Best Gay Erotica 2001, page 2
“Just skip the commentary,” I reply.
Johnny leans forward and nuzzles his face into my balls. I feel his tongue licking them, rolling them around in his mouth, sucking on them. He slides his tongue up the shaft of my dick, as if it’s some kind of Popsicle, and then circles the cockhead with it. I stand with my hands on my hips, looking down at the top of his head. Rico stands behind the boy, watching. His dick juts out of his open fly, and he’s stroking it slowly.
Johnny’s lips nibble their way down my meaty shaft (all our shafts are “meaty”; writergod won’t let us in the story without a crank at least eight inches long, and thick—always thick—topped with “flared heads,” or “fleshy knobs,” or “heads the size and color of small plums”). When Johnny’s mouth finally makes it to the base of my stiff cock, he starts bobbing his head, sucking me off with a measured, easy tempo. The boy knows how to suck cock—I give him that. He wraps one hand around my balls and tugs them gently as his other hand squeezes my left nipple. I close my eyes and let the sensations he’s drawing from my body ripple over me.
Rico comes up next to me and yanks his jeans down. He strokes his dick with one hand while his other hand slides under my shirt and tugs at the flesh of my torso. I reach over and cup his balls, feeling their heft, how they spill out onto my palm so nicely. I lean over and we kiss, Rico slipping his tongue deep into my mouth. Rico lets go of his dick and Johnny wraps his hand around it, skinning the foreskin back, revealing the fleshy little fist of Rico’s cockhead (another favorite phrase of writergod). He takes my dick out of his mouth, sucks on Rico’s for a while, and then comes back to me. I spit in my hand and wrap it around Rico’s thick, hard cock, sliding it up and down the shaft. Rico lets out a long sigh, a hair’s breadth shy of a groan. He starts pumping his hips, fucking my fist in quick, staccato thrusts. Johnny pries apart my ass cheeks and worms a finger up my bunghole, knuckle by knuckle, never breaking his cocksucking stride. I lose my cool, giving off a long, trailing groan. Johnny pushes against my prostate, and my groan increases in volume. I whip my dick out of his mouth just as the first stream of spunk squirts out, arcing into the air, slamming against Johnny’s face. My body spasms as my load continues to pump out, splattering against his cheeks, his closed eyes, his mouth. Rico groans, and I feel his dick pulse in my hand. Johnny turns his face to receive this second spermy shower, and soon Rico’s jizz is mingling with mine in sluggish drops that hang from Johnny’s chin. Rico bends down and licks Johnny’s face clean, dragging his tongue along the contours of the boy’s face. The clicking sound of writergod’s keyboard rises in volume and then suddenly stops.
We all look up. “Do you think he’s done?” Rico finally asks.
I shrug. “With the scene, maybe,” I say. “He still has to finish the story.”
Johnny climbs to his feet and looks around the room. “Christ, what a dump. I hope we don’t have to stay here long.”
Rico laughs. “Hell, this is fuckin’ swank compared to where I was before.” He starts pulling on his clothes. “Writergod had me lying on some teahouse floor with a bunch of guys shooting their loads on me. Then he just left me there, stuck in that stinking piss-hole.” He looks around. “I just wish there was a TV here.”
I offer a handkerchief to Johnny. “Here,” I say. “Rico missed a few drops.” Johnny takes it and wipes the last of my load off his face. I pull out a deck of cards from my jacket pocket and sit down at the table. “Poker, anyone?”
There are only two chairs, so Rico has to sit on the edge of the bed. We start with five-card stud. “It’s no fun unless you play for money,” Johnny grouses.
I shrug. “I don’t have any money. Do you?”
Rico grins. “We could always play for sex.” We all laugh. As if we don’t already get nothing but that from each other. Johnny finds matchsticks in the drawer of the dresser, and we divvy them out.
I deal the first hand. “So what have you been up to, Johnny?” I ask, glancing at him. “Any interesting locales?” Johnny and I have worked together more times than I can remember. I’ve fucked him in locker rooms, in the back seats of cars, in alleys, on secluded beaches, once even on the torch of the Statue of Liberty. Johnny is always “the kid” in writergod’s stories, sometimes going by the name of Billy, sometimes Eddy or Andy—always a name that ends in “y.” I look at him across the table, feeling the old frustration. For all the hot sex we’ve had together, I hardly know the guy. No conversation, no snuggling together under the sheets—just fade to black and then the cycle starts all over again.
