Tag Archives: black sex

The Honky in the City Barbershop

Here’s the latest urban MM fiction from Calvin Freeman! It’s called The Honky in the City Barbershop and it completes the all-interracial urban hot trilogy The City Barbershop of Providence, Rhode Island!


Ryan knew working at a City Barbershop would be difficult. He didn’t fit in here. The City Barbershop was for black men to get their hair cut. It was an unspoken rule as rigid as any law. There was a different barbershop right down the street, a well-lit place where the barbers were Italian. That was where white people went.

But they weren’t hiring, and Ryan needed a job now. He had applied thinking it wouldn’t go anywhere, but now here he was, starting his first day at a City Barbershop.

He thought this particular location would be a pretty good one for a white guy to work at. That’s because there were, until recently, two non-white barbers here — one of them was Asian, the other Native American. They were both gone now.

So Ryan was the only non-black person there. He was also the only gay man in the barbershop. That wasn’t normal either. City Barbershops had a reputation as a place where black men could go to swing downlow. Whatever happened here, stayed here. Ryan found that part of his new job pretty exciting.

But not a single person wanted a blowjob on his first day. He was almost totally ignored, except for the suspicious glances. He only cut two people’s hair that first day. He barely made a dime in tips.

It wasn’t until his second day, near the end of the day, before he had a real conversation with anyone there. Ryan sat in his chair playing on his cell phone. He had resigned himself to not getting any more clients today, since it was only a few minutes before closing time. He had deliberately made his workstation messy because he thought it would be embarrassing if he was ready to go literally the moment the clock ticked over.

Four minutes before close, a thug named Deon sauntered in. He was a grizzled, deep-dimpled drug dealer who came in with a dour expression on his face. Ryan stood up and smiled at him.

“Hello, I can take you in my chair if you-?”

Deon scoffed. “What?”


“You a barber here?”

Ryan nodded.

Deon scoffed again. “What? They hire white guys now?” He laughed a little to himself. “Nah, whiteman. I do not want a haircut. I don’t let white folk touch my hair. I ain’t here for a haircut anyway.” He made eye contact with one of the other barbers, Wilson, who nodded at him. They went into the backroom,

At first Ryan wondered if he was being upstaged — were they having sex? It was normal for gay men to take straight clients like Deon into the back to suck them off. But Wilson wasn’t gay, was he? He certainly hadn’t come across as gay.

They came back upfront after only two minutes, which was quicker than Ryan thought plausible. It was only when Wilson walked past Ryan’s chair and he got a fruity whiff of marijuana that Ryan realized what this was — it wasn’t sex, it was a drug deal.

“Thanks, nigga,” Wilson said.

Deon snorted. “I-“ He stopped because the front door opened and the owner, Mr. Wiltshire, strode in. Deon stopped short. Mr. Wiltshire glared at him.

“Deon.” Mr. Wiltshire grunted. He was stern, strict, no-nonsense. It was clear he disliked Deon and seemed to be aware of why he had come here. Deon had cornrows, so he couldn’t pretend he had come in for a haircut. Mr. Wiltshire stared him down. “I know you didn’t come in here to sling drugs, Deon.”

“No, I ain’t.”

Mr. Wiltshire looked from barber to barber. They all avoided eye contact with him. Wilson cleaned up his station, looking away from Mr. Wiltshire.

“So why did you come in here?”

Deon smiled and touched his hair on his scalp. “Oh, you know…” He sniffled. “I was just…”

“He wanted to try out the new boy’s mouth,” Wilson said with a mischievous grin, aimed at Deon. Deon shot him an annoyed look.

“Oh? Is that true, Deon?”

Deon nodded. “Yep. I just…” He rolled his eyes like he didn’t want to say anything else, but then he added, “y’know… I like fuckin’, y’know… I like gettin’ head from gays.”

Mr. Wiltshire looked dubious. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Well…?”

“Fine.” Deon snarled. He grabbed Ryan by the wrist and virtually dragged him into the backroom. Ryan stumbled after him. This had all happened so fast, and Ryan didn’t know the people very well, that he only realized what was going on when he got to the back room. Once the door slammed shut behind him, Deon feinted as though he was going to knock the door down and attack Mr. Wiltshire on the other side. “He’s such a cock, man. You wanna suck my dick for real?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Ryan said. He was confused, but he couldn’t lie about his desire to give him a blowjob — Deon was plenty sexy and dripping with swagger. Ryan wanted him very badly. He sunk to his knees.

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.

Str8 Till Dark: Churchmates

Here’s a sample from Str8 Till Dark: Churchmates, a new story in the Str8 Till Dark series. It’s a hardcore look at what happens at night in a church lock-in!

Kyree felt like the exact kind of nigga he would have teased when he was younger. Hadn’t there been a young man he made fun of in very similar circumstances? He seemed to recall telling a kid off and calling him a nerd for going to a church lock-in. That kid had at least been a child; Kyree was twenty years old and here he was.

That’s because it was an adult lock-in. The First Baptist Church of Good Hope in Greenville, Mississippi ran a juvenile lock-in as well, but Kyree was too old for that.

Why had he come here? After listening to Brother Randall sermonize, Kyree couldn’t really remember. The gist of it was that he didn’t want to get in trouble anymore. After spending two years in prison, he wanted to assure himself that wouldn’t happen again. Back in high school and middle school, the kids who were absolutely certain they’d never be gangstas all went to church lock-ins. That was why Kyree made fun of them then. So it made sense that he should go to one now that he no longer wanted to be gangsta.

But how did this prevent anything? He didn’t feel any less gangsta. He was just bored. He had lost an entire evening to endless basketball, a Bible-based board game that had been simply dreadful and Brother Randall sermonizing while everyone became sleepy.

Finally the handful of attendees had scattered. They had set up cots throughout the church. Most of them slept in the main church area; Randall could hear them laughing — had they brought that Bible study board game out again? He thought it sounded like they had.

But Kyree didn’t want to be with the others. So he had set up in the church locker room. The First Baptist church of Greenville was also a community center with a rec area, that was why it had a locker room. Kyree used play basketball when he was a teenager; he stopped only when he was caught with some weed by the pastor — who was then a fat man named Brother Lamar — and he was banned from ever returning. It seemed there was no one around now who knew that; Kyree had actually forgotten he wasn’t allowed back until he had been here a few hours. He was glad Brother Randall didn’t know; he supposed there was probably never any sort of list or a means of preventing him from returning. He had just not come back because he knew he wasn’t welcome. But so much had changed since then, and now here he was; back then, he wanted to be seen as gangsta and went out of his way to seem as unmanageable as possible, and now he wanted the exact opposite. He was back in this locker room, where he had first seen another man naked.

A thought popped unbidden into Kyree’s mind: had he chosen the locker room because the smell of steel and male flesh reminded him of prison? He hoped not. It did remind him of his time behind bars though; it smelled the same, and the sound of rambunctious black men in the other room sounded similar. Plus the uncomfortable cot — it was actually a bit better than his bunk at Brutewood Prison, but it was uncomfortable in the same way, like it had been designed to hurt. All in all, the only big difference right now between this locker room and prison was the air-conditioning, the pitch-black darkness and the lack of any cellmates. It was like prison, but alone.

The door to the locker room swung open. Kyree turned his head in time to see Brother Randall step through, carrying a folded up cot and a sleeping bag. He still wore his suit and tie, though he had loosened the tie. The suit was black but the shirt beneath was bright purple, and the tie was yellow — if he had had a colorful hat, he’d look like a pimp.

“Good evening, Brother Kyree,” he said. He nodded respectfully. “I didn’t realize you were sleeping in here. Is it alright if I join you?”

Kyree nodded. “Yeah, whatever, man. I mean… Brother Randall.” He felt uncomfortable around men of God. They were like authority figures, whom Kyree normally bucked at, but they were kind and reassuring, so he didn’t wish to be disobedient. He had been awkward around the prison chaplain as well.

First Brother Randall went to the bank of lockers. Kyree saw that he opened the last locker on the right, the same one Kyree had used — there were only nine lockers and around twenty people at the lock-in, so they had had to share.

“You played good out there today,” Brother Randall said as he took off his clothes and changed into a pair of sweatpants. He had a slim but well-muscled body, smooth and unmarked by tattoos. “Did you used to play in high school?”


“You ain’t get a college scholarship?”

“No,” Kyree said. “I wasn’t that good.” He used to brag about his skills, claiming he had only not been offered a scholarship because of his outspoken attitudes. But his time in prison changed all that. None of it seemed so important anymore, and everyone behind bars had outspoken attitudes, or at least everyone who mattered. There were a hundred niggas, maybe more, there who claimed they could have gone pro. Besides that, Brother Randall had been a college basketball star, certain to go on to the NBA, before a broken kneecap ended his career; he had gotten closer than Kyree ever did.

“I’m sure you were good-“ He sounded so supportive and patronizing that he annoyed Kyree; he was coming across as more like a therapist than a pastor.

“Look, Brother Randall… I don’t care about basketball, okay? I don’t care about your sermons. I don’t care about any of this.”

“Then why did you come here?” he asked as he set up his cot. His muscles flexed, and he smiled at Kyree, revealing deep dimples on his smooth cheeks.

“For the free meal, and because it would look good to my parole officer,” Kyree said. He stroked his grizzled chin. Was he actually lying? That was what he told himself when he signed up, and when he actually came over here. But a part of him had really wanted to. He’d been in the ghetto, hanging out with his old niggas since being released. He hadn’t done any gangsta shit, and nobody pressured him to — they knew he was on parole — but Kyree was glad to have spent an evening around law-abiding people.

“That’s very honest of you. Religion is not important to you?”

“No, it ain’t. It don’t matter anyway, Randall. I can’t stop sinning now. Like I couldn’t go without sex except when I was locked up, and only cuz there weren’t no females to be had,” he said. “If there’s sluts around, I’m gonna fuck ‘em. Sorry if that hurts yo’ ears or whatever-“

“Not at all,” Brother Randall said. His lithe brown body reflected the dim light of the locker room as he rubbed cocoa butter into his skin. The smell made Kyree hungry. Brother Randall cleared his throat. “You are unable to control your own behavior?”

“I just need to get a nut off, nigga, or I can’t concentrate.”

“Lustful acts are only a sin if they are motivated by lust,” Brother Randall said. “Did you not have a bitch in prison?”

Kyree chuckled. “Damn, I ain’t think I was gonna hear you talk about prison bitches. No, I ain’t have one. I ain’t into violence. I don’t wanna hold some nigga down and make him take it. That ain’t fo’ me. There was some queers who would-a sucked me off for a few bucks, but they was nasty and I ain’t wanna pay for it. I’d rather jack off.”

“Am I nasty?” Brother Randall asked. When Kyree didn’t immediately respond, he continued, “Because I would be glad to pleasure you, Kyree. It will bring us closer together under-“

“Uh, what?” Kyree was certain he had heard that incorrectly. But much to his surprise, he then felt Brother Randall’s lotion-smooth fingers slipping under Kyree’s blankets. He caressed Kyree’s torso on his way down to his crotch. Kyree’s skin twitched.

