Best Gay Erotica of the Year, Volume 3

by Rob Rosen

Grabbing the stool for support, he squatted over my face, rubbing his balls around my forehead, my nose, and finally my mouth. I popped one in, sucked gently, pulled down. Stroking his wet cock, I popped the other ball in, rolled both around in my mouth, pulled down again, harder this time. He moaned, loudly. The guy clearly liked his balls pulled, and so I obliged and tugged even harder.

  “Yeah, man,” he groaned. “Now suck on this.” He shifted his body over, rubbing his asshole over my face until my tongue found its way to the bull’s-eye. Same smell. Funky. Musky. Sweaty. I grabbed for his asscheeks, spread ’em far apart, licked around the hairy hole and then in. Deep. Deeper still. Until I was tongue-fucking him, making out with his asshole like it was his warm, wet mouth. He wriggled and moaned even louder above my face.

  “Got an idea,” he said, with a snap of his fingers. I watched as he stood up, then hopped on the bar—luckily, it was wide—all before landing atop it with his rump. He then leaned back, lifted his legs out and up while grabbing the front of the bar for support, and added, “Happy hour. Drink up.” He poured some more of the Bailey’s down his crack.

  I kicked my shoes off and got out of my pants and underwear, then hopped back on the stool and licked my drink off his asshole. “Mmm, booze and butt. Great mixture.” Then I plowed back in again, lapping at his hole, biting his cheeks, licking those massive balls and sucking on them again. It was a Scott buffet, served cold and raw.

  I slapped his asshole with two of my fingers, then spit on it before rubbing the same two fingers around and then inside. I glided them in, first the tips, then up to the knuckles, then to my palm. Two fingers in and up, in and up, in and up. With my other hand, I found that thick, curved cock and brought it back to my mouth. I devoured the head, then sucked it to the hilt, until my mouth and my fingers were in pistoning unison. His big, meaty balls bounced against my hand as I finger-fucked him and sucked his dick for all it was worth. Soon enough, I felt his prostate harden, and his balls started to bunch up.

  “Not yet, my friend,” I said, pulling out my fingers and setting his cock free. “Can you do a one-eighty on that thing?” He got my drift and turned himself around, so that now his head was at the front of the bar. He rested his legs, for now, letting them hang over the other end. “I missed those lips of yours.”

  “Yeah? Take ’em; they’re yours.”

  I grabbed his head, held it in my hands as I sat at the bar, caressed his mane of hair, staring once again into those blue eyes of his. My mouth found his. I forgot to breathe, just sucked and licked and bit at him instead. My hand found his nipples. They were full, hard as rocks. I tweaked them, slapped them, pulled and tugged on them. Like his huge balls, they seemingly ached to be tortured.

  “Oh man,” he moaned, his mouth still locked to mine. His hands moved below the bar and found my swollen cock. He stroked it slow and rhythmically as I continued working his mouth and nipples. “So thick,” I heard him mumble. “Gonna fill me up with that bad boy?”

  I stopped kissing him at that moment, pulling away a few centimeters, locking eyes with him again. “Yeah?” I whispered. “You want that thick dick up inside you?”

  “Yeah, Todd. Yeah,” he whispered back. Hearing him say my name like that caused my breath to catch in my throat.

  “Think there’s room on that bar for the two of us?”

  “Only one way to find out,” he replied, shifting himself horizontally, so that he was lying down on the bar now. I grabbed our drinks and the bottle of Bailey’s and set them down on the ground. Then I hopped on the bar, first straddling Scott and then lying down on top of him.

  “Hi, dude,” I said, again face to glorious face with him.

  “Hi yourself,” he said, with that wide, fabulous grin of his. Our lips, like two magnets, drew together, meshed, became one, melted together, as did our bodies as they slipped and slid over each other on top of the bar.

  One of my hands found a nipple. One of his found one of mine. We both groaned together, still kissing, still staring. Our cocks bumped and ground. His legs lifted and wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer, if that was even physically possible anymore.

  “Look at the corner of the bar,” he whispered into my ear before taking a lobe inside his mouth and gently biting down. I pulled away and looked over my shoulder. There was a jar of rubbers down there.

