Smut For the Discerning Reader

My dad always said that on any long drive there comes a point where you should turn off the radio, roll the windows up, and listen to the road. It's a kind of connection that doesn't exist in the city where so many sounds are competing for your attention. But on the long stretches of asphalt that connect the country's loneliest places you can you turn off the talking heads screaming themselves incoherent, the country crooners in un-scuffed boots, and the doomsayers preaching holy order; you can just listen. My truck is old enough to rattle on the left side—nothing major—and creak on the right—bit more urgent, had I the funds; but mostly, it rides smooth enough over the bumps and dips of a half-century of infrastructure decay on the nation's highways. I drive through the night and my fingers itch for a pack of cigarettes that's not there. I quit three years ago, but the impulse is strongest on these roads, maybe that's why I left them behind in the first place. I'm not sure why I'm heading back, why now, but it feels past time. There's an ache in my spirit—and my balls, if I'm honest—that seems to be pointing toward something familiar. Not familiar like your favorite store brand, but like something that your blood recognizes. And if I don't find it in Lockwood, I'm not likely to find it anywhere. So I drive.

So begins the tale of Ben Weaver, local boy returning to his nowhere hometown in search of a feeling. He finds more than he bargains for in Troy Humbert, a semi-pro football player with a chip on his shoulder. Together, the two men navigate something fragile and potentially incendiary. Can they put aside their bullshit or will they fuck it up? Find out.

Rutting Season is the first project that I'm selling as an independent item on patreon. For $3 it's yours to revisit without any kind of recurring membership. I chose this story because it's one of my longest at around 13.5K words and one of my best reviewed by my community. It's moody, has a strong perspective, and a protagonist that's easy to identify with if you've ever left your hometown for bigger vistas.

If you decide to check it out, lemme know what you think. And if you really like it, consider signing up for $3/month you can ransack my back-catalogs of weird, cerebral, absurd, and super horny tales.

CW: Lying, Cheating, F-slur. (Honestly, the vibes on this one are necrotic, tbh. Proceed with caution.)

001 I said I was, at bottom, a fundamentally honest person.

002 The glint of orange coming off your hat didn't momentarily blind me. Neither did your smile, like I said later (050). I was looking at the sublime ass of the Mexican Twink holding the door for us from behind the safety of my sunglasses.

003 I hated the wine, 004 but I did want another bottle.

005 I acted surprised when you said where you lived, but I'd already narrowed it down to the likeliest streets between your Instagram photos and LinkedIn posts.

006 Your decor looked like it was picked out by a colorblind three-year-old.

007 If a lie of omission is still a lie, then I lied by not telling you that your body was incredible, that you had—what seemed to me—to be the perfect cock. That you smelled like my dad, and I didn't mind at all.

008 In the aftermath, with your cum in my hair and your ass still on my fingertips and tongue, as I throbbed recklessly and ached, I did want to cum and I did mind just going to sleep. But I figured it was good to appear accommodating.

009 I wasn't actually busy and out town when you texted and said you'd had fun, wanted to do it again. I was just unsure if I wanted to see you, so I waited. I was judging your commitment to the cause.

010 I delayed our second date a few hours before because I was still hunched over a fit, furry fucker with a tight ass and zero compunctions. I was fucking him on a lounge chair on the roof deck of his building. The sun was beating down on us and he smelled like a fucking pet store. I had to dig him out more than once. 011 So, obviously the sweat still in my hair wasn't because my personal training session ran over. But it was sweet of you to believe me, or to say you did.

012 When I smiled abruptly mid-dinner, it wasn't because you were cute, it's because you mispronounced "Casta Diva", but to your credit, it was kind of cute.

013 I said I had an early morning, but I'd gotten a text during the dessert course from that same hairy slut saying: "Still leaking your cum, wanna top me off?" And I did want to, so I did.

014 When the bartender at that place on our third date said we looked cute together, I demurred, but in reality I was picturing a lifetime of moments like this and it scared me.

