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dadsboysbears:dadsboysbears: Lots of Dads Boys Bears...
11.03.2014 , My Dirty Blog


dadsboysbears: Lots of Dads Boys Bears Musclebears Redheads Black Men (all over 18)

The Cock Buffet: Brought To You By Asher Hawk’s Hungry, Hairy Hole
11.03.2014 , Manhunt Daily

Take off your fucking pants! It’s time for another edition of The Cock Buffet. For those of you who haven’t been reading Manhunt Daily long enough to know what that means, let here’s a very simple translation for you—we’re about to throw a ton of porn in your face.

Today, we’ve got eighteen different scenes to choose from, starting with Max Michaels‘ sleazy massage and finishing off with Asher Hawk getting slammed on Next Door Twink. Along the way, you’ll see clips from Arnaud Chagall, Darius Ferdynand, John Magnum, Tyson Tyler, Paddy O’Brian and a handful of other models who will surely make you bust a nut… So, uh, take a look! You might be surprised by what turns you on.

- Dewitt

Photo credit: Next Door Twink

Watch clips from each of this week’s featured scenes below:


1. Max Michaels fucks Skylar West‘s tight, smooth ass on RANDY BLUE:

Max Michaels fucks Skylar West on gay porn site Randy Blue


2. Romeo James gets his fuzzy hole stuffed by Damien Kyle on BROKE STRAIGHT BOYS:

Damien Kyle fucks Romeo James bareback on gay porn site Broke Straight Boys


3. Jonas and Alec have some fun together on CHAOS MEN:

Jonas and Alec in a bareback fuck for gay porn site Chaos Men


Max Michaels--


4. Justin Blake slides into Guy Rogers on HARD BRIT LADS:

Guy Rogers bottoms for Justin Blake on gay porn site Hard Brit Lads


5. Austyn Onyx is the bait, Drake Stone is “straight” on BAIT BUDDIES:

Austyn Onyx bottoms for Drake Stone on gay porn site Bait Buddies


6. Firefighter Landon gets his first gay blowjob on ALL-AMERICAN HEROES:

Firefighter Landon gets blown on gay porn site All-American Heroes.




7. Paddy O’Brian owns Damien Crosse‘s muscle butt on MEN.COM:

Damien Crosse bottoms for Paddy OBrian in a scene for gay porn site Men of UK


8. Enzo Ferrari and Sam Black flip-fuck for BEAR FILMS:

Sam Black and Enzo Ferrari flip-fuck on gay porn site Bear Films


9. Tyson Tyler and Sam Swift tag-team Astengo on NEXT DOOR EBONY:

Tyson Tyler and Sam Swift tag-team Astengo on gay porn site Next Door Ebony




10. Max Cameron uses Connor Patricks‘ sweet ass on BOUND JOCKS:

Connor Patricks bottoms for Max Cameron on gay porn site Bound Jocks


11. Porter Loutrec is Shane Frost‘s cum slut on COCKSURE MEN:

Shane Frost fucks Porter Loutrec bareback on gay porn site Cocksure Men


12. John Magnum pumps Sebastian Rossi outdoors for COLT:

John Magnum fucks Sebastian Rossi on gay porn site COLT




13. Mark Coxx fucks Jace Tyler in a scene for UK NAKED MEN:

Mark Coxx fucks Jace Tyler on gay porn site UK Naked Men


14. Max Cameron rides Jeremy Stevens‘ cock on RAGING STALLION:

Jeremy Stevens fucks Max Cameron on gay porn site Raging Stallion


15. Antonio Garcia shows Darius Ferdynand some daddy love on EUROCREME:

Antonio Garcia fucks Darius Ferdynand on gay porn site Eurocreme




16. Arnaud Chagall throws his ankles up for David Corey on COCKY BOYS:

Arnaud Chagall bottoms for David Corey on gay porn site Cocky Boys


17. Rex Raw gives Gabriel Cross exactly what he wants on NEXT DOOR BUDDIES:

Gabriel Cross bottoms for Rex Raw on gay porn site Next Door Buddies


18. Asher Hawk enjoys Ian Ticing‘s hard cock on NEXT DOOR TWINK:

Asher Hawk bottoms for Ian Ticing on gay porn site Next Door Twink.



GayHoopla: Young stud Adam McBride rubs one out
11.03.2014 , Manspotting.net
GayHoopla: Shredded teen stud Adam McBride

GayHoopla.com writes:

“Absolutely flawless. Adam McBride, GayHoopla’s newest model, is perfect in every way from his taut muscles to his friendly, open smile. You may not notice that smile, however, because your eyes are immediately drawn to his exquisite round ass. And, if you can bear to look away from his ass, you’ll notice his piece de resistance, his rigid, bobbing cock.

Where to look when Adam is in front of you? Maybe we just need to put him on a turntable so we can take in every inch of his sexy self, over and over again. Luckily, at GayHoopla, you can download Adam and watch him over and over again, from every angle.”

GayHoopla: Shredded teen stud Adam McBride
GayHoopla: Shredded teen stud Adam McBride
GayHoopla: Shredded teen stud Adam McBride

Download Video: MP4

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Invasion Of The Snatched Bodies: How I Lost 15 Pounds In 6 Weeks
10.03.2014 , boy culture

Mark-Fisher-Brian-Patrick-MurphyMark & Brian, whom you'll meet on the transformation highway.


I wasn't gay-fat, I was fat-fat. But I hid it well, except for when I didn't.

I had been 248 pounds at one point in my life, but I had been 192.5 pounds at one point, too. So while it had been many years since my peak, it had been several since my valley—and how green was Mark-Fisher-Fitnessmy valley! I was just over 213 pounds, and all of the extra weight had crept back on in spite of doing weights with a trainer twice a week ("some of it's probably muscle!!!") and cardio once a week. For years.

I decided to sign up for Mark Fisher's Snatched in Six Weeks because, after a long bout with being marginally in shape, I wanted to get myself closer to the "but you look great!" status my friends had been untruthfully asserting I'd already attained.

The problem, I assumed, was that I am an indefatigable eater with a sweet tooth, and I lead a fairly sedentary life. I'd read that Snatched in Six Weeks was an intense, fat slob-proof way to lose weight and get toned, and I'd seen the transformation of actor Christopher Sieber (on social media) and my friend Josh (in person). How could I not wind up looking better at the end of it?

Christopher-SieberShred: The Musical

It took me longer to get into a class than it might take to get into a pair of size "Twink" jeggings;  Fisher only offers them at set times, then never makes room for latecomers. When he posts the new classes, they fill up immediately. No, I couldn't get any special treatment if I agreed to review it or pay more.

Mark-FisherThere's a winner in you...and there may be some abs buried under that spare tire.

So I waited.

And I finally got in.

And this is my take on the whole journey.


Measuring Up

Eight hundred bucks and many oddly sexualized, introductory emails later (the staff throws around terms like "lady-boners" quite aggressively), I showed up one freezing-cold Sunday morn for my preliminary assessment.

