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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?”

“Uh-“

“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.

Downlow Thugs at the City Barbershop

Here’s a sample from Downlow Thugs at the City Barbershop, a novelette about ebony black thugs on the downlow!

Being the only gay man at a City Barbershop location came with a few perks for Jackson. Firstly, it meant any time a guy needed a serious haircut for a serious occasion — prom, marriage, album cover photo shoot, etc — he went with the gay barber, and that meant high tips. The classiest pimps and dealers usually asked for the gay barber as well, and they were good tippers too.

Even more importantly for Jackson, however, he benefited from being the only gay man at this City Barbershop because it meant he was always the one niggas went to if they needed some action on the downlow. That gave Jackson right of first refusal to basically every hot straight thug’s dick in the neighborhood.

And sometimes, a different neighborhood entirely. Like Darren Harvey. Jackson didn’t know who he was at first — like most of the sauntering thugs with hardcore gleams in their eye, he sat down in Jackson’s chair. There was no wait, but Jackson got the feeling he would not have waited for his turn anyway.

As he explained what he wanted, in a pimpish leer that commanded respect and suggested that he expected to be treated as an authority figure, Jackson got started, wondering if he was going to ask for a blowjob later (he had that blowjobby-look in his eyes). Jackson overhead his fellow barbers and a few other patrons: just a few scattered words at first, including Darren Harvey.

It was only then that Jackson realized he was cutting the hair of one of the feared enforcers for the Nine Tats. He was a local legend around here, rumored to have killed a cop and nobody-even-knew how many dealers. Jackson pretended to drop his scissors so he could take a moment to catch his breath.

When he lifted his head, Darren was making eye contact with him. He nodded and sneered, eyes running up and down Jackson’s body. His hand moved underneath the apron, like he was playing with his dick through his sagging jeans.

The signal was unmistakeable. Jackson hurried through the rest of the haircut, took his money (and a forty-percent tip), then motioned towards the backroom. He normally tried to be discrete, but the entire shop had fallen silent. It was obvious what was happening. Regardless, Jackson thought, his boss, Tyrell Greene, wasn’t in the frontroom, so it didn’t matter how discrete he was at the moment.

The backroom was warm, humid and dingy. It smelled a bit of spiderwebs, Jackson thought, and like barbicide ever since an entire box of the stuff had been dropped a few months ago. It shattered on the floor and filled the building with its medicinal disinfectant scent.

Darren stood and walked slowly. Jackson made sure Tyrell was in his office with the door closed. Tyrell knew what happened here, and he allowed it, but he didn’t like it one bit. He would have gotten mad if he saw it happening, so Jackson led Darren to the storage closet, where the door could be shut — that way even if Tyrell did come out of his office, he wouldn’t see anything.

“You deep-throat, right, nigga?” Darren asked. He ran his tongue between his lower lip and his gum. His hand caressed Jackson’s chin, teasing his lips apart. Despite the questioning nature of his words, it didn’t sound like Darren was willing to take no for an answer. Luckily, this was exactly the part of his job that Jackson loved the most.

Jackson nodded. His heart thumped. He wasn’t really scared that Darren would hurt him — this would be far too obvious a location, and besides that, Darren was a businessman-thug. He killed people who got in his way, not just people who annoyed him.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t hurt Jackson, not that Jackson had any desire to turn this down. He loved straight swaggery thugs like Darren, so he sunk to his knees. He closed the door behind himself and pulled Darren’s dick out through the fly of his jeans. It was girthy and juicy, with thick veins running along its length. It smelled of male underwear and cheap soap, which made Jackson’s own cock hard.

“Nah,” Darren said, stopping him from closing the door all the way. “Leave it open.”

Jackson wanted to ask why, but Darren looked at him in a way that suggested he wouldn’t entertain any questions. Jackson licked lips and swallowed the man’s thick brown dick, going as deep as he could.

Darren groaned as though he had been waiting a long time for this. He slammed his fist against the wall. He laughed and clapped his hands together. He seemed to be trying to make a lot of noise.

