Forbidden Fruit: Psalms of a Black Master

Overview

You are cordially invited.to get your freak on. To take your mind and body to the limits of pleasure and beyond. To experience the hottest, sexiest, kinkiest, and best in male, African-American erotica-stories so good they'll leave you with a smile on your face and a "dayum!" on your lips. Master Will Kane is your sensual guide through a no-holds-barred collection of tales where:

The clerk at an adult sex shop...

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Overview

You are cordially invited.to get your freak on. To take your mind and body to the limits of pleasure and beyond. To experience the hottest, sexiest, kinkiest, and best in male, African-American erotica-stories so good they'll leave you with a smile on your face and a "dayum!" on your lips. Master Will Kane is your sensual guide through a no-holds-barred collection of tales where:

The clerk at an adult sex shop in The Castro is at your service in any way you like.

Down by the Brooklyn waterfront, the freaky brothas come out to play.

The steam in the Turkish Baths can't hide the steamy couplings going on inside.

What happens on the Brothas Circuit in San Juan stays in San Juan.

You'll love a man (out of) uniform.

The Brooklyn West Indies Day Parade is only the start of a carnal celebration.

Intimate, revealing, deliciously filthy and totally liberating, these nineteen steamy tales of lust and desire will dare you to take a bite-and invite you to savor every mouthful.

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780758215666
  • Publisher: Kensington Publishing Corporation
  • Publication date: 10/1/2007
  • Pages: 368
  • Product dimensions: 5.60 (w) x 8.22 (h) x 0.87 (d)

Meet the Author

Will Kane is an avowed heretic, screwing conventional wisdom since the day he left the womb and hit on the obstetrician for a Cuban cigar and a shot of single barrel Kentucky bourbon in the delivery room. To the dismay of his parents, Young Will further confirmed his rebel status by becoming a Young Republican and quoting Barry Goldwater speeches instead of the Bible while saying Grace at family dinners. Along the way, Will developed an affinity for sadomasochism by inflicting pain on willing submissives and indulging his masochistic tendencies by enduring 36 hours of tattooing (so far) and numerous piercings of his private parts, which he relishes secretly feeling up while sitting in boring creditors committee meetings. Master Kane is a Certified Insolvency & Restructuring Advisor, which is a highly evolved subspecialty of S/M, and lives in New York (when he isn't wrecking havoc on innocent young men in exotic locales.)
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Read an Excerpt

Forbidden Fruit

Psalms of a Black Master
By WILL KANE

KENSINGTON BOOKS

Copyright © 2007 Will Kane
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-7582-1566-6


Chapter One

After Hours

Everything about the day was just fucked up.

My taxi to the airport got into an accident. My plane was late taking off, after standing on the tarmac for hours. The airline lost my luggage, which had my money and credit cards stashed inside. The client that I had flown three thousand miles to see was out of town, thinking that our meeting was next week, even though I had confirmed with his secretary just the day before. And to top it off, it was pouring rain. Naturally, I didn't have an umbrella, and all I had left on me was pocket change, just barely enough to pay for a cab to get me halfway up Market Street, about ten blocks from my hotel. I'd be hoofing it the rest of the way, the steepest part of the fucking way, in the rain. Welcome to San Francisco!

By the time I reached the lobby door, my mood was as foul as the weather, which had whipped itself into such a frenzy that the rain was blowing sideways, like it was being shot from a water cannon, gushing down Twin Peaks, straight into my face. The guy behind the counter was one of those chatty types, always cheerful even when there was nothing to be cheerful about. I could have smacked the cheer rightout of his ass but restrained myself when I spotted the familiar silhouette of my lost suitcase propped against the back wall behind the counter. After more forced pleasantries with "Sam, but everyone calls me Sammy, like the singer in the Rat Pack? 'Cause I'm like always singing along with those Sinatra records, ya know?", I collected my wayward bag and mercifully trudged off to my room, thankful that I didn't "know" and, moreover, hopeful that I would never find out.

