Best Gay Erotica of the Year Page 3

  I knelt up and looked at him, running my palms over his body while he squirmed beneath me, watching me with heavy-lidded, dreamy eyes. His veins still bulged, and I found my hands drawn to them, the sternum, over the shoulders, the base of the neck.

  I salivated.

  Nope, I told myself. Not the neck. Not without some big-time anatomy research.

  And since when had the neck even become a serious option? One that turned me on?

  Jonathan writhed under my hands and wet his lips while giving me a very plaintive, deprived look.

  Suddenly, I realized I had way too many clothes on. I sent my Polo shirt flying across the room and unzipped my jeans, then shoved down my boxer-briefs. Jonathan tried to get his legs around me, but I flipped him onto his side, figuring I’d have better access to those veins in his shoulder if he weren’t bent in half beneath me. He sighed and stretched as I got behind him, pulled his leg up before groping for the lube. “Touch yourself,” I whispered, feeling like I was in a porn video myself, saying something so blatant. He purred a little and slid his hand between his legs, cupping his own balls, stroking them, while I in turn greased my fingers.

  My fingertips brushed his when I reached down to lube him. He mumbled an encouragement that was mostly lost in breathing. I pushed a finger in—he was so incredibly tight that I felt like we were teenagers and not grown men. I had this suspicion that I’d been his first, at least that way, though it’s always felt too awkward to really ask. “Do it,” he begged.

  I pulled my finger out and lubed myself up, stroking slowly, making sure I was hard, really hard. “Touch your . . . dick,” I managed.

  A breathy hiss, and I saw his arm change positions, his hand cradling it, stroking it for me.

  I set my forehead into the curve where his neck met his shoulder and pushed a couple of fingers in, pressing toward the sweet spot. Jonathan moaned and arched his back.

  “Come on, Mark,” he said, rolling the R just a little. “Fuck me.”

  I pulled my fingers from his tight heat and lined myself up there, fucking my fist while the head of it poked at him, prodding, getting a sense of his body. He arched hard, backing onto me, and I let go of myself and took him by the hip bone, dragging him back harder. He raised a leg up, spreading for me, and with a final, well-placed thrust, I was in.

  We both moaned.

  Once I was inside—so damn tight—he dropped his leg back down, tangling it between mine, his tightness becoming a glorious vise. A couple more thrusts and I didn’t give two damns about the blood, just wanted that tight hole gripping me, stroking me, that hard body under my hands to take and taste and use.

  Jonathan made the most exquisite sounds in his throat as he arched his back, pressing his rump into me, writhing in my arms. I crammed my forehead into his shoulder and felt sweat form between us, even though we kept the AC at a V-friendly sixty-five. I licked the salt of us from his shoulder blade.

  “Now.” He pressed a cold metal handle into my hand.

  I didn’t want to stop, but Jonathan had arched and held position with me pressed into him down to the balls. I took a shuddering breath and looked for a vein.

  I almost went for a big one on the meaty muscle between his shoulder and neck, but opted for a little more caution, at least for the first time around.

  First time? Like I could already see it as a recurring event?

  I slid the sharp little blade under his skin and put my mouth to it.

  Jonathan moaned, arched harder, managed to cram me deeper inside even though I’d thought I was as deep as I could possibly be.

  A hint of blood, and the tiny cut closed.

  “More,” he panted in a low, gravelly voice, grinding his bottom against me. I could feel myself throbbing inside him, that final climb approaching.

  I found that vein again by the tiny cut I’d made in it and once more slid the blade in, slicing the vein the long way, maybe a halfinch cut. I closed my mouth on it and sucked hard.

  Jonathan cried out loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

  It was only a little blood, but still, I was scared I’d hurt him.

  “Come on,” he panted, and thumped the floor with his fist for emphasis. “Really do it.” His hand was moving fast on his dick, his breathing shallow, hitching. And I didn’t think I’d hurt him at all.

  My body seemed to agree with him, warmth gathering in my balls, my palms; the soles of my feet going all pins and needles. That big vein was right there, urging me on. The handle of the X-Acto was slick in my sweaty palm.

