Best Gay Erotica of the Year, Volume 3

by Rob Rosen

  Of course, he didn’t believe me, until I willed my fangs to emerge. There was then terror in his eyes. I retracted my fangs. His horror confirmed all my repeated fears throughout my living death. My mind commanded me to leave, to run, but my body refused to go.

  Jack observed me all the while, a clinical habit I knew all too well. He asked various questions, all medical and scientific. I answered everything, hoping it wasn’t too much to know. “It sounds as if it’s become a manageable disease,” he summarized, like he was making a diagnosis.

  “Yes, manageable, forever. I will never die. Everyone else does.”

  “But I don’t have to,” he said mildly, his green eyes observing the reaction of my gray.

  “You must be kidding!” I yelled, springing away from him. His benign look told me he wasn’t. I tried to get out of bed; he pulled me back.

  “No, Jack. I won’t.”

  “We’ll find a cure. We’ll work on it together,” he said, sounding so certain. “Look at the progress you’ve made. You’ve decreased the amount of blood you need. You have control of your fangs, ointments, glasses against the sun.” It didn’t seem like very much for two hundred years, but I automatically considered the possibility. My eyes roamed down Jack’s body as I thought. We could be together. I wouldn’t be alone anymore. I wouldn’t have to be afraid of love.

  But I couldn’t. I couldn’t infect him with my incurable disease and condemn him to immortality, which, of course, is what he had insinuated.

  “No,” I said, sadly but definitely. In response, he climbed out of bed and took up his clothes.

  “We could be together forever,” he said as he rummaged through the pockets of his slacks.

  Forever. I had lived with forever and fought against it for centuries.

  “I can’t decide now,” I told him. “And you shouldn’t either. At the end of your visit, we’ll talk again.” But before then, I promised myself, I would already be gone.

  “No,” he said as simply as I had. He displayed a small revolver. “Silver bullets,” he said, spinning the cylinder.

  “Jack!”

  “I already guessed. It was only logical,” he said, with half a smile. “The blood research, the crèmes, your reaction to the sun. I traced you back. I made the connections between the men you had been.” Then, he frowned. “But enough delay. You make me like you or I kill you; that’s now your choice to make.”

  “You’re insane!”

  “Perhaps, but I can’t let you leave again,” he replied. He straightened his shoulders. “I’ll kill you and then myself. But don’t make me do this, Henri. Let me love you. Let yourself love me.”

  I considered my alternatives, hands clasped, though not in prayer. If I wanted to die, here was my opportunity. However, if I wanted to stop him, I easily could. I was far stronger than Jack, and faster. I looked at him, calculating. He was pointing the gun at me, his finger on the trigger. He loved me that much.

  “All right,” I said. “Put down the gun and come here.”

  “No, you come here.” He indicated my path with the gun.

  I stood, my cock erect. Quickly, Jack’s was too. I walked into his arms, our erections twining. He stretched his neck for me, pointing the gun at my head. I let the old desire rise as my fangs emerged, slowly, so slowly, as if they were as unwilling to do this as I was. I gave him one more chance.

  “Are you sure? Everyone you love and need will die.”

  “Except you,” he said, pressing the gun against my temple.

  I kissed his lips and then his neck. I touched his day’s growth of beard with the tips of my fangs and pressed them into his pale, pale skin. At the first delicious taste of blood, I heard the gun land on the carpet. I tried to stop, but I couldn’t. Blood has a taste that mortals cannot imagine. I drank while he moaned softly, as if he were enjoying it.

  When he awakened the next morning, Jack asked if it had “worked.” In answer, I opened the curtain a few inches. He immediately cried out in pain, shielding his eyes. I closed the gap and pulled him into my arms. What had I done? What had I done?

  “Thank you,” he said into my neck. I could feel his fangs. I let him take his medicine.

  CONFEREN CECALL

  Michael Roberts

  I was sitting on Ron’s cock when the phone rang.

  I wouldn’t have answered if it hadn’t been my second number, the one I use for chat lines and contact ads.

