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Hot Tales of Gay Lust Three

By Landon Dixon

Hot Tales of Gay Lust Three
EPUB, 189 pages ebook Online Price:
ISBN: 9781908917430
Imprint: Xcite Books
Published: 7th June 2012

Category: Anthology / Bundle, Gay

Rating: 0 vote(s).

An Xcite Books  collection of twenty gay erotic stories with mixed and varied m/m themes.

Butt In

He was an assman from way back, always gravitating to men’s moons – following them with his eyes in pants and shorts and swimsuits, fondling them with his hands, clothed and bare, fucking them with his cock. And so, when he saw the man laid out on the beach like a Nubian offering to the glute gods, he went weak in the knees and hard in the cock. And he just had to butt in.

Engines of the Night

They were after Mariano. Far off, the high-pitched whine of an engine throttling to top speed, then the shotgun-like blasts of a bigger engine, exploding from cruising to racing speed, echoing through the dark, empty, concrete streets. Revving closer, burning nearer, seeking, doing battle over hot, young men like Mariano who dared go out at night.


He works for Hunk magazine, a glossy monthly publication that profiles handsome male athletes, runs features on various sporting, health, and lifestyle issues. The job doesn’t pay well, but there’s one excellent fringe benefit: the opportunity to ogle hunky men in their deliberately-made-skimpy uniforms and other athletic gear. And when two studly footballers show up for a photo shoot, the pictorial action turns wildly perverted, in living colour.

Massaging the Truth

It was a sleazy, back alley Washington massage parlour with a reputation for “full-service” rubdowns. You had to know the password just to get in. Thompson knew it, wanted the works. And then he knew he wanted so much more.

Agony Uncle

A lot of young men had gone through it – being “interviewed” by “Uncle Simon”, the man who ran the main industry in town, virtually controlled the entire county. It was a rough, rigorous process that resulted in only the right men for the job. The reward? Employment at Uncle Simon’s business, servitude at Uncle Simon’s home.

Game Ball

He was still upset with himself half an hour after the game. He’d missed the tying goal with three seconds left. But his team-mate, Octavio, knew the score, the big, rugged, raven-haired, copper-skinned guy offering up a post-match pep session that turned losing into winning, gloomy into gaiety. Game on!


Bryan Frinkle loves comic books, graphic novels, and all things Yaoi. But most and best of all, he loves pulps, the rough paper fiction magazines that dominated newsstands in the 1920s, 30s, and 40s. His favourites are the hero pulps, whose rugged, wily, earth-shaking, heartbreaking leading men often find their way straight into young Bryan’s very active fantasies. And when he ventures forth to the pulp magazine and paperback book convention, he meets a couple of young men who share his passion – and passions. Even the garish pulps never dished out thrills so lurid!

Men of the Open Road

The road he walked, he didn’t walk alone. With his thumb out, dressed in a tight white T-shirt and pair of blue jeans that showed off his smooth, young, sun-bronzed body, he kept getting picked up by older men. And taken for rides. It was the most satisfying form of travel he knew.

Sunnyside Up

Mark wasn’t exactly overjoyed when his parents suggested he spend the summer on his uncle’s farm. The only consolation was that his cousin two times removed, Jake, was going to be there, and they were both around the same age. Maybe they’d have some good times. And maybe, just maybe, Mark would experience the longest, hottest summer on record.

Blue vs Brown

The streets were where their war was waged, individual battles won and lost on their routes. The FedEx guy in his blue uniform, Ron. The UPS guy in his brown uniform, Don. Every now and then, though, their fire would turn downright friendly, the two hardened road warriors abandoning the uniforms that made them mortal business enemies to engage in a sizzling private truce.


He kept three slaves, treating them like the dogs they were, using collars and chains and commands, and his cock, for obedience. He made them perform for him – on each other – before unleashing his own lust on all three. Slaves never had it so good.

Gym Dandy

The new guy, Dexter, strode into the gym like he owned the place, taking narcissism to a whole new level. He was tanned and ripped, had a torso bulging with chest plates, huge, vein-striated arms that peaked up into the clouds, cleft chin and square jaw and bright blue eyes. In other words, I liked everything about the dude, except his ’tude; that did need a whole hell of a lot more work. And I was just the horny man to do some honing, for the good of gym harmony.

The Banker Boys

 Jerry Jenkins, Texas Ranger. He was looking for the Banker Boys – Pete and Roy Banker, and their third partner in crime, Tom “Tommy” Herman. Ploughing dirt with their sweat and tears wasn’t anything the Boys wanted any part of during the Dust Bowl Depression. So they’d taken the easy road to riches, the last stop: hard time or hot death. Jerry Jenkins was on their trail, and stood ready to deliver. One rumble, one Ranger.


Cody was sitting all by himself in the sauna. The heat was turned up high, the steam thick and wet. He was wearing just a white towel, his hand burrowed down in the towel, softly, languidly stroking his hard, pulsating cock. Just a young man enjoying a nice, relaxing, stimulating steam after a hard workout. Until another man entered the cedar-panelled room. And the temperature soared, the sauna gone sexual cauldron.

