Best of Best Gay Erotica 3

by Richard Labonté

  Our blindfolds were removed again. The black man’s mammoth cock was majestically erect. The hairy man’s equally massive erection was fleshy and red around the head. My cock was still at bay, incarcerated. We were made to kneel. Master Hawk and Baron Trash set three metal dog bowls down and filled them to overflowing with beer. I knew better than to move. The hairy man did not. He was whipped by the Baron for sipping without first awaiting directions. His bowl of beer was dumped over his head, filled again, put to his mouth, and again dumped over his head, a cruel reenactment of the Curse of Tantalus.

  The other slave and I were allowed to drink our beer as a reward. Then all three of us were manhandled into a cage in the center of the room, an enclosure so confining we could only hunch on all fours, side by side, our muscles bunched, our faces strained.

  Master Hawk’s posture was telling; his shoulders were spread apart, his crotch was pointed forward and his hands rested on his hips, as if examining a situation requiring intervention. The near future was already in his eyes. Baron Trash and Master Hawk unzipped their trousers and showered us with zigzags of warm urine tinted with the unmistakable stench of beer. The chattering cascades of piss were accompanied by their sighs of relief and pleasure, coupled with our very own childish squeals of joy. We were men broken into boys.

  When they were done, we were dragged from the cage and the splintered post, piss dripping from our bodies. Master Hawk poured beer over my head—and almost as instantly—licked up the foaming nose-diving cascades. Baron Trash did the same to the black slave and I wondered how the Greek-looking slave felt as Master Hawk made sure to slurp up beer from my armpits, chest, ass and legs. The Greek glared at me.

  The cold beer made me shiver.

  “Do you have to piss, boy?” Master Hawk asked.

  I nodded.

  “Then piss.”

  I was scared—I wasn’t sure if I’d been given permission or if I was being tricked. But I lost control of my bladder anyway as another wave of cold beer washed over my head. I shivered uncontrollably as Master Hawk sank to his knees to take in my urinary rush. He held some in his mouth, rose slowly to his feet, and forcefully spat it back in my face.

  The feisty Baron then went over to his Greek slave and said, “Hello.”

  The slave returned the greeting—feeling pressured to speak—and then screamed out for forgiveness when the Baron squeezed the cock ring that encircled his genitals—the kind with studs that dig into sensitive skin.

  “You weren’t given permission to speak,” the Baron growled to the hairy slave.

  The slave sank to his knees in a sort of comical Hollywood misery—his face contorting with a severe will not to speak. Our blindfolds were taken away and I wondered what Master Hawk and Baron Trash had planned next. My need for pleasure became a testicular pain, a tension with only one remedy.

  What came next relieved my tension. We were to have sex with one another, while my Master and the Baron watched.

  The Greek was ordered by the Baron to suck the black slave’s enormous curved dick, as the masters masturbated, all the while cruelly critiquing their live sex show. When they’d had enough I was told to eat the Greek’s ass while the black slave sucked him. Master Hawk momentarily freed me of the cock-cage—qué milagro! This carnal musical chairs went on for what seemed like hours. We were forbidden to come—though we raced closely to it at times, mentally drawing back, communicating through natural sounds of the body that we were flirting with disaster.

  When the masters had had enough, I was instructed to kneel before the Baron, the black slave before Master Hawk. The Greek lingered behind us, shivering in a puddle of piss, beer and sweat. We were freed of our handcuffs and told to unzip the masters before us and “finish them off.” I happened to look over at the black slave as he put Master Hawk’s dick in his greedy mouth. Baron Trash caught a whiff of my jealousy and slapped my cheek to remind me of what I was supposed to be doing.

  During the grueling session before my second master, I talked myself out of believing what I thought I was hearing. The masters seemed to be coordinating their arousal. The sound of their approaching orgasms became louder as we synchronized to form a team. We were as two turbines sifting the same current.

