Twink on Top: The Houngan

Here’s the entirety of Twink on Top: The Houngan, a hardcore noncon tale from the Twink on Top series! It’s about a sexy Haitian villain forced to submit! It’s only $0.99 with the coupon code XA27L!

Jonal waited until the stars and the moon were just right to maximize his power over the loa. It shouldn’t have been necessary to do that, but he wanted to have the greatest chance of success. He didn’t just want to control Vernand — he wanted to utterly dominate him.

Vin jwenn mwen…

He didn’t really know it worked, but in his heart, he knew it did work. He could feel it even before he sat down to pray to his loa, and then saw what was happening, with his mind’s eye. His spiritual vision was hazy, but it was enough to know that his spell was a success.

On the other side of Port-au-Prince, in a shanty-town, there was a circle of men sitting around a raging fire. One of them was playing drums, and the others were playing cards. One of the card-players was a tall, broad-shouldered man in dreadlocks. He had dark skin marked with scars and a faded tattoo from his old military batayon.

He was the biggest man in the shanty-town, with muscles bulging from his sturdy frame. He was menacing too. The others were frightened of him. They allowed him to win at cards — Jonal could tell that because the loa could read their minds. Even though Jonal aimed the spirits at the man, Vernand, he could get some superficial information from the minds of the other homeless men as well.

That man stood up, dropping his cards, leaving behind the money that had been resting in his lap. He walked, propelled by the loa that Jonal commanded from afar. He screamed, begging someone to stop him, but there was nothing anyone could do.

Ou yo ale nan mouri nan labou a, sa ki mal nonm…

Not that anyone tried to help. Nobody liked the man, whose name was Vernand. Nobody there in the shantytown knew who he was, but Jonal knew. He had just been released from prison; no one behind bars knew who Vernand really was either. But Jonal had known even then, even before Vernand had been released.

He had been waiting for a long time. He was glad that Vernand had not been killed in prison, though that would have been a fitting end. Jonal had been looking forward to getting his revenge ever since his sister was raped and murdered.

Vernand had done it. He was a soldier then, in the Haitian army, and he had raped her in the street, just because he could. Because he knew that no one would stop him.

Jonal had not had the power to stop him then, and by the time he did, Vernand was in prison. Now he was out, and he walked against his will through the streets of Port-au-Prince. Jonal was glad he had resisted his soul’s demand for revenge while Vernand was still imprisoned — Jonal could have easily made sure he was tortured, raped and kill in there. But Jonal didn’t want that to happen.

Because Jonal wanted to do that himself. He wasn’t going to let Vernand be tortured by someone else.

“Yon moun ede m ‘, tanpri, yon majisyen pran kò mwen an!” Vernand screamed. Jonal allowed him to do that. Vernand had control over his mouth for the moment, but nothing else. People looked at him strangely as he walked through Port-au-Prince, but no one stopped to help him. Vernand had no friends, and anyway, no one wanted to get involved. They all knew how much power magicians like Jonal had, and they weren’t going to risk their own safety by getting involved. Even the handful of good Samaritans who looked like they considered it changed their mind when they saw Vernand’s military tattoos — they knew what that meant: Vernand had been part of the villainous soldiers who raped and murdered with abandon during the Duvalier regime. No one was going to lift a finger to help someone who had been part of that hellish era.

Jonal waited in his home. He had a large house with a manicured lawn around it. Not many people in Haiti could claim that, but Jonal was a business success. Since his sister’s rape and murder, Jonal had made himself into a tycoon — he knew he needed more power to punish Vernand, and he had spent years building up a business empire to make it possible.

The wait was difficult. It took Vernand hours to walk all the way over here. Jonal couldn’t make him walk faster, since Vernand fought him every step of the way.

Finally, however, he had arrived. Jonal warned the two security men at his gate, so they let Vernand in, ignoring his plaintive cries for help. Vernand was tall and broad-chested, and he could only speak through gritted teeth — Jonal didn’t allow him to open his mouth all the way. The security guards didn’t even hear Vernand’s words exactly, so they didn’t know he had no control over his body.

Eventually Vernand stood in the hallway of Jonal’s house. There was a picture there of Jonal’s sister, but it did not look like Vernand recognized her. Why would he? He had probably raped and murdered a hundred girls just like her.

He ripped his shirt off his chest, then pulled his pants down. Jonal was in the other room, controlling him through the loa. In his mind, he could feel Vernand’s muscles writhing as he struggled against the vodou power compelling his movements. Jonal had always been a thin, weak man — that was why he became a hougan in the first place. He knew he could never succeed based on physical prowess, and in the midst of civil strife and war, Jonal’s intellect was of little value. He could only work on his spiritual power.

Now Jonal commanded an army of loa. He had built a business empire with the spirits he had made deals with. He could have done anything he wanted to Vernand. But there was only one thing he wanted to do.

At least, one thing for now.

Vernand’s muscles were shiny in the well-lit hallway, because he had sweated profusely as he fought against his body the entire way over here. His muscles remained tense. He was stark naked, his massive cock dangling between his legs. It must have hurt to be raped by that huge manhood, Jonal thought. He approached Vernand and gave him enough freedom to speak.

“Who are you?” Vernand spat out his words like he had to fight against his own throat to speak.

“Your worst nightmare. I am your punishment embodied,” Jonal said. He lightly tickled Vernand’s muscles, which twitched beneath his touch.

Vernand wept like he had been expecting this for some time. He wanted to fall to his knees, to collapse to the ground, but Jonal didn’t let him at first. Vernand’s chest heaved as he tried to sob. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

Then Jonal allowed it. Vernand fell to the ground, on all fours. He wept and begged for mercy, but Jonal just listened and caressed his long, coarse dreadlocks.

“Lift up your head,” Jonal said. He allowed Vernand just a bit of control over his body, enough that Vernand could choose to follow Jonal’s command or not — when he chose not, the loa forced Vernand to do it anyway, but more painfully.

Vernand’s dark hair and bearded face looked up into Jonal’s eyes. He opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out.

Jonal cackled as thunder clapped outside. It began raining hard, the sound of water pounding on the roof becoming deafening. Jonal had to raise his voice to be heard. “Prepare to be no longer a man, Vernand. You will be nothing but submission. You will be filth. You will never be clean again.”

He pushed the tip of his limp cock onto Vernand’s tongue, and he allowed Vernand to gag furiously. Vernand tried with all his might to bite down, but Jonal didn’t let that happen. He pushed his moist cocktip in deeper into Vernand’s mouth.

All he could do was retch and choke as Jonal slowly fed his dick down Vernand’s throat. A loud throaty sound escaped from Vernand’s mouth, and Jonal had to suppress a laugh at his frenzied reaction — Jonal didn’t want to ruin the atmosphere by laughing. Luckily he could smile and giggle a bit, since Vernand couldn’t see from his position or hear over the sound of the thunderstorm outside.

Letting his fingers grip Vernand’s scalp through his dreadlocks, Jonal began to slam his hips in. He fucked Vernand’s face, making his balls slap against Vernand’s chin with every thrust of his cock down his tight throat.

If it weren’t for the loa controlling his body, Vernand could not have deep-throated Jonal’s dick, that much was obvious. His neck instinctively fought back, trying hard not to accept the taste of dick. In Haitian culture, the fact that Vernand took dick, even against his will, made him an accursed figure, less of a man. Now that one man had fucked him, others would too — he would be seen as a prostitute and a slut, whom no man need respect.

Ou pa janm yo pral yon nonm ankò!

Jonal was relentless. He enjoyed the loud retching sound of Vernand’s throat as he leaked precum down his gullet. Jonal savored the spiritual struggle as well — it was easy for Jonal, who was much stronger in the ways of the loa. It felt like Jonal was physically holding him down, even though Vernand outweighed Jonal by more than a hundred pounds of solid muscle. Jonal very rarely outmuscled anyone, so it was a delightful, arousing feeling. He savored the utter submission Vernand felt every time Jonal let go of his control, just in part and just for a second, long enough to give Vernand a feeling like he could fight back.

Then Jonal made Vernand’s asshole twinkle and clench, forced his jaw to open so wide it ached and nearly snapped — Jonal had utter control and could have shattered the man’s jaw as he fucked his throat, but he didn’t. He knew it was more humiliating to make it feel like Vernand’s body was cooperating, allowing himself to be treated like a loose woman.

Jonal fingered Vernand’s ass, just hugging the rim with one finger while it twitched and clenched. That made Vernand know what was happening next, and he wept. Tears ran in rivulets down his dusty cheeks.

“Now we move on to the real punishment,” Jonal said. “Do you know what this is for?”

As he spoke, he pulled his cock out of Vernand’s mouth. He used one hand to wipe up all the excess spit that clung to his shaft, and he smeared it all over Vernand’s tense face. Vernand spat and sputtered. He yelled curses as he heaved for air, but Jonal had protections in place — no loa heard Vernand’s curses or pleas for help.

“Huh? Say it, girl-man. What are the loa punishing you for now?”

“For… my sins!”

“That is too vague,” Jonal said. He kneeled behind Vernand, who was so tall that even bending over wasn’t enough — Jonal still couldn’t reach his cock into Vernand’s ass. So he made Vernand kneel on his knees, with Jonal kneeling as well behind him. That placed Jonal’s smooth face right in the narrow groove in the center of Vernand’s muscled shoulders.

“I have… murdered.”

“Yes, but tell me more.”

“I have raped,” Vernand said. He hung his head in shame, then bit his lip as Jonal shoved the tip of his cock in. Vernand writhed and struggled against the loa who kept him in place. Jonal didn’t need to use his powers to sense the agony in Vernand’s body — he could feel it in the tension in his back muscles and in the way he sucked in his breath.

“Who did you rape?!”

“I do not know their names,” Vernand said through his tears. His dreadlocks shook as he cried.

Jonal grabbed one of his dreadlocks with each hand, using them like a yoke around a mule. He ground his hips, pushing a bit more cockmeat into Vernand’s ass. He pulled on those dreadlocks until Vernand lifted his head up. Jonal aimed his eyes right at the photo of Jonal’s sister.

“Do you recognize her?”


“You raped her. In 1959, you raped her in the street like a dog. You held her down and raped her mouth, her womanhood, her ass like a dirty prostitute, but worse because you did not pay her. You just slit her throat and let her die there in the dirt,” Jonal said. That reminded him why he was doing this, not for fun, but for justice. He thought he shouldn’t be enjoying this too much or the loa might punish him for it later.

As he spoke, Jonal worked more and more of his cock in. Finally every bit of it was inside Vernand’s tight ass, which clenched and tore. A few drops of blood even smeared over Jonal’s crotch. Vernand would have been screaming at the top of his lungs if Jonal allowed him to, but Jonal wanted to be sure Vernand heard everything Jonal said. Besides that, if he was too loud, he might attract attention from the security guards outside — Jonal had protections in place to be sure he wouldn’t be surprised, but he preferred to keep Vernand quiet enough not to get their attention in the first place.

“Say you’re sorry,” Jonal said.

“I’m sorry!”

“Are you? Are you really?” Jonal asked. “Say you’re sorry again. Beg me to forgive you.” This time, he didn’t force Vernand’s mouth to say anything.

“Fuck you!” Vernand shouted.

“I was hoping you would say that,” Jonal said. “Because it means I get to keep punishing you.” He slammed his hips down, shoving his cock all the way in. He groaned as his balls slapped against Vernand’s muscled thighs.

Vernand writhed and squirmed. Jonal allowed him a little more control over his body. He made sure only that Vernand couldn’t fight him off or push away from him. Instead Vernand heaved and yelled into the floor, on which he contorted wildly.

