Best Gay Erotica 2015 (2 page)

He lowered my pants to my feet and next my shorts, the opening slipping along my prick until it got stuck at the crown, with my dick dangling perpendicular, and he gave a little yank, and my shorts pulled free and my man-stem sprang up and hit his nose, and we both said “Ouch.”

In unison, we said “Sorry,” and he took me in again.

It's great to meet a cocksucker who knows what he's doing, and—let's give him a name—Evan knew what he was doing. He went up and down and under and over, and who would have thought that such a face would have such a mouth? And if this weren't a story, I would have been surprised that he could manage to slip both of my nuts between his lips and roll them around like a couple of pieces of candy. No, that's a bad comparison, because I want you to realize my studliness; he rolled them around, let's see, he rolled them around like a couple of wine-skins, sloshing their potent brew—and that makes them sound like a pair of beer kegs, but maybe that's not bad, so yes, they were a pair of kegs. I mean, what guy wouldn't like to have kegs between his legs, with their contents rising closer and closer to the spigot?

We need a bit of heightened dialogue here, so I said, “Eat me, punk. Eat my choice meat, my sirloin steak of a cock with all of its juices rampant”—all right, I know that's a bit much, but believe me, it's not easy thinking up this stuff—“Oh, man, I'm going to fuck your face until you can't walk”—okay, we seem to be having a little writer's block here, but give me a minute.

Or maybe let's just let Evan talk. “Oh, you hunky hunk, I love your hunk of manflesh, your manhunk, and, man, it's a hunk. It fills me, there's just so damn much of it, and I adore it, I want to chew on it forever, I want to consume it, and I want it to consume me,” he said, and he said this with his mouth full. That's how good a cocksucker he was, because while he spoke he licked me with a dozen tongues and he stroked me with myriad lips, and his multitude of hands roamed across my balls and my legs and my buttocks and my nipples, and I felt as if I were going to go up in flames like a five-alarm fire. I mean, he was good.

He looked up at me with eyes that were blue like the sea— and I know that's a cliché, but you can drown in a cliché, and I was drowning in his eyes. And he released me, leaning back on his heels, staring up at me, his nude body shining with his exertion—okay, sure, we both had our clothes on a few paragraphs ago, but now he's nude, okay? And so am I, our clothes are in two neat little piles in a corner of this story, so don't get hung up on details, and let's continue. His nude body glistened and his crowbar pointed at my lance, and both of us gasped as if we were drowning, struggling for air, and at last he said, “You know what I want.”

“Sure, I do,” I said, “but you have to ask me for it.”

“I'm not going to ask you for it,” he said, and I slapped him across the face with my dong, and he said, “Thank you.” I whacked him again with my whanger, and he said, “I'm going to beg you for it. I beseech you, I implore you, I entreat you. Pretty please.”

Well, since he asked so nicely, how could I refuse?

I extended my hands and lifted him to his feet, and his member met my member, club members, and his eyes were eager, and so was I, and I turned him around—and oh his ass, it was lovely, two firmly packed globes, unblemished, flawless—and I looked into the cleft between them and I felt so high, I felt absolutely vertiginous, and I parted the globes and saw the perfect little rosebud pucker and above it, to mix analogies profligately, a sign that read,
This way to Heaven,
and my pilgrim breathed “Hosanna” and entered into bliss.

He parted for my arrival, and before I barely had begun, he closed around me, and the feeling was so piercing that I precame a bit, and I thought,
No, this is too soon, I want this to go on, and if I'm repeating something from a prior experience in this story, I don't care, I just want to feel this good always.
He opened and I went farther, and he closed and I stopped, and he opened and I went, and at last I was all of the way in, my pelvis pressed against his yielding flesh, my pubic hair mashed flat against the half circles of his superb flesh. My arms were around him and holding on to his iron chest, my face against the warmth of his back, and I thought,
This is the way I could spend eternity
.

At least, that's the way I could spend the next few minutes, while I lean back in my chair and paw at my raging hard-on, my hand swimming against the tide that has been flowing since I sat down to create this chronicle for you, trying to keep from exploding so that I can get to the end and tell you everything you want to know, and then, my job done, unfasten my pants and thrust them to the floor and feel the fabric of the chair beneath my cheeks and grab myself and propel myself to glory as I stare at the words on my computer screen.

