Servicing Black Thugs: The Inmate

Here’s the entirety of Servicing Black Thugs: The Inmate, which is the best-selling entry in the Servicing Black Thugs series! You can read the whole series with the Servicing Black Thugs big bundle!

Roger had gotten a part-time job delivering vegetables for AZO Distribution for only one reason — one of the other drivers, Charlie, was a studly black man, exactly the type of swaggering thug he lusted after.

Not only did Roger have a fetish for macho black thugs, he had a seemingly foolproof ability to zero in on precisely those black thugs who were willing to swing that way. He was sure that Charlie would do it, but it was hard to engineer a time to meet him alone. The dispatch center was always crowded.

He was focused on creating a plan as he drove on Friday, finishing up his round of deliveries. He was so lost in thought that he was surprised to see he his own delivery van pulling into the local jail. That was the kind of thing he would normally notice as soon as he saw it on the schedule. But it was just called Brutewood C.J. on the invoice, and Roger hadn’t given it much consideration; now he knew what it stood for — county jail. Brutewood was a private prison company who operated the local correctional system.

He was a bit annoyed his boss hadn’t specifically warned him. What if he had worn expensive jewelry? Or packed a switchblade? He’d be in danger, and possibly violating a contraband law as soon as he drove in. It was only a local jail, but still, Roger didn’t want to get in trouble.

He followed the signs for deliveries and pulled into the rear of the jail. He met with a uniformed officer, who signed for the invoice, and introduced him to Dwight, an inmate who would help unload the van.

As soon as Roger saw Dwight, he forgot all about Charlie. Dwight was a tall smooth-bodied chestnut-skinned man with a thick mustache. His orange jailhouse pants were slung low, and he had a thuggish swagger, though it was immediately apparent from his bearing — and the reverence with which he displayed a small crucifix over his neck — that he was a devout Christian.

Roger knew that would be no barrier. Dwight was hot to trot, and he was sure Dwight knew it too from the moment they laid eyes on each other. Dwight immediately began undressing Roger with his eyes.

He had a rough, southern accent. “Lemme get that fo’ ya, suh,” he said, taking both of the heavy boxes of potatoes. Roger grabbed the much lighter sack of salad mixes, following him into the kitchen area. There were no other inmates that he could see, and the uniformed cop wandered off.

Dwight looked Roger up and down as he showed him to the pantry. “You ken put them salad bags down right tharr,” Dwight said. He hefted the potatoes onto a shelf. “God bless ya, man. You ain’t the usual guy. What happened to Wilson?”

That was why Roger was given the prison assignment, he realized, suddenly grateful that he was the rookie, and had therefore been given Wilson’s deliveries — Wilson was a coworker whose sister had just died in a car accident. Roger explained that to Dwight, who clicked his tongue against his teeth and prayed.

“That poor man, I’ll pray for him, he is a good man, yup, a good church-going man,” Dwight said. “You help yusself to a glass of water, sirruh, yessum, I’ll go get the dolly.” He hurried off, big body shaking as he strode towards the truck. He came back a few minutes later with the hand-cart full of the remaining boxes of produce.

Roger didn’t want any water, so he just waited in the pantry. It was a small kitchen, with only one door, and from the pantry, Roger had a good view of the whole area. This was pretty close to ideal, he thought.

Dwight came to the pantry with the last box of produce. “Them carrots is lookin’ good. We ain’t normally get baby carrots. They’s nice.”

Roger nodded. “They’re on sale right now. I still like big, thick carrots though.”

“I bet you do,” Dwight said. “You look good enough to eat, boi. Bet you taste better than a carrot.” Something about the gasping, aroused way he said boi turned Roger on; it was equal parts insulting, seductive and menacing all at once.

“Do we have privacy here?” Roger asked. He gingerly reached out and touched Dwight’s chest. His pecs bulged through the too-small prison uniform shirt he wore, which was so short it left the lower part of his belly bare. He didn’t have a six-pack, that much was obvious even through his clothes; he had a thick, strapping body, bulky muscles behind a thick layer of flesh.

“Yup,” he said. “You suck good, huh?” He reached out and touched Roger’s lips, squeezing them together to form a kissy face.

“I do alright,” Roger said. He opened his mouth as wide as he could to demonstrate.

“I ain’t queer or nothin’,” Dwight said. He cleared his throat, the seductive tone momentarily leaving his voice. “You should know… No offense or nothin’… You know it’s a sin, right?”

“I do,” Roger said as he sunk to his knees.

“I mean… You should seek repentance. Me too, of course, but I know I will repent. I’ll beg forgiveness after this, and God will forgive me. I am bathed in the blood of the lamb, boi. You gonna ask forgiveness?”

Roger shook his head.

“Well, that’s yo’ right,” Dwight said in a way that suggested he didn’t think Roger should have that right. He wrinkled his nose. “Now go on and suck me. Wait.” He leaned down and kissed Roger right on the lips. At first it was just a chaste peck; their lips barely came into contact. Dwight moaned a little as though he had scarcely had any human contact recently. “Don’t tell no one I kissed you.” Then he kissed Roger again, and this time plunged his tongue deep inside.

Roger was shocked. He wrapped his arms around Dwight’s broad shoulders, which were bare as he took off his shirt and dropped his prison pants. His cock was rock-hard, sticking out the fly of his boxers.

Their tongues interlocked. Dwight’s was strong and forceful, pushing its way into Roger’s mouth. Roger tried to do likewise, but Dwight’s tongue took up the whole space between their mouths.

When he finally pulled his face away from Roger’s, Dwight had his eyes closed. Roger made a high-pitched mewling sound, hoping it came across as feminine. It seemed to work, as Dwight moaned exquisitely when he heard it.

“Yeah, baby, you wanna taste my meat? You gonna suck it all the way down, yeah, you gonna taste every inch of that shit. You gonna beg me for it.”

“Please let me taste your meat,” Roger said. He stuck out his tongue and demonstrated how wide he could open his mouth.

He plunged down on Dwight’s rod, and Dwight moaned again. He leaned back against the wall for support, and threw his head back, keeping his eyes closed. His knees went weak for a moment.

“Shit… we ain’t got fags who suck dick like this… I mean… homosexuals who suck dick like this in this place. We got one f-… one homosexual. He don’t suck dick good,” Dwight said. Then he bit his lip and moaned.

Wanting to prove how good he was — Roger knew he was a good cocksucker, and he was proud to show it off — Roger deep-throated Dwight’s cock. Dwight was clearly astonished that someone managed to swallow his whole cock, and he was, for once, speechless. His mouth kept moving but he was too aroused to form actual words.

With one hand, Roger reached into his own pants and began stroking himself off, while using the other to play with Dwight’s pendulous balls. His sac was so sweaty the hair was plastered to his wrinkled scrotum-skin.

Dwight murmured under his breath as his dick pulsated precum into Roger’s mouth. It sounded like he was either talking trash to Roger or praying for forgiveness, or maybe a little of both, but Roger couldn’t hear his words.

“Hey, boi,” Dwight said, whispering even though there was no one around. He looked ashamed as he checked for witnesses out in the kitchen area. He turned back to Roger, whispering in a low, growly voice. “You shave yo’ ass? You that kind of queer?”

Roger nodded. He didn’t take Dwight’s cock out of his mouth, just looked into his deep eyes and nodded his head. He could lose himself in those incredible brown eyes — despite his kind personality, Dwight had the eyes of a hardcore, cruel thug, and Roger loved peering into them.

“Then drop those pants, boi,” Dwight said, cackling with glee. Then he stopped himself. “I mean… It’s a sin, boi. You shouldn’t be doin’ that. You should be acceptin’ Jesus Christ into yo’ heart. But if you gonna do it, shake that ass right now. I wanna see ya jiggle.”

Roger didn’t even think about declining. He turned around and undid his pants, glad he had shaved just a few nights ago. He bared his ass, and Dwight immediately began kneading the flesh as he groaned and grunted. It sounded like he was incredibly turned on by the sight of Roger’s bare ass. His rough fingers caressed Roger’s ass.

“Gonna open you up, boi, gonna get this pussy nice and loose, yeah,” Dwight said. “Make some sounds like I’m lickin’ yo cat, boi.” He rammed one finger in, and Roger yelped in pain. Dwight was being rough and crude, uncaring of Roger’s pleasure. That much wasn’t a surprise. The surprising part came a few seconds later when Dwight’s tongue plunged in.

Roger was so shocked to get a rimjob from a big straight stud like Dwight that he initially didn’t react at all. But then he realized that was why Dwight asked him to make sounds like a woman getting eaten out — he wanted to feel like he was licking pussy.

Roger yelped and moaned. He cooed in a womanly way, and opened his asshole up like he was sure women did. He murmured “Come on, baby, lick me,” in a feminine voice. Dwight growled, a deep rumbling sound that resonated in Roger’s ass. His mustache scratched at Roger’s crack.

His tongue enthusiastically lapped at Roger, his initial hesitation fading as he seemed able to convince himself it was just like eating pussy. He produced copious spit, making Roger’s smooth ass gleam with moisture.

By the time he pulled away, Roger’s ass was as loose as it could ever be. That was good because Dwight had an enormous cock, and he wedged it in, causing a shiver of pain to run up Roger’s spine. He let out a low moan that sounded obviously masculine, until he remembered to switch to a more feminine tone partway through.

“This is gonna hurt, boi,” Dwight said. “You into that, right? You like big dicks?”

“God yes, please! Fuck me,” Roger said.

“I was hoping you was gonna say that, I used to be a real thug, a gangbanger, nigga, I used to love making it hurt. Now I love makin’ love,” Dwight said. He took a deep breath as he squeezed more of his dick in. “Say you sorry, boi.”

“I’m sorry, Dwight.”

“Not me! Don’t ‘pologize to me, boi. I don’t care what you put in yo’ ass. Apologize to God.”

“I’m sorry, God,” Roger said.

