First-Time Jocks in the Barracks

Here’s a sample from the beginning of First-Time Jocks in the Barracks, a new story by Happiest Ending!

Drill Sergeant Mitchell Armstrong stood behind the barracks, peering into the window. He stood on the air conditioner so he could see in the high window to the showering area in the back of the barracks. He smiled as he watched Cadet Brandon Scaramuzza sit on Danny Lafleur’s face.

Two dozen of the heftiest, most athletic cadets in the Army were in those barracks, and Armstrong watched them shower. He could have gone in there, but then they would have stopped and he couldn’t watch any more.

It wasn’t a rimjob, of course. Presumably Lafleur had lost some sort of bet, so he allowed Scaramuzza to sit on his face. It was only for a moment. Had he farted on his face? Maybe, but Armstrong didn’t think so. He could hear them laughing as LaFleur blushed and clawed at his own cheeks.

Then they all started dancing and Armstrong was confused — a sudden dance party? Was this a Japanese game show?

But then he heard a pounding techno beat. That seemed to be A Thing, which he didn’t understand because he was too old — every once in a while, this generation of cadets put on electronic music and apparently they were all required to dance like club kids. It wouldn’t have been strange if they actually enjoyed that kind of music, but not a single one of them actually chose to listen to it in any other context.

Armstrong didn’t understand the younger generations.

They danced together for about a minute, stopping only when someone started slapping Cadet Lee Amasuzi’s ass. It soon degenerated into a torrent of laughter and horseplay — they treated each other like strippers, slapping each other’s ass and jiggling their buttcheeks in front of each other’s faces.

Drill Sergeant Armstrong began masturbating. He was just inches from those plump asses, and he could even taste the soapy shower water as it covered their taut skin.

These were not any random collection of Army recruits. They had been chosen to be on the US Army wrestling team. They were given a shared barrack and Armstrong was put in charge of their training, all because the Army was tired of losing to the Navy in wrestling.

It was Armstrong’s job to turn them into champion wrestlers, and hopefully soldiers as well.

Inside the barracks, the horseplay had turned into a game called Boner Loses. They didn’t invent it, it had been passed down from an earlier group of cadets. Drill Sergeant Armstrong had even played a very similar game back when he was a new recruit, which felt like it was eons ago. Armstrong was glad that Cadet Scaramuzza was going to play this game now, because he really hoped to watch Scaramuzza lose.

Brandon Scaramuzza was “forced” to play — he wasn’t exactly forced, per se, but he had implied he would win if he did play, and he was urged to back that up. He frantically tried to come up with way to get out of it, but he came up with nothing. Everyone expected him to do it, and Brandon wasn’t willing to violate their expectations like that — they were his expectations too. That’s because Brandon saw himself as more sexually experienced than anyone else here. He had had sex with nine girls, more than anyone else in his barracks. He had had sex with two women at once. He had had sex with an older woman.

So he thought he was well-suited to win Boner Loses. That was a game wherein the player (Brandon) had to stand there while another player (usually someone who had lost a bet, in this case Lee Amasuzi) had to put his dick in his mouth.

First-Time Jocks in the Campground

Here’s the beginning of First-Time Jocks in the Campground, a new story by Happiest Ending!

Wayne stomped away from the campsite feeling like a spoiled child. He was twenty-one, but he was acting like a brat. He knew that. He just couldn’t stop himself.

Sheila had gone, and everyone else was fucking. Balls slapped against pussies and asses, and men grunted while women moaned. Almost the entire GHU football team was here, and they had all brought a girl. Now Wayne was the only single one in the whole site. He couldn’t bear to stick around, that was why he left.

It would be too humiliating to simply walk around the campground alone. He couldn’t do that. He had hated going anywhere alone ever since coming to college — back in high school, he was the most popular kid around, the star football jock and all-American handsome stud, and he always teased the kids who ate lunch alone.

But nearly everyone on his college football team had been the most popular kid in their high school. Wayne wasn’t special anymore. He wasn’t even the star quarterback, just a backup. Everyone thought the kicker Ronaldo Tironi was the sexiest player on the team, and he wasn’t even American — he looked more like an underwear model than an athlete anyway, Wayne thought.

Ah, yeah, suck it, bitch…

Sheila had gone because Wayne called her a bitch. He didn’t say it in an insulting way. A lot of other guys said that when they fucked. It was just dirty-talk, he thought. Wayne had, admittedly, said it a bit early — she was just starting to suck his dick when he said it — and he hadn’t said it in a sufficiently light-hearted manner like the others.

So now his entire team was off fucking their girls, probably trading females without him. His dick could do nothing more than painfully wither to full limpitude. It was so unfair.

He had grabbed his shower stuff simply because he wanted his teammates to think he was walking away for a purpose, not because he was a loser whose girl had dumped him. Maybe, he thought, they’d think she was going to fuck around with him in the shower. He headed towards the showerhouse simply because he had nowhere else to go.

Since no one was in there, and Wayne had everything he needed, he thought he might as well take a shower. He was going to do it eventually, and he’d rather do it now, when no one was around, instead of later, when all the drunk rednecks and fat-ass bikers who camped here would be showering. Wayne showered with his teammates a lot, but he didn’t cotton to the idea of showering with a bunch of fat old strangers.

The showerhouse was empty, which was nice. Wayne was glad to see that there was even hot water. The showering area was open to the stars, like an inner courtyard surrounded on all four sides by a square shelter with toilets, sinks and a baby-changing station.

The shower didn’t relax him. Even with no one around, the bikers whooping drunkenly and the prospect of strangers coming in any time were nerve-wracking for Wayne. He showered quickly.

Then someone did enter. Wayne’s heart skipped a beat, picturing some massive biker with a big swinging dick advancing towards him like the climax of a prison movie.

But it was a small man, skinny, weak, not a biker at all. He had an idle grin on his face as he entered. He glanced at Wayne but didn’t say anything to him.

Wayne didn’t want to look weird, so he turned around. It looked like the small man was going to brush his teeth, and Wayne intended to look the other way until he was gone.

“Hi,” said the man, startling Wayne. He turned around to face him. The other man looked up at him. “I’m Holly.”

“Oh. I’m Wayne,” Wayne said. He had never met someone new when they were both naked. It was awkward. He couldn’t look down without seeing Holly’s cock and balls. He couldn’t bring himself to look in any direction — what was the etiquette in a campground showerhouse anyway? — so his head rigidly stared forward, above Holly’s head, at the wall behind him.

“You look horny, Wayne,” Holly said with a giggle. Wayne realized only then that he was gay — he had a lilting flamboyance that strongly suggested it — and became nervous. He thought he should cover his crotch but that seemed silly, since Holly had been looking at it for some time now.

“Oh.” Wayne bit his lip.

“I can help,” Holly said softly. He really did sound like a woman, Wayne thought. He had a light voice with a singsong note to it, and he carried himself like a girl. Holly reached for Wayne’s dick. Wayne watched his hand move as though in slow motion. He told himself to leave, or just to tell Holly to fuck off.

