Men on the Make: True Gay Sex Confessions (3 page)

“Hey, what’s up,” I said, wrapping my arm around his shoulders.

“Nothin’,” he said, childlike, moving his hands away long enough for me to catch the blood on his lip.

“Whoa, what happened?” As soon as I said it, I realized I didn’t really want to know.

“Nothin’. Just some guy steppin’ up, bein’ an asshole.” His face was flushed, and I could feel his blood pumping fast as I took the palm of his hand in mine.

I turned his face toward mine, and he licked his pink lip, smearing the blood. I kissed him on the cheek, once, then twice, moving closer until I kissed his lip, halfheartedly avoiding the blood, but still tasting the iron ever so slightly. I felt a twinge in my cock.

He was stupid. He was a fucking child: immature, going nowhere, but I wanted him. Just as he was. I wanted to be stupid
with him, and forget my troubles, and care for him, and fuck him.

I took him to the shower, where I tasted the last of his sweat as it washed off, and saw his blood trickle thinly down the drain. I was gentle with his mouth but aggressive with his body. We sipped beers and plugged the tub, eventually lying down in the bath, him on top of me, as we grappled at each other’s skin. He pushed my legs up, dunking his head in the water, as he cleaned my asshole with his tongue. He was so enthusiastic and devoted to the worship of my ass, I thought he might drown.

When he finally resurfaced, he took a deep breath, threw himself over me, and said, “Do you want my cock?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Do you want my cock inside you? You want me to come inside you, faggot?”

He climbed over me, almost sitting on my chest, as warm precum squirted down onto my face.

“Fuck me, Luke. Please, baby. Just fuck me now.”

Minutes later we were half-dry, and on my bed. Luke pushed me down, and continued to eat my ass. My hard-on was raging between my body and the mattress. It had been years since I’d last been topped—Luke was usually a very willing bottom. I was nervous that my asshole might not quite relax enough. But even the idea of it hurting turned me on.

His fingers fondled and clawed at my back. He seemed hungry, desperate to consume me. I saw him reach for the bedside table and grab the bottle of lube and heard him squeeze it over his dick and my asshole. With one fluid motion he pushed his bare cock inside me. I almost jumped at the feeling, but once in, it felt perfect. It didn’t hurt so much, and after a moment, I started to relax and enjoy the feeling. He slowly pulled my hips back and forth into his, listening to me moan,
gauging his movements based on the sounds I made.

“You like my dick?” he said. “Does that feel good inside you?”

“Yeah, Luke, I fucking love it, babe.”

“You want my cum inside you?”

“Yes, fucking come inside me, oh god, Luke.”

Faster and faster, he fucked my asshole, moaning, calling out my name. Until finally, he screamed as his hot load shot inside me.

“Fuck!” he cried.

And suddenly he pulled out, a little too fast, pushed me onto my side and shifted me onto my back.

“Give me that cum back,” he said, lifting up my legs and putting his mouth to my asshole.

I squeezed and felt the cum start to drip out of me, Luke’s tongue quickly lapping it up.

I jerked myself off as he took all of his cum into his mouth, then pushed my legs down and sat on top of me, kissing his cum into my mouth. Each time our lips parted, I saw lines of cum drawn between them. I felt it falling over my mouth, down my cheeks and neck.

I was still jacking off, Luke’s asshole hovering above my cock.

“Come on my hole,” he said.

My cum squirted onto him as my body writhed with the orgasm. My vision blurred, and I felt him rubbing my cock against his asshole, lubricating it with my cum just enough to slip my dick inside him before I was completely done.

He held me tight as I finished. We held the embrace long enough for my cock to become flaccid and fall out. I felt my warm cum drip out of his hole and onto my crotch.

“God, I love you, Luke,” I said.

He sat up and looked me dead in the eye.

“I love you too,” he said.

Two weeks later, I walked down the same street I had on that fateful night, this time with no jacket, and a fearful anticipation. I walked round to the side and knocked on the door a few times before a boy answered. Was he one of the boys Luke had fought with that first time? I wasn’t sure. He had short hair, and wore a torn-up shirt, which hung low, exposing his hairy chest.

