I evidently doze just long enough for Marc to finish with his other patient. Perhaps it’s the sound of his softly closing the door to my room that wakes me. I watch through half-open eyes as he moves quietly, first pulling off the top of his scrubs—one step forward again!—then sitting on the floor in front of me with his legs crossed. He lifts the foot of my gimpy leg carefully into his lap. He holds it with the fingers of both his big hands and massages around my toes.
“Mr. N., it’s time for some leg exercises.”
I open my eyes fully and nod.
“When I push and bend your foot toward you, use your muscles to resist it.”
We do twenty of those. I focus on his big, strong hands while I flex my leg muscles.
“Good, good. Now the opposite: as I bend your foot toward me, resist the motion.”
Again with his big, strong hands! His fingers feel remarkably warm and comforting wrapped around my toes. How unfortunate we only do twenty of those with each foot. I think I could have done hundreds without getting tired or bored.
“Excellent. Next I’m going to lift your leg up a bit….”
I wince but for no good reason. His touch is sensitive and nothing about it hurts.
“Now I’ll support your lower leg and foot, and I’m going to flex your thigh muscles by moving the foot first back toward you, and then moving it forward toward me, just this slowly.”
Toward me, toward Marc. Toward me, toward Marc. He establishes a slow, steady rhythm that is almost hypnotic. Toward me, toward Marc. My foot is right at the level of his chest but I manage to avoid the strong temptation to tweak his nipple with my big toe. Toward me, toward Marc, toward me, toward Marc.
It feels good; can this be physical therapy? It is relaxing and it loosens the thigh muscle in a good way. Here’s the problem, if it is a problem: the rhythmic motion is also sliding my shorts in syncopation up and down my other leg, arousing me very effectively, and my erection by this time is becoming rather insistent, not to mention quite evident visually. It’s already peeking out a couple inches past the bottom of my shorts. Ah, well, Marc is a health professional, right? Seen it all before. Maybe he’ll interpret it as positive body language.
Marc continues the rhythmic motion, nonplussed. “Personally, I always think that an erection is a good sign.” (Toward me, toward Marc.) “It shows that the pain and discomfort are reducing enough”—toward me, toward Marc—“that you are coming back into contact with the rest of your body”—toward me, toward Marc—“and your feelings. Is this your first time since the surgery?”
“Yes it is. In fact, it’s my first now in about three weeks.”
“Excellent! In that case, we must celebrate!”
“Yes,” I say, looking into his eyes, “we must definitely celebrate.”
With no more warning than his smile, my big toe and its two nearest neighbors disappear into Marc’s mouth. Oh, my beard! I have heard talk about this, but I am certain that I’ve never had my toes sucked before because I know I would have remembered. Who knew that one warm, wet, nubby tongue licking and caressing and probing between one’s toes could feel so remarkably good? The tingling goes all the way up my leg, probably promoting more healing than all the leg exercises combined. Can one come through the toes? My passing thought is to hope that my ecstatic moans would be interpreted in the hallway as the wholly routine and nonsexual groans that usually accompany physical therapy. But I don’t worry enough about it to stop.
The first-course shrimping cocktail ends all too soon, and I very narrowly avoid an orgasm from the appetizer! Marc continues to puff soft jets of breath over my still-wet toes, producing an indescribable cool-warm sensation. The effect is one of impish mischief.
“And now, Mr. N., what is your pleasure for the main course?”
“Alas, Marc, the condition of my leg precludes certain activities, but I don’t think that need limit our fun. Sometimes it’s best to return to basics and enjoy the simple pleasures, don’t you think? I would very much like to suck you off, if you have no objection.”
Marc voices none. He unfolds himself from sitting on the floor to standing and unties the knot in the cord around his waist. His scrub pants slip to the floor. He steps out of them and moves to the side of my chair. Vindication is mine when I see that, as I had hoped, his legs are indeed covered by the same dense, fine fur that adorns the rest of his body.
