Redneck Worship: The Prison Guard

Here’s a new sample — the entire first chapter —  from Redneck Worship: The Prison Guard, a new story of redneck uniform alpha male worship!

Eric knew being a flamboyantly gay man in prison would mean he attracted attention. The fact that he was a male stripper with a pretty face and a tight ass made him an even bigger target. He wasn’t in bad shape, so he considered trying to act straight, to be tough, to take care of himself.

But he knew that wasn’t realistic. Eric had been flamboyant for so long there was no way he could pass for straight. Even passing for straight for a few minutes would be difficult; there was no way he’d make it five years.

So as he settled into his cell — at least it was a solitary cell, that made this quite a bit easier, he thought — he decided to lean into it. There he shook his ass as the other inmates called out to him. (Gonna take that, faggot! Gonna wreck it!) He smiled and pretended he wasn’t scared in the least.

In truth, if he had had an opportunity before being arrested, Eric would have paid good money to be prison-raped by (some of) the men who yelled out at him now. Of course it was very different now, when Eric couldn’t leave if he changed his mind, had to continue living with these people afterwards and couldn’t pick and choose who might come at him.

(Best start loosening up yo’ ass now, faggot, it’s gonna get tore up right soon.)

“C’mon, you gotta meet the work-counselor,” said a guard who suddenly appeared in the hall outside Eric’s cell. Eric had been so focused on making sure everyone saw his tantalizing ass that he had barely noticed. His plan right now was to sell himself up to whichever guy was the sexiest combo of big and tough without being fat or old. The guard, whose name-badge read Officer Martin, sneered a little as though disgusted. “Let’s go,” he said as he opened the cell door.

(Come back with lube.)

“I brought my own,” Eric said with a smile to the dirty man who leered at him as he walked by. He did not want to do anything with that man — he looked sickly and had sores all over his lips. Most of the men here were unappealing; that was one important difference he had noticed between real-life prison and movie-life prison — here, the vast majority of inmates were gross, ugly, fat or old. Only maybe five percent of the inmates here were even remotely attractive to Eric.

Officer Martin shook his head with disgust. He walked off the cell block, and Eric had to hurry along to follow. He smiled at the catcalls and hooting from the other prisoners, hoping he didn’t come across as nervous.

Brutewood Prison was a confusing network of cell blocks scattered among narrow corridors with low ceilings. Some of the bigger inmates had to stoop to walk, and Officer Martin barely fit through some of the doorways. He turned around halfway there, furrowed his eyebrows at Eric and frowned.

“You know they all know you’s a faggot, right?”

Eric nodded.

“They gonna fuck ya. You okay with that?” Officer Martin asked.

Eric nodded again. He blushed. “I can’t pretend to be straight, not for five years. So this will have to do. I’ve got a plan.”

There was a long pause. It sounded like Officer Martin wasn’t sure whether he should talk Eric out of this plan or not get involved. In the end, he just nodded and turned around. He went through a few more corridors, until he finally stopped at an office, where he knocked on the door.

No one answered. He knocked again and scowled. Then he made a phone call. After impatiently waiting a few moments, he tried someone else, then barked, “Hey, where’s Roger? What? No one told me. We got a new intake for him. Okay.” He hung up the phone and frowned. “Roger’s out. He got his appendix removed yesterday. Won’t be back for a couple days.”


“So you ain’t gonna have a job till he gets back,” Officer Martin said. “Not officially. But you can clean the staff locker room. They’ll pay you for that.” Without waiting for an answer, he walked down the hall in the direction they had come from. “It’s right down here.”

The locker room was small, cramped, and it stank of used clothing. Eric was horny as soon as he walked in, because he saw another guard walking out at the same time. There was a puddle of water in the showering area, suggesting that that guard had just showered; the thought of seeing him naked aroused Eric. He blushed. If only I had come here about five minutes earlier, he thought.

“You know…” Officer Martin said, then let his voice trail off as he shifted his weight nervously. He cleared his throat. “You would be best off gettin’ one fella to make you his punk.” He blushed. He was a redneck, and his face turned as red as his shoulders as he avoided eye contact with Eric. “That way he can tell every motherfucker out there that you’s under his protection.”

“I know,” Eric said. “Don’t worry, Officer Martin, it’s okay.” His heart thumped loudly in his chest as an idea popped into his head. Officer Martin blushed as though he didn’t often interact with gay people. Eric smiled coquettishly. “Do you have any ideas on who that fella should be?”

Officer Martin shrugged. “Just make sure he big.”

Eric nodded. “You’re pretty big.”

Now Officer Martin blushed redder than Eric had thought possible, until his face looked like a worried cranberry. He looked down at his feet and scuffed his boots against each other.

Eric gently reached out and fingered Officer Martin’s button-down uniform shirt. “I’ve never met a cock I couldn’t deep-throat,” he said, his voice low and husky. “I can make it feel like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. I’ll drain you dry so good you’ll drop your girlfriend.”

He frowned and shook his head. “No, I won’t. I love her-“

“I didn’t really mean that literally,” Eric said. “I guarantee she doesn’t suck cock like I do.”

“She don’t suck cock.”

“Not at all?”

“She hates it,” he said. He sighed and put his hands on his hips. “You know this is a sin, right?”

Eric nodded. “That’s one of the things I love most about it.” He sunk to his knees and grabbed at the bulge in Officer Martin’s uniform slacks. Officer Martin bucked and twisted his back as though he had no idea this was happening, then he brought his thick forearm up to block his field of vision. He looked like he wanted to gag at the thought of a man touching his cock.

The pants tasted like polyester and laundry detergent, but behind that was the scent of manhood, the odor of muscles burning with exhaustion from a hard day’s work. Officer Martin’s dick pulsated beneath the fabric of his pants, virtually begging him to suck it down.

His pants dropped to his ankles, and he blushed as Eric took in his dingy-gray briefs — he wore tighty-whiteys, which seemed to embarrass him. Eric had always thought they were sexy on the right kind of man, and this hairy redneck was precisely that type. He kissed the outline of Officer Martin’s cock.

Then he bared it completely, and swallowed it in one smooth motion. After talking himself up, Eric knew he needed to prove his worth, so he deep-throated on his first suck. He stretched his mouth open and gagged, but forced himself on until his nose was nestled in Officer Martin’s thick nest of unkempt pubic hair.

“Aw, goddamn, boy!” Officer Martin exclaimed, blushing as his cock rocketed to full erection in Eric’s mouth. “You wasn’t kidding. Uh-uh!”

Eric loved his animated reaction. Officer Martin’s knees went weak, and he had to use the bank of lockers for support. He let out a shocked gasp. He threw his head back. He choked over the pleasure suffusing through his body, as though it felt so good it was nearly painful.

Hey, David? Can you work tonight?

Officer Martin sighed and scoffed. It was obvious that he wanted to say no to the person whose voiced crackled over the radio, but it was also obvious that he was going to say yes. He shook his head. “My girl is gonna kill me.” Then he spoke into the radio. “Yeah. I’ll do that. Make sure Warden knows this’ll be overtime.”

There was a long pause. Then that male voice finally responded, sounding unsure now. Ten-four.

That was that. Officer Martin was unhappy and stressed out about working tonight, and he kept sighing as he grew more and more annoyed with every thrust of his hips at Eric’s throat. The veins of his cockshaft throbbed beneath Eric’s tongue.

“You do suck good,” Officer Martin said softly. “Don’t tell no one how much I like this. Tell ‘em I had trouble gettin’ hard. I mean… don’t tell no one about it, and deny it if anyone asks, but if you have to, tell ‘em I struggled to do it.”

