Tag Archives: downlow

Str8 Thugs at the City Barbershop

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey! I see you, nigga!

It’s that new nigga. What’s ‘is name?

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

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

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

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

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

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

He say he can’t get hard that way.

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

I know that is bullshit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Damn…”

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

There it goes, nigga!

You gettin’ hard.

Tol’ you it’d happen, nigga!

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

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

You likin’ it now, nigga!

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Open yo’ eyes, nigga.”

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

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

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

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

Fill that nigga up!

Yeah, suck that shit, suck it, damn…

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

There he goes!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gang Life Downlow

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Gang Life Downlow, a hardcore tale of black thugs having gay sex on the DL; it’s full of dubcon domination and hardcore action. You can read it for free through KU for the next three months!

Calvin walked into the City Barbershop of Clay Street. He was nervous and stressed, carrying with him virtually all of his belongings in a trash bag. He tried not to think of himself as homeless, even though he knew that’s precisely what he was.

He had money. Not quite enough to rent a nice place, but he might have been able to get a cheap room somewhere. The downside to that was that he wouldn’t be able to afford to save up somewhere nicer. His stepdad kicking him out without warning had really put a damper on things.

Calvin had had a rough couple of months. After losing two ounces of heroin, he was in trouble with his boss, Samson. Then his girlfriend dumped him, and now his stepfather had kicked him out as punishment for selling drugs. Everything was going wrong in Calvin’s life.

He had a feeling the customers and barbers at the Barbershop knew why he was carrying a trash bag into the back. He also knew that Samson didn’t tell them, but they looked at him with a mixture of pity and scorn. They knew he was homeless.

Of course no one said anything. Everyone was aware that Samson laundered money through the City Barbershop, but no one acknowledged that they knew it. They pretended to think Samson was taking in a roommate half his age.

He came into Samson’s apartment. Samson was in his mid-forties, which was ancient as far as Calvin was concerned. He sat in his living room with a few other gangbangers. Samson kept a clipboard in front of him, and he scrawled notes as they talked. He nodded to Calvin, who nodded back and put his bag of stuff in the corner of the room.

There was no spare bedroom, so Calvin was sleeping on the couch. He was fine with that because he hoped it would spur him into finding a new place.

“Yo, Calvin, come here and rap at us,” Samson said. His voice was deep and tough, commanding respect. “We talkin’ ‘bout what to do regardin’ the Sweet Hill boys. Whatchoo think?”

“Well, I think we gotta beat them niggas down,” Calvin said, more because he wanted to seem tough than because he had any particular knowledge of the situation. He was only vaguely aware that the Sweet Hill gang had begun selling crack on territory Samson considered to be his own.

“Alright, that’s a plan,” Samson said. He smiled at Calvin. “You get yo’ niggas together and do it this week, okay?”

Calvin hadn’t thought he’d be put in charge of it, but he could hardly say no when Samson was letting him stay here rent-free. He nodded as though it wasn’t going to be difficult. Some of the other thugs looked at Calvin pitiably, and Calvin tried not to notice.

Samson clapped his hands together, and the other gangbangers stood up to go. Calvin’s mind raced as he tried to think of a way out of this. Once the door shut, Calvin was alone with Samson for the first time ever — it hadn’t occurred to Calvin until this moment that he had never been alone with Samson.

“You ever fuck around on the downlow, Calvin?” Samson asked after a long, awkward silence fell between them.

“Uh, yeah. Once,” Calvin said. He instantly regretted saying that. It was true, but he had heard Samson was often on the downlow with his close niggas — only for Samson, “downlow” meant you serviced him, not any kind of reciprocal behavior.

He looked at Calvin and raised his eyebrows. “Just once, huh? You do it with a nigga you respec’?”

“I guess so.”

“Huh,” Samson said with a knowing nod. He raised his eyebrows. Calvin sighed. It was apparent Samson wanted a blowjob, but Calvin couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Samson crossed his arms over his chest, accentuating the softball-sized pecs beneath his tight t-shirt. He ran his tongue over his teeth and clucked. “Huh,” he said again.

“Samson, I… Uh, thanks a lot fo’ lettin’ me stay here,” Calvin said.

Samson nodded.

Calvin sighed again. This wouldn’t be that bad, he thought, he’d done it before, and he knew Samson was discrete; he could be confident Samson wouldn’t tease him or spread rumors. He sunk to his knees, in front of Samson, who grunted his satisfaction. Calvin waited for a moment, thinking Samson would take his own dick out, but he didn’t. He just towered over Calvin and watched. Calvin winced at the realization that Samson wanted Calvin to take it out.

Reaching up for Samson’s dick, Calvin shuddered. Then, much to his surprise, Samson batted his hand away.

“You should ask a nigga fo’ permission befo’ you start sucking his dick,” Samson said. “If that’s what you wanna do.”

Calvin spoke quietly, blushing so hard his cheeks burned. “Samson… do you want, uh…? I mean… is it okay, uh, if I suck your cock?”

“That’s a real nice offer, boi. That’s a good gesture,” he said, as though it was the first time he had said that word. Before Calvin could undo his belt, Samson clucked his disapproval. “Play wit’ it through my pants first, nigga. Be romantic and shit.”

Calvin blanched and winced. He gently stroked the bulge in Samson’s dick, and for some reason just feeling that spongy flesh through his jeans made Calvin gag. Samson’s manhood stirred beneath the denim. He groaned in a way that made Calvin shiver with disgust.

“Now, don’t take my pants off,” Samson said. “Just undo the fly and take it out. Look me in the eye when you suck my dick. That’s a mark of respec’, nigga.”

His hands trembled. Calvin wasn’t sure if he could do that — sucking cock was humiliating enough, but looking Samson in the eye while he did it would make it even worse. The zipper seemed impossibly loud, and when it was open, Calvin got a burst of stale crotch sweat in his nostrils. He gagged again, and Samson clucked with disapproval once more.

“You may take it out now, Calvin,” Samson said. Something in the way he said Calvin made Calvin shudder all over again.

Calvin had to reach in to pull out Samson’s dick, which was half-hard and veiny, dark-brown, slick with sweat. He wanted to wipe it off, but Calvin was sure Samson would say that was disrespectful.

He opened his mouth, gagging profusely as the spongy tip pushed into his mouth. There was already a slight cummy taste, either precum from Calvin’s masturbating it through Samson’s pants or maybe left over from whenever he had sex before. Calvin tried not to touch it with his hands, and Samson kept his arms over his chest, so Calvin had to chase his cock with his mouth.

But he couldn’t quite bring himself to go any deeper than the tip. Even that felt impossibly thick, and Calvin wasn’t sure he could go any farther.

“When you suck the dick of a nigga you respec’, Calvin, you should deep-throat it,” Samson said. “You know what that means? You evuh get head from a girl?”

“Yes!” Calvin said, annoyed at Samson’s patronizing tone.

“Don’t you talk to me like that, nigga,” Samson said, his voice growly and threatening. Calvin shuddered. Samson forced his eyes open — Calvin hadn’t even noticed he closed them — and sneered down at Calvin. “Real niggas got backup plans, Calvin, you know that? They ready to get kicked outta they place. They got cash.”

Calvin wanted to defend himself, but when he tried to pull off Samson’s dick, Samson’s hands gripped his head and held it in place. Samson growled again, and pushed Calvin’s head deeper onto his shaft. Calvin gagged all over again as that cock pushed into his throat.

“Take my balls out wit’ one hand, and play wit’ em. Gentle-like,” Samson said. He groaned as Calvin did so, gingerly playing with his sweaty sac. The feel of that slick flesh made Calvin’s stomach churn. “Yeah, that’s nice, boi. That’s respec’.”

The sour flavor of precum assaulted Calvin’s senses, and brought tears to his eyes. He was glad it was dark enough in this room that Samson couldn’t see — it wasn’t really crying anyway, he thought, it was tears from suffocation and stress, not being a pansy. He didn’t think Samson would acknowledge a difference though.

The tasty of sweaty black cock grew more and more tolerable, though Calvin thought that was mainly because he sucked off all the sweat and grime, replacing it with plain spit. The veiny shaft invaded his throat with each powerful thrust of Samson’s cock.

