Best Gay Erotica 2013

by Richard Labonté

  There I lay panting and moaning and spent for a moment longer until Mason stopped my groans by shoving his thumb and index finger into my mouth. I sucked on them like a starving child ravaging a nipple, unrestrained and impossible to satisfy. I sucked ravenously, as though drawing new energy from them. Then Mason pulled his mauled fingers from my mouth and replaced them with his tongue.

  We lay together, him on top of me, his rigid, furry stomach pressed against mine. His bulging, bulbous cock nudged against my drained balls and he thrust it sharply into my tender sac—perhaps a little too sharply—for I flinched hard. In a reflex response I shoved my hefty hunk right off the top of me and over the edge of the bed.

  Mason rolled and hit the floor beside the bed with a loud thud…before laughing hysterically, achingly.

  I leaned over quickly and looked down, embarrassed and concerned. All I could think to say was, “Fuck! Sorry!”

  Mason wheezed and chuckled. “I guess that’s the law of gravity.”

  “What goes up must come down,” I said, shrugging.

  “Not yet it doesn’t.” Mason reached up, grabbed hold of my forearm and yanked me down on the floor with him.

  I landed on top of him awkwardly, forcing a pained grunt and more laughter out of him. We kissed again, more fiercely than before, our playful antics now turning passionately rough.

  Without taking his lips off mine, Mason’s hand felt its way up to the bedside table, opened the drawer, rummaged inside and pulled out a condom. Only then did he tear his mouth away from mine so he could bite open the wrapper, but before he could do anything with it I took the condom from him, then bravely ran my tongue all the way down his body. My lips were tickled by the hair on his chest, then his stomach. When my tongue reached the stem of his throbbing cock, I took the condom and slid it onto Mason’s shaft with my fist.

  Mason had already found the lube in the drawer and was passing it to me.

  I squeezed a glob into my palm.

  Lying flat on his back, Mason simply watched from the floor, his large stiff penis growing even harder at the sight of me massaging it with a lubed fist.

  I squeezed more lubricant onto the tips of my fingers then circled the rim of my anus, gliding my index finger deep inside myself to wet my passage, relaxing the muscles. It felt good, but I was ready for something better—and bigger.

  I took Mason’s cock in my hand and straddled him, positioning myself over his shaft before nuzzling the head against my crack. The bulbous head pushed my asscheeks apart, eager to make its entry. It gave rise to my own cock, now suddenly rejuvenated and once more seeking attention. It grew in length and girth quickly, hardening fast and enthusiastically slapping against my stomach once more, sprinkling a few dewdrops of precum against my tensed stomach muscles…or were they leftover beads from the last orgasm? It was hard to tell. All I knew was, Mason could wait no longer. He moaned impatiently.

  Taking a deep breath, I sank myself down onto his cock.

  Mason rolled his head back against the floorboards, eyes shut, mouth open wide to let a loud groan of absolute pleasure escape.

  At the same time I began to slide up and down his pole, slowly at first, the muscles of my warm wet ass gradually loosening, enjoying themselves, sweeping up and down with the motion of fucking, like seaweed moving with the ebb and flow of the tide.

  But I wanted the tide to move faster.

  I began sliding up and down Mason’s cock harder, heavier. No, not sliding; grinding.

  Mason began to reciprocate, thrusting his pelvis up off the floor as I came down to meet him, then pulling back as I lifted away. The movement transformed us into a well-lubed machine.

  The air from my lungs came accompanied with a noise now—a soft, low moan with each breath. “Ahhh…ohhh… ahhh…”

  My stiff, bobbing cock seemed to be floating free, out on its own, unattended. Occasionally it snapped upward and smacked my stomach. Other times it bounced so hard with the rhythm that it slapped against Mason’s fur-lined abs, making muffled drumbeats. Mason reined it in by seizing the shaft in one hand. He began stroking it. His palm was dry but my meat was still moist with his saliva. As the pace of penetration grew more and more intense, his fist squeezed harder and pounded my cock faster.

