Best Gay Erotica 2015 Page 9

  I closed my eyes and didn’t argue. Abby knew her stuff. When Jeff’s fingers slipped down my cheek, I gave no thought

  to resistance because it felt good to be caressed. “Beautiful,” he said in a near whisper as one finger stole onto my lips. Here he lingered, tracing, then gently poked in to find my tongue. I couldn’t help but respond, licking the fingertip just the slightest as we enjoyed our little dance. I gradually opened my mouth to take the whole of the finger, then closed around it and began to suck. My cock stirred and I felt Jeff’s hand between my legs.

  It hadn’t mattered much who it was lately, so why stop now? Of all people, Jeff was the last I wanted, and yet I welcomed him. Maybe because what he was doing had such a quiet to it. No demanding, no pushing or prodding, no urgency. The hand below did little more than press my stiffening cock.

  Lulled into a blissful arousal, I let Jeff take charge. He slipped the finger from my mouth and lifted my shirt to rub my chest while I opened my eyes to see not the usual flush of passion, but simply someone who cared. Abby was doing what mothers had done for years: soothing an upset. I took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. “Feels good,” I said.

  Jeff kept rubbing, and I enjoyed the look on his face, which was just short of contented. Promise, maybe, like he knew about the long haul. He had to be rousing himself. No man would do this for other than his own purpose, yet it didn’t seem that way. His expression was wonderfully serene, and I noted he wasn’t much weathered with his years, though he’d been gray for some time. Blue eyes gave him a twinkling quality, and I wondered how they looked when he came, how his expression changed in climax. He was good looking, trim gray beard, solid body. Funny how I’d never really noticed.

  I sat up and pulled off my tee, which made him smile. Nothing was said, and when he unbuttoned my jeans, I raised up to let him take them and my underpants off. He surprised me by not going for my cock, his hand back on my chest. I was smooth but figured him furry as he had that bear look. “Your turn,” I said, and he nodded, stood, and shed it all. As suspected, gray hair covered most of him, running from chest to a stripe down his stomach that broadened to engulf a rising cock.

  When he stretched out beside me, I wondered for a second just what in the hell I was doing, but this was lost when he leaned over and began to lick my nipple. I responded by getting my fingers into that pelt of his. Soon he was nipping and playing, all so gently.

  I expected to be sucked off, but Jeff surprised me by not pouncing. I’d never known a man so restrained. Always, Tom included, especially Tom, there was that hurry toward getting off, that grab of the cock and the fierce sucking and prodding and licking until he put it where it belonged and took his pleasure. Attentions would be resumed after a time, but always the cock prevailed, urgency resurrected, maybe toward a different outcome, but always that rushed sort of passion. Now came the opposite, and I had no idea how to proceed other than go where Jeff led.

  Pulling back from my chest, he studied the whole of me, hand on my stomach now. “You are a morsel,” he said, and I found myself smiling just before he kissed me. Twenty-four hours before, or maybe even just twelve, I wouldn’t have permitted this, but I now gave myself over since I was being devoured in a most agreeable way. His kiss was soft and unhurried, his tongue exploring my own.

  I liked his beard, liked the smell of him, liked that his hand was in my hair as we kissed. I reached down to his cock, feeling my way along that descending stripe until I found the prick, substantial though not fully hard. When I took hold, Jeff’s kissing stopped and he thrust slightly to welcome me. Up top, he began to nibble my neck. “I’m going to have to fuck you,” he said.

  “Go ahead,” I replied, and I started working him. When I had him stiff, he pulled back, got a condom and lube, greased up and came back to me. Without a word he raised my legs and got into position. I couldn’t help saying, “I can’t believe this.”

  “Neither can I,” he replied as he pushed in. For a second he was quiet, eyelids fluttering before he began a gentle thrust. Once he got going, he fixed his eyes to mine and I saw the fire in him, ignited just like the rest of us, never mind the years. I grabbed my cock, but didn’t work myself, as I got that he was going to make things last and I wanted to stay with him.

