Best Gay Erotica 2015 Page 2

  But that wasn’t what he wanted, and you don’t want it either; you and he both want action; he wanted me to fuck him, and you want to fuck him, and you want me to fuck him, and, obligingly, I did just that and can I tell you, are there words to express the pleasure he gave me and the joy I gave him, retreating, utgop, his love muscle releasing me reluctantly, advancing, qwertyuiop[r, his dew drop opening in welcome, my temperature rising, my cock rising, dflke, and my fingers smash the keyboard in my excitement, and I’m trying to keep coherent, because we’re almost there and I pounded into him, I screwed him, I made love to him, and he enveloped me, and I grabbed his cock, and it was like grabbing a crowbar—I said that already, I don’t care—I want to fuck him and fuck him and fuck him and he was clenched around me the way your fist is clenched around your dick, and I was panting the way you’re panting now, the way I want you to be panting now, as you try to focus on the page, the book balanced on your heaving stomach just as I was balanced on his sweet sweet sweet—and I couldn’t hold back, I screamed and I creamed and I yelled and I shook 7.0 on the Richter scale, oh, forever, please forever, and I felt his prick jerk in my hands and he spumed all over my fingers, and I came again, I’m coming now punching the keys with one hand, and I ran rivers in the landscape of his rolling hills, and let go, let go, let me bring you with me over the precipice, I will fuck you, you may fuck me, oh don’t stop, don’t ever stop, we are so fucking beautiful, we are so beautiful fucking, and finally we will both howl like night creatures baying at the moon, the moon we reach in our ecstasy—AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!—and you anoint my words, you gush, you flow, and the print runs until you cannot read it, and my story disappears into your fist.

  Choice

  Rhidian Brenig Jones

  “Fifty quid. The two of you, together.”

  My English wasn’t as good as Sebastian’s, but when there’s a hand on your thigh, you don’t need a phrase book. The creep had been giving us the eye since we walked in the door. Nothing new in that; we’re cock magnets, after all, but I was amazed the guy had the balls to make a move. He shuffled closer on the seat, and I took a hit of denture-breath from moist liver-lips.

  He plucked at the seam of my jeans. “All right, sixty. Make it sixty, okay? I got a place we can go.”

  I put my beer down and leaned back against the vinyl to give him the full breadth of my chest. His eyes zeroed in as I slipped my hand under my shirt and scratched lazily at the fuzz around my navel. Sometimes, in the mornings, I find Sebastian’s hairs there, caught silky black among the blond—sometimes other things as well. The thought bloomed in my cock, and I smiled as I lifted the veiny, unwanted hand away. “Jeśli dotkniesz mnie jeszcze raz, złamię ci te pierdolone ręce.”

  “What? What did you say?”

  “He says,” Sebastian murmured, looming over his shoulder, “touch him again and he will break your fucking arm. Touch him again, I will break the other.” He cupped the old fool’s jaw, then clapped sharply, setting the gray jowls jiggling. “Go!”

  “Nice,” I commented as I turned my head to the side. “Jezus,” my lover complained, reverting to Polish. “I go for

  a piss, and you’re hitting on someone.”

  “Hey, the man made a fair offer, seeing you were involved. If I’d been on my own, he’d have made it double.”

  We downed our drinks and I followed him as he weaved through the crowd at the bar, loving the long line of his back, the way his ass moved. Kevin, the fat boy from the baker’s, was yanking his darts from the board. His Tweedledum face lit up when I winked at him, and then I felt sort of bad. He’s got a bone for us, but Kevin’s okay, slips us doughnuts, no charge.

  Outside, the evening air was still and cold and smelled faintly of hops from the brewery on the outskirts of town. I bounced on the balls of my feet and looked up. Default setting for an English sky: cloudy.

  “You want a threesome, Kevin’s hot,” Sebastian said, beginning to walk. “Plenty of him to go around, at least.”

  “Had him. And his mother. And the dog.” “Dog any good?”

  “German shepherd. Fabulous. But he never called.” Halfway down the hill to our flat, one of the dozens of derelict chapels in this bleak Lancashire town towered black against the skyline, its graveyard desolate, choked by knotweed and bramble. Halloween, hammered after Jarek’s party, we’d made out on a grave, but I’d got so freaked thinking of Carrie that I had to hang on to Sebastian the rest of the way home, screw the risk. He stopped and gripped the fence railings and pressed his forehead to the bars.