“Good,” he said grinding his dick in even deeper. He wrapped both of his arms around Roger, holding him close to his powerful, hairy chest. Roger choked in pain and bucked, but submitted to Dwight’s position. Dwight whispered in his ears. “I’m real fuckin’ horny, boi. God told me that’s okay, that a man’s gotta do what he gotta do to get through tough times. You understand that? This is definitely a tough time,” He didn’t stop fucking as he talked, so Roger found himself unable to speak, the sensation of being fucked by Dwight’s foot-long cock too intense to overcome.

His own cock was rock-hard, demanding attention, but his hands were busy holding onto the pantry shelves for support. Dwight continued working his manhood in and out of Roger’s ass. The whole time, Dwight caressed Roger’s smooth chest, staying away from his nipples as though touching where he hoped to feel tits would be disappointing because Roger had none; it seemed Dwight wanted to pretend to himself he was fucking a woman.

“God want me to prove I’s doin’ this cuz I can’t resist the urges, boi. Not cuz I’m queer myself. So I’m gonna do something to show that I’m ‘ware of my sin.”

Roger had no idea what Dwight was trying to say. He was yelping and grunting as he took every inch of Dwight’s cock, which was too big for Roger to focus. He only realized Dwight’s point when the man’s thick, callused fingers reached around to Roger’s cock.

Oh fuck, Roger thought, I never dreamed someone like Dwight would give a reacharound!

An orgasm began building from the moment Dwight’s hands wrapped around Roger’s dickshaft. Dwight was hesitant, apparently undesirous of touching another man’s meat, and his rhythm was awkward. But somehow that made the handjob even sexier.

“Yo, boy!” boomed a male voice Roger didn’t recognize.

Someone was coming into the kitchen. Roger panicked, but Dwight shushed him and held him still. He then pushed Roger closer to the shelves, so somebody would have to be very close to see him. There were crates of supplies outside the pantry that concealed the fact that Dwight’s pants were around his ankles.

“G’afternoon, Officer Armstrong,” Dwight said.

“Go fuck yourself. Did that delivery come in?”

“Yessuh.”

“Good. You know who stole the cocaine out of evidence?”

“Nossuh, don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout that,” Dwight said, as smooth as though he had rehearsed that exact line. It didn’t sound like Dwight was concealing something from Armstrong, more like he was confirming that he would keep it a secret that Armstrong was the one who stole cocaine out of evidence.

“You weren’t supposed to be there anyway, boy.”

As soon as Armstrong said boy, Dwight bristled. His cock jumped and pulsated in Roger’s ass. Roger squealed, biting his lip to avoid making noise. Luckily the walk-in refrigerator was nearby, and it produced a loud ambient noise, which covered up Roger’s panting.

“Yessuh, I real’ze that,” Dwight said. “I’m a Christian man, Officer Armstrong. I mind my own business. I don’t want any trouble.”

“I’m glad to hear that, boy. Don’t make trouble, and I won’t give you any.” Officer Armstrong was not far away. He must be just on the other side of those crates, Roger thought. If the crates weren’t there, he’d have seen Dwight fucking Roger’s ass plain as day.

“Yessuh. You’s in charge, suh, I assume you gots a reason for everything you do. And it’s prolly a good one,” Dwight said.

“That’s right. Don’t you forget that. I always have a reason, boy,” Officer Armstrong said. Then his feet clicked on the ground as he walked away.

At last he was gone. Dwight slammed his dick deeper into Roger’s ass, and growled. He obviously had some aggression to get out, Roger thought, and he was glad to take it.

His Christian demeanor vanished. Roger got the impression he was now seeing “the old Dwight”, a swaggering thug who muttered take it, bitch as he rammed his rod in and out of Dwight’s ass.

“I hate that fucking honky, man,” Dwight said. “If I thought I could, I would… be extremely unChristian toward that man.”

Roger tried to make sympathetic sounds, but all that came out was a strangled cry. He gasped and clutched at the wooden shelves. It seemed Dwight had forgotten about giving a reacharound

“I seen that fucking shithead doing some sleazy-ass shit, lemme tell you. I think he raped this Mexican boy who was in here-“ Dwight took a deep breath. He stopped moving for a moment. “Nevermind. I’m sorry. I am not behaving right. Am I hurtin’ you?”

“No, god, no, please, keep going,” Roger said breathlessly.

Dwight placed a box of kids cereal in front of Roger. “Nut in that,” he said. “That’s his. He eats that every morning.”

Then Dwight spat in the palm of his hand and resumed stroking off Roger. He was again clumsy and badly-timed, but Roger appreciated the effort and the feeling of his prison-toned biceps rubbing against Roger’s body. Dwight was so much bigger than he was that he felt like a monster behind him.

Roger was so close to cumming that he shot just moments after Dwight finally began getting into the rhythm of stroking him off. Roger’s whole body bucked, and squeezed around Dwight’s dick as he shot his load right into the cardboard cereal box. He gasped and rubbed his head against Dwight’s powerful pecs and erect nipples.

That was apparently enough to set Dwight off. He grunted as he wiped the cum off his fingers onto the side of the cereal box, and then he grabbed Roger by the hair. Pushing his head down to the ground, Dwight, uncaring of the cum still stick to his hands, began pounding his cock deep into Roger.

Pain split Roger’s sides, but his own orgasm was still continuing, the aftershocks making his whole body shake. Dwight’s cum filled his ass with hot, creamy goodness, and it dripped down his thighs onto the pantry floor.

“Thank you, fuck…” Roger said. “That was incredible. You always fuck like that.”

“I got a champion dick,” he said. He still hadn’t removed it. Its meaty thickness throbbed in Roger’s ass.

“You certainly do.”

“Shit…” Dwight said as he pulled his cock out. He wiped it off with a napkin. “You pretty good at deliveries too, boi. Can you take this route from Wilson permanently?”

“I can try,” Roger said. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

Deep Orange

Here’s “Cagna angolo“ (which I believe means “sex-box” or something like that in Latin), a ultra-hardcore chapter from Deep Orange, which is a classic Brutewood Maximum Security novel!

 

Hernan thought about little other than killing Octavio. He used to only think about killing himself, back when he first came to Brutewood. He had done everything right, he thought, to protect himself – he had been a loyal Alcachubre on the outside, a foot soldier who sold crack for some tough cholos. He had gotten all the right ink and when he was tapped, he didn’t name names, agreeing to serve a seven year bid in honorable silence.

But someone else did name names, someone he thought was his best friend, Pablo. Pablo was the only person who could have done it – he got a suspiciously light sentence, and he immediately told everyone in Los Alcachubre on the outside that Hernan had narced and gotten fucked over by his lawyer.

He thought he would be treated like a champion when he met up with the Alcachubres, spending most of the money in his Commissary to bribe Armstrong into taking him into an Alcachubre tent. He didn’t know that Armstrong had already beeen bribed to take him there, by Octavio himself. Octavio was a powerful gang leader who controlled the entire organization at Brutewood, and Hernan would soon learn how ambitious and ruthless he was.

Octavio met him at the tent flap on that first day, towering over him by more than a foot, with at least a hundred pounds more muscle and mass, not to mention body hair. Hernan still didn’t know they thought he was a narc, so he flashed his signs and his tats, expecting to be welcomed.

“You think we wouldn’t find out, snitch?” Octavio said as soon as he walked in, Armstrong closing the tent flap behind him.

Hernan’s heart sank at the sound angry mutterings from the Alcachutres gathered nearby, all of them wearing only dingy prison-issued boxer shorts. He heard the word “pig-lover” and realized what must have happened.

“No, no, no,” Hernan said. He knew he didn’t stand a chance physically – he had never been able to bulk up much, and he remained short and skinny no matter what he ate or how much he worked out. He thought desperately that it must be a mistake, that he had played by the Alcachutres rules and this hulking Mexican monster had to understand that.

“I didn’t snitch. I’d never-“ Octavio wasn’t listening, and he slowly pushed his hand into Hernan’s trembling mouth. He tried to push the older thug away but was trapped against the tent wall, and he tasted the raspy, sweaty thug, whose thick tattooed knuckles kneaded his tongue.

“I hope you ready to learn what happens to squealers,” Octavio said, pushing two of his fingers into Hernan’s throat. He gagged but managed to avoid vomiting, and Octavio removed his hand.

“I ain’t no pussy-bitch,” Hernan said with as much machismo as he could muster. He knew he was skinny, and he looked young and didn’t really seem tough no matter what he did.

The other cholos laughed, and one of them looked at his bare wrist as though he had a watch on. “Give it four minutes,” he said, exciting peals of laughter from the rest, and even the normally somber niggas in the back of the tent joined in.

Octavio dropped his prison workpants. He had a long, thick, uncircumcised cock, which stank of his own dried cum, urine and his incredibly sweaty balls. Hernan gagged every time he thought of Octavio’s balls, every time he saw them, and even every time he smelled sweat now. Any sweat at all made him think of that revolting stench. Octavio knew it too. He discovered on that first day that Hernan hated the taste of balls. The slightly leathery texture of the skin, the wrinkles, the thick curly hairs that got stuck in his teeth – it was horrid, and Hernan thought it might drive him crazy. Octavio sometimes spent lazy evenings playing cards with his buddies with Hernan laying underneath him, his balls right on his nose. “That’ll make you smell like me forever, puta, so everybody will know you mine.”

That first night, Octavio had celebrated the arrival of his squealing bitch by declaring his mouth free. People bribed guards to let them come from other tents, so that there was a line running through the prison encampment; black, white, Latin, even the Russian, Asian and Indian gangs all came out for the occasion. Everyone wanted to be the one to fuck a squirming pig, and since Octavio declared he was saving Hernan’s ass for a special occasion, they had to go for his throat. It lasted all night, and it only ended because Octavio said he was tired of the foot traffic in the tent and wanted to start charging.

Ever since then, Hernan had never felt clean. Even on those rare occasions when he could get through an entire shower unmolested, he felt millions of sperm swimming across his face, filling up his belly. He was tired all the time, but sleep only brought nightmares of being face-fucked, and after only a few weeks, he was surprised to realize that his memories of his former life were fading away.

