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First-Time Jocks in the Campground

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

Wayne stomped away from the campsite feeling like a spoiled child. He was twenty-one, but he was acting like a brat. He knew that. He just couldn’t stop himself.

Sheila had gone, and everyone else was fucking. Balls slapped against pussies and asses, and men grunted while women moaned. Almost the entire GHU football team was here, and they had all brought a girl. Now Wayne was the only single one in the whole site. He couldn’t bear to stick around, that was why he left.

It would be too humiliating to simply walk around the campground alone. He couldn’t do that. He had hated going anywhere alone ever since coming to college — back in high school, he was the most popular kid around, the star football jock and all-American handsome stud, and he always teased the kids who ate lunch alone.

But nearly everyone on his college football team had been the most popular kid in their high school. Wayne wasn’t special anymore. He wasn’t even the star quarterback, just a backup. Everyone thought the kicker Ronaldo Tironi was the sexiest player on the team, and he wasn’t even American — he looked more like an underwear model than an athlete anyway, Wayne thought.

Ah, yeah, suck it, bitch…

Sheila had gone because Wayne called her a bitch. He didn’t say it in an insulting way. A lot of other guys said that when they fucked. It was just dirty-talk, he thought. Wayne had, admittedly, said it a bit early — she was just starting to suck his dick when he said it — and he hadn’t said it in a sufficiently light-hearted manner like the others.

So now his entire team was off fucking their girls, probably trading females without him. His dick could do nothing more than painfully wither to full limpitude. It was so unfair.

He had grabbed his shower stuff simply because he wanted his teammates to think he was walking away for a purpose, not because he was a loser whose girl had dumped him. Maybe, he thought, they’d think she was going to fuck around with him in the shower. He headed towards the showerhouse simply because he had nowhere else to go.

Since no one was in there, and Wayne had everything he needed, he thought he might as well take a shower. He was going to do it eventually, and he’d rather do it now, when no one was around, instead of later, when all the drunk rednecks and fat-ass bikers who camped here would be showering. Wayne showered with his teammates a lot, but he didn’t cotton to the idea of showering with a bunch of fat old strangers.

The showerhouse was empty, which was nice. Wayne was glad to see that there was even hot water. The showering area was open to the stars, like an inner courtyard surrounded on all four sides by a square shelter with toilets, sinks and a baby-changing station.

The shower didn’t relax him. Even with no one around, the bikers whooping drunkenly and the prospect of strangers coming in any time were nerve-wracking for Wayne. He showered quickly.

Then someone did enter. Wayne’s heart skipped a beat, picturing some massive biker with a big swinging dick advancing towards him like the climax of a prison movie.

But it was a small man, skinny, weak, not a biker at all. He had an idle grin on his face as he entered. He glanced at Wayne but didn’t say anything to him.

Wayne didn’t want to look weird, so he turned around. It looked like the small man was going to brush his teeth, and Wayne intended to look the other way until he was gone.

“Hi,” said the man, startling Wayne. He turned around to face him. The other man looked up at him. “I’m Holly.”

“Oh. I’m Wayne,” Wayne said. He had never met someone new when they were both naked. It was awkward. He couldn’t look down without seeing Holly’s cock and balls. He couldn’t bring himself to look in any direction — what was the etiquette in a campground showerhouse anyway? — so his head rigidly stared forward, above Holly’s head, at the wall behind him.

“You look horny, Wayne,” Holly said with a giggle. Wayne realized only then that he was gay — he had a lilting flamboyance that strongly suggested it — and became nervous. He thought he should cover his crotch but that seemed silly, since Holly had been looking at it for some time now.

“Oh.” Wayne bit his lip.

“I can help,” Holly said softly. He really did sound like a woman, Wayne thought. He had a light voice with a singsong note to it, and he carried himself like a girl. Holly reached for Wayne’s dick. Wayne watched his hand move as though in slow motion. He told himself to leave, or just to tell Holly to fuck off.

Downlow Muscle at the City Barbershop

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You work for Craig?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too Thick for Girls: The Linebacker Lean

Here’s the beginning of Too Thick for Girls: The Linebacker Lean, the debut story by Trent Chaplain!

Gravy Mitchell tried not to feel self-conscious. He hung around on the bus. No one seemed to notice that he was alone. His teammates filed off, meeting up with the girls out in the parking lot. Even the bus driver had disappeared somewhere.

The GHU Wildcats were on their way to Jacksonville for a big game. The cheerleading squad was on their way too, and their van had stopped in the same motel parking lot where Gravy and his fellow Wildcats were staying.

And then they paired up. That happened sometimes. The cheerleaders brought their female friends, and they all picked a football player as they got off the bus. The cheerleaders giggled and laughed as they found a man, and they went into the rooms the school had rented for the players.

Gravy sat there on the bus alone. He didn’t bother to go out there. He couldn’t be humiliated like that again.

At one point, he had gotten big deliberately. Girls liked muscles, right? They liked athletes. They were into that, he was sure that had been true at one point. But it seemed there was a point of no return, and that point was either six and a half feet tall or three hundred pounds, give or take a bit.

Gravy wasn’t fat by any means. He was in good shape. He didn’t have a six-pack, no matter what he tried, he couldn’t get those kind of perfectly etched curves like the quarterback Sammy. He had a big barrel shaped chest, and he was approaching seven feet tall and four hundred and fifty pounds. At least he was pretty sure he had stopped growing. He hoped so.

He was already too big for girls.

As the parking lot emptied and Gravy could go to his room without being seen, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror at the front of the bus and he blanched. He really did look like an ogre, he thought.

He worked out constantly. That was his plan, while his teammates were fucking beautiful cheerleaders, probably double-teaming them, filling their tight holes with creamy seed, Gravy would just go work out. He was hungry — he was always hungry, eating more than eight thousand calories a day, and burning them all off — and he needed to work out or he would get antsy.

Last month, the cheerleaders had come into the locker room for a “blowjob-party”, which they said was a tradition. They each picked a guy, or sometimes more than one, and sucked him off.

Ew, not Gravy! Sorry! I can’t even reach his dick on my knees!

He’s too hairy! He’s got backhair… Gross…

He smells like my dad’s armpits, ohmygod…

They had giggled and whispered to each other. No one actually told Gravy that he had been rejected, he had to overhear and surmise it from the fact that no one started sucking him off. He was the only one who didn’t get a blowjob, even the weirdo German-Turkish kicker Abu landed the tubby cheerleader.

The last time Gravy did get laid, it was some fat chick who had made him stop partway through. His dick was too big and he “ain’t usin’ it right”. She said she’d give him a handjob, but then she just mashed it for a bit and passed out.

That was it.

Everyone assumed football players got laid a lot. The nerd who tutored Gravy in math made comments suggesting it, and Gravy was too embarrassed to correct him. Gravy might have considered lying, pretending he had a girl when he didn’t; he could have tried to save face that way. But in the most humiliating aspect of this whole problem, he didn’t need to lie. His teammates were so used to being golden gods who got girls every night that they never even really asked. They occasionally noticed that he had no girl hanging off him, but they always assumed there were girls right around the corner. It never occurred to them that Gravy didn’t get laid. The one time they heard about a girl turning him down for being too massive and having a painfully huge cock, they thought it was awesome; they assumed Gravy got other girls on other occasions; they congratulated him as though being turned down for sex was a sign of getting a lot of sex.

He walked along the side of the building. He could see one of his teammates through a window, taking off his clothes before pouncing on the beautiful cheerleader sprawled naked over the bed. All of them kept their windows at least partially open, seemingly an accident though Gravy suspected they wanted to make the hotel staff knock on the door. They wanted to brag that they fucked so good the hotel made them take a break. They’d never stop bragging if Coach Bagworth had to come tell them to keep it down.

Lowering his head to make it in the doorway, Gravy walked into his own room. It was plain, but fine. He dropped his duffel bag and scarfed down the chocolate on the pillow.

He didn’t want to go eat, then workout, because that was what he always did. The hotel staff would know that he was the only one not getting laid. His dick stirred because he had been thinking about sex, and his jockstrap was uncomfortably tight.

But that is what he did. He didn’t have anything else to do, so he went to the breakfast buffet (which was open until noon). He piled his plate high with pancakes and bacon. Then he sat down. He tried to make a face like a man who had just gotten laid, hoping maybe folks would think he was just powering up for the next phase.

Crumbs and pancake syrup dripped into his lap. He didn’t really fit in the narrow chair, his plump asscheeks spilling over the side. This wasn’t even a nice hotel and Gravy still felt out of place, like a hobo who had stumbled into a mansion. His hand was sticky, and when he ran his fingers through his tangled black hair, his hair got even greasier and nastier. He didn’t mean to do that. He sighed. He didn’t understand how his teammates managed to look more or less respectable. Jack Miller (a tight end) didn’t style his hair at all and somehow he always looked like Prince Charming. Deondre Wilson had a shaved head and a squat face like a pig that ran into a wall, Gravy never understood why girls thought he was handsome; he spent no time on his appearance either. It was different, he thought, for black guys. And Deondre had a six-pack.

Gravy belched, then blanched. That sounded louder than he thought. He hadn’t intended to be some gross ogreish jock belching like a monster, scaring away the civilians who vacationed here like the villain’s lackey in a college comedy movie. But every sound that came out of his giant throat was loud and attention-grabbing. Gravy couldn’t whisper; his voice was bone-rattlingly deep.

“Hi, sweetheart,” came a feminine voice from behind him.

Gravy turned around. For a moment, he thought it was a cheerleader willing to give him sloppy seconds. He could have tolerated that.

But it was a man. He worked here at the hotel, and his nametag said Trent. He sounded feminine because he was flamboyantly gay. He was tiny, at barely more than five feet tall, though he looked athletic and sinuous. He giggled as he looked up at Gravy’s face — even though Gravy sat and Trent stood, Trent had to look upwards to see his face.

“Hi.” Gravy grunted.

“You look like you need something. Would you like some more bacon, sir?”

Gravy nodded. Trent went and got him a big plate full of bacon. Gravy stuffed it in his mouth, eyeing Trent suspiciously. This, he thought, was not the kind of hotel where staff would bring him food from a buffet. Avoiding that staff expense was rather the whole point of a buffet.

“You’re here with that football team, right?”

Gravy nodded.

He smiled. “Normally, when a team bus pulls up, they all come running to the buffet right away. Where’s the rest of your team?”

Gravy shrugged.

“Not a big talker, huh?”

“Not really,” Gravy said, keeping his voice as low as possible. Of course he wasn’t able to avoid attracting attention. Folks at other tables glanced up, as though Gravy’s baritone made their glasses vibrate. Gravy blanched. In addition to having a freakishly, painfully deep voice, Gravy thought he simply sounded stupid — he sounded like a dumbie; people always assumed he was stupid because of his size anyway, and the dull chasm of his voice seemed to confirm it. Even when he said true things in class, people laughed as though he had embarrassed himself.

“That’s okay, you don’t need to talk. A big sexy guy like you…”

Gravy grunted.

Trent smiled. “What?”

Gravy just shook his head. “I’m too big to be sexy. I’m too thick for girls.”