The moist grunting of Samson’s voice was offputting to Calvin. He sounded like a rutting animal, and it reminded Calvin that his mouth was just being used now, that this wasn’t part of a relationship or anything. Samson was going to continue to use his mouth and body — though hopefully not his ass — until Calvin moved out. That seemed like a reasonable tradeoff to Calvin, even if it was humiliating and foul-tasting.

“Whatchoo plan wit’ my nut?” Samson asked as he groaned.

Calvin didn’t understand the question. He just looked up at Samson, and tried to ignore that massive shaft drilling into his throat.

“Huh? I’m gonna blow my load,” Samson said. “Whatchoo gonna do wit’ it? You want me to shoot it on yo’ face or what? In yo’ hand?”

Calvin was glad to hear that he had a choice. He pulled off Samson’s dick, intending to say in my hand, which was the least objectionable option. But then he saw Samson’s scrunched-up face, and Calvin knew this was a test. He wasn’t sure exactly what the answer was, but in my hand wasn’t it.

“Think long and hard, Calvin. You got a lotta factors to consider. Yo’ respec’ fo’ me, if you got any,” Samson said. He sniffled.

“I’ll… uh, swallow it,” Calvin said, wincing as Samson flopped his cock on Calvin’s head, smearing spit and precum all over it.

“Yeah,” Samson said. “You will. But befo’ that, I wanna see it. I like seeing it. Playin’ wit’ it a bit.”

“Oh.”

“So whatchoo think?”

“I, uh… I guess I’ll do that.”

“So where you want me to nut? In yo’ mouth?”

It was obvious he wanted Calvin to say yes, so he did so. Then Samson pushed his cock back in Calvin’s mouth. He grunted as he wrapped his hands behind Calvin’s head.

He thrust his hips so powerfully his cockshaft rammed down Calvin’s throat until his nose was nestled in Samson’s pubic hair. Calvin couldn’t even gag because his throat was so choked; all he could do was sit there on his knees and let it happen.

“That’s a good idea, Calvin. I’ll shoot my load in yo’ mouth, just like you askin’ me to. That’s very respec’ful, nigga. Don’t swallow nothin’ till I tell you too, okay? We gonna play a bit first.”

Calvin nodded, but even as he did, Samson was blowing his wad. He shot it right in the back of Calvin’s throat. Some of it dripped into his gullet, but Calvin instinctively avoided swallowing it. He would have accidentally spilled it all but Samson kept a tight grip on his head. Samson grunted, rutting like a pig as his fat cock spasmed inside Calvin.

At last it was over. Salty cum filled his mouth. It seemed like a huge amount, but Calvin wasn’t sure. His stomach churned with disgust, begging him to spit it out.

“Open up,” Samson said. He kneeled down and looked in. “Come on,” he said, gesturing towards the kitchen. “It’s dark in here. I wanna see yo’ pretty-boy mouth.”

Gagging the whole way and holding onto his stomach, Calvin made it into the kitchen without spilling any. Samson looked into his mouth as though trying to find something. He smiled with satisfaction, then spat right into it. The bitterness of his saliva made Calvin choke. He nearly spilled but Samson held him by the neck.

“That’s a big one,” Samson said. He stuck one finger in, all the way back until Calvin gagged. Then Samson held the palm of his hand out until Calvin spat the entire wad into it. Calvin was glad to be rid of it, though he could still feel that snotty texture on his tongue. There was a pubic hair stuck in the back of his throat too, but he couldn’t get at it right now.

Samson raised his eyebrows as Calvin got ahold of his stomach and his gagging. He kept that cum-filled palm right in front of Calvin’s face, where the scent assaulted his nostrils, making it hard for Calvin to regain his composure. Samson cleared his throat. “I’ll ignore your gagging, Calvin. That seems rude, but I understand…” It was obvious he wanted Calvin to suck the cum back up, and he raised his eyebrows as though to say You better do it now, it’ll get worse when it’s cold. Calvin opened his mouth, but Samson cleared his throat and shook his head.

Calvin blushed. “Uh… Samson, can I eat your nut?”

“Yes, you may. Thank you for askin’, boi.”

Calvin gagged and nearly vomited as he sucked it off Samson’s callused palm. He choked it down and waited there, blushing intensely as Samson looked him in the eye. Then Samson’s fingers forced his mouth open, and he checked that Calvin had swallowed the whole thing.

“Good,” he said. “Now go to bed.”

Linebackers Downlow

Here’s a new sample chapter, from a hot story called Linebackers Downlow, the tale of a college football team whose linebackers don’t quite have the physique to get laid like most of the other players. Be forewarned: this book is about curvy, powerful, macho guys who aren’t sculpted Hollywood hunks; they have hairy chests, arms and backs. Caveat emptor, motherfuckers. This story is part of the Str8 Studs Downlow series.

Once again, the party dwindled and Jason was left behind. He was a senior, a starting football player and a popular jock… with the guys. His fellow teammates all thought he was hilarious. The cheerleaders thought he was funny and liked getting piggy-back rides from him because he was so big.

But when push came to shove, those cheerleaders went off to screw the brains off the quarterback and running backs with six-pack abs. Jason and his fellow linebackers were left behind, the least popular players on the Jacksonville University squad.

“Am I fat?” Jason asked himself for what felt like the millionth time this week. He knew that objectively the answer was no — he didn’t have a ton of fat. But he was more than six and a half feet tall, and he was covered in just enough paunch that it was obvious which position on the team he played.

So now this party had dwindled to just him and the other four linebackers on the team. It was a perfect summary of the way Jason’s football career went — he worked hard with the team; he struggled with them; he played along with them; he coped with their cockiness; he sat behind and watched while they fucked all the hot chicks.

“Guess we’re alone again,” said Rick, another one of the linebackers. “I really thought that blonde was gonna suck my dick.”

Nobody responded. Jason wanted to tell Rick that there was never any chance she was going to suck his dick — that had been obvious to Jason, who saw her flirting politely with Rick before moving on to one of the handsome basketball players. Rick grabbed at his crotch with one big, meaty hand.

Rick was probably the fattest of the linebackers, but even he wasn’t fat. He was powerful; he was also probably the strongest of the linebackers. He just had a generous layer of padding on top.

Aside from Rick and Jason, there was the burly dreadlocked black man, Dante; the fresh-faced redneck Garraty and the hairy-as-hell Vinnie, all of whom looked nervously between each other. It was Garraty who sighed and ran into the other room, returning moments later with a stack of magazines.

“Well, hosses,” he said. “Guess we gotta do what we gotta do.” The magazines had naked women all over them, petite blondes and brunettes cavorting with each other and with a bevy of smooth, six-packed studs. Jason was annoyed.

Garraty took off his shirt and then put his cowboy hat back on his head — he never went without it, except during a game. He smiled his youthful freshman grin, as though he still had hope he’d get girls when he was a senior. Jason was annoyed by his optimism.

“Let’s do this, boys,” he said with an enthusiastic shout. He clapped his hands together, then grabbed at Dante’s dick.

Dante jumped and backed away, “Yo, man, hey, no homo!”

Garraty laughed. “What? You wanna circlejerk or not?”

“Not.”

Jason felt himself blush at the thought of a circlejerk. He had assumed they were just going to jack off to the magazines, probably go separate corners of the locker room. Did people really circlejerk? He thought that was just a punchline and a way to scare freshmen.

Vinnie and Rick both seemed to think it was normal. They teased Dante, calling him a prude. “Probably can’t get it up,” Rick said with a knowing smile.

Dante sighed and looked away, and he caught Jason’s eye. Everyone then turned to Jason, who blushed even harder. He always felt exposed in the locker room — he wasn’t as comfortable with nudity as most of his teammates. But then, most of his teammates had six-pack abs. Jason wasn’t ashamed of his dick size, which was ample, though he and the other linebackers had talked about it once and come to the conclusion that their height made their dicks seem shorter, since all five got teased for it from time to time despite having larger than average cocks. The shorter you are, the longer your dick appears to be in relation to your thigh.

But Jason didn’t want to be the one to start a real conflict over it — Rick was overbearing and would want them all to circlejerk, and it would turn into an argument. “Ain’t really my cup of tea,” Jason said, “But if’n y’all want it, let’s do this shit.”

