octuscle

[octuscle]

Once Alpha, never Alpha again

Marc was an alpha guy! Quarterback in college, top of his class, career in the fast lane. All his colleagues admired him, those who knew him envied him. And Marc never let anyone tell him anything. He was Marc! That's all he needed to say.

Many of Marc's actions were not morally sound. But as the offspring of a good family on the west coast, he had a liberal social background and believed in Christian values without being militantly religious. But economic success was something he would go to any lengths for. His lawyers were there to ensure that it didn't look like murder, but rather self-defense or, even better, a liberation attack. He made no distinction between employees, competitors, customers or public institutions. He had no respect for the law. The lawmakers were weak and venal.

Unfortunately, the executive was not always weak and venal. Marc had long banked on an election victory for the Liberal Party, which he supported. And had done everything in his power to prevent an election victory for the populist left. Together with a few other tycoons, he had succeeded in the last election. He was sure that he would succeed this time too. He had been wrong. And the president-elect lashed out immediately after the election. He protected Marc's biggest rival. And agitated against Marc. At the summit, he threatened Marc with expropriation and prison. Marc remained relaxed for a while. But on the advice of his advisors and lawyers, he began to take the threats more seriously.

He was Marc, he was one of the Masters of the Universe. But every superman had a kryptonite. And he had no desire to have his Kryptonite tested on him. So he buckled. In a theatrical and excellently planned appearance, Marc announced to his hundreds of thousands of followers that he was making a massive change to his business policy. Of course, he never mentioned that he had bowed to the superiority of the new government or the competition. He had simply developed his vision further. That this happened to play into the hands of his competition and the government? Hey, was win-win punishable?

Marc's contact with the government and his competitors became closer. He coordinated all his moves. He began to enjoy being praised for doing what he was told. Bit by bit, he relinquished control of his empire. He enjoyed having more time to devote to his newfound friends. Instead of going to the gym and lifting weights with his trainer, he began to take up yoga and Pilates at the suggestion of his rival. Following the president's example, he began to dye his hair. He depilated his ass and asshole. And he started jerking off to fantasies with old men.

His empire was sold. Working was terrible. Marky could no longer make decisions on his own. Nor did he want to. His daddies decided for him. And if he was good, Marky got a reward. A new collar, perhaps. Or he was allowed to spoil one of his daddies. Marky loved his daddies. He didn't care about anything else! Other people anyway. He had always been indifferent to them.

[octuscle]

Peter's body was his temple. He worked hard to make every woman wet when she saw him and every man freeze in awe when Peter flexed his muscles. And his job as a construction worker gave him plenty of opportunities to do so. Although he actually only used the construction site as an extended training ground for posing, and although he spent every free minute in the gym, he had a successful career, was popular with all his colleagues and had nothing to complain about. And yet sometimes he envied his colleagues who went out for a beer after work and stuffed themselves with fast food during their lunch break, while Peter drank gallons of water and otherwise ate only raw meat and salad without dressing.

Peter started his Friday afternoon with a round on the stationary bike while surfing Instagram. “Fancy a weekend of boozing and having fun without regrets?” The ad on Instagram struck Peter like a bolt of lightning. A guy with a paunch was standing at a bar with friends, his T-shirt wet from the beer flowing out of the corners of his mouth as he drank. Shit, yes, Peter used to fancy that. He really wanted to. He clicked on the account. Pictures of fat guys in bars, bowling, in fast food restaurants. Peter actually found that disgusting. A real man shouldn't have an ounce of fat on his body. But really letting himself go for once? Shit, that would be awesome! “Pling” Peter had received a message. From the owner of the account. “Peter, don't dream, just enjoy! How cool would it be to play a round of darts tonight and stuff yourself with chips and beer!” What the hell?!?!!?! How did the guy get his name and address. He hadn't liked anything or anything. Still, the guy had struck a chord with him. “Tell me more,” he replied. “Meet me at the diner, Lincoln Ave. on the corner of 2nd Street. 20 minutes.” Peter was harder than he'd ever been in his life. A weekend of fun. What could possibly happen?

Peter stopped the training. Chuck at reception looked questioningly as he left the gym after just half an hour of training. "Forgot a private appointment!" Peter called apologetically over his shoulder and held his sports bag protectively in front of his boner. Shit, he was really horny at the idea of letting all discipline go for once. The diner was a pretty run-down place. It reeked of old chip grease and cheap cleaning fluids. No wonder there were hardly any customers. Except for one. It was clear that this had to be his contact person. A fat, unkempt pig! With a portion of burger and chips in front of him.

Naked, flabby torso. shit, yes, that's exactly how Peter wanted to spend his weekend. He wanted it so much. No idea where this untamable desire came from. “Hi, call me Zac,” the guy said with his mouth full, spitting chunks of his burger around. “And you want to have fun for a weekend? Do everything you usually deny yourself?” Peter, who couldn't normally complain about a lack of self-confidence, nodded silently with a dry mouth. “Okay, I'll send you a link. Just accept it, tick both terms and conditions and off you go.” Zac wiped the remnants of food from the corners of his mouth with his forearm. Peter's cell phone vibrated. He opened the link. He ticked the box. He clicked on okay. He looked up. He froze.

Something else mingled with the smell of chip fat and cleaning agents. The smell of pure masculinity. Of fresh sweat. Of well-worn sneakers. It smelled like Peter smelled. He no longer noticed the smell on himself. But the man who was suddenly sitting in front of him exuded this smell in masses! Peter felt his hard-on. But his boner was… Smaller! Much smaller! And he was no longer horny at the idea of spending an excessive weekend. He was horny because of the guy in front of him. Shit, what Peter would give if he fucked him now…!

“Dude, thanks a lot! I thought I'd never find another idiot who wanted to swap muscle for fat.” Zac tensed his biceps. “So, makes you horny, doesn't it? Do you want me to fuck you? Not a chance, Piggy! But you can suck me off if you want.” Peter was in a trance. He didn't understand what Zac was saying. Why did he call him Piggy? Peter was still as muscular as ever. But fuck, he had to suck that cock. The place was still almost empty. Peter crawled under the table. There were puddles of chips and Coke on the floor. Zac pulled his boner out of his gray sweat pants. And Peter sucked greedily. The sweat on his balls and cock was pure musk. Yes, it was the perfect start to the weekend. He had never blown a man before. But he knew damn well how to do it. Zac groaned. A large precum stain formed in Peter's pants. And shortly after Zac had squirted his load in Peter's face, Peter squirted too. He had greedily swallowed Zac's load. A little bit still dripped onto his shirt. But there was still more on his shirt than in his pants. Peter was a wanker. Three or four times a day. His balls never had a chance to fill up enough to produce a load like Zac. “Good Piggy!” said Zac, ”Here, this milkshake is your reward, I don't drink that shit anymore.” And without another word, Zac got up and left the diner.

Peter was hungry. Hugely hungry. He didn't care about the stains on his pants and shirt. In fact, they had already dried up. There were a number of similar dried stains. Peter stood at the counter. Three bacon cheeseburgers, two large portions of chips with nacho sauce and a large Coke. That should be enough. For a start. The waitress asked if he wanted an ice cream for dessert. Peter asked for a large portion. An hour and three more burgers later, Peter got up. He stroked his stomach. He vaguely remembered the washboard stomach he had once had. A roll of flab bulged out from between his shirt and trousers. He wiped his ketchup-smeared hands on his greasy trousers. It was almost 5:00 pm. Time to get ready for bowling night with the boys. “Pete's Handyman Service” was written on his pickup truck. It had been a good year since he had started his own business. About the same time he'd said goodbye to the gym. Pete made his way home. Showering before bowling would be silly now, he'd be sweating like a pig again. But he put on a fresh pair of shorts and a fresh T-shirt. And grabbed the bag with his lucky ball and shoes. A glance in the mirror. Yes, he looked good. He was a real guy. Not an effeminate model.