Eric nodded with the cock in his throat. He had sucked off straight guys a few times before, so he wasn’t surprised by this request. He loved the uncomfortable way Officer Martin’s whole body shook as he fucked, as though his knees were weak from the surprising power of Eric’s blowjob.

He sighed as precum leaked copiously down Eric’s throat. There was even a redneckish drawl in his sigh, his accent shining through though he didn’t say any words.

“Aw, why can’t girls suck like this?” Officer Martin’s voice was low and throaty, growling, and Eric could hear his pre-climactic pleasure in the trembling tenor of his voice.

When he could tell that an orgasm was coming soon, Eric held his head still, letting that massive cock throb in his throat. Officer Martin gasped again, and clawed at the wall he still held onto for support. He tried to say something, but all that came out was a confused jumble of vocables.

Then cum coated Eric’s tongue. He shot a thick load, wad after wad of his creamy issue flying into Eric’s mouth. It tasted savory and bitter, like a plate of collard greens, but with a sweet and salty desert-like aftertaste, which Eric gurgled on merrily as he let the entire load drain down his throat.

“Fuck yeah! Swallow that, piggie!” Officer Martin said, then bit his lip as though he hadn’t meant to show such passion.

Even as Eric’s cream-coated gullet spasmed and his lungs cried out for air, Eric held on to Officer Martin’s cock like he wouldn’t let him go. He smiled at the sight of those redneck muscles writhing from exquisite pleasure beneath the uniform shirt he had never taken off. His neck was ruddy to begin with, but as he orgasmed, he turned as bright-red as his cheeks.

At last it was too much for Officer Martin, who pulled out. He gasped for air, and Eric did likewise, his voice hoarse and throaty as he recovered, fingers kneading the plump flesh of Officer Martin’s ass.

Chuckling nervously, Officer Martin had a shocked expression on his face. He avoided eye contact with Eric as he pulled his pants back up and did his belt.

“Damn, boy, you wasn’t kidding,” Officer Martin said. He sighed. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell them not to mess with you. If anyone does, tell me.”

Gay Taboo Diaper Lust

Here’s the beginning of Gay Taboo Diaper Lust, a hot new story of gay ABDL erotica with a police officer domination theme!

Arthur was glad to be home, though he’d never admit it. After his junior year at college, he returned to his mother’s house for Christmas. He had spent the summer with friends; he had spent the previous spring break with his then-boyfriend; he had spent the previous Christmas with his mother in California. He hadn’t actually spent the night in his mother’s house since spring break in his freshman year.

That fact hadn’t occurred to him until he was on the way there. Ever since graduating high school, he had been so excited to get away from his mother and her stultifying brand of love that Arthur was overjoyed to be gone for months at a time. Now that he had spent more than a year away from her, he desperately wanted to get back and have a hug from her. He wanted to sleep in his old bed — no bed was ever as comfortable as that.

“Oh, sweetie! I’ve been waiting for you all day, and I’ve been cooking,” she said when Arthur pulled up. She ran out into the parking lot to hug him. “I made macaroni and cheese with peas and ham, just like you like it.”

Arthur blushed. He all-of-a-sudden remembered why he had wanted to be away from his mother for awhile. She was no doubt going to continue to kiss him until he forcibly pulled himself away.

She continued listing food she had made for Arthur, and hugging him tightly even as he tried to pull away. Then he saw someone in the doorway.

It took him a moment to realize who that was — Colin, Arthur’s new stepfather. Arthur was shocked to see that he was here, as he had assumed his mother would want to spend the day with him alone; she and Colin had married six months ago, and Arthur had never met him in person. He was even more shocked to see that Colin was hot.

He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a stern gaze. He was a police officer, that was about the only thing Arthur remembered his mother saying about him, and he looked like a cop. You could absolutely tell — even if he weren’t wearing the uniform — Arthur thought; he had a copstache, a military buzzcut and a stentorian look that suggested he was used to people doing precisely what he said.

“Arthur, nice to meetcha,” he said with a forced smile.

Arthur shook his hand then. He wondered if his new stepfather was antigay, maybe that was why his friendliness felt forced. He looked more than a bit conservative, so it seemed possible. Arthur didn’t really care too much — his mother supported him and wasn’t upset that he was gay, and that was all he cared about.

He went in and had macaroni and cheese. He had told Mom on the phone that he was doing a low-carb diet — it had worked wonders, he lost more than sixty pounds in the last year. But she either forgot or didn’t know what a carb was; Arthur didn’t care, he hadn’t intended to follow his diet over Christmas anyway.

After that, it was like old-times again. Colin was in “the study” (the room that used to be Mom’s sewing room) doing paperwork all day. He said he had court on Monday. Arthur let Mom dote over him for a little while, then moved his things into his room. He said he had some studying to do in preparation for next semester — which was accurate, not that he had any intention of actually doing it.

When Mom called him down for dinner a few hours later, Arthur felt like a little boy all over again. He dragged himself away from Facebook and hurried down the stairs.

Mom had never dated seriously when Arthur was growing up. She had gone out with a “friend”, who simply happened to be male, on a few occasions, but she never referred to any of those male friends as a boyfriend. It was only after Arthur moved out that she began having serious relationships with men, but even then she spoke about it rarely enough that Arthur was shocked to learn they had gotten married suddenly. Colin remained quiet pretty much the entire meal, ignoring Arthur’s snuck glances.

“What classes you got next semester?” was the only question he asked the entire time.

Arthur listed the classes he could remember — he had finally finished all of his gen ed requirements, so he was excited to be focusing on his actual major: architecture. He explained the architecture classes he was taking and what he hoped to get out of them. He couldn’t tell if Colin was listening or not; he looked at Arthur, but he didn’t nod or acknowledge anything he heard. He just watched Arthur’s mouth move until it stopped moving, then shoveled more macaroni and cheese into his own mouth.

It was a delicious meal. Nobody made macaroni and cheese like Mom. Even when Arthur followed her recipe exactly, it just wasn’t the same. The fact that this meal was more carbs than he had eaten in the entire last month made it even more satisfying for him, and by the time he was done, he simply wanted to crawl on the couch and nap until Christmas was over.

So that was exactly what he resolved to do. Mom said she was going to her prayer group. Colin, it seemed, didn’t go — Arthur was surprised about that. He would have thought his mother would never date a man who wasn’t as religious as she was.

“Hey,” Colin said, walking into the living room, still in uniform. His dark blue shirt was drawn tight over his broad chest, and his tight slacks hung darkly over his trunk-like thighs. Colin frowned, mustache trembling, as he sat on the couch near Arthur’s head. “Yer momma’s gone.”

Arthur nodded. He could feel Colin’s body heat on his head, and it made him shudder with sexual desire. A part of him wanted to kiss Colin right then and there, but of course he couldn’t do that — aside from Colin being his mother’s boyfriend, he was, presumably, straight.

“That means we can talk,” Colin said. He let one heavy hand land on Arthur’s face and rest there. He cleared his throat, then pulled out a baggie from his uniform pocket. He dropped it on Arthur’s face.

It was weed. It was Arthur’s weed. He had picked it up at a dispensary near his university — marijuana was still illegal here in Alabama, so he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to find any. Now his heart started pounding. Was Colin going to arrest him? He seemed like the kind of no-nonsense sternosaur who might do precisely that. Arthur’s mom wouldn’t stop him, even if she were here.

“You dropped this,” he said. “It fell out of your car when you pulled up.”


Alpha Male Black Thugs

This is the first chapter from a sexy new story called Alpha Male Black Thugs, which is about a black ATF agent undercover and downlow at a moving company that’s also a front for a local arms trafficker. You won’t believe how hot and hard this story gets!