  My groans grew louder.

  “Ahhh…I…I’m…cu…”

  Mason pushed himself deeper and faster into me.

  I rode him harder. Harder still.

  He grunted, teeth clenched, as though he was back in the fight, determined to win.

  I panted and groaned, words still trying to push their way out of my heaving lungs.

  “I’m cu…I’m cum…”

  Before I could spit it out, the head of my cock bloomed large and purple and its slit beaded up with another gleaming ball of precum, ready to do some spitting of its own.

  My second orgasm in only a few minutes was even bigger and more powerful than the first. As my eyes closed and my mouth fell open and my head rolled back, I fired a blast of cum that soared over Mason’s ribbed stomach and landed on the muscle of his chest, catching in the web of hair coating his meaty pecs.

  As soon as the sizzling jism made contact, Mason’s balls opened their own floodgates. He arched his back high, pushing himself as far into me as he could. Still groaning and rocking with ecstasy, I pressed my asscheeks down hard against his pelvis, eating up the entire length of his cock.

  I felt Mason’s head high inside me.

  I felt the temperature skyrocket as the head of his condom bulged with an immense load of boiling hot cum.

  Mason’s body jolted once, twice, and again and again, each time shooting another pulse of cum from his shaft.

  It triggered a second load of cum from my own cock, this time with less trajectory and more spent pain, the white spool landing in a shining loop across Mason’s tight, hairy belly.

  I gasped then, spasming with more sharp pain as Mason tried to gently, slowly, massage the last of the juice from my swollen cock. Gradually he lowered his hips to the floor as the last of his own cum spilled into the condom inside me.

  For a moment we both stayed that way, speechless and exhausted. Then Mason sat up, his cock still in me, and wrapped his beefy arms around my torso. My tender shaft was pressed between our stomachs, the smooth skin of my heaving belly and chest prickled by his muscular, manicured torso. My cum smeared us both.

  He kissed me then, a long, deep, passionate kiss. And when it was done, I looked into his eyes and whispered, “So much for studying. I’m sorry, but I think you’re going to fail that physics exam.”

  Mason simply smiled. Like someone who knew better.

  I failed the physics exam.

  I spent so much time enjoying my hard-on and glancing across the examination hall at Mason that my distractions resulted in my first-ever F. I was proud of it. After all, Mason was right—not everything is science. And science isn’t everything.

  I wore my failed grade like a badge of honor, for it came with memories of the best fuck of my life.

  Mason passed the exam with flying colors.

  At first I was completely bewildered. I thought he must have cheated, or been extremely lucky, or perhaps even slept with our professor. But as I got to know him—sitting next to each other in lectures, walking back to my dorm together after class, spending nights studying and kissing and fucking and waking up in each other’s arms—I realized Mason was not a cheat. He didn’t rely on luck, nor did he sleep with anyone to make the grade. Mason was in fact a straight-A student and had been all along.

  That night in the attic, he didn’t need to win me to pass the exam.

  He didn’t need me at all.

  He simply wanted me, right from the beginning.

  Just as I wanted him, his muscle and his mind, in the end.

  My end.

  HOT EATS

  Kal Cobalt

  Near midnight, my diner shifted from quiet to dead silent. Darlene’s shift was over, and I’d sent Barry h
ome early to tell his wife goodnight. The standard graveyard-shift crowd—freight-train railroaders from the depot across the street who liked their burgers well done and their steak with A-1—had come and gone.

  The first customer after Barry left was a tall, rangy man in a gray T-shirt streaked with dirt. He greeted me with the cautious smile of the truly exhausted, though I could tell he was no railroader : no grime under the fingernails, no heavy bag of on-the-road necessities. “I didn’t think there’d be anyplace open,” he said, sliding his narrow ass onto one of my counter stools.

  “We’re open till two.” I poured a hot cup of coffee for him, unasked.

  “Thanks.” He sipped at it, then looked up at me with slightly wider eyes. “Fresh.”

  I nodded. “We treat graveyarders right.”

