(Kidding. Everyone in here is willing, and very into it.)

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Stuffed by My Stepbrothers at the Family Wedding is, as advertised, about getting wrecked at a family event by folks you are …

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I’ve got a few new stories cooking for paid subscribers, but I need your help with something.

I want to write more sequels.

So go digging through the archive, revisit your favorites, and hit reply with the story you think deserves a new part.

• Maybe it’s one that ended too soon.

• Maybe it’s one where the characters clearly had more trouble to get into.

• Maybe it’s just one you still think about for reasons we do not need to explain in polite company.

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I was supposed to be asleep in the tent.

But I wasn’t.

“Didn’t think you could handle whiskey,” Clay said, nodding toward the bottle in my hand.

“I can handle a lot,” I shot back, letting my eyes drag down his chest.

His smirk said he caught it.

Greg chuckled, low and deep. “Boy’s been actin’ grown all weekend.”

“That so?” Clay leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know what happens to boys who act grown around men like us?”

Greg’s eyes flicked toward me. “They get reminded they’re still boys.”

I swallowed, but I didn’t look away. “Maybe I need that reminder.”

The air shifted. The crackling fire was the only sound between us. Clay stood first, towering over me. He reached down, slow, and cupped my chin, forcing me to look up at him.

“You got a smart mouth.”

“Sometimes.”

His thumb dragged across my lower lip. “Then you won’t mind if we shut it for you.”

Greg stood too. Bigger than Clay. Broader. His boots crunched the gravel as he came up behind me. I felt the weight of his presence, his heat, his breath, his want.

Clay grabbed the back of my neck. “On your knees.”

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My head throbbed from the tequila, but it wasn’t just the hangover that had my pulse racing. It was the thick weight pressed up against me from behind. Him. My stepbrother.

Luca.

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I wasn’t there for the music.

His name was Serin. At least, that’s what the retinal scan pulled when I marked him on entry. Six-foot-three, all obsidian leather and smooth, blood-warm skin that shimmered under ultraviolet light. His eyes were lilac irises, blinking between human and hunger.

He was leaning against the bar, two fingers around a glass of synthetic O-neg. Untouched. Watching me.

I pushed through the crowd, my palm brushing over exposed skin and mesh-covered thighs, but none of it mattered—not when I felt his eyes on me. They were scanning me like code. Decrypting my wants before I knew them myself.

"You're not from around here," he said, voice smooth as bio-silk and twice as expensive.

"Does it matter?" I took the stool next to him, letting our thighs touch just enough to tease.

He looked me over with that half-smirk vampires always wore, like he could see the kink in your blood before you'd even undressed. “I can smell that your last hookup was an android.”

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That’s when I saw him.

He stood near the barn, backlit by the late afternoon sun, a silhouette that made my throat dry. He had one hand gripping a hay hook, the other wiping sweat from his brow. Tall, broad, and sun-kissed in all the right places, his shirt hung loose over tanned abs that flexed with every movement. He looked like sin dipped in dirt and sweat.

“Truck trouble?” he called out, slinging the hook over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

“Yeah,” I replied, trying not to stare—but failing. “Radiator’s fried, I think.”

He sauntered over, boots crunching on gravel, a slow smile curling across his face. “Well, looks like you’re stuck with me for a bit. I’m Weston,” he said, offering a hand.

I took it. Strong grip, calloused. Made me wonder what else he could grip like that.

“Ty,” I said, trying not to let my gaze linger on the trail of hair peeking out beneath his unbuttoned shirt. “Thanks for the help.”

“C’mon,” he said, jerking his head toward the house. “We’ll get you cooled off and fed. Maybe later I can take a look under your hood.”

His smirk let me know he wasn’t just talking about my truck.

Inside, the farmhouse was quiet. He handed me a glass of cold lemonade, and we sat on opposite ends of a beat-up sofa that creaked under our weight. The air was thick, humid from the storm rolling in and something else neither of us wanted to name just yet.

“You from ‘round here?” he asked, voice low.

“Nope. Just passing through,” I said. “Making deliveries.”

“Pity,” he murmured, eyes locked on mine.

I swallowed. “Yeah?”

Weston stood, setting down his glass. “You ever mess around on a farm before?”

My heart pounded. “Not exactly.”

“Well,” he said, walking over to stand in front of me. “There’s a first time for everything.”

His hands reached down and tugged my shirt up, exposing my chest. He leaned in, his breath hot against my neck as he whispered, “Tell me if you want to stop.”

I didn’t.

I pulled him down by the collar and kissed him... hard. He tasted like lemonade and sweat and something earthy I couldn’t name. He straddled my lap, grinding into me, both of us getting harder with every breath.

His fingers fumbled with my jeans as I unbuckled his belt. When we finally freed ourselves, he slid down between my thighs, eyes locked on mine as his lips wrapped around me. Slow. Delicious. Intense.

But he wasn’t done.

He stood, kicked off his boots, and dropped his jeans. That farmer’s son wasn’t just packing corn and cattle. He was hung like the whole damn harvest.

He turned, bent over the arm of the couch, and looked back. “You gonna plant your seed or what?”

