Best of the Best Gay Erotica

by Richard Labonté

  I’m gonna rape ya, kid! Supreme gleams, ominously, his first spoken words, half joking. Yeah?…well ya’ can’t rape da willin’! Mikey smirks, bites his lower lip. Supreme lunges before Mikey says another word, thrusting his wet tongue deep inside Mikey’s mouth, Mikey’s sweet lollipop aftertaste lingering on his saliva, Supreme pushing his stiff cock into Mikey’s growing erection.

  Mikey: stunned, yet excited by the violent assault, sucking in his breath as Supreme attacks his neck.

  Supreme: tossing him viciously onto a bed Mikey hadn’t realized lay just behind him, crushing Mikey with unexpected thrilling strength, grinding on top of Mikey, pinning him to the worn, abused mattress, Mikey letting out angry screams as Supreme chews his neck, longing to produce hickeys Mikey will remember him by for days to come.

  Mikey: fighting from underneath, desperately trying to push Supreme off, Supreme’s teeth tearing through capillaries and sucking until he has left his tag, pulling away to admire it.

  Supreme: watching the growing excitement in Mikey’s pearl-black eyes.

  You bastard, Mikey curses through clenched teeth, the irony in his fiendish smile making him concubine to the quickly reddening hickey.

  Supreme: lifting himself off Mikey, reaches down to pull at his oversized T-shirt, displaying a muscular chest with light, pink nipples.

  Mikey: quickly running soft hands down Supreme’s definition before peeling off his own tank top, a golden crucifix glistening against his chest.

  Supreme: marveling at Mikey’s smoothly toned nineteen-year-old body and dark brown nipples, devouring them as if expecting to procure milk, arousing in Mikey a synthesis of pleasure and pain, swelling Mikey’s dick.

  At that moment Mikey’s beeper vibrates with urgent desperation, a trick paging to subdue an insatiable hunger. Supreme snatches it out of Mikey’s pocket, tosses it across the room where it smashes against the spray-painted walls.

  Supreme: seizing the moment to unzip Mikey’s baggy jeans. Underneath, Looney Tunes boxer shorts wrap tightly around Mikey’s smooth waist, a thin trail of pubic hair leading seductively from Mikey’s belly button towards his bulging crotch, precum stains wet in the image of Marvin the Martian.

  Mikey: sighing in ecstasy as Supreme frees his hardening dick from the cotton shorts and feasts on it, closing his eyes to indulge in the warmth of Supreme’s mouth engulfing him while gently pulling on his balls, pushing in deeper until Supreme gags, clutching at Supreme’s curly brown hair, gently maneuvering himself back towards Supreme’s throat and whispering blissful whimpers.

  Supreme: caressing the shaft of Mikey’s dick with his tongue, pausing to lick his balls, discovering the weak spot between Mikey’s legs, resting there, just above Mikey’s asshole, then penetrating him with his tongue, saliva streaming down against the hairs surrounding Mikey’s entrance, then pulling himself up, edging toward violence, tearing off the rest of Mikey’s clothes.

  Mikey: lying now completely naked, surrendering on a bed he hasn’t yet explored, searching for a pillow while Supreme undresses and introduces his huge uncut dick.

  Mikey: tossing the pillow aside, raising himself from the bed and falling to his knees, enchanted by Supreme’s altar of a cock.

  Now I know why they call ya Supreme! gleams Mikey, gazing up to see his idol smile. It’s all yours papi! offers Supreme, the words ricocheting in Mikey’s mind.

  Mikey: skinning back Supreme’s foreskin to expose the cock’s glistening, purple-red head, licking precum dribbling from the slit, tasting it as it brushes through his lips.

  Supreme: beginning to groan, watching as he disappears into Mikey’s wet, hungry mouth, his dick getting bigger and fatter, until the foreskin stretches behind the circumference, Mikey relaxing his throat muscles to allow the rock-hard erection in deeper.

  Mikey: pushing away to breathe in heavily, fondling his face against Supreme’s thick long cock before Supreme digs his fingers into Mikey’s hair, pulling Mikey’s face back to the awaiting rod, gripping him by the ears, shoving his dick into Mikey’s ardent mouth, thrusting until Supreme’s cockhead scrapes the back of Mikey’s throat, Mikey’s crucifix shoved into his mouth along with Supreme’s cock.

