Best Gay Bondage Erotica, page 8
Stefan’s abused cock jerks to attention at the promise of a long night ahead. He can’t wait to find out what he wins when he finds the key.
MARKING TERRITORY
Sean Meriwether
The stench of ripe piss, like rotted fruit, penetrates through your hangover and swells with your growing consciousness. Your hands are bound behind you, tight, and your elevated ass is shoved against the metal cover that walls you in. The dark world beats you down and you plead to black out and erase the time.
A muted red light enflames your tight enclosure and you are tossed forward across the cheap carpet. The only thing you have on, besides the skivvies that you were wearing in your girlfriend’s bed, is a sticky sheen of urine that glows red across your pale skin. You are paralyzed when you hear a car door open and footsteps moving closer; you shut your eyes, hold your breath, and hope they think you’re dead. Your mind reels with explanations and skirts the truth as skillfully as a junkie rationalizes his next hit.
Two voices approach, men you recognize with a chill. The Southern cadence of Red’s voice, the con-man who’d gotten you into this mess, and the deep rumble of Vix44, the biggest motherfucker you’ve ever seen. The pair belong to Havana, the man who’d been stupid enough to trust you with ten kilos of Columbian, and his thugs are about to make an example out of you; don’t cross Havana.
The trunk rises and you are blinded by sharp daylight. Red pops a cherry into his mouth, bites down hard, spits the pit out into your face. “Awake, shitbag?” He smiles, his mustache riding up under his thin nose. This was the same guy who’d taken you to Havana a year ago claiming you’d make a mint, a fuckin’ pile of dough. “Old man’s gonna skin you alive, asshole,” he says now. Red unzips his fly and sends a fragrant thick stream into your upturned face. You turn away as your eyes and mouth are invaded by his salty piss. “Baste that piglet,” his partner says. Old Vix44. They said his name came from the dimensions of his cock—four by four—and having seen the size of his hands, you’d believe it.
Vix steps up to the trunk and smiles down at your pathetic figure. “Gonna marinate the pork,” he snorts and pulls out his hose to wash you down. Before he shoots his squirt, he makes sure you get a full eye of the weapon he’s got in his hand. Even soft it looks like the arm and fist of a child, and he nods his head and pisses on you as the reality sinks in. You’d rather be shot than split open by that thing. “Have me a pork chop on a plate. You bacon, boy?”
Beyond Vix44 you can see blue sky and trees, fresh air, and they seem as unreal as your plans for escape. Vix drops a gob of spit down on your head and slams the trunk closed, trapping you in the stink of their fresh piss. You wonder how long you’ve been stuck there, an unwilling toilet, and how much longer they could drive around before they put a slug in your head and dump you on the street, an advertisement of Havana’s power.
The car bumps along rutted roads, your body tossed around like a cheap slag, making your empty stomach hitch. You’d die to pass out again as the car swerves to hit an eternal series of potholes and ditches. The bruises on your arms and legs paint your skin darker shades of blue and purple.
When the car finally stops, your body still feels the movement, like sea legs. It seems as if hours pass before the trunk opens and the oil-tainted air rushes inside. Red smiles down into your squinting eyes. “Had enough, piss-ass? Man, you so disappoint.” He looks like a ferret in a suit as he plucks a cherry from his pocket and sucks it into his mouth. “Get him outta there, Vix. Havana wants this skinny shit.”
Vix44 lowers his powerful arms and picks you up in a bear hug. You choke on his thick cologne. The bristles of his beard scratch against your face. “He is a pretty thing, isn’t he, Red? Pretty little girly-boy.” He drops you on the concrete of the garage floor and you look up at your own car, the brand new BMW that you bought with the money scammed off Havana. Stupid shit, you say to yourself. How was I so stupid?
“You ever been to a pig roast, boy?” Vix44 asks you.
You shake your head sadly. “No, sir. I ain’t no pig today. Come on, Vix, let us go and you can keep the car. I’ll leave, I swear it, go where nobody knows me.”
Vix44 laughs in your ear as he forces you up on your feet and holds you against him. “You’re my piglet, boy.” His groin presses into your cuffed hands and you think about squeezing down on his package. Vix backs up a step and slaps the side of your head. “Don’t be a fool bastard, pork chop. You’ll get more of that than you want.”
