Gay Erotic Stories

Author's note: Welcome to my world. Persons who don't like queers or pagans should not be here. Persons under 18/21 technically should not be here, by which I mean go ahead if you want, but if I get a letter from your mother it's your own fault. Absolutely no reposting without my consent (I'll probably say yes if you ask nicely). Feedback, flowers, and expressions of regard may be sent to matt_mcl@hotmail.com . Play safe to stay gay longer. Support freedom of speech. Svend Robinson for prime minister. Burma Shave. Enjoy. On The Head of a Pin (Part I) Matt M. matt_mcl@hotmail.com --------------- When you're following an angel does it mean you have to throw your body off a building? Somewhere they're meeting on a pin head calling you an angel calling you the nicest thing... -They Might Be Giants, "She's an Angel" -------------- I ran in terror, and then they were upon me. One of them grabbed me from behind and a fist smashed into my nose. Another one punched me in the gut, winding me, and another one smashed me in the forehead, toppling me over backwards. I rolled, and curled into a ball, and they kept slamming me with their boots. I felt my bones crack under their onslaught. My flesh was exploding with pain at each new strike, and my clothing was being torn. They were screaming at me. Tapette! Momoune! Fif! And I was screaming wordlessly back at them in pain and terror. Mercifully, I passed out. It was as violent as the rest of the encounter. I felt as though my consciousness were ripped from my body and flung far away into space. I - it - rolled with the momentum, and flipped and twisted around. The images of a hurried dream passed before my eyes. A flurry of colours. A forest at night, whipped by a storm. The face of a woman - of a fine lady, delicate features, round, pale, a moon face; raven black hair, jewels, and a tear running down her face. A man's face, swart and sanguine, with the gracefully arched antlers of a deer emerging from his rippling brown hair - not monstrous, but regal and powerful. A beard, and in his eyes the fire of anger - righteous indignation. His mouth opened in a battle cry. Flames. A flash, then, and a flurry of white - what? Screams, becoming more and more distant. Concern. Worry and hope so tangible - - strong arms lifting me up, wind in my hair - then I remembered no more. * * * * Beeping. Rhythmic beeping. I realized it was my heart. My eyes fluttered open. "Ah, il s'est reveillé," said a woman's voice. I was in a hospital, I realized. I did a quick self-assessment and came to the conclusion that I felt like shit. Every part of my body ached, and my throat was raw and sore. I could feel something in my arm - an IV drip - and saw that my chest was bandaged and one of my legs was in a cast. The only thing was that I seemed to be cleaner than in recent memory. A young, pretty nurse fluttered over. "Mr. Phillips?" she asked, with a Québécois accent. "My name is Irène. How do you feel?" "Dreadful," I croaked. "What happened?" She smiled sympathetically. "You're in the Hôpital Notre-Dame. You were in pretty rough shape when you came in last night. The doctors, they fixed up your fractured leg and ribs. You lost some blood, also, but it wasn't life-threatening." "Count my blessings, eh?" I let my head fall back onto the pillow. "I have to go now, sir, but someone wants to see you. If you need anything, just ring me using the button here." She indicated it, smiled pleasantly, and left. I was puzzled. Who would want to see me? I didn't have any family here; they couldn't have heard about it already, and anyway, they probably wouldn't care. Barring any recent changes of heart, they pretty much shared my attackers' opinions. And I didn't have any friends to speak of. The door opened, and a young man walked in. I looked him over carefully. He was about twenty-five, dirty-blonde hair shocked casually over one eye. His thin but well-shaped frame was covered in a tight white tee-shirt and white pants. He had on a pride necklace and another one I couldn't make out. As he came closer, I saw that he had diamond or diamond-like earrings in each ear, and a gold hoop in his right one, and that his other necklace was a pentacle. He walked over, and smiled, warmly and sincerely. "Hello," he said. His voice was clear and sort of comforting, with an understated English accent. "I know you don't know me, but I wanted to see how you were. I brought you here last night. I'm glad to see you're all right." "You brought me here?" I