Gay Erotic Stories

This is not an epic gay fairy tale. There is no happily ever after story, as I’ve now come to know is possible as at that late point in my life I’m living it. This is the story of a hot time . . . in fact a very hot time. If you’re up for some adult male fun, then enjoy. And if you’re a romantic or relationshipist (as I like to call the men who don’t seem to have the urges and needs that most of us have), then please choose another story for your recreation. Oh, and have a Brawny handy if you’re in the former category or, if you’re lucky enough, have a live hot man handy for when you get to those parts and need some relief!

Also, this is the, first of a two-part full story, which is separated to accommodate the site’s size limit. (And here we thought size matters meant BIG . . . !)

* * * * * * * * *

GENERALLY VOYEURISTIC – Part 1 of 2

I had been a major for two years when I was selected by a two-star for a special posting to a project he was undertaking. I’d met General Harrissen only once, when he was a one-star and I was a lieutenant a year or two out of the academy. I had no idea I’d made any impression, but apparently I had. And now, eight years later, I’d been reposted to General Harrissen’s command.

At first I didn’t understand, and as the second ranking officer in this unit that bugged me. The “staff” was all at the Pentagon, as were our home offices, but the general and I were traveling almost constantly to bases of all branches all over the world.

General Harrissen was as tall, masculine, athletic, fit and appealing as Magnum, PI, but with the dry and off-putting personality of Higgins, the estate manager. To say he was aloof would be vastly understating his unapproachability, non-communicative style and generally condescending manner.

When, upon reporting to him, he somewhat off-handedly handed me a seven hundred and fifty-five page project brief (I shit you not – that was the brief!) and pointed out of his palatial office and across the hall to the impressively spacious office which I saw was having my name put on the nameplate on the door, I made the mistake of saying, “Sir, thank you, SIR!” and stood there for further instructions. General Harrissen was doing something on his BlackBerry. I stood. He didn’t notice. Or so I thought until, probably four or five minutes later, without looking up, he took one hand off the device which held his attention and motioned for me to go. Rude, certainly; but those brass stars bought him a ton of license.

I read the ‘brief’ in full, in the embarrassingly comfortable office. I memorized the scant description – 3 pages – of my duty as adjutant to the CO. And I thought “our tax dollars at work” as I basically assessed this to be a boondoggle project. When we’d booked our first travel, I knew it was.

No “transport” for General Harrissen. No, we were booked first class on commercial carriers or booked on special-purpose, single-mission transport on USMC jets. Wasteful . . . and unnecessary. We were also not booked into base visitors’ quarters, but into five star hotels. Such were the instructions the general gave the gunnery sergeant who served – extremely efficiently – as our admin.

Between Gunny Clampett (and, yes, it was a middle-aged woman, whom I had difficulty not slipping and calling Granny Clampett) and I we organized the office staff. There were the base reports and statistics to acquire and compile – per the twelve hundred odd page procedural addendum which had probably cost the taxpayers a man year of some officer and staff time to assemble. But they were done with the first nine months’ schedule within the first week – perhaps Gunny’s and my organization was too thorough – and I sympathized for them in the second week when their boredom with nothing to do was prevalent. According to the schedule they wouldn’t start getting assessment data from the general for several weeks. At least he and I would be traveling and not staring blankly at cubicle walls and blank computer screens.

A cushy boondoggle for a general officer who’d finagled the duty. Nice work if you could get it. I’d rather be in combat or chewing my arm off. But when you’re a low-ranking Marine officer, you take your assignments as given.

Within two weeks of our base visits I realized that I was completely wrong about the general. He was brilliant, knowledgeable and had a work ethic which was exhausting me as I struggled to keep up with the vast amounts of data he delivered and the orders for my own assessments. In truth, he was the hardest-working commanding officer I’d had outside of my tour in combat.

We got to Paris in our sixth month. As we rode into town in our embassy limousine I was excited to be back again. I’d pulled two years at our embassy in Paris as a newly-promoted captain, and although the work at the embassy had been excruciating (the CO was a total maniac and the ambassador and his staff treated us more as footmen than as Marines ensuring his safety and security), I’d loved it there from start to finish. Oh, and there was Jean-Pierre, of course.

I met JP when he was transferred in during my third month at the embassy. He was of French-Canadian descent, from a family which had immigrated to the United States when he was a teenager. He, his siblings and parents all became American citizens, and he’d become a Marine. My great luck he was also gay.

We’d had a torrid time for almost two years, until I was reposted. It was complicated at first, what with us both in staff housing, but after about six weeks we’d taken a small apartment on the other side of the Seine, and it had been idyllic.

