Young and Horny: 10 Gay Erotic Short Stories

by Matthew Rettenmund

  I sank bank on the bench, playing with the cum in my pubes, one hand still raised against his incredible ass. On impulse, and because the devil made me do it, I shoved my middle finger up him as far as it would go, and from his sharp intake of breath, Red enjoyed it. I pulled it out, intrigued that I might actually get to bang that butt next time.

  "Fuck..." Red said, finally pulling up his shorts and turning around to look at me, which he could barely do. "That was awesome. I mean...weird, but fucking awesome. Do you do that a lot, or...?"

  "Nope," I said. "But anytime you're into it...or anything else..."

  He laughed and blushed and kept trying not to look me in the eye. "SH—yeah, sure. I mean, yeah. Cool."

  We cleaned up, joking about what our coach would do if he found cum all over his locker room, then we took off on our separate ways.

  Brothers

  Unpublished, 1990s.

  "You're the best brother."

  It's my brother.

  I can't get enough of looking at him, can't get enough of being near him and touching him whenever I can get away with it.

  My dream lover? It's my brother, Bill.

  I just turned 18, I'm medium height, slim build, not the big, macho footballer Dad always hoped for and got in his first son, Bill. But I'm strong, very strong and wiry, built to be a runner or a swimmer, and I'm both.

  Bill is less than a year older, just about ready to graduate this year. He's a huge guy, maybe 6'3" by now, and definitely a lean, muscular 210. He's the footballer, the big, strong man. We're different.

  But we're the same.

  We've always been close, always shared secrets, bullied the same kids and defended ourselves against the same bullies. He always sticks up for me when Dad gives me shit about this or that, taking the car out without permission, coming home late, bad grades, whatever. Of course, for Dad, "late" means 10 o'clock p.m. and "bad grades" means anything worse than A+. Bill gets a lot more leeway and he knows it, and he loves me and feels guilty enough that he tells Dad to lay off when it gets bad.

  I may not be the best Christian for it, or the best man, but I'm also in love with my brother. Not like brothers loving each other, but like brothers loving each other, you know? We sleep together like a guy and a girl, or pretty much like it. We even kiss...and boy does that do it for me. It's my favorite, even better than cumming.

  It's a little embarrassing and I'm kind of worried (okay, real worried) that we'll be found out, but I can't stop thinking about it, and I have to tell someone about it or I'm going to blow up.

  The first time was one of the best, even if it was mostly kid stuff, so let me tell you about that time. Always start with the beginning.

  We were home alone; Dad was out screwing his girlfriend or whatever they do on their dates, and he's the only other one who lives in our house now that Mom's gone. Bill was in his room going over plays for the Homecoming game coming up, and we were talking through the doorway that connects our bedrooms. I was standing, Bill was sitting at his desk, hunched over the playbook. He was wearing this real short robe he likes to wear at night—it's navy blue with red trim and it only covers down to just about his knees. Sitting down, it only covers to mid-thigh, and even then was doing a sloppy job. I could see all up his crotch to his hairy nuts, and part of his big, soft dick resting on the chair.

  It was all just our usual small talk: what's up, what's going on, how's it going, did you hear? He was pretty wound up over the game, especially since our school's never lost a Homecoming in anyone's memory, and the coach would be having his team's asses for dinner if they started a new trend this year.

  "You'll win," I said, "You guys always win."

  He looked up and rolled his eyes. "That's no guarantee."

  "Well, I just don't think you should worry about it so much. You're all in better shape that I've ever seen you. You've been working your asses off."

  Bill looked down at his body and asked me if I really thought so.

  "SH—yeah! 'Course. Look at you—you're a monster."

  He laughed—I could always make my big brother laugh—and flexed his arms menacingly. "You better watch out if I'm such a monster. Aren't you scared?"

  "No way," I teased. "You can kick jock ass, but I'm too fast. I can always just run away if you attack—" He lunged across the room at me and I twisted away, laughing as he tried to right himself for the pursuit. I'd made a tactical error (or did I do it on purpose?) since I really could outrun him, but not in my little bedroom, where I'd have to pause to open my door first. He caught me at the door, bear-hugged me from behind and refused to let go. It was hilarious, so much fun to still act like kids with him. God, I love that guy.