  His prick was thicker than any I’d had, regular plug of dick, and it gave me a good ride, while Jeff’s expression remained controlled. Soon as he’d gotten past that initial awe at being inside me, he became that wise man we all knew, wise now in his sex, going at it steadily while I pretty much reeled. “Oh god,” I said as my juice began to churn. “You’re going to make me come.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  He never let up his steady stroke. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and he got red in the face, but he kept on like he could go for hours, which maybe he could. Maybe that’s what age gives you, trading three or four times a day for one big show. I began to pump my dick, and when the climax hit, I let go with everything I had, come along with cries, moans and gibberish. I pumped until I was dry, while Jeff kept drilling me. Finally, I was limp all over and my hand fell to one side.

  “Impressive,” Jeff said as he kept fucking. “You make me a happy man.”

  I wasn’t used to being occupied so long. Tom, despite his thirty-five years, tended to go quickly, much like the guys my age, like me. Now here was a man with a dick of iron who had the stamina to back it up. “You’re impressing the hell out of me,” I managed.

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet, kiddo.” He then shoved my knees back until they were around my ears and started ramming me like some charging bull. I began to carry on because nobody could stay quiet while getting so thoroughly reamed, and that’s what it was now, Jeff unleashed at last, grunting with each thrust, going faster and faster until he let out a roar and came. It was a good long one, judging by his staying with it, his prick stiff well after I’d figure it to quit. Awash now in jizz, there came that juicy fuck slap, and I got that he wanted to keep on with me. I lay happily done, smiling, basking, if that’s possible while full of cock. Finally, he pulled out, let down my legs, and crawled onto me.

  “Damn good,” he said.

  “No argument here,” I replied, and I gave him a little kiss. “You surprise me.”

  “Good. Surprises are good.”

  I wanted to say more, words boiling up like the tears had, but I got the idea he knew what he’d accomplished. Maybe more than I had. “How’d you get to be so wise?” I asked.

  “Comes with age. It’s not always welcome, though. Sometimes I long to be an impetuous twenty-two-year-old, except I wasn’t impetuous, even then. I’ve been careful my whole life.”

  “Well, I haven’t. Seems we’ve met in the middle.” “Not a bad place,” he said, kissing me lightly.

  From Here to There

  Xavier Axelson

  I pulled out onto the PCH and nearly collided with a motorcycle. To be fair, the Pacific Coast Highway is an emotional stretch of blacktop with long expanses of one-way-in-and-one-way-out driving along with beautiful ocean views striking enough to distract the eye and induce a wreck.

  By the time I hit the first red light, the diamond-bright ocean sparkling to my left and the magnificent blue sky above erased the panic of driving in chaotic weekend traffic. Perfect beach weather abounded, and cars, motorcycles and RVs crammed the PCH with their drivers’ hopes of hitting the sand, grabbing a beer and a meaty piece of halibut or bucket of mussels at any number of pricey hipster fish shacks that lined the coast. Sadly, I would not be joining them.

  The Santa Rosa wine trail beckoned with an invitation from Jeremy and Carl, two dudes who were getting hitched and had summoned their collection of friends and acquaintances to celebrate their nuptials at the Greenleaf Winery. Most of the people I knew were drunks, foodies and ambitiously lazy artistic types, so the magic word winery would ensure a radically full attendance.

  Hence my own eager and concentrated effort to avoid the myriad distracti
ons of the perfect Southern California beach day. Driving in Los Angeles is hideous (I’d rather have surgery), but wine and a good friend (Jeremy, not Carl) called, and so pedal to metal and all that, but then another light brought me to a halt and a motorcycle pulled alongside me. I don’t know if this is L.A. specific, but here, motorcyclists have an unnerving way of snaking up and between traffic within the blink of an overstimulated and often multitasking eye.

  I never saw him coming. The motorcyclist stopped, balanced for a second, then dropped one leg on my side of the idling bike. Legs are my favorite part of a man’s body, and bikers, goddammit, usually have incredible legs, not to mention great boots. This bastard was no different. His dark jeans were tight enough that his thighs looked as though they might split the seams. He revved the bike and his black leather boot pumped up and down, anticipating the forward thrust when the light turned green. He turned his helmeted head and caught me staring. The light changed, and before I blushed, he was gone.

