Best Gay Erotica 2011 (10 page)

“Please,” he says, such a small whisper from such a large man.

“We're not done yet,” I say. I kiss his full lips, lightly, then strike his temple with my right knuckles—one sharp rap to the skull, as if his head were a door. He grunts. His blue eyes close. Beneath me, he goes limp.

I leave him there, slumped across the bed. For a few minutes I stand by the door, listening. Silence in the hall, no one roused by the brief struggle. Fetching his abandoned scotch, I stand by the window, watching the snow sifting down outside. When I'm certain there will be no interruptions, I light a candle, place
it on a side table, and search among his belongings for what's needed next.

 

Tobias is ready now. Many hours yet till dawn, so I can take my time, I can savor the scotch, stretch out in this big bed beside him, relish the sight of him sprawled unconscious on his back—hairy, handsome and entirely helpless. He's naked now in the candlelight, sleeping his next-to-last sleep. I tousle his blond curls, rub his bearded chin, run a hand over his broad breast. Such a splendor; such an evil. Such a pity that I must erase one in order to erase the other.

With the terry-cloth belt of his robe, I've tied his big wrists together in the small of his back. Not snug-tight, the way I like to rope up my sweet lover Matt, but hurtful-tight. Tobias's politics require it. With a leather belt found in his suitcase, I've bound his arms behind him so tightly his elbows almost touch; I want his big muscles contorted, his joints racked. With another leather belt I've cinched his ankles together. To stop his speech, I've tied two dirty white gym socks together at the toes, stuffed his mouth with the fat, foot-sour knot and secured the ends behind his head. He's exceptionally beautiful this way. The world will be less one loveliness tomorrow.

Tobias shifts beside me, coming awake. Bending over him, I lap his chin. His eyes flicker open, blurry blue. He groans, rolling onto his side. His eyes wander, fall on me, focus. He grits his teeth around the gag, growls deep in his throat and tries to rise. He fails. His muscles strain. Awareness of his thoroughly powerless position fills his eyes. Truly delicious, such frantic surprise. The trammeled thrashing and stifled shouting begin.

“Keep still, Tobias. You'll hurt yourself,” I say, but it's too late. Wide as the bed is, his struggles are so violent that he rolls off the edge, landing on the floor with a thump and a grunt.

I slip off the bed to fetch him. He lies stunned, on his side, knees drawn up in a fetal curl, fists clenched against the small of his back. When his struggles recommence, as do his muffled shouts, I stand astride him, then lift a foot and press it hard against the side of his face.

“Be quiet and keep still, or I'll crush your skull.”

He obeys immediately.

“You're going to do what you're told?”

Tobias hesitates a second, then nods. How it must pain him, that reluctant recognition of superior strength.

“Good boy.” I bend, heaving him upright. He sways on bound feet, glaring at me, panting into the cloth stuffing his mouth, then loses his balance and topples into my arms. I catch him, lifting him beneath shoulders and knees. He stiffens with shock as I carry him to the window.

“Look. It's still snowing,” I say, gazing out into the restless sheets of white, then down at him, folded up in my arms as if he were my son. I smile. “You're wondering how a man so much smaller can pick you up?”

He sucks in air through his nose and nods. Shudders course through him.

“I have a secret,” I say, “and some stories to tell.”

I carry my captive to the bed, gently lower him onto it, and slip onto the sheets beside him. I gaze down at him, at that well-muscled bulk trussed up tight and panting in candlelight. He stares up at me, eyes moist with terror. I love it when they want to sob but their masculine sense of shame won't allow them. Their eyes grow wet at the edges like a farm pond's ice giving way with spring thaw.

“Take a look at you now,” I say, dragging a finger over the delicate pink flesh of his gagged lips. “The Virginia senator has nothing to say?”

Tobias shakes his head slowly. How badly he wants to look away or close his eyes, but he can't. Never in all his most agonizing nightmares could he have imagined himself so powerless.

His shuddering is even more violent now that we're in bed together. Plus the building's old, the room's drafty, snow's swarming the windowpanes.

“Are you cold?”

