Best Gay Erotica 2013

by Richard Labonté

  “Uhhmmm?” That’s my well-taped way of saying, “Is this all right? You like this? Do I please you, Sir?”

  I’ve been his part-time bottom for five years, so Dad understands even my grunts. “Yes, cub. Very hot.” He throws back the covers, and there’s his cock. We both watch as it rises to its full length and thickness. If I weren’t gagged so tight, I’d lick my lips.

  When Dad beckons, I fall to my knees by the bed. I lay my head on his barrel chest, snuffle the fur there, black mingled with silver, like the hair on his head. “Come on in,” he says, running his fingers over my buzz cut. Now that I have permission, I climb in beside him.

  It’s so good to be in his bed. I love Bob and the life we’ve made—we’ve been together seven years, since undergrad days, lived together the last four, and it’s all good except for the sex, which is seldom and hardly ever kinky—but even when I’m with Bob, I’m always aching for Dad to truss me up and hold me all night. I’m a restless sleeper, though, and Dad’s a light sleeper, so always, after whatever rough play he gives me, he leads me to my basement nest, leaves a piss-bucket by the couch, ties me up and leaves me there till morning. Just once, I wish Dad would let me spend another night in his bed. As it is, guess I’ll have to settle for this, late-night and early-morning snuggle-fests, his big arms around me, his chest hair tickling my back, his beard brushing my ears.

  “Sleep all right?” Dad’s fingers range between my pec-meat and cock, squeezing, stroking. I can feel his hard-on against my butt.

  I nod. I’m so damn happy to be in his arms.

  “I know it’s raining but…want to go to that Ren Faire today? I’ll bet I can find you that Viking drinking horn you’ve been wanting. There’ll be lots of vendors.”

  “Uh-huh.” I snuggle closer. Dad’s fingers focus on my right nipple, tugging on the hair surrounding it, pinching it gently. He and I are both fantasy fans, SCA members, D&D players and comic-book nerds. Our talks are as much about the X-Men, evil sorcerers and jousting techniques as they are about daily events. The daily’s kind of like vanilla sex for us: boring, at least most of the time. Give us weird instead; give us intense extremes. I think Bob doesn’t mind lending me to Daddy Draden every so often just so he won’t have to hear me babble about swords, mutants, Tolkien and Dune. Not to mention ball-gags and duct tape.

  “I bet you need hurt first,” Dad says. He takes my nipple between his thumb and forefinger. His nails dig. The first wave of pain unfurls up my torso. “Ready for some hurt, Donnie-boy?”

  “Uhh? Uhh?” I roll over, raising an eyebrow. In my expression is a request he’s come to expect.

  Dad chuckles. “Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s so much better with rope, right?” I sit up, crossing my hands behind my back. He stands up, fetching cord from the floor.

  “Ummmm.” I sigh with relief, feeling Dad loop, tighten and knot rope around my wrists. That free will the preachers back home are always ranting about: well, when I’m Dad’s captive, the burden of it disappears. Beneath the tape, around the bunched briefs, I smile, as Dad grabs another hank of rope and starts trussing my ankles. It’s so great to have a Top who understands my every kinky need, who loves me for those needs instead of condemning me for a freak, like the rest of the world. All my family and friends in Giles County, the guys at the gas station where I work, if they knew a mountain boy as butch as me—hell, I’m as much a lover of pickup trucks, buttermilk biscuits and bluegrass music as any of them—if they knew I loved to be tied up, tortured and ass-raped, they’d ride me out of town on a rail. Fuck, I’d probably end up a corpse in the county dump.

  Satisfied that I ain’t going anywhere, Dad shoves me back onto the bed. I buck and kick, straining against my bonds, giving him the fight he relishes. “Keep still, you little redneck,” Dad orders. “You’re caught, boy. You’re my prisoner. No way you’re getting loose.” He sits on my thighs, gives my chest a few punches, then sinks his teeth into my right nipple. I shout into my mouthful of rank cloth; his fingernails dig into my left pec.

