Twink on Top: The Native American Masseur

Here’s the entirety of Twink on Top: The Native American Masseur, a new story in the Twink on Top series! It’s also available in the first Twink on Top compilation, which contains twelve twink-on-top-bear-on-bottom tales, plus bonus content!


Timmy was surprised by how nice the massage parlor was. He tried not to act like a New York elitist; that was not easy to do here in Anchorage. It was a nice little town, but it looked like a village as far as he was concerned. There were few cabs, no Thai restaurants, like two black people in the whole city; there was no live theater, at least not while he was here; there was a university, but it didn’t seem to have much impact on local culture.

So he thought the massage parlor would be some low-rent dive. When he saw the Asian women who scurried about in beautiful kimonos, he wondered if he had made a mistake — was this a brothel? He had called and spoke to the front desk. Of course he didn’t ask directly if it was a brothel, they would never have said yes anyway. But he asked about their services, and it sounded like a real massage parlor.

He acted as flamboyant and twinky as possible, just to be sure. He didn’t want any awkward situations with a Chinese woman trying to give him a handjob. He wasn’t positive the girl at the front desk was familiar enough with American culture to get that he was gay, but he gayed it up to the best of his ability. Timmy had always been a pretty blatantly gay man, so he thought he had gotten his point across.

Now he wasn’t sure it was worth it at all. It might have been better to just use the back massager he had gotten for Christmas last year, but he had never really liked it. He genuinely needed a massage — his shoulders were tight, as they often were. His doctor had recommended an occasional massage, which usually worked.

“Sir,” said a gruff, deep voice. Timmy turned around and his jaw dropped. There was a man in front of him — not an Asian man, an American, an Indian, it seemed. “Patuk,” he said by way of introduction. Then he nodded towards the rooms in the back of the massage parlor, and Timmy followed.

Timmy was shocked for a couple reasons. First of all, Patuk was a man; he was not Asian; he was unlike everyone else who worked here. Even more than that, he was sexy. He was ungodly hot, Timmy thought. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with long, straight black hair. His jaw was square, his cheekbones high, and he had a thick scar on his neck as though someone had tried to decapitate him.

He led Timmy down the hall, wearing a tight pair of jeans that framed his ass. He wore a plain brown shirt that ended at the shoulder. He looked more like he was on his way to job as a farmworker than a masseur, Timmy thought. Had he come into the wrong place after all? Maybe Patuk was the owner, not a masseur?

“Lie down,” Patuk said. It was impossible to tell whether he was happy with this or not — he looked rather like he was already bored of this massage.

He certainly had that Native American taciturnness, Timmy thought, shivering a little with delight. Patuk had on a sleeveless shirt, so his lumberjack-like biceps were plainly visible. Timmy wanted more than anything to kiss them, but it was obvious Patuk was straight.

“I have trapezitis,” Timmy said. “That means my shoulders are-“

“I know what it means,” Patuk said, glaring at him. “Lie down.” After flipping on a stereo and waiting for New Age music to fill the air, he rubbed oil into his hands. His powerful biceps glistened with baby oil as well, or maybe it was sweat, Timmy couldn’t tell from where he lay on the massage table.

Timmy gulped and laid on the table as ordered. Had he offended Patuk? His brown face was still, like he was thinking about something very important and paying no attention to Timmy. Timmy settled into position on the table.

Laying on his belly, Timmy couldn’t see Patuk. He felt tense though. Patuk was not a very good masseur, Timmy decided before the massage began — he seemed almost hostile. He wasn’t sure he could relax at all. This was not the kind of environment that he usually found in massage parlors. Masseurs were supposed to be kind, friendly, evoking a calm and relaxed atmosphere. Patuk seemed as likely to chop him up with a hatchet as give him a massage, but Timmy was too scared to consider leaving.

But then the New Age music became a bit louder and more engrossing, and the smell of burning sweetgrass filled the air. Timmy felt a momentary surge of relaxation. He had been through enough massages that he was primed to feel the tension melt away when the atmosphere approached that of a more typical massage parlor. He sighed as Patuk finally touched his skin, and calmness flooded his system.

The feeling only intensified as Patuk’s strong hands began kneading Timmy’s back. He was a good masseur, Timmy realized with a start. He sighed. The tension began to drain from his shoulders.

Patuk’s hands were callused and rough, beneath the massage oil he used. He felt like a roughneck, Timmy thought, like he should be working on an oil rig, not in a massage parlor. But since Timmy was gay and Patuk was sexy, he didn’t mind at all. The extra friction from his fingerpads actually made the massage feel a little better, he thought.

His hands moved down Timmy’s back and Timmy had an urge to remind him that he really just needed shoulder-work. But Patuk either forgot or didn’t care, and Timmy was rather enjoying himself. Patuk’s hands worked the flesh of his ribs and his lower back, and he even got close enough that Timmy felt Patuk’s breath condensing on the back of Timmy’s neck.

Then Patuk’s hands reached Timmy’s ass, concealed only by a towel. Timmy shivered with anxiety at the realization that Patuk wasn’t stopping. As a flamboyantly gay man, Timmy certainly had no reason to tell Patuk to stop touching his ass, but he was shocked just the same.

When the towel came off, the warm air made the sensitive skin of Timmy’s ass pucker. The sparse short hairs there stood on end, and Timmy’s whole body quivered with desire.

Much to his surprise, Patuk didn’t just rub his cheeks a bit and move on. A lot of masseurs did that. Instead one of those big, rough hands worked its way between his cheeks. Patuk grunted, but didn’t say anything.

Timmy moaned and blushed as Patuk’s finger teased the rim of his asshole. Timmy’s back arched. He wondered for the first time if Patuk’s machismo, his gruff exterior and his Indian stoicism masked homosexuality. He wasn’t sure — both Indian culture and Alaska itself were different than anything Timmy had known before, so he had no idea how gay men acted here. Maybe this was normal, he thought.

Timmy was so relaxed that when Patuk turned him over, it was like dead weight. He just flipped Timmy onto his back. Timmy’s lean, pale body trembled, his bare dick sticking straight up. Patuk frowned as though he had expected to see a vagina.

Then before Timmy could say anything, Patuk kneeled between his legs and swallowed his dick. His dark eyes flashed upward at Timmy, who moaned. Patuk’s craggy face vibrated as he licked Timmy’s shaft and produced copious spit.

There was something almost machine-like about Patuk’s blowjob, Timmy thought, like he had scientifically determined the best way to get Timmy off and was now following through on the plan. Timmy writhed, his climax already approaching even as he leaked his first drops of precum.

But before he could cum, Timmy guided Patuk’s head down. Patuk licked Timmy’s shaft and then suckled on each ball in turn. He licked Timmy’s smooth sac (Timmy shaved his crotch bald every week) and the first hint of a smile appeared on his face.

Seeing his dark eyes only reminded Timmy how shocking this was. Patuk was as straight-acting as any man Timmy had ever seen. He had rough skin and ropy muscles; he wasn’t hairy, he was too Indian for that, but he had a swarthy complexion, and a few colorful tattoos covering his chest and back. Most prominent was a large eagle — not a bald eagle, but some other kind Timmy didn’t quite recognize — whose wings outstretched from his back, up over his shoulder, to end over his heart.

His mouth moved back up to Timmy’s cock, and he sucked with fervor and abandon. Spit dribbled past his lips and down Timmy’s shaft, pooling there on this bare balls. Patuk let out a low, slow growl, not loud or even especially passionate, but in comparison with his otherwise silent demeanor, it was a compelling sound that made Timmy shudder with anticipation.

