Stud Twinks!

My divorce was final. My ex had moved to the East Coast with her new lover and somehow had managed to take our teenage son with her. I was still dazed and confused how the court had made that happen. He was at the age, I thought, where he needed a father more than a mother. The house was being sold and I was moving into a two-story place on Elm Street. It was too big for one but I was reasonably sure, and hopeful, that Travis would be moving back with me late in the summer to go to school for his senior year and if he did I needed a place for us besides the little cramped apartment that I'd moved into when my wife and I split up.

Elm Street is where I made the acquaintance of the Hart twins, Darin and David. I met them the day I moved in. They made themselves known to me. The two I watched coming across the street were not the same when they got up close. They were wearing ragged cut-off jeans and T-shirts whacked off about up to their pecs, revealing abs that looked like stacks of bricks and thighs that could move a tank, their muscular bodies belying their youthful, innocent looks that I saw when they were up close.

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Picture Gallery Showing a Painful Fist Fucking

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ManCaves - Scene 5
Billy Ryder's plunging fists plow deep and wide into Michael Johns, who takes both Billy's able hands. Michael's ass lips swell, hang open and invite more deep, penetrating exploration. Certainly there's room for two. Marc LaSalle steps in and both Marc and Billy settle in to Michael's well-appointed ManCave.

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Hands!

His shoulders were flush with the rough pine boards, hips thrust seductivly forward, one leg drawn up with the heavy heel of his boot pressed against the wall. Pale amber light cut down across him, causing the visor of his leather motorcycle cap to cast his languid green eyes into deep shadow, highlighting his cheeks and close-cropped beard.

The man drew open his black leather jacket, hooking a thumb over his wide silver-studded belt. The light played off the mat of dark glossy hair curling thickly over his hard pectorals and his tapering, muscle rippled stomach.

He casually tugged at the waist of his jeans, low enough to expose the forest of his pubic hair. His flesh, already tan, was made duskier in the warm glow of amber light. In his other hand the man held an open bottle of beer, resting it against the swollen bulge of his crotch. His fingers played a rythmical tattoo against the cool sweating can, absently following the beat of the music flowing down from overhead speakers. Slowly he moved the base of the damp bottle along his denim encased crotch, darkening the material until the shaft was clearly visible as it grew, snaking across his hard thigh. The bulbous head of his cock strained the faded jeans with its outline.

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Arm of One - Scene 3b
The conclusion of this Army dude fisting frenzy is hot handballing at its horniest and features bad ass and foulmouthed Trey Casteel, Ricky Sinz and Mason Garet. These men excel at the heavy ass play and make the best use of an army jeep I have seen in years.

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Leather Messiah!

To bow. To worship. To breed. These are the notes of his symphony, his soul's hunger.

His eyes dart from body to body, evaluating, finding nothing of either sustenance or substance.

In his emptiness, I sense his desperation for my religion. He seeks a fane with an altar of leather and chains. Here is not that temple.

Here is an artificial place, shat from a machine's anus. Here, mirrors are black, reflecting nothing. Here, exploding, manic strobe lights illuminate nothing. Malice and hatred wafts like mustard gas. Here stinks of quotidian suburbs, and he would not be here except for the lies he'd been told that this was a place for sublime pleasures.

He is surrounded by entities human in shape but monstrous in soul. Hello, Shub-Niggurath, the Goat with a Thousand Young: that vast belly sags like a great teat full of milk fit only to nurse a foul brood. Bitch ye, O Cthulhu, about clothes and television and the queens and the rent boys who took the money but wouldn't put out. Like mushrooms growing in shit are the fungi from Yuggoth, sporting identical goatees, duplicate piercings, and shaven skulls. And the colour out of space is the greenback, passed from palm to greedy barkeep, a leprous plague that does not kill but disfigures.

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