Best of the Best Gay Erotica

by Richard Labonté

  To be this deep inside a man is about as physically intimate as you can get. The quality is so different from fucking, in some ways much more intense. Articulate, multijointed fingers can reach places inside the body that a hard cock cannot. They can increase or modify pressure on the sphincter or the prostate at will. And while someone who’s fucking often has to keep sliding in and out to receive pleasure and to stay hard enough, a hand can stay put when it hits a spot that produces moans. I know when I’m fucking, I can get very mental about the state of my erection, wanting to please my partner and prolong my own pleasure at the risk of losing it altogether. Doing butt massage, I’m liberated from that anxiety. Touching Jerry, fiddling with his erotic knobs like an engineer tuning up a delicate machine, I felt detached, distant, powerfully in control. Like the most beneficent of gods, at once servant and master, giving exquisite pleasure and requiring nothing in return.

  Once he was accustomed to being penetrated, I picked up the pace. Now I was fucking him—with my hand, anyway—in and out, pumping his butt. Wordless murmurs issued from his throat. He raised his butt higher. With my free hand I slapped his big rump hard, first one cheek then the other, again and again. He jerked and cried out with each slap. His cry did not say “Stop.” The sound of bare hand against bare butt excited me. I escalated the strength of my slaps. Then I paused and ran my fingertips lightly over the reddening skin. I reached down and wrapped my fist around the base of his bulging cock and balls and pulled them toward me.

  “Do you have your whole fist in me?” he suddenly asked.

  “No, not quite,” I said. “Three fingers.”

  “Can you fist me?” His voice was quiet, not timid but hopeful.

  “Have you ever been fisted?”

  “No. But I’d like to try.”

  “Let’s see how it goes,” I said. I put some more lube on my hand and slid all four fingers inside him. He groaned with satisfaction. I could feel his belly, his bowels, his rectum, his insides breathing with me, letting go. When I slid my hand back, a few bubbles of air pressed their way out, relieving the interior pressure. Without clenching or clamping, his ass wrapped itself around my hand, like a starfish on a rock.

  I got off the table and stood next to him. I ran my free hand up his back and stroked his shoulders, his neck, the scaly top of his bald head. I leaned into his butt, which opened slightly wider. He sighed. Now I slid my thumb into him, so my hand formed a wedge that pushed all the way in until my knuckles rested against his sitz bones.

  I noticed that he was no longer hard. It occurred to me that he might be hurting. He might have had enough. But the gurgles he released whenever I bore down on his prostate told me he had entered a deeper zone, that altered state of erotic experience that is beyond erection and ejaculation. It’s a mystical place, akin to dreaming or nearly dying, where the membrane that separates matter from spirit becomes very thin. Memories and emotions slither up from the murky depths. The nether eye opens to what’s usually hidden. The roof of the planetarium slides open, and the infinite beckons. I knew he was travelling through space, like those scenes in 2001: A Space Odyssey where suddenly the spaceship would be hurtling through a blur of stars. Only this was inner space, a tunnel of quiet dark. Vaulted ceilings. Echoey stairwell. A horse’s eye. I hung out there with him.

  Almost an hour and a half had passed since he got on the table. “I’m going to slow down now and start coming out of you, Jerry,” I told him. One finger at a time, I brought my hand out, cupping my palm over his hole before releasing it entirely. Then I laid him flat on the table again, cleaned his butt with a Baby Wipe, and toweled off his back before turning him over.

  “How are you doing?” I asked him.

  He looked up through his slit eyes and said, “Good.”

  I knelt at the end of the table looking at his face upside down. I saw his stubbly chin, his thin lips (relaxed now), his fleshy ears.

  “You’ve been on a little trip I think.”

  “Uh, huh,” he said.

  “Uh, huh,” I confirmed. I rested my hands on his shoulders and looked down into his steely green eyeballs. They were the eyes of someone on a trip, who has seen something from the other world and not averted his gaze. He didn’t seem confused or shy or embarrassed.

