Come and read the amazing stories by G.A Hauser, Lisa Worrall, SammyJo Hunt and yours truly.
Here are some excerpts from our stories.
Racing Raindrops by Sue Brown
The sudden rain shower caught Tony by surprise. He looked for options to wait it out before continuing his journey to the grocery store, relieved to spot a bar just across the street. Making a sudden detour, Tony avoided falling over a stroller filled with a sleeping toddler. He apologized to the outraged mother and headed for the door, her angry shouts following his progress. It was dark and warm inside Mac's Bar, a welcome relief from the heavy raindrops.
Shaking his head to clear the water from his face, Tony froze on the doorstep, nerves coiling in the pit of his stomach, as he suddenly realized what kind of bar it was. He could find another bar. This wasn't the only establishment along the street. Or he could grow a set and take the final step, a rite of passage to acknowledge that he wasn't as arrow straight as he told the world. If he stepped over the threshold, there would be no going back.
It was just a frigging gay bar, for fuck's sake. The world wasn't going to shake just because Tony DiMarco took a drink in a fag bar.
Maybe not the whole world, but his little part of Manhattan would be shaken to its very core. There was a good chance his momma and poppa would never talk to him again. Anthony DiMarco III, son of fourth generation Italian storekeepers, the first DiMarco to go to college, an internee every summer for their local senator, a rising star in local politics--there was no way they were going to accept he was a faggot.
"My boy's gonna go all the way to the top!" his poppa boasted to anyone who'd listen. He was so proud of his oldest son.
Poppa wouldn't be so proud of Little Tony now, would he? Old Tony hated all queers and was proud to boast that the only time some fag came onto him, the fanuk lost all his front teeth. Tony shivered. There was good reason not to tell his Poppa that Little Tony liked the boys.
Nasty Boys by G. A. Hauser
Clyde stood backstage, standing in front of a mirror. His skin glistened with oil and his veins were showing from pumping heavy weights. The noise of the crowd was deafening. He could barely hear the MC announcing names. As men came and went around him, Clyde gave himself a last once over, making sure he looked perfect.
Both arms were inked with colorful tattoos up to and including his shoulders. He had a leather choke collar and matching studded wristbands. The outline of his cock and balls were showing through the spandex fabric of his bikini briefs. His shaven head gleamed like his biceps under the lights. He was wearing his black work boots with white socks.
He brushed his hand over his black goatee and shot himself a devilish look.
A man came up behind him, cupping his ass and leaning against his back. "You're up."
Clyde reached for his leather cap and put it on his head. It made him appear nasty, an image he liked. His cock grew thick as he walked towards the stage--everything about this competition made him horny. He waited until he heard his name.
"All right, you nasty boys! Get ready for a real treat! Here comes, Clyde!"
The applause and catcalls in the jammed room sounded metallic, atomic. It felt like a sauna from so many bodies sweating. A young assistant pulled back the curtain, and Clyde strutted out. He faced a room packed with men--drunk, horny, gay men, some nearly naked, like he was.
The MC, Sasha, a gorgeous drag queen with long flowing blonde hair and a shimmering sea green evening gown, sashayed over to him. She purred like a cat into the microphone. "Hello, handsome."
Clyde tensed his ripped abs for her and the crowd. She ran her hand over his chest and nipples.
Sasha played to the audience who were pumping their firsts into the air and hooting in a rhythmic beat. "Clyde! Clyde!"
"Doncha love his tats?" The crowd reacted with more noise. "Can't ya just taste them?" She ran her long, painted nails down his arm.
"Go get 'em, honey." Sasha made a grand gesture. "Give it up for Clyde!"
Music blasted from wall-mounted speakers, and Clyde fell into his choreographed routine. His hips thrusting forward in jerking motions, making his cock wag up and down, Clyde raised his arms over his head and felt the music wash over and through him. Under the pounding bass, the beating drums, Clyde moved his lips to the lyrics, but had no need to lip-sync. He wasn't a drag queen. He was a go-go boy. And this competition was like a dream.