Walter didn’t need to pretend to be bedraggled. He had been living rough for three weeks to be sure he looked the part. Now he had finally gotten through the first — and, he suspected, most difficult — part of his mission. Once he was accepted by the Nine Tats, he’d be able to collect the evidence he needed and then get out.

A part of Walter was frightened, of course. A lot of things could still go wrong, but he had been working undercover for the ATF for years. This wasn’t the first time he got himself insinuated into the fabric of a street gang, knowing that even the tiniest slip-up would lead to his downfall.

“So this is it, nigga,” said Fajah. Fajah was not the person Walter was trying to catch. That was a man named Reginald Clark, but Walter wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t met Clark yet. If Clark were that easy to catch, he would have been caught already. He was smart, that was for sure. Fajah frowned at Walter. “Ain’t much, I know. Just a safehouse.”

It was just an ordinary-looking house in Atlanta. It was in the ghetto, but one of the nicer parts of a ghetto, so it wasn’t really a terrible neighborhood. The house itself was ramshackle and well-worn, with stained floors, chipped paint and the smell of bachelor living. It was obvious some people lived here, which wasn’t what Walter expected.

“Who lives here?” he asked. The last time he had gotten an invite to a gang’s safehouse, it was just a tiny efficiency apartment; he slept on the floor until he got the evidence he was looking for. That’s what a “safehouse” usually was. In contrast, this was an entire home with several people already living here.

“Uh, a couple niggas,” Fajah said. “Me too.” He led Walter to one of the bedrooms. “This is my room. Yours too, now. You got the air mattress there on the floor.”

Walter sniffled. He tried not to sound upset. As far as Fajah was concerned, Walter had run away from a prison camp in Arizona. It wouldn’t do to seem prissy. But in actuality, Walter was too old to be sleeping on an air mattress; his back was going to hurt. He sighed and sat down. He didn’t have any things — since he was pretending to be a fugitive — so as soon as he sat down, he was “moved in”.

“You gonna start work tomorrow,” Fajah said. He turned around and stripped off his shirt, revealing a powerful brown chest. He wore a stained white wifebeater. He carefully folded up the t-shirt he had been wearing, and placed it on a stack of clothes, next to a hernia belt.

“Oh. Work? Whatchoo need?” Walter said. He was excited. He hadn’t thought they’d give him anything to do right away, but if they did, he might be able to catch Clark immediately. Walter ran his tongue  under his lip and gave Fajah a knowing nod to suggest that Walter could be trusted with anything. “I can do whatever, nigga. I keep my mouth shut.”

“Nothin’ like that,” Fajah said. He opened his mouth to explain further, but then the door opened downstairs. The sound of men trampling into the house filled the room. Fajah motioned for Walter to come with him. “I’ll introduce you to the other guys.”

Walter sighed. He knew pushing the issue would make him look suspicious. They almost certainly wouldn’t give him a serious job to do on his first day; they didn’t yet have any good reason to trust him. He would have to spend some time insinuating himself in the fabric of the Nine Tats, so they’d feel comfortable enough to ask him to do something illegal.

As Walter followed Fajah downstairs, the sound of one man in particular filled the air. Nah, nigga, you shut the fuck up. I said to take the trash out last night, now you got a goddamn pile of rotting garbage right over there, you fuckin’ numbskull. If you forget next week, I’m gonna make you sleep out in the garage right next to the trashcan, so you’ll remember.

That had to be Reginald Clark. Walter had never heard the man’s voice, but that was clearly the sound of the man in charge. When Walter got downstairs, he saw a dozen or so black men, wearing sleeveless t-shirts and sagging jeans, carrying with them hernia belts and empty water bottles. Walter felt intimidated — he was small compared to any one of these men, all of whom glanced at him but didn’t say anything.

“Yo, Reggie, here’s that nigga,” Fajah said.

Clark was the only person here not dressed as a mover — Walter saw a moving truck outside, and gathered now that this “safehouse” also housed the workers at a moving company that he assumed Clark must own. Clark wore a plain white button-down t-shirt and black slacks; the clothes were nice, but smudged with dirt. His thick body swayed as he strode to Walter to shake his hand.

“What was that, Fajah?”

Fajah blushed and bit his lip. He sighed. “Mr. Clark, this is Walter Harson. He’s your newest employee I was telling you about.”

Mr. Clark nodded. He eyed Walter suspiciously. “Walter. You need this job, huh? Fajah said you was desperate.”

Walter nodded. “Yessuh,” he said. “I been on the run-“

“Yo!” Mr. Clark barked. Everyone fell silent. “What was that? I know I ain’t hear some nigga say he a fugitive in my house.”

Fajah cleared his throat. “He means he go joggin’, Mr. Clark. He ‘on the run’,” Fajah said.

Mr. Clark nodded. “That makes sense. Jogging is good. It’s healthy,” he said. He grabbed Walter’s biceps through his clothes. He frowned as his hands roamed up and down Walter’s arms and chest. “He ain’t big. You ain’t tell me he was little, Fajah.”

“I’m not that little,” Walter said. He had never been a small man, but he was obviously not built like a mover either.

“He may be little, but he loyal,” Fajah said.

“You prove that?” Mr. Clark asked.

A silence filled the room. Fajah murmured a no, and some of the other men exchanged knowing glances. Someone giggled then stifled a laugh.

Fajah coughed. “Not yet, nigga… Mr. Clark, I mean.”

Mr. Clark crossed his arms over his chest. He frowned and raised his eyebrows.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to prove my loyalty,” Walter said. He tried to thread that line between willing and forced — he did want to do this; he wanted to get assigned a crime, but he wanted to look like he didn’t really want to, that he’d be willing to do it only out of a sense of devotion to the cause. “I can hustle. I do what I gotta do, Mr. Clark. You want me out on the street, I be out there, and I come correct. I got-“

“Nah,” Mr. Clark said. “That ain’t how you gonna prove yo’ loyalty.” He didn’t take his eyes off Fajah, who lightly grabbed Walter’s arm and motioned towards the stairs. Walter followed him upstairs, heart pounding as he heard one of the other men make porno-like music. (Baddow-chicka-bow-wow) They all laughed. Mr. Clark cleared his throat. “I don’t allow hustlers in this house, nigga. If you live here, you gotta work for me. I don’t hire thugs. I hire difficult men, and I gives ‘em a job, a place to live, health insurance. That’s what I do, nigga. If you bring crime into this house, I will punish you. My punishment will end with calling the police, so you gonna end up behind bars, but you’ll experience somethin’ even worse first.” Someone oohed and aahed until someone else shut them up. Mr. Clark didn’t break eye contact with Walter, who shrugged nonchalantly, stopping on the stairs to hear what he said..

“Fine, nig… Mr. Clark,” Walter said. “I’s tryin’-a put my life back together. You want me to be a law-abidin’ kinda nigga, that’s the kinda nigga I gonna be.”

“Good,” Mr. Clark said, “Mah nigga.”

Walter followed Fajah back up to the bedroom. He got the impression from Fajah’s reluctant slowness that whatever he was going to be assigned, Fajah didn’t want to do it. Since Mr. Clark hadn’t acknowledged any knowledge of a crime, not even Walter’s status as a fugitive, he hadn’t done anything illegal yet. Walter would just have to go along with it for now, until he could get Mr. Clark to do something incriminating. That wasn’t too surprising — it took him almost a year to get the boss to incriminate himself on his last operation.

When he shut the door to the bedroom, Fajah bit his lip. “So… you ain’t gotta do this. I’ll tell Reggie you did it anyway.” His strapping chest muscles were tight, flexed, awkwardly nervous. His body heat emanated through his thin wifebeater, and Walter could feel his warmth in the tiny bedroom.

He swallowed nervously. “What is it, nigga? I’m tough. You want me to rob someone or somethin’? Huh? I been a hustler fo’ long enough-“

“No, no, nothing like that. Nothing illegal, not yet. You been locked up, right?”


