Tag Archives: gay erotica

MM Thugs Downlow

There’s a freebie giveaway going on for a book called MM Thugs Downlow over at Instafreebie! This is the same story as Men of the City Barbershop of Detroit, so don’t download it if you’ve read that one (you almost certainly haven’t, I goofed that book’s rollout a long time ago, almost no one has ever read it).

Walter was nervous about starting his new job for two reasons. First of all, he was beginning work as a barber, having just earned his cosmetology license. The second reason was that he was a gay man working at the City Barbershop, a chain that had an unofficial reputation as a spot where straight men could get some no-questions action from a gay man. Traditionally speaking, what happened there didn’t count, and no one was allowed to talk about it outside of the shop.

Since Walter was gay, it would undoubtedly be assumed that he was going to service these straight men. He absolutely wasn’t opposed to it — he loved str8 cock, and he wasn’t ashamed of it. He was excited. But it was still a nerve-wracking experience. He didn’t know how the other barbers would react to him, how violent the neighborhood was, or even how many guys might expect his services in a given day (either haircutting or cocksucking services, he didn’t know).

His first couple clients, however, were children — his first day was the last day of summer break, so there were a lot of children getting gussied up for school. It wasn’t until near closing-time that the first even remotely plausible conquest showed up.

His name was Dwayne. It seemed everyone in the shop knew him. (Yo, wuz crackin’, Dwayne?) He was tall and lanky, though not exactly skinny — he had long limbs and ropy muscles, inked with tattoos. He had a wild and untamed fro when before his haircut.

“You new, huh?” he asked with a nod once Walter got started. Walter nodded. He lowered his voice. “You queer, right?” Walter nodded to that too. Dwayne frowned and looked down.

(Yuh, nigga…)

Did he just grab his dick? Walter wasn’t sure. It looked like he might have, beneath the barber’s chair apron. Walter didn’t want to make an unwelcome pass at someone, especially a mean-looking thug like Dwayne. He glowered at Walter as though mad the haircut wasn’t already complete.

“So what’s back there, huh?” He nodded towards the door to the backroom. “Bathrooms and shit?”

“Uh, yeah… Yeah, bathrooms… Or one bathroom, I mean.” Walter said. He smiled as he brought the mirror up so Dwayne could see the back of his head. His afro was now very short, but at least it was even. He nodded with satisfaction.

“That it?”

“Uh… I mean, there’s storage back there, I think.”

Dwayne chuckled. There was some scattered laughter from elsewhere in the shop. “Damn, nigga, you need to pick up on some goddamn hints,” Dwayne said, loud enough that everyone could hear. They all laughed. Dwayne stood up and took his apron off. Then he spoke as though making a grand announcement, “I would like you to suck my cock now, in the back room. Damn… I try to be discrete and shit, fuck!” He stalked off towards the backroom before even waiting for Walter to agree.

Laughter filled the shop. Walter blushed, but followed Dwayne, entranced by the swaggerous lean to his step. Dwayne shook his head — it seemed he would have preferred to not make a scene about this, but now everyone was watching him go back there.

As soon as he shut the door behind himself, Dwayne frowned at Walter. “You gonna eat my nut, right? I don’t like it when bitches spit it out. That’s disrespec’ful.”

“I would never spit it out,” Walter said. He opened his mouth and ran his tongue over his lips, which made Dwayne shudder in anticipation.

“Good. Git on your knees, bitch,” he said with a leer. “Get busy.”

Walter did so. He could hear laughter out in the main part of the shop — it sounded like they were teasing Dwayne, presumably thinking their words would carry. But all Walter heard was a jumble of laughter and murmuring.

As Walter had suspected would happen, Dwayne didn’t drop his pants. He just let his cock flop out the fly of his sagging jeans. A lot of gangstas didn’t take their clothes off for a man (and not even for most women) so that they could still run away if they needed to — or so they said, Walter had long suspected a lot of them were embarrassed of their chicken legs, since they only ever worked out their glamour muscles.

The tip of Dwayne’s cock pulsated in Walter’s mouth. Walter knew exactly how to get Dwayne to fuck the way Walter wanted to fuck, and he started by just sucking on the tip — frustrating him by not deep-throating would get Dwayne excited about fucking Walter’s throat. He gripped Dwayne’s thighs through his jeans.

Gradually, Dwayne began flexing his hips to hump Walter’s mouth. “Come on, nigga, suck on it, don’t just play wit’ it,” Dwayne said over and over. At last he got the hint that he would need to fuck Walter’s throat — exactly what Walter wanted all along.

That was what it took for his cock to stiffen up the rest of the way, until it was an iron rod jamming right down his throat. Walter choked up a mountain of spit that dripped down Dwayne’s shaft — he knew from personal experience that thugs like Dwayne enjoyed lots of spit and gagging. They liked to know that sucking their cock was difficult.

And it was difficult — it was also sexy and delicious and Walter loved every bit of it, but it did have a sour, sweaty flavor, and it made him gag every time Dwayne daggered himself into Walter’s throat.

His phone rang. Dwayne wrinkled his nose, annoyed, and he almost didn’t answer it. After a few rings, however, he did. “Yo, what?” He sounded angry at being interrupted.

Walter heard laughter again from the main part of the shop, braying guffaws of embarrassment being covered up with cockiness. Someone from the shop was calling Dwayne, he realized, though he couldn’t hear the voice.

“Yeah, nigga. You know what I’m doin’. Shut the fuck up. I know you done it too, nigga. Don’t you lie to me! Last Christmas, motherfucker, at yo’ momma’s party. That Latin gayboy took you in- Don’t gimme that shit, you ain’t just smoke a bowl wit’ him. You ain’t in the habit of smokin’ bowls with strange queers, nigga, and you told me right afterward he sucked yo’ balls dry.”

Everyone in the barbershop cheered. Walter was distracted by the powerful flavor of precum coating his tongue, but he got the impression the phone in the shop was on speaker, so everyone heard what Dwayne said. The person who dialed must have been embarrassed. Whoever it was — maybe Roc, Walter guessed from the voice — then said something else, something more serious.

