Best Gay Erotica 2008

by Richard Labonté

  The other slave and I were allowed to drink our beer as a reward. Then all three of us were manhandled into a cage in the center of the room, an enclosure so confining we could only hunch on all fours, side by side, our muscles bunched, our faces strained.

  Master Hawk’s posture was telling; his shoulders were spread apart, his crotch was pointed forward and his hands rested on his hips, as if examining a situation requiring intervention. The near future was already in his eyes. Baron Trash and Master Hawk unzipped their trousers and showered us with zigzags of warm urine tinted with the unmistakable stench of beer. The chattering cascades of piss were accompanied by their sighs of relief and pleasure, coupled with our very own childish squeals of joy. We were men broken into boys.

  When they were done, we were dragged from the cage and the splintered post, piss dripping from our bodies. Master Hawk poured beer over my head—and almost as instantly—licked up the foaming nose-diving cascades. Baron Trash did the same to the black slave and I wondered how the Greek-looking slave felt as Master Hawk made sure to slurp up beer from my armpits, chest, ass and legs. The Greek glared at me.

  The cold beer made me shiver.

  “Do you have to piss, boy?” Master Hawk asked.

  I nodded.

  “Then piss.”

  I was scared—I wasn’t sure if I’d been given permission or if I was being tricked. But I lost control of my bladder anyway as another wave of cold beer washed over my head. I shivered uncontrollably as Master Hawk sank to his knees to take in my urinary rush. He held some in his mouth, rose slowly to his feet, and forcefully spat it back in my face.

  The feisty Baron then went over to his Greek slave and said, “Hello.”

  The slave returned the greeting—feeling pressured to speak—and then screamed out for forgiveness when the Baron squeezed the cock ring that encircled his genitals—the kind with studs that dig into sensitive skin.

  “You weren’t given permission to speak,” the Baron growled to the hairy slave.

  The slave sank to his knees in a sort of comical Hollywood misery—his face contorting with a severe will not to speak. Our blindfolds were taken away and I wondered what Master Hawk and Baron Trash had planned next. My need for pleasure became a testicular pain, a tension with only one remedy.

  What came next relieved my tension. We were to have sex with one another, while my Master and the Baron watched.

  The Greek was ordered by the Baron to suck the black slave’s enormous curved dick, as the masters masturbated, all the while cruelly critiquing their live sex show. When they’d had enough I was told to eat the Greek’s ass while the black slave sucked him. Master Hawk momentarily freed me of the cock-cage—qué milagro! This carnal musical chairs went on for what seemed like hours. We were forbidden to come—though we raced closely to it at times, mentally drawing back, communicating through natural sounds of the body that we were flirting with disaster.

  When the masters had had enough, I was instructed to kneel before the Baron, the black slave before Master Hawk. The Greek lingered behind us, shivering in a puddle of piss, beer and sweat. We were freed of our handcuffs and told to unzip the masters before us and “finish them off.” I happened to look over at the black slave as he put Master Hawk’s dick in his greedy mouth. Baron Trash caught a whiff of my jealousy and slapped my cheek to remind me of what I was supposed to be doing.

  During the grueling session before my second master, I talked myself out of believing what I thought I was hearing. The masters seemed to be coordinating their arousal. The sound of their approaching orgasms became louder as we synchronized to form a team. We were as two turbines sifting the same current.

  Master Hawk then commanded the Greek to put a rubber on and fuck the black slave; I still wasn’t sure why I was being left out of so much. The Greek was allowed to come, and he came in a consistent and building bombardment of the black slave’s ass—in endless and greedy grunts of relief, he slipped off his target and leapt back onto it, like a crazed dog. The dark slave barely squinted as this happened and continued suckling. The Baron poured more beer on my head, set his bottle down and groaned from a deep place. Master Hawk heaved deeply, spoken language eluding his tongue.

  The masters then rushed simultaneously; each leading the other upward in pulsating fits of ancient ecstasy, their loud moaning mounting in length and volume. The Baron anchored his greasy hands onto the back of my head—to make sure my mouth wouldn’t separate from his boiling pleasure. The masters came in a duo of operatic beauty—two commanding basses bending to sensitive tenor. They barely relinquished control and gave out orders as soon as their eruptions of passion had passed and dripped from our eager lips.

