Best Gay Erotica 2015 Read online

  “No!” I breathed everything I had into his lungs. “No. He’s not dead.”

  “Mike, man, stop!”

  I refused to leave the remains until the paramedics confirmed his death and the medical examiner loaded the body into the back of a state truck and drove it off to the crime lab for an autopsy. When Sgt. Dupree opened his hand for my report, I didn’t look into his eyes, didn’t want him to see me near tears.

  “Do you need to go home, patrolman?” he asked, his voice too gentle.

  “No, sir!”

  “No one will judge if you change your mind. Everybody has days where they need to stop, take a deep breath and try again tomorrow.”

  Getting caught joyriding my niece in the cruiser and trying to resuscitate a dead body: two lousy rookie moves in the same day. It couldn’t get any worse. “I plan to finish my shift, sir.”

  I left. I’d rather face TV-sitcom-style hazing than my commanding officer’s pity.

  In the cruiser again, sadness turned to fury. Some poor boy’s potential was extinguished before the world discovered what he was capable of. No damn reason for it. No logic behind it.

  And my rookie glitch? It wasn’t over yet.

  My shift ended an hour and a half prematurely, with me on a street corner calling for backup. An older teen pulled over for speeding wanted to put up a fight, got out of his car pumping fists and kicking tires. Somewhere in the middle of the name-calling tirade and the stupidity of the whole day, I snapped.

  “I’ll even make it fair, boy.” I removed my belt and dropped it at my feet. “I’m no longer a cop. It’s just you and me. Let’s see what you got. Bring it, dumb-ass!”

  I was the clear winner in the fist fight until the passenger of the vehicle I’d failed to keep track of came out of hiding long enough to shoot me in the thigh with my own gun. Backup arrived in the nick of time to call an ambulance and put out an APB on the car I originally pulled over.

  I watched the rain crash into the big bay window in my living room, my hands clenched in fists pressed into the sill. The hospital had released me, officially healed, but I still felt a little stiff and sore, especially during inclement weather. And I still hadn’t been cleared to return to work. I wanted back, to regain my name, my reputation.

  That fateful day continued to replay in my head, over and over again, and I completely failed to notice the sergeant’s Escalade in my driveway until I heard a hard knock on the door. Fuck! On my front porch, Dupree held a large pizza and a six-pack of beer in one hand, the other raised to knock again. “Pizza delivery. I hope you eat meat.”

  “Yes, sir.” I let him in.

  “You know it helps if you actually look when you’re staring out a window. Nobody can sneak up on you and shoot you with your own gun if you’re more alert.”

  “It won’t happen again, sir, so have your fun. It’s the only chance you’ll get.”

  “You’re right. It won’t happen again.” He sat the pizza and beer down on the coffee table. “While you were in the hospital, a memo went out. No officer is allowed to remove his gun belt while on duty ever again.”

  Shit! I really had become the subject of a dumb-ass alert circulating the entire precinct. Would this glitch ever end? I started for the kitchen, offering to get glasses for the beer.

  “Don’t bother. Glasses won’t do anything the cans can’t do for themselves.” He pulled a manila envelope off the top of the pizza box, handed it to me as he plopped down on the couch and pulled the beer tab before taking a swig.

  I sat down on the other side of the couch and stared at the envelope I’d let fall to my lap while Dupree went for his first slice of pizza. He nudged his head toward the football game playing on the TV. “Who’s winning?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention.” “That’s a fucking sacrilege.” He took another bite.

  We watched the game and ate in silence. He popped the top on a second beer, and after a hearty gulp, he looked down at the still-unopened envelope in my lap, his face a blank. I hesitated. I wasn’t confident enough. How could he not notice?

  He took the remote and silenced the TV. “You return to work the first of the month. That’s your paperwork. I don’t want you going in like Rambo, crushing anything that keeps you from regaining your reputation. And I don’t want to see a timid little rabbit, afraid to come out of hiding. Just do what you were trained to do and, please, try to stay alive out there.”