Sure enough, seconds later, Tyrell opened his office door. He was a burly middle-aged man with a hairy chest and a grizzled chin. He was sexy in a older-daddy kind of way, but he had never let Jackson touch his meat.

“Aw, fuckin’ Jackson, nigga, close the damn door!” he said. He straightened up and blanched when he saw that it was Darren who fed his cock down Jackson’s gullet.

“Nah, Tyrell,” Darren said. “Stay here for a second. I got somet’ing to say to you.” He closed his eyes and began humping Jackson’s face, his gold chains shimmering as he moved beneath the solitary lightbulb of the storage closet. His muscles flexed under the sagging jeans and fly shirt, and his jaw roiled with sexual energy.

“I don’t wanna watch this,” Tyrell said, but he didn’t move away.

“Tough. I got somethin’ you need to know,” Darren said. “Next month, I’m gonna be comin’ back to see you. I expect a blowjob from this nigga right here — or some other nigga equally good — and I expect a thousand dollars in cash.”

“You extortin’ me?”

“That’s right, nigga,” he said. “I bet you can guess what’ll happen if you don’t pay. But I’ll give you a hint — it ends with this place burnin’ to the ground with at least one nigga in it and plenty of evidence making it look like you done it.”

Jackson found it difficult to listen as his face was ground into Darren’s crotch. Since he had never even dropped his pants, that meant Jackson’s nose was nestled in his boxers, and his chin dragged against the fly of his jeans. The more menacing Darren became, the more his dick spasmed, as though Darren was turned on by the fear he generated in Tyrell and Jackson. He laughed at Jackson’s frenzied choking — which Jackson deliberately exaggerated because he knew Darren would fuck him more and more violently until it was authentically frenzied choking, so it was better to be pretend he was at his limits now.

“Don’t forget, nigga,” Darren said as he groaned. Then his balls crawled up in his sac, and he sprayed cum down Jackson’s throat.

The creamy flavor overwhelmed Jackson, who loved every moment of it, even as he sputtered and gagged some more. He was even turned on by the disgust he could feel radiating of Tyrell behind him. Darren moaned and pulled out mid-orgasm, so he could spray his cum over Jackson’s face. It looked like he angled his hips to aim for Tyrell, who dodged away easily. Darren laughed anyway. Warmth suffused Jackson’s body as he shot his own load in his pants at the same time. This was one of the sexiest work-blowjobs he had given in a long time, he thought to himself as he cleaned Darren’s dick off.

But Jackson also felt bad about the extortion. He wished there was something he could do to help, but all he could do was let those thick black balls drain their load down his throat. Darren seemed to enjoy that, so Jackson thought he might as well do his best.

Darren pulled off and pushed Jackson to the side. He glared at Tyrell and walked past him with his dick still out, taking great care to let it drag over Tyrell’s thigh.

“Remember, a blowjob and a grand. Next month,” Darren said. He kissed Tyrell on the cheek, his limp, moist cock resting against Tyrell’s pants. Tyrell winced, and Darren laughed before tucking his meat away and walking back to the frontroom. Conversation stopped out there when he opened the door. “Later, niggas,” was all he said.

Servicing a Basketball Team

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Servicing a Basketball Team, a new story in the Servicing Black Groups series of extreme str8core-worshiping gay erotica!  It’s also available for less than a dollar a story in the Complete Servicing Black Groups Series bundle!

 

“Okay, guys, I know this isn’t fun,” Stan said. “But it is important. You won’t be able to play basketball your whole lives, so the money you make now needs to work for you for a long time to come.”

The team sat in front of him in the locker room. Stan would have rather done this in a more formal environment, but Coach Willamette had said that if you take the players somewhere else, like Stan’s office, after the game, a lot of them will sneak away. You gotta git ‘em when they still in the locker room, Coach Willamette had said.

“Alright, before we talk about your options, let’s go over some terminology,” Stan said. “First off, risk. I’m sure you all use the word risk, but in finance it’s a very important concept. All investment is about balancing risk, and-“ Once he got into the flow, he could tune out any distractions; he had perfect tunnel vision for this presentation. After having given this exact spiel plenty of times, he had it more or less memorized.