“Don’t you be talkin’ ‘bout that shit on speakerphone, nigga,” Dwayne said. “If you want somethin’, you know what corner to holla at.” Then he hung up the phone without waiting for another reply. He scoffed and clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Fuckin’ foolish-ass niggas…”

He moaned then, and grabbed Walter’s head so he could hump it more effectively. His whole body spasmed as he reached orgasm, his balls pulsating where they rested against Walter’s chin.

Oh damn, I hear that shit, nigga be done now! You tastin’ that nut, huh?

A burst of creamy cum wrapped around Walter’s tongue, as he savored every drop of juice dripping down his gullet. Dwayne’s muscles flexed all at once, and he grunted loud enough that the men in the other room cheered.

“Ah, damn,” Dwayne muttered. He pulled his pants up, speaking loud to be heard over the cheers. “You suck like a fuckin’ champion, nigga.” Then he eyed Walter suspiciously. “Sorry, I gonna tell them you ain’t that good. I gonna say you pretty good for a faggot.” He looked genuinely apologetic for a moment.

“That’s okay,” Walter said as Dwayne walked towards the door. He wiped cum off his chin, his eyes drawn to Dwayne’s plump ass in his sagging jeans and revealed boxers. Walter made a kissy-face at Dwayne before he walked out the door. “I plan on proving myself to every single nigga in that room.”

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.

First-Time Jocks in the Dorm

Here’s the beginning of First-Time Jocks in the Dorm, a new story by Happiest Ending! It’s full of outrageous interracial action!

Meathead made no effort to hide the fact that he was jacking off. Almost as soon as the lights went off, Meathead took his dick in hand. He had porn magazines — actual magazines, as though this was the nineties — stashed under his mattress. Greg was too embarrassed to even say that he was awake.

Greg rather liked it better when Eduardo — or “Meathead” — was always gone. Greg had been terrified when Meathead showed up to the dorm in September. He had been a huge, hulking brute, like the bullies who had teased Greg back in high school but somehow even bigger and hairier though he was barely older than those bullies had been. He didn’t look like a college freshman.

Greg was no weakling anymore either, but Meathead made him feel like that ninth-grade loser all over again. Greg was on the golf team, so he was a jock too — he even had an athletic scholarship. But no one really thought about golfers like that.

Meathead played football. He was a tight end, and he was tall and dark-skinned because he was half-Latino, and he had a face like a retarded bulldog, or at least that was how Greg saw it. He was widely regarded as stupid, which was how he had gotten the nickname (and why he had gotten a flotilla of Asian math nerds tutoring him and taking tests for him).

But Meathead had had a serious girlfriend at the beginning of the year. Her name was Suzie; she was beautiful, and she was a total bitch. Greg was not surprised that she had dumped Meathead. He wished she hadn’t only because Meathead went from spending all his time with her to spending all his time naked, flopping his massive dick in front of Greg’s face.

And now he was jacking off, not even trying to hide it. Greg rolled over. He coughed lightly, hoping to make sure Meathead knew he was awake.

But Meathead just ignored him, pounding away. He used both hands. The porn magazine rested on his strapping chest now, he wasn’t looking at it anymore. The smell of precum filled the tiny dorm room, made even more powerful by the added astringency of his sweat — Meathead seemed to sweat constantly.

Meathead stood. Was he still jacking off? Greg thought so. Was he looking at him? He stood over the bunk beds where Greg lay. Greg had his eyes closed and he didn’t want to open them.

“Hey, Greg, you awake?” Meathead asked. His voice was impossibly deep — was he really a freshman? It seemed unlikely — and it made Greg’s whole body cringe.

Greg had the lower bunk, so if he sat up, his head would be right at Meathead’s crotch height. He knew that well because he was often sitting there reading when Meathead came back to the dorm and worked out, or sometimes just stood there naked on the phone with his girl.

“Meathead, man-“

“Hey, you wanna jack off? C’mon, let’s circlejerk,” Meathead said with an excited leer. He sat down on Greg’s bunk at the foot of the bed. Greg rolled over and sat up.

First-Time Jocks in the Barracks

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

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

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

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

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

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

Armstrong didn’t understand the younger generations.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mafia Muscle, the Masseur and the Happy Ending

Here’s the beginning of Mafia Muscle, the Masseur and the Happy Ending, a new story of yaoi MM erotica by Lee Lane Lamplight!

John giggled as he wrapped one hand around Alfie’s cock. He tried to keep a straight face, or at least avoid making too much noise, because he thought it would make Alfie uncomfortable. Alfie had a thick slab of uncut meat. John didn’t often get to mess around with uncircumcised men, so he enjoyed playing with Alfie’s foreskin.

Soon his cock had firmed up, and it throbbed beneath John’s hand. Alfie’s broad chest muscles rippled as a wave of pleasure rolled over him. Alfie bit his lip and grunted. His swarthy face turned ruddy from both arousal and embarrassment.

“Ah, shit yeah, man, I love how ya hand feel on my meat, but don’t tell no one…”

John had thought Alfie was hot from the moment he first laid eyes on him. He had been coming in and out of the building with his head down since he opened his massage parlor there. He felt it was necessary to keep a low profile because he had come to learn the restaurant on the ground floor — right beneath the massage parlor he had saved years to open — was Mafia-connected.

It seemed like a joke when a friend first told him about the rumors. He had initially dismissed it as silly gossip. It was an Italian restaurant, he thought, they probably tried give the place a Mafia reputation to spur sales.

He had to admit that, when he walked through the foyer to get to the stairs leading up to the second floor, it sure looked like a Mafia restaurant. There were never very many customers there, even on a weekend night. There were a lot more men than women, and nearly everyone looked Italian — he once saw a scared-looking Chinese couple in there, eating quickly and looking like they had already come to regret their choice of dining establishments.

The first time he saw Alfie, John had come through the foyer just as a small group was leaving. Alfie stood behind a table of older Italian gentlemen. He was a bodyguard, or so it looked. He was much younger than the others, with a big shock of curly black hair that ran down to his broad shoulders. He looked at John as though he might stop him from going to the stairs. The old men at the table didn’t seem to notice John.

That had been the kicker — that was when John realized the rumors were true. He had never in his life see anyone at a restaurant with a bodyguard. That could only be a Mafia event, he thought.

What should he do about it? He didn’t have any ideas. He certainly wasn’t going to call the police. He resolved to never ask anyone from the restaurant for a favor, for fear of being asked to repay it.

