Bisexual Fiction: Triple Workout (Part 1)

By: Unknown Author & Ryan Michaels

I punched in my security access code at the door to the company gym and pulled the handle as the buzzer signaled the ok to enter.

The gym had been open for a year now, and I started using it regularly about six months ago to try to reduce the stress levels induced by a fast-paced Information Systems career. I had made it a priority to get down there three days a week, and I was really feeling the benefits of a good hard workout at the end of a long - and usually hectic - day.

It was about 6:30 pm and I could hear the music pounding from the big blaster in the corner of the room. I looked around to see who else was there and saw one other guy already on the Stairmaster working up a sweat.

He looked up and gave a nod hello as I headed for a warm-up on the bike. I nodded back and set the timer on the bike for five minutes. Josh Somebody-or-another was his name, I recalled. We had chatted amicably on the few occasions where we had seen one another here in the evening. Most of the employees who used the gym used it in the mornings before work, but he, like me, seemed to prefer to use the stress of the day to keep the ‘edge’ on his workout.

He had brought a great mixtape with him, and I found myself enjoying the music as I relaxed into a rhythm on the bike. The five minutes passed quickly, and I walked over in front of the wall-to-wall mirrors for a nice languid stretch.

Josh had finished his time on the Stairmaster and walked over to the mat area where I was now standing, stretching my quads.

"Ethan, right?" he commented pulling up beside me.

"Yup, and you’re Josh?" I commented.

"Yes. Ready for a good session?" he asked assuming a similar pose with his leg distended behind him.

"Yeah, shitty day today," I lamented. "Lots of crap happening on the system."

"I know! I was bounced on and off the network today for the whole morning," he laughed. "Geez, you guys in I.S. sure make it hard for a guy to stay connected to the internet! How the hell do you expect us guys in the plant to search for porn when you keep bouncing us off?" he joked.

I chuckled at his comment and looked out the corner of my eye as he bent over to touch his toes. "Hmm… nice body. Nice arms. Nice pecs. Hard ass. Strong legs."

Where the hell did THAT come from? I thought. Oh well - I’ve always admired the human form and this guy was a good sample of how I wanted to look by the end of the year.

"Hey! I’d like to use some free weights today instead of the Universal. Seeing as how you’re here, would you spot for me?" he asked as he headed for the rack.

"Sure. No problem."

We took turns spotting and encouraging one another and bantered back and forth a little as we did our thing. We increased the weights each round, and we had both worked up a decent sweat within the half-hour. We then moved on to some dumbbell routines and decided to finish up on the treadmill.

As we got the treadmills going, he reached up and pulled his t-shirt up to wipe his very sweaty face. I couldn’t help but notice a very nicely detailed set of abs, and a totally smooth chest. I set the timer for twenty minutes and got into a good trot. Once again, we chatted about the company, our offices, and careers - the usual idle chat that you get into while you’re jogging on a mechanical device at the office gym.

The timer on the tortuous machine dinged and I staggered off to the mats to stretch out once more before hitting the showers and heading home. Josh pulled up beside me – sopping wet now - and proceeded to do the same. We laughed about the sweat we were dripping all over the mats.

"Wow, you’re a slave driver! My wife is usually the only one who can get me this hot and wet." Then he laughed as he looked over at the locked door and said, "With the two of us in here panting and grunting and groaning, if anyone passed by the door, they'd probably think we were getting it on in here."

The thought of what he was saying had an immediate effect on my crotch, as I chuckled and said, "Yeah, it certainly did sound like it," and then began concentrating my efforts on trying to put my overactive imagination into check when I noticed in the mirror that the front of his shorts had a bit of a tent there as well. I quickly stole another glance, and when I looked up, he was also looking at my reflection in the mirror. Our eyes met for an electric moment, and then we both glanced away.

"Well, I’m hitting the showers," he said as he straightened up.  

"Yeah, me too," I said, and followed him out the door to the shower area.

All Male True Experience: Sucking My First Cock

By: Sean R.

Several months ago, I had an experience I will never forget. It started as a normal day, however, things would deviate from the norm after I had finished work and made my way to the gym.

I had plans to play racquetball with my usual partner at 7:30 pm. He wasn't there yet, so I went to the locker room to change. I love locker rooms; being able to catch glimpses of all those hanging, swinging cocks. This locker room was a very nice, large one with plenty of mirrors.

Just the sight and smell of a locker room could get me feeling horny, and this time was no different; my dick was semi-hard by the time I took down my pants and underwear. I was just contemplating giving it a couple of tugs when I heard some voices, and then two guys, older businessmen types in suits, came around the corner and went to lockers a few doors down from mine.

I quickly pulled on my jock to cover my semi, then got the rest of my gym clothes on and headed off for the juice bar to wait for my friend.

After arriving at the juice bar and taking a seat, the woman behind the counter asked if I was Sean. I told her that I was, and she then passed along a phone message to me saying that my friend had called and would be unable to make it.

I thanked her, sounding rather disappointed, and asked if she knew of anyone else who was perhaps looking for a racquetball partner. She didn't but said if I was planning to stay, she would let people know that I was looking. I thanked her again, bought a drink, and sat at the juice bar for a bit.

It was now 8:30, and so far, no one had been available or interested in playing a game of racquetball with me. I decided I had wasted enough time and didn't want to just leave and go home, so I decided to head to the court, open a can of balls and get some practice time in.

I batted those balls over and over and had long since worked up a sweat. I decided to step out and get some water and check the time. I was surprised to find that it was after 9:30. I was so preoccupied I didn't realize that I had been batting balls for a little over an hour; it certainly hadn't felt like that much time had gone by.

