Pitching and Catching

Here comes the newest story of jock erotica by Randall Eisenhorn, alongside Jake Sexton in Pitching and Catching!

 

The catcher and pitcher have an important relationship in baseball, and the relationship between Jack the star pitcher and the big, muscled catcher Seth is going to take an interesting and sexy turn! Jack is a team player, but he must go above and beyond when Seth wants to cash in on an unusual promise. Is Jack willing to do what it takes to please his catcher, including doing some “catching” of a different sort?

This gay erotica short story features baseball, hot man on man action and straight jocks going gay and loving it.

Mafia Muscle, the Masseur and the Happy Ending

Here’s the beginning of Mafia Muscle, the Masseur and the Happy Ending, a new story of yaoi MM erotica by Lee Lane Lamplight!

John giggled as he wrapped one hand around Alfie’s cock. He tried to keep a straight face, or at least avoid making too much noise, because he thought it would make Alfie uncomfortable. Alfie had a thick slab of uncut meat. John didn’t often get to mess around with uncircumcised men, so he enjoyed playing with Alfie’s foreskin.

Soon his cock had firmed up, and it throbbed beneath John’s hand. Alfie’s broad chest muscles rippled as a wave of pleasure rolled over him. Alfie bit his lip and grunted. His swarthy face turned ruddy from both arousal and embarrassment.

“Ah, shit yeah, man, I love how ya hand feel on my meat, but don’t tell no one…”

John had thought Alfie was hot from the moment he first laid eyes on him. He had been coming in and out of the building with his head down since he opened his massage parlor there. He felt it was necessary to keep a low profile because he had come to learn the restaurant on the ground floor — right beneath the massage parlor he had saved years to open — was Mafia-connected.

It seemed like a joke when a friend first told him about the rumors. He had initially dismissed it as silly gossip. It was an Italian restaurant, he thought, they probably tried give the place a Mafia reputation to spur sales.

He had to admit that, when he walked through the foyer to get to the stairs leading up to the second floor, it sure looked like a Mafia restaurant. There were never very many customers there, even on a weekend night. There were a lot more men than women, and nearly everyone looked Italian — he once saw a scared-looking Chinese couple in there, eating quickly and looking like they had already come to regret their choice of dining establishments.

The first time he saw Alfie, John had come through the foyer just as a small group was leaving. Alfie stood behind a table of older Italian gentlemen. He was a bodyguard, or so it looked. He was much younger than the others, with a big shock of curly black hair that ran down to his broad shoulders. He looked at John as though he might stop him from going to the stairs. The old men at the table didn’t seem to notice John.

That had been the kicker — that was when John realized the rumors were true. He had never in his life see anyone at a restaurant with a bodyguard. That could only be a Mafia event, he thought.

What should he do about it? He didn’t have any ideas. He certainly wasn’t going to call the police. He resolved to never ask anyone from the restaurant for a favor, for fear of being asked to repay it.

That had been the end until Alfie came upstairs, nervously, head down, chest muscles quivering beneath his button-down shirt. John had heard laughter down in the restaurant when he opened the door. He didn’t know this massage was going to lead right into the sexiest happy ending John had ever given out.

“Oh god, man… Oh god…” Alfie sat up and opened his eyes. He looked down his broad, expansive chest at his cock in John’s hand. Alfie picked up the crucifix that dangled between his pecs and kissed it. He wanted to make the sign of the cross, but he worried it would be sacrilegious to do it while he got a handjob from a man.

He covered his eyes with his forearm. He prayed that he was doing the right thing by agreeing to this. It didn’t exactly feel like the right thing.

Alfie — or Alfredo, but no one called him that — was raised mainly by his mother. He was aware of his father, in prison, but he only met him a few times. His uncle had long talked, in his dense New Jersey dialect, about men who were bardassas: bottoms. As far the men of Alfie’s family were concerned, a real man penetrated, sticking his cock in whichever tight hole he could fit it in, consequences be damned. It was only the bottom who was properly ashamed of being treated in that way. A bardassa was a bottom, whether willing or not.

But the Mafia in America didn’t act that way anymore. They had women available. Alfie’s employer was Clan Novelli, who owned numerous brothels throughout New York. Alfie was able to go see the girls anytime he wanted — he was too nervous to actually do so, because his mother raised him to stay away from prostitutes, but he had made it seem to his fellow mafioso that he had done it. He wanted them to think he was a macho man’s man.

They had found out he was lying. They asked at the brothel he had claimed to visit most recently, and they said he was never there. Alfie had been humiliated. They had asked if he was a virgin. He wasn’t, but they didn’t believe it.

“Go upstairs, Alfie, to the massage parlor. Ask for a happy ending, and you will be a man at last,” said Don Novelli, a portly older man who had patted Alfie’s muscled back beneath his ill-fitting suit. Alfie nodded. He wasn’t allowed to question the Don.

“Yes, Don,” he said. “I… I ain’t no virgin. I can… I can fuck that masseuse broad, no problem.” He added a cocky chuckle.

“Alfie! You forget yourself,” Don Novelli said. Alfie knew he’d be scolded for speaking so rudely in front of the Don. It was worth it to look like a real man.

“Yes, Don. I apologize. I am often, uh, overwhelmed by my urges.” He grabbed at his cock through his slacks and sniffled. He hoped he looked suitably macho.

“Yes. Yes, I am sure,” Don Novelli said with a wry smile.

And so Alfie had gone upstairs. He heard snickering from Don Novelli and the other made men down there as he went up the stairs, but he thought they were just laughing at how big Alfie was. They often called him names like ox or horse because he was well over six and a half feet tall and built like a professional wrestler. He hoped the girl was not going to be tiny — he had come to accept that he was too big for any thin, pretty girl; he needed hefty, thick girls who could handle Alfie’s size and his rough-hewn body.

And that was when he knocked on the door the Happy Endings Massage Parlor. As the door opened, Alfie realized he had never seen any girls here, just that one seemingly gay man who came in and out frequently.

