Best Gay Erotica 2014 (22 page)

“Deeper, baby,” Yastic said to the ceiling.

Ken dropped his jaw and pushed harder.

The asslips tightened harder and yanked the tongue again. Yastic continued the routine until he could hear a squelching sound from the boy-man connection, the meeting of butthole and boy-mouth, saliva and ass-mucous.

“Now wiggle it.”

With two fingers of each hand, Ken widened the bowel. Then, twisting his head from side to side as far as the ass-valley would allow, he wriggled his tongue frantically. His knee slipped as he rooted forward, like a pig in a trough.

The phone rang. It rang again. Ken finally heard it as his mind slowly rose to the surface.

He began to pull away when suddenly he felt his head pulled back hard by the hair. He had barely enough time to see the heavy hand come flying out of nowhere and smash him across the face. He stared wide-eyed into the shadow of Yastic's sweaty face as his cheek prickled with pain. The phone continued ringing.

“You don't stop unless I tell you, Kenny.” The coach smiled. “You don't do anything unless I tell you. Isn't that right?” The phone rang.

“Yes, sir.”

“That's five more strokes with the belt, now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don't worry, honey. You'll learn. Now show me how sorry you are.”

Yastic brought his massive legs down on either side of the kneeling blond.

“Start at my feet.”

Ken scooted backward and reached for the laces on the right running shoe, as Yastic picked up the phone.

He felt calf muscle spread across his hand like a heavy pillow as he lifted first one leg, then the other, to slip the shoes off. He slowly peeled the wet socks down the ankles and off the size-13 feet: gray-white socks pungent with man-smell.

He lowered his mouth. As he opened it, he could feel his asshole opening simultaneously. It reached out as his lips met the hair covering the top of Yastic's high-arched right foot. And then, as the mouth closed in suction, the asslips clamped shut. Suddenly aware of the emptiness in his bowel, he winced at the violent ache in his one hole, as he whimpered through the other.

He slavered over the foot, separating each long toe as he washed off the sweat between and under them. Using his tongue as a tool, he dug for dirt under the nails he'd clipped a week ago. Then he cleaned the tops of the feet, sucking man-taste from each pore until his cheeks ached with the vacuum he was creating. He'd been beaten for skipping the ankles once before, so he made sure to wrap his lips thoroughly around each, knowing he had to earn his way to the heavy muscles waiting above him. Gradually, he reached the back of the first calf and massaged the muscle, hair and wetness around his mouth like he was jacking a dick.

Yastic was chuckling into the phone.

“Sandpaper the stubble off the asshole. I did it every night
before little Petey got himself expelled. Sandpaper him, belt his ass. What?”

Yastic sounded pissed.

“Give him fifty. Yeah, let him scream. After twenty-five, tie him down or he'll start bucking at you like a dog in heat. He can take it. After that you can fuck it for an hour. Hell no! That's what I was afraid of, but that ass is built for it. It couldn't get enough and the next night it was always white, tight and butter soft.”

They were talking about Pete, the redheaded wrestler. Ken had walked in on them once. Pete had been lying on a massage table with his head dangling over the side, his mouth split wide as Yastic's cock snaked up the length of wet throat and back out again. Even from a distance Ken could see Pete's neck distort with the size of the cock-pipe every time it went in, the Adam's apple working in a disciplined rhythm, like a fist.

Yastic had had Pete's legs bent under his armpits, asshole at face level. Four of his huge fingers were buried up the ass and Ken could see his muscles straining with the effort as he pulled the muscled boy-hole open.

Suddenly, Yastic had caught sight of Ken standing in the doorway. Everything stopped.

Slowly, he raised his shaggy head. Then grinned a challenge.

He gradually began easing the cock out of the mouth-hole. Halfway out, Pete began whimpering. Yastic stopped, smiling at Ken. Then he withdrew some more. As the cockhead reached Pete's lips, the boy tried to slide toward it. Yastic held the cockhead there, barely contained in the boy's mouth.