015 I said that I "don't think about God" but I do, all the time. I think God regrets every moment of our existence. I think He has abandoned His throne and nothing we do will redeem us in His eyes.

016 I replied "it doesn't matter" when you said you weren't particularly kinky, but I'd already imagined drinking your piss.

017 Your choice of frat-boy adjacent beer was deeply disappointing to me. 018 The bartender and I joked about it when you went to the bathroom. 019 The bartender scrawled his number on a piece of receipt paper and slid it across the sticky bar. I shoved it into my jacket pocket.

020 I was fucking drunk.

021 As you showered "real quick" I went through your medicine cabinet. 022 Then I ate your hole for a full hour because I was brain-bent on stolen adderall, but I was honest when I said I didn't mind that you shot your load on my face before I could fuck you. 023 When I went to bathroom to "clean up" I just sat on the toilet fingering myself and licking your cum from my lips until I blew a load in your bath towel like a fucking degenerate.

024 If a hostile secret is a form of a lie, then I have to confess that I told my best friend I'd give us three months tops. 025 Then after three months, I capped it at six. 026 After that, a year. Max.

027 When I apologized for looking at my phone during brunch with your mother that first time I said it was my sister, but it was really a sub on twitter begging me to let him cum because I'd been controlling his orgasm for two months. Honestly, it had me hard the whole fucking meal. And when I excused myself to the bathroom I stroked out a near black-out inducing load to the whiny, bitch-boy voice messages he'd been sending me all morning. 028 When you remarked how good a mood I was in for the rest of the day, you had some faggot in Reston, Virginia to thank; it wasn't the gorgeous spring weather, though I suppose that helped.

029 Your sister's kid looks like underbaked dough. 030 That recital was the worst thing I've ever seen. 031 I flirted with the kid's band teacher and it didn't go anywhere, but his deep voice and the stupid tight cut of his khakis made my cock so fucking sticky in my briefs.

032 When I plowed your ass that night with my hands around your throat like a rein, I was thinking of that band teacher taking my dick straight up that fat fucking ass of his. Preferably in the music room. I imagined his hole would hairy, sweaty, and dripping lube as the head of my dick widened it.

033 Eventually I found the band teacher's Scruff account and told him I'd fuck him raw. We sexted for a month, then it fell apart, but his dump-truck ass ran my fantasy life for a solid thirty days.

034 I did, however, fuck that bartender. It was absolutely fine. Not worth almost missing our concert outing that day.

035 I said I didn't want to consider moving in together because it would lengthen my commute, which was true, but even as I sent that text, there was a dude sucking me off. He said he didn't want to me to fuck his cunt until he'd had top surgery because it gave him weird gender feels, but his ass was plenty tight. 036 It actually fucked me up when he got back with his ex and stopped seeing me. I said I was in a funk because I got passed by for a promotion. Maybe I would have gotten that promotion if I wasn't dedicating a quarter of my free time to whoring around.

037 I said I didn't mind that you were spending a month in France with your family, but it actually worried me to have so much time on my hands. I feared what I would do, who I'd become. 038 Or, maybe I'm lying to myself here: maybe I actually worried that it'd be less hot if I wasn't juggling men and hiding the receipts.

038 When you FaceTimed from Marseilles that scent-pig from the roof deck was over. He was sitting on my couch covered in my jizz, playing Switch, and his pit musk was all over my face and my sheets. 039 I switched cameras to show you my cock, but it wasn't your voice that got me rock hard, if I'm honest.

040 You asked how I knew Scott, the best man at your brother's wedding, and we both said it was because his company was a client at my firm. That much is true, but we didn't say that he'd first fucked me in a stall at my job the winter before. He has a horse cock, a sex addiction, and a taste for drugs. We had to stop for fear we'd both get fired. That's how bad it got with Scott, the charming goofball who did the Backstreet Boys choreo and led your mom out onto the dancefloor. 041 Scott gave me head in the bathroom right before the cake cutting. I didn't cum, but he didn't wipe up the spit and precum off his tie that dribbled down his chin as I slammed his throat like the fucking depraved coke slut he is.