He groaned. It all came together. There was no girl. That was why Don Novelli and the others laughed. They knew Alfie was going to have to fuck a man.

He would have done it too. Alfie’s uncle had assured him it would make him a man. He said that real men knew how to take some sniveling weakling and turn him into a bardassa.

First-Time Athletes at the Massage Parlor

Here’s the beginning of First-Time Athletes at the Massage Parlor, a brand-new story by the bestseller Happiest Ending!

Chase could tell from Robby’s expression that he wanted a “happy ending”. Chase couldn’t wait to get to the end. He kneaded Robby’s taut young flesh, making him moan but stifle it with his forearm. Robby wasn’t really here for a massage, but Chase didn’t intend to quit it early.

“You can roll over,” Chase said.

Robby hesitated. Chase knew exactly why — because he had an erection. Robby’s babyface tensed up. He gasped and bit his lip. This was why he had come here, after all. Robby didn’t really want the massage, it just felt less nasty to do it like this.

“O-Okay.” Robby’s voice broke. He hated how young he looked. He was almost twenty, but he looked like he was about twelve from the neck up. He had a lean and lanky body, not real muscular — no matter how much Robby ate, he couldn’t gain weight — but plenty strong. He played basketball for the GHU team and endured constant teasing about how skinny he was. He didn’t think it was fair, since a lot of his teammates were just about as skinny.

“Do you have any areas of special concern on your front side?” Chase asked. He made sure to speak as flamboyantly as he could, to make sure Robby remembered that he was gay.

“Uh… No.” Robby rolled over. The towel covering his crotch fell off too quickly for Robby to stop it, and he gasped. He closed his eyes. He had never had a stranger look at his cock, outside of his doctor, his coach, his teammates, and various other exceptions that kept filling his mind — this certainly felt new, even if it wasn’t. Chase wasn’t even the first gay man who had seen his naked cock. But Robby felt vulnerable.

“Okay. Well. Okay. Sorry.” Robby saw his dick, half-hard, flopping against his leg. Chase avoided looking at it, but that didn’t make Robby feel more comfortable.

“You don’t need to apologize. You’re fine,” Chase said. He giggled at Robby’s awkward expression. Chase massaged Robby’s stomach and “accidentally” let his elbow touch Chase’s cock, making Robby’s whole body shake. “I think I see the problem. You’re stressed. Do you have a girlfriend? I bet you don’t.”

“I don’t.” Robby’s voice was weak and wavering. “So, like… you’re gay, right?”

“Sure am.”

“Do you know about…? Well… I know you know about, y’know… penises.” Robby still sounded like he was about to cry. Chase had to hold back laughter. Robby cleared his throat. “Like… about how, y’know… they work.”

Chase frowned. “I’m not a doctor, you know that, right? You need a urologist if there’s-“

“No, I mean… Like, if I’m not… using it right? You know about that?”

Chase raised his eyebrows. Robby peeked at him, then slammed his eyes shut again. Chase smiled. “It’s not a medical issue, right?”

“No. Well, wait, maybe it is!” Robby gasped. “Look… I… How long is normal?”

“Oh, don’t worry about size, you’re plenty big enough, you-“

“No, not that. Not size. I mean how long… of time? Like how long does sex really last? Cuz in porn it lasts a while, but they take breaks, I think-“

“Don’t worry about porn, Robby,” Chase said. “Most straight men only last a few minutes. If you can make it five minutes, you’ll be doing better than most.”

“Oh.” Robby looked crestfallen.

Chase giggled. “You last less than five minutes?”

Robby blushed. “I mean… I only, y’know… I’ve only had sex three times, okay? It isn’t, like… Are you required to keep that confidential? Like a doctor?”

“Well, no, confidentiality doesn’t apply to masseurs. But don’t worry, I won’t spread it around,” he said. “I don’t think three times is a strange amount, Robby. You’re too stressed, that’s probably why you cum too quickly.”

“Oh. Will you, uh… gimme a…? Robby’s voice trailed off. He glanced at his cock.

“You want a happy ending?”

“I mean… I just, I got this girl later, I don’t wanna… She said I was a teenager, she said I acted like a teenager-“

“You do have a bit of a babyface.”

“I know! I hate it!” Robby’s eyes opened wide and he threw his hands in the air.

“Relax, relax,” Chase said. “I’ll give you a happy ending, no problem. Honestly I’m not sure if it will fix your hetero issues, but I’m not exactly hetero-competent, so I can’t help you too much with that. Just calm down and don’t worry so much. When you’re fucking her, focus on something little — you have to move your dick, but focus on something else, something more minor, like licking her neck or her ear. Whatever she thinks is hot.”

“Ear?”

“Yeah, chicks dig that.”

“Really? Ear?” He touched his ear.

Chase giggled. He grabbed Robby’s dick, making Robby’s whole body shake and squirm. “Really. Ears.” He paused. “Maybe I’m more hetero-competent than I thought!”

“Okay. Thanks!” Robby said, his cheeks bright red. Then he gasped as his dick throbbed in Chase’s hand.

“Now hush. Let the professional do his work,” Chase said. He began rubbing his hand up and down Robby’s shaft.

Downlow Thugs on City Streets

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Downlow Thugs on City Streets, a new story by Calvin Freeman, about the sexy man-on-man shenanigans that go on in urban Baltimore!

 

Chad didn’t try to act tough, and he made it very clear he was gay. He had been living in rough urban ghettos for most of his life, so he knew that was the best way to go — if he tried to be tough, people would challenge him. If he acted like a sexy flamboyant gay man, the thugs, addicts and drug dealers who lived around here would treat him more or less like a woman they weren’t attracted to: they’d ignore him.

