Author: admin

  • A Dildo in the Wash, Reels in the Twins

    All depicted activities and individuals are fully consenting adults and are at least 18 years old at all times.


     Oh my God! Over my nearly 30 years of being sexually active, I have never had two guys lick, suck and slather my 10” Cock like these two hot Twink Twins. With my hands, I brushed their lovely, long, wavy, curly, tuxedo black hair back from their model-like, youthful, beautiful faces.

    For newbie virgins, although they were in a wild, feral, first-time cum lust state, their sucking and slurping and tonguing were magnificent! It was all I could do not to blow several loads again. They could barely get their jaws and mouths open enough to take my cut purple engorged glans and penis crown into their mouths, but they were troopers. Much to my amazement, I got almost ½ my cock in each of their sweet mouths and throats.  Much gaging and tears ensued, but they never gave up and kept trying with snot, cum and tears pouring. The sensations were terrific, and they were very good with lips and tongue action, being careful about those teeth. Deep throating me balls deep to chew on my trimmed dark pubic mound was for sure a desire, but that would take days and weeks of training, relaxation and specific positions yet to teach and absorb.

    I wanted to save future orgasms for their virgin holes; I was planning on instructing and guiding them to lose their anal virginity with one another first as a loosening warm-up. I was super horny to fuck and plow them both, but not to the point that I wanted injury or severe pain.

    Their near 8” uncut glans exposed erections, with a 1.5+” thickness, would still cause some moderate virgin-busting pressure and pain on each other, but not quite big enough like mine. I will fully expand their anal canal, rectum, and open their sigmoid bend pleasure doorway up their descending bum tunnel, with sensation they can’t possibly imagine!

    After twenty minutes, our semen sticky bodies, genitals, mouths and faces were tongue-cleaned to the max. I was so pleasantly surprised when I did not even ask for wet open-mouth boy-cum kisses, but they spontaneously did so with a wild passion anyway. They held nothing back; they ferociously sucked my face and mouth and shared their dual spit, lick and biting threesome cum swap like this was the best fun in their entire life. (Well, it fucking was! Thanks to me!)

    Their aggression and passion were unstoppable. The lust in their eyes is like predators devouring fresh prey. I swear, if I had asked them to eat shit, they would in a heartbeat and eye blink…but no scat play…yet at least! Ha! Ha!

    “That was fantastic, Boys! For first timers, you are doing superb,” I said.

    Ash responded, “Pete, this is a dream cum true for Zack and me. Thank you for being so perceptive and sexually open to train and teach us. We are your dry sponges, waiting to soak up everything you dish to us; boy-cum, piss and shit included.”

    Zack giggled, “Ash, you’re always so eloquent and proper; can we get our bums cleaned. I have always had a secret public enema fetish fantasy; is that normal, Pete?”

    I smiled in reply, “Completely, boys. All guys like to get their bums and holes washed out in groups. We all eat, and we all shit. Think of it and accept it as a perfect normalcy, just like breathing. No embarrassment and no hurtful comments. Sure, some musky odour, but regard it as a sign that our bodies have used the food optimally to give us energy for sex and play; the expelled matter is the end of a beautiful bodily cycle.

    As far as normal sex fantasies, Zack, there is no normal. Human sexuality, desire and fantasy are the most complex mental, emotional and physiological issues of all time. You would die if I told you what I witnessed young men do with and to each other; the possibilities are endless, so please no embarrassment; share your wildest needs and desires.” Ash is giggling to the point of tears.

    I asked, “Ash, what is so fucking funny about it? I am serious…all is good, anything is fine and normal has infinite possibilities!”

    He responded, “No, it’s nothing you said, Pete. Believe Zack, and I know it is incredible to hear and be with someone so open-minded, knowledgeable, and willing to share and teach us. But right about now, we figure the Wilsons likely have a fleet of backhoes, jackhammers and dump trucks lining their driveway and street.” Zach and Ash are now giggling to the point of tears, still kneeling beside me.    

    “Oh Boy! What did you guys do!?!” I asked with smirks, bugged-out eyes, and great anticipation.

    Ash, laughing away, states, “Well, at six fucking AM, they woke us and confiscated all our electronics and all our games and wearable devices that had been gifted to us over the decades so they could give them to the next foster cult poor bastard academy prison kids to be abused.

    They left for work at 8 AM; we got up, packed clothes and toiletries for 3 hours, and had a late brunch (actually, it is all we ate today). Then took our morning shit. So many of their meals over the years were pasta or rice with canned veggies…so sick of it, and their abuse. Taking our gifts and treasured electronics back was the last unforgivable, abusive straw.

    We took buckets and buckets of all the pasta and rice we could find in the entire fucking house and wrapped it in toilet paper and paper towels with the odd piece of small cutlery and broken smashed dishes and flushed it all down each toilet in the house until they were each plugged like concrete. The water expanding the pasta and rice likely blew out the sewer trunk line in the front yard. We filled and cleaned each toilet so there were no signs of any issues.” The three of us giggled to the point of achy abs, rubbing our nude trio bodies, crying with laughter for almost an entire fucking hour!

    I answered, “You little fucking devils! Please never do anything like that in this building. I hope no one here ever hurts your feelings or abuses you. If they do, please let me know, and I will speak to security and management. They seem to listen to me very well!” We all roared and shook our heads. Well, the Wilsons reap what they sowed. Karma!!

    “Come on, you two gorgeous, horny devils, out to the deck for fun, giggling, bum cleaning. Good that you had a little food today and already shit about 12 hours ago. I’m sure very little in your three feet of tunnel to joyfully wash out!” I said as they wiggled their bums and bodies, grinning away out to the penthouse deck we went; so virginal, innocent, and excited they were. Dripping penis and balls swinging in this warm breeze; boys without a care in the world now, seeking nothing but brotherly love and sexual pleasure.

    It was about 11 PM now. A lovely, clear, starry night, with about a 30% waning crescent moon…a light, mild, warm breeze at this height would have our nakedness highly sensed and aroused…perfect! Later, there is a slight risk of rain and thunder, but it’s perfect now. Zack ran to the outdoor shower. They took in the entire city and the Lake view. No real buildings close enough to see what we were doing unless they had a telescope or mega zoom binoculars. I had had thousands of sex encounters and orgy activity on the massive penthouse balcony-deck and never any complaints…I mean, we are the gayest city in Canada! Any peepers would be jerking off and wishing for nightly shows!

    Zack began in a joking voice, “Please, Daddy Pete and Big Bro Ash, cum lube my bum hole and clean out my dirties!” Chuckling, we did just so. Along with conditioner bottles on the faucet hook, I had a squirt bottle of the X-Lube. Zack scooted into position and pulled his lovely, taut butt cheeks apart, exposing his virgin hole. Big brother Ash came to his side, and they started to kiss and jerk each other again. I lubed my 24” Blue soft silicone douche enema hose and fingered his purity.

    Zack gasped and moaned as Ash sucked his face; I fingered and lubed his hole for the first time. I regulated the purified water temperature and pressure; once all was good, I slowly penetrated Ash’s anus and rectum with the hose, going about an inch every two seconds. After almost one minute and the entire hose being slithered well up and past his sigmoid, I pulled out and hollered,

    “Push and bear down, Zack, show us your lovely bits!” I spoke. He broke the kiss with Ash and turned back and made eye contact; so sexy I almost wanted to eat his ass no matter what came out. I did not, though, smiling away, I watched as three lovely small logs fired out to the drain, followed by crystal clear water. I repeated three times, and he did wonderfully, enjoying sighing and moaning about the fantasy sensations. He was so over-dramatic in his rapturous oral sounds. I realized they were being very theatrical, like a stage play…so much the better. I guided him to bear down and ensure all water was out. All good.

    Giggling away, we switched over to Ash. Zack decided to kneel now and suck his Big Twin brother’s cock for the first time as I washed out Zack’s hole. Zack was not quite doing a skit, but put on a nice show and theatrics, moans and groans. It was fun, and we were all raging hard again. Baby brother Zack really wanted to deep throat his big brother Ash for the first time. Ash bore down, all crystal clean.

    I washed, rinsed and lubed the hose; I inserted it into myself as the twins whispered and giggled.  Before I knew it, they both knelt behind my ass. I laughed and was not worried, as I had already douched before I started the wash. I had initially planned to bottom on some Hankey and Square Peg or Bad Dragon Toys before this incredible, fateful event unfolded.

    I really overdid the drama. I moaned and sighed in a stupid girly voice as they giggled, as my hole sprayed clear water all over their chest and bellies, and just one little solid bit came out. I bore down and was empty with several checks.

    They were heading for the tub and thinking I was going to wash and clean all our bits down the drain trough with cleanser when I said,

    “Ash and Zack, just this one time, there is a special right of passage to go through.”

    Zack, being so anal retentive (like, literally!), slapped his hands together and skipped over like an end-of-school-year playday event! Once the brothers were around the drains, I instructed,

    “Each of us will pick up and lightly feel the others’ pieces and ever so minutely take on their scent like a canine reading the encyclopedia of information from the other beast bits.” Holy Fuck! If I did not already have them both in a wild, feral, animalistic state, this was the final push!

    Ash and Zack looked at each other; their smirks turned to severe inquisition. The three of us approached the scene, felt, inspected, and took in our consistencies, odours, and shapes.

    Younger twin Zack said, “Why does this feel so peaceful and Calm?”

    Ash stated, “I was thinking the same, Zack.”

    I responded, “Because you are rewiring the wrong teachings taught to you by the cult and the academy. This is how our incredible bodies work; each of you is now sharing in this taboo and what many consider a disgusting endeavour.

    However, all of us will now be comfortable, open and uninhibited in any sex act; if we encounter scat or decide to have a play session with it, we will be calm and enjoy the taboo, just like cum and piss.”

    Zack answered, giggling, “Ha! That is my next wild fantasy is to have piss play and drink it in; even my own I have longed all my life to squirt and gargle it in my mouth and throat…I am so crazy for all this super hot BDSM and fetish shit. Can we quickly shower with the soap, rinse and get in the cleansing hot tub now, Pete?”

    “Yes, boys, back to the shower and let’s lather each other up, wash our junk and nice clean cheeks and holes,” I said.  Smiling away, they ran to the shower with me in tow, being dragged hand in hand. It is so much cute, late-teen fun.

    I, the 45-year-old, like a Daddy, and my two 18-year-old Twink Twinks; we covered in soap and bubbles and rubbed, stretched and pinched every square inch, crack and crevice as we had the wettest three-way face and tongue slobbering kiss and face suck, caressing pecks and nipples with pulls and squeezed all around.

    God, I loved their nice black bush! They both paid special attention to my massive 10” + erection, stroking and stretching my cock and balls with one hand; then rubbing my crack and cheeks with the other. I was pulling hard on each of their lovely, uncut, near 8” cocks and playing with their fabulous foreskins; soon, I was fingering their anal holes and rings; they were tight.

    After ten minutes, we rinsed and headed to the raised 12-person hot tub, which is offset six feet from the corner of my balcony, with its four-foot-high glass-and-steel railings all around. An incredibly safe view, shielding us from some of the breeze and wind, but just enough to add to the outdoor first-time virginal arousal, hitting our dripping dangling junk just so.

    I always had a sealed resin chest with dozens of clean white bath sheets. The walk up to my raised 12-person hot tub had a four-foot-wide cedar deck on two sides; the other two sides looked out at the city and lake through the glass railings… beautiful!

    I grabbed about six bath sheets and placed them on the edge to dry our bodies later or for play time on the cedar surround.  The boys glanced at and admired my huge, eight-foot round canopy lounger off to the other side of the Hot tub deck; you could literally jump onto it right from the cedar tub surround. I had other patio tables, sunshades, and furnishings on the other far side, along with some outdoor weight benches, neoprene dumbbells, barbells, and fitness crap scattered around.

    As the boys ventured into my UV-sanitation chemical-free hot tub, they immediately sighed and gasped, bringing the water to their faces and noses. I got in right behind them as they motioned me to the large, open, padded bench seat with multiple jets. I pressed the remote control and voila… heaven, like I have not had in a long time: sexy blues music and dancing underwater rainbow lights (Of course!).

    Ash stated, “Pete, this water smells and tastes like mountain spring water; no chemicals or salts.”

    I answered, “Yes, you can dunk and even drink it, cleaner than any premium bottled crap. The entire building’s water supply is filtered and UV-sanitized, just like the hot tub and douche showers. We won’t have to shower before any cock sucking, ass eating or fucking.”

    Zach answered, “Oh, Ass eating!! Yes, my oh My! Please, Pete, lean over and let us eat out Daddy’s sweet, wispy, hairy hole.”

    “There is lots of time to play with me, and I have had over 30 years of incredible sex; although I know the best with you boys is yet to cum, I want these first few days to be yours as I guide and teach you to enjoy all of each other inside and out so fantastically,” I spoke. I was in between them as they fondled and stroked my cock and balls as we continued deep, wet, open three-boy French kiss marathons.

    After twenty minutes, I said, “Ash, why don’t you get up on the cedar deck edge, lie down with the towels under you and hang your open hole into the tub so little brother Zach can eat and suck your cock, balls and anal rectal treasure pleasure button for the first time.”

    Zach yelled, “Oh Fuck! Yes, please! Ash, I want your sweet Twink ass deep in my throat so bad. I have fantasized about going down on your ass for so long!” Ash was exuberant and said he did as well; quickly, he grabbed the towels and laid them on the deck edge, cutely smiling away, lifted his legs in the air as he presented his open ass cheeks and begging virgin winking hole to his baby brother.

    I slid in beside Zack to guide him; he took in his brother’s scent with his nose, rubbing up and down Ash’s crack as if it were a teasing penis; think that was the idea and foreshadowing to cum.

    “Zack, relax and rub his nice abs and play with his bush and raging hard cum leaking cock. Now take your tongue and slither it up and down over his hole and twirl it around,” I suggested. He did so perfectly as Ash gasped, sighed and shuddered as his baby brother’s tongue bathed over his anus and rectum. Zack, as well, began to moan and groan at the excited eroticism, eating and rimming an anus for the first time. It is always so exciting and intoxicating; add in the twin brother relation…off the charts fucking hot!

    “That’s it, Zack. Now point your tongue more; fuck his hole with your tongue. You can open him wider by covering his entire hole with your mouth and begin moderate sucking to try to pull out and down more of his clean anal canal. The sensations will drive Ash into incredible pleasure like you have no idea,” said I.

    Ash whimpered, pulling apart his butt cheeks more, as Zack pumped his cock and played with his nice big low nuts; Ash annunciated, “Oh, Zack! Holy Fuck! You have no idea, baby bro, how incredibly fantastic this feels, so much pleasure. More, buddy, eat my hole as deep and wide as you can, more, please more!”

    I was giggling and smirking, knowing the beautiful sensation and pleasure that both twink twins were now enjoying. You tell me? Is it not just as hot and pleasurable to eat and rim a hot, clean asshole as it is to get rimmed!?! (Leave comments and personal thoughts, please!)

    Zach pulled off and stated, “Fuck Ash! Your hole tastes so fucking good. I want to eat you forever. I am so happy to please and finally complete this long fantasy for us.” Wow! I felt so happy for them. We were only just getting started. They have no idea what awaits them in the next few days and weeks.

    “Zack, I can’t take it anymore! I must have your hole in my mouth too, please!” Ash begged and pleaded.

    I said, “Ok, it is time to show you, boys, how guys do what is called a sixty-nine-rim session. During this, I also want you to begin introducing fingers into each other’s love tunnels, getting ready for brother’s loving penises; I have some pineapple-flavoured lube right here.”

    A huge moan and groan escaped both. I continued. “Ash, seeing as you have been on your back on the deck for a bit, let’s get Zack on the bottom. Zack, lie down on the towels with your head toward the deck railing; I will make you a towel pillow.

    Ash, get up over top, with knees way up beside Zack’s armpits. Then plant your ass cheeks and sit your open, sweet, clean crack right down on his pretty head and face, giving your hole to baby bro Zack to devour. Then you will take his legs and lift them under your arms and curl baby bro Zack’s spine ever so gently until you have his hole right in your mouth with the serpent tongue.

    This will have both of your lovely penises nearly touching between you; I am going to stay in the hot tub below and feast, pump, lick, and suck your cocks and stretch those perfect balls. When you feel close to cumming, hold off because then, I want the two of you down on the 8-foot round lounger.

    Virginal love making, not fucking, but your twins will make beautiful love to each other for the first time; Then, I am going to fuck and pound the two of you silly once your holes are open in a spit roasting as you suck your brother’s cock and we all explode cum like a milk truck accident up here!” Fuck…holy shit. I can’t believe this cheesy crap I am dishing out of my mouth, but they were locked in and on target for the greatest ejaculations, making the mutual jerk off earlier look like a grain of sand on the beach!  

    Once all in position in no time flat, Zack screamed, “Oh Fuck yes! I love you, Ash!”

    Ash hollered, “I say Fuck Bro; this is so fun. I love you, Zack!”  

    Zack and Ash slapped each other’s ass cheeks as I was lubing their hungry, starving, oozing holes. We began. The wild, loud feral slurping and sucking sounds with moans and groans were the most astronomical iterations I think I have ever heard during a pretzelled up rimming threesome like this.

    Their raging, uncut penises were head-to-head, tip to tip, just as I hoped. I pumped their uncut foreskins with both my hands, taking one to cover the other’s glans penis head, and jerked them off as if they were one continuous, encased 18” long sausage. Fuck me!! The copious cum oozing from their penis slits was incredibly white, super steaming hot, wet, and sweet as honey. My tongue and slurping lips and mouth were right there, catching the flow like white dripping tree sap.

    After a few minutes, I said, “Fingers penetration time, boys; try to find and rub the hard walnut-sized gland called the prostate in about 3-4 inches to the front base of the penis!” In seconds, the cries and whimpers were off the charts as they broke each other’s virgin anal rings with their brotherly loving digits.

    I knew they hit the target bang on; thick white steady roasting semen started to squirt out both into my devouring mouth and throat, but not a full-blown climactic orgasm and ejaculations. Their sighs and gasps were so loud and pleasurable that I was a little worried about what anyone else might think if they were out on their balcony this late, way past midnight.

    Of course, I have had orgies out here before with a dozen+, and half the couples below me were LGBTQ2FS+; many had joined me regularly for playtimes. But I was not sure they had ever heard young 18-year-old Twinks holler and scream like this. These poor virgin Twink twin brothers are losing all their sexual virginity for every act; they are letting the world know the same. I said to myself, fuck it…It is beautiful, love, and they have waited a lifetime for it!

    Their anal sucking, slurping, and fingering continued. I looked up after fifteen minutes or so and saw they were each up to three fingers, instinctively rotating and thrusting perfectly and eating their fingers in their mouths and then spitting more saliva and thrusting and twirling deep in their twin brother’s loosened asshole.   

    Zach said, “Ash, please, I want your penis. Please make love to me first, big bro!”  

    “Ok, Boys, slowly un-pretzel and scoot down to the round lounger,” I answered.  As they did, as soon as they were down the steps, their faces bashed together in one of the hottest, ass, sharing juice, feral animalistic kisses I have ever seen! They relished tasting and sharing their inside hole flavours and wetness, fucking beautiful, wild and vicious all over their heads with tongues and hands. That Black messy cum soaked hair had me almost hands-free cumming!

    I grabbed the lube and instructed, “Zack, you get on your back, and Ash will make love to you in missionary position first, then you can switch. Remember, boys, semen and cum must be swallowed or anally absorbed or sucked out and eaten.” God! What am I saying! Like Cheesy factory verbiage!  I snickered at my own babblings; they were so happy and turned on, no words available to describe the sexual tension and excitement…un-fucking real!

    With his legs and knees up near his head, Zack used his hands to haul back and open his virgin ass to receive his super engorged brother’s running, not just dripping, but running semen penis. This was going to be explosive orgasms for all. Ash lubed his titanium 8” uncut penis with his big purple glans exposed and slowly rubbed on little Zack’s winking, loosening, hungry hole.

    I reminded, “Zack, try to breathe and relax, almost push a bit like you are doing a dump as Ash penetrates you. This will hurt, and you will feel intense pain and pressure, but after the fingers and yearning desires I just saw, the discomfort will all dissipate in minutes. Announce when you start to feel the most incredible pleasure.

    Ash, I want you to make love to him. Once inside, go slow until you’re balls deep. Then lean forward and kiss passionately and slather and lick each other’s necks, ears, faces and everything. Don’t worry, baby bro Zack will let you know when to speed up and go full boar fast and hard as he wraps his legs around your back and sweet Twink-toned ass. In a vice leg grip, he will start to ride and squirm back against you, taking and riding your big thrusting penis as he screams for more. Breed and ejaculate inside him. Zack, you will orgasm and just let the climax explosion geyser out all over your upper belly, chest and face. I will instruct you two on how to proceed afterward. Questions?”

    Zack answered, “For Fuck’s sake, no! Ash, please make love to me! Pete, we love you already so much. Can you please…please…Shut the Fuck Up!! Jerk off while we have this beautiful, intimate brotherly moment, making love as we each virgin bottom for the other…think we got this, ok, Daddy!”

    I giggled, got up, quickly dimmed the balcony light, turned on the gas lit lantern torches, and threw on some slow, sexy, intimate Jazz-country blues and rock. Looked and observed the atmosphere…so sexy and Romantic…their first brother fuck! I started to tear! Fuck!!

    As I was cumming back, I heard little bro Zack. He let out a huge cry and a “Oh Fuck Yes, Oh Ash! I am so in Love with you!”  Ash kissed his brother’s lips so seductively, licking his mouth and face so slowly. This was putting Tom Cruise and Top Gun Fucking to shame! Ash gently thrust in him a few inches.

    I lay down gently beside them and watched the most beautiful lovemaking of any gender I have ever witnessed.  Zack’s little pain and pressure whimpers and sighs were so gorgeous, as I knew so soon what he was going to feel for the first time!

    I watched as Ash’s sweet ass cheeks went ever so slowly deeper in his baby brother; both their mouths open and gasping in the extraordinary moment. I quietly stroked my raging 10” + cock. After another ten minutes, I peered; Ash was balls deep in his baby brother. I was just about to say stay still a second for Zack to relax and loosen, but they both knew already.

    I was silent! They stared deep into each other’s eyes, a thousand-yard stare deep into their souls, mind and bodies joined as one; so intimate and perfect togetherness.

    I smiled when Zack smiled and nodded after a few minutes. The pain and pressure disappeared. I smirked as I saw his legs and calves lift; his feet interlocked in a vice grip against the ass and back of his big brother Ash.

    Zack started to writhe and moan so loudly as Ash thrusting faster and deeper, quicker and more profoundly. Often, their twin identical faces and heads were right next to each other as they shared each other’s breath and sweat; licking, sucking, biting and caressing as their bodies melded and moved as one beautiful brotherly lovemaking machine.

    I was dumbfounded to have wondered if I had ever experienced such beautiful, sexy, passionate intimacy. Their mouths open and touch; they kiss, thrust, and pull each other closer and faster together. Both boys sped up their perfect rhythm and maneuvers. The sighs, whimpers, moans, and groans intensified as they moved harder and faster, harder and faster.

    Finally, together they both cried out, “OOOOHHHHHHHHHHHH YYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSS AAAASSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHH ZZZZZAAAAAAACCCCCKKKKK  YYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEESSSSSSSS OOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHH AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH YYYYYEEEEEESSSSSSSSS OOOOOOHHHHHHHHHH YYYYYYEEEEEEESSSSSSSS AAAAAASSSSSSSHHHHH ZZZZZZZZAAAAAACCCCKKKK OOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHH YYYYYYYYYYEEEEEESSSSSS!”

    I saw their eyes go as big as umbrellas again. I could imagine the feeling and sensation for each of them. Ash lifted his arched body back as his head strained to the stars, showing his pulsing neck, veins and ligaments.

    I was treated to seeing Zack’s massive penis explode all over his beautiful face, head, chest, lips and open, hollering throat. I saw his left side belly rise and push up and out like an alien encased trapped creature as his brother’s big penis touched and massaged all those vessels and glands deep in our boy’s bodies and anal rectal pleasure tunnels.

