Dr. W. A. Frost's Ides of Revolution

  He is so fuckin hot. Elijah Toussaint. What a stud. You’ve come to the same gym for years, and the moment you saw him join the club, you were hooked. Laid back, cocky, a little rowdy, but you know he has some sort of energy about him that you find entirely irresistible. Every now and again he nods his head at you, acknowledging your presence at least, and for a while that was enough. The butterflies you had in your stomach lasted all day until you could get home and shoot the tension right out into your rag. The way that ripped, tatted body glistens with sweat when the light hits him, those light minty eyes that sparkle like gems, the wet hot musk that trails behind him as he passes… every inch of him is a present just waiting to be unwrapped. It wasn’t long before that little nod and piercing glance just didn’t satisfy you the way it used to. So you had to up the ante a bit. After his lifting, leaving his sticky sweat all over the benches, he always retreats to the basketball court

Wonderland was bumpin. It wasn’t the first time that Russell had gone, but it certainly was the most packed he’d seen it in a long time. The twink was making his usual rounds, looking for his target. It was always the same idea: scan the room, most of the time there will be some big lonely bear at the bar with a wallet as fat as his belly, and in his mind, the money was better off with someone who knew how to spend it. To Russell, it was a means to an end. To get money, you have to get money, and this was the quickest and easiest way. He was callous, vain, self centered… but above all he was a user. From his little perch in the corner, he browsed like he was selecting a piece of meat at the grocery store. There was the big tubbster at the end of the bar, surely at least drinks for the night. Grinding on the dancefloor were two muscle daddies that surely would be down for a threesome, for a price. Or better yet, the pencil pushing husband who’s trying to hide his wedding ring: all good

  His boots lay discarded on the floor, the wafting scent of an entire day on the construction site filling the room. It was the weekly treat that Robbie looked forward to most: the wet, sweet-sour-salty mansmell of his master’s ripe footsweat. Naked and on his hands and knees before the chiseled, musky dom, he waited eagerly for the green light to bury his face in those steel toes. Hunter on the other hand, lounged backward in his chair, staring at the cute little twink who worshipped every inch of him each Friday after the long day’s work. He loved seeing the drool dripping from his plump lips, desperate for just a whiff of him. Before Robbie, he’d never experienced a woman or a man who was so in absolute awe of him and he was into it. The warm, slick tongue slowly creeping up the sole of his foot; the moans of ecstasy as he pushed his head into his sticky pits; the cries of absolute carnal pleasure as he plowed that tight bubble butt; but above all, he was into just how much control