Best Gay Bondage Erotica, page 9
Time to put my plan into action. One wrong move and I was fucked. I made my way to Brian’s bedroom, which was a war zone of dirty clothes. I sifted through his closet, piles of dirty unmentionables. Looked at my watch to check the time: 2:00 A.M on the dot. Not long now. I fished a nasty pair of underwear from the laundry basket—planned to use it to gag his sweet mouth. Brought the duct tape I borrowed from the toolbox on Daddy’s truck. The stuff can take off a layer of skin if you’re not careful. Scarred for life. I took my place inside the closet and waited for him. I was ready. This shit was going to be good. He was not going to be like the others. I had something special planned for his ass.
Within minutes I heard the screaming of hinges. I cracked the closet to watch. Brian threw his bag on the couch, flicked on the TV, the light in the kitchen. He talked to himself. He looked tired, but I didn’t give a shit. Dick-tease didn’t deserve my sympathy. Not after the way he reached in and fingered my heart. He made his way to the bedroom, sipping grape soda, kicking out of his shoes. I steadied myself, ready with a hanky laced with chloroform. I watched Brian undress, fingers making their way down a ladder of buttons on an ugly shirt till he was half-naked and bare-chested, showing stretch marks across love handles. He sat on the edge of the unmade bed to peel khakis off one ashy leg, then the other. White briefs hugged his ass. Beautifully. Cotton stretched across dark chocolate cheeks. My dick stiffened in my jeans. My palms were mitts of perspiration. My gums were salty and itchy with anticipation. My heart was a racehorse, sweat dripped from the pits inside my Polo pullover. He walked naked to the bathroom, flicked on the light, stood at the toilet. A tongue of piss rained. He flushed. I imagined tweaking his nipples, smearing my face across his big belly. His soft dick was peanut size. He pulled a pair of boxers from an open drawer.
Now. With his back turned, I lunged forward, out of the closet, and pressed the chloroformed cloth hard over his face. He struggled, clawed at my arms and hands. His chewed nails couldn’t break my skin. The drug knocked him out like a prize-fighter walloped by a haymaker. He was a fat, heavy, naked slab in my arms. I dragged him to the bed, tossed him on the toussled sheets that smelled of ass and sweat. I rolled tongues of duct tape over his mouth, careful not to cover his eyes or nose with the heavy-duty adhesive. Then I used it to bind his wrists and ankles. He wasn’t going anyplace. I locked the front door and closed the venetians. I killed the living room and kitchen lights. I was ’bout out of breath, my glasses were smudged. I made my way back to his naked brawn, stared at him. At Brian.
I recalled the day we met: two lowly English majors, enrolled in a playwriting class. He was different from the gold-chained, obsessed brothas I was used to seeing, the boys who bullied me in high school, called me a sissy in woodshop and a faggot in consumer math. Brian was nerdy, spoke like a white boy. He was pleasantly plump in all the right places. Thighs, gut, and a firm bubble-butt I wanted to sink my dick in. I always picked him to be in my plays and he went along. Until the roles turned gay, that is, when he declined. He didn’t want the class to think he was a homo. So stupid. It was only a play. I had to scramble fast. A cute punk boy named Sam, a Korn fan with a piercing through his bottom lip, took Brian’s place. We passed the class with just Cs, ’cause our instructor said none of our work was worthy.
I thought about Brian every day. Hardly made it through the semester. If he were gay, we’d have made the perfect couple. I channeled my love and lust for him into balled-up Kleenex and the creases of gay porno mags, composed erotic poems in tattered notebooks about sucking his dick, fucking his ass. When I thought to share a few verses with him, it broke my heart when he declared he didn’t want to talk to me anymore, didn’t want to hang out over cans of cherry soda and the good episodes of Sex and the City. I burned my journals with their covers of scarlet glitter hearts and swore there would be no more poems written about him. But the damage was done. I tried to call, only to be sent to the phantom zone of his voice mail. But I had to have him.