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I’m sharing a collection of micro-erotica—bite-sized stories under 1,000 words. Think of them as fleeting moments, tantalizing glimpses into worlds I’ve started to create but haven’t yet finished.

Your role? Simple. Heart your favorites.

The ones that ignite the most passion, curiosity, or downright obsession will evolve into full-length stories or even sprawling series. Your feedback shapes what comes next… so don’t hold back.

I only went over to Stifler’s place to borrow a video game—Street Slam IV or whatever the hell he’d been bragging about all week. I figured I’d swing by, grab the controller, maybe chill for a bit. I didn’t expect my entire sense of reality to get… split open and rearranged.

The door swung open, and there he was.

Mr. Stifler.

No shirt, just a towel barely clinging to his hips, beads of water trailing down his chest like a goddamn thirst trap. Dude looked like a fitness influencer turned pornstar, except cockier and with that kind of smirk that said he knew the effect he had.

“Oh hey, Cody,” he said, voice dripping with casual sin. “You here for that joystick?”

I blinked. “Uh—the controller?”

“Same difference,” he winked, stepping aside. I followed him in, trying not to stare at the towel or the tight curve of his ass underneath it. Spoiler: I failed.

The house smelled like cologne and chlorine. Expensive cologne, too—the kind you imagine a guy sprays on before he fucks someone’s spouse.

“Stifler’s not home,” he said, tossing a tennis ball in the air like this was just a regular Tuesday. “But you’re welcome to hang out. Unless you’ve got other plans?”

I shrugged. “Nah. I’ve got time.”

“You thirsty?”

“Sure.”

He handed me a beer with a lime wedge on the rim. Not exactly what I expected, but I sipped it anyway. He watched me drink like he was undressing me with his eyes. Hell, maybe he already had.

“You ever fool around with older guys?” he asked, so casually I almost didn’t hear it.

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Dean.

My best friend Tariq's stepdad. Built like a linebacker, eyes like he’d seen too much, and lips that stayed tight unless he was smirking at me from behind the wheel of his truck. I never told him to stop.

Tonight, I was done pretending. I was done waiting.

The locker room was empty. Steam clung to the ceiling, sweat and soap hanging thick in the air. I stayed behind, my cleats echoing against the tile as I walked toward the back row of lockers. I yanked off my jersey, the number 87 clinging to my skin like a second layer.

I wasn’t in a rush. I had a plan.

I knew Tariq's stepdad was picking him up after practice. I’d seen him before. The man always wore a tight polo, sleeves strangling his thick biceps, with a jawline that looked like it could cut cinder blocks. His name was Dean. Always came late. Always gave me those lingering, unreadable looks. Like he was sizing me up. Or down.

Tonight, I was gonna find out.

Tariq stepped out of the shower, towel low on his waist, still dripping. "You good? Thought you left."

I smirked. "Waiting on you. Heard your old man’s outside."

Tariq rolled his eyes. "He’s not my real dad. Just mom’s latest project."

I stepped closer, voice dropping. "You think he ever notices how I look at him?"

Tariq froze, one eyebrow rising. "You mean that weird shit you do when he pulls up? Yeah. I notice. So does he."

I didn't flinch. "Good. Makes this easier."

The locker room door creaked open. I didn’t turn. I already knew who it was. Dean walked in, boots heavy on tile, ball cap pulled low. "Tariq. You ready or what?"

Tariq turned toward him, towel still barely clinging. "In a minute. Jose forgot his ride."

Dean's eyes shifted to me. "That right?"

I stepped forward, shirtless, glistening under the flickering overheads. "Yeah. Might need a lift. But I got something else I need first."

Dean arched an eyebrow, not even pretending to look away. "That so?"

I reached down and adjusted myself through my compression shorts. "You tell me. You’re the one staring like you wanna fuck me."

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I’m sharing a collection of micro-erotica—bite-sized stories under 1,000 words. Think of them as fleeting moments, tantalizing glimpses into worlds I’ve started to create but haven’t yet finished.

Your role? Simple. Heart your favorites.

The ones that ignite the most passion, curiosity, or downright obsession will evolve into full-length stories or even sprawling series. Your feedback shapes what comes next… so don’t hold back.

The air reeked of sweat, gun oil, and testosterone. I hadn’t planned on coming to the base’s dive bar tonight, but something told me I needed to get out of my head, and maybe into someone else’s bed. Or locker room. I wasn’t picky.

He walked in like he owned the place. Combat boots heavy against the concrete, camo pants hugging those thick thighs, and that black tank barely containing his sculpted chest. Crew cut. Square jaw. Scar running from his ear to his jawline like a goddamn battle medal. A walking, talking hard-on. My eyes tracked him from across the room, glass halfway to my lips.

He looked straight at me. Didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just nodded once. A command.

I followed.

Out back. Past the dumpsters and the flickering security light. He shoved me against the wall before I could even speak. “You looking to serve tonight, pretty boy?” His voice was low, gritty, and soaked in sin.

“Yes, sir,” I breathed.

“Strip.”

I obeyed so fast it made me dizzy. Cold concrete kissed my back, my ass, my thighs as I pulled off everything and stood there, bare and aching. He didn’t undress. He just unzipped, thick cock already semi, veins bulging, heavy balls swinging low.

