Best Gay Erotica 2015 (4 page)

James smoothed the wrinkles from the condom and turned to me. “Will you lie on him?” he whispered. “On your back?”

I settled on Sebastian's chest. I raised my legs, and he caught them and held them wide in the ancient offering, one man to another: erect cock, balls tight in their liquidy sac, yielding anus. Which
? Which?
James lowered his head, and I felt the fleeting touch of his tongue on my ring. I fisted my cock off my belly and stood it upright, watching the glans swell out of its hood. When men pig out on me, all drool and slobbering gulps, I'm wary of teeth, so I kept my hand in place and pressed the other to James's forehead to control his descent. No need; he took me neatly, with finesse, firm lips and quiet tongue drawing me in with gorgeous, tugging sucks. His fingers crawled on my sac, rolling and cupping the plump eggs, squeezing harder when I gave a mewling gasp of pleasure. Suddenly, he fumbled at my fist and peeled it away from my shaft. “All of it, please, let me…” But he came up as fast as he'd surged down, retching from the touch of my cock at the back of his throat. Scarlet, eyes watering, he grinned dopily at us and wiped his hand over his mouth.

Sebastian nuzzled my ear. “For that you will need to practice, James, eh?” He hooked a better grip on my knees and shifted under my weight. “Better for now you fuck him.”

Although I was beyond ready, my asshole soft and dilated, the shock of James's entry clenched my belly into cobblestones. It wasn't so much his size—you ever have a Polish builder's fist in you, you'll know size—it was more his extraordinary hardness, as if a warm steel dildo had been slid into my guts. I closed my eyes and surrendered to sensation: one cock moving inside me, the other humping my tailbone, the thin, slicing pain in my anus seasoning the pleasure. James fucked me straight-armed, staring down into my face. The faintest scent came from him, some kind of sandalwood. When he leaned forward to kiss Sebastian, I licked the mat on his chest, coarser, denser than Sebastian's silk. His nipples were salty little dots on my tongue.

Deep in my groin the tension grew, waves coming fast, overlapping, gathering strength. But already James's rhythm was faltering, his thrusts becoming shallow and erratic as he struggled for control. The first glimmers of my impending orgasm faded and, god, I needed to come. Sensing it, Sebastian's arm tightened around me. I covered his other hand with my own as he began to jack me, giving my glans the light, glancing slips with the ball of his thumb that bring a climax to sear the flesh from my bones. And suddenly we were separate, selfish, each man hurtling alone to the edge and the fall into oblivion. James hunched forward again and opened his mouth as if to catch my semen. With a wrenching cry, he drove into me one last time before freezing. But when, seconds later, I came, he was howling, and Sebastian's hot wetness was spreading on my back and my own heavy load was spurting, spurting through my lover's fingers and my own.

A couple of months later, Sebastian and I picked up a long-term contract in Holland, skilled work on a hospital complex near Leiden. We were sorry to leave England but it was time to move on. A hike in pay, a great apartment and, when the mood takes us, more blue-eyed, fair-haired Dutchmen than we can shake a stick at. No-brainer. And James? He meant what he said. Reading between the lines of his emails, we deduce there have been no more encounters for him. But he's accepted our invitation to visit us in July, and then, who knows? James is standing at a fork in the road. Priest or man, faith or flesh? Will he remain steadfast to his lonely vocation or embrace the warm, messy, glorious uncertainty of the love between men? Who knows. His choice.

Jacqueline Brocker

Summer hit Paris with an oppressive heat that at first came as a relief after a chilly spring. Then complaints about the sweltering air came thick and fast. The city wanted to exhale, but hot air would only rush in, stultifying the inhabitants.

In his tiny flat—one of the old converted servant's quarters in what really should have been the roof but was still deemed, by French standards, livable for a human being—Chris sweltered and his stubble itched. His little fan gave off slow channels of air, sporadically cooling his sweat. Despite being alone, he kept his shorts on, though without underwear, and the T-shirt had come off two days before. He only pulled it on when he finally descended to find a brasserie for coffee.

