Best Gay Erotica 2011 (20 page)

Seconds later Shel's cock replaces his fingers. No matter how many times I'm rammed by that monster, it's always a shock when Shel plunges it in. I cry out as my asslips stretch around his huge cock and his rod fills my chute. By the time his dick is buried up to the hilt, when I feel his pubic hair brushing against the skin of my butt, I'm hanging off the fence like a limp dishrag, sobbing.

Lightning flashes, thunder cracks and finally the rain comes, falling in sporadic, heavy drops.

Obscenities fall from Shel's mouth as he fucks me in hard, sharp thrusts, pushing my face against the chain-link each time he sinks his cock into my ass. Still, I beg him to fuck me harder.

For an instant I wonder if the Indian is still hanging around, watching. Then I feel Shel's weight against my back, feel his hot breath in my ear as he snarls something filthy, and no one else exists.

The ass-pounding slows as Shel reaches around my waist and fumbles with the top button of my jeans. I reach down to help
him. Together we free my aching prick. When Shel touches my hard-on I almost shoot.

“Jack off into my hand,” Shel says, cupping it beneath my engorged cockhead.

I'm shooting my load in less than five strokes. I'm howling ecstatically while Shel coos in my ear, “That's it, baby, give it to Daddy.”

And then “Daddy” gives it to me. My body is still wracked in orgasmic throes when Shel raises the handful of cum to my face and feeds it to me. “Every drop,” he hisses, and I lap up my own load.

The fucking resumes in earnest, Shel grunting with each deep thrust till, with a brutal roar, he announces he's coming.

I'm suddenly aware that it's raining harder, but I don't care. Shel pulls out of my hole and spins me around. His eyes are shining with emotion, though I can't tell if he's crying, or if it's just the rain streaming down his face. Shel seizes me in a hug so tight I think we might meld into a single being. Our cocks are crushed together between our bodies.

Shel kisses me: deep, passionate and hard. He pulls his lips away. His eyes bore into me.

“Say it,” he whispers.

“I… I love you,” I whimper.

The sick part is I do. I really do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Call me a jerk, but I have a problem with closeted guys, these so-called “bi-curious” men. Deep inside most are gay, I believe, but they're scared to admit it. So they lead the straight life, looking down on us poor faggots. When the urge strikes they'll sneak off and slum with the queers, but an hour later they're back with the wife and the kids, safe and happy.

What bullshit.

I fell for such a guy once; his name was Kenneth. He'd tell his wife he was going to a sports bar with his buds, then he'd come to my place and I'd fuck his ass into next week. The more we did it the more I craved him, and one night, while we lay in bed, I begged him to quit his marriage. I cried, even. I said I loved him, that we were meant to be together, but he said no, it wasn't possible, and after that I never saw him again. The bastard dumped me, leaving me so depressed I nearly jumped off a bridge.

That was a year ago, and up until last week I still wasn't over it; I continued to suffer.

Then something happened.

Last Saturday afternoon I occupied a stool at the Rocket Club, a gay club in our town. I was speaking with the bartender, Gordon, when this guy strolled in, someone I'd never seen in the place before. He wore a T-shirt, a ball cap and a pair of blue jeans riding low so you could see the waistband of his briefs. He ordered a glass of beer, then he tapped his wedding band against the edge of the bar, keeping time with a song that played on the jukebox.

There were maybe a dozen guys in the Rocket, and this fellow's gaze moved from face to face till it came to mine and our eyes met. He dipped his chin and I nodded back, and once he got his beer he approached, extending his hand.

He said, “Hi, I'm Danny.” His voice was pretty deep and he spoke with an accent. (Alabama?) I told him I was Ian and we shook hands, then he took a stool next to mine, facing me so our knees touched.

He looked twenty-five, maybe, half a head shorter than me, slim with a bit of muscle. His hair was wavy and fawn-colored, and it grew over his ears. He was fair skinned and freckles danced across his nose like confetti, giving him a boyish look. His eyes were the color of Gulf water—between green and blue. His teeth were large, as white as piano keys.