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More into the written word? Tap in, babe.👇🏽

https://www.gaytaboostories.com/p/code-red-ravaged-in-room-407

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You asked for more, and I don’t blame you. This is an expansion of the micro-erotica Ravaged by the Night Nurse. Enjoy! 🍆💦💦💦.

Hospitals were supposed to be sterile, cold, lifeless places. I had spent enough nights in this stiff, uncomfortable bed to know that firsthand. But ever since Jaby started working the night shift, the air in this place had changed—thicker, heavier.

It was no longer just the scent of antiseptic and freshly laundered sheets. Now, it was him. His cologne, his sweat, the barely restrained hunger in his eyes whenever he lingered at my bedside a little too long.

Jaby wasn’t just another nurse doing his rounds. He was something else—something dangerously intoxicating.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a presence that made the walls feel smaller whenever he stepped into the room. His deep brown eyes always held that knowing glint, like he could see through me, past the pain, past the hospital gown, past the wires and machines hooked up to my body. And that smirk, fuck, that smirk—it promised trouble in all the best ways.

Tonight, when he walked in, the energy between us shifted. It wasn’t just the usual teasing exchange of glances. It wasn’t just the way he let his hand linger a second too long when adjusting my IV.

No, tonight, something was different.

When I spoke, his gaze dropped to my lips, and his tongue darted out to wet his own. And when he exhaled, it was heavier, like he was holding back something fierce, something… primal.

The door clicked shut behind him, locking us in together, sealing us in this unspoken tension.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, his voice deep, commanding, edged with something raw and possessive.

I shook my head. “Not with you looking at me like that.”

His eyes darkened. “Maybe I’m done just looking.”

Without warning, he closed the distance, his strong hand gripping my jaw roughly, forcing my head up to meet his intense gaze. "You've been teasing me for days, Toby. Tonight, you're going to find out what happens when you play with fire."

My breath caught, excitement pooling in my stomach. "Then show me," I whispered.

His mouth crushed against mine, hot and fierce, claiming me without restraint. His teeth nipped my lips, his tongue invading my mouth with a hunger that left me breathless.

His hands tore away my flimsy gown, exposing my naked body to his merciless exploration. He stripped off his scrubs in seconds, revealing a body sculpted from raw strength and pure desire.

Jaby pinned me beneath him, gripping my wrists and holding them firmly above my head. “You've been begging for this, haven't you?” he growled, grinding his hips against mine. I felt his cock pressing urgently against my thigh.

“Yes,” I moaned desperately, squirming beneath him.

"That's right, baby," he murmured darkly, releasing my wrists to roughly grip my thighs, spreading them wide. His eyes burned into mine as he reached for the lube, coating himself liberally, making sure I saw every slick movement. "You're going to feel every fucking inch of me, and you're going to take it all."

I cried out as he entered me, his thrust powerful and unapologetic, stretching me wide. Pain and pleasure exploded through me. His hips snapped forward, pounding relentlessly, each thrust harder than the last, driving me into the mattress.

“You're mine now, Toby,” he snarled possessively, biting my shoulder hard enough to leave marks. “Every fucking scream, every shudder, belongs to me.”

The raw dominance in his voice set me aflame, and I surrendered fully, nails clawing at his muscular back, encouraging him to fuck me harder, deeper. The bed groaned loudly beneath us, and I didn't care if the entire hospital heard my shameless moans.

Jaby’s thrusts grew frantic, his hand finding my throat again, squeezing lightly but insistently, commanding my complete submission. The pleasure spiraled uncontrollably, and I exploded beneath him, screaming his name, overwhelmed by the relentless force of his desire.

Moments later, Jaby came with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself deeply inside me. His body shuddered violently, sweat dripping from his skin onto mine as he collapsed against me.

Breathless and thoroughly spent, he pressed tender, possessive kisses along my jaw, murmuring softly, “You're incredible, Toby. Fucking perfect.”

We lay tangled together, the sterile air now thick with sweat, lust, and satisfaction. After a few minutes, Jaby raised his head, smirking wickedly. “Next time,” he whispered into my ear, his voice dark and dripping with promise, “I'm not going to be gentle."

A shiver of anticipation shot down my spine, and I grinned at him, already aching for more.

Hospitals were supposed to be sterile, cold, lifeless places.

But tonight? Tonight, I'd never felt more alive.

The following night, the door opened again, and my heart raced. Jaby stood in the doorway, a smirk playing on his lips. But he wasn't alone. Behind him, towering equally tall and powerfully built, stood an EMT I recognized from brief, heated glances exchanged during shifts. His name was Marcus—ruggedly handsome, his muscles straining beneath his uniform.

Jaby moved closer, his voice dripping seduction. “Thought we’d add a little excitement tonight.” He gestured to Marcus, whose eyes roamed hungrily over my body.

Marcus stepped forward, his voice deep and teasing. "Heard about you, Toby. Couldn't resist finding out for myself."

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Dean was over again—fourth time this month. I pretended not to notice at first, but I always did. I noticed the way his eyes crawled over me when I came down the stairs shirtless. The way Travis, my stepdad, went quiet when I bent over in front of him.