Nothing got Clyde off more than performing, showing off his sculpted body and big cock.
The Soul Awakening by SammyJo Hunt
Michael's tiny Peugeot rental car flew along the deserted, ancient stone road. It was late at night, dark, and the moon was high overhead. There was a chill breeze in the September air, not quite a wind, and it stirred the leaves on the trees that lined the small country lane. Their branches waved and bent, looking like grotesque arms reaching out for him in the night.
Michael shivered and focused more intently on the road heading back to his hotel in town. How in god's name he'd ever gotten here was beyond him, and he ran nervous fingers through his tousled brown hair and tried to get an emotional grip. It wasn't like him to be spooked, not over anything. He was just too down to earth for that.
Pondering over the past five years, Michael's brain whizzed along at nearly as rapid a pace as the wheels turning underneath his car, his way of masking the nervous anxiety which tugged at his gut. He reflected over having won the reality TV series, Chasing the Dream, five years earlier which had entirely changed his life, and how he'd been touring Europe for the past two months playing acoustic rock concerts for his European fans. Bucharest was behind him now, their company of musicians and industry personnel had left yesterday, after putting on some pretty damn good shows. Now that was done, he'd crossed over the German border the night before and was staying in a small city called Kronstadt--Kronstadt, Transylvania, to be precise--a quaint, idyllic town in Romania. To further his celebrity status, Michael had just finished another round of press interviews late that evening, and was on his way back to his rented room so he could get some sleep. He was exhausted by now, and more than ready for some rest.
He'd been up for a straight twenty hours, and the schedule was starting to wear on him. Red eyes burned and stung from the long hours, his eyelids wanting to droop, when the car suddenly lurched forward, backfired a time or two, scaring the shit out of him. Then it sputtered and died, coasting silently to the side of the cobbled lane.
Michael's head fell forward in resignation, coming to rest against the steering wheel. Half sobbing, half ready to scream and howl at the moon for such unbelievably bad luck, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed his PR gal back at the hotel.
"Carolyn, my car just broke down in the middle of some fucking country road, and it's nearly midnight. Get me the hell outta here! Please?" His voice sounded desperate.
"Oh, Michael, where are you? Tell me, and I'll get a replacement car sent right out to you," she responded, concern heavy in her tone.
"I... I don't know. I left the press event back in town, and turned right on Belstadt Street or Lane. That was close to half an hour ago. I just followed it thinking it would take me back to the hotel. As far as I know, I'm still on the same road," Michael told her, a hint of panic rising in his voice.
"Okay, honey. Sit tight and don't leave the car. I'll get a hold of the local authorities and have a search party sent out to find you, along with a replacement car. Just lock your doors and keep your phone close by." The line went dead, and Michael shook his head, deflated. This was the last thing he needed. He was so tired, it bordered on exhaustion. He turned this way and that, checking all four small doors to make sure the car was locked, then moved his seat back as far as it would go and reclined the back rest. Pulling his leather jacket more tightly around him, he tucked his hands into the pockets against the faint chill, still holding onto his cell phone, and closed his eyes. He was determined to get a short nap and make the best of a bad situation.
Chasing Deuce by Patricia Logan
Deuce woke to the feeling of a tongue sliding around his rim. He groaned as he felt the weight of his lover pressing him face down into the mattress. There was a good possibility that he was going to suffocate with his face buried in the bedding, but he knew without a doubt that if he was going to die, this was exactly the way he wanted to go. Colt groaned and Deuce felt the vibration send red-hot pins and needles straight to his cock as his lover pulled the cheeks of his ass further apart for better access. Deuce began to grind his leaking cock against the bed, humping as the motion gave him the much needed scrape of friction along his steel-hard shaft. He turned his head to the side in search of air, gasping as he ground his hips.
"Jesus Colt, do that again darlin'," he heard himself begging as his lover speared his tongue deeper into the tight little hole. Deuce widened his legs on the bed and pushed back, planting his knees on the mattress and arching off the sheets, trying to sink Colt's tongue deeper inside. The sound of a muffled chuckle drifted to his ears from the vicinity of his rear end. Deuce felt the vibrations all the way to his core.
