Tag Archives: urban erotica

The T-Girl in the ‘Hood

Here’s the beginning of The T-Girl in the ‘Hood, a new story by Calvin Freeman about a transgender woman living in the hood, getting propositioned by all the sexiest straight bucks the ghetto can provide!


Tina looked out her window. Her apartment was freshly cleaned, so she felt good — she loved a clean apartment. From her vantage point, she could see the park next-door. It wasn’t a nice park; Tina lived in the ghetto; it did have one redeeming factor though.

The shirtless men who played basketball every day. Tina watched them bump sweaty chests and clasp each other on the well-muscled back, stroking her cock until she shot all over her floor. Tina did the same thing nearly every day.

Today, however, she was distracted almost as soon as she wrapped one hand around her cock. Walter was back. She shivered with delight and anticipation.

Walter was her neighbor, or to be more precise, he was her neighbor’s husband. He was a middle-aged black man; there was no objective reason he should be so hot, Tina thought — he didn’t have a perfect body like some of those basketballers; he had a nice face but he was hardly some Hollywood heartthrob in that department; he was scruffy, ever-dirty because he was semi-homeless with a serious gambling problem and semi-serious drug problem (according to Tina’s neighbor, whom she didn’t entirely trust). He was ungodly sexy though, with swagger dripping off him and a hefty frame that made Tina drool every time she saw him.

“I said I’d do it, baby, damn!” Walter’s raspy deep voice rang out. He was one of those people who didn’t really have a quiet voice, so Tina could always hear when he was back in his wife’s life. “Don’t start this shit again!”

One of the sexiest things about him was that he had checked out Tina’s ass, and then when his wife told him Tina was transgender, his eyes opened wide as though he thought that made her hotter. Tina didn’t often see that look on men’s faces. But he had gone then, after an argument, before spending a few months in prison on an ancient child support beef, then living on some “white lady’s couch”. He had come back one other occasion, but only for a few days before he got kicked out again. Tina hadn’t had any opportunity to be alone with him.

Until now.

She hurried into the back alley when she saw him grumbling as he left the building. Tina’s apartment was right there adjoining the alley, so she was the only person that had her own side-entrance and -exit. That was the door she used now.

“Hey, Walter,” she said. He had a bag of trash in his hand. It was heavy enough that it made his biceps flex holding onto it. He wore only a wifebeater and a pair of shorts. He tossed the bag into the dumpster.

“Hey,” he said with a casual nod. He grabbed his cock through his shorts and smiled at her. “What’s ya’ deal?”

The Prison Wife Treatment

Here’s the beginning of The Prison Wife Treatment, a hardcore story of alpha male worship by Calvin Freeman!


“Alright, baby, go in there and make me somethin’ tasty,” Ruddy said. He kissed Sal on the cheek, making Sal flush with desire and arousal.

He was Ruddy’s prison wife. Not really, of course, since they weren’t in prison, but Sal had asked Ruddy to treat him like a prison wife (and paid him handsomely for it). That’s because Ruddy was the sexiest mandingo stud Sal had ever seen. He was a tall thug with short braids and a harsh glare to his mean eyes; he had broad, strapping muscles like a farmworked ox, marked with legions of prison tattoos. He had spent twenty of his forty years in prison, though it was mostly in short stays of a year or two at a time.

Sal hurried into the kitchen. He had assumed this would be mainly about sex, but the first thing Ruddy asked for was food. Sal cooked him a quesadilla because that was just about all Sal had — he didn’t cook much and the kitchen was mostly empty. He hadn’t thought about buying food just for Ruddy.

This all started because Sal had gathered up the courage to go to the local prison and make an offer. All he wanted to do was suck Ruddy’s dick — he was the sexiest non-skinhead to be released that day — but Ruddy said no. Ruddy said he wasn’t gay and wouldn’t fuck with any man under any circumstances.

But, Ruddy said, there was a loophole: when someone became a prison wife, he said, that person was effectively female. It didn’t count fucking a prison wife. I reckon I could use one too, whiteman, yessuh, I don’t think there gonna be lotta females who wanna give up the pussy, so I could use a prison wife on the outside.

So they had both agreed upon the terms of their relationship. Even though it was scary and strange and off-putting, Sal had agreed to it. He had agreed to pay Ruddy a bit of money every week, plus give him a free place to stay. That was how Ruddy strolled into Sal’s house just a few hours after getting out of prison.

He just took one look at Sal’s dumpy little house and scowled. “You best start cleanin’ up in here, baby. I don’t much like mess, and I hate clutter. I’s gonna start punishin’ you tomorrow e’ry time I see it like this.”

“Okay, yes. I will.” Sal caught a harsh glare from Ruddy’s dark eyes. He stumbled over his words. “I will… uh, sir.”

“I ain’t a cop, don’t call me sir. Call me papi, and say it as though I make you horny,” Ruddy said. He imitated a Spanish girl seducing her boyfriend. “Papi!”

“… Oh-“

“You hesitatin’?” Ruddy advanced on Sal as though going to hit him.

“No! I’ll call you whatever you want! Papi,” Sal said, struggling to make it sound sexy because he was scared of Ruddy. He had always known there was a chance that this would be dangerous, but now that he had Ruddy in his home, it seemed even riskier than Sal had ever guessed. Ruddy could do rob him, burn the house down, frame Sal for a crime or just fly into an uncontrollable rage.

As Ruddy moved into his room — he had very few things after this most recent stay in prison — Sal finished cooking the quesadilla. He served it on a plate with a few sprigs of cilantro, but Ruddy scowled as though he didn’t like that. He didn’t tell Sal not to do it though.

“Get on your knees while I eat.”

Sal did as he was told. Ruddy sat on the couch. He was shirtless now because he had been moving his things into the house, and now he was sweaty. His chest muscles gleamed. Sal kneeled in front of him.

“You don’t eat when I eat. You should be on your knees watching in case I want something,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I’m a good husband, baby. As long as you mind yaself and do as ya told, I’ll treat you right.”

“Yes, papi.”

“Start fingerin’ ya throat.”

Sal hesitated before he pushed his finger into his mouth. Ruddy didn’t respond, he just took another bite. Sal pushed his finger deeper in, until he gagged.

“Good. Keep doing that,” Ruddy said. “Work on your gag reflex.”

“I will, papi, I promise. I won’t gag on your cock. I-“

He smacked Sal. “No. I ain’t say that. Did I? Don’t you get ahead of yaself. You don’t know what to do, you stupid bitch, don’t try and pretend you smart.”

Sal blushed. “Oh. Sorry, papi.”

“You s’posed to gag. I like makin’ bitches gag,” he said. He paused and sniffled. “Sorry I got salty wit’cha, baby. I got a demon inside-a me, it comes out when I see pretty girls like you behavin’ improperly. Don’t speak outta turn, baby.” He snorted. “You s’posed to gag, I ain’t trainin’ you not to gag. E’ry time you gag on my meat, that’s how I know you love me.”

“Yes, papi.”

“You gotta work on gaggin’ more, and gaggin’ without spitting out my dick. I like gaggin’. Gaggin’ on my dick is how you show you care, girl,” he said. He snorted and rolled his eyes. “Did I hurt ya feelings? You can still make me leave. You still gotta pay me, but-“

“No. I want to be your prison wife. Treat me like that. I’ll learn,” Sal said. He blushed. “I’ll learn how to behave properly.”

“That’s right. You will. I am a good educator, baby. I am a firm and fair teacher.” He finished his quesadilla and wiped the grease off his fingers on Sal’s shirt.. He put the plate down on the coffee table. He spread his legs and pulled his cock out.

“Take your clothes off,” he said. He had a big black cock, which was already throbbing beneath his fingers even though it was still limp. He burped loudly, blowing the fetid air into Sal’s face. He thwacked his cock against the palm of his hand, accentuating how thick it was. Sal couldn’t wait to do anal (though they had already planned on that not happening just yet — Sal wanted to build up to it).

Sal felt skinny and weak next to Ruddy, who stood up. He peered at Sal’s naked body. He caressed each of his limbs and his chest and back — not in a sexual way, more like a farmer might inspect a horse — and grunted his approval. He grabbed Sal’s dick and snorted.

“You got a tiny dick,” he said. He flopped his own massive cock against Sal’s. He chuckled. “No wonder you act like a girl.”

Sal blushed. “Yeah. I guess so, papi.”

Downlow Thugs at the Irontop Gym

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh… yeah,” Kyle said.

“You distracted cuz you wanna suck my dick?”


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

“Well, uh, I…-“

“Shut up. Say yes or no.”

“Uh, yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kyle nodded and sunk to his knees.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kyle nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Blasian Barbershop

Here’s the first chapter of The Blasian Barbershop, a new story from the City Barbershop! It’s full of hot black-on-Asian action, with a sexy twink and a bevy of swaggerous thugs on the downlow!


Kwan knew he wouldn’t be made to feel totally comfortable at his new job. That much was a given. But he had been working in a black barbershop in Boston for years, and he was good at black hair. He’d had to prove himself there, so he was confident he could prove himself here in Providence, Rhode Island.

Yo, Kwan, yo’ chair is as empty as Bradley’s head!

They laughed both with and at Kwan, who pretended to play along. He was used to the relatively calm, caring environment of an urban beauty parlor, not a barbershop. That was where he grew up. That was why he felt comfortable among black people — his mother had been hired to do nails in a black beauty parlor, and Kwan spent his evenings there. He had always known more black people than Asian people.

Spending all his time with a bunch of black women might have been awkward if he had been straight. But it was obvious at an early age what he was. He put on shows, dancing and singing for the girls in the beauty parlor, and they cheered him on like he was one of their own. He learned everything about hair before he even went to cosmetology school, and there was never any real doubt about his career path.

I seen that nigga over there talkin’ to the fattest, skankiest bitch you ever seen up on Gilmore! She had nasty leakin’ out her nose and shit.

But now he was working in a men’s barbershop. It was a City Barbershop, which Kwan was glad about — the City Barbershop was a notorious chain around the country, notorious for one perk that attracted young gay men like Kwan to work there. It was known as a place where straight black men could get serviced on the downlow.

Of course, it was also known as a place where straight black men could go to get away from the white-dominated world. The workforce was almost entirely black. Kwan, though not white, would never fit in there, no matter how he had grown up.

Ya Chinese motherfucker, you got the only chair and I’m in a hurry. If I come outta here lookin’ like Jet Li or some shit, I am suin’ yer yellow ass…

On Kwan’s first day, not a single person had sat in his chair. He knew that was to be expected. Trapper said that was normal — he didn’t mention that is normal even for a black barber but that was the subtext of his claim.

