Best Gay Erotica 2012

ONCE UPON A TIME, IN 1969 Dirk Vanden

Brad and I rented a place of our own, the top half of a duplex, on a street called Castro. Ours was in the middle of a group of brightly-painted two-story Victorian houses—most of them rented to gay men, many of whom stood in the street, or on front steps, or watched from their windows, as the Cosmos’s Twin Bartenders, as we came to be known, moved in.

We were in love, completely enthralled with each other. It was magic and wonderful, and we played it to the hilt. We walked hand in hand down Castro; stared at each other, moony eyed, holding hands over a sidewalk table at the Sagittarius, a gay coffee house near our apartment; chased each other naked in the surf out at “bare-ass” beach near Land’s End. And we entertained hundreds nightly as we groped and goosed each other behind the bar.

To love somebody and to be loved in return—that’s what it’s all about. That’s what makes the whole rotten world worth putting up with. When you’re in love, life is heavenly. When you’re out of love, life can be hell. At the moment, Brad and I seemed to be sharing paradise.

For the first time in my life, I had a partner I could share it with. Even though we quickly learned that we were two very different people, there were many things we both enjoyed—the same movies and TV shows, the same kinds of food and, most importantly, the same kind of people. And he would actually listen when I talked. He was interested in what I had done and where I had lived.

I was fascinated by this man who looked so much like me, but was so very different. He had grown up in California, moving up and down the state, settling wherever his carpenter father could find work in the postwar housing industry. He had lived in most of the large cities of the state. And he had been gay since high school—when he’d been seduced by the boys’ phys-ed coach.

I’d spent most of my young life as a sheltered Mormon farm boy, in a very Mormon community in Idaho. After two years at Brigham Young University, I decided against going on a Mission, and went to work on a cattle ranch in Colorado instead—where I’d met Brad.

Since Brad had been my first, the one to “bring me out,” as he called it, we decided we were meant to be.

At first, it was fantastic, having sex with someone whose body looked and felt so much like my own, whose cock liked the same things my cock liked. Brad was a fantastic cocksucker—he’d taught me, originally—so we usually ended up having a sixty-nine. It was the fulfillment of a boyhood fantasy—of sucking myself off. Fucking myself in the face. Brad had remarked that it seemed the same way for him.

But after a while, things started going wrong. Brad wouldn’t be able to get a hard-on for me, no matter how long or deep I sucked, or I’d have to strain to come when I was fucking him because he seemed bored or distracted. We took turns being “too tired,” or having headaches.

That’s when the silences began. Sometimes days would pass before we would talk to each other about anything not absolutely necessary. It was hard to figure out what had started the silences; I’d wake up in the morning, already annoyed because he was banging around in the kitchen, or vacuuming the front room, or doing something noisy. Whenever he got really pissed off at me, he would clean house—and for some reason, that made me furious. I hated cleaning house—so when I watched him intently and silently scrubbing and polishing everything, I hated him.

And I hated myself for hating him.

And we both started getting jealous. Inevitably, in a gay bar like Cosmos, customers have their favorite bartenders—usually because they want to have sex with them—and I found myself getting irritated whenever some customer seemed to prefer Brad to me. What, I wondered, did Brad have that made him preferable to me?

He seemed to be having the same problems with my favorite customers. From time to time I would catch him glowering at two of us, laughing or joking. I caught myself deliberately embellishing some conversation with a hot customer, simply because I knew it was pissing Brad off.

And it wasn’t just affecting the two of us—one night I heard someone remark, “You know, I’m getting just a little bit sick of those two assholes. I mean, just because they can’t get along is no reason for me to get snapped at. Let’s go someplace else.”

Then one Monday night—Brad’s night off—Ash and Dave, Cosmos’s owners, came in and said they wanted to talk to me. I already knew what they wanted to talk about: Brad and I were ruining their business. We were letting our problems affect the customers.

“What’s wrong, Warren?” Ash asked. “What’s happening with you guys?”

“Frankly,” I said, “I don’t think that’s any of your fucking business.”

They looked at each other, obviously startled by my attitude.

