Best Gay Erotica 2014 (5 page)

Businessman rubbed the wall with delight, overjoyed with his cocksucking, overwhelmed with all the meaty manhood he was sucking on; his inner homo set free. I kissed the metal, squirmed my tongue over it, hands splayed out and body flattened against it, hips thrusting, cock feeding into the hungry, happy mouth on the other side.

Businessman's time was up. He'd gotten more than his money's worth. I pumped fast and furious into his mouth, then gushed down his throat, giving out a deserved bonus in salty, quivering bursts. The man swallowed with a skilled gusto born of the highly sexed situation, our mutual connection, gulping everything I gave him as I clawed at the wall in ecstasy.

The fuck-pads were on the fifth floor of the Hotel Sinclair. That's where I headed next, after leaving Businessman smacking his lips on the other side of the heated gloryhole. I thought about having a drink or two at the bar, but I knew the hot sun and clear blue sky, and the sight of the sparkling green river water would do more to clear my fuzzy head.

The Hotel Sinclair was three blocks over on Perth Avenue. The streets and sidewalks were crowded now. I was just another faceless, nameless person pushing his way through the throng, a workaday stiff in more ways than one.

You could've had it so easy
, I thought to myself, as I was
jostled this way and that.
Up at noon, fresh from a sound sleep between silk sheets, brunch out on the balcony, looking down on these very same masses hustling to make a buck. No worries about this month's rent, next week's food, clothing bills and transportation. You just had to grin and bear it and suck it and fuck it, treat the one man
—
or maybe a few on a string
—
right and everything would be laid out for you. No running with the little people
.

It was hot now, the sun blazing down, baking the dusty city core. It was only slightly cooler in the Hotel Sinclair and even dustier. Three old men were slumped in the musty armchairs in the dilapidated lobby. The hunchback behind the front desk glanced up only briefly from his porn mag, nodded at me, then went back to his drooling, as I thumbed the rickety elevator open and stepped inside.

The fuck-pads were quiet, empty, except for Room 512: my room. I could hear the telltale grunting and groaning even before I pushed open the door. Two men were inside: a large, muscular black man and an even larger, more muscular Hispanic. The black man sported a shaved head and body, gold earrings. His ebony muscles gleamed and bulged as he crouched down and drove his cock into the muscular ass of the man on all fours on the floor.

The Hispanic man taking the licorice dong deep into his anus had slick black hair and a slick black mustache, diamond studs in his earlobes and tattoos all over his massive, caramel-colored body. His hard buttocks rippled and his body rocked to the pounding beat of the cock reaming his ass.

The men kept right on fucking, as I walked into the room.

It was a small, narrow room, even with the bed taken out. There were a couple of mattresses thrown down on the threadbare gray carpet; one small, round, wooden table and a couple
of wooden chairs. The walls were gray and ragged as the carpet. The entire floor smelled of stale sweat and sperm. I breathed in the atmosphere, gazing at the big muscle-studs joined cock to ass, and my own cock stirred in my tight jeans. I thought,
Welcome home
.

“Tyrese,” the black man said by way of unnecessary introduction. “That's Diaz.” He nodded at the man on his hands and knees in front of him.

Diaz stared at my crotch with his pale-green eyes. “You're ‘Little' Jason, huh?”

I nodded, as Tyrese pulled his cock out of Diaz's gulping ass and rose to his feet. Diaz got up off the floor, and the two giants towered over me, grinning, their long, hard, glistening cocks twitching up in the air.

I looked from one man to the other, one hard-on to the other, and at the squalid surroundings; thinking,
So this is your life? Wandering from truck to toilet to fuck-pad. Taking it up the ass raw and ruthless from two over-pumped musclemen in a shabby room where no one could hear you scream? Is this the best you can do?

My cock swelled in my jeans, as I looked from the two naked studs in front of me to the two hundred-dollar bills lying on the wooden table. I pulled my T-shirt up and off, popped my jeans open and shoved them down. The bodybuilders' eyes lit up when my cock sprang out and up, surging huge and throbbing right in front of all three of us.