Red complains about the smell of you, but it doesn’t bother Vix44; he hauls you through a door by the back of your underpants, your cock and balls pulled up into the tight sack created by your betraying briefs. He tosses you onto the cement slab floor of a paneled room and steps away. You stare at the reflective black shoes of Havana’s feet, whose first comment is a kick in the head.
“You little scumbag shit,” he says, his husky voice dropping an octave below normal. “You think you can cut me out, huh? You think you’re such a smart prick that you can scam me? Do you know who you are messing with, or do I gotta remind you that you’re playing with big boys, here?” He drops his cigar next to your face, grinds it out with his shoe, and plants the hot sole of his foot against your face. “I warned you when Red brought you in, you do what I tell you, when I tell you. You don’t think for yourself, got it? I want some sign that you get me, shit for brains.” He squats down next to you. “Geez, you smell like fuckin’ hell. Vix, man, you’re one crazy fuck.” Havana laughs, then after an uncomfortable interval, Vix44 and Red join in.
You apologize, and apologize, and apologize; a whine of sorrys that you ever were stupid enough to try to one-up Havana. “Gonna teach you a lesson, kid. Next time you sit down on your brains, you’re gonna think of me, you got it?”
Vix44 hauls you up by the seat of your drawers and slips them down around your knees. He pushes you over to a counter and you brace your shoulders against it. “You owe me fifty grand, kid. I want it. All of it. You got twenty-four hours.” Havana lights another cigar, and the earthy smoke fills your lungs. “All right, Vix, rip him up.” The room grows achingly quiet as the boss turns and leaves. You can hear his footsteps groan up the stairs and across the floorboards. A football game comes on, loud enough to drown out any noise you might make.
Vix44 unzips his pants and steps out of them. You can see his socks close in on you from between your parted legs. “Come on, man, I get it. I learned my lesson. You don’t gotta…Shit, Vix. This isn’t fair.” You close your eyes so that you won’t cry and hope it will be over quick.
“Basted pork, you gotta love it.” Vix44 spits on his latexed dick and shoves it up into your ass until all you see is black and stars. You can feel the burn of his rod, and you pray that you’ll be able to walk or shit again. Vix burrows into you, holds you by the waist and pumps you full of flesh. “Yeah, piglet, ride me.” His cock pummels you, spreading your asscheeks wide open. Vix44 grunts as he fucks you, holds you like he’s jerking himself off with your body, and you feel him in your guts, your lungs, your throat.
His sweating arms hold you down as he pulls out and a cold breeze blows up into the gaping hole he leaves behind. You wish he’d put it back in before your guts spill out between your legs. He slaps your tender ass and the shocking pain sends a chill over your skin and your face tingles.
“Let’s go, Vix. Plug the guy and get it over with.” Red pops a cherry in his mouth and sucks it into his cheek.
“Gonna enjoy myself a little first with this piglet here.” Vix44 forces you down on your knees, and you are confronted with the shit-spattered rubber on his cock. “Give me some blow, piggie, blow your daddy.” He peels the condom off and drops it with a plop at your knees and steps up to you, his cock smelling like your ass. He forces the tip in between your lips and you gag as the salty meat slides deep into your mouth, filling the back of your throat. He eases out, gently, then rams it back in, filling your head. Your mouth is in shock and salvia builds up and spills out, running along the shaft of Vix’s cock and dribbling over his hairy balls. “That’s the worst head I’ve ever had, gonna fuck you raw,” Vix warns and you make an effort to sweeten the deal and get him off so he won’t have to fuck you again. “That’s better, piggie, yeah.” He rides your head.
Swallowing his meat brings tears to your eyes, but as he pumps your face, you catch his rhythm and bob your head timed by his thrusts, tasting the silvery precum as it flows into your mouth. “Aw’ right. Kid’s got it down. Gonna turn you into a first rate cocksucker, cheese dick…yeah. Oh fuck.” Vix pulls out and jerks his dick into your face, and you are bathed in a shower of cum as he jets onto your chin, chest, and legs. He hovers until a thin stream of piss follows and trickles over your head. “You gotta give this one here a go, Red. Kid was rough at first, but he’s a natural. Got him all warmed up for ya.”
Red spits the cherry out into his palm, stares at it, then shakes his head. “Your job, Vix, not mine. Let’s go, get the kid, dump him in the car. Get him outta here before Mrs. H. gets home.” He drops the cherry back into his mouth and then spits the pit on the floor near your knees.