They never touched me when I was growing up. They waited. Waited until I turned twenty, waited until I came back from college—bigger, broader, hungrier.

I thought I was imagining it that first night. But the second time Dean came over, and Travis said "Why don’t you wear some damn clothes around here?" while never once looking away from my bare chest, I knew.

They were watching. Plotting.

That night, I gave them a show.

After my shower, I walked into the kitchen with just a towel hugging my hips, steam still clinging to my skin. Dean looked up from his beer. His eyes flicked down my body and stayed there.

“You always this proud of your body?” he asked, voice low, half amusement, half threat.

“I don’t hear you telling me to cover up,” I shot back.

He smirked. Travis didn’t say a word, just stood behind me, close enough I could feel the heat coming off his body. His hand landed heavy on my shoulder.

“Boy’s got a mouth on him,” Travis muttered. “Maybe he wants it filled.”

Dean laughed, but it wasn’t funny. It was dark. Dangerous.

I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

That was the moment everything changed.

We were on the couch an hour later. Game was on, but no one was watching. I sat between them, body buzzing. Travis’s palm rested on my thigh. He didn’t move it. Just let it sit there, warm and heavy, fingers brushing higher every few minutes. Dean had his arm draped across the back of the couch behind me, fingertips grazing my neck.

“You ever been with a man before, Levi?” Dean asked, casual, like he was asking about the weather.

I nodded slowly. “Once. Not like this though.”

Travis leaned in. “Like what?”

I turned my head toward him. “Like being used.”

Travis and Dean looked at each other. Something passed between them. Approval, maybe. Agreement.

Then Travis gripped my jaw and kissed me—rough, hard, like he was angry I’d made him wait this long. His stubble scraped my face raw, and his tongue shoved past my lips like it owned me. I moaned into his mouth, already leaking in my shorts.

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You asked for more, and I don’t blame you. A Streetcar Named Temptation was one of the hottest micro-erotica drops, and this continuation turns up the heat even more. Dive in.

The streetcar smelled faintly of metal, worn leather, and sunbaked pavement as I stepped onto the F-line. I wasn’t a tourist—I’ve lived in San Francisco for years—but today, I decided to play one. Camera around my neck, backpack slung low, and an excuse to lose myself in parts of the city I’d never bothered to explore.

But the game shifted the second I saw him.

The operator sat at the helm, one gloved hand gripping the polished brass lever with the kind of easy confidence that made my breath hitch.

He looked like he belonged on the cover of some gritty noir novel—dark, sharp eyes focused on the tracks ahead, a strong jaw dusted with the faintest trace of stubble, and full lips set in a line that said he didn’t smile often, but when he did…

His skin was a warm bronze, catching the late afternoon sun filtering through the window. His hair, short, black curls faded perfectly on the sides, peeked out from under his cap. A faint scar curved across one brow, giving his face an edge, but it didn’t dull his beauty; it sharpened it.

The way his uniform fit him wasn’t helping either. The navy blue button-up stretched slightly across his chest, and the sleeves were rolled up just enough to expose his forearms—lean, strong, and traced with faint veins that hinted at both strength and control.

I told myself to keep walking, just sit and stop staring like some love-struck idiot. But when his eyes flicked up to meet mine in the rearview mirror, a slow smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

I dropped into a seat near the front, half chub.

I couldn’t stop sneaking glances at him for the next twenty minutes. Every time the streetcar hit a bump, his body shifted with an effortless control that had me gripping the metal pole next to me a little tighter. His gloved hands worked the controls with smooth precision, and every now and then, I’d catch his gaze in the mirror again.

It was like he was daring me to keep watching.

The streetcar rattled its way down Market Street, and I was more aware of him than anything outside the windows. He was all confidence and swagger, with a face carved by some higher power that had very specific plans in mind.

When my stop approached, my stomach tightened. I stood, clutching the strap of my backpack, trying to suppress the nerves fluttering in my chest.

I paused near the front, his presence pulling me in like gravity.

“Uh… thanks, oper—operator,” I said, my voice coming out a little breathless.

He turned slightly, his dark eyes locking onto mine directly this time. Up close, I could see faint flecks of gold catching in them, the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window, making them almost glow.

“Anytime, handsome,” he said, his voice low and gravelly.

My knees felt like they might buckle.

Before I could stumble out onto the street, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, and scribbled something down. His gloved fingers slid it across the ledge, slow and deliberate.

“Name’s Hawk,” he said, his lips curving into a smirk that felt like a promise. “Don’t leave me waiting too long.”

I took the paper, my fingertips grazing the leather of his glove. His warmth lingered as I stepped off the streetcar and onto solid ground, my head spinning.

Once I was clear of the platform, I unfolded the slip. A phone number, underlined twice, stared back at me.

I exhaled shakily, tucking the paper carefully into my pocket.

I was hunted. And if Hawk was looking to catch me, I wasn’t about to make him chase too hard.

Later That Evening…

I stared at my phone for longer than I’d like to admit before I finally texted.

Me: Hey, it’s Gage. From the F-line today.

