Best Gay Bondage Erotica, page 12
Our eyes met. He saw me remembering Jake.
NUMBER TWENTY-FOUR
TruDeviant
I hurry into the men’s room. It’s huge, at least fifteen standard urinals in a row and a couple of stalls to the side. Guys are lined up in front of every one of them, six or seven deep. Most of them are wasted on Miller Lite. Some are beyond wasted: demolished.
Several of the most fucked-up ones have their dicks out already and are pissing on the litter-strewn concrete floor, while they holler and laugh and forget that they shouldn’t look at each other’s cocks for more a half second. The testosterone hanging between their legs is as thick as the sting of fresh hot beer piss in the air. It’s a strange and welcome contrast to the odor of overcooked hot dogs, which I just left outside the door.
I cut in front of a couple of these bawdy toilet dudes and let out my own powerful surge of pale liquid into the gaping porcelain mouth. Feels so good. There are at least a couple of those big paper cups full of cheap beer flowing out of me. I look down and see the lemony water splash back on my blue jeans when it hits the little drain holes I’m aiming for.
I can’t help but think of you, continuing to add detail to the thoughts I was having about you minutes ago. Day after day, I’ve stared at those pictures of you on my computer monitor. I’ve changed the color of your uniform. I’ve taken away the shadows on your face. I’ve removed the other guy’s hand as it covers part of your arm. I’ve made the grass a brighter green. I’ve blurred the faces of the fans. Only you are identifiable.
I’ve made you perfect.
I’ve retouched maybe a hundred electronic images of you over the last five years to make you look good on those trading cards. But I don’t count them or the thousands of images of your teammates and opponents. I never get past your number, number twenty-four.
Who would’ve thought that I’d be here tonight with you? You’re only a few hundred feet away from where I was just sitting in the crowd.
I won the last and biggest lottery at work. The one that all the jocks wanted to win: the World Series. The face value of both tickets together is three hundred dollars. I saw the faces of all those guys as I walked back to my desk with the tickets in my hand, all of those baseball fanatics who would pay twice that amount to go to this game. Most of them were fuming because I got them, a few scheming how to get their hands on them.
It’s just not fair, is it? Just not fair that the faggot won them. The faggot who, after five years, still doesn’t know which player’s name goes with which face and which team everyone belongs on. The faggot you guys try either to avoid in the john at work by going into a stall to pee, or else go to great lengths to show him your dick. The dick you’re just so sure that he wants to get down on his knees for and suck and suck and suck until all of those potential two-point-five children of yours go shooting down his throat.
It’s even worse that the faggot is really going to the game and has no intention of asking any of you to go with him. Not that any one of you could really accept the invitation. Well, maybe you could make an ultraspecial exception just for this one thing. But since he’s not going to offer, you can confidently say you’d never go with him to the game.
Now I’m back in my seat. It’s the start of the eighth inning. You are running out on the field.
I’m glad I scalped the other ticket before I came into the stadium. I could’ve asked a friend, but I don’t want to be distracted from you, to share you with anyone I know. In the middle of this rowdy crowd of strangers I can have you all to myself.
I bet I’m not the only one here among the fifty-six thousand fans in Yankee Stadium who is having at least some form of erotic fantasy about one of the players. Even now, you’re bending over as you do every inning before the enemy comes up to the plate. You’re stretching out the tendons and muscles in your legs. Your butt is pointed directly at me, just a hundred feet or so away. I know it’s a fine butt, so firm under those uniform pants. You move it up and down for me as I watch. I wish you would turn your head around and see me looking at your ass.
This game is nearly won. Your opponents feel the voracious pressure of this coliseum crowd beating them down. Soon you will be with all your teammates near home plate. You will come all over yourselves with the fermented froth of champagne and touch each other in the only way men like you can touch each other intimately. Hands briefly on each other’s asses. Wet, hard embraces broken by frenetic backslapping. A kind of laughter and yelling, strangely similar to the pixilated version of manly display I just witnessed in the toilet. A joyous, sensual, yet sexless Roman orgy.