“What, uh…-?” Timmy intended to ask what is this? But his mind was distracted by pleasure coursing through his veins, and he couldn’t form the last half of his sentence. It didn’t matter, he thought, since Patuk didn’t seem likely to answer anyway.

Then Patuk pulled off his cock. He looked at it like it was his final meal, and licked its shaft as he stroked it. He spat onto his hand for lubrication — he didn’t spit like a gay man, Timmy thought, he spat like a baseball player or a redneck.

“I, uh… I can’t pay you for this-“

“I am not prostitute,” Patuk said. He glared at Timmy. Despite that, his tone was flat, with no indications that he was offended.

“Oh. Okay, it’s just-“

“I am not prostitute,” he repeated, this time sounding angry enough that Timmy gulped and fell silent.

Patuk climbed up onto the massage table with more limberness than his big body suggested. His broad muscles barely fit up there, but he easily stood around Timmy’s body. He continued to glare right into Timmy’s eyes as though frustrated, and one of his hands wrapped around Timmy’s throat.

For a moment, Timmy panicked. Maybe this was a case of gay rage, he thought, and Patuk was going to kill him because he knew that Patuk was gay. But that didn’t seem likely — ‘masseur’ was hardly the ideal job for someone who wanted to accentuate his heterosexuality, and in any case, Timmy knew Indian culture approved of gays. It didn’t make any sense for an Indian masseur to be a self-hating gay.

“I am not prostitute,” he said again, this time squeezing Timmy’s neck just a little bit. He hovered above Timmy’s crotch, his tight brown ass resting there. Timmy’s dick spasmed and jerked as though trying to find a hole to penetrate.

“Oh, uh, okay,” Timmy said. “I’m gay. I’m sure you figured that out. I, uh… it’s okay to be gay. There’s nothing wrong with that.” Shut up, Timmy, you’re babbling.

Patuk nodded as though he had been waiting to hear that. He leaned in closer, keeping his hand on Timmy’s neck, and kissed him on the lips. He was still crouched over Timmy’s body, his flexible limbs stretching to reach Timmy’s face.

Hesitating, Timmy clutched Patuk’s back, savoring the feel of the corded muscle like coiled rope, and he fingered that eagle tattoo. Then he thrust his tongue into Patuk’s mouth. They both moaned together, though Patuk’s was a low, barely audible sound that made Timmy’s back shudder.

Then he lowered himself down, letting his ass land right on Timmy’s cock. Timmy moaned as his dick disappeared inside the big Indian, who closed his eyes and moaned, the first sound he had made since this began.

Patuk’s craggy face winced a little in pain, but he mainly remained stony as he rode Timmy’s dick. He stroked himself off as well, until Timmy took over, playing with Patuk’s dick with one hand and hefting his balls with the other.

He was uncut, which Timmy liked. He wondered if that was normal for Native Americans. Timmy stretched out the man’s foreskin and played with his sensitive head, which made Patuk writhe above him. Patuk’s muscles flexed all at once.

The first few drops of Patuk’s precum dribbled down Timmy’s hand. He brought his fingers to his mouth to suck on them, only for Patuk to beat him to it. In the end they both sucked Timmy’s hand clean, as Patuk’s heavy balls dragged on Timmy’s smooth belly.

There was a knock on the door, and Timmy gasped. He held his breath.

A Japanese woman’s voice filtered through the doorway. “Patuk? Patuk? Do you have a client in there?”

His voice was clipped and strained, whether from pain and pleasure at being penetrated, or from annoyance at being interrupted, Timmy didn’t know. He scowled. “Yes,” Patuk said.

There was a long pause. Timmy wondered if the Japanese woman knew what was going on in here, or suspected it at least. Maybe that was why it took her a long time to answer.

“Mrs. Donnelly is here,” the woman said. “She said she has a massage scheduled with you,”


“She asked me to make sure you have… uh-“


“The coconut oil, and uh… She asked if you did your tongue stretches. Maybe that was a joke? She laughed-“

“Yes, Kimo, that is fine. Tell her I will be ready shortly,” Patuk said. “Tell her to prepare herself. She will know what that means.”

The Japanese woman outside waited a long time before leaving, without saying another word. Patuk looked momentarily embarrassed. Timmy had trouble focusing with the pleasure of his cock throbbing in Patuk’s tight ass — but Timmy did realize what was going on: Patuk must have sex with all of his clients, or at least many of them, apparently including at least one woman.

“Are you, uh… going to have sex with her?”

Patuk didn’t answer, but from the stoic stare he produced, Timmy suspected the answer was yes. Was he embarrassed because it made him look like a slut? Or because it made him look bisexual? Or some other reason.

As Patuk began lifting his hips again, using his entire body to ram his ass up and down on Timmy’s dick, Timmy felt the man’s erect nipples. They kissed again, and Timmy stroked Patuk’s hard cock.

“Are you going to be able to cum again? With her, I mean?” Timmy asked just because he wondered if he was only going to eat her out — maybe that was why she had asked about his tongue. But he was too aroused to be articulate, so his point wasn’t clear.

Regardless, Patuk didn’t answer. He put his hand back around Timmy’s throat and growled, “Stop talking. I will do my job.”

Timmy didn’t need to be told twice — he didn’t want Patuk to get annoyed and stop. In any case, his climax approached and Timmy moaned. His balls crawled up in sac, as his hand in Patuk’s crotch felt his balls do the same.

They both finally reached orgasm at once. Timmy had an animated reaction. He blushed and gasped; he yelped; he bit his tongue so hard he drew blood; his fingers clenched into claws that clutched at Patuk’s nipples and the tattoo of an eagle that hovered above his heart. Patuk threw his head back, his long hair flowing in front of his face. The crags of his cheeks and chin shook as they both vibrated in sync with each other.

The sound that emanated from Timmy’s mouth was so loud he was sure the Japanese masseuses heard it, but nobody responded outside the room. Timmy writhed, his throat clenched as the most powerful orgasm of his life wracked his mind and body.

“Oh, god, Patuk!”

Hot cum coated Patuk’s insides just as Patuk’s own load sprayed right over Timmy’s chest and mouth. The flavor of his juice coated Timmy’s tongue, and he licked enthusiastically, getting every drop that he could. His muscles flexed all at once, while Patuk’s entire body rippled, from his stoic face down to his tattooed chest and trunk-like thighs. His smooth flesh was dappled in sweat, and a loud euh jumped out of his throat — it wasn’t much, but Timmy suspected it was as powerful an orgasm as Patuk had had in a long time.

Then Patuk pulled himself off. He stretched as he got down off the massage table. He walked stiffly to the counter, where he withdrew a tissue and wiped his ass clean. His powerful cheeks jiggled and he threw the used tissue in a trash can. Then he frowned at Timmy.

“You are done,” he said. He crossed his arms over his chest, accentuating his pecs and that eagle tattoo, which rippled as his skin shifted. His bare cock shimmered with remnants of his cumload. Timmy got up, intending to put his clothes back on, but found himself sinking to his knees in front of Patuk.

It was just because he was so used to being a bottom, Timmy felt he needed to worship that cock. He hadn’t even tasted it. He kissed the tip, and licked it down to the root. Patuk sneered a little as though surprised, maybe a bit annoyed at the delay.

“You are done. The massage is complete.”

