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

Man Wanted: The sign on the flyblown restaurant window read: ‘Man Wanted’. To Chester, it had a double meaning, being on the run from the Law. To Russell, it had a double meaning also, needing a man to help out around his place, and his person. The wide-open spaces of 1930s Arizona sheltered all kinds of secrets, some of the best kinds.

Hood: What do you do when a young, hung man washes up on your private beach? Take him for a swim, of course, in the lake and in your bathtub. Take him deep and hard, and then deeper, and harder, until he stops making with the questions for good.

Nailed By Noir: One man’s raging Noir fetish suddenly becomes dark, dripping, black and white reality, when ‘Danger’ shows up on his doorstep.

Owner-Operator: He wrecked his truck a couple of months back, hasn’t got the cash for a new one, and his driving record is a little bumpy. So he came to Northern Roads Trucking, the discount outfit that runs on winter roads up north that are nothing more than frozen ruts on a lake, summer roads full of more craters than the moon, stocking the remotest reserves and docking at the crummiest tin can terminals. Could he handle that? ‘Let’s ride,’ was his response to the big, grizzled guy in charge.

Rendezvous in Porcelain: He was using the occasion of the week after his eighteenth birthday to attempt to progress on his personal journey to flaming gaydom, by staking out the men’s washroom/changeroom at the local beach that had a reputation for being a meet/meat market. But after four straight days of beach bumming, he’d gotten nothing more than a few glimpses of shrivelled prick at the urinals and one raging sunburn. Until the Nubian god’s bladder reached maximum capacity, that is.

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

Man Wanted
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Chester couldn’t quite peg the guy. Russell didn’t say anything to him the rest of that day, and halfway through the next. And he wasn’t sure what, if anything, to say, or what to do.
He could hit the bricks again; but if the guys he’d pulled the heist with, Whitey Fleming and Dumbo Dombrowski, were really off on a wild goose chase down south, then right here just might be the safest place for him. So long as Russell didn’t believe that he actually had any of that payroll loot that had gone up in flames when the cops drove him off the road on his way to the rendezvous point to divvy things up with the boys. Or Russell didn’t get an even worse idea – like turning him into the authorities. And what if the boys came back and found him here, found that Russell had deliberately given them the bum steer? That would be the end of both of them.
Chester polished a malt glass at the lunch counter, staring absently out the restaurant’s front window at the lonely highway, thinking maybe taking a powder was the best bet, after all – for all concerned.
It was another blistering, cloudless day, the temperature outside 110, inside: 120. Sweat plastered his white shirt to his body, his face shiny with the stuff. He was really feeling the heat now.
‘Business is deader than that possum out on the road, huh?’
Chester almost dropped the glass. He looked around through the open service counter at Russell in the kitchen. ‘Uh, yeah, it’s quiet enough to hear a confession in here.’
‘Think I’ll grab a cold one.’ Russell pushed through the swinging door and slipped in behind the lunch counter.
It was a tight squeeze. And he never made it all the way to the small ice chest of Cokes just to the right of where Chester was standing. Because as he went to go by, the front of his jeans brushed over the back of Chester’s pants, over the man’s firm, mounded buttocks. And his cock lodged in between.
Chester stiffened, feeling Russell’s heavy prick pressing into and filling his crack, the provocative butt cleavage that was outlined and valleyed by the tight, white, cotton pants he was wearing. Feeling Russell’s hot body so close, the man’s musky cologne filling his nostrils and dizzying his head. He held his breath, sweat trickling down his forehead and stinging his eyes, the glass shaking in his trembling hands – waiting for Russell to move on by … or stay and play.
And then he felt it: Russell’s cock growing, hardening where it’d become trapped. He softly moaned, and gently pushed back, pressing his plump cheeks into Russell’s hard thighs, enveloping the man’s delightfully swelling cock. As Russell pushed forward, sandwiching his sledge of a dick deeper in between Chester’s buttocks.
A thrill shot through both men, jolting them together, the heat stifling, the accommodation crowded, but not crowded enough. Chester arched his back, and Russell grabbed onto him and pulled him even closer.
He clutched Chester’s heaving chest, fingered stiff nipples through thin, white cotton, breathing down the guy’s neck and rocking his hips, grinding his slab of meat into Chester’s cushiony crack. As Chester moaned and leaned his head back on the man’s shoulder, undulating his ass, massaging that thunder cock to its full size and strength, where it pressed pulsatingly in between his tingling buttocks.
He gasped, ‘I … I just want to tell you that …’
‘Don’t tell me nothin’!’ Russell hissed into his reddened ear. ‘I don’t wanna hear it.’
He grabbed Chester’s shirt and tore it open, buttons bursting, rattling against the counter and down onto the tiled floor. Then he bit into Chester’s slender, white neck, pumping his cock against Chester’s well-formed ass, hands grasping and squeezing bare, furry pecs, fingers pinching and rolling exposed, pink nipples. Chester closed his eyes and groaned, fully giving himself up to the man, his body gone molten, cock a length of poured steel in his pants; cares melted away.

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