It was around 9 p.m. when Pete threw his last ball. He was finished! It had been a busy week and he'd rarely had as much exercise as he'd had in the last three hours. For the rest of the evening, he was content to talk football with the boys, drink beer and stuff his face with nachos. And waiting for Mike to finish at the bar. Because then he would shag Pete. Mike was a really handsome guy. Actually straight, of course. But for some reason, which Pete was grateful for, he loved fucking Pete's fat ass. Pete didn't fight back! By the time he was lying in bed in his trailer at 02:00, his transformation was complete. It had been ten years since he had changed his life. Since then, he had been living on fast food and beer. He loved his cigars and chewing tobacco. Shit, yes, he was panting like a locomotive after only 200 meters on foot and he could only see his cock under his belly in the mirror. But shit, he had fun in life. His boys and he went bowling, sometimes they went fishing or football (Pete more in the passive observer position). And someone who loved to fuck his flabby ass could always be found. There were a surprising number of fans of his on Instagram and Gaydar. Tomorrow he would do the bookkeeping on the fucking computer. In the past, he'd had someone to take care of that stuff. But business was only so-so… So he had to struggle through it himself…

There was an e-mail in his inbox, sent at around 4 p.m. on Friday. Some shit with terms and conditions that he was supposed to have accepted. Probably some kind of crazy spam. He had a message from Zac on Insta. Phew, how long had it been since he'd been in contact with him? Must have been about ten years. “Piggy, I have to cancel our date on Sunday night. I don't feel like living without this body anymore. Have fun, you fat pig!” Probably spam again. Piggy, er Pete, couldn't remember a date for Sunday night.

Inspiration by @billowingpillowboy

Pics by @ki-kink

[octuscle]

Spring Break Party Animal

Kristján Egilsson had come from Iceland to Santa Barbara three years ago to study marine biology. He had completed his bachelor's and master's degrees in record time, graduating at the top of his class. Nevertheless, he found it difficult to get a job. Perhaps it was because of his appearance: to call him slim was an understatement. Kristján was a beanpole. And he looked like he was 18. With a bit of blonde hair on his upper lip and the thin, blonde hair that fell on his shoulders. For his fellow students, it was always a wonder how a person who lived in California and spent a lot of time at the beach could stay so pale. Perhaps it was all due to his lifestyle: vegan, feminist, impeccable carbon footprint. And yet: unemployed!

The offer of a research assistant position with the possibility of a doctorate at New College Of Florida in Sarasota was anything but his dream. But still better than returning to Iceland. Kristján found it hard to admit, but somehow he liked the American way of life. The university had promised him a place in a hall of residence for post-graduate students, but had asked him to stay in a motel near the campus for a short time in the meantime. The previous tenant in the hall of residence had apparently been quite a party animal, so the place needed to be redecorated first, the personnel officer had told him with a mischievous wink.

Kristján arrived in Sarasota three weeks before the start of the spring semester. The bus ride had been long and exhausting. But a flight had not been justifiable in view of the CO2 emissions. He had left Atlanta very early this morning and finally arrived after changing buses in Tallahassee and Tampa. He had been on the road for over 70 hours. He was dead tired. The place was quiet. He checked into the somewhat shabby hotel, got into his room and, finally back in a real bed, fell asleep immediately.

His alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. He wanted to go to the beach; he hadn't seen the sea in ages. He would swim, wash off the dirt of the bus ride and then explore the campus. There was no one in the breakfast room yet. The waitress looked at him blankly and said that breakfast was not served until 8:00 a.m. Kristján was starving. He smiled his disarming Scandinavian boy's smile. “I'll see what I can do,” said the waitress, and disappeared into the kitchen. Kristján checked the weather conditions on his cell phone. He wanted to familiarize himself with the currents at the beach. And then he was served a huge portion of scrambled eggs and bacon. “I can't make you anything more, the cook isn't here yet,” said the waitress. Kristján didn't have the energy to argue about vegan nutrition. And he was starving, to be honest. A few bites wouldn't kill him. The scrambled eggs were delicious. He wolfed them down. He asked if he could get a coffee. The waitress brought him a Coke, apologizing that the coffee machine was still off. Kristján downed the 26-ounce bottle of sweet swill almost in one gulp. This was followed by an unparalleled belch. The waitress grinned and said that maybe there was a man in the boy after all. Kristján smiled, feeling both embarrassed and bewildered.

Kristján had spent the whole day by the sea. Near the city, the ecosystem was of course not particularly exciting. But he had gathered a few ideas about how to make simple improvements. Establishing protected zones, artificial reefs, things like that. He wanted to put his ideas on paper. But the mood in the hotel had changed considerably. He had seen the “spring break” posters everywhere. Tonight was the opening party. And now the first guests were arriving, crowding the reception and the lobby, making noise. This could be great. Kristján sighed and went to his room. On his minibar was a note saying “Have a great spring break, the first sixback is on us”. The minibar was stocked with beer.

At some point last night, Kristian had lost the desire to develop his ideas. There had been loud music coming from the pool and he could no longer concentrate, so he had taken a beer from the fridge, drunk it and then fallen into bed. He had ignored the alarm clock today. But there was no breakfast before 08:00 anyway. And when he was in the breakfast room at 08:00, he was still alone. A few students were lying by the pool, snoring. Kristian grabbed some scrambled eggs, bacon and sausages and wolfed down his breakfast. He wanted to finish before the students woke up. The plan for today was to get a bike. He had to be mobile in the city somehow. And he also wanted to explore the city and take a look at the campus. So far, he had only seen it on the internet. He had found a store for second-hand bikes on the internet and got a bargain there. Cool guys there, he had talked to them and got tips for the city. He had only been on campus for a short time; apart from a few construction workers, everything was pretty deserted. At the beach, he had only seen the crowds of people partying there and quickly turned back. Back at the hotel, he was happy that it was relatively quiet. He lay down by the pool. At some point, someone asked him if he wanted a beer. At some point, Kristian got himself a second beer. At some point, the party was also in full swing here by the pool.

Damn, that was one beer too many... at least. Christian threw up mangily in the bathroom. There was a full condom on the floor. He looked in the mirror. He looked like shit! Maybe a shave would help. He just left his moustache. Yes, that was better. Now breakfast, then a nap by the pool, then he'd be fine. Logan, Todd and Chad were already eating breakfast. With their first or second beer. Hey, what better way to have a real man's breakfast. Logan asked if the plan with the tattoo artist at lunchtime was still on. “Sure thing,” said Christian, half the scrambled eggs falling out of his mouth. He'd always wanted a tattoo. The sluts were into that kind of thing! But now he really had to piss. Damn it, he wasn't used to four beers for breakfast Shit, he wasn't going to make it to the toilet. He pissed on a palm tree on the terrace. To the jeers of the other boys. Now another burp. And then off to the sun lounger. A nap and a tan!

As Logan and he rode along the promenade on their motorcycles after the session at the tattooist, they could hardly wait for the evening to arrive. Their cocks were longing to finally be used again. Christian had already gotten hard during the tattooing session. His tattoo artist was also a guy after his own heart. Every now and then he really liked to fuck a tight man's ass. He would never tell the boys. Although... Todd had also sucked his cock before. Without making eye contact, of course. Otherwise it would be totally homo!

Shit, the party the night before had been awesome. The only sensible reason to go to college was really Springbreak! Cris took the last bottle of beer out of the fridge, lit a cigarette and went into the bathroom. His hair looked like shit. But one of the boys had brought long hair clippers. He would be able to trim his mullet for tonight. He trimmed his belly. Shit, Coach was going to give him another lecture when spring trimester started. But the diet of spare ribs, burgers and beer was working. And training would start again in April!

Shit, the trimester would start again in a week. Chris really wasn't a friend of the campus. But without a bachelor's degree, no money from his parents. And without money from his parents, no spring break. And without spring break, no sex. Who the fuck was he kidding? He was one of the hottest guys on campus. He would always have sex. And with the bitch at the other end of the pool. Chris let himself slide into the water. Thank God the water was warm. His hard-on would remain stable until he reached the other side of the pool.

Chris' pic found @boysgettingbigger

[octuscle]

A Christmas Carol

Eric's father had been incredibly popular in the company. He was the boss, the patriarch, no one doubted that for a minute. But he had always been generous to his employees. What was good for the employees was also good for the company. That was his credo. And everyone involved benefited from it. Eric had grown up in the company. When he rode his scooter in the factory halls as a child, when he did his homework in the canteen, he was always somehow the son of all the employees. Just as popular as his father. But unfortunately, as it turned out after his father's death, an asshole.

His father was barely in the ground when Eric launched cost-cutting measures after cost-cutting measures. His goal was to trim the company for short-term profit. And then sell it. He wasn't interested in producing rolled sheets. He wanted to finance startups. At the beginning, there was still some sympathy for him. The poor survivor. The inexperienced entrepreneur. But after the story with the Christmas bonus, he was just an asshole.