  “I think you just secured yourself a regular.”

  “Good to know.” I slipped him a menu. “Pies are half off after midnight.”

  “Definitely a regular, then.” He wore the same kind of black-rimmed glasses Barry did, although I suspected they were at least twice as expensive.

  “What would bring you here regularly in the middle of the night? You don’t work the rails.”

  He shook his head. “Film. I lens the production shooting in the valley.”

  “You lens it? Cameraman?”

  “Sort of. Cinematographer. Lord of the cameramen,” he grinned, wrapping long, ropy fingers around the coffee mug. “Lord of the night shoots, too. It’s hell down there.”

  “Sounds like hard work.”

  “Grueling work. I’m starved.” He eyed the menu, flipping its single laminated page over. “You guys do the fried chicken this late?”

  “If you’ll take mashed on the side.”

  “I was going to ask for that. And the corn, please.”

  “Sure thing.” I’d seen Barry assemble that plate often enough. I headed back to the kitchen, smiling to myself, and then it hit me: Shit. I like him. What little sex life I had, I kept separate from the diner scrupulously, and from the whole town of Grange if I could manage it. I barely broke even as it was, and the slightest whiff of homosexuality would drive the hardworking, big-tipping railroader crowd off me faster than a failed health inspection.

  “What’s your name?” I asked when I brought out the stranger’s plate.

  “Ted.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ted.”

  “Are you the owner?” he asked, ripping meat off the chicken breast with gusto.

  “I am.”

  “You still get stuck with graveyard, huh? Can’t find someone reliable to take it?”

  “I prefer it. I’d keep the place open all night if I could.”

  Ted gave a surprised little nod. “So you could have any shift you want, but you pick nights. And I can’t have any shift but nights on this production, and I hate them.”

  “I think life thinks that’s funny.”

  Ted snorted agreement. “I think you’re right. Life’s got one hell of a sense of humor.”

  You’re telling me. “I’m just going to start wrapping up the pies. Should I leave one out for you?”

  “Slice of key lime, please,” he said around a mouthful of mashed.

  It was ridiculous to think I could intuit something about a man based on his dinner, but that didn’t stop me from entertaining the notion. I speculated that this was not his traditional diet; he was far too lean and ropy to exist on fried foods and pie. Then again, if the dirt stains on his T-shirt were any indication, he worked hard; that, combined with irregular meals and a fast metabolism, might allow him to manage it all.

  I shook my head. I’d had some strange flights of fancy while wrapping up the pies night after night, but this one took the cake. So to speak.

  “Are you the only graveyard grub around here?” Ted asked. “Not that I’m going to jump ship, I just wonder. Everything else seems closed up tight.”

  “Everything else closes at ten, unless you want a bar.”

  Ted grunted. “Flashback to childhood. I grew up in a small town like this.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I probably would’ve stayed, too, except that it’s hard to make a living as a cinematographer in a town of ten thousand.”

  I nodded. “It’s more suited to diners than movies.” And more suited to people with conservative sex lives; that Ted grew up in a small town and wished he still lived in one didn’t bode well for my attraction, and I made myself tune out after that. I feigned exhaustion on a par with Ted’s and pretended I liked to get all the cleanup done before I closed. I tried, very hard, not to watch the way he stuck his tongue out slightly to receive every forkful of key lime pie, and gave him only the standard thanks-and-good-bye nod when he stood. He left a good tip.

  I convinced myself he was none the wiser, and I’d almost rid myself of my attraction to him. That lasted right up until I slid into bed, when I envisioned him on his knees in front of me, his mouth open, his tongue stuck out slightly to receive my cock.

  “How are things with the wife?”

  Barry eyed me over the rims of his glasses as he washed his hands. “Nothing new to report.”

  I nodded, trying to seem casual. Ted had been in every night for five nights, enjoying Barry’s far superior fried chicken, and every night for five nights I’d tried to be just friendly enough, hoping neither Ted nor Barry would suspect me. Tonight, if Ted came in, it would be his night off; we’d have time to talk, I thought, and maybe—just maybe—I’d see some glimmer of interest from him. “Want to knock off early?” I asked Barry as smoothly as I could.

