Best Gay Erotica 2015 (24 page)

As he went past me, I smelled a subtle cologne, certainly not
eau de Sherwin Williams
, and that was odd, but I got distracted by the fact that his work clothes fit his body so well, and he had a fittable body. He walked with a certain insouciance, a certain swing to the hips, that one wouldn't—or at least I wouldn't— have associated with a housepainter.

He flashed a grin that left me weak from top to bottom and in between, and he headed toward a hallway, and I wandered to my easy chair and sat down on Henry James.

I tried to read the Henry James, which might have been written in a foreign language. Henry James has that effect on a lot of people. But a lot of people are impressed by Henry James, and I find that the mere mention of the author or his books, whether or not one has actually
read
Henry James, can be useful in cruising a certain kind of target.

I didn't know how many times I'd struggled through the first sentence when Ken came into the living room and coughed discreetly. I jumped a few feet and said, with my sang as froid as I could muster at the moment, “Yes?”

“The problem may be in the bathroom,” he said, “so may I…” I vaguely indicated the way, and he went in that direction.

I settled back to Henry James's confusing syntax. “Mr. March,” Ken called after a few minutes.

I marked my place with a finger, superfluously, since getting back to page one would present no problems. “Yes?”

“Would you come here? I want to show you something.”

I put Henry James on a table—I'd sat on him as often as one should sit on Henry James in an afternoon—and walked to the bathroom and went in. I said, “What do you want to show me?”

He shut the door and faced me and replied, “This,” and pulled down his pants, and his hard cock jutted out.

It went very nicely with the décor of the bathroom.

“Do you like it?” he asked, and I said, “Ahhh…” or maybe I said, “Ummm…”

Whatever I said seemed to encourage him, for he said, “Would you like to try it?”

Of course I would. I was alive, wasn't I?

On any other afternoon, a stranger's showing me his cock in my bathroom might have been extraordinary; the way this day was going, it was just par for the peculiar course.

He sat on the toilet seat, and I got on my knees in front of him and gulped down his dick.

It was as athletic as the rest of him—just as beefy and brawny as it had appeared under the masking of his packed pants, and capable of crashing through the opposing team's front line. Maybe it too had been in many bouts, as it wasn't quite perpendicular but arched to the left.

When I tasted it, I was transported back to my, shall we say, love of sports.

I usually don't think much when I'm sucking cock, but it did occur to me to wonder if I'd gone over to the dark side and was simply imaging this tenderloin of man between my teeth. I then went on to think of the other two men in the apartment and hope that they were keeping occupied, and then I tried to remember when it was that Travis was arriving home.

Maybe I should arise with some of my dignity somewhat intact, I thought, but no, I wasn't going to look a gift cock in the mouth, so I kept it in my mouth and I renewed my vigor, and it was gratifying when Ken lifted his hips and said, “Good. Harder.”

I complied.

His prick was inspiring, and as I went up and down and around the bend, it was almost as if I were racing over the field toward the goal line, and a few drops of his essence signified that the goal was within reach.

He held my head, stopped my sprint, and said, “I want to fuck you.”

Direct and desirable—who could ask for anything more?

I pulled my pants and underwear to the tiles. When I looked up from this divestiture, I saw that he'd put on a condom. How considerate, I thought, and turned around and sat on his dick.

There are two parts to being fucked that I particularly like. First, there's the pain of entry, the delicious ache that signifies that something fantastic is beginning to occur and that as terrific as that sting is, there's going to be the second part, when the hurt abates and the main event starts, the stimulation, the arousal, the attack, the retreat, the drive, the heat, the wetness.

I mean, the other parts of being fucked aren't bad, but the initial invasion is best.

