Best Gay Erotica 2011 (21 page)

He said, “Did you hear me? Don't turn that thing on.”

I ignored his remark and did exactly that. Then I stepped behind him, pressing my hips to his buttocks, wrapping my arms about his waist and squeezing. In the mirror, my face was visible over his shoulder, and I rubbed his cheek with my stubble. I said, “You look good strung up.”

His chest rose and fell and his breath whistled in his nose. He said, “I don't like this; turn me loose.”

I slapped the back of his head, making him flinch. I said, “You're staying put, my friend.”

That shut him up.

I popped open the button at the waistband of his jeans, my thumb knuckle digging into his belly. I asked, “Has a man ever stripped you?”

He shook his head, wrenching his lips.

I lowered his zipper and parted his pant flaps, exposing charcoal-colored briefs. “It's a bit freaky the first time, losing your britches to a guy you barely know.”

My cock had stiffened; it pressed against his behind and his buttocks clenched. I backed up a step and shucked his jeans
down to his ankles. His thighs were smooth, his calves freckled and dusted with hair the same color as that in his armpits. I told him to step out of his pants and he did, but it took some effort—several kicks, in fact—before they finally came off. It was like his body didn't want to surrender them.

Again, I pressed my hips to his buttocks and rested my chin on his shoulder. I wrapped my arms about his chest and squeezed, forcing air from his lungs. His cock was rigid and thick as a cucumber. It throbbed against the flimsy fabric of his briefs.

I slipped my index finger inside the waistband. “Let's get rid of these.”

He drew a breath, shifting his weight and staring at his reflection while sweat trickled from his armpits.

I snatched the undershorts to midthigh, exposing his genitals. His cock bobbed before him and his testicles dangled in their shaved sac. His pubic hair was trimmed to a small patch, and just behind his cockhead, on the underside of the shaft, a gold post glistened. Teasing it with a fingernail, I said, “What's this?”

“My wife's idea. She likes the way it feels inside her.”

“Did it hurt when they installed it?”

He nodded.

“But you did as she asked?”

“I did as I was
told
.”

I chuckled.
Good answer
.

I peeled the briefs to his ankles and he kicked them aside. His asscheeks were like two cantaloupes, smooth and white as porcelain, firm to the touch. I slapped one buttock and the sound of the swat echoed in the room.

I said, “If you're smart, you'll do what I say too.”

He flexed his toes and didn't speak.

A willow switch is a fine corporal punishment tool. It stings like hell, imparting wicked stripes, but it doesn't make much
noise, nor does it break skin if properly applied. I'm handy with one, and now I introduced Danny to my technique, a series of strokes delivered with an inconsistent tempo, tormenting his buttocks and the backs of his thighs. I got him dancing in short order, yelping and twisting about, and after a half-dozen blows he shouted, “That's enough. Quit.”

I responded by switching his thighs anew, several strokes in quick succession. The assault produced threats and curses, in between yelps: “When I get loose I'm gonna—
ouch
—kick your ass.” And “
Ouch
. I'll kill you, motherfucker.” And “You're dead meat, you…
Jesus
that hurts.”

I told myself:
This pussy couldn't kick his grandma's butt, much less mine.

Now, a guy in Danny's position must cross a certain threshold. He has to learn that, despite any prerestraint assurances to the contrary, he's lost control of his situation. I didn't dignify his threats with a verbal response. Instead, I kept on switching, giving him another dozen strokes, raising more angry welts on his ass and thighs, bringing forth shrieks and wails. By the time I ceased, Danny had lost control of his bladder and pissed all over the floor. He sweated buckets and pled for mercy. (“I swear I'll do anything you want—
anything
.”)

Whipping him was fun—I could have continued for hours—but I didn't want to kill the guy. I just wanted him to know I considered him a punk, a closeted weasel.

I sat on the padded bench, placing the switch beside me, and I drank bottled water, studying Danny's visage. His face was crimson and distorted and ceiling lights reflected off his skin. He sniffled while his eyes flitted between mine and the switch, no doubt wondering if I planned to whip him further.

“Having fun?” I asked.

He shook his head like a panicky child.

I approached and seized his nipple between my thumb and index finger, using my nails, pinching and twisting, making Danny squirm. I changed nipples, pinching and twisting some more, and went back and forth while Danny whimpered. He said, “Please, don't,” but I kept on till both tits were purple and swollen.

His penis had gone soft during the switching, but now it stiffened, ticking upward till it pointed at the ceiling. I fetched a leather cock ring, the kind with snaps, and slipped it beneath his scrotum then secured it to the base of his cock so his nuts bulged and his erection wouldn't subside. I flicked at his boner, making it jiggle. I pinched his sac and listened to him suck air through clenched teeth.

Okay, I'll admit I enjoyed doing these things to Mr. Closet Case. His chest heaved and he trembled. He flinched each time I touched him, as if my fingers delivered electric shocks to his body. His armpits smelled funky and their scent got me horny. I licked them nice and slow, savoring their salty taste, using my teeth to tug at his spit-soaked hairs.

Danny whimpered. He said, “Stop, please. Let me go.”

I lifted my face from his armpit and frowned. Seizing the switch, I whipped his buttocks again, a series of ten strokes that drove him into a frenzy, making him howl and bounce his heels. His ass looked like he'd sat on a hot barbeque grill, more than once. When I'd finished I stood before him and took his chin in my hand, forcing him to look at me. His breath huffed and sweat coated his forehead. Fresh tears leaked from his pretty eyes. I said, “I'll release you when I'm ready, not until. Understand?”

