Free Best Gay Erotica 2015 by Rob Rosen Page B

underwear, baring your ass. He smirks, studying your entrance, still Chris.
    He’s Tom again when he steals that first shuddery lick, his scruffy winter beard beyond brilliant. You howl, very nearly come. Only the prism lights skittering overhead, walking along the ceiling and around the walls, lights where none should be, a glow from another world, cool your excitement.
    He eats your hole, fingers you. Such long and capable fingers he has. The image of a knuckled tentacle briefly flashes through your mind. You kill it, and it’s Steve down there. The actor, his mouth sopping with your taste. The baseball pitcher. Mister Hunt.
    Tom rises up from between your legs, his hard cock metronoming back and forth, telegraphing what is to come. He crawls over you to offer a kiss, the scrape of his hairy muscles both electrifying and also curiously featherlight, as though you’re about to be fucked by a ghost. Or a hologram. Or your own fertile imagination.
    You’ve always been a dreamer, but you didn’t hallucinate what you saw in that field, right after twilight, when you came out of the woods along Sawyer Avenue and thought what you were seeing couldn’t be possible. A planet has jumped down from the sky. A perfectly round orb, sitting upon a plate. No, a saucer. You stared at it long enough for the sky to darken. There’s a gap in your memory, and then you’re walking on, long past your home. You encounter a diner you’ve never visited before and probably wouldn’t find again if you searched your entire life. There, you meet this man dressed in black, a man impossibly handsome. He’s every man you’ve ever wanted, in one.
    A dream, truly, you agree, your gaze falling into the lights. It must be. Crazy shit like this just doesn’t happen, not to regular people like you. You chuckle, your asshole again being tasted and lubricated by the tongues of a million rugged jocks and soldiers and cops and straight dudes. And you also remember that this was the state where Betty and Barney Hill were abducted along a similar stretch of remote country road decades earlier. Not that time matters now.
    â€œHey,” Tom says, pulling you out of this thought-thread. Tom, handsome Tom…how convinced you were that you
    loved him. Just like Steve. And, lately, the dude in those TV commercials. Tom and Steve and Mister Hunt and the actor and the baseball pitcher and the porn star and a million other men maneuver up from between your legs and assume position, their cocks entering you. The flash of discomfort transitions to a rush of intense pleasure. You moan a rosary of expletives, feeling the rub of his dick’s head intimately against your prostate. Busting is not going to be a problem; it’s inevitable now. The man fucking you is a master at magic.
    Stopping the climax once it rolls over you might be impossible. And when you ejaculate, will you be able to come back down to Earth? You’re in bed with every man you’ve ever wanted. Who in their right mind would think of leaving?
    â€œ Babe ,” Tom grunts, on top of you, his heady male stink filling your next desperate sip of breath.
    You gaze into his eyes, falling into those twin vortexes of moody gray-blue. The meadow? Lights appear in Tom’s eyes, mimicking the ones on the ceiling, the walls, running in spectrums and sparks around the bedroom.
    â€œYou okay, babe? You able to take it? Take my big old dick, dude? You like the taste of Tom’s stinky jock feet? The scrape of his beard on your shithole, pal? You like having me”—( He and all those other he s)—“bone-deep in you, buddy?”
    You either close your eyes or spill past the lights, into the dark realm behind them, to that dark planet with the haunting name beyond the curvature of space, beyond his belly button, through the wormhole. Briefly, you knew the name of that place, but it’s gone now, locked in a mental box for which you