Best Gay Bondage Erotica, page 6
He’s awful cute. Six foot two and eyes of blue. Muscular body and a sweet shy intelligence. I put him out of his misery (or more likely into it) after thirty minutes of strained conversation.
“You wanna play?” I say in the sexy deep voice I use for such occasions.
He looks at me with his baby blues, pauses, sets down his ragged beer bottle, and nods. I leave to get the bedroom ready. Pull the drapes, put on the music, get out the poppers, and strategically place the condoms, latex gloves, and germicidal lubricant within easy reach. When I return, he’s gulping down his third beer from the six-pack he brought, slightly panic-stricken.
I know by now that the only way to deal with straight men’s inhibitions is to take charge right away. They need direction and don’t really want to be given a choice.
“Come here,” I demand in my deeper Daddy voice.
I lead him by the hand into the semidarkened bedroom.
“Stand here. Arms up,” I bark like a drill instructor.
I make him face the wall and blindfold him. I reach under his clothes and slowly tease his body with my fingertips. When I get down to his cock, it’s erect and strangely shaped. Long and large but twisting violently to the left.
I pull down his pants and Calvin Kleins and feel his small, firm ass, then slap it a couple times. He submits immediately. He likes being blindfolded. It’s less embarrassing than having eye contact.
I order him to “Lie down on the bed. On your stomach!”
He reaches out blindly, finds the bed, and fumbles into position.
The rules have already been discussed and understood. He’s my sex object, my slave boy, my compliant plaything.
I tie his hands and feet to the four corners of my bed with leather restraints from the Pleasure Chest. I’d never let anyone tie me up on a first date, but this is the fantasy he had asked for when we talked before hitting the bedroom. He wanted a big, dominating Daddy, and I’ve always had those tendencies—even as a kid.
“I remember having dominant fantasies when I was as young as eight or nine,” I said earlier, as we sat on the couch. “I had a blond, freckled, school friend who I thought was cute. I didn’t think about having sex with him, but I had a daydream of holding him in a cabin in the woods as my prisoner. Sex never crossed my mind, but I thought it would be exciting to go to my cabin whenever I felt like it, and my captive would be there waiting for me.”
“That’s interesting,” he replied, “cuz when I was about the same age, eight, I had this fantasy about being tied down, naked, on this table, and then people would come in and look at me. Not have sex with me, just look at me naked…and there was nothing I could do about it.”
“So are you married? You have a girlfriend?” I asked.
He immediately tensed up. “I really don’t want to talk about my personal life. Okay?”
“Okay. Have you ever done this before?”
“No. I never told anyone about my fantasy of being tied down naked, until now. I had forgotten it until you told me about yours.”
When he cums, he cums softly—so softly that I’m not sure it’s happened. Such control these straight men have.
As soon as I untie him, he pulls off the blindfold, and heads straight for the front door.
“You want coffee?” I ask. “You wanna sober up a bit before you drive?”
He doesn’t. But he says, “Thank you” repeatedly like he really means it—like I’ve done him a huge favor and he’s deeply grateful.
“See you later,” I say.
“Thank you!”
And with that he’s out the door, rushing down the stairs so fast you’d think he was trying to outrun his subconscious—but disturbing thoughts are still snapping at his heels, like a pack of wolves with erections.
Straight men always freak out after coming in contact with the dick-hungry slut inside them. Their masculine clock just can’t calculate who or what they are anymore. They get that tone in their voice that says, “Hey dude, I’m heterosexual. It never happened, and please don’t call me again.”
They lock their asshole up tight and throw away the key—until the next time they secretly desire dick, which in my experience is usually many months later. Don’t ask me why. They need pussy daily, but cock can come once a mating season.
It’s strange that I don’t have a burning desire for a vagina two or three times a year. And if I did answer a straight sex ad and meet up with a married woman in the middle of the day and she fucked my brains out, I wouldn’t be in deep denial, pretending it never happened. I’d be bragging to all my lesbian friends about how many orgasms she had.
MASTERING STEFAN
J. M. Snyder
Three years and Stefan’s yet to find that certain someone who can take him to the precipice of lust, dangle him over the abyss, and shove him headlong into the darkness of his own desire. Someone who drives him to the edge but won’t let him fall. Someone he can trust completely, body and soul, someone he can lose himself in. When a local gay bar called the Code hosts a fetish night, Stefan goes looking to be conquered.