  “Now.” It sounded so strangled, and his ass throbbed around me as he said it.

  A quick stick of the knife and I got my mouth on him and sucked. My insides exploded in a torrent of pleasure.

  In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t even the blood. It was Jonathan feeding me in his own moment of passion, and me drinking it, and the whole act escalating as it fed itself and fed itself, until it went nova.

  I’d pushed Jonathan onto his face as I peaked, like I could pile-drive him into the Berber. His arms were trapped under him and his hair hid his face completely. I peeled myself off his back where I’d been stuck to him with perspiration, and saw his ribs rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath.

  The cuts I’d made on his shoulder were nothing compared to the tooth marks around the biggest slice. A ring of red, straight lines for my incisors, with four black divots where my canines had bruised him.

  Jonathan rolled onto his back beneath me and his cheeks were flushed, looking so fuckable I could practically go again. He nodded at me, as if to say, See? I told you it would be amazing.

  I almost asked him if it had hurt, but of course it had. And then I told myself the question was probably irrelevant.

  “Come here,” he whispered, and pulled me down into a slow, gentle kiss. I shivered as sweat evaporated from my body, as his hand trailed down my side, settling low on my back.

  When we broke the kiss, I stared into his eyes, even though we were too close to see properly. “Was it . . . good?” he asked. And not as a way of saying I-told-you-so—or at least that wasn’t what I sensed.

  Good? Lord have mercy. I nodded.

  He let out a breath and hugged my head to the crook of his shoulder. “Then think about seeing the dentist and having your fangs sharpened. Don’t say anything now—just give it some thought.”

  And wouldn’t you know it, that idea sent a naughty thrill through me, too. I pressed my face into his hair. That was the price I paid for marrying the world’s most notorious vampire. Just when I thought there was no other possible way to corrupt me, he managed to offer yet another wicked temptation.

  FOURSOME

  Gregory L. Norris

  You tell yourself that you’re not there yet. Far from it, actually. Eyes half-shut, high on the raw scent of sex between men, you spread your legs, which are bronzed from so many days working in the sun, and flex your foot. Warmth and wetness glide between the big toe and its longest, nearest neighbor. One of the three young men on the bed is licking that part of your anatomy. Normally, that would be an unthinkable act. Who in their right mind shoves his tongue on another dude’s feet? In this business, you remind yourself, every visible part of a man’s physique is somebody’s favorite fetish, even—and sometimes especially—his size-twelve boats. It’s all part of the show.

  And, to your surprise, it’s kind of a rush. You remember splashing in puddles on a lost summer afternoon when it rained and, somehow, the sun was out. You catch yourself smiling; growl out a happy, breathless, “Fuck.”

  The face down at your feet smiles, too. You forget his name. Rico? No, Raul. He ups the pleasure by licking slow, damp figure eights around the rest of your digits. To your left, the blond dude has already ascended to the prize between the other naked alpha male’s hairy legs. The bed’s a California King, but you and he—the alpha’s name is Riley—you’re sitting ass to ass, and so you feel his muscles tense, swear you can feel the suction of the blond guy’s mouth on Riley’s impressive cock, which matches yours in length, girth, and majesty. Same deal with what you both pack beneath your bones. Riley’s balls are hairier. You trimmed yours a week ago—not for the video shoot, but because those long days in the sun painting houses make yours sweat enough without all that extra fur.

  Riley’s worshipper—Sam, that’s his name—is amazing. Clearly, he loves what he’s doing, and with his fresh face and athlete’s body, you wish he’d spit out the thickness in his mouth and show yours a little affection. But Raul, apparently satiated on your foot-sweat, has begun advancing up your legs, licking you from hairy ankle past shin to knee, then thigh, and at long last reaching your balls.

  As for Raul, if this wasn’t some fly-by-night foursome taped for horny viewers to jerk off to the world over, you might ask the adorable, dark-haired imp who’s happily enjoying your maleness out for a beer, followed by a repeat performance away from the pair of cameramen recording every detail. Yeah, you’d like that. In fact, you’d welcome the drink and the company of any of your costars on this crazy, unscripted story of two masculine alphas and the subservient beta males who worship them.