Trent sighed dramatically. “Girls are such idiots. There’s no such thing as too thick.” He threw his hands in the air. “C’mon, let me show you.”

The T-Girl in the Alley

Here’s the beginning of The T-Girl in the Alley, a new story of urban transgender erotica!

 

Tina very rarely slept with anyone, so when she awoke feeling the warmth that emanated from Hardneck’s body, she was momentarily surprised. She had plenty of sex, of course, she just very rarely allowed any men to actually sleep with her.

Hardneck was a special case — he was so sexy it hurt to look at him. He was a scruffy thickbody, with light skin that Tina’s grandmother would have called high yellow. Tina was pretty light-skinned too, but not pale enough to qualify as high yellow. Hardneck would have looked white if it weren’t for his tightly kinked black hair, squat nose and thick, full lips. His massive chest rose and fell as he breathed.

The sun was coming up. Tina knew Hardneck would want to get up soon, so she decided to wake him up in her own special way. She slowly moved her head under the covers, where the smell of his unwashed body filled the air.

She moaned and let her delicate fingers roam over his body. He didn’t react, still sound asleep. She made sure to angle her body so her own penis was nowhere’s near Hardneck — he was fine with sleeping with a transgender woman as long as he didn’t see or feel her penis.

His cock had flopped out the fly of his boxers, which made Tina giggle; it looked like a large snake trying to escape from his crotch. She licked his dick from tip to root. That at last made Hardneck shift and twitch, but he still didn’t wake up. Tina licked as gently and quietly as she could, hoping to get him hard and on the verge of orgasm before he awoke.

Hardneck’s harsh features were soft because he was asleep. He had looked cruel and vituperative when Tina first met him — that was his default look, always scowling, perpetually scolding when he spoke. Yo, bitch, hurry up, I’s tryin’-a sleep! That was what he had first said to her, one night when Tina drunkenly fumbled with her keys coming back home through the alley.

He lived in that alley at the time. He was homeless, or as he put it, between females right now. He said he’d get some beautiful white girl to hook up with him and then live with her for awhile. That was his plan, but it didn’t seem to be working.

Instead, he was living with Tina, who was not white and though she was a girl in her own way, Hardneck didn’t see her as a true girl. That hadn’t stopped him from treating her like one so long as he didn’t see her penis.

Yo, baby, you look good enough to eat. If you had a pussy, I would lick it clean, I’d be like a kitten with catnip, I be all over you, baby. I make you feel so good you melt in a little puddle of pussyjuice. You like dick, huh? I bet you do.

He had flopped his massive tan cock out right there in the alley, not even bothering to move behind the dumpster so he couldn’t be seen from the street. He waggled his dick back and forth and let Tina stroke it.

She hadn’t intended to give him a handjob there in the alley. She thought it was just harmless flirting. But he had moaned passionately, as though he had never felt anything as good as her hand on his dick.

Girl, move ya hand a bit, just a bit, okay? Move it up and down… I want you so bad, I need you…

He whispered in her ear, and Tina was seduced. She stroked him to full completion right there, and he shot his load in two minutes — Tina was very good at handjobs when she wanted to be.

Now, in bed, she didn’t want to be too good at handjobs. She stroked his dick gently, licking the tip with her tongue, until he was fully hard.

At last he gasped and murmured, “damn, girl, you gettin’ a headstart.”

It sounded like he meant to say something else too, but he bucked and a spasm of pleasure ran through him. His spine twisted, as though he had been on the verge of orgasm when he was asleep, and his mind caught up all at once now that he was awake.

“Mornin’, sugar,” Tina said from under the covers. She giggled as Hardneck’s whole body shook, and the salty taste of precum exploded in her mouth.

“Aaaaaaaah… Girl… Girl, you know how to treat a nigga right… Yeah, suck it deep, girl, make a mess.”

She obliged, choking up as much spit as she could, until it coated his spasming dickshaft and soaked into his pubic hair. A lot of saliva spilled down onto the bed too. She didn’t mind, she would wash her sheets today so her man would have a clean place to come home to.

“Alright, baby, you so special, you amazin’, girl, you treat me so right,” he said softly, looking up at the ceiling. “I’m-a treat you rough now. Don’t mean I love you any less.”

His firm hand wrapped around the back of her head, while the other grabbed her chin. He pistoned his dick all the way down her throat. It was a facefucking, but not in a violent or aggressive way. He made sweet love to her face, clucking his tongue when she gagged but inexorably forcing his dick all the way into her throat.

The Yakuza’s Tutor

Here’s the beginning of “The Yakuza’s Tutor“, a yaoi interracial tale by Lee Lane Lamplight!

 

Frank felt like an idiot when he finally realized who he worked for. In retrospect, there were lots of clues. But he was an American who had only just moved to Japan to teach English. He had chalked all that stuff up to cultural differences.

He only became totally sure when he went to a noodle restaurant with a man. The Japanese gay scene was hard for foreigners to break into; many gay men simply weren’t interested in Americans. But he finally got a date with a hot man, and they went to this legendary noodle joint that had been recommended by the men he taught English to. They ate there often. He had seen the takeout containers. He had eaten the noodles takeout himself, he had just never been there before.

Midway through the meal, Frank’s date leaned over to whisper, in broken, nervous, trembling English, “I didn’t know you were… yakuza. I’m sorry, I’m just shocked. I know I should pretend I do not know, but… well, you’re not Japanese anyway-“

“Wait, what?”

And so that was how Frank figured it out. He never went on a second date with that guy, who was too terrified to answer the phone when Frank called. The noodle restaurant was yakuza-connected. The waiters had been speaking in hushed tones that Frank’s date overheard as they ate — the only reason they had allowed Frank in was because their delivery boy vouched for him working for Samforo.

Samforo was, it turned out, a front company. Frank went to work without acknowledging what he had learned. Now it was obvious. This was a telecommunications company that didn’t advertise or run cable anywhere. The “executives” to whom Frank taught English were mostly muscle-bound goons, several of whom were missing a finger. There were no women around at all. Even the cleaning staff had grim faces and nice suits.

So there were signs that something was amiss. Frank was terrified and considered quitting. He could just flee back to America. But that might even be more dangerous. He wondered if the yakuza thought he was an idiot for not figuring it out.

He decided to play along. He pretended he still had no idea. He asked how the telecommunications business was doing, and the charming “Vice-President” who signed Frank’s paychecks — Mr. Matsumagi — smilingly explained that they were doing well, expanding into new areas. Frank said great and went home.

After that, things settled into a groove. The men were very respectful to him. He had thought that was general Japanese politeness and respect for educators, but now he realized that wasn’t the case — they were deferent to him, either because he was seen as a boss of sorts or because they thought they needed in order to maintain the illusion that they were a real company. They were strictly obedient, falling silent in their chairs at nine o’clock every morning and listening attentively until they finished at noon.

That was the beginner’s class. In the afternoon, Frank taught English one-on-one to the more advanced learners. That was another aspect that seemed obvious in retrospect — the “beginners” were bodyguards and goons; the “advanced learners” were the actual leaders, extortionists and others who needed to do real business in English-speaking countries. The beginners were all big and strong and not especially smart; the advanced learners were smaller and handsomer, with obvious intellect, honeyed words and big grins. The beginners had, in some cases, worked here for years but were still treated like lackeys (because they were).

So it was weeks before Frank felt comfortable again. It finally clicked to him one day — Frank was in a position of power. The leaders didn’t care what happened so long as everybody learned English, and they certainly didn’t care about ordinary rules or laws. They respected only obedience to proper authority, and during classes, that authority was Frank.

The men in his beginners didn’t care too much what Frank did either — they didn’t freak out when he did something they saw as rude by Japanese standards; they didn’t care that he was white or openly gay; they didn’t expect him to behave in the same stoic, obedient way they expected each other to behave. They even seemed to enjoy it when Frank cracked inappropriate jokes or behaved like a blustery American cowboy. The “goons” — that was how Frank came to think of his morning beginner’s class, since they were all bodyguards and enforcers — thought it was hilarious when Frank threw a limp wrist and a sassy comment in their direction. They didn’t even usually understand the sass, but they enjoyed it. They said he was “funny like a white Upa”. Frank had to ask several Japanese friends what “Upa” was before he realized they were comparing him to RuPaul.

Soon the classes became rowdy affairs, at least by Japanese standards. The goons laughed and occasionally called out comments in broken English. They brought in videos downloaded from YouTube and asked Frank to explain why they were funny. Occasionally they argued with each other, or challenged each other to contests of strength, all of which were conducted in Japanese much too rapid for Frank to follow.

It was after one of those contests that Frank first realized what he could get away with. The winner was Itsuki, who was new to the class. He was one of those goons whom Frank was a bit scared of, despite his deference and respect for Frank’s authority — Itsuki was tall for a Japanese man, brimming with muscles and missing one finger in its entirety and another finger past the first knuckle.

When Itsuki won his contest — Frank had no idea what sparked it, the class was simply interrupted by an argument in very swift Japanese, so Frank went with the ride and clapped with the others while Itsuki and Akio did push-ups.

When he won, Itsuki stood, chest heaving and dappled with sweat. He was heavily tattooed, with koi fish and kabuki dancers covering his badly scarred chest and neck — he looked like he had survived a fire at some point — and he roared, pounding on his chest like Tarzan. It lasted only a moment, and Itsuki blushed like he hadn’t meant to; that was an intense display of emotion for a Japanese man, especially a yakuza in a classroom like this. Everyone fell silent and stared at him.

Frank broke the tension by placing one hand on Itsuki’s bicep. He intended to raise his arm like an umpire congratulating a winning boxer, but he felt a surge of desire and arousal from the touch of Itsuki’s corded muscles and the musky scent of his armpit. He just held onto Itsuki’s arm and rubbed his face against it like a cat, giggling and blushing.

The expression on Frank’s face must have alerted the yakuza to Frank’s feelings, because they all burst into laughter. Frank thought he had angered them or humiliated himself, but they thought it was funny. Whatever they said to Itsuki made him frown at Frank — Frank caught a few words in Japanese, it sounded like they were telling Itsuki he was too ugly to meet any girls and he should hook up with Frank instead.

Asian Alpha: The Hardest Yakuza

Here’s the beginning of Asian Alpha: The Hardest Yakuza, the newest gaysian MM erotica story by the great Rick Mann!

Minoru threw away the half-used limes and lemons, their little squashed wedges sitting like dead soldiers on the cutting board behind the bar. He wanted to signal that it was almost closing time. He made a loud noise clinking glasses together as he cleaned up the bar.

There weren’t many people here still, and he thought they’d leave soon. They usually did. They were too polite to stay until closing time and make Minoru tell them to leave.

A shiver of desire ran through Minoru’s body as he raised his head and caught a glimpse of that new man. Minoru thought he was so sexy it hurt to look at him. He was Japanese, but he was built, Minoru thought, like a Russian bodybuilder, with a squarish jaw, bulging shoulders and crude, deep eyes. Minoru knew — or strongly suspected — that the man was covered in colorful tattoos as well, but he couldn’t see them because they were covered up by his ill-fitting suit.