It helped that Kwan was outgoing and friendly. He liked to crack jokes. He knew that black people would feel uncomfortable with him if he tried to force fitting in, pretending he was black and that he was understood everything going on around him. They would trust him more if he acted like himself. So he pretended to have a minor accent; he asked what yungin meant, he claimed not to know what a blunt was.

On his second day, he had his first customer. It was a young boy whose two brothers sat in Bradley’s and Latrell’s chairs. He had wanted to wait for a black barber, but his mom said they were in a hurry.

Kwan had never been more nervous, not even at his cosmetology exam. After all, at an exam, you could always take it again. If he had messed up the boy’s hair, the entire neighborhood would know in about ten minutes. Kwan would never get a customer here. He wouldn’t even be able to put it on his resume, because if anyone called to verify his work experience, they’d find out he’s a Chinese guy who can’t cut black hair.

“I’m gonna beat yo’ ass down if you mess my hair up-“

“Rayshawn, shut yo’ mouth, he’ll do fine. Yo’ head was shaved till a few months ago. If he fucks up, we’ll just shave it again.”


“Shut up and quit squirming, or he is gonna fuck up!”

But all went fine. The kid just needed a trim, and Kwan performed adequately. The boy looked at him like a disgusting species of bug, either because he was flamboyantly gay, blatantly Chinese or a bit of both. In the end, he and his brothers and his mother left satisfied.

After that, the customers warmed up to Kwan. It wasn’t easy, and he was still usually their last choice, but at least they didn’t sit and wait if he was the only barber available. Aside from Kwan, there were usually only two barbers working, sometimes a third if the owner came down when the shop was extra-busy, but that was rare.

When I was locked up they try and put me on that white-barber trip, they say there ain’t no nigga available. We just about rioted till they find one.

Damn right. Lettin’ a Chinese queer on my hair is one thing, that’s bad enough — nothin’ personal, Kwan — but no honky is evuh gonna cut my hair.

The owner was Trapper. He was a businessman who always wore fine suits, and he had a thick mustache. He used to work as a barber and he kept up a valid license, but he mainly only filled in on people’s days off. He was sexy in an older-daddy kind of way, but he wasn’t as hot as Latrell.

Latrell and Bradley were the two other barbers. Latrell was, objectively speaking, the hottest. He was handsome, smooth, charming, and he always had a girl on each arm. He played basketball, which was pretty much all he talked about. He still seemed to think he might join the NBA — Kwan didn’t know much about sports, but he was under the impression the NBA mainly hired from college, and Latrell was not a student. He was twenty-four, which seemed too old to begin a career as an athlete. But Kwan didn’t say any of that; he was certainly not in a position to make any enemies. He just smiled and nodded when Latrell talked about which pro teams he would never join for any amount of money.

The last barber was Bradley — which Kwan eventually found out was his last name, his real first name was Arthur — and that was who Kwan thought was hot. He was taller than Latrell, bigger but not as cut; he didn’t have a six-pack, that much was obvious even through his baggy clothes. He looked like he probably did have a six-pack when he was younger though. He had a bushy, unkempt beard and a crucifix around his chest, which he kissed every time Kwan looked at him.

He was a convict. He had earned his cosmetology license in prison, and Trapper had hired him because he got a nice tax break for it. He had a square, jutting jaw and dark eyes, with a thick body that Kwan would have loved to lick from head to toe. He was not “handsome” like Latrell but he was bursting with swagger and sex appeal, and Kwan thought he had to have him.

Luckily, Kwan worked at the City Barbershop, where an awful lot of straight men agreed to receive a blowjob from a gay man, even if they normally wouldn’t. The ordinary rules of heterosexuality just didn’t apply in this female-free zone. But that was a touchy, awkward subject that neither Trapper now Kwan had brought up yet. Kwan wondered if this City Barbershop was different — maybe Trapper didn’t allow downlow action.

“Damn, if I had a girl like that, I wouldn’t nevuh leave the house,” Bradley said to a rousing chorus of laughs. “I’d just lick that pussy all day and all night, damn! I love lickin’ fine pussy.” He demonstrated his pussy-licking technique between his fingers, which was so hot Kwan’s dick stiffened in his pants. Latrell’s latest girlfriend had just hung up on him, after some sort of hushed argument. Latrell stalked back to his chair and sat down, looking at his smartphone. He sighed and shook his head at Bradley’s comment.

“A girl like that would nevuh hook up wit’ yo’ wrinkled old ass, Bradley,” Latrell muttered.

Bradley nodded. “Prolly true. But if she did hook up wit’ me, I’d lick her pussy clean off. She’d nevuh dump me, not wit’ a tongue like this.” He again licked the air, showing off his massive tongue, which matched his big body. His tongue poked out from his grizzled beard.

Kwan saw his chance to let it be known he was down for whatever. He jumped in, blushing even before he spoke. “When I dress up like a slut, Bradley, I’m about forty percent as hot as she is. That’s a respectable figure for someone who ain’t even got tits or a pussy to lick, so…” He didn’t need to add a punchline, which was good because he couldn’t think of any — the barbershop erupted in a torrent of laughter. One of the customers squeezed his arm and clapped him on the back.

And so that was how Kwan let it be known that he was aware of the City Barbershop’s reputation, and that he was willing to do his part. No customer asked him for a blowjob that day, but word soon spread that the ‘Chinaman barber’ was hot to trot.

Later that afternoon, near closing time, Kwan went into the backroom to make a phone call. When he was done, he squealed in shock. Bradley stood there in front of him; he had snuck in while Kwan was on the phone, then waited for him to finish.


Kwan giggled. “Hi,” he said. He was nervous. He had really wanted to suck Bradley’s dick, and now, it seemed, he was going to have that opportunity. Ex-cons like Bradley were always the most receptive to his advances, because they had usually fucked a man behind bars; of course, they often fucked like they were still locked up with their bitch. Kwan liked being treated badly by the rough-and-tumble type. Bradley’s menacing stare filled him with desire, and made Kwan shudder with anticipation.

“You wasn’t kiddin’ ‘bout being pretty. I bet you look real nice in a dress, China White,” he said. His voice was low and rumbling, like a caged animal might growl when it knew it couldn’t strike.

“I do,” Kwan said. “I look fantastic.” A part of him wanted to blurt out an invitation to come to Kwan’s home and see him in a dress, but he still didn’t know if Bradley was safe to invite home. He was a reformed gangbanger, so he was probably safe enough — he had been working at the shop for more than two years, after all — but still, Kwan hesitated.

“I don’t fuck wit’ men. Not even girlie men. Not even chicks wit’ dicks,” Bradley said, emphatically, as though he was weirdly strict by not fucking with transgenders.

“Oh,” Kwan said. He had never felt so disappointed. In his mind, Bradley had asked for a blowjob simply by coming into the backroom. He felt like a child whose Christmas presents had been taken away from him.

“Lemme see yo’ hand,” he said softly. He didn’t wait for Kwan to agree. His callused fingers gripped Kwan’s palm, which he brought to his face. He inhaled deeply, and sucked on Kwan’s pinkie finger. “Smells like hair.”

“Well… Yeah, I guess… That makes sense. I have perfume-“

“No. Don’t bother,” he said. He leaned against the wall, angling his hips outward as though he was going to ask for a blowjob. “You can jack me off.”

“Oh… uh… really? Okay,” Kwan said. He was still disappointed, but handjobs were fun. Besides, if Bradley were willing to get a handjob now, he might be willing to go even farther later. Kwan rammed his hand down Bradley’s loose-slung jeans before Bradley could think again.

His dick was hot and thick, exactly what Kwan was hoping for. He gave it a squeeze, and Bradley let out a long, bone-rattling moan, as though he had been waiting this for a long time.

Kwan knew this was his chance to convince Bradley to go a little farther. He was already reacting so intensely that Kwan hoped he might change his mind right now — he wouldn’t be the first straight thug who told Kwan he’d never let a man swing on his dick but then allowed Kwan to easily seduce him time and time again. Sometimes a man just wanted to be talked into something, so he could feel like he didn’t want to do it.

Bradley’s chest rippled beneath his t-shirt, which was too small for his strapping body. Kwan let his free hand tease the root of Bradley’s cock, then gradually roam upwards until he was under Bradley’s shirt, tweaking his nipples. He had rock-hard pecs that twitched at Kwan’s touch. There was a scar there, either from a knife (maybe a shiv) or a bullet, Kwan couldn’t tell which from the feel.

“Ah, damn,” Bradley said. He closed his eyes and leaned his back against the wall. “Why can’t you be a girl, China White? Huh? I love Asian girls.”

“I can dress like a geisha if you want,” Kwan said with a giggle. “I bet your dick tastes nice-“

“It do, and you’d love it, but nah,” Bradley said. “I’m a Christian nigga. I’m reformed and shit. Twenty years ago I’d have wrapped my hands around yo’ neck and fucked you till yo’ eyes is buggin’ outta yo’ head. I’d have wrecked you fo’ other men. I’d fuck you then punch you to punish you fo’ having a seductive ass. I ain’t like that no more. I believe in the Bible now.” He sighed, his hot breath condensing on Kwan’s cheek. His dick throbbed in Kwan’s hand.

The first drops of creamy precum snuck out of his dick, sliding down onto Kwan’s fingers. Bradley’s chest heaved beneath Kwan’s other hand, muscles rippling like he was uncomfortable with being touched but didn’t want to tell Kwan to stop.

This was unlike any handjob Kwan had ever given because Bradley reacted physically and intensely, moreso than some men did with outright sex. Bradley’s whole body rippled and groaned loudly, his rumbling voice echoing in Kwan’s ear.

“I miss those days sometimes,” he said. His eyes closed. “But I don’t miss jeopardizin’ my eternal soul.”

“That’s too bad. I think I’d have enjoyed meeting you twenty years ago,” Kwan said. He shrugged. “I mean… I’m not trying to talk you out of being Christian, or whatever. That’s your call.” Kwan blushed. It didn’t seem like Bradley actually listened to his words.

Bradley grabbed Kwan’s hand out from under his shirt. He pulled it up to his mouth. At first it looked like he was going to bite off Kwan’s fingers. But then he just spat a big wad of saliva onto Kwan’s palm. “Use both hands, China White.” The sight of him spitting made Kwan’s knees weak. His lips spat slowly, like it was a holy sacrament that Kwan should savor.

Kwan shuddered. His own dick was hard and throbbing in his pants, but he was determined to focus entirely on Bradley’s pleasure for now. He stuck his second hand into Bradley’s pants, which were loose and low-slung enough he could easily fit both wrists down there.