“Sssh…” Brother Randall said. “There is nothing to be ashamed about. Men have needs. Whether in prison or not, whether a man of god or not…” He whispered, but his voice sounded loud in the echoey locker room.

Yeah! They were cheering in the other room of the church. Someone probably rolled double-sixes in that board game, Kyree thought, snorting in derision. Board games, he thought, were for pussies, especially Bible-themed board games.

“I know that you have deep, urgent needs,” Brother Randall said. He used both hands to stroke Kyree’s cock under the sleeping bag and beneath his sweatpants.

Kyree gulped nervously. A part of him wanted to flee from the church, but another part of him wanted to stay. This was better than prison because Brother Randall wasn’t a mincing queen, plus no one had to ever know — unlike in prison, where there were no secrets. Tomorrow, Kyree thought, he could pretend none of this had happened.

“Yeah… I got needs,” Kyree said.

If Brother Randall had asked beforehand, Kyree would have definitely said no. But his dick was already throbbing in Brother Randall’s delicate fingers, growing hard as he stroked it slowly. When Kyree didn’t say anything, Brother Randall interpreted that as agreement. He pulled down Kyree’s sweatpants, freeing his cock.

Kyree gasped as Brother Randall leaned in and kissed Kyree on the chest. His tongue lapped at Kyree’s pecs, making his nipples hard. Kyree groaned and threw his head back — he wasn’t expecting this to feel so good.

Then Brother Randall’s mouth encircled Kyree’s cock. He had known this was coming, but a dusty prudish corner of his mind hoped that Brother Randall would just give him a handjob. Instead his smooth lips gripped Kyree’s dickshaft and stroked it slowly.

Despite his misgivings, Kyree had no intention of backing out. He was already hard, and he didn’t much mind getting head from a man, even if he had never gone through with it before. There had been a gay white man once offering money to get facefucked by niggas, but that had seemed too trashy to Kyree at the time — he wasn’t a prostitute, he was a gangsta. He had made fun of all the men who did it. Now he was doing the same, and he wasn’t even getting paid for it. He wondered if he could track down that white man again.

His dick hardened as Brother Randall licked the shaft. He produced copious spit, which dripped down and into Kyree’s crotch. Kyree grunted, trying to hide how pleasurable this was for him — he rather felt like it should feel too good, that would be gay. But deep in his heart he had to admit this was already the best blowjob he had ever received.

His tempo increased as Kyree moaned and precum flowed down Brother Randall’s throat. Kyree’s hands flailed awkwardly — he didn’t want to touch Brother Randall for fear he he’d be turned off by the texture of male hair. His hands did flutter over and grip Brother Randall’s shoulders, but that was even worse because their lean musculature was distinctly masculine.

After a few seconds, however, Kyree could no longer resist. His dick begged for him to take charge of the situation. He gripped Brother Randall’s hair and gently guided his head up and down.

Brother Randall sputtered but submitted. He seemed to genuinely enjoy cocksucking, which Kyree supposed shouldn’t surprise him. Brother Randall’s tongue flickered along Kyree’s shaft, sending waves of pleasure up his body.

When Brother Randall pulled off, he gasped and wiped the spit off his face. Brother Randall smiled and murmured, rubbing his own throat as though trying to hold on to the taste of Kyree’s cock. He caressed Kyree’s chest. Kyree wanted desperately to beg him to suck some more, to not leave his dick unstimulated, but Kyree was too proud to beg for sex from a man.

“You are a handsome black man, Brother Kyree. You should be proud of yourself,” Brother Randall said softly. “You are beautiful in God’s eyes, and in mine.”

As Brother Randall leaned in, Kyree realized he was going to kiss. Kyree wasn’t sure he wanted that, though in the heat of the moment he couldn’t think of why. He allowed Brother Randall’s tongue to push into his mouth. Randall was so smooth and delicately muscled that his kiss did feel decidedly feminine; Kyree was glad he didn’t feel any scratchy beard hairs, though his own scruffy chin did rub against Brother Randall’s cheeks.

Without even thinking about it, Kyree wrapped his hands around Brother Randall’s back and held on. He pulled him close and kissed him back, even as his mind said to stop, that this was too gay for a straight macho like him. But Kyree didn’t want to stop.

“Oh God, thank you for bringing me Brother Kyree to help me through this night,” Randall said when he pulled off Kyree’s face.

He sat up in Brother Randall’s arms. Kyree was much bigger and stronger than him, and his muscles throbbed beneath Brother Randall’s touch. They sat there on the creaking cot, Brother Randall facing Kyree and kissing him, with his legs straddling Kyree’s body so their dicks touched. Brother Randall stroked them both off at once.

Kyree didn’t notice his own hand doing the same until it had already started. Like someone else controlled it, his hand took both cocks and jacked them slowly back and forth.

Their precum mingled and ran down Kyree’s shaft. He had never experienced anything quite like this. Brother Randall’s kisses moved from Kyree’s mouth to his neck, while Brother Randall gently pushed Kyree to lay back down.

Kyree did, too nervous to even think about taking charge of this experience. Brother Randall positioned himself atop Kyree’s crotch, while Kyree continued to stroke Randall’s dick, precum dripping onto his flesh.

Then Brother Randall lowered himself, plunging Kyree’s dick into his body. Kyree moaned as intense pleasure rocketed through his body. His dick was already near orgasm, and now the intense sensations caused uncontrollable reactions in him.

Kyree writhed there on the tiny cot, which swayed as though having trouble supporting them both. His dick fit easily in Brother Randall’s ass — suggesting, Kyree thought, that this was not Brother Randall’s first time by far — and glided in and out as Brother Randall lifted his own body up and down.

A few months ago, Kyree would have responded violently to the idea that he would jack a man off, especially with that man facing Kyree so when he came, he would shoot his load all over Kyree’s chest. But that was precisely what he was doing now, and he was loving every moment of it.

His dick throbbed and pulsated inside Brother Randall’s body. Kyree thrust his hips upwards the best he could, but in this position, Brother Randall was mainly in charge of the rhythm and timing. He was well-practiced at this, and he lifted himself up and down like an expert. He took every inch of Kyree’s dick each time, sending spasms of pleasure wracking Kyree’s limbs.

The most astonishing thing, Kyree thought, was how he could feel the orgasm in Brother Randall’s cock well before it actually happened. He could feel cum flowing through his veiny dick, and he sensed it in the way his balls crawled slowly up in his sac. He felt closer to Brother Randall than he ever had to any of his girlfriends; they were in sync, moving in perfect harmony as they both reached their climaxes.

“Aw, god yes, nigga, damn!” Brother Randall shouted, suddenly forgetting his pastoral placidity, his tone suddenly deep and rough, even a tough thuggish, which made Kyree smile. Brother Randall’s ass rode Kyree’s dick up and down even as Randall moaned with intense bliss.

When at last Kyree felt his onrushing orgasm, he bit his lip, too embarrassed to cry out. That didn’t last long, however, as Brother Randall climaxed at the same time, his ass clenching around Kyree’s dick. That sent another wave of bliss through Kyree’s body.

Unable to prevent himself, Kyree let out a long, low moan that echoed in the locker room. He hoped nobody else in the church could hear, but it sounded like they were still playing their board game in the other room.

Cum flew into Brother Randall’s ass, a giant load that kept coming and coming with every thrust of Kyree’s dick. He coated Brother Randall’s insides, while Randall’s lithe muscles contorted and he moaned as well, releasing a sweet, mellifluous sound in Kyree’s ears.

Another load sprayed, this time covering Kyree’s chest. Brother Randall shot so powerfully that some even landed on Kyree’s chin and lips, and he tasted a burst of salty-sweet cum. His own pleasure was too intense to think about complaining though, so he just accepted it.

Finally they were done. Brother Randall remained there, however, planted on Kyree’s dick while Kyree lazily stroked his limp dick. A few more drops of cum leaked out and coated Kyree’s fingers.

At last Brother Randall climbed off. He cleared his throat and chuckled nervously. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Kyree was too embarrassed to actually respond. He just nodded.

“God knows that we are not driven to this by our lusts,” Brother Randall said. He pulled a box of tissues out of the locker they shared, and he wiped his ass off. He knelt down and wiped off Kyree’s chest as well. “God will forgive us for this, Brother Kyree. Do you believe that?”

Kyree nodded. “I guess so.”

“Good,” Brother Randall smiled. He kissed Kyree’s chest again. “You should come to me anytime you feel yourself tempted to lay with a woman. I can please you and offer you forgiveness for it. Okay?”

Kyree shrugged. He was shocked at how easy this had been. If only someone like Brother Randall had been with him in prison, that could have been a much less stressful time in his life. “Yeah,” he said. “Whatever… I’ll come see you when I need… y’know, somethin’.”

“Good. I look forward to your visit,” Brother Randall said.

Twink on Top: Seven Minutes in Prison Cell Heaven

Here’s the entirety of Twink on Top: Seven Minutes in Prison Cell Heaven, a new Brutewood Medium Security story and part of the best-selling Twink on Top series!

Eddie strode into prison as confident as he could muster — he didn’t want to look like he was really a sniveling weakling precisely because he was about to act like one — but his ego quickly deflated. He was searched, poked and prodded by Officer Barnett. He felt like a prisoner, which was sexy but also humiliating. It both helped and exacerbated the problem that Officer Barnett was a sexy redneck guard himself; being poked by him would have no doubt satisfied many gay twinks fantasies.

But Eddie wasn’t here for Officer Barnett, who wasn’t really his type anyway. Eddie loved black thugs, the bigger and thuggier the better, ideally with an alpha attitude, a penchant for verbal sex, denigrating dirty talk and a willingness to let gay men service them. That was why he had arranged this opportunity of a lifetime. He didn’t even think there was any chance Barnett would agree to it, but he did, and Eddie could even afford the rather massive sum Barnett had charged him.

Most of that money would be going to the inmate that Eddie chose. He walked through Brutewood Prison increasingly nervous as they came to Cell Block Omega, which Barnett had said was not in use normally. Barnett had found the eight prisoners who met Eddie’s criteria and were willing to let Eddie’s tiny twink body service them, like the prison bitch Eddie wished he could be. Eddie had been daydreaming about setting this sort of encounter up since he was a teenager, and he never thought he’d go through with it until a few months ago, when he realized he needed to just bite the bullet and try. The worst that could happen (aside from being beaten to death by a homophobic prisoner and/or guard) was being refused.

He didn’t have a whole lot of time — Barnett only promised him ‘seven minutes in heaven’. But Eddie thought that would be enough time. Barnett assured him that these men would be horny and ready to take charge, so the brief duration wouldn’t be a detriment to some quality alpha service.

That was what Eddie wanted. He wanted to be held down and fucked hard, slapped, treated like a submissive prison bitch, because that’s what he was at heart. The sight of empty cells and the hollering of men in a far off block made him hard even before he had seen a single inmate.