  We were on the sofa, and the phone was on the coffee table in front of us. Ron was wearing a condom, and therefore I was wearing his condom. We are utterly devoted to each other, but we try not to go to extremes. I have my contact ads, and he has his bar hops, so there is prudence in protection.

  I had to lift slightly from Ron as I punched the button and took the handset. Just as I was going to speak, Ron punched me with his prick, shoved his cock back into me, and instead of saying hello, I squealed into the receiver.

  “What?” said a masculine voice on the other end of the line.

  “Sorry,” I replied. I slapped at Ron’s chest, and he grinned. “This is Dong Master Dave”—not my real name.

  “I’m, ah . . . ” responded my caller, “I’m Sexy Simon”— probably not his real name, either.

  “Hi,” I said. Starting these things was always awkward. “How’re you doing?”

  We exchanged a few more pleasantries. After a pause, Simon said, “So, um, what’re you wearing?”

  I could have said that I was wearing my boyfriend, but instead I said, “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Really?”

  “Really. Nothing. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “You have?”

  This might take a while to get going, I realized.

  “You bet. I was hoping you’d call today, Simon, and I wanted to be ready for you.” I raised my eyebrows and shook my head at Ron. He smiled, resting one hand on my naked leg, which I was resting on his naked lap. “So, what do you want to do?”

  “I, ah, I ah . . . ” I was about to say good-bye and hang up, but at last he said, “I want you to suck my cock.”

  “I’d like to do that,” I said. “I love to suck cock.”

  “You do?”

  “I sure do,” I answered. The dialog was like a bad porno movie. “How big are you?”

  “Five foot eight.”

  “No, I mean your cock.”

  “Oh. Sev—eight inches.”

  I flicked on the speakerphone. I slipped off Ron’s dick, stood, walked to the end of the coffee table, and kneeled. Ron looked at me for a moment, then rose and moved behind me. As he did, his rigid prick bounded from side to side.

  “Let me see your dick,” I said to Simon. “Oh, that’s a great dick.”

  “Just a sec,” said Simon. “I’m still unzipping. There.”

  “That’s a great dick,” I repeated. “I can’t wait to eat it.”

  “I can’t wait to be your meal.”

  Ron spread my cheeks. He trailed his cock along my crack.

  “I love your dick,” I said to Ron, and Simon said, “I want it in your mouth now.”

  “Give it to me,” I said.

  “It’s yours, baby,” said Simon, and Ron pushed his prick up my ass.

  As often as I’ve had Ron’s cock riding me, it’s never enough.

  I sighed.

  “You like it?” asked Simon.

  “I love it,” I said.

  Ron began to fuck me.

  I never know what Ron’s going to do. Sometimes he’s content with my sitting on his cock, raising and lowering myself at my own tempo; sometimes he screws me slowly with his long schlong for a long time, so long that I ache and almost want him to stop—almost; and sometimes he batters me, his speed and force so great that I’m sure he’s going to pound me into the bed or propel me across the room.

  “What’re you doing?” asked Simon.

  “I’m running my tongue around the top of your shaft and across the slit, teasing, tempting.”

&n
bsp; “That feels good.”

  “You taste good. Your flesh is warm. Warm and tasty.”

  “Take more of me.”

  “I’m gliding down your rod,” I said. “You didn’t tell me you’re so thick. I can barely get you in my mouth.”

  “I want you to deep-throat me.”

  “It’s going to be a while. Half of you is in. There’s so much of you.”

  Ron pulled all of the way out, then drove back inside. My asshole had relaxed when he withdrew, and it jolted as he reentered me. He did that again. The third time, he waited for a bit, and when he shoved into me, he went all of the way. His crotch crashed against my butt, and I gasped.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Simon.

  “I’m just trying to get some air,” I said. “Your cock’s so big, I can scarcely breathe.”

  “Inhale it all, baby,” whispered Simon. “Take all of my big cock.”

  “I want all of you. There’s just a ways to go. I’m almost there. Your dick fills my mouth. A bit more—more—I’ve got all of you, I’ve got all of your cock in my mouth, and my jaw’s spread so wide, I think it’s gonna break. If I stick out my tongue, I can reach your bush.”

  “Oh, wow!”

  “That’s the way I feel, too. I love pubic hair tickling my tongue.”

