Best Gay Erotica 2015

by Rob Rosen

  So the sequence commenced: the pain went away, and in its place were all of those sweet vibrations. I bounced up and down on his cock, which felt as if it had been designed for my ass, and I closed my eyes and rode him. My own cock was certainly active and swung back and forth and produced some moistness of its own. Considerations of Henry James and Travis and the other handymen in the apartment faded, and soon I wasn’t thinking of anything but the delight I found in his dick going up into me. Behind my closed eyes, lights were flashing and whirling, and I hummed, and he moaned, and really, this was what life was all about. He shifted position, putting me off balance, and I grabbed the towel rack across from the toilet and pulled it off the wall, and I got tangled in the clothing around my ankles, and the bar and I and my chartreuse towels clattered noisily to the floor, and I said, I think, “Oof.”

  I sprawled, dazed, and I was brought back to throbbing reality, in several senses of the term, by the door springing open, striking both me and the wall. Reggie’s face—in my confounded condition, for a moment, I saw two faces— appeared around the corner, and he said, “Are you all right?” He appraised Ken and me, our stripped lower halves, our extended appendages, and he answered himself, “You obviously are.” I expected him to tactfully withdraw, but he didn’t; he continued into the room and closed the door behind him and said, “Go on.”

  Ken reached down and pulled me up and set me back on his cock, and as this supremely surprising day continued merrily along, Reggie stood in front of me and unzipped his jeans and pulled out his stiff prick and said, as he stuffed it in my mouth, “Maybe you could use this.”

  I certainly could. I decidedly did. Reggie’s rod was different from Ken’s; it was not so thick, rather a bit longer and slender and it didn’t have the same twist, but it was no less charming and it was utterly delectable.

  I set up a rhythm: I went down on Ken’s cock and drew back from Reggie’s; I went down on Reggie’s cock and drew up from Ken’s, and down and back and up and down, and it had a nice beat, and I could dance to it, and I felt as if I were dancing, dancing between two beautifully formed, flavorsome cocks, listening to the music of my slurping and Ken’s oohing and Reggie’s aahing. It briefly occurred to me that silence might be the better part of keeping under wraps things that were now without wraps; it would keep Frank from bursting in, wondering what the hell we were doing. Such thoughts were fleeting due to the delight of fucking and sucking.

  As if I had communicated telepathically with Frank, I heard his voice saying, “Mr. March, I’d like you to look at some samples.” My mouth was occupied, so I didn’t answer right away, and just as I was going to disembark from Reggie’s rampant rod and tell Frank that I would be with him in a moment, Reggie said, “We’re in here, Frank.”

  I was sure that in the midst of this fleshly fandango, I had slipped into delusion, and it didn’t help that feeling when the bathroom door swung open and Frank looked around the edge and said, “Why don’t you come out here where there’s room?” I could have sworn that I saw Frank’s uniformed chest now un-uniformed and maybe the hint of an unclad leg. If this were fantasy, it was continuing because Reggie said, “Good idea,” and exited my mouth and the bathroom, and Ken put both of his hands on my bottom and pushed me off and said, “Let’s go,” and we went. Indeed, Frank was standing in the living room absolutely nude, and I’d been right: underneath the painter’s outfit, he was attractive and nicely constructed, and he was impressively hard.

  So the four of us—oh, this had to be illusion! The four of us?—stood in the middle of my living room and took off the rest of our clothes. Thank heavens I’d been going to the gym lately, I thought as stood in front of three undressed men in my apartment—oh, no, this couldn’t be real. Three men? Three undressed men?

  We looked at one another, and we flowed into formation, and I was on my knees, and Ken was fucking me from behind, and Reggie was ravishing my mouth from in front, and Frank was lying at a right angle beneath me and sucking my palpitating schlong.

  That went on for a while, and then the condoms started to be added and subtracted in a flurry, depending on who was doing what to whom and who was being done by whom and what permutation was percolating at a particular point, and it seemed as if we were in a delirious French farce.