  But back to the movie. Thankfully, you’re not there yet, Logan. There being that point in a mainstream porn performer’s career when he’s squirted so much of his whitewash that the money shots are meager, a drop that amounts to pocket change, and the dude’s balls have shriveled up, darkened in color, turned to shoe leather. Worse, rawhide. There are men in the business, you know from jacking off in front of your tablet, that look like they’ve got an iguana hanging beneath their tired dicks instead of scrotums. That’s not me, dude, you think. There’s no spiny-crested lizard dangling beneath your root, where your balls used to be. This is a one and done situation, this
porn shoot. Unless, of course, you get desperate again for the rent. Everything in this college town has gotten so damned expensive.

  Your balls haven’t shriveled and dried to desert, you notice, when you focus down on Raul, who’s presently licking up and down the steely column of your shaft. Your nectar flows, proof of life. Your mind attempts to darken your mood again: what happens if someone recognizes you after this goes live? It will play forever across the Internet, saved to favorites and playlists and illegally shared long after DesperateCollegeJocks.com fades into history.

  Maybe you’ll finally score a decent date, the devil on your other shoulder jokes, and your smile returns. You’d like to date any one of these guys, even your fellow alpha male. Or shoot hoops with Riley at the basketball net in your driveway, where you mostly play solo games.

  The two disciples change religions. Raul moves over to Riley, while Sam’s mouth takes you fully, right on down to the balls. Riley moans and presses against you. You not only feel his arousal, you share in it. At one point, the other alpha leans his head on your shoulder. You experience the scrape of Riley’s five o’clock shadow over your cheek at just after eleven on an overcast summer morning. Electricity crackles. The dude groans again. Not sure why, perhaps still thinking there’s love here—brotherhood of a kind, at least—and you nuzzle against him. Riley faces up, and your lips connect. Kissing another male, especially one like you, a jock, an alpha, is nowhere near as questionable an action as you thought when you signed on to do this.

  “Just see what happens,” you recall the director with the deep pockets saying when he laid out the scene and offered you a cool thousand bucks to kick back, spread your legs, and have your body glorified. “Only do what comes naturally.”

  Lips crush together. Riley’s tongue stabs at your teeth, seeking permission to enter. You grant it, and the sensation is nearly as powerful, as wonderful, as Sam’s deep-throating of your cock. Riley’s mouth tastes as good as any female’s you’ve made out with. Better, because it’s Riley. Natural. From somewhere beyond the tableau of the hotel room bed, you hear the director grunt in approval. Director? Such a generous title. He’s no more one than you’re a bona fide porn star, though, right about now, you sure feel like one of the brightest objects in the universe.

  Riley: one of his arms is a canvas of barbed wire in ink, and what looks like a Chinese symbol. At that moment, through slitted eyes, his body art strikes you as rivaling that of the most famous works in all of human history. You’ll never forget it, even after you’ve both nutted into the faces of Raul and Sam. They probably won’t either. Riley’s version of the Mona Lisa and Michelangelo’s David and the first cave paintings done by prehistoric man will feature prominently in their future jerk-off fantasies, too.

  Or maybe it’s only you still holding on to the belief that this is somehow more, bigger than a paycheck, a job. Maybe it’s a glimpse into what could be, not only for you but also them. Shit, your inner voice gasps, as your mouth does the same around Riley’s in real time. How fucking awesome it would be to have this, not just for the time it takes you to shoot your wad, but every day for the rest of your life! You sure could get used to it. Riley as well, judging by the way he nips at your mouth in reaction to Raul’s worship. He seems to want to capture your gasps of joy.

  Wish in one hand, shit in the other, as your old man used to say—usually when insulting any of your dreams, crushing them more often than not. Happiness that runs so balls deep is impossible to maintain, and you feel it bubbling up inside you, starting at your well-loved toes. You spit out Riley’s tongue, clamp your molars shut, and trap the howl as it powers up your throat.