JP had eagerly responded when I’d emailed him, surprised and delighted to find him in Paris – back, as it turned out – after tracking him on a whim. I’d requested the general’s permission to take off at seven the night I was seeing JP, which I’d planned for our second night, when I knew the general was invited to a large dinner at the embassy as a guest of the ambassador.

General Harrissen’s accommodations – he’d declined an invitation from the ambassador to be a guest in the embassy’s guest quarters – consisted of a vast suite atop the ultra-luxurious and formally elegant Hotel de Crillon. We had seven rooms on the top floor with amazing views of the Place de la Concorde and the Tuilleries. The general’s part of our suite at one end consisted of a huge sitting room, an equally huge bedroom and a study. Then in the middle of the suite was the living room / dining room / library, which was in and of itself ballroom-sized and could easily hold one hundred people for cocktails. (I found that out when the general ordered me to organize such an event.) And then my part of the suite at the other end consisted of a sitting room bigger than my own at home and a bedroom that while not suitable for Louis XIV as the general’s was, it would be comfortable for Ivana Trump. JP and I not seen each other on that first day at the embassy. We’d arranged to meet in the elegant and stuffy bar of the Crillon and planned to go to dinner from there. When he walked in, older, buffer and more striking than he’d been back then – and he was a heart breaker when we were together! – all thoughts of dinner went out of my head. And apparently he liked the me he encountered, because it wasn’t a fully emptied drink later that we were stumbling into the hall entrance to my sitting room, ripping at each other’s clothes and kissing and groping and trying to regain our balance as we struggled.

His gorgeous body was far more honed than the younger version of himself. Beautiful straight black hair, long now, which meant about an inch or so, not high and tight, set off his blue eyes, and a day-old scruff across his lower jaw added a dramatic quality to his striking features which had me weak in the knees. His short frame – if I remembered, he was about five-eight to my six-four, and that made me remember how easy it was to pick him up and shove him down on my cock or hold him against the wall with is muscular legs wrapped around my waist as I pounded him . . . MMMMMM

And did I mention that this incredible bottom had an uncut cock which was a work of art? A huge bulbous head on a meaty shaft over two very large balls, all in that dark bush, but trimmed neat, the only part of him that was trimmed. Or so I thought at that point.

I quickly went and slammed the door from my sitting room to the main rooms of the suite. I’d managed to hit the privacy switch by the door from the hall, lest any over-achieving hotel staff want to do a second or third turndown service. And we were off at that point, ties ripped off and thrown, shirts ripped open, already breathing heavy. It wasn’t long until

His dark-haired slab pecs and darkly-pelted washboard abs were new and impressive, as where massive guns and delts that would have Dolph Lungren in his prime green with envy. And the beautiful boyishly fit ass he’d kept shaved and which I’d fucked so many times before was now a rock hard set of dark-furred globes that had me on the verge of begging now.

I had him standing bent over, pushed face down along the back of a long sofa, my face buried in his beautifully promising crack, my tongue already inches up his tight clenching hole. His long cock was pulled down against the back of the sofa, dripping and running precum along the undoubtedly pricey fabric. I’d occasionally take a long swipe from the end of his engorged cockhead all the way up to the root and across his sac and into and up his crack, roughly rubbing my tongue flat over his hole and up to his tailbone and then forced back into that hole again. I was rewarded with all the filthy talk I’d learned in French which he streamed non-stop as I ate him and spit into his hole.

I was prepared and had shoved condoms and a small bottle of lube into my uni pants, and when we’d gotten out of our clothes I’d thrown it on the sofa table, a lucky choice as it was now within reach. When I grabbed the packet in response to his repeatedly interspersed “Encule-moi”, he arched his ass and took a swipe of his precum from his cockhead and added it to the spit in his hole and told me to just shove it in.

I’m big, and he’s small, his hole having obviously not been stretched like it was about to be in a long time. And hearing him beg me – no order me – to just shove it in had me roaring with fire, and I did just that. His long shout unnerved me enough that I was only half-way in, but when he shoved back HARD onto me until my groin was in his crack, the primal instincts took over.

I drilled him HARD and fast without mercy, and he met my thrusts with back-thrusts of his own. The sound of my groin smacking his assglobes as every stroke of my nine incher went from my head about to pop out to balls deep and the sound of my balls smacking into his and into his cock which was making streaks along the sofa back as he moved and his cock drooled were background music to our filthy talk to each other, mine in English, his in French.

I felt his orgasm in his fuckhole as it clenched harder around my marauding cock before he yelled out with surprise that he was cumming, but not by much. He started bucking, spasming, yelling louder, and his cum shot hard down on my feet and the floor and along the back of the sofa in thick blasts. It just made me fuck him harder, faster, which I hadn’t thought possible. The climax lasted a long time, and I had a flash of him cumming for me the first time, me amazed at how long it roiled through him, loving that I did that for him. And that fueled my thrusts even more.