Octavio never missed an opportunity to demean Hernan – not verbally, since Octavio rarely spoke, and he only spoke to Hernan in order to threaten him or order him to suck somebody off. If Hernan was physically in Octavio’s way, he’d push him over and walk on him. When he wanted Hernan, he didn’t speak, he’d just whistle, or grab him roughly and drag him to where he wanted. He took half of Hernan’s food, even though he sometimes just threw it away because he didn’t like it, and he sometimes tampered with whatever was left – wiping his sandwich on his asshole before giving it back, for example, and he hocked a giant loogie in Hernan’s oatmeal every single morning. At first Hernan couldn’t bring himself to eat it and just threw the whole bowl away, but of course, he eventually got so hungry he’d pick out the parts that seemed cleaner.

After a few weeks of eating around the snot bubble, Octavio told him to eat the whole thing.

“What?” Hernan said.

Octavio never repeated himself. He just hit Hernan in the back of head, and when that didn’t immediately produce results, he put Hernan in a chokehold, one thick hairy bicep pinning him against his forearm, and used the other arm to grip Hernan’s wrist. He pushed Hernan’s hand into the bowl, scooping out the loogie and oatmeal. Hernan’s hand trembled, Octavio squeezing his wrist so tight Hernan thought it might shatter. (Oh fuck nigga, that bitch gonna eat some snot! Come watch this fucking puta!)

“I didn’t snitch!” Hernan pleaded. Octavio rammed the spoon in, so far down Hernan gagged just from that, before he even felt the cold sliminess of the loogie on his tongue, smelled the clammy spit scent in his nostrils and felt bile rising up in his stomach.

“Don’t swallow that, snitch,” Octavio said, “Stick out yo’ tongue.”

Hernan didn’t know if he could keep it on his tongue and avoid swallowing or spitting it. Every muscle in his body was trying to fight, but he was enveloped in Octavio’s thick muscles. Octavio’s huge scruffy face was just inches away from Hernan’s, and the older thug suddenly hocked another loogie, even bigger, splattering across Hernan’s face. Octavio used Hernan’s hand to wipe the snot into Hernan’s open mouth, which he then shut. Hertnan gulped to loud cheers from all the niggas in the mess tent, the guards angrily demanding they sit back down.

And so that was why Hernan absolutely had to kill Octavio. That was the only way to make his feelings stop, he thought, and the only way to make the others realize he meant business. But it had to be a foolproof plan, and he had to find the perfect opportunity – if Hernan killed Octavio, he’d gain respect; if he only injured him, he’d probably be killed himself.

The most humiliating part of being Octavio’s bitch was being punked out. Octavio made him suck anyone’s cock for just a few cigarettes, and in prison, they were all rough horse-cocked brutes who thought he was a snitch, so they showed him no mercy. His throat was literally black and blue, as was his eyes and his cheeks for most of his time at Brutewood. A few months into his sentence, Octavio started taking him out at night, bribing Armstrong for a Freedom Pass to be allowed to go from tent to tent.

“At each tent, you offer yo’ mouth up,” Octavio said, “Ten cigarettes bulk discount, whole tent can do it.”

“What?”

Octavio punched him for asking a question, and dragged him to the first tent, right around the corner from Tent Alaska. It was run by the Mossino family, with five brothers making up the core of the gang. They were strapping dark-haired Italian men, almost as hairy as Octavio, and they each had a small posse of lieutenants who hung around them.

“Well, bitch?” one of them asked when Hernan found himself shoved into the tent, Octavio behind him with his hands across his chest. Tent South Dakota was much better lit, bigger and cleaner than Tent Alaska, with lamps, wooden platforms over the mud and even a small couch next to the toilets. More ominously was a small bare spot on the ground, where blood and less unidentifiable stains marked it as a place for extreme violence or sex or both.

“I, uh…” Hernan said, unable to bring himself to say the words.

“If you don’t say something, I will beat your snitch ass,” said one of the brothers, grabbing his crotch through his prison pants.

“I, uh,” Hernan said again, “I was just, I mean… I’m supposed to say, I guess-“

He felt Octavio’s arms wrap around his body, and the Italians laughed. “Fucking Mexicans are animals.”

“Quit stalling, bitch. This is what you do now. Get good at it,” Octavio hissed.

“Ten cigarettes!” Hernan shouted, tears leaking out of his eyes.

“What?”

“Ten cigarettes. I’ll…” Hernan said, “I’ll suck… y’know, I’ll suck on you.”

“Ten cigarettes for a blowjob?” asked one of the brothers, who rubbed his cock through his prison pants.

“No…” Hernan said, “All of you. Like a bulk discount.”

“Oh, so you’re like a coupon. Suck off fifteen wops for the price of two?” They laughed like it was the funniest joke they ever heard.

“What about ass?” asked one of them.

“I’m saving his ass,” Octavio said, and the Italians nodded. They knew that meant he was going to charge a lot of money to pop Hernan’s snitch cherry. Nobody fucked with Octavio, so Hernan’s ass was safe that night. He was ashamed of himself for begging Octavio, which he had sworn he would never do again, as the guidos dragged him to what they called Cagna angolo – Bitch Corner. He swore he’d do whatever Octavio wanted, but Octavio just sneered and said, “I know.”

It would be a long night for Hernan, who was left there alone, Octavio returning to Tent Alaska as soon as he made it clear that Hernan’s ass was not to be violated. The Italians fucked strictly by protocol, so the first one to get sucked was a powerfully built man with silver-flecked hair, smelling of lotion and gin. He was Vito, and he had been a fearsome assassin and enforcer before being arrested – considered a barbarian on the outside, he was a civilized predator as an old man at Brutewood, and he politely motioned for Hernan to take a position. They had constructed a facefucking table in cagna angolo, just a weight machine bench that had been angled downward and was adjustable so the bitch’s face could be placed at any height.

Vito’s heavy, drooping gray-tinged balls slapped against Hernan’s face as he fucked. He smoked a cigar while he did it, tapping his ash off on Hernan’s belly.  He shot a thin, watery load into Hernan’s mouth and dismounted, cleaning his own dick off with a wetnap.

Next was a very dark-skinned and portly Italian, covered with tattoos, who was followed by one of his brothers. They both fucked Hernan’s face the best they could, though their dicks were so thick Hernan could only fit their cheese-sour foreskins and fleshy cockheads in his mouth. (Oh look at him sucking on those dicks like a child with two lollipops. Italian sausage taste good, don’t it, frocio?) The brothers’ cum splashed together in Hernan’s mouth. “Hold that shit in there, snitch, hold it in, don’t let it out.”

“I’m not a snitch,” he said, gurgling through the cum, his whole body bucking violently at the texture in the back of his throat. But still, they laughed, insisting that he hold the goo in his mouth, and the next Italian slid his uncircumcised manhood down into the puddle, which splashed onto Hernan’s tongue and the inside of his cheek.

The whole tent fucked his mouth that day, and Octavio evidently considered the tent coupon a good business decision, because he kept at it every night, still pimping out Hernan’s face to anyone anytime during the day. The second night was Tent Nebraska, the Graybloods, and the following night was the Russians in Tent Florida. After that it was a blur, and Hernan only knew that someone was fucking his throat virtually every minute of his free time in the evening.

When he complained to Armstrong, the response was, “Well, that’s what you get when you snitch.”

“I didn’t!” Hernan screamed, and Armstrong looked as though he was surprised.

“What?” he asked.

Hernan told him everything, about he had committed the crime he was charged of and then not ratted on any of the men in his gang, and Armstrong listened to the betrayal of Pablo and to how Octavio punked him out to any tent with a half a pack of cigarettes. He nodded and frowned as though he was concerned.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Armstrong asked when he was done, leaned forward and opened his mouth as though to speak. He only let out a loud burp right on Hernan’s face; Hernan gagged at the smell, rotten and vile, like a sulfuric gym sock slapping his face. “I don’t give a shit whether you did it or not, shitheap. I don’t care at all. You are here to work for me. When I want to hear your sob story, I will work you until you sob and tell me what I want to hear. I’m charging you a Noncompliance Fee for taking up my time with this nonsense.”

And Armstrong walked away, later telling Octavio that Hernan had snitched again.

Tent Alabama was the worst. It was nineteen black guys who worked a road construction crew together during the day. It paid well for a prison job, and they rented Hernan’s mouth every Sunday night. They sometimes splurged on bribing the guards to be allowed to take Hernan out of the tent, to the woods for a night of face-fucking, drinking and smoking blunts under the stars, or to the rec room to watch lesbian porn while getting a blowjob from Hernan, or once, to a kitchen tent, where they pigged out on hoagies and macaroni salad, food that was normally reserved only for guards.

It was that night at the kitchen with the men of Tent Alabama that Hernan found the knife. They bent him over a bench that they angled slightly, lifting it up so that his mouth was at hip level. They thought that angle provided maximum throat penetration.

Hernan saw the knife when the third pulsating black cock was shooting wads of ropy cum into his throat. The knife had fallen into the crack between a large industrial refrigerator and a dishwasher. It gleamed even in the dim light of the kitchen tent. Hernan could hear himself gagging and heaving all over Tent Alabama’s thick cocks, but it was a distant sound for him. He felt the pain wafting from his mouth and throat down to his balls, which seemed to have shriveled permanently from the humiliation of his constant facefucking, but it didn’t quite feel real. He knew he was whimpering, begging them to stop, but he wasn’t consciously thinking about it.

He was thinking about that knife.

Teabag Hazing Downlow

Here’s the first chapter from Teabag Hazing Downlow, a new story in the Str8 Studs Downlow series!

Todd gulped nervously. He had planned on skipping the fraternities. He didn’t think it was worth the hazing and the risk, but once he got to GHU of Georgia, he found that, without a frat, he’d have no social life. So there was no choice. The only fraternity he thought was likely to take him — since he was neither rich nor handsome nor popular nor athletic — was Kappa Gamma Pi.