It was difficult to remain mounted on his body because he moved so much, but Jonal enjoyed the struggle. He gripped Vernand’s body tightly and pulled on his dreadlocks. The more Vernand moved and tried to expel Jonal’s cock from his ass, the tighter it was and the more pleasure flowed through Jonal’s body.

“What are you going to do from now on?”

“What?!” Vernand screamed. His eyes were blurry with tears, his mind dizzy and confused.

Jonal pulled on his dreadlocks so hard a few drops of blood appeared on his scalp. Vernand’s wild eyes bugged out of his sockets. He slammed his massive fists onto the ground and bucked his back, which Jonal allowed because it sent a wave of pleasure up his body while causing a tortuous twinge in Vernand’s ass.

“I asked you what you’re going to do from now on,” Jonal asked. “Huh? You’re not in the army anymore. So what?”

“I don’t know!”

“You’ve been robbing people, right? Tourists when you can, or whoever else is available. Right?”

“Yes, yes…” Vernand said. He bucked his hips again and wept into his muscled forearm.

“Well, no longer. You work for me now. You’re my slave. You’ll make up for the loss of my sister. You’ll never be able to make up for it, but I’ll enjoy making you try,” Jonal said.

“Yes, master,” Vernand said. His formerly arrogant voice was now weak and trembling.

“You’re going to be a prostitute,” Jonal said. That made Vernand buck and sob harder. Jonal ground his dick in deeper, moving it in little circles to be sure it caused plenty of pain. “Men will pay money to fuck you in the ass and in the mouth. They will turn you into a human pussy.


“Yes,” Jonal said. “You’re my slave now. I own you.”

“Yes, master,” Vernand said.

Jonal wanted to drag this out longer, but he felt an orgasm coming over him. He decided that he could keep playing later, but he wanted to finish this off and humiliate Vernand as much as possible. He had a whole lifetime to experiment with punishments, and if his spells had worked, Jonal would have the entire afterlife to continue it.

He gasped as the orgasm finally overcame him. He bucked and bit down hard on Vernand’s shoulder. Cum filled Vernand’s ass, a great big load of creamy hot cum that sloshed and spilled out of his ass. Vernand gagged because Jonal made sure he could taste it — he used magic to transfer Vernand’s tongue momentarily into his ass, so Vernand tasted every drop of cum mixing with his own filth and degradation. Vernand gagged violently.

The heat of Jonal’s seeped into Vernand’s body, spreading to every corner of his insides. Jonal sighed as Vernand screamed when Jonal returned his tongue to his mouth. His hips flexed like he was trying to push Jonal off, but the loa didn’t allow him to do much more than squirm.

That only made the orgasm even more intense. Jonal groaned, emitting a spine-tingling sound. Vernand cried into the wooden floor of Jonal’s mansion.

Finally he was done. Jonal pulled his limp dick out and slapped Vernand’s asscheeks. That sent another spasming wave of agony through his sensitive ass. Vernand barked like a dying dog.

Ramming his thumb into Vernand’s ass, Jonal pulled out wad after wad of cum. He made a big frothy mess in Vernand’s asscrack, letting the cum coat his deep black skin.

Then he wiped all that cum off on Vernand’s face. His untrimmed beard was white with semen, which he sucked off Jonal’s fingers. He gagged profusely as ass-slime hit his tongue, and he swallowed all of that anal filth off Jonal’s fingers.

“Now you lay here in your own mess and think about your sin,” Jonal said. “I’m going to think up new things to do with your body.”

“Yes, master,” Vernand said. His spirit was broken, which made Jonal smile — he hadn’t forced Vernand to say yes. Vernand had done that on his own because he had submitted. His soul was dead now, and Jonal knew he wouldn’t need to do much to keep Vernand under control.

But he wasn’t going to let go. Jonal had been working up to this for years. He had no intention of stopping, at least not until Vernand was used up and desiccated. This revenge was going to be even more fun than Jonal had thought.

Jonal smiled as he left Vernand there on the floor, so Jonal could clean himself up and decide what the next step would be. He was so excited he was already hard again. This, he thought, was going to make all of his study and struggle over the years worthwhile.

He’d finally have his revenge.

The Male Stripper at the City Barbershop

Here’s the first chapter of The Male Stripper at the City Barbershop, a new story about an alpha ebony stud who will do anything for the right price

Sam was annoyed that he had to cut hair today. He owned a City Barbershop in Richmond, Virginia, and he spent most of his time managing the store, taxes and paperwork. That was more than a full-time job in itself.

But he had only one backup barber, so when that backup left for a family funeral, and then a full-time barber, Calvin, called out sick, there was no one else to take over a chair for the day. Sam still had his cosmetology license — he was required to keep it active in order to maintain his business license — so he had no other options besides stepping in and cutting hair himself.

Yo, boss-man workin’ upfront today!

Once he got into the swing of things, however, Sam had a good time. He enjoyed cutting hair, and he enjoyed meeting new people. He was still treated like a minor celebrity because he was referred to in a song by Tallboy. The song had been a major hit, and it was what helped rescue his business when it was failing.

The reason there was a song about Sam was that the City Barbershop had a peculiar reputation — everyone knew it as a place where a straight nigga could go to swing downlow. Whatever happened there, stayed there, and there was always a gay man, like Sam, ready to service any hot alpha thugs who came through.

He still did that from time to time. But after a major rapper releases an entire song about how legendary your blowjobs are, you get an awful lot of men who want to find out about it for themselves. Sam had withdrawn from the City Barbershop because that made him uncomfortable, and because an awful lot of those men were desperate for blowjobs because they were old, fat, weak, stupid, obnoxious, dirty or gross, or more than one of those. It was easier just to stay in the office rather than keep telling people no.

But he thought while he was out front today, he might as well find someone he could have a little fun with. The song had been off the charts for more than a year now, so the torrent of nasty niggas had died down to an irregular trickle. Sam’s first few customers weren’t appealing to him though, and none asked for a blowjob anyway.

It wasn’t until just before lunch when Talaab walked in. He was tall, broad-shouldered and square-jawed, with a smooth chin, easygoing smile and deep dimples. He looked like a soap opera star, Sam thought, so handsome that Sam wanted to suck his dick, punch him in the face and watch him fuck a girl, all at the same time.

Sam considered his options as he began cutting Talaab’s hair. The sexiest men didn’t usually swing downlow because they had plenty of girls on their meat. Sam decided to bring up the song and his reputation as a legendary cocksucker, as that would be the best way to convince Talaab it was worth it to let a gay man suck on his cock.

“You must be new to Richmond,” Sam said. “Cuz I ain’t seen you around.”

“Yeah, I’m new,” Talaab said. He smiled, flashing those brilliant dimples. He had deep, light-brown eyes that made Sam swoon.

“Well, welcome to the city. Where you from originally?”

“I was born in Alabama,” Talaab said. “But I grew up all over the place. Most recently I lived in New Jersey.”

“Aah, cool. They got City Barbershops in Jersey?”

Talaab nodded.

“Good, good. So you know about their reputation? About my reputation?”

“Your reputation?”

“Yeah. Ain’t a big deal or nothin’,” Sam said. “I just thought maybe that was why you came here. That rapper Tallboy, he got that song, ‘Gettin’ Dome at the City Barbershop’, you know that one?”


“That was about me. About this shop,” Sam said.

“No shit?” It sounded like Talaab genuinely did not believe it, but Chuckie — the other barber working today — confirmed it, as did the guy whose hair Chuckie was cutting. Talaab raised his eyebrows in shock. “Damn, you like a celebrity and shit.”

“Oh, it’s not that cool. Everyone just knows I suck cock like a champion,” Sam said. He was disappointed. Talaab was charming and friendly, but he gave no indication he wanted a blowjob. “I can deep-throat anyone.”


Then there was a long pause. Talaab smiled but didn’t say anything. He gave no hint that he recognized what Sam wanted from him. Sam decided he needed to take a different tack. “What do you do, Talaab?”

“I’m a stripper.”

Another long pause ensued. Sam stopped cutting for a moment. Talaab chuckled. Sam smiled. That must be why he was so resistant, he was used to being propositioned, and he probably had chicks hanging off him, demanding meat. This could be difficult, Sam thought.

“Oh. Wow, okay,” Sam said. “That’s cool. You like that?”

“It’s alright.”

Sam sighed. “Ah. Well, then I guess you won’t be wantin’ a blowjob from me. You must have to fight off the girls with a stick.”


“You prolly get all them deep-throatin’ girls, any one of ‘em so good you-“

“You can stop it,” Talaab said. He narrowed his eyes to slits. “I know what you’re doing. You wanna suck my cock? Pay me.”

“Pay you?”

Talaab nodded. “I don’t give a shit. You can suck my cock e’rytime I come in here if I get a free haircut. I don’t wanna pay for haircuts. You pay the tip too. Ya dig?”

Sam hesitated. He was used to men begging him for a blowjob, not him paying them. But the cost to Sam would be minimal — he didn’t pay out to barbers for each haircut, so all he would lose was the tip. He’d be basically paying a few dollars to give a blowjob to the hottest guy in Richmond. Talaab was probably charismatic and outgoing, so he might give good word-of-mouth too, Sam thought.

“Fine,” Sam said. He blushed as Chuckie laughed. Then he straightened his back and got out the mirror to show Talaab the back of his head. The haircut was over.

Talaab nodded his satisfaction and stood. He grabbed his cock through his low-hanging jeans. It was briefly outlined by the fabric. It was big and thick, and it made Sam’s mouth water. Talaab rolled his eyes. “Where do we do this at?”

“Back here,” Sam said. He led Talaab into the back room. His heart raced. He was really surprised that Talaab had agreed to this, but he was also excited. He giggled nervously.

As Sam dropped to his knees, he stroked Talaab’s cock through his jeans. It was still limp but even then it was long and thick, and Sam could tell it was juicy. He pulled it out the fly of Talaab’s jeans.

It was even more beautiful than Sam had hoped. It was thick and veiny, and it smelled like clean cocoa butter. Sam inhaled deeply of Talaab’s scent.

“Yeah, baby, you got it figured out,” Talaab said, “You got technique.” He smiled. Sam couldn’t tell if he was really glad he had agreed to this or if Talaab was just used to acting seductive and pretending to be aroused by people. Sam suspected it was the latter.

He put the tip in his mouth and suckled. It perked up quickly now that his tongue was on it, and Talaab leaned back, putting his hands on his hips.

But Sam liked it a little more aggressive than that. He guided Talaab’s hands from his waist to the back of his head. He flickered the tip of his tongue in Talaab’s pisshole, causing Talaab to groan with desire.

“Ah…” Talaab said. “You like it like that, huh? You like facefuckin’, huh? You want my balls slappin’ against yo’ chin like this?” He slammed his dick in violently enough that Sam gagged and Talaab’s balls thwacked against his chin. Talaab laughed. Sam nodded the best he could around the cock in his spasming throat.

“Well, I will try to oblige,” Talaab said with mock sincerity. He started grinding his hips, moving his cock around in Sam’s throat as though he needed to hump every inch.

Sam gripped his jeans and held on tight. A part of him wanted to pull down Talaab’s pants so he could get a good feel of his ass, but Sam had always thought there was something dirty about sucking a man off without removing his pants first. Plus Sam had discovered that straight men loved it — perhaps it didn’t seem as gay to them? Or maybe it was easier to pretend for Talaab that he was overcome by horniness and not responsible for doing something gay?

