Best Gay Erotica 2008 Read online

  Over the next hour or so Brian devoted himself to finding out just how ticklish Scott’s shapely, size-10 feet were. Their responsiveness was never less than amazing. After bringing Scott to a series of hoarse, nearly silent screams, Brian said, “Oh shit, this is too good, I have to bring everything out now.” Returning to his dresser, he found the cloth bag that held his collection. Feathers, some soft, some stiff. A hairbrush with long, mean-looking bristles. An old toothbrush, a plastic fork…. He showed each of these things to Scott, telling him that they would be used on his feet, even though it might take several hours to go through them all. Scott looked like he could faint, or wanted to.

  “Don’t worry,” Brian said, “I won’t hurt you. I’m just going to tickle you, that’s all. Here, let me get you some water.”

  After Scott had his drink he was able to speak a bit. “Please… don’t t-tickle me anymore….”

  Brian shook his head. “Oh, you poor baby,” he said. “Do you know how it makes my dick ache to hear you say that?”

  Brian was good to his word, using every tool in his kit on poor Scott’s feet. By the time a couple of hours had passed, Scott was in another world entirely, a world of nothing but tickle torture, and whenever it seemed as bad as it could get, there was another level to break through. It was a world of unthinkable torment, outrageous suffering, where a minute could seem like an hour; in that hour he could be tickled to death a thousand times, only to keep reviving to a world of blinding agony. His voice long since destroyed by screaming, all he could do was pant as his torturer found fresh delights in his sexy, helpless skin. Brian was using feathers now, for Scott had been sensitized to the nth degree, and the merest touch of a frond turned his face into a mask of pleading: Oh for god’s sake, kill me, kill me now…just don’t tickle me anymore!

  Brian came many times during the night, often without touching himself. The feel of Scott’s ribs under his fingertips, or the sight of his soft soles with the bristles of a brush pressed against them, was enough to give him a spontaneous orgasm. He made sure that Scott had several mind-blowing climaxes also. A lot of the cum landed on his body, which made things more interesting. The hot, sticky cream had to be removed if it was covering a ticklish spot, and Brian’s technique with tongue or washcloth was its own kind of torture. It was heaven to watch Scott’s panicked expression and listen to his whispered screams as Brian reamed out his navel with rough terry-cloth. “That’s right, baby,” he said. “Your ticklish nerve-ends are mine, all mine.”

  Sometime toward morning, Brian woke to find himself lying with his toes jammed into Scott’s armpits, his fingers stroking Scott’s feet. If he didn’t know better, he’d think that he had been tickling Scott while he dozed. Maybe he had! Scott was certainly out of it. Oh, Jesus, Brian thought, there’s nothing more fun than a super-ticklish guy who’s been tickled all night! He stepped up his lazy stroking of those soles until Scott began to squirm again. Yeah, this was the best: a totally delirious victim with his wagging tongue and sloppy, involuntary grins…. Scott looked at Brian with eyes that didn’t seem to be able to focus, and when he tried to speak, all that came out was gibberish.

  “I’m enjoying this too much, buddy,” Brian said. “I’m gonna have to tickle you for a couple more hours, at least.” Crawling toward the head of the bed, he sank into his victim, caressing his abs, tickling the piss out of him. Luxuriating in the madness of it, and the smell of beer-piss, panic sweat, and cum.

  At last, sometime after sunrise, he untied the restraints. Scott didn’t move. “I’ve just about tickled you to death, haven’t I?” Brian asked. He brought a glass of water, but Scott was too weak to hold it. Brian sat on the edge of the bed for a while as the young man gradually came back to life, such as it was: exhausted, overstimulated, his flesh mottled as if he were blushing all over. It took several tries before he could move his legs over the side of the bed and sit up. He sat there for a while, now and then raising a fingertip to touch himself here and there—testing a rib or much-abused armpit, letting go a soft hysterical giggle.

  “Try to stand up,” Brian said.