But he was mid-monologue when he realized most of the team wasn’t paying attention. They were either on their phones or chatting with each other; one was distractedly rolling a joint.

“Hey, gentlemen, shut the fuck up!” Coach Willamette barked, his voice weary as though he shouldn’t have to say this. He jumped in front of Stan and barked at the players. They did shut up, but they glared at Coach Willamette, whose chestnut brown skin gleamed as he stared his team down. “This is an important presentation, and y’all gots to hear e’ry word of it.

A long pause followed. Stan wasn’t sure if this was normal, or if the players were seriously challenging Coach Willamette’s authority. Coach responded as though he expected them all to follow his commands without hesitation, and was offended when they looked at him like a crazy person for telling them what to do. There was a few rebellious snickers, and someone muttered, shut that ol’ nigga up.

“Get in the sauna!” Willamette said. “Now!”

The players groaned but stood. They clucked their tongues against their teeth as they sauntered away. More than a few glared at Coach Willamette as though they considered punching him, but decided not to go through with it.

Stan blushed and bristled. Was that it? Had he given up on the presentation and decided to just skip it? Did Coach Willamette think Stan was so useless as to make the presentation irrelevant? Stan was surprised how little of a chance he got — he basically hadn’t been able to grab their attention in the first thirty seconds, and Coach Willamette had just given right up? That didn’t seem fair.

Then Coach Willamette’s hefty hand clasped Stan’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, hoss, they ain’t wanna pay attention to nobody. You can give your spiel in a sauna, right?”

“Uh… in a sauna?”

“They’ll be naked, you comfortable wit’ that? You ain’t gotta be naked too. I mean… you can’t really go in there in a suit, you gonna get heat stroke fo’ real. But you can go in their in yer drawers,” Willamette said, walking away.

Stan’s heart started pounding. He was an openly gay man — though he wasn’t sure Coach Willamette knew that — so he certainly didn’t mind hanging out in a sauna with a bunch of naked basketball players. But would they mind if he was in there? What if he got a hardon?

The boisterous chatting of the players made it easy for him to find the sauna, which was down the hall at the far end of the locker room. Stan patiently folded his clothes up and left them on the bench outside the sauna. He kept his boxer shorts and a t-shirt on, since he knew his body would look pitiful in comparison to the players’. He wasn’t in bad shape, but he was skinny and short.

Yo, Coach, where dat white man at? My balls is stickin’ to my thighs, nigga! I gots bitches begging me to cum over, man! Let’s hurry dis shit up!

Urban Downlow

Here’s a new sample from Urban Downlow, the latest story in the Str8 Studs Downlow series! It’s about hardcore black str8 men on the downlow!

 

Paul was nervous, but confident. He had never lived in an urban area before. He was from the Eastern Shore, and now found himself constantly feeling out-of-place here in Charm City — Baltimore. Of course he had hardly felt at home back in Caroline County either, where he was one of only a handful of black people, and the only one in the whole county who was openly gay. There were only two other openly gay guys that he knew of in all of Caroline County, and they were a pair of old fat white queers who had been together for decades.

So he figured that anything was better than that peculiarly rural, gay form of loneliness. His uncle had set him up with a place to live in Baltimore, and he even found himself hanging out with some of the neighbors. They didn’t know he was gay, however, and Paul had scrupulously managed to avoid any obvious knowledge of their gangbanging. He didn’t want to be a thug, after all, that wasn’t why he had come to Baltimore.

The first friend he made in the area was his across-the-hall neighbor, a young fashionable man named Raheim. They didn’t have a lot in common, but Raheim was outgoing and friendly, and Paul didn’t think he was in a position to complain about their lack of shared interests. Raheim talked incessantly about clothes and hashtags and other subjects about which Paul had no interest. He feigned it the best he could. Paul was desperate enough to make friends in the city that he could pretend to be interested in that stuff.