The new man was yakuza. They all were. Minoru was a bartender at a yakuza bar. No one had ever told him that; he simply figured it out when he saw the entirely male clientele and saw how they interacted with each other. It was the only thing that made sense.

Tonight, Minoru hadn’t sold a single drink of alcohol. No one told him why, but he had overheard hints that clarified — these man had some sort of duty that led to them being forbidden to drink for a period of time; that duty was satisfied as of today — that was why they had come out to celebrate — but the no-drinking rule still applied, hadn’t been lifted and wouldn’t be violated except on pain of death, even if the reason for it no longer applied.

One by one, the yakuza had gone upstairs. Again, no one told Minoru why but he had a good guess — girls. There were prostitutes in the apartment upstairs (he had seen scantily clad women coming and going in the night-time), and each of the men took turns having sex. They may have paid, Minoru thought, or gotten freebies because their organization ran the brothel, though Minoru suspected it was the former — the yakuza were generally too organized and strict to give freebies, or even discounts. It was more likely that the men’s boss paid for them all.

“You want a free ride on a girl?” asked one of the yakuza, sliding into a seat at the bar.

“I’m sorry?”

The yakuza was a young man with a cocky glare. He dressed flashy for yakuza, with a brilliant purple ring on one finger and a colorful tie. He smiled charmingly. “We are celebrating because…” He sniffled. “Because we have reason to celebrate. We are… If you would like to spend time with a girl, I will not charge you. The fee has been arranged. You may go upstairs and take your pick. Except not Etsuko. She is my favorite.”

Minoru’s heart sped up. He knew he shouldn’t be too nervous — this wasn’t a movie where he might say the wrong thing and get killed for looking at a yakuza wrong. They weren’t anti-gay either. Minoru was actually surprised that this pimp-yakuza didn’t already know Minoru was gay — at least some of the men here did know, so they must not have been spreading it around. This was one occasion when Minoru would rather that they talk about him behind his back. It would have been easier than coming out of the closet over and over.

“Uh, well… I am… Thank you very much for the offer,” Minoru said. “But I am not interested in females of any kind.”

The pimp-yakuza frowned. He glared at Minoru, inspecting him closely like a professor grading a paper. Then he cleared his throat and smiled. “Ah, yes. I see. That is okay. That is good. That is better than okay, it is good. I would rather have the man on the first floor of the brothel be… Well, it is good to know the girls do not need to worry about you developing an interest in them,” he said. “That is fine.” He paused and looked over the men. “Are there any men here you would like to… spend time with? Provided you do not emasculate them, you may-“

“Him.” Minoru pointed to the new man. He did it out of pure instinct, without giving it a second thought, even as his mind told himself to say no. It would have been wiser, he thought, to avoid any entanglements with the yakuza. But he had already said it.

“Hachiro?” He sounded like Hachiro was not an option available to Minoru. “He is… I did not think he was handsome.”

“Well, he’s…”

“You like muscles, it is okay,” the pimp-yakuza said. He smiled. “Do not ask him many questions. He is… He will look like he will hurt you, but he will not hurt you. He will not answer any questions. He is very dumb.” He turned to Hachiro. “Hachiro! Come here.”

Downlow Thugs at the Basketball Court

Here’s the first chapter of Downlow Thugs at the Basketball Court, a new story by Calvin Freeman! It’s an incredible tale of rough trade, urban lust and mandingo meat!

“Blowjob.” Jake spoke quietly, hanging out near the basketball hoop. He didn’t want to attract a lot of attention, not from the crowd — he did want to attract attention from the two guys playing.

Jake was gay, and he was hanging out at the Wilson Street basketball court, like he used to do when he had just come out of the closet. Since then he had gone to college, started a career, had a long-term relationship with a jerk named Adam, dumped Adam, got really into homemade sushi, nearly made the disastrous decision to open his own sushi house, briefly hooked back up with Adam before dumping him again, and now he was back here at the Wilson Street basketball court once more.

“Blowjob.” Jake felt a little silly, but he couldn’t help it. He hadn’t planned on doing this until he drove by and saw his old haunt.

There were two young black men playing one-on-one basketball. They were both shirtless, their bare brown chests gleaming with sweat. One of them was very tall and lanky; the other was shorter and more muscular.

“Blowjob.”

“What?” said one of them, the taller one. He was named Hardesty, and he stopped moving near the basket after having scored.

“I’ll suck you off, man,” Jake said. He smiled flirtatiously at Hardesty, stepped forward and placed one finger on his chest. Hardesty furrowed his brow and looked down at the finger. Jake scooped up sweat from his pectoral muscle, then sucked it off his finger.

Hardesty chuckled. “You crazy, man.”

Jake nodded. “Maybe. But I suck dick good.”

“Hey, whatchoo doin’, come on,” said the shorter player, jogging over to Hardesty. “We got a game goin’ on.”

“Sweetlips over here gonna suck off the winner,” Hardesty said. He and the shorter guy were both out of breath but trying to hide it so they didn’t look weak to each other.

“He gonna suck me off?” the shorter man said with a grin. “I ain’t agree to that, but… well, okay-“

“Nah, the winner,” Hardesty said. “He gonna suck off the winner. Me.”

“Winner? You gotta score some points, nigga. You light-years behind right now.”

“I’s only behind cuz you off on some travel, nigga, you been travelin’ all over this court-“

“Oh, come on, there ain’t no ref to work, boy, you just gotta play-“

They continued bickering as they resumed play. Jake was disappointed. He hadn’t gotten any firm answer. But they didn’t say no either.

The game was over soon after. Maybe Hardesty really wanted the blowjob and it made him play harder, because he scored three times in quick succession, giving him the lead. When the game was over, Hardesty pounded on his chest and flexed his biceps towards the folks hanging out on the sidelines. Most of them didn’t pay any attention. The only person who cheered was Jake.

Hardesty smiled awkwardly at him, as the shorter player laughed and patted Hardesty’s bare belly. Hardesty bit his lip and made eye contact with Jake.

“You got that, boy,” the shorter player said as he walked away, shirt in hand. He cackled. “You nasty, Hardesty. He ain’t even dressed like a girl.”

“Don’t be hatin’ just cuz I got meat that needs attention, nigga! Real thugs like me gotta get they shit handled!” Hardesty called out loud enough to attract attention from the others, who giggled at him. Hardesty grabbed his dick through his shorts and smiled at the girls. “Hey, how you doin’?”

They didn’t give him the time of day. Hardesty scoffed and walked away, basketball in hand. He nodded at Jake, who quietly and surreptitiously followed him into the public bathroom. It was almost never used, so it wasn’t dirty, but it was almost never cleaned, so it wasn’t clean either. It was just dusty and grimy. Jake knew it well.

He immediately sunk to his knees, even before the door had swung shut. Hardesty blocked the door with the heavy trash can so they’d have some privacy.

“Ain’t seen you… uh… Damn, boy, you in a rush?” Hardesty grimaced at Jake’s eagerness. Jake pulled his shorts and boxers down, then kissed his dick right on the tip.

“I don’t see any reason to slow down,” Jake said with a grin. He put the tip of Hardesty’s cock in his mouth and hocked up spit right onto it. Hardesty groaned and leaned against the wall of the bathroom.

“Goddamn,” Hardesty said. He closed his eyes. “Shit… Boy, you are one crazy gay.”

Jake smiled. He slathered spit all over Hardesty’s rod, which made Hardesty gasp and bite his lip like he hadn’t expected it to feel this good. Hardesty shifted and wiggled.

As his cock stiffened up in Jake’s mouth, Hardesty lifted his shirt up. He didn’t take it off, but he raised it over his head and the back of his neck. He had ropy muscles, which Jake reached up to caress, his bulging biceps, flat belly — though he didn’t quite have a six-pack — and his mountainous pecs. His muscles all twitched as though he didn’t entirely want Jake to feel him up but thought it would be rude to say that.

Jake didn’t mind. When he used to suck basketball players off, a lot of them thought it seemed too gay to let Jake do anything besides suck cock. They sometimes got angry if he even massaged their asscheeks or played with their balls.

Luckily, Hardesty didn’t seem too bothered by it, even if he did dumbfoundedly watch Jake’s fingers explore his body. A few drops of sweat ran down his skin and onto Jake’s hand.

“Shit… This is some nasty thug shit. Why don’t girls ever suck like this, man?” Hardesty asked as he leaned back and sighed. His whole body wriggled and he bit his lip.

“Girls don’t have the right equipment,” Jake said. He flopped Hardesty’s dick over his face. “They don’t know how it feels. Besides, girls like relationships and stuff. They don’t just suck off hot guys. They’re so stupid. If I was a girl, I’d be the biggest slut in the world, oh my god. I’d suck off all the thugs.” Jake giggled as salty precum flowed over his tongue and his lips.

“I bet you would.” He paused. “Hey, you smoke weed?”

Jake nodded. “You got some? Light it up, baby-“

“Nah, nah, I’s sellin’. You wanna buy?”

“Oh… no thanks,” Jake said. “I’ve already got a guy.”

“Who? What’s his name? Tell me,” Hardesty said with a big grin. He moved his hips, swaying his cock back and forth over Jake’s face. Jake chased it with his tongue.

“Greg. You don’t know him.”

“He gay?”

Jake nodded.

“Why you buy weed from a gay? They ain’t thugs. They don’t know nothin’-“

“He’s really convenient, sorry,” Jake said. He grabbed Hardesty’s dick and licked it all up and down, hoping that would punctuate how final Jake’s decision was.

“You shouldn’t buy weed from whiteboys.”

“I didn’t say he was white. I said he was gay.”

“He a nigga?”

Jake nodded. “They can be both.”

Hardesty bristled a little and shifted his weight between his feet. “Guess that’s okay then. If he evuh run out or somethin’, you gimme a call, I can hook you up.” He paused. “You gonna swallow my nut, right?”

“Of course.” Jake resumed deep-throating while Hardesty beamed like he was getting away with something. Hardesty’s hands wrapped over Jake’s head and he held on tight.

Hardesty moved his hips as though he was going to facefuck Jake, but Jake didn’t cooperate — he kept on moving his head and sucking, sputtering up mountains of spit which he then suckled right off Hardesty’s dick. Hardesty groaned and moaned, twisting, squirming, wincing when he saw that his boxers were soaked with spit.

“Ah shit, whoah…” Hardesty yelped. He stood on his toes, then his knees buckled and he almost collapsed onto the floor. He leaned against the wall. “Alright, yeah… I can take it, boi, go ‘head, keep on suckin’.”

Jake smiled to himself. He had Hardesty right where he wanted him. He rammed his mouth all the way down and forced Hardesty’s dick deep into his gullet. The sweet, musky flavor of his manmeat assaulted Jake’s senses and made his eyes water.

A sound came from Hardesty’s mouth, a mixture between a bark and a grunt, with a long, low sputtering quality. A few drops of drool even slipped out past Hardesty’s lips as his cock sprayed cum right into Jake’s throat.

Jake was well-practiced at this part — he loved swallowing cum. He stayed on his knees, holding onto Hardesty’s body with his nose nestled in Hardesty’s sweat-musky crotch. His bristly pubic hair scratched Jake’s face.