The first one was tall and lean, with dreadlocks and hawkish features. He spoke with a faint island accent, but Eddie suspected that was an affectation. He flopped his dick between his fingers and showed off his perfect six-pack. “Yo, mon, you want me-uh treat you poorly? I will rape you senseless, whiteman. You will be crying when I am done wit’ you. I will fuck the batty-boy outta you, and then I gonna fuck it right back in.”

That wasn’t quite for him. Eddie preferred men with a little meat on their bones — as much as he wished he could get on his knees and suck the dreadlocked man off through the cell bars, Eddie thought there was someone better in one of the other cells.

Then he passed a burly black man with a beard, and a sour look on his face. He nodded at Eddie, ran his tongue under his upper lip and said, “Damn, whiteboi, you look good enough to eat.”

But Eddie moved on. He wasn’t quite right. The next one was bald-headed, with a Latin look to his skin and face. “You wanna be my puta?” he asked as Eddie walked past.

The fourth person was heavily tattooed, which Eddie didn’t find especially sexy. He didn’t say anything, he just nodded at Eddie and bucked forward as though he was going to attack Eddie through the cell bars. Eddie instinctively shrank back and blushed when the tattooed thug cackled at him.

As soon as Eddie came to the fifth cell, he knew he had found his man. “So, you the faggot who wanna be my bitch, huh?” Eddie blushed. He quickly hurried to the end of the corridor to see the others — that just seemed polite, after all — but he knew what he wanted. The fifth man was tall, broad-shouldered and built like a linebacker, dripping with muscle and meat. He didn’t have a six-pack, just a tiny belly, barely enough to grab on to, but that was the perfect size for Eddie. There was a crucifix tattooed over his sternum, and a gun on each bicep.

“Yo,” he said with a big wide, shit-eating grin when Eddie chose him. “I’m Dump Truck.” He undressed Eddie with his eyes, and his dick visibly shifted in his orange prison pants.

“Charles Everly,” Officer Barnett said. “Mister Everly here is an armed robber and an arms-trafficker-“

“I sold one gun, Barnett, don’t be fucking dramatic,” he said. He snorted and avoided looking at Eddie. “So you the one who wanna be a prison bitch, huh? Ain’t nevuh heard of no one who want that. But you kinda look like a bitch, so it ain’t hard to believe. It’s been awhile since I had a bitch who was faggy. Might be kinda nice. I enjoy holdin’ a nigga down and makin’ him cry uncle — not that I stop then, it’s just nice to hear him cry — but I might like fucking a faggot too.”

“Don’t hurt him, Mister Everly,” Barnett said. “I’ll be right out here.”

“Can we put the curtain up?” Dump Truck asked as Barnett unlocked the cell.

Officer Barnett looked to Eddie, who blushed again and nodded. “Please! Let’s do that. I wanna have the real prison bitch experience.” His heart felt like it might jump out of his chest.

“Oh, yeah, that’s what we gonna have,” Dump Truck said. He laughed, and the men in the other cells joined in. “I am gonna treat you bad, whiteboi, bad in all the right ways. Hope you wasn’t intendin’ to walk outta here.”

Destroy ‘im, Dump!

Eddie had never felt so weak and submissive. His dick was rock-hard, and it started leaking precum the moment he heard the lock slide into place. The door was shut.

“Gonna destroy you, faggot,” Dump Truck said with a sneer. He quickly hung up a sheet that blocked the cell from view. Eddie shivered as he anticipated what was going to come next. His ass already ached a little. Dump Truck towered over him by more than a foot, and he must have outweighed Eddie by a hundred and fifty pounds or more.

Make him squeal like a piggie, Dump!

“I will!” he called out. Once the sheet was hung up, however, his smile changed. He sunk down so he looked Eddie right in the eyes; it almost felt like he was going to kiss Eddie, though of course he didn’t. He whispered, “Yo, faggot. I ain’t queer, but… I got a proposition for ya. I been in this place fo’ a long time, and I done had a million prison bitches. I fucked ‘em up, and I wrecked ‘em and I moved on. I wanna do somethin’ different.”

“Oh… like what?”

“I want you to fuck me,” he said. He looked down and bit his lower lip. Then, for the benefit of everyone listening on the other side of the curtain, he called out, “You know what Brutewood lube is? It’s how we get a bitch to deep-throat. Lemme spit in yo’ throat, lube it up real good.” He spat on the ground and everyone cheered him on. Then he whispered again, “I wanna taste yo’ dick and feel you inside of me.”

“Are you serious?”

“This is a serious place, and I am a serious nigga,” he said. “Come on, honky. I know you came here to bottom, and I’ll fuck the shit outta you — literally — if that’s whatchoo want. But I wanna get fucked. It’s gotta be a girlie-looking twink like you, but I can’t let anyone in here know a gay white faggot fucked me. That’s ruin my rep. So this is my only option. I ain’t think I was ever gonna have the chance to bottom for a pretty little boy like you. Whatchoo think?”

“Are you serious? Hell yeah,” Eddie said, focusing hard to keep himself from being too loud. This was all happening so fast, it was hard to recalibrate his expectations. But he couldn’t imagine anything more enjoyable than fucking Dump Truck’s massive body.

“Alright,” he grinned. “Let’s hurry up, or we gonna run outta time. Seven minutes ain’t much.” He hesitated, then stooped over and kissed Eddie on the lips. He was halting and slow — it was obvious this was the first time he had kissed a man, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. His tongue even pushed into Eddie’s mouth.

Though his passion was lacking at first, a few seconds in, Dump Truck let out a moan that resonated in Eddie’s mouth. His tongue suddenly moved, clobbering Eddie’s own tongue, and his thick fingers grasped Eddie’s shirt. He ripped it, buttons flying to the bunk and dingy toilet in the corner of his cell.

I ain’t hear him squeal yet, his mouth full?

Sounds moist in there, I can kinda hear it. He fucking that fairy in the face, I think.

Dump, how that batty-boi takin’ it, mon?

“You can’t hear him choke, nigga? Guess his faggot mouth is just too full to choke. He ain’t breathe in a minute, son,” Dump Truck said. “Got too much dick in there, and he lovin’ it, like a fuckin’ Big Mac and shit!” His big eyes twinkled as he pecked Eddie on the lips and then worked his way down Eddie’s pale, lithe body. He shuddered a little like he was surprised at the taste, and he stopped to play with Eddie’s nipples. Then he licked Eddie’s flat belly and stopped only when he reached Eddie’s pubic hair (which he kept trimmed very short).

Dump Truck was so much bigger than Eddie that even getting on his knees wasn’t enough, he was still too tall to suck Eddie’s dick. He had to get on all fours, with his plump ass high in the air, while Eddie stood on his toes in front of Dump Truck’s face.

But when he did get his head in position, Dump Truck wasted no time in swallowing Eddie’s dick to the root. He seemed surprised that Eddie’s cock wasn’t as proportionately small as his body was. He motioned for Eddie to make some noise.

Eddie blushed but spat and sputtered, hocking up a few loogies and even sticking a finger far enough down his throat to gag once. That made the other men laugh and cheer, banging on the bars of their cell.

That sounds right, nigga!

Choke him! Show him the Brutewood way!

In no time Eddie was rock-hard, and he started getting into it. Every time the men quieted down, he made it sound like he was getting throatfucked and loving it, and they’d laugh again. Even Officer Barnett chuckled quietly.

You got this, Dump!

Dump Truck had a broad, dark brown back, pocked with a few scars and marks, plus some dark blue prison tats that Eddie couldn’t quite make out (some kind of writing, he thought, possibly Hebrew, like an Old Testament verse). He stroked Dump Truck’s muscles, trying to reach his plump ass, but he was much too short. Instead he just grasped at his back and shoulder, sighing as pleasure moved through him; they both threw their heads back and moaned. Eddie’s moan was drowned out by Dump Truck’s, and Dump Truck made his sound exaggerated and comical so it wasn’t obvious to their audience why he was moaning.

He change his mind about being a prison bitch, Dump?

“No, he ain’t! He is lovin’ every second of it! He’s fucking serious. You should commit some crimes and shit, whiteboi. You could be the queen bitch in this place, man,” Dump Truck said. His voice was joyous and light-hearted, even as his face was serious, gasping, with Eddie’s dick throbbing against his face.

As he resumed sucking, Dump Truck moved his head more and more aggressively up and down. Eddie felt like he was being attacked by Dump Truck’s massive head, which made him giggle — he covered his mouth with a hand to muffle the sound. Dump Truck took Eddie’s hands in his and wrapped it over his head.

He wanted Eddie to facefuck him like a prison alpha might do. Eddie had been on the receiving end of a jailhouse-style facefuck on several occasions, but he had never topped for that kind of scenario — he had rarely topped at all.

But he wanted to give Dump Truck what he desired. He held onto the ragged short afro on Dump Truck’s head, gripping his hair, and he slammed his dick all the way in. Dump Truck let out a chortling gurgling sound with a moistness that made everyone else burst into cheers. To Eddie, it sounded much too deep to be his own voice — he was more high-pitched and feminine than that — but luckily it seemed the other inmates didn’t realize that. They had never heard Eddie before today so they had no basis for comparison.

Rape ‘im harder!

Dump Truck pulled off and laid on his back on the bare mattress on the bunk in the cell. He snorted and sniffled, wiping fluids off his face; he smiled silently at Eddie. He let his head hang over the foot of the bed. “This is the proper position for a prison bitch, alright, faggot? Get ready to get yo’self throatfucked.”

Yeah, fuck ‘is gullet, man, show him how we do it right in here!

Fuck ‘im the Brutewood way!

Eddie squealed loudly, blushing as the other inmates cheered him on. Dump Truck was in exactly the position Eddie liked to get facefucked in; Eddie had never in his life been on this side of it. He approached Dump Truck’s broad face and pushed his dick past those thick, juicy lips. His cock slammed into Dump Truck’s throat, making him wretch and writhe atop the filthy prison mattress.

He regrettin’ signin’ up fo’ this yet?

Incredible pleasure rocketed through Eddie’s spine. He had never felt like this, not even on those few occasions when he got to top someone. He shuddered and moaned quietly, every ounce of concentration he could muster going towards not being so loud that he alerted the others to the fact that he wasn’t bottoming as they thought.

Precum flowed down Dump Truck’s throat. From the reaction on his face, it seemed he had little experience with that. Did he like the taste or hate it? Eddie couldn’t tell, and in this position, he didn’t have to care. He really felt like he was overpowering Dump Truck, whose muscular limbs contorted as he accepted the throatfucking. His muscles flexed and bucked as though he was fighting back, and his movement made the bunk beneath him move. The sound of steel scraping against the prison cell floor caused a torrent of cheers from the other cells.

He pulled off once again, grabbed Eddie’s slick dick. He lowered his head farther, so he could suck Eddie’s balls. Then he called out, “He suckin’ the sweat off my balls now, what a nasty slut he is!” He swallowed both of Eddie’s balls, easily fitting them both in his big mouth. He suckled loudly, making a sputtering sound that provoked more cheers from the other cells.