  “Did any images or memories occur to you during this session?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said immediately. I was surprised. I like asking the question but usually people don’t relate to it.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “I remembered that my father used to take me over his knee,” he said slowly. “He would pull down my pants…and pull down my underwear…and spank me.”

  “And that was exciting to you?”

  He nodded.

  “Did your father know it excited you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you get a hard-on?”

  “No, not at the time.”

  “But later when you thought about it…?”

  “Uh, huh.”

  I let that memory sink in. Inside me something large and dangerous moved, like a giant octopus tentacle flopping across the room. When I started slapping his big hairy butt, little did I know that I was stirring up his oldest erotic fantasies. Or mine: the forbidden daddy-love-touch.

  “There’s something about an older man, your father, taking an interest in your naked butt that’s very exciting and forbidden, isn’t there?”

  “More forbidden,” he said.

  “Ah,” I said. “Many things that are forbidden are exciting.” He was quiet for a minute.

  “Anything else?” I inquired.

  “Yes,” he said.

  I was overjoyed. More!

  “I was in Morocco once,” he began. “Have you ever been to Morocco?”

  “No,” I said. “I’d like to go.”

  “This was many years ago,” he said. He spoke slowly, as if in a trance. “I was there with some other people on business… and we were all taken to this bathhouse.…There were men and women there.…I got separated from the people I was with.…I saw some stairs.…I went up there.…It was a little room.…I met a Moroccan guy.…He was big…well, not big. Stocky.”

  He paused.

  “Then what happened?” I said, barely controlling my impatience to hear the whole story.

  “There was a bench there.…He pulled it over to the middle of the room.…He had me get up on it…the same way you had me do…with my butt up.”

  Aha.

  “And then he…you know, he fucked me.…And there were two other guys…Moroccans…Three of them all together.” “They all three fucked you?”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “One right after the other?”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “That sounds hot,” I said. My dick grew in my pants. To tell the truth, I was jealous.

  “It was,” he said immediately. “The other guys were walking around the place.…I didn’t know where they were.…Men and women.…”

  “Oh,” I said, “it was a place where everybody was there having sex, men and women?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “But they could have walked in at any time and seen you?”

  “Yes.”

  We both quietly took in the thrill of that scenario.

  This guy had more going on inside him than I ever would have suspected by looking at him. I got up and sat on the table next to him. I picked up his arm and let it rest against my chest as we continued talking.

  He wanted to know more about fisting. “Do you think you could get your whole hand inside me next time?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “For fisting it’s a lot easier if you’re in a sling, because your whole body is able to relax. When you’re on a table, your muscles unavoidably maintain a certain tension.”

  “Do you have a sling?” he asked eagerly.

  “No,” I said. “Some people have them in their private playrooms, and some sex clubs have them.”

  “I couldn’t see mysel
f doing it in a sex club with just anybody,” he said. “But I could do it with you. What if I lay on my back?”

  “That might be easier,” I conceded. I started feeling slightly apprehensive. I’ve never fisted anybody. This session was as far as I’d ever gone in that direction. I didn’t want to set myself up as an expert. But his eagerness to explore touched me. He didn’t seem like a numbed-out thrill seeker. From the stories he told, I understood that intense body play connected him to his deepest erotic fantasies and memories. What else can you call these things but experiences of God, memories of heaven? In those moments, brief and eternal, you feel most alive in your body and most spiritually connected to the tempestuous energy of the universe, that mystery at once so physical and so invisible. How many saints and monks, meditating days at a time on their dusty mats, have dwelt on just this, remembered or wished-for episodes of ecstatic buttfucking?

  “We need to stop for today, Jerry,” I said.

  “Can you help me get off?” he asked.

  “You want to squirt?” I asked, a little dubiously. I thought he’d gone way beyond it. I thought he’d had a sacred-sex breakthrough and realized that you don’t always have to ejaculate to have a powerful erotic experience.