042 When my therapist asked: "Don't you find yourself tired of the consequences you incur while trying to maintain these deceptions?" I said no.

043 After you, your brother and I got stoned at the wedding brunch he told me he was bi and that he'd been curious about dudes for a long time. He was worried he'd missed his chance. That's what we were talking about when you came back with a fresh round of margaritas. I'd never do anything with him, of course. 044 I would.

045 You caught me with my weed dealer and I said it was the first time. 046 I told you it meant nothing. 047 I said this wasn't who I really was. 048 I said I was committed and I was, but not on your terms. Never on your terms.

049 After the crying, we reminisced and nearly every first impression of you that I told you I'd had was invented on the spot to convince you to forgive me.

050 See #002.

051 I took the lock off my phone and let you access it at any time for full transparency, but there are no less than seven hidden apps on my phone at this very moment. 052 And I don't actually even have work laptop.

053 I said I would do better, but I don't even know what that looks like.

054 I do feel guilty, but the guilt is a part of it, too. The guilt is what I jerk off to when I rewind the tape in my mind and play it all back.

055 I said I was a good person.

056 I said that last time was the last time.

---

Hiya!

Thanks for loving my stuff! And that's a great question. If you haven't checked out my patreon, that's the most solid place to keep up on my latest comings and goings. Even if you just follow for the free posts, you'll hear from me ~once a week in my newsletter-esque updates.

In fact, I just wrote an update today about burnout and production: https://www.patreon.com/posts/small-thoughts-131688317

As for stuff on tumblr, I admit I sometimes get busy and forget to keep this thing current. It's much quieter here than it was in the boom period of tumblr smut on both sides of the table. But I'm still fond of it and every once in a while, I get a nice message like this reminding me not to neglect my hellsite duties. So, that said, I'll post a story today! Something that has already appeared previously on the patreon.

Or maybe even two!?

Imagine that! Anyone have any requests for themes?

I started doing a little series over on the patreon ($3/month for a library of horny fiction going back multiple years or $6/month for the nastier stuff).

The series is called MEGATON and it contains very short stories written rapidly and rabidly. This one came up as a favorite from one of my patrons and I figured it would be a fun one to share with y'all since we're in the middle of the U.S. election season. Enjoy!

VOTER OUTREACH

The candidate showed up to the ‘get out the vote’ party in a navy-blue suit and a checkered tie. His hair was combed back, lightly gelled, parted in the middle to gain traction with the tik tok crowd. Only the stray strands of gray in his sandy brown-blond hair implied that he was any older than thirty. He smiled and shook hands and told his constituents that he’d do whatever it took to get their votes, to show them that he really cared about this district.

Of course, it’s easy to say that you’re the political savior. Harder to make people believe it, especially in Richeaux county where they’ve got a bad habit of chewing through politicians with bright smiles and shallow words. But the candidate took off his navy jacket, loosened his checkered tie and reiterated that he was in it for the long-haul.

Naturally, they made him prove it.

The first dick was in his mouth by 6:30. Whatever he’d put in his hair really stood the test as he swallowed that first load and moved onto his second. By the third it was looking a little mussed, especially when Earl Sunderland grabbed a handful of it and pulled the candidate down on his trucker’s hog. There was some grunting, but the candidate took it like a champ. Richeaux hadn’t seen that from a candidate in years and Earl Sunderland shouted as much as he unloaded into the gulping throat of the wannabe politician.

By 7:05 the candidate was up on one of the foldout tables with his slacks folded and set down elsewhere and those pristine white boxer briefs pulled down to his ankles. It was probably Peter or Harry Ringwald who started fingering his tight hole, but it was definitely the county clerk who first clamped a mouth to that ass. The constituents sipped craft beers in the back of this brewery—generously donated by the handsome young brewmaster for this vital community meeting—and watched as the candidate made his stump speech in grunts and groans.

