Best Gay Erotica 2014

by Larry Duplechan

  “A lot has changed since high school, Donny-boy,” I said, a smile I imagined looking quite mad blooming on my expression. “I’m not so easy a target anymore.”

  My dick grinned as well, trapped in my dress pants and pinned at an awkward angle in my boxers. I grew aware of its hardness, pressed against his, right as recognition dawned in my adversary’s pale blue eyes.

  “Cargill?” he huffed. “Cocksucker Cargill?”

  I drew back, ready to clock the fucker again, the scent of his body infusing my shallow sips of breath with ever more hypnotic power. But lightning-fast, Don flipped me back onto my spine and electricity rushed through my cells, launched from my dick as it rubbed against his thickness.

  “Fucking Cargill,” Don chuckled. “Nothing’s changed—you’re still some jizz-gulping cock-smoocher. Only older and probably better at it.”

  Don cuffed my wrists against the floor. I struggled, humped upward, saw stars as our cocks collided. The position put his sweaty armpits close over my face. Their ripeness filled my lungs. The manly stink of his feet drifted up and into the mix, too. I wanted to beat the fuck out of him. I wanted him to fuck me one iota more.

  A slippery grin broke across my old and current enemy’s mouth. “Cargill, what the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Paying my rent on time, moron,” I said. “I’m shocked that you don’t still live in your mom’s basement.”

  “My mother don’t have no basement.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right—because her house is on wheels.”

  Don made a face. I couldn’t tell if I’d pissed him off with the quip or wounded him. Maybe both.

  “Get the fuck off me,” I said.

  Don’s eyes narrowed. I could see the tiny wheels turning inside the pea where smarter men have brains. “No.”

  “I’m not playing around with you, dickhead,” I said. “You’re not gonna shove me into a locker anymore; or shove your dirty jockstrap in my mouth.”

  “You fucking loved that.”

  “I’m gonna love ripping your head off and making you eat your own asshole if you don’t get off me.”

  “You like me on top of you,” Don said in a metered voice. And then he smiled. “Oh, fuck yeah—you’re already boned up and dripping like a leaky faucet, dude.”

  Don unshackled one of my wrists and reached between my legs, the surge of itchy pins and needles so powerful that, at first, I didn’t realize I’d been released.

  “You fucking love it,” Don said.

  I slid my hand onto the bulge at the front of his crotch and discovered the idiot from upstairs loved it, too.

  Our eyes met, held.

  Don flashed a shit-eating grin. “You want my dick.”

  “And you want to be a guest on ‘Springer.’ ”

  My enemy’s smile waned. “You got a fucking mouth on you. How about I shut it? Stuff my hairy bone down your throat to quit all your bitching?”

  “You can try,” I challenged.

  We struggled again, but only to undo buttons and zippers. Clothes dropped along with inhibitions. Don’s balls, as meaty and hairy as I’d imagined while rubbing out my morning load that first morning on Height Street, tea-bagged my nose.

  “Lick the sweat off my nuts, fucker,” he commanded.

  And just like that, we assumed those old roles, tough guy and tool mastering the conquered and cock-lover. I drew in a deep whiff off his sac, grew higher on the stink.

  “Fuck,” I sighed, my breath tickling his balls a step ahead of my fingers. Then I sucked them, Don’s left nut first, his right second. Somehow, I managed to get both of his big stones in my mouth at the same time, something the fuck-tard clearly appreciated.

  “Oh hell, yeah,” he grunted, pulling up while I gulped down.

  The tug of war waged on his balls further loosened them. I rubbed Don’s nuts over my nose, licked at the funky patch of skin between his bag and asshole, stole a few licks on his pucker before the thrill of dominating me drove him to make good on the threat of filling my mouth with his meat.

  “Do it,” Don commanded. He smacked me across the face, driving home the level of danger that had jumped out of the past and into our present.

  The Mastered sucked the Master’s cock between his lips. Humming, I absorbed the details as, inch by inch, Don’s dick disappeared down my throat: long and lean, like the rest of him, with plenty of veins, including a thick blue one running along the underside ridge, his junk covered in musk-stinking fur.

  “Fucking cocksucker,” he growled.

  Sucking Don’s dick to the balls, I showed him that I was also the best.