“Oh… okay,” Timmy said. “Well, that was… uh, good..” This has been a sudden transition, he thought. He was still feeling aftershocks from his orgasm as he hurriedly put on his pants. He could feel Patuk’s awkward stare, glaring at him for not getting his clothes on quickly enough. Timmy was unsure of what had just happened. “Was, uh… was that okay? Is that what you always do?”

Patuk scowled. “You have your massage, sir. Please leave.”

“Oh, I just-“ Timmy started towards the door. His pants were on, but he still carried his shoes and his socks, and his shirt was draped over his shoulders.

“Hush. You may return if you wish,” Patuk said. “Ask for Patuk.” He shoved Timmy outside and slammed the door shut. Timmy was so shocked he stood there for a moment, then headed towards the front door.

Mrs. Donnelly, Patuk is ready to see you now.

Mrs. Donnelly was a plump, yet still attractive white woman with dark hair and a thick ass. Timmy was sure that was who she was because she hurried back as soon as the clerk said her name, and she had a slightly embarrassed blush on her face as though wondering if everyone here knew what went on in the backroom.

He smiled. He was so surprised by what had happened that he hadn’t noticed until now that his shoulders felt better. He grinned. He’d have to get another massage from Patuk next time his shoulders felt that way. He was glad he’d found a good masseur here in Anchorage.

And you thought this town would be boring…

Twink on Top: Seven Minutes in Hillbilly Heaven

Here’s a sample from Twink on Top: Seven Minutes in Hillbilly Heaven, a brand-new story of twink-topping turpitude!


Lyle didn’t want to go to the party, but it was being thrown in his honor, so he couldn’t really refuse. The Dixie Arms Gang had lit a big bonfire by the time he got there, and they were all shotgunning beers — they hadn’t been allowed to drink while they were on house arrest, so now they were making up for lost time.

To Lyle, it was bittersweet. He was a lawyer who was proud of his success in getting all of the charges dropped. On the other hand, he knew they were guilty. They had beat a man so badly he spent ten months in the hospital. On the other hand, the state of Oklahoma had been unable to prove it, so he didn’t regret getting them off. That was his job, after all, and he was good at it.

Congratulations, man!

My girl’s pussy thanks ya!

Someone handed him a beer, and Lyle sipped it. He refused to chug beers, even as they chanted otherwise. He blushed as they all clapped him on the back. These men were big, strong rednecks — at best, they were rednecks, Lyle thought, they were the kind of men his mother would have uncharitably called hicks.

“Come on, man, drink it!” Hawthorn yelled, and the others echoed him. Hawthorn was the youngest, only nineteen, so he was technically still not allowed to drink even now that they were off house arrest. Despite that, he tossed an empty beer can on the empty pile and grabbed two more. He gave one to Lyle and kept the other for himself.

Chug it! Chug it!

“Hey, so… uh…” Yoder sidled up to Lyle, shooing his friends away and telling them to stop pestering him. Yoder was the leader of the Dixie Arms guys, but he was also the quietest and softest-spoken of the gang of rednecks. He had trouble being loud enough to ask his question over the hooting of the men, who were now taking turns on a three-wheeler. The engine was impossibly loud. Finally Yoder leaned in so close his handsome face was right next to Lyle’s ear. “So, uh… How gay is you?”

Lyle was just drunk enough to giggle at that question. “Very,” he said. Then without thinking about it, he kissed Yoder on the lips. Yoder shrank back amid the laughter and shocked gasps from the other rednecks. For a moment, Lyle thought someone was going to hit him, but Yoder smiled — it hadn’t been much of a kiss, after all, just a dry peck on the lips.

Yoder pointed to the only three girls at the party. They were hot, in a slutty redneck way, and they lounged in one corner as though waiting. They wore skimpy outfits that showed off their tits and ass, and they each had trashy tattoos on their lower back.

“You wanna fuck one of them? Or all three?”

Lyle shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “Not interested. Too gay for that.”

“I told you guys!” Yoder called out to the others. Most of them had moved on and were trying to get the three-wheeler unstuck from a muddy ditch it couldn’t extricate itself from, so the bonfire was suddenly quiet enough for an ordinary conversation.

A burst of chatter hit the guys around the bonfire. Lyle didn’t hear what they were saying because everyone spoke at once, but he realized they had argued over whether he was gay or bisexual, and whether he would be interested in the girls. It sounded like a few of the guys had refused to believe that he might be so gay as to refuse sex with hot chicks.

“My cousin’s gay,” Yoder said. “I could call him cuz you’d probably like fuckin’ him, he’s a cute little twink like you. But I don’t think he’s in town.”

“I don’t, uh… I mean, I don’t need sex right now,” Lyle said. “It’s not a big deal. You don’t owe me anything. You already paid me for my services.”

“I ain’t tryin’-a pay you,” Yoder said. “I’m trying-a congratulate you.” He sneered as though Lyle should have known the difference.

“Let ‘im fuck you, Yoder!” said someone else, laughing as though it was a huge joke. “You’s the one who had the most to lose.”

That was true — Yoder had faced some extra charges because he was in charge of the beatdown, and the bloody bat had been found in his trailer here in the Dixie Arms Trailer Park. But Yoder looked horrified at the thought.

“He don’t wanna fuck me,” Yoder said. “Queers don’t like rednecks. Right?”

“Uh…?” Lyle was too drunk to treat it as a reasonable question. He laughed so hard his face turned red. “No, Yoder. You’re wrong about that. I think every one of you is sexy.”

“Really? We was gonna let you swing on some dick if you wanted, but we thought you’d want some willowy queer,” Yoder said.

“You thought that, Yoder.”

Yoder shrugged. “Well, fine, pick someone to suck off,” he said. “Ain’t no one here gonna take no dick, but a mouth is a mouth, right guys?”

Lyle was astonished. He would have never thought these rednecks would agree to something like that — they had made it clear they were opposed to homosexuality. They had gotten permission to attend a anti-gay marriage rally while on house arrest; Lyle had had to argue to the judge that it was protected political activity.

Hawthorn, that young fresh-faced hillbilly, giggled and blushed. “Seven Minutes in Heaven! We should play Seven Minutes in Heaven with him!” he blurted out a few times until the others heard. He was a husky baby-faced redneck, with a literal red neck and scruffy chin like he only just gained enough facial hair to shave and was growing a beard because he finally could. “Seven Minutes in Heaven!”

What are we, middle-schoolers?

Shut the fuck up, Hawthorn.

“What’s Seven Minutes in Heaven?” Lyle had never heard of it, but it seemed that he was the only one.

Despite most of the rednecks saying no and telling Hawthorn it was a stupid game for teenagers, they all apparently accepted his idea. Lyle had no idea what he was talking about, as the rednecks all formed a tight circle near the bonfire.

Yoder explained, “So this is a game, we normally play it with just the girls, or we used to play it in high school,” he said. “It’s stupid, a kid’s game. We don’t do it no more.” But despite his words, they got ready to play, Yoder included. The girls joined the circle as well. “It’s basically Spin-the-Bottle but rather than just kiss, you have to go in the fuck-trailer-“ he pointed to an uninhabited trailer next to the bonfire, “for seven minutes.”

“And we… have sex?”

“Or whatever,” Yoder said. “You don’t have to. It ain’t a rape trailer. But if someone refuses, I’ll call him a pussy and I won’t let him fuck my females anymore.” The other guys hooted and moaned as though that punishment was beyond the pale.

Even you, Yoder?

Yoder nodded grimly. “Even me, man. It’s just a blowjob, or whatever. Nobody’s gotta bottom for the queer. Just let ‘im taste yer nut. Ain’t a big deal. We all spent a night in lockup-” He stopped because the other guys clapped and coughed over him as though they had all promised not to speak of whatever had happened there.