  The Greek had come as well as our masters. The black slave and I hadn’t and I was deeply wounded when Master Hawk had me crawl over to him so he could put my cock-cage back on. He tongued me passionately, in wide arcs of dominion. The black slave was told to masturbate. The slicked, gliding motion of his fingers and hand around his remarkable member entranced me.

  He locked eyes with me. We communicated visually. Our souls had sex through the intercourse of our uninterrupted stare: I at times staring deeper, he at times surpassing my intensity. I perceived what I believed to be an effort on his part to soften his stance—in order for him to orgasm. I could feel him retreating from—what seemed like—an occupation of my conscience. I then played my silent role as alpha slave: I had the final word, as far as slaves were concerned, and my sneer, stare and stiffness would show it.

  The dark slave then shuddered madly; he fell to his side as explosions seized hold of him—he came repeatedly into a puddle of piss and beer while staring through my eyes at a dimension behind me. Master Hawk and Baron Trash seemed impressed. The three of us were uncuffed and handed our clothes and knapsacks. Master Hawk demanded I wait for him once I was done. It wasn’t yet clear if our roles had been terminated for the night or if we were still under their command.

  I showered—barely.

  The other slaves left without cleaning up at all.

  I never found out what happened to Baron Trash.

  Shane and I taxied back to the hotel. Other than being uncomfortable (I still had my crotch-cage on) and feeling used, I felt a sudden need to fight—which I was known to do rarely. Once we arrived at the hotel, we ascended many staircases and I demanded to be set free. Shane, shed of his alter ego, was a bit less severe, yet he seemed uninterested in me.

  “Arms up,” he said.

  I lifted my hands to mouth level. Shane unlocked the cuffs and removed them. He then had me sit, in order to remove the cock-cage. My despair surfaced as rage. I wanted to scream for something but he muted my grief with his firm lips planted on mine. He then stepped back, lifted the cuffs to me and said, “I am now thine.”

  I cuffed him over his head, laid him on his belly and savored the reward of all my labor—his hairy ass. I returned his punishment through the hardness and hunger of my profound, almost spiritual, need. All the rage of my ancestors surfaced to feed my desire and the occupation of his ass—ghosts in my head shouted for freedom and drove me forward. My primordial demons feasted in the carnal celebration—they danced through fire—as I scaled the rungs of overload and came—¡puñeta!— with his rock-hard, mural-rich biceps in my hands, my nose pressed into the sweaty patch of bristle by his ears. I rolled off of him. My mouth split open as if I’d just died and a tide of sanity rushed over me.

  When it passed, Shane asked me, “So what’d you think?”

  “That I have the coolest fucking boyfriend in the universe.”

  Then we slept divinely, entwined like lazy vines.

  COME TO LIGHT

  Rhidian Brenig Jones

  In the months after Stéphane, I only fucked strangers. Pickups, chance encounters, professionals when my luck was out and my balls were blue. One exception: when I was in Paris, there was a cop, a thickset blond with sultry eyes and an ass like a tourniquet. I did him more than once—once too
often. I was picking up signs, like he wanted some kind of connection. Sometimes, memories blindsided me and I couldn’t come in him. I fucked him even after the lube dried, which I guess he liked, not that I gave a shit. I’d pull out and if I was in the mood, I’d grope around some, feel his ring strain around my wrist, but mostly I got my face in, sucked deep into membrane until his rising cries and savage orgasm triggered me.

  Cock and ass, sweat and jizz: all the connection I was looking for.

  He’d called off dinner at the last moment, some situation at Beaubourg. I hung around in the restaurant, pissed and horny, and thought about calling Edouard; he’s a charmless prick and expensive, but he gives fabulous head. Or a bar, maybe a club. Maybe not. The last guy who hit on me, an angel-faced Euroboy clone, twisted around midfuck, told me he loved me, then begged me to squat, take a dump on his dick.

  One of the waiters called out, “Il se fait tard, m’sieu. Il faut fermer.”