His dick was so long Kwan could have added a third hand if he’d had one. It was like a forearm, he thought, and it even throbbed firmly like a muscular arm in his hands, all veiny and now moistened with precum.

Bradley undid his belt and his pants dropped. He pulled his shorts down to his knees, so his dick poked out from his body. His small t-shirt ended just above his waist, clinging to the slight layer of padding over his belly. Kwan stroked faster and faster as Bradley squeezed his eyes shut. His chest beaded with sweat, making the shirt stick to his skin. His nipples were hard beneath the fabric.

“The Bible say don’t spill yo’ seed,” Bradley murmured. “But it’s a sin to put yo’ dick in any kinda man. I try not to sin. So if you wanna catch my seed, China White, that’s fine wit’ me. Just don’t be puttin’ my dick in yo’ mouth. No pen’tration.”

Kwan dropped to his knees so his face was right in front of Bradley’s dick. He smeared the tip of his cheeks and lip, getting a taste of salty cum. He hoped this might mean Bradley was softening his stance, but that didn’t happen. Bradley glared at him before looking away and groaning. Kwan thwacked his club-like cock against his face. Bradley grunted like he was going to give in, like every fiber of his being told him to ram his dick down Kwan’s throat until he choked.

But he resisted those urges, much to Kwan’s disappointment. Kwan felt the man’s dick pulsating as his balls crawled up in his sac. Kwan stuck his tongue out and, slowly to see if Bradley stopped him, he licked the tip of his dick like a lollipop. It was slick with precum, salty and sweet and sour all at once.

As soon as his tongue touched Bradley’s dark cocktip, Bradley’s muscles shook and flexed all at once. “Nigga, damn, damn, fuckin’ Christ- Goddamn, China White, yo’ tongue is… fuckin’ magic…” Cum sprayed onto Kwan’s tongue, a huge load that coated the inside of his mouth. It tasted hot and sweet and so delicious Kwan had to fight urges to swallow Bradley’s dick despite his warning.

But since Bradley hadn’t complained about licking, Kwan rubbed his tongue up and down the shaft as cum poured out and coated his face. It seemed like a silly rule, “no-penetration”, what kind of religion would allow such an arbitrary distinction? But Kwan had never been raised Christian, so he assumed it was a real rule. The veins of Bradley’s cockshaft pulsated beneath his tongue’s touch, like his dick itself begged for Kwan to suck it.

Bradley took a deep breath, then swiped his dick away before Kwan could even finish cleaning it off. He tucked it back in his shorts and pulled up his scuffed jeans. His upper lip sneered. “Alright, China White. You done.”

“Anytime you want-“

“Shut up yo’ mouth, man,” he said. He closed his eyes and sighed. “I ain’t no kinda gaybasher or nothin’. Just… Yo’ voice, man, it’s like a fuckin’ fairy. Ya gotta repent, Kwan. Go to church or some shit, whatever the Chinese equivalent is.” He redid his belt and fly, then walked away while Kwan wiped the cum off his chin. Kwan wasn’t sure what to say so he just watched his swaggerous lean as he left.

“Bye,” Kwan said softly. He took a deep breath. He hadn’t really noticed how intimidating Bradley was until he had walked away, and Kwan felt a surge of relief.

That handjob, he thought to himself as he cleaned up, was the sexiest thing he had ever experienced.

Servicing Black Thugs: The Pimp

Here’s the entirety of Servicing Black Thugs: The Pimp, a story in the Servicing Black Thugs series! It’s about a pimp named Slickback teaching one of his hos a lesson in a way that will leave you breathless!

Roger sighed and leaned back on the bed. He was exhausted. It was funny how a day spent driving felt like a day of hard work even though it was neither physically nor mentally taxing. He had gone almost all the way home, stopping only when he thought he couldn’t stay awake any longer.

He was in Detroit, Michigan, or possibly just outside it, he wasn’t sure. It was not a nice neighborhood. He would have been better off planning ahead by making a reservation somewhere better, even if it meant getting off the road a bit earlier. He didn’t feel entirely comfortable here.

But the Whiteland Hotel was a reputable chain, and he had stayed there before, just not at this location. He would just stay in, order some takeout and not leave until the morning. His car was not valuable, nor did it have anything valuable in it, so he felt reasonably confident.

You’ll be safe, he told himself, as long as you don’t go looking for a good time. You’re tired. You need to get up early to drive the rest of the way home. Just go to bed. But even as he thought it, he had a feeling that wouldn’t happen — it may have been a dangerous area, but that was prime hunting grounds for Roger.

He checked in and made his way to his room. The hotel was cleaner than he had expected. The carpet was dingy, and the windows were smudged, but the sheets were fresh and the bathroom was fine. All in all, he was happy with it. In this neighborhood, it was better than he could have reasonably hoped.

There were whores outside, and he didn’t love that. Roger was gay, so he had no interest in women of any kind. Just ten yards from his hotel room door, he could see through the peephole as a pretty black girl in a green “dress” (a swathe of fabric that barely covered her necessary parts) strutted her stuff.

And then he saw a pimp come into view. He heard the man’s growling, menacing voice, but couldn’t understand the words. The general thrust of his point was clear, however, when the whore handed over a few wads of bills. It sounded like the pimp was angry with her, as though she hadn’t produced as much money as he wanted.

Roger opened the door, grabbing an ice bucket so he’d have a reason to go outside. Roger had a thing for sexy black thugs, and he had a nearly flawless ability to detect which sexy black thugs would let him suck their dick. This pimp, he thought, was precisely such a sexy black thug. He just needed an excuse to start a conversation.

He filled up the ice bucket at the machine outside. He was closer, so he could hear the conversation now.

Yo bitch, you suckin’ like I said to?

Yes, papi, I swear, I’m doing it-

Then why ain’t they saying what they s’posed to, huh? Do I gotta hit you again?

No, papi.

I think I might. I’ll let you slide for tonight though. You best start workin’ on it. I told those niggas that if you don’t choke on they shit, they ain’t gotta pay full-price. They sayin’ you ain’t always chokin’.

Well, I deep-throat, papi, just like you say. But they don’t always have big dicks like you do-

I don’t give a shit! You can still choke. I tol’ you to pretend, right? Just like you pretend you love the taste of nut.

I love the taste of yo’ nut, papi.

Shut up, bitch. I don’t care if you like it. You gonna swallow it either way, or at least you would if you wasn’t such a sloppy cocksucker. And speakin’ of nuts, you ain’t lickin’ nutsacks for free, right?

No, papi. I make ‘em pay ten bucks for that.

Good. Ain’t no one doing it?

Not really.

Well, you work on that. Keep tryin’. You tell ‘em you suck balls like a champion. Whatchoo gigglin’ at?

Roger had crept close enough now he could see the pretty black girl giggling, embarrassed. She closed her eyes and hugged the pimp, who pushed her away.

“Whatchoo gigglin’ at, gurl?”

She whispered. “I just think it’s funny, Slickback, there’s no skill in ball-sucking. You can’t be good at it. Anyone with a mouth is just as good as anyone else with a mouth.”

“Shut up, bitch, whatchoo know about it? You gotta convince ‘em that-“

Roger stepped forward, close enough he could be seen. Both the pimp, Slickback, and the whore looked at him. Slickback was hostile at first, angry at being interrupted, then realized he had a potential customer and smiled.

“Yo, man, you look horny. You horny? You like black girls? She sucks nuts like no one’s business,” he said. When Roger didn’t immediately respond, Slickback sidled closer. “Or no? You don’t like black girls? That’s okay. I got a white chick around the corner, she can lick yo’ asshole, baby, all night long if that’s what you want. She loves that funky shit. Or I got a fat Asian chick, you like that? Ain’t many of them. She ain’t real fat or nothing, but she curvy, ‘specially for an Asian chick. She real tight-“

“Uh… no, none of those are my cup of tea. I-“

“Two girls? You look like you could satisfy two-“ Slickback cut himself off. He looked closely into Roger’s eyes and wrinkled his nose.

“I think he’s gay, papi,” said the black girl, softly, so as not to anger Slickback.

Slickback nodded as though he had been thinking the same thing. “She right, huh?”

Roger nodded. “I’ll take a swing on your cock, sir, Slickback.”

“Sir Slickback, I like that,” he said with a confident grin. “So you pay to suck my cock?”

The whore giggled into her fist. “Go on, papi, do it. You always say you do anything for money.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, bitch. What I always tell you is that you will do anything to make me money,” he said. He straightened his orange and green suit.

“I can suck your dick better than her,” Roger said. “And I’ll suck your balls and any other body part you want.” The whore straightened her back and stared daggers at him.

He raised his eyebrows. “That’s quite a promise.”

Roger nodded. “I’m an expert.”

Now the whore looked at him crossly. “You fucking faggot, I bet I suck twice as many cocks as you-“

“Yeah, but I suck ‘em twice as good,” Roger said, “Besides, you suck a lot of wussy little needle-dicks. I specialize in sucking big mandingo cock, and I always swallow the whole thing.”

“You can get my whole cock in yo’ throat?”

“I promise. If I don’t, I’ll pay you twice as much,” Roger said. He glanced at the whore. “Come on, bring her. I’ll give her a lesson.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, but did as she was told when Slickback said to come with him. Slickback never actually said he agreed to the deal, but he walked towards the hotel and Roger hurried to show him to the room.

He licked his lips at the sight of Slickback’s thick ass filling out his orange suit pants, visible in the hotel’s lighting. He looked perfect dressed as a pimp, Roger thought, not like some awkward, ill-fitting TV pimp.

Once he got in, Slickback let out a sigh of relief. “I’s always nervous ‘round this place. Ain’t used ta let niggas in, y’know.”

Roger nodded.

Slickback continued anyway. “The Whiteland Hotel used to be the White Man Hotel. Whites-only. Used to have a sign out front, said, whites and non-Chinese Asians only. That ain’t allowed no mo’, but still. I don’t usually come here.”

Roger nodded. “The front desk clerk is black,” he said. “So I think this hotel is pretty safe.”

Slickback shrugged. “Whatever. It’s a shitty hotel, man. Got whores right outside. You ready? Show me how you do this. And show Emerald, maybe she learn some new tricks.”

Roger shut the door to his room. He glanced at the whore, who was much less pretty now that she was in a well-lit room. Her name was apparently Emerald — that must be why she wore green, Roger thought — and she crossed her arms over her sagging tits.

“Well, let’s see it,” Emerald said.

Roger knew waiting was the best way to get someone horny, so he just smiled dramatically at her. “I’m not rushing. I don’t believe in sucking cock unless I do it right,” he said. He turned to Slickback and smiled, “Sir Slickback, you should take your clothes off while I get ready.”