“You don’t gotta do it, man. I don’t wanna die.”
“Havana says you get to go, little fish. You tell your smokin’ buddies who’s in charge here, and you tell them what will happen if they try to fuck over Havana, you got that? You’re the example. They’re fish food.” To finalize his point, Red takes his squirt on you with his semi-erect cock.
Vix44 zips up and then picks you up by your handcuffed wrists and drags you back to the car. “Have half a mind to keep this pussy right where I can find him. Tightest ass I’ve ever had.”
“Havana says to dump him. You listenin’, kid? You don’t do your job you’re gonna spend the rest of your life eatin’ his spunk, got it?”
You nod your head frantically. “Yeah, Red, I hear you.” Your jaw is stiff, your ass like burning fire.
Vix44 lowers you back into your own trunk, and you think the next car will have a bigger one. You collapse against the blue carpet, smelling of piss and spunk and feeling wide at both ends. Red spits a cherry pit on you before he closes you in. They back out the car and careen through the streets, tossing you around in the bruised dark.
When the car finally stops it is nighttime. You can hear the chatter and gibber of your block, music blasting from Skeeter’s car, Elmo and his girl shouting. Vix44 lifts you out and drops you in the gutter but not before poking a thumb in your wounded asshole.
“You learn your lesson, boy, and you better teach it too or Vix and I’ll be back for you,” Red says. The two men smile and nod at each other. “We’ll be back tomorrow for the fifty grand you owe Havana. Better have it. Six o’clock.”
Vix44 smiles widely. “Don’t make us wait, bacon. You don’t wanna piss me off.” He uncuffs one wrist and drags you over to the bus sign and clamps the open side to it. “Tell your tale, pork chop.” The men get back into your car and drive down the block, leaving you naked, stained, and bleeding and bound where you stand. The guys from the street start to gather around you. Your boys who you used to trust, who sold with you, sold for you, now poking and laughing at your skinny frame.
“Oh, shit, Vix44 done that boy good.” Skeeter laughs and his girl, Tamara, squeals with derisive laughter. “Won’t even need to sit down to shit,” Elmo says. More catcalls and whistles as you struggle to squeeze out of the handcuffs, and when Jimmie comes to your rescue with the bolt-cutters, you are already planning your escape. “Havana gonna get you, boy,” Skeeter says as you crawl up the fire escape to your apartment window, “Havana’s gonna blow your mind.”
A CERTAIN UNDERSTANDING
Ethan Thomas
You stretch the scarf tight between your fists. Heat rushes to my face, but I stare straight through you, unblinking. It’s that or meet your eyes. You jerk your hands apart, daring me to look, and the faint pulse in my groin echoes the snap of the fabric a beat later. From the quirk in your voice, you haven’t missed the tightness of my jeans.
“Is this what you want?”
“Whatever.” I shrug and suck smoke between my teeth. “Always thought silk was pussy, myself.”
You pluck the cigarette from my lips, flick it away. It dies on the hotel’s pockmarked floorboards. I frown—the cig could have been useful—and then my chin is pinched hard between your thumb and forefinger, captured. Your breath stirs my lashes, hotter than the cherry on my smoke ever could have been. You squeeze tighter, and I grin. This might work out after all.
“On my knees or my back?” My gaze drifts sideways, away from you.
Your nails dig into my cheeks. “Look at me.”
I don’t have to. I’ve already looked once, seen everything I need to know: beach-boy hair, tanned skin, muscles that speak of exercise and aggression. I fight just a little, urging you to put some meat behind your grip. You have everything I need, if only you’d use it.
“Look at me.”
Another glance, nothing more, and your smile fills my vision. The curve of your lips is even softer than your pretty scarf. Without warning, a single rivulet of cold sweat glides down my bare back. My nipples stiffen. I step away, expecting a struggle, but you let me go. My flesh goose-pimples.
“Back or knees?” I repeat. Even to my own ears, my voice sounds small and strained.
You dip your head, close the distance between us again. All I can smell is candy. Your mouth ghosts over mine. “Whatever you like.”
My lip curls. This isn’t what you promised. Your own jeans already hang open, exposing a small thatch of blond hair. I make a show of kicking off my own denims and throw them in your face. You don’t move. Angry now, I flop back on the naked mattress and spread my legs. My cock lies limp against my thigh, just like every other time we’ve been together.