“You fuck around wit’ a bitch?”

Walter shrugged. “Yeah. I gots a blowjob or two. Ain’t really that kind of nigga though.” He had spent hours coming up with a backstory, and had a detailed story ready for every time he had sex in prison. But he knew a fugitive thug like him wouldn’t be forthcoming with the details, so he kept things vague for now.

Fajah nodded. “Me neither. You ever get punked?” He paused. “No judgment, nigga. I know it happens to the best of us.“

Walter shook his head. “No way, nigga.”

“Well, that’s what Reggie wants you to do. But we ain’t gotta do it, we just gotta pretend we did. You have to tell Reggie you did it though,” Fajah said. “He wants you to suck my dick to prove you loyal, prove you really need this job. This house is only open to niggas who really need it.”

Walter’s heart nearly jumped up in his throat. He had been so focused on agreeing to do whatever it took that he already nodded his head before it really sank in. Could he truly go through with this?

“You do it?” Fajah asked with a wry smile, as though he had been expecting Walter to say no. “I mean… if you want to…”

“I do what I gotta do to prove I’m loyal. No undercover would suck some nigga off, right?” Walter said with a smile. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. He tried to come up with a reason not to go through with it, but after having already said yes, claiming he had done it behind bars and outright offering to do something illegal instead, he could hardly claim this was beyond the pale. He was a fugitive on the run, as far as Fajah was concerned, he had to keep that up.

So he sunk to his knees. He heard scandalized laughter downstairs, and he had a feeling someone was calling out to him, teasing him, making jokes about what they all knew was happening. Someone — possibly Mr. Clark himself — shushed the others.

“Ignore them, nigga,” Fajah said. “They all done the same. They just ain’t wanna admit it.” He unzipped the fly of his sagging jeans, and pulled out his cell phone to watch some straight porn.

Once the tinny sound of moaning women filled the room, Walter felt nauseous. Fajah had a long cock, dangling out from the fly of his jeans. Walter took a deep breath, thinking that would help, only to get a nostrilful of stank cocksweat. He gagged, but forced himself to get started.

Salty flesh invaded his mouth. It was loose and limpid, clammy, yet warm, and when it jerked towards erection it felt like an alien creature stirring to life inside him.

There was a vein on the underside of the shaft. For some reason, Walter found it appealing, and he ran his tongue up and down it. That made Fajah shudder and his dick stiffened up even more.

“Yeah, you give some gud respec’, boy, Reggie gonna like hearing ‘bout this,” Fajah said, his tone turning rough and gangsta. His dick was rock-hard now, pulsating in Walter’s mouth. He reached into his jeans and let his low-hanging balls come out the fly as well. That reawakened the sweaty-balls scent that overwhelmed Walter’s senses. “Ugh, yeah, fuck yeah…”

Though Walter already knew Mr. Clark was behind this, the thought of Fajah describing the blowjob to him made Walter even more embarrassed — would he really describe it? Or just say that it had happened? He could picture Mr. Clark’s mustache shaking as he nodded his head in satisfaction.

Fajah began grinding his hips onto Walter’s face. He groaned as Walter’s throat clenched around his cockshaft, but Fajah inexorably shoved his meat deeper and deeper.

“Open up, nigga,” Fajah said a couple times, murmuring, sounding a little embarrassed about how good this felt. He threw his head back and groaned. “Lick that meat, yeah… Lick it up, nigga…”

When the first drops of powerfully acrid precum hit his tongue, Walter was surprised by how appealing the taste really was. The anticipation had been worse than the actuality of it. He could almost enjoy this, if it weren’t for the humiliation.

“Okay, nigga, here it comes,” Fajah said, “You do gotta swallow. That’s Reggie’s rule. He say it’s disrespec’ful if’n you don’t.”

Walter’s stomach churned at the thought. Even though the precum hadn’t turned out to be that bad, he wasn’t sure he could handle anything more than that. By that time, however, Fajah had wrapped his hands around the back of Walter’s head. He pistoned his hips back and forth, uncaring of how much Walter choked and spat up around his cockshaft.

The first drops of cum hit his tongue. The taste was sweet and sour, not exactly pleasant but Walter found it much less revolting than he would have guessed. The texture was snotty and thick, and it coated Walter’s throat.

“Oh fuck yeah, nigga, fuck!” Fajah said. He took a deep breath and chuckled. He held onto the back of Walter’s head until Walter’s whole body bucked, and Walter finally looked up at him. Despite the humiliation, they made eye contact as Fajah’s body roiled with the aftershocks of his orgasm. His cock throbbed in Walter’s mouth. Fajah slammed a fist on the wall, roared loudly and then chuckled as the men downstairs cheered. Walter blushed.

Then his dick fell limp. Fajah was in no hurry to pull out, letting his softening cock rest there even as Walter spasmed and spat around it. At last he pulled out, and Walter choked as that slimy cockshaft plopped out of his mouth.

“Good job, nigga,” Fajah said, smiling down at Walter’s gasping face, “I’ll tell Mr. Clark you proved yo’self good.”

The Black BBW, the Yakuza Stud and a Cuckold’s Confrontation

Here’s a new sample from The Black BBW, the Yakuza Stud and a Cuckold’s Confrontation, a new bw/am yakuza tale from Ruby Redman!

Rosie didn’t know which aspect upset her the most. Of course she was angry that Tyrese had cheated on her. She was also angry because he had cheated on her with a younger woman, a skinnier woman and a woman who was not black. For a man who had always been an Afrocentric political activitist who assailed the breakdown of the African American family, the fact that he was an utter hypocrite infuriated her.

Of course the woman wasn’t white either. Rosie had been so furious she just assumed May was white. She followed Tyrese to his mistress’ home and caught a glimpse of her through a window. She was light-skinned and delicate-framed, like some exquisitely expensive doll.

Though a part of her wanted to make a scene right there on the bitch’s lawn, another part of her wanted to do this right. She waited at home for Tyrese.

Then when he finally came home, stinking of cologne and excuses for why he was so late from work, Rosie just glared at him. She insulted the tiny cock he had always been humiliated by. She liked seeing his face break out in sorrow and shame, the same expression she had worn when she watched him go in that woman’s house.

“I know where you were.” That was what started the confrontation. As soon as she said it, his eyes drooped. He knew he was caught, done for, that the marriage was back being on the rocks. He simply needed to admit it and beg for forgiveness.

During the argument, Rosie said something about his white bitch, and Tyrese had murmured something about “she’s not white”. Rosie was so mad she just called him a liar; he had been lying about everything else, and Rosie thought he was just trying to save face by pretending he wasn’t a traitor to his own cause.

After spending years exhorting black men to date within their race, and to remain loyal to their family, he had cheated with some slutty white bitch. Rosie remained furious as she stayed at her sister that night — much to her dismay, her sister had finally moved, as she had been threatening for so long: she had moved into a house in the same neighborhood as that homewrecking bitch.

That was when Rosie discovered that May was Asian. She was a demure Japanese-American woman whose husband was oft-away on business. Rosie felt distinctly uncomfortable by that revelation — it didn’t technically change anything, but she had lobbed some pretty serious anti-white rhetoric on the assumption that the skinny light-skinned girl was white. Now she felt bad about it. Rosie was never the kind of woman who would rant about honkies, not until this had happened.

On Sunday, Rosie went to church and explained what was happening to Pastor Lawrence, a burly black man who always had wisdom whenever Rosie was stuck on a problem. She had known him for many years.

“You made a commitment to your husband,” he said. “And I think it’s important you stick by it. Divorce ain’t a solution, Rosie.”