“Ah! Oh! Oh shit! Ah! Ah, damn, ah damn, don’t move, boy, damn, ah, ah, ah, ah…”

Hot and creamy cum coated Jake’s throat, while Hardesty squirmed and gasped. The flavor of salty, sour juices flooded Jake’s senses, making him think of nothing but servicing Hardesty’s hot body. Even as Jake felt himself growing dizzy from lack of oxygen, he stayed right there, swallowing every drop of cum.

Then he pulled off, with a loud lip-smacking moan. He had sprayed his own wad onto the linoleum floor of the public bathroom.

Hardesty had his eyes closed. He was a little pale, and he looked like he might cry. His whole body shook. “Holy shit, goddamn…” He sunk to the ground.

“Was that your first time?”

Hardesty chuckled dryly. “Yeah, man. I was gonna lie, I was gonna pretend I did this before. But… I ain’t got the energy to lie, man. I ain’t nevuh get a blowjob like that before. You my first male and… damn, you suck like you got somethin’ to prove.”

“You have a nice dick.”

“I think you ruined it man,” he said with a sigh. He was on the ground, his pants and boxers around his ankles. “Damn, you got me on the ground in this place. It’s nasty.”

“You want help up?” Jake asked as he stood and stretched his sore knees.

“Nah, man. Lemme just… I gotta recover, man. You got a cigarette? I don’t smoke, but…” He took a cigarette from Jake, who even lit it first for him. He took a deep drag off it. Despite his words, it looked like he did smoke — he inhaled like he knew what he was doing, and he didn’t cough.

Jake moved the trash can that blocked the door. Then he wrote down his phone number and gave it to Hardesty. “Anytime you want me to rock your world again, gimme a call.”

He walked out before the bleary-eyed Hardesty could come up with an answer.

Mandingo Meat: Plantation Lust

Here’s the entirety of Mandingo Meat: Plantation Lust, a new story in the Mandingo Meat series. You can read the complete series through the bundle as well!

David wandered around the plantation. It was late in the season, after harvest, so there wasn’t a ton of activity, especially since it wasn’t a very nice day. It was warm but it had been drizzling for hours. It was somehow both too cold and too warm for David.

This was his first time in South Carolina, so he didn’t know how normal the weather was. He finally found the man he was looking for late in the afternoon. David watched him work for a little while.

David was in South Carolina in the year 1784. David was, however, not from this time. He was from the modern era. He had built a time machine that would allow him to travel among the sexiest black mandingos and studs in history, and the machine had sent him here, to the Salford Plantation in coastal South Carolina.

The machine also set David up with clothes and other affectations necessary to pass as a local in this time. So when he approached the slave hauling brush away from a clearing, David looked like a free black man. He was dressed in a fine shirt and clean pants, and his hair was impeccable.

The other man was Walter, a field slave who was more than six and a half feet tall. He had a broad back and veiny biceps, with thick trunk-like thighs. He wore nothing but half-trousers right now, his shirt laying on the ground nearby. He grunted as he rolled a log away from the clearing — the Salfords wanted to build a new barn here, so Walter was clearing away brush and dead tree remnants in order to make room.

He stopped working when he saw David approach. He furrowed his brow. He probably hadn’t seen very many free black men.

“Howdy,” David said when he got near.

Walter nodded. He eyed him suspiciously. “Howdy, suh.”

“My name is David Turnbull.”

“Waltuh.”

“Nice to meet you, Walter,” David said. He smiled flirtatiously. He didn’t always act flamboyantly gay — he could be str8-acting when he needed to be — but he let his limp wrist fly now, so Walter would get an idea what was happening. Even back then, David had found that a limp wrist and a feminine laugh was enough to get most men to understand. David smiled. “I’m just coming by because I heard a rumor about you…”

“Rumor? What kinda rumor?” He smiled too, and his eyes traveled up and down David’s body as though checking that there was no chance he might be a woman after all.

“I heard that you got a massive cock, and that you enjoy using it,” David said. He came closer.

“Yup.” He smiled cockily. He grabbed his uncut cock beneath his britches. He did indeed have a huge mandingo manhood, which made David’s mouth water even though he hadn’t seen it yet.

“I also heard that your master will allow you to buy your own freedom,” David said. He jingled some coins in his pocket. “I’ve got enough here for you to free yourself and your wife, and to buy a house for your family.”

“You serious?”

“I’m as serious as a sermon,” he said. “All you gotta do is fuck me.”

“Hell yeah,” Walter said. He looked around and dragged Walter to the other side of the massive tree that had fallen over some time ago. It was big enough to provide plenty of privacy. “Masta Salford won’t let me do it, you know. He won’t take the money if he knows it be comin’ from… you know… this. He a Christian man.”

“Oh, well-“

“I mean, I’s a Christian too, reckon,” Walter said, blurting it out like he worried he had given David the wrong impression. “I just… I ain’t gonna let my child be born as a slave, not if I can help it.”

David smiled at him. Walter leaned against the decaying trunk of the tree and closed his eyes. He looked up at the sky. He reached into his britches and brought out a gigantic dick, easily a foot long, maybe longer. It made David’s mouth water just looking at it. He licked his lips.

He planted his tongue right on the tip, and Walter jumped like he had thought David wasn’t going to go through with it — he still faced upward, so he didn’t see it happen. He groaned and muttered to himself.

“There you go, suh, you gettin’ right into it…”

David slobbered saliva all over it, because he knew that would get Walter hard the quickest. Men with big cocks sometimes needed a little extra work to get hard, David knew that well since he spent most of his time tracking down mandingos to suck off. Walter’s dick was limp on David’s tongue, but it soon began to throb and tingle and twitch.

That was a delightful sensation, David always thought. He loved feeling a man’s cock perk up and stiffen in his mouth. He liked experiencing the transition from soft and sleepy to stiff and slick.

“Well, hot damn, suh, you got a nicer mouth than Abraham, fo’ sho’,” he said. He wiped sweat off his forehead. “Abraham is the girlie-boy slave we got ‘round here. He works in the house, but Mastuh Salford lets him come out and swing on my meat sometimes. Mastuh Salford says a nigguh wit’ a big meat like me, he say I need constant attention or my balls get infected. You know ‘bout that?”

David didn’t answer, and Walter didn’t seem to expect it. He pumped his hips to ease his manhood down a little farther. David focused on deep-throating the best he could, nuzzling his nose in Walter’s dense kinky pubic hair.

There was no way he could swallow that entire rod, but David loved to try. He rammed his own head down until he choked, and there were still several veiny, throbbing inches of delicious manmeat waiting for him to suck.

The taste was fresh and salty from the day’s sweat. Huge men like Walter always had a particular flavor, that was half the reason David loved them so much. There was something warm and sunshiney about it, with a thick, billowy cottony taste that he could savor for hours like a fine wine. He let Walter’s sweat trickle down his throat and leave a layer that would remain there for days, flavoring all of David’s food with the taste of Walter’s manhood.

Hey, Walter!

Walter snapped. He bit his lip, and his eyes narrowed. He pushed David down farther so he was hidden by the dead tree. Walter looked back towards the manor house.

“Howdy, Mistuh Salford!”

What are you doin’, you lazy bastard?!

“I’m doing what you say, suh! I’m clearin’ up the space-“

I can see you ain’t doin’ nothin’, you leanin’ there, restin’! You got work to do, boy!

“Yes, suh, Mistuh Salford.”

That better get done by nightfall, or I’ll tan your hide!

“Yes, suh, Mistuh Salford.” Walter snarled. He spat on the ground. He grabbed one of the larger branches that had snapped off the main trunk, and he carried it a few feet. Saliva dripped from his cock. When he saw that Mister Salford was gone, he dropped the branch where it lay.

“Sorry, I ain’t mean to get you in trouble,” David said.

He sucked on his teeth. “Don’t fret. It ain’t no thing. He will not do nuthin’. He give you permission to come here?”

“Uh…”

“You be arrested if you get caught, he don’t cotton to free men consortin’ wit’ his nigguhs. You get yaself sold into slavery if you caught, mistuh” Walter said. His nostrils flared like he was angry, but he sighed, resigned and annoyed. “You put yaself in a lotta risk, mistuh…”

“I know. Your cock is worth it,” David said.

“You crazy. You one crazy nigguh. When I buy my freedom, is I gonna go crazy too?”

“No. You’ll be fine,” David said with a smile. He bent backwards over a thick branch, which pressed uncomfortably against his upper back. He laid so that his head was draped upside-down over the edge of the branch — perfect throat-fucking position.

“I swear to God, I will kill that man — Nevuhmind,” he smiled at David when he realized what he was about to say. “Nevuhmind.”

“Your secret is safe with me. I won’t even be around when it happens,” David said.

“I wouldn’t nevuh kill no man. I’s a Christian nigguh. I’s a church-goin’ nigguh,” he said. “I learnt how to behave propuh.” He chuckled as he approached Walter again, cock swaying between his thighs. “I don’t always choose to b’have propuh, but I know how to do it. Don’t you tell no one I threaten to kill a white man.”

“I won’t. You didn’t.”

He dropped to his knees at David’s face, which placed his still-hard dick right at cock-sucking height. He leaned over David’s body — if he had opened his mouth, he could have begun sixty-nining, but of course, he was too straight to even think of that. He just plowed his cock down David’s throat.

Walter groaned and smacked his lips. His cock invaded David’s throat once more, this time with the musty flavor of saliva and the spicy-salty scent of precum joining the mixture. David gurgled and sucked it down the best he could.

“Ah, there you go… Your throat feels like my wife’s pussy,” Walter said softly, then he cackled so loud it echoed in the woods. “Don’t tell her I said that.”

David’s throat was full, of course, but he said yes the best he could. He was dizzy now from lack of oxygen. Since Walter was in charge of the speed and timing of this blowjob, he seemed to have completely forgotten that David required oxygen. He slammed his cock in until it wouldn’t go any farther, then he ignored David’s choking and sputtering and swayed his hips, grinding, pushing, slamming until he finally got his entire cock in David’s throat.

It felt like his neck was going to explode. David loved it. He could feel and taste every inch of Walter’s body in this position — he always felt that way when a man’s cock was inside him; his cock was the window to his soul. Even though David couldn’t see anything but the heavy, hairy balls throbbing in front of his eyes, David could sense and even taste the musty sweat trickling down Walter’s asscrack, the crackened skin of his whip-scarred back and even the moistness of his mouth and tongue as though they kissed.

“Hot hell, nigguh, if you want me in ya ass, I better do it now before I blow,” he said with a long, low groan. “Ya mouth is nicer than a junebug in July.”

He didn’t wait for David to respond, which was good because David was deliriously dizzy from lack of oxygen. He gasped when Walter finally pulled out of his throat, and he heaved for air. That made Walter chuckle, his cock twitching where it rested against David’s face.

“Yo’ ass ain’t virgin, is it?” Walter asked with a frown. He dragged David up and bent him over the same branch again. David was too weak to choose his own position, so he allowed Walter to lift his ass up and push his head down.

“No.”

