Best of Best Gay Erotica 3

by Richard Labonté

  This line of chat wasn’t helping Quilty’s erection. He tried to focus in on his dick.

  “I didn’t do anything about it, of course. Different times. And I was too shy, if you can believe that. But after we’d gone off to college, we met up again one summer afternoon. He was wearing shorts—funny, but I can still remember that, even though much of last week escapes me—that showed off his thin, hairy legs.”

  Quilty had known someone like that, a Jewish boy he’d fucked. He thought of what that had been like, and his dick got harder. His host didn’t stop talking, but it was obvious that he’d noticed—something in his eyes, a change in his tone of voice.

  “We went for a walk in the countryside, down by a lake. He wordlessly stripped down, never taking his eyes from mine. His naked body was absolutely amazing. Hairy from the waist down, ass too, but otherwise totally smooth except for bushy armpits. Slim, defined torso, generous nipples. His dick was just average, really, but at the time I didn’t know that, and as it got hard, it seemed just huge. I wanted to touch it so much, but I was so very afraid. Chaim turned and ran into the water, leaving me there on the shore with a hard-on in my pants. Several minutes later, after splashing around in the water—which, if I were writing a story, I’d probably describe as ‘sun-dappled’—he came out, his dick soft now, and walked right over to me. Without hesitation, I got down on my knees. His was the first cock I ever sucked.”

  Quilty had stepped out of his sandals and let his pants fall to his ankles. He was rubbing himself through the thin cotton of his briefs. The Witch hiked up his caftan, raising it to his waist. He was naked underneath. Quilty gasped. The man’s hard dick was absolutely huge, almost freakishly so.

  “Take off your shirt for me,” the Witch of Capri asked. Ordered?

  Quilty unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off.

  “Very nice. Oh, and lose the pants, too. But keep your briefs on for a while. I like that. I should write about you and your briefs. Who knows, maybe I will.”

  Quilty knew that the Witch wasn’t writing erotica anymore, but he found it an appealing notion nonetheless. Immortality, he thought. Of a kind. He turned around and played with his underwear-clad ass, then bent all the way over, hoping that the Witch could see the outline of his balls between his legs.

  “Ah,” said the Witch, “and such are the consolations of age.”

  Quilty couldn’t decide whether he found that pretentiously self-pitying or not. He stood up straight and said, over his shoulder, “And of fame.”

  “And fame,” the Witch agreed. Was that melancholy in his voice?

  Quilty turned to face him. The older man was rubbing his fingertips gently over the underside of his gigantic cock.

  “And did you see him again? Chaim?”

  “That was a long time ago. Who knows, perhaps the whole story didn’t even happen. I am a writer, you know. Many things that should be true, aren’t.” He looked directly at Quilty’s crotch. “Would you like help with that?”

  Quilty didn’t know what to say. It would compromise his scholarly objectivity—not that that wasn’t long since blown away. And being sucked off by a famous pornographer would be something of an experience. At last, he nodded.

  “Paolo!” the Witch of Capri called out, and, prompt as a literary device, the serving boy appeared. For Quilty, that was both a disappointment and a relief.

  The dark boy, wearing only flimsy white drawstring pants, stood expectantly, waiting to be given his instructions. The Witch snapped his fingers and gestured toward Quilty.

  Paolo walked over, stood directly in front of Quilty, and started stroking Quilty’s chest, gradually working his way down to his crotch. When Quilty didn’t object, Paolo knelt and began to peel down the front of Quilty’s briefs.

  “I think that you’ll find Paolo to be a rather excellent cock-sucker,” the Witch said, his fingers still trailing over his dick. “Perhaps the two of you can turn so I can see you better? A profile? Ah, that’s it.”

  “Can I ask Paolo to strip?”

  “Of course, my boy. Perhaps you’d like to suck him, as well? I’d enjoy that, I assure you.”

  At Quilty’s terse instruction, the serving boy stood. His white pants were tented out at the crotch. He removed them to reveal a smaller-than-average uncut dick, fully hard. Quilty had him move till the two of them were just a couple of feet away from the Witch of Capri. A sudden, chilling breeze blew up. Quilty dropped to his knees and took Paolo’s cock in his mouth.

