Best of the Best Gay Erotica

by Richard Labonté

  I also keep the hair around my cock clipped short, which makes my average endowment look just a bit longer. When I turned, he grabbed my cock so hard that I fell to my knees on the bed beside him, and he pumped it several times before letting go.

  “Get back on my balls.”

  I scooped them into my mouth, sucking and chewing for a long time, until precum leaking from his cock ran down the shaft to wet my cheek. He smoothed the fluid into my skin with a finger while a knuckle found my hole. I impaled myself on the folded digit.

  “A condom, Jerry. I’m gonna fuck you.” I stumbled to the bureau to dig out my stash, chose a black condom, ripped the package open and rolled it down his fat firm cockflesh. Then back to the drawer for lube, which I squeezed over the condom, rubbing until it was slick and shiny. My silk tie would be ruined, but I didn’t care.

  He stood. “On the bed, on your knees.” I crawled up, leaving my ass hanging over the mattress edge. He picked up the lube, went to rummage in the drawer, found a latex glove. He skinned it on over his right hand and squirted a sizable blob of lube into his sheathed palm.

  Seconds later, a finger went up my ass with no preamble. “Tight,” was all he said, as I sucked in air to quench the fire in my ass. I don’t get fucked often, but he calmed me by working the one finger until I was open to it. Then he pulled out, put two fingers together and slowly slid them in.

  It felt good this time. I moaned with pleasure, groaned at the shadow of pain. “Tell me,” he ordered.

  “They feel big. I don’t get fucked much, so they’re really stretching me out.”

  “Can you take three, son?”

  “Yes, sir.” Two were removed, and soon three fingertips were poised at the edge of my butthole.

  “Tell me what you want.”

  “Your fingers in me, sir.”

  “How many?”

  “As many as you want, sir.”

  “My fist?”

  “I’ve never been fisted, sir. But for you, I’ll try anything.”

  He chuckled. Three fingers pushed inside me to the second knuckle. He stopped briefly, pushed again, and a fourth firm digit bumped against the back of my balls. R.J. rubbed and stretched my hole, and I bucked back to meet them, twisting my pelvis in pure pleasure. My moans mounted in intensity—it was then he slid the fourth finger in.

  I was hotter than I’d ever been. I wanted him in me, and was willing to do anything to get him there. I whispered: “Please fuck me, please fuck me, please fuck me, please fuck me,” as most of his hand assaulted my ass. He kept lubing me until the viscous goo was trickling down the back of my legs.

  “What are you saying, Jerry?”

  I gave full voice to my desire. “Fuck me, R.J. Please fuck me, sir. Shove your cock up my ass and fuck me hard.”

  “Are you hot enough?”

  “Yes, sir, yes, sir,” I panted, rotating my ass in tight circles around his fingers.

  He pulled his fingers out in one smooth motion, peeled off the glove, rested his slick cock against my butthole and commanded: “Fuck it yourself.”

  I took him in one hard pelvic thrust. He gasped at the ferocity of my stroke, grabbed my waist tightly with his strong hands, dug his nails into my flesh. The pattern of pain felt good to my pleasure-starved nerve endings. I rocked forward on my knees, then slammed back onto him, setting up a rhythm that he matched quickly. His hands on my waist were merciless, squeezing and pinching, pulling me back onto him again and again. His cock was fully distended, filling me more, far more, than his four fingers had. My asshole was hot and raw from the condom, but I wanted more.

  My cock was throbbing and I longed to touch it, but I needed both hands to steady myself. R.J. had taken over: a part of me was shocked by his sudden animal brutality. He grunted with each thrust—“Gnnuhh, gnnuhh, gnnuhh,”—and the sound was hypnotizing. Then I was grunting with him, pleading for his release, and mine.

  “Want my load, boy?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.” He pounded one last massive thrust into me, and didn’t pull out, and I could feel his shaft pulsing as he pumped his orgasm into the condom.

  It went on for a glorious forever, and then he began to breathe again, a raspy sated sound as he backed out, his cock kissing my ass good-bye with a soft “pop.” The empty feeling was horrible.

  R.J. walked back to the drawer, returned with one of the large dildos I keep for those lonely nights. It wasn’t my biggest, but it wasn’t small.

