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The Ogre Stud and the Motor in the Mud

Here’s the beginning of The Ogre Stud and the Motor in the Mud, a brand-new short story by Cassandra Flicker!

 

Lisa loved her new house. She had always wanted to live in an old-fashioned little farmhouse, and now she did. It was rickety and drafty and a little spooky at first, but it was everything she hoped it would be.
The land, however, was less appealing. The reason she could buy this land for a steal was that it simply wasn’t very good land — it had been farmed, briefly, but the family gave up decades ago. That’s why the farmhouse had been abandoned.
She went out one day to meet a local with a truck, whom she had hired to come help her. There was a large mud pit on her property, about a half-mile from her house. It was located where a couple of hills met, and it was down in the valley between them all. It looked like it would be perpetually muddy. If there was just a little more rain around here, it would have been a pond.
And there was an engine in it. An entire engine block, as though a car had vomited up its innards then crawled somewhere else to die. It was covered in inky black mud and moss.
So she had hired a local with a truck to pull it out. His name was Frederick, and he spoke like Boomhauer but he was very nice. He wasn’t helpful though. “I can’t get my truck in the mud there, miss, you gonna need a tow truck.”
She sighed and thanked him for trying. She even paid him twenty dollars, which was half of what she had offered to pay him. It felt like a rip-off since he hadn’t actually done anything, but she didn’t want to get a reputation as a skinflint among her new neighbors.
So now what to do? She had a feeling hiring a tow truck to come out here was going to cost hundreds of dollars. She could just leave the engine. It wasn’t hurting anything.
She decided to go to her neighbor, Dwayne. He was a bit weird, very intense and off-putting, so she didn’t really want to talk to him. But he was her only neighbor, and he had a small, successful beet farm. She thought he might know how to get the engine out, or at least he could satisfy her curiosity about why it was there.
“The engine? Oh yes, Martin Huffenpatter was drifting in the mud, doing donuts. He had done a lot of mods on his truck, making it purr like a kitten, and he spent a lot of time making sure the engine worked. He spent very little time making sure it was adequately secured within the body of the car in which it didn’t fit.” He leered and laughed. “As soon as he finished his run, he got out of the car, slammed the door and all of the car’s insides plopped right out in the mud.” Dwayne frowned, disappointed that she didn’t find the story as amusing as he did.
“Oh. I don’t suppose you have any bright ideas on how to get rid of it.”
“I could do it. I’ll get rid of it for a thousand dollars,” he said with a grin.
“Um… Lemme think about it,” she said. She was about to ask if he had a tow truck — maybe she could just rent it from him and do it herself — when he snapped at someone in the house behind himself.
“Hush, Elijah,” he said. He looked to Lisa. “Sorry, that’s my brother. He’s an ogre.”
“Oh. I, uh… Okay.”
She left soon after that. It was clear neither Dwight nor his weird brother, whom she didn’t even know existed until just now, could help her. Dwight didn’t have a tow truck. Apparently his plan, in its entirety, was to take her money and hire a tow truck himself. She could just do that directly.
Overnight, Lisa had an idea that she was pretty sure was stupid. She could, maybe, slide the engine block onto planks of wood that could be slid over the mud, like skis. She had no idea how feasible that was, but it seemed like the kind of thing that might work.
So on her morning jog, Lisa went to the mud pit just to see what it looked like again, with that plan in mind. Could she lift the engine block just a few millimeters to start wedging it under a piece of wood?
But she was distracted when she came near the mud pit because she saw a man standing there. He towered high, well over seven feet tall, and broad-shouldered like a bull. He had a thick, squat face that wasn’t exactly handsome — his features were squashed and thick and bulgey like his muscles — but there was something about him that was appealing too.
He had the engine block in his hands, dragging it through the mud. He glanced in her direction but didn’t acknowledge her. Finally he had the engine block out of the mud, laying on the side of the road. His shirtless frame was sticky with sweat and splattered with mud.
“Hello.” He had one of those ultra-deep voices, so baritone it hurt to listen to it.
Lisa blushed. “Hi.” She cleared her throat. “Uh, did you really just drag that engine block?” She would never have guessed that was possible. Even the strongest man in the world couldn’t do that, she thought.
He nodded and looked at her for a long time. “You are a very pretty lady. I will not eat you.”
“Oh.” Lisa had to blush and giggle because she was so nervous. “I, uh… I won’t eat you either.”

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 Rugby Giant

Here’s the beginning of The Rugby Giant, a tale of yaoi MM lust about one lucky gay and the massive Polynesian jock who comes to love him!

 

Lyle sighed. He didn’t think it was going to be this difficult. He almost hadn’t come here today, and he shuddered to think what would have happened if he didn’t. Most likely Robby would have said it was good enough and they’d have unusable footage. It would have been a costly disaster.

On the other hand, Lyle thought, maybe that would have been better. He hadn’t gotten any usable footage of Tavita his way either. At least Robby wouldn’t have had to push the entire crew into overtime to get the useless coverage of Tavita mumbling his line.

Tavita Tohi was a prop on the Wichita Warriors professional rugby team. A prop is a position, usually the largest couple of players on a team, focused on hitting hard during scrums and rucks. He was seven feet tall and he was so big he had needed his rugby shirt to be custom-made. All of his clothes, in fact, were custom-made here in the States — back in his homeland, the Pacific island nation of Tonga, large clothes were more common, as were handmade clothes.

He was not just tall and big, with shoulders like patio furniture, he had a thick mop of curly black hair that was perpetually tangled and slick. His face was squarish, giving him an ogre-like quality, but he had a handsome noble jaw and big round eyes like a naive farmboy.

“Because it is r-r-r-rugby night in Wichita.”

“Because it is rugby night in. In… Wichita.”

“Because it’s… uh… it’s rugby night… in Wichita.”

Somehow Tavita sounded like a fake Hollywood Polynesian even though he was real. He was stiff and forced and awkward; he mumbled in all the wrong ways; he looked shy and scared rather than macho and confident. He said Wichita in a way that had made Lyle laugh the first few times he heard it. Weecheehta, spoken like the word was a costly heirloom that might break if Tavita said it out loud carelessly.