Nasty faggot! Can’t believe he signin’ up for this voluntarily!

Then Dump Truck pulled away, stood up and turned around, in a hurry like he had just remembered they were on a time limit. Spit clung to his lips in tendrils, and his ruddy face was moist with tears from lack of oxygen and sweat dappling his forehead.

“Four minutes left, guys,” Officer Barnett said. “You better hurry up.”

His ass was much wider than Eddie’s body, not because he was fat, it was just big and broad and juicy. Each cheek was nearly twice the size of Eddie’s head. He lowered his ass onto Eddie’s dick, slowly. Eddie still stood at the foot of the bed, so Dump Truck crouched on all fours on the ground and backed up (rather like his eponymous vehicle) until his ass lined up with Eddie’s crotch. His crack was choked with sweaty hair, which ordinarily Eddie would have licked clean like a good submissive twink. He felt like he was losing his entire body in the choked masculine jungle of Dump Truck’s ass.

“Fuckin’ ‘im now, Barnett, cool yo’ jets,” Dump Truck said. “Don’t worry, he gettin’ e’ry inch of me that he entitled to. Don’t you worry yo’ sweet redneck head about that, Barnett.”

“You alright in there, sir?”

“Yeah…” Eddie said, too embarrassed to think of anything else to say. He wasn’t sure how to say it that wouldn’t give away what was really happening in here. “I… uh, he’s treating me right.”

That’s right he is! Showin’ you how it’s done!

You mean he treatin’ you wrong, but he doin’ it in the right way.

Eddie gulped as Dump Truck penetrated himself with Eddie’s dick. Eddie gingerly gripped his shoulders and held on while he began humping back, gradually losing his inhibitions. A shiver of pleasure ran up his spine from the moment his dick poked through that jungle of sweaty ass-hair and into his tight hole.

When Dump Truck grunted in pain, he covered it up with a louder roar, an aggressive bitch-fucking sound that made the other inmates roar and chant alongside him. Fuck that queer! Fuck that queer! Dump Truck threw his head back and wordlessly moaned, smiling at Eddie even as he grunted out threats and insults.

“Gonna fuck you so hard you wear a diaper, faggot…”

Eddie was not an actor. He tried to pant like a submissive man might — he should have been better at it, since that was the role he normally played, but everything happening here was outside his wheelhouse. He couldn’t remember what kind of sounds he might normally make in the reverse of this situation.

Make ‘im beg for mercy, nigga!

It was clear that Dump Truck wasn’t kidding about having never gotten fucked — not that Eddie ever doubted him. His asshole was so tight that Eddie had to really shove to get his dick in there. There was no time for a gentle approach either; Eddie pushed it in farther and farther, and when Dump Truck didn’t stop him, he began to ram it back and forth, uncaring of his resistance or the hairs that Eddie’s dick accidentally ripped from his crack.

Teach ‘im a lesson! Fuckin’ faggot, comin’ in here, tryin’-a get fucked and shit, like prison is a goddamn orgy! Fucking honky!

Each time he did, Dump Truck winced and blanched. The whole experience was so incredible that each time Eddie thrust past Dump Truck’s resistance in his ass, a surge of awkward pleasure hit him and Eddie moaned in a pained, struggling way. It genuinely did sound like a prison bitch getting fucked, which just egged the other inmates on.

Wreck him! Ruin him! Show him how we do it, nigga! No mercy!

No mercy!

Eddie did indeed fuck with no mercy. Of course it was Dump Truck who responded, “He takin’ it, nigga. Ain’t like a prison bitch, he been opened up a million times before. Kinda nice fuckin’ a bitch who ain’t too squirmy. Gonna fill him up wit’ some nut.”

“Two minutes left, guys. You still alright in there?”

“Yes! Yes, officer…” Eddie said, his excitement making everyone, including Barnett, laugh. “I’m, uh… I’m just finishing up.” He threw his head back and moaned as wave after wave of unimaginable bliss washed over him, so intense it was painful as he lost himself in the massive brown ass trembling before his tiny twink frame.

Dump Truck’s ass clenched when he approached his own orgasm. He had started jacking himself off; Eddie tried to give him a reacharound, but he could barely reach all the way around, so he just fumbled with Dump Truck’s body while slamming his dick in Dump Truck’s jiggling, tight ass.

“Aw, fuck…” Dump Truck grunted. “You take dick good, faggot!”

When Eddie’s orgasm finally came, it felt like it had been a lifetime, way more than seven minutes. Eddie yelped and scratched at Dump Truck’s back — he was so big and thick-skinned he didn’t seem to notice — while incredible pleasure suffused both men’s bodies, in sync with each other like no one Eddie had ever been with before.

Cum flowed into Dump Truck’s ass, a huge load that dripped out and down those giant trunk-like thighs. It splatted on the floor, but still Eddie came. Dump Truck roared as he shot his own load into his hand and all over his chest; he managed to make the roar sound like a manly cavemanesque grunt.

Eddie’s entire body went limp. He knew they were running out of time, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull out, not yet. He kept it there, stimulating Dump Truck’s prostate while Dump Truck’s body writhed and flexed with both bliss and agony, pride and shame visible on his contorting face.

Dump Truck turned around, his massive chest gleaming, covered in his own cum. Eddie licked every inch of it, savoring the meaty feel of the man’s muscles. He deliberately made sure the cum soaked into his face, so when he moved upward and kissed Dump Truck on the lips, he tasted it. He had to climb the man’s mountainous torso to get there, gripping his throbbing muscles with Eddie’s delicate fingers.

They shared cum for another minute or so, stopping only when Officer Barnett began counting down the last thirty seconds. Eddie was bashful, and hurriedly cleaned himself up with a napkin and started putting his clothes back on. Dump Truck just stood there, covered in fluids, his cum mingling with his sweat so it wasn’t obvious what it was. His dick dangled between his legs.

“Damn, Dump Truck, put some clothes on,” Officer Barnett said when he pulled the curtain down after hitting zero.

Eddie was bright red, too scared he’d blurt out what happened to say anything at all. He quickly dressed and clasped the sweaty small of Dump Truck’s back.

“Bye, Dump Truck, that was amazing. You’re the best prison alpha-“

“Shut the fuck up, bitch, I ain’t tryin’-a please you,” Dump Truck said. “You come back here again and I’ll fist you to death, faggot.”

Eddie just nodded and followed Officer Barnett out. He pretended his ass hurt as he walked past the other inmates; he winced and blushed.

“Was that everything you thought it was gonna be?” Officer Barnett asked once they were out of Cell Block Alpha.

“No,” Eddie said. “It was completely different, and so much better.”

Straight Trade at the City Barbershop

Here’s the first chapter of Straight Trade at the City Barbershop, a hot new story by Calvin Freeman! It’s the sequel to City Barbershop Downlow, but it’s a standalone story, no need to have read that one. It’s about the City Barbershop, a company with a special tradition — what happens between men there stays between men there!

This story is now available for a great low price as part of the bundle Gay Ebony Erotica, Vol. 1, which has three novelettes, three shorts and bonus content


Quincy had worked for the City Barbershop of Brooklyn for more than five years, so it wasn’t easy to leave. On the other hand, he had been considering moving on for some time. It was a comfortable position. Quincy was a good barber. The perks were exciting.

But it had become boring to Quincy regardless. So when his brother was arrested for a murder he didn’t commit, Quincy decided to move to Baltimore to be near him. He had enough saved to rent an apartment, which he could even share with his brother, who was out on bail in the run-up to the trial.

Even more importantly, he got a job before he arrived in Baltimore. He was hired by the local City Barbershop franchise, which gladly accepted his transfer from the establishment in Brooklyn. Quincy was happy to be in a new city while having the security of the same job he had had back in Brooklyn.

The aspect of this job that he liked best — aside from the flexible schedule so he could support his brother — was the sex. The City Barbershop was a notorious chain of black-owned barbershops with a peculiar reputation as a place for sex on the downlow. Black men who needed a little action on the side went there, and barbers like Quincy serviced them. Quincy loved swinging on straight black meat, so it was an ideal situation for him.

When he showed up on his first morning, he met Reggie, the man who had hired him over the phone. He owned the City Barbershop of Baltimore. He was a tall, lean-muscled man in his early forties, with a square jaw and old-fashioned jheri-curl hair.

“Sup, smoothness,” Reggie said with a low roar, bopping on his feet as he danced to unheard music in the empty barbershop. No one else was here yet. He wore a fine purple suit, like a pimp, and when he shook Quincy’s hand, he used both of his hands, then leaned in and hugged him expansively. “You must be Quincy, yeah? Paul told me all about ya.”

“Oh, yeah, nice to meet you,” Quincy said. He upped his flamboyance as far as it would go, both to be sure Reggie realized it and because he thought Reggie was sexy. He was a throwback to the 1980s, but he was a sexy throwback.

Reggie ran his fingers through his hair. He smiled and dipped and dapped as he showed Quincy to the chair he’d be using. Quincy had a bag with some of his own equipment, which he set up while Reggie told him about the store’s policies. This place operated much the same as Quincy’s old one, so he felt sure he’d be comfortable here.

“Now… I need to be headin’ upstairs in a few minutes,” Reggie said. “I gots a staff meeting coming up real soon. I gotta be ready for that.”

“Oh? A staff meeting? I’ll meet-”

“Nah, not a barbershop staff meeting,” Reggie said. His voice lost its ebullience, and he lowered his eyes. “I got other business interests.” From his knowing tone, Quincy gathered that his other business was illegal, presumably some sort of drug dealing. That was another aspect of most City Barbershops, one that Quincy would have gladly done without.

“Oh,” Quincy said. “Okay. I guess I’ll wait down here. It’s almost nine o’clock anyway.”

Reggie paused. He bit his lip and smiled awkwardly. He resumed shifting his feet in tune to a beat only he heard. Quincy could tell what he was going to say before he opened his mouth, but he let him continue. Quincy liked watching nervous straight men proposition him. Reggie’s jheri-curl shook as he stumbled over his words.

“I was, uh… Paul told me that you was… uh… y’know, a real good nigga, a model employee,” he said. “He… said you provide a high level of service.”

“That’s right,” Quincy said. He smiled bashfully. “I always treat customers with the utmost respect.” He made sure to end with a kissy face, which appeared to make Reggie horny. He swayed his hips too, shaking his ass for Reggie’s benefit.

Reggie clutched at his crotch through his black slacks. His thick dick was momentarily outlined. Quincy licked his lips but didn’t do anything explicit — he wanted to make Reggie work for it.

“So, uh… you… wanna come in the backroom wit’ me?”

“What’s back there?” Quincy asked. He put one hand on his hips and jutted out his ass.

Reggie murmured through gritted teeth. “Something you gonna enjoy, boy. You gonna enjoy it real nice.” Then he moved closer, so close he almost kissed Quincy. “I’m-a fuck you Quincy. I’m-a fuck you in any way you want it.”