Slickback chuckled. “Pimps don’t take off they clothes, faggot.” He unzipped the fly to his slacks, and let a long cock flop out. Still limp it was nearly a foot long, and Slickback laughed at his shock. “You ain’t know it was gonna be that big, huh? Ain’t gonna be easy to deep-throat this one, faggot. We gonna see how good at faggotry you really is.”

Roger smiled. “I am surprised, but don’t worry. I can take it. I’m an expert, and I’m good at what I do,” he said, making eye contact with Emerald. She scowled at him.

He hurried into the bathroom. Roger didn’t actually have a pre-blowjob routine, but he pretended he did. He cleared his throat loudly, hocked a couple of loogies into the toilet and brushed his teeth.

“Whatchoo doin’ in there, faggot?”

“I have a routine. It helps me deep-throat big dicks,” Roger said. He came out into the main room, holding the bottle of shampoo from the bathtub. He asked for Slickback’s hand, then let a dab come out onto Slickback’s middle finger. “Stick this in my throat until I gag. That’ll help lubricate it.”

Slickback smiled like a cocky bastard. He did as Roger said, with a disgusted sneer on his face. When Roger gagged, he instinctively bit down, but not hard enough to really hurt.

Samson looked impressed. He turned to Emerald and said, “You remember this, bitch. When I tell you to suck dick like a faggot, you do all this stuff. When you suck my cock, you do it like this. Keep a little tube of shampoo wit’ you.”

Roger opened his mouth as wide as he could. The bitter taste of shampoo overwhelmed his senses, and he couldn’t wait to replace it with Slickback’s cock. He demonstrated to Slickback how big and how loosely open his mouth was.

Then Roger got onto the bed in the center of the hotel room. He laid on his back with his head dangling over the edge of the bed. He reached out for Slickback’s cock, which was half-hard, sticking out the fly of his boxers and slacks.

Gripping Slickback by the cock, Roger pulled him closer. Slickback grinned at him, then frowned at Emerald. “See, bitch? He wants me to fuck his face. Why can’t you be like that?”

“I ain’t some trashy faggot!” she said.

“Shit, you should be…” Slickback muttered. He almost looked like he was going to hit her at first, but he relaxed when the tip of his cock pushed into Roger’s mouth. He didn’t tear his eyes from her.

“That ain’t fair, faggots like that stuff,” she said.

“Unless you a lesbian, you should like it too, bitch.”

Then Slickback began powerfully slamming his dick in and out. He was uncaring of Roger’s resistance, and in only a few strokes managed to squeeze it all in. Roger gagged uncontrollably, but he didn’t fight back. His throat stretched to accommodate Slickback’s manhood.

“Come here, bitch,” Slickback said. She got on the bed, mounting Roger’s body so her pussy was just over Roger’s bellybutton. Slickback began kneading her tits. “Nevermind, bitch. This ain’t helpin’ me. You got saggy tits, go and get on your knees to watch.”

She blushed but did as she was told. She got on her knees and peered closely at Roger’s face, which turned red as he struggled to swallow all of Slickback’s cock. He loved this part, the difficulty of it all, the way Slickback fucked his throat without regard for Roger’s feelings, his alpha male body writhing as he destroyed Roger’s gullet.

Slickback groaned and grunted as he slammed his dick in and out of Roger’s mouth. His heavy balls slapped against Roger’s face. He laughed at the sound it made, and changed his angle to make a nice meaty sound when his scrotum collided with Roger’s chin.

“You suck balls, bitch?” Slickback asked. Though he phrased it as a question, it was clear what answer he expected.

“Like an expert,” Roger said. He glanced into Emerald’s face as she looked at him hatefully. She looked grossed out by the thought of sucking balls. He licked Slickback’s shaft, following a vein down to the root.

Slickback lifted his nutsack up, moving it out of the way so he could make eye contact with Roger. Roger opened his mouth wide and stretched his tongue, just barely tickling the bottom of Slickback’s scrotum.

Then Slickback dropped his balls, which landed with a splash in Roger’s mouth. He loved the sweaty, musty flavor of balls, and he made a hungry sound as he sucked all the moisture off.

“Oh shit,” Slickback said. “You wasn’t kiddin’ about being an expert. You like a fuckin’ juggler and shit.” He sounded genuinely surprised, enough so that he didn’t light the cigar he put between his lips. He held a lighter in his hand, then dropped it and groaned. His balls tasted hot and salty in Roger’s mouth.

Roger gargled, making as much noise as he could, and he generated so much drool it dripped out and down his cheeks. His tongue stretched up the back of Slickback’s scrotum, tickling the tip of the man’s hairy taint.

“See? Bitch… You best believe it’s possible to suck balls good,” Slickback said. He pushed her head closer. “Study that shit. Motherfuckers who’s already paying for a blowjob gonna pay ten bucks for this too, I promise. You might have to give it to ‘em for free one time,” he said. “But ask me first if that’s okay.”

“Balls are so gross…” she said. She sounded disgusted now, as though she could taste them already.

“I don’t give a fuck. You’re gross, slut, but I still manage to sell yo’ ass,” Slickback said. Then he picked his ballsac up and dropped it on Roger’s nose. “Take a deep breath, queer. You like how that smells?”

Roger inhaled deeply. “Oh god yes, you smell so good!”

The girl moaned in disgust, but she stopped when Slickback glared at her. Slickback chuckled, pulled his balls out and put the tip of his cock right on Roger’s tongue.

“Please cum in my mouth,” Roger said, around the cock in his mouth — he managed to say it clearly enough that Slickback understood.

He nodded, sneered and drilled his dick down deep. When Roger gagged, he grunted approvingly but didn’t slow down. His hips thrust back and forth, pushing his sweaty cockshaft over Roger’s savoring tongue.

His rhythm was faster, stronger, more inexorable. He stopped paying attention to Emerald, stopped telling her to pay close attention, and his balls crawled up in his sac. She looked away and lifted her nose. Roger could feel Slickback’s moist balls resting on his chin.

“Okay, faggot, I’m gonna shoot my load. Don’t spit, don’t swallow. You show me a mouthful of cum,” Slickback said softly.

Roger said okay through the cock in his throat. All that came out was a choked cry, but Slickback seemed to understand what he was saying.

Semen flew from his cock. It coated Roger’s throat, and he gagged violently. Slickback didn’t care, he kept his cock right there in Roger’s throat, pulsating so thickly it was visible through Roger’s neck.

He shot most of his cum right into Roger’s stomach, so Roger would have had an empty mouth except that he was gagging the entire time. So he ended up spitting a mouthful up as Slickback’s cock plopped out, and holding the puddle of cum between his lips.

Slickback took Roger by the lips. He examined the mouthful of cum closely. He hesitated.

“You ain’t strugglin’ huh? You see that, bitch? Not everyone is grossed out by it.”

“He’s a fucking faggot!” she said. “I can’t do that!”

“You can!” Slickback glared at her. He stuck one of his fingers in the cumload in Roger’s mouth, pushing it all the way in until Roger gagged again. “Alright, faggot, I was gonna tell you to spit that into her mouth, let her practice on it. But I can tell you wanna swallow, huh?”

Roger nodded, careful not to spill any of the cum as he did.

“Okay. First, gargle.”

Roger gargled. That reawakened his gagging reflex, and he almost spilled it but managed to keep it. Emerald looked at him with a mixture of respect, hatred and disgust.

“Say I love Slickback’s load.”

Roger said it, though the only sound that came out was a confused gargling sound.

“Okay, now you can swallow,” he said.

Roger swallowed. The hot load slid all the way to his stomach, and sat there, thick and heavy. Roger smacked his lips, and showed Slickback his open mouth.

“Okay, now give my asshole a kiss. Not a rimjob, just a kiss to show you what kind of trash you is,” Slickback said. He turned around and pulled his pants down to reveal a wide, smooth ass. He spread his asscheeks, showing off his funky asshole.

Roger dived in and kissed it. He even poked his tongue through the hole, savoring that funky flavor. Slickback yelped. He stood up, turned around and pulled his pants back up. He lightly slapped Roger.

“That’s for stickin’ yo tongue in when I ain’t tell you to,” he said. “But I’m glad you did it. She always fucking complains.”

It sounded like Emerald was near tears. “No other papi makes his bitches do that! And he’s a faggot, you can’t compare me to what he does!”

“Yes, I can, bitch,” Slickback said. He sauntered towards the door. “Now tell the faggot thank you for showing you how to do your job.”

“Thank you, faggot, for showing me how to do my job,” Emerald said. Her voice was bitter and hateful.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” Roger said. “Keep practicin’. I’m sure you’ll get the hang of of it soon.”

Straight Trade at the City Barbershop

Here’s the first chapter of Straight Trade at the City Barbershop, a hot new story by Calvin Freeman! It’s the sequel to City Barbershop Downlow, but it’s a standalone story, no need to have read that one. It’s about the City Barbershop, a company with a special tradition — what happens between men there stays between men there!

This story is now available for a great low price as part of the bundle Gay Ebony Erotica, Vol. 1, which has three novelettes, three shorts and bonus content


Quincy had worked for the City Barbershop of Brooklyn for more than five years, so it wasn’t easy to leave. On the other hand, he had been considering moving on for some time. It was a comfortable position. Quincy was a good barber. The perks were exciting.

But it had become boring to Quincy regardless. So when his brother was arrested for a murder he didn’t commit, Quincy decided to move to Baltimore to be near him. He had enough saved to rent an apartment, which he could even share with his brother, who was out on bail in the run-up to the trial.

Even more importantly, he got a job before he arrived in Baltimore. He was hired by the local City Barbershop franchise, which gladly accepted his transfer from the establishment in Brooklyn. Quincy was happy to be in a new city while having the security of the same job he had had back in Brooklyn.

The aspect of this job that he liked best — aside from the flexible schedule so he could support his brother — was the sex. The City Barbershop was a notorious chain of black-owned barbershops with a peculiar reputation as a place for sex on the downlow. Black men who needed a little action on the side went there, and barbers like Quincy serviced them. Quincy loved swinging on straight black meat, so it was an ideal situation for him.

When he showed up on his first morning, he met Reggie, the man who had hired him over the phone. He owned the City Barbershop of Baltimore. He was a tall, lean-muscled man in his early forties, with a square jaw and old-fashioned jheri-curl hair.

“Sup, smoothness,” Reggie said with a low roar, bopping on his feet as he danced to unheard music in the empty barbershop. No one else was here yet. He wore a fine purple suit, like a pimp, and when he shook Quincy’s hand, he used both of his hands, then leaned in and hugged him expansively. “You must be Quincy, yeah? Paul told me all about ya.”