I gave him a swift whack across the ass. Dirty pup. It was the type of thing I liked using my hands for. It was time to take it out on his flesh, do with him whatever I wanted. I massaged his hips, kneaded brown-skinned fat. He was coming to. I reached for the chloroform, decided against it. He struggled to pull his wrists free from the tape.
“Be still,” I told him, “or you’re going to pull the skin.” He whimpered, panted, soiled the tape across his mouth with snot and tears. His cries were useless. My dick was hard. I rubbed it through stretched denim. I didn’t want him to see my face, so I ripped off a piece of the bedspread and blindfolded him. I mounted him and whispered, “Shhh, stop all this mess now. It’ll be over soon.” I applied more tape to his mouth, wrists, and ankles. Then I lifted myself off him, went into the bathroom. The lights were bright, burning my eyes. I searched the medicine cabinet for something to rub on my dick, to slather up his asshole. Just rubbing alcohol and citrus-flavored cough medicine. Next I checked the kitchen, searched the cabinets; there were all the usual condiments, mustard, herbs, spices. In the fridge: relish, chocolate syrup, grape jelly, fat-free salad dressing. I’ve used it all ’cept jelly. I grabbed the jar, returned to Brian’s bedroom, set it on the bedside table, unscrewed the lid. I pulled my jeans down around my ankles, my underwear stained with shit streaks was pulled tight across my legs. The stench of crotch musk permeated the room. I left on my shirt. The leather ring around my balls kept my stuff erect. I dipped three fingers into the jar of artificially flavored jelly, slathered it between Brian’s half-moons. He winced at my cold touch. With the tape double-layered, his screams were muffled.
“Hush now,” I whispered. He had himself to blame.
Gobs of jelly dripped onto the floor, dark purple clumps. The sweet smell mixed with the pubic stink of Brian’s ass and crotch. I scooped more jelly and applied it to my dick. Stuff was cold as shit. I slipped a finger into Brian’s ass. He bucked. The jelly matted my pubic hair, pinches of pain as I stroked my hard-on.
Brian’s body was tense with fear, and shivering with…excitement? I pulled my shirt over my head, took hold of his shoulder with one hand, aimed my dick at his hole with the other, and slid it in easily, thanks to the grape jelly oozing from his hole, and fucked him, my muscles aching from tension and desire. I reached under him for his dick. It was harder than mine. I’d take pleasure later, blowing it. His ass was a dream. My dream. At last. I wasn’t worried about what I was doing. Raped men never tell. And I knew how to find him. I felt myself close to coming. Usually it takes me time to pop, but taking Brian for the first time, his bound body mine, was beyond exciting. I pulled out slowly, held my dick above his ass, shot thick streams of white fire across the dark skin of his back. I plunged a single finger in again, brought it to my lips, sucked shit and jelly from the digit. But I wasn’t done with him. I wanted to know what a nerdy boy’s dick tasted like. I checked the security of my flower-printed blindfold. It was holding. I rolled him over, his back stained with my spunk.
Brian’s dick, circumcised, no longer the size of a peanut, curved slightly as it jutted toward the ceiling fan above us, where I could see blades caked with dust. A dew of sweat soaked his face, throat, torso. I reached into the jelly jar again. Two fingers full. I dabbed it onto his cockhead, ran my fingertips along his hot shaft. The roof of my mouth was dry. I tickled his cockhead with my tongue. So sweet. I sucked him clean, twisted his nipples. His dick tensed in my mouth, beyond my tenacious lips, cum surging through his black body, willing or not. Now I played with his balls, with his jelly-matted ball sac hair, then back to his nipples, harder, and his dick jerked, spasmed, and I gorged on his semen, swallowing.
I left him stained with his cum, my cum, my spit, his jelly. Done. His never was my now.
AND SERPENT BECAME ROD
Shanna Germain
I hadn’t gotten it up in six weeks. Out in the jungle, it seemed at least I wasn’t the only one; everything there struggled to rise, to defy the odds, defy the warm wet air. Everything struggled to come upright, to stay the course of forward motion. Or of any motion at all. Even me, putting one foot in front of the other, watching for the leaf-cutter ants beneath my feet, trying to discover the fuzzy-backed sloths in their hidden tree-spots.