I can see myself as one of the Braves, the quashed Atlantian Indians, a couple of feathers on my head, looking through the bush at the white men, who are unaware that a straggler has escaped their guns and the diseases. Or maybe I’m a Southern-fried soldier stumbling onto the Yankee regiment that just defeated my Dixieland comrades in a downhill battle.
No! Tonight I am just myself, the atypical fan who appreciates you for reasons other than your contribution to the sweep of the century. I’ve been scrutinizing your image for five years, and you still remain the enemy.
Yes, we are enemies. I can never have you unless I force you, even in this fantasy.
So I sneak into your locker room. The others have conveniently gone ahead to an after-victory celebration. You’ve had a few swigs of that champagne before opening your locker. You sit on the narrow bench in front of it and kick off your sneakers. The scent merges with the already powerful stench of sweat around you. I move in behind you. You stand up and turn around to face me with questions in your eyes.
I gut punch you, a short hard jab that knocks all the air out of your lungs and, as you jerk toward me, your cap falls off your head. The short black hair is wet underneath. You rasp and fall forward into my arms. Mouth open. I see your pink tongue. I feel the coarseness of your polyester jersey on my bare hands as your full weight hits me and almost topples me.
I smell the champagne on you and mixed with your breath. I have an impulse to touch your lips. Their embossed edges hover so close to my lips, while your darkening eyes are wide with confusion. I let go of you and you slip slowly down to the cement floor. You are gasping for breath, like a barracuda that suddenly finds itself in the bottom of a boat.
I quickly yank out a coil of rope from my backpack, tie your wrists together, and toss the rest of the rope over the metal beam above your head. In a moment you are standing in front of me, just starting to really struggle. You’re finally breathing in little gulps of air with less difficulty. I loop each ankle and tie the cord to the wooden feet that support the lockers on either side of you.
And there you are: spread-eagled and not much room for struggling in comfort, even if you could breathe normally. I waste no time. I move right up to you. Press against you, my beat-up leather jacket and faded jeans against your white pin-striped uniform. I lick your lips. You sputter and try to jerk around. My hands are on your ass, pulling you into me. You are trying to yell, to curse, but you can’t even do that.
Again I lick your lips. You try to bite my tongue. The hate in your eyes is horrible, but somehow satisfying to me, your captor who has wanted you from so far away for so many years now.
I pull out a roll of PVC tape from my gym bag. I wind some around your head, cover those pretty lips, and put those dangerous teeth of yours away. You snort as you struggle to get air into your nose. Snot flies out onto my jacket. I slap your face, just hard enough to get your attention. You resume your struggling with more intensity. I stay close to you. I feel your hard body moving against mine.
I’ve felt a number of hard bodies over the years, but somehow that dirty wet uniform separates you from all the others now that I’m touching you in it. Without looking down I know how it fits every part of your body. I know where the cloth wrinkles, how it bunches up at your crotch and the crack of your ass, the bends in your arms and legs.
The hardness inside my briefs is unbearable, but I don’t want to let go of you to free myself. I wonder if you could possibly be hard there beneath that jockstrap, which holds in all the spicy smell you’ve been collecting there during the game. But I know you aren’t hard, yet.
Here we are, cocks pressed together, yours buried under all those layers of heavy, stinky cloth. Your uniform pants are stained with reddish dirt and green grass on the knees and a large smear of the same colors runs down the front of your jersey.
I grind into you. You grunt, nose still hissing air in and out. I smell your pits. They stink better than I imagined, though the polyester doesn’t hold the stench like those old wool uniforms used to. I smelled the pits of a few of those uniforms in high school, pits discolored by the generous perspiration of young athletic competitors.
I feel your heart palpitating in your broad chest. I know you have a hairy chest. I’ve seen so many images of your furry arms. I keep rubbing the tense muscles of your shoulders through the thick material. Double knit polyester has this amazing feel when there is so much hard athlete standing in it, giving it its special shape.