He was annoyed to realize he should have moved — Vinnie was to his right, so that’s whose cock Jason touched. He stroked it and let out a groan of disgust. “Man, yer cock feels like a fucking uncooked greasy Italian sausage.”

Vinnie burst into laughter and pumped his hips so his cock flopped around. It was already half-hard, the foreskin now fully retracted and the head getting thicker by the moment.

The main thing he didn’t like about jacking Vinnie off — aside from the general idea of touching another man’s penis — was that Vinnie was the hairiest one here. They were all pretty hairy, chests, back, thighs and arms covered in fur; Rick was blond; Dante had naturally kinky black hair, while Garraty and Jason were thick and brown.

Vinnie was like a sasquatch, which is exactly what some on the team called him. He was covered head-to-toe in dense tangles of Mediterranean hair, which he seemed alternately proud of despite the teasing and ashamed of from time to time, mainly when it kept him from getting laid.

It felt like he was pushing his hand into jungle undergrowth, he thought, and the hairs, slick with moisture from (Jason hoped) a shower, stuck to Jason’s body where they collided.

The five linebackers had pulled into a tight circle so they could look at the magazines, which Garraty had opened to a few random pages laid out on the floor and bench in the center of the locker aisle. Garraty was to Jason’s left, so that’s who began stroking Jason off as the circlejerk got into full swing.

“Yo, if any of y’all get yo’ nut on me, I will beat yo’ ass,” Dante said. He was gingerly stroking off Garraty, who looked at him with an exaggerated frown, then kissed him on the grizzled cheek.

Dante glared at him sternly. He probably wanted to fight about it, as Dante was always quick to throw a punch over anything that insulted his manhood. But coach had made it clear anyone who fought — anywhere, but especially in the locker room — would be kicked off the team, and that appeared to be enough motivation for Dante to let it slide.

Oh shit, the linebackers is circlejerkin’!

They all groaned — no one wanted to be caught at this, even if they knew the rest of the team would keep it quiet. That was just the way they operated. Jason focused on himself despite the tension, as he realized he wasn’t fully hard. He didn’t want to be the only one who couldn’t do it.

He stared at the sexiest photo he could see, a pair of stunning redhead girls sixty-nining. They had perfect pussies, he thought and finally felt his dick stiffen to its fullest extent. He felt a few drops of precum lubricate Garraty’s fingers.

Damn Rick, you got big fuckin’ fingers, ya damn hillbilly! Why couldn’t you have dainty fingers like that chick in the photo?

It was Dante who came first, grunting and shooting a load so unexpectedly it made the others laugh. He had been so reluctant, Jason thought, it was strange he came first. His dark body jiggled and he closed his eyes as he sprayed his nut all over the magazines. He had a gut that shook, his thuggish tattoos barely visible through the sweat and dark skin.

As the circle closed and Vinnie grabbed Garraty’s cock, Jason felt Vinnie get close — his balls crawled up in his sac, and his dick throbbed. Cum flowed into his cockshaft, palpably pulsating beneath Jason’s fingers. Jason was shocked at the realization he was going to get cum on his fingers, and he almost stopped then made himself keep going. If Vinnie came, at least he wouldn’t have to touch the man’s hairy body anymore.

Vinnie grunted and said something in Italian, spraying one fat wad of jizz in a giant blob on the bench in the center of the circle. “Direct hit!” Vinnie shouted — he had covered the sexy photo of lesbian redheads.

“Thank god, you hairy wop,” Jason said with a laugh. He grabbed at Garraty’s dick then, glad to touch someone only moderately hairy. “Ya ain’t have to nut on the redheads, jackass.”

“Oh yeah, redneck, there’s no rule about interference in circlejerk, ya knows,” he said.

“Wha-?”

Jason felt like gagging as Vinnie came up behind him and hugged him close. Vinnie’s powerful arm encircled Jason’s chest, and he mockingly played with both of Jason’s tits. Jason blushed — he wasn’t fat, as he had told himself over and over, but he hardly had bodybuilder’s pecs either. That just wasn’t how linebackers were built. The other players had made fun of his “tits” more than a few times.

Dense pubic and chest hair scratched at Jason’s bak and ass, and he even felt a slimy, cum-slickened cock against his ass. Jason protested, but everyone else laughed as though it was the biggest joke in the world, even Dante, and Jason didn’t want to be the only one who “didn’t get it”. If he just gave in, he thought, and hoped, Vinnie might give up soon.

Rick shot his load while Jason was adjusting to the brillo-like feel of Vinnie’s body behind him, and the smell of cum was now so strong in the air that Jason wanted to just give up. But they’d tease him forever, so he was determined to finish, and ideally, not last.

It was down to him and Garraty, the relatively small cowboy and freshman linebacker. He had barely played in any games yet. He used Jason’s dick to pull him closer, until their dicks were both touching.

“This is what we call a Double Hog-Ride back in Montana,” he said. He spat into his hands as he used them both to stroke both cocks at once. Jason was horrified to see his dickshaft mash into Garraty’s, but he had to admit it did feel better than an ordinary handjob. Plus he wasn’t touching anything, his hands were free since Garraty used both his.

They both nutted at once too. It felt so good that it came on suddenly, and both dicks were coated in semen. Jason’s muscles roiled beneath the layer of padding that caused him so much embarassment, and their semen mixed as it spread over both shafts. It dripped down their thighs and ballsacks, and onto the few dry spots of the magazines below.

“Well, fuck, we ruined my magazines,” Garraty said, “And you can bet I ain’t pickin’ em up. They’s gross.”

“Just leave ‘em there. The janitor’ll get them,” Vinnie said. He was already getting dressed. Jason felt bad about agreeing, but he certainly wasn’t going to pick up the cum-soaked rags. He was embarrassed enough about what happened he didn’t care about the details, he just wanted to get dressed and get out of there. Hopefully before anyone else from the team saw what they were doing.

Twinks Downlow

This is a sample chapter from Twinks Downlow, a new story in the Str8 Studs Downlow series!

Quincy hadn’t been camping for a long time, so he was excited to get back into it. He had purchased the tent and other equipment almost two years ago, then never used it until now. He had his car all packed up, with barely any free space left in it. There was only one thing left to do before he left.

And that was the entire reason for this trip. He intended to dump Thumper, his “boyfriend” of sorts — Thumper was an ex-con who had come to Quincy on the downlow, asking for a gayboy willing to service him as often as he wanted. That was a dream job for Quincy, who thought Thumper was an outrageously sexy thug. His burly chest and hairy body turned on Quincy, who was proud of his own lean build and youthful face even if he found the bigger, rougher types more sexy.

But Thumper was also homeless, technically speaking, and he had moved himself into Quincy’s apartment without asking. He had been eating Quincy’s food, taking his stuff and even borrowing his car without permission. Quincy was no longer willing at accept all that, especially since Thumper still saw himself as straight and single — Quincy could hardly find a real boyfriend with Thumper crashing in his apartment.

“I… think you should find somewhere else to live,” Quincy finally said when he got Thumper sitting on a couch in the living room. Thumper had asked him why he was packing his car, so Quincy could no longer put this off. “I want to break up, Thumper.”

Thumper looked taken aback. “Break up? We ain’t boyfriends, Quincy. You just some queer I fuck.”

“Okay, well, I want to end that relationship between us,” Quincy said. “I’ve got Monday off. So you’ve got a three-day weekend to figure out where to live.”

“Quincy…”

“What?”

“Lemme come with you,” he said.

“What?”

“You ain’t gonna spend this whole weekend without getting fucked,” he said. “So lemme come with you. I can camp. I can fuck you.”

“You need to find a place to live,” Quincy said.

Thumper shrugged. “It ain’t a big deal. I got options.” He didn’t look worried. Quincy knew that was true, Thumper did have options — he was a well-respected local gangbanger; he could crash on virtually anyone’s couch in the neighborhood, and they’d be too scared to ask him to leave. Thumper smiled. “There’s a million queers in the city, Quincy. I’ll just go live with one of them.”

“Okay, well, good,” Quincy said. He stood up. This had, thus far, gone easier than he had predicted.

“So I can come with you? I’ll fuck you senseless this weekend, Quincy. I will destroy that ass as a going-away present.” He growled softly and smacked Quincy’s pert young ass.