Eric had canceled the Christmas bonus. His employees had received vouchers for the “Fat-free Cooking” course. Most of them were too fat for the fitness fanatic Eric anyway. Surprisingly, this action was not very popular shortly before Christmas. And so the mutiny began. And Eric found himself in an apartment of one of the blocks of company-owned apartments that he had approved for demolition. He had no idea where he was or who had kidnapped him. He only knew that he had nothing to wear except for an undershirt that was too tight, a dirty jockstrap, dirty socks and work boots. There was a mattress to sleep on and a hole in the floor where the toilet used to be. Otherwise the apartment was empty. Three times a day he got a bag of food from McDonald's or Kentucky Fried Chicken. Twice a day a six-pack of ice-cold beer and a pack of fags. And once a day he got a new gay porn magazine pushed under the door. In fact, they weren't new porn magazines, they were old ones from the nineties. Full of dog-ears and cum stains. It was disgusting. At first. But what could Eric do? He started to enjoy the junk food, the beer and the smoking. And at some point, he also jerked off for the first time to pictures of fat, hairy guys in leather vests.

Three weeks later, Eric was still slim. But his washboard abs had become flabby. His hair was greasy. He had the beginnings of a full beard. And he found that less and less bad. What he didn't know was that this was just the beginning. One of the IT nerds had found a prototype of a device called Chronivac in the archives of the research and development department. And he had managed to get it working. And so one day Eric found himself in an apartment with an open door. There was nothing to eat. He had no more fags or beer. Did he now have to fend for himself? He had never done that before. Not in his entire life. And then the Chronivac was activated...

Rick was the caretaker for the company apartments. Even though no one had seen Eric for weeks, he kept giving instructions via an assistant. Among other things, that the apartment blocks should be renovated. Rick's shithole was the last to be renovated. But shit, he was used to nothing but this shithole. It was his home. And his wages were enough for cigs, beer and fast food. That's all he wanted.

[octuscle]

Community Service

This was a total cakewalk for Alex, bro. Dude had just been pushed around and dissed by some punk outside the campus cantina. Then it turned into a scrap, and his mom was all about him snitching on the thug. Alex couldn’t stand those losers chilling on campus; they were all jailbait in his eyes. So yeah, he was down for it. A squad of his bros was there as backup, so the hearing was gonna be a breeze. He had lacrosse practice later, so he rocked up in a T-shirt, no big deal.

But man, it was way rougher than expected. The bully’s lawyer, the prosecutor, and the judge were ruthless. None of his homies stood up for him, and instead of being the hero, he got thrown into the hot seat as the accused. The thug was next to his lawyer, looking all sharp in a tight suit that was barely hiding his tats. Compared to chill Alex, he looked like a straight-up boss. Alex was sweating buckets, his slick hair plastered to his forehead. Then, outta nowhere, he heard the judge clear the thug and threw him ten hours of community service, plus kicked him off campus for a year. Everyone cheered, the thug was fist-bumping his lawyer, and Alex felt like he got run over. He shuffled out of court, head hanging, close to losing it.

Dude walked outta the courtroom lookin' all down, nearly tearin' up. Once outside, he took a solid breath. Like, seriously, what’s he even bummed about? What's he even doin' on that lame campus? Total place for drama queens. He cruised across the street, needin’ smokes and maybe a cold brew. That confidence kicked back in. Muscles flexed, skin buzzed as sick tattoos popped up. Dude's dick got hard feelin’ his T-shirt hug those gains. Fresh air felt dope on his buzzed hair.

His boys were chillin' at the usual spot, shootin' him curious looks. Lex just threw out a thumbs up. "Ten sucky hours of community service and I can't even hit the campus for a year. Totally worth a brawl!" He flashed a grin, and the homies let out a wolf whistle!

Morph by @ki-kink

[octuscle]

Bouncer to Wereteenager

Mustafa was the lord of his little empire. No one got past him. Behind him, behind the door, was one of the most fashionable clubs in the city. Inconspicuous in a rundown side street in the red-light district. But the beautiful and rich of the city gave everything to get past Mustafa into the den of iniquity of hedonism. Who was successful? That was Mustafa's decision alone. Sometimes he liked sneakers, sometimes he hated them. Sometimes he didn't want to see anyone under the age of 25.

Today there was a more mature, elegant crowd in the club. And the spotty guy in the sloppy clothes who stamped out the butt of a roll-up cigarette on the floor in front of Mustafa was definitely not a match for the people who were on the dance floor today. “No way, piss off, kid!” Mustafa growled. “Dude, give yourself a break! Please!!!!” Mustafa waved the next customers over and just left the teenager unnoticed. Fuck! This could not be ignored. The teenager fell to his knees in front of everyone and began to lick the bulge in Mustafa's pants. Damn, yes, Mustafa was hard. A blowjob could be a good change. ‘Boy,’ hissed Mustafa. “Wait for me in the next doorway. I'll take a break in a minute.” Mustafa opened the door briefly and called out to his colleague, ‘Fuck break.’ There was nothing unusual about this. The atmosphere was always sexually charged. His colleague nodded and relieved Mustafa. The teenager squatted on the doorstep of the house as instructed and waited to be allowed to suck a mighty circumcised cock. Mustafa unbuttoned his trousers, pulled the waistband down a little and his boner popped out of its prison like a jack-in-the-box. Mustafa didn't regret the break for a second. The boy knew how to use his tongue. Yes, now and then he bit a little too hard. But damn, he brought Mustafa to ecstasy! And Mustafa squirted so hard that the boy's drool dripped out of the corners of Mustafa's mouth on both sides.

“Thank you, boy,” Mustafa growled. ‘But you still won't get into the club.’ He buttoned up his trousers and was about to leave.

Ziggy's real name was Jeremy and he was actually an investment banker. 35 years old, he earned 400 K a year and was a regular at the club. During the week. On weekends, he hung out with his pot-smoking friends at the skate park and earned a few dollars for weed by giving blow jobs. He no longer knew when and how he had become a wereteenager. Actually, he didn't even know that he was a wereteenager. Today was Saturday night. Today he was hanging out with his buddies and partying. In 24 hours, he would be sleeping in pristine white sheets again, before the week would start at 5:30 a.m. on Monday with a training session with his personal trainer and then a power breakfast. And if he didn't come to the club today... Fuck it. He rolled a joint and looked at his cell phone to see where his buddies were hanging out.

Although he had just cum, Mustafa was still horny. And somehow he felt like smoking pot. He felt dizzy. Why was he here, anyway? He looked at his cell phone. Wasn't that his cell phone? With weed leaf stickers on it and a cracked display. His friends were hanging out at the bus stop. Joey had organized beer. Mustafa leaned briefly against the wall. Damn, he wasn't that stoned...

Reefer looked at the line of people standing in front of the unremarkable door. Shit, did something come for free? Should he also stand in line there? Joey sent pictures of Ziggy, who was rolling a new joint. “Shit, were r u? i need something 2 smoke 2!” Reefer sent back. It was Saturday night, a warm summer night, and they were going to have a lot of fun tonight!

[octuscle]

The Daddy Virus

Tyler was the star of his high school's theater department, a promising gymnast, especially on the parallel bars and rings, and the most popular of the school's studs. There were urban legends about the size and qualities of his cock. Tyler was a legend. And he reveled in the knowledge that he was one.

The rumors about a number of juniors and sophomores who had disappeared from one day to the next were generally dismissed. No one remembers anyone disappearing. Nevertheless, some of the fat daddies who had been hanging around campus in the cafeteria for some time, when they weren't doing janitorial or handyman work, liked to tell horror stories about it. Tyler pretended to be politely horrified. But in his mind, he went over his lines. Next week was the premiere of “The Picture of Dorian Gray.” And he was the star. Of course.

Tyler was on stage. “The soul is a terrible reality. You can buy and sell it and haggle over its price. You can poison it or perfect it. There is a soul in each of us. I know it.” Suddenly he gets stuck. Shit, what was the next sentence? BELCH! Why the hell is he on a stage anyway? He is anything but an actor...

“Tyler, you look really grotesque in that shirt.” ‘Damn it, bro, if I'm going to play that fag Daffyd Thomas for this charity crap, I want to do it right.’ His fraternity brothers were on the floor laughing. Tyler was anything but ‘The Only Gay in the Village.’ Tyler had been captain of the wrestling team as a senior. And now he was the assistant coach. He was a legend in his fraternity. The fact that he had agreed to perform this sketch was truly sensational. Tyler grinned. He knew that this shirt was really an imposition on the audience. You could really see every one of his rolls of fat. Something was brewing in his gut. FART!

