Best of Best Gay Erotica 3

by Richard Labonté

  Jack released his grip on the boy’s head. “Change places with me,” he said. “I want to fuck that.”

  My stiff cock slipped out of his ass with a slurp, pranging its lubey head against my belly. I sat on the sofa while Jack took a turn mounting the boy’s ass. If Jared had any misgivings about sucking a dick that came fresh from his backside, he was not deterred by them. He grabbed my shaft and his mouth went straight down onto it. Jack must have loosened up his throat because the boy had no trouble swallowing me whole.

  After several minutes we flipped again. Turning the boy over onto his back, I reentered his ass while Jack squatted over his face and fucked it. The boy took everything we gave without grievance. His body was slack and willing, though his cock didn’t show the slightest stiffness. I came first, draining my balls into the soft, warm depths of his bowel. When I was finished, shuddering through the tail of my climax, Jack took my place. He rammed his dick into Jared’s come-sloppy ass, churning it over until his own heavy load merged with mine.

  Later, the three of us stood at the kitchen door, still in our underwear, smoking. It was a drizzly afternoon and the garden was littered with brown fallen leaves. I was feeling good about the encounter, relaxed in the aftermath of sex. Jack laughed at the boy’s miniature cigars and offered him a fat Don Julian. The boy toked on the big cigar, blowing smoke into the garden. He also seemed relaxed, less guarded than before.

  “How many older men have you had?” Jack asked him.

  “Only one,” the boy replied, “besides you two. I used to meet a guy from Durham. He was forty-two. I thought he’d be able to teach me stuff, but he didn’t. Not really. He just wanted to cuddle and fuck all the time.”

  I laughed. “And you don’t?”

  “Sure I do, but I want more than that. I want a man who’ll use me. I want to be his boy.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I just want sex. I don’t want dinner and DVDs. I want to be fucked, roasted, as many cocks as I can get. You know, like we did today. You guys didn’t want to get to know me. You just wanted to fuck me.” He exhaled a great cloud of smoke. “That’s cool, ’cause it’s what I want too.”

  “You’re a strange kid,” I said.

  “Don’t analyze me, just fuck me. Do what you want. Fuck me, fist me, stuff massive dildos up my ass; whatever you want to do. I told you, that’s what I want.”

  I stifled a smile. His talk was the stuff of porn and overly imaginative forum chat. I guess he had constructed a fantasy image for himself—as an uberbottom—and was desperately trying to live up to his creation. I imagined he had an XTube profile and a whole gallery of videos recorded on his webcam. I’d seen plenty of boys like him online, spreading their asscheeks and stuffing themselves with every imaginable instrument. It was hot and entirely ridiculous at the same time. Silly boy, and yet his naivete was somehow endearing.

  One week later I picked him up from the same spot. He trotted to the car and greeted me with an enthusiastic smile. He appeared different, brighter, more assured. The weather had made an unseasonable turn for the better and, although it was November, he wore a baggy pair of shorts that hung halfway down his ass and a tight, sleeveless T-shirt.

  “How’s it going?” he chirped. “Got something exciting for me today?”

  Jack and I had talked long and hard before inviting him back. Jared was a horny little piece, and as a couple of old farts we were flattered, but there was something about him that raised doubts. I had serious reservations about getting involved. Perhaps it was the artifice of his person, the carefully studied behavior. We didn’t know him; I doubted we ever would, no matter how many times we fucked him. We were old men. It was pleasing to think a young boy wanted us so keenly, but I had a niggling suspicion that he was trouble, and at our age we didn’t need that.

  I took him straight to the bedroom, where Jack was waiting in a loose pair of pants tented by his dick. Jared undressed in a hurry, flinging his clothes into the corner of the room. He wore a black jockstrap and kept his white socks on. It was a look I’m sure he’d lifted from porn. He dived straight onto the bed, releasing Jack’s dick and going down on it like cannibal. He took it right to the root, deep-throating on the first pass. Jack closed his eyes and surrendered to Jared’s lips. I undressed slowly, watching, listening to the wet slobbering sounds from the bed. Jack looked like he was enjoying himself. Despite my reservations I was hard before I slipped my shorts to the floor.