  Ron’s nest was scratching my ass as he rubbed it against me and swiveled his dick, stirring me with his swizzle prick.

  “Now I’m gonna suck you,” I said to Simon. “I’m gonna give you a blow job that’ll make your teeth curl. Here I go. I’m moving up and down your cock, your big thick cock, and I’m holding your balls, your big bursting balls, rolling them around while I suck your cock.”

  I grabbed my own moist erection. The coffee table had a glass top, and I watched through it as I jacked myself.

  “I want you so much,” I said as Ron went even faster, sharper right and left. “I w-w-want your cock so m-m-much.”

  “You’ve got it, dude; you’ve got it.”

  “Give it to me!”

  Ron gave it to me.

  “I’m giving it to you,” said Simon, his voice now rising.

  Ron was fucking me raw. I felt every bit of his considerable length, his hefty girth. He spread my cheeks and went in farther, faster.

  “Oh! Oh! Oh!” I exclaimed as Ron’s dick dashed against my asshole.

  “Tell me,” gasped Simon. “Tell me—”

  “Your prick is hitting my tonsils,” I told him. “I can barely, I can barely—”

  “I can barely hold back,” said Simon. “I wanna come. I don’t wanna come.”

  “I want you to come. I want you to shoot in my mouth. But I don’t want you to come just yet. I want to suck you some more, a lot more.”

  “You’ve got me so hard.”

  “You’ve made me so hard.”

  I looked down through the glass top of the coffee table. My hand was racing along my rod. My stomach was twisting. I felt my nuts ascend into the base of my cock.

  Ron’s generous globes slapped my butt. When they didn’t, I knew they too had risen. Ron was panting so fiercely that the temperature on the base of my neck shot up.

  Ron’s breath was hot, and his cock was hotter, blazing into my entrails.

  “I can’t,” wheezed Simon. “I don’t—I’ve got to—I’m gonna—”

  “Me too,” I whispered. Ron was fucking me with such intensity, I felt certain I was going to pass out.

  “Give it,” I whimpered.

  “Take it,” Simon cried.

  Ron, of course, said nothing. He didn’t need to; his cock spoke volumes. It was rearranging volumes, in fact, shearing me one way, then another, yet another. My insides were pretzeled.

  “I can’t,” said Simon tightly. “I’m gonna—oh, dude. Argh—arrgh—argggh,” he gargled—or something like that.

  “It’s too much! I can’t take it all. Your jism’s running down my chin. You’re gonna drown me. You—”

  There was a silence that indicated Simon had disconnected, then a dial tone.

  And even though there was nothing in my mouth but teeth and tongue, I swallowed, and I could taste the come drizzling down my throat.

  Ron put his head on my shoulder and plastered me one last time with his powerful prick and shouted and flowed fluently. As for me, I attacked my pulsing pud once, twice, three times more, and I shook, and “Urgh—urrgh— urgggh,” I gurgled—or something like that—and I jetted all over the rug.

  “If you’d like to make a call,” said the speakerphone, “please hang up.”

  I hung up.

  ABOUT THE

  AUTHORS

  JONATHAN ASCHE’s (jonathanasche.com) work has appeared in numerous anthologies, including Best Gay Erotica of the Year, Volumes 1 and 2. He is also the author of the erotic novels Dyre, Moneyshots, and Mindjacker, as well as the short-story collection Kept Men. He lives in Atlanta with his husband Tomé.

  LOUIS FLINT CECI’s poetry has been published in Colorado North Review. His short stories have appeared in Diseased Pariah News, Trikone, and Jonathan, and in the anthologies Queer and Catholic and Gay City Volume 4. His first novel was Comfort Me. In 2016, as publisher of Beautiful Dreamer Press, he edited Not Just Another Pretty Face.

  DALE CHASE has written male erotica for eighteen years, with stories published in numerous magazines, anthologies, and collections. She has two erotic Western novels in print. Her latest book is Hot Copy: Gay Erotica from the Magazine Era, from Lethe Press. Chase lives near San Francisco.

