Best Gay Erotica 2014

by Larry Duplechan

  El, you idiot, Jamie wants to please you. He was following Michael’s orders before—we hadn’t been alone like this. “Don’t worry about it. I just want to get fucked, nothing fancy.”

  I pressed the lube into Jamie’s hand and positioned myself on the kitchen table, feet on the floor and chest on the surface. Not the most comfortable spot, but all I cared about was having my ass within reach of the dick behind me.

  Jamie’s lubed finger encountered little resistance from my body. “You’re right about being quick. I think you can take two already.”

  “Just do it. I trust you. No rules except not making me wait.”

  Jamie worked his fingers all the way in, rotating them to stroke my prostate exquisitely. He’d definitely been paying attention.

  “Oh, that’s it. More.”

  “More this?” He prodded the sensitive nub. “Or more fingers?”

  It almost sounded like he was teasing me, an encouraging sign. “More of everything except questions.”

  Jamie didn’t need to ask if “everything” included his tongue in my ass. Of course it did. He used it like a warm, wet finger to open me even more. It wasn’t long before his swollen cock was covered, lubed and pressing against my not-so-patiently awaiting hole where Jamie paused for my approval.

  “Now!”

  Jamie obeyed, plunging fully inside me with a single thrust.

  “Fuck, yeah,” we gasped in stereo.

  After a few slow strokes, Jamie asked, “How do you want it, Sir?” He emphasized the last word with both his voice and a deep thrust.

  “Fast. Hard. Like Michael does it. Oh yeah, that’s it…” There was no hint of uncertainty now, which was fortunate as I really wasn’t in the frame of mind to coax or instruct him.

  Jamie didn’t mimic the way Michael usually held me down; instead he leaned on the table for balance as he wordlessly pounded away. He did such a superb job on my prostate that I almost blew my load from that alone. Close, but not enough. “Touch me,” I commanded in a stern whisper. With little break in rhythm, Jamie reached around to jerk me off. I soon rewarded his efforts with a handful of pulsing cock and what was certainly a double helping of master cream. My throbbing hole clamped down around his shaft, hastening his orgasm. He stayed deep inside me, his smooth crotch jammed against my sweaty ass while his balls emptied themselves. Jamie collapsed on my back and we lay there motionless, apart from the heaving of our chests with ragged breaths, until he pushed himself up.

  “S’okay,” I said. “Stay.”

  I heard a throat clearing behind us and we both twisted around, somehow doing so with Jamie’s dick still inside me. Michael stood in the doorway holding Jamie’s coat and the shopping bag I’d left beside it.

  In the most cheerful tone I could muster, I said, “Hi honey, welcome home. I didn’t hear you come in. We missed you.”

  “I can see that.” He hung Jamie’s coat on a chair and deposited the food on the counter.

  Other than his warranted sarcasm, he gave no hint of reaction, positive or negative, so I forged on. “Aren’t you home early? Or did we lose track of time?”

  Jamie backed out of my ass, grabbed a napkin from the table for the condom and silently knelt before Michael in his ritual greeting.

  Michael’s hand on my shoulder thwarted my attempt to stand. “Stay there.” The swat on my butt left no doubt that he was talking to me. “You sounded so hot on the phone, I decided to come home. I thought I’d work here after seeing to you.”

  “Oh,” I said. I should probably apologize, but it was Michael who had said I should play with Jamie, even if he hadn’t meant it this way. Before I could say anything, Michael addressed Jamie.

  “Does this mean you’re finished with my computer?”

  “No, Sir. I’m sorry.”

  “Explain why you weren’t doing what I said.”

  “Sir, when Eliot asked if you had meant immediately, it occurred to me I didn’t really know. He said you were going to be late, so a small delay seemed okay. I’d say I made the wrong choice, Sir.”

  “So would I, although it wasn’t outright disobedience and you still have time. Bring me the paddle Eliot keeps in his desk drawer.” Michael turned to me and said, “Stand up, but don’t go anywhere.” He was clearly in dom mode, which was unexpected, but not surprising.

