An Xcite Books collection of five erotic gay stories with mixed themes including m/m, contemporary, historical, menage, BDSM, voyeurism, sex in public and interracial.
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.