A collection of five erotic gay stories with explicit male on male action by Landon Dixon.

Campus See-curity: I’m a security guard. My beat is a second-rate college; my job, usually about as exciting as a Cop Rock re-run. One night, however, things really did heat up, and my nightstick got more than its usual palm piloting. This is how it went down.

Golden Boys: 1898, the Klondike – the gold rush! Jack ‘Tip’ Taylor – miner, adventurer, stock promoter, mule-skinner, sled dog musher and infamous con man – is on the trail of the Goldtwinkle Twins, Tommy Mulray and Dag Grunthle. And while he admires their body-mining technique, on one another, what he lusts after even more is the golden contents of their bulging saddlebags.

Hardboiled: Schiller is taking Hardboiled American Literature of the 1930’s, but his mind just can’t stop wandering in class, fantasizing about sexy Professor Convey. Because although the impressionable young student appreciates the hardboiled scribblings of Horace McCoy, Edward Anderson, James M. Cain and Raymond Chandler, he appreciates the hard, boiled body and hot good looks of Professor Convey even more. So, he carries his class observations out into the field, for some up-close and personal research on the hunky educator.

Dicked: A private dick surveils a scene he never wanted to see: his boyfriend getting cock-whacked by a bad-ass biker-type. He buries himself in his work to ease the pain, a woman after evidence that her husband is cheating on her with another woman. Only, things aren’t what they seem in this twisted case, and the dick’s pay-off is something entirely unexpected.

Hit On Me: ‘There was All-American athlete-academic Lester – naked as the break of day and twice as bright and beautiful. His muscular, water-washed body gleamed on full display through the clear-paned shower door. He was soaping up his ebony physique almost exactly as I’d fantasized, the needle spray of heated water cascading over his handsome, fine-featured face, his powerful, mouth-watering torso.’ A crunching tackle during a pick-up football game leads to some further rough play on the home field.

These stories have also been published in Hot Tales of Gay Lust Two 9781908192462

Hit On Me
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I’m a security guard. My beat is a second-rate college; my job, usually about as exciting as a Cop Rock re-run. One night, however, things really did heat up, and my nightstick got more than its usual palm piloting. This is how it went down.
My boss, Colonel Klink to the boys in blue polyester, told me to investigate reports of items getting stolen from the women’s locker room in the athletic centre. So, I stashed my baloney-and-cheese-on-rye out of reach of his long arm and big mouth, and made tracks for the gym. The men’s basketball team was practicing on the polished hardwood, and I stopped momentarily to give a brisk visual-frisking to the sweaty boys in their white shorts and blue tanks. Then I shifted my private’s eye into the women’s locker room.
I found nothing suspicious – other than the usual bra stuffings, nipple clip-ons and cameltoe enhancers – so I sidled on into the men’s locker room, found more of the same. I decided to next check the crawlspace between the two shower rooms. And when I opened the trap door and dropped down onto the ground floor, I found that somebody else was already there ahead of me: a college boy!
‘Explain yourself!’ I barked, making rapid observational notes of his glossy black hair and liquid brown eyes, trim, tight body, pert buttocks and poking nipples.
The freshie looked at me unconcernedly, placed a slender digit up against his full-bodied lips and said, ‘Shhh!’ Then he sprang up onto his tip-toes and applied his eye to the outside wall of one of the shower rooms.
I made a brief, butt-thorough survey of his hot young body for weapons of any kind, and came away with a second baton tenting my pants. The size-small cutie was scantily and sexily attired in a cheerleading get-up, his slender legs spilling like spun caramel out of the bottom of his stretchy blue shorts, his smooth brown arms bare in a team white shirt that stretched tight across his chest and nipples. ‘Step away, son,’ I commanded.
He glanced at me, actually heeded my authoritative thunder, and moved back.
I shuffled forward in the tight enclosure to investigate, found a ragged peephole. The horny cheer-boy obviously liked to watch, probably secretly ogling the babes with the labes as they showered, I figured.
I pressed my orbital bone to the hole in the wall in order to rubber-stamp my suspicions, but saw nothing but wet tile and feet. The skin-sighter was only about twelve inches above floor level, so I tilted my eyeball heavenward and everything suddenly became a whole lot clearer, and a whole hell of a lot more exciting; for I was witnessing a couple of round-ballers scrubbing their long, lean bodies under the cascading hot water. This was the men’s shower room, the ebony-skinned players sporting dangling dicks from their sudsed-up pubes.
‘Sweet John Law,’ I muttered, watching the gleaming guys sensuously soap and rinse.
So, my peeping-tom was a man-lover, like myself. As I digested that queer bit of information, and was about to turn and confront the petite perp in the name of duty, I felt a soft, warm hand reach around and seize my hardened length of steel.
‘Keep right on looking, Officer,’ the lusty lad breathed in my ear, buffing the rigid outline of my sex pistol.
He pressed close, his hot bod melting my tin badge on the other side, the tangy-sweet scent of his perspiration and body spray clogging my nostrils and dizzying my head. I had a job to do, but something had come up of an even greater imperative. So I stood there and stared at the men up-front rubbing their bodies in the fine-needled spray, as the young man in behind rubbed my cock in a manner most fine.
I groaned, body flooding with heat, dick with maximum blood. And then the spy-guy suddenly dropped to his knees and unzipped me. I moved back a bit, to allow him to squirm in between the shower room wall and my blue-striped legs, get eye-to-eye with my ram-rod. But I never broke surveillance of the two showering liquorice hunks in the adjoining tiled playpen.
‘My name’s Sergio, by the way,’ the brunette boy-toy said from between my lower limbs. He dragged my cock out of my fly-opening, the unconcealed weapon hard as fourth year quantum physics.
‘Chad!’ I grunted in reply. As Sergio clutched and stroked my laid-bare meat-club with his hot little brown hand. I just had to look down in appreciation.
‘Nice to meet you, Officer Chad,’ he said, looking up, tugging long and tight. Before sticking out a tongue as brilliantly pink as the inside of a girly snatch and slapping the wet mouth organ against my cock helmet.
‘Officer downed,’ I gasped, just about loud enough for the glistening gems on the other side of the wall to hear me.
They didn’t, though. Because as I stuck my eye back into the peephole, I saw that they were now joined by the rest of the squad – ten pushing and shoving and laughing college team players as bare and buff as the first two, their hard bodies on display made absolutely delectable with a splash of water and a swipe of soap. I hadn’t seen so much wet, cocky flesh since the time I’d rescued a pack of naked fraternity pledges from the lampposts they’d been duct-taped to during Hurricane Andrew.
Sergio swirled his slick tongue under and over and around my swollen dickhead, making my balls tighten and pulse race. Then he pasted the raging member up against my uniform pants and licked up and down the throbbing shaft, wet-stroking my flesh-stick like it was a melting Popsicle on a hot summer-school day.
‘Suck me, baby,’ I groaned, feeling every wicked tongue-drag all through my body and soul, ogling the steamy twelve-man shower scene.
Sergio gripped my extendable pole at the base and pulled it down like a campus election lever, swallowed my mushroomed cap in his sultry red mouth and started sucking. My knees buckled like when I’d gotten my SAT scores.

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