Ahead of me, Jesus’s voice floated down, pressing with its heavy rolled Rs and its constantly changing landscapes of lilts and valleys. He kept forgetting to hold the branches after his passing, and they whipped my face and shoulders with their sweating leaves, but I barely noticed. Volcanic ash layered itself on the skin between my boots and my shorts, burying the hairs on my legs.
I worked out at the gym back home every day, but that had not prepared me for this climb. I wanted to whine like a little kid, “Are we there yet?” But I had paid for this privilege, this hope, so I kept my lips closed against the smack of the branches and kept climbing, taking some sort of pleasure in watching the long muscles in Jesus’s calves, the way his ass moved beneath his khaki shorts. It didn’t stir anything in my cock or in my head. But I was hoping that would change soon.
I’d heard about this trek online. Like so many other things that passed along through the intangible Web, it didn’t seem real. Not possible. But if it was…how could I resist? I’d done everything else. I had enough money to buy my way into the most exclusive clubs, to hire the best tops. I had a roomful of equipment. Men who would gladly give up their evenings to bind me in whatever way I asked of them. And yet. And yet, my orgasms had started to feel like they weren’t part of me anymore, something that happened in a faraway town that you might read about in the morning. Then, this. A cock that no longer worked.
My doctor gave me the “You’re almost forty years old. This is to be expected” line and slipped me a prescription for something that would increase the blood flow to my cock. But I knew that wasn’t the problem. It was something bigger, something deadening that had happened, so much that I could barely feel.
I wanted to come back with my erection restored. But I was hoping for much more than that.
If I made it up the damn volcano, that was. Jesus moved more like animal than man through the trees and up the steep slope. My legs were turning to river water. My mouth to desert. The “cool-dry” fabric that I’d spent too much money on was plastered to my chest and back with sweat. Every break in the canopy meant some breeze, but also more sun.
A slithering movement below my feet made me start. My heart, already working too hard, cranked up the speed until it felt like one singular beat in my chest. I uttered a short, high-pitched squeak. Even as the sound left my mouth, I realized the movement was a small green snake, no bigger around than my pinky. It swept its way across the trail until it reached the underbrush, plants with leaves the same color as its skin.
Jesus was watching me. “Is it true you are afraid of a snake?”
“No,” I said, too quickly. Jesus didn’t move his eyes away. Those brown eyes, so dark they were almost black, with long lashes that curled up like dark smoke. I wished he would lay me down in the middle of this jungle, force me to lick the sweat from his neck, the small of his back, that perfect space behind his balls. Such a soft boy’s face in a man’s body. I’d learned not to judge; some of the best tops I’d seen were small, nearly dainty in their bearing. And then there was me: power businessman, six foot plus, wanting nothing more than to be the perfect sub.
“I’m not afraid of snakes,” I said. “It just…I wasn’t expecting it.”
Jesus kept watching me. “You do know where you’re going, yes?”
I nodded until he seemed satisfied. He turned and I followed him up the trail in silence.
At the next clearing, Jesus stopped in front of me so quickly I nearly ran him over. “Here,” he said. “We are here.”
He pointed. A small building on the side of the mountain—volcano, really. It was a shack. Worse. Not much larger than an outhouse, less structurally sound.
“There?” My hope evaporated in the heat. I’d expected rural, rustic. I had been warned, but really.
Jesus looked at me the way he’d done on the trail, and I had that urge again. I wondered what his mouth would taste like.
“There,” he said. “Good luck.” He turned back toward the trail.
“You’re leaving me here?”
“He works alone,” Jesus said. He didn’t look back.
“How will I get home?” The trail had seemed clear enough to follow up, but I suspected that it wouldn’t be as easy to find on the way down.
“I will come at dawn,” he said. “If you are here, I will lead you back.”
“Dawn? If?”
He had already gone, stepping into the mouth of the dark woods that swallowed him up.