Then, cruelly, he popped it out.

Pete wailed, like a baby who'd lost a bottle. His head whipped back and forth, and he began to pound the table with his fists. Yastic, even with his huge muscles, fought to hold him rock steady.

“Close the door, handsome,” Yastic rumbled.

But Kenny backed out. He ran to the bathroom, reached a stall and bolted it just in time. Clinging to the top of the door with both hands, he threw his head back, eyes staring in surprise, as he came in his pants.

Yastic missed Pete. Kenny could hear it in the way the big man talked about him. “A fuckin' stud-pussy who knew his place. With two hungry fuck-holes.” Yastic would grin. And then the grin would fade into a long silence, as if Ken weren't there.

When Kenny was jacking off in his dorm room, he usually came silently. But one night, he realized what he was, or what he wanted to be: Yastic's stud-pussy; a hot boy-body wrapped around two hungry fuck-holes that the big man used instead of his fist. Suddenly his back arched from the bed (“fuckin' stud-pussy”) and he screamed for the first time in his young sex life. The sudden bulk and force of his semen was painful (“two hungry fuck-holes”) as it shot into the springs of the bunk above him. When it was over, he lay there helpless in recovery as the cum dripped down on his body, his face.

His cheek was brushing against Yastic's jock strap now as he finally reached high inside one huge thigh.

The crotch smell was a drug. It could take his mind off his work and had gotten him into trouble before. He wasn't here to lose his mind on cock and muscle. He was here to service a man. Would Yastic expect him to rim his ass again? Had he pulled out too soon? He whimpered in fear. The big man didn't like to be asked questions. And Kenny's ass tucked forward as he anticipated the belting he'd receive if he made a mistake. He was already up to fifteen nightly, each mistake increasing the count by three to five strokes. The number never went down.

He felt Yastic's big hand, absently stroking his hair.

“Bring Petey over here. Be here in half an hour,” he was
saying into the phone. He sounded sad. “I've got Kenny here up to twenty.”

Tightening his fingers in the blond hair, he gently pulled the head back and stared into boy-face. The eyes were closed; the mouth hung slack and the face was coated with saliva.

“He's just pool pussy.” Cradling the phone on his shoulder, he took one huge fist and began squeezing Ken's mouth like a piece of clay. He slapped it, then worked it again. Slap; squeeze. “I'd like to show him how a real athlete takes a fuck.”

He chuckled at the response from the other end of the line and hung up.

He sat silently for a few minutes. The room was darkening as the sun went down. There were no lights on in the room.

Yastic stared, unseeing, into Kenny's face. He wrapped both huge hands around the back of the boy's neck. Pushing the jaw up with his thumbs, he tilted the head back and then slowly stroked the soft outside of the throat tube with his thumbs.

“Fuckin' pussy shit,” Yastic muttered angrily.

Ken thought he was talking about him and froze in the half darkness, frightened, prepared for the worst. His head was immobilized as the huge thumbs gently jacked his throat.

“I work damn hard putting bulk on Petey, turn him into one hot little blue-eyed nut-cracker, bring out the best in him, and he craps out in the army.”

He dropped his head with a sigh. Then raised it. He stared at Kenny as if seeing him for the first time.

“But look what I've got instead.” Ken started to smile, but there was something in the man's tone that made him stop. “Team Manager.” There was a long pause. Then…

“Shit.”

Slowly, Yastic began to stand. Kenny found himself staring up the massive thighs, heavy muscles covered with hair. Their
bulk shoved the jock forward, the pouch straining, stained and fraying at the seams. Yastic reached back absently and scratched the crack of his ass.

“Pool pussy. Fuckin' pool pussy.”

He stood about a foot away from the blond. Then, slowly, he began to smile. He rubbed the bulk of his crotch with both hands.

“But we're gonna make this team manager a real locker room pussy boy.” He grinned. Then, hooking both thumbs into the waistband, he began to lower the jock. His voice was low and steady.