Mark-Fisher-FitnessI was greeted at the door of the outfit's W. 39th Street location by a bubbly blonde. A kettlebell course was going on in the background, featuring a group of people in better shape than I being led by a woman in no better shape than I, barking positivity as Barbra Streisand played. The blonde handed me off to a slender guy with a shaved head who managed to call me "pal" 30 times over the next hour; I counted. He is probably a nice dude, so don't take my assessment of his behavior as character assassination—or maybe it is, because to grouchy cynics, that's exactly what he and the other MFF people seem to be doing at times, playing outrageously spunky characters your more jaded side might like to assassinate.

Mark-Fisher-FitnessI got these free gender-fuck (pink! blue!) bracelets and stress ball.

"Hey, Pal! Let's get all your information!" he exclaimed, leaving me with an iPad and instructing me to fill out all my personal data. The form also asked for my three fitness goals, which I narrowed down to losing my gut, lessening my back fat and growing an ass. My fourth-place choice would be pumping up my tiny arms. "You're gonna nail it!" he informed me for the first of 20 times; I counted these as well.

As he led me outside and down a flight of steps, I realized he was barefoot. He walked right through the salted slush and never put shoes on for the hour I was with him. Downstairs, he asked me to have Mark-fisher-fitness_450a seat on "the stinky couch." The stinky red couch was a pop of color in a no-frills basement with freshly installed track lighting, a tiny row of lockers and nothing else of note. Madonna's "Justify My Love" was playing until he deemed it "too much" (after handing me a free tape measure and suggesting how I could use it to measure my cock) and switched to Neil Diamond, and then to Elton John.

He asked me, conversationally, what I did for a living and where I was from, but for the most part he wanted me to submit to some body measurements (including a fully-clothed weigh-in) and then try some movements to test my physical limitations.

He suggested I was nailing everything, even when my waist was measured at a portly 41.5" (I buy jeans at 33" because I wear them under my belly) and my body fat came in at a whopping 31.6%! "That's on the high side of normal," he allowed. "We'll aim to get that to 25%." Actually, if I were to wind up at 25%, I would be on the low end of "obese." Nobody seems to think of me as obese other than me. And, now, this tape measure.

The movements he had me do were fairly simple, involving a pole on my shoulders ("like Charlton Heston!"), some squatting ("awesome squat!"), lunges and a rather painful push up done with elbows up and hands wide apart. There was nothing I couldn't do, literally speaking.

Toward the end, people wandered in for a class. All seemed to go along with their female instructor's plucky vibe...would I be the only unplayful player once Snatched began? It's hard to hypnotize the skeptical.

My Snatched concierge had me stretch on some styrofoam rollers and then on a tiny rubber ball, used to dig into the meat  between pec and pit. "I sit on mine on the subway," he said, something he should have been confessing but something that he was merely stating.

Then it was over. I grabbed my stuff and took off, secure in the knowledge that I had signed up for something well outside my comfort zone.



My second time visiting the Snatched HQ was on a rainy Saturday, three days before I was scheduled to begin sweating. I was already sweating, wondering how this orientation would go. As with most of the program, the orientation's name is sexualized: "Foreplay."

I arrived, was exuberantly welcomed and instructed to remove my shoes before entering the common area, where a PowerPoint presentation awaited. I sat in the front row because...why not? Might as well plunge in.

A nice woman next to me engaged me in conversation, revealing she wanted to kick herself in the butt to get into shape. She looked to be in her thirties or so and not very out of shape...like, at all. She'd brought her laptop to take notes. She was not kidding around! Like so much of MFF's clientele, she was an actress, but I was the one trying to act undaunted.

After some horseplay amongst MFF's 10 employees (including an intern), the least relentlessly physically fit spoke, telling us we'd have to stand up, give our names and birthplaces, say which class we'd be in (I'd signed up for 7AM Tuesday, Thursday and Friday) and admit to a one-word expression of how we hoped to feel at the end of our six weeks.

As the men and women who'd signed up stood and spoke, it seemed like most of them were game and on the same page with the stage when it came to being "rah-rah." And they were coming up with great words, everything from "powerful" and "hot" to the show-stopper, "Beyoncé." All of these mini-soliloquoys were to be followed by all of us delivering a loud "whoosh!" in the direction of the speaker, accompanied by a sort of Tinkerbell hand gesture—the idea was that we were sending him or her a huge rush of energy. I wondered if this was what Kabbalah was like.

There were quite a few slim people, but the only intimidatingly buff person was a guy revealed as a new hire. Brian Patrick Murphy, a hairy hunk who is easily the loudest, most outrageous staffer (and who is Fisher's partner in the entire enterprise), made up a rule on the spot that the new staffer would always have to be shirtless. "So handsome!" he grunted, something he did when a couple of the other men in the class stood to speak.

One of my favorite intros came when a girl stood and noted that her friend sitting next to her was "half my size, so I'm really excited she's sitting right next to me." A sense of humor was beginning to feel essential to this process, but I wasn't embracing that yet. I am used to hating working out and eating right, so no amount of saccharine (or maybe it's aspartame?) cheerleading was about to win me over. Until and unless I was pooped out the other end of the six-week class as a skinny bitch.

After we'd confessed to our hopes and dreams, Mark Fisher himself did most of the talking. I was impressed that he recognized me by name from Facebook, but then again, I'd been agitating for months to get into the class. He has anyone's idea of an ideally fit body, the lower half of which was poured into his jeans, a model's face and beautiful, longish, perfectly tousled hair. He looks a lot like Sex book-era Joey Stefano, the late gay-porn star, which is appropriate as many of the words out of Mark's mouth are filthy-dirty.

Actually, Fisher's use of raunchy talk is delivered authentically, in such a way that it feels sweetly naughty. Some of the other staffers go a bit far, as when one demanded that we think of the "whoosh!" as receiving a cum-shot to the chest, instructing us to just lie back and take it. I'm not a prude (um...at all), but there is a point where it becomes sophomoric that every fitness move is related to a dildo, a penis, rape and/or digitial penetration.

Fisher's skillful use of sex-talk was also perhaps due to his not-even-thinking-about-it-at-this-point pitch. He took about an hour to walk us through Snatched's entire workbook—with occasional help from his staff—never seeming to be bullshitting, conveying the confidence of a fitness leader you would want to have in your corner. Even when he was pressuring us to sign up for additional, semi-private training classes, he never came off as smarmy or money-hungry. Just thrilled to be there.

"When I'm doing this, it's one of the only times my life makes sense," he offered, in-between making poop jokes. He told us we were "ninjas," and made multiple references to his company's mascot, the unicorn (a creature as mythical as a waist for me).

Speaking of unicorns and fabulosity...

I liked him a lot in spite of my personal hesitation about Snatched's big-yay rhetorics and my suspicion that unicorns are not real.