  Dupree ran his index finger along the line of my jaw and held my chin a little longer than casual or appropriate. “You have such a pretty face. I’d hate to see a perp blow it off because you did something stupid.”

  I yanked my “pretty” chin out of his grasp despite how his touch aroused me. It was my only response to his words.

  “There’s the spirit I remember. Thought Hello Kitty snatched it from you. Or else it bled out with that silly flesh wound.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “And there’s the holier-than-thou cop royalty that thinks it can speak any damn way to a commanding officer. I miss that most of all.”

  If I sat on the couch and continued to watch him laugh at me, I’d say something to get myself fired for sure, so I rose from my seat and made every attempt to leave the room. Dupree stopped me, accidentally grabbing my injured left thigh. I winced and hissed out loud, dropping back into my seat in pain.

  “I’m sorry, man,” he whispered and slid down into my personal space. Despite my anger, my dick, where all the blood flowed, responded to how good he smelled, the firm touch of his hand on my shoulder, the focus of his gaze on my lap. Unlike the last time, I had nothing to hide this rapidly growing erection with. My attention centered on his Adam’s apple and the movement of his lips.

  He leaned in closer. Our mouths almost touched. I tasted his breath.

  “Mike,” he said, “would you report me for sexual harassment if I said I wanted to fuck you?”

  “Nope,” I replied. “After all, you were a perfect gentleman and bought me dinner first.”

  Dupree kissed me as he pushed me back into the couch. We made out like teenagers until our dicks grew granite hard. He lined my erection up with his and dry humped me, then replied to my groan with, “I have a condom in my back pocket. Please tell me you got some lube somewhere in this damn place.”

  “In my bedroom. Want to go in there?”

  “No, I want to fuck that tight ass of yours right here on this goddamned couch.” He reached underneath me and squeezed my left asscheek and ground his cock against me even harder. “Now go get that lube so I can test that rookie ass and see what you’re made of.”

  “I think you just want to stare at my ass while I go get it.” My sassy mouth earned me a smack on the backside.

  “I am watching. Make it count!”

  When I returned to the living room from my quick mission, with lube in hand, he surprised me again. He came up from a direction opposite the couch and pinned me against the wall.

  I looked into his eyes and watched him lick his lips as his face drew closer. I smelled beer. Dupree pressed kisses at my throat and down my neck. He bit into my shoulder. He opened his belt buckle and lowered the zipper of his fly—mmm, interesting; my boss went commando.

  Dupree stuffed my hand down into his open fly and urged my fingers around his dick. “Do you feel how hard that cock is?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s going to feel so good being buried in your ass, pumping you hard and filling you with my come.”

  He led me to the couch where he pushed me onto my back and gently lifted my injured leg to make sure it was secure and snug against the cushions. Then he straddled my chest and offered the head of his cock to my open mouth. It was already a little salty with precome as I swirled my tongue around the tip. And even though I was on my back with him straddled on top of me, I was still in complete control of the man who ruled the majority of my day. Whether it was this thought or that he simply tasted so fucking amazing, whatever it was, I plann
ed on milking his balls dry.

  I sucked so hard that he exited my mouth with a loud popping sound and a grunt. “Damn, patrolman! I want some more of that.” He shoved his dick back in my mouth.

  I played with him, wrapping my palm around the base of his cock, blocking him from introducing his dick to my tonsils. He’d get deep-throated as soon as I retaliated for his earlier insinuation of me being a cross between a cop prince and a pussy. Let him beg first. I sucked, tapping my tongue against the little dent under the head and swirling it around his cock in ways that made him grunt and push harder, forcing me to take more of him. I was injured, not weak, and refused him his way. I riled him up and left him there, taking him from my mouth as I looked up into his eyes and grinned.

  He smiled down at me, not the least bit humbled. No begging for mercy. “I showed you mine, now let me see yours. Put this hand to better use.”

  He took my fist off his dick, stood up next to the couch and pushed my hand down toward my crotch. My choice of easy-access black sweatpants and loose-fitting boxers came in handy, making it much easier to pull everything out and leaving my hard cock and balls hanging over the waistline. I pumped until I grew harder and the veins along the side of my cock became even more pronounced.