“You gotta pack quick,” Quincy said with a sigh. He had promised himself he wouldn’t back down from breaking up with Thumper, but it had gone better than he thought it would; it didn’t seem Thumper was going to argue about it at all. Quincy could hardly decline another couple of fuckings.

In no time, Thumper was ready to go. He was always scruffy and dirty, that was part of what made him so hot, Quincy had decided, his utterly macho disregard for his own appearance made him sexier than any finely coiffed man, as far as Quincy was concerned. Quincy liked to keep his own appearance spotless, his own skin smooth and unblemished, his hair perfectly trimmed, chin shaved bare every morning; but Quincy liked the exact opposite in his men.

Thumper shoved some clothes into a bag, then added his toothbrush at the last second — Quincy got the impression he only bothered with the toothbrush because he knew Quincy was watching.

Slinging the duffel bag over his shoulder, Thumper came to the front door. He stopped in front of Quincy, leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. It was slow and hot and not exactly passionate or lustful, but it did communicate to Quincy what Thumper wanted — sex. Thumper didn’t kiss him often, so Quincy found it exhilaratingly arousing when he did.

“I’ll drive,” Thumper said.

“You don’t have a license.”

“You can’t suck my dick if you’re drivin’,” Thumper said as though that should have been obvious. He reached into Quincy’s pocket and grabbed his keys, then caressed his cockshaft a few times through the pocket fabric. Thumper whispered directly into Quincy’s mouth as though their tongues were sharing a secret. “It’s okay for you to break up wit’ me. I ain’t mad, nigga.”

Then he walked out the front door, and Quincy followed. Thumper had been in prison for a long time, so Quincy knew that, for Thumper, it was a big decision to “allow” someone to decline sex. Thumper generally assumed that Quincy wanted to fuck whenever Thumper found it convenient; he didn’t ask for permission, though he had more than once apologized later. Quincy had never actually told Thumper no, but on more than one occasion, he had the feeling Thumper wouldn’t have cared if he did.

The car had barely made it out of the driveway before Thumper let his cock flop out of his jeans. He had an incredibly thick manhood, which he loved showing off. The sight of it, and the musty smell, filling up the car made Quincy excited, and he was glad he had given Thumper another weekend.

He bent over and swallowed Thumper down. His cock fit in Quincy’s throat like they had been made for each other, and it got rock-hard in his throat right away.

“Oh yeah, I love queers who look like girls,” Thumper said. “Got the best cock-sucking lips outside of a pig in prison. Make some noise, boy.”

Quincy did as he was told, and he made audible choking noises — Thumper loved that sound, and Quincy loved the way he threw his head back as though overcome by emotion when he heard it. He suckled loudly as though trying to get every drop out.

Thumper’s shaft was thick and pulsating, dripping with precum as he got ready to nut. Quincy let his tongue wrap around Thumper’s cockshaft, rubbing up and down from root to tip. He moaned into Thumper’s unkempt crotch, his bush smelling of copper and sweat and baby powder, a combination that made Quincy nearly nut in his pants right there in the passenger seat of his own car.

“Shake that smooth little ass while you suck it,” Thumper said softly, his raspy voice seemingly loud enough to echo in Quincy’s ears even though he spoke so quietly. Quincy shook his ass as ordered, and Thumper massaged it, even sticking one finger in Quincy’s hole.

Quincy writhed around the finger in his ass. His prostate came alive, and he filled his shorts with his own cream as Thumper’s callused finger plunged in and out.

“I’m gonna miss this tight little pussy,” Thumper said.

Somebody honked, and Thumper cursed at him. Quincy wondered if the other car had witnessed what was going on; a part of him hoped not, thinking they could get in trouble, but a part of him thought the idea was sexy. He loved the notion of somebody looking in on Thumper’s big barrel-shaped body writhing as he drove with Quincy’s smooth flesh in his lap.

“Here it comes, nigga, here it comes,” Thumper said. He pushed Quincy’s head all the way down, until his nose was nestled in Thumper’s unkempt pubic hair. Quincy choked but didn’t fight back. “Don’t swallow it, okay, don’t swallow.”

Quincy smiled. He knew what that meant and he couldn’t wait. Moments later, he felt Thumper’s balls crawl up in his sac. Thumper repeated oh fuck yeah nigga so many times it turned into an incomprehensible sprawl of syllables as the first spurt of semen hit the back of Quincy’s throat.

That was followed by a second, then a third. Thumper always shot so much. Quincy tried to keep it in his mouth like Thumper had asked. He held it in there and pushed a few drops back in when they slipped past his lips.

Then he sat up and showed Thumper the mouthful of semen. Thumper peered into it as he came to a stop at a red light. He sneered in disgust, then kissed Quincy on the lips. His tongue pushed into Quincy’s mouth, and they shared the semen that was collected there.

Thumper pulled away. “Okay, you can swallow now, faggot.”

Gangbangers of Detroit Downlow

This is a sample chapter from Gangbangers of Detroit Downlow, a new story in the Str8 Studs Downlow series!

 

The 8-Mile house was a ramshackle collection of boards and plaster. Winston felt like he needed a tetanus shot just walking into it. They said it wasn’t a crackhouse, but it sure looked like one — the only thing it was missing was a crackhead.

Winston had never really been a gangbanger. He was not a Grayblood back in New York, where he was from, but he was close to a couple gangbangers. He had been told he’d need to join a gang when he moved to Detroit, but Winston didn’t believe it.

He lasted almost a month in Detroit without a crew behind him. The gangbangers of Detroit were efficient and ruthless; Winston was mugged on a weekly basis. The only way to get any protection was to join a gang, and since Winston had connections in the Graybloods back in New York, he had been able to finagle a position in the gang here in Detroit.

He was told to just show up. The Graybloods didn’t require a lot from members, especially people like Winston, who wasn’t asking for money or territory for selling drugs or anything like that. All he wanted was protection from being robbed.

So here he was in the house on 8-Mile Road. It was just a safehouse, he was told. He didn’t feel very safe. There were a half-dozen or so black men there, most of them young and rude-looking; they leered at Winston as he nodded a hello to each one.

“Hey, you’re Winston, right?” asked one of the men. He was a handsome, cornrowed man with a charming grin, which Winston suspected was a front for an overwhelmingly cruel personality. “Lil Dee,” he said by way of introduction. “I’m in charge around here. You got some good niggas vouchin’ for you back home.”

“Nice to meetcha,” Winston said with a nod, but no one was listening to him. They were all intent on listing the rules, almost all of which were variations on no snitching. The entire gang spoke at once, and Winston couldn’t understand a word — he didn’t want to ask for a repeat, however, so he just nodded. He had no intention of snitching anyway.

“Hey, Lil Dee-“ said someone, pushing past the others into the room. It was a burly middle-aged black man with streaks of gray in his unkempt beard and tight cornrows. He was covered in primitive prison tattoos, and he had a vaguely angry look on his face as he whispered in Lil Dee’s ear. His lip twitched, and Lil Dee winced. The older man looked up at Winston, made steely eye contact with him, then looked away. Winston’s blood ran cold — was he in trouble? Were his friends back in New York not as well-connected as he thought?

Lil Dee smiled as though he just heard something disgusting, and the other Graybloods watching all winced. Winston got the impression he had done something wrong, but he didn’t know what. He bit his lower lip. Samson kept staring at him even as he whispered back and forth with Lil Dee.

Finally Lil Dee smiled back at Winston. “Alright, Winston, this is Samson. You’s gonna work for him-“ Lil Dee stopped when Samson whispered something else in his ear. Lil Dee cleared his throat, then nervously stammered, “This is Samson. He’s gonna be your partner, and he’s gonna treat you right. He’s uh… the biggest nigga here, okay. You do what he say. He’ll be the one who gonna make the decision to say yes or no ‘bout lettin’ you in. You show him respect.”

“Oh, okay,” Winston said. There was obviously something happening here that he wasn’t privy to — they were all snorting and holding back laughter, except for Lil Dee, who was nervous and kept glancing at Samson to see his reaction. He thought that maybe Samson wasn’t as well-respected as he thought he was, and so these other guys were laughing at sending some insignificant to work for him as though he mattered; that was the best guess Winston came up with, but he didn’t think that was it.