When he finally stopped cumming and was again in total synch matching my thrusts, he raised his upper body back against mine, put his head back up under mine and reached back up and around my neck and held me close, his back arched to facilitate his back thrusts into my pistoning fuckrod. “Tu m’as manqué,” he crooned, rubbing his temple along my jaw as he slammed back into me even harder. I’ve missed you. Followed closely by “Donne-moi ton foutre. JE VEUX TON FOUTRE, GUI!” I want your cum.

And with a few thrusts and that from the hot bitchbottom I was fucking was enough to ignite the fuse which caused the explosion in my big bull balls, and I started spasming as I bucked and blasted up into him. As I was exclaiming expletives, JP crooned, “Oh, mon homme, c’est ça que m’a manqué.”

I’d broken from his hold as my climax exploded and ripped through me, and when I was spent I reached around his furry torso with my big arms and pulled him against me. Our sweat mingled between my chest and his back, and I kissed the back of his sweaty neck, his sweaty hair tickling my nose, inhaling him, us as I did and could have swooned had we not been propping each other up. When we disengaged he reached down and with difficulty got the tight condom off my still-hard fat cock and held it up, grinning at the impressive load it held. As he told me in filthy terms what a stud I was, how my balls were like stallion’s breeding balls, I simply pointed to the huge puddle of his own cum on the floor. To my surprise he told me he’d cum a second time after I started blasting. I was so out of it I hadn’t noticed. He winked and told me he’d done his job for me well. And then with a flash movement he raised the condom, threw back his head and opened his mouth and poured as much as he could in! FUUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKKKKK!

I grabbed him roughly before he was done trying to shake out the dregs and kissed him, much of my seed still in his mouth, sharing it with him. We were both still hard and grinding into each other. He was always a stud and had, often, cum multiple times when we were fucking, as had I but with longer intervals of continued action than he could manage. The familiar memories fueled me more, and I finally broke from him and picked him up and threw him over my shoulder. I easily managed him there and also grabbed up the condom wrapper, lube bottle and all of our clothes, handing some to him as I did until we had all of them – once a Marine, neatness is a reflex – and carried him and our clothes into the bedroom and threw him roughly on the bed.

“Oh, mon Gui. Vien!” he told me to get over there. I laughed and told him he’d get more, my cock rock hard and wagging at him, his long slender uncut cock proudly in the air. After I’d neatly put our clothes away in the room that purported to be my closet and held such a tiny wardrobe, I returned to see him with his eyes closed on his back propped up on the pillows, his corded arms behind his head, guns flexed, abs perfectly outlined and that cock still tall in the air.

I took a running start, which he heard and opened his eyes as I leapt and dove onto him. And we were off and running again.

This time we were all oral all over, devouring every part of our sweat-slicked bodies. The taste of his cum on his feet and calves where he’d cum twice standing earlier stoked me. Our groans, growls and moans were continuous, and when we got to sucking each other’s cocks and balls we were like hungry animals at first. And then he said the magic words again, this time slightly less demanding and vulgar. “Baise-moi.” Fuck me. I looked around for the condom and lube, and he saw what I was doing. “Pas de capote,” he begged. “Tout c’est bien, mon Gui.” No condom; it’s ok. “Je veux ton foutre, Gui. J’ai besoin de ton foutre!” he said, now begging. I need your cum; I want your cum.

I’d say you don’t have to tell my raging cock twice, but it was three or four times, wasn’t it. But I couldn’t hold back. I yanked his legs up in the air roughly, and he whooped and then laughed gayly. I dove in and spit and licked and tasted the acrid condom lube taste but coated him and slicked him again and then positioned my head at his muscle opening and teased it. His long moans and attempts to push back into me enflamed me, but I continued to tease and rub, enjoying the anticipation.

Finally I pushed in, and his moan was loud and long as I opened him again. I left only my huge head inside him and moved it enough to drive him wild with desire. He was shouting, begging. I put my fingers on his lips and told him, “This time we take it slow and long.” He calmed, but I could tell he’d have been just as happy for me to skewer him and slam him until we were both spent.

I pushed in slowly, struggling to hold back, but reveling in the feel of JP’s wondrous fuckchute enveloping my cock inch by slow inch. He was struggling to get more of me, but I was shushing him and telling him to relax. When I was finally balls deep inside him I bent down between his upheld legs – his elbows were bent, his arms behind his knees holding his legs high and wide open for me – and kissed him again.

He let his legs go and wrapped his arms around me and pulled himself up so the sweaty fur on his pecs tickled my nipples and ribs. We kissed long that way – hungrily but without force – and both of us were giving low-toned moans as we did. I had missed him, too. I missed the intimacy of having gotten to know a lover. He had been my first lover as a real adult, as more than a fuckbud, and in the intervening years after I left Paris there had been nobody more than a fuckbud either. This was decadent and luxurious with him again.