  Yeah, papi! That feels good! moans Supreme, while fucking Mikey’s face, choking Mikey again and again and again with his shaft, aroused even more by the naked golden Christ ramming in and out of Mikey’s throat. Pulling out suddenly, Supreme cries, I don’t wanna come yet! picks Mikey off the floor and tongues him down once more, the bitter taste of cock now in their mouths.

  Supreme: throwing Mikey back onto the bed, gripping Mikey’s arms and pinning him, Mikey struggling underneath him as Supreme spitefully spits into Mikey’s open mouth before spreading Mikey’s legs apart, ramming his dick against Mikey’s butthole, sucking on Mikey’s ears, his tongue penetrating deep, as Supreme imagines his cock would, then jumping off the bed and ransacking his drawers for a condom, rolling it down his extended rod, lubricating Mikey’s ass, locking eyes with him before jamming deep into Mikey’s asshole, feeling the tight bud of skin give way as Mikey shouts in pain, struggling helplessly to pull away from him.

  Excited by Mikey’s fight, Supreme grabs him by the shoulders, forcing him back down. He is halfway inside before Mikey, using the bedpost, hauls himself away, flipping over. Supreme, lunging on top of him and crushing Mikey with all his weight, mutters Come on papi!…ya know ya want me to…ya know ya want me ta fuck you! Sucking Mikey’s ear to keep him distracted while he maneuvers his way inside, gradually forcing the resisting muscles to open, Mikey mouthing a silent scream before Supreme inserts his thumb into his mouth.

  Mikey: biting the thumb without hesitation as Supreme thrusts harder, pounding in and out, his hollering muffled by Supreme’s thumb as Supreme curses under his breath.

  Yeah papi, yeah, that’s it, Supreme screams, that’s it. Just bite me harder…yeah…that shit feels good! Thrusting deeper, Supreme feels…hears…Mikey’s guts enrapturing him, watches muscled ass cheeks palpitate under his heaving chest. Supreme disappears, re-appears repeatedly, in and out of Mikey, searing the sensitive inner linings of Mikey’s ass, hints of blood staining the bedsheets, Mikey’s asshole burning like crimson as Supreme pierces roughly, the magic pain intensifying, Supreme pounding, lacerating whatever internal walls Mikey’s body may have supported, Mikey reaching down to grab his own dick and jerk off, distracting himself from the mounting pain, the bed, knocking knocking knocking against the hollow wall as Supreme shoves his cock in farther and farther, tearing into the core of Mikey’s being, his face one endless contortion after another.

  Yeah baby!…I want ta see ya come! Supreme pleads, feeling Mikey jerking off beneath him, Mikey beating himself faster, in tune with Supreme’s pumping, the stridency of Supreme’s thighs slapping against his ass, escalating with the fierce rhythm of their distorted grunts, Supreme plunging further into him, his cum boiling up. Oh yeah papi!…you’re gonna make me come!…you’re gonna make me come! Mikey yells. Yeah baby yeah yeah yeah, Supreme hollers as Mikey convulses beneath him, Mikey’s milky white scum shooting out over the bed. Supreme roars, pulls out of Mikey, snatches off the rubber and jerks himself, shooting his own hot, sticky load across and onto Mikey’s back, his cum splattering as he screams and screams before toppling on top of Mikey like a corpse.

  Both of them, exhausted, struggle for air until the room stops spinning; lying barely conscious, Mikey dimly aware that the golden Jesus crucifix no longer dangles from his neck.

  Consciousness returns, and with it a wicked idea to Mikey’s mind, causing him to laugh spontaneously. Supreme, turning him over and staring with abandon into Mikey’s decadent glistening eyes, plants a kiss on Mikey’s lips, falls victim to his contagious laughter.

  Mikey pulls himself up off the bed, sits on top of Supreme, and glowers devilishly. A sudden trickle of golden piss floods Supreme’s sweaty chest, Supreme’s face contracts into bewilderment. Happy Mother’s Day, motherfucker! Mikey smiles, ever so wr
yly.

  The Adored One

  Michael Rowe

  Today the ground is warm, grass brown like dry death, waiting for the yellow kiss of full spring. Lucas Sebastian watches from the sidelines, eyes squinting in the flat midwestern sunlight. He leans back against the whitewashed boards of the Williams Academy chapel and watches the others play soccer. His Nikon is loaded, and he takes the odd snapshot on the field. His team keeps him off the field this way, telling the coach that he’s more useful to the school if can get some good shots of the action for the yearbook.

