Best Gay Erotica 2013

by Richard Labonté

  “I’m going to reach inside you tonight, boy. Going to take what I want from you. You will feed me tonight, faggot.”

  Until that night, Daddy and I had not exchanged fluids. Daddy was very particular about who he did that with. When he bit me, he was careful. He would ride the edge, but never draw blood. I had been begging to feed him, wanting him to take my blood, aching for it. And it was going to happen that night. I could not stop trembling, even as a huge grin split my face.

  “That’s right, boy. Tonight you will get what you have been begging for. I will claim you, thoroughly. Then I will feed on you. You are a very lucky boy.”

  “Thank you, Daddy,” I whispered, my voice shaky.

  Daddy took me to the bathroom and bent me over the sink. I moaned. He stripped off my clothes, leaving me in my boots and jock, my eyes on myself in the mirror over the sink. Daddy’s hands slid over my skin, his cock against my ass as he held my eyes in the mirror.

  “My little faggot is just aching to get fucked in the bathroom. You are going to get it tonight, boy. Can you feel Daddy’s cock? Do you want it?”

  “Please, Daddy. Please fuck your boy.”

  “My cub is going to get it tonight,” Daddy growled, as he put clamps on my nipples.

  I watched my eyes widen in the mirror. My breathing got shallow. Daddy was going for the pain I hated. I could see it growing in his eyes. He was going to test me with hateful pain that tore into me. That meant only one thing. My eyes frantically searched the bathroom for its reflection in the mirror. There it was, propped next to the toilet. Daddy’s cane case. I could hear rushing in my head and feel sweat beading at my temples. I met Daddy’s eyes in the mirror, and saw them change. He sensed my fear, and it was like a predator was waiting behind those eyes, waiting to feed on me. Daddy snarled, holding my gaze, his paws digging into me as I whimpered in fear.

  It was fast. His hand clamped on my neck, pushing my head into the sink, and suddenly his cock was inside me. Daddy truly was magic because there was lube and I had no idea how that had happened. But not enough to make it easy. No, this was not about my pleasure at all. It was awful. Cruel. He was growling in my ear, making me tremble on his cock. My mind raced round and round. I was breathing so fast, my heart pounding, and behind my closed eyes all I could see was that cane case.

  Daddy’s cock was reaming me, and it hurt, and my nipples hurt too as they banged against the sink and then Daddy leaned over and growled “Mine!” in my ear. I couldn’t stop them. Before I even realized it was happening, tears were streaming down my face. I lifted my eyes to meet his in the mirror.

  “Yes, that’s my good boy. Cry for Daddy.”

  Daddy pulled a clamp from my nipple, and searing pain ripped into me, creating fresh tears. He groaned and began to thrust harder, his cock driving into my boy hole.

  “Daddy!” I whimpered.

  “When I take the other clamp off, you are going to cum for me, boy. You got that?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  His cock felt like it was ripping me open. His eyes were unforgiving. I knew what was coming next. I felt a new surge of fear washing through me, and Daddy smiled at the smell of it. His beard scratched my skin as he buried his nose in the nape of my neck and drew in the metallic scent of fear.

  “Yes, boy. Give me your fear.”

  His cock gored me, and then the other clamp was twisted off, and before I even decided to I was cumming, growling with Daddy as he rammed home, shuddering as he spurted inside me. Too quickly his cock was gone, and my hole was gaping. I started shivering, my eyes closed as I heard Daddy moving things around, then a zipper, and then that awful sound of rattan ripping through air.

  “You are going to give this to me, boy. You are mine. I want your pain, your fear, and your tears, boy. Don’t hold back.”

  “Y-yes, Daddy.”

  I was going to take it. I worked to breathe slowly, relax my muscles, and wrap my mind around accepting it. Every time I played with Daddy, there was a moment where I said no. And every time, there was a moment when I was sure I was crazy for doing this. It was then I tasted my safeword in my mouth. I was not going to say no to this. I had already decided. But damn, I sure could taste my safeword, and it was bitter.

  I hated canes. They were an evil invasive sting, and that kind of sensation just felt wrong. My body rejected it. Canes were an ordeal path to surrender filled with constant doubt. When I made it through to the end, I always felt powerful in some way, and deeply proud. But the road there was horrid. Canes had nothing to do with my pleasure. They were about accepting Daddy’s will and feeding his sadism.