That was what Chad wanted. So he didn’t worry about the eyes following him whenever he came into the courtyard of the Baltimore housing projects he lived in. He knew he looked good — slim, pale skin, blond hair, lithe and leanly muscled body visible beneath the bare midriff t-shirt and short shorts he wore. He heard snickering from the black men and women who filled the courtyard, but Chad didn’t care.

“Crack! Crack!”

“Want some rock, Pinkberry?”

There were two young black men sitting on a couch in the middle of the courtyard. They were there all the time. They offered Chad crack every time he walked past. It seemed they didn’t know of any other reason a gay white man might be here in the projects. They had to have figured out that Chad lived here by now, he thought, but they still acted like he was just hanging around looking for drugs.

“I can sell you whatchoo want, boy,” said the younger one, Brodie.

“You want tina? I can get you tina too,” said the older one, Marcus.

That impressed Chad enough to make him giggle as he passed them by. “Tina? Somebody’s been doing research.”

“You smoke meth?”

“No,” Chad said. “But I appreciate you looking up gay lingo online.”

“We aim to please, whiteboy.” Brodie said. He was younger, with a harsh, arrogant face — he looked like he was supposed to be a jock and bully, but had gotten sucked into a life of crime instead, so his jutting face was lined with premature wrinkles even though he wasn’t even old enough to drink. He had deep dimples and dark, flashing eyes. Chad had thought he was sexy since the moment he first saw him (Marcus was sort of hot too, in his way, but he was portly and scruffy; Brodie could have been a model, Chad thought). Brodie tried his best at a charming smile. “Cuz you look like you need a pipe in ya mouth, boy. Yo’ mouth is needin’ something to fill it, that’s for sure.”

They both guffawed and slapped hands with each other. Chad stood there and smiled, jutting his ass out so they could see how plump and round it was. They both glanced at it, then fell quiet and avoided looking at each other.

Finally Brodie added, “So wuzzup, you want that rock or not? Or meth?”

“I said no.”

“You ain’t actually say no about crack. You said no about meth.”

Chad made a big dramatic show of pondering the issue. He tapped on his forehead with one finger. “Well, Brodie, I’ll give you a simple yes or no answer, if you pull your cock out and let me take a look.”

Brodie sniffled and his eyes bugged out, but he affected a look of a nigga who ain’t care. He shrugged, flashing an annoyed look at Marcus — who seemed to think that was hilarious. Marcus screamed laughter, clapped his hands and ran in a little circle around the couch they were both sitting on.

“So…” Brodie winced and looked at Marcus. Brodie rolled his eyes. “Uh…” It was hard to say anything over the sound of Marcus screaming peals of laughter.

“Do it, nigga, c’mon. Don’t Stringer say do what you gotta do to make the sale?”

“He ain’t say he gonna buy somethin’, he just gonna tell me whether he into it,” Brodie said. “And we already know he ain’t cuz we asked him before.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

Chad smiled and crossed his arms over his much more delicate chest. His skin rippled, visible because of that bare midriff his t-shirt exposed. “So you asked me before and you remember my answer? You already know whether or not I smoke crack?”

Brodie nodded and shrugged. “Yeah, I know you don’t.”

“So why did you ask me again?”

“Cuz you might’ve started, man!” Brodie threw his hands in the air. “I don’t gotta do it.” He looked at Marcus, who was quieting down. “I ain’t gonna do it, nigga. It ain’t about a sale. He just wanna look at my dick.”

Chad nodded. “Sure, that makes sense. It’s kind of chilly today anyway, your dick is probably small right now. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

“Man…”

“I’m sure no one will ever find out I was considering buying some crack and only didn’t cuz you were too scared to show my your dick.”

“You ain’t considerin’!”

“You don’t know that. Every crackhead has a first time, Brodie,” Chad said.

“I ain’t scared. My dick ain’t small,” Brodie said.

“Well, then, ugly or whatever, I don’t know. Obviously there’s a reason you don’t feel safe whipping it out. That’s understandable. Gay men are catty bitches. If your dick doesn’t pass muster, I will critique it thoroughly,” Chad said, making Marcus erupt in laughter again.

“Man, fuck you, whiteboy,” Brodie said. He sucked on his teeth and glared at Marcus. He did that several times, like he kept deciding to do it, then changing his mind before talking himself into it again. “Man! Fine! Whatever, nigga! Marcus, shut ya face! Man, Marcus! Marcus!” He shook his head because Marcus ignored him. “Marcus, don’t act like a fuckin’ fool! Hey!”

“I’m waiting,” Chad said with an exaggerated yawn.

Brodie snarled. He unzipped his fly and reached in. He let a suitably massive cock flop out, making Chad blush a little and gasp. Brodie looked around, but no one was looking in his direction — Marcus danced around the courtyard laughing and attracting attention — so he swung his hips, making his cock bounce around.

Chad reached for it, wrapped one hand around it and squeezed. Brodie gasped. For just a moment, it felt like Brodie was going to allow this, and Chad would be able to give him a handjob. But then Brodie tucked his dick away and pushed Chad.

“Alright, you got ya peek, whiteboy,” Brodie said. “So go ahead and say yes or no.”

“He did it! He did it!” Marcus screamed, his face exuberant as though he had been waiting for this. “He whipped it out, nigga!”

“Marcus, shut up!”

Chad smiled. “Are you the kind of dealer who makes his customers suck him off sometimes?”

“No. I got females, nigga. Can’t use a crackhead’s blowjob to buy food for my mama, can I?”

Marcus scoffed. “You don’t buy food for ya mama-“

“It’s just an example, Marcus.”

Chad shrugged. “A pity. Well, my answer, Brodie, is no. I do not want to buy crack, but thanks for giving me a peek at your cock. It’s very nice. A little smooth for my taste, but I bet it gets veinier when it’s hard.”

“Yeah.”

Chad turned around. “I’m not going to give you permission to watch me walk away.” He shook his ass. “But I know you will.”

The Las Vegas Impersonator

Here’s the beginning of The Las Vegas Impersonator, a new yaoi MM novelette by Lee Lane Lamplight!