Beck's Motor Lodge isn't what you would call fancy; in fact, it's downright shabby, in a "gay ghetto chic" kind of way. It was notorious for being something of a gay bathhouse disguised as a legit motel. It was not uncommon for dudes to display themselves in the windows of their rooms, as naked as Dutch prostitutes, to the parade of guys passing by on the exterior walkways that wrapped around each floor. Even guys who weren't staying at the motel would come by, cruise the three different levels in some pornographic game of "Mystery Date," knocking on doors looking for a "friend." I could have stayed downtown, in fact I was originally booked at the Hyatt on Union Square, which was one of my favorites, but after the hell I'd been through, even before the rain, I was in the mood for something a lot less refined. As I opened the door to my room and the strong stench of bleach mixed with the vaguely sweet smell of Crisco settled into my nostrils, my temperament swiftly shifted. I was hungry for some retribution and ready to take it out on somebody's hot, tight ass.

Of course I didn't bother to close the window blinds as I peeled off my soggy clothes and dried my ample dick and balls before stuffing myself into a pair of ripped jeans that barely concealed my then current state of mind. The boner I was sporting was giving those poor threads a real workout. A small group of willing "friends" had by then glued themselves to the window, eyes all wide and mouths slack jawed, too stunned to even bother knocking on the door. Unfortunately for them, I have no time for boys without guts. Give me a real man who knows what he wants and isn't afraid to risk everything to get it. I slipped on a tight black T-shirt and threw a well-worn leather jacket over it, then headed out the door. The awestruck groupies silently shuffled back against the railing to make room for me to pass, and only as I neared the stairwell did one of them finally break his silence to limply ask if I wanted company "or something." I pretended not to hear him and bounded down the stairs to the courtyard and then briskly walked out onto the street. Mercifully, the rain had given way to a heavy mist, which was not unlike being in the fetid confines of the Circle J Theater, hunkered down on a dingy side street not far from the Hyatt, during a lunchtime circle jerk.

The gentle wetness caressing my skin eased some of my tension, and I gradually started to sink into funky, horn-dog cruising mode, discreetly checking out the dudes on Market Street as I window-shopped my way to the Castro. There was a hot-looking, shirtless Latino guy in Image Leather trying on a bar vest, so I ducked inside to get a better look-see. On closer inspection, he was not particularly handsome, but his bare ass practically screamed for release from the leather chaps that exposed their firm, swarthy, bubbliciousness, with a thick mat of black hair sweeping down the crack in luscious curls that reeked of the need for an intense tongue-bathing. "Ummmm," I thought to myself, "me gusto mucho culos calientes." A salesclerk noticed my intense interest in the dude before I could approach him and quickly intercepted me, groping the bulging beast in my pants and asking if he could be of any assistance to me, "Anything you need, sir, ANYTHING at all!" Distracted from my main target, I took a good look at this rather cheeky clerk who had the nerve to feel me up so solicitously. He was a stunningly cute Asian bear cub-short, spiky black hair with blond tips, a little bit of a pot belly, finely cropped beard and moustache, with a mass of soft, black fur covering his creamy porcelain chest, stomach, arms, and who knows what else, hidden from view as it was by sleek latex pants that gleamed in the glow of the florescent lights. His coal black eyes were sparkling like obsidian, eagerly anticipating my response. After a moment spent contemplating what fun he might be, given my raging need for man flesh, I made my decision. How could I resist?

"What's your name?" I asked imperiously.

"Derek, sir."

"Der-ek," I repeated, playing with the syllables of his name like a cat who's found a new fixation to toy with. "Okay. You got any cock rings?"

"Yes, sir!" Derek responded, twitching like a lapdog ready for his daily walk. He briskly steered me to a small display counter near the dressing rooms, filled with a wide assortment of small leather items, including a copious selection of various and sundry rings to enhance any dick. "Which would you like to see, sir?"

I pointed to a thin rubber number, which came in several sizes and colors: blue, red, yellow, and, of course, black. "Let me see that one." Derek snapped open the case and pulled out three rubber rings in various colors, each a different circumference. Then, after further consideration of my swelled crotch, he pulled out a couple more, one in brass and another in chrome.

"I think you might like these too. Would you like to try them on, sir?" Derek asked, the crotch of his pants getting tighter by the second.

"Yeah, sure," I said, giving Derek a long head-to-toe glance, then added in a low deep voice, "Why don't you give me a hand with this?" as I slid my fingers across the front of my fly.