“Three times, pledges, let’s see hear the oath three times!”

I pledge my eternal loyalty to this fraternal organization, and to these men who support me in my endeavors and my growth as a man. I promise to uphold the laws and traditions of Kappa Gamma Pi, and I promise not to tolerate those who fail at living up to this organization’s strict standards of honor, decency and respect. I promise to be obedient to those who are above me in this organization’s hierarchy, and to follow their orders without question.

He had learned the oath just earlier today, but had already recited it so many times he had it memorized. He repeated it again, twice more. There was no way the upperclassmen heard him say it three times, but Todd did it anyway, not wanting to get in trouble like the others who stumbled over the words or failed to remember them.

But once they finished it, Willie Mitchum — Todd’s personal upperclass sponsor and the pledgemaster for the whole organization — just told them to do it all over again. Three more recitals, freshies! He had the attitude of a Southern drill sergeant, and if it weren’t vital for Todd’s social life to join this frat, Todd would have pointed out that he wasn’t one. But Willie would have called that “freshie gettin’ lippy”, which he did not tolerate.

“Alright, freshies, we’ll see how well you have this memorized. Keep on repeating it,” said Willie, who was a senior and a hardcore redneck — so Southern he literally had perpetually-sunburnt shoulders — as he pointed to the floor. He had a sick smile on his face. “Get on the ground, on your backs. Don’t stop pledging, pledges.”

To the floor, bitches!

The other upperclassmen were huddled together, drinking, laughing. They loved how extreme Willie took the hazing, though it was clear many of them didn’t think that was quite necessary. Nobody stopped Willie.

Kick their asses, Willie!

Todd sunk to the ground, squeezing into the small floorspace in the center of the den. The floor was cold hardwood, badly scuffed and stained. It smelled of feet. Todd had heard rumors about Kappa’s hazing, so his mind raced with all the terrible things they might ask him to do. They might even make him take off all his clothes and run through campus, or make him go out on a date with a drag queen, both rumors that Todd had heard were required in years past.

“I pledge my eternal loyalty to this fraternal -“ Todd began reciting the pledge with the other recruits. He could see Willie whispering with the other seniors, but not hear what they were saying. It looked like the others did not believe Willie would follow through on whatever he was planning on doing.

Willie was tall and athletic, though he didn’t play any sports as far as Todd knew. He didn’t quite have a six-pack either, he drank too much beer for that, but he came close. He wore, as always, a dingy brown baseball cap, and his tattooed arms extended from a sleeveless muscle shirt. His camo pants were loose and baggy.

He walked over to the pledges and stopped with his bare feet right next to Todd. “Keep on pledging, freshies. Let’s hear it, come on…”

Todd paused when he saw one of the other seniors, Brian, a beefy football player, dropping his pants. He had a huge dick so he always found an excuse to show it off, but once he was naked, he lowered his hips, squatting on the face of another freshman. He aimed his balls right for the freshman’s mouth, shouting, “Teabag time!” and laughing like a caveman.

A sense of horror erupted within Todd — was it possible that Willie was going to take this even farther? Maybe the rumors had understated how difficult Kappa Gamma Pi’s hazing was. Brian’s big linebacker body bristled as he tried to get his sac in the other freshman’s mouth.

Get that freshie, Brian! Teabag the fuck out of him!

Earl Grey that bitch! They all cackled as though it was hilarious — they had been joking about putting their balls in and on each other, so Todd wondered if that was what was hip right now: ball-sucking. It seemed gross and pointless to him.

The other freshman, George, rolled away from Brian’s balls. He stood and cursed the seniors. “I’m out,” he said. “That’s fucking gross you guys.” He grabbed his jacket and walked out the door to the catcalls of the other seniors. They called him a wuss and a loser, and said he’d never get invited to a party on-campus again.

Todd knew what was about to happen to him, obviously, so he had to consider whether to leave or not. But ultimately it was no tough decision for him — he needed to have a social life this year, and Kappa Gamma Pi was his ticket in.

Willie dropped his shorts and leered at Todd. “Didya stop saying the pledge, freshie?” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the other seniors baring their own sweaty ballsacs. Willie’s redneck body was especially disgusting to Todd, however, who wished that he had any of the other seniors instead of Willie.

Todd had no sooner begun the pledge again when Willie pulled off his boxers as well, revealing his low-hanging balls and thick cock. Todd struggled to focus, but managed to speak the pledge once more with Willie’s dick swaying in front of his face. He caught a whiff of that redneck crotch, which made Todd wrinkle his nose as he struggled to recall the words of the pledge.

“I pledge my eternal loyalty to this fraternal organization-“

Then he plopped those balls right on Todd’s face, and Todd choked on the scent. Direct hit on the freshie! The slickness of sweat and the smell of taint assaulted Todd’s senses; he gagged and sputtered. Willie’s crotch smelled like stale sweat, and the coarse pubic hairs of his scrotum got stuck between Todd’s teeth.

Tea bag! Tea bag! Tea bag!

Sweat dripped down Todd’s throat. He could feel it running in rivulets, and the scent made his eyes water. He blushed intensely as he saw Willie looking him in the eyes, with that stern Southern drill sergeant look on his face.

“Keep on reciting, freshie! Don’t stop or I’ll make you suck on the other end next!”

Even as Todd’s throat heaved and he wasn’t sure he could keep going, he did. He got a few more syllables out before he gagged, nearly vomiting over the ballsac in his throat. All around him was gagging freshman, who watched in shock as Willie dipped his balls in and out of Todd’s spasming throat.

Damn, Willie’s goin’ all the way with his freshman! He’s hardcore as hell! He gettin’ a handjob!

That is too fuckin’ gay! You ain’t gonna try to jack me off, is you freshie?

Willie took hold of Todd’s hand in his and lifted it slowly up as the other fraternity brothers shouted and chanted. None of them could believe Willie was taking it this far, and not even Todd could really believe it. His face blushed a bright red as pubic hair tickled the back of his throat.

Jack that redneck off, freshie!

“Who you callin’ a redneck, ya yankee bastard?!”

When his hand wrapped around Willie’s cock, Todd thought he should really back out. He could just walk out the door. The worst that could happen to him for quitting was that he’d get called names, maybe not invited to a party or two (and not even the big, major parties, since they were always open to everyone). But he had already come this far, and Todd desperately wanted to be in a frat this year.

“Stroke it, freshie, don’t just play with it.”

Willie’s dick was clammy and limp at first, but it quickly hardened beneath Todd’s grasp. It was thick and greasy, and it made Todd want to vomit. At least, he thought, he wasn’t actually sucking dick.

But it didn’t feel all that different, he decided as precum dripped down that shaft and into his throat. He might as well be sucking on it. His hands were sticky with fluids, his face covered in ball-sweat. Each time he saw a droplet of moisture roll down that throbbing, veiny shaft, Todd thought he wouldn’t really taste it, his mouth was already overwhelmed by salty bitterness. However each time a drop actually rolled past his lips, Todd gagged on the explosion of sour flavor in his mouth all over again.

Then when the end finally came, Todd ended up sucking dick anyway. Without giving it a second thought, he kept his mouth open when Willie suddenly pulled his balls out and pushed his spasming cockhead in.

Hot damn, Willie is fuckin’ hardcore!

Fuck that freshie’s mouth, ya nasty hillbilly!

Hot cum spurted into Todd’s mouth. He gagged furiously and sputtered some more, but that succeeded only in spreading cum all over his face and chin. Willie’s ropy-muscled redneck body writhed as he orgasm and his face screwed up with pleasure.

It seemed like a preposterously huge load, like he was really pissing right down Todd’s throat. But the thick creaminess and salty flavor made it clear he simply had a big wad brewing in those balls, which now dripped with Todd’s spit as they bounced against his chin.

“Swallow that nut, freshie!” Willie cheered himself on as he moaned and flexed his big redneck pecs. He pumped his biceps too, and slammed his cummy dick so far into Todd’s throat he gagged all over again.

At last Willie pulled out and rested his fat cock on Todd’s face. He leered down at him and said, “That was some good respect, freshie. I’ll make a man out of you yet, my brother…”

Twink on Top: The Prison Wife

Here’s the entirety of Twink on Top: The Prison Wife, a new Brutewood story in the Twink on Top series!

 

Prison was not that bad at all for Gerald. He missed his freedom and easy access to alcohol; he missed his family; he missed being outside at night, seeing the stars and the moon. But as far as prison stays went, his two years so far had gone pretty well. He decided that as he walked back to his cell on the second anniversary of his arrival at the dreaded Brutewood Prison.

Things had gone well for him despite — or maybe because of — the fact that Gerald was a gay twink with a fantastic ass and long, silken hair the color of unfiltered sunlight. He had dreaded coming to prison, unsure what he was in for; the local jail guards gave him sympathetic looks and even a bottle of lube to bring in with him.

But on his first day, Gerald was proposed to by Bonetap, a black thug from the Nine Tats gang. Bonetap was six and a half feet tall, bursting with muscle all over, his body covered in jailhouse tattoos — he had been incarcerated since he was sixteen. He had a small afro when Gerald met him, but had gotten cornrows last year. Gerald was slowly, clumsily, learning how to make and manage cornrows.

So he had acquiesced to being Bonetap’s prison wife. It didn’t take much convincing. Bonetap was precisely Gerald’s ideal man, and his plan all along had been to offer sex to someone who could protect him. He hadn’t expected Bonetap to propose marriage, however.

I’ll treat you like a princess, baby, as long as you treat me like a king.

It hadn’t always been perfect; they argued like any married couple (or like any pair of roommates). Bonetap sometimes slapped Gerald, open-handed, across the face. He had never punched him, but he did slap him when Gerald did things wrong, got too sassy, or sometimes for things that were entirely unrelated to Gerald. He always apologized later and kissed Gerald on the lips, which he otherwise refused to do. That made those few sweet kisses feel special to Gerald; his heart swooned every time, and he clutched those broad shoulders as they made out in the dark of their prison cell.