    There were so many squirts right into his mouth as he screamed and writhed, still taking his big brother’s cock. Ash had his head and back arched and grunted incredibly as his massive orgasm filled and flooded his baby brother’s anus and rectum. They both shook and spasmed as if to be electrocuted…incredible off-the-charts pleasure! I was jealous!

    I watched them together sigh and gasp so big as they each wept tears peering into the love of their life and lives to cum. Ash collapsed on top of Zack; they totally and absolutely broke down and bawled and bawled, squeezing each other, like there was no tomorrow. They kissed so sweetly and then started to giggle. It continued for another five minutes, oblivious to me, covered in my own semen.

    Suddenly, Zack hollered with joyful exuberance, “I want to make love to you, Ash! Do you in Doggie with all the cum used as lube up your sweet big bro hole! I will lean forward; we kiss and connect from the side.

    Once I am in your virgin hole balls deep with a good rhythm, you will collapse down to the mattress flat. I will thrust in you from on top behind with our faces and mouths together, your arms spread out, taking all my enormous penis and sensations as our fingers and hands interlock as I pound slowly your begging big bro hole!”

    I thought…well, this is how first-time lovers figure it out. They performed precisely as iterated, and it was just as beautiful. The slow, deeper, deeper thrusting, the balls-deep pain and pressure, a pause to relax and open.

    I watched as Ash used his hands and arms to pull his baby bro’s cheeks and hips harder and faster into his begging hole, as his raging marble penis rubbed hard into the mattress of the round outdoor lounger. They experienced an incredible orgasm and ejaculation once more. With unwavering passion and brotherly intimacy, I have never seen such lovely bare ass skin boy humping before. Their bodies and skin in the moon and stars with the flickering lanterns and the music, was perfection and utopia, carpe diem to view.

     I gave them a stage for bliss and rapture, and that is what they achieved in their mutual virgin brother busting. I was gobsmacked at their love.

    After another twenty minutes of post coital passion cum eating, and sharing licks, kisses, bites and caresses, they whispered and pulled apart. Suddenly, Zach scooted into a doggie position; older bro Ash swung up around and presented his returned, raging cum soaked, erect penis to his baby brother’s mouth.

    Zack swung his sweet open ass to my eyes, turned around and seriously stated sternly with a biting, forceful tone and look, “Now, Daddy! You will cum pound my boy hole and plow away my virgin tightness with that huge, big daddy cock, until I flood this mattress for cum wrestling!” Holy Fuck! I think they are enjoying this more than I!

    Next chapter here we cum;…and cum, and cum, and cum!

  • Trevor and Mitch

    Johnny Cash’s cover of “Hurt” played through Trevor’s earbuds. The lyrics resonated with him, echoing parts of his life. Johnny’s deep, harsh vocals magnified the emotions conveyed by the words.

    I hurt myself today
    To see if I still feel
    I focus on the pain
    The only thing that’s real

     

    The lyrics were really a part of him, from a time when he tried to end his life. It was a miracle he was still alive, and he still didn’t understand how or why. Another veteran, a man he didn’t know, found him and saved his life. He never knew the man’s name, and he disappeared as quickly as he appeared, another unsung hero just doing his job.

    The hypnotic ‘thump thump thump’ of the tires on the old concrete road made time pass quickly. As a kid, that sound, along with the warm sunlight coming through the windows, put him to sleep.

    Trevor drove the same route his father had taken many times in the family wood-paneled station wagon. During their cross-country trips, Trevor had the entire back to himself, filled with blankets and pillows, while his brother Bruce occupied the backseat. His dad had bought a luggage rack that mounted on the car’s roof to give Trevor and his brother plenty of room.

    Like most men, John McCain didn’t like to stop, so the boys peed in a large Folger’s coffee can. The only time they stopped was when their mother had to go. Trevor remembered playing games to pass the time, like travel BINGO and “I spy with my little eye.” When not playing games, he was fascinated by seeing trains or cows in fields.

    With the new higher speed limits, he could have completed the drive in a single long day, but he chose to break it up and follow the route his father had driven. From Atlanta to Birmingham, then up to Little Rock. On the far side of Little Rock, he checked into a motel and continued to Tulsa the following afternoon. From Tulsa, it was another sixty minutes to Duck Creek Landing on Grande Lake, the place of his inheritance—his grandparents’ trailer, the special spot where he spent his summers as a kid when he was out of school.

    Fuck, I had the best childhood. Swimming, fishing, and relaxing during hot summer days at the lake. Granny and Grandpop were the best. God, I miss them.

    His thoughts emphasized how alone he was. Not lonely, but alone. Atlanta held nothing for him any longer, and he hoped to find the same peaceful solitude his grandparents exhibited to him growing up.

    Every day with them was fun. Waking early, he helped his Granny work on the daily crossword puzzle in the newspaper. He never knew the answers, but she let him look up words in her crossword dictionaries. Then he would go fishing or swimming until lunchtime. If he didn’t swim or fish in the afternoons, he watched cartoons and soap operas with his Granny or helped her can vegetables from the garden.

    The steady, hypnotic rumble of the tires on the road as he drove on autopilot allowed him to reminisce, sometimes crying, sometimes smiling, through the emotional highs and lows of his life. Granny and Grandpop were the first to pass away when he was a young teenager. Trevor unexpectedly lost his mother during his first deployment due to a subdural hematoma. It was weeks before he found out about her death, and she was already buried by the time he was notified. Besides his Granny, Trevor’s mother had been his best friend. While his father served overseas in the Marines, his mother raised Trevor and his older brother, Bruce.

    Bruce died seven years after his mother from Stage IV pancreatic cancer. By the time he was diagnosed, he had only lived eight months, but Trevor had just redeployed, and the military, for reasons only the upper command structure understood, refused to grant him bereavement leave. What made it worse was that he later learned how uncomfortably painful his brother’s last months were, and Trevor wasn’t able to even try to comfort him. During his last deployment, and his worst, his father died of a heart attack.

    In his own heart, Trevor knew his father died of a broken heart, and it devastated him that he couldn’t be with the most extraordinary man he ever knew when it was his time to leave the world. A great father, husband, and Marine, John Eldon McCain lost his battle against the grief of losing his wife and son. With Trevor deployed and unable to communicate for security reasons, his father died alone, and once again, Trevor wasn’t aware of his father’s passing until he was already cremated.

    He felt cheated for not being with his loved ones when they died, as if something had been taken from him. It was partly a lack of closure, but it was more than that. He would have given anything to hold their hands to show them they were loved and not alone.

    What have I become
    My sweetest friend?
    Everyone I know
    Goes away in the end

    The one person who kept him going was Steve Bolware, a fellow Marine. They met in Afghanistan and were instantly drawn to each other. Their different MOSs made it tough to spend much time together, but they took leave to see each other. Both men kept their sexuality hidden, but the pressures of their environment and the dangers they faced daily pushed them to act on their feelings. It was Steve who made the first move, and that moment changed Trevor’s life forever.

    When the Marine Corps finally sent him home, all that was left of his family was the urn containing his father’s ashes. Silent tears flowed down his face as he realized that all that remained of the great man—his father—was now just a few pounds of ash in his hands.

    Attached to his dog tags hanging around his neck was a bullet casing filled with his father’s ashes. The bullet itself had killed Trevor’s lover in Iraq, and he carried it as a reminder of his first, overwhelmingly powerful love that he shared with another man, Lt. Cpl. Steve Bolware. The bullet reminded him of how such a small object could change a man’s life, but he kept it as a symbol of his love for Steve and his father, the two men who had influenced his life the most.

    Shifting his thoughts back to his childhood, Trevor remembered the big extended family that accepted him as a young boy. His Granny had thirteen siblings, and Trevor met all of them while visiting her during the summers. Olive Amber McCain was the glue that kept the family close. Trevor had more cousins than he could count, but he had lost touch with all of them. Living outside the US for many years and not having social media, he lost track of everyone.

    During his two-day journey to his new life, he reminisced, immersing himself in memories. In his Sniper training, he had learned to memorize distinct details and complex images, and he used that training to conjure images in his mind, recalling the smell of lime in the kitchen when Granny made pickles or the scent of her apple pies and freshly baked bread. One of his favorite things was snapping green beans for her while he watched cartoons in the afternoons.

    Mrs. Forrest, Granny’s backdoor neighbor, knew Trevor and Bruce were coming and baked each of them a pie. She made Trevor a coconut cream and Bruce a chocolate cream. Each boy had the entire pie to himself, and from the first mouth-watering bite, they knew their summer at the lake was officially underway.

    Trevor’s leg cramped, sparking memories of his last summer with Grandpop. Grandpop moored their boat at the dock, a few minutes’ walk from the trailer. The path was sloped, and one day after fishing on the walk back to the trailer, Trevor saw his grandfather lagging behind. He limped, and Trevor asked, “Does your leg hurt?”

    “I’m fine, Squirt. Just slowin’ down. Run on ahead and tell Granny we caught a mess of crappie.”

    Only thirteen years of age and unaware of his grandfather’s circulation issues, he ran ahead as he was told. In retrospect, Trevor berated himself for not seeing that something was wrong and staying with him.

    I should have taken the bucket of minnows and the fishing poles. I was fucking thirteen! I was strong enough, but Grandpop never wanted me to have to do anything but enjoy myself. He and Granny made the summers about Bruce and me.

    John E. McCain, the best Grandpop in the world, passed away from a massive heart attack two months after Trevor went back to school. His Granny lived one more summer, and Trevor got to spend it with her. But again, at only fourteen, he knew she was sad. There was no way at his age he could understand living and loving someone for over fifty years, and then losing them. Trevor didn’t know how to comfort her other than give her hugs, but he also didn’t realize how much his presence helped her. She called Trevor “her legs” because he would get her coffee or cigarettes to save her from having to get up.

    With his windows down, the smell of freshly mown grass hit Trevor first as he turned onto the dirt road that led to Duck Creek Landing. That smell, especially in the heat of the bright, Oklahoma sun, transported him back in time. For a moment, he felt like a young teen, about to see two of his favorite people at the start of another summer adventure.

    Now, as an adult, he returned as a battle-scarred Marine. His discharge was officially “Honorable,” with a strong dose of “Medical.” Trevor had been a Marine Sniper for eight years, serving in both Afghanistan and Iraq. He had witnessed unspeakable atrocities and had committed many himself, for his country. The faces of many targets, centered in his scope, etched into his memory, and many remained there when he closed his eyes. The Marine Corps called him a great warrior and distinguished hero, but he saw himself as a trained killer, good at his job. The toll of his service, along with the loss of his father after his mother and brother, brought his career to an end.

    Despite the cost, Trevor was proud of his service. His scars weren’t visible, but they were severe. He hoped returning to his childhood sanctuary would quiet his mind; however, his dreams were shattered as he drove past the place where the dock used to be. The trailers that once stood where he remembered were gone, along with the families he knew, replaced by long-term boat storage. The main dock had disappeared, leaving a rundown row of empty boat stalls. Tall, yellow grass and weeds covered the area.

    I remember the area being bigger. The sun seemed brighter, too. Did it change that much, or have I?

    He wondered about the sun, questioning whether it was real or whether his experiences had tainted his life and perceptions. In his mind, the image of Trevor’s memory overlaid reality. His Granny and Grandpop’s trailer still stood. When they bought it, it was the widest and longest mobile home available, before double-wides existed. Now it appeared withered, even decrepit, but it stood. The small cinderblock house beside it was still there, a part of the property when his grandparents bought the place. His brother, Bruce, who was a few years older than Trevor, used it as a bedroom so Trevor could have the inside room to himself. What Bruce really wanted was privacy to have sex. When he was fifteen, Bruce lost his virginity to a pretty, young native American Indian girl who lived on the circle. Bruce told Trevor, in great detail, how and when it happened, and he had jacked off to the story and image for months.

    Chuckling to himself at the memory, he thought: Damn, I got so much mileage out of that. I jerked off until I was raw, and still kept at it.

    Pulling into the grassy driveway, he turned off his truck and sat quietly. The images from his memories faded, and he took in the reality of what was left. He had no choice but to accept it, but instead of the peace he sought, he felt unsettled by what he found.

    Taking a deep breath, he thought: I was happy here. I can be again. My memories are strong enough to revive this place. I’ll remake it in Granny and Grandpop’s honor. I’ll replant the garden. The trailer has to go, but I’ll build a new place and carry on the family. I’m the last McCain. I know enough that I won’t marry a woman or have kids. If I manage to find a man I can live the rest of my life with… well, that would be perfect, but I don’t expect it.

    With the perseverance of a soldier, Trevor moved his meager belongings into the small cinderblock house. He started Spotify again, and Pusifer’s “The Humbling River” played through his earbuds. It was another of his favorite songs, because the lyrics spoke to him. He also loved the deep, slow tempo. That song, like Johnny Cash’s “Hurt,” seemed to capture and sum up much of his life overseas.

    Nature, nurture, heaven, and home.
    Sum of all, and by them, driven
    To conquer every mountain shown
    But I’ve never crossed the river
    Braved the forests, braved the stone
    Braved the icy winds and fire
    Braved and beat them on my own
    Yet I’m helpless by the river


    Angel, angel, what have I done?
    I’ve faced the quakes, the wind, the fire
    I’ve conquered country, crown, and throne
    Why can’t I cross this river?
    Angel, angel, what have I done?
    I’ve faced the quakes, the wind, the fire
    I’ve conquered country, crown, and throne
    Why can’t I cross this river?

    As the music faded, Trevor thought: Well, it’s time to cross another river in my life. Let’s get this shindig started.

    <><> 

    When his grandparents were alive, the trailer didn’t have an official address. Letters were sent to “RR#5,” which meant “Rural Route 5.” The official town listed was Afton, which was quite far away. He needed to find the current address and get a new mailbox. Luckily, his VA disability checks were direct deposit, so he wouldn’t have to worry about mail for a while.

    Trevor refamiliarized himself with the area by walking around, observing structures that had survived the years. As he walked past the old Meachum place, a car sat in the driveway, so he knocked on the door. When it opened, Trevor recognized Chip Clary, one of Meachum’s grandsons, whom Trevor used to play with.

    “Chip! Holy shit, man. It’s Trevor McCain. Long time!”

    Holding out his hand, Chip took it, smiling. “Trevor!? You’re a blast from the past. What brings you back here?”

    “I got in last night. I inherited the place and no longer have any ties to Atlanta, so I thought I’d come here and give it a try. I didn’t expect the area to be so… rundown.”

    Chip said, “Yeah, this place isn’t the same. My grandfather passed years ago and left the cabin to me and my brothers. We come and stay on the occasional weekend.”

    “You still sail?”

    “Yeah, we do! We have the big rig at Arrowhead. Anyone still living here who has a boat keeps it at Arrowhead.”

    “I think I remember the way there. I don’t have a boat yet, but I want to get one once I’m settled. I’m going to tear the trailer down and build a small house.”

    Chip didn’t know what to make of Trevor. He looked hard and imposing, so unlike the kid he knew back in the summers. He was muscular, fit, tanned, and handsome by any standard, radiating an aura of competent strength.

    Chip said, “I’ve got a little time. You want a beer? I’d like to hear about your life since I saw you last.”

    Trevor said, “Not much to tell, but sure, I’d enjoy that.”

    Trevor glossed over his military career. Much of it was classified, and he couldn’t discuss it. He was more interested in hearing about Chip’s family. It was nice to discover a connection to his childhood that still existed.

    Maybe everything’s not entirely gone.

    The seed of his thought took root, and a small amount of optimism crept into the back of his mind.

    <><> 

    Feeling more positive after reconnecting with Chip, Trevor’s mood lightened. Wandering around a bit more, he found Dorothy and Nule’s trailer, his grandparents’ best friends from Tulsa. The trailer was in poor shape. Memories of them playing Canasta with his Granny and Grandpop on weekends were strong. Dorothy and Nule had a son named Mike who was mentally handicapped. He was twenty-five the last time Trevor saw him, but he had the mind of a seven-year-old. One night in the cinderblock house, while the adults played cards in the trailer, Mike whispered to Trevor, “My dick is hard. Do you want to touch it?” Terrified, Trevor didn’t respond. He wanted to, but even then, he knew it wasn’t something he should do. Taking advantage of Mike, given his mental issues, wouldn’t be right. He wanted to, though, and later that night, he jacked off at the thought of touching another man’s hard dick.

    There was no power at the cinderblock house, but it had running water from the communal well. Without power, the small structure felt like an oven, so Trevor took off his shirt. He retrieved his cooler from the truck, which still had part of a loaf of bread and some deli meat, and made sandwiches. The ice had almost completely melted.

    Note to self: have the power turned back on tomorrow, apply for a building permit, get fresh ice, and more beer.

    A small LED lantern served as his only light source once the sun went down. When he went into the small bathroom to take a leak, he looked at himself in the mirror. His body shone with sweat, and in the stark lighting, his muscles looked even more defined than they were. He ran a hand through his sweaty chest hair. Immediately, his mind travelled back to when he was twelve, in that very spot.

    There was an AC window unit in the small house that struggled to cool the bathroom. Bruce was outside, and Trevor went in to take a leak. Though he was from a military family, he was raised to be modest and never took his shirt off in public. He wasn’t very athletic and didn’t have a great physique.

    At thirteen, after puberty, he was as horny as any young man his age. He shut the door to the bathroom, and the small room became even more stifling. He took off his shirt, and his pasty skin dripped sweat. The sensation turned him on. As simple as it sounded, the idea of being shirtless was a turn-on to Trevor. The heat surrounding him and the air moving over his bare, wet skin were sensations he rarely felt, and emphasized his nakedness.

    Trevor had already discovered his nipples, and he played with them. His dick got hard as soon as he took his shirt off, but playing with his nipples sent signals of pleasure directly to his cock. Pulling it out, he looked down at it. He knew he was larger than average. He had seen Bruce naked once and knew he was too. He had never seen his father nude, but he imagined his stud Marine father was bigger than both of them.

    Trevor couldn’t resist, and his shorts dropped around his ankles. He was already barefoot, so he was completely naked in the small, stifling room. Seeing his sweaty body was so arousing that he started stroking himself. Flicking one nipple, he threw his head back and pressed his balls against the sink. In a few minutes, he came, spraying the mirror. Immediately, he felt anxious about being caught, so he quickly dressed and stood in front of the air conditioner to cool off before heading back to the trailer to help his Granny.

    <><> 

    Trevor didn’t realize at first that he was reenacting his memory. When he looked in the mirror, he saw a total stud staring back at him, not the out-of-shape, pale teenager he once was. He flexed his muscles, which made him sweat even more.

    Moving to his bags, he pulled out a fuck toy, a latex sleeve shaped like an ass. He grabbed his jar of Albolene, stripped completely naked, and went back to the bathroom. Setting the toy on the edge of the sink, he stared at his cock. He hadn’t jerked off in a few days, and he was horny as a goat. Knowing he was good for a few loads, he flicked a nipple, occasionally running his hand over his chest as he stroked himself. His first orgasm was intense, mirroring the memory. He wondered if the streaks in the mirror were from his cum all those years ago.

    Applying fresh lube, he inserted his cock into the toy and moaned as the soft latex stretched tightly around his cock. He was big enough that his cockhead poked out the tiny hole on the back side. The latex felt so good, he lost himself in fucking it slow and steady, edging himself. He stared at his thick neck, flexed arms, bunched shoulders, and tight chest as he thrust into the toy, admiring his body. The sight of his own manly virility turned him on.

    Trevor loved being strong and fit. He worked hard to gain a physique that he desired in other men. At first, he felt odd at being turned on by the image of himself, but it made sense. He wasn’t egotistical about his body, but he wasn’t ashamed of it, and his own strength became a turn on.

    Having to hold the toy with one hand frustrated him. His favorite way to get off was to play with both nipples while he thrust his cock into it. He didn’t like stopping, but he grabbed the jar of Albolene, his phone, and the toy and returned to the bed. The mattress was filled with soft, downy feathers and was incredibly soft. He tucked the toy between the mattress and box spring and got on his knees. He put a pillow under his knees to get the few inches of height, so his cock was at the perfect level. Opening his phone, he pulled up his Tumblr favorites.

    He found a new bodybuilder who turned him on, and he enlarged the frame so it only showed his hairy, sweaty chest, shoulders, and nipples. Sticking his cock back in, he imagined he was the bodybuilder, being worshiped and stroked. Sweat poured off his body, making him feel sexy and hot. He loved getting a pump and kept his body flexed as he played with his nipples while edging his cock with the toy. Taking his time, he fucked the toy for over half an hour before he couldn’t hold back. He pulled out at the last second and cupped a hand over the head of his spurting cock, careful to catch all the cum. He didn’t want to soak the mattress and risk it smelling or yellowing the material.

    After towel-drying himself, he felt more relaxed. Opening the windows allowed fresh air to flow in, and he sprawled naked on the bed without covers. Trevor had learned to sleep even in extremely hot conditions and dozed off after a few minutes. The anxiety of being in a new place, even one filled with happy memories, stirred his subconscious, and he slept restlessly, recalling the sounds and smells of war.

    <><> 

    In the morning, Trevor felt better after a shower. The sweat-soaked sheets would soon smell, and he wondered if the washer and dryer in the trailer still worked. Using a UPS to power his StarLink, Trevor logged onto his iPad for a few minutes, then disconnected it when he finished his searches to preserve the charge.

    Writing down the various addresses he needed, he locked up the house and headed to Afton. His first stop was the Northeast Oklahoma Electric Company to transfer the service into his name and turn on the power, and he received a pleasant surprise: they could switch the power on that same afternoon. He also applied for a permit to move the septic tank from the trailer to the house he planned to build.

    His next stop was the County Clerk to apply for a building permit and any other permits needed to tear down and dispose of the trailer. He was thankful that Duck Creek Landing was so rural that there were no burning restrictions.

    His last stop was Home Depot to buy a new window unit and two spot coolers for air conditioning. Mold and mildew remover was essential, along with other cleaning supplies, and fresh bags of ice to fill his coolers. On a whim, even though it went against his usual diet, he bought an eight-piece bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Another childhood memory was traveling in the car, eating bread-and-butter sandwiches, and cold KFC. His mother could turn the simplest meal into a feast for him and his brother.

    By the time he got home, the power was already on. The upright freezer in the cinderblock house worked, along with the trailer’s refrigerator, oven, washer, and dryer. He cleaned everything and applied WD-40 to the gaskets and belts that hadn’t been used in decades. He planned to replace all the appliances over time, but would make do with what was available to save money. He moved the TV from the trailer to the cinderblock house and cleared out the garage enough to back his truck in and close the door. His digital antenna picked up hundreds of stations, including the local news and weather in Tulsa.

    As he approached the cellar doors, more memories churned, resurfacing in his conscious thoughts.

    How many times were we in this cellar when tornadoes rolled through?

    The weathered but sturdy doors seemed to stare back at him. That small space, about twelve square feet, had sheltered family and neighbors during tough times, but it also held all the cherished memories of Granny’s canning efforts.

    Sunlight hit the cement steps as he slowly made his way down. At the bottom, he flicked the light switch, and a single low-watt bulb dimly lit the tiny space. The cool, dry cellar smelled just as he remembered. The shelves were intact but mostly empty, except for a few mason jars. The wood and chicken-wire shelf used to dry potatoes looked in good shape.

    The shed over the cellar remained locked, and he didn’t have the key. His Grandpop, a welder and heavy machine mechanic, had stored all his tools there, along with his fishing poles, tackle, and seeds for his garden.

    Another note to self: Get bolt cutters to take that lock off.

    Much to Trevor’s surprise, the trailer had never been vandalized. All the plates, silverware, and cookware were there, and most importantly, Granny’s oversized twelve-quart pressure cooker for canning. Inside the cupboards, he started, mesmerized at the set of tall glasses he used to drink from. He particularly remembered mixing powdered Lipton Iced Tea late at night, and crushing ice cubes with the ice cream scooper to make the ice easier to crunch.