Regardless, Sam knew Talaab liked it. A part of his mind knew that Talaab could just be pretending — as a male stripper, he no doubt knew how to tease gay men along, but Sam didn’t think that was what was happening. Talaab moaned and grunted like he was required to make as much noise as possible; he hissed, sucked on his teeth and chuckled every time Sam gagged and choked. He rolled his hips, flexing his muscles beneath the perfectly ironed clothes he wore.

“Yeah, nigga, alright, I can see why Tallboy done rapped about ya, this is worth a verse or two,” Talaab said. He tweaked his own nipples under his tight wifebeater.

Finally Sam could tell Talaab was about to blow his load. Sam felt it in the spasming of his veiny cockshaft and the rise of his balls in his heavy sac. Sam sucked the precum off the tip as he felt Talaab’s orgasm in his mouth.

“Here I go, you ready for the money shot? Move yo’ tongue around as I cover it up, nigga…”

Then thick and creamy cum landed in jets on his tongue. Sam moaned and deep-throated until his nose nestled in the trimmed pubic hair of Talaab’s crotch. Talaab moaned loudly, gripping Sam’s head tight to keep it in place as he bucked his hips.

The taste of sour and sweet cum overwhelmed Sam, who could think of nothing else as Talaab’s balls drained down Sam’s throat. He shot a huge load, as Sam supposed a stripper was required to, and it just kept on going, flowing in great wads into Sam’s belly.

At last it was over. Talaab leaned back a little like he didn’t want to touch Sam any more than absolutely necessary. The last few drops of salty cum slipped down Sam’s gullet.

Talaab sighed. He pulled away and slapped his limp dick over Sam’s face. He laughed cruelly. “You liked that, huh?”


“Good. I’ll be back in a few weeks for another haircut and a blowjob,” he said as he tucked his cock away. “Be ready for me.”

Twink on Top: The Finn in the Sauna

Here’s the entirety of Twink on Top: The Finn in the Sauna, a new story from the Twink on Top series! For fifty more Twink on Top tales, check out the first fifty-story boxed set, 50 Twinks Top 50 Tops!

John both cursed and praised his proudful streak after a day of hard negotiations in the far-north of Finland. He experienced a torrent of emotions because he couldn’t tell if he had totally blown it — making his current business venture a failure — or if he was about to call a press conference and declare a success. So a tumult of emotions roiled in his heart as he headed to the sauna. But when he finally settled in at the Irontop Sauna in Rovaniemi one Saturday afternoon to relax, the only feeling he could identify was fear. His business problems vanished, replaced only by sheer terror. Only one other person was in the sauna, and he was frightening.

The other man in the sauna stared at him, sweat dripping from his high cheekbones. He was a tall Finn with deep-set eyes, a grizzled jaw and muscles that went on for days. He looked like a shaved bear, John thought, except for the fact that the hair on his head — long, flowing hair that went past his broad shoulders — was blond like the sun. John had always thought men with long hair were sexy, and this guy also had muscle like a bodybuilder and a square, jutting jaw. He turned John on like few white men ever did.

John was an American businessman who had been living in Finland for two years, so he was comfortable with Finnish culture. He knew he wasn’t breaking any rules of the sauna. But the man glowered at him with unabashed hostility.

A part of him said to leave, begged him to rush out of there before this burly Finn attacked him. He could dress in a hurry, rush out the door and high-tail it to his car in the parking lot. He could call the police, but to say what: there’s a man looking at me? There’s a Finn in the sauna, help!?

Besides, John had been chased around by a bunch of bullies in his time. He didn’t intend to let that happen again; he wasn’t the weakest boy on the reservation anymore. He had never met an anti-gay Finn, but maybe, he thought, this burly fellow would be his first. If so, John intended to stand up for himself. John certainly made little effort to hide his homosexuality, so if there were any anti-gay Finns around, they might come looking for him.

Or it could be a racial thing — no Finns had expressed any racism to John since he came to this country, but they had no exposure to Native Americans aside from old Western movies from decades ago. Several of them had laughed when John said he was a Native American who owned a TV studio; they all thought natives didn’t operate businesses aside from bars, casino, nature trails and New Age massage parlors. The TV studio didn’t even have anything to do with Native American life; John had made a fortune in the US on a channel devoted exclusively to professional wrestling, and now he had come to Finland to start an all-LGBT Europe-wide channel.

The long-haired Finn stood and took a step towards John, whose heart raced. He was a thin little twink who couldn’t defend himself at all. What if this guy really was racist? Finland was very tolerant, but they had a contingent of wildly racist xenophobes who might not like Native Americans one bit. Or it might not even be a racial thing, he thought, this guy might assume anyone who owns a television channel is loaded with cash. Maybe he just wanted to rob John for the most traditional reason: to take his stuff.

“Hello,” said the man in thickly-accented English. His craggy face gleamed with sweat in the haze of the sauna’s löyly (“steam” — though that was a special word, used only for steam in a sauna because it carries spiritual connotations).

“Uh… Hi,” John said. When had the sauna emptied? It was just he and the big man now, and John was terrified.

“My name is Heikki.”

“Nice to meet you, Heikki. I’m John Redleaf,” he said. He held out a hand to shake, and when Heikki’s giant meaty paw collided with his, John shuddered in both fear and desire. Heikki was like a bodybuilder but without that vascular veininess that bodybuilders had, and which John didn’t find appealing. Heikki looked like he had built his muscles through real work, as a lumberjack or ice fisherman or who knew what. John had never felt so slender and weak.

Heikki grunted. “You are… American, yes? Indian?”

“Yes, that’s right. I’m an American Indian. Native American. Native American Indian. Not the Asian kind of Indian. American, uh… I’m from Montana. Indian-Montanan. Montanan-Indian. I, uh… That’s in America. In the West. Native Americans…-“ John was too nervous to think of anything meaningful to say right now.

“You are one of the gay. Yes?”

“Uh… Well… Uh… Yeah,” John said. Every part of his being told him to lie. Maybe John’s mannerisms wouldn’t come across as gay in Finnish culture. Maybe Heikki wouldn’t notice the slight lisp or the limp wrist. But John had never, at any point in his adult life, managed to pretend he was straight. In the heat of the moment, he couldn’t even think of how to lie much less how to do it successfully.

“That is good,” said Heikki. “You will do have some sex. Yes?”

“Uh…” John couldn’t tell if that was an offer, a prediction, a threat or a question, or some combination thereof.

Heikki walked away. John breathed a sigh of relief until he saw that Heikki wasn’t leaving. He walked to the door to the sauna and wedged it shut with a chair against the doorknob. Past the door was the “hot room”, where Finns got acclimated to heat before actually coming into the sauna itself. It didn’t sound like anyone was out there right now, making John nervous.


“I have always been seeing Surrounded by Tombstones,” said Heikki. “I have wanted to be doing this for many years.” He flopped his massive uncut cock between his fingers.

That name, Surrounded by Tombstones, sounded familiar but John couldn’t quite place it. Was it a movie? If he wasn’t distracted by Heikki’s shifting heft, his massive thighs and his giant cock, John might have recalled it as a TV show. In the US, it was called Surrounded by Arapaho. It was a Western action/drama show starring Sally Greenwald and Brendan Mitchell. John’s network didn’t air it, so he was only vaguely aware that Brendan Mitchell’s character — a cowboy named Sterling — had fallen in love with a male Arapaho Indian named Okomi. Their forbidden lust was one of the main plotlines on the show.

“Uh, so wait, I’m sorry… You want me to, uh… like suck your dick? Or whatever?” John said.

“Yes, I think we are agreementing,” Heikki said. He blushed. “I am not homosexually oriented. I like Indians.”

“You’re only gay for Indians? Is that… a thing?” John’s voice trailed off because he realized he didn’t care why Heikki wanted to do this. John loved servicing big alpha bears like Heikki, so if that was what he wanted, John didn’t care about how politically incorrect it was.

John shuddered when he reached up and tentatively grabbed Heikki’s cock. It was limp and moist from the humid sauna air, dripping with condensed löyly. Heikki’s muscles rippled like he was uncomfortable with John’s touch, but he sat down next to John on the wooden bench of the sauna.

Before John could get on his knees to suck cock, Heikki’s mitt-like hands gripped John’s delicate shoulders. John nearly fell backwards but Heikki held him in his massive biceps as John swooned. Then Heikki kissed him right on the lips.

It was an awkward kiss for a few reasons. First of all, Heikki seemed to have little experience with this — he seemed like the kind of rural lumberjack who rarely got laid despite his handsome face and bulging muscles; he was too crude and big for most girls, John suspected. Second of all, Heikki was clearly uncomfortable kissing a man. He hesitated at the last moment and his callused fingers explored John’s lithe chest as though Heikki expected to find breasts there. Thirdly, Heikki was simply huge.

He was at least a foot and a half taller than John, and probably outweighed him by two hundred pounds of solid muscle. John lost himself in those arms, and Heikki’s mouth was so big it felt like four Johns could have kissed him at the same time. John wondered if Heikki could swallow his entire head — it sure felt like it.

Heikki’s massive tongue pushed into John’s mouth. It was too awkward for John to lose himself in the heat of the moment, but his dick was rock-hard and he couldn’t think about anything other than the feel of Heikki’s pulsating muscles against John’s smooth skin.

When Heikki pulled away and grinned sheepishly, John reached into his crotch and gave his dick another stroke. Heikki was still totally limp, adding evidence to his claim to be straight — John was shocked; in America, when a man said he was straight but wanted to have sex with you, he nearly always turned out to be gay but in denial. Heikki really, genuinely came across as a straight man who had no idea what to do with a gay man. His dick was like a fleshy uncooked sausage dangling between his legs, behind a nest of curly dark-blond pubic hairs.

John stood and stretched his knees — he had been sitting for more than an hour — he was about to sink to the ground to suck on Heikki’s meat when Heikki dropped to his knees in front of John instead. He kissed John on the lips again, then moved to John’s neck, which he nuzzled with his slightly grizzled chin.

Their heights nearly matched up now, with Heikki on his knees on the ground and John standing in front of him. Heikki’s head was only a little above John’s.

From Heikki’s body language, it was obvious what he was going to do next, but John’s mind refused to accept it. Even back on his (relatively) gay-tolerant reservation in Montana, the sexual roles were pretty well set in stone — John was a twink who serviced bears. Big, strong and/or hairy men were tops, and John was a bottom. When straight or seemingly-straight men had gay sex, they sought out feminine-looking bottoms like John. All that was normal, predictable, exactly what John wanted and needed, back in America.

But maybe things were different in Finland. Much to John’s surprise as he stood there in front of Heikki, Heikki’s hand gingerly grabbed John’s dick. He gave it a few strokes, until precum leaked from the tip.

“Oh, wow, Heikki…” John blushed. He felt tiny. His cock was substantial, bigger than most men, even bigger than most Native Americans who, John thought, always had big cocks. But compared to Heikki every part of John felt small and weak. Heikki’s massive hand stroked John off by itself (most men had to use two hands to jack John off). When John was overcome by shocked passion, he leaned on Heikki’s massive chest, reminding John how tiny he was in comparison. Heikki’s muscles rippled beneath John’s touch.

But John assumed that that was where this ended, as far as Heikki pleasuring John went. Now Heikki would stand and want a blowjob. He’d probably facefuck John violently like macho straight guys usually did — that was fine with John, who loved it when men like Heikki abused his throat.

“You are smooth like girl and tasty on my tongue,” Heikki said as he kissed John’s arm and shoulders. He licked a trail of sensitive skin all the way down John’s chest, as John wondered where he would stop.

Was this really going to happen? A part of John’s mind had realized for several minutes that Heikki acted as though he was going to bottom, but that had been difficult to believe. It simply didn’t happen that way. John barely knew how to top. He had never in his entire life been on top with a man who was so much bigger than he was.