Servicing Black Thugs: The Inmate

Here’s the entirety of Servicing Black Thugs: The Inmate, a story in the Servicing Black Thugs series!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roger shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry, Dwight.”

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

“I’m sorry, God,” Roger said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yessuh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You certainly do.”

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

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

Downlow Muscle at the City Barbershop

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Downlow Muscle at the City Barbershop, a new story by Calvin Freeman!

 

Sharif didn’t take his suit off. He just pulled his dick out through the fly and let Omar go to town. He said over and over that he was “fine” with letting Omar suck him off, but it was pretty clear that he didn’t want to do it. He only agreed because he wanted to seem as tough as a rapper.

His cock throbbed and leaked precum down Omar’s throat. Omar loved guzzling down every drop, made even tastier because of Sharif’s stiff nervousness. His muscles were rigid beneath the suit he wore uncomfortably because he didn’t really fit in it. Sharif grunted, trying to maintain his tough demeanor despite his anxiety.

The only reason Sharif was here at all was because of Craig, or Craig Jay, as he went by in the rap world — Omar still knew him as just plain Craig though, because they had grown up together. They had been friends for a long time, and then they grew apart — Craig became a thug and a dealer, while Omar came out of the closet and became a barber.

And then Craig did a guest spot on a single released by local legend (and Craig’s long-time boss) Waystation. The song became a surprise national hit, and Craig released an album of his own that made him the most unlikely rap star of the year. Craig had never been much of a gangsta, Omar thought, but he played himself off as plenty tough on record.

Sharif rapped too, but he wasn’t very good and that wasn’t why he was here. His hair was in tight, perfectly done cornrows, so he didn’t need a haircut. He came in wearing that fine suit. When Omar caught a glimpse of him while he cut someone else’s hair, he just saw a large body and thought it was some fat guy in a black coat.

Then he realized it was a suit, not a coat, and that Sharif wasn’t fat at all — he was a bodybuilder. He had competed in the Mr. Texas bodybuilding pageant and come in second place a few years ago. He stood nervously near the door until Craig was ready for another customer.

“Yo, man, Craig Jay wanna me to be…” Sharif grunted and bit his lip. “I mean… Yo, nigga, I got… I got a message.”

It had been a busy day, and Omar had other things to do. He sighed. “What? What are you talking about? Who are you?” He only then realized that Sharif mentioned Craig Jay, which was Craig’s performing name. “Oh, Craig? The Craig Jay?”

Sharif nodded. He nervously bit his lip. He looked around the barbershop, where Omar’s coworker James cut a little boy’s hair while his grandfather watched. Everyone was silent because Sharif had mentioned a celebrity and they wanted to hear.

“You work for Craig?”

Sharif shook his head. He sighed. “Yo, I mean…”

Omar paused. “If you have a message, aren’t you supposed to say it?”

Sharif had a bone-rattlingly deep voice, which contrasted with the nervous quaver in his throat. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah. We, uh… We can’t… I can’t, uh, give this message… here.” He glanced at the little boy. “It ain’t, like… child-friendly.”

A long awkward pause filled the air. “Are you threatening me?” Omar didn’t really think he was simply because Sharif looked like he would have been comfortable delivering a threat, so his obvious discomfort implied that was not it. But Omar lived in a tough neighborhood and felt he needed to consider the possibility of violence.

Sharif’s massive shoulders flexed as he gasped. “Nah! No! No way, man, that ain’t… It ain’t a threat.”

Omar shrugged. “Okay, well, why don’t we go into my office?” He led Sharif into the backroom, where he had a small office. Sharif sat down across from Omar, who smiled at him. “So how’s Craig? Is fame treating him okay? I know he-“

“I dunno, nigga.” Sharif said. He leaned his head back. “Okay, look, man, you gotta suck me off.”

Omar was taken aback. This wasn’t too surprising — Omar worked at a City Barbershop, a chain that had a reputation as a place for straight black men to get blowjobs on the downlow. Omar was well-known for sucking off thugs precisely like Sharif. But they rarely wore suits or came in delivering a message from a celebrity, so Omar assumed there was more to this story. “Oh. Well-“

“I mean, you ain’t got to. I guess. I dunno. I mean, Craig ain’t say nothin’ ‘bout makin’ you do it. He say you was gonna want to,” Sharif said. He stood up and lifted up his button-down suit shirt for a second, revealing his flat belly and bulging pecs — he showed off his body for Omar’s benefit, but he was nervous enough that he didn’t give any thought to how to do that: he simply lifted his shirt up to display his muscles for a second, not doing it in a sexy or seductive way. “I’m s’posed to let you suck me off. Craig say he won’t hire me — I’m a bodyguard, that’s what I do — he say he won’t hire me unless he knows I’m a real nigga. He say he wanna know I can perform.”

“Ah….” Omar had to suppress a giggle. He had a feeling this was more of a joke than a real requirement. Craig was a stoner-slacker who would probably never even bother to call Omar to ask if this had happened. Sharif could simply lie. Craig would always take the path of least resistance, and he would definitely never retract a job offer to a muscle-bound thug without a very good reason.

“Keep the suit on,” Omar said. “I like sucking off men in a suit. It feels like I’m giving a blowjob to James Bond.”

He came around to the front of the desk and sunk to his knees in front of Sharif. He unzipped his slacks and pulled his dick out too quickly for Sharif to get nervous.

A Prison Bitch Rimjob Raunch Tale

Here’s the first chapter of A Prison Bitch Rimjob Raunch Tale, a hardcore tale that features nonconsenting situations! Do not read this! It contains rape, and the novelette only gets more extreme from there!

Eddie walked into the cell block stark naked, carrying his prison uniform in a box. He knew the guards did that to make him look vulnerable to the other inmates. It was a power game. He resolved not to play it.

He thought he could hold his own in this place. He wasn’t very big, but he wasn’t a weakling either. He was sure there would be weaker men than he.

As he saw his new cellmates, he was no longer so sure. He was by far the smallest. All twelve men in this cell were black — including Eddie — but Eddie was shorter than any of them and skinnier by far. His heart thudded as they all looked at him.

He nodded and muttered a hello, but he didn’t talk to anyone. He sauntered straight to the unused bunk. No one stopped him so he sat down. He slowly got dressed, not wanting to look like he was afraid.

“Hey nigga,” said one of the other inmates. He was tall, a little older than the rest, but built like an athlete. He had broad shoulders and a thick beard, biceps as thick as melons. He had a big nasty scar over his face. “Hey nigga. Hey.”

“Hey. My name is Eddie.”

“Oh, that’s nice, that’s real nice,” said the man. He had the flamboyant cadence of a pimp, and he tapped his feet on the floor as he talked. “I ain’t ask you yo’ name though. I won’t punish you yet cuz I ain’t explain the rules — I’m a fair owner, ya see.” He paused and got down on his knees like he was going to propose to Eddie. “I was noticin’ you walk in here — my name is Copper, by the way — like the metal, not like the police officer, that was more obvious on the outside cuz I wore copper jewelry, ya feel me?”

