This time his heart was impaled.
Vlad’s life is pretty complete: he’s a bouncer at the city’s most prestigious nightclub, his own reputation enhanced by his huge cock which gets him the nick name, Vlad the Impaler. Everything is fine until the night a celebrity couple arrive to celebrate their forthcoming marriage and Vlad is asked to use his prodigious talent to mete out punishment to a philandering boyfriend.
Ebook ID: 5112_1105
lyd Category: Men4Men
Length: 58 pdf Pages / 9152 words
Formats Available: pdf, prc, lit, zipped html,
lrf, epub, RB,
Ebook Cover Price: $2.50
That Saturday night started off no different to any other. Me and Marty, he’s my best mate, were working the door, while the other guys were inside keeping an eye on the crowd. Marty and me go way back. We share just about everything…no, don’t get me wrong, Marty is strictly a cunt man. He knows I like to experiment and he knows why. The first time he saw my cock, he said, “Did you use that to plough the farm back in Romania, mate?”
I laughed. Well, I thought it was funny. Most guys try to sneak to look without letting on. Marty just went for it.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so big and so thick before,” he said. “Thought my pecker was big but yours is gigantic. Mind if I have a feel?”
I thought he was coming on to me and, truth be told, I’d be more than happy for Marty to back up against it. But he wasn’t, he was just curious.
“I’m no fag, mate, but that cock is a work of fuckin’ art.”
I gave him permission and he wrapped his fingers around it, squeezing and pumping like he was testing some new appliance or some piece of chrome he was adding to his car. I got stiff straight away.
“You poor bastard,” he said as he watched me fill out. “You’re gonna have a problem finding chicks that can take that all the way.”
He understood. As he kept commiserating, he kept pumping until my breath got short and I finally blew enough spunk to fill a small tumbler.
“Shit,” Marty said. “Chicks better wear a raincoat when you’re around.”
He shook my spooge off his hand while I tucked my prick away in my pants. We never mentioned the incident again and we never repeated it, although once when me and the guys were working over a couple of drunken chicks after the bar closed I ‘accidentally’ ran it down the crack of his butt but apologised straight away. None of the other guys saw and Marty just smiled and wiggled his index finger to tell me it wasn’t gonna happen.
I didn’t tell him he could plough my ass because us tough guys don’t go there.
Still, life was mighty fine.
We were expecting the usual crowds, drunken teens and early twenties out prowling for a quick fuck or something more permanent, already pissed or determined to be that way by the end of the night. Chicks in skirts so short you could see their cunt hair if they bent over, guys in jeans so tight it’s a wonder they didn’t restrict blood flow to their dicks. Plus the inevitable old guys who hung out here in the hopes of attracting some drunken chick who couldn’t distinguish turkey from rooster, or some young buck who wanted to explore his feminine side when his mates weren’t looking.
We always had a hen’s night or a bachelor party booked into the private rooms and they’d turn up pissed as farts, dressed like sluts or the groom in chains, stripped as naked as permissible without being arrested. Management insisted we give those groups extra leeway, unless they became violent.
Barry Lowe’s dreams of winning the Nobel Prize for Literature faded about thirty years ago when he realised what he wrote best was about the wild, whacky, wonderful world of sex and that his vocabulary would never rival Patrick White’s or even Evelyn Waugh’s. Since then he’s been happily churning out the odd gay sex comedy for stage as well as a mountain of newspaper columns and an avalanche of erotica for print and eBooks. He is also the author of Atomic Blonde, a biography of 1950s sex goddess, Mamie Van Doren. He lives in Sydney, Australia, with his long-term partner, Wally.
Check out his website at www.barrylowe.net.