And soon enough the passion turned to burning need, and my cock started pistoning in him again, seemingly without my action to start it. He quickly had his knees back by his ears again, meeting my thrusts as well as he could, both of us exclaiming and making the usual loud, deep unintelligible sounds between bursts of words. Our rhythm was good together – strong, deep, but still not the fever pace of our first fuck.

A movement out of the corner of my eye in the big mirror over the fireplace caught my eye. As my mind processed the sight of General Harrissen, still in full uniform, quietly entering my room and taking a seat in one of the gaudy gilded straight chairs by the door, it took some time for it to translate to my hips. I met his eyes in that mirror as I finally got enough control to stop balls deep in JP in mid fuck. JP let loose a string of expletives and demands that I continue fucking him, ending with a loud English, “FUCK ME, YOU!”

I was transfixed between many realities at that moment. My career flashing before my eyes. My commanding officer’s usual calm, stately pose in the chair, one knee over the other, his well-manicured and moisturized hands resting easily in his lap. JP – should I tell him? And many my cock’s urgent need for satisfaction, which was clear had not been deterred by the shock my big head was processing.

Time seemed to stop, and JP finally opened his eyes and looked at me and saw me looking at the mirror. From his angle he couldn’t see the general, and he looked at me and demanded, “Qu’est que c’est?” What is it. At that moment my mind whirled. Should I tell him? Would I have a choice when General Harrissen shouted “FAGS” at us with all the drama of Emile Zola’s famous indictment of President Faure? I was stuck in time, seemingly stuck in JP. And although it seemed like forever, it was only a moment.

I was startled when General Harrissen, with a slight nod, made an unmistakable motion with his hand to carry on. He was never generous with words or gestures, and he used either with concise meaning at all time. As much as it blew my mind, he was saying to continue butt fucking my erstwhile lover right there as he sat watching us.

I was horrified . . . and then, deep inside me, I was excited. My eyes narrowed and my face turned to a snide grin, and I turned to JP and began to pound him mercilessly. JP was surprised and cried out and then yelled a vague OH FUCK YEAH in French . . . and off we went.

My fucking was stoked by being watched, and my needs were as strong or more for JP, and that combined to make it a long, wild fucking. It helped, of course, that I’d cum recently, so it was a slow cum for me. Not so for JP. Soon into the resumption of our fucking he was shouting and blasting a wild cumload all over me and him as it splatted. Another huge cumload that would have been impressive on its own, but as a third in a very short time, it was porn records worthy.

I stole a glance to the mirror at the general as JP shouted and writhed and shot, and I saw him sitting in the same impassive way, watching, but not having moved. I vaguely tried to see if he showed any sign of a tent in his pants, but I couldn’t. Meanwhile I fucked JP harder, and he expressed his appreciation audibly, and his cum starting to through his fur over his rippling muscles was mind-blowingly hot.

And the knowledge that General Harrissen was watching us was fueling another part of my brain and my nuts altogether. I gave the general a real show, and JP loved every minute of it. I slammed him, I moved him around like a fuckdoll, side to side, turned him over, back again, and all the while I made sure I put on a good visual and audible show, ensuring that my – if I do say so myself – hot bod was well displayed for my audience, and my deep voice sounded even more masculine than it always did and was as filthy and wonton and determined as a man fucking should be. I kept checking the mirror, and General Harrissen continued his impassive spectating.

JP started to buildup to cumming again – a long, painful, screaming, begging, demanding buildup that I savored every step of the way and edged him and curbed the build a few times, much to his dismay and almost violent protest. When I finally slammed him mercilessly and shoved him roughly into his orgasm, he screamed and bucked under me, and it pulled me with it, my own nuts exploding uncontrollably. “OH FUCK YEAH, baby, take that fucking nutload, OHHHHHHHHHH FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKKINGGGGGG FUUUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK,” or something like that flowed in a long stream as I felt like my body was blasting fifty millimeter shells into him, my cum flooding his insides and around my still-flooding cock, which just made me all the more crazy. My cries in English and JP’s in French subsided, and I collapsed onto him, and my sideways glance to the mirror saw just the top of the general’s head going through the door to my sitting room.

“O, mon Dieu, Gui, c’est incroyable! C’est dommage et tres triste que nous ne vivons pas ensemble toujours dans Paris, mon cher homme.” I was gasping for breath and thinking not only was it incredible, as JP had said, and sad that we didn’t still live together in Paris, but it was likewise sad that I didn’t have someone watching me every time I fucked to spark such admirable performance!