Best Gay Erotica 2014 (2 page)

—Marilyn Monroe

Here's to embracing that natural gift. Enjoy!

Joe Mannetti

Connecticut

THE POWER MAN

Lee Hitt

My power is out. I'm not sure exactly when it happened. Or how. I'm not even sure what time it is now. Judging by the beam of sunlight streaming through the slit in the thick curtains, my guess is that it's daytime. I pull back the curtains and squint through the glass. Looks like the power lines outside my house went down. Some lie limp on the street, others sag powerlessly from the lines or from branches. They must have been blown down by heavy winds. The yard is wet from the night's pounding rain, but the pavement already looks dry. Just looking at the street, I'd never know it had rained.

I click on the battery-operated radio. They say it could be days before the power comes back on. Then the radio dies, the voice first becoming crackly, then dimming to a distant whisper and finally fading to silence altogether.

I shuffle into the kitchen to make coffee, and flick the light switch. Nothing. Oh, that's right: the power is out. It's so easy to forget when the power is out. It's usually always there, readily
accessible. Flick a switch and let there be light.

Then one day, it isn't.

There won't be any coffee today, either, I realize as I turned the knob on the electric stove top. No heat, no coffee.

I go back into the bedroom. Stupidly, I flick that light switch, too. I have to stop doing that, flicking switches and hoping something happens. But we've all been conditioned to do it, to think we have power over the power.

After drawing the curtains tight, blocking out all the light, I burrow under my blankets and go back to sleep.

I wake up sweaty and emerge from my cocoon of blankets hot and horny. The air conditioner has been off for who knows how many hours. I glance at the digital clock on the bedside table. Its face is blank. I could have been out for days. I have no idea. It doesn't matter though. I'm horny. At least I can control that.

That's the beauty of working from home. I get to do what I want, when I want. Well, most of the time, anyway. Without power, I'm not going to get much done. I can work from my laptop when the power is off, but then I'm on a time limit. The little meter in the corner of the screen counts down the hours until blackout. It's too much pressure.

I find my vibrating butt plug, a plump little purple number, in the dresser's bottom drawer. Lying on my back atop the sweaty sheets, my knees against my ribs, I squeeze the firm rubber digit into my eager hole and flick the switch. Nothing. It just sits there, lifeless, protruding from my asshole like a little purple cork.

Using rechargeable batteries in my anal vibe doesn't usually pose a problem. Only today I can't recharge them. Today, it's out of my control.

A sharp crack in the yard startles me, and I scurry to the
window with the purple plug still up my ass. I stick my head between the thick curtains and look through the window.

There are men in my yard.

The power lines are no longer on the ground, no longer dangling from leaning poles. I hope the power comes back on soon. My whole day has been thrown off. Once my routine is screwed up, the rest of my day is shot.

Someone knocks at my door. I pull on a robe and shuffle down the hallway. The thin carpet feels scratchy beneath my bare soles.

It's the power man. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His forearms are sweaty. His
everything
is sweaty. A dark
U
-shaped stain drips down the front of his chest. A wet circle blooms under each armpit. I glance down, quickly, and see a faint dark shadow between his legs. I look back up and see that his eyes, electric blue, haven't left my face.

“I was wondering if your power was back on,” he says through full lips and a thick beard.

“No. It hasn't come back on yet.”

“We're not sure what the problem is. We've fixed the lines. Everything looks good outside.”

“Must be a problem inside,” I say.

“Must be.”

A pause. Near-tangible quiet hangs in the air, like static electricity.

“I'll have to call someone to look at it, I guess,” I say.

“I can take a quick look,” he says. “If you want.”

“Sure, sure, come on in.”

He steps inside.

“At least it's a little cooler in here,” he says. He looks around the dark room. Keeping the curtains closed keeps the temperature down. The room is lit only by the corona of light around
the edges of the curtains, and through the slit in the middle. The power man's pupils dilate, adjusting to the dark.

“Do you want some water or something?” I ask. “You look pretty hot.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he says. He takes off his cap and wipes the sweat from his brow with his forearm. The dark hairs on his arm stick down in a dark streak, plastered with sweat.

As I fill a glass with water and a few misshapen, half-melted ice cubes, he unbuttons the top button of his shirt. Then the second, exposing a white undershirt. It's soaked through with sweat, almost clear. Thick chest hairs push against the fabric.

“Here you go,” I say, bringing him the glass of water. Beads of sweat are already starting to condense on the outside of the glass. He takes it and downs it in one deep swallow. He wipes the cool condensation from his hand through his short hair.

“Do you want another?” I ask.

“If I have another, I might stay in here all day. I should go check out your fuse box.”

I lead him to the fuse box, in the laundry room. “I'll leave you to it, I guess,” I say.

“It'll just take a minute,” he says. “You can stay here.” He punches the latch with his thick index finger, popping it up, and yanks the fuse-box door open.

The laundry room is small and stuffy. I haven't put a curtain on the small window high up on the wall. A rectangle of light, bright and hot, shines on the dryer. I rest my hand on the metal surface of the dryer: it's so hot, I snatch my hand away quickly.

I can smell the power man, his musk mingling with the scents of laundry detergent and dryer sheets. I like his scent better. I wish I could wash my clothes in his scent, wash myself in it.

I twitch under my bathrobe. I turn away from him, facing the dryer, and act as though I'm straightening the bottles of
cleaning supplies on the shelf. I undo the tie of my bathroom and retie it, strapping my stiff dick to my stomach.

“You've blown a fuse,” the power man says.

I turn around, speechless, my cock throbbing against the bathrobe tie.