     Overall, the place was in much better shape than he originally thought, although some parts of the floor were rotted and unsafe to walk on. However, the interior furniture and belongings, while old and outdated, were still usable.

    I have a lot of work ahead of me, but I’m looking forward to it. I’ll restore this place to honor Granny and Grandpop and make them proud. Duck Creek Landing is worn down, but it’s peaceful, and that’s fine by me.

    <><> 

    Trevor settled in, working daily to improve the cinderblock house, clean out the garage, and sort through what was salvageable. He purchased some bolt cutters, opened the shed, and found his Grandpop’s tools, organized just as he remembered them.

    I wonder why Dad didn’t take this stuff. Maybe he kept it like a shrine or saved it for me someday. Well, I have it now, and can use everything.

    He found Grandpop’s gas-powered tiller under the far side of the trailer. Using the tools, Trevor rebuilt the motor. He had to make a quick run to Ketchum for oil and gas, and it took the whole afternoon to get it running. After rooting out some volunteer tomato plants and strawberries, he tilled the entire original garden plot. The compost pile had dried up, so he cleared it to start a new one. The jars of seeds in the shed had dried out, so he added that to his list for his next trip to Vinita the following day.

    With the power on and the refrigerator and freezer running, he planned to go to Target and Safeway, the same stores Granny made her monthly trips to every summer.

    As he drove, another image of his Granny came to mind, of her purse swinging from her arm as she drove, with a cigarette hanging from her lip. The filters were always stained red from her lipstick. He remembered her once missing the turn back to the trailer because she had been distracted by talking and laughing with him. She didn’t get mad, she just leaned over and kissed his cheek. Whenever she was close, he smelled her lotion and perfume. Granny had her own scent, just like Grandpop did.

    Trevor found the seeds at Target’s Garden Center. He planned to use his Grandpop’s method and wanted an entirely organic garden. His last stop for the afternoon was Safeway to get groceries. As Trevor pulled into the parking lot, he noticed a homeless-looking man walking along the side of the building toward the back. By the time he parked and walked to the door, the man had disappeared. It was the first homeless person he had seen since returning to the area, and he wondered about it. People around there were friendly, hospitable, good country folk, and if they saw someone in need, they would surely help.

    Trevor looked for the man one last time after loading his groceries into his truck, but didn’t see him so he headed home. Mimicking his summers with Granny, he planned to make a trip to Vinita for groceries every few weeks. Anything urgent, he could get in Ketchum at the small grocery mart. On the way back to Duck Creek Landing, he passed a horse farm outside Ketchum where his Grandpop used to get manure, and he wondered if that was still an option. The nitrogen in horse shit did wonders for the soil.

    On his next trip to Vinita, Trevor saw the homeless man again as he pulled into the Safeway parking lot, but the man disappeared just as before. In Iraq and Afghanistan, he had seen true poverty and starvation, and noticing anyone in such a state troubled him. Americans take so much for granted, especially their daily freedoms to move around freely and think or say what they want… Before his thoughts turned dark, he shook them off and focused on positive thinking.

    Trevor had made significant progress in tearing down the trailer. He didn’t have any heavy equipment and did everything by hand. He enjoyed the physical exertion, but he also created a small workout area, installing a pull-up bar and a flat bench. He bought an Olympic weight bar, some plates, a set of dumbbells, and some kettlebells. Eventually, he planned to add cables, but those would have to wait.

    Another small project, one that made him laugh at himself, was a glory hole. He drilled a hole in one of the doors from the trailer and made a box for his fuck toy to rest in. He could use it hands-free and ended up fucking it two or three times a day. Physical exertion gave him a pump, and the invigoration sent energy straight to his cock. He put the door in the small storage room by the bathroom. That small room didn’t get any cool air, and he enjoyed the heat and sweat he worked up while getting off.

    On Trevor’s third trip to Vinita, a few months since his arrival at Duck Creek, the homeless man was there again, but this time, Trevor quickly parked and ran towards him. The man saw him coming and turned away, headed for the area behind Safeway.

    “Hey, buddy! Hold up!”

    Tripping in his haste, the man fell to the ground. His movement appeared stiff and sluggish, and Trevor wondered if he was high.

    Kneeling, Trevor quickly asked, “Are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just want to talk.”

    Trevor would forever remember the face that looked back at him. Beneath the scraggly, unkempt beard and months of dirt and malnutrition, the semblance of a handsome face returned his stare. Piercing dark eyes gazed back from beneath a ragged hoodie. The man had lost so much weight that his face appeared skeletal. Trevor noticed that his pants were military fatigues, and his boots military issue, although they were so worn that the soles had nearly fallen off.

    “I’m Trevor. I’m not going to hurt you. I want to see if you’re alright. I’ve seen you here a few times now. How long have you been here?”

    In a raspy voice, unused to talking, the man replied, “I… I don’t know. A while.”

    “What’s your name?”

    He looked momentarily confused, as if he didn’t remember, but he stammered, “Mitch. My name’s Mitch.”

    Trevor held out his hand, “Good to meet you, Mitch.”

    Mitch’s grip seemed weak, and Trevor pulled him to his feet and helped stabilize him.

    “So, what’s your story, Mitch?”

    As he stood, the pungent, rank odor coming off Mitch almost made Trevor gag.

    “I… I don’t remember much.”

    “Do you really not remember? Or do you not want to tell me?”

    Sudden tears leaking down Mitch’s face into his beard caught Trevor off guard. Mitch’s pain and wretchedness were heartbreaking to see.

    Quietly, he said, “It hurts to remember, so I don’t.”

    “I’m sorry, Mitch. I’m being a dumbass. Were you in the service?”

    Mitch nodded as he swiped at his tears.

    Fuck, this guy’s a veteran.

    “Don’t you have any family?”

    Mitch started to cry harder, and his voice caught as he mumbled, “No. They’re gone.”

    With a heavy sigh, Trevor said, “I understand. My family’s gone too, so I get it.”

    Trevor paused for a moment, and as he collected his thoughts, he placed a hand on Mitch’s shoulder as a sign of comfort. It was likely the first human touch of compassion Mitch had felt in a long time, and he hugged Trevor tightly as he cried.

    Trevor held him and said, “You don’t belong here, Mitch. No one who served our country deserves what you’re going through. I don’t know your story, man, but I want to. Will you come with me? I can get you some food and clothes, and we can talk if you want. I’m a good listener. If you want to be quiet, I can respect that, too. I just don’t want you to be alone.”

    Mitch looked confused, so Trevor placed a hand on his shoulder to guide him back toward the parking lot. Mitch tried to pull away, but Trevor quickly said, “It’s okay. Let’s just go to my truck, alright?”

    Mitch didn’t say anything and let himself be led. When they reached the truck, Trevor opened the door and said, “Climb in, Mitch. It’s okay. I’ve got your six.”

    Mitch flinched at the sound of Trevor shutting the door, and his eyes widened. Trevor went around to the driver’s side and got in, but he shut his door gently after noticing Mitch’s reaction.

    “Mitch, I need to run into the store quick and pick up a few things. Can you promise me you’ll still be here when I get back? Please don’t take off on me.”

    Trevor had to strain to hear Mitch’s response of, “Ok. I’ll be here. I got nowhere else to go.”

    Trevor’s eyes started to water. Mitch was in bad shape, and Trevor was angry that any person, veteran or otherwise, could come to such a state in America.

    God damn, this fucked up world. This isn’t what either one of us fought for.

    “I promise I’ll be quick.”

    Trevor closed his truck door quietly and locked the cab. His grocery list wasn’t long, and he knew where everything was, but he stopped at the Deli to buy two large subs and two big bottles of water. On a hunch, he picked up extra hamburger, chicken, and steak. Once his house was finished, he planned to buy half a cow like his grandparents did and have all the meat cut to his specifications. He also wanted to have all the fat rendered into beef tallow for cooking.

    When he returned, Mitch was gone.

    Damnit! He said he didn’t have anywhere else to go.

    He punched the side of his truck in frustration and kicked a tire.

    Surprise hit him when Mitch said from behind him, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you mad. I thought I’d be back before you.”

    An odd sense of relief washed over Trevor, along with a touch of guilt. Mitch held a small cigar box, an old one you rarely see anymore—the kind their parents might have had.

    I was ready to think the worst of him. Fuck me.

    Trevor said, “I’m sorry too, Mitch. I’m glad you didn’t leave. I should have asked if you had anything you needed to get. I wasn’t thinking. Go ahead and get in while I load the groceries.”

    When he climbed into the cab, Trevor pulled out the sandwiches and water. Ignoring Mitch’s ungodly odor, he held out a sandwich and said, “I bet you’re hungry. I got one too, so you don’t have to eat alone. I have water too.”

    Trevor had no idea when the last time Mitch had eaten was, but he nearly choked on the first few bites as he savagely attacked the sandwich.

    “Take it easy, man. There’s plenty. Don’t make yourself sick.”

    Mitch slowed down and gulped half his water in one swig.

    Trevor was having a hard time keeping his emotions in check. On top of Mitch’s obvious need, Trevor didn’t know anything about him or his emotional state. Or, if he could be trusted.

    Maybe he needs someone to trust him. I don’t really have anything worth stealing anyway.

    Mitch devoured his sandwich minutes before Trevor finished his. Trevor would have offered him more, but he was concerned that Mitch might react to too much food too quickly.

    When Trevor finished, he patted Mitch on his shoulder and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

    Author’s Note

    As usual, this story has five chapters. It’s finished, and I’ll post them daily. Hope you enjoy!


    To get in touch with the author, send them an email.


  • Tinder Dates

    Pheromone Clouds

    His Tinder ad said:

    **“Grad student with ink on my fingers and too many books on my desk.
    Looking for one good day with someone who enjoys quiet conversation, long walks, and noticing the small things other people hurry past.

    Lately I’ve been experimenting with scent — not in a weird way, more like trying to understand how it changes memory and mood. If you’re up for exploring that with me, even just as an excuse to spend a day in good company, say hello.

    I don’t bite. But some perfumes do.”**

    … I spotted him right away.  He stood under the overhang by the gate of the park, tall and almost ghostly against the grey sky. His long white hair moved a little in the wind, soft strands brushing the shoulders of his snow-white shirt. Everything about him looked clean and precise — the pressed trousers, the way he held his hands folded behind him. He had that calm stillness about him, that of someone used to controlling how much space he occupied. I walked toward him, and the cloud of his warm spring-rain smell reached me before I’d even spoken a word. It wasn’t a perfume; it was like the air around him changed, softened, carried a quiet warmth despite the chill of the day.

    He heard my steps on the gravel and turned, smiling as if I had just surprised him in a pleasant way.

    “H-hi,” he said, and the stutter was so gentle it blended into the sound of the wind. “You’re Augie, right?”

    “I am,” I said, “Erik, isn’t it? Nice to meet you in person!”

    In response he nodded, a little too quickly, like he was worried he’d mis-time the gesture. When he reached out to shake my hand, his fingers were long and pale and cool, and the contrast against my skin was so stark I had a flash of an old photograph — two hands touching in reversed negatives.

    He laughed nervously when he saw me register the whiteness.

    “Florida seems to be not the very best place for you,” I said.

    “I c-can go out longer today,” he said. “The clouds h-help.”

    “Feels like it might rain, too, but I’ve got an umbrella,” I answered.

    “I don’t m-mind that,” he said.  “Rain’s the only time I don’t have to think about standing in the wrong spot.”

    We entered the quiet park on the river with wide paths and deep tree cover. There was a deep warm-rain scent that followed him like a small invisible trailing cloak. Every shift of his shoulders, every time he brushed his hair aside, that scent rose and drifted, and I kept catching myself inhaling just a fraction deeper.

    He asked what exactly I researched, and I gave him the short, unromantic version — communication models, anthropological fieldwork, a life made of interviews and notes. He listened with a half-tilted head, his white hair falling forward a little.

    “So y-you study how people t-talk?”

    “How they talk, how they miscommunicate, how they assume things,” I said. “Mostly how people interpret signals they aren’t aware they’re sending.”

    He smiled at that. “Plants do th-that too.”

    It was fantastic to talk to Erik although we both knew what we were there for eventually—my eyes kept drifting to a rather large bulge in his stylish trousers.  Meanwhile, maintaining the decorum, he was explaining to me how certain plants released chemical signals when stressed, warning neighbors about insects or drought. I knew fragments of this from scattered reading, but the way he described it — soft-spoken, hands showing small shapes in the air — made it feel almost personal to him.

    “It’s all scent,” he said. “Chemical p-patterns. Some act f-fast, some slow. Rain changes the whole thing.”

    “Does it change you too?” I asked.

    He looked at me, surprised I’d asked it so directly, then gave a small nod.

    “My body s-smells stronger when it’s damp,” he said. “Not strong strong. Just… more there.”

    “I noticed,” I admitted, which earned me a brief pink flush across his cheekbones.

    “It’s n-not embarrassing, right?”

    “Not at all. If anything, it’s calming.”

     

    He seemed relieved by that, and we kept walking. The gravel path curved toward the river, where the water moved in lazy folds under the clouded sky. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of wet stone, but somehow that warm-rain smell from him stayed present, like a pocket of a different season traveling with us.

    He told me then about his department — long hours in a lab that always smelled faintly of fertilizer and yeast, one professor who scribbled feedback in handwriting even he couldn’t read, the experiments that wouldn’t germinate for weeks and then all sprouted on the same day when the humidity shifted.

    “Botany sounds like detective work,” I said.

    “Feels like it. And you must take into c-consideration that sometimes the p-plants are lying.”

    “Lying?”

    He nodded. “Some release false signals to confuse p-predators. Or competitors. They’re not p-passive. People think they’re quiet, but they t-talk all the time. Just not in a w-way most people bother listening to.”

    That circled us neatly into memory and scent, and now it was my turn to surprise him. I told him how in some cultures certain smells were linked to childhood blessings, in others to mourning rituals; how the same plant could evoke comfort in one region and fear in another.

    “So smell is c-culture too,” he said.

    “It shapes memory before language does,” I told him. “People remember scent first because it ties straight into emotion.”

    He walked silently for a moment, absorbing that.

    “Maybe that’s why r-rain makes me settle,” he said. “Feels like… being understood without explaining.”

    We reached an arbor overgrown with climbing vines, the leaves thick enough to turn the light into a muted green. A drizzle had started, barely visible except for the faint tapping on the leaves above. He stepped under the vines and exhaled, as if this was the first truly safe place he’d been all day.

     

    “Overcast is good,” he said. “But this is better. No reflections. No glare.”

    “Must be hard on bright days,” I said.

    He gave a small shrug that wasn’t dismissive, just practiced.

    “It’s just… m-management. I learned to live after six, before nine, always checking the UV index. People th-think I’m avoiding them. Sometimes I am. But mostly I’m avoiding the sun.”

    There was a moment of quiet, the kind that didn’t feel awkward or forced. Rain clicked softly on leaves. The river made a low rolling sound. He brushed his hair behind his ear again, and the warm-rain scent rose and drifted toward me.

    When we stepped back out onto the path, he suggested we take the long loop by the water.

    “More trees,” he said. “Less sky.”

    We walked side by side while he told me about the first plant he ever studied — a half-dead pothos in his childhood kitchen that revived whenever it rained. I admitted I’d never kept a plant alive longer than a month.

    “It’s not hard,” he said. “You just listen. Plants t-tell you what they need.”

    “People do that too,” I answered. “But they usually lie about it, either because they are afraid or because they really don’t think so.”

    He laughed — a soft, unguarded sound — and looked at me as though considering how true that might be.

    A little further down the path we stopped near a wooden railing overlooking the river. The water was darker now, stirred by the drizzle. He rested his arms on the rail, his pale hands vivid against the wet wood.

    “Do you ever wish you could switch senses with someone?” he asked suddenly.

    “Only when I’m grading papers,” I said.

    He smiled.

    “I mean it,” he said. “I wonder what the w-world feels like to other people. I wonder if mine is easier or harder.”

     

    I told him it wasn’t a matter of easy or hard. It was just different, and different could be interesting. He seemed to sit with that for a minute, looking at the water, fingers lightly tapping the railing with the rhythm of raindrops.

    “What about you?” I asked. “Anything you’d change if you could?”

    He hesitated. “I’d like to w-walk out on a summer day without thinking about shade. Just once.”

    The rain picked up slightly, and we walked again, letting the weather decide the pace. I told him about fieldwork on the coast of Peru where fishermen could identify storms just by the way the air smelled before dawn. He told me in response how plants adjusted their internal clocks to humidity. It became a kind of gentle volley: my world, his world, finding the overlaps.

    For a late lunch we stopped at a small lakeside café — nothing fancy, just a wooden deck with a canvas awning and two tables spaced far apart. The owner served us two enormous club sandwiches in flour-dusted ciabattas and black tea in large paper cups and left us alone. Erik held the cup with both of his hands, and as steam rose, that warm-rain scent mingled with the tea in a way that made the air feel heavier, almost intimate.

    He asked how students communicated differently now than a decade ago. I told him they now lived in half-symbols, half-silence, navigating social meaning through subtext more than sentences.

    “Plants d-do that too,” he said. “Signals you can’t see unless you’re willing to s-sit still long enough.”

    The drizzle eased, leaving the pavement dark but drying in patches. When we left the café, he stepped a little closer to me, unconsciously maybe, as though the narrowing path nudged him in my direction. His hand brushed mine once — barely, like a curious plant brushing a neighboring leaf — and he didn’t pull away immediately.

    By the time we circled back to the park entrance, the sky was lightening in that uncertain way where clouds thin but never quite break. He spotted it first and winced.

    “I n-need to get inside soon,” he said quietly. “It’s getting b-brighter.”

    The sky kept getting brighter in that thin way that made him glance up every few minutes, checking the light with an instinct that seemed half-learned, half-baked into his bones. I asked if he wanted to head back, and he hesitated, shifting his weight like he had something else in mind but wasn’t sure if he should voice it.

    “My place,” he finally said. “If you w-want to. It’s close. I’ll show you some of my new scents.”

    He said it so carefully it sounded like he was offering me a fragile object. I told him I’d go wherever he felt comfortable, and he gave this small relieved exhale through his nose, like he’d been holding the breath since the café.

    His place wasn’t far — a ten-minute walk through quiet side streets, the kind with old brick buildings and vines creeping along the gutters. The entrance was tucked beside a hardware shop: a plain door painted a shade of blue that had faded into something softer. He unlocked it and gestured for me to step in first.

    “Just ignore the m-mess,” he said, though the place was anything but messy.

    It was one large room divided loosely by tables. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, each packed with small amber bottles labeled in tiny handwriting. Wooden trays held narrow strips of thick paper, some curled from use. A low window looked out on a courtyard, the light muted by a tree whose branches brushed the glass. Underneath the window stood a rather narrow but high and soft bed with a navy blue cover in artistic tangles on top. The whole room smelled faintly of oils, dried petals, and something like warmed honey.

    But under all that was him — that warm spring-rain scent, woven through the space as if the room had been breathing it out for years.

    He walked in slowly, letting the door fall shut behind us.

    “I’ve been working on s-some blends,” he said. “It’s not official research or anything. Just… experiments.”

    He moved toward one table, his fingers hovering over bottles before choosing one with a clear stopper.

    “This is the f-first one I ever made,” he said. “I tried to recreate the smell of the forest near my grandparents’ house. The mossy part.”

     

    He opened the bottle and dipped a scent strip, then handed it to me. His fingers brushed mine, light as the paper itself. The scent rose immediately — damp earth, crushed fern, something resinous just underneath.

    “That’s impressive,” I said, and he shook his head quickly, embarrassed.

    “It’s clumsy. Too heavy. Real moss is lighter, more… shy.”

    He showed me another, this one labeled in neater handwriting. Something citrusy, thin but bright. Then another: dark, warm, almost smoky. He watched my reaction closely every time, not searching for praise exactly, just gauging whether the scent landed in the space between us the way he intended.

    “This is the one I’m m-most proud of,” he said after a while. “It’s still unfinished.”

    He reached for a small bottle tucked behind a tray, one he handled more gently than the others. When he opened it, he inhaled first, his eyes half-closing like he needed to recalibrate something in himself before sharing it.

    He dipped a strip and held it out.

    “It’s supposed to be a r-rain memory,” he said. “Not the rain itself. The feeling right before it.”

    I brought the strip closer. The scent unfolded in stages — soft air, a hint of mineral, a warmth that wasn’t heat but expectation, the stillness that comes when clouds gather but haven’t broken yet. Something about it made the back of my throat tighten, though I couldn’t say why.

    He watched me, suddenly nervous.

    “I-it’s not right yet,” he said quickly. “I can’t get the last part. The… calm. The reason people take a slow breath before the rain starts.”

    “It’s close,” I said. “Closer than you think.”

    His shoulders dropped just a fraction, as if I’d released a knot he hadn’t realized he was holding.

    He moved to a shelf and took down a narrow metal box.

    “These are b-base notes,” he said, opening it. “I test them on myself sometimes. My skin changes things. Makes them warmer.”

     

    I didn’t comment on that. I didn’t have to.

    He dipped a blank strip into one bottle, then into another. The scent he created was soft and slightly sweet, with that warm-rain lift underneath.

    “This one’s… me,” he said quietly. “Not on purpose. It just… happens when I blend without thinking.”

    He stepped closer and lifted the strip to my hand, not my face.

    “Some scents only w-work from a distance.”

    His fingers grazed my wrist. The scent rose between us — familiar but fuller, more vivid than the natural one radiating from him. Like he’d given shape to something that had been ephemeral all day.

    I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to. He seemed to read everything he needed from the way I held the strip, the way I breathed…

    ***

    … We stood naked across from each other, clumsily stepping from one foot to the other. The air suddenly hit me like a warm, invisible wave and my knees almost buckled. It felt as if every vein had been switched to a lower, thicker frequency—blood within my veins now moved slow and honeyed, pooling behind my hips, behind my eyes, behind every place that ever begged to be touched. A soft ache started under my ribs, like a fist unclenching again and again, and I realized I’d been holding my breath.

    He looked at me intently, smiled slowly, and started walking closer; every step pushed another cloud of that dizzying scent straight into my lungs. Each inhale felt like swallowing summer thunder—heavy, electric, gathering low in my stomach until my thighs pressed together on their own. My heartbeat scattered, a flock of birds startled by how badly I suddenly needed to be under that smile, inside that warmth, anywhere the air tasted of him and nothing else.

    He pulled me into his arms, gently but purposefully, his skin readily radiating heat and fragrance; I buried my face in his neck—so white it looked dusted with flour—and felt my pulse race out of control. His scent was louder up close, too—it set my desire on fire and let the aroma curl straight into my mouth. Every breath rubbed me raw inside, it was pleasure so sharp it bordered on panic; I could feel my heartbeat banging against his collarbone.

    He came in to kiss me—hard, salty—with even his breath tasting of the perfume; the pheromones flooded my head and I melted against him, feeling absolutely helpless. My thoughts folded in on themselves like wet paper—there were suddenly no edges, no names, only the soft crush of his mouth steering every inch of me toward a plea for more, more, more!!! I felt my spine give, knees liquefying until the only solid thing left in the room was the slow grind of his body keeping me upright.

    It was then that I first felt his thin but long cock slid along my navel; the shock of it snapped me aware of my own cock—so stiff it felt iced-over, numb at the core. I sank back into his mouth, let the taste of perfume and salt flood me, then drifted down again: our two dicks fencing for space, nudging, slipping, sparking little lightning bolts that climbed my ribs and burst behind my eyes.

    I let a long moan out, and in response he dragged his lips down my throat, exhaling slowly, so slowly… and every move he made covered me with a warm cloud of that perfume. It hit my bloodstream like vodka, made my fingers curl hard into his shoulders while I gasped for air that suddenly tasted only of him.