So the sequence commenced: the pain went away, and in its place were all of those sweet vibrations. I bounced up and down on his cock, which felt as if it had been designed for my ass, and I closed my eyes and rode him. My own cock was certainly active and swung back and forth and produced some moistness of its own. Considerations of Henry James and Travis and the other handymen in the apartment faded, and soon I wasn't thinking of anything but the delight I found in his dick going up into me. Behind my closed eyes, lights were flashing and whirling, and I hummed, and he moaned, and really, this was what life was all about. He shifted position, putting me off balance, and I grabbed the towel rack across from the toilet and pulled it off the wall, and I got tangled in the clothing around my ankles, and the bar and I and my chartreuse towels clattered noisily to the floor, and I said, I think, “Oof.”

I sprawled, dazed, and I was brought back to throbbing reality, in several senses of the term, by the door springing open, striking both me and the wall. Reggie's face—in my confounded condition, for a moment, I saw two faces— appeared around the corner, and he said, “Are you all right?” He appraised Ken and me, our stripped lower halves, our extended appendages, and he answered himself, “You obviously are.” I expected him to tactfully withdraw, but he didn't; he continued into the room and closed the door behind him and said, “Go on.”

Ken reached down and pulled me up and set me back on his cock, and as this supremely surprising day continued merrily along, Reggie stood in front of me and unzipped his jeans and pulled out his stiff prick and said, as he stuffed it in my mouth, “Maybe you could use this.”

I certainly could. I decidedly did. Reggie's rod was different from Ken's; it was not so thick, rather a bit longer and slender and it didn't have the same twist, but it was no less charming and it was utterly delectable.

I set up a rhythm: I went down on Ken's cock and drew back from Reggie's; I went down on Reggie's cock and drew up from Ken's, and down and back and up and down, and it had a nice beat, and I could dance to it, and I felt as if I were dancing, dancing between two beautifully formed, flavorsome cocks, listening to the music of my slurping and Ken's
oohing
and Reggie's
aahing
. It briefly occurred to me that silence might be the better part of keeping under wraps things that were now without wraps; it would keep Frank from bursting in, wondering what the hell we were doing. Such thoughts were fleeting due to the delight of fucking and sucking.

As if I had communicated telepathically with Frank, I heard his voice saying, “Mr. March, I'd like you to look at some samples.” My mouth was occupied, so I didn't answer right away, and just as I was going to disembark from Reggie's rampant rod and tell Frank that I would be with him in a moment, Reggie said, “We're in here, Frank.”

I was sure that in the midst of this fleshly fandango, I had slipped into delusion, and it didn't help that feeling when the bathroom door swung open and Frank looked around the edge and said, “Why don't you come out here where there's room?” I could have sworn that I saw Frank's uniformed chest now un-uniformed and maybe the hint of an unclad leg. If this were fantasy, it was continuing because Reggie said, “Good idea,” and exited my mouth and the bathroom, and Ken put both of his hands on my bottom and pushed me off and said, “Let's go,” and we went. Indeed, Frank was standing in the living room absolutely nude, and I'd been right: underneath the painter's outfit, he was attractive and nicely constructed, and he was impressively hard.

So the four of us—oh, this had to be illusion! The
four
of us?—stood in the middle of my living room and took off the rest of our clothes. Thank heavens I'd been going to the gym lately, I thought as stood in front of three undressed men in my apartment—oh, no, this couldn't be real.
Three
men? Three
undressed
men?

We looked at one another, and we flowed into formation, and I was on my knees, and Ken was fucking me from behind, and Reggie was ravishing my mouth from in front, and Frank was lying at a right angle beneath me and sucking my palpitating schlong.

That went on for a while, and then the condoms started to be added and subtracted in a flurry, depending on who was doing what to whom and who was being done by whom and what permutation was percolating at a particular point, and it seemed as if we were in a delirious French farce.

There was a rearrangement, and Reggie was fucking me, and Ken was sucking me, and I was inhaling Frank.

We shifted again, and Frank fucked, and I sucked Ken, and Reggie sucked me.

Oh, this variety was stunning, simply stunning.

Each man had his own style of fucking. Ken's was quick and to the point, hitting my points, skillfully utilizing the arch in his cock, deftly pushing his plunger in and out and clearing parts of my colon that hadn't ever been touched before.

Reggie gave me some high-definition screwing, and electrical currents ran along the mammoth receptor that my body had become, and I sizzled.