“Any way I want it?”

“Any way, nigga. You got a ass I need, and you got nice dick-suckin’ lips. I fuck you in whichever hole you want. You want me in both? I’ll grow a second dick for ya, boy, right here and now.”

Quincy blushed. “Well, I’d like to see that. But why don’t we start with just one hole at a time?” he said. He held out his hand, which Reggie took gallantly. He kissed the back of Quincy’s hand like he was seducing him, then led him into the backroom.

The backroom was a lot like the one in Brooklyn, Quincy thought. He giggled at the sight of a stack of porn mags in one corner of the closet. Reggie sneered and pushed them away.

“Some of dem niggas can’t do it wit’out some trim to look at,” Reggie thought. He unzipped his fly and pulled out a massive cock and low-handing pair of balls. “Back in my day, that weren’t the way it was. A nigga wasn’t never ashamed of getting hard. Now they gotta pretend they don’t really like getting head from a nigga.” He leaned in and kissed Quincy on the lips. It was a quick, chaste kiss, but it sent a thrill of desire up Quincy’s spine.

Then Quincy sunk to his knees. “No one can pretend they don’t like my head,” Quincy said. That made Reggie chuckle, until his voice broke and he gasped as his dick disappeared down Quincy’s throat.

Since he wanted to make a good first impression, Quincy moved slow and deep. He produced copious spit and let it drip all over Reggie’s pants. He lovingly traced the veins that lined Reggie’s dick.

“Hey, I gotta make a phone call,” Reggie said with a grin that vanished as he dialed. He had an old-fashioned fliphone. His smile was replaced by an angry scowl. “Yo, nigga. Is you suckin’ my dick right now? Huh? I say, is you suckin’ my dick right now? Oh? Cuz I know I tol’ you to come in here at eight forty-five from now on, and the only person here besides me is that new nigga. He got a pretty face and he suckin’ my dick right now. Is that you? No? That’s funny, Opie. I could’ve sworn I nearly fired you and you promised you’d never be late again. You swore you’d be here early from now on. Did that happen? It did, huh? I dunno, Opie. Maybe. I have to think about it. If you don’t get here by nine, I am gonna make you suck my dick and I will fire you. I ain’t even gonna want a blowjob cuz I’m getting an expert one now, but I will shove my limp dick down your throat, boy.” Then there was a long pause. Reggie sighed into the phone, and Opie laughed loudly on the other end. “Yeah, he queer. You think I’m just rapin’ the new guy or some shit? I’m saving my rape for you, nigga. I’m savin’ up a big nice barrel full of rape for yo’ late ass. Yeah, I better see you then.” He hung up and shook his head. “I oughta prison-rape the joy outta that nigga’s life.”

There was some movement out in the main barbershop now. It sounded like a few people had arrived and were getting ready. Presumably Opie was not among them. Conversation murmured though Quincy didn’t hear any of the words.

He focused instead on the silken texture and sweet flavor of Reggie’s massive meat. He smiled as he deep-throated it, and Reggie crooned. This was nice, Quincy had to admit, Reggie was right that a lot of niggas at the City Barbershop had to prove how straight they were by being mean when Quincy serviced them. Quincy did enjoy that — he had always had a wild hair for humiliation and throatfucking. But it was nice to be treated like a joyous present once in a while as well.

Then conversation out in the barbershop died suddenly. Something had happened, Quincy thought, something that sent a chill in the air.

The door to the backroom opened, and someone walked in. From his vantage point inside the back closet, Quincy couldn’t see who it was.

The newcomer hesitated. Reggie let out a low moan, which made the person in the backroom chuckle nervously.

“Whatchoo doin’ back there, Reggie? You fuckin’ another fat bitch?” The door swung open, and that deep, gruff, young man’s voice burst into nervous laughter. “Oh, damn, nigga. You doin’ that, huh?”

“Yeah… Lil Blue, this is Quincy. Quincy, this is Lil Blue. He works for me. He ain’t a barber. He got… other duties. He here for that staff meeting I was tellin’ you about.”

Quincy turned around to say hi, but he hesitated when he saw how ungodly handsome Lil Blue was. He must have gotten the name from his sapphire-colored eyes, which contrasted with his high-yellow skin. He had a nervous, deep-dimpled grin as he watched Reggie luxuriously hump Quincy’s mouth. “Nice to meetcha, Lil Blue.”

Lil Blue just nodded gruffly. He didn’t seem to much like gay people.

“Nah,” Reggie said. “You say hello like a nice nigga, Lil Blue.”

Lil Blue sighed as though he had argued about this with Reggie before. He rolled his eyes. “Nice to meet you too, Quincy. I don’t fuck around on the downlow, just so you know. I got bitches. Females. Female bitches.”

The door opened then, just as Quincy returned to Reggie’s dick. Two more young black men came in, talking about some argument that had occurred recently. They were Terrence and Pumper, and they laughed like Lil Blue had when they saw what as going on. “Damn, Reggie, that shit’s nasty. Can’t you be ashamed of it like a normal nigga?”

“Yeah, hide that shit… Ain’t supposed to let no one know you fuck around in the City Barbershop. That’s a rule and shit. You gotta at least shut the door.”

“Shut the the fuck up,” Reggie said absent-mindedly. He focused on grinding his moist dick deep down Quincy’s throat.

Lil Blue, Terrence and Pumper moved to go upstairs, but Reggie stopped them. “All three of you niggas is too squeamish,” he said. “You wait right here and watch.”

“Man, nigga-“

“Fuck that!”

“No way!”

But despite their words, none of them moved to disobey Reggie. They averted their eyes and shifted their weight on their feet as Quincy sucked. Reggie moaned and grunted. He was putting on a show, Quincy thought, making the others as uncomfortable as possible.

His dick pulsated against Quincy’s tongue, and just like Reggie made this as exaggerated and extreme as he could manage, so did Quincy guzzle and sputter like a champion. Spit dribbled past his lips and down Reggie’s shaft, while the younger straight bucks watching tittered nervously.

“Ugh, I can smell yo’ old nigga-nut, Reggie,” Pumper said with a frown. The others laughed along with him.

Reggie mumbled something that was maybe an insult or maybe a threat, or maybe a little of both. He didn’t really articulate any words though, just a general sound that communicated his disdain for Pumper. Quincy didn’t listen anyway; he focused on slathering spit moistly all along Reggie’s dick, and sucking up every drop of precum that hit his lips.

Since Reggie was such an animated fucker, it was apparent that his orgasm was imminent for a minute or two before it arrived. He tweaked his own nipples and grunted, his old-fashioned jive disappearing momentarily as he was overcome by pleasure. His knees buckled and he bit his lip.

Cum flowed down Quincy’s throat. That familiar sour-sweet flavor overwhelmed his senses, and Quincy grunted as he swallowed it all. It tasted of masculine musk and sweat, which made Quincy so aroused he would have kept sucking forever, but Reggie removed his dick. He wiped the spit off on Quincy’s face.

“Damn, nigga, that was a hell of a blowjob… You is gonna be a valuable part of this organization,” Reggie said so forcefully it made his audience laugh. He tucked his dick away in his pants.

When Reggie was done, Quincy turned around and blushed — someone knew had entered. Another older man, around Reggie’s age, but without the 1980s-look. This was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a shit and tie, a bristly mustache and a serious, no-nonsense look on his face. He looked like a businessman, but Quincy got the feeling he was a gangsta just like Lil Blue and the rest — he was simply the respectable face of the business.

“Quincy, that there is Winslow,” Reggie said. “He’s my business partner.”

Winslow nodded at Quincy, who wiped the cum off his lips. He blushed; Winslow was very hot, and he checked out Quincy’s ass, so Quincy knew he was achievable. Reggie wiped his dick off and stuffed it back in his pants. He sighed, rubbing Quincy’s cheek, then looked to Winslow and the others.

“You ready fo’ this meeting?” Winslow asked like he was annoyed he had to wait. Reggie nodded, and they all went up the stairs that connected to the corner of the backroom. Quincy wiped his face off, pounded himself off real quick, and then headed back to the front to meet his new coworkers. He was already greatly enjoying his new job.

Str8core Pimp Submission

This is the beginning of Str8core Pimp Submission, a hot new story of… well, str8core pimp submission. It’s about a white prison bitch who’s been released but feels he needs to have a big black cock to order him around. When he hooks up with an alpha pimp named Starling, all hell breaks loose! This is a sequel to Cuckolded by Gangbangers, and it follows Robert’s life after that stories incredible bisexual action!

For a better value, consider reading this story in the Ultimate Str8core Submission Trilogy, which also includes Str8core Sheriff Submission and Str8core Sheikh Submission! Note: There is a fourth one, Str8core Addict Submission, which is so hot it made Amazon’s servers explode, so it is only available through Smashwords (use the coupon code: SY65E for a 67% discount).


Robert followed Starling through the streets of Atlanta. His heart pounded, and he felt eyes following him. He had never been in this part of the city. It was the worst ghetto in Atlanta, full of boarded-up storefronts and grizzled homeless men stumbling past. One lean, rat-faced thug called out offers to sell crack, uncaring of who heard. Robert shuddered. Aside from being so open, it reminded him of prison.

(Only thing you good for is suckin’ nigga dick. You know you want it too, every honky is beggin’ to have big black cock shoved inside ‘em. That’s what honkies like you always want. Ain’t it, bitch? It’s only in a prison cell that you can’t hide how you feel no mo’.)

They stopped at a nasty motel, where Starling went straight to one of the rooms. Inside it was dark, and it smelled of blunts and sex. Robert shivered with anticipation. This was it. He was finally going to have a purpose in life again.

As soon as Robert was inside, Starling slammed the door shut. He straightened the white tie on his mustard-yellow suit. His tongue pushed against his lower lip as he looked over Robert’s body.

“I don’t normally sell male hos,” he said. He sneered. “But I ain’t nevuh say no to a new bitch neither. Even if you can only make a few dollars, it was a few dollars I ain’t gonna have any other way.”


He slapped Robert across the face. Then he barked, “I ain’t ask you for an answer, bitch. You wanna be my bitch? You shut yo’ mouth till I tell you to open it.”

Robert was a slim young man who had always been straight. Everything changed just two years ago. His wife cheated on him with a group of black thugs — an event documented in Cuckolded by Gangbangers — and pushed him to suck their big black balls as they fucked her. That led to a string of events that culminated in Robert being sent to Brutewood Prison. There he had been raped repeatedly by a different black man, who had told him when he left that he needed to find a pimp.

(You’s a bitch now. You might not be my bitch no mo’, but you still a bitch. So when you get out this joint, you find yo’self a new daddy who can pimp you out. Don’t you even think about goin’ straight, bitch. Ain’t nothin’ there fo’ you.)