We made small talk.

I told him I was a drywall hanger by trade, but I'd been laid off, and right now I worked the counter at a bait and tackle shop. “It doesn't pay well,” I said, “so I'm looking around.”

He was a housepainter, he said. It didn't pay well either.

I asked about the ring on his finger.

“I'm married. Got a little girl, age three.”

I must've looked at him funny 'cause he said, “I'm not gay; I just need a man's touch now and then.”

I said, “I guess this is one of those times?”

He looked at me and winked, and anger stirred in my belly.
Goddamned closet case
.

Still, he was attractive.

He asked my age and I told him. His gaze traveled from my eyes to my boots, then back. He said, “For thirty you're in great shape.”

I'm no pretty boy, but I stay fit. At six-two, I keep my weight around one-ninety. My hair is buzzed and my chin's stubbled, and I've got tattoos on both forearms. Guys who like their men butch are attracted to me.

My sexual tastes?

I'm a total top, and while I wouldn't call myself a pervert, I like a little kink. I can get rough, too, when I'm in the mood.

I asked Danny how often he strayed and he said, “Every few months, maybe.”

I shifted position on my stool, moving closer to him, my knee rubbing his inner thigh. I looked at him and flickered my eyebrows, and this caused his cheeks to color. He glanced into his lap, then he raised his chin and his gaze met mine.

He said, “Do you like me?”

I nodded.

He pointed his chin at the door. “Well?”

I said, “Sure, why not?”

 

We don't have basements in Florida—the water table's too high—but one room in my house I've converted to sort of a sex chamber. It's soundproofed and the windows are blacked out. There's a bed, of course, and a padded bench. A metal frame, nine feet high with an adjustable crossbar, is anchored to the floor; it faces a mirrored wall. I have spotlights on the ceiling with dimmer switches, a lantern with a red lens and a black light as well. I can
alter the atmosphere to suit any occasion. A footlocker holds toys: cuffs and dildos of varying sizes and shapes, instruments of discipline, cock rings and butt plugs and so forth.

Danny studied the trunk's contents, arms crossed at his chest, weight resting upon one leg. The ceiling lights were on and they reflected in his hair and eyes. He licked one corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. He said, “I'm sure you'll think I'm boring. I've never, you know…”

“What?”

“Done more than get blown.”

“You're kidding?”

He shook his head, shoving his hands into his front pockets and studying his shoes.

I came to him and crooked an arm around his neck, pulling his chest to mine. I kissed his neck, just beneath the jawline, then I ground my stubble against his smooth cheek. His breathing accelerated and I felt his heart thump in his chest. I whispered, “You can do anything you like in this room. What happens here is our secret.”

He said, “Okay.”

When I moved my mouth to his, he turned his face.

“What's wrong?” I said.

“I don't kiss—not guys anyway.”

“Why?”

He turned his face toward mine, and his eyes narrowed. “I told you, I'm not gay.”

I lowered my gaze, thinking,
Sure, pal.
Then I looked him in the eye. “When you jack off, do you sometimes think about men?”

His cheeks reddened and he glanced away. “Once in a while.”

“Describe your fantasies. What happens?”

He smirked. “Why? Are you a psychologist?”

“Just curious,” I said. “You're uncomfortable right now, aren't you?”

He dropped the smirk and nodded.

“Why?”

“I told you already, I don't do this often. Guys suck me off in their car and that's about it.”

“But you've thought about doing more?”

“Yeah, of course.”

The only sound in the room was cool air flowing from a ceiling register. My thermostat was set at seventy-four degrees, but Danny's T-shirt was dark in the armpits and I seized it by the hem. “Let me take this off you.”

Our eyes met and he blinked two or three times. “All right,” he said.