“Good. Virgins is nice but I gotta go slow. My wife just ‘bout started crying on our wedding night,” he said. He sniffled like that memory made him sad. “And when Mastuh Salford tell me to plow down on some white man a couple years ago, he had me ragin’ on ‘ccount of him saying ‘slow down’ and shit.” He snarled. “I don’t like slowin’ down once I get started, nigguh.”

“You can fuck me hard,” David said. He had already slipped some modern lube on his ass, back before he found Walter — he always brought his own lube. He giggled.

“I know I can, nigguh,” Walter said. He snorted like an angry horse. He slipped one finger into David’s ass, sending a jolt of pain up his spine. That was followed up by an explosion of pleasure, which made David sigh. Walter chuckled. “You sound like Abraham. Open dat ass up, suh. Lemme in there.”

“Please, stick it in me, Walter, I need you inside me,” David said. Then he let out a cringing moan as his ass stretched to accommodate Walter’s cock.

Just the tip slid in first, and that was enough to make David lift his head and grunt. His face turned bright red as he struggled to accept it all. Walter was oblivious — just like with the blowjob, he seemed uncomfortable with the idea of watching. He kept his face pointed up, both avoiding looking and keeping an eye out for Mr. Salford or anyone else who might disturb them.

The pain grew worse, yet more distant so David could easily ignore it. He focused on the spark of pleasure that erupted deep in his ass when Walter’s cock tickled his prostate. That spark grew stronger with each thrust of Walter’s hips into him.

David groaned as another few inches slid inside, and the pressure grew unbearable. David bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. He flailed and clawed at the ground underneath himself.

“Ah, god damn…”

Walter stopped moving and snarled. He slapped David’s asscheek, and the back of his head. “Hey! I don’t like blaspheming, suh. You get ahold of yaself.” His dick twitched inside David’s ass, making David squirm.

“Yeah, sorry, sure,” David said, his voice tight and pinched. Some more of Walter’s cock rammed in, and he grunted. His voice was ruddy and dark, eyes bugging out.

“You wanna bite on my arm? The missus say that help,” he said. He sniffled and leaned forward so he could wrap his arm around David’s face. That placed his thickest forearm right in front of David’s mouth. “You can bite hard. Won’t bother me none.”

David just enjoyed the taste and the feel of his corded-muscle arm. He rubbed his face against it like a cat, giggling while Walter stood still. Finally David’s ass adjusted to his cock, and Walter resumed humping.

Once again, mind-numbing pressure erupted in David’s mind, and he screamed — this time there was an orgasmic note in his scream, making David writhe and Walter chuckle.

“Reckon that helped,” Walter said as David began to gnaw on his forearm. When the pressure in his ass got too great, David couldn’t avoid biting down hard as though trying to rip his flesh off. As promised, however, Walter didn’t even seem to notice. He kept a tight watch on his surroundings, waiting for Mr. Salford to show back up.

After that, Walter’s balls slapped against David’s thighs as he humped more and more powerfully. He was entirely in David now, his massive rod stretching and pulling at David’s asshole. David couldn’t bear to accept such a huge dick, but he couldn’t bear to stop Walter either.

He wasn’t even aware that he was jacking himself off. He was so intently focused on the sensations tearing his ass apart that his own orgasm caught him by surprise. He grunted and moaned, clenching down hard on Walter’s dick.

That was enough to send Walter over the edge as well. While pangs of pleasure exploded in David’s body, Walter’s cavernous chest flexed. David writhed. Walter gasped.

Walter’s heavy chest pressed down on David, and they both spasmed together. David couldn’t breathe, both from intense pleasure and the dense mat of muscle weighing down his smooth back.

“Gonna fill you up now, suh… You got nice ass…”

Finally a wave of hot cum sprayed into David, torrent after torrent of creamy juice coating his body. As always, Walter’s load transformed David’s biting, electric orgasm into a slow-melting candle-like climax. David howled, and Walter even joined him, his deep baritone voice harmonizing with David’s uncontrollable tenor.

It was both one of the most intense and the longest-lasting orgasm David had ever experienced. Walter kept on spraying more and more cum, breathing heavily on David’s back as he filled him up with seed. He shot so much it dripped in great clumps between David’s legs.

“Alrighty then,” Walter said with a gasp. His chest was covered in even more sweat than it had been before they started fucking. David craned his head to the side so he could sneak his tongue out and lick up beads of salty sweat from Walter’s muscle.

Walter’s whole body went limp. His giant muscles were dead weight, pressing down on David and suffocating him. That lasted only a moment, however, before Walter rolled over.

The most incredible sensation of relief ever flooded David — his ass emptied, sending a tinge of post-orgasmic bliss through his body; he took a deep breath now that he wasn’t weighed down by Walter’s massive corpus.

And then it was all over. David was exhausted and couldn’t even think about getting up. He just laid there on his belly, his face close enough that he could snake his tongue out for a taste of the sweat that stuck to Walter’s upper thigh. Walter didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were closed, and he rested against the dead tree he had been trying to demolish.

Walter!

Walter swore and stood up. This time he didn’t try to conceal himself. He let his foot-long mandingo meat dangle between his legs, which made Mr. Salford grunt his disapproval.

Why ain’t ya wearin’ clothes, boy?

“I’s just relievin’ myself, suh,” Walter said. He flopped his cock between his fingers. “You know how it is wit’ meat like this. Takes me a few minutes.”

There’s an outhouse for you to use, Walter! This is a civilized plantation! You’re not back in Africa!

“Yessuh, Mr. Salford, I know. I ‘pologize mightily,” Walter said. He placed one hand on his own belly and pretended to hold back tears. “I ain’t mean to dis’ppoint you, nosirree! You been taught me a Christian lifestyle, and I’s real grateful-“

Well goddamn it, Walter, shut up and get to work. You don’t need to say you’re grateful, you can show it by doing your work!

Walter cleared his throat nervously. “Uh… Mr. Salford, you did promise Minister Tarant that you wouldn’t blaspheme so much-“

Fine! I apologize, Walter. Don’t tell my wife.

“Yessuh. I just would greatly ‘ppreciate it if you ain’t tempt my pagan ears wit’ blasphemy,” Walter said. “Sir.”

Get to work!

“Yessuh,” Walter said, then he softly added, “for now.” He looked at David, making intimate eye contact with him for the first time. “You got money for me, right?”

David handed it over as Mr. Salford left. Walter did some more work, lazily moving a few branches into the woods. He kept his britches off. When Mr. Salford was gone, he counted the money. He beamed brightly.

“Don’t tell no one ‘bout this,” Walter said. “I’m gonna leave this place wit’ e’rything valuable I can get.”

“Sure thing, Walter,” David said dreamily. He sat up. “Since you’re about to be a free man, I guess I should address you as sir. Sir.”

Holiday Trade: Santa Is a Stripper!

Here’s the entirety of Holiday Trade: Santa Is a Stripper!, a hot new story from the Holiday Trade series.

Martin loved his nieces. They were beautiful little girls, and he wanted to spend as much time with them as possible.

But he did not want to attend their Christmas party. It sounded boring, and not only that, but since Martin was a cool, funny, outgoing gay uncle, his nieces would mob him, demanding he do silly voices and give them piggyback rides as soon as he got there.

It was, unfortunately, difficult to avoid because Martin lived above the garage at the same house as his sister, her husband and their two daughters. So he was invited and he heard the little girls running around excitedly with their friends (the idea of spending time with more than a dozen little girls sounded exhausting; just thinking about it made Martin want to take a nap).

That was, after all, the nice thing about not having kids — you didn’t have to spend time with them when you didn’t feel like it. Today was definitely a day when Martin didn’t feel like it.

But it would be rude not to go at all. It was the day before Christmas Eve after all. He needed to make an appearance. He decided to bring his Christmas presents for the girls. They were all wrapped and ready to go, so he could put them under the tree and his nieces would forget that he wasn’t at the party — the only thing they would remember was that Uncle Martin had brought them their presents.

He was just about to head down there when he saw a ramshackle Chevrolet pull up outside. A man in a Santa costume got out and headed for the door.

Martin put his presents down. He didn’t want to compete for attention with a Santa. He scoffed — when his sister first got pregnant, she said that she was not going to fritter away money on nonsense, and here she was throwing a child’s Christmas party (which isn’t even a tradition) and hire a Santa for it, when they could just go to the mall and do the same thing for nearly free. Sounds like money frittered away on nonsense to me. But then, Martin’s sister had also sworn that she wouldn’t buy her daughters “girls’ toys”, and that lasted until her eldest daughter was old enough to ask for specific toys. Martin’s sister had sworn she wouldn’t let them wear makeup until they were sixteen, and they started playing with makeup last year, when the youngest was only eight.

Not that Martin really cared about any of these things, he just thought it was funny that his big tough sister fell victim to marketing pretty much as soon as her ideals were tested.

Soon Martin stopped hearing the Santa’s ho-ho-ho — whoever it was, he had a great deep booming Santa-voice — and heard the now-familiar tune of the Frozen soundtrack.

He went downstairs and headed over to the main house. That must mean the Santa was done. Martin hadn’t seen him leave yet and his car was still out front, but the show seemed to be done. Martin could hang out with the adults until the movie was over, then make a big show of bringing the girls’ presents to the tree. It wouldn’t take very long and he’d look awesome in front of his nieces.

Martin’s sister and a few other moms were in the kitchen. He came through to say hello. The girls sang along to the movie in the other room. Santa was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, hi, Martin, merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas!”

“Happy holidays!”

Groans emanated from some of the other moms. Martin wasn’t interested in quibbling over “holidays” vs “Christmas”, so he just smiled and nodded and small-talked with them until he thought he had done enough.

“What happened to Santa?”

“Oh, the girls got a little over-excited. There was some throw-up,” Martin’s sister said with a wry smile. “He’s taking a shower.”

“A merry, jolly North Pole shower?”

“No, a normal shower in our bathroom,” she said. The other moms giggled. “I think he might need some men’s clothes, something to wear under the Santa suit. Probably just a t-shirt or something. Do you have anything? You know… that might fit him?” She was a little awkward because her tremendously overweight husband was in the next room, watching football. He pretended he wasn’t sensitive about his weight, but he was.

“Your husband’s clothes…? I just thought… You know… Santa?” Martin pantomimed a large belly.

“Oh no, this Santa’s not fat. He’s got a fatsuit on,” said one of the other moms. “I think he might be hot. I didn’t see him without the fatsuit and the big beard, but I think under all that, Santa might be a hottie.” The women all giggled, the same sound their daughters were generating in the next room. Females, Martin thought, are so annoying.

He went upstairs. He didn’t think he would likely find Santa all that hot. Middle-aged housewives did not have good taste in men, Martin had discovered that on several occasions.

He knocked on the bathroom door. The shower was running, so he opened the door just a crack. “Hey, uh, I live next door, man, do you need some clothes?! I can give you some of mine if you need it!”

The shower turned off. “What?” A handsome man’s face appeared poking through the shower curtain.

“Oh, hi, I’m Martin…” His voice trailed off because this Santa was hotter than he had any right to be. He had a thick shock of black hair, a square jaw and deep, dark eyes. He looks like the hero on the cover of a fantasy novel, Martin thought to himself.

“Uh… Hi, Martin,” he said. “I’m Jeff.”

