Manny was searching in the dim glow for more than words. He could see my hard-on pressing out of my sweats. The dickhead stared at him blankly. Both of his milky blues fixed on it in a trance. Cum was seeping out of my shaft like spillage at a factory. Its spawning stream dripped down the elastic band of my sweats. Salty and impatient, my raw head was making his mouth water.
“God, I want to suck your boner, Bigg.”
“Then suck it, stupid.”
As the elevator jumped past the fourteenth floor, Manny fell to his knees and whipped out my cock. My robust root brainwashed him. He mouthed a Hail Mary as his greedy fingers divided the forest of dark hair and excavated the sparkling nutsac. His dimples peeled wide as he swallowed my balls into his face. He rocked his tongue back and forth and mined each nut, before sawing his teeth down on my tough timber.
I let my ham-handed friend jerk and polish the Polish pole as shiny as he could. The elevator light descended on us. I didn’t mind that it was Manny jacking for juice from my big dick. The other guys in the neighborhood knew just how abundant Bigg Mitkowski’s cock was. They regularly appeared on my stoop every Friday night, smashed and lumpy-faced and wanting a copious cum shot. I invited them up and gave them a few, then sent them home glutted, but I always kept the lights off because the lot of them were just plain ugly.
“This is too good,” Manny muttered. Manny pulled my sweats down and handled my humpy hips. A mischievous finger sought the sacred hole between the rumps of beef. But my erect penis sprung out at him, those eleven inches of hung man-meat slapping him hard against cheek and chin. Manny learned to tame it quickly with his mouth, going at it gently with his teeth, loosening his jaw. “It’s bigger than Molly said,” Manny barely breathed.
Manny opened his mouth wide open as I force-fed the whole milk bottle down his throat, fat free. His tight Irish lips were too thin for a sensuous suck, so he tightened his grip and squeezed the shaft, stubbornly keeping me from coming while he gloated over the long inches pounding back and forth, in and out of his maw. He kept smoking the pipe until we got to the twentieth floor, where I was about ready to blow my load in his face.
“I want it up the ass,” Manny said suddenly. He had gulped down enough pre-cum to get a good taste of the dominant Polish seed, and now he wanted the rest of it planted elsewhere.
“Bend over, then,” I said.
I jerked my long dick, keeping it hard as he unzipped his jeans and leaned against the rattling elevator door. His ass was wet with perspiration, round and strong-flavored. That lusty smell I mistook for me was baking between his two healthy mounds of firm Irish butt-meat. Manny, straight and stupid, produced the strongest undiluted ass-scent that I had ever encountered, warming his rear for a full-throttle fuck. I quit the formalities of fingering his manhole; instead, I thrust my prick between his hips and stuck it up dry, up his rump, up hard enough to make him squeal.
“It’s too big, Bigg!” Manny shrieked, his pink face pressed against the aluminum door. I was only half in, crowding his manhole, waiting for the heroic sphincter to accommodate all of me. I braced my hips against his, spreading his cheeks apart. Our balls clamped together like good friends. My long cock edged in three-quarters, then plugged his man-chute to man-max, making Manny’s heart beat to exhaustion, “Okay, fuck it!”
I fucked Manny as we rode up the elevator at full speed. His squirming butt grew hot-as-hell. His ass abandoned the lazy afflictions of the couch and flushed bright red as I bullied him into the corner, screwing him like a bottomless bitch. Each time I pumped, his cheeks jettisoned sweet Irish juice, betraying the nights Manny had cried himself to sleep, fingering his hole in the dark, praying that one of his drunken brothers would clog him with cum during the night.
My thrusts lifted him off his sneakers as I plowed deeper into his ass. I could feel my inches greasing the length of his chute, growing longer and wider. I was getting too big to pull out erect, but I didn’t tell him. I kept my hands on Manny’s back as I humped my hard-on into him, beating his brawny bum silly. By the thirtieth floor I was ready to heap my load in his jammed ass.
“I’m going to come!”
That wasn’t me; that was Manny. His fist beat his numb knob and ejaculated his creamy load over the elevator tiles. I lunged out of him and rode my cock between his thighs, snaking my aching dick between his pink balls and spraying a stream of potent Polish cum. He wailed as he saw the white juice shoot straight out from underneath his balls, like the bigger cock he wished he had, and plaster thick streaks of man-muck on top of his gooey sprinkles.
The elevator doors opened.
