Best Gay Erotica 2014 Read Online Free PDF

it bloats around your swirling fingers. But it’s a far cry from where you thought you’d be by now: a high-priced, luxuriously pampered call-boy working an elite clientele of maybe eight or ten wealthy men in first-class hotel suites. Or maybe the exclusive boy-toy of some superrich sugar daddy, living the high life in a paid-for penthouse apartment with seasonal trips to Europe and the Caribbean. Instead of hustling parking lot hand jobs with raw kids in battered trucks two blocks off skid row .
    The cowboy grunted and groaned, “Oh, Jesus! I’m gonna come! Yeah, I’m gonna come!”
    I blinked my eyes, looked down at the cock I was jacking. It jumped in my hand, spurted. Hot semen leapt out the slit on the bulbous head, splashed against the dashboard. I milked the spouting dong sure and true, giving a wrist-twist at the top of the tug, jerking out pop-shot after pop-shot. The cowboy bucked, the pickup rocking. And my own cock spasmed and sprayed in the cowboy’s clenching fist.
    I’d been plying my trade so long I could turn it on and off like that, stoking up the sticky, sweaty, desperate eroticism with my own jetting orgasm. The cowboy loved it, whooping his delight, shooting it. We jerked in rhythm, pumping out passion in pressurized bursts in each other’s squeezing, shifting hands.
    The cowboy dug two twenties and a ten out of his shirt pocket and spilled them onto the seat, as I wiped and zipped. Semen dripped off the dashboard, down onto the scruffy floormats. I scooped up the money, stuffed it into my jeans and stepped out of the truck.
    The harsh morning light hit me hard in the face, making my head spin. I staggered slightly, then recovered my balance and walked away from the pickup, heading for the Gay Cavalier and the gloryholes in back. Business would just be opening up at the low-down bar and blow-job emporium.
    Yeah, you should’ve been a high-priced piece of ass by now, have yourself installed in a real rich setup. But here you are instead, pressed up against the graffiti-smeared wall of the middle stall in the dingy men’s room in back of the Gay Cavalier; a man on the other side of the wall hungrily sucking your cock .
    He’d been standing by the sinks, probably washing his hands for the sixth or seventh time: a tall, thin, dark-haired businessman squeezing in a sordid morning quickie before a busy day of moneymaking. The other stalls were empty, the bar out front quiet except for a few confirmed drunkards. The man was dressed in a pin-striped black suit, white shirt, pink tie, black leather shoes. The leather had the same rich, deep gloss as his hair; his fingernails were impeccably manicured, face and hands tanned.
    But above the spicy scent of businessman’s cologne was the sharp tang of sweat. And his gray eyes held more than a hint ofdesperation and despair behind the cockiness. There was a wife and kids at home, I suspected, casually meeting the man’s plea and smiling my acceptance.
    It takes all kinds , I mused, as the hundred-dollar bill slid under the stall wall. And you take all kinds — all comers — and you give them exactly what they want. And what you want? I’d moaned, half-fake, half-real, when I’d unzipped and hefted my cock and stuck it through the waist-high padded hole in the green metal wall, and the businessman had eagerly gobbled up my hood, excitedly submerged my shaft in heat and wetness.
    And now my dampened palms squeaked against the wall, my breath fogging the scrawled metal, as Mr. Businessman sucked hard and tight, amateurishly but enthusiastically, trying to keep consuming all of my meat as it swelled out to its full, erect length. Impossible. My mushroomed cap hit the back of his throat and pushed the dandy back, the shaft as long and stiff as it’d been in the cowboy’s hand. I had the gift of stamina and the curse. Businessman gagged and gasped and gave up the fight for all of my cock.
    He blew