    Then our mouths crashed into each other again—there was no rhythm to it now, just raw hunger. He bit my lower lip, paused, then soothed the sting with a slow swipe of his tongue before he dove back in. I opened for him instantly; his tongue found every hidden corner of my mouth like it was charting new territory. Each breath I took seemed to come straight from him—hot, spiced with perfume—and the groan that rolled up my chest got trapped between our teeth, vibrating there while our cocks kept up their slick, angry duel.

    Then he was down on his knees, the rod of his hard cock rubbing against my thigh now. He took me halfway on the first go, lips sealing just under the crown, tongue pressing flat up my shaft. First came a single slow suck, then he pulled off, licked the slit, and dove again—this time farther, nose brushing my bush while his throat flexed around the head. I felt the tight ring squeeze, release, squeeze again, like he was preparing to squeeze the first drop of precum out of me.

    He set a rhythm: down, hold, up with a hard pull that made my skin drag along his teeth just enough to sting. Spit pooled, slid down my balls; he chased it with his fingers, rubbing the wet into my sack while he kept working my cock. Every third stroke or so he swallowed me to the root and stayed there, humming low until my thighs jerked and I gasped loud enough to produce a faint echo.

    When he felt me start to buck, he clamped an arm across my hips, pinned me to the wall, and went faster—short sucks right on the head, tongue flicking the underside ridge, hand twisting the rest. My cock turned slick, dark red, veins pulsing against his lips; he sucked like he wanted the load out now, no tease, just raw pull, and the pressure stacked hot and heavy at the base of my spine, ready to snap.

    “Erik, Erik,” I gasped. “Slow, please slow…”

    He then rose, his cock swaying majestically in front of him and tugged me by the wrist, backing me toward the bed until my legs hit the edge and I collapsed backwards. Before I could scoot up, he swung a leg over, straddled my hips, and leaned in—chest stopping just short of touching mine. The heat coming off his skin carried that thick perfume; I sucked it in greedy gulps until my head spun and every nerve felt like it was standing on end, waiting for the next move.

    He then hovered over me, his flour-dusted skin inches away from my skin, and I felt his spit-covered finger circle my hole—slowly, politely, like knocking before entering. When he pushed, the glide was slick but the burn still shocked me; my toes curled against the rug and I leaned toward him. He slid to the second knuckle, twisting, and the heat spread up my spine like whiskey spilled on silk. One breath, two, and the sting melted into a dull ache that had me pushing back for more, more.  The soft spoken man with a stutter was now strong and demanding, pushing me even a bit painfully, heavy and breathing hoarsely…

    Next I felt his long thin paper-white cock with a softly pink bare glans enter me; my hole bloomed and opened, the first thrust pushed a fresh cloud of his powerful scent over my face and I cried out, overwhelmed. My fingers clawed at the sheets as he paused, letting the scent settle into my lungs like warm brandy. Every inch of his thin dick, comfortably loose in my asshole, felt as if he wanted me to memorize the exact moment he became part of me. The room spun, cedar and orange notes of his scent spinning into something darker, more primal.

    Then he started moving; each thrust was deep and steady; every rock of his hips stirred the air and sent new waves of pheromone crashing over me. My back arched involuntarily, meeting his rhythm. The mattress creaked beneath us in a slow, ancient language. Each thrust carried his scent deeper, until I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began – just the heat of him, the weight, the way my name became a whisper against his throat as he drove me past coherent thought.

    The pace quickened and he leaned down, burying my face in his neck; I breathed him in desperately as pleasure coiled tighter. His skin was fever-hot against my lips, his pulse hammered under my tongue as I tasted his salt and some hot peppery flavor, so unusual and so indefinably him. Each snap of his hips drove the air from my lungs in small, broken sounds that he swallowed with kisses pressed to my temple, my cheek, anywhere he could reach without breaking that relentless rhythm.

    My legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper as the coil inside me wound impossibly tight. His breath came in harsh pants against my ear, mixing with my own ragged gasps, and I could feel him swelling, pulsing, so close to the edge. The scent of us together – cedar and orange and raw need – filled every breath as I clung to him—now so fucking hotly silent stutterer, lover of botany, white and pink albino with long silver hair—drowning in the way he moved like he was made to fit inside me, like we’d been waiting for this exact moment to come together.

    He slowed just before the edge, breathing hard against my ear; the concentrated perfume made me whimper and plead. Each deliberate withdrawal left me empty, aching, only to be filled again with that torturous patience that had me moan incoherently against his shoulder. His low chuckle vibrated through my chest as he kept us hovering on that razor-thin line, the scent so thick now it felt like liquid heat pouring down my throat with every breath.

    “Please, finish me,” I managed to moan, voice cracking as my nails scored down his back. He answered with a single, deep thrust that had me seeing stars, then stilled again – cruel and perfect and so overwhelmingly him that tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. The wait was exquisite agony, every second stretching until I could feel my own heartbeat in the place where we joined, could taste his restraint in the way his muscles trembled under my hands.

    He slammed back in, fast and ruthless; the scent saturated everything and my vision whited out as pleasure crashed over me in brutal waves, each thrust prolonging the fall into the endless long itches of my urethra and seemingly endless pulses and throbs of my dick.  In many long years have I not produced so many stripes of cum; each inhale of his pheromones mixed now with the smell of the semen drove me crazy: I shook, I moaned, I growled, and he… he was silent, panting, pushing, looking not at me but at the ceiling, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

    When his own time came, it started as the soft trembling of his legs, then slowly it rose to his dick that felt enormously large now in my ass; his glans pounded my prostate and I finally heard him moan – low, grumbling noises of someone twice his size—and then he shook, he growled, he whispered “oh-my-fucking-god” and four spurts of that silent botanist’s cum hit my tired, aching gland…

    He breathed out gently and gathered me against his chest; the clouds softened into a warm blanket and I floated in that space, feeling weightless. He cuddled me, stroking my back while the scent lingered sweetly, and I nuzzled closer, still high on him.  For minutes, we lay there in the fading perfume, our hearts slowing, bodies humming; I smiled against his skin, completely owned and utterly content…

    … Every time I am in Florida, I try to make it to Tampa—and on cooler, cloudy days the itinerary includes a walk in the park with Erik, a gentle talk about botany, and then another of those head-spinning white-on-tan fucks that make me float through space and produce endless orgasms on the white snow of his body…


    To get in touch with the author, send them an email.


  • The sport of love

    The flashbulbs exploded like fireworks as Adrien stepped out of the club, his tennis bag slung over one shoulder, his sheer silk shirt clinging to the sweat still damp on his skin. The reporters swarmed, their voices overlapping in a chaotic chorus—“Adrien! Is it true about you and Levy Connelly?”“Are you two more than just friends?”“Has the NFL star finally come out?” His hazel eyes gleamed with amusement beneath the glare of the cameras, that damn beauty mark under his left eye twitching as he smirked. “Just a friend, he is straight, you guys” he purred, voice smooth as honey, knowing full well the lie would only stoke the flames. He didn’t wait for follow-ups. Slipping into the sleek black sports car parked curbside, he peeled out of the lot before the next question could land, his phone buzzing against his thigh.

    Levy’s name lit up the screen.

    Come over. Need to talk.

    Adrien’s fingers tightened around the wheel. His pulse kicked up, heat pooling low in his gut. He didn’t bother replying—just floored it, the city lights bleeding into streaks of neon as he wove through traffic. Levy’s place was a penthouse downtown, all glass and steel, the kind of cold luxury that suited a man who’d spent his life hiding. The elevator ride up was torture, his reflection in the mirrored walls showing the flush creeping up his neck, the way his nipples hardened beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. He adjusted himself discreetly, his average cock already half-hard, betraying him.

    The door opened before he could knock.

    Levy stood there, broad shoulders nearly filling the frame, his casual jersey stretched tight over his muscular chest. His blue eyes flicked away the second they met Adrien’s, a nervous smile tugging at his lips. “Hey. Thanks for… you know.” His voice was rough, like he’d been chewing on the words.

    Adrien stepped inside, the scent of Levy’s cologne—something woodsy, expensive—wrapping around him. “Well,” he drawled, letting his bag slide to the floor with a thud, “we are just friends, right?” The teasing lilt in his voice was deliberate, a flick of the wrist to see how Levy would react.

    Levy’s jaw clenched. He shut the door a little too hard. “Yeah. Friends.” But his fingers brushed Adrien’s as he handed him a glass of whiskey, the contact electric, lingering just a second too long. “You want ice?”

    “Neat’s fine.” Adrien took a sip, watching Levy over the rim. Levi was wound tight, his knuckles white around his own glass. “You’re tense,” Adrien observed, swirling the amber liquid. “Something on your mind?”

    Levy exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “The press is already asking about us.”

    “Let them.” Adrien shrugged, leaning back against the couch, his laced shirt riding up just enough to tease the waistband of his jeans. “They’ll get bored eventually.”

    Levy didn’t sit. He paced, his sneakers silent against the hardwood. “It’s not that simple. My team—”

    “Your team can fuck off.” The words slipped out before Adrien could stop them, sharper than he’d intended. He softened it with a smirk. “You’re the star quarterback. They’re not gonna drop you over this.”

    Levy’s eyes darkened. “You don’t get it. This isn’t just some… fling for me.” He stopped, turning to face Adrien head-on. “I’ve never—” His voice cracked. “I’ve been with women. Men, once or twice, but never…” He gestured vaguely between them. “Never like this.”

    Adrien set his glass down. “Never felt what, Levy?” He let his gaze drag over Levy’s body, slow and deliberate, lingering on the bulge straining against his sweatpants. “Never wanted someone so bad it hurts?”

    Levy’s breath hitched. “Adrien—”

    “Or is it that you’ve never wanted a guy this bad?” Adrien pushed off the couch, closing the distance between them. He could see the pulse hammering in Levy’s throat, the way his fists clenched at his sides. “Tell me, Levy. What’s got you so scared?”

    “You,” Levy admitted, voice raw. “You’re—fuck, you’re everything.*” His hand shot out, gripping the back of Adrien’s neck, pulling him into a kiss that was all teeth and desperation. Adrien melted against him, his body arching into the heat, the taste of whiskey and need on Levy’s tongue.

    Clothes were a nuisance. Adrien’s fingers fumbled with the hem of Levy’s jersey, yanking it over his head while Levy kicked off his sneakers, his hands already working at Adrien’s belt. The silk shirt was next, torn away with a growl, buttons scattering across the floor. Adrien’s cock sprang free, already leaking, but Levy didn’t touch it—just shoved him backward until his knees hit the bed.

    “On the bed,” Levy ordered, voice rough with command.

    Adrien obeyed, sprawling across the sheets, his bubble ass pressing into the mattress, his hole already twitching in anticipation. Levy loomed over him, his cock thick and flushed, the veins standing out against his pale skin. He didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. Just grabbed Adrien’s hips and flipped him onto his stomach, yanking his ass up into the air.

    “You’re gonna take it like this,” Levy growled, spitting onto his palm before slicking his cock. “Like the greedy little slut you are.”

    Adrien whimpered, pressing his face into the pillow. Levy was now more agressive, he liked that. The first press of Levy’s cock against his entrance was brutal, stretching him wide without mercy. “Fuck—slow—” he gasped, but Levy didn’t listen. He shoved in to the hilt, his balls slapping against Fabrice’s ass, his fingers digging into his hips hard enough to bruise.

    “You can take it,” Levy snarled, pulling out just to slam back in. “You were made for this, weren’t you? Made to be fucked raw by a real man.” His thrusts were punishing, each snap of his hips driving Adrien further into the mattress. The bed creaked beneath them, the sound obscene, drowned out only by the wet slap of skin and Adrien’s broken moans.

    “Levy—please—” Adrien voice cracked, his knuckles white where he clutched the sheets. His cock ached, untouched, pre-cum dripping onto the bed beneath him. Adrien didn’t think Levy would fuck this way.

    “Begging already?” Levy’s laugh was dark, triumphant. He leaned down, his chest pressing Adrien into the mattress, his mouth hot against his ear. “You love this, don’t you? Love being my little fucktoy. My pussy.” He punctuated the word with a particularly vicious thrust, his cock hitting that spot deep inside that made Adrien’s vision white out.

    “Yes—yes—” Adrien sobbed, his body trembling, his hole clenching around Levy’s cock. “Breed me—fuck, I want it—”

    Levy’s control shattered. His rhythm turned erratic, his thrusts losing their precision in favor of raw, animalistic need. “Gonna fill you up,” he grunted, his cock swelling inside Adrien’s stretched hole. “Gonna put a baby in this tight little ass, make you mine forever.”

    Adrien came with a broken cry, his cock pulsing against the sheets, cum spilling in thick ropes as Levy’s final thrusts sent him over the edge. Levy followed with a groan, his seed flooding Adrien’s gaping hole, so deep it hurt. Adrien could feel it dripping out of him as Levy collapsed on top of him, their sweat-slick skin sticking together.

    For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing.

    Levy’s hand found Adrien’s hair, stroking it gently, his voice soft now, almost uncertain. “What now?”

    Adrien turned his head, his lips curling into that familiar smirk, even as his body still trembled from the aftershocks. “Now?” He trailed a finger down Levy’s chest, circling his nipple. “Now we figure it out.”

  • Peeping Tom Punishment

    The following story contains content that may not be suitable for all readers, including, but not limited to, drug use, physical restraint, non-consensual sex or emotionally damaging behavior. This story is fictional and does not portray real events or real persons. Reader discretion is advised. All characters are 18 years or older.


    Life was good. I was 18, had just graduated from high school, and was preparing for college in the fall. For now, I had my summer ahead of me and the ability to do as I wished. I was fortunate to have parents who didn’t push me to get a summer job as long as I helped out around the house, looked after my little brother, and kept out of trouble. My jogging and gym routine was paying off, and I was lean and muscled with a sexy girlfriend who couldn’t get enough of my fit body and hefty cock. Meghan and I had frequent and amazing sex whenever we had the chance, and I was looking forward to a long, hot, horny summer with her before heading off to college.

    My parents and little brother were away for a week visiting my grandparents, and I was alone at home. I decided to celebrate my first day of freedom by smoking a joint on the back deck and soaking up some rays before checking in with my buddies. I knew Meghan would be busy helping her parents with a gardening project for the next couple of days, so I wouldn’t be getting any action from her for a while, which was a shame. It was a hot, humid day, and with no one around and a fairly private backyard, I was only wearing boxer briefs and enjoying the feel of the sun on my toned body as I smoked up. Weed always makes me horny, and today was no exception.

    My buzzed mind wandered to the couple next door, who I call Mr. and Mrs. Costa, also known as Butch and Lori. They had been our neighbors for almost ten years now, so I had known them since I was a kid. Butch ran a garage in town, owned a motorcycle, and worked out in his home gym regularly. He was about 6’3” and weighed over 210 pounds and looked like your stereotypical biker with a long handlebar mustache, shaved head, and a muscle-packed body supported by his job and gym workouts. He looked intimidating, but he was friendly once you got to know him. Lori, his sexy wife, was about 5’4” with a petite body and an amazing set of tits. I had spent many sessions jerking off to visions of Lori and what I would do with her given the chance. Butch was a lucky man.

    The hot sun felt great on my bulging package between my legs as I thought about Mrs. Costa’s stunning tits and how I would love to ride them with my cock. My girlfriend Meghan had let me titty-fuck her last night after I gave her a long, hot, oil massage. I love the feel of my 9” cock and balls sliding between her greased tits when she holds her melons in place. She likes to tease me and lick the tip of my cock at the top of each slippery stroke, which drives me crazy. I pictured doing this to Mrs. Costa and what it would be like to shoot a thick, hot load into her sexy mouth. I have no complaints with Meghan; she’s a gorgeous, sexy, intelligent woman, but I have always had a thing for Mrs. C., and I was quickly chubbing up in my shorts thinking about her when I heard a noise next door.

    Lori and Butch have a deck and a hot tub in their backyard, which is up against our fence and mostly hidden from view. Knowing Butch would be at work this time of day, I wondered if Mrs. C was suntanning in one of her barely there bikinis. Over the years, I had occasionally caught a glimpse of her amazing tits either from my upstairs bedroom window or by sneaking up to the fence between our yards and carefully peering through a convenient knothole in one of the boards. The spot was hidden from our house by our garden shed, so I had discreetly used it in the past to check out what was going on next door. Lucky for me, Lori and Butch liked to party and occasionally get naked in their tub. If I were super quiet, I’d get to see Lori in all her glory soaking in the tub with her round tits floating in the water. On one memorable evening last summer, I had even watched Butch plow her sweet pussy on the edge of the tub with what looked like a 10” cock. The guy was big all over. I quietly and furiously jerked off while watching Lori writhe in passion and have jerked off many times since replaying the moment in my head. Damn, I was horny and starting to precum a bit in my shorts. Meghan, where are you when I need you?

    Knowing I was moving away to school in the fall and might have limited opportunities to see Mrs. C many more times, I decided to slip over to the viewing gallery to see what was happening. Given it was daylight, it was a bit risky, but I was stoned and horny enough to try it. Half hard, I carefully padded over in my shorts to the shaded area between our shed and the shared fence and quietly knelt down to look through the knothole. Immediately my semi lurched to full erection as I spotted Mrs. C lying on a lounge beside their hot tub completely nude. She was leisurely applying suntan oil to herself and had just finished her arms and was starting to rub oil on her firm tits. I almost groaned out loud in appreciation as she seemed to be taking extra time to rub in the oil while she pulled and teased her erect nipples. Holy shit, this was my lucky day!

    I took the opportunity to maneuver my thick cock and balls out into the open from the left leg of my shorts. My tool was dripping precum as I used it to lubricate my cock along with some spit while I quietly stroked and watched. Lori was now rubbing oil on her hips, belly, and around her pussy. She seemed to be enjoying her mini massage. I almost creamed myself when she started to rub her fingers teasingly around her clit and dipped one finger gingerly into her wet and oily pussy. Oh my god, I didn’t know if I could take much more of this as I gripped my throbbing shaft in appreciation as she began to finger herself in earnest while pulling on her nipples with the other hand.

    My shorts were starting to get in the way, so I quietly stood up to slip them off. When I knelt back down to look through the knothole, I was disappointed to see that Lori was no longer visible. Wondering if she had gone back into the house, I was shocked to see Lori’s face suddenly move into view about a foot away, looking directly back at me through the knothole! “Aha, I thought I heard something! Is that you, Ryan?” Oh, shit! I couldn’t believe I was caught as I jumped back from the fence and stood up. I debated running to the house and pretending nothing had happened when Lori said, “Oh my, where have you been hiding that beautiful cock? Let me see, honey!”

    What the hell? The hot vixen next door was asking to see my dick rather than yelling at me for spying on her like a creep? I belatedly realized that by stepping back and standing up, my glistening hard-on was now at eye level to the hole and filling Lori’s view. I froze, not knowing what to do. “C’mon, Ryan, I know you were watching me; it’s only fair that I get to watch you for a bit. Come closer.” I was no longer thinking with my big head and moved in a daze towards the fence to comply with Lori’s request.

    “Yum, that looks so tasty, it’s almost as big as Butch’s.” Fuck, Butch! What the hell was I doing showing my cock to Butch’s wife? Did I mention Butch was a big, muscular biker dude? As fit as I had become, Butch could snap me in half like a twig if he wanted to, and here I was giving him plenty of motive.

    Nevertheless, when Lori then asked if she could have a taste, I brought the knob of my tool up to the knothole. The hole was almost 2” wide, so it was easy to see through. I’m actually surprised Lori and Butch had never done anything to cover up the knothole from their side, given how often they went naked and fooled around in their tub. I guess they figured it was behind our garden shed so no one would ever look through it. Little did they know how enterprising the 18-year-old next door could be. As is, it was easy for me to stick the head of my dick through the hole at Mrs. Costa’s request.

    I heard Lori say, “Oh honey…” before hungrily licking the precum off the tip with her tongue. Fuck! I thought I might be three short licks from shooting a load on her face if she kept this up. “More,” urged Lori. I interpreted this as her wanting me to slide more of my dick into the hole, so I readily complied as her wet, warm mouth engulfed my throbbing cock. Oh shit, this was a dream come true. Mrs. Costa was hungrily slurping my rod and loving it, apparently, by the sound of her moans. She was steadily sliding her lips up and down my dick as I pressed up against the fence in the cool shade between the shed and fence. I had my hands over the top of the fence, holding on to the edge for balance as she blew me. I was in heaven.

    I felt her pulling on my balls as she struggled to slip them through the hole as well. She was finally able to get one at a time through until both my balls and cock were firmly wedged in the hole and subject to Lori’s licks and strokes. She was now lapping away at my shaved, heavy balls while lightly stroking my hard prick. Butch was the luckiest man alive if this is how Lori treated him. I felt something cold being placed around my balls and cock, and before I could react, I felt it click into place. I heard Lori say, “That’s better.” What the hell? It felt like I was wearing a metal cock ring. My tool pulsed with the extra pressure wrapped around it, but I also realized as I pulled back in surprise that I could no longer fit back through the hole. My swollen junk was firmly trapped on the other side of the fence. There was no way I was going anywhere until Lori released whatever she had placed around my dick, or I lost my hard-on, and that wasn’t happening anytime soon as Lori playfully slapped my dick with her hand and pulled on my balls while giggling in delight.

    Despite being stuck, I figured all was good, and I was looking forward to further ministrations on my throbbing cock until I heard Lori shout, “Hey, Butch! Come here for a second!” Oh no, no, no! Butch was home!?! I tried to pull my cock back through the fence in horror, but there was no way I was going anywhere. Shit! What the hell had she put on my dick? A handcuff? I was feeling more horrified than horny at this point, except for the fact that Lori continued to stroke and pull at my dick, keeping me hard and dripping. Butch is going to freak! How would I ever explain this? What the hell was she up to?

    I heard the door into the garage open as Butch walked into the backyard. “What’s up, babe? Huh… what the hell!?! WHO THE FUCK IS THAT!” I pictured Butch, sweaty and pumped from working out, standing near Lori, staring at my 9” of meat as Lori continued to tease me. I could only imagine the furious expression on his face and how he might react. I knew I was going to die, but at the same time Lori was driving me fucking nuts with her exquisite handjob. Part of me wanted to pull back until something gave, and part of me wanted to thrust further into her talented hands.

    “This, my dear husband, belongs to Ryan next door, who was watching me nude sunbathe. He’s a very naughty boy, but you were right, he is hung like a horse.” Wait, what? Even in my terror, I wondered why Butch would be commenting on my dick size. Before I could fully process this, I heard Butch ask Lori why she had her bracelet around my cock. Ah, it’s a metal bracelet. Damn.

    “It makes for a great cock ring, but it’s also keeping Ryan from going anywhere while we talk about what a bad boy he’s been and, more importantly, what we should do about it.” Lori responded.

    “Smart lady. That little pervert, wait until I talk to his parents!” Butch fumed.

    I could stay silent no longer. “Wait, no! Please don’t tell my parents, Mr. Costa! I’m sorry, I should never have been watching Mrs. Costa. I won’t do it again. Please, I’ll do anything! Just don’t tell my parents,” I sobbed.

    I felt a shift in the fence, and suddenly Butch’s head was looking down over the fence at me. “Uh, did you say anything, Ryan?” He asked with what I sensed might have been a bit of a smirk, but it was hard to tell for sure under his big mustache.

    “Yes, for sure. Anything you want! I’m so sorry. Just please don’t tell my parents!” I begged. My parents were fairly conservative and would flip if they heard about this. I pictured my well-planned and supported move to college in the fall now in peril.

    Butch was definitely grinning as he looked down at me trapped against the fence. “You know, Ryan, we just might be able to work something out if you mean that. Stay put,” he said as he jumped back down off the fence, leaving me on my own again. Stay put? No shit. I heard Butch say to Lori, “Keep doing what you’re doing; I’m going next door to have a chat with Ryan.” What the hell?

    I heard the gate at the front of their yard open, along with ours, and the next thing I know, Butch is in our yard standing at the end of the shed looking in at me naked against the fence, shaking his head. “How the hell did you ever get yourself into this position, buddy?” I definitely did not like the look on his face. He was shirtless, hairy, and sweaty from working out and wearing some ratty old rugby shorts that barely contained what looked like a sizeable bulge. Was Butch getting hard? “I’m glad you’re willing to make this right. I think we can definitely put this behind us.” Why the hell was Butch rubbing his cock through his shorts while he was talking to me?

