Tag Archives: gay urban fiction

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.”

Downlow Rappers at the City Barbershop

Here’s the beginning of Downlow Rappers at the City Barbershop, a new story by Calvin Freeman!

 

The impromptu concert was a success. It got more than ten million views on YouTube, and Omar felt like a hero even if very few people knew the role he played in it. The best part of it for Omar, however, was that he got to play with Grizz all day.

Grizz was not entirely into it. He had volunteered for this job, so he wasn’t unwilling, but he was straight and he did not mess around on the downlow. He showed up at the Barbershop very early in the morning, looking dourly on at Omar in a gauzy feminine robe.

“So Craig say we gotta get this place set up,” Grizz said. He chewed on his lip.

Omar nodded and yawned. He didn’t intend to actually do any work beyond waking up and opening the Barbershop. He hadn’t expected Craig to send a sexy big man like Grizz though. That, he decided, changed his plans for the day.

Grizz was tall and broad-shouldered and his muscles barely fit in the dark suit he wore. He was dark-skinned, with a rather squat face — no one would ever call him handsome, but Omar thought he was ungodly sexy. He walked with swagger like his dick was too big for his body. Omar wondered if he would be able to swing on that no-doubt massive dick.

He settled in at his desk while Grizz set up. There needed to be changing areas for the backup dancers (both male and female changing areas were required due to union regulations). The lights needed to be unpacked and set up. The alley out back needed the dumpster moved so as to allow for the stage to be built — the carpenters were standing by.

All this for Craig. Omar had shut down his shop for the day. He was a manager for the City Barbershop of Dallas, a local institutions in the black community here. He had built the shop into something special, with a reputation as a place where a straight man could go to get a little action on the downlow (and a haircut). Omar loved being able to service those straight men.

Craig was one of his conquests. Actually Omar had known Craig since they were children, but he didn’t get to swing on Craig’s dick until they were well into their twenties. Sometime after that, the genial, perpetually-befuddled stoner Craig had become the world’s most unlikely pop star.

And so now he was putting on a special, unannounced concert here in his old neighborhood. Omar had closed his shop for the day so he could set up. Grizz was Craig’s bodyguard, sent ahead of time to make things ready.

As Grizz unloaded heavy boxes of amplifiers and mysterious audio equipment Omar couldn’t identity, Omar tried to avoid gawking at him. He was pretty sure he could get to swing on Craig’s dick later — though Craig had girls hanging off him now, he usually let Omar have a taste for old time’s sake.

But Grizz was ungodly sexy. Omar wondered if he was aware of the City Barbershop’s reputation. Probably, he thought, since Craig had rapped about it (rather famously) and Grizz worked for him. But Grizz eyed Omar as though he had only just now guessed Omar was gay and was not a fan of it.

Finally around eleven o’clock, Grizz declared it done. “All we gotta do now is wait for the tech guys to show up,” he said. Then he cleared his throat and nudged his feet together. “Okay, so, uh, look… Craig say… Craig say I gotta let you swing on my dick. You ain’t allowed-“

“Really? Okay!” Omar blushed at how over-excited he was.

“You ain’t allowed to touch my butt, and we ain’t kissin’,” Grizz said with a snarl. He looked up at the ceiling and crossed his arms over his chest.

Omar dropped to his knees in front of him. Craig had said he would give him a gift as partial payment for use of the shop, but Omar had assumed it was a taste of Craig’s dick. This, he thought, was just as good, maybe even better since it was new. Omar always enjoyed breaking in a fresh new cock.

Downlow Muscle at the City Barbershop

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Downlow Muscle at the City Barbershop, a new story by Calvin Freeman!

 

Sharif didn’t take his suit off. He just pulled his dick out through the fly and let Omar go to town. He said over and over that he was “fine” with letting Omar suck him off, but it was pretty clear that he didn’t want to do it. He only agreed because he wanted to seem as tough as a rapper.