That had been the end until Alfie came upstairs, nervously, head down, chest muscles quivering beneath his button-down shirt. John had heard laughter down in the restaurant when he opened the door. He didn’t know this massage was going to lead right into the sexiest happy ending John had ever given out.

“Oh god, man… Oh god…” Alfie sat up and opened his eyes. He looked down his broad, expansive chest at his cock in John’s hand. Alfie picked up the crucifix that dangled between his pecs and kissed it. He wanted to make the sign of the cross, but he worried it would be sacrilegious to do it while he got a handjob from a man.

He covered his eyes with his forearm. He prayed that he was doing the right thing by agreeing to this. It didn’t exactly feel like the right thing.

Alfie — or Alfredo, but no one called him that — was raised mainly by his mother. He was aware of his father, in prison, but he only met him a few times. His uncle had long talked, in his dense New Jersey dialect, about men who were bardassas: bottoms. As far the men of Alfie’s family were concerned, a real man penetrated, sticking his cock in whichever tight hole he could fit it in, consequences be damned. It was only the bottom who was properly ashamed of being treated in that way. A bardassa was a bottom, whether willing or not.

But the Mafia in America didn’t act that way anymore. They had women available. Alfie’s employer was Clan Novelli, who owned numerous brothels throughout New York. Alfie was able to go see the girls anytime he wanted — he was too nervous to actually do so, because his mother raised him to stay away from prostitutes, but he had made it seem to his fellow mafioso that he had done it. He wanted them to think he was a macho man’s man.

They had found out he was lying. They asked at the brothel he had claimed to visit most recently, and they said he was never there. Alfie had been humiliated. They had asked if he was a virgin. He wasn’t, but they didn’t believe it.

“Go upstairs, Alfie, to the massage parlor. Ask for a happy ending, and you will be a man at last,” said Don Novelli, a portly older man who had patted Alfie’s muscled back beneath his ill-fitting suit. Alfie nodded. He wasn’t allowed to question the Don.

“Yes, Don,” he said. “I… I ain’t no virgin. I can… I can fuck that masseuse broad, no problem.” He added a cocky chuckle.

“Alfie! You forget yourself,” Don Novelli said. Alfie knew he’d be scolded for speaking so rudely in front of the Don. It was worth it to look like a real man.

“Yes, Don. I apologize. I am often, uh, overwhelmed by my urges.” He grabbed at his cock through his slacks and sniffled. He hoped he looked suitably macho.

“Yes. Yes, I am sure,” Don Novelli said with a wry smile.

And so Alfie had gone upstairs. He heard snickering from Don Novelli and the other made men down there as he went up the stairs, but he thought they were just laughing at how big Alfie was. They often called him names like ox or horse because he was well over six and a half feet tall and built like a professional wrestler. He hoped the girl was not going to be tiny — he had come to accept that he was too big for any thin, pretty girl; he needed hefty, thick girls who could handle Alfie’s size and his rough-hewn body.

And that was when he knocked on the door the Happy Endings Massage Parlor. As the door opened, Alfie realized he had never seen any girls here, just that one seemingly gay man who came in and out frequently.

He groaned. It all came together. There was no girl. That was why Don Novelli and the others laughed. They knew Alfie was going to have to fuck a man.

He would have done it too. Alfie’s uncle had assured him it would make him a man. He said that real men knew how to take some sniveling weakling and turn him into a bardassa.

First-Time Jocks at the Massage Parlor – Alpha Males Get a Happy Ending

Here’s the debut novelette by a new MM erotica author, Happiest Ending! It’s called First-Time Jocks at the Massage Parlor: Alpha Males Get a Happy Ending and its title pretty much gives it all away!

When the jock’s cock twitched beneath the towel, Chase knew what was going to happen. He didn’t react right away though. That, he thought, wouldn’t be very professional. He continued the massage.

The jock was a tall, broad-shouldered young man with a wavy shock of blond hair and brilliantly flashing eyes, when they weren’t scrunched up closed tightly. His muscles rippled beneath Chase’s fingers, which kneaded the meaty flesh of the young man’s thighs. His toes stretched and he grunted.

The jock was named Irwin. He was a rugby player from the university right around the block. He had come in to the Happy Ending Massage Parlor at the insistence of his coach, who had said his sore calf needed a real massage. Coach Gathers knew Chase well, and knew that he was a licensed masseur who could fix the calf muscle — which did indeed have a knot in it. Chase could get that out easily enough.

But that erection… Chase wondered if Irwin was even aware of it. He had been so nervous he giggled like a schoolboy when he undressed in the massage room. His hefty muscle-bound body trembled. It was obvious he thought he was going to get a female masseuse, not Chase, but Chase pretended he didn’t notice that.

“How does your leg feel?”

“O- Okay.” He bit his lip. It didn’t sound like he was thinking much about the leg. He let out a breathy sigh like he was either aroused or scared or embarrassed, or maybe all three at once.

“Good. I can feel a lot of stress in your body,” Chase said. “What’s been bothering you?”

“Uh, well, nothing really,” he said. Chase knew something else was coming, so he just waited. His hands moved up Irwin’s body from his thigh to his chest — Chase could feel him desiring a handjob, but Irwin didn’t say that and Chase wanted to tease him still — and his muscles tensed beneath Chase’s hands. Then they slowly relaxed, bit by bit, as Chase massaged his flesh. Irwin grunted. “My ex banged this Samoan dude on my team, it really pissed me off.” He blushed like he hadn’t meant to say that.

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Chase said. He clucked his tongue against his teeth.

“She did it just to piss me off. Him too, I think. He did it in the locker room so I would see it,” Irwin said. He snorted. “Whatever, fuck him. She wasn’t even that hot.” He seemed to realize then that he had a boner. He looked down at his cock and smiled nervously. “Oh, uh…”

“It’s okay, relax.” Chase moved up to massage his chest with one hand. He arranged himself so Irwin couldn’t see his own crotch because Chase was in the way. Chase’s other hand roamed down to Irwin’s cock and gripped it.

The Prison Bitch

Here’s the first chapter of The Prison Bitch, a hot new hardcore and extreme story from Brutewood Maximum Security Penitentiary.

Charlie had gotten through his first day in Brutewood Prison and, so far, everything had gone very well. People more or less ignored him. He was processed along with several weaker men, included one disgraced cop and a pedophile, so they were the target of most of the ire from the other inmates.

