Hot Gay Erotica, page 6
The young man withdrew, suddenly. He started to stroke himself, his cock lubricated with my spit and his own juices.
A husky voice interrupted. “Cum on his face.”
My young stranger was startled at the sound of Harris’s voice, his hand flying away from his dick as if it were scalding hot. Harris’s sudden appearance startled me, too; in my lusty delirium I’d nearly forgotten he was there at all. Harris nodded, wordlessly indicating the young man should continue. The expression on his face was somewhere between awe and catatonia. His gaze shifted from me to the stranger’s cock, now aimed at my face and ready to shoot.
I closed my eyes and waited, listening to the wet, flabby sound of the young man pulling on his cock at a feverish pace. Then: a groan exploded from the young man’s mouth, milliseconds before his load exploded from his cock. Warm, heavy droplets splashed down on my forehead, hit my nose, and singed the tip of my tongue. “Oh, yeah,” whispered Harris. I opened my eyes then, catching the young stranger in the final spasms of his orgasm—his mouth slack, his body trembling, his cock oozing. Harris had his hands on the young man’s shoulders, massaging them as he said something into his ear. The stranger pushed his dick downward, forcing his hard-on to meet my tongue. Making contact, he wiped the last thick drop of splooge onto my greedy taste buds.
A moment later, my young friend was stuffing his cock back in his pants, careful not to look at me, or in Harris’s direction, and then scurrying out of the stall like he’d just stolen something.
It was just Harris and me now. I watched intently as he undid his pants, my eyes glued to the swell pushing against the fabric. His pants unbuttoned and unzipped, he exposed himself with one quick tug. His cock was so rigid it fell forward only slightly, parallel with his flat stomach. Finally seeing it—its dark tan shaft, its almost pointy head, the precum beading on the tip—made my lips tremble. Of all the cocks I’d seen, tonight and on every night before tonight, this was the one I wanted the most.
I started to reach for Harris’s cock, eager to taste it, but he shoved me away, making me fall onto my ass. He was smiling the same conspiratorial smile he wore when he first pushed me into the stall. Bending down, he reached for me, hooking a hand around my biceps and hauling me to my feet in the same forceful manner he’d pushed me away.
Harris studied my face, and raised a hand to brush away a lock of sweaty hair that fell across my forehead. After this pretense of tenderness, he seized me violently, shoving me to the back wall, our bodies wedged between the stall’s dividing wall and the toilet. He forced his tongue into my mouth, his hands pulling on my belt, his cock pressing against my leg.
I responded with equal vigor, my tongue twisting around his while my hands groped wildly, pulling at his shirt, grabbing for his dick. Harris lost patience fumbling with my pants and jerked them open, the top button popping off and clattering onto the floor. He kissed and licked my face, lapping up the sticky souvenirs left by the anonymous cocks I’d sucked, his mouth returning to mine to share the taste. My pants were pulled down with one decisive yank, my tortured dick freed.
Harris forced three fingers into my mouth, and I sucked them the way I wanted to suck his cock. When he withdrew his fingers, they were dripping with my saliva. Thus lubricated, Harris’s fingers slid in between my buttcheeks.
“I’m gonna fuck you so hard,” he snarled, pushing his fingertips past my asslips, making me writhe.
Harris held his other hand below my lips and commanded me to spit into his palm. Just as I’d lubricated his fingers for fingering my hole, I was to provide lubrication for his cock. He handled himself almost delicately as he smeared the handful of my viscous saliva around his pulsating rod while his other hand continued to play with my asshole.
Once he’d lubricated his cock, his hand went to his back pocket, returning with a rubber. My breathing was hard and ragged as I watched him tear open the condom packet with his teeth, pull out the rubber and unroll it over his wet cock, impressed he could do it with only one hand. He pulled his fingers out of my hole and brought that hand back to my face, giving me a whiff of my own musk.
“Spit,” he said.
I hocked a big gob into his smelly palm, expecting this to be the lube for his sheathed cock. Instead, his hand grasped my aching pole. My body twisted and jerked like I’d been hit with a stun gun.
“I’m so close…,” I said through clenched teeth. “You keep that up I’m gonna cum.”
“That’s the idea.”