“Yeah-“

He slapped Eddie over the face. “I gotta stop you cuz you talkin’ again and I ain’t given you no kinda permission for that. Now I’m sorry to hit you, but you makin’ me do it. I’m down here on my knee, comin’ to you like a man. I saw that ass you brought in here, and you look like you got nice big cock-suckin’ lips — I’m bettin’ you a faggot. That true?”

“No. I ain’t-“

He slapped him again, harder. Eddie winced, his cheek exploding in pain. Copper frowned. “I asked you a yes or no question, nigga. All you gotta say is yes or no. Quit makin’ me hit you. I am yo’ owner now, I’s in charge of those lips and that tongue.” He paused like he was waiting for Eddie to interrupt him. “Good. You don’t talk no more ‘cept with my permission, and from now on, when someone ask you if you a faggot, you say yes. Got it?”

“I ain’t a faggot-“

He punched him in the belly. “You got that question wrong, bitch. Answer it again. If someone ask you if you a faggot, you say yes. Got it?”

“Yes-“

“Good.”

Another black man, a big fat one stepped in then. He cocked his head to the side in a mockery of a quizzical expression. “Yo, nigga… Eddie, right? You a faggot?”

“Uh… I mean-“

Copper grabbed Eddie by the neck and squeezed. “Nigga, I ain’t got much patience. Do not test me.”

“Yes! Yes, I’m a faggot!”

“Good,” Copper said. He let go of Eddie’s neck. “We gonna keep workin’ on that. Do you have any questions for me so far?”

“Uh… Yeah.” Eddie gasped for air. “Uh… Please, stop, I, uh… I can take care of myself. I ain’t gonna be yo’ bitch.”

Copper laughed a little. “Oh. Okay. That ain’t technically a question, but I didn’t say statements wasn’t allowed, so that’s okay.” He motioned for Eddie to sit down in his bunk, then Copper followed him. The other cellmates were all staring. Eddie felt very self-conscious and he couldn’t think about anything other than doing exactly what Copper told him to do. “Put that curtain up, nigga. We need some privacy.”

“Man-“

Copper slapped Eddie. “Don’t make me hit you, bitch. I wanna love you, I really do. A lotta pimps treat they bitches like trash, but not me. I care about my bitches, and I do not wanna hurt ‘em. You believe me?”

“Well-“

He slapped him. “Say yes.”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m glad you believe me, bitch.” The curtain was up — just a sheet tacked up around the bunk to provide a small amount of privacy. Eddie could still see men peering in through the edges. Copper was so big he took up almost all the space in here. “So don’t make me hurt you, bitch. Cuz when I hurt you, that hurts me too. It hurts me deep in my soul. I don’t wanna feel pain like that. I don’t wanna make you feel pain like that neither. I wanna make you feel good, bitch. That’s why I turned you into a faggot back then. You gonna love gettin’ fucked. Right?”

“Uh-“

He slapped him. “Bitch, say yes or no.” He paused. “Do not say no.”

“Yes.” A sob rose up in Eddie’s throat. He tried to bite it back but was unsuccessful.

“Oh, bitch, you gonna cry? I ain’t have you pegged as a crier,” he said. He leaned forward and licked Eddie’s tears. “I’ll lick yo’ cryin’ up like milk in a saucer, bitch. I love bitch tears. They don’t work on me. You just tryin’ to seduce me, that’s what I think of tears.” He paused. “Quit cryin’, bitch.” When that didn’t work right away, he grabbed Eddie by the throat again. “Quit cryin’, bitch.”

Unable to breathe, Eddie couldn’t cry if he wanted to. Gradually Copper let go.

“You breakin’ my heart, boy. Whatchoo wanna do now? Huh? Say somethin’.” He didn’t give Eddie a chance to answer. He barked at him, increasingly belligerent. “Huh? What’s up now? You gonna do somethin’?”

“No, please-“

He slapped Eddie. “What’re you gonna do, bitch?”

“What? I don’t know!” Eddie choked back a sob.

“You said you loved me, you said you was gonna love gettin’ fucked by me! I’s askin’ how you gonna show yo’ love?”

“Oh… Uh… I dunno-“ This was all happening so fast Eddie couldn’t think. Had he actually said he loved Copper? He didn’t think so.

He slapped Eddie again. “Bitch, don’t you say you dunno. You do know, or you gonna figure it out real quick. It ain’t the kinda question any motherfucker can answer for you.”

“Uh… I’ll do whatever you say.” Eddie’s voice quavered.

“Oh that’s good,” he said, blinking back faux tears of love. “That’s real love. I feel that in my heart, bitch. I’m glad to hear it. I love you too. I won’t nevuh hurt you. I love you too much.” He took his dick out and flopped it over Eddie’s face. Eddie erupted in gags — his cock was sweaty, clammy, and the flavor was disgusting. Copper clucked his tongue against his teeth. “Oh, bitch, I love gaggin’. That is the sexiest thing a bitch can do, man.”

He left the tip of his dick on Eddie’s tongue and laughed at the sight of his gagging. He was so big he took up most of the bunkspace in here, and Eddie was pinned by his massive legs. Eddie sobbed until Copper smacked him again.

“You know what would be real sexy? It’d make me the happiest nigga on earth to hear you say, Copper, I love the taste of yo’ cock and I want you to throatfuck me wit’out mercy. I love to hear ya say that, sweetheart.” He smacked Eddie over the cheek and removed his dick so Eddie could speak.

Eddie blushed. He could hear snickering from outside this bunk, beyond the curtains. Someone even let a big black cock dangle in past the curtain until Copper barked at him to stop. Eddie had to suppress a sob.

“Say it, bitch.” Copper grabbed him by the neck. “You feel that resistance in ya, bitch? That’s yo’ remainin’ shreds of dignity, self-respect and joy. I’s takin’ those things, I’m grindin’ ‘em down, and I’m gonna swallow e’ry last bit of it, that way I can build you back up again in my image, bitch. I’m gonna be yo’ god. So yeah, I know it hurts to say it. That’s cuz you used to be a man. Now you a bitch. Change is difficult.” He punched Eddie hard in the belly and Eddie cried out. “Say it. Copper, I love the taste of yo’ cock and I want you to throatfuck me wit’out mercy. Say it in a sexy lady’s voice.”

“Copper… I love… the taste of yo’ cock… and I want you to throatfuck me wit’out mercy.”

“Good bitch. I will do as you wish,” Copper said and drilled his dick down Eddie’s throat. He didn’t give him any time to adjust, he just grabbed his nostrils, squeezed and rammed his cock in. That sour sweaty flavor assaulted Eddie’s senses again. He gagged as Copper’s massive shaft pushed into him.

Copper found the positioning awkward because this bunkspace was so tiny, so he had one of his fellow cellmates reach in — without looking — to pinch Eddie’s nostrils shut. That gave Copper free use of his hands.

A painful retch erupted in Eddie’s belly, but Copper didn’t slow down. He pivoted his hips, slamming his cock in and over and over, despite Eddie’s gagging. His dick filled Eddie’s throat so completely he couldn’t have bit down if he wanted to, which he didn’t — Copper seemed to be totally invulnerable and Eddie knew he’d be punished for  biting.

