An Xcite Books collection of twenty gay erotic stories with mixed and varied m/m themes.
He was an assman from way back, always gravitating to men’s moons – following them with his eyes in pants and shorts and swimsuits, fondling them with his hands, clothed and bare, fucking them with his cock. And so, when he saw the man laid out on the beach like a Nubian offering to the glute gods, he went weak in the knees and hard in the cock. And he just had to butt in.
Engines of the Night
They were after Mariano. Far off, the high-pitched whine of an engine throttling to top speed, then the shotgun-like blasts of a bigger engine, exploding from cruising to racing speed, echoing through the dark, empty, concrete streets. Revving closer, burning nearer, seeking, doing battle over hot, young men like Mariano who dared go out at night.
He works for Hunk magazine, a glossy monthly publication that profiles handsome male athletes, runs features on various sporting, health, and lifestyle issues. The job doesn’t pay well, but there’s one excellent fringe benefit: the opportunity to ogle hunky men in their deliberately-made-skimpy uniforms and other athletic gear. And when two studly footballers show up for a photo shoot, the pictorial action turns wildly perverted, in living colour.
Massaging the Truth
It was a sleazy, back alley Washington massage parlour with a reputation for “full-service” rubdowns. You had to know the password just to get in. Thompson knew it, wanted the works. And then he knew he wanted so much more.
A lot of young men had gone through it – being “interviewed” by “Uncle Simon”, the man who ran the main industry in town, virtually controlled the entire county. It was a rough, rigorous process that resulted in only the right men for the job. The reward? Employment at Uncle Simon’s business, servitude at Uncle Simon’s home.
He was still upset with himself half an hour after the game. He’d missed the tying goal with three seconds left. But his team-mate, Octavio, knew the score, the big, rugged, raven-haired, copper-skinned guy offering up a post-match pep session that turned losing into winning, gloomy into gaiety. Game on!
Bryan Frinkle loves comic books, graphic novels, and all things Yaoi. But most and best of all, he loves pulps, the rough paper fiction magazines that dominated newsstands in the 1920s, 30s, and 40s. His favourites are the hero pulps, whose rugged, wily, earth-shaking, heartbreaking leading men often find their way straight into young Bryan’s very active fantasies. And when he ventures forth to the pulp magazine and paperback book convention, he meets a couple of young men who share his passion – and passions. Even the garish pulps never dished out thrills so lurid!
Men of the Open Road
The road he walked, he didn’t walk alone. With his thumb out, dressed in a tight white T-shirt and pair of blue jeans that showed off his smooth, young, sun-bronzed body, he kept getting picked up by older men. And taken for rides. It was the most satisfying form of travel he knew.
Mark wasn’t exactly overjoyed when his parents suggested he spend the summer on his uncle’s farm. The only consolation was that his cousin two times removed, Jake, was going to be there, and they were both around the same age. Maybe they’d have some good times. And maybe, just maybe, Mark would experience the longest, hottest summer on record.
Blue vs Brown
The streets were where their war was waged, individual battles won and lost on their routes. The FedEx guy in his blue uniform, Ron. The UPS guy in his brown uniform, Don. Every now and then, though, their fire would turn downright friendly, the two hardened road warriors abandoning the uniforms that made them mortal business enemies to engage in a sizzling private truce.
He kept three slaves, treating them like the dogs they were, using collars and chains and commands, and his cock, for obedience. He made them perform for him – on each other – before unleashing his own lust on all three. Slaves never had it so good.
The new guy, Dexter, strode into the gym like he owned the place, taking narcissism to a whole new level. He was tanned and ripped, had a torso bulging with chest plates, huge, vein-striated arms that peaked up into the clouds, cleft chin and square jaw and bright blue eyes. In other words, I liked everything about the dude, except his ’tude; that did need a whole hell of a lot more work. And I was just the horny man to do some honing, for the good of gym harmony.
The Banker Boys
Jerry Jenkins, Texas Ranger. He was looking for the Banker Boys – Pete and Roy Banker, and their third partner in crime, Tom “Tommy” Herman. Ploughing dirt with their sweat and tears wasn’t anything the Boys wanted any part of during the Dust Bowl Depression. So they’d taken the easy road to riches, the last stop: hard time or hot death. Jerry Jenkins was on their trail, and stood ready to deliver. One rumble, one Ranger.
Cody was sitting all by himself in the sauna. The heat was turned up high, the steam thick and wet. He was wearing just a white towel, his hand burrowed down in the towel, softly, languidly stroking his hard, pulsating cock. Just a young man enjoying a nice, relaxing, stimulating steam after a hard workout. Until another man entered the cedar-panelled room. And the temperature soared, the sauna gone sexual cauldron.
He wasn’t out in the sun-seared Grasslands National Park to eyeglass unexotic ground fowl with his fellow birders. No, he was there to spy on one lovely boi-d (as the British fops say) in particular – young, raven-plumed, slender-beaked, twin-breasted, feather-tailed Jackson Beaumont. He’d been closely observing young Jackson ever since the man had roosted in his neighbourhood a week earlier, three coops down the street. Because as a voyeur, his real dirty hobby was flushing out pretty, preening pheasant, honing in on them, and then shooting them lustful looks of admiration and searing lines of ejaculation from an unsafe distance.
Braden was on the college football team. As a result, the big lug was kind of shy about his gayness. So, he used horseplay as foreplay – his way of getting a certain sexy little nerd to do exactly as he wished, and wanted. He performed best under pressure, after all. Who says all jocks are dumb, let alone straight?
Stacked in Back
Libraries aren’t just for checking out books. They’re for checking out men too. The counter personnel can be homely as a Louisa May Alcott novel, and the security guards chunky as the latest Stephen King bestseller. But a lot of the customers are nice to look at, and some of the young men restacking the shelves make pleasant browsing for horny patrons. As they say in the book-lending business: when these stacks are rockin’, don’t come a stockin’.
Secret Santa’s Workshop
Ted wanted to be an elf, work for Santa. Only problem was, at 6’ 2” tall and 220 pounds, he was way too big for the regular toyshop. Fortunately, Santa had another workshop, perfect for a man of Ted’s proportions; a place where they assembled “adult” toys. Ted took to the job like a horny reindeer to sleigh traces.
Ben Jardin was the biggest black marketeer in southern Arizona. With the war on, rationing a reality, and with a warehouse full of illicit goods to back him up, he could help people out – for the right price. It was usually a good deal for all the men he serviced. Until a couple of real racketeers tried to muscle him out of some of his merchandise. That’s when Ben Jardin had to work it really dirty.
Theirs was a liberal fraternity, open to anyone regardless of orientation. So, when one brother-lover suggested a “gitch raid” to his other loving brother, stealing and soiling the underwear from a fellow fraternity on campus, they were both in. Deep and depraved. Come and gitch it!
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