“Come on,” Samson said. He grabbed Winston’s hand with his and led him out of the living room. The other Graybloods all began hooting as though they were about to go make love. Samson turned around and smiled at Winston. “Ignore them.”

Winston went into one of the bedrooms, which had little more than a dingy mattress on the ground and a suitcase open, with clothes spilling out of it. Samson immediately stripped off his shirt and then dropped his pants.

He had an instinctual aversion to look away as he realized Samson was getting completely naked — were those guys hooting because Samson was going to rape me? Winston was too terrified to look away though, even if he hadn’t decided that would make him look like a pansy. He just pretended he didn’t care.

“I wanted to get a workout in. You should too. You could bulk up, nigga,” Samson said. He had a pair of athletic-wear briefs in hand, and it looked like he was getting ready to do some push-ups in a little cleared out area. But first he approached Winston and put one arm around his belly. “You gonna need some muscle for what I got in store.”

“What’s that?” Winston thought his voice sounded weak in comparison to Samson’s gravelly, deep sound.

“We gonna rob a place. I’ll tell you the details when you need to know. I got the inside scoop on this, but we need to do it right,” he said. “Now touch my dick.”

“What?”

“Y’ain’t gotta suck on it — unless you want to?” he raised his eyebrows, and waited for Winston to realize he wanted a real answer. Winston blurted out no, and Samson went on. “Just touch it. If you’s an undercover, you won’t do it.”

Winston touched it with the tip of one finger. It felt spongy, and though he had never touched anyone’s dick but his own, he was sure this had a distinctive ‘old man dick’ texture. It was only a moment but it felt like it lasted forever — this must be what those guys were laughing about, he thought, they knew Samson was going to make Winston touch his cock. He probably made all of them do it, that was precisely the kind of old-fashioned nigga-shit his friends had warned him they did in Detroit. He hadn’t believed them then.

He tried to pull his hand away but Samson gripped it tight. He formed Winston’s fingers into a tube and began humping his hand. Before Winston realized what was happening, he was stroking Samson off.

Samson groaned in relief, and steadied himself so he could slowly build up momentum to fuck Winston’s hand. If it had been a pussy, he would have destroyed it, Winston thought, an image that disgusted him intensely.

The raw hair scent of Samson’s cornrows and the faint soapiness of his deodorant assaulted Winston’s nostrils. Samson’s body heat was overwhelming, and seemed to grow palpably hotter by the second. Samson’s muscles all flexed and relaxed in sync, beads of sweat appearing on more and more of his body with every thrust of his hips.

A part of Winston wanted to turn and flee, but even more than that, he just wanted to fit in. He knew it was normal to be “on the downlow” around here, he just wished it didn’t come in this form. He felt Samson’s balls crawl up in his sac moments before cum came flying out.

It was an impossible amount, it seemed, more than Winston thought was normal. It flowed like piss, and it smelled astringent like it too. But it had the unmistakably sour smell of cum, and its scent seared its way into Winston’s nostrils.

It lubricated his fingers and dripped onto the floor. Winston bit his lip and looked down when he heard voices whispering and chuckling outside. This, he thought, this must be what those guys were laughing about. I bet all of them had to give Samson a handjob.

Samson moaned and whispered in Winston’s cheek. “Ignore those niggas. They’s jealous cuz I ain’t pick them.”

Ebony Downlow

Here’s a sample chapter from Ebony Downlow, the latest story in the Str8 Studs Downlow series.

 

The next day, Quincy had to take care of a few errands, the least pleasant of which was driving his mother to the bus station. He was glad to have her be out of town so she would call his brother for favors instead of him for a change, so once she was gone, he felt like his mood had improved already. He was just wondering if he could find Dwayne and get another taste of that Marine meat when he saw him standing there at the bus station with a girl.

She was a dark-haired woman with beautiful light skin, the color of creamy caramel; she was dressed down, in plain sweatpants and a gray t-shirt. She looked like the kind of girl who wore makeup most of the time, but not at the moment. She hugged Dwayne close with tears in her eyes, then turned around and got onto the bus idling nearby.

Quincy hurried away so it wouldn’t look like he was stalking them. He positioned himself so it looked like he was on his cell phone while waiting for a bus, but arranged himself so he could watch Dwayne, who straightened his Marine Corps dress uniform. It perfectly outlined his muscles, and Quincy could smell the starched, pressed cotton from here.

He saw Dwayne stand there as the bus pulled away, and then Quincy resumed walking as though only just now seeing him. Dwayne looked inconsolable, shifting his weight on his feet while watching the bus disappear in the city traffic.

“Oh, hey, Dwayne, what are you doing here?”

Dwayne shrugged and wiped his face. Had he been crying? It looked like he was struggling not to, and his stiff upper lip made Quincy even hornier. There was something about watching a muscle-bound alpha male hold back tears that made Quincy hot. Dwayne sniffled and straightened his back. “I just saw my girlfriend off. I was gonna spend time with her — we was gonna spend this whole week fucking like bunnies. I was gonna destroy her-“ he said softly, and grabbed his cock and balls through his uniform slacks. His shaft was momentarily outlined by the fabric, which gave Quincy an enormous and uncomfortable erection. Dwayne didn’t seem to notice Quincy’s reaction; he just kept talking. “But then… her aunt just died. So, she’s gone, she gonna spend the next week with her parents in fucking Philadelphia.”

“Oh, you poor baby,” Quincy said. “Did she at least get you off before she went?” Quincy already knew the answer to that question, but he had the feeling that he could get Dwayne to put out again if he played his cards right.

“No.” Dwayne made a guilty face. “She wasn’t in the mood anymore… I promised her I’d be true to her, man, and she said she’d take care of me. I just have to get my nuts off. I’m in a hurry though, can you… just gimme a handie?”

“I’d love to.” Quincy darted into the public bathroom, and into the handicapped stall. Dwayne looked around, vaguely disgusted, but he followed Quincy into the stall. It stank and there was graffiti everywhere; there was also the remnant of a glory hole in the stall wall, but it had been filled in with plaster some time ago.

Quincy stuck his hand down Dwayne’s sagging slacks. His dick was already rock-hard, uncomfortably imprisoned by his green Marine-issued boxers. That was why he was so desperate, Quincy thought, his girlfriend gave him a boner and then left. What a poor sport! Quincy wouldn’t have let a funeral get in the way of satisfying sexy men; he wouldn’t have attended the funeral of a person who didn’t want him to treat every moment as if it would be his last.

His dick throbbed, oozing precum from the moment Quincy touched it. He must have been very horny, Quincy thought, with all those pent-up boot camp urges. The more he thought about it, the more he wished he could go see what Dwayne’s time at boot camp had been like; it sounded like the sexiest thing Quincy had ever failed to watch. Dwayne sighed. His shaft was slick with sweat and creamy fluids, which Quincy smeared up and down as he began stroking.

A part of him wanted to take Dwayne’s cock out of his pants, but he thought this was even sexier somehow — there was something primal about it, as though Dwayne was so incredibly horny he couldn’t wait for the time it took his pants to fall down. The moist, sweaty interior of Dwayne’s pants was like a jungle that rained machismo instead of water, and Quincy felt like he could almost taste that salty, musty flavor through his fingers.

Dwayne’s thick, Marines Corp-sculpted body shook beneath his clothes. His muscles trembled and his knees buckled. He moaned so loudly Quincy wondered if people outside the bathroom could hear.

“Wait… Uh,” Dwayne said, hyperventilating. Quincy had never seen someone have such an intense reaction to a handjob, and he had to giggle at Dwayne’s contorting face and writhing body. Dwayne struggled to speak between jagged breaths. “Wait, don’t let me… uh… cum in… uniform pants,” he said.

Quincy laughed and undid the zipper on his tightly pressed slacks. Dwayne’s cock stuck straight out the fly, just seconds before the first wad of cum flew out. Quincy used one hand to stroke the shaft, and collecting the cum in the palm of his other hand.

He lifted the puddle of cum up to his mouth, inhaling of the sharp and acrid odor. He heard Dwayne open his eyes, then moan in disgust at the sight of Quincy savoring his cum.