It was also funny — in a frustrating, non-humorous way — that Tavita couldn’t manage to say this one line. That’s because he was huge and scary, which was precisely the look Lyle wanted. This commercial was meant to appeal to tough guys (or men who wanted to see themselves as tough guys): the “shadowy swarthy exotic foreigner meanly barking out a vague slogan” was a perfect look, which was Tavita’s normal look. Tavita didn’t need to act, he just needed to say one line in an uninterrupted way that was totally normal for him.

Everybody else on the team had managed to give their line. Most athletes aren’t good performers, so a lot of it was rather wooden and forced, but Lyle had come to expect that. That was why they each only had a few words. Lyle could take the best take from each of them, and  splice them all together into a professional-looking commercial.

But Tavita was weird and off-putting, especially when there was a camera on him. That was one of the things that had gotten him famous — when he scored the winning goal in last years American Rugby Cup, ESPN asked him how he felt, and he thought for a long time before saying only “fine”.

“Tavita, do you miss Tonga? What do you think of America?”

“It is okay. I like Tonga. There is no sea in Wichita.”

“Tavita, what’s your workout regiment like?”

“I like to exercise,” he said. “I am very big.”

“Tavita, what do you think of the game this weekend? Seattle is a top-ranked team, do you think you can take them on?”

“Yes.”

“How? Can you elaborate on your strategy for this weekend’s game against Seattle?”

Another long pause as flashbulbs flared and journalists thronged the giant Tongan. “No.”

“Are you confident you can defeat the legendary Seattle offense?”

“Yes.”

“Tavita, what do you think of league commissioner Reginald Wartleby’s offensive comments about African Americans? What do you think of the rumored boycott of the League Awards on Saturday?”

“No.”

“Is that no…? Does that mean you disagree with him? Or that you won’t be joining in the boycott?”

“No.”

He’d developed an online fanbase who thought his terse non-answers were hilarious. One particularly memorable press conference featured Tavita saying “no” when asked about his strategy for a game, only for his agent to jump in and answer for him. That had become a constant pattern: Tavita said whatever he wanted to say, which was almost always yes or no, and then his agent would “interpret”: Tavita is looking forward to the game. Seattle has got some strong competitors, but Tavita is a world-class athlete who has been completely focused on preparing for this match.

So Lyle wasn’t surprised to learn he was a poor performer in front of a camera. Tavita had tried to get out of doing the commercial, but it was in his contract. All he had to do was say because it’s rugby night in Wichita in a macho way. Lyle spritzed more vegetable oil over his strapping chest.

“Okay, Tavita, you’re doing great, I’m glad you’re still with me. Can you say it again, this time we won’t run the cameras?” Lyle thought he’d try this. The camera was rolling, he had told the cameraman beforehand to keep filming no matter what. He thought Tavita might do better if he thought the camera was off. “No pressure, this is just a casual thing, I want to see how you would say it normally. No acting, no trying, just say it how you would say it, if I asked you what was going on tonight and you were going to a rugby night.”

He was quiet for a long time. “Rugby night is not a thing.”

“Yes, I know, Tavita, that’s okay. Pretend. I’ll invite you to a rugby night tonight, okay, how about that? You can come over, we’ll watch rugby games and, uh… talk rugby and… that kind of thing,” Lyle said — he was a marketing guy, he didn’t know or care about rugby. “So now we have real plans for tonight, right? We have a rugby night tonight.”

“Yes,” he said. He had a big beaming grin on his face.

Lyle nodded. “Good. Good. I’m looking forward to our rugby night,” Lyle said. “So if somebody asked you out tonight, you’d say no, because tonight is rugby night in Wichita.”

“Yes.” His bare pectoral muscles flexed all at once. Was he angry? Nervous? It was hard for Lyle to tell, especially since he was distracted by a flood of sexual desire — Lyle had spent all day spraying vegetable oil on bare rugby jocks’ chests, so he had been semi-aroused all day; this frustrating experience with Tavita had somehow made him forget that Tavita was mind-bogglingly sexy. Now Lyle blushed a little as vegetable oil dripped over Tavita’s mountainous pectorals.

Lyle backed out of the shot. “Okay, say it,” he said. He had stopped the whole thing where the guy with a clapboard marked the beginning of a scene, because that seemed to be making Tavita nervous. This was roughly take two hundred.

“Because tonight is… rugby night in Wichita.”

Lyle exchanged nervous glances with his director. That wasn’t technically the line, but it was close. Tavita glowered and fumed. Lyle wanted to say it looked like he was getting angry, but Lyle had no idea how to read Tavita’s emotions.

“Yeah, Tavita, perfect. That was great,” Lyle said, and he sighed. That was hardly great — it was stiff and weak and question-like, and there was a little pause in the middle. But it was close enough. He could get Robert Matheson to say the line as well — he was a charming, dimpled blond who had a hundred thousand followers to watch him steam fish and prepare healthy snacks on YouTube, and he was a pretty good rugby flanker too. Then Lyle could splice their lines together so that Tavita only said the word “Wichita”, and Robert said the rest. People liked the way Tavita said Wichita, even if the rest of the line sounded like Tavita was reading aloud his own death sentence.

Tavita even smiled for a moment before he left. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t say goodbye to his teammates. He didn’t even wash the vegetable oil off his body. He walked right out of the building and into the parking lot, still wearing nothing but his rugby shorts. He had forgotten his clothes and his cell phone there in the locker room where the shoot had finished up.

“Holy hell, that took forever…”

“Did he forget to put his clothes on?”

“I’m sure he didn’t forget.”

“He drove away. His wallet is in his pants. Look, he’s got a Donald Duck wallet with… literally nothing in it but his passport.“

“He had a piece of carrot on his shoulder when I did his makeup today. I asked him if he had carrots for breakfast, he said no. I asked if he had carrots for dinner, he said no. I asked when he last had carrots, he said he didn’t remember,” said Wendy, the makeup woman. She blushed and giggled with the other crew — it had been a long and stressful day, spent almost entirely trying to get Tavita to deliver his one line. “Who does that? How long has he had a carrot on his shoulder?”

“Okay, okay,” Lyle said, grabbing the wallet from Robby, the director. Robby looked chagrined. Lyle gathered up the cell phone and massive clothes. “Let’s chill out, I know Tavita is a bit of an oddball, but…-“

“He’s twenty-something years old, Lyle, and he’s got a Donald Duck wallet that my nephew would say was for babies. He’s a freak.”

