Hot Gay Erotica, page 12
John crouches before me and starts to remove my trainers.
Jean, behind me, says, “You don’t listen. We already agreed, no sex, nothing but suspension. Relax.”
John removes the second trainer and simultaneously pulls down my jeans and my boxer shorts. My dick springs erect. I feel myself blush.
“Hmm, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you!” he laughs.
Jean leans around me and touches my dick.
“Hmmm, shame to put that to waste though,” he says. They remove my jeans and clip identical restraints to my ankles, then John stands and lifts my arms. His partner, who has moved behind me, immediately clips the D-rings of the bracelets to two chains hanging from the ceiling.
As he tugs on the pulleys, stretching my arms taut, I start to feel fear again.
“Look…I’m not sure, actually, that I feel that comfortable with this whole…”
As I say this John clips my second foot to a floor chain, completely immobilizing me.
“Hey!” I say. “Is anyone listening to me?”
Jean speaks quietly into my right ear. “Just calm down, no one’s doing anything you haven’t given permission for, so relax and enjoy.”
“But.”
As I say this, in a surprise movement, he slaps my arse, hard. As I open my mouth to shout, he pulls a gag between my teeth.
“Ummm,” I protest.
“Now shut up,” he says. “And relax.”
He buckles the gag behind my head.
I protest through my nose for a while but it only makes them laugh, so I give up.
Jean pulls a hood over me. I can still see through the eyeholes but my hearing becomes muffled. Images of the gimp in Pulp Fiction come to mind.
Obtusely, I think, Thank god my mother can’t see me now.
As I protest and wriggle Jean says, “There’s nothing you can do now, nothing you can say, so just relax, give in.”
John stands up in front, strokes my dick very lightly and looks into my eyes.
Jean finishes lacing the hood and moves yet another chain into place, clipping it to a ring on the top, holding my head upright.
I hold my breath to listen to them speaking.
“…in a minute, once he relaxes…,” I hear Jean say, “…he’ll be begging….”
Then, one after the other, Jean clips patches across my eyes.
I hold my breath for a moment, considering the new leathery dark, and shift my weight, trying different ways to stand and hang on the wrist restraints. My heart is racing and I am sweating in fear.
At the same time, the taste of the leather gag, the smell of the hood, the very idea of my nakedness hanging before them, makes my dick stiffen.
Nothing happens for a while, and then I feel hands fastening a new series of straps around my legs.
A finger runs along the outline of the scar on my knee; they reposition the strap lower to avoid it. For some reason this attention to my needs reassures me. My heart starts to slow.
Someone reaches from behind and fastens straps around my waist and my torso, then around my neck and my waist.
The feeling of skin-on-skin contact is magnified in the darkness. Just the simple feeling of their hands, the seemingly endless fiddling with straps and buckles, feels incredible.
Someone’s leather sheathed leg brushes my dick and instinctively I writhe towards the contact. This elicits a laugh that penetrates the muffled silence.
For a while some complex operation of attaching goes on behind me. I can feel the four hands working simultaneously, connecting chains and ropes to rings on the straps, like they’re doing some kind of puzzle, or macramé.
The process takes maybe ten minutes, though with only the sound of my breathing it becomes difficult to judge time.
Then suddenly the weight disappears from my feet and I start to float. The experience is amazing, truly out of body. With the weight distribution provided by the complex web of straps surrounding my body I don’t feel suspended by any particular point, I just feel like I am floating.
I hear vague metallic noises through the hood and slowly I start to lean forward, to jerkily tilt. The movement continues until I am horizontal.
My legs slowly spread, I cannot resist, and some kind of pole or bar is clipped between them holding them wide apart. I can feel the cold air against my anus and I start to ache with the desire to be fucked.
I float like this for maybe five minutes, dimly aware of the couple moving around me, more and more obsessively aware of the state of my dick, hanging free, now hard, now soft, now hard again.