“In fact,” I said, feeling furiously reckless, “I am sick of your fucking business. I am sick of the whole fucking gay thing. Brad was right. It isn’t a fucking bit gay.”

I took the large set of keys from my belt-loop and tossed them onto the bar, then grabbed my jacket and hat. “You know my address. Just send the check there.” I stomped out and slammed the door after me.

The instant I stepped into the alley and heard the door close behind me, I knew I had just pulled the stupidest trick in my life. I knew Ash had just tried to be friendly and helpful—and surely had no intention of firing me. But I hadn’t been able to stop myself. For weeks now, the pressure had been building and building, and I’d finally exploded without thinking. I knew I ought to go back in and apologize—sit down and tell them honestly what was wrong. They had been together five years; maybe they could give me a clue as to what was happening.

But I couldn’t go back. I tried to reach for the door handle, but my arm refused to work. I couldn’t go back in after my idiotic dramatic exit.

So I drove around for a while, trying to figure out what to do—whether or not to go back to the bar, or to go home and tell Brad what had happened—try to get him to talk about what was wrong between us—or just get so fucking drunk I wouldn’t care about anything.

I decided to go home. Right now, the important thing wasn’t the bar or my job, or even my frustration—the important thing was us, the two of us, our relationship—whatever the hell that was. The trouble was, there were no definitions. Neither one of us really knew what to expect of the other. We weren’t husband and wife—but what were we?

The lights were out in the apartment. There were no notes to indicate where Brad had gone, or when he expected to be back.

I sat for a long time in the dark kitchen, drinking several beers as I imagined all sorts of things he could be doing: cruising the parks, sucking cocks through those “glory holes,” fucking some new lover. He wasn’t expecting me to be home until three o’clock, so he could be almost anywhere, doing almost anything.

I decided I was only making things worse by sitting in the dark, brooding. There was a possibility that Brad had gone to the market for something and had met one of our neighbors, or an old friend. They could have gone into the Shoo-Fly, a neighborhood gay bar right around the corner. I decided to check it out.

The bartender looked up and grinned. “Back so soon?”

“What?”

He leaned across the bar confidentially. “What happened? Didn’t he dig getting tied up?”

“What? What are you talking about?” But, as soon as I’d said it, I knew what he was talking about: he thought I was Brad.

“Oh, come on, honey, don’t give me that innocent shit. He was hot.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think you were watching that closely.”

“Honey, I’ve got eyes in the back of my head. What’ll it be, beer or booze?”

“Well, neither, actually. You just gave me what I came in for.”

“My goodness. I must be good. I didn’t even notice.”

“I’m not who you think I am.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yes, that’s a fact.”

“Then you must be his twin brother, honey.”

“No, I’m his lover. And, thanks to you, I know where he is—or at least what he’s doing. Thanks a lot—honey.”

For just a moment, he looked contrite—almost ready to apologize. Then he started to laugh. “Oh, shit. It’s you, isn’t it? You’re them. Oh, this is just too delicious for words. Was he cheating on you? Yes, he was, wasn’t he? We had heard rumors—ugly, ugly rumors. But, I mean, you have reason to be upset, don’t you?” He laughed triumphantly. “My dear—you have my condolences. Not all of them, mind you, but a great big gob of them.” The phone started ringing and he walked away laughing, to answer it. “Shoo Fly. We’re open for business. Cum and get it. Who is this? Mom? No, really, who is this?”

I went home and gave myself a deep enema, then showered and put on my tightest pair of Levi’s, thinking, It’s sauce for the gander time.

As I drove along Folsom, a car pulled out of a parking space in front of Leather Country. Without even thinking, I made a U-turn and parked. For a minute, I sat staring at the doorway to the bar, trying to decide whether or not I really wanted to go in. There was a tap on the window, and I turned to see a guy standing there in full leather-biker regalia, looking at me with a shitty grin. I rolled down the window. “Yeah, what’s your problem?”

His smile vanished. “Actually, sir, it’s your problem.” He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a black leather pass-case, which he flipped open to reveal a silver shield—from the San Francisco Police Department. It looked real. “Would you step out of the truck, please? Lean on the hood with your hands where I can see them, and spread your legs… please.”