    “Uh, yeah, of course, Mr. Costa. I’m really sorry about this. Just let me know what I can do. I really appreciate your understanding.”

    “Actually, Ryan, you don’t need to do anything. Just stay where you are, and I’ll handle the rest. To be honest, I’ve had my eye on your ass since I first saw your big, firm butt in those skimpy running shorts you like to prance around in. You’ve really been putting on the muscle with your workout routine; nice job. You see, Lori and I are open to new things, and as great as she is in the sack, she doesn’t like to take Little Butch in the ass, which means today is your lucky day.”

    I stared at Butch in dawning horror as he stroked what looked like a tire iron through his straining shorts. He was so big, at least 3 inches of his cock were sticking out of the waistband. I couldn’t stop staring at the enormous head of his dick; it looked angry and was drooling precum. Butch yelled over the fence. “Lori, do me a favor and grab that little bottle of Rush along with the lube from the bedside table.”

    “Got it, babe, be right back,” Lori replied, leaving me alone with her horny, crazy husband as he slid his shorts off, freeing his lumbering cock, and walked up behind me. Lube? Fuck! Little Butch was anything but little, and there was no way I could take that monster up the ass. Meghan had occasionally stuck a finger up my there when we were fooling around, but otherwise I was an anal virgin and planning to stay that way.

    “Please, Mr. Costa. I’m not gay! I’ll do anything but this.” I cried.

    “Who said anything about being gay? I’m not gay either. This is just about a couple of buddies helping each other out. It won’t make you gay, and I’ll go nice and slow. Who knows, you may even like it.”

    “No, please…” I whined as Butch ran his big hands up and down my muscular abs and brushed my ass with the head of his hard tool.

    “Shh, Ryan, trust me,” he said as he started to slide his precum-coated shaft up and down the crack of my ass while holding my hips firmly in place.

    “Here you go, Butch!” yelled Lori cheerfully as she handed over a little brown bottle and a tube of AstroGlide.

    “Thanks, babe, and thanks for the early birthday present. I’m going to love this. Take a squirt of lube and keep edging Ryan on your side of the fence. Just make sure he doesn’t cum until I give you the signal.” Butch squirted a big glob of lube into Lori’s outstretched palm before she jumped back down out of sight on their side of the fence. I felt the cool lube hit my rock-hard dick as she greased me up. With the pressure of the knothole and Lori’s bracelet wrapped around my dick, my cock was harder than it had ever been.

    I heard a squirt of lube behind me and felt Butch slide his hand up between my ass cheeks and start to rub my crack and hole with his lubed fingers. With Lori stroking me on one side and Butch lightly teasing my hole, I involuntarily groaned and pushed into the fence. “Oh yeah, I think you’re going to do just fine,” Butch offered. He was lightly running circles around my hole with his finger before easing one greasy fingertip into my tight hole. I couldn’t help but let out a quiet groan as he worked more of his finger into me. “Is this your first time, Ryan? Your ass is so tight…” Suddenly, I groaned out loud as his finger slid in all the way, hitting my prostate.

    I heard Lori call over the fence, “Keep doing whatever you’re doing, honey. His dick is leaking precum and twitching on this side!”

    “You got it, babe,” Butch replied as he started to work a second finger into my lubed hole. “Just relax, Ryan; it will make things easier. Try this.” Butch had the brown bottle open and was holding it under my nose. “I’m going to cover one nostril and need you to take a big sniff from each side to make sure you’re nice and relaxed.” I had heard of poppers but never tried them, but I figured at this point it might help as Butch slowly but relentlessly stretched my hole with what felt like a third finger. “Take another hit, buddy.” I breathed in another deep hit of poppers for good measure.

    Suddenly my head felt fuzzy as my skin tingled and every nerve on my dick soared. I could feel my cock pulse as Lori mercilessly ran her small fingers around my lubed tool. I could also feel my ass opening and welcoming Butch’s fingers as he plunged deeper. Every time he brushed against my prostate, my ass pushed back into him. What the hell was happening to me?

    “I think you’re just about ready, Ryan. Remember, relax and try to push back like you’re taking a dump.” I heard Butch lather up his cock with lube as he called over the fence. “I’m going in, honey; wait for my signal.” Butch pressed his massive, slicked tool into my crack as he leaned forward and whispered into my ear so only I could hear, “You know, Ryan… your ass will always be mine after this.” I could smell the sweat off Butch as he surrounded me with his naked, sweaty, pumped body. He slid his cock downward, pulling my ass cheeks apart so the greased head was directly on my hole. I could feel him pressing into me as my puckered hole reluctantly started to open. Damn. I felt the brown bottle once again pushed up against my nose and inhaled desperately, hoping it would help. Mr. Costa repeated it twice for each side of my nose. “Keep holding your breath, Ryan,” as the enormous head of his cock eased further into my virgin hole. “Okay, let it out.” My head exploded as the popper rush hit. My ass suddenly felt empty, and I needed Mr. Costa’s thick tool buried in me. He pressed further, and suddenly the head popped inside as I groaned like a cat in heat. “You’re doing fine, son.” The pain was sharp, but it also felt surprisingly good as he slowly eased in more and more of his slick tool. I found myself pressing back and whimpering in pleasure as the pain receded.

    “Take another whiff, Ryan,” I heard as I groaned into the fence. I didn’t know if I could take much more of this. My ass felt amazing, and my dick was close to blasting a load from Mrs. Costa’s teasing. As another popper rush hit me, my body pushed back hard against Mr. Costa, and he buried his thick cock to the hilt in my hole. Oh, fuck, fuck. I could feel his sweaty and lube-covered balls pressing against mine as I growled in ecstasy. “Oh yeah, Ryan, you’re taking it all. Here we go, baby!” as he began to slowly slide in and out of my greased hole. Each time he sank back into me and brushed against my prostate, I thought I would cum, but he and his wife worked as a team to keep me tantalizingly on the edge. I found myself muttering, “Fuck me…” over and over as he grabbed me by the hips and started to increase his pace until he was slamming his huge cock into my ass. Why was I loving this so much?

    Lori and Butch continued to work in tandem while I hung from the fence with my cock firmly held by the knothole and Lori’s bracelet. “I’m going to breed him, babe; get ready!” Butch yelled over the fence. At this point, Butch was fucking me so hard the fence was rocking with the motion, and for a moment I wondered if it would hold. I could feel Lori switch from a handjob to deep-throating me each time Butch bottomed out on his end. I was groaning nonstop with my eyes rolling back in my head. Butch gave me one more sniff of poppers before taking two big snorts himself and picking up the pace even more.

    “I’m coming, babe! Now!” Butch bellowed as he drilled into me like a piston with his thick 10-inch cock. In the summer heat, we were dripping in sweat with our muscles straining from the shared workout. Butch was relentless as he bred my virgin ass while his wife slurped on my cock from their yard. As Butch screamed, I felt his cock pulse into my hole as he sprayed my insides with shot after shot of hot cum. I couldn’t take it anymore and shot the biggest load of my life into my fantasy MILF next door’s mouth while her husband fucked me like an animal. I had never felt so used and fulfilled as my orgasm shook me while I clung desperately to the fence. My ass clenched around Butch’s thick tool as I pumped my load into Lori’s mouth. It sounded like Lori came as well from her groans, and I imagined her fingering herself furiously while she sucked me off. We were all sweaty, exhausted, and breathing heavily as things started to slow down. I could feel Lori pull back from my dick, and suddenly she was leaning over the fence looking down at both of us with a mischievous grin on her face. Butch smiled up at her and said, “Hey, honey, c’mere,” as she leaned down for a kiss with Butch’s cock still firmly buried in my ass.

    I heard Butch groaning in surprise as he realized that Lori had saved my load in her mouth and was now sharing it with her husband through their passionate kiss. Butch’s cock pressed deeper into my hole as they both hungrily sucked at each other’s tongues and swallowed my load together. I was learning more and more about Mr. Costa all the time.

    “How are you doing, buddy?” Butch asked as Lori pulled back over the fence, and he leaned into me with his hard, sweaty body and some of my cum hanging from his handlebar mustache.

    “Um, I’m doing great, Mr. Costa. Just let me catch my breath. Holy fuck!”

    “Good boy, Ryan. I think you can start calling me Butch and lose the Mr. Costa, something tells me we might be spending more time together. When do you leave for school?”

    “Uh, September, Mr… I mean Butch.”

    “Great. Why don’t you come over tonight for a hot tub, and we can continue to get to know each other? Doesn’t that sound great, Lori?”

    Lori yelled, “You bet, babe. Looking forward to it, Ryan,” as I felt her removing her bracelet from my dick. Suddenly I was free from the fence and falling back into Butch’s muscular arms while still impaled on his cock. It felt strangely good to lean back against his brawny chest with his arms wrapped around me.

    “What time should I be here?” I asked.


    To get in touch with the author, send them an email.


  • Payback is a useless community bitch

    Alex was a prissy little community worker in his early twenties, a sissy twink with soft, pale skin, a slim waist, and a bubble butt that he flaunted in tight jeans while pretending to help the less fortunate. But deep down, he despised the homeless men who gathered in the alleyways near his office. He’d call them “filthy scum” under his breath, report them to the cops for loitering, and even spit on their makeshift camps when no one was looking. “They should just die off,” he’d sneer to his colleagues, discriminating against them at every turn, denying them food stamps or shelter referrals because they “didn’t deserve it.”

    One rainy night, as Alex strutted out of the community center after a long day of fake smiles and real bigotry, a group of five burly homeless Black men—tired, ragged, and fed up with his shit—ambushed him in the shadows. They’d been watching him for weeks, enduring his insults and evictions. Led by Marcus, a towering ex-con with a massive 12-inch BBC that swung like a weapon between his legs, they grabbed Alex from behind, clamping a dirty rag over his mouth laced with something that made his world spin. “Time for payback, you little white bitch,” Marcus growled as they dragged him into a abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town, far from prying eyes.

    They stripped him naked in the dim light of a flickering bulb, his tiny pink cocklette twitching uselessly as they laughed at his smooth, hairless body. Alex whimpered through the gag, his eyes wide with terror, but the men weren’t having any of it. They tied him to a rusty metal frame, bent over like a breeding slut, his ass exposed and vulnerable. “You think we’re trash? We’re gonna make you our personal dumpster,” one of them, Jamal, snarled, his thick 11-inch BBC already hardening at the sight.

    The revenge started slow but built into a frenzy of depravity. Marcus went first, shoving his enormous black cock down Alex’s throat without mercy, face-fucking him until tears streamed down his cheeks and snot bubbled from his nose. “Swallow it, sissy. Taste the street grime on my dick.” Alex gagged and choked, but they held his head in place, forcing him to deepthroat until his lips were bruised and his throat raw. As Marcus pulled out, he pissed straight into Alex’s open mouth, the hot, acrid stream overflowing and drenching his face. “Drink up, community cunt. That’s your new job.”

    But that was just the appetizer. The real nastiness began when they moved to his ass. Tyrone, with his veiny 10-incher, didn’t bother with lube—he rammed in dry, tearing Alex’s tight hole open as the twink screamed into the gag. Blood mixed with the precum as Tyrone pounded away, grunting like an animal. “You discriminated against us? Now you’re our fucktoy.” The others joined in, taking turns spit-roasting him, their huge BBCs stretching him beyond limits, turning his once-pretty hole into a gaping, sloppy mess.

    Then came the scat. They’d been holding it in for days, their diets of dumpster scraps making their loads thick and foul. Marcus squatted over Alex’s face first, unleashing a massive, steaming pile of shit right onto his mouth and nose. The stench was overwhelming—rotten eggs, decay, and pure filth—as the hot, mushy turd smeared across his lips. “Eat it, bitch. That’s your dinner now.” They forced his mouth open with rough hands, shoving chunks of feces down his throat, making him chew and swallow while he retched violently. Vomit mixed with the shit, creating a slurry that they smeared all over his body, painting him like a canvas of degradation.

    The gangbang escalated into a full-on scat orgy. Jamal shat directly into Alex’s ruined asshole while fucking him, using his own turd as lube, the squelching sounds echoing in the warehouse as brown sludge oozed out with every thrust. “Feel that, sissy? Your hole’s a toilet now.” The others followed, taking turns dumping their loads inside him—thick logs of shit packing his guts until his belly bulged like he was pregnant with filth. They pissed enema-style, flushing it deeper, then made him push it out in explosive bursts, splattering the floor and their cocks.

    Cum joined the mix soon after. Each man unloaded buckets of thick, pent-up seed—Marcus blasting ropes across Alex’s shit-smeared face, Jamal filling his ass until it leaked like a faucet, Tyrone coating his tiny cocklette in jizz to humiliate him further. They rotated, gangbanging him for hours, their BBCs never softening, turning him into a human cumrag soaked in semen and feces. Alex’s body was a wreck—covered in bruises, bite marks, and layers of drying shit that cracked like mud as he moved. His mind broke somewhere in the middle, his protests turning to broken moans as they conditioned him to crave the abuse.

    By dawn, they weren’t done. They dragged him out to the alley where they’d first met him, 

    Alex’s transformation into the ultimate street toilet began the moment they unchained him from the warehouse frame and marched him naked through the piss-soaked alleys, his body already crusted with layers of dried shit, cum, and vomit. His belly was swollen from the gallons of homeless piss and thick turd loads they’d forced into his guts like a human enema bag. Every step made wet, squelching farts bubble out of his ruined asshole, spraying brown sludge down his thighs.

    They dragged him to the busiest homeless encampment under the freeway overpass—a festering pit of trash, used needles, and overflowing buckets that served as communal toilets. Dozens of rough, unwashed Black men lived there, their massive BBCs perpetually hard from days without release. Word of the “discriminating sissy bitch” who’d finally gotten his payback spread like wildfire.

    Marcus shoved Alex face-first into the central shit pit—a shallow trench where the men had been defecating for months. The surface was a bubbling swamp of soft, diarrheal dumps, maggots wriggling through the softer piles, the stench so thick it burned the lungs. “Welcome home, toilet boy,” Marcus laughed, kicking Alex’s ass until he landed spread-eagled in the filth. Instantly, the warm, sticky muck sucked at his skin, coating his pretty twink face in weeks-old feces as he screamed and gagged.

    The gangbang turned into a nonstop scat apocalypse.

    Men lined up in a circle, jerking their enormous, grime-crusted cocks while others squatted directly over Alex’s body. One by one, they unleashed apocalyptic loads—some rock-hard logs that thudded onto his chest like bricks, others explosive watery diarrhea that hosed him down like a pressure washer of pure rot. A 400-pound beast named Big Rufus dropped a foot-long corn-studded turd right across Alex’s open, crying mouth, forcing him to chew the undigested kernels while choking on the rancid flavor. “Swallow every bit, white trash. You’re lower than us now.”

    They didn’t just shit on him—they used him as a living toilet mid-fuck. A man would ram his 13-inch BBC balls-deep into Alex’s sloppy, shit-packed asshole, then relax his bowels and flood the twink’s intestines with hot, fresh diarrhea while still thrusting. The pressure would force older loads out in explosive geysers, splattering everyone around in a brown rain. Cum churned with shit inside him until his hole farted out thick, creamy mud with every withdrawal.

    Piss came in endless torrents. They formed a funnel with their hands and pissed straight into his gaping mouth until his stomach bloated like a water balloon, then punched his gut to make him spew it all back up in a vomit-piss-shit fountain they caught and poured over his head again. Some men hadn’t bathed in years—their piss was dark yellow, almost brown, reeking of infection and cheap booze. Alex drowned in it, gurgling and begging through the streams.

    They smeared him head-to-toe until he was unrecognizable—a living sculpture of filth. Feces packed under his fingernails, caked in his hair like dreadlocks, clogging his nostrils so every breath tasted of pure sewage. They forced him to rim every ass in the camp, tonguing deep into hairy, disease-ridden holes to clean out remnants of previous dumps, swallowing whatever came loose while getting face-fucked from the front.

    Hours blurred into days. They kept him alive on nothing but cum, shit, and piss—force-feeding him fistfuls of fresh turds mixed with buckets of jizz until he retched it all up, only to scoop the vomit slurry and feed it back to him. His tiny cocklette stayed limp and useless, shriveled from humiliation, occasionally spurting weak clear fluid when they punched his bloated belly hard enough.

    Eventually they bolted a metal toilet seat frame over his face in the center of the camp, his mouth permanently pried open with a ring gag. The sign above read: “PUBLIC SHITHOLE — DEPOSIT WASTE HERE. NO LIMITS.” Morning, noon, and night, men used him—shitting directly down his throat while jerking off into the pile, pissing to wash it deeper, sometimes vomiting their own hangover bile as extra seasoning.

    Alex’s descent into the abyss of filth accelerated under the freeway overpass, where the homeless encampment buzzed with the promise of endless degradation. The men had rigged him up like a communal sex doll: wrists and ankles shackled to rusted rebar stakes driven into the cracked concrete, his lithe twink body arched backward over a mound of garbage bags stuffed with soiled diapers and rotting food scraps. His pale skin was already a canvas of smeared shit from the warehouse ordeal, but now it would become a masterpiece of depravity. His tiny, useless cocklette dangled limply, occasionally dribbling weak precum from the constant prostate abuse, while his asshole gaped like a wrecked crater, perpetually leaking a slow trickle of cum-shit slurry.

    Marcus, the alpha with his monstrous 12-inch BBC veined like a roadmap of rage, kicked things off by straddling Alex’s chest. He gripped the twink’s jaw, prying it open wider than the ring gag allowed, and shoved his sweat-slicked balls into Alex’s mouth first. “Suck the grime off, sissy. Taste a real man’s funk.” Alex’s tongue lapped involuntarily at the salty, unwashed sac, gagging on pubes matted with old cum and street dirt. Marcus then aligned his throbbing cockhead with Alex’s nostrils, forcing the twink to snort lines of precum like it was coke, before ramming the full length down his throat in one brutal thrust. The face-fuck was savage—Marcus pistoning like a jackhammer, his hips slapping Alex’s tear-streaked face, balls smacking his chin with wet thuds. Alex’s throat bulged obscenely, esophagus stretching around the invading shaft as he choked up bile and phlegm that lubed the cock further. Marcus growled, “You denied us shelter? Now your throat’s our warm hole.” He unloaded deep, flooding Alex’s stomach with hot, thick ropes of cum that burned like acid, only to pull out and piss a forceful stream straight down the gullet, the urine mixing with semen to create a frothy overflow that bubbled from Alex’s nose like a volcano of filth.

    Not content with one hole, Marcus flipped Alex onto his stomach, mashing his face into the shit pit—a bubbling cauldron of communal dumps where flies swarmed and maggots writhed. The twink’s mouth filled instantly with soft, week-old diarrhea, the taste a hellish blend of fermented rot, blood, and bile. As Alex sputtered, Marcus mounted him from behind, spearing his BBC into the already-ruined asshole without preamble. The entry was a symphony of squelches—old shit and cum displaced in explosive farts that sprayed backward onto Marcus’s thighs. He fucked with animalistic fury, each thrust bottoming out against Alex’s cervix-like depths, the cockhead punching his bloated guts and stirring the fecal enema within. “Feel that, bitch? I’m churning your insides into butter.” Marcus relaxed his bladder mid-pound, pissing a gallon of dark, infected urine directly into Alex’s colon while still railing him, the pressure building until Alex’s belly distended like a pregnant whore’s. The piss enema sloshed with every slam, leaking out in yellow-brown rivulets that pooled under them.

    Jamal joined next, his 11-inch beast curved like a scimitar, sliding in alongside Marcus for a double anal assault that tore Alex’s hole wider. The two BBCs rubbed together inside the twink, stretching his sphincter to the brink of rupture, blood trickling down his thighs as they syncopated their thrusts—one in, one out, then both slamming home together. Alex screamed into the shit pit, swallowing mouthfuls of maggot-infested mush with each cry. “Double-stuffed like the uppity pig you are,” Jamal sneered, grabbing Alex’s hips and yanking him back onto their cocks. They alternated pissing inside him, turning his ass into a pressurized sewer pipe that erupted in geysers of piss-shit-cum foam whenever they withdrew slightly. For the scat climax, Jamal pulled out mid-thrust and shat a massive, coiled turd—thick as a wrist and studded with undigested peanuts—directly onto Marcus’s cock, using it as filthy lube before shoving back in. The turd mashed into paste, squishing between the shafts and Alex’s walls, the stench amplifying as it warmed from the friction.

    Tyrone, the sadistic one with a 10-inch girth monster, targeted Alex’s mouth while the double-fuck raged on. He squatted over the twink’s face, his hairy ass cheeks spreading to reveal a puckered hole crusted with dried feces. “Clean me first, toilet.” Alex’s tongue was forced out, rimming the filthy ring, delving deep to scoop out soft remnants of prior dumps—chewy bits of corn and fiber that he chewed like gum under threat of beatings. Satisfied, Tyrone unleashed an extreme scat barrage: a torrent of hot, semi-liquid diarrhea that hosed Alex’s face like a firehose of chocolate milk gone bad, filling his mouth, eyes, and ears in seconds. The twink gargled the slurry, bubbles forming as he tried to breathe, only for Tyrone to ram his cock in and face-fuck through the mess, the shit acting as a grotesque lubricant that smeared everywhere. Cum erupted from Tyrone’s balls, mixing with the diarrhea into a chunky soup that Alex was forced to swallow in heaving gulps, vomiting half back up only to have it funneled down again.

    The group escalated to a piss-scat-fuck rotation. Big Rufus, the 400-pounder, sat his massive ass directly on Alex’s face, smothering him in sweaty folds while shitting a log so enormous it lodged in the twink’s throat like a dildo. Rufus rocked back and forth, fucking Alex’s mouth with the turd until it broke apart, then replaced it with his own BBC, pounding while pissing a slow, endless stream that filled Alex’s lungs until he coughed yellow foam. Meanwhile, two others double-teamed his ass again, one shitting inside while the other pissed, creating a churning vortex of fluids that Alex’s body couldn’t contain—explosive ejections spraying the crowd, who laughed and joined in, hosing him with their own piss arcs from afar.

    They innovated further: forcing Alex into a human centipede line where each man fucked the one in front while shitting into the mouth behind, but with Alex as the central dump station. One would ass-fuck him, depositing scat lube, while another throat-fucked and pissed enema-style down to his stomach. The extreme reached new heights when they used improvised tools—a broken bottle neck as a funnel into his ass, pouring in buckets of collected camp piss mixed with fresh turds, then gangbanging him until the mixture erupted like a geyser volcano, coating everyone in a communal baptism of filth.

    Days turned into a blur of nonstop orifices abuse. Alex’s holes were perpetually occupied—cocks slamming in syncopated rhythms, scat loads packed so deep he shat involuntarily with every breath, piss baths that left him pruned and reeking like a sewer grate. His body became a bloated, bruised repository: belly sloshing with gallons of urine and semen, skin encrusted in layers of drying feces that flaked off only to be replaced. The once-discriminating sissy was now a drooling, mindless vessel, holes so gaped they whistled in the wind, begging in broken whimpers for more as his revenge-fueled captors turned him into the ultimate, eternal shit-piss-cum abyss.

    Alex’s mind shattered completely. The once-snobby community worker now moaned in delirious ecstasy whenever a new load hit his tongue, his broken brain rewired to crave the filth. He became a mindless, drooling urinal and septic tank, body permanently stained brown, holes gaping wide enough to fist with both arms. The homeless men he’d despised finally got their revenge: they turned him into the lowest, nastiest, most useless shit-cum-piss dump the streets had ever seen—forever.