I hit send before I could overthink it. The three dots appeared almost immediately, then disappeared. I groaned, flopping back onto my couch.

Ten minutes passed. Then thirty. Then, an hour.

And then—ping.

Hawk: U’re hot AF.

I blinked at the screen, heat rushing straight to my dick… rock hard.

Hawk: Free tonight?

My heart stuttered in my chest as I typed back.

Me: Yeah.

Almost instantly:

Hawk: That’s what’s up. U into 3somes?

I swallowed hard, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard as I processed. The directness shouldn’t have surprised me—not with the way he looked at me on that streetcar.

Me: Depends. Who’s the third?

He didn’t reply right away, but when he did, I could practically hear his voice in my head.

Hawk: You’ll like him. He’s hot. A direct copy of me. 😉

My breath hitched. Twins! Fuck ya.

Hawk: Come through.

The address popped up a second later.

I sat there for a moment, staring at the screen, my pulse thrumming in my ears. I grabbed my Hawket, stuffed my phone in my pocket, and headed out the door.

The hallway smelled like old wood polish and secrets. I stood in front of Hawk’s apartment door, heart drumming a ridiculous rhythm against my ribs. My knuckles hovered, then dropped. Fuck it—I knocked.

It opened before I could second-guess myself.

Hawk stood there, barefoot in low-slung sweats and a tank that looked like it was made to be ripped off. His curls were damp, like he’d just stepped out of the shower, and the scent of something warm—Irish Spring and clean skin—drifted out the doorway and hit me right in the chest.

“Gage,” he said, lips tugging into a slow, crooked smile. “Get in here.”

I stepped inside. The place was small but neat—exposed brick, a beat-up leather couch, and a faint hum of jazz playing low from a speaker. The lights were dim, almost golden. Intimate.

He shut the door behind me, and the click of the lock echoed loud enough to feel like a turning point.

“You nervous?” he asked, eyeing me with that same lazy confidence from the streetcar. The kind that said he already knew the answer but liked watching me squirm anyway.

“Little bit,” I admitted.

He stepped closer. “Good.”

His hand brushed against my cheek, thumb grazing the corner of my mouth like he was checking to see if I was real. I didn’t move.

“Stone’s not here yet,” he murmured.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“Means I got you to myself for a few.”

He leaned in, so close I could feel the heat of his body. “You want a drink?”

“Sure.”

He moved past me, the brush of his arm across my chest making me shiver in the best way. I watched him pad into the tiny kitchen area, open a bottle, and pour. No labels, just dark liquor and the promise of a night that might fuck me up—in all the right ways.

When he handed me the glass, our fingers touched, and I swear it was electric. I took a sip, wincing a little. Smooth burn. Strong.

“Let me guess,” he said, sitting on the edge of the couch, legs spread wide, drink in hand. “You’ve never done anything like this before.”

I stood there, unsure what to do with my hands. “You mean, like… twins?”

He chuckled low. “I mean being the center of attention.”

I swallowed, throat tight. “No. I haven’t.”

“Thought so.” He took a slow sip, licking the drop from his bottom lip like it was for me. “But you thought about it.”

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Coming your way:

♊ Split Open by the Twins – One man. Two brothers. No rules.
🚨 Code Red: Ravaged in Room 407 – Hospitals are for healing... or getting wrecked.
🍆 Owned by My Best Friend’s Stepdad – Used by Him. Shared with His Stepson.

Stay tuned. Stay hard. Happy Pride.

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A week passed, and I extended my stay in Sweet Water. I made the rounds, reconnecting with cousins I hadn’t seen in years and even getting hit on by the checkout girl at the Piggly Wiggly.

Enon had given Milly the week off, insisting she take a well-deserved vacation at his house down in Gulf Shores. Milly was like a mother to him, and Enon was always generous to those he loved, the type to offer the last dollar from his wallet.

Dust swirled around my rental car as I sped along the dirt road toward Enon’s estate, pebbles clattering against the undercarriage. It was desperately in need of a wash, but why bother—it was just a rental. I loaded my arms with groceries, awkwardly balancing everything as I climbed the front steps.

The screen door creaked open, and a voice startled me. “Let me give you a hand.”

I froze, my heart skipping a beat as I lowered the bags. I hoped I’d misheard, but there he stood.

“Chris?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” I whispered, aggressively putting away the groceries.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Chris shot back, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

I avoided his gaze, feeling the heavy weight of disappointment radiating from him. “You’ve got some nerve showing up here,” I said bitterly.

It cut deep when someone tells you you've changed—for the worse, no less. I didn't want to waste time on someone who thought of me that way. Chris was always closed off, brutally honest to a fault, lacking any sense of tact or subtlety. No matter how hard I tried to break down his walls, he reinforced them with steel and silence.

“How did you even know I was here?”

“You ignored my calls, texts, voicemails. I got worried and tracked your phone.”

“Oh, fantastic,” I snapped, slamming a box of cereal onto the pantry shelf.

He smirked, leaning casually against the kitchen island. “Look at you, the little homemaker.”

I shot him a cold glance. “Where’s Enon?”

“Upstairs.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“Nothing. He seemed plenty surprised to see me, though.”