“Oh, yeah, nice to meet you,” Quincy said. He upped his flamboyance as far as it would go, both to be sure Reggie realized it and because he thought Reggie was sexy. He was a throwback to the 1980s, but he was a sexy throwback.

Reggie ran his fingers through his hair. He smiled and dipped and dapped as he showed Quincy to the chair he’d be using. Quincy had a bag with some of his own equipment, which he set up while Reggie told him about the store’s policies. This place operated much the same as Quincy’s old one, so he felt sure he’d be comfortable here.

“Now… I need to be headin’ upstairs in a few minutes,” Reggie said. “I gots a staff meeting coming up real soon. I gotta be ready for that.”

“Oh? A staff meeting? I’ll meet-”

“Nah, not a barbershop staff meeting,” Reggie said. His voice lost its ebullience, and he lowered his eyes. “I got other business interests.” From his knowing tone, Quincy gathered that his other business was illegal, presumably some sort of drug dealing. That was another aspect of most City Barbershops, one that Quincy would have gladly done without.

“Oh,” Quincy said. “Okay. I guess I’ll wait down here. It’s almost nine o’clock anyway.”

Reggie paused. He bit his lip and smiled awkwardly. He resumed shifting his feet in tune to a beat only he heard. Quincy could tell what he was going to say before he opened his mouth, but he let him continue. Quincy liked watching nervous straight men proposition him. Reggie’s jheri-curl shook as he stumbled over his words.

“I was, uh… Paul told me that you was… uh… y’know, a real good nigga, a model employee,” he said. “He… said you provide a high level of service.”

“That’s right,” Quincy said. He smiled bashfully. “I always treat customers with the utmost respect.” He made sure to end with a kissy face, which appeared to make Reggie horny. He swayed his hips too, shaking his ass for Reggie’s benefit.

Reggie clutched at his crotch through his black slacks. His thick dick was momentarily outlined. Quincy licked his lips but didn’t do anything explicit — he wanted to make Reggie work for it.

“So, uh… you… wanna come in the backroom wit’ me?”

“What’s back there?” Quincy asked. He put one hand on his hips and jutted out his ass.

Reggie murmured through gritted teeth. “Something you gonna enjoy, boy. You gonna enjoy it real nice.” Then he moved closer, so close he almost kissed Quincy. “I’m-a fuck you Quincy. I’m-a fuck you in any way you want it.”

“Any way I want it?”

“Any way, nigga. You got a ass I need, and you got nice dick-suckin’ lips. I fuck you in whichever hole you want. You want me in both? I’ll grow a second dick for ya, boy, right here and now.”

Quincy blushed. “Well, I’d like to see that. But why don’t we start with just one hole at a time?” he said. He held out his hand, which Reggie took gallantly. He kissed the back of Quincy’s hand like he was seducing him, then led him into the backroom.

The backroom was a lot like the one in Brooklyn, Quincy thought. He giggled at the sight of a stack of porn mags in one corner of the closet. Reggie sneered and pushed them away.

“Some of dem niggas can’t do it wit’out some trim to look at,” Reggie thought. He unzipped his fly and pulled out a massive cock and low-handing pair of balls. “Back in my day, that weren’t the way it was. A nigga wasn’t never ashamed of getting hard. Now they gotta pretend they don’t really like getting head from a nigga.” He leaned in and kissed Quincy on the lips. It was a quick, chaste kiss, but it sent a thrill of desire up Quincy’s spine.

Then Quincy sunk to his knees. “No one can pretend they don’t like my head,” Quincy said. That made Reggie chuckle, until his voice broke and he gasped as his dick disappeared down Quincy’s throat.

Since he wanted to make a good first impression, Quincy moved slow and deep. He produced copious spit and let it drip all over Reggie’s pants. He lovingly traced the veins that lined Reggie’s dick.

“Hey, I gotta make a phone call,” Reggie said with a grin that vanished as he dialed. He had an old-fashioned fliphone. His smile was replaced by an angry scowl. “Yo, nigga. Is you suckin’ my dick right now? Huh? I say, is you suckin’ my dick right now? Oh? Cuz I know I tol’ you to come in here at eight forty-five from now on, and the only person here besides me is that new nigga. He got a pretty face and he suckin’ my dick right now. Is that you? No? That’s funny, Opie. I could’ve sworn I nearly fired you and you promised you’d never be late again. You swore you’d be here early from now on. Did that happen? It did, huh? I dunno, Opie. Maybe. I have to think about it. If you don’t get here by nine, I am gonna make you suck my dick and I will fire you. I ain’t even gonna want a blowjob cuz I’m getting an expert one now, but I will shove my limp dick down your throat, boy.” Then there was a long pause. Reggie sighed into the phone, and Opie laughed loudly on the other end. “Yeah, he queer. You think I’m just rapin’ the new guy or some shit? I’m saving my rape for you, nigga. I’m savin’ up a big nice barrel full of rape for yo’ late ass. Yeah, I better see you then.” He hung up and shook his head. “I oughta prison-rape the joy outta that nigga’s life.”

There was some movement out in the main barbershop now. It sounded like a few people had arrived and were getting ready. Presumably Opie was not among them. Conversation murmured though Quincy didn’t hear any of the words.

He focused instead on the silken texture and sweet flavor of Reggie’s massive meat. He smiled as he deep-throated it, and Reggie crooned. This was nice, Quincy had to admit, Reggie was right that a lot of niggas at the City Barbershop had to prove how straight they were by being mean when Quincy serviced them. Quincy did enjoy that — he had always had a wild hair for humiliation and throatfucking. But it was nice to be treated like a joyous present once in a while as well.

Then conversation out in the barbershop died suddenly. Something had happened, Quincy thought, something that sent a chill in the air.

The door to the backroom opened, and someone walked in. From his vantage point inside the back closet, Quincy couldn’t see who it was.

The newcomer hesitated. Reggie let out a low moan, which made the person in the backroom chuckle nervously.

“Whatchoo doin’ back there, Reggie? You fuckin’ another fat bitch?” The door swung open, and that deep, gruff, young man’s voice burst into nervous laughter. “Oh, damn, nigga. You doin’ that, huh?”

“Yeah… Lil Blue, this is Quincy. Quincy, this is Lil Blue. He works for me. He ain’t a barber. He got… other duties. He here for that staff meeting I was tellin’ you about.”

Quincy turned around to say hi, but he hesitated when he saw how ungodly handsome Lil Blue was. He must have gotten the name from his sapphire-colored eyes, which contrasted with his high-yellow skin. He had a nervous, deep-dimpled grin as he watched Reggie luxuriously hump Quincy’s mouth. “Nice to meetcha, Lil Blue.”

Lil Blue just nodded gruffly. He didn’t seem to much like gay people.

“Nah,” Reggie said. “You say hello like a nice nigga, Lil Blue.”

Lil Blue sighed as though he had argued about this with Reggie before. He rolled his eyes. “Nice to meet you too, Quincy. I don’t fuck around on the downlow, just so you know. I got bitches. Females. Female bitches.”

The door opened then, just as Quincy returned to Reggie’s dick. Two more young black men came in, talking about some argument that had occurred recently. They were Terrence and Pumper, and they laughed like Lil Blue had when they saw what as going on. “Damn, Reggie, that shit’s nasty. Can’t you be ashamed of it like a normal nigga?”

“Yeah, hide that shit… Ain’t supposed to let no one know you fuck around in the City Barbershop. That’s a rule and shit. You gotta at least shut the door.”

“Shut the the fuck up,” Reggie said absent-mindedly. He focused on grinding his moist dick deep down Quincy’s throat.

Lil Blue, Terrence and Pumper moved to go upstairs, but Reggie stopped them. “All three of you niggas is too squeamish,” he said. “You wait right here and watch.”

“Man, nigga-“

“Fuck that!”

“No way!”

But despite their words, none of them moved to disobey Reggie. They averted their eyes and shifted their weight on their feet as Quincy sucked. Reggie moaned and grunted. He was putting on a show, Quincy thought, making the others as uncomfortable as possible.

His dick pulsated against Quincy’s tongue, and just like Reggie made this as exaggerated and extreme as he could manage, so did Quincy guzzle and sputter like a champion. Spit dribbled past his lips and down Reggie’s shaft, while the younger straight bucks watching tittered nervously.

“Ugh, I can smell yo’ old nigga-nut, Reggie,” Pumper said with a frown. The others laughed along with him.

Reggie mumbled something that was maybe an insult or maybe a threat, or maybe a little of both. He didn’t really articulate any words though, just a general sound that communicated his disdain for Pumper. Quincy didn’t listen anyway; he focused on slathering spit moistly all along Reggie’s dick, and sucking up every drop of precum that hit his lips.

Since Reggie was such an animated fucker, it was apparent that his orgasm was imminent for a minute or two before it arrived. He tweaked his own nipples and grunted, his old-fashioned jive disappearing momentarily as he was overcome by pleasure. His knees buckled and he bit his lip.

Cum flowed down Quincy’s throat. That familiar sour-sweet flavor overwhelmed his senses, and Quincy grunted as he swallowed it all. It tasted of masculine musk and sweat, which made Quincy so aroused he would have kept sucking forever, but Reggie removed his dick. He wiped the spit off on Quincy’s face.

“Damn, nigga, that was a hell of a blowjob… You is gonna be a valuable part of this organization,” Reggie said so forcefully it made his audience laugh. He tucked his dick away in his pants.

When Reggie was done, Quincy turned around and blushed — someone knew had entered. Another older man, around Reggie’s age, but without the 1980s-look. This was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a shit and tie, a bristly mustache and a serious, no-nonsense look on his face. He looked like a businessman, but Quincy got the feeling he was a gangsta just like Lil Blue and the rest — he was simply the respectable face of the business.

“Quincy, that there is Winslow,” Reggie said. “He’s my business partner.”

Winslow nodded at Quincy, who wiped the cum off his lips. He blushed; Winslow was very hot, and he checked out Quincy’s ass, so Quincy knew he was achievable. Reggie wiped his dick off and stuffed it back in his pants. He sighed, rubbing Quincy’s cheek, then looked to Winslow and the others.

“You ready fo’ this meeting?” Winslow asked like he was annoyed he had to wait. Reggie nodded, and they all went up the stairs that connected to the corner of the backroom. Quincy wiped his face off, pounded himself off real quick, and then headed back to the front to meet his new coworkers. He was already greatly enjoying his new job.

Black Men Can Be Cuckolds Too

Here’s a sample from Black Men Can Be Cuckolds Too, a new story of black woman/Asian man erotica!