Coach Ty looked at his boys. A few of them were really talented. He would be able to turn them into men. He himself had had a promising wrestling career ahead of him. But then a cruciate ligament rupture. And his career was over. He stroked his belly. Well, his life could have been a lot worse. “Boys, that's enough for today. Beer and steaks in an hour at my place in the garden. And whoever takes a shower loses. It's just us guys here today.” The boys howled. And Coach Ty wondered if he would fuck a sweaty wrestler's ass today.

[octuscle]

Can you do a sequel/follow up to Fun at the Not so Fair Ground where a paid of rude and obnoxious preppy university guys get on the bad side of the travelling fun fair workers, particularly Daz, and they get the same treatment Darren did? That was such a hot story

This is a sequel to this story:

Robert and Melvyn had been given $200 each by their parents to have fun at the fair. Of course, they both knew that this was the price the two friendly couples were willing to pay for a relaxing evening without their annoying and spoiled brats. And they also knew that $400 was painfully enough to pay for an entire evening of fun. Even at a carnival, which would certainly not be too expensive as entertainment for the lower classes. But the two of them were more than flush with cash themselves. Robert had a well-stocked trust fund from his grandparents, which yielded a more than generous return. And Melwyn had inherited a block of flats from an uncle, the rental income from which could easily finance his life of luxury. The 400 dollars hardly mattered.

So now the two of them were at the fair. Kids' stuff… They had already celebrated their 12th birthday at Disney World. What else could impress them?

As feared, the whole fair was a pretty boring affair. They even had no fun attacking small children in the bumper cars. Nevertheless, they behaved as if they owned everything here. They let every member of staff know what they thought of the underprivileged people here: NOTHING! And they didn't let people they didn't think much of say anything to them either. They didn't care about rules. And if someone reprimanded them for it, they didn't care either. They were both Upper Eastside. And the others there were Staten Island.

“Hey guys!” they heard a voice from behind them. “A number of colleagues and guests have complained about you. Behave yourselves, or I'll have to expel you from the fair!” Robert and Melvyn turned around. Who dared to speak to them like that? The guy who had dared to do that was obviously Staten Island or worse. A lowlife who spent too much time in the gym or working hard. Maybe only five or six years older than them. But from a different world. He smelled like an ordinary cologne, was dressed the way you might expect someone who worked the carnival to be dressed. His heavy chain screamed “fake”. But his eyes! Piercing blue. Almost hynotizing!

“Listen, you asshole, we're guests and we're not going to let someone like you tell us anything anyway!” said Melvyn. Robert laughed, held out 50 dollars to the guy and said, “That's enough for you to stop bothering us?" The guy smiled. Well, his mouth was smiling. His piercing blue eyes didn't. Robert and Melvyn had messed with the wrong guy. Kyle was Daz's right-hand man. Kyle knew his way around the fair almost as well as Daz, who was the undisputed ruler here. And Daz had given Kyle a free hand in how to deal with the two troublemakers. They had a special way of solving such problems here.

“Guys, maybe we just got off to a bad start. Let's forget what happened.” Kyle continued to smile his ice-cold smile. “I'm the boss of the ghost train here. There's a special ride for special guests only. It would be a pleasure to invite you. He held out two plastic chips with “VIP” written on them. Ghost train...! What a pathetic amusement. But it was cool to see how quickly this bastard caved in to them. He was scum. And Robert and Melvyn were the bosses! So they graciously took the chips and followed Kyle to the ghost train.

It was a terribly boring ride. Only small children would be scared of something like that. Robert and Melvyn were glad when the ride was over and the barrier of their little gondola opened again. They headed for the exit. Suddenly a door slammed shut in front of them. And a hidden wallpaper door creaked open. This had to be the part with the special tour. But here too: Boring effects. Some of them were obviously broken. And the dust and cobwebs seemed to be real. Robert and Melvyn stood in front of a picture with the caption “Your greatest horror”. Well, yes. Greatest horror. It showed two young men with cheap clothes, a cheap haircut and obviously no future. Robert and Melvyn weren't afraid of people like that. They ignored people like that. Next to the picture was a mirror. It was labeled “Your future”. Robert and Melvyn saw two young men with cheap clothes, a cheap haircut and obviously no future. Damn! Robert grabbed his face and his reflection did the same.

Robert and Melvyn looked at each other and turned pale. They looked like scum working at the fair. Cheap faux-leather clothes, chavish haircuts. But fit, athletic bodies. “Dude, what do you look like?” Robert wanted to ask. But instead he said “Yo, what do you look like, huh?”. And he spoke in a heavy New Jersey accent. “Yo, we gotta bounce, like, right now! We gotta skedaddle outta here!” Melvyn replied. And his accent was just as heavy!

In a panic, they both looked for the exit. They found themselves behind the ghost train. Above the exit was a sign that read “Employees only”. Darren tried to open the door. Melvyn rattled the handle. A man opened it for him. Behind the door was a small staff lounge. The man asked him if they wanted to apply for the job of young man traveling with the fair. The two ran off in a panic.

“Yo, buddy, you got any smokes or what?” asked Robert Melvyn. Neither of them had ever smoked in their lives. But their nicotine-yellow fingers now spoke a different language. Melvyn looked in the breast pocket of his leatherette vest. There were exactly two cigarettes left in the crumpled pack of filterless Marlboros. Robert took his Zippo out of his trouser pocket. Damn, that felt good!

“Oi, you muppets! How long are you gonna lounge about? Mel, get your butt to the dodgy car ticket stand! And Rob, shift that rubbish from the beer tent, yeah?!” Shit, if Kyle was in a bad mood, he'd just fuck them both hard again. Sure, it wouldn't be that bad. But there was no money in getting fucked. Mel and Rob finished their fags and trudged off to their chores. While Rob dragged the garbage bags to the bins, he wondered for a moment why he was doing this. Wasn't he actually here to have fun? He heard Mel's hoarse voice shouting through the loudspeaker “Oi, lads and lasses, next shindig's 'round the corner! Come and have a right laugh like ya ain't never had before. Let's hit it, yeah? WILD TIMES AHEAD!” It was clear that Mel had got the better job again. He had probably blown Daz or Kyle earlier. Shit, he could do with another fag already.

Rob and Mel were not the smartest employees at the fair. But they could get stuck in and work hard. They had lived in a caravan with Rob's stepbrother Kyle since they were kids. The fact that they were only stepbrothers had the advantage that they could fuck without any problems. And Mel, as a distant cousin or something, who had lost his parents at an early age and moved in with his godfather Daz, was free as a bird anyway. Shit, he'd already had every showman's cock in his face at the funfair. But preferably Daz's. And that gave him a certain special position.

Unlike Kyle and Daz, Rob and Mel weren't lead wolves even after years. But at least visually they could pass for alphas. They loved life at the fair. They wouldn't trade places with the snobs running around at the annual Newport Beach funfair for the world. Mel imagined Rob with silky hair and a polo shirt when he saw a youngster like that running past him. The youngster looked disdainful. Mel snorted. No, his best buddy was more of the bald-and-naked-upper-body type. Thank God!

[octuscle]

Model Job

Chester didn't know much about the modeling job he was hired for. He had been told to come in a blue suit. A neat hairstyle was required. The studio was a sober room in a functional office building in an industrial area. Nothing glamorous, but that wasn't what he was after. He was after money. Dirty money. He had a bunch of creditors breathing down his neck, and if he didn't want to be evicted from his apartment, which was way too expensive for him, he had to get this job.

The guys waiting in the casting room largely fit the current stereotype: bearded, tattooed, manly. Their hair was either super short or their long manes were tied back in topknots. But a few of the men looked just like Chester: well-groomed hair, clean-shaven, no visible tattoos. But in contrast to Chester, these men were usually rather petite, almost feminine. Chester was well-groomed, but clearly a real man. He prayed that this was the type of man they were looking for. Because then his competition would be very manageable. If they were looking for a guy with a mane and a full beard, however, he had no chance.

The waiting time was endless. The men spoke little to each other. Again and again, someone was called into the casting room, and mostly a disappointed or angry man came out. Chester was just happy that he had a charging cable for his cell phone with him. And that there was Wi-Fi. This way he could pass the time and did not have to rely on the goodwill of others to recharge his battery. After what felt like an eternity, someone called out, “Chester Cavendish?” It was unnecessary to call his name. Chester was the last to wait. But it was good to hear his name. His name was part of his capital. Not that he had anything to do with the Cavendish family, the Dukes of Devonshire. If he had their money, he wouldn't have to model. But the name sounded good. Respectable. Impressive. Hopefully it would help.