said, grateful and wondering. He nodded. "What's your name?" I asked. "Ally. Ally Gaudior. What's yours?" "Julian Phillips," I murmured, then looked up at him, reached out, and took his hand. "Thank you." His smile widened. "It's all right. I just wanted to make sure you were O.K. I was so angry when I saw what those bastards did to you and I wanted to help you out." "That's a new one," I blurted before I could hold my tongue. His expression turned quizzical, and I quickly clarified. "I can't remember the last time that anyone cared whether I lived or died." His eyes widened. "What do you mean?" "I mean," I said acerbically, "that being a queer, pagan, neurotic homeless highschool dropout does not exactly endear me to a whole lot of people." "Well, I mean..." he stuttered, "wouldn't anybody just do that for anyone? I mean, you see someone getting beaten up..." "Most people don't want to get involved." He shook his head. "That's awful." "It's not like anyone would miss me. I mean, as far as my family is concerned I might as well be dead anyway, and I don't have any friends." He stopped still, then looked at me intensely. His eyes were the colour of Lake Louise, or of copper sulphate, or of the sky in the evening of the first day I lived in Montreal. "Now you do." I was too astonished to say anything. He stood up to go, reached in his pocket, and pulled out his business card. "I have to go. I'll be back to visit you soon, though. If you need anything, call me." He put the card on the table, then impulsively leaned down. We exchanged a standard Montreal two-cheek kiss. He gave me one more parting smile, and left quietly. I reached over with my good arm, picked up the card, and read it. Alastrian Gaudior. The House of Anaiel, Inc. Alastrian. Strange name. * * * * He came to visit me often as I recovered. We talked with each other about what our life had brought us up to that point. I told him that I was the scion of a conservative family in rural Ontario. One day when I was 17 and in the eleventh grade of high school, I was caught "fooling around" with my best friend. My parents threw me out of the house with the clothes on my back and the money in my wallet, and my friend bitterly told me he never wanted to see me again. I dashed from the town, never looking back, and hitch-hiked to Montreal. Until my 18th birthday I was in and out of group homes; after my 18th birthday I was in and out of homeless shelters and police stations. He had listened in sympathy and then was embarrassed to tell me about his own life. He was somewhat vague, but he did say that he was the child of parents he described as "free-spirited", who when they began living together had taken on a new name rather than one taking the name of the other. They had chosen Gaudior, Latin for "more joyful". He told me of their intentionally spare but not uncomfortable lives in rural Quebec, their organic garden, their social activism, and an amusing story about the time when they were busted for growing marijuana but were able to convince the arresting officers that it was industrial hemp. He was almost ashamed to say that when he had come out, they had accepted him fully, and that he had left of his own volition to go to university. He was vague about his job description; "I help people," he said, and then deflected the question gently. I guessed "the House of Anaiel" was some kind of drop-in or halfway house; but I'd never heard of it. It also came out that we were both pagan, although I didn't remember seeing him at any of the rituals I'd been to. After several weeks, I was more or less healed. The second that someone mentioned releasing me, he offered to let me stay at his place. I was startled, and told him he didn't have to do that. The only thing he said was, "Yes, I do." The more I knew about him, the less I knew about him. But I accepted the invitation anyway. What else was I supposed to do? It was a meal ticket, if nothing else. On the day that I was released, I was given back the clothes I was wearing and the things I had when I was attacked. There wasn't much left of them, and he lent me some of his. "We'll go home and get you settled," he said, "and then we'll take you shopping for proper clothes." We went through the familiar ritual: I protested, he wouldn't hear of it. He was well and truly taking me under his wing. Why was he being so nice to me? He gave me the clothes, and I put them on; a decent fit, but I had to cinch the pants up close to my meager frame. There were a pair of