When Mr. Oshimitsu came in to her classroom, Marlene didn’t know who he was. She didn’t even have a guess. She had met Lee’s mother (or, as it turned out, Lee’s aunt, though Marlene didn’t find that out until much later) at the first parent-teacher conference. Most of the parents she interacted with were women. Men played a bigger role in their kids’ lives the older the kids got, but Marlene taught second grade, so it was all about the mothers.

There were a few reasons Marlene couldn’t even guess which kid was Mr. Oshimitsu’s until he said his name. Most importantly, she was flustered by how unbelievably sexy he was. He also had a certain authoritarian, intimidating vibe, and he didn’t look much like Lee — though in retrospect it should have been obvious, because Lee was her only Japanese student.

Marlene was a proud black woman who, back in college, had been part of a militant group that shamed black men for dating outside their race. That wasn’t because she particularly disliked interracial dating per se, she just hated that black women like herself were ignored and marginalized by, it seemed, everyone. Every time she saw a good black man with some petite blond thing, Marlene had felt a surge of fury.

But she settled down after college. She met Lyle, who was an Afrocentric political activist though not as extreme as her; he was kind and knowledgeable, and he had a stable job as a college professor. He was the perfect man for her.

Things had gone downhill though. Marlene had trouble admitting it, but she wasn’t exactly compatible with Lyle anymore. He had only grown more boring with time, and while Marlene had settled down a bit, she still wanted adventure. She wasn’t interested in protesting endlessly like she used to (though she was still politically active); she wanted some excitement; she wanted to go places and see new things. Lyle just wanted to stay home and read books about World War 2. What had seemed intellectual and charming when they were dating was stultifying now that they had been married for twelve years.

But Marlene didn’t want her family to be yet another broken black home. She had two teenage sons who were on the right path, but a sudden stress from a divorce might be enough to send them over the edge. Though she refused to think about it too much yet, she had already decided to divorce Lyle as soon as her kids were both moved out and settled into their own lives.

“I must ask you, ma’am,” he said, “about this grade.” He showed Marlene a test that Lee had flunked. He got an F, which surprised Marlene — Lee was an excellent student, but he had gotten nearly every answer wrong on the last half of the test. Mr. Oshimitsu flared his nostrils. “Lee does not fail tests.”

“Everybody makes mistakes… Mr. Oshimitsu,” she said, glad to have remembered Lee’s last name in time.

He nodded. “Certainly. But I do not understand your grading. Please explain.”

Marlene took the test from him to look at it more closely. She sat down at her desk, and Mr. Oshimitsu came closer. He smelled of cologne, but with a distinct, pine-like scent — not like a car air freshener, this was an odd aroma like nothing she had ever smelled before. It reminded her of fresh, mossy forests.

He was muscular, and sinewy. Not tall, but he brimmed with power. He was more than a little disconcerting, she thought, and though he walked stiffly and properly, she felt intimidated. She felt like she did when she walked through a bad neighborhood and saw sexy macho thugs — she never liked that kind of man, but she did often find them sexy. Mr. Oshimitsu came across like a mobster, she thought, just a strange non-Italian one. She half-expected him to start singing opera and offer her a bowl of spaghetti.

Forcing herself to focus on the test, Marlene looked over the answers. She wrinkled her brow. Mr. Oshimitsu was right, she realized slowly — she had made a mistake in grading. It looked like about halfway through, she just marked everything as an error.

Of course! That was it, she thought, she had been distracted when Lyle came home. His plump body turned her off, then he had loudly used the toilet. She was so disgusted and reminded of everything about Lyle she no longer liked (she knew he was in there reading) that she couldn’t think about anything else. She had taken a break, then gotten back to grading.

She must have picked up the wrong answer key. Normally seeing any student get every single question wrong would have been alarming — especially a good student like Lee — but she had been so distracted it hadn’t occurred to her that she made a mistake.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Oshimitsu,” she said. “Thank you for bringing this my attention. I believe I started using the wrong answer key here, around question twelve.”

“You failed?”

“Uh… well… Yes, I suppose that’s one way of putting it. Let me get the correct answer key,” she said, shuffling through her papers until she found what she was looking for.

“You graded my boy wrong?”

“Yes, Mr. Oshimitsu, it was my mistake-“

“Because he is Japanese?”

“What? Oh no-“

He say you are nicer to black boys,” Mr. Oshimitsu said, “And girls in general. He ask if he can be black girl so he get called on in class more.”

“What?!” Marlene was shocked, both by the accusation and Mr. Oshimitsu’s sudden anger. He looked as though he didn’t often show emotion, but now it brimmed beneath the surface. She had never thought she discriminated, but Lee’s claim that black girls got called on in class seemed awfully specific for an incorrect accusation. Did she treat black girls differently?

“You give better grades to black girls for worse work,” he said. He crossed his arms over his chest. He wore a tight, tailored suit, so the motion had the effect of accentuating his powerful chest. Marlene was flustered by his red-faced accusations and his accent, which had grown thicker now that he was worked up.

“I do not!” Marlene said. “Absolutely not! I don’t even look at the child’s name when grading.” That was true, though she didn’t mention that she could recognize her students by their handwriting.

“You do not help them by lowering standards. You should hold them to-“

“I do not lower my standards, Mr. Oshimitsu,” she said.

“You did not want your best student to be Asian!”

“That is a lie!” Marlene shouted. “If I did, I wouldn’t have used the wrong answer key, Mr. Oshimitsu, it guaranteed you were going to point it out! And even with this test, Lee still has the best grade in the class!”

“You will fix grade!”

“Yes, I’ll fix it!” she said. “I apologize for my mistake! But I had no idea this was Lee’s test when I graded it! If I doesn’t seem like I call on Lee in class, it’s because he raises his hand for every question. I have to ask the students who are less confident-“

“Lee is good boy! He will go to college, not like most of the trash of your class!”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it mean,” he said. But he bit his lip as though he didn’t want to elaborate. Marlene did know exactly what he meant — his intent was offensive, since he was clearly implying her largely black students were incapable of doing the work and getting into college, but at the same time, Marlene couldn’t deny that his claim had a certain element of truth to it. Her black students were not, by and large, going to go to college, even with affirmative action helping them; Lee clearly would, even with affirmative action working against his interests. And Marlene could hardly defend herself appropriately given the blatant mistake she had made.

A long awkward silence fell between them. Marlene fingered the answer key on her desk. She was torn between starting an argument, telling Mr. Oshimitsu to get out and just ignoring him as she corrected Lee’s test.

In the end, Mr. Oshimitsu made the decision. He leaned in and kissed her. Marlene saw it coming only a second or two before it happened.

Even while her mind told her to get away from him — you’re  a married woman, Marlene, what are you doing?! — her body kissed him back. His lips were soft and supple, his skin tight and smooth, in stark contrast to Lyle’s flabby listlessness.

Mr. Oshimitsu’s fingers delicately ran up her body, from her waist to her shoulders, and caressed her skin. His fingers were not rough or callused, but also didn’t have the milky smoothness of Lyle’s lazy body. Mr. Oshimitsu felt like a man who had worked hard all his life, Marlene thought, it was a stark contrast from Lyle.

When he took off his suit, Marlene was overwhelmed — he had an amazing body, lithe, tight, like he had more muscles than his body could contain. Colorful tattoos danced over his chest; there was a tiger in a snow-dappled forest, a mossy stone over his heart, a rippling Japanese flag over kanji above his belly button.

It was all happening so fast, Marlene never made the decision to have sex with Mr. Oshimitsu. Even in her younger, wilder days, Marlene never had sex so wantonly. She had never slept with someone she had known for less than a month, and even that had felt irresponsibly quick.

His pants came off, and Marlene lifted her skirt. Her heart thumped as someone walked past her classroom; she worried that whoever it was was going to come in. The door wasn’t lockable, and it wasn’t even shut all the way, resting just slightly ajar. Though a part of Marlene’s mind told her to go shut it, she didn’t want to pull away from Mr. Oshimitsu’s gentle touch.

She caressed his bare back as he revealed his cock. For the first time since this had started, Marlene realized she was sleeping with a non-black man — she was reminded of it because his huge cock reminded her of the small-dicked Asian stereotype. She was glad to see that Mr. Oshimitsu proved that it was a lie, and though Marlene had never really cared about penis size, she was also glad to be with a man who was bigger than Lyle.

Just as Mr. Oshimitsu’s cock pushed into her womanhood, and Marlene squirmed around his touch, the door to her classroom opened. Lyle’s plump body waddled in, as he rubbed the smudges off his glasses.

“Hey, sweetie, did you want-?” Lyle screamed like a girl, which made Marlene giggle. Even Mr. Oshimitsu seemed put-off by Lyle’s loudness.

“Shut the door,” Marlene said with a grunt. Lyle did as he was told.

“Baby, what are you doing?”

“I’m getting fucked,” Marlene said. She sneered at Lyle. She had no intention of being so mean to him, but her oncoming orgasm was so intense she couldn’t help it.

Mr. Oshimitsu drilled her inexorably, his thick cock pulsating deep inside her. His muscles writhed above her body, and Marlene ran her fingers through his short, carefully coiffed hair.

“But… What are you doing?” Lyle asked again, as though he had no idea what sex was.

Mr. Oshimitsu shot him a stern glance. “We are fornicating,” he said simply. “Your coworker is-“

“Not my coworker! That’s my wife, you bastard, get off her!” Lyle approached as though he wanted to be threatening, but he was such a wimp that Marlene laughed.

Mr. Oshimitsu didn’t stop fucking even as he lifted his chest off Marlene, crossed his arms and frowned at Lyle. His gyrations were long and slow, like he was demonstrating to Lyle how it was supposed to be done.

Lyle moaned. He burst into tears and fell to his knees. “Baby, what are you doing?”

“Oh my god, stop asking me that, Lyle! I’ve found a real man,” Marlene said.

Lyle crept closer and closer. Then Mr. Oshimitsu reached for his head and put him in a bear hug. He didn’t slow down his fucking though, he continued those long, languorous strokes, each one of which built inch by inch into a little mini-orgasm exploding in Marlene’s body.

“Your wife has chosen me,” Mr. Oshimitsu said. He laughed as he pulled his dick all the way out of her pussy — Marlene felt momentarily empty and cold, and the sensation awakened her imminent climax — so Lyle could see how big and wet it was. “Only I can satisfy her. She needs Japanese cock. She wants Clan Kyuu,” he said. “All women do, some just don’t know it yet.”

Marlene knew what Clan Kyuu was; they had been in the paper recently. It was a yakuza family, which ran most of the crime in this area. There had been a big bust a few months ago, but almost all the charges had been dropped. Marlene wondered if Mr. Oshimitsu was among them.