  The truth is, he can’t play soccer. He can’t kick straight, he throws like my sister, play him! play him! the other team laughs, petitioning the coach to send Sebastian out to his death on the field. His team does their best to keep him out of harm’s way. Their harm, not his. If he was injured on the field, it would solve a lot of problems.

  He was the last picked, because nobody wanted a faggot on their team. Just hadda listen to him talk for chrissake. If he wasn’t a fruit, he could play properly, like a regular guy. The final proof was always in the playing. So the young gods have spoken, and he is banished from the field. So he watches. And there is beauty in watching, just watching.

  Muscles strain. Exertion makes taut young chests pink, shirts discarded in the unseasonable heat. Eager sweat cleaves strong pectorals. Hardening muscles flex artlessly beneath the smooth, untanned skin of the half-naked soccer players. Sebastian sighs to himself, and scans the battle-scarred turf, shielding his eyes from the furious sunlight, and the vision of Trask. He feels his heart quicken, feels the color come hot to his cheeks.

  Trask had a first name, but he was held in such awe that his last name, simple, monosyllabic, omnipotent, was all that was ever needed. Calling him anything else would be like giving God a nickname. Trask was the captain of the other team, and it gave Sebastian a private pleasure to silently cheer him on, to wish him well, to hope he caught the ball and bounced it off his forehead into Sebastian’s own team’s goal net, the way regular guys did.

  Sebastian rarely had a need to utter Trask’s name out loud. They moved in different stratospheres. But he always whispered it before he fell asleep in his dorm at night. He whispered it quietly, his face in the pillow, like a prayer, too low for his roommates to hear. Sebastian lived in terror of talking in his sleep, of revealing his secret love, his secret sin, the most fierce and private part of him. He nurtured it like a sweet cancer. He knew it was wrong. The headmaster, the Reverend Doctor Power, had told the students that God had reserved a special burning seat in hell for homosexuals. The Headmaster always said homosexual, never gay or fag which were the words the other guys used. To him, these words meant nothing. They could wound, and frequently did, but they bore no resemblance to anything he could feel. He loved Trask. But that was another thing altogether. Dr. Power’s word sounded worse to Sebastian, like a sentence from God: sonorous, permanent, and utterly damnable.

  But the Headmaster was inside, in his office, surrounded by hockey trophies and lithographs of the Risen Christ, not out here on the field in the searing sunlight watching soccer. Sebastian was as alone as he could be under the circumstances, and he watched.

  Sebastian adjusted the focus on his camera, panning it across the field, following the action through the comforting detachment of the lens. He sought out Trask, pulling him into sharp relief, blurring the background. Trask effortlessly bounced the soccer ball off his forehead, neatly passing it to his co-captain. Sebastian fired the motor-drive, stopping the action. Good, good. He spun the zoom dial, trapping Trask’s face inside the rectangle of the viewfinder. He wondered what it would be like to feel hands, rough from football and farm work, against his chest. Warm lips, chapped and bruising. The unfamiliar scrape of stubble against his soft cheek. Trask was slickered with sweat, and the rivulets that ran down his chest soaked the front of his white Umbro soccer shorts, grass and dirt-stained at the seat. His skin was winter-white, and his hair was the color of pale dandelions. Soaking tufts of the same gold peeked from beneath the heavily-muscled arms. As though reading Sebastian’s mind, Trask paused in mid-turn and looked directly at Sebastian. His eyes were in shadow, and Sebastian could not read their expression. He fired again, the whir of the motor-drive sounding as loud to him as a rifle shot.

  Sebastian lowered the camera and stared at the ground. He felt a sudden horrible stirring below the waist as he hardened inside his track pants. He shifted his position, turning on his side, away from Trask. Terrified, Sebastian thought of girls, pretty and fresh, in order to make the hard-on go away before anyone saw him. Before Trask saw him and realized he was just a little fag after all, for real, and beneath all contempt. He rolled over on the grass. The contact between his erection and the hard ground went through him like a flashfire. He shifted again, waiting until the desire to grind his pelvis against the ground passed, praying that he wouldn’t be called, made to stand up, with his stiff sex making a tent in his pants.

  But he wasn’t called to play. He was ignored, as usual. There would be no Sebastian side-show for his peers that afternoon: No missed goals by Sebastian the retard, no soccer balls to the face, no exclusion from the gladiatorial fraternity of the jocks. No abject, ignominious humiliations in front of Trask.