I’m sorry, baby, I gots a temper in me. I ain’t put it in there, I just gotta put up wit’ it. I gotta work on that, I know. The prison counselor say I need-a show you how I feel. Right now, I feel like kissin’ ya.

He was also tender at night, when they were alone together in their shared cell. Amid the hooting and the ever-present shouted threats of the other inmates, he kissed Gerald’s neck and tweaked his nipples as he relentlessly sodomized him. He allowed Gerald to choose the positions in which they fucked, and he allowed Gerald to cuddle up with him when the lights were off.

He protected Gerald during the day, even if he also treated him with disdain much of the time. When his fellow gangbangers were around, Bonetap called him a bitch (or to be more precise, he called Gerald my bitch). He made Gerald get his food in the dining hall; he gave massages and begged for Bonetap’s cock in front of his friends to puff up his ego. Bonetap loved the idea of Gerald loving his dick so much he couldn’t help but try to suck it in public — Bonetap never let him do it, but he liked it when Gerald tried.

They had fallen into a rut over their two years together. Gerald was bored of Bonetap, even if he was, in many ways, Gerald’s ideal man; he had always loved the straight macho types. It was just frustrating that their relationship hadn’t progressed in two years, and the arrival of their two-year anniversary brought his dissatisfaction into sharp focus. When he walked into his cell that night, Gerald dropped the bag of laundry (both Gerald’s and Bonetap’s) he carried. He was shocked to see the cell dotted with lit candles.

“Uh, Bonetap?”

He was on his bunk, leaning back, stark naked and flopped his big dick between his fingers. He smiled at Gerald and licked his lip, which he knew always turned Gerald on.

“Happy ann’versary, baby,” he said. “After lights out, I got some treats fo’ us.” Then he growled. “Shut the curtain, boo.”

Gerald did so, his heart pounding. He was surprised and elated that Bonetap had remembered their anniversary. They were fighting a lot a year ago, and that was right after Gerald had moved in to the cell, so they didn’t really celebrate that anniversary.

“Where’d you get candles?” Gerald asked. He pulled the sheet over the cell bars so no one could see in. It helped muffle the sound too. The guards here didn’t much care what happened — they would ignore the sounds of sex, the smell of weed and the drunken laughter of two lovers, as long as they didn’t have to see it. Hence, the curtain was always shut when they were both in the cell.

“The chaplain. Told him I was Buddhist and shit,” he said, cackling. “So if he ask, I’m Buddhist now. Tell him I converted last month.” He laughed, a deep-throat belly laugh, like it took every muscle in his jacked body to do it. His pecs roiled as the laughter pumped through his body, and his dick shook, tantalizing Gerald’s tastebuds. He hopped down from the top bunk. “Look in the drawer, baby. I really done enjoyed our two years together. I wanna show you tonight how I really feel ‘bout ya.”

There was a small plastic set of drawers in one corner of the cell, the only piece of furniture they were allowed. There were four drawers, one for Gerald, two for Bonetap and one they both used — anything in that drawer was considered common property (that was a compromise, of sorts, that they had developed after a particularly nasty argument over a bag of crackers). Gerald looked in the drawer they shared, and saw a bottle of brandy, a tube of lube, a handful of pixie sticks and two blunts of fine weed sealed up in plastic. Gerald giggled. This will be a pretty good night, he thought, happy anniversary to us.

“There’s more,” Bonetap said, leaping down to be right behind Gerald. He kissed him on the back of the neck, his dense beard, nearly two inches long now, scratching at Gerald’s smooth, pale skin. “I got a present fo’ ya, baby. But it’s a present you gotta keep secret.”

“Okay, sugar.”

Lights out in five minutes, folks!

The affection went away from his voice, and he gripped Gerald’s torso tightly. He hissed in Gerald’s ear. “I’m serious, whiteboi. If you evuh tell anyone, I will rip yo’ goddamn throat out. You will kill the love in my soul fo’ you, and there is only one way I can respond to that, okay?”

Gerald swallowed nervously, shivering as Bonetap’s coarse beard caressed his neck. Bonetap only called him whiteboi when he was very angry with him. “Okay, Bonetap, I promise. I’ll never tell a soul. What is it? Someone must know you have it if they smuggled it in-“

“Ain’t a thing you can pick up and move around, baby. It weren’t somethin’ smuggled in, and I ain’t nevuh gonna let no one know about it, no how, no way,” he said. He licked Gerald’s ear. “You get to be on top tonight, baby.”

At first Gerald didn’t know what he meant. Aside from some occasional drunken stroking (which he always vehemently denied the next day), Bonetap never touched Gerald’s dick. He would have slapped Gerald senseless for even asking Bonetap to bottom. He got mad once because he suspected Gerald was imagining Bonetap sucking his dick.

“Oh, really, sugar?! Are you serious?”

“I’m serious as strawberry pie, baby,” he said. He spun Gerald around and kissed him on the lips. In the cramped confines of the prison cell, Gerald accidentally touched the lit flame of one of the tea candles, and he squealed in pain.

Lights going off in one minute, shitheads!

They sunk down into the lower bunk, Gerald’s bunk, and Gerald tore off his own clothes. He leaned back onto his mattress as Bonetap kissed a trail down his slim, tender body. His kinky beard hairs dragged as he moved lower and lower.

The lights flickered, then turned off, and the candles were the only light in the cell. Bonetap growled with a mixture of both anticipation and disgust.

I already smell santorum, damn, who started before the lights turned out? Huh? Robbie is that you, nigga? How many inches you take already?

Fresh pussy! Fresh pussy!

Yeah I smell that shit too, someone is horny as hell tonight! Fuck that ass hard, whoever that is!

Hey, all y’all shut up! Lights is out! Next person I hear callin’ out is sleepin’ in the guard toilet tonight!

That brought silence at last, aside from some tittering laughter. There was probably no smell of santorum anywhere — Gerald couldn’t smell anything but the candles and the slightly stale, soap-scented sweat of Bonetap’s shoulder, but the other inmates made similar claims every night. They just liked being loud and disruptive, he thought.

Bonetap kissed Gerald’s dick, hesitated and took a deep breath, then swallowed it. He gagged after the first few inches, but kept going. His tongue tentatively slathered spit along the shaft.

Gerald’s dick rocketed to full erection. He loved the feel of Bonetap’s beard on his crotch. Gerald had always enjoyed it, but since Bonetap didn’t usually kiss him on the lips and rarely even anywhere else, he didn’t often get to feel it touching him. Now he did, and its scratchy texture brought the sensitive skin of his inner thighs and his ballsack to live. Gerald quivered and shook beneath Bonetap’s ministrations.

Fuck you, nigga!

Hey! Get off me!

When the taste of precum hit him, Bonetap wrinkled his nose but he didn’t stop. He was a big man with a big throat, so he easily deep-throated Gerald after just a little practice. Gerald shaved his pubes, allowing Bonetap’s wide, bullish nose to press into his nearly smooth crotch.

In the dim flickering light of the candles, Gerald could only barely see Bonetap, but for some reason that made the sight of his body even sexier. His muscles writhed in the shadows, moving along with his head and throat. Gerald couldn’t tell if he was moving like that because he hated sucking dick so much he had to force his body to comply with his mind’s commands, or if he liked it so surprisingly that his entire body roiled with confusion.

No curtains, gentlemen…

That was aimed at Gerald and Bonetap, but the guard who said it just continued by, not taking the curtain down. That was typical. They had never explained why, but Gerald suspected it was a way to cover their ass — they made a rule against curtains, occasionally reminded the inmates of it, and brought that up whenever they were sued for something that happened behind a curtain. They could pretend they had been getting rid of curtains as long as they occasionally brought it up. So Gerald wasn’t worried, though Bonetap lifted his head for a moment, waiting to see if this was the night they would begin enforcing the rule against curtains.

Then Bonetap moved his head down, licking Gerald’s balls while pulling his legs up to get a better angle at it. He gurgled noisily with both balls in his mouth, sucking the sweat and the grime right off. He wrinkled his nose as he did, and as Gerald’s iron dick flopped against it, but he didn’t stop no matter how unappealing he plainly found this.

Gerald was crammed into a rather small bunk, and only the back half or so of it. He wasn’t a tall man; he had a small, slim, twinkish body, so he fit well enough. He was adequately flexible to get his legs all the way back, his feet near his own head, which bared his asshole as his cheeks were forced apart. His tongue plunged right into Gerald’s asshole. Gerald was astonished that Bonetap would give him a rimjob, and he moaned. Bonetap had been unsure about receiving a rimjob from Gerald, so the idea that he would allow the tables to be turned was mind-boggling.

Hey Officer Mitchell, lemme see that picture o’ yo’ wife again, nigga! Can I get a copy of that?

Shut your mouth, or I’ll shut it for you! Some people is tryin-‘a sleep!

Gerald’s fingers clutched the tight cornrows on Bonetap’s head, watching his prison husband’s strapping body squeeze into the space between the bunk and the cell wall. There wasn’t much room there, but Bonetap was used to fitting his broad shoulders and wide hips in this tiny cell. Gerald thought it was kind of sexy to see him twisting and contorting, especially naked, with that limp cock dangling like a sweet, sexy sausage. Bonetap was much taller than Gerald, so he really had to struggle to get his head into Gerald’s ass, while Gerald was crammed into a tiny corner of the cell.

A few of the candles had one out by now, and Gerald didn’t dare light them — they were moving around a lot now, and they moved their bedsheets, the curtain and their clothes as they went, so the potential for a fire was great. The guards didn’t much care what happened behind the curtain, but a fire was one thing they very much would care about. Gerald turned on the little reading light he had, so he could still see Bonetap’s muscles writhe as he licked Gerald’s ass.

His tongue was so hesitant and slow that it was, objectively speaking, not a very good rimjob. The positioning was awkward, and the tongue was unpracticed. But Gerald appreciated the sentiment, and when Bonetap’s tongue did touch his prostate, the anticipation made the shiver of pleasure shooting up his spine even more intense, as did the scratchy feel of Bonetap’s beard on Gerald’s ass.

