Best Gay Erotica 2005

by Richard Labonté

  I grunt my assent. Billy begins pumping his hips, fucking my face with slow, measured thrusts. He reaches behind and wraps his hand around my dick. “You got such a nice, fat dick, Al,” he says. “I’m just going to have to suck it for a while.” He pivots around. I feel his mouth slide down my shaft, and I groan appreciatively, my mouth still filled with his dick. We fuck face and suck dick, our bodies pressed tightly together. I slide my hand down Billy’s back, across the smooth, tight mound of his ass, and into his asscrack. I find his asshole and massage it. Billy gives a muffled groan, and I push in, working my finger up his chute knuckle by knuckle.

  Billy takes my dick out of his mouth. “Jesus,” he groans.

  “You want me to stop?” I ask.

  “Fuck, no!” he says.

  I slide my finger in and out of his hole. Billy’s got a spit-slicked hand wrapped around my dick and is jacking me with quick, urgent strokes.

  I add a second finger to my first, and Billy squirms. “You like that, baby?” I grunt.

  “I’d like it better if it was your dick,” he says. I hesitate. “I have a condom in my back pocket,” Billy says, reading my thoughts. He jumps out of bed, picks up his jeans, and fishes out the condom and a small bottle of lube. “Here,” he says, tossing it to me.

  I toss the condom back. “You do the honors,” I say.

  Billy gives my dick a few last sucks and then rolls the condom down my shaft, greasing it liberally. He rolls over onto his belly.

  “No,” I say. “Turn around. I like to look into a man’s eyes when I shove my dick up his ass.”

  “Sure, Al,” Billy says, grinning. “No problem.” He flips onto his back, I seize his calves and wrap his legs around my torso. I probe against his asscrack and pop the head of my dick in his hole. “Fuck, yeah!” Billy groans. I thrust my dick full up his ass, pumping my hips, slowly at first, my cockshaft sliding out of Billy’s ass to the very tip and then plunging full in again. I pick up speed, pumping my hips faster now, and Billy pushes up to meet me, squeezing his ass muscles tight, clamping down on my cock with a velvet grip. I bend down, and we kiss, lots of tongue and squirming flesh on flesh. I wrap a lube-smeared hand around Billy’s dick and jack him off as I thrust in and out of his ass.

  Billy closes his eyes and pushes his head against the pillow, arching his back up to meet me thrust for thrust. He opens them again, and I pin him down with my gaze as I skewer his ass with a series of quick, deep strokes. Our bodies are slippery with sweat, and they come together in wet, slapping sounds. I twist Billy’s nipples. Billy reaches behind and pulls hard on my balls.

  “Yeah,” I snarl. “That’s right. Give my balls a good tug.” I can feel the orgasm rising up inside, ratcheting to the trigger point. Billy gives my balls another tug just as I plunge deep into his ass, and that’s all it takes to push me over the edge. I groan loudly, thrusting deep into Billy, my load pulsing out into the condom up Billy’s ass.

  I start jacking Billy faster, and just when my dick gives its last throb he cries out and arches his back. His spunk squirts out and splatters against his belly. I quickly bend down and take his dick in my mouth, catching the last of his load as it pulses out. I give Billy’s dick a few good sucks, and then fall on the bed beside him. I slip my arm under Billy and pull him toward me, giving him a lingering kiss. “Goodnight, baby,” I say.

  Billy smiles. “G’night.”

  When I wake up the next morning, Billy’s not in bed. I think that he might be in the bathroom until I notice that his clothes are no longer strewn on the floor. Then I notice that his duffel bag is gone and that my pants, which had been lying at the foot of the bed last night, are now on the floor by the door. My belly clenches. I leap out of bed and grab my pants, praying that I’m jumping to conclusions. A quick check reveals that my wallet and car keys are missing. “GODDAMN, FUCK, SHIT, PISS!” I snarl, slamming my fist against the wall. I walk the length of the room and then come back and slam the wall a few more times.

  Out in the parking lot, I stare at the empty space where my car had been. Rage slams into me like a gale-force wind—pure, blind rage like I’ve never felt before. “BILLY, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” I scream. I stand in the middle of the lot, panting.