I waited, thinking the man might come out of his hut, that I might not have to go in. But no one appeared. Sunlight moved closer, flicked the corners of my shoulders with its long yellow tongue. Insects so small I wasn’t sure I could see them flitted and buzzed near my eyes.
I walked to the shaded side of the hut, knocked on the door.
“Come.” The accent wasn’t Spanish. Something European, maybe? I couldn’t be sure.
I pushed the door open. Candlelight flickered in every corner. The room was larger than I expected. And then I realized, no, it was the mirrors. Everywhere. Making a million candles, a million rooms. And between them all, tucked into doors and windows and walls, sat baskets and cages. The faint rustling inside each combined together, amplified like the candles. The sound sent a small shiver up my spine.
In the center, on a small chair, sat the man I’d come to see. A white man, which surprised me, I don’t know why. His shaved head was bent, looking at something in his lap, and he wore a robe of brown cloth. Even sitting, he was a long man, with long bones and long muscles.
“You’re Nagari?” The surprise showed in my voice even though I hadn’t meant it to.
The man nodded without looking up. “I am.”
I stood there, uncertain. The room smelled of skin and sweat and animal. Not unpleasant, but earthy. Primal.
I reached into my shorts pocket for my wallet, but he waved a hand. “This is not about money,” he said.
I let the wallet fall back into my pocket, but didn’t close the flap. When was anything not about money?
The silence between us was filled with the flare of candles, the slow rustle of things moving in the dark. “I’m ready to start,” I said.
Finally, he looked up. Even in the candlelight, his eyes flickered green. He was younger than I’d thought, too. No spiritual guru here, I realized. Probably just a man they hired for suckers like me. How many men bore the name of Nagari and sat in this hut, I wondered? How many American dollars passed hands in this small, dark space?
“No,” he said. “You are not ready until I say you are ready.” His gaze turned back to his hands as though I wasn’t there, as though I’d never been there at all.
A feeling flickered in the space below my belly. At first, I clocked it as anger. How fucking dare he? Didn’t he realize—
And even as I started to rant, I realized that the small sideways movement was desire. Hope. I couldn’t remember the last time a top wasn’t the least bit afraid of me, a binding that hadn’t been loosened by my standing, a blow that hadn’t been softened by what money could buy.
My cock didn’t respond, but my heart did. Thunk-thunk. I waited, standing, my skin raining salt and water in the silent heat of hut and candles. My calves, already tight from the climb, began to ache and pull.
It was a snake that he was looking at, I realized, twining between his hands, his wrists. Black as a night without the city, without stars or moon. It coiled slowly, without sound, and he watched it. Grass growing. Molasses pouring. That was how slow.
I became impatient. I urged the snake forward, onward. My eyes adjusting to the semidark, I noticed things I hadn’t before: the small black scales with their perfect shine, the length of the man’s fingers, the stillness with which he sat. I slid into a state of watching, nothing beyond the movement of the snake, one scale forward, a centimeter and inch. Time was marked only by a knuckle covered, and finally, a second one.
So intent was I, I barely realized that he, too, was moving. Standing, snake still wrapped around one arm. For all the length of his bones, he was only as tall as me, but with power and deliberation in his movement. The robe slipped from his shoulders as he came forward, sliding down to puddle at his feet. His body, so pale, was covered with dark tattoos: snakes and scales and words that I couldn’t read. The live snake around his wrist, another around his ankle. His cock, the long slim length of it, uncoiled from its nest.
I bowed my head before him.
“Undress,” he said.
I did so, slipping off my clothes without looking up. It felt good to be free of them, to stand on the dirt floor of the hut in my bare feet and feel the cool of the earth through my soles. Still, I was ashamed of my own cock, the soft-shelled egg of it, a fragile broken thing.
I kept my head bowed, my eyes on the dark floor beneath my feet. Nagari came close enough that I could smell him, that primal earth, that dark animal power. He took my wrist with the snake hand, held me there. I felt the first touch of the dark scales. The cool roughness of the body made my skin flinch and twitch like an animal’s.