Then before John could process this, Heikki opened his mouth and swallowed John’s cock. He gagged right away as though he regretted doing it, then he let out a loud mewling sound around John’s dickshaft.

John was already hard, and his dick instantly sent pangs of pleasure up John’s spine. John drew in his breath and found he couldn’t bring himself to exhale, like he was worried anything he might do would remind Heikki that he is supposed to be a top.

His hands moved instinctively, and John found himself running his fingers through Heikki’s long blond hair. John had never felt anything so silken and beautiful, and the writhing mass of shoulder muscles beneath it made it even hotter.

“Ah, damn, Heikki, where did you learn to do this? What the fuck is on that Arapaho show?” John said — it seemed that Heikki was too intent on sucking cock to listen or remember any English, so Joh talked to himself. “I should have fucking bought that for my network. Fuck… We need more shows about gay Indians.” Who played Okomi in that show? John couldn’t think about it right now, but whoever it was must be the sexiest Indian in the world, if he had seduced a straight Finn from a continent away. John made a mental note to hire that actor for something, anything at all.

Heikki pulled away and spoke in Finnish. Haluan sinun naida persettäni! John had learned a few words here and there, but he had no idea what Heikki said. He smiled and nodded, though this experience had been so stressful and exhilarating that John’s smile was more of a grimace.

Heikki returned to sucking. It was awkward for him, having to stoop down to get into John’s crotch. To make it easier, John stepped up onto the wooden bench he had been sitting on. At last that meant John towered over Heikki, who was on his knees on the floor. Heikki could more easily suck cock, while John rested on his broad shoulders and massaged the tight layer of back muscles beneath him.

Then at last Heikki pulled off him again. He lightly tapped John’s asscheeks. He turned John around. John’s instinct was that this was it, Heikki wanted to top now, he was going to fuck John — which John was fine with, even if he was a little disappointed that his topping adventure ended so soon.

But Heikki didn’t fuck him in the ass. He dove his face between John’s cheeks and licked his asshole. Heikki shuddered in a mixture of delight and disgust as his tongue lapped at John’s ass. Due to the heat and humidity of the sauna’s löyly, both men were covered in salty moisture, and Heikki guzzled down every drop that clung to John’s flesh.

That didn’t last long before Heikki pulled away again. His big, callused hands roamed all over John’s body. He pushed John to sit back down on the bench.

Heikki stood and stretched his legs. Now that he stood and John sat, John’s face was well below Heikki’s crotch. John had to look up at him like a colossus, half-hard cock throbbing in the air as Heikki added more water to the hot coals on top of the sauna stove (the kiuas). A fresh burst of steam filled the air.

“It is good warm. Air is good for skin. And it is also for sex,” Heikki said. He may have blushed or his cheeks might have just gotten rosier from the heat, John couldn’t tell which.

Then Heikki took a deep breath, sighed and shook his head as he kneeled down on the ground. He sprawled his upper body over the bench John was sitting on. John was entranced by the looping curves of the man’s incredible shoulder muscles, and John’s delicate fingers traced the powerful, throbbing lines of his meaty shoulderblades.

Even though Heikki had made it clear he wanted to bottom, John’s tingled, shocked body still didn’t quite process what was happening, not right away. Heikki sprawled out on the bench next to John with his ass in the air — Heikki was so tall that even knelt over, his upraised ass was well above John’s navel.

It was obvious he wanted to get fucked, but John hesitated. What if he was misreading this situation? What if he accidentally offended Heikki by trying to fuck him?

But then Heikki reached one of his big-biceped arms around himself and rammed his pinkie into his ass to loosen it up. He grunted and his whole body tensed at first, then he relaxed.

Taking a deep breath, John mounted him from behind. “You gotta lower your ass some,” he said as he patted Heikki’s jiggling asscheeks. Heikki obediently lowered his hips until his ass was even with John’s crotch. That forced Heikki to awkwardly half-bend and half-stoop over the bench, but he didn’t seem to mind.

His mind reeled as he slipped his dick into Heikki’s ass. Heikki howled like a wolf, and John again wondered if he had done something wrong. But Heikki made no effort to leave, and John could tell that Heikki’s cock jerked from half-hard to stone-like and leaking precum. He must be into assplay, John thought.

That was confirmed as John slid more of his dick in. Heikki’s ass was not loose, but it was clear he was not a virgin either.

Heikki bit his lip and his muscles tensed all at once. He grunted, half-in-pain and half gasping with pleasure. It was like fucking a statue, John thought, all firm and unyielding. John couldn’t get a good grip, though he greatly enjoyed trying, clawing all over Heikki’s powerful frame.

But that was only the surface of Heikki’s body, which was indeed iron-like all over. He had muscles in places where John didn’t even think there were muscles. Inside Heikki’s ass, however, he was soft and pink and moist, inviting and warm, even compared to the heat of the sauna. John sped up his humping when it became clear that Heikki wasn’t in pain, and he moved from gingerly sticking it in and out to slamming his entire little twink body down on Heikki’s ass.

Like flicking a switch, it was obvious when John hit Heikki’s prostate and got past the big man’s discomfort. Heikki’s muscles all relaxed at once, and touching him was like a big warm, firm pillow. John lost himself in all that flesh, which throbbed and pulsated beneath John’s touch.

He had to stand on his toes, and when Heikki’s body rose a bit, John found himself elevated off the ground. He gripped Heikki’s back with both hands and humped until Heikki lowered himself again.

He even pulled on that long blond hair. It felt like perfect irony, he thought, since he usually serviced straight bears who liked to pull on John’s long black hair as they fucked him. John never understood why straight guys were into it.

But now that he was fucking a straight man with long hair, John totally understood. His delicate fingers grabbed a fistful of the löyly-moistened blond hair and pulled. He didn’t pull hard, just hard enough to make Heikki lift his head up.

Heikki crooned and let out a long, low moan that echoed in the small wooden sauna. John shuddered as Heikki’s asshole clenched. John’s free hand tried to stroke Heikki off but Heikki was so big that John struggled to reach his cock, and when he did, Heikki’s own paws were already furiously stroking his meat.

Then both men came at the same time. John was surprised by how suddenly his orgasm approached — he was not often a top, so he had little experience in this position — and overwhelmed him. His fingers tightened into talons that ripped at Heikki’s writhing muscles, while Heikki’s whole body tensed.

The smell of semen filled the air. Heikki groaned. He sprayed cum over John’s hands and onto the wooden bench beneath him, while John slammed his cock all the way in.

A thick burst of cum spurted out, coating Heikki’s insides. They both moaned together, in harmony like they were singing. The most intense orgasm of his life wracked John’s body. He shuddered and shivered despite the heat of the sauna.

He didn’t know how much he had shot. It felt like a huge orgasm. John could feel it sloshing around inside Heikki’s ass, sticking to John’s shaft and dripping down into the nest of hair around Heikki’s thighs. Every motion either one of them took sent shivers of exquisite afterclimax up John’s spine.

Then it was all over. The sauna seemed impossibly silent. Heikki’s labored breathing was audible, but distant, like the howl of a wolf outside.

John’s cock slowly limpened inside Heikki, whose muscles tightened as John dragged his fingertips overtop Heikki’s taut skin. Heikki gasped for air. Drops of cum dribbled from his cock, which John stroked while they both recovered from the intense orgasm.

Finally John was done. He gently extricated himself from Heikki, hopping off his back and letting his dick plop out. Heikki let out a sound that was half-sigh and half-roar, like an angry bear about to fall asleep.

He turned around, his broad chest gleamed with sweat and cum. John fell into his arms, sat on his lap and nuzzled the filthy flesh of his pectorals. Heikki cradled him close.

This felt more normal, John thought, a little twink like him relaxing in his alpha bear’s biceps. That was something John had done a hundred times before, but never with a big blond-haired muscle-god like Heikki. He traced the bulging curve of Heikki’s biceps as they both relaxed there.

“Thank you, Indian.”

John giggled. “You’re welcome, honky.” It didn’t look like Heikki recognized that word, which made John giggle even more. Heikki smiled along with him.

“We have become dirty,” Heikki said. He stood, looking down at the cum dripping from his chest. He glanced behind himself, where more cum clung to the fine blond hairs of his ass. He smiled awkwardly. He gestured towards the showers — Finns always showered before a sauna, so there were a few showerheads in the other side of the building — and smiled. “We must clean off.”

“Okay, yeah,” John said. “I guess we should.” He stood and stretched his legs as Heikki removed the chair that blocked the sauna door from opening. Then they both headed off to the showers.

“You have hotel?” Heikki asked. John nodded, and Heikki grinned. “You give to me hotel room number. I will come to visit. You will put penis in other Finns?”

“Uh… what?”

Heikki pantomimed chopping wood with an axe. “The men who I am working with, at wood-chopping camp. We all watch your show-“

“It’s not my show…” But it didn’t seem that Heikki was listening.

“And we like the Indian man. It is okay. We are all straight but we are tired of putting penis in each other. We want Indian man. We will come to hotel. Yes?”

John’s knees buckled and he nearly fell to the floor of the showering area. Was this for real? He couldn’t believe his luck. “Uh, yes! Yeah! Of course. Yes. I’ll… fuck any number of Finnish lumberjacks, is that what you’re asking?”

Heikki nodded and smiled. “We will all do it. It is a good show. Surrounded by Tombstones.”

“Yeah. Obviously a great show,” John said. He took a deep breath. “I will definitely start watching it.”

Downlow Thugs at the Irontop Gym

Here’s the first chapter of Downlow Thugs at the Irontop Gym, a fantastic new tale about muscular black alphas and the lusty twink who services them!

Kyle loved his job at the Irontop Gym of Compton. He had initially thought he would feel out-of-place — he was a flamboyant twink, and the regulars here were burly macho thugs. The Irontop Gym appealed mainly to men, and in Compton, it was strictly Nine Tats gang territory. That was where all the top gangbangers in the city worked out. But it also had a reputation that helped make it an ideal workplace for Kyle.

That’s because everyone knew the Irontop Gym was a place straight men could swing downlow… very low on the downlow. He loved the muscular sweaty bodies all around, demanding service and release. What happened here, stayed here, so a lot of men got their nut off and then went home to their wives, bitches or hos, pretending nothing had happened. And the pay wasn’t bad either — Kyle was a licensed physical trainer, so he did alright.

Most of his clients were not very sexy though. The handsome studs and thugs who filled the gym, and who occasionally asked for a blowjob, were mostly too poor to pay for a trainer. Even if they did want to hire one, they’d feel self-conscious hiring a slim gay man. That wasn’t very gangsta.

But Kyle did okay on an hourly wage and the extra money he got from the older gentlemen who actually needed a physical trainer — he got paid from their insurance companies (or Medicaid, though Medicaid paid so little that Kyle barely even thought of it as a portion of his income). Whenever he didn’t have a client, he kept his eyes open for someone who might give him a taste of their cock.

When he saw Samson, Kyle knew he’d be tasting that meat sooner or later — he just moved like a straight nigga who let gay men suck him off. He had that horse-cocked swagger that made Kyle’s knees weak. Samson was middle-aged, at forty-one years old, though you’d never know it from looking at him. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a dense mustache and a square jaw. He wore low-hanging gray shorts and a white wifebeater that revealed the layer of salt-and-pepper hair covering his broad chest.

“Yo, you my trainer?” he asked. He had a deep, gravelly voice that made Kyle’s knees weak.

Kyle nodded. He took a deep breath and steeled his nerves. For a moment he thought he wouldn’t be able to do this, that he’d react like a lovestruck teenager and there was nothing he could do about it.