 

Kyle shivered a little when the elevator door opened. Elvis stood there in front of him. He was young, glorious Elvis, radiantly macho as he stood there with a big grin on his smooth face. His hefty body barely fit in his white shirt beneath a black jacket. That little tendril of hair that hung over his forehead was like a beckoning finger, demanding Kyle enter the elevator and suck his body clean.

It wasn’t really Elvis, of course. Elvis would be elderly if he were still alive. This was a man named Rank Teravalo. He worked here at the Count Castle Casino in northern Las Vegas. Kyle worked here too, though he was nothing more than a blackjack dealer. Rank was an Elvis impersonator, and he performed a retro-rockabilly show five nights a week.

“Howdy,” Rank said. He still had that Southern accent. It clung to him and it required active thought to switch himself back to his ordinary dialect (he was an Italian-American from Queens).

“You sound tired,” Kyle said. He didn’t want to embarrass Rank, so he just got in the elevator and stood there awkwardly. He was sure he hadn’t hidden how much Rank turned him on. Rank was sexy, handsome and deep-dimpled. He was a bodybuilder too; some of the casino patrons referred to him as Muscle-Elvis because he was substantially more muscular than the real Elvis had ever been. Kyle had had a huge crush on him from the moment he first saw Rank with his chest bursting from the up-collared shirt he wore over jeans that hugged his plump ass. Kyle had stood there drooling at him from the audience.

“Yeah, you seen them old broads?” Rank asked. His accent was cute, Kyle thought, because, when he dropped character, he still spoke like a Kentucky country singer but with the diction of his New York City home. “There’s a big party of ‘em ‘round he’e, uh-huh. They all over the place. They’s a fuckin’ bachelorette party, swear to God. What kinda old lady got a bachelorette party in Vegas? The bride’s like sixty.”

“Aw, that’s sweet,” Kyle said. “Old ladies need loving too, Rank. You shouldn’t hide your sexiness from them.”

Rank smiled. “I don’t need some lady older than my mom pinchin’ my ass. One of ‘em I think was tryin’-a get her finger in my asshole, man. I swear, she was tryin’ to finger me, like she thought I might have a treasure hidden in there.”

Kyle giggled. “Oh you’re just playing, I know you love it when women fawn all over-“

The elevator rocked and trembled. A loud beeping sound filled the air, then it slowly trailed off like some piece of electronics somewhere in the machinery was dying. Kyle and Rank exchanged nervous glances as the elevator came to a screeching halt.

“Oh shit.”

“Is this broken?” Kyle went straight to the elevator door. He managed to force it open with Rank’s help, but behind the door was just stone wall.

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…” Rank went to the emergency phone, but it rang before he could even touch it. A security guy was on the other end of the line. “Uh, hello? Error signal? Yeah, the elevator’s stuck. We’re in here. Two people, just me and Kyle. Rank Teravalo and Kyle…”

“Martin.”

“Kyle Martin.” He laughed. “Shut up, Jamaal, I ain’t like that. When’re we gettin’ out of here? Well call him up, asshole! I don’t care!” He chuckled. “Yeah, there’s a patron in here too. She’s an old lady who got a lawyer on retainer. She say she gonna sue yo’ ass, boy.” His Kentucky accent gradually dwindled now that he was stressed and out of that Elvis-mindset. He angrily slammed the phone down. “Fuckin’ Jamaal, he’s an asshat. Fuck that guy.”

“What’d he say?”

“He’s calling maintenance, he said it was lesser priority cuz there weren’t no patrons in here. And he thinks…” Rank glanced at Kyle and bit his lip. For a moment he really looked like Elvis, and Kyle blushed.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

“Did he say something about me?”

Rank blushed and winced. “No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It wasn’t… Man, just… I said it, it wasn’t no thing, man. I was just kiddin’-“

“What? What did you say?”

Rank sighed. “Man… It ain’t a big deal, alright? But a couple days ago, I told Jamaal you was, y’know… I know you want me, alright? I seen you lookin’ at me, and shit… And Jamaal was sayin’ I should let you take a swing on my meat.” He grabbed his cock through his tight bell-bottom pants. “He said since we stuck in here anyway…”

“Oh.” Kyle blushed. He hadn’t realized how obvious he was checking Rank out. In his defense, it was almost impossible not to — he was simply stacked all over, and he was dressed like an attention-grabbing idol, so he was hard to ignore.

A very tense air filled the elevator. Kyle forgot his annoyance and fear at being stuck in the elevator. All he could think about was Rank’s body and that handsome face. He giggled to relieve the tension in his mind.

The Yakuza’s Tutor

Here’s the beginning of “The Yakuza’s Tutor“, a yaoi interracial tale by Lee Lane Lamplight!

 

Frank felt like an idiot when he finally realized who he worked for. In retrospect, there were lots of clues. But he was an American who had only just moved to Japan to teach English. He had chalked all that stuff up to cultural differences.

He only became totally sure when he went to a noodle restaurant with a man. The Japanese gay scene was hard for foreigners to break into; many gay men simply weren’t interested in Americans. But he finally got a date with a hot man, and they went to this legendary noodle joint that had been recommended by the men he taught English to. They ate there often. He had seen the takeout containers. He had eaten the noodles takeout himself, he had just never been there before.

Midway through the meal, Frank’s date leaned over to whisper, in broken, nervous, trembling English, “I didn’t know you were… yakuza. I’m sorry, I’m just shocked. I know I should pretend I do not know, but… well, you’re not Japanese anyway-“

“Wait, what?”

And so that was how Frank figured it out. He never went on a second date with that guy, who was too terrified to answer the phone when Frank called. The noodle restaurant was yakuza-connected. The waiters had been speaking in hushed tones that Frank’s date overheard as they ate — the only reason they had allowed Frank in was because their delivery boy vouched for him working for Samforo.