  After a few minutes I calm down enough to weigh my options. The whole day stretches out ahead of me like some field of shit I’m going to have to slog through: getting hold of the local police, calling the credit card companies, somehow arranging to get back home…. It’s all just too fuckin’ much. What the fuck possessed you to pick that little hoodlum up? I think furiously. Everything was going fine until then. As I walk across the parking lot to the motel lobby, I think that that’s one thing that punk and I had in common. Neither one of us knew when to quit while we were ahead.

  The Thanks You Get

  Simon Sheppard

  “Never make a neurotic your footslave.” He pulls the rope tighter around my balls.

  “Ouch!” I yelp. “That hurts!”

  “It’s supposed to hurt,” Sir growls.

  “Not like that. You pinched my skin.” I try—and I think succeed—to maintain a tone of respect.

  “So I took the guy to this play party.” Sir is fiddling with my scrotum. “All around, guys were fisting, whipping, moaning, barking orders like they were in some Falcon video.”

  “Saying stuff like ‘Suck that dick’?”

  “Yeah, ‘Suck that dick.’ ” He readjusts the rope, like the nice guy he is. To look at him—at the photo of himself he sent over the Internet, scowling in full leathers, brandishing a pair of handcuffs—you’d never guess he worked as a dresser at the opera. Really, you wouldn’t.

  I sigh, the way happy bottoms do. “Mmm. That feels better.” A pleasant, familiar ache spreads through the base of my belly.

  “And he was just lying there in hog heaven, with my sneaker over his face,” he continues. “Not my boot, see, but my old black leather hightop. Because he just loved to sniff dirty sneakers.”

  “And because you’re a very good Sir, Sir.”

  He smiles. “And even when I was standing on his chest and spitting on him, the scene seemed so damn low-key. Other guys were walking by, guys in straitjackets, guys with needles through their flesh, and they were looking at us like we’re perverts. Which we were, of course. But not in the generally approved SM way.”

  I smile back, in a way that I hope conveys that I’m laughing with him, not at him. He has my dick pretty well tied up now, balls stretched and separated, cock confined so the head is darkish purple and bulging. He reaches over and fumbles in his toy bag for a second, in that slightly incompetent way I find so charming. When his gloved hand emerges, it brings with it his favorite set of titclamps.

  “And he was enjoying himself?” I gasp as one of the clamps chomps into my almost-pencil-eraser nipple.

  “I sure guess he did. He sighed and moaned. His dick never did get fully hard—he had a cute one with a P.A.—but soft dicks are not necessarily a bad sign.”

  “Gotcha.” Clearly, foot worship scenes are not precisely about dicks, in any case.

  “Now raise your hands above your head.”

  “Yes, Sir.” He snaps the restraints around my wrists onto a chain hanging from a ceiling beam. I’m gratifyingly stretched out and vulnerable.

  “Could I possibly have been any nicer to him?”

  “No, Sir.” Not unless you beat the shit out of him, I think.

  “He wasn’t into pain at all,” Sir says, as though he can read my mind. “Unfortunately.” The back of his leather-clad right hand smacks my pec. My cock throbs against the rope that tightly encircles it. Like any submissive worth his salt, I figure I know how to get what I want.

  “Thank you, Sir.” Another slap, coming from the other direction. My body tenses, then relaxes.

  “I mean, we’d only played once before. I took him to the play party, introduced him around....” His handsome brow furrows.

  “Was he good-looking, Sir?” As good-looking
as me?

  “Yeah, very nice face. Good body, not gym-toned, but trim. Just my type. Like you.” His chest-slapping has become rhythmic. Like a waltz. One-two-three-pause. One-two-three-pause. Positively Viennese. Or maybe like Musetta’s Waltz from Act 2 of La Bohème. But I digress….

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Only he had self-image problems, see? Good-looking boy like him didn’t deserve to have self-image problems. Made me want to….”

  “To slap him, Sir?” I offer helpfully.

  “Yeah, only he wasn’t into it, so I couldn’t. Goddamn ‘safe, sane, and consensual.’ ”

  “Well, some of us are into it. Sir. Being slapped, I mean.”