Manny looked at me like a dog that had suddenly lost his bone, and floated down the hall. Transported to another level by my fast fuck, he wobbled on his feet, pulling his jeans up over his sticky ass and wiping his lips and cheeks. He didn’t even wave good-bye as the elevator doors closed.
I guess Manny was embarrassed because he liked it too much. I should have given him more. Thirty stories down, with the rattling elevator all to myself and the sweet smell of male cum filling the cabin, I beat off twice more just to get the bubbling, frothy top layer of jism out of me. When I got to my floor and in my crib, I put my favorite CD on and swung my dick like a baseball bat in the thick creases of my Yankees glove. Two more times then the steel mill closed, ready to begin Saturday with a clean slate of Bigg brew for my crew.
Flannery and Keegan are my hockey buddies. We’re on a team that plays once a week down at the Chelsea piers. There’s an ice rink there where a lot of guys from neighborhoods all over Manhattan compete in a league. Flannery is strictly from mean Irish stock, with ruby cheeks, blue eyes, and light brown hair. He’s the goalie so he’s been shot up a lot by pucks and hockey sticks. Hence, he isn’t much to look at. Neither is Keegan, who’s built like a truck. But they’re inseparable: best friends, hockey mates, and horse-powered gym buddies.
“Take your pants off, Bigg,” Flannery said.
We had won Saturday night’s game and celebrated in our favorite Ninth Avenue bar. Everyone was at the Garden watching the real thing, so we headed upstairs to a private room surrounded by photos of Gretzsky and the Rangers.
“It’s your last Saturday as a civilian, Bigg,” Flannery said. “Get comfortable, you know what I’m saying? Right, Keegan? Do as you fucking well please.”
Flannery smacked his lips. His eyes fed on my crotch, begging for a drink. Keegan was already whacking his tool. He looked down at my mound demurely. Sensing a need to free my cock, he unzipped my pants and pulled out my eleven-inch rod, which sprung erect and pointed up like the Empire State Building. He squeezed the ridges like they were floors leading up to the beet-red antenna.
My white briefs concealed my balls, but Keegan freed them by gently tugging the elastic band with his little finger. They ripped out of my shorts, two huge balls for my huge buddies. Each took one in hand to weigh carefully. They knocked my balls, playing billiards, pinching the scrotum just to know in detail the Bigg Mitkowski.
Their hands slid down my inner thighs and felt my thick, firm legs. They even found the hole between my legs and took turns sniffing and licking the crack like they had never seen a West Side manhole before. First Keegan, then Flannery lost his face below my balls, eating my ass, getting to know my Polish chute quite well. I beat off loudly, waiting for one of them to get the clue that the granite rock was ready to get scrubbed.
Immediately my thick dick found residence in Keegan’s mouth. I could tell it was Keegan because it rode smooth in and out on account of his teeth being small. He didn’t have much of a bite, but he had a persistent suck.
“That’s it, Keegan,” Flannery said, warming me up by swallowing my balls. He was a scrotum sucker. Most goalies were. Ball bums, appreciating the little fellas, tongue-feeling the jism as it vibrated through each testicle. He kept them in his mouth because he liked their heat.
Together, their lips kissed my cock, sliding up and down. Their jock faces were cool and mean with
the same expression they wore on the ice, but they ate dick and worshipped balls like it was nothing new. Watching your two best friends choke on your dick is the greatest thrill a guy could have. Though I have a crazy-huge cock, Keegan and Flannery, conjoined at the lips like Siamese cocksucking twins, made my dick seem gargantuan, an Egyptian obelisk, a Bavarian maypole.
Usually I lasted for hours, but this time I shot my load sooner. Their lumpy cheeks forced me to score an early goal. The man-milk jumped, spilling and spraying white seed into the air, over their hair and faces. It showered my abs and navel, dripped down my testicles and between the crack in my ass.
“Phew, that’s a big load,” Keegan muttered, diving to lick up the hot current and coming up for air with a white mustache. He slapped my marble balls. “Isn’t that the best cum we’ve had, Flannery? As good as Brendan’s?”
Immediately, Keegan looked at Flannery.
“Let’s show him ours,” Flannery said, changing the subject. Flannery and Keegan stood up and faced each other, whipping their pricks to erections. They pointed them at me and within thirty seconds looked ready to come. I made an apology and left the bar, not interested in seeing my two buddies spray their Hell’s Kitchen sorbet all over my trunk.