“You didn’t say anything? Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”

My mind raced—I hadn’t mentioned to Enon that Chris and I had ever been involved.

Heavy boots sounded on hardwood, breaking my thoughts. Enon bounded downstairs, his eyes bright. “You’re back!” He wrapped me in a tight bear hug, nearly lifting me off my feet. “And a new guest. Just like old times!”

“Seems that way,” I said, forcing a smile.

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I woke up the next morning to the smell of bacon and eggs and the clink of pots and pans. Sunlight streamed through the window, warming the room as my eyes adjusted. Instinctively, my hand drifted down to my briefs. Good ol’ morning wood. Just as I was about to enjoy it, a knock came at the door.

“JJ, you up?” came a familiar voice.

A lot was up.

I gathered the covers and sat up. “Come in.”

The door opened to reveal Milly, all smiles and carrying a tray of breakfast goodies.

“Milly!” I jumped from the bed to hug her, tugging the sheet around me.

“Hey there, baby. Let me get a look at ya,” she said, setting the tray down before pulling me into a tight embrace and patting my backside. “Oh my, you’ve gotten so big.”

“It’s been too long,” I said.

“That it has. I brought you up some breakfast. Go ahead and sit.”

Milly was like a second mother to me—more like a real one than the woman who gave birth to me. She’d worked for Enon’s family for as long as I could remember. When his parents passed, she became Enon’s legal guardian. A lot of folks talked, whispering about a Black woman raising a white boy. Milly didn’t give a damn what they thought. She loved Enon. That’s all that mattered.

The tray was overflowing—eggs, bacon, two types of sausage, cheese grits, scrambled eggs, and homemade biscuits slathered in sausage gravy.

“Milly, this smells amazing.” I reached for a bacon strip, but she slapped my hand gently and gave me that look.

Milly always insisted on giving thanks. She bowed her head and reached for my hand. She didn’t say a word, but her silence held power. She gave my hand a firm squeeze, then lifted her head and smiled. I dug in like it was my last meal. She sat with me, watching, humming, soaking in the moment.

“Careful now. Don’t go biting your tongue,” she teased, rustling my bedhead.

She remembered—every time I ate her food, I always bit my tongue.

“I’ll leave you to it. Enon left clothes for you in his room. Wants you to meet him at the west stable after you wash up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“JJ… I’m glad you’re home. I’ve missed you. Enon has too.” She smiled, then closed the door. Milly had a way of saying everything without saying much.

After breakfast and a quick shower, I headed into Enon’s room. He’d left out worn jeans and a powder-blue button-down—his favorite color. I ran my hands over the shirt, lifted it to my nose, and inhaled. His scent clung to the fabric.

“A half-naked man in my room? Whatever should I do?”

I turned to see Enon leaning in the doorway, arms crossed and smirking.

His jeans fit like sin. His open shirt layered over a white tee hugged his chest just right.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Now what should I do to this intruder?” he said, sauntering over. Boots heavy on hardwood. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pressing me against his chest.

“You’re all sweaty,” I said. “I kinda like that.”

“I know you do. And you’re all clean,” he said, glancing at my towel. “And in a towel.”

I adjusted the fabric. “Thanks for the clothes.”

Enon took the shirt from my hands. “May I?”

“Sure.”

He helped me put it on. It felt odd—intimate in a quiet, unexpected way.

“A little big, but it’ll do,” he said, smoothing his hands down my arms. Then he pulled me closer, hands drifting down as he unwound the towel.

“Oops. Your towel fell.”

I turned, and his lips brushed mine. His hands slid over my backside, his tongue tasting me.

“Mmm, tasty,” he murmured, tugging gently at my lower lip.

“JJ!” Milly’s voice cut through the haze.

I scrambled, rewrapping the towel just as she opened the door. My boner was unmistakable.

“There you are! I’m headed into town. Want anything special for lunch?”

“Ah—no. Anything you make is perfect.”

“Alright then.” She paused at the door. “Y’all can make out later. There’s work to be done.”

Enon burst out laughing and pulled me onto the bed.

“Did you hear what I said?” she called before leaving.

“Yes, ma’am!” he yelled, that sexy southern drawl lacing his words.

“We'd better get out to the stable. You’re working today, boy,” he said, slapping my ass.

“I’m not afraid of hard work. I can take it,” I said, rolling on top of him.

Read more

Justin Dixon Sinclair, Jr. has it all. Money, power, and a penthouse view of the world.

But when the city lights dim and the champagne runs dry, all he's left with is silence—and a heart that’s never been claimed.

Returning to Sweet Water, Alabama was supposed to be a quick visit. Instead, it brings him face-to-face with the one man he never truly let go—Enon Green. The boyhood best friend. The long-lost lover. The one who left a mark he never stopped feeling.

The chemistry’s still there—undeniable, electric, and dangerous. But love like this doesn’t come easy. Not when pride, pain, and unfinished business hang between them.

To have what he’s always wanted, Justin will have to stop playing it safe... and give it over.

Prologue

I flicked the light off, then on again. Checked the clock. Midnight. I’d been sitting at the table for over an hour, waiting for Chris to walk through the door and press kiss after kiss over my skin like he used to. The man I’d spent nearly a decade with.