  The stagger into my bedroom passed in the same violent blur as the kitchen’s playground-style scrum.

  “I don’t do this shit,” Don said, giving me a two-handed shove.

  “You fucking liar. I bet you crave dick more than I do.”

  Don pushed me onto my bed. “Fuck you.”

  “Prove it,” I reached into the top drawer of my nightstand, pulled out a foil packet and tossed it at him.

  Don caught the condom with an underhand grab. “I’m not a homo, dude,” he said, while rolling the skin down his dick faster than I’d ever seen a sock go on a cock.

  Don spat on his dick for lube, lined his head up with my opening and pushed. My cock, pinned beneath his taut midriff, nearly burst under the pressure above and beneath as he entered me.

  “Fucking animal,” I huffed. “Loser.”

  “Come-drunk whore,” Don fired back.

  “Stink-footed ape.”

  “I own your cunt.”

  “You should get so lucky, you stupid low-rent penis with feet.”

  In mid fuck-thrust, Don cracked up. I followed suit, set one hand on his chest, tracing circles in the sweaty chestnut hair, and pumped my dick with the other.

  “I think it’s gonna be fun having you so close to nark on.”

  “You shouldn’t do that too often if you’re not used to it,” I grunted through clenched teeth.

  “Do what? Nark your ass?” He slapped my thigh, hard.

  I winced. “No, bonehead. Think.”

  A few hours later, sucking on Don’s toes, I conceded that yes, fun times in this town that I suddenly loathed less were a definite possibility.

  HATFIELD AND MCCOY

  Jay Starre

  Just across the Kentucky state line in West Virginia, Bobby Hatfield ran a small filling station and garage. At only twenty-three, he was considered young to have his own business, but his rich Uncle Clay had been generous in providing the loan for starting up and Bobby had surprised everyone by working diligently night and day.

  Only a few miles back in Kentucky on the other side of the Tug Fork, the stream that marked the border between the two states, Sean McCoy worked at his daddy’s drugstore as part-time manager. He spent his free time taking college courses through the Internet and was determined to get an engineering degree—eventually. He had no intention of spending his whole life working for his daddy.

  Of course, every young man has to escape his responsibilities now and then. Sean McCoy had been feeling fidgety all that sweltering, late-July day long and finally decided he’d had just about enough of Aunt Bertha, Cousin Nancy Jean, and his mom gossiping in the living room about all their sinner neighbors; and his daddy and Uncle Mitchell on the front porch gossiping about their other dang fool neighbors who couldn’t hold their liquor or pay their bills. He’d gone to church that morning—all morning—and suffered through Sunday dinner with the relatives. Now, he just had to get away. He quietly snuck out the back door and slipped into the front seat of his pickup. He started it up and immediately gunned the engine to tear out of the driveway before his daddy could question him.

  He didn’t escape without notice. Mr. McCoy rose from his wooden chair on the porch and hollered out to him, “Where ya off to, Sean? Don’t you be draggin’ in late, you hear? You got to open up the store at seven A.M. in the mornin’!”

  Sean didn’
t bother shouting back, but did stick his arm out the truck window and wave as a tacit acknowledgment of the order. He grinned as he briefly fantasized raising his middle finger and waving that at his daddy; but he wouldn’t dare do that.

  Half an hour later, he was across the Tug Fork and pulling into a little gas station in West Virginia. At almost eight in the evening on a Sunday, he was lucky to find anything open.

  “Fill it up, please, sir.”

  “Sure thing, sir! Where y’headed? Come over the state line for some sight-seein’?”

  The lanky, redheaded attendant looked just about Sean’s own age, and he was pretty sure the guy was poking fun at him. Sean’s truck had Kentucky plates, but it was only a few miles back. And the “sir” he’d used was definitely offered with some grinning sass.

  Still, it was a nice enough grin, crooked and cute. The redhead was pretty dang handsome: green eyes, freckles across a strong nose and broad cheeks, dimpled chin. The guy was either attempting to grow a beard or he just hadn’t bothered shaving for the past week. He had a little gold earring in his left ear and a colorful tattoo splashed across one muscular bicep and bare shoulder: a bare-breasted mermaid was breathing fire and below the fish tail, the words CONFEDERACY FOREVER were emblazoned in bold blue.