How fortunate for me that my chair puts my head precisely at the height of Marc’s crotch. Somewhat too greedily, I run my hand firmly around his thigh, feeling the hair bristle beneath my fingers, feeling the shape of the muscle beneath Marc’s smooth, malleable skin. I curve my hand around one cheek of his firm ass and pull his hips toward me.
At first I just bury my face in his crotch and breathe deeply of his clean, masculine scent. Yes, it is the same muskiness that I had become enamored of all those years ago. I drink it in. I extend my tongue and lick along the bottom of his balls, feeling their weight. In response, his still-soft dick twitches slightly against my cheek.
Pity all the poor people who are not cocksuckers—they don’t know what they’re missing. The unique sensuality of a swollen dick slipping past one’s lips, the head gliding over the roughness of one’s tongue and just kissing the soft palate. The simple and satisfying oral gratification that so fires the imagination of Freudians. The unparalleled intimacy one feels at having another man’s dick inside one’s mouth.
I pull his dick into my mouth and hold it as it continues to swell, expanding and reaching for my throat. I swing my tongue back and forth against its underside in encouragement.
When his dick is fully hard, Marc slowly draws back, the shaft slipping out of my mouth just until the head reaches my lips, when he reverses and feeds himself slowly back into my mouth. I relax my jaw and keep my lips firmly around his dick, curling the tip of my tongue to tickle its head whenever it happens by.
With the same gentleness he showed with my leg, Marc thrusts his dick into my mouth with a slow, easygoing pace that is, once again, nearly hypnotic. I keep my hands on his thighs, fascinated by the alternating tensing then relaxing of the muscles as Marc fucks my face.
How long does this go on? Not long enough for me, given the incredible pleasure I am enjoying. But it is evidently just long enough for Marc. I feel his thigh muscles tensing more and his thrusts showing more suppressed urgency. Still greedy, I grab his ass and pull him hard against me so that his dick is buried deeply in my mouth. Marc locks his big hands around the back of my head and pulls it into his groin. My mouth is filled nearly to capacity, but I manage to tickle the underside of his dick with my tongue.
A small groan signals Marc’s arrival and moments later I am treated to spurt after spurt of his hot cum against the back of my throat. It’s a remarkably satisfying sensation. There you go: yet another reason to be a cocksucker! I don’t swallow, I just let his cum trickle down my throat.
All too soon, Marc’s dick softens some and he pulls it from my mouth. However, he doesn’t move very far, so I get to keep a close eye on it—and on his lovely balls as they slowly descend again—while Marc thoughtfully reaches down to stroke my achingly hard dick and relieve it of its burden. After this much stimulation, it takes but a few strokes before I shoot several loads up my belly, some reaching heights that I haven’t known since adolescence.
We perform the necessary cleanup and Marc helps me back into bed, which now seems much more comfortable and restful than it had before. Thoughtfully, Marc does not pull his scrubs up again until we have finished all these chores so that I might retain the sweet image of his luscious body to help me sleep.
Before he leaves, Marc gives me a gentle kiss on the forehead and whispers, “Rest now and build up your strength, for tomorrow there will be more therapy and more healing.”
I close my eyes and sleep.
DOWN THE BASEMENT
Ryan Field
One Halloween night during my senior year in college, I went to a costume
party in a broken-down frat house, dressed as a character I’d been inventing for months—years, if you really want to get technical. I looked like any normal guy in college by then: short, sandy blond hair; blue eyes; white polo shirts and khaki slacks. Though I was only 5’6”, there was nothing about me on the outside you would have considered peculiar. Most people would never have guessed that I was gay or that I had a secret passion for lipstick, earrings, and very high heels.
It’s not that I didn’t like being a man; I did and wouldn’t have changed that for the world. But the thought of shaving my entire body to the point where every conceivable inch of skin was smooth and soft, and then putting on a tight corset, black stockings, and dangerous stilettos, gave me an erection that lasted for hours. Good sex for me was all about dressing up. All this was only fantasy, and though I’d once had the courage to buy a pair of cheap, size eleven, four-inch heels at Payless (buried at the bottom of my suitcase and only worn while I masturbated in private), I’d never actually had the guts to go out in public dressed as a slutty woman.