“Keep you barefoot; speedos; cutoff T-shirt. My boys like to see swimmer's skin. Like to have it around.” The huge cock eased out between the V formed by the wrists as the waistband descended. The cock nodded as if it were alive as the elastic slid down the contours of its length. The head pouted and a huge strand of pre-fuck drooled toward the floor. Once free, it stood rigid at a 45-degree angle.

“Give the team something to look forward to after the game.”

The jock was half way down Yastic's thighs before the gonads swung free. He stepped out of it and flipped it on the desk. They swung gently between his spread thighs.

“They can earn your pussy on the field. I'll decide who gets it. Then you can wait in the shower and wash him down. Pecs, crotch. Sore, grimy feet. Make him real grateful. Afterward, he can press his hands against the wall while you give that ass a good, deep mouth rinse.”

There was a pause. The head of Kenny's cock ached in confinement.

The room was silent. It was getting darker.

Suddenly Yastic's leg shot out. He hooked his big foot under
the boy's crotch and yanked him violently toward the cock. Ken cried out as his knees skidded across the floor. Yastic slapped him hard. He grinned wider and reached for the boy's head with one hand. With the other he began to bend the cock down.

“When he's good and hot, he can bring your ass in here and fuck you on the table. You're gonna know just what he needs by then.”

The bottom of Ken's jaw touched his Adam's apple as the cockhead entered his mouth. He pulled a muscle in his jaw, frantically trying to keep his teeth out of the way.

“If you're the kind of hot stud I'm training you to be, the fuck won't last too long.”

Crushing the tongue to the floor of the mouth, the huge cock-pipe bored steadily down into the throat as the pink, wet tissues streamed slowly along its sides. Yastic chuckled.

“If you're lucky, though, it will.”

Tears ran from Kenny's eyes. The cock reamed its way down like a long piston in slow motion. When Kenny's nose was mashed back by the man's hard stomach, Yastic stopped. He paused, savoring that special tightness he liked in a boy-throat. Then he began a slow, circular grinding motion, scouring the soft pink lips with the coarse, gray-black wire that lined his crotch. The huge stud and the blond head were one solid piece from the back of Yastic's ass down through to the top of the boy's chest.

“Not gonna take much time tonight, baby,” Yastic moaned.

He began to fuck.

His pecs bulged as he slid the hole off his cock, then his ass dimpled as he drove the thing hard, full-length down the pit. Kenny moaned, stupid with need. Yastic withdrew.

He rammed.

Kenny's hands caressed the balls. Yastic withdrew. As the
mouth-fucking continued, Kenny could feel the spit dangle in strands from his mouth onto his wrists.

Yastic's head was thrown back. The face-fucking picked up speed. He began mumbling. Suddenly, calling the wrong name, he moaned, “C'mon, Petey! C'mon, Petey!” But his thrusts suddenly became wild as he used the face-hole like his own fist. He lowered his face, grabbed the head by the blond hair and yanked it toward him so hard that Kenny squealed. The boy marshaled his over-stretched muscles into a deep sucking rhythm, pleasuring the solid mass bursting the walls of his throat.

The corner of Yastic's mouth turned up and he snarled at the thing drooling and sucking at his feet. Finally he rolled his head back, his knees bent and he rammed upward, lifting the body off its knees as he forced the head down. His eyes rolled back in his head.

He shot.

Every muscle in his huge body stood out in relief. His brain was in his cock, slam-pumping huge gobs of cum into an open, eager stomach. There was one consciousness in the room: a virile man-stud and the thing attached to his prick. He watched cum begin to run from its nose.

When he was through with it, he yanked it off, threw it to the floor and fell back into his chair.

Five minutes later a lighter clicked on, illuminating a relaxed, sweaty face as the eyes looked at the end of the cigarette. He felt hands on his leg and a face resting against his calf. He pushed it aside. The lighter clicked shut. Then darkness.