  “Up on your knees.” I shifted position. “Face me.” I did. He lubed the rubber cock. My own cock ached from not being touched.

  R.J. handed me the slick cockthing. “Sit on it, then jack off.” I grabbed the dildo and positioned it. He untied the tie looped around his softening cock, and peeled off the sticky condom, tied off its end and dropped it to the floor, all the while watching me drop onto the dildo.

  Though I was open, I groaned as my ass cheeks brushed the sheet. “Grab your cock.”

  There was a little lube on my hand from the dildo, and I smeared it around my cockhead. Then he grabbed my cock and scraped excess lube from the fuck off his hand.

  “Play with yourself,” he ordered, and I began to stroke my aching cock. It felt great. When he leaned over to stare at me intently, I looked into those piercing gray eyes, more blood pumped into my cock. My orgasm welled up in my balls.

  I usually close my eyes when I come, but I wasn’t about to let go of the sight of him. The first spurt hit his stomach, a good two feet away. “Yeahhhhh, boy, yeah.” Stream after stream of semen poured out of me, onto his abdomen, my balls, my sheets, the floor.

  At last I stopped. He stepped forward, pulled my head toward his crotch, made me lick my seed out of his stomach hair, then shoved me down farther until I tongued my self off the sheets. The dildo slid out and dropped to the floor.

  We fell back on the bed. He kissed me. His cock stiffened against the muscle of my leg, and my cock hardened in response.

  He rolled off of me, lay beside, said: “Do you want to come again, son?”

  “If you do.”

  “I probably can’t, but I’ll gladly do anything to you that you want if it’ll make you come like that again.”

  I chuckled. “I doubt it. It’s been a while, so I guess I had it saved up.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  I hesitated. “Just hold me for a while?”

  “Happy to, Jerry.” He wrapped his hairy arms around me, and we lay back, snuf, and somehow it was morning.

  I sat up with a start as I realized the sun was shining through the window. He awoke at my motion. “What time is it?”

  “It’s seven-thirty. We slept through the night.”

  “I was comfortable. You?”

  “Yeah.” I snuggled back into his arms when they were offered. He held me for a minute, and I kissed him, a kiss he returned with gusto, despite our morning breath.

  Eventually we broke—nature called—and he headed for the bathroom, then I took my turn. When I walked back into the room, he was partially dressed. I was disappointed. “Leaving?”

  “Actually, I thought I’d buy us breakfast.”

  “Let’s shower first.” I led him back to the bathroom, opening the door to the shower. Because of my size, I had installed a party-of-four shower stall—more than spacious for the two of us.

  I stripped R.J. and we slipped under the hot, cascading water. He pulled me close, kissed me hard as we soaked under the jets, then turned off the water and gave me the soap. Soon his chest was covered in lather, soap bubbles coating his steel-gray hirsuteness, and I was rock hard. I moved to his genitals. He was stiff. He slid the soap out of my hand, turned me around, soaped my back, lathered my chest from behind, massaging my pecs, gently rubbing my balls and my ready cock. When he was done, our soap-slick bodies slid against each other for a few delicious moments; then he turned the water on again and we rinsed off.

  “Kneel,” he said. “I really like you, Jerry.” His cock was fully hard. �
��I like what we do to each other. Do you?”

  “Yes, sir.” I looked up at him.

  “Good.” He guided my lips to his cock, planted his cockhead between them and slid into my throat. My own cock was still hard and ready.

  “Play with yourself. I wanna see you come.” I grabbed my cock, stroked it fast and hard. “Slow, son, slow,” he said.

  We settled into a rhythm of sucking and stroking that soon brought us both to the edge. He pushed me off to finish the job himself, pumping his cock until it exploded over my face. Two more strokes, and I splashed my load against the underside of his balls. Jets of water sprayed over us again when he turned the knob, and the feeling against my tender cock head was almost more than I could bear.

  R.J. grabbed me by my armpits and hauled me up. He kissed me again, licking a stray strand of his semen off my cheek. I leaned against the tiles and let him soap me up again, then stepped back into the spray to rinse. Then I soaped him again, and he rinsed. Finally, he turned off the water. We could have rinsed forever.