  Scott looked at Brian as if he were seeing him for the first time. He had been so immersed in a world of sensation that the real world was registering slowly; he was still getting used to the idea that he wasn’t tied down anymore. He rubbed one wrist, then the other. Looked down at his poor roughed-up feet on the carpet. Surely he remembered, amid all the unbearable tickling, how his cock had burst like a firecracker time after time? When he regarded his torturer now, it was with fear and desire mixed. But fear won out. Moving stiffly, he fumbled for his jeans and managed to get them on. Grabbed his shirt in one hand, his sneakers and socks in the other, and walked a drunkard’s path to the door.

  “Wait,” Brian said. “Put your sneakers on first…. Scott, put your sneakers on!”

  Too late. Once he was moving, Scott wasn’t about to stop, even if he did have to walk barefoot across the gravel drive to his car. The gravel bit his tenderized soles, making him yelp each step of the way. When he finally made it to his Jeep he took off in an arc that sprayed a good bit of that gravel onto the lawn. As Brian watched the Jeep’s erratic spin down the drive, he realized that Scott would probably talk. Yes: at the risk of embarrassing himself, he would warn other guys away from Brian and his particular kink.

  Maybe that would be for the best. Maybe anything that gave him that much pleasure was bad. Brian couldn’t believe that for long, though. He had a computer with a high-speed Internet connection on his bedroom desk, and many nights he sat up late, looking at pictures and video clips of men bound and tickled. The barrage of unspeakably erotic images brought him to explosive orgasms as he jacked off with one hand and tickled his balls with the other. Each explosion seemed to engage all the nerve and muscle he had, and he’d sit there afterward, feeling totally drained, his vision blurred. Jesus, did everybody have orgasms like this?

  Not far from the greenhouse, at the west end of the Thorne mansion, was a screened porch where Brian often ate his lunch. It was comfortable, cool and quiet. He never saw a soul as he sat facing the side lawn and the path that led to his cottage. One day, when he had finished his sandwich and thermos of iced tea, he sat back in his soft vinyl chair, put his feet up on the ottoman, and closed his eyes, telling himself he was only going to rest for a minute.

  A noise from the doorway jolted him and he sat up, not knowing at first where he was. Blinking, he thought he saw Powell standing there. He shook his head and looked again. Yes, it was Powell in the doorway, holding a plate covered with a napkin.

  “Mind if I come in?” he asked.

  For a moment Brian could only stare. It had been so long since he’d heard Powell speak, or even seen him this close. The young man was dressed plainly, in khaki shorts like Brian’s and a light blue T-shirt, flip-flops on his large feet. Once he glimpsed those feet, Brian found it almost impossible to take his eyes from them. “Oh,” he said, collecting himself with great effort, “no, I don’t mind. Please come in.”

  Powell sat in an armchair across from Brian’s. He pulled the napkin from his plate to reveal a sandwich, lettuce and tomato peeking out between thick crusts. Powell picked the whole thing up in one hand and took a bite, looking frankly at Brian as he chewed.

  Brian was at a loss. Having finished his lunch, he had nothing to do with his hands, which started to tremble whenever he dared glance at Powell’s feet in their flip-flops. The dark brown skin lightened between the toes and down toward the soles, as if nature had found a way to highlight the most ticklish spots. Blushing, Brian looked up to catch Powell surreptitiously licking a spot of mayo from his thumb. That tip of tongue poking through shapely lips—holy fuck! He should have gotten up and run, but all he could do was sit helplessly as Powell, his tone so smooth and relaxed, asked if everything was all right down at the cottage.

  “Wh-what?” Brian asked, sounding like an idiot to himself.

  “I was asking you if everything was all
right down at the cottage. I saw a light down there, quite late, a few nights ago.”

  Brian tried to speak, but all that came out was a panicked, strangling sound. He cleared his throat and said, “I didn’t know you could see that far from here.”

  Powell’s fingertip grazed the screen. “Look, you can see right down there. At night you can tell if the outside light is on.”

  “I…definitely didn’t know that.” But it was true. He looked beyond Powell’s finger and saw, with a sinking feeling he would not soon forget, part of the gravel drive and the entrance to his cottage, as if Powell had magically cleared a new sightline.