But at last his professionalism took over. “Yes, sir. My name is Kyle,” he said. “Let’s talk about your goals. I got the medical sheet from your insurance company, but what are your personal goals? What do you hope to gain from our meetings?”

Kyle took a deep breath. Samson had taken a bullet to the thigh a few months ago. He lifted up his shorts to show Kyle the scar. Kyle touched his trunk-like thighs, and his hands shook he was so aroused. He caught a peek of the dingy white pouch of Samson’s jockstrap peeking out from the leg of his gray shorts.

The din of the gym filled Kyle’s ears, drowning out Samson’s voice. All Kyle could think about was that delicious-looking bulge in Samson’s shorts. He inhaled deeply of the musty scent that wafted off Samson, who had a permanent scowl on his face.

“Yo… Kyle,” Samson said. It took him a moment to remember Kyle’s name. He rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. Was he angry? He came across as angry, Kyle thought, his heart pounding, but Kyle felt sure he always looked like that. Samson was an intimidating man. His pause hung in the air like a stormcloud waiting to burst. He glared at Kyle. “You gay, right?”

“Uh… yeah,” Kyle said.

“You distracted cuz you wanna suck my dick?”


“I ain’t mad atcha,” he said. “You got somewhere quiet? You can suck me, Kyle. Then we do our work togethuh. Got it?”

“Well, uh, I…-“

“Shut up. Say yes or no.”

“Uh, yes.”

“Good,” Samson said. He stood up and turned around, so that his big plump asscheeks were right in front of Kyle’s face. Kyle drooled. He had to force himself to stand. He gestured towards the back of the gym.

“Uh, there’s a storage closet back there.”

“Let’s go, nigga,” he said. “I’m glad you ain’t white. I don’t like letting white queers suck my dick. Feels like a surrender.”

“Uh-huh,” Kyle murmured. He was too distracted by his own erection and the rippling of Samson’s muscles beneath his shorts and his wifebeater.

The closet was mostly empty, just a few exercise machines that weren’t in use. There was a bench press in the center of the closet, and it was there that Samson sat. He continued scowling in Kyle’s direction.

“Don’t mess around, nigga,” Samson said. “I ain’t come here for a blowjob, I still got shit to do. We ain’t makin’ love or whatevuh. Be quick. Just drain my nut so we can move on. Got it?”

Kyle nodded and sunk to his knees.

“Nah,” Samson said. He caught Kyle’s chest and lifted him back up to his feet. “Use yo’ words, nigga. Tell me you understand me.”

Kyle blushed. “Uh… I’ll be quick. I’ll suck you off as quick as I can. I won’t mess around.”


Samson spread his legs so the edge of the bench was beneath his crotch. That gave Kyle perfect access to his dick. Kyle stroked it through his gray shorts, but then Samson snorted liked he thought Kyle was being slow. Kyle blushed and pulled those shorts down.

He had a massive cock, which made Kyle grin. He had rarely seen anything so huge. It was long and thick and dense and fleshy, and Kyle could feel it throbbing even though it was still limp. He flopped it against his face. He kissed the tip and let his tongue tickle the piss-slit. Normally Kyle liked to tease straight men like that, but it seemed Samson didn’t want to take the time. So Kyle put the entire tip in his mouth and started sucking.

“Yeah, good boy, keep suckin’ just like that,” Samson said. He groaned as his dick stiffened up, and all that flesh turned from soft and clammy to hard and moist, throbbing in Kyle’s throat.

Fuck you, nigga! Come here and say that to my face! There was an argument out in the main gym. It sounded like a crowd formed and cheered the combatants on. All Kyle could hear was cheering and hollering.

The cock in his mouth was so thick he could barely fit in at all, but the more he sucked, the more he could swallow. It tasted like pure, unadulterated manhood, and the flavor reminded Kyle of all the imagined sex he had here — whenever he was bored at work, all he had to do was glance around to see overstuffed basketball shorts, pubic hair peeking out above the waistband, gruff voices echoing and cocky swagger everywhere he looked. Normally when he finally found a nigga willing to get his nut off in Kyle’s mouth, Kyle ended up disappointed — the reality didn’t live up to his imagination. But Samson was exactly what he had hoped, and it reminded Kyle of all those other men whose cocks he had only sucked in his dreams.

Come at me then! That fight sounded like it was getting more serious.

He considered going up there to stop it, but he knew that was silly, not just because he didn’t want to stop sucking Samson’s cock. Kyle was a weak gay twink — he was in good shape, but he was skinny and small. There was no way he could break up a fight, and anyway the bodybuilder Alain worked today as well. He would be able to stop the fight. Before Kyle even thought of that, he thought he could hear Alain’s Senegalese accent resonating in from the hallway.

“Ignore them niggas,” Samson said, flaring his nostrils. “You wanna suck my dick, you focus on my dick. I ain’t lettin’ you suck it on a fuckin’ lark or whatevuh, nigga. We ain’t stoppin just cuz some niggas is throwin’ punches up front.”

Kyle nodded to show his understanding. He certainly didn’t want to stop, and it did sound like Alain had broken up the fight before it got too serious. Wanting to be sure Samson appreciated the blowjob, Kyle looked up at him — straight thugs loved it when cocksuckers made eye contact — and grabbed his big meaty hands. He guided them to the back of Kyle’s head.

“Oh? You want me to facefuck ya, huh?”

Kyle nodded.

“You into that nasty shit, nigga?” Samson said. He started grinding his hips, shoving his dick in as Kyle struggled to open his throat. Samson muttered to himself. “Get that shit in there, nigga. You wantin’ this, don’t try and fight back now.”

Kyle wasn’t trying to fight back, but Samson’s dick was simply too big to deep-throat. It was all he could do to get half of it in his mouth, which felt like it was going to make his neck explode. He enjoyed the sight of Samson’s massive body swaying, rubbing, humping his face. Samson periodically glared into Kyle’s eyes, his harsh thuggish glare sending a wave of submission, fear and arousal through Kyle’s body.

“Keep on lookin’ me in the eye. When you suck a superior nigga, you look ‘im in the eye. That shows respect,” Samson said. Whenever Kyle accidentally closed his eyes, Samson gently pried them open again. He sneered at Kyle as he spat in his hand and lubed up his cock with it. His arrogant look made Kyle shiver with terror.

But Kyle loved every moment of it. He always enjoyed massive dicks sticking in his throat, leaking precum into his belly, and the swinging of heavy balls against his chin. His favorite activity was submitting to big thugs like Samson, allowing them to use his throat to satisfy their own carnal desires.

A brief spurt of pain erupted in Kyle’s nose — Samson had found a clothespin, which he used to shut Kyle’s nostrils. That forced Kyle’s throat to open even wider a few seconds later, and the last of Samson’s cock squeezed down his throat.

“Yeah, bitch, you a fuckin’ legend, nigga, hell yeah…” Samson said. He sounded surprised that he was enjoying this at all. His gravelly voice resonated in the tiny closet. He lightly tapped Kyle on the back of the head whenever he tried to pull away to take a breath, and he used both hands to hold Kyle in place. “Don’t quit now, nigga. You got me started, and I ain’t gonna stop ‘less you force me to.”

Kyle had no idea how long that lasted. He was dizzy from lack of oxygen, and all he could think about was his strained throat sputtering and choking. His face was a deep burgundy shade as his lungs cried out for air.

“Yo nigga, you ready fo’ nut? Huh? You better be, cuz it’s comin’.”

At last it was over. Samson stopped moving with his dick all the way down Kyle’s gullet, so Kyle could feel his balls crawl up in his sac where it rested against Kyle’s chin. Kyle’s hands gripped Samson’s plump brown asscheeks the best he could with Samson sitting down on the bench — he was leaned forward enough that Kyle could stroke the sweaty crack with both hands.

Samson grunted and groaned, lips moving like he was talking though no words came out. He closed his eyes as the first drops of cum spilled down Kyle’s throat. Kyle felt it pouring down his throat like he was chugging sour beer, and he loved the feel of Samson’s balls draining down his throat while they throbbed against his chin.

“Fuck yeah, nigga, swallow that shit… don’t spill none…”

Since Samson’s dick was so deep inside Kyle, his cum sprayed right into his gullet. Kyle didn’t taste it at first, he just felt the creamy heat seeping into his stomach and spreading to every corner of his body.

But when Samson finally pulled out, his dickshaft brought so much cum up with it that it coated Kyle’s tongue. He sighed as the flavor of semen finally overwhelmed his senses.

“Damn, nigga…” Samson chuckled. “You sure you wanna be a trainer? If you was my ho, I’d treat you right. Just consider it, nigga. You sign up wit’ me, and I’ll make sure you get fucked silly e’ry day.”

A blossom of desire exploded within Kyle, and if he weren’t out of breath, Kyle would have screamed “yes!” without a second thought. But by the time he recovered, it was clear that Samson was kidding, and even if he weren’t, Kyle didn’t want to be a ho. He was sure Samson’s idea of treating a ho “right” was not going to be as much fun as Kyle wanted.

Samson tucked his dick back in his jockstrap. He frowned at Kyle. “You feel better now, nigga? Can you concentrate on my leg instead of my cock?”

“Yes, sir,” Kyle said. He blushed, but Samson was entirely right to do this — now that he had tasted Samson’s cock, Kyle could focus. “Let’s get your leg stretched out. Stretching is very important to the healing process, that’s actually more important than the exercise.”

Str8 Thugs at the City Barbershop

Here’s the first chapter of Str8 Thugs at the City Barbershop, a new story by Calvin Freeman! It’s about one sexy twink who loves to service the black gangstas and gangbangers of the City Barbershop!

Harvey was just about done for the night when there was a loud knock on the door. The City Barbershop of Wilmington, Delaware was closed, so he didn’t want to answer it. He had closed the shop tonight, so he had stayed late to count the register, clean up and get the shop ready for tomorrow morning. Unlike virtually all of the other barbers here, Harvey actually did everything he was supposed to when he closed. He didn’t just leave it for the next day’s crew to do in the morning.

He also locked the door strictly at ten o’clock. If there were still customers in the shop — there weren’t today — he’d finish their haircuts, but he didn’t let anyone in after ten.

Now he was in the backroom, having just finished counting the register when he heard that insistent pounding on the front door. He hurriedly shoved the money into the safe just in case, then peered into the frontroom. He didn’t want whoever it was outside to know he was here, so he could still pretend the shop was empty.

Yo! Hey! Theo! Franklin! You two in there?!

There was loud, raucous laughter, a group of niggas. They sounded like thugs, which made Harvey nervous. Was he about to be robbed? He was a thin gay twink, one of several who worked here at the City Barbershop. This shop was known for a special tradition — straight black men could come here for a quick blowjob on the downlow, no questions asked. Harvey was still new so he had only sucked off a few swaggering sexy thugs, but he was well familiar with the tradition. It was half the reason he wanted to work here.

Theo and Franklin were the other two gay guys here. They had gone home hours ago. They were engaged to be married, but they both still sucked off straight guys — it wasn’t cheating, it seemed, if it happened at the City Barbershop.

A part of Harvey was disappointed that the laughing men weren’t asking for him. He knew it was just because he was new. If they were really here for a blowjob — which is what their nervous bravado and laughter suggested — they wouldn’t care too much who did the sucking. They just mentioned Theo and Franklin because they had worked here for a long time, while Harvey was still new.

Hey! I see you, nigga!

It’s that new nigga. What’s ‘is name?

Harvey! Hey Harvey, let us in! You wanna swing on this dick?