  There was a rearrangement, and Reggie was fucking me, and Ken was sucking me, and I was inhaling Frank.

  We shifted again, and Frank fucked, and I sucked Ken, and Reggie sucked me.

  Oh, this variety was stunning, simply stunning.

  Each man had his own style of fucking. Ken’s was quick and to the point, hitting my points, skillfully utilizing the arch in his cock, deftly pushing his plunger in and out and clearing parts of my colon that hadn’t ever been touched before.

  Reggie gave me some high-definition screwing, and electrical currents ran along the mammoth receptor that my body had become, and I sizzled.

  Frank used his brush as a true artisan would, slowly spreading colorful sensation, hue and cry over the canvas that he made of my quivering body.

  It had been quite a while since I’d had a man at both ends of me at the same time, and I hadn’t ever had three men simultaneously spurring me on to sexual elevation, and the situation was quite acceptable, and wasn’t it nice that for a man in his midthirties there were still new boundaries to be bounded across?

  This was an equal-opportunity orgy, and I didn’t only take; I gave. I fucked Frank and I banged Ken and I screwed Reggie, and my dick cried out for more, until it seemed that it couldn’t take any more, but it could—it took and gave more, and my ass drew in and released each cock and eagerly spread for the next one, and the big mouth that all of my friends assure me I have was truly useful, and my stomach was spinning like a gyro-scope about to throw me off, and I rode and I was ridden in this carnival of lust.

  We all tried to hold back, to not let go too soon, to extend this arousal, this attack and retreat, this excitement, this assailing and being assailed.

  And then—there’s always “and then.”

  We’d returned to the original construction. Ken was fucking me, and I was sucking Reggie, and Frank was blowing me.

  Reggie said, “Oh…oh…oh”—not perhaps up to Henry James’s standard, but it got across the idea—and his sweet cream shot into my mouth, engulfing me.

  A minute later, Ken said, “Ooh…ooh…ooh,” and his fingers dug into my hips and his groin ground against me with such blistering force that I thought we would be welded together, and he came inside me.

  Sometime soon after that, Frank said, “Mm…mm…mm,” making my boner vibrate between his lips, and I watched as his upright prick gushed out several thick eruptions that cascaded onto his stomach and up onto his chest and one that landed on his chin.

  As a superior host, I waited until last to come, and when I did, I said, “Oh…ooh…mm…wow,” and the orgasm shook me, and I might have fallen over except that I was held up by cocks fore and aft. After an indeterminate time, the four of us—incredible! The four of us!—toppled like a set of builder’s blocks in a sudden breeze, and we lay on the floor in a sloppy, gloppy mélange.

  I panted for a while and fell asleep.

  When I awoke, the apartment was in shadow, and my companions in carnality were wiping themselves off on my chartreuse towels—I wasn’t even upset that they were not my guest towels—and began to get dressed.

  I thought that I heard something about “signing out” and “overtime,” but I may have been confused.

  One by one, they said, “Good-bye, Robert,” and departed, and I was left, messily, on the living room rug.

  If I’d had a better afternoon in my life, I couldn’t remember it.

  I pushed myself, effortfully, to my feet and wobbled my way to one of my windows and stared down on the street, not caring that some of my neighbors might be seeing more of me than usual. It was hard to tell from my twelfth-floor aerie, but I thought that I saw three men together—one in T-shirt and jeans
, one in gray-green pants and shirt, one in painter’s uniform— getting into a taxi.

  I said to myself, “Hmm.”

  As far as I knew, the plumber hadn’t fixed anything—except me. The cable guy hadn’t adjusted anything—except me. The painter hadn’t assessed anything—except me.

  “Hmm,” I added to myself.

  I felt the towels; they were damp. The floor was punctuated with used condoms. Evidently, I wasn’t delusional. That was good.

  I realized that I would have a hell of a story to tell Travis, who would be home, when, tonight, tomorrow morning? I wondered if I would tell Travis; after all, he could get so jealous.

  Before I tottered into bed, I noticed that a couple of buttons were glowing on my TV. I looked more closely and saw that Reggie had turned on the recorder and was saving a Heather Locklear movie for me.