When he returned to his cell after dinner, he saw his cellmate — an elderly Latino man — being led out on a stretcher. He was alive, but he looked sick. He had looked sickly since Charlie met him, but now he looked much sicker.

Charlie was nervous. What did that mean for him? Was he going to get a new cellmate? Maybe it’d be someone else new, he thought. Was this a good thing or a bad thing for Charlie? He had no idea.

Soon after dinner, his cell door opened, and a middle-aged black man entered. He was Jackson; he was wiry and ropy-muscled, not huge or bulky but powerful. He had a shaved head and a wide, flat nose that looked like it had been broken several times. He was covered in gang tats, including the underlined words NINE TATS on his belly — Charlie knew that meant he was one of the head generals of the Nine Tats street gang.

Jackson stopped in the center of the cell, holding onto a box containing all of his belongings. The cell was open, since this was free time; anyone could just walk in or out. Jackson checked Charlie out from head to toe.

“Yo, you faggot, whiteboy?” Jackson asked.

“I-“

“Wait just a sec, boy, befo’ you answer, I got somethin’ to explain,” he said. He spoke quickly but with great intent, like there was meant to be hidden subtext to everything he said. He had a very faint lisp like a pimp — it wasn’t very noticeable, but Charlie heard it. Charlie still hadn’t really decided if he would tell people he was gay. Some had said he should, some had said he shouldn’t. He had planned on playing it by ear.

When Jackson checked that no guards were around, he sat next to Charlie on the bunk. “Yo, lemme rap at you. But first, my name’s Jackson, howdayoudo?” He smiled broadly and shook Charlie’s head.

“I’m Charlie.”

“Charlie. That’s a pretty name. That’s very good. I like that, boy,” Jackson said. “Welcome to my cell. You should know this is my cell, alright? I be settin’ all the rules in here. You got any kinda problem wit’ that? Huh? You tell me now.”

He leaned forward until his eyes were right in front of Charlie’s, his lips so close he was virtually kissing him. “Yeah. You a faggot. I can tell. I can smell it on ya lips, yes, I bet you is. I can’t wait to hear yo’ answer. But don’t say yet. I ain’t finish askin’ the question.”

“Okay-“

“Shut yo’ mouth. That’s rule one. You don’t speak unless I allow it, boy.” He paused as though giving Charlie a chance to disobey him. Charlie’s heart raced. Jackson smiled. He remained so close to Charlie their lips almost touched. “Good. Now when I ask if you a faggot, you gotta understand I’s askin’ cuz you gotta have a role. You gotta get somethin’ to do around here, somethin’ that contributes to the organization.” He pointed to his Nine Tats tattoo. That entailed leaning back so Charlie could see it, which meant he finally pulled his face away from Charlie’s. Charlie breathed a sigh of relief. Jackson smiled at him. “Oh, that’s the Nine Tats. They’s my organization. See, if you say you ain’t no kinda faggot, then when I rape you a little later, you gonna be my bitch. You gonna be prostituted out for a cigarette or two, ya dig? I’m gonna sell yo’ ass. If I can find a way to sell yo’ organs, that’s what I’m gonna do. Okay? So that’s option one. You can tell me you straight, and I turn ya body into cash any way that I can. You like option one?”

“No-“

“I ain’t think so. It ain’t popular. I think it’s got a branding problem, you know? Like maybe if we call it the Doritos Extreme Prison Bitch Experience or some shit, you know, then people would give it a try,” he said. “But option two might be better. Since I think you might really be a faggot, that’s the one that might suit ya needs the best. See, in option two, you tell me you a faggot. Then I tell you that you my wife now. I will treat you right-“ He held one hand up as though to forestall any objections. “Now I may still treat you wrong from time to time, cuz I am an imperfect man. We all just faded and disto’ted copies of God’s glorious visage, ain’t we?”

“Uh-“

“No talkin’ just yet, boy, but I like yo’ enthusiasm,” he said. He gave Charlie a quick peck on the cheek. “If you my wife, I still rape you. I still gonna hit you when I gotta correct yo’ behavior, and maybe a little fo’ fun — but I always make that up to you, baby, I always say I’m sorry and give you some sugar to make up for misbehavin’.” He paused and smiled. “See? I normally give this little speech to straight boys who gonna pretend to be gay. I make love to they squirmin’ virgin ass till they bore me and I sells ‘em off. But you really a faggot, right?”

“Yeah-“

“See, now that’s nice. You ain’t gotta pretend. I might not get bored of you. I love fuckin’ faggots. Once you fuck a straight boy hard enough, he stop fightin’ back, then it’s like fuckin’ a dead fish. But a faggot, boy, I can make a faggot squirm for days,” he said. He licked his lips. “Suck on my finger.” He held up his middle finger, and Charlie sucked it down. It was callused and salty, and tasted a little of tonight’s dinner — hot dog and ketchup. Jackson licked his lips. “If you was straight and pretendin’ to be gay, you’d be gaggin’ right now, and I’d be saying that I fuck you so good you turn into a faggot fo’ real. I tell ‘em I know how to make ‘em cum from the prostate — you know about the prostate, right? Course you do, you a faggot — I tell ‘em that and make ‘em tell me they like it. I make ‘em jack off when I fuck ‘em. Ain’t nothin’ better than a straight boy cumming when you fuck ‘im.”

“Can I suck your dick now?” Charlie asked. He thought getting on Jackson’s good side would be helpful. Jackson was very sexy and in any other environment, Charlie would have genuinely wanted to suck his dick. But this was too frightening for him. He couldn’t even think about any actual desire for sex. All his mind focused on was Jackson’s intense words ringing in his ears.

“No you may not, but thank you for askin’,” he said. “I gotta work out. You watch me and study my body, so you can worship it later.” He paused. “Straight boys get this real cute look in they face when I say that.”

“I bet,” Charlie said. He smiled. “You are really hot, you know.”

“I know. Thank you fo’ sayin’ it, sweetheart.” He smiled. He got down on the ground and started doing push-ups. He counted off, and Charlie watched him the whole time. Then he did a series of other workouts using a pillowcase filled with odds and ends as a weight, and he almost totally ignored Charlie the entire time.