While Raheim seemed friendly and safe enough, some of his friends were openly thuggish, and Raheim seemed more discrete, but not more law-abiding. Paul found their presence distinctly awkward. He was not raised to be a gangsta.

This party tonight’s gonna be bangin’. Gonna have like thirty girls there — just as soon as they done counting those dolla bills, yo.

They gonna put out?

What the fuck kinda nigga you think I am? What’s the point of bitches if they ain’t gonna put out?

Paul was not comfortable with that kind of talk. His momma had raised him to respect women, and he could never call any female a bitch. Not even the bitchy ones. It just felt too wrong.

But he was desperate for acceptance, so he agreed to come to the party. Raheim promised that it would be fun, and that he’d get laid. Paul respected women, but he was as sex-loving as any red-blooded American male. If he could get some female companionship tonight, it would be his first time since moving to Baltimore. He’d really feel like one of Raheim’s niggas, not just a neighbor who happened to be friendly.

When Paul arrived at the party that night, he was confident, but nervous. He was also apparently early, he thought when he walked in Raheim was there, with his friends Jordan and Malik, but there were no girls.

“Hey,” Raheim said. He was dour, disappointed, and Paul instantly knew there were no girls coming.

Raheim explained slowly. The girls had been counting money when the police busted in and arrested them. It shouldn’t end up being a big deal because the women were all officially employed by some hair salon, which was a front for money laundering (or so Paul surmised). The money was going to be attributed to the salon, rather than… Raheim didn’t specify what the money actually came from, but Paul assumed it was drugs.

“So we ain’t got no females till tomorrow, or maybe even not until Monday,” Raheim said. He nodded to his friends, Jordan and Malik, who were on their phones. It sounded like they were trying to get some girls to show up, and judging from the mounting frustration in their voices, they weren’t succeeding.

Nah, we can’t do nothin’ like that. The cops took all the money. We gonna get it back, but not for a couple months. We can’t do no drugs cuz there’s prolly cops watching, and maybe listenin’… No, we don’t got no drugs anyway, obviously. My uncle’s hair salon needs-

Come on, baby, you know I’ll treat you right. I’ll tell everyone here, no one calls you a bitch. I’ll beat they ass if they call you a bitch.

Raheim sighed. He was rolling up a blunt — despite Malik’s words about not having any drugs — that was obviously said for the benefit of whatever cops might have been listening in — and watching his friends beg girls to come over. Eventually he lit the blunt, and Malik and Jordan sat there on the couch.

“Damn, if I could just get some coke tonight, I can get that stripper to come over. Emerald, man. That chick is slammin’. But if I call Reggie to get coke-“

Hairback Appreciation Society: Convict Worship

Here’s a sample chapter from a new series, the Hairback Appreciation Society. This one is called Convict Worship, and it’s the incredible story of Rufus, a hairback lover who worships a convict alpha male fresh out of prison. It’s also part of the Brutewood Correctional Facility.

 

Rufus’ heart started pounding from the moment he saw men file past the prison gates. This is really happening, he realized, I am about to find the sexiest hairback around! He didn’t see the one he was looking for at first, but when he did, Rufus almost fainted.

He was Wendell “Thumper” White, a former pro-boxer who was finally leaving prison. He was not extremely tall, but he was thick and wide-bodied, not sculpted like he used to be yet still retaining all the power of his pro-athlete days. Rufus had arranged to pick him up and take care of him, but hadn’t given Thumper any information on who he was or why. Thumper, for his part, gave little indication that he cared. He seemed to just assume that Rufus was from some sort of halfway home.

Rufus waved to him and approached to shake his hand. Thumper just shrugged, shook and hopped in the passenger seat of Rufus’ car.

“Hello, Mr. White,” Rufus said. “I-“

“Thumper.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Call me Thumper. Not Mr. White,” he said.

“Oh, okay, sure. Thumper it is.”

“Whatchoo want from me?”

“Well… I’ve heard that you were in need of a place to stay. I-“

“What’s in it fo’ you? You a cop? I won’t snitch, man.”

