Ordinary Men Novels & Stories

His crew cut, bulging muscles, and piercing gaze set him apart, his face etched with an air of superiority. He was a cut above Sean, the family's black sheep. Jacob's presence was commanding, a clear step up from Sean's frivolous ways. The entourage of 100 men behind him mirrored his pride, each radiating a silent but deadly seriousness. The middle-aged man with them, not yet fifty, had a face that spoke of discipline and a body hardened by experience, giving off the vibe of a seasoned warrior. His hundred men, armed to the teeth, were the picture of solemnity.

But they must change at least once every forty-eight hours or the gene in their blood will create havoc in their system. Hmm. She wondered what kind of havoc? "What do you think, Mischief? What would happen to them?" "Mrow." Mischief leaned back and rubbed her head against Jamie's tummy. "My thoughts exactly." "In human form the warrior men are extremely masculine. The hair on their head is thick and luxurious, their body is muscular but lean and they are endowed with a larger-than-normal penis." What? Holy shit! The pulse between her thighs woke up, thudding in her suddenly wet pussy and her nipples tingled as she stared at the drawing. How was it even possible something that large would fi

Derick and Tobi patiently wait as they watch the woman put on her clothes and Tobis eyes are busy dancing with lust over the woman's nude body. Three other men are sitting outside the room, discussing the possible cause of the argument going on inside. Looking at them and how intensely they are conversing, one could think they are planning to sell the country. They all seem to be of the same age group and are mature men due for marriage. Dayo is on shining **skido and is very well built. With huge muscles, broad chest and all. Ayo is on a low cut and is very slim and slender. He does not look as well built as Dayo, but will still pass for a good looking guy any day.

“With ‘one of us’ … you mean one of the boys?” I ponder. I don’t want to mess this job up. I can’t mess up. “Hey. Not boys. Men. Sophisticated, well-groomed, emotionally …” Logan grunts, but stops to pause. “Okay, mostly emotionally unstable but super functional adult males.” Lee snorts and rolls his eyes as he points at the mezzanine. “Do you keep them up there like expensive wines?” Logan sticks out his tongue at the little dude and continues his ranting as if nothing happened.

"The really trashy ones with shirtless men on the covers and plots that make no logical sense." "Why is that embarrassing?" "Because they're ridiculous. The heroes are always billionaires or dukes or Navy SEALs who are mysteriously available and emotionally articulate." "And you don't think that exists in real life?" "I think real life is messier. More complicated. Real men have baggage and communication issues and don't always know the right thing to say." Something flickered across his face. "Speaking from experience?" I took a long sip of wine. "Maybe." "The Italian man?" I nearly choked. "What?"

It looked old and violent, the kind of wound that came from bloodshed, and not from accidents. His brown eyes were sharp and cold. They missed nothing. Two bulky men stood behind him, tall and muscular, dressed in dark suits. Their faces were emotionless. They did not eat. They did not speak. All they did was watch everything. Carl didn't need anyone to tell him that these men are dangerous. If this were a movie, he thought, these men would be criminals. Enforcers or Mafia guards. The kind of men who could pull a gun without blinking. The old man focused on his food, eating slowly, without interest. His face showed boredom, as if the entire gathering meant nothing to him. And the men behind

I have finally found what I have been looking for. Inside the room is about twenty or thirty young men. They are shirtless, loose-fitting pants hanging from their hips. Their hands grip wooden training swords, as they face one another in pairs. Sweat drips down their bodies as they swing the swords around. The room is filled with the sound of heaving breath and clanking wood. Observing them for a moment, I find that they are indeed good at what they are doing, but they could be better.

Tattoos peek from beneath his collar, intricate lines trailing down his neck. The third man leans back, his arm stretched across the sofa, his short, dark hair and intense stare giving him an air of cool control. His shoulders are broad, and his sleeves rolled up, revealing more ink, swirls of black and gray that add to his commanding presence. One of them, the dark-haired man, speaks up first. “Do you know anything about us?” “Not much, no,” I admit, my voice steady. “We’re all dominant. We work together with one submissive, brat, or slave, sometimes even with littles or baby girls,” he explains, his voice calm and low, sending a shiver down my spine.

"We are honored by your presence." I couldn't help but peek around the edge of the crate. Three massive men sat on equally massive black horses, and even from my hiding spot, I could feel the power radiating from them. They were all incredibly tall and broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that made everyone else look small and weak. The one in the middle had dark hair and the coldest eyes I'd ever seen. The one on the left had lighter brown hair and a scar running down his left cheek. The one on the right had black hair and looked like he could snap a person in half without breaking a sweat.

Before we could even look around, hands were on us. Four men—big, rough, no nonsense. One had a shaved head and a scar across his cheek. Another was covered in thick, dark tattoos that crawled up his neck. The third was lean but corded with muscle, cock already leaking. The fourth was the biggest—easily six-five, arms like tree trunks, cock so thick it looked painful even soft. They didn’t speak. They just moved.