Robert didn’t have to do what his owner said, now that he wasn’t in prison anymore. He knew there was nothing forcing him to submit to any pimp. His former prison master was behind bars for life, and hadn’t even claimed he could punish Robert from inside. It was really entirely up to Robert

But he had been submitting to niggas for what felt like forever. He didn’t have a wife to go home to anymore, and he had a criminal record, so he didn’t think he could get a real job anyway. Now he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel right again unless he had a big black cock inside him, and a mandingo daddy to treat him like shit. He needed a real man like Starling to tell him what to do.

(Tell that nigga ovuh there you suck his dick for ten dollah. If he say no, you offer to suck his dick fo’ five dollah. If he say no to that, you offer one dollah. If he say no to that, come back he’e so’s I can punch yo’ teeth in.)

After a long silence, Starling spat in Robert’s face. His spit was thick and stinky. Robert gagged and tears came up in his eyes. He tried to wipe his face off, but Starling pushed his hand down.

“Bitch,” Starling said. It wasn’t an accusation or a question, just a word, angrily sputtered so that it hung there in the air like a nasty fart. Robert winced.

“Yes, I need you to take me in as a-“

“You already told me that. Don’t evuh tell me what you need again,” he said. He smacked Robert in the face. “You’s an ugly bitch. I ain’t gonna be able to sell you off as some high-class ho.”

(Make that nice prison-bitch cock-sucking face again, the one with the tears on yo’ cheek- There it is, you so pretty when you cry, bitch. I like how yo’ ass shake in that cocktail dress too.)

Robert blushed. He had been handsome back in college, and not a lot had changed, but his hair had thinned and his face was gaunt now, lined with wrinkles of anxiety that came from his time in prison.

“Please let me be a ho…” Robert said. Tears twinkled in his eyes. He felt naked in the skimpy cocktail dress he had worn. He was given that to wear in prison. It had been humiliating at the time, but now he felt he needed it. It showed off his feminine legs and wide ass.

Blatino Str8 Trade

Here’s the first chapter from Blatino Str8 Trade, a new gay-thug erotica novelette by Marcus Greene! It’s full of hardcore alpha thug sex!

Thumper kept his apartment very warm, which was uncomfortable for Hernan. He was used to his own place and its powerful air conditioner that he kept running all summer and most of the spring and autumn. He just preferred it cold.

But he could hardly complain now. This wasn’t his home. Hernan — or Harley, as he was going by more or less exclusively now — felt like he’d never be able to sleep here. It was better than prison, so he was glad to be here, but still, Harley longed for his mother.

He couldn’t think too much about her though. Everyone, including Thumper, thought she was dead. Harley had told everyone he was an orphan so nobody could ever get to him by tracking her down. He could still go to her and hide out there if he needed to.

But he didn’t want to. Harley had been slinging rock since high school, and now he was on the run. He wasn’t technically a fugitive, but there was a warrant out for him — it was a material witness warrant. Harley could end up in prison if he refused to testify about certain events he had witnessed, and he had no intention of testifying.

So here he was, living with Wendell “Thumper” White, a former boxer, long-time ex-con and current gangbanger. Thumper was thirty years older than Harley, who felt like a skinny weakling in his presence, though he tried to hide those feelings the best he could.

At least he had a bed to sleep on. Harley lay atop his sheets, sweat beading on his flesh. He wondered how long it would be before he got laid again — Thumper said he shouldn’t leave the apartment at all, for any reason, and Thumper, judging from his reputation, was not likely to bring any girls back for Harley.

The door to his bedroom slowly swayed upon with a loud creak. Thumper stood there in the darkened doorway. He was not a very tall man, but he had that thick-bodied ex-boxer’s frame.

“Hey, yo, you awake?” Thumper asked, but his deep, commanding tone and his striding towards the bed suggested he already knew the answer, or didn’t care.

“Yeah,” Harley said, sitting up.

Thumper stood over Harley’s body on the bed. He smiled and sat down on the edge, resting one hand on Harley’s smooth chest. He caressed the skin there, and Harley’s heart burst into overdrive. What was happening now?

“You feelin’ okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” Harley said. That wasn’t true, of course, he had been anxious in general before Thumper came in his room, and now Harley felt vulnerable because of that specifically. So he definitely did not feel safe right now.

“That’s good. I’ll keep you safe, Hernan,” he said. “Long as you live here wit’ me, I keep you safe.”

“I’m s’posed to go by Harley all the time now. Samson said not to use my real name-“

“Hush,” Thumper said. “What else did Samson tell you?”

“Uh… I mean… he said to keep my mouth shut and shit.”

“Yeah. Unless’n I tell you to open it.”

“He said to stay here, with you. He said not to leave your apartment,” Harley said.

“That’s right. Good,” he said. He licked his lips as one of his hands began caressing Harley’s chest.

“He, uh, said not to call my girlfriend-“

“You got a girlfriend?”

Harley nodded. He felt like kind of an idiot for it — hardcore thugs like him had multiple bitches, not one serious girlfriend. He hadn’t even really loved her though, which was the only thing that might have made a serious-girlfriend reasonable. He was glad to have an excuse to be rid of her.

“This ain’t no place for girls,” Thumper said. “You gonna be celibate?”

“What’s that?”

“It means you don’t have sex at all.”

“I dunno, I guess so. I was hopin’, y’know… Maybe I’d get a whore eventually.”

“Nah,” Thumper said. “Whores always talk.” Then he moved quickly, laying on his side on the edge of the bed. He kept his arm on Harley’s body as he did. “Whores always talk, Hernan. That’s a real handsome name. I like it. I’m gonna keep calling you that at night, okay?”

“Just at night?”

“Right. During the day, I’ll call you Harley, just in case anyone can hear,” Thumper said. His bare thick thigh brushed up against Hernan, who felt small and weak.

He squirmed. “Get off me, nigga-“

“What?!” Thumper barked, suddenly menacing. He rolled Harley over so he was on his side as well, and they were spooning. Harley yelped and moved some more, but Thumper held him tight and put him in a chokehold. “Quit movin’, nigga.”

“Quit playin’, Thumper! Get yo’ hand off me!”

“I ain’t playin’,” Thumper said. “Go limp, motherfucker.” He throttled Harley until he managed to calm himself down and go limp. Then Thumper kissed him in the back of the neck. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

“Good, cuz I’ll-“

“Shut yo’ mouth, nigga. I know you ain’t about to say somethin’ disrespectful to the man who is lettin’ you stay here, rent-free,” Thumper said. He paused for a long time, giving Harley time to say something. Harley couldn’t think of anything he wanted to say that wouldn’t insult Thumper. His mind was intensely focused on the kinky salt-and-pepper chest hairs brushing up against his back.


“You ever fuck around on the downlow, prettyboy?”


“I don’t believe you,” Thumper said with a chuckle. He was right, technically, Harley and his buddies had exchanged blowjobs once. But Harley had never told anyone that and didn’t acknowledge it. Thumper kissed his neck again. “But that’s okay. You ain’t gotta tell me. Don’t you worry, I ain’t makin’ you into my bitch. You still a nigga, nigga.”


“Hush, yo’ man is speakin’,” Thumper said. “When we talk business tomorrow, I won’t bring it up, okay? No one is gonna know we fuck around. What happens at night in Thumper’s apartment didn’t happen during the day.”

“What? That don’t make sense-”

“Just say it with me.” Thumper’s heavy breathing erupted in chuckles, his hot breath condensing on Harley’s cheek. “What happens at night in Thumper’s apartment didn’t happen during the day.”

Harley breathed deeply. “What happens at night in Thumper’s apartment didn’t happen during the day.”

“Good. You wanna kiss me?”

“Ew, no-“

“Okay, okay, you can say no. I respect yo’ decisions, Hernan,” he said. He licked Harley’s cheek from lips to forehead like a cat cleaning its young. Harley shuddered.

He shuddered again as Thumper’s hot cock pushed between his asscheeks. Harley squirmed in Thumper’s chokehold, which wasn’t tight — Harley could have theoretically squirmed away if he tried. But he decided it was easier just to submit. He’d be able to find a different place to crash later, and he could always go home to mom if he just wanted to give up on being a gangbanger.

“Don’t worry, I ain’t tryin’-a hurt cha,” Thumper said, whispering into Harley’s ear.

Harley opened his mouth to respond, but then Thumper pushed his dick into Harley’s asshole. He bucked and squirmed as pain shot up his back, his muscular shoulders writhing beneath Thumper’s broad chest.

“Make some sounds like a girl,” Thumper said. That sent a wave of humiliation through Harley as a few more inches of cock squeezed into him. He mewled and groaned, squirming in Thumper’s arms. Thumper grunted in such a sexual way it gave Harley goosebumps. “Yeah, just like that. Make some noise, boi. You past the worst part. You doin’ real great. Samson was right about yo’ ass. It’s real nice and pretty.”

“Samson said…?” Harley’s voice broke as the last of Thumper’s dick pushed inside him. He held his breath, unable to focus on anything else but the pain radiating from his ass. He had to admit that there was a little teasing ball of pleasure inside him as well, though he didn’t want to admit it.

“That’s right, nigga, it’s okay, you ain’t my bitch. We’s just fuckin’ around on the downlow,” he said. “That’s why I’m gonna give you a reacharound. I don’t give bitches a reacharound.” His callused hand wrapped over Harley’s shaft. It was still totally soft, and it felt small even if it wasn’t. “You gonna thank me for givin’ you a reacharound?”

“Uh… thanks…” Harley said through gritted teeth. He tried to tell him not to, that he didn’t really want a reacharound and certainly didn’t need to thank Thumper for it, but he struggled to form words with the intense pressure in his ass. That pleasurable sensation kept growing however, and a part of him began to enjoy the feeling.

“You got a nice big dick, nigga. I love fuckin’ niggas wit’ big-ass dicks. Feels right, ya know?”

“Yeah…” Harley said, though he didn’t know that at all, and barely even listened.

“You ain’t hard. Why not, nigga?”

“Uh… Cuz it hurts… and I ain’t a faggot,” he said.

“You don’t gotta be a faggot to get hard wit’ a dick in yo’ ass,” he said. He stopped moving. “I wanna feel you cum, okay?”


“I like fuckin’ big-dick niggas when they cum, they shoot a big load, and I can feel it through they asshole.”


“You wanna jack yo’self off? Or you want me to do it?”

Harley sighed. He knew he’d cum quicker if he did it, so he took over. With Thumper not moving at all, the pain subsided a little. It didn’t go away, and Harley felt it every time he squirmed. But he managed to get himself hard quickly enough.

But then with Thumper whispering in his ear and his chest hair leaving a layer of sweat on Harley’s back, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to cum.

Much to his surprise, the more he jacked off, the better his ass felt — the pain remained, but the prostate pleasure grew and grew. He moaned and bit his lip as his orgasm approached.

“You such a pretty nigga…” Thumper said, making Harley twitch.

“Uh… Thumper…?” he asked breathlessly. “Could you not call me pretty?”

But Thumper wasn’t listening. He stayed perfectly still as Harley jacked himself off, and Thumper’s dick throbbed inside his ass. Thumper grunted as Harley shook, clenching on Thumper’s meat.