Gonna beat yo’ ass, nigga! Gonna beat it down to pulp!

Bonetap stood and grimaced. He forced a smile on his face, which was sweet — at least he was trying, Gerald thought. Then Bonetap bent over on all fours. He grabbed the bottle of brandy and took a long swig from it. He sighed, and drank again.

“That’s sweet that you bought brandy,” Gerald said. “You remembered what I said…”

Bonetap shrugged. He was defensive, like he was already embarrassed about getting fucked. “Whatevuh,” he said. “I like brandy too. I ain’t just buy it fo’ you.”

But Gerald knew that wasn’t entirely true. Bonetap had only ever paid for smuggled vodka when Gerald moved in. To him, that seemed logical because it was the most alcoholic liquor — it made sense, he thought, to buy what contained the most drunkenness in the smallest container. But Gerald convinced him that was less reasonable than it seemed — brandy got you just as drunk, and it had a real flavor to it. Bonetap had been in this place since he was sixteen, so he had very little experience with alcohol, a fact that he strenuously denied and that Gerald had only gradually realized was true. He might have never been seriously drunk before coming to Brutewood.

“It’s okay, sugar,” Gerald said. He kissed Bonetap’s shoulderblades, one after the other. “I love your body, Bonetap. You’re so big and strong, and you have the best dick in this prison. Maybe in the world.” He giggled. Bonetap sighed and wiggled. Gerald’s tone was more patronizing than he meant — it was obvious that Gerald was saying that to puff up Bonetap’s ego in advance of being penetrated. But Bonetap didn’t mind that one bit, he often demanded Gerald do things just to puff up his ego. That was the main reason most men in prison kept a bitch, after all; they may express a ton of bluster about real men needing a hole in which to drain their balls, but Gerald knew that wasn’t the main purpose of it: it was to feel needed, wanted, even feared. He kissed Bonetap’s asscheeks. “I’ll worship your ass tomorrow,” Gerald said. “So don’t worry if this hurts, sugar. Tomorrow, your ass is gonna feel so good you’ll forget this ever happened.”

¡Siempre serás mi perra!

Gerald lubed up his dick and wedged it between Bonetap’s ass. He slowly pushed it in. Bonetap yelped and bit his lip. He kept his head down.

“Is this okay?”

“It’s fine,” Bonetap said, his voice breathless and trembling. Despite his words, it didn’t really sound entirely fine. He strained to take Gerald’s dick in his virgin hole.

“Tell me if you want me to stop, sugar,” Gerald said. He kissed Bonetap’s back again. “This is so sweet of you. You’re such a darling. This is the most perfect anniversary present ever.”

His whole body shook as Gerald squeezed a few more inches in. Bonetap grunted. He arched his back and pawed at the ground. He was nearly hyperventilating now, but he tried to keep it quiet as though if he didn’t acknowledge it, he wouldn’t feel shame.

“Damn, that hurts…” Bonetap said, but there was some faint tenor in his voice that made Gerald think it wasn’t all pain; there was a thin, vibrating note of pleasure there. Gerald made sure to hit the man’s prostate to accentuate the orgasmic feelings deep within Bonetap’s thuggish muscles.

If you don’t shut that goddamn facehole right now, I am gonna sew it shut, bitch!

“I’m sorry, sugar, it’ll start feeling better,” Gerald said, hoping that was true. He didn’t want Bonetap to back out. He continued driving his dick in and out, smiling as he saw Bonetap’s back move from pained writhing to pleasurable contortions.

Luckily his ass started to open up a bit, which made Gerald’s dick slide more easily in and out. He had a nice broad, plump ass that Gerald wanted to smack, but he thought that might make it hurt worse, so he didn’t.

His orgasm built slowly, but as he pumped and he felt it coming on, he sped up rapidly like a speeding train. He could barely reach Bonetap’s shoulders because he was so much shorter, so he gripped both big corded shoulder blades.

“Here it comes, sweetheart,” Gerald said as softly as he could. He kissed Gerald again. “I hope this don’t hurt too much, sugar…”

“No, not too much. I wanna feel your cum inside me,” Bonetap said, then he winced as though he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

They both grunted together as Gerald shot his load. He had a feminine squeal to the sound, as pleasure washed up his spine, and his dick spasmed within Bonetap’s back. Gerald moaned so loud the nearby cells erupted in laughter and catcalls.

Fuck that bitch, Bonetap! Wreck him!

He’s yo’ wife, you ain’t gotta make him feel good! If he still moanin’ like that, it means you ain’t been fuckin’ him hard enough.

Gerald pulled out and sat back. He sighed. Bonetap curled up next to him, and they spooned, Gerald being the outer spoon for the first time in more than two years. Bonetap’s body was stiff at first, but he soon relaxed now that he knew he wasn’t going to be caught. He ignored the hooting from the cells next door, and he kissed Gerald on the lips. Gerald exulted in the taste of his own cock and ass on Bonetap’s mouth.

“Thanks, sugar, that was special,” Gerald said softly, nibbling on Bonetap’s ear. “And don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Baby, I think I love you,” he said, hiding his face in his arm. “I’m glad we found each other.”

His arms gently caressing Bonetap’s biceps, Gerald cooed into the meat of his thug-tatted back. “Love you too, sugar… I hope we stay together in this cell forever.”

Asian Nerds Can Gang Too!

Here’s a sample from Asian Nerds Can Gang Too!, a hardcore group bw/am tale!

 

Camilla was excited to go out on a date on Friday. She had been out on dates before; she had even been out on dates with Malik on many occasions.

But this date was different. It felt more real, more mature, because it was now their “date night”. Camilla had been upset that her boyfriend, Malik, a basketball star at the college they both attended, took her out on dates rarely. She insisted that they set up a date night, just like Camilla’s parents had done. Just like them, she set it up for Tuesdays. That worked well with Malik’s schedule of practice, games and class.

Camilla had classes of her own, of course, and she raced through her homework so she wouldn’t have to worry about it on the date. She barely had enough time to get ready before Malik was knocking on her dorm room door. Malik wore a silk shirt, and his muscular chest looked so good in it that Camilla nearly canceled the date so they could stay in and make love.

But they had both gotten all dressed up, and she’d been looking forward to this for weeks. So they went to the Red Duke, the nicest restaurant near campus. It wasn’t really anything fancy, but for a college town like Tacoma, it might as well have been the Ritz. She was giddy, giggling like a little girl as they ordered and settled into their table to wait. The Italian music blared softly from the speakers overhead.

“Hey, so…” Malik began, before nervously biting his lip. “Don’t… uh, bite my head off,” he said. “I just… I wanted to ask you something-“

Is he about to propose? Camilla’s heart began pounding. She didn’t really think he was that serious about this relationship, but what else would he ask that would make him so nervous? She couldn’t think of anything else in the heat of the moment.

“It’s just… the rest of the team expects me to ask. It’s okay to say no,” he said. “Don’t be mad.”

That didn’t sound like a proposal. Maybe he wanted to ask her to go away with him? Like on some kind of trip? What did that have to do with the rest of his team?

“Would you… ever wanna… you know… fool around…?”

Camilla screwed up her face. “What are you talking about? Fool around? What are we, twelve? Malik, we have sex. We already have sex.”

“You ain’t let me finish,” he said. “You wanna fool around… with niggas?”

“What?”

“My team. The team. Not the whole team. Or at least not Brendan Shaw, fuck him,” Malik said. “But like… most of the team.”

“What?”

“You know… we could… gangbang you.”

“What!?”

“You can say no, it ain’t a big deal,” he said. “Don’t make a big deal out of it. Everyone else tries to get they girl to do it, to fuck the whole team — ‘cept Brendan Shaw — I ain’t even gonna try to talk you into it. I just promised I’d ask.”

Camilla stood up. She felt like throwing a drink in Malik’s face, but there were none on the table. She grabbed a glass of water off the table next to them, smiling at the surprised middle-aged couple, and she threw the water right in Malik’s face.

The whole restaurant fell silent.

“Fuck you, Malik. I’ll let yo’ niggas gangbang me after you let them gangbang you,” she said. She turned and walked out of the restaurant.

She had no particular destination in mind. If she hadn’t planned to spend tonight with Malik, she might have found a party or something like that, but she had assumed she would be with Malik until the morning.

Malik called for her from the restaurant. He yelled an apology, but Camilla didn’t want to hear it. She had told Malik that she didn’t want him to act like the other black ballers on his team, and every action she had ever taken in front of him had to have suggested to him that she was not going to be gangbanged by an entire team. That simply wasn’t her style.

The only way he might not have realized the answer would be no is if he paid little attention, if he had no knowledge of what she was like, if he thought that every aspect of her personality was wiped away by the star power of his athleticism. But sexiness wasn’t everything. Camilla couldn’t deny being humiliated just at the idea that Malik was picturing her banging the entire team. He probably got hard thinking about it, and the image of him stroking himself as he thought of his friends pawing over her made her ill.

And now she had nothing to do for the night. She was going to be bored, and she’d look like a nerd wandering around campus with no plans for the evening. Now she almost wished she had homework to do.

Wait! There was something, she thought, her mind still too upset about Malik to recall what she had been invited to. She remembered telling someone that she couldn’t do something because she would be with her boyfriend. What was that?

Then it finally came back to her: Hwang had invited her to play D&D with he and his buddies. Hwang was her lab partner in Chemistry, and he had been telling her about D&D during the last experiment.

She decided to go. She had had enough of black men for the time being — for tonight, at least — and she wanted to try something new. Besides she was suddenly desperate not to spend the evening in her dorm room alone.

Hwang was shocked when she called him. “Really?! Okay, yeah, come on up-“ Then he put his hand over the phone and said something to his friends. Camilla couldn’t hear, but she had the feeling he told them to put the porn away because a girl was coming over. Then returned to the phone. “Yeah, come on over, we’re just getting started.”