He raised his hands and I lifted the shirt from his torso, yanking it over his head. His chest was smooth and defined, with quarter-sized areolas and nipples like match heads. His shoulders and biceps were underdeveloped, but his belly was flat and his abdominal muscles rippled under the skin.

He said, “Take your shirt off, too.”

And I said, “Why don't you do it for me?”

His hands shook when he did so. Once I was bare chested I pulled him to me so our hipbones met. I nuzzled his ear with the tip of my nose. His chin rested upon my shoulder, and I smelled his hair and it reminded me of fresh straw. His erection nudged my groin.

“Tell me,” I said, “what you'd like to do.”

He swallowed and didn't answer.

I reached for his buttcheek and squeezed. “Come on, say.”

He exhaled, shifting his weight. “Sometimes my wife…ties me up.”

I thought,
Hmmm. That's better.
Then I said, “You're naked when she does this?”

“Yep.”

“What else does she do? After you're restrained?”

“Different stuff.”

“Like?”

He giggled nervously, shaking his head. “This is embarrassing.”

“It's okay. Go on.”

His cock was rigid as a broomstick. He kept shifting his weight as he spoke—it was almost like we were slow dancing. “She spanks my ass. She pinches my nuts and my cock, my nipples too.”

“And you like that?”

He nodded.

Go ahead, ask him
.

I said, “Do you feel like doing that now?”

He didn't answer.

I placed a hand at the small of his back, hooking a thumb inside the waistband of his jeans. “Giving up control can be sexy. You have to trust is all.”

Danny didn't respond. He kept rocking, hips pressed against mine.

I said, “Surrendering your freedom is a first step.”

He froze, then. Lifting his chin from my shoulder, he took a step backward, looking at me with his forehead crinkled. “You want to tie me up?”

I shrugged. “Something like that.”

He rubbed the tip of his nose and stared at the floor. “I don't know…”

I went to the footlocker and produced a pair of leather cuffs, the adjustable kind, fitted with spring-loaded clips. Handing one
to Danny, I pointed to the metal frame. “I can hook you up and we'll have some fun.”

Danny studied the frame, the mirrored wall, then the cuff, his jaw working from side to side. His erection was visible in his pants, jutting down one leg. He raised his chin and his gaze met mine. “You mentioned trust…”

I nodded.

“We hardly know each other. How do I know you're not some sort of freak?”

“You know where I live; you saw the truck I drive. I'm a working stiff, yeah, but I'm not a drifter or an ex-con.” I looked into Danny's face. “You're safe with me.”

He swallowed, keeping his gaze level with mine. “If I say quit something, you've got to stop. Understand?”

“Of course.”

“I'm not bullshitting.”

“Neither am I.” I'm
such
a liar.

Danny moistened his lips, staring at the cuff in his hand. Then he raised his chin and looked at me.

“All right,” he said. “Let's do it.”

 

I brought him bottled water and he drank a pint or so. At my request, he removed his shoes and socks. I sat on the padded bench and he stood before me, his chest rising and falling while I slipped the cuffs onto his wrists, adjusting the buckles till they fit tight. The black leather looked sexy on Danny, contrasting with his fair skin.

I took him by his forearm and led him to the frame. The spotlights on the ceiling cast intense beams, made his eyes sparkle. Standing between the frame's vertical bars, he faced the mirrored wall, hands raised above his head, displaying sandy-colored hair in his armpits. I adjusted the crossbar, locking it into place at a
height just under nine feet. Danny kept his gaze on the mirror before him, flexing his toes while I clipped each cuff to the bar, immobilizing him. His arms were fully extended and his hands were spread apart so they hung directly above his shoulders. He stood flat-footed, but barely, as I hadn't left him much play. He could twist at the waist or hop up and down, but that was all.

From the closet I produced a digital movie camera and a tripod and as soon as Danny saw them he protested. “I didn't agree to filming.”

I shrugged and set things up, focusing the lens on Danny. I stood on a chair and adjusted the ceiling fixtures so he was properly lit.