I did as he said, my heart pounding insanely. “What did I do?”

Without answering, he ran both hands over my back and down my sides, then up the insides of my legs. There was no doubt that his hand paused a little too long when it moved over my ass, then my cock and balls. The sonofabitch was copping a feel.

“May I see your driver’s license?”

I stood up and fumbled for my wallet. My hands were shaking as I withdrew the license and handed it to him. “Could you tell me what it is you think I did wrong?” I asked.

“Did you know that U-turns are illegal here?”

“U-turns? You’re kidding. This is about a U-turn?”

“U-turns are extremely dangerous in areas like this.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just saw the parking space and there weren’t any cars coming.”

“Kind of anxious to get inside, were you?” He nodded toward the bar.

I was beginning to suspect that this was some kind of elaborate pickup routine. “Not really.”

“I’ll have to give you a ticket,” he said.

I watched him walk to where his bike was parked and take a clipboard from a saddlebag. Something else was wrong. That wasn’t a police motorcycle. As he came back toward me, I couldn’t help but notice a large bulge in his tight leather pants.

“Your bike isn’t quite regulation, is it?” I asked. “Or your uniform.”

“No,” he said quickly. “It’s my own bike, not the city’s. I’m off duty. But that won’t stop me from giving you a ticket. Sign here, please.”

“What would stop you?” I asked—and my heart started pounding again. I knew I was doing something incredibly stupid and dangerous, but I was drunk and very angry with the world.

He lowered the clipboard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I stared at his crotch very pointedly and said, “I don’t know. I just wondered.”

“You see something down there that interests you?” he asked coldly.

I looked up—into cool green eyes—then back at his crotch, at the bulge, which had grown slightly. “Well,” I said, “yes. As a matter of fact.”

“You know I could arrest you for that?”

“For what?” I asked innocently. “What did I do?”

He chuckled. “You’re a gutsy one, aren’t you?

I shrugged, still staring at his crotch. He adjusted his stance so I could see it even better in the light from the streetlight. There was no doubt that he had a very large cock—and it was very hard.

“You like that, don’t you?” he asked.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“My prick,” he hissed.

“It’s very big,” I said.

“You got that right,” he said. “Do you want it?”

“Not if you’re going to arrest me… or give me a ticket.”

He studied me carefully, up and down several times. “Do you have someplace to go?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you want to take me there?”

“Yes.”

He took my driver’s license from under the clip and started to give it back—then he slipped it into his jacket pocket and zipped it up. “I think I’ll keep this until we get where we’re going. Okay?”

“Anything you say, sir,” I said, feeling giddy.

“That’s right, friend. You’ve got the idea. Anything I say.” He patted my arm. “I’ll follow you home.”

As he lowered himself onto the seat of his bike, he adjusted his hard cock so he could sit comfortably—then looked up at me with a shitty grin and squeezed it with both hands. “Okay.” he called. “Let’s haul ass.”

Brad had been home and gone out again.

His denim jacket lay on the bed, and the closet was open; he had changed to his leather jacket. The cocksucker had finished with one trick and had gone out for another.

“You live with someone?” the cop asked.

I turned to face him. He had taken off his jacket and cap and tossed them onto a chair by the bed, and was standing with his hands in his back pockets, grinning that shitty grin. His leather outfit looked like it had been painted on his muscular body. His hair was almost a steel-gray, cut very short against his skull. He was the physical prototype of the ideal cop—the one you pictured, as a kid, defending the helpless and innocent against the forces of wickedness and evil. But not with a basket like this one had.

I tossed Brad’s jacket into the closet and closed the door. “Not anymore,” I said. “You want a drink?”

“Got any beer?”

“Several cases.” I started out toward the kitchen.

“Hey, wait. C’mere.”

As I turned, he spread his legs wider. With one hand he milked down his cock while his other hand beckoned me to come to him.

I went back. He took my hand and pressed it over the bulge. It surged, then grew under my fingers.

“You like that?”

“No,” I said, massaging it, “it’s too fucking big.”