Someone put the bottle in Lyle’s hand. If he weren’t tipsy, he would have declined — Lyle wasn’t into anonymous sex, and he could get in trouble with the Bar Association for having sex with a client, even a former client. But he spun the bottle anyway.

Not me! Not me!

Hey, after the queer, let’s keep going, we got three girls, that’s nine holes to fill!

It almost landed on one of the girls, but just barely managed to rotate to the next person in the circle. Hawthorn. Lyle’s heart started pounding — if he had thought rationally about it, Hawthorn would be exactly whom he would have picked. But this was all happening so fast that Lyle didn’t even think about his ideal first choice before it was all done.

“Makes sense, it was your idea,” Yoder said over the hooting laughter. The others laughed and catcalled at Hawthorn, who blushed beet-red. Somebody smacked him on the ass as he walked towards the trailer. He had a nice phat ass, and his cheeks rippled as his friends tapped him on the ass. He bristled like he was uncomfortable with it, but didn’t complain.

“I don’t even care, I’ll let some queer swing on my dick,” Hawthorn said. He grabbed his overflowing crotch-bulge as he stood in the threshold of the trailer, then entered. His confidence disappeared entirely once he was in the trailer. He made eye contact with Lyle and winced as though it was painful.

Hawthorn was a tall, beefy young man, with broad shoulders and a barrel-shaped body. He had been a linebacker on his high school football team. He had peachfuzz on his cheek and his chest — visible under the wifebeater he wore — and a thick mop of blond hair on his head. He had a powerful body beneath his layer of padding, which was just thick enough. He had the physique of an athlete who had never watched what he ate, so his perfect frame was concealed by a layer of sexy plumpness. He smelled of sweat and cheap deodorant, a scent that made Lyle’s dick get hard in his pants.

Twink on Top: The Cartel Bodyguard

Here’s a sample from Twink on Top: The Cartel Bodyguard, which is about… a cartel bodyguard with a twink on top of him!

Rico wasn’t told about things that didn’t concern him or his life. That was almost everything that happened. As the youngest of seven brothers, Rico was used to being the small, weak one, especially since his family ran the Cartel Noveno here in northeastern Mexico. His brothers and father had built the cartel out of nothing, and had created a multibillion dollar empire with operations in seven countries.

Even though Rico had never had the machismo or the knowhow to get involved, he still lived on the cartel’s compound. Nothing else was safe. He admitted that even if he hated it. He wanted more than anything to have a normal life.

The fact that he was gay made him even more removed from cartel culture. The men who worked for his family were all straight. There was no official rule against hiring gays, but it didn’t happen, at least not here at the compound. The men here were tough, muscular cholos who never smiled or danced or wore colorful clothes. Rico was allowed to go out, as long as he went to safe places (not nightclubs) and he brought his bodyguards with him.

Rico did not like having bodyguards or limitations on his travel. He had to admit it was justified though. The one time he ditched his bodyguards for a night of fun had ended up being disastrous — he was kidnapped and had to be rescued after being tortured for hours. There really were rivals waiting at any moment to pounce on him.

So he left the compound increasingly rarely. He was getting frustrated and angry, and he frequently shouted at his brothers for minor complaints. They treated him like a yapping dog they weren’t allowed to punish.

“You need to get laid, hermano,” was the sum total of their response to his outbursts. They seemed to think all problems could be solved by pussy, and they didn’t entirely accept that he was gay — they still sent him female prostitutes every couple of months, just to see if he had changed his mind. Then they’d send him some trashy twink with tired eyes and platinum hair, whom Rico would fuck more out of boredom than genuine desire.

Since the compound was safe, Rico’s bodyguards were not always right near him when he was home. They hung around and followed when he left the compound. So when he got a new bodyguard, he didn’t always know it right away; he just noticed a new large man hanging around and refusing to go away.

Octavio was one such bodyguard. He was tall, burly, broad-shouldered, hairy, more of a rough and ugly-type than most of the charming thugs who made it onto the compound — Rico’s brothers were smooth, smiling types, and they insisted their workers be the same. The one exception they made was for bodyguards, for whom big and brutish were the ideal traits. Octavio was ideal by those criteria, with plenty of swagger, a barrel-shaped chest and hair covering his body. Rico had rarely been so aroused. He wasn’t even normally into bears, or at least not such extreme bears, but Octavio was incredibly sexy.

Rico changed into his bathrobe in his bedroom, then sat down to pretend to read. Octavio was the only bodyguard in the room right now. Rico checked him out from behind — Octavio was facing the window that looked out into the cartel’s courtyard and the Mexican desert beyond. His ass filled out his low-hanging tan pants, and made Rico’s mouth water.

“Octavio, did you fuck Morales?”

Octavio winced at the question. He turned around and made eye contact with Rico, but he didn’t answer. His muscles roiled as anxiety shot through him, and he frowned. He came closer. Morales was a cartel smuggler who had gotten fucked by a bunch of cholos after messing up a major operation — that was how Cartel Noveno punished those whose incompetence harmed the entire organization. Rico wished his brothers had told him about it beforehand so he could watch, but even though they always promised to do so, they never did. Octavio nodded.

“What did you do to him? Did you fuck him in the ass or the mouth?” Rico asked. He made his voice as feminine as possible — that was easy, he knew he had a girlish voice. But he wanted to make Octavio as comfortable as possible.

“Both,” Octavio said, his voice a low, rumbling growl. He grabbed at his crotch, then blushed like he hadn’t meant to turn Rico on. His cock was briefly outlined by the fabric.

Rico unzipped Octavio’s pants, giggling at his growl, which was equal parts displeased and horny. It sounded like he was glad to get a blowjob, and he just wanted to pretend he had to be pushed into it — not that Rico planned on stopping there. Octavio’s hips flexed just slightly as though he fought off an instinctual urge to hump. He pulled out Octavio’s big uncut cock, which had a rooster tattooed on the shaft.

“Cockle-doodle-doo,” Rico said with a laugh.

Twink on Top: The Drill Sergeant and the Marine Corps Cadet

Here’s another new one in the Twink on Top series, this time it’s Twink on Top: The Drill Sergeant and the Marine Corps Cadet!


The Megillah was even more difficult to get right this year. Every year, Tim found that he struggled a bit more to get the pronunciation right, and the rhythm of it — he didn’t speak Hebrew that well, much to his shame, and now that he no longer lived in Israel, he was losing his memory of the language. But every year during Purim, his family had him read the Megillah (which, dear gentile reader, is the same thing as the Book of Esther, part of the Tanakh — and your Old Testament — whose recitation during the holy season of Purim is required for observant Jews; Purim is a March holiday that commemorated the Jews’ deliverance from certain genocide in the ancient Persian Empire). It was a sort of family tradition.

If Tim had gotten married and had a child or two, his family would have had his kid begin reading the Megillah, or at least a few brief segments of it as he learned Hebrew. But Tim was openly gay, and he had no desire for a child. So it remained his increasingly-awkward duty to recite the Megillah every year.

There was a knock on the door. Tim sighed and went to see who it was — if it was his NRA-loving, conservative neighbor with another Huckabee pamphlet, he was going to file a harassment complaint. He had promised himself that before as well, but he didn’t like to make waves, and it was always simpler just to take him at his word that he wouldn’t be back.