“Yo’ cherry taste real sweet,” Thumper said as he licked Harley’s face again.

Harley had an instinctual desire to fight him, to reassert his masculinity by challenging Thumper. But he didn’t for a couple of reasons: most importantly, the pain was too intense; more rationally, he couldn’t help but lose in any challenge to Thumper, who was bigger, stronger, smarter and better-connected; most embarrassingly, Harley simply didn’t want to stop, not in this moment.

His ass loosened as Harley moaned in pleasure, blushing when Thumper chuckled in response. The last of Thumper’s dick disappeared inside Harley.

“Ain’t I learn how to fuck niggas good? Huh? I was in prison for thirty-seven years, nigga, and I can turn any nigga into a faggot for a few minutes at a time. Huh? Ain’t you feel that, Hernan?”

Harley shuddered and mumbled no. He refused to consider that the answer might be yes, and he frantically jacked himself off beneath Thumper’s big body. The way he kept murmuring Hernan — in a very urban American accent, so it sounded more like Urnah — made Hernan shudder with disgust. He could hear Thumper’s sexual pleasure in the tenor of his voice.

“You so good, li’l nigga, I ain’t even gotta move,” Thumper said, “the way you squirm and squeal like a pretty little piggie, that’s enough fo’ me.” He remained still as Hernan stroked himself off, blushing at how easy it was for him to get hard with a cock in his ass.

Of course, Hernan couldn’t deny that it felt good for him, beneath the pain. He would, and did, deny it when Thumper asked over and over. But deep inside, Hernan felt mounting pleasure with every thrust of Thumper’s dick past his prostate.

It was right at that moment of maximum bliss, when the first drops of cum spewed from his dick, that Thumper finally resumed fucking. “Here it comes, nigga, gonna make you love it one way or anothuh…” He slammed his dick in and out, sending a mind-melting bolt of pain up Harley’s spine.

That wasn’t enough to cancel out his pleasure, however. Harley grunted and blushed at how loud he was, how much he sounded like a real bitch. But he couldn’t stop himself even if he had wanted to.

“There you go, pretty-nigga, you’s clenchin’ down now, that’s how you do it!” Thumper was enthusiastic as his orgasm hit him like a train, and he grumbled through gritted teeth, muscles roiling atop Hernan’s still-spasming body.

Semen sprayed all over Hernan’s chest, a bigger wad than he remembered ever shooting before. He writhed, painfully, in Thumper’s arms. It coated his skin and seeped in as Thumper, unworried about touching cum, rubbed it in with one hand.

“Nice big load, nigga… I love a nigga who shoot a big load…”

Thumper let out a low, slow groan as he came moments later. Hot cum flowed within Harley, who squirmed despite the pain. It felt like his body was filling up, like Thumper’s semen covered his insides.

“There you go, there’s my load,” he said. “That’s how it feels when a bigger nigga cum all up in ya guts. You like that, huh? Do you?”

“Not really…”

“Hush now, don’t be mean, I fucked you good,” Thumper said. “You got hard right away. You loved it.”

“I didn’t-“

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong wit’ dat, li’l nigga. You ain’t a bitch. We’s just fuckin’ around on the downlow. We on the downlow-and-nasty trip. Real low, real nasty,” he breathed heavily on Harley’s face as the aftershocks of his orgasm ran through him. He rested his weight on Harley, who was so much smaller he could barely breathe beneath Thumper’s heft.

Then he gagged as Thumper scooped up all of Harley’s cum from his own chest and smeared it over his face. Thumper chuckled at Harley’s frenzied gagged as he grunted and slammed his dick in.

“Eat that up, pretty-man.”

Thumper pulled out but left his ass-slimed dick in the crack of Harley’s ass. It pulsated there hotly, and left a layer of who-knew-what fluids pooling in Harley’s crack. Thumper even used a hand to spread the mess up Harley’s finely muscled back.

Then he slapped Harley’s cheek — which sent another wave of arduous pain up his spine — and got up. “Go on and take a shower now, nigga. Get cleaned up.”

Harley got up on his feet, wincing as his sore ass sent spasms of pain up his body. He struggled to walk with his ass clenched. He blushed as he made it into the hall, Thumper following close behind.

“I ain’t gonna get in the shower wit’cha, I just like watchin’ big-dick niggas struggling to walk cuz of my dick,” Thumper said. He stopped Harley at the bathroom door with one hand on his shoulder, then rammed a finger from his other hand into Harley’s ass. Harley bent over and howled in pain, though it only lasted a moment. Then Thumper said, “Good. You still tight. I’ll keep you ‘round a bit longer, nigga.”

Servicing Black Thugs: The Inmate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roger shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry, Dwight.”

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

“I’m sorry, God,” Roger said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


“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.”

Black Guys Downlow

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Black Guys Downlow, a new tale of gay black college sex!

Franklin bristled as Lamar finished his story about banging three girls at once; he disliked how much attention Lamar was getting. As soon as Lamar had been pledged into Kappa Gamma Pi fraternity, Franklin’s frat brothers started saying he was the “new Franklin”. It was just a joke at first, but Franklin found it less and less funny as time went on.

They were the only black guys in the frat. Lamar was a freshman; Franklin a junior, so Franklin should have been in charge. He was an upperclassman while Lamar had only just finished pledging a few weeks ago. Franklin thought he should have gotten more respect from the others.

But while Franklin was an engineering major from a small town in Indiana full of middle-class white folks, Lamar was a tall, athletic jock and former drug dealer from Baltimore. Lamar was smooth-talking and charming; he had spent time in prison; he had a story for every topic, and he always had an audience.

“There’s nothing wrong with you as a guy in general, or as a frat brother,” Todd, one of the frat’s seniors and the president of Kappa Gamma Pi’s local chapter, said to Franklin one morning, “But damn, Lamar is a better black guy. That’s for sure.”

Maybe being a good “guy in general” should have been enough for Franklin. He never especially wanted to be “the black guy”. He didn’t attempt to come across as a gritty thug, and while he wished he was better with girls, he had no intention of being the sleep-around playa that Lamar was. He didn’t want to seduce a different girl every night. Franklin wanted a real relationship with a nice girl, but he usually struck out. Lamar almost never spent the night alone.

One Friday night, however, Lamar did strike out. The whole frat had gone to a party at the Omega Omicron Tau house, which usually meant that Lamar and the other handsome charmers wouldn’t be coming home. They’d have found some girl to spend the night with.

But Lamar had requested a threesome late in the night, and he had misjudged the girl he was with — he had bragged she would do anything he wanted, so he felt compelled to try and push the envelope. She slapped him and kicked him out of her room, stark naked, his thick dick swaying between his legs as he ran downstairs, clothes in hand. She threw bottles of makeup at him, calling him names as he smiled broadly. He made no effort to cover up his huge cock and said, “Uh, we gotta go, guys,” to Franklin and the other frat brothers who were without a female companion for the night.

So he had actually come back to the Kappa house with Franklin and a few other girl-less nerds; for the first time since coming to GHU, Lamar was unable to get a girl. Lamar wanted to continue the party when they were back at the house, and he poured himself a glass of cognac. Franklin hated cognac and didn’t want to drink anymore tonight, so he said no.

“You a real nigga or what? Cuz I ain’t nevuh heard of no kinda nigga who turn down Hennessy…” Lamar said.

Franklin blushed and took the drink. He hated Hennessy most of all, and he hated himself for giving in so easily. He had never claimed to be a “real nigga”, and didn’t need to prove anything to Lamar — who was just a freshman, after all, a just-pledged freshman who was technically supposed to do anything upperclassmen like Franklin told him to. But Franklin felt insecure right now, about his race, his masculinity, his status as an upperclassmen and fraternity officer; he just wanted to feel like he belonged, like he did before Lamar joined.

Despite Lamar’s best efforts, there was no more party to be had. Most of the Kappa brothers went right to bed, and the ones who stayed up were both drunk and sleepy, so nothing much happened. With sexy hip hop videos on the TV, Lamar settled in, Black & Mild in hand. It’s sickly floral scent filled the house. He grabbed at his dick through the sagging jeans he wore, marveling at the big brown asses on the screen.

“Damn, I would demolish that bitch right there…” Lamar said. His hardon was evident in his pants.

“You’re not allowed to smoke in here,” Franklin said. He took the Black & Mild right out of Lamar’s mouth, and dropped it, cherry-first, in his half-full glass of Hennessy.

His heart pounded. Lamar glared at him, staring him down as though about ready to prison-rape him. Franklin would never have done something so confrontational, but he had been drinking, and he was annoyed that Lamar acted as though he was better than Franklin, even though Lamar was the freshman. He looked older, acted more mature and was seemingly superior in every way (except in math skills), but Franklin was the upperclassman, an officer in the fraternity. He was supposed to be in charge.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“There’s no smoking in this house. It’s against university rules, and against Kappa Gamma Pi rules too. A lot of people don’t like it-“

“Talk to me about rules one more time, motherfucker.”

“I’m an upperclassman, Lamar. You have to do what I say.”

“You think I give a shit about that? I’m a motherfuckin’ nigga, boi, I ain’t no freshman-“

“That’s exactly what you are.”

“I ain’t yo’ freshman punk, nigga,” he said. “I pledged cuz I wanted to. I don’t do jackshit I don’t wanna do, that’s cuz I’m a real nigga, not some fake oreo bitch.”

“That’s me, huh, I’m the oreo? Real clever, Lamar. I never claimed to be a real nigga, y’know,” he said. “I’m not interested in a dick-measuring contest.” As soon as he said that, he knew it was a mistake — Lamar loved bragging about his huge cock, and he brought it out every time he could. This was no exception.

He flopped his dick out the fly of his jeans, and let it lay there. It looked just a bit hard, maybe from the excitement of the situation or from the sexy girls dancing on the TV screen.

“I win that contest, nigga,” he said.

“I’m not your nigga.”

“I ain’t say you was my nigga. I said you’s a nigga, but maybe that was a mistake,” he said. “You don’t act like a nigga.”

“Maybe. I ain’t no one’s nigga,” Franklin said, letting a black accent shine through (it always felt forced to him though, and this time was no exception).

“Don’t try to talk like one then. You talk like a nerd,” Lamar said.

“You talk like a retard.”

“Fuck you, motherfucker! I ain’t no retard,” Lamar said.

“I’m not a nerd!”

“Do somethin’ black then. Do somethin’ a nerd wouldn’t do,” Lamar said. He stood up, his big black cock now hanging right in front of Franklin’s face.

“No. I ain’t a drug dealer, or a playa-“

“That ain’t what I mean. I ain’t askin’ you to do nothin’ like that. Just do something only a nigga would do.”

“Fine,” Franklin said. He stood up and loosened his belt so his jeans sagged. “There. I guess I’m a nigga now.”

“Nah. That don’t count.

“Well, what then? You want me to fail a test? Not do homework and try to get out of it by calling the professor racist?”