He laughed. “You’ll manage. What’s yours like?”

“Feel it and see.”

“Not just yet, friend. We’ll get to that later. Just show me. Take your pants off.”

“Let me get the beer first.”

“No,” he snapped. “Take them off now. I want to see how big your prick is. I want to look at that nice round ass I’m gonna stick my big prick up inside and give you the fuck of your life.”

“Not this cowboy,” I said. “I’m a virgin there. Don’t worry, I’m a very good cocksucker. You can shove your big prick there.”

He chuckled. “Oh? A virgin? I don’t believe it for a minute, Snow White, but… we shall see.”

“Let me get the beer…”

“Get undressed first.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and watched me undress. When my cock flipped up as I took off my shorts, the cop said, “Well, well. Not bad. Not bad at all.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

“Nowhere near as good as mine, but… nice.” He stood up and pulled me to him, turning me so that my ass pressed against his crotch and his hairy, muscular arms tightly embraced my chest and stomach. I could feel his hot breath on my neck, in my ear, and I closed my eyes and allowed the sensations to overwhelm my body.

Click.

I tried to pull away, but one wrist was already handcuffed, and he held the other one painfully. The other cold band of the cuffs clipped over it. Click.

“Hey.”

He shoved me onto the floor, facedown. Then he was on top of me, his weight on my shoulders, his knees in the crooks of my arms, pinning me helplessly. He grabbed my legs and I felt something being wrapped around my ankles. I tried to yell but he sat on my head, pressing my face into the rug, wrapping my belt around my ankles, then cinching it.

Then he sat up. Instantly I started to yell, but one huge hand clapped painfully over my mouth. He jerked my head back, and I felt something cold and hard just under my cheekbone. It was a gun.

He leaned close and whispered intensely: “One more move like that outa you, Snow White, and you’re dead meat. You got that? I mean, your queer brains will be spattered all over this fucking faggot apartment. Understand?”

I tried to nod, but he held me too tight.

He eased his hand off my mouth—but the gun muzzle pressed even harder against my face.

“I said: Understand?” he demanded.

“Yes.” I could hardly hear my own voice. My heart was pounding and the room seemed to be exploding with colors and noises.

“That’s a good boy.” I could feel the gun at my cheek twitching, as though the hand holding it was shaking.

He let my head down very slowly, his hand cupped under my chin—sweating and hot. Then he stood up. The toe of his boot eased under my belly and lifted up, rolled me over onto my back. I looked up into a flushed face—wide green eyes—and a tight, menacing grin.

The man was insane.

It was written all over his face.

And the way he held the gun—leaning down, pointing the muzzle between my eyes—I knew that he wanted to kill me.

He took a deep breath. “Now…” he said quietly, “if you just behave yourself… we’re gonna have ourselves a little fun. But you have to behave yourself, Snow White, or it’s all over. Bang. You’re dead. Too bad. Now tell me you’ll be a good boy.”

I closed my eyes and nodded.

“No…” he said. “I asked you to say it.”

“All right.”

“All right what?”

“I’ll be good.”

“No. Say ‘I’ll be a good boy… Master.’”

I looked up at him, convinced of his madness.

“Say it.”

The gun touched my forehead.

“Say. It.”

“I’ll be a good boy…”

“Master. Say it. Say it, goddammit, or you’re fucking roadkill.”

“Master,” I whispered.

“Good.” He sighed and took the gun away, breathing heavily. “Yes, that’s very good. Because I don’t really want to kill you… just yet.” He ran his fingers up my cock, and it jumped at his touch. “A dead one doesn’t do that,” he said, and stroked it again. “You see… it’s very important… that you remember… always… that I am your master. Absolutely. That’s my job. It’s a case of natural selection, you see. I’m superior to you, and that’s why I’m a cop. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes…”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Master.”

He nodded—and his hand moved slowly up my stomach to my chest. “If you were superior, then you’d be a cop too. That’s obvious, isn’t it? So you have to trust me completely—because I know what’s best for you. And so, if I tell you to do something—or say something—then you just have to do it, or say it, because I know what’s best for you.” He stood and smiled down at me—like a teacher who has finally got through to a stupid child. “Where did you say the beer was?”