Samforo was, it turned out, a front company. Frank went to work without acknowledging what he had learned. Now it was obvious. This was a telecommunications company that didn’t advertise or run cable anywhere. The “executives” to whom Frank taught English were mostly muscle-bound goons, several of whom were missing a finger. There were no women around at all. Even the cleaning staff had grim faces and nice suits.

So there were signs that something was amiss. Frank was terrified and considered quitting. He could just flee back to America. But that might even be more dangerous. He wondered if the yakuza thought he was an idiot for not figuring it out.

He decided to play along. He pretended he still had no idea. He asked how the telecommunications business was doing, and the charming “Vice-President” who signed Frank’s paychecks — Mr. Matsumagi — smilingly explained that they were doing well, expanding into new areas. Frank said great and went home.

After that, things settled into a groove. The men were very respectful to him. He had thought that was general Japanese politeness and respect for educators, but now he realized that wasn’t the case — they were deferent to him, either because he was seen as a boss of sorts or because they thought they needed in order to maintain the illusion that they were a real company. They were strictly obedient, falling silent in their chairs at nine o’clock every morning and listening attentively until they finished at noon.

That was the beginner’s class. In the afternoon, Frank taught English one-on-one to the more advanced learners. That was another aspect that seemed obvious in retrospect — the “beginners” were bodyguards and goons; the “advanced learners” were the actual leaders, extortionists and others who needed to do real business in English-speaking countries. The beginners were all big and strong and not especially smart; the advanced learners were smaller and handsomer, with obvious intellect, honeyed words and big grins. The beginners had, in some cases, worked here for years but were still treated like lackeys (because they were).

So it was weeks before Frank felt comfortable again. It finally clicked to him one day — Frank was in a position of power. The leaders didn’t care what happened so long as everybody learned English, and they certainly didn’t care about ordinary rules or laws. They respected only obedience to proper authority, and during classes, that authority was Frank.

The men in his beginners didn’t care too much what Frank did either — they didn’t freak out when he did something they saw as rude by Japanese standards; they didn’t care that he was white or openly gay; they didn’t expect him to behave in the same stoic, obedient way they expected each other to behave. They even seemed to enjoy it when Frank cracked inappropriate jokes or behaved like a blustery American cowboy. The “goons” — that was how Frank came to think of his morning beginner’s class, since they were all bodyguards and enforcers — thought it was hilarious when Frank threw a limp wrist and a sassy comment in their direction. They didn’t even usually understand the sass, but they enjoyed it. They said he was “funny like a white Upa”. Frank had to ask several Japanese friends what “Upa” was before he realized they were comparing him to RuPaul.

Soon the classes became rowdy affairs, at least by Japanese standards. The goons laughed and occasionally called out comments in broken English. They brought in videos downloaded from YouTube and asked Frank to explain why they were funny. Occasionally they argued with each other, or challenged each other to contests of strength, all of which were conducted in Japanese much too rapid for Frank to follow.

It was after one of those contests that Frank first realized what he could get away with. The winner was Itsuki, who was new to the class. He was one of those goons whom Frank was a bit scared of, despite his deference and respect for Frank’s authority — Itsuki was tall for a Japanese man, brimming with muscles and missing one finger in its entirety and another finger past the first knuckle.

When Itsuki won his contest — Frank had no idea what sparked it, the class was simply interrupted by an argument in very swift Japanese, so Frank went with the ride and clapped with the others while Itsuki and Akio did push-ups.

When he won, Itsuki stood, chest heaving and dappled with sweat. He was heavily tattooed, with koi fish and kabuki dancers covering his badly scarred chest and neck — he looked like he had survived a fire at some point — and he roared, pounding on his chest like Tarzan. It lasted only a moment, and Itsuki blushed like he hadn’t meant to; that was an intense display of emotion for a Japanese man, especially a yakuza in a classroom like this. Everyone fell silent and stared at him.

Frank broke the tension by placing one hand on Itsuki’s bicep. He intended to raise his arm like an umpire congratulating a winning boxer, but he felt a surge of desire and arousal from the touch of Itsuki’s corded muscles and the musky scent of his armpit. He just held onto Itsuki’s arm and rubbed his face against it like a cat, giggling and blushing.

The expression on Frank’s face must have alerted the yakuza to Frank’s feelings, because they all burst into laughter. Frank thought he had angered them or humiliated himself, but they thought it was funny. Whatever they said to Itsuki made him frown at Frank — Frank caught a few words in Japanese, it sounded like they were telling Itsuki he was too ugly to meet any girls and he should hook up with Frank instead.

The T-Girl in the ‘Hood

Here’s the beginning of The T-Girl in the ‘Hood, a new story by Calvin Freeman about a transgender woman living in the hood, getting propositioned by all the sexiest straight bucks the ghetto can provide!

 

Tina looked out her window. Her apartment was freshly cleaned, so she felt good — she loved a clean apartment. From her vantage point, she could see the park next-door. It wasn’t a nice park; Tina lived in the ghetto; it did have one redeeming factor though.

The shirtless men who played basketball every day. Tina watched them bump sweaty chests and clasp each other on the well-muscled back, stroking her cock until she shot all over her floor. Tina did the same thing nearly every day.

Today, however, she was distracted almost as soon as she wrapped one hand around her cock. Walter was back. She shivered with delight and anticipation.

Walter was her neighbor, or to be more precise, he was her neighbor’s husband. He was a middle-aged black man; there was no objective reason he should be so hot, Tina thought — he didn’t have a perfect body like some of those basketballers; he had a nice face but he was hardly some Hollywood heartthrob in that department; he was scruffy, ever-dirty because he was semi-homeless with a serious gambling problem and semi-serious drug problem (according to Tina’s neighbor, whom she didn’t entirely trust). He was ungodly sexy though, with swagger dripping off him and a hefty frame that made Tina drool every time she saw him.

