Best Gay Erotica 2015 Read online

  The glass clanked on the table and the biker leaned back, grinning.

  “You like my bike.” Statement, not question, though in his beautifully lilting French, it made Chris’s cock throb.

  It took Chris a few moments to respond. “It is a very nice bike.” What the hell, like he was complimenting him on his latest tie. Like this guy ever wore a tie.

  “You’re not French,” the biker said. Chris shook his head. “Australian.” “Ah. Kangaroos.”

  Chris normally would have rolled his eyes, but instead nodded.

  “Lots of space to ride in Australia. The…Outback?” He said the last word in English.

  “Yes, that’s right. The Outback.” Where the fuck was this going?

  “You like bikes?” “Yours is nice.”

  A quirk of his mouth, and he said, in English, “You wanna go for a ride?” It would have sounded cute had his voice not been so deep, like the hollows of a canyon.

  Chris wanted to say—but Sensible Chris stopped him—I’d much rather ride you. “It is very hot. Too hot to ride,” he said instead.

  “I manage.”

  Chris said, a little bold, “In leather?”

  The biker chuckled. “Still need to protect myself.” “You could still take it off.”

  “And you’d like that, I think.”

  Um…

  The biker leaned forward and spoke softly so only Chris could hear him. “I said, you’d like that. To see me undressed.” Chris couldn’t move now. His fingers clutched his water glass.

  It felt like it was boiling under his hand.

  “Yes. Yes you would. You want to see me undress. And then fuck you. Maybe I could do that right now. Will I take you to the fountain, bend you over and fuck you with everyone watching? I could do that, you know.”

  Sensible Chris reasoned that even the French weren’t that liberal minded. Chris himself believed that the biker would probably do just that if he didn’t say anything.

  Chris leaned in closer and said, “Be better if it was on your bike.”

  “My bike is very precious. Couldn’t get it dirty. And I think right now you are hot and dirty. Let me fix that.”

  And without warning, the biker picked up his water glass and tipped it straight over Chris’s head.

  The water crashed over him. The shock of the cold and the bits of ice startled him. Chris made a sound, half yelp, half bark. His vision blurred as the water splashed down his front and back, soaking his hair and shirt. Drops caught in his beard, small as it was, and he shuddered, the blessed relief of it, even as the gathered customers gasped and the man next to him leapt up to get away from the water.

  They would have been kicked out, even if Chris hadn’t glared at the biker, making a thumbing gesture down the road.

  “My place. Since your bike is too precious.”

  Euros clattered to the table, and behind them quiet mutterings from the customers and tut-tuts from the waiter faded quickly away as the biker, hands in his pockets, kept pace with Chris.

  He’d never picked anyone up so publicly before. “It’s a small place,” Chris said.

  “It’s Paris. And you’re not making me dinner.”

  They got to the entrance, and as Chris keyed in the code for the front door, said, “I’m Chris.”

  The biker clearly thought about it before giving his name. “Jean-Baptiste.”

  French names had a way of sounding way too classy for the people bearing them.

  The stairs were like a mountain hike, Chris’s cock growing heavier in his shorts with each step. Jean-Baptiste stepped close behind him, breathing on Chris’s neck, brushing a finger over the back of Chris’s T-shirt.

  When they reached the top and Chris’s room, Chris turned to Jean-Baptiste, expecting a falling into each other, a violent clash of limbs and tongues and hands. Instead, Jean-Baptiste gave the eleven square meters a sauntering tour, peering out the window, scanning the desk, inspecting the tiny fridge. He pointedly ignored the little bed, practically a cot.

  “You have beer?”

  Chris frowned, but before he spoke, Jean-Baptiste had opened the fridge and was yanking a 1664 out. He grinned. “Bottles too.” From out of his pocket came a Swiss army knife, and in seconds he had it open and was sucking down the bubbly foam.

  Chris folded his arms and tapped his foot. Jean-Baptiste gave him one of those Yeah-what? looks, but before Chris could sigh, frustrated, Jean-Baptiste was in front of him, kissing him with an open, beer-tasting mouth and pressing Chris against the door.