“Open that mouth, bitch. I ain’t playin’, I am not playin’, you best open wide right now.” He punched Eddie in the belly hard enough to make him nearly pass out.

Copper’s facefucking was so violent he shook the entire three-bunk bed, and the rest of the cell had gathered to snicker outside. Eddie was painfully jammed up against the edge of the bunk. Someone poked at his asshole with a finger and he didn’t have the wherewithal to fight back.

The curtain fell down and no one put it back up, so everyone could see Eddie now. Copper pulled his dick out but Eddie didn’t get a breath in before Copper grabbed him by the throat.

“Oh loverboy, that was some good gagfuckin’, I like that. That was real good for a first-timer. But you gonna get better. Did you love it?”

“No!”

He squeezed harder. “You sure? You wanna reconsider that?”

“…” Eddie wanted to say no more than anything, but could he? He hated the idea of giving in to Copper. “Fine, yes!”

“Take deep breath, sweetheart, you doin’ real good, real good,” Copper said sweetly. “I love you so much. You breakin’ down just right, in all the right ways.”

Then before Eddie knew it — he barely got one halting deep breath in, hoarsely gasping for air — he was bent over the bunk backwards. That gave Copper the perfect angle to throatfuck him. He again relentlessly drilled his spit-soaked cock down Eddie’s throat, and this time he managed to get every inch in.

He daggered his hips, fucking Eddie’s face so hard Eddie thought something in his neck was broken. Copper’s balls stank horribly, hanging low and thick and hairy on Eddie’s nose.

His mind focused so relentlessly on his suffocation by cock that Eddie didn’t really notice the other cellmates at first. They kneeled down to peer into Eddie’s eyes, since his head was draped backwards over the edge of the bunk. Copper couldn’t see them and didn’t know what they were doing because they didn’t make any noise (or possibly, Eddie thought, they did make noise but Eddie’s mind didn’t process it because he was more focused on his relentless gagging).

Anyway, they first just took turns looking Eddie in the eye, so close Copper’s balls touched their face. It made them laugh and shove each other around.

“Don’t you start fightin’ me, bitch, I will fuck you up!”

Then the other cellmates began poking Eddie with their own cocks. They silently — to avoid Copper’s attention — aimed their dicks right for his eyes. First, it was just one at a time, then they seemed to think it was funny to get as many on Eddie’s face as they could. They got four, maybe five to sort of touch Eddie’s skin before accidentally touching Copper’s balls.

“What’re you niggas doin’?”

“Nothin’, we just playin’ wit’ ya bitch, Copper. He lookin’ seductive like he wanted some more dick.”

Copper chuckled. “Yeah, he got that cock-loving slut look.” After a moment, he narrowed his eyebrows as he let Eddie take a breath. “You niggas get ya dicks away, unless you payin’. He ain’t yo’ property, he mine.”

They backed away. Eddie got just enough air to avoid passing out before Copper rammed his dick right back in. He gagged again and again. Copper held Eddie’s nostrils shut and glared at him.

“Alright, bitch, you gonna taste my nut in a minute. Look me in the eye. You mine. You gonna be mine forevuh. If there’s an afterlife, bitch, you be mine there too. You ain’t nothin’ but a nutrag.”

Suck that nut! Suck that nut! Suck that nut!

The other cellmates chanted and pounded on the cell-bars. They stood by the door to block the view, so when a guard came by to tell them to shut up, he couldn’t see in — he could hear though.

“What’re you folks doin’ in there?”

“Nothin’, suh, we just rehabilitatin’ ourself.” They snickered and jumped over each other to agree that that was what they were doing.

“Why’re your dicks out?”

“Uh…”

“That’s, uh… See, officer…”

“That’s just the part we rehabilitatin’ today,” someone said. They laughed and the guard even joined in. Eddie squealed and snorted as he got dizzy. Copper had his dick all the way in Eddie’s throat. His face turned red and he slapped Copper’s ass as loud as he could to get the guard’s attention. Eddie felt cum flowing into his stomach, draining into him as Copper’s dick throbbed against his nose, but his cock was so deep Eddie didn’t taste it. All he could taste was ball-sweat.

“If I gotta take that new boy to the infirmary, I’ll shove my nightstick up your ass,” the guard said as he walked away.

Eddie was delirious. Water and spit covered his eyes, so he couldn’t see anything. He thought he was about to pass out when Copper finally withdrew his dick.

That was what it took for him to taste cum for the first time; it was sour and salty and astringent and it made Eddie’s stomach churn. Copper smacked him in the face as Eddie hoarsely cried out for oxygen. Someone else kicked him in the side.

Copper was shouting at him but Eddie couldn’t quite focus enough to hear what he said. The other inmates cackled and thwacked their cocks over the cummy mess on Eddie’s face. But eventually Copper realized that Eddie genuinely couldn’t hear him, so he shooed the others away.

“Go’n, niggas, he ain’t for sale just yet. I gotta break him in,” Copper said. “Back off for now.” He smacked Eddie’s face very softly, holding onto his hair, which was too short to easily grab on to. “You grow yo’ hair out, bitch, so’s I got something to hold onto.” He waited for Eddie to stop crying and choking. “You ain’t a good cocksucker yet, bitch. That’s why I had to treat you salty. You gonna get better?” He smacked Eddie. “Say yes.”

“Yes.”

“Elaborate.” He pulled on Eddie’s hair. “I said elaborate, bitch. Tell me how you gonna get better.”

“Uh… I’ll… uh…-“

He smacked Eddie. “You say uh too much, like some slack ho. My bitches ain’t slack, so ac’ right. Speak in words. Say somethin’.”

“I’ll suck your dick better!”

“More details, bitch.” He smacked Eddie over and over. “More details. How? Better how?”

“I’ll-!” Eddie couldn’t speak with Copper smacking him. He couldn’t quite catch his breath either. “Stop!” He cried. “Deeper!”

Copper stopped. “What?”

“I’ll suck your dick deeper,” Eddie said, his voice hoarse. He looked down at the ground, but Copper pulled his hair to make eye contact with him. “I’ll do it deeper. So you don’t have to throatfuck me-“

“Bitch, I will throatfuck you. But that’s good. That’s real good. I got some other ideas too, but we gonna work on that. Now stay kneelin’, bitch,” he said. He pointed to a spot near the toilet. “Right there. Kneel and practice deep-throatin’ wit’ yo’ finger. Work on yo’ throat. You do that for one hour, then I give you some free time. Say you love me.”

“I love you.”

“Good.”

Eddie painfully crawled to the spot and kneeled. His knees already ached, but he didn’t dare ask if he could sit down. He tried to look at the ground but Copper made him face the other end of the cell, where he and the others began working out with improvised weights.

Eddie managed to sob quietly enough that Copper didn’t yell at him.

First-Time Jocks Get a Happy Ending: A Wrestler Tradition

Here’s a sample from the beginning of First-Time Jocks Get a Happy Ending: A Wrestler Tradition, a new story by Happiest Ending!