Boi-d Watching

He wasn’t out in the sun-seared Grasslands National Park to eyeglass unexotic ground fowl with his fellow birders. No, he was there to spy on one lovely boi-d (as the British fops say) in particular – young, raven-plumed, slender-beaked, twin-breasted, feather-tailed Jackson Beaumont. He’d been closely observing young Jackson ever since the man had roosted in his neighbourhood a week earlier, three coops down the street. Because as a voyeur, his real dirty hobby was flushing out pretty, preening pheasant, honing in on them, and then shooting them lustful looks of admiration and searing lines of ejaculation from an unsafe distance.

Rough Play

Braden was on the college football team. As a result, the big lug was kind of shy about his gayness. So, he used horseplay as foreplay – his way of getting a certain sexy little nerd to do exactly as he wished, and wanted. He performed best under pressure, after all. Who says all jocks are dumb, let alone straight?

Stacked in Back

Libraries aren’t just for checking out books. They’re for checking out men too. The counter personnel can be homely as a Louisa May Alcott novel, and the security guards chunky as the latest Stephen King bestseller. But a lot of the customers are nice to look at, and some of the young men restacking the shelves make pleasant browsing for horny patrons. As they say in the book-lending business: when these stacks are rockin’, don’t come a stockin’.

Secret Santa’s Workshop

Ted wanted to be an elf, work for Santa. Only problem was, at 6’ 2” tall and 220 pounds, he was way too big for the regular toyshop. Fortunately, Santa had another workshop, perfect for a man of Ted’s proportions; a place where they assembled “adult” toys. Ted took to the job like a horny reindeer to sleigh traces.

Black Marketeer

Ben Jardin was the biggest black marketeer in southern Arizona. With the war on, rationing a reality, and with a warehouse full of illicit goods to back him up, he could help people out – for the right price. It was usually a good deal for all the men he serviced. Until a couple of real racketeers tried to muscle him out of some of his merchandise. That’s when Ben Jardin had to work it really dirty.


Theirs was a liberal fraternity, open to anyone regardless of orientation. So, when one brother-lover suggested a “gitch raid”  to his other loving brother, stealing and soiling the underwear from a fellow fraternity on campus, they were both in. Deep and depraved. Come and gitch it!

I waded to the top of the sand dune, looked down, and there he was – laid out on the beach like a Nubian offering to the glute gods. He was all by himself, sheltered by a set of dunes, flat on his stomach on a white towel, his ebony body shining under the hot sun, his thong-split butt cheeks gleaming like twin liquorice orbs.

I went weak in the knees, hard in the cock.

I’m an assman from way back. Men’s rears have always held a fearsome attraction for me. I’ve gravitated to their moons for as long as I can remember, following them with my eyes in pants and shorts and swimsuits, fondling them with my hands, clothed and bare, fucking them with my cock. While some men are beachcombers, scouring the shimmering sands for lost treasure, I’m a buttcomber, the beach just one of the many places where I pursue my passion for male posterior. And here I’d hit the jackpot.

This man’s served-up ass was one of the most luscious I’d ever seen, the thin red line of his thong accentuating the massiveness and moundedness of his humps, cleaving them depthlessly down the middle and swelling them up into stunning relief.

I waded down the crumbling side of the dune on crumbling legs, closer to the man with the burnished thunder cheeks; moving silently, stealthily, his buttocks looming ever larger in my widened eyes. It was mid-morning, beachgoers on either side of the sand dunes, laughing and splashing and chasing each other around. But as I drew nearer to the man and his cheeks, the sound of blood pounding in my heads, my heart in my chest, blocked out the rolling surf and public noise.

Although I did hear one other thing – the light snoring of the butt-blessed dude stretched out face down on the towel. He was sleeping!

I could barely contain my excitement, the huge bulge in the front of my knee-length swim trunks. I’d thought I’d have to go waist-deep in the ocean to fully take advantage of this precious sighting; jack into the surf as I stared at the double-hilled shoreline. But now a bolder plan took hold in my dirty mind, like my hand on my cock rubbing through my swimsuit. I approached the dozing man from the rear.

I stood right in between his splayed legs on his towel, gazing down at him, at his huge buttocks rising up to meet me. He had a shaved head, a gold earring in his right ear, his torso and legs long and lean and coal-black. His face rested on his folded hands, his eyes closed and mouth slightly open.

Now, I’m not a bad-looking guy myself – tall and thin, with brown hair and blue eyes, an attractive if tense face, a large, easily aroused cock. So I could have sat down on the sand next to the guy and introduced myself and maybe gotten to know him, gone up the beach for a Coke and a hot dog. Only that would’ve taken time and a set of social skills, and I’m short on both. Besides, men are asses to me (in the finest sense of the word), nothing more, nothing less. Relationships are for other guys not always hot on the trail for tail.

So, impulsively, needfully and uncontrollably, I pushed my swimsuit down to my ankles and hefted my heavy, hanging cock, started stroking. Right out there in the open on the beach, under the spell of those glorious globes.

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