Derek's face flushed as he smiled ear to ear. "Right this way, sir. I think this dressing room is available," he whispered as he opened the door. We were both a little startled when the half-naked Latino in the chaps suddenly sprang out of the room, his firm, fleshy cheeks marred by coarse, ruddy streaks, and the black hair along his crack freshly slicked with a suspicious oily residue. He blushed when he saw us and hurried out of the store. He was followed a split second later by another guy, larger, darker, and rougher looking, who snapped his belt shut and rearranged his considerable package as he sauntered out after his trick, clearly unmoved by the sudden interruption of their tryst.

"Sorry about that, sir," Derek stammered, a little flustered.

"That's the Castro for you,'" I shrugged. As I slipped past Derek, I felt him up as he had done to me earlier, only with some added tweaking of his nipples, which were like hard, dried raisins. My fingers couldn't resist seeing how much pressure it took to make him squeal. Derek's face was soon twisted in a heady mix of surprise, pain, and lust. "So, you coming or what?" I called from inside the small space, still reeking of its last occupants. Derek, gasping, quickly followed and shut the door behind him. I slowly ran my hand down the front of my jeans, fondling the curve of my stiff prick as it fought the confines of the worn denim. Derek's eyes followed every movement of my hands, as did his little bear-cub dick, stretching the pliant latex and sexily exposing the shape of his fat mushroom knob. I unbuttoned my fly just as slowly, enjoying how he panted like a bitch in heat as each stud came undone. When I finished, I just hooked my thumbs into the belt loops at my side and stared at him, letting the fly gape tantalizingly open but still concealing its dark secrets.

The little room got hot quickly as the eroticism of the moment coursed through and between us. I could smell the pre-come in his rubber pants mixing with the dry breath that he exhaled in staccato bursts as if he was about to hyperventilate, and it was making my dick heavy and stiff. Derek looked into my eyes and then at the yawning blackness of my fly, then back again. I could have toyed with him some more, I suppose, but I was beyond horny, and seeing that other boy's well-fucked ass just made it even worse. I gave Derek a fleeting nod of encouragement, and tenderly, his hands shaking a little, he reached into my pants and took out my fat, pierced dick. Unleashed at last, my dick thrust itself into the air, stretching out every one of its eight dark cinnamon inches and slapping the moist palm of Derek's outstretched hand.

"Damn," he said in a barely audible whisper, "I love big dicks."

"Think you can handle it, boy?" I teasingly replied, shifting a bit so that my dick bobbed against Derek's own hard bulge. I could feel his dick responding in kind. "He won't be able to hold it much longer," I thought.

His face flushed a deep scarlet as Derek dropped to his knees and began working over my dick with his tongue and mouth. Exploring each heavy vein and sucking all around the lip of the meaty, swollen head. He especially seemed to like the two big steel rods that impaled my dick along the underside of the shaft. He lavished attention on them like a dog licking its balls. The boy was talented, that's for sure. I was feeling on the verge of shooting my load, but I wanted to stretch out his throat first, just to make sure he got the full taste of my hard eight. I placed a hand around the back of his head and pulled him deeper onto my dick as he sucked it.

With each stroke, I moved into him more, until I was fully fucking his throat, rubbing his nose in my pubes and slapping my balls against his chin. Poor Derek nearly gagged from the reaming, but he was a game boy and did his best to relax and deep throat my meat as I worked up to a massive explosion. I came so much that juice was leaking out of his nose. I pulled out just enough for him to gulp down on some of the mammoth wad and regain his breath a bit before force-feeding him some more dick. Soon I was shooting yet another load, and I got concerned because I thought I was choking the poor boy with my meat and come as his face started to turn a little blue.

I pulled out and rubbed my dick all over his face and chin, smearing the last few drops of juice into his beard and moustache. As I did so, Derek blew his load into his pants, which I knew had to have felt good, sloshing around inside that latex crotch and slowly dripping down his legs. While relieving a little of my pent-up tension, Derek's blow job only made my dick harder, which meant that slipping on a cock ring was out of the question. As he held the little assortment next to my prick, it was obvious to him too that none of them were big enough to fit me. We looked at each other and then started to laugh.

"Listen," I said, "Why don't we continue this another time?"

"The store closes at eleven," Derek replied confidentially. "I'm closing tonight, so why don't you come back then?"