  Since we get together so rarely, Dad likes to take his time when he tortures me, to savor my suffering. After half an hour my eyes are wet, my shouts have turned to whimpers and sobs, my gag’s sodden, and he’s growling like a werewolf, low in his throat, chewing one nipple and then the other, giving my flexed pecs more sharp punches, pushing a spit-wet finger up my asshole. It’s come down to agony, his teeth gnawing me raw, but I have no choice but to take it, and besides, I want to take it, I need to take it. I know Dad loves to top me because, unlike a lot of other bottoms he plays with, I can take a huge amount of abuse. I endure (albeit with a helluva lot of gagged noise) whatever he chooses to give me—flogging, tit-work, caning, cropping, whipping—for as long as he cares to continue. I’ve almost never begged him to stop; that’s my achievement, my point of pride. “My little warrior,” Dad calls me.

  That’s one reason, I think, that he invites me back. That, and because he knows I really care about him. The “buddy” part of “fuckbuddy” is as important for both of us as the “fuck” part. Other boys, he says, some of them just come for the rough sex. Everybody knows he’s the best Top in southwest Virginia, so he has lots of bottoms clamoring to be used. But, according to Dad, half the time he’s the one who feels used. According to Dad, most of them make him feel like a human dildo.

  My wrists and ankles are rope-chafed by now. Exhausted, I’ve stopped struggling; I’ve surrendered completely. I lie beneath him, thrusting my ass against his probing hand, my teeth sunk in the smelly gag, moaning softly as Dad, snarling, finger-fucks me and shreds my nips.

  Now he straddles my chest. He’s so turned on that he pumps his dick for only a few minutes before his load spatters my face. Grinning, he rubs his cum over my tape-gag, into my beard, across my forehead. Then he rolls off me and takes my dick in his hand. I’m done in half a minute, squirting on my belly.

  This might be my favorite part. Dad leaves my mouth taped, leaves me tied hand and foot; he rolls me onto my side, cuddles up against my back, and holds me. He fondles my cum-wet beard, my cum-wet belly hair. “You’re safe, boy,” he whispers. “I’ll take good care of you.”

  I want to say, “I love you, Dad. Damn, you treat me good. If it weren’t for Bob and our history together, if you and me’d met first, I’d be your cub for always.” But I’m still gagged, so I can’t say anything, and besides, I know Dad’s lonely, real lonely, and I know he wants a full-time boy bad, and I know he’s been single for eight years, since he and his lost love Nate broke up and Nate moved to Texas, and I know he’s afraid he’s aging and may never find a permanent boy, and so, if I were to say what I want to say, it’d just be harder on both of us when I go home to Bob later this afternoon. Instead, I snuggle back against him and rub my taped mouth against his hand.

  I guess closeness feels dangerous to both of us sometimes. Suddenly Dad sits up, breaking the charged silence. “I make you do bad things, don’t I, boy?” he says, loosening my wrist-knots. “That liquid-courage bottle of red wine you always bring along. The Chinese buffet last night, with all those fattening crab rangoons and egg rolls and General Tso’s chicken. And then BDSM. And now, guess what? Yes! How’d my boy like to hit Krispy Kreme for breakfast?”

  I nod happily, giving an enthusiastic “Uhhhh-huh!” as Dad removes the ropes about my wrists and starts freeing my feet. Sometimes I wish I could be his slave, his boy, all the time. Other times I think the once-every-couple-months thing is best. I’m afraid if I were here all the time, I’d bore him. As it is, we spend our lives hungry for each other, and I guess that ain’t a bad way to live.

  When I’m alone, and sometimes even when Bob and I are doing it—which ain’t too often these days—I think of Daddy Draden. I run through them, scene after scene over the last five years. Memories as hot as them never fail to get me off fast. Listen, man. I’ll tell you a few.

  It’s snowing the night Draden and I meet face-to-face. I’m living alone, in that broken-down house on Airp
ort Road; Bob’s still living in West Virginia, and we’re meeting on weekends. Bob knows how much I need kink and how much I need to bottom sometimes, so he tolerates it when I cruise leather and bear websites. I guess he figures if I can find someone trustworthy, he won’t have to bother with tying me up or topping me anymore. He just ain’t into it, since he’s pretty much a bottom himself, and I guess that’s all right—or it’ll have to be—since he treats me so good otherwise.

  Anyway, Daddy Draden and I meet online, start chatting—he lives only an hour away—and one night our planning comes together, and I’m watching the clock, a little drunk on Jack, and the snow’s coming down, hard enough that I’m afraid he’ll cancel, but there’s the knock at the door I’ve been waiting for. And that’s how I see my Dad for the first time. I open the door and shiver; I’ve followed his orders and am wearing nothing but boxer shorts because they turn him on. He’s standing on the stoop in the snowfall. He’s dressed in black work boots, black jeans, black T-shirt, black leather biker jacket and biker’s cap. He looks down at me and grins—he’s a good foot taller than me. “Damn, boy, you’re even hairier than I thought!”