“In the refrigerator… in the kitchen… Master.”

He smiled triumphantly. The toe of his boot toyed with my balls. “You like that, don’t you?” He pressed his foot even harder on my nuts. “Don’t you?”

The pain took my breath away, but I said, “Yes… Master.”

“Oh, shit, that’s beautiful.” he whispered. “You be a good boy, now. Please don’t try to escape while I’m gone—or I’ll just have to punish you.” He twisted his foot on my nuts and I gasped. Then he casually walked out of the room.

I heard him in the kitchen, opening the refrigerator—the clink of beer bottles…

I tried to think clearly while he was gone—tried to decide what to do. He had me helpless—my wrists were handcuffed behind me and my feet were wrapped together with my belt. If I had time, I could probably get my feet out of the belt—but I didn’t have time. There was no way I could get out of the handcuffs without a key. I had no choice but to try to please him.

All I could do was hope that he wouldn’t decide to shoot me after he’d had his fun.

But I tried to believe that he wouldn’t go that far. I reasoned it out that he wouldn’t be able to justify shooting me—not naked and handcuffed in my own apartment.

If only Brad would come home.

I heard footsteps coming down the hall, then the cop came in with two beers—and something else: a can of Crisco. He grinned at me, then sat on the bed and guzzled the first bottle down without breathing. He belched loudly and started on the second bottle—now playing with the lump in his crotch, which had gone soft—always watching me with those cold green eyes. He unzipped his fly and pulled his prick out, then his balls. He was uncircumcised, and he toyed with his foreskin, teasing it open and closed over the large head—shining slickly where it peeped out. He ran his finger around inside the foreskin, over the ridge of his cockhead—sipping the beer—watching me.

He finished the beer and stood up. His cock arched out from his crotch, still limber, flopping back and forth as he moved. It was as big as I’d ever seen. Maybe bigger.

And, god, it excited me.

He excited me.

I thought: I’m as crazy as he is.

He lowered himself onto my chest, kneeling over me, slowly milking his flaccid prick in front of my face. “Make it hard,” he whispered. “Make it hard for your Master.”

I lifted my head and he guided his cock into my mouth—first the cold nozzle of foreskin, then the thick, salty, cheesy head—through my lips, down my tongue…

“Oh… Jesus…” he whispered. “Oh, yeah, suck on it. Suck that big cop-cock, Snow White. You got a cop’s prick in your mouth. A great big fuckin’ cop-cock in your fuckin’ queer mouth. Oh, you queer cocksucker, suck on that big prick. Suck it, goddamn you.”

He heaved himself over me and rammed his groin hard into my face—and I swallowed his incredible organ, all the way down. My body was tingling and twitching insanely as I swallowed and swallowed, milking his big prick, making it harder and harder inside my throat. He urged it in deeper and deeper until I couldn’t breathe—I was swimming in blackness, retching uselessly—nothing could get past that big shaft down my throat. My lungs were on fire.

Then he pulled out—and it felt like he’d ripped my throat wide open. He raised up, pumping his cock, his big hairy balls dancing on my nose and my lips. Cop’s balls. “Suck them.” He commanded. I sucked one in, then the other—and they filled my mouth. Hot, hairy cop balls filling my mouth as he pounded his big prick above my open eyes.

He held my face and eased his balls out of my mouth, then worked his way down my body, backing up until my stiff cock touched the tight leather covering his ass—bent back painfully—and then slapped forward onto my belly. He laughed and grabbed my cock, twisting the skin until it felt like it was on fire. Then he twisted my balls. The pain coursed through my body with each twist, and I strained every muscle to keep from screaming—until finally, at the instant I thought I would pass out, he let go.

I sank back onto the floor, my body shuddering uncontrollably.