Brendan? The only Hell’s Kitchen dog I know called Brendan is a scrawny kid on Fifty-Second Street, a brain geek whose goal in life is to study pre-med in an Ivy League college and join the glee club. I’m off to enlist, while Brendan is packing for biology and a cappella.
I gotta come clean. Even though I said I’ve never touched, fondled, or sucked another guy’s tool, I got a secret pre-army wish: to taste a cum-shake. The Irish, I have heard, brew the best cum in all of Manhattan. Once the Bigg Mitkowski gets in the army, he’ll have a reputation to uphold. All those greenhorn recruits will be staring at his Midtown horse-dick, wanting a piece for their saddle. I can’t be letting on that I’m just as thirsty as the rest of them.
“Mitkowski.” I heard my name. Who’s dogging me on Sunday? Enlistment was a day away. A sea of hungry people crawled uptown for the Ninth Avenue Festival. I was obliged to show the Bigg hide one more time before shipping off, so I wore a green tank top and wrapped my ass and crotch in tight, tanned shorts.
Brendan tagged me in the crowd. He drank a seltzer for his glee club voice and expected my respect.
“Is it true? You’re going to enlist tomorrow?” he asked.
The Festival was crowding my senses—the muted roar of people in the neighborhood, people on the street, stopping to say good-bye, wish me well, kiss my cheek, and pray for my dick. I found myself staring at Brendan’s slight frame and wondering what kind of package was neatly folded in his groomed layers. I could just see Brendan chasing after some Ivy League varsity player, cheering and chewing on that college meat like he never did me. He’s the only one who hasn’t sampled the Bigg Mitkowski. But this time I wanted to get some. I needed to taste dick!
“Time out,” I said.
“Can’t call time out when you’re defending your country,” Brendan observed.
He headed toward Fifty-Second and Tenth Avenue, his block, his home. I couldn’t think straight. I followed Brendan back to his place like a rottweiler on a leash. We climbed the stairs to his mother’s apartment, and Brendan welcomed me inside his book-laden room with Ivy League banners everywhere.
He was all angles and chiseled charm, thin enough not to worry about exercising and handsome enough not even to care.
Brendan pushed me onto the sofa. “The guys told me about you. Everyone in the neighborhood seems to have gotten his or her hands around the Bigg boner. They wet their pants just talking about you. I also pack a big cock. You want to see?”
“No,” I replied.
Brendan slid out of his slacks and yanked his cock from his boxers. The red pubic hair sprang all over the place. I looked away in masculine angst as he stood in front of me getting harder. In fact, Brendan was getting very hard, and very long. He kept jerking until his cock was sticking straight out at me.
“See it?” he said. “Before I pack it away.”
His cock filled my vision, ripe and fleshy.
“Taste it. One for the road,” Brendan said. “The tasting is all yours. You can either taste it now, or taste it later. But you’re going to have to taste it sometime because I know you, Mitkowski. You’re begging for it and it’s dogging you crazy. Hurry before it cools.”
I drew Brendan’s huge prick into my mouth. I closed my eyes and sealed my lips around the shaft. I swallowed it whole. The boner propelled a course into my throat. Finally, a cock in my mouth! The head was hot, jogging my tonsils and jabbing against my teeth as it pulled out then jammed back in. My tongue went on alert. I was amazed at Brendan’s width. It lunged inside my mouth, filling the cavity with its large head. I could taste the salt at the back of my throat, just as I could smell Brendan’s sweaty ball sac.
“Now focus, Mitkowski,” Brendan ordered.
I closed my eyes. Brendan shot a load of pre-cum that swept inside my mouth. My mouth became hot and sticky. Before I could complain, Brendan humped my face. The dickhead plugged my throat and grew larger. He slowed down as I moaned, sensuous at the dick-feed. His hips nudged my face. The more I sucked, the more I felt my own cock ready to burst. It was strangled in my briefs, reticent to come up for air, shy to be compared to Brendan. I rode my palm over the large crease in my shorts, jerking myself numb until I came. I bit hard on Brendan as I shot my load against my thigh.
He pumped my lips, whipping up a smoothie like nothing previously tasted in Midtown. His balls lifted high against the base of his shaft and released their bounty. My mouth filled with smart cum, silken and sweet, as he shot his spunk down my gorged throat. Again. More. I ate it as he finished his load and kept his prick in my face. A few more drops spilled out from his shooter. When he withdrew his big engine of dick-flesh from Mitkowski Station, I could taste his jism spilling over my lips. It trickled along the corners of my mouth, dribbling down my chin and onto my tank. I sat in awe.