  “You see, Quilty,” the Witch said, “there are a number of reasons I decided to conclude my erotica-writing career. But—to make a damaging confession—the major reason, really, was that I concluded that nothing I could write, no matter how accomplished, could possibly capture the beauty, yes beauty, of moments like this.”

  Quilty felt unaccountably proud. He took all of the small, hard dick deep into his mouth, grabbing Paolo’s firm, hairy ass, pushing the cock even farther down his throat. He moved his fingers down the boy’s hairy cleft, finding the heat of the slightly moist, responsive hole. The boy began to moan.

  “We’re trapped in our bodies, you see,” the Witch continued, “and sex represents both resigned confirmation of that fact, and an attempt at liberation.”

  Quilty’s pride turned to irritation. Would you please shut up, you pretentious wanker, he thought, so I can concentrate on sucking cock? He released Paolo’s dick, reared back a bit, and looked over to the Witch of Capri. The elderly author, not now touching himself, was sitting there with, astonishingly, tears running down his cheeks. This was all, pretty clearly, more than Quilty had planned on letting himself in for.

  He took his hand from Paolo’s hole, got some spit on his forefinger. Going back to sucking Paolo’s hard dick, he slid his finger inside the boy’s ass. Paolo’s muscles responded instantly, relaxing so he could get all the way inside the soft, hot hole.

  “I’ve had sex with at least a thousand men,” said the Witch of Capri, apropos of nothing. “There’s nothing wrong with being greedy, is there?”

  Sex is, Quilty thought later, on the plane back home, most always a de facto narrative. Beginning, middle, end. Hard to get around that.

  If he had been a porn writer, as the Witch had been, he might have scripted the remainder of the incident with Paolo in one of several ways.

  Paolo might, fairly obviously, have turned out to be a hungry bottom, one who got fucked in the evening breeze while his employer watched, jacking off. Quilty would have come inside the boy—sans condom, if he were being daring—and then all three would have buttoned up, perhaps with a bitchy/wise closing remark from the Witch of Capri.

  In a slightly more wry vein, boyish Paolo would, lacking self-control, have had a premature orgasm, shooting gob after unexpected gob of sperm down Quilty’s gullet. In that case, chances are that both Quilty and the Witch would have been unsatisfied, leaving them with blue-balls-level horny frustration and all its attendant charms.

  If things had taken a melodramatic turn, the Witch might have maundered into a full-fledged crying jag. Paolo, the ever-faithful servant, would have fed the elderly author the pacifier that was his penis, and perhaps both he and Quilty would have shot their loads messily onto the Witch’s ghastly caftan.

  There was a wealth of other possibilities, other turnings. Paolo might, for instance, have turned out to be murderous rough trade, leaving both Quilty and the Witch of Capri sprawled lifelessly in darker-than-night pools of their own blood…though that rather obviously had not been the case.

  Who knows? If metafiction were the game, then Quilty might have had no corporeal existence at all, being, rather, an invention of the Witch’s still-fertile imagination.

  The way things happen, Quilty saw, becomes clear only in retrospect.

  Be all that as it may, the morning after l’affaire Paolo, Quilty had packed his notebooks into his overnight bag and made his exit. At the door, he hadn’t been sure whether to shake the Witch’s hand or to give him a hu
g. But the decision had been made for him. At the very last, the Witch of Capri had embraced him and kissed him on the lips, with an unexpected flourish of tongue. The moment lingered long enough for Quilty to perceive the swelling of the older man’s cock, but no longer.

  “Just remember to say, Quilty, to quote me to the effect that the current state of erotic writing is lamentable. Lamentable.” And the Witch of Capri closed the door.

  RUSHING TIDE OFSANITY

  Charlie Vázquez

  Manhattan: Winter, 2007

  I lip-locked with a British punk stud in an East Village dive while Kirsty MacColl warned of chasing bad boys over the shitty speakers—she and I, apparently, both helpless in our ways. Shane’s sweat was a magnetic force that drew my lips to his neck, mouth and the bristle around his ears. His heaving core (like an alien about to burst out of his chest) and my long lapses between inhalations of dank air fused together like a courtship ritual dance of manic flightless birds. We left and resumed our noisy pas de deux in the cab’s backseat.