The dark isolation magnifies the desire for skin-to-skin contact to the point of madness. I feel as if I have taken Ecstasy.
I ache for more. My legs are wide open and my dick is pointing at the ground and I want more. I start to want anything as long as it’s more. But nothing happens.
After a few minutes there is a jerky shifting in the chains connected to the hood and slowly my head lifts so that it is pointing forward.
In an unexpected movement that makes me judder in surprise, Jean rips off the eye patches.
“You okay in there?” he says, peering at me from mere inches away.
I nod as much as the restraints will allow.
John, who is out of sight, runs a finger along the crack of my arse as his partner leans into my ear and says, “You want more now?”
I arch against the finger as much as the straps will allow and make an um noise through my nose.
John laughs demonically and pulls Jean into view.
The two stand mere inches from my face and stare at each other.
They kiss, delicately at first, then deeply.
John runs his hands down over Jean’s back to his arse, which is peeking pertly from his shiny chaps.
The two men kiss and stroke each other, pausing to play first with each other’s nipples before moving lower to their pouches. They stroke and rub and caress each other through the leather, then unclip the pouches, revealing almost identical dicks.
In an attempt to generate some sensation in my own body I wriggle and writhe and am rewarded by the slightest sensation as my skin moves against the straps.
Mere inches from my suspended face, Jean rolls on a condom, turns John around, and slowly, sensuously, starts to lube his arse, forcing one, then two, then three fingers inside.
Occasionally John looks up at me, stares me straight in the eyes. His pupils are dilated and my dick twitches and judders in sympathy.
He says something, and I run the image of his moving lips through my mind. It’s not hard to work out what he said.
“Fuck me.”
Live porn. Never has my frustration felt more complete.
Jean slides his dick in, gently at first, maintaining his distance, avoiding inflicting the full length of his dick, but slowly he goes deeper and deeper.
He starts to pulls on John’s harness as he pumps into him and their grunts get louder and start to pierce the material covering my ears.
As if I were a camera, they pause occasionally and change position so that I get a different view.
My dick jerks and judders again, uncontrollably. My arse trembles and twitches. Who ever would have thought being a truly passive observer could be so exciting?
The grunts and moans increase as they slam together, until, in a crescendo of slapping and pumping, tugging and shrieking, they come together, John’s cum spurting onto the floor beneath my head.
I wiggle in my straps to remind them of my presence.
Jean pulls out and removes the condom, casting it into a bin, then turns toward me, standing before me.
He’s standing so close that I can no longer see his head, only his groin, his glistening dick.
He reaches toward me and undoes two zips near my ears; the loudness of the zips after the silence is deafening.
He reaches for his dick, then wipes it back and forth across the gag covering my mouth.
“You want this now?” he asks, bending and peering into my eyes.
I nod and grunt.
He laughs.
“That,” he says, “is how you turn someone into a sex slave.”
John reappears at his side with the unfeasibly large dildo and hands it to Jean.
“You want this?” he asks.
To my shame, I nod and thrash, desperate for them to touch me, to release me from my enforced voyeurism.
Jean puts the dildo down on the workbench in front of me.
“Another time, maybe…,” he says. “When you know what you want.”
The two then move out of sight.
I remain suspended for what seems like quite a long time, maybe twenty minutes, but it’s hard to say. Time moves slowly.
My state of arousal slowly fades to boredom, and my dick goes limp.
I make some groaning noises but no one responds.
I thrash around in protest and can hear the chains clinking, but nothing happens.
Just as I start to worry about getting home, just as I start to get angry, even a little scared, the chains and wheels start to clunk and shudder. My head starts to rise and my feet move hesitantly toward the ground.
As I am lowered, John removes first the hood, then the gag.
“Game over,” he grins.
I take a deep breath of fresh air, and start to complain.
“Hey, what about me?” I say. “That’s not fair!”
But John only laughs. “You need to be more careful what you ask for,” he says. “Because round here you always get what you ask for, no more, no less.”