Eventually Charlie lost interest in watching him. He studied the marks carved into the stone wall of the cell, trying to decipher their meaning.

“Alright, you can suck my dick now,” Jackson said suddenly, startling Charlie, who suspected that Jackson had been waiting for Charlie to get distracted. He seemed like he enjoyed those sorts of mindgames — he wouldn’t want Charlie to suck his dick because Charlie desired it, so he waited for Charlie to get involved in something else. He didn’t wait for Charlie to react either, he just grabbed him by the neck and made him lean over the edge of the bunk. In seconds, Jackson had his limp dick ramming into Charlie’s throat, while his hand squeezed his neck and his balls swayed in front of Charlie’s eyes. If Charlie had been straight, he thought, that would have been terrifying. “Open up that throat, boy.”

Jackson coughed like he was surprised at how good Charlie was at deep-throating, especially so suddenly. He whistled his appreciation as his balls slapped against Charlie’s nose. There was nearly a foot of black throbbing cockmeat in Charlie’s throat.

“Fuck, you oughta give lessons to the prison bitches around here. A lot of ‘em can’t suck worth a damn, man.” He groaned and started grinding his hips to get his dick in even deeper.

Charlie’s throat did gag and clench, but he was used to that. He was able to fight against his instincts, allowing every last inch of Jackson’s dick to fill up his gullet. His head swam. He was dizzy, tears leaking down his cheeks.

“Hey, boy, hey boy, look up here. Focus,” Jackson said, snapping his fingers to get Charlie’s attention. He swayed his hips, making Charlie gag as his balls dragged over his chin. “Look me in the eye when you suck my dick. Touch me right here if you understand.” He pointed to his left pectoral muscle.

Charlie had to reach up to touch him there. Jackson nodded like he was satisfied. Then he pulled out. As soon as he did, Charlie hoarsely gasped for air. Jackson grabbed him by the hair and lifted his head up so Jackson could watch.

“Yo, it takes three seconds to take a breath.” He held up three fingers, quickly counted down, then pushed Charlie back to the ground. Charlie had barely gotten a breath in before Jackson’s cock slammed back into his mouth.

Jackson was relentless and had his cock deep in Charlie’s throat again in moments. Once more he swayed his balls over Charlie’s chin and laughed when he choked. Spit spilled out of Charlie’s mouth, sliding down his cheeks and making a little puddle on the floor of the cell.

“You got three seconds to breathe. That’s what it takes. Any more than that is you on vacation, and I don’t allow my boys to take no time off,” he said. “You is doin’ a good job. I’s proud of you, sweetheart.” He spoke rather flatly, like he had read somewhere that he should give positive reinforcement but didn’t understand why.

He repeated that cycle several times. He held his cock in Charlie’s throat, fucking him back and forth, reminding him to keep his eyes aimed up at Jackson’s face, then gave him three seconds to breathe before resuming the cycle all over again. Charlie was so dizzy and discombobulated that he had no idea how long that lasted, and it was a complete shock when Jackson came — if he gave signs beforehand, Charlie didn’t notice them.

All of a sudden, just as Jackson slammed his dick in once again, a load of salty cum hit Charlie’s tongue. This time Jackson didn’t move, he rammed his dick down Charlie’s gullet and held it there, his load flowing directly into Charlie’s stomach. It was hot and creamy, salty, sour and delicious on Charlie’s tongue.

“Good boy, swallow it all, swallow it all. Don’t gag, no, I don’t like gaggin’ at this stage — you can gag when I fuck ya throat, that’s yo’ body reactin’ instinctively, but don’t you never gag on my cum, boy. That’s disrespectful. I might have to punish you if you do that. You look so pretty wit’ my cum dripping down yo’ chin. Look me in the eye. Who do you love?”

“Uh, you-“

He slapped Charlie, not as hard as he could, but hard enough. “Don’t say uh, don’t hesitate. If you in love, you ain’t gotta hesitate. If you know that shit in yo’ heart, you don’t gotta think about it.” He paused. “Who do you love?”

“You.”

“Good boy.” He bristled and sniffled. “Sorry I hit ya. I don’t like hearin’ my boys hesitate, that’s all. Who do you love?”

“You.”

“Good. Good, good. Who fucks you the best you ever been fucked?”

“You.”

He nodded. “Good.”

Finally it was all over. Jackson made him sit there with remnants of cum on his face. Charlie stayed motionless, basking in the glow of his own orgasm. He was glad to be settling in, he thought, and he was glad Jackson was his prison husband.

At last, Jackson allowed him to clean up and go to bed. Charlie was genuinely grateful, and he already couldn’t wait to be fucked again. As soon as lights out came, Charlie had an idea.

“Jackson, can I masturbate tonight thinking of you kissing me? I just think you’re so hot-“

“Yes, sweetheart, you may, as long as you eat all yo’ own cum. Thank you for asking.”

The Black Cop

Here’s the beginning of The Black Cop, a new yaoi tale by Lee Lane Lamplight!

 

Nelson never thought this would happen. It only happened in gay porn, right?

But here he was, sliding to his knees in front of the mountainous black cop, Officer Toulouse, with his deep Louisiana accent and a chest so broad and strapping he looked like a professional wrestler. Any moment now Nelson expected him to rip off his shirt and pound on his chest.

Officer Toulouse — or Alan, as he had said Nelson should call him — had a handsome if gruff face, with a noble jaw, high cheeks and a brilliant cop mustache. Nelson loved men with facial hair, and Toulouse had one of the best, fullest and sexiest copstaches he had ever seen. He barely fit in his uniform shirt too, biceps bulging from his sleeves and tattoos peeking out from his chest.

That was fine with Nelson, who didn’t even want him to be wearing a shirt right now. But he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask him to take it off. He seemed like the kind of macho alpha male who thought real men didn’t take their clothes off when they let gay dudes suck them off. So Nelson just watched his pecs bounce beneath his brown uniform.

“Ah, yeah, man, my wife ain’t suck me off in years, man… Used to be just on my birthday, but then she stopped doing that,” he said with a moan. He closed his eyes.

His fat cock drilled down Nelson’s throat. It stiffened almost right away, his big veiny shaft rubbing against every inch of Nelson’s mouth. The flavor of his musky body and his hairy crotch assaulted Nelson’s senses. He moaned, gurgling merrily on the taste of his cock.