  “Man, a whole jar? Is that a dare? Doesn’t this place have to reopen at some point?”

  He laughed. “Let’s try one for now.” So I did. I got on my knees, reached over, and found a gold foil with a pretty yellow rubber inside. I handed it to Scott. He slid it over my fat cock with a leer and a giggle.

  “Fill me with it, man,” he pled.

  “Best offer I’ve had all day.” Heck, let’s say all year, maybe longer. I reached down between his hairy, muscled thighs and found that sweet hole of his again. Spitting on my fingers, I opened him up, getting him lubed, ready for my thicker than thick cock.

  He lifted his legs up. I positioned my body between them, resting the head of my dick against his hole. I stared at him again, kissed him again. I gently pushed a millimeter inside, then two, three, then the whole fat tip.”

  Scott sucked in his breath as his head tilted back. It was rapture on a bar.

  “Yeah,” he said, in a long exhale. My cock slid in farther and farther, deeper and deeper, splitting him apart, filling his hole, at last reaching the hilt before stopping. It was like we were one now. I didn’t know where he ended and I began. We were just one big mound of sticky, sweaty flesh grinding into the wood.

  And then I slowly pulled out, all the way, and then pushed the head back in and slid all the way home again. I repeated this, pulling out, popping in, deep, then out, again and again and again. Harder each time. Until I was pounding his ass, and the bar was rocking and creaking. And the harder my cock slammed into his, the harder our mouths mashed together.

  Soon enough, we were both moaning in ecstasy, loudly, filling the small bar with our raspy groans and grunts, all while my cock slammed, slammed, slammed against the back of his ass. And, man, how I came, bucking and rocking against that hairy, hard ass of his. He came, too, without either of us touching his cock, just from the friction of our bodies.

  His come flew and spilled over our stomachs, our chests, our chins. As he exploded and I exploded, it felt as if there were just the two of us alone in the whole wide universe. Just me and him and my mouth and his mouth and his blue eyes and my brown ones, together as one atop that bar, which was now slick with our sweat and his gooey, sticky, aromatic come.

  “Mmm,” I heard in my ear as my cock softened, at long last, and I pulled out of him, collapsing on his body, all smiles and relaxed muscles and bliss.

  We lay there like that, gathering our strength back, not saying anything, just kissing and staring.

  “I need a drink,” I finally said.

  “Good place for it,” he replied, with a laugh.

  We pulled apart, our sweaty bodies making a slurping sound as we did so. We hopped off the bar. The cool ground shocked my bare feet. Scott filled a glass with ice and we shared a last blast of Bailey’s together.

  We cleaned our mess up. I helped him finish the rest of his closing-up duties, mostly in silence, with furtive glances every so often. When we finished, we got dressed. I put on his underwear, he put on mine, in a final intimate exchange.

  “Ready?” he asked, grabbing the keys to the place.

  “Suppose so,” I said, looking back longingly at the jar of rubbers.

  He laughed when he saw what I was staring at. “I don’t have to be back here for ten hours or so.”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. “I gotta be at work in six.”

  “And that’s funny why?” We exited the bar and he locked the door behind him. “Hey, you never did tell me what you did for a living.”

  With a knowing smile, I handed him my business card. “Two problems solved,” I said.

  He looked at me quizzically. “You’r
e a magazine editor?” A glimmer of understanding appeared behind his fantastically blue eyes.

  “Yep,” I said. “An editor whose cover model got arrested this morning, which is why I was at the bar to begin with, drowning my sorrows. I don’t have a jar of rubbers on my desk, but if you’re looking for work . . . ”

  “Two problems solved, right?”

  “And after the shoot . . . ”

  “We shoot. Again.”

  “And again. And again. And, hey, I even got a bottle of Bailey’s at home.”

  “On the rocks?” he asked, wrapping his arm in mine as I headed us to my car.

  “On the rocks. On your cock. Up your ass. Yeah.”

  “Yeah.”

  We got in my car and drove into the day.