The thrill of danger sparkled through Marlene’s body as Mr. Oshimitsu’s tattoos took on added significance in her mind. She wondered if each tattoo meant something different in his clan. She would have asked if she weren’t overcome by passion and if Lyle’s loud blubbering hadn’t drowned out any other sound in the classroom.

“Please, stop, baby,” Lyle muttered through his tears. It sounded like he knew very well that wasn’t going to happen, he was just begging because he didn’t know what else to do. His plump belly jiggled.

Mr. Oshimitsu sneered at him as they both reached orgasm. “I’m filling your wife up with my seed now, you weakling,” he said, just before the first burst of hot cum hit her insides. “You probably love watching this, don’t you?”

Marlene orgasmed at the same time, clawing at Mr. Oshimitsu’s yakuza tats as her body was overcome by intense pleasure. She moaned and Mr. Oshimitsu’s muscles rippled. He made sure Lyle saw his cock pulsate as it filled Marlene up.

Then it was all over. Marlene shivered with the aftershocks of her orgasm, and giggled at Lyle’s reaction. When Mr. Oshimitsu let go of Lyle’s head, he scurried away. He held back sobs and ran out of the classroom.

Mr. Oshimitsu pulled out. He smiled at Marlene, then pulled his pants back up. He cleared his throat. “I apologize, ma’am,” he said. “This was inappropriate. I was overcome by your beauty.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I needed that.

He carefully put his suit back on, and even checked that his tie was straight before looking at her again. He frowned. “I trust you will solve your grading problems? I insist on Lee being treated fairly.”

“Of course…”

The Yakuza, the Cuckolder and the Sexiest Thug

This is a sample chapter from the new erom novelette, The Yakuza, the Cuckolder and the Sexiest Thug — it’s an erotic tale of scandalous black woman and Asian men romance!

Sharlene walked to the house next door, trying to look happy. She was actually in a bad mood, but she didn’t want to look like some sour-faced skank to the new Asian couple who had moved in next door. They had seemed nice enough at first — or at least, the wife, Aiko, did. The husband was Kichiro, a dour, silent-lipped man with a lanky body and colorful neck tattoos that Sharlene could only barely see poking out from under the tailored suit he had worn.

“Hi, it’s so good to see you again,” Sharlene said. Kichiro had answered the door; he looked confused. She held up the plate of brownies she had made. “I did a little baking. I hope you and your wife like chocolate.” She paused, hesitated forward just a bit, waiting for him to let her in.

He didn’t respond right away. His mind whirred as he tried to decide what to do. That cinched it for Sharlene — she had grown suspicious of him when they first met as well, and his anxious reaction to her arrival proved that he was up to no good. The day before, when Kichiro and Aiko came over to introduce themselves, Kichiro had gone from dour and unfriendly-by-nature to nervous and hostile when Sharlene had said she was a cop.

“These are walnut brownies. You’re not allergic to nuts, are you?”

“No. Not allergic,” he said, awkwardly taking the plate of brownies from her.

Sharlene didn’t like to think of herself as a racial profiler, but she couldn’t deny that her reluctance to think of Kichiro as a criminal had something to do with his race. It was simply hard for her to see this nice suited Asian man as a lawbreaker instead of a math professor or accountant. Sharlene was black herself; she knew very well how destructive race-based policing was.

But at the same time, if she met a young black man with sagging pants and he had acted nervous and hostile when he found out she was a cop, Sharlene would have already started looking for a way to get a search warrant. That made her feel bad, and was half the reason she had even come here today to talk to him. She wanted to feel like she was just as suspicious towards Kichiro as she would have been towards a hypothetical Malik.

“Come in,” he said finally, though he sounded like he wasn’t thrilled about it. “Thank you for the…” He peered at the brownies as though he wasn’t sure they were actual food, “…brownies.”

“They’re made with real fudge,” she said.

He nodded like he didn’t know what that meant, but didn’t want an explanation either. He stood there, straight and tall (unusually so for a Japanese man). For the first time, Sharlene realized how sexy he was. He had been so unfriendly — and she was so unused to thinking of Asian men as attractive — that she didn’t consider him sexually until now. She blushed and looked down at her feet.

“They look delicious,” he said. “Thank you for bringing them over. As you know, my job keeps me busy-“

“Yes, you must tell me more,” Sharlene said. She sat on the couch, ready to begin a conversation. “Your career sounds fascinating.” It was apparent that Kichiro didn’t want her here. But Sharlene had a lot of experience talking with people who didn’t want to talk to her, so it didn’t make her nervous.

As he spoke in stilted words about his job, working for an import/export firm, Sharlene considered her suspicions. They weren’t enough for her to get a warrant, that was for sure, but it was also for sure that he was made uncomfortable by the police, and not just in a general afraid-of-authority way. He had something to hide. He was upset to learn he had moved next-door to a police officer. He would never have bought this house if he knew.

Sharlene knew that body language very well. Her husband, Terrence, had been a drug dealer for the last two years. He very carefully kept it from Sharlene, but she had seen all the signs. Even more than that, Terrence knew she had seen all the signs. Neither one had acknowledged this, because despite this constant source of conflict, they still loved each other. Or at least, that was what Sharlene told herself.

“And so you import things from Japan? Is that right?”

“Yes. And sometimes other countries, but I only know Japanese, so I do not generally deal with anywhere else,” he said. He frowned at her. “I thank you for coming by-“

“There must be a lot of paperwork with that,” she said. “Customs duties, that kind of thing.”

“Yes. That is a lot of my job.”

“Hm-hmm,” Sharlene said. His terse words made her more and more suspicious, but she was finding it difficult to keep the conversation going because Kichiro’s lean, ropy-muscled body had begun to turn her on. She had trouble making eye contact with him without blushing. She cleared her throat. “So you pay a lot in duties?”

“Why are you so interested in that?”

She shrugged. He was annoyed now, and not bothering to hide it.

“Let me be frank, ma’am. You are investigating me right now, yes? You think I do not pay taxes?”


“You wound me, Officer Washington,” he said.

“Please, call me Sharlene.”

He shook his head and flared his nostrils. He bristled as though controlling his anger. “You have approached me in a professional capacity. I shall call you by your professional name, as I ask you do the same.”

“Okay, Mr. Onaminu,” Sharlene said. “I’m sorry. You are suspicious. You act like a criminal. You are unfriendly and-“

“Americans are informal, and overly casual and lacking in grace and manners and sophistication and-!” He stopped himself and took a deep breath. “In my country, respectable men are not treated in this way. Police do not come barging in to ask questions without-“

“I didn’t barge in!” Sharlene said. Her blood boiled and her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. She jumped to her feet. As a policewoman in a rough neighborhood of Baltimore, she knew she needed to establish her dominance right away. She couldn’t let him push her around even for a moment. She stood straight before him, glaring into his dark eyes. “I just brought some brownies over and wanted to talk.”

“Well, here we are, talking,” he said. “You got what you wanted.” He paused. “Yes, I pay all the taxes I am required to, not that you are a customs agent. If you have any further questions, I beseech you to aim them at my lawyer or, if you prefer, directly up your ass.” He smiled. “Did I use that idiom correctly?”

“You did fine,” she said, giggling despite herself.

“Good. English is so difficult…” He pursed his lips. “You know your husband is… Uh, well it is not my place to say. He is making you look like a hypocrite.”

Her blood rose up in her chest. She wanted to vomit — this was not a development that she had foreseen: it was apparent that Kichiro knew of her husband’s criminality. It made her look like an idiot, or worse, like a corrupt idiot. She never would have thought that Terrence and his thugging friends had dealings with Japanese thugs.

“My husband has assured me he is not a criminal,” Sharlene said. “If you have reason to think that’s not right, I urge you to tell me about it. Or if you don’t trust me, tell the other police. I’m not defending him. I’m not going to pull any levers for him. That’s an idiom too, it means-”

“I know what it means.” He said flatly. He stood still, ponderous and overexcited, but suppressing it with typical Japanese placidity. “You are saying you are not corrupt. You do not know of your husband’s illegal activities. That is good. Wives should not know what their husbands do.”

“That’s sexist.”

“Yes,” he said.

“You don’t think married women should have jobs?”

“Correct. They should be supported by their husbands. Your husband is a thug who is supported by his wife. That is shameful,” Kichiro said. Then he shrugged. “But that is your business. My business with Terrence… does not require me to approve of his living arrangements.”

“It’s not a living arrangement, it’s a marriage.”

“I apologize. It does not look like a marriage to this outsider, but I’m sure I am just foreign to your ways. I… have never been friendly with African-Americans,” he said. He bowed slightly. “I’m sure your marriage is normal in your community.”

It didn’t look like Kichiro believed his own words, and Sharlene couldn’t even pretend to think he was wrong — her marriage was not normal; it was bad; it had been bad for a long time, and she could no longer deny it. He nodded and bit his lip. She put her hands on her hips as an awkward silence filled the air. It grew more and more intense, until she couldn’t handle it anymore.

She was just about to scream when Kichiro leaned in and kissed her. It happened so fast that she didn’t even think about responding until after she had thrown her arms around his shoulders, shoved her tongue down his throat and felt a surge of melty warmth running through her body.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I should not be so forward. You are more stunning than any-“

“Just kiss me again!” Sharlene said. She didn’t wait for him, she planted her lips on his. Sharlene had never in her life had sex with a man she didn’t know extremely well. When she was single, she didn’t even agree to go out on dates with guys unless she already knew them through work or a mutual friend.

But Kichiro was so different than any man she had ever been with that Sharlene wanted nothing more than to go through with this. Her husband’s lying face vanished from her mind, which was exactly where Sharlene wanted it to go.

Sharlene wrapped her arms around Kichiro’s shoulders, squeezing him closer as they both ripped each other’s clothes off. Kichiro was not as bulky as Terrence, and he seemed much smaller, but now that she caressed his body, Sharlene wasn’t sure he was any weaker. His muscles felt roughly the same size, she thought, but Terrence was padded with bigness and body hair, while Kichiro was all rigid bone and lean flesh. He looked like he had been lankier as a younger man, and had forced himself to grow more muscle than his frame could easily bear.

His cock pushed into her. Sharlene was shocked by its size — not huge, by any means, but not stereotypically Asian either. He was just thick enough that she could feel a twinge of pain as he squeezed inside.

But the pain vanished immediately, as Sharlene’s clit came alive from the friction of his cock pushing past it. She shuddered and moaned.

“Goddamn, boy!” she cried out, and bit at his vibrantly-tattooed shoulder. She threw her head back as he kissed her neck, which tingled at his touch. The first twinges of pre-orgasmic pleasure spread up her body like cold on a winter’s day, suffusing into her flesh.