“I said I’d do it, baby, damn!” Walter’s raspy deep voice rang out. He was one of those people who didn’t really have a quiet voice, so Tina could always hear when he was back in his wife’s life. “Don’t start this shit again!”

One of the sexiest things about him was that he had checked out Tina’s ass, and then when his wife told him Tina was transgender, his eyes opened wide as though he thought that made her hotter. Tina didn’t often see that look on men’s faces. But he had gone then, after an argument, before spending a few months in prison on an ancient child support beef, then living on some “white lady’s couch”. He had come back one other occasion, but only for a few days before he got kicked out again. Tina hadn’t had any opportunity to be alone with him.

Until now.

She hurried into the back alley when she saw him grumbling as he left the building. Tina’s apartment was right there adjoining the alley, so she was the only person that had her own side-entrance and -exit. That was the door she used now.

“Hey, Walter,” she said. He had a bag of trash in his hand. It was heavy enough that it made his biceps flex holding onto it. He wore only a wifebeater and a pair of shorts. He tossed the bag into the dumpster.

“Hey,” he said with a casual nod. He grabbed his cock through his shorts and smiled at her. “What’s ya’ deal?”

First-Time Jocks at the Massage Parlor – Alpha Males Get a Happy Ending

Here’s the debut novelette by a new MM erotica author, Happiest Ending! It’s called First-Time Jocks at the Massage Parlor: Alpha Males Get a Happy Ending and its title pretty much gives it all away!

When the jock’s cock twitched beneath the towel, Chase knew what was going to happen. He didn’t react right away though. That, he thought, wouldn’t be very professional. He continued the massage.

The jock was a tall, broad-shouldered young man with a wavy shock of blond hair and brilliantly flashing eyes, when they weren’t scrunched up closed tightly. His muscles rippled beneath Chase’s fingers, which kneaded the meaty flesh of the young man’s thighs. His toes stretched and he grunted.

The jock was named Irwin. He was a rugby player from the university right around the block. He had come in to the Happy Ending Massage Parlor at the insistence of his coach, who had said his sore calf needed a real massage. Coach Gathers knew Chase well, and knew that he was a licensed masseur who could fix the calf muscle — which did indeed have a knot in it. Chase could get that out easily enough.

But that erection… Chase wondered if Irwin was even aware of it. He had been so nervous he giggled like a schoolboy when he undressed in the massage room. His hefty muscle-bound body trembled. It was obvious he thought he was going to get a female masseuse, not Chase, but Chase pretended he didn’t notice that.

“How does your leg feel?”

“O- Okay.” He bit his lip. It didn’t sound like he was thinking much about the leg. He let out a breathy sigh like he was either aroused or scared or embarrassed, or maybe all three at once.

“Good. I can feel a lot of stress in your body,” Chase said. “What’s been bothering you?”

“Uh, well, nothing really,” he said. Chase knew something else was coming, so he just waited. His hands moved up Irwin’s body from his thigh to his chest — Chase could feel him desiring a handjob, but Irwin didn’t say that and Chase wanted to tease him still — and his muscles tensed beneath Chase’s hands. Then they slowly relaxed, bit by bit, as Chase massaged his flesh. Irwin grunted. “My ex banged this Samoan dude on my team, it really pissed me off.” He blushed like he hadn’t meant to say that.

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Chase said. He clucked his tongue against his teeth.

“She did it just to piss me off. Him too, I think. He did it in the locker room so I would see it,” Irwin said. He snorted. “Whatever, fuck him. She wasn’t even that hot.” He seemed to realize then that he had a boner. He looked down at his cock and smiled nervously. “Oh, uh…”

“It’s okay, relax.” Chase moved up to massage his chest with one hand. He arranged himself so Irwin couldn’t see his own crotch because Chase was in the way. Chase’s other hand roamed down to Irwin’s cock and gripped it.

The Prison Bitch

Here’s the first chapter of The Prison Bitch, a hot new hardcore and extreme story from Brutewood Maximum Security Penitentiary.

Charlie had gotten through his first day in Brutewood Prison and, so far, everything had gone very well. People more or less ignored him. He was processed along with several weaker men, included one disgraced cop and a pedophile, so they were the target of most of the ire from the other inmates.

When he returned to his cell after dinner, he saw his cellmate — an elderly Latino man — being led out on a stretcher. He was alive, but he looked sick. He had looked sickly since Charlie met him, but now he looked much sicker.

Charlie was nervous. What did that mean for him? Was he going to get a new cellmate? Maybe it’d be someone else new, he thought. Was this a good thing or a bad thing for Charlie? He had no idea.

Soon after dinner, his cell door opened, and a middle-aged black man entered. He was Jackson; he was wiry and ropy-muscled, not huge or bulky but powerful. He had a shaved head and a wide, flat nose that looked like it had been broken several times. He was covered in gang tats, including the underlined words NINE TATS on his belly — Charlie knew that meant he was one of the head generals of the Nine Tats street gang.

Jackson stopped in the center of the cell, holding onto a box containing all of his belongings. The cell was open, since this was free time; anyone could just walk in or out. Jackson checked Charlie out from head to toe.

“Yo, you faggot, whiteboy?” Jackson asked.

“I-“

“Wait just a sec, boy, befo’ you answer, I got somethin’ to explain,” he said. He spoke quickly but with great intent, like there was meant to be hidden subtext to everything he said. He had a very faint lisp like a pimp — it wasn’t very noticeable, but Charlie heard it. Charlie still hadn’t really decided if he would tell people he was gay. Some had said he should, some had said he shouldn’t. He had planned on playing it by ear.

When Jackson checked that no guards were around, he sat next to Charlie on the bunk. “Yo, lemme rap at you. But first, my name’s Jackson, howdayoudo?” He smiled broadly and shook Charlie’s head.

“I’m Charlie.”

“Charlie. That’s a pretty name. That’s very good. I like that, boy,” Jackson said. “Welcome to my cell. You should know this is my cell, alright? I be settin’ all the rules in here. You got any kinda problem wit’ that? Huh? You tell me now.”