“But he cheated! He-“

“I know, I know, I ain’t defendin’ him. He did you wrong, fo’ real,” Pastor Lawrence said. “You need to tell him how this made you feel. Make sure he understands that he hurt you. Don’t be afraid to show your vulnerability, Rosie. Let Tyrese know the effect his betrayal had.”

At the time, Rosie had been upset by his words. That wasn’t what she expected to hear from him, and it wasn’t what she wanted. Now that she thought about it, it was the only thing he was ever going to say. He never supported divorce, not in a black family with neither parent in prison.

Let Tyrese know the effect his betrayal had.

That was a good idea, she thought. Tyrese already knew, of course, but did he really understand? She wasn’t sure.

It isn’t May’s fault. That thought jumped into her head as she pulled into her sister’s driveway, arriving home from church. She’d been so angry she instinctively lashed out (in her mind) at the woman she held responsible, but that didn’t make sense. Rosie had sworn back in college that she’d never blame the woman for a situation like this — for all May knew, Tyrese wasn’t married, or he was in an open marriage. It wasn’t May’s fault. Of course May was married too, but for all Rosie knew, that was an open marriage. She shouldn’t judge.

The thought of Tyrese learning that Rosie had told May she wasn’t angry made Rosie happy. Tyrese no doubt loved the idea of two women fighting over him. Rosie didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

So she went over to May’s house and knocked on the door. She felt nervous — she had gotten this idea so suddenly that she realized she had no idea what to say as the door swung open. Should she simply say it bluntly? Would May recognize her? Did she know Tyrese was married?

It wasn’t May at all. It was the husband. He was tall, for a Japanese man, and he had an athletic frame. He wore only a plain white robe; it looked like he had just come out of the shower. Beads of water dappled his strapping shoulders.

“Hi, uh, Mr. Tamatinoku,” she said, glad she had glanced the mailbox on her way in or else she wouldn’t have known what to call him. She had been so fixated on May that she hadn’t even thought about what to do if May’s husband answered. Rosie cleared her throat. “I was, uh, looking for May.”

“May is gone. She has gone back to Japan,” Mr. Tamatinoku said. “Her friend is dying.”

“Oh? I’m so sorry, is it-?”

He sighed as though he didn’t like the interruption. “It is her old school friend. She has stomach cancer. She is likely to be dead soon. May is in Japan. You have a phone, call her.”

“Wait-“ Rosie blocked the door with her foot. Her first instinct was to not get involved in May’s marriage. This was up to the Tamatinokus, after all.

But he was being kind of a prick, and Rosie rather wanted to be the one to tell him his wife was cheating on him. Rosie felt guilty that she was glad for the interracial aspect of the relationship — that would surely humiliate Mr. Tamatinoku even more.

“I wanted to talk about your marriage,” Rosie said. He hesitated. “Or more precisely, I wanted to talk about my marriage.”


“Mr. Tamatinoku, your wife is having an affair,” Rosie said.

He hesitated, as though he wanted to slam the door shut in her face but didn’t want her to stop talking. After a moment’s thought, he angled his body so Rosie could come in.

“What?” he said again once they were in the living room. It had spartan furnishings, with just a few plain items, including a long leather couch on which Rosie sat.

“Your wife is sleeping with my husband,” Rosie said.

“Right now-?”

“Well, no, I don’t think so. Tyrese is still at the house, I believe. He didn’t go to Japan. But they were sleeping together just two days ago. Tyrese admitted it to me.”

Mr. Tamatinoku narrowed his eyes to slits. He clasped his hands together and pursed his lips.

“Thank you for informing me, Mrs. Green,” he said. His eyes roamed up and down Rosie’s body. She normally hated being checked out by men, but something about Mr. Tamatinoku was arousing. He had a compact little frame, and a subdued alpha male energy that Rosie found appealing.

For the first time, it occurred to Rosie that she could sleep around too. But then she felt like an idiot — Mr. Tamatinoku wasn’t going to be interested in her. He was probably into small, creamy-skinned beauties like May.

But the way he looked over her body as he poured a cup of tea made Rosie wonder if Mr. Tamatinoku had a taste for dark meat. Rosie had never considered sleeping with an Asian man.

As he shifted his weight, Rosie saw a flurry of colorful tattoos. There was a pretty Japanese woman with a flower-printed fan, a delicately-outlined tiger, a pair of koi fish circling each other and Japanese kanji covering his body, excluding only those areas that were visible when wearing clothes. That was why she could catch a glimpse only now that he was in a thin robe.

Home Invasion Downlow

Here’s a sample from Home Invasion Downlow, a new story of black thugs getting nasty!


After spending years living with roommates and then a long-term, serious boyfriend, Ricky was overjoyed at finally having a home of his own. He rented a house in inner-city Denver. It wasn’t the nicest neighborhood, but it wasn’t the worst either. And Ricky didn’t even really care about how nice the neighborhood was — he could take care of himself.

Or so he thought. One night, just a few weeks after moving in, his ability to defend his home was put to the test. Ricky woke up in the middle of the night to hear the sound of at least one man breaking in.

His heart nearly leapt out of his chest. Maybe I’m not cut out to live alone, he thought, as he realized this could be it; he could die. He grabbed the pepper spray he kept in his bedroom and hurried into the hallway.

There were two men there. Ricky stepped into the bathroom so they wouldn’t see him just yet. The closer one was young, handsome, a bit short and lanky, but with wiry muscles beneath his baggy clothes. He had tight cornrows and a smooth chin. The other, who was unplugging the television in the living room, was bigger and older; he was burly, bushy-bearded, with streaks of gray running through both his beard and his unkempt afro.

“Yo, Kyree, help me pack up this Playstation,” said the older one.

“Yeah, Dee, in a sec.”

Kyree — the younger, handsome one — glanced down the hall. He looked worried, in contrast to Dee’s confident glare. Kyree seemed uncertain of whether he had seen movement; Ricky hid deeper in the bathroom, looking around for anything else he could use as a weapon.

“Kyree! Nigga, come on!” Dee said. “He ain’t here, okay? Just help me get this shit!”

Kyree sighed. He turned around. Ricky wished he had his cell phone with him so he could call the police, but he had stupidly plugged it in using a kitchen outlet — he was all out of outlets in his bedroom.  Now it seemed so simple, he could have unplugged something he wasn’t going to use tonight; now he was cursing himself for not thinking through the possibilities.

They stacked up the television and the Playstation near the door, then Kyree opened the hall closet. He whistled in surprise, and Ricky blushed, knowing what he saw there.

“Thought you said it was just a single man living here,” Kyree said.


“He got a closet full of women’s clothes,” Kyree said.

That seemed to throw Dee for a loop. Ricky couldn’t see from his vantage point, but he thought Dee was looking in the closet too. That meant they were both facing away from the bathroom. This is your opportunity, he told himself.

“Tall woman too,” Dee said. “Probly an ex-wife or some shit. Go on and look in the bedroom-”

“Fuck you, assholes!” Ricky screamed — cursing himself for sounding so gay as he did it — and came into the living room, pepper spray in hand. He realized only when Dee and Kyree looked at him that he had never looked closely at this pepper spray. He didn’t know how to use it, or whether there was some kind of safety latch he needed to remove first. Sure enough, when he pressed the trigger, nothing happened. The can of pepper spray was unopened, and Dee lazily knocked it out of Ricky’s hand.

For a moment, all was silent. Dee and Kyree looked at Ricky as though they had never seen a white man before. Ricky was too scared to move.

Dee chuckled. “Oh, damn. It’s a faggot.”

“Don’t hurt me!”

“Tie ‘im up in his room,” Dee said. He turned around to look in the drawers of the desk in the living room. He picked up an old iPod as though considering stealing that, then decided it wasn’t worth it. He set it back down.