  And the soccer game, of course, finally did end. Sebastian had discovered that one way of dealing with these daily rituals of degradation on the sports field was to imagine them as finite blocks of time, with beginnings and ends. Once he adapted to this thought process, he realized that although it seemed like a game would go on for all eternity when he accidentally scored on his own team, or when the ball knocked the glasses off his face, it would end. Eventually. Between four and five P.M., he lived his life in four blocks of fifteen minutes each. Half-time was a promise that there were only two blocks left.

  At six forty-five P.M. dinner was served in the large dining hall. Sebastian sat with his group of cronies who had also managed, from their very first day at the school, to find themselves with some sort of immutable label which shrouded them like a miasma and kept them just outside the periphery of the group known as the crowd.

  The crowd consisted, for the most part, of the most ordinary boys imaginable. Not bright, not stupid, not particularly accomplished athletically, but who knew all the rules to all the games and never found themselves on the soccer field in basketball shoes and brown denim pants, getting their glasses knocked off by a wayward soccer ball they were supposed to be bouncing off their heads, like regular guys.

  In short, they fit. They would grow up and graduate into lives and careers of stultifying normalcy, but at least here, at the school, life left them in some sort of bovine peace. If any of them were sensitive, they hid it with stunning alacrity.

  At the far end of the dining hall sat the rulers of the school. From Sebastian’s perspective, watching them eat their dinner, all he could see was brawny backs, mostly clad in well-worn button down shirts, or Williams Academy athletic T-shirts exposing biceps corded with thick ropes of hard sinew. The students were allowed to wear jeans after classes, and if there was ever an outward manifestation of the school’s hierarchy, it was here.

  His group, the outsiders, wore jeans that never seemed to lose their dark blue color, no matter how many times they were washed. The second group, the crowd, wore jeans that faded normally, as jeans tended to do.

  The third group, Trask’s group, were the denizens of the far table. They wore jeans that were faded to the glorious sky-blue of truly ancient denim. The seats and crotches were bleached almost white with constant wear, and they looked like they would remain that way forever. “Mount Olympus North,” as the school’s fatboy, Olivier, dubbed it one night in his unfortunately shrill voice. No one liked Olivier. He was, if possible, more of an outsider than Sebastian. But Olivier was unrepentant in his criticism of the demigods of the far table. He hated them all. Sebastian, on the other hand, worshipped them, however silently.

  When he thought of Trask, saun
tering through the hallways with textbooks held against one lean hip, he always thought of his blue jeans, gripping the round, muscular buttocks and full crotch perfectly, not too tightly, loose in all the right places, as though they had been designed by Sebastian himself during one of his fevered dreams, the dreams he was always afraid would cause him to cry out loud in his sleep. Once, after a soccer game in the first week of school, Sebastian had caught his first glimpse of God. He’d gone into the shower room after he thought everyone was finished. Through the billowing clouds of steam, he’d heard the subterranean polyphony of water exploding on tile. The shower room was lit with two overhead lights and they were both densely shrouded by coronas of soap-scented fog.

  Through the gloom, he’d been able to make out a naked giant at the far end of the shower room, powerful arms crossed, eyes closed beneath the pounding spray. Sun-streaked blond hair soaking, hanging to his thick shoulders like a truncated lion’s mane, wet skin burnished with a summer’s-end lifeguard tan, it had been the first time Sebastian had seen Trask naked. Sebastian had stood rooted in his spot near the first shower feeling thin and naked and cold. When he accidentally turned on the hot water full blast and scalded himself, jumping away from the jet and yelping, Trask had looked up and gave him a derisive smirk before turning away again and looking down, leaving Sebastian wishing the tiled floor would swallow him whole. When he’d adjusted the shower temperature, Sebastian stood awkwardly beneath the spray. And lovingly, secretly, he began to explore Trask’s nude body.

  When Trask briefly turned away from him to reach for the shampoo, Sebastian saw the white ghost of racing trunks against Trask’s tanned back and rear. His ass was hard-muscled and marble-white, a man’s ass, not a boy’s, with sharp indentations delineating each cheek. Sebastian had heard one of Trask’s soccer team-mates bragging that Trask had spent the summer at a football camp known for its harsh training regimen. Linebacker, thought Sebastian crazily, singing the exotic mantra in his mind. Halfback, fullback, quarterback, gridiron, pigskin, touchdown, hut! hut! hut! He imagined Trask straining out endless pushups beneath the blazing summer sun: A helmeted, padded, jock-strapped warrior.