  • Learning a Lesson

    In a thrilling crossover event at “Indie Elite Clash”—a joint showcase between the Texas Wrestling Society and various independent promotions drawing talent from NAW’s roster—two contrasting wrestlers collided in a singles bout that blended raw potential with seasoned expertise. Val Driver, the 23-year-old “Perfect” sensation from North Carolina, had burst onto the scene in late 2024. Trained by WWE legend Ric Drasar, Driver (born 2002) brought a polished, technical style infused with athletic precision, often incorporating chain wrestling, sharp strikes, and flawless execution that earned him his moniker. Competing primarily in Texas-based promotions, Driver was known for his high-energy matches against foes like David Child and Cal Cutter, showcasing a blend of brawling resilience and agile counters that marked him as a rising star.

    Opposing him was Evan Bevens, the 34-year-old from Camden, New Jersey. He was a powerful, dark ebony toned African-American with muscle to spare at 6’3” 225. A former rugby standout who transitioned to wrestling in 2013 after training at Be a Pro Wrestling Academy under Joe Beck and Don Mallin, Bevens had carved out a storied career across indies before signing with a major promotion in 2020. As an all-rounder, his style mixed technical submissions, powerful slams, and opportunistic strikes, with signature moves like the Crossface and his finisher, The Departure (a devastating uranage slam). Openly gay and a trailblazer in the industry, Bevens had achieved acclaim through his no limit style and was celebrated for his charisma and resilience.

    The match kicked off with a tense lockup, Bevens using his experience to muscle Driver into the corner with a clean break, drawing polite applause. Driver, in his sleek black trunks with “Fearless” emblazoned in gold, fired back with quick arm drags and a dropkick that sent Bevens reeling. The veteran, clad in his signature pink-and-black gear nodding to his “Scissor King” persona, shook it off and transitioned into a series of chain wrestling exchanges, grounding Driver with a hammerlock and transitioning to a side headlock takeover. As the action heated up, Bevens targeted Driver’s arm with elbow drops and a crossface attempt, but the young prodigy slipped free and retaliated with a flurry of chops and a standing moonsault for a near fall. The crowd roared as Driver climbed the ropes for a high-risk dive, only for Bevens to cut him off with a superplex that shook the ring. Undeterred, Driver kipped up and unleashed a barrage of kicks, echoing his trainer’s influence with gritty brawling. Bevens countered with a vicious clothesline and locked in the Crossface mid-ring, forcing Driver to claw to the ropes. The climax built as both men traded heavy blows—Driver landing a German suplex bridge for two, Bevens answering with a spinning heel kick. In a desperate bid, Driver attempted a top-rope splash, but Bevens rolled away and capitalized with The departure, slamming Driver down hard for the pinfall victory after 15 minutes of non-stop action. The audience gave a standing ovation as Bevens helped Driver to his feet, the two sharing a respectful nod before Bevens’ music hit.

    Aftermath: Unexpected Connection Backstage

    In the steamy confines of the locker room post-show, with the echoes of the crowd still fading, Evan Bevens approached Val Driver as he iced his shoulder on a bench. Both men glistened with sweat, their gear accentuating hard-earned physiques—Driver’s muscular, chiseled frame from years of disciplined training, Bevens’ athletic build a testament to his rugby roots and wrestling grind. “Damn, kid, you brought the fire tonight,” Bevens said, his New Jersey accent warm and genuine as he sat beside Driver. His eyes traced Driver’s form appreciatively, the admiration shifting into something more electric. “That moonsault? Perfect, just like they say. You’ve got serious potential—reminds me of my early days.” Driver looked up, a shy grin breaking through his exhaustion. At 23, he carried a youthful confidence, but Bevens’ presence—charismatic and commanding—stirred something new. “Thanks, man. Coming from you means a lot. You’re a beast in there; that slam nearly ended me.” He shifted closer, their knees brushing, the air humming with tension. Bevens leaned in, his hand resting lightly on Driver’s thigh, a bold yet inviting gesture. “Listen, Val… after a war like that, how about we grab some late-night grub? Or, if you’re feeling it, we could head back to my hotel. No pressure, just… see what happens.” His voice dropped, laced with sincere interest, his gaze locking onto the youngster. Driver’s cheeks warmed, but he didn’t hesitate, placing his hand over Bevens’. “Yeah, Evan. I’d like that—a lot. Let’s make it the hotel. Been admiring more than your moves tonight.” They shared a lingering smile, rising together as Bevens draped an arm around Driver’s shoulders. After showering and changing they headed out into the night with promises of more than just recovery.

    Unwinding in Private: Val and Evan’s Night

    The drive from the arena to Bevens’ rented apartment in the heart of the city was a blur of city lights and charged silence, broken only by the low hum of the radio playing some forgotten indie rock track. Evan Bevens gripped the steering wheel of his sleek black SUV, stealing glances at Val Driver in the passenger seat. Driver, under a loose hoodie, leaned back with a relaxed posture, his fingers drumming idly on his thigh—a subtle rhythm that mirrored the building anticipation between them. The air in the car felt thick, electric, like the moments before a big spot in the ring. “Almost there,” Bevens murmured, his voice a smooth baritone that cut through the tension. He reached over, his hand finding Driver’s knee in a casual yet deliberate touch. “Hope you don’t mind a bit of a mess—been on the road too long. “Driver chuckled, covering Bevens’ hand with his own, the warmth of the contact sending a spark up his arm. “Mess? After that match, I’m just glad to be off my feet. With you.” His eyes met Bevens’, holding the gaze with a mix of youthful boldness and genuine curiosity, the flirtation from the locker room now blooming into something tangible. They pulled into the underground garage of the modern high-rise, the engine’s purr fading as Bevens killed the ignition. The walk to the elevator was quick, their shoulders brushing in the confined space, the ding of each floor ascent amplifying the unspoken promises. Bevens’ keycard swiped them into the eighth-floor hallway, and as they approached apartment 812, he paused at the door, turning to Driver with a playful smirk. “Welcome to my temporary kingdom,” he said, unlocking it with a soft click. The door swung open to reveal a cozy, lived-in space: dim lighting from a single lamp casting warm shadows over a plush sectional sofa, a half-unpacked duffel bag spilling workout clothes onto the floor, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering skyline. The faint scent of Bevens’ cologne—woody and invigorating—lingered in the air, mingling with the remnants of takeout from earlier. Driver stepped inside, shedding his hoodie and kicking off his shoes by the door, his eyes scanning the room with approval. “Nice setup. Feels… real. Not some sterile hotel vibe.” He turned, closing the distance between them in two strides, his hands finding Bevens’ waist as the door clicked shut behind. The kiss that followed was unhurried but intense, a release of the pent-up energy from the ring—lips parting, breaths mingling, hands exploring with the familiarity of wrestlers who knew exactly how to read a partner’s cues. Bevens pulled back just enough to murmur against Driver’s mouth, “Drinks first? Or straight to celebrating that perfect performance of yours?” His fingers traced the lines of Driver’s abs through his shirt, teasing the edge of the waistband. Driver’s response was a low laugh, his grip tightening as Evan guided them toward the sofa. “Celebrating sounds perfect. Show me what a man player does off the clock.” The night stretched ahead, full of discovery and shared exhaustion melting into passion, the apartment their private arena for the rounds to come.

    Intimate Rounds: On the Sofa

    The sectional sofa, with its soft leather yielding under their weight, became their improvised ring as Val Driver and Evan Bevens tumbled onto it in a tangle of limbs and lingering heat. The city skyline twinkled indifferently through the windows, casting a mosaic of lights across their skin, but the world outside dissolved into irrelevance. Driver’s hoodie lay discarded on the floor, his pants half-unzipped, exposing the taut lines of his torso—marks from the match still faintly red against his tanned skin. Bevens, ever the showman, peeled off his own shirt with a fluid motion, revealing the sculpted shoulders and chest honed from years of rugby scrums and suplexes, a faint tattoo of a rugby ball curved along his ribcage like a signature move. Driver pulled Bevens down on top of him, their mouths crashing together again in a deeper, hungrier kiss—tongues exploring with the same intensity they’d traded strikes in the ring. Bevens’ hands roamed greedily, one threading through Driver’s short, beautiful hair to angle his head just right, the other sliding under the waistband of his trunks to grip firm muscle. “God, you’re built like a weapon,” Bevens growled against Driver’s lips, his voice husky with want, nipping at the younger man’s jawline before trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down his neck. Driver arched into the touch, a soft moan escaping as his fingers dug into Bevens’ back, tracing the ridges of scars from old battles—reminders of resilience that only fueled the fire. Driver’s inexperience in moments like this was edged with eager curiosity; he flipped their positions with a wrestler’s burst of strength, straddling Bevens’ hips and pinning his wrists above his head in playful dominance. “Your turn to tap out,” he teased, grinding down slowly, the friction drawing a sharp inhale from Bevens. Their erections strained against the thin fabric separating them, the rhythm building like a comeback spot—deliberate, teasing, electric. Bevens bucked up with a laugh that turned into a groan, freeing one hand to yank Driver’s pants and underwear off followed by the shirt, freeing him fully. His touch was expert, stroking with a firm, knowing grip that had Driver gasping, head thrown back as waves of pleasure rippled through him. “Like that, kid? Remember—I’ve got range.” He guided Driver’s hand to his own length in return, their movements syncing into a mutual exploration: slow at first, savoring the slide of skin on skin, then faster, breaths ragged and synced like a tag-team sequence. The sofa creaked under their shifting weight as Driver leaned down, capturing Bevens’ mouth once more while their hands worked in tandem—fingers teasing sensitive tips, thumbs circling with precision born of body awareness. Sweat beaded on their brows, mingling as foreheads touched, eyes locking in the dim light with a vulnerability that cut deeper than any Crossface. “Evan… fuck, don’t stop,” Driver whispered, his voice breaking on the edge of release, and Bevens obliged, whispering encouragements laced with filth—”That’s it, come for me, perfect”—until Driver shattered first, spilling over Bevens’ hand with a shuddering cry that echoed softly in the room. Bevens followed moments later, pulled over the brink by Driver’s relentless strokes and the sight of him undone—his release was hot. They collapsed in a heap, chests heaving, limbs entwined in the afterglow. Bevens pressed a lazy kiss to Driver’s temple, murmuring, “Round one goes to you,” as Driver chuckled breathlessly, nuzzling into his neck. The night was young, the sofa merely the opening bell, but for now, they savored the pinfall, bodies cooling in the quiet hum of the apartment.

    Escalating Heat: Peaks on the Sofa

    In the hazy afterglow, with their bodies still tangled and slick on the sofa, Evan Bevens wasn’t done exploring the map of Val Driver’s form. Evan shifted their bodies with a gentle nudge, easing Driver back against the cushions until he was reclined, legs splayed invitingly. Driver’s chest rose and fell in quick rhythms, his skin flushed from their earlier release, but Bevens’ eyes gleamed with that veteran hunger—the kind that promised to draw out every last drop of sensation. “Not done with you yet, perfect,” Bevens murmured, his lips brushing Driver’s collarbone as he trailed downward, hands pinning Driver’s hips in place with just enough pressure to tease submission. Driver shivered, his hands feeling the body above him, anticipation coiling tight in his core. Every touch from Bevens felt like a masterclass, and he arched instinctively as warm breath ghosted over his pecs. Bevens’ mouth descended, capturing one nipple between his lips—soft at first, a teasing flick of tongue that sent jolts straight to Driver’s groin. He sucked gently, then harder, teeth grazing the sensitive peak just enough to blur the line between pleasure and a delicious sting. Driver’s moan was raw, uninhibited, his cock twitching back to full hardness against his thigh as the sensation rippled through him like a standing ovation. “Fuck, Evan—right there,” Driver gasped, one hand flying to Bevens’ hair, fingers threading through the dark strands to hold him close. Bevens hummed in approval, the vibration amplifying the pull, switching to the other nipple with equal fervor. He lavished it with wet, insistent suction—tongue swirling in lazy circles, lips sealing around the bud and drawing it deep—while his free hand stroked Driver’s length in lazy, firm pulls, syncing the rhythm to the pulse of his mouth. The dual assault was overwhelming: nipples hardening under the onslaught, each tug and suck pulling a fresh wave of heat from city center, building like a slow-burn high spot. Driver’s hips bucked involuntarily, chasing the edge as Bevens alternated between the two, nipping one while pinching the other, his own arousal evident in the press of his body against Driver’s leg. The room filled with the sounds of their shared breaths—Driver’s turning to ragged pleas, Bevens’ low encouragements muffled against skin. “Let go for me, Val… give it all,” Bevens urged between sucks, his voice a velvet command that shattered the last of Driver’s restraint. It hit like a finisher: Driver’s back bowed off the sofa, a cry tearing from his throat as release crashed over him. Hot spurts painted his abs and Bevens’ hand, his body shuddering in waves that matched the relentless pull on his nipple—Bevens not relenting until the tremors faded, drawing out every aftershock with a final, soothing lick. Driver collapsed, boneless and spent, pulling Bevens down for a sloppy, grateful kiss that tasted of salt and surrender. Bevens grinned against his mouth, wiping his hand on a nearby throw rug before settling beside him, arm draped possessively over Driver’s waist. “Told you—many tools.” The night hummed with possibility, but for now, they basked in the victory, hearts pounding in tandem.

    Deeper Connections: Missionary Surrender

    The tremors of Driver’s second release still echoed through his limbs as Evan Bevens eased him fully onto his back against the sofa’s yielding cushions, their bodies a heated press of skin and shared breaths. The city lights flickered like distant spotlights, illuminating the sheen of sweat on Driver’s flushed chest, his nipples still peaked and sensitive from Bevens’ earlier attentions. Bevens moved with the assured grace of a performer who knew how to build to the main event—his eyes dark with intent as he hooked one of Driver’s legs over his hip, settling between them with deliberate slowness. “Wanna feel you under me, Val,” he whispered, voice roughened by desire, his hand trailing down to align their bodies, the head of his cock teasing Driver’s entrance with slick promise from the lube he’d grabbed from the side table. Driver nodded, breathless and eager, his hands roaming Bevens’ broad shoulders, pulling him closer. “Yeah—take me, Evan. All the way.” The vulnerability in his gaze was electric, a stark contrast to the fierce competitor from the ring, and it only stoked Bevens’ fire. With a steady push, Bevens entered him inch by inch—missionary’s intimacy allowing their eyes to lock, foreheads nearly touching as Driver gasped at the stretch, the fullness that bordered on overwhelming. Bevens paused, buried deep, letting Driver adjust, his thumb circling Driver’s hipbone in soothing strokes while he peppered kisses along his jaw. “Breathe with me, perfect. You’re doing so good. “The rhythm started slow, a gentle rock of hips that built with each thrust—Bevens’ powerful frame caging Driver in the best way, one forearm braced beside his head, the other guiding his thigh higher for deeper access. Driver’s moans filled the space between them, uninhibited and raw, his nails digging into Bevens’ back as pleasure coiled tight in his gut once more. The angle was perfect: every slide hit that spot inside him, sending sparks up his spine, while Bevens’ weight grounded him, the slide of their chests adding friction to already sensitized skin. “Fuck, you feel incredible,” Bevens groaned, pace quickening, hips snapping with controlled power—each plunge drawing out Driver’s cries, their bodies syncing like a flawless sequence. Driver’s legs wrapped around Bevens’ waist, urging him deeper, his own hand slipping between them to stroke himself in time with the thrusts. The sofa dipped under the force, the wet sounds of their joining mingling with grunts and praises—”Harder… yes, like that”—until tension snapped like a held breath. Bevens came first this time, burying his face in Driver’s neck with a muffled roar, pulsing hot inside him as his rhythm faltered into shuddering aftershocks. The sensation tipped Driver over, spilling across his stomach with a keening whine, clenching around Bevens in waves that prolonged the bliss for them both. Stilled, entwined and spent, Bevens’ weight a comforting anchor as he softened inside. He lifted his head, capturing Driver’s lips in a tender kiss, murmuring against them, “That was… championship level.” Driver smiled lazily, fingers tracing lazy patterns on Bevens’ sweat-damp back, the night far from over but this round etched in memory.

    Standing Heat: Frottage Ignition

    As their breaths evened out in the languid haze of release, Evan Bevens slid free with a reluctant groan, his body still humming from the intimacy of missionary’s depths. He pressed a lingering kiss to Val Driver’s forehead, then extended a hand, pulling him up from the sofa with effortless strength. “C’mon, perfect—let’s take this vertical. I want to feel every inch of you against me, no cushions in the way.” Driver’s legs wobbled slightly at first, the aftershocks making him lean into Bevens’ solid frame, but the spark in his eyes reignited at the suggestion. The thrill of standing—exposed and pressed close—felt like a new high spot, raw and unscripted. They rose together, bodies aligning in the open space of the apartment, the cool air raising goosebumps on their sweat-damp skin. Bevens backed Driver gently against the nearest wall, the city skyline framing them like a private audience, but their focus was solely on each other. Driver’s hands braced on Bevens’ hips, pulling him flush—chest to chest, the heat of their torsos melding as Bevens’ thigh nudged between Driver’s legs for leverage. “Like this,” Bevens murmured, his voice a low rumble against Driver’s ear, one hand cupping the back of his neck while the other guided their cocks together—slick from earlier, hardening anew in the friction of bare skin. The frottage began with a slow grind, hips rolling in tandem: Bevens’ length sliding alongside Driver’s, the velvety drag sending shivers up both spines. Driver gasped, his head tipping back against the wall as he matched the rhythm, thrusting forward to chase the building pressure—their tips bumping, shafts rubbing with increasing urgency, pre-cum easing the glide into something sinfully smooth. Bevens’ free hand roamed, one palm splaying across Driver’s abs to feel them tense, the other tangling in his hair to claim a messy kiss. “Fuck, Val—you’re perfect like this, all mine to grind against,” he panted, pace quickening, the slap of skin echoing softly amid their moans. Driver’s nails scored light trails down Bevens’ back, urging him on as the sensation coiled tighter—frottage’s intimacy amplifying every twitch and pulse, their erections trapped in a heated vice of mutual pressure. Legs trembled from the effort of standing, but it only heightened the edge, breaths syncing in ragged harmony. Bevens angled his hips just so, trapping them fully, the rub turning frantic until Driver broke first—spilling between them with a choked cry, hot streaks painting their stomachs as his body quaked against the wall. The sight and feel pulled Bevens under seconds later, groaning Driver’s name as he came, their releases mingling in a sticky testament to the friction. They sagged against each other, foreheads pressed, chuckles bubbling up through the exhaustion. Bevens stole one last grind before stepping back, admiration in his gaze. “A girl has nothing on you.” Driver grinned, stealing a kiss before they disentangled, the night promising more explorations in the quiet glow of the apartment.

    Oral Spotlight: Driver’s Turn

    The afterglow of their standing frottage lingered like the echo of a crowd’s roar, bodies still pressed close against the wall, breaths syncing in the dim apartment light. Evan Bevens leaned in for one more deep kiss, his hands framing Val Driver’s face with a tenderness that belied the fire still smoldering between them. But Driver, ever the eager up-and-comer, had other ideas—his gaze dropping with a mischievous glint as he sank to his knees, the cool hardwood floor a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Bevens’ skin. Driver moved with the fluid grace of a high-flyer spotting his next mark, his hands trailing down Bevens’ thighs, thumbs pressing into the bordering flesh of the penis.

    “Evan… let me return the favor,” Driver murmured, voice husky with intent, looking up through lashes as he settled between Bevens’ legs. Bevens’ cock, still slick and half-hard from their earlier release, twitched at the proximity, and he let out a low, approving hum, one hand coming to rest lightly in Driver’s hair—not guiding, just anchoring. “Show me what you’ve got, perfect. Make it a main event.” Driver didn’t hesitate, leaning in to press a soft, exploratory kiss to the base, tongue flicking out to taste the salty remnants of their mingled spend. He worked upward slowly, lips parting to take the thickening length into his mouth—warm and wet, the slide easy at first as he hollowed his cheeks, sucking with deliberate pulls that drew a sharp hiss from Bevens. His hands joined the rhythm, one wrapping around the root to stroke what his mouth couldn’t reach, the other cupping Bevens’ balls with gentle rolls, teasing the sensitive skin behind. Driver’s technique was instinctive, honed by passion rather than practice: tongue swirling around the head on each upstroke, tracing the vein along the underside with flat, broad laps that had Bevens’ hips jerking forward involuntarily. “Fuck, Val—your mouth…” Bevens groaned, head tipping back against the wall, fingers tightening in young wrestler’s hair as pleasure coiled low in his gut. The sight of the younger man on his knees—lips stretched around him, eyes watering slightly but locked upward in defiant connection—pushed him closer to the edge faster than expected. Driver hummed in response, the vibration sending fresh shocks through Bevens, and he took him deeper, relaxing his throat to swallow around the girth, nose brushing coarse hair as he bobbed with increasing fervor. Saliva glistened on his chin, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room, punctuated by Bevens’ ragged praises—”Just like that… god, you’re killing me.” The build was relentless: Val’s free hand slipping up to tweak one of Bevens’ nipples, echoing their sofa play, while his mouth worked in tandem—suction tightening on the down, teasing flicks on the up—until Bevens’ thighs trembled under his grip. “Gonna—Val, close,” Bevens warned, voice breaking, but Driver didn’t pull away, doubling down with a final, deep swallow that shattered the restraint. Bevens came with a guttural moan, pulsing hot across Driver’s tongue, who took it all—swallowing greedily before easing off with a slow, savoring lick, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he rose. Bevens hauled him up immediately, crushing their mouths together in a bruising kiss that tasted of him, hands roaming possessively. “That was… unreal, kid. You’re full of surprises.” Val grinned, flushed and triumphant, as they stumbled back toward the sofa, the night far from tapped out.

    Demanding Encore: Bevens’ Command

    The apartment’s air hung heavy with the scent of their shared exertion, the sofa still rumpled from earlier conquests as Evan Bevens disentangled from Val Driver’s embrace with a predatory glint in his eye. He guided Driver back a step, then sank onto the cushions himself—sprawling out like a king claiming his throne, legs splayed wide in blatant invitation. His thighs, thick and powerful from years of ring wars and diamond drills, framed the space between, his cock already stirring back to life against his abs, demanding attention. At 34, Bevens knew how to command a spotlight, and tonight, Driver was his sole audience.”C’mere, Perfect,” Bevens rumbled, voice laced with that New Jersey edge turned velvet command, patting his thigh once before crooking a finger. “You did good before—now show me you can handle the main event. On your knees. Repeat it… but deeper this time.” There was no room for hesitation in his tone, the playfulness from moments ago sharpening into something insistent, hungry. Driver, cheeks still flushed from his own highs, felt the pull like a lockup in the ring—irresistible, thrilling. He dropped to his knees between Bevens’ spread legs, the hardwood biting into his skin, hands bracing on those muscled thighs as he leaned in, lips parting in anticipation. But Bevens wasn’t content with gentle encouragement this round. As Val’s mouth enveloped the head—warm, tentative at first, tongue swirling to coax the full hardness—Bevens’ hands shot to the back of his head, fingers splaying wide through the sweat-damp strands and gripping like a vice. “No half-measures, kid,” he growled, hips canting up as he yanked Driver forward with unyielding force, burying himself to the hilt in one demanding thrust. Val’s eyes widened, a choked gag bubbling up from his throat as the full length stretched his mouth, the thick base pressing against his lips, invading deep enough to hit the back of his throat and beyond. Driver gagged hard—wet, involuntary spasms that made his chest heave, saliva spilling down his chin as he fought the reflex, hands scrabbling at Bevens’ thighs. But escape wasn’t an option; Bevens held him there, iron grip unmovable, “Take it all, Val—breathe through it. That’s my boy… fuck, yeah, just like that.” The words were a demand wrapped in praise, Bevens’ voice dropping to a guttural chant as he guided the rhythm—not Val’s anymore, but his own: shallow pull backs just enough for air, then slamming deep again, using Val’s mouth like a custom fit, the obscene gluck-gluck of gags filling the room. Tears pricked the boys eyes from the strain, his throat burning, but beneath the overwhelm was a twisted spark of surrender—the raw dominance flipping the script from their earlier equality, making his own cock twitch traitorously against the floor. He hollowed his cheeks on the forced retreats, tongue pressing flat to ease the slide, even as coughs rattled through him. Bevens’ thighs tensed under his grip, breaths turning to grunts—”Gonna fill you up, take every drop”—until the coil snapped. With a final, brutal shove, Bevens held Driver flush, pulsing hot and thick down his throat, the release flooding in waves that Val had no choice but to swallow or choke. Only then did Bevens relent, fingers loosening to caress instead of crush, pulling Val off with a slick pop and a satisfied sigh. Driver gasped for air, coughing wetly as he slumped forward, forehead resting on Bevens’ knee, but the older man was already hauling him up—wiping his chin with a thumb, then drawing him into a searing kiss that tasted of possession. “Knew you could handle it. Proud of you.” Val’s voice was hoarse when he murmured back, “Worth it… for you,” the night saw their bond begin to weaken in the fire of that Bevens claim of dominance..