By around 7:15 he was taking his first dick and his hair had fully gone to shit. The candidate rolled his eyes back toward the far wall as Danny Osterman, the brewmaster, fucked the candidate and his $70 shave halfway into the next county. Osterman, truth be known, wanted to vote for the other guy, but the way the candidate handled was like an Italian sports car on a long stretch of road: which is to say, he fairly purred. When Danny blew his load deep into the candidate’s guts, he wiped his own forehead with a handkerchief and said, “well, fuck, you’ve got my vote.”

Pig that he was, the country clerk came back to lick the sweat off the candidate’s chest and the jizz pooling between his cheeks, clearing a path for the next voter.

The candidate thanked the clerk for the assist and kissed him deeply square on the mouth to get another taste of what his constituency had to offer.

The night continued raucously.

It was 9:58 when the last of the voters came to take a crack. By then, the poor candidate was redfaced, splotchy, half crusted over with cum, but pleasantly game. The last up was a young man with sagging jeans and a ball cap shoved into his back pocket.

“What’s your name, son?” the candidate asked.

“Roger Fillmore,” the voter answered.

“First time voter?”

“Yessir.”

“Well, welcome aboard. Ask me anything you like.”

Roger positioned the candidate’s hips and started sliding into that slick, used hole. The candidate sucked air between his teeth. Even after countless meet-and-greets that evening Roger was still a substantial presence. The candidate’s twice spent cock flared to life.

“I’m, uh, concerned about the library hours, sir,” Roger said, his hips working now, driving home his point.

The candidate gulped, shuddered. “Right. The library… what’s uh, fuck, what’s the problem, son?”

Roger fucked him deep and slow, put a hand on his chest and tweaked a nipple. He may have been a first-time voter, but he’d fucked before for sure. “We got a lot of unemployment, underemployment. People need those library services to find work. Would appreciate having the library open on weekends for people who can’t get there during the week. And job fairs, sir. They could host them there.”

The candidate’s hole pulsed with the deep, affectionate screw. The friction on his prostate made him feel feral. “You’re making… you’re making… you’re making an excellent point!”

And the candidate came again, shooting all over the hot young voter and himself. There were claps from all corners. The smell of spilled beer and fresh spunk suffused everything. Roger thanked the candidate for his time and the candidate thanked him back just as effusively.

When he got his wind back, the candidate stood on shaky legs and thanked everyone for coming. Jizz dribbled down his leg from his overstuffed ass and his collar was less a pearl-necklace than a whole carwash. He thanked everyone for coming and told them that he’d heard them loud and clear. He’d do Richeaux county proud in the coming election and if he had to visit every brewery, poolhall, library and mason lodge in the state, well, by God, he’d be more than happy to do it.

I'm writing a more-or-less daily series of shorts on the patreon and this is the most recent one. I felt like this was one was worth sharing.

Pigfeed

There’s a look to a man like Pigfeed that makes you think: this one is built to be manhandled. It’s the tattoos on his knuckles reading ‘better luck next time’ or the way his jeans are always sagging, exposing the seat of his tight white briefs. His hair is always hanging in his face and his loose tank-tops offer glimpses of pink nipples buried amongst colorfully inked flesh. His lanky frame is in perpetual need of correction as though he’s half opted out of the trial of gravity, bent to a near acute angle. His brown eyes are adroit under his curtain of jet-black curls, sprightly things giving the lie to his laconic bearing: there is a working mind in there. But you’d never know it from his drawl or the near perpetual lump in his jeans.

He doesn’t introduce himself as Pigfeed. He doesn’t introduce himself at all. He prefers to work through the negotiations first.

‘So, what do you want to do me?’ ‘Oh, is that right?’ ‘Yeah, that sounds cool.’ ‘Where do you live? Roommates? No? Great. We can be loud then.’ ‘Sounds good. Let’s go. Jacket? No, I didn’t bring one. No, I don’t mind the cold at all.’