Nelson had had a crush on Officer Toulouse for more than a year. A homeless man had passed out drunk on Nelson’s porch one night, so when Nelson woke up, he called the police. Officer Toulouse showed up and Nelson was so smitten he blushed and giggled as he explained, even despite the smell of the homeless man who had pissed himself on the front lawn. That was a long time ago, but Nelson kept running into Toulouse — buying coffee at the same time, on the side of the road when Nelson’s car broke down and once in the courthouse parking garage while Nelson paid a speeding ticket.

His hands gripped Nelson’s head and held on tightly. He groaned as though Nelson was scratching an itch that Toulouse had been unable to reach for a long time. Toulouse leaned his head back and his crotch forward, bending himself in both directions to give Nelson easy access to his cock.

“Ah, shit, man… You should give lessons on handlin’ meat…”

Nelson gurgled as he deep-throated him. Nelson loved sucking dick, and Officer Toulouse’s was particularly sweet and meaty. Nelson had never been one of those gay men who were into rough trade, or big black cocks, or even uniform studs. He saw the attraction of that stuff, but it wasn’t really his thing.

The Pimp

Here’s the beginning of The Pimp, a new yaoi MM novelette by Lee Lane Lamplight!

 

Carl was glad to be single again, but he was beginning to regret his living arrangement. After divorcing his husband, Carl had moved into an apartment in Bloomington, Illinois. He couldn’t afford a really nice place, but he didn’t want to live in the ghetto. He found an apartment in a safe-looking building; it wasn’t exactly in a nice neighborhood, but the building was fine and the front door was locked all the time. Carl thought he’d simply stay in most nights, avoid the streets when it was dark out and keep his head down. He didn’t intend to live here long-term anyway, it was just a short-term way to get through this stressful period in his life.

He didn’t have much stuff. It was all Brandon’s. Carl felt both like he had discarded a useless appendage but still kind of missed it and like he was a useless appendage that had been discarded but, he hoped, was still kind of missed. Carl was glad to be rid of Brandon regardless. Brandon had become toxic, a destructive part of Carl’s life. Brandon wasn’t even into gay guys, not really — Brandon only liked sex if it was rough trade. He sucked off straight guys, the rougher and dirtier the better. Carl wasn’t into that.

There was a knock on his door. Carl peered through the peephole, where he saw a tall black man with broad shoulders and a big nasty scar on his neck. He wore a vibrantly colored purple suit with a matching hat and a brilliant yellow tie.

“Uh, hello?” Carl hesitantly opened the door. He kept it on the chain, but as he did so, the chain pulled right off — it wasn’t attached to the door. The door swung wide open.

“Howdy, suh, it’s right nice to meet’cha, yessuh,” said the black man with a charming smile. “My name is Lance, I live right down the hall from ya. I just wanted to say how-do-yo-do and make sure you settlin’ in alright.”

“Oh, thanks. Yeah. Cool. It’s cool. I’’m, uh… cool. You’re… cool. It’s okay. Thanks. Thank you,” Carl said. Then he added, “I’m Carl.”

“Well alright, Carl. If you need anythin’, suh, you come see me, reckon? I run this buildin’ more than Mr. Sazo. I got you covered,” he said. “Ya feel me?”

“Yeah-“

“Also, I think it’s important to keep the lines of communication flowin’ between neighbors. Don’t you?”

“Yeah-“

“Good, good, I think open and honest communication is what matters. That’s what makes this buildin’ a community,” he said.

“Sure, sure-“

“So I promise — I swear to God, on my Mama’s grave, on the American flag I hold so dear-“ He took the purple hat off his head. “-I swear, if I got some kinda problem wit’ you, suh, I will come right to you. I will have the respec’ to come to you like a man. Ya feel me?”

“Yeah-“

“And we can talk about it then. We can work together to find a solution,” Lance said. He paused for a long time. He peered directly into Carl’s eyes. He stank of cologne, and his strapping muscles rippled beneath that purple suit, making Carl’s dick stiffen in his pants. Lance snorted. “You feel the same way?”

“Uh… yeah-“

“Good. So if you start dislikin’ the way I act, or if you see somethin’ that makes you uncomfortable, you come right to me. Don’t pass go, don’t collect two hundred dollars, don’t call the cops, don’t sit at home and stew like a passive-aggressive loser, don’t call the cops, and most importantly-“ He touched Carl’s lips with one callused finger. “Don’t nevuh call the cops.”

“Okay.”

“Good. I’m glad we on the same page, Carl. Lemme give you a welcome present,” Lance said. “What kinda girls you like? I don’t allow my girls to come in this buildin’ — that’s just a rule I got, no exceptions — so you gonna have to take her to a motel. I pay for it. This is my gift to you, Carl.”

“Oh. So you’re…?”

“A pussy-rancher, yeah,” he said. He chuckled dryly and grabbed his cock through his violet slacks. “A girl-farmer. If you evuh need to find me out on the street, I’m Mr. Fantastic.”

“Cool…”

“Yeah. It is cool, man,” he said. He smiled, showing off huge dimples. “You alright, whiteman. Most people who move in here get all scared of me, actin’ like I’s some kinda nigga who gonna steal they car, but I ain’t down with that. I don’t allow crime, nosuh, when you live in my building, you be safe, you be protected, you get all of ya needs fulfilled, boy, for real. Come on, what kinda girls you like? You want a fat Asian girl to lick your butthole? I got two Chinese, but one of ‘em is Malaysian, you know what Malaysian is? Malaysians is exotic, whiteman.”

“No. No, thanks, no fat, uh, Asian rimjobs,” Carl said. He blushed, heart thumping and sweat beading on his forehead. “I’m, uh, not really into girls.”

Lance scoffed and leaned back. He furrowed his brow, sizing Carl up. He lowered his head and inhaled Carl’s face. He nodded.

“Yeah. I see that,” he said. “Alright, yeah. I believe ya.” He pushed past Carl into his apartment. “Where’s ya stuff? This place is empty.”

“I don’t really have a lot of stuff. I need to buy some furniture,” Carl said. He wanted to tell Lance to leave, but he didn’t want to start off his relationship with his neighbor on poor footing. Besides that, Lance’s muscle-bound body was so sexy Carl couldn’t help but daydream about him even through that purple suit.

