Desperate Lovers by Adam Carpenter (good beach reads TXT) 📕

position of playing bottom boy, his legs thrust into the air, his hairy ass ready to be fucked. Parker slid a generous amount of lube on Rich’s ass and then unrolled a Magnum-sized condom down his cock. As Parker hefted himself over Rich, they caught each other’s eyes. Rich nodded, Parker positioned himself, and then, hard, fast, eagerly, Parker pushed his huge cock deep inside Rich’s waiting ass, an inch, two inches, more, more, further and further until the entire length was embedded deep.

“Owwww, oww, wow, shit, fuck, that hurts…man, that’s big, ohhh,” Rich cried out, his ass tight from years of topping. He couldn’t believe this was happening, and he closed his eyes in an effort to absorb the pain from Parker’s thrusting. Hard, harder, harder still, he fucked Rich, and Rich took each thrust like he’d never done before. All the while crying out, “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me hard, go, man, go, you big-cocked bastard, fuck me.”

Parker’s grunts were loud, urgent. Each thrust was like a piston engine with new fuel, no let up in sight, no orgasm rising within him. His stamina was as long as his cock, and as he thrust, thrust, thrust, Parker found himself grabbing onto the man’s back, pulling him down, the rugs of their chests meshing in one deep pile carpet, a fur fest unlike he’d ever experienced. He pulled at Parker’s back, at the thick patches of hair that coated him. Shit, Rich had always thought of himself as hairy, but this guy, man he was a beast, an animal, and as his fingers found fur and more fur on this ape of a man, he felt orgasm again ripping through his body.

Parker fucked him still, even as he shot his load, his sticky come mixing between their bodies, their hairy chests and bellies, connecting them, sealing them together. Bellowing with the sudden burst of climax, Parker thrust once, twice, a third time, urging Rich to grab at his back, pull, rip, devour me while I come, and that’s what Rich did, crying out, “Yeah, fuck me you hairy beast, fuck me as hard as you can, let me feel you come inside me, I want it, I need it, I can’t get enough of your giant cock, of you and of sex. Christ, I’ve never had it like this, more, more, more, Parker, fuck me more and more and more.”

Parker shuddered with climax, and he pumped and pumped as his big, thick cock emptied itself into Rich’s ass, and at last, as the last drop escaped him, he finally brought his body to rest. Both men were breathing heavily, like they’d just run a marathon and all they could think about was sleep, in each other’s arms, lost in the tangles of their hairy bodies until they could wake with newfound desire and go at it all over again.

“Shit,” Rich said suddenly. “Marc’s art show.”

“Oh, that began probably a half hour ago,” Parker said.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Rich said.

Parker rose from the sofa, allowing Rich to get up and get dressed.

As Rich pulled on his pants and buttoned his shirt, he warned Parker, “No one can know anything about this. You got to fuck me, isn’t that what you wanted, to make me play the submissive? Now you can leave Eldon Court and relinquish your false claim to this house. Send Danvers packing, and give this home to Troy Saunders, the rightful heir.”

“We’ll see,” Parker said. “We’ll see what happens. But in the meantime, Rich, you were good, a real treat. I’d say we’ve both learned a lot since high school, since you first fucked me. Nice to have the tables turned, don’t you think?”

Rich had nothing else to say. Dressed, he slinked out of the house at Number Two Eldon Court and made his way back home. In seconds he had hopped in his car, and without another look at Parker’s house, he was rushing around the dark curves of Wonderland, one place on his mind.

Healy’s Art Gallery, and the debut showing of his lover, Marc Anderson. It was Marc’s proudest moment, and once again Rich was letting him down, this time allowing himself to once again give in to his uncontrollable desires.

He didn’t deserve Marc.

A chill ripped through his body, like someone had just walked across his grave.

What the hell was happening at that art gallery?

He would find out soon enough, and what greeted him as he walked through that front door was an explosive, shattering sound that would forever change the lives of everyone on Eldon Court, everyone who ever called Wonderland home, past, present, and for some, future. Screams would accompany rampant confusion, and when the dust settled, blood would mar the event, not unlike an incident all those years ago on Eldon Court. And the result would be same: death would have come calling at this place called Wonderland.

It was two days after Marc Anderson’s showing at Healy’s Art Gallery Down Wonder, and a fierce, unrelenting rain had come to

Wonderland, drenching its shores with a steady downpour. As the rain fell, a somber affair was taking place on the outskirts of town, in a sleepy, crowded place called the Queen’s Cemetery.

From afar, on the wrong side of the wrought-iron gates, a conflicted Parker St. John stood under an umbrella, hiding as much from the rain as the assembled guests, barely a witness to what was happening.

Friends hugged and cried as a priest stood with a black, leather clad book open, reading from scripture in an attempt to offer comfort during this time of sorrow. Parker himself felt a lump lodge in his throat as he recalled the man he’d known. But he wouldn’t step forward, he would not join his neighbors in their grieving; it was Parker’s place to always be on the outside, and what better example of not belonging existed than a funeral. You were not invited to partake in a ceremony based on finality.

The priest closed the book, but Parker felt he never could. What did it say that you were not even