Some guys simply can’t get enough!
Blurb: Whether it’s an impecunious male stripper doing it at the behest of his ambitious boyfriend, a Victorian-era working class lad doing it to get information, a guy in drag for Halloween whose boyfriend can’t get it up anymore, a straight boy drugged into submission, or a guy who wants to teach his boyfriend a lesson, some men love the excitement of multiple partners where they are the focus of attention. Here are nine stories of the raunchiest gangbang erotica available from one of the best writers of the genre.
This edition includes – Marine Biology, Flesh for Fantasy, Buck’s Night, Little Red Rides da Hood, Sluts & Satyrs. The Framing of Dorian Gray, Fuck Buddy, Seven Card Studs, The Dex Factor, with the special bonus story, Four on the Floor – All previously published as individual eBooks by loveyoudivine Alterotica.
Complete Digital Edition: 978-1-60054-647-1
lyd Category: Men-4-Men
Length: 320 pdf Pages / 69179 words
Formats Available: pdf, prc, lit, zipped html, lrf, epub, RB,
Trade Paperback, Complete Digital Edition
Complete Digital Edition Price: $6.99
Excerpt: From Marine Biology
The sight that greeted me as I opened my bedroom door was the hairy butt crack and dangling scrotum of my beefy big bro, Karl. There wasn’t time for it to register as erotic as I watched him slide the entire length of his substantial cock into his girlfriend du jour before he screamed, “Get the fuck outa here!” That he’d glanced over his shoulder to see who the intruder was meant that he didn’t mind sharing. Just not with his kid pro bro.
If I hadn’t forgotten my key, of course, none of it would have happened. But I was in such a hurry to surprise my parents for their thirtieth wedding anniversary, I pretty well floored the Toyota Camry for two hundred miles from my uni campus in the capitol to Redneck Central, as I not-so-fondly called my home town.
It didn’t feel much like a home town any longer. I was particularly out of favor with the populace, as I’d become an outspoken opponent of the country’s military policy. Perhaps not a good idea in a town that supplied a rather large contingent to the Marine Corps. They were heroes. I was a traitor. They’d seen action in a war zone. I’d been on the receiving end of a police baton charge at an anti-war demo. I had a cabinet full of swimming medals. Karl had a chestful of bravery awards. It was a no brainer.
My brother and his marine buddies are all big gorillas of men. Karl is 6’4” of almost solid muscle and, I’m pleased to say, an increasing amount of fat, and weighs in at 240 lbs. Cropped dark hair and an attitude so belligerent that it would feed the messianic zealotry of any medium level dictator. Naturally, he attracts chicks like horse manure attracts flies.
Me, I take after mom. She’s petite, dwarfed by my dad, with blonde hair and the friendliest disposition you’d ever care to meet. I take after her—except for the disposition. Like my brother, I get that from my dad. And, of course, like my dad, I have a dick. Besides that, I have blond hair, a slim pro swimmer’s body that weighs in at 120 lbs, and a face that’s much too pretty for its own good. Got me beat up a few times. And it’s a constant source of friction between me and my bro and his buddies who call me ‘Pretty Boy’ to my face, as well as behind my back. It’s not meant as a compliment.
Our parents discourage mutual homecomings, and we’re both happy to oblige. This, however, was one occasion where there was a scheduling error.
Lights blazed in the house; the music was thumping a bass line so loud it could be heard by the deaf in Middle Earth. The laughter was raucous and the language blue enough that our fundamentalist neighbors had locked their windows, drawn their blinds and turned up the volume on their Christian cable channels to drown out the profanities.
No one would call the police. These marines were heroes to the town of ‘true believers.’ It was just the boys home on leave and blowing off a little steam. Tomorrow they would settle down and become law-abiding rednecks. Tonight? Well, what we don’t see and hear…
I cursed. Dad’s SUV was missing from the driveway. Even my parents tended to leave the nest when Karl returned in Caesar-like triumph. They’d come back and sweep out the debris of sexual, alcoholic and narcotic excess and quietly pay the girls who knew the routine and waited patiently for their due. It was my parents’ ritual, accepted as part and parcel of the sacrifice of having a decorated war hero for a son.
Now the ‘wrong’ son was crashing the party. I could have turned around and driven away to a hotel or back to the college, but I was simply too stinking tired. And too stinking poor. I banged loudly on the door and there was a whoop from inside. “The chicks are here at last!”
The door was yanked open. The smile of expectation became a snarl of recognition.
“Cool it! It’s not the girls,” Dean, one of my brother’s marine buddies, spat out. “It’s just Pretty Boy home from college.”
There was a moan from the living room, plus a tsunami of cursing.
Dean still blocked the door and made no effort to move.
“I’d like to come in,” I said as firmly as I could.