  “Thought I heard something from down there, too,” Powell said.

  Oh, shit! Brian’s sinking feeling became a free fall. How could he explain that he was tickling a guy almost to death?

  “It was the next morning,” Powell said. “Sounded like a car taking off, fast.”

  Preparing himself for the worst, Brian forced himself to ask, “Did you hear…anything else?”

  “Nope. Not a sound.”

  Powell’s eyes were frank, innocent. Okay, so he wasn’t toying with Brian. Still, he didn’t dare look into those eyes for long, for even in their innocence they were deep enough to draw him into secret imagined places that sent chills along his spine. He mumbled something about having to get back to work, and hurried toward the refuge of the greenhouse.

  Powell got into the habit of appearing on the porch at lunchtime. Brian didn’t know what to make of it, any more than he knew what to make of some of the looks he caught Powell giving him. There the two of them were, sitting over sandwiches, Brian making a comment about one of the yard workers, what a good job he was doing on the lawn…and when he looked up, Powell was smiling with one eyebrow raised, as if Brian were really talking about…something else. Then the talk turned to other estate matters, and Brian realized what a task Powell had taken on, practically running the whole place all by himself.

  “Let me know,” Brian said, “if there’s anything I can help you with.”

  Was that a smile playing at Powell’s lips again? And what was there to smile about?

  Everything came to a head when, over the course of two days, Brian was subjected to two sights that just about drove him over the edge.

  The yard crew was mowing the lower part of the estate— Brian could hear a mower approaching the cottage late one afternoon, when he had just got back from the greenhouse. He was surprised to hear the engine cut off not far from his door. Then the doorbell rang.

  It was a young man he had noticed before—a good worker, very conscientious about trimming around the trees and hedges. And he was also—how could Brian fail to notice?—extremely attractive, all the more so when he was standing right there on the cottage stoop, wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of his wrist. It was one of the hottest days they’d had yet, so he was working without a shirt. And, Brian quickly noticed, he was barefoot too.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “I was wondering if I could get some water.”

  “Of course. Come in.” Brian stepped aside. “Please, help yourself.”

  The young man stood at the sink drinking his tumbler of water while Brian watched. Oh, how he watched this well-built, half-naked man in low-riding khaki shorts, his big bare feet at right angles to each other on the linoleum. After emptying his glass he filled it again, giving Brian more time to look. That narrow waist leading so gracefully to a slim but powerful-looking chest, that wink of armpit as he raised the glass higher…and those feet.

  Brian’s fingers twitched.

  “Thanks,” the man said, setting the glass carefully in the sink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “What’s your name?”

  “B-Brian.” He nearly ran to the door to open it. “Look, I don’t mean to rush you, but I was in the middle of something….”

  “Oh. Sure.” The young man took his leave, flashing a particularly sweet smile at Brian as he passed.

  Brian closed the door and sank down against it till his butt hit the floor. He had to do something—something, that is, beyond his immediate goal of beating off while he pictured that young stud, the way he had looked standing at the sink in his bare feet. But what, what could he do?

  Then there was Powell, the very next day—Powell on the screened porch at lunchtime, finishing his sandwich, swiping at his mouth with a napkin, and reaching out with his leg to drag the ottoman close to his chair. Brian was always conscious of Powell’s feet—size 12, at least—and how they looked in the blue flip-flops that he often wore. Now Brian could hardly believe his eyes as Powell slid his feet from those flip-flops and planted them, naked, on the ottoman, almost close enough to touch. The soles of those luscious, dark brown feet were a light brown, almost pink, and Brian couldn’t take his eyes off them. He could do so many things to them, and never get tired….

  Suddenly he was aware that Powell was saying something… something important. “I’m sorry,” Brian asked, “what were you saying?”

  “I was saying that my schedule’s going to change. I’m going away.”

  Away? “Oh, no….”

  Powell smiled his crooked, slightly insinuating smile. “Don’t worry, it’s only for a long weekend. This coming weekend, in fact.”