  “Impressed?”

  His smile deepened, revealing a hit of a dimple in his left cheek. “Not bad for a rookie.”

  I pulled him back by his cock toward my horizontal position and again stuffed it in my mouth. This time I gladly introduced him to my tonsils. He felt me swallow. I’m sure he had to hold back. Yeah, Sarge, ain’t bad for a rookie at all, huh? He tossed his head back and closed his eyes, but yanked out before he could come.

  His cock, red and swollen, covered in spit and tapping at the patch of sand-colored fuzz covering his lower belly, made me hungry to see it explode. Dupree motioned for the lube I’d dropped in favor of his cock.

  “Get up. Lean over the couch cushions.”

  He used his thigh to part my legs and pressed his hands into my back. He pushed me into the cushions so hard I had to turn my face to the side to keep from suffocating. That sideways position gave me the perfect view of him putting the condom wrapper between his teeth and ripping it open. Using one hand to keep me pinned down, he extracted the condom with the other and rolled it over his cock. The lube he took from my hand, popped the top with his thumb and poured it, cold and sticky, all over his cock and into the crack of my ass, using way more than necessary. He probably enjoyed making me dirty, smearing it all over the place and stuffing a good portion of it into my asshole with his thumb.

  Dupree pressed his cock against my ass and pushed, giving little time or prep for me to accept him. My sphincter fought even as I swore out loud, “I’m not stopping you.”

  He slowed down, focusing his attention on the scar on my upper thigh where the bullet I recently took left a permanent reminder, and gently stroked it. He slid into my ass, stretched me out, making sure that I’d never forget that I’d been fucked by him, that I’d feel him even after he pulled out, and for some time to come. He set the rhythm. I clutched the couch cushions with the same grip he used on my hips, and between hard breaths, he mumbled, “I didn’t say you could quit stroking your cock, patrolman.”

  I took my cock in hand and stroked it. With the constant pressure he put on my prostate, I came hard and fast. He rode me deeper, and with a solid bellow, his crotch convulsed against my buttcheeks and he filled that condom up, just as promised.

  After he disposed of it, we both sat down semi-naked and completely rumpled, this time much closer, with his arm around my shoulders. I glanced over at the manila envelope I’d tossed on the coffee table.

  Dupree said, “I came to see you a couple of times in the hospital, but you were sleeping. You put a scare in me, you know.”

  “I scared myself, too, but I’m ready to get back to work.” “And you’ll do great things. With time and experience.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t believe I made so many mistakes.” He mumbled back, “You learned being a cop is not a game and it’s not a fairy tale. It’s very real and very dirty. Once you learned that, you quit being a rookie and started being a cop.”

  Payment in Full

  T. R. Verten

  If Spencer had known that morning that he’d end up flat on his back, balls-deep in the babysitter, then he would have mopped the kitchen. Or he’d have swept, run the Roomba, called in Lupita to give the place a once-over. Beneath the thin fabric of his dress shirt, unidentified bits of grit rub against him, keeping perfect time with the slight movement of his back across the floor. His pants and boxers are shoved down his thighs, his tie hangs loose around his neck and his second-best jacket lies crumpled on the floor. Now, as he grits his teeth and the edge of the kitchen cabinets blur into focus, he can see the tufts of dust gathering there, puffy wisps caught on the molding that really should be vacuumed up, and a cluster of Cheerios that he must have missed the last time.

  The cold of the tile seeps through what clothing he still has on, but the chill only contrasts with the naked heat radiating off of Josh Winters, hired for one night only, a junior at Penn, dual major in international business and child psychology—who’s right now riding Spencer’s cock like it’s his job. From his position atop him, head tipped back and flushed chest thrust out, battered red T-shirt pulled over his head to expose himself, Josh the babysitter can hardly tell what’s on the floor and he’s probably seen worse housekeeping in other men’s houses.

