Best Gay Erotica 2015 (20 page)

He takes another slow pass down, right to his balls, and Spencer's fist flies to his mouth to muffle the noise that threatens to escape it. “Shhh,” Josh soothes after he pulls away. And maybe it's the booze, or maybe because it's been a while, but Spencer's stomach is fizzing and his balls are tight. With reluctance, he pushes Josh by the shoulder when he feels his orgasm draw near.

But forget polite consideration for one's partner. Josh is dirty, and he guides Spencer's cock across his face, smearing himself with precome. He pops the head in and out of his mouth and says, “You can mark me, if you want, Mr. Bryant.” Spencer's fingers tangle in his hair as Josh murmurs encouragement, face tipped up in expectation. And he wants to make that innocent face filthy with his come. But even more than that, he wants, he
wants
—

“Can I fuck you?” Spencer asks, almost meekly. He cups his cock against his stomach; it pulses hot in his hand. “Is that,” he stammers, “is that something you do?” Josh's tongue darts out again, and Spencer feels another pulse of precome drip into his hand. Josh is slow to respond, like maybe he only sucks off strangers for extra cash, or, no, obviously he wants more than what Spencer's already given. Still, whatever he wants, that's just fine.

Spencer blurts out, “I can pay you. More m-money, in my wallet. Take it, take all of it, just, god, please.”

Josh's flushed face crinkles into a smile at the obvious desperation in Spencer's voice. Using his thighs as a brace, he pulls himself upright. “Have you got something?” he asks, only a hint of hoarseness to indicate that Spencer's just been fucking his throat, as he touches a fingertip to the place where Spencer's cock meets his own hand. He brings it to his lips, flicking his tongue out to taste. This boy will be the death of him.

“Upstairs,” Spencer finally gets out, “in my bathroom, but I can't.” He gestures down at himself, pantsless, erect, completely undone.

“Tell me where,” Josh purrs, reaching for the wallet and pressing it into Spencer's empty hand at the same time as he leans in to nip at Spencer's bottom lip. The wallet he takes, and Josh strokes down the front of his shirt with his free hand.

“In the cabinet, and there's condoms.”

Josh chuckles at the noise he pulls from Spencer's throat as he tugs once, twice, and then lets his hand slip teasingly away. “Wait here,” he says with a wink and then walks away, past the light cast by the television.

Spencer stands there, bemused. Twenty minutes ago he'd made an honest mistake, and now he's in his kitchen with his dick in his hand about to fuck a teenager. He's never paid for sex in his life. He hasn't fucked a teenager since he was one himself. The television switches over to late-night programming, the screen blaring a commercial for antacid as Josh descends the steps.

“Did you miss me?” He kisses Spencer once when he returns. Spencer nudges his elbow against the wallet he wasn't sure whether or not to open. Josh's hand drops to touch Spencer again, slick this time, and cool against the heated skin. And the decision is already made as Spencer pulls out all the bills and drops the wallet, gathering the young man in a kiss. Josh uses that slow, twisting friction on his dick, and then, with a wink and a squeeze, he murmurs, “I started without you, come feel.” Josh turns around to place his hands on the counter. Spencer drags the gray sweats down, exposing the smooth white flesh of Josh's ass. He shapes his hand to the curve of it, letting his thumb drift over to touch between his cheeks. It slides in, easily, and two more go in just as smoothly.

His hands shake as he reaches for the condom. Josh waits, ass tipped up like an invitation. He shifts restlessly from foot to foot as Spencer fumbles, and when he looks back over his shoulder he huffs out an exasperated breath.

“Sorry,” Spencer mutters, but still manages to drop the packet on the floor. “I'm useless. I'm sorry,” he stammers as he goes to the floor to retrieve it. Josh, though, sinks down alongside him and pushes him onto the floor with a firm hand.

“I don't think so,” he says. “Let me.” And he shucks off his sweats entirely. “Lie down, Mr. Bryant,” he instructs, and Spencer once more obeys without so much as a peep of protest. Josh has obviously done this before, he can tell by the confident way he slings a leg over his prone body, the seasoned way he tugs the bottom of his T-shirt over his head in a practiced move Spencer's only ever seen twinks do in porn, but which now strikes him as unbelievably hot in the flesh. The whole scenario is ridiculous, a niche category on X-tube, but one that he'd gladly click on:
slutty twink babysitter fucks hot dad for cash!!
And when Josh reaches behind himself and angles Spencer's cock against his ass, he takes it, too, like a fantasy come to life.