  “Come on,” I said. “We’ll be late for James.” “Piece of shit.”

  “James is a piece of shit?”

  “The knob in the pub. What the fuck did he think we were?”

  “Broke.” Migrant workers. Job-hungry sucklers on the British tit. Good enough to suck on a British cock.

  He pushed away from the rails and turned to face me, his luscious mouth down-turned, threatening an A-grade sulk.

  I stepped gently on his foot. “Lighten up, for chrissake. It’s not like it means anything.”

  “It does to me. Fucking old twat.”

  I smiled and shook my head: I love a man with values. “That’s it, isn’t it? He was old and he was ugly. What if he’d looked like Kuba? Or Tomek?”

  “If he looked like them, he wouldn’t have to pay.”

  I gave it a few beats. “Okay, anyone, take anyone. Would you ever do it for money, period?”

  “If I thought I’d get anything for it, I’d sell your ass tomorrow.” The rails were crusted with rust, and my heart began to race as I waited, watching him pick and probe at a paint bubble. Eventually, he shrugged. “Maybe, if he was a total babe and his wallet was as thick as his dick.”

  I curled his fingers around a pound coin. “Two out of three. What do I get for my money?”

  We’d made love before work, quick, urgent, no foreplay, but my cock stiffened like it had a year before, the night I first met him. We’d abandoned the club and, dry-mouthed with anticipation, I’d led him through Kazimierz to my flat, our breath smoking like incense in the frosted air, our boots crackling on the iron ice of a Kraków winter. His mouth had scalded me, and when he’d taken me, he’d taken my soul, as well.

  His beautiful eyes roamed my face. “The weekend,” he said softly, replying to my question. “What we did during the weekend. But this time, you do it to me.”

  Something whipped in my gut, then lunged and struck. Sweet venom spread, began to seep from the tip of my prick. Kurwa, to fuck, that’s what we’d done. When it was over, he’d washed me, his hands tender then, loving. He’d pressed his mouth into my hair and held me, rocking and murmuring, his strong arms locked around me long after I’d stopped shuddering. And maybe that had been the best part.

  His voice was husky, caressing my cock like a warm, wet tongue pulling through my urethra. “You loved it, didn’t you, dziubuś? Yeah, you loved it.” He swung my hand to his crotch, my knuckles brushing his powerful erection. “You love me?”

  “Always,” I said, because it was true. He nodded at the graveyard. “Want to?” “No time. James, remember?”

  “Fuck James.”

  Oh, yeah.

  Back in the summer, Ray, the builder we worked for, had wind-milled his arms at me across a stack of reinforcing mesh.

  “You live near the Catholic church, don’t you? Drop this through the letterbox on your way home, will you?” He’d held the invoice at arm’s length, squinting. “Bugger.”

  “What?”

  “Flooring for the church hall. New fella there. I’ve let him have it cost.”

  “Yes? This is good thing you do, I think.”

  “Glad to hear you say that, my friend, because you’re going to be laying it Saturday, you and lover boy.” He’d smirked and licked the envelope. “Father James Danaher. Said he might drop in, so make sure you’re grafting.”

  Laying a floor is hard on the back; as the day wore on, it had got harder on the c
ock.

  We’d looked up to see James, the priest, crabbing his way around the edge of the room, surprising in jeans and a faded Diesel sweatshirt. Almost, I’d thought. Almost. Nature had penny-pinched, grudging him millimeters, a subtlety of angle that would have transformed okay into fucking knockout. Medium build, tall enough, but nowhere near Sebastian’s stunning height. Cropped dark hair, receding slightly. Wide-set eyes that were an indeterminate gray. Blunt nose above a long upper lip, the cleft in his chin fractionally off center. You know the type: nothing to write home about but you wouldn’t smack his mouth off your dick if he offered. Then he’d smiled, and for some reason my stomach had turned over.