“He looked at me like a steak he wanted to eat, and when I said hello, he looked at me like he was surprised a steak could talk.”

“Lyle, he never said that line right. You’re gonna have a hell of a time making it sound okay in editing.”

“It’ll be fine. We’ll fix it in post-production,” Lyle said. “Let’s not be mean. Tavita tried really hard. It was… He’s not good at this performance stuff. He’s not familiar with American culture.” But Lyle’s defense sounded flat even to him. Everyone just rolled their eyes and walked away. “I’ll call his agent,” Lyle said.

It turned out that Tavita’s agent was not surprised he had left his things at the filming location. Tavita regularly forgot “everything everywhere he went”, his agent said. Lyle waited for him to come pick up the clothes and cell phone to drop it off at Tavita’s house.

Lyle had hoped to finish filming today and get everything ready for the editors. He wouldn’t be able to do it all, but he could at least get all of the film in the same place, write down some notes on the more difficult takes (not just Tavita, Gerald Harkness had been very stiff, and Eddie Watters had a cold, while Rashad Milk had a cut on his lip that looked like a herpes sore; there was going to be a lot of photoshop needed to make this into a commercial). But after spending hours listening to Tavita’s liltingly awkward accent mangle the words because it’s rugby night in Wichita, Lyle just wanted to go home.

It wasn’t until he got home that Lyle started to laugh. He just giggled a little as he reheated last night’s dinner for leftovers. He recalled Tavita and laughed, finally letting out all of the humor he had had to repress today, both because he didn’t want to insult Tavita and because he didn’t want to interrupt filming with bouts of hysteria. Tonga is an English-speaking country, for Christ’s sake! Lyle just laughed to himself over and over. It felt good to get all that out.

As he cooked, he queued up some YouTube videos of Tongans speaking, just because Lyle wondered if he was being intolerant of Tongan culture. Maybe they all had that terse, stony-faced manner of speaking.

No, they were actually quite florid and expressive, at least on YouTube. They spoke like anyone else, just with a Tongan accent. It was Tavita who was weird.

When Lyle finished eating, he felt a lot better. It was silly to get frustrated. Tavita’s eccentricity actually made him pretty famous and brought a lot of attention to the Warriors. One of his interviews had gone viral on reddit and tumblr a few months ago because Tavita said I hate Kansas, it is ugly here. That was the entirety of his response — which was actually articulate and thorough compared to how Tavita normally talked — to several in-depth questions about how he was handling America. For anyone else who played for a Kansas team, that would have been a disaster.

But no one thought Tavita was supposed to say polite things, and some local newspapers had looked like over-sensitive pricks when they said he should apologize. Then Tavita kept the story alive by apologizing, reading (poorly) a prepared statement with his agent by his side, causing a counter-backlash from various corners of the Internet who thought (correctly) that he had been forced into saying something he didn’t believe. It was all complicated and confusing, but it led to sales of Tavita’s jersey quadrupling, so Lyle was happy with it.

There was a knock at the door. Lyle assumed it was his elderly neighbor needing help with the wireless router again. He rolled his eyes and opened the door.

“Oh! Hi!”

It was Tavita, standing there, still shirtless and wearing those shorts. He appeared to have tried to wipe the vegetable oil off, but much of it still clung to him.

“Hello,” Tavita said.

“Uh…”

“I am here.”

“Yes, I, uh, it’s good to see you, Tavita,” Lyle said. He let him in, still unsure what was happening here. He might have realized what was going on sooner but Tavita’s bare chest gleaming made Lyle horny and distracted. Tavita had to lower his head to fit into the doorway.

“Your agent has your clothes and your cell phone-“

“He does not. He gave them to me.”

“Oh, yeah. Okay. Good,” Lyle said. He wanted to ask why Tavita hadn’t changed and cleaned off, but his huge glowering presence was intimidating. Lyle had trouble thinking of what to say.

“Am I late?”

Lyle raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, I think I missed something. Why did you come here?”

“Because it is rugby night in Wichita.”

A long awkward silence filled the air — a common occurrence with Tavita. Finally Lyle managed to tear his eyes away from Tavita’s chest long enough to realize that Tavita had said the line at long last, that Tavita had meant it for real, not as a joke, and that Tavita had thought Lyle really expected him to come over tonight.

“Oh. Tavita… I’m sorry, that was just a line. It’s for a commercial,” Lyle said. He didn’t want to sound patronizing, but he didn’t know how much Tavita really understood.

“You said it was for real.”

“Well… Yeah, I actually said pretend it is for real,” Lyle said with a sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to confuse you.”

“It is not rugby night in Wichita?”

“Well… No, not really,” Lyle said. “But you can, I mean… it’s okay. Do you want something to eat? We can watch some rugby games if you want. I have some on DVD.”

“I am hungry.”

Lyle just sighed again. Speaking to Tavita was a frustrating experience. He decided to stick to asking one yes-or-no question at a time. “Do you like grilled cheese?”

“Yes.” Since Tavita was so huge and he worked out so much, he was always hungry. That was the one thing he always showed enthusiasm over. Coach Michaels had had to stop providing orange slices during practice because Tavita would ignore everything until he had eaten every one. So now he handed out the orange slices to each individual, and waited for Tavita to finish because Tavita was unable to focus if he was eating.

Sure enough, Tavita waited wordlessly while Lyle grilled him a cheese; Tavita stared at Lyle without moving a muscle. Then when Lyle gave it to him, he devoured the whole thing before Lyle could even ask if he wanted hot sauce.

“Are you gay?” Tavita finally asked, bits of cheese grease dripping from his oversized lips.

Lyle was momentarily thrown for a loop. That was the first time he had ever heard Tavita ask a question beyond when is lunchtime? Tavita looked at Lyle with his head cocked to the side, though his face remained placid. Lyle felt small and weak.

“Yes,” Lyle said. He probably would have lied, just because Tavita was so big and strange, not to mention foreign — Tongans could have been homophobic, after all — but Lyle knew that they weren’t generally homophobic because he had been watching videos on YouTube just before Tavita arrived. One of those videos had been about gays in Tonga. It turned out that gays were pretty well-accepted there.