His cock throbbed and leaked precum down Omar’s throat. Omar loved guzzling down every drop, made even tastier because of Sharif’s stiff nervousness. His muscles were rigid beneath the suit he wore uncomfortably because he didn’t really fit in it. Sharif grunted, trying to maintain his tough demeanor despite his anxiety.

The only reason Sharif was here at all was because of Craig, or Craig Jay, as he went by in the rap world — Omar still knew him as just plain Craig though, because they had grown up together. They had been friends for a long time, and then they grew apart — Craig became a thug and a dealer, while Omar came out of the closet and became a barber.

And then Craig did a guest spot on a single released by local legend (and Craig’s long-time boss) Waystation. The song became a surprise national hit, and Craig released an album of his own that made him the most unlikely rap star of the year. Craig had never been much of a gangsta, Omar thought, but he played himself off as plenty tough on record.

Sharif rapped too, but he wasn’t very good and that wasn’t why he was here. His hair was in tight, perfectly done cornrows, so he didn’t need a haircut. He came in wearing that fine suit. When Omar caught a glimpse of him while he cut someone else’s hair, he just saw a large body and thought it was some fat guy in a black coat.

Then he realized it was a suit, not a coat, and that Sharif wasn’t fat at all — he was a bodybuilder. He had competed in the Mr. Texas bodybuilding pageant and come in second place a few years ago. He stood nervously near the door until Craig was ready for another customer.

“Yo, man, Craig Jay wanna me to be…” Sharif grunted and bit his lip. “I mean… Yo, nigga, I got… I got a message.”

It had been a busy day, and Omar had other things to do. He sighed. “What? What are you talking about? Who are you?” He only then realized that Sharif mentioned Craig Jay, which was Craig’s performing name. “Oh, Craig? The Craig Jay?”

Sharif nodded. He nervously bit his lip. He looked around the barbershop, where Omar’s coworker James cut a little boy’s hair while his grandfather watched. Everyone was silent because Sharif had mentioned a celebrity and they wanted to hear.

“You work for Craig?”

Sharif shook his head. He sighed. “Yo, I mean…”

Omar paused. “If you have a message, aren’t you supposed to say it?”

Sharif had a bone-rattlingly deep voice, which contrasted with the nervous quaver in his throat. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah. We, uh… We can’t… I can’t, uh, give this message… here.” He glanced at the little boy. “It ain’t, like… child-friendly.”

A long awkward pause filled the air. “Are you threatening me?” Omar didn’t really think he was simply because Sharif looked like he would have been comfortable delivering a threat, so his obvious discomfort implied that was not it. But Omar lived in a tough neighborhood and felt he needed to consider the possibility of violence.

Sharif’s massive shoulders flexed as he gasped. “Nah! No! No way, man, that ain’t… It ain’t a threat.”

Omar shrugged. “Okay, well, why don’t we go into my office?” He led Sharif into the backroom, where he had a small office. Sharif sat down across from Omar, who smiled at him. “So how’s Craig? Is fame treating him okay? I know he-“

“I dunno, nigga.” Sharif said. He leaned his head back. “Okay, look, man, you gotta suck me off.”

Omar was taken aback. This wasn’t too surprising — Omar worked at a City Barbershop, a chain that had a reputation as a place for straight black men to get blowjobs on the downlow. Omar was well-known for sucking off thugs precisely like Sharif. But they rarely wore suits or came in delivering a message from a celebrity, so Omar assumed there was more to this story. “Oh. Well-“

“I mean, you ain’t got to. I guess. I dunno. I mean, Craig ain’t say nothin’ ‘bout makin’ you do it. He say you was gonna want to,” Sharif said. He stood up and lifted up his button-down suit shirt for a second, revealing his flat belly and bulging pecs — he showed off his body for Omar’s benefit, but he was nervous enough that he didn’t give any thought to how to do that: he simply lifted his shirt up to display his muscles for a second, not doing it in a sexy or seductive way. “I’m s’posed to let you suck me off. Craig say he won’t hire me — I’m a bodyguard, that’s what I do — he say he won’t hire me unless he knows I’m a real nigga. He say he wanna know I can perform.”