  Jamie returned with the paddle and Michael used it to tap the spot I had just vacated, a crystal-clear order. The chosen implement was a scaled-down version of a fraternity paddle—long and narrow, with holes to increase the intensity of the sting. In other words, it could hurt like hell. Its more common use was in the naughty schoolboy scenes I did with Jamie bent over my desk, but I’d been on the receiving end when Jamie wasn’t around.

  Michael laid into Jamie’s ass harder than I would have for something trivial, even though Jamie’s quite the pain slut. He took the first stroke silently, but clenched his ass in his usual sexy way for just a moment before relaxing to receive the second one. My cock stirred a little at the sight.

  Michael stopped after only two, suggesting that it was merely a symbolic reminder, and told him, “This would be a good time to take care of my computer. Put on your pants first. Just so it’s perfectly clear, I mean immediately, except that you may stop in the bathroom or get a drink of water if you need to. I imagine you lost some fluid recently.”

  Jamie thanked him and scurried away.

  I asked Michael, “Are you mad?”

  “Jamie knows not to let you interfere with one of my orders. I assumed you knew that.”

  He was still holding the paddle—not a reassuring sign. “I do. I honestly wasn’t sure you meant immediately, without doing anything else first. I wouldn’t have tried to talk him out of a direct order. I just wanted—”

  “I know what you wanted.” He pulled me toward the table where I knew to arrange myself in the position Jamie had just demonstrated. “I’m not angry. I’m not even upset. But I still get to punish you.” He slid the paddle across my ass while he spoke.

  “This is for encouraging Jamie to interpret my order in a way that suited you and your hungry asshole. It’s also for being such a slut you couldn’t wait after sounding so hot on the phone. Did you consider that I might want you ready for me?”

  “No, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.” I braced myself. After coming, I wasn’t in the mood to enjoy pain. The severity of Jamie’s “punishment” didn’t bode well for my ass.

  “Ow! Fuck!” The first stroke was harder than Jamie’s, or so it seemed.

  “A lot of fuss over a little paddling,” he teased. “Try to take the next ones with some composure.”

  A little! And “ones”? “How many, Sir?” I asked.

  “As many as I think you deserve, plus one for swearing during punishment.”

  He usually reserved the no-warm-up beating for more intense scenes—real offenses or a display of submission. Not being upset with me now, that probably meant only a few—a sadist’s idea of foreplay, another thing we hadn’t done for over a week. Hoping I was right, I braced myself and thought about getting his cock when he finished.

  He laid four more blazing strokes across my ass. Foreplay or not, those fuckers hurt. Then, instead of mounting me, he told me to stand. Have I misread his feelings? Is he annoyed?

  “I’m sorry,” I offered again.

  “I believe you. But you’re still a slut. You couldn’t wait for my cock. Or maybe you were in the mood for a bigger one.”

  Okay, he’s just toying with me. “Jamie’s not that much bigger, Sir.”

  He slapped my face, once, just hard enough for my cock to like it.

  “Try again.”

  “I missed you so much I wasn’t thinking.”

  Michael slapped my other cheek. “Better, but not quite right.”

  My cock told me to cut the cute remarks and say whatever would get us fucked again. “I probably don’t deserve your cock now, but I hope you’ll allow me a chance to please you.”

  “
That will do.” His firm hand on my shoulder prompted me to kneel. He opened his fly and said, “Get it wet and harder.”

  While a bit shorter than Jamie’s, Michael’s cock has a very satisfying heft, even semierect. I always love the way it feels on my tongue, and I was no longer in a huge rush for it to be elsewhere. Michael, however, was. He silently guided me back to the table and pressed his wet cock against my asshole.

  “Don’t move.”

  I obediently froze as Michael sank balls-deep inside me. He groaned in both relief from pent-up tension and an effort to avoid coming too quickly. The iron grip on my hips was for controlling himself, not me. After a few steadying breaths he said, “I can’t tell you how glad I am Jamie got you ready.”

  “Then show me, Sir.”

  And he did.

  STICKS AND STONES

  Gregory L. Norris

  Let’s be clear about one thing: the dude was a fucking idiot. A tool, a moron, a real dick. If not for his dick, I’d call him a waste of oxygen. I’d call him worse. He’d hurled plenty of insults my way during our respective youth growing up in a lousy little hellhole called Salem. I left; he stayed. I came back for a new job and rented the downstairs apartment of a house on Height Street, unaware that my path was about to again cross that of Donald Lavallee, my former high-school nemesis, the fucking lowlife.