  HEMOGLOBIN

  Richard May

  It began that summer in Valeska, my village back home on the plains of Udmurtia, then part of Imperial Russia. The night air was humid and still, so I left my shutters open, hoping for a breeze. After some time, I fell asleep, but woke abruptly, as if from a dream. A bat was at my neck, drinking my blood. I knew then that I’d soon be dead, since there was nothing against rabies in those days. I tried to pull the beast off of me, but its fangs were too deeply embedded.

  I must have fainted from the blood loss. When I woke again, the bat had become a pale-skinned man with dark, wavy hair. He was naked and lying on top of me. His cock was engorged and so was mine. The stranger sneered, yanking my legs into the air before ramming his cock up my ass. I screamed, but no one seemed to hear me. He held my arms back while he sucked and fucked, riding me like a Vyatka mare.

  The pain quickly became pleasure. I had wanted this before, with boys and men. This, though, was my first time. The man sneered a second time when he saw I was willing, and he set my arms free. My hands caressed his ropy back muscles, the wide slopes of his shoulders, and his bulbous ass. At my touch, his fucking became more violent, like that of a wild creature. Suddenly, he came inside me, filling me with come, even as he further drained my blood. All this was done without a word between us.

  Minutes later, he withdrew and reclined on his side, letting me observe him. His body was muscular and milky white in the moonlight. I began to jerk myself as he watched, expressionless, until I came in jolts, spurting into the night air.

  “Good boy,” he said sardonically in Russian. I was still breathing heavily. Slowly, before my eyes, he became a bat once more, hairy, dark, and winged. I watched with terrified eyes as the creature flew out the window and into the dark, across the light of the full moon.

  The next morning I was sure the man must’ve been a dream or a delusion, even if the bat was not. There was, after all, the bite mark on my neck. My mother noticed. I said I must’ve scratched myself on brambles.

  The symptoms took a few days to appear. My parents thought it was the flu; I hadn’t told them about my night visitor. When the fever and headaches came, I left; I didn’t want to hurt my family. I walked along the river, looking for a good place, but what place is better than another to kill oneself? I dove into the wide waters. When I breached the surface the first time, I fought the urge to save myself, and swam into the middle of the river where the current was cold and swift. I let myself be pulled along by it. For miles we traveled, the Cheptsa and I. I sank repeatedly, but always bobbed back to the surface. I could never stop myself from taking a breath. Finally, the current brought me to the shore, and I staggered out of the water, thinking how next to take my life. Someone spoke to me in Udmurt, my own language.

  “The water does not want you,” an old man on the bank above me said. I tried to shake the river from myself, like a dog. “Wait,” he told me and trotted toward a gray hut not far from the little beach I stood upon, my chest heaving all the while.

  He soon came running back with a blanket and heavy rags. I removed my clothing, then dried myself with the rags and wound the blanket around me. I saw the old man’s interest while I was naked. He was not bad looking for an old man. His name, he told me, was Mardan.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, and, when I nodded, he took me in to a breakfast of steaming buckwheat. While I ate, he watched me intently. “You are about my size,” he decided and brought me clothes to wear. When I dropped the blanket to put them on, I saw his desire rise.

  Mardan let me rest that first day, but we slept together the second night. He had a strong body, and worked mine well before we slept. I had dreams, which the old man said were visions. He was a shaman, and decided during our first days together that I would make a good one, too. I agreed to be his apprentice for as long as the disease would let me.

  Insomnia came and then hallucinations. I told Mardan about the bat who became a man. “Do you have a cure?” I asked.

  He looked at me with old eyes. “There is only one cure, Kedra. Blood.”

  “No! I cannot do that!”

  “You will, whether you want to or not.”

  “But you . . . you have been so kind . . . ”

  “I will prepare an amulet for myself,” he said, his eyes nervous now.

  “I have to leave.”

  “No,” Mardan begged. “Stay. Perhaps we can find a way.”

  I knew he only said that because he loved my body, but I felt safe with Mardan, and the thought of finding a way, as he called it, rooted me in place.

  In three nights, the hunger came. I attacked him, but his amulet kept my new fangs from his throat. I tried to rush out the door, but Mardan reached it first. He began a chant, which calmed me enough for him to bind me to the bed. He gagged my mouth.

