Free Best Gay Erotica 2011 by Richard Labonté Page A

I haven’t in a long time; my shots are hard and straight and thick, the white liquid stark against the painted locker. Nathan wraps his hand over mine and helps me stroke myself. His grip is firm and I know this is what it feels like to be conquered. To say that it’s anything else would be a lie.
    As my cum slows and starts to drip rather than spray Nathan resumes his fucking. The feeling of his dick slamming inside of me is completely different now than it was before, my skin so much more sensitive. I brace myself against the locker, looking down at my own semen sliding down it. Nathan grabs me by the hips and thrusts, no longer concerned with how I feel. He doesn’t last long, though. His grip tightens on my hips, and he buries himself as deeply as he can, and I feel his dick throb inside of me. He grunts now, loud, and then shivers. His grunt grows into something louder and longer, almost a victory yell, not out of place here in the locker room, even if it has nothing to do with sports.
    After his orgasm subsides his knees shake and he pulls himself out of my ass. His chest is heaving and he’s smiling. He squats and then falls back to sit on the bare concrete floor. His erection, still wrapped in the condom and still hard, points upward. A pouch of white cum hangs from the tip. “Fuck,” he says. I sit down next to him. The floor is cold but I want to touch him, hold him. He puts an arm around my shoulder and I look at him. He’s nude except for his socks. My own clothes are draping off my shoulders or wrapped around my ankles.
    â€œLie back,” he says and I do. We could be anywhere, but
we’re not. We’re lying on the floor of the locker room at Westfield High. Nathan’s chest is rising and falling quickly; I put my shoulder on it and look down as his cock deflates, drifting to one side as though the load of cum still hanging in the condom is dragging it down.
    â€œWe’re really terrible chaperones,” Nathan says and we both laugh. Lying here on the cold floor of the locker room while the homecoming dance continues above our heads feels preposterous and right and good. Everything about this school year feels preposterous and right and good.
    Everything feels good for now.

SAVING TOBIAS
    Jeff Mann
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    for Tiffany Trent
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    Tobias Crockett has good taste in accommodations. The Tabard Inn is quaint and historic, full of antiques, paintings and well-heeled sorts chattering over meals and cocktails. All a bit noisy for me, an undead introvert accustomed to the high, forested silence of West Virginia’s Potomac Highlands, so I’m sitting as far away from people as possible, here in a dark corner of the parlor. The ceiling’s low and dark-beamed, like the Cape Cod tavern where I used to hunt in the midseventies. Tonight’s February gusty, so the big fireplace is in use, flame-light flickering over glossy wood-paneled walls. The few table lamps are turned low, creating an atmosphere of dim intimacy: perfect for sipping red wine and studying Tobias across the room.
    His name befits him. Tobias. It’s Hebrew for “God is good.” God has been good to him indeed. So far. Handsome blond giant, wealthy, talented, powerful, he’s as magnificent as
Oedipus must have been a few hours before the truth, before the kingly fool thrust the pin of his mother’s brooch, his wife’s brooch, into his eyes. The truth can do that, certainly. Put out the eyes, splinter the soul, castrate, eviscerate, shatter. The truth is what I bring tonight.
    I’ve had my sights on Tobias for several years now. But with immortality to enjoy, why rush the consummation of a passion? Back during his country-music days, he was one of few men who brought out the bottom in me. His bulk and rough rebel persona were the reasons, I think. I would examine the images on his CD covers—blond goatee, blue eyes, pouty lips,