  When not daydreaming about plotlines and characters, ANDRA DILL (Twitter @aedill) works in the medical field to pay for her horse, dog, and cat. She writes, practices yoga, rewrites, reads voraciously, writes some more, and has been talked (tricked) into completing two half marathons.

  LANDON DIXON’s writing credits include stories in the magazines Men, Freshmen, [2], Mandate, Torso, and Honcho; stories in the anthologies Ultimate Gay Erotica 2005/2007/2008, Best Gay Erotica 2009/2014, plus many others; and the short-story collections Hot Tales of Gay Lust 1, 2, and 3.

  T. HITMAN is the nom-de-porn of a professional writer who once contributed monthly columns, features, and short fiction to Men, Freshmen, and Unzipped magazines.

  RHIDIAN BRENIG JONES is settled back home in Wales after several years abroad. He lives with his husband, Michael, and French bulldogs, Coco and Cosette. He writes before work, when the three best things in his life are still asleep.

  KENZIE MATHEWS lives in rural Alaska. Her erotica stories have appeared in Lesbian Lust, Lesbian Cops, Rumpledsilksheets: Lesbian Fairy Tales, Lesbian Erotica: 2011, Lust in Time: Erotic Romance Throughout the Ages, and Of Devils and Deviants. One of her dark fantasy stories was included in The Big Book of Bizarro.

  RICHARD MAY writes gay short stories about how men meet. His work has appeared in his collections Ginger Snaps: Photos & Stories of Queer Redheads and Inhuman Beings, his Kindle series Gay All Year, and numerous literary journals and anthologies. Rick also organizes the Word Week literary festival and an online book club.

  M. MCFERREN is a queer, nonbinary nerd native to Texas and now in NYC. They enjoy hollering the love that once dared not speak its name, as well as good whiskey and horror films. They have contributed stories to numerous anthologies, and their first novel is The Unmentionables.

  RICHARD MICHAELS has been featured in three previous Rob Rosen anthologies: Best Gay Erotica 2015 and Best Gay Erotica of the Year, Volumes 1 and 2. He also had stories in Special Forces and the Beautiful Dreamers Press collection Not Just Another Pretty Face, as well as in several prominent gay magazines.

  LEE MINXTON’s erotic writing has appeared in Clean Sheets, Forum (UK), the Good Vibrations webzine, the Blowfish catalog e-newsletter, and the anthologies Big Man on Campus, Surprise, and Naughty Stories from A to Z, Volume 4. Currently, she is working on an all-male novella.

  GREGORY L. NORRIS (gregorylnorris.blogspot.com) writes and lives in the Outer Limits of New Hampshire with his husband, their
small pride of rescue cats, and his emerald-eyed muse.

  MICHAEL ROBERTS has published in four other Rob Rosen-edited anthologies: Men of the Manor, Best Gay Erotica 2015, Best Gay Erotica 2016, and Lust in Time. A dozen stories have appeared in collections from STAR-books Press and Alyson Books, and he has written licentiously for cruisingforsex.com and leading gay magazines.

  KARL TAGGART lives in the suburbs east of San Francisco, remaining under the radar as he occasionally writes stories for anthologies. Taggart got his start writing for Men and Freshmen magazines. He likes horses, motorcycles, and hot men, and is presently contemplating new work featuring all of these.

  Unbeknownst to her dissertation committee, T. R. VERTEN (Twitter @trepverten) was really a spy in the house of academia. A decade of bone-dry work on Realist representation turned out to be an aesthetic manifesto in disguise. Her erotica writing has appeared in anthologies from Cleis, New Smut Project, Republica, Burning Book, and Ravenous Romance.

  ABOUT THE

  EDITOR

  ROB ROSEN (therobrosen.com), award-winning author of the novels Sparkle: The Queerest Book You’ll Ever Love, Divas Las Vegas, Hot Lava, Southern Fried, Queerwolf, Vamp, Queens of the Apocalypse, Creature Comfort, Fate, Midlife Crisis, and Fierce, and editor of the anthologies Lust in Time, Men of the Manor, Best Gay Erotica 2015, and Best Gay Erotica of the Year, Volumes 1 and 2, has had short stories featured in more than two hundred anthologies.