When this fantasy first came to me, I made sure you were bound in a humiliating position. Much more embarrassing than your stance in the fantasy I hold of you now in my mind. The methodical jabbing rape of that hot ass: yeah, I played that one over so many times while jerking off in my bed.
Often there was some heavy ass whuppin’ before and after those pants came down. Sometimes, other torments preceded and followed the taking of your ass. Sometimes, my silver knife, inlaid with onyx and turquoise, cut away your uniform and ended up with the blade resting on your Adam’s apple.
But no, not now, not this time, at the moment of deepest fantasy—even as you stand there on the green in front of me—my revenge is sweeter than that. I will force you, but in a way that leaves me less easy to hate. I undo your black belt and ease your pants down below your crotch. It takes some time since your legs are spread apart.
There’s a fine layer of nervous moisture over your body. I take a minute to walk around behind you and press up against your hardened damp asscheeks. You flail at the contact and I back off. I smile at the number twenty-four.
Back in front of you, I cup the contents of your jock’s pouch in my hand. I squeeze and then start rubbing the area just below the head on the underside of your fat cock. My little trick doesn’t work. You don’t get any harder, but the sweat keeps pouring down your legs.
I sink to my knees, sliding my tongue along the damp jersey on the way down, my hands still caressing your bulge. I mouth your cock through the reeking ribbed jock. It stings my tongue with strong and subtle flavors. I inhale deeply and close my eyes.
I pull the waistband of your jock down. Your cock falls into my face, then your balls bounce against my beard. They are almost as hairy. I stretch the elastic of the waistband and tuck it behind your balls. I lick them and hold both of them in my mouth, applying pressure until you groan.
Still you aren’t getting hard. I laugh out loud and move my open mouth along your cockflesh until I reach the head and slurp it inside. I flick and tease the piss slit, then swallow the whole thing.
All at once you are completely still. Your legs were wavering before, but now you sag in your bondage. You are at the same time completely hard. I choke at the surprise. It feels good to gag on you. My enemy. I tickle you with my mustache and beard and begin to coax you in earnest. I know you don’t even realize it, maybe you never will, but I’m raping your cock just as thoroughly as I raped your chunky butt all those nights at home alone in the dark.
Whoever started the idea that sucking a cock is a passive act must have been a deluded man married to a missionary woman. What could be more aggressive than the hardworking combination of lips, tongue, and throat on a fat piece of manmeat? Of course it’s possible to fuck a mouth like you fuck a cunt or an asshole, but that’s not what is going to happen here with you. Your stiff dripping meat belongs to me right now, and on some level, as I scrap my teeth lightly on your cockflesh, you know I own it—and you—for this moment. And your outstretched body tells me in a progression of tremors that it has given itself over to the idea finally.
You are the passive one. And if I untied you right now, as your impending orgasm begins to take all your resistant thoughts away, you’d just lie back on the bench until I was done with my business. It’s too good now, isn’t it? One of my hands grips your asscheek, the middle finger takes its time moving toward your clenching asshole, and the bottom of your jersey pokes me in the eye.
My other hand crawls around blindly in my bag until I find my knife and unsheath it. The metal and stone handle feel so cool compared to your hot pulsating flesh in my throat. I raise the knife blade alongside your thigh.
This is the easiest part. You haven’t had a lot of blow jobs like this one, probably never one as good as this. You can’t hold it back, even though I’ve just started to work on you.
I look up into your eyes in time to see that you’ve just noticed the knife hovering an inch from what is now the center of your universe. The thick vein that runs half the length of your shaft stands up as you unload what I demand from you into my throat in several walnut-flavored deposits. You manage to mash your pubes into my beard, while I graze my fingernail across that naive puckered portal and you surrender the last squirt. I slip the dull edge of the blade against your skin.