Tyrese and Diaz spun around and dropped down to the floor, onto their hands and knees. They arched their muscled backs, thrust out their tight-packed, mounded buttocks. I stepped out of my jeans, only slightly surprised. I'd expected them to plug and plow me between them like a fuck-toy, yes, but I'd banged big bottoms before, too. A lot of pumped-up
men craved nothing more than to be pumped themselves—the bigger the cock punishing them and taking command of their asses, the better.

I picked the tube of lube up off the floor and slathered my jutting cock in slipperiness. Then I smacked Diaz's upraised buttocks, and then Tyrese's buttcheeks, with my gleaming dong. Both men grunted and quivered, asses rippling with excitement and anticipation, cocks spearing out from their loins.

I slammed my cap in between Tyrese's cheeks, up against his black manhole. My hood squished inside, and I surged forward with shaft. I didn't stop until my shaven balls kissed up against the man's backside, my entire dong buried in his hot, gripping chute.

“Fuck! Yes!” Tyrese cried, paddling a couple of handprints forward on the carpet with the force and fill of my cock stretching his anus.

I gripped his tight, tiny waist and pumped my hips, moving my cock back and forth inside him. I quickly torqued up the fucking pressure, stroking faster, stuffing harder, deep as I could go. I rocked the big man to and fro on his hands and knees, his muscles clenching all over his giant body. Then I abruptly pulled back and out, and plunged into Diaz's waiting ass.

The other muscleman's anus was just as tight, just as hot. I plowed through ring and drove into chute, giving Diaz just what he so badly wanted.

I was on fire, the heat of the hunky men's bodies and asses flaming my passion, driving my performance. At eleven o'clock in the morning, in a skuzzy hotel, fucking two anonymous men in the ass in a dirty room, for profit.

I grinned, drilling into Tyrese's rectum again.
Who wants to be tied down to one old man, or a group of jealous men, jacking and sucking and fucking the same old same old, day
after day and night after night
—
a peacock in a gilded cage?

I pulled out of Tyrese and plunged back into Diaz, pistoning that man's anus with my pipe. I had a college fraternity initiation party in the park down the block at noon—young, pretty men with young, anxious, pretty mouths and cocks and bodies excited to pay me to participate in their perverted games behind a screen of bushes. And the cop on the beat: he was scheduled for a back-alley suck and fuck early that night.

I eagerly reamed one muscleman, then the other, rejoicing in their gyrating asses and cries of pounded-out passion, reveling in my wickedly satisfying life. They jerked out their own orgasms in sizzling strips all over the floor. I tilted my head back and roared, blasting half my orgasm into Diaz's trembling ass, then uncorking my spurting hose and plugging it back into Tyrese's shuddering butt, searing the man's bowels with my sprays of utter bliss.

Is this what you always wanted? Is this as far as you're going? Leading with your cock, fucking all the time, anywhere, any men, coming and coming and coming?

Sure it is!

THE PIÑATA CONQUEST

Boot LS

I hear the rope groaning under my weight, but I don't feel any real strain. I've been hanging here for almost twenty minutes. Still have feeling in my extremities. No real pain. Actually, it's pretty nice. The strain on my joints is minimal, better than when I'm standing up. It's easier to breathe up here. I'd stay here forever if I could.

But I can't. I may not feel it, but being suspended too long can be dangerous. So one way or another, I can only stay up so long.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks, giving me a gentle nudge. I turn around slowly. He smiles at me.

“It's nice,” I say, nodding as much as the ropes will allow.

“Good.” He stops my twirl, kisses me. His hands in my hair, rubbing against my beard, tracing the line of my jaw. “Because it's going to get worse.”

I smile. I knew that was coming. Jake never puts me up like this without a good reason. There's always a catch. Always a game.