“Ah, man, that is some faggy shit,” Dwayne said. Then he muttered an apology. “I mean, it don’t matter. I ain’t… homophobic no more.”

Quincy slurped down every drop, and licked his palm clean. Dwayne shuddered as though he could taste it, then tucked his limp dick back in his uniform slacks and walked out.

Honkies Downlow

This is a sample chapter from Honkies Downlow, a great new story by Calvin Freeman!

Kwami had realized he might be the only black guy working at the lumber mill, but he was desperate for a job and he figured it couldn’t possibly be that bad. It was Maine, after all, not Kentucky, and the company who owned the mill was based out of Oslo, Norway. So he felt reasonably safe about it — it may be awkward and difficult, but what first day on the job wasn’t? It wouldn’t be the first time he was the only black man around.

When he got to the mill, just after noon, no one was there. He thought they might be out to lunch, so he wandered around, searching for the lunch room. The equipment sat in the center of the main room, big steel behemoths covered in sawdust and grease. Kwami had worked in other factories, but never a mill, so he didn’t recognize most of the equipment.

He could see how it worked, at least in broad strokes. They received giant logs of wood and cut them down into various sizes and shapes depending on what was needed at the time. It was a simple enough process, he thought, and if it was anything like the other factories he had worked in, he’d be slapping labels on boxes and pushing a broom around for his first couple months anyway.

“Hello?!” he called out. He grew nervous that he was breaking a rule already, that he’d get fired for being on the work floor without a supervisor. He couldn’t get fired on his first day, that would be a disaster. He passed a photo of the smiling employees all gathered around the sign outside — a dozen white men with gleaming smiles, Kwami saw.

There was noise beyond one door, Kwami heard voices and laughter. He hesitated — the door had a sign that read Locker Room. He pushed it open and walked in. They must be coming back from lunch, he thought, or about to leave for it, or maybe a shift change, that might be why they asked him to come in at noon.

There they were, looking up at him as though he had walked in on them murdering a rival. A dozen white men stared at him. Kwami could tell they were surprised to see a black man in front of them. They were all around Kwami’s age or maybe a bit younger, most of them grizzled and strongly redneck-looking, with tattoos and body hair peeking out from their loose clothes. They wore mostly jeans and tight-fitting t-shirts, many of them sleeveless and showing off thick biceps — no one was undressed, so Kwami guessed they were just passing the time until coming back from lunch. Kwami had always been strong, but he wasn’t sure he would seem too muscular next to these guys — he wondered if working alongside them in the mill would mean he’s going to look like that.

“Hello, you must be Kwami,” said one of them. He bit his lip nervously, and Kwami had the impression he was worried he’d say something racist.

“Yep,” Kwami said. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, come on in,” he said. “You got here at an odd moment. We have a sort of a daily tradition. You don’t have to join in if you don’t want to. It’s not required. We’ve just been doing it for decades.”

“Oh, okay,” Kwami said. “Tradition is very important, I think.”

“It’s a circlejerk,” said the man. “Come on over and pull it out. Let’s see if black men live up to their reputation.”

Kwami was about to say no; his blood ran cold at the thought of doing something so personal on his first day. He had no desire to join in on a circlejerk — he had left that kind of stuff behind in high school. But he had a big cock and wanted to show off, and besides, he wanted to be accepted by the white men, and he had already said he valued tradition. He had literally told them one thing about himself, he couldn’t just go back on it right away.

And so he found himself joining in, the one dark dick in a circle of twelve white wangs. He reached around the bushy crotch of one beefy redneck, Ben, who had a surprisingly girthful cock. Kwami felt vaguely nauseous as he wrapped one hand around it. Ben smelled bad, not real strong, but the scent of the day’s sweat was noticeable, or maybe, Kwami thought, it was just the smell of bare crotches in a stale locker room.

Nobody mentioned Kwami’s big cock, which made him feel good about it. Not addressing it was drawing even more attention to it, he thought — he had a feeling that they usually made fun of rookies for having small cocks, regardless of how small they were. Teasing Kwami would draw attention to the fact that he was, in fact, larger than they were.

Ben’s barrel chest shook as he got hard. He wasn’t built like a bodybuilder, but he was strong, with massive meat on his bones, beefy biceps and a chest that writhed like a barrel of snakes as he got hard beneath Kwami’s fingers.

Kwami’s anxiety dwindled as one man reached around his dick and began stroking it. This was Paul, the one swarthy, Mediterranean type there — Kwami later learned he was French-Canadian. He was the closest thing to a minority in this whole mill, Kwami thought, or at least among the men.

His dick got hard in Paul’s hand, and his practiced arm made it almost possible for Kwami to forget about the white cock in his other hand. He had never touched a honky dick before, it felt clammier, spongier, even colder, he thought. Or that could just be Ben.

A few workers started cumming, and the smell of semen bloomed in the air. Awkward giggling filled the room and resonated in the tall-ceilinged locker room. The odor of other men’s cum always made Kwami feel ill. He wanted to stop, but knew he couldn’t — even if it wouldn’t make him look like an ass, he couldn’t stand to blue-ball himself.

Ben shot his load enthusiastically, bucking his hips along with Kwami’s stroking. Semen lubed up Kwami’s hand as cum shot across the floor. It happened so fast Kwami wasn’t even aware until he felt creamy, hot semen slipping between his fingers, and he had to cover up a sputtering choke by coughing.

“Oh yeah, that was like three feet,” Ben said as he gathered his breath. These men apparently competed on how far they could shoot; a few others had bragged about distance as well. Kwami had no idea how far he shot, but he thought it was pretty far. He had never competed for distance anyway.

His orgasm came quickly after, and Kwami was glad not to be last. He flexed his hips at the last second to increase his trajectory. A shudder of tense sexual energy ran up his spine as Kwami moaned and grunted. Cum flew across the room, and men on the other side of the circle had to dodge it.

They all laughed as Kwami pumped his biceps and said “Six feet!” They clapped along with him. He felt a flood of relief that he hadn’t embarrassed himself.

“Welcome to the GOC 32A lumber mill,” Ben said, shaking his cum-lubed hand with Kwami’s. The feel of both men’s semen intermingling there made Kwami feel ill again, but he reassured himself that he’d be able to wash his hands soon. Ben leaned in to clap him on the back, and his heavy chest and moist cock pressed against Kwami’s torso. “You set a new mill record already!”

Gangstas Downlow

This is a sample chapter from Gangstas Downlow, a story in the Str8 Studs Downlow series.

The robbery went off without a hitch. Devon carried the bag; Mike drove. Within moments they had ditched the car in a garage, taken off the wigs and gotten in a different car. They changed their shoes — having worn five inch lifts during the operation so that their height would look different on camera.

Finally they were in Mike’s apartment, bag in hand. They both took a deep breath as though they hadn’t inhaled since walking into the liquor store. They heard sirens getting farther away and they both smiled. The cops must have thought they were running, and that was good.

Mike felt he should have been more relieved than he was. It was obvious they were going to get away with it in the short term, and he saw no reason to think they’d get caught later either. The police wouldn’t care about some liquor store holdup.

But despite his tension, Mike was bored. Devon was too, as evidenced by his pacing across the living room floor. The TV was on, but neither of them were watching it. Every few minutes one or the other would change the channel, but there was nothing even remotely compelling enough to distract them from their anxiety.

“We shoulda brought something to do,” Mike said. “We can’t go nowhere for two days at least, but we ain’t bring nothing to do.”

“I wish we could leave to find some pussy. That’d take my mind off things,” Devon said.

“Pussy always talks,” Mike said with a sigh. That was a motto among their buddies in the Nine Tats — don’t ever get girls involved. It had always served Mike well. It was a pretty ironclad rule among their gangbangers (with some exceptions for particularly bad-ass female gangstas, they weren’t the point, the rule was aimed at girlfriends only). Going to ground after a successful operation was another strictly upheld rule. No matter how minor the plan, if you committed a felony, you had to stay in a safehouse for at least two days. Someone high up had studied it — if you don’t get seen and questioned in the first two days, you probably won’t get convicted. So hide, motherfuckers, every single time. It seemed like a silly rule, but now that it applied to him, Mike believed in it like a superstitious idol. He even talked low just in case there were neighbors around to hear.

