Gay Erotic Stories

IF YOU HAVEN’T READ GENERALLY VOYEURISTIC PART 1, PLEASE DO SO BEFORE READING HERE (AS THE HOT PARTS ARE IN PART 1 ANYWAY!).

* * * * * * * * *

SPOILER ALERT!!!!!

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!

* * * * * * * * *

From Part 1

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!

* * * * * * * * * *

Part 2

I awoke early the next morning with both satisfaction and warmth courtesy of the hot man still in my bed, in my arms, and at the same time with almost overwhelming anxiety about what my next face-to-face with General Harrissen would bring.

JP and I had considered going out for dinner after our unknown-to-him three-way, and we’d debated that and if we did where while we’d showered in the nice big shower with the too-light water flow in my beautiful hotel bedroom’s equally beautiful and over-the-top bathroom shower stall. We’d laughed and dangerously played grab-ass on the wet tile under the slightly-more-than-trickle of water, until grab-ass turned to grab-cock, and then he was on his knees sucking me on a mission to “atteindre a l’ègalité èquilibrée.” Redundant – get to a balanced equality, referring to his three climaxes and my two - but a pleasant thought as he worked my cock and balls and occasionally my hole with his finger until, skull-fucking his throat – he was an amazing cocksucker, and I’d missed that, too – almost as violently as I’d fucked him in the bed in front of General Harrissen until I exploded in an excrutiatingly ball-busting cream-blasting that he slurped with gusto. He informed me then, as we came together for a long kiss, that since he’d now had something to fill his stomach – rather fully, both courses, as he complimented me – that we must order room service immediately to replenish my strength. And then, standing, kissing, it was obvious that his fires were stoked again, and I stroked his long slender cock, enjoying the feel of his copious foreskin rolling back and forth over the outsized head, until he came, shuddering in my arms.

We’d stayed that way for a while, just embraced, quiet, and then got out slowly and dried almost somberly. When I finally asked him “Quoi?” he told me with an almost tearful look that he didn’t want me to leave again, hadn’t thought it would be this “deep” for him being with me again. I, the tough marine officer, had a lump in my throat.

But the moment had passed, and JP’s playful bright self shone through as we were brushing our teeth and I was playing with his hair – the beautiful longer hair on his head and his beautiful dark pelt which gave me so much enjoyment as our bodies connected. JP spontaneously launched into a terrible baritone rendition of “Je ne regret rien,” so bad that Édith Piaf was probably moaning in agony in her plot in the cimetière de l'Est across in the 20th arrondissement. I’d made a mental note to – later, not now in the wake of his abominable performance – invite JP to go with me on Saturday to that venerable cemetery once again for old times’ sake, a mental note which passed through my head as I lay there with him clutching my arm which was underneath him, my other arm over him and my hand on his.

Our dinner en suite in the luxurious sitting room of my part of our decadent suite was magnificent, almost as magnificent as our sex after our shower, that which interrupted our dinner and again afterward in bed, after we’d sworn to allow each other to sleep and get our rest. We couldn’t get enough of each other – much like the first day until the last day of our time together years before.

When I’d finally broached the subject of our third participant the night before, he howled with delight and playfully taunted me about why I hadn’t invited him in with us, what he would have done with that handsome hunk of “viand chaud me trop chaud” or hot but too cold beef as he called him. Ultimately he was sympathetic to my worries about being outed and potential consequences for both JP and me, but he was not worried. The French never worry about sex – it happens like natural events in their minds and it is like the weather – whatever the day brings, it brings. I’d learned a lot about the French and their philosophies on life when I was there, and JP had become homogenated it seemed.

It was early as I revisited old great memories and replayed the night before, and JP was sound asleep. I was aroused by many memories, recent and old. But the general would need to be faced. And knowing that, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy waking JP with my raging cock and certainly that and the thoughts of the general would prevent a return to sleep. I gently disengaged, with a sigh from JP in his sleep, and headed for the shower.

Dressed and uniformed fully, I went through my sitting room to the main sitting room and was momentarily daunted to see General Harrissen at the dining table and a huge feast of chafing dishes along a long sideboard. The breakfast scent was intoxicating. The general was reading the paper and took notice of my approach long enough motion to the breakfast spread and say, from behind the paper, “And if your . . . uh . . . friend is still here, by all means offer him breakfast with us, Major.”