Kyree approached Ricky with the confident, cocky glare of a thug. Ricky, embarrassed at having been outmatched so easily, felt a surge of adrenaline — if he let these home invaders dictate what happened here, this would end up bad for sure. Ricky wasn’t a small man; he could take Kyree, he thought.

“Go’n, faggot,” Kyree said. Despite his confident demeanor, Ricky could tell he was wavering; he had never done anything this violent.

“No. Fuck you,” Ricky said. “Get outta my house.”

“Just take ‘im, Kyree!” Dee barked.

Kyree pushed Ricky towards the hallway, but Ricky had a few pounds on him. He stood flat-footed, and didn’t move an inch. He pushed Kyree back, and the smaller man nearly tripped over the couch.

Dee laughed. “What’s wrong wit’ you, boy?”

“He pushed me!” shouted the annoyed Kyree, who stomped towards Ricky yet again.

“Yeah, he do that!” Dee said. “We’s robbin’ him. He might push back. That happens, nigga.”

That momentary burst of success gave Ricky a spring in his step. This time when Kyree approached him, Ricky used his self-defense techniques — he nearly knocked Kyree over with a foot sweep, but instead put him in a bear hug. Kyree’s lithe muscles squirmed beneath Ricky’s touch as Ricky dragged him to the front door.

He literally tossed Kyree out into the front lawn, as Dee laughed behind him. When Ricky turned around, Dee was screaming peals of laughter, clapping his hands on his meaty thighs.

“You got that, faggot, you got that!”

Ricky blushed. He hadn’t meant to impress Dee. Now that Kyree was gone, Ricky just needed to get rid of Dee, or make it into the kitchen to call the police.

But then Kyree walked right back in behind Ricky. He once again tried to push Ricky, who easily tossed him out the front door yet again.

This time, he was distracted long enough for Dee — who still laughed as though he had never seen anything so funny — to grab Ricky from behind. He wrapped both muscular arms around Ricky and hissed.

“This is how you do it, nigga!” he barked at Kyree, his anger suddenly dissipated, replaced by rage.

Kyree, embarrassed, muttered as he followed Dee, dragging Ricky into the bedroom. Kyree shut the front door and wiped wet grass off his stained t-shirt.

As they made it into the bedroom, Ricky realized how horny he was. It came both from general excitement as well as from the strapping muscles of Dee’s body, undulating behind his back. Ricky could even feel a horsey cock beneath Dee’s jeans, rubbing against the small of Ricky’s back.

“Get some rope,” Dee said as he tossed Ricky on the bed on his belly.

Ricky felt naked and vulnerable. He wore only a pair of sweatpants and a plain t-shirt. He tried to get up, but Dee sat on the bed next to him, resting one heavy arm on Ricky’s back.

“Get a rope!”

“I, uh, I ain’t got one.”

“I tol’ you bring a rope!”

“You said he wouldn’t be home! And I ain’t got a motherfuckin’ rope, nigga!”

Dee sighed. “You stupid fuck! What’re we s’posed to tie him up with?”

“You said he wouldn’t be home.”

“What I said was bring a rope, nigga!” Dee said. “You always prepared, man. Don’t come into some nigga’s house without rope to tie him up.” He patted Ricky on the back of the head. “Sorry ‘bout callin’ you nigga, whiteboi.”

“That’s okay. Just get out,” Ricky said.

“Go find something we can tie him up with,” Dee said with a sigh. He held Ricky’s face in the pillow, not suffocating him, but keeping him from seeing what Kyree was doing. After a few seconds, Dee shouted in frustration. “Not in here, nigga! If there was something in here we could use to tie him up, I’d have said hand me that, nigga. I said go find something!”

Kyree muttered angrily to himself as he walked out the door the bedroom. He could be heard pawing through the hallway closet.

“Sorry, man, he young. He slow,” Dee said. Leaving one hand on Ricky’s neck and hand, his other rested on Ricky’s back. That hand moved slowly lower. “He ain’t nevuh been locked up. He don’t know.”


“You’s a faggot, fo’ real, right?”


“Nothin’ personal. I don’t hate faggots. I kinda likes ‘em,” Dee said. He leaned in and kissed the back of Ricky’s neck. “You got a nice body.” He let out a choked moan. “Boy, if you was my cellmate… I’d make sweet love to yo’ ass and yo’ mouf, e’ry damn day.”

Ricky shuddered at the thought. He was so aroused now his dick was already getting hard, even pressed awkwardly into the mattress beneath him.

“You into that, huh?”

“Hell yeah,” Ricky said. “You can fuck me. Just don’t rob me.”

Dee laughed. “Those things ain’t mutually exclusive, faggot,” he said. “And you ain’t in position to be making demands.” He chuckled as he stood up. He unzipped the fly of his jeans, and fished out a long dark cock.

Mobsters Downlow

Here’s a new sample from Mobsters Downlow, a new hardcore tale of Mafioso loan shark punishment!


Harvey sat up suddenly. He heard a loud knocking on the door. Could it be Robert? He felt a surge of hopefulness, then realized that wouldn’t be it. Robert was at his brother’s just an hour ago, judging from the post he made on Facebook, and that was a two-hour drive away at best. Even if Robert came here as fast as he could and encountered no traffic, there’s no way he’d be here yet.

Of course he could have been lying. Maybe he was already on the way back, to apologize. Maybe he didn’t want Harvey to know he had forgiven him.

Harvey hadn’t been alone in a long time, so he was desperate to find a reason to hope that Robert would be back. A part of him knew that wouldn’t happen though. Not only that, a part of him knew that was a good thing. They weren’t the kind of couple who lasted long-term. Their relationship was purely physical. Honestly, Harvey had never really enjoyed Robert’s presence, when they weren’t having sex.

There was another knock at the door. It was probably another political organizer. Harvey and Robert had moved to Florida together, and they only lasted two weeks living in the same house. Harvey had let Robert handle all the political folks — Harvey had never lived in a swing state, so he wasn’t used to it and didn’t enjoy the constant interruptions. He kept meaning to buy a no solicitors sign, but forgot.

He dragged himself downstairs in his bathrobe. He had been lounging around since Robert stormed out the night before. Harvey hadn’t changed his clothes or showered, and he couldn’t even recall if he had eaten since then. Was he really depressed? He tried to get himself to buck up — after all, he hadn’t even liked Robert. He was nothing to get so upset about.

There were three men outside. Handsome, lawyer-types, he thought, judging from the one in front. Robert was a paralegal, so they were probably here to serve him papers related to his job.

“Mr. Tompkins isn’t here,” Harvey said as he opened the door. He blinked his eyes open a bit wider; he hadn’t noticed in his earlier glance that these three men were so sexy. The one in front, who was a bit short and lean, but with a handsome lady’s man face, wore a nice tailored suit. The two men behind him were taller, bulkier, both wearing trackpants and plain white t-shirts. They had gold crucifixes dangling in front of their broad chests.

The man in a suit frowned. “Mr. Tompkins? We are not looking for a Mr. Tompkins. Victor Derazzo?”

Harvey was taken aback. “Victor Derazzo? No one by that name here.” Then he paused, “Oh yeah, he must have lived here before me. I got some junk mail addressed to that name. Sorry. I think the landlord said he moved to Chicago or some shit.”

“Chicago? We find that very hard to believe.” The man in a suit had a barely noticeable New York accent.

Annoyed, Harvey bit his lip. “Okay, well, don’t believe it then. I don’t really trust the landlord either.” He moved to shut the door, but the suited man put his foot in the door.

Then all three barged in. Harvey’s heart skipped a beat. He forgot about his depression. What was this? He now realized these men did not look like lawyers — they looked like mobsters.