  As the cane ripped into me, I kept my mouth clamped shut on my safeword. It was not going to come out of my mouth, dammit. Daddy was not giving me even strokes or pacing it. This wasn’t a pretty show. This was relentless fire on my ass and thighs, and there was no time between one stroke and the next, they just spiraled into a whirlwind of awful pain and fear that poured out of my eyes and eventually my mouth in rasping growly sobs. Daddy was snarling, his voice harsh as the pain went on in waves, riding along fear, crashing into me until I could do nothing but surrender.

  “Good boy,” he growled. “Now for six of the best.”

  One was a tidal wave of fire. Two was nasty and twisted, carving me open. Three was lemon juice on the longest paper cut of my life. Four was almost too much, and my safeword rose like bile in my throat. Five exploded in fireworks of pain and blood that I could feel begin to drip down my leg. Six was an evil bastard of a hot poker searing me.

  Daddy put the cane aside for later cleaning, wrapping a piece of hunter green tape around the handle to remind him it was now dedicated to me. To think I remember that. Little things like that crop up in my habits today. Back then, they just made me feel safe. He pulled out his first aid kit, and cleaned me up, placing Tegaderm on the spots where he had opened skin.

  He met my eyes and stroked my cheek, saying gruffly, “I am proud to call you mine.”

  Then he tossed me my clothes and said, “Get dressed, boy. We have places to go.”

  I floated into my clothes, and Daddy shuffled me out of his apartment and into the park below. It was dark, but I could hear murmuring voices, slurping sounds, low moans. He stuffed a ball gag into my mouth, wrapped his navy blue hanky around my eyes, and bent me over a nearby rock. I focused my hearing, trying to figure out what Daddy was going to do next. There was a loud click, and I jumped, knowing that his knife was out.

  “Stay still, boy.”

  It began cutting my jeans away. Just a chunk out of them, baring my asshole. And then I knew why Daddy ordered me into a jock earlier. His fingers were teasing my hole, sliding lube into me. One, two, then three fingers in my ass, their squirmy possession riveting me to the spot as I got that almost nauseated feeling in the pit of my stomach that always begins an ass fuck. Daddy’s gravelly whisper carried to the men nearby.

  “Who wants a piece of my boy’s ass? His mouth and cock are for me alone, but if you play nice, you can fuck his hole.”

  I could hear the leaves rustle as the men moved in. How many? I heard voices murmuring as I writhed on Daddy’s fingers, but I couldn’t quite pick out the words. He slid his fingers out and leaned over me, his voice low in my ear.

  “Don’t you dare cum, boy. Not until my dick is in your ass.”

  Daddy stood up and chose someone, handed him a condom, and stood with his hand on my neck. I heard a zipper, and then a condom wrapper was opened. There was a slight pause. I tensed up. I couldn’t help it. Then his dick was spearing me. He worked it in to the base, and oh, was it long. The wormy feeling in my gut pulsed as I tried to take it in. I whimpered.

  “That’s my good boy,” Daddy said, gently stroking my neck.

  The man in my ass started to move. Oh god, and my dick began to throb as his thighs rubbed against the welts from the cane. He was working his hips in wide circles, and it felt like he was deep in my gut, stirring me in long sticky strokes. I ground my hips
down into the rock and soon was moaning behind the gag. I worked with him, wanting his cum, loving his dick with sharp squeezes of my muscles, clamping down on him, wanting him to spurt.

  He did, in three long thrusts, and he was gone too quickly. Daddy chose another, lamenting the need for latex, wanting my ass to be full of other men’s cum when he would finally fuck it.

  The next man was inside me immediately. His dick was shorter and my ass felt the loss. But he made up for it in rhythm, working me hard, in fast thrusts that smarted as they hit the marks from the cane, until I was breathless, shaking, gripping the rock with all I had. Then I heard Daddy say “Stop.” The man pulled out. Daddy’s voice was fierce as he reminded me not to cum. He motioned the man back to my ass, but I was scared. I didn’t want to be fucked so well. All I wanted was my Daddy inside me. All I wanted was to please Daddy.

  The circle of men around me got louder. I could pick out phrases. “Woof!” “Look at that nasty cub.” “Want a piece of that hole.” “Damn he can move his hips.” “Fuck that sweet ass.”