“No Japanese woman is like this,” he said breathlessly, his voice resonating in her ear. His soft skin puckered beneath her finger’s touch, then he spoke in Japanese. His plump asscheeks bumped into an endtable as he gyrated, and he nearly knocked over a kanji-lacquered lamp but caught it with lightning fast reflexes.

His hips flexed. The corded muscles of his back contorted beneath Sharlene’s fingertips. He breathed heavily in her ear, and he said something once again in Japanese. The normally harsh syllables of his native tongue sounded soft to her ears; Sharlene bucked and moaned around his body.

Then he stood up. Sharlene was not fat, but she wasn’t a small woman, and she would have never thought Kichiro could simply pick her up. But that was precisely what he did, in one smooth motion as though he picked up big beautiful black women every day. His cock didn’t slip out even an inch, and though he grunted and strained, he did not appear to have any difficulty getting on his feet.

Now that she mounted his upright body, Sharlene was impaled on his dick, which pulsated inside her. She gasped and panted — she hadn’t been fucked like this in many years, not since before Terrence finished his parole (which was when he went back to dealing again), and she wasn’t actually sure Terrence had ever dicked her this good. Maybe the very first time they did it, she thought, back when she still saw his thuggery as a turn-on.

Her climax overwhelmed her body, and Sharlene gripped him so tight she nearly knocked him over. He leaned against the wall, grimacing and grunting with every thrust of his cock deep inside her.

“Oh god, fuck me, Kichiro!”

At last their climax overwhelmed them both. Sharlene’s world went black, then all she saw was yellow, and she saw stars. His hot breath condensed on her face. Her muscles went limp as sheer pleasure pumped through her veins; her body spasmed; her toes curled.

Sharlene’s whole body shook as the orgasm wracked her body. Kichiro stiffened and his muscles went taut. Their limbs gripped each other, as though neither one would ever let go. Mind-melting bliss wrapped itself over Sharlene’s mind until she couldn’t even tell how much time passed.

And then it was over. She fell limp. Kichiro did too, just barely slow enough that he caught himself before he fell over. He gently lowered her to the ground, and then he collapsed beside her.

They lay there, still, silent, as awkwardness finally overcame them both. Sharlene felt a stab of guilt in her belly, even though she tried to remind herself that Terrence had broken his vows first. This was his fault, really.

She disentangled herself from Kichiro’s body, though she felt an instinctual ache to stay there, to wrap herself up in his corded muscles and lay there for all time. There was, she thought, entirely too much to do.

“I, uh, I’ve gotta… go,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “That is probably for the best.”

Home Invasion Downlow

Here’s a sample from Home Invasion Downlow, a new story of black thugs getting nasty!


After spending years living with roommates and then a long-term, serious boyfriend, Ricky was overjoyed at finally having a home of his own. He rented a house in inner-city Denver. It wasn’t the nicest neighborhood, but it wasn’t the worst either. And Ricky didn’t even really care about how nice the neighborhood was — he could take care of himself.

Or so he thought. One night, just a few weeks after moving in, his ability to defend his home was put to the test. Ricky woke up in the middle of the night to hear the sound of at least one man breaking in.

His heart nearly leapt out of his chest. Maybe I’m not cut out to live alone, he thought, as he realized this could be it; he could die. He grabbed the pepper spray he kept in his bedroom and hurried into the hallway.

There were two men there. Ricky stepped into the bathroom so they wouldn’t see him just yet. The closer one was young, handsome, a bit short and lanky, but with wiry muscles beneath his baggy clothes. He had tight cornrows and a smooth chin. The other, who was unplugging the television in the living room, was bigger and older; he was burly, bushy-bearded, with streaks of gray running through both his beard and his unkempt afro.

“Yo, Kyree, help me pack up this Playstation,” said the older one.

“Yeah, Dee, in a sec.”

Kyree — the younger, handsome one — glanced down the hall. He looked worried, in contrast to Dee’s confident glare. Kyree seemed uncertain of whether he had seen movement; Ricky hid deeper in the bathroom, looking around for anything else he could use as a weapon.

“Kyree! Nigga, come on!” Dee said. “He ain’t here, okay? Just help me get this shit!”

Kyree sighed. He turned around. Ricky wished he had his cell phone with him so he could call the police, but he had stupidly plugged it in using a kitchen outlet — he was all out of outlets in his bedroom.  Now it seemed so simple, he could have unplugged something he wasn’t going to use tonight; now he was cursing himself for not thinking through the possibilities.

They stacked up the television and the Playstation near the door, then Kyree opened the hall closet. He whistled in surprise, and Ricky blushed, knowing what he saw there.

“Thought you said it was just a single man living here,” Kyree said.


“He got a closet full of women’s clothes,” Kyree said.

That seemed to throw Dee for a loop. Ricky couldn’t see from his vantage point, but he thought Dee was looking in the closet too. That meant they were both facing away from the bathroom. This is your opportunity, he told himself.

“Tall woman too,” Dee said. “Probly an ex-wife or some shit. Go on and look in the bedroom-”

“Fuck you, assholes!” Ricky screamed — cursing himself for sounding so gay as he did it — and came into the living room, pepper spray in hand. He realized only when Dee and Kyree looked at him that he had never looked closely at this pepper spray. He didn’t know how to use it, or whether there was some kind of safety latch he needed to remove first. Sure enough, when he pressed the trigger, nothing happened. The can of pepper spray was unopened, and Dee lazily knocked it out of Ricky’s hand.

For a moment, all was silent. Dee and Kyree looked at Ricky as though they had never seen a white man before. Ricky was too scared to move.

Dee chuckled. “Oh, damn. It’s a faggot.”

“Don’t hurt me!”

“Tie ‘im up in his room,” Dee said. He turned around to look in the drawers of the desk in the living room. He picked up an old iPod as though considering stealing that, then decided it wasn’t worth it. He set it back down.

Kyree approached Ricky with the confident, cocky glare of a thug. Ricky, embarrassed at having been outmatched so easily, felt a surge of adrenaline — if he let these home invaders dictate what happened here, this would end up bad for sure. Ricky wasn’t a small man; he could take Kyree, he thought.

“Go’n, faggot,” Kyree said. Despite his confident demeanor, Ricky could tell he was wavering; he had never done anything this violent.

“No. Fuck you,” Ricky said. “Get outta my house.”

“Just take ‘im, Kyree!” Dee barked.

Kyree pushed Ricky towards the hallway, but Ricky had a few pounds on him. He stood flat-footed, and didn’t move an inch. He pushed Kyree back, and the smaller man nearly tripped over the couch.

Dee laughed. “What’s wrong wit’ you, boy?”

“He pushed me!” shouted the annoyed Kyree, who stomped towards Ricky yet again.

“Yeah, he do that!” Dee said. “We’s robbin’ him. He might push back. That happens, nigga.”

That momentary burst of success gave Ricky a spring in his step. This time when Kyree approached him, Ricky used his self-defense techniques — he nearly knocked Kyree over with a foot sweep, but instead put him in a bear hug. Kyree’s lithe muscles squirmed beneath Ricky’s touch as Ricky dragged him to the front door.

He literally tossed Kyree out into the front lawn, as Dee laughed behind him. When Ricky turned around, Dee was screaming peals of laughter, clapping his hands on his meaty thighs.

“You got that, faggot, you got that!”

Ricky blushed. He hadn’t meant to impress Dee. Now that Kyree was gone, Ricky just needed to get rid of Dee, or make it into the kitchen to call the police.

But then Kyree walked right back in behind Ricky. He once again tried to push Ricky, who easily tossed him out the front door yet again.

This time, he was distracted long enough for Dee — who still laughed as though he had never seen anything so funny — to grab Ricky from behind. He wrapped both muscular arms around Ricky and hissed.

“This is how you do it, nigga!” he barked at Kyree, his anger suddenly dissipated, replaced by rage.

Kyree, embarrassed, muttered as he followed Dee, dragging Ricky into the bedroom. Kyree shut the front door and wiped wet grass off his stained t-shirt.

As they made it into the bedroom, Ricky realized how horny he was. It came both from general excitement as well as from the strapping muscles of Dee’s body, undulating behind his back. Ricky could even feel a horsey cock beneath Dee’s jeans, rubbing against the small of Ricky’s back.

“Get some rope,” Dee said as he tossed Ricky on the bed on his belly.

Ricky felt naked and vulnerable. He wore only a pair of sweatpants and a plain t-shirt. He tried to get up, but Dee sat on the bed next to him, resting one heavy arm on Ricky’s back.

“Get a rope!”

“I, uh, I ain’t got one.”

“I tol’ you bring a rope!”

“You said he wouldn’t be home! And I ain’t got a motherfuckin’ rope, nigga!”

Dee sighed. “You stupid fuck! What’re we s’posed to tie him up with?”

“You said he wouldn’t be home.”

“What I said was bring a rope, nigga!” Dee said. “You always prepared, man. Don’t come into some nigga’s house without rope to tie him up.” He patted Ricky on the back of the head. “Sorry ‘bout callin’ you nigga, whiteboi.”

“That’s okay. Just get out,” Ricky said.

“Go find something we can tie him up with,” Dee said with a sigh. He held Ricky’s face in the pillow, not suffocating him, but keeping him from seeing what Kyree was doing. After a few seconds, Dee shouted in frustration. “Not in here, nigga! If there was something in here we could use to tie him up, I’d have said hand me that, nigga. I said go find something!”

Kyree muttered angrily to himself as he walked out the door the bedroom. He could be heard pawing through the hallway closet.

“Sorry, man, he young. He slow,” Dee said. Leaving one hand on Ricky’s neck and hand, his other rested on Ricky’s back. That hand moved slowly lower. “He ain’t nevuh been locked up. He don’t know.”


“You’s a faggot, fo’ real, right?”


“Nothin’ personal. I don’t hate faggots. I kinda likes ‘em,” Dee said. He leaned in and kissed the back of Ricky’s neck. “You got a nice body.” He let out a choked moan. “Boy, if you was my cellmate… I’d make sweet love to yo’ ass and yo’ mouf, e’ry damn day.”

Ricky shuddered at the thought. He was so aroused now his dick was already getting hard, even pressed awkwardly into the mattress beneath him.

“You into that, huh?”

“Hell yeah,” Ricky said. “You can fuck me. Just don’t rob me.”

Dee laughed. “Those things ain’t mutually exclusive, faggot,” he said. “And you ain’t in position to be making demands.” He chuckled as he stood up. He unzipped the fly of his jeans, and fished out a long dark cock.