Once there, Chris ordered an espresso and a glass of water and sat back, watching the customers around him in the heat-haze. The waiter, midforties, had one of those tight French waists and a face of taut skin with a deep tan, offset by shorn gray hair. Chris looked at him and thought he'd be too dry, like papery bark. And too proper. And most likely straight.

Chris tugged at his T-shirt, pulling the material off his skin to allow some air in. He waved his hand in front of his face like a fan and made a loud sighing sound. Heads abruptly shot in his direction: a beautifully-coifed teenaged girl, two women in their forties in Capri pants and white sandals, a man in his sixties in a suit, whose features were tomato red but who was clearly determined to remain suited despite the weather. He gazed lazily at them all and realized he was the only one wearing flip-flops, and his shorts were, well,
short
.

He leaned forward heavily with his elbows on the table, sighing loudly again, ignoring the glares. Six months in Paris and he'd grown used to the expectation of outdoor behavior that didn't exist back home in Brisbane, where as long as you didn't get naked in the street (in broad daylight—a night on the town and you were probably forgiven) you could pretty much do as you pleased. Chris—well, the Sensible Chris that unfortunately had the better of him most days—would never have done such a thing, but he wasn't above giving a couple of Parisians something small to mutter about over their coffees. He could always pull out the dumb foreigner act if need be.

Then the gravelly rumble of a Harley broke the air.

Chris snapped to attention, as did the other customers and the waiter. No one saw it yet, but everyone's heads darted to seek it out. Soon enough, the bike zoomed into view, began to slow down, and the Harley and its rider pulled up on the part of the pavement set aside for bikes and scooters.

The Harley was a vision, with its chrome pipes and gleaming red body, sleek and shiny. Chris had grown accustomed to the mopeds and scooters that populated Paris: the classic, the modern, the three-wheel jobs, the ones that made Paris look fashionable and sleek, but never dangerous. A motorbike, however, Chris had not seen since leaving home. The sight of this one, and its helmeted, leather-decked rider, was an aberration, an injection of something rough and tumble into a world of high-minded thinking and dreary sophistication.

Oh god, it made him hard. He didn't even have to see the rider's face for his erection to fully engorge. The leather pants, those boots and the jacket were formfitting. Sensible Chris said it was probably some dude in his fifties, and, really, Chris wasn't into Daddies.

He might give this one a chance, though, he thought.

The rider peeled off his jacket first, the leather as reluctant as the skin of an orange to leave his flesh. It revealed bare arms, pale skin, muscles like tree branches and a leather waistcoat, not even done up in the front. Only a trail of hair in the center of the rider's chest—and it was an impressive chest, not broad or imposing, but open and taut, commanding.

When the rider took off his helmet, Chris had to cross his legs, heat be damned, because not to do so would have let the whole fucking world know he had a massive hard-on for this blond biker, with his lean, fighting body and hair that should have died out with the last of the eighties rockers, but instead made him look nothing short of glorious.

Sweat fell from the biker, dripped down his face. Sensible Chris thought it was the bloke's own fault—leather, in this heat?—but it made him look like he'd just stepped back from a really good fuck. The image slammed into Chris even more when the biker flicked his tongue out to lick the sweat around his mouth.

Chris could have licked it all off of him, from head to booted toe.

The biker packed his helmet away in the back compartment. The other customers had stared when he pulled up and dismounted, but apart from Chris, were now back to their own conversations. The waiter rolled his eyes and went back to his job, flitting from table to table.

Chris expected the biker to sit down, but instead, he stopped still—more like posed, jacket over his shoulder, one fist on his hip—and gazed around, panting a little. Chris felt the heat emanating from him, seemingly unsure if he wanted him to look over at Chris or ignore him.

The biker suddenly grinned and strutted to the fountain.

Yeah, you gorgeous thing, strut like you're on show
, Chris thought. He expected him to dip his hand in for a quick splash. But then the jacket hit the pavement, the biker's hands braced on the ledge, and suddenly he was dunking his whole blond head into the water, one leather-booted leg kicking up in the air like a dog taking a piss on a tree.