I looked around and there was no one else around now. It didn't matter anyway, though; it wasn't like I was going to get a game in before the club closed. However, I decided I'd get in a few more practice shots before calling it quits; I was plenty steamed from being stood up and having had no luck in finding a partner and had decided this was the best way to burn it off.

As I approached the court, I saw through the windows that someone else was now in there, swatting their balls. I sort of recognized him; he was a regular at the gym, but not the courts. He was about 6'2", which is about my height, and had dark hair, green eyes, and being shirtless, I could see that he was in really great shape, too.

I tapped the window before entering, to get his attention; if you just walk in when someone doesn't see you, they will turn and the ball is likely to come back and hit either you or them.

He moved over and let the ball fly past him and I stepped into the room. "Hi, you must be Sean," he said.

"Uh, yeah. How do you know my name?" I asked him.

"Oh, Melissa told me there was a guy named Sean in court 7 looking for a partner."

"Melissa?"

"The girl at the juice bar."

"Ah," I nodded.

"I'm Josh," he said extending his hand. "So, you wanna get a game or two in?"

I told him I'd love to as I shook his hand, but pointed out that the place would be closing soon and we didn't have enough time to do so.

He then told me that Melissa was his girlfriend and was going to be there until 11:00 or so, locking up and stuff and that we could stay until she was ready to leave. After explaining that, I agreed to a game and we started playing.

We played to 15 at first and it was a great game. I just barely won and I was completely out of breath, and very thirsty. I went out to get another drink of water from the fountain and noticed that most of the lights were now off. I looked at the clock and it said 10:30. I figured Melissa was almost ready to leave, a little earlier than her boyfriend had anticipated, and that we would have to leave now, too.

However, after telling Josh this, he explained that most of the lights in the main gym area got turned off after hours and that his girlfriend had left our light on so we could play a little longer.

Game two started the same, and we were in the middle of the point when the lights went out, and being in the middle of a dive for the ball at the time, Josh slammed into me in the dark. We both went crashing to the floor. He was on top of me and his sweaty arms and legs were all over me. I could also feel a soft cock quickly stiffening and pushing into my stomach. This was the strangest thing I had ever felt.

I didn't want to seem awkward or pushy so I asked him if he was alright. He said he was fine, and that he was sorry. He rolled off me and I could hear him breathing next to me. He said he guessed that was his girlfriend's way of saying that she wouldn't be much longer and that it was time for us to call it a night, and go and get showered and changed. I told him that I agreed and that my fiancé would be wondering where I was.

We both got up and felt our way toward the door, and with the small amount of light shining through the windows from outside of the racquetball court, I could see his shorts being pushed forward by a hard-on. I tried not to make it look like I noticed, but this turned me on a lot.

As we entered the locker room, we each went to our locker areas and undressed. Towel wrapped around my waist, I headed to the showers. Josh was just stepping in as I arrived and had his back to me. I took the shower across from him and took in his naked body from behind as he began to wet himself down.

He turned and I quickly averted my eyes. His cock appeared to be semi-erect and I noticed him taking in my nakedness as well. His cock began to rise even more and he turned away from me to hide his erection. I decided that an opportunity like this would not present itself again.

"Hey, great game," I started.

"Yeah," he agreed.

"I had a great time," I continued.

"Yeah me too," he replied, and then there was a moment of silence.

I decided to use his embarrassment against him to bring up the subject of his cock. "It's ok, happens to all of us at some point," I said.

"What does?"

"Getting a hard-on in the showers."

"Shit!" he said under his breath, realizing I had seen it. "Uh, yeah," he said with a nervous laugh, "It has a mind of its own. Just thinking about my girlfriend, you know. I'm not gay or anything, so don't worry or get nervous that it means anything."

But I knew it did mean something, I just had a feeling. Probably because he got hard when his sweat-soaked, bare-chested body landed on top of mine, and he started to get hard when he saw me naked in the showers. "I'm not worried, I'm not gay either. It happens to the best of us." I wasn't lying; I considered myself straight and simply bi-curious.

He didn't reply but I couldn't stop now and, after mustering up all my nerve, I went for it, "So, um, do you need a hand with that?" I asked.

"Uh, hand with what?"

"With that boner you can't get to go down," I chuckled.

"Uh, I told you, I'm not gay; I have a girlfriend. Um, what did you have in mind anyway?"

Bisexual Fiction: Driven by Desire (Part 2)

By: Ryan Michaels

ryanxxx@hotmail.com

Read Part 1

My hand was almost shaking with anticipation and excitement as I reached out to knock on the door of 1203 Ridgeburn Crescent.

"Hey come on in buddy," Rob said after opening the door.

I stepped inside and took my shoes off.

"My girlfriend's in the living room." I followed him into the living room. "Ryan this is Michelle. Michelle, Ryan."

"Nice to meet you," I said.

"Nice to meet you too," she replied smiling.

"So what do you think? You wanna fuck him or what?" Rob asked.

"Rob!" Michelle said blushing. "Jesus Christ!"

"What? That's why we invited him over isn't it?"

"Yes, but he just walked in the door and you didn't have to just blurt it out in that way. There's such a thing as tact."

"Women!" Rob said rolling his eyes. Michelle swatted him across the arm.

"It's ok. He's right. He did tell me I was coming over to see if you approved and if so we were all gonna have sex together. It's cool if you two want to get right to it," I said.

"Oh, um, well did Rob mention certain details about what we wanted to do?" Michelle asked me.

"You mean about you wanting to see another guy suck his dick? Yes, he mentioned it."

"And you are comfortable with that? I mean if you aren't, it's ok, but I need to know now because that's a stipulation in my agreeing to have a threesome," Michelle replied.

"Yes, I am cool with it."

