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Mucho MACHO (Joya Bay Bee)

Mucho MACHO by Joya Bay Bee

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Jevan is a man who has all the outwardly proper looks of a normal person. But all the men in his life know that he isn’t; they know that he was meant to love other men in a clandestine and very unusual way — desiring to be debased and degraded by his male lovers.

Product type: EBook    Published by: Grown Folks Books    Published: 10 / 2014

No. words: 37796

Style: Gay/Lesbian/Bisexual, Cowboys/Western Erotica

Available Formats: Palm  MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  Sony Reader (LRF)  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle



“Suddenly, the hands dropped his head to the floor. Fingers, gripping Alex’s cock savagely, squeezed until, blood filling muscle, it hardened once more, quivered in a tight fist. Leaning forward, kneeling instead of squatting, the man bent toward the flailing fist and stiffened cock, stared as waves of blood suffused it, then receded, leaving the shaft white, squeezed the cock harder, clamping fingers roughly around it, and the head, expanding, seemed to burst. Alex writhed on the floor, and, as he cried out with pain, the man reached around, grappling for his throat, snarled, ‘Shut up, you fucking pervert! Eat my ass!’ and the hips descended again, smothering his mouth.”
“With the return of close, smelly darkness, he felt balls contract in their sac, snug to his underbelly, jerked his legs apart as wet blobs of gism spurted from him, again splattering his stomach and the hand masturbating him. He sighed, quivering, tongued the humid ass opening, licked the puckered membranes furiously with a slippery tongue…”
Staring at the sheet of yellow paper in his typewriter and the words he’d written weeks before, Jevan wondered why the hell he’d thought the paragraphs good when he’d typed them. Now they read dull and unexciting although, as he touched his cock between naked thighs, it had hardened, projected now from his belly.
Got too much to do today, damn it, he thought; then, so what would jerking off do for you this morning? Better keep your head straight, man, you got too much to do, right? But the idea of easing tensions, the cramped feeling in his mind, had been rather exciting. He fingered the slick, moist head of his cock again, thinking, Well, what harm would playing with the fucker do, just a little jerking, not too much? Then thought about the time. Yeah, man, forget it! You got too much to do today.
Although early (a wall clock in the kitchen section read six-thirty) the trailer was stuffy and hot though he’d left all windows wide open the night before. October in New Mexico could be very warm, but the clean air, by contrast with polluted, unbreathable stuff in California, more than compensated for the heat, the sweat-itch in his crotch. Jevan poured himself another coffee from the electric percolator into a pottery mug, stared blearily out the windows at a split-rail fence two hundred yards distant, checked his mind for the morning’s agenda.
Make certain there was enough feed and water for Tazel (the horse he’d spend so much money for); get to the Court House exactly at nine; dress in a businesslike suit, not too square or Establishment looking, but in something that’d make him look like a solid-citizen type (which he knew he was not); be sure his lawyer, David Cathers (Certainly, a “corrupt person”) had all the facts in that fancy briefcase he carried.
A thought swirled in his head. How dumb can you get? You don’t stand a chance! He glanced quickly out the window at the graded slope of his land, which slid into an arroyo spiked with pinon trees, the soil parched gray-brown by the sun. Screw them! I’ll never let them force me out!
On the table, his typewriter squatted ominously as if to remind him he’d not paid any attention to it these several weeks, too preoccupied with his impending court tight harassment and ambushed gun shots in the dark. His eyes shifted from the arroyo to the trailer interior again and words on a sheet of yellow paper rolled into the machine.
“No rise and fall. Azimuthal movement, a continuing circle with no horizon to guide his internal clock, that directional finder for inner rhythms. He flounders against reefs of air, whirls aimlessly in space, unreal, although the naked body beside him is real, and warm hands, also real, coursing over his nakedness, seem to try to anchor him to the bed, to stroke his flesh back to some form of actuality. Horse charges through his veins like an enraged beast.”
“Sighing, Alex wonders if these maneuvers on the battlefield of love are as mechanical as they seem to be; and if there is more to it than salivating mouths on stiff muscle, a surge of gism. If true, then what? A hot crotch of damp fur pressed to a nose? Fingers on his cock, now, squeeze the head and it becomes glossy, engorged with blood in a fist around it, warm ooze lubricating the skin. A voice mutters, ‘Wanna fuck me with that thing or blow me?’ and he hears a low laugh. ‘I got a rubber asshole, man, but take it easy.’ The words — casual, taunting and brutal and, certainly, sensual — cause his introspective thoughts to vanish like a tiny speck of light on a TV set snapped off. No point answering such a question. Demonstrate!”
As he rises to stare down at the other naked body, the fingers on his cock withdraw, and the body flattens in the bed, a long rod of hard flesh arching from a smooth belly blurred with blond pubic hair. His eyes rove for a moment over the body; shoulders not yet fully-defined but capped with strong deltoids lengthening to well-formed biceps; chest muscles, rounded arcs tipped with erect nipples; the smooth belly, the mound of downy pubes, and rigid flesh, hot and almost steaming, a small sac with surprisingly large balls. Eyes, liquid blue, stare at him.