“Ohmygod,” Spencer yelps as Josh settles atop him. Maybe, Spencer thinks through his lust-addled fog, maybe instead of going to school and watching other people's kids on Friday nights he's well on his way to becoming a seasoned professional. His cock throbs, encased in warmth, and Josh is so tight, so
fucking
tight that when he lifts up Spencer nearly sobs with the pressure of it, the way Josh rises up so high that only the head stays inside him. And then he swirls his hips, plucks at his nipples, and plays Spencer like a symphony. Hands by Spencer's shins, cock slapping against his stomach, Josh throws his head back.

“Gonna come soon,” Spencer says, because he cannot hold out. “You feel so good, so fucking good.”

“Do it,” Josh answers, “come inside me. I know you need it, need to fuck me so bad, yes, yes,
yes
.” His voice spirals up, and Spencer loses himself entirely in the white noise of his own climax, light pulsing behind his eyes as he spurts deep, hard, harder than he has in fucking forever. When he blinks his eyes open, Josh has shifted off of him and is frowning down at his stomach, at the wet patch on his belly.

“Have you got a towel?” Josh asks. Spencer props himself up on his forearms and pinches off the condom. The sensation makes his head swim.

“There's paper ones on the counter.”

Josh detaches himself and Spencer groans to lose the weight of him, groans again when he sits up and feels the soreness from being ridden into the floor. By the sink, Josh dabs at the mess on his stomach with a wet paper towel, and then with a toe, picks up his sweats from the floor, where Spencer still lies, limp and fucked out.

Josh must notice that he's not moving, that he fucking
can't
move, that all of his limbs and his central nervous system are shot, abuzz with endorphins and adrenaline. He paid to fuck this kid and he should be racked with guilt or shame, but instead he feels ten years younger.

“Do you plan on sleeping there?” Josh frowns, head tilted with concern, an echo of the gesture of seduction from earlier.

“It's very comfortable,” Spencer lies. “I might.” Josh steps into the front room and returns with his tennis shoes tied and his blue backpack slung over one shoulder. His eyes are bright with exertion as he bends down to kiss Spencer good-bye. Spencer's feeble hand lifts to cup the back of Josh's neck, unwilling to let him go so soon.

“Take care, Mr. Bryant,” Josh says as he stands back up. “Call me, please, if you need anything.”

Spencer lies there for a while, dozing a bit. He recounts what's just happened, his mind already turning sensation into memory. The workday, the meal, the babysitter, the part where he came harder than he has since this time last year. And when he finally stands, wincing with every sore movement, to drag himself up the stairs, a card on the counter catches his eye.
Joshua Winters
, the card reads.
Childcare and More
. His email address is there, too. Spencer picks up his empty wallet and slides the card in behind his Amex, already sure in the knowledge that he'll call on Josh again. He doesn't need an excuse. Maybe he'll see if Ming-Na wants to go with him to Ventria or, if she's not interested, he'll take himself out to a movie. After all, parents have to take care of themselves, too.

Mark Wildyr

Miserable with pain and sick from dismay, Nordus huddled atop a flat rock and gazed morosely into the silver pool of water below. His reflection in the calm surface disturbed him more than the fierce ache in his tooth. When he, a Light Elf of Alfheim, had accompanied Lord Freyr into exile as a hostage to the Aesir, the mighty god of weather and fertility had gratefully transformed him into a beautiful youth of fair proportions and fairer features. Now his handsome jaw was horribly swollen by a fierce toothache. It wasn't right! It wasn't fair!

It was all Freyr's fault. Well, perhaps Nordus shared a tiny bit of guilt, not being able to resist showing off his newfound loveliness by flouncing around the throne room of Odin's hall, Hlidskialf, the high seat of the Allfather in Valaskjalf. After all, Nordus had been an imp all his life, and be they divine or magical or merely mortal, no one could see beyond the wee torso and tiny limbs of his kind. As a dwarf, he was an object of curiosity and suspicion, so it was only natural that he should enjoy the attention accorded his new physical proportions.