A burst of pleasure erupted and shot out my cock. For a split second I saw my formidable load spurt, caught by Harris’s other hand. Then I closed my eyes, my body weakening and my head growing light.
When I opened my eyes, Harris was rubbing his hard-on, coating the condom with my hot jism.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
I faced the back wall and Harris clamped a hand around my neck, pushing me forward, forcing me to bend down. I braced myself against the tile.
He entered me with surprising care, easing his dick into my chute one deliberate inch at a time. Still, the pain was unavoidable, each advance of his cock searing my sphincter as it was stretched wider and wider. I bit the inside of my mouth, keeping my discomfort to myself. I knew pleasure would soon follow.
We stopped moving: Harris was all the way inside me, his silky pubic hair tickling the crack of my ass. The pain of his entry had waned, overtaken by the pleasurable tension of his cock buried in me.
We started moving: first Harris, thrusting his hips forward in steady strokes; and then me, pushing backward to meet him. We were quiet at first, the only sound that of his sinewy thighs hitting my ass and the squish of his cock sliding in and out of my hole, lubricated by my juice. But as Harris began to pick up the pace, so, too, did our noise level increase: hard breathing, grunts, gasps, and groans. Anyone walking by the restrooms could’ve heard us, but at that moment I didn’t care.
Harris called me a filthy slut and cum whore—names I’d called myself all the way into therapy, but now they went right to my cock, bringing it back to life after its brief respite. He rammed me viciously, his body crouched over mine, each thrust pushing my face against the stall’s grimy wall. One hand gripped my waist, the other pulled on my collar, ripping the fabric. His breathing raged loud in my ear.
Harris froze, suddenly, emitting a sound like he’d been punched in the gut.
“Oh, yessss,” I hissed as he came, feeling his cock pulse against my asslips as it pumped out its load.
We sank to the floor, his dick still deep in my chute. We lay together on the stall’s dirty floor, Harris nibbling at the nape of my neck, playing with my cock—fully hard again, throbbing to his touch—and me, my heart racing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest pressed against my sweaty back as he struggled to catch his breath. I smiled, thinking how my therapist was right after all: it was worth the wait.
FROM A PARDONER’S TALE
Wayne Courtois
Brian’s pouring pancake batter onto the skillet. I take orange juice from the fridge and fill the six small glasses on the table. “Why six?” I ask.
“We’ll have a guest this morning,” Brian says. “Someone who may be joining us.”
I look down at my pajamas, chalk-blue hospital scrubs. A white robe, threadbare as an old washcloth. “I should have showered and dressed before breakfast.”
“Nah, don’t worry.” Brian is still smiling. “That’s ‘past life’ thinking, Paul. You look fine.”
I feel better, at least until Davy and Aaron and Todd appear. Davy and Aaron have showered and dressed in the preferred manner, in oversized sweatshirts and sweatpants. Todd’s still in his pajamas, but they look like they’ve been ironed, for Christ’s sake. And his slippers are stylish and gleaming, not mangy looking. I’m grateful, after we’ve said our good mornings, to take a seat and hide my hairy white ankles from view.
“We were going to have a guest this morning,” Brian says, carrying a platter of pancakes to the table. “But he’s late. You know what that means, he might not show. So I’m not holding up breakfast.”
Mixed reactions around the table. Aaron and Todd look slightly disappointed, while Davy, who’s the nervous type, looks relieved. Me, I’m staring at my silverware.
“Anybody have a dream last night?” Brian asks, as he usually does.
My silverware-staring has yielded strange fruit. “Wait,” I cry. “Wait, wait, wait.” I tug on Davy’s sleeve.
“What is it?” he asks.
The small hairs on the back of my neck are rising. “Does my fork match my spoon match my knife?”
“What?”
“My fork match my spoon match my—”
“Take it easy, Paul.”
Take it easy? Doesn’t anybody understand why I’m upset? My knife, my fork, my spoon—in a house where no two plates or glasses match, where every freaking cup and saucer came from a different garage sale, it’s impossible that two pieces of silverware would match, let alone a spoon and a fork and a knife….
“I see what he means,” Brian says. “It’s true, they all have the same pattern. What are the odds?”