She nervously made her way upstairs. She was excited — this was the kind of thing she had come to college for, to have new experiences, to meet new kinds of people. She didn’t come all the way to GHU-Tacoma to date guys like Malik, the same kind of guys she could have dated back home in PG County.

They had obviously been cleaning the entire time she took to walk over here. The carpet even appeared to have been vacuumed, and the vacuum cleaner itself was still warm.

“We’re so glad to have you here. Women never play D&D with us,” Hwang said.

Camilla had not realized this D&D group was all Asian. Aside from Hwang, there was Rick, a Chinese guy who was actually really cute — he played soccer for the school, so he was in good shape, and he had a sort of earnest charm. The third player was Pitsu, who was big and thick, especially for a young Asian man, with a sturdy frame and strapping shoulders.

Str8 Till Dark: The Roommates

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Str8 Till Dark: The Roommates, a hardcore gay redneck erotica story you’ll have to read to believe!

 

“Is this gonna be yer first home wit’ a roommate, Charlie?” Tommy had asked when Charlie first arrived.

Charlie had shook his head, and Tommy had laughed as though it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. If Charlie weren’t so lacking in confidence in that moment, he would have asked what was so funny — he would have asked in an aggressive way, with feinting and mean-mugging, and it would have probably ended in Tommy being beaten up.

Now Charlie regretted not asking for details, because he now had a guess what made Tommy laugh. He knew Charlie would not like the person he was going to share a room with — his new roommate was a hillbilly named Piggie.

Charlie himself was not a hillbilly, and he didn’t like rednecks at all. He was from urban Detroit. He had been one of six white kids in his entire high school. He was covered in urban tats, wore a baseball cap backwards and talked like a gangsta.

And like a gangsta, he was currently on the run from the cops. His fingerprints had been found at a murder scene. Charlie was genuinely innocent of the murder, but was guilty of plenty of other things. If he was caught, he was likely to end up convicted of at least one serious felony, so he had gone on the run.

That was when he had been sent to Tommy’s operation out in rural Michigan, in the Upper Peninsula. Tommy grew weed for the Barren Nine, which was the gang Charlie had pledged himself to years ago. Tommy and Piggie had been growing marijuana out here in the middle of nowhere for years.

And now Charlie was supposed to help. His first day, however, he had done little more than walk around the fields. He had never seen so many marijuana plants, or smelled such an intense fresh-weed scent. For someone who had always struggled to afford weed, it seemed like heaven, even if Charlie wasn’t allowed to smoke any of that — Piggie and Tommy did buy their own weed to smoke, but Charlie wasn’t allowed to smoke any of the fields upon fields of high-quality bud.

He had shared a few drinks with Charlie and Piggie before retiring. Tommy had shown him to his room, which was a small chamber with a bed and a dresser and not much else. It wasn’t even much bigger than a prison cell. Charlie didn’t really have much stuff, so that wasn’t a problem for him.

It was only when he brushed his teeth and sank into the strange, unfamiliar bed that he remembered Tommy laughing about him having a roommate. Wasn’t that a strange wording? Tommy was one of his roommates, so why had he worded his question like that?

Wait… Weren’t there only two bedrooms? Tommy had never been given a formal tour, but when he looked around, he only saw two.

But maybe, he thought, Piggie slept elsewhere. Tommy was a redneck, but Piggie was a hillbilly; he seemed like the kind of man who might live in a barn outside. Maybe he guarded the fields at night. He spoke like a gibbering cartoon character, and Charlie could barely understand a word. Piggie wasn’t fat at all — they said he got the name because he used to be fat — but he was big and barrel-chested, with a prominent Confederate flag tattooed on his neck. Charlie was surprised his boss, a black man named Tyson, had agreed to work with a neo-Confederate.

He checked the alarm clock — it was set already. Tommy had told him to be up at six o’clock (which seemed ungodly early), so Charlie assumed Tommy had set the clock so he would have no excuse to be late. Why were there boots there by the door and clothes in the drawers? Charlie assumed Tyson had provided those, because Charlie was on the run and hadn’t been able to go back to his mama’s house for clothes.

But still, he felt unsettled. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep. He felt like there was something here he was missing. A part of him wondered if this room had been someone else’s, and that person was… gone. This wasn’t the kind of job you quit, so whoever it was could only be dead or in prison (and if he were in prison, Piggie and Tommy would be too).

His mind raced. He felt tired, but he was nowhere’s near falling asleep. He was simply in too strange of a place, his life in flux, and he was unable to relax. Piggie and Tommy were out in the main room drinking, but they were getting quieter and quieter.

Tommy seemed cool, he thought, but Piggie was both strange and off-putting. His accent was intimidating and hard-to-understand. He was bigger than Charlie, and looked quite possibly meaner; that was not a combination Charlie liked. Charlie really wished it could just be him and Tommy.

The door to his room slid open, and Piggie walked in. Charlie only saw the silhouette, but he knew it had to be Piggie because of his size and shape (Tommy was skinny, while Piggie was broad and strapping). Piggie stumbled a little, burped loudly and mumbled an apology.

Charlie sat up straight. “Whatchoo want, man?”

“Sssh, just goin’ to bed,” Piggie said.

“What?”

“Scoot over,” he said. He sat on the edge of the bed and began untying his shoes.

Downlow Thugs at the City Barbershop

Here’s a sample from Downlow Thugs at the City Barbershop, a novelette about ebony black thugs on the downlow!

Being the only gay man at a City Barbershop location came with a few perks for Jackson. Firstly, it meant any time a guy needed a serious haircut for a serious occasion — prom, marriage, album cover photo shoot, etc — he went with the gay barber, and that meant high tips. The classiest pimps and dealers usually asked for the gay barber as well, and they were good tippers too.

Even more importantly for Jackson, however, he benefited from being the only gay man at this City Barbershop because it meant he was always the one niggas went to if they needed some action on the downlow. That gave Jackson right of first refusal to basically every hot straight thug’s dick in the neighborhood.

And sometimes, a different neighborhood entirely. Like Darren Harvey. Jackson didn’t know who he was at first — like most of the sauntering thugs with hardcore gleams in their eye, he sat down in Jackson’s chair. There was no wait, but Jackson got the feeling he would not have waited for his turn anyway.

As he explained what he wanted, in a pimpish leer that commanded respect and suggested that he expected to be treated as an authority figure, Jackson got started, wondering if he was going to ask for a blowjob later (he had that blowjobby-look in his eyes). Jackson overhead his fellow barbers and a few other patrons: just a few scattered words at first, including Darren Harvey.

It was only then that Jackson realized he was cutting the hair of one of the feared enforcers for the Nine Tats. He was a local legend around here, rumored to have killed a cop and nobody-even-knew how many dealers. Jackson pretended to drop his scissors so he could take a moment to catch his breath.

When he lifted his head, Darren was making eye contact with him. He nodded and sneered, eyes running up and down Jackson’s body. His hand moved underneath the apron, like he was playing with his dick through his sagging jeans.

The signal was unmistakeable. Jackson hurried through the rest of the haircut, took his money (and a forty-percent tip), then motioned towards the backroom. He normally tried to be discrete, but the entire shop had fallen silent. It was obvious what was happening. Regardless, Jackson thought, his boss, Tyrell Greene, wasn’t in the frontroom, so it didn’t matter how discrete he was at the moment.

The backroom was warm, humid and dingy. It smelled a bit of spiderwebs, Jackson thought, and like barbicide ever since an entire box of the stuff had been dropped a few months ago. It shattered on the floor and filled the building with its medicinal disinfectant scent.

Darren stood and walked slowly. Jackson made sure Tyrell was in his office with the door closed. Tyrell knew what happened here, and he allowed it, but he didn’t like it one bit. He would have gotten mad if he saw it happening, so Jackson led Darren to the storage closet, where the door could be shut — that way even if Tyrell did come out of his office, he wouldn’t see anything.

“You deep-throat, right, nigga?” Darren asked. He ran his tongue between his lower lip and his gum. His hand caressed Jackson’s chin, teasing his lips apart. Despite the questioning nature of his words, it didn’t sound like Darren was willing to take no for an answer. Luckily, this was exactly the part of his job that Jackson loved the most.

Jackson nodded. His heart thumped. He wasn’t really scared that Darren would hurt him — this would be far too obvious a location, and besides that, Darren was a businessman-thug. He killed people who got in his way, not just people who annoyed him.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t hurt Jackson, not that Jackson had any desire to turn this down. He loved straight swaggery thugs like Darren, so he sunk to his knees. He closed the door behind himself and pulled Darren’s dick out through the fly of his jeans. It was girthy and juicy, with thick veins running along its length. It smelled of male underwear and cheap soap, which made Jackson’s own cock hard.

“Nah,” Darren said, stopping him from closing the door all the way. “Leave it open.”

Jackson wanted to ask why, but Darren looked at him in a way that suggested he wouldn’t entertain any questions. Jackson licked lips and swallowed the man’s thick brown dick, going as deep as he could.

Darren groaned as though he had been waiting a long time for this. He slammed his fist against the wall. He laughed and clapped his hands together. He seemed to be trying to make a lot of noise.

Sure enough, seconds later, Tyrell opened his office door. He was a burly middle-aged man with a hairy chest and a grizzled chin. He was sexy in a older-daddy kind of way, but he had never let Jackson touch his meat.

“Aw, fuckin’ Jackson, nigga, close the damn door!” he said. He straightened up and blanched when he saw that it was Darren who fed his cock down Jackson’s gullet.

“Nah, Tyrell,” Darren said. “Stay here for a second. I got somet’ing to say to you.” He closed his eyes and began humping Jackson’s face, his gold chains shimmering as he moved beneath the solitary lightbulb of the storage closet. His muscles flexed under the sagging jeans and fly shirt, and his jaw roiled with sexual energy.

“I don’t wanna watch this,” Tyrell said, but he didn’t move away.