But it wasn’t that neighbor at all, it was the neighbor from the house on the other side, Sergeant Jeffers. He was from Camp Pendleton, the Marine Corps training facility here in San Diego. While Sergeant Jeffers was not exactly “nice”, he was always polite; Tim rather liked him.

It helped, of course, that Sergeant Jeffers was a big burly bear of a man, with muscles and a square jaw and so much swagger that Tim nearly came in his pants the first time he had spied Jeffers lifting weights shirtless in his backyard. Today he was here, bright and early in the morning, with a younger man in tow.

The younger man was just as sexy as Jeffers, and arguably even more sexy in a classic sense — he had a Hollywood-handsome dimpled face, kind eyes and it was apparent he sported a six-pack under his t-shirt. Sergeant Jeffers was a bit older, with a few tinges of gray in his crewcut, and while he still had the body of a Marine, it showed notable wear and tear. The younger cadet was smooth, pert and taut, with dark hair and skin, an olive complexion and deep, dark eyes.

As Tim opened the door, he realized the younger man looked like a cadet — he wore a crew-cut, and a faded green t-shirt with short shorts, both of which appeared to be Marine Corps-issued. They were wrinkled as though he had been roused from bed early in the morning to come here.

“Shalom, Mr. Cohen,” Sergeant Jeffers said. “This is Cadet Pucci. He has a favor to ask you. May we come in?”

“Uh… I suppose,” Tim said. He led them into his living room, where they both sat down. The situation was tense — Sergeant Jeffers appeared angry, enough so that Tim wondered if he had done something wrong. Cadet Pucci, however, looked upset and a bit guilty, as though it was he who had done something wrong. Tim felt small and girlish in comparison to these two hulking brutes; that wasn’t surprising, since Tim was, in fact, a small and girlish twink. He had resigned himself to that some time ago. No matter how much Tim thought bears were sexier, he was never going to be big and bulky like these two. He cleared his throat. “A favor? I’m sorry, do I know you, Cadet… Pucci?”

Pucci shook his head. His face was worried, his dimples deep. He licked his lips. “I was askin’ Sarge here, man, I was-“ He stopped talking and winced as Sergeant Jeffers cleared his throat. Cadet Pucci started again, his voice stilted and awkward. “Good morning, sir. I was hoping I could get your assistance this morning. I am a cadet at Camp Pendleton and I need a day off-“

“The fuck you do!” Sergeant Jeffers barked.

Cadet Pucci again blanched and looked down at his feet. “I don’t need a day off. I want one. I’m a lazy guido bastard,” he said, looking to Jeffers as though expecting him to confirm it — he nodded his assent to Pucci’s words. Then Pucci continued. “I already had some leave, two weeks ago. And I met this girl. She was beautiful, you wouldn’t even believe it, she-“ Pucci stopped himself as though he just realized that Tim was gay. He cleared his throat. “Well, she was hot. And she’s moving to Georgia, so tonight is the last time I might see her. And I asked my sergeant if I could move a day of leave up. I wouldn’t even have to miss any training, I could leave at night-“

“Tell him why I said no,” Sergeant Jeffers said gruffly. He placed one hand on Cadet Pucci’s shoulder and squeezed.

“I… I have not always been followin’ the rules,” Cadet Pucci said. “I snuck out before. That was just to get laid though. I didn’t love that girl.”

“You don’t love any girl,” Sergeant Jeffers said.

“I do!” Cadet Pucci said with a blush. He looked to Tim. “And anyway, Sergeant Jeffers said I had to prove I loved her and I wasn’t just after sex.”

“I may be a hardass, but I ain’t gonna stand in the way of true love,” Sergeant Jeffers said, mockingly wiping a tear from his eye. “Cadet Pucci skipped over a few details. He tried to sneak out for trim four times — that I know of. I caught him each time, so he been skatin’ on very thin ice for some time. He has been one mouthy fuck since the day his Italian ass got here.”

“So… uh,” Cadet Pucci said. “If you want… you don’t have to, Mr. Cohen. But, uh, if you want… we could, y’know, fuck.”

“What?” Tim was shocked — he had thought Cadet Pucci was going to ask for a ride, or for help finding the local girl, something like that. He had no idea sex was in the cards.

“He’ll do anything you want, Mr. Cohen,” Sergeant Jeffers said. “I want to see how devoted he is to this girl. Plus as long as he gets his rocks off now, I’ll now he ain’t motivated by overflowing balls neither.” He looked at Pucci and nodded. “Go on, tell him.”

Twink on Tops: Cellmates

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Twink on Tops: Cellmates, a new Brutewood Medium-Security book!


Quinn didn’t feel like a prison punk, but that was apparently what everyone saw him as. Last night, in the dimness of his cell, surrounded by the sheets Thumper had tacked up for privacy, Quinn felt like Thumper’s boyfriend. That was the impression he got, though Thumper didn’t actually label the relationship. Thumper had even given him a reacharound when he fucked, but had made him promise not to tell anyone.

Now, on his first full day behind bars, Quinn found himself sitting at the end of the table with the other Nine Tats — but he was at the very end, with a few other skinny white boys like himself, all of whom had the hang-dog look of a low man on the prison totem pole.

They didn’t talk as they ate, and they all ate as though it was going out of style, or they were afraid someone was going to take their food. Quinn felt like he could still hold his head high, but he tried to keep it down anyway. He was still new to Brutewood Prison, so he didn’t want to get himself in trouble with anyone. Luckily for him, he had come to realize that his prison cellmate (and husband), Thumper, was a high-ranking thug who was widely respected and/or feared. That meant Quinn was safe.

It seemed Quinn was the only openly gay man here, he thought, which might be an advantage. Thumper certainly seemed to like it, when he had found out. He said he was overjoyed to have a “faggot for a cellmate”. Quinn knew he should have been offended, but he was just happy not to be beat up.

“Yo, punk!” Thumper said to Quinn from the other end of the table, startling him from his reverie. “Gimme yo’ peaches.”

At first Quinn had no idea what he was saying, then realized he wanted the canned peaches on Quinn’s breakfast tray. Quinn didn’t even really like peaches, so he wasn’t upset to give them up. He really didn’t like being seen as Thumper’s punk, but if that was the price of safety, he was willing to pay it. Thumper had promised not to do anything he didn’t want to do inside the cell.

Besides that, Thumper was ungodly sexy, so there wasn’t much Quincy would ever want to decline. He was a middle-aged thug and former boxer, with cornrows and chest hair tinged with gray. He had a big barrel-shaped torso and a scruffy mien to his round face. His nose and ears showed signs of his pro boxing career, and his husky voice sounded like he been breathing stale cigarette-clogged prison air his entire life (which he very nearly had). Quinn would have loved the idea of sharing a cell with him if it were an occasional special event, not an actual prison sentence.

The other thugs laughed at Quinn’s weakness as he walked away, peachless. By then breakfast was over. Thumper scarfed down the peaches, then put one arm possessively around Quinn’s back. He led them both into line, Quinn in front of Thumper, whose fingers danced up and down Quinn’s spine.

Then Quinn straightened his back as a sharp pain erupted in his ass — Thumper had put his middle finger in. He just slipped his hand down the back of Quinn’s pants and rammed his finger inside. Quinn gasped and instinctively clutched the well-muscled torso of the thug in front of him for support as his knees buckled.

“Quit it, don’t attract attention, punk,” Thumper said. He used his other hand to keep Quinn upright. The man whom Quinn bumped into scowled in a way that suggested he would have been punched Quinn if Thumper hadn’t been there.