“Ah….” Omar had to suppress a giggle. He had a feeling this was more of a joke than a real requirement. Craig was a stoner-slacker who would probably never even bother to call Omar to ask if this had happened. Sharif could simply lie. Craig would always take the path of least resistance, and he would definitely never retract a job offer to a muscle-bound thug without a very good reason.

“Keep the suit on,” Omar said. “I like sucking off men in a suit. It feels like I’m giving a blowjob to James Bond.”

He came around to the front of the desk and sunk to his knees in front of Sharif. He unzipped his slacks and pulled his dick out too quickly for Sharif to get nervous.

Downlow Thugs on City Streets

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Downlow Thugs on City Streets, a new story by Calvin Freeman, about the sexy man-on-man shenanigans that go on in urban Baltimore!

 

Chad didn’t try to act tough, and he made it very clear he was gay. He had been living in rough urban ghettos for most of his life, so he knew that was the best way to go — if he tried to be tough, people would challenge him. If he acted like a sexy flamboyant gay man, the thugs, addicts and drug dealers who lived around here would treat him more or less like a woman they weren’t attracted to: they’d ignore him.

That was what Chad wanted. So he didn’t worry about the eyes following him whenever he came into the courtyard of the Baltimore housing projects he lived in. He knew he looked good — slim, pale skin, blond hair, lithe and leanly muscled body visible beneath the bare midriff t-shirt and short shorts he wore. He heard snickering from the black men and women who filled the courtyard, but Chad didn’t care.

“Crack! Crack!”

“Want some rock, Pinkberry?”

There were two young black men sitting on a couch in the middle of the courtyard. They were there all the time. They offered Chad crack every time he walked past. It seemed they didn’t know of any other reason a gay white man might be here in the projects. They had to have figured out that Chad lived here by now, he thought, but they still acted like he was just hanging around looking for drugs.

“I can sell you whatchoo want, boy,” said the younger one, Brodie.

“You want tina? I can get you tina too,” said the older one, Marcus.

That impressed Chad enough to make him giggle as he passed them by. “Tina? Somebody’s been doing research.”

“You smoke meth?”

“No,” Chad said. “But I appreciate you looking up gay lingo online.”

“We aim to please, whiteboy.” Brodie said. He was younger, with a harsh, arrogant face — he looked like he was supposed to be a jock and bully, but had gotten sucked into a life of crime instead, so his jutting face was lined with premature wrinkles even though he wasn’t even old enough to drink. He had deep dimples and dark, flashing eyes. Chad had thought he was sexy since the moment he first saw him (Marcus was sort of hot too, in his way, but he was portly and scruffy; Brodie could have been a model, Chad thought). Brodie tried his best at a charming smile. “Cuz you look like you need a pipe in ya mouth, boy. Yo’ mouth is needin’ something to fill it, that’s for sure.”

They both guffawed and slapped hands with each other. Chad stood there and smiled, jutting his ass out so they could see how plump and round it was. They both glanced at it, then fell quiet and avoided looking at each other.

Finally Brodie added, “So wuzzup, you want that rock or not? Or meth?”

“I said no.”

“You ain’t actually say no about crack. You said no about meth.”

Chad made a big dramatic show of pondering the issue. He tapped on his forehead with one finger. “Well, Brodie, I’ll give you a simple yes or no answer, if you pull your cock out and let me take a look.”

Brodie sniffled and his eyes bugged out, but he affected a look of a nigga who ain’t care. He shrugged, flashing an annoyed look at Marcus — who seemed to think that was hilarious. Marcus screamed laughter, clapped his hands and ran in a little circle around the couch they were both sitting on.

“So…” Brodie winced and looked at Marcus. Brodie rolled his eyes. “Uh…” It was hard to say anything over the sound of Marcus screaming peals of laughter.

