Gay Erotic Stories

2089 A.D.

Copyright goes to the author. All rights reserved for short stories published under J.R.W. or J. R. W. that have been featured on this site.

Sprawled on the purple velvet carpet of Chase’s oval building, four bodyguards bled in crimson pools of blood. Sage made his way to the lunar-powered elevator, surveying the men’s late 1970 period costumes for the last time. Dressed in leather, their hairy asses were still squeezing postmortem through tight black chaps. Once again, Chase toyed with Sage and those under his employment. Apparently, Sage’s name was mysteriously exempt from the party guest list. When Sage insisted upon entering, he was surrounded by all four bodyguards, each armed with laser batons and enormous egos to boost. The fight—if it could even be called that—was over in seconds. Sage went into capoeira fighting mode, bringing each seven-foot tall man down lifeless and hemorrhaging to the ground. He almost felt a sense of regret, chastising himself for demolishing opponents that were way below his level. But they asked for it, thought Sage, as he extracted the security key from one of the guard’s nipple rings.

As the lunar-powered elevator made its way up eighty stories, Sage began reminiscing about his past. It had been six years since he set foot into Chase’s oval building. He could have easily made it seven had Chase not called him that morning. This was the place where he received his training. In fact, the forty-fifth floor that just passed was where Sage was instructed by several martial art instructors. Before he sent them into the intensive care unit, Sage’s instructors always asked him where the rage came from. It was not something that Sage could answer. Even though he wasn’t required to, Sage always wanted to give a reason for his behavior—less for them, and more for his developing character. If truth can be told, Sage couldn’t remember his life before the age of eighteen, before Chase rescued him from the Regional Genocide Organization. He always wondered why the organization wanted him dead, since he never could recall killing anybody before his assassination training. Sage wanted to ask Chase about his past, but he knew there was always a heavy price to pay for knowledge. Remember that time when you asked Chase for the address of your childhood home, thought Sage, he expected you to blow him and his colleagues first. A slight smile spread across Sage’s face, as he recalled what he did to Chase’s colleagues. Details are not required, but let’s just say it wasn’t pretty (they were brought to their knees all right…) or sexy (…just not for fun and games).

The elevator finally arrived at the penthouse. Sage could hear the loud music, the laughter, and orgiastic moans of Chase’s party guests. As the doors parted, he braced himself for the sudden intake of smoke, sweat, and semen. Instead, Sage was greeted by another bloodbath. Naked corpses were strewn all over the penthouse. Some of the couples, still in copulation poses, appeared to be murdered during sex. Their orgasmic faces, frozen in horror and surprise, almost looked pitiful—even to the carnage familiar Sage. The electronic walls seemed caught in repeat mode, playing footage that might have been taken earlier that night. In the film, the people looked drunk-happy, wrestling for camera time to seal their fifteen minutes of fame. One smooth- skinned guy was holding a martini in his left hand, while a husky biker was banging his ass. Looking at him now, the smooth-skinned man’s terrified expression was a big contrast to the beaming face shown in the film. Sage knew that the massacre was personal. The killer (or killers) must have enjoyed the butchery, for the music still boomed throughout the penthouse An assassin always carries out the assignment with little casualty, thought Sage, or at least that’s the code that I follow. If it was a professional, the entire spectacle would have been deemed unnecessary and unprofitable. The art of assassination is to remain unseen, thought Sage, but these people obviously saw their killers. Sage had assassinated corrupt politicians, drug lords, sexual predators that were masquerading as philanthropists; once, he was even hired by an entire village to kill a vicious dictator. The village people had pooled their resources together for a chance of freedom. In the end, after Sage impaled the man on a stake for the village to see, he decided not to accept the money. Not that Sage considered him self a charitable person for such an act. He knew what kind of person he was—a stone-cold killer always asking for the right price.