And back at this guy’s apartment or that one’s, Pigfeed strips off his tank-top and steps out of his nearly fallen-off jeans. His cock is horizontal in those pristine white briefs and there’s a snail’s trail leading down his left leg already.  He plays with his nipples idly, causing his cock to jump in its snug, cotton cage. His nipples are sensitive. Pigfeed's secret is that every part of him is sensitive.

‘So, you gonna’ make me meow, mister?’

There isn’t, strictly speaking, a limit to what he’ll do. He crawls on his hands and knees to suck at bare toes with his ass waggling in the air like an animal. He licks the salty sweat from a night out starting from the calves and working his way up between the firm cheeks of a smirking degenerate. He sits on his haunches with his hands on his knees and his mouth wide open to receive a gift of nitrogen rich piss. He stands in front of bay windows looking out onto a quiet street and allows his shapely, bare ass to be paddled as his pained cries erupt into the night, ricocheting off the other homes on the residential lane. He allows strong hands to cage his cock and play with the truncated bulge as he leaks freely through the metal restraint for hours. His eyes glaze over after thirty minutes or more of tireless fucking by a devious metallic contraption plugged into the wall and using a motor powerful enough to destroy him.

Pigfeed has a view on life as elastic as his hole: ‘The way I see it: I’ve got a body and if other people want to use It, why not let them? There’s enough of me to spread around.’

Half the time, covered in cum and sweat, he dislodges himself from whatever unholy situation he’s found himself in and slinks back to the bar for another shot at seduction, another round of depredation.

I wrote this for my patreon. I wanted to make something improvisational and fun. I think I succeeded. How 'bout you?

---

Two men are fucking.

Can you make it more artistic? Expressive?

Two men are fucking. Unselfconscious. Their bodies do not glisten, but sweat. There is an awareness of death somewhere in the angle of the bottom's shape, hunched over, like yielding wheat before the ploughman's sickle.

Too expressive. Now, make it personal: tell us about them.

The bottom's name is Tate. He's seeing this scene through a haze of beer and bourbon. It takes quite a few drinks to work up the bravery to send the text that confirms what he wants. And he does want this. But the complications of naming this thing aloud in a hostile universe makes him shiver unpleasantly. At least he can make his own heat once Mike is inside him.

Mike can sense the ambivalence of his chosen prey, but it doesn't bother him at all. He's too busy reaping the reward of all his patience, his understanding, the dozen or so almost's and nearly's. He's going to fuck Tate's ass like he stole it. He deserves this.

But where's the romance?

Mike finds himself surprised by Tate's smell. There's something comforting about it. As he leans in, humps furiously, drives himself in relentlessly, he finds himself inhaling deeply to catch the scent wafting off the other man's skin. He's distracted; his hips thrust by rote, following a rhythm he knows too well as he tries desperately to identify the smell. Is it jasmine? Lavender? Leather? Is it sage? Is it vanilla? He sniffs, he fucks. Tate moans, consciously dilates his hole to receive the deepest thrusts. Above him, Mike sniffs and sniffs. The answer arrives like a bolt from the blue. The smell… it's his older brother's cologne. Tate's smell reminds him of home. 

His chest tightens; his breath catches.

Fuck that. Give us kink.

But who cares about home? What difference does that make to the sensation? Mike leans back, shifts, and stretches his leg forward on the bed, putting his foot on Tate's face. He presses the moaning, leaking slut into the mattress and stifles the endless stream of slut-speak.

"Shut the fuck up," Mike says. "If you want to use your mouth so bad, use it on my soles, bitch."

Tate is tentative. He licks gingerly at Mike's bare, sweaty foot—"I said use your fucking mouth!"—while he struggles for each breath. He is being crushed in more ways than one. The larger man's heft presses into him, presses him into the bed, and he breathes around the massive foot of the brutal top savaging his hole.

Can't connect to any of this shit without backstory.

Tate is a Libra. Mike a Scorpio.

Tate grew up reading books about scrappy boy detectives and dreamed himself an explorer in want of an adventure. Mike worked with his hands, learned crafts at his father's knees and took on a metallurgy apprenticeship in his teens.