“Do it, nigga, c’mon. Don’t Stringer say do what you gotta do to make the sale?”

“He ain’t say he gonna buy somethin’, he just gonna tell me whether he into it,” Brodie said. “And we already know he ain’t cuz we asked him before.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

Chad smiled and crossed his arms over his much more delicate chest. His skin rippled, visible because of that bare midriff his t-shirt exposed. “So you asked me before and you remember my answer? You already know whether or not I smoke crack?”

Brodie nodded and shrugged. “Yeah, I know you don’t.”

“So why did you ask me again?”

“Cuz you might’ve started, man!” Brodie threw his hands in the air. “I don’t gotta do it.” He looked at Marcus, who was quieting down. “I ain’t gonna do it, nigga. It ain’t about a sale. He just wanna look at my dick.”

Chad nodded. “Sure, that makes sense. It’s kind of chilly today anyway, your dick is probably small right now. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

“Man…”

“I’m sure no one will ever find out I was considering buying some crack and only didn’t cuz you were too scared to show my your dick.”

“You ain’t considerin’!”

“You don’t know that. Every crackhead has a first time, Brodie,” Chad said.

“I ain’t scared. My dick ain’t small,” Brodie said.

“Well, then, ugly or whatever, I don’t know. Obviously there’s a reason you don’t feel safe whipping it out. That’s understandable. Gay men are catty bitches. If your dick doesn’t pass muster, I will critique it thoroughly,” Chad said, making Marcus erupt in laughter again.

“Man, fuck you, whiteboy,” Brodie said. He sucked on his teeth and glared at Marcus. He did that several times, like he kept deciding to do it, then changing his mind before talking himself into it again. “Man! Fine! Whatever, nigga! Marcus, shut ya face! Man, Marcus! Marcus!” He shook his head because Marcus ignored him. “Marcus, don’t act like a fuckin’ fool! Hey!”

“I’m waiting,” Chad said with an exaggerated yawn.

Brodie snarled. He unzipped his fly and reached in. He let a suitably massive cock flop out, making Chad blush a little and gasp. Brodie looked around, but no one was looking in his direction — Marcus danced around the courtyard laughing and attracting attention — so he swung his hips, making his cock bounce around.

Chad reached for it, wrapped one hand around it and squeezed. Brodie gasped. For just a moment, it felt like Brodie was going to allow this, and Chad would be able to give him a handjob. But then Brodie tucked his dick away and pushed Chad.

“Alright, you got ya peek, whiteboy,” Brodie said. “So go ahead and say yes or no.”

“He did it! He did it!” Marcus screamed, his face exuberant as though he had been waiting for this. “He whipped it out, nigga!”

“Marcus, shut up!”

Chad smiled. “Are you the kind of dealer who makes his customers suck him off sometimes?”

“No. I got females, nigga. Can’t use a crackhead’s blowjob to buy food for my mama, can I?”

Marcus scoffed. “You don’t buy food for ya mama-“

“It’s just an example, Marcus.”

Chad shrugged. “A pity. Well, my answer, Brodie, is no. I do not want to buy crack, but thanks for giving me a peek at your cock. It’s very nice. A little smooth for my taste, but I bet it gets veinier when it’s hard.”

“Yeah.”

Chad turned around. “I’m not going to give you permission to watch me walk away.” He shook his ass. “But I know you will.”

Taboo Night-Time Affair: The Black Cop Stepman

Here’s the entirety of Taboo Night-Time Affair: The Black Cop Stepman, a hot story by Otto Van Raunchenhausen! It’s part of the Taboo Night-Time Affair series, all of which is in Kindle Unlimited!

Ian woke up just as the fight was getting really bad. He heard his mother scream, “Don’t you talk to me like that, asshole!”, and it was her voiceless shout of anger that actually woke Ian. Then there was a loud bang as though she had thrown something at Daddy Travis and hit the wall. Whatever it was shattered.

“I tol’ you I’d be late!”

“You promised you wouldn’t work this late anymore! You promised!”