Tavita nodded. Lyle felt so awkward he might burst, but he tried not to let on. It was clear that this was a normal interaction for Tavita. His teammates had said he was always like this; they said they brought him to a strip club and he just giggled like a teenager whenever a stripper talked to him. Lyle tried to accept him the way he was. He put on a DVD of rugby games, which Lyle had bought when he was hired by the Wichita Warriors. He had sworn during the interview that he loved rugby, despite having never watched a game, so he had had to cram. It turned out rugby was very boring, but at least, Lyle thought, they wore those short shorts, which were pretty sexy.

Tavita wore those shorts now. His corded Tarzan-like thighs barely fit within them. He was still covered in oil, so before he sat down on the couch, Lyle offered to let him clean off.

“I did shower. It didn’t work,” Tavita said, as though that ended the issue and he had simply accepted that he would be forever covered in vegetable oil.

“You might need to use paper towels,” Lyle said. Tavita ignored him, leaning forward to watch the match begin. Lyle got up and got some paper towels, and stopped Tavita before he sat on the couch. “Here, use these.” Tavita just grabbed the towels and again tried to sit down. This time, Lyle physically stopped him — not really, of course, Tavita outweighed Lyle by more than two hundred pounds — but Lyle touched his side to get his attention as though preventing him from sitting down. “Sorry, you’ve got oil all over, I don’t want it on my couch.”

The Blacksmith’s Apprentice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have your shoes.”

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

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

“I am eighteen. My name is Stuckey.”

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

“Yes, I know-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

European Trade: The Frenchman

Here’s the entirety of European Trade: The Frenchman, a hot new story by Gavin Rockhard! Beware: this tale of gay erotica contains a baguette!

Kyle didn’t discover that the men were lumberjacks and that they were on strike until much later. When he happened upon them, they appeared to be a couple dozen of the most muscular men he had ever seen, lounging around, drinking coffee and looking nonchalant when pretty girls walked by. It was a very sedate strike.

Kyle was here in France — visiting from his native Canada — in order to taste the masculine fruit of the country. And there was no sweeter fruit than these lumberjacks. Their muscles bulged against the black and white-striped shirts they wore, with low v-necks that showed off their strapping chest muscles.

One, in particular, attracted Kyle’s gaze. He was tall, broad-shouldered, mustached and grizzle-chinned, with a tattoo of a French flag visible on his chest and one of Marianne on his left bicep, which was bare beneath a sleeveless shirt.

“Bonjour,” Kyle said. He knew his French was good, if Quebecois-accented. “Je m’appelle Kyle.”

The man grunted. He screwed up his nose when Kyle sat next to him at the little cafe table. He looked like he was about to say something, but then a pretty middle-aged woman walked by, gabbing on her cell phone. The man watched her with intent interest.

“I would like to pay you money,” Kyle said. He blushed, momentarily at a loss for words as the man glared at him.

“I am on strike,” he said.

“No, no, I’m not going to pay you for your job, I have something special in mind,” Kyle said. “I want you to come back to my hotel room. I’ll pay you five hundred euros.”

“Quoi?”

“Five hundred euros. You just come back to my hotel room, and… y’know, let me do some stuff.”

“Quoi?”

“You know…”

“You show me,” he said as though he had a good guess and simply wanted confirmation. He frowned. “Under table.”

Kyle looked among the other lumberjacks, who smoked cigarettes and lazed like they were taking the day off instead of striking. One of them looked at the man as though he wanted to know what was happening, but he did not ask.

Shivering with fear and anticipation, Kyle dove underneath the cafe table. Tourists walked by, sneaking glances at him. The man wore blue pants made of some thick fabric; back in Canada, Kyle would have guessed they were Dickies but he wasn’t sure if that was a thing in France. He didn’t what he was expected to do, but he stuck his head between the man’s legs and kissed his cock.

“Tu es sale.”

The man wore no underwear. His massive, limp dick was palpable beneath the fabric of his pants. He laughed a deep, baritone boom when Kyle kissed his dick. When he laughed, his dick twitched.

The man stood up, and Kyle crawled out from underneath the table. The man stood there. He lit a cigarette. When Kyle stood near him, the man pointed to the ground. He ashed right on Kyle’s head.

“Crawl,” he said. He didn’t wait for an answer. He just turned around and walked away, and Kyle got down on all fours. He followed after him, keeping his head up and as close as he could get, so he could smell the man’s thick asscheeks.

He didn’t leave the cafe. He walked to the counter, and Kyle blushed intensely. The pretty girl clerk looked at him with a curious expression as she sold the man a baguette. She smiled flirtatiously at him, and she called him Hugo.

Hugo smiled at her. “Tu es très jolie,” he said. He kissed her on the lips, and she swooned into his arms.

For a moment, Kyle thought he was forgotten, that Hugo was going to take this girl into the men’s room and fuck her. But the girl pushed him away. She squealed and slapped him lightly, though she laughed and blushed as though she was happy to have kissed him despite the slap.

Hugo left her with a shrug, like he didn’t care that she had rejected him. He returned to his table, grabbed the beret he had left there, finished his coffee and walked off. He didn’t glance behind him at Kyle, who scampered after him.

“I thought we’d go to my hotel room. I’ll suck your dick and lick your asshole and you can fuck me,” Kyle said. “I’ll do anything you want. Five hundred euros.”

“Oui.”

“Okay. Thanks, Hugo,” Kyle said. “My hotel is-“

“Non,” he said. He stopped walking. They were in the cafe’s backyard. It didn’t appear to be used very often, but it was maintained. It was a small grassy plot that faced a cobblestoned alley. There was a row of shrubs that prevented anyone from seeing fully in, but the yard was not concealed — no one could see anything roughly below Hugo’s waist. Of course, people in the cafe’s kitchen could see through a window, but it seemed Hugo didn’t much care about that.

Hugo took off a hunk of the baguette with his teeth. He loudly munched on it, while Kyle settled on his knees in front of Hugo’s body. His face was just inches from Hugo’s crotch.

“Is it… do you want me to just…?”

“Suck,” Hugo said, his mouth full of bread. Crumbs landed on Kyle’s face. “Sucer.”

Kyle unzipped Hugo fly and pulled his pants down. He wasn’t wearing underwear, so his thick cockshaft popped right out. It hit Kyle in the face, making Hugo laugh.