  Boxes sat stacked in minor mountain ranges around the two-bedroom apartment. None of my furniture save the bed was where it belonged, and even that was out of alignment, pushed at an angle beneath the windows. It was the first morning following the move; a day with a heat index just this side of the planet Mercury broke bright and muggy. I was sore, exhausted, hot. The box fan launched warm air at my naked back, offering only mild relief. My first task of the morning after a tall iced coffee would be to install the air conditioner in the bedroom window. If I could find the thing.

  I rolled over, the bed familiar, though nothing else was. Then I remembered my new surroundings: back in the town of Salem after twelve years away. The money at the new job was great, the rent on Height Street fairly cheap. But my hatred for this town had built over the years. Not even a full day and I was ready to leave.

  I reached down, found my dick erect and was thinking about giving it a tug when I caught a flash of motion beyond the bedroom windows, bald of curtains and facing the house’s backyard. I sat up in time to see a lone figure plodding toward the Dumpster. A man. The image of his spine drew all the moisture from my mouth and made my already-hard cock pulse in my boxers.

  He was carrying a garbage bag. He lifted the Dumpster’s lid, exposing lush pit fur, and tossed in the bag. The loud clank of bottles shattered the morning’s relative calm, heavy like thunder in the muggy air. Some disconnected register in my thoughts shamed the dude for not recycling while another guessed those empties had once contained beer. The rest absorbed the physique of the man outside my windows.

  He had the torso of an athlete, his hips slender, lacking handles. Shapely butt was showcased to perfection in an old pair of khaki pants that hung off those hips minus a belt, flashing plenty of elastic waistband and a few inches of dark cotton underwear. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Freckled shoulders, plenty of ink on arm muscles: I couldn’t tell the designs from my position and his present angle. Chestnut hair in a jock’s cut, neat on the nape of the neck and around the ears. The most telling facet of the man’s image were the socks on his big, flat feet: formerly white, now a degree dirtier, because he hadn’t bothered to slide his sweaty dogs into shoes en route to getting rid of the evidence of the previous night’s booze fest, which I’d clearly slept through in my exhaustion.

  I hoped loud parties weren’t going to be a regular occurrence here. I’d signed a yearlong lease. At least I could look forward to regular cheap thrills from my upstairs neighbor, who looked great from the back and as if he clearly had pretty much given up to the point he couldn’t be bothered to slide his clodhoppers into an old pair of sneakers for the hundred or so steps to the Dumpster. Blue-collar white trash. The sort of bonehead I routinely jerk my dick over and enjoy the occasional blow-and-go with.

  Orange August light infused the morning, painting the world in an impression of flames. I drew in a deep breath, smelled the lush green fragrance of newly mowed lawns and figured his body was equally magical in its male, funky scent up close. His mission accomplished, he turned and started back toward the door to the front hallway that joined our two apartments. I noticed the cancer stick dangling from lips wreathed in day-old scruff before gravity and lust dragged my eyes down a sculpted chest with a patch of chestnut hair at the top center and a line of fur cutting down the middle of a sculpted abdomen. Nice bulge at the crotch. A big toe poked through a hole in one dirty sock. En route back up to the dude’s face, I identified the ink: an Iron Cross, a naked woman, a human skull, barbed wire.

  Higher: hairy throat, chin and cheeks. Generic handsomeness, the hard kind you see on millions of men. Clearly, my upstairs neighbor was one of those small-town tough guys who smoke cigarettes, drink too much beer and lounge around shirtless on hot summer days. He blew another noxious puff of gray. When the toxic cloud dispersed, I noticed something else about the dude as he reached down and scratched his balls through his pants without worry or apology, clueless that I was watching.

  “Holy fuck,” I gasped.

  I knew that dick. He was my greatest tormenter, my worst enemy from a decade-plus gone by. I had moved into the apartment beneath the one he rented.

