Best Gay Erotica 2011 (15 page)

“Oh, my god,” Gary said half a minute later, still pumping away. “Here come some people now!” Mark was able to look half round and could see three or four young men approaching in the distance. But before either of them could take any decision about either carrying on or rapidly disengaging, stuffing away and buttoning up, the figures had disappeared through an archway in the wall, apparently without having spotted the copulating pair in the shadows.

Perhaps it was that brush with danger that did it. Seconds later, Gary felt his cock preparing to shoot, and at the same time Mark called out, “Oh, Gary, I'm coming,” and he immediately sprayed out his load, like lengths of white string in the light of the streetlamps, all over Gary's hand and against the wall, as well as down into his dropped jeans. Gary was very touched that Mark had called out his name as he came. It hastened his own ejaculation, and he returned the compliment as he shot his hot flood deep into his new little friend. “Mark, Mark,” he said. “This is for you. A big welcome to Oxford.”

Even as he was speaking, they both realized that two more people had come round the corner from the other end of the lane. And stopped. They were two blond young men in identical blue jeans and short denim jackets. Gary and Mark, looking over their shoulders at them, froze in terror. But the twins smiled. Unbelievably to Gary, one of them said, “Don't stop on our account,” and the other one, “Keep it up.”

“I think we've finished, actually,” said Gary nervously, still almost unable to believe this conversation was taking place. His slippery cock came plopping out from between Mark's rosy bumcheeks as he spoke. One of the twins giggled. “That's nice,” he said. “Welcome to Oxford.” And then they walked on past, with no further comment, while Mark and Gary hastily pulled up their jeans and zipped. They stared after the twins as they
receded down the lane. From beneath the backs of their denim jackets hung the tails of two identical striped shirts.

 

When they arrived back at Gary's and David's shared staircase, the light was showing under David's door. Without knocking, Gary and Mark walked in. A very startled David and Rob leapt to their feet, up from the chairs they'd been sitting in, enjoying a (presumably postcoital) glass of wine. They had good reason to look disconcerted. Neither of them was wearing anything except a T-shirt. Naked from the waist down, and with their cocks seeming unsure whether to be erect or not (they were waving slowly up and down, Rob's cutely tiny, David's four times its size, like some sort of signalling equipment) they looked like two naughty little boys (especially in little Rob's case) who have been caught doing something rather rude, having taken their trousers right off beforehand in order to do it. They sat down again when they saw who their visitors were and Gary, whose own room this was after all, fetched a couple more wineglasses for himself and Mark.

“So how did you get on?” David asked the new arrivals.

“You first,” countered Gary.

David and Rob, David explained with the ghost of a blush, had spent the evening very cozily pleasuring each other on Gary's bed. Gary and Mark involuntarily glanced toward it: the evidence was still fresh and glistening on the covers. “You didn't tell me,” David said to Gary, “that young Rob shoots a load as soon as you look at him. Doesn't even need to be touched.” Rob, who would have felt crucified by this announcement just a week ago, now merely grinned. “But then he can do it again and again in the space of minutes.” As Gary knew. Rob shot tiny loads from his miniature equipment but could do so with a frequency Gary had never encountered before.
Which sort of evened things up. “What about you?”

Mark answered. “Your friend Gary fucked me in the street. In New College Lane, up against that long stone wall. Those two blond twins that Gary says you keep running into were just in time to witness the end and offered their congrats.”

There was an astonished silence. “You are joking,” David finally said.

“I'm afraid,” said Gary, “it's all true.”

“Including the twins?”

“Yup.”

There was a further silence. Rob broke it. “Well at least we know now—about the twins I mean. What we always guessed.”

Gary changed the subject fractionally. “You never told me your little brother has a massive cock.”

“I thought that might be a nice surprise for you,” David answered smoothly. “Yes, he does indeed.”

“In which case, can we have a look at it?” Rob asked Mark cheekily. “Since you're sitting there casting your eyes over mine.”