jeans and a strange kind of shirt; white linen, with laces down a v-shaped slit in the front. It was rather like a collarless polo shirt with laces instead of buttons. I bid farewell to the doctors and to Irène, and we walked out of the hospital. He got me on the bus, and we rode it to his apartment. It was in a district that was midway between nice and low-rent; the rent was low enough to be tolerable, but the neighbourhood wasn't grungy. He had a nice apartment on the fourteenth floor, with a balcony overlooking Mount Royal. The furniture was spare, attractive, and Ikea-ish, and the apartment was bright, airy, and clean. He showed me around, and demonstrated in the living room the sofa-bed I was to sleep on. I gave it an experimental bounce, and found it was nice and firm. The first firm, genuine mattress I'd had in two years. I must have looked beatific. He laughed happily. "I'm glad you like it. Do you want to take a rest, or should we go clothes-shopping now?" "Shopping sounds good." So we went. * * * * We were out shopping for hours. We ran amuck in Eaton's and the Bay (which was having a sale), and hit a bunch of boutiques on the Main which he told me had "the exact same stuff but without the brand names, for a lot cheaper." They did. He must have dropped $500 on me, easy. I came out of it with jeans, shorts, socks, shoes, underwear, t-shirts, work shirts, denim shirts - you name it. It began to dawn on me that he really meant me to stay with him for the long term. After we got home, I neatly stacked the purchases beside my bed, not having a drawer or anything. Ally was in the kitchen, whistling a classical tune as he chopped vegetables, threw spices around, and generally got dinner ready. "Jules," he said, "if you want to go get them out, there's spare bedclothes in the linen closet, beside the bathroom." I went over, reached them down, and took them to my fold-out bed. I spread them out over the mattress. By and by it was time for dinner. He had made a sort of chicken dish in cream sauce, on top of really thin spaghetti. He turned down the lights and lit some candles on the table, while some classical music played on his stereo. I was about to dig in, when I noticed that he wasn't starting; his head was bowed. Feeling a bit awkward, I put down my fork. I realized he was going to say grace. "I thank the Lady and Lord," he said, "for this food, and for the creatures who made it possible; blessed be." "Blessed be," I repeated automatically. He looked up and smiled at me, and picked up his fork. We began to eat, looking at each other. "This is really good," I said between bites. He grinned. "I'm glad you like it. It's my mom's recipe." "Lucky," I commented blandly. "The best my mom could do was Kraft Dinner." "What about your dad?" "You kidding? My dad didn't cook. I ate a hell of a lot of Kraft Dinner." He giggled a bit, then his face fell and he looked down into his food, embarrassed. "Hey!" I exclaimed. "It's ok." He looked up again uncomfortably. "If you say so." There was a pause. I decided to ask The Question. "Ally," I began, "I just, um, really appreciate everything you've done for me... It's more than I ever hoped for, all of a sudden. But... why me?" He put down his fork. "Why you," he repeated. "Well... I guess just because you were there. I saw you, and I felt... drawn to you. Protective, I guess. I wanted to help you. I guess it's just in my nature to want to help people. And then you told me about your life, and it just got stronger. I wanted to make sure everything turned out all right for you. I -" then he stopped. I looked at him, but he didn't keep going. I didn't press. We didn't say much for the rest of the dinner. * * * * Night fell, and after I took a bath (a hot bath with shampoo and scented soap - a bliss to which I was unaccustomed), we retired to our beds. I heard him padding into the bedroom, and the light switch clicked off. I closed the blinds, stripped down, and curled into bed. Relishing the feeling of soft bedclothes and a decent mattress, I was asleep within minutes. My dreams were of flight, soaring and flipping through banks of cotton-pack summer clouds. When I suddenly came awake, the room was still dark, but my street instincts told me that someone was there. My body bolted upright and I flicked on the lamp. Ally was sitting there and had been looking at me. I realized that in my sleep, the bedclothes had winded off of me, and part of my body was exposed. My eyes snapped open. So did his. "You were watching me!" I