  I watched him cut his arm and let his blood drip into a bowl. It was the most beautiful color and smelled delicious. He removed the gag and poured a little of the rich red fluid into my mouth. I begged for more, until Mardan fed me the rest. I grew calm, my fangs retracting. There was some little blood left thickening in the bowl, but he refused to give it to me.

  “We will see how long this dosage lasts,” he explained, quite medical in his approach.

  Each night, we expected the hunger to return, and it did, at the next full moon, but for three weeks I lived a normal life, within certain bounds. For example, I could not go out during the day unless I was completely covered. I became nocturnal, active when the sun set, tired when it rose. Mardan adjusted his schedule to overlap with mine.

  The night the hunger returned, I told Mardan at the first sign. He bound me to the bed and cut his other arm. I drank from the bowl gratefully and felt refreshed. The dosage was the same. Mardan plucked a tune on the krez until I fell asleep.

  We continued like this for twelve years, Mardan teaching me his skills and knowledge as a shaman and medicating me at each full moon. We created a crème that allowed me to go about in daylight hours if I kept my eyes down. I did not age, but Mardan did, and he was already old to begin with. At last, he died. His friends and I sacrificed the rooster and buried Mardan in his grave. I retired to his hut to consider what to do next. I was without my lover, without my medication.

  I needed blood only infrequently, but obtaining it in a small village would be noticed. I would be noticed. Besides, I still held hope I could find a cure, even though Mardan and I had used every chant he knew and every plant available, and nothing had kept the symptoms from returning. He’d concluded that we needed more knowledge, and said I would find it in a larger city. I had not acted on this conclusion while he was alive, but now I said good-bye to his friends, gave away his belongings, and went to Izhevsk, our capital, to study with the great shamans Mardan had listed for me while he was alive. They eagerly taught me all they knew, pleased with my level of interest and diligence.

  I still needed my monthly medicine, of course, and I went hunting for it among the dregs of Izhevsk when the first headache began. I also craved sex, now that Mardan was gone. I fucked my donors in their hovels or against an alley wall. They were grateful that such a good-looking young man would notice them.

  I was not greedy; I followed
certain rules. I took as payment for the fuck only the dosage I required. I always drank the minimum necessary, hoping I wouldn’t turn my sources into monsters like myself. I never returned to the same man, at least for blood. I grew more confident when there was no increase in the reported cases of my disease, and I encountered no other vampires as competition.

  Eventually, my shaman teachers declared that they had taught me all they knew. They suggested I continue my studies with a Russian in Izhevsk: a doctor, they called him. They gave me references and new clothes. I applied at the doctor’s home and office, and was accepted. When he asked me my name, I told him Vesya, the first of many new names I assumed.

  “What is your family name?” he asked. I had none, but knew I must invent one. The doctor had a last name, Rogovsky.

  “Valeska,” I told him, taking the name of my village.

  “Vesya Valeska,” he repeated. It sounded good. I stared at his glasses and made a note to buy some of my own. I told the technician that my eyes were sensitive to the sun, which was the truth. The dark tinted glass he made was perfect.

  Dr. Rogovsky had strange ways. He was not at all spiritual, and he used no chants. He did not talk very much with the afflicted, as Mardan had done. But he did do one miraculous thing: he used leeches to let blood from his customers. He explained that this would strengthen them, which made no sense to me. If drinking blood made me stronger, how could letting blood do the same for others? But I didn’t question his method; it would have its benefits for me.

  As his assistant, I had many menial jobs. One included disposing of the blood taken from the doctor’s patients. I would hold the bowl as blood seeped into it, then remove it quickly from the room, since patients often faint at the sight of it. In the anteroom, I would drink it, if it was time. I gave thanks to the gods before each bowl.

  Although I no longer drank from men, sex with them continued. My new partners were from higher levels of society. Middle-class and wealthy men came to see the doctor for their ailments. We noticed one another and arranged to meet. Their bodies were clean and beautiful. It was a very good time for me. I was healthy and had all the lovers and blood I wanted.