“No, I’m not a cop. I just want to service you. I want to lick every inch of your body. I want to suck your dick and your ass and your balls-“ Rufus wasn’t usually this blunt, but he got the impression Thumper liked being direct.

“I ain’t queer,” Thumper said, in a way that suggested he was fine with Rufus’ plan, he just wanted to be sure Rufus knew it would be one-sided. In truth, Rufus only liked bottoming, he wouldn’t want to be with Thumper if Thumper was versatile.

“I know,” Rufus said. “I heard you were flexible behind bars, that you like fucking slim, hairless twinks. That’s me.”

“I don’t take dick.”

“Oh, I know. I wouldn’t want you to. I’m a bottom,” Rufus said. He didn’t live far away from the prison, so they were already pulling into his driveway. His heart nearly pounded out of his chest — there were so many ways an arrangement like this could go wrong, he thought, and so few it could go right.

“You like prison cock?”

Rufus nodded. “I love it.”

“You like black cock?”

“Love that too.”

Thumper smiled. “Alright, but if I’m gonna let some queer paw all over me, we doin’ things my way. Gimme money too.”

Rufus frowned. “Well, I don’t have any cash…”

“You can go get some later,” Thumper said. He got out of the car and walked with Rufus to the front door. Thumper leaned over and whispered in Rufus’ ear, “You gonna worship me?”

“Yes.”

Thumper sneered in disgust. He looked around for neighbors as Rufus unlocked the front door, then Thumper grabbed Rufus by the head. He pulled on his hair until Rufus’ whole body tensed up. Thumper sneered at him. “If you gonna be my bitch, you gonna act like a bitch, a female dog. A bitch decide what kinda man she like by sniffin’ his ass. So get on yer knees and smell my ass, bitch.”

Rufus blushed but did as he was told. Thumper wore lime-green basketball shorts which sagged low to reveal a bare asscrack covered in thick, kinky black hair. Rufus inserted his nose into the sweaty crack and inhaled deeply.

“Yeah, smell yo’ daddy real good, bitch.”

The smell was overpowering, musky and it made his eyes water. Rufus inhaled again as Thumper scoffed, then strutted inside. Rufus had to scamper behind him to keep his nose ensconced in Thumper’s hairy crack. Thumper grinned. “When you’s about to leave, they don’t let you stay in yo’ cell. They make you be in solitary for a couple days,” he said. “So I ain’t had a bitch in a bit.”

“You must be horny as hell, you poor baby… You want me to put on some straight porn?” Rufus asked.

“Hell yeah. Put on something wit’ a white bitch gettin’ double-teamed,” Thumper said. “I’ll take a shower.”

Rufus stood up, then blurted out, “No!” He hesitated as Thumper bristled at being given an order. “I mean… I want to lick the prison off you.”

“Oh, you one of them nasty kind of faggot?”

Rufus nodded. “The nastier the better.” He bent over his computer and hurried to a free porn site he knew of — he didn’t have any straight porn, so it took him a few minutes to find one.

Thumper started grabbing at his ass in a decidedly prison-rough way — he was crude and forceful, and he growled as though having trouble not raping Rufus right then and there. Stripping his shirt off, Thumper shoved one hand down the back of Rufus’ pants and jabbed a finger into his asshole.

“You my bitch?”

“Yes,” Rufus clicked play. He wasn’t sure this was a long enough video, but he was suddenly too horny to focus. It would have to do. It didn’t seem Thumper was paying much attention anyway.

“Who owns yo’ ass?”

“You do.”

“Say my name.”

“Thumper owns my ass,” Rufus said.

“That’s right,” Thumper said.

Rufus turned around and kissed his bare bicep. He tasted of dust and sweet and stainless steel, the flavor of prison, Rufus thought, distilled into one musky flavor that Rufus couldn’t get enough of. Thumper flexed his arm and chuckled at Rufus’ aroused reaction.