  Master Hawk then commanded the Greek to put a rubber on and fuck the black slave; I still wasn’t sure why I was being left out of so much. The Greek was allowed to come, and he came in a consistent and building bombardment of the black slave’s ass—in endless and greedy grunts of relief, he slipped off his target and leapt back onto it, like a crazed dog. The dark slave barely squinted as this happened and continued suckling. The Baron poured more beer on my head, set his bottle down and groaned from a deep place. Master Hawk heaved deeply, spoken language eluding his tongue.

  The masters then rushed simultaneously; each leading the other upward in pulsating fits of ancient ecstasy, their loud moaning mounting in length and volume. The Baron anchored his greasy hands onto the back of my head—to make sure my mouth wouldn’t separate from his boiling pleasure. The masters came in a duo of operatic beauty—two commanding basses bending to sensitive tenor. They barely relinquished control and gave out orders as soon as their eruptions of passion had passed and dripped from our eager lips.

  The Greek had come as well as our masters. The black slave and I hadn’t and I was deeply wounded when Master Hawk had me crawl over to him so he could put my cock-cage back on. He tongued me passionately, in wide arcs of dominion. The black slave was told to masturbate. The slicked, gliding motion of his fingers and hand around his remarkable member entranced me.

  He locked eyes with me. We communicated visually. Our souls had sex through the intercourse of our uninterrupted stare: I at times staring deeper, he at times surpassing my intensity. I perceived what I believed to be an effort on his part to soften his stance—in order for him to orgasm. I could feel him retreating from—what seemed like—an occupation of my conscience. I then played my silent role as alpha slave: I had the final word, as far as slaves were concerned, and my sneer, stare and stiffness would show it.

  The dark slave then shuddered madly; he fell to his side as explosions seized hold of him—he came repeatedly into a puddle of piss and beer while staring through my eyes at a dimension behind me. Master Hawk and Baron Trash seemed impressed. The three of us were uncuffed and handed our clothes and knapsacks. Master Hawk demanded I wait for him once I was done. It wasn’t yet clear if our roles had been terminated for the night or if we were still under their command.

  I showered—barely.

  The other slaves left without cleaning up at all.

  I never found out what happened to Baron Trash.

  Shane and I taxied back to the hotel. Other than being uncomfortable (I still had my crotch-cage on) and feeling used, I felt a sudden need to fight—which I was known to do rarely. Once we arrived at the hotel, we ascended many staircases and I demanded to be set free. Shane, shed of his alter ego, was a bit less severe, yet he seemed uninterested in me.

  “Arms up,” he said.

  I lifted my hands to mouth level. Shane unlocked the cuffs and removed them. He then had me sit, in order to remove the cock-cage. My despair surfaced as rage. I wanted to scream for something but he muted my grief with his firm lips planted on mine. He then stepped back, lifted the cuffs to me and said, “I am now thine.”

  I cuffed him over his head, laid him on his belly and savored the reward of all my labor—his hairy ass. I returned his punishment through the hardness and hunger of my profound, almost spiritual, need. All the rage of my ancestors surfaced to feed my desire and the occupation of his ass—ghosts in my head shouted for freedom and drove me forward. My primordial demons feasted in the carnal celebration—they danced through fire—as I scaled the rungs of overload and came—¡puñeta!— with his rock-hard, mural-rich biceps in my hands, my nose pressed into the sweaty patch of bristle by his ears. I rolled off of him. My mouth split open as if I’d just died and a tide of sanity rushe
d over me.

  When it passed, Shane asked me, “So what’d you think?”

  “That I have the coolest fucking boyfriend in the universe.”

  Then we slept divinely, entwined like lazy vines.

  BENEDICTION

  Alana Noël Voth

  I’m naked. I can’t see anything; it’s dark. I hope I’m in Cheeseman Park. Mom and I used to go there with Mom’s friend, Ryan. We’d sit at a picnic table and eat chicken and salad. I remember one time after lunch, I was like seven, I went down the slide on my belly just to get that rush in my gut—that thrill of being, for one second, out of control, rushing headlong at the gravel with my hands out and face forward. Later, I buried my legs in the sand, and then my knees rose from the dead.

  I used to look at pictures of men in GQ and Esquire and wonder what it would take to get a man to love me. I was ten and obsessed with love. Ryan found me gazing at a black-and-white spread of a male model once and said, “Brenner, what are you looking at?”