He leaned forward until his eyes were right in front of Charlie’s, his lips so close he was virtually kissing him. “Yeah. You a faggot. I can tell. I can smell it on ya lips, yes, I bet you is. I can’t wait to hear yo’ answer. But don’t say yet. I ain’t finish askin’ the question.”

“Okay-“

“Shut yo’ mouth. That’s rule one. You don’t speak unless I allow it, boy.” He paused as though giving Charlie a chance to disobey him. Charlie’s heart raced. Jackson smiled. He remained so close to Charlie their lips almost touched. “Good. Now when I ask if you a faggot, you gotta understand I’s askin’ cuz you gotta have a role. You gotta get somethin’ to do around here, somethin’ that contributes to the organization.” He pointed to his Nine Tats tattoo. That entailed leaning back so Charlie could see it, which meant he finally pulled his face away from Charlie’s. Charlie breathed a sigh of relief. Jackson smiled at him. “Oh, that’s the Nine Tats. They’s my organization. See, if you say you ain’t no kinda faggot, then when I rape you a little later, you gonna be my bitch. You gonna be prostituted out for a cigarette or two, ya dig? I’m gonna sell yo’ ass. If I can find a way to sell yo’ organs, that’s what I’m gonna do. Okay? So that’s option one. You can tell me you straight, and I turn ya body into cash any way that I can. You like option one?”

“No-“

“I ain’t think so. It ain’t popular. I think it’s got a branding problem, you know? Like maybe if we call it the Doritos Extreme Prison Bitch Experience or some shit, you know, then people would give it a try,” he said. “But option two might be better. Since I think you might really be a faggot, that’s the one that might suit ya needs the best. See, in option two, you tell me you a faggot. Then I tell you that you my wife now. I will treat you right-“ He held one hand up as though to forestall any objections. “Now I may still treat you wrong from time to time, cuz I am an imperfect man. We all just faded and disto’ted copies of God’s glorious visage, ain’t we?”

“Uh-“

“No talkin’ just yet, boy, but I like yo’ enthusiasm,” he said. He gave Charlie a quick peck on the cheek. “If you my wife, I still rape you. I still gonna hit you when I gotta correct yo’ behavior, and maybe a little fo’ fun — but I always make that up to you, baby, I always say I’m sorry and give you some sugar to make up for misbehavin’.” He paused and smiled. “See? I normally give this little speech to straight boys who gonna pretend to be gay. I make love to they squirmin’ virgin ass till they bore me and I sells ‘em off. But you really a faggot, right?”

“Yeah-“

“See, now that’s nice. You ain’t gotta pretend. I might not get bored of you. I love fuckin’ faggots. Once you fuck a straight boy hard enough, he stop fightin’ back, then it’s like fuckin’ a dead fish. But a faggot, boy, I can make a faggot squirm for days,” he said. He licked his lips. “Suck on my finger.” He held up his middle finger, and Charlie sucked it down. It was callused and salty, and tasted a little of tonight’s dinner — hot dog and ketchup. Jackson licked his lips. “If you was straight and pretendin’ to be gay, you’d be gaggin’ right now, and I’d be saying that I fuck you so good you turn into a faggot fo’ real. I tell ‘em I know how to make ‘em cum from the prostate — you know about the prostate, right? Course you do, you a faggot — I tell ‘em that and make ‘em tell me they like it. I make ‘em jack off when I fuck ‘em. Ain’t nothin’ better than a straight boy cumming when you fuck ‘im.”

“Can I suck your dick now?” Charlie asked. He thought getting on Jackson’s good side would be helpful. Jackson was very sexy and in any other environment, Charlie would have genuinely wanted to suck his dick. But this was too frightening for him. He couldn’t even think about any actual desire for sex. All his mind focused on was Jackson’s intense words ringing in his ears.

“No you may not, but thank you for askin’,” he said. “I gotta work out. You watch me and study my body, so you can worship it later.” He paused. “Straight boys get this real cute look in they face when I say that.”

“I bet,” Charlie said. He smiled. “You are really hot, you know.”

“I know. Thank you fo’ sayin’ it, sweetheart.” He smiled. He got down on the ground and started doing push-ups. He counted off, and Charlie watched him the whole time. Then he did a series of other workouts using a pillowcase filled with odds and ends as a weight, and he almost totally ignored Charlie the entire time.

Eventually Charlie lost interest in watching him. He studied the marks carved into the stone wall of the cell, trying to decipher their meaning.

“Alright, you can suck my dick now,” Jackson said suddenly, startling Charlie, who suspected that Jackson had been waiting for Charlie to get distracted. He seemed like he enjoyed those sorts of mindgames — he wouldn’t want Charlie to suck his dick because Charlie desired it, so he waited for Charlie to get involved in something else. He didn’t wait for Charlie to react either, he just grabbed him by the neck and made him lean over the edge of the bunk. In seconds, Jackson had his limp dick ramming into Charlie’s throat, while his hand squeezed his neck and his balls swayed in front of Charlie’s eyes. If Charlie had been straight, he thought, that would have been terrifying. “Open up that throat, boy.”

Jackson coughed like he was surprised at how good Charlie was at deep-throating, especially so suddenly. He whistled his appreciation as his balls slapped against Charlie’s nose. There was nearly a foot of black throbbing cockmeat in Charlie’s throat.

“Fuck, you oughta give lessons to the prison bitches around here. A lot of ‘em can’t suck worth a damn, man.” He groaned and started grinding his hips to get his dick in even deeper.

Charlie’s throat did gag and clench, but he was used to that. He was able to fight against his instincts, allowing every last inch of Jackson’s dick to fill up his gullet. His head swam. He was dizzy, tears leaking down his cheeks.

“Hey, boy, hey boy, look up here. Focus,” Jackson said, snapping his fingers to get Charlie’s attention. He swayed his hips, making Charlie gag as his balls dragged over his chin. “Look me in the eye when you suck my dick. Touch me right here if you understand.” He pointed to his left pectoral muscle.