“Mr. Cavendish, if you would please stand in the spotlight over there.” Chester did as he was told. He had only been able to catch a glimpse of the panel that had to decide his fate. Now he looked into the spotlight and couldn't even guess what was happening behind it. ”Move naturally, Mr. Cavendish. As if you were waiting for your girlfriend in front of the hairdresser.” Chester took a few steps, turned around, paused, always careful to show the spotlight his best side.

“I don't know,” someone murmured. ‘He looks too much like old money to me. Too well-groomed, too upper class.’ ‘The problem is that we don't have anyone else.’ ”If he was a bit more relaxed. A bit more peppy.”

“Okay, that's better. Brown shoes, five o'clock shadow...” ”I think so too, much better for our target group!”

Chester began to feel more comfortable. Apparently, his type was well received by the client. His type matched his name. Black sheep from a good family. Good background, but slightly rebellious appearance. “He looks a bit conformed.” ‘Yes, the hairstyle is not bad, but he could show a bit more skin.’ ”You said it, sex sells”

Chester hadn't been sure whether it would be too intrusive to wear a sleeveless shirt... But it didn't seem to be a problem. He posed a bit more provocatively. And the muttering from the other side of the spotlight was obviously approving!

“I don't know about you, but it's too 90s for me. Too metrosexual.” ‘I agree.’ ‘And he could do with a bit more muscle too.’ ”Mr. Cavendish, how many times a week do you train?”

Chester wondered what difference it made how long it took him to get his muscles in shape. He was proud of his muscles. It was damn hard work, after all.

“Four or five times a week. But call me Chester. Mr. Cavendish was my father!”

“Thank you, Chester. And it's impressive what you've achieved in the gym!”

Chester listened, but only understood fragments. “…a little bit...”, “…too well-behaved...”, “…bad boy...”. It was difficult for him to continue playing the waiting game.

“Chester, do you think your normal job and modeling go together? Or is that a problem for you?”

“No problem! I still work a bit in my dad's construction company, dudes! He'll understand if I have to go on camera.”

Whispering again... And then, “Yes, he could indeed look more like a construction worker.”

Chet was slowly beginning to lose interest. He wasn't a model, he was a handyman... But he also wanted to be an influencer. That's probably why he had to do this kind of shit.

“Sorry, Chester, I forgot. How often do you go to the gym?” “Name is Chet. Gym is like for wimps. I hav me fuckin' workout six days a week at the construction site. N' three times a week i go boxin'.”

“I think we have the perfect candidate.” “I agree!” “But somehow he's not quite up to date yet, is he?” “Yeah, a few tattoos maybe.” “What do you think of blond hair?” ”Deal!”

Chet was the epitome of the C-Class celebrity. We knew him from a few modeling jobs, we knew him as a fitness influencer, we knew him from trash reality soaps like Love Island. But just a little bit. He wasn't famous. But he made a lot of money. And for an airhead like him, that was quite a lot!

[octuscle]

Second Hand

Scott and Hector didn't want to go to this stupid school dance at all. But their parents both insisted. They said it would be an unforgettable event and that they would draw on it for the rest of their lives. They had even both been given money to buy new tuxedos. A crazy 500 dollars each. What weed they could have bought with that! But still, the two of them now needed a tuxedo. “Cheap tuxedo Chicago” Scott googled. The first result was an address with carnival costumes. That didn't seem appropriate. He scrolled a bit. And then came the entry of a second-hand store. He knew the area. There was a guy around the corner who occasionally supplied him with weed to smoke. This had to be a twist of fate. They would spend the $1000 today. And come home with more than two tuxedos. The two congratulated each other on this excellent plan and their luck. Hector donated the last weed he had and the two smoked in joyful anticipation of plenty of supplies.

It was almost a 30-minute bus ride. The area looked bad. Most of the shops were boarded up, rubbish was lying on the streets, and there were wrecked cars at the side of the road. Only the second-hand shop made a well-kept impression. The mannequins looked extremely old-fashioned. But the clothes they were wearing were decorated in such a way that any hipster would have jumped for joy at the retro fashion. Unfortunately, Scott and Hector were not hipsters. They were fashion grouches. They just wanted a cheap tuxedo. Nothing else.

When they entered the shop, an old-fashioned doorbell rang. The shop was empty. Oldies were playing on a radio. Music they knew from their parents. They looked around uncertainly. And then the voice came from offstage. “Bros, what can I do for you?” A young man had appeared out of nowhere. He had a cool mullet, which was back in fashion. Although somehow it looked different on him. Somehow… vintage? Yes, that suited him, like his clothes. Hector's mother had a thing for an actor named Something Fox. Or something like that. He used to have to watch old movies with his mother with this small-framed actor. And the salesman here in the store looked like he had been an extra in one of the movies. “I hope you can help us, dude,” Scott said with a slightly dry voice. ‘We have to go to some stupid ball and we need a tuxedo or whatever that stuff is called. Something cheap!’ The young man asked what ‘cheap’ meant to them. Scott had no idea what to say. He wasn't really into poker or haggling. “We have $100…” ‘Guys, don't worry, we'll find two tuxedos for you!’ the salesman interrupted them. Hector nudged his buddy in the ribs. It was really their lucky day. They had said that they each wanted to spend a maximum of $100. They would never have dared to dream that they would get two tuxedos for that price.

“My name is Michael, by the way,” said the young man. Hector had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing out loud. Michael J. Fox! Exactly! That was the name of his mother's favorite actor. Michael took the two of them to the back of the store. Here suits were hanging on the racks. ‘Guys, I don't have much of a selection when it comes to tuxedos right now.’ He took two suits off the rack. Here, this is the best I can offer you at the moment.” In one hand he held a tuxedo made of cheap polyester, in the other something made of leather or faux leather. Even though the two of them knew little about fashion, it was clear to them that the two tuxedos were mercilessly out of fashion. They must have had rather horrified faces, because Michael replied immediately, ‘And because of the Black Friday stuff, both are available for 80 dollars together’. And with a wink, he added that there was also a bit of weed as a bonus. Scott couldn't help grinning. That sounded like a deal. He grabbed the leather tuxedo and said, “Mine, dude.” Hector acted offended and took the other one. He was quite happy. He thought a leather tuxedo was kind of gay.

Laughter came from Scott's dressing room. “You okay, buddy?” Michael asked. Scott stepped out of the dressing room, wearing only the tuxedo pants. The pants were way too long and flopped around on his skinny pothead legs. Michael grinned and said that maybe they needed to be shortened a bit. He turned up the waistband and asked Scott to turn around. “But your muscular ass looks great in these pants.” ‘My what?’ Scott thought to himself. He turned to the mirror. What he saw was out of this world! The shiny black material stretched around two perfectly shaped ass cheeks. Without warning, Michael reached into his crotch. Scott winced. ‘Dude,’ Michael said. ”Never get dressed without a jockstrap. Otherwise you can see every detail of your beast through the material!” Scott tried to correct the fit of his cock. Yes, you could see everything. His cock wasn't even hard. Not yet. But he would have the same problem with any pair of pants. But hardly any would fit so perfectly. He turned in front of the mirror. The pants fit his narrow waist just as well as his muscular thighs. He hadn't thought he'd find something that fit so well in a thrift store. Michael came back and threw him a jockstrap. Scott reacted a little too late and the jockstrap landed in his face. Shit, where had he left it again? It was still warm and damp from the last workout. Hell yes, he would recognize the smell of his jockstraps anywhere. “Then I'll try the tuxedo top,“ he said

“Hey, Michael, can you help me?” Michael followed right into Hector's dressing room. He couldn't help grinning. Hector looked like a ten-year-old had put on his father's tuxedo. He literally sank into the fabric. “You really don't have anything else? Shit, it doesn't fit at all!” Hector said. Michael walked around Hector, pulled on the fabric a bit and said that it would look different if he wore a real shirt and not his pothead T-shirt underneath. And in terms of length, Hector would need it. He's quite a giant, after all. How tall is he? 6'2"? “It's 6'3", to be honest,“ Hector replied, shooting up at that moment. “Speaking of shirts, will you bring me one?” Scott's bass boomed through the shop. “XXL or XXXL?” Michael asked, kneeling in front of Hector, trying to pin the waistband. “Better bring XXXL,” Scott replied with a laugh. But Michael was distracted. On his knees, Hector's crotch in his face, the smell of sweat and musk from his trousers. He got a hard-on. And so did Hector, obviously. Instead of continuing to fix the trousers, he opened Hector's fly, whose cock popped out like a jack-in-the-box. Michael had Hector's glans in his mouth faster than Hector could see.