  "Let go!" I laughed, wriggling.

  He responded with scary monster noises and by tickling my ribs. I was losing it, could hardly keep standing. But I was proud. I wouldn't beg for mercy. And I enjoyed it, the physical contact. I could smell his shower, but also his scent, different from mine, and feel his hot breath on my neck. I was deliberately shoving my ass back against his crotch, and I knew he would figure me out pretty soon. Then, he'd either like the idea or let me go—either way, the tickling would stop.

  "Jeez!" he said, suddenly stopping. "No fair—you'd do anything to get me to stop, huh? Jeez."

  I didn't say anything, just arched my back a little and pushed back into his groin more. I could feel his cock rolling between my ass cheek and the hardness of his thigh; I just kept rolling it and he just kept letting me, until it started to stiffen.

  "Man," he said quietly. "Just like that and we're really gonna finally do this?"

  I looked over my shoulder at him, nervous as hell. "You really want to go through with this?"

  He looked scared, but horny. "Always have." Then, "Let's do it."

  I've always wanted my big brother, always fantasized about him screwing me ever since I saw a tiny picture of guys screwing in the back of a dirty magazine we found in the field. But faced with losing my cherry, I was skittish about the pain. I didn't want to feel anything but good, and I had a nightmare vision of torn flesh and rivers of blood. Silly, now that I think of it, after all the sweet, clean fucks we've had since.

  "I don't think I can take you," I warned diplomatically. It may mean "no," but it's also the most flattering thing you could ever say to a guy.

  He continued rubbing his erection against me, then positioned it to rub it between my thighs. Despite my misgivings, I reached down and undid my sweats, pulled down my underwear so I could feel his cock on my bare skin.

  "Then we'll just take it easy this time," he said shakily, grabbing two handfuls of my ass and kneading roughly. It was such an incredible feeling I was dripping pre-cum like that, and wanting sex worse than I could ever remember wanting it with a chick.

  "Oh, man, that feels so hot," I heard myself saying, not even worried it would sound cheesy. It didn't.

  "I know, I know," Bill said back, his chin in the crook of my neck. "It feels hot for me, too. I've always wanted to play with your ass, buddy. I've been looking at it for so long now, just wanting a piece of it. It's the hottest ass ever..."

  I turned around and looked my big brother in the eye, pulled open his robe and pressed myself into his strength. He hugged me powerfully, ran his big hands all up and down me. I grasped his hard cock at the same time he grasped mine, and we gasped with the excitement, the danger—two brothers fucking in their father's house!

  We kissed and I'm telling you I'll never forget it—he kisses like nobody's business, goes all out to really plant it on you. He's such a sweetheart despite looking like a brute, and his kisses had me limp in his arms. Looking back, I'm pretty sure I could've taken him right then and there, but I was still a virgin and too nervous to change my mind.

  Bill pulled me over to my bed and laid me down on my belly, pulling my shirt over my head, and tugging my sweats and underwear completely off. He straddled me, rubbing my back like we always do for each other, except this time doing it
to make me want to cum. I kept talking to him, talked all the way through it, said whatever loving or nasty thing popped into my head, and he absolutely grooved on that, on the talking.

  I felt him lower himself on me, felt his hand positioning his boner between my ass cheeks.

  "I want to fuck your crack," he grunted, grinding his cock up and down me. It felt terrific, like I imagined really being fucked would feel. If dry fucking like this felt so hot, why did guys even bother actually fucking each other's asses? I had a lot to learn.

  He reached under me and squeezed my dick, alternating a firm squeeze—no jerking at all—with each thrust of his own dick. He dripped sweat, panted and chewed my ear and I just hung on for dear life, throwing my tightly clenched ass back to him, trying my best to help him get off without losing my own load too fast.

  Finally, I couldn't take the pressure on my cockhead, and I had this clear thought, "Your brother is giving it to you in the ass," even though he wasn't, technically, and I shot cum through his fingers and all over the sheets.