He turned me over, facedown, and ran his fingers over my ass. He pulled the cheeks open, opened the can of Crisco, dipped his fingers into it, and spread the cold grease all around my tense asshole. First one finger slipped in—then two—one from each hand—and he pulled the sphincter open…

Then his great body was over me—zippers and buttons cutting my skin—and I could feel the big head of his cock inching into my asshole. The feeling was nothing but raw pain, engulfing my body completely. Then, suddenly, the head was inside. I sobbed as he pressed it in deeper—and deeper—and I yelled.

Both hands grabbed my mouth. He rammed his prick all the way up into my guts. It felt like my body had split apart.

“Oh, Jesus.” he whispered. “I’m in you, man. All the way up your ass. You got the biggest cock on the force up your ass, you queer sonofabitch. So you’re not a virgin anymore, are you, Snow White? How does it feel? Does it feel good? Do you like it?”

I couldn’t have answered, even if his fingers hadn’t been crushing my jaw. The pain had become something else—a feeling so thrilling I couldn’t even think.

Then he started a slow pumping, with his body pressed hard against mine, just his hips moving, his fantastic prick reaming my guts out. My own cock was about to explode.

I felt something cold on the back of my head. I knew it was the gun. The cop was breathing heavily in my ear as he fucked, and he whispered: “Okay… Snow White… are you ready? We’re gonna… all shoot together. And you’re gonna shoot… like you never shot before. Me… too.”

“Warren.”

A door slammed, something crashed, and a blurred, snarling beast collided with the cop, knocking him off me. I saw Brad’s face for an instant—hideous with fury—as his fist crashed into the man’s stomach. I heard them both land on the floor. Flesh slammed into flesh… and then silence—except for Brad’s gasping for breath.

He crawled into the closet and grabbed some thin, elastic belts, which he quickly wrapped around the unconscious cop’s wrists and ankles.

Then he stood up weakly, panting, and sat on the bed, looking down at me.

“Thank you,” I whispered, and passed out.

I was lying on the bed when I woke up, still naked, but no longer handcuffed or tied. Brad was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me anxiously. He was holding my hand, and when I opened my eyes, his fingers tightened around mine. “Are you okay?”

I grunted. “I’m still alive… I think. Where is he?”

Brad nodded toward the other side of the bed.

I leaned up and looked over—and laughed.

The cop lay on the floor, his arms behind him, apparently handcuffed, his ankles wrapped with elastic belts. A towel was tied around his mouth. His eyes were open, watching me cautiously as I peered over the edge of the bed.

I lay back on the bed and found Brad’s hand and squeezed it tightly.

“Well.” I said. “That was fun.”

“You idiot.” he yelled. “He almost killed you.”

“Don’t call me names. If you’d been home…”

He nodded quickly. “I’m sorry. I can explain everything.”

“It’s okay,” I said, squeezing his hand. “You came home just in time. That’s fine.”

“What’ll we do with him?” Brad asked.

I sat up on the bed and crossed my legs, yogi-style, and studied the cop. “I don’t know,” I said, knowing he was hearing every word. “What do you do with a crazy police officer who rapes you and almost blows your brains out? What do you do with such a total asshole?”

“We could blow his brains out—and call it self-defense. Who would know different?”

The cop made a strangled noise and tried to sit up.

“No,” I said. “I couldn’t kill anybody—even him. No, we’ve got to deliver him to his own…”

“Does Ash have a lawyer? Let’s ask somebody what we can do so this sonofabitch never bothers anybody again.”

“Nnnnnnn.” The cop had sat up and was shaking his head desperately. “Nnnnnnn.”

“I think he’s trying to tell us something,” I said.

“Be careful.”

I slid off the bed, holding Brad’s shoulders until my legs were stable under me—until the shooting pains had stopped searing my spine; then I searched for the gun. It was still on the floor where it had fallen in the scuffle. I picked it up and pointed it at its owner. “Take his gag off.”

Reluctantly, Brad untied the towel and pulled a wad of material out of the cop’s mouth—my shorts.

“Go ahead,” the cop said. “Pull the fucking trigger.”

I shook my head. “I really don’t want to be a cop-killer—even though I’m sure I’d be justified. Justifiable homicide, isn’t that…?”

“Oh, shit.” the cop spat. “You couldn’t kill a fucking mosquito with that. Pull the fucking trigger and see.”