You close your eyes so tightly that your temples have crow’s feet coming out of them. I cut through the elastic of your jockstrap and it falls at your feet. I slip it into my bag.
And the crowd is hysterical. The game has ended. Old Blue Eyes is singing “New York, New York” over the crappy sound system. The scoreboard strobes its framed fireworks. I have lost sight of you and stand there with my hard-on dribbling. No one will notice it in this carnival. A shirtless young guy with pinstripes crookedly drawn on his face runs by, leading a group of Yankee look-a-likes, all screaming incoherently. People are spilling out of their sections like a foamy tray of over-poured beers.
I just want to get out of here now. Everyone else is frantic with a more evident triumphant glee, as I wipe your imaginary jism off my chapping lips. But I decide to stay until it thins out a bit. I sit back in my seat. I shiver and smile, put my hands in my jacket pockets and see my breath. I wonder if you’re in the locker room by now. My dick starts to harden again.
PLAYING GOD
Alana Noël Voth
My story begins in a place called Garden Row Trailer Park, where forty-seven single-wide trailer homes were packed in like sausages on a couple miles of gravel road and random pads of vegetation. I snuck out my bedroom window one night to meet three other guys from the park, one of whom I was in love with: Darry of the fine black hair and sharp elfin ears. Behind the park, near a mucky pond, the four of us smoked cigarettes and stared at the sky while deciding which point of light was “Your Anus.”
I leaned against Darry’s arm and felt a shiver of heat between us. After a while, watching our cigarette exhaust mingle in midair, I lowered my hand and let my knuckles skim his. “My brother beat up a faggot once,” Darry said as I touched him. I exhaled the last bit of cigarette smoke from my lungs, then dropped the cigarette to the ground. “I’m sure my dad has, too,” I said.
The stars softened through the water across my eyes. Nobody spoke.
Darry’s cigarette smoke curled above me.
After eleven I jogged back to our trailer, Space 39, slipped through the window, and ran into Dad, waiting for me. “That’s the last time you do that,” he said.
Dad of the corporal punishment, of the ridicule; all this was in his arsenal.
I heard Mom. “Ash, I was worried about you.”
“I’m okay.” I went looking for a hug, a mother’s mercy, scared as always of Dad, but he blocked my way with an arm to my ribs. “Ow,” I said.
Dad closed my door with a click of finality, taking Mom with him, and I was swallowed at last by dark and a smell of incense I’d burned. I crawled under the covers, pulled everything over my head then squeezed my eyes shut, thought of Darry, and jerked off in cloistered, breath-bated secret.
My hands were tied behind me. I sat on his couch and asked Nicolas, “Why do you turn every lover into a story?” For a minute, his hand hovered close to my face, and I felt heat from his palm. Felt how my cock hurt, how I hadn’t got off, how I was dying here. Nicolas wiped his come from my chin. “Heals you,” he said, and I had no idea what he meant, some psycho writerly bullshit, harder still to believe when he got tears in his eyes, and so I shouted, “Untie me right now, I mean it, take this off me!”
I called him names. Among them, sadist. Among them, sick fuck.
I met Nicolas at an art gallery downtown, not my usual turf. My usual? Bars, not nightclubs, the dingier and darker the better: obscurity, noise. A place where some guy could elbow you in the ribs then snicker like you deserved it. Tia had invited me to the gallery to hear a poet—except I didn’t read poems. I liked movies like 300 and Secretary, and I liked plants too, except the ones I had were either dead or dying. I found it very hard to keep stuff alive.
About the gallery thing: Tia had said a change of culture would do me good because she was all about getting me over Lance, the mechanic. Four months before, Lance had replaced the starter in my car, and then I’d bought him a beer. Lance was built like David Beckham, tall, lean, and muscled, and he smelled like oily testosterone; sweat in his pits; sweat smearing his neck; grease and sweat on his chest; sweat down the line of his back to his tailbone, where I played before sticking a finger in his ass.