I left the session with zero questions (he wouldn't allow anyone to leave until every question was asked), impressed by his thoroughness. This is the same dude who had been e-mailing us pictures of sexy bodies while candidly warning us that any inspiration bodies we chose to tack to our fridges are probably not only the result of eating right and exercising, but also "small doses of steroids...even the women." His realistic outlook had also extended to letting us know that chunky men who had formerly been effortlessly fit would probably have the most eye-popping results from Snatched, chunky girls who've been exercising for years and have plateaued may have less eye-popping results, and so on. No one went into this class with rose-colored glasses on their out-of-shape asses.

In short, Fisher—through self-deprecation, bubbly pep talk and dire warnings against eating too few calories—succeeded in rallying his troops.

I felt...ready.


Week 1

My first real Snatched session was the worst. Not because it was hard on me physically—it wasn't!—but because I had to arrive 30 minutes early (6:30AM) in order to have my "before" picture taken. See, "Snatcheders" are judged at the end of six weeks on who's made the biggest transformation, and the winner gets their fees refunded. That's major! But it's also major to show up at the crack of dawn, remove your shirt, climb up on a bench in the main reception area, and let professional shooter Kevin Thomas Garcia snap mugshot-style photos: front, back, side.

Mark-Fisher-Fitness-dildoThe MFF Clubhouse's talisman of power, strength and humor: The dildo.

And, of course, the first person to pose was the class's only taut, fit dude. Thanks, bro. Fuck it—I went second. Remember this photo op—it returns at the end of this story Old Yeller-style.

I made friends with a gay dad who confided in me that he was not wild about the sexualized talk and relentless optimism either, but we were both ready to commit until it made us feel ready to be committed.

Mark arrived, his hair pushed casually back with a hairband, and immediately reassured us he would not kick our asses that day. The 10 or so of us arranged ourselves on mats in front of the mirrored wall in the main studio, and Mark explained that Day 1 would be a day of many words. He hadn't spilled too many of them before he felt compelled to say, "I know what you're thinking: 'He hasn't talked about 'semen' yet. I want my money back!'"

Mark had us go through the basic movements the class would entail, including squats, push-ups and the exact way he expected us to swing the kettle bells. He is very firm about wanting us to get the right form for our own good, but also reassures us that as long as we're moving in the early days, that's the key. In short, he is a charming, babbling brook of a teacher and never seems to be giving superfluous information.

His bent-over displays of how to do things did beg encores; look, the class is about attaining "health and hotness," and while I can't vouch for his possession of the former without a full examination, the latter is apparent comin' and goin.'

At the end of the class, I felt totally unchallenged, but knew it was just a start. Feeling unchallenged was probably a good thing for me; had I been wiped out, the idea of doing that for six weeks might've scared me off.

My second trip was the same thing, only more intense. Mark sped things up. So when we were aiming our butts toward the back wall ("Pretend there's a lubed-up dildo on it waiting to pierce you."), we were doing it quickly before moving on, with fewer words.

The second class was tougher, but still, I did not wind up sore. Well, I was a bit sore that since it was Mark's birthday, he was served cupcakes at the end, the last thing I needed to see. They looked vegan, though, so...never mind.

On my third and final class of the week, Brian Patrick Murphy took over. This hairy manimal showed up in ridiculously tiny booty shorts with his underwear showing from beneath, knee-high athletic socks and bearing the libinous energy of a rabbit on testosterone cypionate. (Not that he is on that or anything, but he's certainly high on life.)

While having us bend over and remain very tight, he offered, "Imagine I'm lubing up my finger and getting ready to force it into your bunghole, and if I get one in, I'll get two, and if I get two, pretty soon I'll be punching the clown!"

Brian's sex talk put Mark's to Shame (my favorite Steve McQueen movie) and he also upped the ante, giving us the first workout that had any impact on me. Still, I did not feel wiped out. What I felt was...hungry.

All week, I'd been sticking to my stringent calorie goal using the indispensable MyFitnessPal.com and hitting my protein minimum. But at night, I'd be really weak and grab a handful of almonds or grapes to "survive."

By the end of the week, Saturday morning, I'd lost 7 solid pounds! It was insane. But...was it desirable?


Weeks 2 & 3

Wow, did those weeks fly by. It was like: One moment, I'm awkwardly stripping down for my shirtless photo, and the next I'm halfway done. After losing 7 pounds, I'd been told by Ninja Staci, who was watching my food, that I had miscalcuated my calories and should have been eating 1,800 instead of 1,550 a day. So following another week, I only lost .8 pounds more...and then surprised myself by continuing to lose, winding up 12+ down after three weeks.

Food? Check.

How to describe the classes?

In general, we had Mark himself on Tuesdays; superfriendly, superstunning lesbian Amanda or bisexual bombshell (at least, that was the implication during, ironically, orientation intros) Staci on Thursdays; and then insanely hyper and macho-motivational Brian on Fridays.

Initially, the classes typically felt like half devoted to warming up (which never failed to work me into a bit of a sweat in their own right) and half work-outs, with the work-outs powered by kettle bell swings (strong "hinges" being essential) and a reliance on "calos thenos," or beautiful movement. Good form. These beautiful movements could look ugly to the person doing them if one is doing them into a mirror at 7AM, but they included push-ups, split squats, reverse squats, band rows, kettle bell squats, glute bridges, planks, side planks, jumping in place and quite a few other movements designed to challenge muscles, so one quickly gave up any worries about vanity.

In spite of all the raunchy talk, probably the most common words spoken in class were always, "...make sense?" After every explanation of a new move (or tinkering tweak of an old one), Mark would ask, as alert as a mongoose with a cobra birthday party around the corner, "Make sense?" It usually did.

Mark's classes were extra-special because his is the marquee name. He was patient and kind. He also was flamboyantly gay...until the end of week three, when Brian casually mentioned that Mark was not gay during a story involving Mark crying on Brian's shoulder over a break-up involving a woman. This was not greeted with a cheer by the class, but definitely warranted an internal, "Whoosh!" Brian's own personal (?) story about having to be supremely quiet while fucking a trick who'd picked him up at a local bar, but who had a small apartment with a light sleeper of a roommate also led us down the homosexual path, but he would later talk about a girlfriend as well, leaving me to deduce that Week Three was the best time to shake us up with images of our queerless leaders knee-deep in vagina. I think my class's only (?) straight guy breathed a sigh of relief when it became clear that the class was not as resolutely gay as it had previously seemed, but I'm not sure it mattered—we still heard a lot about tickling the dragon's balls until we saw pre-cum but then stopping short of taking a load to the face (this refers to pushing yourself without failing) and other colorful bon mots.

Mark is an excellent salesman. I don't mean this in a cynical way, I just think he is very good at presenting himself. At one point, after telling us everything should be done a certain way in order to ingrain good form into our DNA, he then said we would eventually need to forget all that and just do it. "Also, I am telling you wrong things right now," he asserted, explaining that things he had taught in the past had changed and as we learn more stuff about the body and movement, things he was teaching us in this very Snatched course would eventually be shown to be wrong. "And I realize that by telling you I am wrong about things, I'm actually building even more credibility with you, but you will need to ignore what I'm saying at certain points." It was masterful.