"Rob told me you are straight, so do you mind if I ask why you want to suck another guy's cock? Doesn't that mean you are least bi?"

I had no idea Rob was going to tell his girlfriend I was straight but I figured I had better play along, and I was a quick thinker so it was no big deal.

"Well, even though it's embarrassing to admit, it's been quite a while since I've been with a woman, and when Rob asked me about the threesome I was really excited about it. Then he mentioned the whole dick sucking thing and I was like, no way!"

"So why did you finally agree to do it?" Michelle asked inquisitively.

"Well honestly, and I hope I don't offend you, but Rob started describing your pussy, telling me how it was shaved and how tight it was and how good it feels. When you've gone without for so long and you have the opportunity to get some, the little head starts to take over. I've also never had a threesome before and it's always been a fantasy of mine. I'm totally straight but also pretty open-minded and I figured I could try it in order to get some pussy, and to finally get to have a threesome."

"And that's all it took to get you to agree to suck dick, the promise of some pussy?"

"Well yeah, and I mean I have some gay friends and never understood what they got out of sucking other guys dicks, and the more I thought about it I guess I was a bit curious to see what it's like. And, as I said, I am open-minded too and I just look at it as a new experience; One that I'll probably never repeat, but it's kind of cool to at least say and know that I tried it." Everything I was telling her was the truth. Except that I was actually talking about being with a woman, but she didn't need to know that.

"That's really cool, and you're right, very open-minded of you."

"Great! So you wanna fuck or what?" Rob asked getting impatient and perhaps feeling a bit ignored.

"Jeez keep your pants on Rob, we're just talking," Michelle scowled.

"That's just it, I don't want to keep my pants on. I want to take them off and fuck some pussy and have a couple of bitches suck my cock!"

"Classy isn't he?" Michelle said smiling at me.

"Yeah," I said chuckling. "But I would like to get started too, if you want to do this."

"Oh yes. I like you, and I definitely can't wait to see you sucking my straight, macho boyfriend's cock."

"Great! Then let's go upstairs and get naked," Rob said motioning to the stairs.

There was no argument from Michelle or from me, and we headed up the stairs to their bedroom.

All Male Fiction: House Rules

By: Walker Davis & Ryan Michaels

The Deauville was a broken down hotel smack dab in the middle of Center City, which isn't saying much. In that part of the country anyplace where two roads cross has the makings of a town. Throw in a gas station, a diner serving greasy food and maybe a store for provisions and you've got a town — add a name with the word 'city' in it, and it's a city.

Center City lay somewhere between Abilene and the rest of the world; it sat out in the middle of the flat, Texas scrub like a carbuncle on a smooth back, waiting for something exciting to happen — which never did. No one seemed to remember why Center City got started, and no one seemed to care now why it kept going. But, like so many people who drifted down its dusty streets, it just didn't have the sense to die.

If you grew up in this part of the world you got out as fast as you could, heading towards Galveston or Houston or sometimes even towards Dallas. If you didn't come from Center City that meant you were just passing through and, after shelling out a couple of bucks for gas, the place was no more a memory than was being born.

The Deauville had been around as long as Center City and still sported its first coat of paint. It was a weather beaten building that creaked in a strong wind and stayed wet from a downpour for a couple of days. Originally it was built to house the crews of oil companies who flooded West Texas looking for black gold. The oil boom came and went inside a couple of months and with it went the men. The building then became a cheap hotel and restaurant, serving the greasiest food west of the Pecos, so it was said locally.

When that failed, The Deauville just sat there in the middle of town, its two stories with the false front towering over the rest of the buildings on Main Street like some king presiding over his court. The men from the oil company who had run it stayed on, somehow keeping the place running, somehow keeping it open for travelers or locals who'd had too much to drink on their nights off.

No one actually knew how The Deauville managed to stay open; it seemed no one ever went in or out of the place, but there were rumors. The name used to come up out on the ranches after dinner when a big meal had made the men's bellies full and their tongues loose. They said you could have sex in any shape or form in The Deauville day or night. Just ask for room 1612, they'd say, and the secrets of the hotel were yours. Hank Throp had heard the stories for years but had never paid a lot of mind to them. In this part of the country you heard a lot of stories about a lot of strange things.

Hank was twenty eight, and had been born and bred in a Center City-like town of his own over in Oklahoma. He'd moved to Texas when he was twenty two because he felt it was manlier to be from Texas. Hank stood just over six feet tall and his body and muscles were nicely formed from working on a ranch day after day. His brown hair was almost always covered by a Stetson, making him look like a genuine Texas cowboy, and his blue eyes shone from his face like mountain lakes at sunrise.

Hank didn't mess with anyone. He did his job, earned his money and now and again went into Califax to get laid. He had never dreamt his life would fall into this routine, but then he had never really dreamt about his life at all, so what he was given was enough. His dreams only happened at night when he was asleep and usually by daybreak they were gone. Hank only wanted food and rest and a sexual release from his aching nuts once or twice a month or so. He never jacked off because he didn't consider it manly, and he always wore a rubber when he fucked the whores in Califax because he didn't want to get a disease.

Somewhere around eight o'clock on this particular night, the temperature dipped down to eighty three, the coolest it had been all day. High, black clouds like thick clouds of rich soil scudded along the darkened sky foretelling a storm that, like so many in these parts, might never come. Hank wiped his brow with his right hand while his left held tightly to the wheel of the jeep. Shit, it was hot! He'd busted his ass all day long mending some fence off in the northeast corner of the ranch. Thinking of a fistful of cold beers was the only thing that had kept him there working. Now, driving into Center City, Hank could almost taste that first cold one washing the dust from his mouth and throat.