  There was the friction of Chris’s stubble against Jean-Baptiste’s smooth cheek. There were their bodies, still sweaty, Chris’s T-shirt sticking to him from the water, his shorts clinging even as his cock was desperate to spring free. It rubbed against the thin material, aching to breach the denim of Jean-Baptiste’s jeans. His right arm felt the cool of the beer bottle Jean-Baptiste still managed to hold. It was the one cold part of his body.

  Jean-Baptiste swung back and dropped to one knee. He pulled Chris’s shorts down, and Chris groaned as his hard cock at last was released. His foreskin had crept back, making the head prominent and red. He bucked his hips forward, hoping Jean-Baptiste’s mouth would open willingly, but Jean-Baptiste instead pinched the base with his still-gloved hand, holding the cock still, and held the beer bottle alongside it.

  Chris beat the door with his fist as the chill rocked from his cock up his spine. “Holy fuck!”

  Jean-Baptiste smiled and rolled the bottle down the length and nudged it back and forth around the corona. Chris hissed between his teeth and grabbed Jean-Baptiste’s shoulder with one hand as he braced the door with the other.

  “Jesus…Jesus Christ,” he gasped.

  Another smile, and Jean-Baptiste rolled the bottle around the head—a brief relief, the sensation not as cool or sharp—then down the other side. The same act was repeated on the edge of the corona, like he was trying to pull the mushroomed head right off Chris’s cock. Chris kept hissing, wondering when it would stop, hoping it wouldn’t.

  When Jean-Baptiste did finally cease and desist, he swung the bottle to his mouth and gulped down half of it. His Adam’s apple bobbed, his cheeks were concave and all Chris could think was that his cock would fit so well in between those lips.

  He was so fucking grateful when Jean-Baptiste passed him the bottle and told him to drink and not spill anything, then sunk his mouth onto Chris.

  The wet heat brought Chris back to full attention. He tried to drink as Jean-Baptiste sucked, tried not to choke as Jean-Baptiste started alternating between bobbing up and down, actually sucking with his lips, to tonguing his foreskin and pulling it up over the head and back down again. So fucking good it almost stung the rest of his body, almost burnt Chris all over.

  Jean-Baptiste pulled back. “Drink. All of it.”

  Chris obeyed, and as he chugged back the last of the beer, Jean-Baptiste deep-throated him. Chris swallowed, trying not to choke as Jean-Baptiste’s cavern of a mouth and throat undulated around his cock. He didn’t cough when the beer was done, but expelled a long stream of steam-like air, sounding like an engine about to explode.

  Jean-Baptiste relented and Chris sagged back, bottle still in hand. Jean-Baptiste caught him, stood and urged him toward the small bed, pulling his shorts all the way off.

  “T-shirt,” he said.

  Chris obeyed, leaving the bottle to one side. “Lubricant?”

  Chris went to stand. “I’ll—”

  One hand pushed back on his chest. “Where?” Chris pointed. “Bathroom.”

  Jean-Baptiste went, leaving Chris on his elbows, naked and desperate to come. He found it swiftly and came back, tossing it next to Chris, and finally removed his leather vest, though not the gloves.

  Naked waist-up, his still-wet hair falling over his shoulders, thin lines of blond hair over his chest, Jean-Baptiste looked like a wildcat: lean, ferocious, hungry. Chris lay back, the willing prey, his legs opening farther without him thinki
ng about it.

  Jean-Baptiste crouched between his legs and gave his cock one long lick. Chris bit his lip. Jean-Baptiste unpeeled the glove off his right hand, then picked up the tube of lube and spread a dollop on Chris’s hole. It was warm from the heat of the room. Chris waited for the gentle prizing of Jean-Baptiste’s finger, but instead, Jean-Baptiste pushed two of them right in and crooked them upward.

  “Oh god!” Chris stiffened all over, but the digits slid in with little resistance.

  “Good, yes?” Jean-Baptiste spoke in English as he held his fingers still, pressing right on Chris’s prostate. “You like?”

  Chris nodded, the only part of his body that moved, except his cock, which jerked a little at the sound of Jean-Baptiste’s voice. Jean-Baptiste noticed the twinge, and curled his leather-covered hand around Chris’s cock. The sight made Chris’s balls tingle.

  Jean-Baptiste leaned forward and said, “Good.” And he began to move his fingers in and out, in and out, slow and steady.