Amanda quickly became a favorite of mine. Her workouts were kinder and gentler, somehow, and her dipping into the X-rated pool felt less forced, though she did at one point describe a neck position in terms of not moving your head toward a dick during a blowjob, something she said she hadn't experienced in a decade.

Mark-Fisher-shirtlessThe MFF troupe offers a trip to the Dominican Republic for a mere few thou.

Brian is an animal. He spent his classes mock-hitting on "handsome" guys and yelling at us in ecstasy. He enjoyed teaching what he knew so much he was practically levitating as he imparted the info. He was not shy to admit to the moves his own body could not accommodate, and he was not shy to reveal his own body—during his Week 3 class, one student asked for him to go shirtless as a reward as we wound down our routines, and he instead stripped off his pants and hid his junk behind his hands. This left his ass bare for all the world to see.

The dragon's balls were definitely tickled that day.

I found myself feeling a lot thinner by the end of Week 3, by which time I'd also dropped 15 pounds since Thanksgiving...and the class was only half over!


Weeks 4, 5 & 6

Going to Snatched became a much-needed routine for me: Wake up 6:15AM, arrive to class (through freezing cold/snow/sleet) by 6:50AM, pull my jeans off to reveal my work-out shorts (a couple of the guys in class would strip down to underwear in the lobby before pulling on shorts, others would wear the kind of skimpy shorts of which one would wonder, while perusing gay-targeted clothing sites, "Who wears this???"), drink my water and then do whatever the instructors ask until the class is over.

I found my sore toes and feet getting less so. I felt my mid-section shrinking. And I had more energy.

I was not overly friendly with the very nice-seeming people in my class because I was focused on getting through the process. At 45, I was older than most, if not all, of the people around me, but I felt younger with the passing of each successful class. But the idea of failure kept me alert.

As did the threat that an instructor might literally try to insert a finger into my rectum through my shorts, which happened to two guys (not me) in one class toward the end.


One of my favorite classes was the one in which Brian—who would get pretty Wolf of Wall Street on our asses with his positive but LOUD cheering at the end of each session, when the lights would be turned off and we'd work out in the comfort of darkness—told a story in which he had a conversation with his mentor a few years back. He had not been feeling good about how his life was going, so his mentor asked him to list the names of the five people with whom he spent the most time, and to then say out loud how he felt when he was with those people. Brian said he felt emotionally drained as he did this, realizing that the people were dragging him down; so he "had some hard conversations," including breaking up with a girlfriend.

It was moving that he shared this with us, and a scary prospect to repeat that exercise, an exercise that didn't involve hamstrings or triceps.


Each class would begin with a random question: What's your favorite movie? What's your favorite celebrity body? Who is your favorite musician? Toward the end of Snatched, we were asked if we had anything to say to the class, and I honestly told everyone that from my position—I'd always remained at the front of the class—everyone looked very different. And they did; and I did. It wasn't a jaw-dropping transformation—I didn't even wind up entering the contest for most-changed body—but things were moving in the right direction.

And then the classes were over.


End Game

Once we were all Snatched, we were supposed to come in and get our after pictures taken. I wasn't entering the contest, but I decided to do the photo anyway. I'm a grown man and shouldn't be so uptight about taking off my shirt. I'd been one of those little fat boys who covered his nipples with his fingers when shirtless, and it was time to end that. Have you ever been to the beach? We all notice the killer bodies, but 90% of the bodies there are anything but killer. So I showed up after work and did my best "after" pose. I'd gotten rid of my back hair and was smiling (everyone knows a good before picture is frowning and a good after picture is grinning), so hoped my after picture would pleasantly surprise me.

There's a final party a week after Snatched ends, which I attended with my friend, who is in far better shape than I am but who doesn't think he's in good shape, either. It was a festive occasion, with the women in cocktail dresses and fuck-me (or at least consider-me) heels, and the guys in slightly more form-fitting shirts than they may have rocked seven weeks earlier.

Brian-Patrick-MurphyWith Brian Patrick Murphy, whose ecstasy that his business is thriving is palpable and infectious.

I got to greet Mark ("I'm coming over to hold you!" he said, repeating a theme of Mark as mother and Snatcheders as babies from the class) and Brian and we watched as the Top 3 girls and boys—those with the best Snatched results—were brought up on the stage and rewarded for their efforts. Their bodies had changed and they were gushingly happy. I was still feeling a little bit like a skeptic visiting a cult (Brian had once told us he'd broken up over Snatched when someone he was dating thought it was a cult—it's not), but it was nice to see success celebrated.

Mark-FisherMark Fisher says he was an outcast when younger; he's now a role model.

Mark and Brian dropped their pants faster than I'd dropped 15 pounds and danced, of course. I probably wouldn't own pants if I had their bodies.

Brian-Patrick-Murphy-Mark-Fisher-FitnessTHE QUAD SQUAD: Tail bonding.

My last interaction with MFF—unless I re-up for classes, which is a definite possibility—was when I received an e-mail directing me to a link with all of our before and after photos. The one thing I don't think I can forgive MFF for is that all of the photos were public to anyone with access to the link, and all were easily downloadable. The accompanying e-mail warned us not to take others' photos, but nonetheless the photos were set up to be easily, well, snatched. I should be okay with my body, but I'm not. And I must admit that in spite of the progress I made, my after photos from the front and the back (the side was great!) were mortifying. I pulled them for posterity and asked MFF to kill them, which they did, but even killed those photos are going to haunt me forever.

It was an annoying way to end an otherwise positive journey.


The Bottom Line

Rectal warts and all, Snatched, in all its gushing glory, remains an option for health and hotness that I would recommend to all but those who are squeamish about X-rated banter. It was simple, reasonably priced and if you follow what Mark, Brian and their crew say, it works.

But you better keep it up after the six weeks, because there are no quick fixes.

Was Norman Rockwell Gay?
10.03.2014 , The Closet Professor

Without thinking too much about it in specific terms, I was showing the America I knew and observed to others who might not have noticed.Norman Rockwell

Born in New York City in 1894, Norman Rockwell always wanted to be an artist.  Rockwell found success early. He painted his first commission of four Christmas cards before his sixteenth birthday. While still in his teens, he was hired as art director of Boys' Life, the official publication  of the Boy Scouts of America, and began a successful freelance career illustrating a variety of young people's publications.

At age 21, Rockwell's family moved to New Rochelle, New York, where Rockwell set up a studio with the cartoonist Clyde Forsythe and produced work for such magazines as Life, Literary Digest, and Country Gentleman. In 1916, the 22-year-old Rockwell painted his first cover for The Saturday Evening Post, the magazine considered by Rockwell to be the "greatest show window in America." Over the next 47 years, another 321 Rockwell covers would appear on the cover of the Post. Also in 1916, Rockwell married Irene O'Connor; they divorced in 1930.