hissed. "I just - " "You bastard, you had me in here and you were watching me! That's all you wanted! You bitch, that's all you ever wanted! Why didn't you tell me! You liar, you fucking liar!" I rose up and began to throw my clothes on; my old clothes. "I'm leaving!" "Jules, wait!" he cried, leaping up from his chair. I was so startled that I stopped in mid-tirade. He rattled out the words so fast I could barely get them all in time; he was trembling like a leaf. "I just came out here to go to the bathroom and check on you and I saw you in the moonlight and you were so beautiful and I was just here a moment, I was going to go right back to bed, oh gods, I've ruined everything, oh, *gods*," and he dropped back into the chair and began to sob. I was astonished. "Hey, now, wait a - " He choked down his sobs and looked up at me. His white tear-stained cheeks glistened in the moonlight. "If you want, I can get you another ap-apartment, away from me, or whatever you want. You can d-do whatever you want. I'm sorry; I've hurt you and I understand if you don't want to s-see me again." He couldn't control it any longer and began to weep again. Something clicked in my mind. I went over to him and touched him on the shoulder. He flinched, but said nothing. I gently put my hand on his other shoulder and pulled him over to my bed. I got him to sit down, and wrapped my arm around his shoulder. He sobbed into my shoulder, the tears running down my chest. I pulled him more closely against me. I whispered into his ear, and he gradually calmed down. I held him away from me for a minute. "You were really afraid I was going to leave?" I whispered. He nodded and sniffled. "You really don't want to lose me, eh?" He nodded again. I looked into his eyes. They were shining with tears; the oceans of his irises were deeper than I'd seen them yet. "You love me... don't you." He nodded once more, and looked away. Now or never. I kissed him. It was a chaste kiss on the cheek, where his tears were running from his right eye. But it lingered there, and the intent was clear. He looked up again with wonder in his eyes, and I bent down and kissed him full on the lips. His lips were soft, yielding and moist. I was sure mine felt dry and cracked to him, but he didn't pull away. Our mouths opened and we began to soul kiss. I fell backwards onto the bed and pulled him on top of me as he reached around me and pulled me close. For a long time we just lay there, holding each other and kissing. It was all we needed: the press of our warm bodies together, the feeling of his chest against mine, his strong arms around my skinny torso, and the feeling of his mouth on mine. We broke the kiss, and he nestled his chin into my shoulder. We dozed off, and slept in comfort until the Saturday morning sun broke through the slits in the blinds. * * * * My eyes fluttered open, and I got my bearings. I was tangled up, limb by limb, with Ally, and his face was alongside mine. I lay for a second, listening to his rhythmical breathing, then scooted my head over and kissed him gently. His eyes didn't open, but I heard him say "Mmmm," and he pressed his lips against mine. If you have ever woken up in bed with a beautiful man, you know there is something in particular about it. After a rejuvenating rest, the skin is soft, and incredibly warm. The sensation is delectable. I nuzzled my chin into his shoulder and began to nibble his earlobe, playing with his ear pierces. He drew in a breath, and exhaled it with a sigh of pleasure. "Good morning," I breathed into his ear. He giggled sleepily. "I'll say." "You feel sooo warm," I moaned luxuriously, and discovered that my feet were outside the covers, and chilly. I surreptitiously brought them in. Suddenly, I pressed them right up against his chest. "Cold feet! Cold feet!" I shrieked, and roared with laughter. He roared too, but in surprise, and then mock-anger. "You!!" he hollered, and rolled on top of me and tickled me mercilessly. Gales of mirth echoed out of both of us and we dissolved into a froth of exhausted giggling. He lay on top of me, his chest heaving with laughter. We lay there in silence. Then he started to move. He began to lick my face all over. I keened and writhed, turning my head this way and that to give him access. We shared a long kiss, and although I realized my breath must have been less than minty-fresh, he didn't say anything. More remarkable was the fact that his mouth was as clean as if he'd just brushed his teeth, which he hadn't. He moved