  He’d been keen to help, and though I suspected he’d be as much use as tits on a fish, I’d handed out some grunt work, nothing he could fuck up, getting down on all fours to clean up around us. I’d studied him when he wasn’t looking. Sexy ass, the bulge of his balls neatly bisected by the seam of his jeans. Solid thighs, looked like they’d be corded with muscle, the kind you want gripping your hips, locking as orgasm hits. Sebastian’s raised eyebrow had brought me up short. I mean, if it’s breathing, generally in working order and has a Y chromosome, I’ll fuck it, but a priest, well, there was still a lot of Catholic in me.

  Mid-afternoon we’d sat on some boxes and cracked the cans we’d brought.

  “You think you’ll settle in the U.K. for good?” James had asked.

  “Perhaps,” I’d said, the mild ache in my groin intensifying as I watched him scratch at scabs of cement on his ankle. “We like it here, but talked about Holland, too.”

  “Holland, yes,” Sebastian had said. “I like Holland. Good place.” He’d reached out and squeezed the back of my neck, let his hand lie there for a moment, then trailed a fingertip to my throat. “In Poland, it is not so easy for us.”

  In the months that followed, we’d seen a fair bit of James. He’d talked us into playing for the church soccer team, and one time we’d even gone to Mass, but only to see if he looked hot in his vestments. If he had a rare hour free, he’d call and we’d practice some simple phrases so he could tangle his tongue with the influx of Poles who’d tripled his congregation when the borders opened. Friendly enough, but always on his terms. Unconcerned by our loathing of the Church, seemingly cool that Sebastian and I were lovers, his own sexuality remained a no-go area, shut off behind a wall of reserve. But we knew. Back in the church hall, Sebastian had caressed me, and James’s mask had slipped. Two men had touched and something had flared behind his pupils, raw and voracious—for a split second, he’d been revealed. I’d never seen that look again, but, Jezus, I wanted to. The memory of it buzzed in my blood like amyl.

  Sebastian eyed me curiously. “Pierdolone, what’s wrong with you? If you want him, we’ll go for him. You think we’ll fry in Hell if we mess with a holy man?”

  “No…yes. Shit, I don’t know.” Truth be told, I was scared, scared we’d make assholes of ourselves. Scared of coming on to him and seeing this grave and dignified young priest draw back, frowning in distaste. Or worse, smile understandingly. Pityingly.

  I pulled at my lower lip. “We don’t know for sure he’s gay,” I said lamely.

  Sebastian snorted. “He’s as queer as you are, and you know it. But there’s no point sweating it; the man couldn’t fuck if he wanted to.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Baby, baby, you should’ve paid attention in catechism class instead of playing with your little pee-pee. First week in the seminary, priests get their dicks cut off. The gay ones, they take their balls, too. They got this instrument like a giant nail clipper, machete blades with a spring. Whack! All off, right down to the pubes. They just leave a little hole so they can pee.” I digested this information in silence as he worked the key into the door, grinning at me over his shoulder. “Think about it. Two holes. Two really tight little holes. You and me, doing him. Doing him till he cries, then shooting in his ass, shooting in his bladder.” His tongue came out and lapped the air. “Yum.”

  I slapped his own crazy ass into the hallway. “You’re a deeply disturbed man, Sebastian.”

  “Why you love me, kochanie. It’s why you love me.”

  I cradled the beer against my chest and gave the bathroom door a thump. I did it again, and Sebastian shouted something I didn’t catch over the rumble of the shower.

  James had arrived early. He stood in the living room, leafing through an old copy of Polska. He looked good, the outline of his torso and a shadow of hair just visible under a cream linen shirt, but the thought of him naked made my guts flip. Naked and reaching for us, stiff cock swaying above low-slung, semen-rich balls. Pointless balls. We’d asked him once whether celibacy extended to masturbation, and he’d flushed, hadn’t answered. Sebastian, being Sebastian, had persisted. “You must do it, yes? How can you not? You are what, thirty? You are young, not old like the other priests.”

  We’d spun a fantasy when he’d gone. James in his lonely bed. Arms bent up under the pillows to keep his hands off his prick. A sudden flexing, the cottony brush of the sheet and his stifled groan. Because despite his prayers, the punishing penances, his body rebelled, craved what was eternally forbidden to him. Loving words in the night. The sandpaper scrape of a jaw, but the tongue soft in his mouth. The male fist tight on his cock—

  “Polish is one hell of a language,” he said, folding the newspaper.