Without a word, he stared at me, expectantly.

“Hi, I’m one of Luke’s friends.”

“Okay…?” he replied.

“Is he here? I haven’t heard from him lately.”

“Are you his boyfriend?” he asked me.

“Um…yeah, I guess I am.”

“Do you wanna come in and have a beer?”

He took me up the familiar steps into the surprisingly cold living room where I’d first wrapped my lips around Luke’s beautiful cock.

The boy pulled a couple of beers out of the mini fridge by the couch, twisting the lids off with his shirt and handing me one. He took a seat on the couch, and gestured for me to do the same.

We sat in silence for a moment before I asked,

“Is Luke here?”

“I don’t know where Luke is,” he answered.

“Ah. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Nope. No fuckin’ clue.”

I took a sip of my beer. The boy was staring at the wall opposite, as if lost in thought.

“How old are you?” he finally asked.

“Twenty-four,” I said.

“I’m twenty-six years old. God,” he said, as if it were only now dawning of him. “I kinda loved him, ya know?”

“Luke?” I said.

“There’s something so fuckin’ fragile about that boy. Something that needs protecting.”

My confusion slowly passed into revelation.

“You were sleeping with him?” I asked.

“Yeah. For a while.”

“Where’s he gone?”

“I don’t know. He’s not from around here, ya know? He came into town with nothing but a backpack. He fucked me, and crashed here until eventually he was living here. He always said he’d be gone soon though. Fuckin’ nomad.”

It was slowly sinking in. Luke was gone and he wasn’t coming back. It was so sudden and ridiculous, but somehow made perfect sense. And then I realized that a weight had been lifted off of my shoulders. This guy was right, Luke did feel like someone who needed to be cared for, and he seemed so reckless, that I hadn’t for one moment thought I’d ever be without nerves again. Fucking him was a regular release from the stress of work, but as I’d grown closer to him, his care had become a whole new burden, piled on top of the rest.

And now, it was gone.

“Huh,” I said. He looked at me, perhaps snapping out of a similar reverie to my own.

I leaned forward and put my beer down.

“Fuck, it’s cold in here,” I said, wiping the beer’s perspiration off my hands on the cushions, before wrapping my arms tight around my body.

“Here,” he said.

He pulled a coat from the back of the couch. He shifted toward me and, gently, with full attentiveness, he placed it
over my shoulders. And as he did, I felt his fingers gently brush against me, and with his touch, blood rushed to my cock. His hands moved into his lap, but his gaze didn’t shift. My senses became hyperaware, as we gradually fell into a kiss, his rough stubble scratching my lips.

BOB AND DWAYNE’S DADDYBEAR

Jeff Mann

I

Y
ou’re naked, lying on your side, curled into an embryonic ball. Unable to see, unable to speak, barely able to move: this must be what the womb was like. Strangely comforting, to be so powerless. It’s almost like drowsing on a soft bed, beneath a warm quilt, in utter silence.

Well, that’s only part of it, the sense of security you savor within this makeshift sensory deprivation chamber, tucked away like a baby marsupial inside a dark pouch. There’s also discomfort. The floor of the closet is carpeted and covered with blankets, but it’s still a floor, not a mattress. The thick strands of rope knotted between your teeth are tight, cutting into the corners of your mouth. And your hands, bound behind your back, are beginning to show the first signs of circulation loss, growing stiff and cold. Who knows how much time has gone by since Bob left you here, blindfolded, gagged and hog-tied like a hostage? One hour? Two?

Your right arm’s gone numb now. It takes a good bit of rocking back and forth, but at last you manage to roll over onto your belly, taking the weight off your arm. Your erection feels good pressed against the carpet. You wiggle your crossed wrists around in their rope bonds, then your crossed ankles; you flex your tattooed arms against the rope cinching your elbows together; you tug hard on the short length of cord anchoring your hands to your feet.