 

Every year, the wrestling team told their new freshmen about the “happy ending tradition”. They were told that they had to get a “happy ending” from Charlie, the team masseur and physical therapist. He used to work in a massage parlor nearby, but now just worked directly for the team. He was available after every game and every practice — and at many other times, depending on his schedule.

It wasn’t really a rule, at least not one that anybody enforced. The seniors told the freshmen it was a rule. But it wasn’t like the seniors monitored everyone’s cocks to see who got handjobs from whom, and Charlie refused to say. He claimed medical confidentiality. So no one had any way of knowing who had done it and who hadn’t.

But the freshmen only figured that out gradually. When the seniors told them it was required in September, the ones who were comfortable with it did it right away. The rest put it off and eventually forgot or pretended they had already done it. The seniors occasionally asked for updates on who had done it, but they never had any way of checking.

So when the freshman Delroy showed up after one practice, Charlie felt duty-bound to tell him he didn’t have to go through with it.

“They won’t check, man, and I promise I’ll tell them you did it if they ask,” Charlie said.

“Really? Oh holy shit, thanks, man,” Delroy beamed. His tangled mop of brown hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. His singlet was soaked too, crumpled on the floor, his youthful muscles bulging through the fabric. Delroy was a freshman, but he had been a poor student his whole life and had failed two years of grade-school (held back in fifth and eighth grade), so he was older and much bigger than other freshmen. He had a tuft of coarse black chest hair that just barely poked out from his singlet when he wore it — Charlie fantasized about sucking on that bit of chest hair every time he saw Delroy in the singlet.

Charlie felt a pang of regret: He had a feeling he could have told Delroy anything was mandatory and he’d have done it. He kneaded Delroy’s muscled shoulders. When he gave a massage, he didn’t much think about sex, even if the men he massaged were sexy — he was a professional, and he did it so often that it didn’t feel sexy.

But Delroy had been talking about sex and generally making it hard to avoid thinking about it. His pre-shower post-practice musk filled the air, making it difficult for Charlie to focus.

“I was gonna try to find you tonight, like see if I could come to your place,” Delroy said with a groan as Charlie worked a knot out of his back. “I’m getting drunk at the Halloween party tonight. I thought I could get a blowjob from a gay dude if I was drunk.”

“Uh-huh,” Charlie said. “You know it doesn’t have to be a blowjob?”

“What? I’m not doing anal.” He scoffed.

“No, I mean a handjob.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yep.” Charlie nodded though Delroy’s eyes were closed so he didn’t see.

Delroy fidgeted on his back, eyes closed. His fingers rubbed each other and he shifted his weight. Charlie had to suppress a giggle.

“Really? Just a handjob?” It sounded like he didn’t believe it.

“Yeah, that’s all they expect. That’s what a ‘happy ending’ is,” Charlie said.

“Oh… Is that… ? I mean, like… you’re gay, right?”

“Yes.”

“So do you…?” He blushed. “I mean… do you like… want to?”

“What?”

“Sorry, I don’t know what gays are into. I mean, dudes. I know that. Gays are into dudes. But like… do you like giving handjobs?”

“I do.”

“Why?” He laughed and blushed. He opened his eyes and looked down over his expansive chest. He still wore his jockstrap, which was dingy gray. His cock twitched. “Sorry.”

“Delroy, do you want a handjob?”

He bit his lip. “I mean… I ain’t think you would do that. I guess I thought you’d make me put it in your mouth. I can’t do that. That’s too gay. Okay? Don’t do that.” He paused. “Yeah. Yes. You can jack me off.”

The T-Girl in the Housing Projects

Here’s a sample from the beginning of The T-Girl in the Housing Projects, a new story by Calvin Freeman!

When Jimmy Red moved out, Tina suspected the boys would become more reckless. She was totally correct. Jimmy Red had two sons who had been out of school for years; all three of them sold various drugs, from weed to steroids and crack. They were among the least pleasant of the inhabitants of the Child Creek Housing Projects.

“Yo, bitch, don’t you even think ‘bout that!”

“Fuck this!”

Every few hours, Tina heard them shouting through the walls. Their father had been a calm and even-keeled kind of man, even if he was just as much of a thug and pimp as his sons. He often made his boys be quiet, even punching them or tying them up when necessary.

She didn’t want to get involved because they were mean and violent and possibly homophobic. Tina wasn’t gay as far as she was concerned — she was transgender, and she was a biological male, so Jimmy Red and his sons always treated her like a gay man. They had few redeeming features in Tina’s eyes: not only were they sexist and homophobic, they were racist (especially against Chinese food deliverypeople), they were fat and smelly, and they gangbanged the skankiest, nastiest girls Tina had ever seen.

She very strongly disliked them. When a letter showed up — an actual letter, in an envelope — with Jimmy Red’s name in the return address, she hoped it would be a notice that his sons were leaving. Jimmy Red had gone to take care of his father, who was ailing. The envelope was addressed to her but her last name was not given (Jimmy Red had never asked what it was).

I understand my boys aint been gud naybors. I done tolds them to quite down and not git in trubble. If they r bad call me 3405558992, dont call police.

Tina thought that was sweet. Jimmy Red was still a crack dealer and abusive pimp, plus seemingly almost illiterate, but he was nicer than his sons. They were actually quiet for a day or two. Jimmy Red must have told them on the phone to keep it down.

That didn’t last long though. On Friday, Tina came home to see a disgustingly fat woman scurrying into the building, makeup slathered on with a garden trowel; it was obvious she wasn’t wearing panties, and she didn’t even wear heels. Some people, Tina thought, didn’t deserve to be women.

She soon figured out who the ugly woman was here to see. She was followed by more, including some kind of cute girls, plus a bevy of guys, all presumably here for the rapidly growing party in Jimmy Red’s apartment. Tina loved hot straight men, especially thugs and machos — but somehow it seemed that Jimmy Red and his boys only knew fat nasty thugs: There was not a single sexy one who came in near enough to Tina’s window to see it. There weren’t even any kind of cute guys. The best she could say was that some weren’t that fat. These were not the good kind of drug dealer.

Tina had to think about when she would call Jimmy Red. It was pretty obvious they were setting up for a party next door. The music began, but it wasn’t really that loud yet, and it was still early. She’d come across like a total bitch if she complained right now. But there seemed to be little point in waiting, since it was obvious where this evening was heading.

“Where’s the bitches at?!”

“Watch me drink this!”

The sounds of the party filled the air, easily audible through the thin walls of the housing projects. As the evening drew to a close and night arose, Tina sighed. The party was just getting louder and louder. Finally it was ten o’clock, which seemed like the earliest she could reasonably tell them to quiet down.

Should she just complain to them? Should she call Jimmy Red first? Should she try to get Miss Green in Apartment 19 to call? Miss Green had gotten the same letter from Jimmy Red; she was an elderly woman who lived alone, so she was more sympathetic than Tina.

“Fuck you, faggot!”

The sound of glass breaking tinkled through the air. There was a series of grunts and a dull thud as something heavy landed on the floor. Then people laughed, and someone banged on the wall.

It was a fight. And somebody had shouted the word faggot. Tina thought that was sufficient excuse to get involved.