Tobias nods. “Poor boy,” I sigh. Stretching out on my back beside him, I pull the covers over us, lean back on the pillows heaped against the headboard and say, “Put your head on my chest.” Bound as tightly as he is, it takes a little squirming on his part, a little nudging on mine, till the weight of his big head rests over my heart.

“Isn't this sweet?” I sigh, wrapping an arm around him. “You feel so good against me. Comfortable?”

Tobias shakes his head emphatically. Behind the sock-knot a grunted “Huh-uh.”

Chuckling, I play with the hair fringing his nipples. He stiffens against me; jagged trembling runs through him.

“You hate this, don't you? My touching you?”

A slow nod. More trembling.

“Good. Would you like to know why I'm here? Other than to do this?” I tug at his belly-hair now, squeeze the thick muscles of his shoulders and arms, the thick meat of his chest. “Other than to pay homage to your considerable might?”

“Ummm mmm,” he mumbles into the socks, breathing heavily through his nose. I pull him closer, sip my scotch and stroke his head of golden curls.

“Let me begin with this,” I say. Even after these several centuries, I can't keep the sorrow from my voice, stern as I might want to sound tonight. “In 1730, my lover Angus and I were
caught making love, attacked by a gang of men like you. Men who thought their God hated us. Angus died. He was stabbed to death. I was saved for another life.”

Tobias emits a low, long groan. His shaking grows more violent.

“Do you understand? This is why I am stronger and faster than you could ever be, why my skin is so chilly against you.”

Tobias shakes his head. He gives a small sob.

“You're still shivering. Are you still cold? I am as well. Here, let me hold you closer.” Rolling him onto his side, I curl up against him, his broad back to my chest. My left arm pillows his head, my right arm I wrap around him.

“Better. Ah, you're so, so warm,” I say, caressing his beefy chest beneath the blanket. “Tobias, do you remember that hateful amendment you helped pass? The one outlawing same-sex marriages in Virginia? The one insuring that ‘any contracts between same-sex couples that might approximate marriage would be illegal'? I think that was the wording. Tonight really began there. And with three people with whose fates I'm familiar. I wish you could have known them. Perhaps then you and I would never have met.”

I rest my palm against his breastbone. His heart drums madly beneath my hand. I nuzzle his nape, smell the blood coursing beneath his thin, fragile skin and lick my lips.

“There was Charlotte, a bar-buddy of my lover Matt's. She was driving home one night when a drunk driver hit her head-on. Her lover Grace was barred from her hospital room. Thanks to your amendment, Grace was not considered family. So Charlotte died alone. Can you imagine that?”

Another choked sob. A gag-muffled, “No,” a shaking of the head.

“Then there was Karen, Matt's friend from college years ago.
Her ex-husband swore to identify her as a lesbian in court if she fought him for custody of their two sons. She hanged herself in her barn. That's the kind of world your laws help create, Tobias. Can you see that?”

“No, no.” Muffled, but louder.

“And sweet little Chet, Matt's cousin. Just sixteen years old. Thanks to your adept political maneuvering and all your fundamentalist friends, his high school wouldn't allow a gay-straight alliance. No sympathy from his parents, who told him he was a damned-to-hell monster. The boy drowned himself in Peak Creek last week. My lover's been weeping on and off ever since.”

As I whisper in Tobias's ear, I press my hand over his brow, and inside his skull I cause them to appear, the consequences of his demagogic bluster: the bloated body hung off creaking rafters, the pale limbs splayed in gray water, the woman sobbing in a hospital waiting room. Beneath my palm, the images cascade through his brain, on and on, on and on, the pain, the deaths, the fear he's helped create.

Enough. I lift my hand from his forehead, and the stream of stories stops. “They were my kin. Now do you see why I'm here?”

This time a nod. This time a sock-muted “Yes.” This time an unchecked stream of silent tears I wipe from his cheeks with my thumb.

“Good.” For a full minute I stroke his streaming cheeks, tasting the salt, the remorse, the appetizer of brine. Suddenly, roughly, I roll him onto his belly, climb on top of him and clamp one hand over his gagged mouth.

“What a Christian,” I say, stroking the fuzzy crevice between his buttocks. Tobias gasps beneath my grip; his broad shoulders heave.