“Don’t do it,” Brad said. “It’s some kind of trick.”

“Its no trick. They’re fuckin’ blanks. Go ahead, pull the trigger, blow my balls off.”

“Yes, Master.” I said, pointing the gun at his testicles and pulling the trigger.

He flinched as the trigger clicked—but nothing happened to his balls.

He took a deep breath. “They’re all spent,” he said. “You don’t have to call anyone. Nobody got hurt. We had our fun. Now, untie me and let me go home.”

“It was a game, wasn’t it?” I asked.

“Of course it was.”

“Just a game. You scare the shit out of somebody, you make somebody think you’re going to kill them—and it’s just a game?”

He nodded wearily.

I explained to Brad: “He hangs out by the leather bars and waits for someone he can hassle—I made a U-turn—then lets them think they can fuck their way out of a ticket. He goes home with them, ties them up, scares the shit out of them, rapes them—and then they wake up in the morning with the good officer’s cold cum all over their bellies.” I leaned over and asked him “Does that about cover it?”

He closed his eyes and nodded.

“Well, he fooled me.” Brad said.

“Okay?” the cop asked. “Will you unlock these things now?”

Brad looked at me; I shook my head. “Ask us nicely,” I said.

“Come on, for Christ’s sake. We’ve had our fun….”

“No.” I said sharply. “You had your fun. Now we are gonna have ours.”

“Wait.” Brad jumped up and hurried into the front room, then returned with a paper lunch bag. “This,” he told me, “is why I went out tonight. It was for your birthday next week, but we can open your present early—if you want to.” He extracted a baggie of marijuana. There were several already-rolled joints in the bag. He took one out and lit it. “Sit on him,” he told me. He took a deep drag.

I sat on the man’s crotch and watched as Brad bent over, took his face firmly between his hands, and kissed him, blowing the smoke into his mouth. To my surprise, instead of resisting, the cop sucked the smoke in—kissing Brad deeply in the process. He gave me the joint and I sucked it in, then kissed the cop, emptying my hot lungs into him. By the time we finished the joint, I was reeling.

“What was that stuff?” I asked.

“Sensimilla,” Brad said. “The best there is. It’s from Oregon. Happy birthday.”

I laughed. “Happy fucking birthday to me.” I stood up. “Help me get him on the bed.”

We lifted him up—he offered no resistance—and plopped him down in the middle of the bed.

“Keep him busy,” Brad said, and hurried out of the room again.

I knelt over him, dangling my cock in his face. It was dripping precum that made shiny trails across his nose and cheeks, like a snail. He opened his mouth expectantly, licking his lips. “Oh.” I said. “You like that, do you?”

He moaned.

“Ask.”

“Please…”

“Please what?”

“Please let me suck your cock.”

“That’s not what I meant. What do you call a superior being?”

His eyes opened wider and his mouth twitched. “Master,” he whispered.

“Good boy.” I said.

“Oh, Jesus,” he moaned.

“That’s what you wanted all along, isn’t it?” I asked him.

“Someone superior to you. Someone even better than a San Francisco cop.”

“Yesssss,” he hissed.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Master.”

I grabbed his face and shoved my cock into his open mouth. His body convulsed and he sucked my cock deep like a starving man, and lay there under me, swallowing and moaning. “That’s what you wanted all along. Someone… superior.”

“Here.” Brad came back into the room holding several lengths of clothesline rope.

With my cock down his throat, I watched Brad unlock the handcuffs, then tie the cop’s wrists to the bedposts—he offered no resistance, but held out his arms like Jesus on the cross, letting Brad cinch the ropes securely.

I withdrew from his throat, and then stood beside Brad, my arm around his shoulders, as we studied our prisoner. He contemplated us, looking confused, as though seeing both of us for the first time.

“Are you… really… lovers?” He asked.

Brad said, “What are you talking about?”

The cop shook his head, frowning. “The… two… of you,” he said.

“You’re out of your mind, mister,” I said. “There’s only one of us. You must be seeing double.”

“Oh, Jesus.” he moaned. “Oh, god.” He closed his eyes tightly and lay there groaning.

