Tag Archives: mm erotica

Masseurs Most Macho: The Handsy Coach

Here’s the beginning of Masseurs Most Macho: The Handsy Coach, a new story by Happiest Ending!

“Oh shit, lemme tell Jeremy my dick got hard- Hang on.” Donald got up and poked his head out the door. He yelled, “Hey, Jeremy, you were wrong! Hey! You are a fucking idiot, man, I told you I can get hard for anything.”

Jeremy shouted something back. Ethan couldn’t hear what it was, but it made Donald guffaw, his thick body shaking as he did. Donald was a little ruddy right now, his rock-hard dick jutting out between his legs. He smiled at Ethan.

“Sorry, sorry, that’s my friend Jeremy. He’s a prickhole.” Donald knew that Ethan already knew Jeremy, he was just explaining because he forgot that fact. It was Jeremy who had urged Donald to come get a massage because Jeremy frequently did so.

“Sure, that’s fine. Just lay down, Donald. You have to stay still,” Ethan said.

Donald sheepishly laid back down on his belly on the table. He had such a perfectly thick ass that Ethan had to resist the urge to suck all the sweat off him. Donald was a rugby player for GHU, and Ethan was a masseur for the athletic department. He kneaded the flesh of Donald’s muscles. Donald closed his eyes, but he didn’t look particularly relaxed — he looked bored, like he was only doing this because someone had told him he should.

“Hey, do you massage girls too?”

“Yes,” Ethan said.

“Do you ever massage Katie Marleywine?”

“I’m not allowed to talk about other clients. What team is she on?”

“Oh, she doesn’t play any sports.”

Ethan sighed. “I work for the athletic department, Donald. If she’s not on a team, I can’t massage her.”

“But she’s like, superhot. If you were at a party, you’d offer to massage her. She’s so hot. She’s got tits that are like… amazing.” He thought for a long time but struggled to come up with any words to describe how awesome her tits were.

Ethan was shocked that Donald didn’t know he was gay. Ethan was slim, flamboyant, feminine. He normally never bothered to come out of the closet because it was obvious to everyone that he was gay.

In actuality, Ethan should have been even more shocked — Donald knew very well that Ethan was gay, he had simply forgotten. Donald’s friend Jeremy had urged him to come get a massage because it would lead to a happy ending, and Jeremy thought it would be hilarious if Donald got a handjob from a man. His teammates frequently dared each other to come let Ethan give them rimjobs (they had no reason to think Ethan would do so, they just thought the idea was funny). Donald had discussed Ethan being gay on several occasions, so there was no way he didn’t know.

But at the moment, Donald was thinking about girls. He had Katie Marleywine on the mind, and so it didn’t occur to him that Ethan was gay. How could anyone, he thought, not think Katie Marleywine was the most beautiful girl ever?

That was why his cock get hard. The more he thought about her, the harder his dick got, until it was sticking straight up and throbbing. Donald blushed.

“Donald, it’s okay-“

Donald sat up and looked at his dick. He smiled — he had no embarrassment. “Sorry, I get hard sometimes.” He got up again. “I’m-a go slap Jeremy in the face with it. I’ll be right back.”

“Wait-“

He went out into the locker room, cock jutting right out from his crotch. A torrent of shouts and baritone laughter filled the air. Someone screamed, and there was a loud bang like something heavy had fallen to the ground.

“Shit, get your dick off me, Donald!” Whoever it was, it wasn’t Jeremy. Ethan got the impression Donald had fallen on top of someone. He hadn’t slapped anyone in the face with his dick.

Donald came back, grinning. “He got away from me.”

“Donald, I don’t have time for you to put the massage on hold,” Ethan said. “Lay down-“

“Are you gonna jack me off?” Donald asked. He sat on the table and looked at his dick. He gave it one stroke and smiled at Ethan. “You can. Jeremy said it isn’t gay. He said it doesn’t count during a massage.”

“Oh. Is Jeremy in charge of that?”

“Yeah,” Donald said. He sounded totally serious, like Ethan should have known that already.

“Well… Yeah, okay,” Ethan said. Normally he said no to any athlete that asked for a handjob — Ethan did it if he thought they deserved it, but he said no when asked.

Until now. He sighed and grabbed Donald’s dick, which was thick and veiny. Donald closed his eyes and sighed as soon as he did, and his cock throbbed in Ethan’s grip.

“Hey do gay guys jack off?” Donald asked.

Ethan was focused on stroking Donald’s dick, so his question didn’t quite sink in at first. Then he assumed he misunderstood. He kept stroking, and Donald’s dick throbbed as though he enjoyed it, though Donald kept talking as though he didn’t notice.

“I mean do they jack themselves off? You? Do you jack yourself off?”

“What? Donald… I’m not-…” Ethan sighed. “Yeah. I’ve been known to masturbate from time to time.”

Donald blushed. “Really? It seems like, you could just jack each other off. Like other gay guys.”

