Gay erotic short stories with explicit language. Stories with a fetish slant, of men who crave the hot salty taste of man sweat. And they're only too happy to lick it all off as a big part of their sex. I don't write these kind of stories often, so there's only four of them in this volume.
Following is an excerpt from "Sweat:"
“What about the job you said you had for me?” He finished the beer and belched, openly and loudly. God, how thoroughly and completely male he was! All the sweat the shirt, the tanktop, held, I wanted it, all of it. My hands twitched toward his shirt.
“I want you to be comfortable before I tell you of the job.” I said. “Please take off the shirt and the tanktop, you can wring it out in this.” I waved the tray like a charm before this demon of a man, trying to entice him into cooperation.
“All right, all right.” Paul moaned and tugged his shirt out of his pants. “God, let’s get this over with, I’m tired and hungry and I’m covered in sweat.”
“From your head to your toes, yes, I can see that.” I said. “It’s why I wanted to speak with you.”
“Eh?” Less a query sound than one of suspicious animal sensing danger. Paul paused with his hands on his tanktop, released it to remain upon his body.
“I am a professor studying human sweat.” I said quickly. “I need to get test subjects that perspire heavily so that I can collect the specimens I need. I saw you working and I hoped that I could collect some from you.”
“This is the job you offered me?”
“Job? Yes, a job of a sort, I suppose.” I said. “I need you to supply me with your sweat.”
“Huh!” My explanation mollified him, some. “Is that all you want? To collect my sweat and put it in a test tube?”
“In a way.” I said. “I also need to study how it is produced, how it varies from one part of the body to another, the way it beads up on your body parts, how it runs in rivulets down your muscles, how it shines and glistens on you in various lights, the way it tastes and smells and feels upon my fingers and my lips....”
“Huh? What the fuck is this?” Paul demanded. “You want to taste my...? You want to lick my...? What the fuck is this?”
“I’m a scientist.” I nattered on. “You have to realize that in the study of such an intimate part of male anatomy, it is necessary to insert oneself completely into the process, become a part of the study subject, to accept the closeness and worship the source of this vital and important body fluid.”
“Fuck!” Paul said, but it was said not in anger, but in soft, slow wonder. “You don’t say?”
“You can see how important it is, can’t you?” I went on, almost hopelessly. “How can I give your body and the sweat, the beautiful, salty, succulent seeds of your labor and your vitality, the worship it deserves unless I am willing to abase myself into careful and considerate attentions to your vibrant, glistening, sweat-dappled form?”
“So this is what you wanted me over here for?” Paul said. “Not to work in your yard or haul your junk? You just want to rub your face in this skanky tanktop all loaded up with my sweat and stinking like hell?”
“Yes, yes, oh, yes!” I babbled, heedless of the consequences, not caring anything at all what happened next if I could but get my hands on that tanktop, that beautiful, beautiful cotton, white originally but now a delicate beige from the load of hot, heavy, salty sweat it now bore.
Paul pulled the tanktop from his body, over his head and he held it in a ball in one massive fist. “You want this? You want this sodden lump of tanktop?”
“Yes, please, please, yes.” I moaned. “May I have it, please, please, oh, please?”
“Here!” Paul threw it at me and I caught it in my hands as it struck my face, held it there and inhaled deeply. Oh, God, it was so rich, so wet and smelled of heavenly male musk and labor and toil and pain!