he had been two decades ago, and the hardcore gangbanger he had become behind bars.

So Lee just smiled and nodded. The lawyer visitation area was a wide open room with a few table scattered around. Today saw only one other table occupied, by a group of six young black men talking with their lawyer. The lawyer was a wimpy-looking white man who looked more than a bit frightened of his clients. Lee hoped he didn’t look like that.

“Okay, Mr. White,” Lee said. “Your appeal next week is looking promising. I’ve written up my opening argument and I think it’s very strong. There’s a point where I’m going to say, he has a lot of good reasons to be scared of prison guards and- yeah, that’s it, that face. Don’t make that face.”

“What?”

“You just made a face like you hate guards too much to ever admit you’re scared of them. Don’t make that face,” Lee said. “Look surprised, and call me over to you. Then I’ll correct myself and say that you do have respect for the guards, and you don’t hate them, that way it’ll look like you’re so obedient you demanded I correct- There, that’s another face not to make-“

“Look, man, I ain’t got no idea what you talkin’ ‘bout,” Thumper said. His eyes wandered to the half-dozen gangbangers and their lawyer at the next table. They appeared to be finishing up, the lawyer gathering up his files and walking away.

“I know you don’t,” Lee said. “I do. You hired a lawyer cuz I got specialized knowledge, right? So you gotta trust me. We gotta tell a story for that judge. It can either be a story of a villain getting the punishment he deserves; or it can be the story of a wrongly-accused man being vindicated at long last. One of those stories is better than the other one, Mr. White.”

“Don’t love da brass.”

“You don’t have to claim you do. I can’t let you lie in court, after all,” Lee said. “So we’re not going to do. Just make a face. Lemme see your surprised face.”

Thumper frowned, but did so. It was actually a pretty good surprised face, and Lee smiled. “That was good. But more of a I can’t believe my lawyer just said that about me-surprise, and less of a I can’t believe I ain’t killed every guard here yet-surprise.” Thumper rearranged his smile a bit. Lee smiled back. “Good. Keep working on it.”

The lawyer at the other table left then, and the six inmates followed to the door but stopped there. They spoke to a guard, who said something brusque and shut the door — Lee gathered that no one was available to take the inmates back to their cells. The six inmates hollered and cursed.

Yo, fuck that! You can’t keep us here, mothahfucka!

Get us outta here, man, I got shit to do today!

“Yo, niggas,” Thumper said, a couple times until he got their attention, “Y’all shut yo’ mouths.” He didn’t speak up to be heard over their chattering, but apparently they respected him enough to do what he said. They fell silent and looked at him. Thumper growled. “I’m-a fuck my lawyer now. All y’all can either join in, or…” He didn’t pull his eyes from them as he let his voice trail off, not giving any other specific option.