Almost as soon as the flickering lights of Dora's Diner came into view Hank was out of the jeep and seated at his favorite booth slurping down a cool, crisp Coors like it was mother's milk. The diner still smelled of the evening's last batch of French fries, but there was something about it that was real homey. Dora herself looked like every grandmother south of the Mason-Dixon Line and treated everyone like a favorite child. What her cooking lacked in taste, Dora made up for in motherly charm and good humor.

Hank drank his way through a river of good beer and was just settling in for a while when the rain came. It started so softly that no one heard it hitting the aluminum roof of Dora's at all. Then it got up a full head of steam and the sound became like a drum roll across the roof. Hank looked gloomily out the window, watching several months' worth of dirt loosen and drain away in the rain. Shit, the jeep was parked out back, open to the weather; he'd be a drowned dog by the time he got back to the ranch.

"Hey, bubba," Dora called out to Hank affectionately, "looks like you're in for some ride home. Hope you brought along some rubbers to fit your feet, too," she said lewdly, then broke out into a fit of laughter that rocked the diner.

"Don't worry 'bout me, Dora. I'm so wet inside, hardly matters how I get on the outside," Hank replied as he raised a beer in salute.

Twenty minutes later the rain still droned on. Hank stood up unsteadily and paid the bill, over-tipping Dora by nearly two bucks. "Take care, Dora," he called out as he made his way to the door.

"You drive careful, you hear?" Dora shot after him. "It's a bitch outside. Don't want to read about you in the papers."

"I will, Dora. Goodnight," Hank waved, and then he stepped out into the rain.

The wind whipped across the flatlands like a crazed steer on the run. There was no hiding from it. Hank ducked his head low but the wind caught hold of his hat and ripped it from his head. Since there was no use in trying to get it, Hank staggered to the jeep, found his keys and gave it a try. Nothing. He tried again. Nothing. The points had gotten wet in the storm. Shit!

He was about to go back to Dora's to ask if she'd mind a guest for the night in one of her booths, when Hank saw the lights of The Deauville blinking at him between the rain drops. He stopped in his tracks, ignoring the rain. Unconsciously he slipped his hand into his pocket and began to massage his heavy balls as he thought about those rumors, and how it had been nearly three weeks since he'd cum. A dull ache quickly started throbbing in his groin, and he suddenly found himself making his way quickly through the rain to the front porch of the old hotel.

Hank never expected he'd spend the night at The Deauville any more than he had expected he'd live in Center City for six years, and, after convincing himself that the rumors were true, he hoped that no one had seen him go inside the place. He just didn't want his personal needs to be known all over town — there were some things a man needed to keep private, and needing pussy was one of them.

The lobby of The Deauville smelled of dust and decay and lemon wax. Hank shook himself off on a very tired Oriental rug and looked around. The lobby was surprisingly grand; tall palm trees were scattered about among the heavy velvet covered pieces of furniture; there were spittoons near each chair and old magazines and newspapers on the tables; gas lights flickered and swayed in the dusky light.

Behind the desk a tall, thin, balding man stood staring at Hank. He smiled. "Help you, son?" he queried.

"I got caught in the rain," Hank replied uncomfortably.

"It came a gully-washer, that's for sure," the man said quickly. "Need a room?"

Hank nodded.

"Any special room?" he asked, the tone of his voice changing just slightly.

"I hear room 1612 is pretty good," he said, the color rising to his cheeks.

"That it is," the man grinned. "Just sign in and you'll be on your way." The clerk watched Hank sloppily sign his name, and then said, "Here's the key. There's the stairs. 1612 is on the first floor."

Hank took the key and headed for the stairs. At the first floor he walked down the hallway peering at the numbers: 1609, 1610, 1611, and finally, there it was — room 1612. Hank inserted the key in the lock and turned the door. It opened into total darkness. He felt the walls for a switch, but there was none, only the cold, clammy feel of age and decay.

Hank stepped into the darkness, both hands stretched out at his sides, both hands touching a wall — he was in a hallway. He moved now, slowly, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. The darkness enveloped him like a cloak, wrapping itself around him, drawing him in deeper. He moved forward, going further into the heart of the darkness, hearing only the sounds of his footsteps and his heavy breathing.

Further along there was a glimmer of light to the right. Hank edged towards it, feeling along the wall. The light grew brighter until it gushed into the darkness through the frame of a door — an unopened door. Hank quickened his pace, until finally he stood at the door. Slowly, he reached out and turned the knob, and then cautiously opened the door. A dazzling light from within the room shone out into the darkness, momentarily blinding him.

"Come on in. Sit down a spell," a voice called out to him.

"Who's there?" Hank asked, shielding his eyes from the light.

All Male Fiction: The Right Words

By: Unknown Author

For quite a few years now, I have been making a pretty good living as a writer of porn. A few months ago, though, all of my stories were being rejected for publication. For the life of me, I could not figure out what the hell was wrong. I was on a first-name basis with the editor I sold to the most. We would call each other from time to time and talk business. Now I hadn't heard from him for a while, and I was beginning to think I had bad breath. To say I was getting nervous was some kind of understatement. If I wasn't ready to push the panic button yet, I was sure getting close.

From the sales I had made before the rejections started, I figured I could hold out for another couple of months or so, but if I couldn't figure out what was causing my stories to be rejected, I was going to be forced into working for a living again. Now, there was a thought that scared the shit out of me!

The worst part of all this was, the worrying was starting to have an adverse effect on my writing. I was having trouble concentrating, and for the first time in my life I discovered what it was like to have writer's block. Days would go by when I would just sit and stare at the blank document page on my computer screen. My muse had deserted me. When a small spider took up residence behind my backspace key, I knew I was in real trouble.