Is this a home invasion? It feels polite, but I didn’t invite him in.

“Mr. Fantastic got ya covered, boy, swear to God.” He snapped his fingers in front of Carl’s face. “Lookit me, sweetheart.” When Carl’s eyes were trained on his, Lance unzipped his slacks and pulled out a massive, veiny black shaft. “There ya go. Give it a suck.”

The Blacksmith’s Apprentice

Here’s the first chapter of The Blacksmith’s Apprentice, a new  yaoi novelette by Lee Lane Lamplight!

The streets of Tamworth were alive, and Stuckey feared he would soon be dead. There were several threats on his life right now. He was tired and cold and hungry, just to name three examples. But the most important immediate threat was the man with a knife, demanding his shoes.

Stuckey did not want to give up his shoes. He would catch his death of cold for sure. He didn’t have any money or anything else he could give the mugger instead.

“C’mon, mate, hand ‘em over,” said the mugger.

Stuckey felt tears roll down his cheek. This was not how he thought it would end. When his parents died a few years ago, he thought he was free — his father had been a tyrant, and a heavy drinker, for a long time — and he felt like the world was his oyster. Stuckey could go anywhere or do anything.

He soon learned, however, that that wasn’t true. No one’s options were more limited than the man who had nothing. Stuckey was only fourteen when his parents died, and he was eighteen now, a man by Mercian standards. Finding a place to sleep and enough food and water to survive took all day, and sometimes all night. Stuckey had no time for adventures, or to improve himself by finding an apprenticeship, nor even to woo a woman (not that Stuckey had any interest in women; he had simply never developed that way, for reasons he didn’t understand).

“I… I can’t give you my shoes, sir, I am already so cold-“

“I don’t care, hand them over, mate, or I’m gonna stab your heart out,” the mugger said through slitted teeth. He advanced on Stuckey, knife drawn.

Stuckey screamed. People often said he screamed like a girl, but there was nothing he could do about that, especially now. He was too scared to act macho. He squealed and stepped away.

“Please! I don’t have anything! My shoes are threadbare!”

“Hand them over, and I will inspect them. Or maybe I shan’t stab you, maybe I shall cut your feet off. I can laugh as you stumble on bloody stumps,” the mugger said with a guffaw. He smiled sickly at Stuckey.

And then he collapsed onto the ground in a limp heap. His neck was broken. Standing behind him was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a sleeveless tunic — not a real sleeveless tunic, but a normal tunic whose sleeves had been ripped off over time. His tunic barely covered his strapping chest either, because it was torn and scorched. He glanced at Stuckey, grunted and took one step away, then came back and looked at him again.

“Hi,” Stuckey said. This man made him nervous because he was so big. At more than six feet tall and maybe seventeen stone, if not more, he was a massive hulking giant of a man. He had a few burn scars over his neck and shoulders, and even on the side of his face.

He nodded at Stuckey. He seemed to be torn, like he wanted to walk away, but at the same time, didn’t want to leave.

“Thanks,” Stuckey said. “He was… He was going to kill me, I think. Even if I gave him my shoes…” He blinked back tears. “I would have died anyway. It is cold tonight. I can not be without shoes.”

“You have your shoes.”

“Yes, yes, thank you. I have them because of you,” Stuckey said. He wished he wasn’t crying. He looked like such a weakling most of the time. He wasn’t really that weak, he just cried a lot when he was upset or scared or even angry. People often assumed he was feminine in nature. They weren’t wrong, but he still didn’t like the assumption.

“You are… How old are you?” the man asked. His voice was achingly deep, so low it made Stuckey’s bones rattle.

“I am eighteen. My name is Stuckey.”

He grunted. “John. Big John.” He frowned. “You… You are too old to be an apprentice.”

“Yes, I know-“

“Be quiet.” He furrowed his brow. “But I will allow you to be my apprentice. I like the way you look. You look like a girl, but you have arms like a man. That is good.”

“Oh. John, okay, I see… I, uh… What do you do?”

“I’m a blacksmith,” he said. “Come. Or do not.” He turned around and left without waiting for another response.

Stuckey hesitated. He had long hoped he could get some sort of apprenticeship, but everyone considered him too old — apprenticeships were supposed to begin at around thirteen years of age, not eighteen. By now, Stuckey was already expected to have begun his adult life and family. He should be striking out on his own, not only just now finding an apprenticeship.

And he had no aptitude for blacksmithing. Stuckey knew nothing about it. He didn’t think his arms were as impressive as Big John did, though he did recognize that his arms were more muscular than the rest of his body. That was because Stuckey’s late father had always demanded he exercise his body, and the exercises he focused on the most were always based on improving his arm strength, so he could swing a sword. Every time Stuckey felt cold and lonely, he exercised and remembered how glad he was to be rid of his father.

Of course there was no question. When Stuckey saw Big John walking away, he saw all of his options disappearing — or rather, his only option, walking away, leaving him behind to freeze to death.

So he followed. “Thanks, uh, Big John. I really… I’ve been living in the woods, and in the streets, uh… for a long time.” Stuckey’s voice trailed off because it wasn’t clear whether or not Big John was listening.

So Stuckey walked the rest of the way in silence. He was entranced by the sight of Big John’s hefty muscles shifting as he walked, as though he was too tired to carry his own body. He finally reached his smithy, a small hut on the outskirts of Tamworth, well away from other structures so it wouldn’t cause a conflagration if it caught flame.

It was a one-room hut, with one door, one forge, one hearth, one straw bed that looked barely big enough for Big John by himself. So, it seemed, Stuckey was going to be sleeping on the floor.

Oh well, I’ve slept in the rough before.

He quietly sat down, while Big John checked on his forge. He explained that he kept it warm all the time. Even when it wasn’t in use, it was easier to keep embers going then to restart the forge from scratch every time he needed to. Making it hot enough to forge iron required substantial time and energy. Starting from cold was very difficult.

“But we will do no work tonight. It is almost nightfall,” Big John said after explaining Stuckey’s responsibilities. It was already too dark to do anything significant. Stuckey wanted to seem useful, so he swept up the floor and picked up the strewing herbs that had been strewn  eons ago. They were now good for nothing but some extra fuel for the fire.

Soon Big John was stripped to his breeches, which were threadbare and filthy. They barely covered up his bulging manhood. Stuckey had trouble taking his eyes from it. He wanted a taste so bad he drooled a little.