Now they’re all peering at my silverware. “Huh,” Aaron says.
Brian laughs. “Well, don’t worry, Paul. Just because your tableware matches doesn’t mean you’re a fag.”
Har har har.
“Yeah,” Todd says, “it doesn’t mean you don’t like pussy.”
This kind of talk is allowed, to an extent. Not that we’re intended to be sexist pigs in training; it’s just that…well, we’re guys, that’s all, and that’s what guys are like. Todd ought to know—Todd of the tall slender frame and sarcastic voice, Todd whose skin holds a deep boyish tan even in the dead of winter. It’s precisely the nape of his neck that I love to suck and lick and nibble at. There’s nothing better in the world—unless it’s the smooth salty edge of his shoulder blade or the funky shallows of his navel.
Surprisingly strong, he slings me up against the headboard, excited to see my shoulders thump wood. If I look scared, so much the better. “Go ahead,” I tell him, raising my knees. “Fuck me, hurt me, leave a mark that’ll never go away.” First he lowers his face toward mine, having something to prove with his tongue, turning my mouth inside out from bicuspid to tonsil. When I can’t stand waiting any longer I beg shamelessly. “Fuck me, you know you want to, your balls are gonna burst, give it to me…!”
When he’s good and ready, he does.
“Hey, Paul?” Aaron asks, barely concealing his mirth. “Do your sheets match, too?”
You ought to know, I nearly tell him. Oh, Aaron! How quickly our physical relationship evolves from after-dinner hand jobs to free-for-alls. Here you come, stocky and bristly, musky in your hairy crevices, lumbering on hands and knees across my twisted bedclothes like an animal too big to be cute, that monster cock swinging halfway down your thigh. Is this part of the appeal of being gay—the scary-funhouse side of it, when some brute rolls toward you with a boner that could cleave you in two? “Please don’t hurt me, please.” Yet it’s a cinch to roll you over on your back—heavier men can be light on their knees—and snap goes the strip of leather around your scrotum, stretching your balls; snap goes the cock ring, preparing your tool for worship. Erect and glistening, it shivers against the tip of my tongue, which can tease hard cock like nothing else on earth. I bring you to the brink, then switch to your heavy balls, juggling them with my tongue. Then back to your dick, then your balls, dick, balls, dick, and I haven’t even started on your asshole yet. By the time I do you’re grinding your buttcheeks against my face, whimpering like a cub. When you can’t take any more you grab me by the hair, caveman style, and pull me toward the head of the bed. Your cock looms like one of those alien space-ships that fill half the movie screen. You’ll use my mouth like a cunt, then flip me over and ream my asshole till I’m almost dead. Whatever’s left of me can be used to scrub our juices from the sheets. I’ll be an old cum rag, crumpled and crusty, abandoned at the side of the bed.
The doorbell rings at last. Brian leaves to answer it, and in a moment—has it only been a moment?—he returns with our guest in tow, a slim young man in his twenties with a mustache and dark, heavy eyebrows that give him a skeptical look. He seems nervous, like me, and I’m glad his seat is down at the end of the table.
“Everybody, this is Kent,” Brian says. “Kent, meet David, Aaron, Todd, and Paul.”
Kent nods, a lock of dark brown hair falling across his forehead. He smoothes it back—a delicate gesture, tellingly so. He sits down and, with some effort, moves his heavy captain’s chair closer to the table.
“This is a typical Sunday morning,” Brian says, returning to the griddle. “Up at nine, something special for breakfast—and these pancakes are special, if I do say so myself. Uh, we don’t have religious services here, I think I told you that.”
“Yeah, I don’t care about that,” Kent says. He glances in dismay at the two pancakes Brian’s sliding onto his plate. “I forgot to tell you, I already ate breakfast.”
Brian laughs. “It’s all right, Kent, we don’t put anything in the food. Have some coffee, anyway.” He fills Kent’s cup from the carafe and takes his seat at the head of the table. “And think about this.” He leans forward, steepling his fingertips, making eye contact. “Everything that worries you about your life…all the complications, the pain, the guilt…all of it gone. Does that sound like a better world?” He pauses for a beat. “You bet it does.”