And he might as well have taken a piss on a tree from the sudden gasps of shock and horror around them. There were mutterings of “
Mon dieu
” and other exclamations as the biker proceeded to shake his head in the water. It was as if the fountain was a mouth accepting his head, the biker juddering against its vicious bite as it tried to devour him.

A violation of a social contract had occurred. You could delicately splash at the water in a fountain, but you sure as shit don't use one like a private basin. The Parisians around Chris were staring, waiting to see if the biker would emerge, clearly hoping that he might drown instead. Then the blond mane arced up. The raised boot came down. His now-wet hair rose like a whip and slapped down on his back, and the biker shook himself, drops of water flailing around him as he audibly moaned.
Like he was fucking coming
, Chris thought.
Goddamn it
.

The biker rubbed his hands over his face before sweeping them over his forehead and then down his long hair, smoothing the water all the way through to the tips. Then he shook himself down with abandon. Someone said something, loudly. Chris couldn't hear what, but the biker grinned and turned to the woman, in her Bermuda shorts and gold sandals, and, shrugging, said, “It's hot, madame.”

Chris, understanding the French perfectly, laughed. The lone laugh. Again, everyone turned and looked at him. The biker included. It was his stare at Chris, the calm
Are you serious?
look, that shut Chris up. Chris tried to lean back easily, eyes averting from the biker.

He could only manage for a moment; the leather, after all, was like a magnet.

The biker sauntered to the nearest chair. He let one leg lie across the wicker seat next to him. The waiter narrowed his eyes and coughed. Another shrug, this time bored and
I really couldn't give a fuck.
The waiter rolled his eyes and went back inside. The biker sniggered and leaned back on his chair, arm across the back of the other, staring out at the traffic and the passing pedestrians, some of whom were giving him sideways glances, curious stares. These didn't seem to faze him, and in a few moments the waiter plunked a cup of coffee and a glass of water in front of him. Chris frowned. The biker hadn't ordered anything, and Chris had been paying attention. Chris looked up at the waiter, quizzical, and the waiter shook his head as if to say, “What can you do?”

The biker only had eyes for his coffee. He picked it up, inhaled, smiling, took two sips and then looked straight at Chris.

The gaze was so striking that Chris didn't have time to pretend he wasn't staring. Instead, he swallowed, his eyes unable to leave the biker's face. It was no longer cool and casual, but serious, penetrating. More than a little threatening.
Hot
. Chris inhaled, filling his chest with warm air, and hurriedly picked up his water glass, drinking too quickly and spilling some down his chin.

The biker smirked and raised his coffee in a mock
cheers.
Chris bit his lip, but still couldn't look away. He waited, he was waiting, but for what?

He soon got it when the biker leaned forward with his elbows and winked.

Chris knew that was a signal, and while Sensible Chris quietly shut off the shield that stopped fluctuations in the gaydar, it didn't make him relax. Instead, a tingling hummed between his toes and right up to the spot behind his neck. He was assaulted by visions of himself braced up against the bike, the biker's wild head between his legs, thrusting his mouth on Chris's cock, sucking like a vacuum. He was thinking desert, sunset, gnarled bushes and scrub, parts of the Queensland interior he'd seen as a kid. Not that he was going to find anything like that within a fifty-kilometer radius from this spot.

His eyes darted to where the Harley stood. It was a gleaming silver-and-red beast next to the scooters. He went back to the biker, who'd followed his gaze. The biker nodded, swung back his coffee and then, water glass in one hand, moved like a panther through the chairs and sat opposite him before he could say anything.

The glass clanked on the table and the biker leaned back, grinning.

“You like my bike.” Statement, not question, though in his beautifully lilting French, it made Chris's cock throb.

It took Chris a few moments to respond. “It is a very nice bike.” What the hell, like he was complimenting him on his latest tie. Like this guy ever wore a tie.

“You're not French,” the biker said. Chris shook his head. “Australian.” “Ah. Kangaroos.”

Chris normally would have rolled his eyes, but instead nodded.

“Lots of space to ride in Australia. The…Outback?” He said the last word in English.

“Yes, that's right. The Outback.” Where the fuck was this going?

“You like bikes?” “Yours is nice.”