“Here's your salvation,” I say, spitting into my palm then
moistening us both. “Here's your forgiveness.” I burrow a wet fingertip into him, and his muscles spasm against me. Manly beauty has always inspired in me an urge to possess, dominate, punish and control. But the combination of beauty and hatefulness that Tobias embodies sparks in me a sadism no human can long survive.

Were I to give him the benefit of the doubt, I might assume that these sobs wracking him are born of guilt in the face of the destruction I've shown him, the misery he's helped create. I suspect, however, that what's really evoking his tears is the certainty of what's about to come, as well as the bodily pain I'm causing as I roughly push one finger in. Men I respect, men like my lover Matt, I take slowly, solicitously. Tobias, well, I'm using very little spit and very little patience.

“Sweet country boy, sweet virile Virginia virgin. You're so tight and sweet and soft inside,” I sigh, wedging a wet second finger in. He jerks and whines. Sobs shake him like winter rattling the windowpane.

“If you were fat and old and homely, like most of your right-wing colleagues, you'd be spared this,” I say, pulling out my fingers only to nudge my moistened cock against his tightness. “This is what comes of being so proud and handsome,” I say, pushing into him an inch.

Now he goes wild beneath me, screaming against my hand, tugging on his bonds, thrashing and bucking. I love such resistance. It only highlights my own supernatural strength. Wrapping an arm around his torso, I let him flail and shout for a minute or two before shoving my cock's entire length into him and simultaneously burying my fangs in his sweaty neck.

I pump into Tobias, Tobias's blood pumps into me: contrapuntal rhythm. Ass full, mouth full. Spilling not a drop, I gulp down his strength, his will, his youth, his manhood; my gray
hair, beard and chest pelt slowly blacken in answer. Beneath my hand, he keeps screaming for a while. Beneath my weight, he keeps thrashing for a while. Then, as the tide of his blood recedes, the screams slow, dwindling to barely audible pleas, and the struggles slacken.

Practice allows me perfect timing: I retract my fangs just before he passes out but well after he's too weak to put up any further fight. He simply lies there now, wheezing beneath me with each cock-thrust, bound hands fumbling at nothing, brushing my belly hair as I ride him hard. Occasionally, in response to a particularly savage slamming, he manages a muffled groan. This is a judicial ecstasy I've been long yearning for, so, as much as I would enjoy prolonging this, I'm soon done. Wrapping an arm around his throat, I shove into him one last time, shudder, grunt, explode.

I wake with a start. Sated, I've been happily drowsing on top of him. It is, I sense, about four hours before daybreak. The candle has burnt low. Snow still fills the windowpanes with busy, silent static.

I roll off Tobias and lie beside him. His bonds and gag are still in place; he's still breathing, still conscious. Eyelashes fluttering, slowly he shifts his stare from the sheet to my face. In the candlelight, his cheeks gleam with tears. I kiss his gold-brown goatee and his bloodied neck. I press my lips to his big ass, lap the smooth, pale skin there, the red marks my fingernails left, then spread his cheeks and push my tongue inside him to harvest violation's crimson ooze. What might he have been without evangelical poison in him, the Christians' vicious piety?

He's perfectly still as I untie his elbows, hands and feet. When I prop him up into a sitting position, he slumps against me. When I heft him with eldritch ease into my arms, huge man that he is, his head falls against my face, his arms bounce loosely.

“It's time to end this, Tobias,” I whisper. Around the knot of the sock-gag, he takes a deep breath. Exhaling slowly, he nods acquiescence against my beard.

The bathroom is even colder than the bedroom. It's spacious, with a marble sink covered with the tentacles of potted plants, a window of glass bricks against which the thickening snow bats. The shower is simply a tiled corner without a curtain, with a big floor-drain down which I might later rinse any scarlet stains my hunger misses. Carefully I shift docile Tobias from my arms to the floor, turn the water on, adjust its temperature then drag him into the streaming wet warmth. On the floor I sit cross-legged with him in my arms, his heavy linebacker's body cradled in my lap. I nuzzle his gagged mouth, then loosen the socks, let the silencing circle of knotted cloth fall around his neck, and kiss him tenderly on the lips. I caress his rapidly moistening curls, his nipples, his fading heartbeat. His head sags against my shoulder. He hasn't strength enough to groan.