My eyes drooped as my chin sank to my chest. I wanted to be awake in case he tried to sneak in like he always did—quiet, guiltless.
I reached for the wine bottle to top off my glass. Empty.

Shit.

Who was I kidding? He wasn’t coming. He probably forgot.

Across the room, the cluster of balloons Janet brought me swayed in the dim light. I stared at them for a second, wondering what Chris’ excuse would be this time.

I cleaned up the dishes I’d set for two, slid the untouched meal into the fridge, and checked my phone.

Nothing.

Of course.

I flipped off the lights and padded down the hall to my bedroom. Stripped down, I gave myself a quick once-over in the mirror—eyes glassy, mouth set tight, like I was trying not to feel anything.

The wine buzz hit hard. Thoughts jabbed at me from every angle. Don’t go there, I warned myself. I wasn’t going to be that guy who breaks down, turns bitter, and starts hating love.

The sheets were cold. My body curled into itself on instinct.

A single tear soaked into my pillow. Then another.

Happy birthday to me.

I’m pretty good at keeping secrets. Can you keep one? I, Justin Dixon Sinclair, Jr.—folks call me JJ. In fact, I’ve done it for so long that I've started believing the lie. The lie being that my life is perfect. No biggie, right? It’s a pretty big fucking deal to me.

Okay, maybe I'm being a tad dramatic.

I'm an Infopreneur. Fancy word, simple concept: I package and sell readily available information to people hungry for it, all about targeting, hitting the right audience.

“JJ, you've got a two-thirty with Mr. Killman from Ringer,” Janet said, breezing into the kitchen.

My office was my home—no need to set up in some overpriced Manhattan high-rise. Give me decent Wi-Fi, power, and a continuous flow of hot tea, and I'm golden. I loved New York—the buzz, the energy, the endless adventures.

Janet was my assistant and trusted confidante. I’d found her on a rainy autumn day, fresh from an audition for "The Color Purple." She lost the part because she was too pretty—no joke. They wanted homely; Janet was anything but.

Standing about five-six in heels with flawless graham-cracker skin, a dazzling smile, and curls that cascaded down her back, she was striking even through the tears running down her cheeks. She was my best friend and the world's greatest assistant two years later.

“Janet, can you call Mr. Killman and push him back an hour? I—”

“Can't," she interrupted. "You've got a doctor's appointment at three-thirty.” She buttered her toast without looking up. Janet always knew my schedule better than I did. It was part of her charm—no sugar-coating, no nonsense.

“Fine,” I sighed, closing my laptop.

I moved to the kitchen island where Janet sat, sipping coffee and side-eyeing me over the paper. She'd made my favorite breakfast: omelet, grits, and toast. She'd even brought homemade jam from her last visit home—another southerner like me, which instantly bonded us.

“What’s with the daggers?” I asked, spooning cheesy grits onto my omelet.

“What’s happening with you and Chris?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play. You know exactly what I mean. He’s been calling nonstop. Should I tell the poor guy to give it up?”

I washed down my toast with orange juice. “Do that.”

Janet scowled. That wasn't the answer she'd wanted.

Chris, my ex, was a complicated mess. We'd been off and on like a worn-out light switch. Since he missed my birthday last month and showed up two days late with flowers, he'd been calling, thinking I'd forgive him again. Once, maybe. Twice? Absolutely not. Chris was notorious for vanishing, then reappearing as if nothing had happened.

“Sort this out with Chris. I can't handle him clogging up the line with his foolishness,” Janet said, grabbing her bag.

“Where are you headed?” I asked, mouth half-full.

“I've got lunch with one of the app developers. Pretty sure he's into me.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn't do,” I teased.

“That leaves almost nothing,” she laughed, blowing a kiss. “Smooches.”

I hated being alone.

Finishing breakfast, I ignored the unread newspaper—too depressing, and I was halfway there already. I could retire comfortably, even now. My dad retired in his sixties and returned to work, claiming he missed the routine. Maybe I just needed a new challenge. Or perhaps I needed a solid man in my life—wasn't that the go-to remedy? New hairstyle or a new man? Already cut my brown locks shorter, so that was out.

My phone rang, loudly pulling me from my thoughts. I glanced at the screen—Chris. I let it ring through to voicemail.

It was still morning, and I had time before my meeting. I sauntered into my bedroom, drew the blinds, and crawled back into bed. Maybe I'd go clubbing tonight and find a man who could make me forget everything, at least temporarily.

Why did Mondays have to suck so hard?

Read more

Brett scheduled an appointment with one of his colleagues to run a few tests on my brain. He wanted to take a peek at my gray and white matter, like I was some walking MRI ad. I told him I’d go, nodded like a good boy, but deep down, I knew I wouldn’t.

If something were wrong with me, I’d rather drop dead than spend my life waiting for bad news. No brain-zapping, no wires, no pity. Just let it happen.

So instead of labs and scans, I chose sunlight and sand.

Aidan and I hit the beach for spring break. He vanished an hour ago to “grab a drink” and hadn’t returned, which either meant he found alcohol, ass, or both. I didn’t ask questions.