The 1930s and 1940s are generally considered to be the most fruitful decades of Rockwell's career. In 1930 he married Mary Barstow, a schoolteacher, and the couple had three sons, Jarvis, Thomas, and Peter. The family moved to Arlington, Vermont, in 1939, and Rockwell's work began to reflect small-town American life.

In 1943, inspired by President Franklin Roosevelt's address to Congress, Rockwell painted the Four Freedoms paintings. They were reproduced in four consecutive issues of The Saturday Evening Post with essays by contemporary writers. Rockwell's interpretations of Freedom of Speech, Freedom to Worship, Freedom from Want, and Freedom from Fear proved to be enormously popular. The works toured the United States in an exhibition that was jointly sponsored by the Post and the U.S. Treasury Department and, through the sale of war bonds, raised more than $130 million for the war effort.

Although the Four Freedoms series was a great success, 1943 also brought Rockwell an enormous loss. A fire destroyed his Arlington studio as well as numerous paintings and his collection of historical costumes and props.

In 1953, the Rockwell family moved from Arlington, Vermont, to Stockbridge, Massachusetts. Six years later, Mary Barstow Rockwell died unexpectedly. In collaboration with his son Thomas, Rockwell published his autobiography, My Adventures as an Illustrator, in 1960. The Saturday Evening Post carried excerpts from the best-selling book in eight consecutive issues, with Rockwell's Triple Self-Portrait on the cover of the first.

In 1961, Rockwell married Molly Punderson, a retired teacher. Two years later, he ended his 47-year association with The Saturday Evening Post and began to work for Look magazine. During his 10-year association with Look, Rockwell painted pictures illustrating some of his deepest concerns and interests, including civil rights, America's war on poverty, and the exploration of space.

So much has been written about Rockwell, including his own autobiography, that his life would seem to be a closed case. But he receives a fascinating rethinking in Deborah Solomon's American Mirror: The Life and Art of Norman Rockwell, in which she makes a case for his homoerotic desires.

Although she can't conclusively prove that Rockwell had sex with men, she makes an argument that he "demonstrated an intense need for emotional and physical closeness with men" and that his unhappy marriages were attempts at "passing" and "controlling his homoerotic desires." Rockwell also had a close bond with the openly gay artist J.C. Leyendecker and his gay brother, Frank, also an artist, and counted himself as the "one true friend" the brothers had. As Solomon states, "it was both an artistic apprenticeship and an unclassifiable romantic crush." According to Solomon Rockwell went on to have close relationships with his studio assistants (even sleeping in the same bed with one on an extended camping trip) and created his own version of idealized boyhood beauty.

While digging into his back story, Solomon offers sensitive close readings of some of his well-known works that smack of homoeroticism but have been cherished (and sanitized) for their depiction of all-American values. For example, when she points out that in the beloved portrait of a young boy seated next to a police officer at a diner counter, "The Runaway," the cop can be seen as a "figure of tantalizing masculinity, a muscle man in a skin-tight uniform and boots," it's almost as if we're seeing a proto-Tom of Finland emerge before our eyes. In this analysis, it's not only a painting that represents a desire for both independence and security, it shows the tenderness between men (of any age) and encapsulates the complicated life and desires of an artist many have written off as a proselytizer of an American dream that didn't include them. According to Solomon, Rockwell was constantly yearning for another ideal, of youthful male beauty, that always seemed to lie beyond reach.

I'm all for taking a close look into history and uncovering evidence that a historical figure may have been gay; however, this is one instance where I tend to think that Solomon is making a bit of a stretch.  I personally have never viewed Norman Rockwell's work as homoerotic, but as idealistic Americana.  I certainly see no traces of a Tom of Finland police officer in the doughy 1950s officer of "The Runaway."    I will admit that I have not read Deborah Solomon's book nor have I had the chance to evaluate the evidence, but it seems like pure speculation to me.  American Mirror has produced a fair amount of controversy, so I do not think I am alone in finding fault with Solomon's assumptions.

Patrick Toner, a professor at Wake Forest University, wrote:
In her new biography, however, Deborah Solomon presents a Rockwell we might not be inclined to love so much. Her most shocking claim is that he was sexually attracted to young boys. Almost equally shocking, but more subtle, is her suggestion that Rockwell's self-absorption had a body count—his behavior led directly or indirectly to at least three ugly deaths.

There is no reason to go along with Solomon about these things. As I'll show, her arguments—such as they are—are deeply flawed, and she has a pronounced tendency to either distort or ignore evidence to the contrary of her claims. As her interpretation of Rockwell himself is irremediably flawed, so is her interpretation of his art. Hers is a book without merit.
Toner continues by stating:
Her evidence for Rockwell's pedophilia consists of three intertwined claims: First, he paints a lot of boys. Second, he forms strong relationships with some of the boys who serve as models for these paintings. Third, some of these paintings are sexually suggestive. Solomon thinks that pedophilia serves as the best unifying explanation for these claims. I doubt even that, but even if it were the case, there are problems with all three.
Toner's review of American Mirror is quite long but interesting.  From what I have read, it seems as if Solomon had a particular agenda, probably for publicity, in writing her Rockwell biography.  It seems that sensationalism is what sells biographies these days, and Solomon has certainly written what seems to be a sensational book.  The fact is, if Norman Rockwell was homosexual, there seems no way of proving it except through speculation.  I doubt it would surprise many people if one of America's greatest artists was gay, because let's face it, most of history's great artists were.  However, I think Rockwell would have probably painted a new version of the picture below to answer the questions of his sexuality:

In "The Gossips," a Saturday Evening Post cover from March 6, 1948, it seems Rockwell had a neighbor who started a disagreeable rumor about him. What can one do about a nasty gossip? Well, if you are a famous illustrator, you can paint a cover about it.  It started with just a couple of people, then it just grew, leaving Rockwell in need of more models. The result, said the editors, is that we see "almost the entire adult population of Arlington, Vermont." As he worked on the project, the artist worried that his friends and neighbors might be offended, so he included his wife and himself. Mary Rockwell is second and third in the third row, spreading the rumor via rotary phone. In the gray felt hat in the bottom row is, of course, the artist himself (you can click on the image for a close-up). You'll notice the lady at the end is the one at the beginning who started the rumor, and our friend Rockwell appears to be giving her a piece of his mind. Apparently, the neighbor who started the rumor in real life never spoke to Rockwell again. I have a feeling it was no great loss.

StagHomme: Damien Crosse and Wagner Vittoria fuck each other in “The Handyman”
10.03.2014 , Manspotting.net
Stag Homme: Damien Crosse and Wagner Vittoria flip fuck in

Muscle studs Wagner Vittoria and Damien Crosse bang each other in this scene from StagHomme.com.