    Fractured Aftermath: Descent into Humiliation

    The high of their raw, demanding encounter crashed like a botched hold as Val Driver pulled back from Evan Bevens’ possessive kiss, his throat raw and chest heaving not just from exertion but from a dawning unease. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the taste of Bevens lingering like a bitter afterimage, and shifted on his knees, suddenly hyper-aware of the ache in his jaw and the slick mess cooling on his skin. He had chased the thrill, but now, in the quiet that followed Bevens’ release, a hollow feeling settled in—used, discarded like a jobber after the main event. “That was… intense,” crowed Bevens. The boy was undressed emotionally. His voice hoarse and tentative as he rose unsteadily to his feet, avoiding Bevens’ gaze. He sought his clothes, trying to reclaim some dignity, but the words tumbled out sharper than intended. “Too intense, man. You didn’t have to hold me like that—force it down my throat. I get playing rough, but that felt… I don’t know, like I wasn’t even there.” Bevens, still sprawled on the sofa with legs akimbo, his cock softening against his thigh, arched a brow in lazy amusement that curdled into condescension. He sat up slowly, all coiled power and unapologetic swagger, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple. “Oh, come on, kid. You’re just a boy—fresh meat on the circuit, all flash and no finish. That’s all you’re good for right now: service the needs of your betters. I gave you a taste of the big leagues. You should be thanking me, not whining like some indie mark.” The words landed like a cheap shot, igniting a spark in Driver’s gut that flared into full-blown anger. His fists clenched at his sides, face flushing hotter than during the match—betrayal twisting the admiration he’d felt earlier into something venomous. “A boy? Fuck you, Evan. I’m not your damn boy. You think because you’re some big time vet, you own me? That was bullshit—you crossed the line way past my consent.” Bevens’ eyes narrowed, sensing the shift like a heel reading a face’s fire. The air thickened, the playful dominance curdling into something darker, more primal. In a blur of motion—honed from years of ring psychology and street-tough instincts—Bevens lunged from the sofa, closing the distance before Driver could react. A forearm smashed into Driver’s midsection, doubling him over with a whoosh of expelled air, and then Bevens’ arm snaked around his neck from behind, locking in a textbook sleeper hold. The biceps flexed like iron cables against Driver’s throat, cutting off air and blood flow in a vise that blurred the line between wrestling spot and real malice. Val thrashed, elbows flailing wildly, nails scraping at Bevens’ unyielding grip, but the older man was a wall—whispering hot against his ear, “Told you, boy. Know your place.” Stars exploded behind Driver’s eyelids, his struggles weakening to futile twitches as his oxygen starved brain began to shut down. The room spun, the city lights smearing into streaks, and then—nothing. Blackness swallowed him whole, body slumping limp in Bevens’ arms.

    When awareness trickled back, it came with disorienting pressure: Bevens straddling his chest, knees pinning Driver’s arms to the floor, the full weight of the veteran’s hips grinding down over his chest. Bevens’ spent cock was dangling just out of reach like a taunt. Driver bucked instinctively, a muffled roar of fury vibrating against skin, but the position left him trapped, inhaling the overwhelming scent of sweat and dominance. Bevens chuckled low, rocking slightly to emphasize the control, his thighs flexing to hold firm. “Welcome back, princess. See? Even out cold, you’re useful.” Bevens rubbed his hand over Val’s face. The feeling and smell said everything. Val understood Evan had masturbated on his face while he was unconscious. The boy’s rage boiled over as clarity sharpened, humiliation fueling a surge of adrenaline. He twisted violently, nearly unseating Bevens, snarling through the movements, “Get the fuck off me, you prick!” But Bevens anticipated it, rising off Val he drove a sharp knee into the boy’s groin—cruel precision that expelled the fight from Val in a wheezing gasp, leaving him winded, coughing and feeling sick. Bevens stood towering over the sprawled form, his expression a mask of cold satisfaction. Falling on the front of his “boy” Bevens grabbed Val’s head and forcing a massive kiss on Val’s lips, began to rub his body against the piece of garbage under him. Sharp and powerful moves against Val soon brought the older man to another explosion. Val could do nothing to stop him. As he got up Bevens said: “Go home, boy. Take your little dick with you and learn how to play with the big boys if you want to make it in my world. The other guys will love to hear about your failed little night with a real man. And next time? Stay in your lane.” He turned away dismissively, grabbing a towel as if the night were just another workout. Driver lay there, chest burning, privates abused, pride shattered into jagged pieces. Tears of impotent fury stung his eyes, but he swallowed them, dragging himself up on shaking limbs. He dressed in silence, avoiding the mirror that would reflect the red marks blooming on his neck, the disheveled hair, the defeated slump of his shoulders. The door clicked shut behind him like a final bell, the hallway’s fluorescent hum mocking his retreat into the night—humiliated, used up, and forever scarred by the veteran who’d shown him the ring’s ugliest underbelly.


    To get in touch with the author, send them an email.


  • Heracles in Elis

    Outside, the crunch of gravel underfoot signaled an approaching servant — too hesitant, too close. Augeas’ grip tightened on Heracles’ thigh, but the demigod merely rolled off him in one fluid motion, sprawling across the bed with shameless ease. The king barked a command to stay back just as the chamber door creaked open a finger’s width. A timid voice announced the arrival of ambassadors from Tiryns.

    Heracles went very still. Eurystheus’ messengers. Augeas’ fingers found his wrist, squeezing once in silent understanding before rising with the effortless authority of a man used to being obeyed even while nude and glistening with sweat. He snatched a robe from a nearby stool, letting it hang open as he strode to the door.

    The murmured exchange was too low to hear, but Heracles caught the sharp intake of breath when Augeas dismissed them with a flick of his wrist. The king turned, his golden eyes alight with something dangerous. “They’ve come to recall you,” he said, letting the robe slip from one shoulder. “Apparently, Eurystheus has another … labor in mind.”

    Heracles sat up slowly, the muscles of his abdomen flexing. Augeas tracked the movement hungrily before continuing, “I told them you’d return when you were ready.” He stepped closer, the robe pooling at his feet. “Unless you’d prefer to send a different message.” His hand drifted to his own hip, thumb brushing the still-damp evidence of their coupling.

    The demigod’s answering grin was all teeth. He stood in one powerful motion, crowding Augeas back against a pillar. The king’s breath hitched as Heracles licked a broad stripe up his neck. “Let them wait,” he growled against the king’s pulse point.

    From the courtyard below, the clatter of armored footsteps betrayed the messengers’ impatience. Augeas arched into Heracles’ touch as the demigod’s hand closed around him, already half-hard again. “You could —” The king’s words dissolved into a moan as Heracles twisted his wrist. “— ride me where they can hear.”

    Heracles chuckled darkly, his fingers digging into Augeas’ hip. “You want them to know their king bends for me?” He punctuated the question with a sharp thrust of his thigh between the king’s legs. Augeas’ answering gasp was loud enough to carry through the latticework windows.

    Outside, the gravel shifted again — a retreating step. Heracles caught Augeas’ chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “Shall I fuck you against this window?” he murmured, nipping at the king’s lower lip. “Let them see how you take me?”

    Augeas shuddered, his cock twitching against Heracles’ palm. “Yes,” he breathed. Then louder, deliberately projecting his voice toward the courtyard: “Harder

    Heracles spun him roughly, pressing the king’s flushed chest against the sun-warmed stone. The demigod’s own arousal pressed hot and insistent against Augeas’ cleft. He spat into his palm, slicking himself with crude efficiency before notching his cockhead against the king’s loosened entrance. Augeas braced his forearms against the sill — just as Heracles drove home in one brutal thrust.

    The king’s cry echoed off the palace walls. Below, a sword clattered to the ground. Heracles didn’t slow, each snap of his hips punctuated by the slap of skin and Augeas’ ragged pleas. The latticework rattled with their momentum.

    One of the messengers made a choked sound. Augeas turned his head just enough to catch the man’s horrified stare through the window — then grinned wildly as Heracles gripped his hair and fucked into him with renewed ferocity. “Tell Eurystheus —” The king’s voice broke on a moan. “— his hero is occupied.”

    Heracles’ laughter was a rumble against his back. The demigod’s pace turned punishing, his balls slapping against Augeas’ thighs. The king’s knuckles whitened on the sill. Somewhere beyond the haze of pleasure, boots scrambled on gravel — fleeing.

    Augeas orgasmed with a shout, his semen streaking the sunlit stones below. Heracles followed moments later, mouthing the king’s shoulder as he spilled his sperm deep inside him. They slumped together, panting, the courtyard now eerily silent save for the distant flutter of startled doves.

    Augeas turned his head, catching Heracles’ mouth in a lazy, post-coital kiss. “That,” he murmured against the demigod’s lips, “was a message.”

    Heracles chuckled, his hands still braced on either side of the king’s body. Sweat dripped from his brow onto Augeas’ shoulders, mingling with the sticky mess between them. Below, a lone dove alighted on the sill, cocking its head at the scent of sex and salt. The demigod reached out, running a finger down the bird’s iridescent breast. It didn’t flinch.

    The king arched an eyebrow. “You have a way with creatures.”

    “Only the wild ones,” Heracles said, watching the bird take flight. His gaze slid back to Augeas, heavy with implication.

    Laughter rumbled through the king’s chest. He pushed back against Heracles, relishing the twitch of the demigod’s softening cock still nestled inside him.

    “Wild?” Augeas scoffed, twisting to capture Heracles’ wrist before he could pull away. He pressed the demigod’s palm flat against his own sternum. “My stables housed three thousand bulls that trampled men to paste. Yet you —” His teeth flashed white. “You tamed me bare-handed.”

    Heracles flexed his fingers, feeling the thunder of Augeas’ heartbeat beneath them. “Tamed?” His other hand slid down to grip the king’s hip, pulling a gasp from the man as he ground their bodies together once more. “You begged for it.”

    A crash echoed from the corridor — a dropped amphora, judging by the ceramic shatter and the servant’s muffled curse. Both men ignored it. Augeas rolled his hips experimentally, wincing at the oversensitivity even as his cock stirred anew. “And you’ll make me beg again.” His fingers traced the demigod’s collarbone, sticky with drying sweat. “Unless …”

    Heracles caught his meaning instantly. He withdrew with a wet sound that made them both shudder, turning the king to face him. Sunlight gilded the mess between their thighs — spent semen mixed with the sheen of exertion. The demigod’s nostrils flared at the scent, primal and unmistakable.

    Augeas watched the hunger return to Heracles’ eyes with palpable satisfaction. He reached down, smearing the proof of their coupling across his palm before offering it to the demigod like a sacrament. “Taste.”

    Heracles didn’t hesitate. His tongue swept over Augeas’ fingers with deliberate slowness, golden eyes locked on the king’s face as he swallowed. The flavor burst across his senses — salt and musk and something indefinably Augeas. His cock twitched back to full hardness against his thigh.

    A knock shattered the moment — three sharp raps that brooked no refusal. “My king,” came the steward’s strained voice. “The Tirynthian envoys insist —”

    “Burn their messages,” Augeas snarled, never looking away from Heracles. The demigod’s grin turned feral as he lifted the king bodily, pinning him against the pillar with his thighs spread wide. The steward’s sharp inhale was audible even through the door. Augeas hooked his ankles behind Heracles’ back, already rocking down onto the demigod’s renewed erection with a broken moan.

    Outside, parchment crumpled. Footsteps retreated at a run. Heracles’ lips brushed along Augeas’ jawline, tasting salt and hubris. “They’ll call you weak,” he murmured, thrusting upward to punctuate the lie.

    The king’s laughter dissolved into a gasp as Heracles’ cockhead dragged against his oversensitive walls. “Let them try.” His fingers tangled in the demigod’s sweat-darkened curls, forcing their foreheads together. “I want them to know.”

    Heracles obliged with a snap of his hips that sent a vase toppling from its pedestal. The crash of shattering pottery barely registered over Augeas’ ragged cry. The demigod’s hands dropped lower, cupping the king’s ass to angle each thrust deeper, his own muscles quivering with restraint. Augeas clung to him like a man drowning, his thighs trembling where they locked around Heracles’ waist.

    Sunlight lanced through the latticework, painting stripes across their sweat-slicked bodies. The king’s gold-coin irises had gone black with want, his lips parted around panting breaths that grew louder with every plunge. Heracles watched transfixed as a bead of sweat rolled down Augeas’ throat — followed it with his tongue — and felt the king’s body convulse around him in response.

    “Look,” Augeas gasped, tilting his chin toward the courtyard below. Three armored figures stood frozen near the fountain, their polished greaves reflecting the obscene tableau above. One clutched a scroll so tightly the parchment tore. Heracles laughed against the king’s pulse point and thrust harder, making the column creak.

    The nearest envoy’s face flushed crimson. He opened his mouth — perhaps to protest — but Augeas arched his spine and let out a guttural moan that sent the man stumbling backward into his companions. Heracles growled approval, his lips grazing the king’s shoulder as he pistoned into him with relentless precision.

    “You see?” Augeas panted, his voice raw. His fingers scraped down the demigod’s back, leaving raised red trails. “They’ll tell Eurystheus how his strongest warrior spends his strength.” He punctuated the claim by clenching around Heracles, drawing a ragged groan from the demigod’s chest.

    One of the envoys dropped his helmet. The metallic clang echoed through the courtyard, but neither king nor hero spared the man a glance. Heracles adjusted his grip, hauling Augeas higher against the pillar until the king’s knees bracketed his ribs. The new angle punched a broken noise from Augeas’ throat — half pain, half pleasure — as Heracles’ cockhead dragged against his prostate with every thrust.

    “Tell them,” Heracles growled, his biceps flexing as he held the king aloft like a trophy. Sweat dripped from his brow onto Augeas’ heaving chest, mingling with the mess of their earlier climaxes.

    Augeas threw his head back with a cry as Heracles’ thickness stretched him impossibly wider, his body yielding even as it burned. Below, the envoys stood rooted like statues, their armor rattling with each of the demigod’s punishing thrusts. One clutched at his own crotch, mouth agape.

    “Tell them —” Augeas gasped, his voice scraped raw, “— how their king rides you like a wild stallion.” He punctuated the claim by rolling his hips, taking Heracles deeper with a wet groan that sent the youngest envoy scrambling backward into the fountain.

    Heracles’ answering laughter was dark with promise. His grip tightened, fingers digging into the king’s thighs hard enough to bruise as he pistoned upward with a snap of his hips that rattled the latticework. Augeas’ cock jutted between them, flushed and leaking against his abdomen with each brutal impact. The demigod watched hungrily as a bead of pre-cum trembled at the tip before streaking down the king’s stomach to mingle with their sweat.

    One of the envoys made a strangled noise. Heracles bared his teeth in a feral grin, never breaking rhythm as he locked eyes with the man. “Take notes,” he growled, punctuating each word with a deep thrust that made Augeas keen. The king’s fingernails created pink trails on Heracles’ shoulders, his thighs quivering where they gripped the demigod’s waist.

    The oldest envoy finally snapped his mouth shut, his throat working as he swallowed audibly. “This is —” His voice cracked when Heracles abruptly shifted, lifting Augeas higher and slamming him down onto his cock with a wet slap that echoed off the courtyard walls. The king’s cry was muffled against Heracles’ neck, his mouth sucking the demigod’s skin hard.

    Heracles turned his head slightly, just enough to meet the envoy’s horrified stare. “Speak,” he taunted, his voice rough with exertion. His hands flexed on Augeas’ thighs, leaving crescent-shaped marks. The king moaned openly at the rough treatment, his cock pulsing between them.

    The envoy’s mouth opened and closed like a beached fish. His companions had backed away, their armor clanking as they stumbled over each other. One clutched a torn scroll to his chest as if it were a shield.

    Heracles barely registered their retreat. His world had narrowed to the heat of Augeas’ body around him, the way the king’s muscles fluttered with each punishing thrust. The pillar groaned under their combined weight, its carved surface slick with sweat where Augeas braced himself.

    The king’s fingers dug into Heracles’ shoulders hard. Augeas threw his head back with a gasp when Heracles’ cockhead brushed that sweet spot inside him, his thighs trembling violently where they locked around the demigod’s waist.

    Heracles didn’t slow, his thrusts growing erratic as he chased his own release, the wet slap of their bodies drowning out the envoys’ shocked murmurs below. Augeas’ cock throbbed against his stomach, untouched yet leaking steadily with every brutal impact.

    The king’s fingers scrabbled against the pillar, his knuckles white as Heracles angled him just right — once, twice — before he came with a ragged shout, his seed striping the demigod’s abdomen in hot pulses. Heracles growled, burying himself to the hilt as Augeas’ body clenched around him in rhythmic spasms, milking his own climax from him with ruthless efficiency.

    For a heartbeat, they stayed locked together like that — Heracles’ cock still throbbing inside the king, Augeas limp and gasping against the pillar, their sweat-slicked bodies trembling in the aftermath. Below, the envoys had fled, their footsteps echoing in panicked retreat.

    Heracles exhaled sharply through his nose, his arms sliding under Augeas’ thighs and back in one smooth motion. The king groaned as the demigod lifted him like a bride, his spent cock twitching against his stomach as their bodies separated with a wet sound that made them both shudder. Augeas’ head lolled against Heracles’ shoulder, his golden hair matted to his forehead, his lips parted around shallow breaths.

    The demigod crossed the room with deliberate strides, ignoring the sticky trail they left on the tiles. Sunlight caught on the sweat still sheening their bodies as he deposited Augeas onto the rumpled bedding with uncharacteristic gentleness. The king’s limbs sprawled bonelessly across the linen, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His toes curled when Heracles ran a calloused palm down his flank — half-sensitive, half-pleasured.

    Heracles turned toward the cedar doors, his muscles flexing as he lifted the bronze bar heavier than three men could carry and slid it home with a resonant thunk. The sound echoed through the chamber like a period at the end of a sentence. Outside, a panicked whisper hissed against the wood — some poor servant tasked with retrieving the discarded diplomatic scrolls. The demigod exhaled through his nose, pressing his forehead briefly against the carved surface before pushing away.

    He crossed the room with three strides, the scent of their coupling rising from the tiles with each step. Augeas hadn’t moved, his golden hair fanned across the pillow like a laurel wreath discarded after a victory feast. One arm draped over his eyes, his chest still flushed pink beneath the smeared evidence of Heracles’ possession. The demigod’s shadow fell across him as he climbed onto the bed, his knee sinking into the mattress beside the king’s hip.

    Heracles wrapped him in his massive arms, pulling him close with a possessiveness that belied their earlier ferocity. Augeas exhaled sharply as his back met the demigod’s chest, his body instinctively curling into the embrace despite its residual tremors. Heracles buried his nose in the hollow behind the king’s ear, inhaling the mingled scents of sex, salt, and the faintest trace of citrus oil from his earlier bath. The king’s pulse thrummed against his lips, slower now but still vital as a war drum between campaigns.

    Augeas shifted, wincing as the movement pulled at tender muscles. Heracles’ fingers traced idle patterns across his abdomen, following the trails of drying sweat and seed. “You’re leaving,” the king murmured, certainty flattening his tone. The demigod’s fingers stilled momentarily before resuming their lazy path.

    Heracles exhaled against the nape of Augeas’ neck. “Eurystheus has patience for many things,” he admitted, his voice roughened by exertion, “but disobedience isn’t one.” His palm settled over Augeas’ sternum, pressing gently as if to memorize the heartbeat beneath. “I will leave at dawn,” he added quietly, “before the envoys return with more than words.”

    Augeas swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. The scent of their coupling clung to the sheets—salt and musk and something deeper, a spice he couldn’t name. He turned his face into the pillow that smelled of Heracles’ sweat, inhaling sharply. “I didn’t know,” he murmured, “that a man could feel so —” His fingers flexed against the demigod’s forearm. “Alive.”

    Heracles’ chuckle vibrated against his spine. “You’ve bedded warriors before.” His lips grazed Augeas’ shoulder, not quite playful.

    The king exhaled sharply. “Warriors? Yes.” His fingers tightened on Heracles’ wrist where it lay across his chest. “But none who left me—” He broke off, throat working. The words tasted foreign, like figs plucked too soon. “None who made me want beyond the moment.”

    Heracles nosed along his nape, breathing him in. “Ask me anything,” he murmured against the sweat-damp skin. “Before dawn.” His mouth grazed a tendon, blunt and possessive.

    Augeas rolled over with a wince, facing him fully. The sheets stuck to their cooling bodies, peeling away reluctantly. Golden afternoon light gilded the demigod’s scars — raised white lines on his ribs where Hydra venom had burned deepest. The king traced one with a fingertip. “When you fought the Nemean Lion,” he said quietly, “did you know you’d survive?”

    Heracles caught his wandering hand, pressing it flat against the old wound. Beneath his palm, the demigod’s pulse thrummed steady as a forging hammer. “No.” His thumb stroked Augeas’ knuckles. “But I knew I’d fight”

    The king’s breath hitched. Heracles’ eyes held the same reckless certainty as when he’d first shouldered open the barn doors—knee-deep in filth, laughing at the impossibility. Augeas dragged his fingers lower, over the ridged muscle of Heracles’ abdomen where his seed still glistened. “And this?” he murmured. “Did you know you’d take me?”

    Heracles’ grin was all teeth. He caught Augeas’ wrist, guiding the king’s hand back to his own spent cock. “I knew you’d beg.” His calloused palm pressed Augeas’ fingers around the softening flesh, squeezing until the king gasped. “Just not how prettily.”

    Augeas laughed — a ragged, punched-out sound — as Heracles rolled atop him, pinning his wrists to the mattress with effortless strength. The demigod’s thighs bracketed his hips, still-slick skin catching golden light filtering through the lattice.

    “Beg?” The king arched beneath him, testing the hold. Heracles didn’t budge. “I recall you trembling when —”

    Heracles silenced him with a kiss to his collarbone. Augeas bucked, but the demigod’s grip was iron, his thighs clamping tighter. The scent of their mingled sweat rose between them, thick as the musk of a lion’s den.

    Heracles’ breath was warm against Augeas’ throat when he spoke. “No warrior,” he murmured, his lips grazing the king’s pulse, “no king —” another kiss, lower — “not even a god —” his tongue swirled a wet trail down the king’s sternum — “has ever dared to take me.” His eyes burned gold as he lifted his head, pinning Augeas beneath the weight of his gaze. “Until you.”

    Augeas’ breath stuttered at the raw confession — at the way Heracles rolled onto his back like an offering, his massive thighs spreading shamelessly wide, heels digging into the mattress. The demigod’s cock lay half-hard against his stomach, flushed and glistening, but it was the vulnerability of his position that stole the king’s breath. Heracles, conqueror of monsters, lay open — his entrance still slick from their earlier coupling, twitching faintly as Augeas stared.

    The king moved without thought, sliding between those powerful thighs like a supplicant approaching an altar. His tongue darted out first — a teasing lick along the demigod’s inner thigh, tasting salt and musk and the faint metallic tang of his own spend. Heracles tensed, his fingers twisting in the sheets. Augeas grinned against sweat-damp skin before dragging his tongue lower, tracing the crease where thigh met ass with deliberate slowness.