So I did what every other normal, red-blooded, depressed American would do; I decided to go and have a talk with my bartender. Now, Sam was a good guy, and if he could help you he was damn sure going to try. He kept a small humorous sign behind the bar that said "Psychiatric help: $5." What could I lose? I would order a beer and look as forlorn as possible, hoping to get some sympathy, and maybe some good advice.

"Well now, if it isn't the Ernest Hemingway of smut! How you doin'?" Sam said, as I walked into the cool interior of the bar.

"Not so good Sam. I don't know what's happening to me, but all of a sudden nobody wants my stuff. So I came here for a beer and some good advice."

"Beer I can give you," he said as he lay a tall cool one down in front of me. "Advice costs extra, ya know."

"Sam, right now I'd give just about anything to know what the hell I'm doing wrong. My stories used to sell like hot cakes, and now I can't give them away. It doesn't make any sense."

"What have you been writing about?"

"Well, for the last few months, I've been writing stories for a gay magazine one of my regular editors started working on. All the stories were rejected. I don't know what I did wrong. I wrote them just like I write all my other stuff, you know, real hot."

"How can you write about the sex life of gay men when you're straight?" he asked.

"Easy. You take out all of the 'she' and 'her' words, and put in 'he' and 'him' words, and substitute the words ass and butt for pussy and cunt," I replied.

"Oh really? Aren't you the guy that once told me a good writer only writes what he knows about, because that's the only way to get the words right?"

"Sure, but..."

"Sure but nothing. There is no possible way that you can write about the sex life of gay men without experiencing life as a gay man, the sex life of a gay man; in other words, having sex with another man. Maybe you better stick with what you know," he said, and then walked away to serve a man who had just come in.

As much as I hated to say it, he was right. I had taken on these gay story assignments out of loyalty to that particular editor, and had convinced myself that I could do it, with the thought that my own experiences with women was the same thing. I mean sex is sex right? But, I guess it is different when it comes to writing about it in a believable way, expressing the feelings and emotions in words. I had no idea what two men experienced by having sex together, and was simply describing what I knew it to be like with women. Obviously it wasn't the same with gay sex, since my stories were just as hot as all the straight stories I had sold, but no one wanted to buy the gay ones I wrote. See, I told you Sam knows his stuff, and based on his good advice, there was only one thing to do… research!

Now all I had to do was find a man with whom I could learn the things that go on between two men, through observation, so I could stop faking my way through my writing.

I live in a large Midwestern city, so I decided to go to a gay bar and take some notes, maybe talk to a few guys, get to know them a bit. I left Sam a bigger than average tip and headed uptown.

After buying a gay newspaper to find out where the joints were, I made a list and started out. I observed the gay guys interacting, but it didn't really feel any different than being in a sports bar full of men; well, other than seeing some guys kissing each other. I wasn't really learning anything, though, so, in the third bar on my list, when I was propositioned, although I'm straight, I decided to accept.

The way I looked at it was, at worst I would get a blowjob, and maybe he would want to be fucked in the ass. Big deal! I was open-minded, and although I had no sexual desires towards men, I could do those things in the name of research and know that I was still straight. I mean a blowjob's a blowjob, and I've fucked girls in the ass before, so what's the difference, right? Now if he wanted me to suck his dick or stick it up my butt that was a whole different story. That was where I drew the line!

All Male Fiction: A Roll in the Hay

By: Ryan Michaels

ryanxxx@hotmail.com
Based on a premise by unknown author

When my best friend John was sixteen, his dad ran off with another woman, leaving his family to fend for themselves. This resulted in John having to take over the majority of his dad's duties on the family farm. That took up a lot more of his time, with John having to get up very early most mornings and go to bed early most nights. We still hung out, but his work around the farm always came first.

The year his dad left was the first year that I helped John with the annual task of haymaking. He needed as much help as he could get, because all the farmers in the district were doing the same thing, so it was not always easy to find people.

Even though I dreaded haymaking season - I had hay fever, which always caught up with me later on in the night, and it was damn hard work - I have returned to help him every year since then for the past ten years. As John's best friend I felt it was my duty to help him out, so in that respect I didn't really mind.

John, on the other hand, loved haymaking season, despite the fact that he – or I should say we - had to work almost around the clock if the weather was good, trying to finish before it turned to rain and spoiled it all. In fact, he said haymaking season was his favorite time of year.

This year John had hired a part-time farmhand, who helped out on the weekends. His name was Mark, a nineteen-year-old local, whose regular job during the week was at a garage in the nearby small town. John had mentioned this and told me a bit about him before that day, and I was glad he had made the decision to hire him. The extra help with the haymaking would be nice.

The first thing I noticed about Mark was his good looks, and then his body. Dressed in a tight tank top and fairly tight knee-length shorts, it was evident he had a well-defined body. His arms and shoulders were strong from all the physical work he did, and his muscled pecs strained against the fabric of his tank top. Below the waist, his legs had a light covering of hair and were muscular and defined as well. His bulge was nothing to write home about; not really much showing, especially considering the tightness of his shorts. He had one hell of a great ass on him, though! His shorts showed off its shape perfectly.

Prior to my arrival, the weather had been kind and all the fields had been cut and everything was dried nicely. And now, with John having introduced Mark and me, it was time to get to work. The forecast had called for rain in the next few days, so the race was on to get all the hay baled and into the barn before then. But for now, the weather was absolutely perfect, not a cloud in the sky and hardly a breath of wind.

As the three of us worked away on the huge task at hand, there was barely any chatter. I tried a few times, but neither John nor Mark seemed interested in talking. I shouldn't have been surprised. John was always 'on the job' and never stood still long enough to get a sentence out, never mind a conversation. As for Mark's lack of social engagement, according to John, he was having relationships problems, and John had warned me that Mark would probably be in a foul mood and keep to himself all weekend.