  At his hotel, I initiated the first of many prickly kisses to follow; he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. He let me lead the dance, which I was used to doing anyway. I opened the two buttons holding his shirt up and it fell to the floor like a lopsided theater curtain; a crimson screen of animated tattoos came to life on the stage of his torso when the flickering red lights of the hotel across the street splashed their net of light across us. He kicked his shirt out of the way with his dirty boot and surprised me when he pulled me to him by my wrists, chest to chest.

  Our mouths wrestled for dominion, neither of us willing to back down. I rested my hands on the top of his head when I gave in—melting had never felt better. That’s how I remember surrendering—I melted into him. It’s what I needed and I knew it—I was usually the boss. But not this time. No way. The sweaty bristle on his head was all the aphrodisiac I needed. This was the kind of man I idealized: a cocksucking warrior, a man-fucking descendant of Northern European barbarians who had his image burned into my crosshairs.

  Shane shoved me against the wall and tore off my grimy T-shirt, the loud ripping signaling a bone-deep sense of awe and danger. He threw the useless cloth behind him, pulled me away from the wall, and pushed me backward onto the couch. Metal jangled. Magician’s hands. He handcuffed my wrists over my head, the cold metal stinging. It was done before I realized it, and the unexpected switch was an extraordinary delight: every aggressor has a unique style, and I would soon catch a fantastic glimpse of his. Little did I know I would stew in it.

  As he bit me—¡ Maldita sea la madre!—I was instructed to address my “boss” as Master Hawk. His advance was swift. The torture of his rough sucking and the scraping of his teeth on my skin sent me into soul-stirring distress. I writhed in equal parts misery and euphoria. The process of surrender began. Wave after wave of ancient music emanated from our cores and through our mouths: the tones of his slick and deep sucking—the ebbing. My guttural heaving for relief—the flowing. In tandem, we were in complete and complex bliss.

  I was forbidden to cum.

  He fitted me with a restrictive locked cock-cage. Master Hawk locked my cock away from my hands and the rest of the world! I started to beg for release, stopped. He uncuffed me and told me to dress. When I was done he cuffed my wrists behind my back. Master Hawk then stripped off his jeans, revealing even more of the inky mosaics of his tattoos—and his sexual fury, which strained up, a veiny reverential salute. He pulled a black NYPD police uniform from his closet, complete with belt, cap, holstered handgun, and nightstick.

  Master Hawk had plans. “Stand,” he demanded while tucking in his shirt.

  I stood, awkwardly.

  “Forward.”

  I did exactly as he said, not more, not less.

  “Again,” he said while fastening his belt.

  I stepped forward until I was face-to-face with him; I oozed at the sight of him in full dress, suppressed my pantings of desire. He uncuffed me and pressed my hands to his swollen crotch—his zone of unresolved pleasure. He kissed me deeply, then spit a slimy cannonball of snot-tinted saliva through my teeth and into my mouth; it tasted like beer.

  “Swallow.”

  I did.

  “About face…” I was again handcuffed, this time blindfolded, and led out the door, down the hallway, into the elevator, through the lobby, and onto the street. We boarded a taxi. The driver, I’m sure, added us to his “freaky work stories” category. Master Hawk barked an address. The driver didn’t murmur a word. Neither did the Master. The suspense of barreling down midtown streets and avenues, blindfolded and handcuffed, in the middle of the night, thrilled me.

  When we arrived, Master Hawk guided me to a freight elevator and we ascended what seemed like ten floors before stopping with a harrowing jerk. I could smell old wood in the air—even mildew and mold. A second voice greeted him; they kissed, I surmised during a brief pause; they discussed “the others.”

  I heard the breathing of a fourth person.

  I was instructed to stand against a pole. Master Hawk kissed me roughly, then the man who had greeted him kissed me; their beards were like steel brushes against my face. Cold beer splashed over me, then my ankles were shackled to the wooden post, splinters ripping into my skin. The cuffs were loosened, then my hands were reshackled in front of my crotch. My cock swelled against the painful restriction of its cage. A bag filled with bottles clattered onto a table, then I heard the unmistakable sound of someone writhing in pain.