Harvey shivered. He went out into the front and pretended like he had only just now heard the men. There were five of them. One was Reggie — he was the one who had knocked — and the other four gripped a shirtless thug whom Harvey didn’t know. The shirtless thug writhed and smiled like he didn’t really want to be here but didn’t want to fight back either.

He opened the door, and they all pushed in. It was chilly out, cold enough that it was strange for the one thug to be shirtless. That was when Harvey noticed the tattoo on his belly. The shirtless man had the word NINE tattooed in an arc on the top left side of his belly, like the left half of the classic THUG LIFE tattoo. The skin around the E was reddish and flaky — that was a new tattoo.

“Yo nigga, this here is Varshawn. You like him?” Reggie asked. Everyone except Varshawn chuckled. Varshawn sighed and rolled his eyes. The muscles of his bare chest writhed. Reggie patted his belly, and Varshawn writhed, grimacing because of the sensitive tattoo flesh. “Huh? You think he’s hot?”

“Uh… Yeah, I guess so,” Harvey said. He blushed and put his hands on his hips.

He ain’t nevuh gotten a blowjob from a nigga.

He say he can’t get hard that way.

“I can’t,” Varshawn said. He alone sounded weak and confident. “I’m a Christian nigga. We don’t do that in Richmond.”

I know that is bullshit.

“You gonna blow a big ol’ nut, Varshawn,” Reggie said. He grinned. “Varshawn here was just gettin’ a tattoo and he sayin’ he can’t get hard wit’ a nigga on his dick. We said we could prove that ain’t true. You suck dick, right? You suck good. I was gonna ask for Theo, I know he can suck the foreskin off a Jamaican, nigga.”

These men were all Nine Tats. That was a widespread street gang all of whom got the same tattoo, the words NINE TATS tattooed in an arc on their upper belly, with an underline beneath it. Only they didn’t get the entire tattoo at once — every time they committed some act to prove their devotion to the gang, they got a new letter tattooed on. Only the toughest and highest-ranking thugs ever got all eight letters and the underline, which was the final step. None of the men here had the underline, or even all eight letters. Reggie had NINE TA, and he was the most powerful gangbanger in Wilmington that Harvey knew of.

Someone undid Varshawn’s belt and his loose-sagging jeans fell to the ground Varshawn smiled nervously. His friends held onto his elbows like they were forcing him into it, though neither actually gripped him, so Varshawn could have walked away if he wanted to. They led him into the shop, the bell on the door tinkling as it swung shut.

Harvey was so surprised and aroused that he didn’t even think about shutting the curtains of the shop before he sunk to his knees. He was about to suck dick in full view of everyone walking or driving by, on one of the busiest streets in Wilmington. Luckily Reggie thought of that before Harvey got too far. He closed the curtain and made sure the door was locked. Harvey pulled down Varshawn’s boxers to reveal a thick, plump brown cock, dangling between his legs. It was as limp as could be.

“Ah, man, ah… You really gonna make a nigga do this?” Varshawn asked. He had a big nervous grin on his face, and he couldn’t stop laughing. He covered his face with one hand. His eyes kept darting between Reggie and his other niggas, who all chuckled along with him.

Harvey stuck his tongue out and licked Varshawn’s meat from tip to root. That sent a shudder of pleasure up Varshawn’s spine, and he stopped laughing for just a moment, like he was surprised that it didn’t hurt.


Then Harvey put the tip in his mouth, just the first inch or so, and he loudly suckled as though he was trying to suck the end of Varshawn’s cock right off. The other niggas had all suggested Harvey might not be as good of a cocksucker as Theo, so Harvey wanted to prove they were wrong. Whatever happened here was going to be the subject of rumors and gossip for months to come, so it was likely to cement his reputation. Varshawn writhed, and his dick jerked.

There it goes, nigga!

You gettin’ hard.

Tol’ you it’d happen, nigga!

Harvey deep-throated it, letting that entire cock slide down his throat. He got almost the whole thing in there before gagging forced him to stop, and the shaft began to straighten and stiffen up. Varshawn watched with wide, horrified eyes like a mad scientist seeing his creation run amok. He kept his arms firmly away from Harvey, unwilling to touch him though that had the result of forcing Varshawn’s hands to grip his niggas, who still held him in place. So to avoid touching a gay man, Harvey, Varshawn groped the well-muscled, tattooed bodies of his fellow gangbangers. He didn’t seem to notice the irony.

The cock pulsating in his mouth tasted of fine coffee and cocoa butter, a taste that Harvey adored. He forced himself to keep that entire cock in his throat for as long as he could manage, despite his choking and sputtering, because he wanted to shock Varshawn with how good his blowjob was.

You likin’ it now, nigga!

That plan apparently succeeded. Varshawn’s giggling turned into surprised murmuring, and Varshawn writhed like he was epileptic. His niggas’ held him just tightly enough that he would have to pull hard to get away, but he remained free to go anytime.

He just didn’t want to go, that much was clear. His nervous smile turned more and more aroused, like he was forgetting his initial reluctance. His dick throbbed in Harvey’s mouth, his sour-sweet precum flowing down Harvey’s throat.

Reggie sidled up closer to Varshawn, who didn’t notice because his eyes were closed. The other niggas hushed their own giggling like schoolchildren. Reggie waited until he was so close he nearly kissed Varshawn, then he said, “Whatchoo think, nigga?”

Varshawn’s eyes popped open and he yelped. He blushed as they all laughed. Varshawn was obviously a lot less comfortable with man-on-man contact than the others, and he avoided looking at Reggie. He breathed heavily and closed his eyes again.

“Huh? You scared of gays, nigga? Huh? You wanna be a thug, right? You wanna join us? You gonna end up doin’ a lot worse than gettin’ sum head from a nigga. Can you handle it? Huh? Say somethin’, nigga.”

Varshawn gulped. “Uh… Yeah… I can handle it. I’m doin’ it, ain’t I?”

“Open yo’ eyes, nigga.”

Varshawn did so. Reggie was still right there, so close his breath condensed on Varshawn’s cheeks. Reggie placed one hand lightly on Varshawn’s belly, which made Varshawn’s entire body ripple like he was ticklish.

Despite Varshawn’s obvious embarrassment, his dick just got harder and harder. Precum dripped in great gobs down Harvey’s throat. He loved the flavor of precum, especially in fresh cocks that hadn’t bust any time recently. He could tell that was half the reason Varshawn had gotten hard so quickly — he was horny.

“You gonna nut, nigga?” Reggie asked, laughing when his voice made Varshawn writhe.

Varshawn didn’t answer. He just wrinkled his nose and flexed his hips to shove his dick down Harvey’s throat. His hands still flailed at his side, instinctively gripping Reggie’s broad shoulders and rippling chest muscles. Varshawn didn’t even seem to notice what his hands were doing.

Fill that nigga up!

Yeah, suck that shit, suck it, damn…

Finally Harvey felt Varshawn’s dick pulsating with the power of his orgasm. He gasped and clawed at his niggas’ bodies all around him, while Harvey gulped down wad after wad of creamy cum.

There he goes!

His climax looked almost painful. He contorted, ripping himself away from the niggas who had been holding onto his arms and shoulders. He grunted. He bit his lip, sending an impossibly copious load of cum into Harvey’s stomach.

Harvey was focused on the taste and feel of cum inside his belly, so he didn’t see Reggie kiss Varshawn. It was just a quick, chaste peck on the lips, clearly an awkward attempt to freak Varshawn out. As soon as it happened, they all burst into cheers and laughter as Varshawn barked, squirmed and pulled his head away. Harvey kept on draining the last of his cum while Varshawn tried to pretend he wasn’t upset by the kiss.

“You squeamish as shit, nigga,” Reggie said. “You gonna have to work on that.” He put his hands on his hips and nodded as Varshawn looked away. He even wiped his lips off like Reggie might have contaminated him.

Eventually it was all done. Varshawn was limp and sweaty, sitting in a barber’s chair. Harvey kept sucking until Varshawn pushed him away — Harvey liked doing that because he loved the feel of a rubbery cum-drained cock limply throbbing in his throat.

“Damn, nigga, you like a vacuum cleaner and shit…” Varshawn said with a laugh. He exchanged awkward glances with the other niggas. He gingerly cleaned his dick off with a tissue, and avoided looking at Harvey.

Told you he’d make you hard. Make you cum real good.

Ain’t nobody can resist a blowjob at the City Barbershop.

Everyone laughed at Varshawn so much Harvey felt a little sorry for him. But that didn’t stop him from diving back in and licking his cock again — it was limp and clammy, dry until Harvey slathered spit all along it. Varshawn groaned like he was annoyed, then shuddered as his dick jerked beneath Harvey’s tongue.

“Sorry, I just needed another taste,” Harvey said. Varshawn eyed him suspiciously, sighed and rolled his eyes. He grabbed another tissue to reclean his dick off.

This time, when he was done, Harvey tried to lick him yet again but Varshawn was waiting. He pushed Harvey away. “Nah, nigga, you done. You had yo’ fill,” he said through gritted teeth. He looked angry, but Harvey wasn’t worried — Reggie and the other niggas laughed so hard at Varshawn’s reaction that they were doubled over, wiping tears from their eyes.

“Quit laughin’, niggas, damn,” Varshawn said. He blushed and bit his lip. He took a deep breath as he pulled his jeans back up. “I ain’t know this town was into the gay shit like that.”

“Nah, nigga, we ain’t into that gay shit,” Reggie said with a cruel grin. “You is. That’s what I heard. I heard you let niggas suck you off and shit.”

Harvey giggled. “I heard a rumor you let some nigga kiss you. I’m an authority on gays, and nigga, that makes you gay.”

“All y’all shut up!” Varshawn screamed. “I know this ain’t part of it. I got my tattoo. I did what I gotta do. Fuck you all!” He walked straight towards the door, ignoring the laughter and jeers from Harvey, Reggie and the other niggas.

“Okay, sweetie, I’ll see you at home,” Harvey said, making Reggie and the others laugh so hard they cried. Harvey whistled at Varshawn’s swaying ass as he walked out the door.

Cellblock 5: An 18-Year Old Meets The Prison Sharks

Here’s the beginning of a great new tale, Cellblock 5: An 18-Year Old Meets The Prison Sharks, from Brutewood Medium Security Penitentiary!

Greg leaned back against the sharp, wire fence enclosing the yard and pulled a cigarette from the left pocket of his bright orange jumpsuit. His spirit took a downward spiral when he fiddled around for a light and realized he had none. He knew where he could get some matches; cell block #5. A tall, sandy-haired man with a dimpled chin and blue eyes took blowjobs for payment. Greg just wasn’t sure he was ready to get on his knees . . . yet. The thought of a mouth full of cock turned him on, but he had never truly been with a man and he was nervous about the other prisoners making fun of him. After all, this was his first week in the pen and at the age of 18, he felt like a wounded dolphin surrounded by hordes of hungry sharks. Many of these men were seasoned, and knew the ins and outs of the system. Not Greg. His relatively shy and aloof nature was not helping him out, either.

He hadn’t even noticed that time in the yard was up until a husky prison guard with a chin full of short stubble pushed him along the edges of the fence, corralling the prisoners back into their pens. The door to his cell creaked open, and Greg caught a glimpse of his cellmate, Mason, lounging on the bottom bunk waiting for him. He couldn’t help but notice the bulge in Mason’s jumpsuit. Mason was lying flat on his back, but his obvious erection lifted the lower half of his orange jumpsuit, elevating it in this air. Mason sat up when he saw Greg, quickly covering his crotch with a hand and slightly tugging at it. He walked over to the open toilet in the cell and whipped out his large, veiny manhood and began pissing into the can somewhat awkwardly. Greg grinned. “I hate trying to pee with a boner,” he joked. Mason smiled. “I was going to try to rub one out before everyone got back to their cells, but I see they cut yard time early today.”