  Other men. Spencer’s rational brain, the bit of his cortex that’s managed to retain coherent thought beneath the debilitating fog of pleasure, screams its distaste. Wrong, so fucking wrong to hand over a stack of twenties to a skinny white kid half his age, with his young daughter asleep right at the top of the stairs. At least she’s a heavy sleeper and is unlikely to wake up even with Josh moaning as he rides him. He does this with all the single dads, Spencer thinks, maybe even the married ones. His own hips slow with the realization. Josh notices his employer staring blearily off to the side, because if Spencer looks down at his own cock, or up at Josh’s red-cheeked face, he’ll shoot his load without so much as a warning.

  “Too much?” Josh asks through breaths that come heavily. He places his hands on Spencer’s pecs to steady himself and switches both tempo and movement, grinding his hips forward and back, slowly fucking himself on Spencer’s cock. Whimpers escape from his parted mouth, moans that sound delicious, even if they’re mostly fake, every time Spencer slides home.

  “Mmm,” he hums, appreciatively, as Spencer’s hands grasp for purchase on the slick tiles. He reaches down without ceasing the torturous pace that has Spencer nearly crawling out of his skin, takes Spencer’s useless hands and guides them to his hips. “Hold on,” Josh instructs, “and let me take care of you. I’ll make you feel so good, so good. God,” he groans as Spencer thrusts up into him, chasing that tight heat, “you feel even bigger than you look.” Spencer clenches his hands against the jut of bone and slick skin and he turns his head again to look at the dusty Cheerios.

  * * *

  As it turned out, the Friday before the Super Bowl, while not on quite the same level as New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day, proved difficult for finding a last-minute babysitter. Spencer had called Nicole, her number still on speed dial, before remembering she’d left for her second semester at Brown weeks ago. His mom had her Bible study group on Fridays. Could you find a babysitter on Craigslist? Spencer wondered. Was that even safe? If he’d had time to screen better, maybe. He typed in “emergency babysitter” and clicked through the listings, mouse hovering over the hyperlinks.

  So engrossed was he in the cross-referencing of badly designed websites and Yelp reviews, he hardly noticed that Ming-Na had slunk into his office, quiet in her soft-soled Prada driving moccasins. He suspected this allowed her to sneak up unannounced, thus terrifying her coworkers. “You have the numbers for the three-thirty?” she asked, right on cue. Spencer minimized th
e browser, hopefully before she had time to notice his personal web surfing, and pulled up the Excel file. “I’m tweaking them right now.”

  “You’re coming?” she asked. Her stare bored into him. Spencer’s absences from the Friday closing meetings had been piling up since early April, when his home life went to pot. Even before that, it’d been a balancing act, but at least with one parent staying at home it had been so much fucking easier.

  “Not this week,” he said, hiding two of the twelve columns from view and rubbing his eyes. “I have to pick Shauna up from school and take her to piano. I’ll finish the landscan at home and email it. End of day?”

  Ming-Na frowned, severe bob swishing around her face. He clicked around as she stood there, waiting to see if she would mention it. Single parenting wasn’t helping his chances at making VP before the end of the fiscal year.

  “And Jamal?” she asked, after a long silence.

  Spencer let out a sigh. “If he wants to drive here from Rehoboth,” he told her, “then yes. But we both know he’s too busy with”—he clenched his jaw—“that asshole Ian to see his own damn daughter.”

  The name had the effect of switching her right back into business mode. “Send me the final numbers before you leave?” Ming-Na preferred to avoid personal shit at the office. Spencer, on the other hand, would prefer to pretend that Jamal had died in a horrific Amtrak accident. He fluctuated, most days, between seething hatred and moments of blissful ignorance, when he could forget, somehow, the shit-storm that was his marriage. Two years ago, Shauna had turned eight and Jamal thirty-four, which only now, Spencer realized in retrospect, had been the beginning of his early-onset midlife crisis. First he wanted to eat clean, which, okay, Spencer could do that. The three of them would eat dinner together, but the second Shauna was in bed, Jamal wouldn’t want to cuddle or watch TV, and he didn’t want to hear about Spencer’s day or office politics.