“Who?”

“Whoever, I mean-“

“So just go out and meet some gay guys so we can jack each other off?”

“Yeah.”

“That just sounds like dating, but with more jacking off.”

Donald thought for a long time, then he nodded. “Yeah. I guess so. I just think, y’know, if you like dick, why touch your own?”

“Yeah… That’s… Sure, okay, Donald.”

“Or maybe it would make more sense to never touch anyone else’s dick. After all, if you can fuck yourself, you’d never need to go out. If girls could fuck themselves, they’d never go out on dates.”

“Dildos.”

“What?”

“Girls have dildos,” Ethan said. He sighed because Donald looked like he didn’t understand. Ethan rolled his eyes. “Girls use dildos, Donald. They can fuck themselves with dildos. How am I the one educating you about vaginas?”

“Yeah, but dildos are cold.”

“What?”

“If I were a girl, I wouldn’t use dildos because they’re cold. That must feel bad, I wouldn’t want to put something cold in my pussy,” he said, giggling and blushing. He stretched his muscles like he was on the verge of falling asleep.

“I don’t think… They’re not…” Ethan had to admit that sounded reasonable. Women didn’t warm dildos up, did they? They’re usually stored under the bed, Ethan thought, that’s not cold. It sounded ridiculous but Ethan couldn’t think of a reason why. “Look, Donald, if you want me to jack you off, you have to stop talking about vaginas.”

“Oh. Sorry. What am I supposed to talk about?”

Ethan had to laugh. “Donald, I’m jacking you off — stop talking. You’re not supposed to talk.” He stopped masturbating Donald’s dick, thinking Donald wouldn’t even notice because he wasn’t paying attention. But then Donald did notice, and he frowned. Ethan said, “Do you really wanna make small-talk while I jack you off?”

Donald shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry.”

Ethan felt a little bad. Donald had such an expressive face that, when he looked wounded, Ethan felt like he had kicked a puppy.

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.

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.

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.

The T-Girl in the Housing Projects

Here’s a sample from the beginning of The T-Girl in the Housing Projects, a new story by Calvin Freeman!

When Jimmy Red moved out, Tina suspected the boys would become more reckless. She was totally correct. Jimmy Red had two sons who had been out of school for years; all three of them sold various drugs, from weed to steroids and crack. They were among the least pleasant of the inhabitants of the Child Creek Housing Projects.

“Yo, bitch, don’t you even think ‘bout that!”

“Fuck this!”

Every few hours, Tina heard them shouting through the walls. Their father had been a calm and even-keeled kind of man, even if he was just as much of a thug and pimp as his sons. He often made his boys be quiet, even punching them or tying them up when necessary.

She didn’t want to get involved because they were mean and violent and possibly homophobic. Tina wasn’t gay as far as she was concerned — she was transgender, and she was a biological male, so Jimmy Red and his sons always treated her like a gay man. They had few redeeming features in Tina’s eyes: not only were they sexist and homophobic, they were racist (especially against Chinese food deliverypeople), they were fat and smelly, and they gangbanged the skankiest, nastiest girls Tina had ever seen.

She very strongly disliked them. When a letter showed up — an actual letter, in an envelope — with Jimmy Red’s name in the return address, she hoped it would be a notice that his sons were leaving. Jimmy Red had gone to take care of his father, who was ailing. The envelope was addressed to her but her last name was not given (Jimmy Red had never asked what it was).

I understand my boys aint been gud naybors. I done tolds them to quite down and not git in trubble. If they r bad call me 3405558992, dont call police.

Tina thought that was sweet. Jimmy Red was still a crack dealer and abusive pimp, plus seemingly almost illiterate, but he was nicer than his sons. They were actually quiet for a day or two. Jimmy Red must have told them on the phone to keep it down.

That didn’t last long though. On Friday, Tina came home to see a disgustingly fat woman scurrying into the building, makeup slathered on with a garden trowel; it was obvious she wasn’t wearing panties, and she didn’t even wear heels. Some people, Tina thought, didn’t deserve to be women.

She soon figured out who the ugly woman was here to see. She was followed by more, including some kind of cute girls, plus a bevy of guys, all presumably here for the rapidly growing party in Jimmy Red’s apartment. Tina loved hot straight men, especially thugs and machos — but somehow it seemed that Jimmy Red and his boys only knew fat nasty thugs: There was not a single sexy one who came in near enough to Tina’s window to see it. There weren’t even any kind of cute guys. The best she could say was that some weren’t that fat. These were not the good kind of drug dealer.

Tina had to think about when she would call Jimmy Red. It was pretty obvious they were setting up for a party next door. The music began, but it wasn’t really that loud yet, and it was still early. She’d come across like a total bitch if she complained right now. But there seemed to be little point in waiting, since it was obvious where this evening was heading.

“Where’s the bitches at?!”

“Watch me drink this!”