“You have a big dick.”

“Oui,” Hugo said. His face was flat and expressionless. He puffed on the cigarette in one hand, then took another bite of the baguette. His burgundy beret almost fell off his head.

Kyle kissed his cocktip again. It twitched just like before, but now Kyle could taste the musty smell of his sweat. His uncut cock tasted something like a vineyard, Kyle thought, not the wine part, but the unused mash, the waste left over after making wine — he had gone on a tour of a real French vineyard before he found Hugo. It was musty and sweet and strong, and it made Kyle’s dick hard.

“Colette,” Hugo said. His voice was as grim and flat as his face. Kyle didn’t know what he meant at first, but then Hugo repeated it. “Colette.” He took a few steps closer to the window that faced the cafe’s kitchen. Kyle had to scramble after him to stay in front of his still-limp cock. That placed Kyle up against the ancient brick wall of the cafe, while Hugo’s big body filled the open window into the kitchen. “Colette.”

That pretty waitress from inside walked in there from the cafe. She scoffed at Hugo. “Eh, Hugo, go away, I am busy.”

From her position in the kitchen, she couldn’t see that Hugo’s dick was out, and she couldn’t see that Kyle was letting that entire shaft drop into his mouth. He suckled on it, as passionately as he could without making much noise. He wasn’t sure if Hugo was deliberately hiding the blowjob from Colette, but he didn’t want to make more attention than he had to — he didn’t even really want this to be public, that wasn’t something Kyle liked. He would have rather taken Hugo into a hotel room and had his way with him.

“I have written a poem,” Hugo said. His dick was beginning to get hard now that Colette was paying attention to him.

She blushed and laughed again. She waved him off, but she also moved closer, washing dishes near enough to the window that she could hear him.

“Let me see your breasts,” he said. His cock throbbed in Kyle’s mouth. “Or just one. They are so beautiful, they are like poems of the flesh. My words can never be as inspired as they are.”

She undid her blouse, and let one of her tits fly free. She made it look rather casual, as though it was an accident, though she had clearly done so deliberately. Hugo lowered his head and tried to suck on her nipple, as his dick fully perked up to full erection in Kyle’s mouth.

“Hush, Hugo, I am married,” she said. She took her breast away and covered it up. “Let me hear your poem.”

He straightened his back. His dick twitched in Kyle’s mouth, and he lit another cigarette. He exhaled the smoke away from the cafe. He put the baguette down on a table that sat out back — it had a wobbly leg, so it tottered when he put the baguette on it. His heavy, hairy balls rested on Kyle’s chin, dripping sweat onto him while the first few drops of salty precum hit his tongue.

You are pretty like Paris

When it lights up at night

You are an oasis of illumination

In a desert of night-time

You are where the camel drinks at last

Before it dies

Under the fierce Algerian sun

You are my canteen

The final drink

The last one I need

To die on sand, satisfied

And thirst, quenched

Vous êtes jolie comme Paris

Quand il allume la nuit

Vous êtes une oasis d’illumination

Dans un désert de nuit

Vous êtes là où le chameau boit enfin,

Avant qu’il ne meurt

Sous le soleil algérien féroce

Vous êtes ma cantine

La boisson finale

La dernière que je dois

Pour mourir sur le sable, satisfait

Et la soif, trempé

She blushed and smiled. “That is very pretty, Hugo,” she said. She patted him on the muscular belly beneath his lumberjack’s shirt. His skin puckered at her touch, and his dick twitched. She bared her tit again for him, making him growl with desire. She covered it back up with a giggle. “But you did tell the same poem to Maria last week. She has told me about it.”

Hugo’s mouth opened but no words came out. His deep voice rumbled. He had obviously not meant to get caught at this. She laughed at his reaction, then turned around and walked away.

“Damn it!” Hugo snorted when she was gone. “Merde!” The kitchen was empty.

He pistoned his hips before Kyle could react. That pushed his entire cock down Kyle’s throat. Kyle choked and spasmed, and his own dick leaked precum into his fingers. His head banged painfully into the wall behind him.

He slathered spit all along the shaft, coughing up so much saliva it dripped in clumps. Hugo’s muscles bulged beneath his black-and-white striped shirt, which had a few dark spots now where he sweated through it.

Kyle’s hands stretched up to Hugo’s chest, slipping under that shirt to massage his hairy muscles. He had a thick nest of fur there on his torso, which Kyle loved. He wished he could get up and lick his chest clean, but he had a feeling Hugo would not allow that.

As Kyle groped Hugo, Hugo groped as well — his hands slipped into the window, where he felt around until he found a cheese plate. He pulled it out. The smell of funky cheese filled the air, overpowering even the precum and sweat scent of Hugo’s cock.

As he pumped his hips, fucking Kyle’s face, Hugo ignored his choking and his frenzied sucking. He just grabbed the baguette he had half-eaten, and he made himself a cheese sandwich, just by ripping off hunks of bread and cheese. He ate it vociferously, crumbs landing all over Kyle and even on Hugo’s dick so Kyle could taste the bread and the sour cheese.

All of a sudden, Hugo pulled off Kyle’s face. He jammed the baguette into Kyle’s face as though trying to make him deepthroat that as well. He laughed cruelly when the baguette just left crumbs all over Kyle’s cheeks.

“Lick my ass. Lécher mon cul.”

Then he turned around. His asscheeks were big and plump and tanned brown. They were hairy, but not extremely so, they were just hairy enough for Kyle. He dove his face between those cheeks.

Hugo grunted like he was surprised. Kyle loved licking ass though, so he enthusiastically lapped at the sweat that trickled between Hugo’s cheeks. His body was big and plump, so his ass was juicy. Kyle’s entire face fit between those delicious cheeks. He sucked every inch of Hugo’s funky hole.

His eyes and his nose were covered by sexy manmeat, but Kyle could hear that something was happening. Hugo shifted his weight a little, like he faced a different direction now. Hugo said something and laughed — was that aimed at Kyle? He couldn’t tell.

Eventually Kyle had to come up for air. He was still pinned between the wall and Hugo’s big ass, but he could see just barely that there was a white-faced mime in the alley. He must have been walking by and seen Hugo getting his ass licked.