After about an hour or so, Mark stopped what he was doing, crossed his arms in front of himself, and peeled his tank top up and over his head. His chest was naturally smooth and absolutely beautiful. His stomach was taught and had what could easily become a nice six-pack just peeking through the skin. I stared at his naked upper body as he tucked his tank top into the back of his shorts and then went about applying the sunscreen that John had provided. As he moved his hands all over his chest and stomach, I felt my dick starting to stir inside my own shorts, and had to force my eyes away and back to my work.

A little while later, John was taking off his shirt and applying sunscreen, and then so was I. With the sun beating down on us, it was just too hot not to take them off.

Although I stole the odd glance at Mark, the work we were doing helped to keep my mind on the task at hand and off his body, and my cock.

At around nine o'clock that evening, the field had almost been cleared of bales. There was one full trailer left to haul to the barn and one more partial load. With only room for one on the tractor and no room on the trailer when it was full, one person had to transport and unload the hay bales. We had taken turns all day long, and it was John's turn now.

John set off with the full tractor at a walking pace, careful with the loaded trailer going down the hill. The round trip would take about forty-five minutes. While he was gone, Mark and I just had to pull the remaining bales to a loading spot, which wouldn't take us long to do at all. After that was done, we could take a good long break while we waited for John to return.

Once we were finished, we both sat down and leaned against the stack of bales. John had provided us with bottles of water, and we both grabbed one and took a few swigs. It was warm by that point, but still an instant thirst quencher.

Mark put his water down and slouched against the bale, staring at the sky, which had taken on a red glow in the twilight. Slouched as he was against the bale, his taught stomach sinking down a bit, the waist of his shorts had enticingly opened away from his body. I couldn't help but look, and actually found myself licking my lips as I imagined what lay nestled inside those shorts. And, once again, I felt my dick starting to awaken.

"So… John mentioned you and you're girlfriend are planning to get engaged soon," I said. John had told me that, too, and then said they'd had a fight, but I didn't just want to blurt out, "Hey John told me you and your girlfriend had a huge fight. What was it about?" The truth was, I was just trying to strike up a conversation with him, any kind of conversation, to keep my mind off his half-naked body and slightly gaping shorts. Plus it was kind of awkward sitting there in the middle of a field not speaking to one another.

"Oh, it was more than just a fight, we're finished… for good this time," he replied.

"So what happened? If you don't mind me asking."

"I don't mind. It was because of her mother."

"Her mother? Oh, you mean she didn't like you or something, didn't want you marrying her daughter?"

"No, I mean it was like it wasn't just my girlfriend I was getting engaged too, it was her mother, too!"

"How so?"

"Her mother was the one who decided everything. I'd say, 'are we going out tonight?' and she would go and ask her fuckin' mother if it was ok! Mother this and mother that, sticking her nose into everything we did! And my girlfriend let her, encouraged her. We had lots of arguments about it, but nothing changed, and I knew it never would. Finally, I just got fed up, had enough, and called it quits!" he explained.

"Wow, sorry to hear that, but it sounds like you made the only choice you could. But what about…"

"What about what?"

"Nothing, it's none of my business."

"It's ok, go ahead."

"Well, I heard that she was pregnant, and that's why you were getting married."

Mark laughed at my gossip. "Fuckin' small towns!" He then leaned over to me and said, "That was another thing that really got me; she didn't let me touch her, said she had to save it for the wedding night."

I was quite surprised by this revelation. Mark was a hot-looking guy with a great body, and being nineteen and having a steady girlfriend, I was amazed he wasn't actually getting any! "No way, really?" I replied.

"Yeah, seriously. I think she'd have to ask her mom before we did it, even if we were married," he joked.

"How long did you two date?"

"Five years. Started dating when we were fourteen. She was my first girlfriend, and we were together ever since then until now."

First girlfriend? Since fourteen? Only girlfriend he's ever had? She never put out for him in all that time? That must mean that this hot, young stud is a… virgin. No way! "So when you said she said she was saving herself for the wedding night, you meant doing it, right? Fucking? She must have given you blowjobs, though, right?"

He shook his head. "Nope."

"Hand jobs at least?"

He shook his head again. "Not even that. Fuckin' bitch!"

"Did you ever cheat on her, get some on the side?"

"No. If I'd done that, around here, where everybody knows everybody and their business, she would've found out for sure."

"At least you would have gotten some, though."

"I know, but I was in love with her, thought I was anyway, and was willing to wait. Why do you think I was going to ask her to marry me at nineteen?"

I just couldn't resist, he had my attention now. "So what have you been doing, you know… for relief?''

He grinned at me and then looked to his crotch. My gaze followed his. "The only relief I get is from my right hand. And regularly!" He chuckled and nudged me. "That's the worst," he continued. "I'm a horny fucker and it needs lots of attention. I do it like five or six times a day sometimes. Always at least four times." Then he laughed and said, "Twice, I even managed to do it ten times in a day.''

I was flabbergasted. Here was this good-looking guy, a total stud, and he wasn't getting any sex, had never had sex, except with his own hand, and he was flogging his log all the time, four to six times a day!  And he was telling me all of this!

Speechless, I couldn't think of a suitable reply, but he broke the silence for me and said, "So, what about you?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, is that how you get relief, too?"

"Well, yeah, sometimes," I said, getting my wits back. "But nothing like four to six times a day."

"Oh, so you have a girlfriend, then?'' he asked.

"No, why do you say that?"

"Because you said you get relief like that only sometimes. You must be getting laid or else you'd be doing it all the time, wouldn't you?"