But he didn’t think Big John would allow anything like that. Big macho men like him rarely tolerated men like Stuckey. Stuckey remained convinced that this was only a temporary arrangement — Big John would not allow a “lavender” man to work for him. Once he found out what Stuckey was, Stuckey would be back out on the streets.

“Can I… rub your shoulders, Big John?” Stuckey said. He didn’t wait for a response, knowing that large men like him would be reluctant to ask for succor. So Stuckey just planted his hands on Big John’s shoulders and rubbed them.

His muscles were bigger than anyone Stuckey had ever seen. Touching him was even more impressive than looking at him, because his shoulders were scorching hot like the forge, tingling, firm like iron after it was forged. His muscles bulged and pulsated beneath Stuckey’s fingertips.

“There are… other duties,” Big John said. He bit his lip and groaned, the first real expression of emotion he had made since Stuckey met him. Big John sighed. “There are other duties that are expected of an apprentice. Some masters force their apprentices to… do certain things. I do not require you to behave in that manner.”

“Oh…” Stuckey had a feeling he knew what “other duties” were, and they had nothing to do with blacksmithing. Stuckey wanted to do it more than anything, but now that the possibility was before him, Stuckey wanted to not do it just as bad.

He wanted to touch and lick and feel every inch of Big John’s muscles. But if he did it now, he would be seen as a man of loose morals. He would be the kind of man who does those things in exchange for a place to sleep. He would be little better than a prostitute. Even just waiting one day would prove that he didn’t need to do it, and Stuckey wanted very badly to not need it.

“Well then I will just rub your shoulders,” Stuckey said, “until you are ready for bed. I shall sleep on the floor.”

A long awkward silence filled the air, while Stuckey massaged the meat of Big John’s shoulder. Finally Big John snorted and grunted. “Fine. Yes. You will just rub my shoulders. I do not require anything else of my apprentice.” He stood and went to his bed. Since he didn’t wait for Stuckey to finish the massage, he knocked Stuckey over when he stood.

“Oh. I guess that’s it. Alright. Well, good night. Thanks again, for taking me in.”

“I do not require anything of you at night.” He paused. “I am not that kind of master. It is your choice.” It looked like wanted desperately for Stuckey to make a particular choice.

“Yes.” Stuckey smiled. “I am glad that it is my choice. I shall sleep on the floor.”

He bristled. “Fine.” He got down on his bunk and sprawled out the best he could in the tiny space he had available. His eyes closed.

Stuckey sat there watching him for a long time. Big John seemed to fall asleep almost right away. Stuckey was too scared to offend him to check if he was really asleep or not.

Eventually Stuckey drifted off into a fitless sleep by himself there on the floor. He didn’t have any blankets and he didn’t ask for any from Big John. He was close enough to the forge that it wasn’t very cold, though the floor of the smithy’s hut was quite chilly. It was still warmer than sleeping outside.

Stuckey woke up around dawn. There was a blanket over him, Big John must have placed it there in the night. Stuckey sat up. He always woke up at dawn. When you lived on the streets of Tamworth, it was always wise to be awake when the sun was up. Of course, it was wise to be awake when the sun was down too.

Big John’s giant chest rattled as he breathed deeply in his sleep. He had no blanket, but he was a big man, well-insulated, and he was up higher on his bed, so he was not as cold. He did look chilly though. He had draped his tunic over his body. His muscles quivered.

Stuckey sat on the edge of his bunk. He hadn’t decided to do anything yet, not until this moment. When his fingers touched Big John’s thick warm bicep, Stuckey knew what he wanted to do. He draped the warm woolen blanket over John’s body, then Stuckey climbed under it as well.

Big John stirred. The bunk was much too small for two people to be separate on it, but Stuckey didn’t want them to be separate. Big John’s flesh was chilled, and the air outside the blanket was cold. But beneath the blanket, the air was warm, and heating up fast.

Stuckey gently rubbed Big John’s chest with one hand, while his other hand roamed down to his belly.

His cock twitched as soon as Stuckey touched it. It throbbed in his hand, and Stuckey let out a little moan. He didn’t know what Big John wanted from him, so he kept it slow and gentle. He stroked Big John’s massive body, criss-crossed with scars, as though it was delicate and easily broken. He used light fingers and a soft touch, teasing and caressing his manhood.

Finally it was clear that Big John was awake, but his eyes were still closed like he wanted to pretend he was asleep. Stuckey moaned a little, quietly, his free hand massaging Big John’s chest muscles. They were tense like a statue at first, but they relaxed and smoothed as Stuckey massaged him.

Both men’s breathing grew ragged and irregular. Stuckey tasted a few beads of fresh sweat that collected on Big John’s arm. He was glad he had waited until this morning — it was better now, since both he and Big John knew it was happening because they both wanted it, not because Stuckey was told to do it. All of Big John’s muscles tensed into rigid, firm blocks of unyielding flesh.

At last a long, low rumbling moan escaped from Big John’s lips. Big John’s massive arm snaked up and grabbed Stuckey by the head. He didn’t force anything, but he did pull Stuckey up so they could kiss. Still, Big John’s eyes were closed. Their lips collided, tongues teasing each other in Big John’s cavernous mouth.

Hot juices flew from his cock and sprayed over his chest and belly. Stuckey’s mouth traveled down Big John’s face and chin, until he got to his chest. He licked every drop of Big John’s salty manhood off his quivering muscles, while Big John moaned and grunted beneath his touch.

When he was done, Big John again pretended to be sound asleep. Stuckey didn’t mind. He enjoyed nuzzling Big John’s muscles as he settled into the tiny bed. He clutched Big John’s body for support since he was right on the edge of the bed. He felt safe. For the first time since his parents died, Stuckey felt safe and secure.

And he slept. Again it was a first since his parent’s death, his first real calming sleep. He didn’t just doze, he slept and he rested and he recovered, and he awoke refreshed, basking in the clean sweat and warm glow of Big John’s body.

By then Big John was awake, but he hadn’t moved, not wanting to awaken Stuckey. So Stuckey had fallen asleep cuddling with Big John who pretended to be asleep, and he awoke to Big John laying quietly as though he was asleep.

“Good. You are awake. It is time for work to begin.”