  I worked my hips harder, frantically wanting the man’s release, wanting him gone from my ass. I could feel Daddy’s hand on my hair, stroking. He leaned down to whisper, “Be a good boy for me. That’s it, take his cock. Milk it for me.”

  I did; I took it till he came, trembling at the feel of him spurting in me, proud to have done it. Then a third dick was at my hole. And I wasn’t sure it could get in, it was so thick. I pictured my hole opening, rubbing my cock against the rock to heighten my desire, knowing I would regret it later. The pressure was still there, insistent. And then Daddy gripped my hair in his hand, and pulled. It slid in. I could feel myself widen to accommodate it. I couldn’t concentrate on anything else. I became a hole. Just a hole to get fucked. Daddy’s hole. He started to move inside me. I screamed, glad for the gag.

  “It’s too big. I can’t do it. It’s too big.”

  I was shaking my head, screaming no, and all the while Daddy stroked my hair, whispering to me.

  “I know you can do it, boy. Do it for me. Yes, that’s it, take it for Daddy. You are such a good boy. My boy. My hole. That’s it, take it. You are so hot, boy. All these faggots want to be inside you. But I’m next. I can’t wait to get inside you, boy. I love watching you get fucked. It makes me so hard to know you are my hole, my hole to give away. My hole to use, however I choose. That’s my good boy. Take that monster cock. I know you love it, boy. You love being Daddy’s hole. You love being used like this, by a group of strangers. That’s my good boy.”

  As I concentrated on his words, my body fell away. I was just a hole. I existed solely to please Daddy. This pleased him, to offer his hole to others. And that was who I was. Just Daddy’s hole to use. However he chose. I was working my hips in rhythm as the stranger fucked me, squeezing his cock with my muscles. Because these men were just an extension of Daddy’s will, his pleasure. This was my Daddy fucking me. And I wanted to be pleasing. I loved being Daddy’s boy. I could feel the man inside me cumming, and it was a tribute to my usefulness. I began to float.

  And then Daddy was behind me. His dick slid into my hole like I was built for him. I didn’t want this moment to end. I could feel Daddy deep inside me, and that was where he should be. He grabbed my hips, working them, using me in precisely the way he wanted. I was exactly where I belonged. Under Daddy.

  “You feel so good around my cock, boy. You were made to be fucked by me. That’s it, boy, grab onto my cock with your ass. All these men are watching me fuck you and wishing they had gotten a turn. But you are mine, mine alone. And I am claiming you as mine. You may cum, boy.”

  There were no more words because Daddy’s teeth were driving into my neck, and he was fucking me, and I was bleeding, and Daddy was feeding, and I was cumming, and Daddy’s cock was ramming me, and his teeth were claiming me, and my cock was spurting, and Daddy’s cum invaded me, seeping into me as he drank me down.

  Daddy slid out of me, and I didn’t want him to. He turned me over and slowly removed my gag and my blindfold. His arms enfolded me, and I was gripping him so tight, sobbing. He rocked slowly, just holding me as I sobbed. When my tears subsided, Daddy licked each one from my face. My eyes were still closed as he stroked the space on my forehead above my nose, grounding me. I heard his voice asking me to slowly open my eyes. And then I saw the men surrounding me. They were grinning, and their faces were warm and familiar, and then I was enveloped by this tribe of men that I knew and cared for, with my Daddy’s proud smile joining theirs. I was home. I belonged.

  DRUG COLORS

  Erastes

  London is black and white in 1978. It’s a violent hurrah—a feeling that the world is going to hell, but that’s all right, because you can get there with Johnny and Sid and it won’t take that long. Just three chords, blue pills and we’ll all die trying.

  A Bolshie freedom slides through the city with a brash overconfidence. Clubs proliferate and the straight and the not-so-straight and wish-they-weren’t-straight all congregate where the queers are.