“Hi.” Martin blushed. “Uh… My sister said you got thrown up on? Did you need some clothes? They uh… They said you might fit in my clothes, but you definitely won’t. They don’t know men’s sizes I guess. What are you, like six and a half feet tall?”

“Almost.” He smiled, flashing deep dimples. “I’m six-four.”

“Cool. Cool.” Martin blushed even deeper. “Sorry, I, uh… Did you want to come look at my clothes? I might have something that fits you.”

“Uh, yeah, thanks, I really just need a t-shirt. That fat suit is uncomfortable without a shirt on underneath, and my shirt is vomity. I just need something I can get on, you know, it doesn’t have to fit right.”

“Okay, well, come on over to the garage then,” Martin said. “I’ll go see what the biggest shirt I have is.”

He felt giddy as he hurried out to the garage again. Martin loved straight guys — that Santa was clearly straight — and he often managed to suck them off. He was beginning to think that Santa was a potential conquest.

He knew exactly what his biggest t-shirt was, because a different rough trade conquest had left it here after a July 4 party — Martin loved holidays, and most of his best sexual experiences with straight men came during or after a holiday party. He had sucked off a fireworks man, a big tough redneck who had left his sweaty t-shirt here. Martin sniffed it and jacked off for a month or so, then accidentally washed it.

It was about four sizes too big for Martin. It would probably be a bit big for Jeff too, but not cavernously large like Martin’s brother-in-law’s shirts would be. Martin hid it at the bottom of his dresser drawer so he wouldn’t accidentally “find” it before he had a chance to work on Jeff.

There was a knock at the door. Martin let Jeff in, his jaw agape — Jeff wore dingy old basketball shorts, sneakers and little else, aside from a dog tag. There was a military-looking tattoo on his bicep as well, a bald eagle flying with a rifle in its talons.

“Oh, are you a soldier?”

“Not anymore. I got out of the Army last year,” he said.

“And now you bring presents to all the children at Christmas? That’s super,” Martin said with a giggle. He started to make a show of looking through his own shirts, all of which were way too small for Jeff’s broad shoulders and chest.

He smiled. “I’m actually… Don’t tell your sister this, some people don’t like the idea of children’s entertainers who are… well, I’m a stripper,” he said. “That’s what I was doing until Christmas. Still am, but Santa gigs pay better now, and anyway I can do kids parties during the day and still strip at night.”

“Oh, that is so cool! You’re so hot, you should be a stripper! I’d have suggested it if you didn’t say it!”

He grinned wanly. “Yeah, well… so if you have any, you know… parties, you know that, uh… I’m gay-friendly, just so you know.”

“Oh? What does that mean?”

“I mean, I do gay parties, if you want. I’m not gay. I don’t do anything gay. I just, you know… Well, I rub my dick on guys’ faces, that’s pretty gay. I guess I do some gay things. But I’m not gay. I don’t do any of, you know… the really gay… very gay stuff. I only do, you know… I dance. I’m a good dancer,” he said. He blushed. “That’s all. I’m a good dancer.”

Martin sat down in his computer chair. He withdrew a twenty-dollar bill and tucked it into the waistband of Jeff’s shorts. “Prove it.”

Jeff blushed a little deeper red. He looked around. Martin got the feeling he had never given a man a lapdance outside of a crowded party. But Jeff took a deep breath and snapped his hips to one side, making his massive cock shake and bulge in the shorts he wore. He clearly didn’t have on any underwear beneath that.

A pounding house music beat filled the air. That helped Jeff a lot, and he danced around the room for a few seconds to get into the rhythm of it. Martin watched his back muscles writhe.

“You ready?” Jeff asked, flashing his dimples. He backed up to Martin, who was still seated so Jeff’s ass was around his face level. Martin’s cock rocketed to attention. The fact that Jeff hadn’t prepared to strip today actually made him hotter — dirty basketball shorts were hotter than contrived stripper clothes; the faint layer of chest hair that hadn’t been shaved yet even extended just barely over his shoulder; his natural musk was only barely covered up by deodorant — he no doubt wore cologne when he stripped, but he assumed no one would notice through the fatsuit. All those things were hotter than any polished Hollywoodized stripper.

His asscheeks flexed, one after the other, in front of Martin’s face. Martin inhaled deeply of the sweaty scent and moaned loudly, giggling. That made Jeff laugh too — it was clearly forced; he was in agreeable-stripper-mode — and Martin even tried to tease those shorts down before Jeff batted his hands away.

“No touching the stripper,” Jeff said.

Martin was expecting that. He slipped a hundred dollar bill into Jeff’s hand.

“Oh, well… Thanks,” Jeff said. He blushed.

Martin dove his face between Jeff’s buttcheeks. He inhaled deeply and licked the fabric of those shorts. Jeff grunted and laughed with a nervous tremor to his voice.

“I bet you could use more money,” Martin said. He pulled down Jeff’s shorts, revealing perfectly plump, pink cheeks. He kissed each one, making Jeff yelp and laugh again. Martin smiled. “How about two thousand dollars?”

“What?”

“Fuck me,” Martin said. He patted Jeff on the left asscheek. Jeff turned around. He covered his bare crotch with both hands, shorts around his ankles. With his arms over the center of his body, his pecs were bunched together, making Martin so horny he wanted to burst.

“What?!”

“Oh come on, don’t tell me I’m the first gay guy to offer!”

He shrugged. “Well, uh… No, I guess you’re not. But you’re the first one to be serious! They, uh… I mean, at parties they make jokes, but…”

Martin giggled. “Oh, Jeff… What do they teach you in the Army? Gay guys are rarely serious, but I can assure you those gay guys were serious at that time. They made it like a joke because you were more comfortable that way. It meant you could say no and not get awkward, you could just shrug it off. If you said yes, they would pay you.”

“They would?”

“Well, I can’t vouch for all gay dudes. I’m sure some would trick you and not pay. You gotta use some discretion,” Martin said. “But I’ll definitely pay you.”

“Oh… Uh… Okay. Yeah, fine,” he said. He closed his eyes. “Whatever. Fine. Yeah. I’ll do it. You gotta hurry though, they’re gonna want me back there when Frozen is done.”

“Well, then get to dancing,” Martin said.

Jeff took a deep breath and resumed his strip show. He shook his ass in front of Martin’s face, then turned around — his shorts were already around his ankles, so there wasn’t much stripping in this strip show. He simply wasn’t wearing enough clothes to strip.

But he did dance. He had a nice hefty cock that flopped between his legs. Martin switched the house music to a techno-Christmas album, and Jeff danced to a dubstep version of Little Drummer Boy. He even air-drummed like a drummer boy, and the sight of his bulging biceps made Martin’s dick so hard it was about to burst.

He beckoned Jeff, who gulped and approached. Martin grabbed his cock. Jeff winced and closed his eyes. He stood there with his hands on his hips, as far away from Martin’s chair as he could be while still being close enough for Martin to grab his dick.

Martin pulled. Jeff came closer, and closed his eyes again when his dick disappeared down Martin’s throat.

“Ah… alright…” Jeff grunted. As soon as he began, he seemed to lose a lot of his inhibitions — many straight guys reacted that way, as though they thought a gay blowjob was going to be painful and were surprised when it felt more or less the same as a straight blowjob. Jeff’s face was bright red. “Wow, okay… You, uh… you suck dick pretty good.”

Martin already knew that, but he liked to hear it again. He rammed his nose all the way down deep in Martin’s crotch, nuzzling his pubic hair — which was mostly shaved. He inhaled deeply of that masculine musk.

In no time, Jeff’s cock was rock-hard and throbbing in Martin’s mouth. Jeff gasped and writhed. He moved like he hadn’t gotten a blowjob in a long time, and it took every ounce of concentration to keep himself from blowing a load embarrassingly quickly.

Wanting to be throat-fucked, Martin dragged Jeff’s hands up to his head. But Jeff just gripped his scalp and held on.

“You can fuck my throat,” Martin said, wiping up all that drool that dripped past his lips. He licked Jeff’s cockshaft, making his whole body shake as Jeff moaned.

“Oh… I, uh… I don’t know… I mean, I know what that is, but uh…” Jeff blushed. “I don’t know how…”

“What? Really? Don’t you and your fellow soldiers spend your leave banging whores? Don’t tell me you make sweet love to them and lick their pussies all night long?”

“Ew, no! No way! I don’t do that, man! No way! I don’t do prostitutes!” he looked genuinely shocked. “I mean, some guys in my unit… I’m not like that, man. You can be discharged for that. They’ll court-martial you in a heartbeat. I’m not into… I’m Christian, okay? I mean… things are different now. It was… I’m only doing this for the money. It’s not lust. That’s a sin.” He paused and bit his lip. “It’s not greed either, okay? It’s… It just makes fiscal sense. I can make more money this time of year if- Nevermind, I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

“That’s right, quit talking and fuck my throat!”

A strangled choking moan escaped from Jeff’s lips as he drilled his dick down Martin’s throat. He gasped and gulped. Jeff’s throat was somehow louder than Martin’s, even as Martin gagged uncontrollably and allowed his throat to be drilled.

Jeff may have been too nice to ever throat-fuck anyone before, but he was tough enough and macho enough that it came easily to him. In no time, his balls swung against Martin’s chin, and Jeff grunted while precum flowed like a river down Martin’s throat.

The creamy, salty taste of his precum made Martin moan. This was already shaping up to be his best Christmas encounter ever, and Christmas hadn’t even come yet this year.

“Okay, I’m gonna bust in a minute…” Jeff said. He pulled away. His face was bright red. His hands flailed above his spasming cock as he struggled to avoid blowing his load just yet. Martin watched and giggled. Precum flowed thickly down his shaft, and Martin licked it off, making Jeff shake like he was in pain.

Then Martin turned around and lifted his ass in the air. The sight of a man’s ass seemed to make Jeff’s erection die just a little bit, enough to bring him back from the bring of orgasm anyway. He hyperventilated as he approached Martin’s ass. He grimaced and wedged his dick between Martin’s cheeks.

“Okay, I, uh… I’ve never done this,” he said. “So you gotta tell me if I’m doing it wrong.”

“Sure thing, baby,” Martin said. He paused. “Wait, does that mean you have gotten a blowjob from a man before?”

He chuckled. “It wasn’t my fault. She was dressed like a woman. I mean, he was dressed like a woman. The guys in my unit said they had all gotten blowjobs from her. But it was just a prank. I was drunk. It was a dark alley,” he said. “I didn’t notice she was, you know… a he.” He sounded defense. “He had tits. Real tits, or I mean… maybe not real, but they weren’t just tissues stuffed in a bra. Transgender, I guess. Pre-op.”

“Transgenders don’t count, just so you know,” Martin said. Then he backed his ass up. He rubbed his hole against Jeff’s cock.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve never gotten a blowjob from a man. You got a blowjob from a transgender woman. There’s nothing wrong with that.” He reached behind himself to aim Jeff’s cock for the whole. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with it either way. I’m just saying…”

“So my friends can’t call me a… can’t insult my sexuality?”

“You were going to say faggot, weren’t you?”