So she went over there and knocked on the door. She didn’t expect that talking to them would do much, but if she called Jimmy Red to explain that they were rude to her in person, he’d be angrier than if she simply warned him they were being loud. It took awhile for anyone to hear her knocking.

Then finally the youngest son, nineteen year old Raekwan, opened the door. He was already drunk, clouds of cognac vapor emanating from his mouth. He burped as he saw Tina.

“Yo.”

“Hi, Raekwan, I was wondering if you boys could keep it down,” Tina said. “Especially the faggot stuff, I don’t need to hear that-“

“Then quit bein’ a faggot. Bitch.” He slammed the door shut.

Tina was angry enough that her first instinct was to simply call the police right now. She was sure they had drugs and probably guns in there. But she didn’t want to get a reputation as a snitch. She considered going to Miss Green and getting her to call the police, but she didn’t want to get a nice old lady involved with a bunch of steroid dealers and fat meth-whores.

Instead she called Jimmy Red. He answered on the third ring. She could hear a TV blaring in the background.

“Hi, Jimmy Red, so nice to hear from you. This is Tina, remember? Your neighbor-“

“What’re my boys doing?”

She explained. She said that Miss Green was scared and that Tina was trying to mollify her — that wasn’t entirely untrue, since Tina had heard Miss Green near her door, listening, no doubt frightened, and Tina did want to mollify her. She stated that his boys were yelling about faggots and making folks uncomfortable. She said the police weren’t called as far as she knew, but it was only a matter of time before Miss Green or someone else called the cops.

That was enough, and it was accurate (or at least, not technically a lie in any way). Jimmy Red gruffly hung up the phone. Tina went back to her apartment. After about four minutes, the music cut off. There was frantic hushed whispering audible through the walls, but they weren’t shouting to be heard over the music anymore, so Tina got nothing but a few scattered words. She heard people drunkenly stumble down the hall and outside.

Finally, there was a knock on her door. Tina didn’t intend to answer it, but it wasn’t Raekwan or any of the other sons. Through the peephole, Tina was shocked to see a muscular young black buck with a square jaw and a strong face. He was sexy. He was not one of Jimmy Red’s boys.

“Hey, um… Ma’am…” He smiled nervously. He sounded like he wasn’t sure if ma’am was appropriate. He shifted his weight between his feet. “Uh, so… Hi…”

“Hi.” He was cute enough that Tina had an instinctual desire to flirt with him, even if she was in a bad mood still.

His eyes opened wide. He hadn’t thought Tina was going to say hi. He bit his lip. “Uh… Hi.”

“Hi.” Tina giggled.

“I’m… uh… Marshall.”

“Hi Marshall, I’m Tina.”

He took a deep breath. “Uh… Look… So, you know… Raekwan said, like… I, uh-“

Someone hissed and whispered something. Tina hadn’t realized anyone else was out there. She opened the door the rest of the way, revealing Raekwan there just out of sight.

“Get out of here, Raekwan!” Tina said. She shoved him away from the door. He was too fat to really push, but he got the hint. She was annoyed seeing him next to Marshall because he somehow made Marshall less hot, like a sexiness vampire.

“He’s yo’ boytoy, Miss Tina. Don’t call my dad again,” Raekwan said. He no doubt intended to sound tough, but he just sounded insolent and spoiled. He snarled. “You can do whatever you want to him.”

Marshall’s eyes bugged out once again as he blurted out, “No!” He paused and straightened his shirt. “Not whatever, nigga. Nope. I said I got-“

“You said you like freaky-deakies-“

“I ain’t say that!” Marshall roared. “I don’t gotta do it! I don’t gotta!”

“Then fuck off, Marshall!”

“Hey!” Tina clapped her hands. “I asked you boys to be quiet, so you may not come to my doorstep shouting. Nosir.”

They both quieted down. Marshall looked scared, avoiding eye contact, while Raekwan glared at her.

Tina cleared her throat. “So what is this?” She pointed to Marshall. “You, Marshall, tell me what’s going on.”

He looked at his feet. His big muscular body all flexed at once, making Tina’s dick perk up beneath her skirt. Marshall sniffled. “Uh… So… If you… I ain’t, like… gay or nothin’.”

Too Thick for Girls: The Linebacker Lean

Here’s the beginning of Too Thick for Girls: The Linebacker Lean, the debut story by Trent Chaplain!

Gravy Mitchell tried not to feel self-conscious. He hung around on the bus. No one seemed to notice that he was alone. His teammates filed off, meeting up with the girls out in the parking lot. Even the bus driver had disappeared somewhere.

The GHU Wildcats were on their way to Jacksonville for a big game. The cheerleading squad was on their way too, and their van had stopped in the same motel parking lot where Gravy and his fellow Wildcats were staying.

And then they paired up. That happened sometimes. The cheerleaders brought their female friends, and they all picked a football player as they got off the bus. The cheerleaders giggled and laughed as they found a man, and they went into the rooms the school had rented for the players.

Gravy sat there on the bus alone. He didn’t bother to go out there. He couldn’t be humiliated like that again.

At one point, he had gotten big deliberately. Girls liked muscles, right? They liked athletes. They were into that, he was sure that had been true at one point. But it seemed there was a point of no return, and that point was either six and a half feet tall or three hundred pounds, give or take a bit.

Gravy wasn’t fat by any means. He was in good shape. He didn’t have a six-pack, no matter what he tried, he couldn’t get those kind of perfectly etched curves like the quarterback Sammy. He had a big barrel shaped chest, and he was approaching seven feet tall and four hundred and fifty pounds. At least he was pretty sure he had stopped growing. He hoped so.

He was already too big for girls.

As the parking lot emptied and Gravy could go to his room without being seen, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror at the front of the bus and he blanched. He really did look like an ogre, he thought.

He worked out constantly. That was his plan, while his teammates were fucking beautiful cheerleaders, probably double-teaming them, filling their tight holes with creamy seed, Gravy would just go work out. He was hungry — he was always hungry, eating more than eight thousand calories a day, and burning them all off — and he needed to work out or he would get antsy.

Last month, the cheerleaders had come into the locker room for a “blowjob-party”, which they said was a tradition. They each picked a guy, or sometimes more than one, and sucked him off.

Ew, not Gravy! Sorry! I can’t even reach his dick on my knees!

He’s too hairy! He’s got backhair… Gross…

He smells like my dad’s armpits, ohmygod…

They had giggled and whispered to each other. No one actually told Gravy that he had been rejected, he had to overhear and surmise it from the fact that no one started sucking him off. He was the only one who didn’t get a blowjob, even the weirdo German-Turkish kicker Abu landed the tubby cheerleader.

The last time Gravy did get laid, it was some fat chick who had made him stop partway through. His dick was too big and he “ain’t usin’ it right”. She said she’d give him a handjob, but then she just mashed it for a bit and passed out.

That was it.