    When he reached Heracles’ entrance, still glistening and slightly parted from their earlier coupling, he paused — just long enough to feel the demigod’s muscles quiver in anticipation. Then he licked a broad, wet stripe from perineum to tailbone, savoring the way Heracles’ hips jerked off the mattress. A groan rumbled through the demigod’s chest, deep as an earthquake. Augeas did it again, slower this time, applying pressure until his tongue breached the tight ring of muscle.

    Heracles’ thighs clamped around his head, trapping him there. The king chuckled darkly against feverish skin, then flattened his tongue and pressed in deeper, fucking him with slow, obscene strokes. The demigod’s scent overwhelmed him — musk and crushed olives and something wilder, something that tasted like lightning storms on the slopes of Olympus.

    Augeas dragged his teeth lightly over trembling flesh, relishing Heracles’ answering snarl. The demigod’s fingers fisted in his hair — not guiding, just anchoring — as the king worked him open with lips and tongue until his jaw ached. Heracles’ hips rolled in shallow thrusts, his breath coming in ragged bursts that vibrated through Augeas’ skull.

    “Fuck me.” The demand tore from Heracles’ throat like a wounded animal’s cry. His heels dug into the mattress, muscles corded with tension as Augeas pulled back just enough to watch the demigod’s entrance flutter around nothing. The king slicked his cock with their mingled spend from earlier, his own breath hitching at the oversensitive drag. He lined himself up slowly, letting the swollen head catch against Heracles’ rim without pressing in.

    Heracles arched with a guttural noise, his biceps bulging as he hauled Augeas down by the nape. The king yielded — let himself be manhandled into position — but kept the angle torturously shallow. When he finally pushed in, it was with infinitesimal precision, each millimeter of progress wringing a new sound from the demigod’s chest. Heracles’ thighs trembled where they bracketed his hips, his nails scoring crescents into Augeas’ shoulders.

    The king bottomed out with a groan, his balls pressing flush against Heracles’ ass. Heat clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, the demigod’s body adjusting to his girth with obscene wetness. Augeas stilled, savoring the way Heracles’ breath hitched when he flexed inside him.

    Sunlight pooled in the hollow of the demigod’s throat as Augeas began to move — deep, languid rolls of his hips that dragged his cockhead over that sweet spot with every withdrawal. Heracles’ back bowed off the mattress, his abdominal muscles jumping beneath sweat-slicked skin. The king watched, transfixed, as a bead of pre-cum welled at the demigod’s tip to join the mess on his stomach.

    Augeas shifted his weight onto one forearm, using the other to trace the vein standing proud along Heracles’ erection. The demigod’s hips jerked into the touch, driving Augeas deeper into him with a punched-out groan. The king laughed breathlessly against his collarbone, increasing his pace just enough to make Heracles’ thighs spasm.

    “Look at you,” Augeas murmured, nipping at the demigod’s pec. Heracles’ golden eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide. The king pistoned into him with sudden force, rattling the headboard against the wall. “Taking me like you were made for me.”

    Heracles’ breath hitched — then broke into a ragged moan. “I was made for you.” His thighs trembled where they gripped Augeas’ waist, muscles straining as he arched into each thrust. “Only you —” His voice cracked as the king angled deeper, “— and no one else.” The admission hung between them, raw as a fresh wound. Augeas stilled, watching sweat drip from Heracles’ brow onto his own heaving chest.

    The demigod’s fingers scrabbled at the king’s hips, dragging him back in with a growl. Augeas obeyed, rolling his pelvis in a slow, grinding circle that made Heracles’ cock jump against his stomach. The king traced the weeping slit with his thumb, smearing pre-cum down the shaft. “Say it again,” he demanded, voice thick.

    Heracles’ hips jerked off the mattress, chasing friction. “Yours,” he gasped, the word torn from his throat as Augeas clenched around him internally. The king’s cock twitched at the visceral claim, his rhythm faltering for a heartbeat before he slammed back in with renewed force. Heracles cried out, his legs hooking around Augeas’ thighs to pull him deeper still.

    Outside, the courtyard had fallen silent save for their ragged breaths and the wet slap of skin. The demigod’s heels dug into the small of Augeas’ back, urging him faster. The king obliged, his thrusts growing erratic as Heracles’ body milked him toward climax. Their sweat-slicked chests slid together with each punishing drive, the scent of sex and citrus oil overwhelming.

    Augeas fisted Heracles’ cock in time with his strokes, twisting roughly on the upstroke. The demigod’s back arched violently, his mouth falling open in a silent scream as his sperm painted their stomachs in hot stripes. The king followed with a guttural groan, spilling his seed into Heracles with pulses that seemed to wrench the very breath from his lungs.

    They collapsed together, limbs entangled, breaths ragged. Augeas pressed his forehead to Heracles’ shoulder, inhaling the musk of exertion and sex. The demigod’s fingers traced idle patterns down his spine, lingering where sweat pooled in the dip above his ass.

    Somewhere between exhaustion and satisfaction, they drifted off, still joined. The king woke once in the predawn grayness to the sensation of lips brushing his temple — soft, incongruous against the memory of Heracles’ earlier ferocity. A calloused thumb swiped beneath his eye, catching moisture he hadn’t realized was there. He tried to speak, but sleep dragged him under before he could form the words.

    When sunlight finally pierced the lattice, Augeas woke alone. The sheets beside him were cool, the only evidence of Heracles’ presence a dent in the pillow and the lingering scent of crushed olives. He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling where a single cobweb trembled in the morning breeze. His body ached in ways that should have been unpleasant but weren’t — a physical echo of the demigod’s absence.

    The courtyard below was unnaturally silent. No servants whispered beyond the door. Even the fountain seemed muted, its usual burble reduced to a thin trickle. Augeas sat up slowly, wincing as muscles protested. On the tiles near the bed, a single bronze pauldron gleamed dully — left behind or discarded, he couldn’t tell. He reached for it, fingers skimming the cold metal. The inside still held the warmth of Heracles’ shoulder.

    Somewhere beyond the palace walls, a horn sounded — low and mournful. Augeas’ hand tightened around the pauldron’s edge. The sound wasn’t Elisian. He knew that brassy timbre, knew the way it carried across valleys like a challenge.

    Eurystheus was calling his hound to heel.

    Augeas stood abruptly, the pauldron clattering to the tiles. He crossed to the window, heedless of his nudity. The road beyond the gates stretched empty, dust swirling in lazy eddies where hundreds of hooves and sandals had churned it to powder hours before.

    Only one set of footprints led away — solitary and deep, as if their maker had carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.


    To get in touch with the author, send them an email.


  • Drinks and a Dicking Down

    We decided to meet for a drink at his hotel bar. We knew how it would end up but there’s something about the tension building that made me want to sit with him in public instead of heading right to his room. 

    When I met him in the lobby, I realized how petite he was. I’m not a tall guy by any means and I had a few inches on him at least. He was slim, toned, and cute as hell. He wore glasses, which is always a plus for me; his dark gray jeans and his tee shirt fit him well. He wore a stunning cologne. Look good, smell good, I’m yours. My cock was already stiffening. 

    I put my hand in the small of his back as we headed into the bar. He turned and smiled at me as we walked toward two open seats at one end of it. 

    As we sat and chatted, learning a little bit about each other, my hand rested on his thigh. We sat facing each other, perpendicular to the bar, my right leg between both his and his right between both of mine. 

    As we chatted and sipped, one of us always held physical contact with the other. It was electric. As we finished our drinks, he said, “Let’s go upstairs.”

    We had the elevator to ourselves and immediately started making out. My body was against his, his back to the elevator wall as our tongues expressed what our hands had not been able to with others around. I know he could feel my hard dick against him. 

    Quickly the doors opened and he led me to his room. Once inside as I took off my shoes, he sat on the bed, and cheekily asked, “Wanna watch some tv?” We laughed together.

    I moved to him and knelt over him; we began hungrily making out again. As I kissed his neck, nibbled his ear, and tasted his lips, he began moaning eagerly. Every time he made one of those needy noises, I got hotter. Soon neither of us had our shirts on. He eagerly sucked on my nipples, not even knowing how sensitive they were. My hands were all over his body, feeling the curve of his hip, resting on his slim but muscular chest, lacing my fingers with his. I kissed his entire torso, buried my face in his pits, and licked and nibbled his nips. 

    Our pants came off next; he was wearing a cute pair of CK briefs, I was wearing mesh C-IN2s, against which my hard cock was bulging obviously. His mouth and hands were all over me, mine were all over him. As I felt his small, firm, cute as fuck butt, I pulled the bottoms of each leg of his briefs up, catching them in his crack. I caressed and kneaded his beautiful cheeks and the moaning continued. He pulled my pair down, freeing my throbbing hard dick. Almost immediately, his warm mouth engulfed me, wrapping his sweet lips around me. I let out a guttural growl to let him know how good he felt sucking my cock. As I gently caressed his face and fed him my dick, he moaned around it, fueling me to thrust deeper into his mouth.

    My finger found his hole, warm and inviting. As I entered him, he moaned. His whimpers drove me fucking wild and I kept thrusting my cock in his mouth, it getting harder and harder. My one hand wrapping itself around his throat, the other fingering his tight hole. This went on for a few minutes and his moaning never stopped, getting louder and needier. My tongue found his neck, his ear, his chest. I was licking and sucking and nibbling him like he was covered in something sweet. 

    He pulled back and looked me in the eye. “Do you want to fuck me?”

    I growled a hungry affirmative and he grabbed lube from the nightstand. He expertly applied it to himself and then stroked my dick, lubing it up, getting it even harder when I didn’t think that was possible. 

    He laid back and raised his legs. I grabbed hold of them and lined myself up. He reached down and guided my throbbing dick into himself. Slowly I entered him, watching his face, asking if he was ok each step of the way. And as I found my cock completely in him, my balls coming into contact with his body, I felt his hole tighten around me. It was without equal, the tightest hole I have ever felt. His grip on me was unlike anything I had known. He moaned and I bellowed. I could not contain myself with how good it felt. 

    Making sure he was prepared, I asked him if he was ok. “Yes,” he said, “please fuck me.” And fuck him I did. As I thrust into him, holding his legs up and spread out, the bed started banging against the wall. I briefly felt badly for anyone in the next room and then gave into the feelings and doubled down. The noises of a good fuck always make me feral. Between the banging of the bed against the wall, his repeated moans getting louder every time I drove in him, and the slaps of my body against his, I knew I would not be able to last long. 

    I reached down and began stroking his cock while I fucked him, I could feel his dick getting harder in my hands and watched his balls tighten. His moans got louder and louder, no words, incoherent. Just lust. “Oh, fuck! I’m cumming,” he screamed, and then his moans again became unintelligible as he blew his load all over his tight body. 

    “Where do you want me -“ I panted as I stuffed him. But I couldn’t even finish the sentence as he screamed, “Breed me!”

    That was all I needed. With my loudest yell yet, I felt myself fill  him, his hole still working my cock like nothing I’d experienced. With a few more loud thumps of the bed against the wall I let out a string of profane and filthy language. 

    “Don’t take it out yet,” he said and so I kept my cock in him, and lowered my body onto his, his cum matting the fur on my chest and belly. 

    We made out. I kissed his ear again and whispered to him, “Are you ok?” He smiled and said he was and we told each other how hot it was. 

    Slowly, I pulled out and rolled over to catch my breath. 

    What a great fuck he was. 


    To get in touch with the author, send them an email.


  • Something to be thankful for…

    Wade – 29 complicated 6’1” 230 pounds brown eyes with short military style dark brown hair

    Blake – 31 single 5’10” 205 pounds green eyes with sandy surfer style blonde hair


    I hung up the phone. And I jumped up in the air excited for the first time and I cannot remember how long. Not only was Blake, this hot, sexy guy that I just ran into in the park, he was the head, chef and owner of my favorite restaurant in the hottest spot in the city. And I was going to interview with him tomorrow morning. 

    To say I could not go to sleep that night was an understatement. I went about my evening and couldn’t concentrate on anything but what the morning was going to bring. I had been out of a job at this point for almost 3 years, and I was so excited to finally be back on my feet. Funny how getting rid getting rid of that bitch, and all of a sudden, my life takes a turn for the good.

    That morning, I woke up at 7 AM before my alarm went off, brushed my teeth shaved, and went to the gym to get a quick session in. I came home, showered, fix my hair got dressed, looked in the mirror. “You’ve got this Wade. You can do it. This is literally your actual dream. Not your father‘s dream, but your actual dream that you have been thinking about for as long as you can remember.” I told myself looking at myself in the mirror, trying to pump myself up.

    I took a cab to La Rosé. I got out of the cab and walked into the front door, and the hostess asked me how many people in my party? I smiled in responded. “I’m actually here for an interview with Blake Masters at 10am.” She smiled and looked at me. “Oh of course, Mr. Masters did tell me that you would be here hold on one second and let me go get him.” She responded. 

    I was nervous. I checked my breath. I flattened out my shirt. Adjusted my pants making sure I was looking good for the interview but also for Blake. I had to wait for about five minutes, but the moment he came around the corner from the office, it took my breath away, just like it did in the exact same way when I ran into him at the park. He was wearing a gray cashmere sweater, black pants that fit him way too good and white shoes. That blonde hair of his was styled so perfectly he looked like a model off of a magazine cover. He saw me and smiled, and I swear I felt my pulse race and my palms started to sweat. No one has ever had this effect on me not even my ex-girlfriend Becca all those years ago.

    He walked up to me and stuck his hand out. I quickly wiped my hand on my pants and shook his hand. The moment my hand in his hand came together. I felt the spark. that stereotypical spark, you hear in romantic comedies when the two romantic interests of the movie see one another for the first time. And it’s like instant love at first sight or first touch. I know I felt a little something when I ran into him at the park yesterday, but this was something totally different. This was more intense. It was like we both were seeing each other for the first time again if that makes any sense? The way he was looking at me and the way I was looking at him. There was no denying that we were both interested in each other, other than just a job interview. But I really needed this job more than anything in the world so I had to keep my cool for now and let’s let this interview go and hopefully get the job and then maybe see what these feelings are later on.

    “Hey Wade. Nice to see you again. You look great.” He said looking at me up and down with a look that said many different things all at once. I let go of shaking his hand replied “likewise Blake. You look really nice today.” I smiled a genuine smile and I swear I saw him blush a little. Good I thought this is going good so far. “Follow me and let’s get the interview started.” He led me to the back office. Blake’s office was very clean, modern and crisp just like the rest of the restaurant. He signaled for me to take a seat in front of his desk at a chair, so I took it. He walked around on his desk and sat down in his chair. 

    “So Wade. Why the change from finance to food? And what made you go into finance instead of food in the first place?” He asked me. “Well my father wanted me to go into finance and do things he wanted me and my siblings to do. He didn’t really care so much about what we wanted to do. It was almost like if you don’t go and do what he wanted, him and my mother wouldn’t pay for any of our college. The same went for my older sister and brother. My brother is fixing to graduate from Baylor in Texas, going to be a doctor. My sister is in her second year of veterinary school. So being the baby of the family, it was whatever basically my dad wanted.” Blake looked at me with a certain look of concern but continued. ”But you’re looking for a job now so what happened with the finance career and why are you applying at a restaurant?” I took a breath and proceeded to answer his question. “ I have always enjoyed cooking since I was little I would help my mom all the time. I enjoyed the time in the kitchen with her and my grandmother before she passed away because it was just relaxing and it was just nice to see a pile of ingredients sitting on the counter and you could basically just turn it into whatever you felt like making at the time and hoping once it was made everybody would enjoy it. And whenever I would make something that my family would love, especially my grandmother, it just filled my heart in my insides with this warmth that I just could never explain, but I love the feeling so much.” 

    When I was done giving my answer, Blake had the hugest smile on his face. My God that man was so fucking handsome I could just stare at his face all day. “that was an even better answer that I could’ve hoped for for a response to my question.” Blake said. “That feeling you get when you make something in the look on someone else’s face when they take the first bite and enjoy whatever the meal it is, that’s exactly why I became a chef and opened my restaurant. I love the look on everyone’s face from all walks to life. Just watching them, take a bite of whatever meal they ordered and seeing pure joy on their face when they enjoy it and it brings so much comfort to them, that warms my heart so much and I feel a sense of fulfillment with my life every time someone takes a bite.” 

    We continued the interview for another 30 minutes. Talking about random questions related to previous jobs. Nothing too personal but I can tell and I think you could tell too that we both were wanting to ask a couple personal questions, especially after the way we met yesterday in the park.

    “Wade. After talking to you today and even though you don’t have as much chef experience on your résumé. I can tell you obviously have the passion and drive for a career like this because it reminds me so much of myself and my drive and my passion for cooking and seeing happiness on everyone’s face when they eat. So so if you’re still interested in the job, which I hope you are, I would love to offer you this job.” Blake said. I smiled the biggest smile. “Why yes yes Blake I would love this job thank you so much. You don’t know what this means to me after everything that’s been happening in my life. The last few years this is like the light at the end of the tunnel showing me that my time in darkness is coming to an end. I know that sounds a little poetic and profound, but honestly, if you knew some of the stuff I went through it would make sense.” Blake smiled and nodded. 

    We stood up, shook hands and he said that his secretary would get in touch with me on paperwork and everything else like that and go from there. We were walking out of his office and we were only like a foot apart from each other, and I could just feel the magnetism between us. I can’t even remember the last time I looked at someone like this let alone another man and for the first time in my life I actually felt giddy excited, not just for my job that I just got but for life in general. And this wouldn’t have happened if I wouldn’t have ran into Blake randomly while not paying attention in the park because I was pissed off about my life.

    As I was about to walk out the door, I turned around to tell him goodbye. He had his look on his face like he was about to ask me something, but wasn’t quite sure if he should but God I wanted him to whatever it was I wanted him to ask me. Blake started “Wade. I know this probably isn’t the right thing to do being that. I just hired you but for some reason, maybe it’s just me maybe not. But I’m getting the feeling that we are both into each other more than we are letting on? I don’t know about you but ever since we ran into each other in the park yesterday I couldn’t get you off of my mind. I thought why can’t I stop thinking about the cute guy that ran into me in the park? Then I had changed and went back to the office and started looking at resumes. And wouldn’t you know the second one that I have thumbed through on the stack happen to be yours? What are the odds of that happening twice in one day? Not only did I run into you or correction. No sorry you ran into me but on that same day not even two hours later I find your résumé and your phone number. Now I could be totally reading this wrong but… Would you like to go out to dinner with me sometime?” 

    I was shocked a little but not really as I was feeling the same way, but wasn’t sure how or if I should broach the subject. I smiled and grabbed his hands. He looks at me, grabbing his hands, and then looked up at me with those gorgeous, gorgeous eyes of his. “I I would absolutely love to go out to dinner with you sometime. And yes, I couldn’t stop thinking about the gorgeous man that I ran into while not paying attention yesterday. I know this is a little awkward considering you just did offer me a job, but I’d be a fool to say no to the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in my life standing in front of me asking me out. I would absolutely love it.” He smiled. He grabbed his cell phone out of his pocket and handed it to me. I know I have your phone number on your résumé on my desk, but this just feels, I don’t know better to ask you for it in person.” He opened his phone and handed it to me, and I entered my number and saved it into his contact list and handed him his phone back. Then I grabbed my phone out of my pocket and opened it and handed it to him. He entered his contact number, not the restaurant phone number that he called me from, but his cell phone number. “Great. So now we both have each other’s numbers, both are excited for this and we both think each other is the most gorgeous man we have ever seen in our entire lives. So far so good.” Blake smiled and squeeze my hands tighter. I looked at those gorgeous green eyes of his and I wanted to kiss him right then and there, but I knew that would be inappropriate. Considering I was going to be starting to work there and I didn’t want to see any of my future coworkers see me kiss the boss.

    We settled for a handshake and a pad on the shoulder with lingering hands longer than they normally would be. We finally set our goodbyes and I walked outside. I let out the hugest sigh of relief while standing on the sidewalk. Thought to myself oh my gosh did that just happen did I ought only just get a job at one of the hottest restaurants in New York City. But I’ve got a dinner date with the hot shot sexy as hell chef and owner of that restaurant!! I hailed a cab and went back to my apartment. 

    When I got back home, I unlocked the apartment and walked inside. I looked around and noticed just found 30 and unkempt. The place was. Maybe Becca was a little bit right about me drowning in my sorrows and not giving a shit about anything. But you know what I don’t want to admit that anymore because I don’t want that bitch to be right. Fuck it. After she was screwing around on me with all the fucking doctors at the hospital, she works at no telling how many she’s been fucked by. No she was gone. I had a new job. And I had a date coming up with a sexy hot shot. Chef the hottest restaurant in New York. I looked around. I decided no longer. No longer was Wade Robertson going to sit here and wallow and pity and let his life slip away in front of him. I went to my room and changed it out of my interview clothes. I changed some comfortable workout clothes and decided to hit the gym and the grocery store.

    After the gym in the grocery store, I came home put the groceries away and decided it was time to clean this place up. Because what if everything went good with Blake in somehow we ended up back here? Not that that’s gonna happen but God it would be so nice to have happen. It took me almost 5 hours and it was like 9 PM by that time, but my apartment was cleaner than it had been in, I can’t even remember. The apartment was smelling clean. The floors were mopped. The couches were cleaned and pillows and everything back where they were supposed to be the bed was made freshly washed linens. The towels have been put up in the bathroom. The kitchen counters were clean. The dishwasher was empty. The trash was taken out, ha ha see what happens when you’re a bitch Becca fuck you I thought to myself. I looked around at the clean apartment and was happy with myself. Something I couldn’t even said 48 hours ago.

    After spending all that time cleaning, I was hungry. But I didn’t want to cook anything and dirty at my freshly cleaned the kitchen. It was New York City, takeout capital of the United States. I ordered me some Chinese food for delivery and sat on the couch and watched the movie while I was stuffing my face. I put all my leftovers up and headed to my room to brush my teeth, shower and head to bed.

    While I was in the shower, my mind and my cock could not stop thinking of Blake. Gorgeous, green eyes that surfer blonde hair in those perfectly straight white teeth fuck he was so damn sexy. I felt the hot water running all over my body. Started running my fingers through my chest hair, closing my eyes and picturing my hands being Blake’s rubbing them all over my body. I grabbed my thick cut 8 inch cock with one hand in squirted some conditioner all over my cock in hand with the other hand. I started stroking slow and hard thinking about him and what he looks like naked. Picturing him dripping wet in the shower with me, rubbing that hard body that he obviously works out very well all over mine. The faster I stroked it and  closer to blowing my load. I hadn’t been this turned on in years. I slipped one finger down in between my legs and played with my hole. Stroking my cock, rubbing my balls and fingering my hole all the hot water cascaded down my chest and my back. I was lost next to scene thinking about him being in the shower with me. The faster I stroke the closer and closer I got until finally I couldn’t hold back. I shoved the finger as far up in my ass as I could and stroked hard and after two more strokes, I blew the biggest load of my seed all over the shower wall and almost collapsed on the floor from the feeling. I was out of breath, but I was so satisfied. If that’s how it was just standing in the shower alone thinking of him God I hope it’s 10 times better if and when I get to sleep with him.

    I caught my breath and stood up and proceeded to finish my shower that I had started and cleaned up off all my evidence off the wall. I brushed my teeth crawled into bed. Becca, I hated it when I slept naked. She always insisted I wear shorts. But now that she’s gone, fuck it. I’m sleeping naked like I used to long time ago. I covered covered up and laid there in the dark, staring at the ceiling thinking about my time in the shower and thinking about today. Thinking about how only 48 hours ago my life was so drastically different but since then my life has taken a turn for the better. I have a new job starting that bitch is gone from my life finally. And I met the most gorgeous sexiest man alive, and he asked me out.

    As I was falling asleep, I was thinking about Blake green eyes, and that smile and the blonde hair thinking about how I can’t wait to see him again.

    Then I was fast asleep off to dreamland where I’m sure I’ll be dreaming of that sexy man once again.


    To get in touch with the author, send them an email.