“I don’t call anyone that. I think that’s wrong. You can get court-martialed for that too. It’s hateful language, it’s against the UCMJ,” he said.

“Well, your friends should not call you a faggot. Or make fun of you for a blowjob you got. Or trick you into getting blowjobs from transgender people. Or get you to have sex when you’re drunk. They shouldn’t do anything of those things. It sounds like they just did everything wrong,” Martin said. “You said you wanted to hurry this up, right? Let’s not talk about your friends. Just fuck me.”

“Ah…” Jeff gasped at the sight of his cocktip already in Martin’s ass. He had been so focused on telling Martin about the transgender-blowjob that he didn’t even notice that Martin had already gotten him started. Jeff bucked his hips and smiled at the feel of Martin’s tight ass squeezing around his cock.

One of Martin’s hands wrapped around his own dick, while Martin lowered his head and raised his ass. The sound of little girls screaming filled the air outside — Frozen must be finished.

“We better hurry for real then,” Martin said. He slammed his ass back, grimacing as most of Jeff’s cock slipped in. Jeff gasped. He had a big enough cock that he wasn’t used to anyone taking his entire shaft so easily.

He was still so shocked and overwhelmed by all that was happening that Jeff did little more than stand there. His rock-hard dick filled Martin’s ass up, but all of the motion came from Martin sliding back and forth. Martin didn’t mind — he enjoyed being a power bottom, and it was funny to watch a big macho soldier like Jeff react with such intense anxiety. Jeff watched his cock disappear inside Martin with his eyes wide open, as though he was constantly surprised and elated that his manhood wasn’t chopped off inside Martin’s body.

It was only right before his orgasm hit him that Jeff finally relaxed. He grimaced and gripped Martin by the hip with one hand, and by the shoulder with the other. He held on tight and slammed his dick in one time. He grunted loudly.

“Oh fuck, don’t move, man, don’t move, don’t move, don’t move,” he said over and over like he was panicking. Then he moved quickly, gyrating his hips and plowing Martin’s ass hard.

He groaned and grunted. His whole body twisted, muscles all flexing at once. He collapsed onto the ground atop Martin, his heavy Army muscles writhing above Martin’s head. He fucked a few more times, humping his dick deep in Martin’s ass in sync with the pounding bass beat of the stripper-music that still hadn’t ended.

Hot cum flowed into Martin’s ass, huge arcing jets of it that crept through Martin’s body. The warmth of his cum spread on his skin and through his veins, flowing throughout his body until Martin could feel and taste creamy cum over every inch of him.

Martin shot his own load as well, getting most of it on the floor. Jeff didn’t seem to notice. He kept on pumping his own wad deep into Martin’s ass, ending only when he got every last drop out. Jeff sighed.

“Wow,” he said. He was about to say something else, but he was interrupted by Martin’s cell phone dinging to say he had gotten a text message.

Overwhelmed by the pressure in his ass, Martin struggled to pick up the phone. Jeff didn’t move yet, just kept his limpening dick inside Martin’s tight ass. His hot breath condensed on the back of Martin’s neck.

U suck him off?! He is santa not yr playtoy bring him back girls want santa. Gross.

“My sister says you need to go back. The girls want Santa,” Martin said.

He nodded and pulled away. Potent relief flooded Martin, who sighed and sprawled out on the floor. He lazily wrote out a check for Jeff before typing a response to his sister.

Don’t be jealous sis. His cum tastes like peppermint so it is still holiday-appropriate. Deck yr own halls.

Jeff hurriedly got dressed again. He had put the fatsuit in the garage, so he walked out of Martin’s apartment above it wearing just those shorts again, putting on Martin’s t-shirt as he went. “Thanks!” he called out.

“No. Thank you,” Martin said. “Can you bring those presents there over?” he pointed to the pile in the corner. “They’re for my nieces. Tell them they’re early presents from the North Pole. Or whatever, make up your own story.”

“Yeah, sure, good idea.” He seemed relieved — that would explain where he was, it was a good excuse. He didn’t know Martin’s sister had already guessed what was happening.

“See you later, Jeff. Remember — those gay dudes are not joking. You can make money letting them suck you off.”

He blushed with the undersized t-shirt half-on his chest. He pulled it down and cleared his throat. “Sweet. Okay. Thanks,” he said. “Yeah, I guess… I should’ve figured that out. Thanks. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Santa!”

Masseur Seduction: The Finn and the Roughneck

Here’s the entirety of Masseur Seduction: The Finn and the Roughneck, and a hot new story of blue-collar lust and massage seduction! It’s part of the Masseur Seduction trilogy.

Dwayne is a rough-and-tumble redneck roughneck who didn’t especially want to get a massage, and he really didn’t want to get one from this massive muscle-bound Finnish masseur, Juha. But once it starts, Dwayne finds himself so turned on he loves every second of his masseur seduction! You won’t believe where Juha takes this outrageous short tale of one straight blue-collar’s first-time gay experience!

 

Dwayne went to the massage parlor kind of hoping it wouldn’t happen. He had never wanted to come here. It did not look like his kind of place. It was ornately decorated, sumptuous with dense carpets, incense burning and colorful tapestries. There was a statue of Buddha, fat and jolly and wise, made of gleaming brass with steel inlays.

He shifted nervously on his feet. Dwayne had never in his life gotten a massage, not even informally from a girlfriend or anything like that. He wondered if he was supposed to get naked. Was he too dirty? Was he supposed to take a shower first? No one told him that.

In Redfern, North Dakota, most people looked more like Dwayne than the fey Asian man at the desk inside. Dwayne was tall, broad-shouldered, clad in heavy workboots. He wore a knee brace atop his black jeans, and he walked with a limp.

That’s why he was here. His insurance company wanted him to get a massage before they paid for more expensive treatments. Dwayne did not like the idea of some stranger pawing over his body.

He didn’t visit prostitutes, but he would rather have gotten an awkward handjob from some skeezy lady than get a real massage from one of these clearly gay Asian men. (Will they enjoy feeling up my body?) But this was not a prostitution kind of massage parlor, he knew that. The masseur he was seeing was named Juha, and he was a certified medical professional. That was why Dwayne’s insurance company sent him here. He was the only qualified masseur in this section of North Dakota.

What kind of an Asian name was Juha anyway? It didn’t really sound Chinese or Japanese, he thought. Korean? Vietnamese? There were pictures of snow-capped mountains in the massage room he waited in, and pictures of a man skiing. There was a flag too. It wasn’t Japanese, but Dwayne couldn’t place it (Japan was the only Asian country whose flag he could picture off the top of his head).

The door opened, and Juha walked in. Dwayne’s heart sank.

Juha was not a slim gay Asian man at all. He was taller than Dwayne, and at least as muscular. He had long blond hair like a man from the cover of a romance novel. He glanced at Dwayne and smiled.

He spoke with an odd, singsong accent — Finnish — and introduced himself. He discussed Dwayne’s pain and had him take his clothes off. Dwayne hesitated, but did so. He left his underwear on.

He definitely felt dirty. There were smudges of grease on his legs. He had come straight from work. Juha was very clean, and he smelled like soap.

He lifted Dwayne’s leg up, which caused agonizing pain, but then he massaged the meat above and below Dwayne’s leg. Dwayne nearly stopped him the pain grew so bad.

“Oh, hey… Oh oh, shit, oooooh, shit, are you… is it…. Oooh shit…”

But Juha just ignored him and kept massaging. After a minute or two, the pain in Dwayne’s knee let up substantially. Juha moved down to his calf. Dwayne closed his eyes and tried to relax.

“You have much tension in you, yes,” Juha said. He sounded like the Swedish Chef, Dwayne thought, but with one of those very deep voices that rattled your bones. A lot of people said Dwayne had a voice like that, but his was softer, raspier, gentler — Juha was taller, so his voice was achingly baritone.

“Yeah.” Dwayne didn’t think he could relax while he was being pawed by this great big Finn. He gasped and sighed — was this almost over? He didn’t think he could take it.

And then a great sense of please overtook him. He relaxed almost instantly, and his knee felt so much better he had to look down to see if something was wrong. But no, the massage had just worked extremely well, at least for the moment.

“Wow, that feels… a lot better,” Dwayne said.

“That is good for certain, yes,” Juha said with a baritone grunt. “I must use oil now.” He grabbed a bottle of sweet-smelling massage oil and squirted it onto his hands. He worked it into Dwayne’s thighs.

Dwayne realized he had an erection only moments before Juha grabbed onto it with his lubed-up hand. Every fiber of Dwayne’s being told him to stop Juha, but it felt so good he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He just looked at it like a gory scene in a horror movie, one that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from.

“You will be better. You are tension too much,” Juha said with a grin. “It is okay. Do not have worry.”

“Uh-huh.” Dwayne’s teeth were gritted shut. He lifted his weight off his ass, jutting his hips upward.

His cock throbbed in Juha’s hand. Dwayne couldn’t believe how good it felt. The massage oil sent a wave of warmth and arousal through his body, and that feeling made him moan like a seduced girl. He blushed.

Then Dwayne’s dick disappeared into the burly Finn’s mouth. Dwayne threw his head back and bit a lip. He was humiliated and so turned-on he wanted to bust. His dick felt like it was going to explode.

This was the first time Dwayne had ever really been with a man. Once he and his roughneck buddies had been in Fargo for a weekend, and they all got a blowjob from a prostitute in an alley. That was the first time Dwayne had ever touched cocks with another man — one of his coworkers had insisted on jousting with him because Dwayne had a legendarily huge cock (that they had all seen in the showers). It was also the only time Dwayne had ever touched someone he thought was a man — afterwards, when it was all over, Dwayne had noticed an Adam’s apple and a distinctly masculine gait in the “woman” who had swallowed his nut. Dwayne chose to pretend he hadn’t seen it; he didn’t tell anyone, and he convinced himself that he should assume she was a woman until he saw solid proof refuting it.

But there was no doubting it this time. Juha’s broad, muscular back rippled in front of Dwayne’s face. Juha was built like a fieldhand. Dwayne hadn’t wanted to get sucked off by anyone, much less a man; if he had been forced into it, however, he would have preferred one of the fey Asian men. That would have been a lot like getting sucked off by a woman.

Juha sucked like a man, like he had a job to do and needed to do it the best he could. It wasn’t exactly erotic, though it did turn Dwayne on and make his dick spew precum. Juha sucked Dwayne deep, to the root, nose nestling in Dwayne’s unkempt pubic hair. He sucked like it was an attack, like he was violently annexing Dwayne’s cock to his throat.

“Oh, god, Juha!” Dwayne moaned. He writhed as though the pleasure emanating from his cock was actually pain. He touched Juha’s back, not deliberately, just as part of his flailing, and he shuddered at the sensation of his muscles writhing beneath Dwayne’s fingers.

But he didn’t move his hand away. His mind screamed at him to stop, to let go of Juha’s back — there was sweat there too, clinging to Dwayne’s skin where he touched it — yet he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. It was like clutching a barrel of rope. Dwayne was strong, but he was not muscular like that, he had never had a six-pack. He had always had a thin layer of pudge over his powerful body. He had never had muscle-upon-muscle just beneath his taut skin, with seemingly not a drop of fat anywhere on him. Dwayne was jealous (sort of — guys with bodies like that got made fun of on the oil rig; everyone loved teasing prettyboys and making them dirty).