But that wasn't what he wanted, and you don't want it either; you and he both want action; he wanted me to fuck him, and you want to fuck him, and you want me to fuck him, and, obligingly, I did just that and can I tell you, are there words to express the pleasure he gave me and the joy I gave him, retreating, utgop, his love muscle releasing me reluctantly, advancing, qwertyuiop[r, his dew drop opening in welcome, my temperature rising, my cock rising, dflke, and my fingers smash the keyboard in my excitement, and I'm trying to keep coherent, because we're almost there and I pounded into him, I screwed him, I made love to him, and he enveloped me, and I grabbed his cock, and it was like grabbing a crowbar—I said that already, I don't care—I want to fuck him and fuck him and fuck him and he was clenched around me the way your fist is clenched around your dick, and I was panting the way you're panting now, the way I want you to be panting now, as you try to focus on the page, the book balanced on your heaving stomach just as I was balanced on his sweet sweet sweet—and I couldn't hold back, I screamed and I creamed and I yelled and I shook 7.0 on the Richter scale, oh, forever, please forever, and I felt his prick jerk in my hands and he spumed all over my fingers, and I came again, I'm coming now punching the keys with one hand, and I ran rivers in the landscape of his rolling hills, and let go, let go, let me bring you with me over the precipice, I will fuck you, you may fuck me, oh don't stop, don't ever stop, we are so fucking beautiful, we are so beautiful fucking, and finally we will both howl like night creatures baying at the moon, the moon we reach in our ecstasy—
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
—and you anoint my words, you gush, you flow, and the print runs until you cannot read it, and my story disappears into your fist.

Rhidian Brenig Jones

“Fifty quid. The two of you, together.”

My English wasn't as good as Sebastian's, but when there's a hand on your thigh, you don't need a phrase book. The creep had been giving us the eye since we walked in the door. Nothing new in that; we're cock magnets, after all, but I was amazed the guy had the balls to make a move. He shuffled closer on the seat, and I took a hit of denture-breath from moist liver-lips.

He plucked at the seam of my jeans. “All right, sixty. Make it sixty, okay? I got a place we can go.”

I put my beer down and leaned back against the vinyl to give him the full breadth of my chest. His eyes zeroed in as I slipped my hand under my shirt and scratched lazily at the fuzz around my navel. Sometimes, in the mornings, I find Sebastian's hairs there, caught silky black among the blond—sometimes other things as well. The thought bloomed in my cock, and I smiled as I lifted the veiny, unwanted hand away. “
Jeśli dotkniesz mnie jeszcze raz, złamię ci te pierdolone ręce
.”

“What? What did you say?”

“He says,” Sebastian murmured, looming over his shoulder, “touch him again and he will break your fucking arm. Touch him again, I will break the other.” He cupped the old fool's jaw, then clapped sharply, setting the gray jowls jiggling. “Go!”

“Nice,” I commented as I turned my head to the side. “
Jezus
,” my lover complained, reverting to Polish. “I go for

a piss, and you're hitting on someone.”

“Hey, the man made a fair offer, seeing
you
were involved. If I'd been on my own, he'd have made it double.”

We downed our drinks and I followed him as he weaved through the crowd at the bar, loving the long line of his back, the way his ass moved. Kevin, the fat boy from the baker's, was yanking his darts from the board. His Tweedledum face lit up when I winked at him, and then I felt sort of bad. He's got a bone for us, but Kevin's okay, slips us doughnuts, no charge.

Outside, the evening air was still and cold and smelled faintly of hops from the brewery on the outskirts of town. I bounced on the balls of my feet and looked up. Default setting for an English sky: cloudy.

“You want a threesome, Kevin's hot,” Sebastian said, beginning to walk. “Plenty of him to go around, at least.”

“Had him. And his mother. And the dog.” “Dog any good?”

“German shepherd. Fabulous. But he never called.” Halfway down the hill to our flat, one of the dozens of derelict chapels in this bleak Lancashire town towered black against the skyline, its graveyard desolate, choked by knotweed and bramble. Halloween, hammered after Jarek's party, we'd made out on a grave, but I'd got so freaked thinking of
Carrie
that I had to hang on to Sebastian the rest of the way home, screw the risk. He stopped and gripped the fence railings and pressed his forehead to the bars.

“Come on,” I said. “We'll be late for James.” “Piece of shit.”