August in Richmond is sweltering—even at quarter to midnight, the air is sticky like a wet rag and the humidity takes Stefan’s breath away. He settles for a black latex vest, no undershirt, and a pair of bright blue latex boy-shorts so tight Daisy Duke would be jealous. The shorts make his buttocks look like two round rubber balls, high and tight, and the outline of his cock bulges along the top of his upper left thigh. The vest, tapering to twin points just above his narrow waist, only accentuates both assets.
But when he enters the bar, he’s just one more body in the crowded sea that undulates over the dance floor. Music pounds around him like the surf, washing him up to the bar with the rest of the driftwood. He orders a White Russian, his first mistake. Then he eases onto a vacant stool, his second. Just to wait for the drink, he reasons, but sitting at the bar in a place like this is social suicide. After his next Russian, Stefan stops trying to make eye contact with anyone other than the bartender. By his third, he thinks this party is a bust.
He stays, if only because the night is young and the drinks are cheap. Between refills he swivels around on the stool, leans back against the bar, and surveys the room around him. In the dim lighting, the bodies meld into one, a primordial animal that gyrates obscenely in time to the music as if masturbating to the beat. The thought turns Stefan on. He has to slide down a little to ease the chafe in his shorts—his dick tries to swell beneath the latex but the shorts won’t give an inch, and the restriction only makes him harder. He shifts his package a bit, rearranges the goods, until the swollen tip of his cock ends dangerously close to the bottom hem of the shorts. As he presses against the stiff length, his eyes slip shut at the sweet ache that blossoms in him. And no one to share it with, he thinks.
As he turns back for his drink, a shadow detaches itself from the dance floor, heading his way. When Stefan spares a glance over one shoulder, the stranger takes that as an invitation and sidles up next to him at the bar. The guy is a few years older than Stefan, early forties at the most, with long blond hair tied back from his face with a thin leather strap at the nape of his neck. The arm closest to Stefan bulges with strength, the skin rough and ruddy from long exposure to the sun. Raising his glass, Stefan gives the stranger a drunken grin and has to shout over the crowd to be heard. “Hey.”
A hand falls to Stefan’s thigh, large fingers clamping down on the erection that strains his shorts. Blunt fingertips trace the length and the latex warms beneath the touch. When the guy looks at him, Stefan’s lower lip is caught between his teeth to bite back a half-muffled gasp that manages to escape anyway. The stranger has eyes like diamonds, so pale they’re almost clear, rimmed with black kohl that gives him a deadly look, and the set of his jaw imbues him with a wrath worthy of any young god. “Please,” Stefan sobs. He wants to give himself up to this man, with his white mesh tank top and his black rubber pants. The fingers on his dick make it hard to remember a time before their touch. Struggling not to appear too eager and failing miserably, Stefan wants to know, “Where?”
The guy doesn’t answer. Far away in another world, the bartender sets another White Russian in front of Stefan, with a tall shot of amber whiskey to accompany it. The stranger knocks back the whiskey, never dropping his gaze from Stefan’s. He holds Stefan prisoner in those crystal eyes, pins him to the stool like a captured moth. The hand on Stefan’s thigh inches higher, the latex rolling up beneath it, until the tip of his dick dampens the stranger’s palm. With one hand Stefan grabs on to the bar to hold himself steady; with the other, he dares to touch the stranger’s muscled forearm and feels the tendons stand out beneath his fingers.
There at the bar, the guy sinks down to squat in front of Stefan’s stool. Still silent, he turns Stefan to face him, spreading Stefan’s legs until he’s between them. His wide eyes watch Stefan closely, his thin, unsmiling lips not betraying any emotion while Stefan struggles to hold his back. He wants to throw himself at this man—he wants to be ravished, torn into from behind, latex stripped away as this stranger barrels inside. He feels his heart beating where the boy-shorts cut into his upper thighs and wants to beg this stranger to take him now. But more than that, he wants to be taken without having to ask.