  He decided to cook for me instead, claiming he didn’t want to go to all the trouble of dressing when he knew he was going to be fucking me again before long. I didn’t argue: my cock grew hard in my sweat pants as I helped out in the kitchen.

  He cooked enough for four, but I noticed that he was no slouch in putting away his half. We didn’t talk much, but he reached over twice to squeeze my arm while we ate. I was so happy that I couldn’t stop grinning, and I finally said, “I guess you think I’m demented, but I’ve had a really good time, R.J., and I can’t wipe this grin off my face.” Then I blushed. He smiled.

  After loading the dishwasher we moved into the living room, where he settled in one corner of my large sofa and I sat at his feet, my head in his lap.

  He sighed softly, then stroked my head. We didn’t speak for a long time; he just ran his hand through my hair, and I wrapped my arms around his knee and sat there, content with him, and with myself.

  Soon, though, I felt his cock harden along the back of my neck. I turned and opened my willing mouth to take him in, but he suddenly shoved my head away, grabbed me by the hair and dragged me to the bedroom. His sudden savagery excited me. “Up on the bed, on your knees,” he commanded, and I knew he was going to claim me with this fuck.

  He rolled a condom down his shaft with one hand, smeared lubricant with the other, wiped what was left onto my asshole. He positioned himself, then paused.

  “You’re mine, now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tears welled up in my eyes. He buried himself up my ass in one mighty thrust. His balls slapped mine. I screamed with the pleasure of the pain. And I knew—whether we lived together or separately, whether we were exclusive or open, whether it would last forever or not—today I was his, and tomorrow. It was what we both needed.

  Tears flowed down my cheeks. It didn’t last long—it couldn’t. He exploded inside me and I came without touching myself, my prostate and brain both on sensation overload.

  My Daddy collapsed onto me. I took his weight easily, lowering us both to the mattress. I rolled over underneath him until we lay belly to belly, chest to chest, muscle to fur, and he covered my mouth with his. Finally we broke for breath.

  “I don’t know where or how this is going…”

  I cut him off. “It doesn’t matter. What will happen, will. I want you, and you want me. That’s enough for now. Everything else is just…details.”

  “I thought you were the shy one,” he said, his eyes bright.

  I looked straight into those steel grays. “Not any more—not with you.”

  “Damn right,” he said, laying his head on my chest.

  Stroke the Fire

  M. Christian

  Lew always knew he’d die someday. Gotta go sometime, sure: Kicked in the head by a horse, catch flying lead over some kind of stupid shit. Snakebite. Damned Indians. Maybe tainted water. Maybe way too much booze after a good haul of pelts. Could even be a fall—at fifty-two his balance and grip weren’t what they used to be.

  But the one thing he never thought it would be was needing to piss.

  All around was white. White, his legs, his coat, his arms, and his gloved hands. White. And all Lew could feel was cold. Damned cold.

  Seemed a good idea at the time. It was one of those nights when the west wind came right off the mountain and knocked at his front door, or at least scratched to be let in. He’d been up on old Craggy for more than five years, and the sound of that wind was like a bunkmate. Okay, maybe a bunkmate that snored like a gale, made a horrible mess outside (and never put things back), and would kill you in your sleep if you gave him half a chance. But, still, a regular companion on the mountain. Going out in the middle of a windstorm, then blizzard, to get wood and stopping in the bracing cold to piss against the side of the cabin seemed like such a safe idea at the time. Christ, he might as well have walked outside naked and shaved. The steep trail that Lew knew so well, that he could have walked in his sleep, had collapsed just enough to throw him down the hillside.

  Now he was surrounded by the white of a snowdrift. His leg felt busted-up, and he was going to freeze to death.

  At least, Lew thought, looking down at himself—the only colors in the deathly white of the snow—no one would really know he died taking a piss.

  Some consolation.

  Lew really didn’t want to die. He wasn’t old enough yet (his grip was getting bad but not that bad, and he could still plug a stag at one hundred feet with his trusty Remington), he had a few good crotchety years left in him. Hell, he’d only been to Kansas City once. Still hadn’t seen Lillie Langtry. God, he’d never even been to the other side of the damned mountain (just never got around to it)—and he would never see Jeff again.