Yo, Thumper takin’ control of his punk fo’ real.

That punk look like a female. Why does Thumper get all the girlie-boys?

Quinn walked in arduous pain all the way back the cell he shared with Thumper, though his dick got hard too. It was an arousing walk for three reasons: because of the finger in his ass, the public spectacle of it all and because that broad-shouldered young thug in front of Quinn had a sexy back, and was crammed in so tight that Quinn could taste his back fuzz. It wasn’t until they back to their cells that Thumper let go of his ass and pushed him onto the bottom bunk.

“Gonna fuck the shit outta you now,” Thumper said amid the hooting and encouraging catcalls of his niggas. (Gonna fuck yo’ punk now, Thumper? Make ‘im scream fo’ me, nigga!) He closed the sheet he used as a curtain, so once again he and Quinn had privacy. Thumper smiled at Quinn in a way that was either menacing or kind; it was impossible to tell which.

Quinn was nervous. Was it possible Thumper was going to beat him up? Quinn enjoyed a certain level of aggression in sex, but this was potentially dangerous. Why couldn’t Thumper remain the reacharound-loving thug he had been last night?

(Hey Thumper’s punk, is he in you yet?! Huh? Tell me when he’s in ya, punk!)

“Sorry ‘bout all that,” Thumper said with a seductive growl. He put his ass-stinked finger in his own mouth and sucked it clean. Quinn’s dick instantly got hard, and he was so shocked by Thumper’s willingness to suck Quinn’s assjuice that he didn’t have a response. Thumper smiled. “Remember what I said last night? Outside this sheet, you my punk. Inside it, you my wife.”

“I uh… Yeah, I remember that,” Quinn said. He had forgotten, and in any case, he didn’t know Thumper meant it so literally — Thumper had said he wouldn’t acknowledge Quinn as his wife outside the cell; Quinn hadn’t heard anything about being called a punk. But being a slim, young-looking and girlish gay man, a cute lean twink and rave-loving club kid, in a Brutewood prison, Quinn had certainly never expected to have a manly reputation. He could handle the teasing if he was sure he’d be safe.

Thumper kissed him on the lips, his tongue shoving in Quinn’s mouth. Quinn was still so surprised he didn’t kiss back right away, then he wrapped his hands around Thumper’s broad shoulders. He pulled Thumper onto the thin mattress with him, and they squeezed to fit there together.

Love and Indigo

This is a sample from Love and Indigo, a new gay erom from Brutewood Plantations. This is quite possibly the only gay interracial black/Native American historical erotica on the market!

There were brilliant blue flowers as far as the eye could see. Each row of indigo plants was equal in size and growth and every other way, but Walter could tell exactly where he was even though he had been wandering for hours. He didn’t even know how long it had been, but he recognized this field.

He wasn’t on Master Martin’s plantation anymore. He was on Appleberry Farms, owned by Master Jeffries. Walter rather wished he was owned by Master Jeffries, who was much kinder than Master Martin.

If that had been the case, Walter thought, none of this would have probably happened. On Appleberry Farms, he had heard, no one was whipped, or coerced into marriage or church of any kind. That sounded preferable to Walter.

But he had to stop ruminating. He stood in the middle of a field, trying to decide what to do. Could he go back there? To those men who had tortured him so? To that shrill harridan Melissa?

She was his wife, technically, or maybe not, he thought, since the marriage had never been consummated. That’s what started all this, just last week. He and Melissa were wed, against his and her strenuous objections.

Then, much to Walter’s humiliation, he was unable to perform with Melissa. He was not surprised by it, but he was humiliated. The other slaves made fun of him mercilessly, and Master Martin had had him whipped, and said he would be again for every night he was unable to live up to his husbandly duties.

And so Walter limped away. There was nothing to do now, he thought, but take his chances on the road north. If he made it to Pennsylvania, he’d be free.

He set off into the woods. He knew it would be at least a day or two before Master Martin sent anyone after him. Walter was prone to wandering, and Master Martin had told him to get his head on straight, not to come back until he figured out what it meant to be a man. The idea that Walter would run away was unthinkable, so the dogs would not be set until it was too late. He just needed to avoid being captured.

Luckily he was well-versed in wood-lore — a skill taught by his Mama Henrietta, who was not his grandmother, but was rather a grandmother to the whole of the slaves of Master Martin’s plantation. She had passed on last year, but she knew early on what Walter was.

“You gunna hafta be wit’ a woman, sooner or later,” she had said on a couple of occasions, clucking her tongue and looking at him as though he had done a grave wrong. Walter didn’t know what she meant then, and she had refused to explain, but he knew now.

He simply did not like women. There were any number of slave boys he rather enjoyed tumbling around with, but they all preferred the company of women. They settled for him when Master Martin said the slaves were not “in estrus” (whatever that meant, Walter didn’t know, for he had always ignored it when the boys were told of sex and feminine matters). He found all of that unappealing, and girls both tedious and trite.

He was beginning to get nervous. He was well away from his home now, and outside of any part of the forest he had ever been. He was staying clear of the well trafficked areas, so he was deep in the dense woodland where no one ever went. It was reputed to be haunted by ghosts and Indians, but Walter didn’t believe in the former at all or in the latter in this area.

That night, Walter felt free for the first time in his life. He was scared of being caught, but he was entirely on his own — there was no one to help. It was a frightening realization. If he so much as badly stubbed a toe, it could be the end of him. That thought didn’t help him sleep one bit.

But sleep he somehow did, and he was so nervous and hungry he awoke early. He ate his last biscuit and set out. He drank from a stream and continued.

Soon he fell into a sort of rhythm. He remained alert, on edge with every step. He was acutely aware of everything around him.

The days stretched into weeks. He passed settlements on several occasions, but he was lucky in avoiding any real interactions. He was three weeks out before he passed anyone who saw him, and that was just one old slave who nodded at him with a knowing stare. Walter nodded back, but he didn’t slow down.

And then early one morning, Walter awoke to the realization that there was someone in his camp. A large shape loomed overhead.

His heart jumped up in his throat. Walter gasped. He assumed a fighting stance, only to find that the man sat peaceably on a log. He was carving a piece of wood into some sort of idol. He had long black hair, straight and strong, with high cheekbones and a noble, dark face.

“Hello,” he said. “You should not sleep so deep, Negro.” His voice had the distinctively halting lilt of the red man, and Walter breathed a sigh of relief. He could be fairly certain that an Indian man would not be a slavecatcher.

“Oh, oh, yes, I… uh, yeah. Right. Sure,” Walter said. He winced at his own weakness. This was exactly why the men of his plantation had turned on him — he was a weakling, a woman at heart. Any of the other male slaves would have punched the Indian to force him to submit as soon as they saw him in the campsite. Walter only blushed and kicked the dirt around..

“My name is Natapoke,” he said. “You will come with me. My people will give food and water. You will stay with me tonight.”

“Oh, I should really keep going. I don’t want to stay-“

“I say it in hospitable manner, but it is not request. It is not option,” he said. He narrowed his eyes to slits and growled at Walter. “This is Catawba land, Negro.”

“Okay, okay,” Walter said. “I’ll come. I’ll… take it as hospitality instead of kidnapping.”

Then a long awkward silence passed between them. The sun was just coming up, so Walter could barely make out Natapoke’s face, but he couldn’t see any emotions pass over him. Natapoke might as well have been a statue, sculpted to stare straight at him.

“Well?” Walter asked when the silence grew too great. “What are we-?”