Everyone assumed football players got laid a lot. The nerd who tutored Gravy in math made comments suggesting it, and Gravy was too embarrassed to correct him. Gravy might have considered lying, pretending he had a girl when he didn’t; he could have tried to save face that way. But in the most humiliating aspect of this whole problem, he didn’t need to lie. His teammates were so used to being golden gods who got girls every night that they never even really asked. They occasionally noticed that he had no girl hanging off him, but they always assumed there were girls right around the corner. It never occurred to them that Gravy didn’t get laid. The one time they heard about a girl turning him down for being too massive and having a painfully huge cock, they thought it was awesome; they assumed Gravy got other girls on other occasions; they congratulated him as though being turned down for sex was a sign of getting a lot of sex.

He walked along the side of the building. He could see one of his teammates through a window, taking off his clothes before pouncing on the beautiful cheerleader sprawled naked over the bed. All of them kept their windows at least partially open, seemingly an accident though Gravy suspected they wanted to make the hotel staff knock on the door. They wanted to brag that they fucked so good the hotel made them take a break. They’d never stop bragging if Coach Bagworth had to come tell them to keep it down.

Lowering his head to make it in the doorway, Gravy walked into his own room. It was plain, but fine. He dropped his duffel bag and scarfed down the chocolate on the pillow.

He didn’t want to go eat, then workout, because that was what he always did. The hotel staff would know that he was the only one not getting laid. His dick stirred because he had been thinking about sex, and his jockstrap was uncomfortably tight.

But that is what he did. He didn’t have anything else to do, so he went to the breakfast buffet (which was open until noon). He piled his plate high with pancakes and bacon. Then he sat down. He tried to make a face like a man who had just gotten laid, hoping maybe folks would think he was just powering up for the next phase.

Crumbs and pancake syrup dripped into his lap. He didn’t really fit in the narrow chair, his plump asscheeks spilling over the side. This wasn’t even a nice hotel and Gravy still felt out of place, like a hobo who had stumbled into a mansion. His hand was sticky, and when he ran his fingers through his tangled black hair, his hair got even greasier and nastier. He didn’t mean to do that. He sighed. He didn’t understand how his teammates managed to look more or less respectable. Jack Miller (a tight end) didn’t style his hair at all and somehow he always looked like Prince Charming. Deondre Wilson had a shaved head and a squat face like a pig that ran into a wall, Gravy never understood why girls thought he was handsome; he spent no time on his appearance either. It was different, he thought, for black guys. And Deondre had a six-pack.

Gravy belched, then blanched. That sounded louder than he thought. He hadn’t intended to be some gross ogreish jock belching like a monster, scaring away the civilians who vacationed here like the villain’s lackey in a college comedy movie. But every sound that came out of his giant throat was loud and attention-grabbing. Gravy couldn’t whisper; his voice was bone-rattlingly deep.

“Hi, sweetheart,” came a feminine voice from behind him.

Gravy turned around. For a moment, he thought it was a cheerleader willing to give him sloppy seconds. He could have tolerated that.

But it was a man. He worked here at the hotel, and his nametag said Trent. He sounded feminine because he was flamboyantly gay. He was tiny, at barely more than five feet tall, though he looked athletic and sinuous. He giggled as he looked up at Gravy’s face — even though Gravy sat and Trent stood, Trent had to look upwards to see his face.

“Hi.” Gravy grunted.

“You look like you need something. Would you like some more bacon, sir?”

Gravy nodded. Trent went and got him a big plate full of bacon. Gravy stuffed it in his mouth, eyeing Trent suspiciously. This, he thought, was not the kind of hotel where staff would bring him food from a buffet. Avoiding that staff expense was rather the whole point of a buffet.

“You’re here with that football team, right?”

Gravy nodded.

He smiled. “Normally, when a team bus pulls up, they all come running to the buffet right away. Where’s the rest of your team?”

Gravy shrugged.

“Not a big talker, huh?”

“Not really,” Gravy said, keeping his voice as low as possible. Of course he wasn’t able to avoid attracting attention. Folks at other tables glanced up, as though Gravy’s baritone made their glasses vibrate. Gravy blanched. In addition to having a freakishly, painfully deep voice, Gravy thought he simply sounded stupid — he sounded like a dumbie; people always assumed he was stupid because of his size anyway, and the dull chasm of his voice seemed to confirm it. Even when he said true things in class, people laughed as though he had embarrassed himself.

“That’s okay, you don’t need to talk. A big sexy guy like you…”

Gravy grunted.

Trent smiled. “What?”

Gravy just shook his head. “I’m too big to be sexy. I’m too thick for girls.”

Trent sighed dramatically. “Girls are such idiots. There’s no such thing as too thick.” He threw his hands in the air. “C’mon, let me show you.”

The T-Girl in the Alley

Here’s the beginning of The T-Girl in the Alley, a new story of urban transgender erotica!

 

Tina very rarely slept with anyone, so when she awoke feeling the warmth that emanated from Hardneck’s body, she was momentarily surprised. She had plenty of sex, of course, she just very rarely allowed any men to actually sleep with her.

Hardneck was a special case — he was so sexy it hurt to look at him. He was a scruffy thickbody, with light skin that Tina’s grandmother would have called high yellow. Tina was pretty light-skinned too, but not pale enough to qualify as high yellow. Hardneck would have looked white if it weren’t for his tightly kinked black hair, squat nose and thick, full lips. His massive chest rose and fell as he breathed.

The sun was coming up. Tina knew Hardneck would want to get up soon, so she decided to wake him up in her own special way. She slowly moved her head under the covers, where the smell of his unwashed body filled the air.

She moaned and let her delicate fingers roam over his body. He didn’t react, still sound asleep. She made sure to angle her body so her own penis was nowhere’s near Hardneck — he was fine with sleeping with a transgender woman as long as he didn’t see or feel her penis.

His cock had flopped out the fly of his boxers, which made Tina giggle; it looked like a large snake trying to escape from his crotch. She licked his dick from tip to root. That at last made Hardneck shift and twitch, but he still didn’t wake up. Tina licked as gently and quietly as she could, hoping to get him hard and on the verge of orgasm before he awoke.

Hardneck’s harsh features were soft because he was asleep. He had looked cruel and vituperative when Tina first met him — that was his default look, always scowling, perpetually scolding when he spoke. Yo, bitch, hurry up, I’s tryin’-a sleep! That was what he had first said to her, one night when Tina drunkenly fumbled with her keys coming back home through the alley.

He lived in that alley at the time. He was homeless, or as he put it, between females right now. He said he’d get some beautiful white girl to hook up with him and then live with her for awhile. That was his plan, but it didn’t seem to be working.

Instead, he was living with Tina, who was not white and though she was a girl in her own way, Hardneck didn’t see her as a true girl. That hadn’t stopped him from treating her like one so long as he didn’t see her penis.

Yo, baby, you look good enough to eat. If you had a pussy, I would lick it clean, I’d be like a kitten with catnip, I be all over you, baby. I make you feel so good you melt in a little puddle of pussyjuice. You like dick, huh? I bet you do.

He had flopped his massive tan cock out right there in the alley, not even bothering to move behind the dumpster so he couldn’t be seen from the street. He waggled his dick back and forth and let Tina stroke it.