“Oh, I was in a great place last story,” Johnny said, laughing. “I was a street hustler in Cozumel who hooks up with an American tourist. You know him; it was Cutter.”
“Shit,” Rico mutters. I glance at him but he keeps his eyes focused on his cards. Cutter’s a stock character that writergod uses for his more upscale stories, usually about some married man straying to the other side, or a well-heeled gay yuppie partying in the Keys or P-town. I’ve only worked with him a couple of times, the last time being when I was rough trade that he picked up in a leather bar on a slumming expedition. Rico and I both think he’s got his head up his ass.
“Did you have a good time?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah, it was great fun,” Johnny says. I look for sarcasm, but his smile seems sincere. “After writergod wrapped up the fuck scene on the beach, we just hung out there, sunbathing, snorkeling, shell-collecting—the whole tourist thing.” Johnny nods at the room around us. “Until I wound up here.”
“I’m sorry you’re disappointed,” I say. I’m aware of how pissy my tone sounds.
Johnny grins. “Who said anything about being disappointed?” He looks across the table at me and winks. My throat tightens.
“Hey, are you guys going to flap your jaws or play cards?” Rico asks. He throws three cards down on the table, and I deal him three more. But the wheels are turning in my head. Writergod usually writes several stories at the same time. I glance at Rico sorting through his cards. Rico’s all right, but I wouldn’t mind it if writergod suddenly pulled him for another story and left Johnny and me alone.
Johnny drops two cards on the table, and I deal him two more. I keep what I have. Rico starts the betting off with five matchsticks. Johnny throws in his five matchsticks and raises five more. Outside the window, a police siren wails and then trails off into silence. “Which one of your past scenes would you most like to go back to,” I ask Johnny, “if you had a choice?”
Johnny grins and shakes his head. “You’ll just laugh.”
“No, I won’t, I promise.” I throw in the ten matchsticks and raise another ten.
“It was a college story,” Johnny says. “Writergod had me gang-fucked in the UC Berkeley library by the college football team. After he wrapped up the story, he didn’t use me for weeks. I got to hang out there all that time, doing nothing but reading.” He glances at me. “Have you ever read Leaves of Grass, Al? Or any of Robert Frost’s poems?”
I don’t laugh, like I promised, but I do smile. “When would I read poetry?” I say. “Between blow jobs in a back alley?”
Johnny gives a rueful smile and shrugs. “That’s my point. I hardly ever get to spend time in places where I can improve my fuckin’ mind.”
Rico sees my ten matchsticks and calls. We show our hands. Johnny’s got a pair of eights, Rico two pairs, aces and fives. I win with a straight, jack high. I gather up my winnings and deal us all new hands. Rico leans back on the bed and stretches. “I wouldn’t mind going back to the story where I was a ranger in Yosemite,” he says, picking up his cards and sorting them. “I ended up fucking these backpackers on top of Half Dome.” He shakes his head and gives a wistful smile. “It was my one time out in nature. I loved it—all that bitching scenery!” He nods toward Johnny, “I know what you mean, kid. That was an exception. Writergod usually sticks us in some pretty crummy places.”
I open my mouth to comment, when I feel my feet begin to tingle. The tingling moves up my legs, my torso. I know only too well what that means. “So long, guys,” I barely have time to say. “I’m off to another story.”
There’s a knock on the door, and then Old Bert sticks his head in. “I got the lad here for you, Captain,” he says. “Just like you told me to.” He knows better than to give me a wink. The last time he tried such impudence, I had him flogged, but his mouth still curves up into a randy leer. I can hear the rest of the crew off in the distance fighting over the Magdalena’s spoils.
“Bring him in,” I say gruffly. I’m lying on the bed that belonged to the Magdalena’s former captain. Since we’ve tossed him overboard with a slit throat, I don’t think he’ll be needing it anymore.
Old Bert opens the door wider, pushes the Magdalena’s cabin boy in, and closes the door behind him. The lad stumbles forward and then straightens up to face me. His dark eyes glare at me for an instance, but I can see the fear in them as well. He quickly lowers them. So Johnny’s in this story too, I think. Poor Rico, stuck in that room by himself. The boy stands in the middle of the cabin, his hands at his side, head lowered, waiting.