  That’s what hurt. Damn it, he was looking forward to going down to Stinkhole (Clearwater to those in the “city” limits) and seeing if he’d come through again. Maybe even try and coerce the range hand up to his cabin (“The huntin’s damn good” he’d rehearsed to himself). Even thinking about the last time, about his last trip down to Stinkhole, got him going. Christ and fucking shit, Lew thought, kicking out with both legs—and biting his lip at the pain in his right—I can live without seeing Miss Lily, Kansas City wasn’t all that fancy the first time, and, damn it, one side of a mountain looks pretty much like the other (don’t it?), but he was gonna miss Jeff! Lew was gonna freeze to death and never get his hands on that lanky range hand again.

  The real bad part was that he’d fallen sometime after midnight, and dawn was some four or five hours away. If he could last that long, he might get out of this: Wait till the sun came up, get his bearings, try and either make it back up the mountain or limp it down to Mad Jack’s. Now the world was nothing but bitter cold white. In a few hours, just a few hours—Lew checked his pockets. For Christ’s sake he was gonna take a piss, not climb the fuckin’ mountain. The only thing he found was a cheap little knife in the pocket of his buckskin coat. Aside from that, nothing but white and the cold. Almost nothing. He also found a hard-on. Lew’s cock was iron in his pants, maybe from fear (heard that kinda thing: A boner when they bury you), but more than likely it was thinking about Jeff.

  The last time he’d been in Stinkhole was about two months back: He’d come down from his cabin with sixteen hands of fine pelts, a few nuggets of gold he’d managed to scrounge, and a mean itch to scratch. After a quick detour by way of the assayer’s office (for the gold) and Long’s Whiskey Parlor (to sell Sissy Dan the pelts), Lew had bee-lined for Miss Sally’s for a full bottle of her finest redeye (not the cheapest stuff, but not the good stuff either). Lew didn’t like to drink himself stupid all that much, but it was just those few months back had been ones of a meaner and bitterer than usual cold up on Craggy, and he had some long, and very cold, nights to thaw out of his bones.

  He would have preferred some other kind of way to spend his hard-earned furs and gold, but while he had been a paying customer over at Miss Lavonia’s (particularly
of Virginia May, who was as tall as he was and could beat him at arm wrestling now and again), his itch wasn’t something that her girls could really scratch.

  It was sometime after dark when he’d come out of Miss Sally’s less drunk than he thought he’d be, sometime after the first bottle had started to taste like old turpentine (knew Sal watered it down some—Lew just hoped it was just with water….) and he wasn’t forgetting what he’d come down from Craggy to forget. So, slightly wobbling, Lew stood outside Sal’s and looked out on the pitch, sprinkled with lanterns and stars up above, the night of Stinkhole, and thought that he had might as well get Stubborn out of the corral and saddled up for the long trip back up Craggy.

  On the way there, though, he got sidetracked: A hole in the “road” (that Clearwater townsfolk called it) filled with mud sucked in his right boot. Just as he was about to kiss the dirt, this tall, thin fella stepped out of the shadows around the city corral and caught him—saving Lew and his town duds from the mud and horseshit. Helping him back up on his slightly unsteady feet, boot sucking and slurping out of the hole, the stranger had leaned back against that fence and appraised Lew while sucking a hot glow from a thin black cigar. “Thanks, pardner,” Lew had said stomping the rest of the mud off on a large rock by one of the corral gates. “Almost got trapped in this-here hell hole of refinement.”

  “Going back then?”

  “Yeah. Sure forget how fast ‘civilization’ can run through a man.”

  “Movin’ on myself. Come in ’bout ever two months er so fer mail and supplies. A day’s ’bout all I can stand.” The man’s voice had this steel-string twang to it, something Kentucky maybe, or something deeper south. It was a kind of voice Lew liked to hear, a musical kind of voice.

  “That way myself. Only come in ta take a bit of the mountain smell off me and put on a little drunk. Man can only get too wild, ya know?” Lew said smiling.

  “That I do. That I do. My smell’s range, though. Can’t see how you can stand to high Jesus the cold up there and those winds….”