LONESOME FOR OCTOBER
Steve Berman
After tearing open the glued seam of the large envelope and glimpsing what his uncle had sent him, Scott felt sure the old woman behind the counter of the campus post office had noticed the flush in his cheeks. He had come to consider any snail mail an unexpected treat, but what was inside was far better than cookies from home. He slipped the package under his arm and hurried off. Eagerness made the count of doors and floors to his dorm room seem endless. Alone at last, Scott let slip the calendar from the envelope onto his lap.
A neon pink Post-it note offered a belated Happy Birthday from his uncle. Beneath the shrink-wrap, which lasted only a minute in his hands before being ripped off and wadded up, a glossy monochrome brunet grinned as he buried another boy in the sand. Sunny lettering spelled out Beached 2004-5 along the lower edge. He flipped through all sixteen months and could not find a single flawed guy.
Scott felt bad for poor September—blond, hiding his crotch behind a very phallic sandcastle—already last month’s boy. But October offered a come-hither smile as he walked along the shoreline. He wore a thong that had slipped so low you could see the dark trace of pubic hair.
Idly adjusting his own crotch, Scott glanced at the clock. He had just enough time to dash off to the library and send an email thanks to his uncle before World Masterpieces began in the lecture hall.
Uncle must be psychic to have known exactly what Scott needed. Being the only gay guy in the suite—hell, probably the entire floor—left him the outsider. Having Grasky as a roommate made matters worse. The only thing Scott knew for sure was that the guy seemed to enjoy just three things: eating cereal, avoiding washing anything, and making rude remarks.
Spite made Scott leave the calendar out atop his sheets. The dorm was small enough that Grasky could not help but notice, even if he kept to his half of the room. On his way out to class, Scott passed the doors of his other suitemates before lingering by the last one. Andre’s door remained closed, as always. The memory of Andre coming into the suite, damp T-shirt and running shorts clinging to his small but muscular frame, hadn’t faded since freshman orientation weekend a month earlier. Some nights he cursed his luck for not having Andre as his roommate, but constantly seeing such a hot guy might have been torturous. The boys on the calendar were teases enough.
When the dreams began, Scott naively blamed them on loneliness, anxiety, even a batch of bad Mexican leftovers he had found in the suite fridge. He couldn’t recall many details, but when his alarm clock buzzed him awake, he found his boxers were clammy and sticky. He didn’t think it right that he could be having wet dreams again; at thirteen, sure, but not in college.
Grasky had yet to complain much about the calendar, despite some sour looks. He did mention that Scott had been making weird sounds at night. Considering Grasky snored, there seemed little to say other than sorry, and the guy didn’t seem to want that.
One night weeks later, Scott wondered what had woken him. One moment, he was on an abandoned Caribbean beach; the next, back in his dorm room. The gentle sound of the ocean was replaced by Grasky’s labored breathing through his deviated septum. Mister October, the hot guy Scott had been holding hands with in the dream, straddled him.
The sudden realization that he was no longer alone in bed startled him so that he almost dislodged October. He gasped loudly then looked over in the direction of Grasky. But the room was so dark, he couldn’t tell if he had woken his roommate.
A soft touch on his cheek turned his attention back to October. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that the calendar boy remained shades of black and white, as if the photographic image, not the model, was reality.
Scott blinked and tentatively reached out to brush his fingertips along the bare, muscular torso. The flesh felt satin smooth, too cool to the touch, but otherwise real. The boy had weight, pinning Scott down.
I’m still dreaming, he thought. That’s the only explanation. He looked up at October’s smile, the same he’d worn in his photo. Well, this explains the wet dreams. He chuckled at the thought.
With an uncanny ease, October slid the covers down, Scott’s T-shirt up, and Scott’s orange plaid boxers down. The calendar boy’s face dipped and a slick cheek brushed against Scott’s hard dick as he began kissing the insides of the freshman’s thighs. Scott squirmed and moaned. The kissing gave way to gentle nips of teeth and thrusts of tongue that touched closer and closer to where Scott really needed October to land.