  I pointed at the male model.

  “Listen, Brenner. You like guys; that’s okay. I want you to know it’s okay. Your mom loves you. I love you too. I’m gay. You knew that. Right. So listen, I don’t want to scare you, but it can be…complicated. Know what I mean?”

  Mom loved me.

  Ryan loved me.

  I believed someone else would love me too.

  Not that I lived in a perfect world. Grand Junction wasn’t a gay boy’s Utopia. I knew the most insulting thing you could do was call a guy a faggot. By the time I was in kindergarten I knew you could be a leper or a homo, there wasn’t much difference. In first grade, I sealed my fate. I told my classmates when I grew up I’d write books and marry a man. I was by myself after that. Always. Teachers expected me to be attentive and get good grades but then looked at me like I had a booger on my finger and was going to wipe it on them.

  It’s dark. I’m naked and lying on some grass; I must be in Cheeseman Park, because I feel the grass blades like a cool prickly blanket beneath my skin. I used to lie in the backyard with nothing on and enjoy the tickle of grass against my ass and shoulders. A sprinkler would come by and douse me with mist. I lay there and played with my dick. My dick would get hard and even have a feeling like coming, except nothing would come out, no jizz.

  I’ll imagine my lungs are an accordion—you know, those things that a person plays by pushing it in and then pulling it out and it makes noise like wheezy music.

  In and out, in and out, that’s good, that’s good; keep it going.

  I hear an owl hooting and try and hoot back. I’ve always wanted to do that. I can’t. Maybe I gurgled. Is it late? I want to feel the sun on my face. I don’t want to be scared. Oh fuck, I’m scared. I miss Ron. Everything hurts: My chest, my throat, my whole body. Feels like I got thrown around in a car. I remember a car going fast. A car accident? They say your life flashes before your eyes. Maybe I should close mine.

  I used to close my eyes in Mom’s car. She liked driving her convertible Volkswagen Beetle with the top down. Sometimes we’d drive through town—Mom with her blonde hair blowing behind her, and me waving at everyone like they were friends.

  On the stereo, Johnny Cash sang: Love is a burning thing, and it makes a fiery ring, bound by wild desire; I fell into a ring of fire.

  When I was in sixth grade, Ron McDermott and some other guys were in someone’s garage playing with matches and gasoline. Something about they were going to build the biggest most terrifying bonfire any man had ever seen! Then Ron went up in flames and according to some reports was ruined, destroyed, painful to look at, to see. He spent months in the hospital having skin grafts and physical therapy and still he was badly scarred.

  When Ron came back to school, he wore a flesh-colored bodysuit under his clothes and one half of his face was red and swollen. He did look a little lopsided. Mostly he looked sad. Other kids avoided him or stared when they thought he wasn’t looking, which made me mad, made me defensive.

  But something else.

  Part of me, an inside thing, like a spirit or an emotion, something eternal reached out to him, wanted to touch Ron, comfort him, and make him smile again. I recognized another tortured soul, I guess, another straggler, black sheep, leper.

  I approached him one day on the playground.

  “Want to play tetherball or something?”

  Ron McDermott looked at me. He wore a hat, I think to keep his scars out of the sun, which made me sorry because I loved the feel of the sun on my face.

  “I’m not supposed to,” he said. “Moving too much stretches my scars then they hurt or they might tear, then I’d have to get more grafts and that sucks.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t thought of that. I felt stupid. “I’m really not into tetherball. I mean what’s the point?” I laughed, shaking my head, trying to make him feel comfortable, trying to relax. “What about jacks?”

  “Jacks?”

  “Yeah, with the ball and the jacks….”

  Ron raised one eyebrow. He had perfect eyebrows. They hadn’t been burned off. He also had beautiful eyes—very green.

  “Isn’t that like a girl’s game?” he said.

  I shrugged. “Is it?”

  Come to think of it, I’d only played jacks with girls, mostly Jill and Susanne, who didn’t drive me crazy saying, “I wish you weren’t gay, Brenner,” and “What a waste,” or “C’mon, Brent, kiss me. See what you think.”