She hadn’t intended to give him a handjob there in the alley. She thought it was just harmless flirting. But he had moaned passionately, as though he had never felt anything as good as her hand on his dick.

Girl, move ya hand a bit, just a bit, okay? Move it up and down… I want you so bad, I need you…

He whispered in her ear, and Tina was seduced. She stroked him to full completion right there, and he shot his load in two minutes — Tina was very good at handjobs when she wanted to be.

Now, in bed, she didn’t want to be too good at handjobs. She stroked his dick gently, licking the tip with her tongue, until he was fully hard.

At last he gasped and murmured, “damn, girl, you gettin’ a headstart.”

It sounded like he meant to say something else too, but he bucked and a spasm of pleasure ran through him. His spine twisted, as though he had been on the verge of orgasm when he was asleep, and his mind caught up all at once now that he was awake.

“Mornin’, sugar,” Tina said from under the covers. She giggled as Hardneck’s whole body shook, and the salty taste of precum exploded in her mouth.

“Aaaaaaaah… Girl… Girl, you know how to treat a nigga right… Yeah, suck it deep, girl, make a mess.”

She obliged, choking up as much spit as she could, until it coated his spasming dickshaft and soaked into his pubic hair. A lot of saliva spilled down onto the bed too. She didn’t mind, she would wash her sheets today so her man would have a clean place to come home to.

“Alright, baby, you so special, you amazin’, girl, you treat me so right,” he said softly, looking up at the ceiling. “I’m-a treat you rough now. Don’t mean I love you any less.”

His firm hand wrapped around the back of her head, while the other grabbed her chin. He pistoned his dick all the way down her throat. It was a facefucking, but not in a violent or aggressive way. He made sweet love to her face, clucking his tongue when she gagged but inexorably forcing his dick all the way into her throat.

First-Time Jocks Get a Happy Ending: The Heftiest Football Players

Here’s the beginning of First-Time Jocks Get a Happy Ending: The Heftiest Football Players, a new story of masseur action by Happiest Ending!

Charlie giggled when he saw that bulge twitch beneath the towel. He kept it quiet though, so Hoss didn’t hear. Charlie tried to remain professional at work.

It wasn’t always easy. That cock tantalizingly throbbed under the towel. Charlie knew there was nothing else under there, no underwear or anything. He had seen Hoss strip it off behind the privacy curtain that was set up in this room. He was pretty confident that Hoss had a huge cock — with a name like Hoss, how could he not? Charlie really wanted to see it. He could already imagine its salty muskiness in his mouth.

“Okay, I’ve got to do your thighs now,” Charlie said. He moved up from Hoss’ ankles to his thighs, pushing the towel up when he did. He felt a few kinky pubic hairs at the uppermost portion, but he didn’t get a touch of Hoss’ cock or balls.

Hoss murmured to himself and shifted his weight. That made the towel ride up, then fall off him entirely.

His eyes opened wide. Hoss hadn’t wanted the gay man to see his cock. He knew that was stupid. He never used to be worried about that. It never bothered him back in college. They used to change in front of the gymnastics team all the time (“they” always meant Hoss’ former college teammates in his mind).

It was like the keys-thing, Hoss thought. He never took his keys out of his pants pocket growing up, and in college. He thought it was idiotic to do so. His friends were always doing that and losing their keys or forgetting them. They claimed it was uncomfortable to have heavy keys in their pocket, but Hoss thought that was idiotic namby-pamby nonsense.

And then he turned twenty-five, and all of sudden those keys (which hadn’t gotten any bigger or heavier) were too heavy. They were uncomfortable. Hoss now took his keys out of his pocket as soon as he came home, and as often as possible elsewhere. He had only forgotten them once, so he thought he was still doing pretty good.

Just like the keys, everyone thought it was weird that the football players had stripped in front of the gymnasts — in reality it wasn’t their choice really, the gymnastics team practice ended at the same time as the football team — and tried to get them aroused as a big joke. Hoss thought it was stupid to be self-conscious about it, just like it was stupid to take your keys out of your pocket.

But somehow, that had all changed. Those keys weighed his pocket down considerably, and the idea of this flamboyantly gay masseur looking at his cock made him uncomfortable. He was twenty-five now. Was it normal for twenty-five year olds to do this? Was he a wuss now, was that why the keys bothered him?

Back in college, Hoss thought it was hilarious when the gay gymnastics guys had lusted for him. He’d shake his ass in front of their face, get them to beg to lick his asshole, then tell them no. Since Hoss never had that perfect quarterback body — he was a linebacker, full of heft and mass and power, not six-packed abs and muscles carved in marble — he liked it when the gay guys had a crush on him. Hoss could get plenty of girls since he was a football star, but he could tell they really wanted the quarterback Brian. It was nice when the gay gymnasts really wanted him instead.

But Hoss had always said no. Brian always made sure that Hoss had a girl who would suck him off — he believed very strongly that overfull balls led to poor performance on the field. So Hoss just liked to get his ego stroked by teasing the gays.

Is my dick hard?

Hoss hadn’t noticed himself get hard. He blushed intensely. He had never been hard in front of a gay man before. Charlie kept massaging his thigh as though he didn’t notice, but the towel had fallen off and Hoss’ cock stuck straight up from his crotch.

“You’re a big boy,” Charlie said with a wry grin.

Hoss blushed. He hated that, he had a big round face that blushed a lot. Girls thought it was cute, but cute like their little brother was cute (“little” but more than three hundred and fifty pounds of hulking linebacker meat). That wasn’t the kind of cute that Hoss wanted.

I shouldn’t have thought about girls. Hoss couldn’t stop picturing his most recent girlfriend. How long ago was that? A year? Has it really been a year?

It was a lot more difficult to get girls now. It was embarrassingly difficult. He knew that Brian used to tell cheerleaders to get with him. Brian always minimized it though, or maybe the cheerleaders were sluttier than Hoss had thought — Hoss thought that Brian had merely given him a chance, told the girls to come talk to him, to let Hoss try to hook up. Some of them did say no, it wasn’t like they were forced.

But somehow, as soon as Hoss left college with a useless degree in Communications, and Brian was no longer a part of his life, the girls dried up. College girls thought it was cute to hook up with a massive beast nearly seven feet tall. Post-college girls thought it was hot to hook up with bankers and businessmen and computer geeks.

Stop thinking about girls or that erection will never go away.

“Are you okay, Hoss?” Charlie asked. His voice was soft and lilting, almost feminine. His hand was very near Hoss’ cock.

“Yes.” Hoss’ voice was deep, bone-rattlingly baritone. He thought he sounded weak though, like it was obvious he was so horny he could burst.

“Are you single?”

Hoss’ voice broke. “Yeah.” He winced and blushed; he thought he sounded like a loser.

“No girlfriend, that’s too bad,” Charlie said. His hands moved up even higher, and his wrist touched Hoss’ thick cockshaft.

Hoss grunted. “Yeah.”

“You’re a real big boy, I bet you need a woman’s touch, don’t you?”

Hoss nodded. His eyes were closed. “Yeah.” His voice was breathless and hoarse.

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