  I mean it as a compliment, but maybe he hears it as a demand—sometimes tops can be so touchy. He scowls, stops working my now-fiery chest, and reaches down to my well-tied balls.

  “Aaagghh!”

  He pulls harder.

  “AAAGGHH! THANK YOU, SIR!”

  “Only problem is, between the blindfold and the sneaker over his face, sometimes I wasn’t sure that he wasn’t getting bored.”

  “That shouldn’t matter, Sir. You’re the top.”

  He doesn’t say anything, just stares deep into my eyes. Through me.

  “Then this very cute boy I’d seen around came over, while I was standing on my slave. The boy looked in my eyes for permission, then went down on my dick.”

  “Did you have trouble keeping your balance, Sir?” Which is cheeky, I know. If we hadn’t already played together so often, I never would say it. I swear. He puts his hands on my hips and spins me around, facing away from him.

  “This cute new boy seemed like he’d be a lot of fun, but like I said, the footslave was real insecure. When we’d first negotiated, he’d told me he didn’t enjoy parties because he was always afraid he’d be left for someone else. So after a minute, I pulled the boy off my dick and whispered to him, ‘Not now. I’ll get to you later.’ Boy smiled—and oh God, he was cute—and said, ‘I’ll be here.’ ”

  All this stuff about how cute the other boy looked is starting to make me feel insecure. “Please, Sir…” I begin.

  Sir’s gloved hand comes down on my butt. Not too hard, but hard enough to smart.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “So the next time I checked in with the footslave, he said he thought he’d had enough. I had him kiss and suck my feet a little while longer, then we got dressed and left. On the way out of the dungeon, the cute boy and I winked at each other.” Sir’s starting to really spank me now, each practiced blow of his hand sending waves of peculiar pleasure coursing through my body.

  “I’d decided to walk the footslave to the streetcar line, so he wouldn’t think I didn’t like him or something. On the way, he was talking nonstop about his therapist. His therapist! How he didn’t think of himself as attractive. Meanwhile, I was thinking how good he looked with my toes stuffed in his pretty mouth. I was wishing they were still in there.”

  I’ll bet, I think. But the spanking is making thinking a chore. Fuck, Sir’s blows are beginning to hurt.

  “At the streetcar stop, we arranged to have coffee. Not the next day, but the day after that. Monday. Just to talk things over.”

  “To debrief?”

  “Debrief, yeah. Plus, I wanted to see him again, neuroses and all.” Suddenly, I’m wondering what he really thinks of me. I mean, does he talk to other bottomboys about me?

  He reaches around me to take his best flogger from the hook on the wall.

  “By the time I got back to the party, the cute boy was gone. Didn’t wait around, after all.” In my mind’s eye, I can see Sir standing behind me, flogger in one leather-gloved hand, the other hand stroking the thick bullhide tails.

  “So I called the footslave at work Monday morning, as arranged. He wasn’t at his desk. I left a voicemail.” The flogger whizzes through the air and lands with a thud on my shoulder. It feels great. I start wallowing in that familiar, dark place that Sir takes me to so well. It’s that feeling, and not the comp tickets to the opera’s dress rehearsals, that keeps me coming back to him. And this opera season has been lousy, anyway.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “But he didn’t get back to me. Finally, at four-thirty, I called him again, just to find out what’s what. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘it’s been real busy here at work.’ Which I could understand.” The blows to my shoulders are harder and more frequent now. I do wish Sir would stop talking. “But then he told me about this date he’d had the night before. Some Latin bear he met at a bar. How wonderful the sex was. How great the guy was.” I’m trying to pay attention. Please shut up, Sir, I think, something I daren’t ever say. But he doesn’t. Shut up. “I mean, I’d only known this footslave for, what, five days?” I try to concentrate, because this is Sir talking and what’s important to him is supposed to be important to me. Is. It is important to me. Still…. “So wasn’t that sort of emotional confidence a bit premature? I mean, thanks for sharing. I knew he had self-esteem problems, but I’m not without….”

  I’ve done it. I’ve managed to sneak off to my own little bottom space. For a while, phrases float through my brain: “…didn’t show up…stood me up…ungrateful…I’m not going to compete…to compete….” And then Sir’s voice becomes white noise, comforting white noise. Ahhh.