I stretched out my towel, pulled on my shades, and let the spring sun kiss my skin. The ocean’s hush settled over me like a lullaby. I drifted in and out of a half-sleep, calm, weightless, free.

Until—

“Is this spot taken?”

That voice. Deep. Smooth. Familiar.

I tilted my sunglasses just enough to peek. Jacob stood over me, shirtless, glistening, and barely concealed in a dark Speedo that left nothing to the imagination.

“It’s a public beach,” I said, dropping my head back down. “Have at it.”

Jacob laid out his towel, sitting a little too close for coincidence.

“I’m sorry about last week,” he said.

I reached for the sunblock. “No big deal.”

“May I?” he asked, his green eyes locking onto mine, flecks of copper dancing in the sunlight.

“Stranger danger,” I shot back with a grin.

“Don’t do that,” he said, voice low. “I wouldn’t be a stranger if we became… friends.”

His fingers skimmed my chest, tracing sunblock down my torso and across my legs. He massaged it in slow, deliberate strokes, inching toward my inner thigh.

“I have enough friends. Not interested.”

“How about an associate?” he countered. “We can work on the friend thing.”

“Watch it, cowboy. And what about your girlfriend?”

“Never said I had one. You assumed. She’s my housemate.” He leaned in slightly. “And what about your boyfriend?”

“It’s complicated.”

Jacob smirked. “That sucks the big one. But probably for the best.”

He sat beside me, too close to ignore, his gaze fixed on mine like he was trying to read the parts I hadn’t said out loud.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“You don’t know anything about me. And what you think you know—you’re wrong.”

Jacob chuckled, shaking his head. “Stop trying to be such a hard ass. Let me take you out.”

He reached for my hand. I didn’t move.

My eyes drifted back to the water.

“Fine. Be that way,” he said, standing. “One thing about me, Cian—I don’t play games. Life’s too short for bullshit.”

He slid on his sunglasses and started walking away, the breeze catching his hair, his toned back flexing with every step.

I wrapped my arms around my knees, silent. Watching.

Then he stopped. Turned. Smiled widely.

His hand stretched out. “You coming or what?”

I couldn’t help it. I smiled back, grabbed my shit, and followed.

Jacob reached into the mini fridge and pulled out two beers, easily twisting the caps off.

“How is it that we ended up in the same hotel?” I asked, arching a brow. “You stalking me now?”

“Stalking sounds so harsh,” he said with a grin. “I prefer... enjoying.”

He stepped closer. I caught a whiff of his cologne—fresh, earthy, a little sinful—and my body nearly launched into full attack mode.

“You know, I saw this funny thing online—” I started.

“Uh-huh, that’s nice,” Jacob interrupted, tugging me toward the bed. “How about you come over here and tell me about it… on top of me.”

I didn’t fight it. My body gave in, falling atop his like it had been waiting to all day.

“I don’t even know you, and yet here I am in your room, straddling you,” I said, running my fingers along the tight ridges of his chest.

His lips met mine—soft, teasing. Gentle enough to confuse, deep enough to hook me.

“I think we should stay upright,” I said suddenly, breaking the kiss and jumping to my feet. “For now, anyway.”

Jacob turned on his side, that signature smirk lighting up his face again. “Still thinking about ol’ boy, huh? It's written all over that sexy body.”

I didn’t respond.

“Come on. Sit,” he said, patting the bed. “I promise I’ll be good.”

He rose and wrapped his arms around me. His hug was firm and grounding, like he actually meant it.

“I’m pretty good at giving hugs,” he whispered against my neck.

“What else are you good at?” I asked.

His hand wrapped, firm but careful, around my neck as he guided me back to the bed. His mouth found mine again, and I didn’t pull away this time.

We were kissing, deep and hungry. His hands roamed my body, stopping just above my ass before working their way up again. Moans slipped between us like secrets. His tongue dragged up my neck, back to my lips, sending shivers down my spine.

There was no stopping now.

Clothes were peeled off, one layer at a time—hot skin meeting hot skin, our bodies grinding as we claimed every inch of each other.

Jacob kissed his way down my chest, his lips finding my cock. He took me in slowly, deliberately, then deep—his throat working around me, pressure and warmth making me cry out.

My back arched as he took more. His hands pinned my hips while his mouth devoured my balls, then slid lower, teasing the sensitive space beneath.

His tongue flirted with my opening—circling, licking—before he pushed in, filling me with slow, skillful strokes.

I squirmed beneath him, gasping. My fingers tangled in his thick hair, and he looked up at me, eyes glazed with lust, as he primed my body for more.

He climbed back up, licking along my skin until his lips hovered over mine.

“You like that?” he whispered.

Read more

Usually, traveling alone was peaceful, but today, restlessness simmered within me, a yearning for something more exciting.

Just then, the door at the end of the car …

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I’m sharing a collection of micro-erotica—bite-sized stories under 1,000 words. Think of them as fleeting moments, tantalizing glimpses into worlds I’ve started to create but haven’t yet finished.

Your role? Simple. Heart your favorites.

The ones that ignite the most passion, curiosity, or downright obsession will evolve into full-length stories or even sprawling series. Your feedback shapes what comes next—so don’t hold back.