Stag Homme: Damien Crosse and Wagner Vittoria flip fuck in
Stag Homme: Damien Crosse and Wagner Vittoria flip fuck in
Stag Homme: Damien Crosse and Wagner Vittoria flip fuck in

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Stag Homme
ASSault – Part 1
10.03.2014 , Gay Bondage Fiction

A blond biker is abducted by two horny men who tie him up and rape him.
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ASSault – Part 1
by Unknown
Series: ASSault

assaultThe sun was climbing to it’s zenith and the heat rolled in heavy waves off the blacktop road which stretched for miles into the distance. Bill gave a tug at his crotch and wiped the sweat from his eyes as he manhandled the big Harley out of the flat desert floor into the gentle rise that signaled the start of the foothills. They swelled in the haze ahead to towering snow-capped peaks. “It’ll be tougher cycling,” thought Bill, “but maybe some relief from this heat.” He’d been deadheading these past two days in order to get through the desert on his cross-country camping trip. It had been a meandering trip up and down, in and out of side roads, leisurely exploring any way that struck his fancy.

The road started rising more noticeably now and patches of trees and greenery began replacing the scrub brush he had become accustomed to. After two more hours he was well into the hills and the desert was dropping behind. The cool breeze felt great on his hot dust-streaked body. The sweat ran down and pooled in his crotch and the crack of his ass. His jock and the seat of his jeans were soaked through, and in away it felt good. The vibration of the roaring motor seemed to form a bond between his damp ass and the hot leather seat, making him feel almost as if he were a part of the sleek black and chrome machine. Idly he reached down and stroked his cock, which had swollen full and fat, trying to push up under his wide leather belt.

The cycle had slowed on a steep grade, and Bill pulled to a complete halt by a wide arching bridge where he breathed deep of the fresh air and looked down at the clear running river in the canyon below him.

At the far side of the bridge he noticed a rutty dirt road winding its way down the canyon wall to the green-lined riverbed. On the spur of the moment Bill revved up the bike and swung his wheels onto the narrow dirt trail. The descent was steep at first, but leveled off as he neared the bottom. He idled along the dirt lane, which had become ridged and bumpy like a washboard, probably from the last spring flood. He sort of enjoyed the way his balls bounced on the hot seat as he made his way toward a quiet secluded grove of trees with thick, sweet-smelling grass forming a soft carpet running to the river. The water rippled over flat slab rocks jutting half in and half out of the current.

Bill pulled over to the trees, but before dismounting, bounced a few times on the soft leather seat, enjoying the pressure on his balls, and feeling his cock push up under his belt as if it too were stretching after a long hard ride. After fondling himself for a while he unmounted. In a few minutes his gear had been unloaded and camp set up. Stripping down to his sweaty, stinking jock, he fished a chamois out of his pack and carefully wiped the road dust from the Harley. After lovingly cleaning his rig he ran to the river, pushed out of his tight jock, and splashed into the water.

Bill romped and frolicked for a while, then washed the dust out of his curly blond hair which now hung limply to the base of his neck. With the sweat and grime washed from his muscular, hairless frame his eyes seemed to have been cleared of a dusty film, as they now shown an almost iridescent blue, reflecting the color of the sky and water. The swiftly running current refreshed Bill and as he stood in the shallows he glanced at his own reflection. He saw a 6′ 2″ frame, deeply tanned, smooth, muscled arms, broad chest and shoulders, tapering to a trim waist and tight thighs that merged into the shimmering waters.

He lowered his eyes to the reflection of his pendulous balls and fat cock jutting hard and full up toward his stomach.Having been stimulated for so many hours on the bike, his cock had remained hard since setting up the camp, and now throbbed urgently for attention.Wanting to prolong the pleasure of the moment, Bill stretched out on his stomach on a nearby rock slab and felt the heat stored there caress his cock and balls like a warm hand. He closed his fist over his swollen cock and caressed it slowly up and down its heavy 8 1/2 inch length as lovingly as he had cleaned the Harley.

Quickly he flipped on his back — the hot sting of the rocks on the cheeks of his ass somehow felt good and added to his stimulation. Stretching out he closed his eyes, tensed his body and began whacking away at his blood-gorged prick in earnest. It didn’t take but a few minutes of this and Bill felt his balls tighten up under his cock and with a mighty, Unnnghh,” he convulsed, toes curled tightly, and shot wad after wad of hot, creamy cum into the air.

The first shot flew over his head into the river, more hit the rock behind his head with a sizzle and the rest splattered his mouth, chin, and chest before the hot spasms puddled the last remaining drops into the golden curls surrounding his still stiff cock.Fulfilled for the moment, he licked his own cum from his lips, lazily rolled onto his stomach, closed his eyes, and gently drifted off into a deep sleep.

Bill was pleasantly aware of having just come and he wallowed in the sensual warmth he had just experienced, all the while clutching his cock in a loving caress. After a while he dreamt that he was sleeping on a beach and that a warm tide was lapping at his ass. He liked the feeling and wriggled his ass in enjoyment; even letting out a soft sigh while raising his ass a bit so the warm flow of water could wash his tight puckered asshole. With a start he realized he wasn’t dreaming. “How could this be?” he thought, “I’m camped by a river — there’s no tide here, and the water is cold, not warm like what’s splashing on my ass!”

His eyes snapped open and stared at two large black lumps on either side of his head that hadn’t been there before.As his eyes came into focus, the lumps resolved themselves into two heavy, scuffed, black boots. He swiveled his neck to see what was splashing his ass, but in a flash, one of the boots slammed between his shoulders, forcing him flat on the rock. Bill had caught a fleeting glimpse of a big hulk of a guy standing at his heels with his Levis pulled open. In his hand he held his huge, flaccid cock, and from its broad, almost smiling head he was sending a hard, warm stream of piss straight at Bill’s asshole.

“Well, sleepin’ beauty is with us again Ed,” said the guy holding Bill down with the boot. “Yeah Chuck, guess this golden shower is ticklin’ his fancy.” Bill struggled under the heavy weight of the boot, but again was forced down flat. “What the hell is…” he started to shout, but was cut off in mid-sentence when Ed reached over, picked up the sweaty jock Bill had dropped earlier, balled it up and stuffed it into Bill’s mouth. “That ought to keep sweet-ass quiet for a while,” snickered Chuck.

With that, Ed and Chuck pulled Bill to his feet and dragged him over to the camp. They pulled two leather tent thongs from his gear and lashed his ankles together. This done, they pushed him headlong to the ground and stood smugly over him.Chuck with one boot on the cheeks of Bill’s ass, which swelled ripely like two melons, grossly rubbed the swollen bulge in his Levis. The fabric had been worn thin and where it stretched tautly, covering the huge basket, but barely hiding the outline of the monster cock that was hidden there. Ed’s cock still hung limply from his open fly, and while a few last drops of piss dripped slowly into Bill’s hair, he fished down deeply to pull out his plum-sized balls so they hung loose below his free-swinging cock.