“I don’t think you’d like it in here,” Dean said. “It’s full of misinformed military muscle.” He was quoting from an editorial I’d written for the campus newspaper which had earned me a rebuke from my father, a look of pity from my mom, and the everlasting enmity of Karl and his buddies.
“Or maybe that’s what Pretty Boy really wants. Military muscle,” he said as he grabbed his crotch. He was borderline drunk.
“Leave him alone, Dean,” a kinder voice said. “And get out of the doorway and let him in. It’s his home.”
Dean sulked away to be with his buddies, who were getting hot and sweaty watching porn in the living room.
“Welcome home.” Sam smiled and shook my hand. He was one mean motherfucker. A tank of a man. And one of the nicest guys I knew. Every time I saw him, I just wanted him to sweep his huge, black arms around me and make me feel safe.
“Not the welcome I expected,” I said, shouldering my bag to the vestibule floor. “Where are they?”
“Karl shouted them a week in Hawaii for their anniversary. They left this afternoon.”
I shrugged. “I don’t have that sort of money.”
“You don’t owe me any explanations.” Sam read my mind.
That’s when I’d gone upstairs to my room only to find my bro performing the testicle tango as only he knows how. Although the two of us did not share any common political or cultural ties, we did share a bedroom. I guessed I wouldn’t be sleeping in my bed tonight.
There was nothing else for it. I would sleep in the car. Sam caught me sneaking out and put a sweaty arm around my shoulder. Ah, that brought back the memories, and I immediately got a boner in my jeans.
“Where ya going, buddy? The party’s this way.” He steered me into the living room, a garbage dump of cheesy pizza boxes and leaking beer cans littering the furniture and the floor. My mom would sigh at the damage to her new settee and forgive ‘the boys.’ There were four of them, all in various stages of undress—and arousal—as they waited impatiently for the girls. Gino, the most extroverted of the bunch, was smokin’ and strokin’, his vision glued to the porn DVD on the flat screen television, which had tell-tale smear marks where he’d been rubbing his greasy, uncut cock against video screen mouths or else had been licking spread video pussy. It was his famed party trick.
Sam nestled me in an arm so muscular it would have snapped my 5’9” frame like a twig if he flexed. It was comfortable cradled there. I’d always liked Sam, and to be in close proximity to his unapologetic maleness was heady. Especially now that he was stripped to the waist and smelled of beer and testosterone.
In my teens, I had jerked off over fantasies of Sam and me together. The big hulk fucking me hard and heavy; ever since my parents had insisted that big bro Karl and his buddies take me on one of their camping trips. I hated the open air, and Karl and his buddies hated having me along on their booze fest. Plus they intended to get to a town, any town, where there was ample pussy to go round and there was no way they could do that with me tagging along.
Karl had made the trek a misery, hoping I would turn back and go home. Round the fire the first night, he told stories about wild animals and monsters that patrolled the woods looking for kids just like me. I was a gullible fifteen-year-old, so what did I know? Except that the sounds that came from outside my tent sounded strangely close and incredibly dangerous. Naturally, I screamed and Sam came belting to my rescue. He chewed out Karl because I was shaking so much in fear I had pissed myself.
Sam had let me move my sleeping bag into his tent. I’d gone to sleep easily, knowing the big, muscular marine was there to protect me. In the morning, I’d seen him through the tent flaps as he pissed and wiggled his flaccid cock to get rid of the last drops. He’d given it a few tugs and it grew in size. I couldn’t believe how big it got. He moved his hand up and down, slowly milking his huge weapon. I’d gone hard in my sleeping bag. Sam glanced over at the tent and saw me watching. He quickly put his cock away and pretended like nothing happened.
For years, I treasured a fading photograph of that camping trip: skinny me hanging off Sam’s bicep. He’d flexed his arm, and I’d jumped up and swung from it. I had never been so happy. Sam was thirty then—the oldest in the group.
“Why don’t you come over and help me out, Pretty Boy,” Gino suggested without even looking in my direction and without missing a stroke. I knew from my brother’s tales he could keep it hard for hours. “Just 'til the girls arrive, you understand.” He laughed. If I’d thought there was even a modicum of real intent in his invitation I would have jumped at the chance.
The one thing college had taught me was that I loved cock. And Gino’s large, uncut beauty was exactly the sort of cock I liked. Hell, if I was honest with myself, I subscribed to that old adage of Will Rogers: I’ve never met a cock I didn’t like. But then, I haven’t met them all yet.
“Hey, Gino, I think he likes. He can’t take his eyes off it.” Brad snickered.
Gino looked over and smiled. He milked his cock in my direction. “Come and get it, Pretty Boy. Come and take care of Gino. Be Gino’s boy pussy.” The air was electric with expectation.
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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.