I girded my loins and came to attention (on the off chance he’d actually deign to look at me as we talked, IF he’d deign to talk). “Sir, permission to speak freely, Sir!”

With what I might have exaggerated as an annoyed sigh, General Harrissen folded his paper and motioned to the chair nearest me, not close but not far from his at the head of the big table. “Granted, Major.”

I seated myself, as General Harrissen’s gestures carried every bit as much command as his words. “Sir, I would like to address last night,” I said to him. If I’d not been overly sensitive to the situation I would have called his face expressionless, but at the time I thought it was at once annoyed, inconvenienced, indulgent and bordering on a smirk. I waited, but General Harrissen obviously considered the fact that he was wasting time paying attention to me to be signal of his agreement to proceed. My stubborn streak came out, though, and I held out for his response.

And so we sat. Finally, without so much as a sigh, he suddenly said, “This is your discussion, Major.”

I was almost so blown away by words instead of the usual hand gesture I’d become accustomed to, I almost started. Almost.

“Sir, may I ask what you were doing last night when you entered my room?”

“Major, we’ve already done the “permission to” and “granted” part, so asking me is not necessary,” General Harrissen replied, and this time the smirk was really emerging.

“All right, sir,” I fired back, treading on dangerous territory with my tone as I was not only talking to my CO, he was a general officer AND I’d just been outed. “Let me be blunt. What the HECK did you think you were doing coming into my room like that, sir?”

“Major, was it not obvious what I was there to do? And, if you won’t mind my inference, you seemed to have no problem whatsoever with my presence and, in fact, not only enjoyed it, you reveled in it!”

My face was instantly flushed red. “Sir, I . . . “ but I was at a loss for words.

“Major – and may we, for the remaining duration of this conversation only, dispense with the formalities?” Before I had a chance to respond, he made it clear that, as usual, my comment or assent was not required. “Cate, can you be content to let something be what it is and no more?”

“Well I . . . “

That time as words escaped me, he didn’t help me at all. And that time he won the waiting game for the next move. “General, I am concerned for my friend’s and my careers in the Corps, for one.” And as he started to react with an exasperated look I forged on. “And we are to travel together for more than a year more, and I can’t help but wonder if this means anything about our situation going forward.”

At that, General Harrissen did something that I’d never seen him do – he threw his head back in uncontrollable laughter. While I was struck by how incredibly handsome that man was when he was REAL and particularly when he was smiling, I was also on tenterhooks, worrying about my future.

“Cate,” he started, when he’d finally stopped laughing himself silly, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

I started a bit at that, and then he laughed again, this time more of a chuckle.

“Obviously, I’m addressing your last comment first,” he said, again smiling, and that was probably as disconcerting as every other part of this – so many smiles after so long with none. “Cate, you’re an outstanding officer, perhaps beyond outstanding. If you hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have asked for you to be assigned to me.”

The thought ran through my head, this time explicit in its own self-destruction, that he might have chosen me because I was gay and hot . . . but the don’t flatter yourself had taken care of that.

“Thus your sexual preference,” he continued without pause, “has no bearing in my opinion despite many of the dinosaurs in our unfortunate country on your service to the Corps. And to your point in between the two, I am not accustomed to explaining myself, but you are deserving of an explanation of my invasion of your privacy.”

“Sir, I—“

“Quiet,” he said, in command voice, causing me to instantly go to rigid posture in my seat. “Oh, stand down, Major. Give an old general who’s not used to apologizing a little leewary here, would you? At ease . . . please relax and let’s get this behind us.”

I settled back, but not much. The Corps trains you to react and respond, and there’s no defeat switch when a superior officer barks.

“I offer you my apology for not asking your permission before entering your room and for remaining when, as I knew from the sounds before I opened the bedroom door, that you were engaged in intimate activity with your . . . friend.”

“He was once my lover, Sir, and he is a very dear . . . friend . . . to me now.”