Never the bashful one, Mark stood up and dropped his jeans, lifting up his shirtfronts so Rob could get the whole picture. He was impressively erect, his cockhead peeping from its protecting foreskin, big drum-tight balls framed in a shock of curly pubic hair—quite a big shock, on someone of his age. Gary noticed that Mark's jeans, around his ankles for the second time in an hour, were now in quite a mess, what with Mark's spunk and other dribblings at the front, and some signs that Gary's come had begun seeping out of the boy at the rear.

Rob stood up, meaning to take Mark's organ in his hand, but was caught out by his usual party trick of suddenly letting slip his load. “Oh, no,” he said, though with a laugh now, as he felt
his semen rise inside him, and the others watched as, before Rob had time to use his hand, his small prick quivered and slightly swelled, causing the glans to peep fractionally from beneath his foreskin, and then sprayed forth three tiny drops like pearls, which landed on the carpet between Mark's feet.

“Never mind, little one,” David said, putting one arm around Rob comfortingly, and giving his spent but still pert prick a consoling tweak. “We'll do it properly again soon.”

“In which case,” Mark asked his brother, “can I go to bed with Gary tonight?” His display now accomplished, and its effect spectacular (on Rob at least), he hauled his jeans back up.

“For tonight only, though,” David told him in serious elder brother tones. “I want him back tomorrow night in one piece. All of him.”

That didn't mean Mark would have to sleep alone the second and last night of his visit, Gary thought—judging from the interest he'd aroused in Rob.

Gary and Mark left Rob and David, with what remained of the wine, in Gary's room, where they seemed too comfortably ensconced to be dislodged, and made their way upstairs to David's. They undressed fully now, in front of each other, to their mutual delight, then kissed and caressed those parts of each other that they hadn't seen before—as well as some of the ones they already had. Mark was no taller than David, but twice as chunky, despite being two years younger, although no wider than David was around the waist. His upstanding cock incontinently drooled. Speaking more softly than he'd done before, he asked if he might fuck Gary in his brother's bed.

Gary might have been apprehensive, given Mark's dick's impressive girth, but he'd drunk enough not to worry overmuch and besides was delighted to be asked. He showed his consent by lying back, knees raised, legs spread and welcoming the boy on
top of him with open arms. For all his puppyish boisterousness before, Mark now entered Gary with care. Moistening his prick with spit was mere courtesy: it already streamed nonstop with precome. Slowly, gently he rodded Gary to and fro, suffusing Gary with flushes of delight and, with the softness of a butterfly, continually kissed his face.

Carried away on clouds of pleasure, Gary was neglecting his own distended cock, and Mark was also too occupied with other things to give it the attention that it craved. Suddenly it did what Gary now thought of as the speciality of Rob and, untouched except by occasional glancing contact with Mark's taut tummy, delivered up a massive load: not Rob's few pretty raindrops though, but a surging flood of cream that made a lake of Gary's belly and chest. Seeing this, Mark said, “Oh, wow, you've come. I'm sorry. I should've wanked you. I forgot.” The sight of the milky inundation made him pump his own squirt out, into Gary—a hot transfusion of sperm. Then Mark collapsed forward onto Gary, saying, “Oh, hey, your spunk's still warm, like a bath.”

It wouldn't be warm for long, Gary thought practically. Then he realized that he had also pretty much flooded David's bed. Still, that was tit for tat: he remembered the mess David and Rob had made of his own.

To Gary's surprise, Mark fell suddenly asleep after that on Gary's chest, worn out by the novelties of the day. He was still lying in the puddle of Gary's sperm with his cock still firmly plugged into Gary's arse. Gary hadn't the heart to wake him and so they spent most of the night like that. Gary half woke from time to time, to find the boy's prick in varying states: sometimes it felt full and fat, filling the space inside him as a champagne cork is compressed in the neck of its bottle, at others small and slippery like an eel, but always there.

Mark didn't come out of Gary till nearly breakfast time. They masturbated each other briskly before getting up. Then, because of Mark's impending interview at the Divinity School and remembering the state of the boy's jeans, Gary went to borrow a clean pair for him from Rob—they'd be about the right size. He had good reason to hope that Mark would have a successful interview and didn't want anything to go wrong. He would look forward to Mark's coming up to Oxford as a theology student next autumn. Meanwhile Mark could return the borrowed trousers to Rob in the evening. And who knew what might happen then.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wednesday was strip night at Chico.