Greg felt his own flaccid penis stiffen a bit at the thought of Mason alone in his cell masturbating to no end. He often noticed bulges in Mason’s jumpsuit, and knew his cell partner was horny quite often. Greg often tried to ignore them, but when he caught a glimpse of Mason from the side, his swollen soldier was obviously at attention, sometimes half-cocked, other times in full salute.

Niggas Can Be Rednecks Too!

Here’s the first chapter of Niggas Can Be Rednecks Too! It’s a hot tale of an urban black thug who finds that life on the run in rural Alabama is going to be sexier than he ever imagined!

The bus ride turned out to be very boring. In retrospect, that should have been obvious.

Topper left in a hurry. He wasn’t technically a fugitive, but the police wanted him for questioning and he knew that, if they questioned him, he would likely end up under arrest. So it made sense to find a way out of the state.

In his mind, he risked the bus being boarded by jackbooted FBI agents interrogating passengers as they tried to find him. But that didn’t happen. It was just a long, slow, boring bus ride to Bumcraw, Alabama. Nobody even looked twice at Topper the entire way down there.

When he finally arrived, it was just a dusty old bus station in the middle of nowhere — there were literally no employees at the station, and the nearest other building was a hundred feet away. One elderly black woman hobbled along the road nearby, and a young white girl had gotten off the bus with him but then disappeared. Other than that, there were no other human beings around.

But his boss Samson had given Topper directions to the bar. It was called the Colored Camper, and it was owned by someone named Barley. Samson knew him well. He had said that Barley would take Topper in and give him a place to stay.

Two years. Samson had said that Topper needed to stay away for two years or risk getting arrested. After that, the murder was going to be a “cold case” and no one would be actively investigating it. If someone did ever ask, Topper could credibly say he didn’t remember anything. No one had an alibi two years later.

The streets here weren’t marked. Topper was annoyed. The directions said things like “make your second right”, but there were many unmarked dirt roads that Topper assumed didn’t count as the first right.

This is why they give roads names and put street signs on ‘em, Topper thought. Did Alabama not get the memo?

Finally he saw a building that looked like a bar. It seemed like a strange place for a bar, out in the woods and far from any main road. But Samson had said it was a nigga-bar and had been since before the civil rights movement. Maybe, Topper thought, it was in an unobtrusive location to avoid drawing attention. Or maybe it had been a busy area decades ago.

Regardless, it was the Colored Camper, and Topper went in. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, so only a few dour-faced old niggas drank alone at the bar. They all glared at Topper when he made eye contact with them.

He went straight to the bartender, a burly middle-aged black man with a scruffy beard and a mouth full of chewing tobacco. He spat on the floor behind the bar when Topper came to him.

“Hey, I’m looking for Barley,” Topper said.

The bartender snorted. “Found ‘im,” he said.

“Oh. Hi,” Topper said. “I’m Topper-“

“Sssh,” the bartender said. He nodded to the dour old men. “Tommy. Nice to see ya again, nephew.” He spoke loud enough that everyone in the bar could hear. The drinkers all looked to Topper, who tried to look like he knew what was going on. Barley was not his uncle, so Topper knew that Barley was covering for him — were these old drunks snitches? Or was Barley just careful, assuming that everyone was a snitch? Barley cleared his throat. “Yo. This is my sister’s boy. Tommy.” The men all nodded at Topper.

“Hi. Uh, hi, e’rybody,” Topper said. His northern, urban accent felt very out-of-place here in Alabama. He wouldn’t be able to fit in until he installed a drawl into his voice.

Barley lowered his voice. “Go in the back. Wait in there.” Then he spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m glad to put ya up for a night befo’ you head off to college, nephew.”

“Uh, yeah, thanks for that, Uncle Barley,” Topper said. It didn’t look like anyone in the bar paid attention, but he played along anyway. He went into the backroom. There was not much there, just storage of stuff for the bar. From a window in the back, he could see a farm.

Topper soon learned that the farm was Barley’s. This bar was on the outskirts of his property. Barley didn’t make a lot of money from the bar — he mainly owned it as a way to launder money, which he actually made from growing marijuana on his farm. That was how he knew Samson. He was Samson’s supplier.

But Topper only figured all that out gradually over the next few days. He soon learned that the bar made the bus seem exciting, but Topper was only allowed to be here in the backroom of the bar or in an abandoned barn on the farm, which was where Barley had made up a small sleeping area for him.

It was boring and hot — neither the backroom nor the barn were air-conditioned — but it was better than jail, which was also both boring and hot. Topper had thought that he’d miss alcohol and weed while he was on the run, but as it turned out, he had plenty of both since the two places he was allowed to be were a bar and a marijuana field.

But he soon lost his taste for both. He spent his days lounging around and working out in the barn, then he read at night, or listened to the radio. It wasn’t even satellite radio. Living as a fugitive in Alabama was like living in the eighties, he thought, right down to the afro he started to grow since he couldn’t arrange for a haircut.

Barley mostly ignored him. The first time he came to hang out was a month after Topper arrived, when Barley’s wife was gone for a trip to see her sister. Topper wasn’t expecting him. He just showed up in the barn late at night.

“G’evenin’, hoss,” Barley said.

Topper was excited to have a visitor, but he tried to hide it. It would seem weird if he was giddy about seeing a man, and Barley — though kind — was a gruff, sweaty, hairy-bodied redneck. Topper had never met a black man who was such a redneck; he hadn’t even believed they still existed.

“You know my wife is gone,” Barley said. He chewed on a piece of straw right now because he was trying to quit chewing tobacco, but he chewed on the straw as though it would turn into tobacco if he chewed hard enough.

“Yeah. How she doin’?”

“She fine. She prolly in Texas right about now,” Barley said. “Look, nigga… Samson tol’ you the rules, right?”

Topper nodded. “He said I can’t have no contact wit’ my family, or wit’ no one else.”

“That’s right.” Barley sighed. “Includin’ girls.”


“So you must be gettin’ right horny, huh?”

Topper shrugged. “Yeah. I am. Yeah,” he said. He wasn’t really all that horny, but he didn’t want to admit to Barley that going a month without sex was normal for him.

“Me too,” Barley said. He took off his shirt to reveal a powerful body, dark brown and gleaming with drying sweat. He cleared his throat. “Whatcha wanna do about it?” The piece of straw moved to the other side of his mouth.

Topper’s heart skipped a beat as he realized what Barley was asking him. This wouldn’t be the first time Topper messed around on the downlow, but it would be the first time he did it with someone he didn’t know well. He and his best friend used to trade blowjobs a few times. Topper had never even touched anyone else’s cock besides his buddy’s. He wasn’t sure he could handle sucking off someone he didn’t know, someone bigger, older and tougher than him, and a foul redneck to boot. He wasn’t dirty, exactly, but he wasn’t really clean either.

Could Topper do this? He didn’t want to go to jail, or almost as bad, take another bus all the way to Oregon where his grandmother would take him in. That would be even more humiliating, he thought. At least she wouldn’t make him suck any dicks.

But even as he told himself not to do it, Topper dropped to his knees in front of Barley. His dick smelled like the farm, like a combination of sweat and mud and hay and sunlight, with a faint acridity from chewing tobacco as well.

Barley’s callused fingers gripped Topper’s chin, pulling his jaw apart. Topper didn’t resist, but he didn’t open his mouth either, allowing Barley to do it for him. That made Topper feel a little better — at least he could always claim that Barley “made” him do it even if that wasn’t exactly true. As Topper’s mouth parted, Barley flopped his limp dick over Topper’s lips.

That sent a wave of salty taste through Topper’s senses. Even though he hadn’t even made tongue-on-dick contact, he tasted Barley’s redneck meat.

Then at last Barley pushed his dick in. He laughed when Topper gagged the moment he felt that spongy limp cock on his tongue, and he relentlessly pushed it in to Topper’s mouth.

But he had to admit that the taste diminished rapidly. Soon it just tasted like spit — rather foul to be sure, but not anything Topper hadn’t experienced before. It tasted, he thought, like his mouth did after a night of drinking, when he awoke with a dry mouth and an upset stomach that meant he didn’t want to wetten his tongue with anything.

His stomach was upset now too, just like those hungover mornings, and he gagged with every thrust of Barley’s dick down his throat. He was soon rock-hard, his cock growing into a long piece of brown meat that jabbed into Topper’s mouth.

“Yeah, hoss, you got nice, soft lips… Samson tol’ me you’d suck real good…”

The one good thing about this, Topper thought, was that he didn’t really have to do anything — Barley didn’t seem to expect Topper to actually suck. Instead, he held on to Topper’s short hair and his ears, and he gyrated his hips.

He moved slowly at first, not really trying to force his cock in. He let Topper just take the tip. But with every grinding thrust of his waist, he shoved a bit more of his cock down Topper’s throat.

Soon Topper found his entire belly roiling each time. It felt like an alien probe, he thought, and it was impossibly hard — was his own cock that hard when he had a boner? It didn’t seem that way now, but of course right now his dick had never been softer.

“Take it deep in there, hoss, take it real deep…”

The taste of precum reminded him how disgusting this was. By then Topper’s throat had widened up enough that Barley’s entire rod nearly fit in there. Topper’s nose brushed his pubic hair, and Barley’s swinging ballsack slapped against Topper’s chin.

The sour and salty flavor of precum assaulted Topper’s senses. It was all he could think about, and even Barley’s moist heaving breath seemed like a distant distraction. The precum flowed like water down Topper’s throat, coating his flesh and settling deep in his gullet.

“Alright, nigga, you go’n swallow, right?” Barley asked as though that wasn’t a real question.

When Topper and his nigga used to exchange blowjobs, they never swallowed. That was unthinkable. Tasting dick was humiliating enough, but could he really taste cum too? Even as his mind said no, Topper knew the answer was yes — he wasn’t about to just get up and leave now. He’d be humiliated running away to grandma with his tail between his legs and precum dripping from his chin.

Topper preferred to shoot his load right down girls’ throats. That felt good because it meant their entire mouth encircled his cock. He assumed that was what everyone wanted in a blowjob.

But it soon became apparent that Barley wanted something different. As he neared his orgasm, he pulled his cock out. He kept the moist precum-soaked tip resting right on Topper’s tongue, but he didn’t try to shove it back into Topper’s throat.

“Now use bot’ hands, nigga,” Barley said. He guided Topper’s hands to his dripping-wet shaft.

Topper shuddered but did as he was told. He felt like he was humiliating himself this way, but he had to admit it should be better than the alternative. Surely, he thought, this was better than actually being throat-fucked when Barley shot his wad. He couldn’t think of a reason to complain even if he felt like this was worse.

“Oh, yeah, nigga, swallow that nut…”

He could sense the orgasm in Barley’s cock throbbing beneath his fingers and in the loud snorting from Barley’s mouth. He sounded like an angry oxen, and for a moment Topper really felt like he was draining cum out of an animal and not a person.

He shot a huge, creamy load, which again felt like too much for a person. But Topper didn’t really know what was a normal amount. He gagged profusely as his mouth filled with cum, so much that it dripped down his chin.

“Ugh, yeah, yeah, nigga, yeah…”

He couldn’t swallow yet because Barley kept dipping his dick in to Topper’s mouth, which spasmed as he felt hot cum and little swimming sperms coating his tongue and lips and cheeks. Barley chuckled at Topper’s writhing, and he used his limpening dickshaft to spread cum all over Topper’s face.