  Finally, some timeless span of time later, the flogging stops. I struggle back to the surface as Sir undoes my shackles, holds me in his arms, strokes my face. My back hurts, a raw, wonderful pain. He smiles at me. My Sir—handsome, bearded, beaming. He knows he’s done a good job; the sight of me confirms it. I’m sure that I’m glowing. “Hey, I’m sorry for going on about that footslave. Sorry to vent. It’s just that….”

  Never make a neurotic your footslave? I think. Well, how about “Never make a neurotic….”

  But I don’t finish the thought. I don’t let myself say it, not even to myself. I wouldn’t dare. I just smile right back. And when there’s an appropriate pause, I say, “Thank you, Sir.”

  Wrestler for Hire

  Greg Herren

  I can’t believe I’m doing this, I thought for maybe the thousandth time, lighting another cigarette and pacing.

  I know I shouldn’t be smoking—usually when I’m about to wrestle I keep my bad habit a secret. I don’t tell my opponent I smoke; I rinse my mouth several times with mouthwash and gobble breath mints as if they were M&M’s. Intellectually, I know I’m not fooling anyone—you can’t get years of smoke stink out of your breath, off your clothes, and out of your hair in just a couple of minutes with Scope and Tic-Tacs—but no one has ever said anything. Maybe they’re just being polite—maybe they just want to wrestle so bad they don’t care—maybe that’s why some of them won’t ever wrestle me a second time. Fuck if I know. There’s no point trying to figure out people’s motivations. If they don’t want to wrestle me again, I just blow it off and shrug. Hell, there’s guys I won’t wrestle a second time.

  Manhattan is full of wrestlers—all the contact sites have pages and pages of Manhattan wrestlers, many of them with stunning bodies and into the same kind of wrestling I am. But I’m here on business for a few days, and my time is limited. I’m meeting one of my publishing buddies for drinks downstairs in a couple of hours, and this is the only open window of time for a match. None of the guys I’d emailed or who friends had recommended I get in touch with could make it at this time, which sucked. I’d hoped to get a match in while in New York.

  One guy told me after we’d wrestled that sometimes, when he was in the mood, he picked up a street hustler and paid him fifty bucks to wrestle for an hour. I’d been shocked—the thought of paying someone to wrestle when they were plenty of guys who’d do it for free didn’t make sense to me. Although I’d gone months at a time without wrestling—sometimes I could coax a bar pickup into wrestling around, but while they liked it and got into it, they didn’t really know what they were doing and it wasn’t that much fun. Oh, sure, my cock had gott
en hard and the sex was always intense, but it wasn’t what I really wanted.

  After my lunch meeting, I’d come back to the hotel, the escort thought going through my mind. I’d never hired one, and I was nervous. But I’d picked up a gay bar rag with an escort section in the back and started paging through it in my room. The ad jumped out at me.

  WRESTLER FOR HIRE. You like to wrestle? Then I’m the stud for you. 5’9, 200 pounds of solid muscle; 31 waist, 50 chest, 20 arms, 28 quads. Out only. Chase.

  The picture of a bare torso made my mouth water. His body was smooth, tanned, the muscles huge and defined. My hand had trembled as I dialed the number. He’d answered on the second ring. “This is Chase.” His voice was deep, masculine. My cock stirred.

  “Um, hi, Chase, my name is Greg, and I was wondering if you had any time available this afternoon?”

  “Well, yeah, about four. Does that work for you? How long?”

  “Two hours?”

  “Okay, I charge two hundred per hour, cash only. That a problem?”

  There was an ATM in the lobby of the hotel. “No, not a problem.”

  “I need to tell you up front I don’t do anything anal. We can do oral, that’s fine, but I save the anal stuff for my lover.” He laughed. “You like to wrestle, Greg?”

  “Yeah, I do.” I gave him the address and room number.

  And now it was five minutes to four, the four hundred dollars in crisp new $20 bills was sitting on the nightstand, and I was nervous as hell. I took another swig of water. I sat back on the bed. I was wearing a black T-shirt and sweatpants. I had a thong on under the sweats, but didn’t know the protocol. I jumped at a knock on the door.