Now the mime was bent over, leaning against the fence with his ass in the air. He wiggled his ass like a dog trying to scratch an itch. That made Hugo laugh, and Kyle joined in — the mime was making fun of them. He was in the same position as Hugo, moving his ass as though an invisible man licked it.

Kyle licked all the way from the top of Hugo’s ass, right at the small of his back, down his asscrack, over his hole and through the funky hair of his taint. Kyle’s head appeared on the other side of his body, where Kyle swallowed his heavy ballsac.

Hugo grunted. He lifted his balls up, then plopped them back in Kyle’s mouth a few times.

Sensing that Hugo was ready to move on, Kyle stood up, very slowly, keeping his tongue out so he licked Hugo’s cockshaft then all the way up his chest and over that black-and-white striped shirt he still wore.

He nearly managed to lick all the way up to Hugo’s face so he could kiss him on the lips — Kyle thought some straight European men would be willing to tolerate that — but Hugo roughly pushed his face away. Probably because his tongue had been inside Hugo’s ass just seconds ago, Kyle thought.

Oh well, that was okay with him. He knew what he wanted to do next. He dropped his own pants to bare his ass, while Hugo watched. He reached into the kitchen again, this time pulling out a bottle of red wine and a glass. He poured himself a drink. He laughed at the mime who mimicked everything Hugo did.

The mime finished his invisible wine and smashed the invisible glass on the road. Then he grabbed an invisible ass and pretended to fuck it, making Hugo laugh some more. The mime was really very good, Kyle thought.

As Hugo actually bent Kyle over for real, the mime beckoned for someone. Kyle blushed as he realized he was about to have an audience.

He bit his lip and threw his head back as Hugo rammed his dick in without a word of warning. He didn’t use any lube at first, but he started to spit on his cockshaft once he felt resistance. The pain in Kyle’s ass was extraordinary, and he moaned in both desire and agony.

It turned out the mime beckoned a musician, an accordionist who laughed when he saw Hugo fucking Kyle. The accordionist began playing musette music, which made the entire experience seem almost romantic to Kyle. The crooning accordion filled the air, covering up the sound of Kyle’s gasping as he accepted more and more of Hugo’s meat.

“Ooh la la,” Kyle said through his moans. His prostate came alive and sent tingles through his body. His pleasure grew in waves with every touch of Hugo’s cock inside him.

Hugo’s sausage-like fingers grabbed ahold of Kyle’s back and held on. His dick was all the way in Kyle’s ass now, his balls slapping against Kyle’s thighs. Kyle squirmed. Hugo grunted.

The tune coming from the accordion changed to a new song. Kyle recognized it but he couldn’t place it at first. He was too overwhelmed by sensations from deep within him to think about it.

It was only when Hugo began singing that Kyle recognized the words and placed it to the tune — it was “La Marseillaise”, the national anthem of France. It was a bloody, martial song and, despite the romance of the accordion, that atmosphere shone through because Hugo sang it with his deep, baritone voice, crackling, booming, pumping his biceps and his pecs on the accented words. He sounded like a soldier marching off to war, Kyle thought, covering up his own moans so he didn’t overpower the sound of Hugo singing.

At last an orgasm ran through Kyle’s body. He loved cumming with a straight man’s cock in his ass because it always made the straight man react — Hugo stopped singing for a moment. He grumbled, then groaned in surprise as Kyle’s asshole clenched around his cock.

When Hugo began to gyrate his hips again, the pain was worse than ever on account of Kyle’s orgasm-tightened ass. That didn’t last long, however, as the smell of cum filled the air, crowding out the bleu cheese and wine that still lingered, and the passion of Hugo’s fucking made Kyle relax

Now he shuddered, aftershocks of his orgasm wracking his body. He was fully limp though, barely able to remain on all fours in front of Hugo, with his ass in the air and his head on the ground.

Since Kyle no longer jacked himself off, Hugo could — and did — treat him like a ragdoll. He held onto Kyle’s asscheeks tightly, riding him, grinding his dick inside Kyle’s body as though he needed to fuck every inch of Kyle’s innards. He grunted out a few indecipherable French syllables.

Once he finished his wine, he smashed the delicate glass on Kyle’s back. A few shards of glass sprayed onto the ground at Kyle’s feet, and the slight twinge of pain made Kyle writhe. The smell of wine was strong now. Kyle squirmed but Hugo kept a tight grip on his body.

“I will drown your ass now,” Hugo said with a broken moan. “Je vais noyer ton cul maintenant…”He slapped Kyle’s cheeks and watched them ripple. His own muscles flexed and rippled as well, as an orgasm washed over his body.

His lit cigarette fell out of his mouth and landed on Kyle’s back, scorching him briefly before it rolled off him and fell onto the ground. He yelped a little, as the pain reawakened the exquisite sensations in his asshole.

Hugo fucked relentlessly, still breaking into the words of “La Marseillaise” every few seconds as the accordionist continued the song (or maybe started it over, Kyle couldn’t tell). Hugo grunted and roared as he fucked, and cum spurted out of his uncut cock.

It filled up Kyle’s ass, dripping into every corner of his body. He shot so much that some of it slipped out his ass, coating his butt and his inner thighs in creamy goodness. It was hot and thick, and it made Kyle moan when he felt wad after wad of semen land on his prostate.

He squirmed. He moved his ass back and forth, fucking himself with Hugo’s dick. Hugo stood perfectly still. He lit yet another cigarette as he still moaned with the power of his own orgasm.

“Ooh la la…” Hugo murmured with a dry, throaty chuckle.

Then his dick was perfectly limp. Kyle pulled off him and sighed. The most incredible relief of his life flooded his body now that his ass was empty. He turned around and dove his face between Hugo’s lumberjack arm and his body. As Hugo breathed heavily, and the mime and accordionist walked away, Kyle licked all the sweat that had collected there in Hugo’s damp armpit.

At last it was over. Hugo flopped his limp dick between his fingers, and he wiped his shaft off with the last little bit of baguette. He rammed the crusty, ass-and-cum-soaked bread into Kyle’s mouth, laughing when it made Kyle cough and choke.

He pulled his pants up, took a drag off his cigarette, then glanced towards the street. There was a pretty girl walking past, and Hugo’s eyes lit up.

“Money,” Hugo said. “Argent, maintenant.”