“I know, but-“

“No buts! When you promise me something, I expect you to follow through! You bastard! You can sleep on the couch!”

“It’s too small…” his voice trailed off as she slammed the door shut. He sighed loudly and walked away.

Ian felt a guilty sense of relief. He had come to like Daddy Travis in the years since he married Ian’s mother, but it was difficult to overcome first impressions. He had hated his stepfather for so long he still enjoyed it when Daddy Travis got in trouble. He got a vicarious sense of satisfaction out of hearing Mama yell at him because Ian had wanted to yell at him for a long time.

The floorboards creaked as Daddy Travis went out to the living room. The police radio he always wore crackled into life, but the dispatcher wasn’t speaking to him. Ian heard him wait motionless in the living room. He must have considered sleeping on the couch, then decided against it — that wasn’t surprising, since he was much taller than the couch was long. He’d probably sleep on the floor, which was something he had done before.

But much to Ian’s surprise, that isn’t what he did. Daddy Travis slid the door open to Ian’s bedroom. He stood there in the dark as though waiting to see if Ian was awake.

Ian lifted his head. “Travis?”

He came in and nodded. He began unbuttoning his uniform shirt. “Is it okay if I sleep in here wit’ you? Yo’ mama and me… we’s havin’ a fight.” He had light brown skin that was smooth, marked with only a few tattoos, most prominently the symbol of his police department on his neck. The lean muscles of his toned body writhed in the moonlight as he came over to the bed and took off his boots. “I don’t wanna sleep on the floor, Ian, it hurts my back somethin’ fierce.”

Ian nodded and said yes. It seemed Daddy Travis had assumed the answer was yes anyway; he didn’t wait for Ian to agree. He sighed loudly as he sat on the edge of the bed.

Though he had unbuttoned his uniform shirt, he didn’t take it off. He just sighed and dropped onto his back on the bed. He laid there for a moment, motionless and quiet except for his loud breathing, on the covers and next to Ian. The smell of beer was heavy on his breath, and he burped loudly.

“You’re drunk?”

“Niggas don’t get drunk, Ian,” he said. He didn’t elaborate on that. His voice sounded slurred though — he was drunk, at least a little bit.

“You shouldn’t break your promises to Mom,” Ian said.

“Don’t you start on me too,” he said with a sigh. “Don’t you get it? I keep this town safe-“

“You’re not the only cop.”

“I know, but I’m the best,” he said. Ian could hear the smile in his voice. “I feel like this town might fall apart if I don’t do everything I can to fix it.”

“You’re not gonna wipe out crime, Travis. You can’t fix everything,” Ian said..

“You don’t understand, nigga, I came from the ghetto. I can’t just abandon-“ he paused and laughed. “Did I just call you my nigga?”

Ian giggled and nodded. “You do that when you’re drunk,” he said. He scooted closer to Daddy Travis, so close he could smell the sweat clinging to the shirt he had taken off but still lay on top of. As soon as he moved closer, Daddy Travis stopped laughing, and Ian blushed, wondering if he had embarrassed himself.

“You knew Robert Winchell?”

“Robbie? Yeah. We went to high school together.”

“Oh. I arrested him tonight. He’s a meth dealer,” Daddy Travis said.

“Oh. Wow. Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,” Ian said. Robbie had always been a trashy white thug, so if he had had to pick one person he went to high school with who started selling meth, that’s who it’d be.

“You hang out with him?”

“No! We ended up at the same parties sometimes, but we didn’t hang out. He was always smoking weed with the potheads out back,” Ian said. He didn’t mention that he was usually smoking weed there too.

“Good. Don’t mess around with that stuff, Ian.”

“I don’t! I don’t do meth, I barely even drink,” Ian said. He found that his body had scooted closer to Daddy Travis’. It wasn’t really deliberate, it was just the weight of his stepfather’s body on the mattress weighed it down, pushing Ian closer to him. Ian didn’t mind. He loved his stepfather’s musky, coconut butter smell. His hand was touching Travis’ thigh through his jeans, which sent a shiver of sexual anticipation up Ian’s spine.