  Mike passes out his Sobranies. They impress as they were meant to do. Mike buys them cheap, packetless and slightly dented, from a man in a turban down Brick Lane. They add a tawdry glamour, which would be the name of the band Mike would start if he could be arsed. He exhales, stubs out his black fag on the leather-boy on his left, and kisses the flattop blond boy on his right. The boy is pretty, his vacant eyes glow like tonic water under ultraviolet. The boy’s hands fumble beneath the table; a promise for later or just a cock-tease? Hard—hard to tell. Mike demands payment. Their lipsticks stick like glue, just for a second. Mike contemplates whether he should taste him again but before he finishes the thought he’s forgotten it. The table is crammed with young men, cute as puppies in baskets and desperate to be debauched so they can write home and tell their friends how wicked they are. And Mike’s glad of it.

  Such a few short years, Mike thinks, watching the blow-ins from Oxford and Falmouth as they shrug off the jeans of their respectability and smear themselves with the eyeliner of the city. From underground we come, and step blinking into the light, still negative, still neutral. These boys come, never ending waves of slender, Doc Martin–wearing nymphs, not for the work, but for the dole. For the music. For the cock. For the freedom. For a place that isn’t the village hall on a Friday night where you’d be grateful for a fumble from anyone. For a city that swallows them all to the root, swallows them whole, then spits them out onto the Meat Rack so they can facilitate their own destruction.

  The music throbs in time with the boy’s grating teeth: amphetamine-fueled. Mike puts an arm around his thin shoulders and devours his mouth; there’s a tang of chalk and a taste of open spaces. The puppies watch and learn, their eyes jealous, and Mike winks at one with bright white hair and a nose-ring, a copy of Mike’s own. Bright-White’s mouth is large and suddenly, obscenely, he sticks out his tongue and touches his shadowed chin with it. Mike decides he’ll leave with him if Aston doesn’t come. He likes the feel of stubble between his legs, and a long tongue can be trained in all sorts of ways.

  When Aston isn’t around, Mike’s grateful for his age. Grateful that he still looks twenty-five in the club lights, thirty outside; grateful that Iggy Pop is no spring chicken. He affects an Iggy-skin, all battered leather, too-tight jeans and a world-weary pose that he hopes is magnetic. Grateful for his sparse frame, his abs, his South London accent, his history and his contacts—or his promise of them. They gravitate to Mike, these blow-job blow-ins, like hummingbirds losing their colors in the struggle to be noticed.

  “I know a bloke at Time Out—could be something for you there,” he says to the boy with the hand on his crotch. The gratitude shimmers in his face, and Mike takes something from the young man’s mouth he’ll never give back, then pushes some pills into the boy’s free hand as he feels his own zip lowering. Quid pro quo. Sometimes it’s the possibility of a job at Rough Trade, a casting call with Jarman, the chance of gophering at
the Palais. It doesn’t matter. The boy smiles prettily, says something over the music, but whatever he says doesn’t matter and is lost in the beat, anyway. Mike pushes the pretty smile down into his lap.

  There’s a wave of excitement from the litter of boys and Mike tenses. He stops his studied pose when Aston walks in. For all the frenetic thrusting of the place, the up and down of the dancers, the rhythm of the mouth on his cock, everything seems to still when Aston, real name Martin—a joke that has gone beyond cliché and has entered into legend—pulls respect to himself as easily as he does the hyena-eyes of the new boys. Then they cluck like chickens, the floor show of Mike forgotten.

  “He’s slept with Jordan…”

  “He’s fucked Adam…”

  “He’s forming a band…”

  “His cock is pierced…”

  “I’m going to try…”

  Mike doesn’t need to hear the gossip; he knows it all—started a lot of it. He waits, waits in the dark, more excited by Aston’s prowl toward the bar than he is with the boy who is now kneeling under the table. He leans back again, his heart thudding in his chest, and waits for Aston to stop fucking around, which he does, eventually, turning toward the darkened booth with a heart-stopping smile. He towers over them all, looking like Goliath in his platform motorcycle boots, his tartan kilt, his impossibly high hair.

  The band stops, and the lead singer starts spouting poetry as bad as anything Mike has ever heard. Aston sits; the chains around his legs clackity-clack against the metal chairs. He fixes Mike with a stare, pupils as huge as the moon, and pouts.

  “New?”

  Mike wonders how he does this, how he always manages to make his entrance when there’s space and quiet enough to speak. Does he wait outside? Does he bribe someone? He’s never seen him do it, although he’s wealthy enough, Daddy’s shame in tartan and tattoos. Drummed out, all the way from Pimlico.