Kyle had forgotten he hadn’t actually paid yet. He pulled out his wallet, carefully counted out five hundred euros and handed it over. Hugo took it, nodded, then took the rest of the cash out of Kyle’s wallet. He pushed Kyle away and walked out to the main street, calling after the pretty girl.

“Antoinette! Antoinette! Attends-moi!”

Finally left alone, Kyle sighed. He pulled his own pants up and leaned against the fence. Inside the cafe’s kitchen, Colette had returned with a plate of dirty dishes. He wrinkled her nose at Kyle as though she either thought he was homeless or knew he was a tourist and didn’t like them.

But she didn’t tell him to leave the yard, so Kyle just stayed there, smelling the wine, bleu cheese and cum, the combined scent of which would forever make him think of France and the sexiest French stud he had ever met.

He smiled. This European tour, he thought, was going to be even better than he had hoped.

Downlow Thugs at the Irontop Gym

Here’s the first chapter of Downlow Thugs at the Irontop Gym, a fantastic new tale about muscular black alphas and the lusty twink who services them!

Kyle loved his job at the Irontop Gym of Compton. He had initially thought he would feel out-of-place — he was a flamboyant twink, and the regulars here were burly macho thugs. The Irontop Gym appealed mainly to men, and in Compton, it was strictly Nine Tats gang territory. That was where all the top gangbangers in the city worked out. But it also had a reputation that helped make it an ideal workplace for Kyle.

That’s because everyone knew the Irontop Gym was a place straight men could swing downlow… very low on the downlow. He loved the muscular sweaty bodies all around, demanding service and release. What happened here, stayed here, so a lot of men got their nut off and then went home to their wives, bitches or hos, pretending nothing had happened. And the pay wasn’t bad either — Kyle was a licensed physical trainer, so he did alright.

Most of his clients were not very sexy though. The handsome studs and thugs who filled the gym, and who occasionally asked for a blowjob, were mostly too poor to pay for a trainer. Even if they did want to hire one, they’d feel self-conscious hiring a slim gay man. That wasn’t very gangsta.

But Kyle did okay on an hourly wage and the extra money he got from the older gentlemen who actually needed a physical trainer — he got paid from their insurance companies (or Medicaid, though Medicaid paid so little that Kyle barely even thought of it as a portion of his income). Whenever he didn’t have a client, he kept his eyes open for someone who might give him a taste of their cock.

When he saw Samson, Kyle knew he’d be tasting that meat sooner or later — he just moved like a straight nigga who let gay men suck him off. He had that horse-cocked swagger that made Kyle’s knees weak. Samson was middle-aged, at forty-one years old, though you’d never know it from looking at him. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a dense mustache and a square jaw. He wore low-hanging gray shorts and a white wifebeater that revealed the layer of salt-and-pepper hair covering his broad chest.

“Yo, you my trainer?” he asked. He had a deep, gravelly voice that made Kyle’s knees weak.

Kyle nodded. He took a deep breath and steeled his nerves. For a moment he thought he wouldn’t be able to do this, that he’d react like a lovestruck teenager and there was nothing he could do about it.

But at last his professionalism took over. “Yes, sir. My name is Kyle,” he said. “Let’s talk about your goals. I got the medical sheet from your insurance company, but what are your personal goals? What do you hope to gain from our meetings?”

Kyle took a deep breath. Samson had taken a bullet to the thigh a few months ago. He lifted up his shorts to show Kyle the scar. Kyle touched his trunk-like thighs, and his hands shook he was so aroused. He caught a peek of the dingy white pouch of Samson’s jockstrap peeking out from the leg of his gray shorts.

The din of the gym filled Kyle’s ears, drowning out Samson’s voice. All Kyle could think about was that delicious-looking bulge in Samson’s shorts. He inhaled deeply of the musty scent that wafted off Samson, who had a permanent scowl on his face.

“Yo… Kyle,” Samson said. It took him a moment to remember Kyle’s name. He rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. Was he angry? He came across as angry, Kyle thought, his heart pounding, but Kyle felt sure he always looked like that. Samson was an intimidating man. His pause hung in the air like a stormcloud waiting to burst. He glared at Kyle. “You gay, right?”

“Uh… yeah,” Kyle said.

“You distracted cuz you wanna suck my dick?”

“Uh…”

“I ain’t mad atcha,” he said. “You got somewhere quiet? You can suck me, Kyle. Then we do our work togethuh. Got it?”

“Well, uh, I…-“

“Shut up. Say yes or no.”

“Uh, yes.”

“Good,” Samson said. He stood up and turned around, so that his big plump asscheeks were right in front of Kyle’s face. Kyle drooled. He had to force himself to stand. He gestured towards the back of the gym.

“Uh, there’s a storage closet back there.”

“Let’s go, nigga,” he said. “I’m glad you ain’t white. I don’t like letting white queers suck my dick. Feels like a surrender.”

“Uh-huh,” Kyle murmured. He was too distracted by his own erection and the rippling of Samson’s muscles beneath his shorts and his wifebeater.

The closet was mostly empty, just a few exercise machines that weren’t in use. There was a bench press in the center of the closet, and it was there that Samson sat. He continued scowling in Kyle’s direction.

“Don’t mess around, nigga,” Samson said. “I ain’t come here for a blowjob, I still got shit to do. We ain’t makin’ love or whatevuh. Be quick. Just drain my nut so we can move on. Got it?”

Kyle nodded and sunk to his knees.

“Nah,” Samson said. He caught Kyle’s chest and lifted him back up to his feet. “Use yo’ words, nigga. Tell me you understand me.”

Kyle blushed. “Uh… I’ll be quick. I’ll suck you off as quick as I can. I won’t mess around.”

“Good.”

Samson spread his legs so the edge of the bench was beneath his crotch. That gave Kyle perfect access to his dick. Kyle stroked it through his gray shorts, but then Samson snorted liked he thought Kyle was being slow. Kyle blushed and pulled those shorts down.

He had a massive cock, which made Kyle grin. He had rarely seen anything so huge. It was long and thick and dense and fleshy, and Kyle could feel it throbbing even though it was still limp. He flopped it against his face. He kissed the tip and let his tongue tickle the piss-slit. Normally Kyle liked to tease straight men like that, but it seemed Samson didn’t want to take the time. So Kyle put the entire tip in his mouth and started sucking.