Brian’s a force to be reckoned with, all right. His blue eyes, startling in their intensity, make up for the rest of his face, the blunt nose and the weak chin that always bears a few scrapes, as if he uses a razor made for larger, more challenging chins. No wonder Kent is squinting at him in deep concentration. Or maybe his contacts are bothering him.
“Now,” Brian says, “I’m not telling you it’s easy to change, but in the right environment it can be done. And we have that right here at East Oak House.”
Kent’s eyes, breaking loose from Brian’s, light upon his fork, his napkin, the tub of low-fat margarine, their restlessness a symptom of the urge to change. It’s almost too private a thing to witness, and I look down into my lap.
Brian asks Kent if he wants to take a tour of the place, and as Kent leaves his chair I get a good look at him again. His button-down shirt is open at the neck, revealing a nice serving of chest hair. His jeans define the trunk of his body a bit too well. A ring of keys hangs from his right-side belt loop. In the old days that would have meant he liked to get fucked—do key codes still apply?
“Be right back,” Brian says, and they disappear up the back stairs, around the corner from the kitchen. I’m ready to take my coffee into the den, the only room where smoking is allowed, but for the moment it’s good to sit and bask in my relief that our encounter with the stranger is over.
Todd gives a nervous cough. “He seems nice enough,” he says, his voice unintentionally dripping with sarcasm.
“He didn’t seem as nervous as I was,” Davy says.
Like you are, I’m thinking, watching his orange juice tremble as he raises it to his lips. Just yesterday afternoon, as I’m dozing in the lumpy wing chair in the living room—unobtrusively, I hope, since there was a group session going on—a sound, unvarying like the droning of a jet overhead, originates nearby. I cuff my ear like a dog with a sudden itch, but the sound remains.
Focus, Paul. Get with the program, as Brian would say, before it’s too late.
Okay, the sound can charitably be called a human voice: Davy’s recounting, for the tenth or maybe the hundredth time, the source of his shame. Logy as I am, I recognize where he is in the story immediately: He touched me.
“He touched me,” Davy says, choking back a sob.
He being the evil uncle, me being Davy at the tender age of thirteen. And now we’re at the part where Brian says, Yes, David, go on.
“Yes, David, go on,” Brian says.
“He touched me,” Davy says, “and…oh, God…it felt so exciting….”
The abuse lasts through Davy’s junior year in high school, ending with the uncle’s mysterious disappearance. By then the damage has been done. Davy’s giving blow jobs behind the school stadium every afternoon between three and four. He explains his late arrival home every day by saying he’s joined Glee Club. The jocks who use his mouth know when they’ve got a good thing; they’re not about to squeal.
“And how did it feel, David,” Brian asks, “when they had all gone, and you were left alone there, behind the stadium?”
Wiping your chin. No, Paul, stop it.
Davy’s beyond speaking now, tears are rolling. Clothed, his slight frame promises little; but what a torso he’s got—not bulky but chiseled; his pale, pale abs like dinner rolls waiting to be browned. They’re as sensitive to touch as they are beautiful to look at, and more than once I’ve pinned him down and dug my fingers in, tickling him till he wet the bed.
Now I have a new strategy: to become the best uncle he’s ever had. I’ll be the pat on his back, the cup of hot chocolate, the brisk walk through fallen leaves. I’ll be the lap that’s always open, the helpful hand on his zipper, and the dick that just…won’t…stop.
Look at me now, shaking the way Davy does. I’ve had too much coffee this morning, with too much sugar. Which doesn’t stop me from helping myself to another cup, and two more heaping teaspoons.
“Seems like Dwight’s been gone a long time,” Aaron says.
“I miss Dwight,” Todd says. “I mean, as a friend.”
I miss Dwight too. He came here not long before I did, and already he’s gone. Well, recovery is different for everyone, as Brian would say. In group Dwight had a nice self-deprecating sense of humor. He was so fair his hair was almost white. His chest hair too, thick and lickable. Nipples so sensitive that breathing on them made him sigh. When his dick got hard it was the darkest part of him. He had a funny dickhead, like a knob of putty stuck off-center. I liked to ride it while he bucked like a bronco. “Fuck me, stud. Fuck me till dawn and I’ll slap your tits, just the way you like it.”