  The highway narrowed into one lane on either side and snaked through rockslide-friendly areas without hesitation. Today, I barely noticed the masses of ever-crumbling rock walls; my sights were set on the deathtrap turnout ahead. As I passed, the now-familiar bike sped out behind me. The thrill of unexpected possibility made me smile. But the truck barreling toward me brought me back to earth, and I hugged the mountainous curves with little more than a prayer. The truck’s horn blared, and while we both avoided careening into the mountains or driving into the ocean, the motorcycle sped up.

  I ignored this game of speed up and slow down and focused on the swerving, curving terrain as I flicked on the radio. Hair metal all the way and the promise of multiple glasses of a dry pinot kept me semi-detached from compulsively looking to see if my biker kept in step.

  A particularly sharp curve brought out the daredevil in my companion as he appeared beside me, waved and then cut me off, barely avoiding a collision with a car full of teenagers coming in the opposite direction. I slammed on my brakes but ineffectively hit the floor with the wrong foot and squealed around the corner. The road straightened out but remained narrow. The cyclist slowed and I sped up. I didn’t know what this game was, but before I could make contact, he slowed down and I passed him. I slid my foot off the gas until my car drifted back and the nose of his bike could have kissed my bumper, but he cranked the gas and slid up alongside me. He then eased back and then sped up again as though massaging the side of my car with the invisible wind friction caused by our vehicles. This thrusting forward, then gliding back took on the rhythm of forceful fucking: vehicular and dangerous, but ultimately hot.

  Once he drove by me, then waited for me to catch up. When I did, he smiled and moved closer. “What are you doing?” I hollered his way.

  He stretched an arm out and touched the side of the car. I resisted hitting the brakes, but he slowed down. In my side-view mirror, I watched him glide along the length of my car, his hand sliding along the body.

  Startled, I pumped the brakes, but when I checked the rear-view, another car usurped his position.

  I’d lost him.

  Uncomfortable, shaken and aroused, I pulled off into the parking lot of a beachfront fish shack called Catch. I’d written last year, as part of my job, about the motley collection of seafood shanties populating the PCH, Catch being one of my top picks. Fried, grilled or broiled, they did ocean grub perfectly. Luckily, I found a parking spot behind the restaurant. Sweat trickled down my back as my dick pressed painfully against my zipper. I’d worn boxers, and the head must have poked through the slit because a wet stain had formed to the left of the zipper seam.

  After I ordered fried oysters and a beer, I scored a small wooden table. From my seat, the ocean glittered like a mass of liquid silver. The air smelled of the sea and delicious food. California coast at its finest, and despite my morning adventure, I couldn’t help but admire my surroundings.

  “One-thirty-seven!” a tinny voice bellowed over a static-laced intercom. “Order one-thirty-seven!”

  I jumped up and maneuvered through fellow patrons, nabbed my grub and headed back to my table, making a pit stop for extra napkins and hot sauce. The smell of the oysters made my mouth water. I spritzed a couple of lemon wedges over my feast and was about to dig in when—

  “Mind if I grab a seat?”

  The motorcyclist stared down at me. “You,” I stammered and dropped an oyster.

  “Uh-huh,” he answered and placed his helmet on the table. “So, you mind?”

  I shook my head, unable to process his arrival. “Order one-forty!”

  The motorcyclist looked down at the receipt in his hands. “That’s me.” He left to get his food, but suddenly stopped. “Need anything else?”

  When I answered with another shake of my head, he smiled and disappeared into the ever-growing crowd.

  “Fuck!” I gulped my beer and stared at the patio entrance, stunned. When he climbed the steps and caught me staring, I turned back to my plate. Sadly, my hunger had vanished.

  “Who are you?” I asked, once he sat.

  He’d ordered two whole lobsters and stared with obvious pleasure at his bounty. “Who cares?” He lifted one of the claws, snapped it off and extracted a lump of meat. “My first lobsters of the season.”

  The amount of drawn butter accompanying these crustaceans bordered on insane. He plunged the meat into one of the containers with his fingers. “You into lobster?”

  “Not as much as you,” I replied and watched as he eagerly sucked the meat between his lips.