  I look up into his dark eyes and grin back. “Good to meet you, Sir. I hope you like my fur.”

  Draden nods; we shake hands. I invite him in, offer him Jack. He wants beer instead. I keep drinking bourbon, because I’m scared and excited and I always like a little buzz going when I submit to a Top, especially a new one I don’t know real well yet. Don’t take long before he’s wrapped a short chain around my neck and padlocked it, so I guess I’m his for the evening. Then he’s behind me, holding me close, one big hand clamped over my mouth, the other tugging my tits. I’ve already told him online that my nips are my ON buttons, and he wastes no time taking advantage of that fact. I love the pressure of his hand over my mouth; I love the pain building up in my chest; I love this feeling of being mastered by an older, larger man.

  We’re on my bed now, frost feathering like maidenhair ferns across the bedroom window, the spruce trees outside covered with white. We’re both naked. I don’t know it now, but this is a scene I’m going to be jacking off to for the next half a decade. Draden has me on my elbows and knees. My hands are tied together and anchored to the headboard with a short rope-tether. I’ve got my hairy butt in the air; Dad’s strapped a ball-gag in my mouth and I’m drooling like a motherfucker, head down in the sheets while Dad kneels behind me, puts on a rubber and lubes us up. It hurts bad at first—I ain’t that used to being fucked, and Dad’s got an eight-incher and thick to boot—but soon enough we’re rocking together, back and forth, he’s thrusting in and out, I’m grunting like the happy pig I am.

  Dad cums up my butt; I cum in his hand about the same time. We snuggle, and oh, god, is that sweet, to be held so tender by a man who’d used me rough like a whore only minutes before.

  “The noises you make when you get fucked sound interrogative, boy.” Dad chuckles. “‘Uhhh? Ummmm?’ Sounds like you’re asking me a question.”

  “I’m saying, ‘Please, Daddy, would you plow me harder and faster?’” I say, head on his shoulder.

  Dad laughs, wraps his arms around me, holds me tight.

  He spends the night, since the snow has got so bad. But, dammit, I toss and turn too much, snore too loud. That’s the last night we sleep together, though it’s the first, thank god, of many tasty-as-hell nights we play.

  The movie’s Ladyhawke. It’s one of Dad’s favorites, but I haven’t seen it before. Tonight I’m watching it with him, but in kind of an unusual way.

  He’s lounging on the couch in shorts and a T-shirt. I’m naked, tied to a chair beside the couch. He leaves me tied like this sometimes when I’m around in the summer and he needs to cut the grass. Tonight I spend several hours in this position. My wrists are bound behind the chair, as are my elbows. He’s got loads of rope wrapped around my chest and upper arms and belly, securing me to the chair back so tight I can’t hardly move. My legs are spread, my thighs roped to the chair-seat and my ankles roped to the back legs. He’s got a butt plug up my ass, and he’s got tweezer clamps hanging from my nips. Occasionally, in between scenes—guy changing to wolf, girl changing to hawk, gotta admit it’s a pretty cool movie, so no wonder Dad likes it—he pauses the DVD, pulls the plug-gag out of my mouth and tips a beer to my lips. When I’m done gulping and thanking him, he gags me again and starts tugging and twisting the clamps till my numbed tits burn and my eyes water. Then he sprawls back on the couch and starts up the DVD. It’s the hottest goddamn way to watch a movie, man. Take my word for it.

  “Get that butt up in the air.”

  I’m belly down, tied spread-eagle to Dad’s bed. He pushes the button on the remote control. The electric cock ring zaps my crotch. I yelp. Obedient, I angle my ass higher.

  “Beg for it, Donnie-boy. Ask for more.”

  Dad’s got a camo bandana tied real tight between my teeth, so I can’t talk clear, but he doesn’t care. “Please, Sir,” I mumble around the cloth my pained shouts have soaked with spit. “Please give me more, Sir. Cane my butt more, please, Sir.”

  Again the zap of the cock ring. I let loose another yelp, like a kicked lap dog. Then the cane comes down on my bare ass, again and again, first one cheek, then the other, then both together. Pow pow pow pow pow pow pow. The pain builds, sharp and steady, thin and hot. Feels like I’m being sliced open by a flaming pocketknife, a narrow blade cleaving me the way an axe does oak.