After a long, awkward silence, Travis cleared his throat and said, “I know you… Uh… Look…. You can tell me anything, you know. And yo’ mama is gonna love you no matter what.”

“I know.” Ian’s voice trembled, unsure what his stepfather was trying to say.

“She don’t care that you’re gay,” he said.

Another long pause filled the room. Ian wasn’t out of the closet. He had just started visiting gay bars and had briefly had a sort-of boyfriend. He had never had sex before. But as far as his mother was concerned, he was straight.

“It’s okay, neither do I,” he said. “My partner saw you at the Dirty Dancer.”

“Oh. I thought I ducked out in time,” Ian said quietly, avoiding Travis’ intense stare. Last time he had been at the Dirty Dancer, the cops showed up when a fight broke out. Ian had managed to escape out the back door, worried that Daddy Travis or one of his coworkers would recognize Ian. Apparently he hadn’t been sneaky enough.

“You can tell yo’ mama whenever you’s ready,” Travis said. He leaned over and wrapped an arm around Ian’s prone body, his warm muscles and inviting chest sending a thrill of arousal through Ian’s sleepy mind. He stirred and again scooted closer to his stepfather, the edges of his police badge pressing into Ian’s shoulder. “You a virgin?”

Ian hesitated before answering. “Yes.”

His voice soft and weak as though nearly asleep, Daddy Travis murmured, “You wanna me to fuck you?”

“Yes,” he said without giving it a moment’s thought. He gulped. He had never really acknowledged how much Daddy Travis turned him on, though he always had, from the moment Mama introduced him. Ian had masturbated dreaming of this exact scenario on many occasions. He loved the way Daddy Travis’ muscular chest barely fit in his uniform shirt, biceps bulging against the seams, broad shoulders straining within the fabric. When he was off, he walked around the house in his boxers, slung low so his ass was slightly visible, the big bulge in his crotch attracting Ian’s attention and making it hard to concentrate. He wore a jockstrap with a cup most days because perps had kicked him in the balls on many occasions, so even in his uniform slacks, his mouth-watering bulge was apparent. That was what he still wore now, and since he lay on his back, the bulge was even more prominent than usual. Ian’s arms felt weak with anxiety and self-consciousness, since he was so skinny, bulgeless and twig-limbed compared to Daddy Travis’ gym-toned muscles.

“Whatchoo wanna do?” Daddy Travis said, reclining on his back as though to suggest his body was open for Ian. “You can go to town, boy… Y’ain’t gonna tell yo’ mama, right?”

“No.”

“Good,” he said. “We gonna fuck on the downlow.” His body twitched as Ian awkwardly placed one hand on his chest, feeling his muscles beneath his shirt. His pecs were softball-sized rocks beneath Ian’s fingers; he had never felt muscle like this before, except on the few occasions Daddy Travis hugged him. His fingers crept to Travis’ nipples. Travis groaned. “You know what downlow means?”

“Kinda,” Ian said. His hand moved lower and lower until it slipped under Daddy Travis’ uniform slacks. His belt was loose so Ian’s fingers crept in easily, to the moist and warm hairy nest of his crotch. Ian had an idea of what downlow meant, but only because he had heard the black kids talk about it in the locker room, laughing and accusing each other of being on the downlow. Ian had no idea what it meant then, he just knew it turned him on, and he gathered the gist of it the longer he stayed there sneaking glances at their naked bodies.

“It means what happens in the dark, stays in the dark,” Daddy Travis said. “I’m a little drunk anyway. It don’t count in the dark. It don’t count if you’s drunk. It don’t count if you’s family. It don’t count in jail neither, but that one don’t apply here. Ya understand? Girls never get that. Sex is always an emotional thing for them. It always counts, as far as they’re concerned.” He scoffed. “Bitches!”