  I got on the bed and grabbed hold of Jared’s short hair. I dragged his mouth off Jack’s dick and shoved him down on my own. He gasped and snuffled but his lips were around the fat root in seconds. I let him have it hard, holding his head in place while I rammed my cock deep into his throat. The boy gagged and made startling animal noises but I refused to release my hold.

  “This is what you wanted,” I said, fucking his face with an angry passion, surprising myself.

  When I finally relented the boy sat back on his haunches, gasping for breath. Saliva drooled from his small chin, dripping down his neck and heaving chest. Jack got into a kneeling position beside me. I could feel the tension in his body, the tightly coiled excitement. He grabbed the boy’s head and gave him a session of similar treatment, holding his face, sinking his cock into the depths of his throat. After a while we began to alternate, moving his face forcibly between our dicks. He had just a moment to catch his breath before we took our turns reaming his sweet mouth. It all felt wrong but I was so turned on, more than I had been in years. It was exploitation, dirty, almost like rape. I had to remind myself that this was exactly what he’d asked for.

  My reservations were insignificant beside my zeal for the boy. I left Jack to his mouth while I started work on his ass. The boy had been perfectly explicit in describing the things he wanted us to do to him. I intended to give him just what he wanted and in the process learn how much of him was genuine, and how much was artifice. I lubed his butthole, paying attention to its tightness and size. It wasn’t long before I was able to slip three fingers effortlessly back and forth through his sphincter, like a bolt in a well-oiled lock. His pink opening flourished and unfurled around my hand. When he was hot and loose, I opened the drawer beneath the bed, where Jack and I kept the toys.

  No point starting small with a kid like this, I told myself, selecting a medium-sized dildo with an enjoyably fat head. The boy gasped and raised his hips higher when I introduced the wide tip to his butt. The next toy to stuff him was a corpulent black dildo with an unfeasibly thick girth. The boy made a sound that could have been a cry, if it weren’t muffled by the meat in his mouth. I had to put some weight behind the base of the toy and force it through the resistance of his ass. Just as I began to think that this one was beyond him, his sphincter gave way and the fattest part of the dildo went in. I followed through, pushing the entire length deep into him. I fucked him with the big one, churning his ass into a sloppy mess, and when I finally withdrew, his hole was squelchy and beautifully slack.

  I mounted him then, slipping my cock into his welcoming bowel, and despite the slackness of his hole, it was not long before I ejaculated a huge, gooey load into his ass. My come trickled from his anus when I pulled out and ran in a slow trail across his balls.

  Jared wanted to return the following weekend. We concocted an excuse and declined him. The following week we were out of town, visiting friends in the country. It was almost a month before we agreed to see him again. As before, we’d considered the implications of having him over. Did we really want to involve ourselves further? My reservations lingered but there was something in the tone of his emails, the explicit detail of his text messages, which aroused me and made me want him. That third afternoon was much like those that preceded it; we ravaged his lips, forcing both dicks into his mouth at once. We fingered, fucked, and dildoed his hole. Just as we had with his mouth, we pushed both our cocks into his asshole. The boy screamed at the double penetration as he straddled my hips. Jack shoved in from behind while
I was already in him. The boy’s face contorted with the effort, mouth wide open, eyes shut tight. His small body lay between us, tight against my chest. I kissed his twisted lips as we fucked.

  Jack and I took Viagra that day. Once we had both come inside him, it took just a short while to rouse ourselves back to a state of excitement. Jared lay back across the bed and we fucked him long and slow from both ends, taking it in turn to pillage his mouth and anus. His butt smelled strongly of spunk as we churned. He farted afterward, spurting the white gunk onto our sheets. He spread his legs wide and we scooped the come back into his hole. Afterward we lifted him into the bath and pissed all over him. He turned his face into the amber streams, opening his mouth, bathing in the shower. The boy smiled and piss poured from the corners of his mouth.