“I will tell you when it is time to leave. We should not get there too early. The chief will not be awake if we go there now anyway,” Natapoke said.

“Oh. So we just wait here?”


“In silence?”

“Preferably. If you must talk, talk,” Natapoke said.

“Well… I dunno about must,” Walter said. “I don’t want to just sit here and do nothing. That’s awkward.”

“Then do something, I do not care. Just do not leave this campfire,” he said.

Walter gulped nervously. “That limits my options. None of the things I used to do to pass the time can be done-“

Natapoke scowled like he would have greatly preferred sitting in awkward silence. “What are those things? What do Negros do to pass the time?”

“Y’know, whatever, play games or something.”

“Games? Children play games.”

“Adults do too. I know Indians do. Y’all got a ball game-“

“That is sports. It is different. We are not doing the sports here and now.”

“Well, yeah, I know we can’t do it… Nevermind, you’re a real pain in the ass, Natapoke, you know that?”


“Maybe we should just sit here in silence. Ain’t nothin’ we could do together that I used to do with the other Negros.”

After a long pause, Natapoke looked directly at Walter. “What was it you used to do? What can you do with Negros but not an Indian?”

“Fornication,” Walter said. He hoped to shock Natapoke, maybe get him so confused or dismayed that Walter could get the jump on him. But Natapoke looked as though he had been expecting that answer.

“Fornication? You want to do sex?”


“We will do,” Natapoke said. “Get on side.” He laid on his side, ready to open his mouth and take Walter in, while putting his own groin near Walter’s head. He almost looked like he had been waiting for precisely this opportunity. Was Natapoke, like Walter, a man’s man? He seemed so tough and masculine that that was unlikely, but Walter didn’t know about Indians or what they believed about manhood.

Interracial coupling was so tightly forbidden that Walter hadn’t even thought about the possibility that Natapoke would be willing. Such things simply didn’t happen on the plantation. But that was different, he thought, because the only other race around were the white folks. He didn’t know that black and Indian sex was just as forbidden — he had a feeling it was also not allowed, but in this lonely moment in the early morning, he wanted nothing more than to do it. He wanted to feel safe and secure and loved, just like he had when he and his fellow slaves used to pass the lonely hours at night in each other’s arms.

He opened his mouth as he undid Natapoke’s leather britches. He had a long, uncut cock and straight pubic hair, which was strange to Walter — he had never seen anyone with straight pubic hair. He hadn’t even known that was possible.

When that throbbing cockshaft pushed into his mouth, Walter moaned, excited about the sex — his nervousness vanished, and he could have almost forgotten he wasn’t with one of his fellow Negroes. He instantly felt like he had known Natapoke for many years.

Then Walter moaned as his own cock disappeared down Natapoke’s throat. Natapoke must have been experienced at this, Walter thought, because he sucked expertly, his tongue slathering spit up and down Walter’s throbbing shaft.

“Oh god, man…” Walter said around the dickmeat in his throat. He gurgled merrily around it, savoring the salty flavor of Natapoke’s body. He had long had to pretend with his fellow slaves that he didn’t really want to do things like this, but with Natapoke, there was no pretension. It was obvious that Natapoke wanted to do it, and he didn’t care that Walter wanted to do it too.

Walter felt his orgasm approach a few minutes before it arrived. A part of him wanted to delay it as long as possible, but he wasn’t willing to disentangle himself from Natapoke’s ropy-muscled limbs, so he could do little but flail as cum sprayed into his new friend’s mouth.

At the same time, Natapoke’s balls crawled up in his sac, and he sprayed his own cumload. It was spicy and salty, creamy and thick, with a dewy taste, Walter thought — he tasted like the forest he guarded for his tribe. He moaned around the cum that coated his throat.

Then at last Natapoke pulled away. He grunted, heaving for breath, and his dark eyes flashed with passion as though he had never thought it would feel that good. He cleared his throat.

“That is nice. Negroes do that good.”

“Injuns got some skills too,” Walter said. He sat up, then without giving it a second thought, leaned in and kissed Natapoke. It was only when their lips touched that Walter realized he might be crossing a line — there were plenty of slaves who did sex willingly but would have punched him into the ground if he tried to kiss.

Happily, it seemed Natapoke was not like that. He kissed Walter back, and they lay there in each other’s arms until the sun was fully overhead. It was relaxing enough that Walter could forget that he was an escaped slave, that his life might be forfeit if he was caught, and that Natapoke was holding him prisoner; he forgot all that, and remembered only how perfect the world felt next to Natapoke’s smooth body.

Twink on Top: The Redneck and the Barn

Here’s a sample from another new story, Twink on Top: The Redneck and the Barn, a hot tale of hillbilly farmworker action!


Charlie hurried out the back door of the farmhouse. The sun was shining and it was hot, humid, the air so thick it was like a woolen blanket. Charlie made sure his father didn’t see him, but he had snuck out like this nearly every evening for some time. He knew he had an hour while the cook finished the farmworkers’ dinner.

The barn — the one everyone called the South Barn even though a different barn had been built further south — was a dingy red wooden structure. Many of the slats had separated from each other enough that Charlie could hunker down behind a large rock in the back of the barn. There, he could peer into the barn where the farmhands bathed. There was a large basin of warm, soapy water. He got there just in time to watch them strip their sweat-soaked clothes off, talking and laughing and shooting the shit. He couldn’t quite hear their words today, but he saw one grab his bare manhood and wag it at the others as though threatening to beat them with it.

His dick stiffened in his pants, even though Charlie now saw that his favorite, Robert, wasn’t there. He was disappointed, but the half-dozen other men were attractive enough — Robert often had extra duties to attend to, so he sometimes didn’t bathe with the others. Charlie felt a twinge of guilt as he began rubbing his dick, peering closely at the naked men and their soap-drenched bodies.

“I knew it, boi,” Robert said, his deep voice booming behind Charlie.

Charlie jumped out of his skin. His heart sank as he turned around, cock pulsating in his fingers. Robert stood there shirtless, wearing just his denim pants and thick boots. His broad shoulders dripped with sweat, and the dark hair on his chest was matted to his muscles. He was a great big bear of a man, with biceps as thick as Charlie’s head — that was why he often had special duties to attend to, because he was the strongest man on the farm (and probably the whole county).

“Robert! I-“

He put one of his heavy hands on Charlie’s shoulder and squeezed. Charlie fell silent. As always when he was touched by Robert, Charlie felt a surge of desire. He shuddered, embarrassed at how obvious his feelings must have been. His manhood stirred in his pants at the sight of Robert’s body and the feel of his touch.

“I ain’t nevuh say nothin’ on account of yer pa. I got great respect fo’ him. I’d never tell him his son is a queer.”

Charlie blushed. “I don’t know about that-“

“You’s eighteen, boi. You must know if’n you like girls or not,” Robert said. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it if you don’t.”

“I don’t, uh… I don’t know if I like boys either.”

“Well, let me show you,” Robert said. “We’ll figure it out.” He sunk to his knees, which put his head just below Charlie’s — Robert was more than six and a half feet tall, so he towered over Charlie normally. Then, much to Charlie’s shock, Robert leaned in and kissed him.

His tongue planted itself in Charlie’s mouth, crowding out his own tongue. Charlie gripped Robert’s biceps for support, and again felt a surge of sexual desire at how thick and rock-hard they were. His body was slick with sweat, which Charlie tasted on his scruffy lips as well.

“Are you… queer?” Charlie asked when he pulled away.

Robert shrugged. “Nah,” he said. “I’m what the vaqueros call uno hombre, but I’ll make an exception for you on account of my respect for your father. You know what that means?”