On the radio, Night Ranger's “The Secret Of My Success” was playing, from the soundtrack to the new Michael J Fox movie. Michael had trouble swallowing Hector's cock. He often had true stallions as customers, but that was a premium cock. He looked up and saw far above Hector's muscular torso, his face contorted with lust. Michael grasped Hector's firm ass cheeks and shoved his cock all the way into his face. Hector let out a loud moan as he shot his load. A second load hit Michael in the neck. Scott had been looking for his shirts and had watched the two of them jerking off.

Michael was in seventh heaven. He rarely had such horny customers to serve. And both bought brand-new tuxedos with all the trimmings. He had lusted after a hot cock and made almost $1,000 in sales. He could be more than satisfied. Scott and Hector, however, were more than satisfied themselves. They looked at themselves in the mirror. The tuxedos looked hot and fit like a glove. Their hair was perfectly styled, and they were about to make a first-class appearance at the premiere of the new Sylvester Stallone movie, Over the Top. Both had had a small part in one scene and had competed against each other in the background of Sly in an arm-wrestling contest. Of course, they hoped that this would be their breakthrough. If Arnie and Sly made it from the gym to the silver screen, why not them?

They made a few local papers. And there was actually a photo in Variety. Okay, they misspelled Hector's last name and gave Scott's age as 32 instead of 28. But hey! Better wrong publicity than no publicity!

[octuscle]

InstaMorph

InstaMorph was not actually supposed to be released in the AppStores. The beta test phase was not even close to being completed. But somehow the app had ended up in the stores. And even though it was an insider tip, an active user community quickly developed. Very few users were probably aware that what the app did was not just digital…

The way it worked was simple: people used Instagram as normal. But the comments were exclusively visible to Instamorph users. And the comments changed what you saw in the posts. Digitally. But also in the real world!

Steven and Ronald were not at all happy about being photographed by a magazine photographer on their way to the opera. Ronald's father, the two of them, was already thinking about calling him to file a lawsuit for violation of personal rights. By that time, the picture of the two of them had long been online with the caption “Young opera fans on their way to a glamorous premiere”. This sealed their fate.

The 2 of dem r quite kawaii, but they look liek they have a sticc up their ass

yea, a lil looser wud b dope.

the 2 of dem lacc the rite cocky attitude. The tuxedo is dope, but u have 2 fill it out

send deez 2 bacc 2 school! they need 2 mor yrs of lyfe experience. And they shud get it @ the gym

whomst the hell goes 2 an opera premiere? a movie premier wud b much cooler!

Steven and Ronald got dizzy. “Bro, do you also have the feeling that we've overdone it in training?” Steven asked his buddy. He gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder. “Dude, you know you look even better in a tuxedo when you've pumped up your chest and biceps!”

Somehow still far 2 clean!

wat kinda movie premier is dis supposed 2 b? looks totally lame

wdy think of the red carpet @ a boxing match?

lit idea! and deez 2 r such fighters!

lit muscles and dope tattoos. Tht wud b poggers!

Their tuxedos vanished into thin air. Their hairstyles screamed “boy from the slums”. School education? Manners? The two of them became full-on jocks from the boxing gym!

“That's it!” “Let the muscles play!” “Give me a killer smile!” “Come on, do a double bicep pose!” Steve and Ron knew the drill. The camera loved them. And they loved the camera. Sure, they needed to work well together. Their business as personal trainers and fitness influencers could only remain successful if they were not only present on their own channels. An appearance like this before a boxing match was important for their image. And that's why they walked the red carpet half naked at 10 degrees Celsius with nipples as hard as steel.

I find dem boring

u name it, interchangeable liek barbie's ken

what if they wer older?

damn, thats a lit idea! such lit muscle daddies

silver foxes made flesh

hey, muscle dilf! show meh ur magnificent cock!

Steve and Ron smiled at the photographers and struck a pose. Most of the youngsters could have been their sons. Although, if they were their sons, the first question would have been who the mother should have been. Shit, they'd never stuck their cocks in a wet cunt. They were both into concrete asses and steel hard cocks. And apart from that, they would have beaten the sissies to the gym on the edge of the red carpet as teenagers. Steve and Ron were icons in the fitness scene. The two had already made a fortune with fitness videos and nutritional supplements before the word 'influencer' had even been invented. The two were in high spirits at the opening of the 100th branch of their Boxing Gym chain. It was going to be a great party. And plenty of fresh meat begging to be fucked by them according to all the rules of the art. Such bodies in combination with so much experience in bed could only be offered by these two. And the boys stood in line at attention for that.

[octuscle]

A Night at the Opera

Ernest and Jasper were both no friends of the big appearance. Their parents had taught them from an early age to always appear far less than they were. The two had come to the opera by subway. That Ernest's velvet loafers cost more than a month's salary of most people around them, probably no one suspected here. The red carpet was laid out for the premiere in front of the Royal Opera. As Ernst and Jasper approached, a rapidly fading flurry of flashbulbs began. The two looked like stars. Flawless. Beautiful. Cultivated. But no one had a clue who they were. So the photographers pounced on the C-list couple, who were getting out of a presumably leased Bentley right behind them. Ernest raised an eyebrow, barely noticeable. Jasper smiled knowingly. The two politely accepted the program and went to Jasper's family box. They had made a generous donation over 200 years ago that enabled the laying of the building's foundation stone. And together with Ernest's grandmother, Jasper's father now ruled over the opera's patrons' association. It was not a problem if they were not recognized here.

During the first intermission, the two quickly agreed that it would be a wasted evening if they were to watch the opera to the end. The singers were mediocre, and the production tried to paper over logical gaps with crude, obscene provocation. Yes, Siegfried was certainly no easy opera. But they actually loved Wagner. But they wouldn't survive another three hours like that. Ending the evening with a glass of wine in front of the fireplace seemed considerably more appealing. They exchanged a few pleasantries with acquaintances of their parents, who were also waiting at the coat rack, and walked through the dusk towards the subway. And they were happy with their decision.

The subway wasn't particularly crowded: Jasper had bought a copy of the Times from a newspaper seller. Even though the premiere was still going on, there was already a scathing review of it in the arts section. Of course the critic was unfair and biased. But his style was delicious. Ernest hummed a bit of the overture's melody when a young man, who was the complete opposite of the two, stumbled over Ernest's legs on his way out the door. The boy was muscular, tattooed, and dressed to show off as much of the muscles and tattoos as possible. Definitely not their class. He swore and showed Ernest the middle finger. Ernest just smiled superiorly. And got the slime from the yob directly in the face. “Do you think you're better than me? Maybe. But not for much longer.” The yob laughed and jumped through the already closing doors onto the platform. Ernest wiped the slime from his cheek. Not all of it… A little bit had run into his mouth.

They got off at the next stop. Ernest's stomach growled. He asked if they could quickly get something from the supermarket on the way home. Jasper said that the fridge at home was well stocked, but he was happy to do it for me. Cumberland Food & Wine was really on the way and he could possibly get a bottle of red wine. While Jasper was scouring the shelves without finding anything he liked, Ernest filled his shopping basket with protein bars, chicken breasts, rice and eggs. When the two met at the checkout, Jasper looked at his husband questioningly. “I just felt like it,” answered Ernest. “Honey, anything you want!” answered Jasper.

Once they arrived home, Ernest immediately disappeared into the kitchen of their impressive apartment on Bryanston Square. By then, he had already eaten three protein bars. Jasper rolled his eyes and retreated to the library. He took a small glass of port and continued reading about the history of the Persian language. At least this way he would be able to end the evening with a little wit. He lost track of time and only woke up when he heard noises coming from the living room. Ernest had taken off his jacket and shirt and was eating a mountain of chicken breasts with egg rice at the coffee table, still wearing his trousers and undershirt. The TV was on. “What are you watching?” Jasper asked. With his mouth full, Ernest replied that it was the new season of “Made in Chelsea”. “You know, the stuff with Reza in it.” Jasper didn't know Reza. ‘The Reza from the gym. Reza Amiri-Garroussi!’ Ernest wiped his hands on his undershirt, pulled out his cell phone, opened Instagram and showed Jasper pictures of a young man. Jasper didn't even know Ernest had an Instagram account. ”Hot guy, honey! Do you know each other?” “Best bros!” Ernest smiled. Tonight had obviously not had a good influence on him. Whatever. Jasper was tired. He kissed his husband on the forehead and wished him good night.