Slowly, the guy rolls back the hem of Stefan’s shorts—just the leg where his dick pulses. He peels the latex an inch or two away from Stefan’s cockhead; the shorts are too tight to allow anything more. Some part of Stefan’s mind whispers that his dick is out in front of a couple of hundred people, what the hell’s he doing here? But the mere fact that he’s exposed in a bar and the night doesn’t come to a screeching halt around him is enough to make his dick begin to weep. At the first drop of jism, the stranger leans closer, his hair tickling Stefan’s thighs, closer, until his hot whiskey-wet lips kiss the tip of Stefan’s dick.
“Oh, god,” he moans. His fingers dig into the guy’s arm, claw at the bar. His hips rise up off the stool, but his trembling legs are too weak to hold his own weight and he plops back down. The latex cuts across his erection like a tourniquet, igniting a dull fire in his balls that smolders with lust. A soft tongue rubs across the spongy glans of his cock, tickling him, teasing. Saliva and cum slick the latex around the head of his shaft and the stranger’s hand presses down on Stefan’s still-sheathed length, kneading him through the shorts, working him toward release. When that mouth closes over his bulbous tip, the stranger tongues a tender spot just below his slit and sucks until Stefan comes with an explosive orgasm that threatens to rip him asunder.
Stefan bucks up off the stool, his hand knocking aside the untouched Russian waiting for him, and white liqueur splatters the bar like the load he shoots into the stranger’s willing throat. As the other man stands, Stefan sighs, “Please.” His hand trails down the guy’s arm, catches for a moment in those strong fingers, then falls to his lap, spent. Take me home, he wants to say, his mind filled with images of the two of them entwined together in someone’s bed, but he can’t seem to remember how to put those thoughts into words so he just murmurs again, “Please.”
The stranger pulls something from his back pocket—a business card. Tenderly he lifts Stefan’s now-limp member and slides the card into the sticky wetness between Stefan’s cock and thigh. Then he rolls the latex down again to cover the too-tender tip of Stefan’s dick. The paper feels like cardboard shoved into his shorts.
Then the guy fades back into the crowd. No words, not even a name. Stefan reaches for the White Russian, needing a drink, only to find ice cubes melting on the bar.
It takes him half a week to work up the courage to call the number on the card. He dials it from work, waiting until the office empties out at lunchtime to pick up the phone. The first try, he hits a six instead of a two and has to start again. The second try rings once, twice, three times before Stefan thinks he hears someone in another cubicle and lets the phone slip back into the cradle. He stands, stretches, looks around but he’s just hearing things—he’s alone. This time he dials quickly before he can lose his nerve, but someone answers on the first ring and startles him speechless. “What is it?” a gruff voice asks. If Stefan had to give a sound to the nameless stranger from the Code, this would be it.
Beneath his desk, Stefan shuffles his feet together like a nervous teenager. “Um, hi,” he starts, then remembers he’s at work and lowers his voice. He glances at the business card again but only sees the number he’s dialed and the word MASTER beneath it. The fact that it’s spelled out in black and white stirs his blood. Unsure of how to begin, Stefan admits, “I got your card.”
“Did I give it to you?” the voice wants to know. Master, Stefan thinks, mouthing the word to try it on for size. “Or did someone else pass it along? Because I’m very select in who I give this number to and if you didn’t get it from me, hang up.”
“No,” Stefan hurries to explain, “I got it from you. At least I think so. Saturday night, at the Code?” His words are met with a stony silence so loud, it hurts Stefan’s ears. “I was at the bar. Getting a drink? And you…I don’t know, you came up to me and just sort of…”
He trails off. “Sort of what?” Master prompts.
Stefan lowers his voice. “I had on these shorts. Made out of latex?”
“Are you asking or telling me?” Master wants to know.
“Blue shorts.” Stefan remembers how he had to peel them off when he got home, digging the latex out of his ass after that blow job. “You rolled back the leg and then…” His face feels hot and he has to rub his hands down the front of his slacks to dry his sweaty palms. “You…you—”
Master demands, “Say it.”
“I’m at work,” Stefan whispers. More silence, and beads of sweat break out along the back of his neck just below his hairline. With a furtive look around at the empty office, Stefan whispers, “You sucked me off. Remember?” It’s almost a plea.
But warmth floods the voice on the other end of the line, and Stefan sighs with relief. “Ah, yes. You. I wondered when you’d call.”
“Really?” A silly grin tugs at Stefan’s lips but he twists his mouth into a frown to tamp it down. Hoping he sounds suave and nonchalant despite the pounding of his heart, he shrugs and asks, “So, you busy tonight? Or something?”