  Our afternoons with Jared became an odyssey as we explored the limits of his body. The boy was never anything more than passive. He rarely got hard as we delved into his ass, and he never ejaculated. We put everything imaginable up his ass: toys, snooker balls, food. We gave him enemas of beer and milk and applauded the spectacular fountains that erupted from his hole. Once, with several loads of come inside him, he squatted and dumped the hot white stuff into a bowl, before pouring the butt-fermented spunk down his throat. Nothing was too much for him. He had no limits. Each day when we were done with him, he asked when he could come back. “Not another week,” he complained, “that’s too long. Can’t I come over tomorrow?” I refused to acquiesce to his demands and kept a minimum of seven days between our meetings.

  If he had another man on the go during that time, he didn’t mention it and we didn’t ask. On reflection we knew very little about him. He went to college but where he came from was a mystery. He didn’t talk about friends or interests. He didn’t talk about anything except the things he wanted us to do to him.

  After a couple of months I began to lose interest. Despite the wild experiments, sex with him became routine. His passivity was predictable, boring. If he displayed any passion, any physical response to the things we did, it might have been different. But he took it all without comment or reaction.

  I began to spank him, with my hand at first until I bought a flat leather paddle to use on his smooth white flesh. I used it hard, beating his rump until it smarted. The boy made all the right noises, gasping, crying, though I noticed there were no tears in his eyes. His reaction, like every other, was artifice.

  “Same time next week?” he asked. “You gonna pick me up at the usual place?”

  We were in my car, just the two of us, as I delivered him to the bus stop. He had a hand on the door, ready to bound off.

  “No,” I said at last. “Next week won’t do.”

  His pretty face fell. “The week after then?”

  “I don’t think so. I think it’s time we took a break.”

  “What?” his bottom lips thrust forward. “Don’t you want me?”

  The answer was no, but I broke it to him gently. “Jack and I are a couple. For the sake of our own relationship, we can’t keep doing this. I’m sorry, Jared. It’s not your fault, but you have to respect what we have. I’m afraid it’s over.”

  It wasn’t over. His messages, via email and text, continued. He sent photos of himself and short films recorded on his webcam. I deleted each message without response. The only way he would get the message was to cease all contact. After a while the frequency of his messages began to dwindle. Jack and I returned to a monogamous kind of normality. We didn’t feel the need to prove our manliness or desirability by having sex with much younger guys. I continued to feel uneasy about the affair. I wasn’t proud but in time I began to forget. It was easy to pretend it never happened.

  Until the doorbell rang one Saturday evening in March. Jack was making dinner while I worked on my laptop in the study. The bell rang insistently, quickly followed by a rapid hammering. I knew it was Jared before I answered.

  He swayed on the doorstep when I answered.

  “Hey man,” he pushed straight through into the living room. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been waiting for you.”

  He smelled of beer. But there was more to his behavior than alcohol. He was completely out of it. His pupils were black holes, his expression crazed and distant. He shucked his jacket off onto a chair and began to hitch his T-shirt over his head. His body was noticeably thinner than before. He’d lost muscle tone and his rib cage was painfully visible. I noticed a profusion of white stains on his pants.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. Jack came through from the kitchen, his face stony.

  The boy laughed, a sharp, hysterical sound. “I’m here to get laid,” he drawled, unbuckling his belt. “Come on guys, do me! Do me right fucking now! Fuck my ass.”

  “I don’t think so,” I picked up the clothes he had discarded and threw them back at him.

  “Come on. You want me. You always want me. My ass is good, good and nasty. I got a butt load of come in there. Nice and sloppy for you.”

  I stared at him, appalled, as he shucked his jeans down his skinny legs. His cock was a worm in an unruly nest of pubes, white and wasted. He came over to me, grabbed my hand and forced it onto his dick. It was cold and lifeless. I recoiled.

  “What are you on, you idiot?”

  He giggled and turned to Jack. “You wanna fuck me, don’t you Daddy?”

  “No. Get out.” Jack’s tone was uncompromising. It seemed to get through to the boy’s addled mind. Jared’s face slackened. He wavered in the middle of room. I thought for a moment that he was going to puke.