Tate has a kind husband at home with milquetoast tastes and a coin collection. Mike has an ex-wife who hates him with a singular passion.

In Tate's dreams he is an uninhibited slut taking anonymous loads from men who use him without regard and he wakes up rock hard, already reaching to finger his twitching hole. Mike does not dream.

This got dark. Where's the levity?

Mike slips and falls backward, his cock slips out of Tate, but not before pushing hard at his prostate as the angle of Mike's thrust changes wildly. Tate shouts in electric surprise; Mike swears in sudden confusion. As he lies on his back with his dominating-leg curled back on itself and his stabilizing leg splayed out, Mike finds the humor in this snafu and laughs. Tate, dripping sweat into Mike's sheets and still very breathless, laughs too.

"You OK?" Tate asks, looking back over his shoulder.

"Yeah. Yeah. Fine. Just, you know, not a very sexy move."

"C'mon, you're a fucking stud," Tate says. He feels he should stop there, but he's also feeling a bit braver than usual. "I'm sure you know that. At least, that I think you are."

"Yeah?" Mike asks.

"Definitely."

Mike grins, reorients himself on the bed behind Tate. "Well, yeah, I mean… feeling's mutual. Should I keep going?"

"Do you want to?"

"Fuck yeah."

Tate shivers as Mike positions himself and proceeds to fill him back up again.

OK, now put in a b-plot. Something to complicate all this. Maybe make it kinda piggy.

On the other side of the thin wall, Seth jerks his cock. By his own admission it's been six since he's been laid and he proudly adds a hatch mark every 24-hours to what he proudly deems his 'wall of shame.' He exists in a space where his own pleasure is utterly paramount and he has little interesting in changing that right now. He jerks his cock to the sound of his roommate fucking some married pig. Mike is always hunting the inaccessible guys, the guys who he has to unravel, scrape away the hard outer shell to get to the soft, corruptible center. He likes a challenge. He likes them 'complicated.'

And Seth? Seth likes to listen. He doesn't care to imagine the scene, has little use for his imagination at all. He bombards himself with porn videos in the hellish glow of his red LED lighting as he strokes his greasy dick in time with the married pig's moans. Seth has never even thought of fucking his roommate, isn't particularly attracted to Mike's brand of aggressive charisma, but he likes the noises. And Mike likes an audience.

They've never discussed it directly, but Mike has made references before. Has heard Seth muffled moans from the other side of the wall as he shoots his loser load to the sound of actual sex happening one room over. Seth thinks Mike finds it pathetic, but that's part of the appeal. To be seen for the thing you are, it makes both of them hard.

This time Seth records the sex on his phone, keeps his own breathing low so he can clearly distinguish the fuck noises from his own. He'll clean up the recording in audio editing software and keep it for his own sordid collection. The idea makes his fat dick dribble in his fist.

OK, now it feels weird, go back to being artistic and close out this mess.

Two men are fucking and their thoughts only ever circle each other. Though their bodies collide, though their desires intersect, they are only ever present with each other for moments at a time. For each of them the other is a representational figure: an avatar of Lust, rather than the object of it. They are inhabited, possessed by some thirst that cannot be quenched through one act or twenty. This tableau will repeat unto infinity with different men and different beds. Indeed, Mike is already planning his next fuck as he nears his inevitable eruption, and Tate—precum pouring off of his hyper-rigid meat—is convincing himself that this is the very last time.

Show of hands: who's still checking in with this page?

As I move forward with new projects and fiction I'm wondering how much value this space actually has.

I do have a solid amount of followers here, so I don't want to burn it to the ground, but I am wondering if the juice is worth the squeeze when it comes to posting original content.

If you still use this space for your smut fix, go ahead and give this post a like or throw an ask my way about how tumblr fits into your pornographic ecosystem. Thanks.

Ayo fam,

As I'm wont to do, I wrote a weird fucking sex game. It's called Pills and it's about taking a drug that undermines your sexual stamina. The results are… juicy.