The night had been wild. Ernest had come to bed at some point and had rammed his boner into Jasper's ass without much warning. This wasn't loving sex, it was fucking without any foreplay. Hot, animalistic. Uncharacteristic. But damn, once Ernest had filled his ass until the cum was dripping out of it, Jasper didn't care about any of that. He had never been fucked like that before. No wonder the rest of the night was full of wild dreams. When he woke up, Ernest was no longer in bed. The satin sheets needed urgent washing, with dried cum stains everywhere. Jasper went to the kitchen. Ernest had obviously already had breakfast; the pan for the omelette was in the sink, along with the dishes from dinner, and on the work surface was a thin layer of protein powder dust. Jasper felt somehow strange in the apartment. Something was weird. Did they always have such a monstrously large TV? And was that their furniture? It all looked so much like something from a furniture store. And not like design classics and antiques… “Bros, that's it for this morning! Good pump! Have a sick day!” The sound of the dumbbells hitting the floor showed that Ernie had finished his morning pump. According to the floor plan, their home gym was actually a children's room. What the hell would they need that for? Now it was the place where Ernie shot the videos for his YouTube channel.

Jasper was standing in the doorway. Ernie turned off the cameras and lights. Sweat glistened on his naked torso. Jasper's cock went up. Ernie turned around, saw the semi-erect cock and just grinned, “You dirty piece of shit! You know damn well we're out of time. Auditions are in an hour. And you should shower.” “Look who's talking!” Jasper replied. Ernie smelled his armpit. “That's the way it is, it's my trademark!” He put on a basketball jersey lying on the floor, grabbed Jasper's cock in passing and gave his friend a fleeting French kiss. Jasper knew that Ernie had rights. They had to leave in 20 minutes at the latest. Just enough time to jump in the shower and do a few pull-ups to pump up his muscles. He looked at himself in the mirror. Yes, he looked awesome!

“Love Island” could be Jaz's big breakthrough. At the audition, he was simply eye-catching as the incarnate bad boy. His snotty way of speaking and his arrogant, misogynistic macho appearance had convinced the producers that he could make it big in the trash reality soap. Sure, it sucked that his best buddy Ernie hadn't been taken on either. But Ernie was just already too popular. His fitness channel had tens of thousands of followers. And his appearance in the next season of “I'm a celebrity, get me out of here” was a done deal. If things went well for Jaz, he would follow in Ernie's footsteps next year.

Many bores from the educated middle class would probably look down on Ernie and Jaz with disgust and contempt. But hey, the two of them made good money, went to all the hot parties, and last weekend Bentley had even provided them with a shiny gold car for an Insta-story. The car had been pure porn. Surely everyone who stared at them with open eyes thought they were pop stars or something. It was only a matter of time before they became famous. They were young, sexy and camera-hungry. The future was wide open for guys like them.

[octuscle]

That's a tough one, @hardwriterdeluxe… I've been resistant to using AI-generated images for a long time. When I accidentally did it because the image just looked too real, I was embarrassed.

Sometimes I see a hot photo that inspires me to write a story. In that case, we'd all be happy. But sometimes I have a story in mind for which I can't find any images. And then generating AI images is really fun. Here I can find exactly what I need. Yes, it's less work and yes, it's also more soulless. But damn it, the pictures can also be damn hot and make me hard!

I do NOT like Ai generated images

Is it just me or does anyone else feel the same? Personally I feel like the Ai generated images included besides good stories and writing ruins the story, it’s cheaper it and removes the sole. When I se an Ai generated image it’s sole less and it’s not exciting, attractive or kinky, if your gonna write kinky stuff, have real images…at least that’s my opinion. Do you agree?

[octuscle]

Halloween Party - Warrior through cultural appropriation

Shit, Jeff thought, Halloween used to be just fun. Now it was first of all a huge effort to find the perfect costume, to shape your body to match the costume. And then you look so good that you would like to fuck yourself, then there are a couple of killjoys outside on the street in front of the Frat House, berating you because your costume is a cultural appropriation and a sign of digital imperialism. Shit, who even comes up with such bullshit terms? Today was about getting drunk, having fun. And at the end of the evening, to end up in bed with a hot guy. Halloween was not a lecture in sociology or ethnology or whatever the shit was called.

After he had removed the traces of the eggs that had been thrown at him, Jeff was ready for his appearance. He knew he was damn hot. He had an awesome body. His tattoos looked almost real. And in his shorts with the Hawaiian pattern, his cock was in joyful anticipation of the highlight of the party. Only in his head did he feel somehow… cloudy… One of the activists in front of the Frat House had sprayed a gas in his face. Jeff had thought it was pepper spray. But it was something completely different. It made him feel good. Like he had smoked pot. It was weird. But it was Halloween. No showing weakness now! He practically had a duty to party tonight. A guy asked him if he wanted a drink. Did Jeff know the guy… Seemed somehow familiar. But the guy was obviously a local. He replied that he didn't have a coconut milk. The guy laughed out loud and punched Heff in his impressive pecs. “Hey, costume of the day definitely goes to this guy. Coconut milk! I'm cracking up! And the guy even has the accent down pat.” At least that was what Jeff understood. English was not his mother tongue. Was it not? Or was it? Shit! And what was so funny about coconut milk? He loved coconut milk. Here everyone drank beer or some kind of mixed drinks. The stuff came from the white devils and was pure poison! Hoff collected a few glasses and took them to the kitchen.

“Ia ora na! What would you like to drink?” Honf didn't feel like partying anymore. Somehow he felt more comfortable at the bar. And here it was also easier for him to flirt with the hot guys from the fraternity. True, the guys asked him what he meant every other sentence. But that might not have been because of his French Polynesian accent. The guys were just drunk. And the music was loud. But the work was fun. And more than one guy had made it quite clear to him that they could meet later somewhere in a sheltered place. Poor white devils, he thought to himself. If only they had a rough idea of what kind of beast was hiding in his pants. They would probably have to throw up when they sucked on it. His cock twitched and became semi-erect in his pants.

His name is “Hone.” “Hone” means “warrior.” It's a good name. A buddy of his, whom he had met during his semester abroad at UCSB, was called “Jeff.” He had googled that. “Jeff” meant “God's peace.” A name for weaklings. Hone was no weakling. In Santa Barbara it was the middle of the night, here on Bora Bora the sun had not even set. The white devils were already drinking alcohol. Another sign of weakness. Hone made great cocktails. But he never drank anything himself except protein shakes and coconut milk. Not even on Halloween.

[octuscle]

Yo dude, I'm just asking for a pal: Is the lit party goin' down again this year? It was straight fire last year. I believe I've also scored the ultimate hunk for the night…

HALLOWEEN PARTY!!!

Halloween is two weeks away! If you want to come to my party you can! You just gotta possess a hunk first! This is my hunk!! Cum make me a bottom!

[octuscle]

Halloween Spirit

Mortimer didn't think much of video games and the like. Like social media, he blamed them for the dumbing down of the population and the success of populist parties. And if proof were needed, his cousin Dylan was proof. Dumb as a bag of

Since he couldn't find a hotel anymore, Mortimer had been forced to stay with Dylan during a conference. They hadn't talked much, Dylan was usually out with his “bros.” At the gym, at the sports bar, at the football game. Mortimer had used the evenings accordingly and cleaned the apartment, which was quite a mess. And when he came home in the evening, he was glad when a little of that cleanliness and order remained. Today he was lucky: the apartment was almost in the same condition as when he left it in the morning. There was only a PSP with a note on the dining room table. In Dylan's clumsy handwriting it said, “Bro, can you help me with the Halloween quiz? I always fail on the first I'll be back at eight, let's go for a steak then.” Mortimer was a vegan. Of course Dylan knew that. Mortimer sighed, took the PSP and sat down on the sofa.