“You are Mr. Derazzo, aren’t you?” the suited man said. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Giovanni Terani. You can call me Mr. Terani.” He pointed to the men behind him. “These are Rico and Pauly. We work for Mr. Palermo. You remember him, right?”

“Uh, no, I’m not-“

“Don’t give us your shit. We are experts in getting what we are owed,” Mr. Terani said. “You have a nice house. Surely you can pay your debts, if you can afford a house like this.”

“I don’t owe any money!” Harvey said. “I swear! Do I look Italian?”

The two muscular men behind Mr. Terani hesitated. Mr. Terani himself advanced threateningly, not seeming to even consider the possibility that Harvey might be telling the truth. He was on autopilot, but the two bodyguards were not. One of them leaned forward and whispered in Mr. Terani’s ear.

Mr. Terani cocked his head to one side. “You queer?”

Harvey nodded.

“How tall are you?”

“Six-three!” Harvey’s voice broke, and he blushed. He wasn’t a weakling, and though he had always been a fairly flamboyant gay man, he could hold his own in a fight. Of course with three mobsters ganging up on him, he had little chance.

Then Mr. Terani spoke in Italian. It was too swift for Harvey to hear any words; it just sounded like a confusing jumble of vowels. It seemed that it was a test, however, to see if he understood Italian. Mr. Terani peered at him closely to see how he responded.

Mr. Terani sighed. “What is your name, queer?”


“Well, Harvey, I do apologize for pushing into your home. It seems you are not the person we are searching for. You are much too tall, you are not Italian, you are clearly gay,” he said. “Can you forgive us?”

It sounded like a pro forma question, like he wasn’t really expecting Harvey to make any demands. But Harvey was insolent; he had been in a bad mood before all this, and now the stress made him want Robert even more, which annoyed him further.

“No! You fucking guidos burst in here…!” Harvey’s voice trailed off as he neared tears.

The three mobsters shifted their weight uneasily. Mr. Terani sighed. “We did not mean to disturb you.”

“Well you did! I’m dealing with a very bad breakup right now,” Harvey said through his tears. “I can’t deal with this shit too! You could have killed me before you even asked if I was the guy you were looking for!”

Mr. Terani smiled. “We were not going to kill you, or even beat you up,” he said. “In fact, you would have liked what was about to happen.”


Then Mr. Terani blushed and looked down. He ran his fingers through his hair. “I mean… maybe.”


“Mr. Derazzo owes money. If we killed him, or even badly hurt him, he would not be able to earn money to repay his debt,” Mr. Terani said. “My compatriots here specialize in finding ways to hurt him that won’t impact his earnings.”

Harvey didn’t understand at first, not until Pauly snorted and grabbed his hairy crotch through his trackpants. For a moment, his hefty, uncut cock was outlined by the sheer fabric of the pants. As sexual tension flowed through Harvey’s veins, Pauly blushed — he hadn’t expected to turn Harvey on.

“Straight men will pay a rather large amount of money to avoid having their manhood plucked,” Mr. Terani said. “So we would demand blowjobs today, and fuck him in the ass next month if he is still unable to pay.”

The Prison Guard and the Submissive Prisoner

Here’s a sample from The Prison Guard and the Submissive Prisoner, a new story by Curtis Kingsmith!


Jerry’s heart felt like it was about to pound out of his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t do anything but stand there and blush as he dropped his shorts. As an openly gay man, he didn’t mind the idea of being naked in front of Officer Armstrong — he had always had an exhibitionist streak, after all — but the actuality of it was more nerve-wracking.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. He stood there in front of Armstrong, with his cock dangling between his legs. He had covered his crotch with both hands, but Armstrong barked at him to stand at attention. Now Armstrong was just sitting at a desk, filling out paperwork, ignoring Jerry completely.

“How tall are you?” Officer Armstrong asked.

“Uh, five feet, seven inches.”

“How much do you weigh?”

“One hundred and thirty-five pounds,” Jerry said. He blushed. He was skinny. Before the trial, he had been working out regularly and gained weight, making it all the way up to one hundred and fifty pounds before the stress of his arrest had let to him eating less and less. Now he was a skinny fuck again.

Officer Armstrong snorted. “You best be thankful I won’t put you in with those animals. They’d eat you alive.”

“Uh, what?”

Armstrong looked up and furrowed his brow. “You’re a weakling, a pussy, and you’ve got a tiny dick,” he said, sneering as Jerry blushed. “If I put you in the jail with a cellmate, you’d be someone’s bitch in no time. Unless you wanna be a faggot…”

That was that, Jerry thought. He had wavered on whether or not to be openly gay while he was in prison. He had been leaning towards being out up until now, but it sounded like Officer Armstrong was not very tolerant. It was better, Jerry thought, to fly under the radar. If it was expected that he’d be straight, he’d be straight. He had been in the closet for years, he could go back in for six more months.

“No!” Jerry exclaimed. He blushed, not sure if that was too overeager or not.

Armstrong sighed and stood up. “Turn around and bend over,” he said. When Jerry didn’t do it right away, Armstrong repeated himself. “If I have to bend you over, I will. You won’t enjoy that, motherfucker!”

Tears welled in Jerry’s eyes as he bent over. His asscheeks spread and cold air hit his butthole. He heard Officer Armstrong putting on plastic gloves. He was going especially slow, drawing this out to torture Jerry. He opened up a container of lube and smeared some on his finger.

“Tell me when this hurts,” Officer Armstrong said. He rammed the tip of his finger in.

Should I say that it hurts now? Jerry wondered. He didn’t want to sound like a pussy, but a straight man would be in pain right away, wouldn’t he?

He straightened his back and said, “It hurts, man.”

His finger wiggled in Jerry’s ass, and Jerry squealed in pain to cover up the excited pleasure he felt deep in his prostate. He blushed, but luckily his head was down near Armstrong’s polished black leather boots, so Armstrong couldn’t see his crimson cheeks.

“Man? You don’t call me man, maggot. As long as you’re in here, I am your god. I’ll let you call me sir instead of master, but if you call me man again, we’s gonna have problems, boi,” Armstrong said, his finger curled up inside Jerry’s ass.

It brought tears to Jerry’s eyes even as it made his cock stand up straight. He tried to think of something else, anything else, but his mind was entranced by the agony and bliss emanating from his asshole.

More of Armstrong’s finger slid inside his ass. It was his middle finger, the longest, and it was thick too, like a slab of sausage sliding inside him. Jerry moaned.

“You like that?”

“No-oh…” Jerry said, his voice breaking partway through. Did that sound like orgasm or agony? He couldn’t tell.

“Kiss my boots,” Armstrong said.

Jerry did so. The black leather was cold and astringent, and it distracted him from the pain in his ass. Jerry tasted the bitterness of shoe polish and the funk of Armstrong’s sweaty feet behind that.

Armstrong began ramming his finger in and out of Jerry’s ass, chuckling at how easily he managed to do it. He wiggled his finger too, as though trying to explore every inch of Jerry’s large intestine. He cackled when at last Jerry threw his head back and screamed, a note of pleasure distinct and obvious in the tenor of his voice.

It must be obvious he was gay now, Jerry thought. His cock was rock-hard and leaking precum. His spine undulated as his ass worked its way up and down Armstrong’s finger, instinctively fucking himself.

“You a faggot, ain’tcha?” Armstrong asked. He grabbed Jerry by the back of the neck, keeping his finger in Jerry’s ass, and lifted Jerry’s head up.

Breathing hard, unable to focus on lying due to the finger in his ass and the strain in his cock — he knew he could claim his erection was simply due to anxiety; that wasn’t impossible. But he didn’t think he could pull that off. Armstrong was looking at him like a disgusting species of bug.


Armstrong sneered. “You think I’m hot?”