  Am I bleeding yet? Sure feels like it. I want to beg Dad to stop, but I’m too proud to do that. Instead, I squint my eyes shut and bite down on my gag so hard my jaw commences to ache. I’d like to cry for him, just break loose and sob, let long-held-back tears roll down my face—we both want that bad—but seems like I can’t, no matter how much I suffer. Men where I come from, we were brought up never to cry. I want broken bad, and Dad wants bad to break me, but so far—five years of on-and-off torture—it ain’t happened. Most I can manage is some wet-rimmed eyes and a few choked-back sobs. Some part of me just can’t let go.

  The sharp blows pause. “More, boy?” Dad’s voice is deep and kind.

  Zap!

  “Yes,” I squeak against my gag.

  “Louder.”

  Zap!

  “Yes !” I yell. “Yes, please! More, Sir. More!”

  The cane descends again, with a swishing sound that makes me wince even before it connects with my buttcheeks. Pressing my face into the sheets, I lift my rear end higher still. I want to be beat so bad it hurts to sit. Dad knows that, and he’s determined to oblige.

  First time Daddy Draden mummified me, he let me sleep on the floor at the foot of his bed. But again I disturbed his rest. Bleary-eyed the next morning, he growled, “You flopped around like a damn fish all night.” So tonight I spend in the guest room, on a big tarp so I won’t wet the floor if I have to piss in the middle of the night. He’s wrapped me real tight in yards and yards of clear plastic wrap, so I’m encased from my ankles to my neck, with my hands imprisoned at my sides. I’m already sweating a ton as he reinforces the wrap with duct tape, circling my body at the ankles, knees, waist, above and below my pecs. He stands astraddle me now, bit-gag in hand, looking down, a gaze both stern and fond.

  “You can take this till morning?”

  Beneath the plastic, sweat’s beading in my belly hair and chest hair.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Dad pushes the rubber bit between my teeth and buckles the straps tight behind my head. “This gag will let you yell for help if you panic or get into trouble. Okay? I’ll be right down the hall if you need me.”

  I nod. He’s mummified me many times before. I’ll be fine. By morning, I’ll have pissed myself at least twice, after all the beer I drank tonight. He’ll jack me off, cut me loose, and help me to the shower, and I’ll feel clean and new, like a butterfly crawling from a chrysalis or Christ stumbling from the tomb, shucking off darkness and the grave.

  Dad falls to his knees beside me. He k
isses my forehead. Then he pulls out a pocketknife. If he were anyone else, I’d be fucking scared—lying here immobilized while a big guy pulls a knife—but no, I just lie real still as he cuts, slow and careful. Pretty soon my cock and balls are exposed, cool air drying the sweat, and my nips too. The plastic wrap’s so tight my nips bulge out like little balloons, stand up like pink cones. Since almost all my skin’s covered by this insulating cocoon, seems like the sensation normally spread over my body is concentrated in the pinpoints of my tits. Dad knows this. He makes love to them, gentle, not rough, with his fingers and tongue, till I’m about to go fucking crazy with the sweet feel of it. He jacks me too, slow and tight, and now I’m moaning, thrusting into his fist, pushing my chest against his mouth.

  I’m about four strokes short of cumming when the warm, wet feel of his lips on my nips disappears. “Sweet dreams.” Dad gives my dick a farewell squeeze and stands. He clicks off the lights and leaves me here on the floor, cock bobbing, sweat trickling down my sides.

  Here I am strapped hand and foot between two columns in Dad’s basement, nakedness stretched out in a taut X, whimpering as he adds another clothespin to the slew already fixed in lines across my chest and belly. My cock and balls are covered, bristling with pins like a chestnut burr.

  “That’s forty-nine,” he says, adding one above my navel. “And here’s fifty.” He lifts the final pin to my face.

  I know what’s coming, and it’s gonna hurt like holy hell. I crease my brow in a silent plea for mercy. I shake my head, and a big gob of slobber spills through the O-ring gag, over my chin and onto the floor. Dad squeezes the pin open, then slowly closes it on the thin wall of flesh separating my nostrils. I guess the jagged little noises I’m making now would be called sniveling, but I don’t care how pathetic I sound, it hurts so much. Dad leaves me like that, coated with what feels like burning embers, while he checks his email and starts dinner.