  “Sure,” he said. I looked at his dick, which he’d been idly toying with during our conversation, and I saw that it was stiff and dark pink. I oiled him up and stroked him. He had a medium-sized dick, maybe five inches long erect, circumcised, with a big split down the middle, a thick frenum. Pressed flat against his belly, his cock looked like an arrowhead—or a devil’s tail. As I worked on his cock, he started running his hands over my body. I found myself tensing up, afraid that he was going to start invading me and grabbing my cock. I didn’t invite him to touch me, and I wasn’t at all turned on at the moment. I wanted to finish up the session and get rid of him. Sacred sex is sacred sex, but after an hour and a half your time is up.

  I pumped his cock with one hand and reached my other arm under his neck and around his shoulders. He lifted his arm to pull me down to his face. I resisted, but eventually I allowed him to press some stubbly kisses against my face.

  As I pressed my hairy chest against his, his thin lips smacking against mine, I became for a moment that angry daddy pulling down his underpants, that stocky Moroccan towering over him and swallowing him up, the horned god appearing by magic in the forest clearing where the chubby boy lay on mossy grass pleasuring himself. The world turned upside down with a lurching sound like a train pulling out of the station. Blossoming flowers erupted from the earth. Waves of air pressed into his lungs until he burst.

  How do I want you to touch me, Daddy? I like having power over you. I want to be somewhere you can’t hurt me. I like it when I can see you and you can’t see me. I can see every part of your fat hairy body. I see your scar under your shoulder blade. I see the razor line of your barbershop haircut. I see the curled callous on the edge of your big toe. I see your pink balls peeping out from under your thighs. You’re face down, so I can spread your cheeks and look right into your wrinkled butthole. I can see where your sallow skin turns rosier, the color of the inside of a velvet cape lined in silk. Whorehouse pink—not garish but muted. I could write on your butthole with a Magic Marker. Little hieroglyphics. Sportina Cheese. Marco Wuz Here. Close Cover before Striking. Bad Advice. Liar. I could slide the Magic Marker in and out of you, like Midwestern boys caught fucking themselves with pencils. I’ve turned the tables on you, Daddy. I’m fucking you.

  I don’t want you to notice or say anything. Not right now anyway. Later I want you to tell me I’m wonderful and give me some money. Right now I want to squeeze a pile of slippery goo onto my rubbery fingers and slide them into your butt, so you feel me fucking you, you feel me towering over you, planting a seed, mowing your lawn, making you pregnant, making you moan. You reach out and grab my leg. Suddenly I feel like Don Giovanni in danger of being dragged to hell. What do you want? Let me go. Let me go! You want something from me, something more, and I don’t want to give anything more. I want to say no without saying no. I turn you over, and you look at me with your slanted reptile eyes, dark green, from just under the surface of the water, you alligator with the crooked smile (no lips) and hairy belly. You reach up to touch my cheek. I lean in to your ear; you turn your head to kiss me. I open my mouth, and our tongues press together like cheese and burger. We fry. I’m kissing you, Daddy. I always wanted this.

  We’re both hard. I’m running my hands through your hair. Now I’ve given up shame. I have no restraint. I strip down to my jockstrap and take that off too. I wrap it around your neck. I climb on top and slide into you without stopping. I pump into you and pull the jockstrap tighter around your neck. Your eyes bulge. Your dick swells. It’s unbelievably huge. It’s like a big balloon. It’s a baby lying between us. It’s a baby boy growing out of your crotch, and the longer I fuck you, the bigger he grows. Now he’s sucking on your tit, and I’m fucking you, and your face is getting redder, like fire around your watery eyes, and I flood you, I flood you, your banks overflow, blood trickles from the corner of your mouth. I take the baby and wrap it in your T-shirt and run. I run through the snow looking for a taxi. There’s no one on the street but me. We get to the airport in no time. I don’t have any luggage. They let me walk on board with the baby, both of us naked and crusty. I sit in first class, order a beer, and toast you, Daddy, love of my life.