Frank used his brush as a true artisan would, slowly spreading colorful sensation, hue and cry over the canvas that he made of my quivering body.

It had been quite a while since I'd had a man at both ends of me at the same time, and I hadn't ever had three men simultaneously spurring me on to sexual elevation, and the situation was quite acceptable, and wasn't it nice that for a man in his midthirties there were still new boundaries to be bounded across?

This was an equal-opportunity orgy, and I didn't only take; I gave. I fucked Frank and I banged Ken and I screwed Reggie, and my dick cried out for more, until it seemed that it couldn't take any more, but it could—it took and gave more, and my ass drew in and released each cock and eagerly spread for the next one, and the big mouth that all of my friends assure me I have was truly useful, and my stomach was spinning like a gyro-scope about to throw me off, and I rode and I was ridden in this carnival of lust.

We all tried to hold back, to not let go too soon, to extend this arousal, this attack and retreat, this excitement, this assailing and being assailed.

And then—there's always “and then.”

We'd returned to the original construction. Ken was fucking me, and I was sucking Reggie, and Frank was blowing me.

Reggie said, “Oh…oh…oh”—not perhaps up to Henry James's standard, but it got across the idea—and his sweet cream shot into my mouth, engulfing me.

A minute later, Ken said, “Ooh…ooh…ooh,” and his fingers dug into my hips and his groin ground against me with such blistering force that I thought we would be welded together, and he came inside me.

Sometime soon after that, Frank said, “Mm…mm…mm,” making my boner vibrate between his lips, and I watched as his upright prick gushed out several thick eruptions that cascaded onto his stomach and up onto his chest and one that landed on his chin.

As a superior host, I waited until last to come, and when I did, I said, “Oh…ooh…mm…wow,” and the orgasm shook me, and I might have fallen over except that I was held up by cocks fore and aft. After an indeterminate time, the four of us—incredible! The
four
of us!—toppled like a set of builder's blocks in a sudden breeze, and we lay on the floor in a sloppy, gloppy mélange.

I panted for a while and fell asleep.

When I awoke, the apartment was in shadow, and my companions in carnality were wiping themselves off on my chartreuse towels—I wasn't even upset that they were not my guest towels—and began to get dressed.

I thought that I heard something about “signing out” and “overtime,” but I may have been confused.

One by one, they said, “Good-bye, Robert,” and departed, and I was left, messily, on the living room rug.

If I'd had a better afternoon in my life, I couldn't remember it.

I pushed myself, effortfully, to my feet and wobbled my way to one of my windows and stared down on the street, not caring that some of my neighbors might be seeing more of me than usual. It was hard to tell from my twelfth-floor aerie, but I thought that I saw three men together—one in T-shirt and jeans, one in gray-green pants and shirt, one in painter's uniform— getting into a taxi.

I said to myself, “Hmm.”

As far as I knew, the plumber hadn't fixed anything—except me. The cable guy hadn't adjusted anything—except me. The painter hadn't assessed anything—except me.

“Hmm,” I added to myself.

I felt the towels; they were damp. The floor was punctuated with used condoms. Evidently, I wasn't delusional. That was good.

I realized that I would have a hell of a story to tell Travis, who would be home, when, tonight, tomorrow morning? I wondered if I
would
tell Travis; after all, he could get so jealous.

Before I tottered into bed, I noticed that a couple of buttons were glowing on my TV. I looked more closely and saw that Reggie had turned on the recorder and was saving a Heather Locklear movie for me.

Xavier Axelson
(
xavieraxelson.com
) is a writer living in Los Angeles. Xavier's work has been featured in various erotic and horror anthologies. Longer written works include
The Incident
,
Velvet
and
Lily
.

Jacqueline Brocker
(
jacquelinebrocker.net
) lives and writes in Cambridge, England. Her short erotic fiction has appeared in anthologies such as
Smut Alfresco
and
Best Bondage Erotica 2014
. Her novella
Body & Bow
and short story “Oasis Beckoning” have been published by Forbidden Fiction.