Armstrong shook his head. “You’s disgusting, faggot,” he said. “But you’s a bit useful to me too. Don’t you tell no one I did this.” He took a deep breath, sighed and wrapped his left hand around Jerry’s cock.

The Waxplay, Salsa Dancing and Femdom Facesitting Tale

Here’s a sample from the beginning of The Waxplay, Salsa Dancing and Femdom Facesitting Tale, a new story by Lucy Mancrusher!

This whole thing was stupid, Josephine thought. She did not like salsa dancing any more than she liked any other kind of dancing. Josephine was an engineer by trade. She was a scientist, a mathematician, a logician. She believed in reason and rationality, not salsa dancing.

But the purchase of her employer by a Puerto Rican conglomerate had gone through, and Josephine needed to do something to fit in better. She was the only Anglo from the old workforce who had been kept on and even promoted.

At her first corporate event, everyone else danced together in front of a vast salsa band. It looked like they had fun, and for a moment, Josephine thought she could do the same thing. She thought there was nothing wrong with her, that she could learn how to move like that, and more importantly, how to enjoy moving like that.

But that wasn’t working; it simply wasn’t in her nature. Every trait that made her an excellent engineer and businesswoman made her a terrible dancer. She flung her hips from side to side like Octavio showed her, but she could tell from the expression on his face that she wasn’t doing it right.

“You are stiff,” he said, his thick Nuyorican accent echoing in the high-ceilinged dance studio. “You must be loose, girl, relax. Have fun! Salsa is not a chore. If you aren’t having fun, you won’t look like you’re doing it right.”

Josephine blushed as she tried again. She knew she was trying too hard, but she couldn’t help it. She just wasn’t made for this kind of activity.

It didn’t help that Octavio was sexy. She had been expecting a gay dancer. It was a stereotype, but it had a basis in reality — she had met three professional male dancers (not counting strippers) in the past, and all three were gay. Octavio had even sounded possibly-gay on the phone.

But as soon as she met him in person and she felt his eyes take in her entire body, she knew that had been an error. He was as heterosexual as they came. He looked at her like she was a delicious tropical fruit in unattractive packaging, and Josephine had blushed. She had been an alpha female for so long she didn’t remember the last time she blushed.

“Perhaps we should take a break,” he said with a frown after the first hour. She had learned all the steps easily enough, and she could hold a beat (rhythm is just math over time, after all). But he obviously disapproved of her style. “You are too nervous.”

“I know, I know, it’s just… I’ve never done anything like this,” she said. “I didn’t even go to my high school prom.”

“What relaxes you?” He asked, taking a deep breath. Josephine was short of breath too, but she instinctually tried to hide it. After more than fifteen years as the only female engineer around, Josephine had learned to hide her vulnerability.

“Math,” she said. “I love math. It’s very calming. Numbers always turn out the same. It’s predictable. I can always add ten and five and get fifteen. Not like dancing, where I can move my body in the same way you do and somehow I look like an idiot while you look like a sex-god.”

Josephine blushed. She hadn’t meant to call him a sex-god. Now he was going to think she had a crush on him. That wasn’t entirely incorrect; she did think he was hot. But Josephine was too old, too rational and too smart to have a crush on anyone, especially some young stud half her age.

“Math? ¡Las matemáticas no es sexy!” he said as though he had never heard of it. “That’s not hot.”

“Being smart is sexy!”

“No,” he said. “It is not. Is there anything else you find relaxing?”

“Oh, the usual stuff, I guess. Massages son muy relajantes,” she said. Then she blushed as he smiled and clapped his hands together.

“Lay down,” he said. He took off his shirt, revealing powerful arms and a toned chest.

Josephine was flushed with energy and excitement. Was Octavio seducing her? That seemed unlikely. Josephine wasn’t ugly, but she had never been hot. She wasn’t beautiful. She couldn’t seduce a sexy ladysman like Octavio, who probably had sexy Latin girls dripping off his body whenever he wasn’t at work. Girls Octavio’s age loved men who could dance.

But she didn’t refuse the offer of a massage, despite her misgivings. Why should she? It would be more pleasant than yet more unsuccessful salsa dancing. She nervously laid on the cold plastic mat, not sure that his touch would actually calm her as much as she hoped. Octavio lit a few candles and turned off the fluorescent lights.

When his fingers actually hit her back, her anxiety did melt away. There was something about Octavio’s strength and the electric pressure of his touch that pulled the stress right out of Josephine’s body. In no time her muscles all relaxed, until they were like pudding in his hands.

“What about sex?” he asked.

The Black Man, the Dominatrix and the Submissive Cop

Here’s a sample from the beginning of The Black Man, the Dominatrix and the Submissive Cop, a brand-new story by Lucy Mancrusher!

As she did every day before going home, Mistress Matilda checked her purse. The pepper spray was in there, precisely where she had left it. Her establishment was not in a very nice area, and she had very nearly had her purse snatched a few times; she kept a tight grip on it as she walked to her car.

Of course she didn’t enjoy crime, but the thrill of danger was exciting. Mistress Matilda liked to live on the edge. Just as she was opening the front door, however, a man approached.

“Officer Hargitay,” she said when she recognized his face. They had interacted several times since she opened her business.

Hargitay was a short, squarish man with a strong jaw and dark, flashing eyes overtop chocolate brown skin. He bit his lip as he saw that she was leaving.

“Oh, I’s ‘pologize, ma’am,” he said. “I ain’t mean-a innerup.”

He had a very rural accent. Mistress Matilda operated the only BDSM dungeon in Birmingham, Alabama — the only one in all of Alabama, as far as she knew — so almost everyone in the area had a similar accent. But Hargitay’s was especially thick and drawlful; he spoke as though he had a mouth overflowing with cotton.

“Not a problem, officer,” Mistress Matilda said softly. She pursed her lips. Was he aroused? She thought he might be.

Officer Hargitay had responded to Matilda earlier in the day. He took a report on an incident involving a man who called her a pervert and spat at her as she came to the dungeon this morning. Matilda wasn’t surprised or even really upset by it, but she had wanted to file a police report just the same. Officer Hargitay was usually who responded when Matilda needed the police.

She opened the door and let him in. He sidled past her, burly body in that dark brown uniform shirt emanating heat and a sense of confident authority. Despite his confidence, however, Officer Hargitay bristled with anxiety as he entered.

“What can I help you with? I was going to stop by the courthouse tomorrow to apply for the peace order,” Mistress Matilda said. It didn’t seem that Officer Hargitay was listening. His eyes were drawn to the whip that was mounted on the wall right inside the dungeon.

“Uh-huh,” he said. Then he blinked his eyes and smiled at her. “Hi. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here. I’m a Christian man.”

Then he turned around as though about to leave. Mistress Matilda knew very well how to get a man’s attention. She spoke softly, with determination and potency, so he had to slow down and stand still to hear.

“Stop,” was all she said.

He did as he was told. “Ma’am…” It sounded like he started speaking before deciding what to say, and then couldn’t think of any words.

“Be quiet, Officer Hargitay. I think I know what you want,” she said. “Do not be afraid. I will not ask you to do anything unchristian, with one exception. I would like you to have sexual intercourse with me. Since we are not married, that will be a sin.” She scooted closer to him with every word, and she susurrated around her s-sounds. He was still facing the door, and he shifted his weight nervously as she came nearer and nearer to him.

“Oh,” he said, again sounding like he couldn’t think of any words in this moment.

“So how about we say that the safeword is incarceration. If you want me to stop what I’m doing, say incarceration. You can say it now, if you like,” she said. When he didn’t immediately respond, she placed one hand on his meaty shoulders. His muscles were tense beneath his uniform shirt, and he puckered at her touch.