“Satisfied?” Brendan asked, shoving his prick back in his slacks and buttoning his fly. “Now you’ve gotten everything this neighborhood has to offer. You know how to keep the dicks in the barracks happy.”
I stood to leave, dismissed, his taste clinging to the roof of my mouth. His cock and cum had tamed me, made me feel wonderfully ordinary, like a good soldier. As I exited his room, I heard Brendan remark in a high-pitched voice, well rehearsed for the glee club, “Hey, Mitkowski, did Father Murphy ever tell you you’ve got a big butt, with two t’s? Stop by my dorm when you’re on leave. I’ll be waiting.”
About the Authors
JONATHAN ASCHE is the author of the erotic novel Mindjacker as well as numerous short stories. His work has appeared in Torso, Men, Playguy, Inches, Mandate, In Touch for Men, and Indulge, as well as the anthologies Best Gay Erotica 2004, Buttmen 2 and Buttmen 3, Three the Hard Way, and Manhandled. He lives in Atlanta with his partner of nine years and a host of mentally unstable pets. He is busy writing his second novel. You can contact him at [email protected].
BRUCE BENDERSON is the author of two books of fiction about old Times Square, Pretending to Say No and User. His manifesto about the decline of urban bohemia, Toward the New Degeneracy, was featured in Rolling Stone. He is the author of James Bidgood, a 1999 book about the author of Pink Narcissus. He has written for the New York Times Magazine, the Village Voice, nest, and other publications. His erotic-noir memoir, The Romanian, has just been published in French by Payot & Rivages.
STEVE BERMAN wonders if Mr. Right might be as much a figment of the imagination as any apparition. His stories have sold to The Big Book of Erotic Ghost Stories, The Faery Reel, and the forthcoming Skin and Ink: Hot Tattoo Tales, as well as been featured in past issues of Strange Horizons and Velvet Mafia. His collection Trysts: A Triskaideollection of Queer and Weird Stories contains more uncanny and erotic fiction. He lives alone in New Jersey and might be scared of the dark
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TEH-CHEN CHENG is the pen name of a Taiwanese-American writer living in Los Angeles. When not busy with home renovations and gardening, he tries to get his lazy ass out of bed and into the gym where he uses a mental image of the title character Yang-Qi as inspiration. The first story of a series, “Yang-Qi” was initially published in Best Gay Asian Erotica.
WAYNE COURTOIS is the author of My Name Is Rand. His story “Taurus” earned him a Best New Voice award from the Erotic Authors Association. Webzine appearances: suspect thoughts: a journal of subversive writing and Velvet Mafia. Fiction anthologies: Of the Flesh, Love Under Foot, The Big Book of Erotic Ghost Stories, Out of Control. Nonfiction anthologies: Walking Higher, I Do/I Don’t. He lives in Kansas City, Missouri, with his lover of sixteen years, and is working ambidextrously on his next two novels. Visit him at www.waynecourtois.com.
JIM GLADSTONE avoids boredom and repetition by writing a variety of cool and eccentric things. He has occasionally tried to liven the process up by typing with his toes…but it’s awkward, and makes the keyboard get a little slimy. He is the author of the Foreword Award–winning novel The Big Book of Misunderstanding and the popular compendium of competitions Gladstone’s Games to Go; coauthor of the Access Philadelphia travel guide; editor of the anthology Skin and Ink: Hot Tattoo Tales; and a widely published contributor to newspapers, magazines, anthologies, and even a comic book. He can be contacted through www.GoGladstone.com.
DREW GUMMERSON is thirty-three and lives in Leicester, England. His first novel, The Lodger, was published in 2002 and was nominated for a Lambda Literary Award. His short fiction has been published in Death Comes Easy, The Gay Times Book of Short Stories 4, Serendipity: The Gay Times Book of New Writing, Aesthetica magazine, www.thisisitmag.co.uk, www.openwidemagazine.co.uk, www.thegayread.com, www.pulp.net, www.blithe.com, www.megaera.org, and www.forbiddenfruitzine.com. He is now working with Zuluspice to turn a number of his short stories into short films. Reach him at http://freespace.virgin.net/d.gummerson.
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