  Sam’s expert attention to your cock’s needs pushes you past the edge. Your entire body sparkles with the kind of energy and fire that first gave birth to the universe, only this Big Bang is on a cellular level. Sensing this, Sam draws Raul over, and both adorable faces savor your climax, their lips moving up and down either side of your shaft. The cameramen swarm closer—you’ve forgotten about them until they dart in to capture the first blast of your seed as it geysers between your worshippers’ attractive smiles.

  “Fuck yeah, dude,” Riley sighs.

  Through the rush of pins and needles and heat, you see his sexy grin, urging you on, giving you the porn version of a sporty high five in another kiss. It’s that connection that does it for you more so than the smiles making your cock spit before gulping down your nectar. Riley’s kiss. Oh yes, you sure could enjoy that in the days that make up the rest of your life.

  Your wave crashes, but Riley’s is about to start, according to his moans. Raul and Sam are kissing, their mouths wet with your seed. Riley’s grunts alert them to his nearness. They scramble over and assume a similar position, with Sam leaning over your member toward the other alpha’s. You clamp down on Riley’s mouth with a kiss. He busts, struggling against your hug, a young man experiencing the best climax of his life, you wager. The two beta males lap, kiss. Your cock aches—not from being spent, no. Quite the opposite. It’s still hard. Beyond stiff. It—you—crave more, more. A lifetime’s supply.

  Fresh sweat glistens on Riley’s chest and arms. His ink and artwork do the impossible by becoming even more attractive. You struggle for breath, watching as Raul and Sam clean up the dregs. Then they’re kissing while getting themselves off. One comes in his hand and licks his fingers. The other follows suit, and they kiss some more. The room reeks of manly sweat. Outside, thunder rumbles, as though to signal that the dream has ended.

  There’s more, sure. The director has all four of you jump off the bed. The quartet ambles into the bathroom for a shower, which, of course, will be videotaped for bonus footage. Raul comments on how hard your cock still is, even gives it a playful tug.

  “Staying power, dude,” you say, cool as January.

  Inside, however, you’re all tied in knots, beyond confused and burning up.

  Riley runs the spray and gets in. You test the water and then follow. It’s a big standup shower that easily accommodates four. This isn’t really about getting clean, anyway. It’s about the betas rubbing the alphas’ backs with soap, washing their muscled butts, lathering up their crotches. Your cock is beyond ready for a repeat of what you enjoyed in the bed. This time, while the two worshippers worship, you lean against Riley and find him receptive, wrapping an arm around your furry waist as water cascades and steam obscures reality.

  At one point, you boldly reach a hand behind you, seeking his cock. It’s hard, too. You pump it with a few firm jerks, no longer worried about labels, only love—or the nearest thing to it.

  Back in your truck, which is four years old and starting to show some wear, you’ve composed yourself. Your name is Logan. You work painting houses, which is backbreaking in the summer and scarce come November. You’re employed by a dude who doesn’t pay you fair wages for the amount of work you put in. As a boss, you’d do better, you often tell yourself.

  You rent a house. It has two bedrooms, a private driveway, and a basketball hoop. One day, you’d like to own the place. You’ve never been late on the rent before—which is why you did a four way with three other dudes. For all his degrading, your old man has never once taken into account how responsible you are when it comes to paying your bills on time.

  It’s a college town, with plenty of energy. You didn’t go past your freshman year here, took the job painting houses. Given the turnaround of tenants, someone’s always needing a room painted or a fresh exterior. You work hard for scraps.

  Days after the shoot, your flesh is still electrified. Constant beating off won’t keep your cock down. The warm, new summer breezes, scented of pinesap and humidity, leave you wanting, remembering. At the end of long workdays, you strip out of your sweaty socks and boxer-briefs and steal deep whiffs off them, imagining the scent as being Riley’s. The bar of soap in your shower reminds you of Raul. While driving to the job, you pass a dude with blond hair jogging along Front Street and swear that it’s Sam, though it isn’t.