  The fellow’s tank top and cutoff jeans were spotted with oil and grease stains. Sean wondered if his boss would have approved of his outfit, or his attitude. His own daddy would never have tolerated either one.

  “So, sir,” redhead asked, “What brings you all the way over to West Virginia on a Sunday evenin’? A bit of cattin’ around?” His smirk was matched by a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Sean suddenly realized he’d been caught in the act of checking out the attendant in the side-view mirror. He leaned out the window and turned around to look directly at the attendant as he filled the tank behind him.

  “It’s dang hot out tonight. I’m lookin’ for a spot to swim and cool off. I was thinkin’ of Crook Bend.”

  “Naw, that place is gonna be crowded with damn fools drinkin’ and fightin’ and such tonight. I’ll show ya a right nice spot. Just hang on while I close up.”

  Surprised and uncertain, Sean called out to the attendant’s back as he jogged over to the station door and slammed it shut, then locked it. “Won’t your boss be mad at ya for leavin’?”

  The attendant turned and flashed that grin of his. “I am the damn boss!” Then he jogged back to the truck, climbed into the passenger seat and settled beside him. It had all happened so fast, Sean couldn’t do much but laugh and go along.

  “Follow that dirt road. It’s not more’n five minutes from here. My secret spot. No one is gonna catch us skinny-dippin’.”

  Skinny-dipping? As the pickup began to bounce over the rutted track, Sean glanced over at his new buddy and wondered just how crazy this dude actually was. Swimming naked in a mountain pond wasn’t exactly scandalous—locals had been doing it for generations—but it sure wasn’t something his daddy would approve of.

  Another glance at that bold tattoo on the redhead’s muscular shoulder was enough to stir his already rising cock into a full-blown boner. He felt his face flush as his hands trembled on the steering wheel. How was he going to hide a hard-on if they were going skinny-dipping?

  The bumpy ride down the wooded track was all too brief as Sean unsuccessfully willed his stiff cock to subside. The redheaded gas-station attendant was no help in that regard. He chattered on about heaven-only-knew-what in that deep, sexy voice of his, smirking and winking. Then to make it all impossibly worse, he dropped one hand to clap it over Sean’s bare knee and squeeze.

  The road ended in a little turnaround with the dense oak crowding in on three sides and the stream burbling by on the fourth.

  “Here we are! Let’s get nekked!” Redhead leaped out of the truck before they’d completely come to a jerking halt.

  A rocky shore jutted out over a pool. It was definitely private, and it did look refreshing. Sean followed the redhead out of the truck and picked his way to the rocks. Red was already stripping off his tank top and cutoffs and dang! He wore no dang underwear! Now that was something Sean’s daddy would never approve of. The redhead faced away from him and Sean got a good look at the guy’s body: broad shoulders and muscular arms, a narrow waist and jutting butt. He was smooth all over and tanned, except for his blinding-white ass. Sean’s stiff cock throbbed at the view.

  True, Sean’s body was nothing to be ashamed of. He’d been working out with weights since he was barely a teen with his cousins in their garage. He wasn’t as tall as Red, but his body was thicker with muscle, and dusted with hair as black as the wavy hair on his head—inherited from his handsome daddy, along with his big brown eyes.

  The redhead let out a whoop as he leaped off the rocks and into the water. While Red was under the water and couldn’t see Sean’s boner, he seized the opportunity to kick off his sneakers, tear off his T-shirt and hop out of his shorts and skivvies.

  Just as the other boy came up for air, Sean jumped in. He wasn’t sure, but he feared those smoky green eyes had gotten a brief look at his bouncing hard-on before it disappeared beneath the water.

  Sean felt the cool water envelop him and prayed that his boner would subside. But as he too came up for air and began to tread water, he was embarrassed to realize he’d had no such luck. Especially since he faced his new pal, and he was close enough to touch.

  “Well, here we are,” the guy said, a little breathless from treading water. “So, you gonna tell me your name, now that we’re practically in each other’s arms?”

  “I’m Sean McCoy.”

  “Well ain’t that a hoot. I’m a Hatfield. Bobby Hatfield. A damn McCoy and a damn Hatfield nekked together.” Even though the feud between the two mountain clans was more than a hundred years in the past, smoldering resentments still existed. For many of the locals, the civil war had never ended; and neither had the infamous feud between the Hatfields and the McCoys. Many were the times Sean had heard his daddy and grandaddy say the Hatfields were “no good,” and “downright filthy.”