“Hablas ingles?” I ask him.
He nods, his eyes still trained on the floor.
“Look at me, lad,” I say. He raises his eyes again, eyes that are as black and liquid as the sea on a moonless night. My gaze sweeps down his wiry, muscular body and then back to his face again. “What’s your name?” I ask.
“Juan Francisco Tomas Santiago, sir,” he says. His voice is barely audible.
I laugh. “That’s quite a mouthful for such a young lad,” I say. “I shall call you ‘Johnny’.”
There’s a moment of silence. I can faintly hear the clicking of writergod’s keyboard. I’ve never been in a period story before; writergod usually confines me to slums and back alleys.
The heat of the tropical sun pours in, as thick as Jamaican molasses, and I feel my head grow light from it. I lie back indolently in the captain’s bed, my eyes traveling up Johnny’s body: There’s a coltish quality to his muscular young frame that makes my dick swell and lengthen. Johnny watches silently, his eyes now never leaving my face.
“Get naked,” I say.
The blood rushes to Johnny’s face, and he shifts his weight to his other foot. Writergod should watch that little bit of business he always has Johnny do, I think—it’s getting repetitious. Slowly, hesitantly, he unbuttons his shirt and lets it fall to the floor. His torso is as smooth and dark as polished driftwood, the muscles beautifully chiseled. Johnny slips off his shoes, pulls his breeches down, and steps out of them, kicking them aside. He stands naked at the foot of the bed, his hands at his sides, his cock lying heavily against his thigh. His face is as pure as any angel’s, but he’s got a devil’s dick: red, fleshy, roped with blue veins. In the stifling heat his balls lie as low and heavy as tree-ripened fruit. My throat tightens with excitement. “Turn around,” I say.
Johnny slowly turns around. His ass is a very pretty thing, high and firm, the cheeks pale cream against the darkness of his tanned back. My dick stirs in my breeches, swelling to full hardness. Johnny completes his rotation and faces me again, his mouth set in a grim line.
“Well, come over here, lad,” I say, giving an exaggerated sigh as I slip off my breeches. “And give me a reason why I shouldn’t just slit your throat and toss you overboard.”
Johnny stands where he is, head bowed but with his hands curled into fists. The silence in the room is as oppressive as the heat. “Aye, Johnny,” I say softly. “Is it coaxing you want instead of threats?” I sit up in the bed. “Please do an old sea dog a favor, lad,” I say in exaggerated politeness, “and come join me in my bed.”
Johnny looks me in the eye, still saying nothing. His mouth curls up into the faintest smile. He crosses the small room and climbs into bed with me. I wrap my arms around him and kiss him, and he kisses back, lightly at first, then with greater force, slipping his tongue into my mouth. I pull him tightly against me, feeling his hard, young cock thrust up against my belly. I wrap my hand around both our dicks and start stroking them slowly within the circle of my fingers. Johnny reaches down and cups my balls in his hand, squeezing them gently, rolling them around in his palm. I nuzzle my face against the curve of his neck. “Tell me, lad,” I whisper in his ear. “Have you ever been buggered before?”
“Yes, sir,” Johnny whispers back. “Many times.” I don’t doubt it. A young lad as handsome as Johnny would be fair game on any ship.
There’s a jar of pomade on the table next to the bed. I reach over and scoop out a heavy dollop from it. “Well, maybe I can still teach you a few new tricks,” I say, as I work my hand into his asscrack and begin greasing up his bunghole. I slip a finger in, and the muscles of Johnny’s ass clamp around it tightly, like a baby sucking on his mother’s tit. I push deeper in, and Johnny’s body stirs under me. “Do you want more of the same, lad?” I growl.
Johnny nods his head. “If you please, sir,” he says.
”Well, since you asked so politely…” I laugh. I grease up my dick with the pomade and hoist Johnny’s legs over my shoulders. Johnny takes my dick in his hand and guides it to the pucker of his asshole. I push with my hips, and my dick slides inside him, Johnny thrusting his hips up to meet me. As I start pumping his ass, Johnny meets me stroke for stroke, moving his body in rhythm with mine, squeezing his ass muscles tight with every thrust of my cock.