“Tough. I got somethin’ you need to know,” Darren said. “Next month, I’m gonna be comin’ back to see you. I expect a blowjob from this nigga right here — or some other nigga equally good — and I expect a thousand dollars in cash.”

“You extortin’ me?”

“That’s right, nigga,” he said. “I bet you can guess what’ll happen if you don’t pay. But I’ll give you a hint — it ends with this place burnin’ to the ground with at least one nigga in it and plenty of evidence making it look like you done it.”

Jackson found it difficult to listen as his face was ground into Darren’s crotch. Since he had never even dropped his pants, that meant Jackson’s nose was nestled in his boxers, and his chin dragged against the fly of his jeans. The more menacing Darren became, the more his dick spasmed, as though Darren was turned on by the fear he generated in Tyrell and Jackson. He laughed at Jackson’s frenzied choking — which Jackson deliberately exaggerated because he knew Darren would fuck him more and more violently until it was authentically frenzied choking, so it was better to be pretend he was at his limits now.

“Don’t forget, nigga,” Darren said as he groaned. Then his balls crawled up in his sac, and he sprayed cum down Jackson’s throat.

The creamy flavor overwhelmed Jackson, who loved every moment of it, even as he sputtered and gagged some more. He was even turned on by the disgust he could feel radiating of Tyrell behind him. Darren moaned and pulled out mid-orgasm, so he could spray his cum over Jackson’s face. It looked like he angled his hips to aim for Tyrell, who dodged away easily. Darren laughed anyway. Warmth suffused Jackson’s body as he shot his own load in his pants at the same time. This was one of the sexiest work-blowjobs he had given in a long time, he thought to himself as he cleaned Darren’s dick off.

But Jackson also felt bad about the extortion. He wished there was something he could do to help, but all he could do was let those thick black balls drain their load down his throat. Darren seemed to enjoy that, so Jackson thought he might as well do his best.

Darren pulled off and pushed Jackson to the side. He glared at Tyrell and walked past him with his dick still out, taking great care to let it drag over Tyrell’s thigh.

“Remember, a blowjob and a grand. Next month,” Darren said. He kissed Tyrell on the cheek, his limp, moist cock resting against Tyrell’s pants. Tyrell winced, and Darren laughed before tucking his meat away and walking back to the frontroom. Conversation stopped out there when he opened the door. “Later, niggas,” was all he said.

White Chicks: The Tourist

Here’s a sample from White Chicks: The Tourist, a new story of hardcore interracial action!

She could scarcely believe she had really done it. But here she was, checking into a hotel in the tourist section of Kingston, Jamaica. It was a beautiful gilded building, staffed mainly by perky black women with long dreadlocks and broad smiles. The sun shone through the giant bay windows into the lobby, where she registered for her room.

Diane had decided to come to Jamaica on the spur of the moment. She found out at work that she was going to lose much of her vacation time if she didn’t use it. So she made a valiant effort to convince her boss to make an exception, to allow her to use it at a later date. She even explained that it was penny-wise but pound-foolish.

But he hadn’t listened. So Diane did exactly what she had threatened — she took a week off. She gave her one week’s notice, which was all her contract required, and she left. That meant her company was definitely going to lose one major client, because there was no way anyone but Diane could finish the presentation in time. The best part was that Diane couldn’t be fired because she handled all the most major clients. Firing her would ruin the company’s revenue for years.

So it had been penny-wise but pound-foolish to refuse Diane’s request, but she had followed procedure. This vacation was part of her compensation, she had to use it.

The resort catered to women — that was why most of the staff were females, they wanted to make women feel comfortable and men were liable to peep or flirt or even grope, so they hired women. That made sense, Diane thought as a girl wheeled her bags to her room.

The door to her room was open, however, which seemed to be a surprise to the bellhop. There was a man in the room, wearing the uniform of the hotel, standing with a toolbox in hand in front of the air conditioner.

“Hay!” the girl said, “You s’posed to be done, Lionel!” Her accent was much thicker now that she was talking to another black Jamaican.

“I am, I am,” he said, turning around. He grinned at the girl, then at Diane, and shook his dreadlocks behind his head. It looked like he had only just finished fixing the air conditioner and was putting his tools away. There was still a plastic mat on the carpet beneath his feet, with a few tools and grease-covered parts resting there. “It is working again, miss,” he said.

“You isn’t s’posed to be in here, Lionel,” said the girl, putting her hands on her hips. Despite her words, she collected her tip from Diane and walked out, still angrily demanding that Lionel leave.

He smiled at Diane, who was surprised by how sexy he was — he was tall, broad-shouldered, square-jawed and dark-eyed. He had strapping muscles, but wasn’t so big that he was offputting, and he had a charming smile.

“Hello,” he said in that sexy lilting accent. “I am Lionel. I am a repairman for the hotel. If you have any problems with your air conditioner, call for me.”

“Okay, Lionel, thank you,” she said. She shook his hand, blushing because he was so hot he made her knees weak.

“I do other things for the hotel as well,” he said, and he licked his lips. His eyes pointedly roved over her body. He stuck his tongue out farther, revealing a piercing right in the center of the tip.

From his body language and the way his eyes looked at her, Diane wondered if he was seducing her. She had to admit it was working — but she wouldn’t sleep with any man she just met. Would she?

“If I can be of service to you,” he said with a smile. “Please do call for me. It does not have to be the air conditioner. I have many talents.” He showed off how long his tongue was. “I do not charge for them. The hotel offers my talents for free.”

“Oh, so you’re, uh… an escort?” Diane blushed as she verbalized what had been unspoken thus far.

He nodded. “Of sorts,” he said. He got on his knees in front of her as though going to eat her out.

“Oh, Lionel…” Diane blushed as she realized she very much wanted this. Diane was a bit too chunky for her own tastes, and she wasn’t used to sexy men seeing her as desirable. But she suspected a relatively wealthy white woman in Jamaica would be seen as very desirable indeed, and men like Lionel probably didn’t mind her body size at all.

His face dived into the crotch of her tight jeans, and instantly Diane’s whole body seized as her clitoris came alive. He licked the fabric and gripped her hips with both hands.

Diane was aware that the pool was right outside her room, and the window was wide open. It was raining, and there had been a clap of thunder just moments ago, so no tourists were at the pool. But there were employees — more maintenance men and janitors, it seemed, and a handful of front desk employees. Diane knew they’d see her if she didn’t close the blinds, but she couldn’t reach, and a part of her didn’t want to. The idea of having sex in public had always been exciting to her.

His face dove between her legs, and he pulled down her jeans. He growled hungrily and licked at her bare pussy. Diane squealed and gripped the dreadlocks on his head for support. She had never touched dreadlocks before, at least not more than a passing brush, and she was surprised at how coarse and bristly they were. They were also thick, solid, and she wondered how thick his afro would be if it weren’t for the dreadlocks.

His tongue lapped at her pussy, and Diane moaned. She had never really felt like this when getting eaten out — Lionel made her blush and shiver with sexual anticipation.

Some of the employees were watching now, Diane could see that. She wasn’t naked, just with her pants around her ankles, and Lionel’s broad back concealed her bare pussy, but it was obvious that he was on his knees and what he was doing down there. The hotel staff chuckled to each other as they watched through the window.

When they realize Diane had seen them, they all resumed working, but kept sneaking glances up there. Diane got the impression they were cheering her on, making humping gestures like they wanted her to violently facefuck Lionel — that made sense, she thought, because they were probably jealous of the handsome escort who got all the pretty American women; they wanted her to humiliate him.

Of course, Diane wanted nothing of the sort. Nevertheless, the more Lionel licked at her womanhood, the more she leaned into and on him. Soon enough he was on the floor on his back, and Diane mounted his face.

The workers cheered as Diane facesat on him, writhing atop his head. His scraggly beard hairs scratched at her thighs and her vulva, sending waves of pleasure up her body.

His arms and feet flailed around, and she could feel him crying out for air beneath her. But she didn’t let up — she could tell a trickle of air snuck between her legs, so he wasn’t suffocating, but he kind of acted like he was. His muscles twisted beneath his hotel uniform, and he grabbed for his own crotch — where Diane saw a massive dick throbbing beneath the fabric — but was too intensely facesat upon to stroke himself off.

Giggling at his overenthusiastic response, Diane ground her hips down on his face. She wasn’t used to having a man submit to her like this — she was normally a quiet, reserved woman, who never had sex until at least the fifth date. She had never slept with a black man, or with a man younger than herself, or a man she didn’t know very well, or a man who was genuinely handsome. But Lionel fired on every front, she realized, and was a first for her in about a hundred ways.

“Oh, Lionel… I’m going to give you a nice big tip,” she said, blushing — she meant for that to sound sexy, but she thought it came across as lazy and even mean. But Lionel responded by licking with renewed vigor, his tongue pushing inside her as he gasped for breath.

The bulge in his slacks beckoned to her, and Diane leaned forward to reach it. She had no sooner slipped her hand under the waist of his pants when he bucked — it looked painful, like his cock was agonizingly sensitive.

Indeed, within seconds, he blew his wad. Diane blushed at the realization that she turned him on so much he came that easily. Hot juices spread over her fingers and sprayed onto his uniform shirt, and he grunted within her. Diane felt it in the vibrations running up her body, and in her trembling clitoris.

She contorted and moaned. His hands gripped her tits so suddenly it was like a trigger, sending her into orgasm. He roughly squeezed her nipples, which hurt a little but sent her into throes of orgasm.

Moisture rolled down his cheeks and his chin, and his dreadlocks shook as he rammed his tongue in and out of her body. His upper lip twitched against her clitoris, which pushed out waves of pleasure through her body.

Diane stood on weak knees, blushing at the sound of the workers outside clapping. Lionel looked embarrassed too, as he sat up and smiled at his coworkers. He moved away from the window and growled at Diane as though she was so hot he couldn’t help himself.

“If I can do anything, miss, to make your stay here more pleasant,” he said, wiping his face off with a washcloth in the sink. “Please do tell me, or send word to the front desk. They will send for me.”