“Jesus! When this kid grows to a man, he’ll knock everybody on their ass!” He is breathing stridently, now, wonders, not really caring, how old the boy is: Seventeen… eighteen? It doesn’t matter.
“With the touch of wet lips to his cock, the kid arches, and a brief grunt issues from his mouth as he falls back into the bed. Stiff flesh in Alex’s lips jerks. The taste of young dick, unwashed, heady and sour, stimulates him, however, and he sinks further over it, hearing the loud grunts and moans; hips under him squirm; large balls pressed to his chin wiggle.”
“Excited by the kid’s submission to a master, yet his apparent sensual enjoyment, Alex slowly clamps teeth to that young dick, feeling the body under him tremble and convulse, rise in the bed. With narrow hips jerked upward, the cock lunges deep in his throat as the kid moans, grinds pubic hair to his face. Balls, large for a kid, are squashed to his chin, and the moans and brief grunting noises grow louder.”
“He lets a spasming shaft slip from his lips, sucks in a crinkled sac, licks slippery balls, swallows them. Moaning and groaning, the kid wallows in the bed, raises his legs and paws the air. As it licks a hairless underbelly and seminal cord, Alex’s tongue feels the tensed, waiting surge of sperm, and he quickly encloses the cock once more with a warm mouth.”
“‘Wow, oh, wow!’ a voice shouts, ‘I’m coming!’ and thick, glutinous gism pours in his throat. Swallowing the slippery mass, he forces the cock deeper, engulfs it completely. The orgasm seems to go on and on as he…”
Jevan ripped the paper from the typewriter, and, frowning, stared at a note under the double-spaced words. “Use quote from Donald Ecard? Crumpling the yellow paper in strong fingers he tossed it to the trailer’s rose-patterned vinyl floor. Whirling aimlessly in space! Olfactory power of moths! No question, he was spooked, dried up, immobilized by the Maze family persecutions, his brain turned to garbage! Sonovabitch!
His stream of thought is interrupted by the snarling ring of a telephone and, for an insane moment, he’s not sure where he is, the ringing shrill in his skull. Eyes swiftly circle the trailer’s dung-colored walls for a clue, back to the open window and New Mexico vistas, alien, unfamiliar, and he wonders, with a shiver, how he got to this place, not remembering he’s living here for almost eight months on this land bought by his father twenty years ago; and, as he does remember suddenly, the time interval is impossible, yet California, which he’d left without a backward glance, seems more concrete and real than this parched earth shimmering in heat, black-green shapes of pinon trees his eyes still stare at.
He stood up, blinking, lifted the clanging phone from its hook, said into the mouthpiece, “Yes? Jevan Lambert speaking.” There were not many friends, the few he’d made since moving to this state, who knew the phone number. He’d had it installed out of desperation only three weeks before because of rifle shots in the dark, words whispered from the black shadows of the bushes, these terrors, finally, forcing him to the telephone as a tenuous connection with an outside, if unfriendly, world. “Yes?” he said, impatiently, to silence in his ear, felt sweat course over his chest, gather in pubes surrounding a heavy-hanging cock. He listened for an answer, scratched absently at the damp hair, heard low breathy noises like someone in torment. “Who the fuck is this?” Jevan shouted, exasperated by the heat, the panting sounds, repeated again, “Who the fuck is this?”
A voice with a slight accent said, “That you, Lambert? You fucking pervert.” There was a bark which might have been laughter. “Lay off the court suit,” the voice continued. Now he thought he knew who the caller was. “If you don’t man, you’ll get your Goddamn balls busted!” A crash of the other phone slamming down split his eardrums painfully as the line was disconnected.
As the brutal, naked figure had done in his manuscript, Hilario, suddenly, stands before him, the same black-haired muscular body, the same snarling voice, the same immense dripping cock and glittery black eyes.
In his hand, he holds a coil of braided leather, and Jevan’s imagination sees the leather whirl; strike him, pain searing his flesh. But he doesn’t cry out or cringe under the punishment, permits Hilario to beat him unmercifully with the whip. As the leather wraps his chest the man yanks at the whip, pulling Jevan to him until the two naked bodies are standing close together, and Jevan smells his horny, rancid odor, his garlic breath, stares into those cruel black eyes.
Dropping the whip to the floor, Hilario grips him in muscularly naked arms, squeezes him savagely against sweating, wiry chest hair, and Jevan feels himself tremble in the grip, slips his hands down between the two bodies, fondles a stiff rod and its slimy surface, cups hairy balls beneath, as Hilario laughs, grinds wet lips into his mouth.
He is shoved to his knees, a huge rod of slippery flesh held in a fist rammed to his lips. Opening his lips quickly to let the cock be plunged into him, he feels it sink in his throat, slide to his gullet, as hips on either side of his face ram convulsively. The taste of the saliva-drenched cockshaft is sour, fouled with unwashed come, the smelt of shit in cheeks of that ass pungent. The Spanish-American, holding the back of Jevan’s head, slides the immense length of cock out of his mouth slowly to its expanded, glazed head, manipulating his throat with rough fingers, then shoves the rod deep, choking him.

Author Information

Joya Bay Bee is a young, bright, sexual erotica writer.


Publisher Information

Grown Folks Books started in January 2005. We started compiling erotica in Word and PDF formats and started looking for publishing venues. This is a union of unknown and very little known writers who want to express their sexual desires and dreams for the world to enjoy.

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