In the end, when Topper actually swallowed, there wasn’t much cum left in his mouth. Most of it clung to his face or dripped down his chest and onto the floor beneath him. The lemony smell of semen filled the air, so he continued to taste cum even after he pulled away from Barley’s limp dick.

“Damn, nigga,” Barley said. He snorted loudly and wiped his dick off with a rag. “You suck dick good. Did Samson teach ya that?”


Barley nodded. “You a natural then, nigga. You got a nice, purty mouth. You ever wanna do that again, you come find me, nigga. You ain’t got to, but, y’know… If’n you wanna show a little respec’, you come find me.”

Topper nodded his understanding, but he had no plan to do that. If this was how redneck niggas in Alabama showed respect, Topper had every intention to be disrespectful.

Alpha Cellmate: The Mafioso

Here’s the first chapter of Alpha Cellmate: The Mafioso, a new story from Brutewood Medium Security Penitentiary! It’s a hot tale of interracial action behind bars!

Rashad was terrified as he walked naked through the corridors of Brutewood Penitentiary, but he hid it with a well-timed sashay of his hips whenever he passed a group of inmates. He was gay and he had no intention of hiding it. He knew that, if he played it right, being gay was a good thing behind bars.

Luckily, Rashad loved servicing alpha male thugs like the mainly black and Latino men who filled Brutewood’s cells. So he hoped that’s who his cell-mate would be. He was certain he could get any nigga like himself — but bigger, stronger and tougher — to agree to protect him in exchange for sexual favors, which Rashad was excited to perform anyway.

A part of him had always hoped he’d get to spend a little time in prison. He knew he’d hate the isolation, the boredom, the deprivation, but he had always loved macho alpha male thugs. They didn’t even have to have perfect prison-toned bodies as far as he was concerned. Rashad thought the swagger was sexier than the details of a man’s body size and shape.

He was both disappointed and elated to see the scowling man who sat on the upper bunk of the tiny cell. Rashad was disappointed because he was neither black nor Latino — he was white — but he was elated because he was sexy.

Rashad’s new cellmate was Sonny Migaccio, and he was a square-jawed Italian with a dense mop of black hair, broad shoulders and a hairy chest. Rashad wanted to pounce on his cock even before the guard shut the cell door.

“Hi,” Rashad said, managing to restrain himself long enough to get it out. He smiled coquettishly. He didn’t know how comfortable Sonny was with man-on-man sex, so Rashad tried to play up his feminine flamboyance. He sighed dramatically, opening his mouth wide to show how much he could fit in there. “My name’s Rashad.”

Sonny just nodded at him. He snorted and looked Rashad up and down. Rashad could pinpoint the exact moment when Sonny realized Rashad was gay. His nostrils flared and he rolled his eyes.

Rashad’s gaze was drawn to the massive bulge in his prison pants. He looked to have a big cock, probably uncut. Rashad was drooling already. He didn’t normally like white men very much, but Sonny was plenty sexy — Rashad smiled, recalling what his brother told him once: Italians are the white equivalent of niggas, Rashad. Don’t nevuh fuck wit’ dem. Rashad had never followed his brother’s advice.

“You like what you see?” Rashad asked as he put his clothes down on the bottom bunk. He turned around to display his bare, plump brown ass for Sonny.

“I am one-hundred percent hetero, queerboy. If you ain’t got tits, I ain’t interested,” Sonny said. He sounded bored, his Italian-New Jersey accent resonant in the tiny cell. He sneered in Rashad’s direction but didn’t look at him directly.

“Are you sure? I could sure use a strong man to protect me. This is a rough place. A big boy like you could treat me as bad as he wanted to,” Rashad said. He stepped closer and licked the air near Sonny. “I’d love every second of it.”

Sonny pushed Rashad’s face away from the bunk. “Not interested, queermeat. There’s some black pimps in Block H, they’ll take you in. Hope you like gettin’ fucked.” He said that last part as though he didn’t believe anyone enjoyed getting fucked.

“I do. But I’m not interested in being pimped out,” Rashad said. “I want one man. One perfect man I can worship like the god that he is.” Rashad’s heart pounded. If this didn’t work, he wasn’t sure what he would do. There were a lot of advantages to having your cellmate be your protector, Rashad thought. He didn’t want to give up on this, especially Sonny was so hot.


“I can blow your mind, Sonny. I can make you feel so good you forget about girls,” Rashad said.

“No you can’t.”

“How about we make a deal? I suck your dick right now, and if it ain’t the best blowjob you ever got, I’ll leave you alone. If it is, you protect me from now on,” Rashad said.

Sonny just snorted and looked away. From that, Rashad sensed that the answer was fine, but I’m not going to participate and there’s no way I’m admitting you’re that good, even if you are. Rashad was fine with that. He knew exactly how to play this.

He stood on the edge of his bunk and reached for Sonny’s dick. Sonny still lay on his own bunk, flipping through a nudie magazine he brought out from the shelf next to his bed. He wore orange prison pants, which Rashad had to lower to his ankles. Sonny lifted his hips to let him at his pants, but he sighed like it was a huge imposition. He covered his face with the nudie magazine.

His dick was long and thick, dark brown — if Rashad hadn’t known he was Italian, he would have assumed that was a black man’s cock. It was limp and soft right now, but big enough that it already looked tasty to Rashad. It had that meaty feeling that only very thick dicks had. Rashad moaned at the thought of feeling it in his ass, but he knew Sonny wasn’t ready for that, not yet. He planted a kiss right on the shaft.

It tasted of garlic and olive oil, Rashad thought when he licked the shaft from root to tip, exactly what he sort of hoped Italian cock tasted like. He made a big noisy show of licking to get Sonny’s attention, though his face was covered by his nudie magazine so Rashad couldn’t actually see his reaction. He could tell Sonny liked it though, because his dick jerked and his body tensed. He grunted from behind the magazine.

“Damn… You know you ain’t s’posed to be my bitch,” Sonny said. “Black men need a black owner-“

“I’m not looking for an owner, baby,” Rashad said. He cooed affectively and kissed Sonny’s hairy, low-hanging balls. “I’m looking for a man I can worship and lust-“

“Shut up. You want me to protect you, right? That means you want me to own you,” Sonny said. He clicked his tongue against his teeth and glared at Rashad, who suckled on the tip of Sonny’s dick in between responses. Each time he did Sonny’s eyes opened a little wider, and he ran his tongue between his teeth and his upper lip.

“Fine, yes-“

“But you is black, man. You don’t get it, that don’t work in this place,” he said. He bit his lip and threw his head back as Rashad sucked his dick all the way down. Rashad had always been good at deep-throating, so he managed to get that entire shaft down his gullet as Sonny talked. He sputtered and played with Sonny’s hairy balls, and he let spit run down Sonny’s dick into his bushy crotch. “Damn…” Sonny murmured. His hands briefly touched Rashad’s head, then backed up like he was scared to touch him. “You… fuck… You know how to do this right, man. Why don’t Italian bitches suck like this?”

Rashad nodded and shrugged without taking his cock out of his mouth. Sonny was hard now, his dick pulsating as it rammed into Rashad’s throat. Rashad loved being throat-fucked by alphas like Sonny, and the fact that Sonny didn’t do the throat-fucking — he just laid there and submitted — made it even hotter because Rashad could handle the speed and rhythm of it.

He wanted to show Sonny how Sonny could treat Rashad, if only he agreed to the protection arrangement. As far as Rashad was concerned, he was ready to be used and abused, and he wanted Sonny to know that wasn’t just an act. His eyes watered from lack of oxygen, his chest heaving. He had to use all of his attention to ignore his crying lungs, so that slab of olive man-meat stayed deep in his throat.

Rashad grabbed Sonny’s callused fingers and dragged his hand to Rashad’s throat. He knew straight men loved to feel their dick through Rashad’s neck, and Sonny shuddered in a combination of arousal and disgust when he felt it.

“Ah, shit…” Sonny said, then added something in Italian. It was roughly accented, and though Rashad didn’t understand a word of it, he could tell Sonny didn’t really speak Italian. Then he kissed the crucifix dangling around his neck. “You was made to be a prison bitch, you know that?”

Letting out a hoarse gasp, Rashad let go. Tendrils of spit connected his lips to Sonny’s cock. Rashad loudly heaved for breath and gagged as his throat recovered. Sonny’s dick spasmed, precum dripping onto his hairy bell.

Rashad licked the precum up and nodded into Sonny’s eyes. “Yes, sir,” Rashad said. “I was a prison bitch even before I ever came to prison. I wasn’t just made to be a prison bitch, I was made to be your prison bitch. I’ve always loved Italian men. You have better dicks than niggas, you know that?” None of what he said was true, but Rashad liked puffing up his men’s egos, and of course, the prouder Sonny was of his cock, the more inclined he’d be to use it.

Sonny smiled weakly, then replaced it with his stoic mafioso face. He just nodded his comprehension, then aimed his wet dick back into Rashad’s mouth.

Now the shaft tasted like spit, ball-sweat and a little bit of stomach bile. Rashad was familiar with that flavor — it was the taste of face-fucking, of alpha males distilled into their purest essence. Rashad loved it. Rashad’s eyes watered from lack of oxygen, so much so that he couldn’t see anything but a hazy mess of pubic hair in front of his face.

Sonny grabbed at the ceiling, which he easily reached from his position on the upper bunk, as though trying to dig his way out. He still kept his hands away from Rashad’s head, but it was clear he struggled to do. His arms flailed and he grunted over and over, biting his lip and rolling to and fro on his bunk.

“Fuckin’ hell, slut, here it goes…” He bucked his hips to slam his cock back down Rashad’s throat. He daggered up and down a few times.

When Rashad felt Sonny’s balls rise up in his sac, Rashad lowered his head all the way to the root. His throat clenched and spasmed, but he had always loved this feeling. He enjoyed the sensation of Sonny’s thick shaft pulsating within Rashad’s strained neck.

Finally the end came, and Sonny’s muscles all tensed at once. He lifted his hips and gripped Rashad’s ears — touching him with his hands for the first time — to grind his dick deeper into Rashad’s throat.

His load sprayed all the way down Rashad’s gullet, and the creamy, salty taste exploded on his tongue. Sonny shot a huge load; it just kept on coming, filling Rashad with its thick texture. Some of it dripped down Sonny’s cockshaft.

Sonny’s orgasm seemed to last forever. Rashad’s lungs begged for oxygen, but Rashad forced himself to remain in position, and Sonny held his head in place with both hands anyway. The cum flowed in wads, then in drips and drabs down Rashad’s throat.

“Aww… yeah… “

Then it was all over. Rashad wanted to show how desirous he was, so he didn’t stop sucking. He loudly and sloppily choked up spit and cum, letting it make a mess in Sonny’s hairy crotch. Sonny submitted at first, even as he writhed in uncontrollable pleasure.

At last Sonny had had enough. He pulled Rashad off his cock. Rashad made an effort to fight it, then when he finally came off, he gasped for air.

“Goddamn,” he said. “I love Italians.”

Sonny smiled, then it turned into a frown. “You shouldn’t. Go find a nigger to own you. I won’t protect you, bitch.” He paused. “I mean bitch as a general insult. You are a bitch, but you are not my bitch.”

“You promised-“

“That was not the best blowjob of my life.”

“I don’t believe you,” Rashad said. He put his hands on his hips and jutted his hips out. He had expected Sonny to say that, but it wasn’t a disaster. Rashad thought he could still get Sonny to protect him, it was just going to take a few extra steps. And if he needed to, Rashad thought, he could probably find a black non-pimp to protect him. It was just better to be protected by your cellmate than anyone else, since Sonny was almost always going to be nearby.

“Well, believe it, bitch. I’ve had better.”