“Please,” he murmured, his hands slipping through calendar boy’s hair, which felt like locks of spun glass.
October looked up from Scott’s crotch and grinned—his teeth actually gleamed—before opening his mouth and so slowly engulfing the hard dick that the expectation of being blown became for Scott a distinctive pain worthy of de Sade.
The inside of October’s mouth felt different than any he could recall—not that there were so many. Cool, slippery but dry. He could not discern the difference between the calendar boy’s tongue or teeth, and had to bite his own lip to feel something normal as even the sheets beneath him seemed too smooth to grip.
The boy’s gorgeous head bobbed at Scott’s crotch, while soft fingers kneaded the muscles of his ass. Sweat made the freshman’s skin sheen like his sudden lover’s.
Scott’s last breath before coming was ragged. He thrust upward, sure he would choke October, whose mouth did not budge from around Scott’s dick. His orgasm had a pulse, its own heartbeat that pounded for several moments before dying. Drained, he collapsed onto the mattress.
October slid up to face him. Beads of pearly semen decorated his lips like rainwater on glass. The calendar boy bent down, eager to kiss and share the taste with Scott, who marveled at the sensations of having a mouth as smooth and cool as ice cover his own.
He missed his morning class. The romp left him so exhausted that he ignored the angry call of his alarm. He showered off all traces of October, then headed for the cafeteria. He chewed mechanically, barely recognizing what he ate. His mind remained on last night. Later, strolling on campus, lost in thought, he walked into a tree branch, scratching his face.
Explanations eluded him. Unless he considered the most far-fetched yet only acceptable answer: his uncle had sent him a magic calendar. Weird—but why not true? What a present!
Scott found it impossible to concentrate in class. He shifted in the hard seat, focused on the raging hard-on triggered by thoughts of that night. He ignored the boys he normally gawked at. He wanted only nightfall and the touch of October.
But when he returned to his dorm room, what his eager eyes sought was gone. Empty wall. He looked behind the bed in case the calendar had fallen, but found nothing but dust clumps.
That left only one answer. Scott found Grasky in the common area of the suite, slouching on the old sofa, watching ESPN while slurping down spoonful after dripping spoonful of sugarspackled flakes.
“You wouldn’t know where my calendar is?”
Grasky shrugged, never taking his eyes off the screen. “I took it down. It was creepy.” An errant, soggy flake clung to his stained T-shirt.
Even though he half expected the admission, Scott was filled with anger. He could only sputter, “You had no right to do that!”
Again a shrug. He was more intent on plucking the bit of food loose and dropping it into his mouth than on arguing.
“Where is it?”
“Trashed.”
Scott discovered he had little ability for considering options once panic set in. He remained relatively calm until he found the waste bin in the room empty. He turned to the suite’s large rubber trash container, overflowing with two weeks’ worth of dorm debris, and forced himself to thrust his hands into the garbage and root around. Only later would he realize he should have wheeled the can over to Grasky’s bed and dumped the contents.
If he’d needed clumped tissues, fast-food wrappers, empty bottles of every size and shade, he’d have been in luck. What he didn’t find was even a torn page, a ripped fragment of his boy-of-the-month. His fingers were sticky, the sleeves of his shirt stained.
He rushed into the hall and past the elevators, and began searching through the trash bin there. A guy leaving his room stared at him as Scott dipped deep past a battered pizza box and brushed against what he hoped were greasy leftovers and not used condoms.
Finding no trace of the calendar, he rode the elevator down to the main floor. Would he ever see October and his fifteen brothers again? Maybe Grasky had tossed it out on his way to class. There were dozens of trash cans around campus. As he searched one in the lobby, hot blood rushed to his face as everyone—from students walking in and out of the dorm to Mel, the old security guard who stank from pipe tobacco—gawked at him.