  Chris fell back on the bed, his elbows giving way. Jean-Baptiste’s fingers worked him without allowing a moment’s breath, pulsing right into Chris’s prostate. His hand pumped, squeezing Chris’s cock in counter-time to the pulses. Chris could have died happy there and then, with the heat of the room, the leather rubbing up and down along his cock, the long fingers inside him, and above him, lion-like, Jean-Baptiste with his wild hair, grinning with all his teeth, nodding with each jerk Chris made, each time the pleasure heightened, each new rise to the peak.

  Suddenly, he hit said peak. Chris came, his ass gripping on to the fingers, his cock spurting come onto the black leather of the glove, Jean-Baptiste laughing with proud, arrogant pleasure. He withdrew his fingers and held his glove up to Chris’s mouth and told him to lick it. The leather’s strange smoothness and rough taste mingled with the tang of his come could have made Chris hard again.

  Then Jean-Baptiste pulled open his fly, which was all buttons, his own cock bursting free from a thatch of dark-blond hair. He knelt on the bed and reached to grab the back of Chris’s head.

  “Now you suck.”

  Exhausted but willing to comply, Chris’s body shook as he turned over and took Jean-Baptiste’s cock—delightfully musky, salty and sweaty—in his mouth. He did so little work, as Jean-Baptiste thrust his hips against Chris’s face, holding his head in place, that Chris only had to relax his throat as it went deeper and deeper inside. It didn’t last long. Jean-Baptiste came quickly, not pulling back from Chris, making him swallow everything. Sensible Chris squeaked about STDs. Chris himself drank with relish, even pulling back to give Jean-Baptiste a few final, cleaning licks, a cat lapping up the last of the milk.

  They met each other’s eyes, Chris staring up, gasping, stunned, waiting for the biker to make the next move. Jean-Baptiste smiled, smug, and bent down, taking Chris’s cheeks between his hands as he kissed him.

  “Now,” he said, against Chris’s mouth. “We shower.”

  Chris expected that after they washed—squashed together in the tiny square of the shower cubicle, each nuzzling lazily at the other’s neck—Jean-Baptiste would up and leave. After Chris sought some food for both of them in the fridge and found none, and they went to the brasserie opposite from where they’d met, he expected Jean-Baptiste to head over to his bike, suit up properly and ride off down Boulevard Saint-Germain.

  He expected the same when the sun started to go down, the heat mercifully dropping a little, when they left the brasserie and went to a bar two blocks down. They drank Belgian beer as Jean-Baptiste sat with his hand on Chris’s thigh, occasionally smiling at the stares from others and raising his glass with a wink.

  He didn’t expect, however, Jean-Baptiste to finish the glass and turn to him and tell him to go back to his room, put some jeans and strong shoes on and meet him back at the bike. He obeyed, even as he imagined that he’d arrive back in the street to find Jean-Baptiste gone. Instead, he found him leaning on the bike, helmet on but visor up, a spare dangling from his hand.

  Chris glanced back to the brasserie they’d sat at. The waiter was still there, looking at them, shaking his head, somewhere between perturbed and amused.

  Chris pulled the helmet on. “Where are we going?” “Anywhere.” Jean-Baptiste pulled his visor down and eased the bike upright, kicking up the stand. Chris got on behind him, at first gingerly taking Jean-Baptiste’s waist, until Jean-Baptiste pulled his hands forward so he had a firm grip. The Harley veered off the curb into the traffic. The heat of the day vanished as air rushed cool around them, the bike throbbing under his thighs, and Chris smiled under his helmet, clinging to the warm and solid form of Jean-Baptiste in front of him.

  Feygele

  Alex Stitt

  I study men like an ornithologist studies birds. The blushing robin, twittering with excitement, the mysterious, yet all too obnoxious crow, even the balding vulture, pecking at my body for some small morsel of affection—all fly in this menagerie of men. And like an ornithologist I tour, Europe mostly, working as a travel writer, though the most exotic species I ever found was in an alley of London proper.

  I had just ended a three-month relationship with a leggy, flamingo-like drag queen, and was on my way home from a disappointing rebound date with a staunch penguin trying so comically to act straight. It was raining at dusk. I was dreaming about real Mediterranean sunsets, since there was no sun in Westminster’s overcast sky, only an eerie, gray hue before nightfall.