“Yeah…” Ian said, his mind too distant to pay attention. His fingers touched Travis’ dick, which was hot and veiny, throbbing as it grew hard beneath his grasp. Ian had touched cocks before, but it was never as sexy as this; he had never touched a black man either, and he wondered if the slick, vascular smoothness of the shaft was characteristic of black men. The handful of gay white men he had shared handjobs with were more clammy and spongy even when hard, but Daddy Travis felt sexier and harder even before he was erect.

He unzipped Travis’ slacks and pulled his dick out of his pants. He gave it a stroke and moved his head lower and lower. He hesitated, then let his mouth encircle the tip.

Having never tasted cock before but having fantasized about it many times a day since he was a middle-schooler, Ian was turned on instantly by the flavor. He moaned exquisitely and moved his head lower.

Soon his nose was ensconced in the kinky pubic hair of Daddy Travis’ crotch, which smelled of soap and black man’s musk. Ian inhaled deeply of the scent, his dick spasming inside the boxers he slept in. His hands roamed over Travis’ trunk-like thighs and the smooth muscles of his chest.

Daddy Travis took his shirt the rest of the way off and guided his head up and down. His dick turned hard in Travis’ mouth. The flavor of his masculine meat was so spicy and so pungent it brought tears to Ian’s eyes as his veiny shaft pulsated between Travis’ lips.

Much to Ian’s surprise, Daddy Travis didn’t act like what he assumed a straight man would in this scenario. He didn’t just lean back and let his dick leak precum down Ian’s throat. Instead, his hands roamed from Ian’s smooth back down to his ass and even into his crotch. He stroked Ian’s dick to full erection.

Ian wondered how common this was for him — was Daddy Travis on the downlow all the time? His friend and partner, the only other black cop in town, was named Winston, and he was a burly, hairy sheriff; the thought of them awkwardly fumbling with each other in the dark made Ian shudder with desire. He wanted to watch that more than anything.

They both jumped, startled, when the radio flickered into life. It was still attached to Travis’ pants on the ground.

Dispatch to Unit Eighteen.

Travis groaned. “He’ll remember I’m off-duty now, in a second.” He and Ian remained still and silent as though if they made a sound, the dispatcher would know where Travis was and make him come back to work.

Dispatch to Unit Eighteen. Where you at, Travis?

He dropped his arm to the ground and fished around for the radio. He pulled the entire pair of pants up along with it and spoke into the receiver. Ian kept his mouth on Daddy Travis’ dick the whole time, even as he spoke into the radio.

“This is Unit Eighteen, Dispatch. I’m off now. I’m at home. You can’t tell me what to do anymore.”

Oh. An emergency caller is requesting you.

“Is it Sheila Brandon?”

Yes it is.

“She’s crazy, Jim. She thinks black folk can’t be replaced by reptilian doppelgängers, that’s why she wants me,” Travis said. He closed his eyes and leaned back, his cock pulsating deep in Ian’s throat.

Well, she was throwing bottles at Scotty.

“She don’t like white people. Send Rizzer over. He’s dark-skinned. Tell him to pretend he’s a real light-skinned ni… African American,” he said, censoring himself since he was speaking on a public band. “She’ll believe that. She’s kinda stupid too. Stupid and crazy, the Alabama double-whammy.”

She said she’ll only talk to you. She said she’ll keep throwing stuff at anyone who comes to her door, until she talks to you again.

“Then she’ll have to wait until five o’clock tomorrow, Jim. Leave me alone. I’m going to sleep,” Travis said. “Or whatever, have Scotty tase her or ask her out on a date or hire a lady-boxer to take her down or he could just wear a helmet. I don’t care, as long as you don’t get me involved. I’m off now. I’m trying to spend some quality time with my wife, and you are not invited, Jim.” He held on to Ian’s head as he fed his dick down deeper. It got even harder as he talked, as though either frustration or subterfuge made him horny. He groaned, cockmeat spasming in Travis’ mouth.

Fine. Ten-four. Love you, Travvie-Wavvie.