“Father doesn’t allow me to speak to the Mexicans,” Charlie said. He blushed. The Mexican vaqueros who came through the farm a few times a year where rough-and-tumble men who often brought with them their own prostitutes. Charlie also snuck down to watch them by the fire, sticking their dicks in the same cum-oozing snatch over and over. It was both disgusting and erotic for Charlie.

“An hombre is a man who… penetrates another man,” Robert said. He undid the fly of his jeans and took out his thick, veiny cockshaft. He gave it a few strokes. “An hombre is not queer. The man who takes it — the Mexicans call him a pasivo — he’s the queer. Understand the difference?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, I’ll let you try ‘em both out,” he said with a cocky, charming smile. “I’m normally an hombre. But you look so smooth and pretty you might as well be a girl, and there ain’t no women around for miles.”

Twink on Top: The Gangsta and the Gaysian

Here’s a sample from the latest in the Twink on Top series, this one is Twink on Top: The Gangsta and the Gaysian!


Liu felt nervous when he woke up on his day off. As a medical resident, he worked nearly every day, at least ten hours and occasionally more than twenty-four hours in a row. He hadn’t had an entire day off in more than a month.

So when he awakened without the aid of an alarm clock, and without an imminent need to be someplace, he felt like he was doing something wrong, like he was late, and any minute now someone from the hospital would call to tell him he was fired, that he’d never be a doctor. But that didn’t happen — he really was off, all day.

As he ate breakfast — or rather breakfast-at-lunchtime — he heard an argument next door. He lived next to a gangbanger named Samson, and arguments weren’t uncommon. Samson was a middle-aged thug who, Liu suspected, controlled much of the drug trade in Atlanta. He had never admitted as such, but back when Liu had first moved in, Samson came over and pointedly asked Liu what he thought about the police. He had implied he wanted to ensure Liu was not a snitch.

Though he knew Samson was dangerous, he was sexy, and Liu didn’t want him to go away. He often walked around shirtless, showing off a powerful chest and burly body. Samson also ensured that everyone who lived in this apartment was safe from crime in the immediate vicinity: no one in the building got mugged or robbed while he was living there.

There was a knock on the door, and Liu went to look. There was a black man standing there, one of Samson’s friends (or more likely, one of the dealers who worked for him). He was even more handsome than Samson in a Hollywood-kind-of-way. He was younger, dimpled, smooth-faced and noble-jawed. He was tall and thick-bodied, towering over Liu when he opened the door; Liu felt small and weak in front of him.

“Hey,” said the man. He bit his lip nervously. “I’m Big Tee.”

“Oh. Okay,” Liu said. His cell phone chirped, and Liu glanced at the text message: it was from Samson and it read, happy day off, have fun with him. Liu’s mind whirred as he tried to figure out what was happening.

“Ain’t Samson call you?”

“Uh, no,” Liu said. He read the text message he just got. “I don’t know what that means.”

Big Tee shifted his weight on his feet. He mumbled and clutched his own chest as though unwilling to say anything else. Then the door to Samson’s apartment opened, and Samson stepped out into the hall. Big Tee winced at the sight of him. Samson was bigger and stronger, especially intimidating now because he was bare-chested, covered in sweat like he had been lifting weights. He glowered at Big Tee.

“You tell him, Big Tee,” Samson said. He crossed his arms over his chest.

Big Tee burned with ruddy embarrassment. He scowled at Samson, who remained stony-faced. With his arms over his hairy chest, Big Tee’s powerful pecs were thick and throbbing, making Liu both anxious and aroused. “I, uh… I’ll do whatever you want,” Big Tee said softly. He bit his tongue as though unwilling to explain further.

Liu still had no idea what was going on.

“Goddamnit, Big Tee, you ain’t nevuh have trouble gettin’ words out befo’, you mouthy fuck,” Samson said. He strode forward and whispered in Big Tee’s ear. Big Tee winced again as he made eye contact with Liu.

“I’ll fuck you… and you can… y’know, fuck me, or whatever,” Big Tee said. He looked up and down the hall to make sure no one was coming.

“… What?” Liu was shocked, and thought for sure he had misunderstood what Big Tee was saying. Did this big macho thug bear want to get fucked?

“Just take him in there and do whatever you want. Go to town on him, or whatever, he’ll go to town on you,” Samson said. He smiled at Liu. “He’ll explain why. He’ll do anything.”

“Not anything!” Big Tee said.

Taboo Night-Time Affair: The Black DILF

Here’s a sample from Taboo Night-Time Affair: The Black DILF, a brand-new hardcore tale of raunchy interracial action!


Sammy went to bed early the night before Martin Luther King Day. He was hiding, not that he would ever admit it. Sammy spent the last few hours with his family — but not his real family, not his biological family, that was just his mother.

He spent the evening with his stepfather’s family. His stepfather, Warren, was black, and his family treated Martin Luther King Day like one of the year’s great holidays. Warren felt left out because he was white, and because he wasn’t a big burly macho like the others. He didn’t spit on the ground and talk about “slammin’ pussy” like they did. They played basketball and didn’t invite him to join in — he wouldn’t have wanted to, but the fact that he was the only male not invited was humiliating. Of course, if he had played, his graceless awkwardity would have made him fail miserably (which was why he had refused to play when they asked at Thanksgiving), and that would have ended up being even more humiliating.

The door to his bedroom opened up, just as Sammy was finally nearing sleep. He murmured, worried it might be his jerk-off stepcousins here to ask him yet again if he had ever seen a pussy. Mom never let anyone use words like pussy in the house before she married Warren, but now that was all Warren’s extended family talked about, it seemed. Sammy wasn’t sure how he felt about pussy, and he even after living with him for a few years, he wasn’t sure how he felt about Warren either.

That was precisely who walked in his room. Sammy was beginning to hate him. He had initially felt insecure about his mother’s marriage, but he didn’t know why — he just knew he was supposed to be uncomfortable about Mom marrying a black guy. That’s how they would react in a sitcom.

But Warren had turned out to be a nice guy. Sammy only began to hate him after graduating high school, when he started spending more time at home. Warren was a man’s man, who thought less of Sammy because he was bad at athletics and good at math. Warren didn’t say he felt that way, but he made it clear, and it was apparent that his family all thought of Sammy as an inconsequential nebbish, a weakling girl not even girlish enough to have a vagina. Warren had four brothers, three adult sons from previous relationships, and five nephews and grandsons, while he had only one daughter-in-law and one niece — so his family events were overwhelmingly male.

“Sammy? You awake?”

“Yeah,” Sammy said.

“Hey, sorry to wake ya, man,” he said. He sat on the edge of the bed. The sound of the party slowing down filtered in from the living room — most everyone had gone home, and Mom was reading in bed, but some of the younger folks were still hanging out. R&B blared from one of the music channels. They were still talking, and Sammy couldn’t hear the words, but he was sure they talked about pussy and how many girls they laid (a lot).

“It’s okay.”

“You went to bed early.”

“I was tired.”

“Were you?” he scooted closer to Sammy. His weight on the corner of the mattress depressed it, forcing Sammy to come nearer to him. He was distinctly aware of Warren’s muscular body and the heat emanating off him. He was so manly, Sammy thought, even his scent was masculine, a mix of aftershave and cocoa butter that made Sammy blush. Warren cleared his throat. “I kinda thought you wasn’t havin’ fun, that you left cuz you ain’t fittin’ in wit’ my family.”