“What is the etymology of the name Halloween?“ Good heavens, thought Mortimer! Is this going to continue at this level? He typed in ‘All Hallows’ Eve.” “Who does the custom of carving and lighting jack-o'-lanterns commemorate (last name, first name)?” Did Dylan really not know that, Mortimer wondered and typed in “Jack Oldfield.” “Wrong” lit up on the display. “The correct answer would have been 'Oldfield, Jack'.” Out of the blue, Mortimer had to burp. Stupid software, he thought. A good AI would have recognized that he had only mixed up the order. He took a sip of cola from the can on the coffee table. ‘On which day do children in Germany traditionally go from door to door collecting sweets?’ Mortimer scratched his head. That was on St. Martin's Day. But when was that again? He typed in “November 11th.” Again, “Wrong! The correct message would have been November 10th.” Mortimer burped again. Hehehe, that was a good one. Came from the chili today. He took a slice of cold pizza out of the box next to him and moved on to the next question. “What is a zombie brain hemorrhage?” Mortimer had no idea. He just wrote “a TV series”. “Wrong, a zombie brain haemorrhage is a cocktail made of peach schnapps, mint liqueur, Bailey's Irish cream and a dash of grenadine.” Mortimer farted. Damn, the chili had been really good. But something else stank too. Mortimer raised his arm. No, that wasn't it. That was honest man sweat. Just the way a man had to smell. Mortimer pushed up his undershirt and scratched his stomach. This game was really boring. “What is the most popular Halloween costume of 2024?” Mortimer didn't feel like it anymore. He would put on his football gear like every year. With that, he could get any guy into bed. Especially the little nerds. They weren't so bad, usually made a real effort in bed… Shit, what was the question again? Okay, so “football player”. “Wrong, the correct answer would have been ‘Shrunken Head Bob’.” Was there another beer in this pigsty, Mortimer wondered. He looked at what other games Dylan had on the PSP. When was the idiot finally coming home? They were supposed to go out for a steak with the guys. Mortimer could definitely use some protein. He flexed his biceps. Yes, the babies needed feeding.

“Bruh, im still stucc in traffic. Ill b home in about a quarter of an hr. Get ready fo' an epic dinner!” Mortimer knew what that meant. He wouldn't need his best buddy Dylan for the next hour. Enough time to play another round of Peace Walker. And then there was finally meat, almost raw, just how Morty liked it best. Hehehe, rare is also good for Halloween. His favorite holiday. But who could come up with such a stupid quiz with smart-aleck questions about it was a mystery to him.

[octuscle]

Four T and one C

On campus, they were known only as TTTT. Tanner, Thad, Trent and Trey had known each other since childhood. Their parents were all members of the same country club, their parents all had summer houses in the same area in the Hamptons. It was clear that TTTT would all go to the same college together. With a lot of money from their parents, they had all made it to Yale. Even if not everyone was actually clever enough for it. Fortunately, as Yale alumni and successful investment bankers and lawyers, their fathers and mothers were able to fix that. And so the party at the high school became an Ivy League party. And TTTT were the guests of honor at the party.

Chad's parents weren't in a country club and didn't have a house in the Hamptons. But they were wealthy enough that Chad had somehow managed to find favor in the TTTT's picky eyes. He lived in the same dorm, they had talked at some point. And the fact that Chad was smart and could help them with an exam or two wasn't a disadvantage, of course. The TTTT were all studying business studies, Chad biochemistry. But with an IQ of 142, he was easily able to pick up what little knowledge he needed for an MBA in a lunch break.

The first semester came to an end. TTTT had done reasonably well, Chad already had a job as a working student at a biotech lab and had a good chance of finishing the semester at the top of his class. Nevertheless, he was at every party and if you saw the five of them in their Polo Ralph Laure and Abercrombie & Fitch outfits, you would have thought that all five of them were nothing more than spoiled and stupid frat boys. Until the day the last marketing exam was written. TTTT treated themselves to a beer in the sun on campus in front of the football stadium to celebrate the end of the semester. And then Chad came by. But he wasn't dressed like Chad. He looked like a British hooligan. At least almost. Tight jeans, DocMartens and a tight Fred Perry polo shirt that showed he obviously didn't just spend time in the library and lab. The tight shirt showed off his pecs and biceps pretty well.

“Bro!” said Tanner. “What do you look like? What's with the chav look?” Chad grinned. With that cheeky grin and his haircut, he was still one of them, even if he was dressed differently. “I got this invitation from my new employer. Sick party, all for nothing. And the employees were asked to come in the company colors. And they are yellow and black. And because I didn't have time to change beforehand, I wore the only thing like that I could find. I had it from my exchange year in Berlin. Everyone at my school walked around like that.” Trent grinned. “Sounds sick, dude! Do you think you can get us into the party?” Chad grinned and pulled out four ribbons. “You think I'm forgetting my best bros? Put on your wristbands, they'll get you into anything you want. And here are the tickets for the entrance.” Chad took a look. The nerd still had to study, he still had two exams to write. TTTT did a collective high five. The evening was saved. It would be just the right end to their first semester at university.

The bouncers had had their hands full. The party was an event of the year, crowds of people wanted to get in. TTTT had problems even getting through to the bouncers. But when they showed their tickets, they were waved through. One of the bouncers said to a colleague “What boring philistines!” Fortunately, TTTT didn't hear that. And fortunately, the four of them were so sure of themselves and their appearance that they didn't feel they stood out among the party people.

The party was good. There was plenty to drink, there were hot girls for the four of them to dance with. But the real kick was missing. Trey noticed that the most attractive people were heading towards a door with another group of bouncers in front of it. Trey waved his bros together and headed for the door. “Ribbon only,” grunted one of the gigantic bouncers, pressed into a black and yellow leather suit. Trey grinned. He had pocketed the ribbons and had almost forgotten about them. TTTT put the wristbands on their wrists and passed the gorillas with a grin.

Loud bass thumped at the end of the corridor. Strobe flashes flashed. There was much more yellow and black on the dance floor than on the last dance floor. And the people here were different. Beautiful. But not New England at all. Thad was reminded of Berghain in Berlin. He'd tried to get in once, but even with a wad of dollar bills he hadn't been able to get past the bouncer. But those who had managed to get in often looked like the people dancing on the dance floor here. Thad turned to look at his bros. The three of them had rushed straight onto the dance floor. In their outfits, they stood out like colorful dogs. At least their hairstyles matched the crowd on the dance floor to some extent. Thad rubbed his head. He loved the feeling of freshly shaved sides. Fuck, Trent really looked good with that badass undercut. Thad's cock was getting hard.

The four of them danced in a trance to ecstasy. The hard techno beats thumped through their bones. Every now and then, one of the TTTTs went to the bar and provided the four of them with an energy drink. Last time, the awesome bartender had also slipped Trent a few colorful pills, which the four of them washed down with the candy-sweet drink. I have no idea what time it was. But the party had only just started. According to his watch, it was 06:00 in the morning when Tanner had to go to the toilet. The room was overcrowded. A few of the athletes who had gathered here sweating were actually pissing. But most of them were sucking cock or being sucked. Damn, there was a muscular guy at the front wearing nothing but a pair of black and yellow chaps. Tanner had already noticed the guy on the dance floor. Without giving it much thought, he dropped to his knees in front of the Adonis. And sucked the first cock of his life. But no one, not Adonis, not Tanner would have thought that. It was as if it was routine on a club night.

Tanner had swallowed every drop. He wiped the rest from the corner of his mouth and made his way back to the dance floor. Maybe with a detour past the bar. There was a guy sitting at the bar who made Tanner want to get down on his knees again. The guy's bulge in his latex pants looked almost painful. The guy almost grabbed his crotch, kneaded the bulge and asked, “So, Tanner? Do you like sucking cock, you pervy pig?” Tanner winced. He knew that voice. That was… Chad!

Chad grinned, took a swig of beer and unzipped his pants. A monster jumped out of his prison like a jack-in-the-box. Tanner first licked the skin-tight latex-wrapped nipples and then ran his tongue over Chad's washboard abs to the shaved cock. Shit, Tanner was addicted to hot guys' cum. Chad leaned back and enjoyed Tanner's practiced tongue. For a semester, TTTT had taken advantage of him. Always made him feel like a second-class human being. But now? The substance he'd soaked the ribbons with seemed to be working excellently. The dumb college jocks had become techno disciples who followed their DJ gods around the planet from party to party. As guinea pigs for Chad's new employer, they would not become lawyers or investment bankers. But thanks to a lavish expense account, they would be able to lead a very hedonistic lifestyle. And whenever Chad was horny, one of the TTTT would be at his disposal.

Tienn, Tyrus, Tai and Taren were in top form. The party was far from over. They were the stars of the dance floor. Hardly anyone moved to the music like the four of them. When they weren't in the washroom servicing a hot guy they had picked up on the dance floor. One of them always had his eye on Chad. When Chad needed their services, he always had priority. All they were, they were only thanks to Chad.

Pics by @ki-kink