“What are we playing?”

He smiles and steps back, lets me admire his bare chest and the lines he works so hard to keep there. I could teach an anatomy lesson with that body. At least, as far as the muscular system goes. “Piñata,” he says.

Then he wheels out the table. The wheels screech and whine as it moves into my field of vision. Across the table is a pool noodle, a flogger—a leather cat-o'-nine-tails, only with three or four times more tails—what looks like a padded sword, a Wiffle ball bat, a piece of plastic piping and a strand of bamboo.

“The other guys will be here in a few minutes,” he says. “Once they get here, we're going to play piñata.”

I swallow, afraid I already know the answer to the question. “And how does piñata work?”

He reaches under the table and picks up a plastic bag. Inside the bag is a bunch of candy. Looks like miniatures, like the kind of candy we usually hand out to the kids in the neighborhood at Halloween.

“You put this in your mouth,” he says. “And you hold it as long as you can. When you've had enough, you just have to let go.”

“So that's the safeword?”

He shrugs. “Makes it pretty obvious, doesn't it?” He smiles, that charming smile that melts me a little bit on the inside. “Now, we're going to start here,” he points over at the pool noodle, just a long strip of hollow foam. “And every five minutes, we're going to switch to the next toy.” He picks up the bamboo. “I really hope you don't last long enough for this one,” he says. “I'd hate to see the marks it would leave.”

I smile at him. “So I just hold out as long as possible. Doesn't sound like that big of a deal.” There's more. There always is. “What's the catch?”

He smiles and puts a blindfold over my eyes, kisses me again.
“The catch is that when you let go, you go home with whoever hit you last. Now, it's just for one night, but that's the deal.”

We've talked about this. While generally monogamous, we both love the fantasy of being traded, sold like meat. Well, I love the fantasy of being sold. He likes the fantasy of selling. Of betting on who gets to use my body.

I know the guys he's invited. It has to be Larry and Brad. They're the only ones we know who we would trust to do this. They're the only ones who we know can handle it. And they're the only ones we've ever talked to about this idea. At least, the only ones we talked to seriously.

So one of them might take me home tonight. One of them might find out just how talented my tongue can be. One of them might get to use me a lot rougher than he usually uses a partner, because he'll know what I can take. They know my safewords, they know my fetishes. They know the things I like that Jake doesn't like.

And then there're the things Jake likes that I don't. Things that I normally wouldn't do, but that I will tonight. Things he knows I'll do if he wins.

I laugh. “It's going to be an interesting night,” I say.

“Yes, it is.” He reaches underneath and gives me some gentle attention while we wait for Brad and Larry.

I've almost cum when the knock sounds on the door. I don't think that's an accident. I don't think Jake is surprised, or disappointed, to leave me so close to the edge. Maybe I'm imagining the chuckle under his breath. But I doubt it.

“Open,” he says. I open my mouth, and he puts the top of the plastic bag in. I bite down. I can breathe without difficulty. All I have to do is hold my jaw together. Clamp my teeth.

One way or another, this is all going to be over in the next half hour.

“So here's how it works,” Jake says, once our guests have been shown in. “First we hit with the noodles. When the bell dings, we move to the next toy, then the next. Whoever knocks the piñata open wins the prize. And everyone knows the prize, right?”

“I'm looking forward to it,” Larry says. His voice is deep. He's a smoker.

But Brad. Brad is the smart one. The clever one. The cruel one. “Why is he blindfolded?”

Actually, that's a good question. Why
am
I being blindfolded? Maybe it's so I can't throw the game, can't make sure to let go when Jake is swinging. But no. Not my Jake. There's more. There's always more.

He laughs. “Once the piñata falls, it has to guess who knocked it open. One guess. A thirty-three percent chance to guess who gave the last hit.”

“And if he's right?”

Jack chuckles. “If he's right, he gets to come home in the morning. If he's wrong, then the winner gets to keep him for twenty-four hours.”