“Wheeoo!” Ed cried, “Ain’t we just about stepped in some Lady Luck shit today. We ripped off that little ‘ole doctor’s car, bag and all, filled with all those groovy high-o-high pills We come a sneakin’ down this dirt trail to loose the fuzz and find this sweet young ass stickin’ up in the sun, jus’ waitin’ to be plucked. Chuck, ole buddy boy, we’re goin’t’ have one sweet fuckin’ time for ourselves–startin’ right now.”

“Hell man,” Chuck answered, “I’m with you. Hey, look how the kid is starin’ kinda bug-eyed.Wait’ll he gets an eyefull of what we’re packin’ in our pants.” He looked down at Bill and smiled evilly, saying, “Man you ain’t seen meat till you see what we got–and baby, just relax ’cause you’re gonna get every hungry inch we got, six ways to Sunday.”

With that Ed and Chuck ripped off their clothes, throwing boots, leather jackets, T-shirts, and Levis every which way till they both stood there, balls-ass naked, flexing their magnificently muscled bodies in the crisp, fresh air.

They pulled Bill over between two trees and retied one ankle to each tree, spread-eagleing him so that the brownish pucker of his asshole was barely hidden between his rounded ass cheeks. They shoved his sleeping bag, which was still rolled up, under his stomach so that even though Bill’s ankles were still tethered to the trees, he was up on his knees with his stomach bent over the sleeping bag, which supported the weight of his body. His face was level with Ed’s still flaccid cock, which he had glimpsed briefly when it was pissing on his ass. Ed was playing lightly with his own balls, and the cock above them was half fluffed. Even soft though, it still hung down a good eight inches from the root. Bill’s stomach churned in fear. Although he had fooled around with the guys at school, he was scared of these two, especially since they were hopped up on pills. He had never seen a cock that was that big while it was still soft. How the hell big can it be hard? he asked himself.

“Oh baby,” Ed croaked, “You’re gonna start on this prick nice and easy. Take it in that hot little mouth of yours and work it ’round to get the juices started. You do like we say and you’ll be OK You don’t and you’re in for big trouble.Unnerstan?” Bill was frozen with fear and just lay there staring. Chuck, standing behind, pulled the belt from Bill’s pants and, with a resounding THWACK, laid it, full force, across Bill’s ass. The flesh quivered and twitched under the blow, and a rosy welt quickly swelled across both cheeks.”The man said ‘unnderstan’” he growled, “you understand now kid, or you want some more explanation?” Bill’s fright was heightened by the blow and he decided to go along with them some in order to save his skin, so he nodded a shaky OK. “That’s better,” smiled Ed, as he pulled the jock out of Bill’s mouth.

Ed knotted his fists in the long blond hair on top of Bill’s head and gently pulled him forward. He positioned himself in front of Bill, braced his legs apart, bent his knees slightly, and pushed his ass back a bit. This maneuver brought his cock to rest on Bill’s lips and he brushed it back and forth a few times, enjoying the thrill of first contact. “Open up baby and work that meat like it was your momma’s tit,” he cooed. As Bill opened his mouth, Ed straightened his legs. With this motion the cock slipped easily into the hot, moist warmth. “Ohhh, baby, that feels so good,” Ed whispered. “Now, work it around with your tongue.” Bill obeyed and felt the hot cock start to grow in jerking swells within his mouth. Ed started a slow push-pull motion with his ass and in seconds his cock was leaping out to its full eleven inches. As the fat monster swelled and gorged in Bill’s mouth, Ed backed off some, leaving about six inches jutting into those hot lips. Meanwhile, Chuck, standing at Bill’s feet, watching his buddy’s cock grow in the hot home it had found, was turning on to the shiny spit which coated Ed’s cock each time it was pulled from Bill’s mouth. He hawked up a good handful and stood there rubbing it up and down the length of his own shaft.

Bill’s fears eased a bit as he noticed how Ed withdrew some of his ever-lengthening cock, so that what was left in his mouth was comfortable and he was able to handle it with no problem. Suddenly, Ed gripped Bill’s hair tighter and started pumping his cock faster into the mouth. Each stroke came in a little deeper than the last and soon Ed was striking the back of Bill’s throat, making him gag. This caused Bill to clamp down a bit and his teeth grazed the swollen invader. A resounding slap to his cheek completely knocked his mouth away from Ed’s cock and he gasped for breath.

Ed hissed, “You relax and open up kid and keep your dammed teeth clear of my cock.” With this he grabbed Bill’s ears and pulled his head back into position over his prick. Bill eyed it warily. This was the first time he’d seen it fully hard, barely an inch from his nose, pulsing erect at its full eleven inches, thick, massive, heavy, and throbbing. He opened his mouth to an ‘O’ pulling his teeth as far back under his lips as he could. Ed released one ear, only long enough to push his cock down until the head again plopped between Bill’s lips. He grabbed the ear again and eased his cock in five or six inches–in again, out again, then, grabbing Bill’s head harder, gave a mighty heave, pushed his ass forward, and with a hefty drive and grunt, forced the fat monster clear down Bill’s throat. Bill let out a muffled, “Mmmmngh,” as Ed continuously drove his cock in and out of Bill’s throat, pulling out only two or three inches before battering his way down the tight passage again. Bill was gasping for breath when Ed finally pulled the spit-slicked shaft completely out. “Man, that’s more like it,” he muttered.

Chuck, standing behind Bill, watched the goings-on and had gotten all worked up. When he released his cock from his fist it sprang up and swatted against his stomach, staying erect and throbbing, pointing almost straight up. “Shit man,” he exclaimed, ” I got to get me some too.” He knelt down and started to knead the tightly packed asscheeks spread before him. “Hey Ed, think I should let the kid see this rod before I plug him?” “Nah Chuck,” Ed replied, “why don’t you just slip it in and let him guess how big it is.”Chuck grinned as he spit a gob to smear Bill’s ass. He worked his free hand up and down his rigid shaft. It was a sight to behold… not quite as long as Ed’s eleven inches, but fat, fat, and fatter.

The head came to a blunt point, but it quickly swelled to the size of a ripe pear. After a slight narrowing just behind the crown, the smooth, ivory-white gleaming shaft swelled from just a little more than two-and-a-half inches, just behind the head, to an incredible three-and-a-half inches at the base. It was even more impressive because, unlike a lot of big cocks that were soft and mushy, never getting really hard, Chuck’s cock was like a steel rod. Hanging there it looked like a milk bottle stuck out from his crotch.

He slobbered more spit all around Bill’s ass, working a finger or two in to get it good and slick. He felt Bill’s ass tense at the invasion, but squeezed the plump cheeks to calm him and warned him what would happen if he didn’t cooperate.He slicked up his cock again with more spit and rubbed it in good. The he spread the mounds wide apart and grinned as he caught his first real sight of the moist, puckered hole, now glistening in the sun. He eased forward and the head of his cock pressed in against the pouting lips. He pulled back once, then pressed steadily forward as the head started to slip in. The lips of Bill’s ass unfolded and clenched the cockhead in a wet embrace. Bill moaned as the invading prick spread him wide. He had never been fucked before and the initial pleasure which the first half-inch of head gave soon turned to discomfort, then downright pain as Chuck inched forward. He wriggled his ass and tried to slide sideways, but a crack of the belt across his ass stopped the movement.