“Yeah, good boy, keep suckin’ just like that,” Samson said. He groaned as his dick stiffened up, and all that flesh turned from soft and clammy to hard and moist, throbbing in Kyle’s throat.

Fuck you, nigga! Come here and say that to my face! There was an argument out in the main gym. It sounded like a crowd formed and cheered the combatants on. All Kyle could hear was cheering and hollering.

The cock in his mouth was so thick he could barely fit in at all, but the more he sucked, the more he could swallow. It tasted like pure, unadulterated manhood, and the flavor reminded Kyle of all the imagined sex he had here — whenever he was bored at work, all he had to do was glance around to see overstuffed basketball shorts, pubic hair peeking out above the waistband, gruff voices echoing and cocky swagger everywhere he looked. Normally when he finally found a nigga willing to get his nut off in Kyle’s mouth, Kyle ended up disappointed — the reality didn’t live up to his imagination. But Samson was exactly what he had hoped, and it reminded Kyle of all those other men whose cocks he had only sucked in his dreams.

Come at me then! That fight sounded like it was getting more serious.

He considered going up there to stop it, but he knew that was silly, not just because he didn’t want to stop sucking Samson’s cock. Kyle was a weak gay twink — he was in good shape, but he was skinny and small. There was no way he could break up a fight, and anyway the bodybuilder Alain worked today as well. He would be able to stop the fight. Before Kyle even thought of that, he thought he could hear Alain’s Senegalese accent resonating in from the hallway.

“Ignore them niggas,” Samson said, flaring his nostrils. “You wanna suck my dick, you focus on my dick. I ain’t lettin’ you suck it on a fuckin’ lark or whatevuh, nigga. We ain’t stoppin just cuz some niggas is throwin’ punches up front.”

Kyle nodded to show his understanding. He certainly didn’t want to stop, and it did sound like Alain had broken up the fight before it got too serious. Wanting to be sure Samson appreciated the blowjob, Kyle looked up at him — straight thugs loved it when cocksuckers made eye contact — and grabbed his big meaty hands. He guided them to the back of Kyle’s head.

“Oh? You want me to facefuck ya, huh?”

Kyle nodded.

“You into that nasty shit, nigga?” Samson said. He started grinding his hips, shoving his dick in as Kyle struggled to open his throat. Samson muttered to himself. “Get that shit in there, nigga. You wantin’ this, don’t try and fight back now.”

Kyle wasn’t trying to fight back, but Samson’s dick was simply too big to deep-throat. It was all he could do to get half of it in his mouth, which felt like it was going to make his neck explode. He enjoyed the sight of Samson’s massive body swaying, rubbing, humping his face. Samson periodically glared into Kyle’s eyes, his harsh thuggish glare sending a wave of submission, fear and arousal through Kyle’s body.

“Keep on lookin’ me in the eye. When you suck a superior nigga, you look ‘im in the eye. That shows respect,” Samson said. Whenever Kyle accidentally closed his eyes, Samson gently pried them open again. He sneered at Kyle as he spat in his hand and lubed up his cock with it. His arrogant look made Kyle shiver with terror.

But Kyle loved every moment of it. He always enjoyed massive dicks sticking in his throat, leaking precum into his belly, and the swinging of heavy balls against his chin. His favorite activity was submitting to big thugs like Samson, allowing them to use his throat to satisfy their own carnal desires.

A brief spurt of pain erupted in Kyle’s nose — Samson had found a clothespin, which he used to shut Kyle’s nostrils. That forced Kyle’s throat to open even wider a few seconds later, and the last of Samson’s cock squeezed down his throat.

“Yeah, bitch, you a fuckin’ legend, nigga, hell yeah…” Samson said. He sounded surprised that he was enjoying this at all. His gravelly voice resonated in the tiny closet. He lightly tapped Kyle on the back of the head whenever he tried to pull away to take a breath, and he used both hands to hold Kyle in place. “Don’t quit now, nigga. You got me started, and I ain’t gonna stop ‘less you force me to.”

Kyle had no idea how long that lasted. He was dizzy from lack of oxygen, and all he could think about was his strained throat sputtering and choking. His face was a deep burgundy shade as his lungs cried out for air.

“Yo nigga, you ready fo’ nut? Huh? You better be, cuz it’s comin’.”

At last it was over. Samson stopped moving with his dick all the way down Kyle’s gullet, so Kyle could feel his balls crawl up in his sac where it rested against Kyle’s chin. Kyle’s hands gripped Samson’s plump brown asscheeks the best he could with Samson sitting down on the bench — he was leaned forward enough that Kyle could stroke the sweaty crack with both hands.

Samson grunted and groaned, lips moving like he was talking though no words came out. He closed his eyes as the first drops of cum spilled down Kyle’s throat. Kyle felt it pouring down his throat like he was chugging sour beer, and he loved the feel of Samson’s balls draining down his throat while they throbbed against his chin.

“Fuck yeah, nigga, swallow that shit… don’t spill none…”

Since Samson’s dick was so deep inside Kyle, his cum sprayed right into his gullet. Kyle didn’t taste it at first, he just felt the creamy heat seeping into his stomach and spreading to every corner of his body.

But when Samson finally pulled out, his dickshaft brought so much cum up with it that it coated Kyle’s tongue. He sighed as the flavor of semen finally overwhelmed his senses.

“Damn, nigga…” Samson chuckled. “You sure you wanna be a trainer? If you was my ho, I’d treat you right. Just consider it, nigga. You sign up wit’ me, and I’ll make sure you get fucked silly e’ry day.”

A blossom of desire exploded within Kyle, and if he weren’t out of breath, Kyle would have screamed “yes!” without a second thought. But by the time he recovered, it was clear that Samson was kidding, and even if he weren’t, Kyle didn’t want to be a ho. He was sure Samson’s idea of treating a ho “right” was not going to be as much fun as Kyle wanted.

Samson tucked his dick back in his jockstrap. He frowned at Kyle. “You feel better now, nigga? Can you concentrate on my leg instead of my cock?”

“Yes, sir,” Kyle said. He blushed, but Samson was entirely right to do this — now that he had tasted Samson’s cock, Kyle could focus. “Let’s get your leg stretched out. Stretching is very important to the healing process, that’s actually more important than the exercise.”