Not until the night of the costume party, anyway. I wasn’t cruising for guys, either; I just wanted to dress up and feel sexy for once. I’d spent months ordering the most precise items on the Internet, things I knew would make me appear and feel really hot. The general costume consisted of a black, beaded evening bag; a short black taffeta skirt; a skintight, black lace corset trimmed in silver; a black mask that covered half my face; and six-inch black stilettos. But it was the small details that really made the costume work: rhinestone earrings, necklace and bracelet; long, red fake fingernails; full makeup; and a pair of vinyl boobs, with big nipples, that felt real when you squeezed them. I’d signed up at a tanning salon a month before the party so my legs would be smooth and brown…no need for stockings. And, best of all, a long blonde wig with a snug fit so I could toss my head around without worrying about losing it.
Actually, my only real worry was holding my eight-inch penis down all night. I found a strong black thong-sock (no string, so my ass would be bare) with a heavy waistband to keep things concealed. I knew if I got really hard I could point my dick toward my stomach and the waistband would hold it down. Though I made a few mistakes (didn’t need eye makeup with a mask…when the wig was on my head I realized all I needed was a little red lip gloss to pass), my first time going out in public I looked quite professional. And it was supposed to be outrageous; this was a costume party, after all.
The high heels made me feel sexual and powerful, and as I strutted across campus to the frat house party a couple of guys turned to stare at my bare legs. They weren’t the best-looking boys on campus, but they were real men—they were pussy hounds and they liked the way I looked. I concentrated very carefully on my movements so that I wouldn’t appear masculine. I didn’t want to come off as quasi feminine, either, so I simply restricted each movement to avoid anything awkward or too calculated. Then I smiled and said, “Hey, guys.” The tall dude, a horny African American, said, “Yeah, sweet baby, where you been all my life?”
I told him, “Going to meet my boyfriend, sweetie.” He laughed, and while I continued to walk away, I heard him tell his friend, “I’d like to get me a piece of that sugar, man. I know how to make her happy.” If I’d had any doubts about being able to pass as a woman, those two boys proved I could do it as long as I was careful.
The costume was a huge hit, and no one recognized me or even considered I might not be a woman. No one from my usual crowd was there, anyway; I was an English major, and these people were all jocks and cheerleaders. I was glad I’d worn the sock underwear; my dick was semierect the entire time, especially when I realized that young guys were staring at my legs. But the goal was to have fun passing as a woman for the first time, nothing more. And if for some reason I was recognized by anyone, I knew I could camp it up as a man in drag, just wearing an outrageous Halloween costume for fun.
Some of the other costumes were good, too: a kinky witch (I think she was a real woman) with big boobs in black leather and lace, a scarecrow who was actually smoking from the shoulders, one really swishy gay guy dressed as Baby Jane Hudson, and a guy with a realistic Richard Nixon mask are a few that still come to mind. But others weren’t all that creative, like the guys with deep voices who didn’t bother to come up with a real costume and just wore their football uniforms with black masks.
It turned out to be one of those parties where you don’t really have to know anyone very well to have a good time, and because it was a costume party people seemed more animated behind their masks. I laughed and joked with Baby Jane Hudson, while Richard Nixon kept bringing me strong drinks and trying to put his hand up my little black skirt. At one point, with the palm of his hand pressed against my ass, he leaned over and whispered, “My car is parked outside.”
And I replied, “Sorry, stud, I have a boyfriend.” He was cool about it and didn’t persist. I would have loved to at least given him a blow job, only I was terrified he’d find out who I really was and kick my ass.
We all partied hard, mixing beer and whatever else there was, all night long. Sometime around two in the morning, one of the drunken football players reached behind me while I was leaning against a wide oak staircase and placed the palm of his large hand up my skirt, resting it on my bare ass. His pale blue eyes were eager; one eyebrow rose for the conquest. He squeezed my asscheeks and said, “Those fucking high heels are really hot.” He was about 6’4”, and towered over me in spite of the stilettos; his words were slurred and his breath heavy and stale from beer when he asked, “Why aren’t you wearing any underwear?”