  “Donald Lavallee,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

  A look at the upstairs tenant’s mailbox in the front hallway confirmed it. The same fucker who’d made my life miserable starting in junior high was walking around over my head, his big, smelly feet squeaking around on the floorboards, stinking up the place. I was as horrified as I was turned on. Little as I wanted to admit it, the fuck-wad who used to call me “cocksucker,” “cum breath,” and a slew of other slurs, most involving my presumed penchant for gobbling dick and guzzling buckets of skeet, looked better than fine.

  I jerked off fantasizing about sucking on the long, lanky dick that lurked over sweaty balls in his underwear and khakis, and chuckled at the irony after I came. Back in Salem; and nothing much had changed except twelve years of birthdays and mailing addresses.

  I set about unpacking, installed the air conditioner and put up curtains. I didn’t know how long I’d manage to escape Donald’s notice but suspected it wouldn’t be long.

  Two days later, I pulled into our shared driveway to see a shitty pickup truck more rust than actual metal parked in my assigned spot beside the wreck of an old blue four-door that hadn’t moved since my arrival. I pulled my car onto the lawn and got out. Fucking inconsiderate ape upstairs and his fellow primate friends I thought, too tired to do more than gripe to myself.

  As I worked the key into my front door’s lock, the loud clomp of footsteps thundered down the staircase. I got into my new apartment in time to avoid any visual contact. A pair of male tenor voices grunted in the front hallway. I watched from the window as Don and another dude not much higher up the evolutionary ladder said their good-byes in the driveway, lit cigarettes clamped between teeth. Don wore his T-shirt draped over one shoulder. The vision of that perfect torso and inked sleeve drained the last of the moisture from my mouth. So, too, did the fact that he was barefoot.

  The other dude got into his truck and started the engine. The earth quaked. The truck pulled out. I turned from the window, unknotted my tie. I was contemplating a cold diet soda when a series of sharp knocks sounded on the front door. My pulse galloped. There was no avoiding the reunion any longer.

  Getting to the door seemed far longer than the actual few seconds and steps. Donald Lavallee stood on the other side, the foul stink of cigarette smoke announcing him ahead of the big reveal.

  “Yo,” he said. Fucking idiot.

  I gave him a tip of my chin, that universal greeting between males, the human equivalent
of a deep sniff around the asshole so happily explored by other mammals.

  “Yeah, just wanted to let you know that my buddy’s out of your parking spot.”

  “Great,” I said, my mouth operating separately from my consciousness, the rest of me focused totally on the image of the man at my open door: all man, an amazing primitive specimen despite the putrid cigarette smoke and his lack of gray matter. I absorbed the vision of his ripped musculature, the way Donald’s scant clothes loved his body, caught the scent of his sweaty armpits between toxic, ashy ribbons.

  “I’m Don,” he said. “Live upstairs.”

  He gestured toward the staircase with a tip of his skull. And then he extended his hand. The same hand he used to jerk his dick, to scratch his low-swinging nuts and hairy ass, to pick at the funky stink between his toes, those incredible bare toes drifting in and out of focus at the periphery of my line of sight. The same hand that had delivered so much misery during my teen years, on courtyards and in locker rooms.

  “I know who the fuck you are, goat-boy,” I growled.

  “Huh?”

  The world plunged beneath a filter of red. Balling my fist, I swung, clocking the handsome moron on his chin hard enough to launch the cigarette from his mouth and knocking him onto his dumb ass.

  What felt like a very long time later, I blinked the red out of my eyes and shook out my hand. Donny-boy scrambled back to his feet and massaged his jaw.

  “What the fuck?”

  I knew he wouldn’t call the cops. Not my old pal Don’s style. What I didn’t factor into the knock to his noggin was that one punch wasn’t likely going to take him out of the fight. Don Lavallee was an animal. An injured one now, thus far more dangerous.

  He sprang at me, striking with enough force to tip me over. The room spun. Don scrambled on top, and his face—his rage only enhancing its handsomeness—got close to mine.

  “What’s your fucking problem?” he barked, spraying spittle.

  “You are, ball-sac!”

  I shoved. Don landed beneath me. For a brief and thrilling instant while our dicks mashed together, I assumed the Top Dawg position.