Charlie had to reach up to touch him there. Jackson nodded like he was satisfied. Then he pulled out. As soon as he did, Charlie hoarsely gasped for air. Jackson grabbed him by the hair and lifted his head up so Jackson could watch.

“Yo, it takes three seconds to take a breath.” He held up three fingers, quickly counted down, then pushed Charlie back to the ground. Charlie had barely gotten a breath in before Jackson’s cock slammed back into his mouth.

Jackson was relentless and had his cock deep in Charlie’s throat again in moments. Once more he swayed his balls over Charlie’s chin and laughed when he choked. Spit spilled out of Charlie’s mouth, sliding down his cheeks and making a little puddle on the floor of the cell.

“You got three seconds to breathe. That’s what it takes. Any more than that is you on vacation, and I don’t allow my boys to take no time off,” he said. “You is doin’ a good job. I’s proud of you, sweetheart.” He spoke rather flatly, like he had read somewhere that he should give positive reinforcement but didn’t understand why.

He repeated that cycle several times. He held his cock in Charlie’s throat, fucking him back and forth, reminding him to keep his eyes aimed up at Jackson’s face, then gave him three seconds to breathe before resuming the cycle all over again. Charlie was so dizzy and discombobulated that he had no idea how long that lasted, and it was a complete shock when Jackson came — if he gave signs beforehand, Charlie didn’t notice them.

All of a sudden, just as Jackson slammed his dick in once again, a load of salty cum hit Charlie’s tongue. This time Jackson didn’t move, he rammed his dick down Charlie’s gullet and held it there, his load flowing directly into Charlie’s stomach. It was hot and creamy, salty, sour and delicious on Charlie’s tongue.

“Good boy, swallow it all, swallow it all. Don’t gag, no, I don’t like gaggin’ at this stage — you can gag when I fuck ya throat, that’s yo’ body reactin’ instinctively, but don’t you never gag on my cum, boy. That’s disrespectful. I might have to punish you if you do that. You look so pretty wit’ my cum dripping down yo’ chin. Look me in the eye. Who do you love?”

“Uh, you-“

He slapped Charlie, not as hard as he could, but hard enough. “Don’t say uh, don’t hesitate. If you in love, you ain’t gotta hesitate. If you know that shit in yo’ heart, you don’t gotta think about it.” He paused. “Who do you love?”

“You.”

“Good boy.” He bristled and sniffled. “Sorry I hit ya. I don’t like hearin’ my boys hesitate, that’s all. Who do you love?”

“You.”

“Good. Good, good. Who fucks you the best you ever been fucked?”

“You.”

He nodded. “Good.”

Finally it was all over. Jackson made him sit there with remnants of cum on his face. Charlie stayed motionless, basking in the glow of his own orgasm. He was glad to be settling in, he thought, and he was glad Jackson was his prison husband.

At last, Jackson allowed him to clean up and go to bed. Charlie was genuinely grateful, and he already couldn’t wait to be fucked again. As soon as lights out came, Charlie had an idea.

“Jackson, can I masturbate tonight thinking of you kissing me? I just think you’re so hot-“

“Yes, sweetheart, you may, as long as you eat all yo’ own cum. Thank you for asking.”

The Black Cop

Here’s the beginning of The Black Cop, a new yaoi tale by Lee Lane Lamplight!

 

Nelson never thought this would happen. It only happened in gay porn, right?

But here he was, sliding to his knees in front of the mountainous black cop, Officer Toulouse, with his deep Louisiana accent and a chest so broad and strapping he looked like a professional wrestler. Any moment now Nelson expected him to rip off his shirt and pound on his chest.

Officer Toulouse — or Alan, as he had said Nelson should call him — had a handsome if gruff face, with a noble jaw, high cheeks and a brilliant cop mustache. Nelson loved men with facial hair, and Toulouse had one of the best, fullest and sexiest copstaches he had ever seen. He barely fit in his uniform shirt too, biceps bulging from his sleeves and tattoos peeking out from his chest.

That was fine with Nelson, who didn’t even want him to be wearing a shirt right now. But he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask him to take it off. He seemed like the kind of macho alpha male who thought real men didn’t take their clothes off when they let gay dudes suck them off. So Nelson just watched his pecs bounce beneath his brown uniform.

“Ah, yeah, man, my wife ain’t suck me off in years, man… Used to be just on my birthday, but then she stopped doing that,” he said with a moan. He closed his eyes.

His fat cock drilled down Nelson’s throat. It stiffened almost right away, his big veiny shaft rubbing against every inch of Nelson’s mouth. The flavor of his musky body and his hairy crotch assaulted Nelson’s senses. He moaned, gurgling merrily on the taste of his cock.

Nelson had had a crush on Officer Toulouse for more than a year. A homeless man had passed out drunk on Nelson’s porch one night, so when Nelson woke up, he called the police. Officer Toulouse showed up and Nelson was so smitten he blushed and giggled as he explained, even despite the smell of the homeless man who had pissed himself on the front lawn. That was a long time ago, but Nelson kept running into Toulouse — buying coffee at the same time, on the side of the road when Nelson’s car broke down and once in the courthouse parking garage while Nelson paid a speeding ticket.

His hands gripped Nelson’s head and held on tightly. He groaned as though Nelson was scratching an itch that Toulouse had been unable to reach for a long time. Toulouse leaned his head back and his crotch forward, bending himself in both directions to give Nelson easy access to his cock.

“Ah, shit, man… You should give lessons on handlin’ meat…”

Nelson gurgled as he deep-throated him. Nelson loved sucking dick, and Officer Toulouse’s was particularly sweet and meaty. Nelson had never been one of those gay men who were into rough trade, or big black cocks, or even uniform studs. He saw the attraction of that stuff, but it wasn’t really his thing.