  Barry grunted. “Not sure that’ll make any difference. She yells no matter when I get home.”

  I pointed at the slightly wilted spray of wildflowers in an empty milk jug that a sixth-grade class had offered me as a tip. “Take those with you, see if she yells.”

  Barry dried his hands and gave me a sideways look. “Your marriage counseling isn’t exactly subtle.”

  I patted him on the back. “Your personality demands straightforwardness.”

  “Mmm. Don’t work too hard.” He picked up his jacket, eyed me a little, and took the wildflowers, too. “If I still get yelled at, I’m blaming you.”

  “I’d expect nothing less.”

  The diner fell into an eerie quiet in Barry’s absence. I watched the clock. Ted only got one night off a week, he’d told me, and slowly I realized that without the stricture of a meal period, he could cook something himself, back at his hotel. Or eat early and catch up on sleep. There were a dozen reasons he wouldn’t walk through my door.

  Instead, he was later than usual; he wandered in at one forty-five, sheepish behind his black rims. “Any chance of grub?”

  “For you? Sure.” I reached for the coffeepot.

  “None of that tonight, thanks. I’ve got to sleep.”

  I nodded. “Beer?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Bud?”

  “You know me well.”

  I knew him well enough to risk what I was about to do, at least. I had no liquor license, and had suggested Bud simply because I had a couple of bottles stashed in the fridge for myself. “On the house,” I told him, and came around the counter to turn the sign to CLOSED and lock the door.

  Ted grinned. “My lips are sealed.”

  “Thanks. The usual?”

  “Yes, please.”

  As I fried the chicken, I pondered how to approach him. Beer rather than coffee was a good sign, but it was still dicey. I figured he wouldn’t exactly run out to ruin my reputation now, but I risked losing his casual friendship if I spoke up. Then again, if we felt the same way about each other, he was probably out there thinking the same thing.

  “How’s that sitting?” I asked, nodding toward his beer when I brought out his dinner.

  “Very well, thanks.” He tore into the chicken breast first, as usual, and made panicky little huffing sounds as he sucked air into his mouth to cool off that first searing bite, as usual.

&nb
sp; I watched him eat. I could say something, anything, to get the dialogue started, especially now that he was committed to the meal and a more or less captive audience. Especially now that he was licking the buttery mashed potatoes off his fork. Especially when he wrapped his lips around the beer bottle so perfectly.

  I fetched his slice of pie instead, my cheeks hot.

  “You’re quiet tonight,” Ted noted.

  “Preoccupied.”

  “If you want to talk, I’ll listen. You’ve listened to me whine often enough.” Ted licked a stray streak of butter from the corner of his mouth.

  “Not sure you’d be interested in what’s on my mind.”

  He gave me a come-hither motion with one greasy-fingered hand. “Try me.”

  I stared at him, trying to convince myself to speak. “Relationship problems,” I finally said.

  He laughed. “I can definitely lend an ear to those.”

  “It’s not like that. It’s not knowing if how I feel about someone is reciprocated.”

  “There’s a good way to find out.” He sucked an especially greasy finger into his mouth.

  “Yeah?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Ask.”

  I shook my head. “Good idea, wrong situation.”

  “Mmm. Sensitive arrangement?”

  “You could say that.”

  “You could drop hints. You know, hang around a little more than you have to. Be friendly. Stop by for dinner, even on the nights when you’re not working.”

  I blinked. “Are you serious?”

  Ted shrugged.

  I fought with myself over what would be better: confess attraction to him, or just my orientation? Pros, cons, and my moment slipping away. “I’m gay,” I said, my cheeks hot.

  “I’m bi.” Ted’s voice was completely level, his gaze firm.

  Oh, god. “I’m attracted to you.”

  Ted grinned. “Your fried chicken’s nothing compared to Barry’s. Why do you think I keep coming back?”