Nobody danced dirtier than Martin. He wore blue silk boxers and black boots. The sweatier he got, the more the slinky fabric clung to his obvious assets. He thrust his hips, rocking back and forth obscenely as he strutted his stuff across the tabletop. His head was buzzed homeboy rough, the short straight bristles spiking up like a stiff, black brush above his glistening brown skin. Even his tattoos gleamed in the flash of the laser lights—EL MONTE across the back of his neck and ropes of barbed wire banded around both his biceps. A steel stud gleamed in his right nipple.

As the hip-hop music throbbed, he put his hands on his ass, arching his pelvis as he thrust out his half-hard cock. His boxers were clinging like a second skin, so damp now the outline of his G-string showed. The audience howled. Martin caught my eye and winked. I raised my beer to him, then slowly lowered the bottle to rub it over my crotch. He grinned, and the bulge in his pants got bigger.

Watching Martin always made me throw a boner. He worked on the same Caltrans night crew I did, flipping his “slow” and “stop” flags at assholes and drunks while I dug up chunks of concrete for the new Los Angeles Metrolink lines. We never talked about Chico at work. The hot topics on our crew were pussy and cars and the Dodgers and pussy. I hadn't known Martin was a fag too until I saw him stripping at Chico. Fuck, he was hot!

 

Finding Chico made me glad I'd made the move to East L.A. The San Gabriel Valley was no gay Mecca, but I couldn't afford to live in fucking West Hollywood anymore. Even if the commute hadn't been such a bitch, the budget cuts from the fucking recession had cut out all my overtime. My income had dropped below what I'd been making when I'd hired on seven years ago. I was tired and pissed off from another day of trying to sleep in triple-digit temperatures. The AC in my cheap-assed Alhambra apartment didn't work worth shit. My crew had Wednesday nights off. The promise of naked men and cheap Tecate made it worth the Hump Day trip to check out what the website billed as East L.A.'s premier Latin gay bar.

My Irish ass will never pass for Latin, but I was horny and thirsty. I showed my ID to the man at the door and walked into the darkened throb of the crowd beyond—no cover charge. The evening was looking up already. I inhaled deeply, drawing in the scent of hot, sweaty men, letting the tension drain from my shoulders as hip-hop and the sound of Spanglish and deep male laughter seeped into my pores. I made my way to the bar and got a beer then found myself a place along the wall. I leaned back and lifted the bottle, watching the spears of laser light dance across the writhing masses of men as ice-cold beer trickled down my throat.

This was definitely a workingman's bar. Brown-skinned men with shaved heads or short, black hair and ball caps danced in baggy pants and white T-shirts or work shirts embroidered with names like CARLOS or MANNY on the pocket above a company logo. They drank Mexican or cheap domestic beer from the bottle. There wasn't a designer shirt or microbrewed specialty ale in sight. Guys who carried themselves in a way that screamed “cop” were dancing with homeboys or leaning in close enough to damn near rub dicks with gangbangers whose arms and necks were painted solid with tattoos. The few of us there with Anglo skin stuck out like sore thumbs, and nobody seemed to give a shit.

Fuck, this was my kind of bar! I scanned the room, taking in the action. Motorcycle videos played on the huge plasma screen on the wall. A mirror ball flashed over the dance floor. Suddenly, the crowd started hooting. Five dancers had climbed up onto a table, gyrating to the music. The one dancing second from the right had his back to me. Fuck, he had a beautiful ass! It was round and firm, with his baggy pants riding low over satiny blue boxers. His T-shirt clung to the kind of work-toned shoulders I loved to lick. I could almost taste the solid mounds of muscle beneath my tongue: salt and musk. I waited for the dancer to turn around. I had no doubt his pecs and dark brown nipples would draw me like a magnet. I'd grab a handful of ass and lick my way down his glistening six-pack. I'd tongue his cock through those soft, silky boxers. Then I'd turn him around, yank down the fucking pants and bury my face in that gorgeous ass.