  I offered to drive him home.

  “Home,” he repeated, and the word seemed to have no meaning on his lips. “Fuck you, you pair of cunts.” He pulled his pants up, struggling with the fastenings. “If you don’t wanna fuck me there are plenty of guys who do. Hundreds of guys.” He retrieved his T-shirt and jacket and cursed us as he dressed.

  I stepped aside as he staggered to the door. I looked at Jack. “We can’t let him go out, not like that.”

  Jack shrugged. Jared had already gone. “He got himself into that state; he can get himself out of it.”

  Outside there was no sign of the boy. I searched the street in both directions but he had vanished. As I returned to the house and locked the door, I hoped, a little guiltily, that he was gone for good.

  UNDERGROUND OPERATOR

  Andrew McCarthy

  Nowhere in New York City is July’s inescapable heat more viscerally punishing than below ground, where the atmospheric pressure rises with the descent into the subway. The potent odor of decay and fermented urine, occasionally peppered with bleach or ammonia by maintenance staff, offers little comfort to the unfortunate traveler who is eager to be elsewhere. Worst are evening rush hours, when trains are packed with fatigued commuters, collectively worn down by the day’s work and the unforgiving humidity.

  Even subway sounds are assaulting: the unintelligible squawk box announcements, the high-pitched gnashing of metal wheels on curving rails, the thunderous rattle of train bodies squeezing their rectangular shapes through winding tunnels. Before a train arrives at a station with its familiar screeching, ironically signaling a relief from some of the subway’s other sensory hostilities, platform inhabitants contemplate their abilities to overcome the suffering inherent with waiting for and riding the train.

  Will I find a newspaper on the platform bench so I have something to read, or use to wave warm air from side to side in an attempt to cool down? Is there any water left in the bottle in my bag? Do I have a rag to wipe the sweat off of my face, or to slide under my shirt to sponge off my damp back? When the train finally comes, will I get a seat? Most importantly: will the train be air-conditioned? The answer must always be yes in order to preserve sanity.

  Regardless of the journey’s length, it will never be easy or luxurious. Once I’m on the train, there is no shortage of nuisances, starting with the barrage of advertisements, to which only the blind possess immunity. Portable music players, intended to
shield their owners from the subway’s annoying sound effects, are turned up to inappropriate volumes, creating their own unwelcome environmental disturbances. Numerous are the loud, inane conversations of callous adults who should know better than to be so tactless. As for the ever-present boisterous adolescents, they could care less about socially appropriate behavior in public spaces. Panhandlers and subway preachers transgress boundaries further than do rib-poking shoulder bags; their grief, desperation, and diatribes remind us how much we want to be home, where privacy is guaranteed.

  Fulton Street train station is the busiest subway complex in lower Manhattan, linking four train lines and serving nearly three hundred thousand passengers daily. Of those four train lines, the BMT is the least busy, and boasts only one real transportation asset: the M train. Starting in Middle Village, Queens, the M makes a few stops in lower Manhattan, and then runs into southern Brooklyn, but only until about eight o’clock at night. Afterward, passengers can take the J train, which shares a portion of its route with the M, running from Queens into Manhattan. The big difference is that the J terminates one stop after Fulton Street, in the sleepy financial district. Late at night, J trains arriving at the deserted downtown Fulton Street station carry few passengers, and fewer, if any, people wait to board the train. People still wait on the platform, but not necessarily for the train.

  Long after crowded subway cars are vacated by passengers who think themselves entitled to imaginary and invented private space, the intersections of public and personal intimacy are explored on the platform. And this is where my story begins.

  The Brooklyn-bound #2 train I was on pulled into Fulton Street around ten o’clock. I got out and navigated through the maze of passages and staircases to the downtown J train. Moving slowly through the palpable heat of the quiet station, I looked around and saw no one. The platform arcs in a way that leaves its northern section obscured, and that is where I headed, hoping to find a piece. As I approached the end of the platform, a figure became visible from behind one of the many steel-beam columns that run from the floor to the ceiling of the station. As I got closer, a well-kept, stocky brother revealed himself.