"Well I don't have a girlfriend, but there is someone I go out with now and again. We're more like good friends, but good enough friends to jump into bed together from time to time. Doesn't happen often, though." It was true, I just didn't bother to mention that the friend was another guy.

"So, basically what you're saying is that your best friend is your right hand, too," he laughed.

"Yeah, basically," I agreed.

What a weird turn of events. After all this time of nothing much said between us, now here he was all of a sudden talking to me like I was a good friend of his, the two of us laid against a hay bale, discussing his girlfriend problems and talking about jacking off like a couple of schoolboys.

But now things had fallen silent again, and I looked up to the beautiful night sky as I absorbed all that we had just talked about. When I took my eyes from the sky, Mark had slouched flat on the ground with just his head propped against the hay bale, and I noticed his hand was tucked inside the waist of his shorts, his fingers busily playing with his cock, but almost unconsciously on his part.

I nudged him, bringing him from his reverie, and said with a smile on my face, "Is this one of the four times, or is it five, or six?''

He looked up and grinned. "Being out here all day with you guys, this will only be the second time today." He then nudged me in the ribs with his elbow. "How about you, your cock as big as the rest of you or what?'' he asked, taking in my long body.

I noticed when he asked the question that his hand started to move a bit faster inside his shorts. The idea that he was hard just by talking about dicks and jerking off made me harden up too, and I had to shuffle a bit to adjust myself inside the tight briefs I wore underneath my shorts.

"I've got a good handful," I offered.

"What do you call a good handful?''

"Oh about eight inches or so I guess. Never had a tape measure against it," I answered him truthfully.

"Shit! I'd call that more than a handful! I'd call that two handfuls!" he laughed.

I was about to return his question and ask him what he considered to be a handful, in the hopes of finding out how big his cock was, too, but I didn't have a chance. Instead, I got something even better, something unexpected.

"This is what I'd call a handful," he said as he popped open the button on his shorts and pushed them down, along with his underwear, to below his balls to reveal his rock-hard cock. He looked at his exposed cock for a moment and then up at me and said, "You agree?"

His cock looked to be about six inches. I wasn't a size queen, but I had to admit I was a little disappointed it wasn't bigger. With his height (I'm tall and he wasn't that much shorter than me), good looks, and hot body, I guess I just expected to see a large piece of meat between his legs. Still, it was nice, though, and really quite thick. "Yeah, I guess so," I said.

"Let's have a look at yours, then. Can't see much when it's hidden under there," he said pointing at my crotch.

Hell, I wasn't shy, and I didn't have any problem shucking down my shorts and showing my hard dick to this hot young guy!

All Male Fiction: Rocks for Jocks

By: Natty Soltesz

I was taking a summer physics course to bone up on my skills and pass some time. The campus was pretty deserted in the summer and the mood was nice — quiet and serene. There was this one guy who always sat in the front row, not that it did him much good, educationally speaking. Nick Anthony was what you might call an oaf: a big, dumb jock with a thick neck and an even thicker skull, and a prime candidate for "Rocks for Jocks" — which is how the rest of us referred to the Mickey Mouse science prerequisite typically snatched up by athletes and underachievers.

But 'Intro to Physics' was where he'd somehow ended up, an unwitting cog in the tyranny that was a liberal arts education, trying to wrap his head around Newtonian mechanics and kinetic theory when I suspected he'd rather focus on the trajectory of a football sailing through the air. He was trying so hard, intently taking notes as our professor explained equations on the board. But you could tell it wasn't getting through.

I stared as much as I dared. He always wore athletic gear — thin white t-shirts that hugged his buff and beefy body, and blue silky track pants with buttons going down the sides. A few times he wore a sleeveless Texas Longhorns shirt. His arms were so tan and toned. I lived for the days when he came in wearing his mesh basketball shorts, his ass flexing as he walked, his package flopping up front — Jesus! He had short dark hair and a stubbly face with sensuous lips. I'm sure he had no trouble getting laid on a Saturday night, but physics just wasn't his forte.

The prof and I had become friendly by the third week of the course. He asked me if I'd consider tutoring Nick and racking up some extra credit in the process. I didn't need the credit, but I enjoyed tutoring, regardless of whether I was fantasizing about the pupil sitting on my face, so I said yes.

We were formally introduced one day after class. Nick shook my hand, smiling. He seemed like a genuinely nice guy, and we walked out of class together. I offered to meet with him that night.

"Well, tonight, I got this girl I'm supposed to see…"

"Oh. No worries," I replied. "If you got a girl, we'll do it some other time."

He said tomorrow worked better for him, and I figured some lucky girl was going to be freshly fucked by then.

Thirty hours later, Nick pulled up to my off campus apartment. He couldn't have dressed any better — that goddamn sleeveless Longhorns shirt and the mesh shorts. I was dying.

I offered him a cold drink, and we sat down at the kitchen table. I guess I was a bit older and wiser than Nick, but only by a couple of years. That said, I never planned to seduce him — at least, not at first.

We started on some equations. He wasn't getting it and began to get frustrated. My place was hot and I didn't have AC, so after a half hour I suggested we take a break and try to catch a breeze on my balcony. Nick sat in my patio chair and downed the rest of his drink.

"So," I said, "you went out with your girl last night?"

"Yeah… well, we didn't really go out, y'know?" Nick said, smirking at me to see if I got the gist.

I laughed. "And you'd rather do that than work equations? Unreal," I joked.

Nick laughed and then sighed. "Man, I really hate this stuff. I dunno why it's supposed to be important."

"Well, you'll probably never use it again. But it's a requirement, right?"