He expects a coy answer along the lines of, What do you have in mind? But Master cuts to the chase. “Tell me what you’re wearing.”
“Now?” Stefan asks, surprised. “I’m at work.”
“If I drop by this evening,” Master clarifies, “what’ll you have on? Better yet, what will I have to take off to get to that sweet candy ass of yours?”
“I’m…I—” Stefan stutters, searching for something to say. What on earth will he wear? Anything Master wants, anything at all. Did he honestly say he’s coming over tonight? Oh, god. Lamely, he whispers, “I don’t know.”
“Shit.” For a moment Stefan thinks he’s angry at him, but before he can stumble through an apology Master says, “What’s your fetish? Leather, Saran Wrap, what?”
Stefan mumbles, “Latex.” He likes the smooth feel of the thin plastic—wet, slick, and molded to his body, or hot against his sweaty skin, unyielding as he strains against it. He likes wetsuits and galoshes and latex gloves that snap into place, the way they feel rubbing along his flesh, the way they smell pressed to his nose. Once he masturbated in the dressing room of a department store while wearing nothing but a raincoat so new, it squeaked every time he moved. Scuba magazines are porn to him—pictures of men in formfitting suits that he imagines ripping apart to get at the tender meat inside. He dreams of running in the rain wearing nothing but a slicker, a cold rush of air breezing against his balls as someone unseen chases him. It’s a familiar dream, one he’s had since middle school, and though he’s never been caught, he knows that whoever hunts him down wants to pin him down and fuck him right there in the mud and the rain. He can almost picture the slicker rucked up over his ass and knows just what the rain would feel like streaming down his pale skin. Whenever he has that dream he wakes up so hard, it only takes one or two good jerks to get him off.
In his ear, Master murmurs, “Latex.” The word sounds like a promise in his voice. Before Stefan can reply, Master continues, “This is what I want. You’ll be home by what, six?”
“Yes,” Stefan says. His voice cracks and he clears his throat to try again. “Six, yes, I’ll be there.”
“Leave your door unlocked,” Master commands, “and put on something—you have a full bodysuit, right?”
Stefan has two, both black latex. One has zippers strategically placed for easy access, which he has yet to put to use. The other has seen more wear—he’s modified it himself, adding a rubber cock sheath that juts from the front like a handle and a tiny ball sewn into the butt to press between his buttocks. That’s his solo suit, the one he puts on when it’s just him and his hand, and unfortunately that’s all too often. He likes to put it on and sit in the bathtub, the shower pounding down around him as he massages his cock through the sheath and grinds his hips back against the spigot to work that little ball around and around his asshole. “I have things to wear,” he admits.
“Get dressed, then,” Master tells him, “with me in mind. This is the important part now—you can’t get off before I get there, you hear me? Sit on your hands if you have to but keep them out of your ass and away from your cock. You understand?”
“Yes,” Stefan breathes. “Yes, Sir.”
“What’s my card say?” Master prompts.
Stefan raises the business card to his nose and can still smell his own spunk lingering on the paper. “Yes, Master.”
Per Master’s instructions, Stefan doesn’t lock the front door to his townhouse when he comes home from work. His is a quiet neighborhood, no one will enter, but it turns him on to strip down to his underwear in the foyer knowing that someone could walk in on him. Kicking his clothes aside, he takes the steps two at a time to the bedroom, where he peels off his underwear and snags the zippered latex suit from his closet. He’s hard already just thinking about wearing it, but he wants to prolong the anticipation, do things right. He goes into the bathroom then, where he leaves the door open just in case Master comes in and hears the shower running. Stefan takes his time, lathering his cock and balls and ass, slipping one finger inside himself and gasping at the sting of soap on hidden flesh. By the time he cuts off the water, his dick is tender to the touch but he promised he wouldn’t get off until Master arrives and it’s all he can do to hold back. He empties half a bottle of baby oil into his palms, rubs it over his nipples and chest, down his belly, slathering his erection and balls and the trembling skin between his legs. There’s a cock ring he keeps stretched around a hairbrush; he rolls it off and slides it down into place against the base of his shaft, to help him stay hard without blowing his wad. He applies more baby oil to his buttocks, lifting and spreading them apart to coat the cleft between them, then he steps into the suit and begins to zip it into place.
