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.

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.

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