Warning BarbarianSpy Xtreme: rough sex, gay DP, and possible reluctance.
One of the rarer niche fetishes to find in gay male erotica stories is the act of double penetration (DP), two men inside another man at the same time. The fetish is one that frequently is included in the writing of habu, if only as a minor element of a story. In Doubled Again, coming three years after the initial launch of his successful and recently reissued Doubled anthology, habu provides a collection of his most recent writings that include gay male DP scenes.
Combined in this twenty-four story anthology, with forty-eight double penetration scenes, are new, never-before-published stories focusing directly on DP sex, including “Bangkok Defection,” “Club Doblar,” “Handed On,” and “Horrid Bliss.” Habu has also ferreted out DP scenes from his longer marketplace e-books for your focused enjoyment. These includes scenes from his “Death in . . .” books, featuring a willing DP participant, promiscuous detective Clint Folsom. Scenes are also included from the novellas Gotta Keep Trying, Gilded Cage, Brambleton, and The Indian Prince. The remaining short stories provided are ones where, typically, the sensuality of the story climaxes in a double penetration scene.
If this is one of your fetishes in gay male stories, you need not dig for it yourself. Habu has provided yet another meaty DP collection for your reading pleasure.
Also available in paperback.
Excerpt from the short story “Club Doblar”
We rolled into a derelict part of Watts, much of which was still showing signs of having been burnt out in race riots. I was nervous, but Grady didn’t seem to be, so I tried to show I wasn’t. The block the limo stopped at the curb in was deserted and lined with litter. The vehicle had come to a stop in front of a one-story, windowless building hunkered between a sleazy-looking liquor store and a parking lot. The only hint of activity was a blinking sign over the door of a half basement walk down that read “Club Doblar” in green neon lights, with the light out on the “B” . . .
The light inside the room—some sort of meet and greet room—we entered from the door to the street was dim, the furnishings something out of a 1950s burlesque house—the clientele sitting or standing around and looking at each other was a mixed bag of young and middle-aged; hulky, pudgy, and skinny; and white, black, Oriental, and Hispanic. What they all were, however, was that they all were very, very male. Some standing in pairs and whispering to each other. Others, younger guys, moving around the room, trying to look wanted. And they all were cruising with their eyes. I felt all eyes on Grady and me as we were led from the room into a club room and guided to a table near a small stage with a curtain in back of it. The table faced the stage but on the other sides it was surrounded by six-foot-high screens. All of the other tables running up a couple of tiers toward the back of the room on either side of the area were similarly screened from the sides and backs. Near total privacy from the rest of the room.
There already were two men sitting at the table, across from each other, with empty chairs between them. The waiter pulled one of the chairs between the men out from the table, the chair directly facing the stage, and motioned for me to sit, which I did. Grady took the chair across from me, his back to the stage. The two men on either side of me were sitting very close to me.
He greeted the two men, letting me know that he knew them—that these were the men he was signing the deal with. . . . I took a look at them, in turn, trying not to be too obvious with my curiosity. But as both were grinning at me when I turned my face to them, this seemed not to be an issue.
“These are the Smith brothers, Jeff,” Grade said. “Bill and John.” He’d already told me that he wouldn’t be using their real names, so I didn’t snigger. They certainly didn’t look like brothers. . . .
We only had a few minutes for chit chat until the lights went down even lower than they had been in the hall before—except for the spots on the curtain—and then the curtain drew back and I gasped in shock and surprise—and rising understanding.
A young white guy was lying on a chaise lounge on the stage—completely naked. And as my eyes focused, I saw that there was a naked black guy under him, . . . . . . . . . . ., and another naked black guy saddled up over his spread legs, and the audience was getting a clear shot—to the accompaniment of bump and grind music, of a dance of double penetration by the black guys in the white guy’s . . .
This was that kind of club. I should have thought something about it. The men in the first room we entered did seem to be in pairs and were ogling single men and whispering to each other. And here, in this room, as we were escorted down the tiers to our table, I should have noticed that the men all were in threes—and some sitting nearly—perhaps directly—on top of each other.
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