The sounds of the party filled the air, easily audible through the thin walls of the housing projects. As the evening drew to a close and night arose, Tina sighed. The party was just getting louder and louder. Finally it was ten o’clock, which seemed like the earliest she could reasonably tell them to quiet down.

Should she just complain to them? Should she call Jimmy Red first? Should she try to get Miss Green in Apartment 19 to call? Miss Green had gotten the same letter from Jimmy Red; she was an elderly woman who lived alone, so she was more sympathetic than Tina.

“Fuck you, faggot!”

The sound of glass breaking tinkled through the air. There was a series of grunts and a dull thud as something heavy landed on the floor. Then people laughed, and someone banged on the wall.

It was a fight. And somebody had shouted the word faggot. Tina thought that was sufficient excuse to get involved.

So she went over there and knocked on the door. She didn’t expect that talking to them would do much, but if she called Jimmy Red to explain that they were rude to her in person, he’d be angrier than if she simply warned him they were being loud. It took awhile for anyone to hear her knocking.

Then finally the youngest son, nineteen year old Raekwan, opened the door. He was already drunk, clouds of cognac vapor emanating from his mouth. He burped as he saw Tina.

“Yo.”

“Hi, Raekwan, I was wondering if you boys could keep it down,” Tina said. “Especially the faggot stuff, I don’t need to hear that-“

“Then quit bein’ a faggot. Bitch.” He slammed the door shut.

Tina was angry enough that her first instinct was to simply call the police right now. She was sure they had drugs and probably guns in there. But she didn’t want to get a reputation as a snitch. She considered going to Miss Green and getting her to call the police, but she didn’t want to get a nice old lady involved with a bunch of steroid dealers and fat meth-whores.

Instead she called Jimmy Red. He answered on the third ring. She could hear a TV blaring in the background.

“Hi, Jimmy Red, so nice to hear from you. This is Tina, remember? Your neighbor-“

“What’re my boys doing?”

She explained. She said that Miss Green was scared and that Tina was trying to mollify her — that wasn’t entirely untrue, since Tina had heard Miss Green near her door, listening, no doubt frightened, and Tina did want to mollify her. She stated that his boys were yelling about faggots and making folks uncomfortable. She said the police weren’t called as far as she knew, but it was only a matter of time before Miss Green or someone else called the cops.

That was enough, and it was accurate (or at least, not technically a lie in any way). Jimmy Red gruffly hung up the phone. Tina went back to her apartment. After about four minutes, the music cut off. There was frantic hushed whispering audible through the walls, but they weren’t shouting to be heard over the music anymore, so Tina got nothing but a few scattered words. She heard people drunkenly stumble down the hall and outside.

Finally, there was a knock on her door. Tina didn’t intend to answer it, but it wasn’t Raekwan or any of the other sons. Through the peephole, Tina was shocked to see a muscular young black buck with a square jaw and a strong face. He was sexy. He was not one of Jimmy Red’s boys.

“Hey, um… Ma’am…” He smiled nervously. He sounded like he wasn’t sure if ma’am was appropriate. He shifted his weight between his feet. “Uh, so… Hi…”

“Hi.” He was cute enough that Tina had an instinctual desire to flirt with him, even if she was in a bad mood still.

His eyes opened wide. He hadn’t thought Tina was going to say hi. He bit his lip. “Uh… Hi.”

“Hi.” Tina giggled.

“I’m… uh… Marshall.”

“Hi Marshall, I’m Tina.”

He took a deep breath. “Uh… Look… So, you know… Raekwan said, like… I, uh-“

Someone hissed and whispered something. Tina hadn’t realized anyone else was out there. She opened the door the rest of the way, revealing Raekwan there just out of sight.

“Get out of here, Raekwan!” Tina said. She shoved him away from the door. He was too fat to really push, but he got the hint. She was annoyed seeing him next to Marshall because he somehow made Marshall less hot, like a sexiness vampire.

“He’s yo’ boytoy, Miss Tina. Don’t call my dad again,” Raekwan said. He no doubt intended to sound tough, but he just sounded insolent and spoiled. He snarled. “You can do whatever you want to him.”

Marshall’s eyes bugged out once again as he blurted out, “No!” He paused and straightened his shirt. “Not whatever, nigga. Nope. I said I got-“

“You said you like freaky-deakies-“

“I ain’t say that!” Marshall roared. “I don’t gotta do it! I don’t gotta!”

“Then fuck off, Marshall!”

“Hey!” Tina clapped her hands. “I asked you boys to be quiet, so you may not come to my doorstep shouting. Nosir.”

They both quieted down. Marshall looked scared, avoiding eye contact, while Raekwan glared at her.

Tina cleared her throat. “So what is this?” She pointed to Marshall. “You, Marshall, tell me what’s going on.”

He looked at his feet. His big muscular body all flexed at once, making Tina’s dick perk up beneath her skirt. Marshall sniffled. “Uh… So… If you… I ain’t, like… gay or nothin’.”

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.