"Yeah. Coach says I have to get at least a C. I dunno why I suck so bad."

"You'll get it. Besides, it's not that important in the grand scheme of things. I'm sure there's other stuff you're much better at."

"Yeah, you could say that," he said, giving me a sly lift of his eyebrows.

Fuck it, I thought. "So you're a real stud, huh?"

"Yeah," he answered, chuckling.

"I'm not surprised. You've got a really hot body," I said.

"Yeah, I do," he replied cockily.

I decided to go for it, put the moves on him. What's the worst he could do? Freak out, try to hit me? If that's how he reacted, I'd simply apologize, tell him I just admired his body, that no matter how much I tried to build up my muscles, I couldn't get a body like his. I felt I had nothing to lose, and possibly a big cock to gain, so I leaned forward and put my hand on his beefy thigh.

He didn't stop me.

All Male Fiction: On the Mat

By: Unknown Author & Ryan Michaels

It was a grueling practice. The coach had worked us hard, trying to get us ready for the meet that was coming up against our rival school. Their wrestling team always beat us, but this year Coach was determined that we would win. So he was always on our butts, pushing us harder and harder, regularly keeping one of us after practice for extra coaching. A lot of guys on the team would grumble in the locker room about how hard the coach would work us during practice, but not me. I enjoyed the hard, sweaty workouts with the team. It gave us some team spirit, not to mention a common "enemy" - Coach Meyer.

One thing you gotta say for Coach, he knew his business. He was the top in his weight class in college, and here he was, not two years later, coaching our team. He kept himself in great shape, too, always working out in the weight room, keeping his body hard and tight, never deviating much from his 177lb wrestling weight. Broad, muscular shoulders, defined pecs, narrow waist and hips - a great body for a wrestler.

We were in the same weight class, and my body was pretty good, too. I worked out for it, trying to keep up with Coach, and did pretty well, too. I was just a bit smaller in the shoulders, but otherwise we were pretty evenly matched, body wise.

Not to say that any of us on the team were slackers. We all kept up as best we could with Coach. Kind of a pride thing. First thing we did before practice was meet in the weight room for a workout. Coach was always in there before us, and worked with us almost like a personal trainer, pushing us to go harder. Then we'd go into the wrestling room, pairing up and testing each other, trying new holds, sweating up a storm.

This day, all the guys were exhausted after practice. We all hit the showers, but there was none of the usual horsing around. We all just wanted to get out of the gym to nurse our sore muscles.

And most of us did. I wasn't so lucky. I was one of the last in the showers, and so was one of the last to be in the locker room, drying off, when Coach walked in.

"Tim," he said, "I'm not happy with your workout today. You weren't taking care of business out there. Get back into your singlet. We've got some work to do."

"Ok, Coach," I said. But it wasn't ok. I had just showered, and now had to get back into my sweaty uniform, not to mention my only jock, which was also damp with sweat, only to have to shower again later. But Coach seemed pretty insistent, and I was the only one left who had yet to go through some additional one-on-one coaching after practice, so I didn't really have much of a choice.

When I came out of the locker room, I found Coach standing on the mat, waiting for me, his hands on his hips, still in his singlet.

"You ready?" he asked.

"As I'll ever be," I answered. "What was I doing wrong?"

"You weren't pushing for the pin like I told you. The only way you're gonna win at wrestling is to go for the pin, all else be damned."

"Yeah, but Coach..."

"No buts, Tim. Let me show you how to do it."

He hunkered down in wrestling position, ready to lock up with me. I did the same. We approached each other, got our hands on each other's shoulders, he slipped his hand behind my neck, and we started to circle each other. He shot his hand out, catching me behind my knee, and pulled up, toppling me back. He landed on top of me, swung around, catching me in a deep crotch hold, trying to cradle me up into a fast pin. But I managed to bridge back, preventing him from getting my shoulders down. As I did this, I felt his hand slip through my legs, until it rested on the pouch of my singlet. I thought I felt his hand give it a slight squeeze, but I was sure I was mistaken.

I got my arm around his neck, slipped my arm through his legs, and rolled him over on his back. Now I was close to pinning him, but he rolled through, and away from me. He stood up, ready to lock up again.

This time, I managed to get my arms around his chest in a bear hug, lifting him off the mat, and slamming him down, with me on top. He wrapped his legs around me in a body scissors and held me there. We were chest to chest, crotch to crotch. I grabbed his wrists to pin them over his head, when he broke his scissors, and bridged up. I was on top of him, feeling the pressure of my dick pushing down on his, and noticed that he had thrown a rod. The feeling of his dick against mine caused a reaction in my own crotch, and I started to get boned up, too.

We wrestled like that for about fifteen minutes. I could partially see some of his cock outlined as it stretched the material of his singlet. My full-on hard-on was even more obvious in my singlet, but that didn't stop us. Guys always get hard-ons when they wrestle, it's natural.

Finally we broke off for a short rest. We were both soaked with sweat and panting from the exertion. We both lay on our backs, trying to get some air into our lungs, when Coach turned to me. "Not bad, Tim," he said. "I knew if I pushed you, you'd do ok."

"Thanks, Coach. You do pretty well yourself."

He laughed, and punched me in the arm. I did the same to him. He hit me again. Pretty soon, we were rolling around with each other, play-wrestling. He landed on top of me, getting me in a tight bear hug, trying to pin me down. Suddenly we both stopped, realizing that our crotches were mashed together. Coach rolled off me and stood up.

"This singlet is too wet to wrestle in," Coach said and then began to peel himself out of it. "Yours is soaked with sweat, too. Strip it off, Tim," Coach Meyer said as he tossed his singlet to the floor and stood looking down at me, hands on hips, in just his jockstrap.