"Oh god! Oh god!" Deuce began to chant as Colt sped his motions, lapping at Deuce's tight little pucker with the sharp, wet muscle of his tongue. Deuce ground back down on the bed deciding that his own cock needed more attention; he began slipping a palm between the bed and his rock hard abs. His hand was halted when Colt's fingers closed about his wrist. Almost as quickly, he felt Colt's tongue retreat and the distinct wash of air across his backside as his lover pulled away.
"No! Don't touch!" The low command came from Colt. "I told you not to touch yourself Deuce. That's my job." Deuce whimpered at the loss of Colt's magnificent tongue and he sensed the big man moving behind him. "You touch yourself again and this is over, Deuce. You understand me?"
Colt was going to make this lovemaking a sensual torture and Deuce knew it. When Colt used that masterful tone of voice on him, Deuce would melt. They hadn't made love in two weeks, though they slept side by side at night. Now the thought of not being able to complete the act drove Deuce almost insane.
"I won't," Deuce whispered, turning his head and looking over his shoulder to find Colt kneeling up between his spread legs and slowly jacking his cock. A stream of pearly precome leaked steadily down the thick shaft and ran over the knuckles on Colt's huge hand. When his gaze met Colt's eyes, the man smiled.
"You want this in your ass, Deuce?" the man asked.
"Jesus, yes," the cowboy answered from his prone position. "Please fuck me, Colt; it's been such a long time. I need you inside me now." His voice sounded strange to him, but Deuce didn't care. All he wanted at that moment was to feel Colt's big cock jammed inside of him and riding him hard. "Fuck me, Colt. Please," he begged again.
Colt reached out his left hand and placed it firmly on Deuce's lower back, holding him down. With his right, he continued to stroke his cock.
"You'll get it when I'm ready to give it to you, Deuce."
Dreaming of You by Lisa Worrall
Noah Kinkade slowly opened his eyes and let out an unmanly squawk. His bleary gaze focused on the dark figure illuminated in the muted glow of the bedside lamp he had left burning. He scrabbled quickly for the bedclothes. They'd slipped down in his slumber and the first thing he was aware of--after the stranger in the room--was that he was showing more than a fair amount of his pale-skinned ass. "What do you want?" He wished his voice sounded deeper and firmer than the rasp that shook his vocal chords, but the man gazing down at him didn't seem too perturbed. "Who--?"
The man silenced Noah's question with the press of a finger to his own lips before pulling at the thin blanket covering Noah's modesty.
"I--" was all Noah could manage as the blanket was eased from his suddenly nerveless fingers and slid down his body. His heart beat faster in his chest when the man's ice blue gaze followed the path of the material and burned into each new piece of flesh exposed. Noah's breath hitched in his throat when the man tossed the blanket aside and reached down and encircled his ankle in long, slender fingers. He worried at his lower lip with his teeth as those fingers began to slowly move up over the jut of bone and onto his calf, kneading at the muscle. What the hell was he doing? Shouldn't he be screaming for help? Dialing the cops? At the very least be grabbing the nearest heavy thing and hitting this guy over the head with it? His senses were assaulted by wave after wave of sensation, and he couldn't move, trapped by the heat in the man's gaze.
By the time those searching fingers had reached the sensitive skin of Noah's inner thigh, his cock was already achingly hard. His body trembled and his nerve endings cried out for the stranger's touch where he needed it most. The sound that fell from his parted lips was a half-sob, half-groan when the warm fingers carried on up his body, ignoring his throbbing cock, ghosting across his lower belly and up his torso. "Please," he whimpered, when blunt nails scraped over his nipples, sending a jolt of pleasure to his cock. Ice blue eyes twinkled with a wicked gleam as the man lay down next to him and covered his body like a blanket. When did he get naked? Noah thought desperately, then decided he didn't care as long, dark hair brushed his cheek and full pouty lips captured his.