While making his way down Chase’s bedroom hall, Sage unveiled his fighting sticks—the tips sharpened for extra damage. He treaded carefully, despite the shards of glass that crushed beneath his boots. Sage stepped over two corpses that blocked the middle of the hallway, one that had his brain matter hardening on the titanium partitions. The young guy was probably handsome, and had it not been for the bullet hole in the center of his forehead, his green eyes probably would have dazzled even somebody as hardhearted as Sage. The second corpse, a middle-aged man, still had the young man’s dick in his mouth. It looked like he was disemboweled from the side, an obviously torturous and sadistic death. As he approached Chase’s opaque glass door, Sage could sense the presence of enemies on the other side. Instinctually, Sage somersaulted through the glass door, rolling out of the way of approaching laser bullets. He crouched in a lunge while extracting the heavy wooden knives out of his jacket lining. Sage threw three of them to his left side, while split-jumping over an iron chest. As he engaged in combat with two armed men, Sage could hear the wooden knives impaling their targets behind him. The two armed men soon lay dead at his feet, their carotid arteries gushing blood from being penetrated by his fighting sticks. Sage was thankful that Chase’s bedroom hadn’t changed in the last seven years. The furniture looked new, but the same arrangement still prevailed. Chase remains a creature of habit, thought Sage.

He looks up to find Chase hanging bound and gagged from the bedroom ceiling. His face swelled black and blue with bruises. His head, arms, and legs skewered with third-degree burns. His thighs and genitals assaulted with major gashes. Even though Sage hated Chase, and imagined killing him in different ways, he still felt sorry for the degraded manner that Chase was murdered. After all, Chase was Sage’s mentor—a man that gave him knowledge, despite trying to exploit the arrangement for sexual gain. Sage didn’t know the cause of Chase’s murder, or the massacre of the party guests for that matter. He did know that Chase probably contacted him that morning in hopes of protection. Apparently, though, Sage arrived too late to provide any kind of assistance. He now realized that the bodyguards from the lobby were not employed by Chase. Regardless of the reasons, and his easy slaughtering of the mysterious gunmen, Sage knew that he must escape as soon as possible. The mystery would have to be postponed for another day, thought Sage, as he broke the handles off the wooden knives. He knew of a secret staircase in the kitchen; the elevator would be far too dangerous because of its enclosing facet.

Sage bolted for the secret staircase, when he was unexpectedly yanked by his collar from behind. He regained his balance immediately, striking towards his unseen opponent with a double palm-strike combination. There was no connection, not even a slight tapping of the opponent’s body. Sage was hit hard in the breastbone, the pain unlike anything that he ever felt before. The opponent seemed to be moving at lightning speed in and out of alternating colored shadows. Sage tries concentrating, shifting his feet and fighting stance for better combat, but he is suddenly knocked in the face with what felt like brass knuckles. His wooden sticks, after having put them away to escape, clanged to opposite sides of the kitchen. He falls to the floor, his sight blocked by a swollen brow ridge. With amazing force, the unseen assailant lifts Sage off the ground towards the ceiling, and hurls him through the oak floor.

Sage feels his body smashing through floorboards, plummeting until he thuds against a concrete floor. He tries dragging himself to safety, his broken legs and left arm useless against a potential attack. The assailant jumps from the penthouse floor, landing effortlessly on the concrete base. Sage is lifted off the floor by the unseen man, strangled by an iron grip. He twitches in the man’s grip when the fear of death suddenly washes through his mind and body. Sage, always the stronger fighter and killer, never went through an experience like this before. His right arm wasn’t doing any damage to the attacker’s appendage. Amid the confusion, he could blurrily see his assailant jacking off with his left hand. The motherfucker is enjoying this, thought Sage; he’s getting off while I’m dying. With what little might he had, Sage unleashed an electric bomb from his jacket hood, and lodged it in the assailant’s mouth. “Maybe on the second date” exclaims Sage, as he braces himself for the oncoming force. The shocking explosion occurs, sending high voltage through the assailant’s body. The assailant’s right arm explodes, the force catapulting Sage through a nearby window—making him fall fifty stories down to the sidewalk below. Before hitting the sidewalk, Sage thought: why in the hell did I answer my phone this morning?