  “Let’s let them see,” Master Hawk said.

  Our blindfolds were lifted. Three of us were bound to the pole in a triangle. A mustached, muscular, heavily tattooed man of Mediterranean mold was to my right; he was dark with thick black body hair. The base of his hard cock was encircled by a leather-studded cock ring. He sneered.

  To my left was a towering black man, hairless, muscled and soaking wet; he too had been splashed with beer, or he was sweating. He had short bleached hair and jailhouse-tattooed biceps scribbled with reapers, tombstones and gang script. He regarded me blankly.

  The three of us would be forced to work as a team, in order to serve our bosses. Secretly (or maybe not), we were better off bound the way we were. We would have caused each other untold harm—in order to more selfishly please our masters. That is how determined we were, it was in our eyes.

  After taking in the physiques and demeanors of my slave peers, I turned my gaze to Master Hawk’s companion. I was taken aback. The second master was a rural warrior from Appalachia or the deserts of Oregon or even Australia’s outback. He wore a light gray shirt with EARL written in cursive red script over his left pec. The shirt’s armpits were soaked with sweat and his dark blue slacks were marred with grease, a formidable erection evident against the classic worker’s fabric. “Earl” was barrel-chested with slicked-back, salt-and-pepper brown hair, a tail of curls dropping from the nape of his neck, with two days of torturous stubble—little spears of gray piranha teeth—on his fierce face.

  We were told to call him Baron Trash.

  Master Hawk’s eyes met mine when I finished taking in the scenario. He approached, forced me to stand tall, then bound me to ceiling restraints, turned to face the pole. He dragged my blindfold back into place and kissed me roughly, from the back of my neck to the cheeks of my ass, his serpent tongue darting in and out, before biting into my armpits, savoring them deeply. Then he drew back from his consumption of me, and the thick tips of his leather flogger tickled my face.

  The whip was like an oscillating weapon. Its feather-like tips were as soft as cilia on first contact, but soon accelerated to a force that battered my upper back and then my ass like a boxer’s rolling, pounding fist, faster and stronger, next landing with a hissing crash on my left shoulder. I tried to kneel to my left, but was restrained by my bindings.

  Something within me collapsed and I allowed myself to fall with it. The skull-rattling blows transitioned to thinner strands that tore at my skin more greed
ily—cat’s claws dragging through skin, razor tips carving designs into flesh. Master Hawk had replaced his original whip with another, one that lashed at my back in horizontal swipes, biting stings from the left and hungry slices from the right. My skin was at once hot and cold. Each strike was preceded by the snakelike hiss of cutting air, which added to the glorious anticipation. My body convulsed. I was more alive with each strike.

  Baron Trash unshackled the darkest slave; I heard him crawl forward, heard him slurp on Master Hawk’s cock. My Master moaned. I recognized the sound of his breathing and I hated the slave who was sucking my Master’s cock, torn by his pleasure at what should be rightfully mine!

  The sound of Master Hawk’s approaching orgasm filled my ears as the full-lipped slave worked his cock like a machine—every wet slurp sounding as though it were happening inches before me. Master Hawk made him stop and struck him in the ass with the nightstick. I was then able to make out the sound of Baron Trash feeling the reward of pleasure seize his fat and dirty dick, as the kneeling slave went to work on him instead. It was apparent that the bare concrete floors stung the slave’s knees; his breathing was tinted with a pain he tried to subdue beneath his duty.

  The hairy third slave was unbound and forced to suck Master Hawk—I was, by that time, able to tell what was happening by employing the rest of my senses. My jealousy surfaced at the worst of times. I was not allowed to communicate that—though I knew that Master Hawk felt it thickly in the air and was delighted by it. He then instructed the Greek-looking punk slave to lick his balls and boots and accept delicious verbal humiliations, which the Greek slave seemed to derive great pleasure from; his servicing became more enthusiastic with the worsening of the verbal insults.

  I was deprived of worshipping the masters at all—I’d been granted a severe punishment. My need for sex became a burning torture in my crotch: I was done with the mind games and was ready to come, but I would need to learn to wait. My deprivation hatched imaginary outcomes in my mind—as to what the rest of the night would lead to.