“I don't think that's the whole problem, but it's a start. I've got a spare in the truck. Be right back.” He places his hot hand on my waist and sidles around me to exit the laundry room. I slump against the corner of the dryer like a horny fifties housewife. But the dryer isn't on. The power is still out.

He's gone for a long time. He's probably not coming back.

In the kitchen, I fill another glass with water and ice. It sits on the counter, waiting for the power man to return.

A wet ring spreads on the counter. I run a finger through the moisture on the countertop and run a cool fingertip across my forehead.

The door creaks open. The power man lets himself back in. The smell of his wet musk precedes him, this time mingled with tobacco smoke. He must have taken a smoke break.

“This will only take a minute,” he says, and brushes by me. He ignores the glass on the counter, the wet ring puddling across the laminate.

My dick goes soft and slips out from under the bathrobe tie. It hangs powerless between my legs.

I can hear him clanking around the laundry room, and I crane my neck to get a better look. He produces a screwdriver from the belt around his waist and fiddles with something, pops out the fuse, replaces it. Just like that. With his thumb, he flicks the heavy switch on the fuse from left to right.

Nothing happens. He flicks the switch from right to left. Left to right. Still nothing.

He grunts. “I don't know what the problem is, man.” He comes back into the kitchen. He has the dead fuse tucked into the palm of his hand. “Is that for me?” he asks, tilting his head toward the glass of water sweating on the counter.

I nod.

He sets the dead switch on the counter and picks up the glass of water. Again, he downs it in one gulp, this one slower, though. Deeper. I pick up the dead fuse as he drinks and flick the switch back and forth.
Click. Click
.

“Flicking that's not going to fix anything,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine. Droplets of water cling to his beard.

Before I can turn around and hide it, my cock rises up, right between the panels of my bathrobe. Its exposed head, a clear bead of juice clinging to the tip, points right at the power man.

“That's not going to fix anything either,” he says.

I go red and turn away from him, reaching under my bathrobe and again tying my cock around my waist.

“Don't,” he says, coming up behind me. His wet beard rasps against my earlobe.

With a quick movement, he wraps his hands around my waist and undoes the tie of my bathrobe. My cock pops out and smacks against the counter with a heavy thwack.

I turn around, and the power man steps backward, away from me. He nimbly undoes his buttons with his thick fingers and slips his sweaty work shirt from his shoulders. His white undershirt is sleeveless. His nipples are dark and hard against the wet fabric. His pit hair drips with sweat. The aroma of musk and smoke fills my nostrils and I get even harder.

Taking the back of my head in his large hand, he pulls me into him, smothering my face in his wet pit. Thirsty for his sweat, I lick it. Feel it run down my throat. The damp hairs brush against my lips, my cheeks, my chin. My cock throbs.

He grabs my hair and pulls my face away from his armpit. I run a finger along my own cheek and smell it. My face smells like him.

I struggle to keep up as he drags me by one arm down the dark hallway. He throws open the door to the bathroom, another door to a closet, before finding the bedroom at the end of the hall. He throws me onto the bed, peels his shirt off. Undoes his belt buckle; lets his pants fall to the floor. He's not wearing underwear. His hard cock bounces up and down as he crosses the floor toward the bed. I lean into him, my mouth open, hungry. He puts his hand across my face and pushes me backward onto the bed. After he strips off my robe, he pulls my legs apart, wide. My balls hang low between my legs.

He grunts, the same noise he made when the flicked the fuse switch and nothing happened.

“What's this?” he asks, pushing my legs farther apart. He holds one leg down with his arm, the other with a socked foot. His free hand reaches between my legs. With a finger, he brushes the purple butt plug in my ass. Static electricity discharges from his fingertip. The vibrator comes back to life.

The vibrations, stronger than I can ever remember them being, fill my hole with an electric tingle that surges into my gut. My cock jumps. I open my mouth and moan. My mouth is barely open a second before he's on top of me, shoving his hard cock between my lips. I feel its swollen head press against the back of my throat.

He takes the bathrobe tie and wraps it around my head, around his waist. He ties my head to him, so that I have no choice but to be filled with his cock. I grab a handful of ass in each hand. My nose is buried in his dark, thick bush. All I can see are the hairs on his belly, a narrow trail marching from navel to crotch. The smell of his thick pubic bush, ripe with
sweat, is intoxicating. His precum tastes sweet on my tongue. All my senses are filled with him.

Reaching behind himself, he finds my dick and pumps it. It is dripping, too. He runs his thumb through my precum, flicks the pad of his thumb across my piss slit, left and right, right and left. An electric shock runs through my prick. My body trembles. His cock stifles my moan.

“I want to hear you moan,” he says, and he unties my head. His wet dick slides out of my mouth with a moist pop. He grips my dick, and I moan.

“Louder,” he says, squeezing my dick in his strong fist. I moan louder. I can taste him on my tongue.

He presses his other pit over my mouth. I struggle to breathe, only able to swallow his scent, his sweat. He strokes my dick faster. The head, dark purple and swollen, feels like it's going to explode. My body tingles, surging with an electric charge.

He pushes me flat against the bed and sits on my face. His hot balls hang down into my open mouth. Slick with my spit, his dick slides along my face, flicking my nose, left and right, right and left, then bounces up and down, while his balls rest on my wet lips.

Leaning back, he rubs me to completion. The pleasure overflows, filling my entire body with a rolling spasm. My cockhead swells one last time and explodes, spraying a hot stream of jizz onto my belly, onto his back.

He raises up on his knees and runs a finger through the thick puddle on my belly. It coats his finger like glue. He rubs it into his armpit hair, and it clings there, sticky and white.