Diving into one armpit, Rufus inhaled deeply. The overpowering sweat hit his nostrils like an acrid train, and Rufus moaned with pleasure. He suckled each hair in Thumper’s armpit, marveling at how thick the hairs were, how kinky and curled, and how much of his own manhood had been trapped there over the years. It was strong enough to make Rufus’ eyes water.

He licked around to Thumper’s back, tasting each hair as he went. He licked the man’s back from shoulder to the top of his asscrack, going back up and down, kneeling to get as low as he could then standing on his toes to get up on top of his shoulder.

Thumper shuddered; he was a little ticklish, it seemed. He chuckled dryly. “You really is nasty. I made one of my bitches do this a couple years ago. Cried the whole fucking time.”

“He’s an idiot.”

Thumper nodded. “Yep, that he is. You don’t mind that my back’s hairy?”

“Mind? I love it. That was one of the things that drew me to you,” he said.

“All the young cats in my cell say I gotta get my bitch to shave my back,” he said. “They said you can’t leave prison with a hairy back. It’ll look bad to everyone outside the gang. You’ll never get a chick.”

“Not everyone gets it,” Rufus said. “Specially women.” He normally didn’t lick anyone’s back this long, but the more Thumper made a big deal out of it, the more he didn’t want to stop. He did move to the small of Thumper’s back and worked on slathering every inch of that with his spit.

“You know what to do,” Thumper murmured softly as he dropped his pants. He had hairy trunk-like thighs, and Rufus gave them each a quick lick. But it was obvious that Thumper wanted a rimjob. He bent over the couch and stuck his round, hairy ass in the air right in front of Rufus’ face.

He dove right in and licked the sweat out of Thumper’s asscrack. His tongue left a trail right through the center of his ass, while Rufus used both hands to separate the cheeks. Thumper’s dark asshole beckoned like a tasty treat.

He plunged in, and tasted a direct feed of Thumper’s essence. It was like chugging a beer made of musk, he thought, and the grimy, hairiness of Thumper’s ass made it even hotter.

Thumper growled and grunted and his muscular body writhed as though Rufus’ tongue was painful. He howled and bit his lip. He pounded his meaty fists on the ground to emphasize how good this felt, and he even lifted one foot off the ground. He shook his dangling foot as sexual tension roiled his middle-aged body.

His was dirty and grimy and hairy, exactly as Rufus liked it. As he lapped at the ebony hole, his hands delicately massaged Thumper’s hairy lower back, which writhed above Rufus’ head as Thumper responded to the rimjob. Rufus suspected he hadn’t had a rimjob from someone who wanted to give one in a long time, and he was surprised about how intense the pleasure was shooting up his intestines.

“Ah, fuck yeah nigga, you oughtta go to the prison and give some fucking lessons,” he said softly. His hips were undulating and pushing back now, as though his rectum was trying to fuck Rufus’ mouth. He used his ass and hips to pin Rufus against the wall, rubbing his hairy cheeks and hole on every inch of Rufus’ face.

Without a word of warning, Thumper turned around and slammed his dick down Rufus’ throat. He was just in time for the first wad of cum to land deep in Rufus’ gullet, making him gag just a little before guzzling the rest of the load down.

Thumper lightly smacked him on the cheek with one hand, using the other to caress his neck like an owner making sure his dog swallowed a pill. “Go on, swallow it, bitch. Swallow daddy’s seed.”

His semen was copious and creamy, but it had a certain wateriness that Rufus suspected was due to the prison diet. It was sour and snotty, and it stuck to Rufus’ tongue and mouth as he swallowed it down.

“Show me yo’ mouf, boi.”

Finally he was done and Rufus showed off his empty mouth. Thumper sneered and nodded. “Disgusting, faggot. Go clean my sweat off yo’ stupid queer face. Then go to the ATM and get me cash.”

Big Stack and the Bumcraw Bucks

This is a sample chapter from Big Stack and the Bumcraw Bucks, a story in the Gridiron Yards series from Eroticature.org. It is also available for less than a dollar per story as part of the megapack Year Round Training.