As Brad undressed, I tied the cop’s ankles to the same bedposts as his hands, bending him double, spread-eagled, with his ass in the air. I dipped my hand into the Crisco and swathed my cock with the grease, then knelt on the bed between the cop’s legs and slowly eased it into the twitching asshole of one of San Francisco’s Finest. He moaned gratefully with each inch, until I was all the way up inside his body. His big cock was flipping like a fish out of water, slick clear fluid oozing out of the uncircumcised head, dripping onto his chiseled stomach. I smeared some more shortening on my hand and closed my fingers around his incredible cock and slowly massaged it, up and down, as he writhed, and his asshole ruffled and fluttered around my cock.

“That’s gorgeous,” Brad said, seeing the cop’s cock hard for the first time.

“Isn’t it?” I agreed. “A work of fucking art.”

Brad laughed and got onto the bed, between the cop’s spread legs and outstretched arms, and slowly urged his hard cock down the man’s groaning throat—while I knelt between his legs, my identical cock buried up to the hilt in his ass. Brad grabbed my shoulders and pulled me to him and we kissed each other deeply as we explored and fucked the body between us. Both our hands could fit around his cock, so both of us jacked him off as we fucked him. Brad’s mouth locked against mine and his tongue bathed my tongue, and I shoved my prick home up the officer’s ass, and came, clutching Brad, kissing him intensely, as he shot his load deep into the man’s throat. And then the cop came. His body convulsed between us and his cock spewed wild volleys of cop-cum all over all of us.

And then we collapsed.

After Dan, the cop, had gone home (we exchanged phone numbers and agreed to “do it again sometime,”) Brad and I were lying on the bed, talking about what had happened.

“I’m… worried,” I said.

“About what?”

“It bothers me that you’re so damn glad that we’ve had our first threesome.”

“But that’s what was wrong, Warren,” he said. “It was just you and me. And… after a while—I don’t care how hot it is in the beginning—it gets cold. It gets routine… and that gets dull. With anybody. Straight or gay. Dave and Ash have threesomes and foursomes all the time.”

“And fivesomes and sixsomes,” I added. “Is that what it’s going to take? I mean, it sounds like you’re saying we have to have at least one other guy before we can have sex.”

“Oh, no,” he said quickly, squeezing my hand. “At least, I hope not. That’ll happen spontaneously—but not every night, or even every week….”

“Well,” I said, “I guess this means we’ll be getting a lot of our old customers back—once word gets around we’re available. As a team, right?”

“Right…” He snuggled against me. “We’ve got a whole new adventure ahead of us. Like Ash said, it’s every gay guy’s hottest fantasy to make out with brothers or twins.”

“So… let’s get out there and fulfill some fantasies.”

“All those fantasies… so little time.”

We laughed and he moved closer, resting his head on my shoulder. “We’re so used to thinking that love and sex are the same thing,” he said, “we can’t separate the two things in our mind. Our bodies know the difference, but our heads are still back in those Sunday school lessons about never fucking anyone you don’t love. That’s strictly a church-control heterosexual trip, and doesn’t apply. But, still, it’s an automatic response—like we’re programmed. When I came home tonight and heard voices from the bedroom, the first thing I thought was, He doesn’t love me anymore.

“I know. I thought the same thing when that nellie bartender thought I was you.”

“It’s an automatic response—and it’s stupid. Love and sex are two completely separate things. It’s great when the two go together, but it’s not the end of the world if they don’t. I love you, whether we have sex or not.”

“And I love you too,” I said, putting my arm around him. “Actually… we’re not really lovers.”

He turned his head slightly on my shoulder, looking quizzical. “Oh?”

“From the beginning,” I said, “we were much more like brothers than lovers.”

“Long-lost twin brothers,” he said dreamily. “Separated at birth…”

“Gay brothers… getting to know each other,” I finished. “In every way possible.”

He chuckled.

“What?”

“Feel…” He took my hand and put it on his cock. It was hard again.

“Mine too,” I whispered, as I kissed him.

And it turned out I needn’t have worried at all.