  From the queer, neon-lit nightclubs of Soho, I dashed over to Covent Garden, having rented an oversized closet with a radiator that my landlady boasted as a flat. I was almost home when firelight exploded between two buildings. Looking over, I saw the usual flock of drunks and ravers, starry-eyed with lager and ecstasy, just as a second fireball illuminated the brickwork. Back-alley street-performers weren’t uncommon in Westminster, though few were bold enough to bring fire. I would have walked on had I not caught sight of him.

  Trailing two flaming chains along the ground, he spun in a crouched circle, his excess fuel flaring a crackling ring around him. He was black and wet, and as he rose the flames swung from his hands, illuminating his body with dancing shadows. Unlike certain flashy flamingos, this one lived for physicality, but he wasn’t like the cockerels I saw prancing in the gym; he was lean, sylphlike. Muscles would have only gotten in his way, and when he moved the fire orbited his graceful motions. I would have liked to think he saw me, but I was just another owl-eyed figure cooing at a distance.

  Wrapping myself up in my scarf, I continued on home.

  “You got a haircut. I like the faux-hawk thing. It suits you.” “It’s just easy,” I said as Michael leaned into his end of the

  webcam. He was clearly in Japan. I could tell by the paper lanterns decorating his fantastic view of a room. We’d dated, briefly, after discovering we were both travel writers aboard the same cruise. He was a hummingbird type, fluttering from cocktail glass to cocktail glass with seemingly endless energy. He approached sex the same way, and I found myself quickly kissed, topped, adored and abandoned. And now? I was just one of his countless webcam friends, smiling back at him, though he was the only one I had left.

  “So are you gonna talk about it, feygele? Or do you want me to just leave my laptop on again? I could, you know.”

  I winced. Feygele was his little nickname for me, an odd derogatory nicked from his Yiddish grandmother. He said it was cute. He said it meant “little bird.”

  Behind him, the raised outline of a bedsheet revealed the pert arse of his latest dozing flower. Sometimes he left his webcam on so I could spy on mute, jacking off to his exotic Asian adventures from my pathetic, box-room flat.

  “You would like this one.” He grinned. “He’s got tattoos. I think he might be in the mafia. So if I go missing, tell the children I never had that I died doing what I love.”

  “Rimming?” “Rimming Yakuza.”

  “Model parenting,” I said, defogging my glasses. The square frames
were starting to bend, but I couldn’t afford a new pair. Not until my next assignment, anyway.

  At least the radiator kept the place hot.

  “So you dumped the queen?” he went on, raising his 7:00 a.m. coffee.

  “Her majesty reigns no more,” I nodded, opening a 10:00 p.m. beer.

  “I thought you liked that one.”

  “I did. He just liked himself more.”

  “Well, darling, this might just cheer you up.”

  Six thousand miles away, on the far side of a lagging Ethernet connection, Michael slid aside his bedsheets, revealing his guest’s morning wood. Most cocks I’d encountered lilted to one side, but as he rolled over, it stuck straight up, inviting Michael to lick his way from base to tip.

  The guy was ripped, with a swath of geisha-koi-fish-dragon tattoos wrapped from his back to his pelvis. His spine arched as Michael slid his lips up and down, simultaneously holding one finger in front of the laptop to shut me up. With his face in a bush of uncut pubes, he hit the mute button, hiding my little screen. I could still see everything, but Michael’s guest couldn’t see me.

  Sliding my hand into my jeans, I ran my palm along the length of my shaft. I typically liked to jack off inside my clothes. The friction against my inseam rubbed in just the right way, but tonight I was restless. My date had been a bust. Penguins made poor substitutes for flamingos, and I hadn’t been laid in a week.

  In the land of the red sun, Michael was performing his famous hummingbird lick-fest, with one hand cupped between the Mafioso-samurai’s legs. Michael had a talent for fingering and sucking in one bobbing, harmonious motion.

  In London, I stroked, half-mast. I wasn’t ungrateful for the game, but my heart wasn’t in it, and I tugged at my foreskin now and then to remind myself what I was doing. I remembered when I used to be Michael’s little feygele, his one and only little bird, but I was tired of being kept. Michael said I was a pragmatist. He said I was a sparrow.