He nodded, blinking more tears.

“Now, let's talk about sex,” I said.

He dropped his gaze.

I said, “I'm a faggot and I'll bet you are too.”

“I told you, I'm married, I've never—”

“Don't feed me your bullshit. The sooner you admit you're gay, the quicker we'll be finished here.”

I toyed with Danny's nuts, rolling them around in my hand.

“Is that what you want to hear?” he said. “That I'm gay?”

“More than that.”

“What?”

“Ask me to fuck your faggot ass.”

He hung his head, but I chucked his chin with a knuckle and made him look at me.

“Go on,” I said, “ask.”

When he didn't speak, I seized the willow switch, but before I could use it Danny started babbling. “Okay, all right; I'll say whatever you want”

I tapped the switch against the palm of my hand. “I'm waiting.”

He closed his eyes. “I'm queer,” he said. “I've always been.”

“Then how come you're married?”

He looked at me then dropped his gaze. “I'm a chicken shit, that's why.”

“Ever been butt-fucked?”

“No.”

“So, this will be your first time?”

He nodded.

“Go ahead, now: ask me.”

He swallowed and his voice shook when he spoke. “I want you to fuck me.”

“You want me to fuck
what
?”

He lowered his chin. “My…faggot ass.”

Okay, Ian, that's enough
.
End this
.

Exhaling, I removed the cock ring from Danny's genitals. Then, stepping behind him, I released his cuffs from the crossbar,
one at a time, opening the clips. His arms fell to his sides, and he sank to his knees, into a puddle of his own piss. He looked up at me with his eyebrows arched and his forehead furrowed.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Letting you loose,” I said.

I pointed to his clothes. “Go ahead, get dressed and leave.”

A vertical crease appeared between his eyebrows, then he dropped his gaze and he did not move.

I said, “Hold up your hands and I'll remove the cuffs.”

He did so and I took them off and then I placed them in the footlocker. When I turned back toward Danny, he still had not budged. He looked up at me and said, “I don't understand.”

“We're done here. Go home to your wife.”

He moistened his lips. “I don't have a wife,” he said.

“Huh?”

“I was lying. It's a thing I do sometimes, when I'm in a strange town. I pretend to be someone I'm not.”

Oh, shit
.

I sat on the bench and rubbed my face with my hands. Then I looked at Danny. “So, who are you, really?”

He blew air out his nose and shook his head. “Just another faggot—in this case a queer with a whipped ass.” He glanced over his shoulder and looked at his reflection in the mirrored wall. “You tore me up.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I've got this thing about closeted guys; I was angry and—”

He held up a hand. “It's okay, I deserved it.”

I shrugged.

”Plus,” he said, looking at me and crinkling the corners of his eyes, “it
was
awfully sexy.”

I started at his remark. Then I chuckled and shook my head. I said, “Here I thought I was in control…”

He smiled, raising a shoulder then letting it drop, and looked away.

I said, “You want to clean yourself up?”

He rose to his feet. “Maybe later. Right now I was hoping we'd, you know…”

“What?”

“Finish what we started.”

I took him on his back, on the bed, my hips slapping his whipped buttocks each time I thrust. His hole was tight; it flexed against the shaft of my cock and felt delicious. Danny allowed me to kiss him now. He sucked my tongue while we fucked, while I pinched his tortured nipples and ran my hands over the welts on his thighs and ass. When I came inside him he shot his load right away, scattering sticky pearls across his chest and belly.

“That was nice,” he whispered.

Thirty minutes later, after a shower, he was gone. I never even found out his real name.

But here's the funny part: after he left in his pickup truck I stood on my front porch, watching his taillights fade, and, I swear, I felt as though a weight had lifted from my shoulders. For the first time in a year, I didn't feel bad about getting dumped by Kenneth. In fact, I was glad he wasn't in my life any longer, the creep.

I went back inside and found a bucket and a mop and a bottle of sudsy ammonia, then I cleaned up the puddle of piss my guest had left me. He'd offered to do it himself, of course, but I told him no, I'd take care of things.

It was the least I could do to thank him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's a horrible substance to drown in, given my affinity for it. But after you read this, I think you'll understand why I performed the final, fatal inhalation. Technically, it's called “natricide”—death by violence to the nostrils—but I call it madness.

I did it for his body.

He would toss his hair, pretending to clear it from his eyes. I knew, however, that it was really to tease me closer with an explosion of oils, to seduce me with sebum. In the summer heat, his glands oozed everything I liked.

Then he'd tip his hair with gel and toss a little more, wafting chemicals my way and ruining the moment. I'd skulk off. Of course, he was hurt by my disdain for hair products, but kept tossing for other noses to hide his pain.

I was deceitful, too. When he wasn't looking, I'd position myself downwind and sniff. I couldn't get enough.

Betcha my family photo album looks nothing like yours.

Close-up of me as a baby nose: swaddled in blankets and my own newborn smell. My pores—which would later become thick marshes of blackheads—were still closed. I'm a shiny button, yet to be awakened by the rot and bloom of life. Oh, wait—there's a wrinkle. Perhaps an awareness that breast milk was only a few feet away…