Chuck pulled Bill roughly into position and rested there a minute. The sharp slap of the belt had momentarily diverted Bill’s attention from the ripping pain and Chuck had used it to good advantage to slip the whole head in. The ass muscles clenched tightly just below the head at the shaft’s narrowest point and Bill breathed freer as the pain eased off somewhat.

Chuck’s mouth twisted into an evil leer and he nodded to Ed who stood ready with his prick in front of Bill’s mouth. The muscles of Chuck’s ass squeezed tight and with one mighty heave he shoved with all his strength and drove the huge cock clear into Bill’s hot, sticky bowels. As he did so, he lunged forward, grabbing Bill by the hips, pushing him down so as to hold his ass in place. Tears welled in Bill’s eyes as he raised his head and screamed in agony. While his head was thrown back and his mouth wide open, Ed grabbed his hair and pulled his head clear down the length of his shaft, burying the rod deep in Bill’s throat. With that, both men started a deep fucking rhythm; Chuck plunging relentlessly in and out, in and out, of the ravaged ass. Spiralling first left, then right, pushing up and down, and forced head-long, straight in, the huge monster stretched and split the virgin ass. Meanwhile, Ed’s cock was on a rampage in Bills throat. It flew in and out with incredible speed, barely allowing Bill time to gulp a breath of air into his bursting lungs. Faster and faster they fucked. Sweat dripped from their brows onto the quivering body being mercilessly assaulted beneath them. Chuck’s monster milk-bottle cock pounded away, battering Bill’s prostate on each inward stroke, then slipping past, forcing its way around the bend in his bowels again and again.

The bombardment on his prostate caused Bill’s cock to swell and throb in spite of the agony he was in. In spite of himself, the sensations ravaging his body made his head reel. His cock was not fully hard under him, but each plunge of Chuck’s prick made him feel like he was going to piss… no, cum… no, piss… he strained to shit the huge invader from his guts. His muscles tensed and strained. His muffled grunts, forced involuntarily from his body by each thrust from both ends were matched by the much louder animal groans from the two rapists. The air was filled with the shouts and growls of the assaulters. “Oh, fuck baby–fuck, fuck, fuck. It’s so hot and tight. Take it–take that fuckin’ cock up your ass now, ungh… now, ungh…again… ‘n again UNGH! Oh man, look at that big mother cock fuckin’ the shit out of your face. Go Ed baby, go, go, gooo!”

Ed, in turn, twisted his cock down the constricted throat sending thrills through his whole body.”Yeah baby! That’s the way. That’s so good! All the way kid. Go Chuck! Shove that cock clear through his stomach.”

The assault went on relentlessly, Both studs shouting each other on. “Go Chuck go! Fuck his ass dry!” “Come on Ed, I’m getting ready to shoot.” “Me too buddy boy!” “Ungh… ungh… UNGH!”"Arghhhhh” “I’m coming… I’m CUUM-M-M-M-inggggg…” “Ohhhh.”

Both cocks exploded simultaneously. Chuck flooded Bill’s ass with a burning hot enema of cum and Ed’s cock jumped in spasms, buried deep in Bill’s throat sending a torrent of cum straight down the tight passage. Ed pulled hard on Bill’s head, burying his nose in his crotch hairs while he grunted and panted, breathless and drained as the final spasms forced the last drops up and out of his shaft.

Even after he had come, Chuck continued to batter Bill’s ass with his mammoth cock. “Shit… piss… cum… Oh! ! Oh! ! ! ! Oh! !”Bill cried. “Oh! ! ! Fuck! fuck! fuck! FUCK ME-E-E.e.eee… Argh… OH-H-H-H.h.h.hhhhh…” And, in spite of himself, Bill shot a huge sticky wad of cum in unison with the ramming that Chuck’s prick still forced on his ravaged ass.

They all lay still, breathing hard for a minute, then together both monster cocks were pulled free in one quick jerk. Bill gasped as his ass opened as if to shit out a monster turd and then quickly snapped shut, leaving just a trickle of cum leaking out and dribbling down his leg.

Chuck kicked the sleeping bag out from under Bill and Bill fell forward, exhausted, aching and drained. Ed and Chuck sprawled on their backs, slick cocks lying limply over their thighs while they floated free on their pill-fed highs. The three bodies sprawled motionless for a while, then the two rapists stirred, roused by the stimulants coursing through their veins.

To be continued……


Council Estates Sex Addicts Issac Jones and Jake Reed Flip Fuck
10.03.2014 , AlphaMales.com Blog

Issac Jones, one of the most beautiful men ever seen on film, is extremely. So horny, in fact that he decides to play a dangerous game of cruising the council estates in search of some straight dick. Spying a hot fucker walk past, giving off all the right signs for our handsome man, Issac follows Jake Reed upstairs. Aware he’s been followed, Jake awaits, shirtless and with his dick out. And what a beautify of a dick it is! Massive, hard, and waiting to slide down a hungry throat, Jake is soon fucked Issac’s throat. Both guys have amazing bodies. While Issac has dark hair, dark eyes, hot stubble and a ripped torso covered in awesome tribal tattoos, Jake is smooth and toned with washboard abs and pecs you just want to bite. And did we mention they’ve got two of the most gorgeous dicks we’ve ever seen? Trust us. You’ll want these inside your hungry holes! The scene will drive you insane and your screen will probably be foggy with steam as these hot fuckers get down and dirty with each another. Issac sticks his tongue deep into Jake’s squatting hole and the sight is pure heaven. As Issac proceeds to fuck, his already buff body working up a sweat as his twists and pounds, both musclebound studs get hotter, hornier and sweatier. In the end, they’re completely covered in sweat and spunk, breathless from the intense orgasms had all around and no doubt, you will be, too! Oh, and from what we’ve heard, lately Jake is now no longer straight. Or should we say, now that Issac’s opened his ass up to new experiences, the hung fucker cruises around from time to time in search of other straight men to debauch and deprave.

Testosterone Filled Trio Rocco Banks, Carlo Cox and Trojan Rock
10.03.2014 , WorldofMen.com Blog

Rocco Banks attempts to cheat Carlo Cox and Trojan Rock but the two muscle hunks are on to him. They give the tattooed stud his just desserts by turning the otherwise top guy into a sniveling, cock hungry bottom! They do their job well and Rocco enjoys every moment of his so-called “punishment.” Spit roasted between the two, with beefy Trojan rimming his ass and Carlo ramming his thick cock down his throat, Rocco is well and truly used in the horniest sense of the word! Tag teamed fucked until they blow their loads, Rocco is going to think twice before trying to cheat anyone else. Then again, if the men he tries to cheat are anything like Carlo and Trojan, maybe he WILL want to do it again?