  I gave him a look. “Coupla minutes.”

  The window had misted up and I wiped it with my sleeve. The snow that had threatened all day had finally started and the cobblestones were whitening. The last time but one I was with Stéphane we’d been here, in Montmartre. The scene rewound and I let it play. You do it often enough, it loses its charge.

  He grips my arm as he counts down, figuring I’ll cheat. Rocketing up the steps, two by two, I grab at nothing as he whoops, swerves, beats me to the top. Ashen with cold in the bright December afternoon, we shiver at a sidewalk café and diss the artists in the square; such severe critics. He blows on his cup and turns his glasses to me, his eyes dancing as the steam clears the lenses. I grin and he slips his hand into my pocket, stealing warmth. His chilled fingers trace a message on my palm that makes me shift on the rickety seat, cross my legs. He murmurs against my cheek and coffee is bitter on his breath. Later, when I’m inside him, I give him the heat of my body. I move in him, moan with him, cradle him with my love. I watch his lovely face crease as his semen spurts for me. “Je t’aime, David.”

  Lying cunt.

  The jangle of the doorbell made me jump. A tall guy came in, brushing snow from his coat, and the waiters circled him, gesticulating and bitching. He played with his keys and shot a glance in my direction. I dug around for my wallet, stopped when I saw him approach.

  He smiled as he hooked out a chair. “Vous permettez?”

  “They’re about to close,” I said. Enough with the frigging French.

  “Ah, they will wait. It is my restaurant, this. Lucien Seignier.”

  “David Dos Passos.”

  I checked him out as he unwound his scarf. Older than me, midthirties. Dark hair, early gray above his ears. An edgy, sculpted face softened by a beautifully cut mouth. The black cashmere muffled his body but I got a sense of slenderness, fine bones. His cool hazel eyes rapidly assessed me, liked what they saw, and my dick tightened.

  He sat back. “So, David, have you enjoyed your meal?”

  For a second, I couldn’t recollect what I’d eaten. “The duck. It was fine.”

  “Bien. You are having a holiday in Paris?”

  “I work in La Défense.”

  “Yes? And what is your work?”

  I should have gotten a laminated card. Essential biographical data: Six-one, one-ninety. Black, blue. Eight inches, cut. Takes it up the ass for the right guy. I realized I was frowning and made an effort. The man wanted to flirt a little first, where was the harm? It wasn’t like I had anything better to do.

  “I’m a banker,” I said. “I’m based in London, come over two, three times a month.”

  “And what does a banker like to do in Paris when he is not…banking?”

  “If I’m not doing it, I’m thinking about it.”

  Fine laughter lines bracketed his sexy mouth. His teeth were square and very white. One incisor jutted slightly. If I kissed, I’d lick it, run my tongue along the gum line, right to the back. But I didn’t kiss tricks.

  “Bien sûr, one must have some recreation.” He picked up the wine bottle and studied the label, scratched delicately at a loose edge. His fingers were long and lightly tan and I could feel them splayed on my butt, one squirming inside, working its magic.

  “Where do you stay?”

  “La Boussole, it’s off the rue de Poitou.”

  “I know this hotel, I live in Le Marais.” He hesitated, then set the bottle down, dismissing it. “This is a fair wine but I have others, some fine vintages. But not here.” He looked directly at me and I knew that his dick was as stiff as mine. “If you have no plans, perhaps you will care to try some?”

  I didn’t go home with them, either. You’re in their place, their shit all around. You’re all fucked out, the guy’s legs are heavy on your shins and you’re relaxed, a little sleepy. He talks and you turn your head on the pillow, study his profile and you think, nice guy. He takes your cock in his mouth again and you get so fucking hard and now it’s kind of better because you like him. You see the man beyond the cock and you like him.

  “David?”

  I wanted to do him right there on the table, the linen cloth screwing in his fists, pain bending his spine as I split his hot French ass. The cute waiter, the young Algerian, watching from the doorway, fingering his prick, climaxing along with Monsieur.

  “David, it is late. I think we must leave now, allow these good men to go home to their wives.”