“Yo, I ain’t gay or nothin’, but if you want, we could fuck around together, y’know, on the downlow,” Khyree said. His face was flat and emotionless, thick lips pursed so I couldn’t read anything in his features. It was hard to look at him without my knees going weak anyway, because he was ungodly sexy.

My heart stopped. I gulped and looked into his handsome brown eyes. “What?”

“As long as you don’t tell no one,” he said.

“You… You would do that?”

“All the niggas up north do it,” he said. “It ain’t a big deal.”

It wasn’t unheard of for black guys here in Georgia to go downlow too, but no one I knew did it. Not that I hadn’t wished for a million guys just like Khyree to go on the downlow with me. There’s not many gay men in Bumcraw, and there’s only one other gay black man in the whole county, as far as I know. He’s a dick (not in a good way). So I was pretty starving for some cock to suck on that looked like mine, especially if it was attached to a football stud’s body like Khyree.

So Khyree’s offer filled me with desire, fear and indecision. Would he judge me? Was he kidding? Was he going to attack me if I said yes? But it seemed I didn’t need to say anything — he dropped the towel around his waist, revealing a long, thick cock, which he flopped between his fingers. He apparently assumed I agreed. It seemed a bit arrogant, but on the other hand, I didn’t know many gay men who would turn down someone like Khyree. He was muscled like a Greek god carved from mahogany, with thick arms and a massive swinging dick.

I stood and closed the door to the massage room. I knew the rest of the team had left already, Khyree only staying because of his strained ankle, but I was still worried about being caught. The Bucks were not keen on faggots, and they might have looked the other way for a player or a coach, who was important to their success, but a massage therapist? They wouldn’t have wanted me rubbing down their bodies every day if they knew it gave me a stiffie.

“I ain’t got all night,” he said. His voice was rough and gritty, and it made my dick stand straight up. “I gotta get out there and meet some ladies, y’know, get the world to know who I am. I got endorsement deals to score, nigga. So hop to it.”

His cock slipped easily right in my mouth, sliding down my throat. It tasted good and clean. The biting acridity of his soap and the remnants of powder he had worn during practice masked a faint underlying muskiness emanating from his balls.

We laid out on the massage room floor. Khyree undid the belt of my jeans and took hold of my cock. He swallowed it in one motion. He didn’t seem to have any hesitation either, and for the first time since he had been hired by the Bumcraw Bucks, I wondered if he wasn’t totally heterosexual. I wasn’t expecting him to reciprocate, but I guessed that was how things worked up north.

Khyree was a barrel-chested man, a lineman with all the power and almost none of the gut that most of them have. His powerful chest was hot and solid beneath me, his perfect belly quivering at my finger’s touch.

My dick felt like it was melting inside his mouth, his hot lips growling and his throat grumbling around my cock. I was on top of him, so the whole shaft just laid in his throat, and he moved his own neck back and forth. He didn’t seem to need any encouragement to get it all the way down to the root, and he rubbed it with his tongue like an expert.

Damn, I thought, maybe I should move up north. Sounds like a chill place.

His dick fit exquisitely in my own mouth, like it had been tailored for me. It was just fat enough to choke on, just long enough to squeeze in, but not so big that I sputtered or had to spit it out.

I used both my hands to finger his balls, and let one finger travel down to his taint. I had a hunch he was the kind of guy who loved a little attention paid to his taint, so I was glad to oblige.

He shot a thick load in my mouth, groaning around my cock in his own. His hands massaged my ass and slapped my cheeks. His nails dug into my flesh as the orgasm rocked his body.

I thought he might tell me to pull out, to avoid cumming in his mouth. But when I was done with his blowjob, he got even more enthusiastic with mine. He sucked it down to the root and slathered my cockshaft with his spit.

I held off as long as I could, fondling every inch of muscle on his body. My orgasm wracked my limbs, so intense it was almost painful. I shot a huge load in his mouth, and he choked but sucked it all down. He didn’t even hesitate or gag a little, so I wondered again how deep his heterosexuality ran.

He stood and said, “Alright, you better not tell no one, faggot.” Then pulled his jockstrap up and walked back out into the locker room.