“James is a piece of shit?”

“The knob in the pub. What the fuck did he think we were?”

“Broke.”
Migrant workers. Job-hungry sucklers on the British tit. Good enough to suck on a British cock.

He pushed away from the rails and turned to face me, his luscious mouth down-turned, threatening an A-grade sulk.

I stepped gently on his foot. “Lighten up, for chrissake. It's not like it means anything.”

“It does to me. Fucking old twat.”

I smiled and shook my head: I love a man with values. “That's it, isn't it? He was old and he was ugly. What if he'd looked like Kuba? Or Tomek?”

“If he looked like them, he wouldn't have to pay.”

I gave it a few beats. “Okay, anyone, take anyone. Would you ever do it for money, period?”

“If I thought I'd get anything for it, I'd sell your ass tomorrow.” The rails were crusted with rust, and my heart began to race as I waited, watching him pick and probe at a paint bubble. Eventually, he shrugged. “Maybe, if he was a total babe and his wallet was as thick as his dick.”

I curled his fingers around a pound coin. “Two out of three. What do I get for my money?”

We'd made love before work, quick, urgent, no foreplay, but my cock stiffened like it had a year before, the night I first met him. We'd abandoned the club and, dry-mouthed with anticipation, I'd led him through Kazimierz to my flat, our breath smoking like incense in the frosted air, our boots crackling on the iron ice of a Kraków winter. His mouth had scalded me, and when he'd taken me, he'd taken my soul, as well.

His beautiful eyes roamed my face. “The weekend,” he said softly, replying to my question. “What we did during the weekend. But this time, you do it to me.”

Something whipped in my gut, then lunged and struck. Sweet venom spread, began to seep from the tip of my prick.
Kurwa
, to fuck, that's what we'd done. When it was over, he'd washed me, his hands tender then, loving. He'd pressed his mouth into my hair and held me, rocking and murmuring, his strong arms locked around me long after I'd stopped shuddering. And maybe that had been the best part.

His voice was husky, caressing my cock like a warm, wet tongue pulling through my urethra. “You loved it, didn't you,
dziubuś
? Yeah, you loved it.” He swung my hand to his crotch, my knuckles brushing his powerful erection. “You love me?”

“Always,” I said, because it was true. He nodded at the graveyard. “Want to?” “No time. James, remember?”

“Fuck James.”

Oh, yeah.

Back in the summer, Ray, the builder we worked for, had wind-milled his arms at me across a stack of reinforcing mesh.

“You live near the Catholic church, don't you? Drop this through the letterbox on your way home, will you?” He'd held the invoice at arm's length, squinting. “Bugger.”

“What?”

“Flooring for the church hall. New fella there. I've let him have it cost.”

“Yes? This is good thing you do, I think.”

“Glad to hear you say that, my friend, because you're going to be laying it Saturday, you and lover boy.” He'd smirked and licked the envelope. “Father James Danaher. Said he might drop in, so make sure you're grafting.”

Laying a floor is hard on the back; as the day wore on, it had got harder on the cock.

We'd looked up to see James, the priest, crabbing his way around the edge of the room, surprising in jeans and a faded Diesel sweatshirt.
Almost
, I'd thought.
Almost
. Nature had penny-pinched, grudging him millimeters, a subtlety of angle that would have transformed
okay
into
fucking knockout
. Medium build, tall enough, but nowhere near Sebastian's stunning height. Cropped dark hair, receding slightly. Wide-set eyes that were an indeterminate gray. Blunt nose above a long upper lip, the cleft in his chin fractionally off center. You know the type: nothing to write home about but you wouldn't smack his mouth off your dick if he offered. Then he'd smiled, and for some reason my stomach had turned over.

He'd been keen to help, and though I suspected he'd be as much use as tits on a fish, I'd handed out some grunt work, nothing he could fuck up, getting down on all fours to clean up around us. I'd studied him when he wasn't looking. Sexy ass, the bulge of his balls neatly bisected by the seam of his jeans. Solid thighs, looked like they'd be corded with muscle, the kind you want gripping your hips, locking as orgasm hits. Sebastian's raised eyebrow had brought me up short. I mean, if it's breathing, generally in working order and has a
Y
chromosome, I'll fuck it, but a priest, well, there was still a lot of Catholic in me.