“Well, I need to get my nut off,” Devon said. “You ever fuck around on the downlow?”

“Only in prison,” Mike said. That wasn’t strictly true, but it was close enough. He didn’t intend to let Devon know the truth.

“If we got a choice between going to prison because we go find some pussy who ids us to the cops, or sucking some dick on the downlow, I vote we go downlow,” Devon said.

“Damn nigga, we ain’t even desperate yet,” Mike said. “It’s been like an hour.”

“An hour since the robbery, I was so nervous I ain’t fuck my bitch last night, or the night before,” Devon said. “Been like three days, motherfucker.”

“Alright, might as well. We ain’t got shit else to do” Mike said. He stood up and sighed. He didn’t want to look defensive about this, or else Devon would probably think he was embarrassed about his cock size. He undid his belt and let his jeans drop — he wanted to take them off anyway, as he always hung out in shorts and a t-shirt when he was at home.

“You wasn’t hard to convince,” Devon said with a smirk.

Mike shrugged. “If we’re gonna do it, let’s do it,” he said. He dropped his shorts to reveal a thick, hanging cock between his legs. Devon looked away as though it might bite him, then he took off his clothes as well.

“Take turns or sixty-nine?” Devon asked. “Don’t matter to me.”

“Let’s sixty-nine,” Mike said. He trusted Devon about everything important, like not squealing to the police, but he wasn’t so sure about reciprocating a blowjob after Mike had done likewise.

Devon nodded and laid down on the bed, motioning for Mike to join him. Mike was glad to be on top. He straddled Devon’s chest, feeling his body warmth and his nervous trembling.

Devon’s cock was fat, dark and sticking out straight. It looked oddly appealing to Mike, who had never even thought about liking men. But somehow in those few moments before they began, Mike wanted nothing more than to suck that cock. He even forget about his anxiety over the robbery and the possibility that they’d be going to prison soon enough.

He opened his mouth to take Devon’s cock in, but was surprised at the last moment by his own dick feeling suddenly warm and moist. He gasped in shock at how good it felt, and his dick stirred to attention in Devon’s mouth.

Sensing that Devon was getting frustrated, Mike dived down onto his dick. The taste of sweaty manflesh flooded his senses, and Mike felt an involuntary choking as the black cock pressed into his throat. He already regretted agreeing to this; he wasn’t even that horny, and now things would be weird between them forever.

It was too late now, though, and Mike’s body was still gung ho about it. His hard cock leaked precum down Devon’s throat, and it felt good enough Mike could almost forget about the taste of precum coating his own tongue.

Mike wondered at the last second whether he was expected to pull out or not. He assumed yes, because no straight man would want to swallow cum. But he didn’t think of that until was too late, while he shot his first load of creamy cum down Devon’s throat.

A wave of pleasure washed over him, the anxiety over the robbery melting away. Mike sighed even around the dick in his throat, and his back shuddered at the power of the orgasm overwhelming his senses. He grunted loud enough not to notice Devon making similar sounds.

Mike was surprised that Devon hadn’t react to Mike’s nut in his mouth, but Mike realized why seconds later. Devon was distracted by his own orgasm, which sprayed cum into Mike’s gullet.

The sticky hot goo covered Mike’s insides, and coated his tongue so all he could taste was sour-sweet cum. He gagged and pulled away, his own orgasm diminishing quickly as he held onto his stomach. Devon had a similar reaction, spitting a big wad of cum, spit and pubic hair into the trash can by the bed.

“Alright,” Devon said, avoiding eye contact with Mike. “I guess we better settle in. We might be hiding out here awhile.”

The Perfect Specimen of Pimp Came Through the Honky Hotel

This is a sample chapter from The Perfect Specimen of Pimp Came Through the Honky Hotel, a story by Forrest Manacre.

Adrian was nervous about the pimp outside the hotel. He worked at the Whiteland Hotel and was alone on the front desk. The Whiteland was known as a place for whores to ply their trade, but usually they had the good sense and courtesy to find clients farther away. If the pimp and his whores got busted outside the hotel, it would kill business for a couple days at least.

So Adrian had to ponder whether he should call the police. He didn’t want to attract attention or get himself in trouble for snitching, so he thought perhaps he should go out there and talk to the pimp. But he was working alone, aside from two maintenance guys who were nowhere to be seen.

How dangerous was the pimp? Adrian could see him clearly on a security camera. He was white, and dusky-skinned — maybe Italian or Greek, Adrian thought — and he had dark hair slicked back. He wore a brilliant red and gold suit, carried a gold cane and had a ring on each finger. He smiled a lot and seemed friendly to his potential customers, Adrian thought, but how kindly would he take to being told to move away?

Adrian’s heart pounded as the man walked into the front lobby. Had he seen Adrian staring at him? He wasn’t sure, but he hoped not.

“Yo,” said the pimp, “You ain’t callin’ the cops on me, right?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Adrian said. He didn’t want to sound too eager to deny it. It wouldn’t be plausible to pretend he hadn’t even thought of it. Dial it back, Adrian, he told himself over and over. “The Whiteland Hotel exercises great discretion, sir. I should warn you that my boss prefers the entire parking lot-”

The pimp held his hand up, and Adrian stopped. He had a big hand, and his corded arm muscles were apparent even through the colored suit. “I don’t wanna hear it. I’m only gonna be around at night anyway. So long as you and me is cool, I ain’t gotta worry, right?”

“Yeah, we’re cool. We’re cool,” Adrian said.

“Lemme give you a freebie,” he said. He pointed to the whores outside. “Which one you like best?”

“Oh, uh… I’m…”

The man frowned. “You queer?”

Adrian nodded.

Darkie shrugged. “Your loss. I got good bitches.”

“I’m sure.”

He grabbed at his crotch. “You wanna suck me off?”

Adrian stammered. He didn’t quite answer, but Darkie apparently took that to mean yes. He nodded towards the backroom behind Adrian, then strode confidently past the check-in counter. Adrian caught a whiff of his body spray, which smelled cheap and musky, and it got Adrian’s blood pumping. He was so excited he had to suppress the urge to dance a little jig as he followed Darkie.

The backroom wasn’t totally safe, Adrian thought, since any employee could come in any time. They all had keys. But only the two maintenance workers were on duty, and they never had any reason to come into the office — they only had a key because they had a key to every door in the building.

The door slammed shut behind Adrian, who was crammed into the tiny space with Darkie. He turned around and crossed his arms over his chest as though he was stubbornly refusing to do anything else. Adrian hesitated, and Darkie flashed impatiently glaring eyes at him.

“Come on, I got business to take care of. If you wanna taste of my meat, get to tastin’, queerboy.”

He sunk to his knees and undid Darkie’s belt, letting his sagging jeans fall to the floor. He wore basketball shorts and then boxers under those, and a long, tasty-looking cock swung down. It was thick and girthful, lined with throbbing veins that were practically begging for Adrian to suck it.

He licked it first, from tip to root, and it burst into life. At nearly full erection, his cock swung back and forth as Darkie rotated his hips to slap Adrian in the face with it. He chuckled at every smack of his shaft onto Adrian’s cheek, leaving smears of sweaty musk behind.

Adrian wasn’t really a size queen, but he did love the meaty thickness of it. He swallowed Darkie’s cock and tried to do as good as he could, hoping maybe Darkie would allow him to do this again. He managed to suck off a few straight guys in his time with the Whiteland Hotel, and he knew he could be better than any woman.

“You wanna fuck my face?”

“Oh shit, you like that?” He sneered down, both disgust and excitement apparent on his face. He looked like he normally only ever facefucked someone as a punishment, and was confused by Adrian’s desire for it.

Adrian nodded.

Darkie rummaged around in the desk he leaned against, then pulled out a binder clip. He snapped it onto Adrian’s nose, and he yelped in pain. But Darkie just put one hand on Adrian’s chin and one on the top of his head.

“Take a deep breath. We gonna do this the right way, boi.”

Adrian did so.

Darkie rammed his dick all the way in, and chuckled when Adrian gagged up a thick clod of spit. It smeared down the shaft of Darkie’s cock and nestled in his pubic hair.