“Nah,” he said. He glanced at the sexy girls on the TV again, and gave his dick a stroke. Franklin looked away, disgusted — he wasn’t really comfortable with male nudity, even if it happened all the time in Kappa Gamma Pi. Lamar saw his discomfort and smiled. “Swing downlow wit’ me.”


“Come on, let’s go upstairs,” he said. “Niggas do that if there ain’t no girls around. Y’know, except for the niggas who scared they got small dicks.”

“Fine,” Franklin said. He didn’t have a small dick, and he knew Lamar was just goading him into proving it, but he didn’t want Lamar to go to bed thinking Franklin was insecure. Besides, in his mind, Franklin was just going to show his dick and then leave. He knew Lamar intended to go farther than that, but Franklin hadn’t thought that far ahead. He followed Lamar upstairs and into Franklin’s bedroom — since Lamar shared his with another freshman, Franklin’s was the only place they could get any privacy.

“C’mon, we sixty-nine,” Lamar said. He hopped on the bed on his back.

His desire to compare cock size seemed to disappear, and his hostility had dwindled — it almost seemed like Lamar only got confrontational in order to get Franklin to agree to go downlow, and now that he had succeeded, he didn’t care about anything else. Franklin took off his own clothes, trying not to look nervous. He was skinny compared to Lamar’s toned body, and he didn’t want it to be obvious how much weaker he was than Lamar. But he felt small and thin.

He took off his clothes, and swung his dick between his fingers. Lamar murmured — Franklin suspected that he wanted to tease Franklin for having a small cock, but then saw that it wasn’t small, so he kept his mouth shut. Franklin bristled with pride.

Much to Franklin’s surprise, Lamar took his dick in hand and stroked it. He guided it to his own cock, and he rubbed them both together until both shafts were rock-hard.

Franklin had never “jousted” before. He knew Lamar had — he had set up a blowbang with Todd and a few seniors, and they all said that Lamar enjoyed jousting to a weird degree. He had insisted on touching dicks with every man there. Now Franklin awkwardly submitted as Lamar stroked both shafts at once.

Then he let go. “Alright, come on, nigga, let’s do this,” he said. He licked his lips. “I’m lettin’ you be on top cuz you the upperclassman, man,” he said. “So don’t say I never shown you respect.”

Franklin nodded, too nervous to have a response. He couldn’t believe he was really “on the downlow” now; it felt like something that only happened in the movies. He swung his body around so his crotch was above Lamar’s face, and he lowered his rapidly-limpening dick until it hit Lamar’s tongue.

He instantly rocketed back to full erection as his shaft melted into Lamar’s warm mouth. He groaned, and opened his own mouth long enough for Lamar to shove his dick in.

Franklin gagged at first, then realized the taste wasn’t really bad — he had expected it to taste worse than it did. It really tasted a lot like pussy, he thought. There was a certain bitterness, and a fruit-like scent from Lamar’s soap, all mixed with the chemical rubber of the condom he had put on before the girl kicked him out, and an afterscent of cocoa butter.

“Fuck yeah, nigga, fuck yeah…” Lamar said over and over. The words were clear because of Franklin’s dick in his mouth — it sounded more like ook uhh ihha, oooah — but Franklin could tell exactly what he was saying. The veins of his cockshaft throbbed in Franklin’s mouth.

The flavor of precum rocketed to the forefront of his mind. It was salty and sweet and sour all at once, and the taste was so powerful that Franklin couldn’t think of anything else. He even forgot that his own dick was sliding in and out of Lamar’s mouth and leaking its own precum.

Then Lamar slapped him on the asscheek, which reminded Franklin he was doing something gay. He blushed and gagged all over again as Lamar’s dick hit the back of his throat. Despite his discomfort, his own manhood was brimming with orgasmic energy — this was perhaps the best orgasm of his life.

Franklin realized he was going to cum only seconds before he did. He instinctively slammed his hips down, shoving his dick all the way into Lamar’s mouth.

Then he grunted and moaned as cum flowed from his dick. It felt like an especially big load, and it coated Lamar’s tongue. Lamar choked and sputtered, but he didn’t stop cumming.

His body wracked with pleasure, Franklin moaned. He could feel Lamar’s throat tightened and squeezing his dick, which made Franklin’s orgasm continue until it was nothing more than a series of painfully exquisite aftershocks rocking his spine.

At last, Lamar forced Franklin’s dick out of his mouth. He coughed and gagged. “Damn, nigga, ain’t you been on the downlow befo’? You ain’t s’posed to nut in a nigga’s mouth.”

“Oh, sorry,” Franklin said, breathlessly.

“You best believe you gonna take my nut too then,” Lamar said. He slammed his dick into Franklin’s throat, uncaring of how Franklin struggled to swallow it all. He rammed it in and out, and laughed when Franklin’s body tensed, his limp, spit-covered dick dragging over Lamar’s powerful chest. “Yeah, swallow that shit, nigga.”

Franklin gagged as Lamar facefucked him, but he submitted as best he could; Lamar held onto the back of Franklin’s head to be sure he didn’t pull out. His small body flailed atop Lamar’s writhing chest muscles, and Franklin felt every bolt of climax coursing through Lamar’s veins. He grunted as an orgasm overtook him.

“Yeah, nigga, take that shit, fuck yeah!” Lamar said, his voice clear and resonant now. “Hell yeah, we shoulda been on the downlow since September, nigga…”

Creamy hot cum flowed down Franklin’s throat. Lamar held his head in place so he swallowed every drop, even as Franklin’s stomach roiled and he blushed with embarrassment. The taste wasn’t even very strong because Lamar’s dick shot his load deep in Franklin’s throat, past his tongue, so he only tasted it when he choked it back up as Lamar withdrew.

Franklin spat up most of the cum, which covered Lamar’s dick. Lamar didn’t seem to notice — probably because Franklin’s body rested atop his own, blocking his view, but he stroked his limp meat and wiped it on Franklin’s face just the same.

“Damn, nigga,” Lamar said. He took a deep breath as Franklin climbed off him. He waited for Lamar to get off his bed, but he just laid there, his big body spread-eagled so he took up the entire mattress. “That was good downlow shit. Fuck yeah… I guess you is a real black guy after all.”

Twink on Top: The Paralegal and the Pimp

Here’s a sample from the beginning of the latest “Twink on Top” book, Twink on Top: The Paralegal and the Pimp, which is the hardcore tale of an Asian twink and a macho black pimp!


Lee sighed as he got home. He was glad to be finished with another day at work, and he had done well today — his boss congratulated him on a major success in front of the entire office. But that had been more stressful than enjoyable. Lee had always been shy and withdrawn; he didn’t like being the center of attention, even for a good reason.

He made a bowl of oatmeal. It wasn’t much of a dinner, but it was filling, cheap and had fewer than three hundred calories. Not that Lee was fat, he just watched his weight by habit. He was lean and lanky, a part of his Chinese heritage; he had long since accepted that he wasn’t going to look like one of those bulky bears he idolized so much.

As he ate and watched the news, he heard someone pull into the driveway. Presumably, he thought, it was some skanky sorority girl here to fuck the trio of frat bros who shared the lower duplex. Lee didn’t much like them or their antics — they were loud, annoying and mean to him, as though he were some stupid freshman who desired their approval.

Then there was a knock at the door. Lee had a visitor, not the frat boys. That was rare. He was ashamed to even think about how long it had been since he hosted a visitor in his home. Lee peered through the peephole. Through the dim light of the setting sun, he saw a man, a tall, black man in a dijon-yellow suit, flanked by three women. Lee was surprised to recognize that it was Smoothness.

That was the success he had had today — Lee was a paralegal, whose firm had taken on Smoothness as a client after he was charged with seventy-eight counts of pandering. He could have gone away for a long time, but Lee found a procedural error in the warrant, making all of the evidence found in Smoothness’ home inadmissible in court. Smoothness — or Jeremiah Hartley, as he was known to the law — got off with nothing more than a minor pot possession charge because of a roach found on his person when he was arrested.

“Uh, hello, Mr. Hartley,” Lee said when he opened the door.

Smoothness smiled at him. He was tall, handsome, with a thick scar over his left cheek. He was draped in jewelry and fine clothing, and he carried a silver cane in his left hand.

“You’re Mr. Chin, yes?” he said with a tilt to his head. “I understand you’re the one I can thank for lettin’ me walk outta court today.”

“Uh, well… Sergeant Bradford is the one who forgot to get the warrant signed. It’s really him-“

“I don’t think he’ll accept my thanks,” Smoothness said. “Besides, I don’t do nice for cops, not even the ones who did right by me.” He raised his eyebrows as though waiting to be invited in. Lee nervously allowed him in, and Smoothness entered, followed by his three beautiful — though slutty — hos. One was black, one was white and the third was Latina. Smoothness snapped his fingers and said, “Ho. Drink.”

“Mr. Chin,” said the thick-bodied black girl; she smiled politely at him. “Can I make a drink?” She scurried into the kitchen without waiting for a response.

“Uh, yeah, I guess, I only have water though, I don’t keep juice or soda or anything like that in the house.”

“I’m not a child, Mr. Chin,” Smoothness said. “Do you have liquor?”

“Oh, well, yeah, there’s brandy in the cabinet-“

“Found it!” the black girl called out. “He don’t got no mixers, papi.”

Lee blushed. “I don’t keep carbs around, or I’ll drink them.”

Smoothness said, “Just warm up the brandy, dear, that will be fine. Put it in a mug in the microwave for twenty seconds.” Smoothness cleared his throat and looked Lee up and down. “You like what you see?” He gestured towards the two hos who stood near him.

“Uh…” Lee blushed. “They’re very pretty, yes.”

“Which one you like? I’m gonna give you a freebie. I don’t do that often. Hos, how often do I give freebies?”

“Never,” said the white girl.

“You’re the first,” said the Latina. “He even refused-“

“Hush, ho.” Smoothness glared at her. He turned back to Lee. He smiled, revealing those dimpled cheeks. His square jaw shifted up and down as he chewed on his lip “Well? You like black girls or what? Or Asians? You want a Asian? I don’t got no Asian ho, but I can arrange it. I know this pimp who got a Korean broad; she lick ya asshole. Whatever you want, I’ll make sure you get it tonight. That’s a Smoothness guarantee.”

“Uh, no, thank you-“

“A tranny? Chick wit’ a dick? Fat girl? Whatchoo want? Diapers and whips?”

“Well…” Lee was so intimidated he had trouble forming words. He couldn’t think of how to admit he was gay; he was so used to hiding it from these kind of hardcore thugs (who were a large part of his firm’s clientele) that he struggled to come out now.

In the end, he didn’t need to. The white ho giggled and said, “I don’t think he wants any of the above, papi.”

Lee blushed. Smoothness stepped closer, and looked Lee up and down. He was so close his breath condensed on Lee’s face. He flexed his muscles under that dark yellow suit.

“You queerbait?”

Lee nodded.

Smoothness frowned. “I ain’t got no queers,” he said. “You don’t want a chick with a dick?”

“Uh, no thanks,” Lee said. “I… like dudes with dicks.”