  He laughed as he chewed. “Yeah, well, I don’t believe in moderation.”

  “Hedonist?” I asked.

  “Definitely.” He cracked another claw. “You’re not eating?” The meat plunked down into the butter. “Come here.” He extracted the morsel with butter-glazed fingers. “Eat.”

  “Seriously?”

  He leaned in closer. “Absolutely.”

  Resigned to the ridiculousness of the situation, I opened my mouth. The butter-drenched lobster meat slid past my lips, and when I accidentally-on-purpose sucked his finger, he smiled.

  “Good?” He removed his slippery digit and traced my lips. “Yeah,” I replied. Beyond his head, an older couple stared

  disapprovingly. “We’re being watched.”

  He stood up and collected two containers of butter. “Let’s go.”

  “But…”

  “Fuck, we’ll come back. Just follow me.”

  I followed him to the detached bathrooms behind the place. A man exited the men’s room and the motorcyclist kicked the door open before it closed.

  “Inside,” he instructed.

  The bathroom smelled of cleanser and piss, and I hesitated at the door.

  “You’re unreal,” he snorted, eyeing my crotch. “Let’s get you off.”

  At the insistence of my rock-hard cock, I relented. The door slammed behind me. He locked it.

  “Get your cock out,” he snarled as he pulled off his jacket. Unable to think with anything but my pent-up need, I undid

  my jeans and slid my shorts down.

  The motorcyclist dropped to his knees. “Fucking hot!” He leaned back, yanked his T-shirt over his head and rubbed my cock along his furry chest.

  The prickly sensation of hair against my cockhead made me squirm. I needed his mouth on my dick. “Suck it.”

  He grinned and nuzzled the head with his scruffy chin. “You’ve been thinking about me on your cock ever since I pulled alongside you.”

  It sounded like a question, but in my blue-ball state, it didn’t matter. “You’re crazy,” I replied in a raspy voice.

  He smacked my hard cock against his palm, making the muscles in my legs twitch.

  Seeing him on his knees teasing my dick made me dizzy. “Please,” I begged.

  The motorcyclist snatched one of the containers of drawn butter, removed the lid and poured the golden fluid into his cupped palm.

  “What are you—”

&nbs
p; The reply came when his warm, butter–soaked hands stroked my dick.

  “Jesus!” I fell back against the wall and groaned as he worked my shaft back and forth. Overwhelmed as I was by his masterful touch and our mind-fucking coastal cruising, my load desperately needed release.

  “Careful,” I warned and pulled away from his greedy grip, but he wouldn’t be denied.

  He replaced his hands with his mouth. Buried to the bristles, he slurped and sucked hungrily. Resistance inspired fervor, and unable to conjure the mental will to resist, I gave in and pumped my butter-slathered shaft deeper into his insistent mouth.

  “I’m gonna come!”

  There was a banging at the door.

  The motorcyclist didn’t stop; instead he undid his pants, jerked his cock out and spilled the entire second container of butter onto his dick.

  “Shit, fucking hell.” I couldn’t hold back. The banging became more urgent.

  “Coming!” Claimed by orgasm, I melted into oblivion. I bucked hard into his mouth, expelling my load down his gullet.

  Gorged on my spunk, he pummeled his prick until his own geyser erupted. His jaw tightened around my spent prick and he groaned and sucked until his ejaculation subsided. He then leaned back and wiped his chin.

  “That’s why I always get extra butter.” He got to his feet, pulled his pants up and toyed with the door. “Ready?”

  I’d barely tucked my cock away when he undid the lock. A man pushed his way in. “What the fuck?”

  The motorcyclist brushed past him and I followed. The man shouted something, but neither of us acknowledged it.

  “I’m hungry now,” I said.

  “That’s why I got two lobsters. Enjoy it.” He didn’t follow me to the eating area.

  “But, you?”

  “Go on.” He backed away. “See you on the road.” He waved and left me staring after him.

  Two hours later, parked at the Greenleaf Winery, invigorated and blissed out by the impetuous public suck-fest with the strange motor-head, I composed myself. And, yes, my hair was mussed up and my shirt buttoned wrong—hell my fly was still unzipped.