Maybe he had gotten a little out of hand, but he certainly was not as wild or tiresome as Thor the thunder god, Odin's odious son. Yet his strutting and flirting had nettled his divine master, and when Odin showed interest in Nordus's long legs and trim behind, Freyr had roared a jealous oath, cursing Nordus with a stabbing pain in one of his molars and banishing him to the land of the mortals. Nordus was sure his lord did not truly mean those hateful words; after all, Freyr would miss his long appendage and fetching behind, too. Nonetheless, the damage was done. Nursing a divinely inflicted toothache of terrible intensity, he had fled the great hall hunched over in pain like the creature he once had been.

It was clear that Freyr regretted his curse, but the mighty lord was too proud to renounce his decision. To the sorrow of both, the youth had trudged out of Asgard, the realm of the gods, across Bifrost, the Bridge of Rainbows, down into Midgard, exiled until the toothache went away. In a moment of weakness, Freyr confided the malady could be transferred to another, but refused to explain how to accomplish the deed or whether even Heimdall, the watcher of the bridge, would readmit him afterward.

Nordus angrily roiled the calm surface of the pool with a gracefully tapered finger and turned to observe the road behind him. Fortunately, the sun had sufficient strength to cast a modicum of warmth over Norseland, allowing him to remove the heavy winter clothing of furs and to sheathe his long limbs in more shapely attire so as to draw the envy of passing strangers.

Little traffic moved along the road as he pondered, as best he could amid the roaring ache in his head, how to rid himself of this affliction. Freyr had cautioned that pulling the hateful molar would bring no relief. Besides, an extraction might alter the smooth planes of his right cheek, something Nordus simply could not endure.

Reason dictated it would require the touch of a mortal for the pain to pass from his tortured jaw, but he had learned, when he offered the hand of friendship to the first human he encountered, an old man with a load of tanned skins upon his back, that casual contact was of no value. Nordus reacted with childish rage as his agony failed to magically transfer to the bent old peasant, who likely would not even recognize a foreign ache among the lifetime accumulation of his own ills.

Inspiration struck when a tall warrior, accompanied by a fair maid, appeared on the trail. A kiss! A kiss would allow Freyr's wretched toothache to pass directly into another's mouth. As the couple neared, Nordus examined the Norseman carefully. Rich red lips peeking from a thin, youthful beard presented a more tempting target than those of the budding lass. Very well, then it would be a man, but not one with the aggressive step and fierce scowl of the Berserkers, warriors who fought as though crazed. Besides, this one wore Ull's Ship, his shield, on the right forearm and carried a spear in his off-hand. As a true follower of Tyr, the one-handed god of war, this youth was left- handed, the mark of evil! Were Nordus yet an elf, he could have scampered out of the tree line, stolen a kiss and wiggled away before either could object. Alas, normal size brought normal speed and agility. And so, with an aching sigh, he decided to wait for a more acceptable prospect.

Pain finally galvanized him into activity. Nordus strode down the road with anguished purpose until he finally espied a form moving with manly grace at the edge of a small village of thatched huts. For a moment, he believed it was some sturdy lass in trousers, but as he neared, the figure took on definition. No girl had shoulders that broad and square. The swelling of the breast was masculine. Brawny arms, a waist as narrow as his own and strong thighs sent a ripple of excitement down his back. But the ass, the ass was surely the crowning glory of this creature! When the youth turned to face him, any lingering doubt fell away. That full groin was no mound of Venus; it was the living, pulsing flesh of manhood. The stranger noticed his glance and flushed with an enchanting shyness. Nordus met the blue eyes with astonishment. This man was as fair as he, and the elf had assumed Freyr gave him unmatched beauty. Not so! Here was the living proof—and in a common mortal yet.

Nordus winced from the ache in his molar as he boldly spoke up. “I have traveled far and am thirsty. May a stranger beg a drink of cool water?”

The youth's bright, intelligent eyes quickly swept him. “It will be my pleasure to accommodate you.” The young man peered at Nordus intently. “Are you in discomfort?”

Nordus's hand flew to his inflamed jaw. By Thor's wrinkled stones, he had intended to hide his condition. After all, who would willingly accept his agony? “'Tis but a twinge of the tooth,” he lied, then changed the subject. “My name is Nordus, and I travel from a land far removed, a stranger in your midst.”