Clutching Darkie’s powerful legs, Adrian relaxed his throat the best he could. His nose was still in pain from the clip, but it didn’t seem to inhibit his sense of smell. He was overwhelmed by the musty sourness of precum and the sweaty musk of Darkie’s swinging ballsac.

“Alright now, here’s what’s gonna happen,” Darkie said. He didn’t stop fucking Adrian’s throat, he just kept talking at an even pace, as though nothing was happening and the air wasn’t filled with Adrian’s choking. “I’m gonna nut in a minute. I don’t like it when bitches spill my seed, so I wanna see you swallow it. I know this is a favor and all, but still… the Bible says it, and I try to follow that the best I can.”

He stopped moving then, holding his dick at maximum penetration in Adrian’s throat.

He grunted in a bestial, animalistic way and shuddered as an orgasm washed over him. Cum spurted down his gullet, wave after wave of creamy semen coating his insides. Darkie’s cock was so deep in his throat that Adrian sputtered most of it back up into his mouth, where the flavor of acrid sourness overwhelmed his senses.

Adrian choked but managed to swallow the cumload back down. He loved the taste and the hot thickness of it, sitting like a lump of burning coal in his gut.

Darkie wiped his slowly limpening cock off on Adrian’s face. He took a deep breath.

“Thanks, queerboy,” he said. “You should give blowjob lessons to my bitches.”

Muslims Downlow

This is a sample chapter from Muslims Downlow, a new story in the Str8 Studs Downlow series.

Malik’s heart raced as he saw his old friends on a stoop. They stared at him with an emotion that wasn’t exactly hostility, but wasn’t far from it either. He didn’t stop, but he said confidently and proudly, “Hey,” as he walked by.

They nodded at him. Their gold and platinum chains twinkled in the lamp-lit urban night. They drank from bottles wrapped in paper bags, bottles that Malik knew were sweet and thirst-quenching. He could imagine what they would taste like.

It was almost enough to make him regret his conversion. But not quite.

He knew that, while indulging in temptations had its own immediate rewards, he was going to win a better battle in the long run. He was going to stay out of prison and off the streets.

By the time he arrived at the mosque, his stress had vanished, replaced by certainty. That was what he loved about Islam — it gave him an answer to every dilemma. Before he had always worried about what he was doing, whether it was wrong, whether he had sufficient justification, or if God would punish him. Now he had a belief system that covered every possibility.

Unfortunately there was no imam at the mosque anymore, the last one having succumbed to cancer a few months before. They were a poor group of faithful, and could not afford to offer a living wage to anyone who would come. So for the time being, they worshiped the best they could amongst themselves, the tiny Muslim community of Asuncion, Texas.

The most educated Muslim there was Brother Omar, an Arab from Saudi Arabia who had wished to go to a madrasa and become an imam, but never had. He acted as a default imam as he was quite well-learned, and after the day’s service, Brother Omar invited Malik back to his home for tea, as he often did.

“It is difficult not having an imam,” Malik said. “In prison, I saw Imam Ibrahim every day, almost. I could ask him anything I wanted.”

“Is there something you wish to ask, Brother Malik? I can give you guidance in proper Islam to the best of my knowledge.”

“I… succumbed to temptation last weekend,” Malik said.

“What was it?”

“I went to a strip club. I didn’t mean to, I was just walking by. I told myself I’d go in, just to remind myself how dirty it was, how the girls weren’t really attractive…”

“Did that work?”

“No. One of them offered to suck my dick for eighty bucks, and I did it.”

“Did that make you feel better?”

“I guess…. No, it did not,” Malik said. He sighed. “I have prayed for forgiveness.”

“Have you performed wudu?”

“Yes,” Malik said.

“Do you truly regret your actions with the whore?”

“Yes.”

“It is normal for men to succumb to temptation. That’s why Allah wisely prohibits most of it. Of course, here in America, Islamic law does not hold sway,” he said, frowning. “You should write the whore a letter, apologizing for your actions and condemning hers. Do not send it, just write it.”

“Oh, okay,” Malik said. The more he thought about it, the more he thought that would help him feel better. “I’m still not sure it won’t happen again though. I wish I could move somewhere under Islamic law.”

“You are feeling very randy, yes?”

Malik didn’t understand what he meant at first, then remembered that Omar had been taught British English. He smiled. He had never heard anyone outside of Austin Powers, and imitators thereof, use the word randy. He nodded.

“I have often succumbed to similar temptations. That is one pitfall of living in America. It is easier in Saudi Arabia.”

“I would move there if I could.”

“Aye, as would I,” Brother Omar said. “I have these same urges as you. They are a part of the universal brotherhood of Islamic men. We can and should help each other to protect ourselves from impure influences.”

“How?”

“We can do it ourselves.”

“What?”

“If we trade each other’s blowjobs — what I believe you Americans call downlow — we can avoid fornication with whores and sluts. It is, of course, also a sin to lie with man, but it is a lesser sin, as there is no chance of illegitimate pregnancy. It is also certain that you will not do so unless you truly feel you can not avoid your urges any other way,” Brother Omar said. “It is okay if you do not want to.”

“No, you’re right. It’s better than the alternative.”

“If you are distracted by base urges, you will not be holy for hours. It is better to quickly discharge, perform wudu and continue with your holy living,” Brother Omar said. He stood up and took off his shirt and pants.

Malik was surprised. He had never thought such a thing would be allowed in Islam, but it did make sense. He had been on the downlow in prison, so the prospect of sucking a little dick didn’t phase him.

It wasn’t little though, he saw, trying to hide his amazement. Omar had a thick, long member dangling from a hairy bush. He was uncircumcised. He gave his own dick a few strokes, and Malik did likewise as he dropped his pants.

Malik was glad to see that Omar intended to go first. He got on his knees and pulled Malik’s cock out from the fly of his boxers, sucking it down in one fluid motion. He choked as the tip poked down his throat.

A feeling of intense pleasure washed up Malik’s spine. His toes curled and he felt his cock harden. A familiar calming fell over his body, and he remembered why he loved blowjobs so much.

Omar’s tongue caressed his shaft, licking up drops of precum. Malik moaned and guided Omar’s head up and down. His sense of shame vanished, replaced by a burgeoning pleasurable sensation, a familiar feeling of intense passion.

He shuddered, momentarily forgetting that he wasn’t a gangsta anymore. He slammed his dick deep down Omar’s throat like he would have done with a bitch, then felt bad and pulled out a little. He let Omar move up and down on his cockshaft.

Cum spurted out suddenly, and Malik grunted. He didn’t even think about pulling out — they never did in prison, after all. But as his orgasm made his knees weaken, Malik saw Omar gag. He shuddered and grunted with the climax washing over his muscles.

All of Malik’s load spat out over his shaft as Omar spat it up. He got up and looked down at Malik crossly.

“You’re not supposed to cum in your Islamic brother’s mouth.”

“Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to. That’s how it normally works in American downlow,” Malik said.

Omar nodded his understanding, though he still looked unhappy, and a bit queasy about it. He motioned for Malik to take his turn. He got down on his knees, opened his mouth and took it down. Back in prison, he would have hated this part, but now he rather liked working for forgiveness considering the sin he had just partook in. He knew Omar had been right — if he was with a woman, he would be overcome with passion for hours; this downlow action was enough to calm his nuts but not seriously challenge his devotion to Allah.

Arab cock tastes different from black cock, Malik thought, somehow saltier and more flavorful. He gagged a little just as Omar had, but he managed to avoid spitting up.

Omar got hard quickly, and the foul, sour taste of precum leaked into Malik’s tongue. It reminded him of prison, and all the terrible things he had witnessed there; that, in turn, reminded him of why had become Muslim. He submitted there, as stoic and placid as he could, repeating prayers in his mind since his mouth was full.

Omar said something in Arabic just before he came. His toes curled and he held Malik’s head in place, face-fucking him.

Semen leaked out past his lips. Malik knew he couldn’t complain about the facefucking even though he hated it, since he had done the same thing when it was his turn. The sour and salty flavor of cum coated his tongue and throat.

Malik spat a wad of spit and semen out onto his hand, and gagged a few more times as Omar pulled away. They both stood and silently got dressed again.

“Thank you, Brother Malik,” Omar said. “I will feel much better after wudu and a prayer.”