This time, you know, no matter how vigorous and determined your struggles, you’re not getting loose. In response to past kidnapping scenes in which you’ve been successful at working yourself free, tonight Bob’s wrapped several layers of duct tape around your wrist and ankle ropes to ensure that you stay put. You rarely get to submit to him—every couple of months when your partner Doug’s out of town—but when you do, it’s sheer bliss. Bob’s an amazingly inventive Top.

Time passes. You can barely move your fingers. You’re losing your hard-on. Your shoulders have begun to ache. Biting down on the moist rope, you lift your blind head and emit a hoarse moan.

Immediately, there’s the sound of footsteps approaching, the closet door creaking open. A hand strokes your shaved head, your bushy beard.

“How’s my roped-up redneck?” Bob says softly. “You all right?”

In answer, you wave your fingers back and forth.

“Ah. Hands numb, huh?”

You nod.

“Okay. No problem. Hold real still. I have to cut the tape off.”

You obey. Scissors snip. Bob peels off duct tape, tugs at knots, loosens ropes. Finally your hands are free, though the cords
wrapped around your elbows, tethering them tightly together, still pin your upper arms to your sides, and your feet are still restrained. When you move your lower arms from behind your back, pain shoots through your deltoids. Grimacing, you press your palms to the floor and heave yourself onto your side, then onto your back.

Bob squeezes your furry right pec, chuckling. “You didn’t get loose this time, did you, big man?”

Sheepishly, you shake your head. He kneads your wrists and fingers till circulation’s returned and numbness has faded. Now he strokes your half-hard dick.

“You ready for Part Two? A little torture?”

Your head and cock bob simultaneously.

“I figured. What a kinky mountain man you are. What a pig. Okay, that’s enough of a break. Time you were tied again.”

Bob slips more loops of rope over your wrists, composes more knots. Between your elbow bonds and these new cords pulled taut across your furry belly swell, tethering your hands before you like makeshift cuffs, you’re once again pretty much immobile.

The black leather blindfold’s pulled off your eyes. You blink up into sudden light.

Your captor is shirtless, a lean young man with close-cut hair, angular features, a brown chin-beard and a pale, smooth, nicely defined chest. He’s holding an unsheathed hunting knife and a bag of clothespins.

“You’re really wanting some rough treatment, huh?” He grins, pointing at your swaying erection. “Wanting to hurt?”

“Uh-huh,” you grunt, shamefaced.

“Keep still and keep quiet. Or else.”

Bob sits beside you and runs the blade over your chest. You grit the rope between your teeth, stiffen and nod. He presses
the tip of the knife against the soft flesh of your right nipple, indenting it, then runs the edge down your belly, over the head of your cock, along its shaft. You whimper, arousal mingled with fear mingled with gratitude, thankful that a man would care enough about you to arrange such a consummately perverse scene.

Bob lays the blade aside and opens the bag of clothespins. One by one, he covers your trembling, wincing body with them: your balls, the shaft of your cock, your inner thighs, the ridge of your belly, your nipples and the curves of your chest. The tiny pinches mount from discomfort to burning. The flames spread and combine till it seems as if your body is a heath sheeted with wildfire.

Bob brushes his hand over the pins, back and forth, back and forth, stoking that fire till moisture’s edging your eyes and you’re panting against your rope-gag.

“That’s all of ’em. You can take this for an hour, right?”

“Uh-huh!” you exclaim, eager to impress him with stoic fortitude.

Bending, he kisses you on the brow, then rises and closes the closet door. You lie there in the dimness, fists clenched, pin-lined cock throbbing with arousal and pain. As long as you don’t move, the burning subsides to dull ache, then numbness. But it’s hard to keep still. Every time you strain and flex your limbs, sore as they are from long constriction, the rough rope digs into the flesh of your ankles, your wrists, the crooks of your elbows. Every time you shift your position more than an inch, the pins sway and the burning flares up, as if someone had heaped your nakedness with embers and were stoking them into a blaze.