  “You can read some now?”

  “A few words here and there. Thanks. Cheers.”

  “Na zdrowie. You know, is the same when we learn English, at first is very hard for us—” He wasn’t listening. He was staring, slack-jawed, at something behind me.

  I spun on my heel. Sebastian was lounging in the doorway, naked but for a towel around his neck. His erect cock jutted, as hard and aggressive as a rhino horn. “Hello, James,” he said pleasantly.

  “Jezus,” I croaked. “Co ty do cholery robisz?”

  His smile broadened. He beckoned me abruptly. “Zamknij się. Chodź tutaj.”

  Dumbfounded, I obeyed and crossed the room to him. He caught me in his arms and turned me and kissed the side of my neck. My lover’s eyes are neither blue nor green but a changeable shade on the cusp of both. When he’s aroused, the irises rim the pupils like shards of aquamarine. I knew what those eyes would be doing to James.

  “You are well, my friend?” His fingers moved deftly on the buttons of my shirt.

  James raised his head. His color had drained but his gaze was steady, and in a cold corner of my mind I thought, Atta boy. He spoke quietly, without emphasis. “You trying to shock me, Sebastian? Outrage a priest? Is that what you want?” Amusement bubbled in Sebastian’s voice. “Outrage? What

  is that? I want nothing. I have what I want. I have Piotr. But do you know, perhaps tonight he is not enough for me. Or I for him.” He licked the nape of my neck, slowly, shiveringly, up into the short hairs. “Do you like blond men, James? Handsome blond men like Piotr?” He opened the last button on my shirt and eased it off my shoulders.

  Christ knows how he did it but James kept his eyes on my face.

  “See?” Sebastian purred, sliding his palm. “Look at his chest, his skin, so smooth, so fine. Such skin. Would you like to feel it on you, James, covering you? It would be fantastic, believe me.”

  More than the press of his prick, I felt the hammering beat of his heart. He licked me again, and this time I thought he’d bite, bite like he does when I’ve made him crazy and he has me pinned and sobbing and there’s a leopard on my back and its great cat cock is in me and I cry out at the spray of its semen.

  “I am a priest,” James said. “You are a man first.”

  Sebastian unzipped me and tucked the band of my briefs under my balls. “You do not want him? Even though he is so beautiful? You are sure?” He circled a finger around the overhang of my corona, then drew the skin right back. “You are sure?”

  The room became still. James’s gaze turned inward, and a fleeting, puzzle
d expression passed over his face as if whatever he was searching for had gone. I heard the pain in his sigh and the mourning for what he had lost as, at last, he dropped his eyes to my cock.

  * * *

  “On się spuścił,” Sebastian said flatly.

  I jerked my arm away and looked down. A puddle of semen overflowed James’s navel, one thick rivulet breaking away to run to his waist. He’d come all right.

  He’d been shy, his skin sticky with nervous sweat, so we’d taken things nice and slow. With tongues and searching fingertips we’d prolonged the foreplay, ratcheting up his arousal by ignoring his cock and finding other places where our touches made him moan. His ears and the backs of his knees, his stiff little nipples erect in their ruffs of hair. More than anything he’d liked kissing, and we’d indulged him until our lips were as swollen as our dicks, the skin around them pink with stubble burn.

  Sebastian had finally picked up the pace. He’d pulled out of James’s arms and tilted his hips at me. One milking squeeze of his shaft, and my hand had been slicked. I’d leaned over James and spread my fingers to make a web, the fine filaments glinting in the lamplight. Gently, I’d laid my hand over his mouth and nose. “Smell, James. Sex.”

  Thinking about it, he hadn’t come as much as leaked, the cream oozing from his untouched dick in an incontinent dribble.

  Sebastian blew out his cheeks. “Idiota.”

  “Idiota?” I arched across James, and a tongue-span away my man’s cock reared to me, exposing the smooth underbelly, the delicate tie pulled taut and glistening. Sebastian lifted off his heels so that I could do what he wanted, but I reached past his balls and stirred my fingers through the hair on his perineum. I swirled my tongue in a mime around his glans, connecting with only my breath. “Idiota?”