That earned me a smirk from the general. “So it appeared!” he said, with a chuckle. “And in addition to my apology, I offer you my thanks for an enjoyable performance.” As I started to object to the word, he put his hand up. “Cate, right now we are two men talking at a breakfast table. And more than a modicum of addition could be made to that. I have offered you my apology for a breach of manners, and I have given you my thanks for what you obviously enjoyed giving me. But what we are, ultimately, is two officers in the United States Marines. That’s enough for each of us, and we needn’t push the disclosure to unnecessary lengths.”

Ah, there was my general, the one I knew. “Thank you for your apology, Sir, and you’re QUITE welcome,” I said, with a broad smirk. To that he again threw his head back, laughing.

“Cate, is your dear friend still here? And I’ll add this and no more. If he’s not, he’s an idiot.” I nodded, dumbly. “Then, Major, why don’t you invite him to breakfast while it’s still fresh!” he said, in a general’s way, one this particular general perfected, of making a question a command.

* * * * * * * * * *

As I warned at the beginning, this is not a gay fairy tale with a happy ending. But it is also not a tragedy.

JP and I had an awesome time for the two weeks General Harrissen and I were at the embassy in Paris. And then I left . . . again. And JP went back to his life and I do mine. We email occasionally, as we did before. And for my part, I cherish his place in my life, past and present.

I served under General Harrissen for 29 months – five months longer than planned, at his insistence. At the end of my tour on that project I found out, when I reported to NATO, that he’d both recommended me for that incredible opportunity, but he’d also recommended me for promotion in rank, the news of it being both recommended and granted caught up with me only when I got there and found myself to be a lieutenant colonel.

And no, General Harrissen never entered my bedroom again, never deliberately showed himself to me with a falling towel after a shower or anything of the sort, and the incident was never directly mentioned again. In one of his rare expressions of good humor, however, when he shook my hand as we parted the last time at the end of my tour with him, he said with a smirk, “We’ll always have Paris.” And that time – probably for the first time – we both had a laugh together.

What General Harrissen and I did have, as it developed over time, was a rich running communication through correspondence. Occasionally email, but usually letters typed on paper, his on rich stationary with a steadily increasing number of stars as his own star in the Corps rose and mine usually laser-printed on copy paper. It made no difference to either of us, as we found, after our commander-subordinate relationship was over, that we could communicate interestingly on a broad variety of topics that gave each of us pleasure to share with one another.

I received a box of authentic Cuban cigars (as a joke – I would never smoke them or anything, as he well knew, my body far too precious to me) upon my promotion to O-6, a full colonel. I had sent him a bottle of fine French Champagne when he got his third star – he didn’t drink! And so it went between us.

When his beloved wife of thirty-some years passed away I wrote him and then went to see him. The confident, aloof general was still there, but to someone who had come to know him, the cracked underpinnings displayed his grief and desolation. I hugged him, and he accepted it, and I genuinely hoped at the time that he would find his way alone in life or to another deep companionship at least.

I was invited to his appropriately lavish retirement shindig when, as a four-star, he’d had enough and was ready to leave the bureaucracy behind. At his rank there was little but politics and bureaucracy, both of which he abhorred, despite his talents and aptitudes for navigating through either or both with consistently advantageous results to him. We found some time to talk alone toward the end of the fete. I truly enjoyed the man’s brain and could see myself enjoying his company as a civilian. And when we were parting he said, unexpectedly, “And Colonel, when you’re a civilian, if I’m still viable, maybe we can revisit what we ducked in Paris.”

General Harrissen was killed in a climbing accident in Colorado four years later, six months before my retirement. I was honored to stand with his two sons, both Corpsmen, at his military funeral. After the funeral his oldest son asked me if he could give me something his father had asked that I receive. When we got to the house, he gave me a small white rectangular china dish with a gold painted rim and a gold emblem in the center. I was puzzled for a moment, and then it hit me: the Hotel de Crillon . . . an ashtray or soap dish. I turned it over and there on the back was a tiny post-it taped, and I had to squint to read it. In tiny but perfect letters – I recognized General Harrissen’s precise printing – “William Cate’s bedroom, a memorable night” and the date he’d sat in the chair and watched JP and me. I wish I’d pointed out to him that we needn’t have waited until we both were civilians to “revisit” . . .