Moments pass. I glare at the ceiling, count the water spots. “Do you have the balls for this or not?”
“Do you?”
In response I lift my arms above my head and rattle the headboard.
“Good.” You trail the silk lightly over my abdomen before looping it once around my wrists, securing me loosely to the rusted bars. “Too tight?”
I don’t bother laughing. Your broad hands find my hips, but I don’t look down.
“You could pull free,” you continue, “but you won’t. You’re exactly where you want to be.”
My shoulders tense. Your fingers linger on my thighs, tracing old scars better not explained. Your touch might be feathers on my skin. My breath jerks in my chest.
“I have to tie you up, is that it? Force pleasure on you?” Gentle now, you grasp my chin again. Slowly my gaze drifts from the cracked stucco overhead. Your smile stays tender as you descend. Throat, nipples, and navel—you taste them all, each graze of your lips somehow more horrible than any slap or burn could be. Each time I gasp, trying to squirm from beneath you, but you shove me down. That’s so close, that’s almost what I need, but now your head is between my legs, my cock in the warm hollow of your cheek. You bob as if you have all the time in the world, looking up at me from beneath the tangle of your hair.
I swallow. “Don’t—”
You press slick lips against mine, cutting me off. A string of spit stretches between us as you pull back. You gather it with your fingers and reach between my legs. It won’t be enough. Suddenly I have air again. I wrench my knees apart, daring you to push. You lean forward, grope beneath the mattress, and pull out a small tube of lubricant. The sight of it is almost more than I can bear. Very nearly I tell you to stop, that I cannot endure this, but then your finger is inside me, careful and wet. After forever, a second digit slides deep, stroking that spot high inside me. When you finally push your cock inside, it is with one smooth, painless thrust.
I make a strangled sound in my throat, as if I am gagged as well as bound, but it isn’t enough for you.
“Tell me what you want,” you whisper, pumping in and out of my ass so slowly that tears run down my cheeks.
Somehow, miraculously, the scarf is still tied. I grab it with both hands, twist it tighter about my wrists. An instant later, your arms slide around me, and I rock my hips hard. Yeah, this will be all right. Grab me, fuck me—
Your head comes to rest on my chest, and I sob.
Breath shudders against my collarbone. “Please,” you whisper, “tell me just once that I’m not taking this from you.”
My fists tremble against the silk. I cannot let go. Your body grows cool and still in a way that has nothing to do with release. This time when you pull away, jeans around your knees, you peer out the dirty window and not at me. Now your voice is finally like I’ve always wanted it to be, just like the others: low and dangerous, threatening nothing I give a shit about losing. I can’t even make out what you say, and I don’t care.
I tug hard and the tie comes loose, silk disappearing between us as I drag you back down, back into me. I buck my hips to meet your thrusts, but my mouth is on yours, my arms around your neck. There is no struggle now except the struggle to bring you deeper. There should be words, wild promises and saying sorry, but I am coming before I even know it, your hand tight around me and a splash against your belly. At the feel of it, your sob echoes in the rented room, even louder than my own. It is not a sound of grief.
Eventually my fingers, still trailing silk, thread through your hair. I fight against using the scarf to wipe my eyes and snatch my cigs from the battered nightstand instead. Old habits die hard.
You press a kiss into my throat. “Thank you.”
I swallow again, nodding. I can speak now, but there is no need.
You have already understood everything.
THE TAKING OF BRIAN KROWELL
Shane Allison
Now or never. Do or damn die. I had fifteen minutes and counting before Brian’s shift was up. I searched for a rock or a fake plant, a place I figured he would stash a key. I thought of the welcome mat, but would it be somewhere that obvious? Lifted it. There it was. He always was a presumptuous fuck. I couldn’t believe he was still living in this dump, an apartment complex subject to flooding, gangs, hookers, and crackhead hustlers. He treated me to Hamburger Helper and old episodes of Sex and the City back when we were on speaking terms. I took the key and pressed it into the keyhole, walked in with my gym bag of goodies. His pad smelled lived in, faintly of hoagie sandwiches. The place was a wreck. How could he find anything in that mess? The guy works forty-hour weeks and he’s still Dumpster-diving for hand-me-downs, salvaging sofas from other people’s trash.