  Brian tried to regain his composure. It wasn’t easy, with those feet staring at him. “Well, uh…then you have to come over. For a drink?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Brian felt his face turning red. Was Powell offended? “I just mean, before you leave. Friday night. Come down to the cottage for a glass of wine, why don’t you?” He couldn’t believe he was saying this. He almost giggled, it sounded so unlike him.

  Powell thought for a moment. “Well, I do need to tell you about a couple of things that might need handling while I’m gone. Nothing major, but still.”

  “Then it’s settled! Eight o’clock?”

  At the appointed time Brian had the Zinfandel on ice, and the two wineglasses that had been gathering dust at the back of his cupboard were washed and ready. He paced the length of the cottage, weight room to living room to bedroom and back, glancing at his watch every few seconds. Five minutes past eight. Now almost ten. He could have opened his front door and stood on the stoop to wait, but he didn’t want to seem too anxious. Just when he thought he might have to turn on the TV to distract himself, or else lose his mind, the knock came at the door.

  “Hello.” Powell breezed in with his hands in the pockets of his navy blue shorts. His sweatshirt was half unzipped, revealing sculpted pecs. On his feet he wore silver cross-trainers with no-show socks—the kind that showed just enough. It made no sense, but it was sexy as hell.

  “Well, hi,” Brian said. He poured wine for the two of them, though he didn’t know how he could drink any; he felt lightheaded already. “You’re not leaving tonight, are you? I wouldn’t want you to be drinking and driving.”

  “No, not until tomorrow.”

  “Good. Looks like it’s going to storm soon, too.”

  “I hope so. We need the…relief.”

  Brian hoped his hand wasn’t shaking too much as he took a large sip of wine. “Your family will be happy to see you.”

  “Oh, I don’t have family anymore, really. I’m just going back to the old place to look around. So I can take my time, there’s no one expecting me.”

  “No one’s expecting you….” Brian was definitely lightheaded. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t give you your glass…oops!” Wine splashed onto Powell’s sweatshirt. “Oh, I’m so sorry! At least it’s not red wine. Here, let me help you.” Before Powell could move Brian was unzipping his shirt. “Why don’t you slip this off so we can let it dry?” Scarcely believing he had the balls to do it, he helped Powell remove the sweatshirt and draped it over the back of a kitchen chair. Then he turned to confront the most beautiful male torso he’d ever seen. It wasn’t a matter of working out like a maniac; you had to be born with a body like that. And smooth…did
Powell shave his chest and abs? “Please, sit down,” Brian said, his voice husky with desire, warning him that he needed to be cool or he would drive this breathtaking man away. He cleared his throat several times before saying, “I’ll pour you another glass.”

  “Sure.” Powell wasn’t shy about making himself at home, leaning back in the large recliner till the footrest popped up. Brian looked forward to getting another look at his feet, even if they were encased in cross-trainers. Powell surprised him, though, by bending his knees to get at the laces of first one shoe, then the other. He pried them off, letting them fall to the floor. Then he peeled off the white no-show socks, letting them fall to the floor too.

  Brian had to set down his glass, his hand was shaking so much. There were the feet, propped up right in front of him, almost within reach. Those pale, almost pink soles were immaculate, with no trace of callus. They were lovingly tended to, the skin kept soft, smooth…. “That recliner goes back another notch,” Brian said, no longer worrying about the huskiness of his voice. Powell wasn’t worried either. He moved the recliner’s lever once more and leaned back into a near-horizontal position. Now Brian had a better view, not only of those gorgeous feet but of Powell’s whole package—his inner thighs, the generous mound of his crotch, those abs, the rib cage expanding above them like a vast, tender structure begging for assault. If only he would raise his arms so that Brian could see his armpits.

  And just like that, Powell raised his arms, lacing his fingers together behind his head, the picture of relaxation…and vulnerability. How Brian loved the sight of those armpits, recesses just made for fingers and tongue! He loved the tightly coiled hair in those pits, too, but if he had his way he’d shave it off, make that tender skin all the more susceptible to prolonged stroking and poking. Was Powell ticklish? Oh, he had to be! It would a shame for this body to be insensitive in any way. The man was made to be played with.