  “Sweet!” Bobby said through a grin. “Just don’t be telling your daddy, and I won’t be tellin’ mine!”

  By that point, the two had paddled their way a few feet closer to shore where the bottom of the stream was suddenly underfoot. Bobby rose to stand in front of Sean with his upper body exposed from just below the chest. Both of his perky pinkish nipples were pierced, a little gold ring shining from each. Sean sucked in a breath: he’d never, ever seen the like. This Bobby Hatfield was definitely something else!

  Beneath the water, a hand grazed Sean’s thigh. His body twitched and he gasped out loud. He flushed easily and he was sure he was beet red as he looked up into the bold green eyes and sputtered out a reply.

  “The last thing I’ll be doin’ is telling my daddy about this.”

  Bobby’s trademark smirk grew broader as that hand beneath the water suddenly found his bobbing cock, and grabbed hold.

  “So, you won’t be tellin’ daddy about this?” He squeezed Sean’s hard-on and began stroking it. “How about this?” Bobby leaned down and kissed Sean, opening Sean’s lips with his own and probing Sean’s mouth with his tongue. Sean’s skin turned to gooseflesh as he gave himself up to Bobby’s hand and mouth. Bobby’s other hand found his beneath the water and pulled it to his crotch. Sean found Bobby’s pipe-thick tool and immediately began to pump it.

  The Hatfield continued his sloppy kisses while he pushed his new McCoy pal backward and into shallower water. With their hands on each other’s rearing pricks, and tongues now dueling, Sean knew he was all in, whatever came next. The Hatfield boy obviously figured as much. He broke their kiss and fell to his knees in the water.

  “Time for me to suck some McCoy cock! You don’t mind waitin’ yer turn, do ya?”

  With a wicked grin, he dove for Sean’s twitching boner. Just as eagerly and sloppily as he’d kissed Sean’s mouth, Bobby engulfed the thick tube with hi
s lips and began to swab the mushroom head with his tongue. Sean groaned and shoved upward into the wet mouth as he leaned back and anchored his hands on the shallow bed of the pond. It was smooth rock like the shelf above and he squatted down on it and pumped his hips upward toward Bobby’s hungry mouth.

  The redhead worked on Sean’s quivering cock, sexy green eyes staring up at Sean with a brazen, daring look. Suddenly, still slurping cock, Bobby grabbed Sean’s knees and tipped him over backward. In a split second, Sean was on his back with his feet in the air. The water was shallow enough for him to lie back with only his torso submerged, his face and head above water. His eyes widened in amazement as he watched Bobby let his lips slide up and off his boner, then kiss his way down the underside of Sean’s dick, give one quick lick to his tightly-bunched ball sac, and finally plant one of his wet, sloppy kisses right-smack-dab on the dark-haired McCoy’s smooth, snug asshole.

  That was definitely a first for Sean. He thrashed like a beached fish in the shallow water, bare feet waving in the air, his heart pounding in his chest as he gasped for breath. Lips that had just left his cock now sucked his butthole. The fat, insistent tongue that had recently probed his mouth and then licked his knob, now poked at his quivering asslips.

  “Oh my lord!” he gasped. “What are you doing?”

  Bobby’s flushed face surfaced briefly. “Eatin’ yer butthole. What did ya think? Ahma sit on your cock next! Tell me to stop if ya can’t take it.”

  “No!” Sean stammered, “I mean fuck yeah! Eat my hole!” The thrill of the hot Hatfield boy tongue-fucking his hole—an act so nasty he’d hardly imagined people did such things—was nearly matched by the thrill of hearing Bobby talk so nasty, and then talking nasty right back. If Daddy heard that kind of language coming out of his mouth, let alone saw what Bobby Hatfield was doing with his mouth—he’d have a heart attack!

  At the moment, Sean felt close to having a heart attack of his own. His entire body jerked and splashed around as Bobby pulled Sean’s asslips apart with his fingers and stabbed at the gaping entrance with his tongue, tickled around the rim of it with rapid strokes, then jammed that hot tongue right into Sean’s gut.