  Ganged

  Carol Queen

  A Tribute to John Preston

  We join our protagonist Miranda, a bisexual cross-dressing femme switch with a taste for leather daddies, not long after her meeting with Jack Prosper—the only gay man she’s ever picked up who didn’t throw her out when he figured out she was really a woman—even after she changed into femme drag.

  Jack and I had been running together for several weeks. He knew which bar I hung out in; a couple of times he had sauntered in and found me there. He didn’t stay to meet my friends; he’d haul me out and back to his place. We usually only got as far as the alley before his dick was out.

  He had been to my apartment only once. It was more comfortable at his place; he didn’t have any housemates, whereas I could never predict when mine, Ariel, would come home, half the time dragging a john. So mostly our relationship developed within the charmed and secret space of his rooms. The one time he was at my place, though, I found him nosing around my room when I came in from the kitchen where I’d gone to get us something to drink. At the bedside table, he picked up a book—a very battered copy of Mr. Benson. He grinned, and slung himself on my bed as though he habitually lounged there to read. He held the book in his left hand and of course it fell right open—to the part where Mr. Benson takes his new boy to meet all his friends. “Stroke book, eh?” Jack was, I could tell, amused.

  I just said, “You’ve read it, I suppose.”

  “Read it? Honey, I’m sure you were still in junior high. For a while there, this character was everybody’s role model—or dream daddy.” Jack was fingering the teeth marks where one time I had bitten the book during an especially big come.

  I blushed. “Well, that historical moment may be over for you, but the dykes have gotten hold of him now.”

  “I’m not even sure I can picture that,” Jack said. He stroked his mustache absently. “You know, I have a few buddies of my own. But god knows, Randy, you’d embarrass me. You look like baby chicken when you’re in drag.”

  I’d all but forgotten about that when I got a call from Jack on my voicemail. “Okay, Randy, I want you over here tonight at eight o’clock. Punctually. Butched up as much as your fey little ass can get. You won’t need your girl drag, but bring your make-up.”

  I showed up at five minutes ’til eight and sat on the steps ’til it was time to ring the bell. I had on my engineer’s boots and Levi’s, and in a jockstrap, I was packing a small one. My breasts were bound down and I had a worn black T-shirt under my leather jacket.

  Jack answered the door. “Randy,
for christ’s sake, you look like a dyke.”

  “Jack, there’s hardly any difference in this town!”

  “Oh yes there is. Get in here, kid. You need a little more work.”

  Jack put me into a black leather bar vest that just fit me. He didn’t tell me where it came from, but it was much too small for him. He asked me for my make-up. With the dark pencils and mascara brushes he found in the kit he darkened my eyebrows a little and stroked the fuzz on my upper lip with color until I had a mustache. “This stuff better be waterproof,” he muttered. Finally he stood back and looked at me. “Where in god’s name do you get boots that tiny? If only you were a few inches shorter. I could just tell them you’re a dwarf.”

  “Jack, you’re a total bitch. Who’s ‘them’?”

  “Never mind, son. You’ll see soon enough. Now drop to your knees, boy.”

  Happy to be back on familiar ground, I knelt with my cheek resting on Jack’s thigh, filling with whatever the emotion was that his Daddyness brought up in me. An instant later, I felt a chill coil of chain wrapping my throat and I started; Jack had never collared me before. At the click of the lock, my cunt spasmed as if he’d flicked his tongue over my clit.

  “You’re my boy tonight, got it? You’re going to keep your mouth shut and your jockstrap on. I’m upping the ante on our little social experiment, boy, and you’re in it ’til it’s over. No safe words, no femme drag, nothing but what I tell you. I’m taking you to a little party. You might just be the guest of honor.” His eyes narrowed—I could see he was dead serious. “But if you don’t keep up your end, you’ll never be invited back—and I probably won’t either. Don’t fuck it up.”

  I stared up at him, welling up with the weirdest mixture of pride and stricken fear. I had only about a shred of an idea where we were going, but it was pretty clear Jack wanted me to pass on whomever we met. I had no idea how I was going to pull that off. I don’t think I’d ever passed on anyone for more than about a half an hour in my life.