He wasn’t used to being the small guy in the room. Dwayne had hit six feet tall in the tenth grade, and he had only gotten taller since then. He was a baritone-voiced beast in most communities — only in this roughneck town was Dwayne seen as normal or even small-sized in comparison to the average local.

A chill ran up Dwayne’s spine. He realized his hand on Juha’s back had roamed lower. He didn’t mean to, but somehow his hand rested on Juha’s ass.

He had never touched a male ass (aside from some male bonding on his baseball team in high school) until now. He gulped nervously. Still his mind wanted him to stop even as his body refused to comply.

Why am I doing this? Dwayne felt like sobbing. His finger slipped into Juha’s asscrack. Was Juha manipulating him deliberately? Was it possible he had been hypnotized? Dwayne knew that was ridiculous, but he couldn’t understand why his body failed the feel the same revulsion his mind did.

His finger slipped into Juha’s ass. Dwayne had never even done that with a woman. Dwayne had lied to his coworkers about that. They talked about giving girls “The Shocker” — a sex move where you put two fingers in a girl’s pussy and one in her asshole — during a late-night jaw session, and Dwayne had felt left out, so he pretended he had done it. He wasn’t even sure it was a real thing, not just a joke. But everyone else reacted as though sticking a finger in a girl’s ass was normal, and Dwayne had pretended the same thing.

In truth, Dwayne was not very experienced with women. He was bold and confident when it came to his muscles, to work, to sports and to violence — he had been a high school wrestler and briefly, an amateur boxer — but he was completely lacking in confidence with girls. He’d only had sex with three women in his lifetime (he told his fellow roughnecks seven), and he’d only screwed one of them more than one time. He’d gotten his dick in that girl’s ass once, but she said it was too big and it hurt too much, so he had barely gotten started before she called it off.

It had felt amazing though. For those first few seconds when he had the first inch or so of his dick inside her tight, virginal asshole, he had nearly cum right there. Now he couldn’t even wait to do that again.

His finger slipped into Juha’s tight asshole. He was presumably not a virgin like that girl had been, but Dwayne was still shocked at how tight his ass was. Dwayne’s pinkie finger struggled in. Dwayne gurgled and bucked at shock that he would do such a thing.

Juha grunted around the cock in his throat. He licked the shaft, slathering spit up and down it. Dwayne couldn’t tear his eyes away from his finger plugged into Juha’s bubble-butt. Copious saliva dripped down his oil-slicked thigh.

“Oh god,” Dwayne gasped as Juha finally pulled off his cock. Dwayne sat up, but Juha just pushed him onto his back again on the massage table. “Uh… So, uh…”

“Shush,” Juha said. “Do not talk. It is not needed. I will give you relaxation and take away the tension that is inside of you.”

“Oh, uh…”

“Yes, excellent, good, very good,” Juha said. He stroked Dwayne’s dick, the waves of pleasure his hand sent up Dwayne’s spine distracted him enough that all he could do was sputter and mumble.

“Hm, oh, I see. Okay then, well, I uh… Okay, I see… Ah-hah, ah… Okay, well, that is, oh…” Dwayne threw his head back. He couldn’t watch. He knew what was coming and he didn’t want to stop it — but even if he didn’t much like it, he definitely didn’t want to see it.

Juha’s huge body didn’t prevent him from being quick and graceful as he climbed up onto the massage table. He gripped the sides of it with his feet like a chimpanzee, barely fitting his hulking body atop the massage table, which didn’t seem strong enough to support two huge men.

But the massage table did hold, as much as Dwayne rather wished it would break. That would, at least, mean he didn’t have to go through with this.

“Oh god…” Dwayne turned his head to the side so he didn’t have to see.

Juha sank down on his cock. Dwayne sighed and Juha twitched as Dwayne’s cock slipped into his tight ass. Juha stopped moving with his plump butt atop Dwayne’s manhood. He took a deep breath and held it, closing his eyes. He groaned and ground his hips from side to side, moving his ass over Dwayne’s cock.

“You are good, yes, okay?” Juha said. He leaned forward and massaged the meat of Dwayne’s pecs. Dwayne wasn’t used to being manhandled by someone so strong; it felt almost violent and painful, the way Juha rubbed his skin, like he wanted to rub Dwayne’s pecs all the way off and get access to his innards that way. Dwayne bristled and lifted his head up.

Dwayne kept his hands up. He fleetingly touched Juha’s back, but it felt too real to touch his spasming muscles now. Dwayne wondered if he could feel his own cock through Juha’s body. Definitely not, he decided, since Juha was such a huge thickbody. A thin, delicate woman, maybe? Or one of those fey Asian men.

Oh how Dwayne wished one of those Asian men might have come on to him. He would have refused that. It was ironic because, if he had given in and fucked one of the gay Asian men, he would have felt more comfortable with it. But his more comfortable feelings also would have meant he just said no. He disliked flamboyant gays anyway; he routinely got annoyed at their antics. It would have been easy to say no to someone like that.

Juha, however, had surprised him. Now Dwayne could do little more than keep his hands above his head, watching his dick slide haltingly into Juha’s broad ass. Juha struggled and bit his lip as he lowered himself. He used his thighs to control his descent, making it slow and even, inch by inch. Dwayne watched his cock disappear like he was being led to his own execution, which felt good for some strange morbid reason.

He tried to close his eyes, thinking it would be easier if he didn’t have to watch himself fuck a man, but that was not easier. As soon as he closed his eyes, he panicked, feeling out of control. At least watching, he could watch Juha’s back writhing and he could see that his cock was safe.

“Your knee is feeling much better in your leg, yes, no?” Juha asked when his ass was all the way down on Dwayne’s cock. He acted like that hardly mattered, like he hadn’t struggled to take it all. He rocked back and forth on Dwayne’s cock as he leaned forward and rubbed Dwayne’s knee again. “Does it have healing?”

His accent was not too hard to understand, but it was hard enough that Dwayne had to stop and concentrate. He nodded and bit his lip. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from his cock. “Uh-huh.”

“Good, that is for excellency. That is healing, I am certain,” he said. “Do you have sauna?”

“Uh-huh.” Dwayne didn’t really listen to the question. There was, of course, no sauna on his oil rig, but there was a small showering nook — technically it was the women’s shower, but there were no women, so it was mainly unused — that was sometimes adapted into a sauna. The vents were closed or blocked, and the showerheads were turned on, with all but one on the hottest possible setting. The men sat in there, naked in the dark since the fluorescent lightbulbs had never been replaced and no longer worked. The five hot showerheads and one cold one combined to fill the room with steam. Dwayne and his friends would sit there and drink beer (kept cold in a cooler just outside the shower). He enjoyed that, in large part because he got the comfort of nudity without having to see or be seen due to the darkness.

“You should have use for sauna. It is Finnish, and it is very good for Finns. It will do much benefits for your knee,” Juha said.

“Ah. Okay.” Dwayne sharply inhaled. He could not even think about his knee right now. His heart was about to pound out of his chest, and he wanted more than anything for Juha to move. But the giant Finn just stayed still with his ass full of Dwayne’s cock.

“The steam is doing much good, it is certain, for sure,” Juha said. “You can also do steam bath. That is a thing, yes, it is, right?”

“Uh-huh. Yep,” Dwayne said. He had no idea what a steam bath was.

“Excellent, it will do much to promote your healing, yes,” Juha said. “You will fuck me now.”

He took a deep breath and lifted his ass, at last moving it atop Dwayne’s cock. Dwayne gasped. Juha seemed practiced and proficient at fucking in this position, though it seemed very awkward for Dwayne. Juha gripped the edges of the massage table with his toes and used his feet for leverage. He lifted himself almost all the way up off Dwayne’s cock, so Dwayne saw his entire pulsating, veiny shaft, then Juha lowered himself all the way back down.

When he planted himself on Dwayne’s dick, it sent a wave of pleasure up Dwayne’s spine. It was uncontrollably intense, mind-melting, and it made Dwayne moan like no woman had ever caused — he was normally so shy and reserved during sex he barely made a peep.

But this was already so incredible and stressful that he could do nothing more than submit to it. He certainly couldn’t filter his reactions or feel shyness. He just submitted.

The orgasm that erupted within him was so powerful he thought his shaking would break the table. Dwayne fully expected to plummet to the floor with that giant Finn on top of him — would that shatter my pelvis? He tried not to rock the table too much, but the feelings flowing through him were too potent not to move and shake.

“Oh god, yes!” Dwayne screamed, the first time he had ever done anything more than grunt when he came.

An orgasm ripped through his body, as Juha did the same, spraying his wad onto the floor of his massage room. Dwayne spurted his cum into Juha’s tight ass, sending jet after jet of his juices up inside Juha. Some of it ran right back down Dwayne’s shaft, coating his manhood in it and soaking his pubic hair.

Juha sighed. Dwayne grunted and gasped, feeling a mixture of relief, fear and pleasure. His hands gripped Juha’s ass again, despite his misgivings, and his fingers tightened into claws that held onto him tightly. Dwayne gulped and bit his tongue as the last aftershocks of his orgasm wracked his body.

At last he was done. Dwayne’s limbs fell limp, arms dangling off the sides of the massage table. Juha slowly, awkwardly lifted himself off Dwayne’s cock. When his ass finally plopped off, both men sighed grandly. Intense relief flooded Dwayne; his dick was painfully sensitive at first, and the cold air made him gasp again.

“You are very good, you are nice man,” Juha said. He stretched his legs and his arms. He smiled broadly. He pulled his long blond hair back.

“Uh-huh.”

He grabbed some tissues from the box on his counter. He wiped off Dwayne’s cock and his own ass. Then he helped Dwayne up. “You are complete now. You can be going. I will massage you again in two weeks, yes?”

“Uh… Yeah,” Dwayne said. Once more, his mind told him to never return here again. His body wasn’t sure it could wait two whole weeks.

“Your insurance will cover two massages every time every month, every two weeks is appropriate, yes?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Excellent, good. I will do suck on your dick too, if you want. Come back to see me,” he said. He frowned. “Insurance company will not pay for that. You must pay if you come before two weeks.”

“Oh, okay,” Dwayne said as he hurriedly put his clothes back on.

Juha placed one thick, meaty hand on Dwayne’s shoulder while Dwayne laced up his heavy workboots. Dwayne bristled but didn’t make him move. He just grabbed his shirt — it felt too confrontational to put it on while Juha caressed his bare back — and stood.

“Uh, thanks,” Dwayne said. He turned around and walked out, shirt in hand. He could feel Juha’s eyes watching his ass shake in his faded dirt-caked jeans.

It was only as he walked out into the bright light of a warm North Dakota summer day that Dwayne knew what his decision was: yes. He’d spend the next two weeks listing all the reasons he shouldn’t come back. He was so focused on that he didn’t even notice how good his knee felt.

But at the end of it all, at the end of that last, was the only factor that really mattered: Dwayne really wanted to fuck again. He couldn’t wait to come back. Just so long as he didn’t have to tell anyone about it.