“I hate that fucker,” Travis said to Ian as he dropped the radio to the ground. “Goddamn honky. Your family is cool, Ian. Jim at dispatch is a fuckin’ honky.”

Ian giggled around Travis cock. He licked down the shaft, tracing the track of a bulging vein as he went. The flavor of Travis’ manhood grew more intense the lower he went, the more his scent moved from clean soap to masculine musk.

Moving on pure instinct now, not worrying about whether he was doing this right, Ian moved to mount his stepfather. He placed his legs on either side of Daddy Travis’ hips and put their cocks together. Travis’ meat was hot as fire, and as solid as steel. Ian felt cold and insubstantial in comparison, and his skinny body jerked in stark contrast to Daddy Travis’ bulky frame, which flexed sinuously as pleasure overwhelmed them both.

Travis jerked and spasmed like he was uncomfortable with their cock-on-cock contact, then sighed as their precums mixed, running down their shared shafts and Ian’s hands. The sensation of creamy fluid lubricating their meatsticks made Ian shudder with desire.

The rock-hard feel of Travis’ throbbing cock next to his made Travis tingle with anticipation. He knew what was coming next, and he could see it in Daddy Travis’ eyes. The thought of being penetrated made Ian nervous, but he wanted to do it more than anything.

“You wanna sit on it, boi?”

“Yes,” Ian said without giving it a second thought. He scooted forward and lifted himself up, moaning as he did — he had never thought he’d lose his virginity like this, to his stepfather. It was already the most exciting thing he had ever done.

A biting pain hit him as he lowered himself onto Travis’ cock. Travis bit his lip as well, and Ian held his breath. The pain was excruciating, and he almost backed out.

But then pleasure washed over him as well. Like a switch had been flipped, the pain was still there but the pleasure overwhelmed it. He grunted, and Daddy Travis did likewise.

He didn’t stop stroking Ian off; he just closed his eyes and let Ian lift himself up and down, gradually working every inch of Travis’ big black meat inside him.

Ian was so aroused he shot his load almost immediately. He grunted and choked. He spasmed, sending fresh waves of bliss and agony up his spine.

His cum sprayed out over Daddy Travis’ chest, some of it even soaking into the uniform shirt he had only shrugged off, so it still lay on the bed behind him. Ian kneaded the sweat-dappled flesh of Travis’ muscles as wave after wave of orgasm ran over his body. Travis didn’t even mind when cum hit his lips and chin, he just licked it up and grimaced at the flavor.

Gripping his stepfather’s shoulders for support, Ian rode his cock the best he could. He wasn’t sure if he was doing this right, but Daddy Travis looked like he couldn’t believe the pleasure he felt; his face was scrunched up, eyes closed tight. His hands caressed Ian’s smooth, pale torso, and he moaned as pleasure overtook him. He even stroked Ian’s limp, cum-moistened cock, squeezing out every drop of juice.

It didn’t take very long for Daddy Travis to finish as well. Ian could feel it coming a few seconds before it arrived; he felt it in the spasming of Travis’ muscles and his cock pulsating deep within Ian.

Hot cum sprayed inside him coating his innards. The creamy warmth spread throughout his body, seeping into his very soul. He knew then that all his doubts about being gay were gone — this was what sex was supposed to be, for him.

He didn’t want to pull off. He stayed there, letting Daddy Travis’ dick go soft inside him. Then he kissed each of Travis’ pecs and laid down next to him.

Daddy Travis let out a snort, then rolled over onto his side, wrapping his powerful arms around Ian’s body. He buried his grizzled face and chin in the back of Ian’s neck, and he kissed the smooth skin there.

“What time is your alarm set for?”

“Seven.”

“Good. Make sure I get up, okay? I don’t want yer mama to find us like this,” he said. “You ain’t gonna tell her, right?”

“I won’t, Daddy Travis. We’re on the downlow.”

“That’s right. Love you, boy.”

“Love you too, daddy.”