I laugh from surprise and pleasure. “Aye, Johnny.” I say. “Ye’re a lusty young buck, I can see that clearly enough. And ye’ve learned your buggery lessons well.” This is the first story in which I’ve fucked without condoms, I think. Sweet Jesus, it feels good!
I continue plowing Johnny’s ass with long, slow strokes. A groan escapes his lips and I grin fiercely. “That’s right, Johnny,” I say. “Sing for me. I want to play you like a mandolin.” Where is writergod coming up with this fucking dialogue? I wonder. I thrust savagely until my dick is full inside him and then churn my hips. Johnny groans, louder. I bend down and kiss him, and he returns my kiss passionately, thrusting his tongue into my mouth. As I skewer Johnny, he reaches up and runs his hands across my body, twisting my nipples hard. He wraps his legs around me and rolls over on top. We’re drenched with sweat, and our bodies thrust together and separate with wet, slapping noises. I wrap Johnny in my arms and we roll again, falling off the bed onto the deck below.
I pin Johnny’s arms down and plunge my cock deep inside him. Johnny cries out. “Do you want me to stop, lad?” I ask.
”No, sir,” Johnny groans.
I thrust again, and again Johnny cries out. I can hear the pirates brawling outside. They’re probably drunk by now on the Magdalena’s cargo of spirits. “Louder, Johnny,” I snarl.
“Don’t stop, sir!” he cries out.
”That’s better,” I grunt. I wrap my arms around him and press him tight. My sweaty torso slides and squirms against him, as I pump my dick in and out of his ass. A groan escapes from Johnny’s lips. I thrust again, and he groans again, louder. Johnny reaches down and squeezes my balls with his hand. They’re pulled up tight, ready to shoot. He presses down hard between them, and my body shudders violently as the first of the orgasm is released. I throw back my head and bellow as my dick gushes my jism deep into his ass. Load after load of it pulses out, and I thrash against Johnny like a man whose throat has just been cut. After what seems like a small eternity, the last of the spasms end, and I collapse on top of him.
I push myself up again. “Climb up on my chest, Johnny,” I say. “And splatter my face with your load.”
Johnny seems only too happy to oblige. He swings his leg over and straddles me. I look up at him, at the tight muscular body, at Johnny’s handsome face, at the hand sliding up and down the thick shaft of his dick. “Aye, there you go, lad,” I mutter. “Make your dick squirt for me.” I reach up and twist Johnny’s left nipple.
I feel Johnny’s body shudder, and he raises his face to the ceiling and cries out. A load of jism gushes out from his dick and splatters against my face. Another load follows, and then another. By the time Johnny’s done, my face is festooned with the ropy strands of his wad. He bends down and licks it off tenderly, and I kiss him, pulling my body tight against his.
Writergod’s keyboard suddenly falls silent. We wait expectantly for it to start up again, finish the story, but nothing happens. I look up at Johnny and we both burst out laughing. “Do you believe that fucking dialogue?” I say. I twist my face into comic fierceness. “Aye, Johnny,” I growl. “You’re a lusty young buck. How ’bout letting me bugger your ass?”
Johnny laughs again. He climbs off me and helps me to my feet. We hunt for our clothes strewn all around, and pull them back on. I feel as if I’m dressing for a costume ball. I look at Johnny appraisingly as he tucks his shirt into his breeches. “You look really good as a Spanish cabin boy,” I say. “It suits you.”
Johnny raises his eyebrows. “You’re not putting the make on me, are you, Al?”
I have to laugh at that. “Right. Like I don’t get enough sex from you as it is.” Still, I’m feeling light and playful now that I’m alone with Johnny, between stories. I look around. The cabin is cramped, and a glance out the porthole shows nothing but sea and sky. The deck beneath our feet rolls gently with the movement of the waves. The tropical heat makes the small room feel like a sauna. I jump onto the bed and pat the empty side next to me. “Hop back in,” I say to Johnny. “Let’s just relax for a while. Maybe talk.”
Johnny joins me on the bed, stretching his legs out and placing his hands behind his head. My heart is beating hard, and when I notice this I almost laugh. I’ve forgotten how many times I’ve fucked Johnny in how many countless stories, and yet I’m actually feeling nervous. I cautiously wrap my arm around Johnny’s shoulders, and he snuggles against me. “This is nice,” he says.