I checked my watch. It was only nine-thirty. "Okay," I said as I helped Derek to his feet and grabbed his crotch, rubbing it to spread his load around his balls and between his legs. "Stay lubed for me," I quipped as I opened the door and held it for him to exit. He just grinned broadly, wiping some of my juice off his cheek with the back of his hand and then licking it clean. I walked out of the store, and the sudden rush of fresh air urgently reminded me that I hadn't eaten all day. I headed off down Market to Castro and wandered into Without Reservations, one of my favorite reliable and cheap boites.

Along the way, there were so many hot-looking guys who caught my eye, ensuring that my dick stayed rock hard and attracting plenty of attention of its own, especially since I had somehow forgotten to button my fly, allowing tantalizing peeks of my rod. There's really nothing like cruising in San Francisco. It's the kind of town where you're always running into someone you know, even if you've only just met them for the first time. Who should be sitting at the table across from mine but the Latino guy with the cute ass in the leather chaps and his dark, hunky "friend," enjoying a post-coital nosh? The hunk spotted me right off and gave a conspiratorial nod of his head, a big shit-eating grin spread across his face. He waved for me to join them, so being neighborly, I did.

"Yo, homes, what up?" the hunk boomed in a deep, sexy baritone. He was a beautiful, olive-skinned brother. I had initially mistaken him for one of those hot, swarthy Italians that San Francisco overflows with. He was stacked solid, with huge guns, the kind that come from serious working out every day for hours. His nose was flat and decidedly crooked, as if broken in a fight, but it suited his features perfectly, actually enhancing his macho sensuality. He moved with the easy grace of a boxer, and I could picture him standing in a ring, stripped down to just some shorts, his sweaty chest gleaming in the lights. But it was those dreamy, heavily lidded bedroom eyes that made me take an immediate liking to him.

"Plenty," I responded, grabbing my throbbing crotch. The hunk laughed heartily and pointed at his cute-ass comrade.

"See there? I told you he'd still have plenty left over for ya." The cute-ass guy didn't say a word, but his eyes never left my crotch. I sat down next to him so he could get his fill.

"The name's Will. What's yours?" I asked of the hunk.

"Rashawn," he replied, extending his hand, "and this is my main man, Lorenzo." I warmly returned Rashawn's greeting and then extended my hand to Lorenzo, who distractedly shook it, still deeply engrossed in staring at my open fly. "Yo, man, you fuck that Asian hottie?"

The way Rashawn's thick, full lips curled around the word "fuck" was off-the-hook sexy, as if his lips were pantomiming the very action implied and literally fucking each letter. Recalling that huge package of his, I started having serious fantasies of a hot foursome with him and his boy. "Naw, that comes later."

"Um, if it was me, I'd a been all up in that phat ass, fo' sure."

"Right, I've seen how you work," I said as I leeringly peered behind Lorenzo to take in his curvaceous ass up close.

We made more small talk for a while, feeling each other out in that indirect, guy-thing way. Talking about marginal subjects of little real interest to us but which served as convenient cover for our real objectives. Speaking in code filled with double entendres and innuendoes, wrapped in a sensual wariness that guys use as they try to figure out the power dynamics between them and determine what possibilities might be on offer. As it turned out, Rashawn was in town for a Hellfire Club conclave, which was a pleasant discovery for me since I had come across relatively few black guys into the dark side of the Force, and that only added to my interest in him. After a little more give and take, it was clear that while Rashawn and I were usually Alpha Males, some heavy-duty, no-holes-barred action with a superfine hot stud was a temptation not to be lightly passed up. We agreed to meet later that evening, with our boys in tow, at Beck's, where, coincidentally, Rashawn was also staying, and really give the voyeurs a show. I checked my watch, and, happily, it was time to head back to the store and see what Derek was up to.

(Continues...)



Excerpted from Forbidden Fruit by WILL KANE Copyright © 2007 by Will Kane. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

Introduction....................ix
After Hours....................1
Russian Bath....................15
Mile High....................33
A Stranger's Smile....................45
One Front Street....................63
New York Blues....................79
Midnight Showing....................95
What the Broker Knew....................111
A.M.-Griffith Park-P.M....................123
Mac's Redux....................139
Bankers' Hours....................161
Folsom Street Blues....................177
Coral Sands Blues....................195
Men Out of Uniform....................213
Vale of Cashmir....................231
Milking the Bull....................245
Mastery....................253
Pursuit....................269
Chat Room....................275
Epilogue: The Interview....................285
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