  About the Authors

  Xavier Axelson (xavieraxelson.com) is a writer living in Los Angeles. Xavier’s work has been featured in various erotic and horror anthologies. Longer written works include The Incident, Velvet and Lily.

  Jacqueline Brocker (jacquelinebrocker.net) lives and writes in Cambridge, England. Her short erotic fiction has appeared in anthologies such as Smut Alfresco and Best Bondage Erotica 2014. Her novella Body & Bow and short story “Oasis Beckoning” have been published by Forbidden Fiction.

  Dale Chase has written male erotica for seventeen years. Her second novel, Takedown: Taming John Wesley Hardin, was published in 2013; her first, Wyatt: Doc Holliday’s Account of an Intimate Friendship, came out in 2012. Dale has several published story collections and novellas in addition to stories in various anthologies.

  Martha Davis (facebook.com/quixoticorchid) is an Atlanta-based sapiosexual writer of erotica, erotic romance, ménage, and M/M fiction. Stay tuned: there’s always more where that came from.

  Rhidian Brenig Jones has herded sheep in New Zealand, taught English in Poland and run a bar on the Costa del Sol. Now settled home in Wales, he leads an adult literacy program and writes at dawn and dusk. He lives with his husband, Michael, and two arthritic old Labradors.

  Kenzie Mathews’s erotica stories have appeared in Lesbian Lust, Lesbian Cops, Rumpledsilksheets: Lesbian Fairy Tales, Best Lesbian Erotica 2011 and Lust in Time: Erotic Romance Throughout the Ages. One of her dark fantasy stories was included in The Big Book of Bizarro.

  Richard Michaels’s most recent publication was in the Cleis anthology Special Forces. His erotica has been featured in a number of magazines.

  Gregory L. Norris (gregorylnorris.blogspot.com) works and lives in the outer limits of New Hampshire. He has written for numerous national magazines as well as fiction anthologies, and has many novels and a few TV/film credits on his creative resume.

  Michael Roberts appeared in two previous Rob Rosen collections, Men of the Manor (Cleis) and Lust in Time (MLR). His stories have also been in a dozen STARbooks and Alyson anthologies, on cruisingforsex.com and in several leading gay magazines, including Mandate.

  Alex Stitt is a queer, British-American bibliophile penning fantasies for the thoughtful, the curious and the downright adventurous. A fire-dancer with a top hat and a flaming glove, Alex has ignited burlesque shows and Pride events throughout America. Alex currently lives on the volcanic island of Hawaii.

  Unbeknownst to her dissertation committee, T. R. Verten was really a spy in the house of academia. She is the author of the gay erotic novella Confessions of Rentboy (Burning Book Press). You can find her on Twitter @trepverten where she talks about hot boys, her cats and what’s for dinner.

  Salome Wilde (salandtalerotica.com) has published dozens of stories across the orientation spectrum, in genres from hard-boiled/noir to Godzilla porn. She is coauthor of the gay romance novella After the First Taste of Love and editor of Shake-spearotica: Queering the Bard.

  Mark Wildyr (markwildyr.com) has sold sixty short stories and novellas about developing sexual awareness and intercultural relationships and has authored four published novels: Cut Hand, River Otter, Echoes of the Flute and The Victor and the Vanquished, with two others pending.

  Logan Zachary (LoganZachary2002@yahoo.com) is the author of Calendar Boys, a collection of his erotica, and Big Bad Wolf and GingerDead Man, both mystery novels set in Northern Minnesota. His stories can be found in: Going Down, Tricks of the Trade, Beach Bums, Sexy Sailors and Homo Thugs.

  About the Editor

  Rob Rosen (www.therobrosen.com), author of the novels Sparkle: The Queerest Book You’ll Ever Love, Divas Las Vegas, Hot Lava, Southern Fried, Queerwolf, Vamp and Queens of the Apocalypse, and editor of the anthologies Lust in Time and Men of the Manor, has had short stories featured in more than two hundred anthologies.