  "Oh, yeah—oh, yeah—oh, yeah—cum—cum—cum."

  Then my brother came, a powerful jet of cum spritzing the back of my head, the next shot nearly as high, skipping off my shoulder and past my face on to my pillow. God, it was sexy to see cum flying that far, and I wasn't even recovered yet from my own orgasm.

  "I'm losin' it, I'm losin' it all over the fucking—shit, yeah!" He collapsed onto me, smothering the rest of his shots, which pulsed between our slick bodies like little heartbeats.

  We lay there, exhausted, for a long while. It felt good to have his deadweight on me, so snug to feel those big arms at either side of me while he whispered into my ears how good he felt.

  "You're the best brother," he said softly, licking the back of my neck.

  We had to snap out of it when we heard Dad come in downstairs. He was whistling, which we always joked probably meant he'd gotten a piece from his girlfriend. This time, we had to laugh extra hard because we knew he wasn't the only one living in that house who got lucky that night.

  Me and Bill have done just about everything since then; it's really like each other's bodies are just another part of our own. It's love, I tell you, real love. We're not ready to tell Dad that we're gay, much less that we're lovers, and we're not signing up to be on Oprah's show just yet, but we've talked and I've got to tell you—got to tell someone—how terrific it is to hear your big brother tell you he's in love with you, and plans to spend the rest of his life with you.

  Training

  From "Wanderlust: Homoerotic Tales of Travel" (Badboy, 1996), edited by David Laurents.

  It was freezing cold when he left Little, so cold that Karl was surprised his frozen joints managed to carry him up the flight of temporary steps and onto the train.

  He paused and turned around, as if to wave a last farewell to his parents.

  Karl was a picture-perfect Aryan, an image so frighteningly pure it might have been the last, fantastic thought in Adolf Hitler's dying mind a half-century ago. He was blond, so blond his hair was nearly white. His hair was close-cropped and without shadow, evading contour even as he stood in the darkened doorway of the train. If a man had been boarding behind Karl, and had looked directly up at the boy now, he would've seen that the eyes that seemed Technicolor blue at a distance were actually transparent up-close. Only Karl's cheeks and lips showed any real color, the former as pink as a bracing blow and the latter as candy red as if he'd methodically diminished a cherry lollipop with them on the ride over. But he hadn't.

  Karl's parents were cardboard cut-outs beyond the gate. They seemed harmless enough now, behind chain-link. But they were not harmless; they were abusers of body, mind and soul, quashers of Karl's freedom.

  Karl's parents had stopped waving as soon as he'd turned to board, and now were caught off-guard by their son's last-minute stare.

  "You aren't waving anymore," Karl's eyes accused, even as he smiled slightly, hoisting his bags. "Good-bye."

  "All aboard, son," said an old geezer from within the train. A minute ago, the geezer—the conductor—had been ingratiating himself to two elderly black women who sat in the very first seats after the entrance, taking their first train ride. Karl had overheard him pulling their legs, making them giggle like little girls. For Karl, the conductor used a different voice, a softer tone. He used a speech that seemed cowed by Karl's youth, as if it were something the conductor either craved or uncomfortably remembered.

  Karl had been born 18 years ago that day, at 4:49 in the afternoon, after what he'd been told (often) was a long, painful labor. He checked his watch: 4:48 and 50 seconds. The train was a little late, late enough that Karl spent the exact minute of the anniversary of his birth boarding. His mother had dutifully forced some angel food cake on him earlier in the day, but he wasn't 18 years old until now, right now, as he about-faced and sliced the rest of the way up the stairs.

  Karl doubted he'd ever seen his parents again, not because the university was so very far away, not because he expected them to die soon, but because he planned to avoid them like he'd always avoided the truth. They would have to take drastic measures to see him again, and perhaps sell something to afford the trip. They hadn't had the money for the inexpensive wool coat Karl now shrugged from his shoulders, nor would they have the money for a day-long train trip.

  Warmth melted in as Karl stalked the narrow aisle in search of a secluded seat.