down, licking my chest, raking his long fingers along my sides and making me twist and bend in uncontrollable spasms of sensation. His talented lips and tongue found first one, then the other of my nipples, lavishing heartrending sensation on the pink circles. I could almost feel each nerve ending firing. I must have been making some pretty outlandish sounds. My entire attention was more focused than it had ever been, focusing on whatever patch of skin he was licking or touching at any given time. They could have dropped The Bomb and I wouldn't have noticed it. There must be an unbelievable concentration of nerves in the navel, because I went berzerk when he licked it. It was incredible, but that was only the prelude. The fugue came when he pulled down my underwear, freeing my hardness. He looked up at me, grinned, delicately extended his tongue, and merely touched the slit. My eyes rolled back and my head lolled onto the pillow. My stomach muscles were tensed something fierce. He flicked his tongue back into his mouth, lapping up a bead of pre-cum which had been glistening at the tip of my cock. Then he pulled back my foreskin and wrapped his lips around the head. His dancing tongue played tricks, stimulating my slit and frenum - the proper word, I learned later, for the tiny cord under the head of my cock. All I knew is that it felt amazing when his slightly rough tongue-tip raked over it. He began to blow me in earnest, and I watched with fascination as his head moved up and down swiftly along my hard shaft. He was firmly wrapping his lips around it, and each time he brought his lips around the rim of my cockhead it sent a burst of stimulation down my shaft, as though he was jerking me off with his very mouth. When he brought his hands up and began to fondle my balls, though, I couldn't take it much longer. "I'm coming," I warned him breathlessly, expecting him to pull off. Instead, he pressed his head almost all the way down the shaft, sending my cock into his throat. It pulsed, and I moaned and dropped my head back onto the pillows, and shot my seed down his throat. I think I had five separate pulses in my orgasm; the release and joy was indescribable. All I know is that I felt weak as a kitten afterwards, which was inconvenient because I also had to go to the bathroom. But I ignored it, and he snuggled up beside me and gave me a nice kiss. "Wait up," I said, "and we'll take care of you, later." I got up and made for the lavatory. "Hurry back," he said softly. "I'll keep the bed warm." I went to the bathroom and went to the bathroom, as it were, and returned quickly to the bed and Ally's arms. His own cock was looking for a bit of attention too, it seemed; it stood, oh, thirty centimetres proud of his groin and was nicely shaped, with a deep magenta-coloured head peeking out coyly from a ring of foreskin. I wrapped my fingers around it. His breath caught, and he sighed. I started to pump him, slowly and gently. He sighed again, and I focussed onto his left nipple as I kept up on his cock. I directed all my free attention onto that nipple, sucking and biting it. All of his muscles were tense now, and he was keeping up a constant commentary of moans and gasps which sounded just beautiful to me. I once again began to lick his ear, playing with his neglected right nipple with my free hand. He was becoming flushed and his breath was shorter. I began to flog his cock quickly, and his moan was long and low. I kissed him wetly on the mouth, and he came, shooting onto his chest and abdomen. My tired arm dropped limp, but I stooped and licked up his cum from his soft skin. It tasted unexpected. Most cum I'd eaten had a streak of bitterness in with the sweetness, and the consistency was like thick lumps in a more watery medium. His cum, however, was quite different. It had the consistency of smooth, thick cream, and was uniformly milky white, not the faint gray tinge that other men's cum had. And the taste was completely unusual for cum. It tasted as it looked like, heavy cow's cream, and with a faint tang of far-off citrus. It tasted as though it shouldn't have come out of a human cock at all; a rare delicacy, produced on demand by my irreplaceable lover. "Ally," I started, "your cum - it tastes so different..." He flushed. "I know. It's strange; I don't know why that is." He seemed flustered. "Well, *I* for one just *love* it," I purred, crawling back up and meeting him. We lay back and kissed again. It was true; I did love it. But it was another mystery.