  Maybe I was startled into it. Maybe the rush of blood to my dick had shut down the Look before you leap, asshole! center of my brain. Shit, there could have been an unusual conjunction of the fucking planets. The alarms were wailing in my head but I found myself nodding.

  A brief smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, I think you are a man who appreciates fine wine. Alors, on va.”

  It was warm in the Lexus. He drove skillfully, hands tapping the wheel, impatient at red lights. He said something about plans to visit the Sonoma vineyards and I tuned out, peered through the windshield, not that there was anyone worth looking at. The Marais had emptied fast, even the hustlers and street vendors defeated by the swirling snow.

  “Hey, Anglais!” The kid sidesteps, blocks me, flashes a grin. “Ten euros only, two for fifteen. Buy for your pretty girlfriend, yes? Your wife, also?” He waggles the gloves at me and winks. “Warm their hands.”

  They’re kind of sweet in a cheesy way, a little elf hat atop each finger. I get an idea. I buy a pair and call in at Lafayette, pick up his favorite apricot truffles and some glittery paper. Back at the hotel, I intend to stuff the gloves with the candy but I’m so hard. I unzip, get it out. The wool is rough on my glans, stray fibers stick to the wet. I wrap the glove around my shaft, let my knees fall wide. The sensation is dulled and it’s what I want. I want to masturbate for hours, forever, thinking of him. I stroke the glove back and forth over my balls, touch it to my anus, whisper his name. I visualize him, how we’ll be. His gorgeous penis, rigid and glistening, sliding out. I’ll be dilated from our lovemaking and he’ll tilt his head as he holds me open, so he can see. The picture is suddenly in sharp focus: the way we’ll share the chocolates, how he’ll take them from me.

  “David, on est arrivé.”

  I glanced at the hand on my thigh. I wondered again whether Stéphane had ever opened my gift.

  If my mind hadn’t been on other things, I might have been impressed. Blond wood and crystal, charcoal leather sofas, the only color a vivid Heriz rug that had to be kosher: you live in the Marais, you don’t do fake. I listened to him chink bottles and gave my dick a reassuring squeeze; I was headed for one staggering fuck.

  He came into the room and waved two glasses at a stack of hardbacks on a low table. “You see, I try to improve my English. You like English writers?”

  Chablis; a Grand Cru. I held a delicious mouthful and slid my eyes over his small, curved ass, savoring the anticipation as much as the wine. “Some,” I said. “Depends.”

  “This one I like, she—”

  I took the d
rinks and put them on the table. “What do you say we skip the book report?”

  He smiled uncertainly, not following. I grabbed his hand and held it against my cock: universal language. “You like this?”

  He liked it all right. His arm snaked around my neck and he pulled me in for a kiss. Smoothly, I lifted my jaw so he’d miss my mouth. He bit at my throat, sucking at stubble as he struggled one-handed with his zipper, couldn’t get it down over the bulge. I did it for him and watched his eyes hood as I made a production of unbuttoning my own fly. I threaded my hand through damp cotton, making him flinch as I grazed a ticklish spot. His hard-on was oozing and so flinty I was scared I’d snap the thing off at the root. It lay dense and engorged, little zings of lust lifting it off my palm. I stroked a fingertip along a vein and eased the skin back to expose a succulent head, slick and pre-lubed. Frenchmen, Brits—fuck, I am so into uncut dicks. I jacked him a little and my cock clenched, angling up like it was magnetized to my belly. I groaned as he gripped it and nosed it to his own, slit to slit, in a slimy kiss.

  “Oh, yeah.” I steadied myself against his shoulders and looked down, watched him do it. The feel of his silky foreskin wrapping my head was so hot, so fucking erotic, my vision blurred. He was trembling and I was so turned on I almost missed what he was hissing in my ear. Almost.

  “You are beautiful, Américain. Many men must tell you this. But…perhaps there is one, a certain man? You have a lover, David? When he does these things with you, when you are fucking, he tells you that you are beautiful? Tell me what he says.”

  My stomach lurched. A sick feeling washed through me and my scalp crawled.

  Je t’aime, chéri. I love you.