“So you can put your hand up my dress, sweetie, and feel my ass.” I couldn’t believe my own words, but there, I’d said it.
He then asked if I wanted to go down to the basement recreation room, to smoke a joint with three of his football buddies. I agreed, and he nodded to his buddies who must have been waiting for a signal. He led me downstairs with his large hand pressed against the small of my back as though I belonged to him.
The basement was dark, with just two dim lightbulbs with pull strings, and I had to navigate with care because of the high heels. A dusty old braided rug had been placed in the center of the concrete floor; my heels sank into the grooves. A large sectional sofa with worn navy fabric and a square, dark pine coffee table with heavy, turned legs rested upon the stained rug. The football player told me, “Have a seat, baby,” while he pulled a small bag from beneath a sofa cushion and proceeded to roll a joint on the table. I put the black evening bag on the table, sat in the middle of the sofa, and crossed my legs like a lady. A moment later, I heard the sound of heavy footsteps clomping down the stairs—his three football buddies, I assumed. Though I had to clench my fists to keep them from shaking, the thought of three strong football players with big floppy dicks who were all hot for me caused my ass to literally twitch.
They were so drunk they couldn’t stand straight. They were joking and laughing and shoving each other around playfully, saying things in deep voices like, “Get the fuck out of here, dude,” and, “Fuck, yeah, man, you pussy.” Bad little locker room boys with too much testosterone, having too much fun at a party in front of a slutty young girl who was showing too much leg that night. One still held a bottle of vodka in his right hand. I knew none of them would ask me to the senior prom, but I also knew they wanted to get into my pants in the worst way. Though I’d been drinking, I was far from drunk and calculated my every move very carefully. I knew if they found me out they’d beat me to a pulp, and by then it was too late to leave gracefully.
“C’mon over here and sit on my lap, so I can take off that mask,” said the football player who’d brought me down to the basement. He’d removed his mask by then and was smoking the joint, about to pass it to one of his buddies.
Two of them sat down on my right, the third on my left. They were quiet by then, but their eyes were eager and their expressions blank, not sure who would make the first move. None were wearing m
asks; they’d probably lost them upstairs somewhere.
I smiled. “I want to smoke first.” I leaned over, pressed my palm on the upper thigh of the guy next to me, while he held the joint and I took a long drag. I knew if we all got stoned, and they got so wasted they didn’t know what day of the week it was, I wouldn’t have to worry about being discovered.
The one who wanted me on his lap, the leader of the pack, stood and walked over to a bookcase with a large television and one of those small Bose radios. He turned on the radio and turned up the volume, and Mary K. Blige began to sing. “Let’s dance,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me off the sofa.
The other three, still passing the joint around, howled, “Go man, yeah, look at her move.”
I fell into his strapping body and placed my arms around his wide shoulders. He pulled me closer, and then put his rough hands under my dress and lifted it all the way up to my waist so the other guys could see him petting my bare ass. We began to dance very slowly; I arched my back and invited him to play with my asscheeks while I rubbed the back of his thick neck. His breath smelled like pot and beer; I slowly licked the stubble below his ear, and he moaned. One of the guys on the sofa, a tall, lanky dude with huge hands, stood and staggered up behind me. He put his hands around my waist, shoved his crotch against my ass and began to slowly hump, his erection banging against my crack. I reached down with my right hand and began to massage the one in front; his erection was so hard and thick I felt it pulse through the fabric of his football pants. He leaned forward and stuck his tongue in my mouth while the one behind me reached down and began to gently squeeze my ass.
I knew I had to change course; his next drunken move would be to reach between my legs for a pussy that wasn’t there. So I untangled myself from the sandwich and said, “Okay, boys, everyone on the sofa.”
Best Gay Erotica 2009 Page 11