  Why did I have to do that? So I’d be normal, okay?

  Ron smiled. “It’s totally a chick game.”

  I laughed. “Guess so.”

  After a moment Ron cracked a smile.

  We were together after that—a gruesome twosome. Inseparable, coconspirators, buddies. When teachers said our names out loud it was always “Brent and Ron” or “Ron and Brent,” but never just one or the other.

  One day Ron said, “I’m happy we’re friends.” Then he punched me in the shoulder.

  I rubbed my shoulder then punched him back. “Me too.”

  To tell the truth, he was my soul mate, my other half.

  And you can weather any storm like that. Face any demon.

  We hung out and listened to music. Ryan was constantly giving me old stuff, so Ron and I made mix tapes, odd compilations like “Why Me?” by Planet P followed by “Dreaming” by Blondie, then “Lola” by the Kinks, and then “New Moon on Monday” by Duran Duran, and then “Ballroom Blitz” by Sweet. I’d dance to that one, get goofy bouncing around and shaking and doing the robot, and Ron would sit on the floor near the cassette player and laugh.

  I loved his laugh; it was a musical kind of sexy laugh. It egged me on. I’d get goofier just to hear him.

  Sometimes Ron would drum a beat on his legs or shake his head so his bangs flopped. He couldn’t dance because he still had to watch what he did physically, and his movements were limited, like he couldn’t lift his arms too high because the bands of new skin they’d put on him were still tight. He said it felt like wearing a shirt that was too small. He said he felt like a retard because of his physical limitations, because he had to go to therapy with kids who were missing limbs and wore leg braces, and because every morning he had to strip down in front of his mother so she could rub lotion into his scars.

  “I feel like an ugly retard,” he told me one afternoon. We were in my room on the floor surrounded by tapes.

  “You’re not ugly.” I told him. Not to me he wasn’t. I pawed through the cassettes and found something new, the Goo Goo Dolls, and put it into the player.

  “C’mon,” Ron said. “You see how people look at me—like I’m Frankenstein. No girl is ever going to touch me. All I’m ever going to get is my mom rubbing lotion on me.” He put his face in his hands. “No girl is ever going to touch me.” He started to sob—a hoarse wretched sound that twisted my gut and broke my heart. “I’ll be like that guy in Mask,” he choked. “He’s so ugly his mother has to buy him a hooker.”

  What did I say? It’s not true
. You’re not ugly. Forget girls.

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  “Do what?” Ron lifted his face. Tears and snot glistened across his red scars.

  “I’d touch you. I mean, you know, rub lotion on you.”

  He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “What?”

  “I’d do it if you want.”

  Ron stared at me. “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

  “No,” I said.

  We went quiet, listening to the tape.

  We had a sleepover once. I stayed the night at his house. We stayed up until three watching MTV then The Sixth Sense on video and then getting freaked out by the movie and talking about whether it would be possible to talk to the dead. We also made plans to go to the same college. Ron wanted to become a plastic surgeon and help other kids who were burned. I wanted to be a writer and write love poems.

  The next morning, Ron’s mother called him downstairs so she could rub lotion on him. He looked at me. I nodded like, okay, go. After a while, I couldn’t help it. I wandered from his room down the hallway, down the stairs and then around the house until I found the door to the room open. Spare bedroom, I guessed. Ron lay on a bed. Nothing but a sheet on a mattress.

  He was naked on his stomach with his head turned toward the wall, maybe staring at the swirls of paint and seeing pictures—maybe himself not burned. I sucked in my breath. He was nearly skeletal, so thin, and his skin was a twist of stark white and purple, like a candy cane. His mother sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over him, working lotion into his scars: Across his shoulders, down each arm, and then to the slope of his back. His ass was white and round. I felt the forceful stir of my erection. His mother concentrated on what she was doing, tending her wounded boy. I knew then I wanted to tend him too: I’d do anything. Ron turned his head and saw me. My heart waved. After a moment he barely lifted a hand and wriggled his fingers at me. I nodded then backed out of the door.