  There were plenty of seats. This was, after all, the first of many stops. There was no telling how crowded the train would get, but for now, Karl settled two cars down from the entrance, in a car with only three other passengers, three men who faced away from the door. The coat sat next to Karl, his bags secured behind rubber straps in the compartment over his head.

  Everything he owned was in the two large bags, except for the things he'd once owned that he'd left at home, things he'd abandoned. Every dollar he owned was in his pocket. It was a lot of money, for a poor boy. Even for a well-to-do boy. He had worked all his adolescence for it, and along with grants and loans, it would get him through the next four years of his life. Not every boy puts himself through college, but Karl had no choice.

  He backed himself into the corner of a window seat, stretching his long legs diagonally so that the tips of his shoes barely intruded into the aisle. He folded his arms and wished he'd worn more than a thin, collared shirt and a vest; air-conditioning, even in these cool days of mid-September.

  The train started to move, the chug-chug-chugging of its gears.

  Jolted awake. There was a man next to him. Karl stiffened so quickly it felt like falling from a great height.

  "I fell asleep?" he thought.

  Scene. The man knelt at Karl's side, perched on the ball of his right foot, his other foot on the floor in front of the seat. He was Karl's size—tall, slim, broad-shouldered—and yet seemed enormous looming over him as he was, staring, not into Karl's eyes, but at Karl's legs.

  Sensation. Karl realized that the man's large hands were holding his right thigh, gently squeezing his leg through his washed-out jeans, as if testing the ripeness of a nectarine. The man continued to handle Karl's thigh, pressing his fingers between the tightly clenched legs, digging in.

  Karl suspected a dream, and there was a gauzy quality to his vision, but this was no dream. Nor was it reality, quite.

  "What are you doing?" Karl was shocked at the reason in his voice. In his mind, now clear after an initial awakening fog, Karl had decided to holler, to shove and curse the man, to attract the attention of the other three passengers in the car... "Is he one of the other passengers? Don't the other passengers see what's happening here?" But instead, a simple query, "What are you doing?"

  It wasn't a phobic reaction; if there was one thing Karl was sure of by the time he'd packed his bags and stepped onto the train, it was that he was gay. But if there was another certain thing, it was that he wasn't ready to be gay.

  The man didn't unhand Karl, but inste
ad ran his fingers up and down the inseam of Karl's jeans, pressing firmly as if he were expecting them to burst.

  The stranger looked up and into Karl's face and grinned a shit-eating grin. He had dark curly hair that almost covered his ears, a split in his front teeth, and very thick eyebrows. He was, in spite of the features Karl's snobby little sister might criticize, extremely handsome, appealing. He was a dead ringer for Karl's first sublimated crush, a boy named Eddie who had led Karl on all through junior high, only to renege on his flirtations and spurn Karl's advances with violence. Karl had sobbed when Eddie took another girl to another prom, all the while trying to disbelieve the reason he felt so betrayed: jealousy.

  "I wanted him to take me."

  "I'm gettin' you ready for it," the strange man said in a husky voice unlike any Karl had ever heard in Little, Minnesota. "You're gonna..."

  Karl realized he was painfully erect when the guy's palm closed over the mound in his jeans.

  "...like this."

  ?"Yes. I like this. I'm like this," Karl thought. It all came at once, and Karl knew he wouldn't refuse. He knew he wouldn't shove the man away like Eddie had him, nor would he call for the over-kindly conductor, nor would he worry whether the other passengers might see the commotion, might recognize sex and sound a social alarm.

  Karl was now an 18-year-old virgin, and nothing, nothing, could have been more to his liking than what was happening.

  This was no dream.

  The other guy, the Eddie Guy, unzipped Karl's jeans and tugged them down to his knees. Karl thought this was the raunchiest feeling in the world, instantly reminded of his quick meat-beating sessions in his basement at home, when he'd pretended to search for ancient school notes just long enough to achieve orgasm against the slick-wallpapered walls and clean it up before his parents could suspect.

  Karl was wearing white briefs, brand-new ones his mother had bought for him to replace the pairs he'd worn carelessly for years. His cock stuck out through the front folds, engorged and leaking, leaking hotly. It swayed with the motion of the train, bobbing with the chug-chug-chug.